The Platters That Matter

I love it when the topic of some rock hack comes up, and their mastery of hot licks, and their undisputed place in the Pantheon of gods of the MOR radio is discussed. It’s my sad duty to mention that they all suck pond water through a septic drain hose compared to legions of guys playing for tips in the corner of a coffee shop. What makes you famous can’t make you good, and if you get famous first, you never learn. Why would you bother?

The Days of Wine and Roses is written by Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer. It’s also my sad duty to mention, when Pink Floyd or some such songs are mentioned, that Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer walked the same globe, so you folks are lost in a very wrong neighborhood on that planet if you’re looking for songwriters.

It’s my sad duty, but I shirk it, because people should like what they like, and get enjoyment out of liking it. I like watching Rocky Gresset and Ninine Garcia playing in the corner, for instance. They’re not all that good, I suppose, so my scheme of finding out exactly where this video is recorded, selling all my belongings to get plane fare — including at least one of my kids for medical experiments if necessary — in order to move there and live in a cardboard box and sit outside the window of this place listening intently in the hope they’ll show up again, might sound a tad extreme. To a Pink Floyd fan, maybe.

Sultans Of Minor Swing

Some inside baseball: The boys have been sick since their last video. Nothing serious, but out of action for a week or two. Since our children don’t go to the petri dish, er, the public school, that doesn’t happen all that often. It’s very disruptive to have children sick if they’re learning.

About three weeks ago, the little one had recovered from his illness, but his older brother was still out of action, so I decided to teach him swing drumming. I cannot play the drums properly, but that doesn’t matter. I’m his music teacher. On Monday, I told him what each of his limbs was supposed to do. It’s more complicated than rock drumming, and subtler. We watched a video of a fellow wearing a ski hat and a short sleeve shirt indoors to hear the beat and see it demonstrated. Then my boy sat down and tried it.

He’s impatient, and wants to do it all at once, and it tested him. It wasn’t natural or easy for him, so we put it together, one limb at a time, until he could play it haltingly. All this took about a half an hour, which is all I have to give him. His mother teaches him all the rest of his subjects the rest of the day. The next day he played it competently. The third day he played it and kept good time. After that, he began to play syncopation on the snare, and fills on the toms. After a week or so, his brother could play again, and they started playing it together. This is recorded 20 days after that first lesson.

We purchased an input-output device with tip jar money last year. It digitizes analog signals from microphones so they can be put into
digital recording devices. It broke. The kids can’t record multitrack without it in a practical manner. It was still on warranty, but only
for parts. We had to pay labor, and it was a good bit of change, and then ship it to California and wait while they fixed it. By some form of
astral projection a kind reader sent me a tip jar donation just then, out of the blue. J and M, you know who you are. You’re peaches.  It allowed us to get the thing repaired. Many thanks.

One of the their flip cameras died, too, so there’s only one camera, and no overdubs. I told them to set up the camera they did have, hang two microphones, and let it rip. It’s been a while since they did that. What possessed the big one to try Django Reinhardt in the first place is beyond me. I think he got tired of people asking him if he could play Sultans of Swing. I think this is his way of offering proof that yes, he could; and no, he won’t.

Friend Andy gave the kids the mic on the right, and we bought the one on the left with tip jar money last year, so thanks, everyone for that and a lot of other things, too.

It takes a lot of effort to set all this up, and they have to drag everything down to the dining room to do it. They did it all themselves, and asked my wife and me for nothing except to press the button to record, and…

It’s two microphones, a flip camera, and that’s it. We flubbed it. They played this song three times before they realized their parents hadn’t recorded anything. This take, which wasn’t as good as any of the ones we missed, will have to do.

[Update: Many thanks to Nicholas K. in OK for his generous hit on the tip jar.]
[UpUpdate: Many thanks to Cynthia R in CA for her generous hit on the tip jar]
[Continuing Update: It’s a mystery to me how Kathleen M, who is our boys’ most constant supporter, manages to walk around Connecticut all day with that big, heavy halo around her head.]
[Yet Another Update: Many thanks to longtime supporter Dinah in MO for her generous contribution for the boys]

RIP, 2nd Lt Wallace F. Kaufman, Navigator

Wallace F. Kaufman was sort of a friend of mine. Let me explain.

I’ve seen that little snippet of footage of the bomber wing exploding before, but it was always fleeting, in a montage, and grainy. It was often commented upon as an example of friendly fire, a defamation of the other airmen in the squadron. Cleaned up like this, you can clearly see that it was hit from below by AA fire. But some people’s desire to find the ignoble in everyone but themselves trumps everything. They wish Catch 22 was true, so it must be. The Internet is full of these armchair historians today, Memorial Day, reminding us what bad people we were to drop atomic weapons on the Japanese. I wonder what Wallace F. Kaufman would say about that.

