Just
Say Yes: Memoirs of a Geezer book excerpts Book
Reviews
By A. John Graves
Celebrities:
Nureyev, Sanders,
and Hepburn - Dance in Australia,
Tea with Hepburn.
Celebrity Snippets - Gracie
Allen, Jimmy Durante, Loretta Young, Ray Bradbury, Carol Channing, Janet
Leigh, Twiggy, Blake Edwards. John Raitt, and more......
And Then They Said - Michael
Landon, Lord Bertrand Russell, Joan Baez...
Jazz:
All That Jazz - Encounters
with Duke Ellington, Mel Torme, Anita O'Day, and Dave Brubeck.
Philosophy:
Life is an Ad
Lib Solo - My
jazz formula for living.
| More on John's work in feature film |
|---|
Sneak Peak EXCERPTS FROM "JUST
SAY YES"
(Published Oct 1, 2007)
Nureyev, Sanders, and Hepburn - Dance in Australia, Tea with Hepburn.
Reading recently of Australia's devastating summer fires,
I was reminded of my less combustible tenure in 1974 and '75 as Executive
Producer in Charge of Feature Films and Television for the South Australian
Film Corporation, located in Adelaide.
The premier (corresponding
to our state governor) of South Australia wanted Adelaide (its capital) to
become the Hollywood of all Australia, so the SAFC was created to help make
this happen. Films were not directly subsidized by the state government,
but independent film makers were granted loans at semi-government rates and
given extensive cooperation in co-productions.
One of our first projects
was a television pilot for a children's series with Hanna/Barbera called River
Boy. It dealt with a twelve year old American boy who stowed away
on a ship to Australia to search for his long-lost father, now reputed to be
working on a paddle steamer on the Murray River. Willie Aames (Eight
Is Enough) was the star, and his best friend and mentor in the story was
an aboriginal vagabond who could do everything from playing the digeridoo to
communicating with relatives thousands of miles away via the native telepathy
of Dreamtime. His real name was David Gulpilil, and he had already
established an international reputation as a native dancer, movie actor (Walkabout)
and
interpreter of aboriginal culture. (He later appeared in The
Last Wave and Crocodile Dundee.)
David told us that he wanted
to learn the fundamentals of film making so he could produce a documentary
about Arnhem Land, his native home in the north of Australia. We took
him on as an apprentice, and gave him a chance to work in all areas. He
learned a lot about film--and we learned amazing things about his rich and
robust culture.
The Covent Garden Ballet,
starring Rudolph Nureyev, was appearing in Adelaide at the Festival Center
for the weekend. I thought it would not only be a fascinating event,
but good publicity for the Corporation, to bring Nureyev and his dancers out
to our sound stage for an informal party with our personnel. The highlight
of the late evening would be to present David Gulpilil and his dancers doing
their unique aboriginal interpretations of birds and animal dances for the
formally-trained Corps de Ballet.
I met Rudolph backstage after
the final performance. He was very serious, dark, and humorless. During
our ride in the limousine to the party we were silent, except for a few perfunctory
inquiries about his friend, and my acquaintance, the London director whose
name I had used to gain access to Himself for my invitation.
It was obvious that boxed
poultry was not his idea of festive fare. We hadn't the time or budget
to arrange for a catered meal, so we simply provided Kentucky Fried Chicken
for the assembled dancers and film folk. Nervously, I started the rather
informal program as quickly as I could.
As the lights went down, a
trio of painted emus emerged from the sidelines and moved in hypnotic, bird-like
fashion to the strains of a digeridoo and clacking sticks. The emus were
followed by the equally evocative slithering of reptiles and wildly leaping
marsupials--dancing alone, in pairs and as a threesome.
When the lights came up there
was total silence. No applause. I thought I had really blown it. They
hated it. I would be a laughing-stock. But before I had a chance
to commit suicide, Nureyev rushed up to me and said, "Take me to him!" As
if on signal, all the young dancers descended on the half naked painted performers
with wild enthusiasm and a barrage of questions. It was dancer-to-dancer
talk. It seems that the aboriginal dancers had mastered, without any
formal training, such things as isolation, balance, and control that had taken
the English troupe a lifetime of training to achieve.
I was a hero.
