S.S. Norway Jazz Cruise
December 2000

Part 1
Part 2

By Don Williamson

On Tuesday, my wife and I went ashore on St. Maarten. I learned interesting factoids about the place. It is the world’s smallest island divided between two sovereign powers. Things like that. Here’s another factoid. It once was called Sualouiga, meaning “salt island.” That makes sense because St. Maarten is a rocky and dry place, at odds with my preconception of a pristine forest rising from the Caribbean.

A steel drum band greeted the cruise ship passengers as they followed the street from the dock to the hundred or so jewelry stores awaiting dollars and pounds. Okay, maybe there were two hundred jewelry stores. I didn’t count them. Amazingly, I saw not one of the music lovers from the cruise ship stand to listen to the steel drum music. Instead, they were herded to the shops and bars immediately ahead. When I expressed interest in renting a car, an inscrutable, taciturn man asked my wife and me to follow him for blocks!. And blocks. I felt as if I were going to be in trouble or as if I were going to part with some of my money in a big way. Instead, the inscrutable car rental representative drove us to the agency’s office, which borders the salt pond facing Philipsburg. Where were the rental cars? None of them looked driveable, much less new. Window air conditioner blasting noisily, the lady in the office seemed aroused from her afternoon of watching soap operas on the corner television. She took my credit card impression, gave me a map and pointed me to a Nissan. That car must have been ten years old, the foam dashboard was cracked from the heat, and someone had splattered paint on the passenger’s side. The key didn’t open the trunk and the radio didn’t work, but the car was mobile and its brakes worked fine. We drove around the island, stopping seldom because the roads are narrow, because there are no observation points and because other drivers tailgate. (Why would they be in a hurry?) Besides, who would want to go out into that wilting heat anyway when the car was air conditioned? I wanted to drive to the highest point of the island. I passed a sign saying “Paradise Pic” because I thought it described a Kodak moment until I realized I was on the French side of the island and that “pic” means “peak.” The road to the top was narrow, broken into big chunks, steep and enclosed by grass higher than the car’s roof. At the top of the mountain, or at least a mountain by St. Maarten’s standards, there was less room than the inside of a 2-1/2-car garage for turning around the old banged-up, paint-splattered Nissan. And there was no observation point! What’s the point of a “pic” without such a point?

When I returned the car, I interrupted a thrilling episode of All My Children. Erica Kane was up to no good again. After the agency’s representative swiped my credit card through the machine, she found that it didn’t work. I was forced to pay cash. (Yes, I did check my Visa statement after the cruise, and no, a charge for car rental did not appear on it. Those Maartenians are honest people.)

A technician lay on his back just outside the office’s front door and was repairing the underside of a car’s engine compartment. He looked up and shouted, “Hey, House Of Blues mon!” It took me a moment to realize I was wearing a Chicago House Of Blues T-shirt. “Have you been to The House Of Blues?” “Yes…,” I honestly replied, wondering if honesty was the best policy in this situation. Exhibiting a big smile, he said, “Oh, mon, I love blues and jazz. Do you like jazz?” “Yes, a little bit.” “I listen to jazz all of the time.” I said, “You should go to The House Of Blues sometime. You’d like it.” “Oh, I know, mon. I want to. Well, you have a good day.” “You too.” I suspected that the mechanic will never visit any of the House Of Blues venues. I wished that he, with his exuberant love of jazz, could have heard at least one of the exciting performances aboard the S.S. Norway anchored just off the shore of Philipsburg.

The street heat of Philipsburg was starting to boil my multiple-degreed sunburns again. My wife and I bought a Pepsi from a machine in the police station when an officer opened the security door for us just because we asked him to do so. It seemed to be the only Pepsi machine in the city. My wife took my picture in front of the Government Administration Building and next to the statue of The Old Man, whoever he was. We bought a voodoo walking stick. We took the tender back to the ship, and that was our day in St. Maarten.

Except that I didn’t mention swimming at Orient Beach or all of the sheep that crossed the road in front of the Nissan at Etang Chevrise or the lack of shade! or getting in a traffic jam in Marigot or the panting dogs that spend their entire days under parked cars or the small un-air-conditioned homes of many of the residents or the above-ground cemetery or the island’s university whose concrete entrance sign was broken and read “Uniersity” or my conversation with a jewelry store employee whose uncle moved from India 20 years ago to run 7 of the Philipsburg stores and whose same uncle was in Hong Kong at that very moment buying gems to sell to cruise ship passengers. Or so his nephew thought.

