What You Won't Do For Love
Gene Coltrane Interview, October 21, 2019
The Bellweather Hotel, Studio City, CA
Audio Recording Part 1
“So how’s this gonna go?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I’m a little scared—not gonna lie. I’ve heard you make your men cry.”
“Only because they’re sad when it’s over.”
(He bursts into surprised laughter.) “So I’m gonna spill my guts, tell you all my darkest shit, and cry when it’s over, huh?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time, Gene.”
(A long pause.) “Let’s go.”
“Just for the record, please state your name and today’s date.”
“Gene Coltrane. October 21, 2019.”
“And I’m Rai Paley, interviewing for Lift magazine.”
“Ray, like in Ray Charles?”
“No, Rai like in the Sanskrit.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Tell you after the interview.”
“Shit.”
“Them’s the breaks. You’re the star; you get the questions.”
“You’re a real ray of sunshine.”
“That’s what they all say. Tell me about your first kiss.”
“What?”
“Tell me about your first kiss. Easy question. And remember—I’m only recording to take notes later—you get to approve this whole thing before it goes to print, so don’t trip.”
“But how is that an interview question?”
“It’s an icebreaker.”
“OK, then tell me about yours first.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You go first.”
“Why would I do that? It’s my interview.”
(A pause, followed by the creak of a chair.) “Because this here is a two-person situation. You want something personal from me, you got to give me something personal back in return. Lawyers call that something, don’t they?”
“Quid pro quo.”
“That’s it. Quid pro quo. You ‘pro’ and I ‘quo.’ And that’s the way it goes.” (He chuckles; another creak.) “First kiss.”
(A long pause; she sighs.) “OK, fine. He was a trumpet player in the high school band. It was in his backyard as we were walking home from a date. In the moonlight. It was perfect, and he was an excellent, top-shelf kisser. So there you go.”
“Tongue?”
“No. Why?”
“Context. Sometimes it goes there.”
“Your turn. Wait—before we start, I need to ask you for a favor. Could you please take off your shades?”
“Huh?”
“I’d like to be able to see your eyes. It’s important for a conversation like this—helps me to get to know you a little.”
“Yeah, fine, OK.” (The click of earpieces folding together, and the soft thump of an item being placed on a table. A few moments of heavy silence ensue, followed by the clearing of throats and rustling of papers.)
“Thanks a lot—much better. So now, first kiss …”
“My friend’s sister. In the den. We were watching a movie, he left to go to the bathroom or something, and we just kind of leaned into each other, then Bam!”
“Tongue?”
“No! I was twelve.”
(She laughs.)
“How old were you, anyway?”
“Sixteen.”
“Damn! That’s like a book or something—Bob and Jane Kiss in the Moonlight.”
“You’re a card.”
“Jack of diamonds, baby.”
“You have a beautiful smile.”
“Thanks.” (He laughs.) “Caps are a wonderful thing.”
“Ha! At least you avoided braces.”
“Not really. I needed braces growing up, but by the time I was in high school, we couldn’t afford it, so I got caps as soon as I made some decent money writing.”
“And that lean time came about when your dad split, right? I did some reading up, but keep me honest on all of this.”
“They split. My dad didn’t take off.”
“OK. But after the divorce, your father went on the road and left you and your sisters with an uncle, is that right?”
“No, it was me and my brother. My sisters stayed with my mom.” (A pause.) “Oh shit, this is a great song. Know the title? Three seconds—think fast.” (Another pause.) “Time’s up.” (Sings.) “What You Won’t Do for Love.”
“Gene?”
“Bobby Caldwell. That’s a classic right there.”
(She calls out in a slightly louder voice.) “Micah? Could you please turn down the music piping in here? Thank you.”
“Damn. You’re stone cold.”
“So I’ve heard. Back to your parents, and thank you for the clarification. How often was your dad home, then?”
(He sighs.) “Once a month, maybe? Something like that. I don’t remember the exact cadence.”
“And during that time you played sax in your uncle’s jazz band?”
“Right.”
“You were how old?”
“Sixteen, seventeen.”
“Did you see your mom and sisters a lot?”
“Yeah, a few times a week. She made sure.” (A pause). “That’s a cool anklet.”
“Thanks. What made you decide to switch to vocals?”
“Money.”
(She laughs).
“No. Seriously, I just started to not love it so much, know what I mean? Playing sax all the time was getting a little stale, and I didn’t like how that felt. So, I changed things up. Plus, I wanted to sing more.”
“Lucky us.”
(His voice is warm.) “Thanks.”
(The clink of glass, and the thunk of something heavy being placed on a table.) “Ah, thank you!” (The sound of pouring, sipping, and the plink of a cup in a saucer.) “Coffee is truly the nectar of the gods.”
(His laugh, followed by more sipping.)
“What comes first, Gene, music or lyrics?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“My mood. Where I’m at. Who I’m with.”
“Who were you with when you wrote ‘Green?’”
“No one. I was alone in a hotel room in Memphis or Cleveland or something. Don’t remember. The riff just came in and I wrote around that.”
“How long did it take?”
“To finish?”
“Yeah.”
“Three, four hours. Three bourbons and about half a dozen smokes.”
“How did you start smoking?”
“Like a lot of kids. School.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know—I guess to look cool. Then because it felt good.”
“How much do you smoke? Your friends do call you ‘Chimney,’ right?”
(He laughs out loud.) “Now how do you know about that?”
“I have my ways.”
(A chair creaks; his voice becomes conspiratorial.) “But is that really why they call me that?”
(She speaks the same way.) “Why else?”
“Maybe it has to do with my big chute.”
(She laughs out loud—a throaty belly laugh.)
(A pause. His voice is husky.) “Baby, I love that laugh.”
“It’s Rai.”