One of
the rare pleasures in my life came about through my Australian experience,
but occurred upon my return to Los Angeles. An American woman named
Daisy Bates is a legendary figure in Australian history. She migrated
down under with her husband and sons and established a station (ranch)
on the outposts of Australian civilization. A few years later, she left
her family to go live with the neighboring aborigines, and devoted the
rest of her life to helping alleviate their desperately deprived conditions
through education, medicine, and compassionate caring.
Katherine Hepburn was one
of her greatest fans, and I learned she had several times expressed interest
in portraying her idol on screen, but no studio had been able to negotiate
a satisfactory deal. It seems that Hepburn would allow no altering of
the actual facts of Daisy's life and, since it was felt that American audiences
would have a difficult time accepting a heroine who abandoned her family, even
to do good works, the project was dropped.
I had taken a brilliant Los
Angeles writer and story editor named Sid Stebel with me to the SAFC, and he
thought he had a way to make the reality of Daisy Bates' life commercially
viable without changing the truth. So I managed to get an option on the
screen rights and arranged for a meeting.
Sid and I arrived for tea
at Katherine Hepburn's Beverly Hills home about two in the afternoon. We
were shown into the den by her lifelong companion and assistant and told that
Katherine would be arriving momentarily from a walk on the beach. We
were served our tea, and Katherine arrived.
We chatted about Australia,
Daisy, the problem of the script, Sid's approach, and American bias. She
was witty, charming, and extremely intelligent. The most intriguing thing
about her whole persona was the fact that even when she used the four letter
words so common on a film location or sound stage, she never seemed to lose
her dignity and demeanor as a perfect lady. It was a delightful afternoon... but
we didn't make a deal either.
Maybe we should have taken
along some of the Colonel's Kentucky Fried.
Celebrity Snippets
Gracie Allen was the only person who ever requested that I stop playing a song. It was at Judy Garland’s party at Romanoffs Restaurant in Beverery Hills. I was leading a trio and singing a hit from the day, Poor Little Robin.. George and Gracie were dancing by and Gracie shouted, “Stop playing that song! I hate that song! Just stop it!” (I didn’t. Perhaps I should have had a tip jar for songs to avoid.)
Ray Bolger was the first celebrity whom I had met in a party for which I was playing. It was a very fancy affair, hosted by Carlton Alsop in an old-wealth section of Pasadena, California. After dinner, I was delighted to share my piano bench with the loose-limbed dancer. We talked, he made requests, and even sang some of them, mainly to me. Before he left, he offered me the job of becoming his accompanist on a forthcoming tour, but I had just started what I hoped would be my career at NBC and had to refuse.
When Ray Bradbury and Charles Schulz played a frenzied match of tennis singles while attending the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, I was their ball boy.
Carol Channing was a guest star on a George Burns’ television series episode. The script called for her to do a burlesque “bump”. In those quaint days, “bumps” were not allowed to be forward and backward—only side to side. In my role as Broadcast Standards Editor, I went to Burns’ office and demonstrated to Carol how the delicate maneuver should be executed. She was due on the set, and I had a bicycle (I can’t remember why) and she asked if I would give her a ride on my handlebars down to the set. It wasn’t a long ride, but certainly memorable.
Rosemary Clooney was booked for a large charity stage show and I was to
accompany her. I went to the scheduled rehearsal to go over her arrangements
with her at the house in Beverly Hills she shared with Jose Ferrer. Her
son and daughter let me in. The large living area had the all furniture
stacked against the wall and was bare, except for a large Steinway grand
and bench in the middle of the room. Her kids said that their mom was in
the pool cabana, but I could talk to her on the intercom phone.
Rosie said she didn’t want to come into the house, and we could just
conduct the rehearsal over the phone. So, I sat at the piano, balanced
the phone between my left ear and shoulder, and we went over all the arrangements.
The big show went off without a hitch.
Jimmie Durante was the first vaudeville act I got to play for when I was
hired by the Fifty Two Association, a group whose motto was “The
Wounded Shall Never Be Forgotten.” They brought a busload of wounded
veterans from a different hospital once a month to Scandia, a lovely restaurant
on Sunset Boulevard, for a dinner and a show.
The American Guild of Variety Artists would provide the entertainment,
usually a name performer who happened to be in town between shows or tours.
