Cobb (right) and Lionel Hampton, c. June 1946. Photo: William P. Gottlieb
Driving that Lincoln back from a gig late one night, through ranch country, a bull ran across the road in front of him, then decided to charge the car. The Brahma died in the attack, but force of impact knocked the wrecked sedan off road. In those days, seat belts hadn’t yet been invented. Cobb, badly injured, suffered for several hours. My friend, well-versed in rural Texas Jim Crow behavior, speculated about cars that might have passed right by the accident scene with no thought to render aid. “Just a nigger hollering, nothing to see.”
An African-American videographer I work with spent his boyhood in Houston, Texas’ Fifth Ward during the late 1960s. Growing up, he had personal contact with Southern-style racism. He told me of seeing “colored only” fountains and “no Negro” business signs. His family gave wide berth to certain areas, and he was trained to walk rather than ride public transit to avoid racial profiling. The phrase “Jim Crow,” for his family, described the real world that surrounded his segregated community. Encountering disparaging glares and hearing the insult, “Nigger,” hurled at him were common occurrences. He was encouraged to excel in all things, as an antidote to Texian separate, unequal treatment.
He began studying music on low brass horns, eventually transitioning to the stringed bass. He played in the now world-famous Kashmere High School Stage Band. His classical music skills on bowed contrabass improved enough to earn a chair in the orchestra supporting the Houston Ballet. He spent his early career as a professional bassist.
A native Houston musician from an earlier generation, Swing Era saxophonist Arnett Cobb, also resided in town at that time. Between 1942-1947, Cobb had earned fame and fortune as the tenorman featured with Lionel Hampton’s Big Band. Cobb became a star thanks to signature recorded solos on mega-hits like his composition “Smooth Sailing” and the band’s theme “Flying Home.” These hits hopped past the barrier between a race-record catalog restricted to Negro listeners into widespread popularity.
Stardom brought perks for a touring headliner. Cobb could afford luxury cars, like a fancy Lincoln Town Car with uncommon options like a 45rpm record changer. He was offered many opportunities to work. Cobb eventually left Hampton’s orchestra to front his own band, Arnett Cobb and the Mobb. As guest soloist with fellow heavyweight musicians, as well as with his own ensemble, Cobb traveled the world. “I am booked ’til after I am dead,” he always said.
The Houston-based Mobb ensemble included Lanny Steele, a pianist who also taught music at Texas Southern University, a historically Black college. My friend studied in that department. This word-of-mouth connection helped the young bassist join Cobb’s rhythm section for local appearances.
I’m an appreciative jazz listener who educates myself about master players. But as a Yankee from back East, focused on New York City-based musicians, I didn’t know much about famous Texans who hadn’t relocated. All I did know was that Arnett Cobb was revered as the original “Texas Tenor” sax player, an identifiable sound. By having a member of Cobb’s rhythm section to ask, I am fortunate to learn backstage stories rarely shared with outsiders.
Arnett played a Martin saxophone, one of the most unwieldy of that register of horn. Cobb was an unforgiving taskmaster. He had no patience, period, for music-schooled hopefuls who depended on chart-reading rather than internalized comprehension to produce a solo. Cobb demanded commitment. This was Cobb’s bottom-line expectation for one to call oneself a musician.
Like the old timers who schooled him, Arnett did not rehearse. He did demand that Mobbsters learn extensive repertoire by ear from recordings. No wasting listeners’ precious attention with clueless noodling ’til you found your place in the harmonic structure of a song. He “couldn’t use you” if you were unable to play adroitly through constantly disquieting tempo fluctuations and unanticipated key changes. Instant firings from a spot on the bandstand mid-show were common. My beginner friend had observed enough abrupt dismissals to play his band support role intensively, gingerly, in constant fear. But,while Lanny egged him on with left handed piano clues, he learned a ton from the heavyweight horn player.
On what would have been Cobb’s 99th birthday, August 10, 2017, my friend told me how the horn player had become disabled. A serious car accident in 1957 had lamed a leg and took one lung, such that, for the rest of his career, Cobb played on crutches.
