The Story Is Told
I Once Met ...
by Ron Rubin

The following article was sent to us by the late pianist and bass player Ron Rubin. Ron was also a published Limerickist and one of his limericks is included with the article:

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Friday 28th February 1964 ... the date is indelibly printed in my diary. I was then a member of the Sandy Brown Band, as was Danny Moss. Danny had become rather pally with Cat Anderson, and Cat invited our lot to come down to the Leeds theatrte (I forget which) where the Ellington Band was appearing that night, after our own gig at Leeds University had finished.

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This we were delighted to do. Backstage we found the Ellington men sprawled about the rather grotty dressing room. I particularly remember a sad and crumpled-looking Paul Gonsalves, hunched up in the corner away from all the joshing and badinage, apparently lost in a world of his own. Duke himself was nowhere to be seen - no doubt the great man was ensconced elsewhere in his own luxurious quarters.

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I'd had a fair amount to drink that day and when nature bellowed I made for the dressing room toilet, which turned out to be an insalubrious cubicle, much in need of fumigation. I had just embarked on the blissful process of evacuating the proceeds of several jars, when I became aware of a figure standing behind me. Looking over my shoulder whilst maintaining my aim (a tricky business), I was astonished to see Duke Ellington standing a couple of feet behind me, his noble head swathed in what appeared to be a steaming white towel.

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I had often fantasized about meeting my idol - perhaps it would be in some sophisticated New York niterie where we would casually fall into an urbane and sophisticated conversation which would subsequently ripen into a lifetime's friendship ... but the possibility of meeting my hero in some grubby backstage lavatory had mercifully not entered my head - and even worse I had my back turned towards him! (One doesn't turn one's back on royalty, let alone Duke Ellington.) There was no known protocol for such a situation. Should I offer my hand? Apart from the hygienic aspect, in the circumstances this might be miscontrued ...

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So I just stood there stupidly, and mumbled over my shoulder: "er, shan't be long ..." Duke smiled benignly (I think) and replied in that ruby-rich voice: "It's quite alright - I'll use the Ladies. I guess it'll be a lot cleaner, too."

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Thus ended our momentous, momentary meeting. The Duke about turned and disappeared from my life as quickly as he had entered it. Stunned, I stood staring into the stained toilet bowl, wanting to shout after him: "Hang on a mo, Duke - it's not supposed to happen like this - there's so much I want to say to you - you changed my life - can I at least have your autograph? - love you madly ... !!"

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By the next night, we were at the Manchester Sports Guild, a venue where the most athletic activity I ever saw was the enthusiastic lifting of pint glasses. I was recovering somewhat from the trauma. And by the time we got back to London. I could see the funny side of things.

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At home I decided to remove my prized portrait of Duke Ellington from its honoured position in the sitting room and relocate it on the lavatory wall, where it remains to this day. So I still see the Duke every day, in a sense. There's a twinkle in his eye and I like to think he enjoys my little joke.

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There was a young fellow called Bradly,
Who did almost everything badly,

He took up the uke,
And played songs by the Duke -

But nobody loved him too madly.