Jutta Hipp, a name to reckon with--pronounce the J as a Y--was a pioneer of bebop in Germany—just as Toshiko Akiyoshi was a pioneer of bebop in Japan. And that is one reason that Tokyo and Berlin, since World War II, enjoy their status as sanctuaries of jazz.

Toshiko Akiyosh

Born in Manchuria to Japanese parents on December 12, 1929, Toshiko developed an early love and talent for music. and started playing and singing in small clubs. She got discovered in 1952 when Oscar Peterson, while on a Norman Granz- produced Jazz at the Philharmonic (JATP) tour, happened to drop by where she was playing and was so impressed that he arranged a record date for her on one of Granz’s labels. In 1953, she recorded her first album--Toshiko’s Piano--with Peterson’s rhythm section! Herb Ellis (guitar), Ray Brown (bass) and J. C. Heard (drums). Pretty cool beginning for a Japanese woman bebop piano player.

Recording and performing opportunities, and especially the chance to became the first Japanese student at Berklee, later known as the Berklee College of Music in Boston, brought her to the US in January 1956.

Akiyoshi married alto saxophonist Charlie Mariano in 1959. An alto player named Charlie. Gotta like it—and I did. Mariano was a great player. They co-led a quartet for a few years until they divorced in 1967.

She married tenor saxophonist-flutist Lew Tabackin in 1969, and (with daughter, Michiru, from her marriage to Mariano) moved to Los Angeles in 1972. A few months later, Toshiko and Tabackin launched a 16-piece big band formed by hiring good studio musicians. You could do that then in LA and still can.

Toshiko played piano, led the band, and composed and arranged the music. Tabackin served as the band’s featured soloist on tenor and flute. The band lasted ten years. That’s a good run. They moved to New York in 1982 and formed another successful big band, Toshiko cementing her reputation as one of the great big band composer-arrangers on the trail blazed by such greats as Melba Liston and Mary Lou Williams. And, like them, also a great player. Toshiko was the first woman to win Best Arranger and Composer awards in Down Beat magazine’s annual Readers’ Poll. She was also the first Japanese jazz musician to infuse many of her compositions and arrangements with traditional Japanese instruments and themes.

On December 29, 2003, the band played its final concert at Birdland, where it had enjoyed a regular Monday night gig for more than seven years. Toshiko was 74 and it’s not easy running a big band. And composing and arranging left little time for anything else. Like playing the piano, privately, and solo, her preferred format.

Wikiquote: “In 1999, Akiyoshi was approached by Kyudo Nakagawa, a Buddhist priest, who asked her to write a piece for his hometown of Hiroshima. He sent her some photos of the aftermath of the nuclear bombing. Her initial reaction was horror. She could not see how she could compose anything to address the event. Finally, she found a picture of a young woman emerging from an underground shelter with a faint smile on her face. Akiyoshi said that after seeing this picture, she understood the message: hope. With that message in mind, she composed the three-part suite Hiroshima: Rising from the Abyss. The piece was premiered in Hiroshima on August 6, 2001, the 56th anniversary of the bombing…”

See Toshiko’s autobiography, Life with Jazz (1996), and the documentary film Jazz is My Native Language (1984).

As we speak, Toshiko is still among us. She will celebrate her 97^th birthday on December 12^th.

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Jutta Hipp

Jutta Hipp was born on February 4, 1925 in Leipzig, Germany. She heard jazz for the first time at age 14, in 1939, just as World War II was starting, and she developed under the influence of Fats Waller, Teddy Wilson and the great stride pianists of the Swing Era, but by the time the war ended, in 1945, she (just as Toshiko had) discovered Bud Powell—and Horace Silver. The Nazis disapproved of bebop, natch, but she kept playing and learning at an underground jazz club called Hot Club Leipzig, somewhat analogous to Minton’s Playhouse, a Harlem spot important as a place to play bebop and exchange musical ideas.

Jutta came to the US in 1956 and was critically acclaimed. She became the first European (and the second white musician) to sign with Blue Note Records. She performed at the Newport Jazz Festival and worked for a while with Charles Mingus. She also released three albums: Jutta Hipp with Zoot Sims. I’ve got the CD. I know, who cares? Zoot, of course, is one of my very favorites. But as good as the blowing is, I need to just hear Jutta because she is so obscure, so subtle, so different and so swinging. She gets to me. While on a 3-month run at the Hickory House (replacing the house pianist, Marian McPartland, who was on tour) she made two more great records—At the Hickory House, vol 1 and 2 as a trio—Peter Ind on bass and Ed Thigpen on drums. She’s a revelation on both LPs.

Jutta Hipp was master of the light touch. No one’s touch was lighter, without losing the snap, crackle and pop of pure bebop. Toshiko had a completely different style. She attacked the keyboard with a far more percussive approach while Jutta seemed to float over the tune. The unbearable lightness of it all. Wow.

Why did Jutta walk away from her unique status as a successful German female bopper? For the same reasons that most women don’t get into jazz in the first place. She didn’t dig the second-class status of women in jazz, and the “creative differences” that inevitably ensue. Also, she was a very private person. Maybe that happens when you grow up amid the rise of the Nazis and their hatred of modern jazz and modernity in general. And oh-by-the-way, she had a terrible case of stage fright. In New York she was not in tune with the scene. She preferred to play in small, intimate clubs.

She left music for good by 1960 (age 31!) to work as a seamstress in Queens, devoting herself to painting, photography and poetry. So complete was her disengagement from music that Blue Note didn’t know where to send her royalty checks until 2000, forty years after she walked away! Jutta Hipp, “Europe’s First Lady of Jazz,” died on April 7, 2003 in the Queens apartment where she lived by herself.

MUSIC VIDEO JUTTA HIPP Live at the Hickory House vol 1

During the 1950s, the heart of the Bebop era, there were a few women who dared to excel in a man’s man’s world. Shirley Scott, called the Queen of the Organ for a reason, quickly earned the respect of her bandmates and the public. Born in Philadelphia on March 14, 1934, she is in the proud tradition of great Philley organists, joining Jimmy Smith Joey DeFrancesco, Charles Earland, Jimmy McGriff, many others. Scott started on the trumpet, playing in the high school band, but preferred the piano and was gigging around Philly when one night the organ player got sick. They asked her to give it a whirl and that moment led to her innovative mastery of the Hammond B-3.

The deep-down feeling we get when we hear the mixture of bop, blues and gospel is something we keep coming back to. Tenor saxophone giant, Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis stopped by a club when she was playing there and, on the spot, asked her to join his quintet as co-leader. They made many great albums together in the 1950s and ‘60s.

And she made great albums with Stanley Turrentine, another notable tenor player, after marrying him in 1961. They divorced in 1971 and she started covering hit tunes (something called Hard Pop!) in her classic soulful style. In fact, the word soul began to be commonly used in that decade and beyond. Scott also recorded more than 20 solo albums, spread across the decades.

Her playing has been called “graceful and lyrical” in contrast to the reigning kings of organ trios, Jimmy Smith and others, whose approach is not as nuanced.

Is it a male-female thing? Probably.

Scott studied music at Cheyney University, right outside Philley, earning degrees there and returned decades later to teach piano and jazz history. She even got back into the acoustic piano, playing the instrument on the 1991 trio album Blues Everywhere and the 1991 live album Skylark.

“At the end of the ‘90s, Scott’s heart was damaged by the diet drug fen-phen, leading to her declining health. In 2000 she was awarded eight-million dollars in a lawsuit against the manufacturers of the drug.” She was 67 when she died on March 10, 2002 of heart failure at Presbyterian Hospital in Philadelphia. The Queen of the Organ died on March 10, 2002.

In the last few years of her life, Scott played a lot of piano. I include this video with her playing the blues on the piano because, while she is quite famous as the Queen of the Organ, many don’t know what a great piano player she was. This video tells a bit of that story.

Today, August 6, 2026, is the 81^st anniversary of the first Atomic Bomb aimed at fellow humans in Hiroshima. This blog, written November 2, 2007, almost 20 years ago, is reprised today.

Reading The New Mexican with my coffee at Las Chivas here in El Dorado where life is good--if you discount the constant and myriad attempts by monstrous corporations to drill for oil and minerals all over the state, trashing the environment as they prey, spider-like, on the body politic.

Brig. General Paul W. Tibbets died yesterday at age 92. He was the dude who on August 6, 1945, flew the plane, the Enola Gay (named after his mother!), that carried the Atom Bomb, weighing nearly 10,000 pounds, over to Japan and dropped it on the city of Hiroshima. Not only was that the lowest point in the history of the United States, and that is saying a mouthful because the history of the United States is an endless succession of low points, but it established this country as King of the Hill, the Iron Fist, head honcho of the World, the Nutjob with the Bomb and no Conscience.

