MR. NOSTALGIA, CLIFF CARTER

Sunday, August 1, 2010

CLIFF CARTER - A QUIET MAN

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My husband, my sweetheart, Cliff Carter, was a quiet man. In all the years I knew him, I never heard him raise his voice - except in song - and even then, ever so gently.

A minor thug who was a regular at the Raphael Lounge in Montreal in the early 1970's, used to whistle along as Cliff was playing. His whistle was shrill, and off-key to boot. He liked Cliff to play Barcarole and Cliff was happy to oblige. But the whistling was unpleasant and Cliff asked him ever so politely to stop. The whistler was offended. He gestured to his jacket and told Cliff he had a gun. That made time stop still for me for a moment.

But Cliff just stopped playing and without raising his voice - ever so gently invited the gangster to meet him outside, "And I'll show you what I'm going to do with that gun." He might have invited the fellow for tea in the tone he used.

"I'm sorry, Cliff, " the weasel said. And he promised not to whistle at Cliff's piano again. And he never did. At times he would seem to want to start, but he would look at Cliff and sort of nod that he understood. It wasn't about power. It was about respect. Everyone respected Cliff Carter. He was tough alright. Really tough where it counts -inside. But he earned respect by being a gentleman.

CLIFF CARTER - GENTLE MAN

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At the beginning of the 1970's The Raphael in Montreal was a seedy motel with a piano bar in the small lounge. It was frequented by Runyonesque characters - often harbouring weapons of potential destruction. But to me, it was a landmark that changed my life - a sacred place.

I first met Cliff when he came to Montreal for a short gig at the Clover Cafe across from the Montreal Forum circa 1947. I was just eleven. I met him in my family's store, Metropolitan News on Peel Street where he, like thousands of other interesting people, came to buy his newspaper.

I listened, enchanted, to his radio show and followed his lounge performances as a little girl staring in the window of the club next door to our store. I was too young to go inside. After that, Cliff was in demand in the Montreal area and he decided to stay. I followed his career, dreaming that one day, he would somehow hear me sing and invite me to sing with him. I don't think I ever really imagined where my dream was going to take me. But his shining eyes and his devastating smile and his honeyed voice warmed my little girl heart. I bought Hit Parade song books and memorized all the lyrics and sang along with Cliff on the radio.

Remind me to tell you about the miraculous encounter that took place when a Red Cross blood donors marathon took place when I was about sixteen. That event needs a page all by itself.

But Cliff returned to the United States and he disappeared from my life for years.

I met him again when he returned to Montreal in the early 1970's. He invited my family to come see him play at The Raphael - and I fell in love with him again. This time, I was all grown up and deeply in love - for real.

Born in Manhattan in 1902, Cliff Carter was the descendent of school teachers and slaves. He believed that a man could lead a good life if he conducted himself ethically and politely. He avoided drugs. Even working in the nightclubs where people were always wanting to buy him a drink, he would look them right in the eye, and with his sweetest smile say, "No, thank you." And the patrons knew he meant it and they respected him - even the real tough guys respected him.

Cliff was authentic - the real thing. Humphrey Bogart was an excellent actor, a charming personality. Cliff Carter was the man Humphrey Bogart was trying to be on screen. And Cliff could play the piano like Dooley Wilson too.

The Cliff people met in supper clubs and saw on television was exactly the same Cliff I lived with at home. There were no airs about him. He was simple. If you asked him, he would tell you that all he wanted to do was be a good husband and father, do his job well and make people happy. I was always the dreamer, the romantic. Cliff would tell you he wasn't sentimental. He was practical and he just wanted to be a good man.

But there was a mysterious side to Cliff Carter that even I know little about. Cliff was a deputy sheriff in New Jersey before returning to Montreal at the beginning of the 1970's. He worked undercover for the U.S. Treasury Department in drug control. I didn't need to know the details. He made mysterious trips to the Canada -U.S. border to see what he had to see and report what he had to report. I never asked. He never said.

At home, Cliff was a wonderful cook - pork chops, home fried potatoes, the best fluffy pancakes I ever tasted, bread pudding - real food. He would wash dishes, iron his own shirts to perfection, polish his shoes until they glowed. While I worked days, he cleaned house, took care of his car, shopped for food and picked up my panty hose at Reitmans. The sales girls loved him. Everyone did. What's not to love.

In the evening, Cliff went to work, and I joined him later in the evening to sit at the baby grand and sing love songs - not for the audience, though they may have thought so - but I always sang only for Cliff.

Cliff was proud of his Toronado. Driving a nice car was important because the bosses were impressed with what kind of car you drove. To get a good job and a half-decent wage, it helped to drive up in a nice car.

Wherever we went, we were treated like royalty, especially after Cliff appeared on CTV's Thrill of a Lifetime and RCA surprised him with his own record album , Mr. Nostalgia, Cliff Carter.

Late one night after Cliff finished work at The Abacus in Dollard des Ormeaux, we went to Le Cafetiere at Le Marche de L'Ouest for a late supper. The place was huge and it was virtually deserted at that hour. As we entered, something touched me. It took a minute for me to realize - the public address system was playing Cliff's recording of Satin Doll from the album ! Talk about coincidences !

And so, the reader can see that this story will take a long time to tell, Shades of Scheherazade ! This episode written in the middle of a hot summer night is just a taste, written because it is easier to get up and tell it than to try to sleep as these memories spin around in my mind.

