In the late Fifties, the entertainers booked into Bermuda's hotels and nightclubs were pretty much over the hill, it
seemed to me, or they were relatively unknown off the hotel circuit. Most were first-class talent, though, and a few were even legendary in their domain: "Hildegard," for example.
Hildegard was no mere nightclub chanteuse. The woman had style. Irving Berlin considered her the best of the best. I recall seeing her in a 1940s movie, seated at the piano in evening gown, bedecked in diamonds--warbling Irving Berlin tunes, no doubt.
Hildy was a regular in Bermuda, headlining at the Inverurie Hotel for months at a time. But I never saw her at ZBM; and that's my point; there wasn't the flow of celebrities through the station that you would expect, being Bermuda and all. I still wonder about that. There were a few, of course, and when one was scheduled for interview I'd try to be there too--gawking from the control room.
Here's a name that'll knock your socks off: Bernie Wayne! Hmm. Well, I'd never heard of Bernie Wayne either, but the whole world knew
his song, 'Blue Velvet,' thanks to Tony Bennet's 1951 hit. Wayne was an excellent interviewee, with stories of New York's music scene and of famous performers he knew. Jack Dodge did the interview, after which I intercepted Wayne in the tiny hallway separating ZBM-1 and ZBM-2.
Wayne was a kind and gracious man of moderate girth plus about fifty pounds, as I recall. Wearing a checkered sport coat and open-necked
white shirt, he looked like he'd just stepped off the set of one of those Tin Pan Alley movies about a guy like him.
The poor man had to suffer my first naive question, "What have you written besides Blue Velvet?" He named a couple of songs I didn't recognize, so I pretended I did. He also mentioned an album called, "And Then I Wrote: the Music of Bernie Wayne." I found the album in Detroit a few years later and discovered some hugely impressive, Gershwin-style orchestral music.
As we spoke, misty memories floated through my nervous little brain of trying to slow-dance and dip my way into some teenage smooching, with the strains of 'Blue Velvet' fueling my hopes. Wayne's stature was growing more heroic by the minute!
Then he left, and since that first, modest brush with celebrity, the world hasn't seemed quite the same to me. He was a minor show-biz luminary but a real one--and my first one. The Bermuda sunshine seemed especially bright to me that afternoon.
Footnote: During the telecast of the Tony presentations a few years ago, some happy winner expressed his appreciation to none
other than Bernie Wayne. For thirty-five years I hadn't even heard his name mentioned, but there in the audience sat the nice man who had helped me find the self-possession required to speak with the accomplished without fainting. His name may be obscure but he's not unknown in my house. (Wayne's death, in April '93, made CNN news, so important to us has been his song, Blue Velvet.)
Bouncing up the stairs into the station one day, I ran smack into one of God's most successful efforts to create the consumate odd-bird. There stood a well-dressed, bespectacled Basset Hound, the eminently original, Rudy Vallee.
In decades past, millions of women swooned at the mere mention of his name--for some reason. I always figured he was the sole reason the word "square" had been conscripted into vernacularium; after all, we hip people needed a way to describe the man! But the last laugh was always his, for wherever he chose to be was electric with his presence. (Vallee was actually an actor of fair talent, with a magnetic screen persona--strange as it was. The megaphone he used in his crooning days was simply a low-tech amplifier.)
After his interview with Jack Dodge, I noticed Vallee returning alone to Studio A. I dashed in after him, hoping we'd soon become buddies. But my attempt at meaningful conversation went nowhere fast; he'd found what he'd come for; he was in a rush, hand on the door handle, leg in the air, his distinctive face silently shouting, "What the hell does this guy want?" I wisely decided to go straight for the autograph.
