Klarinet Archive - Posting 000024.txt from 2008/01

From: "Daniel Leeson" <dnleeson@-----.net>
Subj: [kl] Could Benny be heard unmiked??
Date: Wed, 02 Jan 2008 19:09:00 -0500

Since the question of Benny Goodman and how loud he played has arisen, I'd
like to offer this brief story because it describes what it was like to hear
Goodman at the Paramount Theatre in 1944. I heard him as plain as day, but
then again, I was in the first row. This story originally appeared in The
Clarinet, Fall 1986, under the title "Reminiscences of Benny Goodman," and
was written in memory of the great player following his sudden death.

THE KING OF SWING (1945)

World War II was still being fought. I think I was 13 years old. It's
hard to remember. At 5 a.m. I took the 45-minute, combination, train/bus
ride from Paterson, N.J. to New York City, walked from the bus terminal to
the Paramount Theater -- an enormous, art-deco monstrosity -- and got in
line at 6 a.m. to buy tickets when the box office opened two hours later.
The police did not permit the ticket line to start forming earlier than
that. Barriers were erected that caused us to hug the walls instead of
blocking the sidewalk. The line went down the street from Broadway, bent
around the corner at Eighth Avenue and continued uptown for at least another
block. I was in the front of the line. An aggressive, short kid who plays
the clarinet can get to the front of a queue anywhere in the world, but you
have to be short.

If you were not in line by 6 a.m. you would never get tickets for the 9
a.m. movie which was, in turn, followed by the first of five or six daily
live shows with which the movie alternated. The shows were invariably big
band spectacles that started around 10:30 a.m. The reason why I was at the
Paramount that particular day was because Benny Goodman was playing there
and I wanted to see and hear him live.

For a fee, I would hold someone's place in line to allow them a break for
coffee. I don't remember if it was summertime, or if I was playing hooky,
or if it was inter-session vacation, or what. It's all a haze. But I
remember Benny Goodman. Oh boy, do I remember Benny Goodman!

Most of the attendees tried to get aisle seats between rows five and 20.
Not me. I wanted the seventh seat left of center in row one. I had been to
the Paramount Theater before and knew the ropes. While row one was a
terrible place from which to see either the live show or the movie, it was,
paradoxically, perfect for what I had in mind.

The live show at the Paramount always began with the rising of the
orchestra pit, the musicians in place and playing during their ascent into
the audience's view. I had come to look into the pit as the artists set
up -- out of sight of everyone else in the audience except those in row
one -- before the live show began. And the seventh seat left of center was
the one nearest to the pit entrance door that all the players used. For
those 15 minutes I could look at Benny Goodman all by myself. I did not
have to share him or the band with anyone. It was during those 15 minutes
that I was alive. The rest of the time was just waiting.

The film portion of the show consisted of a "Movietone News," "Selected
Short Subjects," and then some turkey of a film where either Robert Taylor
saved the world from the Nazi horde or John Wayne prevented a "Yellow Peril"
assault on American womanhood. I forget. Besides, it was almost impossible
to see the screen from the first row of the Paramount. The angle of
perspective was too steep. (The scene of Benny Goodman's Paramount Theater
success as seen in one of Hollywood's worst biographical movies, "The Benny
Goodman Story," shows the theater as rather small with great lines of sight
from all rows. Don't believe it. The Superbowl could have been played in
that theater.)

As everyone else looked at the enemies of America being destroyed in the
movie's final scenes, my magic time began. I would lean forward, look over
the rail and there, just a few feet below me, was Gene Krupa, perhaps, or
Teddy Wilson, or Peggy Lee. Then, a few minutes before showtime, Benny
Goodman would come in with his Selmer clarinet tucked under his arm, just
like that, as casual as could be. And he carried it under his arm just like
a salami. I imitated him for years by carrying my clarinet that way.

When everyone was in place and the movie over, the lights went up and the
pit began its slow ascent. To the tune of "Let's Dance," the stage and its
players rose until the full glare of the spotlights were on them. But
before that happened I was at eye level with Benny for an instant. Then,
suddenly, he looked at me. He actually LOOKED AT ME!!! And the instant
passed. The stage continued its upward rise and the show began. And while
I could not see the show, I could hear it all quite clearly. I could hear
Benny and Gene Krupa do their drum/clarinet duet in Sing! Sing! Sing! I
could hear Benny, Teddy Wilson, Lionel Hampton, and Gene Krupa do Moonglow
as a quartet.

Benny talked a little and, on occasion, he even sang. It wasn't a vocal
solo. He had a terrible singing voice. It was a tune where the whole band
sang and Benny sang, too, but he was closer to the mike than anyone else so
I heard him better. Peggy Lee sang, in a voice dripping with sexual
innuendo, final syllables clipped, hands on hips, "You had plenty money,
1922. You let other women make a fool of you..."

Benny punctuated her singing with ornaments that were cleverly conceived,
brilliantly supportive of her artistry, and extraordinarily well executed.
(If only my ornaments in the Mozart Clarinet Quintet were half as
imaginative.) And I sat and listened, thinking of the instant that Benny
had looked at me, while waiting for the show to end so the orchestra would
begin its descent.

Then maybe he would look at me again. Maybe he would even talk to me and
say, "Hi kid. Enjoy the show?" Maybe he would ask me if I played the
clarinet and I could tell him that I did play, though not as fast as he.
And I would tell him about my metal clarinet and how I tried to play licks
just like he did, but they didn't come out the same way as when he did it.
And maybe he would tell me the secret of how to make it come out right. And
maybe ...

But when the show was over and the pit began its descent, Benny was off to
the side talking to Teddy Wilson and did not see me staring at him with eyes
like laser beams. That didn't matter too much because I stayed there the
entire day and saw every show. But he never looked at me again.

Benny Goodman died yesterday (dated from the writing of this reminiscence)
and with him goes this magic moment of my childhood. Years later I met and
played with him. He was soloist with an orchestra of which I was a member
and we chatted briefly. I was still in awe of him.

Today I have become somewhat jaded. A four-hour stint playing basset horn
in Strauss' Frau Ohne Schatten is enough to make the performance of music
something less than a joyous experience. It tires you. It jades you. I
have a nice family, a big house, a bunch of clarinets, and a good portfolio.
I play a lot of Mahler, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Stravinsky, and Strauss.
I have a very sweet life. But no other experience has ever matched that
magic instant when I was almost a teenager and Benny Goodman looked at me as
the stage rose in the Paramount Theater in New York City.

Dan Leeson
dnleeson@-----.net
SKYPE: dnleeson

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