Anyone slightly familiar with jazz music will be familiar with drummer Art Blakey and pianist/composer Horace Silver, two luminaries in the history of the music. They were mentors, one could even say incubators of many of the finest jazz musicians who first came to prominence with their respective bands.
I was most fortunate to be part of the Horace Silver Quintet early in my career, and the amount of insight I gained by playing with Horace and the band, night after night, was formidable. Although our Horace and Art’s bands crossed paths frequently while we were on the road, I never had the opportunity to be part of the Art Blakey Jazz Messengers lineage. But, one night in Helsinki around 1980, Finland, I had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to play trio with Horace and Art.
In those days, Horace paid us a weekly salary that was low enough so as not to justify the term “salary.” From that, we were expected to pay for our meals and miscellaneous expenses while on the road, and taxes and Social Security fees were also deducted from our paychecks. After four weeks on the road, I could save just enough of my salary to pay my rent and utility bills when returning home. There was no such thing as savings. But I was young and happy as a lark to perform in such a great band, so the idea of creating a savings did not seem to be a priority under the circumstances. At least Horace’s manager had the sense to book us into cheap hotels routinely, and they were sometimes real dives. To his credit, Horace stayed at the same hotels we did.
We were booked into a magnificent five-star hotel when we arrived in Helsinki to play at a jazz festival. Everything associated with it, and the prices of everything, reflected that. We were to stay a few days, and I quickly realized that after expenses and taxes, I would lose money on that gig.
It turned out that the hotel's owner was a huge jazz fan. He suggested that if Horace and Art performed one short set in the hotel's cocktail lounge, he would cover all expenses that we incurred while in Helsinki. When word got back to the rest of us, we were elated.
I was told that we would play our set the following night and provided with the starting time. I arrived early as was my habit, and Horace and Art were already there preparing to play. When it was time to start, none of the other musicians from either band had shown up, and Art suggested we start without them. So there I was, between two icons who deserved a place on the Mount Rushmore of jazz.
The magnificent Jazz Messenger Art Blakey, AKA Buhaina.
Art and Horace had not played together for maybe 25 or 30 years when they were members of the original Jazz Messengers band. I remember thinking that this was a historic occasion. We played the first three tunes of the set as a trio: All The Things You Are, I’ll Remember April, and Horace’s original classic, Nica’s Dream.
As we began, the intensity was palpable. I soon realized that Art and Horace wanted to show each other they “still had it.” As the tunes progressed, Art would glance at me, start laughing, and then turn the energy up. I immediately felt that my nostrils were barely above the water line, and I was hanging on for dear life. As things progressed, I adjusted, caught up with that energy, and as soon as I felt I had “arrived,” Art would begin laughing at me again, turning it up another notch. It was all I could do to survive. Then, I learned about what Art referred to as “the gears.” Just like a standard-shift car, as the tune progressed, we would shift into progressively higher gears, and the energy and forward momentum of the music was incredible.
Horace Silver in an expression like the one I witnessed that historic evening.
Horace was well up to the task and was every bit Art’s equal. I just had to hang on. When we played Nica’s Dream, a rather lengthy composition with all sorts of interludes, stops and starts, and various “hits,” I was amazed to hear Art catch every cue perfectly as if we had recently rehearsed the tune.
Eventually, a few of my peers from both bands showed up, and we finished the set with the usual front-line configurations. The horn players also seemed equally inspired that evening.
Of course, this all occurred before the advent of cell phones, the internet, and so on, so as far as I know, there is no record of this event, except for the one emblazoned in my memory for life. Learning to play jazz, entering the professional ranks, and then working one’s way up to the level of being able to play with the Masters is somewhat like climbing Mount Everest. I believe that night, I not only scaled Everest, but got a look over the summit and saw the vastness representing the next level of ability. That is where the masters lived: in the ether.
TC
Unbelievable. That night, you didn’t just earn your colors—you carved them into the stars. My God. You were walking with giants, shoulder to shoulder with greatness. Bu and Horace… two souls cut from the cloth of the infinite. There will never be another night like that. Never.
Great story, and I love your writing -- you had me rolling on the floor several times!
You spoke of magic moments -- here's two I'll never forget. Sonny Rollins Quartet in '64 at McKie's, my senior year in college. 30 years later, Sarah subbing for Della with the Basie band in a large Chicago club where I was mixing sound; she sang Basie band charts, she sang vocal charts, and she sang "East Of The Sun" with the rhythm section.