Central Avenue Sounds: Cecil McNeelyInterviewed by Steven L. IsoardiDepartment of Special Collections
|
Copyright Law
The copyright law of the United States (Title 17, United States Code) governs the making of photocopies or other reproductions of copyrighted material. Under certain conditions specified in the law, libraries and archives are authorized to furnish a photocopy or other reproduction. One of these specified conditions is that the photocopy or reproduction is not to be used for any purpose other than private study, scholarship, or research. If a user makes a request for, or later uses, a photocopy or reproduction for purposes in excess of "fair use," that user may be liable for copyright infringement. This institution reserves the right to refuse to accept a copying order if, in its judgement, fulfillment of the order would involve violation of copyright law.
Restrictions on the Interview
None.
Literary Rights and Quotation
This manuscript is hereby made available for research purposes only. All literary rights in the manuscript, including the right to publication, are reserved to the University Library of the University of California, Los Angeles. No part of the manuscript may be quoted for publication without the written permission of the University Librarian of the University of California, Los Angeles.
Photograph courtesy of Big Jay Wing Publishing.
Biographical Summary
Personal History:
Born: 1927 in Watts, California.
Education: Jefferson High School, Los Angeles; studied saxophone and music theory with Alma Hightower, Samuel Browne, Ernie Royal, Buddy Collette, and Joseph Cadaly.
Spouse: Jacquelene Edwards.
Career History:
Played saxophone with the following musicians and groups:
-
Played saxophone with the following musicians and groups:
- Cab Calloway
- Nat King Cole
- Sonny Criss
- Earls of '44
- Slim Gaillard
- Lionel Hampton
- Harry the Hipster
- Walter Henry
- Ink Spots
- Johnny Otis
- Little Richard
- Will Mastin Trio
- Modern Jazz Quartet
- Ben Webster
Selected Recordings:
-
Selected Recordings:
- Honkers & Screamers, Savoy, SJL 2234, 1977.
- Deacon Rides Again, Pathe Marconi, 154 6691, 1983.
- Big Jay McNeely Meets the Penguins, Ace, CH 111, 1984.
- From Harlem to Camden, Ace, CH 111, 1984.
- R & B Jamboree, Ace, CH 89, 1984.
- Roadhouse Boogie, Saxophonograph, BP 505, 1984.
- Swingin', Big J, 103, 1984.
- The Best of Big Jay McNeely, Saxophonograph, BP 1300, 1985.
- Az Bootin', Big J, 107, 1988.
Interview History
Interviewer:
Steven L. Isoardi, Interviewer, UCLA Oral History Program; B.A., Government, University of San Francisco; M.A., Government, University of San Francisco; M.A., Political Science, UCLA; Ph.D., Political Science, UCLA.
Time and Setting of Interview:
Place: American Federation of Musicians Local 47, Los Angeles.
Dates, length of sessions: August 31, 1989 (57 minutes); September 27, 1989 (48).
Total number of recorded hours: 1.75
Persons present during interview: McNeely and Isoardi.
Conduct of Interview:
This interview is one in a series designed to preserve the spoken memories of individuals, primarily musicians, who were raised near and/or performed on Los Angeles's Central Avenue, especially from the late 1920s to the mid-1950s. Musician and teacher William Green, his student Steven Isoardi, and early project interviewee Buddy Collette provided major inspiration for the UCLA Oral History Program's inaugurating the Central Avenue Sounds Oral History Project.
In preparing for the interview, Isoardi consulted jazz histories, autobiographies, oral histories, relevant jazz periodicals, documentary films, and back issues of the California Eagle and the Los Angeles Sentinel.
The interview is organized chronologically, beginning with McNeely's childhood and education in Watts, California, and continuing on through his career as a jazz musician. Major topics include fellow jazz musicians, musical styles, Central Avenue, the American Federation of Musicians, and the recording industry.
Editing:
Alex Cline, editor, edited the interview. He checked the verbatim transcript of the interview against the
The edited transcript was sent to McNeely for review in February 1992. McNeely did not return the transcript. As a result, the transcript was completed without interviewee corrections or additions.
Steven J. Novak, editor, prepared the table of contents, biographical summary, interview history, and index.
Supporting Documents:
The original tape recordings of the interview are in the university archives and are available under the regulations governing the use of permanent noncurrent records of the university. Records relating to the interview are located in the office of the UCLA Oral History Program.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TAPE NUMBER: I, Side One (August 31, 1989)
-
TAPE NUMBER: I, Side One (August 31, 1989)
-
Childhood in Watts -- Starting to play saxophone - Studies with other musicians -- Records a hit and forms a band -- Banned from the stage because of wild performances -- "Walking" the audience -- His fluorescent saxophone -- Central Avenue clubs - Racial attitudes in the 1940s -- Playing the theater circuit -- Sonny Criss.
TAPE NUMBER: I, Side Two (August 31, 1989)
-
TAPE NUMBER: I, Side Two (August 31, 1989)
-
Background of hit records -- Merger of American Federation of Musicians locals 767 and 47 -- Racial discrimination in the union -- The union's present weakness -- Financial relations with record companies -- Independent record labels -- Decline of Central Avenue.
TAPE NUMBER: II, Side One (September 27, 1989)
-
TAPE NUMBER: II, Side One (September 27, 1989)
-
The rural nature of Watts in the 1920s -- High school band -- Coming of be-bop -- Charlie Parker, John Coltrane, Howard McGhee, Eric Dolphy.
TAPE NUMBER: II, Side Two (September 27, 1989)
-
TAPE NUMBER: II, Side Two (September 27, 1989)
-
More on Central Avenue musicians -- Rhythm and blues -- Composing his own songs -- Developing a soulful sound.
Tape Number: I, Side One
August 31, 1989
Isoardi
Jay, let's begin with where you were born and raised, what the environment was like, your family.
McNeely
I was born in Watts in 1927. There were three boys in the family: my brother Robert ["Bobby" McNeely], who played saxophone with me, and Dillard [McNeely, Jr.] later came in and played bass. We traveled together on the road for many years. And my father [Dillard McNeely] and mother [Armonia McNeely]. We were born in a little town called Watts on 110th Street. It was a mixed community, all nationalities were there. It was complete peace at that time. I went to a great preschool and went to Jordan [High School]. Then I left and went to Poly [Los Angeles Polytechnic High School] and then graduated at Jeff[erson High School] under Samuel Browne.
Isoardi
So you moved through three high schools?
McNeely
Yeah, three high schools. I started playing when I— At school, I'd pick up a horn, play a little bit, but then when I got to sixteen I got interested. I was working at the Firestone Rubber Company. I said, "Hey, there has to be a better way to make a living than working eight hours." So I picked up the saxophone.
Isoardi
And you hadn't really played much music before that?
No. I just— Well, I liked it, you know. I'd have my brother write something out for me, and I'd play it in school or something like that, but I didn't really get interested in it until I was around sixteen. My brothers had both gone into the army.
Isoardi
Were they older than you?
McNeely
Yeah. I brought him a letter. I knew he had left his horn with a guy named Buddy Harper, who was a great arranger at the time. So I went up there and got the saxophone. I studied from Miss [Alma] Hightower. That was Vi Redd's grandmother. And Sonny Criss. We all went up there and studied together for like fifty cents a lesson.
Isoardi
With the same lady?
McNeely
Yeah. I played a tenor one day, and I liked it—because I started on alto. Then I wrote my brother, and he sent me his tenor. In fact, I'm still playing it today, the same horn. And I started playing tenor. In the school, I got a band. I bought a baritone. I wanted to play in the band, and they wouldn't let me, so I formed my own group. We were called the Earls of '44. A little Spanish kid had a lot of music, and he played a little saxophone, so we formed a band. Then I met Sonny [Criss], and I started out playing jazz with Charlie Parker and Miles Davis and all the guys.
Isoardi
You met Sonny Criss when?
Well, it must have been in my senior year in high school.
Isoardi
At Jefferson?
McNeely
No, he came out, and I met him, and we went to Poly together. We were there for a year, and that's when Hampton Hawes, an incredible pianist— Then we went to Jeff together and graduated together. In fact, we had to change nights to get off to play at the Last Word [Cafe]. That's when Central Avenue was really grooving. This was around '46 when we got out. So the avenue was still grooving at that time. I played the Downbeat [Club] and played the Basket Room, played down on First Street. That's when they had Shepp's Playhouse and all the guys used to play down in the music room. We used to play in an after-hours spot there. That's when after-hours was going then. At that time, you could have an after-hours spot. That's when I met Teddy Edwards, who was playing with Roy Milton at that time; that's when I met him. He came in on alto, and then Howard McGhee changed him over to tenor.
Isoardi
Teddy Edwards?
McNeely
Yeah, because he came out here with Ernie Fields out of Oklahoma.
Isoardi
Playing alto?
McNeely
Yeah. So, like I said, Charlie Parker— I was very close to Charlie Parker, very close to Howard McGhee,
Isoardi
Was that the Lloyd Reese rehearsal band?
McNeely
Yeah, the Lloyd Reese rehearsal band. He had great trumpets. He was a great teacher. All the guys studied from him, you know. Even Eric Dolphy studied from him. A lot of good musicians: Ernie Royal, another guy—
Isoardi
Ernie Royal? Marshall [Royal]'s brother?
