Photo: Left to right, Tommy Flanigan, piano; Gloria Morgan, vocals; Jimmie ‘JZ’ Zitano, drums; Keeter Betts, bass.
Marching to the beat of two different drummers!
Jimmie Zitano aka JZ
Of course, JZ was the charismatic drummer at Sailors where my bandmates and I had frequented on Sundays. He and I finally became good friends, but we got off to a rocky start.
For weeks I’d been trying in vain to introduce myself to the master, but hadn’t mustered up the courage. One Sunday on break, I was in the men’ s room at the urinal when JZ walked in and parked himself next to me. (A urinating god!) In a few minutes we were washing our hands. I thought to myself: “Now’s my chance.”
“Hey, JZ, I’m Dave Duncan. I’m a big fan.” JZ paid no attention. I made an attempt at small talk: “Man, I’m so glad that jazz is back.” JZ looked over at me and growled, “Kid. It never went anywhere.” He turned and walked away, leaving me to stew in my foolishness.
A few weeks later I invited him to Gertie’s to see the band. He was the house drummer for the Jerry Gray Orchestra at the Venetian Room in the Fairmont Hotel in downtown Dallas. Sure enough, late one night after his gig, JZ ventured into Gertie’s and knocked on the dressing room door. From that moment on we became friends. But I’m afraid he appreciated all the pretty ladies more than the band, and my “mediocre drumming.”
As it turned out, he lived in an apartment over a garage, only five blocks from our duplex. He spent his days in pajamas. It was a magical place to visit, full of records and mementos, and his gigantic calico cat. He took me under his wing as a sort of father figure. JZ had played the Jazz Work Shop in Boston for 7 years, with Al Hurt for 5 years, and played with the likes of Miles Davis and Billie Holiday. And, boy, did he have some stories!
Here’s a sample of JZ’s drumming:
One day we had a man-to-man. He said, “Pigfart (my nickname), your use of drugs and booze is outta control, you need a change of scenery.” He suggested that I enroll at Richland College under the GI Bill and study music…. so I did.
Paul Guerrero
Paul, 44, who I’d met at B&S Percussion Center, was now teaching music and theory at Richland College. I had a meeting with him and the next thing I knew, I was signed up for the upcoming fall semester. I’d be under his tutelage and a member of the percussion ensemble. I had recently purchased a set of vibes and would be taking lessons from an ‘accomplished vibraphonist.’ (No one ever called me that… and for good reason.)
Paul Guerrero had a resumé a mile long. He had played with Vic Damone, Woody Herman, Henry Mancini, Stan Kenton, The Fifth Dimension and was the first jazz drummer to play with the Dallas Symphony Orchestra. He was also in the first One O’clock Lab Band at North Texas State, one of the premier jazz schools in America. Even with all his bragging rights, Paul was one of the most humble guys I ever met. And funny as hell, too!
Comparing JZ with Paul was like comparing apples and oranges. Paul was more like Joe Morello; JZ was like Art Blakey. Between the two of them, I had it covered. I was one lucky SOB! The two of them taught me a lot about technique, but ‘taste’ can’t be taught. I had to learn that lesson on my own, and it took a long, long time.
When I was a boy, Dixieland and Swing echoed throughout the house. And once a year we’d vacation at Chautauqua, NY. There, Spike and Mom introduced us to live symphonic music and jazz. I told Paul that I’d seen Woody Herman & the Herd in 1960. I was 9-years-old. He chimed in: “Oh I remember Chautauqua fondly. Yeah… that was me on drums, alright!”
Paul Guerrero’s percussion ensemble played concerts at El Centro College, Eastfield College and Baylor University. The whole experience was educational, and really fun.
Here’s a sample of Paul’s drumming:
One time Paul was asked to do a big recording session at Autumn Sound but was too busy, so he gave it to me. (Holy crap!) I played mallets, percussion and timpani, and survived… barely. (Man, I had to learn how to say no!)
“Experience is something you don’t get until just after you need it.”
– Steven Wright
In September 1975, our son, Tait, underwent emergency renal surgery at Parkland Hospital. His kidneys were failing. The operation was a success, but he had lost two-thirds of his kidney capacity. He had his second birthday in the hospital.
And then a tech got me aside and told me that they had done some tests on Tait and suspected that he was autistic. The word autism was not yet in the vernacular. I told my friend Laurie that Tait was autistic. She said, “I’m not surprised. He gets it from you. You’re very artistic.” I laughed, but inside I was weeping.
Overnight, Jayebird and I had matured into an invincible team. Together we would tackle all of the trials and tribulations ahead of us. We had to. Between the kidneys and the autism, our little boy needed us to be strong… for the rest of his life.
Meanwhile. Back at the ranch. It was 1976 – a year full of challenges, and opportunities. I was enjoying Richland College, but the only reason I was there was for the music.