But you’re more interested in jazz, right?

All right then.

That night, I actually found a seat in the Club Internationale and was mightily impressed by Shelly Berg’s trio. His performance during the Piano Spectacular was no fluke. Berg enthralled his audience and paid tribute to his inspiration, Oscar Peterson. He said that if he had never heard Oscar Peterson, he might never have become a professional pianist. Then Berg played his composition, “Will,” named after Gene Lees’ book about Peterson, The Will To Swing. Beyond Berg’s mastery of the piano, though, his trio was truly interactive, as are the very best, such as, of course, Peterson’s, or Bill Evans’. John Leitham was just as proficient and inspiring on the bass, aggressively supporting Berg and soloing with true mastery. The crowd got its money’s worth. Running down to the North Cape Lounge, I was just in time to hear Sherrie Maricle’s famous drum solo closing “Caravan.” So, missing that set, I went up to the International Deck to hear Lonnie Smith again in the Sports Illustrated Café. Smith had been discovered by this time, and there was standing room only. Bucky and Ruth Pizzarelli sat at the bar. Ruth concentrated intently on the sporting event broadcast on the many TV’s behind the bar. Bucky concentrated intently--and appreciated--Jimmy Ponder’s seemingly effortless swing. During the break, I struck up a conversation with Ponder and told him I was glad he came along on the cruise. He said, “Yes, thank God for the cruise.” I didn’t know what to make of that remark, but I assumed that Ponder was grateful for two weeks of continuous employment.

If it was Wednesday, then it must be St. Thomas. Getting off the tender in the center of town to the cries of numerous taxi drivers, my wife and I asked a taxi driver, “Where is the center of town?” Our guidebook had advised us that a taxi ride was necessary to get there. The taxi driver said, “You are in the center of town.” I looked at the street sign. We ducked into an air-conditioned shop. Sure enough, the tender had landed in the center of town. The Disney Magic and the Royal Caribbean were docked at the edge of town; the S.S. Norway’s tender wasn’t. So naturally, we rode to the edge of town. We would not be denied a taxi ride! We rode the lift overlooking the harbor. We enjoyed a rare breeze, we listened to Bob Marley, we soaked in the gorgeous view of the bay, and we ate hot dogs.

Now, downtown Charlotte Amalie reminds me of Times Square, the horns honking and the cars going nowhere fast as pedestrians step in front of them. However, Charlotte Amalie is hotter and more beautiful in a Caribbean sort of way than New York City. My wife and I toured the museum overlooking the harbor, and we inspected the solitary confinement “hole,” as it was called, and we baked. Avoiding the crowd, we went to the Virgin Islands’ legislative building to be nosy and to escape the heat. I said to the receptionist, “We’re just tourists.” She said, “Why don’t you visit our legislative chamber upstairs?” Unaccompanied and seemingly with little or no security, my wife and I peered through the window of Senate chamber’s door. We left to sit on the legislature’s lawn overlooking the sea. And that was our day in St. Thomas.

By this time, my foot was swollen, and I limped into the Sports Illustrated Café that night to hear more of Diva than the ending to “Caravan.” I heard a two-trumpeted tribute to Dizzy and Miles. I heard the traditional saxophone battle. I heard an outstanding big band commanding the audience’s attention. Maricle looked approvingly and encouragingly at the soloists as they improvised. Her expressions of fondness and pride hinted at Maricle’s dedication to keeping her band together in spite of the numerous obstacles that cause the demise of less determined bands.

