© 2008 Bill Peterson
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
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Ballendine Publishing
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Los Angeles, CA 90065
Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Peterson, William
Show Biz from the Back Row / by Bill Peterson
284 pp. cm.
Summary: Stories of the people with whom I’ve worked; my unique viewpoint from the back row of the band or orchestra.
1. Arts, American — 20th Century 2. Music — Career 3. Show Business Personalities
I. Title
NX504 2008
790.2
ISBN 978-1-60643-334-8 Ballendine Publishing
ISBN 978-1436396479 XLibris
Layout by Lynn Lanning
Printed in the United States of America
This book is dedicated to my darling children Laura & Eric Peterson, my wonderful wife Carolyn, my friend John Williams whose music and warmth have inspired so many, all the musicians and stars with whom I have worked, and my parents who made sure I had the opportunity to succeed.
PRELUDE
These are the things I saw from that special vantage point I enjoyed while working with the Stars of, and participating in, this wild and sometimes wonderful Show Business.
I hope you’ll pour your favorite beverage over the rocks, cue up your favorite recording by Barbra, Sammy, Dino or Frank and enjoy these reminiscences of mine…
I also hope you’ll have as much fun reading about these times as I had living them.
— Bill Peterson
Acknowledgments for the book
First to my beautiful and patient wife Carolyn, for reading, suggesting and helping me through those days when I felt I would never get this done.
I am so grateful to my daughter Laura for all of her help and encouragement.
Also grateful thanks to my friend, novelist Bruce Wagner and to composer and lyricist Arthur Hamilton, and special thanks to John Williams, one of the greatest composers who ever graced a podium. They were kind enough to take time from their busy schedules to write some comments about my book.
I also want to thank Ms. Lynn Lanning, a friend who gives, and adds so much to this book. Her expert and caring editing, proofing and wise advice have been invaluable to me, and I am deeply grateful.
Acknowledgments for my career
I’d also like to acknowledge some trumpeters that have made a difference in my career (even though they are not included elsewhere in this book):
Uan Rasey — the great 1st trumpeter who played so many of the memorable scores at MGM such as Singin’ in the Rain and American in Paris, and who has taught and inspired so many of us.
Wayne Bergeron — who plays great lead, exciting jazz and has a range that seemingly knows no limits. All this and a great guy to hang with.
Gary Grant — a superb lead player who is also a marvelous recording producer and can do everything — even help a friend move!
Malcolm McNab — a trumpet virtuoso who graces so many film scores with his brilliant playing (and puckish sense of humor).
Warren Luening — who can play any style and make it look easy and sound great.
Jerry Hey — whose superb skills as player, arranger, conductor have made the difference on so many sessions.
Ollie Mitchell — who played on so many ‘hits,’ and after we’d run down the arrangement so many times we were nearing exhaustion, asked the leader, “You want another ‘wear down’ or do ya wanta make a ‘Take’?”
Charlie Davis — “The Pit Bull,” who is always there to encourage, tease or just pick you up when things get tough.
Chuck & Bobby Findley — who are world famous lead and jazz players and great human beings.
Tony Terran — a gifted player on anything you could want played, and who finds a “free phone” in any studio in town.
Carl Saunders — an amazing jazz & lead player, and gifted composer.
Bob DiVall — the late principal trumpeter of the LA Philharmonic and a fine teacher.
Irving Bush — Associate Principal, LA Phil., designer of trumpets and mouthpieces, teacher and great friend.
Of course there are many more, but these trumpeters stand out in my mind & heart.
First Chorus: Steve Spielberg, John Williams & Me
Here it is, 1991, and I’m walking into the Music Scoring Stage at Sony Studios, which was formerly MGM. Suddenly I have one of those “What am I doing here” moments. Ever have a feeling like that?
I guess it’s a flashback to when I was a kid of thirteen who wanted to play the trumpet more than anything in the world, which only seems like yesterday. Now here I am, a sixty-year-old guy in a nice gray suit and tie, going in to see my old friend John Williams and give him and Steven Spielberg, an icon in the movie business, an award. I haven’t met Mr. Spielberg yet, but that’s what I’m here to do.
Anyway, the moment passes, and as I open the thick sound-proof door I come back to the present reality with a jolt as I hear the orchestra finish a music cue. I’ve experienced lots of these moments, because I’ve been fortunate to have had a good career as a trumpeter and composer.
