The Valley Forge Music Fair is long gone, now replaced by that American archetype, the shopping center. But some two and three decades ago, it was the place to go in the Upper Main Line area of Pennsylvania if you wanted to see high-quality popular entertainment.

One of the most enjoyable concerts I attended there featured the Artie Shaw Orchestra with Dick Johnson and special guests Rosemary Clooney and Vic Damone. I guess I like Shaw's music almost as much as I like the Glenn Miller AAF Band, and I've always considered Rosie Clooney to be one of the best female vocalists of the late big band era, so the chance to see them together was too much to pass up. At the time, I wasn't all that interested in Vic Damone's singing, but more about that below.

The Music Fair was originally exactly that -- a circus-style tent on a tract of land a couple of miles south of Valley Forge Park. By this time, the tent had been replaced with a building that provided all-weather accommodations but preserved the "theatre in the round" atmosphere of the old tent. When concert time rolled around, the band members came down the aisles, took their seats on the central stage, and started playing without a conductor.

A few moments later, Rosemary Clooney walked down in front of the band and started to sing. What a sensational voice she had! I've described it to others as being like cream poured over a dessert cake, smooth, velvety, not too sweet, just perfect. She sang a number of then-new tunes along with several obligatory hits such as "Hey There," "Come on-a My House," and "Tenderly." She tended not to interact with the audience very much, but heck, just being 40 or 50 feet away from the great Rosie was more than enough for me!

Her set ended after about 45 minutes and she went off-stage while the band remained. Then a super surprise: as Dick Johnson stood up to play the opening notes of "Nightmare," a lanky, bald-headed man came towards the stage: Artie Shaw himself!

He hadn't changed his famously volatile mind about never playing his clarinet again, but there he was in front of the stage conducting his orchestra. As "Nightmare" ended, there was thunderous applause, then Artie introduced himself (as if anyone needed to know) and described what he was trying to achieve with the band. He wanted it to sound as if he had been able to keep it going for all those years instead of leaving the music business (was there a touch of regret? I can't really say...) and that it had evolved with the times. Still, I think he knew what the audience wanted to hear because almost all of the tunes were associated with his great 1938 and 1940 orchestras. He even appeared happy when conducting "Begin the Beguine" despite once having said that he'd played it so often he had come to hate the song. Artie's set lasted about another 45 minutes. He and the band left the stage for intermission, despite the audience shouting for more and still more. AF of M rules, I guess, plus Artie was well past Social Security age.

The last set was reserved for Vic Damone. I noticed that some members of the audience had left. I was tempted to do the same but decided to stay anyway. I was very glad I did! At that point, I mostly thought of Vic Damone as a kind of Vegas singer, pleasant but not on the level of Sinatra or Bennett, and who was fortunate enough to be married to the gorgeous and supremely talented Diahann Carroll. Well, I was really glad I stayed because Damone turned out to the the sleeper hit of the evening!

Rather than just coming out and performing, Damone engaged with the audience, discussing what songs he liked, asking what they liked, talking about the music business and his home life, and even making knowledgeable comments about the historical importance of Valley Forge and Philadelphia. Maybe some of it was just well-honed stage experience on his part, but he really seemed to be enjoying the back-and-forth banter with the audience, not to mention sending more than a few female attendees into a near swoon.(Of course, I wanted to see Diahann!)

Even though that day was almost 30 years ago and Shaw and Clooney are no longer with us, I still treasure what turned out to be the musical equivalent of a three-course banquet.

Jeff Karpinksi
King of Prussia, Pennsylvania
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One of the unplanned benefits in my decision to attend the same college as my father (Ursinus, if that speaks to anyone) was that the school is only about a half-hour drive from the legendary Sunnybrook Ballroom in Pottstown, Pennsylvania.

While Sunnybrook has sadly had a number of financial problems in recent years, back in the Sixties it regularly hosted dance concerts by any number of big bands. It wasn’t long before I found several other like-minded students who knew there was more to popular music than rock when we coalesced into a group that made regular pilgrimages up Route 422 to listen and dance.

One of the first of these trips occurred when we heard that Les Brown would be making an appearance at Sunnybrook during the school year. It was a “must-go” despite the misgivings of our various significant others who, as much as we loved them, thought of our interest in Swing as some kind of eccentric aberration brought about by too many hours in the physics or chemistry lab. So there we were, a real mixed set: my friend Tom Cassano, who to this day is a walking encyclopedia of big band lore, plus his rock-addicted girlfriend; my classics-loving roommate who felt that Stravinsky is too wild but whose super-smart, super-gorgeous fiancée had grown up listening to Benny Goodman; and my girlfriend, whose view of popular music somewhat resembled a religious literalist’s view of geology -- that it had all magically flashed into existence around the time of Elvis.

