When I started the first Post of this blog, I mentioned that I had an unusual childhood. I also noted that my memory of those childhood years was acute. It is well known that long term memory remains strong as one grows older. Even so, my own memory of those early years of my life is very acute. One contributing factor was that my mother was very restless. As a result, during the first seventeen years of my life, we lived in thirteen different locations in Saranac Lake, and I remember incidents from all of them except the location on Bloomingdale Ave., where I was an infant.
At various intervals, during those seventeen years, my siblings joined the family. I am now going to relate a series of incidents which occurred in my life, many of which indicated a highly imaginative mind.
The first vivid memory I have is of something that happened when I was two, and we lived on Marshall St. I can still visualize the scene. Ma and Pa were having coffee at the kitchen table, and the percolator was standing there on the table with its cord in extended across the floor in a loop to a socket. I tripped over the cord and the boiling hot coffee spilled on my bare leg. I remember searing pain, screaming and my father jumping up to run and get the Ungentine. The other vivid recollection is seeing three large blisters on the front of my leg. My dad put on the salve, and that's the extent of that recollection.
From Marshall St., we moved down the road and around the corner to a location on Pine St. We lived next to the LaPoint family, a member of whom (Rita) became a classmate. This is my memory of Pine St.: Pa was driving an Essex at the time, and I decided to play a little "gas station." I poured some "fuel" (a quart of water) in Pa's gas tank. Of course, his car started coughing and stopped soon after he got downtown. I freely confessed. (Age 4)
The next family move was to the little village of Bloomingdale, five miles away. I turned five in May, and since there was no Kindergarten in those days, I entered the first grade in Bloomingdale Union School. There were twelve kids in my class, which was presided over by Miss Grace Newell. A couple of recollections. Miss Newell heard me use the word s--t on the playground, and summoned my mother to the school. There I was made to recite the naughty epithet for my mother, who had a hard time containing herself (she had a pretty salty vocab.)
She left me to Miss Newell's tender mercies. She ordered me to sit in a chair facing her, while she administered my punishment. She said: "Hold out your right hand with the palm up." I did so, and she raised her hand slowly and gave me one ceremonial slap! For a moment, I stared at her eyes, and then let out an expected yowl. (It really didn't hurt at all.)
We didn't stay in B'dale long. We moved back to Saranac to an upstairs appartment at 235 1/2
Broadway. This was 1935, and my sister Rosie joined us as an infant. Soon after her birth, she contracted pneumonia, and came close to leaving us. But she made it! At this time, I went to the 2nd grade in the Broadway School. That was where one day, after school, Charley Shaw punched me in the nose and gave me a phenomenal nosebleed. I went home, looking like as though I had been mortally wounded. We ended up in front of the Superintendant of Schools, H.V. Littell, who smoothed things over. I remember his solemn demeanor and hearing him use the expression, "In your opinion..."
Residence #5 at 14 Pontiac...sort of "across town" from Upper Broadway. At that residence, I was entered into the 3rd St. Bernard's Parochial School, which had Sisters of Mercy as teachers.
I remember all of my teachers vividly except this first one. I believe she was Sister Alexis. My principal trauma at this time was walking to school. I began to be accosted on my
way to school by one particular kid who lived out on a street nicknamed "Rat St." His name was Billy Demming and it seemed that all he had to do was look at me - and my fear-stricken face - and he was seized with an irresistible urge to punch me. This meant that my daily walks to school became circuitous...through a lot of store backyards, ever on the lookout for Bill Demming, my leering tormentor. During the 3rd grade, when we were lined up it was in alphabetical order. This placed me (Klein) directly in back of Frank Lezak, who was constantly dumping in his drawers, which kept me walking behind him in a constant miasma. Those olfactory memories linger! Oh! One last important thing... It was at this time, when I was living at Pontiac St. and in the third grade that a neighborhood kid whose last name was Nason gave me my first lessons about sex. He told the that a man and woman did this "thing" together with their sex organs which created a baby. He said that the baby started as a little ball and gradually grew to be a real baby. I was thoroughly confused, because I thought that whatever they were doing together was instantly forming this little growing ball. I was confused and said so; I said I couldn't see how this could happen. He said to me: "Ask the priest, if you don't believe me..." which I had no intention of doing. Early sex education, bah!
Presently, it was time to move again; this time to an upstairs apartment at 63 River St., which was right next to the municipal beach! What a great location. This is where I learned to swim, and I can still remember the exact time I did the "dead man's float!" From hence it was a brief move to the dog paddle, and I started swimming in the water on the deep side of the dock.
It was at that time, I had a real brush with possible tragedy. As I was paddling along the dock, someone pushed a girl off the dock and she landed on me and she threw her arms around me! I recall the panic of having her forcing me down over my head, where I sucked in a considerable amount of water! When I escaped, I ran crying to the beach, where the lifeguard, Wally Herron was chatting with - of all people - a village official. I ran up to him sobbing "I almost drowned!"
As soon as the village guy left, Wally jumped all over me, bawling me out for making him look bad! I went home and that night told Pa what happened and he sought out Wally Herron and blistered him!
At this time, I was in the 5th grade. One day, I was standing under the swings, drying myself with a towel and I had an idea which was: " I'm going to make myself remember this one moment for the rest of my life!" - Just to see if I could do it (I haven't forgotten it yet!"
Sister Purification was my 5th grade teacher, and she was a sourpuss. One day, three of us were at the soda fountain at the Hotel (Saranac) and the woman who made our milkshakes asked us if we knew Sister Purification. We unloaded, telling her what a pill Sister P. was. Don't you know, she was Sister Purification's sister?!. The upshot was that the three of us had to apologize ON OUR KNEES to Sister P. (I should have noticed! The soda woman had a sour puss just like Sister P's!!
I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that 63 River St. was where we got out piano, and I started piano lessons. I also had the distinction of falling into the nearby icy water on an Easter Sunday not once, but TWICE - each time bedecked in a different set of fancy Easter Sunday clothes. (You could hear my mother's screaming for miles!)
Time to move again! This time to 8 1/2 Lake Flower Ave. By this time, Rosie had beautiful blonde hair. I took her in a closet and gave her a "haircut" with a pair of scissors. My Ma screamed even louder. I used to hang out with a kid who lived across the street named Charley Sporck. Charley and I had the same types of imagination. I remember the time he put some very gooey bicycle shellac on the knob of his brother Chris's stick shift in his car. Chris, who called Charley "Superbeast" chased him down and painted his head with that same shellac.
(Charley went on to become an extremely wealthy person.)
Once again, it was time to move. This time to 26 River St., right next to St. Bernard and the nuns' convent. It was there that I had a strange accident, which led to very serious complications. Between my house and the school was the school flag post. It was a wooden pole, with two pieces of log stuck in the ground on either side of the flagpole to serve as braces.
