Fathers and Sons -- Boys of a Feather -- #42: A New Joy to Share

Humbly forwarded without your request, a simple opinion of the “what’s missing in today’s society” and perhaps, also the “what’s missing in the new flick 42.” I haven’t seen the movie yet, but God forgive me I’ve become one of the things I dislike most, a critic. The only difference between me and the other ogres is I’m not being paid to criticize another’s creative work. In actuality, this is probably the first time I’ve placed my feelings in writing regarding a movie. Here is my problem folks, from the bottom of my heart: I can’t imagine a portrayal of Jackie Robinson remotely able to bring to the surface the dynamics of this man, and the brutality of what he endured as a human being. 

When I was privileged to see “Jackie Robinson” for the first time, I was one amongst 33,000 attending a simple game of baseball at a small bandbox and historical institution called Ebbets Field, located in the most worthwhile village in the world: Brooklyn, New York. 

“Have you ever seen or heard so many people showing a display of interest for anyone else in the world?” Dad asked me. 

Honestly, I can’t vaguely recall much of the dialogue between us that momentous day. But, I can report with complete accuracy the apolitical atmosphere that existed inside the ballpark. Jackie may never be considered as one of the greatest ballplayers of all time, but who he was and what he was placed him in a world and field apart from the average man of the day. 

That day, we were all introduced to a different human calling. Not a slave, not a servant, not a subservient, not an average baseball player, and definitely not a white man. It was our time to experience for the first time, up close, a black man who was not only our equal, but a man with unequivocal leadership qualities. 

We had a winner on our team. 

All of us kids immediately loved it; the adults would quickly learn to do the same. 

One man entered the scene and created an immediate synergy throughout an entire country of baseball lovers. There were those who were racists – some on his own team – who actually requested and were granted quick discharge from the Dodgers. But, it never discouraged any of the fans. They came out to cheer – and jeer all the same. The underlying and unifying factor was Jackie Robinson himself. He was the one who began bringing in the “turn-away” crowds. Tickets to Ebetts Field became a very hot item. 

There were few cities in the United States who could legitimately boast a true understanding of the game of baseball; Brooklyn was one of them. We knew what was happening on the field. When a player made a mistake, he heard about it from the fans. Along with the understanding came a love for the players. Nothing at the time resembled today’s fickle era of money-meaning-everything-for-the-players. That’s not to say that the ballplayers didn’t strive for the better things in life. Perhaps, it was just the opposite. 

What faced all of the players, as well as the new man on the block, was the inability of the ballplayers to control their own future. In other words, when an athlete signed his contract with a team, the team controlled every aspect of his future. There weren’t any special clauses in the contracts the way they exist today. The team, meaning the owners, were in complete control of the athlete’s destiny. There was no such thing as Free Agency. 

SUNDAY, APRIL 14 

Yesterday, Cathy and I saw the movie 42. It was obvious the movie was the story of how and what Jackie Robinson experienced as the first African American playing professionally in the Major Leagues of our national pastime – baseball. 

On numerous occasions during the year 1947, I was privileged to watch Jackie Robinson play my favorite game. We came to the park as excited kids, all of us looking forward to his exploits on the base paths. More than anything else, watching Jackie run was a personal highlight for me. 

I suppose for the many who didn’t have the opportunity to see Jackie Robinson perform as a baseball player, the movie portrayal by Chadwick Boseman would have been much more than adequate. But, the problem for any actor in such a demanding position is the sheer and almost unbelievable skills of Jackie as an athlete. Not before or since, have I seen a person run the way Jackie Robinson did. 

  
Jackie didn’t run; he appeared to attack. From the time he became a Dodger, every one of us attempted to emulate his every move. We even walked like Jackie Robinson. 

I can remember my Mother asking me if I had hurt myself while out there playing with my friends. She was, of course, referring to his naturally pigeon-toed gait. There were definitely ballplayers in the League who could run faster, but none could emulate his driving dynamics. 