There is so much more to tell.

The Sheba

Phyllis Carter

Saturday, July 31, 2010

MEMORIES OF CLIFF

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It's been eighteen years now and I still miss him terribly every day. My mind is a cornucopia full of memories of those glorious days and evenings when Cliff and I were living a dream. In those times, I woke up in the morning singing, I sang while I washed the dishes, and I sang as I fell asleep at night. Our life together was music and romance. We were never rich. We lived simply. But our life together was a fairy tale.

I can still see him sitting across the little table from me on the balcony at Biddles while Oliver Jones, Charlie Biddle and Bernie Primeau sent me into raptures with the sweet standards we loved. While we relished our ribs and potato skins and listened to the music, life was everything I could ever have hoped for.

And then Oliver would invite Cliff to take over the piano and I understood what heaven was. My eyes were always on Cliff. I hardly knew there was anyone else in the room. And Cliff sang, "I saw your eyes, your wonderful eyes…" and "I've got a woman, crazy for me - she's funny that way…"

One evening at Biddles, I found myself up on that little stage singing, "Summertime." I heard my own voice and I couldn't believe it was really happening. Cliff was at the piano and I was singing to him. My childhood dreams come true.

There are hundreds of memories like these in my head and in my heart and soul. And I have written volumes of notes. I pray I will live to put them together in a book. There is just so much to tell. So much to remember. So much to share. In a world full of trouble and anger and ugliness, Cliff and I lived in an oasis of love and beautiful music. "You're Mine, All Mine - I want the world to know… " Cliff wrote - "You're Mine, All Mine, and I'll tell it wherever I go…"

"How much do I love you ? I'll tell you no lie. How deep is the ocean? How high is the sky? How many times a day do I think of you? How many roses are sprinkled with dew?" Our life together was expressed in song - beautiful song. "Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you…"

"Someday, if all my prayers are answered, I'll hear a footstep on the stair. With eager heart, I'll hurry to the door - and maybe he'll be there."

The Sheba
Phyllis Carter

Friday, May 21, 2010

THE CASABLANCA AND LE TOUCHE BAR - BEHIND THE SCENES

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My husband, Cliff Carter, Mr. Nostalgia of RCA Records, was a talented gentleman who played his piano with ease and sang melodies that mellowed his supper club and lounge audiences.

What most people don't know is what goes on behind the scenes. I am talking about the Montreal nightclub scene in the 1980's.

Cliff and I were walking on St. Denis Street in Montreal late one afternoon when we came upon a club called The Casablanca. Anyone who ever met Cliff Carter would understand that The Casablanca would have a special appeal to us. We found the door open before business hours and went in. A couple of gentlemen met us and took one look at Cliff and asked if he could play something for them. And he was hired.

And the owners put a brass star with Cliff Carter's name into the pavement in front of the door of The Casablanca. I often wonder where that star is now.

But it wasn't that simple. Every pay day, the brother of one of these men came for his "cut". Even though he had done absolutely nothing to get Cliff the gig, he claimed he was an agent of the Montreal Musicians' Guild, and maybe he was. But it made no difference. I was too scared to protest, and Cliff was resigned to this kind of business. He just paid him every week.

While playing at Le Touche Bar in the hotel on the north east corner of Sherbrooke and Peel Street, Cliff had to pay another "agent" who had done absolutely nothing to get him his job.

One day we sat in the sun porch of Le Touche Bar with this Musicians' Guild agent who had his hand reaching under the table for his money, and I asked him what would happen if someone didn't pay.

I will always remember his answer, "Well, I'm not one of those who break fingers but..." So Cliff paid. And I remember how helpless we were to do anything about it.

#30

STEPHEN LOCKE - LE PIMENT ROUGE, MONTREAL

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The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones.

Mark Antony, Julius Caesar, Act 3- William Shakespeare.

In the early 1980's, my husband, Cliff Carter - Mr. Nostalgia of RCA Records - was pianist at The Abacus Restaurant on Shakespeare Rd. in the West island of Montreal. His employer was Marc Schwartz.

Marc Schwartz had a business partner named Stephen Locke.

After Cliff had worked at The Abacus for quite some time, he was to end his gig there. Stephen Locke was to bring Cliff his last pay cheque.

But that cheque never came. At first, Locke said there was some delay, but don't worry. When we pursued it, Stephen Locke said that his car had been broken into and Cliff's pay cheque had been stolen.

He never explained why Cliff should be deprived of his pay because of this bizarre "crime". He refused to replace the "stolen" cheque.

Very soon afterward, Stephen Locke opened Le Piment Rouge on Metcalf Street at Dominion Square in Montreal. One may wonder if Cliff's missing pay cheque was the only irregularity in this strange business.

As I recall all these years later, we appealed to the Musicians' Guild, but I can't recall the outcome with certainty. I believe there was some compensation from the union. But money was not the only issue. The real issue was honesty and respect, both of which were sorely lacking in this matter.

Cliff Carter was not only a beautiful pianist and singer, he was a fine, gentle, decent man, admired and respected by his fellow artists and fans. I honour his memory with great love - and truth.

Time does not erase injustice. I don't know or care where Stephen Locke is today, but I do care that injustice be recorded for all the world to see and remember. The evil that men do .....

Lest we forget.

http://cliffcartermrnostalgia.blogspot.com