McNeely
Yeah. I studied from him. He used to do a lot of studio work and stuff. He had a great studio there where he taught the musicians. At that time, we had what we called a Progressive Musicians Club and a lot of teachers would come down and they would teach the different musicians. We were trying to build qualified
So Watts was— Like I say, you had the Spanish who went to Jordan. No problems, no racial problems. Everything was contained in Watts. We had two shows—[tape recorder off]
Isoardi
So the situation in Watts then was very different. It was very mixed—
McNeely
Oh, yeah, very mixed: Spanish kids, Orientals, and whites. We all went to school together, no problems. We had two shows there, the Largo and the [inaudible]. They used to have the amateur hour at the Largo Theatre. That's where Little Esther [Phillips] got discovered. Johnny Otis had the Barrelhouse there on 108th by the Santa Ana track. And a lot of acts: Little Esther, the Robbins, a lot of the different groups. Johnny Otis formed his orchestra and had a lot of big— Well, Johnny used to play at the Club Alabam, too, but he— And they had a lot of comedian acts. A lot of movie stars used to come out to catch the show. Then, at that time, it was real great and no problems. Like I said, they used to have the amateur hour on Twenty-third [Street] and Central. That's where they got the "Gong Show" from. Pigmeat Markham was there, and they had a whole, full theater, chorus line. But on Wednesday night they had the amateur hour. They strictly
Isoardi
You went up as a comedian?
McNeely
Yeah. At that time, I used to want to be— I used to clean up all the shows downtown when I was young. They had the burlesque right across the street, and I used to go down and listen to the cats and take a lot of their points. I wanted to be comedian, because, at one time, I used to have two girls who used to work with me. I used to be a little comedian. I'd blow my horn and their skirts would come off and they would dance while I was playing. I knew Skillet. Pan, Pot, and Skillet: that was a comedian act that used to work with Jimmie Lunceford and all the guys then. Skillet's right here now working with another guy, Leroy Daniels. So what happened is that I used to work with him; he used to give me a lot of ideas. I wanted to be a comedian, but that didn't work, so I came back the next week and won second prize playing my horn.
Isoardi
How old were you when this was happening?
McNeely
I was sixteen then, about seventeen. I was about seventeen.
Then I went to San Diego and worked. I was still in
Isoardi
So who were you playing with? When you were sixteen, you were in your late teens, who were the guys that you were playing with and learning with?
McNeely
Well, it was Sonny Criss, Hampton Hawes—
Isoardi
Hampton Hawes, as well?
McNeely
Oh, yeah, a great jazz pianist. We had Buddy [William] Woodson on bass—he played with us a while— William Streetser on drums, various guys. And I used to go and listen to Mingus and Lucky Thompson, the Farmer Brothers [Art and Addison Farmer], Ernie Andrews was around then. But Sonny Criss and I used to have a good band together, and we used to jam after hours together. So most
Isoardi
You guys formed your own band?
McNeely
Yeah. We had played together quite a while, until, then, I went to start studying from Joseph Cadaly.
Isoardi
Who was Joseph Cadaly?
McNeely
He played first chair at RKO studios. He was a teacher. He taught us harmony, solfège. We had ear training and the whole bit for about a year. That's when Sonny and I split up. He continued on into the progressive jazz, and I went and studied. And then, after I studied for a year, I had my big hit, "Deacon's Hop," in '49, and I went just strictly solo. That's what the guys wanted me to play, because that's what they were paying me for. One thing just led to another as far as showmanship, creating excitement, finding my place in the music world.
Isoardi
"Deacon's Hop" was your first hit, then?
McNeely
Yeah, the first big hit. So I recorded that.
Isoardi
How old were you then?
McNeely
When that came out, I must have been about twenty years old. After that, I was supposed to go back East, but I didn't go because Bardu Ali told me how all these guys tie you up. You know, the agents mess you up, so— I wanted my brother to go, but they wouldn't let him come, so I just didn't go. That's when my record was really big. I probably could have made some good money, but if I hadn't
Then I stayed around and formed a band. We traveled quite a bit all over the United States. We also had big hits, like when Elvis [Presley] came out I was— They used some of my pictures for him when he first started, because these guys take these pictures and they sell them, you know. And I played at the Shrine [Auditorium]. I had Life, Ebony, Point, Quick, all the big magazines run big stories on me with the kids from Los Angeles. I was drawing five or six thousand kids every week. And I broke up a Johnnie Ray session. We outdrew him. He had Ray Anthony, Kay Starr, in San Diego. That's when I got locked up and put in jail. I was outside blowing my horn, and a guy came by off duty. At that time, I didn't have a wireless, so I couldn't get out in the streets. I'd get out in the streets, but the band couldn't hear me. See, now they can hear, because I have a wireless. So I was locked up and put in jail, and they would wait for me to come back. My brother and them would—
Isoardi
You mean in the middle of a performance you walked outside blowing?
McNeely
Yeah.
Isoardi
And they busted you for that?
McNeely
Yeah. Well, some guy off duty, see— It was
Isoardi
You told him you were in the middle of a performance?
McNeely
Yeah. [laughter] And the other guys who were working there, they were grooving, having a good time. [laughter] So, anyway, they locked me up. Another guy was trying to help me, and they locked him up. And then, when the people found out about it, they wanted to come down, but, hey, Hunter Hancock [KFVD disc jockey] said, "Oh, don't go down there, man. They won't never let him out." So I went back to report the next day before the judge, and he said, "Fifty dollar fine, suspended." But see, at that time there was also what they called race records. Hunter Hancock was the only disc jockey— And, of course, he would play no white records; he played all black artists. None of the stations would play what they called rhythm and blues [R and B] records, so he was the only jock, see. But I would go to schools and play, and then I'd play afterwards. So I developed a tremendous white audience. And they didn't understand, because I was acting so wild. They didn't know if I was using stuff or not, because they'd never seen the white kids act this way, the Spanish, you know. I know one guy wrote up— I played at Huntington
Isoardi
Which city was this?
McNeely
Los Angeles County. Nowhere.
Isoardi
You couldn't play?
McNeely
No. They barred me out of Los Angeles, Long Beach— See, all these kids would give these dances, and I couldn't get— Because you had to get a permit, see.
Isoardi
This was just because of the reaction? The kids—
McNeely
Yeah. They wouldn't give me a permit to play. I even tried to hire a special police department. I said, "I'm going to pay you guys so much money." They still— But, nevertheless, Johnny Otis and Hal Singer came right in and did the same thing I did, you see. So I think it was mostly a racial thing. You see, you're pioneering, you're too early, and here you're drawing these kids playing the Orpheum [Theatre], the arenas, and all these places. You're drawing all these people. "We don't know what's going on." It's something brand-new. If you're white, no problem. You see that? But I was black, and I was young, and they were seeing these kids acting, so they just
Isoardi
How long did this band last on your performing here?
McNeely
What happened, after about '55, I broke up the Johnnie Ray concert. My manager used to be the ex-manager of the Largo. We broke up the concert there. And I was supposed to go with Nat King Cole. When Sonny Criss and I used to play together at school, the drummer knew Nat King Cole's first wife [Nadine Robinson Coles], and he came over to the garage and said, "Hey, you guys are real great. Keep it up. You'll make it." So I worked for him once in Oakland. I walked the floor. Man, people were screaming and hollering. And he had just started recording "Too Young." He had just started singing, you know. So he said he would never work with me again. I said, "Hey"— I thought he was kidding, because he came over to a club called Be-Bop there in San Francisco. Chuck Landers knew Costello, his manager, so when he got together to put this
Isoardi
When would that occur? Once a year or something like that?
McNeely
Yeah, once a year. Jesse Belvin was working, because I was the first one who carried Jesse out on the road. He was very young. And Hamp's wife, Gladys [Hampton], was very protective of Hamp. She wouldn't let him— Nobody stole the show from Hampton. When she looked up and saw me—she had evidently heard about me before—she let Jesse sing one number and [snaps fingers] pulls us off, because we were the opening act. But then Hamp called me up to do "Flying Home."
Isoardi
To do "Flying Home" with him?
McNeely
Yes. I got on the stage, and we started doing
Isoardi
When did you start walking? When you were a kid? When you started playing, moving into an R and B groove—?
McNeely
No, I never thought— I started walking, I guess, after I had my first hit record in '49. Like I say, I was trying to find my place in music, and that's when I started to put on a little showmanship, walking. So that was great. If I see Hamp— They didn't walk to the theater down there, at the Olympic Theatre, but I could see him.
Then guys started copying me, different artists and saxophonists started copying me. And then I had my horn put into color, and it changed colors when I played. I've got a picture here of it. I did a thing for the BBC [British Broadcasting Corporation]. When I was in Switzerland, you can get a general idea of how the horn looks. See, when you turn out all the lights, that's what the horn looked like. All you can do is see the horn.
Isoardi
When you turn off the lights, it looks like your horn glows yellow.
McNeely
Yes, it does.
Isoardi
Is it specially treated?
McNeely
Yeah, specially treated. I used to have transparent paint on it, and it worked good. But when I did the movie for the BBC, it didn't show up good enough, because the lacquer on the horn wasn't good. I had to take
Then, I used to have a light act. I would light up— Little light bulbs used to light up. I bought that off a guy. We were taking some pictures, and I saw all these light bulbs through high frequency. Light bulbs would burn out. You could light up and have somebody go out. My brother and I used to do a lot of stuff like that, too. But now I don't do that, because, hey, you've got to have all these bulbs and all that stuff, and then they get broken and all that. So I don't bother with that. But I still do my light act, and I have a wireless now, a [Yamaha] SPX 90, floor stuff, a lot of electronic things
Isoardi
Tell me, when was the first time you really hit Central Avenue and started hanging out in the clubs? What was the scene like then?
McNeely
Well, hey, I hit Central Avenue when I was a kid, man, because that was the thing in the forties, '44, '45. The avenue was popping then. You had the Club Alabam— Johnny Otis playing there—and they had a full chorus line, just like the Cotton Club in New York. And you had the Downbeat. You had the Last Word. Then, you had Shepp's Playhouse. You had all the clubs. So I started going there, because, like I said, when I was going to school I was playing Central Avenue, playing there and other clubs besides that, stuff in Watts and playing Central Avenue. I remember Duke Ellington came over to my party. I was born April 29, and he was born April 29. I was with Harold Oxley. He used to book T-Bone Walker and all the guys. He used to book Fats Domino. So he brought Duke over; he knew Duke. He used to book Jimmie Lunceford, so he had all of Jimmie Lunceford's old records and everything. He brought him over there to the Downbeat. In fact, I have pictures of him—
Isoardi
At your birthday party?