As kids, we always got on the opposing pitcher. After all, that’s what good fans are expected to do, especially if Jackie Robinson was on base. Jackie would be there on first base and everybody in the park knew he was going to try and steal second, then third base, and some days he’d even dash for home plate. 

Jackie was fearless.

Chadwick Boseman was a marvelous choice to play the part of Jackie Robinson but, in my opinion, his athleticism paled in comparison. 

 *** 

There came to pass, following the enormous breakthrough of Jackie Robinson, another man who ran and played with the same reckless abandonment. He arrived and thrived with the Dodger’s arch rivals -- the then New York Giants. 

His name was Willie Mays. 

  
The man who was to be Willie May’s first manager was the very same man who managed the Brooklyn Dodgers when Jackie Robinson stepped over the color line into the fastest lane of all. His name was Leo Durocher. 

Through his ensuing years in baseball, Willie made it a point to call attention to the unbelievable possibilities created by one of his idols, Jackie Robinson. 

“Every time I look at my pocketbook, I see Jackie Robinson.” -- Willie Mays 

Jackie Robinson’s famous number was 42. Willie Mays wore the number 24 his entire career.

I wonder… 

NOTE: Yankees closer Mariano Rivera is the last player in Major League Baseball still allowed to wear No. 42, which the sport retired in 1997 to honor Jackie Robinson, above. All players and managers in the league, however, can wear No. 42 on April 15 for Jackie Robinson Day, which was initiated in 2004.

Aromas

Even non-coffee drinkers will admit to enjoying the first smell of coffee as it wafts its way to wherever they happen to be. Think about it, when have you ever heard someone complain about the awful aroma of that stinking dark black stuff?

Walk into any recording studio early in the morning and the usual first sensory stimulation will be that of aged dust. It can’t be avoided; all those damn ugly wires that have purposely been hidden in walls, behinds books, in cabinets, under rugs, and anywhere possible to keep them out of sight – in order to beautify an otherwise mildly pleasant ambiance. But, then the same force that allows for the dusty odor now offers a familiar pleasure; comes now the joyful delight of everything good. You can’t help yourself. Reflection takes you by storm.

Is there anything you may think of that brings with it a more pleasant retrospect than personal reflection?

Our squad had been out all night in a moist and dank, subterfuge of a farm, known as a rice paddy. For those of you unfamiliar with the makeup of a rice paddy, simply stated, the rice is planted under water or on ground soon to be flooded. In most of the Far East, human wastes are used as fertilizer. The stench is overpowering. I don’t care who you are – walking around in it is not a fun-filled event. Getting tired? Forget about it, which of you would possibly choose to sit down and rest in a field concocted with human waste? A generally morose attitude takes over; don’t you think? 

But then, an automatic amongst young American soldiers kicks in. From the seemingly depths of discomfort, the joking begins. What takes over is similar to the effect of not being able to stop hiccuping in a nervous system where a human being senses that they are no longer in control.          

North Korea – it would be like going on vacation to a place that wasn’t even first, second, or third on your list of places to go. The fact is, it wasn’t even one of my considerations. I was a member of the United States Army at the time – it was their consideration.

No sweet smells of coffee to greet me this particular morning. The aroma of a freshly cultivated rice paddy, especially on the nostrils of a 19 year-old soldier attempting to fight off the despair of exhaustion and hunger at the same instant, is not a joking matter. To add insult to injury, I was all of 155 pounds at the time. The mine disposal equipment would have easily been a tolerable weight for a strong young man to handle, if it weren’t for the fact that I was weighed down by the additional cargo of normal clothing and equipment. As an example, my M1 rifle by itself, weighed in at 9½ pounds. Give or take a pound or two, little da harv was toting around tonnage totaling 75 pounds with him. I was 5 feet 8½ inches tall, and getting shorter by the moment. You couldn’t describe what I was doing as “walking;” I was schlepping one leg after another through a quagmire of wet shit.

Nice.

Our squad consisted of twelve, equally barely-distinguishable human beings stretched out over an area no more than 25 yards long in any one direction of the triangle formation we tried to maintain. Being one of the shorter and stronger men in the squad meant I would usually be at the point. I guess the army figured da harv was less of a target than a Magic Johnson might be.