My wife and I had become Marlena Shaw enthusiasts, and we went to the North Cape Lounge to hear her a third time. She sang many of the same tunes from her earlier performance. Once again, her and Bernard Purdie’s interactivity with the audience broke down whatever barriers may have existed between entertainer and entertained. I had read that Shaw sang at Stanley Turrentine’s funeral in Pittsburgh. Her enthralling effect on an audience must have left an unforgettable impression on the mourners. However, in the North Cape Lounge, Shaw was experiencing technical difficulties. A sound technician ran back and forth between controls and microphones in a veritable frenzy. Shaw was calm and gracious. I wondered why the sound technician hadn’t checked the equipment before the concert, in spite of the fact that the Lounge served as the venue for an exciting game of bingo almost until it was time for Shaw to start singing. I looked down into the audience, and--what do you know?--there were Jerry Weldon, Bill Charlap and his wife and Harry Allen laughing at Shaw’s jokes and nodding their heads to her groove and clapping energetically at the ends of her tunes. It occurred to me that one of the things I like about jazz musicians is their unselfish support of each other, their continuous interest in learning more about their craft, and their undying love of the art of jazz.

The moral of that observation? Be careful what you say or do in public because you never know who may be watching you, including a sometimes writer for www.allaboutjazz.com. I mean, it could have been worse. What if I had observed a public argument among the musicians? The whole world would have known about it.

Thursday was a day “at sea,” and while passengers were out and about, they could experience five Game Bingo Bonanza! or Blowout Art Auction or Renewal Of Marriage Vows (by Father Pannakunnel) or Victory At Sea Slot Tournament or Grandparents’ Party or Bridge Lecture.

Or they could listen to jazz.

I listened to jazz. John and Bucky Pizzarelli, son and father, in a duo concert in the Saga Theater. While John obviously learned a lot from his father, and while the two of them performed together before John’s career received a boost of late, it would be reasonable to expect that their styles may have diverged. Not so. Not so at all. Instead, father and son fed ideas to each other and alternated rhythm and melody. John described the development of the seven-string guitar, giving due credit to George Van Eps, one of Bucky’s influences. Showing the audience the use of the seventh string to produce the rhythmic lines, he and his father proceeded through an entire performance that gave proof to the value of the extension of the guitar’s capabilities. The energy from the two guitarists was palpable, and the audience was in awe. John also paid implicit respect to his father by explaining to the audience the influence of Joe Mooney’s group upon his father. After a tribute to Nat King Cole, Bucky and John Pizzarelli honored “the drummers aboard the ship.” Duffy Jackson was in the front row. Then they developed Benny Goodman’s “Sing Sing Sing” into a thrilling interpretation that defies description. Suffice it to say that the audience rose to their feet at the end of the concert while Bucky and John sat on stage and smiled broadly.

Now, lunches aboard the S.S. Norway can be a semi-formal affair. Or you can breeze through the buffet line on the deck and eat in the sun. My wife and I walked down a few deck levels to the Leeward Dining Room to be pampered by the helter-skelter waiters who must have a really bad day if they feel that they have displeased a passenger. The conversation among the diners at our table inevitably turned to the subject of Bucky and John Pizzarelli. Two ladies from the Bronx seemed to enjoy gossip about them. “John isn’t married, is he?” Me: “Oh, yes. He’s married to a Broadway performer named Jessica Molaskey.” “Bucky should play in movies.” Me: “Well, he just performed in that Woody Allen movie about Django Reinhardt.” A knowledgeable man from Buffalo Grove, Illinois looked me in the eye and reminded me that the name of the movie is “Sweet And Lowdown.” Me: “That’s right. Bucky taught Anthony LaPaglia how to hold the guitar.” The man from Buffalo Grove added more information. Bronx lady: “Wasn’t Bucky divorced?” Me: “No, he’s been married for forty-seven years.” Bronx lady: “Do you think the Pizzarellis have any other children besides John and Martin?” Me: “They have two daughters, Ann and Mary. And they have one granddaughter.” My wife was smiling quietly. I was too busy eating lunch to pay much attention to the other diners, except to jump into the conversation when their facts erred. Strangely enough, the Bronx ladies seemed sorry to see me leave.

As my wife and I ascended the grand staircase out of the dining room, she said, “Did you see those ladies’ faces?” “No,” I said. “You were the center of attention,” she said with conviction. “Me?” “Yes, you. They were hanging onto your every word,” she said. “They were?” “Yes, they were. They were trying to find out as much as they could.” “Well, I just couldn’t let all of those errors go without correcting them. It drives me crazy to hear misinformation repeated as if it’s fact,” I told her.

