A Decade Of Aces: Part Five '09

This is the Fifth in a series of historical retrospectives on the Southside Aces, in celebration of their tenth anniversary.

The first time the Aces reconvened in 2009 was at the Nomad. A customer walked up to tip us, but claimed not to have any cash, “Could I write a check?” he inquired. We didn’t see why not. Peter wrote it for $25, and on top of that, the bank took it! An auspicious beginning.

But not so much for the Times Bar and Café. Though we didn’t know it until later, January 17^th would be our last appearance there. Within a month the venerable jazz club would be closed for good. That still lay in the future, however, so I’m glad in the meantime we could have a good night. We had a crowd full of dancers and listeners. Our night included a bachelorette beer bottle solo, Karen Vieno Paurus singing “Minnie the Moocher,” and dancers Lisa and Stan showing up with baby Zander. I think it might have been the first time I saw their little potato. Claudia said, “Maybe he wants to be here because he was here while he was in the womb.” “Washboard Wiggles” was requested—Mrs. Butler always has liked that one—featuring Dave. I introduced him with the same sobriquet Walter Winchell used in 1929 to describe Duke Ellington’s drummer Sonny Greer. “Here’s our Ace of the symbol dusters, Dave Michael!” We gave the crowd “The Sheik of Araby” for an encore. Maybe a band should always be careful choosing their last song of the night, just in case it ends up being the last one you ever play in a joint! The band experienced great glee in derailing Andy’s vocal. Instead of the usual “With no pants on!” as a response to every line sung, we began singing, “With a mustache.” We broke him up. Imagine this: Andy—“Into your tent I’ll creep.” Band—“With a mustache!” 

Bill and Shannon. I can’t hear the song, but it looks like “Washboard Wiggles.” 

Near the end of the month we were the house band for the second annual Best of Midwest Burlesk. Local rapper/singer/songwriter Omaur Bliss appeared with us that weekend in his capacity as a singer. He’s a handsome fella who keeps track of his physique (I’m more of a man who keeps track of the donuts). But Robert could relate to his exercising ways. During rehearsal Robert and Omaur were showing each other different types of pushups. My favorite acts from the weekend included the Ladyslippers—Gina Louise, Ophelia Flame and Fanny Tastic. I just report the names; I don’t make them up. Who hasn’t experienced the dilemma of getting too hot shoveling snow? Their solution was to go from Parkas to Pasties…like you do. 

In February, we and a few of the ladies from Lili’s played at the W Hotel at the bottom of the Foshay Tower for VitaMN’s Hotness Party. I’d like to be able to accuse Lili’s of stalking us, but who’s the more likely follower in this scenario? Anyhow, it’s intriguing when we the people take it upon ourselves to determine who is the hottest man and woman in town. Before playing, Erik and I were leaning on a railing overlooking the bar. Lili’s Nadine Dubois and Christian, the man who hired us, approached. Nadine joked, “I guess we just get two musicians tonight.” I said, “Yep. Sousaphone and clarinet duets. Now that’s Hotness!” Christian excitedly said, “That IS hotness!”

February 24^th saw a hodgepodge band with a quorum of Aces back in the same house in which we had to try so hard to avoid electrocution the previous year. They had repaired and made beautiful, and wanted to celebrate. Robert, Erik, Steve and I were there. Nik Bortolussi gave us the drumming, and the role of Ben Webster was played by tenor man Paul. Charmine Michelle laid us low when she sang “Solitude,” in honor of Duke Ellington, whom it was announced would adorn the Washington D.C. quarter. It was the first time an African American’s image was on American currency. As we liked to say that night, “Duke’s on the money!”

The PBR Brothers. That was my affectionate nickname for Bob and Carl, twin brothers who helped out around the Nomad. I loved those guys. They would always be willing to lend a hand, and never failed to compliment us. I never saw either of them without a Pabst Blue Ribbon tallboy within arm’s reach. I had just recently taken pains to learn how to tell them apart. I bumped into Carl after the show that day. “Great music today,” he said. “Thanks, Carl,” I smiled, “It is Carl, right?” He nodded. I said, “It took me two years, but I finally have it right.” Carl forgave me, “That’s all right. It took me thirty.”

