Cover image: Photo of Bud Powell by Robert James Campbell.
While 27 years old Major Yuri Alekseyevich Gagarin was flying at 27,400 kilometers per hour, 300 kilometers above the earth, and reporting back to base through the tiny porthole of the Vostok 1 capsule that “The Earth is blue… it’s beautiful”, I—on that very same day—was staring out the not-much-bigger windshield of my green Volkswagen Beetle at the sunlit chill of a Milanese street and reporting back to my own mental base: “Fuck. I’m lost”. It was April 21st, 1961, and I was eight years older than Gagarin. From up there, surely, the Major couldn’t see the stop-and-go jerks of my clutch nor the sudden braking fits I was inflicting on the poor VW at every corner, like the one between Via San Martino and Via San Francesco, where I nearly gave up, nearly killed the engine, nearly got out and started looking for a cab that would get me—without all the drama—to the Teatro Lirico on Via Rastrelli. There, in just under three hours, what a lineup of stars was about to make its appearance! not even the cosmonaut, orbiting up there 300 kilometers from Earth, could have ever envisioned it. But at that point, I couldn’t bring myself to abandon my car: I knew I’d never find it again in that tangle of streets, and I pictured myself, post-concert, wandering the city asking for directions while muttering about San Francesco, Sant’Antonio, and San Giustino—condemned to roam the streets of Milan ad aeternum, becoming yet another urban legend of the ’60s, the mumbling monk in search of his lost Volkswagen. So: screech, stump, and all the onomatopoeias and huff-puffings of a third-hand 1200 on cold pavement—probably the same creaks and groans as the four-ton-seven-hundred-kilo Vostok 1capsule spinning above my head. And still, as I braked and gunned it and looked this way and that, sanmartino-ing and sanfrancesco-ing, I didn’t spare a single thought for space, or the Vostok 1, or even for the Soviet and poetic Major Gagarin. It was past five, and at eight the double concert would begin—the one that had prompted me to climb into my Beetle and get myself lost in Milan, hunting for Via Rastrelli and that damn Teatro Lirico.
Stump, screech, pant, like I said. And finally, there it is: at the corner of Via Alberico Albricci (general and politician, 1864–1936), a yellow street sign suggests— with indifference, yet with surgical precision—to turn left to reach the theater. I, cold and unflinching like some kind of traffic vampire, catch a glimpse of an available parking spot between a Fiat 2300 and a Mercedes, and without thinking twice I slide the Beetle in with a maneuver worthy of Mandrake the Magician’s hypnotic flair. Then I get out, lock the car, and put my faith in the yellow sign, instructing people to head down Via Maurizio Gonzaga (general, 1861–1938). I’m walking so fast I nearly forget to smoke. It feels like the entire population of Milan is out here – all of it, all at this time, all in this street and all walking in the opposite direction. This, besides slowing me down a little, makes me feel kind of special. This—and where I’m going: the double concert at the Teatro Lirico.
There it is. I’m standing right in front of it. The concert bill propped up on an easel to the left of the entrance, is dominated by the image of a giant black foot, and the words: “TEATRO LIRICO DI MILANO – 21 APRILE 1961 – ORE 21:00 – THELONIOUS MONK – BUD POWELL – IN CONCERTO. PER LA PRIMA VOLTA IN ITALIA”[1]. That poster is the turning point, the moment I truly realize I’ve made it—I’m here. Under the top billing, in smaller typeface, near the heel of the big foot, divided into two columns (presumably one for Monk and the other for Powell), the names of the support musicians: “CHARLIE ROUSE – JOHN ORE – FRANKIE DUNLOP” and “BARNEY WILEN – JACQUES HESS – ART TAYLOR”. I brush the poster lightly with my fingertips and join the line. Luckily, not too long. When I get to the ticket window, I realize my mouth is dry, and the single word—“One”—comes out raspy.
The clerk behind the glass case removes the cigarette from her mouth, glances at the sheet in front of her and says, “Row 6, seat 35. That okay?”
“Fine”, I say, having managed to rehydrate a bit. She puts the cigarette back in her mouth and tears off a ticket.