Good thinking, don’t you think?

The way the triangle worked was that the point of the triangle moved in the intended direction and the two side points brought up either flank. At certain prescribed intervals, the point man would be relieved.

We were coming to the end of the “sweep,” as it was called, and our sergeant in charge came alongside me in order to become my relief. At this point, I was literally dead in the water. I was so weighted down with muddy boots, that I was more of a statue than anything else.

“How you making it?” He asked.

My Instant and sarcastic response, “I do believe I’ve lost my sex drive.”

It was a funny-bone grabbing moment. We became a laughing triangle.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” our sergeant shouted. “We’re going home.”

Of course, he wasn’t referring to coming home to the United States, he meant back to our own company area. I had a full 15 months left on my tour of duty in Korea.

It has been years, upon years, upon years since my escapades in a rice paddy located 35 miles north of the 38^th parallel in a place once again making the news. It’s called North Korea -- the frozen chosen -- I’ve listened and paid close attention to what our great and virtuous people have enabled the South Korean people to accomplish. Yes, we did expend life, limbs, minds, and enormous financial treasures as well. Make no mistake, without the Unites States of America there would not be a South Korea, as we know it today.

It’s all in the history books for everyone to behold -- the story of what we did, and when and how we did it. When the Chinese hordes poured into North Korea, it was because there was nothing left of the North Korean Army. Without the benefit of the Chinese insurgency, North Korea, the way it exists today, would have been impossibility.

        

Those of us who were there somehow never seem to forget in total… How can we?

Over 54,000 Americans lost their lives. Over 8,000 were wounded and over $50 billion dollars was added to the intense human suffering. The untold suffering of our prisoners of war at the hands of the North Koreans equals the inhumanities inflicted by any other tyrants in world history. Perhaps then, it should be remembered that these are the same North Koreans who now promise to attack South Korea, as well as the United States. There are some 500,000 Korean War veterans still alive. I wonder how many of them, if any, have been asked their opinion of the North Korean leader’s attitude.

History reports unequivocally that most promises made by dictators to their assumed enemies should not go ignored. The North Korean leader has proven he has little regard for the welfare of even his own people. The people of North Korea remain as a backward Third World Nation, while its leader builds bombs and makes verbal representations of pending war.

Some things never seem to change. The marvelous aroma of early morning coffee brings joyous reflections and a pleasing anticipation of the first sip. On the other hand, the rice paddies of North Korea remain vile with the stench of human wastes.

        

South Korea continues to blossom. There are 28,500 American troops still on guard there, committed to the retention of a small country’s democracy.

If you’d like to know the truth, ask a Korean veteran.

Number 42 - But Who's Counting?

Lincoln Terrace Park - Brooklyn, New York

A ten to twelve mile hike - who knew?

As I abruptly dug the hole for my brand spanking new, fifteen gallon Ficus Benjamina tree, I figured it out. Dad had been up to one of his many tricks as we walked and we talked on the way home after a more than glorious day at play together.

In case you’re wondering, I do some of my best thinking when I’m digging a hole to plant a tree. Trees make me smile. Noisy kids don’t, which is probably the reason I do some of my least productive thinking while trying to digest my food in a restaurant where kids are allowed. I also lose concentration when I’m told by an extremely detached waiter, “Yes, you did order it,” when I didn’t.

Like many people, waiters and restaurants annoy me. What runs through my mind in a busy, and therefore noisy, restaurant would not be suitable for print. Years ago, under my Father’s tutelage, I learned how to protect myself from everything except trees. Trees please me.

I know I mentioned my affection for trees earlier on, but since I’m the one writing, and you’re stuck merely as a reader, it becomes my call. In the event I occasionally repeat myself, do the smart thing – don’t read my redundancies.

Everything I guess has its ups and downs, and sometimes even its sideways. I wish I could just say, screw it this is what I’m going to do for the next few weeks, or even a month, or a full day free from interruptions. What follows is a short compilation of a mind going off into abstract land. If you like, take my tribulations seriously; if not its only one paragraph out of a lifetime of disorder. Read on for more semi insanity; after all isn’t that what life is all about?

