Goodman and Miller in the Café Graf
Music is part of our life.
My father played every string instrument extant. He was best on the
Cello and the guitar. There is a story, that he and his brother got
musical instruments one Christmas. Franz, my father, got a violin and
his brother Felix got a guitar. They also were enrolled in lessons.
Franz would study his violin, but every chance he got, he grabbed his
brother’s guitar and taught himself. Before long he played the
violin quite well, but the guitar even better. Much better, they say,
than his brother Felix. My mother played the Zither and she sang
beautifully. She had a light, silvery voice. When we did the dishes
after dinner, Irmgard would wash, I would dry, Inge would sit at the
kitchen table and knit fancy table cloths with a huge round knitting
needle, mother would do something else, but we all sang. Doing the
dishes and singing went hand in hand. Often, the dishes long done,
we’d still be singing. We sang excerpts from Operettas, we sang
Folksongs, we sang Schubert’s “Trout quintet “
“In einem Baechlein
helle, da schoss in froher Eil, die launige Forelle, vorueber wie ein
Pfeil. Ich stand an dem Gestade und sah in suesser Ruh des muntern
Fischleins Bade im klaren Baechlein zu.”
I still remember the
lyrics. More than sixty years later.
The Americans have just
come to Braunau. I don’t yet quite understand it, but I will in the
future: they bring us
“freedom liberty and
bread.”
I am shortly to discover
one other thing they bring:
I bum around in the Main
Square, the Stadtplatz.
A few houses down from
City Hall is Café Graf. As you walk in you come to the sales
section. They sell rich home made chocolate torte, delicious
pralines, bon bons, juicy fruit cakes. This is what we call a
“Konditorei” At the back is a glass door, which is always open.
It leads to the actual “Caffehaus” where you sit at a small
round marble topped table and can have all the sweets from the
Konditorei, together with strong coffee or tea. You may also have
Cognac, various liquors, or a glass of good wine.
All this is hearsay. I am
too broke for the Konditorei and too young for the Caffehaus. Every
time I pass by, I glance in, because I know, someday I’ll sit in
the Caffehaus and eat and drink anything I like.
The Americans seem to like
the atmosphere of this little place. They take it over as their club.
Now I have friends who will take me there. Richard Keegan for one,
but several others too. They bring an electric record player and
stacks of records.
This is the place where I
first hear Benny Goodman play “Sing Sing Sing” with Gene Krupas
unbelievable drum solo and Glen Miller’s “In the Mood,” and the
“String of Pearls” and “Chattanooga Choo Choo” with the lush
Tenor Sax and vocals of Tex Bennecke. Never, ever before have I heard
a voice like Billy Holiday’s.
I am certain I have just
arrived in musical heaven.
That’s what music must
sound like.
I can feel the pulsating
rhythm in my whole body.
I not only hear the
melodies but remember them at first hearing.
I hear Music with a
capital M.
I know that I have been
secretly waiting for this Music.
They tell me it’s called
Jazz.
My American friends teach
me how to pronounce this beautiful word, so it does not sound like a
board game.
I hang around there for
days and listen to “Stompin’ at the Savoy”, “Down Under Camp
Meeting” I fall in love with Louis Armstrong’s silvery trumpet
and his gravely voice.
I listen to Harry James
play the “Trumpet Blues” and Tommy Dorsey’s rich trombone.
Who ever heard anything
better than Louis Armstrong’s 'Hot Five'.?
I learn the meaning of
“Dixieland” and on first hearing I understand that they are all
playing around the same chord structure. Everybody improvises like
crazy and it comes out sounding beautiful.
But not to my mother’s
ears. She declares it:
“unmitigated
noise”.
“They are not even
playing the same tune” she fusses.
My pleading to listen
carefully and she would know that this is beautiful music falls on
deaf ears, figuratively speaking.
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The End
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