When I hit the streets [in Orlando, Florida] in the forties, playing was competitive. Lord, have mercy! All kinds of dudes be throwing knives at your head… You'd fall in a jam session. There'd be a cat on tenor, someone on alto, a cat on trumpet, a trombone player, guitar, bass, and drums. They'd be waiting for you. They'd be ready. And you'd try your luck on piano. Now some wise-ass would call for "How High the Moon." Or someone else would yell out, "How 'bout a little Cherokee.’" Or maybe a cat would start playing "Lady Be Good." And these tunes be moving fast--with chord changes you just didn't hear every day. Coleman Hawkins's version of "Body and Soul," for example, was a huge favorite among jazz musicians, and invariably some dude would say, "Okay, give me some ‘Body and Soul’ in D-flat." Now there's a change in the middle of that tune to D natural which would truly tell whether or not you could play. I've heard guys wail away till they came to that change. And if they were skating, you'd be able to tell when they reached the tricky part. Then they suddenly get real soft and quiet. Other times cats would call a song and then do it chromatically. That means you'd play it in all the keys, one by one. If you'd be fumbling around… instead of hitting the right notes, you'd be laughed out of the place. You'd be sent on your merry way, little boy. But if you could handle those tunes, the cats might respect you a little--and that's what I was aiming for. << less