Through mutual acquaintances, I met Henry Miller and Richard Wright. I went to Miller’s small apartment on the Left Bank, which was cramped and filled with books. A man of advanced years, he was brusque but civil. Wright received me in his classic high-ceilinged Paris apartment. He was cordial, and we had a brief conversation. I was just curious to meet this celebrated and controversial expatriate.
I also attended performances by the Red Army Choir, the Beijing Opera, and Yehudi Menuhin, and the Russian opera Boris Godunov. In mid-August I was transferred back to Germany for the remainder of my tour of duty, until January 1956.
After your military service, what did you do?
Upon discharge I returned to New York and was admitted to the state and federal bar. I returned to my hometown, Plattsburgh, and hung out there for several months, trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. The town had become foreign. Thomas Wolfe was right: you can’t go home again.
After that, I went to Tucson, Arizona, to check out the region. I found the desert magnetically attractive, but the local culture felt alien, except for a small community of artists who welcomed me.
Returning to New York, I met a young woman at a modern dance performance and was captivated by her. She was a designer of woven fabrics. I leased a large sunny loft at 329 East 47th Street—what is now United Nations Plaza—as a design studio and installed her in it. The rent was modest because the building was to be demolished in a few years. I bought hand looms and hired weavers. The enterprise attracted the interest of chemical companies that had developed synthetic yarns. We created demonstration fabrics for various applications, utilizing the considerable colorization skills of one of the weavers, Elsa Rush. The National Council of Negro Women rented space from me to hold meetings. After a year my partner started turning out designs that were purple-and-black combinations, and walked out. I realized this would not be my career of choice, so I dissolved the business.
2 Music and Law
Into the Deep End Fast
In 1960 you worked as an unpaid assistant for Florynce Kennedy, the attorney and activist. How did you meet her?
As a law student I attended huge parties that Flo Kennedy and her two statuesque sisters threw in their large Harlem apartment for law students. Later, when I found that she was practicing law in midtown Manhattan, I approached her directly and offered her my services as an unpaid gofer.
In Flo’s office I met Doris Parker, who claimed to be the widow of Charlie Parker, and Louis McKay, the widower of Billie Holiday. I had never heard of these artists. Flo obtained the representation of the Parker and Holiday estates through the efforts of Maely Dufty, a Rumanian-born publicist in New York who had managed Billie Holiday and been married to William Dufty, the coauthor with her of Lady Sings the Blues.
Two months after joining her office, I found out that Flo had scheduled a press conference in which she identified me as her associate counsel. I had no such formal standing. More importantly, Maely Dufty came to me and urged me to leave Flo, as “something is about to blow up.” Maxwell T. Cohen, Esq., a prominent Manhattan entertainment lawyer, had been retained by Chan Parker, the actual widow of Charlie Parker, to enforce her rights to the estate. I left abruptly. Flo lost the representation of the estate.
Where did you go from there?
I rented a room in the law offices of Bruce McM. Wright, who later became a state supreme court justice, and Harold Lovette, Miles Davis’s manager—a small suite at 120 East 56th Street. I was there for a year trying to form a practice. I had little interest in dealing with the typical problems and challenges of a conventional law practice. Prominent black musicians, clients of Bruce and Harold, came by and I met them. I found these artists interesting people of depth and dignity, more sympathetic than the average run of humanity.
My first victory, while I shared the offices, was on behalf of three jazz bassists: Art Davis and Reggie Workman, and a third whose name escapes me. All of them had sent their basses to Chicago to be repaired, and the instruments had been damaged in transport by TWA. C. C. Tillinghast was its president, and his employees refused to respond to our claims. I hit on a stratagem: I called TWA and asked for Tillinghast, saying that it was a personal and confidential matter. They put me through to him in his home, as he was having dinner. He got on the phone, and he said, “What is this?!” I said, “Mr. Tillinghast, I’m a lawyer. Basses were damaged, and we’re being brushed off by your staff.” He hit the roof! “How dare you call me at my home?” He was incensed! I apologized, and he settled our claim.
Composer and pianist Mary Lou Williams—brilliant, saintly, and influential—paid little attention to her recording and publishing interests. I engaged in extensive research for her in these areas, compiled an inventory of her songs and recordings, and presented it to her. She then proceeded to contact the labels and publishers, from whom she collected long-overdue royalties. I chided her for disregarding my entitlement to compensation for my work, and she was clearly ashamed. I didn’t press the matter, because I knew her to be charitable and supportive of her fellow musicians.
Did these early associations help you in subsequent relations with musicians?
While I was working for Flo Kennedy, Dizzy Gillespie was in touch with her, and it occurred to me that I might do some work for him, since I was then engaged in research regarding the copyrights of the Parker and Holiday estates. I called Lorraine Gillespie, his wife, and introduced myself, suggesting that perhaps I could be helpful to him in this area. She replied, “Dizzy will want to speak with you.” She set up a meeting, and I visited him at his home in Corona, Queens. I worked for him for about two years, attending his performances in New York City, and succeeded in recovering his copyrights from Norman Granz, the producer and record label owner.
After you left the offices of Lovette and Wright, you then had a new round of musical adventures.
I migrated over to Broadway and became acquainted with black R&B writers who were starting to write for white rock-and-roll artists. They hung out in the bars on 52nd Street. There was Charlie Singleton, one of the most prolific and successful figures. “Horse” was a large, soft-spoken, dignified, and congenial individual. Otis Blackwell wrote Presley’s biggest hits. We three formed a publishing company, whose songs included “Breathless” and “Hey, Little Girl,” but it was short-lived. The songwriters were streetwise and engaged in monumental battles with publishers. They would sell a song to one publisher, get an advance, then sell it again to another publisher. It was too fast a crowd for me, so I left the scene, after winning my first court case for a songwriter.
David Curlee Williams, a Kentuckian, had written a hit song, “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On,” and the publisher had left town with the earnings and could not be found. Curlee was broke, and I agreed to represent him. I sued the publisher in Supreme Court, New York County, and won a default judgment. When I gave Curlee the good news, he said nothing, but went to Lee Eastman, a prominent publisher, and published the song with him. I phoned Eastman, who had earlier interviewed me for a job, and informed him that I had just won the suit and had a contingent retainer agreement with Curlee that would entitle me to a 25 percent interest in the publishing rights. Eastman replied matter of factly, “I guess you’ll have to sue me.” Disheartened by the experience, I decided that I did not wish to be a lawyer in popular music.
Given your contacts in the jazz world, were you going out much to hear live music?
Sporadically. I was naive, and my responses were totally spontaneous. I was just providing legal services for people in that sector of music.
So, if you were not an aficionado, what kept you going in that realm of music and law?
The artists I encountered in the so-called jazz sector were serious composers and performers. They conducted themselves with dignity, reserve, and integrity. They were profound philosophers and articulate; I had and still have great respect for them.
Around 1963 Stollman persuaded his parents to buy a large co-op