LORD LEROY

ABRIDGED FROM A CHAPTER IN MY BOOK "YOU DON’T HAVE TO SAY YOU LOVE ME", PUBLISHED BY PENGUIN. ALSO AVAILABLE IN AUDIO BOOK FROM AUDIBLE

Aged 18, I was planning to be the new Chet Baker. Or was it Miles Davis? I can’t remember now. But either way, my ambition was to be a great jazz trumpeter. That meant living in America but since getting in was next to impossible I settled for the next best thing which was Canada. And in April 1957, the day after my 18^th birthday, I arrived there, trumpet in hand, ready to blow my way to the top.

But I hadn't reckoned with the American Federation of Musicians. They said I had to be resident for one year before I could join.

For a month I hung around jazz clubs in Toronto wondering what to do. Then a black waiter at the corner coffee shop told me about Little Lord Leroy, a rhythm 'n' blues singer with a roadshow of twenty musicians and dancers who toured the club circuit of Eastern Canada.

‘Leroy lives in Montreal,' he told me. 'The union ain't so fussy up there, an' that cat's always lookin' for new young horn players.'

I mentioned it to a friend in the office where I was working but he fell over laughing. `That's a black band. And besides ...’ He made a strange gesture, puckering his lips and rolling his eyes…  ‘Little Lord Leroy? You wouldn't last five minutes.'

Because I was English I saw no reason to abide by North America's racial manners, so I took the Greyhound bus to Montreal, checked into a rooming house and managed to get Little Lord Leroy's address from the Musicians' Union. He had a large ranch-house outside of town to which I made my way on a series of buses, getting there early in the evening.

I walked up the driveway, combed my hair in the reflection of a car window and pressed the bell on his pink and gold-leafed front door. It opened to reveal a slender black man with the body of a teenage athlete and the collapsing face of a melting waxwork. He was dressed head to foot in purple. Purple shirt, cravat, sweater, bracelet, slacks, socks and boots.

When he saw me, he raised his hands to his hair like a slow-motion shampoo commercial and said, `Well, for heaven's sake, sugar pie - who are you? But never mind… Jus’ come on in.'

He allowed me to squeeze tightly past him and patted my bottom in the direction of the staircase. 'It's upstairs, baby.'

At the top there was a room the size of a school gymnasium, magnificently decorated like a Moorish palace. Jazz was playing softly, the air was thick with sweet smoke, and about a dozen people, all of them black, sat around in groups.

Purple shouted out to them, 'Hey, you all, look what's just arrived. Ain't any of you bad black girls gonna make a claim?' More quietly he said to me, 'What's your name, white boy?'

I avoided his eyes, looked at the floor and mumbled, 'Well, I came here 'cos I thought there might be a job with Lord Leroy's band.'

`Oh I se-e-e-e!' Purple gurgled with sudden comprehension. He raised his voice again, 'Shit man, this kid's lookin' to play with Lee's band. Does anyone know where Lee is?'

In a corner, two men dressed in leather were deeply engrossed in the studs of each other's jackets. By the fireplace, another couple were lying half undressed on a white rug, sharing a joint and large portions of each other. In front of a tinted mirror, three girls were practising some sort of dance. And sitting on a settee by the door were two neatly dressed young men holding instrument cases.

Then, like champagne from a shaken bottle, Little Lord Leroy sprayed into the room. `Hey, man,' he shouted at one of the studded leather couple, 'will you jus' take off that bad-ass jazz and put on one of Little Lord Leroy's records.'

He turned to the three dancers, 'Now listen here, children, you can't flop around like that and expect to be on stage with Leroy's band. Look, you's meant to move your ass like this ...'

He arched his back, stuck out a leg and kicked. Then turned and saw me. `Hey, baby. Where d'you come from?'

He came over and put his arm round my shoulder and I managed to tell him, 'London. I'm from London, England.'

‘An Englishman? A white English boy's come all the way to Canada jus' to see Little Lord Leroy. Ain't that somethin? What's your name, baby?'

`Simon.'

`Well, I ain't never had one of them before?’

He waved towards the two young men with instruments waiting on the settee. `Those two cats is before you but I'm goin' to send them away. I like you, baby. I ain't never had no white kid play in my band before. Why don't you come out with us, boy? We's all goin' down the Eighty-Eights bar.'

I was half-terrified, half-pleased. I was English, I was white, I had novelty value. Who knew, in a couple of days I might be playing with an all-black rhythm 'n' blues band.

I went with Leroy himself in his white Cadillac. I'd never been in one before and Leroy could tell. He put the radio on, snapped his fingers and flashed his rings. ‘D'you know how to roll a spliff? There's some real bad grass under the ashtray. And there's some whiskey in the back too, and some glasses. Why not pour us a couple of shots?'

By the time we reached Eighty-Eights, I was sinking fast. I remember Leroy's arm round my shoulder as he guided me through the doors into the glossy darkness. Then there was black music and silver shafts of light, dark corners, multi-coloured cocktails, and everywhere the hip talk and smooth movements of all those black guys.

Leroy walked me to a table and sat me down with a large cocktail, which I drank in two gulps, He ordered another and pointed to someone on the far side of the room. 'Hey, look, there's Fats Arthur, he used to play lead with Lionel Hampton.'

Fats came over to smack his hand in a jive welcome. `Hey, Leroy, who's this young white punk you gotta hold of?'

‘Man, this cat is the number one trumpet player from London, England. An' he's gonna be joinin' my band an' playin' with my horn section.'

Fats Arthur put his hand on my knee and said to Leroy, 'Well you's a lucky man, Lee. It ain't every day you find yourself a good-lookin' white boy like this.'

I'd never met a lead trumpeter from any of the great bands and I wanted to ask a million questions, but I could hardly keep my eyes open. Leroy put another cocktail in front of me and after a couple of sips I simply dozed off.

I don’t know how long I was asleep for - I was in a dream - I was in a fantastic carriage being driven through space. We arrived at a palace in the sky where I was carried to a golden bed by black angels who started undressing me, teasingly brushing away my clothes. Then…

I had a sudden burst of sobriety. I was lying on a bed with my shirt undone and my trousers half off, and in front of me, with a nasty, leering smile on his face, was Little Lord Leroy. Naked.

His bulging black stomach fell down over a sharply erected, pink-headed penis. And it waved at me menacingly, like a cobra preparing to strike. As I slowly sat up, it twitched.

I grabbed my trousers, leapt off the bed and ran. Out of the room, down the stairs, along a passage and somehow, I don't know how, I found the door and got out into the street.

I ran for quite a while before my legs started giving way. Then I sat on the kerb and panted for breath.

It seemed I wouldn't be playing in Little Lord Leroy's rhythm 'n' blues band, after all.

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