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Dream Bowl - Part Two
by Mike Amen
There may be no
accounting for taste, but the same may not be said for interest. I was
lucky enough to have a nurturing environment firmly in place for a life
of music appreciation, and I think this was helped by other factors as
well. I was born in Napa at Parks Victory Memorial Hospital. I have two
memories of that place. The first is of the ether mask approaching my
face before I went down for the count in which I was asked to engage,
for what was then the near-automatic tonsillectomy that children of
1950s vintage experienced. The other memory, reinforced as I grew older,
was the ghastly architecture of the building. But this was, after all, a
building of function (whose existence was the result of generous efforts
by doctors and concerned citizens), and its less than cheerful facade
was more than offset by the good works happening inside; the stilling of
pain for patients in general, and in particular; assistance administered
to a young mother, my mother, giving birth that fourth day of February,
1947.
With respect to the mystery of why something effects
us deeply, the capacity for enjoyment, and their link to the “...other
factors...” in my own case, I offer the following: I consider myself a
fortunate individual who was twice favored by circumstance. In my
embryonic state, I represented the yet-to-arrive other gender that
families often hope for, in this case the first boy after two girls.
More important, I was the outcome of what must have been, at least for a
time, the happiest of occasions; couples re-uniting after World War II.
And in my father’s case, not only was he happy to be home, but he was
happy to be alive at all. He had fought in the Battle of Hürtgen Forest.
That battle, longest in the Army’s history, lasted from September, 1944
until February, 1945. A web site dedicated to soldiers who were killed
or injured there, gave this description: “There was no more deadly fire,
from the viewpoint of the infantry, than that which burst in treetops
and exploded with all its hot steel fury downward to the ground...”
which was exactly how my father was “hit,” and “burst” was the word he
used when he described the event. He suffered serious injury from that
shrapnel, and told me years later that he felt death upon him, and was
certain that had he not fought (digging his fingers into the ground, he
said), he would not have survived. Making matters worse, my mother would
tell me many years later, was the fact that after he received medical
assistance, due to the limited care that was possible, he was not given
a catheter to ward off infection, despite the seriousness of his stomach
injuries, because they just didn’t think he had a chance, and there were
other more compelling injuries on other soldiers needing attention. Yes,
yes, he was happy to be home. To honor his toughness that made life
possible for me, I make a conscious effort to cultivate an appreciation
of life, and while I am a firm believer in personal responsibility for
the development of your own good fortune, I salute with reverence and
humility these facts of formation that lent themselves, I’m convinced,
to cheerful outlook and disposition. I think these bits of fate add good
measure to the psychological endowments and physical apparatus conducive
to music appreciation with which nearly all of us are hard-wired, and by
birthright granted, and which we make use of much of our lives.
So from this beginning of life for
me, if we go five years and ten months to the previous, and on the map,
seven miles to the south, we pinpoint the birthplace of the Dream Bowl.
World War II was uppermost on the minds of Americans during those years.
Hitler’s invasions began in March of 1939. No one knew what the outcome
of the war would be, and there was little cause for optimism for the
nation as a whole, or for individuals. A justifiable reluctance to
involve ourselves in the war, after the tremendous loss of life in World
War I, was removed after the attack on Pearl Harbor, and unfortunately,
regardless of the circumstances bringing it about, the reality of our
involvement could no longer be ignored.
The urgency of the war years brought people together
in a mix of suppressed fear, a desire to keep hope alive, and a real
need to courageously hold one another up. Couples were looking for
something romantic to do with their time because a loved one might be
shipped out the next day, and it might be the last time ever, for them
to be together.
So the initial irony, an
uncomfortable one, that a night club for entertainment and pleasure
begins after bombs fall on Pearl Harbor, is adjusted in our minds
because, as time went on, the value, we could even say the necessity of
such an establishment became more clearly realized. And now we are
seeing renewed interest, dramatically so, in dance. The importance of
such an outlet during the war years (and perhaps now too with economic
and other woes) where one could come; to hear music, to dance, to
congregate with friends, to have our minds taken off the horror of war,
cannot be overstated. For that we owe a debt of gratitude to Gene
Traverso, and John Zanardi. To this can be added the dollar and
cents realities. The partners intended to make money, but this was
bargain entertainment at its best. The History of Vallejo Musicians tell
us that: “Admission was $1.10 with ladies and servicemen admitted for 55
cents...” It should be added that this is before TV had become the
entertainment fixture we now know it to be.
