The Sad Sweet Story Of Sugar Lips Shinehot And The Portable Promised Land Touré (bio) Trust me, if you’d asked any Negro in Harlem Who’s the coldest saxophone player around? durin them two months in the summer ah 1942, they’da looked at you like you was crazy. “Sugar Lips Shinehot,” they’da said. “You new in town?” Yeah, for a short while Sugar Lips Shinehot was the top saxophonist in Harlem and probably the best sax player livin. Now them history books won’t whisper a thing bout Sugar Lips cuz them jazz historians is out there tellin the stories they want to tell. But I’ll tell the story, cuz it ain’t half-bad, and it’s all true. If I’m lyin, I’m flyin. Back durin them two months Sugar Lips was top dog, even Charlie Parker was scared ah him cuz anytime Sugar Lips wrapped them thick, pillow-soft lips round a mouthpiece, he swung hard nuf to make rain, thunder, and lightnin stop and pay attention. Womenfolk paid, too. They say one night ol’ Satchmo threw a party and Lena Horne, Katherine Dunham, and Mahdaymoyzell Josephine Baker, all went by Satchmo’s hopin to have they lips caressed and massaged by Sugar Lips. Quiet as it’s kept, not a few men was there for that, too. As the night lost its pigment, word ah the widely-shared thought got round and by time that night had turned high-yaller they had the biggest catfight you could imagine up in there. Per some accounts, Katherine slugged Josephine. Others said Lena soaked Katherine wit a glass of vodka. All’s certain is everyone in Harlem laid claim to bein there, and Sugar Lips had set three of the finest Negro women alive to riotin. Now, Sugar Lips had always been pretty good wit a horn, though he never struck fear in no Yardbird Parker. But for nine months he was locked hisself up in his apartment on 166th and St. Nicholas blowin til the paint cracked from the heat from his horn. That’s when he knew he could smoke like West Hell. So, he looked out his window, saw the sun was in bed snorin hard, throwed on his jacket and porkpie hat, rolled on over to Minton’s, where Bird and them was inventin Bebop, and walked in the way you walk in when you a Negro and you know you bad. Minton’s was a do or die sorta joint for jazz cats where players that blew the crowd away could become the king ah Harlem, but mos cats got blown away by dudes like Bird, Dizzy, and Monk, and if ya got blown away it was likely some patron would snatch ya off the stage, take ya out back, and whip ya head til it’s red and flat like a dime. It was that sorta spot. But when Sugar Lips leapt up on the bandstand, he started to blowin some horn, blowin like no one else belonged in the blowin bizness. Drinks stop bein served, reefers stop bein sold, and a couple that had been in the batroom mergin pull up they draws and stepped out to hear that horn. [End Page 327] Bird hisself happened to be under the bandstand sleepin at that time, so he woke up, grabbed his horn, and started a cuttin contest. He went at Sugar Lips hard as he could, notes spittin from his horn fast and furious as Negroes runnin in a riot, but from the gitgo Sugar Lips was scorchin through solo after solo, gettin that crowd whoopin and hollerin, shoutin and stompin and when he blew into his last solo he was swingin so hard a few women fainted, a few men cried, and anyone anywhere near the joint thought the Holy Rollers was havin service wit the Holy Ghost hisself as guest preacher. Then Sugar Lips spat out a string ah notes no one had ever heard before and built them into a blazin cascade ah pitch and time, and, if you closed your eyes, you’d have sworn from the sound that he and you was...