February 2023

A young woman working at the Toulouse Theatre in the early ‘80s becomes acquainted with the legendary pianist and the forces that both inspired and bedeviled him.

– by Ellis Anderson

Night after night in the early ‘80s, from the box office of the Toulouse Theatre where I worked, I’d watch James Booker’s hands.  Driven by intuition and an otherworldly inspiration, they whipped unerringly across the piano, fingers flailing the black and white keys into a glorious frenzy of rhythm and melody. The train of sound Booker created could transport the most self-absorbed, soul-shorted individual across the border to an alternate reality. 

At least for a few minutes.

The theatre’s black baby grand piano, which Booker thought of as his own, was the biggest thing in the small lobby, which also contained a postage stamp bar built from old doors, a box office with an Art Deco wood front – my domain – and four tiny mirror-topped café tables.  Potted palms, gilt mirrors, crystal chandeliers, and an early jukebox resembling a Buick lent the lobby a Roaring Twenties elegance.

Still, when the Europeans drawn to the theatre by the prospect of seeing James Booker realized this minuscule venue was his only one, they were shocked. Having seen Booker play in Montreux or Nice, or at least heard of him slaying worshipping crowds of thousands, they could not comprehend that the philistine Americans had reduced him to performing as a little warm-up act in the lobby for an off-off-Broadway show in New Orleans.

Over the years, my memory has melded hundreds of those fans into an amalgam of a single couple:  blond, tall, youngish and speaking excellent English with a lush foreign accent. 

“Is this where we buy tickets to see James Booker?” the Germans/French/Italians/Scandinavians would ask me. 

They usually arrived in the afternoon to be assured of prime seats for Booker’s performance.  From my box office perch, I’d explain with girlish exuberance that yes, James Booker played here, but they didn’t need a ticket to see him.  The tickets were for the New Orleans-based musical called “One Mo’ Time.”   Booker only played in the lobby before the actual show and during intermission.  You can listen in the lobby for free! 

Rather than being pleased with this news, the Europeans were skeptical.  I was young and obviously confused.  They would walk into the empty theatre (which seated a few hundred) then back out into the lobby (which seated maybe twelve), and ask if I was mistaken.

Knowing the theatre’s tenuous financial situation, I’d take advantage of the situation.  They’d leave with the most expensive tickets in the house (which were under $20).  I was able to sell the tickets with an honest enthusiasm, since I never grew tired of watching either Booker or the One Mo’ Time performances.  The house band featured local legends like Ellis Marsalis, Pud Brown and Lionel Ferbos; the vocalists included Lillian Boutte and Wanda Rouzan.  The Europeans would enjoy some of the best talent in the country that evening.  But they’d have paid double the price just to see Booker alone.   

The Americans weren’t usually as reverential.  Most of them had never heard of James Booker and the few who had tended to provoke him, as if he were an exotic tiger behind bars.  They’d sometimes even goad him by shouting again and again, “Play ‘Sunny Side of the Street!’”

While Booker didn’t mind performing the song and he did it better than anyone else in the world, he would serve as no one’s jukebox.  Most times, he ignored the pleas.  Not always. 

One night I watched a particularly irksome foursome hounding him, repeating the request like a chant even while he performed other songs.  He finally pushed away from the piano and teetered delicately over to their table.  Booker loomed over them, a lanky pirate with an eye patch, regarding the two chirpy couples balefully with his single eye.  He wavered back and forth, like he was weathering a storm at sea.  The four faces smiled up at him, a shining halo of expectancy. 

Booker bent and vomited onto their table.

Stomach-soured Seagram’s ricocheted from the mirrored tabletop onto their evening clothes, hair and purses, as they cried out and fled for the restrooms.  The street was sunny no more.  I fetched the mop. 

***

Yet, I was hardly one to cast stones at those who didn’t know about Booker’s genius.  I’d moved to New Orleans when I was 21, and spent the next four years working as a musician in small touristy bars.  Although I’d heard of “The Piano Prince of New Orleans,” I’d never experienced a performance before I got the job at the Toulouse.  I became an instant and ardent fan.  Anyone who heard Booker would be forced to acknowledge the volcanic virtuosity that channeled through him at the keyboard.  Although I would never be a vessel for talent like his, I felt honored to pay homage to him – and to the Muses who possessed him. 

