Choice of Colors

Choice of Colors

There once were three horses: Prince, a great black stallion; his sister Portia, a beautiful white mare; and their brother Percy, a little gray guy. All three siblings loved each other very much, but Prince and Portia loved to pick on poor Percy.

Prince would proclaim, "I'm just like Dad -- shiny black, beautiful, and proud. You're just an ugly cruddy gray sorta' dirty-looking kid. As a matter of fact, sometimes I wonder if you're really just covered with dust; although you are a pretty good guy, anyway." Talk about a back-hooved compliment!

And Portia would chime in, "I'm a winning white sparkler just like Mom. People have to squint to fully absorb my sun-like purity. You're a little gray ghost. People don't even see you when you're frolicking with us. But I still love you."

The gutsy little gray

Took the guff and looked away.

It's okay, he thought.

I know who I am.

I know how strong I am.

I know how wise I am.

And someday someone else will see

All the good gray stuff I have in me.

One day, Prince, Portia, and Percy heard that a famous fast steed named Freeman would soon be visiting them. He was seeking a new co-worker at his fabulous farm, and all the siblings were extraordinarily excited and ecstatic.

"He'll pick me

And I'll live in luxury,"

Exclaimed Prince.

How could he ignore my masculine beauty, my brawn, my black majesty?"

"Oh, he'll pick me all right," countered Portia. "He is a male, after all. He cannot resist my feminine allure, my powerful pulchritude. I know he'll want to marry me and make me a merry mare for the rest of my life."

"Maybe he'll just take both of us," they suddenly shouted in unison. After all, they both thought, how could he possibly leave either of us behind?

"Actually, I'm pretty sure he'll pick me," interjected the upstart Percy.

"He'll see in me

What he'll know I'll be:

Smart, strong and true,

Regardless of hue.

A horse as smart as he must be

Will see those things inside of me."

"Nay Nay Nay," bellowed the black.

"No way, No way, No way," whinnied the white.

"We'll see, won't we," sayeth the gray.

The day of reckoning soon arrived. The magnificent Freeman appeared, as stunning as advertised. And the rumors of his search for a new co-worker were true.

He had heard of these three

And wanted to see

If one might be

The one he'd need.

"You'll want to pick me," Prince predicted.

"I must say, you are one handsome dude," said Freeman.

"Oh no, it's me you need," Portia decreed.

"You are one beautiful lady," returned Freeman. Portia swooned and danced.

But Percy uttered not a sound. He looked Freeman in the eye and communicated wordlessly: Please believe in my own brains, brawn, and beauty -- the bounty only I can bring to you.

"Magnificent," cried Freeman. "I must have you with me! Will you join me?"

"Of course!" calmly assured the little gray horse.

"Impossible!" complained Prince.

"You must be kidding," sobbed Portia.

But Percy had known the truth all along:

"You guys couldn't see it; you knew only my skin.

You never looked at the stuff within.

See, I have the best of Mom AND Dad,

But you never cared to see what I had.

Now you know deep down that it's okay.

I love -- love you -- anyway.

Come visit me at Freeman's place."

Percy, you see, had wisdom and grace.

Moral:

Black is beautiful, shining and sure.

White is sparkling, spectacular, pure.

Gray seems cruddy,

Mixed up and muddy.

But what gray lacks in clarity

It captures in verity.

At the end of the day,

The truth is gray.

Choice of Colors

There once were three horses: Prince, a great black stallion; his sister Portia, a beautiful white mare; and their brother Percy, a little gray guy. All three siblings loved each other very much, but Prince and Portia loved to pick on poor Percy.

Prince would proclaim, "I'm just like Dad -- shiny black, beautiful, and proud. You're just an ugly cruddy gray sorta' dirty-looking kid. As a matter of fact, sometimes I wonder if you're really just covered with dust; although you are a pretty good guy, anyway." Talk about a back-hooved compliment!

And Portia would chime in, "I'm a winning white sparkler just like Mom. People have to squint to fully absorb my sun-like purity. You're a little gray ghost. People don't even see you when you're frolicking with us. But I still love you."

The gutsy little gray

Took the guff and looked away.

It's okay, he thought.

I know who I am.

I know how strong I am.

I know how wise I am.

And someday someone else will see

All the good gray stuff I have in me.