Now that I am vice president of Local 47, Professional Musicians’ Union of Los Angeles, one of my chief responsibilities is to respond to the new challenges that face our recording musicians.
Films used to be scored for the most part either in Hollywood or London, but now producers are going to Canada or as far away as Belgrade and other Third World countries. What is particularly galling to American musicians is that right here in the good old USA, the Seattle Symphony decertified from the American Federation of Musicians, and now scores films by cutting Federation scale.
I have been working with the Recording Musicians Association to try to keep film-scoring work here in our town.
One idea I’ve come up with is to give awards to producers and directors who use our great Hollywood musicians to score their films.
The first one I think of is Steven Spielberg, the man who at that time had yet to win an Academy Award, an Oscar (it would be 1999 before he finally got this well deserved honor), but is certainly one of the most ingenious, artistic and talented filmmakers on the scene.
I contact John Williams, because he scores many of Spielberg’s films as well as scores for so many other filmmakers. I arrange to give them both award plaques during a scoring session. I arrive as both Steve and John are on the podium, talking about the scene they are scoring. The orchestra contractor calls a ‘Ten.’
I step forward, as John smiles and says, “Hi Bill! … Ladies and gentlemen, it’s our vice president, Bill Peterson!”
I step up on the podium as the orchestra applauds.
I say, “Hi everyone! Thanks, John… all the players here know that you’ve recorded so many of your great scores here in Los Angeles, and we appreciate your loyalty to your fellow Los Angeles musicians. We want you to have this award on behalf of Local 47’s members.”
John smiles as I give him his plaque, which he shows to the orchestra.
The players applaud, and I turn to Steve Spielberg. At first I think about reciting some of my favorite films of his, but that would take too much valuable studio time.
So I say, “Mr. Spielberg, you’ve introduced us to unforgettable characters living through incredible adventures. Your vision has made films that really move and they’ve have been scored with great musicians like these folks.”
Spielberg smiles almost shyly.
John Williams steps forward to say, “You know, many producers and directors would feel they were a failure if they had all this…” as he sweeps his hand across the one hundred and five musicians arrayed before us.
Steve steps up to say, “I’d feel like I’ve failed, if I don’t have all of you!”
The orchestra and all of us applaud. I give him his plaque, and he clasps it close to his old leather flight jacket.
As Spielberg steps down from the podium, he very quietly says to me, “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
I am as moved as he is. It’s really quite special to think that a man who has accomplished so much appreciates this honor with such genuine feeling.
The ten-minute break is almost over and it’s time to let John, Steve and the orchestra to get back to work.
I leave this legendary Music Scoring Stage, where almost all of MGM’s great films were scored, from Gone With the Wind to Singin’ in the Rain and An American in Paris, and everything in between.
I’ve played here as a trumpet player of course, but it’s different being here as a Union guy. I miss the camaraderie with the other players and the sheer fun of playing music, but I feel the satisfaction of knowing that this has been a meaningful day for John, Steve and the musicians of Local 47.
How I did go from being a junior high school “wanna-be” to having a career as a professional musician working in the film, television and recording studios and finally end up giving a legendary composer and director awards? Well, that’s a part of Show Biz from the Back Row… I think you’ll enjoy the stories of the people with whom I worked, and the unique viewpoint that I had from the back row of the band or orchestra.
Second Chorus: My Personal Perspective
I have had the experience of seeing some of the biggest stars in Show Biz from a very special vantage point that you’ll probably never have… from the back row of the band, orchestra, or combo that is backing them. You don’t know me, and you’ve never heard of me, unless you find my name on some record label, but you’ve probably heard me. I’m not a famous star, but you may have seen me. I’m just one of those nameless, faceless musicians who play “behind” stars, either in person, or on recordings, films, and TV.
Now you need to understand that these experiences I’ve had first hand with the people involved are not “put-downs” or judgements. I realize that being a show biz star demands a great deal from a person, and sometimes in the heat of the moment they act the way they do, and do things that perhaps they ordinarily wouldn’t. At any rate, this is my ‘take’ on some Show Biz Stars, past and present, as well as a short intro about where I came from and how I got to play for these folks. The first lesson that a young musician has to learn is a hard one to swallow and that is:
Music is first and foremost a business. If you’re a musician, young or old, no matter how much you love to play and expect to make a living at it, you will probably be in some part of Show Biz, and it’s definitely a business.
