This is the opening game thread for John Mastick, whose character information is in The Character Generation Thread.
Carol finally got you that laptop, and you were playing with it Christmas Eve. It's got this new Scriff Inside technology, which is supposed to make it super fast. Unfortunately, you spilled your drink into it (I know how much you hate electronic equipment), and got a worse shock than that time with the amplifier, and blacked out.
You are now waking up. You are on a cool relatively flat but uneven stone-like surface in warm darkness, lying on your back (with your eyes closed). There is the sound of people, but not too close to you.
What will you do? Be specific.
--M. J. Young
My eyes slowly open only to close again. The feeling is one of disorientation much like the feeling of slowly awakening from anesthesia after a surgical procedure. I am aware yet vaguely unaware of my whereabouts or the circumstances which led to them. As my eyes once again struggle to open and remain open I am unnerved by a ringing in my ears and a bright light which all but obliterates my fading sense of vision. As my other senses struggle to return and make some sense of normality of my surroundings I detect a faint acrid smell as if something is burning. As the smell dissipates and my hearing and vision slowly return to homeostasis I find that I am enveloped in an eerie darkness. I roll over on what I believe to be the sofa in my living room and reach for the switch on the floor lamp only to find that it is not there. I also become keenly aware that what I perceived to be my sofa, albeit a rather uncomfortable one in reality? is a cold stone surface. I wonder, am I on a roadway, a sidewalk, or perhaps on a slab in a mortuary? At this point as I seem to fight what appears to be a losing battle to glean some insight as to my plight anything seems possible. As I slowly struggle to my feet I quickly return to my previous supine position as I lose my footing on what appears to be an uneven surface. Slowly and and with an added measure of caution I once again attempt to stand. Accomplishing this I now become aware of an ache in my back and and extremities. While not dibiletating it, along with the sense that I'm not in Kansas anymore does cause me to realize that something unnatural has occurred. There is a slight numbing sensation in my fingertips and while I'm still in darkness and still disoriented I can make out a slight char to several of my fingertips. Could this explain the acrid smell I detected moments ago? Thoughts of my wife Carol, Christmas Eve. a computer and the sense of something spilling race into an already scrambled brain. I call out to Carol believing that where I am so must she. Not receiving an answer I call out several more times. Carol! Carol! While not hearing her if indeed she were answering me I do detect the sound of distant voices. While not being close enough to discern who or what they belong to nor able to distinguish any words I am certain that they are voices nonetheless. Thinking that they may possibly hold answers, something of which I have very little or none, I stand motionless and now for the first time realize that I am very much alone. As my rational mind seems to be returning I contemplate what I should do next. Should I walk toward them or remain frozen where I am. Instinct tells me to remain where I am until I know exactly where it is that I am at although this decision seems to have been removed from me presently as the voices seem to be drawing nearer! Strange but while confused I have no sense of fear although fear would not be out of place in my present settings. While at the time I do not sense any hostilities I nevertheless look for an avenue of escape and perhaps something of which to defend myself should the need arise. Seeing none as it is still somewhat dark and unfamiliar I try not to stiffen or appear defensive to whom or what is getting closer.
And you said you didn't know how to play....
You come to realize that you are on a cobblestone street, faintly lit by a distant streetlight. Scattered around you on the road and sidewalk are your things. It is as if someone pulled the floors out of your house and dropped these things straight down, but none appear damaged.
If anything you brought was not at your home, I need to know that now; it is not among the things here. Tell me what is missing, and where it was relative to your house--distance and direction for each such item.
The streetlight is very old-fashioned; it might even be gas. The buildings along the roadside, mostly dark but some with hints of light in them, have a bit of a southern flavor to them--large open windows with lacy curtains--but also something European, perhaps. The street is quiet and deserted, but there is the sound of a car in the distance.
As you look in the direction of the voices, you hear music, something old-fashioned like Ragtime or Dixieland, but not quite so old as that; and you have a strange feeling, sort of like you were supposed to meet someone in that direction, but you aren't sure who or where.
--M. J. Young
Delete thread please as per reasons outlined in private email. Perhaps another time and place. J
As per private response, I don't delete threads.
As per private response, feel free to continue from this point whenever you like.
--M. J. Young
GD it! Carol must have erased your # If you're still online here call me, you have the# or privately email me please. J
5mins. and I'm gone. If you get this before the please call. Or perhaps some other time.
Please disregard the previous several posts. They were without warrant. I wish to continue my game anew from this point forward although I do have some questions. Have patience with a Noob! Also, even though we're 30+ years removed we still think alike. I saw where this thread was going and I'm enthused. J
I believe if you count up six posts you'll find my last description; feel free to answer that--and welcome back.
And ask your questions as you like.
--M. J. Young
Mr. Young....I get it....Happy New Year to you, Janet, your family and extended family! Hope you chased out the old year and let in the new year. Hope the cats are okay! Ya know, I could have loaned you several snare drums that would have chased the old year into 2010. Enjoyed our conversation last night and look forward to my new post today. As per our conversation I've got some good thoughts. Also, requesting that the John Four On The Floor be referred to as a drummers steady beat of 4 on the kick. Makes sense where I'm heading. Also wish to take along my journey a "brick" of 12 pairs of Pro Mark Elvin Jones Signature drum sticks. Have them all here in my "drum room" upstairs, new and unused. They may come in handy me thinks! Also, where is my "Rotty" she may come in handy keeping the so-called less desarables in check in the French Quarter. J
Freda, who was lying near you before the accident, is a sleeping on the pavement beside you; she is just beginning to stir. Your other possessions are, as mentioned, scattered about on the quiet street and sidewalk.