The building is still standing, is still in use, and
I find this to be a very satisfying state of affairs. The fact that it
still stands, speaks to the stability of its original construction. Gene
Traverso, the son, would tell me that, so solid was the foundation and
flooring, that years later, tradesmen would observe that it was
sufficient in strength to support a second story, if one was wanted.
With ease then, did the floor support the step and stomp of dancers, and
its smooth wood finish, allowed for, if you had it in you, the graceful
sliding of feet, and the swaying of bodies. The music propelled dancers
of every sort, in this acceptable means by which young men and women
could touch one another, and so the gliding of couples, the sliding of
soles on maple, would last, in one dance form to another, from 1941
until 1970.
And “standing” is an important
operative word as I recall the beginnings of what turned out to be a
deep-seated curiosity. As I mentioned, because of our frequent trips to
Vallejo, I had many opportunities to notice the Dream Bowl standing in
that field. The stretch of land where it is located is roughly a right
triangle. Think Frank Ghery rather than Euclid. It has a base 1/5 of a
mile at its southern end, its long side along Kelly Road and is exactly
one mile, and the remaining side along Hwy. 29 is .7 miles. As a ten
year old with the not-yet-clogged avenues of youthful consideration, I
was free to absorb all that came through a passing car’s window, and
with each passing, the impression became more firmly impacted in my
mind. If something had gone on, what had that been? Why had it stopped?
The Napa Register article by Pam Hunter refers to a (nine year) “lull”
between the close of the Swing era, and the country/western beginning.
For me, that would have been ages 7 thru 16 (an eternity) during which
there was not a lot of events scheduled.
All these sightings from the car happened during the
day however, and not available was any concept of a night life during
which the club would come alive. John Zanardi’s daughter Louise told me
she remembers helping her father as a young girl, hang posters to
advertise upcoming shows, and I do recall two rare sightings of such
posters: one for Fats Domino, and another for Johnny Cash
hung on telephone poles near the venue. Still, long stretches went by
with no name on the marquee, whose vacancy sadly dramatized the
inactivity of this one-building ghost town. And this building, this big
white building with no neighboring structures, and not even much in the
way of vegetation to compete with its presence, dominated the landscape
and begged a lot of questions. Pick your sentiment; the building these
days is no longer alone in the field or it has lost its singular status
as some sixteen other structures now fill up the triangle. As for the
structure itself, it has been remodeled inside and out so that its
recognition requires the eyes of an archeologist. The changes outside
call to mind a face lift worn uncomfortably. More troubling are the
sensible renovations inside going from dance floor to a series of office
cubicles of low ceiling. New flooring covers the old, which I assume
with hope remains just beneath the surface, and except for a small
maintenance section at its southern end (where bands once set up) its
impressive high ceiling is hidden from view.
About the time of my graduating from
high school (1965), my mother remarried. My stepfather, George, a very
decent and generous man, had lived in a house where Kelly Road
intersected with Hwy. 29. As their marriage approached, he had a new
home built on that same property which was very close to the Dream Bowl.
Because of its closeness to both a major road and a highway, it was not
uncommon for motorists needing direction or experiencing car problems,
to pull off near the house and ask for help. On many occasions, George
would give someone a helping hand, and get them back on the road. In
other cases, the needs of motorists were more unusual, such as the time
impatient inebriants needed soft lawn for a position of compromise. A
safe guess is that they were heading to Napa and all of a sudden it
seemed too far away, and when they had pulled over in their compact car
it more than lived up to its description. George got them back on the
road too, shooing them away like intruding strays.
And so it was, from this eventful intersection near
the Dream Bowl, by which I had passed as a youngster, and to which my
family was now in permanent proximity, that a few more pages might be
gleaned for its story. And if the mystery of its existence was not
intriguing enough, then how about the name itself?