I would rehearse with the performers at six, eat dinner with them at seven
and then do the show. This went on for about six years, and I got to play
for a remarkable range singers, dancers, novelty acts, and comedians, including
Larry Storch, June Christy, Redd Foxx, Arthur Duncan, Rudy Vallee, Pinky
Tomlin, and Martha Tilton. Luckily for me, Durante didn’t smash the
piano, as he often did in his act and on television variety shows .
In another Durante snippet, I went with two songwriter friends to his house,
where I was to play while they auditioned a song they had written for him.
During the singing of their masterpiece, the phone rang. Durante answered
and said, Hi Harry,” and a twenty minute conversation of laughs and
reminiscences ensued. When he hung up, he said, “That was Harry Truman.” (He
didn’t buy the song.)
Blake Edwards, the writer, director, producer, and husband of Julie Andrews was producing a new detective series called Peter Gunn, which NBC had just purchased for the new season in the mid-fifties. Since I was to be the so-called censor for the series, Blake and I were getting acquainted at lunch in the Universal commissary. He was almost as excited about the composer he had just hired to write the original score for the series as he was about the series itself. He told me about the unique jazz sound this exciting new talent would be bringing to background music for dramatic television. (And he was also a really nice guy!) It turned out his name was Henry Mancini.
Janet Leigh, with whom I had attended The College of the Pacific in the mid-forties, was married to an aspiring big band leader, and I was the piano player. We went from Stockton, California down to Los Angeles to make several demonstration recordings of the band over a period of a few days. On our second day there, Janet asked me if I could spare five dollars so she could buy a few groceries (she hadn’t yet been discovered by Norma Shearer and made a star). The next day she paid me back. (It would probably have been more exciting to have carried that indebtedness over the period of her stardom.)
Regis Philbin brought Charles Nelson Reilly, Teresa Graves, and another member of the Laugh In gang (whom I can’t remember) to my office at MGM-TV to perform for me and my development counterpart a new game show he had just created. We didn’t buy it. Luckily, it wasn’t Who Wants to be A Millionaire?
John Raitt introduced himself and his daughter, Bonnie, to me after a Quaker silent service in West Los Angeles back in the Fifties. (I was experimenting with various forms of religion at that time.) It was interesting to me that after an hour of complete silence, people were saying, “Wasn’t that a lovely service!” However, it would have been interesting to hear Bonnie sing a hymn, even at eight years old.
Susan Strasberg, actress and daughter of Lee Strasberg, founder of The
Actor’s Studio and Method Acting, was a guest star on Assignment
Vienna, which I was producing. Before every take, she would sit huddled
into a ball, somewhere where it was dark. When the call came to shoot the
scene, she would emit an extended, deafening, bloodcurdling scream. She
said it cleared her of inhibiting obstructions.
The day before, the two of us spent the day in Vienna’s finest boutiques,
trying to find just the right ensemble for an elegant scene in which she
had to be “dressed to the nines.” Fortunately, even after
five or six shoppes, she didn’t feel the need to clear any inhibiting
obstructions and we found a nice dressy suit.
Twiggy was interested in a script to be shot in Australia, on which I had the option. When I went to my first meeting with her, I was quite excited about meeting such a celebrity. Imagine my surprise when it turned out that Picnic at Hanging Rock, on which I was Executive Producer, was her favorite film of all time , and which she had seen five times! She seemed more excited to meet me than I had been to meet her! Unfortunately, the Aussies decided they didn’t want any co-productions with the U.S. at that time. But I still have that lovely accent on my answering machine.
Director Peter Weir had a casting technique which was quite a surprise to me, when we were casting his Picnic at Hanging Rock at the South Australian Film Corporation offices in Adelaide, Australia. For instance, if the part to be cast were that of a household maid, the unsuspecting actress might enter the room to be greeted with a finger-pointing, shouted accusation: “We know you stole the silverware from the dining room drawer! What have you got to say for yourself?” The thespian would immediately have to invent a story and a character to fit that story in her reply. What amazed me was that nobody seemed taken aback by this approach, and managed to immediately respond with totally believable characterizations. Maybe they had worked for Peter before.
