BLACKOUT

 

 Every now and then we get to be a tiny particle of history, a grain of sand in the hourglass. I was thinking about this because I’ve recently been re-reading George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, in which the author describes his experiences in the Spanish Civil War.

I guess I identify with this particular work of Orwell’s because, like me in Argentina, he sort of bungled his way into Spain as a volunteer soldier, with no real knowledge of Spanish politics or of what was going on and, keen observer that he was, learned on the fly. Orwell, who, unlike me, was already a rather well-known writer by then, went to Spain with only one thing in mind: to fight fascism. And Spain was the war front for that fight at the time, though it was growing clear that Mussolini in Italy and Hitler in Germany would also have to be faced eventually.

Orwell

That was a lot like the way I entered the world of journalism in nineteen-seventies Argentina, with one and only one mission: to write for a living. I knew only vaguely about former strongman General Juan Domingo Perón and the all-pervading Peronist movement that had grown up around his personality. And less still about the varied and fragmented guerrilla and militant movements that had backed the push for Perón’s return from exile with armed actions, but each with a different political agenda. Orwell, a democratic socialist, was to get a crash course in the complexities of Spanish politics while serving as a frontline fighter with a leftist militia. For my part, I was to get a crash course in the equally (if not superlatively) complex politics of Argentina, while taking my first baby steps in a big city newsroom.

In nineteen-thirties Spain, Orwell would, after great suffering and sacrifice at the front, see infighting on the left practically turn into another civil war within the broader Spanish Civil War, Communist dominance in that fight, and the weakening of anarchist and socialist movements through attrition, persecution and execution to the point where the left as a whole lost ground to the fascists and permitted Francisco Franco to consolidate and install his absolute power over Spain for the next thirty-six years.

Lt.Gen. Juan D. Perón

In Argentina, I would witness Peron’s return after nearly eighteen years of exile in his friend Franco’s Spain, his utilization of the armed left to regain power, before re-embracing his fascist roots and sparking a violent purge of leftists in the armed Neo-Peronist and Marxist segments of his movement. He would then die, and the country would be plunged into tit for tat violence between the left and the right that would eventually lead to a military coup and more than seven years of state violence and repression. I would also witness and play a small role, as a newspaper editor, in a brief but bloody war between Argentina and Britain. All events that would be recorded in world history, and all also, almost accidentally, a part of my own personal history.

Anyway, I was thinking about all of that when I saw something the other day about the New York City blackout of 2003. Again, one of those historical events that you end up being a passive participant in against all odds. What were the chances that a native of Wapakoneta, Ohio, who had been an expat in Buenos Aires and Patagonia for three decades by that time, would end up in New York City, on an unplanned trip, precisely on August 14, 2003, when the lights went out?

My trip back home to Ohio prior to that date hadn’t been planned either. My mother had died on July 22^nd, and I was back for her funeral and then to help my sister and brother put the posthumous affairs of our parents, who had died six months apart, in order.

Dan Newland, Buenos Aires, 1978

The trip to New York was, despite the sadness of the circumstances, sort of a lark. I’d been invited by a friend and former Buenos Aires colleague to take a break and spend a few days with him and his wife in Manhattan. They had moved there in the nineties after he won a full master’s degree scholarship to the renowned Columbia University School of Journalism. Claudio, my friend and former office mate in Buenos Aires, had been one of only two recipients of the prestigious annual scholarship, and, savvy journalist that he was (is), had made immediate and influential contacts, which meant that, by the time he had his degree, he was also involved in several academic projects, including being a founder of the Hispanic New York project, and teaching part-time at Columbia and at the College of New Rochelle. His wife, Marcia, meanwhile, found intense and interesting work at a center for abused women and continued her studies for the psychology degree that she would eventually earn. Like me, who had gone to Buenos Aires “for a year” and ended up staying for twenty, Claudio and Marcia had remained in Manhattan and had been there a decade when I dropped in for a visit.

I had been in New Yok City several times before. Once with a New York area native with whom I was assigned to the Army Element of the Navy School of Music near Norfolk, Virginia. I greatly admired this guy and he was something of a fluke in the Army, because he’d been drafted in the last possible year that he was eligible (aged twenty-six) after earning his doctorate in liturgical music. Although I met and worked with some truly fine musicians and performers in the military, someone of his erudition and intensive formal schooling was a unique phenomenon.

Anyway, he organized a little three-day trip for several of us who could get passes, and we drove up to New York from Norfolk. This guy, Paul, hated driving so I, who loved driving, was behind the wheel for most of the trip in his sleek and lovely Olds 98.

The "Celestial Snooze"

Paul took all of us who had never been to the city, on a tour of his Manhattan: Union Seminary, where he had done part of his specialization studies; the Cathedral Church of Saint John’s the Divine, and the Church of the Heavenly Rest, which he familiarly referred to as “the Celestial Snooze”. But he also took us to see the sights, introduced us to a few of his New York friends, and invited us to go to several of his favorite haunts for drinks. Everywhere he tried to give us little local insights and anecdotes to take with us. Just one example, he said locals referred to the two tiers of the George Washington Bridge, which we all knew from the movies, as “George and Martha”. Martha, he said with a sly chuckle, was on the bottom.

Shortly after I got out of the Army, Paul invited my wife and me to go visit again, since he was also out of the service by this time and had a very classy post as choir director and organ master at a suburban Protestant church with a very exclusive congregation. One of the church’s benefactors provided Paul with a reconverted thoroughbred stable apartment on the family’s rural property in the suburbs.

