Central Avenue Sounds: Jackie Kelso : electronic version

1. Tape Number: I, Side OneMarch 24, 1990

Isoardi: Okay, Jackie, we begin.

Kelso: Well, let's do it.

Isoardi: Let's start with your life, the very beginning. When you were born, where you were born, what your family was like, the area, etc.

Kelso: Okay, we can start with the who, what, when, where, how, and all that business. I was born on East Twenty-third [Street], in the 1700 block, on the south side of the street, in the middle of the block, in a rented house. My parents [John and Lillian Kelson] had been married for four years, and that was one of my dad's favorite jokes. I was born four years after they were married. We can go into that, why that is such a big joke, later on. I was born February 27, 1922, so I'm sixty-eight at this time. They lived in that house, I guess, six months. Then they moved across the tracks, because that was on the east side of Long Beach Boulevard. Long Beach Boulevard was the strip that included four sets of railroad tracks. In other words, it was a thoroughfare for the big red cars that ran to Long Beach. And there was a roadway on either side of it. It was one way at that time. My parents moved across the block, across the tracks, to the very next block on what was then Twenty-sixth Street, at 1620 East Twenty-sixth Street. My dad decided to buy the house. I think he paid-I don't know-$2,000 or $3,000 for it. But it was a big, big thing, in those days, to own a house.But, in any event, Mother and Father married in- Well, four years before I was born. A sister [Phyllis Kelson Holloway] was born to the family two years later, and there were only two of us. My sister and I, when we were in our twenties, became the very, very best of friends. We had survived all of that warfare and-

Isoardi: But there was a significant amount of the typical warfare?

Kelso: Oh, yes. Oh, yeah. It seemed to be the problem, and we always laughed about it, that Mother and Dad always liked me best. She always felt that she was second on the totem pole, so she had just a good and perpetual cause for warfare with me. But, in any event, let me stop there and get a little nudge from you. What else would you like to know in that period?

Isoardi: In those early years, do you remember when you first discovered music?

Kelso: I had an experience- I guess I must have been at least eight years old. I'm sure I must have been aware of music prior to that, but eight years old is a milestone in this respect. My mother, my sister, and I went to visit some personal friends of the family. The family name was Roberts. I don't remember the father, but I remember the mother and the two sons. It seems that on that night when we were at their home, the sons performed on some kind of woodwinds. Some instruments, some wind instruments. I'm not even sure it was woodwinds. But I remember the mother's appearance, because she was a short lady, very pleasant, liked to talk a lot, wore glasses. I don't remember what the sons looked like. But it seems that after that visit, either on the way home or after we got back home, I told my mother, "I want to play a horn." So maybe a week or two later, my parents said, "We bought you a clarinet." I said, "What's a clarinet? Is it a horn? Do you blow it?" They said, "Yeah." I said, "Fine. That's for me." So that's the first big awareness of music-

Isoardi: Was there anyone else in your family who played? Did your father or your mother play?

Kelso: My father owned a mandolin. He never played it. It was like just a piece of furniture. And my father, all of his life, loved opera. He loved cultural things due to the fact-Well, this might give you a little insight. Both my mother and father were born in the southern part of the United States: Louisiana, Mississippi. Both of them were issued from illegitimate couplings-in those days, I guess you would say colored women and white men-and marriage was not even in the picture. So, in a sense, both of my parents were illegitimate children. I'm coming back to the joke again. Things were tough for my father, because his mother [Ida Johnson] was, I don't know, sixteen or seventeen years old. She was simply the daughter of a day worker in the home of the Kelson family.

Isoardi: Was that in Mississippi or Louisiana?

Kelso: Mississippi.

Isoardi: In Mississippi.

Kelso: Pearlington, Mississippi, is where my dad was born. I've been there. Naturally, when I first had the opportunity, I went there and had a look at it and saw some of his relatives. But, in any event, my dad had an extremely young mother, and he was sort of shoved around. He was just like a total orphan. You know, he had aunts, uncles, but life was so tough and hard for him that he- He never went to school. However, he taught himself to read.

Isoardi: No kidding?

Kelso: As the story develops, you'll see. I guess I'm trying to put too much in too few words. I'll just simply tell the story.

Isoardi: Yeah, use the words you need.

Kelso: At nine years old, things were so tough he ran away from home. He hopped on a passenger train, and he said he fell asleep. In the old days, when you walked up on the train, there were steps, and then when the train was getting ready to pull out-you probably remember how they were constructed-they would close the door, and then there was a platform that would come down.

Isoardi: Yes.

Kelso: Well, that meant that the steps were still available to wind and- There was a little space under there. My dad got on one of those. He didn't know where the train was going. He got on the train, and he said he went to sleep.

Isoardi: Nine years old.

Kelso: Nine years old, while the train was moving. He got off at the first stop, Bay Saint Louis, Mississippi. He was asleep in the train station at night, and a black custodian came by and woke him up in the morning, asked him where he was, what he was doing there. In any event, my dad gave him some sort of story. "I just ran away from home because I just couldn't take it anymore. That was just too much." Nine years old. So the guy said, "Well, I know a lady in town that might have a use for somebody like you." It was a woman who ran a stationery store, sold books and magazines, and she was sort of the funnel through which the town received its magazines by mail.So my dad became her errand boy. He delivered her magazines, and, eventually, I guess after he had proven himself to be trustworthy, he was entrusted with taking the daily receipts to the bank. He said he just loved that situation. This was a white woman, middle-aged or elderly. She had no children, so she really needed an errand boy like that. So he, in a sense, stayed there with that woman, living with her and serving in that capacity, until he was sixteen or seventeen. By then, he had taught himself to read, with the lady's help, and he used the blue-backed spellers. In those days, education didn't come easy for blacks.The term "black" has an interesting history, and I was delighted years ago when that became fashionable, because it seemed that we stopped using euphemisms. It was a delicate situation, you know, if we were talking about the races. Well, let's let everybody have a color, white, yellow, red, brown, black. Fine, okay.But in any event, educational opportunities in those days, and especially with my dad, weren't conducive- [laughter] So broad a-

Isoardi: To put it mildly, yeah.

Kelso: Yeah. But he had just a marvelous time. He said he ran up and down that- It was like a resort situation; it was right on the water. So he ran from one end of the town, and he knew everybody in town. He said sometimes, if he would hurt himself, he would just walk into the drug store. He told me this story. He fell down and skinned his knee or cut his hand and said, "Look, Mr. Pharmacy, I hurt my finger." And he was crying, you know. "Okay, John, we'll fix it." So he just had a marvelous life. But all during this time, he was just absorbing experiences, learning how to read. He told me that, in his youth, he had read all of Shakespeare or something. He just absorbed everything.Okay. Father: illegitimate male. Mother: illegitimate female. Well, same type of relationship. White man, colored woman. However, in my mother's case, Mr. [Morris] Weinberg fathered-I don't know-six, seven, or eight children by the same black woman, so there was a sense of family there and a sense of continuity. And Mr. Weinberg would come out from town-because it was a rural situation-and there would be occasions- And the Weinbergs would laugh about it. She said, "Poor Morris would come out to spend the weekend with Mom [Martha Sullivan] and there was no place for him to sleep, because there would be so many relatives in the house." You know, all of his children and all of the poor folks that were hanging on.My mother came to Los Angeles in 1911. My dad came out about the same time. They met each other, and they courted. My father courted my mother, and my mother laughed, "Yeah, he courted me until I finally caught him." [laughter]

Isoardi: That's good.

Kelso: I guess that's the typical situation with males and females if we only knew the truth about it. But in any- You were going to say-?

Isoardi: I was going to ask you, maybe before you get into that, why did they come out to L.A.?

Kelso: Well, black folks living in the South in those days, anything would be better than staying down there.

Isoardi: But why, for instance, didn't they go north to Chicago?

Kelso: Oh, that was a personal decision on both of their-Oh, wait a minute. I've got a better answer than that. My mother had family friends and relatives already out here. Because she did travel out with a cousin of hers, Emil Raby. They were cousins. They were about the same age. And my father came out here- You really know how to ask good questions. He came out here because he got a good job. He told me one of the first things in life that he realized that was important for him would be for him to get on the payroll of some big company. So the company turned out to be the Southern Pacific Railroad. He got a job as a waiter, and I think he was involved in a steady run between New Orleans and Los Angeles. And he had a girlfriend in those days who was a college graduate. By then, he was living in New Orleans. She was a college graduate, a very dark girl, but very pretty and highly educated. My father had a much lighter complexion than this dark girlfriend of his. So he was looked upon, as was natural in those days-Anybody with lighter skin had undue value assigned to them. The first time I saw that in print was when I first read An American Dilemma by Gunnar Myrdal.

Isoardi: Myrdal, yes.

Kelso: When I read that book I couldn't believe it. "How can this man be so smart to know all of these things?" But we know who he is and what his credentials are. And in that particular book, the way it was termed, the example given was how colored women with lighter complexions are overvalued and how they overvalued themselves and how men tend to overvalue them.But, in any event, my father- With this lady friend of his, it was the understanding that he was going to stay on this run, and, eventually, they were going to get married, and they were going to live in Los Angeles. So he was in the process of working on the railroad, you know, considering this. But he wasn't too happy about the prospect with this woman. There was nothing really wrong in the relationship. It was just that he sensed that, with her education and the type of education he had, it wouldn't produce the kind of marriage that he wanted. Because if the woman has got all of the academic smarts and the man doesn't, it puts the man in a bad position, you know. He would simply be the head of the house by tacit agreement, but she really had more smarts. He wasn't too happy about that prospect because he sensed that the family that he was marrying into would be a notch or two above his family. And his family, remember, was zero. He had nothing as far as a tradition to back him up. He wasn't too enthused about the prospect at that time.So when he met my mother- They met on a Sunday. As is common knowledge, a lot of social activity centered around the churches in those days. There was a church in Los Angeles called the People's Independent Church on Eighteenth [Street] and Paloma [Street]. There was Saint Philip's- I'm not sure about that address. But, in any event, Saint Philip's Episcopal Church was located on Paloma- Sixteenth [Street], Seventeenth [Street], across the street from the Peerless Laundry. I remember this clearly, because, as a kid, that's where my mother attended church, and that was the first church I knew anything about. There were churches all over the neighborhood, but these two particular churches seemed to get more action quality-wise and quantity-wise. You know, the upper-class, smart people went to either People's Independent Church or some Episcopal church.

Isoardi: What was People's Independent? What faith was it?

Kelso: I'm not sure what it was, but Reverend Clayton Russell, I think his name was- No, he couldn't have been the minister at that time, but, as I was growing up, I remember that Reverend Russell was a very, very strong voice in the black community. So it was one of the strong churches. As I recall, it had no particular strong denominational connotation. It was just that it was a dynamic church, huge congregation, and a lot of the right black people went there.So my dad, being knowledgeable, like most young fellows in those days, knew that the place to have some social life was at the churches. [laughter]

Isoardi: Sounds familiar! Yeah, that's right.

Kelso: He never was too keen about going inside the churches, because he had very clear, very strong feelings about the fact that- Well, all of his life, his fundamental rule was the Golden Rule: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."In his last year of life, he and I became almost inseparable friends because he was involved with going to UCLA for treatments several times a week. My mother had died. My mother died in January of '75, and my father died in December of '75. So all of '75, in a sense, he and I were very, very close. His mind was keen and sharp, good humored all through that.

Isoardi: Oh, wonderful.

Kelso: So, on our trips to and from UCLA, we had the greatest conversations imaginable. It wasn't son to father anymore; it was just man to man. And I remember, on one of those occasions I asked my father, I gave him a multiple choice question. I said, "Dad, why did you get married? Did you want children? Were you looking for companionship? Or was it dependable sex?" And without a moment's hesitation, he said, "I wanted children." And we can understand why, coming from where he did, no sense of family, he was determined. He wanted a real, honest-to-goodness family, with everything going for it possible. That's why the joke is, "Son, you are legitimate. You were born four years after your mother and I got married!" So all of that to sort of illustrate the point why that's such a joke with him.

Isoardi: Yeah. Let me just ask you, he took his name, then, from your grandfather?

Kelso: Oh, that was the only thing to do in those days. You remember the story of Malcolm X and that whole movement. "We don't want our slave name." Whatever it is, it's a slave name. It has negative connotations. It's unpleasant. And that's one of the great dramatizations of how some people feel about slavery. They do not want to perpetuate any name except the name that comes from Africa, and nobody knows where they came from over there. So the Black Muslims have served very, very good purposes for many, many people. Not only changing your name, but they can take a drug addict or somebody that has any kind of problem as a result of low self-esteem and, by brainwashing, in a sense-sometimes I think it does go too far-give a person a sense of legitimate identity. You know, "You are a valuable person. Never mind your previous condition, the servitude of your ancestors."Yes. So my father took his illegitimate name. My mother did, too. And I don't know anyone who didn't, because you just go along with the way things are. I know of no one who was smart enough to do what I think is the obvious and logical thing to do: always take your mother's name. Because somewhere growing up we all learned that, in a sense, maternity is certain. Paternity is always open to doubt. If you want to know who you came from, never mind who your father was. You know who your mother is. Of course, that touches on very delicate ground, and we needn't pursue that any further. But we all understand what's involved here.

Isoardi: Sure.

Kelso: So the fact that you even raise that question makes me want to interview you for a moment. What do you feel are the options? Do you feel that a kid like my father, under those circumstances, thinks of the other alternative, of taking his mother's name, which was Johnson? And where did she get her name? You know, that's not an African name. If we're going to look at surnames, we can say my father is double Scandinavian: Johnson and Kelson. I even looked up Kelson once. In some instances, it has been found to, by those who pursue these things- It's spelled and pronounced "Keelson," like the keel of a ship. Well, a "kelson" in- The unabridged Webster's Third International Dictionary talks in terms of it being one of the primary longitudinal members in ship construction. It's a Scandinavian word meaning a part of a ship, which is not unusual. All words have extremely interesting etymologies, don't they? But, in any event, Kelson and Johnson, there's common agreement that maybe both of these are Scandinavian names, for whatever that's worth.

Isoardi: Yes, yes. Interesting. Okay, so you were saying, then, your folks were married. You were saying about the church, your father hung out for social reasons.

Kelso: Yeah. He was a railroad worker, waiter. You know, in those days being a waiter on the railroad or a Pullman porter or a cook, those were good jobs.

Isoardi: So, you were saying your folks were married. Your father hung out at the church for social reasons.

Kelso: Yeah. He was a railroad worker, waiter. You know, in those days being a waiter on the railroad or a Pullman porter or a cook, those were good jobs.

Isoardi: Yeah, that's just what I was going to say. They were very good, weren't they?

Kelso: Excellent jobs. In fact, as a young man, as I was growing up as a kid, my father and I talked from time to time, and I got a very clear message from him that nothing would make him happier than for his son to get a job that was above his job. And the job he always talked about was a railway postal clerk, a man who rides on the train in the baggage car and sorts mail between cities. [laughter] And to him-

Isoardi: That was big stuff, though, sure.

Kelso: Wow, that was a big job. So he felt so strongly about economic stability and that sort of thing that-Let's see. I took music lessons from the time I was eight until twelve and, fortunately, had a great music teacher, Caughey Roberts, a great music teacher, who started me at the beginning of one of these highly organized classical methods. You know, you have them for every instrument. For clarinet, I think it was-

Isoardi: Klosé?

Kelso: Klosé. Lazarus was another. But Caughey just started me in the book, I guess, just what his teacher did for him. Page by page. So perfectly and flawlessly and methodically organized that if you take an imbecile or an idiot and if their parents paddled the kid's behind and made them practice a half hour a day until they went through that book, everybody would turn out to be highly competent musicians. That's what happened to me. And I told my parents thousands of times how much I appreciated those whippings and spankings, making me practice.Let's see. I guess I was getting ready to graduate from high school, or maybe I was at [Los Angeles] City College, but, anyway, there was a milestone in the relationship between me and my father. It had to do with the fact that, by the time I was ready to graduate from high school, I was already a proficient, professional musician making great money with Chico Hamilton, Charles Mingus, Buddy Collette. And Buddy Collette had just started working with a band called Cee Pee Johnson- Oh, that's right. Yeah, I should tell you all of this, because this fits in with the story that you already know about. So a little additional highlight. Cee Pee Johnson, if you know anything- You already have some information about him, so you know what he represented on the Hollywood scene. The Rhumboogie Club? Well, that was like one of the great clubs. You know, black orchestra, black revue, Hollywood stars coming in.And- Let's see. I got married when I was twenty. I've got to hold onto all of these strings, now, because the stories-

Isoardi: Oh, well, you want to back it up and sort of take it in order, then?

Kelso: Oh, no. That's all right. We can take it any way we need. Cee Pee Johnson-Maybe I should back up. The relationship between my father and me- I wanted more than anything else in the world to join Buddy Collette in this band, in Cee Pee Johnson's band. And the opening came up because Lionel Hampton had just left Benny Goodman, and Lionel Hampton was forming his big band. Marshall Royal had been playing with Cee Pee Johnson, and Marshall Royal was responsible for putting together Lionel Hampton's band. Also leaving Cee Pee Johnson's band at that time was Jack McVea, whose father was one of the pioneer musicians in Los Angeles. There was a listing in the yellow pages called Satchell McVea's Howdy Entertainers. Well, his son was named Jack McVea, who recently just retired from playing at Disneyland on a regular basis. But, in any event, there were two openings in Cee Pee Johnson's band. Now, this is right at the pinnacle. This is the top of the heap. Marshall Royal and Jack McVea left to go with Lionel Hampton's big band. Well, Buddy Collette joined Cee Pee Johnson's band, and Buddy had arranged for me- It was just understood: I was going to be in that band, too, with Buddy.When I told my dad about it, foot went down. "Absolutely not. You will continue going to school and you will get yourself an education." I'm going to City College now, junior college. And high school? Academic preparation? Me? Oh, no. Nothing like that. By the time I was twelve years old, I knew who I was. I had that competence.Well, let me put it this way. Human life to me-it seems to me-consists of being a specialist in order to earn a living and a generalist to be a well-rounded human being. Well, at twelve years old, my future was secure, because I had- It was almost like the old days when the father apprenticed his son beginning at two or three years old, took him to the shop, and the kid just grew up being what his father did, and he just learned it by osmosis. There was no formal training. So that any kid in the old days, going as far back as you want in human history, acquired the equipment he needed just by following in his father's footsteps. So at twelve years old, in a sense, my future was secure. Fortunately, because of Caughey Roberts and my parents, my future was secure.But my father was smart enough in those days to realize that the future for a colored, Negro, black musician was not very secure, and he wanted his son to have something more going, no matter how well he played. Because my father just loved to hear me play the clarinet. I mean, he loved the Saturday afternoon operas from the Metropolitan Opera House and all of that sort of thing. But, in any event, that was background to why my father put his foot down about about becoming a full-time, seven-nights-a-week musician right at the top of the heap in Hollywood. Greatest job in town. But he wanted something more for me.So I remember very clearly, we had a conference in the afternoon, in the kitchen, and we sat down at the kitchen table. He was very firm, very understanding, and I was being as persuasive as I could. And when I saw I was getting nowhere, I became so frustrated, I just started crying. You know, here I am, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen years old. And to me, when I found myself crying, I knew that this was something very, very deep with me. "You mean to say I can't-?" I remember telling him, "Dad, you don't understand. This is my one big chance." He was sympathetic and understanding. He knew that opportunity is perpetually knocking at your door, regardless of what your seventeen-year-old son feels. But I felt that so keenly that that was really the milestone. "Son, you will not stop your education so you can play music." His attitude was, "Get a little broader scope, a little more comprehensive view of what life is all about, and, in time, there will be plenty of time for you to do anything you want to do."So I went to City College. I had nothing to do with music. It was a mishmash of business: accounting, three different law courses-contracts, negotiable instruments, and real estate law-business methods, learned how to type, work an adding machine, business management- You get the feel for what that was about.

Isoardi: Yeah, yeah.

Kelso: However-

Isoardi: Can we back you up a bit?

Kelso: Sure. Please do.

Isoardi: You studied clarinet from eight to twelve.

Kelso: Right.

Isoardi: And what happened at twelve?

Kelso: My teacher stopped teaching me. Caughey Roberts stopped teaching me because he got a job in Buck Clayton's band to go to Shanghai, China.

Isoardi: Oh, he traveled with Clayton, then?

Kelso: Yeah, Buck Clayton. And while he was in Shanghai, he wrote me a couple of postcards. One of the biggest thrills of my life was to get a postcard from my music teacher from China. Somehow, I still have filed away eight-by-ten [inch] black and white glossies of the band on stage at some theater. It might have been that same band in Seattle, Washington. But, in any event, this was the band that went to China with my teacher in it. Buck Clayton standing in front, my teacher was playing tenor [saxophone] in that band, and Bumps Myers was playing alto [saxophone]. Somewhere during the course of their stay with that band, they switched instruments. So my teacher's instrument became alto and Bumps's became tenor. I think Happy Johnson was the trombone player. Bass player-his name escapes me, I've worked with him many times-Jonesie [Reginald Jones]. Jonesie was the bass player. The piano player, I think he's still alive. He had a brother that played piano. Oh, this is ridiculous that I can't remember a man's name that I know this well. But in any event, the same piano player that appears on many, many pictures with Louis Armstrong, Red Callender, Bud Scott- These men worked together in some motion picture in Hollywood. Piano player. Wow. His name will come up during the next four or five weeks that we're going to be involved. [Charlie Beal] [laughter]

Isoardi: So you were going to grammar school then? Where were you going then? Junior high school about that time?

Kelso: Let's see. How did I get off the track? Oh, twelve years old. Right. Yeah, I had just entered junior high school, because I went to junior high school in January or February of- Let's see. I was eleven years old, and I was going to turn twelve right after then. Yeah, I was in junior high school at that time.

Isoardi: Where were you? Do you remember the school?

Kelso: Oh, yes. I drove by there last night. [laughter] Yeah, Lafayette Junior High School, located at the northwest corner of Fourteenth [Street] and Hooper [Avenue]. Boy, that area. That experience last night was just marvelous. I've done little pieces of returns to my so-called roots over the years, but never has it been as extensive as what I did last night. So Lafayette Junior High School. I drove down Fourteenth Street and looked at the same steps of the auditorium on which my graduating class had its picture taken. I was president of the class then, probably due to the fact that I was in the orchestra and I had a clear-cut identity.My buddy, Chico Hamilton, had a gift of gab. This guy could talk. And he played drums.

Isoardi: When did you meet Chico?

Kelso: Nevin Grammar School, when we were, I don't know, seven or eight, nine, ten years old.

Isoardi: Jeez.

Kelso: Chico taught himself to play drums, and I was just the opposite. You know, I had all this formal training. So very early in life, I had that sense of discipline and rigidity and sense of propriety and structure and that. And Chico was just the opposite: a creative artist from the word go.Well, Chico, at the very beginning- Every year, as part of the education of the students, those at Nevin Grammar School, there would be an assembly-it was called an aud call, auditorium call-and the orchestra would play. And each instrument in the orchestra would be introduced by the conductor, a woman named Mrs. [Gertrude] Smith, a violinist. She would introduce each member in the orchestra and have the orchestra member play a little something by themselves so the entire student body could hear what the instrument sounded like.Well, every year that this was done, every semester that this was done, Chico would break it up every time! [laughter] You know, the piano player would say [mimics simple piano solo], the violin would say [mimics simple violin solo], trumpet [mimics simple trumpet fanfare], clarinet [mimics simple clarinet solo]. "Now, children, this is what the drums sound like." [mimics wildly swinging drum solo] [laughter] Pandemonium! Chaos! Every semester! Chico loved that. You know, one of the highlights: Chico's drum solo.Chico was one semester behind me. But, somehow, my parents put me in school, I don't know, right at the age of four and half, five, or six, whatever it was, and they arranged to get me in on the cusp, as we might say, due to the fact that I was going to be a certain age on February 27. I was able to start as if I was already that age, but I would not be that age for maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight, thirty days. So that's why I, in a sense, was maybe one semester ahead of a lot of kids my age.But Chico came from my favorite family in those days. A large family, mother and father stable, but the kids were- It was just the opposite of my family. There were only two of us, and we were kind of rigid and- I mean, one of the devices my mother always used on us for discipline purposes was "What will the people at church think?"And I had a marvelous experience just a couple of weeks ago at that very church. Let's see- I'm into it; I may as well mention it. The senior warden at that church- Now, it's Saint Philip's Episcopal Church, still standing at Twenty-eighth and Stanford [Avenue], a couple of blocks down the street from the Twenty-eighth Street YMCA [Young Men's Christian Association]. Our first secretary, Thomas Green; architect, [Paul R.] Williams. You know, I'm filling in who's who in black Los Angeles and that sort of thing.

Isoardi: It's great, yeah.

Kelso: The senior warden of that church called me not too long ago. Her name is Mrs. [Barbara] Luke, married to a school buddy of mine [John Luke], went to Jefferson High School with him. She called me and said, "John, would it be possible for you to come to church next Sunday, and after service, at the parish house-you know, we have our fellowship there-would you address the church and tell us something about your travels and your career and all that?"

2. Tape Number: I, Side TwoMarch 24, 1990

Kelso: She called me, I guess, on a Wednesday and wanted me to come in that next Sunday. I said, "Well, hold on just a minute. Let me get my book"-a little black book-"to see if I've got anything going Sunday." I said, "No, fine. I can do that. I'm clear on that." I said, "However, I don't want to commit myself to doing something that's going to require a lot of preparation on my part." She says, "Don't worry about it. It will be very easy. All I want you to do is do what only you can do. Come in and tell us your story your way." "Oh," I said, "fine. I can do that. That's no problem at all." So, being the kind of person I am, immediately I started thinking about it. Wheels turning, you know. I want to organize this thing, you know, make a nice presentation. I never made a speech in front of a group of people before in my life, but-

Isoardi: You never have?

Kelso: Oh, no. Recently I've been- Oh, well, yes, I have. For about six years I have been going to a church in Glendale [California] on Tuesday mornings, from ten [o'clock] till twelve [o'clock] every Tuesday. There's a class that is involved in studying some material called A Course in Miracles that was copyrighted, put together, and available for the public in about 1975. Boy, I can really get far afield. [laughter] I'm going to tell you when I first heard the term "course in miracles," which involves playing at the Schubert Theater and blah blah blah- But, in any event, that class consists of reading certain material. Class discussions and assignments are given where each member of the class is to take a particular section of the material, digest it in a personal way, and share it with the class. So it has been extremely enjoyable for me and instructive and mind-broadening, and it's been one of the greatest experiences of my life, this class, in which I have participated in a serious and consistent way. And I've been given assignments. You know: "John, would you take the assignment for next week?" "Fine, sure." You know, get there and read the material, dissect it, count the paragraphs, find the topic sentence, what's the supporting material, and what is the thesis statement of the entire section.And I remember how the experiences have changed for me. Each time I got better and better and better and more confident and more enthused about- And it's almost been like- It's an opportunity to develop and grow, because the material has to do with- Well, I guess we could say it has spiritual content, it has to do with becoming, maybe, a more whole, integrated human being and that sort of thing. Seeing the wholeness of the entire universe and that sort of thing. So it got to the point where, "Assignment? Yes. Let me at it. I love this." The first time I went up, I had a written outline, and I went up to the table with my outline, and I read my outline. Very happy, very satisfactory. The next time I had an outline but was a little extemporaneous. "Never mind the outline. Let me tell you in my own words about this thing." Well, it gets to the point now where, when I've got an assignment, I go up there with just nothing in my hands. You know, I've got the outline in my head and let me at that material.So I'm feeling quite confident with this call to come to Saint Philip's Church and share my life. However, the "Course in Miracles" has allowed me to just organize preset material. Material that's-

Isoardi: Right.

Kelso: It consists of 1,200 pages. So, in order to be conscientious and efficient, Wednesday and Thursday I began to think, "Hey, let's see. Let me think about this. My life and my career. All right. Well, gee whiz. Let me-" In fact, I started right after I hung up with her. I was sitting at the desk in that room there. I just picked up an envelope-it might have been a gas bill or whatever it was-and I just made a couple of notes. Well, Thursday, Friday, Saturday- By then, that envelope had very tight notations on both sides, and I had taken another envelope. So I had two envelopes of notes, both sides. And, let's see, this was Friday or Saturday, and I decided, "Gee whiz. I'd better put this in some sort of legible form for Mrs. Luke." Because my idea was, "Mrs. Luke, here's my outline. Let me give you this, and you can ask me any questions you'd like so that you'll pull out of me what you want me to say to the people at church."Now, all of this grew out of my sharing with you that phrase from my mother's disciplinary methods. "What will the people at church think?"So, by now, I'm so comfortable with talking to people, after that experience at Saint Philip's Church, I'm ready to address the whole world now on any subject at the drop of the hat. I'm doing what anybody else can do: sharing my concepts and my opinions, which are uniquely valuable or invaluable, depending on how you're going to look at it. So, in a sense, I'm quite comfortable and happy with who I think we are. Not who I am, because I like to think in terms of we are all part of the same body. You know, the fact that we can walk around in a separate way is causing- In other words-here's one of the keys to my thinking now- I think the age-old answer and concern hits it right on the head. The question of human identity. Who do we think we are? And the pronoun that we use can make all the difference in the world. Who do I think I am? Or who do I think we are? Because one, in a sense, creates a linguistic separation. And the first-person plural makes it impossible to see yourself totally separated from the so-called classic "other," the self and the other, which reminds me of Simone de Beauvoir in The Second Sex, when she talked about subject and object when it comes to the way men look at women.But, in any event, okay, back to the church. So, in any event, I talked to the group at Saint Philip's for one hour and ten minutes. They were spellbound. We were laughing. That was one of the greatest times I've ever seen in that- Because what I was doing, I was not giving them the information that Mrs. Luke asked for about my travels and my career. I was talking to them about things I felt were far more important to me and things that I thought were much more valuable than the fact that I've recorded with Barbra Streisand, Frank Sinatra, Michael Jackson. To me, that's fine and wonderful, but I've done so much of that, I know just about what the real worth of that is. So what I wanted to share with them were things that I considered important in my life. I talked about those things peripherally and the travels that I've had all over the world, especially the travels that I have done all over the world for personal reasons: traveling to countries not as a musician but as a tourist on my own.You know, for a long while, I was going to Japan every year with Billy Vaughn. That was wonderful. I went to South America. And I just felt one day, sooner or later, some bandleader is going to say, "Hey, boy, would you like to go to Europe with me?" Nobody ever offered to take me to Europe. I finally decided, "If I want to see Europe, I'm going to take myself." So, in 1981, I think it was, I decided, "I'm going to go to Europe." I took three months off, went over, and traveled totally alone. I thought there might be a possibility that I was going to do some playing with Lionel Hampton over there, but we couldn't get together for sure, so I went over a month in advance. I had talked to Lionel's office on the phone in New York. And there was discussion, "Yeah, well, we might be able to work that out." Well, I had worked with Lionel Hampton in 1946 and '47.

Isoardi: Right.

Kelso: And traveling all over the country. From time to time, in later years, Lionel Hampton would come out and play some one-nighters up and down the California coast, play the Hollywood Bowl, and he, like most bandleaders, would bring in a couple of key men and augment the band with friends from Los Angeles. So I've played with Lionel Hampton over the years. We were in San Francisco playing a one-nighter up there a couple of years ago, and I said, "Hey, Hampton, next time you go to Europe, I want to go with you." We were standing in the lobby of the hotel with his manager and some people. I said, "Well, fine. I've got a public commitment from you. Next time you go to Europe, I'm expecting to go." So there was some talk on the telephone, but I was so determined. I wanted to make sure that I was going to get to Europe. I said, "Well, fine. Your guys are due over there in-" Let's say August or whatever it might have been. "Well, I'm going over there now. And when I meet you, if there's a spot for me, fine. If not, I'll just keep on doing what I'm doing." Well, their first concert was supposed to have been in Frankfurt, Germany, on a certain day.Well, I spent a month in Spain, and I left Spain in order to get to Frankfurt, because Spain, you know, you can spend a lifetime there. And I never got further south than Cordova, I think. It's a marvelous country. Spain's right in the middle, and it's like you can just go anywhere you want.Let me pull myself back. Boy, I can really get far afield. [laughter]Yeah, at the church, I was talking about travels that I have done on my own. That was what was important to me, to have been- I'll rattle off the countries. You know, all over Europe, and then another tour. That was my first tour, the one that included Spain, Germany, Belgium, France, Switzerland. And I decided Italy is so rich, I'm not going to get drawn into Italy. That's got to be a tour by itself.But when I was bumping around there in Switzerland and I saw the map of- I've got a Cook's Timetable and a Eurail pass. Man, to travel alone with a Cook's Timetable, and you've already psyched it out, you know how to read it- You know, it comes out every month and it's updated. You find out how this thing works, and you've got this pass in your hand and the book, and you're your own boss. Well, I'm bumping around there in Switzerland, and I said, "Wow! Pow! Look! There's Rome. Oh, I'm so close. Why don't I go down?" Well, so I did cheat. I went down to visit Rome.Shortly thereafter, I started traveling with this lovely lady here, Carol [Henning], who's been traveling on her own since she was a student at [University of California] Berkeley in the sixties. One of her girl friends came back from a European tour, after having done it alone, and Carol decided, "If she can do it, I can do it, too." So she's been doing this all of her life. And since I've known her, from the very beginning, she has tried to coax me, "Hey, why don't we look at this?" Well, after we had been friends for five or six years, she said something about, "Oh, here's a brochure. They've opened up the People's Republic of China. What a gorgeous tour that would be!" I said, "Okay." And two minutes had gone by before she realized I'd said okay. So the two of us did the People's Republic of China. Egypt and Israel was a tour. And then the ship thing, Greece, Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania, and the Black Sea. And we were also summer school students at the University of Cambridge in England one year and then traveled, top to bottom, side to side, across all of England, which meant the northernmost- Here, again, is the kind of guy I am. Get the map of England. "What's the northernmost stop on the railroad?" Thurso, Scotland. I said, "We will go there. What's the westernmost tip?" Penzance. "Easternmost?" Dover. "Okay, so we've got the triangle." And, you know, you just make sure you cover those three points, and just- We had a Britrail pass, and again, just playing it by ear after Cambridge. Go ahead.

Isoardi: I was just going to say, it's funny. August '81? That was my first trip to Europe. I just took off.

Kelso: Really? Marvelous. Well, we were there at the same time.

Isoardi: Same time, yeah. Funny.

Kelso: Golly, what a thrill. Yeah.

Isoardi: Let me ask you a bit about- To take off a bit, you were contrasting your family and your upbringing with Chico's and how different it was.

Kelso: Yeah, he was my leader in so many, many ways. He took me on my first gig. He took me out shoe shining, you know, where you build a little box and you walk around town anywhere, hopping trucks, stealing rides, jumping on streetcars, not having to pay, you know, in the days they had streetcars.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Well, he was my leader, musically and- The shoeshine business. Got in my backyard, built a little shoeshine box.

Isoardi: That's interesting. Buddy Collette was saying how, when he was a kid, twelve or so, he would go uptown-

Kelso: Oh, yeah. Sure.

Isoardi: -with his box to make some money.

Kelso: Right.

Isoardi: And he said Mingus had the same thing.

Kelso: Sure.

Isoardi: That was a way to pick up some change.

Kelso: Immediately. And to have untold marvelous adventures. A shoeshine boy can go in and out of everywhere. It's almost like down South. Put a white coat on a black man, he can go anywhere, because that white coat indicates, "He's a good one. He's got a job. He can be trusted." It's like The Invisible Man.

Isoardi: Ralph Ellison's marvelous book.

Kelso: You got it. You got it. Yeah, you put a white coat on a black man, you know, you just don't see him. He's okay.

Isoardi: So with Chico, then, you guys were doing that and hanging out and doing everything together. In terms of the different type of families you came from, the type of music that you were listening to when you were young, were you listening more to classical music? Or was Chico listening more to popular music?

Kelso: Oh, no. Oh, no, no. We loved the same thing. We were really together. We can remember the orchestras and the styles and the hit records in those days. Yeah, we were exactly of the same mind when it came to music. And the first orchestra that we both loved was Jimmie Lunceford, with that precision and quality arrangements. We didn't like Duke Ellington because he was out of tune and ragged, we thought. And it took a little time before I saw the light, you know. It wasn't that Duke changed; it was just that I grew. You remember the story about the fifteen-year-old boy who thinks his father is such a dummy, and the boy, after he gets to be twenty, was surprised at how much his father has learned in five years.

Isoardi: I think that's in Mark Twain, yeah. [laughter] Good story.

Kelso: Yeah, okay. Yeah, so Chico and I knew exactly where the truth was. It was just that, you know, I could read- Oh, Chico- Well, in junior high school, there was a a Mexican[-American] piano player in junior high school at the same time, Jesus Reyes. He turned out to be "Chuey" Reyes, a great bandleader. Well, Jesus Reyes and Chico-they must have been thirteen, fourteen years old-went to the Burbank Burlesque Theatre on Main Street, about Sixth [Street] and Main, to appear on an amateur contest. Junior high school kids. Drums and piano. Took first prize. So in the junior high school, the entire student body knew about this. They're famous. I'm a clarinet player, can play anything, read all the music [rolls tongue to indicate rapid realization of written music], you know. I can play a little jazz, little blues notes on the clarinet.So, while still in junior high school, somebody in Jesus Reyes's family gets married, so Chico, Jesus, and I provide the music. I play the clarinet. House party, you know-reception or house party. At night, too. Twelve, thirteen years old. And we made the agreement, the three of us: "Wow, we're so good. Chuey, we played free for you, so, Chuey, you're going to play free for a Hamilton party and a Kelson party." You know, I don't think we made any money. We were just happy to be playing together.But I remember, at that time, I wasn't as good at doing what I did as Chico was at what he was doing. You know, play drums, he didn't care what tempo or what the song was-he didn't have to know what key or anything-he could just play. Well, clarinet is a little different. You've got to know a melody. So, consequently, I didn't do as good a job as Chico did. I think I had a music stand on that job. I don't know what I could have had on that music stand, unless it was some melodies, but, even then, Chico said, "Hey, man, put that music stand away! You're messing up. You're messing up." [laughter]So that distinction between the two of us, I guess, has remained all of our lives. I've gone on to be an extremely efficient producer of any kind of music. Because my attitude was- I really became a professional musician, because I had to, after World War II. You know, I was married, out of the service. Well, what am I going to do? Music, because I was a musician in the navy. So my idea was, "I am a professional musician. I'm like a first-class plumber. I will fix any problem you have with your plumbing and do it better than anybody." So my attitude about music was, "I don't care what it calls for, I can do it. I'll play any style, do anything you want done." It's just, if you're going to do something, you've got to cover the whole spectrum.Consequently, I've never considered myself unemployed. I've never been without a job, because, if I didn't have one, I was hustling or trying to get a job. For me-this was just personally with me-to sign up for an unemployment check was a waste of time. You fill out the form, you've got to go down there and stand in line, you've got to go back a week later and pick up the check. To me, that was just time wasted. I would prefer spending that time polishing my craft, becoming better at what I do. And, as a result, never in my life have I drawn one unemployment check. And I've never thought of myself as being unemployed. I am simply between jobs. [laughter] I'm getting ready for the next one.So, in a sense, I have taken anything that came up and made a career out of it, as evidenced by the fact I joined- Well, in a nutshell, let me put it this way: A job came up, after I got out of the service, to play clarinet in Kid Ory's Dixieland Band.Well, even better than that, let me go back before the war. Barney Bigard, clarinet player with Duke Ellington, left Duke Ellington and formed his first band away from Duke Ellington. You know, the story of the Duke Ellington Orchestra is that he had great soloists in the band, and each soloist, while they were still in the band, would make recordings under their own name, but they would still remain members of Duke Ellington's orchestra. Well, Barney Bigard finally left Duke Ellington and formed his own group right here in Los Angeles. I played alto with him. Henry Green played drums. But, in any event-I should condense this-Barney Bigard pulled Kid Ory out of retirement. I don't know whether you know about that relationship.

Isoardi: Oh, not the relationship. I certainly know who Kid Ory was.

Kelso: Kid Ory was pulled out of retirement. He was the trombone player, and I played alto, and Red Mack played trumpet. Now, that was before the war. Well, during the war, in '42, '43, '44, '45- By 1945, the big man was Kid Ory, and the clarinet player in his band was Barney Bigard. And I think this was brought about because of Orson Welles's interest in Dixieland music. During the war, Orson Welles had been instrumental in popularizing or exposing that music to a larger audience. You remember that was during the period where they discovered Bunk Johnson from New Iberia, Louisiana.

Isoardi: Sure. I remember there was this big revival.

Kelso: Yeah. Okay, that was part of-

Isoardi: I didn't know about Orson Welles's role, though.

Kelso: Well, Orson Welles seemed to be involved in this in some sort of way.In any event, what I wanted to picture here was, before the war, Kid Ory and I played in Barney Bigard's band. After the war, I was the clarinet player in Kid Ory's band shortly after Barney Bigard had left Kid Ory's band. But Albert Nicholas had played clarinet, as well.But, in any event, this, again, illustrates the fact that I'm out of the service, I'm married. "Music, Los Angeles, here I am! Where's my job?" Any job that comes along, "Yes, I'll take it." Kid Ory was one of them. We worked at the Jade Supper Club on Hollywood Boulevard, Larry Potter's Jade Supper Club, one of the focal points of interest in jazz, you know. Movie stars used to come in every night, music lovers- It was one of the big events. That was shortly after the war, and Hollywood Boulevard still had a residual Hollywood glamour about it. So I was working there with Bud Scott on guitar, Minor "Ram" Hall on drums, L. C. Cooper piano, Poppa "Mutt" Carey playing trumpet. And there I was, man.

Isoardi: Wow.

Kelso: I didn't realize then- You know, I was really impressed with the fact that I was there, but it's in years subsequent I just realized, man, I was right in the middle of the transition. But after working with the band and enjoying all of that thoroughly, just very, very happy times playing with them at that one job, I decided that somehow I didn't want to stay for the rest of my life playing that kind of music. And I imagine, from time to time while I was with Kid Ory, other job opportunities had come up, but I decided, "It's a steady job. I'm going to stay here, stay here, stay here." And I don't remember how- It was less than a year that I worked with him, but, somehow, I was torn between appreciation for the job and the tradition and the music and the feeling that, really, I don't want to get locked into this thing, because it looked like it could have been a lifetime career. It really could have. Because my teacher, Caughey Roberts, got in on that stream, in that he started playing clarinet in Teddy Buckner's Dixieland band. Caughey Roberts stayed there out at Disneyland with Teddy Buckner for fifteen years, twenty years, I don't know how long. So, somehow, I sensed that I didn't want to spend the rest of my life playing Dixieland. So I quit that job to go to another job. I don't know just what it was.But one of the big things that happened right after the war was I got a chance to play with Lionel Hampton playing just clarinet. Lionel Hampton had five saxophones. What does he need with another reed? What happened, Lionel Hampton had, when he first- I just finished reading his autobiography [Hamp: An Autobiography].

Isoardi: I'm in the middle of it now.

Kelso: Yeah, it's marvelous. Where he talks about meeting Paul Howard and the Quality Serenaders- And it was playing for one of the parties for upper-class Negroes where he met his wife, Gladys [Riddle Hampton].Let's see, it was 1946; Lionel Hampton was out here playing theaters and ballrooms. This was before the union [American Federation of Musicians] amalgamation, while the black musicians union [Local 767] was still over on Central [Avenue] between Seventeenth [Street] and Eighteenth Street, on the east side of the street, which is now- I drove by there last night. I made a note of what's there on that block.But, in any event, in 1946, when Lionel Hampton was out here, Paul Howard, the secretary of the union- Not secretary. Treasurer.

Isoardi: The financial director or whatever?

Kelso: Financial secretary, yeah. He told Hampton- See, I wasn't present, but the way it was, Paul Howard told Hamp, "You ought to hear this guy play clarinet." So I went out one night- Joe Adams, I think the first black disc jockey in Los Angeles, had a show, and he had a marvelous automobile. I don't know whether it was a Packard or a Rolls Royce or what it was. But Joe was quite a quality guy. Joe Adams. Speaks beautifully. And, you know, he is Ray Charles's manager, has been for many, many years.

Isoardi: Oh, really?

Kelso: Yeah, he even helps him fly a plane sometimes. But, in any event, Joe Adams picked me up on the corner of Long Beach Boulevard and Twenty-fifth Street with a car full of musicians-Gladys was there-and took me out to the Trianon Ballroom. No uniform. I just sat in and played a couple of clarinet solos. And Hampton was impressed. "Hey, `Gates,' when you going to join the band?" I said, "Well, fine." So he hired me to play just clarinet. I loved that, because that meant I didn't have to carry a saxophone, too. Imagine going to work carrying just a clarinet. In any event-

Isoardi: Can I just ask you-?

Kelso: Sure.

Isoardi: He was calling you "Gates"?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. He calls everybody-

Isoardi: Because you could swing?

Kelso: No, no. He called everybody Gates. In his autobiography he tells you why. Because when he first played with Louis Armstrong, Louis Armstrong said [imitating Armstrong], "Hey, kid, you sure swing. You swing so good like a gate!"

Isoardi: That's right, that's right.

Kelso: And Hamp said, "I started calling everybody `Gates' then."

Isoardi: Gates.

Kelso: [imitating Armstrong] "Everybody. Yeah, Gates. Yeah."So I got the job with Lionel Hampton, stayed with him for, well, gee whiz, almost two years. You know the story between Gladys and Joe Glazer, that little conversation that they had in the theater about "Buy cheap, sell high"? Marshall Royal told me that same story a couple of years ago. He said he was sitting behind a curtain, and he heard that, and he told them off and quit. And Hamp says in the book, he says when Marshall and his brother [Ernie Royal] heard that observation, they quit, and Hamp says, "I don't blame them." [laughter]So, in any event, I started working with Lionel Hampton in 1946, working one-nighters, making $22 a night. After I'd been there for, I don't know, a year and a half, something like that, I asked for a raise of one dollar a night, you know, to $23. So we talked. And the guys in the band were quite amused by it, because, you know, guys who have been there for a long time, they know how the game works. When a new man gets in the band, he gets a lot of solos and, wow, everything is wonderful. You see very soon that guys in that band [snaps fingers] come and go just like that. It's a marvelous training ground, and Hampton has done just a priceless good deed for music, because more young guys have gotten that break, that experience to see what the big time- And one thing you learn in that band is how to put on a good show. That is the best place you can go to learn how to really be in the, quote, unquote, "entertainment" business. Lionel Hampton can turn a group of people into a mob. He takes it as a personal challenge, because that is his thing. He feels all of this enthusiasm in himself. And right now he is just as enthused and as on fire with this as he was when I used to see him as a kid. I used to see him at the Lincoln Theatre, Twenty-third [Street] and Central. He had a band then. But, in any event, if he is able to really get that out of him into the crowd and the crowd responds in such a way that he knows that he has shared it, that's his challenge, to share that ecstasy and that joy.So I worked with him, you know, tried to get a dollar raise. Couldn't.

Isoardi: After a year and a half, they wouldn't give you a dollar raise?

Kelso: Oh, oh, oh, oh. Oh, that was understood. The guys in the band, the old-timers, you know, they knew the story. And it's okay. You know, Gladys was one of the shrewdest, sharpest, smartest women imaginable. As the story said, she was a graduate, what, of Fisk University.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: What did I-? I want to talk about- Oh, I remember. Early, I was talking to you about not getting involved with feelings, and I realize now, man, I'm doing nothing but talking about feelings. [laughter]

Isoardi: You can't separate them.

