In addition to the bombardment of music in the home, my dad also exposed me to the local live scene. Many New Englander’s and even people nationally, were aware of a hole-in-the-wall club that existed on Route 1 in Peabody, MA. The club featured “A” list talent from the world of jazz. It was called “Lennie’s on the Turnpike.” In addition to its stellar musical roster featuring artists like Miles Davis, Woody Herman, and Count Basie, Lennie’s is also known for the place where Jay Leno, an Andover, MA, native got his start.

As well as a regular club schedule, Lennie Sogoloff opened his doors on Sundays so families in the area could could attend matinees with their children. I’ve discovered in talking to musicians my age, that many from this area share memories similar to mine. Lennie Sogoloff exposed many a young budding musician to some world-class jazz. Around ‘63, my dad started taking me to Lennie’s. One of the acts I remember most vividly was around 1967. I was 12. I still have Count Basie’s autograph from that show hanging on a wall matted with that of his then drummer, Harold Jones. “To Mike,” it says, “Para-Luck.”

Of all the artists that were in rotation at Lennie’s, in my young eyes I always felt that there was none bigger than Buddy Rich. Lennie’s was a small place. The music would physically affect you….from the ages of 8 to 17 I experienced Buddy Rich’s big band blasting me right in the face from only a few feet away. There were no huge PA systems; it was simply pure, raw power, musicians muscling the sound out to the audience. In addition to the band experience and Buddy’s technical magic, it was not uncommon to find sitting in close proximity, people whose names I had only heard bandied about while eavesdropping on conversations between elder music-minded folks.

At Lennie’s, one could easily talk with not only the working musicians, but also the well-known patrons who would often be found rubbing elbows with each other on any given date. One specific Sunday I was sitting at a long table right in front of Buddy Rich’s band with my father. We were so close, I could actually feel a blast of wind and a solid vibration coming from the stage. It pounded into the center of my chest. It must have been around 1965. I was ten years old. In awe, I sat at a long table with Bud Slingerland, Armand Zildjian and Sparky Lyle, a Boston Red Sox pitcher. When Buddy took a break he would often take the mic and banter with the crowd. This day it seemed like Buddy felt like talking more than he felt like playing. Patron’s didn’t seem to mind because his dialogue was often hilarious and just as entertaining as his playing (maybe a result of his vaudeville training).

That day Buddy was on a roll (no pun intended). He looked around and one by one introduced the dignitaries with whom I shared a table. The crowd politely applauded each name as Buddy made small talk with Mr. Zildjian and subsequently Mr. Lyle. When he announced Bud Slingerland, again, everyone politely applauded. Then to everyone’s amusement, including Mr. Slingerland, Buddy quipped, “Second-class junk.” His delivery was impeccable and he had people roaring. While the crowd was still getting over that slam, Buddy was already ripping into a patron who had gotten up while Buddy was talking. “Where are you going?” Buddy demanded to know. “To the bathroom” came the squeaky reply. Buddy then let loose with a tirade about the poor guy getting up while HE was talking etc…..it was pretty funny to everyone except the hapless victim. Buddy was merciless. The man didn’t know whether he should go back to his seat or continue to his original destination. I think I remember him eventually asking permission to go to the lav.

After that scenario, Buddy made a few crude remarks about playing again at Lennie’s, “It’s always a joy to play at…what’s the name of this joint?” “I love sharing my dressing room with a rat.” Lennie Sogoloff would always be in the back of the room, arms folded, chuckling along with every insult hurled at him. Things began to settle down and Buddy looked around the room looking for another mark. He noted the number of kids in the audience. Then Buddy asked, “OK, kids, what would you like to hear?” I couldn’t believe that I’d actually have an opportunity to make a request to my idol. “West Side Story!” I cried out. Buddy Rich stopped and looked me right in the eyes. Suddenly I felt fluids draining from my body. It felt like the world had stopped. Now I knew how the man on the way to the men’s room felt. The room actually went silent for a moment while the audience waited for Buddy’s reaction. “Go out and steal some hubcaps kid,” came his response, “but make sure you leave the Jaquar alone. That’s my daughter’s.” Again the audience was in stitches and I wanted to climb under the table.

