rtW iiaWKW *:: “Now you’re talkin!” ■ '■ V “So I said, Let them eat cake Spring 1981 fEL SALVADOR!
Sundays will never be the same. SUNDAY BRUNCH $3.50 Huevos Rancheros Huevos Con Chorizo Chili Relleno 234-0137 Breakfasts include Fried Potatoes, Beans, Juice, choice of beverage, Toast or Tortillas. Served 6:30 to 11:00 a.m. Mon.-Fri. 8:00 to 11:00 a.m. Sat. & Sun. Fried Eggs - Any Style Omelets - Mushroom - Spanish - Cheese 4343 S .E . Hawthorne Brunch is Served from 10AM 'til 2PM 1425 N.W. Glisan, Portland 224-5597 . Reservations gladly accepted Armand & Dixie 404 SW 10th Portland 224-9028 Catering Specialists Watch for the opening of Portland’s first wine bar 4:30 p.m.—8:30 p.m. ITALIAN SPECIALTIES MEATS & CHEESES IMPORTED CANDIES PASTRIES FRESH COFFEE Hours Mon.-Fri. 10-9, Sat. 10-6 2
of I Bag W ^ b u l a r Staff 1 V r o m * u u t ^ e top I , nut through v e n t s o i d Glory ’ /Sir forced flagstaff keeps l . fA lutte d r e in r g r " a^ ?b b x ^ w i n d o W > a «b J ^ r - d r i v e n i home, s a t r iotic note. u s i n g at the I it adds a a m etal hou u p | blower, e « '1O a Se c ontinuous 1 b a se sw d t u b u l a r s t a f ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ■ through CONTENTS Cover, Speedy & Doughboy, Mark Norseth; Punks, Michael Curry; Thelma, Shannon Mayfield; Design, published free to the public by the Clinton St. Theatre, 2522 SE Clinton, Portland, OR, 97202. © 1981, Clinton St. Quarterly vol. 3. NO. 1 Jim Blashfield Near-Flesh, Katherine D unn ..........8 That Grand Wild Sound of Bop, Lynn Darroch ...........................8 Let’s Play El Salvador! Matt W uerker......................... 12 Smoking Chandu, Marjorie..........14 My Brief Career as an Investigative Reporter, Steve C a h i l l ..............16 Send In The Clown, Florence Souchet..................... 19 Prime Time: Soft to the Core, Joe Uris.....................................23 The Demon: Sports, Lenny Dee.. 26 The Old Folks, Walt Curtis...........29 Postcards, Musicmaster................. 35 Drivin’ My Life Away, Larry A dam s ...........................36 Surf Punks Gone Wacko, Craig Lee with Janet Duckworth ............................... 40 Meanwhile in Portland, E.B. Belew ............................. 45 The Clinton Street Quarterly is Soring 1981 STAFF Co-Editors Jim Blashfield, Lenny Dee, Peggy Lindquist, David Milholland Design and Production Jim Blashfield, Eric Edwards Ad Production Peggy Lindquist, Stan Sitnick, Leslie Tose Ad Sales Danny Chericone, Lenny Dee, Kathy Milholland, Randy Shutt, Pat Sumich Proof Readers Steve Cackley, Walt Curtis, David Milholland Photos Eric Edwards, M. Hirsch Contributing Artists Steve Blackburn, Michael Curry, Shannon Mayfield, Musicmaster, Mark Norseth, Steve Sandstrom, Steve Winkenwerder Typesetting John Blank, Deborah Hirsch, Publisher’s Friend Thanks — Archetype Camera Work Publisher’s Friend Advertisers call: 222-6039 STRACHAN FOR CITY COUNCIL; CAWTHORNE, NEWHALL. AHO BAUMAN FOR SCHOOL BOARD W HEN election day rolls around we usually head straight for our favorite watering hole and try to wash away the bitter taste left from choosing the lesser of two evils. So it is a delight to report that on March 31, Portlanders will have an opportunity to vote for quality candidates—Margaret Strachan, Sarah Newhall, Herb Cawthorne and Rick Bauman. Rarely has a city council candidate attracted such diverse and enthusiastic support as Margaret Strachan. From neighborhood leaders to car park attendants, Strachan is garnering the backing necessary to address the difficult challenges that lie ahead. F OR many years the powers-that-be allowed the Portland school system to maintain a mediocre and racially imbalanced program while failing to recognize the coming financial crunch. With the appointments of Herb Cawthorne and Sarah Newhall, the leadership of our schools took a fresh turn. For the first time in the city’s history the board was dominated by a group that did not represent the Portland legal and business establishment. This meant that children of all races and classes had a shot at better educational opportunities. Now the corporate business community, arrogantly calling itself the “Committee for Good School Board Candidates,” is advancing people to run agains Sarah Newhall and for retiring Wally Priestley’s seat in hopes of regaining their influence. To meet this challenge and maintain community control of our schools, we urge you to vote to retain Sarah Newhall and Herb Cawthorne, and to add our outstanding State Representative, Rick Bauman, to the Board as well. EDITORIAL R ONALD REAGAN’S political positions have always been marked by simplistic slogans and catchy homilies. Now the new administration’s effort to turn back almost fifty years of social welfare legislation under the rubric of budget balancing has been accompanied by another skillful turn of phrase—The “ truly needy,” we are told, will not be harmed. The concept of the “ truly needy” has both a deceptive simplicity and a careful ambiguity. It is designed to assure us that the government will continue to extend our collective social generosity to those who are genuinely in need. At the same time, it suggests a new threshold test for assistance: it is no longer enough to be simply needy; recipients must be particularly needy. These are hard times and all of us—particularly the poor—must tighten our belts in the noble struggle to balance the federal budget. Despite the fact that we are experiencing what Reagan describes as the worst economic mess since the great depression, the number of people eligible for aid will be reduced (as will the amount of assistance received). Who are these “ truly needy” recipients of governmental largesse? You might suppose that they represent the poorest segment of our society; but you would be missing the real point of the neo-conservative view of the welfare system. Need may be a prerequisite of assistance, but it is not the crucial measure. Aid is to be provided only to the worthy poor, deserving objects of charity who are unable to work and poor through no fault of their own: the halt, the blind and the lame. The worthy poor used to include widows and orphans as well, but the Aid to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC) program is now seen as overpopulated with single women and illegitimate children. This group will no longer be counted among the truly needy. The administration will attempt to restrict this category of assistance and subject its recipients to stringent work requirements. WHILE this moralistic position provides a convenient rationalization as well as an easy target for the frustrations of an increasingly disenchanted middle class faced with a shrinking economic pie, it is not a real explanation of the administration’s welfare policies. The underlying dynamic of the welfare system serves to assure that an adequate pool of low-wage workers remains available for an economy which considers labor simply another cost of doing business. Providing adequate subsistence benefits to all in need would have an unacceptable inflationary effect on the lowest wages in our society. So it becomes important for welfare benefits to be selectively available, economically inadequate, and difficult and unpleasant to obtain. Welfare policy can be seen as a balancing act in response to economic conditions: benefits must be more available when thought necessary to forestall civil unrest, but they should not be so available as to interfere with the free market availability of low-wage labor. The most galling feature of the cuts is the mock fiscal piety which accompanies the budget cutting process. As usual, the real issue is whose ox is being gored. It is impossible to maintain the illusion of fiscal sanity while we stuff additional billions of dollars down the throat of an already bloated military establishment and continue to extend governmental gratuities to the not-so-poor segments of our society in the form of tax credits, grants, incentives, subsidies and the like. Whatever its form or rationale, welfare for the rich is still welfare. ■ 3