--M. J. Young
As my senses are still somewhat reeling my attention is drawn to a sleeping dog on the pavement. The dog is just now begining to stir and the darkness which is faintly illuminated by a distant streetlight reveals that the animal looks like my own dog Freda, a Rottweiler. I cautiously approach the dog who now seems to recognize me as well. She lets out a friendly bark and runs over to me. My God, it is Freda! After exchanging some wet, sloppy kisses I find that she appears to be just fine. My thoughts race back to a time which now seems an eternity ago and I remember that when last seen she was sleeping at my feet while I was playing with a new laptop on what I think was Christmas Eve. But how long ago? Looking around I also notice scattered around me in no discernible fashion what appears to be some ones possessions. It is still quite dark but one item I can make out for sure is a long handled black metal flashlight. I reach for it hoping it contains batteries. I switch it on. I'm in luck, it works! Looking at the items strewn about I now recognize them as my own! But how? There are numerous articles of clothing, all my guns, a few knives and other misc. items. There are also two green canvas duffle bags. Quickly, I scoop up all the items and haphazardiously stuff them into the bags. Neatness doesn't seem to matter at this point. I do however retain a few items. For some unknown reason and although I do not feel threatened I choose to keep my S&W .357mag. close to me. After fully loading it and a speedloader with bullets I shove it into my pants holster and place it in the waistband in the back of my jeans. The speedloader I put in my pants pocket then fashion my sweatshirt around the gun to avoid it being detected. I also retain the flashlight and although somewhat bulky I manage to stuff it in my back pocket. Now it's time to take in my surroundings. The architecture of the homes and buildings along this street are nothing like I've seen before outside of pictures. They look European, perhaps French in style. Several of the houses are in darkness but some do have a faint glimmer of light shinning from within. They don't appear to be very warm or inviting but I do know that in order to make some sense of things I will ultimately have to approach one or perhaps all to fully understand what has happened to me. I gather up my things and tell Freda to heel. As she is obedience trained there is no need for a leash at this time. I approach the first of these houses which is only about 100 yds. down the road. The music I first heard is getting louder and is interspersed with laughter. The music is familiar to me. It's the unmistakeble sound of jazz but with a hint of dixieland and ragtime. The first dimly lit house I approach has the curtain to the window facing the street drawn but with a slight gap. I decide before I knock I'll first try to peer inside. Quietly I approach and look in past the lacy curtain. There are lighted candles all around burning unevenly. There are some on the floor, on tables and a fireplace. In the center of the room stands a lone, old and thin black woman with a very dark complexion. She is wearing old, tattered clothes with a kerchief tying up her hair. She is twirling about whirling-dervish way all the time chanting in a foreign tongue. The accent sounds Caribean (sp) but with a hint of French. She seems to be in a VooDoo like trance. I withdraw from the window hoping that I was not spotted. I decide, wisely I think not to disturb her! Drawing back to my dog who is waiting patiently for my return I wander down several more houses to the next lighted one. It is outside of this that I now see what was causing that faint glow in the distance I had noticed before. It is a street lamp but not just any street lamp. This one is very old-fashioned and powered by what I assume is gas as there is a flame eminating from it protected by glass on all sides. I am determined no matter what to knock on this door as I'm growing impatient for answers. For the moment though I stand fixed listening to the laughter and the music which has grown more rorcheous. Up ahead on the corner, illuminated by another of these lamps I can see a street sign and Im barely able to make out the words. "Bourbon Street." Some how I feel a strong attraction to this place as if something were leading me to it. The sense that maybe I'll get the answers I seek there. But for now I'm approaching this house and I'm going to knock...
Mr. Young, I cannot help but wonder how much "real" human emotion plays into the game. I am only several posts into my game but already I find myself missing my wife, Carol. I can't help but wonder am I dead? Is this a new life? Will she join me at some later time and if not, what will become of her? I know this may sound trivial but it could have a significant bearing on the decisions I make and how play progresses. Have pity/patience with a Noob. Is it the intention of the game to somehow return from whence I came or to create a new life devoid of all with few exceptions of a previous life.
Concerning your added question, it is entirely up to you how you think your character would feel. Of course, he has only been in this place for maybe twenty minutes at the outside, so it's a bit early for him to be more than confused--but a lot of player characters reflect on how much they miss family, and that can indeed be a factor to the degree that you wish.
You march up to the next door and knock, Freda at your heels. The inside door is open, but a screen door is latched over it.
You relax a moment while waiting for an answer, and again you have that feeling that there's someone up there you're supposed to meet--and the shift in the angle suggests that you should make a left when you hit Bourbon Street, but it's probably not far from there.
An elderly black man comes to the screen, and peers quizically at you. In a thick black Louisana drawl he says, "Kin ah hep you, massa?" His eye moves warily to the large dog and back again to your face.
--M. J. Young
I smile at the man staring at me from behind the screen door hoping to convey an air of friendliness. He smiles back but still eyes the dog and myself with suspicion. His thick southern drawl makes him somewhat difficult to understand. He shifts his weight back and forth on his feet and appears somewhat impatient. He has a weathered look and is stooped over, probably from years of back breaking labor. He refers to me again as Massa and asks in a very cordial but subserviant manner "wot y'all need?" Freda begins to bark at the now blaring music down the street as the man, frightened draws back from the door. I tell him that she means no harm and I explain to him that I'm lost. He is still hesitant to come any closer or to open the screen door. He tells me" I's a knowed youse was a commin and whiles I cain't hep ya I's thinks y'all will git all the answers youse be a needin right down yonder." He points with a bony crooked finger toward Bourbon Street and the music. I thank him but before leaving I ask him how he knew I was coming. He says, "cause Massa, I's got the sight. It kin be a gift or a curse." I look at him quizically this time but chalk up his nonsense to being feeble-minded. Also before leaving I politely remind him and that I'm not his nor anyone else's "Massa" and that the term went out when slavery was abolished. He laughs a bit and says " youse really ain't from around these parts is ya?" I also laugh and tell him no, that I think I'm a long way from home. As I walk toward Bourbon Street he opens the screen door and calls out after me, "jest youse be careful Massa!" Walking just a bit further down the road Freda and I now find ourselves standing on the corner under a streetlight on Bourbon Street. The music is gay and uplifting. All around on either side of the street are festively lit speakeasies with music blaring from each one but yet seeming to blend in making sense of the cacophony. There are hordes of people on this block some stumbling down the street, some lying apparently passed out in the gutter. There are scantly dressed women also standing under the street lamps chatting up the men some walking arm-in-arm into hotels. All around me is the presence of sin but not altogether unpleasant. I decide to walk left for no particular reason to the nearest saloon. I stop at the open front door and peer inside. In the darkness I see a large crowd. Some are standing, some are seated but most crowd around a small bandstand where a swing band is holding court. There is a stench of beer, cheap liquor and smoke. Again, not unpleasant. I want to go inside, no! I feel compelled to go inside! Now I wish I had a leash for Freda. I do however recall that among my possessions were several hankies. I rummage through the duffle bags and find several of them. I knot them together, pass them through her collar and secure them around the base of a street lamp right outside the door. I pat her on the head and tell her to stay. I walk into the joint where it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. No one seems to pay much attention to me except for one who is now walking toward me.