Boy, the world could have used some leadership at that point. Someone to stand up and say that this awesome power must never be unleashed again, and urge everyone to sign a solemn oath. Instead, the US started stockpiling nuclear weapons, as did the USSR soon after us, and the Cold War was on. I remember marching on the streets of San Francisco in the early 1960s against the proliferation of nuclear weapons. The movement, led by SANE, peaked during those years, but quickly faded when Vietnam became the overriding issue. No politician wants to hear about restricting weaponry during a war. Now, more than sixty years after Hiroshima, it’s too late. Most everyone has nuclear capability or will very soon. Now what, you fools?

On that August day in 1945, 80,000 citizens of Hiroshima died instantly. 30,00 more died within a week. One more time: 80,000 citizens of Hiroshima died instantly. And the deadly radiation caused genetic damage, leading to mutations. Tibbets once said, “I never lost a night’s sleep over it.” Harry Truman, who ordered the bombing, uttered the classic words of denial, “If I had to do it over again, I’d do exactly the same thing.” Monsters, right? Well, maybe, but that would be a minority opinion. While everyone tsk-tsks such a thing, the party line has been established: The cruel, unusual, unthinkable bombing of Hiroshima was a good thing. Yes, because it saved “hundreds of thousands” of lives. Oh, how is that? Well, that’s how many American soldiers would’ve died if we continued on our insane quest to kill every single Japanese that walked the earth. On the theory that the Japanese would never surrender--see, we know that because we’re so hip to Japanese culture--we would have to kill them all. Yeah, see, plans had already been approved for the invasion of Japan before the bomb was fully developed. The plan was to attack the island of Kyushu with 815,000 troops. That would be four times the amount of soldiers in Iraq to attack an island! The second attack planned was to be with 1.2 million soldiers on Honshu, another island. I guess you all know that Japan is an island. Since when can any island (particularly two smaller satellite islands) defend itself against the combined might of the US Air Force and Marines. And in 1945, the defeat of the weakened Japanese empire of 1945 was nearly a fait accompli. There was no need to use a staggering number of troops to flush out every single Japanese as the insane Douglas MacArthur had planned. Quoting the AP article: “MacArthur said it could take 10 years to wipe out the last pockets of resistance, with total American losses reaching 1 million men.” That’s a madman speaking. The plan was kiboshed, however, when the A-Bomb became an option. Truman gave the Japanese one last warning. Again, quoting the AP report: “Surrender unconditionally or face ‘prompt and utter destruction.’ The Japanese ignored the demand, which made no mention of nuclear weapons.” (my emphasis)

Based on that tidbit I’d guess that Truman and the generals wanted to drop the bomb on an urban area (after all, the Japanese aren’t, you know, white people), just to see what kind of damage the bomb could do. Like the mad scientist. Except that almost every single one of the real scientists expressed regret over creating the bomb, famously Albert Einstein, a champion of peace, who said, “I made one great mistake in my life—when I signed a letter to President Roosevelt recommending that an atomic bomb be made.” If Einstein can mess up that badly, the chances for real peace seem slim.

The U.S. had options. Primarily, of course, diplomacy, which was invented for that very purpose, but obviously ignored, (as it has been for both terms of BushCo). But anywhere else (other than a major city like Hiroshima) that the US chose to drop the bomb—the ocean, a deserted area, etc.—while it would’ve been terrible, granted, would’ve resulted in far fewer human deaths and still showed the Japanese what they faced unless they surrendered. And after making their savage point in Hiroshima, why Nagasaki?

The argument that murdering a huge amount of people, virtually all of whom were civilians, saved lives is quite a feat of intellectual gymnastics. One has to be mighty, mighty certain about everything to make that statement. I mean on the one hand you’ve got 80,000 people dying instantly (and millions more who died later or suffered lifetime injury or disease). On the other hand, you’ve got a fucking theory.

Well, obviously, the American people have gotten over it--the instant murders of 80,000 civilians—and it must have been a massive bit of repressing and denying to be able to continue to believe that Hiroshima was somehow a good thing. How do I know that most Americans believe that? Because if they didn’t believe it, if they knew that killing innocent civilians can never be justified—or weighed against any other tragedy, then they wouldn’t have allowed this country to wreak havoc on Iraq. And you can say the same thing about Vietnam. The Vietnam War accounted for 5 million deaths all tolled for all countries involved, including 58,000+ US troops. All because the U.S. was afraid that “Vietnam would go Communist,” which it did, and which, in turn, John Foster Dulles assured us, would create a domino effect by which Asia and beyond would “go Communist.” Five million people died simply because John Foster Dulles was a fool.

By now, based on seemingly reliable sources, more than one million Iraqis have died—compared to fewer than 4,000 Americans. Has there ever been a more one-sided war? So how can it be that this one-sided war is approaching the five-year mark? More than a million people died simply because George Bush was also a fool.

You could have not sucked—as a team and as an organization.

To state the obvious, the Warriors have been on a downhill slide, since winning their last title in 2022. Four straight seasons, downward. Well, sure, the Western Conference! It’s a jungle out there. It’s tough to get good and even tougher to get better. But the draft is where you can get better. That’s why most teams now are just angling for draft picks and expiring contracts. A steady supply of young, healthy, relatively cheap labor is a key to success--and that is all about The Draft.

If you draft well, you will probably improve. If you draft poorly, you haven’t got a chance. The Warriors have drafted poorly. Jerome Wiseman, anyone?

Next point: Draymond Green should have been dealt a while back. Say, about 2023. Instead the Dubs gave Dray a juicy 4-year deal ($100 mil) deal. Now the Dubs are stuck with him in the final season of the contract. To the tune of $27.7 million for the ’26-’27 season. A $27.7 million bench player? Which is what he is now. C’mon. Okay I’m not a Dray fan but dealing him in, say. ’23 or ’24, would have been a rather obvious, common-sense move for any organization, and now the team wouldn’t be in the horrible situation it’s in. He’s a future Hall of Famer but was in his decline as a player, and getting old, and you could’ve gotten quite a haul in 2023—two players and draft picks? And then the Dubs wouldn’t be in the situation they’re in now. That is to say boring and irrelevant. And let’s not even get into his being a lousy teammate and a bloviating media hound. And have we mentioned his contract?

The LeBron to the Dubs scenario gained a tiny bit of media traction. It’s like the political scene. Trump will utter an outrageous lie. His people will run with it, on TV and online, and for a few days or more everybody will be agreeing or disagreeing with the lie until you’re back at the beginning. And the lie gains some “truth” simply because it dominates the national conversation for a while. And there was nothing to it. Nothing.

Didn’t someone tell Joe Lacob, Mike Donleavy and Steve Kerr that LeBron is only interested in one more NBA ring. He will be 42 this year. Nothing less than a ring will do. That’s what drives him to play for peanuts. Yes, the first athlete to become a billionaire is playing for peanuts. And that made you think he might pick the Warriors? To win an NBA title?

The above three have driven this legendary franchise into the ground, and now stand there helpless, unable to show the great LeBron just a bare minimum inducement for him to even consider the Dubs.

I guess you also think the Warriors have a shot at the playoffs. Most sane fans are hoping for a play-in berth this season, 9^th or 10^th like last year. Even that sounds wildly ambitious.

Fans now have to endure 2-3 more years of Steph, with still enough in his tank, still able to lead a championship team, surrounded by relative mediocrity on the court and by absolute mediocrity in the front office. So that’s the historical beef—the utter failure of the Warriors’ deep thinkers to create an environment (i.e., a team) for Steph to thrive in in his later years, and even compete for an NBA title. In return for that disrespect, Steph should be looking for another ring himself, this season or next. I hear San Antonio is nice this time of year.

Carla Leite

I caught the Fever on ION, talk about obscure, beating a very good Portland Fire expansion team. This Carla Leite, Portland point guard from France, was so impressive. Caitlin was terrific as usual, but I think, amid the Caitlinmania, that the Fever’s Kelsey Mitchell has been way neglected. She could be called the best player on the team. She’s one of the best in the league and one of my favorites. Kelsey Mitchell!

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After writing my blog about Tony Vitello, last Saturday, criticizing him that day and generally for not getting his starting pitcher out in time. Vitello, the following Friday, lets Carson Whisenhunt give up six runs in 3.1 innings on 7 hits and 4 walks (eleven baserunners in 3.1 innings) before getting him out of there. Giants lose, 7-0. Obviously, Tony’s not reading my blogs.