Paul met us at the airport in the company of his partner, whom I immediately recognized as Gary, the Navy petty officer in charge of the music library at the Naval School of Music when both Paul and I had been there. In those days of don’t-ask-don’t-tell in the US military, this was the first time I realized that Paul was gay. I was glad that he and Gary seemed happy and that they were both out of the closet.

Paul’s mother was in Florida for the winter, and kind, civilized and generous as always, Paul lent me the keys to his mother’s car, and her apartment in the lovely area of Lake Hopatcong, New Jersey, a short commute from New York City.  He also again served as our tour guide and invited us to an off-Broadway show as well.  

I went back to New York twice in the late seventies. Once when I was back in the States from Argentina on a visit and decided to go meet the assignment editors at ABC Radio News, for whom I was a part-time foreign correspondent in Buenos Aires. I remember that my appointment with them was in the evening and it was one of the coldest winters on record with a wind chill that night of something like minus twenty. My wife Virginia and I were eminently underdressed for it, she in a lovely dress, hose, princess-heel pumps and a short astrakhan coat, and I in a three-piece business suit, wingtip dress shoes and topcoat. Still, we decided to walk the four or five blocks from our hotel and by the time we got there we almost required treatment for hypothermia. We pretty much had Sixth Avenue to ourselves that evening, since everybody appeared to have fled to their homes early. It was eerie, like an episode of The Twilight Zone, with us portraying a couple of out-of-towners, who wake up in a New York City abandoned by human life.

The other time was also in the late-seventies and in winter, but a much nicer winter. One of those magical New York Christmastime winters, with the city swathed in snow, holiday season lights glittering everywhere, and people skating in front of Rockefeller Center. This time was all about fun, a six-state and Toronto road trip with Virginia and her brother Miguel. We went to museums, hung out in pubs and saw the sights, as well as visiting an Argentine friend and his family who were long-time New York City residents.

And then there had been a third time in the early nineties, when I was special projects editor for a major Argentine business magazine called Apertura. I had presented a special edition of our magazine at the IMF-World Bank annual meeting in Washington and had then taken the air shuttle to New York for an appointment with a colleague called Christian Frost, who was more or less Steve Forbes’s right-hand man. The idea was for me to negotiate with Frost for republication rights in Spanish on Forbes Magazine articles.

It was there that I learned that the building at 60 Fifth Avenue, where Forbes Magazine was headquartered, also housed a small museum on the ground floor where Malcolm Forbes’s extraordinary collection of Fabergé eggs was on display. I was also told that Steve Forbes had had a chalet built on the roof to stay in any time he didn’t want to leave the office building. I was never able to confirm this, however, so it may just be an urban legend. 

But I think what I remember best about that day was a wonderful lunch my wife and I shared at a soul food restaurant a short distance from the magazine’s offices. I recall a steaming platter of Southern-fried catfish, collard greens, black beans and rice, with plenty of cornbread and warm butter.

Anyway, as I say, my last trip to New York in 2003 was to visit Claudio and Marcia. Claudio and I had been close friends as well as workmates in Buenos Aires. They seemed genuinely glad to see me and were cordial and generous to a fault. They took me out to dine at their favorite places and on a walking tour of Greenwich Village, where Claudio proudly showed me the house where Henry James had once lived. He and I also visited Hispanic community literary and journalistic friends and contacts of his in different parts of Manhattan, and he gave me a guided tour of his alma mater, Columbia University.

They lived in Spanish Harlem, just off Broadway. Most of their neighbors were Dominicans and Puerto Ricans, but there was a mix of other ethnicities as well, including African Americans and, I noticed, a sprinkling of East Europeans. I couldn’t help wondering what my small-town friends in my hometown of Wapakoneta, Ohio, would say if I told them I’d been vacationing in Harlem. At least back then, I’m sure, they would have been shocked and thought me a bit of a hero, or at least less than prudent.

Personally, I have a theory that people are people wherever you go and there will always be “good” and “bad”, and it’s important to keep your wits about you and remain alert, but not to live in fear of any particular place or people. That philosophy permitted me to explore and get to know a lot of interesting places and people in my decades as a reporter.

East Harlem

But whenever I went to a new place, and especially places with folkloric identifications and reputations, the first thing I always had to overcome was my inherent small-town fear of the new and unknown. It’s a natural enough sentiment for anyone born and reared in a small town. If and until you venture out into the broader world, the only universe you know, if you’re from a town like mine, is a patch of urbanized countryside of completely manageable size and of homogenous population, where, most of the time, little happens to disturb the peace or the orderly march from one day to the next. And most people in such towns like it that way.

There was a time when I was growing up that New York City in general and Harlem and the Bronx in particular were almost universally portrayed as dangerous environs, which white, small-town Midwesterners should steer clear of because they might as well be sheep that local predators would attack and take down as soon as they crossed the imaginary line separating these places from the glittering tourist spots in the city. That was never entirely true—although the city has indeed seen some times that were more lawless than others—but especially not in 2003, which was just after Rudy Giuliani left his post as mayor of New York.

In recent times, I’ve been prompted repeatedly to shake my head and ask, “What the hell happened to you, Rudy?” Today Giuliani tends to be seen as a shady lawyer, conspiracy theorist and Donald Trump whipping boy. But back then, he was known across the political spectrum as “America’s Mayor.” And the city had arguably never been safer than on his watch.

