[MUSIC PLAYING] [MUSIC PLAYING] [APPLAUSE] Thank you.

99 years ago today, a musical legend was born.

Charlie Burrell began his career as an orchestral bassist with what was then known as the Denver Symphony back in 1949.

He was the first African-American to receive a permanent contract with a Major American Orchestra and rightly earned the nickname The "Jackie Robinson" of classical music.

[APPLAUSE] On top of all his work in the classical world, Charlie also had a renowned career as one of the best jazz bassists of his generation.

He was the top on-call jazz bassist and performed with some real legends-- Billy Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Charlie Parker, Sarah Vaughn, and even... Benny Goodman.

Tonight, on the occasion of his 99th birthday and the 70th anniversary of his debut with the Denver Symphony, all of us at the Colorado Symphony are thrilled to welcome back to the stage of Boettcher Concert Hall - Mr. Charlie Burrell.

[APPLAUSE] And on this we'll have the pleasure of having a bass introduction, which is very rare, but I actually introduce the number.

And if we get into it, right, it'll be a, it'll be a miracle.

Okay me and you 1... 2... ah 1, 2, 3, 4 [MUSIC PLAYING] The legacy of Charlie Burrell is really something honestly without parallel.

Perhaps the most remarkable part of what Charlie was able to accomplish over all of these decades is that, yes, of course, he was the first African-American musician that was offered a permanent contract with a major symphony orchestra.

He's called the "Jackie Robinson" of classical music for a reason.

And I think that maybe the most extraordinary part of what Charlie was able to do by becoming that path breaker, by becoming that trailblazer-- Charlie's story is a quintessentially American story.

And here we are today, 70 years later, all of us, the better for it.

[MUSIC PLAYING] I was born in Toledo, Ohio.

And I left there at the age three going to Detroit.

I look back now, and I had a marvelous time.

We played all the time.

There were seven of us.

And my mother raised us very, very, very well.

Her name was Denverado.

And the neighborhood in Detroit we used to call her "Aunt Dutch."

She was an aunt to everybody.

How about your father?

I said, well, he was more or less a scoundrel.

He used to leave my mother 15 and 20 cents - a day for food for seven children.

And he went off and would play at his little club and things And he had one of the best jobs in town.

He was a garbage man they called it it in those days you know.

Now, here's a kid who grew up in the bowels of the Black Ghetto in Detroit, keeping in mind that the first licensed radio station hit the air in 1927.

So radio was still very new.

And in the impoverished areas of many cities, people did not have radios.

They were listening to this very, very primitive radio.

Low and behold they got the thing to work.

And Charles was enraptured.

I was playing around with the needle on that.

And I... stumbled up on this thing.

And I look, I said, what is that?

The music was beautiful.

And I later discovered that it was the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra conducted by a man named Pierre Monteux.

He - "The Marvelous Frenchman" I didn't know who Pierre Monteux was and I didn't know where San Francisco was.

He was... totally obsessed.

Apparently, hearing Pierre Monteux conduct the San Francisco Symphony on his little crystal radio set, put as deep an imprint on him as anything could have on a kid.

And that's a special thing, you know, to know what you want to do at that young age and then - pursue it so vigorously.

I'll never forget the next morning, I awakened, 12 years old.

And I told her, my mother, I said, you know, mom I think...

I'd like to do that.

She said, do what?

I said play in the orchestra And she didn't know what an orchestra was either.

So she said, OK.

But she says, remember this.

To do that, you have to give every day, every hour of your time.

She says, remember that respect your music and your environment, and you'll be all right.

And don't ever give up.

And I didn't.

It took me 18 years.

But I learned.

First of all I started playing bass when I was in the seventh grade.

And that was at a school called Condon in Detroit, Michigan.

One Friday evening, the band conductor, whose name was Henderson, came in and said, we have an opening.

You know, and we have one instrument left in the band room.

Who would like to come in?

No one volunteered, except me.

There in the corner was an enormously big thing.

I didn't know what it was it was a bass violin, made of aluminum, and painted in gray.

He tells the story of being the only kid who didn't realize what instrument he was getting saddled with in elementary school when the instructor showed him the double bass in the closet, this monstrous thing, dwarfing him, I'm sure.

Yeah, I looked at this thing.

I said to myself, now how am I going to play this thing?

My whole love of that thing came from that, because when I first started playing at it, I had to stand on a Coca-Cola box.

As a matter of fact, I had two of them, two Coca-Cola boxes to stand on, so I could reach the top part of the instrument and play it.

And that's where my real real love began.

I had to hold it by physically and that was very upsetting because I was a small child.

So I had a strap I put on my back, and it got to be quite heavy but...

I endured it.

until this one friend of mine says, I think you need something to help you with that.

And my friend had a little red wagon, and he gave it to me so I could transport the bass from school home every night.

In my mind's eye, just that somewhat romantic image of this little kid hauling around a double bass in a red wagon.

[MUSIC PLAYING] How did I get my start in jazz?

Well, I'll put it this way, jazz got it's start in me.

We started playing here and there for schools.

And the good thing was the fact that it was all different races.

It wasn't just negros everything.

Going into the world of youth orchestras, you're often one of one of just a few, if that.

So at times, it was isolating.

At times, it was kind of confusing and challenging.

In Chicago being kind of a segregated city, like most cities, you know a kid from the South Side of Chicago joining the youth orchestra with mostly kids from the northern suburbs, was a kind of a challenge because you kind of you definitely stuck out.

And so that, that experience has stayed with me.

And it has been a similar experience throughout most of my studies and most of my career.

I went to a school, Cass Tech, which was one of the most famous musical schools in the country then.

Even though it's a technical school, they have one of the finest arts programs in the entire United States.

The faculty of the Cass Tech Music Department is comprised of members of the Detroit Symphony.

When I was in St. Louis Symphony, this was back in 68.

After all, I found out that there were five of us Cass graduates in the orchestra in St. Louis.

I won't go into particulars because that was another excruciatingly race trauma, which I had to overcome.

But it didn't matter that much.

A teacher there, he had control of all the basses, which were 7 or 8 basses, which belonged to the school.

And so I went in to get a bass to practice on.

He gave me the worst bass-- I know more now that the worst bass that was there with no E string on it.

My first music teacher, Gaston Brohan, who was the principal bass player with the Detroit Symphony, I went to him.

And I said, I'd like to study bass.

He said, I'll give you lessons only under one pretense.

Now, what was that?

He said that you don't try to play classics.

And it took me four years to get over what he had taught me.

He spent a summer of '40 at the prestigious New England Conservatory.

And that's whereby he was properly taught.

And he said he had to unlearn all of those incorrect things that he was deliberately taught.

But it did not do anything to deter his passion and love for that instrument and for music.

Every Friday after school, we had our little jazz-- they called it a jazz band.

And we got-- you won't believe this, but we got a quarter, a whole quarter.

And that was big money in those days.

Well, one of my good friends in that era told me that if I wanted to be a bass player, I had to learn all the bass instruments.

And that was the bass-- string bass and the tuba, which was a big instrument.

And he said I could probably make a good living.

