CHERRY PINK

SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT - A CHAPTER FROM MY LAST BOOK 'SOUR MOUTH, SWEET BOTTOM"

On my eighteenth birthday, determined to live in America and become a great jazz trumpeter, I emigrated to Canada and ended up in Montreal. I couldn’t join the local musicians’ union until I’d been resident for six months, so I found work in a non-union dockside pub playing pop songs. Two months later a drunk sailor strangled the pianist because he didn’t know the Estonian national anthem. So the police closed the place.

I still wasn’t eligible to join the American Federation of Musicians, but someone told me I could join the Variety Artists Federation and play the trumpet as a cabaret artist. It meant going on stage as a soloist and playing two or three songs under a spotlight.

Since there was no other way to earn my living as a musician, I decided to give it a go. A local agent gave me a try-out in a club at Pointe-Marie, thirty miles north of Montreal. ‘Showtime is eight fifteen and you’ll be on first,’ he told me. ‘You’ll get fifteen dollars and you’ll need to be wearing a tuxedo.’

A friend lent me one, but he was tall  ⏤ the trousers needed to be turned up two inches. To save money I decided to hitch-hike, and in case there was nowhere to change, I wore the tuxedo on the way. It was raining, and I arrived late and damp. The manager told me, ‘You’re on in five minutes. Tell the bandleader which two songs you’re doing. And don’t forget to tell him which key.’

I’d been thinking about it all the way there. I’d decided to start with Cherry Pink, a good commercial trumpet piece, then do a jazzy version of St Louis Blues. They were both really easy and I could hardly go wrong. So I went and found the bandleader and told him Cherry Pink’in E-flat and St Louis Blues in F.

Someone introduced himself to me as the Master of Ceremonies. ‘What’s your name? ‘

‘Simon.’

‘No ⏤ your stage name.’

‘I don’t really know, I... er...’ But he was gone.

I stood at the edge of the stage and watched him walk into the spotlight. Beyond it, in the dark, I could see people seated round tables. The MC said, ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen ⏤ direct from London ⏤ the greatest trumpet player in Europe...

⏤ Antonio La Concha.’

There was a drum roll. And a big chord from the band.

The MC turned towards me, applauding, and a chorus girl standing next to me with feathers on her bottom gave me a shove, and said, ‘Go on, mister, that’s you.’

I walked out hesitantly. A bright light hit me in the face at the same moment as a nervous thump hit me in the stomach. My heart was beating so hard my whole body throbbed, like a frog breathing. I was petrified.

I put the trumpet to my lips and by some incredible piece of chance the first four notes of Cherry Pink came out, reaching the bit where it goes into a slur.

I made the slur as long as possible, like all the best trumpet players did ⏤ but I suddenly realised I couldn’t remember the next bit. The slur had come to an end because I’d run out of breath, but I still couldn’t remember how the tune went. So I started again from the beginning: ‘Da-da-da-daaaaaaa.’

I still couldn’t remember the damned melody. I’d gone completely blank. People were watching. My heart was pounding. So I played it again.

‘Da-da-da-daaaaaa.’

Still nothing.

After the fifth time, the audience could take no more. A couple of coins landed on the stage, another one hit me, someone shouted, ‘Get him off.’ And suddenly a deluge of nickels and cents hailed down around me. I stood there helpless, not knowing what to do.

I didn’t want to be there, but I didn’t know how to get off. I stepped back, uncertain, and tripped on one of my two-inch trouser turn-ups. I sat on the stage with a thump and suddenly everyone was roaring with laughter. I was furious. I wasn’t nervous now ⏤ just bloody angry.

Not angry like you lose control, just coldly angry. Livid. Didn’t these people have any idea what it was like to try? To make a mistake? To be broke? To have a dream? To be eighteen? I stood up, pointed my trumpet at them and played Cherry Pink. Perfectly. All the way through. All the high bits too. The best I’d ever played anything in my life.

And every note said FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.

When it was finished there was a fair amount of applause, but I didn’t stop for it. I started on St Louis Blues and I was steaming. I was going to play it magnificently, but the band started off in the wrong key. It ground to a halt. I looked at the bandleader. He looked at me. I said F. He said sorry, and we started again.

After that it was tame. Nothing wrong with it, just boring, I didn’t make any mistakes and there wasn’t much applause.

When I came offstage the boss said, ‘I liked the comedy kid, but you ought to brush up on the trumpet playing. Still, if you want to do the rest of the weekend you can.’

I didn’t, I walked out, hitch-hiked back to Montreal, got to my room at midnight, shut the door, sat on the bed, stared at the wall.

I didn’t want to be a professional trumpet player. I’d known that for some time without admitting it to myself ⏤ I wasn’t a natural brass player. I wasn’t good enough. But to give up now was like giving a present to all those people back home who’d always said I’d never make it. The trouble was ⏤ when I’d persuaded myself I wanted to be a jazz musician, what I’d really wanted was to be black ⏤ to be funky, and cool, and speak jive talk. As soon as I realised I’d never manage that, it became work, rather than pleasure. I was only doing it to save face.

So the next day I sold my trumpet and freed myself from seven years of daily practice. It was the most liberating thing I’d ever done.

But it wasn’t that easy. Like everyone else who’s ever tried to givr up music, it wasn’t long before it dragged me back again.

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