Actually, two men take an interest in you.
The first is already at the door, and he is a rather large and muscular black man, apparently the bouncer. He asks, "Kin ah hep you, suh?"
The other might be the only other white man in here, and he's got an eye on you, but he's not coming toward you because right now he's playing the saxophone on stage. He looks familiar, very familiar, someone you once knew well--older than he was then, but not old enough for the time that has passed. Yet he is the one toward whom this sense is drawing you.
The saxophone solo laces in a familiar scrap of melody that almost brings words back to your mind, and then another, and then another.
The bouncer asks again, "Suh, kin ah hep you?" The sax solo wraps up, and the player sets down the instrument and signals to the band to excuse him for a moment. A trombone player takes off on another solo as the sax player comes between the tables toward you.
"It's all right, Raoul," he says. "He's a friend of mine." You note that his accent is much closer to your own, although it has something of the sound of having been well-traveled. Your friend is about six feet tall, thin, between thirty-five and forty years old. It's not certain that he has identified you yet.
"Get us a table, please," he says, "so my friend can be comfortable until my break."
"Yes, Massa Josephs," Raoul says.
"Thanks; and I've told you to call me Mark, Raoul, and none of this Massa stuff. Now, Satchmo, he was a master; I'm just an apprentice here."
"Youse is the best 'prentice weze evah had heah," Raoul says, "but ah cain't kwaht git use to talkin' that way."
"Raoul, you don't have to embrace all the white folk--just me."
"Suh, 'parently yo ah with the band; shouda said sumpin', an' ah 'pologahz fo not reconahzin you. Raht this way, an' ah'll show you to yor table."
"I've got to finish this set," Mark Josephs says, "but as soon as we're done I'll have a chance to chat. Meanwhile, the water is the safest bet."
"He say that, cuzin he don' drink. We done got the fahnest bootleg in Norlenz, if you got a thuhst t' quench."
--M. J. Young
I sense things getting just a bit out of hand as now I'm more confused than ever but I accept Raoul's invitation to show me to a table. As I follow and with my eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness I can see that I've garnered much more attention then I had wanted. All around me meanecing, suspicious eyes are following my every move.
Raoul has stopped and is now pointing to the only empty table in the place. The table is the only one decorated with a white linen table cloth. The others are all bare except for the empty and half-filled glasses on top of them. There is a lone candle burning in the center of it. Raoul pulls the chair from the table and motions for me to sit. I get the feeling that this table is reserved for VIPs and it is somehow associated with the band and with Mr. Josephs. My suspicions are confirmed when Raoul asks, "Wot kin I's git ya? of coase everythin is on ta house." Feeling a bit thirsty I ask him if they have Coors Light on tap. He laughs and flashes a big full set of pearly whites. He says, "Suh, doan be playin with Raoul. Nows I doan knows to what you be askin fo but I's might tell youse to try our foam. Best in the south and it's home brewed in a bath tub out back." He winks, smiles and suddenly disappears.
As I look around the room I am glad to see that the table I'm seated at is in the center of the room and that I can see the open front door and the street lamp Freda is still tied to. Raoul returns and plops down a mug of what looks like beer but until it settles is mostly just a glass of foam. I thank him, he nods and then rushes off to the far corner of the room to break up a fight which has just begun.
I try not to watch the fight as I've seen enough of these in bars to know that even just a disapproving glance can suddenly cause even the most innocent spectator to become an unwilling participant. Instead I'm concentrating on the band, in particular Mr. Joseph and the music which is quite good. I'm tapping along to the beat on the table and as I look around I find I'm not the only one doing so. The drummer is really comping and as the set winds down I can't help but think that I'm better and that I could make this band really swing!
As the band takes their bows to the applause of the room I'm now more closely watching Mr. Joseph who is now approaching the table. I don't know him but I have a vague feeling that I should. In any case it will be nice to meet someone who appears to know their way around and someone who seems to have the friendship if not the respect of Raoul.
Can you make a quick landline? Got a few questions which might help my game proceed at a faster pace. J
I was thinking of calling you anyway; if I get the chance later tonight, I will. (Actually, I'm going to be in Garfield, probably late tonight or maybe sometime tomorrow. I'm not sure how much time I'll have, though--it's a drop-off.)
--M. J. Young
As Mr. Josephs sits down, he says, "Wow, it's been a long time. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're John, right? You played drums in my band, The Last Psalm, back before the verse. Oh, and you played in, what was it called? With what's-his-name, and of course Jeff 'I Before E Except in Zurheide', and Bob whose last name was hard to say then when I knew him."
It dawns on you that this is Mark Young, at about thirty five or forty years old.
"I know you just got here, because I felt you come in; probably you don't have any plans yet. I've got a room over the bar. They treat me pretty good--the white boy who gets it. I tell them I came here from Chicago and I'm trying to stay away from Capone's gang. Oh, it's 1920, prohibition just started, and this is New Orleans, Louisiana. If there are any significant differences from the world in which I was born, I've not yet found them, but I've stayed pretty close to the Bourbon Street jazz scene. You just missed Satchmo--left for Chicago last year, but that's not a friendly place right now, particularly if you make a living playing the kind of music they want in the clubs that sell the illegal liquor. I suppose I could have done something else, but the chance to learn jazz as it is developing around me was too good to pass up. It's like getting Robin Hood to teach you the bow and arrow, you know?