One day, Prince, Portia, and Percy heard that a famous fast steed named Freeman would soon be visiting them. He was seeking a new co-worker at his fabulous farm, and all the siblings were extraordinarily excited and ecstatic.

"He'll pick me

And I'll live in luxury,"

Exclaimed Prince.

How could he ignore my masculine beauty, my brawn, my black majesty?"

"Oh, he'll pick me all right," countered Portia. "He is a male, after all. He cannot resist my feminine allure, my powerful pulchritude. I know he'll want to marry me and make me a merry mare for the rest of my life."

"Maybe he'll just take both of us," they suddenly shouted in unison. After all, they both thought, how could he possibly leave either of us behind?

"Actually, I'm pretty sure he'll pick me," interjected the upstart Percy.

"He'll see in me

What he'll know I'll be:

Smart, strong and true,

Regardless of hue.

A horse as smart as he must be

Will see those things inside of me."

"Nay Nay Nay," bellowed the black.

"No way, No way, No way," whinnied the white.

"We'll see, won't we," sayeth the gray.

The day of reckoning soon arrived. The magnificent Freeman appeared, as stunning as advertised. And the rumors of his search for a new co-worker were true.

He had heard of these three

And wanted to see

If one might be

The one he'd need.

"You'll want to pick me," Prince predicted.

"I must say, you are one handsome dude," said Freeman.

"Oh no, it's me you need," Portia decreed.

"You are one beautiful lady," returned Freeman. Portia swooned and danced.

But Percy uttered not a sound. He looked Freeman in the eye and communicated wordlessly: Please believe in my own brains, brawn, and beauty -- the bounty only I can bring to you.

"Magnificent," cried Freeman. "I must have you with me! Will you join me?"

"Of course!" calmly assured the little gray horse.

"Impossible!" complained Prince.

"You must be kidding," sobbed Portia.

But Percy had known the truth all along:

"You guys couldn't see it; you knew only my skin.

You never looked at the stuff within.

See, I have the best of Mom AND Dad,

But you never cared to see what I had.

Now you know deep down that it's okay.

I love -- love you -- anyway.

Come visit me at Freeman's place."

Percy, you see, had wisdom and grace.

Moral:

Black is beautiful, shining and sure.

White is sparkling, spectacular, pure.

Gray seems cruddy,

Mixed up and muddy.

But what gray lacks in clarity

It captures in verity.

At the end of the day,

The truth is gray.

Memoir 3

When I was five years old, my parents decided that, like my sister, I should take piano lessons. My sister is four years older than I. She was pretty good at the piano. I was awful although my mother insisted that I was "very good for my age." I was awful. Even though I was only five, I remember clearly that when I played, it didn't sound like music to me. Everything sounded like Chopsticks. I played at one piano recital, my first public music performance, and when I finished, the audience applauded politely, and I remember feeling acutely embarrassed because I knew I wasn't any good.

I played first that night, and my poor sister, because she was the most advanced, played last. So naturally, she had to sit there through the whole terrible recital, getting more and more nervous until it was finally her turn. She had an eight-page piece to play, which she had learned and memorized perfectly. She somehow played the first page and then jumped to the last page, so she was suddenly done after about seventy seconds. She sobbed hysterically, as I recall. We both quit piano lessons.

It's amazing that my parents had been able to buy the piano, anyway. We struggled endlessly just to pay the rent and the bills. So how did they afford a piano? The answer is, we were Jewish children, so we had to take piano lessons. "That is all you know and all you need to know." Despite the entire piano fiasco and that traumatic debut performance (the first of many nerve-wracking and sometimes crushing performing experiences for me), my love of music never abated, even for an instant. Nothing could ever be more joyful, it seemed, than listening and rocking to my records and shutting out the rest of the world.

Aunt Bea: Roe, I think you should take him to see somebody. He can't talk.

Mom: He talks beautifully, Bea. He just doesn't talk to YOU.

Bea: Take him to see somebody. I'll pay for it.

Mom: Bea, mind your own business. I don't want your money, and he's fine.

Bea: I'm your sister. Don't get defensive.

Mom: Bea, go home.