And then it occurred to me that many of the passengers aboard the S.S. Norway were AARP-aged jazz groupies, fascinated with personal details of the lives of their favorite performers. That tainted my observations throughout the rest of the cruise. As I listened to dinner conversations, my newly aroused cynicism was confirmed. These people loved to swap stories about jazz musicians. They recalled the experiences of actually spending time with them. They talked endlessly about discographical trivia and which musician played with whom and when and where. They wore shirts that proclaimed their affiliations, such as Pittsburgh Jazz Society or Montreaux Jazz Fest. Such branding was worn with pride in the hope that it would start animated conversations…conversations that could have taken place only aboard the soon-to-be-sold S.S. Norway. I mean, few other people in Buffalo Grove, Illinois--or even in the Bronx--would be interested in detailed gossip about the Pizzarellis.

Befitting a jazz groupie, I went to Autograph Session--Meet The Stars! I talked to Freddy Cole, who is a nice, unassuming guy politely fielding questions and smiling for photographs. A publicist had suggested that I interview Bill Charlap, and so I introduced myself. Charlap courteously engaged in small talk and gave me his number, although I could have been anyone else in the world but a sometimes jazz writer, for all he knew. I suppose his hand-written phone number comprised his autograph. Charlap's devoted wife, Sandra, sat next to him and read a book with the word "Amy" in its title as he suffered the various autograph requests. My wife wanted to talk to Marlena Shaw, who in turn to talked to her, and I was cut out of the process. It was a female thing, and they were talking in their own female code words, as if members of an instant sorority. My admiration for Shaw's ability to connect with her enthusiasts grew. I bought her CD, and she signed the liner notes for us. Diva band members and, as I recall, Harry Allen and Danny Mixon sat at the tables as well, as if they were manning an exhibit at a state fair or a convention.

I heard Freddy Cole’s quartet perform in the Saga Theater that night. Although I should have known it, I was surprised at the extent of Cole’s piano playing, which consisted of a, oh, 60/40 piano playing/singing ratio. Like a nightclub singer, Cole sat at the piano and sang tunes like “I Remember You,” “It’s Impossible,” and “How Do You Keep The Music Playing?” His back-up musicians seemed to be a serious lot, particularly guitarist Jerry Byrd, who never cracked a smile. Cole ended the evening’s concert with the tune “I’m Not My Brother, I’m Me,” hinting that inevitable comparisons of his voice to Nat’s were off limits, or at least that they would “turn his smile upside-down.” Cole strolled down the steps from the stage and posed for photographs. My wife and I found that bassist Herman Burney was standing next to us, and we struck up a conversation. Burney was still on a high from the concert and obviously had enjoyed himself. In the middle of the conversation--I mean, in the middle of a sentence--Michael Moore interrupted as if my wife and I didn’t exist so that he could offer his praise for Burney’s performance. As if we didn’t exist, my wife and I left the auditorium to see if our non-existence would create positive effects on our slot-machining.

Dinner on Thursday night was interesting, to say the least. Passengers are expected to settle up on Friday night by tipping their waiters and servers. So, the final night of truly relaxed dinner entertainment consisted of much teasing and pleasantries. We were lucky to have a waiter named Cesar, whose nametag noted that he is from Haiti. The server, Jean-Claude, was from Haiti as well. Jean-Claude’s extreme introversion balanced Cesar’s effervescence to create a great team. A waiter named Courtney (from Jamaica) joked quietly as he requested the opportunity to serve drinks. While Jean-Claude shuffled and swiftly poured water in fear that someone may actually speak to him, Cesar whisked away silverware, briskly set down plates, danced as the occasion dictated, talked in Donald Duck argot and showed a tight memory of the fine details surrounding the dining experience. Serving coffee, Cesar said proudly, “I bring it hot from the MAH-sheen.” Serving appetizers: “I bring this out just for you. You try it and let me know how you think.” We were served no less than four cakes, ostensibly to celebrate birthdays and an anniversary. I think the S.S. Norway dining staff just enjoy celebrations. The evening culminated in the unforgettable moment as waiters from around the world converged on the circular staircase to sing “We Are The World,” and they waved propane lighters in the darkened dining room as if they were glowsticks. The words were hard to distinguish but the feeling was intact. The waiters enjoyed dancing through the dining room and singing “Hot Hot Hot” as they held flaming baked Alaska aloft. The diners were greatly entertained, as they should have been. There were no false emotional notes to be heard.