The tops of the log/braces were slightly slanted. Slightly above was a hook sticking out of the pole around which the rope to raise the flag was wound. I was standing with one foot on each brace, sort of lolly-gagging with my arms around the flagpole when one of my feet accidentally slipped off. This caused the rope hook to give my right armpit a violent "twang." I didn't realize how much damage I had done to myself until I went home and Ma told me to take off my shirt so she could wash the "scrape." To our horror, we discovered that I had torn my armpit open, and the tear looked sort of like a gaping mouth. We immediately went downtown to see Dr. Murphy
who stitched up my wound. And that's when the trouble began! Dr. Murphy decided to give me a shot to forestall tetanus poisoning. At that time, they were using what was called "horse serum." They have long since stopped using this stuff. Dr. Murphy injected a bit to see if I would have a reaction. I didn't so he injected a full syringe. By the time I got home, I was covered with hives. He came to the house and gave me a shot of adrenlin chloride (I think.) The reaction continued for two full weeks and was quite severe with many other symptoms, such as fever and terribly achy joints! Other things happened at 26 River Street!
The kitchen stove had a coal fire. Every the experimenter, one night while Ma and Pa were in the living room, I conducted an experiment with the stove. I removed one of the stove lids and was curious to see what would happen if I poured some olive oil on the hot coals. Naturally, I bent over the opening to see. Something between a "boom" and a "whoosh" suddenly happened. Although my face wasn't seriously burned, my eyebrows, lashes and some hair were exrensively singed. My folks were listening to the radio (probably somebody like Jack Benny) and they didn't hear the muffled explosion. ( I can't remember how I explained my newly bizarre appearance.)
At this time, I was an altar boy and often served mass. Since we lived right next to the nuns' convent, I often served mass there. One day, attired in my cassock and surplice, just before the mass started I had the urge to go to the toilet. I knew where it was and hurried right up to the door and yanked it open. There, seated on the toilet was one of the sisters. I was shocked beyond belief. I had never realized they did things like that!
During this years I spent a lot of time at our wonderful municipal beach. Even the bath house was an entertaining place. My friends and I found some convenient knot holes between the boys' and girls' sections, which enabled us to conduct surreptitious but serious studies of female anatomy. I still remember a day that I spent one bright summer's day at the beach. It was a day that I became hungry and had a sudden desire to eat some dates. I went down to Charley Green's grocery store and charged a pound of dates to the family account. (...that was naughty)
I returned to the beach and the hot sun with the dates, which I consumed in their entirety. (I mark that day as the one on which I developed a lifelong aversion to dates.)
You guessed it...time to move again! This time isn't too far away. Sort of cross lot; the lot being the St. Bernard's playground. To 26 1/2 Church St. This time, it was a large house, the upstairs of which was rented to a reporter (for the Syracuse paper) and his girlfriend. Needless to say, Ma was scandalized by the thought of these two people - living in sin - right over our heads. It was at 26 1/2 where brother John arrived in the world. It was at this address where I expressed a desire to get a new bike, and Ma thereupon taught me a valuable lesson. I was to get a brand new bike from Montgomery-Ward (cost: $21.00) pay for it with a paper route. I thereupon got a paper route that had 21 customers, spread over a five mile route. For that effort, I made $ 1.5o a week, which I dutifully gave to Ma, and she took care of the payments. It was at this time that I ran out of grades at St. Bernards (it only went to 8th grade.) I remember my last three teachers vividly: 6th - Sr. Helena (always seemed overworked;) Sister Bernardine (funny as a crutch and a blast for all!) AND Sr. Roberta (also the Principal) whose feelings for me can be expressed in three words: SHE LOATHED ME! I still can't understand this. I was such a sweet kid!
Anyway, it was at this time that I entered Saranac Lake High School in the 9th grade, where I set new low standards for "not living up to one's abilities..." I just wanted to have a good time, and most of my teachers bored me. When I had a course that interested me, I did just fine. I flunked four subjects: Plane Geometry, Intermediate Algebra, Physics and Chemistry and Ma was having a fit that I would not get the mythically invaluable Regents Diploma. (Somehow, I got it...) Later, when I became a teacher, I began to understand why so many of own teachers seemed distraught. My greatest worry (as a pedagogue) was that I might encounter a kid like myself...
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
BRIEF EXPLANATORY POST
This blog was intended to comprise a few principal items: MUSIC, AND HOW IT HAS RELATED TO THE MANY ASPECTS OF MY PERSONAL PROFESSIONAL LIFE. This would include my involvement in training to be a music teacher; my career as a piano player, bandleader, composer/songwriter, entertainer and educator. Underlying all of this is my background at various stages of my personal life. A principal ingredient is intended to be HUMOR, deriving from my family, friends and professional acquaintances.
I am writing this short piece to explain that the element of MUSIC will have its principal inclusion here, dealing with things that happened in my musical life from the time I started music study at POTSDAM STATE TEACHER COLLEGE (now designated as SUNY at POTSDAM.) For all intents and purposes, my entrance to Potsdam after World War II is the point at which this Post will lean toward music and musical experiences.
Because my young life tended to be bizarre, with my propensities for indulging in life-threatening activities AND some unusual aspects of those early years, I'll be including quite a few anecdotes which relate.
For any readers whose interests may mainly lie with musical things, I urge you to be patient for a bit. I have many strong opinions about music and the music profession, and will be expressing them. I hope you will keep reading my blog!
I am writing this short piece to explain that the element of MUSIC will have its principal inclusion here, dealing with things that happened in my musical life from the time I started music study at POTSDAM STATE TEACHER COLLEGE (now designated as SUNY at POTSDAM.) For all intents and purposes, my entrance to Potsdam after World War II is the point at which this Post will lean toward music and musical experiences.
Because my young life tended to be bizarre, with my propensities for indulging in life-threatening activities AND some unusual aspects of those early years, I'll be including quite a few anecdotes which relate.
For any readers whose interests may mainly lie with musical things, I urge you to be patient for a bit. I have many strong opinions about music and the music profession, and will be expressing them. I hope you will keep reading my blog!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
HOW I NEARLY MANAGED TO END MY EXISTENCE
As I looked over my last Post, I noticed the gap between my KNOLLWOOD summer and becoming a U.S. sailor. ( I'm talking about the fall of '44, when I was treading water while trying to figure out which branch of the services offered me the best chance to be a hero.) It was during this period when my inherent idiocy nearly resulted in my termination (I mean getting myself killed.)
In the first part of that winter of 1944 there weren't many young men left in Saranac Lake. Those of us who were old enough to enlist (17) were still trying to make a decision. A small group of us hung around downtown every night, sitting around corners talking and making periodic visits to the Minute Lunch for coffee or to shoot the breeze with Harry and Bill.
One night, three of us offered to do a bunch of dirty dishes out back in the sink for free cheeseburgers. Harry and Bill readily agreed. The three of us, myself, Wally Gay and someone - I can't recall who - went back and attacked the dirty dishes and silverware.