We piled into the car and headed for Sunnybrook. Except for the clothes and cars, the scene outside could have been set in 1940. The marquee proclaimed Les Brown and his Band of Renown: Tonight Only. Lights shone from every window of the ballroom as couples walked from the parking lot, over a small bridge, and up to the front entrance.

But when we got inside, it was 1940! The stage was at the far end of the ballroom. Cloth-covered tables were lined up from the edge of the dance floor back to the entrance, and enormous draperies hung from the ceiling. There were old-fashioned red Coca-Cola machines that still dispensed those iconic heavy green 7-ounce bottles, although as I recall the price had now gone up to a dime!

After a little while, Les and the band came out on stage. He acknowledged the audience, turned around, and gave the downbeat to "Leap Frog." If you listened closely you could here a clicking sound as the dials on the Time Machine started to turn faster....

For the first half, Les ran through many of his most famous pieces along with a few more recent tunes for good measure. Les’ younger brother “Stumpy” was also a member of the band, and he and Les played off each other on several numbers, with Les being the straight man and Stumpy providing both verbal and musical clowning around. I don’t remember who his (forgive the politically incorrect phrase) “girl singer” was, but she did a credible job of following Doris Day on Sentimental Journey and other songs. What impressed me most was how incredibly consistent the band’s sound was. Despite personnel changes, creeping middle age, you name it, the music was as crisp and well performed as anything on those old Columbia 78s … and we were listening to it live, led by Les Brown himself!

Then the first surprise of the evening. I had expected that Les would be headed backstage with the rest of the musicians during intermission, but instead he started making his way from table to table. He expressed more than a little surprise when he got to our group – after all, here we were, 20 or 21 years old in the era of the Beatles and Stones, listening to a dance band. But when we explained how and why we were there he joined us for a discussion of Swing just as if we were fans from a quarter-century before! He seemed genuinely interested in the fact that we were so “into” Swing music, and was both down to earth and a gentleman. I will always treasure that interest and respect he showed us.

After the intermission, yet another treat: the band came back, but as Les got ready to give the downbeat one of the reed players picked up a clarinet. Background conversation came to a halt and there was a collective inhalation from the audience as the band began a note-perfect performance of Moonlight Serenade. People got up from their tables and actually started to form that famous half-moon around the stage. After the cheering died down, Les explained that he liked to pay tribute to some of the other bands that were performing infrequently or were no longer with us. I don’t remember everything that they played, but for the next 20 minutes or so the sounds of Goodman, Ellington, Shaw and Basie filled Sunnybrook Ballroom.

We spent the rest of the evening dancing and enjoying the presence of our SO’s. Given the musical tastes of half the group I was afraid that this might be a one-time gathering, but on the way home they were asking who would be appearing next because they wanted to come back!

Jeff Karpinksi
King of Prussia, Pennsylvania
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One of the games we've probably all played is picking ten or maybe a dozen recordings we'd want to have if we were going to be stuck on a deserted island with no access to any other music. Here are mine (at least as of this week's listening), in no particular order of preference. I'm interested in what everyone else might have!

"There Are Such Things" – Tommy Dorsey, Frank Sinatra, and the Pied Pipers. The combination at its lushest, pure gold.

"Summit Ridge Drive" – Artie Shaw and his Gramercy Five. I played piano in school (poorly, but that's another matter) and always been fascinated with the sound of its sibling the harpsichord. Hearing Johnny Guarnieri make the instrument swing is a real treat.

"A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" – Tex Beneke. This is one of those rare cases where I think the re-creation is better than the original. The 1961 Beneke band included a number of Miller alumni, so they "knew the book". The sound of course is hi-fi, Ray Eberle sings in a more comfortable range than he did with Glenn, and Tex's sax solo is as smooth as ever.

"Rhythm Saved the World" – Tommy Dorsey and the Clambake 7, with Edythe Wright. Loose, swinging, everybody in the groove. What more to say?

"Main Stem" - Duke Ellington. Maybe not one of his most well-know works, but a great piece of booting swing with all the typical Ellington cues.

"Dreamsville" – Henry Mancini. A gorgeously languorous composition, made more interesting by the personnel under Mancini's baton. With musicians like Rollie Bundock, Wilbur Schwartz, Gene Cipriano, John Halliburton, Jimmy Priddy and Jack Sperling, I always think this is what Glenn Miller's music might have evolved to in some better alternate universe.

"I Don't Know Why" – Claude Thornhill. Thornhill's spare, almost brittle piano is just right for this gentle song featuring a vocal by the Snowflakes.

"Topsy" – Count Basie. Bill Basie could get more out of two or three notes than most pianists can with ten. I've always thought his band was at least a couple of years ahead of most others in terms of producing solid swing and this record proves it.

