record
Kind of Blue.
Both had claimed to have written it. And there were others. “The Chase,” by Wardell Gray and Dexter Gordon, who sold the rights for a hundred dollars. A similar story floated around about Oliver Nelson’s “Stolen Moments,” which had been recorded many times since the 1960s when it first saw light.
“A lot of groups recorded those tunes in the past forty years. That means maybe thousands in lost royalties for the person who didn’t get credit.”
Dana listens, takes a last bite, and pushes her plate aside. “So Cal might have written some of these tunes and never got credit?”
“Who knows. It was a long time ago.” I listen for a couple of minutes, recalling the tunes then think of something else. “Is there a big record store anywhere near here?”
“Yeah, Tower down on Sunset and a couple of others in Hollywood. Why?”
“There’s a newer version of this, a two CD set with a little booklet. I’d like to see it, see who the musicians are.” I was mainly curious to see if Barney Jackson was listed.
I pour us both some more wine and light a cigarette. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Dana.”
Dana nods but looks a little wary. “You’ve changed your mind? You’re going to sell the house?”
I laugh. “No, nothing like that. It’s about Cal.” I tell her about calling the Cremation Society, the scattering of ashes at sea. “It’s something I want to get over with and I’d like you to go with me, since you were the last person to see Cal.”
I study her for a moment. She holds her glass in both hands and looks down.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Isn’t it really a more private thing for you? I mean I got to know Cal but—”
“No, I understand if you don’t want to. Hell, I don’t want to but I just don’t like the idea of going by myself.”
“It’s not that, I just don’t want to, you know, intrude.”
“You won’t be and I’d really appreciate it.”
She smiles. “When is it?”
“I’ll have to call them tomorrow to make arrangements.” I feel an inner sigh of relief that I’ll have some company.
“Look, let’s leave the kitchen and run down to Tower and then I’ll buy you a cappuccino or something. How about it?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
***
Sunset is crawling with cars full of cruising teens as we wind down toward Tower Records, past the clubs and restaurants. I manage to find a parking place in the crowded lot and we go inside. I almost wince as I hear the heavy, blaring band with a screaming vocal they’re playing over the store sound system.
Dana sees my frown and laughs. “Not your thing, huh? Aerosmith.” She takes off. “I’ll meet you in the jazz section,” she says.
Jazz is in the back, a couple of aisles worth with quite a selection. There’s plenty of Miles Davis in the racks and several copies of
Birth of The Cool
. It’s a two CD set and even includes a few of the tracks recorded live at the Royal Roost. I grab one and wander around looking randomly at all the new releases. Half the names I don’t recognize. So much music, so little time. I’d about seen enough when Dana comes by.
“Find anything?”
She frowns. “Nothing I don’t already have and nothing new I want.”
I watch her browse through the jazz, her fingers dragging over several rows of CDs, then she lets out a little squeal. “Oh, look,” she says. “You’re here too.”
I walk over and see she’s pointing at one of the tabs separating each musician. Right between Red Holloway and Bobby Hutcherson is one with my name on it and a single copy of
Haiku
, the recording I’d done before I took off for Europe. Cal had been in the studio that day. I didn’t even know Tower was carrying it.
Dana picks it up and looks at the front with my photo. I guess I’d been trying to look pensive at the time, but seeing it now, I think I look more puzzled than anything. Dana looks from the cover to me and back several times.
Kind of Blue.
Both had claimed to have written it. And there were others. “The Chase,” by Wardell Gray and Dexter Gordon, who sold the rights for a hundred dollars. A similar story floated around about Oliver Nelson’s “Stolen Moments,” which had been recorded many times since the 1960s when it first saw light.
“A lot of groups recorded those tunes in the past forty years. That means maybe thousands in lost royalties for the person who didn’t get credit.”
Dana listens, takes a last bite, and pushes her plate aside. “So Cal might have written some of these tunes and never got credit?”
“Who knows. It was a long time ago.” I listen for a couple of minutes, recalling the tunes then think of something else. “Is there a big record store anywhere near here?”
“Yeah, Tower down on Sunset and a couple of others in Hollywood. Why?”
“There’s a newer version of this, a two CD set with a little booklet. I’d like to see it, see who the musicians are.” I was mainly curious to see if Barney Jackson was listed.
I pour us both some more wine and light a cigarette. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Dana.”
Dana nods but looks a little wary. “You’ve changed your mind? You’re going to sell the house?”
I laugh. “No, nothing like that. It’s about Cal.” I tell her about calling the Cremation Society, the scattering of ashes at sea. “It’s something I want to get over with and I’d like you to go with me, since you were the last person to see Cal.”
I study her for a moment. She holds her glass in both hands and looks down.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Isn’t it really a more private thing for you? I mean I got to know Cal but—”
“No, I understand if you don’t want to. Hell, I don’t want to but I just don’t like the idea of going by myself.”
“It’s not that, I just don’t want to, you know, intrude.”
“You won’t be and I’d really appreciate it.”
She smiles. “When is it?”
“I’ll have to call them tomorrow to make arrangements.” I feel an inner sigh of relief that I’ll have some company.
“Look, let’s leave the kitchen and run down to Tower and then I’ll buy you a cappuccino or something. How about it?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
***
Sunset is crawling with cars full of cruising teens as we wind down toward Tower Records, past the clubs and restaurants. I manage to find a parking place in the crowded lot and we go inside. I almost wince as I hear the heavy, blaring band with a screaming vocal they’re playing over the store sound system.
Dana sees my frown and laughs. “Not your thing, huh? Aerosmith.” She takes off. “I’ll meet you in the jazz section,” she says.
Jazz is in the back, a couple of aisles worth with quite a selection. There’s plenty of Miles Davis in the racks and several copies of
Birth of The Cool
. It’s a two CD set and even includes a few of the tracks recorded live at the Royal Roost. I grab one and wander around looking randomly at all the new releases. Half the names I don’t recognize. So much music, so little time. I’d about seen enough when Dana comes by.
“Find anything?”
She frowns. “Nothing I don’t already have and nothing new I want.”
I watch her browse through the jazz, her fingers dragging over several rows of CDs, then she lets out a little squeal. “Oh, look,” she says. “You’re here too.”
I walk over and see she’s pointing at one of the tabs separating each musician. Right between Red Holloway and Bobby Hutcherson is one with my name on it and a single copy of
Haiku
, the recording I’d done before I took off for Europe. Cal had been in the studio that day. I didn’t even know Tower was carrying it.
Dana picks it up and looks at the front with my photo. I guess I’d been trying to look pensive at the time, but seeing it now, I think I look more puzzled than anything. Dana looks from the cover to me and back several times.
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