This happened almost a week ago, so it would seem like old news. Well, it is old news, but it’s also the latest news. Same old stuff. Year after year. Decade after decade. I don’t even follow the Giants anymore. But I do check the box scores once in a while.

Let’s start at the end, like a noir thriller, spooling the past up to the present. July 18, last Saturday night in Seattle. What could be cooler than a Saturday night ballgame. Giants lose 4-3 in extras. After six full, Logan Webb has a lead, 3-0, and is throwing a gem, a one-hitter with no walks. (Remember, all I know is from the box score. I wasn’t there. Didn’t hear or see the game on radio or TV. This is not reportage.) Webb enters the 7^th with about 90 pitches and a 3-0 lead. He gets the first guy on a groundball. One out. Webb has an 0-2 count on the next guy, Arozarena, the cleanup hitter, and hits him. Right there, I mean right there, you’ve seen it before lots of times--the pitcher is starting to lose it. Not gradually, as is common, but all at once. Like a bankruptcy. And now, the manager has to make up his mind before the next pitch. Here’s where the game of baseball goes really fast. Yes, Vitello could pull him right here for a lefty reliever, which would, of course, be the correct move. I mean he’s thrown almost 100 pitches and has suddenly lost his control. Tying run at the plate. Left-hand hitter. Well, that’s why they invented bullpens. Granted, the Giants’ pen is among the worst, probably the very worst. Still, this is the big leagues. You play ‘em like you had ‘em. Okay, Vitello probably thought, let’s face one more hitter. After all, Webbie is our best pitcher. Thus, he lets him pitch to the dangerous lefty-swinging Josh Naylor. Webb walks him. Tony Tony Tony there’s still time to manage. Cal Raleigh, a flat-out home run hitter comes up. C’mon, man, you really gonna let Webb pitch to Raleigh? What did he hit last year? 100 homers? 200 homers? Can’t remember. A switch-hitter, Raleigh will bat lefty. Vitello is determined to keep his starting pitcher in the game to face dangerous lefty-hand hitters even though he’s in big trouble and has lost his command. It’s not the lefty-righty thing (Raleigh switch-hits), It’s the “he was good/now he’s bad” dichotomy. Webb gets Raleigh to fly out. Two outs. That put runners at 2^nd and 3^rd, which sets up two runs scoring on a single to the outfield. And it leaves first base open. Next up, Cole Young, Seattle’s young catcher, who can hit—and from the left side, too. So is Vitello going to let his quickly declining ace face his third straight lefty power hitter? Or is Vitello going to walk Young with first base open? Of course, you’re all way ahead of me. Cole hits a three-run shot to tie the game, 3-3. The Giants lose it in the 10^th—on a sacrifice fly.

Yeah the box scores are a work of genius. I can even tell (sometimes) if the manager lost the game or if the other team was just better, or what. Most games are lost by the manager. See above. What Vitello did was what managers have been doing ad nauseam.

Since the sac bunt, the hit-and-run, the steal and the pitchout are relics of the past, the manager’s job is really simple: make out the lineup card and, this is the biggie, get your starter out of the game when he starts goin’ bad before he loses the damn game. Forget the fact that Webb threw 100 pitches, and that he’s usually overworked. And please don’t argue that he’s the only good pitcher the Giants have (aside from Robbie Ray) and the bullpen is very bad, thus it’s okay to do the wrong thing in order to win, even though the Giants record as we speak is 43-60.

Webb had to go after he walked Naylor simply because he was no longer effective. Letting Webb pitch to Naylor, Raleigh and Chase, all good hitters, all left-hand hitters! Truly egregious. And what got me worked up about this low-key, soft-core fiasco was reading that Webb, after the game, was very hard on himself, too hard. I don’t have the quote but he put the loss on himself even though he pitched brilliantly. He just had the bad luck to have a manager that was asleep at the wheel.

Like I said, I don’t even follow the Giants anymore but once in a while, you know…I like to catch up. I was wondering about the Giants new manager. I really knew nothing about him. University of Tennessee head coach. Hm. The box scores have made me conclude that Vitello doesn’t quite get it. What he seems not to get is how to handle a pitching staff. That’s what he’s “managing.” That’s what every manager is actually “managing.” The pitching staff. After having read lots of box scores, I noticed Vitello’s reluctance to get his starter out of there. He’s not doing great with the bullpen either, and I would suggest he stops trotting out the same guys who have sucked over and over. Keep searching for effective one-inning pitchers. Don’t settle for mediocrity. In re lineups, I don’t want to pile on but one day Heliot Ramos is batting clean-up and the next day he’s batting lead-off. Tony, how is that even possible? Matt Chapman led off a while back. Weird stuff.

I rest my case with Vitello but it’s unfair to leave him hanging there. Buster Posey was also not the right guy for GM. Being a Hall of Famer and local hero doesn’t translate into success at a different job. My choice would have been an experienced baseball executive, a former GM, whatever. That experienced baseball guy would never have hired Tony Vitello as a rookie manager. A team like the Giants, that for the last decade has been duking it out with the Rockies for Worst in the West, needs new blood, and a radical new approach, not a fan favorite from yesteryear.

If you read this far you will receive a De-Coder ring and a brochure that will show you a diagram of the Secret Handshake.

Stephen Foster was born on July 4^th, 1826, exactly 200 years ago today in Lawrenceville, Pennsylvania, a part of Pittsburgh. Foster, who had nine older siblings, is called “The Father of American Music” because he is. Before Foster (who also wrote the lyrics for most of his songs), American composers (popular and classical) still leaned on European traditions, European forms, European rhythms, European instrumentation.

If I were asked, unlikely but hey, to name the quintessential American song, it might be Oh, Susanna. The singer is an itinerant hobo—I guess that’s the word—who just blew in from Alabama and is busking his way to New Orleans (presumably via Mississippi) to reunite with his beloved Susanna. He’s asking her to be patient. And his axe is a banjo, not a guitar. The banjo was very popular at the time. Crucially, it was loud, and could grab an audience. Guitars were around but amplification hadn’t yet been developed.

The banjo got its start in minstrelsy. And so did Stephen Foster. Almost all of his famous songs were performed in minstrel shows and became well-known. Foster was the first American to earn a living from songwriting. In fact, he is considered the first full-time songwriter. Foster (and specifically Oh Susanna) begat Woody Guthrie who begat Bob Dylan and all the other itinerant hoboes.

Foster was a natural musician. He taught himself to play the clarinet, drums, flute, guitar and piano, and was known as an outstanding whistler. I am seriously impressed.

The minstrel shows originally used white actors in black face but eventually only black performers were allowed to perform--and they also had to use black-face! Hey, tradition. Minstrel shows became the most popular form of entertainment in the U.S. from the 1840s to the 1890s, preceding the era of vaudeville.

Another great example of an American song is Foster’s Camptown Races. March tempo, fast-paced, horse-racing, betting. These people are having a good ol’ time. Camptown Races is far removed from the usual hymns, spirituals and sentimental ballads of the day. In fact, decades before Louis Armstrong, it sounds like a jazz piece, and a great vehicle for an early New Orleans-style band, and probably was.

Reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin was a major turning point for Foster. After that (the book was published in 1852 when Foster was 26), most of his songs, his great ones, were anti-slavery laments, specifically about the displacement and separation of families—still a thing in our time.

Let’s start with Old Folks at Home, aka Swanee River. God, I love this song. Ray Charles’ 1957 version (Swanee River Rock) embedded the song forever in our consciousness, if you will. The longing for home, or for a home, has never been more poignantly expressed than in Foster’s songs. And when that bridge comes in, “All the world is sad and dreary…”, it hits like a hammer.

There’s also a lot of history and displacement in My Old Kentucky Home, Old Black Joe, Some Folks. Despite being sympathetic to the anti-slavery cause, Foster was constrained by those less sympathetic, e.g., those who owned the theaters and the media (sheet music sales, mostly). “…Foster’s musical lyrics often contained hateful racial ideas. Some of Foster’s songs, like the ones written in black dialect to be performed in black face, are ‘a source of racial embarrassment and infuriation,’ says author Ken Emerson. So, okay, Foster did what guys with four kids tend to do. He sold out. Apparently, he wrote some songs with “hateful racial ideas,” but only under pressure, I would think, to please the show’s racist owners. If so, hey.

