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There is an Austin jazz scene, and it's due to Dick Goodwin,
'ho planted the seed, Rod Kennedy who watered it thanklessly,
and To all the guys playing, who have put together their individual
Sets without any prospect of making it.
by Fred Bourque the art, Austin-wise, in 1965, for rather
My own interest in jazz in Austin than climbing aboard the new thing he
l tes from about ten years ago (for has preferred to develop his own
ight into the dark days during the considerable talents within the familiar
.' ties and early Sixties talk to John context of early Sixties, post-bop,
lt tin, who was there and somehow blowing jazz.
l naged to live to tell about it; or find So his repertoire includes "Song for
Kennedy, who single-handedly My Father" and "Speedball," venera-
[tried repeatedly, and unsuccessfully, ble pleasers from the mid-Sixties
bring the real thing to town during Messengers. He can also go back into
Ilnelate Sixties). 1965 was my first year Bird, and you'll hear "Billie's Bounce"
. town, and my first brush with Austin or"Now's the Time." Or he'll come up
It was a bad time for jazz all round, 'Trane with "Spiritual" or "Afro-Blue.'
especially bad in this town. In the The set pretty much depends on the
years since a lot has happened, and instrumentation and what his sidemen
Scene has changed. The big change can cut; Polk can do it all.
that there is now a scene to speak of, Which brings me to The Brothers.
[thich brings me to the purpose of this Polk's gig has benefitted from a
[,aide. succession of dompetent, sometimes
[ Is there an Austin scene? Well, inspired sidemen and soloists. These
es, there is, though it s not as well latter include drummers John White-
veloped or even visible as the local burst and B////e Joe Walker, altoman
[mcionados would have us believe, rll Fred Smith and most recently
about that later, but first I want to tenorman Larry 15r . There were
inisce. Stay with me. others. These stand out for me.
11965. There was nothing resembling Whitehurst, whocomes back to town
lJazz community in Austin at that time. occasionally, is a thin, energetic,
Ure, they were playing the music in a always moving musician with a
discreet, unconnected places on limitless bags of licks and tricks; he
r nday afternoons, but there were no
these stand out. There are other East
side men who are not associated with
Polk, though everyone who passes
through brushes with him.
Martin Banks is a trumpeter who's
spent time with Ray Charles' band, the
traveling half-way house for Texas
musicians on the way up or down the
professional ladder. Banks names
Kinny Dorham, himself an Austinite,
as an influence, and Martin's more lucid
playingreflects the post-bop "hunting"
runs that were Dorham's trademark.
He's also flirted with the "avant-
garde," going so far as to make a record
with Archie Shepp ("The Magic of
Ju-Ju"); but he shows best in a hard bop
groove.
That's about it for the real thing on
the East side, at least in my memory. Of
the people who've made the strongest
impressions on me, Polk is the only one
still cooking. Whitehurst I believe is
teachingin Colorado. Smith is in L.A. or
on the road with Smokey. Walker
has given up music for a higher reality
-- I inherited his tunes. Banks is
thinking about going back with Ray
Charles, but I don't think he's doing
'much now. Polk is still cooking, a lonely
refuge in the night, like a lighthouse.
On the other side of town near the
drag, places were opening and dosing
almost daily around '65. ' rhe Id" tried
to make it first as a jazz all-nighter,
later as a warm spot for folkers. This
Top right: Coleman Hawkins. Above: Me naries of the Longhorn Jazz Festival
was near }uadalupe on 24th where The
Castillian is now. It was a black box
Sixties Coltrane style, a weaver of long, with red highlights where people came
reminds you of Elvin Jones, bothflowing lines that have a hypnotic, totouchelbowsanddrinkstrongcoffee
ffoup names, no real working musically and physically, drug-like effect. To call him thoughtful on the tail of the "expresso" thing. I
iliations. ..... 1 hm on Walker, on the other hand, isourown would minimize his musical intelli- have a vague recollection of seeing
They were playingtne,=,.t " g Roy Hanes: thoughtful, always gence. Watching Larry work, you Mose Allison there in its transition
rl • , .
East side on off nights at Charlie s appropriate, theperfect accompanist, a sense the searching concentration that period. Maybe not.
rlaDayhouse on 1 lth and out at its sister man of style and taste. He even looks motivates his improvisations. He is one , Around the corner was a place called
lub, The Hideaway, on Sunday like Roy. of the breed of saxophonists -- Azar 'The Matchbox,' all-night coffee and
fternoons. Fred Smith is in the post-Bird, Stitt Lawrence, Billy Harper and, closer to jamming with an out-of-tune upright.
alto tradition. A soloist of great home, Tomas Ramirez -- seeking their BillLamb, a would-be chemist, had
The joints weren't rough then. There
ere other places, but those two lasted.
About the only one left from that
Qwd now is James Polk, a
Urneyman organist in the post-
'lramy Smith "cookin" style who
acsistently pleases. His group, The
. others, has weathered first the calm
indifference and now the storm of
Velty that s swept town and come
ough still sounding good. The Polk
is fairly indicative of the state o!
breadth and fire, he could have -- and
has on occasion --played with the best.
He's currently with Smokey Robinson,
I think. He comes to town infrequently
and can be heard on those rare
occasions with Polk's band. He's
incredible.
Larry Williams is a newcomer to
Polk's set. He's been in and out of the
gig for about three years. Williams isa
big-boned, big-toned tenor in the early
personal voice in the unabashed
spiritualism of John Coltrane.
There was an earlier time when all
new tenor men imitated Trane, and
then a later time when they turned
from him, in fear that their imitations
were only that. Larry's coming to
terms with the tradition, distilling it
into something his own; and the
process is fascinating to watch.
There have been other brothers;
the regular gig. I remember one night
Pete Williams and I went in there and
Pete made the thing sound like a
Steinway. He just blew'era away. Guys
would drop in from Ft. Hood on the
weekends; Art Gore, the drummer,
was one of them. Don Young was also a
regular in the club's dying days; he
played saxes, flute and piano and was
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