of them wrapped in burlap and tied with wire to keep the heat in.
‘Boiler room,’ Mac said, pointing to the shed as he walked over to the steps and ducked under them, indicating that I should follow. Lucky we were both small; there was just sufficient room for us to sit with our knees practically up to our chins. But here’s the thing: the hot-water pipes formed a barrier on one side of the steps, and I noticed the burlap had been neatly removed on the inside of the pipes, and the heat made it cosy as anything.
Mac pointed to the pipes. ‘I did that last winter. Makes it nice and warm in here.’ He raised his voice above the music. ‘Don’t touch, hot as hell.’
If this was jazz, I knew almost immediately that I loved it. I liked the rhythm and the wail of the saxophone, and the driving compulsive beat. This music wasn’t slow and tired like on the records upstairs, or pronounced and disciplined like a military band, but came at me urgently; it jumped and barked and wailed, hammering into my consciousness. Then it would go smooth all of a sudden and make you smile. It was ‘speaking music’. While I hadn’t yet learned its language, I knew I must. Black people’s music it might be, but it went straight to my white heart and soul. I’d discovered what was to become my first true obsession.
The jam session continued until seven, when, Mac said, the musicians stopped to have their evening meal and a rest before the club opened. On the way home he explained the concept of a nightclub. ‘It opens at nine o’clock most evenings and closes at one in the morning, sometimes even later.’
‘But who would go to such a place?’ I asked, mystified.
‘Oh, rich people and people in business entertaining their clients after they’ve had dinner in a restaurant.’ He said it as if he knew all about such things.
My mother cleaned offices, so the term ‘business’ was vaguely familiar to me, but I’d never imagined the people who dirtied the offices, or realised they ate in restaurants and visited places like the Jazz Warehouse. Rich people, I knew, could do anything they liked and were not like us. I’d never been inside a restaurant. I don’t think Mac knew much about businessmen and clients and restaurants either, because all he volunteered when I asked him to explain further was, ‘It’s called nightlife. They’re night people.’
I thought about this for a few moments then asked, ‘Are all black people rich?’
Mac laughed. ‘No, Jack. The only black people at the Jazz Warehouse are the musicians, and they’re definitely not rich. They come from across the border: New York, Chicago, other places in America.’
‘Have you been inside?’
‘Oh, yes, a year ago, the last decent job I had. Miss Frostbite bought all these old couches and chesterfields – nice, mostly turn of the century, Edwardian and earlier, Victorian maybe – she wanted them upholstered in purple velvet.’
‘Miss Frostbite! Is that her real name?’ I asked, surprised.
He shrugged. ‘It’s what her staff and the musicians call her.’
‘For real or behind her back?’
‘No, it’s said friendly-like and she doesn’t seem to mind as long as it’s staff and musicians and workmen like me who call her that. Mind you, Miss Frostbite is not a bad nickname for her.’ He turned his head and grinned. ‘Believe you me, that lady . . . man, she ain’t nobody’s pushover, nosirree, def-fin-nitely!’ he said in the new jazz accent. Then, speaking normal Canadian again, he added, ‘They all say she’s hard as nails and I’ll admit she didn’t give me a cent I didn’t earn twice over. She wanted receipts for everything I bought: upholstery studs, lining material, sets of springs, edging tape, tacks . . . every goddamned little thing! She drives a hard bargain, but she always paid me in cash at the end of each week, and in these hard times that was good enough for me. She also told me I done a good job and took my
‘Boiler room,’ Mac said, pointing to the shed as he walked over to the steps and ducked under them, indicating that I should follow. Lucky we were both small; there was just sufficient room for us to sit with our knees practically up to our chins. But here’s the thing: the hot-water pipes formed a barrier on one side of the steps, and I noticed the burlap had been neatly removed on the inside of the pipes, and the heat made it cosy as anything.
Mac pointed to the pipes. ‘I did that last winter. Makes it nice and warm in here.’ He raised his voice above the music. ‘Don’t touch, hot as hell.’
If this was jazz, I knew almost immediately that I loved it. I liked the rhythm and the wail of the saxophone, and the driving compulsive beat. This music wasn’t slow and tired like on the records upstairs, or pronounced and disciplined like a military band, but came at me urgently; it jumped and barked and wailed, hammering into my consciousness. Then it would go smooth all of a sudden and make you smile. It was ‘speaking music’. While I hadn’t yet learned its language, I knew I must. Black people’s music it might be, but it went straight to my white heart and soul. I’d discovered what was to become my first true obsession.
The jam session continued until seven, when, Mac said, the musicians stopped to have their evening meal and a rest before the club opened. On the way home he explained the concept of a nightclub. ‘It opens at nine o’clock most evenings and closes at one in the morning, sometimes even later.’
‘But who would go to such a place?’ I asked, mystified.
‘Oh, rich people and people in business entertaining their clients after they’ve had dinner in a restaurant.’ He said it as if he knew all about such things.
My mother cleaned offices, so the term ‘business’ was vaguely familiar to me, but I’d never imagined the people who dirtied the offices, or realised they ate in restaurants and visited places like the Jazz Warehouse. Rich people, I knew, could do anything they liked and were not like us. I’d never been inside a restaurant. I don’t think Mac knew much about businessmen and clients and restaurants either, because all he volunteered when I asked him to explain further was, ‘It’s called nightlife. They’re night people.’
I thought about this for a few moments then asked, ‘Are all black people rich?’
Mac laughed. ‘No, Jack. The only black people at the Jazz Warehouse are the musicians, and they’re definitely not rich. They come from across the border: New York, Chicago, other places in America.’
‘Have you been inside?’
‘Oh, yes, a year ago, the last decent job I had. Miss Frostbite bought all these old couches and chesterfields – nice, mostly turn of the century, Edwardian and earlier, Victorian maybe – she wanted them upholstered in purple velvet.’
‘Miss Frostbite! Is that her real name?’ I asked, surprised.
He shrugged. ‘It’s what her staff and the musicians call her.’
‘For real or behind her back?’
‘No, it’s said friendly-like and she doesn’t seem to mind as long as it’s staff and musicians and workmen like me who call her that. Mind you, Miss Frostbite is not a bad nickname for her.’ He turned his head and grinned. ‘Believe you me, that lady . . . man, she ain’t nobody’s pushover, nosirree, def-fin-nitely!’ he said in the new jazz accent. Then, speaking normal Canadian again, he added, ‘They all say she’s hard as nails and I’ll admit she didn’t give me a cent I didn’t earn twice over. She wanted receipts for everything I bought: upholstery studs, lining material, sets of springs, edging tape, tacks . . . every goddamned little thing! She drives a hard bargain, but she always paid me in cash at the end of each week, and in these hard times that was good enough for me. She also told me I done a good job and took my
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