Even the act of doing dishes turned on my imagination. I imagined that all of the dishes and utensils would be much more sanitary if I dumped in a little Clorox from a nearby bottle along with the soap. It took only a minute for us to realize with horror that the Clorox had turned all the silverware black. We told Harry what happened. He did not dance with joy. He fetched a large bottle of Gorham's silver polish and said "Take off all the black." We were to find that we were dealing with a task of the magnitude of Hercules' labors in the Augean stables. Each piece required seemingly endless rubbing. My pals were furious with me, but had to share the blame. In terms of barter, those were the most expensive cheeseburgers we had ever gulped down. When the clean-up was done, we all went home - exhausted.
Without any doubt, another incident which occurred that winter was the scariest experience of my life. Most of the cars of this period had bumpers and spare tires mounted on their rears. There was a lot of snow, and a few of us started a new evening activity: jumping up on the rear bumpers of cars as they went around corners and hanging on to the spare for support. We'd ride from one end of town to the other, and jump off as the car turned a corner. Most of the drivers were driving quite slowly, because the roads were slippery.
One particularly slushy night, I was doing a bit of bumper-jumping with a pal, Wallace (Baldy) Baldwin. We jumped on the bumper of a big Packard as it slowly turned the corner of Bloomingdale Ave. by the St. Regis Hotel. Bloomgdale Ave. is a fairly long street and it runs out Saranac to put you on the road to Bloomingdale. There a few streets off it, the last one being Pine St. to the right.
WELL! This car had a single occupant: the driver, and we were no sooner on his rear end than he started to accelerate. (I'm certain he was not aware of his "passengers.") He went faster and faster and Baldy yelled to me "If he turns out the Bloomingdale Road, I'm jumping at Pine St."
That's exactly what he did and, indeed, Baldy did jump at Pine St. There I was, all by myself on a dark and wet night on a guy's bumper who was acting as though he wanted to set a new speed record!
As the car moved faster and faster (on the curved and undulating Bloomingdale Rd.) my parka started fluttering wildly. My first thought was to ride it out the five miles to B'dale, but I was starting to panic.
Then I had an idea.
I reached in my pocket and pulled out a quarter and started tapping it noisily on the rear window. I could see the driver's silhouette, and he was plainly scared. His head was rapidly turning back and forth and he began to slow the car down. He must have been doing close to 60 when he started to decelerate. Thus, when we got down to about 15, it felt as though we were almost standing still. I jumped and tumbled head over heels in the wetness and slush, but was uninjured! When the car stopped, the driver jumped out with a flashlight in his hand, but he never saw me. I had jumped in the ditch and run into the woods. I have to believe that this poor soul never had a clue as to what was going on!
I trudged back to town on the wet road and slush (about a mile+.) It was the end of my bumper-jumping career and my insanity could easily have cost me my life!
I have often thought about that driver. He must have gone to his grave wondering what possibly could have been making the noise that scared him out of his wits and made him stop on the Bloomingdale Rd. on that cold, slushy night. Who knows? He may have considered it some kind of supernatural phenomenon! He must have told his eerie story over and over. I have certainly related this tale of utter stupidity over and over, and never do it without realizing -once again - how lucky I am to be alive to tell it!!
In the first part of that winter of 1944 there weren't many young men left in Saranac Lake. Those of us who were old enough to enlist (17) were still trying to make a decision. A small group of us hung around downtown every night, sitting around corners talking and making periodic visits to the Minute Lunch for coffee or to shoot the breeze with Harry and Bill.
One night, three of us offered to do a bunch of dirty dishes out back in the sink for free cheeseburgers. Harry and Bill readily agreed. The three of us, myself, Wally Gay and someone - I can't recall who - went back and attacked the dirty dishes and silverware.
Even the act of doing dishes turned on my imagination. I imagined that all of the dishes and utensils would be much more sanitary if I dumped in a little Clorox from a nearby bottle along with the soap. It took only a minute for us to realize with horror that the Clorox had turned all the silverware black. We told Harry what happened. He did not dance with joy. He fetched a large bottle of Gorham's silver polish and said "Take off all the black." We were to find that we were dealing with a task of the magnitude of Hercules' labors in the Augean stables. Each piece required seemingly endless rubbing. My pals were furious with me, but had to share the blame. In terms of barter, those were the most expensive cheeseburgers we had ever gulped down. When the clean-up was done, we all went home - exhausted.
Without any doubt, another incident which occurred that winter was the scariest experience of my life. Most of the cars of this period had bumpers and spare tires mounted on their rears. There was a lot of snow, and a few of us started a new evening activity: jumping up on the rear bumpers of cars as they went around corners and hanging on to the spare for support. We'd ride from one end of town to the other, and jump off as the car turned a corner. Most of the drivers were driving quite slowly, because the roads were slippery.
One particularly slushy night, I was doing a bit of bumper-jumping with a pal, Wallace (Baldy) Baldwin. We jumped on the bumper of a big Packard as it slowly turned the corner of Bloomingdale Ave. by the St. Regis Hotel. Bloomgdale Ave. is a fairly long street and it runs out Saranac to put you on the road to Bloomingdale. There a few streets off it, the last one being Pine St. to the right.
WELL! This car had a single occupant: the driver, and we were no sooner on his rear end than he started to accelerate. (I'm certain he was not aware of his "passengers.") He went faster and faster and Baldy yelled to me "If he turns out the Bloomingdale Road, I'm jumping at Pine St."
That's exactly what he did and, indeed, Baldy did jump at Pine St. There I was, all by myself on a dark and wet night on a guy's bumper who was acting as though he wanted to set a new speed record!
As the car moved faster and faster (on the curved and undulating Bloomingdale Rd.) my parka started fluttering wildly. My first thought was to ride it out the five miles to B'dale, but I was starting to panic.
Then I had an idea.
I reached in my pocket and pulled out a quarter and started tapping it noisily on the rear window. I could see the driver's silhouette, and he was plainly scared. His head was rapidly turning back and forth and he began to slow the car down. He must have been doing close to 60 when he started to decelerate. Thus, when we got down to about 15, it felt as though we were almost standing still. I jumped and tumbled head over heels in the wetness and slush, but was uninjured! When the car stopped, the driver jumped out with a flashlight in his hand, but he never saw me. I had jumped in the ditch and run into the woods. I have to believe that this poor soul never had a clue as to what was going on!
I trudged back to town on the wet road and slush (about a mile+.) It was the end of my bumper-jumping career and my insanity could easily have cost me my life!
I have often thought about that driver. He must have gone to his grave wondering what possibly could have been making the noise that scared him out of his wits and made him stop on the Bloomingdale Rd. on that cold, slushy night. Who knows? He may have considered it some kind of supernatural phenomenon! He must have told his eerie story over and over. I have certainly related this tale of utter stupidity over and over, and never do it without realizing -once again - how lucky I am to be alive to tell it!!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
MY HEROIC WWII NAVAL CAREER PART I
In June of 1944, I was graduated from Saranac Lake High School with the sterling overall average of 71.6. I had set new standards for academic irresponsibility, and the fact that I was dubbed "Class Clown" had absolutely nothing to do with it. I'm afraid that I had been far too preoccupied with what I had learned in Mr. Ladd's Chemistry class; especially making different kinds of explosives. I'll be more specific in that area at a later time.