Kelso: Right, you cannot separate it. I'm making factual reports that move me deeply. Last night I drove by Twelfth [Street] and Central. That was where two streetcars crossed. That's one of the big spots in Los Angeles, on Central Avenue-Twelfth and Central-because that's where the B-car crossed the U-car. Vernon [Avenue] and Central, the other big intersection, where the U-car crossed the V-car.So, in any event, if you read Hampton's biography, you know that Gladys's mother had property there around Twelfth and Central. And also, just off Central, west of Central, on Twelfth Street, less than halfway down the block, two important buildings used to face each other. One was the cooks and waiters union that my father and Clarence Johnson- Clarence Johnson was the real driving force behind that. In the old days, before there was a union, when the men had a day off, they had to report to the commissary on Alameda [Street] on their day off to see if there was a job that needed filling. In other words, a man was booked to go out, but in case he didn't go out, you had to go down there on your day off to cover for this man.So there were many, many things about working conditions on the railroad that I was aware of, because I've heard my father talking about it. When he got a job, he was paid $25 a month, minus $2.50 for breakage, whether you broke anything or not. Okay, so you see there was some motivation for establishing the cooks and waiters union.

Isoardi: No kidding! [laughter]

Kelso: Yeah, so my father had an interest in that, and he was involved in that.

Isoardi: He was involved in setting up the union?

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: Organizing.

Kelso: Yeah, helping to set it up. And when it was set up, I remember, he took me down there once, and they were so much in the process of setting up, they were in the business of putting together the new pool table. I watched them assemble that, you know, the slate, and I watched them cover it with the green and all. That was one of the high points in my life, to see that table put together.The other building across from Twelfth Street was a beautiful, impeccably manicured, frame dwelling-white, lovely palm tree and grass. This was the house that housed the office of Dr. [Stovall] and Dr. [Thomas] Green, a dentist and a medical doctor. So those two very important buildings stood across the street from each other. So, again, I made my trip to see it again and to see what's happened to the neighborhood, what's there and what's not there anymore. All of last night I made copious notes, each corner.

Isoardi: Marvelous.

Kelso: Copious notes only in that my notes read "First Street, Second Street, Third, Fourth, Fifth," and just one or two words as I drove.But, in any event, Twelfth Street, Lionel Hampton- Oh, Gladys being a smart business woman. Her mother was very smart. Gladys had a marvelous education, and that was one of the best marriages possible, as far as reciprocity of values. It's all there in the book. I don't have to say it again. But Lionel Hampton's band was a good job. I felt, just on principle, "If I don't rate a raise after this period, I should move on."I did some recording with Benny Goodman. Benny Goodman didn't have a band then. He was just sort of semiretired. I was working with Jake Porter at the Downbeat [Club] at Forty-third [Street] and Central, and Benny came in once to hear us play and sat there with his hat on all the time. Esvan Mosley, the mayor of Central Avenue, who was managing the club at the time, asked Benny to take his hat off, and Benny said, "No, there's a draft in here and my head will get cold." I went to Benny's house a couple of times, met Fletcher Henderson. Jake Porter, me, and Bill [William] Douglass- Let's see. Bill Douglass was involved here, but I think when we went to Benny's house it was Jake, me, and Fletcher Henderson. We sat up there and chatted at Benny's house. We played a little bit, and Benny asked me some questions about my clarinet embouchure. You know, that man is totally dedicated to the clarinet. He didn't care who I was. You know. He had heard me play clarinet, and I played a couple of his solos, you know, "Clarinade" [sings melody].But, in any event, I made some records with Benny. Benny was going to reform his band, and I was going to be in the band. So I thought, "Wow! Wow, that's my next band. Wow! Okay, I'll wait, wait, wait." Weeks went by. No call for rehearsal. Weeks went by. Weeks turned into months. "Damn, Benny. When are you going to form your band?" Well, I just figured, "Well, I don't know how many months-" I just decided, "Gee whiz, I just can't hold myself open just waiting for Benny."So a job came along, an offer from Roy Milton-rhythm and blues, had many big hits. Caughey Roberts, my teacher, had played with Roy Milton, and they had come to a parting of the ways. And he had had another alto player, Cliff Noel. I think I, in a sense, replaced Cliff Noel. But, by then, between the time my teacher left and I joined Roy Milton, Roy Milton had gotten even bigger and bigger and had better automobiles to travel in. And shortly after I joined him, he bought his first full-sized Flexible, brand-new bus. Flexible meaning- That was the brand name. It was made in Loudonville, Ohio.Roy Milton was a fine job, marvelous job, great job. I stayed there eight, nine years, because I became quite valuable to Roy in that, when I joined the band- Let's see. Is this the sort of thing that you want to hear about? Because I'm really getting into detail about Roy Milton.

Isoardi: Oh, no, no. This is- Sure.

Kelso: Yeah, I think this might be a key thing. This will give you some insight into what the operation-

3. Tape Number: II, Side OneMarch 24, 1990

Isoardi: Okay, Jackie, where were we?

Kelso: I remember exactly where we were.

Isoardi: Good.

Kelso: We were in the process of allowing me to have fun talking about how I would go from job to job. [laughter] I didn't care what it was.

Isoardi: That's right. You were contrasting yourself and Chico [Hamilton], I think, weren't you?

Kelso: Yes. Chico has done a very consistent straight-ahead performance. Quite similar to [Charles] Mingus, in a sense. Well, in a sense. Why don't I just talk about Chico? [laughter]Chico knows who he is, what he wants to do, and everything he does- Chico, to me, is, in a sense, like Duke Ellington in this respect: Chico plays his music using any player, any group of instruments. He doesn't care what it is. He puts his stamp on it. You know, Duke Ellington, whenever a new man would come in the band- As Bill [William] Berry says, Duke Ellington made sure he used all of the material available. No matter what material comes into the band, what stylistic offering the man has, Ellington would create a setting that would show off that man's uniqueness in a way that- Like a jeweler: a fine stone being put into just the right setting in a ring. Chico, same way. Pure creative artist. I don't know but what Chico still doesn't know what a great genius he is. [laughter] I see him every now and then. I had a marvelous visit with him and Helen [Henry Hamilton]. Incidentally, I was the best man at their wedding.

Isoardi: Oh, really?

Kelso: I think we were still in high school. Way back then. But, you know, that's one marriage I put together that really stayed. [laughter]

Isoardi: Marvelous.

Kelso: They have a lovely penthouse home and office a half block from the U.N. [United Nations Building, New York City]. Wow, there are so many details. Let me get back to-

Isoardi: I was going to ask you- To get back to you guys as youngsters in grammar school and, I guess, junior high school, playing together- You said your first heroes, or whatever, were the Jimmy Lunceford band.

Kelso: Oh, yes.

Isoardi: Were you guys going out, hanging out, going to concerts then?

Kelso: Oh, yes.

Isoardi: Or were you a little too young?

Kelso: Oh, no. You know, there was no-

Isoardi: Where would you go see them?

Kelso: Any of the theaters. The Shrine Auditorium, the Vogue Ballroom. There was a ballroom out at- Selig Zoo out near Lincoln Park. What I remember very clearly about that, that was the first time I had seen, on a bandstand and not on a stage, the Duke Ellington Orchestra with Jimmy Blanton. Jimmy Blanton had just joined the band. It was the first time anybody's ever seen a bass player set up on a bandstand down front, right in the curve of the piano. And Jimmy Blanton was one of the most- Well, very handsome young fellow. I guess you've seen pictures. Just a magnificent-looking individual. He looked good playing the bass.

Isoardi: This was like 1939, 1940?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. Early. Now, the Vogue Ballroom downtown, many, many bands played there. [laughter] Let's see. Buddy Collette, Dexter Gordon, me, Chico Hamilton, James Nelson-we used to call him "Hawk" because he loved to play like-

Isoardi: Coleman Hawkins?

Kelso: Coleman Hawkins. So this group, we would go down to the Vogue Ballroom. It was a ballroom, but, for us, it was a chance to stand right there at the bandstand, right up close, you know, look at those uniforms. You know, you're so close you could pick up their music.One of the marvelous bands that we used to love to see was Floyd Ray's orchestra. He never got to be a super band, but he was a very short fellow, very classy. He could direct an orchestra and look like ten million dollars. Oh, what we're talking about is places. Yeah, the Vogue Ballroom, the Shrine Auditorium. I saw Jimmie Lunceford not at the auditorium but in the [Shrine] exhibition hall, because that's where you could dance. At one end would be the bandstand, and then all of that. It's like a quarter-of-a-mile-long dancing area.Yeah, wherever the bands played, somehow-

Isoardi: You guys were there.

Kelso: We'd get there.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: And Chico, a great talker, knows everybody in the band, talked to everybody in the band. Chico was always a salesman. You know, when he had his group down at the Stroller's, I went down there and saw him with-

Isoardi: The Chico Hamilton Quintet?

Kelso: Yeah. Carson Smith, you know, the original thing with Buddy [Collette] and-

Isoardi: Fred Katz?

Kelso: Fred Katz. Went to the Strollers-now, this was after the war, you know-went down there, I couldn't believe it. There was Chico doing the same thing he was doing when we were kids. You know, he'd play the drums, and then he'd get up- Walks to the mike, adjusting his tie and cuffs, with a look of joy and supreme confidence on his face. He would walk up to the microphone with all of this air. Reminds you exactly of Duke Ellington.I'll get back to Chico. My father [John Kelson] took me to see Duke Ellington when I was eight or nine years old. I fell under the spell of Duke Ellington. It was at a theater, either the Orpheum [Theatre] or the Paramount [Theatre]. And it wasn't the music that grabbed me. It was the Ellington presence.

Isoardi: His style.

Kelso: Yeah, I remember very clearly, they wore black tuxedo pants, a cummerbund, and an Eaton jacket, you know. Man, every man a picture of sartorial elegance. Well, it reflected Ellington: race pride, black pride and all of that, before it was invented. But my father took me to the theater to see that, and I remember Duke Ellington walking up to the microphone. You've seen Duke Ellington perform, haven't you?

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Pictures or whatever. The command, the confidence.

Isoardi: Yes. [laughter]

Kelso: You know, that smile, that raise of the eyebrow. Without saying a word, here's a man who was in total control of everything. I sensed this at eight years old. It wasn't the music. It was this man's stance. And it wasn't what he said, it was how he said it. He could have been speaking a foreign language. He could have walked to the microphone and impressed me the same way if he had said, [adopting debonair speaking voice] "Buenos costa para mandeguse. Mande rolla ganze. No sé?" That was his kind of magic for me.Now, Chico had that same thing. Even before the war, when we had our band, the Al Adams Band. The guy's name was Al Adams and he played bass, and he was the oldest guy in the band, so we made him the leader. That band got together as a result of a scab, nonunion job-because we weren't in the union-when we worked at the Million Dollar Theatre, to play music at the Million Dollar Theatre for a stage show for an all-black movie called Bargain with Bullets. Nina Mae McKinney, Lawrence Criner, Mantan Morlan.Now, after that show was over, because it ran for weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks- Buddy Collette and I, still, that's one of our favorite jokes. We like to talk about- They hired us- See, there were a lot of auditions, nonunion musicians, a lot of kids. We had a group led by a trumpet player who had sons old enough to play in the band. His name was Mr. [Jerome] Myart. Mr. Myart had many sons. One was Loyal Myart. The first time I heard him play, I thought he was the greatest trumpet player in the world. One of his other sons played piano, Eddie Lee Myart. Well, Mr. Myart could hustle jobs. He would pull up jobs from- We wouldn't have to worry about work. If you were working with Mr. Myart, you knew you were going to have a job.My first regular job was with Mr. Myart and Chico Hamilton playing a Saturday night Mexican dance out in Garden Grove. We made $2.50. Wow! And, boy, we couldn't wait for those special jobs when we went down to San Diego, because then we made $5!So you can understand, all of that's background to talking about this job at the Million Dollar Theatre-nonunion, scab musicians. So Mr. Myart made an audition, and a group of musicians from Watts made an audition, which included Buddy Collette, Charles Mingus, and Crosby Lewis, trumpet player. These are minor details. But, in any event, after the competition was over, it was decided they wanted to hire the Los Angeles band and not the Watts band. They wanted to hire our band, but they didn't want the leader, because Mr. Myart looked too old. You know, he had some gray in his hair. So I don't know how it worked out, but we just decided, "Fine, we'll just fire Mr. Myart and we'll amalgamate the Watts and the Los Angeles bands." So that's the band that played this job at the-

Isoardi: That became the Al Adams Band.

Kelso: Right. And it became the Al Adams Band because he was the oldest guy in the band. He was the bass player. And Buddy Collette was part of that Watts band. So Buddy Collette and I have been close, good friends all of our lives, almost.Now, Chico Hamilton was the drummer in the Al Adams Band. And after the theater job was over, man, that band was so good, we just knew that we were going to conquer the world. So we stayed together. Buddy Collette used to write arrangements. He would take it off the record. He would take off arrangements of the Jimmie Lunceford Orchestra. Things like "A Ship at Sea," anything that had those elaborate reed choruses in it, you know, where you would show your technical prowess [mimics fast, complex woodwind solos]. Well, in that band, Chico was the drummer, and he would get up sometimes and would sing things like "I'm Walking through Heaven with you." That was one of the big Jimmie Lunceford things. And Chico could get up from those drums and walk to that microphone in such an all-powerful, commanding way-like Ellington-pick that microphone up, and sometimes he wouldn't know the words to the song! [laughter] But he knew enough words so that he- [sings in suave voice] "I'm walking-" [laughter] Creative genius, Chico.

Isoardi: It ain't what you do, it's how you do it.

Kelso: Right. And Duke Ellington- Let's see. You asked me a leading question. How did I get off on that? Oh, it was Chico. Yeah, and seeing him at the Strollers after the war [World War II]. You know, he was an adult; he's married now, been in the service. He hustled around Los Angeles, had marvelous little trios: Joe Comfort and Gerald Wiggins working at the- Let's see, it was a place on West Adams [Boulevard] near Western [Avenue]. I remember going to see them shortly after I got out of the service. You know, we were all out of the service now and trying to get a toehold in here.But, in any event, Chico, at the Strollers, got up from the drums just like he did with Al Adams, walked to that microphone, took that microphone- [laughter] And I loved this guy's genius. He's- Well, enough of that. I'll break into tears if I get too involved about how I feel about Chico. [laughter] But, in any event, he would take this microphone and talk to the audience. I don't know whether he's prepared anything ever, but it always sounds like he's just winging it off the top of his head. Take any couple of words and make something out of it. Give him a phrase, he'll do something.

Isoardi: Jeez. Marvelous.

Kelso: Absolutely. Yes. Talking about confident and a survivor. Turn him loose in the jungle, man, he'd wind up being the chief of the tribe.There was something in that Hamilton family. All of those kids were productive, self-reliant. It was a loose, yet tightly knit family. They knew that they had their family there, and mother and father didn't have to beat them or- Because mother and father both worked, and the kids knew what was proper and what wasn't proper. And one of the happiest spots on earth for me was Chico Hamilton's backyard, because there were a couple of automobiles that maybe weren't working, you know, pieces of junk, and we had a tree back there and a tree house, skateboards- Not skateboards, but a piece of two-by-four with a half of a skate and a wooden box, you know. You made a coaster. His backyard was an absolute treasure house of raw material. I remember once we made a crystal set. You have an earphone and a piece of crystal and a couple of wires, and we used the water faucet as the ground. It was getting dark, and I remember kneeling down close to this faucet, listening to the radio on this homemade contraption out of a couple of pieces of metal and a crystal and an earphone. So Chico Hamilton's family, to me, is one of my priceless sources of enrichment and- I can't say enough about that family.

Isoardi: Yeah. Marvelous. So you guys went from junior high, you were playing together in the band there, and then you went to high school together, right? Did you go to Jefferson [High School]?

Kelso: Jefferson, yes.

Isoardi: Could you tell me about your years at Jeff?

Kelso: Yeah, well, let's see. I started at Jefferson, and I was in the band. Emma Smock was the concert violinist, Frank Di Caro, an Italian fellow who played alto- I talked to him on the phone just a couple of weeks ago. How did that happen? I was in Zep's Music Store over in Burbank not long ago, and Zep told me that Frank Di Caro had been in and had talked about the old times and had mentioned my name. So I called him, and Frank and I talked and we agreed that we were going to get together and talk, because he's getting ready to leave town. He's going to go to Washington or somewhere to enjoy the real abundant life, you know, where you don't have to work anymore, just have a-Jefferson High School, that's the question. My music teacher, Caughey Roberts, went to Jefferson High School. He's ten years older than me, so when I started with him, I was eight and he was eighteen. So he was probably just out- Marshall Royal is nine years older than me. He went to Jefferson High School.Sam Browne, you've probably heard that name. He was the head of the music department at Jefferson High School. I took one course in piano from him. During the course of that year, to stimulate some sort of intellectual thought beyond just the piano, Sam Browne had us think in terms of who was our favorite performer on each of the instruments. I remember very, very clearly that I was absolutely certain about only one of my choices, and that was trombone. My favorite trombone player was Lawrence Brown. The rest of the list is a little hazy. I remember when it got to piano, I put Duke Ellington simply because he played in the same band with Lawrence Brown. [laughter]Lawrence Brown and I became very, very good friends during the run of Sophisticated Ladies at the Schubert Theater. And one of the happy times there was every Saturday when Marshall Royal and- The nucleus was the three of us: me, Marshall Royal, and Lawrence Brown. We would always go over to Ontra Cafeteria and have lunch together on Saturdays. Sometimes John Collins would join the nucleus, sometimes Snooky Young. But Lawrence Brown and I just became- Well, I had to tell him right at the beginning that he was one of the most bright, shining stars and idols I ever had as a kid, you know. Lawrence, being very conservative, was always self-deprecating and shy. And he always talked about it. He said, "You know, it's a shame. I just can't help it. I guess I've always been and always will be a preacher's son." I don't know if you know anything about the story of Lawrence Brown.

Isoardi: I know a little bit about him, yeah.

Kelso: Okay, okay.

Isoardi: Well, I know he's from this area, also. Did you know of him or know him before he joined the Ellington band?

Kelso: Yeah, I knew that, you know, it started with Frank Sebastian's Cotton Club. Actually, Lawrence was born in Lawrence, Kansas. And then the father, a minister, came to the Bay Area, up around San Francisco, had a church up there, and then they moved down to Pasadena.Jefferson High School. Let's see. What can I tell you about Jefferson High School?

Isoardi: How about Sam Browne? What can you tell me about him? He seems such a major point. Is that true?

Kelso: Yeah, well, he got to be- [tape recorder off]

Isoardi: Okay, Jack. I had asked you about this marvelous man who seems to have influenced so many lives-Sam Browne.

Kelso: I'm not sure of the exact years, the specific years, but I remember reading not too long ago, which made me aware of the fact, that Sam Browne came to Jefferson just shortly before I did. He hadn't been there a long while. He was very supportive and very inspirational at the beginning, and he got even more influential as time went on. Because there were people who were influenced by him after my time, and some of the things I've heard from them and some of the things I've read about what he did, make me aware of the fact that the longer- There was his beginning period when he helped the students in his unique way, but he really got very much more involved in a personal way about designing special classes and having students come even before school and working after school with them, and he got more and more involved in his devising special methods for imparting information to the kids.One of the things he did while I was there, he transcribed or rearranged some music by William Grant Still, and we played for the student body. He was a very highly respected and very devoted person, but very, very relaxed. Very low-key, soft spoken, tall, looked like he never overate, because he remained quite slim and always quite impressive in his appearance. Impressive, not that he was pretentious in any of his gestures, but he was just withdrawn, supremely self-confident, a man who knew what he was about and cared enough to try and share with the kids what he knew. He had the same image of many, many black men that I knew as a kid.Another man who fit that bill was a professor-they called him "professor"-John A. Gray. His name was simply Mr. Gray, my godfather, who set up the Gray Conservatory of Music, who had studied in Paris. He never married, never had any children. Mr. Gray had his own studio at his home at one time. Then he had a music school located on the southeast corner, on Forty-first Street, of Forty-first and Central [Avenue]. Catty-corner from that was a building that's now still standing. It was called the Western School of Music. But Professor Gray- Yeah, they called him Professor Gray. There was another professor called Wilkins. I don't know whether you've run into him.

Isoardi: No.

Kelso: A very dark man. He let his hair grow long, and he looked like Oscar Wilde in the way he dressed. You know the Little Lord Fauntleroy collar and the fluffy black tie? And he wore capes. Professor Wilkins was a piano teacher in Los Angeles, too. But, in any event, there were many black men- In fact, there was a particular image that is still in my mind, and whenever I mention it, other people seem to remember it, too. Before World War II, almost all the black men that I knew who were not ditch-diggers, all of them wore three-piece suits, shirts, and ties. This relaxed thing happened after World War II. I have a very, very clear image in my mind of black men as having the appearance of almost automatically demanding respect, because they simply looked like cultured gentlemen. When my father went to work on the railroad as a waiter, he always dressed. You know, shirt, tie. Pullman porters, no matter what they were, they all seemed to have this image, unless they were working at a job that you might call blue collar.But, in any event, Mr. Gray had this music school where all instruments were taught. He was my sister [Phyllis Kelson Holloway]'s piano teacher. He would have monthly recitals at a building just around the corner, on Central Avenue, just north of Forty-first Street on the east side of the street. It was simply a room that was set up that could have- Let's see, there was a stage at the back, and the rest of it was just bare. There were a couple of pianos in there and a lot of folding chairs. And there would be Sunday afternoon recitals.

Isoardi: Classical?

Kelso: Oh, yes. Oh, very much so. Bach piano duets, violin- There was even a woman named Mrs. Gross who taught artistic whistling. Violin teaching. And all of these kids were getting just incredibly marvelous educations. But the main thing, they had these public recitals every Sunday, and Professor Gray always had words to say that were inspiring and things that would remind parents that-I'll never forget this phrase-"We have got to get behind the kids and push." The importance of the parental influence was always very, very clear, and he always pushed that.

Isoardi: It sounds like you've had a number of very strong role models.

Kelso: Oh, yeah. They were available everywhere. It started with my father and all of his men friends. You know, some uncles who would come over. Uncle Oscar Wickham. My father and this uncle loved to talk culture. They would talk about the operas and all. And I remember once my uncle bought a new Majestic radio, one of the big ones that stands up on the floor and had legs, and we went over on Saturday afternoons because the reception from the Metropolitan Opera House on this Majestic radio would be far superior to what my dad had, which was an Atwater Kent.Role models, yeah. Yeah, this can get real, real deep and heavy when we're talking about role models and the importance of parenthood. But that's not what all of this talk is about.

Isoardi: That's why I had initially asked you about Sam Browne.

Kelso: Oh, yes. Yeah, role model- Yeah, he, like many, many black men in my life- And people my age can remember this very clearly, because that's the way things were. Now, that's one of the things that separates my generation from maybe kids who are ten or fifteen years younger. They were not exposed to those role models later on in life. You know, Dad was loose in every respect, but mainly in appearance, how they dress.I was at Oscar Brashear's apartment many years ago, when he first came to Los Angeles. He was living alone. Oscar is considerably younger than I am, but a fine, fine trumpet player. He took me to his apartment- We were on a record date or something, and maybe we were just talking, and he said, "Hey, why don't you come over if you're not doing anything." Well, just the two of us. We didn't talk so much music as we talked about family and life in general. He pulled out his family album, and that's what- That really struck a strong chord in me, how much his ancestors looked like the old pictures I've seen of my mother and father and their friends, their buddies, when they would be out playing, out having a good time. Oscar Brashear's family- There were a bunch of male members, and they all had three-piece suits on, shirts, and some of them had the watch and the chain, all looking like strong men.And, you know, that just doesn't exist anymore. And unless children have something to pattern by, you know, it's- They've got to "do their own thing." "Go out and do your own thing" is like saying, "Go out and reinvent the wheel." You know, "Don't learn anything from the price that the human race has had to pay."Come on. Get me off this. [laughter]

Isoardi: All right.

Kelso: This is how I really get off the track. But many men. Sam Browne, others.

Isoardi: Yeah, important. You're at Jeff [Jefferson High School] now, and you've been studying clarinet for four or five years or so. When do you start moving into other instruments? Is it at this time? Do you start to-?

Kelso: Yeah, well, you see, I studied clarinet from eight to twelve. What happened, there was a period between twelve and fifteen that was a little nebulous. But when I got [to be] fifteen- I guess Chico must have been partially responsible for this, because Chico was making money from the very beginning, a very practical person. I guess I was in high school then, and I got an alto saxophone. I don't know what prompted me to do it. I'm sure it must have been Chico's suggestion. "Hey, man, you can't make no money playing the clarinet. Get yourself a saxophone." "Okay, boss!"So I got an alto saxophone, and I took saxophone lessons for, I guess, five, six months from a guy named Mr. [Wilbert] Sturdevant, who was a saxophone teacher at the Gray Conservatory of Music, my godfather's. He gave me lessons for six months or so. You know the story about how "If you can play clarinet, you can play saxophone, after somebody shows you the fingerings."I started immediately making money at fifteen, and I've been a professional musician since, because that's when we did the scab job at the Million Dollar Theatre. With the Al Adams orchestra, we started playing dances at the Elks auditorium on Central Avenue. The Elks auditorium was located on Central, on the the east side of the street between Fortieth Place and whatever other street that would be north of that. That complete lot has now been leveled, and there are two signs on that lot indicating what time what activities and what church services are going to take place in a building far to the rear of that lot. And one of the activities is Arabic lessons. So it's involved with-

Isoardi: Probably Muslims.

Kelso: Yeah. And that's where the Elks auditorium used to be, and the Al Adams Band used to play there.

Isoardi: Was that your first regular paying gig, with the Al Adams Band, or-?

Kelso: Well, you see, Al Adams was a big band, and we only played casuals, which means, every now and then, some social club would hire us. One of the bands that had a lot of that work prior to our appearance on the scene was a band from Pasadena. It was called George Brown and his Ebony Collegians. They were a little older. And they had Duke Ellington arrangements, Jimmie Lunceford arrangements.

Isoardi: Yeah. So they sounded pretty good.

Kelso: Oh, they sounded good, but they didn't have something that the Al Adams Band had, because once we had a battle of bands. You've heard of those things.

Isoardi: Sure.

Kelso: And the consensus was that Al Adams won. I guess it's just the spirit of the newcomers and the underdogs and the young guys.So the first steady job I had, I guess, was the job that paid $2.50 every Saturday night, the Mexican dance in Garden Grove. That was a steady job. There were other steady jobs during those days. [laughter]In high school we would work up and down Main Street in the beer joints, where they would have what they called B-girls. Do you remember anything about those? They used to call them B-girls because they would sit at the bar, and they drink beer, and the women would induce men to drink probably more than they would have had the females not been there. My goodness, they would be a little- You know, they would be holes in the walls. You could almost touch either wall of the place, and it would be long and narrow. Some of the structures are still there on Main Street in downtown Los Angeles. [laughter] In the back, there would be a little stage where the band would play, and in front of it would be a little area where the girls would take turns doing little shake-and-grind dances. We would make $1.50 a night plus tips. Those were considered good, steady jobs. Steady jobs. You know, what's a steady job? If you work every Saturday, that's-

Isoardi: For a fifteen-, sixteen-year-old kid, you're making some good money there.

Kelso: Oh, yes, there was something that I wanted to- One of our favorite jokes, between the two of us, Buddy Collette- The job at the Million Dollar Theatre, we were making $21.50 a week.

Isoardi: Wow.

Kelso: Working day and night for all of the shows, $21.50. Twenty-one dollars and fifty cents. Never had so much money in my life.

Isoardi: How did that compare to what your father was making then?

Kelso: Oh, my dad was probably making a little more. But I remember one of Buddy Collette's jokes was, when he was a kid, he came home and told his dad what he was making, and he was making more than his father was making. [laughter] If you've interviewed Buddy, he's probably said something like that, because that's one of our favorite jokes.And the other- Now, this is the refinement of the joke. I haven't given you the punch line yet. The show ran so long, the stage show ran so long at the Million Dollar Theatre, I guess the producers got a little greedy, and they said, "Well, let's see. How can we squeeze more profit out of this thing?" So they cut the salary of the musicians from $21.50 to $19.50 a week. Buddy Collette and I laugh about it, but our attitude was, "They cut $2, but they didn't know it. We were still rich." We didn't care about being cut. Get $19.50? All our money, and we're making it playing music, too? No problem. You know, "You want the fifty cents? Hey, take another dollar! We don't care!" So that gives you insight about kids loving what they're doing.

Isoardi: Yeah. No kidding.

Kelso: "And all of that money too? Wow!"You know, one of my jokes is remembering, what did I buy with my first money? I don't know. I remember one of the things I bought was a brush that you wash your back with. Have you seen those? I don't know. You know, there's a brush like this, and then there's a stick on it that slides in a groove? And you can do that. I bought one of those. I don't know, you know, from where I came and the way I saw my mother [Lillian Kelson] and father handle nickels and dimes and pennies and make do, to me, money was of absolutely no consequence.Now, Chico and I are very different in this respect. Chico always loved class, things that looked good. Chico always loved clothes. As far as I was concerned, "Yeah, hey, give me a pair of shoes, man. I don't care." I guess this is- I don't know whether it's chemical or temperamental differences, but Chico and I have remained pretty much who we are all of our lives. When we get together, we look at each other and laugh, because it's the same story. [laughter]And Buddy Collette the same way. Buddy is one of the most consistent beacons of sanity and stability I have ever known. Buddy has always been good natured, patient, unrushed, almost unflappable. You know, we were in the same navy band together. So I knew Buddy before the war, I knew him during the hostilities. After that, we kind of went our ways, because Buddy got married while he was in the service and started a family, and he had children.Oh, here's an important point with me. Any musician who was- In fact, any man, but I'm going to say musician, because it brings it right down front, because when I say musician, it's somebody who has given enough of themselves to become a musician. It means they have invested blood, sweat, and tears, if you want to look into it, in acquiring something. Any musician who can get married and raise a family is a better man than I am in that, even when I was a kid, like I told you earlier, somehow, as a very, very young kid, I realized that everything is really okay. But it's just that when your parents try to inflict upon you, "You're not okay" that I used to question, "What's wrong with them? Why can't they see that things are okay just like I did?" And all through life, that maintained. But quite early, I began thinking- This is seven, eight, nine or ten years old.

4. Tape Number: II, Side TwoMarch 24, 1990

Kelso: It seemed to me that, before ten years old, I was aware of the fact that life is just marvelous. I could sense that I had a good mother and father. They couldn't have been better. But I couldn't see any justification in getting married myself. You know, if married life is mother constantly working, dad going out working, coming home, paying the bills, and not- I thought life is more wonderful than that. I know that my sister and I were constantly fussing and fighting. The parents- "Why don't you kids behave yourself?" My thought was, "Gee whiz." The clear words in my head amounted to "I don't see any point in getting married. I'm never going to get married." I would say that from time to time. [laughter] You know, aunts and uncles and Mother and Father would smile in a knowing way. "Get married? I don't know about the rest of the world, but I'm not going to get married. I don't need this." You know, that's eight, nine, ten, eleven years old.And then, I sensed, too, that marriage and children, "Gee whiz, who needs children?" [tape recorder off] Oh, yes, making the discovery early in life, "No marriage for me. Kids? My goodness, who needs kids?" And especially, as I got older, twelve, thirteen, and fourteen- No, I'll take that back. Before I got to fourteen, it was very clear to me, "Kids? No. It's a nuisance. I love music too much." And even that early in life, I sensed that I cared so much about music, playing, and I felt so strongly that parenthood is a complete job and something that you could dedicate your whole life to, all of your energy.I saw that my father made money, came home, and did what he had to do. His job was something that he could pick up and lay down, pick up and lay down. And music, to me, was not that kind of job. As I saw it, you were either going to be a great parent and a secondary career person, or you had to dedicate yourself to being a career person and a secondary parent, a secondary father. Let me use the gender there. That meant, if ever a man gets married, he had to have enough common sense to know that it calls for marrying a woman who was willing to be a full-time housewife and mother, because I saw what my mother had to put into it. And I guess I felt that, "Gee whiz, there are many women who are like my mother, who do this, but I don't know of any little girls who I think are going to grow up to be girls like my mother." And after I got older, I said-I use fourteen as the cutoff point because it was at the age of fourteen, in 1936, that I had my first male complete sexual experience, you know, my first orgasm. Any male alive, you know, we've all had that first experience, and it's kind of like an unspoken brotherhood, because that is an experience that you cannot verbalize in such a way that a woman can understand that. It's only men who understand what that feeling is and what it means to you. You know, that's God's embrace.Now, after you've had that experience, your life- Fine. I won't put this on you. After I had that experience, my life changed. [laughter] It's like, you know, once you have had that experience, it's- "Gee whiz, isn't that wonderful?" You know, even now, what can you say about it? What can two men say about it? All you can do is say, "Yes, I understand." And I assume- Let me speak for all men. All men know that when that happens for the first time, your life is never the same again. It can and might and does in some way change your thinking about almost everything.It didn't change my feeling and thinking about marriage. It did not change my thinking and feeling about children. It's just that I saw that feeling as being one thing; marriage and children are something else, in spite of the lyric "You can't have one without the other." But that was love, "Love and Marriage."But, in any event, all I can say is I have never been enthused about- Like my father, he wanted to have children for reasons that had nothing to do with sex. Sex I think is- Well, you know, what can a man say about that? Four star, five star. But marriage? I've got to put that somewhere below, in a different place than sex. And I've got to put children in a different place. I shouldn't say higher or lower. That was a flawed statement, a thoughtless statement, because there is room for sex, love, marriage, and children. But I feel so strongly about parental responsibility, and always have, that I just couldn't be a good musician, good husband, and father at the same time.I did get married once. When I was twenty years old, I was married, legitimately, true to my wife [Dorothea Durham Kelson] for five years. From moral standpoints and- There was another contributing factor. I was afraid. I was so shy that, even though I was married and had plenty of experience, I was, in a sense, afraid and shy and a little uncomfortable with trying to woo other women. Had I had more guts, I might have been a faithless husband. But, in any event, my marriage is another very, very interesting story. Needless to say, I should put this in. I was twenty years old when I got married. She was twenty-seven, twenty-eight, or twenty-nine. She was a star dancer at the nightclub.

Isoardi: Which one? The [Club] Alabam?

Kelso: Oh, no. At the nightclub where I was working. It was called the Bal Tabrin. It was way out on Western. And they had shows, chorus girls, comedians, singers, and dancers. Real show business. It was not a black club. It was run by Papa Pagones. He was a Greek. And Broomfield and Greeley- Has that name come up yet?

Isoardi: No, not at all.

Kelso: Oh, okay. They were male/female partners, and they produced shows. This was at the Bal Tabrin. My teacher got me the job. There were three saxophones, a trumpet, guitar- The guitarist was the leader, Celle Burke, who made the hit record "When the Swallows Come Back to Capistrano." Do you know anything about that?

Isoardi: Not at all.

Kelso: Anyway, that's a Leon René song. My marriage, I guess, is what we're talking about. She was a beautiful star, an interpretive dancer. She was in "Jump for Joy." I was a twenty-year-old, green, innocent, dumb saxophone player, working seven nights a week at this nightclub and going to [Los Angeles] City College. She saw me doing my homework on intermissions, and that was kind of a strange sight, you know. A curly-haired, young saxophone player, so nice and shy. Well, that kind of stimulated-you know, whetted- Stimulated, let me put it that way. You know, a young woman right at the prime of her power in her career and all sees this, and, well, that started out as a game with her. She made a couple of overtures. Scared me to death. [laughter] You know, oh, we went on for, I don't know, a couple of months. I told my dad about it. My dad-I'll never forget this. He was dressing to go to work. He said, "Well, son, it seems to me that's quite interesting. Seems like a good idea. Maybe it's about time you had some meaningful experience." Damn, my dad said it was okay. [claps hands] Okay. [laughter]We got married while I was in the service, stayed married for five years. She was on the road with me from time to time with Lionel Hampton's orchestra. We had living quarters. We had a room in an apartment on Sugar Hill in New York. That marriage lasted for five years, and when it terminated, I felt quite good that I had been a traditional, moral, good husband. I had tried that, and it didn't work with her, because, from the very beginning, she was, unfortunately, a very insecure woman, in spite of the fact that she had all of the spotlight and in spite of the fact that Orson Welles came up on the stage when she was working at the Rhumboogie and put $500 in her hand. She was in many movies, in bit parts. A very beautiful, very talented woman, but very, very insecure. Even before we got married, she was suspicious and jealous and accusatory in her observations concerning my behavior from time to time. Totally groundless. At the beginning, I was flattered. You know, a kid, this beautiful woman crazy about me. "Wow, I must be somebody!" Well, we got married because I felt the only way I was going to have peace in my life was to get married. No. No peace. Still insecure, suspicious, jealous.Now, maybe I should be specific here. What acts did she perform? She received telephone calls from the beginning till the end of our marriage reporting to her about my indiscretions. The calls always came in when I was out of the house. The thing that finally brought it all to a head, she received a telegram telling her about my indiscretions.I said, "Aha! Now we're going to get to the bottom."I took it downtown to Western Union headquarters. I said, "I demand to know the source of this telegram.""Oh, I'm sorry, sir. You're not the addressee. We can't give you the information."I said, "Okay."I went back to her. I said, "You're the only one who can get to the bottom of this person who's been causing trouble in our life all of this time. You go down. You must go down and get the information."That's the last of any discussion about the telegram. It took me, I don't know, a week or two weeks for it to finally dawn on me. She sent herself this telegram. There had never been any telephone calls.

Isoardi: No kidding?

Kelso: So I felt, "Well, I've had enough of this kind of foolishness," long before the five years were up. "Now I know that I'm not going to put up with this anymore, and I feel that there's nothing I can do to change it." So I just bided my time until I found what I could use as a valid excuse and used something inconsequential to use it as the straw to break the camel's back.So that has not a whole lot to do with Central Avenue, but-

Isoardi: It does, it does.

Kelso: But it does in that she was one of a group of very beautiful women who came out here from Chicago with Valaida Snow to appear at Sebastian's Cotton Club. Some of the other girls were Marie Bryant, Artie Brandon. Lena Horne was not- I don't think she was part of the original group, but there was a group of about a dozen of the most beautiful women you have ever seen in your life. Well, there's no need to name all the names, but it was out of that group that my wife came.

Isoardi: And this was a group of people who were brought out from Chicago to perform?

Kelso: Yeah. Valaida Snow was a woman who played the trumpet and sang, and all of these other girls, I guess, were fundamentally dancers. And they were older than I was.But Marshall Royal and- Well, anybody who was ten years older than me, they would have been contemporaries or peers. But those women were the pinnacle of beauty on Central Avenue or in Hollywood, because these were the women who were working in movies. When they wanted beautiful colored girls, beautiful Negro girls, beautiful black girls, however you want to term that, it was from this group that they chose.

5. Tape Number: III, Side OneApril 7, 1990

Isoardi: Okay, Jackie. It's been two weeks. You're refreshed from vacation now.

Kelso: Yes, and ready to go.

Isoardi: Okay. Now we go back in time again. I think last time you had arrived at Jefferson High School. We talked a little bit about that. I think you talked a bit about Sam Browne and what he was like as a mentor. Perhaps you can begin by talking about some of the people you were in school with at Jefferson who played, because, from my understanding, that was really a factory for great musicians.

Kelso: It certainly was. The first people- I'm sure I've referred to him already-Chico, Chico Hamilton was at Jefferson, followed- Yeah, he was one semester behind me. Chico Hamilton was one of the big people in my life, because he took me out on my first gig. I think we talked about that, didn't we?

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: With "Chuey" [Jesus] Reyes. Dexter Gordon was one semester behind me, but- We've talked about Emma Smock. The Farmer brothers [Art and Addison Farmer] came after me. I don't know. A couple of years after me. I don't recall seeing him on- See, we're talking about quite a few years. Ernie Royal, Marshall Royal's brother, was ahead of me, and he was always just one of the finest trumpet players who ever lived. He was probably the best trumpet player- No, I won't get into that sort of thing. [laughter] Yeah, well, we all know who Ernie is. Or do we?

Isoardi: Sure.

Kelso: Do we assume the people-? All right, fine.

Isoardi: Well, no, I would say, for the record, don't assume anything.

Kelso: Yeah, well, okay.

Isoardi: Fill us in on these people, if you can.

Kelso: Fine. Ernie is, I guess, about a year or two older than me. He's Marshall Royal's younger brother. And Ernie, fortunately, probably had some of the finest trumpet instruction possible, because he's always been a flawless trumpet player. He plays exceedingly well all over his horn, and he became primarily famous and well-known for the ability to play very high with great accuracy and play with just impeccable pitch. A good jazz player. He was on the staff in Paris, France, at one of the radio stations, played with Stan Kenton, played with Woody Herman, and has just a marvelous record as a recording musician in New York. So that's Ernie Royal. We could write a book on him.

Isoardi: When did you first meet him?

Kelso: I guess when I went to Jefferson High School. I think I knew about him before I got to Jefferson High School because there was a sort of an underground bit of information among very, very young musicians. And when I was quite young I knew about Loyal Myart, whom we've talked about, the trumpet player, and Terry Cruz I thought was the greatest saxophone player who ever lived.

Isoardi: No kidding? I've never heard of him.

Kelso: Terry Cruz. Well, you know, when you're nine and ten years old, the first things you hear about are the great musicians in the neighborhood.

Isoardi: Oh, I see. I see.

Kelso: You know, the guy at junior high school or at high school. And when I first heard these guys, I was just so dazzled. I just knew that these were the greatest musicians who ever lived. And to actually be in their presence- And, actually, they were only maybe three or four years older than I was. But, as I recall, that's how Chico felt about these guys, too. The younger musicians were very, very much impressed by the musicians who were maybe only three or four or five years older. Generally, you heard about these guys, and, in a sense, they were legendary figures in your mental makeup when you thought about these people. And, gee whiz, if you actually happened to see one of them on the street and somebody pointed out, "Oh, that's Terry Cruz," or "That's Loyal Myart," wow! So when you hear them play, I guess there's something magic about being in the presence of the performer. Because, you know, we heard great performances on record and on juke boxes and on the radio, but when we would actually be in this guy's presence, maybe just right in the same room with him, or hearing them at the theater, the Lincoln Theatre or something like that, you're just awestruck.We talked about how Chico was, in a sense, my leader, because he was so outgoing and aggressive and had a gift of gab. I remember very clearly an episode- Maybe I've spoken of this before, but this is certainly evidence of what an impression it made on me. There was a club called Billy Berg's at Pico [Boulevard] and La Cienega [Boulevard], I think it was. This was before World War II. I remember the band was on intermission, and we were just standing up in the kitchen. The group playing there at that time included Lester Young. I think this was one of the first times Chico had been in a position to really talk to Lester Young. There was just a bunch of musicians, and I was quietly standing on the outskirts with my mouth open, and Chico was doing all the talking. Chico was right away picking Lester Young's brain about Chick Webb. Chico loved Chick Webb's drumming. Chico asked Lester, he said, "Hey, Lester, tell me something about Chick Webb. What kind of guy is he?" You know, there's quite a legend about the way Lester Young talked.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: But I heard this with my own ears. He was very cool, you know, and had very little to say. Lester Young's answer to Chico's question was, "Man, I am not with that." In other words, he didn't have that information on file. Again, I guess this is just the outgrowth of being impressed and being in the presence of older musicians.

Isoardi: Well, somebody like Lester Young.

Kelso: Yeah. Well, of course, he was a giant even then. I guess by then he had left Count Basie and Lee Young-

Isoardi: This was just before the U.S. involvement in World War II.

Kelso: Yeah, that's an interesting point. World War II began in the thirties, didn't it?

Isoardi: Yeah, 1939.

Kelso: Yeah, well, we needn't go into that. [laughter]

Isoardi: Interesting.

Kelso: We're trying to talk about the Jefferson High School. As I think back now, so much has developed at Jefferson High School since then that when you say Jefferson High School, just this beautiful haze comes over my mind. I can't really separate those wonderful things that have happened after I was there, because I think we've talked about the fact that, when I got to Jefferson, Sam Browne had only been there a short time. I think the bulk of his contribution happened after I'd left, because I understand that some of the programs he set up were just mind-boggling, you know, after I heard about them. How he would have almost special classes before school began. Some of the musicians were so enthused and wrapped up in the opportunities that he had created that they would come to school and have rehearsals or confabs actually before school began. And they would stay after school, and I imagine they did many things far outside of school hours. But Sam Browne is certainly- After I left, I began to hear more and more and more and more.Well, he has been honored in many, many, many ways. It seems there was an occasion just a couple of years ago when he was at a Jefferson alumni association meeting. I think there was a big party out at Proud Bird [restaurant]. I knew that he was going to be honored. These things usually involve just many, many enthusiastic people, and they're not quite as formal as you might think. You know, everybody's just so glad to see each other. So the first thing- I hadn't seen him in many, many, many years. I'd planned this. I knew that when I saw him, I was going to have to demonstrate to him in some sort of way my appreciation of what he's done for me and everybody else. So when somebody said, "Have you seen Sam Browne?" I said, "No, where is he?" "He's seated over there." So he was seated on a chair up against a wall, and nobody seemed to be paying too much attention, because I guess the initial flush of adoration and all had kind of worn off, and everybody was just having a good time. I got there late. So I just went over to him. Our eyes met and I fell down at his feet and gave him a salaam, you know, and kissed his shoes. He said, "Jackie, how good to see you," and all of that. So he's really left quite a mark on all of us. And I'm sure he's had just a wealth of satisfaction. I'm glad he lived long enough to see and to receive some of the acknowledgment and the love and appreciation that so many of us feel for him.

Isoardi: Is he still alive? Did he die? Or is he still alive?

Kelso: I'm not sure. But he was transferred from Jefferson a long, long time before he stopped- Before he stopped teaching, he was transferred from Jefferson, and I think he taught somewhere down in Pacific Palisades.The character of Jefferson High School has changed so drastically. I guess what I'm doing now, I'm giving you my response to my feeling- This is a feeling that covers- I graduated, what, in '40, and this is '90. So I'm condensing something that has grown up over fifty years. I played over there a couple of years ago with a band, and when I looked out from the stage, it looked like it was an almost 100 percent Latino student body. It just didn't look like the old Jefferson. But you say Jefferson High School and I immediately get the same emotional reaction.

Isoardi: Sure, sure.

Kelso: Oh, yeah, we talked about the [inaudible] on Central Avenue.

Isoardi: Yeah, right.

Kelso: And that's just two or three blocks from Jefferson High School there at Fortieth Place and Central Avenue.

Isoardi: You talked a little bit about Ernie Royal. He died a little while ago, didn't he?

Kelso: Yes.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: He died in New York, and there was a funeral back there. There was also a funeral here on West Adams Boulevard. I think it was the Holman [United Methodist] Church. I was there. Buddy Collette organized a musical presentation. Let's see, Gerald Wiggins, me, Buddy Collette, oh, just a big bunch on stage. We played what we felt would be music appropriate for the occasion. Marshall and Evelyn [Royal] were there and Ernie's wife [Flo Duseau Royal], and it was a packed congregation. The church was completely full.Yeah, Ernie developed, I think, cancer of the throat or something unpleasant like that. I talked to him on the phone from Los Angeles. Marshall had gone back there. I had Ernie's phone number in the hospital, and I talked to him in the hospital. I called him from here.And Buddy Collette often talks about the last time we were together. Ernie was out here to do some show that had come out here from New York, and four navy buddies got together while Ernie was here, just before he went back. Let's see, there was Ernie, me, Jerome Richardson, and Buddy Collette. We went to a big Chinese restaurant over on Crenshaw Boulevard late at night, ten or eleven o'clock, and we all ate a lot of food, and we talked and talked and talked. And, you know, even among the best of friends, time begins to wind down, and somebody makes a move that we ought to maybe- "It's getting a little-" Three o'clock in the morning, "Maybe we ought to go home." And Buddy Collette pointed out to me that, at that meeting, Ernie didn't want it to break up. He said, "You know, we get together so seldom, and it just seems a shame that we have to break up, because we don't know when the four of us will be together again." So it might- Buddy seems to feel that maybe Ernie felt that he knew that-

Isoardi: It might be the last?

Kelso: It might be the last time. And it might be just his deep-seated sense of the appreciation of camaraderie among his navy buddies that prompted that remark. But there's no end to that kind of speculation. He was just a marvelous, marvelous trumpet player. Sweetheart of a guy, too.

Isoardi: When you came across him at Jeff, he was a pretty good player then?

