In Walks Bud by Glenn Laszlo Weiss

This Play is the copyright of the Author and must NOT be Performed without the Author's PRIOR consent

Time: New Year’s Eve, 1964 (December 31, 1963). It is hours preceding a Thelonious Monk concert at Lincoln Center and hours following the concert.

Place: Nica’s, the jazz baroness’ house in Weehawken, New Jersey. The play takes place in the living room. The room is represented by a couch center stage a piano is in the stage left corner and the rest of the room is covered by a glass effect, the back having the New York City skyline. Sound should suggest the wind blowing and glass shattering when the action calls for it later. NICA speaks from a stool stage right. The scene between MONK and BUD following her speech should be in shadows as in a dream that MONK is slowly stirring from. When the action starts in “real time” after the dream sequence, BUD has arrived from MONK’s dream, summoned from MONK’s deepest recesses.

Characters:
Thelonious Monk: age 46, a gentle bear of a man, not prone to discussing his inner workings but when exposed, utterly determined to search for answers. Riding the cusp of fame after many years of isolated rejection. A man searching for peace.

Bud Powell: age 39, a combustible force given to thorough lethargy. A man, on his last legs and knows it. Though he has trouble staying focused, his purpose gives him uncharacteristic stamina. A child in a man’s body, he yearns with all his being to make good for once on a human level.
Baroness Pannonica de Koenigswarter (Nica): age 50, a real baroness, she is commonly known as the jazz baroness. Well—known for the scandal created when Charlie Parker died in her hotel room. A great friend to the jazz musicians who are her pride and passion. She is fiercely independent, very well educated and has felt ostracized her whole life for her oddities which boil down to a life dedicated to nonconformity and an overly intellectual approach to speech and thought. She has a British, Austrian and Hungarian background and is totally devoted to Monk. Their relationship is platonic.

NICA
Maybe it happened, maybe not. Some will swear it couldn’t. They will produce affidavits that Bud Powell was in a sanatorium for tuberculosis in Paris at the time of the concert. It will say so in black and white. And who can argue with anything stated in black and white? There will be those who will argue that Bud could not walk at the time, not talk and was incapable of finding his nose let alone his only friend in seclusion during a New Year’s snowstorm. There will be those who will insist Thelonious was securely home, in his home, not mine and basking in the glow of success that had finally arrived despite his disdain for all the trappings that come with it. They will undoubtedly say, how could he go into the darkness of seclusion upon finally realizing this hardly known bliss? A composer—pianist about to play before thousands with a full—blown orchestra to help usher in the New Year triumphantly swinging. They will say how improbable, how preposterous it would- seem that a disheveled, sickly, downtrodden man of yesteryear be summoned to intrude upon this harmonious scene? Except that I know what I know. Thelonious was hiding out. He was away from his family that he loved dearly. And it was by choice. He was immensely troubled this night by demons which he could barely see and could only feel the slight impressions of their footfalls. He was remotely aware of an eerie disquiet. Uniquely, telepathically, he delivered the only one he could reach out to. The one who could identify the source of this particular madness. A howl, a cry in the night enjoined the men. The tranquility shattered, they faced each other. I was there. I dispute the so—called facts. They were together. There was the interruption of the work, of time and of space. Then life resumed. Changed. It was an all—nighter. It took a long time. It felt like a long time. The air was charged. Spirits were besotted in laughter and sadness. Wills, egos collided, they crashed forever insanity—tinged. Until the wind swept it all away. The tussle of Will was broken in two. It was morning. The ghastly splinters of shared pain were swept back into their proper places until another time, another place. A calming rain began and flooded out the residue caught hold in the snow. On the banks of New Jersey, I was there, my cats were there. We witnessed the session blowing hot, hotter than any of the arrangements played across the Hudson earlier that night at Lincoln Center. The men scoffed at the world’s heralding of a New Year, when the real beginnings of their personal endings were taking shape. The public was lagging behind the artist again, they mused. I was there, I tell you. Their last meeting. Bud had to make it. He couldn’t disappoint. He had some dues to pay. Thelonious had called him, though he didn’t really know it himself. That is, until the damn thing had happened. Open your minds, dear friends and experience pain giving birth to solace. And something more? We will see, I assure you.
BLACKOUT
THELONIOUS MONK (laying on a couch)
MONK
Restless sleep, years fly by, they go back, always go back. I see chords written on so many walls. Bud’s chords. Shadows filled with eyes, witnesses to the brutality. The years like weights pressing down on my buddy. The restless sleep full of years spinning ‘round and finally stops at 1945.

