MOSCOW : A Warm memory of Moscow involves an unlikely night years ago spent with young Russians listening to jazz in a Gorky Street cafe.

Nearly everyone who visits Moscow comes away complaining about the grayness, the gloomy, melancholy mood that envelops the city like a fine mist--even on a sunny day. It has to do with the sullen mood of the Muscovites, I suppose, and the austere buildings that surround Red Square (yes, especially Red Square) and others that face the river.

It is indeed a cheerless city and it is for this reason, I suspect, that few Americans are driven by any desire to return. Moscow is not like Paris or London or Vienna where, even on a damp day, it is a joy merely to be alive, exploring unfamiliar streets with their marvelous little sidewalk cafes and pubs and coffeehouses.

Moscow is different, harsh, severe.

Still, reminiscing about Moscow the other day, a warm memory came out of nowhere, the recollection of an evening years ago that I spent with a group of Russians, listening to jazz in a cafe on Gorky Street.

The group of journalists I was with had gone to a performance of the Moscow Circus and I had stolen off alone to explore the city. On Gorky Street, not far from the shadows of Red Square, I chanced by a cafe that was crowded wall-to-wall with couples who were sipping coffee (the hard stuff, too), heads bobbing with the happy beat of music that flowed across the room like warm air on a bitter cold evening. This was going to be a night to remember.

But I’m getting ahead of myself: Earlier I’d checked into the old National Hotel where I had a window facing toward Red Square. This was my first trip to Russia and I was young and a trifle naive and it was like getting involved in a James Bond thriller. At night the red stars winked back from the Kremlin towers, and I could almost hear the clatter of soldiers’ boots at the changing of the guard beside Lenin’s tomb.

Outside the hotel one day, a lad of 16 asked me if I’d sell him my shirt with the button-down collar. I told him it wasn’t for sale, but after this I could always say that I gave a Russian the shirt off my back . . . because I did.

During the next several days I explored Red Square and attended the Bolshoi; I visited the Kremlin and listened to the Red Army Chorus in the then-new Palace of Congresses, and I rode the Moscow Metro and marveled at the impressive stations with their chandeliers and marble facing.

Still, the austerity of the city got to me, and so I took off in search of another face of Moscow, which is when I found the cafe on Gorky Street and discovered all that jazz, as well as a handful of friendly souls.

Small Groups Keep Time

Dozens of couples, from teen-agers to young adults, huddled together in small groups, sipping coffee and wine, keeping time with the hot licks of the jazz. Through the doorway the bluesy moan of a trumpet floated out into the moonless Russian night, drifting off toward Red Square a mere mile away.

It could have been Bourbon Street instead of Gorky Street, a bistro in New Orleans rather than a cave in Moscow. The kids talked jazz, not politics. They revered cats like Miles Davis and the late Stan Kenton.

The place was known simply as the Youth Cafe, a bright spot on a quiet, after-dark boulevard . . . and only a sigh from the Kremlin itself. Inside, the place rocked. Outside, customers waited in line for a table to empty. I stood for nearly an hour. Whenever somebody left, someone entered. Finally my turn came.

As I strolled inside, the trumpet man was off on a solo, the foot-stomping kind. He was stubby, with red hair his face totally expressionless.

“Does anybody speak English?” I asked a waiter.

Table Near the Action

He led me to a table up near the jazz combo. A dark-haired Russian named Aleg rose and introduced himself.

“Please sit down,” he said politely.

“That trumpet man,” I said. “He’s good.”

Aleg smiled. “He keeps that trumpet with him wherever he goes. Even when he goes to the restroom or for coffee.”

As it turned out, the trumpet player was the only professional. Everyone else was an amateur. The drummer was a physicist. So was the piano player, but let me tell you, he was good, pounding out progressive jazz like Stan Kenton used to. Only, s’help me, he looked more like a choir director out of Duluth. Or Des Moines, maybe.

“Who’s the sax player?” I asked Aleg.

“His name is Vladimir. He’s a student.”

“And the bass player?”

“A building engineer--Yuri. He plays well, don’t you think?”

I nodded.

Not on Official Tour

A hundred or so jazz buffs seated at small tables stirred their coffee in time with the music. This seldom-seen portrait of Moscow wasn’t on the Intourist itinerary, although it should have been. It proved that some Soviets have their lighter side. More important, these cats were blowing pure, unadulterated American jazz.

Aleg said with a touch of pride, “Benny Goodman’s band was here once. Not to play, just to listen.”

“Who’s your favorite musician?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Teddy Wilson, maybe.”

Seated across from us was a moon-faced Muscovite, Yuri, who was in the business of translating English novels into Russian. He chain-smoked and spoke enthusiastically of American authors.

“The favorites of Russians today are J. D. Salinger and Ray Bradbury. They love Bradbury’s science fiction.” He nodded almost apologetically, “He’s more popular here than Hemingway.”

Yuri and Aleg named other American writers who were popular in Russia: Erskine Caldwell, John Steinbeck, William Faulkner, Jack London.

Swinging “Battle Hymn”

Suddenly the trumpet man swung around on stage and gave his horn a powerful blast. After this the rest of the group broke into a swinging rendition of “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

By now they’d pulled off their coats. Everyone except the square piano man, who really wasn’t square at all. The cat was cool. He took a solo, eyes closed like I’d seen Stan Kenton do many times--and he was gone, oblivious of the crowd, the noise, the smoke.

I asked Aleg, “Do the kids dig Al Hirt?” Aleg said he hadn’t heard of Al Hirt. Sorry, Al.

A couple moved onto the dance floor. They’d have flipped their sacroiliacs trying to keep time with the combo, so they moved slowly, a casual sort of two-step.

A stunning blonde squirmed at the next table, eyes closed, head moving rhythmically to the drummer’s beat. Others were hypnotized by the beat: brunettes, redheads. Some with those bouffant hairdos that were in style at the time.

Youth Enjoying Freedom

Possibly Russian officialdom didn’t approve of sexy hair styles and jazz, but both were a fact of life in the capital city of the U.S.S.R. 20 years ago, and this younger generation was enjoying a freedom unknown by their parents.

The Youth Cafe on fashionable Gorky Street was evidence of the Western influence which had invaded the Kremlin city.

As the night wore on the conversation kept up a steady buzz at our table--good talk of writers and musicians, books and painters. My hosts were polite; no one talked politics. Not once.

“Why?” I asked a Russian acquaintance later.

“It’s simple,” he said. “They’re sick of hearing politics, they’d rather hear jazz.”

Grateful for the Chance

It was late when I said good night and slipped out into the Russian night, the hot licks of the trumpet following me down the street toward Red Square and my hotel.

Later, back in the United States, I recalled the jazz cafe on Gorky Street and Aleg and the others I’d met, courteous, friendly, and I was grateful for the experience--even though, as I said earlier, I have no desire to return.

It’s just that it was, well, a night to remember. Besides, the vodka wasn’t bad, either.