Foster also wrote some great love songs far from the hue and cry, notably I Dream of Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair (written for his wife Jane) and the enchanting Beautiful Dreamer, a gem in 9/8.

I’ll have to dig deeper, much deeper, to figure out where Foster stood politically, especially on the South (which he visited only once in his lifetime, on his honeymoon!) and the Civil War. He died a year before the war ended. I hear that he was “sympathetic to anti-slavery causes” but was he an active abolitionist? Interestingly, very little is known about Foster’s life.

We do know that Foster never looked after his own interests. He sold Oh Susanna for a hundred bucks. The publisher made $100,000. Toward the end of his career, in a despondent mood, he sold the rights to all his future songs.

Foster lived in New York in his last few years. His wife, “Jeanie,” had left him. He died broke and in debt. An alcoholic, he was living in a cheap hotel on The Bowery when he fell while drunk in his room and died from the injuries.

That’s the Official Story. I want to know more.

The two best teams in the West scared the hell out of the rest of the league by getting just what they needed. The Thunder needed a backup for Chet Holmgren. If Holmgren’s dismal performance in that final game was just a blip, then Aday Mara (#12) is a great pick as a back-up. And if Mara needs to replace Holmgren, OKC has solved that problem, too. And picking up Bennett Stirtz (#17) for back- court depth is perfect.

San Antonio finally admitted that Wembanyama needs front-court help, drafting Jayden Quaintance (#20), 6’10”, 255, and Tarris Reed Jr. (#26), 6’11”, 265. The Spurs are preparing to conquer the world.

The Warriors drafted a big guy (Yaxel Lendeborg) because they had to. The world was already wondering how long they intended to continue to exist without a reputable big guy. The next phase will be how Kerr uses him. Call me dubious.

The Knicks are not going to repeat. They had to get better, as does every team, and they just can’t afford to. The draft, the cap and the fear of the dreaded apron(s) conspire against them.

There’ll be more to report after the free agent period, starting tomorrow, June 30. The mistakes are all there, waiting to be made.

But am I going to waste my precious time on this ineffable subject? Damn right I am. When do you start ageing? When you are born?

I remember when I was 45, on my 45^th birthday, in fact, that I went on a major downer about getting old, being old, dying. I don’t think I fully recovered from that until I turned 80. Then I felt free somehow. Suddenly I was playing with house money, just trying to blend in and enjoy the show. I understood that I was finally old and at the beginning of something different but, again, ineffable. But no more worrying about getting old.

That 45^th birthday memory rings home now because I’m about to hit 90 if I can make it until Thursday…June 25th. The longevity thing is sort of an accomplishment, like a consecutive-game streak. Or perfect attendance. I’m close to 33,000 consecutive appearances. This is my Lifetime Achievement. I should write a speech and thank every single person I know, or have ever known or might someday know. And, oh, my agent and hairdresser.

Having lived this long, to be able to continue to co-exist with you all is…comforting. Does anyone even comprehend the whole thing--ageing, dying? It’s way, way over my head.

Not to go “off-subject,” but Pamela and I will celebrate our 50^th year together in December. My 90^th and 50^th in the same year--2026. Very cool. I feel guilty because I’ve been luckier than most. I had the advantage of having wonderful parents, and them being immigrants, too, just made me a better person. I also had the advantage of white privilege. So life has been relatively easy for me.

I have no insights to share about my great Achievement. Not that I’m holding any back. I just don’t know how the hell I did it. I’m just calling it luck and moving on.

Or is being 90 just a big ego trip. And who cares anymore? All right, you hit 90. Now go away. Let’s just call this: Opus One, ninetysomething. Giving myself a big head start on the whole thing.

[Apologies to Jonathan Larsen, whose last name I misspelled in my most recent blog. Embarrassing enough but I did it while trying to praise his journalism, and I made the common misspelling. And I am a fan of his!]

Congrats to the Knicks blah blah not a big fan but Jalen Brunson must be given his due. Their best player is OG Anunoby. Thought I’d throw that in. And in case you’re still there, the team’s success is in their balance. That first string--Brunson, Kat, OG, Bridges, Josh Hart, they do everything. Balance, Mitch Robinson, Shamet, McBride, Alvarado off the bench. Balance. That balance beat a 7’4’ phenom and a gaggle of great athletic guards.

Now that we’re done with the NBA Finals we can focus on the actual high point of the season—the draft, old sport, the draft. Okay, maybe a comment or two on the Finals. Nag nag nag.

Without any warning, this past season the Spurs decided to create a roster that no one had ever seen before and win an NBA title with it. They almost pulled it off. In last year’s draft, they had a chance to land an elite rebounder/scorer but, with their #2 pick, they instead chose another guard, the awesome Dylan Harper. Best player available, hard to criticize. It didn’t quite work but came close enough for the Spurs to think it might work next time. Nah, that was as far as that roster could take them.

Let me count the ways the Spurs do not have the balance that the Knicks used to win an NBA championship. Of their 15 players, the Spurs carry five centers—Wemby, his backup, Luke Kornet, and three other guys who only play in one-sided blowouts. Olynyk, Plumlee and Biyombo. Three centers who never play!

Moving on, the team does not have a power forward, either the conventional old-school power forward or the hyper-modern stretch-4. The Spurs’ only actual forward is 6’7”, 14-year veteran small forward Harrison Barnes, who also rarely plays. He seems to be the only adult in the room. Maybe it’s his name. So that leaves nine roster spots. And, except for two guys I’ve never heard of who are even smaller than the other Spurs guards, they’re all guards, all nine of them, all shooters, and most of them are 6’5” 6’6” or 6’7”. They relentlessly, often recklessly, drive to the hoop and are a handful for the defense, but also have a problem finishing, and often end up being slammed to the floor: Stephon Castle, Dylan Harper, Devin Vassell, Julian Champagnie, Keldon Johnson (Johnson just won the NBA Sixth Man award for the second time. He’s sixth all right--the sixth guard in the Spurs’ depth chart!).

De’Aaron Fox is not at all like those guys and that’s why he is/was the Spurs’ starting point guard. He’s the closest to meeting the demands of that position. He’s mature, for starters. Anyway, he had his shot and blew it. Speaking of his shot--3-15 from the field, 1-8 from deep--hit a couple of those shots in crunch time and all is forgiven. Harder to forgive, much harder, is Fox taking his eyes off the prize—going up weakly for a layup after a steal and having it blocked on a hustle chase-down by Anunoby when just peeling off and dribbling out until fouled would’ve sealed it.

My take on the play that Anunoby tipped-in to win Game Four: Under ten seconds to go. There, right there, if you never did it before and if you never do it again, Luke Kornet must be in the game, alongside Wemby, so he can block out anyone trying to do what Anunoby did do. I see why you don’t want to play them together most of the time. Sure. But sometimes the situation demands it. With mere ticks left on the clock, the Spurs ahead by a point and the Knicks with the ball, even a two-pointer will probably win the game. Not enough time to come back. Thus, all that matters now is the rebound if it’s a miss. If it’s a miss and the Spurs get the rebound, the Spurs win. It was a miss but Anunoby snookered the whole team and the Spurs coaching staff by following a wide open path up the lane. On the floor for the team’s biggest defensive moment of their lives, the Spurs deployed their usual array of four guards and Wemby. Ironic that the Spurs were beaten by a power forward.

Obviously, Wemby needs help against teams like the Knicks, meaning every team, because no other team is coming at you with four gunners and a skinny 22-year old center. They all have a 4 to go with their center and in Anunoby the Knicks have the best one in the NBA. Wemby and four gunners were no match for KAT and OG and why didn’t the Spurs’ deep thinkers understand this.

The Spurs have two 1^st-round picks (#7 and #20) in the draft next week and they’ll have to offer them both and more (possibly Fox, at least) to get the guy they need, maybe Cameron Boozer, who figures to be the Utah Jazz’s #2 pick. In fact, the Spurs must make such a move, or a move for an established veteran, or forget about beating the Thunder, let alone the Knicks.

And Wemby, a “generational talent” blah blah will have to learn a few new tricks—like how to lead, how to lose, and how to gain some maturity commensurate with his enormous talent. And while he’s at it, how to execute the alley-oop.

A word on the Knicks. I’m not a fan of the Knicks’ style whereby Jalen Brunson dribbles out most of the shot-clock and then heaves up an improbable looking thing that…goes in. That approach won an NBA title this season. Proving that even bad ideas sometime work. Brunson took 27 shots (about the same number of shots as Townes, Anunoby and Bridges combined) in the final game while the great Townes scored a grand total of two points on seven shots. That’s not going to fly most of the time.

