Pete La Roca: He took me on my first trip to the Village Vanguard

(This is the first of what will be an occasional series about my experiences in the jazz world.)

The first time I was at the Vanguard was in most unusual circumstances. It was the late spring or summer of 1966, I think May, June or July. I had just turned 15 and my mother had joined Mensa. If you're not familiar with Mensa, it requires people who apply for membership to take an I.Q. test.  It’s an organization for people who would like to hang out with like-minded intelligent folks. My mom was divorced when I was young, so she was hoping to meet men in Mensa.  She also asked me and my two brothers to take the I.Q. tests, and we all became members. We really didn't expect to participate at all—she was just curious to find out our I.Q.s. But then she brought to my attention an item in the monthly members’ newsletter: there was a jazz interest group starting, and she said I really should go. My mom hated the idea that I wanted to be a professional musician –I had insisted on this since the age of 10. But she was also my mom and she thought this would be good for me.

I was super shy so I wasn't really sure that I was interested, but she encouraged me to go, and I finally agreed. At that time we lived near the Jerome Park Reservoir in the Bronx. (We had previously lived near Crotona Park.) This meeting was quite a trek for me—it was in Riverdale, the upper class part of the Bronx. I’d never been there before. I had to take a long bus ride, and then walk a ways. But I found the building and when I got to the apartment, there was a tall Jewish man who welcomed me. I’m Jewish, so I felt a bit comfortable with him.

However, it turned out that it was just him, me, and three other people. This was difficult for me, being so reserved—I had nowhere to hide. So the host said, “First let's introduce ourselves.” There was a girl who was about my age, with her mother, but I was too shy to say anything to her. Then there was a Black man who said “My name is Pete La Roca.” The other people there showed no glimmer of recognition, but I said, “Are you Pete La Roca the drummer?!”  (By then he had already performed with Rollins, Coltrane, Getz and others.) He said “Well, yes, actually I am.” I asked him why he was there, and he said something about how yes, he is a successful drummer but he’s getting tired of that lifestyle and he also wants to meet other intelligent people.

Pete was indeed a brilliant guy and in fact when I worked with Dave Liebman on his autobiography What It Is, which came out in 2013, Dave had very nice things to say in the book about Pete. I was so excited that Pete was there that I probably didn’t pay enough attention to the other three people. But the meeting proceeded just as a typical social group, and the idea came up, “Let's go on a trip to a jazz club.” So Pete said “You know. there's this great new band at the Village Vanguard on Monday nights.” He said, “They know me there, so I can reserve a table for us, even though we’re a small group.” 

So, sure enough, in July of ‘66 we met at the Village Vanguard on a Monday night. At that time there was a slightly larger oval table in the back, by the bar, that seated about 6 people--it's not there currently. We saw the original Thad Jones-Mel Lewis big band, which had started in February. (Of course it’s still active, as the Vanguard Jazz Orchestra.) Richard Davis was on bass, playing in his very expressive style which I loved, the memorable Pepper Adams was on baritone sax of course, and so on. This wasn't my first time to see live jazz, but I hadn't been to a night club. I think I’d only been to the Sunday afternoon concerts, mostly at the Red Garter (later called the Bottom Line), that were sponsored by an organization called Jazz Interactions. I got free tickets by winning “blindfold tests” on WKCR radio (this was before Phil Schaap) and I saw lots of great artists at those Sunday events—Bob Brookmeyer with Jimmy Giuffre and Reggie Workman, Dave Liebman with Randy Brecker, and more.

But, let’s go back to the Vanguard. With my mom being divorced and me being the middle of three brothers, we didn't have much money. So, the waitress came over to ask what we wanted to order, and when she got to me I said “Nothing, thanks.” I had almost no money on me, and I didn’t know about minimums. She briefly looked a little shocked. But Pete was so nice and such a gentleman that he said right away, “He'll have a Coke, and put it on my tab.” I was still too shy to say anything to the girl who was my age. She asked me a couple of questions about what jazz I liked, and we only exchanged a few sentences. 

So at the end of the night the other three were on their way to Riverdale which of course is not where I lived. Pete asked where I lived, and then he said “I can drive you home.” The Bronx wasn’t anywhere on his way—I’m pretty sure he lived in Manhattan. So we went out to his car and it was a yellow taxicab. I said “This is your car?!” He said “Yes, I’ve been working as a cab driver.” As he drove, we talked. He knew that I played piano and wanted to become a professional jazz musician. But he said that it's a very hard life and it’s not for everyone, and so on. He mentioned that he was planning to become a lawyer. He did become an entertainment lawyer a few years later, and left full-time music performance. 

When we got to my apartment building he gave me his phone number and said to call anytime. He was such a nice person that I took him up on it. The next day I was listening to Bird on a Savoy LP and around 11a.m., I called Pete. I started talking about the Bird recordings, but he couldn’t get his head around who it was. He asked two or three times who it was. Each time I said “Lewis Porter, from last night at the Vanguard,” or something like that. Looking back today, I don’t think he had forgotten me, but rather, the way my voice sounded over the phone was somehow confusing him. Finally he burst out laughing and said, “This is Mal isn't it? Mal Waldron. Come on, Mal!” I guess he and Mal had talked the night before or that morning, and Pete mentioned that he’d met a kid named Lewis Porter? The funny thing is, if you listen to this interview with Mal, I did sound something like this at the time:

In any case, I finally persuaded him that I was Lewis and not Mal, and we talked for a few minutes about Bird. But after that awkward start, the conversation never really got relaxed. And I wasn’t the kind to bother people, so I didn’t contact him after that.

There are two little postscripts to this story. Flash forward to about 1991. I was living in Yonkers, New York, and I saw that he’d be playing a gig, which he rarely did anymore. So I went to the Westchester Conservatory in White Plains, and the band was Sonny Fortune, Charles Tolliver, Reggie Workman, and probably a pianist, but I don’t remember who. (It may have been Onaje Allen Gumbs.) There was a drum set, but Sonny got up before they started and said that Pete, now a lawyer, was tied up in traffic after a legal case and would be late. He asked “Does anybody here play drums?” I raised my hand and said “I’m a pianist but I play some drums.” So I played! In the middle of the second piece, Pete showed up and I handed the sticks to him. At the end of the set, Sonny Fortune gave me a big hug. Then I introduced myself to Pete. Of course he remembered that he had been a member of Mensa, but he didn’t remember me or any of my story.

Then, in October, 1995, I was doing lots of phone interviews for my Coltrane biography. I phoned Pete and reminded him who I was. He was very helpful and answered all my questions. He died in 2012, and I never forgot his kindness.

I hope you enjoyed this story. I plan to share stories like this, but only rarely (unless you request seeing them a bit more often).

All the best,
Lewis