This was mostly thanks to his having supported NYPD Commissioner Bill Bratton’s adaptation of James Q. Wilson’s “Broken Windows” theory about crime and punishment. The theory being that ignoring minor offenses in crime-fighting only increased major crime, as felons, thinking enforcement was weak, would naturally conclude that they could get away with ever more serious offenses. Under Giuliani and Bratton, the NYPD started cracking down on small crimes and misdemeanors like vandalism, parking tickets, turnstile-jumping, soft-drug possession and aggressive panhandling, and, employing such policies as stop-question-and-frisk. This sent out a clear message that order would be maintained at every level in New York City.

Controversial though this policy might have been—and with good reason when it came to aspects like racial and social profiling—it would be hard to argue that it didn’t work. And people tended to breathe a greater sense of safety and security than at any other time in recent history. The relative residual benefits of that policy were still in effect when I was there in 2003.

That wasn’t the only factor, however. There was a different, friendlier attitude in general this time than the other times that I had been in the city, and I put that down to Nine-Eleven. It had only been a little less than two years by then since foreign terrorists had attacked America’s most iconic city, destroyed two equally iconic skyscrapers, and, in one fell swoop, murdered some three thousand New Yorkers. The incident had brought New Yorkers together, and in the aftermath, had given them a new sense of pride in the city and empathy with each other, and with visitors to their home town.

Claudio was quick to remind me, however, that it was far from idyllic. His neighborhood was still an area that fostered street-corner drug dealers, gangs and snitches. But it all seemed to me pretty much live-and-let-live on those streets of Harlem—a significant part of which today is being upgraded to “gentrification” status. Over Claudio’s protests that I shouldn’t take safety for granted in my self-guided walking tours, I said, “I haven’t felt the least bit scared or threatened anyplace I’ve gone, and I’ve been walking all over the place.”

“Yes,” he said. “But have you seen yourself? You’re huge! And dressed in your khakis, military vest and cap, you’re getting spared because they probably think you’re the meanest sonuvabitch who ever strolled out of Vietnam!”

I laughed, thanked him for his concern, and promptly ignored his advice. Back then, whenever I was in a new place for any length of time, I tried not to think of myself as a tourist, but as a new, if very temporary, resident. The fact that I was fluent in Spanish helped me blend into the Spanish Harlem landscape. And the way to get the feeling for a place, I knew, was to walk it. So that’s what I did when Marcia was at her job and Claudio was off doing what journalists do—chasing up contacts, doing interviews and following leads.

Columbia University, Broadway entrance

On these walks, I would usually make my route from their place down Broadway toward the Columbia campus which was about twenty-five blocks. Along the way, I would check out side-streets that looked interesting, or stop for Cuban coffee, or check out some quaint shop or bookstore. And if I felt like getting out of the New York summer heat for a while to have a rest, I would drop into Saint John’s the Divine to enjoy the cool quiet of its interior. Just sit in a pew at the back for a spell and chill. 

This had been my brief routine for a few days before August 14^th—good times with Claudio and Marcia when they were available and the rest of the time entertaining myself by getting a feel for the island of Manhattan. Claudio and I were just coming back from visiting the office of a friend of his and then taking a walk and stopping off for coffee when the blackout occurred. We had traveled by subway and were very lucky to have exited the underground tunnels only shortly before the power went out at a little after 4p.m.

There was almost immediately pandemonium in the traffic as the signals were snuffed out and crowds waiting for trains in the darkened subway tunnels started pouring out into the streets in search of some other form of transportation. It was suddenly gridlock all over town. The NYPD turned out fast, with cops showing up on practically every corner.

It was a hot afternoon, with temperatures peaking at ninety-one degrees. Near Claudio’s place, a harassed-looking rotund police sergeant in short sleeves, collar open and a big cigar jammed in one corner of his mouth, made a hole in the wandering crowds with his squad car, climbed out in the intersection and began energetically directing traffic in an attempt to break up the snarl that had formed there. Claudio’s neighborhood, where the sidewalks seemed always to be occupied by throngs of neighbors, was now jammed with pedestrians who had ventured out of their myriad apartments to see what was going on.

Reporters that we both were, instead of taking refuge in his apartment, we started roaming the barrio to observe the events. It didn’t take long for us to realize that this was some kind of major screw-up that wasn’t ending anytime soon. Claudio suggested that we should probably start finding a way to get to Marcia’s office a couple of miles away and accompany her home. I suggested that we’d better hoof it and hope for some kind of transportation along the way.

But suddenly, almost as if he had been called, a young Hispanic guy pulled up beside us in a mini-van and asked where we were headed. Claudio gave him the location and he said, “I’m going that way and still have room. I’ll take you.” I have to admit that I was stunned by such generosity and solidarity. But I was to see a lot of the same that evening. A New York where, at other times in its history, one might have almost expected rioters and looters to take advantage of the chaos, in this post-Nine-Eleven Manhattan, everybody seemed bent on being of whatever help they could be to each other.

We squeezed into the car with other passengers that the Good Samaritan had picked up along the way. We made it a full house. Everybody but me in the car was Hispanic. They fell quiet when I got in. I realized it was because they figured I was an English-speaker. I spoke up right away and said, “¡Buenas tardes a todos!” They answered, “¡Buenas tardes!” And then they resumed the conversation they had been having when Claudio and I got in, everyone talking about where he or she had been when the blackout started, and where they were trying to get to now.

Claudio and I told our story too, and said that we were trying to get to his wife’s office at the women’s center to accompany her home. There was a pretty young Puerto Rican woman sitting next to me in the backseat of the van. Every time I talked, I could feel her gaze fixed on the side of my face, observing me as I spoke.