This draft, June 23 and 24, will be the most active and most exciting draft ever. Mostly every team wants to make a deal, big and small. And usually a team’s draft position is its strongest trade asset. The Spurs, the Thunder, the Nuggets, the Clippers, the Atlanta Hawks, the Warriors, the Heat, the Celtics, the Sixers, the Lakers, the Kings, the Grizz, the Pels, the Nets, the Rockets, Phoenix, Portland. They’re all gonna be active, baby!

Can’t wait.

Levy is also ridiculously talented, smart, and a great teacher. His short video clips are all about some aspect of music—jazz, blues, roots, classical. Sometimes he’ll feature a jazz musician, more often a Danish violinist or a Hungarian tuba player, usually with a connection to jazz. He has also taught at high schools and universities and conservatories.

Levy was born in Brooklyn and grew up there but has been living for many years in Chicago and nearby Evanston, Illinois. He is a virtuoso harmonica player and an innovator of that instrument. Someone from the Chicago Tribune wrote “As Art Tatum was to the piano, so is Levy to the harmonica.” Probably the highest praise one can get. Levy is also a good, versatile pianist who often plays either or both instruments to illustrate a musical idea. He is also a composer who has written a classical concerto for harmonica as well as rock tunes. In 1988 he co-founded Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, and has since played and recorded in various genres with many great musicians and bands. “Great” has been bandied about and over-bandied, but it’s still a useful word.

I recently saw a mind-blowing video of Howard playing piano, accompanying his father, age 103,
sitting with both hands holding up a score and singing a Verdi aria. Incredible enough, but the biggest deal is that Levy’s father sang out, full-throated, powerful, filling the room. Knocked me out. I also saw some video of Howard’s vivacious mother, age 99, whose vibe also filled the room.

So that’s Howard’s secret sauce—wonderful and talented parents.

Jonathan Larson--
The Punk Pundit, creator of The Fucking News (TFN), Larson, warts and all, is my go-to guy regarding the U.S. political scene, the only one who covers all the shit that’s going on, and then puts it all together. A couple of caveats about his style: He overwrites, a common affliction of good writers. He will do anything for a laugh, a common affliction of funny people. He will sacrifice flow and even meaning to make a pun or fit in some joke or a made-up word while throwing in a sexual or scatological reference. And he indulges in tired tropes like Trump’s tiny hands. All true, yes, and Marilyn Monroe couldn’t cook. I’ve made my peace with all of it. His flaws don’t bug me anymore. I just look for his insights, and I appreciate the depth and breadth of what he covers, and his respect for journalism.

Mary Trump—
There are hundreds of pundits, nay, thousands of pundits, nay again, probably millions who write about Trump, many of them funny and/or astute, but none of them is even close to Mary because she is Trump’s niece and she grew up with him. Mary knows Trump. Mary is also a good writer. And good writers are scary people. Mary is also a clinical psychologist, and she is authoritative. Beyond all that, Mary is smart. And her integrity is well-known. No one has ever doubted a word she has ever said about Donald Trump.

Heather Cox Richardson, Thom Hartman, Gerard DeGroot-- three historians who are all very good and are also bloggers who point out the relevance of our past (history) to our present (also history).

It’s hard to follow most politicians because they’re basically self-serving, but AOC stands out as does, even more so, Melanie Stansbury, congresswoman from New Mexico. Stansbury really feels it, the Epstein thing, the Attorney General et al stonewalling congress, the overall corruption, and she makes me feel it. She doesn’t offer analysis, just passion. And it gets to me.

The Dabbling Chick also gets to me in the same way. She really feels it, too. She just can’t believe the level of bullshit, the destruction of everything, Iran. She offers no punditry. No history. Just a devastated demeanor and often near tears.

Special thanks to both Stansbury and The Dabbling Chick for taking on the pain that most of us feel but don’t express.

* * *

Most of the voices on the internet are just trying to make a living. I hear that’s possible. Let’s see: 10,000 subscribers equal…carry the five… times x…shit, man, it’s true.
Bill Maher comes to mind. Everyone and their brother-in-law are writing about Trump, showing their bona fides by ripping Trump and Republicans generally. But Maher doesn’t want to bet on the wrong horse and thus get lost in the media shuffle. So he takes wiseguy shots at Democrats, or “liberals,” usually about something no one cares about, and hopes that will set him apart as a provocateur. Maybe he’s right but it’s still pandering.

Ditto Megyn Kelly and Tucker Carlson. Both are right-wing zealots who love Trump, but right now loving Trump in print (which is like “under oath” in lay terms) doesn’t fly that well. So they’ll go “tsk-tsk” at Trump’s evil-doing and, like Maher, hope that will set them apart.

I like David Pakman, don’t get me wrong, but it’s tiresome hearing him discuss Trump’s descent into dementia. Enough already. Okay, he’s got dementia. We’ve known that for a long time. He’s fucking nuts. What else is new? Unfortunately for Pakman, nothing much. (The estimable Heather Cox Richardson is also guilty of this.) Even Pakman’s relevant criticism of Trump comes off as self-serving. And I could say the same thing about nearly every other anti-Trump voice online. Being down on Trump is a starting point. I expect that or why would I be wasting my time. But where are you really at? Do you vote like Liz Cheney used to vote, a flat-out Trump-hater (and I do appreciate her brave stance, risking her whole career to stand virtually alone) but perfectly aligned with every vile piece of legislation or executive order that Trump supported. Is Pakman a progressive or is he just a high-functioning Democrat? Aside from him being anti-Trump, how would I know?

I once dug reading Robert Reich and how lucidly he broke down socio-economic stuff. He covered many of Trump’s atrocities and even gave us pep talks on how to get through this mess. He has helped a lot. But now his shtick has run dry and he seems to be on golden pond. Good for him but, except as a grey eminence, he can’t help anymore.

* * *

There are those I’m not crazy about but might consider having a beer with. Then there’s my ever-expanding Shit List. No collegial beer with these dipshits. First up are the neo-con leftovers from Dubya’s War in Iraq: David Brooks, Thomas Friedman, Bill Kristol, Karl Rove, the late Dick Cheney, many others, who all loved Bush’s War and tried to convince us twice a week in the NY Times or Washington Post that the invasion of Iraq was a righteous act. And incredibly, or not, they are still around, 20 years later, cranking out anti-Trump punditry online and still in the Times and Post, probably at their old desk. Even those war-mongering apologists for evil can’t stand Trump.

Newspapers, of course, have lost all credibility. They are all on my Shit List. A single blogger today has as much influence as the NY Times. And why not? The newspapers, TV news, the internet and most other news outlets are corrupt and owned by oligarchs. And they always have been. More than 200 years ago, Thomas Jefferson said if he had to choose between a country that had no government and one that had no newspapers, he would choose the one with no government. How ridiculous that sounds today. And one reason why is that, in fact, Jefferson’s hypothetical has virtually come true. There are still newspapers in the U.S., though not a single one with any integrity, and they have no influence at all. None. So all we have now is government, the country that Jefferson didn’t choose.

More on my Shit List some other time. At the moment, I’m too nauseous to continue.

Hard to believe it’s taken me so long to get to the awesome trombonist-arranger Melba Liston. She’s virtually unknown, even by many jazz fans, but isn’t that the way it goes with all of the great ones, in and out of jazz.

During the bebop era, we were used to female jazz singers (actually, most jazz singers were and still are female) and female piano players. But we never got used to female trombonists. Or female trumpet players or saxophonists.

Melba Doretta Liston was born on January 13, 1926 in Kansas City, Missouri. (Bird was born in Kansas City, Kansas, in case you were wondering.) Liston was a child prodigy who grew up with significant mentors. Her grandfather, a guitarist, was a major influence and, after the Liston family moved to Los Angeles, so was the well-known music teacher, Alma Hightower, who was also a mentor (and great-aunt) of Vi Redd. Melba was ten when the Listons moved to LA, and in high school she hung out and played with Dexter Gordon, Eric Dolphy, Vi Redd and other greats.

Liston was the first female trombonist to play in otherwise all-male big bands during the 1940s, ‘50s and ‘60s. And, after Mary Lou Williams, probably the first female big band arranger.

In 1943, age 17, she joined her first band, led by Gerald Wilson, an LA legend, and played and arranged for Dizzy Gillespie’s historic big band of the late-1940s. She later played and arranged for several notable bands, including a second stint with Dizzy’s big band on the U.S. State Dept. world tours of 1956 and 1957.