Kelso: Oh, fantastic. He could play all of the trumpet solos off the Count Basie records. There wasn't anything he couldn't do. I don't recall any change- Well, there's only one thing that I remember different about his playing from the first time I heard him. When I heard him for the first time, in the navy band, which would be 1942, the latter part of 1942, after Marshall put together what was called the "A" band, the "A" dance band, the band that Marshall Royal organized and rehearsed and made a firstclass band out of- Ernie had been to New York with Lionel Hampton's first band. Ernie had been to New York and had heard all of the modern sounds, the bebop idiom, and when I heard Ernie play for the first time, when the navy band got together, I recognized that Ernie was the best bebop trumpet player I had ever heard. He had been back to New York- Or, maybe, I guess his education started before then just by listening. But, in any event, Ernie had been exposed to Dizzy Gillespie's style.

Isoardi: And he picked up really quick.

Kelso: Picked up, yeah, his knowledge, his facility on his instrument, and his harmonic knowledge was such that Ernie just- As far as I was concerned, I liked Ernie's playing better than I did Dizzy's, simply because Ernie had a polish and a finesse that every note he played was a gem and a jewel. It sounded certainly like spontaneous, improvised jazz, but his mastery of the instrument in the classical fashion was such that I thought he was, again, the greatest trumpet player I'd ever heard. Because there were certain- You might say, measured by classical standards, there were certain- Dizzy Gillespie's playing left something to be desired, if you used a particular yardstick. But if you used the proper yardstick, everything Dizzy played was flawless. Perfect. But I guess I was still young enough and dumb enough to think that, no matter what you play, if you play it with a certain type of classical finesse, that was like some additional icing on the cake. However, this sort of discussion is probably something that should be left for some other time.

Isoardi: No, no. I like your portrait of Ernie Royal. Can you give portraits like that of some of these other people? Dexter Gordon. When did you first meet him?

Kelso: Dexter was a year or two behind me, but my impression was not unlike many others', I guess. As you know, Dexter was quite tall, and he talked slowly, moved slowly, always had a big, beautiful smile on his face. Due to the fact that he was a little younger than me and his musical training started undoubtedly a little later in his life than some of the rest of us- He had all of the soul and dedication and feeling and total commitment to jazz that a person could have, but his training was a little late, so he was [what] we might call second-string. But when it came to sincerity, you know, he was totally committed. And his playing always reflected his bodily actions in a sense. Even today, when you listen to his records, it's always laid-back just a little bit, as though, "Look, I'm not in a hurry. I'm going to say what I want to say, how I want to say it, and nobody can rush me."However- I don't- Yeah, I guess that's why I'm being interviewed, to tell little special stories that maybe- Some people might think this is in poor taste, especially since we're talking about Dexter. Of course, Dexter is not the only musician who played in that laid-back fashion. And that quote, unquote, "laid-back" fashion is, I dare say, something that people- "I dare say-" No, many people copy that laid-back style, and they adapt to it simply because other people are playing that way and those other people are considered superior players. So they like the laid-back feeling because it doesn't have that urgency that demands that little special edge of your technique.All of this is trying to preface what I'm about to say in such a way as to sort of get me off the hook, so it doesn't sound like I'm being supercritical. But what I'm going to say has got to stand on its own. What I'm getting to is something I heard Marshall Royal say once. Marshall Royal is a great believer in playing right on the beat. Oh, boy, this is going to really develop into something, because he and his brother Ernie had strong words, just words that reflected differences of opinion about a very subtle point. Ernie played, I guess, most of the lead trumpet in the navy band, and we had rehearsals every day. You know, the band got better and better.

Isoardi: Was this the band you guys were in up at Saint Mary's [College] Preflight [School (Moraga, California)]?

Kelso: Saint Mary's Preflight School, yeah.

Isoardi: Okay, with Buddy [Collette] and Marshall Royal.

Kelso: Right. All of this. So Marshall rehearsed the band like a drill sergeant, Marshall the disciplinarian. All of the bands that Marshall's been in reflect the fact that Marshall is a no-nonsense guy, and he just doesn't tolerate slipshod standards. Marshall and Ernie got into it one day because Marshall was criticizing the way Ernie was playing. He said, "Man, don't play behind the beat. Play on the beat." Ernie said, "Look, this is the way I feel it." But they had a marvelous, loving, brother relationship. You could see that- Let's see, Marshall was I guess maybe eight years older than Ernie. And they loved each other like brothers really should. They cared so much about each other that they would publicly disagree, but it was all for the good of the family and for the love of music. But this had to do with the fact that Marshall felt that the beat is here.The idea of rushing the beat, the idea of laying behind it, makes for a lot of trouble. Because, if you get too many people laying behind the beat, there can be a consensus of where the laid-backness is. But there can be differences of opinion, you know. "Come on, lay back just a little bit more." That isn't said, but certain guys will play that way. You know, "I think it ought to be laid back just a little bit more." And we can see how that would open up a lot of room for confusion. But the idea being, there's only one place to play: on the beat. If you play ahead or behind, there's a lot of room for discussion about how far behind. I've never talked to Marshall about this, but it seems to me a valid principle if you want the band to really sound together. "Let's all play on the beat," in other words. There's no doubt about where "on the beat" is. Of course, we can split hairs and say that there is-

Isoardi: Right. Yeah.

Kelso: But, in any event, all of this has to do with Dexter Gordon playing behind the beat. It is true that it's a valid thing to do. But I heard Marshall say once- I'm finally going to make the point. Almost everything I've ever heard him say I've kind of got cataloged in my head, because, you know, it's a privilege to be alive at the time that he's alive and be able to associate with him. I don't remember when he said this or to whom he said it, but there was a group of us talking, and Marshall said, "You know, it's too bad that people picked up on the concept of playing behind the beat for the wrong reason. Many people picked it up not realizing that these so-called greats who were playing behind the beat were playing behind the beat because they were physically impaired. They were either high off of booze or smoking pot or something. They were like on cloud nine and just feeling so good, and behind the beat was simply an impaired physicality."

Isoardi: Do you buy that?

Kelso: Oh, of course I do.

Isoardi: Really?

Kelso: Well, you know, fortunately, I've tried almost everything a musician could try, and I was lucky enough not to ever get hooked or sidetracked to anything. So I know what it is to be high off of wine or whiskey or pot.

Isoardi: But you don't think, with some people, it's a legitimate feeling that that's how the music should be, regardless?

Kelso: Well, remember, I prefaced all of this with that this is a valid mode of expression. It's an artistic choice that can be made. I'm suggesting that many young people will hear a great solo being played on their instrument, let's say a tenor saxophone player. Dexter made me think of this, because you said- My first thought of Dexter is tall, loving, sweet, beautiful, big smile, easy-going guy, unrushed about anything. And his playing is one of the classic examples of playing behind the beat. Now, I don't know what prompted him to do this. Maybe he heard Lester Young do it. Dexter played that way for whatever reason. But Marshall's attitude was that many young people will hear a great player playing behind the beat, and that great player playing behind the beat is high. Which is okay. If that person chooses to receive his inspiration- If this is the only way- Like Frank Sinatra. The only way he can make it through the night is a bottle of booze or a joint of marijuana or a strange woman or whatever it takes to get you through the night. So many artists, they have their favorite mode of expression, and they're not too well adapted to the so-called hard realities of what life is fundamentally about at the nonartistic level.So, yeah, it is my opinion, as a result of personal experience. I know that whenever I've been high and tried to play, I was aware of the fact that, "Gee whiz, this intoxicant in my bloodstream, running through my brain, has certainly altered my attitude, my physical sensations, my perceptions of life," and I could see why some people would love to get there and just stay there, you know. But somehow, just to be stone cold sober, to me, has always been my preferred way to go.I don't know whether I told you about my- Did I mention something about reading an article by Ernest Holmes in a magazine on a streetcar once? Well, it's so important, I'll mention that. I was raised by wonderful parents [John and Lillian Kelson], and they taught me right from wrong and morality and all of that sort of thing. But as a kid, three, four, five and six, seven, eight, nine, ten years old, I thought my parents were just making more than needed to be made out of being concerned about discipline and what the people at church thought and all of that. So I had a very fine, inhibited upbringing by my parents, you know, making a civilized human being out of a little potential animal. But, in any event, I felt my parents were a little overbearing.So at thirteen years old, I got on the U streetcar on Central Avenue in the middle of the afternoon. It was almost empty, and I sat down on a bench, picked up a magazine that somebody had discarded. It was a Science of Mind magazine, and I read an article in it by Ernest Holmes. Anybody who knows about this can understand what happened to me at thirteen. Fundamentally, Ernest Holmes, in all of his writing, makes one aware of the fact that life is wonderful just the way it is. In other words, he told me that I was an okay person, contrary to what my parents were telling me. My parents were telling me that you have to become an okay person. Well, Ernest Holmes told me I was an okay person.From then on, my life has been totally changed. I could tolerate my parents trying to improve on perfection. In other words, I was able to accept the fact that we all come here whole, flawlessly formed by nature or the cosmic process or God, however you want to look at it. Most parents do the best they can trying to make their children able to survive in maybe not the most ideal society. But this is the best human beings have been able to do up to this point. And it's a good idea to know what the rules are and, if anything, maybe be a better member of society than you really have to be so as to give you that competitive edge in being a success. It doesn't hurt to be a little better person, really. But Ernest Holmes certainly made me able to relax and tolerate all the rest of the conditioning that I've been exposed to during the rest of my life. [tape recorder off] The Ernest Holmes thing.If I ever have to condense my life story into five minutes, it would be: born, music lessons four years, Ernest Holmes at thirteen years old, exposed to certain musicians, at age seventeen read the essay by Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Self Reliance"- I'm talking about real milestones in shaping who I perceive myself to be. And suddenly going from Jefferson High School, sort of a "C"-average student, suddenly dumped into a strange new environment at Los Angeles City College, where you're really on your own, you're treated like an adult, you have to design your own program, and you suddenly found out that you were woefully lacking in your language skills, you know. "Write a research paper? Yeah, I heard something about that in high school, but I don't think I ever did anything like that." But, in any event, one of the first things you discover- Yeah, I'm talking about my five-minute version of my life story.First English class, Herbert Klein, the instructor, had us analyzing- I think we've talked about this.

Isoardi: Oh, yes.

Kelso: -German propaganda at the time. That's right. I think I talked to you about-

Isoardi: Yeah, you did.

Kelso: Yeah, and you recommended to me- No, you didn't. You asked whether or not I had read the Orwell essay.

Isoardi: George Orwell's essay ["Politics and the English Language"].

Kelso: Yeah. And, thanks to you, I finally got around to reading it. You sent it to me. Things like that. These were the important things in my development as a human being. Fundamentally, it boils down to learning how to think straight, how to use your brain. And when kids- I wasn't aware of it until I got to City College, how important it was to know how to use the English language for what it is. It's our thinking tool. If your thinking is fuzzy, your life is going to be fuzzy. [laughter]But, in any event, we're talking about the Ernest Holmes thing. And before I get too far off of it, I would like to go back to this playing behind the beat, because suddenly I realize that the remarks I've made, even though I've tried to couch it in what I consider proper language so as to not be misunderstood- It's very important that it be understood that what I'm saying is that playing behind the beat is okay if it is an artistic choice to do that. But if a young kid plays behind the beat simply because he hears somebody else doing it and playing behind the beat, for the kid, doesn't satisfy an artistic need, then I want to make it clear that you want to do the right thing for the right reason and not do it just blindly for the wrong reason. [laughter]I have something I'd like to say that I think will clarify it no end. Benny Carter, to me, is rated as highly as I can rate a human being. Not only an artist, not only a musician, but a musician-artist-human being. I've had the good fortune to work in Benny Carter's band-I think it was 1946-and I'd admired his playing long before that. And Benny Carter is an impeccable human being in that he, to me, represents such an outstanding example of integrity in a human being. Not only as a human being but as an arranger, as an improviser. Whenever he speaks, there are no misplaced syllables. We've talked on the phone within the past year. He called to talk about some particular work that he thought I might enjoy doing with him. I wasn't able to accept the work, and that part of our conversation was handled in three or four minutes. But we stayed on the phone talking for at least a half hour beyond that. And people who know Benny Carter or have heard his voice or seen him know what a great human being he is. And I'm using Benny Carter to help me get off of the spot I put myself on about playing behind the beat. Now, there is no one alive that will question Benny Carter's excellence in all aspects of human behavior. Wow, what a statement. [laughter] But, you know, I don't want to waste too much time here. And I hope that that properly indicates the awe, admiration, and respect that I have for Benny Carter as a human being, an artist, and a musician.Now I can get myself off the hook. Benny Carter is such a fine artist, complete artist, that I would like to use him to show that Benny Carter, using every bit of his technique, which is always under perfect control, he sometimes chooses to play behind the beat. He plays right on the beat; he plays in front of the beat. But this is a consummate artist who, like Picasso, will take whatever is at hand and will use- Well, Picasso can paint pictures that look just like Rembrandt.

Isoardi: If he chose to.

Kelso: Yeah, Well, he has chosen to, and some of his work shows that he can do that. And then I've seen where Picasso has taken a piece of black chalk and, with one stroke on a white wall, has created an image of a bird in flight. Zip, zip, zip, zip, there it is.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Now, I said, "Zip, zip, zip, zip." Those were four sounds which implied four strokes. No, what I'm talking about is one complete stroke without moving the chalk.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Okay, Benny Carter-

Isoardi: I'm sorry. You reminded me of a Picasso story.

Kelso: All right. Do it.

Isoardi: You might enjoy this. I can't remember where I read it. He's walking along the beach with the person who wrote this article or made this contribution, and they come across a young boy with a stick just drawing strange shapes in the sand.

Kelso: Yes.

Isoardi: And apparently Picasso stopped and he looked down, and then he turned to his companion and said, "You know, when I was his age, I could paint like Rembrandt. It took me fifty years to learn how to do that."

Kelso: Oh, marvelous. Yes.

Isoardi: I'm sorry to-

Kelso: Oh, no. That's so profound. I wish I could somehow share with whoever's going to hear or read what we're doing now- I wish I could share with them the importance- Well, all I need do, I guess, is just say it. Whoever's reading this or hearing this, go back and listen to what Steve just said, because that is one of the most profound observations. It took him fifty years and all of that input to be able to do what he's able to do now.Oh, thank you. Steve, thank you for helping me to make my point. Indeed. Picasso. Benny Carter playing behind the beat. Fine. If you choose to do that for the right reason, fine, help yourself. But I guess I'm living so near the surface of my own experience, when you say "playing behind the beat"- Marshall Royal is a giant in my lifetime. If you say anybody says, "Play behind the beat," you know, my conditioned reaction is I simply remember Marshall's response. And I can't help but feel that playing behind the beat for the wrong reason is not proper performance. If you do it for the right reason, okay, fine, with apologies to anybody that might have misunderstood what I'm saying.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Okay, I have played in a hypocritical fashion during my lifetime-behind the beat-just to see what it felt like. And that was not the right reason, because it was-

Isoardi: Wouldn't you say that was exploration?

Kelso: Oh, of course.

Isoardi: Which would be valid.

Kelso: Well, fine, that's what jazz is. It's exploration in public. That's what you do. Jazz solos, real jazz solos, are that, because, if you're really attending to your business, you are not at all concerned with whether or not your offering is being consumed by those people out there. You know that, fundamentally, what jazz is, it's a private event between performing musicians. And if the public can come in and listen and observe and participate in the joy that's being experienced by the musicians, well and good. But a jazz performance, a pure jazz performance, in a sense, totally ignores the audience.

Isoardi: Really?

Kelso: I think so.

Isoardi: You don't think that even a very intense improviser doesn't get something from the audience?

Kelso: Oh, fine. You get it-

Isoardi: It wouldn't make any difference whether your audience was there or not?

Kelso: Oh, you get the energy, but I'm prone to believe that if you are as committed and as totally given over to the process yourself, there is no one little spot in your brain that can be left like- A factor in your brain is not gathering signals to see what effect you're having on that audience so as to stay with this idea or that idea.Well, we know what jazz is. It's getting up to play a solo not knowing what your first note is going to be. You know, I've tried it many, many times- Other musicians, too, have maybe had a preconceived idea of what the shape of the solo is going to be like. I've never had an experience talking with a jazz musician where he has told me that he has conceived the shape beforehand and executed that plan successfully. Now, maybe some of the jazz greats do. I certainly don't consider myself a jazz great. I simply have had great fun improvising music ever since I was a kid. And I know that my experience has been that I can have a beautiful plan, and I can even decide what the first note is going to be and what register and whether it's going to be a descending line or an ascending line, but before I get out of the first four bars, spontaneity has taken over.

6. Tape Number: III, Side TwoApril 7, 1990

Isoardi: Okay.

Kelso: All right. Where are we? [laughter] It's so incredibly joyous and such fun to be actually talking off the top of your head. And it seems like anything I might say is appropriate. You've already made me aware of the fact that I should look at myself as a total human being and not a highly specialized black musician who happened to play on Central Avenue at one time. And to think that, you know, the whole palette- Anything is good. Anything seems to be appropriate. But I've always got that little restrainer in me working: "Don't get too far afield. Let's come back to- You know, is it Jefferson High School? Is it Marshall? Let's stay in focus."

Isoardi: Well, I mean, that's sort of the spine, but as Ernie [Andrews] says, "There are many avenues of Central Avenue."

Kelso: Right, right.

Isoardi: And they lead many ways. But I think I initially asked you about Dexter Gordon, and there was such a strong image in your mind, that first image of Dexter Gordon.

Kelso: Oh, yeah.

Isoardi: Aside from him as a human being, musically, of him playing behind the beat.

Kelso: Well, he is to me- I hope that Marshall Royal is going to have an opportunity to make some input into this program.

Isoardi: The invitation is there. It's up to him. [laughter]

Kelso: Okay. Because Marshall Royal's family doctor was Dexter Gordon's father [Frank Gordon].

Isoardi: He treated many musicians, didn't he?

Kelso: Yeah. And, see, my relationship with Dexter, even before high school, certainly, we both attended Saint Philip's Episcopal Church.

Isoardi: So you knew him before Jefferson.

Kelso: Oh, yeah. I knew him before he was a musician.

Isoardi: Oh, really?

Kelso: But, in any event- Dexter came back into the conversation. We're just using him as a-

Isoardi: Well, he was one of the many people- I sort of wanted you to talk a little bit about some of the people you mentioned at Jefferson. Dexter was one, and, of course, Ernie Royal.

Kelso: Ernie Royal.

Isoardi: Do you have anything else to add about Dexter? I'll go back to one of your other names.

Kelso: Well, there is no end of observations I can make about almost anything. I'm finding that-

Isoardi: Well, I mean, we'll get back to Dexter-

Kelso: Okay, sure.

Isoardi: -in later years, say, on the avenue or whatever. But as a student at Jeff, is there anything else that you remember about him?

Kelso: No, except that he was not part of the first string. He was part of the second string, in a sense, just due to the fact that some of us started so early that we would naturally be considered first-string simply because we had been working at the craft or the skill or whatever it is.

Isoardi: Right, right. You mentioned Emma Smock.

Kelso: Yes.

Isoardi: And that name has come up. The name of Smock has come up in other interviews. I think there were a couple of others as well. Could you talk a little bit about her, who she was, and maybe her family?

Kelso: I don't know anything about her family. I know that she was-

Isoardi: Was there a Ginger Smock?

Kelso: That's Ginger. Ginger Smock.

Isoardi: Were they sisters?

Kelso: No, same person. There's only one Smock: Emma Smock, Ginger Smock.

Isoardi: Oh, Ginger was a nickname?

Kelso: A nickname. Emma "Ginger," in quotes, Smock. That sort of thing.

Isoardi: Who was she?

Kelso: Oh, she was a couple of grades ahead of me in high school, and she was the main violinist in the orchestra, concert mistress. She apparently started at a very, very early age, so by high school, she just played any and everything that needed to be played with great finesse and quality of performance. She continued playing the violin all of her life. She worked in Las Vegas for many years. And I think she even played the violin on the boat that went to and from Catalina [Island] at one time. There was a-

Isoardi: You mean the old glass-bottom boats?

Kelso: Not the glass-bottom boats. The glass-bottom boat operated just along the shore of Avalon. But this was the big white steamer that used to go from San Pedro to Catalina. There was entertainment on it. I never made the trip on the boat when she was playing, but I understand that that was quite a happy thing to do at one time, to go over on the steamer when they had the entertainment and all.

Isoardi: So she played not just classical violin. She played jazz violin, popular violin?

Kelso: Oh, no. Oh, jazz. Oh, yes. Yeah, she was not unlike my attitude, you know. Musician? You want to make a living playing music? You simply find out what product is being sold on the market and make sure that you can do- It's like a plumber. You get a call to go to somebody's house. There's a plumbing problem. You've got all of your tools and equipment and supplies in your truck, and you drive up in front of the house, knock on the door, "Well, Mrs. Jones, what do we have today? What can I do for you?" And you take that attitude about your craft or making a living and get so good at what you love to do that-Of course, there are limitations. I've never been serious about, as they say, "learning the literature" of the clarinet. You know, where you learned all of the concertos and you know the subtleties of the various interpretations that have developed over the years and you are able to debate all of these fine points. To me, that's fine for those who want that sort of thing, but I was more concerned with making a consistent, day-to-day living in the marketplace, which, to me, was much more attractive and much more fun. Playing seven days a week, making money seven days a week.So I don't want to put Ginger Smock in that class, but-

Isoardi: She could do it.

Kelso: She was a successful- And still is. I think she's still active playing somewhere.

Isoardi: Oh, really?

Kelso: Yeah. I don't know what she's doing, but-

Isoardi: Did she play in the clubs down on the avenue?

Kelso: Oh, I would imagine so. Yeah. I didn't see her, but there was- You see, if you're so busy with your own life, you don't have time to live the life of the real consumer. Now, the people out on the street know more about what's happening in the clubs than I do, because all I know is what's going on in the club where I'm working. And from time to time you run across the street to see what's going on over there. But there are [what] we might call the night people. You know, the sporting-life people.

Isoardi: The sporting crowd.

Kelso: That's why they love to talk to musicians, because musicians, in a sense, are always glad to hear what they've got to say, because the sporting life people know more about what's going on in- They've got the comprehensive view. The night people and musicians, they're both awake at the same hours, and they're expending energies, but in different places.

Isoardi: You also mentioned Art and Addison Farmer.

Kelso: Yes.

Isoardi: Did they go through Jefferson?

Kelso: Yeah, they were students at Jefferson, but they were behind me. It's such a beautiful haze in my mind. I've heard so much about them. There's a part of my brain that, in a sense, can seem to visualize them on campus. Now, I don't know whether I saw them with my own eye at the time-I'm prone to believe that I didn't-but just knowing that they grew up walking on the same ground, going into the same Sam Browne bungalow, maybe I just can't- For many things, I can't separate reality from a very vivid imagination. Yeah, they are both very definitely products of Jefferson High School.Oh, Lammar Wright is somebody who should be mentioned. Lammar Wright, a little trumpet player, son of a trumpet player. Lammar Wright, Jr., Lammar Wright, Sr. Lammar Wright, trumpet player, who went to Jefferson High School, was, I guess, about Dexter's age, because Lammar Wright was a semester or two behind me. And somewhere I have seen a photograph taken in the backyard of Dexter Gordon, a family snapshot with Dexter and his tenor saxophone and Lammar Wright with his trumpet. It was almost like a Mutt and Jeff comedy routine in that they were, in a sense, almost inseparable buddies. They just loved each other. And Dexter Gordon is over six feet tall, and Lammar Wright is quite short. But Lammar Wright played- Well, we played in bands together around Los Angeles, and eventually Lammar Wright went to New York. One of the first big things for which he will always be remembered, one of the first big things he did, was he played with Dizzy Gillespie's first big band. So Lammar Wright followed in his father's footsteps and became a well-known, fine, trumpet-playing, big band musician.The last time I saw Lammar Wright was a couple of years ago out here in Los Angeles at the Parisian Room. And the occasion was- Let's see. The trumpet player. He mumbles. Clark Terry. Clark Terry was playing. That was the last time I saw Lammar Wright. That was a big night for me in that- Oh, I could talk about many people who were there, but one of the big things, Willie Smith's wife [Fishella Smith] was there.

Isoardi: The great alto player?

Kelso: Yeah. Yeah, Willie Smith's wife, whom he met in Chicago while Willie was in the Great Lakes Naval Band. The reason I know this is because Marshall Royal and I recently played Sophisticated Ladies again down in Long Beach for three weeks. And the closing party- Or was it the opening party? I don't know, it was a big party either for opening or closing. It probably was a closing party. There was a big party for the cast at a nearby four-star restaurant. It must have been the closing, because I remember Marshall brought his wife and one of their good friends, one of their very best friends, and it was Willie Smith's wife. And at the Parisian Room, I met Willie Smith's wife through a woman named Etta Jones, who was the third member of the Dandridge Sisters trio. Dorothy Dandridge-

Isoardi: Etta Jones the singer?

Kelso: This is not the recent Etta Jones.

Isoardi: Oh.

Kelso: This is the Etta Jones- Wow, am I going back into history now. And the joke between Etta Jones and me is this: When I was seven or eight years old, my mother took me and my sister [Phyllis Kelson Holloway] to see a play at a black Catholic church-I guess we could call it that-a Catholic church in the black neighborhood. It was a play in which this Etta Jones played an angel or the Virgin Mary or something like that. She had a very big part in this play. I became so mesmerized by this beautiful little girl's performance that I fell in love with her. So the joke now, whenever I see Etta Jones, we kind of laugh about the fact that she was my first big love because I saw her in this play under this spotlight. We're about the same age.Well, so I saw Etta Jones there at the Parisian Room, Clark Terry's performance. Etta Jones was there with her husband. Etta introduced me to him. But also at the party and at the table was Willie Smith's wife, so Etta introduced me to Willie Smith's wife, and I quickly told her how I, all my life, worshipped her husband. And she was kind of flattered, and she smiled in a knowing way. I imagine she's heard this many times from alto saxophone players. Fishella is her name. Fishella, I think it is. At the Parisian Room, we only exchanged maybe a dozen words. But it was at the after party for the cast of Sophisticated Ladies recently that I had a chance to talk to Fishella, because, as I say, there was just a party of four of us. We were just naturally gravitated, because Marshall and Evelyn have known each other for so many years. And Fishella was there, and I had a chance to talk to her about Willie and their life together and where they met and what the circumstances-See, how did I get way out there? Where were we before I started on the- [laughter]

Isoardi: You were with-

Kelso: Oh, yeah. We were talking about- Give me enough time. Finally, it works. We were talking about Lammar Wright.

Isoardi: Right.

Kelso: At the Parisian Room. Fishella, Willie Smith's wife.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Okay, so we're back to people at Jefferson High School. Yeah. Fine.

Isoardi: Anything else on Lammar Wright back then?

Kelso: No, except that he was part of the so-called second string because he was simply a little younger and started his music lessons, I guess, at a little later date. But he was in the big band, the Al Adams big band with Buddy Collette, Charles Mingus, Joe Comfort, and-

Isoardi: Was Dexter Gordon in that group?

Kelso: No, he never played, because the reed section was so strong, it was almost impossible for another saxophone player to get in the band, but- Go ahead.

Isoardi: I've got to ask you.

Kelso: Sure.

Isoardi: A couple of times you've- [laughter] It's hard to conceive, you know, although it's obviously very logical, but when you refer to Dexter Gordon as part of the second string, you've got to ask who was the first string. [laughter]

Kelso: Well, the older guys at that time.

Isoardi: Just the older guys at the time.

Kelso: Yeah. But, you know, Dexter loved this thing so much that it was his life. You know, if you love anything, you just live it, sleep it, and eat it. And it seems to me that I've heard Marshall say that Dexter told him once, as a very young man- Marshall said that Dexter's ambition was to become a junkie. He was so committed to music-well, jazz music-and he felt that the epitome of being what he wanted was to be a junkie musician. In other words, I guess he felt that the dope was going to help him be a more completely formed musician.

Isoardi: That's what many musicians thought, I guess.

Kelso: Yeah, unfortunately, that's the case. And Dexter apparently experimented a little too much with narcotics. No matter how strong you are as a human being, if you tamper with the poisons too long it will get the best of you. I indicated that I had enough silly, pioneering, adventuresome spirit about myself that I managed to make sure that I didn't miss anything. So I have experimented with just about everything. There were a certain couple of things I drew the line on because I didn't think I needed to make those experiments. But I've experimented widely enough to feel that, yeah, fine. Like some people say, "Don't knock it if you haven't tried it." Well, I've tried almost everything, so I am in a position to knock it.

Isoardi: Knock whatever you want.

Kelso: Right.

Isoardi: Yeah. I know I've read many times, and some musicians have told me about, well, since "Bird" [Charlie Parker], I guess, was so much in the news, that people wanted to get close to the fire that was in him. And they felt that you had to do everything that he did, and that included almost becoming a junkie. At least trying heroin or becoming a junkie, and somehow that would get you closer to the source of his inspiration. And that was a potent example. Despite what Bird would say. You know, he'd tell people, "Forget it," you know.

Kelso: Yeah, in fact, he would get mad at people, yeah.

Isoardi: Yeah, for getting on it. He'd say, "It doesn't make you better."

Kelso: "Don't do what I do. Don't do what I do."

Isoardi: But the example was there.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: It's always what people do; it's not what they say. I was talking to Frank Morgan a little while ago when he was in town.

Kelso: Oh, good.

Isoardi: Yeah, we got a chance to get together. And he was saying that that's why he started using. It wasn't that he wanted to do junk so badly. It was that example. And he said all the words- He said one time when he was with Bird and Bird heard that he had started taking, he just lashed out at him and said, "I thought you were smart. I thought you were different," etc. "This isn't going to help your playing," blah blah blah. And then Bird said to him something like, "Well, I can see it's wasted on you. You're not going to give it up, are you? And you just- In fact, you just scored, didn't you?" And Frank said, "Yeah." And then finally Bird ended up shooting up with him. And he said if Bird, at the time, had not shot up, that might have turned him around. But the point was, all the words were negated by the actions.

Kelso: Sure.

Isoardi: And then he said, when Bird died, he said he was on a bandstand somewhere, and he said he and the guys went out, and their way of honoring Bird was shooting up in the alley between sets. Very sad.

Kelso: It is.

Isoardi: But the power of that example. So that's something, then, in a way, that Dexter Gordon got into in the sense of looking for more fulfillment or inspiration as a musician? Even trying the drugs, even becoming a junkie, thinking that somehow that was going to make him a better musician?

Kelso: Yeah. Unfortunately- Well, I think we've touched on the observations made by Billy Taylor in the book called Hear Me Talkin' To Ya: [The Story of Jazz as Told by the Men Who Made It, Nat Shapiro, ed.] We don't have to go into that again, but Billy Taylor very clearly points out that young people find a grain of truth and they build a temple to it, and they worship this one little means of realizing who and what we are as human beings. And Billy Taylor points out how we're specialists as musicians. That's how we earn a living. But we all have to become specialists and generalists as well. And we become generalists so that we can become well-rounded human beings.

Isoardi: I'm sorry.

Kelso: Go ahead.

Isoardi: Can you continue on that, Jackie?

Kelso: No, there's no end to expounding on that sort of thing, because I think we've already talked about my experience at Saint Philip's Church, where they invited me to talk about my travels and my career and all of this. I got there and talked for an hour and ten minutes. I told them, "Look, if you want me to talk about what's important to me, I don't want to talk about Sinatra and- I don't want to drop all of these names. I want to talk to you about what I feel is really important about life. And I will certainly talk about my career and my travels to the degree that I think they'll get what I consider the proper place in my story."What we talked about a moment ago is what I consider much more important than how I make a living. Ernest Holmes, Ralph Waldo Emerson, S. I. Hayakawa, Alfred Korzybski, and all of the other semanticists. Stuart Chase- Learning how to use your brain. That is the key. And unless a kid gets some kind of overt, clear-cut, clinical advice about what language is and how we can use it or abuse it, make a mess out of our life or make the most out of it- To me, that's what's important.We've talked about being on the road with Roy Milton for eight, nine years playing rhythm and blues at night and reading classical literature. [laughter] You know, what was Greek-

Isoardi: On the bus?

Kelso: Yeah, on the bus. And, you know, you explore everything. You become so resentful of how people abuse the word God that you stop using it. You become an atheist, because, you know, the God that I'm attuned to has nothing to do with the abuse I see of factions fighting factions within factions. The Catholic church or what's going on in Beirut, you know. Christians stop killing members of Islam, and Christians start killing each other.So music is worth consideration, but, gee whiz, humanity and the cosmos- You know, between nuclear physics and astrophysics, there's a wealth of material. I mean, we're on the spectrum somewhere between those two and debating about a lot of foolish matters.You want to pull me back and give me a shove in the right direction?

Isoardi: Yeah, but before we get into discussing quantum mechanics, which is- [laughter]

Kelso: Right, right.

Isoardi: Which is marvelous stuff- Let's see. Okay, I guess we've covered a number of people, important people in many ways that you associate with Jefferson. What were you guys doing? Okay, at Jefferson, you're certainly coming of age as musicians. Some of you people are already incredibly fluent on your instruments. Are you getting together and playing? Are you organizing groups among yourselves? Are you guys getting gigs out in the clubs?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. We're working. Sure.

Isoardi: What's your musical life like in high school with your friends?

Kelso: Well, one of the high points was the- I think we've touched on it, but it's appropriate again in answering the question. One of the high points at that time was the black motion picture produced by Harry L. Popkin called Bargain with Bullets, starring Nina Mae McKinney, Lawrence Criner, and Mantan Morlan. It was given the world premiere, I guess, at the Million Dollar Theatre at Third [Street] and Broadway. And with the motion picture was produced a stage show, so that there was an all-black stage show. The stars of the motion picture appeared on stage: Nina Mae McKinney, Lawrence Criner, and Mantan Morlan were on stage there. And there was a line of chorus girls, and there was a singer- Well, in any event, there was a stage show, and stage show means an orchestra is necessary. What they did, I guess, to keep the budget down, they hired a nonunion band. Have we talked about this? If so, give me the sign.

Isoardi: I think you referred to it, but you haven't really told the whole story about it.

Kelso: So word got out that at the Million Dollar Theatre there was going to be work for a black band, and the young guys in high school, well, we heard about it. Mr. [Jerome] Myart, the guy that Chico and I were gigging with, I guess he heard about it. Yeah, because he was a good businessman. He could hustle work. He could hear about work that nobody else could hear about. He was a good bandleader in that he knew how to hustle jobs and keep his group working.So we made an audition at the Million Dollar Theatre with the idea of hoping to get the job playing for this black stage show. There were any number of bands that made the audition, and one of the bands that made the audition was from Watts, which included Charlie Mingus and Buddy Collette. And I don't know whether Britt Woodman- Conceivably, if there was a trombone, it was probably Britt Woodman.He, again, was another one of those monuments in my thinking and in my musical life. Greatest trombone player who ever lived. I guess he came closer to fulfilling that than some of my other idols, because Britt was trained by his father, William Woodman, Sr., who was a fine trombone player, whose life's ambition was to play with Duke Ellington, but he had made the commitment to family, so William Woodman never got the job. And it was kind of-

Isoardi: Senior had an offer from Ellington, didn't he?

Kelso: I think so. And he had made the commitment to the family, so he didn't take it. But it was kind of like poetic justice. Britt got the job with Duke Ellington.But, in any event, we're talking about work during my high school days. A bunch of bands made auditions. To make a long story short, we amalgamated the Watts band and the Los Angeles band, and we kind of wanted to eliminate the leader because he was an older man. They didn't want him on the stage. But it was a nonunion job.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: In fact, all of the work that we were doing in those days was nonunion for us, because we were kids and hadn't joined the union. And we began to play regular dances on Sunday nights, Saturday nights, at the Elks auditorium, which is now- That block is totally vacant, totally flat.But, in any event, we used to play dances there at the Elks auditorium, and the musicians union [American Federation of Musicians, Local 767] began to picket the hall whenever we played, because we were nonunion musicians. And that's how we decided to join the union, because the union-

Isoardi: Who is we? Who made up this band that was playing at the Elks?

Kelso: Buddy Collette- It was the band that played the stage show at the Million Dollar Theatre. When it finally closed, we were such a great band and we loved what we were doing so much, we just knew, "Hey, we're the greatest band in the land." So we stayed together. Buddy Collete transcribed a lot of the Jimmie Lunceford arrangements with all of those intricate reed choruses and the complexities and all. So that was the band. We were very, very popular with the kids.

Isoardi: So you were about sixteen, seventeen now?

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: You're in the middle of high school?

Kelso: Yeah. Because the band that had all of the work prior to that time was a band of older fellows from Pasadena. It was called George Brown and his Ebony Collegians. So it got to the point where we would play battles of bands, and we would, in a sense, I guess you would say, win, because we were the underdogs, the new guys, and our band sounded just great.So we became quite popular and got a lot of work as a nonunion band. And, as I said, the union, the black union, began to picket us. We had no fight with the union, and they made the offer so attractive that we all joined the union at the same time. Because, what they did, they made us an offer we couldn't refuse. They gave us an opportunity to join the union at a great dispensation. I think all we had to pay as a joining fee was $25, and we were able to handle that. So we all joined at the same time. In fact, my life membership card, on the back, has the date January 7, 1970, which means I became a life member- I had been a member of the union for thirty years as of January 7, 1970. And Buddy Collette's date is the same thing. We both joined the union on the same day, January 7, 1940. I was still in high school, because I graduated from high school either later that month or in February; I'm not sure which.

Isoardi: So the whole band joined the union.

Kelso: Yeah. The whole band joined the union, and we were able to get in at $25. That was the joining fee at that time. So, from then on, we were union musicians. We couldn't work under scale. You know, we learned about the rules. You're not supposed to work for less than whatever union scale was.But, up until that time, busy as could be, working in beer joints on Main Street, you know, on Main from First [Street] down to Sixth Street, it was just one right after the other. Burlesque houses and-

Isoardi: Pretty heavy, I would think, for a high school kid.

Kelso: Not really. You know, you're going out to play your horn, to have some fun. You don't care what people are doing. [laughter]

Isoardi: Yeah, but I meant that in the sense of, "Boy, pretty exciting." Almost overwhelming to be-

Kelso: Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes.

Isoardi: -sixteen, seventeen and probably making pretty good money at it.

Kelso: Oh, yes. Yes. We can edit this out, but it's one of our favorite stories.

Isoardi: Oh, go ahead.

Kelso: Buddy and I talk about, you know, at the Million Dollar Theatre, our salary was $21.50 a week, and the show ran for so many weeks that I guess the executive in the accounting department decided, "Well, let's see, how can we increase the size of our profit?" One way was to cut the musicians' salary. And they cut us from $21.50 to $19.50. Buddy Collette and I laugh now. We said that, you know, "They thought that they were penalizing us. We were so rich at $19.50, we didn't care. If you wanted to cut us some more, it was okay." Because Buddy says that many times he was bringing home more money than his father was making.

Isoardi: Amazing.

Kelso: You love what you're doing. You don't care.

Isoardi: Yeah, yeah.

Kelso: Two dollars, $5, $6, we'd work for tips.

Isoardi: Yeah. This is probably an appropriate time to ask you, then, when you first discovered Central and what it was like, because here we are, now you're playing the Elks auditorium on Central, and you're getting gigs up and down the avenue. Do you remember, when you really first discovered it musically, what it was like?

Kelso: Well, one of my first memories of Central Avenue was being in the Elks auditorium on the second floor. I was there with my mother and sister, maybe some church gathering or something, because there were auditoriums on both floors. The first floor was a very large auditorium, beautiful stage, and on the second floor was another, smaller auditorium, and that was where they held the Sunday afternoon dances or Saturday afternoon dances, the matinees. I couldn't dance, so I never went. But that was where the Woodman Brothers [Biggest Little Band in the World] orchestra played for the matinees.But the second floor of this building had this facility for meetings. I just remember being in that building with my mother, and it was at night. And I remember looking out a window that looked south on Central Avenue, and I could see all of these neon lights. I thought I saw the sign that said "Apex Club." It was a nightclub that was on the west side of the street somewhere down in the forties. And I knew that that club was down there. This might be retroactive. But I remember looking out- It was a small window in the front of the building that faced- No, it would be on the side of the building toward the front of the building that looked south. And I remember, as a kid, looking south through this window and seeing all of those lights. I was so impressed. It would be the equivalent- Not unlike seeing Times Square or the Great White Way, but on a smaller scale. But, as a kid, I was as dazzled by that, by looking out this window down Central Avenue. That's my first impression of Central Avenue. It was probably before I was playing music.

Isoardi: It just occurred to me. I think before it was called the Club Alabam, wasn't that called the Apex?

Kelso: Yes.

Isoardi: Was that the same?

Kelso: Yes.

Isoardi: It's got to be before Curtis Mosby took it over. I don't think it was called the Club Alabam. I think it was the Apex, but I'm not sure. But that couldn't have been the same place that you just mentioned.

Kelso: I'm talking about looking south-

Isoardi: If you're looking south from the Elks hall, you wouldn't have seen the Alabam, I don't think.

Kelso: Yeah, you would.

Isoardi: Oh, it was south of the Elks?

Kelso: Yeah. Yeah, because the Elks hall is about Jefferson [Boulevard].

Isoardi: Oh, I see.

Kelso: And the Dunbar [Hotel] is- But, in any event, let's see-

Isoardi: Yeah. So that was your first memory of the avenue.

Kelso: Yeah, all of those bright lights. Another important event in my life was attending an event in the Elks auditorium, in the big hall downstairs on the big stage, with my parents. There was a minstrel show with Mr. Interlocutor in the middle-white man-and Mr. Bones on one end and- I don't remember the other comedian. Black face, you know, with the big lips and the funny things, the guys who would jump up and down and really act the clown. Well, that was one of my first memories of what show business was about. It was a legitimate, bona fide minstrel show. And Mr. Interlocutor had tails and a top hat, and it was either all white or silver. It was a typical minstrel show-we all know what those are-and I was mainly dazzled by the two end men, because they were the big cut-ups and very, very funny.So Central Avenue plus the Elks auditorium- The Elks auditorium was a milestone in my life for several reasons. I remember this as a kid, and then working there, being picketed by the union, and-

Isoardi: I'm sorry, just to go back to that for a moment, when they started picketing you, what were they trying to do? They were just trying to get you to stop playing, I guess. And then, when they saw how popular you were, then they tried to recruit you? Or-?

Kelso: Well, we can assume that those men were sincerely interested in the benefits that come to people who take organized labor seriously.I remember one of the pickets was Elmer Fain. You've probably heard about him because he was-

Isoardi: Pretty severe businessman, wasn't he?

Kelso: Oh, severe business, no-nonsense, and he scared everybody to death. Just his appearance: he was very soft-spoken, gentle, calm at all times, but it was just that it was like the Rock of Gibraltar moving in. You weren't afraid of physical violence, but this man just exuded competence and power, you know. He had the bylaws memorized. You know, he knew what was right, and he knew what the scales were.I've played on jobs out in Hollywood. It was with Eugene and Freddy Jackson-I don't know whether I've mentioned this-and Dorothy Dandridge's sister, Vivian Dandridge, was the vocalist. And we had a trumpet player. I've forgotten his name now, but he was a union musician. Nice little gig out in Hollywood. And we got word that Fain had just parked his car outside, and very quickly the trumpet player jumped up off the stand, took his chair and- You don't leave an empty chair because it would be obvious, you know. "Well, who was sitting here?" [laughter] Now that I think about it, it was just understood why the guy took the chair.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: And, sure enough, Fain walked in, and he gave us that look, you know, looking to see if there was some mixing of the musicians. Well, the motive behind it was, of course, laudatory and proper. Here's a bunch of high school kids taking work away from adult musicians who needed to earn money to take care of their family.So I imagine the motive, fundamentally, was to- The bottom line was to make union musicians out of us. And they didn't have to do much of anything. They made the offer so attractive that I guess we all felt that it was a step up to become real card-carrying musicians.

Isoardi: Had they approached you before that at all? Before the Elks club gig?

Kelso: No. That was my first awareness of being coaxed. But Paul Howard was the financial secretary. I guess you've heard of him. And I remember once-I guess it might have been after the war, after World War II-Paul Howard suggested I run for some office, because he knew that, I guess, I'd been to City College, and I maybe had enough education to help do whatever job he wanted me to run for. But I remember a phrase he used. One of his selling points was- The phrase was that I should do this, quote, unquote, "for the glory of labor." That's the kind of guy he was. And also, he was a thirty-third degree Mason, highly respected by everybody who's ever known him. When the amalgamation took place, room was made for him at Local 47. And almost up until the end of his life, he was involved with union activities up at Local 47.

Isoardi: He was a union man all his life.

Kelso: Oh, yeah. And I remember him running through the building there with sort of a yachting cap, the same kind of cap that Count Basie used to wear, and he called himself "the expediter." No matter what came up, he knew everything about the American Federation of Musicians. He knew how to get things done, handle the- He was like-

Isoardi: A valuable person.

Kelso: Oh, yes. Extremely valuable.

7. Tape Number: IV, Side OneApril 14, 1990

Isoardi: Jackie, I think when we broke off last time, you were talking about first discovering Central Avenue and what it was like, etc.

Kelso: Right.

Isoardi: Now, I guess we're talking, then, up through your [Jefferson] High School years, about Central Avenue before World War II and what it was like.

Kelso: Oh, yes.

Isoardi: Maybe you can begin tonight by talking a bit about the scene and what it was like before World II. What I've got in mind is, as we go along and we start talking about the later period of the forties and early fifties, maybe this would serve as a nice contrast, also, as to how the avenue might have changed or whatever.But, for now, as you remember it then, in the late thirties, the early forties, as a young, professional musician in high school and just out of high school. You could talk a bit about the avenue musically, but also just what the scene was like.

Kelso: Yeah, that's the big dividing line, I guess, World War II, because things happened during those periods, as you know. The migration of various types of elements of the population, you know. People were traveling all over the country. So that was one of the biggest things that influenced Central Avenue-in fact, the whole east side-along with, as you so astutely pointed out, the Supreme Court decision about restrictive covenants. That just allowed everything to just flow in all directions. But it's quite true that, before World War II, that was Central Avenue at its most glamorous. You know, when we came back from the service after the war, there were still traces of the old- I shouldn't say traces. When you were on Central Avenue, you felt the same things again. But you could see that there were subtle changes. And I guess it was the Supreme Court decision that took place a couple of years after the war. That's what maybe really pulled the plug. And the fact that the plug had been pulled really wasn't evident for a few years, because just the physicality, the physical aspect of the property along Central Avenue, maintained its integrity for quite a while. But after a time, it just went down.I missed being intimately involved with the demise of Central Avenue in the physical sense, because right after the war, as a result of trying to maintain steady employment, I had to join bands that went on the road. That was during the time of the amalgamation of the two unions [American Federation of Musicians Locals 767 and 47] and all. I missed all of that, except I happened to be in town during one of the meetings. I remember very clearly- I don't know who told me about it. I guess just due to the fact that, whenever I was in town, the musicians union on Central Avenue [Local 767] was one of the main focal points of my life. So I was in touch with what was going on at that time. Whenever I was in town, naturally, I was in and out of the union almost on a daily or weekly basis.At that time, I was conscious of the fact that-right after the war and returning from the service-that it was good to be back home on Central Avenue, but shortly thereafter, I was involved with Lionel Hampton for two years, Roy Milton for eight years, which meant I didn't have as much consistent contact with the activity on Central Avenue, because, fundamentally, I was traveling on the road. But whenever I'd come back to Los Angeles, I would be very much involved with activities on Central Avenue.So we're talking about before World War II.

Isoardi: How would you describe the scene?

Kelso: Glamorous. You were only aware of it, the intensity of it, by viewing it at this distance, because it was simply there, and you had nothing to compare it with because it was just there. And it was just understood Central Avenue- You know, some parents, in a sense, felt like they didn't want their children on Central Avenue, because that's where the night people hung out. That's where crime and vice and all of the so-called unholy things were. That was really the street where glamour and color was.I don't know whether I've spoken of this before, but ever since I knew that you and I were going to be involved in this thing, one picture has come to my mind countless times. It's that block in which resides the Club Alabam and the Dunbar Hotel. And it was just a marvelous thing that that hotel was constructed on the west side of the street. I've thought of this so many times. I don't even know whether I've said it to you, but you know, we can edit this out again.

