Monthly Archives: August 2023

Part 2: Easy Listening In Former Speakeasy

by Woody

The worst seat in the house inside “Bill’s Place,” a former Prohibition era speakeasy in Harlem that once again features live jazz, would be better than the best seat in most any other venue.

My son and I, you see, sat in the back row – which was also the front row. As mentioned here last week, the off-the-beaten-path step-down brownstone apartment-turned-revived-nightclub is so shotgun-narrow that a single row of 11 mismatched wooden chairs and stools are backed up against the wall opposite the three-inch-high stage. So close are the seats that when I straightened my legs my feet literally rested onstage.

Standing room allowed another dozen patrons to enjoy the intimate performance by Bill Saxton & The Harlem All-Stars. Saxton is fittingly named for he plays the sax. Moreover, he has done so over the past five decades with the likes of such luminaries as The Duke Ellington Orchestra and The Count Basie Orchestra.

Bill Saxton doing his magic…

“Welcome to Bill’s Place,” said Saxton, the venue’s owner and namesake, and then our memorable evening was underway. Between songs, he regaled the assemblage with tales of nights long foregone, including about legendary songstress Billie Holiday who was discovered right here at age 17 in 1933.

Not even halfway into the 90-minute set, my cane chair had become tortuously uncomfortable, but that and 20 dollars – cash only; no secret password was required, however – was the price of admission. Both costs were bargains for the jam session was so steamy it threatened to peel off the wallpaper.

The intimacy of the room surely made the music sound better, but an equal pleasure was to watch the musicians at such rare proximity and behold Saxton, beads of sweat visible on his forehead just below the brim of his porkpie hat, rhythmically tapping his left foot as he played, his fingers masterfully commanding the keys and pearl buttons of his saxophone, a ring on his right pinkie twinkling like starlight.

To audit even closer and see his fingers flex and release, quick, slow, liquidly; see his cheeks change shapes and color; see his eyes not just close at times, but squeeze tightly shut, lost in the music, was spellbinding.

Similarly, thanks to the upright piano being pressed up against the wall, stage left, the pianist played with his back to the audience thus affording listeners the opportunity to watch his fingers deftly dance and slide and tickle the ivories. Meanwhile, far right on the stage, the blurred, rhythmic hands of the drummer were equally arresting to focus in on.

But most mesmerizing of all, to my eyes, was watching the upright bass player’s fingers strum and pluck the strings; strings that from merely five feet away seemed as thick as bungee cords – or chords, should I say?

What strength in those fingers! What grace, too, as they nimbly moved up and down the neck massaging the fingerboard. His hands, the knuckles enlarged from a billion lifetime notes, are surely as strong as a bricklayer’s yet his calloused fingertips somehow maintain the sensitive touch of a master safecracker’s.

“Easy reading is (darn) hard writing,” Nathaniel Hawthorne said, and music is no different. Hunched over his instrument, the (darn) hard effort of the bassist’s work showed in growing perspiration stains, but the result was easy listening.

“Find a hidden doorway and go inside,” a wise friend often reminds me before I travel. “That’s where you’ll find the truly magical experiences.” He was right once again, for to borrow from a Billie Holiday song, finding the out-of-the-way doorway of Bill’s Place was like finding “Pennies From Heaven.”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Part 1: Small Audiences, Big Enchantment

by Woody

Recalling a handful of my all-time favorite concerts in this space last week, I made the knee-jerk mistake of focusing on big venues – baseball stadiums, basketball arenas, outdoor bowls – and thus remembered The Who, Paul McCartney, Fleetwood Mac, and James Taylor while suffering temporary amnesia of two unforgettable musical gigs in small settings.

Small is actually a sizeable overstatement. My daughter and I saw award-winning songstress Amber Rubarth perform in a private “house concert” in Seattle, in a suburban living room, in front of 24 attendees filling one couch, a loveseat, an array of dining room and kitchen chairs, and some split-level stairs.

With no mic and amplifier required, Amber’s voice was twice as pleasant as on recordings and three times more so than in a big venue. Before songs, she shared personal stories behind the lyrics; after songs, she asked audience members about themselves. It wasn’t a concert so much as an intimate party.

Even more intimate was a night of music I enjoyed with my son in New York City, in Harlem specifically, more precisely in “Bill’s Place,” a former speakeasy in the 1920s and ’30s that features live jazz again since its revival nearly two decades ago.

“Bill’s Place” is off the beaten path, a fair hike from the nearest subway stop, eventually down a narrow block on West 133rd Street – long ago known as “Swing Street” because it was swinging and jamming on both sides with jazz, but is now so quiet you can hear birdsong.

Address number 148 is a brownstone apartment, shotgun narrow, with a step-down entrance guarded by a shoulder-high black wrought iron fence. Only a modest red awning featuring “Bill’s Place” in small white script lets you know you have arrived.