People poured out of darkened subway tunnels

Eventually, the people in the rear of the van were dropped off, and then, a lady who had been riding in the passenger seat up front. It was now just the Good Samaritan carefully picking his way through the heavy traffic, with Claudio, the Puerto Rican woman and me in the backseat. For a time, none of us spoke. Then, apropos of nothing, the Puerto Rican woman leaned forward and addressed me. “You speak such excellent Spanish,” she said.

“Oh, ¡muchas gracias!” I said.

Then after a pause she said, “But you’re so white!”

Everybody laughed.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

With no other explanation, I said simply, “Ohio.”

She remained perplexed for the rest of the trip.

Commuters waiting to take the ferry to New Jersey

That evening at Claudio’s seemed almost festive. A friend of Marcia’s from work accompanied us home. She had a long commute—Long Island, I think—and decided to wait out the power outage in Manhattan. She was witty and funny. We all had drinks and snacks by candlelight and chatted, while their friend checked every so often by phone on commuter rail services. When transportation services began to be gradually brought back on line, she decided to leave for home.

What I then thought of as the New York City Blackout would actually become known as the Northeast Black of 2003. The outage spread between the Midwestern US and Northeastern states to Ontario Province in Canada. Most places were able to restore power by midnight and some areas were back on line by earlier in the evening. The New York subway system was, admirably, operating on a provisional basis by 8p.m. But full power wasn’t restored in New York and Toronto until two days later.

The outage was much more widespread than the famous blackout of 1965, which inspired such works as the musical Fly By Night and the book and film, Where Were You When the Lights Went Out? And it was second in scale only to a blackout that took place in Brazil in 1999. In a New York City still reeling from the Nine-Eleven terrorist attack, rumors were rife regarding the causes of the 2003 blackout, ranging from a terrorist attack on vital infrastructure to data interference by Russian or Chinese spies. The facts were much more mundane and it all started in my native Ohio, from which I had come for the visit. High-voltage lines that had slunk down into foliage, a resulting fire, a bug in an alarm system at FirstEnergy of Akron, which failed to warn operators that they needed to redistribute the power supply from overloaded lines, and suddenly, everything went dark.

A technicality that in human terms resulted in a major snafu, it became a date that left its mark on history. And, as fate would have it, like other times before, I just happened to be there.

 

YANKEE REDUX — DOC: THE TANGO KING

 

The first time I played with Doc, it was by pure coincidence. I was working as a relief drummer, but with a band I often played random gigs with, whenever their regular drummer couldn’t make it. They’d had a piano-player who, when he played solo gigs, played the Cordovox instead. One night they’d played a place that didn’t have a piano. He’d taken his Cordovox along instead. They’d loved the fresh new sound that, in his able hands, the strange instrument gave to their dog-eared gig book. They’d decided to incorporate it full-time.

So anyway, one night when their keyboard man couldn’t make it and neither could their drummer, they called me—because I was available—and Doc, because Cordovox-players were scarce as hen’s teeth in the roster of Lima Ohio Local 320 of the American Federation of Musicians, and that was Doc’s exclusive “axe”. Their guy was an extraordinary Cordovox-player, but Doc had nothing to envy him. He had all the technique, but with a slightly different, more melodic, less aggressive style.

It was a jazz and swing sextet. Everybody was a little nervous at first with two subs working the gig, but after the first couple of tunes, we were cookin’. I had been a relief drummer for the better part of a year when I was seventeen, and now was back at it. I was used to accommodating myself to the different styles of the different bands, and Doc was a natural, a guy with an ear and a feel for every tune, every style, every tempo. This cat had listened a lot and everything he’d listened to had sunk in and become an integral part of him.

The Cordovox was a crazy instrument. Unfortunately, they quit making them, because they had a unique and wonderful sound. To the uninitiated, it looked like an plain accordion, but it was so much more. It was practically a synthesizer in “squeeze box” format.

It was by chance that I had earlier worked with a Cordovox player when I landed a steady gig while I was still in my senior year of high school. That was when I was with an outstanding band called The Doug Price Trio, the trio being thrilling Berklee Jazz School-educated trumpet-player and front man Doug Price, myself, and an absolutely amazing Cordovox-player called Gene Wollenhaupt, a veteran musician who was also a high school band director. Wollenhaupt’s exciting and multi-faceted sound eliminated any need for a bass-player (part of the usual trio format: piano, bass and drums) and added an incredible range of accompaniment and rhythm capable of giving us the sound of a much larger musical ensemble. Put that together with Doug’s absolutely wailin’ trumpet and the band was amazing. The final touch was added by Doug’s brother-in-law, Tom, with his easy-listening style voice, who sang a few songs a set between instrumentals.

Anyway, Wollenhaupt used to get really irritated when anyone mistook his mega-versatile Cordovox for a simple accordion and was always dumbfounded when we’d just done an eclectic set of everything from Miles Davis and Duke Ellington to Herb Alpert and Burt Bacharach, with a smattering of sophisticated fusion music thrown in for good measure, and some drunk would stumble up to the bandstand and ask, “Hey guy, can you play the Hoop Dee Doo Polka like that guy on the Lawrence Welk Show?” It drove Gene insane and at the end of each set, when we’d take a break, you could hear him mutter, “Next sonuvabitch that asks if I can play Lady of Spain or the Beer Barrel Polka, I’m deckin’ ‘im.”

