I noted that I had played only Brubeck, Giuffre and Tjader. But, here, listen to some of this for Black Jazz: catch hold of this! (Lee riffled through the albums in his case, found the one he was searching for, and removed it carefully, almost reverently. “You act like it’s about to blow up,” Hank commented. “It very well might . . . listen.”) And I put on what? Of course. John Coltrane. “Africa Brass.” I recall no malice aforethought in this choice, but who can say? Does one ever play Coltrane for the uninitiated without subconsciously hoping for the worst? Anyway, if such was my wish my subconscious must have been greatly pleased, for, after a few minutes of that tenor sax ripping away at the privates, Hank reacted according to schedule. “What kind of crap is that?” (Anger, frustration, great gritting of teeth; all the classic responses.) “What kind of godawful manure pile is that?” “That? What are you asking? This is Jazz as black as it comes, black balls dragging the ground...” “Yeah, but ...wait a minute—” “Isn’t it so? Listen to it; is that precision la dee da?” “I don’t know if—” “But listen; isn’t it so?” “That it has balls? I suppose . . . yes, but I’m not talk—” (“So you may be forced, brother, to find a different prerequisite to found your prejudice on.” “But forchrissakes listen to that manure. Eee-onk: onk-eeek. I mean maybe he’s got balls but it sounds like somebody’s stompin’ up and down on ’em!” “Exactly! Exactly! Hundreds of years of stomping; ever since the slave traders. That’s the story he tells! Not what would be nice ...but the way it is! The terrible, deadly way it really is when you know you’re surrounded by black skin. And we are all surrounded by that skin, and he’s trying to show us some beauty in this condition. If you’re incensed it’s because he’s being honest about our condition, because he’s honestly describing the black and ball-stomping way it is, instead of being content to whine about it like those Uncle Toms before him.” “Bug, Joe Williams, Fats Waller, Gaillard, that bunch . . . they none of them never whined. They maybe griped but they did it with some joy. They never whined. By god if they did. And they never come on about, about... blackness and ball-stomping, neither—trying to make it beautiful, for shitsakes— because it ain’t beautiful. It’s ugly as sin!”) Brother Hank then clamped shut his jaw and remained silent throughout the rest of the side, as I peeped at his stone-smiled obstinance through the fingers of my shading hand. Let me see, Peters! Was it then, during the tense listening, that I renovated my views of vengeance? Let me see? No. No, ah no. I still had not . . . Oh. It was—no . . . yes;—admit! admit!—it was, it was then, right after Coltrane, when Viv asked what to her must have been a perfectly innocent question, just a small-talk question to ease the strain. Yes; directly after...“Where did you get the record, Lee?” was the best the girl could do. Just a question to ease the strain. Perfectly innocent on her part. For if it had not been so innocent could I have answered with such little thought to what I was saying? “My mother gave it to me, Viv. My mother always—” With such very little thought that I did not realize I had made the blunder in his presence until he said Sure, until he said Sure, sure as gods green apples I mighta known. Sure I mighta known because it is just exactly the sorta dismal manure she’d go for, isn’t it? Sure, listen there—it is just the sorta manure Mother would— Lee stops writing, abruptly jerking his face up from the page. He holds his pen and sits for endless minutes with the little nub of a cigarette cold between his lips, listening to the snaredrum sound of a pine bough brushing in the breeze across his window screen. The sound reaches him eerily, through twisting channels. At first it holds no meaning and he thinks of it as a sound only, issuing from no source. Then he catches sight of the dark movement of the branch and fixes the sound; relieved that it is only a branch, he lights the cigarette again and bends back to hispaper ... But I’d best be on with it before it gets too late and too sleepy and too high. I’d like to do the complete scene for you because I know you would appreciate the nuances, the vicious undertones, the pastels of hostility, but I’m—whup, wheep, whoop—getting too far out to give these subtleties the attention they deserve. So, anyway. All right. There I am with Hank hassling me about my Mother. My mellow benevolence is shattered. The cold bitter light of reason is beginning to peep through. The truce is obviously over. Time to think again of the battle. I devise a plan to capture my intended weapon and immediately set about my campaign. . . . “Well, Hank,” I remark, sneeringly, “there are quite a number of people well versed in music who might disagree with your evaluation of current Jazz artists. So couldn’t it be possible that you are being a bit, shall we say bull-headed? narrow-minded?” The victim blinks, surprised by Little Brother’s testy tone. Could Little Brother be spoiling for a fat lip maybe? “Yeah . . .” he says slowly, “I suppose.” I cut him off, going blithefully on. . . . “On the other hand narrow-minded may be a dishonest label. It may imply a specific not present. Anyway, that’s not the point. We were talking about balls, were we not? Balls standing—for the sake of argument—for manliness, strength, intestinal fortitude, etc. Well, brother, do you think that just because a man has enough brains to play more than bam bam bam bam—along with three blues chords and a half-dozen notes—do you think this makes it impossible for him to also have balls? Or does the presence of one eliminate the possibility of the other?” “Hold on.” The victim sniffs, he squints. “Now wait.” Perhaps like an animal he can sense the presence of a trap. But what he cannot sense is that the trap is set in reverse, to catch the trapper. “Look at it this way,” I continue, and begin offering newer, nastier arguments, “or what about this,” I press on, “and will you at least consider this,” I demand, parlaying one cutting point after another as I begin to put on the pressure. Not openly provoking hostility, not so Viv will recognize it, you see, but skillfully, shrewdly, with innuendoes and references to bygone events meaningful only to Hank and Myself. So that when I start dangling the bait he is ready. “What do you mean Champion Jack Dupree is somebody’s uncle Tom hushpuppy?” he demands, reacting to an incidental statement. “What do you mean about Elvis, too? while I’m at it. I know what’s said about him but screw ’em I say. When Elvis started he had something, he had—” “Tonsilitis? Rickets?” “—he had more’n that asshole there playing hopscotch or whatever. Let me get that offa there. Christ, you’ve played ten sides, let me get a word in edgewise.” “Don’t! Get your fingers off that record. I’ll take it off.” “Okay, okay, take it off.” And so forth and so on with fists doubled and eyes red and I’ve got him. “Let me play it over Hank, then maybe you’ll . . ............