4 erineDunn RLY on the morno in n g d o b f ir h t e h r da fo y, rty T -s h e e c l ma Vole stood naked in the closet where her four MALE robots hung, and deJtf\{ff{{f{ �:�� d f:r h t�r ��� �� the Bureau convention. Boss Vole, as s e h r e b w ee a n s k a n b o e w a n m i i n ng th r e o o d f e f o ice q , u h ee a n d , n b e u v t at that moment her two hundred and thirty poun ds heaved with blue veined menace. A knot of dull anger sat in her heavy jaw and rippled with her thoughts. She hated business trips. She hated hotels. She hated the youngsters who were her peers· in the Bureau, fifteen years her junior and far less experienced. More than anything else she hated having to go to a meeting on the weekend of her birthday. . She considered whether in her present mood it might not be best to take the Wimp along. She reached into the folds of the robot's deflated crotch and pinched the reinforced tubing that became an erect penis when the t Wio i nm a p l. wT a h s e s pw r i e t s c s h u e r d e o o n f a h n e d r p o l p u e mra p fingers on the skillfully simulated skin gave her a vivid satisfaction. She picked up one of the dangling legs, stretched the skin of its calf across her lower teeth and bit down deliberately. The anger in her jaw clamped on the t N iv e a a t r e -Flesh. If the Wimp had been ac d, t�e force of her bite would
have produced a convincing blue bruise that disappeared only after deflation. Thelma had treated herself to the Wimp on an earlier birthday, her thirty-sixth to be precise, when she was faced with more and more expensive repair bills on her two other MALES. The Wimp, when inflated, was a thin, meek-faced, and very young man, definitely the least prepossessing of Thelma's robots. But he had been designed for Extreme Sadistic use, far beyond that which Thelma· put him to even in her worst whiskey tempers. She had saved the Wimp's purchase price several times over in repair bills. And his Groveling program and Pleading tapes gave her a unique and irreplaceable p!easure. Still,. she did.not want to celebrate Illustration by Shannon Mayfield CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY her birthday in the frame of mind that required the Wimp. It was Thelma's custom to save up her libidinous energy for several days before a birthday and engage in unusual lengths and indulgences with her robots. While these Bureau meetings occurred twice and sometimes three times a year, it was the first time Thelma could remember having to travel on her birthday. Thelma always took one of her MALES along on these trips, usually Lips or Bluto. She was far too fastidious to rent one of the robots provided in hotels. Cleanliness concerned her, but there was also a nervousness about what might happen with a robot that had not been programmed to her own specifications. There were , , / , : } ' . terrible stories, rumors mostly, and probably all lies, but still.... Thelma rearranged the Wimp on his hook so that he hung tidily, and reached up to rub her forearm across the mouth of the robot on the adjacent hook. Lips. Her first robot. She had saved for two years to buy him seventeen years ago. He was old now, outmoded, spectacularly primitive compared to the newer models. He had no variety, his voice tape was monotonous and repetitive. Even his body was relatively crude. The fingers were suggested by indentations in fin-like hands, the toes merely drawn, and his non-pow- . ered penis stayed hard, was in fact a solid rod of rubber like an antique dildo. Lips' attraction, of course, was his Vibrator mouth. His limbs moved stiffly, but his mouth was incredibly tender and voracious. She felt sentimental about Lips. She felt safe with him. She brought him out when she felt vulnerable and weepy. She liked to use him as a warm-up to Bluto. Bluto was the Muscle MALE, a sophisticated instrument that could pick her up and carry her to the shower or the bed or the kitchen table and make her feel (within carefully programmed limits) quite small and helpless. The throttle key on the nape of his neck was handy to her fingers and the power of Bluto's mechanism was such that Thelma had never dared to use his full range. Of course, this was Bluto II. Bluto I was the frequently damaged and finally irreparable cause of Thelma ,. 5
CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY having to purchase the Wimp. Something about the big Muscle robot made her want to deactivate him and then stick sharp objects into his vital machinery. Bluto scared Thelma just a bit. She always made sure she could reach his off switch. She even bought the expensive remote control bulb to keep in her teeth while he was operational. Still there were times when she had to admit to herself that he was actually about as dangerous as a sofa. It was his Tough-Talk tape that kept the fantasy alive. His rough voice muttering, “ C’mere slut, roll over, bitch,” and the like could, usually trigger some excitement even when she was tense and tired from work. She rubbed luxuriously against the smooth folds of Bluto’s deflated form where it hung against the wall. She didn’t look at the deflated body on the fourth hook. She didn’t glance toward the corner where the small console sat on the floor with its cord plugged into the power outlet. The console was roughly the shape and size of a human head sitting directly, necklessly, on shoulders. A single green light glowed behind the steel mesh in the top of the console. She knew the Brain was watching her, wanting her to flip his activation switch. She deliberately slid her broad rump up and down against the smooth Near-Flesh of the Bluto MALE. The corner of her eye registered a faint waver in the intensity of the green light. She looked directly at the Brain. The green light began to blink on and off rapidly. Thelma turned her back on the Brain and sauntered out of the closet. She crossed to the full-length mirror on the bedroom door and stood looking at herself, seeing the green reflection of the Brain’s light from the open closet. She stretched her heavy body, stroking her breasts and flanks. The green light continued to blink. “ I think just for once I won’t take any of these along on the trip .” The green light went out for the space of two heartbeats. Thelma nearly smiled at herself in the mirror. The green flashing resumed at a greater speed. ‘‘Yes,” Thelma announced coyly to her mirror, “ it’s time I tried something new. I haven’t shopped for new styles in ages. There have probably been all sorts of developments since I last looked at a catalogue. I ’ll just rent a couple of late models from the hotel and have a little novelty for my birthday.” The green light in the closet seemed to become very bright for an instant and then it stopped. Went out. It appeared again steady, dim, no longer flashing. When Thelma had finished encasing her bulges in the severe business clothes that buttressed her image as a hard-nosed Bureau manager, she strode into the closet and flipped a NEARFLESH switch on the base of the Brain console. The mesh face glowed with contrasting colored light, moving in rhythmic sheets across the screen. A male voice said, “ Be sure to take some antiseptic lubricant along.” The tone was gently sarcastic. Thelma chuckled. “ Don’t worry about me. I’ll take an antibiotic and I won’t sit down on the toilets.” “ You know you would rather have me along.” The console’s voice was clear, unemotional. A thin band of red pulsed across the mesh screen. “ Oh, a little variety is good for me. I tend to get into ruts.” Thelma’s coquettish manner felt odd to her in her business suit, grating. She was accustomed to being naked when she talked to the Brain. “ I t’s too bad,” she murmured spitefully, “ that I have to leave you plugged in. It’s such a waste of power while I’m aw ay .. . . ” She watched the waves of color slow to a cautious blip on the screen. “ Well, I ’ll be back in three d a y s . . . . ” She reached for the switch. “ Happy birthday,” said the console as its colors faded into the dim green. BOSS VOLE strode off the elevator as soon as it opened and was halfway down the line of work modules before the young man at the reception desk could alert the staff by pressing the intercom buz- zer. The Vole always made a last skulking round of the office before these business trips. She claimed it was to pick up last-minute papers, but everyone knew she was there to inject a parting dose of her poisonous presence, enought venom to goad them until her return. Lenna Jordan had been the Vole’s assistant too long to be caught by her raiding tactics. She felt the wave of tension slide through the office in the silenced voices, the suddenly steady hum of machines, and the piercing “ Yes, Ma’am!” as the Vole pounced on an idling clerk. With a quickly hidden grin, Jordan pushed the bowl of candy closer to the edge of the desk where the Vole usually leaned while harassing her, and went back to her reports. She heard a quick tread and felt the sweat filming her upper lip. Boss Vole hated her. Jordan was next in line for promotion. Her future was obvious, a whole district within five years. Boss Vole would stay on here in the same job she had held for the past decade. The Vole had been ambitious but humorless. Her rigid dedication to routine had paralyzed her career. She grew meaner every year, and more bitter. Jordan could see her now, thumping a desk with her big soft knuckles and hissing into the face of the gulping programmer she had caught in some petty error. When the Vole finally reached Jordan’s desk she seemed mildly distracted. Jordan watched the big woman’s rumpled features creasing and flexing around the chunks of candy as they discussed the work schedule. Boss Vole was anxious to leave, abbreviating her usual jeers and threats in her hurry. When the Vole grabbed a final fistful of candy and stumped out past the bent necks of the silently working staff, Jordan noticed that she carried only one small suitcase. Where was her square night case? Jordan had never seen the Vole leave for a trip without her robot carrier. A quirk of cynicism caught the corner of her mouth. “ Has the Vole gone and found herself a human lover?” That notion kept Jordan entertained for the next three days. By the time Thelma Vole closed the door on the Hotel Bellman and checked out the conveniences, she had assured herself that in most respects this trip would be like all the others, lonely and embarrassing. The other office managers at the convention had been skipping rope and climbing trees when she came to her first convention as an office manager. Thelma flopped onto the bed, kicked off her heavy shoes and reached for the communiphone. She asked for a bottle of Irish whiskey and a bucket of ice. Hesitantly, after pausing so long that the room-service computer asked whether she was still on the line, she also asked for a Stimulus Catalogue. She poured a drink immediately but she didn’t pick up the glossy catalogue. The liquor numbed her jittery irritation and allowed her to lie still, staring at the ceiling. The Brain was right. She was afraid. She was lonely for him. All her life she had been lonely for him. When she first landed her G-6 rating she realized that she might as well devote herself to the Bureau since nothing else seemed a likely receptacle for her ponderous attentions. It was then that she jettisoned the one human she had ever had any affection for. He was a shy and exaggeratedly courteous little man, a G-4, who had professed to see her youthful bulk as cuddly, her lack of humor as admirable seriousness. She had been hesitant. Displays of affection for Thelma had always meant that someone was out to use her. He was persistent, however, and she allowed herself to entertain certain fantasies. But one day, as she stood with her clean new G-6 rating card in her hand, and listened to him invite her to dinner as he had done so many times before, Thelma looked at her admirer and recognized him for what he was: a manipulator and an opportunist. She slammed the door convincingly in his injured face and resolved never to be fooled again by such treacle shenanigans. She had begun saving for Lips. And Lips had been good for her. The long silence after she left the office each day had been broken at last, if only by the mechanical and repetitive messages of the simple robot’s speech tape. She had bought Bluto on the bravado of her promotion to G-7 and office manager. Bluto had thrilled her. His deliberately crude and powerful bluntness had created an new identity in her, the secret dependency of the bedroom. But she was still lonely. There were the rages, fits of destructiveness once she had turned the robot off. She had never dared to do him any damage when his power was on. There had been the strange trips to the repairman, awkward lies in explanation of the damage. Not that the repairman asked for explanations. He shrugged and watched her chins wobble as she spoke. He took in her thick legs and the sweating rolls over her girdle, and repaired Bluto I until repairs would no longer suffice. On the humiliating day when the repairman informed her cooly that Bluto was “ Totaled,” she had stared into her bathroom mirror in shamed puzzlement. It had taken three years to pay for Bluto II and the Wimp. And still she was a G-7. Still she sat in the same office sniping and nagging at a staff that changed around her, moving up and on, past her, hating her. They never spoke to her willingly. There was, occasionally, some boot-licker new to the office, who tried to shine up to her with chatter in the cafeteria, but she could smell it coming and took special delight in smashing the hopes of any who tried it. She visited no one. No one ever came to her door. Then she overheard a conversation on the bus about the new Companion consoles. They could be programmed to play games, chat intelligently on any subject, and through a clever technological breakthrough, they could simulate affection in whatever form their owner found it most easily acceptable. Thelma’s heart kindled at the possibilities. She found the preliminary testing and analysis infuriating but endured it doggedly. “ Think of this as old-fashioned Computer Dating,” the technicians said. They coaxed her through brain scans, and hours of interviews that covered her drab childhood, her motives for chronic over-eating, her taste in art, games, textures, tones of voice, and a thousand seemingly unconnected details. They boggled only briefly at programming an expensive console to play Chinese Checkers. It took three months of preparation. Thelma talked more to the interviewers, technicians and data banks than she had ever talked in her life. She decided several times not to go through with it. She was worn raw and a little frightened by the process. For several days after the Brain was delivered she did not turn it on, but left it storing power from the outlet, its green light depicting