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‘I haven’t the foggiest idea, Pansy,’ Maxine replied, turning her head to see into Pansy’s sparkling eyes. ‘Not a great amount yet, I don’t suppose. But the way we played tonight…and that without a practice. If we play like that all the time we’ll be getting bookings all over the place. I’m really excited.’
‘And would you give up playing your cello in the CBO, Maxine, if this jazz thing really took off?’
Maxine shrugged. She loved her cello; she loved the classical music she played on it. ‘I don’t know, Pansy. This jazz is…well, it’s fun but…I suppose there’s more money to be made playing jazz than there is playing classical music, but I don’t know.’
‘More than playing in the pit orchestra at the Hippodrome. What do you think, Stephen?’
‘Oh, I’m all for it, Pansy. I think you’ll do well – very well. Eleanor was mightily impressed, and she’s heard a few jazz bands.’
‘What did you think of Eleanor, Stephen?’ Maxine asked with genuine curiosity. ‘I thought she seemed a bit snotty.’
‘Snotty? Maxine you do say some things. She wasn’t snotty at all. I found her very nice…very easy to talk to.’
‘Easy to look at, too, eh?’ Pansy teased. ‘She should have been arrested wearing that dress. It looked as if it had been painted on – like her red nail varnish.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Pansy,’ Stephen said, irritated by his sister’s criticism. ‘I agree it was…well, revealing, but she wore it with such style.’
‘Well I wouldn’t wear anything like it. Would you, Maxine?’
‘Well, let’s face it, you couldn’t carry it off - either of you,’ Stephen responded curtly, without giving Maxine her chance to reply.
‘Don’t be daft, Stephen. Maxine’s figure is equally as good as Eleanor’s. So’s mine for that matter. It’s just that we’re not interested in flaunting ourselves like she is.’
‘Because you couldn’t carry it off. Eleanor can. There’s a subtle difference.’
‘She’s got no inhibitions if you ask me,’ Pansy persisted. ‘That’s why. I don’t see that as something to be proud of, our Stephen.’
Stephen smiled smugly to himself as he stopped the car outside the end terrace that was, for the time being, still the home of Henzey and Will and Maxine. He kissed Maxine cursorily on the lips as he bid her goodnight.
‘Goodnight, Stephen. Goodnight, Pansy.’ She squeezed her friend’s hand in appreciation. ‘You were brilliant tonight, Pansy. Absolutely brilliant.’
‘Thanks, Maxine. Goodnight…Hey, Maxine! Do you know whether Toots, the trumpet player, is married or anything?’
‘Toots?’ Maxine grinned. ‘I haven’t a clue. I barely know him. Fancy him, do you?’
Pansy shrugged, and the darkness hid her blushes. ‘He seems nice.’
Chapter 7 (#ueb32d124-c031-5f73-b1b4-3a552c7c2770)
Stephen Hemming stopped his car behind Brent Shackleton’s outside the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club and bid cheerio to his sister Pansy and to Maxine as they left him for another evening of band practice. ‘See you about eleven,’ he called as the two girls turned to wave before they entered the club.
‘Thank God for this new business he’s started,’ Maxine commented. ‘At least it’s keeping him out of my hair.’
‘I can see you don’t mind.’ Pansy said.
‘Mind? I’m glad. He was driving me mad a while ago. Wouldn’t let me out of his sight. At least it’s taken his mind off me. Gives me a chance to get on with my own life for a change.’
Pansy opened the inner door to the club. The others were there, tuning up, fooling around. ‘To be honest, I don’t know how you put up with him, Maxine - how you’ve put up with him for so long. I wouldn’t fancy him for a boyfriend. He’s too self-centred.’
‘Well, while the cat’s away…’ She winked at Pansy devilishly. ‘I think he’s losing interest anyway. I won’t let him have what he wants.’
‘I don’t blame you, either. I can think of much nicer men to play hanky-panky with.’ Pansy smiled at Maxine, reflecting her contentment as she fell into the welcoming arms of Toots Randle. ‘Hello, sugar-lips,’ she greeted, kissing him briefly. ‘Sorry we’re late. Stephen was late collecting us.’
