KIRPAL GORDON: I
had a peek at the memoir you are writing on your life in music. On Independence
Day during this national moment of Black Lives Mattering, would you share some
of your experiences coming up in Chicago?
WARREN SMITH: At
the time of my birth (5/14/1934), Black people lived south of 12th Street.
Chicago was fast, hip, intense---whatever was in style at the time. There was
music, dance, theater, opera, night clubs, blues joints, jam sessions.
Prohibition had just been rescinded, and now marijuana was illegal. I remember
my father, a musician, putting on his tuxedo and tying his bow tie to go to
work at the establishment whatever it was (sometimes the establishment was run
by gangsters like Al Capone). Here it was right after the Depression, and
everyone dressed up formally to go to work. It never occurred to me at that
time to ask, who covered the costs of all that production?
We
lived south of the Loop between 12th Street and 31st Street
next to the Lakefront. The real estate phenomena that continually occurred when
Black residents moved across that line resulted in their getting harassed
and/or vandalized initially. Then there would be a “White Flight” as the Caucasian
residents moved further south to avoid integrating with Black folks. The family
rumor has it that our Uncle Steele and Uncle Lloyd had bought a house on 37th
Street and Ellis Avenue, in which several of our families were living along
with our paternal grandfather, James Madison Smith. Someone set off a bomb in
front of the house and blew out most of the windows. My younger brother Frank
and I were untouched, but there was glass embedded in the wall above our crib.
Our grandfather died not long after, certainly not helped by the experience.
Other cousins and friends had similar experiences as we gradually expanded
further south, but eventually the violence stopped, at least the physical
violence. Until I left for New York in 1957, not much had changed. But things
are quite different now for our next generation of cousins, at least
geographically, as far as I know. I don’t live there anymore; I’m going on
hearsay.
The
important point I want to make is that this segregated segment of Chicago
society felt completely empowered and pretty much self-sufficient. We had our
own school system with Black superintendents, principals and associate
principals. For context, let me add that I started teaching in “integrated” New
York City in 1958. They got their first Black principal in 1966.
We
had our own Musicians Union, with its own Credit Union. The first building it
owned was on State Street at 40th Street. When urban renewal caused
that whole neighborhood to be raised, the Union bought another on Cottage Grove
and 61st Street. And they owned an apartment on Drexel Blvd in Hyde
Park which afforded many of its members an affordable home during trying times.
Many of these resources were lost to us when the AF of M integrated Local 208
with the White Union Local 10 becoming the present Local 10-208. Chicago’s South
Side, however, has retained its power as a thriving black community. And it was
so much that way during my youth that I almost never ventured outside of it
except to go to school. I joined the Musicians Union at the age of 14 and got
my driver’s license as well. I didn’t realize there was a Local 10 until I was
21. I was playing music in church, in social affairs, in parades and summer
concert bands.
KIRPAL GORDON: You also lived in
Maywood? How did that move come about?
WARREN SMITH: Moms
did not like the environment around A.O. Sexton Grade School, so in my second
year my brother Frank and I transferred to Washington Grade School in the
mostly Black school in District 89, Maywood, Illinois, where my maternal grandparents
lived, some twenty miles due west of the Loop. Chicago’s South Side was
completely urban and paved with asphalt, but Maywood had cobblestone streets. We lived in a big two-story house with a basement,
large side yard and a back yard that featured a vegetable garden cultivated
mostly by my father, produce we ate daily. There were cherry trees, a rhubarb bush,
currants and my grandfather’s herb garden with mint and other medicinal plants.
We had a well from which we drew water daily and a rain barrel for utilitarian
purposes. We raised chickens.
Maywood
was just west of Oak Park/River Forest, a rather affluent area with many Frank
Lloyd Wright Prairie houses in the residential neighborhoods. Maywood went from
1st Avenue in the east to 26th Avenue in the west and
from St. Charles Road on the north to Madison Avenue on the south. All the Black
people in the town lived between 10th and 14th Avenues. One wealthy
businessman owned a nice home on the corner of 15th and Oak Street. The
renowned scientist Dr. Percy Julian lived on the corner of 14th and
Oak. A few years later Dr. Julian had the temerity to move to Oak Park itself,
and of course his house got bombed in true Chicago style.