I should, however, mention the summer job that I got that year at a beautiful private camp,(THE KNOLLWOOD) on Lower Saranac Lake...as the boatboy. The large and fancy boathouse (which had such things as a pool table and piano on the second floor) was meant to store the boats of the residents of the six posh "cottages," (the designation of which as such somehow seeming humorous.) And they had renowned residents, such as the Bloomingdales (the store) the Sulzbergers (New York Times) and four other cottages, the sixth of which had as a summer resident ALBERT EINSTEIN I saw that famous man frequently during that summer. His favorite pastime was going out on the lake in his sailboat where he would sit, gently rocking on the water and playing his violin. How could I have had any idea that this individual would make such a cosmic change in our world!! I remember helping him into his sailboat once, and had my hand on his shoulder to steady him.
I have an fascinating story about an incident involving me which related to Albert Einstein that summer, which I'll mention at a later time.
Unfortunately, I was fired from the job in August when Mama Bloomingdale entered the boathouse just as I jumped off its considerable roof into the water while using a beach umbrella as a parachute. (Are you starting to get a picture of me as a young man?)
So now the 1944 fall approached. D-Day had come; the fighting was fierce and the war seemed a long way from over. The Battle of the Bulge was to occur and no one realized that the beginning of the end was in sight. During this time, having gotten out of school, I did nothing much but hang out downtown with the few remaining guys there were. I was seventeen years old, and the prospect of going in the service (and war) was very much on my mind. After much rumination, I concluded that If I were going to die in the war, I would much prefer dying on a sinking ship than languishing in the misery and mud of a foxhole. So in January, '45, Dick Talbert (a classmate) and I enlisted in the Navy. I had already passed a V-6 test in high school which resulted in my going to Rochester for a physical to see if I could be a likely candidate to be an officer. When I had my physical, my skinniness was so severe, my sensitive corpsman examiner invited a couple of other examiners into the room where they could laugh at my pitiable physical condition in unison. Final blow: their designation on the medical form was "emaciated." (Do you wonder that I found it necessary to learn to play boogie-woogie?) I honestly feel that experience was one of the demeaning and cruel I've had in an entire lifetime.
Fortunately, when Talbert and I had our physicals to be just plain sailors, nobody gave any heed to my emaciation. No one even looked at me twice. I passed, and was on my way to being a sailor/defender of our national freedom! We got sworn in in Syracuse, drunk in Utica, and had a miserable hung-over ride back to Saranac on the jouncing, coal-driven New York Central. After a respite of about a week we jumped on the train and made our way to Sampson Naval Bass, near Geneva, N.Y. for Boot Camp.
Sampson was divided into units with capital letter names. We ended up in C unit. Sometimes the letter was made significant as in "G" unit What could be more natural than to call it the "Gestapo" unit? Almost from the first day we arrived, two rumors began to circulate and did so for the full ten weeks. That was that every time we lined up without a reason, we were going to get either a needle or "short-arm" inspection, which was to be done by the corpsmen (or "pecker-checkers.) I don't ever remember either. (I believe that particular paranoia existed on every military installation.) Our company commander was Harry Gobelman...also known as "Horseshit-Harry.) Everybody seemed to be fond of alliteration!
Each unit had a dozen of more double barracks. The two sides had two floors with 120 "men" on each floor; a total of 480 "men." (I'm using all of these quote marks because I was one of the "men.") The barracks had what seemed like an insufficient number of toilets and urinals on each floor. (By the way - modesty vanished; there were no stalls.) The toilet room was called the "head." Right away, a cleaning crew was assigned to keep the head squeaky clean. They did their cleaning while we were all at breakfast. Soon after breakfast came "inspection." Not wanting their handiwork to get besmirched, the cleaning crew roped off the head in such a way, when that when 120 guys returned from breakfast (many of them with diarrhea in the early days...) only a couple of toilets and urinals were available. The rest of the facilities were standing sparkling for "inspection." The result was comical (in a "black humor" fashion!) But this was a fraction of the idiocy that constituted Boot Camp.
The only other thing which was memorable about Boot Camp was the 2nd or 3rd week, which was known as "work week." Memorable, because of the way I outfoxed it. I managed to become a "dive bomber." That meant that I had a stick with a nail in the end, and a bag over my shoulder and was supposed to rove around spearing bits of trash. I perfected a routine, which worked like a charm for a week. I'd go in back of the barracks to the trash cans and load up my bag with trash from the cans. Then I found a favorite culvert where I could sleep for a good spell. You see, that's when and where I discovered that sleep (called crapping-out) is the most prized activity everywhere in the service, because by and large, everything is B-O-R-I-N-G-! And sleep is your escape and most-prized activity. At this time, every sailor's greatest fear was that upon leaving Boot Camp he would be sent to the "amphibs", which meant being in a sea-to-shore invasion. The worst possible scene! I'll close this brief Boot Camp description with the words of a song we used to sing there. These words may be sung to the melody of MY BONNIE LIES OVER THE OCEAN.
"Take down that blue star, Mother! - And hang up a gold one instead. Your son's an amphibious sailor; before he's eighteen, he's he'll be dead! T.S........T.S.........before he's eighteen he'll be dead, be dead! T.S.......T.S....... Before he's eighteen, he'll be dead!"
This is not a complete picture by any means of Boot Camp, but it gives and idea of the atmosphere. I learned that I was going to be transferred to Bainbridge, Md. to go to Quartermaster school. * More to come. We'll have some music between this and the next WWII episode! *"Quartermaster" in the Navy and Army denotes totally different duties.
I should, however, mention the summer job that I got that year at a beautiful private camp,(THE KNOLLWOOD) on Lower Saranac Lake...as the boatboy. The large and fancy boathouse (which had such things as a pool table and piano on the second floor) was meant to store the boats of the residents of the six posh "cottages," (the designation of which as such somehow seeming humorous.) And they had renowned residents, such as the Bloomingdales (the store) the Sulzbergers (New York Times) and four other cottages, the sixth of which had as a summer resident ALBERT EINSTEIN I saw that famous man frequently during that summer. His favorite pastime was going out on the lake in his sailboat where he would sit, gently rocking on the water and playing his violin. How could I have had any idea that this individual would make such a cosmic change in our world!! I remember helping him into his sailboat once, and had my hand on his shoulder to steady him.
I have an fascinating story about an incident involving me which related to Albert Einstein that summer, which I'll mention at a later time.
Unfortunately, I was fired from the job in August when Mama Bloomingdale entered the boathouse just as I jumped off its considerable roof into the water while using a beach umbrella as a parachute. (Are you starting to get a picture of me as a young man?)
