Bill Kay sees Big Jay let his hair down

As I write this tonight I am watching middle America at play. I am in a nightspot on
Sunset Boulevard, but not the Sunset Boulevard of the Strip or Chateau Marmont, Beverly Hills or Santa Monica. This is further east, in Hollywood - only just - and it is the Sunset Boulevard of discount stores, off-the-shelf religion and cheap motels. In a strip mall dominated by the garish lights of a 99c store, on the other side of the parking lot dotted with the almost obligatory 50ft high palm trees, stands an anonymous beige breeze-block wall with only the street number over the door. But inside is Safari Sam's, where for $23 ($3.50 extra if you pay by credit card) you can eat, drink, dance and listen to what I suppose is best described as retro rock and blues, covering a spectrum from 1930 to 1980.
The patrons were generally middle-aged, with a few kids. There wasn't a lot of money around. People emerged from beat-up cars wearing run-down jeans, utility shoes and t-shirts. Everyone seems either stick thin or superfat - and yes, I do know this
is America, so superfat is not a title conferred lightly.
In the circumstances, the menu was remarkably healthy. Salted edamame and black sesame, caesar salad, avacado citrus salad and vegan shepard's (sic) pie jostled with jack cheese quesadilla, Italian sausage, chicken curry and the obligatory Safari Burger. Simple stuff, cooked well, better than you might expect for a music venue.
After a warm-up from Big Jim Dawson and his pal Ravishing Ray on the CD system, followed by an hour of Mark Tortorici and the Hollywood Combo's R&B, most of the 200 or so people in the room rise to their feet. They are straining to catch sight of an totally bald 80-year-old negro, his back and legs bowed by age, as he makes slow progress through the throng from the back to the stage. His name is Cecil McNeely, and few would pay him much attention but for the enormous tenor saxophone in his hands, with a microphone peering into its mouth to catch every last spit and murmur.
Cecil changed his stage name to Big Jay McNeely all of 60 years ago, under the orders of a Savoy Records A&R man, when he embarked on a career as what is known as a honking saxophonist, playing blues at the high and low end of the register while dancing and throwing himself around. Strange to think that Big Jay earned the accolade of being banned by the LA County authorities for his ability to whip teenagers into a frenzy that was deemed dangerous to decent people. He still inspires frenzy, but music fans long ago broke every breakable rule without the roof falling in, so his no longer considered a threat to public order. He is a little too old to go throwing himself on the floor these days - he once played while crawling on his back the 30 yards from home plate to first base at an LA baseball stadium - but Big Jay still got the audience jumping around, in a controlled sort of frenzy. No legs or glasses were broken as far as I could see.
At one stage, pumping away in the middle of the dancers, Big Jay picked out a red-dressed, bare-shouldered blonde for special attention as he played Put on your high heel sneakers. She was delighted to realise that he was addressing her with his sax, and her friends gradually melted away to leave the floor to the two of them. At the end she gave him a grateful hug: I couldn't help feeling that 20 or 30 years ago she might have torn her clothes off for him.
But this was still a very different Big Jay from the silent, shuffling character, usually wrapped in coat and scarf, who occasionally visits our Monday night dinners at Conrad's diner in Pasadena. Then, the man who can galvanise a room sits quietly, rarely saying anything until he is spoken to. 'He likes to conserve his energy these days,' Jim Dawson explains.
Seeing him commanding the audience at Safari Sam's reminded me of the only time I saw the late, great James Brown, at a similar venue in east London half a dozen years ago. The reverence, close to worship, was evident, and that made the release of restraint all the more vivid. We had paid our respects when Big Jay entered the hall; now we could feel free to be unhibited. 'Let your hair down - or take it off!' Big Jay instructed, using a line that has been his stock-in-trade for at least half a century. He took his off years ago.
There was an innocence about that loss of control, with none of the drink-fuelled nastiness that you might see in Europe. No testosterone-led youngsters were trying to carve out territory, steal women, smash glasses or throw food. It was good, clean fun that took everyone out of their ordinary daily lives for a few hours, at a price most people could afford. And the music was very, very good.