As a devoted fan of classical jazz, I made a tape-recorded program that illustrated my ranking of the six major contributors to America’s contribution to the world’s music, and my six giants were Ferdinand La Menthe (better known as Jelly Roll Morton), Bessie Smith, Edward Ory, Sidney Bechet, Fats Waller and Louis Armstrong. That taped program has been presented in several countries.
As a member of the U.S. Agency of International Development, I was being transferred from Turkey to Haiti in 1960 and had three months of accumulated leave to spend in Carmel. I bought a record on Haitian Créole plus a couple of books and studied seriously indeed.
In that same year, one of my giants of classical jazz — Edward “Kid” Ory, then 74 years old — was playing in a bistro, On the Waterfront, in San Francisco. I went there one night with Jeanne’s uncle, Louis Rondelle, whose knowledge of French was nearly perfect. Ory was one of the last old-time musicians from New Orleans who sang in Louisiana Créole (Albert Nicholas was another) and I wanted Lou to hear some singing in that language.
As I remember, there were six musicians on a platform elevated about two feet above audience level, with leader Ory in the center. Lou and I waited at our table for a half hour or so enjoying Righteous Music but there was no singing. Finally, the band broke into Madame Pédoux (or C’ést l’autre Can-Can) and I said to Lou, “He’s going to sing this one in Créole: it’s a specialty of his.” There was no vocal during the first run through the song, nor did one begin at the right place in the second.
I then left our table, went up to the platform, and for the first time in my life spoke in Créole, addressing Ory:
“Chanté-l; chanté-l; chanté li pou nou!”
[Sing it; sing it; sing it for us!]
Ory immediately set down his trombone, stepped off the platform, put one arm around my shoulder, shook my hand with the other, and went into a long speech in Créole, his attitude being one of brotherhood. He had found a friend who spoke the language of his childhood!
Because I was then a complete beginner, I hardly understood a word he said but through two phrases said in English — “Cabaret license”; “Musicians’ Union” — I got his message. Then with a smile and a pat on my back, he returned to the platform and began to play again.
Kid Ory was the only one of my “Giants of Jazz” that I ever spoke to, but I was unable to understand him. He died a few years later: our one-sided conversation may have been one of the last times he used his first language.
John Logan, 26 November 1990
(PS: about 2 months later, my Créole had become quite good!)