(By now, your seething has subsided and I can carry on undisturbed by what you may be thinking.)

        

Dad always took great pride in having a son who was an athlete. See, we weren’t just dedicated to criticizing everything we came in contact with – I was a reflection and presented him with a great possibility. I’d be the family member who made it as a baseball player. If you think it’s tough making it to the top as a professional ballplayer in today’s marketplace, think again. Tough is what the aspiring immigrant Major Leaguers faced.

In 1927, the year Babe Ruth held the number one spot as the home run hitter of all time, there were only sixteen major league teams – eight in both the American and National League. Today, there are a total of thirty. The population of the United States tripled during my Father’s lifetime. More people in our country and almost every place in the world, made the competition for a spot on a Major League baseball team an incredible personal challenge. In other words, it wasn’t easy.

But, if you want to try on a tough shot, examine this one. When my Dad took me to Ebbets Field, in the borough of Brooklyn, I became privy to one of the most auspicious occasions I would witness in my lifetime. That day would stand-alone as a tribute to the perseverance of a human being.

The number on his back was 42.

Can you possibly imagine what his heartbeat was thumping out?

My Father had this gentle and prideful look on his face as we watched the game together. Dad had far more the intellect than the average man. He knew what was taking place. The thought of him sharing it with his son would remain his ongoing life’s emblem of success. Without words, he allowed me to drink in this epic. He understood the change that was taking place, not just at a ballpark but the change that would create the architecture for us as Americans for the rest of our lives. Jackie Robinson was far more than a baseball player making a team. He was a man on a road of such enormous magnitude, not even he could fathom it all until much later in his life. 

Harold "Pee Wee" Reese, Jackie Robinson & Preacher Roe

Sixty-six years ago, Jackie Robinson played his first game at Ebbets Field for the Brooklyn Dodgers on April 15, 1947.

I can’t truthfully record the exact date that I watched him play for the first time. But, what I do remember vividly was the aura of a very special human being.

It was a night game. The Dodger’s were clad in the whitest satin uniforms you could imagine. My Dad and I made our way up the steel ramp towards the general admission seats; it was well in advance of game starting time. I had never seen that many people come to a game that early. When I caught sight of the field, I understood why they arrived early.

The Dodger’s were busily taking batting practice. Gladys Gooding kept a continuous flow of organ music as an upbeat background for the activities taking place in every nook and cranny of the park. From the moment my Dad raised his full height of 5 feet and one and a half inches straight up into the air to allow his extremely dexterous left hand to snatch a foul pop up off the bat of Pee Wee Reese, my second hero was instantly established. From then on it was Pee Wee Reese, the “Little Colonel,” the Dodger Short Stop who shared top billing with my Father for hero worship.

The so-called insiders were talking about how Robinson would never be able to handle the pressure of being the fist black man in the Major Leagues. All of my buddies shared what they had heard their Dads talking about at home. 

Brooklyn Dodgers V.P. EJ "Buzzie" Bavasi & Dodgers Harold "Pee Wee" Reese, Jackie Robinson & Roy Campanella

Get this picture, if you can. Most of the fans that frequented Major League baseball games had never even seen a black guy play the game, let alone in a Major League uniform.

"I used to tell Jackie (Robinson) sometimes when they were throwing at him, 'Jackie, they aren't throwing at you because you are black. They are throwing at you because they don't like you." - Pee Wee Reese 

My Father was one of those people who would be classified as a true baseball nut. Along with Dad, we lived and breathed in every aspect of the baseball season. Morning, noon, and night, 24/7, we shared an unabashed love for the sport. When the Dodgers were playing away from home, “on the road” as they referred to it, my Father and I would attend Minor League, and Semi Pro games all around Brooklyn and the far outreaches of the other New York boroughs. The advantage we had by going to the Minor League, and/or Industrial League baseball games was that they were all played at much smaller venues, which meant we were always really close to the players on the field. Even though I might have been a kid, I had a far greater understanding of what black athletes were capable of achieving because of my Dad.

