Dangerous Rhythms, page 27
Leonard Feather, the influential British-born jazz critic who wrote for Metronome, noted: “The Street’s reputation has been blackened by . . . its fringe of dope addicts, dope peddlers, pimps, prostitutes, and assorted characters.” DownBeat ran an article with the headline “The Street Just a Dead Alley Again.”
Some felt that it was mobster infiltration of the clubs that drove a dagger through the heart of the Street. Narcotics (marijuana and heroin), prostitution, gambling (bookies, numbers, and dice games), and graft turned the business side of things into a drag. Periodic raids and arrests put a damper on the good times. Wrote Arnold Shaw, “The hoods who came as customers and stayed as partners demonstrated the relevance of Gresham’s Law about bad money driving out good. Only it was vice, not money, that spread like an inkblot and eventually blotted out the greater profits that came at first.”
Behind these critiques and postmortems was the usual touch of WASP moralism. Drugs, sex, and jazz were linked and then cited as the reason for the Street’s decline, when, in truth, those were the very elements that had established the scene as edgy and exciting. A far more relevant death knell for the Street was its attractiveness to real estate interests. It had always seemed anachronistic that 52nd Street existed as it did in the first place. Located in Midtown Manhattan not far from Times Square, the Street could not survive the postwar development boom. Starting with Rockefeller Center, the twenty-two-acre complex on West 51st that opened in 1939, the area was hit with the real estate equivalent of the Blitz. One by one, the old tenements that housed the clubs were demolished, to be replaced by massive concrete and later glass office towers. In a few short years, not only were the clubs obliterated and one of the most vibrant jazz scenes gone, but there was little trace that it had ever existed in the first place.
A host of mobsters may have sunk their fangs into the Street and sucked it dry, but they were no match for the Rockefellers and other developers. They altered the physical landscape in a way that made it seem as though the Street had been nothing more than a figment of the imagination.
Even so, jazz was not dead. The Street had fostered and nourished the music in such a way that it could not be denied. A question remained: Was there any economic model by which musicians, business interests, and mobsters could still make beautiful music—and make money doing it?
In 1949, the same year 52nd Street ended as a viable jazz district, there opened in Times Square a club, just blocks from the Street, that would be considered an inheritor of the legacy. Located at 1678 Broadway, just north of 52nd Street, Birdland was named after Charlie Parker, the guiding light of modern jazz. The proprietor—or at least one of the proprietors—of Birdland was Morris “Mo” Levy. Another was Joseph “Joey the Wop” Cataldo, whom the FBI knew to be a member of the Genovese crime family and a heroin dealer.
Cataldo put up the money that made the club possible, but Mo Levy and his older brother, Irving, would be the day-to-day managers of the place. In defiance of the belief that jazz clubs were on the way out and no longer profitable, Birdland thrived. For the next sixteen years Birdland hosted perhaps the greatest array of jazz artists and styles to ever be showcased by one club, and, at least for a time, made a profit while doing so. In contrast to most of the clubs on 52nd Street, Birdland was an interracial establishment where not only Black musicians predominated but Black clientele were also welcome. This would contribute to Birdland’s eventual stature as one of the most cutting-edge entertainment venues in the city, where celebrities like Marlon Brando, Ava Gardner, Sugar Ray Robinson, Jack Kerouac, Norman Mailer, and Igor Stravinsky went to be seen.
Birdland was also perhaps the most mobbed-up club in history, with an owner—Mo Levy—who set the standard in thuggish business practices that blurred the line between gangster and businessman.
Born August 27, 1927, Levy would never know his father, who died of pneumonia when he was one year old. He and his brother Irving were left with a mother who suffered from various ailments, including lockjaw, which necessitated the removal of her front teeth so that she could eat. The mother had a hard time holding down steady work, and the boys were left to fend for themselves. Morris, in particular, became a difficult student. In the 1930s, in junior high school, he was once made to stay after class by a female teacher who called him a troublemaker. According to Levy, “I got up—I was a big kid—took her wig off her head, poured an inkwell on her bald head, and put her wig back on her fucking head. Walked out of the school and said, ‘Fuck school.’ Never really went back to school after that. I was sentenced to eight years in reform school by the children’s court.”
