I Remember Jazz: Six Decades Among the Great Jazzmen

Joe Mares

/ Remember Jazz • 95 was a fire hose. I don't know what he used to open the door, but it seemed only an instant before he had the hose nozzle to his lips and was playingwhat I had to concede was some very hot music. Remonstration was to no avail. I told him to put the hose nozzle back, but he patently assumed that my authority had ended one second after the finale on stage. Regardless of the merits of my protest, there was no doubt that what he was playing was hot and exciting. Brunies couldn't resist opening his trombone case, getting his horn out, and supplying counterpoint. It doesn't take jazzmen long to act once they've taken a notion, and before a whole chorus was over, everybody was playing except Baby—and that only because it takes a few minutes more to set the drums up. The dorms were deployed in a semicircle around the trestle, and their windows began to light up one by one until the entire area was illuminated. Students began to emerge from their buildings. In a matter of minutes the terrain was alive with bathrobed undergrads. The concert was even more brilliant than the one we'd had inside. Since I alone was aware that train time was approaching, I reluctantly began to exhort the musicians to pack up and get themselves ready to board. They ignored me. I took the nozzle away from Davison and put it back in the case. In the end we were all scrambling to get Pops' bass fiddle back in its case. Baby's drums we had to drag aboard, item by item, plus the cases. I think we got on the train with everything because Baby never mentioned missing anything. When we were well out of the station, Wild Bill proudly displayed the hose nozzle, which he produced from his coat. After I reminded him of the incident a quarter-century later there in Manassas he said, "You do things like that when you're young." Joe Mares Strictly speaking, you couldn't really call Joe Mares a musician, though I know for a fact that he did play a little clarinet in his youth and once or twice might even have been paid for it. But he did have the opportunity frequently to sit in with the key members of the New Orleans Rhythm Kings—Leon Ropollo; Joe's brother, Paul, who was the leader; George Brunies, the trombonist; and the bass player, Steve Brown. 96 • I Remember Jazz However, somebody had to carry on the family business, so Joe directed his attentions to the buying and selling of furs and alligator hides, from his location at 520 St. Louis Street in the French Quarter. The musty old warehouse contained within it a large studio that was the office and musicians' lounge of Southland Records, which was Joes pride and joy through the fifties. He divided his time between dealing with Cajun trappers and hosting and recording the great stars of New Orleans jazz. I was fascinated by the men coming in from the Louisiana swamps with their bundles of gators, and I enjoyed the selling and buying game Joe played with them. Gator skins are bought by length, and Joe had a calibrated table with a spike on one end to facilitate measurement. The trapper would slap the snout of the saurian onto the spike. Then he had the prerogative of pulling the tail of the reptile as far on the board as it would go without splitting. If it split, he'd only get half-price for it. The trapper usually brought a consultant with him, whose role was to advise on whether the hide was extended to its maximum length or if there might still be an inch or two before the breaking point. The dialogue would go: "What you fink, Placide? You t'ink maht be wan, two mo' inch in dees sunnumbitch?" "Lemme see, Telesfore. Lemme see if he twang." Then he'd pluck the sunnumbitch like a harp string. "She tight, dat goddam bastidd. Maybe you tak' you money on dat wan, you." Joe would pay them off, gator by gator, as they repeated the ritual. No running a tab. Cash per gator. This phase of Joe's daily operation usually took place in the morning . Afterward we would retire to the studio, which was decorated with blown-up photographs of his favorite things—the Bob...