Jackie Robinson & Branch Rickey

So, when the time came for me to see Jackie Robinson play, my Father and I weren’t the least bit surprised at how skillful the man was. What I wasn’t aware of and what I was about to find out, like so many other Americans, was a simply stated fact of life. Jackie Robinson was so much more than a dominant baseball player. Branch Rickey wasn’t guessing. All that Mr. Rickey had explained to his confidants was going to come to pass and, not just in baseball. Jackie Robinson would arguably become one of our country’s greatest assets.

Of all the great things I will always remember about Jackie Robinson's prowess as an athlete, they remain a step or so behind Harold “Pee Wee” Reese's wordless response to the hatred directed at Jackie Robinson.

Jackie Robinson & Harold "Pee Wee" Reese

"I was warming up on the mound, and I could hear the Cincinnati players screaming at Jackie... and then they started to get on Pee Wee. They were yelling at him, 'How can you play with this n----r?' and all this stuff, and while Jackie was standing by first base, Pee Wee went over to him and put his arm around him as if to say, 'This is my boy. This is the guy. We're gonna win with him.' Well, it drove the Cincinnati players right through the ceiling, and you could have heard the gasp from the crowd as he did it. That's one reason Pee Wee was such an instrumental person contributing to Jackie's success, Pee Wee more than anyone else, because Pee Wee was from the South. Pee Wee understood things a little better... They became very close friends, and they understood each other." - Teammate / Pitcher Rex Barney 

This was an era of nastiness, a time when vile people became courageous with the crowds around them. The N word was used as a common matter of course. Make no mistake, racism wasn’t a product of our southern states exclusively, the north was also an equal opportunity vender of the vile.

Could you possibly imagine what would happen today if a fan blatantly encouraged his team’s pitcher to “Knock the N----r on his ass”?

What followed, was exactly what that degenerate fan asked him to do. But, it never stopped Jackie Robinson. I was there. I experienced the man taking it on the chin and then going on to lead his team to victory. 

"Thinking about the things that happened, I don't know any other ball player would could have done what he (Jackie Robinson) did. To be able to hit with everybody yelling at him. He had to block all that out, block out everything but this ball that is coming in at a hundred miles an hour and he's got a split second to make up his mind if it's in or out or down or coming at his head, a split second to swing. To do what he did has got to be the most tremendous thing I've ever seen in sports." -Pee Wee Reese

Jackie played well when he was mad.

***

It had been another of those fabulous Saturdays. Lincoln Terrace Park had been spectacular, jammed to the hilt with kids from Brooklyn. At this point, most of the men in the war had returned, maybe explaining the number of people in the park. Dad and I had competed with the world and were now on our way home, after first stopping at the malt shop, of course. By this time of day, I was tired and schlepping along. Once seated at the malt shop, my Dad asked, “The Dodgers are off the road this coming week, how would you like to see Jackie?”

Can you guess my answer?

***

The Jackie Robinson & Pee Wee Reese Monument outside KeySpan Park, Brooklyn, NY capturing the moment in May 1947, when Pee Wee Reese put his arm around Jackie on Cincinnati's field to show is support of his fellow Dodger - the first African American ballplayer in the Major Leagues.

Writer’s Note: To this day, Pee Wee’s picture hangs in a place of honor in my library.

A Wonderful Advantage To Have (If you make use of it)

(PssSt, I certainly did.)

Now playing, for your listening enjoyment, the one and the only Ella Fitzgerald, “The Bird, Charlie Parker,” Benny Goodman’s “Jazz at Carnegie Hall,” Mr. Lionel Hampton, Harry James, Peggy Lee, Frank Sinatra, and Lena Horn.

CIRCA 1948 -- Dorsey High School -- my alma Mater  

Many years later, I can rhapsodize, going on and on and on – not as proof of anything in particular, other than my own self-satisfaction and, I guess the only true way of describing my blissful memories.

