It was a small unit that had come about in the way that things often happen in jazz, when McShann, who’d been playing around town for a little more than a year, learned that Walter Bales, a wealthy white man, wanted him to come to his home. Without knowing much about what Bales wanted, McShann made the trip, hoping another job might come out of it—another opportunity to keep some grits and gravy on the table. It turned out that Bales had made some money backing Count Basie, and he was interested in hearing whether McShann might have what it took to follow in Basie’s footsteps, to become more than just a good piano player, to take those giant steps. No one knew who would. Any chance to get somewhere was better than looking down the throat of a potential gift horse. Walter Bales did not have the sound of jive in his voice. That was good enough. The meeting was fortuitous. It began with playing. Nothing else for four hours except sipping a bit as they went along, becoming relaxed enough to drop some suggestions.