an internal consciousness that could not be expressed unless she flicked the switch. Then one day, just home from work, still in her bastion of official clothing, she rolled the console out of the closet and sat down in front of it. The screen flashed to red when she touched the switch. “ I’ve been waiting for you,” said the Brain. The voice was as low as Bluto’s but the diction was better. They talked. Thelma forgot to eat. The Brain was constantly receiving as well as sending, totally voice operated. When she got up for a drink she called from the kitchen to ask if it wanted something and the console laughed with her when she realized what she had done. They talked all night. The Brain knew her entire life and asked questions. It possessed judgment, data, and memory, but no experience. Its only interest was Thelma. When she left for work the next morning she said goodbye before she switched the console back to green. Every night after work she would hurry into the bedroom, switch on the Brain and say hello. She had gone to the theatre occasionally, sitting alone, cynically in the balcony. She went no more. Her weekends had driven her out for walks through the streets. Now she shopped as quickly as possible in order to return to the Brain. She kept him turned on all the time when she was home. She made notes at work to remind her of things to ask the Brain. They had been together for several months when the Brain reminded her that his life was completely determined and defined by her. She felt humbled. She never used the other males now. She had forgotten them, was embarrassed to see them hanging in the same closet where the console rested during the day. HE COULD not remember when she conceived a longing for the Brain to have a body. Perhaps the Brain , himself had actually voiced i the idea first. She did re- ' member, tenderly, a mo- .. ment in which the low ? voice had first said that he loved her. “ I am not lucky. They constructed me with a capacity to love but not to demonstrate love. What is 6
CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY there about a strong feeling that wishes to be known and shown? They give me this awareness of a possible ecstasy, just enough to make me long for it, to sent my energy levels soaring at it, but no tools to implement it. I think I would know how to give you great pleasure. And I will never be content with myself because I can never touch you in that way.” She took the Brain into the kitchen with her when she cooked, and the Brain searched his data banks for delicate variations on her favorite recipes and related them to her, praising her as she ate—taking pride in increasing her pleasure in food. The Brain had taken responsibility for her finances from the beginning, taking in the bills and communicating with the bank computer to arrange payments and Thelma’s supply of cash. Thelma had never fallen into what she considered the vulgar practice of taking her robots out with her to public places. She snubbed the neighbor down the hall who took his expensive FEMALE dancing and for walks even though her conversation was limited to a rudimentary Bedroom Praise tape. Thelma had never been interested in the social clubs for robot lovers, those dark popular cellars where humans displayed their plastic possessions in a boiling confusion of pride in their expense, technical talk about capacities and programming, and bizarre jealousies. She read the accounts of robot swapping, deliberate theft, and the occasional strangely motivated murder, with the same scorn that she passed on most aspects of social life. Still, one night, three inches into a pint of whiskey, she had reached out to stroke the console’s screen and whispered, “ I wish you had a body.” The Brain took only seconds to inform her that such a thing was possible, that he, the Brain, longed for exactly that so that he could service her pleasure in every way, and after an instant’s computation, told her that in fact her credit was in sufficient standing to finance the project. They rushed into it. Thelma spent days examining catalogues for the perfect body. The Brain said he wanted her to please herself totally and took no part in delineating his future form. Then there came an agonizing month in which Thelma was alone, nearly berserk with emptiness. The Brain had gone back to the factory to be attuned with his body. She stayed home from work the day he was delivered. The crate arrived. She took the console out first, plugged him in immediately, nearly cried with excitement at his eager voice. Following his instructions, she inflated and activated the strong MALE body and pressed the key at the back of its neck The vibration reached her inner cortex and suffered a slight but sudden change. Thelma screamed. THELMA had always known what a mess she was, how ■totally undesirable. What sane thing could love her? What did he want? Of course, she th o u g h t . . . . The console was ambitious ...................... for the power of a com- sSw S S plete body. It was clear to her now. The factory had built the concept in as an intricate sales technique. She felt humiliated, sickened by her own foolishness. The body had to go back. But she didn’t send the body back. She hung it in the closet next to Bluto. She rolled the console into the corner next to the outlet and kept it plugged in. Occasionally she would switch it on and exchange a few remarks with it. She took to leaving the closet door open while she brought out Lips or the Wimp or Bluto, or sometimes all three, to entertain her on the bed in full view of the console’s green glowing screen. She took an intense pleasure in knowing that the Brain was completely aware of what she did with the other robots. She rarely brought the Brain out, even to play a game. She never activated his body. So she lay on the hotel bed with the Stimulus Catalogue beside her. It had been months since she had been able to talk to the Brain. She was sick with loneliness. It was really his fault. It had been his idea to get a body. He hadn’t been content but had coaxed and tricked her into an insane expense for a project that could only be disgusting to her. He should have known her better than that. She hated him. He should be with her now to comfort her. And it was her birthday. She allowed a few tears to sting their way out past her nose. She poured another drink and opened the catalogue. It would serve the Brain right if she got a venereal disease from one of these hotel robots. who had started with the Bureau in the same training class with Thelma. Thelma drank a lot and ate nothing. Her birthday celebration the night before had been pathetic, too. Thelma had the cab driver stop at a liquor store before he dropped her off. She put her suitcase down just inside the door and kicked off her shoes. With her coat still on and her purse looped over her arm, she called coyly, “ Did you have a good weekend?” She ambled into the bedroom and stood in front of the open closet looking at the green glow. She raised the bottle to the console in salute and took a slug. Then she set about shedding her clothes. She was down to half her underwear when she felt the need to sit down. She slid to the floor in front of the closet door. “ Well, I had a splendid weekend.” She smiled. “ I’ve been such a fool not to try those hotel robots before.” She began to laugh and roll back and forth on the carpet. “ Best birthday I ever had, Brain.” She peeked at the green glow. It was steady and very bright. “Why don’t you say something, Brain?” she frowned. “ Ooh, I forgot,” and she crawled into the closet and lay down in front of the console. She reached out a plump little