Levy never showed up for reform school. Instead, he ran off to Florida and landed his first job in a nightclub as a hat-check boy.
Hat-and coat-check concessions were among the myriad of ways that the mob profiteered off night clubs. Holding a person’s hat or coat for a small gratuity was a surprisingly lucrative racket. Various mob factions engaged in bidding wars for control of these concessions in nightclubs all over the United States. A young kid like Levy could do well for himself and also establish working relationships with some nefarious characters. “When I was fourteen or fifteen I worked for people that were in the mob because they were the people that owned the clubs. They liked me because I was smart, I was hard working, and I was a tough kid.” Working in the clubs, Levy learned about life. “In those days, even the judges and politicians would kiss [the mobster’s] ass . . . They’d want to be seen with these guys. If you wanted to be somebody, you came in contact with them.”
Returning to New York City in his late teens, Levy was already a nightclub veteran. He advanced up the ladder to working as a darkroom boy. At the time, an additional sideline business at the clubs were the camera girls who would take flash photos. The photos were developed right there in a small darkroom on the premises. Levy’s darkroom skills were such that he could have the photo ready in fifteen minutes.
He was a big kid, over six feet tall by the time he was nineteen. Though he was Jewish (his nickname at the clubs was Moishe, the Yiddish version of his name), he carried himself like an Italian mafioso. His gravelly voice was more mobster than the mobsters. His speaking style was punctuated with profanities and tough-guy jargon right out of Damon Runyon. Between his budding knowledge of the ins and outs of nightclub operations, and his cultivation of underworld figures who admired his chutzpah, it didn’t take long for Levy to emerge as an owner.
The mob backed the opening of his first club, the Royal Roost, located on Broadway at 47th Street. The club focused on bebop; Dexter Gordon, Charlie Parker, and Miles Davis all played there in the opening week. The Roost pioneered the concept of a double bill, two major acts performing back-to-back on the same night. And also, in order to establish a strong following among a young clientele, the club set up a bleacher area for those who were not old enough to drink. The admission charge was the same, but you could forgo the two-drink minimum. For a few bucks, you could take in the best live music in town.
Within the first eighteen months of operation, the Royal Roost was so successful that Levy and his partners went looking for a larger space, which they found a few blocks north. With Charlie “Bird” Parker established as a living legend, they named the new place after him.
On December 15, 1949, the night Birdland opened, Levy was twenty-two years old. Unlike the Royal Roost, his new club was not an immediate success. With a seating capacity around five hundred, it was bigger, with higher rent and a much larger overhead. Thus, Levy kept his day job: He ran a bookie operation out of an office at the club—that is, until he was arrested in May 1950. Levy was found to have in his possession “a sheet of paper bearing the names of horses, amounts wagered, and the identity of players.” Levy was given the option of thirty days in jail or paying a $250 fine. He paid the fine and returned to the club.
Birdland’s awning and stylish neon signage claimed that the place was “The Jazz Corner of the World.” Down a flight of stairs, sans windows, the club held the promise of an intense musical experience. Like the Royal Roost, Birdland provided a separate area (the “bleachers”) for nondrinkers. There were booths along the walls and seats up front for serious listeners. The room was cozy though not unduly cramped. It was, in many ways, the perfect jazz club.
The shows were hosted by Pee Wee Marquette, a three-foot-nine-inch tall African American who usually dressed in a tailor-made tuxedo. Marquette spoke in a high-pitched voice with a slight southern accent (he’d been born in Montgomery, Alabama). His style was sometimes comically florid, with an exaggerated sense of theater that added a carnivalesque element of levity to what were often serious displays of modern jazz. Birdland was a club for aficionados.