I had quit the trio at the end of the year before and traveled to South America to visit the exchange student I’d fallen in love with during my senior year. That’s why, now that I was back, I was just gigging again on the weekends with whatever band needed me and attending classes a couple of hours away at the Ohio State University music school during the week.

But back to Doc. It wasn’t until the first break on that gig with the sextet that I first noticed that Doc was blind.  It was when we all bellied up to the bar and Doc and I ordered Cokes (he because, I assumed, he didn’t drink, and I because I was still underage for hard liquor and never even drank three-two on a gig), while the rest of the band ordered beer or whiskey. I know that nowadays it’s PC to say “vision impaired”, but Doc wasn’t vision-impaired. He was lights-out blind. I noticed when I talked to him and he looked toward my voice but seemed to be focusing on a point somewhere over my shoulder. Before that, I just thought he was one of those musician-types who liked to wear shades even in the low lights of a nightclub.

But no. The super-dark shades were to cover his disability. Still, they made him look cool, with his trim well-groomed, dark Italian look and sharply-pressed dark blue suit.

We liked each other right off and started feeling each other out and matching each other’s licks on the thirty or so different tunes we played that night. Doc lent a new feel to the band. He knew every tune we played like he’d learned them in the cradle, but since he couldn’t read the fake book, he gave a new dimension to the arrangements, a new skillfully-improvised feel that sought to blend, even as it modified the sound.

It turned out to be a really fun gig.

After the show was over and we were tearing down our equipment, Eddy, the trumpet-player, came over to me and said, “Hey Danny, you and Doc are both from Wapak. Would you mind taking him home?” and I said sure thing.

I went over to Doc and said, “I didn’t know you were from Wapakoneta, so am I,” and he asked me my last name and I told him and he asked, “Are your folks Whitie and Reba Mae who owned the Teddy Bear restaurant.” And when I said they were indeed, he said he knew them well.

But it wasn’t until we were back in Wapakoneta and I’d pulled up to his house and recognized it that I realized that, besides being a helluva musician, he was also the well-known chiropractor that both my dad and my grandfather had gone to for their sciatic nerve pain. Granted, Whitie and I didn’t talk to each other much back then, but I was surprised I’d never heard him mention that his chiropractor was blind.

Anyway, it was as we were unloading Doc’s stuff from the backseat of my ’63 Chevy Nova—the trunk was full of my drums—and taking it inside, that Doc said, “Hey Danny, I like how we play together. I’m about to start a gig every Saturday for the summer, and maybe beyond, at a place in Bellefontaine. I thought maybe we could form a duo if you don’t have anything better to do.”

My '63 Chevy Nova was just like this one.

And that’s how I started working with Doc for a string of Saturdays, the summer before I turned twenty. 

Doc and I didn’t share the usual musical relationship, where you meet up at the site of the gig, say, “Hey man, how’s it goin’?” and just about all communication after that is through the music. No, in this case, I spent a lot of time with Doc. I drove us there and home, obviously, every Saturday night and on two-lane roads back then, it took the better part of an hour each way, so we talked—a lot. But I also always arrived a little early at his house to pick him up and his wife, who was also his nurse and receptionist, would invite me in to wait for him to finish getting ready.

She would show me into what was essentially Doc’s waiting room for his chiropractic patients. But honestly, it felt a lot more like a comfy sitting room with overstuffed armchairs and a big old couch of the type that we called davenports back then. The house itself was of the rambling old two-storey type with a dark varnished staircase up to the second floor and wall-papered walls, like many other of the turn-of-the-century places that formed the core real-estate in Wapakoneta, with the more modern ranch and modified A-frame houses being relegated to peripheral neighborhoods known as “additions” in those days.

Doc had a pretty German shepherd seeing-eye dog called Pepper, who would always find her way into the waiting room when I was there. We got pretty friendly after a few Saturday evenings. I was a young wise-ass and so naïve that I actually thought if I could keep Pepper from going to Doc when he came downstairs into the room, he wouldn’t know I was there. So when I’d hear the stairs creak, I’d hold onto Pepper and pet her to see how long it would take Doc to figure out that I was in the room. I was always amazed that he was never more than halfway down the steps before he’d call out, “Hi Dan!”

Once I said, “How the hell do you know I’m here, Doc?”

And he said, “Well, let’s see...you smoke both pipe and cigarettes. Not sure of the brand, but the cigarettes are menthol and the pipe tobacco’s probably Sir Walter Raleigh.”

“How do you know that when I never smoke in your house?”

“Well, hell, Danny, I’m just blind, not dead! I can smell it on your clothes...And then there’s that English Leather cologne you wear that Pepper and I can smell a mile off. You know, Dan, you shouldn’t be so friendly with Pepper. She should only be friends with me.”

I laughed. Doc didn't.

“I’m serious,” Doc said. “A pilot dog’s no good to a blind person if it’ll make friends with any Tom, Dick and Harry who comes along.”

Adolescent that I still was, I was hurt, but after that, Pepper and I never shared anything more intimate than a handshake. Doc didn’t take her along on the gigs, so he had to teach me how to be his guide dog.

I always remember Doc when I see the Al Pacino version of Scent of a Woman, the scene where Pacino’s character, Lt. Colonel Frank Slade, who has lost his sight, turns on a street-corner to his weekend chaperone, a private school kid called Charlie Simms, and snaps, “Are you blind? Are you blind?”

"Are you blind?"
"Then why do you keep grabbing my goddamn arm?"

“Of course not!” Charlie says.

“Then why do you keep grabbing my goddamn arm? I take your arm.”

