LITMIR.BIZ

      The Resurrection of Bobo Jones

      When Brew finally caught up with him, Manny Klein was inhaling spaghetti in a back booth of Chubby’s, adding to his already ample girth and plying a green-eyed blonde called Mary Ann Best with tales of his exploits as New York’s premiere talent scout. As usual, Manny was exaggerating, but probably not about Rocky King.

      “The point is,” Manny said, mopping up sauce with a hunk of French bread, “this time, you’ve gone too far.” He popped the bread in his mouth, wiped his three chins with a white napkin tucked in his collar, and gazed at Brew Daniels with the incredulous stare of a small child suddenly confronted with a modern sculpture. “You’re dead, pal. Rocky’s put the word out on you. He thinks you’re crazy, and you know what? So do I.”

      Mary Ann watched as Brew grinned sheepishly and shrugged. Nobody had ever called him crazy. A flake, definitely, but with jazz musicians, that comes with the territory, where eccentric behavior is a byword, the foundation of legends.

      Everyone knew about Thelonious Monk keeping his piano in the kitchen and Dizzy Gillespie running for president. And who hadn’t heard about Sonny Rollins startling passersby with the wail of his mournful saxophone when he found the Williamsburg Bridge an inspiring place to play after he dropped out of the jazz wars for a couple of years.

      Strange perhaps, but these things, Brew reasoned, were essentially harmless examples that merely added another layer to the jazz mystique. With Brew, however, it was another story.

      Begun modestly, Brew’s escapades gradually gathered momentum and eventually exceeded even the hazy boundaries of acceptable behavior in the jazz world until they threatened to eclipse his considerable skill with a tenor saxophone. Brew had the talent. Nobody denied that. “One of jazz’s most promising newcomers,” wrote one reviewer after witnessing Brew come out on top in a duel with one of the grizzled veteran’s of the music.

      It was Brew’s off stage antics – usually at the expense of his current employer – that got him in trouble, and earned him less that the customary two weeks notice, and branded him a bona fide flake. But however outlandish the prank, Brew always felt fully justified, even if his victim violently disagreed. Brew was selective, but no one, not even Brew himself, knew when or where he would be inspired to strike next. Vocalist Dana McKay, for example, never saw Brew coming until it was too late.

      Miss McKay is one of those paradoxes all too common in the music business: a very big star with very little talent, although her legion of fans don’t seem to notice. Thanks to the marvels of modern recording technology, top-flight studio orchestras, and syrupy background vocals, Dana McKay sounds passable on recordings. Live is another story. She knows it, and the bands that back her up know it. When the musicians who hang out at Chubby’s heard that Brew had consented to sub for an ailing friend at the Americana Hotel, smart money said Brew wouldn’t last a week, and Dana McKay would be his latest victim. They were right on both counts.

      To Brew, the music was bad enough, but what really got to him was the phony sentimentality of her act. Shaking hands with the ringsiders, telling the audience how much they meant to her exactly the same way every night — she could produce tears on cue — naturally inspired Brew.

      The third night, he arrived early with a stack of McDonald’s hats and unveiled his brainstorm to the band. They didn’t need much persuading. Miss McKay had, as usual, done nothing to endear herself to the musicians. She called unnecessary rehearsals, complained to the conductor, and treated everyone as her personal slave. Except for the lady harpist, even the string section went along with Brew’s plan.

      Timing was essential. On Brew’s cue, at precisely the moment Miss McKay was tugging heartstrings with a teary eyed rendition of one of her hits, the entire band donned the McDonald’s hats, stood up, arms spread majestically, and sang out, “You deserve a break today.”

      Miss McKay never knew what hit her when the thunderous chorus struck. One of the straps of her gown snapped and almost exposed more of her than planned. She nearly fell off the stage. The dinner show audience howled with delight, thinking it was part of the show. It got a mention in one of the columns, but Dana McKay was not amused.

      It took several minutes for the laughter to die down, and by that time, she’d regained enough composure to smile mechanically and turn to the band. “How about these guys. Aren’t they something?” Her eyes locked on Brew, grinning innocently in the middle of the sax section. She fixed him with an icy glare, and Brew was fired before the midnight show. He was never sure how she knew he was responsible, but he guessed the lady harpist had a hand in it.

      Brew kept a low profile after that, basking in the glory of his most ambitious project to date. He made ends meet with a string of club dates in the Village and the occasional wedding. It wasn’t until he went on the road with Rocky King that he struck again. Everyone agreed Brew was justified this time, but for once, he picked on the wrong man.

      Rocky King is arguably the most hated bandleader in America, despite his nationwide popularity. Musicians refer to him as “a legend in his own mind.” He pays only minimum scale, delights in belittling his musicians on the stand, and has been known on occasion to physically assault anyone who doesn’t measure up to his often unrealistic expectations, a man to be reckoned with. So, when the news got out, King swore a vendetta against Brew that even Manny Klein couldn’t diffuse, even though it was Manny who got Brew the gig.

      “C’mon,

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