Elijah Coleman constantly found himself in a state of vigilance, anxious about securing his next performance opportunity, i.e., a gig. Weary from the constant hustle Elijah, a trumpeter of skill and professionalism, perceived this perpetual struggle as an unfair trial—a twist of fate that seemed unjust for someone of his caliber to face indefinitely.
For some, fortune smiled early, or, somehow, they managed to unravel the mystery by their thirties; but for others, the puzzle remained unsolved, forever. Unfortunately, this burden was one that Elijah could not discard. Throughout his journey as a musician, while mastering the art of jazz presented its own set of challenges, navigating the business consistently provided anguish and frustration.
The landscape of the music industry experienced a profound shift over the years. Prior to the digital revolution, the scene was markedly different, dominated by influential figures such as record company executives, booking agents, club owners, concert promoters, and radio station DJs. These individuals held the keys to a musician's career, determining who got recorded, received airplay, and toured globally.
Securing the appropriate agent or manager could reveal a path toward success, or at least to working regularly. In an industry obsessed with fame, top-tier talent agencies often sought to sign the most lucrative artists, regardless of their actual talent, artistic merit, or musical quality. The priorities of those in charge of representation, as well as the marketing and distribution of music, were solely financially motivated; ethical considerations took a backseat if the profit potential was high enough. Hence the employment of wife beaters . Welcome to capitalism.
In the jazz scene, often regarded as a less prominent sector of the entertainment industry, basically the back of the bus, the financial incentives were so minimal that major agencies, record labels, and booking agents showed little interest in this quintessentially American art form. Consequently, the circle of agents, managers, and record company executives who did focus on jazz were frequently seen as egomaniacal self-serving opportunists, considered to be among the lower ranks of the entertainment world.
Now, even that was gone.
Certain musicians relied on their wives or girlfriends to manage their affairs. These dedicated partners would handle tasks like booking gigs, organizing tours, securing record deals (back when record companies were prevalent), potentially garnering airplay, and even establishing fan clubs. That’s one of the reasons Sonny Rollins, Jackie McLean and Tommy Flanagan were able to be successful jazz artists; their wives took care of their business, and they could focus solely on practicing and performing.
The advent of websites followed by the emergence of social media transformed the landscape into an even more challenging arena for artists. This new reality cast artists of various skill levels in direct competition, sometimes with individuals lacking substantial merit. The randomness of success resembled a once-in-a-lifetime lottery ticket, creating a most disheartening environment.
Despite these obstacles, Elijah's resilience and kind nature propelled him forward. His real treasure was his sensitive, emotionally potent trumpet voice, which he was determined to share with the world.
Sophia Lancaster, Elijah's devoted partner, dedicated herself to sculpture rather than business endeavors. Despite her remarkable talent, her artistic efforts often went unnoticed. While she provided Elijah with unwavering emotional support, she lacked the expertise to assist him in the intricacies of the jazz industry. Accepting her position within the art world, that of an unearthed gem, she nevertheless persisted in her creative pursuits, nurturing the hope that one day her work would receive the recognition it deserved. Sadly, in many ways, the art world was even worse than music.
For the past couple of years, Elijah had maintained a Monday night residency at Bookie's, a popular bar nestled in the West Village, renowned for its eclectic musical offerings. Besides jazz on Monday nights, the repertoire could range from polkas to reggae. Despite the audience not being primarily focused on listening, Elijah cherished the opportunity to perform his music without the pressure of drawing a crowd. While the financial compensation was modest, the quartet received $400 for an evening's work—comprising three one-hour sets—equally divided among its members. All this in a city easily one of the most expensive the world, where the cost of living kept rising. Even after two years, and nearly twenty percent cost of living increase, they were paid the same amount.
Despite his role as the group's leader and principal composer, Elijah was adamant about ensuring everyone received their fair share. He fostered a collaborative atmosphere envisioning the group as a creative collective, encouraging each member to contribute originals with hopes of incorporating them into the repertoire.
On Monday nights, many of Elijah's friends dropped in to join in the festivities. Elijah always bought them drinks because he felt it was only fair they receive some recognition. He acknowledged the importance of surrounding himself with top-notch musicians, knowing that their presence would enhance his own performance. Having learned long ago the value of collaborating with musicians more skilled than himself, Elijah found the dynamic both enjoyable and stimulating. After all, the allure of New York City as the jazz mecca naturally attracted the best talent in the world. Why shouldn’t they play together?
On a bitterly cold Monday afternoon, Elijah made his way to the club for a sound check. Typically deserted during the daytime hours the venue, while small and with only passable acoustics, still received Elijah's meticulous attention to detail. He harbored a fixation on achieving the utmost perfection in sound quality, even though the majority of attendees were unable to discern the difference. With the advent of MP3 files and the decline of high fidelity, most listeners prioritized convenience over the actual sonic experience of the music.