And he was right.

Because of course, the only thing was that in those days, you didn't get much money for playing tuba.

You had two jobs a year, two parades, and they paid $10 each.

I went to Wayne University and auditioned to go get in there.

And because I had been to Cass Tech, I didn't have to audition.

I didn't know that.

Also at Wayne State, as at Cass Tech, there was a good orchestra.

The conductor of the orchestra at Wayne State was Walter Poole, who was the assistant conductor of the Detroit Symphony.

He did very well with the Wayne State Orchestra.

And again, it reinforced this love for music that had developed.

There was some youthful malfeasance involved with, um... "procuring" coal from the coal yard for his family and managed to mangle one of his fingers in the process.

My dad would shovel coal and bring coal up to put in the stove for us to be warm.

A wonderful story about going to the emergency room.

He wasn't very impressed with the doctors, who said, we're going to stick a needle in your finger.

And if you feel anything, you tell us.

Dirt, soot, everywhere.

You know, coal is not pretty.

And if you... don't feel anything, we're going to have to amputate.

So Charlie purports to have his head turned, but he's checking it all out.

And every time they put the needle on it, ow, letting them know that that finger was alive and well, I guess, it functions enough for him to be a world class musician.

There were lots of laughs.

There was-- when the fires began, we were warm.

We were in a few rooms, three rooms.

We were happy.

Billie Holiday, I adored her like you can't believe.

I had a crush on her like she was the moon.

I was pleased and privileged to hear her sing one of my favorite songs that she had recorded and the name of it was "I fell in love with you the first time I looked at you."

And she started singing it.

And I'm a youngster then, playing the bass and so much in love, I didn't know which side of the street to go on, OK?

Then I looked at her, and she looked at me.

She winked, because I'll tell you like it was.

I urinated in my pants.

The piano player said, "Charlie, did you have an accident?"

I said, "I don't know."

"What are you talking about?"

I didn't even...

I wasn't aware of what was going on It was so beautiful.

And as a matter of fact, we played with her for two or three weeks, and that was about the end of that saga.

Of course, she didn't know who I was after that.

So I got the message.

When I was 17, I had the experience of playing with a well-known xylophone player, whose name was Lionel Hampton.

That was my first experience going out of-- not only out of town, but out of state.

So he took me down to Cincinnati, as a matter of fact.

And I went down there with him, like on a Thursday, in a Greyhound bus.

He left me there stranded.

And I had to call Mother dear.

And she sent me the fare - which was then, I think, a dollar from... Cincinnati to back to Detroit.

And I have never been on the road like that in my life.

So that was a big, big discipline lesson in whom to trust and whom not to trust.

That was done to a lot of people, a lot of youngsters, by the veterans.

They recognized the talent.

They would just go off and leave them in Timbuktu and let them kind of fend for themselves.

So I went on further from there.

But... as fate would have it, I was blessed because of the fact that most of the musicians that along the way liked me, because like they said, I had a good personality.

I didn't think about what a personality was.

Who's the personality?

Who is he?

[MUSIC PLAYING] People often ask me, what part of the service were you in, I said "I was in the Navy!"

Well, the reason why he went in the Navy is because he had an old car.

And he was driving back and forth to work.

Well, he got parking tickets.

And he didn't have enough money to pay for them.

The Detroit police came after him to arrest him.

And he said, "I know what I'll do...

I'm going to go somewhere where they can't find me."

And went down to the recruiter's office and enlisted in the United States Navy.

They sent two detectives to come and arrest him.

And they were getting ready to take him.

And he said, "Uh-uh, I belong to the... United States government."

"You can't touch me."

The Camp Robert Smalls, that's where it all began.

Camp Robert Smalls was the Negro Navy man's training area.

United States Navy was segregated.

There was a camp within a camp within the Great Lakes Naval Air Station In their barracks, the Negro enlisted men slept on doors covered with sheets.

The Camp wasn't all built.

It was about half built.

We had to sleep in a truck.

You can imagine 14 to 18 musicians sleeping in an open truck.

We survived.

They had to be hidden.

So what they did in the morning, they did revelry in the morning.

Easiest job I've ever had in my life because I was able to play tuba.

That was my big instrument besides string bass.

What they did was in 15 minutes, you played taps.

And then you rested all day long.

And in the evening, you went back and played taps again.

They had time on their hands.

So they would practice.

That's the first time I had an opportunity to meet people like Clark Terry.

And I didn't know who he was for quite a while until I learned from the vine how great he was.

Clark was there.

And he introduced me and said, now, here's how we're going to do it.

We're going to practice.

And at one end, Clark Terry would be practicing with a mute in his trumpet.

And at the other end, I would be practicing with my string bass.

And Charlie said they'd go to the laundry room and lock the door.

And he said "He'd be at one end-- boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, take it easy."

He said at the other end, "There was Clark blowing through his trumpet."

And the place was so small, he said, I had to duck.

Al's slide.

He said, man, stop.

It sounds a little unsavory, I guess, it was the laundry room that they were practicing in.

So while they were washing their skivvies, they were practicing.

They put on their civilian clothes, got on the street car or train or whatever, and went from Waukegan into Chicago and played.

And they played six nights a week.

And they'd come back, and they get back just in time to do Revelry again.

And they'd fall on their beds.

So that's how they survived World War II.

So then when he got honorably discharged from the service in 1945.

There was nothing for a black man to do in Detroit but work in factories.

So he got tired of working in factories and doing that.

And he decided to come out to see his mother's family... and he came to Denver.

[MUSIC PLAYING] Hey!

[MUSIC PLAYING] Oh, Denver, growing up, culture was magnificent positively magnificent.

When I first met the principal bass player of the Denver Symphony, whose name was John Van Buskirk a marvelous bass player.

Here was a fellow who was standing up.

And he had a long case.

And I asked him, I said, "What is that?"

He says, "It's a bass fiddle bow case."

I said, "Oh, really?"

And we got to talking.

And he invited me over.

He said, "Would you like to study with me?"

I said, "By all means!"

And after a couple of months, he asked me if I'd like to go ahead and audition for the Denver Symphony.

And I said, "Of course."

Were there more obstacles in Charlie's day?

I would say so.

Was it more of a cultural difference at that time?

Probably as well.

And Charlie was multi-talented.

Again, he was a great jazzer.

And he also had the chops to be a good classical player.

So he could play it any way he wanted to play it.

But was it difficult for a person of color to get into an orchestra in those days?

I imagine it was near impossible.

And Charles said that his audition lasted two hours.

And I said, oh, my goodness.

What did you play every-- I said, you have to play every Wagner note Wagner wrote.

He said, no.

He said it was one hour and 55 minutes of conversation.

And it was all in the brain.

You know - I said, I I know what you're doing.

He said, Saul Casten was testing me to see if I had the resilience and the mettle.

and if I could fit in psychologically slash sociologically with the symphony.

So after two hours, an hour and 55 minutes, the audition was, if you ever believed this, play the two octave scale of G ... slowly.

It took me eight minutes to play that orchestra scale.

Eight minutes, if you can imagine that, to play the scale.