"So, where have you been, and how long have you been versing?"
--M. J. Young
Mr. Young, Please call if you get the chance! Mon. morning 12:46 a.m. Awaiting your call.....URGENT!!!
Ready to resume?
--M. J. Young
I stare back at Mr. Josephs not quite believing what I'm hearing. I have more questions than answers so I'll start with some obvious ones. Before I start though I affirm that my name is in fact John and that I do remember these people that he speaks of and that I did at one time play drums in a band by the name of The Last Psalm. Apart from that I offer little else as I am somewhat suspicious. My first question I pose to Mr. Josephs is to tell him he looks somewhat familiar to what I imagine an old friend from the past might look like at about the age of thirty-five to forty. I ask him if his name is really Mark Young who I had last seen in the mid 1970s. This query seems a bit strange to me because I've just been told it is 1920 and I'm in Louisiana, someplace I've never been and if all of this is true then the seventies has even happened yet! but I decide to push forward.
I lower my voice because I seem to be drawing stares with this talk of the seventies never mind the fact that the clothes I'm wearing do not reflect the period I find myself in. Assuming that I get an affirmation that this is in fact Mark Young I would like to ask how he knows so much of my present situation. I'd ask him what "versing" is and tell him I'm not sure I'm even doing it.
After receiving these answers provided I believe them I would relax my guard somewhat and exchange in some limited pleasantries before returning to the plethora of questions I have. I would tell him that I'm fifty-three years old and would ask why he doesn't appear to have aged beyond 35 or 40 years old. Believing that I'm only offering generic information which won't raise suspicions of the others in the room I tell him I've been married twice and that my current wife's name is Carol and that she doesn't seem to be with me on this trip! I tell him that I'm a retired police officer of 27 years and that I'm currently studying nursing back north. Where home is!
I tell him I have three dogs one of which seems to be with me as I cast a glance outside to make sure Freda is still there.
I ask him if prohibition has just started how am I drinking these amazing suds. Perhaps Raoul wasn't kidding when he said it was brewed in a bathtub out back. More realisticlly with this talk of Al Capone I ask if this might be his joint and that it's protected or at least un-noticed by the authorities.
If this is not the case I would ask him why he is telling the locals that he is on the run from Capon's gang. Is he hiding something of his past and are either he or I in any kind of danger. I rest my hand on the .357 tucked into my waistband hoping it won't be needed.
Jazz music is a passion of mine and I at least find this to be a positive to my present situation. What better place to be?
I want to know more of the music scene here but before I delve into that I await Mr. Josephs answers. Glancing down at my duffle bag I can't help but wonder that in addition to everything that has come with me what significance numerous pairs of drumsticks might have?
NEW POST BELOW, CHECK IT OUT...VVVVV
I ask him if his name is really Mark Young who I had last seen in the mid 1970s.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you knew. I guess it's been a few years since then, and I've changed a bit--and you probably never knew that my middle name was Joseph. I use the name Mark Josephs a lot when I find myself in historic or modern worlds. I'm trying to avoid any chance that I might be confused with my divergent--that is, some day it's likely that Mark Joseph Young will be born in this world, but if it happens that I become famous in Jazz as Mark Joseph Young, knowing my father (who is a big Benny Goodman fan, and the reason I'm a saxophone player) he'll have heard of me, and knowing my mother she'll object to naming her son after someone famous, so it will confuse things terribly. Probably not really make a difference--after all, whatever the similarities, this probably is not our 1920's New Orleans, but only one very closely similar."
I would like to ask how he knows so much of my present situation. I'd ask him what "versing" is and tell him I'm not sure I'm even doing it."So, is this your first time waking up in a strange place? I mean, apart from when you've overdone the beer."
"O.K., obviously I'm going to have to explain this to you. Where to begin? I'll begin with me.
"It was, what, 1992; I had just turned thirty-seven that June, and it was September. I had five kids--boys--and I was making supper when the microwave exploded. It wasn't the most painful way to die, but it was the first time, and boy, did it hurt.
"Thing was, my mother had gotten us this high-tech microwave, thing said 'Scriff Inside', and it was supposed to work faster with less energy. Now, I didn't know it at the time, but scriff is not really what you'd call a natural substance--it's not merely subatomic, it's sub-quark; it exists in vast quantities outside the universes, like a sort of sea in which all universes float. It permeates universes, too, because the universes are made of the stuff. But when you get this imbalance, this extra pure scriff in you, it does really funny things to you. I died; but then I awoke in another world. I've lived for millennia since then, but never aged a day. I've died hundreds, maybe thousands, of times since then, and I always find myself alive in another world, another universe, some of them very familiar, some of them strange beyond all reckoning.
"Now, if I were to say that I'm guessing something like that happened to you, I would be understating the case. The fact is, scriff attracts scriff, and once you've got scriff in you you can sense the presence of anyone else who has scriff in them--at various differences, depending on how attuned your scriff is to their scriff, but let's not get too complicated here. You came right to me because you sensed the scriff in me, like a feeling you were supposed to meet someone over here. If you close your eyes and relax, you can probably point directly at your dog, and if your dog ran off, you and he would be able to find each other probably anywhere on the planet because of that feeling. You can also find your possessions, which will feel sort of similar, like you left something over there and need to go back and get it."
"As far as home, it's generally accepted by versers that you can't get back there. We're not certain why. Some say it's because the number of universes is so vast that the odds are astronomically against being in the same universe twice--but a lot of versers have been in the same universe more than twice, and I've been to one half a dozen times and fought the same vampires at different periods of its history. If anyone ever got home, either he was never completely certain he did or he never left to tell anyone else. On the other hand, the part about never aging and never having more children would make it difficult to feel at home even if you got there the moment you left."