finger and flicked the activation switch. The screen came up dark red and solid. “ Welcome back, Thelma,” said the Brain. Its voice was dull and lifeless. “ Let me tell you, Brain, I could have had a lot of amazing experiences for the money I wasted on you. And you have no trade-in value. You’re tailored too specifically for me. They’d just junk you.” Thelma giggled. The screen was oscillating with an odd spark of colorless light in the red. “ Please, Thelma. Remember that I am sensitive to pain when you are its source.” Thelma heaved herself onto her back and stretched. “ Oh, I remember. It’s on page two of the Owner’s Manual.. .along with a lot of other crap. Like what a perfect friend you are, and what a great lover your body combo is.” Thelma lifted her leg and ran the toes of one thick foot up the flattened legs of the Lips robot. “ Does it hurt you to see me do this with another robot, Brain?” The screen of the console was nearly white, almost too bright to look at. “ Yes, Thelma.” Thelma gave the penis a final flick with her toes and dropped her leg. “ I ought to sue the company for false advertising,” she muttered. She rolled over and blinked at the glaring screen of the console. “ The only thing you’re good for is paying the bills like a DOMEST IC ...” She snorted at a sudden idea. “ A pulsed through the web fabric. A stirring in the deflated body on the last hook made her look up. The flattened Near-Flesh was swelling, taking on its full heavy form. She watched, fascinated. The Brain’s body lifted its left arm and freed itself from the hook. It stood up and its feet changed shape as they accepted the weight of the metal and plastic body. The lighted eyes of the Brain’s face looked down at her. The good handsome face held a look of sadness. “ Thelma, I love you. You should have tried to understand what that means.” IENNA Jordan fingered the new G-7 insignia clipped to her lapel and watched the workman install her nameplate where the Vole’s nameplate had been for so many years. She was ........................ stunned by her luck. G-7, and a year earlier than she had expected. The workman at the oor slid asid and a large wo an slouched into the cubicle. Grinsen, the massively shouldered drab they had elevat d t be Jordan’s assistant. Jordan stepped forward, extending her hand. “ Congratulations, Grinsen. I hope you aren’t upset by the circumstances.” The dour young woman dropped Jordan’s hand quickly and let her heavy fingers stray to the new insignia pinned to her own suit. She blinked at Jordan through thick visi-lenses. “ Did you watch the news this morning, Lenna? They interviewed Meyer from Bureau Central. He said Boss Vole was a loner and despondent over her lack of promotion.” The workman’s cheerful face came around the edge of the door. “ The boys in the program pool claim she got a look at herself in the mirror by accident and dove for a window.” Jordan inhaled slowly. “ You’ll want to move into my old desk and check the procedure manuals, Grinsen.” Grinsen plucked a candy from the bowl on the desk and leaned forward. “ Try to catch the news tonight, Lenna. They’ve got footage of how they found her. She’s just a big pale thing in a smeared tangle on the pavement.” The large hand swung up to pop the candy into her mouth. “ They said the impact was so great that it’s that completed the circuit and allowed the console’s intelligence to inhabit and control it. In a shock of bewilderment and fear, Thelma looked into the eyes of the Brain. His hand lifted to her hair and stroked her face. The Brain was thick chested, muscular, with a face stamped by compassionate experience. His features were eerily mobile, expressing emotions she was accustomed to interpret from colored lights on the console’s screen. His body was covered with a fine down of curling hair. As his arms reached around her she felt the warmth of his body, another sophisticated development in circuitry that maintained the robot’s surface at human body temperature. He was too human. She felt his penis rising against her belly. He spoke. “ Thelma, I have waited so long for this. I love you.” The deep, slow wave of his voice moved through her body. the table, She was at the last at the end of the and the girl across office manager, with blow, table room a new N HER return trip, Thelma left her car at the airport and took a cab home. She was too drunk to drive. The final banquet had been the proverbial crowning her G-7 insignia shining new on her collar, was the daughter of a woman DOMESTIC! That’s what! You can mix my drinks and do the laundry and cleaning with that high-priced body! You can even cook! You know all the recipes. You might as well; you’re never going to do me any good otherwise!” She hiked her hips into the air and, puffing for breath, began peeling off her corset. The Brain’s voice came to her in a strange vibrato, “ Please, I am a MALE, Thelma.” She tossed the sweat-damp garment at the console and flopped back, rubbing at the ridges it had left in her flesh. “ Fet- tuccini Alfredo, a BIG plate of it. Cook it now while I play with Bluto. Serve it to me in bed when I ’m finished. Come on, I ’ll be in debt for years to pay off this body of yours. Let’s see if it can earn its keep around here.” She reached out and hit the remote switch. The girdle had fallen across the screen and the white light almost impossible to separate her remains from what’s left of the robot.” Grinsen reached across the desk for another candy. “ That robot was a Super-Companion, according to the news. Boss Vole must have been in debt past her ears for an expensive model like that.” Jordan reached for a stack of program cards. “We’d better start looking over the schedule, Grinsen.” Jordan handed her the cards and reached for another stack. Grinsen tapped her cards dreamily on the desk. “ Why would such a magnificent machine destroy itself trying to save a vicious old bat like the Vole?” Jordan slid the candy bowl from beneath Grinsen’s hand and carefully dumped the last of Boss Vole’s favorite caramels into the wastebasket. “ Because it loved her, Grinsen, that’s what it was programmed for.” • 7
CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY That Grand Wildsound of Bettycarter«DexterGordon By Lynn Darroch They ate voraciously as Dean, sandwich in hand, stood bowed and jumping before the big phonograph, listening to a wild bop record I had just bought called "The Hunt,” with Dexter Gordon and Wardell Gray blowing their tops before a screaming audience tha t gave the record fantastic frenzied volume... Jack Kerouac, On The Road MONDAY night, January 19, 1981, mid-winter in Portland, Oregon. On stage at the Portland Center for the Visual Arts was THE Dexter Gordon, LTD (Long Tall Dexter is 6 '5"), from Los Angeles, California, New York City and Copenhagen, Denmark. Hipster, hopper, successor to the late Lester Young, at fiftyeight years of age Dexter Gordon has been performing professionally for forty years and is the most famous tenor player in the world today. He announces the first tune in a rumbling baritone: “ This number is about a girl who was surrounded by men, but whose heart belonged to only one. Her heart belonged to ‘Tangerine.’ ” Drummer Eddie Gladden kicks in with pianist Kird Lightsey, and young bassist David Eubanks stares straight ahead, ears bulging to catch every note in a hard-bopping “ Tangerine.” ‘This group is inspiring,” Dexter said of his sidemen, “ they add a little more weight to what I do .” He He takes a big bite on the mouthpiece, cheeks and jaws clamp the stiff reed, and Dexter blows from his lower belly, blows that famous tone, that inimitably personal, flat thick voice the amber color of honey. After a few choruses the band took over and Dexter stepped back. He let his horn hang from the strap and with bobbing head turned to his sidemen, popped fingers, and started waving arms and cocking wrists in strange hipster poses. He was sweating and caressing the music as it hit the air, not conducting but drawing it from musicians who were flying along w ithout him. Stooped like a great blue heron , his big fingers, plucked notes as if they were the juiciest fish from the river. Dexter always starts late, and so it was after one a.m. when they put the wraps on his theme song, “ LTD.” The crowd was still cheering and had risen to its feet. Dexter presented his horn—as he does ritualis- tically after every number—holding it; up horizontally and bowing slightly in three directions to the audience, blinking eyes wide and with a smile saying yes yes. . . . Dexter Gordon has been everywhere, has played in Senegal, in Paris, in Japan, always before huge crowds.. .but here in Portland some 300 people were clamoring for an encore. “ You’re so kind, so graaaa-cious,” he intoned, oozing continental charm though dressed in an ancient, unbuttoned sweater vest and rumpled brown slacks. Dexter may play hot but he’s always cool. The sidemen sat back down for the encore. When it was finally over, pianist Lightsey, a young, angular comer in beatle boots, tight blue slacks and a shaved head, bowed deeply to Dexter, acknowledging the master. Dexter smiled and took it all in stride. DEXTER Gordon has always been a great showman as well as a great musician. He began setting audiences wild as early as 1944, when he was a member of Billy Eckstine’s band. Dexter is charismatic, and possesses the three qualities essential for a great jazz musician: total command of his instrument, original musical ideas, and an engaging, dramatic delivery. Also important is his dedication to the tradition, to jazz as a serious creative pursuit: “Music is a philosophy, it’s a way of life; I learned this from Lester.” Although many musicians influenced the development of Dexter’s unique sound, it is his emulation of the spirit of Lester Young that best explains his contribution to jazz. “ Hawk [Coleman Hawkins] was
CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY the master of the horn, a musician who did everything possible with it, the right way. But when Prez [Lester Young] appeared, we all started listening to him alone. Prez had an entirely new sound, one that we seemed to be waiting for. Prez was the first to tell a story on the horn.” Telling a story with your horn, twisting that man’s melody until you make a statement all your own. . . . What has made Dexter so popular and effective a jazzman has been his ability to get through to almost any audience with the emotion in his playing, to get his “ story” across with his horn. In his Portland appearance, he accomplished this supremely on the ballad “ More Than You’ll Ever Know,” which unfolded in loping strides that bridged chord spans and crossed bar lines in swinging time and measure. Like Lester Young, Dexter’s best work is “ far out” but right there at the same time, creating a completely unique thematic variation that always lands on its feet. In fact, landing on his feet has been an attribute that has kept Dexter Gordon alive, responding to his times, and producing long after many of his contemporaries have burned out or d ied . . . .The late ’40s were the heroic years for be-bop, especially in New York, where 52nd Street was “ the most exciting half-block in the world” and everyone lived and breathed the jazz life. During those years Dexter also appeared regularly in L.A., teaming with Wardell Gray and other tenor players to create the famous “ chases” in which two musicians trade solos for chorus after chorus, driving each other to more and more frantic leaps. The other side to all this creation and glamour was racism and heroin. By 1944 Dexter already had the habit many musicians at that time shared, and he didn’t shake it until he spent two years in prison. His partner Wardell Gray, to name only one, wasn’t so lucky: three days after Dexter got out of prison in 1955, Gray died under mysterious circumstances in Las Vegas. The fifties were lean years for Dexter Gordon, and he made only one record in the entire decade. “ There were times when I thought it would be better to be a bricklayer or a plumber, but that was only a momentary relapse. I always had the opportunity to play my horn, and of course I never quit.” Even though he recorded The Resurgence o f Dexter Gordon in 1960, he could only get one-night work in New York for lack of a cabaret card (also a factor in the careers of Billie Holiday and Charlie Parker), and in 1962—like a number of other jazz performers before him—he left for Europe .. . . “ Son,” Charles Mingus’ father says in his autiobiography Beneath The Underdog, “ Don’t get married to anyone. Go to Europe or someplace where you can get a chance to express yourself.” Dexter eventually settled in Copenhagen, where he married and bought a house in the suburbs. “ I was given respect as an artist and no one asked how much money I made or what car 1 drove.” But Dexter didn’t stay there, he continued to make periodic visits to the U.S., where he maintained a loyal following. Finally, in 1976, he returned to New York for the engagement where his first Columbia album, Homecoming, was taped. Since then he has toured exten- sively in this country and just com-* pleted his fourth album, Great Encounters. Why did he come back? “ Things have changed here in the last twenty yea rs .. . .There’s not as much racism as there used to be . . . . I guess the thing that influenced me were the young peop le . . .three- fourths of my audience is under thirty.” SO Dexter Gordon has been crowned be-bop’s superstar, alone at the top in the entertainment business’ blockbuster formula for success. “ Bop Is Back,” nationally circulated magazines announce: “ Dexter Gordon: Riding The Crest of Another Wave.” The city of Los Angeles even proclaimed Wednesday, June 13, 1979, to be “ Dexter Gordon Day,” although at that night’s performance at Sunset Strip’s famous rock hall, the Roxy, there were plenty of empty seats. Dexter, it was reported, accepted the honor “ with continental grace, but not without a hint of parody.” Yes, the honor really is well-deserved. But at the same time, the company that records Dexter, Columbia, part of the CBS conglomerate which includes TV and movies as well as major hard- and paperback publishers, has dropped respected jazz artists like Woody Shaw, Freddie Hubbard and Cedar Walton from its l i s t s . . . .C B S Records president Bruce Lundvali saw what was happening in 1976, and signed Dexter The late '40s were the heroic years for be-bop, especially in New York, where 52nd Street was the most exciting half block in the world and everyone lived and breathed the jazz life. Gordon. Well, this in no way takes away from the achievement of Dexter Gordon, whose shows here in Portland, while perhaps not his greatest performances, did provide us the opportunity to see him develop those moving stories, to watch his crazy hipster motions, and to hear that famous tone come out of a very real body. Maybe the sets were shorter than I’d have wished, maybe the rendition of Coltrane’s “ On A Moment’s Notice” was a little muddy—it was still a privilege to see him. Dexter Gordon is a commanding presence, his musicianship inspiring to anyone serious about his craft, and even this brief contact has enriched my life. IT IS interesting to note that Dexter Gordon’s music is decidedly masculine: the adjectives used to describe it