And bowing is very, very tough, especially when you're going at the speed of a slug.

And you know and you have to extend and you keep the proper tension and to sustain that Saul Caston knew what he was doing.

And I then finished playing it because it was so tedious.

And when I finished playing, he asked me one question.

Well, he says, "You can play the G scale.

You played it well."

He said, "The average youngster that comes to me can't play that."

So really, he said, "Always remember that that any fool can play fast, but it takes a wise man to play slowly."

My dad always attended every major event in my life.

I could count on that.

Your a child of divorced parents, it doesn't mean that the parents don't love you.

It simply means that they've got another agenda that they have to see about.

She was our mother, yet she was also our best friend.

And she loved our dad.

And she always spoke well of him.

My mother was-- she was-- it took her a long time to grow up.

And that's what made her so much fun.

Took her a long time to grow up because she had Joyce and I, and that's everything she did.

She did with us.

When she took us, for instance, to hear him play in Chicago, our mother-- we saw how proud she was.

We were just kids, small, young.

But we also-- we felt what our mother felt.

So the night of his debut, my mother and I went-- his first concert at the Colorado Symphony.

And he told Purnell, come, and you're going to see me play at the orchestra.

And all of the musicians were filing on stage.

Keep in mind, this is 1949.

And it's no sign of Charlie.

All these musicians came out on the stage.

And they started tuning up and warming up.

There was no Charles.

I said, Mom, where's Charles?

She said, he's coming.

I said, I don't see him.

She said, don't worry.

He's coming.

Got later and later.

Dad was in this field of-- had been walked by a black man.

And then the door opened.

And there he was, ramrod straight in his tails.

And it ended up that Charlie was the last person to walk on stage before the conductor.

I can imagine that sometimes there must have been a fear he had and could not ever express it.

He just stood there.

And he said, how am I going to get in this head?

How am I going to get across the stage?

I felt as though my feet were glued to me but I was moving.

He said, but as he got further out on the stage, the load got lighter.

The quote that I have heard that Charlie said was, "That was the longest walk of my life."

I felt like every step was a mile and a half.

So that was my long, longest walk.

When you have so much opposition, and that opposition is coming from all forces, that takes another kind of strength to go in there and say, I'm moving on.

There was this big intake of air.

"They hired a Negro!"

And you have to think of what must have been going on inside of him.

I mean, listen, we're all musicians.

We're performers.

We get nerves before performances anyway.

And that's just for your average, everyday, regular performance.

And to do something as path-breaking as what Charlie did, and to have-- to have-- I keep coming back to this word-- to have the courage, the inner strength, to take that walk across the stage, that's not one man walking across the stage.

That was one man on behalf of all of us walking across the stage to, honestly, to open up an entirely new era in symphonic music in this country.

One man did that.

[MUSIC PLAYING] You would think that there would be more people of color in classical music.

But there aren't.

Back then, it was, "Who are you?"

"Why do you think you're something?"

"Oh, by the way, you're nothing."

And watch-- watch you fail.

And you say to yourself "Watch me succeed!"

There was too much riding on this, his well-being, and being able to, like I said, not react to negative situations.

He had an edge to him.

And that edge-- that edge must have really, probably made a lot of his peers angry.

My dad paving a way.

It does not necessarily mean that... a lot of others will follow.

For those that choose to-- they have a model.

They have models.

Dear Charlie, thank you for breaking musical barriers by becoming both an accomplished classical and jazz bass player.

Thank you for breaking down racial barriers by being the first African-American to play in the Denver Symphony San Francisco Symphony, and more.

Thank you for helping form the first racially diverse jazz ensemble with my uncle Al Rose and Lee Arellano.

Thank you for continuing to be an important influence for musicians young and old.

Thank you for being one of Denver's greatest citizens.

Thank you for being my honorary uncle and now my godfather.

And most of all, thank you for being your wonderful self.

Happy 99th birthday.

[APPLAUSE] When I first came to Denver, there were two unions.

One was a white Union and the other was the black Union.

When the word came down from the New York Union that it's time to integrate.

He is very crafty.

In order to play in the Denver Symphony, he had to be a member of what?

The Musician's Union.

They came to me for dues.

The white Union for dues.

And I said, look, I'm a member of 623, the black Union.

I give them dues.

They said to me, OK, go ahead.

Do that.

And then the next week, the black Union came to me and said, look, man, you remember you hadn't paid your dues.

And I said, well, look, I don't know.

They said, well, you're a member of this.

You don't have to pay dues.

I didn't have to pay dues.

for the white Union, or the black Union for, I think, over two years before they caught up with me?

My dad's name is, was Murray Blumenthal.

He came to the Denver Symphony back then from Dallas.

The racism was way, way out in the open.

Drinking fountains for one race and then the other race-- has their drinking fountains and bathrooms, et cetera.

Charlie is, was my godfather.

Yeah, the touring was a big deal.

They spent a lot of time on that.

A lot of places they went, Charlie would not have been permitted in the building, maybe in the front, carrying someone's luggage.

But that's about it.

So... he and my dad, for some reason, were together on this stuff.

And they were roommates on the road.

And my dad would have to bring Charlie in the back door.

And that's about as much as I ever heard about it.

My dad had a lot of other stories about race and Charlie and this and that.

But I believe that my dad would also sometimes have to order a cot so that he and Charlie wouldn't have to share a bed.

They weren't that good of friends.

[MUSIC PLAYING] I'm not the jealous type, but boy, I wish I could have been there.

Down in Five Points in the 50s when he was playing with every jazz legend of the day.

Five Points, he played down at the Rossonian.

So he has had a nice history of being down there.

But this was a jazz spot for the most part.

So the majority of people that were down there during those times were mostly black.

There were a few white faces, but not many.

And so he had a lot of wonderful times there because people down there really could appreciate him doing what he did, playing his bass.

I was born and raised at 2430 Washington a block up the street from the Rossonian.

So I used to go in there and peek in the door all the time.

And they'd run me out of there-- just to see who was playing, you know get out of here, kid.

That sort of thing.

Yes, he played at the Rossonian all the time, I think, as the backup.

He said he played there almost four years or so straight ahead.

And he was the kindest, the most fun.

People came just to see Charlie.

Even though there were famous people there, they knew the backup man was going to be Charlie.

And they wanted to see Charlie.

And so that goes all the way back to the Rossonian, the character that place has.

But to hear the people that Charlie had played with-- He rattles off names like Billie Holiday and Count Basie and Duke Ellington, Lionel Hampton, on and on.

Wow.

Had to be fantastic.

I had to laugh.

People often ask me, did you ever play with Charlie Parker?

I said, well, let me explain to you what happened.

I said, I did not only play with him.

He came in one night high off of what he was doing and had his elbow section in his hand, came up to the bandstand, sat in the chair before the bandstand, and went to sleep for two hours.

I said, I did not play with him.

I played in back of him, OK?

Uh, had never played a note with him.

Had to be interesting to witness.

Charlie was not fond of Miles Davis.

Miles was not the nicest person in the world to play with.

When he first started getting to be a "crazy man", we used to call it, he used to turn his back to the audience and play.