Bob and Carl on the patio

March 25^th was a sad day on account of it being the memorial of Erik’s grandfather, Jack. In case you didn’t know this, Erik plays his grandfather’s sousaphone. I want to say that horn turned 80 this year. Claudia and I were standing with him beforehand, and he asked, “How many times through do you think I should play ‘Just A Closer Walk With Thee’?” He was going to do it as a solo, and was worried about how many times people would want to hear the sousaphone render the melody. We thought maybe two times, but that he should feel it out. When he asked Tonya a few minutes later, however, she was definite. “Two times. The sousaphone is just kind of a unique instrument for soloing.” We laughed, and Tonya worried she gave offence. Erik assured her that we had just come to a similar conclusion. Then he teased, “It’s like if you told someone, ‘I really think it’s neat that you color outside the lines.’” As it turned out, two times was all he could make it through. Later in the service, I had the honor of joining him on “His Eye Is On The Sparrow.” Just the two of us played it twice down. He ended on his low Bb, and I on my lowest D. The held chord reverberated throughout the small, otherwise silent chapel. Tonya said afterwards, “I just wanted you guys to put that last note in a box so I could take it out later.”

The April Nomad landed on Easter. We provided ham sandwiches, Jelly Beans and Peeps. Eric Johnson subbed for Erik on sousaphone. I began introducing him as Eric “With A C” Johnson. Eric and Erik. Get it? Erik was away that weekend in France lending a brass bass hand to the Youngblood Brass Band. He returned by the 20^th to join us in a foggy, jet-lagged way at Famous Dave’s. About the only thing he could say, and say often, was, “Oui, oui! I’m Erik Jacobson on the sousa-moi-phone!”

Le Jazz Hot

In May we played Mother’s Day at the Nomad. Erik and I decided casseroles would be the appropriate food for the occasion. Claudia made a cheesy potato thing that was actually called “Mormon Funeral Potatoes.” Erik called his mom, listed the ingredients he had in his larder, and was able to fashion a beef noodle dish of some sort. He decided to call his “Lutheran Funeral Noodles.” That day, David West blew us away for the first of many times with how he could make with the Al Jolson on “5’2” Eyes Of Blue.” 

In June we played over on Raspberry Island in St. Paul. Erik changed into his suit at the job, but forgot to bring socks. We called him “The Huck Finn of Jazz.” Over at the Nomad, Eric Johnson subbed for Erik again. It was on that day that Andy refined my “With-A-C” to “Wittacee.” Doesn’t it sort of sound like a nickname you’d pick up down south?

Out at Friendship Village Senior Living, I warned Steve before we started that if anybody came up to him to bring him to his room, he should say, “No. I don’t live here.” During break, I traded my steak for Wittacee’s potatoes. The crowd kept requesting “It Had To Be You,” which we didn’t have in the book at the time. “We have another request for ‘It Had To Be You.’ So we're very happy to play ‘Bill Bailey.’” I asked Wittacee afterwards if he could wait to receive one check for two jobs; he’d be on another one with us in a couple days. “Are you going to starve,” I asked compassionately. He answered, “Nah. This was a two-steak job. If it was only one steak, I’d need my check.”

Wittacee!

June was busy. Folks in Mears Park got to hear us on the Bix version of “Old Man River” and Armstrong's “Skokiaan” for the Twin Cities Jazz Festival. My mom was there, so I told the crowd they’d have to answer to her if they didn’t buy a CD. This being our third year trying, we finally got great weather for a Harriet Bandshell appearance. Charlie DeVore was subbing for Andy. Parking was at a premium. Charlie walked up and said, “I had to buy a parked car over there, just so I could be close enough to make it.” 

