"Waldrop, Howard - Ike At The Mike" - читать интересную книгу автора (Waldrop Howard)

The four men started to talk among themselves.

"What was that song?" young David asked.

The man with the cornet looked at him. through large horn-rimmed spectacles. "That song was called `Struttin' with Some Barbecue,' young sir," he replied.

Dwight David reached into his pocket and took out a shiny dollar gold piece.
"Play it again," he said.

They nearly killed themselves this time, running through it. It was great art, it was on the street, and they were getting a whole dollar for it. David watched them, especially the clarinet player, who made his instrument soar above the others. They finished the number, and all tipped theirs hats to him.

"Is that hard to learn to play?" he asked the man with the clarinet.

"For some it is," he answered.

"Could you teach me?" Davis asked.

The black man looked at the others, who looked away; they were no help at all. "Let me see your fingers," he said.

Eisenhower held out his hands, wrists up, then down.

"I could probably teach you to play in six weeks," he said. "I don't know if I could teach you to play like that. You've got to feel that music." He was trying not to say that Eisenhower was white.

"Wait right here," said Ike.

He went inside the depot and cashed in his ticket. He sent two telegrams, one home and one to the Army. He was back outside in fifteen minutes, with thirty-three dollars in his pocket.

"Let's go find me a clarinet," he said to the black man.

He knew he would not sleep well that night, and neither would anybody back on the farm. He probably wouldn't sleep well for weeks. But he sure as heck knew what he wanted.

Armstrong smiled, wiped his face, and blew the opening notes of "When It's Sleepy Time Down South." Ike joined in.

They went into "Just a Closer ,Walk with Thee," quiet, restrained, the horn and clarinet becoming one instrument for a while. Then Ike bent his notes around Armstrong's, then Pops lifted Eisenhower up, . then the instruments walked arm in arm toward Heaven.

Ike listened to the drummer as he played. He sure missed Wild George.

The first time they had met, Ike was the new kid in town, just another guy with a clarinet. Some gangster had hired him to fill in with a band, sometime in 1911.

Ike didn't say much. He was working his way south from K.C., toward Memphis, toward New Orleans (which he would never see until after New Orleans didn't mean the same anymore).

Ike could cook anyone with his clarinet horn player, banjo man, even drummers. They might make more noise, but when they ran out of things to do, Ike was just starting.

He'd begun at the saloon, filling in, but the bandleader soon had sense enough to put him out front. They took breaks, leaving just him and the drummer up there, and the crowds never noticed. Ike was hot before there was hot music.

Till one night a guy came in-a new drummer. He was a crazy man. "My name is
Wild George S. Patton," he said before the first set.

"What's the S. stand for?" asked Ike.