Art and I had met playing together with The Naturals. We had three wardrobe changes with C.D., then consisting of matching jackets in three different colors. (the burgundy was my favorite) They all went well with our black pants and butterfly bowties which, incidentally, we actually tied. It was remarkable how we all showed up wearing the same color each night.
Sometimes it was blue, but we had decided on tan for a wedding reception in Jersey. It was my practice to arrive at gigs in full uniform. I had arrived early in my tan jacket with black velvet collar and pocket highlights. The banquet room was decorated, empty, yet to be populated. I took advantage of the moment and sat down to rest and wait.
Not long after, the waiters began emerging from their hiding places to make checks and final adjustments. I was amused at their black pants and tan jackets with black collars and pocket highlights. I secretly laughed at their black clip-on bowties.
Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, there was a guy with a red face and bulging eyes yelling at me and waving a clipboard which did little to diffuse the smell of his bad breath. Apparently, I was at fault for resting when there was champagne yet to pour and appetizers still waiting for delivery from the kitchen. He was particularly loud about my suede beatle boots which were not part of the ‘acceptable uniform’. I sheepishly showed him the saxophone strap hanging around my neck, and then pulled on my bowtie, untying the knot. Peace and quiet are wonderful things.
When Art resurfaced with us in The Late Entre, there was little confusion about what to wear. We had been to the men’s stores on South Street in Philly. We had fun sending in the short guys first to explain our need for matching jackets, and then walking in, arranged according to ascending height all the way up to Ray at 6’5”. Benny Krass hit the jackpot with light orange double-breasted jackets and even offered striped cream-colored pants. After a long afternoon of shopping, we surrendered to our new look. With white turtle necks, we ignored any resemblance to a baseball team and thanked Benny for the free alterations.
I’m not sure if Art still had his ‘Chevy Too Much’, but to this day, I can’t recall anyone but Art who, using only human noises, could reproduce the sound of a blown-injected, 426 Hemi, coming off the line at eight grand. Talent was never lacking.