Chapter 6 Chicago, 1928—Marcelle #3
While Skye sang, Marcelle played the melody.
Earl played chords, accompanying them with a lively, rhythmic style, and Warren (on drums) kept a steady beat, enhancing Skye’s performance with rhythmic accents and a strong groove.
Tim (on double bass) played the root notes of the chords, serving as the foundation that held everyone together.
Soon, the flappers and their dance partners filled the dance floor, doing the Charleston. The sharp smell of whisky filled the smoky air. When one song ended, Skye mouthed the name of the next tune, and Marcelle transitioned effortlessly into the next.
She lost track of time, and when Skye suggested, “Chicago, That Todd’ling Town,” she told Marcelle, “I want to hear your trumpet on this.”
Marcelle loved this song. Playing it was fun, with chances to improvise with sound and timbre. The sound she created with the trumpet was unique. She hoped she hadn’t brought a twenty-first-century sound into the room.
The hallmark of Skye’s singing was her phrasing. She sounded like Rosemary Clooney, both distinctive and unpretentious.
When the song ended, the lights dimmed, and they left the stage for a break. The men lit cigarettes and drank illegal whisky. Marcelle wanted to go outside and breathe fresh air, but she didn’t want to go alone or bother Skye to go with her.
“Do you want a drink?” Earl asked.
“Water with ice, if possible.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Water? Sure thing. I’ll get you some.”
Eddie approached with a cigarette and a glass of whisky. “Your flexibility is unmatched. Even when playing lightning-fast lines, your articulation stays crystal clear. Where’d you learn to play like that?”
“I’m from New Orleans. The city influenced my style.”
“The crowd loved you,” Skye said. “Don’t you think, Eddie?”
“Between Marcelle on trumpet and your singing, the rest of us are decorations.” Eddie took a drag and blew smoke upwards.
“I bet you can play anything on the trumpet. You weave line after line of perfectly phrased, articulated, hard-swinging deliciousness and even throw in a few monstrous lip slurs for good measure. Every note has a tasty rhythmic feel. You make all your lines swing hard, and you’re a master of accenting the right notes to make everything feel good. ”
“And you have impeccable control,” Warren added, twirling a drumstick. “If Capone hears you, he’ll want you to play at one of his clubs.”
Marcelle recoiled. She had no interest in him or one of his clubs.
“Warren’s right,” Skye said. “If Capone wants you at the Green Mill or Sunset Café, you can’t turn him down.”
“Yes, I can. Once you go to work for Capone, you’re stuck. I need a job, but not a job working for him. Besides, my top priority is finding my brother.”
Skye gave her a knowing smile. “Let’s talk about it later. We have a show to finish.”
Earl returned with a water pitcher, a bucket full of ice, and a glass. “Hope this is enough.”
“This is great. Thank you.” She filled a glass, drank it all, refilled it again, and drank all of that. It wasn’t enough to rehydrate her, but it was a good start.
Earl picked up the pitcher. “I’ll refill it.”
“I need to use the restroom before we go back out there,” Marcelle said.
“It’s down the hall. Second door on the left,” Skye said.
Marcelle braved the small, neglected bathroom, immediately gagging at the overpowering stench that rose from the grimy toilet and basin. She held her breath and used the toilet. Then she bolted from the room, making it back before Earl returned with more water.
Skye finished the liquor left in Eddie’s glass. “You ready to do it again?”
“Lead the way.” Marcelle took a long drink and left her water on a small table at the back of the stage before picking up the borrowed trumpet. The warm tonal quality pleased her. If Sidney wanted to sell it, she’d buy the instrument from him, except she had no money.
When they finished the second set, Marcelle was sweating in the haze of cigarette smoke and whiskey fumes that hung over the club. She was usually the last to leave the stage after a show, but tonight, she was the first to go, carrying the empty pitcher and glass.
A short, round man with dark hair and blue eyes, his face swollen probably from rich food and late-night partying, approached Marcelle, flanked by two men. An unlit cigar clenched between his teeth gave him the look of a gangster straight out of central casting.
“Why haven’t I heard you play before?”
“Guess we’ve never been in the same place at the same time.
” She reached out her hand. “I’m Marcelle LeBlanc.
” It took a second or two before she realized the impeccably dressed man was none other than Al Capone.
She almost jerked her hand back, but was smart enough not to offend a gangster with a gun and a reputation as a killer.
She smoothly withdrew her hand while his voice rang in her ears, reminding her of the old Jimmy Durante movies and the Park Slope Italians who owned restaurants in that Brooklyn neighborhood.