McNeely
Yeah. We sat down and talked with Duke and all that, you know. I was always on Central sneaking in.
Isoardi
What were the clubs like when you first got in?
McNeely
Well, incredible. They were grooving, because money was popping; people had plenty of money. You didn't have this big racial thing going.
Isoardi
Pretty mixed crowds, then?
McNeely
Yeah. Oh, man, Humphrey Bogart, all the big stars would come down there and were what they called slumming. Like, if he's in New York, he'd say, "Hey, let's go to the Cotton Club." They'd just like going down and seeing some black entertainment. Because, even in Los Angeles, the unions were so prejudiced, man, like even the [Local] 47, they would petition clubs to keep black musicians from working in them. That's when we had 767. But then finally they merged. Like Eddie Heywood had "Begin the Beguine" while we were there. So all the big acts were coming out playing and cooking in the clubs and having just a ball. It was just incredible. Central Avenue, like I say, even the Beacon Theatre, that was a big thing. They had Elks [Club] hall. All the big acts played the Elks because of the black Elks. They had Lionel Hampton, all the big acts. I played there. Roy Brown played there. So the avenue was just on fire. You know what I mean?
Isoardi
I don't know if you remember this. This is from
McNeely
Yeah. Well, that was a big deal on Sunday night, after two consecutive weeks of blues.
Isoardi
So the Elks Club was a typical Elks Club, but they had a big dance floor? Was that it? And had concerts there on a regular basis?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. It was the Elks, the black Elks. They had a great big hall right on the corner, good parking. I see here they had "Deacon's Hop," "Benson's Hop," "Artie's Jump," and "Blow, Big Jay, [Blow]." Yeah, these are things that I did. We did a lot of things. Like I said, I played the Elks, a lot of times played the Elks, many, many times. The Last Word many times. The Downbeat. Go by Jack's Basket with Jack McVea and the other guys. Scatman Crothers would be down there. Scatman Crothers played great drums, man. He really did.
Isoardi
I didn't know he was a drummer.
McNeely
That's where I met him, playing drums. Every time I'd see him, sometimes I'd see him and he'd say, "Hey," you know, "Hi." I know he got into movies and was real big. But, yeah, he used to play drums, incredible drummer. Like I said, all the guys came down, all the movie stars, and other people. You could just go from one end of Central Avenue to the other end and it was just
Isoardi
All night long?
McNeely
Yeah. Oh, yeah. After hours. Like at Jack's Basket downtown they'd have after-hours. The Nightcap was after-hours. All the bands came out and jammed. The Jackson Brothers had a band there. Because I remember a long time ago they used to have— Not out on Central, but where Sammy Davis's place was right on Slauson [Avenue] during that time. Sammy Davis, Jr., was there, Art Edwards. They had the Will Mastin Trio, and they had Jimmy Witherspoon and the Chenier Twins all on the same bill. I was working there with them in the band. That was a little club right on Slauson and Arlington [Avenue]. So then all the guys would go from there down to Central Avenue and stuff like that. That's when a guy used to stay at the Cecil Hotel downtown at Fifth Street. I even worked on Fifth Street. They used to have clubs all down there on Fifth Street when I was going to school.
Isoardi
In the downtown area?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. That was grooving down on Fifth Street and Sixth Street close to Central. Yeah. We used to do a lot of jamming down there, man, in the clubs. But that's when everything was popping all over. No racial things. You had the racial things, but, I mean, it was like where everybody knew. It's different when you're, like, down
It was a very exciting period because you had so much going on. You always had the acts coming in, playing the Orpheum Theatre where the Platters started and all that stuff. We played the Paramount [Theatre] downtown, the Hollywood Four Flames. That's when we got later on in, because I remember one time we had a thing going with Liberace. We had the Battle of the Bands. Vido Musso. He would wear a cuff and all that stuff, so we had a Battle of the Sax in Long Beach. Vido Musso would play the Orpheum Theatre. We would line them up for the eight o'clock show, do two hours, put everybody out, and go right out and then come right back in for the next show. We used to play the wrestling arena.
See, what happened, I had a little group that I worked with, and another promoter came in, but I was drawing more people then he did. So what happened, we joined together. A lot of guys didn't know, but we joined together. I was doing very well. But these other guys stepped in and took over, so I got barred out of Los Angeles. I went with G.A.C., and that's when I went to play— They were such a big agency at that time, because I started playing Birdland in New York, the Band Box, all the big, top rooms, where guys like Charles Brown, those guys, they would come and see me and Bird [Charlie Parker] working with Sarah [Vaughan] and Diz [Dizzy Gillespie] and all the guys. They'd say, "Man, how did you—?" Because they would like the fall in New York and perhaps play the Apollo [Theatre] and then kick back in front of the club. But they couldn't get in there because you had to be with a certain agent. But once I got in there and performed, it was no problem. The agent had no problem putting me back. But just the fact that if you walk up and say, "Hey, it's Big Jay," well, no. You see what I mean? But G.A.C. would get on the phone, "Okay, you want—" Well, they've got Nat King Cole, Perry Como, all these heavy cats. "Hey, take Big Jay?" "Oh, yeah. Okay, we'll make it up on—" Or something like that. So it's just who you're with. Well, I was headlining the bill in the Apollo Theatre over the
Isoardi
The Apollo in New York?
McNeely
Yes, I worked the Apollo several times. I worked there. And then I went back when I had my big hit in '59 with "There's Something on Your Mind." I played the whole circuit, the whole theater. Then I went out one year with Little Richard when he came out. We worked on a Top 10 review. I was supposed to be the band, because I knew the guys from Gale Agency. They needed a band, so he gave me the gig.
Isoardi
Little Richard was the solo, and your band was backing him up?
McNeely
Well, what we did, we were supposed to back all acts on the show. So they flew about seven musicians in from New york, and we had rehearsals down in New Orleans. Of course, Joe Turner wanted Choker Campbell because his band was traveling with him, but Choker Campbell couldn't do it because the guy hired me. So then, he tried to act like we couldn't play his music and all that stuff. And so then, the guy gets— Of course, he was real big at that time. Then Little Richard, because Little Richard was top of him, he asked me, would I mind just opening the second half? I told him, "Yeah, no problem." We let Choker Campbell take the band. Let's see. We had Little Richard, Joe Turner, the Five Keys, the Moonglows, the Five Satins,
Isoardi
Big, big show.
McNeely
Oh, yeah, the top ten acts in the country. They'd take them starting in New Orleans and go for about two months all through the South. It was an incredible show. They did that once a year with the top ten acts. I was on that show. I worked with Nat and Cab Calloway. I opened up in Birdland with Ben Webster and the Modern Jazz [Quartet] with Milt Jackson, Erroll Garner.
Isoardi
You crossed a lot of boundaries.
McNeely
Oh, yeah. I worked with a lot of guys over the years. When I was in San Francisco one time, I worked with the Ink Spots. I worked in San Francisco quite a bit. We even worked on "Say When" with old Harry the Hipster, and we worked with Slim Gaillard, "Pop the Pop in a Cement Mixer." So like I say— Like, I saw him in Europe. He said, "Hey, Big Jay!" I worked with all the guys. I worked all through New York. I've been traveling all over the world now, doing a lot of things.
Isoardi
Let me ask you, Sonny Criss was a childhood friend of yours, I guess, and you guys hung together.
McNeely
Oh, yeah.
Isoardi
What was he like developing, as a kid and as a musician?
McNeely
Well, he was a great guy. He really was a very
Isoardi
Yeah. He was a fine, fine player. Did he try and make it on the East Coast at all?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. He played the East Coast quite a bit. He went to Paris. He played all over, man. He played with all the cats. I don't know, it just didn't happen. That's all. Like, I even saw Hamp [Hampton Hawes] in New York, who was a great pianist. But, like I say, it just— Well, you know, Bird had a long time getting recognition for it and a lot of the black musicians coming out at that time. Now you've got them where people are more receptive to what was happening, see. Like you say, he was pioneering, too. See, when you're pioneering, it's kind of more difficult to get recognition. And, I'm sad to say, the white musicians come along— And they can play, now, but they come in, and they get all this recognition, see. They get into places and they can do things. Like Elvis came along—same thing. But now it's different, you see. Michael Jackson, the biggest artist in the country, he's black. But if he started in earlier, he might not have made it, see. Like Jackie Robinson getting into baseball. He was the first black to play baseball. But now, hey, they've got them all over the place. You see some basketball team, you've got to look for a white guy!
Isoardi
So both of you guys, for a short time, anyway, studied music with Sam Browne at Jefferson.
McNeely
Yes, we did. We went there for a year.
Isoardi
What was he like as a teacher? Did you get a lot out of him?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Lots. He was the one who started teaching about the different types of scales and how to play tonal. You could play where you could play in any key. Great arranger. We learned lots from him. All the guys studied under him: Arthur Farmer, a lot of the jazz musicians came out of there, and he was a tremendous teacher. We learned lots from him. And then, after I graduated, that's when I started studying.
Mr. Green, who was the teacher at Poly, was the one who gave me this teacher, Joseph Cadaly. I got in touch with him. I learned how to play very legit, learned how to read. I was playing saxophone, clarinet, and studying solfège. We studied the stationary "do" and studied the moveable "do" or things. Like at USC [University of Southern California] they're teaching the moveable "do,"
By studying for a year, I lost a lot of— I don't know. I didn't lose the soul, but what you do, you get very technical, you know. But now I'm able to use all of this, because when you want to really— I even studied from Buddy Collette on the flute. Like I learned before about your diaphragm, keeping the air inside your body, and when you want to play your horn, sing. You can hear all the overtones. Also, like, your vibrato. The faster the vibrato is, the more you'll sing. And you can play at a whisper. Like, I can play high notes at a whisper, and, still, it will be carrying, you see.