Well, Doc and I had that same conversation on a street-corner in Bellefontaine, Ohio. “Don’t grab my arm,” Doc said. “You’re not dragging me anyplace, see. Just let me rest my elbow in the palm of your hand, as if you were my dog’s harness, so I can feel when you step up or step down. And for chrissake don’t go telling me, 'Careful now, there’s a step here or a curb there.' I’ll feel it by how you move. It’s like when I’m on a plane and ask for a cup of coffee and the stewardess comes and says, ‘Here’s your coffee, sir. Careful now, it’s hot!’ Well, of course it’s hot! If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t want the damn thing!”

He was always telling me that I was a terrible guide dog. Pepper had me beat all to hell, he’d say. When we got to know each other better, if he bitched and told me what a bad dog I was, I’d lead him into a parking meter for spite and then laugh about it. I was easily entertained back then.

“Funny Dan. Really funny,” he would say with half-mock anger. “Playing tricks on a blind man. Real nice!”

Once when I showed up early, I was amazed to find Doc sitting cross-legged on the floor, rewiring his Cordovox sound mixer. This, I figured, would take ages with a blind guy doing it.

"Hey Doc," I said. "What gives?"

"Hey Danny," Doc answered, "a minor wiring problem...And you're just in time! What color's this wire? And how about this one? And this one over here?" And just like that, bing, bang, boom, he had the complicated circuitry rewired and the cabinet put back together.

Once I asked him about being blind. Thinking aloud, I said I didn't know what I'd do if it were to happen to me. I was sure I'd be desperate.

"Look Danny," Doc said, "being blind's a pain in the ass, but it's not the end of the world. You can't see, so you just learn to do other things a lot better." 

The hour-long drive was always interesting. I remember having an attack of hay fever one summer evening, as we were driving along with the windows down in my non-air-conditioned car, and having a sneezing fit over near Indian Lake.

“What are you allergic to?” Doc asked.

“No idea,” I said.

“Because back there where you started sneezing there was ragweed, golden rod and ryegrass among other things.”

Another time, we’d ridden along in silence for a long time, when all of the sudden, Doc said, “Coming up over the next rise, there’ll be an S-curve. Coming out of the second one, you’ll see a big white farmhouse with a barn right up close to it.”

Sure enough, as I pulled out of the second curve, there was the house.

“Damn!” I said. “You’re right!”

“Don’t sound so surprised. Of course I’m right. Listen, if we’re still playing this gig in the wintertime and get into bad weather coming back, we can always stop there for the night. They’re old friends of mine.”

The place we played on the main drag in Bellefontaine was a bit “divey” and was frequented by beer-mellowed rednecks and belligerent rural roughnecks as well as a crazy-quilt mix of local regulars. But they tended to be an appreciative crowd and Doc and I enjoyed their applause. Still, we enjoyed playing together even more. It never felt like “a job”. It was always fun.

The only time things got dicey was once when this mean drunk came up to the tiny bandstand (on which Doc with his Cordovox and speakers and I with my full drum set barely fit), and wanted to sit in on the drums.

“Sorry, pal,” I said, “Doc here’s real touchy about who he plays with, and I never lend my drums to anybody.”

I thought that would end it, but the guy was back every few tunes to ask to sit in and every time, I tried as nicely but firmly as possible to get him to understand that it wasn’t happening. Finally, I said, “Look buddy, how about going back over to the bar and having a beer and coolin’ it. Just stop annoying us before I ask the bartender to throw you out.”

The guy had a few choice words for me, but in the end, turned and weaved his way across the barroom and out the door.

“Good riddance,” I thought, and figured it was over.

But as we were playing the next set, I was riding the high-hat and looking toward the wall when I heard a whoosh and whistle and then the clatter of a tire iron hitting my ride cymbal and then the floor. Doc’s right arm was over his head blocking the skull-crushing blow the mean drunk had tried to lay on me, and now, with his left he was punching the guy in the face with a haymaker that knocked him off the stand onto the barroom floor, where the bartender and a couple of other men were already picking the guy up and giving him the bum’s rush into the street, opening the door with the top of his skull.

“What the hell are you doing for eyes?” Doc turned and shouted at me. “You almost got your goddamn skull split!”

All I could say was, “Thanks for the save, Doc. Man, you are amazing!”

There was this one very special night. On the way to the gig, I had told Doc about the time I’d spent in Buenos Aires. He knew I had a “foreign girlfriend” but I’d never told him about the adventure of traveling on my own to South America when I was only eighteen.

He asked if I liked tango and I said that I loved it, but that “nobody in the States knew how to play it.”

He didn’t say a word in response. But that night, during the second set, he said, “Let’s do a tango.”

And I thought, “Oh god, get ready for Hernando’s Hideaway.”

But then he said, “Sit back. I’ll play this one solo. And with that, he played an amazing version of what was practically the national anthem of tango, La Cumparsita, and followed it, almost DJ style, with La Canción de Buenos Aires, Caminito, Sur and Adios Muchachos. He followed those with a couple of progressive tango pieces by Astor Piazzolla, Adios Nonino and Oblivion and I could have sworn that he had turned his Cordovox into that quintessential instrument of tango, the bandoneon. I just sat back and listened, dumbfounded.

After that, I would always think of him as Doc, The Tango King. He was nothing short of incredible.  

We did indeed get that gig for the rest of the year and even played New Year’s Eve. But I decided not to go back to school that spring. I wanted to travel a while. What actually happened wasn't what I had in mind, but travel, I did. By March, I'd been “invited” by the US government to serve in the Army. I joined instead of letting myself be drafted and for the next three years played with Army Bands in the States and Europe following Basic Combat Training and a stint at the military school of music.