She placed her clarinet case on a chair and went back to Toots’s arms. In the month since Pansy had joined the band, a vibrant romance had blossomed between them; a romance that did not hide itself but which was open and honest, for all to see. Both had been unattached, neither seeking romance, but suddenly it had hit them and they were enjoying it. It was reflected in their playing too. A musical rapport was blossoming between them that manifested itself in some clever and often seemingly spontaneous interplay between trumpet and clarinet.
But spontaneous it was not – at least, not always. The band had been practising intensely and the musicians, especially Pansy and Toots, had got to know each other’s play better than ever. Each probed the abilities of the others and they pushed themselves and each other to the limit of their capabilities. This required many practice runs at the same piece, and a new riff that was improvised one moment, when considered worthy by the others, would become standard play in that number. But even to an experienced musician who might be listening, it seemed spontaneous.
‘What’s on the agenda for tonight?’ Maxine asked Brent.
‘Something a bit different. For a change. A friend of mine just came back from the United States. He picked up a record in New York that he reckons is a big hit there. He thought we’d be interested in playing it before anybody else cottoned on. I brought it along to listen to.’
‘What is it?’
‘A swing number – a bit of a novelty really. Called “The Music goes ’Round and Around”. It’s ideal for a seven-piece band.’
‘Let’s hear it then.’
Brent called everybody to order and placed the record on the turntable. He wound up the gramophone, placed the needle in the groove and they all sat in silence while they listened, Pansy on Toots’s lap, her arm round his neck.
‘So?’ he asked, when it had finished.
‘Let’s hear it again,’ said Kenny.
Brent played it again.
‘I like it,’ Pansy said. ‘It’s got some lovely riffs.’
‘But who’s going to sing it?’
‘Well. It describes the course of a note travelling through a trumpet, so maybe Toots should sing it,’ Brent reasoned.
‘Better if Pansy sang it,’ Maxine suggested logically, ‘then Toots could be blowing his note while she’s singing about it.’
‘I don’t like this new stuff,’ Ginger complained. ‘It’s not proper jazz, is it? And we are supposed to be a jazz band after all.’
‘It’s swing,’ Brent said.
‘Like I say, it’s not jazz.’
‘Swing is what jazz is evolving into, Ginger. Why should we be stuck in the style of New Orleans? This new music is more varied – you get novelty songs like this for instance – beautiful love songs as well, but you still need skill to play them. It’s no less taxing on your ability.’
‘It’ll be taxing on Ginger’s,’ Kenny remarked pointedly, adjusting the height of his high hat. ‘There’s no banjo in it. It’s all guitar – amplified at that.’
‘I can play guitar as well,’ Ginger protested. ‘Amplified or not.’
‘Huh! Says you. How come we’ve never seen your guitar?’
‘’Cause we play jazz. Jazz requires a banjo.’
‘Well from now on it’s gonna require a guitar as well if we’re to progress,’ Brent advised. ‘So I suggest you brush up on your guitar and bring it next time.’
‘D’you think Django Reinhardt will have anything to fear?’ Kenny wisecracked.
‘Have we got the sheet music to this, by any chance?’ Charlie asked, tuning his double bass.
‘Sorry. Just this record. Let’s listen to it again, eh?’
They listened once more, and took the first faltering steps in trying to play the number by ear. It was to take many hearings before each became familiar with his or her own part, but by the end of the evening they had it more or less right. Brent was happy, and Maxine was happy. The more they performed it the more comfortable they would be with it and the better it would get, meanwhile acquiring the characteristics of their own developing style.
So, at the end of the evening, they were content that their hard work had achieved something worthwhile. They talked together about this and that while they packed their instruments away and made ready to leave, a time for banter.
‘Anybody want a piece of chewing gum?’ Kenny asked, tossing a chicklet into his mouth nonchalantly. Pansy accepted and so did Toots. Then Kenny reached into one of the cases of his drum kit and splashed toilet water over his face.
‘Off out now then, Kenny?’ Toots enquired.
Kenny grinned. ‘I gotta smell nice. I’m seeing a bit o’ stuff. Picked her up here a couple o’ Sundays ago. A right little goer. Hotter than cayenne pepper.’
‘Well let’s hope your missus never finds out.’