And after about one or two weeks, no one would play with him.

Miles turned his back on me and called me a name-- that began with an "N", OK?

And I was young and crazy, and so was Miles.

And he didn't like something I did do you know I said...

"Mmmmmm!"

I'll never forget, like that.

And turned his back on me and said - I'm going to kick your-- huh?

And that was a secret word for him - me, to open up on him, and I did.

I turned around, and I didn't hit him, but I rared back.

And somebody pulled me back and said, don't kill him.

Don't kill him.

He's too important.

Benny Goodman came here to play a program by himself with no band or anything.

He played the Mozart Clarinet Concerto the first half - immaculate.

In the second half, he started playing.

One of the cellists leaned over and said, "He's dying on the vine."

I caught the message, and I-- something reacted in me so I just started had me walking with my bass, walking through the orchestra, accompanying Benny Goodman.

Looked around like, "what is this?"

And he got the message, and then he starts really swinging.

And I played this whole second half of the program with the Benny Goodman.

Billie Holiday, when she did get to play in Denver, she came to a place called Charlie O's, which is right downtown across from the Brown Palace.

And when she was there this night with the trio, she came in late, three hours late, because she had to have her fix.

We all knew that she was a junkie, but she was just one of the best names out there.

Oh Sarah Vaughan was something else.

I never played with her, but I was pleased to hear her come through and be a part of the whole music scene, because of the fact that she was very important.

So important to the day that my niece, Diane, Reeves, the five-time Grammy Award winner, and now one of the greatest voices, I guess, on the globe.

She was there with Sarah Vaughan.

And I had the pleasure of guiding Diane to listen to Sarah Vaughan's music.

Everyone always knew that Sarah was the best, and she's still one of the best period.

But she has a little competition now with Diane!

Ella Fitzgerald, I played with her three or four times.

And the big thing was that she got married to a bass player named Ray Brown.

And he was, I think, 17 when he got married to her.

But the reason he did was to step up in the ladder of success.

But she was top named, and he wanted to get there.

And after years of being friends, he said, Charlie, "Would you teach me how to use the string bass bow?"

I said, "What do you mean?"

He said, "There's something I'm not doing."

and I said, "OK." I went to his hotel noon to five hours later, me teaching him how to play with the bow.

When we got through, he gave me $100.

and I said, what's that for?

He said, that's for a lesson.

Oh, boy, this is unreal.

I couldn't believe it.

Of course, I was naive then and I wouldn't accept it at first until the thought got to me.

Well, look, that's $100 man-- don't play games, you know.

And I said, "Oh, OK." "Thank you.

It's my pleasure."

That was the end of that, but we became ever after friends, ever after because of the fact that he respected me for for my ability, what I was doing with the symphony orchestra.

I was as close as this curtain standing behind Dave Brubeck.

And Charlie said, I want you to watch his hands.

This man is classically trained.

These were lessons for me because every time I went, then on the way home, he said, now what did you learn tonight and what did you see?

And this is how he mentored me.

Eugene Wright.

He came here with Dave Brubeck.

Product of that Take 5 - record which sold zillions of copies.

You know about that.

When I used to have him over at my house, we would sit out in the front lawn with Cognac and play.

My wife used to look out the door and look, what are they doing out there?

Playing.

I had the privilege of teaching him to often come in town and come back to me and get a lesson or two.

Well, one night, I was about 12 or 13 years old.

Charles called up "Laverne..." "I want to take Purnell with me tomorrow night" And I went to a place called the Piano Lounge, which was on 15th and Curtis.

This short man got on the bandstand, sat down.

Charles was on bass.

And they started playing.

And this man said, "Hey, man."

And he came up to Purnell.

He said, "mmmmm - Man..." "You know where I get some good food?"

"I'm getting tired of these white folks' food, baby."

And Erroll Garner came back back and he said, "I'm sick an tired of white folks and man..." "I want some good old home cooked food."

He was crying.

He sat down and ate like a dog.

I mean, two hours.

Purnell talked to me.

He said, "You know, I love Erroll Garner."

He says, "But boy, he can sure eat."

He says, "My mother invited him over for some cabbage."

"And he sat down and ate just like a savage."

And that's when me and Purnell got close, because we understood that to laugh about these things.

And Erroll Garner that night, he first came over.

He played the piano.

My mom sent me to bed upstairs.

I was sitting at the top of the head of the stairs looking over the banister, watching this man play.

Erroll Garner could not read music.

Couldn't read a note.

Because I had to say, "What keys is that in?"

"What is that?"

"What do you mean key?"

And they started playing.

And when something like this-- [MUSIC PLAYING] He said, didn't even have a name for it then.

And he said, "You mean this thing I'm playing?"

I'm like, you know... "I call it Misty."

They did the very first known performance of "Misty".

[MUSIC PLAYING] I saw him play at the After Hours Club at Lil's.

And all of us at Lill's, where there was this very boisterous white man.

He was about 12 sheets to the wind.

And he had himself a good time.

And his language was very colorful.

"Man, this is the GD in the--" "lim-lim-lim-blah-blah."

He was the one man cheerleading section for the band.

And he said, "Man, this is like..." He said, "This is the Harlem of the West."

I didn't know who he was.

All we knew was that the guy was always writing.

And he would tear off sheets of-- he had a notebook.

And sometimes if he ran out of notebook space, he would start writing on paper towels.

And he was always writing.

And he was always drinking.

Jack Kerouac.

Our first dinner together in Denver.

And I was all dressed up I had my little handbag.

You know, my glove.

You wore-- we wore white gloves then.

OK. And Joyce was all dressed up.

And so we go.

And so I order a steak.

Oh, he ordered steaks for us.

My dad, he did not-- he never liked it when I would put ketchup on my steak.

He would tell me that I was ruining a good piece of meat.

And of course, I wouldn't dare think about-- I'm a purist.

I wouldn't dare think about even at that time putting uh, steak sauce on a steak.

So my sister says-- "But I don't enjoy--" "eating steak without ketchup."

She says, "I have to have" "ketchup on this."

And he said, um... [PAUSE] "You'll learn!"

"The finer things in life--" "Need no additions."

And my dad would say, "Well, you know," "in time you may change that."

And oddly enough, I never did.

What happened was I became a vegetarian.

Charlie always wore that Cuffley cap from London.

Cuffley, I believe, is the trade name.

Never seen without it.

The beginnings of that tradition were pretty inauspicious.

Said someone threw it at him once during a performance.

He picked it up and put it on and never took it off all that much afterwards.

The Robusto cigars, Charlie, a cigar aficionado.

A great writer once said that, "Age is a portfolio--" "of diminished expectations."

With Charlie, I think that applies to his love of cigars because he used to get Cubans.

He used to get the finest cigars on the planet.

I know Diane Reeves from being associated with Charlie.

I first met Diane when she was three years old.

Well, when Diane came here, she was not quite four.

The family always loved music.

And they would put on some records-- Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan especially.

Uh, some of the great aunts would do this.

And Diane, she was not quite four.

She was singing perfectly.

And she was scat singing.

And I said, wait a minute.

I looked down on her.