Now
here’s where fate gets tricky. During the Second World War the common thread of
thought was that Black men weren’t courageous enough to go into serious battle
with the “enemy.” So all the Black soldiers from Maywood were sent out as
orderlies, cooks and other non-combat duties. A battalion of soldiers
containing all the White enlistees from Maywood was sent to the Pacific where
they were wiped out by Japanese forces in the battle of Bataan. There was a
Hollywood movie, starring John Wayne, made years later by that name. All the Black
soldiers came back from the war and the town turned BLACK within that
generation.
When
we started school in Maywood, during the first week we had to fight our way
back to our grandparents’ house every day after school, until the neighborhood
kids got to know we were “Mr. Derrick’s grandkids.” Then we began to make
friends that lasted for a lifetime. And we had lots of cousins from my mother’s
side of the family. We all went through grade school together and high school
as well. Most of our parents also had attended the same school before us.
KIRPAL GORDON: Would you take a chorus on your family’s “pilgrimages” to North Carolina?
WARREN SMITH: Yes, but first here's the background: My
mother had an older sister and a younger brother; my father had ten siblings. I
never saw them all, but the ones present in my life were very influential. All
my role models were organically related to me. I grew up with my younger
brother and more than a dozen first, second or third cousins. They were all
like brothers and sisters. We lived together, often ate together, slept
together and frequently traveled together from Chicago to North Carolina to
visit the Smith family homestead. I guess that was James Madison Smiths’ 40
Acres, and there was a mule involved also. In North Carolina we also raised pigs
and grew peanuts. We could walk down the red dirt road in the morning and pick
wild berries and fruit from the trees and bushes for our breakfast. Sometimes
my brother, my cousin Ethan and I would bring back enough blue berries for our
aunts to make a couple of pies. We’d go fishing and cook outside in a big kettle
over an open fire. Both sides of the family preserved canned fruit and
vegetables for the winter. We made wine from fruit or even dandelion flowers! We
cooked the dandelion leaves as greens or used them in salads. Very little was
wasted in those days.
The
trips to North Carolina took several days. We would leave Chicago with enough
food to last us until we got to Washington D.C. In the 1930s and 40s we didn’t
know where we might or might not get served or abused so we drove straight through
to where we knew it was safe. In D.C. we had relatives. We’d spend the night,
re-supply our food bank and drive the last five or six hours to the homestead.
After a week or two we would all pile back into the two or three car caravan
and travel back to Chicago the same way. We did this annually until our grandmother
died at 103. Now we occasionally return for periodic reunions or meet at some
other hosting location every few years. Somehow the tradition is still intact.
KIRPAL GORDON: You were born into
quite a musical family. What was that like?
WARREN SMITH: My
dad played saxophone and clarinet; my mother played piano and harp. Literally
every one of our aunts and uncles were musicians and were always preparing to
perform somewhere. Often even as infants we went along with them, to drop them
off or pick them up and sometimes even allowed to come inside and see what was
going on. This was live theater with full orchestras, dancers, singers and
stage lighting. You can’t imagine how early this captured my imagination. I had
decided to be a professional musician by the time I was three!
One
of the most exciting times was when one of the bands was getting ready to go on
the road. Maybe they had a three-week engagement in Detroit or six weeks in
Buffalo. The morning of their departure, women would be cooking and preparing
bags of food. There would be three or four cars lined up at the curb, all being
cleaned and simonized, the white walled tires painted with white wash, a
water-based paint. Then the musicians would appear, each one dressed stylishly
and sharper than the last. Finally, after all the loved ones got their hugs and
kisses and the food bags were distributed in all the cars, the motors would
start up and they’d be off to cheers from the crowd. Boy, how the young kids
longed to go with them. We couldn’t wait for them to come home and tell all the
funny stories and strange adventures they had experienced.
Every
once in a while, one of our special talents would get the opportunity to go to
New York City, Harlem. Almost all the aspiring musicians from Chicago wanted to
follow the footsteps of their musical idols to the Big Apple. As Black kids
our idols were entertainers, the few professional athletes who managed to break
through like Jack Johnson Joe Lewis or “Sugar Ray” Robinson, and the doctors, lawyers,
and educators from our neighborhoods. Our families probably had a lot more
power and influence over their lives than we do now. We certainly didn’t have
as much then, but it wasn’t necessary either.
I
started trying to play my Dad’s saxophone at around four. In a couple of years I
could play what I could think of (not much) by ear. Being precocious, actually
arrogant, I thought I knew more than I actually did. I began to tinker around
with the piano, by ear. My mother and no fewer than three aunts had degrees in piano
and organ, but I never thought to consult them at all. I just did it by ear and my
folks were wise enough to let me find my own way. Then one day at about six I
went into a ballroom called the “Rum Boogie” with my mother and brother to pick
up my dad from his gig. The ballroom was on the second floor. When we entered,
I immediately saw in the corner of the stage a scene that changed my life.