Closer inspection affords two more telltale signs: a plaque on the brick facade, just to the left of the black front door, reads “Harlem Swing Street / Jazz Singer / Billie Holiday / Discovered Here in 1933 / Bill’s Place Speakeasy” and above it is a framed black-and-white photo of the legendary singer.

Back in those days, during the Prohibition years, bathtub gin was served here in coffee cups so that when police raids came the cups served as decoys. Ironically, these days the bygone nightclub serves no alcohol – although patrons are welcome to bring their own spirits.

Back during my nights and days as a sports columnist, I sat courtside at Lakers games and saw Pete Sampras from the first row; sat two feet behind the out-of-bounds back stripe of the end zone in Candlestick Park for a 49ers-Rams playoff game and walked inside the ropes while following Jack Nicklaus and Tiger Woods; and on and on; but I have never been nearer to the action than I was at Bill’s Place.

My son and I sat in the front row, which was also the back row because the time-capsule room was so narrow there was only one row of seating – eleven mismatched cane chairs and wooden stools, all backed up against the wall opposite the stage, the seats shoehorned so closely together that patrons’ elbows rubbed and their rear ends bumped. Additionally, there was standing room only off to either side of the stage for a dozen people.

We were so close to the stage, which by the way was only three inches high, that if I, at six-foot-four, straightened my legs out my heels would rest on it, albeit at the risk of tripping the star saxophonist – and venue namesake – Bill Saxton should he roam two steps forward.

To be concluded next week…

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

The Birds “play a song for me”

by Woody

“What’s the greatest concert you’ve ever been to?” came the question and I might as well have been asked which of my two children or soon-to-be-three grandkids is my all-time favorite.           

Truth is, all five have their own color in my I Love You Most Rainbow. Similarly, I had to answer with a handful of hues in my Rainbow Of Concerts: The Who, Paul McCartney, Fleetwood Mac, James Taylor, Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers…

… and The Birds — not to be confused with The Byrds — who performed outside my bedroom window the other morning as dawn and I yawned ourselves awake. This concert began as a solo act, although I could not see the performer because the shutters were shut and I was too comfortable beneath the covers to get up and open them. Instead, I was like an orchestra judge listening to blind tryouts taking place behind a screen.

Mixing tweets and trills, whistles and chirps, sometimes repeating short melodies and other times seemingly creating long jazzy patterns on the fly — on the perch, rather — she sang and I listened. I say she, but of course in equal likelihood it was a he singing to attract a mate or claim territory. However, so beautiful and upbeat was this birdsong, I imagined it came from a common “swift” family member — specifically, the uncommon Taylor Swift.

My friend Scott, who wrote a book titled “Raptor Quest” about his successful pursuit to photograph all 53 species of raptors that fly in American air space, can identify most feathered friends with his ear ever as deftly as with aid of binoculars. I, on the other hand, could not tell if my winged warbler was a common Ventura sparrow, St. Louis Cardinal, California thrasher, Atlanta Hawk, American robin, or Philadelphia Eagle.

Nor could I help but wonder about the lyrics. With the morning recital coming on a Friday, maybe she was a loyal reader of my column and was complimenting that day’s 600 words? More likely, she was singing, “Time to rise and shine!” Or, perhaps, she was crowing, “Guess which early riser caught a worm! Would you like half?”

“No worm for me, thank you,” I wanted to say while offering, “Would you like some coffee?” But I didn’t know how.

I do know this: It is nearly impossible to start your day in a foul mood when a fowl sings good morning to you in a voice bright as a kindergartener’s first-day smile.

After a short while, the opening act ended — probably she had run through her complete repertoire, or else had to wing-pool the kids to school — and a different bird, with a different pitch and different rhythms, took center stage in a different tree and her (or his) song was equally beautiful.

In turn, she (or he) yielded to another solo serenader, then three or four more joined in to make it a jam session, and now I was fully transported back to summer days of yore; of running barefooted in my backyard chasing butterflies and grasshoppers; of summer vacations at a lakeside cabin in Ohio when I was a boy; of fishing at a pond with my Grandpa; all while the surrounding trees were alive with birdsong.

Too, the birds on this morning made me think of The Byrds and their song “Mr. Tambourine Man” and its lyrics “…play a song for me / I’m not sleepy and there’s ain’t no place I’m goin’ to…”

Yes, I was no longer sleepy as I enjoyed a memorable morning concert with no better place to go.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Friend Turns Floodwaters Into Sunshine

by Woody

What a difference a day makes.

More accurately, what a difference a friend can make on a day. Such it was on recent back-to-back afternoons that for me were as polar as sunshine and flooding rain, figuratively and almost literally.

Let me begin with the rainstorm. My Much Better Half and I are having our kitchen and downstairs guest bathroom remodeled. “Don’t expect smooth sailing,” we were forewarned. This proved a portentous metaphor because returning from my daily run I opened the front door and found myself in need of a boat.

While I was out, a worker clogged and broke the toilet – a toilet that was not to be used for it was covered by protective plastic during painting – and it runneth over continuously for an hour or more. Floodwaters overtook the entryway, dining room, family room, and most of our primary bedroom. The tide even surged into the kitchen and garage.