Loretta Young not only swept through the doorway in outrageously beautiful
gowns to open each episode of her dramatic television series; she also
was the series’ executive producer. The final episode took a rather
pronounced religious bent, and it was my job to reflect NBC management’s
concern over its acceptability for a mass, primetime television audience.
The occasion was the “wrap party” for the season, and all the
cast and crew were on the set, following the final shot. Food and drink
were being brought forth, and everyone was in fine fettle, including Loretta.
Upon hearing my related management concerns, she merely shrugged, handed
me a drink, and said, “If God wants this episode on the air, it will
be on the air.” (Evidently He didn’t want it, or her, on the
air, as this was pretty much the end of her television career.)
Zamphir was not only a very nice young man, who gave me his new Pipes of Pan album in a train compartment going from Budapest to Vienna in 1972 on a trip where the Communist Hungarian guards had just forcibly thrown a man’s briefcase off the train- -he also has a name starting with the letter “Z,”which I needed to end this alphabetized chapter--and the book.
And Then They Said....
“You’ve got the job.” Barry Diller, then Vice President of Programming for the ABC Television Network, had just hired me as a West Coast Program Executive for the network. But I got a much better job offer, so I went to Australia instead.
“Just stomp your feet real hard and they’ll scamper away!” While tromping through knee-high grass during a location hunt for the feature film Storm Boy on Kangaroo Island, South Australia, our guide advised us how to avoid the deadly poisonous snakes which inhabited the tall grass by the thousands.
“And the Golden Globe goes to Medical Center!” This was the good news which our MGM-TV table had been waiting for. The producers, Al C. Ward and Frank Glicksman, accepted the award, while a bald Cicely Tyson beamed on. Since I was the executive responsible for this, and every other series at MGM-TV, I beamed too!
“I wish the NBC censor would take his hand off my knee.” So remarked Michael Landon during a silent, darkened lull in a rough cut screening of Bonanza on the Paramount lot. (I was actually across the room.)
“Why do I have the right to kill you just because you were born on that side of this line?” Joan Baez had just drawn a line in the backyard sand of an exclusive Beverly Hills home, which served as the setting for an intimate, liberal fund raising outdoor supper.
“You ruined the party!” The mother of the bride, a very rich Beverly Hills WASP society matron, felt that because our band answered a request from a bridesmaid to play a Jewish Hora (circle dance), we had forfeited our right to be paid. The prominent contractor who had sent us to play, paid the band, but didn’t charge the irate mother. She was prominent in too many high society affairs.
“For ourselves we measure—for our guests we just pour.” Bertrand Russell, when his secretary started to use a shot glass to measure while fixing my drink of bourbon neat.
“I just don’t believe it! As soon as I get back, I’m going to call The Star and tell them that I was at a transvestite piano bar at the bottom of the Grand Canyon!” This middle-aged school teacher was reacting to the costume party put on by our guides to celebrate the successful completion of a two week rafting trip down the Canyon. I was answering requests on a little 24 inch keyboard they had let me bring along. It was placed on a stump, along with several glasses of beer and wine. I was wearing a beard and a summery white and blue flowered frock, given to my by a lovely young lady (who also happened to be our head guide). Most of the guests had improvised some sort of costume statement to go with their libations. The mood was festive, and reminiscent of almost every piano bar I’ve ever played.
All That Jazz
In the aftermath of Ken Burns’ superb documentary
series, Jazz, there seems to be a renewed (and in some cases,
inceptive) interest in this All-American art form. Many universities,
and even some high schools, have very accomplished jazz or swing bands
in their music departments. And groups such as Big Bad Voodo Daddy
have melded the primitive excitement of rock with the musicality of the
big-band era.
Even though these bands and the dancing
they inspired were the rage in the twenties and forties, the public in
general was not particularly devoted to the jazz aspects of the art form. Though fans had their
favorite arrangements and songs from the orchestras’ repertoires,
they usually were unaware of the names of the improvising soloists.
Not me, boy. My teenage bedroom walls were covered with photos of bandleaders
and their groups, sidemen, and jazz greats. I could name all the
personnel in every picture. This music and its makers was my consuming
interest.
The first time I heard a live name band in person was in 1939, standing on the sidewalk outside a Redondo Beach ballroom while Jan Savitt and his orchestra played 720 In the Books for a matinee dance session. Touring bands would play one-niters in nearby Hanford (50 miles) or Fresno (70 miles), and my friends and I caught virtually every one.