“Dodicimila lire”, she says. My mouth goes dry again. I pay. In return, she hands me the pass to Two Concerts Two of first-time-ever-in-Italy (and who knows if they will ever come back). I’ve still got two hours before the concert starts. I think about grabbing something to eat, maybe a beer, just to avoid getting stomach cramps, who knows, somewhere between Well You Needn’t and Monk’s Dream.
I touch the ticket in the inside pocket of my jacket and head down via Rastrelli. I spot the Bar “Sole” and walk in. Nothing unusual about this bar —glass counter, three metal-and-wood tables, neon lights dressed in a few spiderwebs. I eat a sandwich that’s probably been sitting there since morning, drink a beer, and finish with a coffee. I step outside and check my watch. Shit, only twenty-five minutes have passed.
I decide to go back to the theater, get in, and take my seat. I smoke a propitiatory cigarette (meaning, I absorb a little nicotine in the hope the concerts will be long, really long, endless) and I finish it right in front of the entrance, with the timing of the great bop masters I’m about to hear.
Entrance. Stairs. The hall. Row six. Seat 35. Here I am. Time to relax (if I can).
The lights go down only five or six minutes late. A man steps onto the stage from behind the curtain, wearing evening attire and holding a microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen”, he says. He sounds a little emotional himself. Who is he? The concert organizer? Monk’s Italian impresario? Some guy who just happened to be there? Who cares?
“Ladies and gentlemen”, he repeats, waiting for the ladies and gentlemen still-standing to find their seats and shut their mouths.
“The Teatro Lirico of Milan is proud to present two giants of jazz, here for the first time in Italy. There will be a short intermission between the two performances. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Thelonious Monk”.
The curtain rises. At center stage—more accustomed to hosting Figaros, Otellos, and Rigolettos—you can see, all lined up, a piano, a double bass, and a drum set, and the four of them are already in place. The curtain hasn’t even been fully raised yet when Jackie-Ing bursts out, and while Charlie Rouse tears into his para-pá-pà-pappa-pa-pá like a madman, Frankie Dunlop seems to stay on the metallic side of the drum kit, John Ore spreads bass notes in every direction, laying down a carpet as soft as grass, and Monk distills his phrases like icy droplets, hitting the keys three at a time with claw-shaped hands.
I loosen my tie and try to keep time with my feet. Useless attempt—Dunlop’s drums seem to generate a constant rustle, introducing rhythmic shifts that register only subliminally. This isn’t just a quartet—it’s a single living, breathing entity sent down to Earth to console us. And to console us even more, while the ladies and gentlemen are still clapping, Monk settles heavily onto the bench, stares straight ahead, throws out his elbows, and launches into Epistrophy. And as his wool cap sways gently back and forth, back and forth, his left hand lands on diminished chords while his right melts us with index-over-thumb slides. Syncopated jolts, thorny melodies, a rhythm section beyond flawless. Emotionally, we’re already well past the second tune: Monk has pulled us into his vortex, which will continue (so as not to bore you with inevitably inadequate descriptions) with Body and Soul, Straight No Chaser (I knew it, I knew it!), Beshma Swing, San Francisco Holiday, Crepuscule with Nellie, and Rhythm-A-Ning.
When the drums let out their final metallic gasp at the end of Rhythm-A-Ning, Monk stands up, pauses for a moment to glance at the crowd (the ladies and gentlemen now on their feet from the eighth or ninth row onward, clapping their hands raw), raises a hand as if waving to someone halfway back in the hall, and walks off. He seems entirely indifferent to everything around him. The trio that backed him, on the other hand, lingers just a little, offering a few modest bows as the curtain falls.
People haven’t even fully sat down yet when, with the curtain still lowered, the emcee comes back out on stage. He looks nervous—but maybe that’s just the adrenaline after Monk’s performance. Instead: “Ladies and gentlemen”, he says, “due to a minor technical issue, the intermission will be extended by ten to fifteen minutes. Please remain seated as we prepare to welcome Bud Powell and his trio to the stage. Thank you”.
And with that, he vanishes behind the curtain.