(BUD POWELL in the shadows moving towards the lights.)
BUD
Floating across the water. Across time. Gasping, more like grasping to get a hold of ... mind sees Monk everywhere in my mind, I see him all the time. Feel him all the time. Going back to the scene of the first time all the trouble starts. Feel the crash, the crunch. Knuckles crashing on my head, so many of them. Mind back, mind bent backwards to the beginning of it all.

MONK
See, I stood up for this cat Bud. He came into the club where I was house pianist, Minton’s up in Harlem. He had some strange ideas on that piano and of course, so did I. Knew what it was ‘bout when someone was treated strange. So, I looked out for him, stood up for him when people wanted him off the stand. Guess Bud got the idea he had to do the same damn thing for me.

BUD
See, I’d seen and heard them say things behind my man’s back. And it burned me up. I caught them, yeah. Whispering, sneering and making sounds with their mouths and noses. Laughing, always laughing. Sounded like the devil’s chorus and I jumped, man, I jumped into the fire! Lost where I was at. Thought I was in a club with Monk but I was somewhere else. Just me and the cops and a bunch of steam and loud whistles. Couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I was so headstrong, mind was strong back then and I walked like a god. Proud, so proud. Couldn’t stay back (lights up, BUD thinks he’s ina club in Philadelphia, 1945. He sees hecklers bothering MONK and intercedes) Hey, who you think you’re speaking to. This man is the father of us all. Don’t dig his sound, split. But if you dig me or somebody else you’re paying heavy to see— we learned at his side. (whips himself up) That’s right, stay back before I smoke you all out. I usually do it on the keys but this time I’ll just hammer you all out. (Stares) How ‘bout the old face—down. Wait, shit how many of you are there? Monk, I don’t know, maybe I stepped into it too deep (cowers, blows are raining on him) now, I ain’t a fighter, just a player, best goddamn one around. Oh, shit, even more are coming, hey, you’re supposed to be the police, supposed to protect me, not kill me! Stop! Please, stop! Just a musician, man, God! No! (lights out on BUD).

MONK
Trouble was, Bud was in a lonely old train station, not a club. And no one was ‘round who knew him. I was only there in his mind.

BUD
How ‘bout an acid bath? the man says. YEOW!!!
MONK
And there it all started. Could trace all of my buddy’s problems from right there. Later,
more beatings (BUD moans), baths in ammonia ( BUD screams), driving out the spirit, the greatness, killing that man who danced into a room and made us all drop in awe of those hands. So fast and dancing. Lightning hands. I’d like to dance for you, man. All I can do today. Life goes on and we do the best (BUD makes a haunting sound). Never the same. Fighting mediocrity. Everything against you, man from that time on. You were just a boy but the dues were paid as a man. (BUD whimpers) Playing it all out for the rest of our time.

(BUD roams stage freely moving in his own insanity, his voice should turn into reverberation last five or so lines which wake Monk from his sleep on couch and take us into present.)

BUD
Once upon a time in the furthest reaches of the mind. In everywhere land or more like Philly in 1945. Brakes on, what a pity! Ridicule was the game those goons played, those who didn’t understand and laughed, laughed, laughed! Got no patience for this game.. . no patience, brakes on-don’t follow through. But I must, an artist must! Stand up for my friend, all artists, we must stand for our friends, all true friends. This friend doesn’t need any intervention. Just wants me to carry on with the invention, I have, all I have only that.. .save my courage, body, mind, yes, there’s a lifetime to recover from this incident. No!

(Lights fade out and come back up as MONK awakes on couch in NICA’S living room).
(Scene: MONK laying out on couch. A tapping is heard. The wind blows the door open. There is the sound of leaves followed by music then the tapping resumes while MONK speaks and looks about).