There was the drummer and he had a set of flashing lights inside his bass drum!
I immediately decided to become a drummer right then.
Times were quite different then. I
remember that there was a place called “Bacon’s Casino” on Wabash Avenue. It
was a Quonset hut structure, that is, a long tent with a curved roof and flat
sides. On many Sundays they would have jam sessions at this place in the
afternoons after church and the kids could come and hear the music. Naturally
the Smith clan was usually in full attendance. We heard all the cats that were
in town at the time or passing through. Roy Eldridge or Coleman Hawkins or
whoever, they would make that session on Sundays and we would be there
listening.
My
first gigs as a drummer were at the Elks social club, with my father. Actually,
my very first gig also included a young baritone player named Laurdine Patrick.
Everyone called him Pat. He went on to play many years with Sun Ra, touring and
traveling across the world. Pat was also on the faculty of SUNY Old Westbury
for many years. His son Deval Patrick is the former governor of Massachusetts.
I continued drumming during my teen years and playing in the marching
and concert bands in high hchool. After my freshman year I stopped taking
weekly lessons from my most significant teacher, Oliver S. Coleman, because of
the commute to Maywood, an expanding social life, athletics (I started running
distances around 8th grade) and just being a teenager; I grew away
from music for probably the only time in my life. I still played in the school
bands and did gigs with my father and cousins, but I stopped taking lessons. I
also developed a greater interest in architecture, through my friend Joe Black, one of my high school teachers at Proviso, and my dad making me aware of
Frank Lloyd Wright and the Bauhaus gang with their glass and steel buildings in
Chicago. One of the things that kept me connected with music was the
opportunity to perform with Capt. Walter Henry Dyett and his summer concert
band. in Washington Park. I would go to DuSable High School every year
to see the legendary “High Jinks” show the students put on with live music. My
older cousin Eddie played in the sax section with Johnny Griffin, who was also
a student of my father.
I
mustn’t forget to mention the constant reinforcement I received within my
social environment. When we had a social occasion, there was never a question
about who would entertain us. We provided our own music for all occasions
almost spontaneously. My maternal grandmother’s genesis came about as the
result of my African great-grandmother, Nora Sellers, being raped by a white
Doctor of Music, Dr. Foxx, who fathered a famous baseball player, Jimmy Foxx.
However this worked, my grandmother had 11 children. All of them were
thoroughly educated in music. And this musical tradition has continued through another three generations and counting.
KIRPAL GORDON: You were exposed
to European classical music as well?
WARREN SMITH: From
my family and my studies in school. I managed to get into the District 89 School
Band, the only black musician in the band at that time. As a result of this
experience, I was immediately accepted into the Proviso Township High School Concert
Band. It proved a quantum leap in my exposure as the director, J. Irving
Talmadge, was a big fan of Richard Wagner. So I leaned about everything from
the “Ring of the Nebilungen” to “Taunhauser Overture.”
I
spent four years in the high school marching band (which I abhorred except for
the football games). Then at the University of Illinois I spent another four (out
of five) years marching with the ”Marching Illini.” The pattern was interrupted
in my fourth year when composer Harry Partch did a year’s residency. I quit the
band to play tympani in the university’s symphony orchestra. All my extra
non-class time was spent in Harry Partch’s ensemble. The previous summer I had
received a scholarship to Tanglewood, the summer camp of the Boston Symphony
Orchestra. I studied with retiring Roman Shultz and the incoming tympanist,
Everitt “Vic” Firth, as well as Harold Faberman, on snare drum techniques.
It
was on my summer in Tanglewood that I realized how strong my cultural
attachment was to my upbringing in Chicago’s South Side. I borrowed the car of
my friend and fellow Illini, Harold Jones, to go into Pittsfield and get a
haircut. As I drove, I turned on the radio of the car, and the first thing that
came out was the blues! I, in my early arrogance, had lost respect for the form
because I had not yet been exposed to its more intricate forms and variations. But
the power and familiarity of what I heard changed my opinion of the form
forever. I got so homesick I never forgot it. And the next time I got back to
Chicago I started hanging out at all the old blues clubs and learning a lot
more.
It’s
been that way for me ever since.