Isoardi: I think you referred to it once, but go ahead.

Kelso: Yeah, about the way the shade would start- [Note: Kelso added the following bracketed section during his review of the transcript.][Central Avenue ran north and south. In the morning, the sidewalk in front of the Dunbar Hotel was bathed in bright sunlight. About noon, the shadow of the hotel started to shade the sidewalk, making it a perfect stage on which to perform, to see and to be seen, to teach and to be taught: for the rest of the day, it was cool and comfortable.]

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Fine, that's enough. There's no need to go into it. We've got that part of the story. But that, to me, that's my favorite spot on Central Avenue, that spot in front of the Dunbar Hotel, because that, to me, was the hippest, most intimate, key spot of all of the activity. That's where all of the night people hung out: the sportsmen, the businessmen, the dancers, everybody in show business, people who were somebody who stayed at the hotel.There was another spot like that-similar, but not- You know, we could assign values, but we won't get involved with that. At the corner of Washington [Boulevard] and Central, there was the Clark Hotel on one corner, and across the street there was the Clark Annex. But, by far, that block, that Dunbar Hotel, for me, was it. And it was it for, it seemed to me, everybody else. Sooner or later, you walked in front of that hotel, and that's where everybody congregated.Well, fine. We've established that. We don't want to expound too far.

Isoardi: What else was on the block? Was it just the Dunbar?

Kelso: Oh, no! You know, from corner to corner there were stores. The Dunbar was on the northwest corner, and if you just walked north from the northwest corner to the north- Now, how would you describe that? Well, walk north from the southern side of the Dunbar, and the next corner would be the Downbeat nightclub, and across the street would be the Last Word [Cafe]. There were three main buildings, as far as I was concerned, three main entrances. One was the Dunbar Hotel, the other was the [Club] Alabam, and the other, on the northern corner, on the west side of the street, was the Downbeat. And somewhere in the block, there was a liquor store, there was a barbershop, a florist's shop. It's a little hazy to me now, but that was the block where- That was the heart of Central Avenue for me.

Isoardi: There were just people hanging out in front?

Kelso: Oh, yes. That's where you would go to look and go to be seen and go to talk and exchange the joy of being alive and having the privilege of being part of the audience and being on stage. Because I think we talked about how the sharpies would take turns holding forth and being in charge. And the physical appearance of these men- I don't see women in the picture. It's always extremely well-dressed, sharp, sophisticated, worldly men. Show business people. Not businessmen. Not men who have committed themselves to a business world in the classical sense, because they were either in the office or doing business things. But these were, in a sense, maybe the night people or the sportsmen or the people who had time to talk and have fun and be seen and look good and establish camaraderie and sort of that secret bonding that sportsmen have among themselves.I guess I've mentioned Andy, one of the dancers with the Three Rockets, but, in any event, there was a group called the Three Rockets; another trio, the Top Hatters, a dance team, supremely meticulous and synchronized in their dancing. Just show business people, period. I've never seen more glamour anywhere in the world than in that one spot. Because, even if you weren't working and if you were just part of the group, it was almost mandatory that you were sharp. Beautiful clothes, tailor-made clothes, beautiful suits and socks. And that was the day when men had their hair gassed or processed, whatever word you want to use. Everybody was just immaculately, you might say, splendiferous in their appearance, and they took great pride with everything about their appearance. The way they walked, you know: proud. And they could tell stories, and the body language, and all this.But somehow this picture of Andy of the Three Rockets comes to mind, because he was keen featured, a beautiful color of brown, slim. The other two fellows in the Rockets were a little heavier. There was "Baby Face" and, gee whiz, I forget the other guy. But "Baby Face" was sort of round in the face. These guys were quite heavy. They were large physically as compared to the Top Hatters. But, in any event, suits, clothing, posture, carriage- It was just spellbinding just to be in that block. And I was at an age when, you know, my mouth was open. I never said anything, because there was so much going on. I was just dazzled by the show.

Isoardi: These dancers that you referred to, they would hang out front? These are the guys you would see out front?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. And many, many people I didn't know what their business was; I didn't know what they were famous for. I knew everybody in show business, because I could recognize most of them. But there were many very sharply dressed people. They could have been men who were in business who maybe were not quite legal or didn't have the status that show people had, but they were sharp, too. And I guess there was a term called "sportsman." It was kind of loose. It included very legitimate and respectable businessmen who loved to enjoy all the things that so-called sportsmen enjoy in the legitimate sense. There was just an aura of high value placed on good physical appearance. You could look at a group of people and just know that they all looked extremely confident and happy with themselves and happy with each other.I have come to realize, later in life, that the appearance of the clothing was very, very important, but also their posture. You just exuded- It was almost like everybody realized that they were part of a certain type of royalty because they had discovered who and what they were about. It was a sense of not only black pride, but just pride in being. "I have weathered the storm of growing up as a kid. I've got some good clothes. I'm happy and proud of myself. I take good care of myself."

Isoardi: Body language really played a role, then.

Kelso: Oh, yes!

Isoardi: I mean, you make it sound so much like a language.

Kelso: It is.

Isoardi: That people did so much communicating by that.

Kelso: Oh, yes. You know, there was a haughty way you could- You know, you looked down your nose or a raised eyebrow. And the economy of language sometimes, you know, there would be just maybe one verbal sound or a word or a syllable that could be used that would be more eloquent than a paragraph. A shrug of the shoulder or a gesture from the hand or an elbow or a turning of the head. And the storytelling. Wow! Those are the people who could sit here and hold you spellbound for years. You know, there's not enough tape in the world to record all of that glory.But, in any event, I'm describing, I guess, what, for me, was the center of the avenue. And it was obviously the center for many, many, many people, because I guess most people went to where they thought the big action was. We mentioned the drugstore at Fifty-fourth [Street] and Central. That was for late-at-night happenings. But it seemed to me that any time, day or night, that you would pass the Dunbar Hotel, there would be somebody out there.

Isoardi: Yeah. Before you get away from that, I just want to ask you, do you have an image that sticks out in your mind of one person in front of that Dunbar who spoke so much with his or her movements? Do you have an image of anyone in particular?

Kelso: Yeah, yeah. Very definitely. I've mentioned him already. It might be that I've just allowed this to be my own personal symbol: Andy of the Three Rockets, because of his appearance, you know. His hair- Because it looked like maybe these guys went to the barbershop every day. They were just impeccable. And the fact that you were in show business, too- Well, Andy, I've seen him, and I don't remember any particular gesture, but he stands out because anybody who was a dancer in those days, the male dancers, you know, they were so well coordinated. They were accustomed to being on the stage, and it was their business to look good with gestures, carriage, posture, and all of that. To me, Andy is not the prototype, but the example that comes to mind just like this [snaps fingers] anytime, mainly because of his appearance.There were many, many men who had that same stance, that same carriage, and none of these men that come to mind as being glamorous, nobody was fat. They didn't have pot bellies because all- I guess it was due to the fact that they were still young, young enough to where they hadn't become cynical and where they were compensating by overeating as a result of being cynical or feeling deprived. No sense of [being] disadvantaged or [being] deprived. You never heard any talk like that. These men were absolutely taken with the abundance of life, and they just exuded this. You know, they might not have rated high on the yardstick of somebody's idea of what you wanted your son to be, but if you wanted your son to be proud and involved with a social group that really knew who they were and enjoyed who they were and being part of this thing- Just standing on the avenue just watching the cars go by.I guess you've heard stories about Stepin Fetchit with his long, white Auburn-Cord or Packard or whatever it was, with a lion sitting in the back.

Isoardi: A lion?

Kelso: Oh, yeah, sure.

Isoardi: A real lion?

Kelso: Yeah. [laughter]

Isoardi: I hadn't heard that.

Kelso: No? Oh, well-

Isoardi: What the hell? [laughter]

Kelso: That wasn't far-fetched. That was just one of the things that you were lucky enough to see if you happened to be on the street when he decided to drive down the street. And there were others. There were many, many colorful aspects. This was just where it all happened. You could get up to Central Avenue on almost any corner from- Well, they said Twelfth [Street] and Central at one end, but it went down to Fifth [Street] and Central where the Union Station was. You know, that's where many of the railroad men sometimes stayed, at the hotels down there.But, yeah, it's really amazing to have been on that street, not realizing, at that time, what it was going to mean. You never thought that this thing could disappear, you know, because this is reality and the glamour and all.And Central Avenue was quite the focal point of many people in the film industry. You know, the movie stars would come over there, because there was more glamour, in a sense, on Central Avenue, as far as I was concerned- Well, let's put it this way. I had very little opportunity to see what was going on on Hollywood Boulevard, except I knew that the Grauman's Chinese Theatre was there when they had the big premieres. And, of course, Hollywood Boulevard now is, in a sense, in pretty poor condition compared to what it was before the war and shortly after the war, too.

Isoardi: But even during the thirties, Hollywood Boulevard wasn't so much of a place where you would hang out like people would hang out on Central, was it?

Kelso: What do you mean? For black people?

Isoardi: Well, for white people.

Kelso: No, that's true.

Isoardi: It was glamorous in the sense that they would have premieres at Grauman's and all that stuff.

Kelso: Right.

Isoardi: But I don't know if it was ever such a social focus.

Kelso: No. You're right. Central Avenue had performed a role- There was a magnetism about it that was at a much more personal level than the magnetism that drew people's interest to Hollywood Boulevard.But back to Central Avenue, yeah, there's no end to the comments that could be made about that one block that housed the Dunbar Hotel.

Isoardi: What was Andy's last name?

Kelso: I don't remember. Let's see, I could call- Marshall Royal would know. [laughter] Call Marshall Royal.

Isoardi: Well, if we can persuade him to be interviewed, I will ask him. [laughter]

Kelso: Yeah, I guess I never have been taken with developing a memory for people's names. That's something we all should be more careful about and attach more importance to. But I guess I was so involved with just being involved in the action. Again, I guess, as a kid, you gain so much proficiency on a mode of expression that has to do with musical sounds on your instrument- All you have to be is a good musician and you're in. You never had to talk. All you had to do is show up with your horn. You're up on the bandstand, and the dancers, comedians, and singers- You know, you were immediately a part of a family, but you didn't communicate with the world verbally. You did it simply by being good at playing the right notes at the right time. And you were just as valid- In fact, you were considered maybe a more inside part of the scene than a comedian or a dancer, because the musician is-We used to talk about it in Hollywood studios, how, when you're in the studios as a musician-television, records, or whatever it is, wouldn't make any difference-you're there, and you watch them come, and they go. The musicians stay there. You watch the people make the hit records and the television shows. They come, they stay on, you know, how many years? Three, two, three, four, five, six? Sooner or later, that television show is off, and there's something else. But it's the same guys in the orchestra year in and year out. It's like a lifetime. Once you're a studio musician, it's like being the pastor of a church. You watch people come and go. I shouldn't use that analogy, because people can stay in church as long as they want. But fame as a result of film and records is fleeting.It's really interesting to watch a new star come up, so excited about the fact that they're suddenly a star overnight, and they're taken with all the glamour and everything that goes with it. Sometimes they lose their perspective on just how important they are, naturally. To them, they're the most important thing that's ever happened. They don't realize that these musicians sitting in the orchestra have seen young people rise and gradually fade away again and again and again.It's a very rich and rewarding experience to be a musician and be so secure in what you're doing that it's almost like a paternal interest. You don't get cynical; you don't get jaded. It's almost a philosophical, paternal, worldly-wise attitude you develop. Well, like being a wise parent, in a sense-a wise, loving parent. I've witnessed so many scenes where the new star is so intensely concerned about the importance of what they're doing. They just heap just a wealth of unnecessary tension and anxiety and internal pain on themselves. I'm not going to mention the young artist's name-an adult male artist, young. On a record date at Warner Brothers, there was a little difference of opinion between the conductor, who was well seasoned and hip as can be-you know, he's watched them come and go-and this singer. There was a little difference of opinion, and this singer was quite feisty, you know, full of vigor and a quick thinker and all of that. And the poor guy-young fellow, maybe in his early twenties-the only thing he could think of as a supportive aspect to his argument on this fine point about phrasing or whatever it was- This guy said to the conductor, who was old enough to be his father or more, he asked him, "Well, how many hit records do you have?" Well, you know, out of respect, we didn't laugh out loud, but, you know, we've seen that. But that was one of the great demonstrations of all time. This guy had had one hit record and he was-Let's see, where are we?

Isoardi: Let me just stop this. [tape recorder off]

Kelso: I just thought of something that I don't think I've mentioned before. One factor that is very clear in mind was the pride of ownership of property that seemed to be reflected in prewar Central. Nowhere in my memory are there dirty streets, graffiti, a lack of sense of pride in physical property, whether it's automobiles, dress, or the appearance of buildings.I guess that's the result- What we know about graffiti and dress grew out of that attitude of the fifties. The hippies- Was that the first group? No, the beatniks were first. Well, we needn't rehearse all of those verbal terminologies, but in any event, the point I wanted to make was the graffiti and the disrespect for- It seems to me, part of it had to do with the Free Speech Movement in [University of California] Berkeley during the sixties. You remember the name Mario Savio?

Isoardi: Sure.

Kelso: Jack Weinberg?

Isoardi: Sure.

Kelso: And after the disillusionment, maybe, of some sort, after World War II, that seemed to strike the young people who hadn't experienced the war as an adult. It was almost as if the rug had been pulled out under them, and they felt insecure about the future of the human race, or, you know, "Where's the society going?" I couldn't see much justification for that because I had been through the war, in a sense, and had survived, and I was full of hope and very optimistic about the future, because I had- You know, one of the greatest things that I think mankind has experienced was the putting together of the United Nations during the closing years. To me, that was the hope of this planet, that individual nations, in a sense, were willing to give up a certain amount of this ridiculous sovereignty that we had been willing to die for. Suddenly, it looked like the whole world was willing to give up part of the madness for the good of the whole.Yet Central Avenue after, I guess- Upwardly mobile human beings moved out of the area to better things. Then things began to deteriorate in a fashion. Deterioration, at that time, took a form that didn't seem to exist prior to that time, I guess, because the Free Speech Movement hinged on, I think, a certain sense of awareness of a concept, "Question all authority." In other words, everybody's in charge, everyone has the right to exist for their own questionable purposes. In other words, everybody's in charge of their own life. There's a certain healthiness to that, but just the concept of- I've seen it as part of graffiti on sidewalks and all of that, "Question authority" or "Down with authority," in that same- Well, we'll put it this way, "Screw authority, all authority." And my reaction has always been, "By what authority do you put down all authority?"Well, you know, that's a peculiarity I have. And it seems to me- Like the idea of being a nonconformist. When you see a bunch of people being nonconformists, they usually all wear badges of their nonconformity. You know, their clothes reflect it, their speech reflects it, almost everything about them reflects that "We are this group of nonconformists. You know who we are because we conform to our mode of nonconformity."

Isoardi: Right, right.

Kelso: But the graffiti thing is the strong point. I remember-it's strong in my mind-walking to and from [Lafayette] Junior High School, along Hooper Avenue, Compton Avenue, and those places. Occasionally, there was the wooden fence that had some of those forbidden words scratched out, because, you know, that's the way kids rebelled in those days. Small. It had been inscribed with pencil, chalk, or whatever.

Isoardi: Right.

Kelso: And you know what the four letter words were. We didn't pay much attention to it. But, in those days, Central Avenue was totally devoid of anything like that. I only saw it as a kid walking to and from school, because we were in junior high school and, well, that's the first time you become aware of adolescence and the change in your glands. And you become aware of, "I'm an adult now and I know it, so I know what this word means, and this is the key. This is the symbol by which I establish my authority. I write this word everywhere, because I know what this means now."

Isoardi: All right, let me ask you one thing. Taking off on this notion of graffiti, etc. I mean, on the one hand, I have the image, after talking to you and a number of other people, of Central Avenue back then and that area back then, of Central Avenue as being very glamorous.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: And just about everyone who we've talked to has referred to the fact that their families owned their houses.

Kelso: Yes.

Isoardi: That most people they knew could afford a house back then.

Kelso: Yes.

Isoardi: That, although being prohibited from being very upwardly mobile in terms of jobs, most people had jobs that enabled them to take care of their family and to live all right, meet their basic material needs, etc.

Kelso: Yes. Sure.

Isoardi: And then, fast forward to the present time, and the problem of graffiti, the problem of, say, destruction. But yet, along with that, around us now, we can see an incredible poverty. We can see unemployment in the innercity areas, you know, of 50, 60 percent.

Kelso: Yes.

Isoardi: People just can't get jobs, etc. Now, to go back, then, to Central Avenue and this scene- This is in the Depression years. We're talking about the thirties now.

Kelso: No, we're talking- Okay. Fine.

Isoardi: Okay, going back again to Central, to the thirties, and, I mean, things seem awfully well.

Kelso: Yeah, well, see, the thirties-

Isoardi: Can you remember, was there poverty around? Were there homeless? Were there poor? I mean, how was the Depression manifest then? How much were you aware of it?

Kelso: Okay, I can speak very clearly about that. We're talking about the thirties. That's a ten-year period. The crash happened physically in '29, they say. So we're talking about a ten-year period. The Depression, as I recall- Let's see. In 1929, I was seven years old. In 1932 [Franklin D.] Roosevelt was elected. I was ten years old and still in grammar school. I remember that very, very clearly, because I remember in school, the teachers were taking a poll. When I told my parents about it, they couldn't believe it. I was impressed with the fact that the teachers maybe were doing something that was questionable, that just didn't show good taste or legality. They were polling the kids on whether their parents were for Roosevelt or [Herbert C.] Hoover. You know, they wanted to know what the discussion was in the house. And I guess it's appropriate that schoolteachers should be interested, but my parents made such a big thing out of it, I was impressed with that, when they found out that teachers were talking to the class in a way that they were interested in hearing about whether their parents were affiliated with one party or the other. Party was never discussed. It was always personality, Hoover or Roosevelt.But, in any event, my father [John Kelson] maintained his- I'm still in the process of answering your question. My father maintained his job all the way through the Depression. He was a waiter on the Southern Pacific Railroad. So we, personally, did not feel the pinch of the Depression, but we were aware of the fact that all over the neighborhood there were people who were very much hurt by the Depression. And there were places in the neighborhood where food was distributed. I think the term "welfare" was used. But there was one place on Compton [Avenue] and Twenty-first Street. There was a huge industrial building which was, in a sense, a large distribution- Beans, rice, all kinds of food was distributed to people who had qualified themselves as being in need of this kind of help. My parents didn't qualify. I don't think they felt any concern about maybe getting in on it. They didn't have to, because my father was working, and we had so many caring neighbors that when the foodstuffs were distributed, it was in such abundance that our close neighbors just automatically shared that food. It's like having three peach trees in your backyard. You know what neighbors do. "My god, I've got so many peaches I don't know what to do." And they go up and down the street sharing.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: When you had a lot of neighbors who were getting food from this same source, everybody ate extremely well. A lot of that food found its way into my parents' home, simply because they felt it appropriate to accept the neighborly gestures. In a sense, I think it might have been considered a breach of etiquette to deny the neighbor the privilege of sharing with you some of their welfare abundance. Because apparently the food was plentiful enough that none of the people who received it felt that they had to hoard it or squirrel it away.

Isoardi: You make it sound like Southern California, the Central Avenue area, the black community in Southern California, wasn't feeling the pinch quite as much as maybe a lot of other parts of the country were. I mean-

Kelso: Yeah, I mean, I imagine that it's like today. There are certain nations that are one-crop nations, and, you know, everything rises or falls on conditions that affect that particular crop. But I guess there was such diversification in Los Angeles and Southern California that many people suffered, but it wasn't a blanket thing. It wasn't just a totally depressed area.

Isoardi: Let me take you back to Central Avenue and carry on with what we mentioned earlier. You were talking about nightlife on Central in that block. What was it like during the day on Central? Was there a big difference? Was there a dramatic difference?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. I was going to say- Well, why don't I say it? As much difference as night and day.

Isoardi: [laughter] Touché.

Kelso: It's like putting makeup on. When the sun goes down, you know, all of the flaws and imperfections, whatever you might perceive them to be- Suddenly, there's an aura of mysterious wonderfulness. It wasn't nighttime as spooky and scary. No. There's a new, special magic that comes, a type of paintbrush that paints all of the flaws. You know, new glamour comes to life. It's almost as if special spirits of joy and abundance bring special gifts at night that are not available in the sunshine.And, again, part of it is, you know, if there's a flaw or a scratch or a crack in the sidewalk that hasn't been repaired, you don't see it at night because of the bright lights, and there's so much activity going on.After the war, when graffiti began to manifest itself, in a sense- I guess I had a personal problem. You know, I resented it. The fact that people didn't care enough in the old ways that they- To me, the thought that a person would deliberately deface the community area was just- It was like the devil's work. I just couldn't conceive of it. And for years, I developed quite a strong emotional feeling about people who did that sort of thing. Fortunately, I was interested in reading enough so that I finally, luckily, read something that resolved that problem for me just automatically, and I'd like to share it with you and whoever might be listening. It had to do with the fact that I stumbled across-

8. Tape Number: IV, Side TwoApril 14, 1990

Kelso: Okay. It seems to me that where I read this was maybe Encyclopaedia Britannica or some very authoritative source. It was an article on graffiti. Boy, I was just amazed at my reaction when I read the article just one time. It was just one small part of the article that explained to me, made me aware of the fact, that this type of human behavior has been with mankind when they uncovered the ashes at Pompeii.

Isoardi: That's just what I was thinking of, yes.

Kelso: Graffiti meant "the scratchers," you know. And the people do it for various reasons. It takes many manifestations, and there are many subtleties under them in the category, but there's a Latin term that refers to this and explains it at the same time. In other words, this behavior stems from-to use the vernacular-"fear of blank spaces." It's a type of fear of the unknown, the evil spirits that can enter into your life through blank spaces. The Latin term that's used looks like "the horror of the vacuum," the fear of the blank space. And this article went on to explain it in such a simple, clear-cut way, that this has been part of human behavior almost since the beginning of time with superstitious, fearful, ignorant people. And maybe the words should run in this order: First, there must be the ignorance. Ignorance can produce fear, and fear, in a sense, can produce many things. One thing fear can produce is greed. You don't know what's going to happen, so you have to acquire as much sustenance and protection as possible. And one of the forms of protecting yourself from the unknown, what might be evil spirits, is to fill in all the blank spaces, if not with magic symbols, at least fill it up. It doesn't make any difference what you fill it up with. If you're very sophisticated in your superstitions or highly evolved and sophisticated, you have certain very clear-cut symbols and scared names and that sort of thing that you put together. But all of this stems- You know, the final event is that some human being is writing something, creating something, filling in a blank space. What he uses to fill in that blank space, in a sense, is inconsequential. But he is using his favorite form of protection against the unknown, which is based on- Well, his actions stem from fear, and he's not quite sure what it is he's fearing, but he knows that there's something he doesn't know about. And, at the core of it, in a sense, is this universal ignorance.So once I read that in the scholarly fashion, in the setting that I- I said, "Why, of course!" And I wasn't able to totally stop my immediate response of anger or resentment, but very quickly- As they say, just consider the source. Who did that and why did they do it? Immediately I diffused my emotional anxiety. My fire and resentment, my anger, immediately subsided. You know, there's just a key phrase. I could boil it down to something as simple as, "Well, this was simply produced by an ignorant brother of mine who's fearful as a result of his ignorance, and this behavior is what he perceives as being appropriate in his personal situation. And if I was in that same situation, I would probably behave the same way." So that's served and helped me. It still helps me when I consider how quickly I can still find within me little feelings of anger or resentment. All I've got to do is remember that the behavior that I'm sitting in judgment on is quite justified natural behavior of my brother as a result of his perceived condition at that time.So the graffiti thing- I still feel that it's too bad that the human race is still plagued with the inability to raise children in such a way that these unnecessary ignorances can be easily removed, because as long as you have kids that are growing up fearful and ignorant about the unknown, there's a- You know, the human race is always going to be concerned with the unknown. But it's the grace and the attitude with which we resolve this or handle it or meet these challenges. You know, there will always be the unanswered questions, and how you handle these and how you form them- Go ahead.

Isoardi: It strikes me that, in much of graffiti- I mean, it has very much of a socioeconomic base to it, in the sense that if you drive though Beverly Hills or Bel Air, you don't see graffiti scrawled everywhere.

Kelso: Not everywhere.

Isoardi: Not at all. It's pretty rare that you see it at all.

Kelso: Have you driven down an alley in Beverly Hills at any time?

Isoardi: No.

Kelso: You might find some there.

Isoardi: Really?

Kelso: Yeah. Go ahead.

Isoardi: It just struck me that it's- Graffiti is another way of, you know, people expressing themselves. And if you're poor, you don't have many means of expression. You have to take what is around you and what you can get. And graffiti's about the only way. If you have more of the advantages that this society bestows on a minority of people, then you have many other outlets. So it seems to me that it may not necessarily be an ignorance, although that might be part of it, but it can be a symbol of fear, of frustration, and also one of the few means of communication open, say, to kids who are in that desperate socioeconomic situation. I don't know, but it's curious that it's-

Kelso: "Socieconomic" is a very useful and key phrase, but some of the most deprived people I know are children whose parents are extremely well fixed in the socioeconomic arena. I think it fundamentally has to do with- I love the idea of ignorance, because to me, ignorance- The final question that needs to be answered- [laughter] Well, here I am sixty-eight years old, fine; I've got it psyched out.

Isoardi: You're down to the last question. [laughter]

Kelso: Fine. Yeah, the ultimate human question is the age-old human question of- I'm going to use two different pronouns now. The question is, "Who am I? What is this all about?" Now, if we can get to the point where we can phrase the question "Who are we?" you've immediately eliminated one of the problems. We are in this-whatever this is-we are in it together. It's not me against you. It's not us against them. There's only one identity, and we are it. As you know, some Indian philosopher, Chief Seattle- I've mentioned him before. He talks about the spirit that animates my grandfather is the same spirit that animates the buffalo and the trees and all- The spark of life in the river is the same spark of life that flows in my grandfather's veins.Now, getting back- I've got it psyched out. Yes, I really think I have. And many people have answered this question, but using different verbal symbols. That's why Aldous Huxley- I guess that's who it was who wrote The Perennial Philosophy. What he did, he went through all of those so-called standard philosophical systems, the same religions, and found the same common, few threads that went through all of the philosophical systems and all of the religious systems, and all of these systems were answering the same questions. "What is it all about?" and "Who am I?"But some of the more modern writers have seen that the way we phrase the question can be part of the problem. Not "Who am I?" but "Who are we?" or "What is all of this about?" Because, fundamentally, the question contains the answer. What is it about? Well, isn't there the phrase, something to the effect, "I am that which I seek. That which you seek you already are." Mumbo-jumbo? No. You know, this is just a shortcut way of putting into a couple of words what all of the philosophical systems- Yeah, there's something now that's popular called A Course in Miracles, and the question has to do with "Who are we? We are eternal spirit." The ultimate question is not good and bad, right and wrong. Maybe we've been through this before, but it's so much a part of me. It's so easy for me to talk in these terms, because this is something that came into print, I guess, about 1975, A Course in Miracles-I'd like to get that clear-and it has to do with the ultimate question being not good and bad, right and wrong, but what's real and what's unreal. And that terminology has been used before, but there's always the concept of the polarity. You know, there is wholeness, there is analysis, and, hopefully, there is a synthesis that returns things to their preexisting whole condition. It's only when the human mind comes along, we perceive the wholeness, and we begin to dissect it. "What is this about?" "Okay, the whole is made up of parts. Okay, here's a part, here's a part, and then there's a you and a me." And we make the distinctions, the stereotypes, you know. Stereotypes about gender, color, religious-philosophical systems, economic status, and all of this. And all of this is done linguistically and-Alan Watts, Psychotherapy East and West. I guess that's clear. What I'm talking about is a book written by Alan Watts, and the title is called Psychotherapy East and West, in which he explores the so-called psychotherapeutic systems of the East and the West, and he very simply draws the conclusion- Tries to condense it into the fact that in the East and in the West, the healers, or the witch doctors, are attempting to do the same thing: they're trying to stop people from asking themselves foolish questions. However, that raises the question "How do we know the difference between a foolish question and a non-foolish question?" Which is, again, right at the heart of A Course in Miracles. "How do we know what's real and what's unreal?"Now, I've got the answer to that, but I'm not here to promote A Course in Miracles. I don't want it to appear that way.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: But I've studied that like I do everything else. I finally learned how to read as a result of realizing that there's reading and there's reading, and then there is reading. And then there is reading. And then there's the awareness of how many types of reading, and there's thinking-clear thinking and muddy thinking-and there are certain tools that we need to use.But, in any event, getting back to- Is it the graffiti thing?

Isoardi: Yeah, well, I guess we got onto it because you were saying that-

Kelso: Who we are. The ultimate-

Isoardi: Yeah. On Central, you don't remember seeing any.

Kelso: Oh, no. It was almost as if everybody knew who they were without-Well, it goes back to the Free Speech Movement again, because the Free Speech Movement happened in the sixties, and I don't remember this blossoming of graffiti the way it is now- I find it everywhere I go. Rich, poor, oppressed- Socioeconomic, whatever factor you want to bring into it- We find the dispossessed, the uncomfortable- People are well educated and uncomfortable, poor and uncomfortable, black and uncomfortable, white and uncomfortable. If you are uncomfortable and you're desperate, you know, in a quiet moment you can only vent your discomfort on a wall. You know, some of the kids now, broad daylight with a spray can, jump up at a bus and write their little symbol or sign, and they've got the satisfaction. You know, the articles talk in terms of what a sense of pride the kids get knowing that their mark is being- In other words, "I may be a nothing in the eyesight of society, but I have left my mark on the rolling stock in this city."That certainly speaks to the concern about personal identity. If we get too wrapped up in identifying ourselves with any particular stereotype, whether it be gender or- Because, you know, to me, that's the fundamental separation, where males and females have conflicts in ways that need not exist. Because, you know, the anatomy of the two, the male and female, these distinctions are only there for one purpose. It's a crude way, a method, a process, by which we reproduce. You know, there are other animals that reproduce in ways in which the obvious identifying anatomical differences are not so pronounced as in human beings. And, boy, the superstructure we've built off those things!So, fundamentally, it's the identity crisis, and whenever I'm smart enough to remember that when I see graffiti, I'm full of peace. All I need do is remind myself that there's one of my- Oh, we've talked about transactional analysis, I'm OK-You're OK: [A Practical Guide to Transactional Analysis, by Thomas A. Harris]. You know, there's only, what, four positions that that can have. And as long as I remember that I'm okay and he's okay, it's okay for me to remind myself, "I know he's okay, but he doesn't know he's okay, so he's behaving in a non-okay fashion. Even though he's about to knock my teeth out, I still see that he's okay. He just doesn't know he's okay. He feels threatened by me. If I can only quickly con him into, say, `Hey, brother! You're okay and I'm okay. There's no need of us hitting us. There's only one of us.'"I should stop this. [laughter] I'm having too much fun at one of my favorite things.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Transactional analysis. But all of this grows out of the fact that so much unnecessary human misery is caused by a lack of agreement as to who we really are. Fine. I ought to be able to put a period in that. [laughter] I do get enthused about that subject, who we are.

Isoardi: Okay. We need to talk a bit more about Central by day.

Kelso: Yes.

Isoardi: Say, take the block you were describing at night.

Kelso: Yes.

Isoardi: What was it like by day?

Kelso: Well, you know, in the afternoon, that shadow was there, and that sidewalk was so cool, and all of these wonderful people were there. [laughter]

Isoardi: Okay, that's when they started coming out.

Kelso: Oh, yes.

Isoardi: Well, what about in the morning? Or were you ever up in the morning?

Kelso: Yeah, I was up in the morning, but usually- Morning, to me, has always been a time of productivity. You're moving fast; you're getting things done. I remember very clearly seeing the sunshine on that sidewalk. It was maybe twelve or one o'clock. I was there for a rehearsal when I joined Roy Milton's orchestra, and we were going to rehearse at the Alabam. I remember very clearly that the sidewalk was in full sunlight. So it must have been quite close to noon, one side or the other. I remember walking into the club, and it seemed to me I could hear, on somebody's jukebox, Earl Bostic playing "Flamingo." Now, it would be interesting to see whether that's accurate or not, because I remember clearly that I joined Roy Milton in the late forties, and Earl Bostic came on about that time. But I guess it's pointless to try and pinpoint the year that Bostic recorded that and the year that it was released. But that sidewalk didn't have the double magic until after the shade. There was magic there on that sidewalk, but there wasn't the eagerness to stand there in the sun and get too hot in those wonderful clothes. [laughter]

Isoardi: Yeah. Let's move the story up a bit. World War II breaks out.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: Now, you've been playing professionally for, I guess, a couple of years by then.

Kelso: Sure.

Isoardi: And you're out of high school, you're out of Jeff [Jefferson High School], so you're a professional musician. What happens when the war breaks out? You're faced with service, I guess. You must be around eighteen, nineteen, twenty years old. And do you get drafted? Or do you enlist?

Kelso: Fine. You can continue that question with whatever you want to do. Is that enough?

Isoardi: That's it. Why don't you take up the story?

Kelso: Fine. I can take it very easily from there. Yeah, I've got some interesting stories about that period, and especially my interest is in telling the story-if I haven't told it already-about my draft card. That's [laughter] something-

Isoardi: No, you haven't told that.

Kelso: Okay, well, since we are talking about it, I'll mention it. I did enlist. I was not drafted. And I'll tell you why, but the draft card should come first. Somehow I knew where I was supposed to go in order to fill out my draft card, and it was at the Bank of America on the corner of Twenty-fifth [Street] and Central Avenue. It was a very simple thing to do. I filled out whatever they asked me to fill out, I handed the card back, and they made some additions. There were certain things that they were supposed to fill out. I don't know whether it was the same form at every draft-card-issuing place, but, in any event, the method was I fill out a couple of things, I hand the card to them, they fill out some things, they hand the card to me, and I'm through.Well, just as I'm going out of the bank, I notice that part of what they were to fill out that I didn't have to fill out- What they filled out was my race and my complexion. And when I looked at what they'd filled out- I hadn't even left the bank. I was so proud of my card, you know. "I'm an adult. I'm a man. I've got a draft card. Wow, look at me!" I'm looking at it with great pride. And I turn it over and I look at both sides, and before I got out of the bank, I see that they have checked me off as being white and my complexion is- I don't know, whatever it was. Let's, for the time being, say they had checked off my complexion as- Whatever. It wasn't "white" complexion, because it ran all the way from "white" to- Let's say there were maybe five different colors you could be. Well, they had me marked down as a white person, and my complexion was, let's call it, "B." We'll just use that as the symbol.Well, they made two mistakes. I was not white. No, they only made one mistake. Let me put it that way. They made the mistake of registering me as white. I saw that, and that was the only thing that I saw that was wrong. I took it back to them, and I said, "I'm not white. I'm colored." I think that was the term that was used in those days. It might have been Negro. But, in any event, I gave it back to them, and they corrected the "white"- No, they made out a new card. We had to make out a new card. And what they did, they corrected "white," but they, at the same time, without any discussion- And this was a citizen of the neighborhood. I don't know whether the person was colored. I would assume that this person was white when I tell the full story, because they changed from "white" to "Negro" or "colored," but without any discussion, they changed my complexion.

Isoardi: You're kidding!

Kelso: No. This is one of my favorite all-time stories. Because they had checked off the symbol "B" for complexion, which was "ruddy," "light brown," or whatever it might have been. In other words, a white person who has this color skin, that kind of complexion, would be labeled "B." But suddenly, if that same person with the same complexion is suddenly checked off as "Negro" or "colored," the complexion label changes. To me, that was one of the milestones in my life. I didn't say anything about it. I just thought, "Well, gee whiz, isn't that strange? My color has changed because my race has changed." [laughter] And that to me is one of my favorite jokes of all time about human beings.

Isoardi: Marvelous. Gee. Talk about bureaucracies. Yeah, he was told to do something, to fill it out one way-

Kelso: Well, I don't even know. That might have been just a personal idiosyncrasy of that person. I didn't even look back to see whether it was a man or a woman. I don't know who did that. It was just part of the system, and it might be that the system has nothing to do with that. It might have been just a personal decision on the part of the person doing it.So, to me, that is one of my favorite, warmest stories about the patheticness of the human race as it struggles on toward enlightenment and wholeness. So, thank you, I'm glad I got that on the tape.

Isoardi: You hear about something like that and you think, "Well, it's really going to be a long struggle." [laughter]

Kelso: No, no. It's okay. That's okay, because, you see, that provided me with a joyous story. I have never felt one bit of negativity telling this story because, to me, that is one of the precious things about the childhood of the human race. And it's kind of heartwarming, you know, that these simple stories can be told, because there are many symptoms of the human problem, and that, to me, is one of the endearing stories.But whether or not I enlisted, what happened, I knew that I was- Well, at that time I was going to [Los Angeles] City College and working at the Bal Tabrin-we talked about that.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: And December 7 was the turning point, you know, the bombing of Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941. So I was attuned to things that were happening all over the world, but I was in City College at the same time, and my thinking was it would surely be nice if all of this stuff could quiet down in the next couple of months or so, but-

Isoardi: Was that pretty much the reaction on Central among people you knew?

Kelso: Well, you know, that was in Europe. That was a long, long, long distance away.

Isoardi: What about December 7?

Kelso: Oh, well, December 7, that was a Sunday. Okay, let's see. What did I do? I think I went to work that night at the Bal Tabrin, and the next morning I was at City College for my regular studies there. And that was the morning that I'll never- Well, I'll never forget it. Many people will never forget when they heard, for the first time on the radio, live, the speech that President Roosevelt made about the "day that will go down in infamy." Well, I heard that phrase at City College around noon. You know, the sun was out. I don't know whether all the school had been dismissed. Probably not. But I remember I was free at that time, and I remember sitting on the grass in front of the administration building when I heard that speech, because it was over loudspeakers on the campus. It was being made available to those of us who had free time at that time.So my thought was, "Wow, that's bringing it a little closer home," because up till now it had been confined to Europe. Now here it is in the Pacific, Pearl Harbor and all of that business. So my thought was, "Gee whiz, things are getting closer. That's a double whammy. That's a double bad." So I, like many people, I guess- We were hopeful that something would happen, that all of this ridiculousness could resolve itself gracefully and quickly, but no matter how much praying and positive thinking, it didn't get any better.So as time went on, the next weeks and months, it became clear that we were all going to have to register for the draft, and I did that, and the draft card story became part of the world's treasures.As time went on, I was concerned about, "Wow, I wonder what's going to happen." But, in any event, I accelerated my studies. I went to a summer session so that I could finish my studies by- Let's see, December '41? Yeah. I arranged it so that I could finish my studies at the end of the summer session of '42. Otherwise, I would have needed the latter part of '42 to finish. So I guess I really wanted to get as much behind me as possible, which I did. And the way I did it was by taking the summer session, which meant that I finished all the requirements without having the fun of- There was no graduation exercise. I think the diploma or the certificate or whatever it was was mailed. And I was just kind of loping along expecting to hear, maybe, from the draft board. But what happened- The navy- Let's see, is this part of what you want? How I got into the navy?

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Okay. Yeah, well this has to- Yeah, Central Avenue is involved very definitely, because it had to do with the musicians union [American Federation of Musicians, Local 767], which was located on Central between Seventeenth [Street] and Eighteenth [Street]. Well, there's a pause, because I'm questioning those streets. I think we've established where it was located: east side of the street and all of that.But, in any event, the navy had taken steps to arrange it so that-I'm more comfortable using the term "black," and I like it because it's so clean-that blacks could now enter the navy with options of choosing something other than being members of the mess, of being a cook or a waiter or a valet for commissioned officers, because, fundamentally, that's all that blacks did in the navy in those days. So we finally got to the point where, "Wow, there are going to be black musicians. Wow, let's hear it." [applauds]So they had decided that they wanted a black band at Saint Mary's [College] Preflight School in Moraga Valley, just east of Oakland and Berkeley. The navy had taken over Saint Mary's College, which was a Catholic college, and it was going to be used primarily as part of the training of naval flyers. And it was called "preflight." Apparently, the naval pilots were being trained in three or four shifts. In other words, the training consisted of several different modes, and one of the modes had to do with what's called "preflight" school. They were not actually into the plane yet, but they were beyond the first- This was at least the second stage of their training. And every bit of space on the campus, the dormitories, anyplace, was going to be used by the cadets, who were confined to the base during this highly specialized part of their training.So what they needed was people to run the company, what was called ship's company in those days. The people in the navy who ran the operation were called ship's company, and those were, in a sense, like employees. But some of us were in the navy. And they would have to be billeted; they would have to live off of the base, because they wanted to keep all of the cadets on the base in every spare space. So it was obvious the answer was that they would have to recruit black musicians who lived in the Bay Area-San Francisco, Berkeley, or Oakland-so that they could live at home at night and then drive to the base early in the morning to play colors and perform whatever functions were necessary. And in the evening, at the end of your so-called work day, you were free to go home, but you'd be right back early the next morning.Well, they put the call out in the Bay Area, and they weren't able to recruit a sufficient number of qualified black musicians to make up a forty-five-piece military band. So what to do? Hey, they just simply call down to the black musicians union in Los Angeles, and they arranged that all of the members would be aware of the call from the government. So those of us in Los Angeles who were about to be sooner or later drafted into the army, suddenly we have a chance. "We can join the navy and be musicians, and we're going to be stationed at Saint Mary's Preflight School? Let me in it right now!" Never questioned. It was like, "Wow! Yes, indeed. Black band in the navy? We're going to be stationed there as part of ship's company," which meant that we would do nothing but play music for the duration. You know, because it was suggested that you enlist, and "We'll guarantee that for the duration you will be stationed to do this very definite function." It sounded too good to be true, so I jumped at it. There was no doubt about it.Many people from Los Angeles went up. Charlie [Charles] Mingus tried on- I think he took an audition- We had to go to San Francisco for a test by-

Isoardi: A music audition?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. A music audition. We were auditioned by a chief petty officer. His name was Chief [Frank] Sonday. He was a navy regular, had a lot of hash marks. A real navy guy. Let's see, it was Buddy Collette, Quedellis Martyn, Marshall Royal, Ernie Royal, Andy Anderson, just a whole gang of us from Los Angeles. We went up, and we had our appointments to go down to the navy building at the Federal Building. All of these things were settled before we left Los Angeles. We had written documents: what time to appear, who to see at what time. Well, to make a long story short, it was very easy to get in. The chief petty officer had you play. He'd throw something up on the music stand. If you played it, fine, buddy, you've made it.So we- Central Avenue. We don't want too many details. So the musicians union was located on Central Avenue. We got into the navy through the musicians union on Central Avenue. Many wonderful musicians from the Bay Area made up the band, so it was fundamentally made up of Bay Area musicians and Los Angeles musicians.

Isoardi: Do you remember, in the particular band at Saint Mary's, which were the Central Avenue musicians who were there? I mean, aside from you. I guess Marshall Royal was in it, Buddy Collette.

Kelso: Okay, let's go through it. Marshall, Ernie, Andy Anderson, tenor saxophone player. The other saxophone players were from the Bay Area: Curtis Lowe, Jerome Richardson. Let's see, five saxophones. Curtis Lowe, me, Jerome Richardson, two tenors-Andy Anderson, Quedellis Martyn. Quedellis Martyn was from Los Angeles, because he had been with the Les Hite Orchestra, the same orchestra that Dizzy Gillespie joined when he was quite young. I think he was in and out of the Les Hite Orchestra. Yeah. [laughter] Well, there are funny stories about- Dizzy's full of funny stories. It had something to do with- Well, that would be impolite to talk about Les Hite's teeth. [laughter]

Isoardi: Well, we don't know very much about Les Hite, actually, and he seems to have been a major figure in L.A. in the-

Kelso: Oh, he certainly was. He had the band-

Isoardi: His band was probably the leading West Coast band, I guess, really.

Kelso: Well, yeah. You know, he had the band at Frank Sebastian's Cotton Club.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Let's see, that's- Yeah, that's important. I don't know how much we want to get into that. Lawrence Brown was in the band. That's where Lawrence Brown was when Duke Ellington hired him. But I'll let you feed me questions, because you're so good and knowledgeable. I should do less talking and let you do more feeding.

Isoardi: Okay. But I mean, if-

Kelso: It's amazing how, you know, once I get started talking, there's no end to it, unless my intelligence comes, "Hey, you don't need to go that far, get that lost." So I should try to-

Isoardi: But, at some point, maybe we can get back if you've got some stories about Les Hite and his band on the West Coast, because that would be good. We don't have very much on that and that would be good. We don't have very much on that, and I know it was important.

Kelso: Well, fine. I've got a little story. I saw Les Hite's band once at the fabulous Elks hall, you know, on the ground floor, that big ballroom. Les Hite was a saxophone player, and Marshall said he was quite a good saxophone player, but he finally decided to just be leader. And one very, very impressive, full of show business. One of Les Hite's tricks was that, on the bandstand, when he was getting ready- [begins to stand] I don't need to stand for this. [laughter] Yeah, well, this is for your benefit. [stands]

Isoardi: Yeah, right. [laughter]

Kelso: You know, you're entitled to some fun, too, see.

Isoardi: Yeah, of course.

Kelso: You know, bandleader, sharp, carriage, you know, looking around at the audience and directing the band and all this. The band stops and it's all over, and another tune is up, and it's time for the band to start on this next tune. And Les Hite had a trick. He didn't always do this, but I saw it happen with my own eyes. You know, beautiful suit, lovely silk handkerchief, possibly, in his suit pocket. And by that time, Louis Armstrong, one of his trademarks was playing the trumpet with a handkerchief in one hand. Well, Les Hite, when it was time to start the band sometimes, he would pull this handkerchief out of his pocket. When he was ready for the band to start, he would throw the handkerchief in the air, and when he would catch it, that would be the downbeat. [laughter] Oh, that was just a- You know, life was just full of those beautiful personal idiosyncrasies of show business people.

Isoardi: I like that.

Kelso: Yeah. Dressing and the way you talked, the way you moved, every gesture- Any little device, you know, is part of the community magic. The height and the epitome of the joy and the magic was Central Avenue, and nobody had the magic like people in show business. And musicians were the cornerstone of the show business. You know, comedians, dancers, singers, you name it. The foreground, the background, and the foundation of all of this magic was this group of witch doctors back there, the musicians, because they could take anything and create any kind of mood with the music, you know, the mood thing. So the ultimate witch doctor was, in a sense, the Rock of Gibraltar, which was that group of musicians from which every mood sprang. You know, we could make things funny, because no matter what the act was, the musicians created whatever mood was required. Of course, it depended upon the star or the performer. If they wanted to be funny, you know, theoretically, they simply brought up their music: "Here's my funny music" or "Here's my dramatic music" or "Here's my cool music." Or whatever your act was, you came up there and the musicians would create this magic mood. So again, even on Central Avenue, the same sense as being in the motion picture studios. You sit there, and you watch them come, and you watch them go. [laughter]

Isoardi: Oh, gee. That Les Hite story is priceless.

Kelso: Oh, yeah. There is just no end of marvelous stories that can be told by men my age and older. And there are some men maybe younger than I am that have just a better knack at recalling. They've probably got an infinite number of stories. You can give them any cue, they can tell you fifteen stories on any subject. You'll have to stop-"That's enough on that subject. What about this?"

Isoardi: Yeah, okay.

Kelso: And Marshall was one of those people. Man, this guy could talk for fifty years and keep you entertained. I've never heard him- Well, I told you about the mess formations at Saint Mary's Preflight School. We would- Well, I guess I didn't.

Isoardi: Why don't you talk a bit about your experience at Saint Mary's, then?