Vallee was a saxophone player - a little known fact - so, after he'd signed a wrinkled 3x5 card I had with me, I asked if he'd sign my saxophone. I still can't believe I did that; I was far too hip! Truth is, I learned a valuable lesson about myself that day, and of how powerful celebrity can be. It made an idiot out of me. Anyway, I hadn't left Vallee much choice so he waited while I retrieved the sax, then signed it while I kept him talking for an extra 30 seconds. Then he bolted like Forrest Gump.
A few months later I sold that saxophone to a local jazz musician, figuring someone oughta be getting some use out of it. It seemed best to rub Vallee's signature off the bell, but I think now the guy who bought it would have loved it; after all, jazz musicians usually have a great sense of irony.
That 3x5 card is gone with the wind too, but the experience is mine forever; a weird brew of curiosity and hypocrisy with the legendary Rudy Vallee, as he strained to get away. (Had Vallee already done his boffo stint as Lord Marmaduke Ffogg on TV's "Batman" at the time of this experience, my attitude would have been nothing short of reverent.)
The celebrity event I remember most fondly from Bermuda involved a jazz musician, the great clarinetist, Tony Scott. Appearing as guest soloist on 'The Tonight Show,' Johnny Carson once introduced Scott as a "musician's musician," which tells us two things: he's good, but the reader probably never heard of him.
Scott was (and remains) an original, a distinct stylist with a cerebral approach who was always interesting to hear, and who swung hard. He'd performed and recorded with jazz legends like Charlie Parker, Billie Holliday, Dizzy Gillespie, and many others. A jazz hero was in the room with me and I was suitably impressed.
After his interview with Ken Ludwig, Scott hung around for an hour or so, shooting the breeze with Ken and me. He was everything I'd figured a great jazz musician to be: brilliant, curious, equitable, and philosophical. The word "opinionated" isn't on that list but by his own admission he was just that - a fact I was soon to learn firsthand. As he was leaving the studio, Scott turned and invited me to the club to hear some jazz. It was an excellent thing to do for a young jazz fan, and I knew I'd be there the very next night.
Big-name live jazz on The Rock; a very cool thing, I can tell you. Dressed to the teeth in civilian suits, my folk-music-loving friend Joli Morgan and I strode into the Mid-Ocean Club. Tony actually recognized me, and he waved us into the room so's everyone could see, bless his gracious heart.
The table he pointed us toward was occupied by an attractive brunette. It was Tony's wife (Hi, Fran!), who revealed herself to be attractive in the more meaningful ways, as well: she was perceptive and kind, without pretense, and she liked jazz. She made Joli and me feel comfortable from the moment we sat down. Fran was herself a respected artist and photographer, having done some of Tony's album covers, among other things.
By the way, Joli Brian Morgan was a fellow Navy guy who'd first been described to me by a mutual aquaintance as an aspiring young writer I should meet. It seems we both belonged to a social group I'd stumbled into that gathered regularly at The Little Venice Cafe for spaghetti, tea, and ardent conversation. Joli's path and mine hadn't crossed yet, so whenever I was on Base I'd scan the horizon for this kindred soul, wondering how I'd recognize him if I did see him.
One Friday afternoon, I spied a likely-looking guy on his way into the mess-hall. He was a good fifty yards away but I knew instinctively..that was Joli. His intellect, his attitude toward life, his sense of identity, it was all visible in his carriage, and I simply knew it had to be him. It was a genuine intuitive event, especially as we were so young.
I still needed physical proof so I followed him inside for a look at the name over his shirt pocket, and there it was...J.B. Morgan. When he got seated, I grabbed the seat opposite and asked, "Pass the cocktail sauce, Joli?" He did a little double-take, I smiled and explained, and we soon became friends. How do I know this happened on a Friday? The cocktail sauce. The mess-halls in both Key West and Bermuda served shrimp on ice--every Friday--all you could eat. God bless America.
Joli and I planted ourselves at the Mid-Ocean Club almost every night that week, literally having the time of our lives. I have to report, though, that Scott was more taken with Joli than with me. I was slightly crestfallen about that; after all, I was the jazz fan! But they hit it off immediately, and that was ok; Joli was the real thing; he was well-read, gentle, articulate, and altogether likeable.
