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 Looking Back at Being A Jazz-blooded Teen-Ager in A Time of Turmoil
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Gina Gallo, the former Chicago policewoman and author of 'Armed and Dangerous,' is leaving Chicago for a new home in another state. In this new column, she reflects on a period of great influence on her life and gives us a look at the vibrant, colorful writing of the teenage Gina. |
of TheColumnists.com
It’s been going on for weeks now. The hardest
part of moving is sifting and sorting through possessions, trying
to decide what to keep and what to toss. And in the process of
finding things I’d forgotten, and things I’d rather
forget, I also discover a few treasures, things that tug me back
to a moment from the past so distinctive it feels like I’m
time-traveling.
In this case, I was sorting through a trunk full of memorabilia--scrapbooks,
magazines and files from the late ‘60's, a time that marked
the beginning of my teenage years and also the start of my writing
career. In 1968 I was certain I’d be a writer, never doubted
for a minute that I’d be engaged in a lifelong romance with
words. I sold my first story that year, a serious piece about
Chicago’s jazz scene that was purchased within a week by
a British music magazine.
It was all about the music in those days. My mother’s youngest
brother, just 10 years my senior, was raised with us and by his
late teens was already an accomplished jazz musician. Our house
was filled with music--Gene Krupa, Charlie Mingus, Art Blakey,
the sublime sax of Rahsaan Roland Kirk--all the jazz greats who
brought the big band finesse of the 40's into the exploration
of the ‘60's. In my uncle’s shadow, my brother Jim
was an avid student. He mastered jazz guitar and blues bass long
before Algebra, and by the time he was sixteen, was already playing
studio gigs with my uncle at some of Chicago’s premier recording
studios. My mother was less than thrilled.
A musician’s life was not what she wanted for either her
youngest brother or only son, and when Jim began gigging at south
side Blues clubs and doing studio session work, she came up with
a plan. Assuming that my brother would rather die than babysit
his little sister, she told him that the only way he’d be
allowed to attend any musical gig was to take me with him. I
was part of the deal, she said. Anytime he left the house with
his instrument, I had to go along. Even then, she didn’t
understand the depth of his passion.
Instead of preventing him from following his dream, she opened
the door to mine.
While other kids my age went to Saturday matinees and slumber
parties, I was behind the scenes at clubs and studios, observing
the genius that made the music. While classmates drooled over
the Beatles and Monkees, I was meeting icons like Sonny Rollins,
Jo Jones and Charlie Mingus.
Every Saturday afternoon, my uncle, brother and I would head
downtown to Drums Unlimited, a venerated musicians’ store/studio
on South Wabash Avenue. Downstairs was the retail store where
drum sets, guitars and every type of jazz or blues instrument
conceivable were displayed and sold. Upstairs was more of a salon
setting where a different notable musician was featured each
week to present a demonstration of his craft. One week you might
see Buddy Rich pounding his way through an extended drum solo
and the next week Milt Jackson or Red Norvo would be set up with
their xylophones or vibes. Because this weekly event was geared
more toward the musical cognoscenti, it became the site of a
regular jam session for any of the jazz greats who happened to
be in town. Which meant that it wasn’t unusual for Joe Morello
and Dave Brubeck to drop by and jam with Max Roach and Art Farmer
while Joe Williams fronted them with his amazing vocals.
It was heady stuff in those days, experiences that became the
foundation of my lifelong appreciation of jazz. More than that
it taught me to understand how we integrate music, and the passion
and emotion behind it, into the important events of our lives.
So while sorting through my memorabilia this afternoon, I found
an essay I’d written in 1968 that brought back those musical
experiences, as well as the turbulence and confusion that characterized
those times. In reading it 34 years later, it occurs to me that
while the political climate and idealism may have changed, the
passion and emotions remain timeless. The essay follows in its
entirety. You be the judge.
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April 5, 1968 It’s my birthday today, one I’ll never forget. My first teen-age birthday party has been cancelled because of a city-wide curfew imposed by Mayor Daley. Yesterday, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was killed in Memphis and since then, Chicago has erupted into an inferno. Right now soldiers are marching through the streets of our neighborhood. No one is allowed to go outside, so I join my brother and our friends up on the roof to watch the West Side burn. This has always been an integrated neighborhood, one where all cultures live together and appreciate our differences. Just a few blocks from the Italian grocery stores and the Jewish corned beef deli are the Blues clubs that line Roosevelt Road. Nearby Maxwell Street is a legendary area where the weekly flea market draws tourists and locals alike. It’s the place where street musicians jam on the corners, serenading you with the blues while you shop. Tonight, the same people who live in my neighborhood are rioting in the streets. Enraged by Dr. King’s murder, they’re torching and looting, even though the National Guard has been called in. Even while Army tanks roll down the streets, the violence continues, escalating in proportion to our neighbors’ anger and grief. All around us, homes and businesses are burning. Acrid smoke billows up as we watch, horrified. One of my friends carries a transistor radio tuned to WVON Radio, Chicago’s “Voice of the Negro” station. Normally, it’s a station that plays great blues and jazz. Tonight, disc jockey Daddy-o Daily is pleading for restraint. Before each song, he begs his listeners to ‘stop the violence’ and to honor Dr. King’s memory by keeping the peace. Judging by what we see from our roof top, it’s not a request that’ll be honored any time soon. A song by Ramsey Lewis is played next. It’s soft and peaceful, in complete counterpoint to what’s happening around us. The music soothes and scares me. It reminds me of Nero fiddling while Rome burned. There are a hundred questions in my head, but only fear instead of answers. Will this madness end? What will happen to our homes, our lives, our futures? Will we be saved, and if so, how will we ever recover from this? Already, whole blocks of buildings have been destroyed. Like angry red welts, the embers fade slowly, leaving a charred aftermath. More than the ravaged buildings, I wonder about our ravaged lives. About the people we once called neighbors and friends who have been taken from us, pulled to the other side of a line none of us determined, that now separates us. Can we still be friends or only opponents? Who decides when neighbors become ‘oppressors’, when skin color erases our history as friends? And why should events dictate the nature of our relationships instead of what’s in our hearts? All questions that have no answers. Our adolescent privilege--the luxury of lofty ideals and dreamy fantasies--has been snatched away by a generation rising up angry against the tides of these times. What should be carefree teen-aged years has been seared by the fires of social upheaval, obliterated by the confusion of protests, political manifestoes, and an ugly war. Mostly, we’re scared, and tired of waiting for changes that are a long time coming. In 1968, the hippies are flower-powered, preaching love and peace; the Black community is rioting and burning, shouting ‘revolution,’ and the Viet Nam war rages on. In these divisive times where friendships are unraveled by race or political belief, the only constant is our music. It speaks across cultures, conveys every emotion, replaces images of violence with dreams of a better life. Up on the rooftop we take a last look, then file back to our respective homes. The smoke tears our eyes and clogs our throats as much as the sight of our neighborhood under siege. Right now I want nothing more than the sanctuary of my bed, with my own transistor radio tucked under my pillow. The music will be soft and low, more hopeful than any of us dare to be on this dreadful night. And when those first chords begin, I’ll squeeze my eyes tighter, ignoring the tears and that knot of fear in my stomach. The music will make me remember hope and dreams...and having faith. Believing, against all odds, that the violence outside will run its course, that somehow, someday, we’ll manage to heal...and that the music is forever. |
© 1968 and 2002 by
Gina Gallo. The Gina Gallo caricature is © 2001 by Jim Hummel.
The illustrations are from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895
Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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