One of my favorite jazz singers was former Gene Krupa vocalist Anita O’Day. When I went to nearby Hanford to see Stan Kenton, whom should I see backstage but Anita O’Day herself! It seemed that her husband was stationed at nearby Lemoore Air Force Base and was a friend of Stan’s. I told her how much I admired her singing... and then she asked me to dance with her! So, at fourteen years of age, there I was dancing with my favorite jazz vocalist! My high school paper had an item the next week: “What’s this about John Graves and ‘I love my husband, but oh you kid!’”
The only time in my whole life that I ever solicited an autograph happened at an all night diner, following a one-niter in Fresno by my all-time favorite, Duke Ellington. The entire band filed in to eat, and I managed to get every single player’s signature on a menu (including the Duke’s). Unfortunately, all my treasured memorabilia got lost following my mother’s death, including the menu.
My own musical playing adventures during high school in the war years centered around three different aggregations: a five piece group of my peers from several of the small towns around Porterville, a quintet-plus-singer comprised of former name-band musicians who were too old to serve in the armed forces, and a seventeen-piece orchestra playing at The Sierra Ballroom in neighboring Visalia (featuring some servicemen from a nearby airbase who had been big band musicians). Between these groups I managed to play two or three times a week, learning countless songs and priceless insights from this great range of mentors.
My years at The College of the Pacific in Stockton, California, brought me in touch with some more idols. Dave Brubeck was playing there in a small club, and we struck up a friendship that has lasted all these years. When he came to play a concert in Adelaide, South Australia, he kept the press and fans waiting for twenty minutes while we reminisced back stage about mutual friends and our experiences together.
A ten-piece band of local musicians that I played with opened for an Errol Garner concert and I had a nice conversation with this jazz icon. When Stan Kenton’s band came to play for our campus prom, I was privileged to do a radio interview with him.
The Ken Burns PBS saga explored the impact of racism and segregation upon the development of the jazz art form. Born and raised in rural California, I had never encountered overt acts of prejudice against African Americans. (Asians were the target of Porterville’s intolerance.) In most of the jazz world, a person’s musical ability was the only criterion for judgement.
While playing a two-week engagement in Tuscon, we would meet Mel Torme after his last show at the Santa Rita Hotel and go across the river to Jimmy’s Chicken Shack, where black and white musicians would jam ‘til dawn. Mel played great drums and never sang better.
My first brush with the dark reality
of Southern segregation came with an engagement in Texarkana. We were looking for a rooming
house, as was our custom. Answering our knock was a very dignified
black woman who said the owner was out but should be back momentarily. When
he arrived, we told him the lady who let us in said we could wait. He
said, “That wasn’t no lady! That was my nigra.” (This
was in 1950.)
Thank goodness things have improved sociologically in a half-century. Too
bad we can’t say the same for the music.
Life is an Ad Lib Solo
My first visit to Kansas City's new jazz museum
was on a recent Friday afternoon, shortly after lunch. We customers
shared the various listening posts, where, with earphones, you could hear
specific vintage records complementing the brief stories of the artist(s)
featured in that particular exhibit, from pre-Louis Armstrong to post-Wynton
Marsalis. (The odd thing to me was that while most of the artists we were
listening to were black--all of us doing the listening were lily white.)
One of the
features of this truly outstanding facility was a twenty minute documentary on
the history and mystique of this dynamic art form. As I watched this insightful
presentation, it occurred to me that not only was jazz a vital part of
my life--in many ways it was the pattern of my life. "The Three
Rs" began to take on a brand new meaning for me.
The
film, with moving stills, narration, and music briefly traced the art form's
historical roots: "field songs", "hollers", and the laments
known as "blues". These were sung by the laboring slaves, incorporating
the rhythms and syncopations of their African heritage. Before long, the
excitement and intricacy of a new music sweeping the Mississippi riverboats and
shore-side saloons was added: "ragtime". By the early 1900s,
America was dancing to a new music, played with an assortment of wind and rhythm
instruments, called "jazz." Many critics and musicologists consider
jazz to be America's most significant contribution to the world's cultural inventory.