Pansy rolled her eyes at them and turned to Maxine. ‘Toots is taking me home, Maxine. Do you want us to wait with you till Stephen comes?’
Maxine looked at her wristwatch. It said ten past eleven. ‘No, he’ll be here in a minute. You go.’
‘I’ll wait with you, Maxine,’ Brent offered. ‘We can wait in my car.’
Maxine thanked him and followed him outside, and they all wished each other goodnight. Brent got into his car and unlocked the passenger door.
‘I thought that number went well, considering,’ he said, lighting a cigarette when Maxine was sitting at his side.
‘So did I. I’m all for trying these newer styles of jazz. I think it’s got more appeal than straight, traditional jazz.’
‘There’s no doubt, Maxine…And I’ve been thinking…I want the band to have more visual appeal as well. We’ve proved the sound is better – that we’re an accomplished band already. Now, you and Pansy are really good-looking girls. I think we should exploit that to the limit. I think you should both wear really slinky dresses that show up your every curve – something to get the men’s pulses racing a bit. This swing stuff is more sophisticated, more in line with that image. Would it bother you…doing that?’
‘Wearing a slinky dress?’ She hooted at the thought. ‘It’s not really me, but no, I don’t mind – on stage. Maybe I could borrow Eleanor’s.’
He chortled impishly at her irreverence. ‘It wouldn’t fit. She’s bigger than you.’
‘I wasn’t serious, Brent. I’d buy my own.’
‘Great. You’ll do it then?’
‘If you think it’s for the good of the band…Talking of which, what are we going to do about the name? The Second City Hot Seven isn’t exactly inspiring.’
‘Not in keeping with what we’re trying to achieve, I agree, Maxine.’
‘As I see it, Brent, the name has to reflect what we’re trying to achieve. It has to do with the concept we’re trying to put over.’
‘Well, you two in your slinky, revealing frocks could give us a clue. How about Wayward something or other?’ He looked at her admiringly and, in the half-light, she discerned a gleam in his eye. ‘I wish you were a bit wayward, Maxine.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ she replied coolly. ‘Anyway, I think we should try and project sophistication…Something adult. Our music is getting more sophisticated, so why shouldn’t we aim at a sophisticated audience? Adults, who know their own mind, who live life as they want to live it – even in sin, if that’s what they want.’
‘Sophisticated Sinners?’
‘Too much of a mouthful.’
‘Syncopating Sinners?’
‘No. I like the Sinners bit, though.’
‘Swinging Sinners.’
‘No, too ordinary…How about Sinful Swingers?’
‘God, no. That’s terrible.’
‘Sinful Syncopators?’
Just then, Stephen’s car pulled up alongside them. Maxine opened the door to let herself out. She turned to Brent. ‘Wayward Swingers.’
He sniggered out loud. ‘What? Sounds rude to me.’
She smiled patiently. ‘Goodnight, Brent. Thanks for waiting with me.’
‘Hey, Maxine. I’ve got it. The perfect name. The Rhythm Seekers.’
‘Yes, that’s good,’ she replied. ‘That’s very good.’
‘No, Maxine. On second thoughts, what has seekers got to do with jazz?’
She closed the door again and sat back. This brainstorming of ideas should not be rushed. ‘Honey Seekers. That’s got a nice ring to it. And it’s jazzy. Remember “Whose Honey Are You” and “Honeysuckle Rose”?’
‘How about Honey and Plenty of Money?’
She tittered irreverently. ‘Wrapped up in a five-pound note, you mean? Are you serious?’
‘Why not? It’s from “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat”. At least it has a familiar sound. “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat. They took some honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a five pound note”…’
Outside, Stephen hooted the horn of his car with impatience.
‘The Owls and the Pussycats,’ they said in unison, almost as if it had been rehearsed, and burst out laughing.
‘Brilliant!’ Maxine exclaimed.
‘That’s the one,’ Brent agreed. ‘The men are the owls, you girls are the pussycats – of course. It couldn’t be better.’
‘I’d better go, Brent. Old Face-Ache outside will be upset if I keep him waiting any longer. See you tomorrow. Thanks for waiting with me.’
‘My pleasure, Maxine…really.’