But it is also a tantalizing, beguiling, and dazzling kind of a business, not like an ordinary job, I guess. There is some kind of magic that seems to happen from the moment the lights blaze on. It can be in a Broadway theater, or when the screen lights up in a hometown movie house, or a Las Vegas show room, or the Metropolitan (or Grand Ol’) Opera, or the blare of the band under the big top. And let’s not forget when the curtain opens at the school auditorium stage and you see your kid stutter through his or her lines as you sit there with sweaty palms, reciting the lines before he or she does.
Then there is the rush that you get when you go to your first really big first show in a concert setting or a club, or watching a star onstage in Vegas… Yeah, there’s the star! — the one you’ve spent your dough to see — right there in the spotlight, with a band or orchestra roaring behind them. Wow, the glamour, the excitement, and all that jazz!
So mine is a really unique view of the famous, the talented, the not-so-talented, and the One Time Wonders. It’s more than the spotlight shining through the star’s dress, or through Sinatra’s toupee. Sometimes that spotlight shines right through the person out there, and whether you want to see it or not, you see the real person underneath all the show biz glamour and veneer… and BS.
Now this is not a “Show Biz tell-all book” — not at all. Besides, you probably know all the “who slept with whom” crap.
This is different; this is what I saw and experienced and felt, playing for a lot of talented people who made it to the top in the toughest, most competitive line of work, becoming and then — even more difficult — staying a star. Some of those folks probably never set foot on a stage in front of a real audience until they lost their contract at Fox or MGM, or they stopped getting film roles. In order to keep them working, their manager or agent tried to capitalize on their fame on the big or little screen by getting them booked on the stage. No one wants to be a has-been because trying to break in to the star echelon is so difficult. It’s like a .150 hitter trying to connect with a 95 mph fastball, or a quarterback throwing a touchdown pass when the clock ticks over to zero, or being a politician who has the knack of getting elected. But here are some folks who have that indefinable something that pushes them to the forefront. Maybe it’s their looks, their voice, their stage door mother, or that most precious of all commodities — Talent.
Anyway this wild, fun, crazy trip of mine through thirty years of the Business of Show — Show-off, Show-down, Show-up, or whatever, needs a little back-story.
Third Chorus: My Introduction to Music Via the Big Bands
It starts in 1943, when I’m 12, and my folks take me to see a film at our neighborhood movie theater, the Studio, in San Bernardino, California. The movie is Best Foot Forward. Now this is a big Technicolor extravaganza that stars Lucille Ball and a bunch of young starlets like June Allyson and Van Johnson.
But the big deal for me is Harry James and his Big Band, the Music Makers. Harry has everything I think is super — he’s handsome, has a great pompadour, wears a white tux coat and what really gets to me, plays a golden trumpet. The music is exciting; he plays a great swinging number, “The Two O’Clock Jump,” and the dazzling “Flight of the Bumblebee.” I’ve never seen or heard anything like him, or the big, blaring, brass section that swings so hard I can hardly stay in my seat.
We live comfortably on the forty-five dollars a week my dad earns selling meat to butcher shops for the Wilson Meat Packing Company. But now, I want a trumpet and want to play and look like Harry James — maybe I’ll even get a pompadour and white jacket too.
My folks understand and respect my dream, but we can’t afford to buy a new trumpet, so my dad takes on an extra job, driving a taxi cab from 10 pm to 2 am almost every night, to earn the extra money my horn will cost. Remember this is wartime, the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, and all of a sudden even this little town is at war. Army and Air Force bases spring up all around San Bernardino County. With all these servicemen around town, there is a real need for taxi drivers, so my dad signs on.
How he did it I’ll never know, but every time I think how he gave up his nights of sleep to earn the money for my horn, it makes me remember just how much he and my mom supported me in following my dream. And just how much I appreciate what they did for me.
There is one problem…
All the Army and Air Force and Navy bands need musical instruments, especially brass ones, like trumpets and trombones.
Also, brass is needed first to make casings for bullets and shells and bombs, so trumpets come in a distant fourth in terms of National need. The service bands have already commandeered every trumpet, saxophone, horn, and trombone in the whole area.
But my father searches the music stores of San Bernardino and Riverside Counties for two weeks, scouting out a trumpet. He finds the last trumpet available in the whole Inland Empire.