Friday was Grand Stirrup Cay Day, and passengers arrived in waves on the shore of Norwegian Cruise Line’s private island in the Bahamas. My wife and I arrived in the first wave, allowing us to occupy the beach chairs of our choice and to try out hammocks before they were reserved. Bertram Cove, where we went ashore, appeared as if it were the scene of a movie, the reefs bordering the swimming area, gulls dodging and swooping, the sands white and hot. Too hot. I had gone to the S.S Norway’s Medical Center the previous day to elicit expressions of concern and puzzlement from the doctor, who saw my purple and red ankle swelling into the shape of a sausage link. I was warned to stay out of the sun. She gave me ineffectual erythromycin tablets. The blisters that define a second-degree burn started appearing, white dots on my tie-dyed skin.

Not to be refused the right to burn even more, I sunbathed in long white pants and a button-up shirt. I bought a hat. The sun could burn my hands and face if it so chose. Even though vast surfaces of flesh glistened under sun block and Coppertone throughout Grand Stirrup Cay, ever the non-conformist, I instead stood out like a sore thumb because of my sore leg. Courtney, our drink server from dinner, saw me and laughed. “How are you enjoying the sun today?” he asked, apparently without irony. “Fine fine.”

I found a hammock in the midst of shade for relaxation and reading while my wife waded and beckoned. People swam to the coral reefs and walked along the ridges. Volleyball-playing and dancing occurred. The calypso band Up Ryzin’ sounded more inspirational and clear in the Grand Stirrup Cay bandstand than it did on the ship. Swinging in the hammock, I saw Bill Charlap go to the drink stand and tell his wife, “Go catch up with Harry. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” As my wife and I went to get our lunch, I saw Sherry Maricle walking with other members of Diva. Their heads turning to take in the sights, it was obvious that the women of Diva were having a good time. As we re-entered the S.S. Norway from the tender, Dr. Lonnie Smith was waiting to board the tender. For the first time ever, the still-turbaned Smith wasn’t wearing a robe. Instead, he wore, if memory serves me correctly, an “In Motion On The Ocean” T-shirt.

On our final night at sea, my wife and I chose to hear Freddy Cole in the Club Internationale, a more intimate setting and one which enhanced Cole’s style of connecting one-on-one with his audience. Tiring of sitting on a sofa at the side of the stage, though, we decided to hear Danny Mixon’s Farewell Jam. And jam he did. Starting the set with his regular trio bassist Ralph Hamperian and drummer Drori Mundlak, Mixon invited Keter Betts and Duffy Jackson to sit in. The highlight of the set was Jackson’s introduction and performance of the tune, “No Good Nothing,” which he said his father wrote to describe his value. (Father Chubby Jackson is doing well in retirement in San Diego, according to Duffy.) Duffy Jackson is a sight to see, his body whirling in circular motion and his energy flowing through to the audience. The lyrics to “No Good Nothing,” which Jackson sang, invigorated the audience, and before you knew it, saxophonists Jerry Weldon and Rickey Woodard joined them on stage too. Diva was playing poolside on the Pool Deck. The evening was a last chance to capture the magic of the S.S. Norway before the passengers had to return to land and reality.

Waking up at 4:00 a.m., I saw that the S.S. Norway had already pulled into Miami. Bags had been taken from the hallways so that the U.S. Customs Service could inspect them if necessary. At the appointed times, we left the ship, found our bags and waited to board the buses heading to the airport. Just as he did when we boarded the ship, Earl May was looking for his bags. Martin Pizzarelli searched for his.

As I looked out the window of the bus, I saw Dr. Lonnie Smith talking to admirers in a wheelchair in the heat, his turban still intact. (Smith had suffered a slight stroke two years ago.) My leg felt less painful as I sat, and I thought that I could have used a wheelchair myself. I spent the following week in bed, my foot elevated and my body allowing antibiotics to reduce the swelling to something approaching normality.

On the airplane, I popped into the Diskman CD’s recorded by Dr. Lonnie Smith, John Pizzarelli, Marlena Shaw and Bernard Purdie. I wanted to recall the spirit of the second-to-the-last S.S. Norway jazz cruise before the detailed memories started to fade. In the back of my mind, I realized they already had.

On to part 3 of the S.S. Norway Jazz Cruise story (the players)