Her versatility led her to being an arranger for Motown Records and for Stax Records. She spent 1973 as a director of the Jamaica School of Music. While in Jamaica, she composed and arranged music for the 1975 comedy film Smile Orange, starring Carl Bradshaw, who had the lead role in the first Jamaican film, The Harder They Come (1972). She also led youth orchestras in Los Angeles.

Liston is considered one of the great arrangers of the bop era and beyond, and has been called a “trailblazer”—as a trombonist, as a composer-arranger and as a woman. In re the latter role, she spoke of her road trips as a young black female musician: Aside from the virulent racism all along the way, “there are those natural problems on the road, the female problems, the lodging problems, the laundry, and all those kinda things to try to keep yourself together, problems that somehow or other the guys don’t seem to have to go through.”

Jazz historian Emmett G. Price III (I know, it sounds made up) from an article called Melba Liston: Renaissance Woman (and you don’t often hear a woman being referred to as a “renaissance woman.”): “[Liston] had to continually prove her credentials in order to gain suitable employment as a musician, composer, and arranger. She was not paid equitable scale and was often denied access to the larger opportunities as a composer and arranger.”

Liston also recorded and arranged sessions with such giants as Count Basie, Jimmy Smith, Dinah Washington, Betty Carter, Art Blakey, Mary Lou Williams, Ray Charles, Billie Holiday, many others. She was not a flashy player, though she had her moments, but favored ballads and blues. She thought of herself as primarily an arranger. She once said she would rather compose and arrange than play or solo.

The last phase of her career was a long and creative partnership with pianist Randy Weston, composing and arranging Weston’s musical ideas. She had a stroke in 1985 that ended her playing career but she continued to write and arrange with Weston.

Melba Liston died of a stroke on April 23, 1999.

[This following video (My Reverie) of Liston, appearing with the Quincy Jones band in 1960, is a perfect showcase for her understated brilliance. The controlled emotion is overwhelming. The arrangement, Liston’s own, is also lovely, stripped of extraneous detail.]

But the NBA is our favorite. We even get Prime TV for a month because a bunch of games will only be on Prime during that month (May, actually). We’ve been looking forward to the Thunder-Spurs clash going on right now. Pam is a Spurs fan. She loves Wembanyama, and Stephon Castle, too. And she’s a long-time fan of Gregg Popovich. I dig both teams but I’m rooting for the Thunder. They built this possible mini-dynasty by dealing their stars for draft picks, then making deft picks. Shai Gilgeous-Al who? Jalen Williams? Ajay Mitchell? What? And then there’s Jared McCain, a mid-season under-the-radar pickup, and now playing out of his ass.

The Spurs also drafted with skill and also saw something in a player—Julian Champagnie--that no one else saw. Cat hits 3s, okay? The Spurs are virtually unique. Because they have the 7’4” wunderkind (that’s Wemby), the rest of the roster is almost exclusively guards, all good shooters, with three other centers who only get garbage-time minutes, and Harrison Barnes, the only forward on the roster and the veteran presence that every team needs. Last year, before entering the draft, the Spurs’ biggest need was for a power forward-type guy to team with the lengthy but skinny Wemby on the front line. You know, guards they had. Castle and D’Aron Fox were the starters, both great, and they had good backups—Keldon Johnson, former Sixth Man of the Year in 2024-25 and also this year’s Sixth Man of the Year, and sharpshooter Julian Champagnie. So who did the Spurs draft with the #2 pick in last year’s draft? Dylan Harper, a guard from Rutgers. And it was a great pick. He’s that good.

* * *

Pam throws a lotta stuff at the wall but she comes up with some good ones, bon mots and, well, insights, the kind you expect general managers to have. Pam is the player whisperer. She knows what the players need in order to get better. I mean she thinks she knows. So maybe she does! She brings up a lot of obscure shit that you normally don’t think about. If a player is or was injured, Pam wants to know the details. Often there’s something behind various injuries. She wants to know if a player is married. And if they have kids. I have never wondered about that, but I see it could be important in projecting a player’s future or draft value. And she reads coaches like a book, figuring out where they’re at mostly by their demeanor when faced with any adversity. Demeanor is a big tell for Pam.

We’ve also been watching the Knicks-Cavs series. Pam says Donovan Mitchell has a major problem and it’s rooted in the way he walks, which Pam says is “too casual.” Pam says Mitchell walks on the court like he’s wearing a tux and is at the Met Gala. Hm. Yeah, kinda. She’s just getting started. She says that, as talented as Mitchell is, he can’t be a team leader with his demeanor. He never smiles or brings his team together. Since she got me to pay attention, I have never seen him communicate with one of his teammates. Small sample, of course, but everything in sports (if not in life) is a small sample. Mitchell is the Cavs’ best player. I get it now. He needs to lead and is the only logical leader, but he just can’t do it! (BTW she feels the same way about Cade Cunningham. The non-smiling thing, I think she means.)

Pam compares Mitchell to actual team leaders like SGA, who smiles often and communicates with all of his teammates; and to Wemby, who is a model of leadership despite his youth, and even a mentor to some of his teammates. Let’s put it this way: Wemby openly loves his teammates, and his teammates openly love him. Tragic that the Cavs’ leadership role must go to the guy most unable to play that role. The only other logical candidate would be James Harden, future Hall of Famer, and still a genius with the ball in his hands. But he is not a leader. He is a hired gun. And, in that role, still one of the best. Don’t ask him to be a leader, okay?

And so it goes. As soon as you realize that Pam is right about Mitchell’s Walk and about his demeanor and lack of interpersonal skills, you know that the Cavs can never win an NBA title with Mitchell. The Cavs are now behind 3 games to none, thoroughly outclassed by the Knicks, and are just waiting to get swept so they can get the hell away from the NBA grind and go grab some vacay at Cabo. (Which indeed happened last night, Monday, May 25, a blowout on Cleveland’s home court. Oh, the horror!) And the deep thinkers of Cleveland’s front office will be meditating on whom, if you will, they can draft on June 23 and what free agents they might sign to play next year with their star, their best player, Donovan Mitchell.

Pam and I will dig the irony.

Like gay rights, like racial integration, like drug reform, like free speech, like transgender rights, those reforms, at least some of them, and some of them watered down, still became actual laws. How did that happen? It happened because a few connected guys who are in congress, the elites who can afford to run for public office, changed their minds. They decided to do the right thing. Why? Because they became personally involved.

When one is voting in favor of anti-gay legislation right and left and your 16-year-old son comes out and says “Dad, I’m Gay!” then one is presented with a--waddyacallit—moral dilemma. And now it’s “Dad, I’m transgender!” Same deal with all of the anti-social laws.

“Dad, I’m an anarcho-syndicalist.”

“Dad, I’m morally opposed to war.”

                                                              ***

Every source of every war regards all numbers as a baseline. The actual number is always bigger because it’s virtually impossible to be accurate. Military deaths are close to accurate, but how accurate can you be in the bombing of a 15-story apartment building? Or in the “carpet bombing” of a town or city?

First up: the American Revolutionary War--Colonial deaths, military and civilian:
30,000); British deaths, military and civilian, 28,000.

War of 1812--15,000 American military and civilian deaths;
British/Canadian military and civilian deaths: 10,000

Mexican-American War--15,000 U.S. military deaths; 5,000 Mexican military deaths.

Okay, the Civil War: Total number of military deaths in the Civil War is 650,000, all of them Americans. And 1.5 million casualties, exceeding the number of American casualties in WW I and WW II combined.

Staggering numbers, difficult to come to grips with, especially considering that, unlike the World Wars, there was no external enemy--just ourselves! And those who encourage war (Lindsey Graham, for example). Civil War! That it should come to a war! Brother killing brother. Hideous to consider. Gettysburg alone, 51,000 military deaths, North and South combined—in a three-day battle.

The picture below shows the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Gettysburg.

Shall we move to WW I and WW II? The list below is a cold fist in the face.

     WW I
     Total Deaths--20Mil
     Military Deaths--10Mil
     Civilian Deaths--8Mil
     Total Wounded---21Mil

      WW II
     Total Deaths--85Mil
     Military Deaths--25Mil
     Civilian Deaths--55Mil
     Total Wounded---35Mil

The U.S. entered WW I in April 1917 and the War ended in November 1918. In those 18 months the US armed services suffered 116,500 deaths of the 20 million world-wide, and more than 200,000 casualties of the 21 million casualties world-wide.

In WW II the U.S. armed services suffered 405,000 deaths of the 85 million deaths world-wide, and 671,000 casualties of the 35 million casualties world-wide.