MONK
What’s that? Where’s it coming from? Sounds like a note. A note to where? From where? The dreams, must be one. Nightmares? No, it’s real. Happening. Only one can play those notes. Quit playing, Bud. Bud? Bud! Bud, is that really you? Don’t see any notes on the walls. No, none on the water. But it’s him. The one I know best.. And it’s been so long since I’ve seen him. Bud, is this really you? Got me going here and there. Why, ‘cause he’s Bud. Numero uno, man. Even though I’m the one playing tonight, in ‘bout two hours. Where the hell are you? Trying to steal my thunder? As usual. He used to be lightning fast now only bottled lightning he’s got goes by the name Thunderbird. Been listening, man. Sheeit. You can’t hide it, even way overseas. I can hear you!

(BUD POWELL crashes through the door, cool but
disheveled, with a bad cough and erratic energy).

BUD
Hey, Monk, get away from them curtains, get your ass away from that window. Shit, don’t you know I’ve got some tippity—toes on my tail. Shit!

MONK
Bud! Hey! What the blazes this about?

BUD
Ran out on some doctors. Skipped.
MONK
Skipped?

BUD
Yeah. In Paris. Took me a long walk, all the way to New Jersey. Shit. Across the water. Hey! But seems like the secret’s out. Got us some company.

MONK
What do you owe, Bud?

BUD
Same old Monk! Knows me like a book. Alimony, doctor bills, shit, you name it.

MONK
I name it right about where we left off.

BUD
Hey!

MONK
Hey! 1951. The Tombs. That ring a bell?

BUD
What do you think? Am I your brother in arms. Sheeit! (They hug).

MONK
Well, it’s safer now. Here. That’s for damn sure.

BUD
Hey, not so, not necessarily so. I’m more comfortable over there.

MONK
Well, I’ve been in the lap of luxury over here.
BUD
Don’t I know it.

MONK
Don’t run me down now, pal. You know I paid the dues.

BUD
Man, you’ve paid them longer than anyone I’ve known. Hope it hasn’t taken its toll like I’ve been hearing about, Monk.

MONK
What you mean? I’m just ‘bout fit as a fiddle. Someone’s been jivin’ you, man.

BUD
Heard you aint been right, my friend.

MONK
Now I told you that’s a bunch of jive. Give it up, drop it, man. I’m playing at Lincoln Center in a couple of hours with a full—blown orchestra, the tops, man. Does that sound like somebody out of their skull, Jack? Ten motherfucking piece band, man, you dig?

BUD
Hey, can’t complain about that.

MONK
Hey!

BUD
Hey, now, that’s it. Wait a minute. Where’s Nica? I have an idea. (NICA enters, bringing a box of hats of all sizes, shapes and kinds). Hey, Nica, darling. Will you see to this tippity—toes outside?
NICA
Sure, Bud. What do you want me to do? Monk, doll, the hats from all over the world have arrived, which do you prefer today? This is a daily occurrence, Bud. Two deliveries. One is the order we put in, the other the ones the fans have sent to the office. Isn’t it a trip?

BUD
(BUD grabs a few, nervously trying them on by mirror.) Sure is, Lady N, here’s what you tell them. Say, get off, this here’s diplomatic property. Like you don’t have any right to be on it. Like it’s espionage. Like you’re contraband in this here situation and you’ve got no protection. Use that European high—brow jazz, darling, hey! And baby, may I say it’s a pleasure to see you.

NICA
Righto. I’ll take care of it, Bud and then we’ll catch up on the pleasantries.

BUD
Gotcha! Oh, and Lady N.. .1 got a cab outside. Owe him a bit. Would you take care of the matter, dear?

NI CA
How much, Bud?

BUD
A fifty will do nicely. And maybe that purple beret over there, this dude in the cab is a real French—lover, hey!

MONK
Bud!

NI CA
It’s okay, Thelonious. Make him feel at home. Be right back. (Exits).
MONK
Of all the lousy, cheating, conniving, goddamn trickery.

