Remembering an unexpected encounter with a legend
by Jack Neely
Lionel Hampton died a few days ago. To call him the world's foremost vibraphonist is understating the case; for most folks, he's probably the only vibraphonist they can name. He's a rare musician who may be better known than his instrument. He was a jazz innovator, and in the late '30s, he was a prominent member of the first integrated major band in American history.
Like most of the famous people I've ever met, I met Lionel Hampton only because I happened to be on a downtown sidewalk when he came by.
I had a job at the time as a proofreader for a Gay Street law firm. If it wasn't the worst job I ever had, it was the worst air-conditioned job I've ever had. I spent the day in a windowless, fluorescent-lit closet comparing documents word for word for the benefit of people who couldn't remember my name. It didn't pay well, and I had a baby at home. Entertainment was out of the question. I never even bothered to check the concert listings in the paper; we couldn't afford to subscribe to it, anyway.
I often had to work late and often missed the bus. This evening I missed it again and settled down to wait for another one. In my hip pocket I kept a black ring-binder notebook. I had no prospects of publishing anything; I wrote in it just to pass the time, like somebody else might do a crossword puzzle. I'd sit at a bus-stop bench and write down long descriptions of a schizophrenic's clothing, or a sagging old brick building, or garbage on the sidewalk.
For some reason I was restless this evening and walked while I waited. In 1985, Gay Street was even quieter at 6 than it is today. I often had the whole street to myself and felt a certain proprietary privilege to it. I was ambling north along a sidewalk when at the corner of Clinch I saw two intruders in my domain: an old man in a dark suit, crossing the street with a younger man. The older man was nearly bald and had friendly eyes and a heavy lower lip. I knew I'd seen him before and stopped dead still, wondering if he was someone I'd worked with somewhere and should say hello to.
They crossed and tried to get into a cafe called Henry's, a simple fast-food place in the corner of the old Fouché building. I sometimes had a ham biscuit for breakfast there. His place was closed now, as it always was this late, as most of downtown's diners were at 6. The old black man stood there at the corner and rattled the door, as if he couldn't understand why any restaurant would be closed right at suppertime. His companion stood by and peered inside.
The two backed out into the street, looking up and down empty Gay Street with that discouraged, desperate look I still see on newcomers' faces when they're downtown on a Sunday afternoon.
Fortunately, they spotted the Brass Rail nearby, which looked like it was still open; it was a dark, leathery place more fancy than trendy, a '50s notion of a sophisticated urban restaurant. I hardly ever went there, but it was popular with lawyers and others who had more money than I did. It was one of the few dinner places left in '85, but wasn't long for the world.
As I passed by them, I thought I recognized the older guy and almost called to him as if he was an old friend. But I just stood there, and as I did, a white man in coveralls was pushing a hand truck across Clinch. He turned around backwards, gawking.
"Is that—?," I said. He grinned. "That's Lionel Hampton," he said.
That's when I noticed, for the first time, the name on the marquee on the Tennessee Theatre.
We must have seemed like some weird ballet in the middle of Gay Street, the handtruck man walking backwards, me turning around and walking back in the same direction I'd come, the two well-dressed men looking for life in a strange town.
I walked near them and hesitated, not sure what to say. But they shoved on into the Brass Rail, the younger man first, and I went charging after them. I caught them in the dim entrance hall. They were the only ones I saw in there; the restaurant didn't seem to be doing any business. Approaching, I said what all silly people say when they have nothing to say to someone famous but want to talk to them, anyway. "Mr. Hampton," I said. He turned around smiling, as if expecting to see someone he knew. "Can I have your autograph?" I said. I handed him my little black ring-binder notebook. Graciously he smiled and signed his name. He didn't seem to be in any hurry, and we chatted briefly. He asked me if the food there was any good. I told them it had been a while, but I thought it was.
"Are you coming to the show?" he asked.
"Wouldn't miss it," I lied, and thanked him.
I lost his autograph, of course, as I've lost all the autographs I've ever collected. By the end of the week it had vanished, along with my black ring-binder notebook with the descriptions of old buildings and schizophrenics. I tried to console myself. What do you do with an autograph, anyway? It's not art, nothing beautiful in itself. An autograph has no meaning except as proof of an encounter. Asking for one is just a pretext for meeting somebody famous.
Since then, the Brass Rail closed, Henry's closed, they tore the Fouché Building down, and now Lionel Hampton's dead. But at least I can brag, as I have many times before, that I met him.
September 5, 2002 * Vol. 12, No. 36
© 2002 Metro Pulse
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