        

I was a boy, ten years of age when my Father bought me the trumpet that now sits on top of our piano in the family media room. (I smile when I refer to what we have today as a media room. It is a far, far, far cry from a Father and son planted in front of a radio in the living room of a small apartment.)

It was the era of Harry James. Can you possibly imagine my feelings of being able to meet the guy who I idolized as a young (and not very good) trumpet player?

At the time, Harry was not only a revered musician, but also the husband of the number one pinup girl of World War II servicemen -- Betty Grable.

As a 10 year-old boy, the thought of anyone actually knowing Betty Grable was unfathomable, let alone being married to her. There was life, bigger than life, and then there was Betty Grable and Harry James -- movie star and musician extraordinaire. At the time, Harry James was one of the prominent bandleaders in our country.

 

Many of the big name singers took a tour of duty with the Harry James Band. Frank Sinatra would have to be the most renowned warbler to take a turn, but then again people like Ella Fitzgerald were nothing to sneeze at either.

In all my years, as a fan and then as a professional in my lifetime industry of choice, there remain three women at the top of my all-time list: Lena Horn, Ella Fitzgerald, and at the very top, a lady I instantly fell in love with: Peggy Lee. (And I do mean fell in love with.)

You’d have to have seen Peggy Lee up close and in a nightclub atmosphere to understand what I am about to say. Please remember da harv was only a young guy of 21 at the time. I’ve described our meeting before, but because it still remains a turn-on for me, I’m duty-bound to talk about the lady again.

1954 Sunset Boulevard

A limo pulled up in front of Ciro’s and, on schedule, a man was there to open the back door. At this time, a conversation with myself was taking place. (I’ll remove the expletives.)

“Oh my God… I think that’s Peggy Lee. I think I’m going to shit… I know I will, if she talks to me.”

Dave Barry, who was her opening act, had told me in advance he was going to introduce Peggy to me. But, since Dave was a comedian, I figured he was putting me on.

“Peggy, I’d like you to meet my friend Harvey Kalmenson,” Dave said.

Peggy extended her hand, and I did the perfect thing – perfect, that is, if you happen to be afflicted with any form of mental paralysis. It didn’t affect Miss Lee. She remained looking right into my eyes, her hand remaining in place.

I felt a slight nudge similar to an elbow in my ribs. Dave was signaling me to come out of my coma. Now, there wasn’t any way in hell I could possibly come off as being a cool guy. But, it didn’t bother Peggy one bit. She knew what to do and exactly what to say.

I managed, “Please to meet you, Miss Lee.”

She gently shook my hand and, while standing no more than two feet from me offered, “Have we met? You look so very familiar. Dave tells me you recently returned from serving in our United States Army…”

(I nodded my head)

“Thank you for serving,” she said.

Peggy, Dave, and yours truly, along with the two really big guys who accompanied her, entered Ciro’s together. On the way to her backstage dressing room, Peggy made it a point to walk to the piano that was off downstage, to the audience’s left. She hesitated at the piano for a moment, then took a seat and ran through some chords. It took her less than a minute to guarantee the piano had been tuned to her liking. The lady was all business. Later in the evening, Dave filled me in with the information about how her contract had a stipulation about the piano being tuned each day to her liking and approval. And, although I dreamed about some day working for or with Peggy Lee, it was never to happen.

My memories will be there forever.

That evening, everyone in the audience would have to agree -- Peggy Lee was the most sensual singer of her day. All of us were glued to her every move; a strange thing to say about a woman who in actuality did very little moving around the stage. Take it from me, nothing was wasted.

The evening has served me for a lifetime.

Today, television brings almost everyone into our homes, creating a hard to grasp past era. As teens, when we attended a movie and a stage show, it was like a little kids dreams coming true.

There was just nothing in this world like it. The theater darkened, the big band’s theme music came up as the stage began to rise. The lights hit the brass instruments with spectacular color; then, there he was -- center stage -- the trumpet pressed to his lips, the crowd cheered to an almost uproar of vibrations up and over the sound of the music, with all instruments now at full let out.