He finally got behind the drums, played one of his famous, dazzling hi hat intros and counted off, “West Side Story.” At the end of the show he walked by me and said, “Hey kid, here,” and he handed me a pair of wood-tipped drum sticks that looked like they’d been though a chipper. In green ink they were stamped “Buddy Rich.” I was fortunate to meet Buddy again several more times through the years after shows and even got to jam with members of his band. Buddy and Maynard Ferguson were performing at the Colonial on route 128 in Lynfield, MA. His band members trickled into the hotel lounge after their gig to have a drink. Talk about the right place at the right time….I was lucky enough to be working with a jazz trio in the lounge that night. Most of the guys were carrying their horns. We invited them up and some of them took turns playing standards with us. It was a thrill for me. The highlight was a version of “Body and Soul” lead by a flugelhorn player whose sound almost brought tears to my eyes.

As time went on I’d get a chance to work with guys who at one time or another had actually worked with Buddy. I’d always get them to talk about life on the road with the Man. I heard some great stories. Whenever I was fortunate enough to catch Buddy live, he always took time to sign autographs (usually in his robe after shows). The pair of sticks that he’d given me as a kid ended up like many an old autographed baseball. They’d gotten used up until they became unrecognizable. Perhaps I thought that some of Buddy’s magic would pass through the sticks and into my hands…never happened.

When Buddy passed I felt compelled, as many of us did, to express my feelings in a long heartfelt letter to Modern Drummer Magazine. It was a sad time. I’m thankful that I was not only exposed to Buddy’s music, got to see him live, but also had a chance to interact with him here and there when he’d pass through town. Life is short and I make an attempt not to take things for granted. I’ll never take for granted any of the blessed times I got to see and hear Buddy Rich. I sometimes wonder if he knew how many people he touched that way.

Finally it’s time to have dinner and standing next to me in line at the buffet is the bride’s mom. She asks, “Are you going to let my Johnny sit in?” It’s the bride’s mom so reluctantly I say, “Sure, what instrument does your Johnny play?” She raised her eyebrows and with an incredulous look said, “Guitar!” “Ok, geez… just have him come up right after dinner and introduce himself.”

With a smirk, I inform the band with an apology that some guy is gonna come up and sit in and play his guitar. With a typical roll of their collective eyes they mumble something like, “Mmmm yeah, ok,,,, whatever….” After the first song of the first set ends, a gentleman steps up to the band stand holding a crying baby… “Hey man, sorry about this, my mom and sister want me to sit in…but I’ve got to get out of here…my baby just won’t stop crying so I’m going to split like right now.” The entire band stands and stares like a pack of deer blinded by headlights…our mouths agape…finally I hear the bass player, a young kid studying at Berklee pipe up, …”Oh my God, Sco…that’s Sco… I can’t believe…it’s John Flipping Scofield.” With a wave of his hand, the monster guitarist known as John Scofield vanished as quickly as he had come. The band was humbled.

It all started like this. I got in touch w/ Mr. Sax, gave him the details of the gig and after listening for what seemed like an eternity of him dropping the names of every major star in the business that he’s worked with and wrote charts for, he agreed to do it. I got his email addres so I could put everything in writing for him. It’s always good to create a record. He called me several times to ask me the same details that I’d emailed to him saying that he lost it or deleted it or this or that……. I emailed it to him again detailing the pay, that he would be paid by check and that the check would be mailed, start end time, directions, attire, accommodations etc….

A red flag should have gone up when he continued to call me and ask me for the same details I had emailed him. The venue was almost 4 hours north of our homes in Boston. I’m very detail oriented and there’s always a little extra detail that goes into planning even a short road trip such as this one. The event was a very hip, high-end wedding under a tent at a huge private estate in coastal Maine on a clifftop overlooking the ocean. It was a beautiful summer day. The weather was perfect, not too hot, not too cold, but I was sweating bullets. We were minutes away from our hit and still there was no sign of Mr. Sax. My anxiety by now was riding very high. Finally one of my guys pokes me in the back and says, “Hey man, is that the sax player?” To my amazement and horror, I spied him way down in the parking area getting dressed into his tux (pants included) while around him guests were still arriving …..the band took the stage and began our first set without him. Mr. Sax made his way up the walk accompanied by a large woman. He finally got to the stage and while we were playing began to set up his mic and music stand.  Smiling, he turns and yells, “Hey where do I plug in?” I yelled that we’d hook him up after the first set. He began overplaying from the get-go. It was obvious that he was a terrible reader and he tried to overcompensate by blowing as many notes as possible in the least amount of space. The set went ok in spite of his rambunctious playing and we finally got a break.

