The New Fillmore

EXCERPT | By Etta James

Uncle Frank showed up in his car and whisked us up to San Francisco when I was 12. We dropped [my mother] Dorothy off in the Fillmore District, which looked like a hell-hole to me. L.A. was a vine-covered cottage compared to these slums. After the sunny skies of southern California, the Bay Area looked seedy and sad — the fog-covered sky, the bums on the street. Maybe it was my mood or just the neighborhood where Dorothy lived, but my first impression was grime and crime.

I wound up in a couple of gangs — one in the Fillmore, where my mother lived, and one in the projects by Uncle Frank. We wore baggy jeans, just like today, with the legs dragging on the ground. A white shirt was also part of our uniform — an oversize man’s shirt worn tails-out to cover your ass. Then you had your white socks rolled all the way down below your ankles and beat-up tennis shoes. I let my hair grow long and put it in a ponytail. I thought I was bad. I guess I was the classic case of a kid who, lacking a real family, was looking for a family feeling in gangs.

I started bouncing from school to school. I’d been going to Girls High School in the Fillmore, but they threw me out of there. I was a wiseguy and a clown, always cutting up, never minding no one. So they put me in Continuation School, which is your last stop before they kick your ass out of the system altogether.

This was when Dorothy had moved into a rooming house in the Fillmore owned by Reverend Wilson, a gay preacher. I liked the man. He was an animal lover, always feeding his cats — and me. He was especially kind and gave Dorothy the front apartment with lots of light. He reminded me of the “secret angels” I had known. Dorothy, on the other hand, hated him. She was convinced he was a child molester and warned me to stay away from him. My own instincts, though, told me the man was good-hearted and God-fearing, and I did as I pleased. When I got home from school he’d always have food waiting for me. He made me feel safe. In my crazy new world, Reverend Wilson was an island of sanity.

Around the corner from Reverend Wilson’s rooming house in the Fillmore lived Sugar Pie DeSanto, whose real name was Umpeylia Balinton. She was my age, a gorgeous four-feet-eleven dynamo with a Filipino father, a black Philadelphia mother with a Puerto Rican temper, and 10 brothers and sisters. This was one crazy family. I liked hanging around them. You never knew what would happen next. When the old man got mad at the kids, he’d put them in these big overalls and hang them on the door from a nail. Leave them hanging all day. Sugar Pie and I ran in a gang together — later we’d wind up recording together — and she was so fine that every dude in the neighborhood was looking to get next to her. Quite a few succeeded.

Our girl gang was bold — in the Fillmore, we called ourselves the Lucky 20’s — and I pulled off some cold-blooded stunts. I’m not proud of what I did, but I did it all the same. I’m thinking of those times when we’d chase after white girls. Sometimes we beat up on gals from foreign countries, anyone different from us. That’s how I wound up in the school for juvenile delinquents. It was all about jealousy.

I no longer wanted anything to do with my mother, Uncle Frank, Aunt Mary or any other family member. This is when I started getting close to the Mitchells — two sisters and their superfine brother. It’s also the start of the musical story that led me away from home.

I met Jean Mitchell at the recreation center at Army and Third in the projects by Uncle Frank’s apartment. That’s where we’d have dances. Jean stayed in another group of projects built by the navy up in South Basin. She, her sister Abysinia, and their brother Alfonso all lived together. There was no mother or father. They came from New Orleans and were light-skinned Creole-looking people. Jean was my age; Alfonso — known as Fons — and Abysinia — known as Abye — were eight or nine years older.

