Don Edmondson and his annoying little camera. Here I am, mouth wide open, at the Musicians Union on Vine Street in Hollywood. I don’t think I was singing, but have no idea what I am saying, or drinking, but John Altman can’t get a word in edgewise.
I love those Musicians Union gigs. Drum City is across the street. They have one of Shelly Manne’s old kits in there, I think. And at the Union Hall that afternoon Flip Manne knocked me on my ass with a jazz drummer’s screwdriver–eight ounces of vodka with a splash of orange juice. Is that strong enough, she asked? I asked for a little more OJ. You like ’em watered down, huh? I apologized. Shelley liked his with just a splash of orange juice, she said. Well, he was a jazz musician, I said. You’re not a jazz musician? No, ma’am, I’m a writer. I’m so sorry, she said, and dumped out most of the vodka and filled it to the brim with orange juice.
Those jazz dames can be rough.