They were the two leading bands in the Savoy in New York. Chick Webb was the boss uptown Savoy. Fletcher Henderson was the boss downtown at the Roseland. Tommy Dorsey and his brother, they had a band together. They broke up, so there was two more guitar players. Carmen Mastren, he went up to Savoy, listened to John Trueheart. Went to Roseland, listened to Holiday. [? (inaudible)] come around Lucky Millinder's band, because he's playing all around there, and he dug what I'm doing too, because I'm trying to play like John Trueheart. Next thing you know, he's playing like that. Then what's-his-name? Guitar player. Les Paul. He come and upset everybody, because he invented some new [expletive deleted] for the electric guitar and playing. He started hanging up in Harlem. Said, "That white boy's up there. " Somebody says, "He's playing some guitar. " "Where's he at? " They say, "[? (inaudible)] Club. " Place be packed up with musicians, coming to hear him and his old lady, Mary Ford. They just come uptown to  have fun, and the people loved them. He played that God-damned guitar and that amp. Man, you could hear him down the street in these joints. Wake up the neighborhood. Police have to go up there and tell him to come down, calm down. That's what you're doing. As you go along, you're learning. You're learning, and you're seeing things. There's so much happening. You see people making money. You see people dying of grief. You see people who has this great talent. They become alcoholics. They become dope addicts. You see them become bums on the street, begging for nickels. Not in Harlem. They'd be downtown, with their hands out, begging. "Look, it's" so-and-so. "Come on, you're begging. " Instead of getting them a day job, I know so many musicians stopped playing, went on the subways, riding the subways. Downtown you see them in department stores, pushing a big old wagon. They move around the hall, furnitures. So you learn to roll with the punches and bounce. You learn real quick to try to help others, and you get help from somewhere else, not from the people you help. But you learn to share. And that's what we share. My wife, if she'd never cook another dinner, I'd never squawk. She fed more musicians than the Salvation Army. I used to bring hungry [expletive deleted] home [laughter]. Said, "What am I going to feed them? " I said, "You can fix something like that. " She'd chop up some food, and cat would bite his lips off, because he never ate food seasoned like we season down here. "Man, I sure appreciate this dinner. Oh man, I never taste nothing like that in my life. " She say, "Go around the corner and get some chops," and she fix them some chops and throw some tomato gravy in there, the onions and garlic and parsley and fix up a concoction. You can smell it in the kitchen. I almost had to put iron bars by the doors to keep them from breaking down my kitchen. That's a part of the game. Most of the guys I know, they're dead. My good friends. There's a few left, but that's life. But I learned something in New York. It'll make a man out of you or kill you. That expletive deleted] make a man out of you. They learn you how to deny yourself, how to deprive yourself, how to do without when you can't afford. All that goes with music. I've been in bands, had a pocketful of money, money in all pockets and couldn't get nothing to eat. People wouldn't serve us. If they wouldn't serve us, they say, "We ain't got nothing to eat here," or the place done closed down when you get through work. So you just . . . you don't squawk. Situations happen you can't correct and you can't avoid. I come back to New Orleans, and this is the land of plenty. This is the land of plenty. Plenty of everything. Plenty of food. Plenty of [expletive deleted]. [laughter] Leave that in. Don't cut it out. Say it's a error.