Bradley’s, the intimate bar, restaurant and music venue on University Place, encouraged many HG and BSK smiles. It was small — 15 tables and 20 bar stools. The food — steaks and hamburgers — was honest and good; the music, however, was great. On a platform was a baby grand piano (contributed to Bradley Cunningham, the proprietor, by the great saxaphonist, Paul Desmond). The world’s greatest jazz pianists (sometimes accompanied by a bass) played there. Tommy Flanagan, Teddy Wilson, Jimmy Rowles and Kenny Barron were among them. Bradley made sure it was an orderly room where artistry could be appreciated and heard. (There was also some nice visual art in the room — three BSK acrylics were among the paintings over the bar). Bradley was a big, craggy- faced, ruggedly handsome guy (died of lung cancer in 1988). He was interesting. A fine amateur pianist and an appreciator of good writing and a true lover of New York. Served as a Marine in World War Two, learned Japanese and used that skill to talk Japanese soldiers out of indefensible bunkers and later interrogate them. He had witnessed much horror. He was in Nagasaki soon after its atomic bombing. Bradley and his friends, the great vocal and piano duo of Jackie Cain and Roy Kral (Jackie still performs occasionally. Roy died a few years ago) rented a Fire Island house near HG/BSK’s dune house and became dear friends of HG and BSK. HG encouraged Jackie and Roy to buy a house in Montclair, N.J., where HG lived. They did and HG and BSK would often drive into New York for an evening at Bradley’s or meet there late at night after theater or movies. Bradley married Wendy, the beautiful, long time waitress. HG and BSK joined Jackie and Roy at the wedding at a West Village church and had a celebratory meal at Leon Lianides’s Coach House House Restaurant on Waverley Place. Much joy. After Bradley’s death, Wendy kept his place alive until the final closing in 1996. Stanley Crouch wrote a lovely piece about Bradley’s in the New Yorker (Aug. 26, 1996). When Bradley was still alive, the jazz writer and critic, Whitney Baillet, did a full length profile of him in the New Yorker. You can access both pieces from the New Yorker archives. Do so.
A rare misspelling in the normally exact HG blog: Whitney Balliett, mentioned in the end of this remembrance, has that extra “T”. How do I know? Because Will Balliett, his son, lived next door to us with his lovely family (Karen, Adelaide, Charlotte, and dog Charlie) until they outgrew the apt.
Thanks for the proof read.