Now that so many years have passed—I’m no longer thirty-five but well over twice that—I can finally reveal the secret of that night, one of the lesser mysteries in the Grand History of Jazz. Because the intermission didn’t last ten or fifteen minutes, not even close. It was much, much longer. And I remember every single detail of that Friday, April 21st, 1961: everything that happened while Major Gagarin was still up there, spinning and marveling and radioing from the Vostok 1.
About fifteen minutes after his last announcement—just as people were starting to tap their feet and/or clap their hands—the emcee peeks out from behind the curtain again. He looks even more nervous than before. “Ladies and gentlemen”, he says. Everyone turns toward him, though the standing ones stay standing. “Ladies and gentlemen”, he repeats, once he’s sure he’s got everyone’s attention. “I regret to inform you that the performance by Bud Powell and his trio will be delayed for a longer time due to some technical issues. The theater’s management and the evening’s organizer offer their sincerest apologies. Bud Powell’s performance will begin…”—he checks his watch, as if everything depends on him and he’s the one who has to make the call—“… in approximately forty-five minutes”. A few spectators mutter under their breath, a few others at half-volume, a few loud and clear. A couple of boos. At that point, the concert had turned into a dis-concert. “We once again apologize for this inconvenience”, the emcee continues, “and we encourage you to wait in the bar area or the theater lobby. If you choose to step outside, please make sure to keep your ticket with you, so you can re-enter the auditorium without further inconveniences. We kindly ask that you return to your seats no later than 11:15. Thank you”.
And with that, he’s swallowed up by the curtain once again.
What happened during those 45 minutes of intermission? What were the technical issues behind the curtain? These questions have plagued (though not too much, to be honest) jazz enthusiasts for years and years, but no one has ever managed to provide an answer. I can.
As I was saying, the emcee’s swallowed up by the curtain again; I get up, and—stepping over the knees of my fellow Row 6 occupants, who seem fully prepared to remain seated until the end of days—I head toward the theater bar in search of something to drink. But when I get there, a wall of backs wrapped in jackets and evening gowns stands between me and any beverage I could dream up. The dash to the theater bar should be considered an Olympic sport. I wouldn’t even make the qualifiers.
So I step outside, in front of the theater, to smoke a cigarette. Naturally, it’s dark by now. The little square out front is almost as packed as the lobby and bar. While I’m lighting my cigarette, I realize I’m a bit hungry too, and decide to check whether Bar “Sole” still has anything left (a dry sandwich, a lukewarm slice of pizza, something—anything—to silence the grumbling in my stomach, which is growing louder and more insistent by the minute).
Luckily, most of the concert crowd prefers to linger within sixty feet of the theater, so the street gets quieter with every step—at least there won’t be an unmanageable line at Bar “Sole”. I get there. From outside I see the bartender arguing with a guy—seen from behind—wearing a coat that is a little too heavy for the season. The guy sits back down at a table while the bartender keeps talking to him. No idea what that’s about. Surely he can spare a second to hand me a sandwich. I step inside.
As soon as he sees me, the bartender turns toward me like we’re old friends and says:
“Vuol provare lei a vedere se riesce a farsi capire da questo qua?”[2]
I look at him, and I’m about to say that I don’t understand, that I have no clue what he’s talking about, and that I’m not about to let anyone ruin my night. But without thinking—just out of sheer reflex—I turn to the guy at the table.
There, head bowed, shoulders slumped, fingers laced together on the tabletop, is Bud Powell. He doesn’t lift his head to look at me. He sits there, almost completely still, muttering something to himself, wrapped in a coat at least two sizes too big. It looks like he’s talking to no one. His beard is long, almost as long as his famous thin mustache. On the table in front of him: three empty beer mugs.
I don’t move. I just stand there staring at him. I probably look like a fool; but I’m completely stunned. The bartender’s voice reaches me from far away:
“Lei parla inglese?” he asks. “Mi può aiutare con questo qua?”[3]
I snap out of it. “Questo qua”, I say to the bartender, “è Bud Powell. Un famoso jazzista. Uno dei più… Deve fare un concerto al Teatro Lirico. Lo stanno aspettando.”[4]
“Per quanto mi riguarda può essere anche la regina d’Inghilterra”, says the bartender, rubbing his hands on his apron. “L’importante è che paghi.”[5]
“Che paghi?” I blurt out. “Fossi in lei, gli offrirei tutto quello che vuole e poi gli chiederei di farsi fare una foto nel suo bar. Di sicuro…”[6]
“Sì, ma per fortuna lei non è in me”, the bartender cuts me off. “E poi non ho una macchina fotografica. E non so chi sia questo signore. In poche parole: preferisco che paghi le sette birre che si è bevuto e che si tolga dai coglioni”.[7]
I stop listening to him. “Mister Powell?” I say. Powell seems to wake up, though not fully. He turns toward me.