I said, there's an old soul in that little girl's body.

She couldn't pronounce the words, but she was gifted with perfect pitch and a voice that is one of a kind.

I heard this voice.

I said, "What is that?"

Someone said, "That's the singer."

"Who is that?"

"Is that your niece?"

"Who?"

I couldn't believe it.

A beautiful voice.

She went to George Washington High School here in Denver.

And she sang with the George Washington Jazz Band.

And they went to Wichita to the high school jazz band competition.

Well, Diane, most of the other bands came-- Diane was there and she sang.

And Sarah Vaughan was the judge.

And according to what I remember, Ms. Vaughan said, "Come here..." and Diane was a teenager.

She said, "What?"

She said, "Don't you ever do that!"

And Diane said, "This is the legendary Sarah Vaughan..." And she said, "Don't you ever open for me--" "cause someday... you're going to be famous."

When I was listening to, you know, Motown and all the current music of the day at that time, when Charlie Brown realized that singing was something that I wanted to do, that's when he started bringing records to me.

And he brought me this one record that was "Sarah Vaughan with Clifford Brown."

And I loved that record.

You know just always would have me listen.

And of course, at that time we didn't have cassettes.

You know, it was the record player.

And I would drive my mother and father crazy, we're lifting up the needle, going back to here like a special part and all of that.

I heard her perform with Gibson's Jazz Band at the Broadmoor.

And after that, she came up like a rose, smelling like a rose, and she never looked back.

She won scholarships.

She was at the University of Colorado her freshman year.

And the professors looked at her and said, "We don't know why you're here.

We need you to teach us."

They said, "We can't--" "teach you anything vocally."

"We don't know what to do."

"We can't teach you."

And so she decided that she was going to go to Los Angeles.

That's where George Duke was, and George Duke, by that time, had a very wonderful career.

Her cousin, George Duke gave her studio work to do voiceovers on some recordings.

And then she branched out on her own.

Diane was the...

I think, creative in the sense that she would take a piece and adapt it to her thinking and how she wanted to write the words to it.

So many things that she sang were regular songs, but she changed them to match who she was.

And we didn't bring anything with us, because when you're standing next to a living legend, it is hard to say any adequate words to justify your presence here.

But as I remember Charlie being a young man used to say, "You know, the one thing about jazz -" "is that folks get up closer" "to you after you finish playing" you get a lot more kisses."

[LAUGHTER] So I'm happy to be here with Charlie Burrell, a living legend for our city, our state, and our nation.

[APPLAUSE] Charles had, from 1949 to 1959, Charles had an illustrious career.

Well, he wanted to go to California to study with one of the bass players who was a member of Arthur Fiedler's Orchestra Arthur Fiedler was there.

[MUSIC PLAYING] Under the tutelage of a fellow named Phil Carp, who is the principal bass player with the symphony there, and he somehow got a hold of me.

I don't know how it was yet.

He asked me if I'd like to come and play with uh, Arthur Fiedler.

That was my first real big job, Arthur Fiedler Summer Orchestra in San Francisco.

He helped me through the rough spots, which had to happen, you know.

And in those days, the rough spot was learning where to eat and how to eat.

And he was a master at that because he was about, I think, 6'8" or 9".

And he took me under his wing, and we learned how to eat at a place called Tugboat Annie's, on the river.

We'd eat there at least two or three times a week.

We spent about three hours eating lunch, and he could eat.

And I wasn't bad either in those days.

I could eat very well too.

So we had a good time.

I thought it was the most glorious town I'd ever been in in my life.

It was like, to me, heaven, because the scene was so magnificent there.

The food was good.

The people were good.

The atmosphere was good.

Everything was just tops to good, good-- and I had a good girlfriend.

So me and the bass were in seventh heaven then.

I went down to the War Memorial and had an audition with Enrique Jorda.

And they accepted me, and I was thrilled to pieces, as they say about this.

That was a very wonderful time that possibly it could have been the apex of his life musically.

That was the most monumental moment of my whole entire life when I stepped on the stage.

And Charles said the very first day he walked in to rehearsal, the entire orchestra stood up and gave him a wonderful standing ovation.

I didn't know what the rest of it was for.

I had to look around and see what's going on here.

And I think one of my stage hands says "That's for you!"

okay, so I cracked up but that was it.

And it was magnificent because I had never had that kind of reaction after going through life as it was in those days with all the prejudices and so forth.

When Charles made his debut, the administration of the San Francisco Symphony called Maestro Pierre Monteux who had been the conductor of the San Francisco Symphony, they called him out of retirement.

The bell rang to start the rehearsal.

I looked up and here came this gargantuan man, on the stage with a little dog.

And Charles said he had coffee with the maestro and his little dog.

He said "I remember that."

He took me out to lunch with this little dog.

[LAUGHS] And he got on the stage and started conducting.

I'll never forget.

He would use his little finger to conduct one, two, one.

And that's about as much emotion that he would give.

My inspiration for my lifetime had been accomplished-- and that was under Pierre Monteux.

I started out on the ninth chair of the bass section, which is down at the end.

And I practiced six to eight hours a day.

for about a year, I guess, and then they finally moved me up in the section.

And within a year, I guess, I got ninth section to being a third bass player in line.

So, oh I was top drawer.

It made me walk tall.

I think about six foot taller, you know, To know that I had arrived, you know.

And I didn't flaunt it over the people, but I just within myself, I felt good.

George Duke's mother, Beatrice Burrell Duke, and my mother were first cousins, as she was with Charles Burrell.

I first met George Duke when I went to San Francisco.

He always was gracious in giving his talent to the kids because he taught-- many people didn't know that he actually taught children, too.

I used to go over to his place where he lived.

In Marin County, right across by the Golden Gate Bridge.

And I discovered that this this... jackass had talent, you know, real talent.

I couldn't believe it.

So his mother said, "Charlzzz ..." not "Charles."

"Charlzzz, would you kind of take my boy in hand and take care of him?"

I said, "Yes, yes, honey, you know" Beatrice was her name Beatrice.

"Yes, Bea, I'd do that, you know."

So we started-- uh I started giving him lessons.

And we--for five years we would have lessons at his apartment on the piano.

So for the five and a half years that Charles Edward Burrell was with the San Francisco Symphony, every Sunday he went over to Beatrice Duke's house and gave her son private instruction.

We would go from 2 o'clock in the afternoon until 8 at night, 8 and 10 at night.

But then in 1959, fast-forwarding from 1946 to 1959, that was the year George Duke got accepted to the San Francisco Conservatory at the age of 13.

He was a genius.

Well, being with the symphony, they thought that I-- was a package that I should go with him.

And Charles Burrell was one of the very first people of color to be on the faculty of the prestigious San Francisco Conservatory of Music.

So they hired me, too.

And so I had the pleasure then of having teach George Duke the fundamentals of life, and he learned in a hurry, because when he was 17, he wrote a three-act opera.

When he was 17, he wanted to play trombone.

I said, "No, George, you don't play trombone.

You play piano."

Okay?

And that settled him down, and he started playing.

And he said, "Besides which, George was a genius."