Shows at the club were broadcast nightly by Symphony Sid, a popular deejay who maintained a small booth in the back of the club, from which he interviewed musicians between and after sets. Many seminal live recordings were made at Birdland over the years, by a Who’s Who of 1950s jazz artists including Charlie Parker, Art Blakey, George Shearing, Stan Getz, Lester Young, Sarah Vaughan, Lennie Tristano, Count Basie, and John Coltrane.
A booth to the right of the stage was where the mobsters normally sat. This contingent included not only Joey the Wop, who was a silent partner, but members of the Bronx-based Genovese crime family, who would become integral partners in Mo Levy’s business ventures. They included, at times, Vito Genovese, the boss of the family, and Dominic Ciaffone, an underboss and co-financier of Birdland. The presence of prominent mafiosi brought undercover FBI agents and investigators, making the club feel, at times, like a crossroads of the underworld.
Roulette Records
To some, Mo Levy was a glorified hood; to others, he was a jazz visionary. An argument could be made on both accounts. There emerged in the 1950s what would become an ongoing discussion about what constituted serious jazz. Was the music intended to be frivolous, toe-tapping entertainment, or was it a serious art form? Birdland offered mostly the latter. Levy understood that true jazz fans were drawn to authenticity, not trends and fashions. From a business perspective, steady money was to be made by appealing to hardcore aficionados.
It was a booking philosophy that paid off for Levy. As a brand, Birdland became identified with progressive, adventurous jazz. Levy was able to take certain acts on the road and, under the Birdland banner, put on shows in large theaters and showrooms. With four or five acts on the bill, all under the rubric “Jazz Stars of Birdland,” these shows were, throughout the early and mid-1950s, highly profitable for Levy. Many of these shows were broadcast live on the radio and recorded as albums. Levy copyrighted the Birdland name so that, unlike in the past when various Cotton Clubs and Plantation Clubs sprang up around the country, Levy owned the rights to his club’s name. He opened a branch of Birdland in Miami in December 1953, insisting that the club be open to all, regardless of race. Wrote Jet magazine:
When Birdland opened its canopied doors on ultra-swank Miami Beach, Jim Crow went out the back door. Negro and white jazz fans sat side by side in mixed groups for the first time in Florida history . . . Such toppling of racial barriers in the South—along with enticing salaries—are encouraging previously reluctant Negro performers to accept more club engagements below the Mason-Dixon line.
The spreading of the Birdland name inspired Levy to expand his operations into virtually every aspect of the business, including recording, composing, publishing, concert production, promotion, and management. As Levy’s tentacles spread, he became more thuggish in his methods, more inclined to rip off an artist, to deny them their financial due and to cut corners. He founded a music-publishing company called Patricia Music. Having started his career running hat-check and photo concessions, Levy understood that there was money to be made out of nickels and dimes. Patricia Music became notorious for stealing revenue streams from clients that they didn’t even know existed.
The granddaddy of all Levy’s business ventures was Roulette Records, founded in 1957. In the ecosystem of the music business, a record label was the great white shark, with far more lucrative revenue potential than a nightclub. Roulette established Levy as a titan in the business and a gangster in disguise. Announcing to his Genovese family investors that “publishing is where the money is,” Levy made sure he received a songwriting credit on his artists’ records, whether he wrote the song or not (usually not). He denied his artists royalties, saying to them, “If you want royalties, go to England.” Up front, he warned his clients, “I might fuck you on a contract, but I always keep my word.”
The Roulette offices took up four floors of a building located at Broadway and 50th Street, two blocks from Birdland. A neon sign announced “Roulette Records—Home of the Stars.” Office employees, business partners, and visiting artists took note of the fact that Levy’s mafia partners were a regular and highly visible presence. Dominic Ciaffone, whose nickname was Swats Mulligan, officially owned 5 percent of Roulette Records. He also cooked pasta in the office’s kitchenette and served meals in Levy’s executive suite, where mafiosi routinely met to kibitz and make deals.