Kids of all shapes, ages, and sizes jumped from their seats into the aisles, taking partners and dancing to the sounds of Mr. Harry James and His Music Makers. The Paramount Theater, and New York City were the Mecca of the Big Band Era. And, Harry James wasn’t by his lonesome.

World War II had ended -- the guys and gals were on their way back to civilian life. There was a lot of catching up to do. Holding on to one and another was the order of the day; what better way to recapture feelings too long having stayed numb than by dancing, swinging, and swaying to the musical pulse of our country being reborn. Every newspaper and magazine celebrated the return of our troops, along with the reestablishment of families and friends.

Performers yearned for their shot of appearing before an audience at any number of the well-known theaters along “The Great White Way.” World War II was a driving force for Americans in a desperate search of ways to ease the constant anxiety of the unknown. The Silent Movie Era gave way to the Talkies and the Big Bands, along with the most popular entertainers the country had to offer, seemingly brought back the variety entertainment of Vaudeville.

The adults described their outings as “going to take in a movie and a stage show.” What began in 1927 came to its end somewhere around 1960. As more and more electricity was plugged into instruments of all description, the singing -- to my ear -- seemed to suffer from the electrocutions as well.

The Paramount began hosting live music, along with its feature films, as the Swing Era got underway. Glen Gray's orchestra was the first live band to play there during the week of Christmas 1935. Over the following years, the Paramount became the leading band house in the United States as performers such as Benny Goodman, Jack Benny, Tommy Dorsey, the Andrews Sisters, Harry James, Phil Spitalny, Xavier Cugat, Fred Waring, Eddy Duchin, Gene Krupa, Bill Kenny & The Ink Spots, Glenn Miller, and Guy Lombardo played extended runs there. Later, Leo Fuld, Billy Eckstine, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Jerry Lewis all enjoyed success performing there.

        

Note: I had experienced the very best when those performers I idolized were at their youngest and most vibrant.

The need for entertainment intensified. It was a new time and a new country. Radio shows were at their all-time most popular. The same performers who strode the boards of Broadway, provided a coast-to-coast theater on the airways. Movies, dances, radio, musical comedy, and -- moving briskly from out of the wings -- a thing called television.

But Wait, There’s More

Being there in person spells out the totality of the advantages I had as a kid growing up, especially here in Los Angeles, circa 1948. Sure, New York and its stage shows were a hot and special kind of a thing for anyone to experience, but for me I had the unbelievable good fortune of moving from one huge hub of entertainment to another. Once again, Harvey Kalmenson had the blessings bestowed upon him; he got to see them all up close and personal.

I arrived in Los Angeles from Brownsville, Brooklyn, New York at the ripe old age of fourteen.

There aren’t too many out there who understand what a music capital Los Angeles happened to be. It wasn’t a question of being first at integration – music, in general claims, the no barrier title.

In L.A., we had our own version of stage shows. Hollywood was a nightclub performer’s dreamland. There weren’t too many clubs yours truly missed out on. I frequented just about all of them. At age twenty-one, with my army service still remaining as a far too vivid implant, the artists of the day kept my painful recollections cloaked, while effortlessly providing me with the truest form of education -- so necessary in order for any subjective art form to be understood and, in my case, thoroughly engulfed in. The Macambo, The Interlude, Ciro’s, and The Crescendo, were just four of the more formidable venues of the day. Jazz clubs abounded.

But, aside from the well-known and famous names, in Los Angeles there existed a huge divergence of talent appearing whenever and wherever. L.A. was a magnet for talent. It’s always been that way. Most of us thought in terms of young actors and actresses making their way here from all over the country to be discovered and become stars of the silver screen here.

        

For me, it was a much different pursuit. We were a group of guys who loved the sights, the smells, the people, and above all, the sheer magic of the music. My high school friends shared an equal love for the jazz music played around town. We frequented places and were out among ‘em well beyond any legitimate guidelines for teenage high school boys.