July brought four of us to a Summitt Avenue mansion to play for friends Chef Zander and Emmy. Zander’s brother roast/toasted him by saying he couldn’t believe Zander could land someone like Emmy. So I called “I Can’t Believe She’s In Love With Me,” and “She’s Funny That Way” before I became paranoid that an alert member of the wedding party might think we were making comments with our song selections. During break, Erik and I discovered that that wonderful chef had made sure there were blueberry, peach and strawberry rhubarb pies weighing down a table in the dining room. He and I literally had seven pieces between us before the night was through! Jazz in a Fitzgeraldian setting, good friends in love and lots of pie. What more could you ask for?

In August, Robert, Andy and I drove out to the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum for some shenanigans. It was 11:00 in the morning. We’re standing there when Robert asked, “Have you guys been drinking?” We hadn’t been, and aren’t known to be morning imbibers, so the question struck us strange. We shot quizzical looks at him. “Maybe it’s mouthwash,” he tried to explain. I maintained my puzzlement and asked, “Does Makers Mark count as mouthwash?”

At the Nomad we celebrated the band’s sixth anniversary. Inside, the Fringe Festival staged a mini-rock opera, the actors in cat and dog costumes belting it out. That wasn't for us, though. Outside, three trumpets, two clarinets, two tenors, an alto, flute, rhythm section and four trombones chewed up “St. Louis Blues.” I conducted a music and meat raffle, while Erik borrowed a razor from Andy so he could shave a missed spot on his chin. Raffles and shaving on the bandstand!

Whenever I look at the Nomad patio wall, it reminds me I need a shave.

Two of my favorite Aces stories happened in August. On the 14^th, Robert, Dave, Zack, Matt Peterson, Patrick Harrison and I flew out to Denver for Lindy On The Rocks. Dancers can be frugal. I’m not going to go too far into that, but it will give you some answers if you were wondering about the above lineup. Friday night the Robert Bell Hot Swing Combo would drive the dancers into a frenzy. On Saturday, the EXACT SAME BAND would perform as the Southside Aces. We kept joking on mic how much the two bands hated one another, how we had huge humbugs going on for years. I know for a fact some of the dancers were worried.

I remember the first night at the hotel when Zack asked Patrick and me, “Do you smell cake?” We did, and at first we couldn’t figure it out. Was there a bakery in the next room? I think it was Patrick who figured out. He had just been ironing out the travel creases from his recently heavily starched white shirt. Mmm…shirt cake! I think we did a great job that weekend. Late night Saturday at the after hours dance spot, Bauer’s, all six men of the band stood outside in our black suits with ties loosened, holding fine bourbons and scotches, four of us smoking cigars. It cut quite the scene. A job well done. At the Denver airport on the way home, Patrick told me he noticed me in the mornings doing yoga out on the balcony of our hotel. He described briefly wondering what was going on, “I thought you were praying to Mecca.” I replied, “I was facing south, not east.” After a pause, “Praying to New Orleans, I guess.” Patrick suggested that if that was the case, I should pour out a little Abita beer before each prayer. “And whiskey on the major holidays!” I added. We decided the major holidays would be Mardi Gras, Louis Armstrong’s birthday, and Halloween. 

On the 21^st, we had a high-pressure set to perform for the International Association of Jazz Record Collectors. It was high-pressure, because all of the people at this convention knew all the recordings ever made by anybody. We were scouted two years previously by Chuck Sweningsen. He’s a small man, but has more jazz inside of him than any three other people. It wasn’t a “Bourbon Street” and “Bill Bailey” day, for sure. I worked up a bunch of history on the tunes I selected. Not too much, for fear of running into a pack of sixteen sharp-fanged historians out in the hall of the conference room. But enough that at first Erik called me “History Hank,” and later, “Freddy Fact.” We were introduced by the wonderful Leigh Kamman. He has the type of poetic, extemporaneous introductions that even if you think they might be too long, you never want them to stop! Then we launched my list: 