“Yeah? What?” His voice isn’t rude. He just sounds tired.
“This gentleman here”, I say, gesturing to the bartender with my thumb, “says he wants to be paid”.
“What’s he not get? I said I wanna a beer”.
“Vuole un’altra birra”, I tell the bartender.[8]
“Io voglio i soldi per le prime sette. Poi vediamo”.[9]
“Mr. Powell, he says he’d like you to pay for the others first”.
Bud Powell sticks a hand into his oversized coat and pulls out two or three bills. From what I can tell, they’re twenty-dollar notes. He lays them on the table. “Here”, he says. “Now can I get that fuckin’ beer?”
The bartender looks at the crumpled bills. “Qua si paga in lire”, he says.[10] He’s getting annoyed. I pull out my wallet, take out twenty thousand lire, and place it on the table beside the dollars, maybe slapping it down a bit harder than necessary. “Ecco”, I say. “Adesso ce le porta due birre o no?”[11]
He takes the money and walks away. During that last exchange, Powell didn’t even lift his head.
“Mind if I sit down?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Just moves one of the chairs next to the table, like he’s offering it to me. I sit. A minute later, we have two beers in front of us.
“Mr. Powell”, I say, “they’re waiting for you at the theater…”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. Downs half his beer in one go, then looks at me. His eyes are glassy—part tired, part red, part sad.
“Is Maddie done already?” he says. I don’t get it. He stares, like he’s trying to focus.
“Maddie”, he says again. “Sphere… Thelonious… Thelonious Monk… Shit, how’d he play?”
“Monk?” I say. “Unbelievable. Amazing set”.
“Then folks should be happy already, no?” he says.
“Well”, I reply, “I think they came for two shows, and they’ve only seen one”.
“Better than nothing”, he says, finishing his beer. Looks at me.
“You want another?” I ask. He nods. I give the bartender a look, he brings another round and finally clears away the empty glasses.
“There’s a problem”, Powell tells me. “A fuckin’ problem. I can’t go”.
“What?” I say. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I can’t. Can’t find my tie”.
I don’t get it. Maybe my English isn’t good enough. He offers me a cigarette. I take it. He must have caught the confusion on my face.
“The tie”, he says, gesturing around his neck. “Can’t show up without a tie. At the fuckin’ Teatro Lirico. What the hell would people say? How was Maddie dressed?”
“Who?” I say, before remembering. “Ah. Mr. Monk”.
I pause, realizing I don’t actually remember how Monk was dressed. I just remember the wool cap.
“Nothing special”, I say. “John Ore had a tie, I think”.
“Ore… Fancy pants”, he mutters. “Anyway, I ain’t going like this”.
“Because of the tie?” I ask.
“Yeah, the tie. The goddamn tie”.
“If you don’t mind…” I say, loosening my own tie and offering it to him.
Bud Powell looks at the tie, then at me. I figure he’s about to tell me my tie’s crap, that he’s not some beggar, that I can go fuck myself. Instead, he takes it and stands up. I stand too. He loops it around his neck, tries to tie a knot, but his hands aren’t steady. He looks at me again—this time, longer. I reach out and make the best knot I can manage (I’ve never made a knot for anyone else’s tie, just for my own). When I’m done, he adjusts the knot and heads for the door.
“Il resto”,[12] the bartender says as we’re stepping out.
“Tenga pure”,[13] I tell him. I probably won’t have enough money for gas, have no idea how I’m gonna get back to Bologna. But I don’t care—not at that moment. Only for a moment, though: I turn back, walk over to the bar, and take the change from the guy’s hand. “Scherzavo”,[14] I say.
Then, on my way out, I scoop up Powell’s dollar bills from the table and catch up with him. He’s already taken a few steps. I slip the money into the pocket of his overcoat.
