Portrait of Ed Schuller

And You’re Gonna Pay My Tolls

A Portrait of Ed Schuller

By James Bennington

We issued from his beloved brownstone in Brooklyn not without some difficulty. There were the personal bags of the three musicians, their equipment, and the matter of using the bathroom to prepare for the long journey. Despite the roominess of the place, Ed and his presence there made it seem like a shrouded and comfortable cubbyhole. Something a grumpy bear might like to hibernate in, winter or summer. Once on the road, we made our way to New Jersey to pick up Perry Robinson aka ‘the summer of love’. With the Maestro in and his bags and licorice stick packed, we set off once again for the fringes of Upstate New York (read C.I.M.P).

After the usual greetings and catching up, the talk of what we were to play, we withdrew into silence; each one engrossed in his own thoughts. A relative silence as Ed had the radio going, some Shakespearean Theater or something…but the signal cut in and out on the obscure station and made listening, let alone thinking, difficult. Perry tuned out in the back, in a seeming meditative trance, I looked out the window to the unfolding parts of New York I’d never seen, from the city to way on out in the country, Ed meanwhile would exclaim, grumble, and guffaw by turns at anything and everything…’Gaah! You see? This guy over here doesn’t know how drive, I mean…’ or ‘Auughf! This radio, come on! It’s giving me an F-ing headache!’

When I suggested changing the station to one that came in better, he said, ‘ No…cuz then you gotta search all the stations and that takes all this time and probably you’re gonna have the same problem, I mean come on!’ and he waved a hand to indicate the vast wilderness we were entering of Upstate New York all around.

We stopped at a remote service station where we used the facilities, got coffee, water, etc. and learned of a recently collapsed cattle car there in the parking lot…a double decker with the poor cows smashed under the 2nd tier. Gruesome. It was cold and brittle out, with twigs and leaves as dry as a bone. The wind dried you out and froze you at the same time. The Catskill Mountains provided an awesome background. When we got back in the car, Ed got in and fished for his keys, his hand unable to find and penetrate his jeans pocket. ‘Why is everything so F-ing hard !?’ he bellowed. He had begun to perspire. Once on the road again, the Shakespearean Theater cackling in and out like a strange message from outer space, I suggested to Ed that he maybe keep his keys somewhere else so that he could easily access them. ‘You’re sitting down after all and…’ I said. But he had an answer for that, ‘ No, because you put the keys there and then you forget em’. Maybe on a chain somewhere then? ‘No cuz then it’s on your neck and it itches or it’s jingling around making noise’

As we drove along Perry meditated in the backseat, occasionally exclaiming ‘Beautiful Baby! Beautiful!’ as was his wont. We checked in on him from time to time as you would a quiet old grandfather. Ed drove with that detached automatic attitude of the master driver…putting up with this, with that, but self-assured all the same. At some point he began fiddling around with his nose and mustache, exclaiming ‘Mwauugh’ each time. After a while, as his nose became more and more red and irritated. I asked ‘Ed, everything OK over there?’ ‘Aw yeah, its just my nose, I dunno what’s up…God Damn!’ I could see that one or two of his mustache hairs had wildly curled right into the side of his nose. I mentioned that trimming his mustache might fix things but, ‘No, no! I mean you don’t wanna be messin’ with that stuff, I mean you get the scissors and…no no…that’s not it, it’s gotta be something else, I mean, who knows what it is?’ and again he swept his free hand across the New York landscape while his other deftly clutched the wheel and guided us along.

After a long drive, the day spent together, with all the missteps, the time and the occurrences beyond our control, the stress of following the obscure directions, the New York sun going down on the cold day, we took a final hidden road, made one last hairpin turn, and there we were at ‘the Compound’. The thought being to get our equipment and things in, refresh, and sit down to one of Susan Rusch’s renowned spreads at the big table. Before the last bag was in I heard loud voices growing louder and sharper…what could it be I wondered? When I returned to the house with the last of my equipment Ed and the great Hemingway like Bob Rusch were at each other’s throats…

”Set up your equipment and we’ll get a soundcheck, Then we’ll sit down and eat.” Commanded Rusch.