In addition to being hailed as a prince, he was also billed as the “Black Liberace.”  To me, that name seemed a tawdry sideshow moniker. While sometimes Booker reveled in razzle-dazzle showmanship (he often sported an eye patch with a silver star and swapped out interchangeable jeweled caps made for a front tooth; in earlier days, I was told he favored capes), I never witnessed any obsequious Las Vegas-style pandering to an audience.  If you were too dull to appreciate a pianist who could seamlessly integrate Bach and Beatles and blues, you needed to free up your seat for someone who did. 

For Booker, playing wasn’t about pleasing people or the club owners he worked for.  It was more about completing the sacred circuit, the Musician’s Holy Trinity: 

1.  Unfathomable power. 

2.  Brilliant and practiced mediums to channel it. 

3. An appreciative audience who understands collectively how fortunate they are to be in that exact place and moment in time, tapping into that sizzling life energy.  

When all three elements converge in a performance, audience and musicians leave a venue feeling struck by harmonic lightning, their glow trailing behind them.  Booker and all the musicians I knew lived for occasional infusions of that current.  Who could blame us when, if we’d had a long run of shorted-out sessions, we reached for the closest cheap charge at hand - usually booze, drugs and sex with inappropriate partners.

***

My friend, artist Julie Kahn Valentine caught some of the demons who haunted Booker in a 1979 drawing that now hangs above my desk.  In the black and white line drawing, one gargoyle curls like a contented cat at the foot of his ornate upright piano.   Two others flank the pianist, almost like prison guards, as his hands stride across the keys.  Booker’s not looking at the keys.  His dark head is turned toward the nearly naked floozy in the foreground of the drawing.  The Bellocq babe’s crossed legs and striped stockings create an irresistible focal point.

But James Booker’s single eye isn’t focused on girl.  He’s staring at the viewer.

More little imps peek from the shadows and perch on ornate columns.  The drawing is a reminder that reality is a layered affair, especially in the French Quarter.  It’s easy to punch through in spots.  The membrane in the lobby of the Toulouse Theatre seemed to dissolve altogether, especially when James Booker played.   And while I never saw any imps during the time I worked at the theatre, I felt their presence and recognized the honesty of Julie Kahn’s drawing at first glance.

***

Although I recognized and respected Booker’s genius immediately, he intimidated me at first.  I called him Mr. Booker for months before I felt comfortable calling him James. I never, no never, wanted to rouse his anger. I’d heard too many stories about his antics while under the influence of substances he inhaled with a gluttonous vigor. 

One of the theatre’s carpenters who used to hang with James, told me that late one night they caught a cab toward the Quarter from the Maple Leaf Bar uptown after James had performed there.  For some reason, James got irked with the driver, pulled a gun from beneath the cape he was wearing and fired it at the unfortunate man.  The gun only held a blank, but it still probably stopped the cabbie’s heart.

So no matter how god-like was his playing, no matter that he’d taught Harry Connick, Jr., no matter that he’d played alongside Jerry Garcia, and backed Aretha Franklin, most venues in town eventually eighty-sixed James from their premises altogether. By the time I met him, only a year or so before his death, the Toulouse Theatre was one of his only dependable sources of income.  Russell Rocke, a debonair mystery man from New York, owned the theatre. He seemed to understand any losses that he suffered from James’s volatile nature were to be expected and accepted. 

One night as I left the theatre and walked toward Royal Street, I saw James shouting at Russell, cursing mightily.  Although they had similar slender, tall builds, Russell had his back to the wall of the theatre and James seemed to loom over him as he yelled.  I don’t know what had triggered Booker’s anger, but on the sidewalk that night his body language screamed violence, his magnificent hands balled around Russell’s shirt collar.

I paused, afraid to interfere and wondering if I should call for help from inside. Russell caught my eye and smiled.  No real problem, he seemed to say. You know he won’t hurt me.  I walked on.  The next day, the two bantered as if the incident had never occurred. 

