LITMIR.BIZ

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put an advert in the paper in the next day or two…Right. What shall we start with?’

      ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band,’ Jimmy Randle suggested with a mischievous smirk. Jimmy was the trumpet player and better known as Toots.

      ‘Oh, anything but that, Toots,’ Ginger pleaded. ‘I hate it. Let’s do “My Sister Kate”.’

      Brent stood up, poised to play his trombone. ‘Right. “I Wish I Could Shimmy like my Sister Kate”…One, two, one two three four…’

      And they were away.

      Maxine listened intently. Some things that could be improved were evident immediately and she could not imagine why they had not put them right before. Maybe it was because a stranger’s ear can detect weaknesses that those most closely involved are deaf to. Wood for trees. But they were all competent musicians.

      ‘So, what d’you think, Maxine?’ Brent asked when they had finished running through the number.

      ‘Well…It seems as if you’re all trying to outplay each other – as if you’re all trying to do a solo at the same time. Try to play for each other. Be more together, as one unit, not six separate ones. It all needs tidying up, too. The stops should be cleaner…Kenny, when you’re supposed to have a rest for a few beats, don’t try and fit in a drumroll to fill the gap. Stay silent till you’re due to come in again and let the melody instruments and the singer have their glory. Those little rests are for emphasis, for effect. It’s what makes Jelly Roll Morton great. It’ll make your music more effective as well. Otherwise it sounds all ragged and undisciplined.’

      ‘Kenny likes to turn every number into a drum solo,’ Charlie Holt remarked, and Maxine detected his frustration at Kenny’s overly enthusiastic drumming. ‘He thinks he’s Gene Krupa.’

      Maxine’s eyes creased into a smile. But she had to be honest. She had to take this seriously. That’s why she was here.

      ‘Same applies to you, Ginger, really,’ she continued. ‘The banjo is a rhythm instrument as well. Try playing with the drummer, not as if you’re in competition. Generally, when Kenny has a few beats break, you stick to the break as well…Why don’t you try it again doing just that?’

      Brent counted them in once more. At the first point where Kenny was supposed to stop, he did so and the effect was significant: it all held together more tightly, more eloquently. The musicians looked at each other and Maxine could see satisfied grins passing from one to another at the immediate improvement. She was relieved, for she was not certain how these hard-nosed males, with vastly more jazz experience, were likely to view advice from a much younger person – even worse, a girl. Doubtless one or two would resent it unless she had something positive to say, something that really worked. Musicians, she had learned already – male ones especially – were a race apart: hard-nosed, uncompromising; usually hard drinking as well, just to add to their volatility.

      ‘It sounds better already,’ Toots Randle admitted.

      ‘Just one little point that improves the overall quality,’ Maxine confirmed. ‘It demonstrates much more musical discipline as well.’

      ‘Let’s try something else,’ Toots suggested.

      ‘How about “Tiger Rag”?’

      Brent counted them in.

      The same principles applied, of course, and the band again signalled to each other their approval as their instantly cleaner, more refined music pleased everybody.

      ‘Something’s still missing,’ Charlie Holt complained. ‘I grant you it all sounds tighter playing it how Maxine suggests, but it’s lacking something…Soul, for want of a better word.’

      ‘Rhythm?’ Maxine suggested.

      ‘We’ve got rhythm,’ Kenny said. ‘I provide the rhythm.’

      ‘Some of it, I agree,’ Maxine countered, afraid that she sounded like a know-all. ‘But you don’t want lifeless, mechanical rhythm like a metronome. Jazz needs more than that. It needs to swing easily. It has an inner rhythm that you either feel or you don’t feel. And if you feel it, you can turn it loose. Try to be more relaxed about your playing – everybody. Loosen up a bit. Each instrument should have its own rhythm.’

      ‘We’re missing the piano,’ Brent said. ‘That’s what’s lacking.’

      ‘Yes, that’d help,’ Kenny agreed. ‘Can’t you play piano, Maxine? Just to give a bit more body to the sound. Just to fill it out a bit. It don’t matter if you play a few wrong notes. Just to give us the feel.’

      ‘I could try.’ She stepped up onto the stage. ‘What key is this in?’

      ‘B flat.’

      ‘Oh, Lord!’ she laughed, rolling her eyes. ‘Can’t you play it in C?’

      ‘I can play it in any key you want,’ said Kenny with a smirk as he ostentatiously twirled his drumsticks in the air.

      ‘Okay.’ Self-consciously she made herself comfortable on the rickety chair. ‘When you’re ready.’

      ‘One, two, one two three four…’

      Twelve bars into the piece, Brent and Kenny signalled each other with a look that gave complete approval to the difference Maxine’s piano playing made. They all felt and heard something that none of them had felt or heard before in the Second City Hot Six: real syncopation; slick, smooth, well-oiled syncopation that insinuated itself into their own individual performances, improving the quality of the whole out of all proportion.

      They were enjoying the difference so much that they didn’t finish the number where they normally finished it. By a tacit understanding that regular musicians acquire, they continued to play, swept along on the rising tide of enthusiasm and joy that playing something well engenders. Brent took a solo, improvising, sliding and growling his notes like he’d never done before, followed by Toots whose trumpet sounds sparkled like the polished brass his instrument was made from. The next verse and chorus they all played together, followed by Kenny’s promised drum solo. At Kenny’s signal they all came in together again for another verse and chorus, then Ginger excelled with a banjo break that Maxine thought must surely end up with his right hand flying off his wrist. And finally, although she’d been dreading it, there came an impromptu piano solo from Maxine. She’d never had to improvise like this before, but clinging tenaciously to the principles of syncopation she worked around the basic structure of the piece – the main chords – and delivered a creditable performance that made her perspire.

      Then, suddenly, by a nod and that aforementioned tacit understanding, the others stopped playing. She had not seen any signal from Brent and, for a few bars, she carried on. She turned around as soon as she realised she was playing by herself and saw them all laughing. Her first thought was that they were mocking, so she stopped – embarrassed. But they applauded. They were definitely not mocking.

      ‘Where did you learn to play like that, Maxine?’ Ginger asked.

      ‘Yeah. Brent said you played the flippin’ cello.’

      ‘Was it all right then?’ Maxine shoved a wisp of hair from her face with the back of her hand. ‘Did I do all right?’

      ‘All right? That was great,’ Toots enthused. ‘Sign her up, Brent. Sign her up.’

      Brent placed his trombone on the floor, took out a cigarette and lit it. The others took their cue from him.

      ‘You played that really well, Maxine,’ he said. ‘It made a world of difference, I have to admit.’

      ‘A girl as good-looking as Maxine would be a big asset to this band,’ Kenny commented with enthusiasm. ‘She’d be a hell of a novelty. Folk would come and pay to see us just to get a look at her. God, she’s bloody lovely…She can really play as well.’

      ‘She might not be interested in playing with us.’

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