TRADING HORNS WITH WOODY ALLEN

Continuing the series of posts prompted by photos and documents discovered in my attic near Paris:

I'm not Jewish. I didn't grow up in Brooklyn. I don't make movies. I'm not even very funny. But I do have one thing in common with Woody Allen: a passion for traditional New Orleans jazz and for the antique Albert system clarinets favored by the old players we admire. I can't claim to be a pal of Woody's and I don't hang with him, but this shared passion has brought us together on several occasions.
     I first met him in 1989 at Michael's Pub in New York, where he held sway every Tuesday with a band led by banjoist Eddy Davis. Eddy introduced us and we had a brief chat between sets. The conversation quickly turned to Albert system clarinets, now obsolete but far superior to the modern Boehm system for reproducing the fat sound of the legendary jazzmen like George Lewis, Johnny Dodds, Sidney Bechet and countless other long-departed greats. It turned out Woody and I both had large collections of old Alberts.
     In both cases, the collecting began with the realization that you can't just walk into a music store and buy a new Albert system if a bus runs over your favorite horn, or it gets blown up by airport security while you're off having a coffee in the departure lounge (this actually happened to a friend of mine). So you start buying Alberts whenever you come across one. The problem is that a lot of them are in bad shape, or out of tune, or otherwise defective. So life becomes an endless search for the perfect Albert (named after Belgian instrument maker Eugène Albert).
     The photo above shows Woody and me comparing clarinets in October 1989 (okay, we both look a little older now). It was taken for TIME magazine to accompany my profile of Woody as a musician. (http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,958826,00.html)   My clarinet was a Buffet-Crampon, once owned by the great Lorenzo Tio, Jr. Woody's was an Italian-made Rampone. The combined age of these horns was probably 150 years. Woody was unhappy with his horn, which was considerably out of tune. That didn't really bother him, because he thought being out of tune made you sound more authentic, like the old records, so he would make his band un-tune before they played. But his Rampone had leaks and cracks and the keys were worn out.
     Tired of trekking through pawn shops and flea markets in search of a good horn, Woody finally approached the Buffet factory in Mantes-la-Jolie, near Paris, and asked them to make him a brand new Albert system. They had not made one since the 1930's, but Woody was a star, so they got out their old templates and made him a matched pair of Bb Alberts in elegant leather cases with brass fittings.
     When Woody's band toured Europe in 1996, he called and asked me to meet him at the Buffet factory. He was going there to make some adjustments on his new horns, and the Buffet folks offered to show him their collection of antique clarinets. I met him there and we had a ball examining and trying out the vintage horns, all in beautiful condition. Woody fell in love with a metal instrument and kept playing the same riff over and over. He asked if he could buy it, but the Buffet folks said it was part of their history and they could not sell it at any price. Woody persisted in his offer, but finally gave up. (You can see this sequence in Barbara Kopple's 1997 film "Wild Man Blues.") As we were leaving the factory, Woody handed me one of the two custom-made Buffets. "Consider it a long-term loan," he said. I was delighted, and sent him a vintage horn from my collection to reciprocate.
     Several months later, his secretary called me in Paris and said Woody's main horn had problems and he needed the other one back. I Fedexed it to him and he returned the horn I had loaned him. Some years later, he invited me to his Fifth Avenue apartment to see his collection. It filled a walk-in closet. There were probably 30 or more horns in there. He gave me two of them that he said he was not interested in. I kept one and traded the other to a French musician for the marvellous instrument I play today: a 1900-vintage rosewood Selmer. Don't tell Woody, but it is perfectly in tune. 

OVER THE ALPS

One of the exciting things about being back in my old house near Paris is rummaging through the attic and discovering long-lost treasures. Among them is a trove of photos. Many of them are family snapshots of interest only to those who know the family. But others deal with my early experiences with the old jazzmen around Preservation Hall, later European travels, and reporting  in 2000, showing me with Swiss adventurer Bertrand Piccard and his assistant floating over the Alps in a hot air balloon. It immediately brought back memories of that extraordinary ride and my airborne conversation with Piccard. Here is my account as it appeared in TIME’s Oct. 23, 2000 issue:

I'm afraid of heights. that should have made me the least likely candidate to float 3,000 m over the Alps in a hot-air balloon. But the prospect of taking the trip with a world-famous adventurer like Bertrand Piccard, the man who made history with his 1999 round-the-world balloon flight, was enough to overcome my inhibitions.

