It was 1946. I was opening the show for Jack Benny. Bob Hope had warmed up the crowd with a little tap dancing. I was backstage practicing my slide guitar licks. Rochester heard me and looked white as a ghost. He came over and asked if I intended to play that monkey junk in front of the audience. I said yes, I've played it in front of many audiences and got standing ovations. He went away, shaking his head and muttering something about mojos and black cat bones.
I played for two hours without a break. Jack was on the side of the stage, livid. He smashed his violin and told his manager he never wanted to see me on the bill again.
I stole the show.
Playing monkey junk.
Rochester was right.
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