Bob Thiele, a jazz producer whom Levy hired to work at the label, found the atmosphere unnerving. He wrote:
A few minutes in the office corridors or reception area was all anyone needed to be aware that Roulette was a small subsidiary of a vast international mega conglomerate that never filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission, and whose board of directors and shareholders met in clam bars in Brooklyn, Las Vega, Naples, and Palermo . . . The miasmal hoodlum atmosphere at Roulette Records was so heavily oppressive that it was often difficult for me to concentrate on the musical matters that were my direct and only responsibilities . . . Every day I felt I was improbably and inescapably trapped in a grade B gangster epic.
Thiele was a pro who had worked at some of the most prestigious labels in the business. Though he recognized that Levy was, at minimum, a gangster wannabe, and possibly an actual made member of organized crime, he appreciated that he was mostly left alone to do good work. At Roulette, Thiele was able to accomplish something about which he had always dreamed, a collaboration between Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington, whom the producer considered to be the two greatest living practitioners of jazz. Under Thiele’s guidance, Roulette released two Armstrong-Ellington collaborations, Together for the First Time and The Great Reunion, believed by many to be among the most important jazz albums ever recorded.
That was Roulette Records in a nutshell: on the cusp of greatness, and down in the mud.
Business managers, agents, and artists who stopped by the company offices later told stories of beatings they had witnessed. Bud Katzel, a sales director at Roulette, recalled the time a record producer tried to collect on money that was owed him.
Bob Krassnow lived in San Francisco and had a local hit record he couldn’t seem to spread . . . Morris picked up the record and made it a hit single . . . Of course Bob never saw a dime and couldn’t get Morris on the phone. So he hopped on a plane to New York. Not knowing how “connected” Morris was, he stormed into the office and asked to see him. When told Morris was busy, Bob pushed his way past the secretary, walked right into his office, and said, “Morris, Bob Krassnow. Where’s my fucking money?” Morris went into his drawer, pulled out a .38, and said to Bob, “Look you motherfucker, I’ll give you five seconds to get out of my office or I’ll blow your fucking brains out all over the carpet. And furthermore, don’t ever let me see your face again.” With that, Bob walked out.
With methods like these, why would anyone want to do business with Morris Levy?
One answer was to be found in the thinking of Louis Armstrong and other jazz musicians, which had become the thinking of most anyone and everyone in the music business: If hoodlums dominated the business, why not have the biggest hoodlum of all at your side?
There were other reasons as well.
One of the musicians who signed with Roulette Records and quickly became part of Levy’s stable was Count Basie. In 1949, Basie had disbanded his orchestra. After the passing of 52nd Street, where he had maintained a semi-regular residency for years, Basie downsized to a group he called the Kansas City Seven. Billy Eckstine, the singer and bandleader, had said to Basie that conducting a small group was like playing miniature golf. Basie might have agreed, but he, like other big bandleaders, had succumbed to the financial realities of the business. There weren’t many clubs willing to book a fifteen-piece orchestra.
Enter Mo Levy.
The boss of Roulette Records understood that Basie was a one-of-a-kind entertainer. He was a preserver of the Kansas City sound—he could swing with the best of them—but he also had credibility with the beboppers. On top of all that, there were few performers more enjoyable to watch than Basie. He was a cool cat and an elegant hipster whose minimalist style on the piano was rendered with a sly joie de vivre. There was a reason that Sinatra and everyone else in the jazz universe wanted to collaborate with Basie: He was a joy to work with, listen to, and watch do his thing.
Levy suggested to Basie that he put his big band back together. The pianist was startled. Usually it was the club owners and businessmen who told him he needed to downsize, that they couldn’t afford to book his big band. Levy was suggesting the opposite. But by 1957, Levy had certain advantages that other record label owners did not. If Basie signed with him on Roulette, Levy could showcase his band at Birdland, arguably the most prestigious jazz club in the world. He could then guarantee the Basie band multiple recordings, including a live album recorded at the club and studio recordings that he could promote through his label.
