Once there was a place called Peacock Alley

“Live” jazz. Those two words have always grabbed my attention, whatever city I might be in. New York, Chicago, LA, SF, KC, Pittsburgh, London, Paris. I was drawn to “live” jazz in all those cities.

But this is about St. Louis and the one club that remains my favorite. Peacock Alley. Never heard of it? No wonder. It was removed, along with the surrounding neighborhood, in the early ’50’s when Mill Creek, in the heart of St. Louis, was leveled.  

Peacock Alley was a lively, crowded jazz club in the basement or “lower level” of the Midtown Hotel, a four story building at 2935 Lawton. No reminder exists, not even the street. Only the ghosts of Miles, Trane, Chet Baker, J.J. Johnson, Max Roach, Art Blakey…I’ll stop there. It’s a long and impressive list.

I was 21 years old, able to order a beer or scotch legally. I discovered Peacock Alley in 1956 while a student at Washington University, and went there every chance I got, to hear any and every act they booked. The parking lot in back was guarded by a heavy-set Black man named Walter Dixon. Even after all these years I can still hear him, his deep, heavy laugh, his ability to talk about the musicians, the neighborhood, and his experiences in World War II. That’s where he caught a bullet in his leg, leaving him with a permanent limp. Walter watched my car, a 1956 Chevy Bel Air convertible, black top, automatic shift.  My first car. And, by the way, the beginning of my love affair with convertibles over the following decades. 

I entered the hotel in the back, went down 3 or 4 steps, into the club. The door was guarded by Sandy, a tall, dignified-looking Black man, light skinned with freckles. He always greeted me with a smile while collecting my two dollars cover charge. Yes, it was a bargain then. I was usually by myself, which is the way I preferred. No date to explain the music to or find myself pressured to leave early because she’d be bored. Jazz, I believe, is a highly personal matter, not to be interfered with.

Peacock Alley had many small tables that filled the room in front of a small bandstand. The tables seated two comfortably, four a bit crowded. Drinks were served in small glasses, maybe 8 ounces. I usually had a scotch and water. Don’t ask me why. Just seemed the cool thing to order. And then there were the smokers. It seemed as though everyone smoked. The air in this low-ceilinged, crowded club was hazy with glowing Camels and Luckies and even a strange brand called Herbert Tareyton. And, yes, I smoked. Salems, I think. Filter-tip.They were new. Menthol. Really a healthy cigarette, right?

I’d go to the club, get there early, and stay until the last set. I wish now I had kept a journal of the great musicians I saw. I wish I had taken pictures. But this was before I-phones. Al Fein, the hotel owner, occasionally showed up. I picture him as a short, stocky man, thick arms and hands, smoking a cigar. But maybe that’s the movie image I have of a club owner. A woman I remember - and I won’t mention her name - was a waitress with a fondness for jazz musicians. But that’s another story I know little about and don’t want to research. 

The one photo I have of those magical nights was of J. J. Johnson and me standing by the door inside. The other distinct memory I have was riding up on the elevator with Stan Getz, going to visit Chris Conner in her room. She was appearing at the club, and frequently threw parties, as I learned. How Stan and I ended up together is another, long story.

One more memory before I end this: the restaurant on the main floor. The hotel catered to black musicians, and this is where Duke Ellington’s band stayed. I was there one afternoon when a couple of the band members invited me to join them for a late breakfast. The details are fuzzy. I don’t know why breakfast or Duke. But I ended up eating with Cat Anderson, Duke’s high-note trumpet player, Johnny Hodges, alto sax, and a third guy whose name I have forgotten. Possibly Juan Tizol. Yes, I’d love to enjoy another breakfast with company like that. Funny how some things become permanently lodged into your memory.  

Yes, there were other jazz clubs in St. Louis. Good clubs. But none of them - for me - had the allure, the atmosphere, the appeal of Peacock Alley.