The name is so captivating, such an
inviting enchantment. Who wouldn’t want to go to the Dream Bowl? Who
knows, if you just go to this dance, maybe some magic would actually
take place, and you would in fact meet that girl or boy of your dreams.
My own mother recalled a bittersweet story of an elderly couple who came
to the house inquiring about the Dream Bowl. They were dressed very
nicely, and my mother’s sense of it was that they had come to recapture
a lovely evening shared there many years ago, and they were quite
disappointed to find it closed. Louise (Zanardi) told me that it was
true for many a serviceman from all over the country (but now stationed
in the region), that they would meet girls at the Dream Bowl and for
that reason would wind up settling down here to begin a life with their
sweetheart. If the notion of meeting someone at a dance was not already
a standard feature in the psyche of most people, there was no shortage
of effort in moviemaking or songwriting to place it there permanently
during the 30s and 40s, and it didn’t end there.
In the 1942 movie Orchestra Wives, Paula Kelly
and the Modernaires ask Tex Beneke, the musical question in the verse to
I Got a Gal in Kalamazoo, lyrics by Mack Gordon, music by Harry
Warren :
Hey
there Tex, how’s your new romance
The one
you met at the campus dance
In the 1953 musical, My Fair Lady, Julie
Andrews sings, from I Could Have Danced All Night, lyrics by Alan
Jay Lerner, music by Frederick Loewe:
I could have spread my wings
And done a thousand things
From the 1960 hit, Save The Last Dance For Me,
lyrics by Doc Pomus, music by Mort Shuman,
The Drifter’s (who did Up On The Roof) sing:
But don’t forget who’s taking you home
And in whose arms you’re going to be
So darlin’
Save the last dance for me
And from the first track of their December 1963 debut
album, Please, Please Me, music and lyrics collaborated on by
McCartney and Lennon, the Beatles sing:
Now I’ll never dance with another
Since I saw her standing there
Each of these songs became extremely
popular. Kalamazoo was a #1 hit, My Fair Lady was
successful on Broadway, and later as a film, and I Could Have Danced
All Night, was recorded by many artists. Save The Last Dance,
also recorded by many singers, was recognized as being in the top 25 of
all time popular songs, and one of many written by the great Doc Pomus.
And the placement of I Saw Her Standing There, at the very
beginning of the Beatles’ recorded legacy, speaks for itself.
From the PBS
documentary Ken Burns Jazz, a woman, a dancer, recounts a
uniquely exciting and life-changing moment, one of many uplifting
stories in that series, when she was swept off her feet literally, as
she stood eagerly outside a ballroom, by an adult who snuck her in as it
were, because she was too young to be admitted by the normal means. She
was then provided a breathtaking look at the experience in full swing as
she was quickly transported around the room in dance, and escorted,
aloft practically, in her now elated state back out to the front of the
ballroom, and to the world outside. And very little of the excitement
was lost in its re-telling, because you could see the animation, the
excitement in her beatific smile, as palpable now, as it must have been
then. What a wonderful thrill. What do you say? Come on, let’s go
dancing. Let’s go to the Dream Bowl.
It had always been the case at the Dream Bowl that it
was a venue where you could see local bands along with those of national
prominence. Love of music, and its appreciation, brought together a wide
variety of individual band members and fans all circling around one
another in a weave of living stories.