As a sidelight, if you will, the USSR’s combined military and civilian deaths during WW II was 24 million. Crunch those numbers.

Casualties is another murky statistic. Casualties of war? Where do you start? Casualties of war is the basis of The Best Years of Our Lives (1946), an Oscar-winning movie about WW II vets returning home from the war, back to their wives, their girlfriends, their families, their former lives. As I recall, only one in the movie didn’t make it back, but the emphasis was on those who did make it back, back from hell to their small-town American past.
Every soldier who returns from every war is a casualty of war, and so are their wives, their girlfriends and their families. All of them.

Next up: the Korean War--36,000 American military dead, 104,000 casualties;
South Korea, 800,000 military and civilian dead; North Korea, 1.5 military and
civilian dead; Chinese, 3 million military and civilian dead.

“Civilian casualties in the Korean War may have accounted for up to 70% of the
war’s total deaths, compared to 42% in WWII and 30–46% in Vietnam.”

Vietnam War: 58,200 U.S. military dead, 150,000 casualties; 3 million Vietnamese
civilian and military dead.

Iraq War: 4,800 U.S. military dead, 32,000 casualties; Iraqi military and civilian
dead, 1.1 million.

Afghanistan War: 2,000 U.S. military deaths, 21,000 casualties; military
contractors’ deaths, 6,000.

Iran War--Since February 28, 2026, the first day of U.S. bombing of Iran, to today
May 18 (ten weeks):

Iran--Military dead, more than 4,400 in the first ten days (Feb 28—
March 9), civilian dead, 3,000, “including the Minab school strike that
killed more than 168 people, mostly girls.”

U.S. armed services--13 dead, 140 wounded.

Israel—13 military dead, 11 civilian casualties.

Lebanon—3,000 civilian dead, “more than one million displaced due to Israeli strikes and ongoing “hostilities.”

Total military and civilian deaths world-wide since the end of WW II in 1945, from the Korean War up to now, is 10,600,000. Remember, this is inaccurate because how could it not be? It’s a rough estimate based on many other rough estimates.

The actual number is always bigger, probably much bigger.

For a sense of balance, WW II resulted in 85 million total deaths, military and civilian, a number that exceeds the total deaths of every U.S. war that came after it or before.

***

I’m tempted now to write something that condemns war and the politicians who dig war and their adherents who also dig war, who think war is cool. To them I merely say, do yourself a favor and visit the Vietnam Memorial in D.C. Look at the names for a while. Then sit back farther, on the grass, where you can’t see any of the names.

Williams, pianist, composer, arranger, was born Mary Elfrieda Scruggs on May 8, 1910 in Atlanta and grew up in Pittsburgh. She is considered to be, as biographer Linda Dahl wrote, “probably the most influential woman in the history of jazz.” I think we can ditch the “probably.”

She was a prodigy who showed early signs of genius. Her mother taught her to play the piano when Mary Lou was four. She learned to play ragtime, boogie-woogie, blues and classical pieces, and at age seven she was known as “the little piano girl of East Liberty,” a section of Pittsburgh, earning enough money to put food on the table for her and her siblings. At age 15 she was playing around town professionally.

She became an outstanding pianist and a prolific composer and made her name arranging for big bands like Duke Ellington’s, Benny Goodman’s, Tommy Dorsey’s and Andy Kirk’s Twelve Clouds of Joy. She also played with Duke’s early band, known as the Washingtonians.

Apart from her contribution to the Swing Era and pre-Swing, Williams is revered as a champion of the new sounds (bebop), and a friend and mentor to, among others, Monk, Bud Powell, Bird, Dizzy, Miles and Tadd Dameron, i.e., virtually every major bebop pioneer, many of whom had a heroin addiction. As Dahl writes, Williams’ apartment, always an oasis for musicians, “was virtually a rehab.”

Her longtime interest in classical music influenced jazz composition and expanded the horizons of many of the boppers, notably Bird. She wrote a series of pieces called Zodiac Suite. She wrote and performed Black Christ of the Andes, based around a hymn in honor of the Peruvian Saint Martin de Porres. To indicate her musical range, in 1977 she performed (and recorded) a piano duo with avant garde-ist Cecil Taylor.

Williams taught at Duke University from 1977 to 1981, teaching the History of Jazz and directing the Duke Jazz Ensemble. Two years later Duke established the Mary Lou Williams Center for Black Culture.

In the mid-1950s, Williams converted to Catholicism. She wrote Mary Lou’s Mass, (considered her best sacred piece), The Pittsburgh Mass, and many other works, and stepped up her mission to help jazz musicians with various needs. She worked often with youth choirs, including “Mary Lou’s Mass” at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan in April 1975 before a gathering of more than three thousand. It was the first time a jazz musician had played at the church.

Shortly after her religious conversion, Williams turned her apartment in Hamilton Heights into a halfway house for struggling musicians, and opened a thrift store in Harlem to support the project.

Looking back at the end of her life, Mary Lou Williams, the woman who began as “the little piano girl of East Liberty,” and became “the first lady of the jazz keyboard,” said: “I did it, didn’t I? Through muck and mud.”

See Morning Glory (2000) by Linda Dahl and Soul on Soul (2020) by Tammy L. Kernodle. Also, the film documentary Mary Lou Williams: The Lady Who Swings the Band (2015).

Pam and I joined our fellow citizens at Hollywood Blvd. and Vermont. This time the crowd was bigger than the demonstration last June at that same intersection.

It’s a good feeling to assemble with kindred spirits in a common cause, and all that jazz. The common cause of course is to get rid of Trump, but there are many issues. When I demonstrated in 1967 against the war in Vietnam, there was only one issue: the war in Vietnam. I don’t remember anyone talking about any other issue. Today, Trump’s depravity has extended to virtually every aspect of our lives. Yes, it’s the war, and it’s the economy, it’s the racism, it’s the misogyny, it’s the xenophobia, it’s the corruption, it’s the ineptitude, it’s the narcissism, it’s the cruelty, it’s the ignorance, it’s the arrogance, it’s the lying, it’s the grifting, it’s the vulgarity.

It’s the fascism.

And many cool home-made signs covered all of it.

Holy Signage, Batman! In re the war, one guy offered a scrim mounted on a music stand, a bit of installation art with four large words—No Boots No Bags. One cat carried a huge upside-down US flag, traditionally “a signal of “extreme distress or danger.” So, yeah, appropriate. I also dug “Fuck These Scumbags.” Cool how we’re way past euphemism. An older woman held up a beat-up piece of cardboard, “See you in Nuremberg, fuckers.” So a lot of anti-war signs, but even more anti-ICE signs, especially among Latinos. “Fuck ICE” was common. I noticed a few “Tax the Billionaires” signs. Yes, we have to work on that one. There were some appeals to religion. “Jesus was an immigrant” is a grabber. “People aren’t illegal.” I dug “Woke Nation.” Yeah, baby! And then there’s “Trump puts the Dick in Dictatorship.”

As I recall from the last demonstration: “What the actual fuck?”

The single most moving thing I saw was, again, on a small bit of cardboard, “We the People,” the most resonant phrase in the English language.

I was also moved by a girl about 12 years old, maybe older, hard to tell, with a bullhorn type thing, walking with her mother. The girl was chanting “hey hey ho ho Donald Trump has got to go.” That brought me right back to the 1960s, Vietnam, the protests. Just fill in Richard Nixon’s name for Donald Trump. And so has it been ad infinitum. We, the people have had it pretty rough, especially starting with Nixon(war), then under the reigns of Ronald Reagan(war), both George Bushes (war and war) and Trump(war). We, the people need a break. Will we ever get one? Bush started the horrible, illegal Iraq invasion that was universally condemned and then got re-elected, winning the popular vote as well as the electoral vote.

The above-mentioned anti-war demonstration in 1967 was the biggest outpouring of passionate protest this country had ever seen. And the war took eight more years to end.

I took a full load of classes and worked forty hours a week, more classes and more hours than I could handle. I worked at the East Bay Bus Terminal way downtown, now defunct. It was open 24 hours a day. With one other guy I ran the big kiosk in the middle of the floor that sold newspapers, magazines, paperbacks, candy, gum, cigarettes. My hours were midnight to 8:00 AM. My first class at Columbia started at 10:00. Usually, I just made it. Often, I was late which pissed off the teacher. Most of my classes seemed a bit over my head but I was determined to hang in there. My poetry teacher was the renowned Babette Deutsch, poet and critic. Especially of my stuff. She once had us pick any poem and write a paper on it. What could go wrong? She singled me out in class, to some guffaws from a few treasonous classmates, about my supposedly pedestrian choice of Fire and Ice by Robert Frost. Some poets selected by the other students included Chaucer, John Dryden, the Earl of Rochester, Ezra Pound, Rilke, Yeats, Rimbaud and Catullus. Robert Frost? She was utterly blown away by my provincial taste. I think I got a D+ on my paper. Gee, and I was shooting for a C-.