The boyish grin he flashed was so incompatible with his reputation that it was almost comical. “You’re French.”
“I’m Cajun from South Louisiana and ethnically and ancestrally French.”
“And you play the trumpet like Louis Armstrong.”
She chuckled. “Nobody plays like Mr. Armstrong.”
“You do.”
Bastien had warned her never to argue with a man carrying a gun. Although she couldn’t see one, she’d read that Capone favored a Colt 45 semiautomatic pistol. “Thank you for the compliment.”
“Have you heard Mr. Armstrong play lately?” Skye asked. “I agree with Mr. Capone. Like Armstrong, you play with emotional depth, which sets both of you apart from other trumpet players.”
“Louis is playing in New York City, or I’d arrange an introduction,” Capone said.
Playing with him was a dream. His duets with singer and jazz trombonist Jack Teagarden, blues vocalist Bessie Smith, and pianist and bandleader Earl Hines took place in the mid-1920s.
Anyone who performed a duet with Armstrong could expect their career to get a significant boost. But she didn’t need a boost. She needed to find her brother and go home before she dipped her toes too deeply into twentieth-century jazz and infused it with her twenty-first-century influence.
“Join me for dinner, and we’ll discuss headlining at the Sunset Café.”
Skye blinked, then her eyes widened in surprise, but Marcelle didn’t react.
Instead, she said, “Thank you for the invitation, but how about another night?” She came within an inch of mentioning that she had to find her brother.
She didn’t want Capone to know she had a missing sibling.
He might try to locate him, which could be dangerous for Bastien.
“Join me at my table. I’ll have a chilled bottle of champagne waiting.”
“I’m sorry, but can we do this another night?” Her apology would have sounded ungrateful if she hadn’t forced a smile into her voice.
Skye took Marcelle’s arm. “We need to freshen up, Mr. Capone. We’ll join you shortly.” Skye led Marcelle away. “You know who he is, right?”
“Ruler of the Southside crime family, specializing in gambling, prostitution, bootlegging, bribery, narcotics, trafficking, robbery, protection rackets, and murder.”
Skye put her hands on her hips. “A simple yes or no would have been sufficient.” She glanced over her shoulder.
“Capone might be helpful. He’s fond of jazz music and supportive of musicians.
Plus, he’s a part-owner of the Sunset Café.
If we get a gig there, the exposure might get us on the radio or even a chance at producing a record. ”
“Deals like that come with strings, Skye. Do you want to be beholden to him?”
Skye opened the door to her dressing room and ducked behind the screen. “Let’s see what he’s offering first. He’s been here before and has never even offered me a glass of champagne. This is because of you.”
Marcelle swallowed a stress-induced knot in her throat. “I have to find Bastien.”
“Mr. Capone can help.”
“No, please don’t mention it. If anyone knows Capone is looking for Bastien, he could get hurt.”
“Okay, but let’s listen to Mr. Capone’s proposal.”
“I don’t have time for a drink. I need to find a place to sleep tonight.”
Skye hurried from behind the screen, straightening the dress she’d worn earlier.
“I have a home on North State Parkway. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.
It’ll be nice having you there. You saved the band tonight, got us an invitation to dine with Capone, and possibly a gig headlining at the Sunset Café. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”
Marcelle’s heart warmed, and she took her first deep, pain-free breath since coming out of the fog. “You’re a lifesaver. I don’t want to impose, but I can’t refuse your offer. I’ll try to find a place—”
“Don’t worry,” Skye interjected. “All I ask is that you listen to Mr. Capone’s offer.”
Skye saved her tonight. If Marcelle could help her and the band again, she needed to do her part, even if it meant socializing with the most infamous criminal in the United States.
They left the dressing room, arm-in-arm. Marcelle never had a girlfriend who wanted to link arms or hold hands. She started scatting, “Da da dee. Bee. Da da dee bee do. Da da be dee.”
“What are you singing?”
“Scat singing is a way for jazz singers to improvise like jazz instrumentalists. If a pianist has an instrumental solo, the singer can scat instead of standing there doing nothing. You can take the spotlight if you know how. For expression, you can turn your voice into an instrument.”
“Teach me.”
“It takes practice. You can start with scatting scales. Like going up and down the C scale—do ba do ba do ba do, then down—ba do ba do ba do ba do.”
Skye sang, “Do ba do ba do ba do, ba do ba do ba do ba.”
“Perfect. Mr. Armstrong is a notable scat singer.”
“I’ve never heard him do it.”