So now the 1944 fall approached. D-Day had come; the fighting was fierce and the war seemed a long way from over. The Battle of the Bulge was to occur and no one realized that the beginning of the end was in sight. During this time, having gotten out of school, I did nothing much but hang out downtown with the few remaining guys there were. I was seventeen years old, and the prospect of going in the service (and war) was very much on my mind. After much rumination, I concluded that If I were going to die in the war, I would much prefer dying on a sinking ship than languishing in the misery and mud of a foxhole. So in January, '45, Dick Talbert (a classmate) and I enlisted in the Navy. I had already passed a V-6 test in high school which resulted in my going to Rochester for a physical to see if I could be a likely candidate to be an officer. When I had my physical, my skinniness was so severe, my sensitive corpsman examiner invited a couple of other examiners into the room where they could laugh at my pitiable physical condition in unison. Final blow: their designation on the medical form was "emaciated." (Do you wonder that I found it necessary to learn to play boogie-woogie?) I honestly feel that experience was one of the demeaning and cruel I've had in an entire lifetime.
Fortunately, when Talbert and I had our physicals to be just plain sailors, nobody gave any heed to my emaciation. No one even looked at me twice. I passed, and was on my way to being a sailor/defender of our national freedom! We got sworn in in Syracuse, drunk in Utica, and had a miserable hung-over ride back to Saranac on the jouncing, coal-driven New York Central. After a respite of about a week we jumped on the train and made our way to Sampson Naval Bass, near Geneva, N.Y. for Boot Camp.
Sampson was divided into units with capital letter names. We ended up in C unit. Sometimes the letter was made significant as in "G" unit What could be more natural than to call it the "Gestapo" unit? Almost from the first day we arrived, two rumors began to circulate and did so for the full ten weeks. That was that every time we lined up without a reason, we were going to get either a needle or "short-arm" inspection, which was to be done by the corpsmen (or "pecker-checkers.) I don't ever remember either. (I believe that particular paranoia existed on every military installation.) Our company commander was Harry Gobelman...also known as "Horseshit-Harry.) Everybody seemed to be fond of alliteration!
Each unit had a dozen of more double barracks. The two sides had two floors with 120 "men" on each floor; a total of 480 "men." (I'm using all of these quote marks because I was one of the "men.") The barracks had what seemed like an insufficient number of toilets and urinals on each floor. (By the way - modesty vanished; there were no stalls.) The toilet room was called the "head." Right away, a cleaning crew was assigned to keep the head squeaky clean. They did their cleaning while we were all at breakfast. Soon after breakfast came "inspection." Not wanting their handiwork to get besmirched, the cleaning crew roped off the head in such a way, when that when 120 guys returned from breakfast (many of them with diarrhea in the early days...) only a couple of toilets and urinals were available. The rest of the facilities were standing sparkling for "inspection." The result was comical (in a "black humor" fashion!) But this was a fraction of the idiocy that constituted Boot Camp.
The only other thing which was memorable about Boot Camp was the 2nd or 3rd week, which was known as "work week." Memorable, because of the way I outfoxed it. I managed to become a "dive bomber." That meant that I had a stick with a nail in the end, and a bag over my shoulder and was supposed to rove around spearing bits of trash. I perfected a routine, which worked like a charm for a week. I'd go in back of the barracks to the trash cans and load up my bag with trash from the cans. Then I found a favorite culvert where I could sleep for a good spell. You see, that's when and where I discovered that sleep (called crapping-out) is the most prized activity everywhere in the service, because by and large, everything is B-O-R-I-N-G-! And sleep is your escape and most-prized activity. At this time, every sailor's greatest fear was that upon leaving Boot Camp he would be sent to the "amphibs", which meant being in a sea-to-shore invasion. The worst possible scene! I'll close this brief Boot Camp description with the words of a song we used to sing there. These words may be sung to the melody of MY BONNIE LIES OVER THE OCEAN.
"Take down that blue star, Mother! - And hang up a gold one instead. Your son's an amphibious sailor; before he's eighteen, he's he'll be dead! T.S........T.S.........before he's eighteen he'll be dead, be dead! T.S.......T.S....... Before he's eighteen, he'll be dead!"
This is not a complete picture by any means of Boot Camp, but it gives and idea of the atmosphere. I learned that I was going to be transferred to Bainbridge, Md. to go to Quartermaster school. * More to come. We'll have some music between this and the next WWII episode! *"Quartermaster" in the Navy and Army denotes totally different duties.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
ON PLAYING THE PIANO "BY EAR" IN THE KEY OF C...(ONLY)
I've mentioned quite a bit about Saranac Lake (my hometown,) my parents, Loretto Leonard (my piano teacher,) and some of my youthful escapades. Now it's time to give some thought to telling how I learned to play the piano "by ear" in the key of C (only, at first...)
Playing songs in the key of C is easier both in reading music and if you are doing it "by ear." First of all, let us consider what the last expression means: you hear a piece of music (usually a song) and figure out how to play it using only the white keys of the piano. First, you have to get the melody right and of course, you have to play the melody notes in the correct rhythm. At that, missing element is harmony (usually chords) which you probably play in your left hand. Plunking out the melody isn't too hard. Getting the right chords is a lot trickier. That's where your "ear for music" (or lack thereof) really shows up. It has to do with another musical element: harmony. One of the best ways to find out if you truly have a musical ear is to try to play a "bass line" that sounds good with your one-finger melody. That would be a sort left hand "melody" that sounds good with your right hand tune. At first, you might want to play your two-line piece for a musician (a good one) who could spot whether or not your bass part makes "musical sense." (Can't go any further in that area now...)
Back to my experience:
At first, I started playing hymns I had heard (I was an altar boy.) Since I heard them most of the time when they were played in church and sung by the choir, most of the harmony I had heard was in four parts, or "choral style." (That's the sopranos (melody,) altos (harmony) tenors (harmony) and the bass (harmony.) So my early "ear playing" in the key of C was mostly in four parts. Later, I began to try to play popular songs...as usual in the Key of C. Now, with both the hymns and pop tunes I found that even though I was playing in the Key of C occasionally I had
to use some black keys. Usually there were not too many, and I managed.
Gradually, I managed to create my own style of playing. My idol was Carmen Cavallero, whose playing style absolutely enthralled me. Remember, this was in Saranac Lake and no young musicians (hep-cats) around to tell me that Carmen was corny, or that I was playing in a corny style. All I know is, I loved it, and I started to build up a large repertoire of songs that I could play by ear in the Key of C only. Don't forget too, that I was playing the straight melody of all the songs. (Both of these aspects of my playing were at first going to cause me pain after I went to music school at Potsdam. Ultimately, each of these playing habits were to benefit me greatly, each in its own way!