The Mooche

Back Room Romp

Kansas City Stomps

I’m Walkin’ This Town

Blues In The Air

Mushmouth Shuffle

Ol’ Man River

Perdido Street Blues

Red Man Blues

Have A Little Dream On Me

Snag It 

E. St. Louis Toodle-oo

The band actually witnessed folks in this crowd lip-syncing to my history! Leigh and Chuck praised us. I was pretty proud, but then I got my head back out of the clouds. Andy and I met a married couple who belonged to the Toronto Ellington Society. I bravely asked her how we did. She said, “We love it whenever we hear Ellington, no matter how it’s played.” Andy and I began to grin. The husband added, “Not whenever! Some bands murder him!” I smiled more broadly. “Hopefully,” I said, “we just put him in the hospital.” 

Here’s Chuck scouting the band at the Nomad, dressed as always in his Jazz Scout uniform.

September brought us out to Omaha for another Cowtown Jamborama, this time with Wittacee in tow. This is the one when Robert broke his toe rushing to retrieve the band van after our Po’boy dinners at a restaurant called Jazz. He played the first set while his body settled into shock. He wasn’t going to make it if we didn’t do something. Fortunately, one of the dancers was a Dr. Joan “I Trained In A Bronx E.R." Bonesetter. Backstage, I threw Robert’s leg over my shoulder and pinned his foot down. Joan walked up without hesitating and reset his toe, snap! just like that. He stated he was at least 72% better immediately. He did great after that, even if he only could wear one shoe. 

We played the after hours dance at the 6^th and Cuming art gallery from the previous year. The MC there asked us if we wanted to be called something else for the night. Not a bad idea if you want to avoid litigation. The band huddled and came up with “Count Hakula and His Mustache Troubadours.” We left at 4 a.m., some of us thinking food, some of us thinking bed. Before we had to step out of the van and settle the argument like men, Dave spotted an open sign under the freeway. I put the van on two wheels making the turn into Pettit’s Donuts and Rolls. It was 4:10, and they had been open all of ten minutes. Six jazzmen in six suits and eleven shoes ate the freshest donuts ever!

On a gorgeous October evening, good friends Julie and Claire got themselves all hitched up in a ceremony on the Andiamo riverboat out of Stillwater. The girls had a bubble machine and the Southside Aces out on deck to greet passengers as they boarded. We played for the dance as well. Julie had asked us to surprise Claire with Taj Mahal’s “Queen Bee.” Outside of the New Orleans book, right? Well, since New Orleans is famous for folding in as much of the world as possible, we held up that part of the tradition. Steve sang marvelously. He said later, “I looked out on the floor, and Julie and Claire were so happy I really got into singing it for them.” Those two lovebirds inspired us on our other surprise, a cover of Harry Connick’s “Come By Me.” Erik said, “I noticed it took them about twelve bars before they recognized it. But when they did they were so happy, jumping for joy—I almost starting crying!” Indeed, a joyful boat ride.

We were at the Dakota in November with Lili’s. playing all the music, not just the interludes. It was exhausting, but great fun. Our December was quiet but for a couple. Famous Dave’s and the Nomad. The only other one was when the Southside Aces Big Four went into Honey Lounge on December 12^th. This was the new incarnation of Jitters, below Ginger Hop, the new incarnation of the Times. There was no longer music upstairs, but Honey was trying this and that. Robert, Dave, Liz Draper and I...and life goes on.

A Decade Of Aces: Part Three '07

This is the third in a series of historical retrospectives on the Southside Aces, in celebration of their tenth anniversary.

January 18^th, 2007, marked the first official job with Andy Hakala as a member of the Southside Aces. The Butlers had been teaching swing dance at a joint in a cul-de-sac down in Burnsville called Chateau Lamothe, and put in the good word to have owner/chef Doris hire us. Good thing it was in a cul-de-sac, because it was a French restaurant. 