Between sets, Tony single-handedly settled the problems of the world (opinionated), and while he was on the bandstand, Joli, Fran, and I sat talking music, philosophy, literature, all that nice stuff. To me, what was happening at the table was more important than even those things, and looking back fondly, I was right.
Footnote No. 1: At the end of my Navy tour in mid-1959, they dragged me kicking and screaming from the garbage truck they'd put me to work on in South Carolina, insisting that I accept my discharge from the Navy. I finally gave in.
As my celebration of freedom from the military, I was prepared to go wherever the first airplane leaving Charleston's airport was headed. Within the hour, I was on Non-Schedo airlines winging my way to New York City. (I still think Rangoon might have been fun.)
Once interred at the 34th. Street YMCA, it occurred to me to have a look in the phone book for Tony Scott's number. To my great surprise it was there. "Is Joli with you?" he quickly asked. Since I alone was there, Tony handed the phone to Fran. As lovely as ever, Fran invited me over that weekend to "talk some philosophy," and I should have gone, but suddenly all I could think of was those hefty $3.50 a day YMCA rates.
Dissed by a jazz hero! Oh well. The important thing is that those evenings at the musician's table with Tony, Fran, and Joli were truly the best of the best of times, a top-flight growth experience for a tender young genius. I mean Joli, of course.
Footnote No. 2: In 1964, Tony Scott went to Japan and recorded an album called 'Music for Zen Meditation.' These days, as an occasional accompaniment to my yoga exercises, I take an ethereal blast from the past with Tony Scott. Just think, if he'd been clairvoyant he could have said to me, "I believe I'm going to record an album of strange, beautiful music in...yes, in 1964. You will play it, in the distant future, as an accompaniment to your yoga routine. May the Force be with you. Thirty-five years from now you'll need it."
There were a couple of people traveling with Scott who are worth noting; drummer Pete LaRoca, for one. But before we go to Pete, we're going to Key West. I played drums myself as a kid, you see, and guess what, I'm going to tell you about it. Enjoy the trip.
Pounding on drums is a lifetime of great fun, with mine beginning under the baton of a high-school band director with the unforgettable name of Miss Fraunfelter. Miss Fraunfelter led the Eastland High School band to State Honors in 1952, at the big competition at Michigan State University; I still have my blue ribbon. I remember the judges singling me out as a cymbal player in need of help; I never could get a good crash out of those things.
In 1956, the Great Lakes Naval Training Center band kindly accepted me into their ranks. With the whole of the Midwest to draw upon, that boot-camp band was superb, and it probably still is. As an added bonus, if I was scheduled for some kind of serious military duty--like guarding the clothesline (true)--I'd just say I had band practice. It worked every time.
Next came Key West and the Fleet Sonar School band. One day, beneath the blistering sun, we played the Star Spangled Banner for a portly Harry Truman. He stood proudly at attention not fifty feet away.
Then came a little dance quartet, there in the Southernmost City, and, frankly my dear, we were damned good. We had the two choicest gigs on Base: the Enlisted Men's Club on Friday nights and the Chief's Club, Saturday nights. Tom Rafferty was our leader, a fine dixieland clarinetist with a playful smile. Tom was also in the Navy.
The bass player was a slightly older Navy guy whose name I've forgotten, and sweet Val Valente was a fellow sailor of my age who had generously invited me to share the drumming duties with him. Then there was Jack, our most excellent civilian piano player. (Sorry Jack, I've forgotten your last name.) Jack got stuck with a lot of beat-up old pianos on gigs around town. For a pianist, that translates into sore fingers, but Jack always made those basket-cases swing.
Jack worked for the telephone company. Believe it or not, Key West's phone system ran on batteries in those days. Really, I saw them, a roomful.