He takes me to Talbot’s Music Store in San Bernardino, where Mr. Talbot gets a dusty case down off a shelf, opens it up, and gives me a peek at a beautiful golden horn — it’s not a long, dramatic looking trumpet like Harry James plays; it’s an Olds cornet. It’s small, and sort of stubby looking, but it is gold lacquered. I get so excited I can hardly hold it, but Mr. Talbot gently takes it and shows me how to put the mouthpiece in. I put it to my lips and pucker the way Mr. Talbot shows me; I blow and make a sound! My dad counts out one hundred and thirty five dollars plus tax for the cornet, and when we get home I proudly make this sound for my mother.
Mr. Leonard next door, who hates both music and me, comes over to see what’s going on. He tells my dad that it sounds like an elephant farting. I don’t care what he thinks or says — I’m hooked. Oh, along with my cornet, Mr. Talbot gives me the official Harry James Trumpet Method.
I immediately start lessons from Mr. Thomas, two doors down. He’s a junior high band teacher who works hard all day, teaching kids all the band instruments, but he falls asleep during my evening lessons.
“Mr. Thomas, I finished the page…”
He stirs, snorts and focuses on me.
“Okay — play the next page…”
Before I finish the next page, he’s out again.
I leave the dollar on the music stand and walk home.
A week later we read in the San Berdoo Sun that Harry James and the Music Makers are coming to town to play at the Municipal Auditorium in seven days. My mom and dad promise to take me to see my new hero, and they’re as good as their word.
On a Thursday night, we’re first in line to buy tickets and minutes later we’re inside the big old barn of an auditorium. All the seats (folding chairs) have been moved to the sides and the place fills up with dancers of all kinds: jitterbugs, teenage boys and girls (“Must be 18 or Older,” the sign at the entrance says), soldiers, sailors, airmen, older men and women, and me. I get in because I’m with my folks. I’ve got my Harry James Trumpet Method in my hand. I want to show it to Mr. James and maybe get an autograph.
At 9 pm, the curtain goes up and banks of colored lights blaze onto the stage and reflect off all those beautiful instruments, as the band, with a string section and even a French Horn player, sit waiting to start. Harry James himself strides out in a tan sports coat and slacks. He picks up his golden trumpet, gives a downbeat to his band and they swing into his theme song, “Ciribiribin.” I leave my folks to push through the dancers up to the stage as close as I can get. In person, I can see that Harry is a tall, slim guy, while I’m barely 5 foot 3, and from where I stand on the dance floor pressed up against the bandstand, Harry James looks to be about 10 feet tall! Now I get to see my new hero up close, and hear him play his trumpet.
After an hour, the band takes an intermission. My dad, with me in tow, talks his way backstage, and we go to a dressing room where Harry is. He’s talking to a pretty blonde lady with her hair under a turban. Harry James sees my copy of his book, takes it, and signs it for me, with a smile.
When we join Mom in the ballroom, Dad says, “We saw Betty Grable!”
My mom’s eyes widen and she says, “Ooh!”
But what do I care! I got my autograph! My night is complete.
We stay for all three sets, and when I get home, I can’t stop looking at my book. I feel so happy.
Even now, all these years later, I close my eyes and I can still hear the clear, bright sound of James’ trumpet singing out over that band.
The next year brings big changes to my life. My dad starts a new career as a real estate salesman and we move from California to Canada — San Bernardino to Nanaimo, a town of 10,000, on Vancouver Island, which is the Western-most part of British Columbia, north of the state of Washington. Why this particular place? It’s where both my folks are from, and where most of our relatives live. Every summer we drive up Highway One to visit all of them, and I revel in having cousins to play with, and aunts and uncles who sometimes fuss over me. Anyway, we pack up and start out for our new life in Canada.
When we get there, my folks find a two story house that is a block up a hill from the Yacht Club. It has a view of the ocean and the tip of Newcastle Island, and they decide we can afford it.
My cousin Jack hears me play my cornet. Now he’s tall — 6 feet 2. Jack’s suave, works in a nice men’s store so he’s always well dressed, and also has a way with the girls. He sits me down in his folks’ living room, in front of the big old Philco radio phonograph, drops the cactus needle down on a spinning 78 rpm shellac record and says, “Now listen to this, Billy. This is important. This is Duke Ellington.”
He plays me “Take the ‘A’ Train.” I have never heard anything like this band. Where Harry James’ band is smooth and tight, Duke’s is wild and free. I love it.