And he said, "And I wanted to ensure that George got taught correctly."

That's the beginning of him learning how to play a real jazz, and he became one of the most renowned pianists, I guess, on the globe, because he started playing with Frank Zappa.

Most people know of him when he was just 20.

I loved George, and he was always there helping me in so many ways, but I didn't want to-- he was always saying, "I'll produce a record..." And I wanted him to, but I wanted to have something to bring to him.

So it wasn't until 1987, when I did my first recording with "Blue Note," that George started producing my records on "Blue Note."

On into 2000 is when we started working on the Sarah Vaughan album, finally.

George's mother, B. Duke, called my mother and said, "Laverne, George is going to be in Denver."

So we saw this ad for the Cannonball Adderley Quintet at Marvelous Marv's.

So we were talking before they went out on stage, and he said, "Man, you really-- his kinfolk said, "Well, yeah."

Charles said, "Yeah, I taught him when I was in San Francisco."

He said, "Man, this is the most unusual cat we ever had in the band."

And we said, "Well, why?"

He said, "This cat's got a platinum American Express card."

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

And he said-- and he doesn't drink.

He'll drink maybe a little bit of cognac after the gig, but we don't have to sober him up.

He's always on time.

And he said-- and then- and that's it.

And man and the brother can just flat-ass play.

You know, the thing that I loved about George-- he was masterful.

He was fluent in so many different kinds of music, from classical music to, you know, to the funkiest funk of funk.

I mean, you could play everything in between.

And I remember when I was the creative chair for jazz at the L.A. Phil, I put on a concert where he presented his piece, "Muir Woods Suite" And it was just it was just extraordinary with the symphony.

So he just had all of these amazing things that he could do.

And the other thing that I loved about him was he produced a lot of artists.

But-- and George had a very specific sound, but he would never put that specific sound on the artist.

He was always about helping them to develop and to hear their sound.

So he was the consummate producer.

He was what you need when you want somebody to produce you.

And we worked together.

I learned so many things from him.

And we worked together for years, like I said.

And even my last record, he was on and then, you know, made his transition.

And I just miss him so much.

I just think, "I want to talk to you about this.

talk to you about that," because we used to talk about everything musically.

So then he would leave George and then go off and gig with "Fatha" Hines.

And sometimes he would take George along with him.

Because I was with the symphony then.

In that time, we had the summers off.

Earl "Fatha" Hines was looking for a bass player.

And somebody recommended me.

I didn't have to audition.

He said, "Good."

Because he sat down with me and said, "Hey", with his mad voice "I got this band."

"I play summers all over the state."

"You want to play with me?"

I said, "Yeah, of course.

You know, Earl 'Fatha' Hines."

I think that was the jewel in his crown performing with the San Francisco Symphony and also with um, Earl "Fatha" Hines every Sunday and the wonderful, fabulous Nellie Lutcher.

I think in, about the summer of 1957 around there, I had the pleasure of meeting a lady whose name was Nellie Lutcher.

And that was another big, epic soul of my life because of the fact that I learned from her.

And I was pleased and privileged to play with her for three or four years.

And the reason I did it was because the Denver Symphony had a short season, which was, I think, 16 weeks.

That was for the whole year.

You couldn't make it off of that.

And I took the season off and played with and then I played with Nellie Lutcher for about three or four years.

All the things that I was turned on to at a very early age ended up manifesting later on in my career.

And I ended up doing this album with Lou Rawls.

When my Uncle Charles heard it, you know, he just flipped.

And that's when I found out the story about him and working with Nellie Lutcher.

And it turned out that my percussionist in my band at the time was the nephew of Nellie Lutcher.

Nellie Lutcher was a very fine pianist, jazz pianist.

And she took Charles to Hawaii.

I didn't even know my Uncle had worked, you know, so long with her.

And he talks about when they went to Hawaii and she wouldn't fly.

She came over on a boat and they had to all come over on a boat.

He said, it seemed like it took a month.

In Hawaii, I learned something new that I never knew.

I thought Hawaii was a land of milk and honey and beautiful ladies.

It was, but not for me.

It was the most racial place, the most racial place that I had ever been in my life before I got there.

I didn't know it.

And the reason I know that, because after the six weeks that we were there, I never had a relationship with anybody, especially females.

And you know that's very unlikely for musicians.

Because in those days, you lived off of their relationships.

So we were under the auspices of Doris Duke.

We were her guests.

And that was the only reason why we got in, because playing in the Royal Hawaiian Club there, it never happened with the blacks, no one.

And she brought us in there to play.

But that was another big emphasis on what to do and what not to do in life.

In other words, don't go crazy, just accept it and roll on down the road.

[APPLAUSE] Tonight's performance of Tchaikovsky's Fourth Symphony is dedicated to one of the former members of your bass section, Mr. Charles Burrell.

[APPLAUSE] Now, Charlie is 98 years young and alive and very well in Denver, but unfortunately he could not be with us tonight.

But many of his beloved family members and friends are here in the audience.

And his cousin, jazz pianist Purnell Steen is here on Mr. Burrell's behalf.

And we are honored to have all of them here with us this evening.

[APPLAUSE] There are two words that define Charles, perseverance and resilience.

And I'm reminded of the adage that, you know, not only is he Jackie Robinson of music, but he's the lone eagle, because eagles soar to great heights, and they leave the others in their wake.

On behalf of the family, it's with gratitude, I can barely do this, but I say thank you very much.

And now...

In recognition of Mr. Burrell, Mayor Breed has officially proclaimed today, February 7th, Charles Burrell Day in the city and county of San Francisco.

[APPLAUSE] Dear Mr. Burrell, please accept my congratulations for being honored by the San Francisco Symphony on February the 7th for your historic role as the first African American musician to play for a major Symphony Orchestra in America.

Your passion and dedication to being a professional classical musician not only made your mark in history, but created a path for generations of classical musicians of color to participate in symphonies nationwide.

How fortunate San Francisco was that you played with our symphony for five and a half years before you returned to Colorado.

Thank you for all your contributions to our great city and to our nation with gratitude, Nancy Pelosi, Speaker of the House of United States Congress Representatives.

And this is for you.

[music] And you see why it's... crying time.

I never had any idea this.

I had done this much in the first place, but to be recognized in the second place is almost uncanny, unheard of.

But I'm thrilled beyond words.

As a matter of fact, I'm a bit chill.

I can't cry.

I cried out over the years so much, I think... you know - that's about enough.

Thank you!

Thank you!

Thank you!

The thing I got from talking to Charlie was how it ended.

He was there for an earthquake, and the next day, not in a few weeks to pack or the following months, the next day - he was on a train back to Denver.

[music] When you watch Charlie play, especially when you see him play jazz, there is such a love for what he's doing.

He just... and I you just expecting to be twirling the bass constantly because there is just a smile of this.

There's a real bounce in his playing.

The time was felt so comfortable, and intonation was great.

You just get the sense he's driving an inexpensive car, and he knows everything about how that car operates.

So when it's his time to do his riffs, all you just do is just sit there and go, "Damn."

Over and over again, and just to see it done with such love, it's always been a treat.