One Sunday evening, a Swing Era ghost, Bob Eberle, was booked into the Chief's Club with his full band. Thanks in part to his more famous brother, Ray, Bob Eberle was well-known in his day. It was not undeserved fame; he was a good singer; Tony Bennett cites him as one of his favorites. We of the "Buddy Elster Quartet" got tickets and enjoyed a great night of Swing Era big-band sounds...in spite of Eberle's obvious drunkenness.
Between sets, I got a hankering to meet a famous big-band person, so--wondering with each step what manner of inebriated personality I'd meet up close--I crossed the dance floor to Eberle's booth where he and a couple of band members were sitting out the break. Self-consciously, I introduced myself: "Hello, Mr. Eberle, my name is, uhh, Cliff Morris....I, uhh, we have a group that, uhh....we play here Saturday nights."
Dead silence. Eberle's eyes locked on mine and he quietly said, "You're fired." I froze. I didn't know what to say. I was too young to know what to say. The band members' smiling eyes were on me, waiting for my next move...but I had none. I was too young to have a move. I wheeled on my heels and walked back across the empty dance floor, speechless and somewhat mortified.
Back to Bermuda and Pete LaRoca, Tony Scott's drummer. Quiet and intelligent, Pete was a young African American from NYC who joined us occasionally at the musician's table. One day I ran into him out touring a picturesque old fort overlooking the sea. During conversation, Pete mentioned that his real ambition was to be a clinical psychologist. I could relate to that but I was surprised by it; after all, to be traveling with the big names in jazz seemed the ultimate success to me.
Over the years I've wondered whether Pete ever became...Dr. Pete. I've heard him on the radio from time to time, playing drums with the Biggies, but it appears he was unable to fulfill his clinical ambitions, because you see:
While getting ripped off in a brake repair shop one day here in Lansing, I struck up a conversation with a hip looking old guy who turned out to be a jazz musician who actually knew Pete LaRoca. I told him my little story and asked if he knew whether or not Pete had gotten his degree in psychology. The old guy answered, "I don't know, man, but the last time I saw Pete LaRoca he was driving a cab in New York City." (Today, you'll find Pete's CDs in any decent record store. And Pete is a lawyer!)
There was another performer at the club that week, a Folk and Blues shouter from Chicago named Brother John Sellers. John had some albums in release and one folk-music hit to his credit, the old folk standard, "Big Boat Up the River." Well, Brother John worked up a helluva sweat, shoutin' the blues in big style.
I was amazed to learn that John was gay. It just didn't fit the image of a Blues shouter. But John was a kind, friendly man, and since he didn't get "fresh" with me, here's another footnote:
When I moved to Chicago in 1960, I looked John up and accompanied him to an interview at WVON, the legendary Blues station on Chicago's South Side. The DJ interviewed me too, on the basis of my Bermuda radio experience and of course because I was with Brother John Sellers. Later that evening, I accompanied John to a concert at the famous Ravinia Festival, where he was performing on a program with the Clara Ward Singers, Barbara Dane, and others, with Studs Terkel as emcee. John saw to it that I met most everyone backstage. Backstage activity was an interesting eyeful; Legendary Barbara Dane was so nervous she was sweating bullets.
While thumbing through a dusty collection of used records a few years ago, I found the jacket of an old Brother John Sellers album. The record was missing, so I bought the empty jacket.
(As a matter of curiosity; in the past week - as I write this in 1992 - I've seen or heard on TV or radio: Lou Rawls, Max Roach, Rosanna Arquette, Johnny Cash...Maxie Rosenbloom, even. Also, John Carradine, the Clara Ward Singers, Woody Herman, Pete LaRoca, and last night Garrison Keillor mentioned, "Big Boat Up the River." If it weren't for Slapsie Maxie, Clara Ward, and the "Big Boat," I might think it just coincidence. But taking them all together, it's a big vote for what Carl Jung called "synchronicity." I must be doing something right.
Next:
The Little Venice Cafe
Preface