I now have a really fine trumpet teacher, Frank Carroll, who is the town barber, but who can play all kinds of difficult cornet solos. Frank’s also the conductor of the Nanaimo Silver Cornet Band, and every Monday night we rehearse all kinds of wonderful brass band music, from Sousa marches to Rossini overtures.
After my trumpet lesson, Frank’s wife Gladys, smiles and says, “Come over to the piano, Billy!” Then she sits down to teach me about chords and improvising.
After a few weeks of intensive work, Frank asks me to work alongside him and Gladys with Stu Storey’s band at the Pygmy ballroom on Saturday night. The Pygmy Ballroom is in the center of the downtown area of Nanaimo, and it’s a popular place for the dancers to go, like my cousin Jack. He can really jitterbug, or as he calls it, “Jive.” Wow, I’m so excited, I can hardly wait for Saturday night to come.
Finally, after one of the longest weeks of my life, I put on my new long pants and white shirt and my folks drive me to my first professional job! Of course I’m the youngest person in the band, but Frank and Gladys look out for me — not that much temptation is going to come my way. I’m so proud when Cousin Jack points me out to his girlfriend, while I’m up here on the bandstand. When the band swings into the Glenn Miller arrangement of “Little Brown Jug,” I’m in heaven. I get to play my first “ad-lib” solo! (I’m reading the solo someone played on the record.) I stand up, and the spotlight almost blinds me, but luckily I’ve got it memorized.
I enjoy our life in Nanaimo, but a couple of years later, 1947, I can feel some kind of tension building up. It stems from the relationship between my mother and her two older sisters, who are extremely judgmental and set in their thinking about the rest of the “family.” I’m getting along great with my cousins and most of the aunts and uncles — even these two, if I don’t have to be around them very much.
I kind of know that my mother and those two older sisters don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, and my folks have got this new notion that being in such close proximity is not so hot after all.
Things come to a boiling point over some insignificant issue, just like most in-family crises do, but in a small town, it’s hard to ignore such problems.
Finally, my dad calls a family conference in the kitchen, and he says, “We’re thinking about moving back to California, old son…”
I’m not surprised but I just say, “Oh, really?”
“Well, what do you think?”
It’s scary to me that I have so much “say” in what my family does, or where we’re going to live, but here it is! I’m determined now to be a professional trumpeter, even though I’m still playing my cornet. I want to come back to California, where I think I’ll have a better chance to fulfill my dream. But I manage to get it out.
“I … I’d like to go back to California…”
It’s decided! It takes Dad a couple of weeks to sell our home, and we pack up and move, back to San Bernardino.
My folks find a house that is pretty and comfortable and that we can afford. Everything is so different and crazy, with this big move; I miss Jack and my cousins and aunts and uncles and everything else about life in Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island, and now I have to start high school back here in San Bernardino, California.
I don’t know anyone, and on the first day of classes I go to the Band Room where there’s a whole sea of strangers — people kidding around with friends, others blasting away on horns and drums. But over or through all the chaos I can hear a piano playing the intro to Duke Ellington’s “Take the ‘A’ Train.” A tenor sax starts to play the melody, and I quickly snatch my cornet out and join in, at long distance, playing the trumpet fill-in licks from the recording that I know so well.
The kids stop to look and listen, and the sea of students parts so that I can see a black kid who looks up from the keyboard to see me, horn to lips. He grins at me, and so does a big, tall lanky guy playing tenor sax. He stops long enough to motion me over, and I slowly move to join the black guys.
When we finish “‘A’ Train,” we introduce ourselves, and I find out that Billy Larkin is a wiry seventeen-year-old, with a great smile and tremendous talent. He’s learned some piano technique from his mother, but he’s way beyond what she can teach him. He plays blues, and swings, and he can even write arrangements. Edward Conerly is the tenor man. And Fisher Wood is the bass player. Richard Carroll is the alto sax man and he’s well over six feet tall.
Every morning Mr. Harbaugh, a great band and harmony teacher, opens up the band room, and we rush in.
Billy opens up the spinet, Edward gets out his tenor sax, Fisher grabs the school’s string bass and Richard gets a reed onto his alto sax. We jam the blues (I can play the blues in three keys!), then we try whatever new song one of us wants to, until the bell rings and we have to go to our next class.
Fourth Chorus: I Become a “Reebop”
First Verse
After a few weeks of our morning jam sessions, one Monday morning, pianist Billy Larkin tells me he is starting a regular band, “The Reebops,” and asks,
“Do you want to be in it?”
“Oh boy, do I!”