He'd just returned from the San Francisco Symphony and... he had a determination.

He was determined.

and somehow when he played "Stella by Starlight" In the morning and with the bow, In the morning and with the bow, I would feel that determination.

I would feel that determination.

My first year in the Symphony, Charlie was just back from the San Francisco Symphony.

So in fact, his first year again... She was in the cello section, and eight foot apart was a bass section.

So I played bass next to her for, I think, 35 years.

But she didn't know what was happening with me.

And what was happening was the fact that I was stealing from her her how to play better bass, which meant I was trying to get a better sound out of the bass.

And she inadvertently showed me how to get that sound, and she didn't know it.

I had heard that he was a wonderful jazz player and I wanted to learn a particular technique, which is the pizzicato, the plucking the strings.

And we learn that classically, but we don't learn the way the jazz people know how to do it.

One of the great things you do is learn how to make a good pizzicato, because I was taught by Milt Hinton.

That was my teacher, okay, to learn how to play pizzicato, and I did.

So I thought, I have to go to take lessons with Charlie, which I did, and that's how we got to know each other.

So we became very good friends, and after a while, I guess she was enamored of the fact that the way that I could pizzicato the bass, pizzicato means to pluck it.

And she wanted to come and study with me.

I said, "Oh, what is this?

I never had a female white student.

Oh, boy."

I said, "Oh, okay."

So we got to studying.

And I worked hard.

When I went up in the mountains to a little cabin, my kids would go off climbing rocks, and I would be practicing pizzicato on the cello, and they said they could hear me a mile away.

That was part of what I had to learn what to do, how to do it.

So that's how we met, really.

And she said, "I studied with me for two years."

And I looked back, and I think that there was never a cello player in the world that could have pizzicato like Melanie Burrell.

They both fell in love, had a common interest which was music.

And so next thing happened, they were married.

We were married in 1967.

That was not a particularly good time in American life to have joint marriages of that kind.

We found that the symphony people didn't need any time adjusting.

We were just a cellist and a bass player, and it didn't make any difference to anybody there.

We were just totally accepted for what we did in the Symphony.

And that's something I've always been very grateful for, because we didn't have to face the challenge of telling people what it was like like to be married to another person of a different color.

Symphonic music usually has to do with upper-class people, people who have money and able to go to the symphony.

Most blacks couldn't go to the symphony.

The only trouble was, again, some people, because of the racial nuances, couldn't couldn't quite appreciate him doing what he did.

For 30 years, I did three jobs.

That was playing jazz music, classical, and after hours.

He would leave the symphony leave the symphony hall, run to do a jazz gig and he was strummin the bass like a guitar.

Classical players couldn't stand jazz players because they thought it was beneath their dignity.

Jazz players couldn't stand classical players because it was beneath their dignity.

I was lucky because I had training in both when I was young, but I started training in jazz and classics when I was 12 years old.

And it went right along with the program all my life.

When you play jazz for 10, 15 years, five, six hours a night, you learn.

He knew the whole musical world in addition to being an absolute incredible musician.

Not only was he a classical musician, but he was also a jazz musician.

And I think he played with anybody that needed a backup.

He was just Mr.

Talent all over the place.

To have a foot in the classical camp and in the jazz camp is pretty remarkable.

Usually to scale the heights of just one is a lifetime accomplishment.

Charlie managed to do both.

And he was sitting out there.

I was like, oh, dog gonnit.

That's Charlie Burrell.

Holy moly.

I was so excited.

And I stood up straight you know, got my posture, made sure I was taking care of all those fundamental things because it reminded me, see him sitting out there reminded me of the reality that all music shares common fundamentals.

We have to play expressively.

We have to know our material.

We have to play fundamentally correct on the instrument.

Charlie used to come over on stage to me when I was young in the orchestra and he would say, you know, you know, that perfect fourth, you got the A flat and the D flat.

I think maybe your D flat might be just a little bit too high, you know, and let me let me bring my bass over.

And so we tune the timpani with his bass and everything.

And, you know, I was a young hotshot.

I thought I knew everything you know, and it was this old guy telling me about my intonation.

The conductor thinks I'm really good, you know, all that kind of stuff.

Well, you know, it really ind of pissed me off because he was right.

And it just made me really listen.

I learned from Charlie a great thing that I still do.

And I tell my colleagues, tell my students, don't just listen to the overall intonation of the orchestra.

Listen to the bottom.

Listen to the basses.

Because that's where I have to be.

And if the basses and I are really matching up, it's going to help the whole orchestra.

So, you're at Boettcher and they have lots of great gear.

They have these really fancy bass stools, these very fancy hydraulic, They raise and lower.

You can adjust them any any way.

Very nice, very comfortable.

That's not Charlie's stool.

Charlie's got like the old funky rickety wooden stool with the knobbly legs and everything painted black.

And underneath the seat is a fan mounted with holes in the top so that when he gets a little too warm, he'd turn on the fan and this cool breeze would kind of come from the nether regions of the stool and keep him comfortable.

I would get up every morning at 4 o'clock and practice three hours at least three... four hours every morning and I did that for 20 years.

I said to myself I'm gonna take a vacation from this thing And I did I stopped it and in two hours I was going mad I knew that if I worked out I could last longer.

So my big thing as I got older was to swim three times a week for I think 20-25 years.

I guess I wanted I wanted to do things that he did.

I didn't have to hear what he had to say all the time, but I watched what he did.

He was a swimmer.

I became a swimmer.

First thing I learned to do was swim.

And my dad had me swimming the rest of my life.

And it was wonderful because again back then there weren't a lot of blacks that would go to swimming pools or even be a lifeguard.

And on top of that, I had an exercise in the morning that I did every morning.

He was so much fun because he showed us how strong he was at 85, he could chin himself on his cherry tree in his backyard.

I would do 10 pull-ups on the cherry tree every morning, 10 pull-ups.

And that helped me be strong.

Actually working out and practicing were synonymous.

They're both the same.

He didn't get up and practice you know - haphazardly.

It was with intention.

And he carried that intention out.

He was renewing himself, but also he was allowing himself to let go.

When I was at the University of Colorado, on my lunch break, I would just walk across the street to the symphony and I would watch him at rehearsal.

You know and they would come up and they'd be taking their breaks and my uncle would still be practicing.

You know, I would go there and he'd be up before daylight practicing on his bass.

To have his hands on his instrument and always trying to be better was like always a part of who he was.

You heard the saying, "Practice makes perfect."

And he did always... he practiced.

He knew that he would never perfect but he was practicing to become the best that he could become.

Being physical and playing the bass, that was my life.

I played B-flat, cornet.

I wanted to do what he did when I was younger.

And so I played in all the high school bands, all that good stuff.

You know, I was a lucky fellow, In fact, even had one of my dad's service buddies that he that he played with that was my teacher.

And he told me, he says, "I know your dad And he says, "You're going to be even better than him.

Unfortunately, again, the shoes are too great to fill.

We have an individual who's from here, who's an icon.

I have to paint him because not only do I need to know about him, earlier generations need to know about Charlie.

