Mr. WC Cage, "The Jazz Elder": Sunrise May 9, 1927 - Sunset June 27, 2009
W.C. Cage
I’ve always said if you like or appreciate what someone does, find a way to tell them while they’re still alive. Even if you have to embarrass yourself a bit, tell them now; don’t wait. It is not safe to assume that you will always have another chance.
I can’t be sure if I ever said “Thank-you” to Mr. Cage, as we called him. People would ask him what the WC stood for and he always said something like “Nothing,” or “Don’t know.” He was the youngest of 13 children and said his folks ran out of names by the time he came along. Sounds plausible.
WC Cage was probably the first musician to interact with me constructively in the jam line. This is a line of players in a structured jam session affiliated with the PCC Cascade Music Program. We’d be standing there, waiting our turns, and I might play a horn line very softly under someone else’s improvisation, which Mr. Cage often did also. I’d play something and stop, then he’d lean over and say “Play something.” or “Play that thing you just played.” He’d have a harmony line all ready on his tenor, so we came out with some excessively cool horn stuff. Sometimes he’d tell me what to play and when I did, he’d play a part along with me. It’s hard to describe how much fun this is, because it was likely unnoticed by the audience.
Mr. Cage would tell me and other students about his active life experiences, who he worked with, how it went, who else was there in the band and so on. I knew it was all true because my father (Dick Barton) was a jazz guitar player and I recognized certain names and places.
His Life Celebration notes say that he began his boxing career in 1947, ending in 1955. He told me that he hit somebody too hard and broke his thumb. It couldn’t be fixed well enough so his boxing career was over. He would say, “You s’posed to wrap your hands.” Good advice for any life event.
Even when his arthritis, asthma and heart trouble were hitting him hard, he rarely missed the Small Stage Band classes at PCC Cascade. He was always at the gigs, of course. He had an “invisible” kind of presence with his tenor sax that somehow helped pull the band together musically. Sometimes he was a bit late and we would have to move aside, set up the music for him to share, get him a microphone, etc., on very small stages and bandstand risers. He always blended right in once the music started.
We almost lost him a while back. He collapsed and was peacefully cruising in some other universe. I visited but there wasn’t much I could do. He looked so much smaller in the hospital bed, with a little blue cap like they put on newborn babies. A group went up to his room at the VA to play some jazz for him, even when he was not awake. It seems to me that the bass player got a ticket for stopping right in front of the entrance to unload his upright bass. Cold shot, man. Isn’t music supposed to be the best medicine?
So, without blathering on more fully, I will not close there remarks but merely let them lay. Mr. Cage taught me a lot, and now that he’s gone, all that information, experience and personality are gone. So I say, “Don’t wait. Find a way to tell the person how you enjoy what they do. It’s not safe to assume that you will always have another chance.” I have, just now, a picture of Mr. Cage in my mind, looking up sideways at me with that twinkle in his eye and the funny little smile. He’s playing tenor in the biggest horn band in the universe, and lucky are the other angels who get to stand next to him. You never stop learning.
And...as you take on life’s battles, don’t forget: “You s’posed to wrap your hands.”
Ms. Kane Lauralynne Frances (Barton) Taylor.