“It’s tough”, he says as we walk toward the theater. “I’m gettin’ tired of this. I’m old”.
“Old?” I say. “We’re pretty much the same age. And Monk’s ten years older than you”.
“Yeah”, he says. “But he’ll live twenty years longer. I don’t even know if I’ll manage to play tonight. Especially after Maddie”.
“I think you’ll play a great set”, I tell him.
He stops and turns to look at me. For a second, it seems like he might actually smile. “Oh yeah?” he says. “Well that’s a relief. And what would you play, if you were me?”
I get the feeling he’s messing with me, but I play along. Feels like I’m finally getting him in a good mood. Or at least it looks that way.
“I’d start with John’s Abbey. Then maybe I Remember Clifford or Dance of the Infidels. Couple more tunes, and then… Bouncing with Bud”.
“Hell no, not that one,” he laughs as we start walking again. “Sick of that tune”.
“Okay”, I say. “Then maybe Un Poco Loco. Or Barney’s Blues. But whatever happens, I’d definitely close with Move”.
“Definitely, huh?” he says, stopping again.
“Absolutely. ”
He laughs again and pats me on the shoulder. “You a musician too?” he asks. “Play a little?”
“No, I’m just an office guy. But I’m also a listener. Professional grade”.
We head toward the artists’ entrance of the Teatro Lirico. Just before going in, he turns to me.
“Thanks for the tie”, he says.
“No problem”, I reply.
“If you want it back, I could try and get it to you”.
“Nah”, I say. “It’s a gift”.
“Ah”, he says. “Thanks for the beers, too”.
“No problem for those either”.
“I won’t ask your name. I’d forget it the second I walk in”.
“I get it”, I say. “But I’ve got a favor to ask”.
“What’s that?” he says, slipping his hands into the coat pockets. He touches the bills and grins.
“Wait five minutes before you start playing. I gotta walk around to the front”.
Note:
Actually, Yuri Gagarin orbited the Earth on April 12, 1961, not on the 21st. All other details, including the phrase “The Earth is blue… It’s beautiful,” are factual. Of course, there was no unexpected pause between Thelonious Monk’s performance and Bud Powell’s at the Teatro Lirico in Milan on April 21, 1961; it is, however, likely that Bud Powell took the stage with a blood alcohol level well above the legal limit: according to some witnesses of the time, he had drunk more than forty beers before his performance. During his concert, he performed John’s Abbey, I Remember Clifford, Dance Of The Infidels, Barneys Blues, Yesterdays, and Move.
[1] TEATRO LIRICO OF MILAN – APRIL 21, 1961 – 9:00 PM – THELONIOUS MONK – BUD POWELL – IN CONCERT. FOR THE FIRST TIME IN ITALY.
[2] “Would you mind giving it a try, see if you can get through to this guy?”
[3] “You speak English? Can you help me with this guy?”
[4] “This guy” is Bud Powell. A famous jazz musician. One of the most… He’s supposed to play a concert at the Teatro Lirico. They’re waiting for him.”
[5] “As far as I’m concerned, he could be the Queen of England. What matters is that he pays.”
[6] “He pays? If I were you, I’d give him whatever he wants and then ask to take a photo with him in your bar. I mean, honestly…”
[7] “Yeah, well luckily you’re not me. And I don’t have a camera. And I don’t know who this guy is. Long story short: I’d prefer he pay for the seven beers he’s had and get the fuck out.”
[8] “He wants another beer.”
[9] “I want the money for the first seven. Then we’ll talk.”
[10] “We take lire here.”
[11] “There. Now are you bringing us two beers or not?”
[12] “Your change.”
[13] “Keep it.”
[14] “Just kidding.”
Michele Carenini was born in Arezzo in 1963 and has lived in Pietrasanta, Melbourne, Pisa, Bologna, and Edinburgh, before settling once again in Bologna, where he has lived for several years. With a background in Mathematical Linguistics and Artificial Intelligence, he manages international high-tech projects for a major multinational corporation and serves as a consultant for various European Commission agencies. In addition to numerous scientific publications, he has published short stories in magazines and anthologies over the years.