Jean and I started singing together at the rec center. Soon Abye joined in and, just like that, we became the Creolettes. We were project girls imitating the young rhythm and blues of the time, but we were also deep into jazz. West Coast jazz was all the rage, and we dug Gerry Mulligan and Dave Brubeck and Shorty Rogers. To me, Chet Baker looked like James Dean and was the coolest thing this side of Miles Davis. Naturally we knew about Miles and, being from Los Angeles, I had heard Dexter Gordon and Charles Mingus. Modern jazz was in my blood. Mainly, though, we were intrigued with vocal harmony. We developed a tight three-way blend, imitating groups like the Spaniels, the Swallows, the Chords, who had “Sh-Boom” before the Crew Cuts, and the Spiders, who had “Beside You.” We studied the Moonglows, Soony Til and the Orioles, all the hippest doo-woppers. We also listened to the McGuire Sisters — white girls who copied black songs — and white boys like the Hi-Lo’s and Four Freshmen. The Freshmen were especially slick — they sang like instruments — and soon we learned to do the same, even down to the trumpet trills and shakes.

Me and the Mitchells had so much in common that I wound up moving in with them. It was during one of those times when Dorothy was in jail and I was on the outs with Aunt Mary. Beyond singing together, I also ran in their gang. The Lucky 20’s from the Fillmore were considered a more citified gang. Jean and her bunch were a bit tamer. But the Mitchell who interested me most was Fons. He was my main motive for moving there. I was dying to get next to him.

The boy was extra cool. He controlled a gang called the Good Rockers that operated on the outskirts of town. He was also a piano player who fashioned himself after Horace Silver or Hampton Hawes. He wanted to be like Thelonious Monk, an out-there-on-the-edge player, but he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. When it came to looks, though, he was even better. He had these long eyelashes that laid down over almond-shaped eyes, sleek wavy hair, and a tall slim frame. He looked a little like Billy Dee Williams, only more rugged.

Meanwhile, music was still happening hot and heavy. The Creolettes were getting to be a pretty popular girl group around town. We were winning amateur shows and drawing good crowds. We’d tightened up our harmony, figured out a few stage moves, and put on a halfway-decent 20-minute set. Gaining confidence.

Around that time, Hank Ballard and the Midnighters had a smash with “Work With Me, Annie.” What Louis Jordan was to the 40s, Hank was to the 50s. He had the clever words and the funky grooves. Hank got you dancing. His “Work With Me, Annie” was a little lewd and a lot of fun. Work, of course, was a code word for screw. All the kids were crazy for that tune, a nasty jam for grinding. Some of the parents wouldn’t even let us play the record at home, which naturally made us play it even more.

Well, one afternoon the Creolettes were singing at a record hop when who should show up but Hank and all his superfine Midnighters. We were thrilled. When they heard us sing, they said something encouraging and, man, that’s all we needed to hear. When they sang “Work With Me, Annie,” the place went wild.

Next day the song was still on my mind. Answer songs were big back then, and it occurred to me — why not answer Hank’s hit? So I wrote “Roll With Me, Henry,” a pushy little jiveass reply to Hank. The girls and I worked it up and put it in our repertoire. Didn’t think nothing about it till the next week, when Hank and his Midnighters showed up at our sock hop for the second time. We couldn’t wait to sing our spicy song right in their faces.

“What do you think?” we wanted to know.

“Cool,” said Hank.

Abye was a groupie, and the Midnighters were legendary ladies’ men. So you can see how anxious she was to hook up with Hank’s boys. Jean and I were wannabe groupies. At 23, Abye was sure-enough ready to rock while, at 14, we were girls wanting to look like ladies. Abye was on the prowl. That’s why she slipped into the Primaline Ballroom [at 1223 Fillmore] a few weeks later to catch the Johnny Otis show. Didn’t know it then, but that was the night that changed my life.

Jean and I were back in the projects when the phone rang.

Abye was all aflutter.

“Y’all got to come down here to the Primaline Ballroom and meet Johnny,” she said.

“Johnny who?” I wanted to know.

“Johnny Otis.”

Johnny Otis was an L.A. bandleader who put together jazz and R&B revues. He played vibes and piano and featured different singers. He was also a songwriter and promoter.

“I’ve been telling Johnny all about us,” Abye went on. “He wants to hear the Creolettes.”