"Long Ago and Far Away" – The Glenn Miller AAF Orchestra. This track has everything that the romantic sound of that fantastic band was known for.

"Where or When" – Peggy Lee and Benny Goodman. I've never heard a singer become so intimate with the microphone! Hmmm.… If I were on a desert island without my spouse, maybe I shouldn't take this one along!

Jeff Karpinksi
King of Prussia, Pennsylvania
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The musical universe has more than its deserved share of "novas", those stars that flash into brightness but quickly wink out after consuming their resources in all too short a time. This year marks the centennial of one such talent, Roland Bernard Berigan (1908-1942), better known to us as Bunny.

Bunny Berigan was a child prodigy. He studied both trumpet and violin in his home town of Fox Lake, Wisconsin. At the age of 21, he was hired by Hal Kemp but soon left to do studio work. By 1935, Bunny had already performed with such greats as Paul Whiteman, Abe Lyman, the Dorsey Brothers, and Glenn Miller's first band. These associations led to his joining Benny Goodman's orchestra on the legendary tour that effectively launched the Swing Era with its concert at the Palomar Ballroom in 1935.

Berigan was married and had two children but that didn't stop his wanderlust. He left Goodman after a short while to return to more profitable work in the studios, but soon tired of it and joined Tommy Dorsey's band. The apocryphal story is that Tommy couldn't quite get the solo to work on a new arrangement of Marie. Despite the stories claiming Berigan's performance was a one-take marvel, the fact is that he actually worked through several versions before blowing what has become one of the most famous trumpet solos ever waxed. Then, as if Marie wasn't enough of an achievement he produced an almost equally spectacular performance on Song of India, recorded the same day, January 29, 1937. Tommy was so impressed that when Bunny left the band, he had the solos transcribed for the entire trumpet section!

Bunny's frequent clashes with Tommy led him to quit after just a few months. With the swing craze showing no signs of slowing down, he decided he was ready to front his own band. Tommy even helped him assemble the group in spite of their differences. And what a band it was! His talent roster included then-up-and-coming stars such as Ray Conniff, Buddy Rich, Joe Bushkin, George Wettling, Kathleen Lane, and Gail Reese. Bunny even broke with the sexist rules of the time by hiring a young woman, Ruth Bradley, as his clarinetist. He chose as his theme song the relatively unknown tune named I Can't Get Started. The Vernon Duke/Ira Gershwin tune was introduced by Bob Hope in Ziegfeld Follies of 1936. It had achieved some popularity in a recording by Hal Kemp, but it was Berigan's 5-minute rendition that cemented its fame. His solo is a triumph of virtuosity - his trumpet alternately growls and sings over an almost-impossible range of about 3 octaves. Few other trumpeters have ever managed to reproduce his performance; even the late 1950's re-creation by the superb musicians of Glen Gray's Casa Loma Orchestra required three different artists to play all of Berigan's notes.

For a brief while the band made some spectacular recordings. Among others there were Caravan and I Got it Bad, borrowed from Duke Ellington, blues-influenced tunes such as Down Stream and Turn on That Red Hot Heat, and the unusually contemplative In the Dark. The Bunny Berigan Orchestra should have been one of the top swing bands in the country, but Bunny was spending more and more time with "friends" named Jack Daniels, Tom Collins, and Johnnie Walker. His playing suffered and he wasn't able to manage the band adequately. Sometimes he would go weeks without paying the sidemen, then appear with bags of cash that he told the players to divvy up among themselves. His drinking was accompanied by a series of affairs that strained his marriage.

Bunny managed to keep his band together for a while longer but was forced to quit by early 1940. Tommy Dorsey graciously rehired him and he performed on a number of classic recordings such as Whispering, Imagination, and Quiet, Please!. In spite of such high-quality material he was never quite able to achieve the peaks he had back in 1937. Perhaps the closest he came was East of the Sun, featuring Frank Sinatra's vocal and the band chanting in the background à la Marie.

Bunny's worsening alcoholism and recurring disagreements with Tommy led to another split after six months. Bunny tried to form yet another orchestra but was soon forced to declare bankruptcy. He made one more attempt to lead a band in late 1941, but as one reviewer put it, "the less said about the band, the better". Bunny's health was so bad that there were times he could barely play but he persevered out of a sense of responsibility to his wife who, remarkably, had stayed with him throughout.

Perhaps if Bunny had lived today he might have been able to receive effective counseling and treatment, but that was not to be in the world of the 1940s. He lingered on through pneumonia and cirrhosis of the liver. He was admitted to a hospital for the last time on June 1, 1942. The next day his great trumpet was stilled forever. Bunny Berigan was only 33 years old.

Jeff Karpinksi
King of Prussia, Pennsylvania
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