Kelso: Well, one of the things that seems to be appropriate at this time- You know, we played colors in the morning for the flag to go up. And another clear-cut thing, we played marching music at noon, at lunchtime, for the cadets to march into the chow hall. They were in there in groups, and we just simply sat there in formation. We were allowed to sit in chairs while the cadets ate. And I guess that it took maybe forty-five minutes-the whole operation was forty-five minutes or an hour-for all of the cadets to march in and eat and leave. It might have been a couple of shifts. But, in any event, we were responsible for marching all of the cadets to lunch, we sat there while they ate, and we marched them all out, and then we ate. I don't know. Maybe we ate before. We ate the same food at lunch that the cadets ate. But during our mess formation, there was some playing, enough necessary playing, and then, when we weren't playing, we were just at ease, at liberty. We were sitting on these chairs. And I remember sitting in the sun. We had white uniforms on, because it was always bright and warm. No, I don't think we ever played in blues during mess formation. We played in blues for graduation ceremonies, which took place every couple of weeks, you know, just grinding these kids in and out of there. But, in any event, it was during the mess formation that the most glorious series of funny stories I've ever heard in my life-

9. Tape Number: V, Side OneApril 14, 1990

Isoardi: Okay, Jackie. You were mentioning the mess formations at Saint Mary's [College] Preflight [School].

Kelso: Right. I guess we did talk about how we marched the cadets in and out and in and out until all of them had eaten lunch. And we spent time sitting there in formation. All of our spare time, every day at mess formation, was spent telling funny stories. The funniest stories were those told by a trumpet player named Herman Grimes, who had been a trumpet player on the Rabbit Foot Minstrel Show, plus he had also worked with Lionel Hampton, one of Lionel Hampton's first orchestras. And Marshall Royal had formed Lionel Hampton's most recent orchestra. All of these guys had been in Lionel Hampton's band: Marshall, his brother [Ernie Royal], and Vernon Alley, a bass player-"Mr. San Francisco," they call him.But, in any event, the older guys who had been out on the road and had had all of these wonderful, classic experiences of life, the glamorous life on the road of a traveling musician- You know, it's better than being a sailor, because sailors only get to port every now and then. Being a musician on the road, every night you're in a different town with a different bevy of adoring, beautiful women, in a sense, all competing, because there are only a few guys on the bandstand and a lot of women that- You know, especially in smaller towns around the United States, they have looked forward to that big night. You know, smaller towns, maybe they've looked forward for weeks to that particular night. So they go, and, for them, it's one of the big nights of the season for them. And part of the fun for some women is capturing the male in the band that she sets her eyes on that night. It's kind of like a happy, harmless game, because she knows the guy's going to be gone the next night.I remember my father [John Kelson] told me this when I got involved with women on the road, having fun. He kind of casually said, "Yeah, you know, it's an interesting thing about being a musician on the road. There are women in a town that will do something with a traveling man that that woman would probably never do with somebody who lived in their own home town." So my dad was worldly and sharp enough to know that his son was probably having emotional attachments to some of these women. And my dad, without being overt about it, he was saying, you know, "Have your fun. The fact that these women want to be generous with you, it doesn't necessarily mean that they are, in a sense, `loose' or `bad' women." Because that was part of the story of the birds and bees to me. At fourteen, thirteen years old, "Son, there are two types of women: good women and bad women." And he went on to say what function the two types of women performed: "These are the type you should marry, and these are the type that you do other things with."But, in any event, the funny jokes at Saint Mary's Preflight School would be all of these older, more experienced musicians, and, boy, they had the younger guys absolutely spellbound. You know, for three years, every lunch time, these older guys were telling different funny stories about their experience. What an education and what entertainment that was. We won't talk about the subject matter of the stories, but never in life is there so much fun and laughter as when you get a bunch of musicians compelled to sit together and entertain themselves. They talk about their favorite subject, and it's life on the road. Funny, funny, funny. No malice, no sense of how they've exploited people, because it's really not exploitation. It's consenting adults having fun together in agreed upon ways.But, in any event, that's part of- Well, that kind of part, too, is I guess what always takes place among adult males in show business when they're compelled to sort of- Well, maybe at a certain level of development, because I notice that that didn't always take place later in my life when I was involved with studio musicians. Yeah, most of us were kind of- I guess it was the natural thing for us to do at that stage of our lives.But I remember even the oldest guys in the band, and they- [laughter] I remember there was a tuba player. Ralph Thomas was his name, and he was one of the older guys. I remember that especially, because, when I got married, I was in the navy. I went to Reno and got married when I was twenty years old. And the mailman in our band received the mail from the post office on the base and had brought the mail to the band barracks. Even though we lived at home, some of the guys received mail on the naval station. And without thinking about it, when I got married, somewhere I wrote down in Reno, in the official proceedings, my permanent address as being Saint Mary's Preflight School. So what they did, they mailed my certificate of marriage to me, so the whole band knew that I had gotten married, because I guess it came in a big envelope. I remember Ralph Thomas laughed, and he said, "Oh, Jack, what did you get married for? You're so young. Man, you're too young to get married!" Well, Ralph Thomas was one of the older guys, and he was- Everybody during mess formation was laughing, because it was kind of like male bonding time. Funny, funny, funny stuff.

Isoardi: Why hadn't you told the other guys that you'd gotten married?

Kelso: Gee whiz. Good question.

Isoardi: Or did some people know and some not?

Kelso: Oh, probably some did and some didn't.

Isoardi: Some didn't.

Kelso: And it was a forty-five-member band.

Isoardi: A pretty big group.

Kelso: And Ralph Thomas was not in my closest group of friends. My closest group of friends were the people I rode to and from the base with every day. And those people were Marshall- We rode in Marshall's car. Marshall always drove for three years. It was Marshall, his brother, me, Al Summers-a trumpet player from Chico, California-and Vernon Alley. Vernon Alley was the bass player in San Francisco that had been with Lionel Hampton in the band that Marshall put together for Lionel Hampton.

Isoardi: So you guys were living in apartments in the [San Francisco] Bay Area and then commuting out to the Saint Mary's Preflight?

Kelso: Yeah, well, some of us lived in San Francisco. Marshall, Ernie, me, and, oh, many of us lived in San Francisco. Jerome Richardson already lived in Oakland or Berkeley-I've forgotten just which-on that side of the bay.

Isoardi: Boy, marvelous.

Kelso: But, yeah, we all had to live off the base. And that was why-

Isoardi: Had to. [laughter]

Kelso: Yeah, because they wanted every inch of space to be devoted to the accommodations of the naval flyers.

Isoardi: Well, were you able to play in local clubs, then?

Kelso: We were not supposed to. Some of the guys even took off their uniform, which was the cardinal sin of all, and played music.

Isoardi: But if you were in the service-

Kelso: Yeah, if you were in the-

Isoardi: If you wanted to, say, jam late night somewhere, you had to wear your uniform?

Kelso: Wartime. "Keep your uniform on." Yeah, there's no-

Isoardi: Oh, really?

Kelso: I mean, there's no reason in the world why you should ever take your uniform off, but I guess a lot of guys did some things that they weren't supposed to do. But I was young and green, freshly married, and content. Reasonably content.You know, extremely happy about the fact that I was in the navy and I had an opportunity to study with what was called The Blue Jackets' Manual, which is everything that the enlisted man is supposed to know in the navy. And the chapters, instead of numbered, they are lettered. And it's called "A to N." The "A to N" chapters contain the basic information that every U.S. Navy person should know. It's like your basic knowledge as a sailor. And your specialty is always secondary. Firstly, you're supposed to be a seagoing fighting man. So you've got to know fundamentally what ships are about, how they're constructed, the name of all of the parts. You just don't get in and get your rating as a musician without knowing all of that "A to N" material. Now, maybe there were some that were able to slide by for whatever reason, but we were given sort of a basic, proper treatment in that, no matter how good a musician you were, in order to get another stripe, you had to study and learn the material that made you, basically, first a sailor and musician second.

Isoardi: I guess you were up there for three years at Saint Mary's Preflight. Pretty much the duration.

Kelso: Three years, one month, and eighteen days. That's what my discharge said. Yeah, I was discharged on December 7, 1945.

Isoardi: Did you guys make it back down to L.A. very often? Could you get away and come down?

Kelso: Some guys did. I didn't.

Isoardi: You never came back?

Kelso: No, because, you know, I got married, and I was living at 2119 California Street for the duration.

Isoardi: So you pretty much didn't see Central Avenue during the war years, what it was like.

Kelso: Not at all.

Isoardi: So you came back in December '45? Is that when you came back to L.A.?

Kelso: Shortly thereafter. Yeah, I had no reason to stay in San Francisco any longer than it took me to get our stuff together and come back down to Los Angeles. And that's when the fun began.

Isoardi: When you were up in San Francisco, did you go out to any of the clubs?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. Sure.

Isoardi: Yeah? What was happening up there then, during the war? Do you remember any in particular?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. There was a place called the Back Stage. It was a place right down in the heart of San Francisco. There was a guy named Saunders King, very dark fellow; he sang and played the guitar. Man, he was so smooth, had so many women after him, it was just unbelievable. And one of my buddies from the Al Adams orchestra- You know, the band that was at the Million Dollar Theatre and then the nonunion band that got the dispensation.

Isoardi: Performed at the Elks [auditorium].

Kelso: Well, one of the tenor saxophone players in that band, Eddie Taylor, during the war was working with Saunders King. So I had special personal reasons to go in and see Saunders King, because Eddie Taylor was there. It was one of the greatest spots in San Francisco you could go to, because Saunders King had worked there off and on for many- Saunders King and that group were very, very much in demand because of Saunders King's appearance and his ability to sing. He was, oh, just charming. He was, in a sense, the Sidney Poitier type, but his face was not quite as full. Sort of slender, about the same color, nose more keen, just charming. Women just worshipped this guy. Well, you asked one question, and I'm making a mountain out of the Back Stage.

Isoardi: No, that's fine.

Kelso: Yeah, that was one of the places. And there were Jack's Tavern, the Harlem Club. Let's see, around on, I think it was Post [Street] or Sutter [Street], that's where I first saw Jerome Richardson. But that was before we were in the navy, because Jerome Richardson was playing alto saxophone, and Wilbur Baranco was playing piano at this club. And the bandstand was simply a little stand with a green fence around it, and there was a piano and a chair and an alto saxophone player. Jerome Richardson was playing more saxophone than I ever heard anybody play in my life. He was just incredible. And that was the time- Let's see, Buddy Collette and Chico [Hamilton] and I went up-Wait a minute. We don't want to get too far off the track. What was the original-? Oh, the name of the clubs. Yeah. Jack's Tavern, a jazz place. I remember Buddy Collette and I went out jamming. I think this was before the war. And I remember Buddy, one of his favorite jokes is- Because both of us played alto and clarinet. He jokes about the time we both were jamming at Jack's Tavern, and Buddy Collette says, "Man, I never heard you play such great clarinet. That was the greatest night of your life. Everything you reached for, you made." I was young and probably at my best, and I was quite good on the clarinet. And that was true. It seemed like I was doing things on the clarinet I never thought about doing before. [laughter]But Jack's Tavern was one of the places. The Back Stage, the Harlem Club, something around the corner. There were other places, jamming places, but I wasn't involved in going out a whole lot at night during the war while I was stationed up there, because I had a wife [Dorothea Durham Kelson], and I was really pretty much a dedicated navy musician. I really loved the challenge of- Well, I'd been to [Los Angeles] City College, and I'd discovered what I'd been missing in high school. Just by sheer dint of determination to survive at City College, I learned how to read better, how to study material. So when they handed me The Blue Jackets' Manual, I said, "Oh, wow, great." And it was easy for me to make extremely high marks in becoming a more proficient navy musician, because it's simply a matter of studying material. You know, once you learn how to study, everything is easy, in a sense.

Isoardi: Yeah, very much so.

Kelso: There were a lot of gigs up there during the war, but it was not looked upon as being the most legal thing you could do. I did some work in the shipyard at night, which was quite legal. You know, chipping rust off of hulls of ships that were being pressed into service.

Isoardi: Why were you doing that?

Kelso: To make extra money.

Isoardi: Extra bucks?

Kelso: You know, we were receiving proper navy pay, plus, due to the fact that we were- [tape recorder off] Yes, we were paid what I considered quite handsomely, quite adequately, because- Well, you remember the story about Buddy Collette and me when we worked for $21 a week and they cut it down to $19, and, hey, we were still rich. Well, the same attitude prevailed in the navy. We were still the same guys, simple. Even though I was married, things were okay. I had no pressures, no financial pressures from my wife. [laughter] Maybe others, but I was dumb then, and I didn't understand.We were also paid what was called subsistence, which means we were given special allotments of money that was supposed to be spent fundamentally for our housing. So it was comfortable. But I guess during wartime, the idea is, you know, if you want to make more money, there are opportunities to do it. I thought the safest way for me to do it, the most legitimate way, was to just do some work in the shipyards, because I was reluctant to break the rules. We don't have to go too much further into that. But I worked in the shipyard just to make money. Enough time and energy just doing my navy responsibilities and studying and practicing and that sort of thing was- I had quite a happy, full life. There was no desperation for me.

Isoardi: Okay, so you're at Saint Mary's for the duration of the war, and then you're discharged in December '45.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: And you come back home.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: And what's home like after three years away and you hadn't been back to visit at all?

Kelso: Well, yes, we had been down- When I say "we," it was my wife, because I got married quite soon after I was in the navy. We came down on rare occasions. One was for my sister [Phyllis Kelson Holloway]'s wedding, because I was the best man at my sister's wedding. And my wife was maybe chief bridesmaid. What do they call it? Head bridesmaid?

Isoardi: Maid of honor?

Kelso: Maid of honor, there it is, yeah.What was it like? Well, it was like- Well, it's so-

Isoardi: Any particular impressions you have?

Kelso: Well, yeah. My overall impression was- Now I look back and I can't believe-I guess it's because I've been unmarried so long-I can't believe that I was so completely well adjusted into marriage. You know, "I'm married. Oh. Oh, that's okay. That's okay. You know, I've got a wife, and it's time for me to get a job somehow." Quite optimistic, not worried at all, just knowing that everything's going to come out, because, man, I'm ready to do anything. I'll take any kind of job.I came down as soon as I could, and I think my wife and I started rooming with her mother [Matilda Durham] and father [Thomas Durham]. In other words, down from San Francisco, right to her mother and father. And it seems to me what happened then, I got a job doing some one-nighters up the coast with Floyd Ray's orchestra. Vaguely, that seems to be what it might have been. Because I know I was going to be out of town for a couple of days. Well, now, I guess it's going to come to light, something about pressures or the problems with the wife. I said it wasn't financial. You know, it was psychological.

Isoardi: You talked about it in one of our first sessions a little bit.

Kelso: Oh, I did? Insecurity and jealousy.

Isoardi: Yeah, you told the story about New York and the telegrams.

Kelso: Oh, yeah. Yeah, well, that happened later. The first thing was, you know, when I got back to Los Angeles, we were temporarily living with her parents. I went out on the road for a couple of days or whatever it was, and when I got back to Los Angeles off the road, my wife had moved from her mother's house to my mother [Lillian Kelson]'s, because she just knew that that was where I was going to come back to. In other words, you know, she had a very active imagination, and she was open to the possibility that, while I was out on the road, that was one of the means by which I was going to get away from her. So, to be one step ahead of me, she was already set up with my parents. And my parents- I don't know what she told them, but when I came back and found that, "Oh, yeah. Okay. That's okay with me. Fine."So, yeah, right back- And so, apparently, I started playing gigs. It was just a matter of play any kind of music with anybody. "Yeah, man, I need a job. Fine, I'm glad to have-" No pressure, no desperation.

Isoardi: You had no trouble coming up with jobs? Whenever you wanted to play, you-?

Kelso: Well, you know, jobs don't grow on trees, but I guess I was proficient enough so that I was not the bottom man on anybody's list. But there wasn't enough work for me or for anybody I knew, unless you got one of the so-called real good jobs. So I just played it by ear and just took anything that came along-this, that, and the other, change, go, yes, yes, no, stay and milk anything dry. I guess the first big change, meaningful job, was the job with Lionel Hampton, playing clarinet.

Isoardi: How did that come up?

Kelso: I thought I mentioned that. But, in any event, we talked about the black musicians union [American Federation of Musicians, Local 767], which was still operative in these years, and there was a man named Paul Howard who was the financial secretary. Okay, Lionel Hampton, when he first came to Los Angeles, he played drums in Paul Howard's band, the Quality Serenaders. And on one of those gigs is where Lionel Hampton met his future wife, because Paul Howard's Quality Serenaders was, at that time, playing almost all of the dances and affairs by black society. In Paul Howard's orchestra, at the table of honor, there was Gladys [Riddle] Hampton, you know, graduate of, I think, Fisk University. And, in any event, Paul Howard knew Lionel Hampton. Paul Howard knew that I could play clarinet quite good. This was in, what, 1946, I guess it was. Lionel Hampton's big, famous band was in town, and Paul Howard, naturally, casually mentioned to Lionel Hampton, "Hey, man, you ought to hear this guy play clarinet."So I don't know who called me, but, in any event, I went out to the Trianon Ballroom, where Lionel Hampton was playing. I think I mentioned this. Joe Adams, black disc jockey, drove by in his big Packard or something carrying Lionel and Gladys and a couple of other musicians and picked me up on the corner of Long Beach Boulevard and Twenty-fifth Street. My wife-characteristic of her-walked with me down to the corner to see who I was going to get in the car with. And I didn't think anything of it, you know. But Lionel, when he saw my wife, said, "Hey, Gladys, look who's here. Thea Garbo." Well, Garbo- My wife was one of the small group of extremely beautiful black women dancers. She came out here with a group- I guess we can edit this out of here. I don't know what I've told you.

Isoardi: I think we did go over this.

Kelso: Valaida Snow and all of that business, all of the beautiful women.

Isoardi: Right, right.

Kelso: Okay. So she's got her problem.I stayed with Lionel Hampton for a year and half, two years, came back to Los Angeles. The work situation here was up, down, up, down, up, down. During the course of that time I worked with Jake Porter on many gigs. We played the Downbeat Club on Central Avenue. Jake Porter knew Fletcher Henderson. Fletcher Henderson was still writing arrangements for Benny Goodman. Benny Goodman had a record date which included Bumps Myers, a black tenor saxophone player, Jake, me-I played alto-I think Red Callender played bass. This was during the time that Benny Goodman was sort of semi-retired, but he was making records and was going to form a new big band. We've talked about this, haven't we?

Isoardi: Briefly.

Kelso: Okay, well, it amounted to- We talked about Benny putting the first alto part on my chair and the other guy blowing up?

Isoardi: No.

Kelso: Yeah, I'm almost certain.

Isoardi: I don't think so.

Kelso: But, in any event, I was playing third alto. It was fundamentally a studio- Yeah, Vito Musso was in the band, too.

Isoardi: Oh, yeah, yeah, I remember.

Kelso: Somehow Benny just wanted to see what I sounded like playing lead alto. So without saying anything, Benny just took the lead alto part from this topflight studio guy: suit on, shirt, bow tie, brown suit. I'll never forget it. You know, Benny had a reputation then, and he said, "Let's try this again. I want to see what I-" Lead alto, well, yeah. You know, I'm black, I'm supposed to add some little something special, and Benny wanted to see what that special might be. In any event, the lead alto player, man, you could just sense it. You know, he just bristled. Under his voice, loud enough for me to hear, "I don't have to take this shit." [laughter]But, in any event, Benny was going to reorganize his big band, which he did eventually do. That was the band with Wardell Gray on tenor saxophone. But Benny waited and waited and waited, and I waited for weeks and months and months and months. I felt quite good about the fact that I was going to be playing with Benny Goodman, but man, time, time, time. Man, this guy, when are we going to work? So an opportunity came along to to join Roy Milton's rhythm and blues band, and I said, "Bye-bye, Benny." So I took the job with Roy Milton and stayed with him eight or nine years. He treated me so well, I just couldn't leave. But in any event-

Isoardi: That's a long time with any group, eight, nine years.

Kelso: Yeah, well, you know, that was my attitude. [I wanted] gainful employment playing music. [I didn't] care what kind. Except- I told you I played with Kid Ory's band-you know, Dixieland-and I knew I didn't want to stay there all of my life. I just felt that- Apparently, what happened, I just stayed with Kid Ory until I decided, "Gee, I don't want to do this too long." And probably the first reasonable job that came along-I don't remember what it was-I just left Kid Ory. It was one of the most prestigious jobs in town. We talked about it-Larry Potter's Jade Supper Club.

Isoardi: Yeah, yeah.

Kelso: Then I was in and out of town. The amalgamation started, I guess, during that time, and I had no opportunity to participate. I was at one meeting, and I found it quite instructive. I was like an innocent lamb. I didn't know what I was getting into. You know, to me, it was-

Isoardi: I'm sorry. Maybe you can talk about that. I mean, it's one of the things I wanted to get into, but since you just sort of had this brief brush with the whole amalgamation thing, maybe you can talk about it that way. What were your impressions of it? What was this meeting like? What was going on?

Kelso: Well, fine. It took place in the musicians' building, the house where they held all of the meetings, in the front part of the downstairs. A lot of folding chairs. I remember I was quite far in the back. I remember Marl Young, Buddy Collette, and the more active, outspoken guys were in front of me. Marl was sitting in front of me. Marl had been to law school in Chicago long before he came out here, so he knew about argumentation, and he knew how to speak well. He made all the proper gestures and all the good, right-to-the-point words. Somehow I felt a part of it enough to [wonder], when I thought a point was so clear to me, why wasn't it clear to everyone else? I even got up and made a couple of remarks, and what I said was immediately groaned down. "Ohhhh!"

Isoardi: What did you say?

Kelso: Well, it was, like, just arrange for a special assessment, a dollar from each member to accomplish some particular objective. In other words, you know, there was pro and con against the amalgamation, and it seemed to me that there was something about something we wouldn't be able to do to- It was going to be difficult accomplishing something, and it had to do with a few bucks, spending a few dollars. My attitude was, if we have the privilege in our bylaws of assessing each member of this organization fifty cents or twenty-five cents or a dollar, isn't that the quickest and cleanest and most clinical way to suddenly get our hands on-? How much money do we need? You know, a couple of bucks. I thought that should have been self-evident to anybody. It was the conservative element that didn't want the amalgamation that- You know, the typical undercurrent. When somebody says something that your group doesn't approve of, [groans] "Ohhhh." Well, that discouraged me from saying anything, so I just kind of left it up to Marl and Buddy and-

Isoardi: Yeah. But you were supporting their position? You were supporting amalgamation?

Kelso: Oh! Oh, of course, yeah. You know, my attitude was- And I remember speaking to Leo Davis about it. Leo Davis was the president at that time. I said, "Leo, how can we not do this? You know, it's going to just increase everybody's work opportunities. You know, we'll be rubbing elbows with everybody over there. We might not jump into the big money right away, but just being in the proximity of where the action is, some of us are bound to profit from it." I remember Leo's words precisely. He said, "You go to that big organization, and you'll get lost." In other words, there's so many of them and so few of us, you'll just be swallowed up. And his word was "lost."We had a meeting at the Local 47 just recently. The attendance was more than a two-thirds majority black members, because the person that was going to be honored at that meeting was Leo Davis, the guy who was the black president. Leo is in rather bad physical shape now, you know; he doesn't walk too well. But Buddy Collette put together an all-black band, and I was playing lead alto, and playing third alto was my clarinet teacher, Caughey Roberts. So at this special meeting-Hey, why don't I tell the whole story? This is meaningful. This is also the time when Bernie Fleischer had arranged it so that at this meeting we were going to vote on whether or not the president's salary should be raised, just that one office. And I guess it was, you know, if the president's salary should be raised, then there should be raises all down the line. Well, it just so happens that this meeting, two-thirds, the majority, was, by far- It was a packed black meeting because we were honoring Leo Davis. You know, Buddy Collette orchestra, all those black faces, all of our buddies. Everybody was taking pictures, and I just got a whole slew of pictures. You know, one of the big nights in the music business in Los Angeles. Yeah, this is the time for me to tell the story. It's common knowledge, because there were a lot of pictures taken, and they were in the Overture, which is the musician newspaper.Well, I remembered that the night that Bernie Fleischer was installed as president, I was at that meeting, and in the front row was Ben Kanter, the great clarinet, saxophone player. You're nodding.

Isoardi: Yeah, I've heard people talk about him.

Kelso: Okay. Well, gee whiz, there's a big story about Ben. I won't tell that. Marvelous guy. We love him. Great guy.Bernie Fleischer acknowledged Ben Kanter's presence the night that Bernie Fleischer was installed as president. He made remarks to the effect, to the whole audience, just honoring Ben for having been so instrumental in Bernie's personal advancement and development as a musician. I thought, "Gee whiz, that certainly is a nice gesture for a guy to do to his most important music teacher." Well, naturally, how could I not help think about how much I appreciated what Caughey Roberts had done for me?Well, here we are, union meeting, Caughey Roberts playing third alto. We had already had a rehearsal a couple of days before this thing, because Buddy ran down some tunes. I thought, "This would be a great time for me to honor Caughey Roberts. It would surprise him; it would surprise everybody." So I quickly went to the trophy store on- I think it's on Cole [Avenue] now. Hart. Yeah, Hart Trophy, and I found the largest gold-looking loving cup, Winged Victory on it, you know, big platform, had it all engraved with the proper- You know, "master musician and teacher, on behalf of his appreciative students," and the date and all.So I sprung that on the whole crowd. You know, Buddy didn't know it, Caughey didn't know it, Bernie didn't know it. Nobody in the audience knew it except me. But, by now, I'm a life member, and I know Buddy, and I know Bernie. Bernie's younger than I am. [laughter] So, you know, if you're a life member, you feel, "Hey, if you can't behave spontaneously like this among your peers and colleagues, when can you do it?" So that was a very happy night for me, because I could do that publicly mainly among Caughey's peers, because it was like the remnants of all of Local 767, the black union, were there.And it so happened that that night, at that very meeting, there was such generosity and love and generousness and caring and brotherhood in the air, Bernie Fleischer got a raise in salary without any problem at all. So Bernie got his raise in salary because of that night.Okay, bring me back where I should be.

Isoardi: Yeah. [laughter] The amalgamation of 767. You supported the amalgamation at the time.

Kelso: Oh, yeah.

Isoardi: And the reasons that, I guess, were potent for you, one was that it would open up greater access to jobs. You'd be more in the center of things.

Kelso: I think proximity- Yeah, I think things will not be as good as you'd like them to be, but how can things not be better if you're just on the scene? You know, if you're at the wrestling match, you're liable to get mud splashed on you, if you're in the room. Maybe you'll have a chance-

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: You've got the picture. Sure.

Isoardi: Do you remember the arguments that were being raised against amalgamation?

Kelso: Yeah. Part of it was financial, because 767 had a certain treasury and a certain amount of money that they were going to have to, in a sense, turn over. I didn't follow it closely enough to know what it meant in detail, but many people felt like the bottom line is, monetarily, "We're giving up more than we know that we're going to get." But my feeling was-and many people felt like-you know, it's not a matter of the bucks now, it's the principle of the thing, the concept of everybody being in the same organization.

Isoardi: One big union.

Kelso: Yes, yes. And, undoubtedly, there will always be small-minded people among any groups: small-minded blacks, whites, blues, greens, small-minded men against small-minded women against- So we can't operate by the principle of the lowest common denominator. We've got to think in terms of- Well, I don't have to tell you about that, but I'm sure that those who are listening or who are going to read this will understand the point that I'm making. Separatism is not good. It limits everybody. It deprives everybody, males and females.You know, the primary low person on the totem pole is the female. She's always been oppressed because of fearful, ignorant males. And there are many ways I can go from that, and the lowest person on the totem pole, some people seem to think, are black women, because they're oppressed sometimes by black males. After all, if a black male can't oppress a black female, who is he going to oppress? Well, now, this has to do with ignorance and fear from the very core of anybody's being, so we needn't get too far into that. But it does have its implications on separation of any sort, and it's up to each one of us to do the best we can to find out who we really are. We're all part of this breathing, organic entity called God's cosmos or whatever it is. Expansion, contraction, in and out.

Isoardi: In looking back at the amalgamation, do you have any regrets about it?

Kelso: Oh, absolutely-

Isoardi: Or do you think it was, on balance, very positive? I mean, in looking back from the perspective of now, what would you say about-?

Kelso: Oh, now, yes, I would certainly be on the side for amalgamation. I have some very, very dear friends whom I respect very highly who still feel that we didn't get enough for our money when we went over there. In fact, one of those- I won't get too personal. There's no need to go into it. But the person I have in mind is still very active musically, very active in the union-not as much now as he used to be-but he has strong feelings about whether- He felt that we could have gotten-that's it-a better deal for what we gave.

Isoardi: Such as?

Kelso: I'd rather not go into that, but it has to do with privileges and seniority rights. It's the kind of things that accountants, attorneys, and shrewd businessmen would take into consideration. I've never been involved with the hair-splitting skills, because I- And the person that I'm referring to now is quite a good businessman, so he would be attuned to the bottom line, nickels and dimes, benefits, and that sort of thing.

Isoardi: But, on the whole, from your perspective now, you're very satisfied with the move to-?

Kelso: Oh, of course.

Isoardi: You would do the same thing again without question?

Kelso: Oh, right. You want to play devil's advocate just to see how far you can go to force me to defend my stance? [laughter] It might not be too productive. I feel strong emotionally about it, but I've got what I think are good arguments and evidence for the breaking down of barriers of that sort. I've never taken a lot of time to really formulate my arguments against smallness, pettiness, isolation, and provincialism, and all that sort of thing. Well, you've heard my remarks about the U.N. [United Nations]. I'm not a member of the Baha'i faith, but, you know, one of their things is one country, and it's the earth, one set of citizens, and it's humankind. That sort of thing. But we could understand that people who have a vested interest in the religion of nationalism are not going to preside over the dissolution of something that's so profitable to them and blah blah blah. Fine, that's enough of that statement. That's pretty clear, wouldn't you say?

Isoardi: Yes, definitely, thank you.

Kelso: You're a graduate student. Is that adequate for the purposes? [laughter]

Isoardi: I was a graduate student. [laughter]

Kelso: Oh, that's right. I'm sorry. What would I call you now? A Ph.D.?

Isoardi: Steve, I think, will do. [laughter]

Kelso: No. How are you properly addressed?

Isoardi: Steve.

Kelso: I know, but Steve-

Isoardi: Well, occasionally students call me Doctor.

Kelso: Doctor. Okay. Dr. Steve, which means a Ph.D. Yeah. My goodness. Man, if you buy what I've just said as being adequate, man, I'm through for the rest- [laughter] Fine. I'm looking forward to reading this part of my copy of this thing to see that apparently I've said something that- You smiled and nodded. Man, I'm going to go back and memorize that phrase. Because if you buy it, you're content with- You know, I've said the right thing.

Isoardi: Well, I share your antipathy to nationalism.

Kelso: Yeah, okay. Yeah, it's minimizing.

Isoardi: I'm strongly internationalist.

Kelso: Yeah. Yeah, well-

Isoardi: Now, let me ask you something about your own evolution. We've covered now up through the forties or so, and you've become a professional musician, which has led you to develop in a lot of ways. Emotionally and sexually you developed in a lot of ways over this period, from the time you were a teenager. But also we've talked about a number of things now. A number of things are happening politically and internationally, a world war, the forming-as you said, which was very important to you-of the United Nations.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: Then you have a struggle to break down the barriers of segregation by bringing about the amalgamation of the white union and the black union. How is your political consciousness developing during this time? I mean, these are a number of big, important events. Do you feel yourself becoming more politically acute, becoming more interested in politics, becoming, say, more interested in questions of civil rights around the union or anything? Are you conscious of undergoing a change? Are you becoming more aware of these things?

Kelso: Oh, very much so. Because, you see, the bulk of my travel-

10. Tape Number: V, Side TwoApril 14, 1990

Isoardi: Okay, maybe you can take off from that long question I just threw at you.

Kelso: Okay. Yes, traveling through the southern part of the United States, fundamentally, traveling in Roy Milton's bus- Well, I've got to start somewhere. This is one of many places I could start. I can't tell you how many times, driving through Mississippi or anywhere-we love to talk about Mississippi-we'd drive, at three or four o'clock in the morning, through a little town. You know, a couple of people have been hungry on the bus for quite some time. You know, what's open? "Oh, there's a sandwich store." In Tupelo, Mississippi, can blacks stop the bus and get off the bus and go in there? No sirree. The bus parks two blocks down this dark street, I get off the bus and go back in this place and pass for white. I walk in the front door and ask for seven hamburgers, two without onions. You know, casual. Fine. Everybody in the band on the bus has got pockets full of money. All of us have little cardboard boxes with our canned goods underneath our private seats. But, you know, there comes a time in your life when you don't feel like opening up- [laughter] You know, three or four times a week, as you're traveling at three or four o'clock in the morning, because you've just played the gig, and maybe somebody wasn't hungry right after the gig, so somebody's- A couple of people are always hungry, and maybe the bus driver, too, you know. You want some hot food, something with some grease or meat or something on it. So many, many times in the South, I've run the risk of going in casually, "Seven hamburgers, hold the onions on three," or whatever it is. That was just simply a way of life.And I've got a photographic record. I took a camera on the road the first couple of years, and I was taking pictures of all kinds of funny things. Some of the funny things are the signs, "White Ladies," "Black Women." You know, all kinds of arrows and drinking fountains. And taking pictures of us eating in the kitchen in some of these places, you know, having just a party among ourselves. You know, they'd feed you, but you've got to go in the kitchen and sit on boxes and that sort of- And the expression on our faces is like, "Wow, we don't care. We're just having a good time eating."But, in any event, the conditions in the South were not easy to take, but you learned how to take them, because it's part of wisdom and we're conscious- All of us, naturally, are politically sensitive and aware. I'm more so than anybody on the bus, because I'm just reading profound books and all of this, and they're listening to the World Series and talking about the sporting page.You were talking about political sensitivity?

Isoardi: Yeah, did you feel yourself becoming a more politically sensitive person over these times? In other words, how were you changing? How was your consciousness about society and the world changing over this period? Do you have a strong feeling about it?

Kelso: Oh, yeah, strong feeling- Well, do I have strong feeling? I remember once we stopped for gas somewhere- This is probably not answering your question, but it's telling you about my emotional experiences. This is one of the things that comes up very strongly. It finally worked out that I had access to the entire back seat of the bus. Part of the uniforms hung over part of it, and I could lie on this thing with some of the uniforms over my nose and some over my feet. So I loved that, because I loved having a straight spine whenever I could lie down rather than just sitting in a bus. I remember once the bus stopped for gas somewhere late at night. The door was open, and some white man came to the door and was being very friendly in a kind of a rough, crude way and using strong, masculine language. I remember, after he'd kept at it and kept at it, I just hollered out in a loud voice from the back of the bus something to the effect, "Hey, man, there's some women on this bus"-because we had a couple of singers, women singers, you know. This guy said, "Who said that?" White man, knows this is an all-black bus- Well, when he said, "Who said that?" I jumped up right away. "I said that." I went right to the front of the bus. I had a blue navy knit watch cap on-you know what those look like-because, you know, that's nice to pull down over your eyes and your ears to keep out the sound and the- So I jumped off of my bed, and I went to the front door, walked down in the well, and I said, "I said that. What about it?" The first thing he did was grab my watch cap off of my head to see what kind of hair I had, because he wasn't sure whether I was white or black. But before he did anything desperate or violent, he wanted to make sure of who and what I was, make sure of the category. Apparently, lucky for me, I guess, he must have thought I was white, because, when he saw what was under that cap, he says, "Oh-" My thinking is that his thinking, possibly, was, "Well, this is just an asshole of a nigger lover, a white guy." Had my hair been short or other than it was, I imagine I'd have gotten busted right in the mouth by this guy. Needless to say, that gesture of having him snatch my watch cap off is something I remember to this day, because it was like being in that part of the country where this guy could have done anything he wanted to me. You know, what could this little busload do to help me? It would be quite appropriate that I got my teeth knocked out and nose bashed in.So, sensitive to conditions? Yeah. And reading all about everything that a person should read in order to become a complete human being, and then having all of this free time to read and experience and actually travel all over the country. We traveled all through the South. We were in New York, and we traveled in northern states as well, but it was quite instructive to get a sampling of the conditions that prevailed all over the United States. We played in Seattle, Washington; Miami, Florida; Key West, Florida; New York; San Diego; El Paso [Texas]; Upper Sandusky [Ohio]; Erie, Pennsylvania. Boy, I smile when I say that. That's an interesting story.

Isoardi: Why?

Kelso: Well, it has to do with an experience with a couple of very nice, generous, adventuresome females. And- [laughter] I don't think that would add anything to the-[laughter] Well, it might. No, I don't think I'll- Wait a minute. If you think it's inappropriate, we can edit it. But it had to do with two very nice-looking women who were married, young, and they wanted some excitement or some adventure, and I was one of the chosen ones of the two. Erie, Pennsylvania, a one-nighter. We were only going to be there- And these women knew this. And I remember she arranged it so that she could have the adventure she wanted, which meant going to my room in the hotel. I remember we were making love, and it got kind of physically active. You know, beds can shake, and her head can be bumping up against the head of the bed. I thought, "Oh, gee whiz, I shouldn't be so forceful with this lady." I said, "Oh, excuse me. I'm sorry about being so thoughtless." And she says, "Oh, no, no. Don't stop. Don't consider me. Just go. Do it." And I remember, which ties in with what my father told me about women in a town, that respectable, nice women will do things with passing men that they wouldn't ever run the risk or think of doing with somebody- This was a very nice woman and very attractive. I found no flaw with her at all. But her idea was that this was probably, could possibly be, one of the few times in her life when she was going to avail herself of the opportunity of having a strange man make love to her. I imagine there's a certain amount of just basic feminine satisfaction to know that they have the power to seduce the normal male. So I was, in a sense, doing her a favor. It was like, "Don't do anything for my sake. Make sure that this is everything you'd like it to be. Don't worry about my head bumping up against the wall." [laughter] Well, that's about as politely as I can put it.It's quite an opportunity for an education. If you're reasonably well-balanced, you don't get locked into the concept of collecting scalps or being exploitative or doing the right thing for the wrong reason. There's no end to the books that any of us could write about our experience with a variety of generous, adventuresome women on the road.

Isoardi: With the Roy Milton band that you're talking about, I guess, that you traveled with for so long, you joined the band, I guess, in the mid-forties, late forties?

Kelso: Late forties. Very late forties.

Isoardi: And it was a band made up mostly of L.A. area musicians?

Kelso: Yeah. L.A. in that they were living in Los Angeles at the time. Roy Milton was born in Muskogee, Oklahoma, I think. Camille Howard, the piano player, I think was born in Galveston, Texas. Hosea Sapp, he was not born in- We can approach it this way. I was born in Los Angeles. I don't think anybody else in the band at that time was born in Los Angeles.

Isoardi: But most of them had taken up residence in the area?

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: It seems like there were a lot of bands, a lot of touring bands, that came out of L.A., that were recruited in L.A. and toured.

Kelso: Yes. Yes. This was a prime source of musicians. It was certainly easy to form bands or locate replacements here.

11. Tape Number: VI, Side OneApril 17, 1990

Isoardi: Okay, Jackie, as we approach the end, we still have quite a bit to cover, though, in the way of the musical scene on Central [Avenue]. And perhaps we can spend most of today's session considering musical styles, associates, working conditions, etc. Maybe we can begin by getting you to talk about the different musical styles on the avenue, because, from what I've learned so far, there certainly wasn't an identifiable Central Avenue sound or anything like that, but it was a place where there was certainly a lot of different styles. And you, being a multitalented musician, seem to have gotten into all of them. [laughter]

Kelso: Well, yeah. It's a matter of being determined to be a survivor in the marketplace. You know, whatever's required or whatever's demanded, you certainly want to be familiar enough with it to say, "Oh, is that what you want? Fine. Here it is." Yeah, well, that attitude certainly pays off, well, all of your life if you're concerned with being a commercial artist, if people can stand seeing those two words side by side. But it has to do also, I guess, with almost the Zen Buddhist approach. You know, Zen Buddhism, whatever you're doing, you become one with it. If you're sweeping the sidewalk, if you're taking out the garbage, if you're playing the blues, or if you're playing bebop, just be authentically at one with it without feeling- It doesn't have to be the idea, "I am now being insincere." No, "I'm being sincerely all of these things."But, in any event, we should get back to Central Avenue and the styles- Well, the first style- Yeah. Nobody can tell my story like I can. And this is the first thing that comes to mind. One of the biggest and lasting and most indelible influences in my life was- It happened at the Lincoln Theatre at Twenty-third [Street] and Central. They had stage shows on Sunday, and I went as a kid. One of the most outstanding performances- I can remember many times seeing T-Bone Walker on the stage: blues singer, wore those lovely bright-colored suits, sharp as could be. You know, the business of putting the guitar behind his head, picking it, and doing the splits.Oh, incidentally, a couple of years ago I was in the People's Republic of China. I've forgotten what city it was in, but when we came into the city, at the center of the city there was a square. Well, it was a circle, and there was a statue in this square, which was a circle. I learned later it's part of certain types of ancient Chinese religious folklore where they have female heavenly angels, and they play on stringed instruments like a guitar or a mandolin. And this beautiful woman with the lovely draped robes- It was a stone sculpture, white marble or white stone, with lovely lines draped like a Grecian goddess. You know, you get the idea of the graceful flowing. She was playing her stringed instrument behind her head exactly like T-Bone Walker.

Isoardi: Oh, you're kidding!

Kelso: Yeah. I mentioned it to Carol [Henning]. "Carol, look! T-Bone Walker in China!" [laughter]In any event, getting back to the Lincoln Theatre- Twenty-third and Central. One of the first and certainly the most lasting impressions was T-Bone Walker singing the blues and the way he played the guitar. It was the most authentic, fine classical blues guitar I had ever heard in my life. As far as I'm concerned, everybody who plays good guitar, in a sense, has been influenced by T-Bone Walker. Because, right now, I find myself, fifty years later, on the saxophone or clarinet sometimes playing a typical T-Bone Walker blues lick. Once I learned how to play guitar when I was a bandleader. You know, the Beatles came in. I learned how to play the guitar, and I found myself, when I would play little blues guitar solos, playing this T-Bone Walker lick. It's like on the fifth of the tonality. If you're in C, it's going to be, like, G-natural with F-sharp, and it's a double-string thing. Almost all guitar players can do it. [sings guitar lick] I heard that, you know, when I was, what, eight, nine, ten, eleven years old? That is one of the cornerstones of, certainly, my style. And I heard it on Central Avenue. And it fundamentally- It's part of the universal blues vocabulary. It's built off the fifth of the tonality, and everybody that's interested can find out exactly what that amounts to. But T-Bone Walker certainly was one of the big sounds. Yes, he played at a nightclub out in Watts called the Little Harlem. I don't know whether that's been mentioned anywhere in this project.

Isoardi: No, not really.

Kelso: But there was a black nightclub out in Watts called the Little Harlem, run by I think they were called the Peters sisters. In any event, T-Bone used to play out there.

Isoardi: Was it a blues club, mostly?

Kelso: Yeah. Oh, yeah. An almost 100 percent black club. But, in any event, we're talking about styles. There was the basic blues style. So we're talking about my early awareness of Central Avenue. It must have been- We're talking about 1930, '31, '32, '33.

Isoardi: Were there any other blues singers that come to mind?

Kelso: Well, yeah, a little later on there was Big Joe Turner and Wynonie Harris and many, many others. And the blues singers would have cutting contests, you know, at clubs and-Let's get back to the style. Blues. I guess we could say blues was a style. And how can I talk about blues without mentioning T-Bone Walker? Approaching it from the comprehensive viewpoint, instead of going too far, depthwise, into the blues, maybe we should just mention some of the other styles. The swing style, I imagine, was the prevalent style until, I guess, bebop came in during the forties. So all-

Isoardi: And I suppose you were exposed to all the major swing artists? People came through at one time or other.

Kelso: Well, yeah. Swing- Let me just drop the name Louis Armstrong. I saw him crossing Twenty-fifth [Street] and Central at about eight o'clock one night. He was walking north on Central Avenue on the east side of the street in the company of, as I recall, two rather nice-looking women. He was crossing right at that corner that housed the same Bank of America where I registered for the draft. I remember it very, very clearly. That was the first time I'd seen him in person. Of course, I've worked with him several times during my career.I once played with Louis Armstrong at the Elks auditorium on Central Avenue. I was working with Roy Milton's orchestra at that time. I don't know what the occasion was.

Isoardi: When was that?

Kelso: It must have been in the very, very late forties. I also made a motion picture at Sam [Samuel] Goldwyn Studios with Louis Armstrong, A Song Is Born. Danny Kaye, Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey- That was the picture where Benny Goodman and Tommy Dorsey were supposed to have had a fight on the set, you know. In the newspapers-

Isoardi: Did you witness it?

Kelso: No, I didn't witness it, but I read about it in the newspaper. I don't know how I could have possibly missed it.But, in any event, we're talking about styles. Swing style, Louis Armstrong, first time I saw him in person. All of the music on the stage at the Lincoln Theatre, I guess we could say, was big band, swing style, with the sprinkling of the blues idiom. Because the blues inflections are part and parcel of swing music, if you're really a swing player. The blues style, swing style- What other style? Oh, you said something about there being a resurgence of Dixieland.

Isoardi: Wasn't there in the forties, the mid-forties or so?

Kelso: Yeah. That happened during World War II, while I was in the service, because I think I've already touched on the fact that, before the war, I played in Barney Bigard's band, who had pulled Kid Ory out of retirement. And after the war, Kid Ory was the big star, and Barney Bigard was playing clarinet in his band.

Isoardi: Right, right.

Kelso: So the resurgence of Dixieland was not witnessed by me on Central Avenue. That happened while I was in the service.

Isoardi: But it's interesting that before the war, though, people were playing Dixieland. I mean, you said you played with Barney Bigard?

Kelso: Yeah, but Barney Bigard was not playing Dixieland music.

Isoardi: With Kid Ory and his band, and they weren't playing Dixieland.

Kelso: Now, remember, this was Barney Bigard's band in 1941. Barney Bigard was playing the music he wanted to play, and he called his old buddy, Kid Ory, to play trombone in Barney Bigard's band. And Barney Bigard's band was not a Dixieland band. We had a white piano player at rehearsals that didn't stay with the band, but he wrote- This white piano player-I'm sorry I can't remember his name-marvelous piano player, sweet, wonderful guy, but fundamentally, I guess, he was there because Barney Bigard wanted him to use his know-how in that he could put together arrangements. He was a good arranger and would write the kind of arrangements that Barney Bigard wanted. And they were not Dixieland. Let's see, there were three horns. Barney played clarinet, I played alto, I think it was Red Mack played trumpet. And they were tasty little, small-combo, jazz-type arrangements.

Isoardi: Was it kind of early swing? Or was it very contemporary?

Kelso: Oh, it was very contemporary. It would be the equivalent of what Barney Bigard would have recorded on one of his private sessions while he was working with Duke Ellington. You remember Duke Ellington had a lot of sidemen who recorded on their own, and these guys simply recorded what they wanted to record. And what Barney recorded was not at all Dixieland. Harmonically, it was very rich, swinging fun, just a great, fun book to play.So I wasn't involved in any kind of Dixieland playing before World War II. It was only after World War II that I came out and I played Dixieland clarinet in Kid Ory's band, after Barney Bigard and I think it was Albert Nicholas and Jimmie Noone had played. And I think Joe Darensburg played with Kid Ory about that time, maybe after I left. But, in any event, we've talked about that. I did play with Kid Ory for a couple of months. Good job, one of the finest jobs in town, but I'm young, and I just didn't want to stay in that band playing that kind of music too long.

Isoardi: There was this Dixieland revival. Were there many bands playing Dixieland then? Did you notice that there were more bands playing Dixieland when you came back than before? And also, maybe related to that, how popular was this Dixieland revival along Central in the black community? Or was it mostly a revival that was taking place in the white communities?

Kelso: I think it was more in the white community, because I can't remember- You know, I'm thinking fast now, racing my brain. I don't think I heard any clear-cut Dixieland music on Central Avenue at any time. It was more like a sociological, artistic interest in people who were interested in things artistic, intellectual, and being part of- Because Dixieland was never, as I recall, a part of the everyday diet on Central Avenue. It simply wasn't harmonically satisfying enough for the tastes on the avenue, because the avenue, you know, you couldn't get any hipper than being on Central Avenue. Well, the avenue represented the contemporary scene.