Piccard, a 42-year-old Swiss psychiatrist, hypnotist, balloonist and acrobatic sky-diver, proposed a 7 a.m. rendezvous at a ballooning field in Chteau d'Oex, near the eastern shore of Lake Geneva. Piccard's pale green eyes glow with enthusiasm as he explains his philosophy of ballooning. "It's a metaphor for life itself," he says. "The balloon is pushed by the winds and is a prisoner of them, just as a human being is a prisoner of life. For a balloon to change direction, it has to change altitude and find other wind currents. In life, we also have to change altitudes  psychological, philosophical and spiritual  and find other directions."

The day is just dawning, and the air is chilly. While we wait for copilot Bernard Klaus, Piccard elaborates on his theory of risk. "Contrary to what most people think," he says, "the biggest danger is not stress but routines  everything that makes humans function in an automatic way. True adventure confronts the human being with the unknown and forces him to find other ways to relate to himself and to others. Risk is an apprenticeship in flexibility, a game with life's unknowns."

At 7:30 a.m., Klaus arrives in a black pickup truck with a canvas-covered trailer behind. Along with an assistant, he starts to pull off the tarp, revealing the wicker gondola, the burner and other bits of equipment. The gondola looks disturbingly fragile to me.

As the balloon begins to float gently skyward, I am disturbed to note that the first thing we fly over is a cemetery. I swallow hard and gaze over the side at the green valley below. The cows look like ants as they graze on the green pastures. As we fly over a series of lakes, Piccard grins and looks out with an almost childlike delight at the panorama unfolding below. "This is the light I love," he says. "The mountains to the left are bathed in sunlight, those on the right are still in shadow." He points out the Jura range, Mont Blanc with its majestic snowy cap, Lake Geneva, the blue-gray Plaine Morte glacier over Crans-Montana. The scene is breathtaking, and my anxiety eases in the face of all that beauty.

"Speaking of risk taking," I ask, "what is the most dangerous thing about ballooning?" "Having to land in a bad place," Piccard replies. "That can happen when there is no wind and your gas starts to run out. You can find yourself blocked over the Alps for two hours and have to land on a forest or a rocky mountain peak." I'm sorry I asked.

The balloon has reversed direction and is now headed northeast. Piccard checks the altimeter: 2,700 m and falling, back from where we came. "I have to brief you on the landing," he announces suddenly. "When we hit the ground, it can be a real jolt. Bend your knees to absorb the shock, hold the handles on the side of the gondola. Otherwise, you can be ejected." Piccard squeezes the throttle to prevent the balloon from descending too fast. We feel the hot blast of the burners. Piccard points to a barnyard where a dozen or so pigs are running frantically in a circle. "Pigs always go berserk. Sometimes one of them drops dead of a heart attack, and the farmers make us pay for it."

Notwithstanding the porcine panic, Piccard eases the craft toward a field less than 100 m from the pigpen. I brace for the jolt, gripping the sides of the basket to avoid the indignity of being ejected into a pile of cow manure. But the gondola lands like a soap bubble on water. The pickup truck arrives within minutes to collect the equipment and take us back to Chteau d'Oex. As far as I know, all the pigs survived. And I am elated to be back on terra firma. I have faced risk, braved the unknown, and, hopefully, emerged a better man for it. But I'm still afraid of heights.

TOMMY SANCTON PERFORMANCE UPDATE

Still in Europe until October 1. Just a handful of concerts on tap over here. Will resume regular Preservation Hall and Palm Court gigs after I return.

Friday, August 30: Le Gramophone, Marly-le-Roi (France), with Enzo Mucci, bass, and Christophe Davot, guitar. 8:00 - 11:00 pm


Saturday, Sept 21: Veerhuis (Belgium), with the Fondy Riverside Bullet Band. 8:00 - 11:00 pm

Wednesdy, October 8: The Columns (New Orleans), with John Rankin. 8:00 -11:00 pm

EGYPT'S BLOODBATH: PRELUDE TO CIVIL WAR?

“The beneficiaries of what happened today are the preachers of violence and terrorism, the most extremist groups, and you will remember what I am telling you.” So said Egypt’s interim vice-president Mohamed ElBaradei in announcing his resignation after Egyptian military forces gunned down hundreds of peaceful protesters on Wednesday.