Another potential disaster was narrowly averted soon after, when Russell hosted a reception for Thelma Toole, mother of deceased author John Kennedy Toole.  Confederacy of Dunces had recently won the 1981 Pulitzer Prize.  While the glory of the award and subsequent sales of the book could not have compensated Thelma for the suicide of her young son, it certainly validated her unflagging belief in his talent.  She approached her new celebrity in a vigorous fashion.  On this occasion, the aging music teacher planned to entertain guests with a recital in the theatre lobby - on the piano that James thought of as his own.

From the office balcony above, I watched the slurry of glittery cocktail attire and dark suits.  James threaded between the guests, a dark exclamation point circling the room.  He finally settled by the piano as if to guard it.  Russell spoke to him quietly and then led him to the bar, where James sulked over a Seagram’s.  After introductions and praise and the requisite applause, Thelma turned her attentions to the piano.  She played stiffly and from a book, probably one she used for intermediate pupils in the 8th grade.  By the tenth bar, whispered conversation in the room resumed.  By the middle of the first piece, everyone had forgotten all about her and spoke at full cocktail party volume. 

Thelma stopped.  She torqued on her piano seat and archly reprimanded the startled gathering. 

“You are not listening to me!” she said.  “You’re supposed to be paying attention.”

When she resumed, the audience obeyed for another few bars, then ignored her again.  Thelma gave up after only a few songs.  James slid behind the keyboard and had his revenge.  The crowd may have kept talking, but there was enthused and grateful applause after each number.

***

I grew to trust James as our time together revealed a certain gentleness beneath his gruff nature. Eventually, he seemed to notice me as an individual, instead of one of the interchangeable theatre employees who left after a few weeks, exhausted by the day-to-day financial crisis at the theatre. He understood my respect for him and treated me with kindness.  He only yelled at me once.

One afternoon, two middle-aged men with clipped beards and stylish expedition clothes introduced themselves at the box office as journalists from a national publication. One carried an armada of camera equipment strapped across him like bandoliers.   The other one explained they had an appointment to interview James that afternoon.  I welcomed them and invited them to sit at one of the lobby’s café tables.  Privately, I wondered if the pianist would remember - or bother - to show.  

James actually arrived soon after the appointed time, wearing a vest and a public relations smile. He’d chosen to sport the eye patch with the star.  His working eye was unclouded.  I felt happy for him.  Finally, he was going to get the national recognition he deserved.  The accommodating host and gentleman, Booker asked the journalists what they’d like to drink.  They requested water or soft drinks.  James asked me to fetch refreshments for them, along with a Seagram’s for himself. 

I wasn’t offended, although by that point I was the business manager of the floundering enterprise and just filling in for a late employee.  But my 24-year-old self believed if James started drinking before the interview even began, this potential opportunity could evaporate. 

Wanting to protect him, I said I’d be delighted, but I didn’t have access to the locked bar.  He cocked his head and aimed the eye at me.  James knew I had the key.  He ordered me in a more forceful tone.  I shrugged my shoulders to signify my  helplessness.  The reporters’ eyes widened a bit, as James commanded me with the authority of God. 

“Goddammit, Ellis,” he roared. “Get these gentlemen something to drink and me a Seagram’s.” 

“I can’t, James,” I lied again.  “I’m so sorry.”  

I assumed he’d give up.  I was wrong.  He began cursing at me in earnest.  Having learned from watching Russell, I sat calmly, unmoved, and accepted the abuse.  I was so proud of standing up to him I didn’t notice that what I’d hoped to prevent had already happened.  The reporters were appalled.

The one without the cameras offered to go to the bar next door.  In a few minutes, he returned with three plastic cups, two with ice water.  He sat the amber one in front of James.  It was nearly full.

“I told them it was for you,” the reporter said, explaining the quadruple pour.

James thanked the man, scowled at me and then shot back the entire portion of whiskey.   The reporters exchanged looks before glancing my way.  I shrugged.  Soon after, the box office clerk showed up and I left. I didn’t witness the end of the interview. 

Recently, when I scoured the Internet for that interview, I could find no trace of the story.  Was it ever published or even written?  The idea that my naiveté might somehow have contributed to James losing a final shot at national recognition took hold of me and shook hard. 

Damn.  

