Open Writing

I was playing with the Eddie Thompson Trio at one of London's famous jazz venues in Dean Street (Pizza Express), accompanying the famous American cornet player Ruby Braff, who was booked for a two-week run.

Now Ruby, bless his heart, was not always amiable. You never knew what mood he would be in when he arrived to play. I dont really know the reason for his huge mood swings, but I could make a guess. Anyway, one night he would be laughing and joking, then the next... Oh man!

He would pick on each member of our trio. Silly little things. "That tune speeded up.'' "That tune dragged.'' "The bass is out of tune.'' "Hey drummer, dont play brushes man play sticks.''

And on the previous night, on the same tune, he had said "Nice brushes man. OK. Yeh!''

Playing jazz with Ruby was not easy, but we got through.

Our trio were booked to accompany him at a gig in Leicester. Agents brought American stars over to the UK and booked them on several out of town gigs, besides having them play in London. At that time I was running a pub in Walthamstow as a sideline, with a view to quitting jazz. Not many musicians get rich in the jazz business. I was soon to be married, and my wife-to-be thought we ought to have a safe future and a steady income.

Back to that gig in Leicester... Ruby phoned me on the morning of the gig and asked "Teddy, what time you picking me up?'' Now we had made no prior arrangement for me to pick him up. I was intending to make my own way to Leicester, leaving my pub around 3 pm. I told Ruby "I can't pick you up man. I can't leave my pub until a relief arrives to run the bar. I suggest you come to me by Tube. I can take you on from here.''

I think it is best that I should not set down in print the words which came over the phone. It was something like "Don't think I'm getting on a ------ Tube train! I'm Ruby Braff. Playing with two-bit ------ musicians. I'm not putting up with this ----.''

"Can't help you mate,'' said I. "See you at the gig tonight.''

And I put the phone down.

I got to the venue in Leicester around 7 pm. Ruby was already there, running through a few scales. "Hi Ruby,'' I said.

His response was... Well, it was brief and blunt.

Oh dear!

At that moment Eddie Thompson arrived, along with Len Skeats our bass player.

I took them on one side. "Ruby is fuming,'' I informed them. "Steam coming out of his ears.''

I told them about his phone call to me. About the request that I go pick him up. "And by the way, whose idea was it that I should drive into the West End in the rush hour to pick him up?''

"Mine,'' said Len Skeats. "I thought that since I was collecting Eddie you could take Ruby.''

"Thanks very much!'' I said. "I've got a business to run.''

By the way, Eddie Thompson was blind. No question of him making his own way to Leicester.

We played the gig. The only words spoken all night were to sort out keys. Tempos and tunes were not discussed. Ruby just started playing something, expecting us to join in. Fortunately Eddie was something special. He knew every jazz tune, and he was a wonderful player with a fabulous ear.

When we'd finished we packed up our equipment at record speed and headed for the motorway.

A month later Eddie got a letter from the States. From Ruby. An awful letter. We were unprofessional. We would never work with him again.

The three of us agreed with that.