He says we’ll rehearse this Thursday, and gives me his address.
Thursday finally arrives, and my folks drive me down to Billy’s house in the “colored” section of town. They are a little hesitant about leaving me, but I insist I’ll be fine. Of course they make it very clear that they’ll pick me up in two hours. I can’t wait to see the taillights of my folks’ 1940 Oldsmobile pull away down the street and disappear into the night.
Billy comes out grinning, and says, “I’m sure glad you could make it, Pete — come on in!”
I follow him in, hug Edward and Richard, and Billy sits down at an ancient baby grand. Over it the only light is from a bare bulb which hangs from an electric wire that comes out of the ceiling. The floor is wood, just plain bare wood, not varnished and waxed like ours at home, but it’s swept clean. It’s a hot night so Mrs. Larkin brings us lemonade, but nothing matters as we get down to playing.
Billy smiles and says, “I wrote out ‘How High the Moon’ — let’s try it.”
We play it down, and fix a couple of things. What a great feeling, to play this tune that all the jazz groups are doing. We each get a chance to play an ad-lib chorus on these fast moving chord changes. There’s nothing written out like the Glenn Miller ‘stock’ arrangements I played with the band at the Pygmy Ballroom in Nanaimo — and what a challenge to make sense out the chords and keep on top of them as they fly by.
Then we play down another arrangement Billy has written with our band director, Mr. Harbaugh’s, help. We play and play, tune after tune.
The music we make feels so right, so good that I never want it to stop. Soon the windows, which are all wide open, are filled with faces — kids, grownups, all brown skinned, smiling and nodding or clapping their hands to the music.
I have played in all kinds of places, for all kinds of people, but I have never, before or since, felt such love and acceptance as I felt that night.
The two hours go by like two minutes, it seems to me, when our cream colored 1940 Olds coupe pulls up in front. My dad comes up and into the house, shakes hands with Mrs. Larkin and my buddies, and I have to pack up my horn and reluctantly leave. I leave a part of my heart in that house, even though we are to play together so many more wonderful times.
The Reebops Onstage
Second Verse
Our band, “Billy Larkin’s Reebops,” is featured in the 1948 edition of the “San Bernardino High School Talent Show” along with two guys who are funny nutty twins, The Bosley Brothers. They do an act where they pantomime to records while they make funny faces. The audience is made up of all the kids in school; they love ’em, but I’m too nervous to do anything but smile.
The mimics finish, and we walk out onstage as the curtain closes behind us. I’m nervous, but we’ve rehearsed our arrangements many, many times and besides, I know we’re pretty good. I’m the only white kid in the band — Fisher Wood and his big string bass, Sticks the drummer, Billy at the school’s grand piano (which isn’t really so grand), set up behind the front line of the horns. I stand in between the two big guys, Richard Carroll with his alto sax, and Edward Conerly, with his tenor. Me? I’m five feet four now… I feel like I’m standing between two giants.
Anyway, Billy gives us his big white-toothed grin, the curtain pulls back, and Bobby Magnusson, the Class President, grabs the mike and announces,
“Now here’s a great band that started right here in school! Let’s hear it for Billy Larkin and the Reebops!”
The audience applauds as Billy kicks off Duke Ellington’s “Take the ‘A’ Train.” Once we start to do our thing, everything feels good, and by the end of the first chorus the kids in the audience are clapping in rhythm with us. At the end of the band chorus, which is right off Duke’s recording, we swing it out, and the kids cheer and applaud.
They’ve never heard a swing band of kids their own age! We do the Trenier Twins’ “All That Wine Is Gone,” replete with us shouting and pointing into the audience, “There’s a wino over here, There’s a wino over there!” (We learned this tune by listening to a late night broadcast from a Riverside nightclub.) Well, the kids go nuts, laughing and clapping, especially when we point at a teacher. We’re almost bewildered by the response, but I sneak a glance at Billy, who just grins and nods to keep swingin’.
It goes over great with almost everybody except for Webster Hall, the School Principal, who stands in the wings, stage right, and looks grimmer every time we yell and point. But we don’t care; we swing it out and go into the next tune.
After four tunes, we’ve really got the SBHS auditorium jumpin’. We look at each other, because we can’t quite believe this… we never dreamed we’d get this kind of acceptance.
