August 12, 2009
I mentioned David's idol Bill Watrous in my eulogy. It might have been an obscure reference, even by David standards. Bill Watrous is considered to be one of the greatest jazz trombone players in history, though perhaps a bit overlooked.
David gave me a Bill Watrous record for my bar mitzvah, The Tiger of San Pedro, and I must say that though I got lots of cash and checks that day, no one else thought to give me a collection of trombone music. If you want to hear the song that David and I wore out on the record player, click here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzNg4j-EYYE
The trumpet solo at the one minute mark is pretty amazing but the trombone solo at the end is not too shabby either. David loved it.
Matt Mendelsohn
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Missing a dear friend
August 11, 2009
I met David in 1986 when we both worked at CAMI. David worked in Publicity with Dolph Timmerman, and I worked down the hall in Theatricals. Though we were colleagues for a few years, our friendship really took off after David left for the job with Life.
Through the years we went to countless shows, concerts and movies – and other excursions as well. I will never forget the hike that David, Howie and I went on near Newburgh, NY. We were lost for hours and I was convinced that we would never return – there was David, calmly and analytically reviewing the hiking trail book (the one with the landmarks that weren’t there anymore) and consulting with Howie, while I wailed that our remains would never be found.
Then there was the shopping trip around Manhattan when he needed to buy a suit for some occasion… another odyssey that lasted for hours. I’ve never known anyone to try on clothing more thoughtfully – or take more time doing it.
We both enjoyed the singing of Fred Astaire, and Busby Berkeley movies – we often quoted funny song lyrics to each other -- a favorite that always cracked us up was “Paducah, Paducah, if you wanna you can rhyme it with bazooka, but can’t pooh pooh, Paducah...”
After I got married we saw each other a lot less, but spoke at least every few weeks. David delighted in stories about my daughters. Over this past summer we were not in touch as much as usual. When the writer Frank McCourt passed away recently, I emailed David, asking him if he remembered a panel discussion we attended some years ago, where Mr. McCourt was one of the speakers. David emailed me back that he hadn’t been feeling well. The phone message that I had left for him was returned from the hospital. He discouraged me from visiting, saying that he wasn’t up to having company. We agreed that we would get together when he was feeling better. His last words to me were “thanks for caring.”
I will miss my sweet friend.
Pam Lederman
I met David in 1986 when we both worked at CAMI. David worked in Publicity with Dolph Timmerman, and I worked down the hall in Theatricals. Though we were colleagues for a few years, our friendship really took off after David left for the job with Life.
Through the years we went to countless shows, concerts and movies – and other excursions as well. I will never forget the hike that David, Howie and I went on near Newburgh, NY. We were lost for hours and I was convinced that we would never return – there was David, calmly and analytically reviewing the hiking trail book (the one with the landmarks that weren’t there anymore) and consulting with Howie, while I wailed that our remains would never be found.
Then there was the shopping trip around Manhattan when he needed to buy a suit for some occasion… another odyssey that lasted for hours. I’ve never known anyone to try on clothing more thoughtfully – or take more time doing it.
We both enjoyed the singing of Fred Astaire, and Busby Berkeley movies – we often quoted funny song lyrics to each other -- a favorite that always cracked us up was “Paducah, Paducah, if you wanna you can rhyme it with bazooka, but can’t pooh pooh, Paducah...”
After I got married we saw each other a lot less, but spoke at least every few weeks. David delighted in stories about my daughters. Over this past summer we were not in touch as much as usual. When the writer Frank McCourt passed away recently, I emailed David, asking him if he remembered a panel discussion we attended some years ago, where Mr. McCourt was one of the speakers. David emailed me back that he hadn’t been feeling well. The phone message that I had left for him was returned from the hospital. He discouraged me from visiting, saying that he wasn’t up to having company. We agreed that we would get together when he was feeling better. His last words to me were “thanks for caring.”
I will miss my sweet friend.
Pam Lederman
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Memories
August 9, 2009
I hope I can add to the photographs...in the meantime, my memory in words. It got long...
I met David my first day of college. I must have met dozens of others too, including Jeff and people who became life-long friends, but where those memories of first encounters have grown hazy, my first impression of David remains vivid. He was standing on the steps in front of the 130s, wearing his Mao cap, eager to talk. He was brimming with confidence and ideas and strong opinions.
Much later, after we both moved to New York after graduation, he told me that New Yorkers all claimed him as their own. Jews identified him as Jewish, Puerto Ricans as Puerto Rican and African Americans thought he was black. When I first met David, I knew that college students were supposed to be people who were interesting and fun and went to free events. David was all of that. We spent hours in conversation and this, I knew, was exactly how college students were meant to pass the time.