"They tell me that the booze here is good. I tell them that if I'm going to make good music I'm going to need a clear head. Sure, Satchmo makes great music without a clear head, but that's him and this is me, and he's much more a natural at this Jazz stuff than I am. So I never drink the stuff. Of course, I couldn't stand booze when it was good, and this hootch? The reason cocktails were invented during prohibition was because the alcohol tasted so bad that no one could drink it without flavoring it with something else. But yes, this place makes its own stuff and buys some of the best from rum runners and bootleggers and moonshiners that it can get."
"Capone isn't after me; he doesn't know who I am. I made that up when Satchmo wanted me to go with him to Chicago. This is going to sound odd, maybe, but--see, everyone has to come to what I call a philosophy of the verse. For Michael di Varse, it's all preparation for the great end-all battle at Ragnorak. For Sean Daniels, it's an exploration of the realm of human fiction, that we've fallen into--well, the Neverending Story sort of existence, the worlds of human fantasy. Pete Adams will tell you that it's all a grand goof, that we're here by accident but should make the most of it. So everyone has his own idea of why we're here.
"My idea is that God chose a handful of people whom He thought He could use to make a difference in these universes, and put scriff in us and tossed us where He wanted us. I figure He sent me here, not merely to this world but to this city, and I've got to figure out why. Maybe it's to learn something, maybe it's to get something, but probably it's to do something. I'm not leaving New Orleans unless I'm pretty certain that God wants me somewhere else. So telling people Capone is looking for me explains why I don't follow the Jazz Exodus to New Orleans, and helps me keep a low profile here. It also guarantees me a job even though I'm the wrong color, because the management knows I'm not going to run off to take a record deal or Chicago job offer or something.
"That's not to say you shouldn't go to Chicago. It's probably pretty exciting there; I think Satch is still there now, although if memory serves he's going to do gigs in New York and L.A. before the end of the decade, so I don't guarantee you'll catch him."
"Yes, there is danger of a raid here--but the revenuours haven't been so organized down here in New Orleans, and being in the bad part of town actually protects the joint. I've seen them shut down several times, but since I don't drink and I only play in the band and I don't carry a weapon when I'm at work, they've always let me go without pressing charges."
--M. J. Young
Okay,while not yet fully understanding the totality of my circumstances I guess I have to accept the reality? of them. I'm resigned to the fact that I find myself in 1920's New Orleans in the era of jazz. Not a bad place to be all things considered. I'm also sensing that a pilgramage to the new Mecca of jazz, Chicago may hold the key to my future but for the time being I have to concentrate on the here and now.
In order to do this I must first assimilate into the culture of jazz and New Orleans proper. I ask my congenial host and friend if perhaps he or someone else can put me up for awhile until I get my bearings straight. I tell him I have money as I reach into my duffle bag for a wad of cash and offer that a hotel may provide refuge for a short time. Looking at the paper currency a realization has just now struck me. All of these bills are dated at least fifty years into the future basically rendering them useless lest anyone should look too closely thereby arousing suspicion.
I stuff the bills back into the duffle bag and after explaining my trepidation I somewhat sheepishly ask Mark if maybe he knows where I can get some temporary employment in order to get some funds with the expectation of someday reaching Chicago to get more answers. I tell him I'm pretty handy with a drumstick and that I just happen to have some with me. I tell him I'm fairly good at the be-bop and swing style of jazz but then I too realize that these styles won't come into fashion for another twenty to thirty years. Oh well, I'm pretty good at free form and improv. so I figure I can get along in any genre of the music of the day.
In order to prove myself I ask if, with his drummers permission I might sit in on a set. I know only too well how touchy some drummers can be with their equipment. I also don't want to step on anyones toes but I realize that this may be a great opportunity to hook up with other musicians who might be looking for a drummer. Perhaps a touring orchestra that might possibly be heading to Chicago?
But I want to do this the right way and I know in jazz looking the part is every bit as important as being a good musician. Its about earning respect and establishing creed. So I ask an old friend if he could possibly see his way clear to loaning me some money. If he's agreeable to this I would ask him to maybe hook me up with the best haberdasher in the French Quarter to obtain a new zoot suit, perhaps with a gold swing chain. Nothing too outrageous or flashy. Best leave that to the brothers. Something conservative but sharp. Maybe attract the eyes of the more reputable ladies which here seems to be a necessary adornment to ones rep.
If my requests are agreeable I would tell him what I need most right now is another drink and a good nights sleep and then I'll attend to business in the morning perhaps meeting him back on the bandstand tomorrow night.
"Yeah, you can definitely stay with me tonight, at least, and hopefully I can clear it with the landlord for you to stay a few nights or so. He'll want a bit more rent, but I think I can swing it. I've got rehearsal tomorrow afternoon, and I can try to get you heard then--an audition. Terrence won't mind you using his set for that, and if I tell the right people tonight word will make it to the other clubs that we're going to have a new drummer showing his flash, so maybe some of the other bands will come listen to you.
"As to clothes, that may take a few days. I'm a bit short on funds, and don't get paid until after the weekend--club makes the big money Friday and Saturday, of course, so Sunday night the owner's flush and settles with us.
"I'm sure we can arrange the drink, but you're going to hang out here for a few hours--I don't get out until dawn, unless the place is raided, and I'm going to have to take you back to my place when I leave. We've got about four hours before I get off. You gonna make it that long?"
He tells the waiter, "Put my friends drinks on my tab, but don't let him overdo it--I don't know whether I'm still in shape to carry him home."
Then to you, "I've got another set coming up in a few minutes. You'll be all right here?"
--M. J. Young
I appreciate the kind offer of lodging and it will be an honor to spend a few hours here and take in a few sets and suck up the atmosphere of the joint. Raoul has rejoined us at the table with another drink for me. I promise to take it easy tonight as I'm extremely tired and over indulgence will only worsen the condition.
Before Raoul leaves I ask if there might be some table scraps of food around for Freda who is probably starving.
I also appreciate the offer of allowing me to use Terence's set for the audition tomorrow and ask if maybe you could introduce him to me after the next set and compliment him on his drumming, maybe even get a pointer or two on playing this particular style of jazz.