“Sorry. Rai.”
“It’s OK … Gene. Why’d you pick Gene?”
“As a stage name?”
“Yes.”
“Because of Gene Kelly.”
“No way!”
“One hundred percent.”
(A pause, then more clinking and sipping, followed by the sound of the cup and saucer being placed on a table.)
“Let’s go back to your move to LA. You were nineteen when you came to the States, right?”
“Yeah. You’ve been reading up, I see.”
(She sighs.) “Something like that.”
“The first place I lived wasn’t actually in LA, though. My buddy Lark and I got a tiny little—I guess a bungalow?—in this town called Via Clara.”
(A pause; her voice becomes quiet.) “I know Via Clara well.”
(Another pause; his tone matches hers.) “Do you, Rai?”
“Yeah.” (She clears her throat; her delivery becomes more polished.) “But that’s kind of far from LA, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah—it was a pain in the ass. But we got a deal on the place, some family friend of his, and two young, poor horn players, so …”
“Oh you mean Lark Benson!”
“Yeah, yeah.” (His tone is wistful.) “We had a blast.”
“I’m sorry. Such a terrible loss for the jazz community too. He was a gifted young man.”
“Yeah … he was.”
“But have you heard that Lark House raised three million dollars for inner-city drug awareness and rehabilitation just last year? That’s a wonderful legacy.”
“Yeah.”
(A chair creaks; she changes the tone of her voice.) “So then, when did you move to LA?”
(Another silent beat, then he brightens.) “Not until I sold my first album as an artist. It wasn’t released—hell it wasn’t even made!—but I had the forward for it, and a good few production royalties stacked up by that point.” (He laughs quietly.) “It was this fine-looking two-story chalet-style thing out in Laurel Canyon. All these complicated fixtures and designs. And I didn’t know what the hell to put in there! You know, it came with these huge old bookshelves, and I think the only thing I ever put on there was my wallet.”
(Silence.)
“What? You run out of questions already, Ms. Interviewer?”
(Her single, protracted chuckle.) Not even close. Sorry—that just made me think of something. Keep going.”
“My sisters kept telling me I needed an interior designer. That’s not me. Anyway.” (Pouring; ice clinking.) “Your turn.”
“OK, then. What you got?”
“What’s your whole name?”
“Raimunda. Raimunda Penelope Paley.”
“Damn!”
“Yep. Your turn. Full name, please.”
“You already know what it is.”
“For the record.”
“Jackson Martinez Kensington Flores.”
“Now that’s a name.”
“Damn straight.”
“Cuban dad, Bahamian mom, right?”
“Correct.”
“Raised in the Bahamas, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Mom was an opera singer?”
“Yes ma’am. The best. And Daddy was a music man.”
“Five of you kids?”
“Yes.”
(She pauses.) “And how many do you have?”
(Sipping and ice clinking as he responds.) “How many what?”
“Kids.”
(A long beat of silence). “What the hell?”
“Be honest, Gene. The tabs are all over the place on this. It’s been THE hot info leak over the last two weeks. You diddled around the world on tour for a decade, slipping it anywhere you wanted. One mother came forward three years ago claiming you’re the daddy, then another, and another, and now you’ve got a whole soccer team. Good luck trying to keep something like that private when you’re a celebrity like Gene Coltrane, right?”
(The loud thud of a glass on a table, the dragging of chair legs, microphone interference, and footsteps. His voice comes as a shout, further away from the microphone.) “Fuck this! Fuck you, Rai. I’m done. Ethan, get this fucking mike off me right now.”
(A sip and a clink.) “You do realize that you get to approve this content, right? You don’t want it public, it doesn’t go public.”
(He’s loud, agitated, his voice pitched high.) “Then why in the fuck would you even ask me?”
(Her tone remains calm and professional.) “Two reasons. One—if this story really is true, you might just want a solid, respected place like Lift in which to go public.” (More sipping and clinking.) “And two—now we have a real interview. Pleasure to meet you, Gene. Is that what everyone who really knows you calls you?”
(A long beat of silence, followed by a heavy sigh from a distance. Footsteps come slowly toward the mike; the sound of heavy sitting and another long pause. His voice is resigned and tired.) “Jack. I’m Jack.”
(A pause. Her voice is warm and gentle.) “Munie.” (A long silence.) “Well, aren’t you going to shake my hand, Jack? Don’t leave me hanging here.”
(His deep exhale, the gentle groaning of chairs, then two abrupt intakes of breath, followed by a heavy silence. He clears his throat; his tone is vulnerable.)
“Munie?”
“Yes?”
“That’s your real name, right?”
“Yes, Jack.”
(Silence.) “OK.”
“Why?”
“Nothing.” (A long pause.) “Six.”
“What?”
“I got six kids. Four girls and two boys.”
(She exhales as if in a smile, her voice warm.) “Thank you, Jack.”
(He chuckles airily.) “Fuck you, Munie.”
(Playfully.) “Wasn’t that the issue in the first place?”
(They’re both silent for a second, then simultaneously burst into giggles. Sounds of talking grow in the background.)
“Sorry Jack. One sec. What’s up, Micah? Ohhhhh. Every twenty? Wow. OK, got it.”
“What’s going on? Something with the mike?”
“No, no. Apparently, your contract requires us to break every twenty minutes of the interview for a ten-minute period.”
“What? I didn’t ask for that.”
“The label did.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. Really. Happens a fair bit.”
“On twenty?”
“Well, no.”
(They laugh in unison, then fall into a prolonged silence. Her voice is quiet and warm.) “See you in ten, Jack.”
“I’ll be here.”
Songs on this Track
What You Won’t Do for Love: Songwriters Bobby Caldwell and Alfons Kettner; performed by Bobby Caldwell