Isoardi
You like the altissimo range, don't you?
McNeely
Yeah. See, there are certain things that you learn from a teacher that you can't learn on your own. I don't care how talented you are, you just don't— These things don't come natural. You go to a good teacher, and he takes what you have and puts these things— So I sit in his room and play, and another guy takes up his horn and
Tape Number: I, Side Two
August 31, 1989
Isoardi
So you began on alto, then you quickly switched to tenor.
McNeely
Yeah.
Isoardi
And when you were with Sam Browne, I guess, by the time you got to Jeff[erson High School], you were working on saxophone, but you were also working on clarinet?
McNeely
I didn't start the clarinet until I started studying from Joseph Cadaly. That's when I started the clarinet. It was all right. I didn't particularly care for it, but it's a good instrument. It's a hard instrument to play. You have to play it correctly, have to have that correct embouchure, diaphragm, everything. It makes you play. It's a good instrument if you like it. I don't particularly like it.
Isoardi
You don't play it anymore, do you?
McNeely
No. But you've got guys like Artie Shaw, Benny Goodman, those other cats, man, that can really get over it and can play. But I didn't care for it. Some guys like the sound. I just liked the sound of the tenor, so that's what I stayed with.
Isoardi
Then you studied with this Mr. Cadaly for a year or two?
About a year, just about a year. That was it because the money ran out.
Isoardi
And then you were on your own?
McNeely
Yeah. One kid came by. He said he wanted me to record. I said yeah. I did "Deacon's Hop." They wanted me to record it. I didn't know what the chords were, so I went to a little record store in Watts, a guy named Pete Canard, and he gave an old record of Glenn Miller when the drum went [mimics cymbal sound] with just the cymbal. I took it from listening to that. I took my horn, and I created this "Deacon's Hop." It was a big thing.
Isoardi
Just like that? Off a Glenn Miller rhythm background?
McNeely
Yeah. So I created this thing. I just forgot about everything I learned and just went in and played soul, so to speak. Soul. One note. Don't try to play a lot of notes; just play some soul. And it worked. I think there was a dynamic at the time, because I went from one stage to another stage altogether. It wasn't like I was doing it all the time. It was such a drastic change, because I listened to some of my old things that I did at that time, and they were very soulful, very simple. And then I listened to some other things, because I was playing a rubber mouthpiece at that time, and I played a lot of high notes. Because what happened, I used to play a Berg—
Isoardi
Just a vitamin thing?
McNeely
Yeah. Vitamin B1, yeah.
Isoardi
Did you stay with the Berg Larsen?
McNeely
Somebody stole my horn. It was a good one. It was an SM-1, very short facing. It had a reed that was shortened. Man, it was very bright. Instead of being a long-facing, it was very short. Somebody stole it. I had a Super Selmer, and a guy stole it down South somewhere. Then I went back to get another mouthpiece. They quit making that line. I don't think guys could really handle it, especially a jazz musician, because they wanted a cooler sound, you see. But I wanted the big sound.
Isoardi
Yeah, you got it!
McNeely
It was suitable for me.
Isoardi
What about your day-to-day routine down on Central? You were hanging out there, at a certain point, then, almost everyday.
McNeely
Oh, yeah. Every night.
And you were working pretty steadily?
McNeely
Yeah. Well, I was going to school till '46.
Isoardi
And then, after that, it was all Central?
McNeely
Well, then I worked Central. I worked with Johnny Otis, around, just whenever I could work, different places.
Isoardi
But you were doing music pretty much the whole time? You didn't have to take any other jobs?
McNeely
No, no. I was just working, no, just playing music. Then, when I got the hit, bam, I went out on the road.
Isoardi
Who was playing in your band then?
McNeely
My brother was playing by the time—
Isoardi
Was that Bobby?
McNeely
Yeah. Whew! I had so many different guys over a period of years. "Tight" was with me. He was a drummer out of Fort Worth, Texas. Leonard Hardiman. He was with me for a long time. My brother and various piano players at different times. Guitar players at different times. Well, Wendell Johnson— The band was constantly changing during that time. I had so much trouble with bass players, I told my brother [Dillard] he had to play bass. I threw him on bass, and that's when everything got to moving. We traveled all over the world playing together, all over the United States. Canada, New York, down South. We played
Then things got really tough and rough, and I came home, no money. Then I bought this tune for $25, "There's Something on Your Mind," and recorded it in Seattle, Washington. We didn't have enough money to even get the tape out. So I went back and got it out and knew I had a hit. We put it out with Hunter Hancock, because no other company would put it out. I carried it around to all the major companies, but they said, "No, nothing to it. We don't want it." I was backing Bobby Darin and Chuck Berry. I was getting $150 a night. It was a six-piece band. We had to pay 10 percent traveling tax at that time. I wasn't making anything, really. But I knew I had a hit, man, if I could get this thing on the air. So I put it on a guy named Rocky Lucky's show in San Francisco, midnight show, and, man, that thing took off. I came back in a week, and I was making $5,000 a week. The same guy, the promoter, was paying me $150 a night, he's paying me $1,000 a night. So we go in there with B. B. King and, at that time, packed the place, the Oakland Auditorium. From then on, it just kept moving.
Then, I was doing a lot of recording for King Records. I recorded for all of them: Aladdin Records, Modern Records, Vee-Jay [Records] out of Chicago, Imperial
Isoardi
What was Johnny Otis like? You played with him quite a bit.
McNeely
Well, yeah, I worked with him at the Barrelhouse. He's a great guy, you know.
Isoardi
He seems like a mainstay on Central.
McNeely
Yeah, he was.
Isoardi
His name comes up a lot.
McNeely
Yeah. He played the Lincoln Theatre, and he played Club Alabam, and now and then he played the Barrelhouse—they opened a club in the Barrelhouse. He's the one who discovered Little Esther, Bobby Day— Not Bobby Day, but the other kid, Bobby Nunn, who especially was with the Coasters. I worked with him quite a while. You know, I did blues. I did the Monterey Jazz Festival with him, too. So I worked with him.
Isoardi
What kind of music was he playing then?
McNeely
Everything that was at that time. He had a big band. You know, he liked to play, to sound like [Count] Basie's stuff, a lot of swing things. But then, we got down to the funky things, too. The smaller bands got down to the other things, smaller things.
Let me ask you about the unions. You had 767 down on Central, and you had Local 47 here on Vine [Street]. You were involved to some extent, weren't you, in the merging of the unions?
McNeely
Well, I really wasn't for it, really.
Isoardi
Really? Why not?
McNeely
Well, first thing is— Like, even in Cleveland they had two locals. See, the only reason why we had two locals in the jurisdiction was because the international allowed it. The only reason they allowed it was because they were prejudiced. It's as simple as that. Like I said before, they'd even go down as far as San Diego and try to picket you for working, go into all the little white clubs that don't— "We won't go to your club if you hire black musicians." It was terrible. That's really why we had 767. There were a few musicians who wanted to work in the studios, who were qualified to work, and the white musicians, because they're still prejudiced, they still don't hire them. They would tell them, "Well, if you were in Local 47, you see, we would hire you." So they said, "Okay." "We can't hire you unless you are in 47." Now, what kind of stuff is that? So a few musicians got together and said, "Hey, man, let's join 47"—all the benefits.
I was out of town. A lot of them would have voted
I remember when I was working for the [United States] Post Office, I went down to this crippled children's hospital. We had to pitch in for it, that type of thing. I asked the lady, "Would you like a band to come and play?" She said, "Yeah, okay." So I called the union. We went down there and played, and the kids liked it so much, they enjoyed it so much. Then, the next thing I know, the union turned it over to some white guy to book the place.
Isoardi
You mean your band was supposed to play, and at the last minute they wouldn't let you play?
McNeely
Oh, no. At that point, they wouldn't let me play, but then, when we used to play, I used to go by—and you had to put in a thirty-day request—but they turned it over to some white guy to book.
I had a bad experience going into the Largo. They
Isoardi
So you thought that not only would it not change much, but it actually would work against you, then, if they merged, because you wouldn't get as many jobs. You wouldn't have an organization, then. At least with 767, you're saying you had an organization.
McNeely
Yeah, you had an organization that at least looked out for you. At that time, the union was much stronger than it is now, even as far as local jobs are concerned. The union has nothing now, unless you're in the studio maybe, which they've got all tied up. The conductors, they hire who they want. You can even see this trumpet player, the black guy, Quincy Jones, you may see
Isoardi
In Vegas, they were talking about taking more live entertainment out and putting in more taped stuff.
McNeely
But, see, if all the big guys say, "We're not going to do it," it's a big fight. If they don't do it,
Isoardi
How important was 767 on Central? Did it pretty much control the music there?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. It was great. We had our own local, we had our own money, we owned the building. If I was on the road traveling and got into trouble, they sent me money. They realized the problems that we had and even— I talked to the guy in Cleveland, and he said, "Man, there's so much prejudice even in the international." He told the guy in Cleveland, "Keep your local." But they eventually merged, too. I guess, eventually, they would merge. But there was no benefit to be over here. None whatsoever. Because, right now, I don't need local 47 to work, man. I'm not getting gigs out of 47. If we had our own local over there, we'd be going to work. We'd probably be better off now with that local, you see. But the thing is that some of the musicians say, "Well, you can never work in the studios unless you belong to 47." So then, when they come over here, they still don't use them. It's just one of those things.
Isoardi
Let me ask you about the recording industry in Southern California. Now, you certainly cut your share of records. And I know L.A., I guess by the late forties, early fifties, had to have been the rhythm and blues
McNeely
Oh, yeah. You had all of them.
Isoardi
How did you make out with them? Who were the people you dealt with?