So it's a way of visually putting his thumbprint on the things that he has done.

The stories I heard about in the Rossonian when he used to play there, it was just like, "Oh my gosh, we're painting a lot last year."

You know, artwork lives forever.

Denver's first lady, Ms. Mary Louise Lee The County of Denver joins the Colorado Symphony Orchestra the music community and the community at large in celebrating Charles Burrell on his 99th birthday.

By virtue of the authority invested in me do hear by officially Proclaim October 4th, 2019 to be known as Charles Burrell Day.

[APPLAUSE] Here we go, Charles.

It's on you.

[MUSIC] Charlie did what he had to to support his family.

It wasn't just playing with the Symphony.

During the day, he had various jobs.

Being a veteran, he got a job at Fitzsimmons Army Hospital.

I was working out at Stapleton Airport, yeah.

I got a job out there as a sky cap.

They gave me one.

and I had to laugh, because I was making $150 a day, tax-free, before Uncle Sam came in and put a stop to it and started taxing your tips.

We started taxing your tips, I cut off my tips and cut off my job.

The inspectors came one day, came over to Shorter, and they found out that there were bugs in the basement, termites you call them, I guess, you know.

And they condemned the church.

and I said, "Look, I think I can fix this."

So I went down to the basement and drilled 500 holes and put the termination stuff down there, kill these bugs, put the holes back in, resanded the floor like new.

And that took me two weeks, I guess, to do that.

But it saved the church!

They never knew that.

I look back at it and I say, "My God, did I do all that?

9,000 seats?"

In 1951, he took those beautiful brown hands of his, which make so much beautiful music.

He stripped and hand-sanded every every bleacher at Red Rocks Theatre.

Red Rocks needs painting, with linseed oil - And I said, "I'll take it," because that was beans on the table.

But Charlie, being the meticulous, disciplined type, painted every seat at Red Rocks, not just the top of the wooden benches, but the sides, the bottoms, the, you know, had nothing but gum stuck on them.

No one's ever seen them to this day.

And I did that with a brush, which in those days is about, I think, about, I think about a four or five-inch brush.

However many bleachers he got to that day, he would put on his dinner jacket and tuxedo pants and do a concert at Red Rocks.

So he drove up his station wagon and filled with that linseed oil that he never was able to get the smell out of afterwards.

We had the pleasure of unveiling a portrait in the lobby of Mr. Charlie Burrell.

Go ahead.

Go ahead.

[APPLAUSE] Finally, Charlie, I want to read an excerpt from a letter from your niece, Mrs. Diane Reeves.

Dear Uncle Charles, today is a day destined for you.

A day to give you your flowers of applause and convey heartfelt gratitude in honor of your ongoing extraordinary journey.

This is such a special day as you get to experience and feel the admiration, celebration, and the love which surrounds you.

You have broken down barriers with undeniable excellence.

Your discipline and passion for music never waivered.

Given your immeasurable contributions to the world of classical music, your portrait in this great hall dignifies it further.

With love and grace, your five-time Grammy Award-winning niece, Diane Reeves.

[APPLAUSE] Without further ado... [APPLAUSE] With Charlie, it always is a beautiful day.

And as long as he had music, he was happy.

Just to have that gift and to nurture it, and in the case of Charlie and many others, take it to the end to be the best you can be.

The two words that really define Charles Burrell's life are perseverance and resilience.

I say because every time he got knocked down, he got back up, more determined than before to continue his mission.

Charles persevered.

My mother, Jewel, persevered.

So that's very strong within them.

Dad overcame a whole bunch of stuff.

I'm just thankful that he's alive to be a part of the accolades, the recognition.

That this is not done posthumorously.

That it's done while he is alive.

That is so meaningful to Barbara and I.

My father and my mom both gave me an understanding about how to go into it and do the best you can.

And the trick is, and it always has been with what my dad and my mom both preached, was you don't worry about anybody else.

You don't compete with other people.

Compete with yourself.

His legacy to the world is Charles Edward Burrell stood persevered, and accomplished.

Bye, y'all, Okay.

Because that's what his legacy is to me and to the world.

That's what I see.

Charlie's story is a quintessentially American story, but it took somebody with the soul and the courage that Charlie had to take that first step.

I think that that courage of taking that first step, that's really Charlie's great legacy.

I was 13 years old and my father took me to a club called the "Bull & Bush".

My father had told me that I needed to study classical music.

Charlie Burrell was the bass player playing on that gig.

And my father said, "Look, he plays with a symphony and he plays jazz music.

So if you want to be a serious musician, that's how you do it!"

Charlie Burrell has meant a huge amount to me.

His wife Melanie was also a great leader in the orchestra through organizational stuff, as well as an excellent cellist.

They were so welcoming in the orchestra.

They not only helped me be a better musician, they helped me be a better person.

Charlie was an... is an extraordinary musician.

You don't lose it even when you are not playing anymore.

It's a very special talent that we recognize.

He was able to maneuver really well, really sensationally in both the classical field and the jazz field.

And that was very unusual.

As you know, very few people can do that.

And partly it's his charisma, but mostly his talent.

It's mostly his talent.

I feel like the only reason I'm here is because of folks like Charlie.

It's the It's the only reason I'm here that the fact that people not only blazed a trail, but really almost did the impossible.

Well, I hope that legacy would be to, to show people who would aspire to do the same thing that it's possible and that it's okay to de-stigmatize the idea that there's certain music that black people ought to be into... and, you know, the other kind of music is European stuff and we shouldn't be interested.

That's what I'd like to have my legacy be.

It's an honor to have shared the stage with him.

when you listen to him talk.

there's just a lot of history in him.

There's a lot of frankness in the words that he speaks to people.

And he's he's rubbed off on me, That's for sure.

And I hope that I can position myself so I can carry a small part of the torch that, uh, he has lit for our community.

And when you say And when you say apparently that was automatic with him, so it's inspirational for me to pass the torch.

And that unwavering smile, it just grabs you.

And where you're hungry to listen for more and to give so freely as he always does even at 150 million years old, he still gives freely.

My mother, my grandmother, my grandfather.

They loved Charles.

They were proud of Charles.

They had no idea that he would be an icon.

A musical icon, they had no idea.

They had no idea that he would be a first.

To break the color barrier in classical music.

They have no way of knowing that.

None of us did.

I ended up working with some of the greatest symphony orchestras and some of the greatest conductors in the world.

And I always would think about my uncle because that was like my first experience of ever even being around that.

And so, you know, it felt like if he could do it, so can I.

He's called the Jackie Robinson of classical music for a reason.

If you're going to do something that takes that much courage, then you damn well better make it worth your while.

And he did.

And here we are today, 70 years later, all of us, the better for it.

like this.

He said, like this.

He said, "There are many people, many bass players who are far more talented than I."

I looked.

He said, "Oh, yes?"

He said, "But you know what?

When I perform, I give them more than 1,000 percent of me."

He said, "And when they walk out the door, they will walk out with a smile on their face because I've given them" "all I have."

Just be yourself.

Love people.

Don't be prejudiced.

And life will be divine.

[APPLAUSE] [MUSIC PLAYING]