Then the doors opened and
I was propelled into the lobby by a mass of teenage-to-thirties humanity whose
collective attitude was just a couple of degrees shy of pandemonium. I attempted to offer up my ticket – where
had that come from? – but the two ushers in the lobby were mown down
like daisies in the path of a Victa.
The mob seemed to know where it was going, so all I had to do was keep
my feet. Lose them and I would end up
a mangled mess.
My ‘first come, best
dressed’ policy paid off. I
dead-heated at the auditorium with a bobby-soxed teenager. Her relative youth prevailed in the dash for
the front but I wasn’t worried; the
“Isn’t this great?” the
gum-chewing bobbysoxer confided. “I
queued up for two days and now I’m here.
Isn’t this great?”
I agreed that it was, and
asked if she hadn’t lost her parents or her boyfriend in the rush.
She gave me the cold eye,
as if deciding that here was an old guy, and probably a dirty old guy at that,
the way he was starting in on the personal questions and all. Either that or she didn’t understand my
Australian accent.
I thought briefly of
setting her straight but events overtook intentions. From behind the huge crimson curtain that
veiled the stage burst the opening strains of Let’s Dance. The curtains began to part, and the
anticipatory buzz of the audience erupted into unrestrained cheering. I found myself among their number.
I had listened to Let’s
Dance umpteen times on record.
And loved it. But when you heard
it in the flesh, you realised just how much those 78 rpm discs failed to
capture. And just how good the Benny
Goodman Orchestra really was. The
brilliant, biting brass – Harry James leading - the trademark not-too-sweet two
tenor, two alto reeds, and the thunderous rhythm section driven by the
extroverted Gene Krupa, all swinging in a faultless ensemble unity, and you
knew why Benny was called the King. Sure, Basie and Ellington were around, the
Dorsey brothers, especially Tommy, were making fans and the upstart Artie Shaw
was doing a few good things but, for me, Benny was the master. Even now, as the program announcer finished
his commercial, my neck hairs stood on end as Ziggy Elman, Benny, and Murray
McEachern steamed into the classic intro to Bugle Call Rag.
This was music, and while I was a tad old
to join the frenetic jitterbuggers cavorting in the aisles, my appreciation was
no less. I could listen to this stuff
forever. To have the privilege of
watching it...unbelievable.
The privileges kept
coming. During the James solo, Benny
caught my eye. He looked surprised, as
if seeing an old friend. He grinned and
nodded before returning to his musical duties. My teenaged neighbour frowned at me with
renewed interest. Perhaps I wasn’t a
DOG after all.
The Rag’s final
notes never made it to the back of the theatre. They evaporated in the shock wave of
applause that exploded behind me, then over me, then through me. I had never heard such ecstasy. The engineers in their glassed-in booth to
the right of stage obviously had – they were keeping the sound levels for their
radio listeners below the pain threshold with practised aplomb.
Benny held up a hand for
some quiet. Eventually, he got it..
“Thank you, ladies and
gentlemen,” he said in his Paul Robeson-deep voice. “I’m
interrupting the first set at this point because there’s somebody in the
audience I want you to meet.”
He pointed.
I froze.
“Mark Mason, ladies and
gentlemen.
Me? He’s got to be joking. But it was too late to deny it – a generous
applause was being offered by two thousand people who didn’t know me from Adam. Then Benny was gesturing me to stand.
“Take a bow, Mark.”
I stood, turned and waved
a modest – I hoped – acknowledgment. I
also hoped that my face wasn’t as pink as it felt. It got crimson at Benny’s next invitation.
“Come on up here,
Mark. Sit in on the next number.”
What could I do? Turn down the opportunity to actually play
in the Benny Goodman Orchestra?
Arranging the music stands would have been privilege enough. Anyway, I reckoned I could hack it,
provided I didn’t try anything fancy. I
jumped on stage to more applause and shook hands with the Great Man.
Caravan, he said.
I headed to the rear of
the bandstand where Gene Krupa was relinquishing his position alongside the
brass.
Christ! Gene Krupa, doyen of drummers, standing
aside for me!
“All yours, buddy,” he
grinned, as if he’d known me all our lives.
He ambled off stage as I settled behind his gear. No adjustment was necessary – Gene’s kit
fitted me perfectly. I hefted the sticks and nodded to Benny that I
was ready for the celebrated tom-tom intro.
I just hoped the drums would sound louder than my heart.
Benny counted down the
beat and I laid into the tom-tom.
Knock, knock…knock, knock. Knock, knock…knock, knock.
Rhythm was OK but the
sound was wooden. More like someone
knocking on a door. Bloody awful
drumming. If I can’t do better than
this…
Knock, knock…knock,
knock. Knock, knock…knock, knock.
Christ, oh no! It is a door! What the hell…?
The real world returned
slowly. I fought it, reluctant to give
up the fulfilment of an impossible ambition.
Stay! Stay! I commanded
myself. Stay with the dream.
But a puzzled Benny Goodman faded
away. Behind him, the audience
dissolved into whiteness. Around me, the
great orchestra evaporated. The
And furious at the
bastard responsible.
I flung the bedclothes,
leapt from the bed and marched through the flat to the front door, which was
still being pounded. I ripped it open,
prepared to give whoever it was a smack in the teeth.
But I balk at hitting
attractive redheads dressed in a hip-hugging navy skirts and matching jackets. Detective Senior Sergeant Connie O’Brien
looked me up and down.
“Good morning, Mark,” she said. “Just love your shortie jammies.”