As it turned out, I threw Andy in the fire immediately. I had arrived early enough to set up the p.a. and eat dinner. I leisurely strode to the bandstand at five minutes to start time to take out my clarinet. I found my clarinet bag, but it was empty! Before you become outraged at the scoundrels of the world, this was not a case of thievery. It was a case of idiocy. I had forgotten to pack it.

This is not like forgetting your swim trunks when you go on vacation. Or your canvas bag on the way to the grocers. Does a bus driver arrive at your corner on time but without a bus? Does a hitter walk to the plate without a bat? My clarinet! The only thing I absolutely need on a job. I could show up with one shoe, no music, a sleeve missing and no checkbook. Well, maybe some guys would argue with the last one. At any rate, all of that wouldn’t matter if I had my horn. This would be the incident that precipitated my about-to-leave-the-house checklist: “Do I have my horn? Check. Am I wearing pants? Check.”

It was forty minutes for me to go home and back, so Andy would be without me to welcome him for essentially the first set. As I was speeding home, I began to imagine an even more surreal scene wherein I had opened my bag and found a hammer instead of my clarinet. A lightbulb went off! I got home, grabbed my clarinet, and went for my toolbox. On the way there, I spotted my toaster.

Back at the chateau, I rushed up on stage in the middle of a song. I looked down to see my toaster gleaming in my hands. My face registered mock horror. What had I done?! As a joke, it went over with the band and about three people in the crowd, but I think it mostly made folks wonder why a manic man with a toaster was harassing the band. Security! I did earn a temporary nickname from Erik, though. That night he introduced me as Tony “Crumbtray” Balluff.

February of that year ended up being one of the better months of employment for the whole year for the Aces. We were teamed with a burlesque troupe one night, at a Presbyterian church another night. A Summit Avenue mansion for a school benefit one night, and Lee’s Liquor Lounge another night. Hotel Sofitel, the swanky 494 establishment, then Stasius’ Nordeast bar, which Erik described as being, “like the inside of an ice-fishing shack.” It was as if we spent the entire month of February with an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. Some of the facts, if you please.

We started February at a benefit for homeless children. A great cause. The organizers decided that the theme should be “Speakeasy.” Thusly the Aces were hired along with Lili’s Burlesque review. We were friends with Lili’s, and both outfits had wondered aloud if the organizers knew their benefactors well enough to be hiring a burlesque troupe for the affair. Don’t get me wrong. The wonderful women of Lili’s were perfect for a benefit event. And it’s not as if they actually had the kids there that night, but you never know the sensibilities of a benefactor. Sure enough, we got just three acts in, and Gina did a beautiful fan dance. I was about to introduce the next act when the Lili’s stage manager whispered in my ear, “They’ve cancelled the rest of the burlesque. It’s all up to you guys.” 

My guys valiantly played the rest of the time, which ended up being a long extra hour and a half set. Afterwards, I was standing next to Gina as one of the speakers was pouring guilt onto the crowd because we’d be going back to warm houses on this cold February night while the kids didn’t have that luxury. She leaned close to me and intoned, “They stopped us because of my butt.” 

Later in the month we played a Mardi Gras party at North Como Presbyterian Church. Mardi Gras is also known as Pancake Tuesday. The church took this aspect to heart, griddling up tall stacks for dinner. They also had that New Orleans drink staple, the Hurricane, for our libation. Their Hurricane was Tahitian Treat with fruit spears, so I’d say it was only a Category .037, but they had the right spirit! The day before, I was able to collect another pearl from Erik: I had called and left him a message to see if he wanted to carpool to the church. He called me back: “Uh…Tony? I’m actually more in Milwaukee than I am in Minneapolis.” Matt Senjem stepped up at the last minute, so it was he who got to eat the pancakes and Tahitian Treat. North Como loved us when we finished with “His Eye Is On The Sparrow.”

The next day, Erik was back in town and we were all at Lee’s Liquor Lounge. 