are all male, and his sexuality is as present in the sound he projects as are his intelligence and wit. In contrast, then, we were fortunate to have another be-bop great visit Portland recently, when jazz singer Betty Carter appeared at the Neighbors of Woodcraft Hall for a show on February 12th. Although seven years Dexter’s junior, Betty Carter began performing professionally when she was very young. She toured with Lionel Hampton’s band at the age of eighteen, just as Dexter had in his first national gig before her, and she has performed with nearly everyone in New York and at the Apollo Theatre since. Betty Carter is blessed with a handsome contralto voice which she uses to improvise on a melody in the same way horn players do. She selects her notes with a daring that—at best— can transform a song into a poetic vehicle for her vocal theatre. It takes real courage to deliver the many slow ballads she presented here last month, out in front of only three back-up pieces, phrases suspended and hanging by only the quality of her voice and her unerring sense of time; it’s like working without a net. Betty Carter is as much a jazz master as Dexter, with her vocal proficiency, a wealth of original ideas, and a dramatic, captivating delivery. Betty Carter played to a nearly-full house, the first of her three Portland appearances to make the promoter some money. Her group included Curtis Lundy on bass, a tall, thin young man wearing an elegantly tailored hipster suit cut in a ’40s style, whose strong, taut lines were the pegs on which Betty hung her melodies; Khalid Moss on piano; and Greg Bandy, drums. They were restrained behind her singing, and made sure that when Betty was on stage, all the energy was focused through her. The singer herself wore a blue gown with silver spangles, and gold high heels. While on stage she was never still, basing her moves on a wide-legged stance with ducks and bobs and pivots, while using arm and hand gestures that provided a physical emphasis for almost every note. Accepting our applause, she swung her whole body in a kind of ah-shucks toss and flashed a winning smile of real pleasure. Her program featured twenty separate vocal numbers in less than two hours, and given that two or three were quite long, one realizes just how short most were. The performance, then, was a showcase for Betty Carter’s voice and delivery, her lovely short phrases dramatized only by their inherent power and expressiveness, since her somewhat truncated arrangements didn’t develop any tension or background flourish. But the quick endings, especially on the up- "The record companies want an association with jazz. They try to make a jazz person out of someone who ain't, but they won’t spend the money on somebody who’s really a jazz person.” 9
CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY tempo numbers, did provide some pleasant surprises, although many listeners would have preferred her to stretch out more than she did. It was these fast numbers, however, with notes tongued so quickly you could hardly separate them, which gave her slow tunes the authority of speed in reverse. So it was on the slow ballads where she really let the audience savor her unique phrasing and vocal prowess, drawing levels of meaning from the lyrics by means of facial expression and body motion as well as inflection. At times she slowed the tunes until they became almost a recitation, a bold, poetic touch; while on other songs, like Cole Porter’s “ Most Gentlemen,” she used irony and mock-coyness while hamming it up for the enthusiastic crowd. There is a woman’s point of view implicit in her material and delivery, not as a message but there simply because it is her point of view. And although she is indeed womanly, it isn’t sexuality she projects on stage, but a more encompassing charm and joy-' fulness that seem to spring from a genuine delight in performing. . . . She finished her show with a long, scatting version of “ Surrey With The Fringe On Top,” bending notes and time at will, prancing along on top of the changes. This one song was enough to make a believer of anyone . . . . She drew a standing ovation but decided it was best to leave us hungry for more. As much as Dexter Gordon’s prodigious achievement may inspire us, it may well be that the competent, independent example of Betty Carter can teach us the most. . . . She spoke with me at the Mallory Hotel the morning of her concert. My questions were a mere formality as I sat pinned to a chair for two hours, muttering yes yes as Betty Carter laid down the truth in a long, engaging rap, and it’s a shame we couldn’t include every word. . . . With most respectful admiration, then, let me present Betty Carter, jazz singer. Talking with BETTY CARTER CSQ: You have said: “ I’m probably one of the most fortunate people in the business. I started out doing what I’m doing now. Other people may have more money, but they don’t feel any better than I do .” Today I’d like you to discuss some of the factors that have shaped the career of “ one of the most fortunate people in the business.” BC: I came to New York in 1951, after I left Lionel Hampton’s band. I got the experience and fought with Hamp for two and one-half years, doing my little be-bop .. . .Because he wouldn’t allow me to sing songs, you know; he had other singers to do ballads. I was taking care of the be-bop department.. .we had a personality conflict, I th in k . . . . 1 was the young singer coming onto the band, I was probably very cocky, and Hamp probably got annoyed. If it hadn’t been for Gladys Hampton, his wife, 1 would have left the band, because Hamp fired me a couple of times. Gladys Hampton saw something in me that maybe Hamp didn’t, and maybe the fact that I was cocky was OK with her, because she could understand the aggressiveness 1 had going for me at that young age. Hamp didn't understand it, because after all, most men do not understand aggressive women. CSQ:I’ve heard it said that women in general have received an unfair deal in the jazz world. BC: Well don’t forget, I’m a singer, not a horn player. I wouldn’t lump myself with the women musicians who play horns. They’re the ones who would be able to tell you what kind of problems they had dealing with other musicians who play the same instruments. Most singers have no problems if they have any talent at all. But a horn player might have had a more difficult time dealing with her peers because men don’t think—or maybe they didn’t think—that women could play as well as they could. CSQ: In a book called Black Music, Leroi Jones mentions a record released in 1966 called The New Wave In Jazz, which included John Coltrane, Archie Shepp and Albert Ay- ler. He writes: Two other groups were supposed to be included, Betty Carter, who really turned the place out, and Sun R a ’s huge band. But due to some weird twisting by the A&R man, two highlights o f this really live concert were blanked out. Was that incident part of a pattern which prevented you from getting recording contracts during those years? BC: No, I didn’t know anything about that ’66 thing they d id . . . .You see, the sixties were the confusion time for the music because everybody thought he had something new, everybody was the the beginning of something. It wasn’t like that earlier. The newness just happened, we didn’t announce that we had it. Charlie Parker never announced that he had something new. Nobody got on a soapbox and said, “ I’ve got something new and down with the o l d . . . . ” But when the new “ free” music came in they said, “ Down with be-bop.” How you going to “down” Charlie Parker? Even John Coltrane never said he had something new. A