THE JUKE PLACE

"Miss Mamie Ruth, did you know Marj'rie and her friends came down the Juke Place at the Hollows on Sad’day night?" my mother was asked by Essie May, who came to clean the house on a Monday morning.

Of course, Mamma knew. It was the first thing I'd told her when I got home that spring evening in 1939. It had been such an exciting adventure I wanted to share it immediately. However, at sixteen I also knew that in our small town black/white social lines were carefully drawn and that the visit was a bit unusual.

When I'd told Mamma of the wonderful music and visit to the dancehall , she hadn't seemed upset. Perhaps my father would have been had he been alive. But Mamma's only comment had been that the people there may have resented our uninvited presence.

I quickly assured her. “Why, Mamma, I recognized and spoke to several people, including Essie May." Silently, I recalled that though the greetings had been cordial, there was not the usual friendliness, and this had seemed puzzling. I'd also wondered why as the six of us white teenagers walked in, the dancers on the dimly lit floor drifted away and laughter ceased.

Now, here was Essie May telling Mamma, "Lord knows what people are saying ‘bout this. By now, it's all over town." My mother assured Essie ay that unless we young people had offended the Negro people by our presence, she saw no cause for worry over what people said. 

One of the influential roles black female domestic workers played in the South for generations, and still do to some degree, was that of exchanging and passing around information from household to household. Usually the stories got a bit embellished, as always when word-of-mouth tales are repeated but the kernel of the story was generally retained.

I felt badly if Mamma was right and the visit was considered an intrusion, but other than that I could not see why Essie May made such a fuss.  All we'd done was sit on a bench and listen to the musician and we hadn't stayed long.

"Essie May,” I asked as she began to clean the kitchen and Mam the room. “Why was our going to the Juke Place so wrong?’

"Because," Essie answered, continuing her scrubbing of the counter, “you all got your dance places and we got ours. You don’t see me going into your parties, do you, ‘les I'm servin' or somethin’. Besides, our church people don't go the Juke and I sure don't think your Mamma would either"

“Well, I still don't see anything wrong with it. The jazz was wonderful.” Still curious about the musicians, I asked, “How long did the band stay? Are they still in town?"

“Lord, no, they ain't still here." Essie May answered in exasperation "Where you think they gon’ stay? The only nice houses with extra rooms are the preachers and teachers, and they sure ain't gonna have jazz men.

I'd never thought about black people not having a hotel or place to stay overnight.

Essie May continued, “They all left in an old rickety bus about two in the mornin’. Goin’ to Alabama, I think."

Later in the day, my uncle, a highly respected judge, took me aside and gently but firmly suggested I not do this again. "You know, honey,’ he said “the sheriff is sometimes called out there on Saturday nights to end fights when spirits get higher as the evening wears on. I think you'd better not go again."

My newly realized sixteen-year-old independence was wounded. Quietly I walked away to sit under some pine trees and sort out all this. What had caused the visit to take place? I had to acknowledge that it was I who had suggested it and the others impulsively agreed.

When I was a child, one of the most wondrous objects in our house was a tall, hand-cranked Victrola. It was not kept in the living room. That would have been improper in a room where people were expected to talk, and in the South, conversation was a highly regarded social form. So,the Victrola was relegated to the sitting room, which also served as an occasional spare bedroom.

On this machine the family heard John Charles Thomas, Madame Schumann-Heink, and Paderewski. Then one day Cattie, who now served as cook as well as looking after my sister and me after school, brought into the house some thick, heavy records by Louis Armstrong and Clyde McCoy , playing "St. Louis Blues" and "Sugar Blues." Cattie didn't mind when I sat by the Victrola hour after hour, cranking it over and over and listening and memorizing all the words and absorbing all the sounds.

This early introduction to blues played with a jazzy beat was later followed by juke box recordings I heard of Fats Waller, the genius Art Tatum and the youthful, incomparable Ella Fitzgerald with Chick Webb. I was eager to hear real, live black jazz musicians.

Music was an important part of my life. I played first clarinet in the prize-winning high school band. The director also organized a dance band, where I attempted to play alto sax to straight scores of such forgettable hits as “Harbor Lights" and “The Dipsy Doodle." Terrible, corny, embarrassing, I thought, compared with the improvisations and talent of Negro musicians

On still summer nights in the late 1930s I could hear the fascinating sounds coming from the touring bands which occasionally played on Saturday nights at the Negro Juke Place just on the outskirts of town. In these touring bands I am sure were some of the unacknowledged jazz greats, who because of racial discrimination never received the recognition due them for their artistry.

Essie May's reporting put an end to any more visits to the Juke Place But on subsequent summer evenings from our porch, every time I'd catch an inspired trumpet in flight or an emotionally played tenor sax, I wished that I and other interested white people could be present to share in the feelings and freedom of this music.

"Don't the Moon Look Lonesome Shining Through the Trees,” played with joyous abandon, even though the words were blues words, moved me to get up, dance, jump from the porch and, fingers snapping, act as if I were actually present in a room full of hip people.