This is another Bill and Shannon venture, so there we were about to go onstage after the dance lesson. On this night I had my first experience of barkeep George. George is in his seventies, and has served all manner of folk for a lot of decades. If you’re the sensitive type, you might call him surly. I prefer to think of him as laconic. Laconic George. My very first interaction:

George—“What’ll you have?”

Me—“What kind of beer do you have?”

George—“What kind do you want?”

Me—“Well, do you have a list?”

George—“We have forty or more kinds, no list. You name a beer, and I’ll tell you if we have it.”

If I ever make a personal best bartender list, George will definitely be in the top five. But believe it or not, it was Robert who surged to the best line of the night with his offering. We stepped up onstage to begin and I asked the fellas, “So what should we play?” Robert, very serious, said, “Nothing pretty, nothing stupid.”

At the end of March we played a double bill at the Cedar, opening for the Twin Cities Hot Club. We had a good night that night, playing a lot of our Jelly Roll Morton. We knew we were doing well when the crowd erupted merely after our tight four-bar introduction to “Kansas City Stomps.” The other side of such heady stardom was this bathroom conversation. Dave, Andy and I went into the small men’s room there just as a father and his young son were about to leave. I called to Andy, who was in the stall, “Andy, do you know the verse to ‘I Found A New Baby’?” Dave looked at the father/son pair and said, “That’s the way professionals rehearse.”

Omaha Jitterbugs hired us for the “Big Apple” dance contest night of the Balboa weekend. The contest was held at the Naughty Lounge, placed in an ugly strip mall way out on the west side of Omaha, 107^th Street. I would describe the joint, but why not use their own website:

“The Naughty Lounge is an elegant bar that reflects the sex appeal in all of us. Established for those of us who need to let their inhibitions go. One of the most stylish hot spots in town, the Naughty Lounge is a vision in red. Just slide in and relax in this hip den of cool luxury. Our staff has been hand-picked to serve you. From looks, charm, sex appeal and style. Are you naughty enough to visit us?”

Andy couldn’t make this one, so we had hired Kid Ben Bell Bern, who would drive down from Chicago to meet us in Des Moines. Our crazy plan was to leave the Twin Cities Sunday, April 1st in the morning and meet Ben at his hotel in Des Moines about 1:30, get to the Naughty Lounge about 3:30, set up, rehearse, go eat dinner, play the show and drive back to the Twin Cities dropping Ben off back in Des Moines along the way. This we hoped to accomplish all in a 24-hour period. The trip started with a masterful April Fool’s joke perpetrated on the band by Robert and Katie. Previous to this day, I had uncomfortably denied passage in the band van for her, citing as my reason the It’s A Guys Trip defence. But there she was loading up with us at Dave’s house. Robert even had her sitting next to him in the front seat as we pulled away, only to drive around the block to her parked car. Kudos to their straight faces!

After a stop for lunch, Erik did the driving. This is a man who likes to look people in the eye when he talks to them. Given that, wind sheer, and the van’s loose steering, Erik used as much road as possible from line to line. This earned him the nickname, “Rumblestrip Jacobson.”

As previously mentioned, the Naughty Lounge was pretty ugly from the outside, but the inside was filled with Deco features that had been salvaged from a downtown bank. This included stained glass, mirrors, a brass angel statue, leather sofas and regular tables and chairs. The paint and lighting throughout truly had a red hue. The stage had a railing with pickets on the front, and the dance floor had a floor-to-ceiling pole in one corner. The green room also had one of those poles on a small stage right next to a pew-like bench—another salvage item from the bank—that actually had the word “Fidelity” carved into it. 

One of the owners was there to greet us. “Hi! I’m BushHog. You could ask for Mark, my real name, but nobody would know who you were talking about, so just ask for BushHog!” Dave, Steve and I go back outside to get another load. Steve looked up at the sign. The G in Naughty was fashioned into a devil with a tail and horns. Steve got reflective for a moment and said, “I’m switching all my insurance to Naughty of Omaha!”