Mom was the most forgiving person in the world, but she wouldn't take any guff where her kids were concerned. So she didn't listen to anybody about my alleged verbal deficiencies and just kept buying me records and kvelling while she watched me listen, rock, and sing along with them. She was something.

Memoir: Chapter 2

Back to the top; the edge; the upper left-hand corner; the beginning of the chart. When I was three-and-a-half and four years old, I spent the great majority of my waking hours listening to 78 RPM records while rocking in my rocking chair. I spoke only to my parents and my sister. My relatives figured I was mentally challenged (in those days "retarded"). I listened mostly to records my father brought home from the juke box in the tavern next to the liquor store he partially owned. This was in 1947, and our record player was the kind on which you had to keep replacing the needle about every ten records. It had a little built-in cup to hold the used needles. I also listened to some classical music, most notably Peter and the Wolf as narrated by Basil Rathbone; also Khachaturian's "Sabre Dance," as recorded by Oscar Levant. Now that's important because he was the pianist and bandleader on the Al Jolson radio show.

Al Jolson was my idol. I knew (still know) every word of every song from "The Jolson Story." I cried every time I listened to "Sonny Boy." And I cried every time I listened to "My Mammy," especially the part where he talked: "Mammy! Mammy, listen to me! DONTCHA' know me? I'm your little BABY!" I guess that was my very early introduction to rap. Problem is, it was a white man performing in blackface affecting a very questionable (insulting?) black dialect. Hey! What did I know? I was four years old! Unfortunately, all rational judgment and logic notwithstanding, I still love Al Jolson. And I don't like rap. Go figure.

Anyway, when Al Jolson died -- I think it was 1950 and I think he was sixty-four years old and I'm pretty sure his heart gave out after an exhausting tour of Korea to entertain our troops there during the "conflict" -- I was inconsolable. So I prayed every night for at least three years that a miracle would occur. Here's what I prayed:

I wish Asa Yoelson would come alive and that he could sing just like before and that I could meet him and talk to him.

Every night. I used his real name instead of Al Jolson because I thought maybe God would appreciate the use of his real name and take my prayers extra seriously. No luck. Al didn't come back. When I learned many years later that Al Jolson was, by all accounts, an insufferable egomaniac, I didn't care because I knew that deep down he was very nice and very generous and he had a heart attack while performing for our troops even though he knew he was sick. I know he was very nice. As a matter of fact, I know he was a wonderful person. So just shut up.

Memoir

Fableus Interruptus. Back to fables early next week, but tonight a look back to the beginnings of my bandleader memoirs. I wrote some of this in 1999, but it's still mostly relevant and true because it's primarily about how I got started with the whole damn music thing in the first place:

My wife insists that somebody out there wants to read the autobiography of a Bar Mitzvah bandleader. Now normally I would tell her that she's just prejudiced and dead wrong about that. After all, there are millions of people out there who don't even know what a BarMitzvah is and millions more who certainly don't care. And among those who DO know what a BarMitzvah is, there's no guarantee that (1) they'd have any idea what somebody like me DID at a Bar Mitzvah or (2) they'd want to learn anything about it. On the other hand, I've had a bunch of people -- who should know better -- tell me that I should write down my whole story. Actually, my life and career demonstrate a lot about music, musicians, and the music business in general, so on balance, I guess sharing this stuff is worthwhile.

If there were a Guiness Book of World Records entry for "most Bar Mitzvahs performed at," I think I'd be the record holder. Now I realize that many DJ's AND many bandleaders have played an awful lot of Bar (and Bat) Mitzvahs, but listen: I played my first one in 1955. "Rock Around the Clock" was a hit for the first time. Bill Haley and the Comets were controversial. Not many people knew the term "rock and roll." The show-stopper for the band I played in was "In the Mood" (1941). I was twelve years old. From 1956 until 2005, I averaged about fifty Bar Mitzvahs a year except for 1969 through 1973 when I took time off to try to become a recording star myself. (Almost did it, too. Plenty about that later.)

So that's about 50 x 44 years plus another 100 from 2006-2010. That's about 2,300 Mitzvahs. Holy shit. If that ISN'T the record, then whoever has played more is absolutely completely insane. YOU try performing for 115,000 thirteen-year-olds (at 50 per party, a conservative estimate) over a time span of fifty-five years. Generational summary: I played his Bar Mitzvah in 1956. I played his wedding. I played his kids' Mitzvahs. I played all THEIR weddings. I quit.