I couldn’t have imagined at the time that I’d never see Doc again after that Bellefontaine gig was over. Never imagined that warm, friendly relationship Doc and I had formed would end with a handshake and a “see ya” after our last night on that steady gig. But sometimes that’s just the way things work out.

NOTE: It's really hard to find anything on the Internet even remotely close to the way guys like Doc and Wallenhaupt played the Cordovox but the closest thing to their style from when I was in the duo with Doc and or the trio with Gene is the jazz style of Wynton Marsalis and Richard Galiano. Take a listen:

https://youtu.be/dVxBDEqmwSA

https://youtu.be/Dtd4OhP8rvg
https://youtu.be/Tl21YlEVkl0

 

 

 

FOR JIM – THE STORY I OWED YOU

 

Dad wanted to call him Rusty because when Mom first brought him home from the hospital he had an impressive crop of rusty red hair. I kind of liked the name, and still do. It's a real guy's guy name. It's the kind of name that gives a kid an edge before he even starts out and puts him a leg up on the Hermans and the Percys and the Lyles and the Francises and the Normans.

Dad's name was Norman, which was probably a good reason why he voted for Rusty, although most of the people who knew him from the time of his youth called him Whitie or Norm. Only the preacher and his mother and dad called him Norman…well, and Mom, whenever she was pissed off at him. I figure he must have liked the nickname Whitie, since his big brother Bob (not Robert, mind you, but Bobby Junior—why do parents do things like that to their kids?) was known as Red and Dad always looked up to him, so maybe that had a lot to do with the Rusty thing too. 

But I guess Rusty kind of smacks of nickname, like people are going to ask, "What's it short for?" or "So what's your real name?" Besides, Mom said she thought it was a dumb name unless it was for a dog. And she didn't want him having a name he was going to go around hating all his life like she did. (Mom's name was Reba–Reba Mae, actually–and she was always saying that every time she heard that someone was called Reba, it turned out to be a bloodhound bitch, or some woman from a hollow so far back in the hills that it had to have daylight pumped in. I do, however, recall her being fairly pleased when Nashville star Reba MacIntyre made the name famous later on.

But, of course, none of that kept her from naming me Danny – not Daniel, not even Dan – because her mother had always loved the song Oh Danny Boy, or from giving me my father's name as a middle name, so that my full name, Danny Norman Newland ended up having the nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyahah-nyahah quality of childish taunting. But anyway, Reba Mae nixed Rusty out of hand and with her usual bent for whimsical criteria decided that a great name would be that of her favorite TV sports announcer and game show host, Dennis James, who also advertised for Old Gold cigarettes. It didn't matter that the Jersey-born actor cum wrestling announcer's real name was Demi James Sposa. Reba Mae thought he was suave and looked so sophisticated puffing his Old Gold, and she fell in love with his moniker, so the name stuck.

Now, it wasn't until several days later when Reba Mae and Whitie actually started saying his name —"Coochi-coochi-coo Dennis, coochi-coo Dennis James, coochi-coochi Denny"—that they realized, with a histrionic slap to their collective forehead, that people were probably not going to call him Dennis or Dennis James, but Denny. And this was, after all, Ohio, where, particularly up on the lake, in places like Toledo, Akron and Cleveland, people didn't make much of a distinction between their pronunciation of short E's and short A's (as in "I'm going beck to Clevelend" or "I live near Ekron"), so Denny and Danny were going to end up often sounding almost indistinguishable from each other.

This meant that before the poor little kid was even able to pronounce goo-goo and gah-gah, his given name had been usurped in deference to his older brother and he was being called by his middle name. And then, not James either, but Jimmy and later, just plain Jim.

Of course, from kindergarten on, whenever roll was called at school it was with "real" names. So in the classroom little Jimmy quickly became Dennis (Denny, Den). Thus, his friends and classmates called him Dennis and his family called him Jimmy and the whole thing must have been really confusing to the little guy. I remember his first shaky-lettered attempts to print his name. After struggling through the six letters of his first name, he went to the considerable trouble of learning how to draw parentheses, and within them he scrawled, somewhat smaller and surely shakier, (J I M). Little wonder that he occasionally went dyslexic and turned the S in Dennis or the J in Jim inside out in his head and wrote it bass ackwards on the wide-lined, light green pages of his spelling workbooks.

Despite the fact that it might have been easier on his little-boy psyche, however, it was a good thing that Rusty never stuck, because it wasn't long at all before his prenatal shock of oxide red hair turn almost as blonde as Daddy Whitie's. I don't know whether it was the stress of not having a single first name to call his own or whether it was simply his nature, but if he wasn't born to be a redhead, he was certainly born with a redhead's temper. That was abundantly apparent from the outset. Never have I witnessed a more strongly emergent personality prior to the age of one in anyone else I've ever known. And it just kept getting stronger as he grew.

He was the most cantankerous toddler you could possibly imagine. Interested in everything from the time he could crawl, grabbing, touching, pulling and throwing everything in sight and crawling so fast that he almost moved at the rate of a small dog from one place to another on all fours. This meant that my beleaguered mother had to have eyes on him all day long in order to avoid catastrophe. For example, the time he spread the tines of a metal bobby pin he had found on the floor and plugged it into the electrical outlet, knocking himself for a loop, severely burning his index and middle fingers and (fortunately) blowing a fuse. Or the other time that Reba Mae was ironing in the dining room and cooking in the kitchen at the same time and left her ironing board for a few seconds to go check on whatever was in the oven. Jim’s screams brought her running, to find the hot iron on the floor, the cord in Jim’s hand and his tiny arm severely blistered from forearm to shoulder from the sizzling iron sliding down it. Indeed, he carried a scar on his shoulder from that burn for the rest of his life.