Babe Pallotta Band performing (circa
1950) from
www.smythesaccordioncenter.com
One such local
musician was Babe Pallotta. He was the first musician I spoke
with who had performed there during the Swing era. I had the privilege
of meeting and talking with Babe about his musical career, shortly
before his passing in May of 2006. When I met him, he had respiratory
problems, and had to use oxygen, but otherwise seemed perfectly fit,
with lively, intelligent eyes, good cheer, and gentlemanly manner. Later
I would see pictures of Babe when he was in his twenties, and it could
be seen that he was a handsome man, who had preserved those handsome
features and pride in appearance. He dressed sharp, and still had some
dark strands of what must have been, when younger, a head full of
jet-black hair. He told me he began playing accordion when he was eight
years old. Several relatives helped him learn music, including his
father who also played accordion. He would eventually join his older
brother Joe, a drummer, who had formed his own band. According to the
History of Vallejo Musician’s, Joe tried to earn a spot in the Al
Chester Band from his home town of Crockett. “Trying out for this group,
Joe was told he played too loud, and being miffed, decided to organize
his own band, using his relatives to form a combo.” Over time, this grew
to a twelve piece orchestra, for whom, “Work was sporadic at first, but
by 1941 the orchestra started a 25-year run of steady work, an
incredible record for a local band.” An interesting tie-in to Napa and
Vallejo histories is the fact that Babe, as reported in the Times
Herald, played baseball for the Napa Merchants in 1942 before being
drafted into the army. He also played at the Turf Club at Candlestick
Park during the eighties. Babe told me that playing in the Joe Pallotta
Band for a time was the unique guitarist Roy Rogers, who played
with Blues great John Lee Hooker, who, towards the end of his career,
made his home in Vallejo. Also spending time in the Pallotta band was
trumpeter Marvin McFadden, another Vallejoan who has played with
Huey Lewis and the News.
In the quest for this story, and the finding of
facts, I was first led to Guido and Rosey Colla. Mr. and Mrs. Colla and
my mother were friends. They ran into one another at a restaurant, and
by mysterious chance, the Dream Bowl came up in conversation. My mother
knew I was interested in writing on its history, and she arranged a
meeting at her home, and we got together for an enjoyable talk about
their recollections. I shall be forever grateful for this circumstance
as it generated much that would follow in the unfolding of events.
Mythologist Joseph Campbell often quoted the ideas of Arthur
Schopenhauer, and from an interview with Michael Toms recounted in the
book An Open Life, Campbell says:
There’s a wonderful paper by
Schopenhauer, called “An Apparent Intention of the Fate of the
Individual,” in which he points out that when you are at a certain age -
the age I am now (his 80s) - and look back over your life, it seems to
be almost as orderly as a composed novel. And just as in Dickens’
novels, little accidental meetings and so forth turn out to be main
features in the plot, so in your life... And then he asks: “Who wrote
this novel?”
So, continuing in this regard, here we go. The night we met, Guido and
Rosey told me they went to the Dream Bowl during their courtship, and
they suggested I contact Babe, whose name we found in the phone book on
the spot. Their son, Johnny Colla, was an original member of Huey
Lewis and the News. On Feb. 7, 2008, my wife Sylvia and I attended a
Vintage High production of Miss Saigon, in which our granddaughter
Caylie sang and danced. In the pit orchestra was none other than Marvin
McFadden on trumpet and flugelhorn. Caylie’s father, Mike Soon, is a
chemist working for Caltest, an environmental testing company who house
their offices in a building where, once upon a time, music and dance
took place. They called that place the Dream Bowl. Now ain’t that an
amazing little swirl of people and places?
Jimmy Lunceford and his Orchestra.
Babe told me, that
at some point, the band won a competition, and became the “house band”
for the Dream Bowl. I asked him about his own recollections as a
listener. Were there bands that performed at the Dream Bowl that stood
out? The band that impressed him the most was Jimmy Lunceford and his
Orchestra. His face became more animated as he thought back. He
mentioned that the musicianship was of very high quality, as was the
presentation.
In an essay by critic and author Ralph J. Gleason, he
had this to say about Lunceford: “The songs were all played, regardless
of their simplicity or complexity, for dancers, basically. After all,
these were dance bands and, except for its one brief tour of
Europe just before World War II broke out, I doubt if the Lunceford band
ever played a concert. They played dances and they played stage shows;
the concert era for big bands came a good deal later.” It was a great
pleasure to discover that Gleason, a man whose work and person I greatly
admired, had written about Lunceford in Celebrating the Duke an
excerpt of which was included in Reading Jazz. As a college
student, a fellow student had played him a Lunceford recording, and he
flipped, becoming an instant fan. The passion for the music, so strong
at that age, comes right off the page:
They used to appear on
blue-label 35-cent discs every couple of weeks at the bookstore
on the Columbia campus – two sides, 78 rpm, and you had to be
there right on time or the small allotment would be gone and
you’d have missed the new Jimmie Lunceford record. If you were
lucky you got one, ran back to your room in John Jay or Hartley
Hall, sharpened your cactus needle on a Red Top needle
sharpener, the little sandpaper disc buzzing as you spun it, and
then sat back in ecstasy to listen to the sound coming out over
your raunchy, beat-up Magnavox.