My father was a crewman in a B-24J Liberator. He hung below his, named Les Miserables, in a little plastic ball, like a hamster. There were ten or eleven crewmen on board during a mission. The very last one to survive anything would be the ball gunner. Once you climb down into it, they close the hatch behind you, swivel it, then lower it, and you can’t get back out without reversing the operation. My father was tall for his time, and they always put the short guy in the ball, so that makes me wonder if some short straw was chosen by, or for, my father. More likely no one else wanted to do it, and he said sure with his Irish chuckle and thought the view would be nice.

That video, right there, is the view.

My father told me a little about his tours of duty in a B-24 before he died. He didn’t talk about it at all when I was younger. I didn’t realize the significance of it to him until he had one foot in the grave. I looked up all the names he told me, as best as I could remember them, and then of course he was gone, and I couldn’t ask again.  

That plane in the video is B-24M-15-CO “Brief”, serial number 44-42058. The plane was in the 7th Air Force, 494th Bombardment Group, in the 867th Squadron. The were flying from Angaur to bomb Koror in the Palau island group.

My father flew in B-24-J-175-CO “Les Miserables” Serial number 44-40666. The plane was in the 7th Air Force, 494th Bombardment Group, in the 866th Squadron. Dad told me that he flew from Angaur, and bombed Koror, and Kwajalein, and the Phillipines, and a bunch of other places.

These two bomber groups flew together, and my father may very well have known some or all the men on that plane in the video. Their squadron records are online, and their missions are nearly identical. For all I know my father is in that video somewhere off on the horizon, though I cannot make out any markings on the planes that are from his squadron. They had two vertical stripes on the tail, and the 867th had those checkerboard squares.

Who was Wallace F. Kaufman? He was the navigator in that plane you see, sheared in half in front of your eyes, fluttering into the sea. Among the eleven men on that plane, he was the only one that survived the crash.

It’s almost inconceivable that anyone could survive that. My dad told me that it was just as likely as not you would end up dead because you ran out of gas, or the weather was bad, or the flying bulldozer that a B-24J resembles wouldn’t cooperate all of a sudden. That view of his in the ball was all empty ocean and sharks. The Japanese were just the last in a string of bad luck you might find.

Dad didn’t die in a crash, but the Les Miserables crashed into the ocean in bad weather shortly after the war was over, filled with American fliers [Update:That’s mistaken. They were from Great Britain, apparently] that had been in an internment camp for much of  the war. All aboard were lost.

So it’s a sort of miracle that a friend, Wallace F. Kaufman, survived that explosion and crash. Of course he wasn’t my friend, but he very well might have been my father’s friend, and that’s close enough for me.

We know Wallace F. Kaufman survived that crash. After the war, an interesting man named Pat Scannon went to Japan, and found and interviewed a Japanese soldier that had been on Koror that day, who told him that he had immediately captured Wallace F. Kaufman.

Along with three other airmen and ten missionaries, they beheaded Wallace F. Kaufman with a sword.

A Kind Of Knack, Backed Up By Prodigious Practice

Erroll Garner was short. He used to sit on phone books to perform. He could play the piano when he was three years old. Somehow or another the high school he attended in Pittsburgh managed to disgorge Garner as well as Billy Strayhorn and Ahmad Jamal. I think I would be worthwhile to drink from the water fountain there, as there must be some sort of Lourdes thing going on.

The music union wouldn’t let him in because he couldn’t read music. They made him an honorary member after he got famous anyway. Unions are like that. He composed Misty, which is so famous and popular that no one likes it.

He had a beatific face, like a Buddha. He mumbled and grunted without thinking while he played. I recognize the effect. If you’ve ever watched a juggler, they can’t look at any one ball or all of them drop. The juggler must look straight ahead and see all of them at the same time. It is a kind of knack, backed up by prodigious practice. He is looking at a place in the distance he needs to reach and cannot pay attention to what happens any nearer.

He was dead before he was old. He was alive the whole time, though. How many men can claim that?

I Guarantee Thud Knows Who Connie Lush Is

Thud’s a born lever puller. He makes mighty men-children and princesses by the bushel. He can raise a bothy from the dead and make its vergeboards dance. He drives a Reliant Robin covered with human skulls. He could take hostages at martial arts competitions, but he doesn’t because they want too much to eat.  He’s my friend if he’ll have it.

Thud.

Month: May 2014

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