Little Boy's Blues

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who played the trumpet. "Alfonso Embouchure" was the name printed on his musician's union card– City of Chicago, Local 369.

Alfonso lived in a small room of a Rush Street apartment house. The room really wasn't bad at all, because Alfonso was fond of mice anyway. And besides, as long as he had a smooth board to sleep on, and an apple box to keep his back issues of Down Beat in, Alfonso had no reason whatever to complain, or make a fuss.

Alfonso had a very unusual range. He also had a very agile right hand and a very powerful pair of lungs. Wherever Alfonso went, his trumpet went with him. And when Alfonso blew into his trumpet, very very good jazz notes came out of it.

Once when Alfonso was working as a lowly part-time elevator operator in the Merchandise Mart, he stopped between floors and played his trumpet for Harry James, who happened to be riding in his car. Alfonso will never forget the moment when Mr. James turned to him and said, "Five, please."

Not so long after that, Alfonso got his big opportunity – a chance to play at the Club Libido (which had a four-star rating in Down Beat as a real solid jazz spot). It was not exactly a full-time job. Alfonso's combo only worked on Tuesdays, when the regular outfit had the day off.

The job didn't pay very much – just a pork chop sandwich and a cup of Squirt – but it was good experience. And experience was what Alfonso craved. Fame and fortune would come later.

Alfonso's outfit featured Alfonso himself on trumpet and a fellow named Morgan, whose entire musical talent consisted of keeping time by hitting two bricks together.

Alfonso's combo was popular, but it finally broke up. Alfonso and his partner were always fighting over which one of them should go out front and see how they sounded. No one seems to know exactly what happened to Morgan after that, although he was reportedly seen last squeezing oranges in a Walgreen's Drug Store. As for Alfonso, well, it was just a case of being caught between jobs again.

It was during this temporary set-back, that Alfonso met Hipscat Hilliard, the famous old-time jazz man. Hipscat had heard Alfonso play at the Club Libido.

"You play real fine trumpet, boy," said kindly old Hipscat. "You play like I used to play when I was your age."

"Thank you," said Alfonso.

"You play from the heart, boy," said Hipscat.

"Thank you," said Alfonso.

"Don't go commercial, boy," said Hipscat. "Stay with jazz. Stay with the real music!"

"I'll try," said Alfonso, leaning against a wall for support.

"What'samatter, boy?" Hipscat asked. "You look ill!"

"I'm hungry," Alfonso said. "I lost my job and I haven't eaten this week."

"Doesn't matter," said Hipscat. "Good for a jazz man to suffer. Makes your music real. Play from the heart, boy– not from the stomach!"

"Yes, sir," said Alfonso.

A few days later a lucky break saved Alfonso from starvation. Dizzy Gillespie sent a wire to Samuel and Franklin Plotnik, the owners of Club Libido, saying that he was unable to accept their two-week booking. So Samuel and Franklin Plotnik had to start thinking real hard about who they could get to replace him.

"How about that crazy trumpet player we had here last month – the one who played fill-ins on Tuesdays?" asked Samuel.

"The nut who played through the intermissions and did sixteen encores every night?" asked Franklin.

"That's the one."

"The screwball who worked for a pork chop sandwich and a cup of Squirt?"

"That's the one."

"Call him up," Franklin said. "And why don'tcha buy some crayolas when you're in the Loop this afternoon, so we can make up a real nice sign for him."

So Alfonso Embouchure got his first, honest-to-goodness, full-time job as a jazz trumpet player. The pay was still not very much – twenty dollars a week and all the maraschino cherries he could eat – but he was on his way, and that's what counted. Fame and fortune were nearer his grasp now, and the big break might be just around the corner.

His two-week engagement at the Club Libido permitted Alfonso to buy a smoother board to sleep on and a bigger apple box to keep his Down Beats in. He also had enough left over to buy a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, so all the cats would know he was a cool one.

Almost three months passed before Alfonso received the big break he'd been hoping for. He saw, in the pages of the most recent issue of Down Beat, an ad. A big network station had an opening for a trumpet player in its studio orchestra. The ad said a fabulous salary awaited the right man.

Alfonso immediately called the studio, and an audition was set for the following Monday. Alfonso vowed he would be ready. He went into training.