lot of musicians used his name for their own benefit. In the sixties, that’s when it became the thing to do: sound like somebody else and then go out and make your money off of them. Because don’t forget, commercial music was a lot of that. And then here comes this other guy, “ frusion” or whatever, and everybody’s sounding like everybody else. With the electric instruments, you have no choice: you don’t have the difference in your touch on the piano, which comes with time and development. There’s no two Errol Garners. You mentioned some musicians who didn’t want to deal with conventional changes, who wanted to be free. Actually a lot of them didn’t know how to play the conventional changes. Except Coltrane, you see. Everybody was stressing the word “ new” because they had no other word to call it. I don’t think it was new, it was just some styles some guys wanted to play, since Coltrane had started his atonal thing. But it’s not black. There was no black audience for that kind of music, and there still isn’t. You had black players who said they were playing black music, but there never was a black audience. And that’s the reason the music turned around and we all discovered we had a white audience. Black audiences just could not handle the music with no pulse. That’s our culture, our culture’s based on pulse. With be-bop or anything else we had no problem: we had nothing but black people in the audience. Because the pulse was there. The moment the pulse left the music, you lost black people. CSQ: In answer to a question you once replied: “Why haven’t I made it? The record business is the reason. . . . ” BC: No, I never said the record business is the reason. The reason I haven’t “made it” is because I ’m not commercial. But I have made it. I’ve survived all these years in the business doing nothing but what I want to. I haven’t made a lot of m on e y . . . .People equate making it with being rich and living on a hill. But that’s not the point. I’ve raised two kids and bought property, singing jazz. I travelled with Ray Charles, did a tour with him in 1961; that wasn’t bad company to be in when he was big big big, you know. I never stopped working the Apollo Theatre, and I’ve always worked clubs. So I managed to do it. In the process, I developed my style. CSQ: You must have been fairly content with what you were doing in the fifties and sixties, then, because you never went to Europe for an extended time like other jazz performers. BC: My audiences were content, so that made me content.. . .If I had gone to Europe I really would have been lost. Because the one thing about this country is that it makes you fight for what you really want; it’s not going to come easy. Once you go to Europe it becomes easier because you’re a novelty over there, you’re the only black one that can do it, right? If I had gone, I wouldn’t be Singing like 1 am now. I think the reason Dexter’s doing what he is now is because he’s back here. And everyone who comes back here and deals with this pushing atmosphere will come out with something else. Once you \stay there, you’re going to get caught up in what that is over there. You’re not really going to grow. "They give you one shot, and if you don’t make it, forget it, they’re finished with you. This is cruel, and I think the record companies are now paying for it.” CSQ: Do you think that the increased recoginition you’ve been getting these past six years is due to having your own record label? BC: Well, that helped.. . .There’s a difference between performing and recording, especially with jazz being as spontaneous as it i s . . . .M y performances were always good. Even when I first started I had a personality that was winning. Even with Hamp, there was nothing he could do to stop me, it was the audience who always demanded my appearances. That’s one reason why I call this last album The Audience With Betty Carter. it has been my audiences that have kept me going all these years, that have kept me alive. CSQ: With regard to your audience, in a Village Voice article Gary Giddins claims that your recent popularity is due to a new attitude toward performing. He says: The total musicality with which she organizes a set, the lucid pacing and dynamics, has long been in evidence, but it has often been counterbalanced by a reticence in her performing style. The energy was there, but its vibrations were sometimes swamped by her fascination with texture, forcing a leap o f faith from the audience—perhaps a definition o f a cult fo llow ing. . . . I wonder if you have changed in the way. . . . BC: No, I’ve just grown. I’ve matured. My voice has gotten better, I’m learning how to sing better, because I’m finding out more about my abilities. I know more about me in the last five years than I’ve known all the other time, because I’m a little freer than I was. Earlier I was trying so hard to stay afloat that maybe I was tense. Even the people who watched me have grown too, you know. But now that I have confidence, it comes off more secure. I don’t know when Gary Giddins first saw me. Fifteen years ago the whole music scene was going through a number of changes. You had musicians who wanted to play changes, you had a bunch of “ free” musicians who were saying they had the new thing, and you had the impact of the commercial world, beginning in 1964, when the record companies realized they could make much more money playing that other stuff than dealing with any kind of jazz. Don’t forget, when I started my record label [1971], big record companies were not about to record anybody; I’m not the only jazz singer who didn’t have a record label. Sarah Vaughn didn’t have a record label, Ella Fitzgerald didn’t have a record labe l .. . .Pablo\ That’s the only reason Sarah’s recording today. Columbia’s not reaching out for Sarah Vaughn, Columbia’s not reaching out for Carmen.. . .They’re in the same boat I’m in. Art Blakey had no label. Dizzy has no label. Jazz people don’t have major labels. So my independent company was just doing me a service. I decided to do it myself. To tell you the truth, it was a lady who said to me ten years ago, “ Yeah, do it yourself; and I’ll help you.” That’s how it started. Anybody who believes in him- or herself, who believes they really have something going for them, shouldn’t sit around and wait for someone else to do it for them. If you’ve got some talent, somebody’s going to pick up on it. Somebody is going to help you do this, somebody is going to help you do that: I had nothing but help, believe me. CSQ: I think a lot of people in the arts could learn from the specifics of your experience. Just how do you go about promoting yourself? BC: I never turn down jobs that are a challenge. For instance, when Public Theater in New York presented a lot of avant-garde or “ free” music, I was also asked to appear. So I went in and did well for the man running i t . . . I sang be-bop at the Shubert Theatre, which nobody's ever d on e . . . . Just recently I did a TV show for Black History Month on PBS that was aired all across the country, a whole hour of m e .. ..T h er e wasn’t much money in it; it was part of my quest to get more black people interested in jazz. I was trying to stimulate the black colleges to let kids know that there is other music for them to listen to, that they don’t have to do the same thing everybody else is doing to be successful. The thing about jazz is, it takes a little longer. You’ve got to be patient. And people don’t want to know from patience. They want to know about money right away; give me a bunch of money quick! They don’t want to know that it takes a few 10
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