When we finish, we take some self-conscious bows to all the yelling, whistles, and applause. The bell rings to signal that assembly period is over, but the kids stand and yell for more. Mr. Hall marches out to the mike and tells the students that they have to go their next class, but they don’t seem to be in a hurry to move out. The bell rings again and Mr. Hall gets red in the face as he bellows at them.
“GO TO CLASS!!
Webster Hall can be heard even without a mike — finally everyone moves out and we pack up.
I go on to Accounting Class (which I am taking because my dad wants me to get some business background), but I could be going to a class on basket weaving, I feel so happy.
And I’m looking forward to sitting next to one of the prettiest of the majorettes that prance in front of us when we march at football games. I slide into my seat and look over at Gloria Masters. She looks at me, and even though I’m kind of shy and unsure of myself with most girls, I can’t restrain myself. I really need for her to tell me she thought that what our band and I had done was good.
I impulsively ask her, “Did you come to the assembly…?”
She looks at me and nods. “Yes.”
“Well… how did you like it?”
She touches her beautiful cheek with a slim finger and reflectively says, “You were real good…”
I’m glad to hear that, but I’m waiting for more. I get it. I think Gloria is going to smile at me, but she gets this look like she’s tasted something bad.
She says, “…but I feel sorry for anyone that only has niggers for friends.”
I can’t believe this came out of those lovely lips. Now that mouth doesn’t look pretty at all, not with that kind of stuff coming out of it. I sit still, digesting this garbage about our band and my good buddies, but it really hits me hard. I explode!
“Well I feel really sorry for anyone that’d say anything as stupid as that, and I feel sorry for you, because you’re stupid too!”
The rest of the period is silent… there’s a wall of ice between our side-by-side desks. The bell rings and she flounces out, her nose in the air. I walk slowly into the hall, where I see Gloria talking excitedly to a big wide-shouldered dude with black wavy hair who is getting stuff out of his hall locker. I recognize him because when we’re playing in the band in the stands, he’s out on the field ‘creaming’ guys. He’s Dan Goforth, our all CBL linebacker, and he’s big and mean. She points at me… I instinctively start to move down the hall faster as Goforth yells at me,
“Hey, trumpet player! I wanna talk to you!”
Well, I don’t ‘wanna’ talk to him. I take off, fast. I’m out the end of the building before he can cram his books back in. I get a glimpse of him starting after me. I’m not very big, but I’ve always been fast… the baseball coach wanted me to come out and play shortstop or centerfield. Now I shift into high gear, and head for … where…?
Where else? The Band Room, of course! I’m keeping ahead of the linebacker, giving him a good run for his money. But suddenly I panic, because half way across the schoolyard I hear Goforth yell, “Hey Corny, help me catch this guy!”
‘Corny,’ aka Bob Cornelius, is the quarterback on the football team, and he yells enthusiastically, “Okay!”
Now I’ve got two massively athletic footballers on my tail and I turn it up another notch, but I’m starting to run out of gas. My legs start to feel like they’re turning to jelly. I make it to the steps that lead up to the Band Room. I hear the linebacker and the quarterback thundering up behind me, but I’ve had it.
Just then the Band Room doors open and attired in a fresh white dress shirt and black chinos, out strides Mr. Edward Conerly, all six feet and four inches of a black guy with big muscles. He looks at me dragging up the stairs, sees the two behemoths bearing down, and sizes the scene up immediately.
He steps down a couple of steps, and says, “Come on up, Pete, I’ll take care’a this…”
The football “heroes” skid to a stop and gaze up at Ed as he slides his massive right hand slowly up to the collar of his immaculately starched shirt. I watch, frozen, on the top step. His fingers go to his collar edge, and like magic, out comes a shiny Gillette single-edge razor blade. He holds it between thumb and index finger as the bright sun glints on it.
Ed growls at them, “Now, what’s your problem … boys…?
‘Corny’ and Goforth glance at Edward, his Gillette glinting in the sun, then at each other. Their macho spirit seems to melt; they turn and jog away.
Edward replaces the blade, comes back up the steps to me, puts his arm around my shoulders and says, “Let’s go get us a cool drink, Pete!”
We do, and I never have any more problems with football players.
Unfortunately however it is not my last ‘up close and personal’ experience with racial bigotry and hatred, only my first. I’ve never told Edward or the other guys what Gloria really said… I figure it isn’t worth hurting their feelings.