While Elijah was on the bandstand arranging the placement of music stands and a microphone for the trumpet, the door to the club suddenly opened and with a blast of a cold air, a tall man wearing a full length red down coat entered. He was young, probably still in his twenties. He was holding a tenor saxophone case. Elijah didn’t recognize him.
“Mr. Coleman?”
“Yes.”
“Can I speak to you?”
Without looking up, Elijah nodded. “What is it?”
“My name is Caleb Monroe and I play the tenor. I just arrived from Tulsa.”
Elijah thought about the scores of tenor players who moved to New York every year, looking for work and recognition.
“I really dig your Blue Note recordings. It’s an honor to meet you.” Caleb extended his hand. “Would it be possible to audition for your group?”
“I’m not adding a saxophone player right now.”
“Could I sit in with your group?”
Elijah looked at Caleb and remembered when he first arrived in New York fifty years ago. After six months of scuffling, he felt he couldn’t even buy a gig.
“There’s some people coming by tonight. I can’t promise you, but if you stick around for the third set, there might be a chance to play.”
“You don’t know what this means to me.”
As the kid left the bandstand and Elijah fine-tuned the microphone beside the piano, Val Parnell, the individual in charge of booking music for the club, approached, but first had a few words with the young tenor player.
When Val finally reached the bandstand, he just stood there, saying nothing. Typically, Val kept his distance, leaving Elijah to his own devices. The fact that the club consistently attracted a decent crowd on Monday nights was precisely why Elijah continued to perform there.
“Friend of yours, Val?”
“No, just some kid looking for a gig. He sent me a CD. Sounds pretty good, kind of like Sonny Stitt.”
“Cmon Val, nobody sounds like Sonny Stitt.”
“Elijah, I need to speak with you about something.”
Elijah froze.
“You always draw a nice crowd. And your music, well, you know how much I love the way you play. “
“But?”
“This inflation is really kicking my ass. It’s very very difficult for us to break even. Believe me, this has nothing to do with you, it’s just that our expenses have increased, it seems like nearly every week.”
“It’s never easy, is it?”
“I’ve got to cut everything that I can, just to stay above water.”
Elijah knew what was coming.
“I can’t pay you $400 anymore.”
“What can you pay?”
“$200.”
“Fifty dollars each for a night’s work? That’s a lot less than the minimum wage, Val. You know this isn’t 1963. You really want us to take a 50% pay cut?”
“It’s just temporary, until things straighten out.”
Elijah had heard that song before, too many times. Things never straighten out.
“Look Val, that’s going to be impossible. We have families and expenses, just like you. Why don’t you raise the cover charge?”
“We’ll lose half of the audience.”
As they were talking, the kid came back and slowly made his way to the stage.
“We’ve been working here for over two years, and I’ve never seen the house less than full.”
“I know, I know.”09
“Val, I’m not 27. I can’t move backwards. I’ve put a lifetime into my horn.”
“Just for now. I promise you, as soon as…”
“Can’t do it, Val.”
Suddenly, Caleb emerged from the shadows and revealed, “My band will work for two hundred. We’d be happy to.”
Elijah was right. Nothing really changes.
“We’ll even work for the door.”
A part of me is touched at the beautiful way you told Elijah’s story and brought me into his world. A part of me is sad at the tragedy which was the plight of so many jazz musicians including ones I know. And a part of me his angry at society for it’s lack of musical 🎶 intellegence, a Taylor Swift economy. I don’t think I can blame the club’s proprietor as he has no control of the economy and probably did not know what else to do. And finally,a part of me is nostalgic of the music world I grew up in that is a time gone by. Art Blakey at the Village Gate, Horace Silver at the Vanguard, Woody Shaw and Joe Henderson at the Blue Note, jam session at 3am. Etc…. Yeah, there were plenty of nights like that. And while I see there is no dirth of accomplished young musicians, some prodigies, all over the globe due to internet and the export of jazz, I don’t feel the sense of community or excitement that I did. I’m still getting my head around where music and society are headed. Everyday somebody sends me an email about our internal political strife, and wars, I send them back a link asking “did you hear this new pianist ?” We’ve lost our way.
From 1977 to 1981, we worked at the Comeback inn, in Venice Calif.. The owner added 10% of the bar total and the waitress passed the hat after every set. We never made less than $100 each and everything over that went into a fund to pay for advertising ourselves, photos, transportation to gigs and promo. In 2013, I was working in Pensacola, Fl. for $100-125 a gig. 32 years and ain't nothing changed.