Screaming, by the way, was something at which he truly excelled. He was kinetically hyperactive from the start, and learned quickly to bow his back, kick his feet and scream bloody murder if he was picked up or otherwise restrained from doing precisely what he wanted to do. Screaming, in fact, became his main bargaining chip for getting his way, since he was nothing if not astute from the very beginning.

He had a scream that was shrill, incredibly loud and blood-curdlingly persistent. He had powerful lungs and was fully capable of screaming–not screaming and sobbing, mind you, just plain, ear-splitting, intolerably high-pitched screaming–for minutes on end, until he was provided with whatever it was he was screaming for (the toy he had been playing with and that had fallen out of the playpen, the household item he was told he couldn't touch, his pacifier, his “little blue blanket”—which he called boo-bukuck—whatever it happened to be). And he was just as capable of shutting off the screaming mechanism immediately, no tears, no sobbing, no wind-down, almost as if it were an electric siren with a switch, the split second that the desired item was placed in his hands.

My parents were really distraught with this trait of Jim's and asked friends and family members for advice. Coming from immigrant Scots-Irish and German stock as they did, the most usual tip my mother and father received was to give the kid a sound spanking. But they seemed to realize, somehow, that this method not only wouldn't work but might also even make matters worse. The little guy was headstrong and resilient. And corporal punishment wasn’t likely to do more than make him madder and shriller.

My father, for his part, seemed to recall his older brother's having a similar screaming habit when he was a small boy and my Grandma Alice's having cured him of it forever by once heaving an entire dishpan full of ice cold water into his face in mid-scream. He had lost his breath, turned blue and fallen faint to the floor from the shock and my grandmother had had to whack him smartly on the back to get his respiration going again, but it had been the last screaming fit he had ever had. By this point Whitie thought it was worth a try, but Reba Mae felt it was too extreme.

She finally asked Dr. Clyde W. Berry, our family physician, what he thought and his advice was, "Ignore him. He'll get tired of screaming after a while if he realizes it won't get him anywhere."

So my parents tried that for a while and found it to be less than sage advice when dealing with someone as hyper-active and willful as little Jimmy. When he realized he was being ignored, he added new embellishments to his repertoire. First he would scream constantly for about five minutes, and if that brought no parental reaction, he would lie down on his stomach on the floor and continue to scream while pounding his fists and the toes of his shoes on the resounding hardwood. This he would do for another five-minute interval before still continuing to scream but now with his palms and toes planted firmly on the floor while slamming his forehead repeatedly with a sickening thud into the oak-wood grain. This always brought a reaction from Reba Mae, because the one time that she had ignored him, he had butted the floor with his forehead until it had knots the size of goose-eggs on it and until his nose had started to bleed.

But Dr. Berry, a World War II Army physician and former Lieutenant Colonel, insisted that infants didn't commit suicide and that Reba Mae should just let Jim pound his head on the floor until he got tired of doing it. When Reba Mae said that she simply couldn't stand Jim's screaming, Dr. Berry suggested she lock him out on the porch and let him scream to his heart's content.

She said that was easy for him to say but it was another thing to actually do it. Especially since, with as disturbing as his screaming could be, the neighbors were likely to think he was being beaten within an inch of his life.

Heartless as the medical advice appeared to be, however, she did finally take it. And doing so would provide an indirect solution.

One day when Jim was about four years old, and in a particularly vile humor over some unattended whim, our mother reached the end of her tether and locked him out on the screened-in porch of the rambling old house on the main street of town—which wasn't Main Street but Auglaize, although there was a Main Street in town, which wasn't the main street—to which we had recently moved. The raised wood-plank floor of that porch appeared to have a really satisfying resonance when my infuriated little brother battered it with his fists, forehead and feet. He became one with the sound, simply fell into sympathetic vibration with the reverberating porch floor, and it seemed that he might just go on forever producing that rumbling din and accompanying it with a singularly crystal-shattering scream that could be heard a block away...And was.

A delivery man who was passing by on the busy street in front of our house heard little Jimmy's screams over the noise of traffic and the sound of his own truck engine. Fearing the child was trapped or being murdered, he slammed on the brakes, left his truck idling by the curb and stormed up our driveway to the side door off of the screened-in porch. Jim was still pounding head, fists and feet on the echoing wood flooring, totally oblivious to the fact that the man was hammering on the hooked screen door to try and raise someone's attention.

Finally, over the intensity of the shrill screaming, the delivery man shouted, "Are you hurt, Sonny!? Are you hurt!?

Obviously taken by surprise, Jim abruptly stopped screaming, as if his “screaming plug” had just been pulled, sat up cross-legged on the floor in one swift movement and scowling disapprovingly at the poor shaken man, yelled, "NO!"

The man stalked back to his truck, shaking his head and muttering under his breath, and Jim just sat there looking after him as my mother stood snickering to herself in the kitchen, mortified but tickled both by the man's reaction and her irascible little boy's response. As she watched him through the kitchen window, she saw little Jimmy stand up, brush himself off, then sit back down and start playing with a toy truck that he had conveniently had with him when he was exiled to the porch. From that day on, he never again had a screaming tantrum.