My singer-pianist-guitarist-songwriter-granddaughter Riley

In 1956, when I was attending Richard Henry Dana, Jr., Junior High School in Arcadia, California, my friend Einar and I organized a rhythm-and-blues quartet for our eighth-grade graduation assembly, which took place in the school’s cafetorium  in the mid-morning before the mid-afternoon graduation ceremony.  Our quartet included a singer-guitarist who did an impressive (to us) cover of Carl Perkins’ “Blue Suede Shoes” (with appropriate footwear and gyrations), and then Einar and I vocally harmonized on “Hey, Mrs. Jones” and “Cherry Pie.”

“Blue Suede Shoes”:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZwZSjLzNUU

“Hey, Mrs. Jones”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=msuCH6ISodc

“Cherry Pie”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tPjZOXNEXo

The last of these finally broke into the consciousness of the lunching school administrators, who were of course officially shocked, and there was briefly hell to pay, including a threat to keep us from going through the graduation ceremony.  Their perfervid reaction may seem mystifying today, given the open salaciousness of current rap lyrics, but the smirking slyness and insinuating double-entendre of “Cherry Pie” seemed like a big deal at a junior high in 1956—as of course we hoped it would.  Luckily for society, or at least for Einar and me, cooler heads eventually prevailed, and in the afternoon we were reluctantly but officially allowed to graduate.

Later in 1956, during the first semester of our freshman year at Arcadia High School, Einar and I created a “modern jazz” group, with him on piano and me on clarinet.   We actually scored a gig at his sister’s sorority house at the University of Southern California, and we felt we needed a bass player.   To help us out, our junior high band teacher, Mr. Jacoby, set us up with a kid who lived way over on the west side of Los Angeles.  This kid turned out to be the little brother of Carson Smith.  Carson was a famous bassist with the Gerry Mulligan Quartet, the Chico Hamilton Quintet, and several other great West Coast bands.  His little brother’s name was (or later became) Putter, and he too had a long, very successful career as a jazz bassist on the West Coast.

At the time of the sorority event, however, we were 14 or 15 years old, so we had to be driven to the gig at USC, and along the way we picked up young Putter.  Why is this significant, you ask?  Patience, Grasshopper, patience.

At the sorority house, we were supposed to play for two hours.  We played about 10 minutes, 15 at most, and then they asked us to take a break while they made announcements.  When the announcements were over, everyone (including our band) was invited outside to eat fresh pineapple dipped in honey while watching a full eclipse of the moon.  One thing led to another, and we never did  play again that night.  In terms of compensation per minute of playing, I think this was the biggest payoff of my whole career.  Yes, I call it a career.

Many, many years after the sorority gig, around 1995, I saw Putter Smith in Mendocino, California, playing at a small jazz concert produced by local pianist and jazz guru Kent Glenn.  After the group finished playing and stood around chatting, I went up to Smith and mentioned that we’d once played a gig together.  Not surprisingly, he said he couldn’t recall that, and pretty clearly he doubted whether we had.

“When we came to pick you up,” I told him, “an old lady who lived next door to you started yelling and screaming at us, accusing us of projecting pornographic movies onto the side of her house.”

“Hey,” he said, “I guess we did play a gig.  Nice to see you again, man.”

I love jazz musicians.  So flexible.

 

The word “cafetorium” is not used nearly enough.

And it was definitely 1956.  I looked up “lunar eclipses” on the Mount Wilson Observatory webpage.