BUD
I dig. Hey, man, now you know who you got here. Know I got that sweet tooth for luxury.

MONK
But you can’t pay.

BUD
Somebody always does. Hey, now, what’s up?

MONK
Remember, HORNIN’ IN— well I got it now. Every kind of sax, trumpet, man, even trombone.

BUD
Hey.

MONK
Hey. But they sure know how to complicate it, though. Sometimes... (sees something in the distance) I hear them yeah, screeching tires and all, the police, always hassling me, all that bull (snaps back to BUD). But, shit, band’s best around, seems.

BUD
(At first confused, then relieved.) Hey, what? Some kind of a bitch, huh?
(They laugh, pause).

MONK
It’s good to see you, Bud. Looks like you caught it rough, though. Man, you back for good?

BUD
No, man. I just slipped away to see you.
MONK
Right.

BUD
There’s been some people taking or I should say been trying to take care of me. Yeah, monitoring my every move and whatnot.

MONK
I can just imagine.

BUD
Hey!

MONK
They probably all dragged out by now. Sheeit.

BUD
Hey, you know it. PARISIAN THOROUGHFARE, you dig. Down this street, up that one, hey, where did Bud go? (They laugh.) But, serious, it’s bad, see, whatever scratch I can make, it goes to them. Some kind of deal got worked out. These goons are like on the payroll. I didn’t ask for them but there they are and all the rest of that jazzamatazz.

MONK
Yeah, good old THOROUGHFARE. I’ve been digging it for years. Least about ten or so. Always been a handful, always somebody on your tail. When you’re fucking around, it’s a natural consequence. Sheeit. What’s new, Bud?

BUD
Not much, man. Not a bit.
MONK
Your sound is kind of drunk, lately, man.

BUD
That’s a style, Bud’s choice. (Hats get thrown back and forth during these exchanges, an air of rivalry is set.)

MONK
Hey, that’s okay, man. Just don’t have us fall off the stool with you. Why so lopsided in your sound?

BUD
It’s all that’s left. I’ve tasted them, the sweets of life. Too much. I ‘ye used them all up. Turned green from it all. Too much. The cream, the cherries, the sherry, butterscotch into scotch, caramel into rye. The bodacious, the curvaceous, the hellacious ones. Wildcats. Heilcats, too, if you get where I’m going. Left their marks all over me, man. Too much. Down the gullet until the sweetness dries your parched throat sore. Kills you, man. Music, too. Used up too many beautiful chords, embellishments, glissandoes, crescendoes. Hey, until I just couldn’t breathe. Strangling, smothering, suffocating, couldn’t think no more. Then the speed left me. . .with a passion only for the next bottle...
nothing but a burning to get sauced. Left with only that, you dig? Then my sound turned funky—drunky, man.
MONK
Well, you certainly got it.

BUD
I’ve been true, Monk, to what we wanted to do.

MONK
Hey, that you have. Now what was that?
BUD
Quit jivin’, man. Talking about the pact. I am my sound as much as you are yours, Monk. Hey, I listen and I can see all those institutions with the pea green walls. Feel those endless nights taking the guts right out of me. I get right back there. Alone and screeching through the night so fucking alone.

MONK
I know you’ve been expressing some extraordinary things.

BUD
Well, that’s for you, my brother. So you know where I’ve been living. Right on the edge the whole time. Then when I get released they whisk me right to the damn studio, “Let’s just get you down on record, Bud”. With no discrimination, no taste, no vision. Just whatever came out at the moment. Sometimes I wasn’t ready for that. Needed at least a hot bath, to get laid, whatever. No, just produce, like I might hang myself before they can get my tracks down. Hey, sometimes, man, I didn’t even brush my teeth yet and there I’d be doing BUD ON BACH, CLEOPATRA’S DREAM. And where’s my dreams? Sheeit.

MONK
Yeah, that’s how they do us. Bud, you’ve been true to
it. Need for you to know that. Here, you can wear this one (throws him skullcap). You’re ordained now.

BUD
Alright I get it. Shuck that old cornpone, I dig.

MONK
Tiring me out with all that high and mighty jazz.