The dance was fantastic. Ben dropped our jaws. He had never played with a trad band before, but he took to it like a veteran. Like a Cornhusker to football. The music was loose, but swung hard, and BushHog kept trays of shots coming to the bandstand. I recall a moment late in the night looking down at my feet during a song to see another tray with six shots on it. I saw my Aunt’s arms reaching through the stage railing, and her fingertips just grabbing the edge of the tray and sliding it toward her. I looked away while we finished the song. When I looked back, there were only three shots left. Aunt Barb is fun. Another late memory has several of the dancers challenging each other to hang by their legs upside down from the dance floor pole. 

The dancers even coughed up more money to keep us there later. We were flopped in the green room after burning up the extra set, but the dancers wouldn’t let us be! They were shouting and stomping and generally causing a great ruckus. We were already past two in the morning and facing a long drive ahead of us, but we all sort of shrugged and decided we had to go back out. This was one of the only times in my life when I truly felt like a rock star, despite the fact that I hold a clarinet in my hands. There was a twenty-foot hallway that went from the green room to the dance floor. The hallway shared the back wall of the stage. The guys walked ahead of me down that hall, and I truly experienced it in slow motion, like a documentary scene. I have a vivid memory of the motion of our suit coats as we turned the corner to the stage. The place erupted, and we mounted the stage and gave them “Four Or Five Times” for an encore. I will never forget the Naughty Lounge. I have even had Omaha natives come up to me in years since and say, “That night was legendary!”

On Mother’s Day, May 13^th, we played the first of what would end up being a three-year run at the Nomad World Pub over on the Cedar Avenue in the West Bank. We launched a grand and noble idea to provide a jam session on the second Sunday of every month. The idealistic dream was to cultivate a larger scene of traditional jazz players, helping to inspire those closer to the beginner end of things and even bringing some of the professionals over from other genres. The down to earth desire was to have a party once a month. To that end, we would always provide some sort of food, that department usually headed up by Erik. For this first one, he brought barbecued kielbasa. Over the three years, we always made it a party, whether we packed ‘em in, or it was just us and a handful of close friends. There were also definitely times it felt like it reached it’s ideal, with both pros and amateurs creating an honest to goodness scene, but not consistently enough to make it last. The main factor in its eventual demise, if I’m honest, however, was a total lack of financial support from the bar. But we sure had some good times in there. The first one was, in fact, more than merely barbecue kielbasa. It was a balmy Sunday afternoon out on their patio against the brick wall. It reminded me of the times I’d played in relaxed jam sessions in courtyards down in New Orleans. A bunch of players showed up to enter the donnybrook. In addition to the band, Zack and Milo brought trumpets, Steve Rogness his trombone; Paul Fonfara and Gus Sandberg brought clarinets; Henry Blackburn his reeds. Bill Butler had just begun drum lessons, and is a brave (foolish?) man, so he readily agreed to sit in right away. In the time-honored tradition of abusing apprentices, I said to him, “I better collect tips before you play!”

May also brought us the honor of playing for good friends, Rick and Randi Rexroth, on the day of their nuptials. They first-danced to the Gershwin’s “Love Is Here To Stay.” We also played at Shamrock’s bar in St. Paul, where they wouldn’t let us play until the Twins game was done, as they had the large projection screen rolled down in front of the stage. You’d think we would’ve been dismayed when the Twins tied Toronto to send the game into extra innings, but Erik was running late, so we felt relief. Erik’s excuse was, “I was ready to go on time, but then these people came over.” I hate to paint Erik as an Irresponsible Ignatius, but he’s so funny when does these things! Erik was running really late that night, but it was ok—the Twins tied it again in the bottom of the eleventh! Our hometown team would go on to lose that night, but not before Erik made it through the door.

July at the Times was Andy’s first time there. 