I wonder aloud about the audition and speculate what jazz greats may be in attendance and who may be willing to take on the "mighty whitey" without ruing their reputation. I'm going to have to really impress!
NOTE: I still would like to get some new threads tomorrow especially for the audition so I would like to ask for a probability roll ? to see if anyone would notice the dates on my paper money. It would be nice to pay my own way and buy a round of drinks every now and then. It would also help with the extra rent burden.
You would probably notice that the bills that are being spent in this establishment are about 20% larger in size than the ones in your pockets. There are some other distinctive differences, but that would be the one that would catch your attention, even from the next table.
Raoul says he should be able to get some leftovers for the dog easily enough, as long as she's good with Cajun food.
After the set, Mark returns to the table with the young black drummer from the stage. "Terrence, this is John. He played with me, oh, a lifetime or so ago when we were both much younger men, up east in the New York area. He'd like a go at drums down here, and I said you'd probably let him borrow your set for the audition. He's got his own sticks."
Terrence has a thick Louisiana accent. "'Nother white boy thinks he can play Jazz? Got to hear this myself. I look forward to seeing what you can do, John."
--M. J. Young
I Reach out to shake Terrence's hand hoping that this gesture is not lost on the rest of the crowd. I am well aware of race relations or the lack of them in the deep south and I hope to impart to these people that I am not a typical "northerner" and being a musician that I only wish to immerse myself in their world and the culture of jazz. I hope that by this time tomorrow night my rep will be established as another white boy that can really comp.
I admire the few pieces of drums that he has and I tell him so although secretly I'm hoping I can pull it off using his set which amounts to nothing more then a primitive set of traps. I know the drum set played as one instrument is a concept which has not musically come into fashion yet so I must remember that my sole function will be to keep the music driving while swinging. I want to make these people dance!
I notice that the drum heads are calf-skin therefore the response will be that much more sensitive so no overplaying! The rest of the set is comprised of wood blocks and a couple of crude cymbals. Despite the faults I'm finding with them they actually do have a nice sound to them.
As raoul returns with a bag of cajun table scraps for Freda I wink at him hoping that Terrence didn't notice. I tell Raoul that I would like to buy Terrence a drink and would he be so good as to put it on "MY" tab. Before the next set I'm hoping to pump Terrence for information about the music scene here.
As the night is drawing to a close and dawn is approaching I go outside to feed Freda and wait for Mark, aka, Mr. Josephs to take me to his place. I'm hoping for a few hours sleep but I seem to be invigorated by the great music and the Bourbon Street scene.
It's been a helluva day!
Your respect for the musicians is noticed.
Terrence actually has a snare, pedal bass, ride cymbal, wood block, cowbell, and a low hat--functionally like a high hat, but that the pair of cymbals is near the floor and only foot operation is really practical on it.
Mark laughs when you offer to buy Terrence a drink. "I should warn you," he says, "that when someone else is buying, Terrence drinks the expensive stuff from Canada."
Terrence blushes. "Bourbon will be fine," he says in a deep voice with a heavy Louisana black drawl.
Freda gobbles up the scraps eagerly, cajun or not.
Terrence talks about some of the people who use to play here, and then says, "But, we still got some good ones about. Now, that Josephs, he ain't black, but he can play pretty fine, and he knows changes I never seed. He got a future, if he follow it; but for some reason he stay here in N'Orleens with us. That's good, 'cause he makes us look good." He smiles. "And there are others. There's still good music around here."
The streets are clear when you and Mark walk the block to his place. He has a room, and the near fifty black landlady is just making breakfast.
"You are a wonderful cook, Ethel; have I told you that lately?"
"Only every morning this week, Masta Josephs. I think you is trying to flatter me into lowering your rent."
"Oh, not at all, dear lady; I'm really trying to work up the nerve to ask you to marry me."
"Oh, don't even kid like that, Masta Josephs," she says, obviously flattered. "What would everyone say?"
"They'd say that I was lucky to have you, that's what they'd say. Any man who can marry a woman who cooks as good as you is lucky, and there aren't many women who can."
"Shut up and eat. So, are you going to introduce this strong handsome stranger you've brought home?"
"Only if I'm allowed to talk," he teases. "This is John; he's a drummer I knew back east years ago when we were younger and you weren't yet born."
"Oh, now, cut the teasing. I'm older than you, you know."
"I doubt that, but we can argue about it another time. Anyway, he got into town late last night and tracked me down at the club--quite a surprise, but apparently he heard back east that I was out this way, and hoped he could get into the jazz scene out here."
"Ah, another starving musician."
"How can I possibly starve with you feeding me? Anyway, he needs a place to stay for a couple days until he gets settled and gets a job, and I said he could crash in my room today; he has an audition this afternoon."
"Well, it's O.K. by me, but if he wants supper tonight you'll have to pay for it. How do you like your eggs, Masta John? Or should I call you...?" She lets the question hang.
--M. J. Young
If you please Miss Ethel. call me John or Johnny for short. There's no need for formalities as far as I'm concerned and I'm happy to be in your humble home. Now don't you go worrying about rent or anything as I expect to be employed in a touring Jazz band within the next day or so...one that I hope may be going to Chicago where somehow I feel I belong. But for now I'm honoured to be in your house. I won't be any trouble. By the way, scrambled if you please but please, don't go beyond yourself on my account. I feel priveledged just to be in your home tonight and whatever you conjur up will be just fine. I don't want to put you out.
Miss Ethel, If you please, I'd like a few words with you in private, away from my friend...MJ hearing this excuses himself to the water closet. I have so many questions but foremost, please tell me about the negro jazz music. I have an important audition one which may hold the key to my future. I'm white, as you can tell but damn, I love this music and if given the chance with what I know I can change the face of the negro jazz music for the future. I can advance what is known at least 80 years into the future. I'll be playing with the greats who aren't even born yet while playing with today's greats who will be the ghosts of modern music.