If history is any guide, ElBaradei’s grim prediction is well founded. In 1991, Algerian authorities cancelled the results of parliamentary elections that Islamic parties were poised to win. Result: a ten-year civil war during which militant Islamic groups, cheated of a democratic victory, went on a rampage of terror that cost between 60,000 and 150,000 lives on both sides. In Egypt, not only was the Muslim Brotherhood robbed of its victory with the ouster and arrest of its legitimately elected President; its peaceful protests have been met with murderous repression by military authorities apparently bent on eliminating the Brotherhood and its Islamic allies. 

Yes, Morsi was a lousy President and some elements of the Brotherhood may have nurtured hopes of one day imposing sharia law and turning Egypt into an Islamic Republic. But they were historically committed to nonviolence and, in the wake of Mubarak’s fall from power, embraced the democratic process. You can forget about that now. The brutal repression of the Brotherhood is rallying all the Islamic parties, including the most militant, into a united opposition whose violent reaction could tip Egypt into an Algerian-style civil war. 

For the U.S., which annually gives Egypt $1.3 billion in military aid, the risks are enormous, including the loss of its most reliable ally in the Arab world, the possible collapse of the 1979 peace treaty with Israel, and ever more enmity in the eyes of the Islamic world—if that is possible. Washington's entreaties to act with moderation and seek a negotiated settlement have left the Egyptian generals unmoved, raising pressure on the Obama administration to turn off the aid spigot. President Obama stopped short of that in condemning the bloodbath Thursday, but announced the cancellation of joint U.S.-Egyptian military exercises. 

WHERE KINGS ONCE TROD

Saint Germain-en-Laye lies 12 miles west of Paris. This is where I spend my summers in a house we bought when I worked in the Paris bureau of TIME Magazine. We lived here full time from 2000 until our move to New Orleans in 2007. Now it is our vacation house, where we come each year to escape the New Orleans heat, get back in touch with our French friends, and soak up the food and culture for which France is famous. But the most significant thing about Saint Germain is not that we have a house there. It is the fact that Louis XIV was born here in 1638, in a chateau built by his ancestor François I. The chateau still stands majestically in the middle of Saint Germain, surrounded by manicured gardens and parks laid out by Le Nôtre.

       Another vestige of the former royal presence here is the nearby Forêt de Marly, part of the royal domain surrounding the former Chateau de Marly. For years

I have jogged in this forest. Apart from the narrow roads and trails, it has been left in its original unspoiled state, with dense stands of oak, beech, birch and plane trees. I always take the same path: Route de la Dauphine. I know every tree, every clearing, every bend in the road by heart. But every time is different. The light changes, the weather, the wild flowers come and go, marking the seasons. The smell changes, too—pungent and sappy in the spring and summer, dank and musty in the fall and winter. 

      In the old days, the forest was teeming with deer and wild boar, and foxes, and the king and his courtiers would hunt them and serve them up in sumptuous spreads of wild game back at the chateau. Today the king and the hunters are gone. The chateau is gone. But the deer, the boar and the foxes are still here. Along with the trees, some of them hundreds of years old. Some of them were here when Louis roamed the forest; maybe a few still bear the scars of his stray bullets or arrows.
      The other day, as I was about a third of the way into my five-mile run, I saw something moving out of the corner of my eye. Then I heard the rapid clump of little hooves. It was a fawn, come to drink in the little ditch that runs along the path. It retreated into the forest, then turned around for a moment and studied me. Seeing that I was not a predator, she continued calmly along her way and soon disappeared behind the thick trees.
        I witnessed another interesting thing as I was doing my cool-down stretches. In the distance, on the same path I had taken, I heard the chatter of children’s voices, and saw a group of little kids on bicycles. A man was walking with them, wielding two walking sticks. When they drew closer, I saw that the man, apparently in his late 40’s, was blind. He advanced at a good clip and, judging from his well-developed calf muscles, was a serious walker. The kids surrounded him on their bikes, two in front, two in back. They laughed and chatted and rang their bells and did what kids do when they are riding their bikes and having fun. In the middle of them, the father (for I assume it was their father) strode along with no hesitation, guided by the little voices around him. His children were protecting him, showing him the way.
       They passed by me and continued down the path toward the busy two-lane highway. When they reached it, the kids looked left and right, then proceeded across. The father advanced with them, unable to see if any speeding cars were approaching, but trusting his children to make sure the way was clear. When they reached the other side, I kept watching this marvelous display of mutual aid, until the forms of father and kids finally disappeared into the woods.