Isoardi: Good description.

Kelso: There might have been blacks who intellectually or emotionally got a charge or a satisfaction out of Dixieland music, but I don't think there was market enough for it on Central Avenue to attract that small- Question mark, small. I don't even know that it did exist. And the black people that I saw in the audience at Larry Potter's [Jade] Supper Club on Hollywood Boulevard, I get this feeling that they were not, in a sense, just the regular part of the black population that had come all the way out to Hollywood just to hear Kid Ory's band. Many, many, many black musicians came out just to pay homage, and they realized what this band represented. Now that I look back, of course, that was just an incredible moment to consider, that on that bandstand was Poppa "Mutt" Carey playing trumpt. [laughter]

Isoardi: Boy!

Kelso: And they go back to, in a sense, pre-Louis Armstrong days. Kid Ory was a man who had- I don't know how long he lived, but he was a marvelous specimen. Still playing that same marvelous trombone style. He could say more with one or two notes than any other trombone player I know. I've heard it on record. And while I was playing with him, you know, I was so delighted to be, in a sense, involved with the real live guys. You know, I was born right at the right time. I'm sort of right in the middle of everything, and here they are, still in the flesh, playing this stuff. Hearing Kid Ory's solos on records many, many, many years later, I was just amazed at how this man could play one or two notes several times during this eight bars. This whole solo didn't utilize more than two or three of the same notes. And what he would do, he would growl on it, bend it, and play it, and smear it. [laughter] You know, you're just getting more than your money's worth out of the smallest means. He got more music out of the smallest amount of material than I've ever heard anybody- You know, I could hum it, hum some licks, but that's not the point. You know, verbally, I'm sure the message is getting across. So let's see. We talked about the blues style, swing, Dixieland-

Isoardi: How about bebop?

Kelso: Bebop. Okay. Immediately it comes to mind. I returned to Los Angeles after I was in the service, came down from San Francisco as fast as I could, and one of the first things I heard on the radio at night was a broadcast from the Jungle Room, which was the old Gaiety Theatre, almost directly across the street from the Lincoln Theatre. It was now a nightclub. And it was a live broadcast. I heard some of the greatest alto saxophone playing in- Never heard any alto saxophone playing- I said, "My god, "Bird" [Charlie Parker] is in town! They didn't tell me Bird was in town!" Well, to make a long story short, it wasn't Bird. It was the guy that died not too long ago. Gee whiz.

Isoardi: Alto player?

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: Sonny Criss?

Kelso: Sonny Criss! Of course. Sonny Criss. That guy was playing, you know, just- You know how he always played. He always played this way. Beautiful, brilliant tone, just cascades of notes. Now, some people- I've read reviews of his performance, or liner notes, and people say he sounds more like Earl Bostic than Charlie Parker, but anybody who can play that smooth and that fast- He was obviously, to me, influenced by Charlie Parker. I'll let other people argue these things. But when you said bebop, that was the first thing that came to my mind. I came to Los Angeles, heard the broadcast. Sonny Criss. Wow! As far as I was concerned, he never got any better than that. He was so great in 1945. I've heard him play many, many, many times since then.

Isoardi: Yeah, he must have been a kid then.

Kelso: Yes. But it was Sonny Criss. I don't know what year he was born. I've got the Leonard Feather yearbooks [The New Yearbook of Jazz] and all of that. We can find out his birth date, if you want. Yeah, he must have been quite, quite young.I saw him once, also, play down at one of the beach towns. It was a tribute to Shelly Manne on a Sunday. This must have been twenty, thirty years ago. And they had all of the big-name people, all of the jazz players, the vibe player, a guy who died not too long ago [Cal Tjader], white fellow. But, in any event, Sonny Criss was on this show, and he was the only one who projected this image. If you've ever seen him, he's the sort of guy that took extreme pride in high-quality appearance-the way he carried himself, the way he dressed. And that Sunday afternoon at this tribute down at the beach- At the beach, you know, some people that went to the concert were- Everybody was dressed in a civilized way, but Sonny Criss had on an extremely fine-looking suit with good-looking shoes, shirt, tie, and while he was doing his number, he was just the absolute epitome of professional polish. A man who took great pride in not only his performance but the way he looked. And when the piano player was playing a solo, he was standing erect just like a- He was fired up with energy, had great pride about himself, and I understand that he always- People who knew him much better than I did, because I had very little personal dealing with him, except on a record date-There was some producer who was involved in recording very famous jazz players once. It was a series of record dates I was on. And Sonny Criss was one of the people who was recorded on that series of things. That was as close as I had been to Sonny. No, there was another record date at RPM Records on Washington Boulevard. [laughter] [sings tune] I'm reaching for names that just won't come.But, in any event, Sonny Criss, bebop on Central Avenue. You threw that question at me, that's what came out. Okay, there's no end to the stories that I could tell you about Sonny Criss, how I feel about him, and the things I have stored in my memory about Sonny Criss. They're all positive, all good, and I'm a great fan of his.Go ahead. You want to ask-?

Isoardi: Well, I had heard that one of the best young bebop bands on Central, I think around that time-and maybe this was the group you heard, I don't know-was a group with Sonny Criss and "Big Jay" [Cecil] McNeely on the front line. And I think Hampton Hawes was on piano, and I can't remember who else. But I wonder if that was this group.

Kelso: No, that isn't the band. I remember talking to Hampton Hawes shortly after I got out of the service. Right then he was a kid. I remember talking to him standing on the corner of Twelfth [Street] and Central. We chatted about what we had in common. And he was just like the sweetest, talked and behaved exactly like you would expect a preacher's son to behave. Soft-spoken, nice, and he grew up to be a person who expressed his own personality. He had a group once where he had the big hairdo, and Carol Kaye played bass with him, and- Yeah, but those two guys [Criss and Hawes] were quite close, quite close in age, too, I dare say.Oh, Wardell Gray. That's somebody we've got to talk about.

Isoardi: Oh, yeah!

Kelso: Yeah, I remember hearing him. It wasn't in connection with Central Avenue. He did play on Central, but I don't recall seeing him on Central. There was a little club on Pico [Boulevard] just off Western [Avenue], a little two-by-four, hole-in-the-wall club. I remember walking in there one night, and Wardell was playing. The bandstand was just a spot up against the wall. There was a trio, a rhythm section, and Wardell was playing. Of course, everything Wardell has ever played has just been perfect and flawless. I've got The Wardell Gray Memorial Album.

Isoardi: Yeah, I've got that, too.

Kelso: To me, if you've got that, you don't need anything else. You know, Wardell Gray has said everything that anybody needs to say on those two albums. Just marvelous. Wardell, I guess, would be under the heading of the bebop player.

Isoardi: Yeah. Do you remember the first time you heard bop? Whether live, record, radio, anywhere?

Kelso: Somehow, it has to do with the navy. I think I was in the navy when I first heard a Charlie Parker record. It seems to me it was in- I think I heard a radio broadcast of some records that had been made just before the record ban. It seems to me there were some good bebop records made before the record ban. I'm not sure what year this was. I think there was a recording ban- You might be able to help me. Was it 1944?

Isoardi: I'm thinking- Yeah, it was definitely '44 through maybe part of '45. I can't remember if it began at the end of '43, though.

Kelso: But, in any event, one of my first memories of hearing it was a radio broadcast in the band room at Saint Mary's [College] Preflight School. I'm sure there were records floating around, and the music was floating around. Prior to that, I was still busy, so involved in taking a summer session at [Los Angeles] City College so I could get my A.A. [Associate of Arts] degree so I could join the navy. I was so involved with school at that time that what was going on musically, I wasn't in touch with that. Because Buddy, Buddy Collette, from high school went right into Cee Pee Johnson's band, one of the best jobs in town, working in Hollywood and that sort of thing. I think I've told the story about my father saying no to me. I was going to have to go- Fine. So Buddy Collette was right in the middle of all of the happenings. I'm sure that his story, if it does include his first influence, first hearing of bebop, it was probably before mine, because I was simply, in a sense, isolated at that time.Okay. The first bebop hearing was while I was in the service. And one of the big impressions that bebop made on me was-I've already touched on this-Marshall Royal's brother. Ernie Royal had been to New York with the Lionel Hampton band and had heard Dizzy [Gillespie] and the styles. Being the great musician that Ernie was, it was a simple matter for him to assimilate it and express that style in his own playing. So in the service when I heard Ernie play, to me, that was one of the milestones. Ernie Royal was the first great bebop trumpet player I ever heard play, because everything Ernie played was right, authentic and right. He has never scuffled or sluffed over anything. If he played it, it was right. So one of my first introductions to bebop, I guess, was Ernie Royal and the records that I heard at that time.

Isoardi: What did you think of it?

Kelso: What did I think of it?

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: My god, it's like, "How am I ever going to learn how to play like that?" [laughter] And that was the marvelous thing about being in the navy. We were full-time musicians, and we had free time to just get better and better and better. And everybody in that navy band, all forty-five of the guys- Some of them were, in a sense, almost beginning musicians. But Buddy Collette took the second string of guys and-I think we've touched on that-he created just a marvelous second band. And those guys-

Isoardi: No, actually, you haven't talked about that.

Kelso: I haven't?

Isoardi: No. You've talked about Marshall Royal as a leader in the band he put together, but-

Kelso: Yeah. It was a standard forty-five-piece navy military band, and Marshall Royal picked who he felt were the best guys, the best musicians, to make the best swing dance band that could be made out of that material.

Isoardi: Out of that forty-five?

Kelso: Yeah. I was part of the first string. And what happened, Buddy Collette was, I think, two days late either getting to Great Lakes [Naval Station] or coming out to Saint Mary's. I've forgotten how it was. Marshall had already visualized in his mind that Buddy was going to be in the "A" band, of course, but Marshall had him set up to play baritone. I think Buddy played baritone in Cee Pee Johnson's band.

Isoardi: Oh, really?

Kelso: That might have been one of the reasons why Marshall automatically thought of Buddy on baritone, because Buddy had played baritone in Cee Pee Johnson's band. I think that's what might have been going on. Let's see. When Marshall left Cee Pee, Jack McVea also left Cee Pee. Marshall had been playing alto with Cee Pee. Jack McVea had been playing baritone.Ah, I never thought of it this way before. Okay. When Buddy joined Cee Pee, I was supposed to join Cee Pee at the same time. Now, I've never thought about this. Was I going to play baritone? Or was Buddy going to play? You know, here, fifty years later- But, in any event, what happened- I'm almost certain Buddy played baritone in Cee Pee's band, so I guess it was natural for Marshall to think in terms of, "Wow, Buddy on baritone." Well, I think Buddy had just about had enough of the baritone.

Isoardi: I'll bet. [laughter]

Kelso: So my understanding- This is kind of vague. I didn't witness this, I didn't hear anything about it, but I'm surmising this. Marshall had it planned that Buddy would play baritone. Marshall suggested it to Buddy or offered it to him, and I imagine that, with a couple of well-chosen, civilized, polite words, Buddy said, "Thank you, but no thanks." Because the rest of the band, the personnel, was already set, so that meant Buddy wasn't in the first-string band, and he certainly should have been. I'm not even suggesting he should have been playing baritone. No, Buddy should have probably been playing one of the altos. Now, let's see, I was playing alto, and Jerome Richardson was playing alto. Now, where would that leave Buddy?

Isoardi: You'd have three altos in the band. [laughter]

Kelso: Well, in any event, the navy had its first-string band, just great, marvelous, and the rest of the guys that were left over, evidently they got together- After they found out who Buddy was and how together he was, what a wonderful guy he was, they probably just asked Buddy, "Hey, Buddy, in our spare time, why can't we rehearse, too? Let's make a band." So Buddy took the so-called second string or the remnants, and, boy, those guys put together some arrangements, and they rehearsed. They absolutely worshipped the ground Buddy walked on, because Buddy is so patient and loving with every human being-and I've known him since he was fifteen years old-I have never seen him mad, cross, or bitter, small, or petty in any way.

Isoardi: Gee.

Kelso: So Buddy took those guys, man, and many of the guys learned how to do some arranging, and Buddy would play those arrangements. That's the only way guys really learn is to write an arrangement and hear, "Aha! I like that. I don't like that. I won't do that again."But, in any event, the first-string band, led by Marshall, was called the Bombardiers. Well, Buddy's band gave themselves the name of the Topflighters. By george, they got good enough so that they were playing jobs. It wasn't just that they played for themselves. They played for dances on the base, and they created just a very, very fine presentation on their own.

Isoardi: Good story.

Kelso: Well, that's the kind of guy Buddy is. He is one of a kind. There might be other people like Buddy. I've never run into them. He's always been charming, high character, five-star person.We're talking about styles. When did I first hear-

Isoardi: Yeah, when you first heard bebop and how you reacted to it.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: So when you came back, then, to L.A. in '45 and you heard this broadcast from the Jungle Room-

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: I mean, the first response was you thought it was Charlie Parker.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: So, by the time you came back here, you certainly knew who Charlie Parker was.

Kelso: Oh, of course. Yeah, we bought records, and we took solos off of records. We were just committed jazz people. If you're a jazz musician, you stay right on top of what's going on.

Isoardi: I guess about this time, wasn't there that famous gig at Billy Berg's when Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker came to town? Was that early '46, or was that '45, before you came back?

Kelso: I wasn't in town when that happened.

Isoardi: You weren't in town for that. Oh, okay.

Kelso: I don't know where I was, because if I had been in town, if it had been available, I certainly would have gone out there. Yeah, because Lucky Thompson-Oh, there's something. Shortly after I got out of the service- Yeah, there was some problem with that gig out there at Billy Berg's, and they had to pull in Lucky Thompson to fill in. Do you know anything about that story?

Isoardi: Well, a little bit.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: Gee, I think Dizzy talks about it in his autobiography. I've read about it in a few places. Apparently, they knew that Bird was unreliable, so apparently they got Lucky Thompson just in case.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: Bird didn't show up or came late or whatever to fill in. I think that was the story of why they had-

Kelso: Yeah, well, after I got out of the service, Lucky Thompson was still here in town, and he had formed a large big band, and I played in Lucky Thompson's big band.

Isoardi: Oh, really?

Kelso: I played alto, yeah. We did some rehearsals, and I only played one gig. It was at the Elks auditorium. Buddy DeFranco had done some writing. And it seemed to me his entire brass section was white. There might have been a couple of black players in it. But Lucky Thompson's band was primarily made up of white players. That might have been due to the fact that Lucky Thompson got a lot of recording with white bands in Hollywood.

Isoardi: Oh, really?

Kelso: And I guess it was Lucky Thompson's way of- Maybe he caught himself using his head: "These guys hire me, so I should hire some of them." But, in any event, we played one gig at the Elks auditorium.Yeah, speaking of bebop style, Lucky Thompson played so good, when I first heard him play in person, my attitude always has been, I don't think Lucky Thompson could have played better than that for the rest of his life. He was just such a good player. If you've already talked to Buddy, I'm sure that Buddy's interview is just full of marvelous stories about Lucky Thompson and that group that they put together that included Lucky Thompson, Buddy and Britt Woodman, and Charlie [Charles] Mingus-

Isoardi: Oh, that's the Stars [of Swing]. That's the group that you guys sort of rekindled, I guess, last year.

Kelso: Yeah, well, Buddy kept the same name. So, when I played tenor with the band, I was smiling to myself, "My god, I'm playing the role of Lucky Thompson! How dare we do this?" [laughter] But, in any event, you know, Buddy and I are friends, and Buddy felt, well, he'd heard me play tenor enough to know that I could play the arrangements and I could play happy solos.

Isoardi: Did you ever hear that group, the Stars of Swing? I guess they had a pretty brief existence. But did you ever hear them when they played in nightclubs?

Kelso: Yeah. It seems to me- I don't know whether I've visualized it so strongly in my mind that I have a strong visual impression of something I really didn't see. But in view of the fact that I know they played at the Downbeat [Club]-and it seems to me I saw the sign outside, and I worked in that club so many times myself-it seems to me that I saw- I have a strong visual impression inside my head, and I don't know whether it's just strong imagination or whether I actually walked into the club while they were playing. Now, I'm not going to apologize for being brain damaged or whatever it is, but, for the life of me, I can't swear that I walked in that club. But for years, well, you know, ever since that group was together, I've had that impression. Maybe I did see them. I'm not sure.But Lucky Thompson certainly is a valid response to come from me when you feed me Los Angeles bebop style. Wardell Gray, Ernie Royal, Sonny Criss. Let's see. Yeah, well, this doesn't have to be an exhaustive interview. Is that enough? Or do you want to go on to something else?

Isoardi: Well, can I throw some more names at you?

Kelso: Sure.

Isoardi: I mean, some of them you may not have had any dealings with or don't have any- But, say, Dexter Gordon, do you remember him in the forties when you came back, playing on the avenue or anything like that?

Kelso: No, by then, I think Dex- You see, Dexter joined Lionel Hampton's band in 1940. That's about right. Marshall left- Wait a minute. How did this work? Yeah, Dexter Gordon was involved with Lionel Hampton's orchestra a couple of months or so after- Because he wasn't part of the first original band.

Isoardi: Right.

Kelso: Because I think Dexter replaced Bob Barefield from up in- But, in any event, '40, Dexter is really beginning to get himself together, because he was a little behind us in school. By the time I got out of the service, 1945, '46- Dexter had gone back east with Lionel Hampton in the forties. And by the time I was out of the service, Dexter was very, very well-known, a big man in jazz circles.And I don't remember seeing Dexter. To tell you the truth, I don't think I saw Dexter until the Monterey Jazz Festival. No. There's no need of getting that far off the track. We're talking about Central Avenue and Dexter Gordon. No.

Isoardi: But you don't remember seeing him there?

Kelso: I don't remember seeing Dexter on the avenue.

Isoardi: Okay. How about Charlie Mingus?

Kelso: Well, Charlie Mingus was part of Al Adams's band. You know, the band that got together after the Million Dollar Theatre gig. Yeah, Charlie Mingus was part of the family before World War II, and he was a marvelous, wild human being even then. Highly emotional, loved to play bass, and he admired, as you know, Red Callender and Joe Comfort. There's been some mention I made of Joe Comfort. Yeah, Charlie Mingus, before the war, was just a highly energetic, good bass player. And he was part of the family. But after I got out of the service, Mingus was going to be in- I think he made an audition for the band, for the navy band, and he made it on bass drum. He didn't make it or decided that he didn't want to be involved with the project. But, in any event, Charlie was going to be in the navy band, but it wound up that he was not in the navy band. He wasn't involved in the service, to my understanding. So all during the war, Charlie Mingus was just developing himself as a jazz bass player. And he'd gotten involved into some sort of oriental religions. He was involved in some sort of religious monk studies.

Isoardi: Really?

Kelso: That's very clear to me, because after I got out of the service, I remember very clearly Charlie Mingus and I had a heart-to-heart, loving, brother-to-brother talk one afternoon at Pershing Square, downtown.

12. Tape Number: VI, Side TwoApril 17, 1990

Kelso: Pershing Square is a block square in front of the Biltmore Hotel, Philharmonic Auditorium. I don't remember how we got down there, but, in any event, Charlie Mingus and I were sitting in Pershing Square. We were talking about the things that were most important to us at that time. He was talking about the big questions of life-you know, religion, God, philosophy, and all of that sort of thing-and somehow it just seemed to me that all during my life I felt like I had all of the answers. [laughter]

Isoardi: That's right. I remember last session you said you were down to one final question. [laughter]

Kelso: Well, this will give you an idea. Now, after the service, Charlie Mingus and I are sitting in Pershing Square-the war is over now-and Charlie is telling me about psychic experiences, religious experiences, things that he's had and all. I remember very clearly talking to him about- You know, I was a great reader, had been all of my life, and immediately I knew exactly the book I wanted to recommend to Charlie Mingus. Because he was still searching and looking, you know, desperately looking. I said, "Well, Charlie, let me tell you. I've got a book for you. I found it extremely valuable. And I love you like a brother, you know that. This is what I want to suggest. If you don't read anything else, read The Varieties of Religious Experience by William James." I said, "I've just read this within the past couple of years, and that is one of the great treasures of the human race. And I think you're really ready for that." So when you mentioned Charlie Mingus, that was one of the milestones in our relationship. [laughter] There's another funny joke.

Isoardi: Did he read William James?

Kelso: Oh, I don't know whether he did or not. But, by then, he was heavily involved into composition, and he had learned how to play marvelous piano, harmonically speaking. I remember, after the service, he had taken me over to his house. He was living somewhere in the forties, it seems to me. But, in any event, he was living in a little house and had a piano there, and he wanted me to hear some of his material. Man, I got scared. This guy was playing all of this marvelous Duke Ellington harmony, you know, rubato style, and singing all of these way-out lyrics, something about a woman, you know, the power of a woman and all of this. This guy was so involved poetically and had such incredible images going- "Hey, Mingus, have you lost your mind?" This guy had just- While everybody else was fighting the war, this guy was just developing himself artistically and compositionally and in every way.But part of the joke- I mentioned the fact that I always felt that I had all of the answers. Before the war, Chico [Hamilton] and I were the very closest of friends. I was best man at his wedding and all of that. And before either one of us had been inducted into the service, Chico confided in me once-because Uncle Sam was breathing down all of our necks-and he said, "Man, I don't know when I'm going to get my greetings from Uncle Sam. But you know what? I don't feel too good about- Just between me and you, I'm scared of this shit," or something to that effect. He was confiding in me that he was not at all enthused about being put in a situation where his life was going to be threatened or in jeopardy. Well, I guess I kind of felt the same way, too, but he was the first one to admit that he was afraid. So my immediate response was, "Man, I got a book for you. It's called The Conquest of Fear by-" I've forgotten the author's name. [Basil King] Now, this is sort of like a tail-end joke about the recommendation to Mingus. No matter who, what buddy, or anybody, [if they] had a problem, I had a book. [laughter]Yeah, so here I am, you know. I'm still reading. You come over, and we start talking. Before we start talking, I tell you about, "Hey, Steve, I have just read the most marvelous book, the title of which is Survey of the Social Sciences." [laughter] And you asked me, "By whom?" I said, "[Gary D.] Brown."

Isoardi: Jackie, every time I come over, you've got a different stack of books on the dining room table! [laughter]

Kelso: Oh, yeah. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, life is a great adventure. If I wanted to leave one statement or one thought on this tape for anybody, it's do whatever we can to maintain free library cards in uncensored libraries. That's the hope for the human race, because- And thank god for Melville Dewey for organizing it in such a way that, once you see how the stuff is organized, there's no excuse for anybody not knowing anything. You can go in there and ask any librarian. You can go up to her and say, "I can't read. Show me a book, the beginning book, that will teach me how to read all of the rest of the books." You can do that on your own. You know, my dad [John Kelson], I don't know how or where he learned to read, but before he was married, he had read all of the Shakespearean things and had just read everything, self-educated man.

Isoardi: Marvelous.

Kelso: He's one of the great people in my life, a strong role model. I guess I've seen so many- My father and mother [Lillian Kelson] were so much involved with the awareness of what human beings can develop into, even though neither one of them had any opportunity to develop in a formal fashion, that I was very, very much aware, coming up as a kid with parents like that, of all of these strong role models. I think we've talked about all of the people in Los Angeles who were strong role models, who were doing things for themselves and for the community. That was very much in the forefront of my awareness. You know, going to the Second Baptist Church on Twenty-third [Street] and Griffith [Avenue] one day, seeing W. E. B. Du Bois and Walter White on the same program.

Isoardi: Really? You heard them talk?

Kelso: Yeah. This is one of my favorite stories, so I feel like I've told it.

Isoardi: Oh, you haven't. No.

Kelso: I haven't mentioned W. E. B. Du Bois?

Isoardi: No.

Kelso: Yeah, my sister [Phyllis Kelson Holloway] was there and my mother and father. My sister and I had a joke. We were too young, really, to appreciate the significance of this thing. Before the program started, there was an orchestra or a piano or something there. Some music started. It wasn't "The Star Spangled Banner"; it was "The Negro National Anthem." As soon as the first couple of notes played, W. E. B. Du Bois jumped up out of his chair-because they were already on the podium-and stood up at attention like a patriot, like a four-star general would do if he heard "The Star Spangled Banner."

Isoardi: Which song was it they were playing?

Kelso: "The Negro National Anthem." [sings] "Lift every voice and sing, till earth and heaven ring." Okay, so my sister and I both were aware of this man's behavior, and we just made up a little song: "Mr. Du Bois, what makes you jump up? Mr. Du Bass, what makes you jump up so fast?" That's an inside joke that nobody knows except me and my deceased sister. "Mr. Du Bass, what makes you jump up so fas?" That was his automatic response to "The Negro National Anthem."You know, your parents take you to events like that, and you see Walter White, the great Walter White, a black man who looks exactly like a white man. At that time, I think he was the head of the NAACP [National Association for the Advancement of Colored People]. But I have all of that stuff back in my childhood and my father's admiration for men of that ilk. My sister and I were not preached at that "These are the great men of the race." No. We just knew that this was what seemed to interest my parents, more than anything else. You know, one of his friends was Frederick Roberts, one of the assemblymen, a guy who set up his own newspaper, Black Dispatch. But that's all part of material that could be found in books in the library with titles like Negro Who's Who in California, which I'm holding in my hand. I'd like to read the whole thing on the tape.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: But that's pointless, because that material is available for anyone. That material, plus an infinite number of books, similar books.And I was delighted- I may as well put this on tape. I told you, since we've seen each other last, I've revisited, after many, many, many years, the [Los Angeles] Public Library [Vernon Branch] located on Central Avenue at Vernon [Avenue]. You know, it's been totally remodeled. I talked to a very lovely librarian named Mrs. [Hortense] Woods, who was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. I had fun sitting in her office with her talking about the fact that she grew up there. I remember Little Rock, Arkansas, very well, having played many, many one-nighters there. She remembered the auditorium. We had marvelous times talking. But, in any event, that library has one of the greatest collections of black sociology books. The whole library has been rebuilt. It's still in the same place. It's not physically the same building. It's a modern- I don't know when the new building was built, but it's still in the same place.Oh, incidentally, inside this new Vernon library is an oil-I think it's an oil-painting of one of the very important people on Central Avenue, Leon [H.] Washington [Jr.], the founder and publisher of the Los Angeles Sentinel. The most important thing that I remember about him was the fact that he was the publisher, and he had a very, very important campaign movement involved on Central Avenue. It was defined by the phrase "Don't spend where you can't work." That is something that ran for many, many, many years. I guess it's self-explanatory what he was trying to do. There was a lot of money being spent on Central Avenue in these stores that were not black owned and very, very few blacks worked as employees in the stores. So the campaign worked, and very gradually some of the money that was spent in the stores found its way into the pockets of black employees.Now, I took this ball, and I've run quite far with it. [laughter] Where were you when you asked me your last question? [laughter]

Isoardi: Okay. Well, I think it began with Charlie Mingus. [laughter]

Kelso: Yeah, and the way I had books to recommend to all of my buddies. Yeah.

Isoardi: That's an interesting portrait of Mingus. He changes very dramatically. He grows tremendously during the war years.

Kelso: Oh, yes.

Isoardi: And by the time you see him again, then, when you come back, he is composing and-

Kelso: I couldn't believe what this guy was doing. Oh, yeah. He did tell me- I remember him telling me in Pershing Square about an experience he had during the time we hadn't seen each other. He said he'd been working on the bass and just practicing and wild, just growing, becoming- He said, "One night, I had an experience. I was playing better than I've ever played, and I kind of went off somewhere else, and I felt like I had become the bass. The bass and I were one." And that, to me, has got to represent that, fine, this is what happens to a real artist. I mean, you just become- Now, that's the ideal situation. That's what the Zen Buddhists are talking about. You become one with that which is. And if you become at one with your craft or your art, well, fine, so it is wonderful.

Isoardi: Do you have any other memories of him on the avenue after that?

Kelso: No, I don't. Just the association with the band, with Buddy Collette and Lucky Thompson. About that time, I was really concerned with getting some kind of steady work, and I very soon hooked up with Lionel Hampton, so that took me out of town. And after that, I was involved with Roy Milton. So I really didn't have too many experiences on Central Avenue, except working with Jake Porter at the Downbeat.I played on Central Avenue quite a bit right after I got out of the service. But, naturally, going out on the road, that took me out of circulation. One of the experiences I had- If I've mentioned it, we can delete it. But Benny Goodman came into my life, I guess, as a result of my knowing Jake Porter, who knew Fletcher Henderson. We made a record date with Benny Goodman's big band. Benny came down to the Downbeat one night to hear Jake Porter's band and sat in the Downbeat with his hat on. Esvan Mosby, the mayor of Central Avenue, who was also the host there at the Downbeat, asked Benny to take his hat off. Benny said, "No, man. There's a draft in here. My head would get cold." That's something that Jake and I laugh about over the years. Yeah, Benny just sat there with his hat on. "No, I won't take my hat off." [laughter]Benny-marvelous, marvelous guy. He invited us up to his house one afternoon, and we sat up there and talked. There were, I don't know, four or five of us. We didn't do much playing, but Benny did ask me a couple of questions, technically, about playing the clarinet. It was about embouchure.

Isoardi: Really?

Kelso: It's the natural thing, I guess, that many relaxed clarinet players will talk about, because I guess he felt so completely relaxed, because he was in his own home. And his guests there were me, Fletcher Henderson, Jake Porter, and there might have been one other musician there. But Benny asked me something about tonguing. You know, when you put the clarinet in your mouth- Apparently, Benny felt like he wasn't happy with his tonguing technique.

Isoardi: Really?

Kelso: And we compared thoughts and ideas on tonguing. And he also asked me about- These are not his words, but this is what he was getting at. It had to do with the clichés. He was not so much concerned with clichés, but the heart of the bebop style. He was concerned with the little mordents. [sings bebop-style phrase] What he was trying to do, he was trying to get my idea of what the principle is behind that. In other words, in a couple of words, could I make it easy for him to understand what these little filigree-like things were. But, to me, it was just self-evident. They were just like gruppetti or grace notes. It was as easy for his ear to detect what it was as it was mine. So I didn't know what to tell him. [laughter] You know, you hear it, you pick up your horn, and you try to imitate what you hear. And if you think you like it, try to do it with your ear. Maybe he was asking me to intellectually or linguistically spell it out for him. He didn't talk that way. But it was like, "Hey, this bebop thing." [sings phrase] I knew what he was asking. He was asking me, "What is it all about?" Of course, I'm repeating myself, but it seems to me that the thing is, what it's all about is listen to it and you can hear what it's all about. He wasn't asking me anything that was very difficult. It might have been his loving way of being charming in his own- "Hey, fellow clarinet player, tell me about this" or "tell me about that." So he didn't learn anything from me. [laughter]The question was, did I play on Central Avenue.

Isoardi: Yeah, some of the other-

Kelso: Yeah, the Club Alabam. Yeah, many times. That's the first time I remember seeing Sir Charles Thompson. He was the piano player with Illinois Jacquet. Charles looked then just about the way he does now, still very thin, but, in those days, he had a process. His hair was gassed, you know. He spends a lot of time in Europe now, but whenever we see each other, it seems like he realizes that we've known each other that long, and it's almost like he has a special feeling of appreciation. "Now, here's somebody I knew when." Oh, in fact, he's played with Jake Porter on a couple of gigs we've played during the past, I don't know, five, six years.Central Avenue, yeah, I played across the street at the Last Word [Cafe] with Roy Milton. So that would have been in the very, very late forties or the early fifties.

Isoardi: Did you ever encounter Art Tatum down there?

Kelso: When you say Art Tatum- The first time I remember Art Tatum, it was after [the attack on] Pearl Harbor but before I'd gone into the service, because, at Pershing Square, they were having war bond drives. You've heard about-

Isoardi: Sure.

Kelso: I guess we've all heard about those. At that time, I was working at the Bal Tabrin with Celle Burke, and Celle Burke's band was going to be one of the groups that played in Pershing Square. Art Tatum played on that show, on that bond drive program, in the afternoon. [It was] the first time I saw him, and it seems to me I saw Art at some afterhours spot. I don't know whether it was Lovejoy's or at the Ritz. I have no special or outstanding stories I could tell about Art Tatum, but Bill [William] Douglass and Red Callender worked with Art for many, many years, made bunches of records.

Isoardi: Yeah. Let me mention some of the younger guys who were coming up then. Again, since you were out of town so much then, you may not have seen them. But, say, Eric Dolphy or Frank Morgan. Did you ever encounter them down there?

Kelso: Eric Dolphy. I remember going into- There's a nightclub on- No, this is Western Avenue. This is long after the war, because Eric Dolphy is, in a sense, like a generation under me. My first sight of Eric Dolphy was at the- I think it was still called the Club Oasis on Western Avenue. Has that come up?

Isoardi: The Club Oasis has come up. It's very vague in my mind.

Kelso: Yeah, okay. I walked in there once, and here was this young kid playing all kinds of saxophone. And there was a white trumpet player playing with him. I was impressed. He was too far outside for me at that time, but he kept doing what he- I appreciated what he had developed in his fingers. It was what he was doing. I guess it was like grandfather listening to grandson, you know, because my ear hadn't been stretched far enough to appreciate what he was doing. Of course, you know, when I grew enough so that I could appreciate what he had been doing all of the time, I suddenly discovered what a great player he was. He was a great player all the time, and I'm the one who's grown.But, in any event, Eric and I had no musical experiences together. I remember Eric Dolphy sitting in Capitol Records on the side, at one of the studios. I was doing a record date once, and Eric Dolphy was there as a guest, or just as onlooker, dressed in a suit, shirt, and tie.There's something about certain Los Angeles musicians-there may be more than I realize-they really took pride in dressing like they were businessmen. Let's see, do I find that strange because that's something that we felt was unique to New York musicians? And I remember I felt that long after the war when a New York musician came on a record date out here and was dressed in a suit and shirt and tie. I guess, after the war, after a time, things got very, very loose dress-wise as a result of the influence of-what do we say?-the beatniks, the hippies, and then just the casual thing.But, as I recall, Wardell [Gray] was always well dressed. He was never loose or too casual in the way he looked. And my memory is that Eric Dolphy was the same way.

Isoardi: Let me throw one other name at you, and this may go into another subject area, and that's Art Pepper. He was unusual, I suppose, in the sense that here was this sort of white Italian kid, who, although I think he spent part of his childhood in Watts, grew up mostly, I guess, in the Long Beach-San Pedro area and, since he was an early teenager, made Central Avenue his hangout. That's where he went for music, and it probably was more important than anything else in shaping his sound. If you have any stories about Art Pepper, maybe you can talk about him a bit. That might lead into the larger question of what was the role of white musicians on Central. Were there any white musicians who would come down and jam? Or was there any exchange of ideas?

Kelso: When you mentioned Art Pepper, my experience with Art Pepper on Central Avenue is zero. I know nothing about that.There were some white musicians who were part of the Central Avenue scene as much as any black musician was, and they simply were not thought of as white musicians. One was a guitar player named Doyle Saleythial, I think his name was. Doyle Saleythial. Who was he? He played with Chico [Hamilton], Joe Comfort, and Lorenzo Flennoy at a place out on Western near Slauson [Avenue]. I know because I used to go out there and jam with them. Doyle Saleythial played as good a jazz guitar as anybody could want, and if he didn't, he wouldn't have been playing with the guys that he was playing with. And Doyle was just the regular guitar player with that group, those musicians who were friends of mine. And I went out and jammed with them whenever I could.There was a white trumpet player who worked at a beer joint, dance-hall-type place downtown, maybe on Hill Street or something. A place where there's no admission, you can just walk in. It was a large place, kind of dark, and it wasn't one of those narrow places like the hole-in-the-wall kinds of things, like a shotgun. It was almost large enough so that you could call it square. But, in any event, it was on Hill Street, which meant it was out of the so-called lesser district, because the real beer joints were on Main Street and down the side of Fifth Street. But this place was not in that bag. There was a white trumpet player- I'll never remember his name, but there was a period when that guy was working there. It was the same group, and I think there were some black musicians in the band. But, in any event, the main attraction there was this trumpet player, because he didn't play high, he didn't play fast, but he was so tasty and lyrical, it was almost like maybe the Bix Beiderbecke concept or the Chet Baker thing.

Isoardi: That's just what I was thinking of, yeah.

Kelso: Yeah. You know, no pyrotechnics, no fast displays of technique, but everything he played was so graceful and right. No straining. Played a nice, full, beautiful tone. No strain. Everything very tasty. He was a white trumpet player. And musicians in those days, on Central Avenue- I don't ever recall anybody talking about a white musician as "a white musician." It was just, "Hey, he plays, man!" [laughter]Yeah. I'm glad that I was able to immediately come up with that, because that was a classic example. You said white musician in that element. Doyle. There must be others who I could think of. But that was the first one that came up, and then this trumpet player. I could sit here and come up with some others, but two is enough for now. You want to move on? [laughter]

Isoardi: Sure, sure. Actually, I think, in terms of style, I guess we've talked about- Well, just to put maybe a period to the bebop, I suppose then- Was bebop sort of taking over when you came back around '45, '46? Was bebop the thing on the avenue?

Kelso: Oh, yeah.

Isoardi: I mean, that's what everybody was playing?

Kelso: Yeah. As far as we were concerned, bebop was mainstream. However, it had not displaced- Maybe it was called rhythm and blues then. Because what Earl Bostic was doing about that time was really sort of mainstream, and bebop was very, very popular and strong.

Isoardi: So maybe even, I guess, that [Lionel] Hampton sound with "Flying Home" and all that. Was that considered sort of-?

Kelso: Well, that would be considered- To me, I would still consider that just big band swing.

Isoardi: Just big band swing.

Kelso: Yeah. That solo that Illinois Jacquet played, you know, turned out to be just- Well, everybody knows that's one of the classic tenor saxophone solos. All tenor saxophone players know that solo. When I was with Hamp, it seems to me I've heard him say that he hummed that solo to Illinois. Now, both of those guys are still alive, and I'm certainly not trying to start any trouble. [laughter] But those are two very, very strong artists, and I love both of them dearly. Hamp is just a wonderful guy.

Isoardi: Now that you mention the controversy over "Flying Home," I could swear I remember reading somewhere that somebody was grumbling once about Illinois Jacquet taking that from Ben Webster or something, taking one of Ben Webster's licks or something and then turning it into-

Kelso: Could well be, could well be, yeah. You know, whoever invented the alphabet gave us everything that has ever been written.

Isoardi: Yeah, right.

Kelso: And there are only twelve tones in our scale, so-

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Everybody, fortunately, is fertilized by everybody else.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: We take what we like and we leave what we don't like.

Isoardi: Well, you mentioned R and B, and perhaps that's, I guess, the final major stylistic current to talk about. R and B, I guess, comes on strong by the mid-late-forties?

Kelso: Yeah. My experience with R and B was one of the most happy love affairs and profitable to me in every way: financially, emotionally, intellectually, and everything else. And I speak from the experience that I had with Roy Milton's rhythm and blues band. I worked with him, I don't know, eight or nine years, and it was just one of the happiest periods of my life, because working conditions were so great. He bought his bus. We talked about that. We don't even have to- Oh, did we ever find out how to spell Loudonville?

Isoardi: Loudonville, Ohio?

Kelso: Yeah, Loudonville, Ohio.

Isoardi: I have a question mark next to it on my list. [laughter] I haven't been able to-

Kelso: Okay. Yeah, I looked that up. I looked that up in a United State atlas, I guess, and it seems to me the population there is something like 2,575. And it might be that the [Flexible] bus company there is the only industry in that- [laughter]

Isoardi: Yeah, that may be.

Kelso: But, in any event, back to rhythm and blues.

Isoardi: Do you remember when it comes in on the avenue? I mean, are you aware of rhythm and blues as a separate current when you come back?

Kelso: Well, it seems to me I've read somewhere that there was a type of music called "race music" at one time. We're concerned with a product. It's a record, and the way you promote it, help promote it, some people seem to think you have to package it in the right way. I think somebody got the bright idea that "race music" is a less attractive product than "rhythm and blues." So I think the change in that label was simply an arbitrary one by somebody who was probably smarter than somebody else. So, as far as I'm concerned, there's no difference between "race music" and R and B. It's rhythm and blues. It's simply the same ongoing stream of popular, middle-of-the-road black music that simply had its name changed by somebody who felt that they could market it more effectively by calling it rhythm and blues. So rhythm and blues, in a sense, is just a label being applied to some music that's always been with us. When I joined Roy Milton, I think it was called rhythm and blues at that time. One of the biggest artists at that time was Louis Jordan.However, we want to continue to talk about Central Avenue. When I joined Roy Milton- I think I played my first job with Roy Milton at the Club Alabam. And Roy Milton even then- All the time I was with him and when I joined him, he was one of the neatest, best-dressed people, and his band was just immaculately dressed. I remember the first sets of uniforms. That's plural-sets of uniforms. The shoes impressed me more than anything else, because they were brown and white wing tips. That meant when you walked on stage, you will have had your shoes either shined and prepared properly, or you've done it yourself, which means you've got to have white polish. I've got a bunch of pictures, and I can't believe how good that band looked. Well, when I joined the band, that's what they were doing. They were wearing those brown and white wing-tipped shoes, gray pants, maroon jacket, and we had three or four changes of uniform. He had that when I joined the band, and he continued to keep the band extremely well uniformed, because he was a national name at that time. So I just moved right into something that was extremely popular. I made one national tour with him in automobiles. That was rough, tough. Of course, the automobiles were big seven-, nine-, ten-passenger Chryslers and that sort of thing, as comfortable as you could get.Let's stay as closely as we can to Central Avenue. Yeah, I worked with Roy Milton on Central Avenue at the Club Alabam. Further south on Central Avenue there was-I don't remember what corner now-a store or a club where broadcasts were made. I remember broadcasting there with Roy Milton, and the announcer was War Perkins. Has that name come up?

Isoardi: War? W-a-r?

Kelso: W-a-r Perkins, P-e-r-k-i-n-s.

Isoardi: No, not at all.

Kelso: Yeah. He was involved in radio. You see, because this was after the war, and many, many things had developed in Los Angeles during the war that I didn't know anything about. So when I got involved with Roy Milton, I discovered many things about Los Angeles that I didn't know existed. But, in any event, back to Central Avenue. War Perkins: promoter, radio announcer, record producer. This activity is taking place on Central Avenue. I don't remember anything about label names, because, as far back as I can remember, Roy Milton was involved with Specialty Records. Art Rupe was the president.

Isoardi: Aha.

Kelso: And I understand his daughter is now running the company. Art's still alive, but I don't think he bothers about the record company. He probably taught his daughter how to handle it. Rhythm and blues.

Isoardi: So you don't have a memory of, say, the music that comes in then that Roy Milton represents or "Big Jay" [Cecil McNeely] or people like that as being in any way a break.

Kelso: Oh, no.

Isoardi: It's really continuing-

Kelso: Yeah. Ongoing flow.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: Yeah. Roy Milton was doing it first with just two horns. Hosea Sapp, we've talked about him, trumpet player, and Buddy Floyd played tenor saxophone, Texas tenor saxophone player. Buddy Floyd had a unique Texas style. Not the Texas style that we associate with Arnett Cobb or Herschel Evans or any of those other people, but a more earthy type- When I say earthy, no attempt at hard, technical swinging. Just sheer emotion. In fact, almost like-we were talking about this earlier-Kid Ory taking one or two notes and getting a whole lot of mileage out of one or two notes. Well, that's what Buddy Floyd would do with these tenor saxophone solos.Mainly, these were the solos that he had played on Roy Milton records that had been big hits. So Roy, being smart, and Buddy, being smart, both of them built their style around their hit records. Buddy Floyd happened to play a couple of solos that were similar that were big hits, so most all of the solos that Buddy Floyd played- most, not all-were patterned after those solos that were- It was like a bolt of cloth from which he cut those solos. Every other solo- Not every other solo. But when it came time to reproduce that same flavor, it was just understood, Buddy played that kind of solo. Quite similar.And it was quite strange, interesting, how similar those solos were, how similar the tunes were. The riffs that were set were quite similar. "RM Blues" was quite similar to "True Blues." Those were two of Roy Milton's big hits. One was called the "RM Blues" and one was called "True Blues." Now, maybe this is pointless analysis, but I can't help sharing it with you because it's unique. In a sense, it shows smartness, because both of these tunes sounded almost alike, but they were in different keys. And the tenor solos were very, very similar, but they were two different tunes. One was in concert G, the other was in concert F, and they were both constructed pretty much the same way. There was an ongoing repetitive riff. [sings riff] And the other one was in the other key. [sings other riff] Tenor solos, both quite similar.When we played these tunes anywhere in the United States, especially down South, when they knew Roy Milton was coming, they knew exactly what they were going to hear. They wanted to hear those same tenor saxophone solos, and they did. No matter how similar those solos were, people would fall out, because they were hearing exactly what they wanted to hear: rhythm and blues with Roy Milton.When he bought the bus, from then on, when we used the bus, it was sheer heaven. You know, traveling in great comfort all over the country.

Isoardi: When I talked last year with Big Jay, he was talking about his style of changing. Because in '45, '46, he and his group with Sonny Criss and Hampton Hawes were supposedly considered one of the finest bebop bands around.

Kelso: Well, I'm sure it must have been, because, I don't know- If Sonny Criss and Hampton Hawes- These were dedicated artists. I don't imagine they would stoop to playing anything that they didn't love to play. I just think of them as being that sort of person. And Big Jay, if he was in the group, I'm sure he was right along in that same bag.

13. Tape Number: VII, Side OneApril 17, 1990

Kelso: You were talking about "Big Jay" [Cecil] McNeely.

Isoardi: Big Jay McNeely, yeah. He told me, in talking about stylistic changes he'd made, he'd gone from being this hot bebop saxophonist to being a hot R and B [rhythm and blues] player.

Kelso: Right.

Isoardi: He said that the appeal for him was he felt that playing R and B he could express much more emotion and much more soul. He had a feeling after a while that when he was playing bebop, more and more-along with some of the studies he was doing on the side-that it was too many notes and not enough soul.

Kelso: Okay.

Isoardi: So the satisfaction that he got out of playing R and B was that he felt much more expressive himself, personally. He could express himself more and put more soul into his playing.When you were playing with Roy Milton and playing R and B, maybe you could talk about what you got sort of out of playing R and B, if you had an experience similar to that or-

Kelso: Very much so, yeah. To me, the idea is I am sharing, hopefully, something with the audience. Now, if I have a message whereby I'm trying to educate the audience to something that maybe they're not ready for, or if I think I've got something that's good for them, like good medicine that's going to improve them, and I'm going to shove it down their throats whether they like it or not- I don't think that's my job when I'm on the stage. What I have valuable to share with somebody linguistically, I'll get them in a corner and talk about whatever it is I think they need to know to be happy. But when I'm on a stage, I know what that leader's main message is. Well, fine. If I'm involved with Roy Milton and he's talking English, it would be kind of foolish of me to get up and start talking Russian to these people. Now, there are many messages that- Yeah, there's no need of drawing this out too far. Rhythm and blues is a particular language; it's an idiom. Good example: When I played with Lionel Hampton, I played one way; when I played with Roy Milton, a totally different way. Both of them equally authentic, both of them equally real.If I can offer this, humanity is bigger than style. I refuse to limit myself to only one mode of expression when I know that my humanity is as big as those twelve tones. There's no limitation to what you can do with those twelve tones. One of the great lessons that I learned less than a year ago, I heard- I think there's a blues singer named something Rubberlegs. A blues singer made a record in New York way back in the forties. You know who the musicians were on the record? Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie. I heard this on-I don't know-I think it was [radio station] KLON. When I heard the announcement of what it was going to be and who was on the record, my attitude was, "I hope I don't have an automobile accident or a heart attack before I hear this," because, to me, that was going to be the definitive answer for all time, as far as I was concerned, about something. And the question was this: Here is an authentic rural or urban style authentic black blues singer. Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie are going to play the solos. Now, the question in my mind is, are Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie going to adapt their style to the singer, or are they just going to play pure Diz and pure Bird? That's exactly what they did. One of the most incongruous works of art I have ever heard in my life-incongruous if we measure it by a certain type of yardstick.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: But that was one of the most perfect records that demonstrated to me how these two so-called contrary styles do fit. I didn't hear Dizzy play one compromising note. I didn't hear Charlie Parker play anything that suggested that they were consciously playing on a blues singer's record date. Pure bebop solos! [laughter]

Isoardi: Amazing. I didn't know such a record existed.