I enjoyed much more the 19^th Century French Novel class. Read lots of great classics, in translation, of course--The Red and the Black, Pere Goriot, Madame Bovary, Germinal, Thais, Manon Lascaut. I loved reading back then, especially fiction, so I was holding my own. Funny, I stopped reading fiction long ago. When it becomes a guilty pleasure, you might wanna go back to square one, or, to quote Pam, “square zero,” a scary concept. Or, as the golf pro told one of his unexceptional students: “Take two weeks off…then quit for good.”

During the Christmas break, my father and I drove down to Miami for his first ever “vacation.” While we were there he died and I never returned to Columbia.

One night we were sitting around trashing the latest whatever when Toby called. She was an ex of Richie’s who usually called when something cool was going on. This night the cool thing was a major bash on Tenth Avenue in the 20s, then a warehouse district. Two giant advertising firms were merging. Huntington Hartford had something to do with it, so he was throwing a party. Toby emphasized that there were huge tables of food. We were always hungry.

All of us—me, Richie, Norman and Alex--jumped into Howie’s big-ass Packard, and drove down the West Side Highway. The party was as advertised—a major event featuring, as Toby had put it, “tables sagging with food.” Where’s a better place to experience excess than the food table(s) at a party celebrating the probably illegal merger of two awful purveyors of lies for their multi-national clients.

Like a well-oiled commando unit, we split up and checked it all out. The scene was pretty wild. I bumped into Lorinda Karp who I knew from Columbia. She was just starting grad school around the time I quit. Now she’s closing in on her PhD, while I’ve spent my time “puttering on the astral plane,” as what’s-her-face put it.

Like poised professionals, we started to line our pockets with napkins (my winter coat alone had four pockets) and, cleverly, between legitimate snacking, stashed as much finger food as humanly possible into those napkin-lined pockets. I remember the big fat chocolate-covered strawberries. The caterers of this party obviously didn’t know who they were dealing with.

The incredibly rich Huntington Hartford himself sat on a kind of throne while nubile starlets hovered around him like cherubim. The big deal for me were the musicians playing the gig--Hank Jones, Jimmy Raney (both giants in the history of jazz) and Don Elliott, a mini-giant himself. At one point I was actually sitting on the piano bench while Jones was playing. Hey it was a party. Don Elliott, who was best known as a mellophone player (a bit like a French horn), and often won the Downbeat Award in the Miscellaneous Instrument category, was also a fine trumpet player and singer. He did both that night and I loved it. I was shocked at this cat Hartford just hiring these jazz greats to play at his party for a few hours.

                  Jimmy Raney and Doug Raney 
              “There Will Never Be Another You"

                            Duet with Son

It was about 9:45 or 10:00 and I’m freezing my ass off but I looked kinda sharp and I didn’t want to mess it up with a dorky winter coat. I hadn’t thought of it but suppose she had invited a couple of friends over. That would be a kibosh. Worse, there might even be a guy there. The horror! Like, maybe even a steady boyfriend, despite the findings of my desultory research.

I hadn’t thought about what I was going say when she opened the door. Hi, I was on my way to the beach to drown myself, but first I thought I’d stop by and see what you’d say if I asked you out--just so I’d know before I shake off this bothersome mortal coil.

The porch light comes on. No turning back now.

The door opens. Wow, the statuesque Dot Nelson. Naturally I should’ve said, and even might have said, “Just stopped by to wish you a happy new year.” Something super-suave like that. I’d give my mint Gil McDougald rookie card to know what I did say, but she invited me in before I could even make something up and was very nice.

And now to the highlight of the evening. She picked up one of the 45s stacked by the record player. Dream a Little Dream of Me. She asked if I knew it. Are you kidding? I love that tune. I started to sing along with the record and she shocked me by singing with me. We both knew the words and both obviously dug singing. Dot Nelson, singer? Damn. She not only had the look, even her name sounded like a big band singer from the Swing Era. We did a little harmony, too, the whole bit. Something stirred in me, as a hack writer might put it.

     Dream a Little Dream of Me

     Stars shining bright above you,
     night breezes seem to whisper “I love you,”
     birds singing in a sycamore tree.
     Dream a little dream of me

     Say nighty-night and kiss me.
     Just hold me tight and tell me you miss me.
     While I’m alone and blue as can be,
     dream a little dream of me

         Stars fading but I linger on dear,
         still craving your kiss.
         I’m longing to linger till dawn, dear,
         just saying this.

     Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you.
     Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you.
     but in your dreams, whatever they be,
     dream a little dream of me.

Speaking of “lingering,” I can’t shake the memory of all that, as Ira Gershwin put it—even though I know it’s mostly all made up. Mostly, not all. This happened so many decades ago that no one, especially me, should believe a word of it, any of it, even the “Mostly, not all” part. Like Keats after listening to the nightingale, Fled is that music. Do I wake or sleep? I’m not sure what happened. I do remember going over there and hanging out with her. I do remember that no one else was there. After a while, I do remember kissing her. That was wonderful. But I didn’t know what to do next! I knew nothing. And I didn’t want to appear, you know, gauche.

I probably wasn’t there at midnight. I think I would’ve remembered that. In fact, that might’ve sealed our fate. We would’ve gone steady, got married, had two kids (a boy and a girl) and moved to Ohio so she could be close to her mother and I’d teach remedial language arts at the Akron State night school.

This is the first of some-profiles I hope to write in order to hip myself and the rest of the male-dominated world to women in jazz in the bop era. I have a lot of catching up to do on this subject. I know just enough to know I don’t know jack shit. I didn’t learn the history and, more significantly, I wasn’t (and still ain’t) mature enough to realize just how, and to what extent, women have been held back, marginalized, criticized, undervalued, unsupported, etc. in every field, every workplace, every day. (“Every day I’ve got the blues.”) Jazz is no different. And I’m no different.

Women, in any competitive situation, will virtually always be the underdog. If a woman wants to be a man’s equal at anything, she better be twice as good. Minorities understand this.

And how many male musicians, or athletes, politicians, etc., have had their career interrupted, or even ended, because they became pregnant?

Vi Redd was the first female jazz musician who made me realize how ignorant I was on the subject of women in jazz. Women in anything, really. Women.

Elvira Louise Redd was born on September 20, 1928 in Los Angeles into a vibrant musical family. She was mentored by her father, a leading figure on the Central Avenue jazz scene as a drummer and as co-founder of the Clef Club (described as part nightclub, part union hall, part hang-out), and by a mother who played the saxophone and a brother who was also a drummer, and an aunt, Alma Hightower, who was a well-known music teacher in LA. It was Alma who convinced the 10-year-old Vi to switch from piano to alto saxophone (not an easy transition at any age) and became her sax teacher. During junior high school, Redd played alto in a band that included Melba Liston and Dexter Gordon.

Redd had degrees from LA State, a teaching certificate from USC, and worked for a few years in the Dept. of Education, but she returned to jazz, and had a busy decade, playing with Max Roach, touring with Earl Hines, and leading a group in San Francisco with her husband, drummer Richie Goldberg, She also played with Count Basie, Rahsaan Roland Kirk, Marian McPartland, Dizzy Gillespie and toured Japan and Europe (Sweden, France, Spain and London, “including an unprecedented 10 weeks at Ronnie Scott’s”).

Vi Redd was also a fine singer with a compelling natural sound, blues based, like her playing. Not many singers can convincingly shout the blues (Every Day) and render soulful ballads (If I Should Lose You). Dinah Washington comes to mind. Not many others.

Redd made three albums--her debut Bird Call in 1962 and Lady Soul the following year, both albums as leader of the sessions and with west coast stalwarts (Russ Freeman, Herb Ellis, Leroy Vinnegar, Roy Ayers, Bill Perkins), and a third album--Now’s the Time (1977) with an all-female quintet: Marian McPartland (piano), Mary Osborne (guitar), Dottie Dodgion (drums), Lynn Milano) (bass).

She got off the road in 1969 and settled in Los Angeles where she played locally while also working as an educator. Vi Redd died on February 6, 2022. She was 93.

                                Vi Redd Bird Call