All that week he did not drink any bad liquids. And he did not smoke any cigarettes. Not even the kind you buy in packs, at stores.

Alfonso practiced every minute. When he was out in public and could not practice on the trumpet, he would practice on the mouthpiece.

"Why do you always blow through that little thing for?" asked the waitress at Alfonso's favorite Rush Street eating place.

"Shut up and gimme my milk," Alfonso would explain.

On Monday Alfonso was ready. He put on his new horn-rimmed glasses, tucked his trumpet under his arm, and walked to the network studio.

The studio orchestra director made Alfonso sit on a fold-up chair, and gave him some sheets of music to set on his music stand.

"What is this?" Alfonso asked, holding the sheets before him and looking very, very hard at them.

"The music," the orchestra director said. "The music we're going to play."

And then Alfonso became very shaky at the knees for he had never learned to read music that was printed on sheets because he was a jazz player and all jazz players ad lib.

And then the orchestra director walked out in front and held up his baton. "The first number will be 'Stars and Stripes Forever,' sheet number 47," he announced.

After a short pause, allowing the musicians to find their places, the orchestra director pushed his baton down through the air.

The orchestra started to play "Stars and Stripes Forever." Well, most of the orchestra. Alfonso was lost. Alfonso was playing bridges from "When the Saints Go Marching In."

The face of the orchestra director became very red. He whacked his baton against the side of his music stand.

"Embouchure!" he shouted, "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"I think my valves are a little rusty," Alfonso shamefacedly said. "They're acting up on me."

"You better go some place and oil your valves," the orchestra director said.

"Yes, sir," said Alfonso. "I better go some place."

Alfonso hung his head and walked very slowly out of the network studio. Alfonso was despondent.

He wandered unhappily down Rush Street till he found himself at the door of Hipscat Hilliard. He went in.

"Hipscat," Alfonso said, "I don't think I'm ever going to make the grade."

"The trouble is," said Hipscat, "you're reaching for a note that no trumpet man in the world can play."

"As a matter of fact, that isn't the trouble at all. It's just that––"

"––A note that doesn't exist."

"No," said Alfonso. "I'm afraid you don't understand––"

"Forget that high note," Hipscat went on. "Forget about hitting a note that doesn't exist."

"But I'm not––"

"Play from the heart, boy," said kindly old Hipscat, "and let the notes blow where they may."

"That's all very good," Alfonso said irritably. "But that's not what I'm worried about. You see––"

"You can't keep a good trumpet player down," Hipscat cut in. "Not if that man plays from the heart."

Alfonso began to get mad. He took out his mouthpiece and blew very very hard through it.

"You play a mean mouthpiece," Hipscat observed.

"But the trouble is," said Alfonso, "I can't read music."

"Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"I've been trying to."

"No need to worry about reading music, boy," said Hips cat. "Why, when I used to play my horn in New Orleans twenty years ago, nobody worried about reading music, I tell you."

"But unless I learn how to read music I won't get a fabulously paying job with a big network studio orchestra," Alfonso said. "You see, they're looking for a trumpet player."

"A big network studio orchestra, eh?" said Hipscat.

"Yes," said Alfonso. "They got an ad in the latest issue of Down Beat."

"Well, don't worry about it, son," Hipscat said. "Bands like that will ruin you. They'll make you commercial and you won't be able to play the real music anymore. You just play from the heart like I told you. That's the important thing."

"Thank you," said Alfonso. "I can see now how mixed up I was. I can see now, if I learned to read it might ruin me."

"That's right," said Hipscat warmly. "Now take your horn and go play the blues. From the heart."

Alfonso walked out of Hipscat's little room feeling very, very warm inside. He tightened his grip on his horn.

Let them point at me, Alfonso thought. Let them say, "There goes a musician who can't read music!" Alfonso knew that no jazz man worth the name ever read from printed sheets. How could he and still play from the heart?

It was all too clear.

Perhaps he would never be as rich or as famous as he'd hoped. But leave that to the Guy Lombardos and Sammy Kayes. He would have something more––something finer. Hadn't Hipscat said it?

The very next week Alfonso got booked into the Club Libido for two solid weeks, with options, at $22.50 per; that same week a big network studio orchestra gave a fabulously paying job to a trumpet player named Hipscat Hilliard.

When Alfonso blew into his trumpet, very very good jazz notes came out of it.