Feisty

Feisty

You know how a lot of terriers are -- feisty, fightful, fractious. Well, two such young boys -- Terry Aramis Airedale Terrier and Tony Athos Airedale Terrier -- who had known each other since they were mere pups, decided one day to take in a movie after school. They always did stuff together; they understood and liked each other like all loyal and true friends. Two for one and one for two, as it were. The boys were stereotypically hyper, but surprisingly, they were also intellectually curious. So they decided to ask their math master, Mr. Mastiff, what movie he would most highly recommend. He advised them to run down to the town's art theater to see a fascinating new documentary about a feline saxophonist and canine violinist who had formed a duo which had taken the musical world by storm. The duo's name was Yassir and Yitzhak.

The two terriers did not tarry. Off they scampered to the theater to check out this inspiring film, which had captured the hearts of thousands of music lovers -- and peace lovers -- all over the world. The film, in fact, had fulfilled its director's dream and the dreams of the performers themselves -- to demonstrate the goodness which can pour forth when people set aside their differences and hostilities for the pure joy of making beautiful music together.

Terry and Tony were, indeed, amazed and awed by the images and sounds they saw and heard. Like so many viewers, they were stunned by the sheer power of the performances.

"Those guys are incredible," raved Terry. "I don't think I've ever heard anything quite as awesome as that saxophone player. His sound fills up the whole theater."

"They are great," agreed Tony. "But the violinist is the real star."

"Well, you're just wrong," countered Terry. "You can tell that it's the sax player who provides the real inspiration."

"You're being a jerk, as usual," responded Tony. "The violinist is phenomenal. The sax player is a stupid cat. And an Arab. And a Muslim."

"But he's terrific!" yapped Terry. "And you're a prejudiced poop-head."

"Oh, yeah? Well try this paw on for size. Right across your big fat nose!" barked Tony. Soon, bark turned to bite and paw turned to claw as the two fought tooth and nail and began the sad process of turning the theater into a virtual Ultimate Fighting arena. You see, surrounding the middle of the theater, which was filled up mostly by terriers, was a group of strays on a field trip from the local shelter for the homeless. And they were some pretty wild dogs. The whole scene became very intense very quickly.

"Shut up and sit down!" shouted a Jack Russell.

"YOU shut up," yowled a Staffordshire.

Both got punched in the face by a Bedlington sitting behind them.

But then, to make matters more messy, all the strays got into the act, and soon the entire theater had become a major raging riot of disgusting dog destruction. In fact, it was a mess of higher rank: a five-star general riot, a veritable torrential tornado of turmoil.

And so it was that in one small corner of the animal kingdom, the Yassir-and-Yitzhak effect had been turned upside-down, its director's dreams of detente deflated and defeated.

But as for our two heroes, Airedales-by-nature, their own brief canine contretemps had had little or no effect. They finished their typical Terry and Tony tussle, calmly considered the chaos all around them, and walked up the aisle toward the exit. Terry remarked, "Look at all those dopey dogs, those stupid strays screaming and scrapping. They're ruining a great flick. Can't wait to tell Master Mastiff about it."

Moral:

(1) The best-laid plans of cats and dogs oft go a-stray.

(2) Never allow kids to see a movie that's full of sax and violins.

Yassir and Yitzhak

Yassir and Yitzhak

On the West Bank lived a cat named Yassir. And a cool cat he was. Yassir had procured a very old, very beat-up alto saxophone from a very old, very beat-up hock shop. To get the sax, he had traded in his father's collection of catnip canisters. When his father discovered the transaction, he hissed, screeched, and meowed hysterically, but Yassir was unmoved. How could a can of catnip be compared to the wondrous wailings of an alto sax? Yassir prayed for his father's forgiveness and prayed for the fulfillment of his musical talent on his prized new instrument. And he practiced and practiced and practiced some more until his neighbors begged for mercy.

But after many months, the neighbors were no longer begging him to stop practicing. Instead, they begged him to play more and louder because his prayers and long hours of work had been rewarded. His beautiful playing had converted even his father.