I wanted to have a talk with Mr. Sax by now because I was still sick to my stomach that he was late and that he got dressed in the parking area in front of guests and that he brought an uninvited female friend. I was additionally horrified to learn that while we were working, members of the band observed Mr. Sax’s huge woman companion helping herself to the buffet before the poor guests even had a chance. I was going nuts and thinking my reputation is going to be mud. I was very anxious to have a chat with Mr. Sax. I went outside the tent and saw a table. On the table were 1/2 empty liquor bottles that the caterer had used. At one end of the table was Mr. Sax. He was pouring himself a few beverages from the bottles. He was already trashed by the time I got to him. I had no idea how to handle it. I simply told him to get himself together and get through the gig…. oh, yeah, and I also told him that it wasn’t proper protocol to invite spouses and girlfriends to private affairs. I rarely lose my cool but when he began to protest, I screamed in his face,  “Send her on her way!” He wouldn’t tell her so I had to. Then he developed an attitude toward me!

We’d only done one set by now and had another three hours to go. As the evening progressed I observed more shocking behavior. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, my peers and I looked on helplessly as booze breath put his arms around the bride and was overheard saying, “Wow, you’re really beautiful, congratulations …blah, blah blah…” He then proceeded to try to kiss her as she tried to wriggle out of his smelly grasp. I was thinking to myself, “I am so screwed.” It was a miracle that she never said anything to anyone about the incident. She just let it go. Thankfully it was becoming quite a wild party and much of this horror show was beginning to pale compared to some of the guests behaviors…like the whole bridal party skinny dipping in the pool…but I digress.

The point is, much of his shenanigans was going right over their collective heads. Finally the gig ended and somehow we made it through, miraculously unscathed. After the gig, we rode back to our rooms together. Now, all night, in addition to his bad behavior, he was bragging to us and dropping the names of all these greats that he supposedly played with, telling us what a great reader he was, and how he wrote horn charts for this guy and that guy. As I said earlier, it was so obvious that he was not a good reader to put it mildly. He then made one fatal mistake. Mr. Sax complained to our bass player about our horn book, “Who wrote those charts?” “Those Mother f’ng charts suck. I couldn’t even read those charts….when I was working w/ Dr. John, we’d never have bad charts like those….” etc, etc.

The bass player, a very refined man, who was also an amazing cellist, had written the charts. The charts were impeccable. I had never seen him angry. Well, he exploded on the guy and because I’d like to keep this clean, I will refrain from writing the dialogue that took place but let’s just say, it was kind of like a Buddy Rich tirade. We headed now very quietly into the dark night toward our destination, the very quaint and beautiful seacoast town of Darmiscotta, Maine. Now after telling the guy 20 times in emails (that he kept saying he didn’t get or lost even though he responded to some of them) that he would be mailed a check……he still had the nerve to send his very obnoxious girlfriend, (yes, the one that was pigging out at the buffet) to my door at the Darmiscotta Inn around 2 or 3 a.m. looking for cash. She’s banging on our door, “Mr. Sax is going crazy…he wants his bread.” We could hear him screaming from his room, “Tell those mother *&^%$ er’s I want my money.” I told her, go back and tell him if he doesn’t shut the (fill in the blank) up, I was going to come back there and have a little talk with him (only I wasn’t as polite as that).

This went on for awhile, back and forth she comes and goes, “He’s really angry, he’s going crazy in there….” I didn’t want to call the desk because he was staying under our name. He finally calmed down or passed out and things settled. We got up around and exhausted but happy to be free of him had a good story to laugh about over breakfast down the road. Mr. Sax called me a few days later to apologize and explain that he was off his meds or something…. I told him that every time someone calls me to recommend a sax player, I’m going to give them his name and say, “Don’t use this guy under any circumstances.”