crazy about it. I remember the first time I heard Parker. It was at the legendary Birdland, and I didn’t even know who he was at the time. I was so intensely overcome with emotion at what I heard that I actually went into the alley behind the club and threw up.
By studying the great artists over the years, I’ve learned ways to keep the public’s interest, I spent a lot of time with Count Basie, and his music was all about dynamics andnuances, first soft and then BOOM! There would be unexpected little body blows and then knockout punches, BOOM, BOOM, BAM! I try to do the unexpected so that the audience doesn’t know what’s going to happen next.
I was fortunate to catch the tail end of an era when performers helped each other out. There was camaraderie then. Established stars helped young performers coming up. If you got a hit song, the veterans took you along with them on the road and helped you break in. And the public was so encouraging. They rooted for you if they saw that you were nervous and you were trying, and they kept plugging for you. Showbiz today seems much more cutthroat. I think young performers should be encouraged and nurtured much more carefully, and be given a chance to grow.
I never did actually get a paying gig on Fifty-second Street, although I basically lived there for a few years. I did perform once at Leon and Eddie’s, thanks to Milton Berle and Jan Murray, who had heard me sing and arranged for me to perform at the club on a Sunday night so agents could come in and see me.
The wonderful entertainer Barbara Carroll invited me to sing with her at a club called La Cava on Fifty-second Street, and that was a terrific break. She said, “Come in and just sing, and maybe someone will hear you.” I did that for a while, still making no money, but I did get free drinks and experience. One night someone came up to me and said, “There’s a big songwriter in the audience, Rube Bloom. Sing for him.” He had written “Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me,” and many other standards. I started singing for Mr. Bloom, looking right at him, but instead of being flattered by the attention, he was annoyed that I was trying to catch his ear. When he discovered I wasn’t going to let him enjoy his drink in anonymity, he got angry and abruptly turned his back on me. I was singing “Blue Moon,” and when I got to the second chorus, I sang, “Rube Bloom, yousaw me standing alone.” He got up, threw his money down on the table, and stormed out of the place. Timing is everything.
My closest friend in these early years was Jack Wilson. Wed been friends since 1939; his family lived next door to us in the Metropolitan Apartments. When we were kids, he, my brother, and I hung out together all the time. He was a few years older than me, but that didn’t make any difference because we liked to do the same things. Jack and I discovered that we both wanted to make it in the music business. Most kids would get together and talk about girls or sports, but not us. All we thought about was music. I had my heart set on singing, but Jack was an aspiring songwriter. We listened to the latest big band records and got to know them so well that we could stand on the corner and scat-sing all the solos. We sang for dimes on the streets of Astoria. It was a great friendship.
I taught Jack about drawing and painting, and he taught me about poetry, but not from a book. Jack had the mind and soul of a poet, and I was very much inspired by his point of view. Before the war he used to talk about the three bridges that connected Astoria to the rest of the world. The Queensboro Bridge went straight into midtown Manhattan. We played hooky (same as I did with my friend Rudy DeHarak), and we’d catch all the big band shows—Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, and Frank Sinatra—and the comics, like Bob Hope and Red Skelton. The Triborough Bridge took us uptown to Harlem and the world of jazz: the Apollo Theater and the Savoy, Count Basie and
By studying the great artists over the years, I’ve learned ways to keep the public’s interest, I spent a lot of time with Count Basie, and his music was all about dynamics andnuances, first soft and then BOOM! There would be unexpected little body blows and then knockout punches, BOOM, BOOM, BAM! I try to do the unexpected so that the audience doesn’t know what’s going to happen next.
I was fortunate to catch the tail end of an era when performers helped each other out. There was camaraderie then. Established stars helped young performers coming up. If you got a hit song, the veterans took you along with them on the road and helped you break in. And the public was so encouraging. They rooted for you if they saw that you were nervous and you were trying, and they kept plugging for you. Showbiz today seems much more cutthroat. I think young performers should be encouraged and nurtured much more carefully, and be given a chance to grow.
I never did actually get a paying gig on Fifty-second Street, although I basically lived there for a few years. I did perform once at Leon and Eddie’s, thanks to Milton Berle and Jan Murray, who had heard me sing and arranged for me to perform at the club on a Sunday night so agents could come in and see me.
The wonderful entertainer Barbara Carroll invited me to sing with her at a club called La Cava on Fifty-second Street, and that was a terrific break. She said, “Come in and just sing, and maybe someone will hear you.” I did that for a while, still making no money, but I did get free drinks and experience. One night someone came up to me and said, “There’s a big songwriter in the audience, Rube Bloom. Sing for him.” He had written “Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me,” and many other standards. I started singing for Mr. Bloom, looking right at him, but instead of being flattered by the attention, he was annoyed that I was trying to catch his ear. When he discovered I wasn’t going to let him enjoy his drink in anonymity, he got angry and abruptly turned his back on me. I was singing “Blue Moon,” and when I got to the second chorus, I sang, “Rube Bloom, yousaw me standing alone.” He got up, threw his money down on the table, and stormed out of the place. Timing is everything.
My closest friend in these early years was Jack Wilson. Wed been friends since 1939; his family lived next door to us in the Metropolitan Apartments. When we were kids, he, my brother, and I hung out together all the time. He was a few years older than me, but that didn’t make any difference because we liked to do the same things. Jack and I discovered that we both wanted to make it in the music business. Most kids would get together and talk about girls or sports, but not us. All we thought about was music. I had my heart set on singing, but Jack was an aspiring songwriter. We listened to the latest big band records and got to know them so well that we could stand on the corner and scat-sing all the solos. We sang for dimes on the streets of Astoria. It was a great friendship.
I taught Jack about drawing and painting, and he taught me about poetry, but not from a book. Jack had the mind and soul of a poet, and I was very much inspired by his point of view. Before the war he used to talk about the three bridges that connected Astoria to the rest of the world. The Queensboro Bridge went straight into midtown Manhattan. We played hooky (same as I did with my friend Rudy DeHarak), and we’d catch all the big band shows—Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, and Frank Sinatra—and the comics, like Bob Hope and Red Skelton. The Triborough Bridge took us uptown to Harlem and the world of jazz: the Apollo Theater and the Savoy, Count Basie and
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