McNeely
Well, all the record companies, to be frank with you, they just exploit all the black musicians—probably white musicians, too, you know. Because they give you a penny a side, and they'd charge the whole session against you, and you never got any money, never got any money, because you were always in debt when you got your statement. You were always in the hole.
Isoardi
To them?
McNeely
And they'd always tell you, "Hey, you make your money on the road. There's no money in publishing, no money in recording. You make your money out there." Well, we don't know. And a lot of kids want to get on a record, are so glad to record, you understand? They were willing to do it. I was getting like $1,000 a session, maybe $2,000, but that was all.
Isoardi
You weren't getting any royalties?
McNeely
No. I never got any royalties on Savoy Records. I think I got one check for $900, and that was it. I just went over to a company over here that has all the publishing. All they've got to do is write your last address and you don't respond. They had about $3,000 of my
Then, if you start asking questions, they try to blackball you. We weren't smart enough then to get our own record company and do our own producing. Dootsie Williams got in there, got "Earth Angel," made a fortune. But we didn't know about it. Then we were playing and stuff. We didn't get into the musical end, going in the studio and recording, put out your own label and try to get a distributor. We didn't have that business mind.
Isoardi
Was that Dootsie Williams who grew up in your area?
Yeah. Right there at Central Gardens. He did "Earth Angel" and made a fortune, because he was the first black company that did their thing on their own. Then the other black companies— Like, I remember when I was in Cleveland working, that's when Motown [Records] started. I remember them when they first started, because a guy from the Moonglows was with them. I remember when they started.
Isoardi
They were blackballing people then? How would they blackball? Was it just sort of—?
McNeely
Well, they wouldn't record you or tell other guys not to record you.
Isoardi
The word would get around to all the labels that you were asking too many questions?
McNeely
Yeah. Getting smart, yeah. I asked one guy, and he just came out and told me what was happening. So that was the scene. And you were so glad to get on a record. You know, you had to have the money to record. Hey, nobody had any money to go in and pay for the studio and pay for the musicians and get it pressed up and all that stuff. We didn't have the money. We were so glad to get on record, you know what I mean? And this is the proper way to do it.
Isoardi
Well, their line would be what? That you don't make anything off records, but with the record you get a lot of personal appearances? Is that the line?
Well, yeah.
Isoardi
And that would bring in a lot of money for you?
McNeely
Yeah. You see, they would make an impression like there wasn't anything in publishing. Publishing is the big thing, you see, royalties and publishing. Just like I'm making good money on "There's Something on Your Mind." I'm constantly getting checks. Like a guy on a recording— I got a check the other day for $1,500, and it was on an album. The guy sold thirty thousand albums.
Isoardi
So by the time you did "There's Something on Your Mind," then you'd learned a lot about control and publishing and recording.
McNeely
Oh, yeah. Well, then, they gave me my tune back. See, when I put it with them, I should have put it under my own publishing firm. If I had done that, if I had demanded it be in my own publishing firm, I would have made much, much more money, because everytime it gets played on the air you get more money, because you pay the publisher directly and you pay the artist directly. There are many, many artists— "There's Something on Your Mind" has been recorded by everybody, countrywestern, everybody. So when I started finding out, man, it's recorded by everybody. Now they have to come to me to get a license. I'm getting money from Rhino Records and Alligator Records and guys all over. And all the stuff on the air I'm getting money
Isoardi
Right. Were some of these smaller—? I guess probably the major record companies weren't that interested in what was going on down at Central Avenue, but were there smaller, independent producers who were looking for talent?
McNeely
Yeah. Well, see, you had what you call ASCAP [American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers]; they wouldn't even take rhythm and blues. That's how BMI [Broadcast Music, Inc.] got in, you see, because ASCAP, man, you'd be an ASCAP writer, they wouldn't even bother with you. So now ASCAP wants you, man, because they would lose— All the big artists went to— All this stuff turned over in rhythm and blues. First, they were just taking all the rhythm and blues out. "We don't want that junk." They want Hoagy Carmichael and all those guys. But then, all these guys start writing, it got bigger and bigger and bigger, then you see the Beatles and everybody's going into BMI, and ASCAP says, "Hey, man, we've got to try to catch up," see. So now BMI is a big thing. A lot of big artists are in BMI, writers.
Isoardi
Who were some of the record producers for the smaller labels that were around back then and looking to produce? You mentioned you recorded for King.
McNeely
The Bihari brothers. They had Modern Records,
Isoardi
Savoy in New Jersey?
McNeely
Yeah, in New Jersey. Then, you had the other guy, out of King. He was out of Cincinnati. He had the King label.
Isoardi
Is it true that Lubinsky flew out to hear you once?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. He flew out here to my house. In fact, he's the one who gave me my name. He flew out right to my house, and we signed a contract.
Isoardi
When was this?
McNeely
This was '49? About '49, when I was recorded.
He asked me, "What's your name?"
I said, "Cecil."
He said, "Well, no." He said, "Do you have a nickname?"
I said, "Yeah, Jay."
He said, "Big Jay."
I was small then, so that's how I got the name. He's the one who gave me the name. In fact, he was in my house right there in Watts. My mother and I were sitting there, we were talking. He had a big cigar—a little short guy.
Isoardi
You had Britt Woodman playing trombone?
McNeely
Yeah, he played trombone. Let's see, who else? Anderson— I had a piano, bass, and drums. [sings some of "Deacon's Hop"] That was the thing. [tape recorder off]
Isoardi
Let's try to wind it up for today with your thoughts on what happened to Central Avenue.
McNeely
Well, as time— Well, right after the war, that was devastating, because money just, pow, seemed to cease. And things just began to slow down after a while because people didn't have the money.
Isoardi
As soon as the war ends, you really notice a difference?
McNeely
Yeah. It began to slow down a little bit. Eventually, the money wasn't there, because, you see, during the war, you had all the people from the South migrate out, and you had lots going on. But then it seemed to slow down, and clubs started closing. They weren't doing the business. Maybe on the weekend or something like that. Everything just began to slow down. Then I started going out on the road and stuff like that, and working. So, basically, that's what it was: a change of conditions,
Isoardi
The city did?
McNeely
Uh-huh.
Isoardi
They started shutting them down? Why was that?
McNeely
I don't know. They really weren't supposed to run in the first place. [laughter]
Isoardi
So they got some moralists trying to shut the place down?
McNeely
Yeah, they must have gotten some kind of heat behind them, because, like, Jack's Basket and different places were going out. Then guys who were working started seeking employment elsewhere, because the money just wasn't there anymore. As long as the blacks had the money, it was popping, and you had the movie stars and other people coming in. It was different. But times change. So it just starts going down and down and down. They cut out the Alabam and the chorus line stuff. See, the Last Word was down, the Downbeat went down, and then the music scene began to change. Because then you could do everything: jazz, groovy, swing. Everybody was doing every little thing. But then guys started coming out, bringing dances, stuff to go with dances and stuff, and things began to move out. Then the avenue just ceased because of economics, I think. That was the really big thing.
With all the stories I've heard, I've heard so many people say that it was just the greatest place to learn your craft: the influences, the ideas floating around.
McNeely
Yeah.
Isoardi
And now where do people go when they want to jam?
McNeely
Yeah. Well, that's it.
Isoardi
When they want to learn?
McNeely
It's gone out the window.
Tape Number: II, Side One
September 27, 1989
Isoardi
Jay, what I'd like to do this session is to go back and focus on some of the particular things that we touched on last time in a little bit of detail, ask you some questions about some things that are going on in your career. I'd like to begin by going back to your childhood in Watts and asking a little bit about music. What kind of music was around you as a kid? How important was music in the community? How did you encounter it?
McNeely
Well, we had the Woodman Brothers [Brett, Coney, and William Woodman], you know, and my brother [Robert "Bobby" McNeely] played saxophone, and we had Eddie Davis. I don't know, he's probably— You haven't interviewed him, have you?
Isoardi
Not yet.
McNeely
Well, he came up during that time. He could give you lots of info. I think he's still living, too.
Isoardi
Was it a situation where most kids were playing music, where folks were listening to music a lot?
McNeely
Yeah, well, you had, like, my brother. They used to go over his house, and they used to have a little saxophone get-together and rehearse. I used to sit down and listen to them. Then, you had the Woodman Brothers that were going. As far as myself, I wasn't that
Isoardi
But you were listening to music when you were little.
McNeely
Oh, yeah. We had all the heavy guys going on, Ben Webster, Chu Berry, the [Jimmie] Lunceford Band, Willie Smith, Johnny Hodges, Duke, and all the guys. We had [Count] Basie and Lester [Young] and all the heavy guys that were going. But being young, like I said, I wasn't that interested in it, per se, till later on.
Isoardi
A little while ago, I think it was Buddy Collette who told me a story I think about you guys walking by Simon Rodia's house when he was building the Watts Towers. Do you remember that?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. We used to go down there all the time and watch him build it. Watts was a beautiful place. Like, they used to deliver the milk in a little horse and buggy. The milkman would come around. We had the ice man—we had to buy ice. We used to— We had a lot of chickens and ducks and things in our place. We had a
Isoardi
You had a well in your backyard?
McNeely
Yeah, with water.
Isoardi
Is that where you drew water from?
McNeely
Yeah. Of course, they also had running water, too, you know. But, no, at that time, we didn't. We had to take bath in a No. 2 tub. We had a pump. The water was fresh. We had a little windmill there. I think we were about the only ones who had a well, though, if I can
Isoardi
It's like growing up in the country.
McNeely
Yeah. It was strictly all rural country out there at that time, because everything was downtown. There was no Orange County. Everything was downtown, and everybody came from Orange County downtown. Everything was centered right downtown. That was quite the thing to go downtown. Get on the Watts local, go downtown and shop.
Isoardi
Downtown was Central [Avenue], maybe around Fifth [Street] and Sixth [Street]?