Most of this
music was played by ear, and each musician was given a chance to spontaneously
improvise (create a new melody, or "line") to a chorus of the song
being played. Often this was referred to as an "ad lib solo."
As its popularity
spread, this dance music gradually evolved into larger groups, resulting in the
big bands of the thirties and forties. With sections of saxophones, brass,
and rhythm, they primarily played rehearsed orchestrations. However, even
during this "swing" period, portions of each arrangement were often
allotted to individual band members to improvise an ad lib solo.
"Spontaneous
improvisation" was not original with jazz. Classical composers often
indicated certain passages which were left to the performer to compose what was
played "on the spot". In jazz, the solo melody being instantaneously
created must conform to the harmony and structure of the song being played, the
tune of which was usually established by the entire ensemble in the first chorus. A
humorist notes, "that in 'playing around' this melody, it is important that
the audience is still aware of the melody the artist is trying to avoid."
In doing all
this, the ad lib jazz solo incorporates the three elements of Risk, Responsibility,
and Reward--which seem to encapsulate my formula for living.
Since each
solo is by definition unique, its effectiveness depends upon the melodic line
created and its interpretation, plus the mood and dynamics of the presentation. The
element of risk is ever-present, since the inspiration of the moment
can often lead the soloist into unfamiliar harmonic or rhythmic complications. Then
too, there is always the peer factor--the desire to impress, and certainly to
avoid making a fool of one's self in front of fellow musicians.
Of course,
accepting risk as a part of one's lifestyle also has obvious built-in hazards:
the possibility of failed projects, disillusionment's, and unfortunate relationships. Of
course, as in jazz, the willingness to venture into uncharted waters is predicated
on a certain confidence in one's abilities, degree of preparation and demonstrated
ability to cope.
"Faking
it" often means merely playing by ear. ("Hum a few bars and I'll
fake it.") In the literal sense, though, in jazz music it is considered
irresponsible to attempt a solo if one isn't familiar with the harmonic structure
of the tune itself. Nothing reveals an amateur more quickly than improvised
notes which obviously don't fit the original chords of the song being played. Also,
since this art form is collaborative, and other players may be creating an improvised
background to compliment the solo, discordant notes would destroy the ensemble
effect. However, a musical mishap can be turned into a learning experience
by a corrective awareness of the error. This sense of artistic responsibility is
the combination of an innate gift of talent, continuing years of practice and
listening, and a musical dedication to the concept of "esprit de corp."
Choosing to
live on, or near "the edge" in a civilized society requires not only
a willingness to accept the disappointments that often follow taking calculated
risks, but also the maturity to admit and avoid repetition of the mistakes and
errors in judgment that negatively affect your life and the lives of others. Taking
risks without the concomitant sense of responsibility is, in the long run, almost
certain to invite a plethora of problems.
Finally, the reward. In
a jazz solo, it is often an immediate, integral, almost magical part of the creative performance
process itself. A player's personal satisfaction is often combined with
genuine amazement at the level of artistic achievement he or she attained in
a soaring moment of inspired creation. Sometimes a nod, or approving look
from a fellow musician may be all the reward needed. For others, the applause
of the listeners is their fulfillment. (Occasionally, the money isn't all
that bad, either.)
In the ad
lib solo of living, the soaring, inspired moments may be rather sporadic, but
the satisfaction of meaningful relationships, the joy of discovery, and
the surprise of unexpected accomplishments occur with surprising frequency. Whether
the rewards of such a risk-oriented approach to living outweigh the more assured
benefits of living a sensible, cautious, carefully planned life is, of course,
a totally subjective judgment. But for me, I'll keep my Three Rs. I
wouldn't risk a change.
What Ralph Guild says about "Just Say Yes: Memoirs of a Geezer
"John Graves memoires are a warm and often humorous chronology
of the TV and movie business during the second half of the 20th century
from someone who was active in many parts of both businesses on three
continents. His anectdotes leave the reader with a feeling of having
met and known the active participants personally."
Ralph Guild, CEO of Interep Radio Store, the pre-eminent National Sales Representative organization in the U.S. and scholar of the radio industry (with a room named after him in the Museum of Broadcasting in New York).
Go to our Product Page to purchase John's new book "Just Say Yes"