I struggled to keep up with David. He talked about the youth orchestra trip to China as if I had played trombone and unloaded instruments right beside him. He spoke of filmmaker Buneul and his “Andalusian Dog” and something that sounded to me like “Lodge Door.” Was he already a fan of Henry Miller? I think so. We saw “Clockwork Orange” together at Wilson Hall. When I wanted to see the made-for-TV movie of Marilyn French’s “The Women’s Room,” David accompanied me to the TV lounge in a nearby dorm. I also got to know Howie and Sue and Dave and Joy—almost as if they were characters in a book I had yet to read. (And it was a full cast of characters…if your name doesn’t appear here, it’s my failure of memory, no doubt.)
David and I auditioned for Pep Band the same afternoon. David, of course, was selected. I failed to win a spot playing clarinet and was sorry but not surprised. I knew how poorly I played. But David took it to heart. He didn’t argue with me about my ability, but he mourned with me my lost opportunity at making music with other people. He was so articulate in how there should be such opportunities, even for third-rate players, that forever after that I thought of David whenever I heard about a “no-audition” community orchestra.
David had firm ideas about so many things. I was never quite able to negotiate his forceful certainties and so we argued. We were romantic for just a moment—perhaps from his birthday to Thanksgiving--but he remained a generous friend for years. I owed my part-time job working in the UVA music department to him. He selected a Robert Graves poem to read at Jeff’s and my wedding: “The Starred Coverlet.” Later, when we were both establishing ourselves as freelance writers, he passed along freelance jobs that he thought suited my strengths. My work for Millbrook Press began thanks to an introduction from David.
If David and I drifted apart in the last 10 or so years, the fault rests with me. Jeff is traveling with Cari Howard to the funeral today. Right now I dearly wish I could attend. Instead I am home with a toddler and a teenager who made a 1,400-mile roadtrip to the midwest with me. I hope many, many stories of David’s fabulous sense of humor get shared this afternoon. He had a special appreciation for visual jokes. Maybe Jeff will get a chance to share the sea cucumber story.
I think now, if David were the first person to greet me in some vast ecumenical heaven, that I would be pleased. Who better to point out the most interesting corners! And if, by chance, he insisted that Buneul be the first soul that I meet, that would be ok too.
Liz Marshall
I hope I can add to the photographs...in the meantime, my memory in words. It got long...
I met David my first day of college. I must have met dozens of others too, including Jeff and people who became life-long friends, but where those memories of first encounters have grown hazy, my first impression of David remains vivid. He was standing on the steps in front of the 130s, wearing his Mao cap, eager to talk. He was brimming with confidence and ideas and strong opinions.
Much later, after we both moved to New York after graduation, he told me that New Yorkers all claimed him as their own. Jews identified him as Jewish, Puerto Ricans as Puerto Rican and African Americans thought he was black. When I first met David, I knew that college students were supposed to be people who were interesting and fun and went to free events. David was all of that. We spent hours in conversation and this, I knew, was exactly how college students were meant to pass the time.
I struggled to keep up with David. He talked about the youth orchestra trip to China as if I had played trombone and unloaded instruments right beside him. He spoke of filmmaker Buneul and his “Andalusian Dog” and something that sounded to me like “Lodge Door.” Was he already a fan of Henry Miller? I think so. We saw “Clockwork Orange” together at Wilson Hall. When I wanted to see the made-for-TV movie of Marilyn French’s “The Women’s Room,” David accompanied me to the TV lounge in a nearby dorm. I also got to know Howie and Sue and Dave and Joy—almost as if they were characters in a book I had yet to read. (And it was a full cast of characters…if your name doesn’t appear here, it’s my failure of memory, no doubt.)
David and I auditioned for Pep Band the same afternoon. David, of course, was selected. I failed to win a spot playing clarinet and was sorry but not surprised. I knew how poorly I played. But David took it to heart. He didn’t argue with me about my ability, but he mourned with me my lost opportunity at making music with other people. He was so articulate in how there should be such opportunities, even for third-rate players, that forever after that I thought of David whenever I heard about a “no-audition” community orchestra.
David had firm ideas about so many things. I was never quite able to negotiate his forceful certainties and so we argued. We were romantic for just a moment—perhaps from his birthday to Thanksgiving--but he remained a generous friend for years. I owed my part-time job working in the UVA music department to him. He selected a Robert Graves poem to read at Jeff’s and my wedding: “The Starred Coverlet.” Later, when we were both establishing ourselves as freelance writers, he passed along freelance jobs that he thought suited my strengths. My work for Millbrook Press began thanks to an introduction from David.
If David and I drifted apart in the last 10 or so years, the fault rests with me. Jeff is traveling with Cari Howard to the funeral today. Right now I dearly wish I could attend. Instead I am home with a toddler and a teenager who made a 1,400-mile roadtrip to the midwest with me. I hope many, many stories of David’s fabulous sense of humor get shared this afternoon. He had a special appreciation for visual jokes. Maybe Jeff will get a chance to share the sea cucumber story.
I think now, if David were the first person to greet me in some vast ecumenical heaven, that I would be pleased. Who better to point out the most interesting corners! And if, by chance, he insisted that Buneul be the first soul that I meet, that would be ok too.
Liz Marshall
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