***

The last time I saw James was on Chartres Street in 1983, just around the corner from the theatre.  My future first husband and I were walking toward Jackson Square and James met us on the sidewalk.  He grinned and both sides of the street turned bright.   We hadn’t seen each other since I quit the theatre a few months before. He looked well groomed, healthy, vital.  Straight.  He said something about a job at city hall, which I didn’t understand at all. Since when did they have live music? 

I found out later that he’d actually taken a clerical job with the city. I didn’t press at the time because I was completely self-absorbed, exuberant about my grand new adventure.  I introduced my fiancé and explained our plans to spend the next few months in Florida.  James wished us well with a rare show of affection.  We clasped hands, his spidery, magical fingers wrapping mine for a moment. I remember walking away feeling as if my future had been blessed, by James, as well as that universal force he carried.   

In Julie Valentine’s drawing of Booker and his demons, he’s smiling too.  Not enough to show the front tooth with the diamond, but it’s a smile all the same.  When I peer closely into the piece, he engages me.  The look in his single eye seems hopeful.  It belies his ending.   

***

Julie once told me that she and a friend took Booker to the hospital after he OD’d.  He survived that time.  Apparently, she was one of several people over the years who saved his life by driving him to the emergency room.  In 1983, the ending was different.  His ride left him there and took off.  Charity Hospital triage was having a bad afternoon.   

The New York Times obit [1] reported he’d suffered a heart attack in his apartment.  The New Orleans Times-Picayune got it right:

Booker, 43, was a rhythm-and-blues pianist who played the classics.  He was a man who saw nothing unusual about mixing the music of Chopin and Dubussy with Professor Longhair and Huey “Piano” Smith, sometimes within the space of a few seconds…

He died in Charity Hospital at 1:32 p.m. Tuesday, said Dr. Frank Minyard, Orleans Parish coroner.

Booker died of intestinal bleeding and heart and lung failure, Minyard said.

“All we found out is that he went into Charity and was sitting in a wheel-chair.  They don’t know who brought him there,” Minyard said.[2]  

On that day, where were we, the many who cared for, who worshipped his music, who understood how rare was his talent and ability?  Walking on the sunny side of a street in Florida?  Having lunch in Croissant d’Or?  Sipping a beer on the Moonwalk, watching the ships go by?  None of us could have imagined him slumped in that wheelchair alone, his soul slipping out completely unnoticed.

***

In 2013, filmmaker Lily Keber completed a documentary about Booker called “Bayou Marharajah.”   The IMDb description says, “Bayou Maharajah explores the life and music of New Orleans piano legend James Booker, the man Dr. John described as ‘the best black, gay, one-eyed junkie piano genius New Orleans has ever produced.’”[3] 

The movie has won several well-deserved Indie awards because it’s a sensitive and thoroughly researched documentary.  Watching it, I learned a lot I hadn’t known about James – including the fact that he’d grown up about an hour outside of New Orleans, in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi - just a few blocks from the place which for years served as my coastal home.

In one interview with Keeber, shortly after the movie premiered, an interviewer asked “what question she would ask him  [Booker] if she could get him on camera.” 

“It would probably be a request.  ‘Will you play me “Sunnyside [of the Street]?”’[4]

When I first read that, I laughed out loud and long.  Then I realized that given the chance, I’d probably ask Booker the same damn thing. 

I’d give anything to see him play it, one more time.

Live 1978 performance of James Booker playing Sunny Side of the Street

 ‘WWNO recorded a live performance by James Booker at the Toulouse Theatre.  The link below will give you access to the introduction, a segment with James Booker speaking and four songs. 

[1] Pareles, Jon. "James Booker, 'Piano Prince'" The New York Times. The New York Times, 09 Nov. 1983. Web. 10 Jan. 2016.

[2] Fumar, Vincent. “'Piano Prince of N.O.' James Booker dies at 43,” The Times-Picayune.  11 Nov. 1983. NOLA City Museum.  Web. January 10, 2016.

[3] "Bayou Maharajah." IMDb. IMDb.com, n.d. Web. 11 Jan. 2016.

[4]Sparks, Ryan. “James Booker, Bayou Maharajah.” NOLA Defender, n.d. Web. 17 Jan. 2016.