Kelso: Yeah. I'd never heard of this.

Isoardi: Marvelous.

Kelso: It was just about a year ago, I guess, that I heard this. It was during the time that I was playing the Sophisticated Ladies show again. You know we did it at the Shubert Theater in '82, and just last year they revived it down in Long Beach at one of the big theaters down there. That was a three-week period down there. I think it was driving down to Long Beach that I heard that. Rubberlegs and Bird. [laughter] To me, that was one of the most important- To me, it was a very strong experience, especially because I've prided myself on being a commercial, successful, working musician. You know, I'll play any kind of music any kind of way you want it, just so I can keep a job. And, naturally, especially, I would be interested in how Bird and Diz handled that, and I found out. That was marvelous.

Isoardi: Well, I have to ask you, although it may get away a little bit from Central [Avenue], what was it like playing in the Lionel Hampton band?

Kelso: Fine. It's one of the greatest educations any musician can have, because Lionel Hampton is committed to moving an audience. He will do anything to excite the audience. I don't know whether you've ever seen him perform, but-

Isoardi: No, not live.

Kelso: One of the things that he used to do-well, he was doing when I was working with him in '46, '47-you know, he carried a drummer, a regular drummer, in the band, and Lionel Hampton would play on a tom-tom down front and play the vibes down front. But this tom-tom act, this will illustrate the point. It's like a standard floor tom-tom for a drummer, and it sits on three legs. And he'll play down there, and he'll play a couple of things on the drum, and then his regular drummer will- It will be like drummers trading twos or trading fours. And Lionel does whatever he can to excite the audience and create the tension between the two drummers, the competition and all. It's almost as if Lionel will build it up musically as high as he can build it with his creativity. It was rhythmic patterns. And he's done everything he can do note-wise, so what he does, he jumps up on top of this drum, this tom-tom, which is kind of shaky on these little legs. He knows that that is creating tension.

Isoardi: Tension. [laughter]

Kelso: The audience- "That man's going to fall down and hurt himself!" And he loves to create tension. He will do anything to create tension. I saw him jump once from the stage. Lionel Hampton-not the man in his band-Lionel Hampton himself jumped off the stage down into the pit on top of a baby grand piano with no top on it and jumped up and down-

Isoardi: Into it?

Kelso: -on the strings. That man is merciless when it comes to creating excitement in the audience. You know, the Strand Theatre on Forty-seventh [Street] and Broadway [in New York City], that was the big theater, the first place I played with him on Broadway. The first job I played with him in New York, though, was the Aquarium Restaurant, which was right down in Times Square. But the theater we played was the Strand Theatre, and, as you know, some of those stages there in Times Square, on Broadway, big theaters, there's a movie screen, and there is a stage. But the stage is a platform that comes up from out of a pit. It's like the pit that simply comes up. They have hydraulic presses or whatever, whatever's underneath, and the stage- You know, the movie's off, and the light turns off, and you hear the music from the band kind of muffled. And here it comes up from out of the pit.Now, here is the point I'm going to make: the stage comes up on time, and the stage show is timed to last forty-five minutes, an hour, whatever it is. You know, the artists, all of them perform, and things are timed in such a way that- Because the theater has already scheduled the movie to start. The movie's supposed to be shown four times in a day, and we know just about when it's supposed to show. Well, Lionel Hampton is known to make sure that he gives the audience more than the audience ever thought that they were going to get. Well, it's possible to play after the curtain comes down. But it's also possible to play after the stage disappears. Well, we're at the Strand Theatre. They want the show to be over at a certain time, and it's supposed to be time. Well, Lionel Hampton wasn't ready for that show to end, and he just refused to stop playing. And many, many, many times they would take the band down in the pit while-

Isoardi: Oh, man, while it was going full tilt?

Kelso: -while he's going full tilt. [laughter] And Hamp would get mad, but that's the way he- [laughter]

Isoardi: What an image!

Kelso: He will just do anything. Oh, there are just countless stories. Well, one of them is- [laughter] I wasn't in the band, but it's like a big family. There's been more guys that have played in Lionel Hampton's orchestra than probably any other orchestra. Whenever we see each other, it's like family time, you know, and we talk about the funny things. One of the thousands of stories that is part of the folklore is where Hamp, in trying to raise the frenzy of the audience even higher, he told one of the trumpet players once, he says, "I'll give you ten bucks if you'll jump in the swimming pool while you're playing the trumpet." [laughter]

Isoardi: You're kidding! [laughter]

Kelso: In other words, you know, he's not asking people to do things he won't do. Because when he was much younger, he would do the craziest things, you know, run the risk of hurting himself, because he was determined- Well, if you read any part of his recent autobiography, you know, it's just marvelous. Lionel Hampton is just one of the world's great all-time showmen. There's no doubt about it. After you've been associated with him for any length of time, you have really learned a priceless lesson in how to really be a success in the world. Give totally of yourself. Find gifts to give that you didn't even know you had. In other words, you're creating this love affair with your audience.You know, one of the more recent jobs I've played with Lionel Hampton was the Aurex Jazz Festival in Japan a couple of years ago. They had some of the biggest names in jazz over there. It lasted, I don't know, three or four days. Part of it was in Yokahama, Osaka, and Tokyo. But, in any event, the point is that Lionel Hampton was last on the program, and everybody had done everything they could do. Some of the biggest names in jazz, Freddie Hubbard and- There's no need to name them. Just take my word for it, the biggest names. Lionel Hampton got on stage and did his thing, and part of his thing was Woody Herman came out and played a clarinet solo, not with his band, but just with Lionel Hampton's band. You know, that was nice, too. Lionel Hampton played "Flying Home." Now this, to me, shows again a demonstration of Lionel Hampton's genius. As a result of all of this experience, his whole career of playing all over the world exciting people, he has learned this lesson: that the most exciting tune any band can play, including Lionel Hampton's band, is a tune named "In the Mood."

Isoardi: The Glenn Miller tune?

Kelso: Glenn Miller's "In the Mood." Lionel Hampton has found this out. That is the ultimate tune that Lionel Hampton plays. And I've found it to be true, too.

Isoardi: It's an infectious tune. I mean, I can't-

Kelso: All you've got to do is play the first two bars of that introduction anywhere in the world.

Isoardi: And they know.

Kelso: Everybody goes crazy. That was Lionel Hampton's ace in the hole at the Aurex Jazz Festival. Everybody had done everything they could do. Lionel Hampton had done all of his tricks, everything he could think of, but he had this ace in the hole up his sleeve, his final ace in the hole. Because we were playing to thirty thousand people out here in this stadium.

Isoardi: Jeez!

Kelso: You know, it was an afternoon concert, but by now the sun had gone down and the lights were on. You could see all of these Japanese people. Lionel Hampton pulled his ace in the hole, played [sings introduction of "In the Mood"], and thirty thousand people screamed so loud you couldn't hear the band. Thirty thousand Japanese people went ape! [laughter] What we're talking about is the genius of Lionel Hampton. And that man still practices religiously. Whenever he gets a chance, he is practicing his vibes.Part of a recent experience I had with him, we played the wine country tours, you know, up in Northern California. He's still playing just fantastic vibraphones and drum solos.I joined Lionel Hampton in '46, I guess it was, and I replaced Herbie Fields, a Jewish clarinet player.

Isoardi: Do you just play clarinet with Lionel Hampton?

Kelso: Yeah. I think I mentioned that, talked about that earlier, that when I joined the band, he already had five saxophones. He didn't need another saxophone. So I was the sixth reed player, and all I played was clarinet.Well, I followed Herbie Fields. I have seen Herbie Fields perform with Lionel Hampton at some theater, and Herbie was a great clarinet player. I remember seeing him at this theater, and he played- Lionel Hampton is very generous with solos. You don't jump up and play eight bars or four bars; you get a chance to play a chorus or two. Herbie Fields played a great clarinet solo, you know, standing there just playing everything he wanted to play. And that chorus was for Herbie Fields; that let the people know what a great clarinet player he was. The next chorus, he went crazy. He turned like he almost had rubber legs. You know, body motion, and just playing all of those emotional, stimulating things. You know, musically, the melodic line or the kind of little things that would grab people emotionally. But he had played a whole chorus for himself. And then it was like, "Now, here's one for Hamp and the people."Well, Lionel Hampton wanted me to do that same thing. But I was still so rigid and idealistic that I could not bring myself to do that at that point in my life. I was so committed to playing just good, authentic, integrity-type, good swing solos. I remember my response to him was, "Hamp, I've spent too much time getting together what I've got together. I feel like I owe it to myself. I've got to do what I want to do." So I never got to the point where I would do the body motion things. Later on in life, I was smarter. I learned how to cash in on that.But I did grant him one concession. [laughter] And here's the concession I did grant him. He had a tune called "Air Mail Special." [sings the tune] That was one of his big opening numbers before the curtain would go up. He would call that, and that's what he opened with. I remember many, many, many times when he used that as the opening number in the theater, "All right, guys, here we go. Here we go!" And he would start to count it off, and he would realize he hadn't counted it off fast enough. In other words, he would knock that tune off as fast as he thought it was humanly possible to play it, and that was the opening. You know, if that's the way you start, where do you go from there? But, in any event, that was one of his openings, "Air Mail Special," and it was in the key of C, which meant, on clarinet, it was D-natural. I was playing in my D, which is a rather easy key to play in. And that was the opening number at the Strand Theatre. Of course, we'd been playing it all the way from Los Angeles to New York. Just before we played in New York, before the Aquarium Restaurant, we played the Adams Theatre in Newark, New Jersey.I don't know whether I've told you this story, but there was a pit orchestra there, white orchestra, and there was a white clarinet player in the pit who played great clarinet. And he played every show. As an overture, before Lionel Hampton, this orchestra played a tune, and the clarinet player there played a jazz solo. I guess we could call it a jazz solo. But every time he played this solo, he played a note I had never heard played on the clarinet before.

Isoardi: Every time he did it?

Kelso: Yeah. I could always play up to high C and double high C on the clarinet, but this guy played a D-natural. Never heard it.

Isoardi: Oh, above the high-?

Kelso: Yeah, above the high C, above the double high C. So the first time I heard that at the Adams Theatre in Newark, New Jersey, I immediately found this guy. "Hey, man, how do you play that note? What's that fingering?" And right away he showed me. So I immediately incorporated that note in my solo on "Air Mail Special." You know, that's the highest note I'd ever heard anybody play on clarinet. And, you know, Lionel Hampton, you'd go for things that nobody has ever done before.So during my solo on "Air Mail Special," I'm playing in D, I've suddenly found out how to finger this high D. I said, "Wow, I've got something that's really going to work here." So right away, I started working that note into the solo at this tempo [sings melody while snapping fingers at breakneck tempo].

Isoardi: Oh, jeez!

Kelso: Yeah. Well, you're young and you're right in the middle of it, fine. We're like warriors. You know, young guys in their twenties. Remember what it was like to be twenty? [laughter]

Isoardi: Thanks, Jackie.

Kelso: "Let me at this world. I'll cut it like it's never been cut before."

Isoardi: Yeah, right.

Kelso: But, in any event, Lionel began to notice that I was playing this new note in my solo, and, you know, he will encourage you to do things that- He will force you to do things you've never done before, because he will let you play as long as you can play, and after you think you've played everything you know, he'll do this to you, [imitating Hampton] "Play one more, Gates?" It's like, "Well, man, I've played everything I know, and I've played it upside down and backwards, and you want me to do something else? I can't do anything else." Well-

Isoardi: What did he do? Ask you to go higher than the D? [laughter]

Kelso: No. No, I played everything I knew top to bottom. I played my high D and all. But he taught me this. In connection with "Air Mail Special," the band is going like this [snaps fingers at breakneck tempo]. He said, "Hold that high note, Gates." In other words, strike it and hold it, you know, because the excitement is in the rhythm section of the band. They're shouting back there. He says, "Hold that high note." Well, that tune is so fast at that time-and I played fairly good clarinet, and I had good breath control-I suddenly realized I could hold that note for thirty-two bars. [laughter] And that turned out to be-

Isoardi: They must have been screaming in the audience!

Kelso: The reciprocity between me and Hamp, he's forcing me to do things I've never done before, and I thought, "Well, I've got one for him now. You want me to hold that high note?" I held it a whole chorus. And they loved it.

Isoardi: Oh, they must have gone nuts.

Kelso: Hamp loved it, too. Now, that was the compromise I made with Hamp. You know, I wouldn't dance. I wouldn't do any bumps and grinds or get the rubber legs. But I said, "Okay, you want me to hold that high note? Here it is. Fine." So that became standard. And he loved it so much that I had to do that every show, you know, hold that high altissimo D for thirty-two bars.

Isoardi: Oh, jeez.

Kelso: And, would you believe it, there were times when, after I'd do that, he would say, "Play one more." [laughter] Now, to me, that is my ultimate joke. After you have held an altissimo double high D for thirty-two bars in one breath, what do you do after that? [laughter] I don't know what I did, but I probably laughed a lot inside, say, "Okay, I've done everything. All I can do is come back down and play some notes there."But Lionel Hampton is- Man, that's a priceless experience to work with that man, if you make the most of it. There's so much to learn to just watch him. Everything he does is a result of a shrewd, sharp, thinking mind.

Isoardi: The fingering the guy showed you, was it with the little finger of your right hand and then the finger next to it for that high D?

Kelso: I found additional fingerings for it now that work better than-

Isoardi: But that was the one that he showed you?

Kelso: No. The high D was like that. [demonstrates on clarinet]

Isoardi: Oh, really?

Kelso: That's the one that he showed me. But the one-

Isoardi: You're holding down these three keys?

Kelso: This one. It's surprising that you can fiddle around and find-

Isoardi: Just the one, huh?

Kelso: -find little variations. The key to it is to simply have a medium close or close mouthpiece and a very hard reed.

Isoardi: I've played that high D with a- I use a two.

Kelso: Yeah, I don't think I would do that with a two.

Isoardi: It's not secure.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: Sometimes it's there and sometimes it's not.

Kelso: Yeah, well, in performance, it's got to be Rock of Gibraltar.

Isoardi: It's got to be there, yeah.

Kelso: Yeah, you want to reach for it, you want it to be there.

Isoardi: Exactly. How far above that D can you go?

Kelso: Well, I found an E-natural. I just decided I was just going to be ridiculous one day, and I found out how to make an E-flat above that, and an E. And I found things where you could play it chromatically, you know [sings rising glissando], because it's- Well, sometime, if you're interested in the fingerings, I can show you.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: But what we're talking about here, though, is Lionel Hampton.

Isoardi: Yeah, not clarinet fingering. Would you say that he influenced you quite a bit in terms of your approach as a performer?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. It was the ongoing education of how to be successful in the world, because what we're talking about here is economics.

Isoardi: But also communication, it seems like, too.

Kelso: Oh, yes. Well, of course. There's the seller and there's the buyer, and you have to communicate in a nonlinguistic way. You can't stand up there and talk to them for thirty-two bars. You have to approach them through the ears as well as the eyes. And I was reluctant to do what Hamp wanted me to do, visually. But later on I learned better, and I was a bumper and a grinder, and I knew how to lay down on the floor and play sax- Like Big Jay McNeely. You walk the bar-

Isoardi: Did you? You picked some of those up? Walking the bar and all that?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, with Roy Milton. Yeah, that's standard stuff. Sure.

Isoardi: You played clarinet, then, with Lionel Hampton, mostly. When you went with Roy Milton, what was your function with his band?

Kelso: Alto. I played just alto.

Isoardi: Just alto?

Kelso: It was during that time that I also bought a tenor. I was with Roy Milton, I guess, eight or nine years, and I just felt that I wanted to own a tenor saxophone, so I bought one, and I tried to work it into the performance. But Roy's style was so clear-cut and so well established, I felt it would just be improper of me to really force that on him. I played tenor a couple of times on the stage in performances with him. And he never said anything about it, but I just sensed that that was not proper, because he had a clear-cut tenor saxophone style in his band and-Ah, here's a point. Red Prysock played with- Do you know Red Prysock?

Isoardi: No.

Kelso: Do you know Tiny Bradshaw?

Isoardi: Oh, sure, I know that name.

Kelso: Okay. Red Prysock played tenor saxophone with Tiny Bradshaw's band. Do you remember something called-? God, it was a big hit, too. Well, there's a big hit made by- It's a one-word title. But, in any event, it was a real big hit. It was a tenor saxophone solo all the way through. [sings tune] It doesn't help me with the title. In any event, I loved that solo, so I learned to play it on tenor. Red Prysock had been in the band with Roy Milton and had left. I was playing alto all of this time. And this Red Prysock solo was such a big rhythm and blues hit all over the country that I learned how to play it. Later on, I did play that on a regular basis with Roy Milton, because sometimes the personnel with Roy would change from time to time, and I just seemed to stay there year after year after year. So I was like a very valuable utility man for Roy. I could play the Roy Milton tenor solos if I had to, but he always had a tenor saxophone player who was committed to that style."Soft." That's the name. The name of the tune that has been wracking my brain. "Soft." It's three or four choruses of a tenor saxophone solo with Tiny Bradshaw, and it's nothing but the tenor saxophone all the way through, Red Prysock. It was called "Soft." So I learned that, and I played that on a regular basis with Roy Milton. Roy's style was such that he didn't need to have me confusing things for the public. But whenever I played "Soft," they loved it. Roy knew it, so-Back to Roy Milton. That was the question I was in the process of answering. Yeah, I played alto only with Roy Milton, except on these rare occasions.

Isoardi: During this time or with Roy Milton, did you do much writing or arranging or anything like that?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. I've mentioned this so many times to so many different people, I thought maybe I'd mentioned that. When I joined Roy Milton, he had maybe a dozen real big national hits. These were hits that had been recorded on, I guess, Specialty Records. And Roy Milton's library was in everybody's head. The band performed from memory. None of it was written down.

Isoardi: Jeez.

Kelso: Which meant- Now, here's Roy Milton. He's got a big operation going, big hit orchestra, rhythm and blues outfit, traveling all over the country making big, good money.

Isoardi: With no music. [laughter]

Kelso: No music. It's all memorized.

Isoardi: No sheet music.

Kelso: Now, get this. If Roy fired somebody or somebody quit or got sick, the tour had to end. Everything was canceled. The whole band would have to come back to Los Angeles, and they would rehearse in Roy's rehearsal room for a month or a month and a half until the replacement- I'm talking about a horn player now-until the horn player, whoever was hired, was able to sit there and find his notes.

Isoardi: It's not very practical.

Kelso: Okay. So I joined Roy when he was in that situation. Now, he had been working under this kind of handicap for I don't know how many years. It was a matter of years, because he was a big attraction when I joined him, but he was still suffering under those conditions. As soon as I saw that, I said, "Roy, this is a drag. We have to stop, come home, and sit here day after day-" Literally, this is what we did. We went out to his house day after day until the new trumpet player or the new tenor player found his notes by ear. I said, "Roy, listen. I don't like to have to waste my time this way, and you shouldn't have to do this, either. Why don't you let me write down the charts, write down the arrangements? I'll even write out the solos, the big hit solos, trumpet player's solos, tenor player's solos, so that any time you lose a man-he quits, dies, or you fire somebody on the road-you simply, whatever town you're in, you hire a musician who can read, and you won't miss one gig. You won't have to cancel one gig." He kind of blinked and looked, started smiling, "You mean, you can write it out? You can write it out and we can do that? We don't have to-?" I said, "Yeah, sure." So he was so thrilled and relieved and delighted that- That's one of the reasons why I became so valuable to him, because I had written the whole book.

Isoardi: And you did. You wrote his whole book out, then.

Kelso: Yeah. Wrote it all out. And there would be many times we'd be driving down the road on the bus, and he had his little stateroom in the back, and he would call me back there. "Hey. Hey, Jackie, come back here. I've got an idea." Like a secretary, you know. A little spiral notebook with lines on it. He'd say, "I've got an idea for a new tune." Says, "It goes like this." [whistles] He'd whistle, he'd hum, he'd pat. And whatever he would whistle or hum and pat, I'd write it down. He said, "Yeah, we'll do a chorus of that, and right here let Camille [Howard] play about eight bars on the piano, and behind there, let the horns say bop bop bop bop." I'd jot that down.

Isoardi: Oh, jeez.

Kelso: And, man, by the time we get to the next gig, hell, I wrote out the arrangement and wrote out the parts, and we'll go into the hall, and he will hear- Like Duke Ellington. You know, Duke Ellington, after work at night, he would write out a new tune. And the next day, he would go and hear it played. Roy Milton was able to do the same thing. He would hum and whistle. [whistles] Whatever he would do, I would put it down, and as soon as he wanted to, he could hear his new composition. Man, he just throught I was just marvelous. All I was doing, I was being a musical stenographer.So he had such great fun with, you know, the convenience that I gave him after I joined the band, he made it so nice for me financially and otherwise, it was just almost impossible for me to quit. But by then, his whole book was completely written out, and I told him, "Roy, I've only got one bit of parting advice for you: Keep your scores separate from your arrangements so that you don't lose both of them at the same time." So he did that for years. And something happened. He went on a trip somewhere in his Cadillac, and he had the music and the scores in the trunk of his car-

Isoardi: Oh, no.

Kelso: Well, this was much later, and he was, in a sense, sort of semi-retired.

Isoardi: He lost the book.

Kelso: Yeah, he lost the book, and he lost the scores. And he called me on the phone and says, "Jack, I know what you told me, but it finally happened. I lost the- They stole my car and everything." I said, "Well, Roy-" He already had somebody who was kind of helping him transcribe things, because this was many, many, many years after-

Isoardi: So he must have had most things down on tape, at least, or whatever?

Kelso: Well, yeah. Well, you see-

Isoardi: Recordings.

Kelso: Everything was on record, all of his big stuff. But, in any event, he was calling me not to rewrite the book for him, but to just help the guy who was kind of like his musical stenographer at the time. So I met with him a couple of times, and we had some chats and fun times together.But the Roy Milton experience was extremely profitable to Roy, me, and everybody else for that very simple reason. He was suddenly relieved of all of that inconvenience. So that's an aspect of the Roy Milton arrangement episode.

14. Tape Number: VIII, Side OneMay 15, 1990

Isoardi: Okay, Jackie. We're heading down the home stretch.

Kelso: Okay. Let's go.

Isoardi: I'd like to begin today by having you pick up on a topic you raised, I think, in our last session. It dealt with Leon [H.] Washington [Jr.] and the economics of Central Avenue. The type of businesses, who owned the businesses, and Leon Washington's campaign to sort of influence those businesses. Maybe you could talk a bit about that. No one else has brought that up.

Kelso: Okay. Well, since our last visit, which is a couple of weeks, I've uncovered just an extremely valuable source-two sources-of information. To be as pointed as possible, the two sources are simply the archives of the Los Angeles Sentinel newspaper and the old Vernon [Avenue] and Central [Avenue] library [Los Angeles Public Library, Vernon Branch] that is now called the Leon Washington Library. The Sentinel newspaper is still located at Forty-third Street and Central Avenue. It used to be located at Forty-third Place and Central Avenue. So it would be very, very easy for anybody to do exactly what I did. I think this might make it very easy for us to make the interview with me a lot shorter. I'll just indicate what-

Isoardi: I think I'd oppose that. [laughter]

Kelso: Well, okay. Well, the newspaper now is in a much larger building now, and the policy there is still the same policy that was instituted by Leon. His wife, incidentally, Ruth [Bromel] Washington, is still running the newspaper. She is the publisher now, and the same procedure or the same policy prevails. You walk in off the street and ask to speak to the publisher and they will page the publisher. I went there with the idea of trying to get some specific information about this particular "Don't spend where you can't work," because, as a kid, I remembered that that was a campaign that was instituted by Leon in the Sentinel newspaper, and I wanted to get some specific information on it. So I went in, and the nice people at the desk said, "Hold on just a minute. We'll call Mrs. Washington." Well, she came out, and we talked for forty-five minutes. She went into her office and came back out with two copies of the newspaper.One copy, that I have here in my hand now, is Friday, January 26, 1934. The top headline says, "Don't Spend Where You Can't Work." Then there's the masthead. And then the other headline is, "Zerg Store Has Publisher Jailed." Well, the Zerg Store was a furniture store on Central Avenue, one of many stores that was owned by non-blacks, and blacks were simply not employed in this store. Well, Leon Washington started this campaign, the idea of "Don't spend where you can't work," and the edition of this paper gives absolutely the most minute details of what happened. I'll just read the opening sentence:Because he parked his car, bearing a sign, "Don't spend your money where you can't work," near the Zerg Furniture store at 4lll Central Avenue, Leon Washington, Jr., Sentinel publisher, was arrested late Tuesday afternoon on a charge of violating the city picketing ordinance.Well, there's really no point in me just reading this very interesting article. All I want to do is just get it into the record that anybody who wants the story, it's very, very enlightening, very entertaining, and very meaningful, too. It's the January 26, 1934, copy. I'm sure Ruth or whoever's there will be very delighted to provide them with a copy of this thing. You know, the whole front page- Well, it's simply a copy of the front page of the newspaper. You were going to say?

Isoardi: I was just going to say, what's your memory of how many of the businesses on Central [Avenue]-because Central was a central business district-how many were white-owned as opposed to black-owned? Or do you have any sense of it?

Kelso: A very large majority.

Isoardi: Really?

Kelso: Let's do this. On the front page, here's what we have. Right under the headline, it says, "Do your part. Patronize these advertisers: Major Market, Twenty-eighth Street Market, Pay and Take It, E. F. Smith, Lincoln Theatre, Carl Drug Company." One, two, three, four, five, six. There's only six.

Isoardi: Black-owned businesses?

Kelso: Not black-owned businesses, but businesses that employed blacks. Now, this is on the front page of the newspaper. This is just a little square box. And to complete everything in this box, it says, referring to the above-mentioned six advertisers, "They make possible this paper that fights your battles."Now we have another copy of the Los Angeles Sentinel, dated March 20, 1975, and this is the entire third page, which is an article written by A. S. "Doc" Young. It's just called "The Los Angeles Sentinel, 1933-1975"-in other words, from the beginning up to the date of this issue-and it's called "Wash's Dream: The Sentinel Is His Monument." Well, Leon Washington had died the year prior to that, and this, in a sense, I guess, is a full page that tells the Leon Washington story by one of the writers on the newspaper. So, 1934, we've got the "Don't spend where you can't work," and in 1975, we've got the whole Washington story.I also went to what is now called the Leon Washington Public Library and spoke to the head librarian, a very charming, lovely lady-Mrs. [Hortense] Woods-and she told me that she had just received a pamphlet that she thought sold for a dollar or two dollars. In any event, I was able to pick up a copy. And, just to get it into the record, what the name of this thing is and where it's available, it's called "Vernon-Central Revisited: A Capsule History," sponsored by a Neighborhood Reinvestment Corporation for Neighborhood Housing Services of Los Angeles, Inc., 1989. On the inside cover, it says, "Copyright 1989 by Neighborhood Reinvestment Corporation, 1325 G Street Northwest, Suite 800, Washington, D.C., 20005." It's forty pages long, and it's one of the most complete, satisfying surveys of the Vernon and Central neighborhood, or the concept that I- It's just priceless.

Isoardi: Including maps.

Kelso: Including maps that show the location on Central Avenue and surrounding areas, nearby areas, of the important establishments. It would be nice just to read all forty pages and get it into the interview, but it's impractical and senseless. I'd just like, maybe, to read how the thing is divided up. This is the table of contents: preface, acknowledgments, "The Golden Era for Black Angelenos," "The Founding of Los Angeles," "Annexation of the Southern District," "The First Development," "The First Decline," "Vernon-Central Revisited," "The Black Migration," "The Old Stentorians," "Vernon-Central Neighborhood Trailblazers," "Los Angeles Black Communities of the 1920s," "The Rebuilding of Vernon-Central," "Employment Outlook," "Events of the Forties," "The Second Decline," "The 1965 Uprising," "After the Uprising," "A New Beginning," "Neighborhood Housing Services of Los Angeles," conclusion, and sources. And many, many important people are involved here. A marvelous page of acknowledgments. Special acknowledgments are extended to- On and on and on and on. It's just a priceless document, and it should be part of this project somehow. I don't know how it could be combined with the oral interview, but I'm sure UCLA can figure out some way. Sources: Afro-American Resource Center, A. C. Bilbrew County Library, Los Angeles. And one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen- There are fourteen different items on the page called "sources," page 39. There's no point in reading all this. Oral interviews- Well, it's just mind-boggling what's here. For instance, business advertising in Vernon and Central between the twenties and the forties. It lists all of the businesses Fortieth Place to Forty-first Place. And there's a map showing exactly where all of these stores are located. There's a picture of Councilman Gilbert [W.] Lindsay. It includes his whole story. "The Los Angeles black community" is a map that shows where blacks tended to congregate: the Temple Street settlement, West Side settlement, Furlong Track, Central Avenue, Boyle Heights. One of the writers on the Sentinel said, "No wonder everybody seemed to know everybody else in the thirties." The black population was less than forty thousand, so it was quite easy to sense that you did know everybody in town.

Isoardi: Well, marvelous. Thanks, Jackie, for digging that stuff up.

Kelso: Sure. Now I feel like now that everybody knows where to get all of this information, maybe we can just terminate the interview right now.

Isoardi: Oh, no, no.

Kelso: But, okay, carry on. I know you probably have your own personal preferences.

Isoardi: Okay. One of the final- Oh, well, I should follow this up. Do you have any further memories of this campaign of Washington's? It's interesting. I mean, not only were there very few black-owned businesses, but, as this indicates, I mean, very few black people working in these businesses.

Kelso: Right. That's right. That was one of the first things he attempted to do when he first came out here. I don't know whether we talked about this, but Leon Washington came to Los Angeles as a result of having been brought out here, let's say, in 1930. Loren Miller, the attorney that argued the restrictive covenants case before the U.S. Supreme Court, was a personal friend of my father [John Kelson]'s, and Loren handled more than one piece of legal business for me. So when you say Loren Miller, to me, he's one of my great heroes, because I know him personally. You know, we were in court together, and we are, in a sense, personal friends. Well, he was a contemporary of my father's, so Loren Miller is sort of like a personal father figure to me.Loren Miller-right at that time-was a writer on the California Eagle newspaper, the paper published by Charlotta [Spears] Bass. And Ms. Bass was beginning- Well, she had the idea that she wanted to expand her advertising operations, and what she needed was a legman, somebody who could sell advertising space. Well, Loren Miller was already working on the paper, and he suggested to Ms. Bass that she consider a cousin of his-Loren Miller's cousin who lived in Kansas-by the name of Leon Washington. So Leon Washington came out and began selling advertising for the California Eagle. He did that for about a year. And eventually, a year or so later, Leon set up his own [paper that] was called the Eastside Shopping News or something like that [Eastside Shopper]. He was so good at selling advertising, I guess he felt that there was room for him to go into business for himself, not as a competing newspaper, but just as a shopping news. So he did that for a couple of years. He had his own Eastside Shopping News. Two or three years later, that Shopping News turned into the Los Angeles Sentinel.And there's a funny story about that. They ran a contest concerning the name of the newspaper. The prize was going to be $5, and whoever won it never got the $5, because Louie [Louis] V. Cole, another person that I remember very, very well, because he and my uncle, Cliff Minter, were good friends- Cliff Minter, my- Let's see, Cliff Minter was married to one of my mother [Lillian Kelson]'s sisters [Blossie Minter]. Cliff Minter had, first, a dress shop-A Dress Shoppe, I think it was called-in the Dunbar Hotel. And later, shortly after gold was called in, my uncle opened what was called Cliff's Gold Mart on Vernon just off of Central. It was called Cliff's Gold Mart. That was where people brought their gold in order to sell it in response to, you know, [Franklin D.] Roosevelt's idea of pulling the gold in for whatever the scheme was.Louie V. Cole was a close friend of Cliff Minter. I knew Louie V. Cole through my uncle. Of course, I'm just a kid now. I had no idea that fifty years later we were going to talk about these people as historical giants.But, in any event, Louie V. Cole was telling the story in one of the editions of the newspaper that I've just read, the Sentinel, that when they named the newspaper, the joke is, they found the person who suggested the Sentinel, but Louie V. Cole's memory was that they were so poor that they never got the $5 together to pay this guy.But, in any event, we're in the process of talking about Leon. So he came out here to sell advertising. He set up his own Shopping News and eventually set up his own newspaper. He came out here in '30. And the copy of the newspaper that shows the headline "Don't Spend Where You Can't Work" is 1934. So it didn't take him long before he really got into the heart of doing "good things," quote, unquote.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: I remember very clearly- Let's see. That's 1934, so I was twelve years old, and I could read well enough to read the Sentinel, so I was aware of all of this.

Isoardi: How successful was his campaign? Do you remember?

Kelso: Oh, yeah. Yeah, it worked. It worked. You know, the time was ripe and right for the idea. The injustice or the unfairness of anything can only last so long in a civilized society, so, to Leon, I guess, it was just obvious that this had to be done. And he was a charming, smart fellow. In the description of him in the newspaper in the 1975 article, it talked about how well-dressed he always was. And, of course, I always remembered he always wore a bow tie. You know, white shirt, very crisp, and not unlike- Well, any man who wears a bow tie exposes a lot of white shirt, so that means you've got to have a nice white shirt on if you're going to wear a bow tie.Leon also has named after him the post office on Central Avenue, the library- There's also a county park named after him: Colonel Leon H. Washington, Jr., County Park. The dedication was on Thursday, April 15, 1976, at 2:30 p.m. Here's a picture of the park. It was in [Los Angeles County Supervisor] Kenneth Hahn's district. What I've got in my hand here is a four-page program, very, very nicely done four-page program of the dedication of the park, and, on the back, there's a biographical sketch of Colonel Leon H. Washington, Jr. One, two, three, four, five, six. There are about eight paragraphs. There are three pictures. Leon is in all of them. One is a picture of Leon at the White House with President [John F.] Kennedy. Here's a picture of Leon with Supervisor Kenneth Hahn. Here's a picture of Leon in a picture including President Lyndon B. Johnson with friends. This is the caption: "Including Leon H. Washington, Jr., and Chester Washington as President Lyndon B. Johnson signs the Civil Rights Bill." Now, this biographical sketch tells you- It's, in a sense, well, a condensed sketch of Washington's biography. It would be nice to read it, but why do that?

Isoardi: Yeah, yeah.

Kelso: You know, all of that information is on file. And in each one of these three pictures, there's Leon with his- You can see it.

Isoardi: The bow tie?

Kelso: The bow tie, and the white handkerchief is always present. Okay. It's nice to know that these things are documented. And for people who want to dig, all of the details are available.

Isoardi: Yeah. Okay, well, let's get some of the details that relate to you and your perspective on, I guess, our last topic here before we get into the conclusions and evaluations, and that's the recording industry and what it was like, as a Central Avenue musician, recording. Maybe you can talk about your experiences recording, what the labels were that were around that Central Avenue musicians were recording for.

Kelso: Okay. I can certainly speak from personal experience. My recording experiences are very limited. Let's see. Before World War II, I don't think I made any records at all. Yeah, yeah. But it's inconsequential.Let's talk about after the war. The main recording I did after the war, which would be in the late forties, I did some recording with Lionel Hampton, but, in a sense, that was- Well, that took place in Los Angeles at Decca Records on Melrose [Avenue]. And that same building is still standing. But the recording I did then was just due to the fact that I had just joined Lionel Hampton, and Lionel Hampton was recording for Decca Records at that time. Let's see, Charlie [Charles] Mingus was in the band, and he had composed something called "Mingus Fingers." That was also the record date that Lionel Hampton recorded "Midnight Sun," which turned out to be sort of a standard jazz tune. Sonny Burke was involved with that. I don't know whether he did the arrangement.But after Lionel Hampton, my recording- Oh, we did some recording in New York, but we're not discussing that. After I was no longer with Lionel Hampton, I joined Roy Milton. I don't think I did any recording in Los Angeles that wasn't with either Lionel Hampton or Roy Milton, because I was not part of the recording scene, whatever it might have been. Marshall Royal could tell you more about what was going on recording-wise.But when I joined Roy Milton, who was already a nationally famous recording artist, he was recording for a little record company called Specialty Records, run by Art Rupe. Art Rupe eventually hired Sonny Bono as his A and R [artists and repertory] man. Little Richard was recorded, and Bumps Blackwell was involved.But I don't want to get ahead of my story. My experience in recording in Los Angeles was with Roy Milton's rhythm and blues band. I didn't get involved in the Los Angeles recording scene proper until the middle fifties, after I had stopped working with Roy Milton. And how that happened was, 1956- I was with Roy Milton, I guess, seven or eight years, and my whole life was involved with that one operation. In 1956, I joined Johnny Otis's empire. Have we talked about that?

Isoardi: No.

Kelso: Well, Johnny Otis had a record show. He was a disc jockey. He also had a weekly television show ["The Johnny Otis Show"]. He had his own recording studio, and his band played in different nightclubs every night of the week. The format was the same. There was always a talent contest. And on the weekends, Johnny generally played at a place called El Monte Legion Stadium, where- Let's see, rock and roll had really just taken off then, and there were literally thousands in the audience every Saturday night at the El Monte Legion Stadium.Well, Johnny Otis had just a sure-fire formula for all of us to become millionaires, and Johnny contacted me, while I was with Roy Milton, to become his A and R man at the record company. I was also going to play in the band. And the idea was this: I would simply, as fast as I could, put record sessions together. That's what the A and R man does. He decides who records what when. In a sense, I was going to be the bottleneck man. I would decide who would record what and when, and we would have as many recording sessions every day of the week. The method works something like this: we would make a record in the morning, and on Johnny Otis's afternoon radio show that record would be played.

Isoardi: Before you had it pressed, then.

Kelso: Well, however it worked, we would make records in the morning, and Johnny Otis would play it on his record show that afternoon. And it seemed like a surefire thing where everybody would just get rich. You know, you make the records, you play them on your own radio show, and you plug your records on the TV show.And Johnny Otis is still a very, very sharp, highly developed intellectual- He's one of the smartest people I know. A lot of intellectual power, energy. And right now he's involved with, I think it's called, the Rhythm and Blues Caravan. He's still doing just about the same thing.But somehow the formula just didn't work for us. So for about two years I worked with Johnny Otis, and it was very thrilling being on the first rock and roll television shows. Eventually, Johnny was recorded by Capitol Records. And shortly after I left, he had that first- Well, one of the big hits. "Willie and the Hand Jive." I don't know whether you remember that.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: But that was something that Johnny recorded shortly after I left him.

Isoardi: What was the name of the label that you guys were-?

Kelso: Oh, Dig.

Isoardi: Dig Records.

Kelso: Dig Records. There might have been some other subsidiary things, but-

Isoardi: Where were you based?

Kelso: It was located on the south side of Washington Boulevard just east of Western [Avenue]. It was just on the other side of- There was a Shell [Oil Company] gasoline station, an alley, and then Johnny Otis's recording studio. That was about a block and a half from Harvard Boulevard, and that's where Johnny Otis lived. So that corner was one of the focal points of all of the hopeful songwriters and singers in Southern California. And, in a sense, everybody had to go through me, because I was in the studio all day long talking to people who had songs. Everybody's coming in off the street. And we had a filing system that was- We just had so much material we didn't know what to do with it. And in a sense, I was the bottleneck. I had to talk to singers and songwriters and decide who should record what tomorrow morning so we could play it. Well, that, fundamentally, was the recording business in connection with Johnny Otis.

Isoardi: Well, you mentioned you were on a TV show as well.

Kelso: Yeah, there was a weekly TV show. I think it was Channel 11 [KTTV]. And, on this television show, Johnny could plug his records, he could plug everywhere in town that the band was playing during that week and the Saturday thing. To me, it's one kind of fuzzy- I won't say nightmare, but just kind of a marvelous dream, because it was just two years of overwork. Working- Well, I've already said working a different nightclub every night of the week, do the Saturday performance at the- Yeah, we even played Balboa Ballroom. You remember where Stan Kenton did-? Well, at Balboa Beach, there's a large ballroom down there. Well, Johnny Otis really had California-at least Southern California-sewed up. And, being a conscientious person, I felt like, you know, "I'm holding things up," so I really worked almost twenty-six hours a day.

Isoardi: Jeez.

Kelso: It was quite a challenge, and it took all of my time and energy. And I learned I can't tell you how much. Part of my musical education, my commercial musical education, I owe to the kids and the young people who would come in and demonstrate songs. People with so much talent and know-how, they were there, in a sense, trying to gain my favor, and I was just absorbing all of this raw, natural talent. Sammy Yates and the Premiers. Boy, Sammy Yates was one of the- Real young. He was just a teenager. This guy could write songs, and he had this little group of male singers. They just loved what they were doing. And I learned, I think, more from Sammy Yates, watching him compose songs- That was the period of [sings] "Good-night, My Love."

Isoardi: [sings] "May your dreams-"

Kelso: Yeah, and that was before he made his big hit. Yeah, maybe we should cut this thing off until we- [laughter]

Isoardi: I can hear the song.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: I can hear the song, and I can't think of the artist. [Jessie Belvin]

Kelso: Yeah, well, this is embarrassing. Okay, I can live through that.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: But, in any event, moving right along, Los Angeles was just- Of course, no one could know this better than I could know it, because I was just sitting there. And the whole- In fact, Sonny Bono came in once long before he was Sonny Bono. I think he was a butcher selling wholesale meat or something. He came in with some songs. And, you know, he happened to be just one of the people that I had to turn down, because if a hundred people come in the door in one day, you can't do something with all of them. You know, how can you pick and choose? But the point I'm going to make is, Sonny Bono and I, we both remember him coming in back then. And many years later I was a sideman on his TV show ["The Sonny and Cher Show"], and more than once, you know, during a rehearsal or a performance, he would look back and say, "Man, we've certainly come a long way, haven't we?" [laughter] So he's now mayor of Palm Springs. You never know what's going to happen in your life later on.

Isoardi: Really. Really.

Kelso: So we're talking about Loren Miller, Leon Washington, Sonny Bono. But the main thrust here is-we're attempting to respond to your question-the recording business in Los Angeles. Well, I've talked about it up to and including all of the Johnny Otis business. Now, something happened- We're still in the Johnny Otis period. I got a lot of exposure on the Johnny Otis television show, because I was one of the main saxophone soloists. When I first joined, Plas Johnson was playing all of the tenor saxophone solos.

Isoardi: Really? With Johnny Otis?

Kelso: Yeah. At that time, Plas Johnson, I guess, was recording, let's say, 97 percent of all of the tenor saxophone solos that were recorded in the rock and roll field. The Bihari brothers [Jules, Saul, and Joe Bihari] had a recording company out in Culver City, Cadet Records. Etta James- See, almost anybody that comes to mind recorded for the Bihari brothers: Etta James, B. B. King.

Isoardi: Wow.

Kelso: Also the Bihari brothers had their own pressing plant.

Isoardi: Was that down in Watts?

Kelso: No, the pressing plant was on Slauson Boulevard. And that, many times, is considered part of Watts. But-

Isoardi: The René brothers were also prominent.

Kelso: Oh, yeah. Otis and Leon [René]. [sings melody] "Rockin' Robin." That was one of their big hits. However, the René brothers were older men. They had been in the songwriting business for years before that. Otis was a pharmacist and- Well, both of them were involved in the music business, but it was Leon who I dare say was more successful in the music business. He wrote "When the Swallows Come back to Capistrano," and it was recorded by Celle Burke, the bandleader who was at the Bal Tabrin, where I worked in 1940, '41, because I was working there on December 7, 1941. The René brothers, very smart businessmen. They were quite successful. But they were, in a sense, a different generation, because Leon had a son who was my age, Googie René. Googie René had several big hits: "Oh, What a Beautiful Weekend," many things. Googie played piano and was a good composer and had some hits.While I was with Johnny Otis, I got a lot of exposure. It was one of the first rock and roll television shows.

Isoardi: What was it called?

Kelso: "The Johnny Otis Show." This is "The Johnny Otis Show." And the theme song was "Harlem Nocturne." "Harlem Nocturne" was typically an alto saxophone solo, and I played that on the alto saxophone. So many times, I guess, the camera was on me at the beginning of each show. And I also played most of the rock and roll tenor solos, especially after- Because when I joined the show, Plas stopped being on the show shortly thereafter, because, as I recall, "The Johnny Otis Show" didn't pay an impressive amount of money. I'll just put it that way to be polite. And Plas was so much in demand, I imagine Plas felt like, well, there's certainly no need for him to stay there any more almost wasting his time there on that television show, because the show really didn't pay that much money. Plas was in so much demand at that time that it was easy for Plas to, I guess, take the attitude, "Well, I don't have to stay here anymore. I can spend my time doing bigger and better things."But Johnny had made an offer to me, while I was still on the road, to come join this empire and this operation. He made an offer whereby I was going to receive a percentage of all of the royalties on all of these records, and it sounded like, "My goodness, how can I be so lucky?" It sounded like a sure-fire thing. So for just about two years, I devoted my every ounce of energy to the Johnny Otis operation and the recording, that aspect of the Los Angeles recording businesses. I decided who would record what, quickly sketch out some arrangements, whatever it would take to quickly put it on record.As I recall, we never had what we might call a smash hit. There was a girl named Julie Stevens. She had, I guess, the biggest hit. It was called "Blue Mood." She was a teenager from Santa Barbara, and one day Johnny Otis said to me, "See that pretty little girl there with the big eyes? She's got a tune. I want you to record that." So, fine, she came over and sang it to me, and I jotted it down, and we recorded it the next morning. It turned out to be, I guess, one of the biggest hits that Johnny had during that two-year period.Mel Williams. They used to call him "Handsome Mel Williams," and for good reason-young fellow, very handsome, had a great voice, and just tremendous appeal for teenaged girls. Mel had a couple of things that moved fairly well, but never any big smash hits for Johnny Otis while I was associated with him.The biggest thing that really happened for Johnny, recording-wise, was "Willie and the Hand Jive" on Capitol Records. It was just one of those things. You know, we made, in a sense, literally hundreds of records and played them on the air, and nothing really big ever happened. [laughter] It was just a flawless operation, but that shows you how much luck plays in it.

Isoardi: Yeah, really.

Kelso: Because we recorded any and everything we wanted to, and we promoted it every day, but it just never happened for us.

15. Tape Number: VIII, Side TwoMay 15, 1990

Kelso: Okay, I'll have to really refocus back on the main question. We're talking about recording in Los Angeles, and I mentioned that-

Isoardi: You mentioned the Biharis and the Renés and your operation with Johnny Otis.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: We're talking about small independents, for the most part.

Kelso: Right.

Isoardi: The majors weren't as involved in this?

Kelso: Well, let me say what I'm going to say now, and I guess we're going to really get into the meat of your question. I was getting a lot of exposure on the television show, and many important things happened, but two come to mind.I got a call from a nightclub owner, Benny Conde. He had a nightclub called the Little Casino out in Gardena. He called me. He said, "Hey, I saw you on the television show, man. I really like the way you play. If you ever get a band of your own, give me a call, because you've got a job in my nightclub." So that helped me decide. After working so hard for two years for Johnny Otis, I decided, "Well, if I'm going to die in harness, I may as well die as leader." So I called Benny Conde and said, "I think I'm ready to make a move. Is that offer still good?" He said, "Yeah, come on. How soon can you come in?" I was quite good at organizing material, so I put together a book for the band, which meant simply the tunes that were on today's hit parade. That was the secret. In other words, I could just get a hit record and very quickly sketch off the same arrangement. Without stretching it too far, the idea amounted to this: I simply tried to make my band sound exactly like the record. And that was a surefire way to get into the action. You won't set any records yourself, but the product that you're producing is immediately acceptable.

Isoardi: What kind of a band did you work up?

