Nothing pleases me
more than talking about music, and I’m especially pleased when I’m talking
about me . . . and music.
So here’s the start of a new series, which I humbly call “My Life in Music.” True, Google that phrase, and you’ll
find dozens of autobiographical books by successful, big-time musicians in
every genre. But, hey, they don’t own the
title. Well, some of them do, but I’m
talking about my life in music, not theirs, so . . . uh . . . nuts to them. God, I hate propriety. Anyway, even a mediocre non-professional musician can have a life, and this is
mine. I won’t tell my tales in chronological
order, but will follow the unreliable associations that drift in and
out of my mind.
Oh, yeah, that gorgeous girl with the guitar is my singer-pianist-guitarist-songwriter-granddaughter Riley.
In 1956, when we were attending Richard Henry Dana, Jr.,
Junior High School in Arcadia, California, my friend Einar and I organized a rhythm-and-blues quartet for
our eighth-grade graduation assembly, which took place in the school’s cafetorium
in the mid-morning before the mid-afternoon
graduation ceremony. Our quartet
included a singer-guitarist who did an impressive (to us) cover of Carl
Perkins’ “Blue Suede Shoes” (with appropriate footwear and gyrations), and then
Einar and I vocally harmonized on “Hey, Mrs. Jones” and “Cherry Pie.”
“Blue Suede Shoes”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZwZSjLzNUU
“Hey, Mrs. Jones”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=msuCH6ISodc
“Cherry Pie”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tPjZOXNEXo
The last of these finally broke into the consciousness of
the lunching school administrators, who were of course officially shocked, and
there was briefly hell to pay, including a threat to keep us from going through
the graduation ceremony. Their perfervid
reaction may seem mystifying today, given the open salaciousness of current rap
lyrics, but the smirking slyness and insinuating double-entendre of “Cherry
Pie” seemed like a big deal at a junior high in 1956—as of course we hoped it
would. Luckily for society, or at least
for Einar and me, cooler heads eventually prevailed, and in the afternoon we
were reluctantly but officially allowed to graduate.
Later in 1956, during the first semester of our freshman year at Arcadia High School, Einar and I created a “modern jazz” group, with him on
piano and me on clarinet. We actually scored a gig at his sister's
sorority house at the University of Southern California, and we felt we needed
a bass player. To help us out, our junior high band teacher,
Mr. Jacoby, set us up with a kid who lived way over on the west side of Los
Angeles. This kid turned out to be the
little brother of Carson Smith. Carson
was a famous bassist with the Gerry Mulligan Quartet, the Chico Hamilton
Quintet, and several other great West Coast bands. The little brother’s name was (or later
became) Putter, and he too had a long, very successful career as a jazz bassist
on the West Coast.
At the time of the sorority event, however, we were 14 or
15 years old, so we had to be driven to the gig at USC, and along the way we picked
up young Putter. Why is this significant,
you ask? Patience, Grasshopper, patience.
At the sorority house, we were supposed to play for two
hours. We played about 10 minutes, 15 at
most, and then they asked us to take a break while they made
announcements. When the announcements
were over, everyone (including our band) was invited outside to eat fresh
pineapple dipped in honey while watching a full eclipse of the moon. One thing led to another, and we never did play again that night. In terms of compensation per minute of playing,
I think this was the biggest payoff of my whole career. Yes, as I explained earlier, I call it a
career.
Many, many years after the sorority gig, around 1995, I
saw Putter Smith in Mendocino, California, playing at a small jazz concert produced
by local pianist and jazz guru Kent Glenn.
After the group finished playing and stood around chatting, I went up to
Smith and mentioned that we'd once played a gig together. Not surprisingly, he said he couldn’t recall
that, and pretty clearly he doubted whether we had.
"When we came to pick you up,” I told him, “an old
lady who lived next door to you started yelling and screaming at us, accusing
us of projecting pornographic movies onto the side of her house."
"Hey," he said, "I guess we did play a gig. Nice to see you again, man."
I love jazz musicians. So flexible.
The word “cafetorium” is not used nearly enough.
And it was definitely 1956. I looked up "lunar eclipses" on the Mount Wilson Observatory webpage.
I knew you had a rich hidden history in music!
ReplyDeleteKeep 'em coming. I love being transported back to that other life, when all seemed full of mystery and promise, confusion and desire. A trip to a USC sorority--now that's epic.
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