I remember the crabcake po’boys! But I also remember Erik bringing a music stand light that night. It was actually more like one of those clamp lights you’d have in your basement workshop. I sit in front of Erik, so I could actually feel the heat coming off of it. “Am I going to need sunscreen?” I asked. Before the show, he walked out on the dance floor and noticed it was shooting a glaring light at the crowd. “Well, that’s no good,” he said. In the process of adjusting it he gave Robert spots in his eyes. Dave and Andy at about the same time said, “What, are you incubating eggs over there?” Steve waited until the very end of the night to throw in his two cents. We finished our last song and he turned and said, “Is that chicken almost done?”

In August, we had the honor of opening a jazz club. Alexander Dixon, chef and owner of Zander Café on Selby Avenue, decided to make his side room an official joint, and gave it the moniker, Ferdinand’s Jazz Palace. It was a small place, but I loved to play there for its intimacy. And Zander really was a genius. Just look at how he used the copper salvaged from the renovation of the St. Paul Cathedral down the street.

In October, we were offered a regular third Friday dance out at Chateau Lamothe. For this one, I managed to show up with a clarinet and no small kitchen appliances. 

The day after the Chateau, we played a wedding that had included this email correspondence:

Customer—“Access to the open bar is intended to provide the Aces needed refreshment—can you verify that this open bar access would be respected?” Did the groom think I could provide references as to our ability to handle the hooch? This was my actual response—“On your question of refreshment, the Aces wholeheartedly respect any bar that’s open.” Then I let him off the hook, “That last was meant to be humorous. If I understood your question correctly (and well-asked by the way), you have my assurances that the band or any subs we use have never adhered to that particular Jazz Musician stereotype regarding overindulgence.” On the evening in question, any time someone in the band was heading for a beer or the like, he would say, “Fellas, I think I’ll go respect the open bar now.” The young matron of honor, the bride’s sister, had done a fair amount of respecting the bar herself, which led to her carrying on all over the dance floor and to join us on the bandstand several times to sing along, play beer bottle solos and engage in other gregarious activities. She was quite fun, to tell the truth, but I had my limits. At the end of the night as we were packing up, she came up to me and blurted, “Can I play yer killernet?” (I have a witness to the fact that she actually pronounced “clarinet” as “killernet”). I disappointed her with the information that it was packed up. “Yer shittin’ me!” she accused. She saw a mic on a stand and reached for it. I gently placed my hands over hers and said quietly, “No, no, no. We don’t want to do that.” She looked around the room and whispered conspiradrunkenly, “Why? I don’ mind if I get’n trouble.” “I don’t mind if you get in trouble either,” I said agreeably, “it’s just time to pack up.” Her husband appeared at that moment to guide her away, so there was no further altercation. 

The November Nomad saw Erik arriving with a good-sized katzenjammer. He said, “I’m beat. My head’s like a buoy floating in a sea of High Life.” I looked at him and commented, “I think it’s listing.” But he was highly creative that afternoon in asking for tips. He tore us up with his extemporaneous, fictitious account of the West Bank bluesman, “Woodtick Johnson,” who needed the crowd’s generous support for “bus passes and haircuts.”

That month we also played at Magers and Quinn booksellers in Uptown for a reading and signing of Sugarcane Academy, an account by author Michael Tisserand, a friend of Erik’s, of how he and other New Orleans parents responded to the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina by creating temporary schooling for their children. It’s a great story of perseverance, and we were honored to make loud brass band sounds for him in the middle of a bookstore.

With Zack there for the Nomad jam in December it made for a high concentration of Sconnies in the place. Zack, Andy, Robert and Claudia all hail from that state directly to the east. Erik provided brats soaked in beer and sauerkraut that day and said on mic, “You should all feel at home. It smells like Wisconsin in here!” 

The Aces last job of 2007 was out at Chateau Lamothe, where we met superfans David West and his dad, Rip, for the first time. We had Steve Rogness on trombone that night. We finished with a couple of Christmas numbers, an instrumental “White Christmas,” and “Winter Wonderland,” which I sang with my usual baritone. Rogness turned to the band while I was singing and said, “He sounds like Vincent Price in Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’!” This begs the question, why didn’t Vincent ever record a Christmas album?