Isabella Du Graf, P 12 Lucky Thompson ... - Earshot Jazz

I met Lucky at Jazz Alley in 1995. Pianist
Benny Green was performing with
drummer Kenny Washington. I thought
the music was fantastic. But when Mr.
Green rose to approach the microphone
and apologized for his playing, I was
shocked. He said that one of the masters
of the music was in the audience, making
him a bit nervous and aff ecting his performance.
From the bandstand he then
introduced Lucky Th ompson, who rose
and waved from the back of the room.
With that, and an introduction from
Daniel Brecker, I visited Lucky Th ompson
in a Seattle hospital from 1996-2005.
Lucky told precious few stories about his
rich and important past. He was primarily
engaged in thinking about today and
tomorrow. One of his favorite sayings
was, “Yesterday is gone and tomorrow
never comes.”
He preferred to be called an artist,
rather than a musician. He wrote volumes
of poetry on whatever paper he had at
hand. Many of the poems he memorized.
If I was fortunate, he recited those poems
aloud, dramatically.
I want to share three of his stories as
he told them—paraphrased, of course,
from my own memory.
Lucky
As a child, we moved from South Carolina
to Detroit. My mother passed away
when I was young, and my father picked
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meat off bones for a living. He bought me
a sweater that had “Lucky” written across
the front. One day, my brother and I were
playing football in the neighborhood, and
someone ripped that sweater up. I knew it
would upset my father. Everyone called me
Lucky, and it stuck.
Fifty-Second Street
For my fi rst gig on 52nd Street, I was
hired to replace Ben Webster—only I didn’t
know this. I showed up and Ben was
already on stage. Th e drummer was Sid
Catlett. During my solos, I just couldn’t
get it out. I was working hard, but knew
that I wasn’t coming out. As I played, a
man in the audience was encouraging me:
“Come on kid, keep going, you’re going to
be OK.” During the break, I told Catlett
that I had a bad set, but that I thought I
was going to make it, and that I was getting
encouragement from an unknown man in
the audience. Catlett said, “What wrong
with you? Don’t recognize the man giving
you that encouragement? Don’t you know
Art Tatum when you see him?”
Selmer
While in Paris, I used to visit the Selmer
people. Th ey would have various horns for
me to try, and were interested in my opinions
on their soprano saxophones. On the
subject of the sopranos, I told them, “Th is
one’s a bitch to play in tune, but you can’t
put that all on us— you got to improve
the horn.”
During Lucky’s stay in Seattle, I was
honored to assist in some notable visits
and reunions.
In 2000, trumpeter Clark Terry played
the Earshot Jazz Festival with the Seattle
Repertory Jazz Orchestra. We had made
arrangements to go see Lucky after that
performance in Kirkland. Still in tuxedo
and anxious to see his friend, we headed
for the hospital off Rainer Avenue.
As Terry came down the hall nearing
Lucky’s room, he began to sing, “You
gotta hang in there baby...boom, boom
– You gotta hang in there baby…boom,
boom.” Upon hearing this, Lucky rose
to his feet, not a common site, saying,
“Th at’s Clark Terry!” He rushed to the
hallway to embrace his friend.
Th e song was something Lucky had
put together for his friend, heavyweight
boxer Archie Moore.
Visiting with Terry, it was the fi rst time
I had seen Lucky with one of his contemporaries.
I remember Lucky never sat
down, never left Terry’s side during that
visit. As the two men had their private
reunion, I remember Terry encouraging
Lucky. “Come on, Luck,” he said, “Get
your horn together and let’s go back out
the road!”
On the way to the car, Terry asked if
I had seen the fi lm he had made with
See Lucky, page 18
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September 2005 • Earshot Jazz • 5