With hardwood floors ruined, carpet too, my spirits the following day were soggy as well. When I went on a run that afternoon, for a rare time during my running Streak of 7,341 consecutive days, I felt like cutting my intended miles shorter. But then…

“Hi, Woody!” came a voice from behind my left ear, so close and loud and unexpected that I flinched. Because I was wearing earbuds, the greeter’s volume was purposely turned up to be heard. However, because of a dead battery I was not listening to music. As a result, I may have yelped as if startled by the sight of a slithering rattlesnake two strides ahead.

Instead, it was a friendly face that I have seen from time to time at Kimball Park. Brody, a handsome young man with sharp features and a soft smile, grew up in Ventura and is a recent graduate from UC Santa Barbara, my alma mater, where he was in the ROTC. I learned all this, and more, on previous occasions he joined me for a few miles when our running paths crossed.

This go-round-and-round around the soccer fields he updated me about his enlistment as an officer in the Army (the Irish meaning of Brody is “protector,” perfectly fitting for someone safeguarding our country); that he is now married; and is stationed in Texas, which he said has been so Hades-hot lately that this 80-degree Ventura day felt chilly to him.

And just like that, like morning dew under August sunshine, my soggy mood over “The Great Woodburn Flood of ’23” quickly evaporated. My heavy feet that felt like I was slogging through a muddy boot-camp obstacle course suddenly had Hermes-like wings on their ankles and the next two miles breezed by. Brody’s pace was surely slower than he wanted, mine a tad too fast, for isn’t friendship sometimes a compromise?

The last time I had seen Brody was in a rainstorm, the showers so steady that the park’s fields then coincidentally resembled my downstairs floors only 24 hours earlier. On that rainy day we had laughed as we splish-splashed along; this day now, I suddenly felt winsome and recalled a poem titled “On Friendship” by John Wooden:

At times when I am feeling low, / I hear from a friend and then

My worries start to go away / And I am on the mend

No matter what the doctors say – /And their studies never end

The best cure of all, when spirits fall, / Is a kind word from a friend

Indeed, a kind word – better yet, a couple miles of friendly conversation – can turn rain into sunshine.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Legacy of Books and Writing

by Woody

My maternal grandfather was born in May but was named August. In full, August Heinrich Emil Rahn, which is a stately mouthful of syllables.

However, he felt August was too starchy, which is richly ironic because he was a gentleman who, according to my mom and aunt, would come home from the office and mow the lawn in his tailored wool suit and polished shoes.

Lest you get the notion of excessive genteelness, were it a hot summer day in the suburbs of Chicago he would remove his suit jacket. If very hot, loosen his tie. And on truly sweltering occasions, off came the cufflinks with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

All of which seems like August should have rightly gone by the even more formal variant, Augustus. Instead, even as an executive in the boardroom of Field Enterprises, Inc., he went by Auggie. I think that is extremely cool.

Grandpa Auggie, the father of the bride (my mom).

What is not so cool is that I have zero memories of Grandpa Auggie because he died when I was quite young. Today – August 4 – is the anniversary of his death, which made me think I should write about him. After all, I have often done so about my other grandfather, Grandpa Ansel, a small-town physician who, by the way, authored a number of medical journal essays.

But truth be told, if there is DNA in my family tree responsible for me becoming a writer it comes from Grandpa Auggie. For starters, at Field Enterprises he was responsible for putting out The World Book Encyclopedia which was The Google of All Information in its time. Too, he oversaw limited editions of myriad other books featuring sheepskin covers and special color illustrations and linen pages and so on.

And so, thanks to Grandpa Auggie, I grew up in a home filled with his volumes, from A to Z encyclopedias to an exquisite edition about Afrika (not Africa) to a handsome collection of Mark Twain’s works.

Most important of all, Auggie raised my mom to love books. Hence, she read to me when I was little; took me to get a library card before I was in kindergarten; and later encouraged me to become a writer.

While he published books instead of authoring them, Auggie had a gift with his own written words. This I know from my inheritance of a handful of his letters written to my mom, their prose nothing shy of elegant. One is a Robert Frost-worthy poem, in rhyme, for her 21st birthday and another missive shortly before her college graduation contains a passage that is an inner North Star to follow:

“Above all things, Audrey, resolve to be yourself; be fair; be just; always be sure you know the facts; never take things for granted; exercise patience; be tasteful; be kind to other folks and you may be sure the world will be a better place for those who are near and dear to you; learn to develop and use your abilities for your own happiness and the happiness of loved ones.”

Moreover, proving to be a down-to-earth Auggie rather than an austere August, he concluded: “Such has been the philosophy of my life. I may not always have achieved to the fullness I desired. The degree of my accomplishment in this direction I must leave to the judgment of others. My acceptance of this fact is a constant challenge to do better.”

I may not have known him, but I know this: Grandpa Auggie remains one of my greatest role models – except when it comes to mowing the lawn.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.