Players - Downbeat

Buster Bailey, Joe Thomas and, of course, Big
Sid Catlett. That band was school.”
With Krupa and Artie Shaw, Roy played the
book as well as his specialties. But he prefers the
freedom of small groups now, saying, “You
don’t get to stretch out in a big band. And things
get kind of set.” Studio work, as well, is a doubtful
pleasure to Roy.
“As far as I know,” he said, “I never play a
tune the same way twice. Sure, you play a number
a lot of times, and certain little things get set.
But the overall feeling is never the same. That’s
why it’s such a drag for Coleman when they
always ask for ‘Body And Soul.’ He made a
record of it—and now they want him to always
play the same thing. It’s just not possible. I guess
that’s why I don’t like studio work. I’ll play
something, and the cat says, ‘That sounds good.
Write it down and do it that way on the show!’
But when the show goes on, I don’t feel the
same way. So it doesn’t come out naturally.”
Eldridge’s most famous record is probably
“Rockin’ Chair” with Krupa. “We had the number
scheduled for recording for quite some
time,” Roy said, “but never got around to it.
When we finally did, I didn’t feel ready. After
we cut it, I asked them to please not release it.
Some time later, we were out on the coast, and
Ben Webster and I got together. He loves
records, and we got to playing some. When he
put on ‘Rockin’ Chair,’ I said, ‘Who’s that?’
Ben smiled. I didn’t recognize myself until the
chorus—and I’m still surprised.”
There was another time, later, when a record
surprised Roy. By the late 1940s, he had come
to a critical stage in his career. He was nagged
by feelings of doubt: that being himself no
longer had validity, that his voice was clashing
with the voices of newcomers. The jazz scene
had changed. “I felt unhappy with the way
things were going,” he said. “I felt out of place.
My playing didn’t seem to fit, the way I could
hear it. I’d been with Jazz at the Philharmonic
for quite some time. In 1949, I decided to quit
and came back to New York. Norman [Granz]
asked me to do one more concert, at Carnegie
Hall, and I agreed. Afterwards, I still felt the
same. So when Benny Goodman asked me to go
to Europe with him in 1950, I was more than
happy to accept.”
Perhaps it wasn’t just the music. The many
indignities Roy suffered when he was with
Krupa and Shaw—the contrast between star
billing, acceptance by fellow musicians and
audiences and the behavior of hotel clerks,
bouncers and others a musician deals with on the
road—was a contrast that could not fail to affect
a man as straightforward and honestly emotional
as Eldridge.
In Europe, he found new confidence in his
voice, plus the freedom he cherishes. “When the
tour with Benny ended, I stayed on in Paris,” he
recalled. “I had a steady gig in a good place. I
had friends, and I had a following. The money
wasn’t exceptional, but I was happier than I had
been in years. Nobody told me how to play, and
I began to enjoy my work again.
“Then Norman came to Paris, and we got
together. He asked me to go back with him.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m happy right here.’ He offered
me a good contract. And to make it more
appealing, he showed me some bills. It was
good to see some real money again, and I was
tempted. But then I thought for a while, and I
still felt ‘no.’ Then Norman put a record on. It
was the one made at the Carnegie Hall concert
in ’49. I listened, and I couldn’t believe it—it
sounded good. My playing didn’t stick out—it
was a statement, the other guys were making
their statements, and together it made sense.
That record made me go back. That bad feeling
was gone.”
When Roy returned from a six-week tour of
Europe last summer, he was asked how it had
been. “Wonderful,” he replied. “That Cannes ...
if I had the money, I’d buy it and have my
friends come around.”
Roy looked around for a while. Then he
turned and said, “You know what? It feels good
to be back home.”
In the last few years, Roy has toured here and
abroad with the Granz enterprises. New York is