Coda
Billy Larkin joined the Army and when he was discharged he made several jazz organ albums for Pacific Jazz Records. Edward Conerly spent time on Count Basie’s band, but eventually switched from sax to bass. In 1972 Eddie called me to play on Barbara MacNair’s 5-day-a-week TV show. I accepted and it was wonderful to hook up again and perform with my hero, and buddy!
I’ll spare you the agony of the lessons, the practice and the rehearsals in high school. I’ll segue to where to my induction into music and Show Biz begins — when I play my first big-time act.
Fifth Chorus: I Get to Swing With the ‘King’
It’s August, 1949 — I’ve just finished my senior year at San Bernardino High School — the Reebops are now working a steady Saturday night gig, but this weekend is different.
I’ve had to get another trumpet player to sub for me because my folks and I have just put our bags in the trunk of our brand new Olds Rocket 88, and are ready to go out of town.
My dad looks at me and says, “Okay, son, you’re driving all the way!”
It’s my birthday — I’m 18, and to celebrate I get to make my first trip to Las Vegas to hear our favorite singer, Mr. Nat ‘King’ Cole at the Sands Hotel.
It’s a hot day, but we’ve got air conditioning and a great radio in this new car. I slip on my sunglasses, slide behind the wheel, key it and we leave San Bernardino behind. Everything goes great until I don’t make the right turn onto the highway to Las Vegas when we hit Barstow, but that’s because I’m messing with the radio to bring in KMPC — they play big band music.
My mom is Irish and excitable; her face gets almost as red as her hair as she scolds, “Bill, you’re driving! You’ve got to pay attention!”
But my dad calms her. “Now Eileen, he’s doing just fine… just turn her around, and we’ll get back on the road.”
Dad’s one half Cree Indian, and you couldn’t get him lost if you tried!
When we get to Vegas, we check into the Sands. I have my own room with an ice bucket and a red velvet bedspread!
We get dressed up (I wear my new blazer), and we go in to dinner in the Copa Room.
It’s all red velvet and gold fixtures, and special lights that glow up the walls. Dad says something to the guy in a tux who meets us at the door and puts something in the guy’s hand. He smiles and leads us right down front! Wow! We’re right in front of the stage! We order filet mignon dinners (I get served a glass of champagne), and after we finish, the lights go down, and the curtain pulls open. Now we’re going to get to see Nat ‘King’ Cole.
But before the King comes on we have to sit through a chorus line, the Copa Girls.
My mom says to my dad, “I think they look rather common and cheap, don’t you, Bill?”
My dad says, “I suppose so…”
But I can see he’s watching them pretty closely. They look great to me — nothing like the girls at my school, especially in these skimpy costumes.
Then after the chorus line, I think we’re going to see Nat ‘King’ Cole, but on comes this guy, Dave Barry, who talks about his mother-in-law and how weird his kids are, and people laugh… why don’t they just put King Cole on, without all this other junk? Finally, Barry gets through, and an off-stage voice announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Jack Entratter and the Sands Hotel are proud to present… Mr. Nat ‘King’ Cole!”
The house lights dim, a spotlight blazes onto the right hand side of the stage, Antonio Morelli’s band roars into Nelson Riddle’s chart of “Dance, Ballerina, Dance,” and Mr. Nat ‘King’ Cole himself strides out onto the stage. The audience claps, cheers and whistles.
I turn and grin, “This is great, Dad!”
He smiles at me, pats my shoulder, and says, “I thought you’d like it.”
The King smiles his big, broad, glistening smile, and starts to sing. I listen to the brass section hit the syncopated licks, kind of like “POWS!” that punctuate Nat’s smooth singing style.
He doesn’t phrase like other singers like Frankie Laine, who sings right with the beat… King Cole’s vocal just seems to float along somehow, sort of behind the beat, but he always comes out just right at the end of the phrase, of course. He sings one tune after another and then sits down and plays the piano on “Where or When” which swings like crazy. I love every note and every minute of it. I just pretend that that’s me up there, in the orchestra, playing all those great arrangements. It sure sounds easy — almost effortless.
Mom leans over to say, “I just saw one of the trumpet players yawn. Can you imagine?”
“No I can’t,” I reply.
I come to a quick conclusion — maybe the trumpet parts aren’t so very hard — maybe, someday… But I stop daydreaming as Nat turns and smiles,
“Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Will you help me thank these great musicians that travel with me: Joe Comfort on the bass, John Collins on guitar, and Lee Young on drums… and let’s hear it for Antonio Morelli and his wonderful orchestra.”