It wasn’t as if we were juvenile delinquents -- although some of us looked that way, what with the black leather jackets, and motorcycle boots (the uniform of the day and night). We were all aware that being out until all hours of the next morning on a school day wasn’t the acceptable norm for any young lad. It was more fun than should be allowed. We were clearly intoxicated by the sounds and the intimacy of pure jazz.

A couple of my friend’s parents had family connections. Although we were under age, it enabled us to get in and sit in the back of the room. It meant that the family was aware we were out well past any legitimate curfew, not to mention in those days a strictly enforced rule about not being sitting in the proximity of a bar if you were under 21 years of age. We were instructed to enter and not call attention to ourselves. The manager of the club had been informed in advance of our arrival.  None of us drank any of the hard stuff, anyway.

        

On one particular night we found ourselves at a club on Crenshaw Boulevard, West Adams district. At one time West Adams Boulevard was lined with mansions, side by side. These were the homes of many of the silent movie stars. These estates remained in good repair, but many of them had been converted into private commercial establishments of one kind or another. A rebirth was taking place in Los Angeles, and I guess one might say a very young da harv was enjoying being a part of it.

          

What was going on, call it transpiring if you will, during the 50’s was a new settling in, a new way of listening to what was being called “rhythm and blues.” We didn’t know it at the time, but we were being given one of the greatest eras of music our country had ever experienced.

Single out any number of jazz performers of the early 50’s and you become privy to what was freely developed a long time before the likes of Louis Armstrong. I have no recollections of seeing Louis Armstrong in person, but there were hundreds of well-known musicians we did get to experience during what our gang referred to as “sessions.”

        

One evening, my friend Phil asked if I’d like to come with him to a place we had never been to before. It was during a spring semester and I was in a very strenuous workout regimen as I prepared for the upcoming high school baseball season. Our team was favored to become the Los Angeles City Baseball Champions.

NOTE: The predictions were accurate. Dorsey High did become the City Champs and amassed a winning record of 42 straight games. Most likely, the record still exists today.

          

I had always made it a point not to stay out late cavorting around town during the baseball season. But, I was curious so I began questioning Phil about what he had going down that night.

“Nothing much,” Phil replied. “Only Lionel Hampton.”

Phil stood there very quietly knowing the effect the name Lionel Hampton would have on me. The man had become my idol. I had actually drawn a chart depicting the musical life and times of this performing genius.

I looked at Phil and asked, “What time are you gonna pick me up?”

***

That night, Lionel Hampton was in town to film a series of musical shorts that were attempting to look like he was performing live at the famous Cotton Club in Harlem. Trust me, Phil and Harv were not in Harlem. This turned out to be one in a series of shorts made for television. Our actual location was at a studio sound stage some where in Culver City. The important thing was another spectacular lifetime memory that, for better or worse, had a noticeable effect on my future life’s pursuits.

Seeing Lionel Hampton, standing and doing his shuffle on a tom-tom drum and then seeing him seemingly playing more instruments than I can remember, was priceless.

Perhaps those of you who have listened to my criticism of some of our so-called celebrity entertainers of today are now able to understand where I’m coming from. Lionel Hampton and his Orchestra would be a Super Bowl half time show all by itself. As a matter of fact, watching Lionel Hampton each and every time one of his men did a solo was another entertainment show in its own merits. His band members were more than a who’s who of Jazz -- they were the embodiment.

"God will not have his work be made manifest by cowards." 

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Much has been written about the life and times of Lionel Hampton. He was a most courageous American patriot.

A Little More About Lionel Hampton

In 1930, Lionel was called into a recording session to perform as a drummer with the band backing Louis Armstrong. He sauntered over to the vibraphone for an impromptu session with a couple of his fellow band members. Hamp finished the Armstrong recording session on the vibes. He immediately became known as “King of The Vibes.”

When Benny Goodman heard Hampton play, history was about to be made. He joined Benny and his Quartet and recorded the soon-to-become jazz classics: “Dinah,” “Moonglow,” “My Last Affair,” and “Exactly Like You.”  It was the first racially integrated recordings of jazz musicians of the time.