Bop Guy Goes Calypso
Posted by Michael Eldridge on May 11, 2010
In last weekend’s Saturday link dump, NPR’s A Blog Supreme pointed to a Brilliant Corners post by Matt Lavelle, who managed jazz sales at the old Tower Records on 4th and Broadway in New York during its final years. Like a few thousand other people, I’ve got fond memories of that place. The staff in the jazz department, which for ages took up half of the third floor, were wry, knowledgeable, and hip, and a number of them were working, if underemployed, musicians. My favorite fixture, though, was an older gent named Garl Jefferson, who came out of retirement to take the job and stayed for well over ten years.
I only got to know him after about a decade’s worth of semi-annual pilgrimages. Tower’s international section was for a while adjacent to jazz, and when I came to the counter in the summer of 2000 with a question about some obscure calypso disc that I hadn’t managed to find, the clerk referred me to Garl. I was glad he did.
Jefferson was born in Harlem in 1932. Charlie (Congressman Charles) Rangel was in his brother’s class. He met Sidney Poitier at the Red Rooster in the 1950s. His high school basketball coach once wangled him an after-school job as Langston Hughes’s gofer. And Jefferson was eager to tell me about how calypso, along with bebop and mambo, was a staple in Harlem during and after World War II. (And even later: when he came back from the Korean War in 1954, he said, “there were still [calypso] bands and dances going on”). He knew—and so did everyone else he knew—Houdini and the Great MacBeth and the Duke of Iron and Lord Invader and the Gerald Clark band. He recalled seeing Sir Lancelot in “I Walked With a Zombie” and “Happy Go Lucky,” and he sang from memory a verse and chorus of Lion’s “Ugly Woman,” which Lancelot performed in the latter film. Even Charlie Parker kept some West Indian music in his bag, he noted, citing not only Bird’s own “Barbados”—“one of the things that [eventually] got my wife closer to me, because she’s second-generation Bajan”—but also a cover of “Sly Mongoose.” (It’s included in the 1952 Live at the Rockland Palace concert; Jefferson remembered it being in Parker’s late 40s repertoire.)
As a teenager, Jefferson said, he heard all kinds of music in Harlem, and he leaned strongly towards bop. But he often went to calypso dances with his best friends, many of whose parents were West Indian, at places like the Park Palace, the Renaissance Casino, and the Audubon Ballroom, as well as at smaller halls rented for the night by a West Indian social club or benevolent association. Most any weekend, he said, you could count on hearing calypso somewhere or other. Even at legendary jazz spots like Murrain’s and Small’s Paradise, he remembered attending “calypso dances…as well as jazz sessions.” (He may have been too young to get into Boxil Jackson’s Caribbean Club on 7th Avenue.) Usually there would be just one band—vocals, sax, trumpet, guitar, bass, conga, maracas—on the evening’s bill, he said, sometimes two or more at larger halls like the Park Palace.
At the time, Jefferson wasn’t aware whether any of these acts had a reputation outside of Harlem, but it wouldn’t have mattered: for him and his friends, the calypsonians’ cool factor didn’t depend upon their success downtown or out of town. He could go to school the following Monday and say, “Man, we were at a dance [on Saturday] and MacBeth was burnin!” and he wouldn’t have to explain or defend his judgment.
He was emphatic that a broad social spectrum—middle-class and working-class, West Indian and African-American—was represented at these events. “For a kid my age, at the time, in the late 40s, [a calypso dance] was a social function that you counted on being at.” The venue might only have accommodated a hundred people or even fewer, “but it was a happening!” The same went for the West Indian Day Parade, originally held on Lenox Avenue in Harlem: “For me, that was a big deal. It meant a lot to me and the rest of the kids in my generation.”
Even if you weren’t an habitué of the dances, though, calypso was in the air: “On the jukebox, you would hear eighty per cent jazz, and all of a sudden here comes Louis Jordan.” (Here he broke out in song again.) “‘Run Joe!’ And ‘Stone Cold Dead.’ And that’s what I’m alluding to: you’re gonna hear this whether you want to or not. So that’s why I’m saying, it wasn’t a matter of me going seeking it out, it was there for me to pick up on.”
Socially speaking, Jefferson said, calypso in Harlem was “primarily dance music”: at the clubs, “the accent was on dancing, and everybody’d be bumping hips.” But his friends had plenty of records at home, too. And when you heard calypso on disc or on the radio, “you listened to hear the words” as well as the music. “Doris, darling I am feeling blue,” he sang, quoting a variant of Growler’s “I Don’t Want No Calaloo”: “I believe what the neighbors tell me is true / Just gimme de royal codfish / And not de green ting inside de dish / My darling I can’t call you / Cau’ I don’t want no more callaloo.”
What Jefferson particularly recollected, though, were tunes with social and political relevance, including one about Axis leaders and the cult of personality, whose title he remembered as “You Got to Have Power” (“Hitler had power, power; Mussolini had power, power; Hirohito had power, power”), as well as another uptempo tune that mentioned Pakistani Prime Minister Ali Khan: “This is really true / I dream one day I was really a Hindu (2x) / All the Indians from Hyderabad / Come to see me because I was feeling so sad.” “Now at my age,” said Jefferson, “if I can still remember some of the words to these things, you’ll understand what an impression it made. It wasn’t fleeting.”
Another tune he recalled was “Fire Down Dey”: “The first place we heard that was in the old Park Palace,” he said; “just about all [the] bands would play it.” And that’s why, he said, when Sonny Rollins recorded the same melody a decade later, “it wasn’t nothing new to me—but he called it ‘St. Thomas.’”
Intriguingly, when I first chatted with Jefferson at the register in Tower, he thought he remembered a friend of his father’s, a sideman with Rollins, who was reputed to be the Duke of Iron’s uncle. When we sat down to talk at length a few days later, though, on a lunch break at the Astor Place Starbuck’s, he told a different story, about a tenor player with MacBeth the Great, a big man—physically not unlike Rollins—who had a particular talent for energizing the dancers.
“Knowledge, experiences, aren’t here to be kept to yourself,” Jefferson told me as we were packing up and saying our goodbyes. “You gotta share it, otherwise you don’t really have any knowledge.” You’ve got it, Garl. I hope you’re still kicking. Thanks for sharing.
Addendum, January 2014: I’ve since confirmed that the tune Jefferson recalled above was indeed Muriel Gaines singing “You Got to Have Power” (National 8001B, 1945), backed by Sam Manning’s Serenaders.