BUDGIE SMUGGLERS: A SNEAK PREVIEW

My old buddy David Paquette, inspired by my previous post about the shirtless tourist at Versailles, reports that he saw "an Aussie in speedos" walking around Copenhagen yesterday. Our esteemed musical colleague, violinist George Washingmachine, who happens to be an Aussi, informs us that these skimpy men's swimming trunks are called "budgie smugglers" where he comes from. This prompts me to share with you all a passage from my forthcoming novel that deals with this unfortunate item of male apparel. Herewith a sample:

"Walter wore one of those miniscule male bikinis that barely covered his genitalia, a style that was considered fashionable by European men but would probably lead to an arrest on any public beach in Connecticut. Men who wore such things apparently considered them sexy, Céleste thought, but they didn’t seem to realize that the molded outline of their floppy scrota was rather repulsive. Especially when, as was the case with Walter, their bulging bellies hung down like watermelons over the tight waistbands and made them look like pregnant women."
 

If you want to read the rest of the story, you'll have to buy the book when it comes out. 

THE UGLY AMERICAN

Anyone who wonders why American tourists are not always well received in France should check out the photo of this shirtless, pot-bellied Yank wandering through the manicured gardens of the Versailles palace as if it was the beach at Coney Island. In the summer, Americans jog bare-breasted through the Tuileries gardens, down the Champs-Elysees and up the stairs at Montmartre. Just because they’re on vacation doesn’t mean this historic European metropolis is their private playland. French women may sometimes go topless on their beaches (a rarity these days) but you’d never see a native going shirtless through the French capital. Respect is a two-way street. 

IN PRAISE OF REAL THINGS

ROUGHING IT IN FEMØ

Back in France after four days at the Femø Jazz Festival with the Vintage Jazzmen. Now in its 25th year, the festival takes place each summer on the small Danish island of Femø (4 sq. mi., 125 permanent residents). The headliner this year was New Orleans's own Lucien Barbarin, who did a funky set with the Danish group Six City Stompers. Our band included Dan Vernhettes (tpt.), Francis Guéro (tbn), Jean-Luc Giraud (dms), Pierre-Luc Puig (bass), Enzo Mucci (banjo), and guest vocalist Denise Gordon.
     Femø is a strange place. The island itself is tranquil, remote, rustic, with vast fields of wheat and rye criss-crossed by narrow roads, surrounded by the blue Baltic. There are two villages consisting of a dozen or so traditional houses, a few shops and cafes, and a port with a grocery store, a sausage stand and an outdoor bar that is frequented from morning to night by Danes dedicated to what appears to be the national sport: nonstop guzzling of beer and schnapps.

     I have never seen such relentless boozing—even in New Orleans. Men, women, young and old, seem to spend most of their time imbibing. As a result of this—and a fatty diet heavy on sausage, pork, and cheese—many of the Danes we saw on the island were obese and most of the men sported pot-bellies the size of watermelons. Unfortunately, this does not stop them from going around shirtless, letting it all hang out, and in many cases exposing tattoos marked by a frightening gothic angularity. Admittedly this is vacation time and probably a non-representative sample of the Danish population as a whole. And the other side of the coin is that the Danes we met on the island were welcoming, tolerant, and easygoing.

     The festival takes place in the middle of a vast campground, surrounded by tents and trailers. (There are no real hotels on the island.) Upon our arrival, we were  taken aback by our accommodations: abandoned trailers with no toilets or running water, no electricity (until a Rube Goldberg network of extension cords was hooked up), and in many cases no wheels. These rusting hulks were musty and moldy, infested with mosquitos, and became veritable ovens when the sun beat down on them.
     None of which seemed to bother the organisers, who have done things this way for a quarter century. Actually longer: Femø traditionally attracted back-to-nature nudists who came here each summer to get away from the rigidly organized life of the cities and sprawl out in the sun, sleeping in tents or in the open air. The nudists eventually disappeared (or put their clothes on) but the festival retains elements of their no-frills culture.

A remnant of nudism remains in one restricted area of the island: the so-called Women's Camp, which each year attracts several hundred women of all ages. It began as part of the women's rights movement, but is now dominated by lesbians. Men are strictly prohibited, though transsexuals who were born male are admitted with proper identification. Needless to say, the boys in the band didn't get a chance to make first-hand observations.  (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Femø)