I knew Abye went to the dance because she wanted to meet Johnny Otis and his sexy stacked drummer, Kansas City Bell. But I didn’t know she was going to promote us.

“They’ll never let us in there,” I said. “We’re underage.”

“I’ll tell Johnny. He’ll take care of it.”

“Right,” I said sarcastically as I hung up the phone and went to sleep.

An hour later the phone woke me up. Abye again.

“What now?” I wanted to know.

“I’m at the Manor Plaza Hotel. Johnny Otis wants you and Jean to come down here and sing for him,” Abye was insisting.

“If he wants us down at the hotel,” I said, “it sure as hell isn’t to hear us sing.” I figured Johnny and the boys in his band were thinking, “Yeah, let’s get a couple of young chicks.”

Next thing I knew Johnny Otis was on the line. Now no one talks like Johnny Otis. He’s got this deep molasses honey-dripping deejay voice. It’s a jivetime jazzman’s voice, but it’s also sincere and filled with wisdom.

“I understand you girls can sing,” he said. “I’d love to hear you.”

“Man, it’s two in the morning,” I shot back. “How we supposed to get down there? The buses aren’t even running.”

“Catch a cab,” suggested Johnny.

“We don’t have money for a cab.”

“I’ll meet you at the curb and pay for it myself.”

That’s what happened. I was leery, but I was also excited. When we arrived, Johnny Otis was right there, smiling.

Now Johnny Otis is a very tall handsome Greek man with black wavy hair, a big moustache and trimmed beard. He looked like a slick cat, but he also exhibited good manners from the get-go. From his phone voice, I had figured he was black. For years many people believed Johnny was black, not only because of his swarthy skin tone but because he talked, walked, acted, played and pushed black music so hard. Plus, he married a black woman, moved into the black community, and eventually became a gospel preacher of his own black church. When I first met Johnny, though, he was still into his sporting days.

In his hotel room, the vibe was still nervous. Abye was there with Kansas City Bell. Johnny had his manager with him, Bardu Ali, who looked to be 75. He made me feel a little bit better. One of the musicians, though, was running around in his boxer shorts. “Hey man,” Johnny told him, “go put some pants on.”

I don’t like singing on demand, and this was no exception. I clammed up. I felt self-conscious and stupid. And maybe a little scared. Anyway, I wouldn’t sing.

“Come on, Jamesetta,” said Abye. “You’re acting like a baby.”

“Well, I just don’t wanna sing,” I said.

After a lot more coaxing, I compromised. I said I’d sing, but only in the bathroom. I know that sounds stupid, but everyone sounds good singing in the bathroom. Tile makes for great acoustics. So I went in there and sat on the edge of the tub while Abye and Jean stayed in the bedroom, standing close to the bathroom door. We decided to do our jazz harmony numbers, the ones that really showed off our voices. We sang “How Deep Is the Ocean,” “Street of Dreams” and “For All We Know.” When we were through, total silence. Finally, Johnny Otis said, “Wow! Did you hear that little girl sing?”

I came out of the bathroom smiling.

“That’s terrific,” he said. “I want you to ride back to L.A. with us tomorrow. I want to put you on my show and make some records with you.”

Without a doubt, this was the most exciting thing anyone had ever said to me in my life. But Johnny’s next question nearly threw me.

“How old are you?”

I looked at the girls. Jean gave me the eye. “Eighteen,” I lied.

Johnny knew damn well I was lying. “Can you get your mother to give you permission to travel with us?” he asked.

The next morning, Jean, Abye and I arrived at 11 sharp. In my hand was a neatly written note from Dorothy giving me the okay. I had forged it. I was happy to quit school and say bye-bye to the ninth grade. Hell, school was about to quit me anyway. I was on my way back to L.A., heady with anticipation.

At 14, my childhood had ended.

Excerpted from Rage to Survive, © 1995 by Etta James and David Ritz.

Filed under: Locals, Music