STILL SALUTING FREEDOM

Boy is my arm tired...

STILL SALUTING FREEDOM

Boy is my arm tired. . .

As you’ll recall, lunch is served. I’m seated a chair away from Martin, which is how he introduced himself to me. I’m Dubin, the trumpet player. 

Between us, to my left, sat Harry Golden, a Jewish-American author and publisher who had lived a colorful life (check out Wiki). He’d written several significant books and pieces of journalism. Most consequentially, he now published and edited The Carolina Israelite, as both a forum for his political views as well as observations and reminiscences of his boyhood on the Lower East Side of New York.

Golden, an acerbic wit and ardent anti-segregationist enjoyed an easy friendship with Martin. They shared several hearty laughs over lunch.

Harry Golden

I landed at this table by pure intuition, having not the slightest notion that it was a ‘hot’ spot. While I had some familiarity with ‘the movement,’ it was vague at best. I had next to no idea about the cast of characters and knew little of particular history. 

My new friend Martin was far less clear in my minds eye than Bernie Glow, one of the greatest lead trumpet players in the world. My focus was on playing the trumpet, making music and having fun, as much fun as a ‘hip’ young man could jam into his days and (especially) nights in NYC and wherever else in the world ‘the road’ led him.

I’d lived with Black men and women in my daily life since forever, a de facto activist without portfolio. I’d hail cabs for Black friends. No mean feat. One that required sophisticated choreography.

Booking gigs in the Catskills was part of my ‘activism.’ I could show up, appear White, and sell. I spoke a few words of Yiddish, too. That helped. So I made the rounds of agents that represented bungalow colonies and hotels in the Borscht Belt, each of whom thought they were hiring me and my band, presuming we were all white. There were many agents. I booked many gigs, overlapping on the same weekends.

I’d fill out the dates with young Black musicians, making brief appearances at each venue to play a few tunes and clown. 

Back to lunch: Seated to my right was John Lewis, ‘The Boy from Troy.’ We hit it off big time and became lifelong friends. It was a good lunch.

John Lewis in Jail…Again

REHEARSAL

We ran down the show in a high school auditorium a short and fraught walk from Gaston’s. Hostile crowds shouted epithets. The notorious Bull Connor was in the street with dogs and his deputies, fire hoses at the ready. 

We were accompanied by armed civil defense guards arranged for by The Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights to provide security. The Birmingham Police Department declined to do anything in support of “an invading force of integrated entertainers.” 

The surreal nature of the scene blanketed any fear I might have otherwise felt. It was trippy more than scary. I was with friends going to do what I loved to do . . . rehearse a spectacular show, ultimately to play and entertain. I was cool.

THE SHOW 

“From the get-go, city officials attempted to undermine the event. The concert had been scheduled for Birmingham’s Municipal Auditorium, the site where just a few years earlier, Nat King Cole was attacked. At the last minute the auditorium canceled, offering an unconvincing excuse: thanks to a double-booking “error,” the space had been scheduled to be repainted on the very day of the concert. The paint job, apparently a matter of some urgency, could simply not be postponed. Organizers regrouped, and the concert relocated to Miles College in Fairfield, just five miles from downtown Birmingham. Volunteers scrambled to ready the space: in 98 degree heat a plywood bandstand was erected and lit on the football field. Audience members paid $5 admission and brought their own seating from home, many walking several miles on foot for the show, folding chairs in hand. Some 20,000 attended.”

~Burgin Matthews

All of the entertainers were taken from the hotel to Miles College in private vehicles, the same way we traveled from the airport to the hotel. 

Along our route to the stage we passed many thousands of folk, mostly Black with a scattering of Whites among them, carrying chairs, waving flashlights, and cheering us as we waved. 

My heart swelled unto bursting. 

_________________________

We mounted the stage, double checked our music, warmed up briefly. Moments later William B. Williams, of WNEW radio in NY, welcomed the audience. They roared. 

He introduced James Baldwin who came to the microphone to underscore the extraordinary moment we shared:

“This is a living, visible view of the breakdown of a hundred years of slavery, it means that white man and black man can work and live together.” 

The show kicked off. I have no recollection of the order of acts. Blank. I do recall feeling strong, playing with powerful ease and clear intention to reach each and every intrepid soul that braved the night.

“Martin Luther King sat beside the stage, leaning forward intently to hear the Shirelles and other acts perform. Even purely apolitical pop tunes—the Shirelles’ biggest hits included “Will You Love Me Tomorrow,” “Mama Said (There’ll Be Days Like This),” and “Dedicated to the One I Love”—became charged with social significance when performed for the cause of freedom. ~Burgin Mathews

Johnny Mathis came on to cheers. He opened with an up-tempo “I’ve Got A Lotta Living To Do.” We were no more than a few phrases into it when I saw him dive off the stage. An instanat later a loud bang.

“…a section of the makeshift stage collapsed, severing an electric line, and the whole field went suddenly dark. For a moment, performers and spectators imagined they’d been bombed — the city had seen so many bombings already — but inspection revealed no other culprit than shaky construction. In the uneasy darkness, the movement choir broke into  freedom songs, and the audience joined in, thousands of voices filling the air like they’d filled the churches, streets, and jails of Birmingham all through the past spring and summer.” ~Burgin Mathews

Thrown to the ground in the collapse, I was stunned. I lie on my back in grass, trumpet held tight across my chest. 

I was in no rush to move. Absorbed in the sound of 20,000 voices singing “We Shall Overcome” I was deeply content. 

My reverie was cut short by Joe Louis, iconic World Champion boxer, and Thad Jones, my section mate. Two LARGE men. They checked on my wellbeing and lifted me to my feet.

Neither I nor my horn was any worse for wear.

While a volunteer crew was putting the stage together, Billy Taylor, a noted jazz pianist played. Dick Gregory got laughs. Others must’ve sung.  Distracted from the happenings on stage, I recall a brief conversation with Baldwin whom I’d known through mutual friends at the Chelsea Hotel in NY. 

In less than an hour the stage was repaired. We were back in show business. We played until well past midnight. . .

WEE SMALL HOURS

The ride back to the hotel was even more moving than the ride there. Thousands of people walking and singing. Flashlight beams showing the way home. Hurrahs as we passed. Breathtaking.

Back to the hotel FBI agents awaited.

There had been bomb threats, hotel and airport. We were directed to evacuate. We gathered our stuff under the supervision of the FBI then were placed on buses and taken to the airport .

A thorough search of the plane was conducted and eventually we got clearance for takeoff. The Spirit of 76 embarked at 5 AM. 

At 9AM on August 6, 1963 we landed at Marine Field, New York City, U.S.A.

My father and kid brother picked me up. My brother caught a glimpse of Johnny Mathis, then a huge star.  He asked, incredulously, “is that Johnny Mathis?” Yeah, that’s him.

I went home to sleep.

Until next time. . .

Lights Up!