But I soon found out that I’m not a writer, that I couldn’t make a living writing. I had to do something, come to New York, get going. CSQ: You give the impression in your book that you just sort of fell into running a club. One suspects there is a certain amount of modesty in. that. . . . MG: That’s not modesty, just an explanation of how I happened to get in the business. I didn’t know anything about nightclubs. Portland didn’t have a nightclub when I was there. But I didn’t open a nightclub, so-called. I opened up a place to hang out in the Village, a hang-out for artists, writers, poets. CSQ: Are those the people that you’ve always felt most comfortable around? MG: Well, I did in the Village. I was like one of 'em, you know. I used to hang out in the cafeteria, and little joints. I didn’t know what to do with myself, in fact. I had odd jobs, washing dishes, working in advertising firms reading copy, putting out mailings, folding, just to make a living, you know. I was paying six or seven dollars a week rent, knocking around in the Village. Here I was gettin’ older. . . . So this girl sold me on the idea. She was a waitress in this place. She hated the boss. He was mean to poets. He wouldn’t let them come in. Of course, when I opened up, they all could come in. CSQ: So you’ve been here for 50 years. MG: Fifty-one years. CSQ: Have you always felt that you had an eye for the talent, or was that something that you had to learn? MG: No, I didn’t feel that. I had a problem. I had to find things, so I found 'em. I didn’t feel about myself as being gifted in any way. CSQ: Not even as a businessman? MG: (shrugs) Not even as a bus inessman. I think I get by. CSQ: At first, the Vanguard was mostly comedy and folk music? MG: There was a whole generation of folk music. .. CSQ: You mention in your book about Harry Belafonte’s audition. You d idn ’t think he was that talented, but you didn’t know how to say no to his agent. MG: That’s right. It’s true. CSQ: Who are some of the other folk artists who played here? MG: Leadbelly, Josh White, Burl Ives, Pete Seeger, The Weavers; all kind of groups. Comedians. . . . Woody Allen, we started him. CSQ: This is not a big room. Was it usually full for two or three sets back in those days? MG: Awww. . . . It seats 135. That’s not bad, you know. CSQ: You mention in the book that you didn’t know your way around jazz that well when you first started booking i t . . . MG: I knew jazz because I was listening to it all the time and I used to go uptown to the jazz places like Birdland. “ Course I didn’t know too much about it. I just knew as much about it as the ordinary guy that hangs out in places or goes out, you know. But I learned by doing it, by being involved in it. Now I think I can recognize good things when I hear 'em, things that I can sell, that I can present. CSQ: Who are some of your personal favorites now? MG: Well. . . . I got, for instance cornin’ in next week, I got a fella named James Moody. He’s very good. And he’s got a piano player by the name of Kirk Lightsey. He’s very good. Some of 'em are stars, big draws, some of 'em aren’t. Some of 'em are just plain good, you know. I like Richie Cole, but I don’t think he’s really great. Of course, we’ve had some great stars play here. I got a call today from Gerry Mulligan. We’ re trying to run a 52nd birthday night here and I asked him to be a guest. His manager called up and said he’d be here. He played here 15 or 20 years ago with a big band. The list goes on and on. CSQ: Coltrane made albums here, Sonny Rollins. . . MG: Sonny Rollins, Bill Evans. Coltrane died, Sonny’s still alive, Bill Evans died. CSQ: Are there some artists that you developed close personal friendships with over the years? MG: Well, yes, especially those that “This roomhas the vibes. It has a sound, and it hasa look. And it hasthe feelingof ajazz roomthat a lot of jazz men like.” Clinton St. Quarterly—Winter, 1987 39
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