stalin and me
NOBBY'S TALE
Yes, I know I'm a windbag - I've always loved a good natter, even as a nipper. Everyone talked a lot back then, especially in London. It was the only way to shut the others up.
I was born in 1877, which was a very special year. Fay's grandmother Frieda Jepson was born then, as it happens. She was a fine pianist and lived to a ripe old age, but not nearly as ripe as mine.
It was the year of the first Ashes test match, the first FA Cup Final, the first Wimbledon Final, and the first and only dead heat in the Varsity Boat Race. The year of the first gramophone, the first telephone, and the first talking horse.
Nick lived in London most of his life, and speaks the lingo to a certain extent. But I asked him the other day 'why the long boat?', and he started banging on about Vikings. 'No, mate' I said, 'not Vikings, you, why the long face?'. He came straight back with "You can talk, Nobby - have you looked in a mirror recently?' He is quick, I'll give him that.
That stung, actually, got me where it hurts, because he's right about one thing. I don't like looking in the mirror, and it's because I don't like long faces. That's why I never had any horse friends, I suppose, and graviated towards humans. Well, unless they had long, horsey faces, then I never liked them much, either. I prefer the round ones, like Nick's. Sonny Rollins was an exception, and I liked him despite the long boat. Great player, of course, so that helped, and a really lovely guy - maybe that's why I never really saw him as a horse.
Nick tried to correct me. 'It's gravitate, Nobby". "Not where I come from, mate', I told him. 'It's not particles and magnets, it's a viscous flow of attraction. Like gravy. Anyway, you can talk about gravitate, you with your big moon face..." .
I hated pairs harness at work - much preferred pulling the dray on my own, so I didn't have another ugly mush polluting my perimeters. So I had to get superstrong, superquick. Which is ultimately why in 1899 I ended up on the Nomadic, a cargo steamship bound for America, where they were paying big bucks for big strong bucks.
Sod's Law, to get there I had to walk to Liverpool in a humungous herd of shire horses, and then jump into a dark hold with them all for twelve weeks of filthy Atlantic weather. You can imagine how much I liked that. Talking of Liverpool, just a few weeks later and I could have ended up in the Kop. Not the football ground - I'm talking about Spion Kop, in South Africa, where thousands died in the Boer War. There were human casualties too.
I did meet Freud, once, exactly ten years later. I'd been drafted up to Boston by the brewery, to help with the drink supplies for the opening of the Opera House. La Gioconda, if I remember. Not quite Marie Lloyd at the Eagle Tavern, but some cracking tunes in there. If you don't mind waiting.
I got chatting to him in the interval. Another long face. Off-putting. His mate Carl Jung looked more like my kinda guy, but was asleep on his feet. 'Yes, he's back in his dream world now', said Sisigmund. 'He's missed the tune again. Rather familiar silence than stranger chatter, though, wouldn't you agree?'. I couldn't speak. 'I thought so'. he said. 'Have you considered the infantile roots of your hatred of those who resemble you?'. The interval bell sounded and before I could find a reply Schlomo was steering the sleepwalker back into the body of song.
Years later, at the Titans Of The Tenor gig at the Lincoln Center in February 1966, I bumped into Jacques Lacan, and it all started to make more sense. I wasn't working that night - just hanging out with Sonny Rollins and the guys - Coltrane, Bean, Zoot, Dave Lambert, all with their amazing bands. Jacques upset lots of people with his radical take on Freudian orthodoxy, but I always thought he was cool. He spoke to me at length that night, and I could see he understood the mirror thing. Albert Ayler blew my mind.
Back to New Orleans. That's where it all began. I'm a big city boy, though my Dad was originally from the sticks. His Grandad was from Ashby De La Zouch, in the Midlands - they called him the Packington Blind Horse, and he was the foundation stallion. That's right - he was the daddy of us all. And I'm proud of that. But no way did I want to end up in a cornfield in Iowa. Fortunately, miraculously, I landed on my hooves in a funky little New Orleans wine shop. That's where I first heard what they later called Jazz.
Pops Foster was my man.
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