Ah, that sense of urgency is such a wonderful thing.
For that reason I want to say some more about Gleason and why I
respected him so much. Gleason’s work would be of considerable
importance as he seemed to be on the vanguard, and able to tap into and
accurately report valuable changes as they unfolded. For me he was a
reliable guide for those things that proved to be worth while, and was
exemplary in the appreciation and celebration of music. I started
subscribing to the jazz magazine down beat, in 1964, and before
that was buying it off the rack. Gleason was a regular contributor to
the magazine, and I always found his work worth reading. In the early
60s, he hosted a quality TV show called Jazz Casual on PBS, and
later in his career was co-founder of Rolling Stone magazine.
Especially endearing for me, was the fact that he was one of the
first, if not the first jazz critic to take seriously the things
that Rock bands were doing, and there was many an aspiring musician,
particularly in the Bay Area, who deeply appreciated Ralph’s influence
in bringing respectful consideration to what they were doing. I was
still interested in jazz, but was becoming equally interested in Rock,
and I can assure you, there was considerable snobbery in evidence in the
jazz press.
You could gather from Gleason’s
reviews, that he was a careful listener, and this was further evident in
the respect he had earned in the musical fraternity. A footnote lends
yet more evidence from an experience talked about by Steve Allen during
his on-camera musings as he was bidding farewell to his pioneering place
on late night TV. More than any other host of his time, Allen, a
musician himself, was interested in and supportive of musicians, and his
show was always a haven for unique musical presentation. I recall, for
example, a show on which Henry Mancini was a guest for the entire night,
and on that same show, the very talented Cannonball Adderley Quintet
performed, after which Mancini gave great praise. I thought to myself at
the time, we sure could use more shows like this. I say this because
that sort of public validation for jazz musicians from a respected
member of the music mainstream, seldom occurred. Despite Allen’s own
skills as musician (he could play anything), he was still known as a
funny-man, and because of that had always been automatically, and
unfairly snubbed by the critics. To prove a point, he contrived a hoax
he fully intended to reveal, and made a recording of jazz piano pieces,
overdubbing as it were, a third hand. For the liner notes, he invented a
person with an intriguing biography: a reclusive black pianist just
recently discovered, and here now, for the first time, were the
recordings. The record received splendid reviews, and the wool had been
successfully pulled until Ralph J. Gleason listened to it, and heard a
few too many notes happening for two hands, saving Allen the trouble of
revealing it himself.
As for my own youthful urgency, when my interests
shifted from my baseball card collection to down beat magazine,
it was with great anticipation and hope that I went to the corner of
First and Coombs in downtown Napa, where a magazine rack was located in
front of the drugstore, one of the few places in town the magazine was
available, and where they too had a small allotment. I clearly remember
my steps quickening with greed as I neared the corner. Let me not be
late; just one more issue for yours truly, if you please.
As can be seen, it was modest
equipment for Ralph J. Gleason too, and this is a decade and a half
further back in the dark ages of sound reproduction. Still the ideas
were sufficiently conveyed so that the “ecstasy,” was experienced.
Enthusiasm for the essence of the musical message is useful in hearing
past the scratchiness of a poor recording. I’m reminded of comments
(during an interview with Grateful Dead Almanac editor Gary
Lambert) by mandolin virtuoso David Grissman, who along with Jerry
Garcia (who would become the lead guitarist for the Grateful Dead)
immersed themselves in bluegrass one season, going to music festivals,
and always seeking that rare recording that captured something great.
Grissman described some of those rare recordings as “...sounding like
frying eggs.” If you grew up in the fifties, you know that sound.