McNeely
Yeah, yeah. Right downtown by city hall, where May Company [department store] and all those right there are. We only had one freeway, the Pasadena Freeway. See, they had the "big red" [red cars] that would go out to Pasadena, big red to San Pedro, big red to Long Beach. They ran like eighty, ninety miles an hour, so it didn't take you any time to get there. Transportation all through the city was electric; no bus, see. Everything was electric.
Isoardi
It was a pretty good system.
McNeely
Oh, a great system, just like in Europe. Good transportation, and no smog, because you had no cars. You only had one freeway, you see. So they kept that rail system— Now they're trying to put it back in, see, but if they'd kept it, we would have had more and better
Isoardi
Did you know what this crazy Italian was doing down there when he was making his towers? Did you talk to him at any time about what he was doing?
McNeely
Well, yeah. We always talked to him. We were young; we didn't know. We just saw a guy, a great guy building his thing, you know. That seemed to be his little venture or his little thing that he wanted to do, culture, you know.
Isoardi
What did he ever say to you guys?
McNeely
I can't recall. It's been so long. We used to talk and go by and see him working. It was quite a monument. I know they wanted to tear it down once, but then they finally— They got it kind of stable, unless the earthquakes shake it down.
Isoardi
Your high school career. You went from Jordan [High School] to Poly [Los Angeles Polytechnic High School] and then to Jeff[erson High School], finally graduating from Jeff. Why did you move through those three schools? Were you looking for musical—? Was it for
McNeely
Well, yeah. In the minority schools, they didn't have certain classes, all right? So the only way that you could transfer was that the school had to offer something that your school didn't offer, and then that school had to accept you.
Isoardi
Oh, I see.
McNeely
So they had some music appreciation, which I didn't particularly care for.
Isoardi
At Jordan.
McNeely
No, at Poly. But they had— Let's see. At Jordan we had a band. I don't know if it was too much different at Poly, because we had a band there, but the only difference was they didn't have any harmony or anything. They just had a band, and we had music appreciation. I don't know why I went there. I guess I either thought that they had better stuff, maybe a couple more subjects, but then Jeff had a course that they didn't have. So then I left Poly and went to Jeff. We had harmony, and Sam [Samuel] Browne. He worked with us a lot and showed us a lot of things, how to play tonal and stuff like that and things that we couldn't get at Poly, because we just had— Mr. Green, he was a trumpet player who taught at Poly. And we had a band there, and we learned to read and stuff, etc. But Jeff was more into swing band and more
Isoardi
I guess Poly was worthwhile, in a way, because you met Hampton Hawes there, right?
McNeely
Yeah, that was real great. We had a band.
Isoardi
Do you remember when you first met him?
McNeely
Yeah. We were at school like everybody else. If you play music, well, naturally you're going to meet one another. We formed a little band. It was him, Sonny Criss, Leon Heywood, who wasn't in school, but some kind of way—
Isoardi
Was Leon Heywood the drummer?
McNeely
Yeah. Not Leon Heywood. I'm sorry. I'm thinking about Leon Heywood. His name was Leon something; I can't remember his last name. But this guy's first name was Leon. The way it was, he knew— There was another kid that we had a band with, named Arvell, that played piano, who wasn't in school. And Leon, they were out of school, you see. But then, I guess, when he left, Hamp joined the band, and we did some things down in Santa Monica and different things we played together. He wasn't in the band in school, but we formed a band out of school.
Isoardi
So you were about seventeen years old now?
Yeah.
Isoardi
And you've got a band with you and Sonny Criss in the front line and Hampton Hawes on piano?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. It was a groovy band. Hamp developed into a tremendous piano player, but, at that time, he used to sound like Nat King Cole. He used to love Nat.
Isoardi
Well, Nat King Cole was one of the best pianists then.
McNeely
Oh, yeah. I'm hip. But then, as he went along, he developed, stretching out, doing his own thing. Yeah, we had a band together for a long time. And then, like I said, when we got out of school, that's when each one began to go his own direction, so to speak. Fortunately, I found where I belonged in this stream of music, and Sonny had his thing, and Hamp did. So they stayed in the progressive thing. But periodically we would cross paths. Like, I'd see him in New York. I'd see Sonny up in San Francisco. And he'd go to Paris and come back. We'd laugh, we'd talk, and we'd have a good time. So they respected me, because they knew what I could do, what I was capable of doing, and what I felt about music. The showmanship was one thing, playing is another thing, and sincerity is— It doesn't matter not how many notes you play. I admire guys who can play—
Let's see. Where was I? Somewhere. New York? San
Isoardi
Buddy Collette told me a little while ago that he thought you guys had one of the hottest bands around when you had Hamp and Sonny.
McNeely
Yeah.
Isoardi
You guys were just dynamite. And the avenue people were coming and seeing you. He also said that this was the time when Bird [Charlie Parker] and Diz [Dizzy Gillespie] were out and were getting big. He said, "But these guys were doing a lot of that stuff, too, but they were out in L.A. and people didn't know about it." Was your music that progressive then?
McNeely
Yeah, it was.
Isoardi
You were doing a lot of—
McNeely
Oh, yeah. We were very progressive. That was the only thing we did. We followed Bird very closely. Howard McGhee, Diz, Miles Davis, see, they were all down on
Isoardi
When you first heard, say, those records, be-bop records, had you been moving in that kind of direction yourself? Or was this stuff something that completely turned you around? Do you remember?
McNeely
I think that— Well, we would listen to things like Lester [Young] before they came out, and Don Byas and Coleman Hawkins. I guess we all had our little thing, our little style we were trying to execute on our instruments. But then, when we heard this stuff, man, it was just incredible and we really enjoyed it and we got right into it. Like I say, Sonny had such a great ear that he could hear something once and play it, see. I didn't have the ability or the ear like he did to hear something and to play it as fast. I'm kind of glad, because I was able to develop and create my own style. So whenever they hear the horn, say if I was in the other room, they'd say, "That's
Isoardi
I don't know, tell me if I'm wrong, but it seems like maybe back then there was more of an emphasis on a person really developing an individual style, whereas now it seems so much people just stress technique, so people sound so much alike. Whereas, it seems that back then you would know [snaps fingers] like a signature.
McNeely
Oh, yeah.
Isoardi
You hear two notes and you know who that was. Everybody was just so unique. Is it more of a pressure to sound alike? Is that how you sort of see it?
McNeely
Yeah. Everybody had their style. You could tell, like you said, who's who. Now it's money and getting into a certain bag or certain groove.
You mean sort of like commercial pressures to produce something they think will be a hit?
McNeely
Yeah. And then, the white artists are really making the big money playing the jazz more so than some of the black artists. Some of the black artists are making real good, but like Kenny G and a lot of these other guys are making millions of dollars, man. You know, they've got other guys around, like [John] Coltrane. Man, the guy couldn't touch Coltrane. No comment. [laughter] The other guy's never making any money, you see. [Sonny] Rollins, you know, he did a lot of festivals. I think he should probably be pulling in some nice money, because he does all the big jazz festivals and things like that.
Isoardi
It took him a while.
McNeely
Oh, man, it took him a long time. Like myself, I'm trying to get into the big festivals. I just did a festival, and I did a couple of blues festivals, and they can see now that I can perform at a blues festival. I broke it up there in Sacramento and San Francisco. I'm not what you call a real blues artist. You know, you wouldn't say, "Hey, here's the blues." But I do some blues, and then I do the showmanship. I'm more an entertainer. But they see I can play on a blues show. I can go on a rockabilly show and a punk rock show; it doesn't make any difference. I could even go into jazz. I wouldn't play
Isoardi
From what I've heard, you were one of the finest jazz players when you were playing jazz!
McNeely
Yeah. I used to really work hard at it, but then, I say, after that I just went another direction. You have to either go one way or the other. You can't mix them. So when I work a dinner house, I'm able to do some pretty tunes, and few little jazz tunes. I don't get too much into it, but enough. When you get away from it, you're not as creative in that particular style as you want to be, because, when you dedicate yourself to that particular style, then you work on everything, all the progressions. There are certain passages that you learn the guys play. You pick up from this guy, pick up from that guy. Then you say, "Okay, I'm going to do this and do that and put it together." You begin to move and— Execution means so much when you're playing, because that's the main thing of jazz: to be able to move through your horn and play phrases and things. That's what's so great about Bird. You could hear all the changes flowing. A lot of guys, they run through the horn, man, but you'd just be hearing [sings a blur]. But when Bird played, you could hear all the progressions. He could be expressive and still be moving. Coltrane and those guys, you can hear it.
Were you at Billy Berg's in 1946 when Bird and Diz came to the West Coast for the first time?
McNeely
Yeah.
Isoardi
What was that like?
McNeely
Oh, it was great. Like I say, it was like another world. What the guys were doing, it was so brand-new. It was just brand-new, it was incredible, because that's when Miles was really playing, really running through his horn. Now he's in another bag. But then, man, he was— The kid had some old records over there, man, some old tapes of him. Yeah, Miles could play. He's a very good friend. I saw him once there in East Saint Louis when I was playing, because he's from East Saint Louis. Then, I'd come into Birdland and we'd sit down and talk and all that. I guess he'd still recognize me, remember me, I guess. It's been so long.
Isoardi
Was Sonny Criss with you? Did he see Bird and Diz? I guess he must have gone to Billy Berg's, too.
McNeely
Oh, yeah. We were always together until we parted, until I went to start studying. Very close, like brothers. We'd eat together, sleep together, practice together; we were together all day every day, because we both were living in Watts. He was a great guy. He never felt that he was superior, although he always had nice clothes, a nice car. But he was a down-to-earth country
Isoardi
I guess about the time of that Billy Berg's gig, Bird and, I guess, Miles were in town about then. They were going after Billy Berg's or wherever, I guess, to late-night jams, and you guys played with them, didn't you?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. We jammed with Bird and Miles and Howard McGhee and all the guys. We used to do that all the time. Like I said, Bird used to go down to First Street, and we used to follow him all around to the different clubs. And then Diz went on back and Bird stayed out here. We'd follow him around and play wherever we could play. Wherever we could find him, we'd play.