I thoroughly enjoyed Music Appreciation. Some of the fantastic operas from Puccini, Verdi, Rossini and thundering Richard Wagner, were played on an expensive stereo system. The tremendous sounds through those huge speakers would penetrate your very soul. We would read the libretto, translated into English, while listening to the passionate voices sung over the brilliant melodies. And, Lord Almighty, those heartbreaking arias!
Sometimes I’d come out of that class in tears, my evil mistress had turned me into a blubbering mess. And then I’d gather myself up and head over to my goddam English class. It was supposed to be a prerequisite; it felt more like Dante’s Inferno. Hardly a divine comedy – more like a travesty. (Perhaps academia wasn’t for me?)
“I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.”
– Mark Twain
One afternoon at the student lounge I was relaxing when Alan Heckle’s sister sauntered up to me and said hello. I couldn’t remember her name to save my life, so I simply called her, darlin.’
Soon Dale McFarland’s guitar player joined us, and I couldn’t remember his name either. We chatted a bit and then he excused himself to get a soft drink. I looked at Alan’s sister and said, “I’m so sorry. I would have introduced y’all, but I can’t think of his name to save my life.” She replied, “Don’t worry about it, Dave. That happens to me all the time.” She said goodbye, and went on her merry way.
Then Dale’s bandmate finally rejoined me. I said, “I’m so sorry. I would have introduced y’all, but I can’t remember her name to save my life.” He smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it, Dave. That happens to me all the time.” He said goodbye and went on his merry way. I smiled to myself and headed to my psychology class to try and figure out why the hell I am the way I am.
Paul and I often had lunch together. We had a lot of weird, but funny conversations. For instance, he told me about his doctor using a new vibrating device that could induce a semen specimen in under ten seconds. He laughed and said he asked the doctor if he could borrow the device. Wow!’
Paul’s Jazz band, WGM, played a concert at the school. After the show he asked me to join his singer, Jeanie Maxwell, and him for lunch. I told him I’d love to… if he promised not to tell the story of the infamous “semen device.”
Another time, vibes player Terry Gibbs and his band did a clinic at Richland. Afterwords we had a hilarious lunch, with Terry’s famous drummer, Frankie Capp, keeping us in stitches.
One of the best things Paul Guerrero ever did for me was to introduce me to Michael J. Martin.
Earlier that day, Michael had presented one of his college songwriting seminars, and now Paul and he were having a good laugh together in Paul’s office. I walked in and joined the hilarity; and from that chance encounter, Michael and I became friends for life. He asked me if I’d do a gig with him in Arlington on the weekend. I said yes. (It was in the stars.)
Soon, “Handsome Al” Heckle and Ron Mason and I started recording Michael’s songs for Screen Gem Music publishing. One thing for certain, MJ was bigger than life. He had won the Silver Star in Nam and was absolutely fearless. I always considered him my older brother. (You will read much more about Michael Martin further on in the series.)
A lot was happening in 1976. I was busy as a one-armed wallpaper hanger. What with going to school, doing one-niters, recording, working part time at Half-Price Books as a carpenter, and taking care of our son, I basically never slept. (Hmmm, wonder why?) And then we moved into our new home on Goliad Avenue, a block closer to JZ, where we started renovations.
Somewhere in that time period, we were contacted by a singer/songwriter named Curtis Hall who wished to record an album. He seemed to be all hat and no cattle, but the boy had some money… and connections (whatever that meant). He hired me and the usual suspects: Ron Mason; a new bass player, Joe Velasquez; Maurice Anderson on steel guitar; and Handsome Al. (Even the devil was handsome when he was young.)
This was the first full album that I had recorded. We rehearsed and arranged Curtis’s tunes and headed to Autumn Sound studios. Old pro, Phil York – a delight to work with – was the engineer and virtual producer. Autumn was a dreamland for musicians and boasted a $90,000 Bösendorfer concert piano and a massive, honest-to-goodness echo chamber. The ample drum booth contained the house drums that drummer extraordinaire, John Bryant, had used with Ray Charles. (It all sounded SO good in the cans!)
The music was – for lack of a better term – western swing. Having a famous steel player like Maurice Anderson was a definite plus. And, man, could he play! All in all, we did a good job on the album and Curtis was pleased.
Meanwhile, back at our new house, Tait was amazing Jayebird and me with his unusual idiosyncrasies. His autism was revealing itself in very strange ways. At times, he was even speaking in his own little language. And then one morning, he started talking about somebody named Sam. He kept repeating: “Sam’s coming!” We had no idea who he was talking about. Then, in the early afternoon, there was a knock at the front door. I opened the door, and to my astonishment, stood Onion Man Sam! He was an annoying drummer I had met at the old King’s Lounge, a pathetic guy desperately in need of a hot shower.
You guessed it: Tait was clairvoyant! Had he called the guy Onion Man Sam, instead of simply, Sam, I would’ve never answered the damn door…
DC has been a frustrated musician for over fifty years, and now has decided to become a frustrated writer. Learn more at DCDuncan.com. He’ll keep you posted.