I should add that this time period was the early forties, when boogie-woogie got very popular with the likes of Tommy Dorsey's BOOGIE-WOOGIE and three fabulous boogie-woogie players: Albert Ammons, Pete Johnson and Meade Lux Lewis. I became the boogie-woogie king of Saranac Lake! (And guess what? I migrated to the key of F for my boogie-woogie playing.) I must confess, there was another motivation for my desire to be able to play the piano (especially boogie-) GIRLS!! Not being a jock is an awful cross for a high school boy to bear. One must resort to other devices. Mine was the piano. I was very skinny. Painfully! This resulted in a number of nicknames. My pal, Dew-Drop Morgan of bobsled fame called me "Ichabod." I had an assortment of other nicknames, the most enduring being "Tracks." There's a story connected with that one, which I'll explain in another tale. My other highly-developed skill was playing pinball machines, although toward the end of my young years in Saranac I resorted to artificial aids such as wires and drills. You see, those machines paid off - in nickels. A jackpot of forty nichols was considered a bonanza. (After all, in those years, you could hitchhike over to Lake Placid and get any sandwich or beverage in the house for a nickel! (With one exception - the house delicacy was 10 cents. Guess what it was? A chicken sandwich.
But I'm getting far afield here from my subject (playing by ear in the Key of C.) It was approaching 1945, and I was to join the U.S. Navy in January of that year. I'll continue my story about ear-playing after I describe my heroic year-and-a-half in the Navy. When I came home in 1946, my professional musical career was about to begin! Ciao...
Playing songs in the key of C is easier both in reading music and if you are doing it "by ear." First of all, let us consider what the last expression means: you hear a piece of music (usually a song) and figure out how to play it using only the white keys of the piano. First, you have to get the melody right and of course, you have to play the melody notes in the correct rhythm. At that, missing element is harmony (usually chords) which you probably play in your left hand. Plunking out the melody isn't too hard. Getting the right chords is a lot trickier. That's where your "ear for music" (or lack thereof) really shows up. It has to do with another musical element: harmony. One of the best ways to find out if you truly have a musical ear is to try to play a "bass line" that sounds good with your one-finger melody. That would be a sort left hand "melody" that sounds good with your right hand tune. At first, you might want to play your two-line piece for a musician (a good one) who could spot whether or not your bass part makes "musical sense." (Can't go any further in that area now...)
Back to my experience:
At first, I started playing hymns I had heard (I was an altar boy.) Since I heard them most of the time when they were played in church and sung by the choir, most of the harmony I had heard was in four parts, or "choral style." (That's the sopranos (melody,) altos (harmony) tenors (harmony) and the bass (harmony.) So my early "ear playing" in the key of C was mostly in four parts. Later, I began to try to play popular songs...as usual in the Key of C. Now, with both the hymns and pop tunes I found that even though I was playing in the Key of C occasionally I had
to use some black keys. Usually there were not too many, and I managed.
Gradually, I managed to create my own style of playing. My idol was Carmen Cavallero, whose playing style absolutely enthralled me. Remember, this was in Saranac Lake and no young musicians (hep-cats) around to tell me that Carmen was corny, or that I was playing in a corny style. All I know is, I loved it, and I started to build up a large repertoire of songs that I could play by ear in the Key of C only. Don't forget too, that I was playing the straight melody of all the songs. (Both of these aspects of my playing were at first going to cause me pain after I went to music school at Potsdam. Ultimately, each of these playing habits were to benefit me greatly, each in its own way!
I should add that this time period was the early forties, when boogie-woogie got very popular with the likes of Tommy Dorsey's BOOGIE-WOOGIE and three fabulous boogie-woogie players: Albert Ammons, Pete Johnson and Meade Lux Lewis. I became the boogie-woogie king of Saranac Lake! (And guess what? I migrated to the key of F for my boogie-woogie playing.) I must confess, there was another motivation for my desire to be able to play the piano (especially boogie-) GIRLS!! Not being a jock is an awful cross for a high school boy to bear. One must resort to other devices. Mine was the piano. I was very skinny. Painfully! This resulted in a number of nicknames. My pal, Dew-Drop Morgan of bobsled fame called me "Ichabod." I had an assortment of other nicknames, the most enduring being "Tracks." There's a story connected with that one, which I'll explain in another tale. My other highly-developed skill was playing pinball machines, although toward the end of my young years in Saranac I resorted to artificial aids such as wires and drills. You see, those machines paid off - in nickels. A jackpot of forty nichols was considered a bonanza. (After all, in those years, you could hitchhike over to Lake Placid and get any sandwich or beverage in the house for a nickel! (With one exception - the house delicacy was 10 cents. Guess what it was? A chicken sandwich.
But I'm getting far afield here from my subject (playing by ear in the Key of C.) It was approaching 1945, and I was to join the U.S. Navy in January of that year. I'll continue my story about ear-playing after I describe my heroic year-and-a-half in the Navy. When I came home in 1946, my professional musical career was about to begin! Ciao...
ON MY WAY TO BECOMING A PROFESSIONAL PIANO PLAYER
I have to tell you - I started this post once before and was really pleased with the way it was going.I had written a considerable amount...and then I pushed a wrong button and lost it! So here goes. I'm starting all over.
Miss Loretto Leonard was my wonderfully talented - and beautiful - piano teacher for nine years.
Some time ago, I made note of the "Miss" on her business cards, and all other written materials. She told me that her father had loved the name Loretto, and even after he discovered that the feminine spelling was Loretta, he still insisted on naming his daughter Loretto!
She was an extremely attractive young woman who had had the misfortune of contracting polio ("Infantile Paralysis" back then) as a young child, resulting in a shriveled leg and a limp.
Her piano teacher in Saranac lake had been Mrs. Simpson, who was acknowledged to be Saranac's finest. She had studied in Europe with a renowned concert pianist. This points out a factor that exists in every good teacher/student relationship: emulation. It's probably the most important and vital one.
When Loretto became my teacher, she had only recently graduated (with high honors) from the Eastman School of Music. My Ma and Pa heard about her, and made an appointment for the three of us to go to Loretto's studio (in her house) for an audition that was required for every prospective student. The memory of that occasion is vivid. She gave me all kinds of "musical ear" tests and checked my manual dexterity. At the end, she said: "I believe your son will make his living with music some day." I'll always remember those words!
Loretto was a stern taskmaster. She assigned me scales, arpeggios and pieces. At my lessons, she would have me run through them, and make notations in my assignment book. Next to the pieces in the book which I was to have practiced she would place a gold, silver or colored star sticker...or no sticker at all! When I'd get home, Ma would avidly look at the assignment book to see what I had received in the star department. (I must confess, at this late date...I occasionally did a bit of star re-sticking!) I had definite musical talent, but a kid is a kid and I had to be driven to practicing. Ma and I had many fights about this issue. One week she'd threaten, "That's it! You're through! No more lessons!" I would object to that decision... Next week, I'd scream: "I'm quitting!" She'd answer, "you're not quitting!" Sometimes, she'd lock me in the room with the piano. Fortunately, I usually had a SUPERMAN comic on hand, which I would place on the piano and read while I practiced a one-handed scale! Now, don't get me wrong. This didn't go on all the time!