Isoardi
What was he like?
McNeely
Great. Bird? Oh, man, he was a great guy. Like, I'd take his clothes home, and my mother would wash his clothes. He was just a great guy, man. Just like, "Come on in, man." Wasn't ever high style, never thought, "I'm the great Bird" or "I'm the great this" or anything. Just a down-to-earth guy. You'd ask him, "Bird, what's this?" and he'd show you this, show you that. And McGhee, the same way. He taught us how to write changes, progressions, in numbers rather than chord structure, you see. That way you could transpose. In other words, you could write one, four, five, one in any key that you go to.
Yeah. You just turn to the formula.
McNeely
Yeah. That's it. And then you know your scales, and you just play. So instead of trying to say, "Man, what's B-flat in the key of E-flat?" You know B-flat is the tonic. Then you go to A-flat as the tonic, one minor seven, two minor seven, then you know your scale; just go ahead and play. You can transpose real fast that way. You might say, "Hey, I want to go to another key." That's fine. Think numbers and automatically you know your scales. You get the sixth scale degree is minor, you know, fourth scale, major, dominant, so you just go ahead and play. He taught us that. That's the same thing like the moveable "do" that they teach at 'SC [University of Southern California]. They teach the movable "do" because it helps you to transpose.
Now, I learned with the stationary "do." Then, if you want to go to another key, you just change clef, like the F clef or the G clef. So, if you want to transpose, you just change the clef sign and play. But you've got to know the clef sign, see? It's like play bass clef, you see. If the note in treble clef is A, it's C in the bass. If you know the bass clef sign, all you've got to do is put the right clef sign on there and go ahead and play. If you learn with the moveable "do," every key is "do." So when you want to transpose, you can do it. That's what's good about
Isoardi
I guess Howard McGhee spent quite a bit of time in L.A., didn't he?
McNeely
Yeah. A long time before he went back, yeah.
Isoardi
I guess he must have been a major figure then.
McNeely
Yeah, he was. Because, see, he had a band out there with Teddy Edwards.
Isoardi
He and Teddy Edwards?
McNeely
Yeah. See, Teddy went from alto to tenor. They stayed in Hollywood in all the jazz— Yeah, they tore up Los Angeles!
Isoardi
I guess, by then, McGhee was playing bop pretty
McNeely
Oh, yeah. He came out here cooking, man. He came out here behind Diz, yeah.
Isoardi
Did you learn much from talking to Parker? Did he show you many things?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. Lots of stuff.
Isoardi
About what he was trying to do or whatever?
McNeely
Yeah. Embouchure. He told us lots about phrases, progressions and things. Yeah, we learned quite a bit from him, talking to him, trying to get in and pick his brain. [laughter]
Isoardi
So playing, I guess, with all these people, must have had a big impact on you guys.
McNeely
Oh, yeah, because, being young and dedicated to music— Like a lot of people, if they see me, the style I play now, the one note and the showmanship, they never know that I started off playing jazz and wouldn't play anything else but jazz, because that's what I love. I still love it. I love to hear it, and I'd love to play it anytime, because I think it's very creative, and you can express yourself. Like, I eventually want to get in and do a Top-40 album type of thing with some real groovy things. Then you can play and let some people know that, "Hey, I can do something else besides honk and play one note." Someday, maybe, I'll get a chance to do it.
Did you ever work with or study with Buddy Collette at any time?
McNeely
Yeah. I was studying flute. I studied with him twice. And this last time I studied, I was doing very well.
Isoardi
Playing flute?
McNeely
Yeah.
Isoardi
Do you still play flute?
McNeely
Well, I haven't really gotten into it because I don't have time to practice or to study. But the time period that I did study with him, it kind of helped me get what I had lost as far as the diaphragm. Because, see, when you're playing with guys, you can get real relaxed, because you're not playing with people who demand. If you're playing in a section, it demands that you keep the right flow of air and quality of your sound. When you play with guys who never studied, anything sounds good to them and you lose a lot unless you're constantly fighting, fighting. So I lost the principles. When I went back and started studying flute, man, you cannot play flute unless you're playing right, doing the right diaphragm, the right pressure of air. It helped me tremendously on my saxophone as far as getting the quality again and the overtones and breathing properly and filling your horn up, playing more in tune and everything. So it was good. I studied with
Isoardi
What about Eric Dolphy? Did you play with or know Eric when he was here?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. He went to Dorsey High [School]. He studied with Lloyd Reese. We all played together. He came to New York. He was working back there with Charles Mingus and Chico Hamilton. When I was working Birdland, he came down to Birdland, and we laughed and talked. In fact, we were working on the same bill right there in Birdland. I think he was with Mingus, Chico Hamilton was there, and, other than Mingus, some piano player, I can't figure it out. But Eric Dolphy, man, he played the alto and flute, and we'd sit up there and jam and have a ball. I knew him very, very well.
Isoardi
What was his music like in the forties?
McNeely
He was incredible, man. The guy could play. Like I say, he studied from Lloyd Reese, and he was fast and had a style of his own, you know.
Isoardi
Even back then he was really different.
McNeely
Oh, yeah, really different. Then he went to New York and just went out completely and just got his own thing going. He was playing flute real great, and he went to Paris, and, unfortunately— Whatever happened over there.
Isoardi
There seem to be a lot of stories about his
McNeely
I don't know what really happened. What did you hear?
Isoardi
Oh, somebody told me, or I read somewhere, that for a number of years he had just absolutely worked himself into the ground. He had become so obsessed, all he did was practice, practice. He didn't take care of his body, wasn't even eating properly. And then, there was another story about him having a kidney or something failing on him, giving out. But it all seems kind of clouded. It's like no one's really sure.
McNeely
Yeah, well, it could have been a situation of that nature, because guys get so involved and become perfectionist. He seemed very studious. And his parents, I think, were very studious people. He came from a good family, because the section where he was living was well-to-do at that time, like Rochester [Eddie Anderson] and all of them lived on the westside. So he came from a well-to-do family, first thing, and he seemed to be very studious. He went to Dorsey. I didn't know him that well, because he came to Lloyd Reese and studied. We played some gigs and jammed together, but as far as really being very close to him, I wasn't close like with Sonny. He was from another, whole different— Like Sonny never got into the flute and stuff like that. Eric got into learning the
Isoardi
Were there different styles, say, in different parts of the area, for instance? I mean, guys in Watts played different from the guys in South Central or west of Central or east of there? Was there anything like that?
McNeely
I think each individual had his own thing. Maybe the environment that you live in would have an effect upon how you— You know, you hear somebody from down South, and they have a different type of thing, soulful thing. Because there are some guys down South, like out of Texas, Fort Worth and Dallas, man, who can play! Man, there was one cat down there in Fort Worth, man, like when those cats came through, man, those cats just hung up their horns. Those guys could play, man. But he never got out of Texas. And this other kid who did all the yakety sax and
Isoardi
Oh, King Curtis?
McNeely
Yeah. He was out of Texas.
Isoardi
Oh, I didn't know that.
McNeely
Oh, yeah, out of Fort Worth. Yeah, there were some cats who could play, man!
Isoardi
Oh, yeah. No kidding!
McNeely
Oh, yeah. Arnett Cobb's out of Texas, Illinois Jacquet. Heavy cats come out of Texas. And you can see the type of thing that they did. They've got guys coming out of New York. Like Bird was out of Missouri, and Clifford Brown was out of Baltimore. You had guys all over.
Isoardi
So it was more of an individual thing than, say, there was— The reason I mentioned this thing is I read something on Eric Dolphy a while ago, and the writer was claiming that guys west of Central Avenue had a tendency more to read scores, and the guys east of Central improvised more, something like that. I thought that was a bit strange, so I thought I might ask and see.
McNeely
Well, you see, you had guys like Mingus down out of Watts, Buddy Collette, all the Woodman Brothers, all these guys. Look at Mingus, man, the greatest bass player that was alive. And then, you've got Buddy and the Woodman
Isoardi
There was a teacher I think I've heard of named Merle Johnston.
McNeely
Merle Johnston, yeah.
Isoardi
Did you ever deal with him?
McNeely
No, but I know who you're talking about.
Isoardi
Do you have any stories about Charlie Mingus? Did you every play with him or run with him at all?
McNeely
No. See, Mingus and Buddy were older than I, okay, so they were more with my brother.
Isoardi
That's Bobby, your older brother?
McNeely
Yeah. See, they ran together, but I used to go over to his house all the time. He used to live out there on 108th [Street]. They'd practice. When they used to have their rehearsals and stuff, I would always be there. So I knew him. I'd watch. I think he was the first one who drove all the way to New York when they came out with
Isoardi
Just to test the tire?
McNeely
Yeah. He was talking about the tubeless tire. So I knew him. We used to work on Central Avenue together. He used to tell us, "Man, always play to where you can hear the singer sing; that means you're not playing too loud." So that was a good tip, you know. Yeah. We used to see him a lot, jammed with him and all that stuff.
Tape Number: II, Side Two
September 27, 1989
Isoardi
Who were some of the other tenor players?
McNeely
Like Walter Benton, man. He was a great saxophonist, man. He got big, like Sidney Greenstreet. But he could play, Walter. Then, you had Walter Henry. He used to live in Central Gardens there, and we used to have a little band together: Ralph Bakeman on piano, Walter Henry, John, who played trumpet. Walter, well, he was bad. He did a lot of things with Clifford Solomon. They used to do a lot of things.
Isoardi
Clifford Solomon came out of that area, too?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. See, I used to go out and study, and then I'd come back and teach them. They wanted to learn because they didn't have any money. So we had Walter Henry, Walter Benton, and then we had Clifford Solomon, and Paul Madison—that guy can play, man. Oh, yeah, he could play! He's in Hawaii now. He used to work with Trummy Young there in Hawaii all the time. Boogie Daniels. They all used to come over to the house, and I'd give them instructions, lessons and things.
