Doc Evans

My father, Bob Jones, worked an average of 72 hours/week as a pharmacist at Swanson Drug on the east side of St. Paul. He worked three nights a week until 10:00 p.m. and every other weekend. On the Sundays he wasn’t working, we went to my grandparents’ house for dinner. My mother wasn’t happy about the arrangement, but I loved seeing my grandparents and my Aunt Margaret every two weeks.

When my grandparents died in the mid-50’s, we needed a new place to go. My dad found the perfect replacement: The Rampart Club in Mendota, Minnesota. Doc Evans, a local Dixieland celebrity, played there during the week. On Sunday afternoons, he opened the restaurant to families with children. There was free popcorn and pizza for sale. The restaurant smelled of beer and cigarette smoke. My most vivid memory, however, was the sound of toe-tapping, happy music.

My father was a pharmacist, but he was also a trumpet player. Someone stole his trumpet while he was in the Navy, and we never had enough money for him to get another one.  For years, Dad rode the streetcar to work. We were one of the last families to get a television. Any extra money went to pay for piano lessons.

When my grandparents died, they left my parents enough money to pay off our mortgage ($9000.00) and to buy my Dad a trumpet. Because we no longer went to my grandparents’ home on Sundays, there was time and money for family trips to the Rampart Club

These are some of my happiest memories. Doc’s band was one of the best in the Twin Cities, an area known as a mecca for good musicians. Doc was an excellent cornet player and band leader. You can still hear his music at: www.docevans.com. 

Two musicians, in addition to Doc, stand out for me. One was a blind piano player named Dick Rambert. It was the first time I realized that someone could “play by ear.” It was a skill that our teacher, Sister Aimee, strictly forbid. She insisted that we read music, instead, “like real musicians.”

The other musician who made us smile (and sometimes laugh out loud!) was Red Maddock. Red was a drummer and singer. He was also a clown. Doc, a serious musician, wanted us learn about the songs he played each Sunday. While Doc was teaching us music history, Red would sit behind him, twirling his drumsticks and making faces. Some of his songs had bawdy lyrics that only the adults understood.

Occasionally, other musicians would join Doc on Sunday afternoons. Harry Blons, a wonderful clarinetist, and Hod Russell, an incredible piano player, would sometimes add to the fun. Harry had his own band and Hod was his regular piano player. When they joined forces with Doc Evans’ band, the music was fantastic.

At some point on Sunday afternoons, Doc would announce it was time for “Name That Tune.” My father cringed. There never was a Dixieland song that he couldn’t identify just by hearing the first four notes, but he was too shy to shout out the answer. He pretended he didn’t know the answer or that he needed to go to the bar and order us a pizza.

Dad should have whispered the name of the song to my brother who would have gladly shouted out the answer. I was in Dad’s camp, being every bit as shy as he was. I would have rather cut off my right arm than raise it in the air.

After an unfortunate incident with Sister Aimee, in which she finally lost patience with me and slapped me ~ HARD ~ across my face, my father finally broke his silence and actually spoke. He called Sister Aimee on the phone and told her I would not be returning to classical piano lessons. Then he called Hod Russell and asked if he had room in his schedule for one more student. ME!! I was ecstatic. No more Beethoven!  My days of auditions and recitals were over. I was going to play Basin Street Blues and St. James Infirmary.

Thanks Doc! And Dad! And Hod Russell! You changed my life. Your music always made me smile.