Driving that Lincoln back from a gig late one night, through ranch country, a bull ran across the road in front of him, then decided to charge the car. The Brahma died in the attack, but force of impact knocked the wrecked sedan off road. In those days, seat belts hadn’t yet been invented. Cobb, badly injured, suffered for several hours. My friend, well-versed in rural Texas Jim Crow behavior, speculated about cars that might have passed right by the accident scene with no thought to render aid. “Just a nigger hollering, nothing to see.”
Finally a veterinarian stopped, perhaps attracted by the sight of animal carcass. He and his wife elected to do what they could for a Black man in pain, regardless of the jeopardy their practice might face. Taking an injured Negro to the hospital was out of the question. Instead, he brought Cobb to his practice, quietly so as not to attract attention.
He explained that he was not a doctor but was a vet. His wife went out and bought some blood, so they could operate. He set the leg as best he could, by fusing the broken bones in three places.
As for the lung, “The Wild Man of the Tenor Sax,” recuperated well enough to record Blow, Arnett, Blow, and several other LPs two to four years later. Cobb played through chronic pain, what his people mean by “the blues.” “Blue Sermon” on his album called Sizzlin’ was released November 30, 1960.
Between occasional breaks for poorer health, Cobb continued to set an extraordinarily high standard for bluesy, muscular horn performance. Some two dozen more LPs were released. He met his maker in 1989, leaving behind an enduring legacy. Musicians —both those who play his instrument and those adding all of an orchestra’s other tonal colors — emulate and idolize Arnett Cobb.
Hate to tell you, he could have died out there in that field. A lot of them “niggers” did. Too many still do, several generations later. Who can say how much damage racial hatred does? Whose soul is truly harmed?
HATE TO TELL YOU
TRADITIONAL USE OF THE ‘N’ WORD
The kid who played bass in his local Houston band
Arnett Cobb and The Mobb
now grown older himself
tells me the whole story he heard from the horse’s
mouth, his very lips, the embouchure belonging to
that singular most influential
Texas Tenor,
on what would have been his
99th birthday, August 10, 2017
I hope I recollect it right, the one about
the accident in 1956 that lamed his leg
and took one lung, but did not one bit
slow down his Martin saxophone playing,
legacy dominating, soulful music making.
He was booked ’til after he was dead, he always said.
“The kids don’t need to know that stuff,”
Red said. But his piano player, Lanny Steele
hip white dude, egged him on,
“yes they do
need to know
about Jim Crow.”
Driving a big old fancy Lincoln,
had a 45 record changer in it,
luxury cars like that back then.
Late at night coming back from a gig,
a bull ran across the road in front of him.
Then decided to charge the car, ran back.
Arnett hit and killed it, wreck
knocked to roadside,
no seat belts then, badly injured.
White folks drove right by,
“just a [Nobody] hollerin’
nothin’ to see,”
for hours.
Finally a veterinarian stopped.
He and his wife got him in their truck,
explained he wasn’t a doctor
but was a vet, had to treat
a black man secret-like,
else he wouldn’t have a practice.
Wife went out and bought some blood.
Only way to save the leg
was fuse it in 3 places.
Rest of his life Red played on crutches.
That didn’t slow him down none.
The Wild Man of the Tenor Sax
taught so many
young cats
tough lessons
how to make real music.
“Blue Sermon”
Cobb resiliently recorded it 4 years later.
Timeless truth of the blues.
He coulda died out there.
Lot of ’em [Nobodies] did.
Hate to tell you.
COBB, ARNETT CLEOPHUS (1918–1989). Arnett Cobb, jazz tenor saxophonist, was born Arnette Cleophus Cobbs, on August 10, 1918, in Houston, Texas. Originator of the “open prairie” tone and “southern preacher” style, Cobb continually turned down offers from many national bands including Jimmie Lunceford, Count Basie, and Lionel Hampton. However, with his mother’s approval, and Gladys Hampton’s offer to Elizabeth (Cobb’s wife), in 1942 Arnett took the lead saxophone chair in Hampton’s band.
Mason Street 