Isoardi
Is there anyone in that area who didn't play? [laughter]
McNeely
Oh, there were some good players, man, I'm telling you.
It seems like everybody was playing.
McNeely
Yeah. There were really good players. I mean, they could play, man. There was a Spanish kid [Tony Ortega]. What was his name? He was with Hamp.
Isoardi
Lionel Hampton?
McNeely
Yeah, he worked with Lionel Hampton. We had this Japanese guy who was— I forgot his name, but he was a bad cat. He could play. And then you had— I can't remember this kid's name now. He's been working fifteen, twenty years out of this club out there in Gardena. But he's a Spanish kid who could sing and play. He came out of Watts. Bad. Big following. He went out with Hamp for a while. Ortega. He was an alto player.
Isoardi
Tony Ortega?
McNeely
Yeah, the alto player. And this other kid— I can't think of his name; it almost came up. But he's still out there now, still working out there. A nice-looking Spanish kid, could sing a play great. So, like I say, you had a lot of good players out of there.
Then, you had James Jackson, who played with the Honeydrippers. He made that big hit with the Honeydrippers. Joe Liggins, he's out of Watts. And then in school, the band I had was with Green. He passed away. He was a very good piano player. Then you had Phillips, Albert Phillips. He played alto. He was out
Isoardi
Was music the most important thing in kids' lives in Watts? Was it more so than sports or anything else?
McNeely
Well, no. I liked sports. In fact, I went out for sports. I liked football—I got into football—and I liked track. But, no, I think everything—sports and music combined together. I liked sports, all the games, track. Not so much basketball, myself, but track and football and music. There was a lot of music activity going on, though.
Isoardi
Let me ask you, to move a bit into your R and B [rhythm and blues] years, your soulful years, you refer to your music as soulful music more than R and B, don't you?
McNeely
Yeah, more from the soul.
Isoardi
Maybe you could tell me a little bit what the existing climate was like. What was the soul climate or the R and B climate like when you moved into it? Was that just sort of coming on strong?
McNeely
Well, I think at that time it was something new. See, you had the blues from down South, the regular blues, the Muddy Waters blues, all the Cajun music, and all the types of blues—
Isoardi
You could hear that old blues on Central Avenue? That country blues?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. They had little holes-in-the-wall and
Isoardi
Lionel Hampton?
McNeely
Yeah. The more hard, groovy swing things. And then, the showmanship just came into the fold. That was really what we were trying to do then. When the whites came along, they just took what we did and put the guitars and voice on top of it. They called it rock and roll, because they could market it in the white market. What we were doing was called race music. No disc jockeys were playing any of it except Hunter Hancock, so it made him big, because the only way you could hear this type of music was on his particular station. Eventually, as the whites began to take it in, just like you go to the blues festivals now, it's all white.
Isoardi
Yeah. You mean the audiences.
McNeely
Yeah. Long Beach, San Francisco, Sacramento, 99 percent white! So that was what was happening then. They were picking up on the type of rhythms and things that we were trying to do. We were just pioneering, and it was too early. Being black, no one was ready for it, because, I guess, the music to them was degrading, and perhaps they
Isoardi
So the sound that you were sort of attracted to was the Lionel Hampton "Flying Home" sound.
McNeely
Yeah, yeah.
Isoardi
Were many people in L.A. playing R and B then? Or were you sort of cutting new ground?
McNeely
I think I was the one who cut the new ground, yeah, because everybody else— Like I said, I was playing jazz up to that point. Then I went into that type of stuff. That's why I assume that it stood out [as being] so different, because the bands were doing it. For a long time, nobody could imitate me that close. I didn't make as much noise as compared to maybe now, but it was something different, you see. It was so different that people noticed it. So I just kept on increasing it and refining it as I went along until it's what it is today.
Isoardi
Your stuff is recorded. It seems like in every issue of Down Beat I'll read a review and they'll say, "Oh, and they did one cut of this Big Jay McNeely song." Were you composing when you were younger?
McNeely
Yeah. I wrote a lot of tunes that we recorded. In fact, almost all of them.
So most of your hits were your compositions?
McNeely
Yeah.
Isoardi
Do you like composing?
McNeely
Yeah. I like doing that. For a while there, I just got stagnated. I just didn't feel— That's why I didn't record for a long time, because I didn't feel like I had any ideas or anything that I wanted to do. But now I'm listening to different things like zydeco music and different things. African music has got a groove to it. So now, like I said, I've got a rockabilly album I'm putting out. In fact, I'm trying to record a couple of sides before I leave so I can get it together. They're going to have a first-of-the-year type of release, I guess. But, as times go, things change. Principles don't change, but at least myself, I try to progress. There's no sense in doing something— In fact, you don't want to lose all the drive and power that you have. Because I look back at some of my old things like "Deacon's Hop" and some of the old things, and there was so much honesty there. It was straight-out soul. And people could tell it on the records.
Isoardi
Do you remember the first time you got up and started playing in the new style? Do you remember where it was or anything?
McNeely
I'd have to go way back, because like— Well,
Isoardi
But through about '46, '47, you were on Central in clubs playing pretty much progressive jazz.
McNeely
Oh, yeah.
Isoardi
And then, there must have been some time when you got up in a club one night and you started blowing a new sound. [laughter]
McNeely
Oh, yeah. Oh, that was when I came out of studying for about a year. I played the Barrelhouse with Johnny Otis. There was a time when I came out with the new me, so to speak, playing that type of style, because a guy wanted me to record. So I did. I went into the studio, and I said, "I'm going to forget everything I've learned," because I learned a lot of things, but then you had to apply them as time went along. But this time I just said, "Let's just drop everything and just blow," and that's what happened. Like a light turning on and off, it was that much drastic change. Because what I was doing they never would have recorded. [laughter] Just let everything down and play.
It's like playing a tune for the first time. You're so brilliant because the feelings are different the first
I think it was a real fresh approach. Because it was like I'd been in a shell for a whole year, and then I came
Isoardi
Cut loose.
McNeely
Oh, yeah. Just different. Like night and day. Pow!
Isoardi
So, as examples, then, you had Lionel Hampton's band, some of their stuff. Did somebody like Earl Bostic ever make much of an impression on you?
McNeely
Yeah. An incredible horn player. The guy could play. Incredible. A fine musician. He could really get over his horn. You listen to some of his tapes now and they're just incredible. The thing that was great about him was that he could project it in his horn. Listen to "Flamingo" and different things that he did. I know we followed him once in Baltimore, and people were coming out and seeing him. It was kind of disappointing, not because of his playing, but he just stood up straight, no expression, nothing. Yet he was cooking, though. Like, I did a thing with him at the Shrine [Auditorium]. I went on before him. It was terrible. We had terrible rifts at the show. But he was nice about it. Around closing time, it was over for him, and he shook our hands, because he realized that what he was doing was what he was doing. And he was bad, man, because, see, all his records made a hit. This guy could go in and record any standard. That's why he always had something out there. I don't care what
Isoardi
I wanted to ask you a question also about the record companies. I think last time you talked about how the majors weren't very interested in R and B at all, so you were mostly handled by smaller independent labels: King [Records], Modern [Records], Savoy [Records], and people like that. For the most part, I guess, it was just a rip-off for most of you guys, at least in terms of publishing and in terms of royalties—
McNeely
Oh, yeah. Forget that, man.
Isoardi
I guess most of those indies were white-run. Was there any attempt by musicians to organize their own companies? Or were there any community efforts in the black community to organize their own labels?
McNeely
Well, Dootone [Records]. Dootsie Williams came up with "Earth Angel." He was the only black trumpet player, musician, who did that. He was smart enough to get in there and open his own thing.
Isoardi
So he was publishing his own stuff? Stamping his own copies?
McNeely
Oh, yeah. "Earth Angel" is his. No, I can't
Isoardi
So did they try to start their own company?
McNeely
Well, no. He worked for Modern Records. That's where they recorded B. B. King and Lowell Fulson and all that stuff they had. Ted Benson, he had a recording studio. So some of the blacks began to go along and began to get hip as to what was happening. Like, Leon [Rene] came along. He went and got his own company, because everybody started getting hip to what was happening, and they started doing their own thing. But that was way late down the line. We didn't know what was happening, because we didn't know the record business. There wasn't anybody to teach us the record business. Nobody would tell us about the publishing, nobody would tell us anything, so we didn't know.
Isoardi
So, what, it wasn't until about the late fifties that people started getting a handle on that?
McNeely
Well, I would say it was past the fifties before they realized it, yeah. Way up to the sixties, seventies, eighties that the musicians began to get— Because they had
Index
Courtesy of Dept of Special Collections/UCLA Library, A1713 Charles E. Young Research Library, 405 Hilgard Ave, Box 951575, Los Angeles, CA 90095-1575; http://www.library.ucla.edu/libraries/special/scweb/
http://content.cdlib.org/view?docId=hb5s2009r0&brand=oac4
Title: Central Avenue sounds oral history transcript : Cecil McNeely
By: McNeely, Big Jay, 1927-, Interviewee, Isoardi, Steven Louis, 1949-, Interviewer
Date: 1989
Contributing Institution: Dept of Special Collections/UCLA Library, A1713 Charles E. Young Research Library, 405 Hilgard Ave, Box 951575, Los Angeles, CA 90095-1575; http://www.library.ucla.edu/libraries/special/scweb/
Copyright Note:
Transmission or reproduction of materials protected by copyright beyond that allowed by fair use requires the written permission of the copyright owners. Works not in the public domain cannot be commercially exploited without permission of the copyright owner. Responsibility for any use rests exclusively with the user.
UC Regents
Department of Special Collections, Charles E. Young Research Library, U.C. Los Angeles