Please! I am not some form of VooDoo tailisman. Rather I seek to take the music to a much higher level, one that even the great gods of jazz themselves cannot envision. You, who I'm sure are a spiritual woman will surely understand. With a tear I tell her I'm looking to go home...somewhere that she cannot possibly envision. But with her help I may be able to change the course of music, specifically jazz music and thus I may be able to change the course of race relations. I tell her of a time in the future where she may be able to vote. One where a great voice from the south will rise to proclaim liberty for the opressed and one where a negro may one day run for the highest office of the land. But a lot hinges on what one white boy in a land of negro jazz artists can do to help shape the future.
So Miss Ethel, tell me...I have the skills, tell me what I need to know!
"I's no musician, Johnny. I knows what I likes when I hears it. What makes this music great is that it's not pretend-shus--I think tha's the word Masta Josephs uses. It mean that the music don't try to be nothin' it ain't, but jus' tries to be sumpin' as folks can tap their fingers and their feets, an' feel good when we hears it. Keep it simple, and keep it movin' and tha's what jazz lovers love.
"An' there is lots o' boys who want to go to Chicago with a band. You would do better to think of what you can do right here, an' not put too many eggs in that basket of dreams of music. For every Satchmo there's a hunnert horn players who ain't got what he got. An' it ain't easy even if you got it."
She scrambles your eggs, and Mark returns from the loo.
--M. J. Young
After eating breakfast, seeing to it that Freda is bedded down for the night and saying good-night I retire to bed in eager anticipation of what tomorrow holds and how it bodes for my future. I can't help but wonder where the audition will be held and in what kind of setting. How many musicians will I be playing with and what are their musical skill levels. Will they expect me to play from a chart or will I just be "comping" to their music. I hope it's the latter because before I left my former life I recall that I was just learning to how to read and interperate jazz music although I'm fairly confident that I can hold my own. I'm also concerned about the equipment I'll be using. While it sounds primitive I'm certain it's fairly current by the standard of the age in which I currently find myself and again, I can adept. Anyway, if I hope to make a living here on the drums this is what I'll be using. At least I've got my own sticks! Who knows, maybe in the future with what I know now about future drum technology I can construct a more "modern" set
As I close my eyes I ponder the words and advice of Miss Ethel and consider that life in the birthplace of jazz wouldn't be too terribly bad, at least for now but I still feel Chicago beckoning. Like Miss Ethel said, I know what I like when I hear it and tomorrow I'm going to make them all like what they hear!
Mark awakens you.
"You didn't leave a wakeup call," he says, "but we've got to be at the club in an hour, and you're going to have to play on six hours of sleep. I'm afraid there's no hot water in the shower or anywhere else in the house; Ethel boils water when she needs it hot. But then, there's plenty of hot air most of the time in this city."
You can fill in your preparations, and then head to the club with Mark.
"You're going to sit in with the band here at the club and play Terrence' traps. Ever see a low hat before? I never did, but it's really just a high hat down at your feet. I think it may have developed from a one-man-band contraption, but I'm not sure of that. Anyway, word has gone out that a new drummer is going to show his stuff this afternoon, and there should be people from several bands mostly in other clubs there to hear you. Not all of them need a drummer right now, but they'll want to know what you can do in case they're looking later.
"Probably best to start off with something you know. Remember, this is just about the time that Dixieland is starting to fade, but those are still the standards. Saints is probably your best bet--familiar, starts slow, picks up abruptly, you'll spot the changes. I'll be on soprano sax, so I can't do too much for you. Of course, there are other standards--anything in particular you'd like to tackle?"
You arrive at the club and the trumpet and trombone players are there, but not the bass player. (It's a tuba, not a string bass.) Terrence is also there, and two people you don't recognize (one of them white), and Terrence suggests you take a couple minutes to warm up while waiting for the bass player. Mark proceeds to ready his sax.
--M. J. Young
I decide that since I've been "here" I haven't bathed so a cold water shower doesn't seem so bad. The water is ice cold and appears to be just the fix I needed to remedy jet lag, lack of sleep and a bit of a hangover from last night at the club. I don't have any personal toiletries yet so I hope that soap and water will be enough. I find a towel marked guest and dry off and using a brush on the sink comb my hair. I hope no one minds! I make a mental note of some of the "basics" I'll need but think back to the "funny money" I'm carrying. Useless here. I need a good paying gig or at the very least one that pays period. I hope to have one by days end. Thinking that it's going to be a hot day here in the Big Easy I reach into my duffle bag and pull out a pair of plain white scrubs. Light in weight and loose fitting. A good choice I think, not to focus on what I'm wearing but rather what I'm playing. I finish dressing and in my mind go over a list of standards I may be asked to play. It's been suggested that I play "Saints" but I'm not so sure. Too predictable I think but who knows, it may be expected. In any case I'm familiar with it enough to do a good job. I emerge feeling newly buffed with great expectations for the day. I find Mark and Miss Ethel talking and after exchanging pleasantries I ask Miss Ethel if she wouldn't mind watching Freda for me while I'm gone. I assure her she won't be any trouble. We leave for the club and upon arriving find it just as dark and smokey as the night before. I scan my eyes across the room and take notice of all the people. Two in particular get my attention. Don't know why but I can't let it distract me, at least for now. A negro in the room holding a horn approches and doesn't
introduce himself but rather smugly says; "So...this here white boy thinks he can play the traps. We'll see about that. What does the white boy think he can play?" I seat myself on a wooden stool behind Terrence's traps, think about how to respond to his attitude and as smugly as he ask " How bout "Basin Street Blues" by Satchmo? Know that one?" Eyes grow wide and mouths are agape! Think I've scored. The negro with the horn replies to the laughter in the room by eyeing me up and down slowly with a cocked head. He just says "shee-it." I ask permission to warm up a bit. Not looking at me he just nods yes. I get familiar with the placement of the traps and then just do a few rudimental exercises on the snare. Nothing fancy just a few triplets, paradiddles and single stroke ruffs gradually increasing in speed and volume adding the occasional rim shot. After several minutes I've broken a sweat and slow down and stop. I nod acknowledging that I'm ready. The room is silent and I look to him for a cue but he does nothing! What is he waiting For...?
