It was 1957 and I was twelve years old. Dad, who was a music buff, was taking me to an early evening concert at Valley Junior College. This was a rare event because he was usually grinding out courses in management hoping to advance his career at a local California aerospace company. His real passion was jazz and this particular night gave us the unique opportunity to see Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong. We fidgeted in annoying fold up chairs but counted ourselves lucky to be seated directly in front of a special platform built to accommodate the large crowd gathering to see Louis and his "All Stars." Louis stepped casually onto the stage, chuckled slyly and pattered, "We really gonna lay somethin' on ya!"
I was mesmerized from the instant the first electric notes
were struck.
Dad played Louis’ records for me many times, but they paled compared
to the real thing. The drummer
shimmied as if in a trance when he beat his sticks; the trombone player sent
soft, slide tones soaring into solid and distinct bell tones;
the clarinetist oozed sweet phrasing and pitch.
Added to this was the vivacious vocal performance of the hefty Vilma
Middletown who nearly brought down the house, as well as the makeshift stage
which wobbled precariously as she bounced and swayed to the beat of each
intricate piece. Music came
pouring out of them, exploding in tempo and energy.
Dad’s toes tapped wildly and my heart pounded uncontrollably along
with the pulsating rhythms.
The perspiration on Louis' brow glistened almost as much as
his battered but glittering trumpet. From
the crack of the opening note, his performance was a dazzling display of
virtuosity and inspiration. As a
trumpet player, he was considered by many to be an improvisational genius. His
endurance and power were legendary. As
a singer, his style was as original as his trumpet playing.
He was one of the first singers in popular American music to include
sounds made by the human voice which were not merely the repetition of notes
on the scale. Tonight, his lips
were iron and his lungs had the strength of a hurricane, bending and twisting
notes in his unexcelled technique. He bent notes as he sang, just as he did
when he played. He growled and
grated, grunted and wheezed, for special effects.
And his gregarious spirit was nothing less than infectious.
Then, something extraordinary happened. Just
as Louis lowered his horn at the end of a tune, a small object flew off the
stage. I
glanced down to see a burnished brass object laying at my feet.
It was a trumpet mouthpiece. I
sat transfixed, staring reverently at the object as though it were something
sacred. This was not
just any mouthpiece. This
was the Hope Diamond of trumpet mouthpieces. It was Louis’, and through it,
he shared his soul with the world. Dad
urged me to pick it up. Slowly, I
reached out and cupped it tentatively in my trembling hands.
As I lifted it from the floor I heard a gravelly voice above me say in
a secretive tone, "Careful now, it's ver-ry hot!" I looked up
and was greeted by a face that seemed sculpted from the earth's own clay, a
pair of soft twinkling eyes, and a generous mouth grinning fully at me.
I nestled the mouthpiece into the handkerchief Louis was extending to
me. He enfolded it along with my
hands and with a gentle squeeze, cocked his head to one side, winked at me and
purred, "This next one's just for you, honey."
He chose "I'm Confessin' That I Love You."
Dad stretched his arm around me proudly and sang along unabashedly.
I was spellbound. Magically,
Louis’ song transformed into a vivid reflection of
Dad’s love for me. Louis
is gone now and so is Dad, but that melody and that moment still lingers in my
heart. I still hear Dad’s
jubilant voice, those golden notes dripping like honey from Louis’ horn, and
together we murmur the words that became his signature expression - "Oh, Yeah!"
JoAnn Semones,
Ph.D., writes from her home in Half
Moon Bay, California. She specializes in historical and cultural
education issues. Her latest article appears in "Mains'l Haul - A
Journal of Pacific Maritime History." HMBJoAnn@aol.com