"Play another song for me, my son," he demanded, and Yassir was only too happy to oblige. As a matter of fact, he shared his talent with all who cared to listen. He was soon deemed something of a prophet, a holy man of music, his incredible jazz artistry reflecting the beauty of God's will for him, his destiny.

"I am happier here and now than I could be even in paradise," he felicitously proclaimed to all his feline friends and followers.

One day, Yassir was sitting on a stoop in front of his tiny house, practicing and playing proudly to lift the spirits of his downtrodden neighbors. Suddenly, he spied a uniform heading menacingly in his direction. He sensed immediately that trouble was on the way to his doorstep. This most unwelcome visitor was certainly an Israeli-German Shepherd police dog checking out the source of the strange and surreal but hauntingly spiritual sounds emanating from the sax on the street.

He's going to shut me up and shut me off, thought Yassir as the frighteningly ferocious footsteps crept closer and closer. He'll probably try to take my saxophone, too. Well, I'll die before I will allow him to do that.

"Good day, friend," growled the police-patrol creature.

Hmmph, thought Yassir. Good day! Friend! This horrible hound is just prowling for Palestine pussycat meat. And I'm the first item on the menu. Yassir was indeed angry, but he was also, of course, scared out of his mind.

"Hello to you, officer," he mumbled, trying completely unsuccessfully to hide his fear and loathing.

"Please don't panic," assured the Shepherd. "I'm not really an officer. I'm just a plain old part-time patrol pooch. Actually, I'm a musician -- a violinist, to be specific. And frankly, I don't care if you're Palestinian or Polish or Pennsylvanian or pink or purple or puce. I've never heard music as glorious as the sounds streaming from your sax. I could listen forever, day and night. Please do not ever stop. You are a genius and an inspiration. God bless you."

"Uh...what?” stammered the stunned Yassir.

"My name is Yitzhak," said the kindly canine, "and I have a favor to ask of you, a large favor."

Uh-oh, thought Yassir.

Yitzhak continued: "I want to come here to hear you often. And I want you to invite me into your home. I want to play music with you. You, Yassir, can help me to become the kind of musician I never could even have imagined before. The inspiration that will flow to me from the beauty of your soul will make my violin sing. Can we do it?"

Yassir was unable to reply, stupefied into silence, but still suspicious. "You certainly need not answer this minute," encouraged Yitzhak, "but please believe, I mean you no harm. I simply want to bathe in the beauty of your music, as do your friends and neighbors. And I want to learn from you."

Yassir thought and thought. He does seem nice, but he's an Israeli dog. What would my friends say -- and do -- if I welcome him? What would my father say? Can any of us really trust this Yitzhak? But then again ... he does seem sincere. He certainly has good taste in music! I'm curious to see if he can really perform. And what if we could prove that a Palestinian cool cat and an Israeli hot dog could actually make beautiful music together? And get along with each other, like ... brothers?

Finally, he convinced himself: I'll do it! The next time Yitzhak came by while patrolling his beat, Yassir stopped him in his tracks and said simply, "Yes."

"That yes means everything!" happily howled the hound. "You will learn to trust me, to like me, and to make music with me. And I will learn from you, I will love our music, and I will love ... you!"

Yassir yowled, "Yuck!" But he bravely stayed doggedly true to his commitment. He did invite Yitzhak into his home. He did give himself wholly to his promise. And Yitzak and Yassir became friends and creators of the most beautiful and unique duets in musical history.

Yitzhak lovingly lapped up every bit of musical wisdom, advice, and spirit Yassir had to offer -- and proved no mean talent himself. In time, his own contributions to their creative constructs became as conspicuously well-crafted as those of his partner.

And despite these curious combinations of opposites, these apparently paradoxical pairs of conflicting cultures -- sax and violin; cat and dog; jazz and classical; Palestinian and Israeli -- the fame of the duo and their music spread, first to all of the West Bank and Gaza, then to Israel, then to Europe, Asia, and the Americas.

A magnificently-made documentary about them, produced by a collie and a corgi from Israel and directed by a calico from Gaza, won the Coq d'or at Cannes and cemented the coming together of cultural cacophony. A jazz cat and a classical shepherd had conquered fear, despair, and disillusionment and climbed to the very apex of the musical world.

Yassir and Yitzhak.

Moral:

In this world of grief and affliction,

Remember this truth:

Truce is stranger than friction.