Recording technology was not an issue however, where
live performance was concerned. With respect to the Jimmy Lunceford
Orchestra, the theatrics were impressive, choreographed in precise
manner, and delivered with great flair, but the music never suffered as
a result. No matter what acrobatic feat the musicians were up to, the
music still cooked madly. Lunceford himself was a man who seemed
perfectly suited to be a band leader. A large man of fairly serious
comportment, he was the calm center against the sometimes frenzied
activity that surrounded him. The baton he used to lead the band was
oversized and caught one’s eye as did much of what went on with this
band. The drummer was up front, in the center, and on a raised stand,
which was equipped with what was, for its day, an extravagant drum kit.
Every bit of it got used with crossover moves and stick tosses that
added punctuation to the musical statements being made by the band, and
yet the drummer’s contribution was a show all by itself. There was so
much going on that it wasn’t until a third or fourth look at a You-Tube
video clip that I saw the amazing things the drummer was doing. Gleason
goes on to say, “…maybe they would do ‘For Dancers Only’ for half an
hour…making the whole audience meld together into one homogenous mass
extension of the music.” Sounds like the stuff of a memorable evening.
Horace Silver
Pianist Horace Silver who
successfully blended blues and Latin rhythms in his unique and varied
compositions which pleased both musicians and audiences alike, credits
The Jimmy Lunceford Orchestra with helping to cement his decision to be
a musician. Silver writes about this in his autobiography, Let’s Get
To The Nitty Gritty, but I first heard an account of it, from Silver
himself, on KCSM’s Jazz Profiles which is hosted by Nancy Wilson. He
said his father took him to Rowayton, Connecticut “...almost every
Sunday to Rowton Point.” His mother had passed away when he was nine and
now he was eleven. It was an amusement park and they’d eat hot dogs, and
ride the rides. On one of these occasions, “Jimmy Lunceford and His
Orchestra come up on a Greyhound bus. (It said so on the side of the
bus) I said, ‘Dad could we please stay to hear one number.’ “We waited
half an hour or forty minutes just waiting for them to get set up at the
dance pavilion.” He goes on to say that “...blacks were not allowed
inside at this time.” The pavilion was not totally enclosed, so you
could stand nearby, hear them and see a little. “They started playing,
and the music sounded so good. The Jimmy Lunceford band was so together,
they were hitting it so precisely, and the music was swingin’ and it
sounded so good. I begged and pleaded with my Dad to stay for one more
tune, and we stayed for three or four tunes.” “It was when I heard that
Lunceford band, that’s when I said to myself that’s what I want to be: a
musician. They were dressed nice, the singing was good, the playing was
good. It was just one hell of an outfit, and that’s when I made my
commitment to be a musician.” As he was recounting this, I could hear
the excitement in his voice echoing the impression they had made, which
reminded me of the enthusiasm I witnessed in Babe Pallota’s face when he
talked about how great they had been. For Horace Silver the depth of
that impression was reflected in the serious tone of his voice at that
moment, and borne out by his compelling compositions, energetic soloing,
and the successful and influential career that followed.
There are many stories about individual musicians,
and bands of all types, big and small, who play all manner of music,
that for one reason or another, never got the recognition they deserved.
The Jimmy Lunceford Band, although well-known, probably should have been
more celebrated than it was.
As regards the Lunceford band, and
the performing style of the time, Ralph Gleason added this:
True big band freaks, of whom I was one, were
absolutely dedicated to the Lunceford band. It had – and still has –
a very special place in the memories of those who date back to the Era
of Good Feeling of the 30s, when the big bands symbolized a kind of
romance and glamour and exotic beauty long gone from the world of
entertainment...and when I got to the Big Apple and found that you could
actually get to see a band like this in person at the Apollo or the
Savoy Ballroom or the Renaissance or the Strand or Paramount theaters, I
simply couldn’t believe it. It was just too good to be true.
And for people from Napa, and Solano
counties, the Bay Area and beyond, the Dream Bowl was that place where
those same bands and performances could be experienced, and where one
could be part of what was “just too good to be true.”
__________________________________
© Mike Amen 2010
Yours truly and
sister Lynda dancing, circa 1959. Out of the frame is big sister Paula
offering instruction. Note “Hi-Fi” unit between chairs. |
