I spent several days with “old,” dear friends. By old, I mean retired like myself, and dating back to high school and beyond. One of the biggest challenges of our time together was trying to remember details of events in the past. When was it? What happened? Who was there? Where were we? Why did we do it? Each one of us seems to have a different memory of the same occasion. For example, it took us three days to figure out the name of an artist that we saw together in Portland back in 1980. We searched our memories, googled, and discussed this particular event every day, but just couldn’t put it together. As old retired guys, our memories are admittedly shaky and we have too many to possibly remember.
I recalled it was 1980 only because Mount St. Helen’s had just blown her stack in the weeks prior to my first visit here. The city was covered in ash and a smoky haze filled the air, so the true beauty of the city of Portland was hidden. I never once saw even Mount Hood, or any of the vistas that my friends had boasted about in tempting me to visit. Two others remembered that the concert was at the Paramount Theater, and in driving by I had recognized the name on the marque and offered to buy tickets. One of them remembered that Robben Ford played as part of the group, but none of us could remember the headliner. Names like David Sanborn, Bob James, Tom Scott, Branford Marsalis, Grover Washington, Jr., and Jean- Luc Ponty were suggested, but none of us could agree.
I was the only non-musician of the five of us, but had at least tried on several occasions to learn. There was a song flute competition in my grade school music class that determined the draft selection order on a limited supply of band instruments. I wanted to play the drums, but apparently so did everyone else, so there were no drums available when it came my turn to pick. I then reluctantly selected the saxophone as a disappointing second choice. Learning to play a reed instrument was even more disappointing! It didn’t occur to me that I would have to stick a dry, wooden object in my mouth. I’m having trouble even writing about it, as thoughts of the vibration against my tongue and teeth, are causing a gag reaction. I can’t imagine what I was thinking when I selected the saxophone? I think my older cousin played the saxophone in the Purdue marching band, so he might have been an influence. All that effort to make even a squawk of a noise, especially on a winters day after it sat in a cold car, makes my mouth pucker with disgust. Not to mention, all the saliva that it took to soften the reed so it was bearable, and having to drain the spit valve after playing a few sour notes is not exactly appetizing. The experience did however make me appreciate a good saxophone player, but I still cringe when I hear a bitter chord.
I also tried my hand at the piano, but never got beyond the Marine’s Hymn (post #104). Just like the saxophone, I had private lessons, but never found the time to practice and always regretted going to appointments and recitals. I wasted a lot of my mom’s money on trying to learn, but apparently didn’t have the talent or interest. I’ve even bought a ukulele to try to learn to play in retirement, but haven’t really touched it. I must say that I am envious when these friends of mine sit down and play together. A lot of our time these past few days were spent talking about, listening to, or playing music, and I’m always the outsider. We were also all in the choir together back in high school, but after six procedures on my vocal chords, I also don’t have much of a voice. My friends collect guitars, make guitars, travel to guitar stores, read about guitars, and talk guitars. All I can say is that I once took a tour of the Gibson guitar factory in Memphis.
I knew we were close with the names we came up with, as the topic resurfaced over and over again. It was most likely a sax player that caught my eye. Sanborn, Washington, James, and Scott were all part of my album collection in the late 70’s. I loved the sound of a saxophone, as long as I didn’t have to play it! I was also enamored with the artist’s ability to play a soothing melody that had a smooth, jazzy sound. I was the only family man of the group at that time, so my taste in music had changed from rock-and-roll to jazz fusion. When the name John Klemmer finally surfaced, I knew immediately that he was the missing artist. He had Chicago roots, so his name was big in the Midwest, where we were all from originally. The mystery was finally solved, but it took a lot of wine and beer to get there!
After our four days together – “Big Chill” style – there were still a number of unsolved mysteries, so maybe time apart will allow us to put together the puzzle pieces. I personally will be searching for the date of this particular concert. Although we all grew up in the same town and went to the same high school, it was not until college that we really got to know each other. I’m a year older and our high school was huge, so it is not at all unusual that we weren’t friends earlier in life. I also did not realize that my one friend and I attended the same grade school and went to the same basketball camp, so we might have played together during recess, or competed on the round-ball court. The school we attended was Rice Elementary and our team nickname was the “Rice Krispies” – snap, crackle, pop! I then transferred to become a Beardsley “Bomber,” before we all got to high school and became “Blazers.” (Post #37) All in all, it was great to get together with some fellow “Hoosiers,” and share a few “sax stories” here in Portland.