She was always interested in my musical "discoveries". One time, for example I discovered that I could play the songs ONE DOZEN ROSES and I'VE GOT SPURS THAT JINGLE JANGLE JINGLE, with one song in the R.H. and the other in the L.H. When she heard it she smiled and taught me a new word: "counterpoint." I was playing the songs contrapuntally!
One of my most vivid and still frightening recollection is of the recitals. We had two or three of them a year. The early ones were in Loretto's studio. I still remember the paralyzing fright of having to walk up to the piano and play before those people, who sat there so solemnly. The true and ultimate occasion of terror was the annual spring recital (the "biggie") which was held in the grand ballroom of the palatial Hotel Saranac. I had a long time to wait for the end of the program and my turn, and I would even leave the building and walk around Saranac's streets, trying to assuage my monumental apprehension and fear. Somehow, the situation always turned out fine, and afforded my proud parents plenty of time to sit and beam and enjoy the compliments.
Gradually, as my skills improved, I became one of Loretto's star students. My name was placed closer and closer toward the end of the program. I had a "flair" (her word) for playing some of the old warhorses, such as Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C# minor with much finesse. To be honest, she had better student players than I was, but they did the harder stuff, such as Bach, which I could never handle. Bach is also less "commercial." Also, I should mention that during my lessons Loretto realized that I would learn pieces much faster if she played them for me (the ear factor.) I sometimes sensed that she was reluctant to do this, because I wasn't a very good music reader, and her playing pieces for me was a crutch. As a matter of fact (because of the dominance of my musical ears) to this very day, I am not a good music reader. But we're talking here about sightreading. This was to bedevil me throughout my professional life. I'll talk about this later, and its quite humorous aspects ("humorous, I might add, at my expense!
Loretto died several years ago at age 92. I want to mention one other aspect of her life, for it was to have a profound influence upon her dedication to her piano teaching. I believe that she only had one major love affair. She fell in love and became engaged to a dashingly handsome young music teacher and band director in town. She was radiantly happy and he came once to an annual swimming party that she had for us students. Then, he fell in love with somebody else, and here's the rough part: He not only broke the engagement. He asked for the engagement ring back AND HE GAVE IT TO HIS NEW BRIDE-TO-BE. That's not all. They were married on the very same day he was to have married Loretto! To say that this guy was a total -------! (you fill in) is not an exaggeration. This had a profound effect on my dear teacher, and to my knowledge, she never dated again. From that point on, she re-dedicated her efforts to her students and further studies (At Juilliard, Diller-Quaile and the Cincinnati Conservatory.) She stayed her entire life in the family home, land, and died in the bed in which she was born. Over the years, I saw her many times. I loved her deeply.
For whatever I have managed to achieve in my musical life, I am deeply indebted to Loretto Leonard.
Miss Loretto Leonard was my wonderfully talented - and beautiful - piano teacher for nine years.
Some time ago, I made note of the "Miss" on her business cards, and all other written materials. She told me that her father had loved the name Loretto, and even after he discovered that the feminine spelling was Loretta, he still insisted on naming his daughter Loretto!
She was an extremely attractive young woman who had had the misfortune of contracting polio ("Infantile Paralysis" back then) as a young child, resulting in a shriveled leg and a limp.
Her piano teacher in Saranac lake had been Mrs. Simpson, who was acknowledged to be Saranac's finest. She had studied in Europe with a renowned concert pianist. This points out a factor that exists in every good teacher/student relationship: emulation. It's probably the most important and vital one.
When Loretto became my teacher, she had only recently graduated (with high honors) from the Eastman School of Music. My Ma and Pa heard about her, and made an appointment for the three of us to go to Loretto's studio (in her house) for an audition that was required for every prospective student. The memory of that occasion is vivid. She gave me all kinds of "musical ear" tests and checked my manual dexterity. At the end, she said: "I believe your son will make his living with music some day." I'll always remember those words!
Loretto was a stern taskmaster. She assigned me scales, arpeggios and pieces. At my lessons, she would have me run through them, and make notations in my assignment book. Next to the pieces in the book which I was to have practiced she would place a gold, silver or colored star sticker...or no sticker at all! When I'd get home, Ma would avidly look at the assignment book to see what I had received in the star department. (I must confess, at this late date...I occasionally did a bit of star re-sticking!) I had definite musical talent, but a kid is a kid and I had to be driven to practicing. Ma and I had many fights about this issue. One week she'd threaten, "That's it! You're through! No more lessons!" I would object to that decision... Next week, I'd scream: "I'm quitting!" She'd answer, "you're not quitting!" Sometimes, she'd lock me in the room with the piano. Fortunately, I usually had a SUPERMAN comic on hand, which I would place on the piano and read while I practiced a one-handed scale! Now, don't get me wrong. This didn't go on all the time!
She was always interested in my musical "discoveries". One time, for example I discovered that I could play the songs ONE DOZEN ROSES and I'VE GOT SPURS THAT JINGLE JANGLE JINGLE, with one song in the R.H. and the other in the L.H. When she heard it she smiled and taught me a new word: "counterpoint." I was playing the songs contrapuntally!
One of my most vivid and still frightening recollection is of the recitals. We had two or three of them a year. The early ones were in Loretto's studio. I still remember the paralyzing fright of having to walk up to the piano and play before those people, who sat there so solemnly. The true and ultimate occasion of terror was the annual spring recital (the "biggie") which was held in the grand ballroom of the palatial Hotel Saranac. I had a long time to wait for the end of the program and my turn, and I would even leave the building and walk around Saranac's streets, trying to assuage my monumental apprehension and fear. Somehow, the situation always turned out fine, and afforded my proud parents plenty of time to sit and beam and enjoy the compliments.
Gradually, as my skills improved, I became one of Loretto's star students. My name was placed closer and closer toward the end of the program. I had a "flair" (her word) for playing some of the old warhorses, such as Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C# minor with much finesse. To be honest, she had better student players than I was, but they did the harder stuff, such as Bach, which I could never handle. Bach is also less "commercial." Also, I should mention that during my lessons Loretto realized that I would learn pieces much faster if she played them for me (the ear factor.) I sometimes sensed that she was reluctant to do this, because I wasn't a very good music reader, and her playing pieces for me was a crutch. As a matter of fact (because of the dominance of my musical ears) to this very day, I am not a good music reader. But we're talking here about sightreading. This was to bedevil me throughout my professional life. I'll talk about this later, and its quite humorous aspects ("humorous, I might add, at my expense!
Loretto died several years ago at age 92. I want to mention one other aspect of her life, for it was to have a profound influence upon her dedication to her piano teaching. I believe that she only had one major love affair. She fell in love and became engaged to a dashingly handsome young music teacher and band director in town. She was radiantly happy and he came once to an annual swimming party that she had for us students. Then, he fell in love with somebody else, and here's the rough part: He not only broke the engagement. He asked for the engagement ring back AND HE GAVE IT TO HIS NEW BRIDE-TO-BE. That's not all. They were married on the very same day he was to have married Loretto! To say that this guy was a total -------! (you fill in) is not an exaggeration. This had a profound effect on my dear teacher, and to my knowledge, she never dated again. From that point on, she re-dedicated her efforts to her students and further studies (At Juilliard, Diller-Quaile and the Cincinnati Conservatory.) She stayed her entire life in the family home, land, and died in the bed in which she was born. Over the years, I saw her many times. I loved her deeply.