Perry and I accepted this with quiet resolve…’What must be done must be done’…but not Ed.

“Hey”, he called out, “I been drivin’ on these roads for hours, I’m gonna rest first…and eat! Maybe we’ll do the soundcheck or whatever it is you want tomorrow!”

“That’s not how we do things here…I want tomorrow to go smoothly and the so the soundcheck happens tonight!” said Rusch, putting his foot down in words.

“Yeah well that’s not…I mean… I’ve played in concert halls all over the world man. I do it the way I do it!”

Rusch: “Well that may be, but….”

And so on, while Perry and I quietly and tiredly set up and arranged our instruments. At one point, as the supposed leader, I said, “Hey guys, come on, I mean we just got here…”

Bob turned a deaf ear and showed us his back as he went into the kitchen. Ed, the seasoned veteran may have grumbled and cursed under his breath, but he heard the voice of reason in my words and despite his protests and annoyance, he began unpacking and setting up his bass.

The sound check that seemed destined not to be, continued on, with the tinkling of cymbals and the cracking of drums, Perry’s clarinet swirled underneath, throaty, mysterious as the forests floor. Ed’s bass took command the moment his notes and runs boomed out…our rock and monolith from which we took the utmost heed. We played and the sheer joy of it swept our exhaustion away. Ed was trying very hard not to smile…he wanted to be ‘oh so surly’, but I saw his grin pop through more than a few times. Perry, the ‘100 year old baby boy’, hovered and meditated near us, his clarinet by now red hot.

They had to tell us to stop, in fact. Dinner was served. Bob told the three of us where we would sit, with me at his side. When we had taken our seats, Ed was about to resume his gruff mood, maybe get in a last word. Rusch was on high alert. When we took our seats and invariable sighed, Ed and Bob looked at one another a moment, you could see the wariness, then both broke into bright grins, if not smiles, they became jocular and Ed said, “Yeah, OK, what’s a guy gotta do to get that butter passed over here?”

Monolith, Station Master, Guide, our whip hand, driving the wagon, no load too great, bumps and jolts and grizzly bear days…sounding out to the universe….the man who ‘Hears around corners’

Our music was played, a few days were spent at Cadence in the Netherlands of New York. Good solid meals for men with irregular lives…a family table and the shared love of an endeavor. As we packed the car that last late morning and said our ‘goodbye’s’, Perry had misplaced his beret. He’d had it since the 70’s he told Ed and I. The key was in the ignition, but we made our way back into the grand log cabin, the firewood stacked, the dogs and cats everywhere, and searched and retraced our steps (Perry’s steps rather)…we searched everywhere with no luck. Susan offered to send it along in the mails if it turned up. Crestfallen, our Maestro Perry Robinson made his way quietly back to the car. He was resigned by the time he settled himself in the backseat. ‘Well that’s how it goes I guess Maestro…’ He said to me. We waited a moment for Ed to detail the car before the long journey ahead of us. When he got in the drivers seat, and checked the rear view mirror, Ed broke out laughing and said, ‘Aw Maest! Agh Maest!…it’s on your head Maest! It’s on yer head!’ And it was.

…just some moments shared in our work and endeavors together. There are many such tales, some recounted, some not…just the picture, the portrait, the idea…not unlike an afternoon with a Picasso, a Lloyd Wright, a Celine. Whether in the studio or at a hot dog stand, you feel the presence of a timeless master; catsup or mustard notwithstanding. Having the chance to tour, record, and perform with this artist has been one of the thrills of my life; death bed stuff.

P.S. The last time I was with Ed, we were making a record with pianist Steve Cohn (New Jersey Freebie, SLAM). We were all ready for him, warmed up and looking forward to his arrival from Brooklyn. He and Steve hadn’t met yet. Ed arrived, came in, set up, and before the greetings were gone from the air and the first note had been played, intoned “…and you’re gonna pay my tolls!”

Ed Schuller; American National Treasure

Chicago

Feb., 2023