"Oh, yaw dawg wi' be jes fahn heah wit' me, Massa John. She an' Ah is been gittin' 'long jes fahn. She lahks mah cookin', too, neah's well as Massa Josephs."
Mark raises an eyebrow. "Reviving Mr. Clean, I see--or have you been wearing white for your gigs all this time?"
You suggest the song and wait.
"You heah that in Chicago?" one of them finally asks. "We ain' neveh heud Satch do no song called Basin Street Blues, but it shoa sound lahk sumpin' he'd do."
"Don't look at me," Mark says. "I've heard the title, but don't know the song. John, I'm afraid that we're going to have to stick to something that the guys know here in nineteen twenty New Orleans--something from the end of the teens would be good. Mamie Smith, Al Jolson, W. C. Handy. Satch hasn't recorded anything yet, so these boys won't have heard any of his newer stuff.
--M. J. Young
Right then, we'll do "Saints." Standard, traditional, easy to play and charts are not necessary. I ask who appears to be the leader of this impromptu band or at least their spokesperson, this negro gentleman with the horn to count it off. He counts 1.....2.....3.....4 which feels a bit slow to me. As he plays the first few notes I adjust my adrenaline to this slower cadence and along with the rest jump in at the appropriate time. Playing another's traps feels a bit awkward for the first few measures and as I over compensate I inadvertainly speed up the tempo. As if on cue the band feels it and keeps up but the negro on the horn looks astonished but adjusts to the new pace. He launches into a blazing solo to which I now lay back, lower my volume and play strictly in the groove. I know that any jazzman feels he has been disrespected and not given his due if, while comping, he is upstaged by another, especially a drummer who does not know his place. Drums have not yet become a solo instrument but yet after everyone has had a turn in the limelight the music suddenly stops. Not anticipating the break and realizing that the song is not yet over I continue playing a jazzy beat interspersed with a few buzz rolls and rim shots for accent on the snare drum. The band appears to be into including the negro with the horn who is smiling and wiping his brow of sweat. I keep this up for no more than half-a-minute and then call out my own count of 1,2,3,4 and the band joins in and speeds to the end of "Saints." There is a brief smattering of applause and a few calls of "aww right man!" I smile, acknowledge the band. The negro with the horn puts the horn down signaling the audition is over. I lay my drumsticks down and just hope I haven't blown it!
The first verse is played funeral dirge style, responsively--the trumpet plays those first four notes, holding the fourth while the other players drop in the chord modulation beneath him. This is repeated on the second line, becoming a little fancier as it moves through the verse--but he plays that last note alone, and again the chord modulates beneath him.
That's where you hit the tempo up as it moves into verse two, and from there it snowballs for twenty verses, getting faster and faster. Young weaves in and out of the melody with a fast-paced frillery part, the bone player plays counterpoint against the trumpet, who does variations on the melody while the bass um-pahs beneath it all. On one verse, almost as if on signal, the sax, bone, and trumpet fall into a series of syncopated chords loosely echoing the melody, and you hit the offbeat accents against them.
Then there is that one verse where they seem to drop out--but keep coming back to hit the changes. This is where your rim shots and buzz rolls fill the space while they're all quiet.
There is a stunned silence for a moment after the song ends. One of them cusses in a deep voice, and says, "Ah ain' neveh huhd such drummin'. Wah ain' you in New Yawk aw Hollywud?"
Young gives an answer. "What does it matter? He's in New Orleans, and looking for work. Have we got a spot for him somewhere, or does he have to leave us and go to New York or Hollywood?"
There is a definite consensus that they would rather you not leave New Orleans; it's just a matter of finding you a band and a club. It seems that the only band that actually needs a drummer at the moment works at a club on the edge of town. It's leader says that with a drummer like you they'll soon have one of the cushy downtown jobs these other slobs have been hogging, and that leads to a lot of joking about stealing you away from him before that happens.
The question is whether you want the job. It's a good eight miles from here, but you could probably get a room in the area. Pay is two dollars a night, six nights a week, practice three afternoons, and the club gives you dinner on the nights you work and doesn't charge you for hooch as long as you're sober enough to play. They've got a string bass, trumpet, trombone, and clarinet, which makes them a bit quieter than the band with which you auditioned, but they think you're good enough to handle that.
--M. J. Young
I don't wish to appear too anxious to accept the offer but I also don't want to come off as being too cool. In my heart and in my head I know I'm going to accept the offer, God knows I do need the work and at the very least it allows me entry into the music and night life of New Orleans. All in all it does seem like a pretty attractive offer what with food and liquor, two things needed to sustain life being provided.
In order not to appear too aloof I ask if maybe someone at the audition could possibly take me to this club under the pretense of meeting the others in the band but really all I want to do is check out this club and its patrons. Hearing that the club lies on the edge of town sends up a red flag because we all know about the types of places that usually exist on the "edge of town." In a word, seedy!
I also have a few other concerns that need to be addressed such as the issue of a drum set. I don't have one and I can't keep borrowing. Does the club have a house set and of what quality and condition? Also I ask if there might be a spot in the band for you as well as I would kind of like to make this a package deal and I'd like to know who in fact I would be working for. Is it the band and if so do they have a contract or at least an understanding, in other words, is this job relatively secure in a temporary way? If I work for the club I'd like to know a little something about the owner(s). I like the idea about eventually playing some cushy dates downtown but in the back of my mind I can't help but wonder that if the band becomes really big and is a huge draw what the reaction of the owner(s) might be if we jumped ship. I do not express this thought out loud to anyone.
The idea of playing in a smaller more quiet band is what is luring me the most. This is the type of jazz I love, intimate lounge music but the idea of eventually putting together the first of its type big band is as equally alluring.
I know all of this is way far into the future and for now I express my gratitude for this offer and if I accept which I know I will I vow to make the most of it all with an eye to the future!
New York huh?...