Kelso: Well, it amounted to this: I had a bass player, drummer, a guitar player, and a baritone saxophone, and I played tenor saxophone, and I had two male singers. Why male singers? The answer to that question: I'd had enough experience in show business that I just didn't want to have female singers in the band. Females are wonderful people, but there's always that little special consideration that a woman demands, wants, or seems to need. And I felt right at the beginning of the operation, I didn't need anything that was going to require any special energy, thought, or consideration, any coddling or- It might be a crude way to put it, but I felt it would be easier to have two male singers rather than to have a male and a female singer or two female singers.So where I got the idea, the format, for my band, I- During that period I saw "Big Jay" [Cecil] McNeely's band, and right away I said, "That is for me. If I ever have a band, that's exactly what I'm going to do." He had a guitar player whose name was [Melvin] Glass. Just a marvelous guitar player. And I used the same format that Big Jay McNeely used, and, by that, I'm talking arrangement terms now.Big Jay's brother, Bobby McNeely, a personal friend of mine and Buddy Collette's- In fact, Buddy Collette and Big Jay McNeely got priceless musical education from a high school music teacher [Vern Martin] at Jordan [High School]. It's so easy for me to get distracted. [laughter]Yeah, the Big Jay McNeely format was that the baritone saxophone could play the root of the chord low, and the guitar could strike a full, beautiful six-string or five-string chord, and the tenor saxophone could play the top note. And with those three musicians, you've got a chord that stretches from the bottom of the staff, in a sense, to the top. So right away, as soon as I saw Big Jay McNeely's performance-undoubtedly I was with Johnny Otis then- then I realized, there's the whole orchestra: a firm baritone on the root or the bottom, the guitar fills in the full guts in the interior of the chord. So, sure enough, you know, once you see it and you know what it is, you don't have to think about it anymore. Well, I knew that was for me. So that was the kind of group I formed.I found a marvelous baritone saxophone player. I found him at a jazz joint across the street from Wrigley Field. Before I'd walked fully into the club, just at the door-because I was looking for somebody-I said, "That's the guy." Tall fellow, Alex Nelson, played some of the greatest baritone saxophone I've ever heard. I don't know what he's doing now, but he certainly was a marvelous baritone player.So my group had to have that format. Baritone- Well, I've already indicated what the personnel was. And that instrumentation allowed me to reproduce any sounds that I heard on the day's hit parade.We were talking about the recording industry. Okay, two important things happened to me. One, Benny Conde said, "Anytime you want a job with your band, you've got it." Okay, that was point number one. Point number two was, an arranger named Don Ralke saw the show once, and he called me. He wanted me to make a record date with him, because he was making rock and roll records. He saw me on the show, and he liked what I did. All I was doing was simply, in a sense, copying the current style. I've always loved the idea of figuring out what is selling. "Fine. I can produce it." I had no compunctions at all about being what you might call a musical prostitute. No, I'm simply a businessman, and I was determined to stay in the business. "What style? What do you want?" And thank god for Plas Johnson, too. That's part of the story that's coming up now.Well, Don Ralke called me, and I made a record date with him. And I could read well. I'm a nice guy. I'm cooperative. I was on time. So, let's see, this was in 1956, '57, and Don Ralke and I have been friends and colleagues ever since then. He doesn't do much anymore, but he used to do movie scores, and I was always involved with him. So it was through Johnny Otis's television show that Don Ralke saw me, and, from then on, everything Don Ralke recorded, I was in the orchestra somewhere. Yeah, we did things at Warner Brothers [Pictures].Who was the guy, Dragnet?

Isoardi: The guy who starred in it?

Kelso: Yeah, the guy who starred in it.

Isoardi: Jack Webb?

Kelso: Jack Webb produced and made a movie at Warner Brothers, and it was called, I think, Thirty. It was a newspaper story. Don Ralke did the music for it. I'm one of Don Ralke's favorite musicians because, you know, if you needed a very sexy, sensuous alto saxophone sound with all of the Johnny Hodges inflections, yet the studio-recording quality and technique, pitch and all of that- In other words, I was flexible enough to do anything. So with Don Ralke, I was pulled into the Warner Brothers staff orchestra at that time just to play these specialized alto saxophone solos. With Don Ralke, I did many, many, many things, countless record companies, countless albums.

Isoardi: You were moving in the company of the majors, then, Warner Brothers and-

Kelso: Oh, yes. Yeah. And once you get your foot in the door and you can produce and you're a cooperative, dependable, helpful, good citizen, you've got it made. There are a lot of people who can do the work, but they just haven't been lucky enough to get their foot in the door. And there are some who get their foot in the door, and they just, you know, as I say, don't know how to take care of business. Punctuality, cooperation, and cheerfulness, and knowing when to keep your mouth shut is very valuable information.Don Ralke was one of the key people. But once you're in the business and you're seen- The musicians union [American Federation of Musicians] has a mode of operating that involves something called contractors. Contractors are the men who call the musicians. When record companies want to have a record date, they usually get a knowledgeable contractor to put together the right kind of orchestra for that particular record date. And in Hollywood, there are any number of men whose sole job, sole source of income, is just being contractors. They know how to, and do, put together orchestras on a daily basis. Ben Barret was one of the well-known contractors.

Isoardi: I've heard his name.

Kelso: I don't think he's too active now. But the contractors are quite powerful and important people because they're really responsible for knowing what men, what people, what musicians to call to get that job done. And as the quality or the type of job changes, that contractor has to be smart enough to know, "Well, I can call this guy for that job, but I won't call him for this job." It's simply that you call the most highly specialized people for specialized work.Well, Plas Johnson was doing about, I would say, 97 percent of all of the tenor saxophone rock and roll solos at that time, and there just weren't enough Plas Johnsons to go around. [laughter] Now, this is where my indebtedness to Plas Johnson comes along. Plas began calling me to do some of the work that he just couldn't take. And very quickly I realized that, "Well, if I'm a sub for Plas Johnson, I've got to get pretty much smart on what is it about Plas Johnson's playing that makes him so important." So it's simply a matter of, in a sense, analyzing what constitutes the essence of what Plas seems to be doing. You know, "What does Plas do that he seems to do better than almost anybody else? Well, I've got to figure out what that is, because he's starting to send me as his substitute." And he was quite confident doing that, knowing that at least I would show up and I would be ready and willing.

Isoardi: But he must have liked your sound, also.

Kelso: Well, why? Because I was imitating him. One of the first things that I wanted to know, "Hey, Plas, what kind of mouthpiece are you using? What kind of reeds?" Watched his embouchure and observed certain little idiosyncratic things that he did with his fingers about- He certainly made a lot of use of the bis key, the B-flat. Some saxophone players feel that you shouldn't do that. Plas did it, so it was okay with me. Many saxophone players feel that it's improper to do that, and some just do it.

Isoardi: Use the bis key?

Kelso: Oh, yeah, from B-natural to B-flat.

Isoardi: Oh, to go back and forth like that. I see.

Kelso: Yeah. [sings phrase with two alternating notes] Most others would do like the clarinet fingering. [sings same phrase] So, well, Plas knows how much I'm indebted to him, because my hero worship can't be hidden. I feel like the pressure within me is so great, so much admiration, I feel I'm almost compelled to continue to tell him how much I appreciate what he's done with himself and how generous he's been with me.But, in any event, I did a fairly good job of being a consistent sub for Plas, at least on the rock and roll things. His jazz things, his jazz playing, is, to me, one of the great inspirations of my life.And he did this for me, too, after I asked him- I said, "Plas, you're a little bit younger than I am, and, unfortunately, I was an accomplished, finished swing musician long before bebop came along." And Plas's bebop vocabulary is just classically flawless, just perfect. So, you know, after time had gone by, I said, "Hey, old buddy, what I'd like you to do, if you wouldn't mind, take me over to your house and spend about fifteen minutes and play for me about a dozen of your favorite basic bebop clichés." He said, "Yeah, sure. Okay." So I went to his house, and in ten or fifteen minutes, he played what he considered a dozen or so of his favorite bebop licks.

Isoardi: Gee, nice guy.

Kelso: And I copied them down in one key. He says, "Fine." He says, "I probably don't have to tell you this, because you know what I'm going to say, but I want to impress it on you. Write it down in one key only. Learn these things in all twelve keys by memory. Just use them in one key if you want to write them down, just so that you won't lose the idea. Don't make the mistake of writing them down in all twelve keys, because what you've got to do is, as quickly as possible, utilize your brain and your nerves and your fingers rather than your eyes. In fact, it would even be better if you didn't even write them down at all, but, so as to not lose anything and be methodical, just at least write it down in one key." So he did that for me, and that was accomplished in, I don't know, fifteen, twenty minutes.

Isoardi: Gee. Awfully nice.

Kelso: And it took me two or three solid years of practicing. At that time, I was living on Waring Avenue in a little rented house on the back of a lot. I remember that that was a two- or three-year period where I had taken these basic things that he had given me and I had worked on them religiously night and day. Sometimes, in the daytime, in the summertime, I would close up the house because I was driving the neighbors crazy. I didn't get any flak, but I knew that it was just almost unneighborly of me, uncivilized of me, to impose that business on the neighborhood-playing the same things over and over and over again in all twelve keys. So I would simply just close up all of the windows. [laughter] I remember once, somebody came by the house, a musician friend of mine, and it was in the summertime. Everything was closed up, and I was in there, you know, programming my nerves and my mind and all. And it was so hot; I had no clothes on and there was a bucket of water-

Isoardi: Oh, what a picture.

Kelso: I had one foot in this bucket of water, standing up with no clothes on. [laughter]

Isoardi: And somebody saw you? A friend came by?

Kelso: Yeah, a musician friend of mine. And I let him in, and- I've forgotten who it was, but-

Isoardi: He's probably told that story so many times. [laughter]

Kelso: Yeah, you know, it's that period out of my life. Of course, I was working, I was busy working, but every spare minute was spent programming my whole body and brain so that these bebop clichés would just flow automatically, endlessly. And it has really been the cornerstone of my playing. And my advice to anybody is- Well, really, the secret to improvisation, getting a start, is find some ideas you really love and learn them in all twelve keys. Now, that phrase "that you really love" is important, because you are going to work on these things so repetitiously that you are almost going to grow to hate this stuff, because it's just grind, grind, grind, grind, grind. And to do these things in all twelve keys means that you're going to run into some situations where the fingerings are almost impossible. But if you want to develop this basic vocabulary, which, in a sense, is the cornerstone of your style- In other words, it gives you the authentic clichés for bebop. Now, some people will say, "Well, that's not being creative." I'll say, "You're doggone right, it's not being creative, but it certainly gets you out of trouble." You know, there's a lot of chance to be as creative as you want after you've learned the twenty-six letters of the alphabet.

Isoardi: Exactly. Creativity doesn't come out of thin air, I don't think.

Kelso: Right. I remember Buddy Collette once said something in connection with Sonny Stitt. He smiled and said, "Well, Sonny, yeah, I like his playing, but it seems to me all Sonny's done is learned a whole lot of things in all twelve keys and just strings them together." And to me it seemed like, "Well, hell, that's accomplishment enough!" [laughter] That's one of the marvelous things that I like about Buddy Collette. He is so different in his playing. There's nothing you can point to in Buddy's playing to say, "Well, there's a Buddy Collette cliché." Every solo I've ever heard him play has always been fresh and different, and I've never heard anybody play what he's done. Which means that you can't say Buddy Collette has a bebop mode that he can slip into. I don't think he's ever consciously acquired idiosyncratic little utterances like that.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: He's always been so confident and happy and pleased with whatever's coming out of him, because I've heard him say more than once-and I've known him since we were both around fifteen years old, and he's always been the same easy-going, patient guy-and I've heard him say more than once, he says, "Well, I'm just having such a good time listening to these beautiful sounds." There's never been any urgency or roughness in his playing. He's just an aesthetically well-rounded human being. As you know, Buddy Collette was the first black to be on a regular TV show, the Groucho Marx show ["You Bet Your Life"]. Luckily for the business, they couldn't have chosen a better person for that, because Buddy's character and his sensitivity and taste in every arena, to me, is flawless. He's just a marvelous human being.

Isoardi: He told me a story about the first time he met Jerry Fielding and the orchestra that they had organized. And it occurred to me, in thinking of Jackie Robinson and how carefully the [Brooklyn] Dodgers picked him-

Kelso: Yes, yes.

Isoardi: And I wouldn't be surprised if Jerry Fielding went through a lot of the same things, how carefully he selected Buddy Collette for a lot of those reasons.

Kelso: Well, it might have been that it was just a lucky coincidence.

Isoardi: You think so?

Kelso: Yeah. It might have been that Jerry Fielding was lucky to have run into Buddy. However, from what I know about Jerry Fielding, Jerry Fielding was probably consciously wanting to do something like that if he could only find, quote, unquote, "the right guy." Maybe Jerry Fielding was quietly looking until he found Buddy. And it was lucky for all of us that that marriage happened the way it did, because Buddy has been an absolute credit- It's like the Midas touch. Everything that Buddy has touched and everything that has touched Buddy has been a profitable, good thing for the human race. [laughter]

Isoardi: Yes, yes.

Kelso: Let's see. We're winding up talking about recording here.

Isoardi: Yeah. It strikes me, I suppose, that a lot of the music then that was coming out of the Central Avenue scene, etc., was being-

Kelso: Yeah, Central Avenue. Yeah, okay, let's focus on Central Avenue. You're right.

Isoardi: The artists were being recorded by smaller, independent labels. L.A. must have been the independent capital of the country. There seem to have been so many recording companies, so many small companies recording artists.

Kelso: That's my sense of it.

Isoardi: And the majors were never that involved. I suppose they became involved by the mid or later fifties when rock and roll took off, etc. But before then, I suppose R and B was mostly being recorded by these smaller labels.

Kelso: Yeah. And R and B was just a revised name for race records.

Isoardi: Right.

Kelso: At one time it was called race records, and they just changed the label. Yeah. And rhythm and blues became rock and roll when white people started to record the same feeling or the same idiom.

Isoardi: Right. Well, Jackie, I guess that leads us to two very big questions. First, why, in your opinion, did the avenue decline?

Kelso: Well, you know, from what I've read, the answers are quite obvious. The change in the restrictive covenants law made it easy for blacks to legally live anywhere. I know that as soon as the- I guess in the forties. Was it '46, '47, '48, '49? I know what happened in connection with my parents. All of my life, I lived in what they called the worst neighborhood possible, as far on the east side as you could live. You know, the further you go east, the worse the property values got. Well, I lived as far- Long Beach Boulevard, where the red cars ran, there weren't any houses on the other side. And I lived in that last block. In fact, I was born on the other side of the tracks, which means, like, almost no-man's land. I was born over there, and six months later my parents moved across the tracks. We can put it this way. Across the tracks was in the 1700 block. We moved to the 1600 block, which was on- That would be moving west. But that was still like what they call the sticks.But, in any event, as soon as the restrictive covenant thing went into being, Negroes began to move out of the area. I don't know, a year or two, three years after that court decision was handed down, my parents moved out.

Isoardi: Where did they move to?

Kelso: They moved quite far west. They moved to Fourth Avenue just off of Adams Boulevard. So it was a straight shot west, because we lived on east Twenty-sixth Street, which eventually became Twenty-fifth Street, which was synonymous with Adams Boulevard. So we simply moved-that is, my parents moved-straight out Adams Boulevard to Fourth Avenue, right across the street from two of my mother [Lillian Kelson]'s sisters [Blossie and Virgie]. [laughter] She convinced my dad that we should move to that block. And they found a very nice four-unit building in a lovely neighborhood.I was with Roy Milton then. I was out on the road. My mother had written me a letter with a picture of the new house, this four-unit building, and she said, "This is where we live now." So when I came in off the road on one of those occasions with Roy Milton, I went to this new address, and there it was.Very gradually, I imagine many elements in the population in the Central Avenue area began to expand into areas that had not been available before. And the fact that there had been such an influx of people from all over the country during the war to come to Los Angeles to take advantage of the job opportunities in the defense industries, that created a type of housing pressure that somehow couldn't be relieved until the restrictive covenant thing made it possible. Because it just- Well, you know, in the thirties, the population of blacks in Los Angeles was less than forty thousand. And when I came back after the war, I sensed that there was something very different about that part of town. The pressure was there because people hadn't been free to move out. There was a type of density there which intensified the uniqueness of the area.

Isoardi: Interesting. You felt that very strongly?

Kelso: Yeah. I wasn't at all attuned to sociological implications and all of that, because I was married then. My attitude was, "It's over. I've got to get busy and find myself a job." There was no time to be philosophically introspective and speculating about what does all of this mean.But it declined, I think, just in the natural course of events where people were- There was too much density, and the housing- Well, when I see what it looks like now, it's almost as if everybody just wanted to leave that area. It's almost as if, "Free at last. Thank God Almighty, free at last. I don't know where I'm going, but I know I don't want to stay here." Because Central Avenue now, to me, is just unbelievable. You know, the property values and the glamour and everything that was there, suddenly it's like a war zone.

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: You know, vacant lots. How can this happen? I'm sure there are many subtle factors that a sociologist could point out and I could say immediately, "Yeah, yeah. Of course that's what it is." But the only thing that comes to mind-

Isoardi: So presumably, then, as the population spread, new clubs went with them and sprang up in newer areas. Was that it?

Kelso: Right. And there was no more of that highly polished, highly condensed, highly specialized glamour any more. You know, there was some talk about, "Well, Western Avenue is the new Central Avenue." No way. Because before World War II, boy, that Central Avenue was like a jewel. And you didn't know it. There was no way to appreciate it and know what it was until after it had disappeared and to see that it didn't reproduce itself anywhere else. Graffiti? No. Spic and span. And we just took that for granted, you know. High quality, a good, beautiful, beautiful boulevard, beautiful street. A lot of activity.I'm sure when you've asked other interviewees the question, they are probably in a much more knowledgeable and academic way saying, "Well, I don't know. I think it happened because of-" Now, let me ask you, what are some of the answers you've got?

Isoardi: Well, actually, there are just a few answers that people come to, and that is one of the two or three that people mention quite a bit.

Kelso: What are the two or three? What are the others?

Isoardi: Okay. Some of the others, I think, also relate to the fact that, in conjunction with that, people were working more away from Central. In talking about musicians, more and more musicians could get jobs and were working more in other areas.

Kelso: Oh, well, you see, when you put the question to me, I was thinking in terms of Central Avenue in its entirety, not what happened musically.

Isoardi: Oh, no, I'm saying certainly that's- But that's simply just one component. The other thing that comes up, I think, probably brought up as much as the question of overpopulation and the end of the covenants, is a number of people have talked about harassment from the police department and city hall. I guess in the early fifties or so there was a Police Chief [William] Parker?

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: Something like that. There was a real sort of a right-wing feel, moralistic feel. People tell stories about police raiding clubs, harassing white patrons, especially white women in the clubs, trying to drive them out, and thereby, in doing that, undermining a lot of the economy of the clubs. Did you ever witness anything like that or-?

Kelso: Well, to me, that was just a fact of life. That wasn't something that one could say, "This is unusual." No. The black-white issue has just been part and parcel of my life. It's not something that- Whenever it comes up, my feeling is, "Oh, there's that again." No, it's just accepted. "This is the way things are." Now, since you bring this up, you know, the harassment has always been there. It's just that maybe, prior to that, there was nowhere else to go, so you just philosophically learned how to deal with it.You know, I spent six, seven, eight years playing with Roy Milton's rhythm and blues band. And most of the time it was in the Deep, d-e-e-p, South. So my education on the racial or the color thing is- I can speak with great authority, because I have lived it, you know, lived in almost every little place that's inhabitable through the southern part of the United States. You just learn to accept that as, "Oh, that's the way life is." When we think of it in terms of Los Angeles, of course, it was there even before the war. But you've suggested that, well, now, since Negroes can move away, they did partially because of this harassment.

Isoardi: Well, no, actually, it was in speaking- The couple of times that argument has come up, it's been in connection, I think, with why a lot of the clubs declined, the nightlife declined. A couple of people have said it was because, all of a sudden, in the late forties, early fifties, the cops started really coming in, and there was a real change. They were coming in and they were busting. They were harassing white patrons. They were literally trying to drive them out, and succeeded. And that was responsible, a couple of people have said, for really undercutting the economies of a lot of those clubs, which depended upon that patronage.Gee, one other argument related to that- Again, I'm not saying whether this is valid or not. These are some of the things that people have said. Another argument that was related to that was that one of the motivations behind that was that Central Avenue was drawing so much white patronage that a lot of the club owners in the white areas were encouraging city hall to crack down on those clubs.

Kelso: Well, let's look at the economy of Central Avenue. What percentage of the economy of Central Avenue was really based on nightclubs? There were certainly nightclubs there, but my thinking is that the economy of Central Avenue did not rise or fall on the continued operation of nightclubs. I like being devil's advocate, you know. Throw me up any idea, and I'm going to see whether or not the opposite really-We've just been talking about Leon Washington, and most of the businesses that he was involved with were not nightclubs. They were markets, furniture stores, establishments that would be supported or not supported by people of the neighborhood. "Don't spend where you can't work." I think it's something-

Isoardi: So you're sort of suggesting it was something much broader. It was in terms of the sort of breaking up of an entire community, of the shift of an entire community.

Kelso: Yeah.

Isoardi: Of which the clubs were a part.

Kelso: Yeah. If the white people had stopped coming- So let's say you close all of the clubs on Central Avenue, and white people stopped coming. If Negroes had no place to go live, I don't think the economy would be affected too much. You know, there's a lot of glamour and noise attached to show business. It makes a lot of noise. But that is really a very small part of human endeavor. You know, there's the mystery of what goes on after the sun goes down, and there's a mystique about "I don't know what's going on, but there's something going on, because I hear things and I see things. And when the sun goes down, mysterious things begin to happen." It's the mystique.You know, once upon a time, I was a little boy, and one of the greatest things I looked forward to was looking forward to the time when I'm grown and nobody can tell me what to do and I can stay up all night if I want to. I imagine most people feel like, "Well, I'm grown now, and I can do all of those things that I wasn't allowed to do as a kid." One is to go explore the unknown and the mysterious. And, generally, that sort of thing happens after dark.Now, there is probably a lot to be said for the fact that there was police harassment. Somehow, I just can't buy that police harassment can destroy a street like that. Is there some other reason that comes to mind?

Isoardi: No. The argument about the spread, being able to move west, the tremendous influx of population being part of that, that plus the campaign by city hall around the late forties, early fifties, to sort of clean up the clubs, etc., those are the two things that people talk about.

Kelso: Yeah, well, after the war, it was almost as if there's this exhilaration of "We've got more money than we know what to do with, and we can't buy houses in any other area." And then, three or four years later, [snaps fingers] "Yes, we can. Let me at it."What happened, though, to Central Avenue, it was almost as if people moved out with a vengeance. You know, "I loved it while I was here, but there's something better. Pie in the sky. Thank God, I'm free. I don't know where I'm going, but I know I don't want to stay here."

16. Tape Number: IX, Side OneMay 15, 1990

Isoardi: Jackie, you want to continue on that thought?

Kelso: Yes. While you were changing the tape, I remembered-it came to mind-my conversation with Ruth [Bromel] Washington, Leon [H. Washington, Jr.]'s wife at the Los Angeles Sentinel. Now, there are parts of Central Avenue that are heartbreaking to look at. Yet there are certain areas where there are no vacant lots and there's a lot of activity, especially around the Sentinel. E. F. Smith's Market is still there, and there is so much life and vitality there, but it's not all black. There's a lot of Latinos and people really busy doing things that have to do with just regular daily activities. A lot of human beings on the street. And when I was at the [Los Angeles Public] Library [Vernon Branch], I noticed that the majority of the people in the library were not black, they were Latinos.

Isoardi: I remember you mentioned, I think in our last session, how Jeff [Jefferson High School] had changed so much, as well.

Kelso: Oh, well, that was obvious a couple of years ago. I played a trust fund gig with Tommy Cortez's band over there, I don't know, four, five, six, seven years ago, maybe ten years, and I looked at that audience. "Where's Jefferson?" You know, when I attended Jefferson High School, it was very much a mixed school: black, white, all the ethnic groups, Orientals there. After I left, that's when it seemed to become all black. Now here, just recently, I go back and it is less black now than it ever was, even when I was going there.Ruth Washington, in one of her quotes in some of the material we've just been talking about, says something like, "When I remember how it used to be, it makes me feel like I almost want to cry." Yet, in that particular area that we've just been talking about, the Vernon [Avenue] and Central Avenue [area], there's still a lot of activity and caring people. You know, you walk into that Los Angeles Sentinel office, and there are rows of desks, women there doing whatever it is they do. There's a woman right by the front door, a receptionist, earphones on. She's obviously the one you talk to. You speak English to her, she immediately does what has to be done. Here comes Ruth Washington, and we stand up there and talk for forty-five minutes, talking about the life that still goes on there. In other words, the thread is unbroken. And she talks in terms-we can find it in the material-where she is determined to continue to do the work, the good work there that has always been done. And the quality of this newspaper looks like the Los Angeles Times. Full-color pictures on the paper- Two, three, four sections. Why, that newspaper looks as good as anything else you can find anywhere in the world.It's almost as if the land is waiting to be recycled by new, fresh energy. You know, the influx of people from all over the world, one thing they've certainly brought with them- No matter what race, color, these are aggressive, eager people with a lot of initiative-not all of them. But a whole lot of productive energy, raw human energy, is pouring into that area. It just hasn't filled out again. Of course, Central Avenue will never be the Central Avenue that some of us knew, loved, and remember, but-Ruth Washington stands out in my mind as a type of strength of character in a human being, because she could very well, if she had a mind to, just say, "I've had enough. I've seen it when it was at its best. It's breaking my heart. I cannot stand this anymore." But no, indeed. She is right there holding that thing together.While they were attempting to find Ruth for me, I noticed a woman who had come in and was on the same side of the counter as I was. In other words, she wasn't an employee. It turned out to be a friend of mine that I'd known for many, many years, a woman named Maggie Hathaway. When I first met her, she was a singer with Floyd Ray's big band. She and Floyd Ray finally got married. But, you know, I played in the band, with Floyd Ray's band, when Maggie sang with the band. She went on to become a very politically active person. She was responsible, in a sense, for setting up I think what was called a Beverly Hills chapter of the NAACP [National Association for the Advancement of Colored People]. She is extremely strong and outspoken on almost anything. In fact, she'll pick a fight about anything that she feels is even slightly unjust. She is still looking just as good as a human being can look. Some people are just built, I guess, in such a way that they just don't put on weight. You know, they stay sharp and fit. And she's a championship golfer. She happened to be in there because- I think it's in one of these issues she wrote an open letter to Sammy Davis, Jr. You know, Sammy Davis, Jr., is having some sort of health problems now.

Isoardi: He's dying, it seems.

Kelso: Yeah. And Maggie, due to the fact that she's always been outspoken and involved with the Beverly Hills chapter of the NAACP, she has been involved with producing many NAACP events, involved in all of the glamorous aspects of Beverly Hills and Hollywood. She wrote an open letter to Sammy Davis, Jr.-and it appears in one of these newspapers-cheering him up about all of the wonderful, fine times that they've had together and how much she appreciated all of the help that he has given the movement, you know, for the fight for justice and all of that.She happened to walk in at that time. I recognized the voice, and immediately I said, "That voice sounds like a voice I used to play saxophone for." And she said, "Kelso? Is that you, Kelso?" So we just stood up there and talked-you know, heartwarming memories and all of that sort of thing. She is one of the great fighters of all times. Outspoken. Doesn't care who hears anything she says.Maggie and Ruth. On that very same day I ran into women the likes of which- Not many of them exist, you know. Guts and- There are many women like that, but there are not enough of them. I don't know how they get that way, but they're certainly treasures. Fortitude, strength, character, and that sort of thing. Not always the most popular women when being evaluated by a certain kind of male intellect. You know, these women, they're not soft enough, not gentle enough, but, man, they are-Let's see. We're talking about the demise of Central.

Isoardi: Yeah. I think you articulately gave your response to that. Let me ask you another big question with two prongs, I guess. How would you assess the importance of Central Avenue both for you personally, in terms of your development- Which, actually, I suppose you've done over our last eight tapes. But for you personally, maybe in summary, and also Central's importance, say, overall, in jazz history. What did it give? How should it be remembered?

Kelso: Well, it's certainly the focal point in Los Angeles, as far as I'm concerned. I grew up within walking distance of Central Avenue, and it's like a magnet. You know, if you leave the house, you're either going to the swimming pool or the playground, or if you're really going to get into some serious interaction, you're going to be gravitating to Central Avenue in some way. Because, as they say, you know, that's where the happenings are; that's where the haps is. You know, if that's the focal point of the glamorous stars of Hollywood, if people come all the way across town just to drive down Central Avenue, to see and be seen, well, people who live in that neighborhood, they're going to be drawn by some mysterious magnetism. It might not be the same thing. People from across town come over to see how the other half lives. People who live there go there to see how we live when we're at our best and our most intriguing.You know, I talked to you about that one block in front of the Dunbar Hotel, you know, the guys who stood out there in front of the hotel in the afternoon. Man, what can you say about it? You just walk by and smile and just stand there just in awe. Of course, Chico [Hamilton], my buddy, he's outgoing. You know, he would have been right in the middle of the talking. And I'm just kind of standing there watching in awe.The significance of it? Yeah, well, I don't want to be funny and start talking about, "Well, what is the significance of significance? What do we mean by important? By what yardstick-?" To me, Central Avenue was the heart and the focal point of existence. That was the street. And it drew everybody there, not because that was where all of the naughty things happened. No, everything that happened that was important happened on that street.I don't know. Have we mentioned Maceo Sheffield?

Isoardi: I don't think so.

Kelso: He was one of the big and important people on Central Avenue. He was a stuntman, a motorcycle rider, a news photographer, and a policeman at one time. As a kid, I remember one of the stories that I heard about him. It seems to me I saw him a couple of times. Always well-dressed, heavy man. Oh, there's a picture of him in this book, Negro Who's Who's in California. There's a picture and a condensed story of his life. I didn't know this guy. He was so colorful and he was so broad. He flew airplanes. But, speaking of Central Avenue, when he was on the police force- He was a plainclothes detective, and part of his beat was Central Avenue. As a kid, I remember the stories they used to tell about him. He was so tough and so bad that if he went to a club or an after-hours spot or something where there was undercover, illegal activity going on after dark, the story is he would knock on the door and say, "This is Maceo Sheffield." Maybe I've told it before. This is one of my favorite stories.

Isoardi: No, I don't remember it.

Kelso: We can delete it. "This is Maceo Sheffield. Is my mother in there? If not, every tub." That means, if his mama's not in there, everybody in there is going to jail. [laughter]Since that's one of my favorite stories, I must have mentioned it before, so let's move along. Focus me back where you want me to focus and wind this up.

Isoardi: Well, just sort of sort your thoughts on the importance of Central for you personally, and also just in general, say, looking at the history of jazz in America, what did Central Avenue give it?

Kelso: Well, there were many clubs. There was the Memo Club, there was the Downbeat [Club], there was the Last Word [Cafe], and probably the most famous place would have been the Club Alabam. And anybody who's been on Central Avenue knew that the Club Alabam was the focal point for black show business.Of course, there was the Lincoln Theatre, too, but the stage shows there were not consistent. They didn't run consistently. I remember going to the Lincoln on Sunday, and they generally had stage shows, big bands.There was an oil painting of Bert Williams in the Lincoln Theatre, of the all-time great blackface comedians. He was supposed to have been, you know, one of the most highly developed- Well, intellectually, he was- He was nobody's dummy. He was a smart, well-educated man. But I was impressed with the fact that the Lincoln Theatre, in those days, was looked upon as one of the big, important theaters in the United States.Central Avenue was where- Almost anybody of importance would have been on Central Avenue if they were in town. Well, you know, the material says something to the effect that, at the corner of Vernon and Central, if you stood there long enough, you would see everybody you know. It was the focal point. Now, what can I compare Central Avenue to? I don't know. Why try to compare it to anything?

Isoardi: Yeah.

Kelso: It was certainly the main street in my life. Everything worthwhile happened on Central or close to Central. The YMCA [Young Men's Christian Association] was a half block off of Central Avenue at Twenty-eighth Street. Saint Philip's Episcopal Church was on Twenty-eighth Street, two and a half blocks off of Central Avenue. Wrigley Field, the baseball park, was on Avalon [Boulevard], which was-I don't know-three or four blocks west of Central Avenue, in the forties. Central Avenue had any and everything you might want. It was a complete street with the extra veneer of that mysterious glamor that you didn't find anywhere else. That's why so many people came over to see it, to see what was going on. Night or day, it had its attractions.Profound sociological implications would take some time for me to put together.

Isoardi: Well, I guess, is there anything we haven't covered? Anything you'd like to bring up? Or any concluding comments?

Kelso: No, except that you're a priceless gem. I had no idea that this sort of thing could be this valuable and this stimulating and rewarding. I just want to know, how much do I have to pay you now for the therapeutic benefits that I've derived from this? Because this has-

Isoardi: Oh, thank you.

Kelso: -given me a meaningful reason for really taking a serious look at my life. You know, if I hadn't had this opportunity, I probably wouldn't have done the things that I've done: start right at the very beginning of Central Avenue, down there at the Museum of Contemporary Art, and driving out to past 120th Street, past Honey Murphy's, and seeing what can happen in one lifetime. That is just- It would be interesting. Let's see. What city did you grow up in?

Isoardi: I was born in San Francisco, but when I was three, my folks moved to San Mateo about twenty miles south, and that's where I grew up.

Kelso: I daresay there's no street in San Mateo that would affect you the way Central Avenue affected me.

Isoardi: Yeah, no question. I couldn't identify a street like that.

Kelso: Well, you've been very professional and efficient and patient and loving in your supportive guidance here, and if there's anything you want me to look at more closely, I'd be very happy to. But, you know, this is my first experience at doing this, so it's like this is my first love. I'll measure every other experience by this one in the future.

Isoardi: Well, Jackie, it's been a pleasure. Thank you for a tremendous interview.

Kelso: Well, thank you.

Index

Adams, Al, 57, 59, 60, 257
Adams, Joe, 43-44, 209
Adams Theatre (Newark), 296-97
Al Adams Band, 57-60, 71-73, 122, 201
Alley, Vernon, 194, 198
American Federation of Musicians, 43, 131-33, 137-40, 142, 184, 208, 212-21, 338-39
Anderson, Andy, 187, 188
Andrews, Ernie, 112
Apex Club, 135-36
Armstrong, Louis, 21-22, 44, 190, 236-37
Aurex Jazz Festival (Japan), 292-94
Back Stage (club, San Francisco), 201-2
Balboa Ballroom, 326
Bal Tabrin (club), 81, 181-82, 330
Baranco, Wilbur, 202
Barefield, Bob, 256
Bargain with Bullets, 57, 128
Bass, Charlotta, 317
Beal, Charlie, 22
Belvin, Jessie, 327
Berry, William, 52
Bigard, Barney, 39-41, 238-40
Bihari, Joe, 329
Bihari, Jules, 329
Bihari, Saul, 329
Billy Berg's (club), 89, 253
Black Muslims, 13, 71
Blackwell, Bumps, 323
Blanton, Jimmy, 54
Bombardiers (band), 252
Bono, Sonny, 323, 328
Bostic, Earl, 177, 243, 276
Bradshaw, Tiny, 303, 304
Brandon, Artie, 84
Brashear, Oscar, 69
Brown, Lawrence, 63-64, 188-89
Browne, Sam, 62-63, 64-65, 91-92
Bryant, Marie, 84
Buckner, Teddy, 42
Burbank Burlesque Theatre, 37
Burke, Celle, 81, 271, 330
Burke, Sonny, 322
Cadet Records (Culver City, California), 329
Callender, Red, 21-22, 210, 271
Capitol Records, 325, 332
Carey, Poppa "Mutt," 41, 241
Carter, Benny, 106-8
Central Avenue, 135-53, 156-64
Charles, Ray, 44
Chief Seattle, 170
Clark Hotel, 145
Clayton, Buck, 21
Club Alabam, 135-36, 144, 270, 280-81, 364
Club Oasis, 272
Cobb, Arnett, 282
Cole, Louis V., 318-19
Collette, Buddy, 16, 17, 18, 35, 54, 57-59, 73, 75, 93, 94, 129, 131, 132-34, 187, 203, 204, 213, 215, 247-52, 255, 267, 344-46
Comfort, Joe, 60, 122, 257, 274
Conde, Benny, 333-34, 336
Conquest of Fear, The, 261
Cooper, L.C., 41
Cortez, Tommy, 357
Cotton Club, 64, 84, 188
Count Basie, 90
Course in Miracles, A, 26, 171-73
Criner, Lawrence, 57, 128, 129
Criss, Sonny, 243-46, 256, 284
Cruz, Terry, 88
Dandridge, Dorothy, 120
Dandridge, Vivian, 138
Dandridge Sisters, 120
Darensburg, Joe, 239
Davis, Leo, 214-15
Davis, Sammy, Jr., 360-61
de Beauvoir, Simone, 30
Decca Records, 322
DeFranco, Buddy, 254
Di Caro, Frank, 62
Dig Records, 323-28
Dolphy, Eric, 271-73
Dorsey, Tommy, 237
Douglass, William, 50, 271
Downbeat Club, 49, 146, 210, 255, 268, 364
DuBois, W.E.B., 263-64
Dunbar Hotel, 144-46, 150
Durham, Matilda (mother-in-law), 206-7
Durham, Thomas (father-in-law), 206-7
Elks auditorium, 71, 130-31, 134-37, 189, 236, 254
Ellington, Duke, 36, 39-40, 52-53, 56-57, 130, 189, 239, 307
El Monte Legion Stadium, 323
Evans, Herschel, 282
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 104, 127
Fain, Elmer, 137-38
Farmer, Addison, 86, 117-18
Farmer, Art, 86, 117-18
Fetchit, Stepin, 151
Fielding, Jerry, 346
Fields, Herbie, 294-95
Fleischer, Bernie, 215-17
Flennoy, Lorenzo, 274
Floyd, Buddy, 282-83
George Brown and his Ebony Collegians, 71, 131
Gillespie, Dizzy, 96, 119, 188, 248, 253, 287, 288
Glass, Melvin, 335
Glazer, Joe, 45
Goodman, Benny, 17, 49-50, 210-11, 237, 268
Gordon, Dexter, 54, 86, 97, 100-101, 112-14, 118, 122-23, 125, 256-57
Gray, John A., 65-67
Gray, Wardell, 211, 246, 256, 273
Gray Conservatory of Music (Los Angeles), 65-66, 70
Grimes, Herman, 194
Hall, Minor "Ram," 41
Hamilton, Chico, 16, 23-24, 35-38, 52-53, 54-56, 58-61, 70, 75, 86, 88-90, 261, 274, 363
Hamilton, Helen Henry, 53
Hampton, Gladys Riddle, 43, 44-47, 49, 208-9
Hampton, Lionel, 17, 18, 31-32, 42-47, 82, 95, 143, 194, 198, 208-10, 257, 267, 276, 277, 286, 288-300, 302, 322
Harris, Thomas A., 175
Harris, Wynonie, 236
Hathaway, Maggie, 359-61
Hawes, Hampton, 245-46, 284
Hawkins, Coleman, 54
Hayakawa, S.I., 127
Henderson, Fletcher, 50, 210, 268, 269
Henning, Carol, 33-34
Herman, Woody, 87, 293
Hite, Les, 189-90
Holloway, Phyllis Kelson (sister), 2, 67, 77, 120, 206, 263-64
Hollywood Boulevard, 152-53
Holmes, Ernest, 102-4, 126-27
Horne, Lena, 84
Howard, Camille, 230, 307
Howard, Paul, 43, 139-40, 208-9
Hubbard, Freddie, 292
Huxley, Aldous, 171
Jackson, Eugene, 138
Jackson, Freddy, 138
Jackson, Michael, 30
Jack's Tavern (club, San Francisco), 203
Jacquet, Illinois, 270, 277
James, Etta, 329
Jefferson High School, 62-65, 90-93, 357-58
Johnson, Bunk 40
Johnson, Cee Pee, 16-18, 247, 249-50
Johnson, Clarence, 47
Johnson, Happy, 21
Johnson, Ida (grandmother), 4
Johnson, Plas, 329, 330-31, 337, 339-42
Jones, Etta, 120-21
Jones, Reginald, 21
Jordan, Louis, 279
Kanter, Ben, 216
Katz, Fred, 55
Kaye, Carol, 246
Kaye, Danny, 237
Kelson, Dorothea Durham (wife), 80-84, 197, 203, 205
Kelson, John (father), 1-16, 18-20, 24, 47-48, 56, 66-67, 73, 74, 77, 78, 79, 82, 102-3, 136, 161-63, 195, 262-64, 317, 348
Kelson, Lillian (mother), 1-4, 7-8, 10, 11-12, 16, 24, 29, 74, 77, 78, 102-3, 136, 161-63, 207, 262-64, 318, 348, 349
Kenton, Stan, 87
Kid Ory's Dixieland Band, 39, 212
King, B.B., 329
King, Saunders, 201-2
Klein, Herbert, 104-5
Korzybski, Alfred, 127
Larry Potter's Jade Supper Club, 41, 212, 241
Last Word Cafe, 146, 364
Les Hite Orchestra, 188
Lewis, Crosby, 58
Lincoln Theatre, 46, 89, 233, 365
Lindsay, Gilbert W., 315
Little Casino (Gardena, California), 333
Little Harlem (club), 235
Los Angeles City College, 18, 20, 104-5, 182-84, 203-4, 247
Los Angeles Sentinel, 266, 310-13, 317-19, 357-59
Lowe, Curtis, 188
Luke, Barbara, 25-26, 29, 30
Luke, John, 25
Lunceford, Jimmie, 36, 53
Mack, Red, 40
Malcolm X, 12
Manne, Shelly, 243
Martin, Vern, 335
Martyn, Quedellis, 187
McKinney, Nina Mae, 57, 128
McNeely, Bobby, 335
McNeely, Cecil "Big Jay," 245, 284-5, 302, 335
McVea, Jack, 17-18, 250
Memo Club, 364
Miller, Loren, 317
Million Dollar Theatre, 57-58, 71, 73-74, 128, 129-31
Milton Roy, 50, 127, 143, 176, 177, 211-12, 224, 230-31, 236-37, 271, 278, 280-84, 302-9, 322, 324, 353
Mingus, Charles, 16, 35, 52, 58, 122, 129, 186-87, 255, 257-61, 266-67
Minter, Cliff, 318
Morgan, Frank, 124-25, 272
Morlan, Mantan, 57, 128, 129
Myart, Eddie Lee, 58
Myart, Jerome, 57-58, 129
Myart, Loyal, 58, 88
Myers, Bumps, 21, 210
Myrdal, Gunnar, 9
Nelson, Alex, 336
Nelson, Jimmy, 54
Nicholas, Albert, 41, 239
Noel, Cliff, 51
Noone, Jimmie, 239
Ory, Kid, 39, 40-42, 212, 238-42
Otis, Johnny, 323-31, 333, 335, 337
Pagones, Papa, 81
Parisian Room, 120-21
Parker, Charlie, 123-25, 243, 253, 287-88
Parker, William, 352
People's Independent Church, 10-11
Pepper, Art, 273-74
Perkins, War, 281
Popkin, Harry L., 129
Porter, Jake, 49, 50, 210, 268, 269, 270
Prysock, Red, 303
Quality Serenaders, 43, 208-9
Raby, Emil (cousin), 8
Ralke, Don, 336-69
Ray, Floyd, 55, 206, 359-60
René, Googie, 330
René, Leon, 81, 329-30
René, Otis, 329-30
Reyes, Jesus "Chuey," 37-38, 86
Rhumboogie Club, 17, 82
Rhythm and Blues Caravan, 324
Richardson, Jerome, 94, 198, 202, 251
Roberts, Caughey, 15-16, 19-21, 42, 50-51, 62, 215-17
Roberts, Frederick, 264-65
Royal, Ernie, 45, 87, 93-96, 98-99, 113, 194, 198, 248, 256
Royal, Evelyn, 94, 120-21
Royal, Flo Duseau, 94
Royal, Marshall, 17, 45, 63, 85, 87, 93-95, 98-101, 109, 113, 119-21, 123, 187-94, 198, 249-52, 322
RPM Records, 245
Rupe, Art, 281, 322-23
Russell, Clayton, 11
Saint Mary's College Preflight School, 98, 185-88, 192-201, 205, 247
Saint Philip's Episcopal Church, 10, 25, 29, 30, 366
Saleythial, Doyle, 274
Sammy Yates and the Premiers, 327
Sapp, Hosea, 230, 282
Satchell McVea's Howdy Entertainers, 18
Savio, Mario, 157
Scott, Bud, 22, 41
Sebastian, Frank, 64, 84, 188
Sheffield, Maceo, 363-64
Shrine Auditorium, 54
Sinatra, Frank, 30, 101
Smith, Carson, 55
Smith, Fishella, 119-21
Smith, Gertrude, 23
Smith, Willie, 119
Smock, Emma, 62-117
Snow, Valaida, 84-85, 209
Sonday, Frank, 187
Sophisticated Ladies, 63, 119, 121, 288
Specialty Records, 281, 305, 322
Stars of Swing, 255
Stevens, Julie, 331-32
Stitt, Sonny, 344
Strand Theatre (New York City), 290-91, 296
Streisand, Barbra, 30
Strollers (club), 55, 60
Sturdevant, Wilbert, 70
Sullivan, Martha (grandmother), 7
Summers, Al, 198
Tatum, Art, 271
Taylor, Billy, 125-26
Taylor, Eddie, 202
Terry, Clark, 119
Thomas, Ralph, 197-98
Thompson, Sir Charles, 270
Thompson, Lucky, 253-56, 267
Three Rockets (dance group), 147-48
Tjader, Cal, 244
Topflighters (band), 252
Top Hatters (dance group), 147-48
Trianon Ballroom, 44, 209
Turner, Big Joe, 235-36
United States Navy, 184-88
Varieties of Religious Experience, The, 260
Vaughn, Billy, 31
Vogue Ballroom, 54, 55
Walker, T-Bone, 233-36
Warner Brothers Pictures, 337-38
Washington, Leon H., Jr., 266, 310-13, 316-21, 354-55, 357
Washington, Ruth Bromel, 311, 357-59, 361
Watts, Alan, 172-73
Webb, Chick, 89-90
Webb, Jack, 337
Weinberg, Jack, 157
Weinberg, Morris (grandfather), 7
Welles, Orson, 40-41, 82
White, Walter, 264
Wickham, Oscar (uncle), 68
Wiggins, Gerald, 60, 93
Williams, Bert, 365
Williams, Mel, 332
Williams, Paul R., 25
Woodman, Britt, 129-30, 255
Woodman, William, Sr., 130
Woodman Brothers Biggest Little Band in the World, 135
Woods, Hortense, 265, 314
Wright, Lammar, Jr., 118-19
Wright, Lammar, Sr., 118
Wrigley Field (Los Angeles), 366
"You Bet Your Life," 345
Young, A.S. "Doc," 313
Young, Lee, 90
Young, Snooky, 63
Young, Lester, 89-90, 101
Young, Marl, 213

Contents

Copyright Law

Restrictions on this Interview

Literary Rights and Quotation

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. Tape Number: I, Side OneMarch 24, 1990

2. Tape Number: I, Side TwoMarch 24, 1990

3. Tape Number: II, Side OneMarch 24, 1990

4. Tape Number: II, Side TwoMarch 24, 1990

5. Tape Number: III, Side OneApril 7, 1990

6. Tape Number: III, Side TwoApril 7, 1990

7. Tape Number: IV, Side OneApril 14, 1990

8. Tape Number: IV, Side TwoApril 14, 1990

9. Tape Number: V, Side OneApril 14, 1990

10. Tape Number: V, Side TwoApril 14, 1990

11. Tape Number: VI, Side OneApril 17, 1990

12. Tape Number: VI, Side TwoApril 17, 1990

13. Tape Number: VII, Side OneApril 17, 1990

14. Tape Number: VIII, Side OneMay 15, 1990

15. Tape Number: VIII, Side TwoMay 15, 1990

16. Tape Number: IX, Side OneMay 15, 1990

Index