For whatever I have managed to achieve in my musical life, I am deeply indebted to Loretto Leonard.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
BACK TO MUSIC: A WORLD FAMOUS MELODY
Of the four musical elements (MELODY, RHYTHM, HARMONY, TIMBRE) only one of them can be identified repeatedly as such characterizations as "world famous" or thousands of other various descriptions. To clarify - it is much more difficult to say something like "world famous "rhythm" (well...maybe...) or "world famous harmony" (...possibly, but...) "world famous "timbre" (...very unlikely...) You get the idea.
But when it comes to MELODIES...wow...there must be unbelievable numbers of possibilities.
Having made this point, let's talk about one of the most famous military marches ever: THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER by the great John Philip Sousa. Everybody is acquainted with his works and whether you like them or not could have to do with how you feel about patriotism, or less complimentarily, jingoism. Certainly, in the 19th and early 20th centuries, patriotism was very "in" and Sousa gloried in its feeling, expressed through his music. But there is a major irony here. J.P.S.'s fondest wish was to write operettas! Fortunately for march lovers, just about everything he wrote came out sounding like a march. Since he had such a great fondness for operettas, he turned his considerable talents as a lyricist to setting words to much of his music.
EL CAPITAN, a marvelous 6/8 march has words that almost seem comical with this quintessentially military march.
You may recall that in an earlier post in this blog I stated that in our popular musical "standards" the melody (or "tune") came first 95% of the time.
That's what happened in the case of THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER. Sousa wrote the march itself in 1896 while he was in Europe. Word reached him of the death of the manager of his Sousa Band. He composed THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER in his head and committed the notes to paper later. A couple of years later, he was returning from another trip abroad, and as the ship entered New York harbor, he made up lyrics for what turned out to be his Magnum Opus - the great STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER.
My dad taught me these lyrics when I was a little kid, and I can still sing 'em. You might ask how my Pa knew the words. Back in his school days, the song was taught to all of the kids, and he never forgot them. Here they are:
THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER
Let martial note in triumph float, and liberty extend its mighty hand,
A flag appears, mid thunderous cheers - the banner of the Western land.
The emblem of the brave and true, its folds protect no tyrant crew -
The Red and White and starry Blue is freedom's shield and hope!
Other nations may deem their flags the best and cheer them with fervid elation,
But the flag of the North and South and West is the flag-of-flags...the flag of freedom's nation!
Hurrah for the flag of the free! * May it wave as our standard forever.
The gem of the land and the sea; the banner of the right!
Let despots remember the day when our fathers, with mighty endeavor,
Proclaimed as they marched to the fray:
That by their might and by their right it waves forever!
* also: Three cheers for the red, white and blue!
What a truly great melody! In the march itself, there is a "turn-around" also known as a dog fight. Sousa's marches always featured massive batteries of percussion and brass instruments.
As a little kid, I used to get goose pimples when the village band came marching down the street in the parade, playing that great march. I undoubtedly experienced true patriotism in my breast more than any other time in my life.
In ths blog I hope to talk about many more great melodies. Just for the record I (and many others) consider Jerome Kern's ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE to be a prime candidate for the all time best standard. Ironically, it came from a Broadway Show, Very Warm for May (1939) which folded after a very short run. Its lyrics were by the marvelous Oscar Hammerstein III, who was having his ups and downs until 1943 when he teamed up with Richard Rodgers in their groundbreaking great, OKLAHOMA!
In the words of Bugs Bunny, "Th-th-that's all, folks!"
Here's a short song that I just made up: "Please come back to my blog, or I'll call you a dirty dog!"
(Lotta class...right?) Phil
But when it comes to MELODIES...wow...there must be unbelievable numbers of possibilities.
Having made this point, let's talk about one of the most famous military marches ever: THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER by the great John Philip Sousa. Everybody is acquainted with his works and whether you like them or not could have to do with how you feel about patriotism, or less complimentarily, jingoism. Certainly, in the 19th and early 20th centuries, patriotism was very "in" and Sousa gloried in its feeling, expressed through his music. But there is a major irony here. J.P.S.'s fondest wish was to write operettas! Fortunately for march lovers, just about everything he wrote came out sounding like a march. Since he had such a great fondness for operettas, he turned his considerable talents as a lyricist to setting words to much of his music.
EL CAPITAN, a marvelous 6/8 march has words that almost seem comical with this quintessentially military march.
You may recall that in an earlier post in this blog I stated that in our popular musical "standards" the melody (or "tune") came first 95% of the time.
That's what happened in the case of THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER. Sousa wrote the march itself in 1896 while he was in Europe. Word reached him of the death of the manager of his Sousa Band. He composed THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER in his head and committed the notes to paper later. A couple of years later, he was returning from another trip abroad, and as the ship entered New York harbor, he made up lyrics for what turned out to be his Magnum Opus - the great STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER.
My dad taught me these lyrics when I was a little kid, and I can still sing 'em. You might ask how my Pa knew the words. Back in his school days, the song was taught to all of the kids, and he never forgot them. Here they are:
THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER
Let martial note in triumph float, and liberty extend its mighty hand,
A flag appears, mid thunderous cheers - the banner of the Western land.
The emblem of the brave and true, its folds protect no tyrant crew -
The Red and White and starry Blue is freedom's shield and hope!
Other nations may deem their flags the best and cheer them with fervid elation,
But the flag of the North and South and West is the flag-of-flags...the flag of freedom's nation!
Hurrah for the flag of the free! * May it wave as our standard forever.
The gem of the land and the sea; the banner of the right!
Let despots remember the day when our fathers, with mighty endeavor,
Proclaimed as they marched to the fray:
That by their might and by their right it waves forever!
* also: Three cheers for the red, white and blue!
What a truly great melody! In the march itself, there is a "turn-around" also known as a dog fight. Sousa's marches always featured massive batteries of percussion and brass instruments.
As a little kid, I used to get goose pimples when the village band came marching down the street in the parade, playing that great march. I undoubtedly experienced true patriotism in my breast more than any other time in my life.
In ths blog I hope to talk about many more great melodies. Just for the record I (and many others) consider Jerome Kern's ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE to be a prime candidate for the all time best standard. Ironically, it came from a Broadway Show, Very Warm for May (1939) which folded after a very short run. Its lyrics were by the marvelous Oscar Hammerstein III, who was having his ups and downs until 1943 when he teamed up with Richard Rodgers in their groundbreaking great, OKLAHOMA!
In the words of Bugs Bunny, "Th-th-that's all, folks!"
Here's a short song that I just made up: "Please come back to my blog, or I'll call you a dirty dog!"
(Lotta class...right?) Phil
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