I’ve always had a fondness for old-timers. Veteran greats stepping into the ring, running onto the field or taking the stage for the last great hurrahs. The culmination of exceptional talent, hard work and long experience. Beauty, grace and inspiration sculpted by time. A thousand moments of greatness compressed into those last leaps, that last speech, those last notes... and those last lessons to the world for all of us who can only stand at the foot of Olympus and look up... and wonder.

Come off the ropes and dazzle us again with your daring dance, Ali. Celebrate defiance one more time with your cunning and cocky strut, Mick. Gracefully charge the net and slam another screamer down the line, Martina.

* * *

It was a hot and steamy May night in 1986 when my wife and I went to see Benny Goodman at Wolftrap in Northern Virginia. We joined a huge crowd on the grassy amphitheater and laid out our blanket to enjoy our wine and chicken and to see one of the great musicians of the century. There was an excitement in the crowd that transcended the stifling heat. Even the crickets seemed to rattle and buzz with anticipation.

Finally, the lights of Wolftrap dimmed, the crowd quieted and the sound of the crickets was broken by the announcer.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Wolftrap is proud to present MISTER BENNY GOODMAN."

As the crowd applauded and cheered, the stage lights came up and the big band launched into an old favorite. Sitting on the left, in front of the band, on a simple, high wooden stool was Benny Goodman with his clarinet cradled in his arms. Icon of jazz, King of Swing, master of musical moods. Benny Goodman. Never a flashy showman, he remained seated and he smiled gently to the crowd. The crowd gave one more burst of applause and cheers, then quieted down as Goodman lifted his clarinet. He joined in with the pick-up band so subtly that his sound was barely noticeable and his solo during the piece was restrained and quiet. The crowd applauded politely at the end of the piece, but we were not inspired. The band was good but not great, and Benny Goodman was very old. He seemed tired and weak.

* * *

Lead the blinding fast-break and fire another no-look assist, Magic. Show us the pain-filled eyes of another simple man who could have been a contender, Marlon. Hitch up your pants, bend your shoulder into the wind again and lead the gallant charge of your army up the 18th fairway, Arny.

* * *

The crowd became increasingly restless and distracted as Benny Goodman and the big band seemed to labor through their set. Goodman never rose from his stool. He introduced each number briefly and started the band with tiny hand gestures to count the rhythm and downbeat. I stared forward, not wanting to share the concern and disappointment that I was feeling.

I rationalized. Benny had always been known as an unselfish musician, letting the rest of the band shine. He was not one to hog the limelight. Sure, he was a perfectionist, and could be difficult to work with, but he knew that balance was paramount in good music. It was the harmony of the band that made a piece work, not the performance of any one musician. He was deferring. He was being unselfish. He did not want to overwhelm the pick-up band with his virtuosity.

Or had Benny Goodman lost it? Was he just an old man going through the motions and taking a pay check?

* * *

Give us one more soul-searching barroom ballad for the road, Frankie. Corner another deadly virus and bring it to its knees, Jonas. Grace the cold and snowy night again with Mimi’s soaring song of innocence, Beverly.

* * *

I wandered aimlessly during the intermission, avoiding conversation with my wife and trying to ignore the rest of the crowd. I thought about Benny Goodman’s landmark concerts and recordings from 1936 to 1938 with Gene Krupa, Harry James and perhaps the greatest jazz band of all time. They had made jazz legit, and their swingin’ sounds had paved the way for hundreds of great musicians that followed and who fueled the flame anew with their own genius and inspiration. I thought about the Benny Goodman concerts at Disneyland in the summer of 1966. I had watched every night from the Monorail platform dressed in my Tomorrowland uniform. On my breaks, I had joined the thousands of cheering fans of all ages as Benny rocked the Tomorrowland stage with his incomparable solos in "Sing Sing Sing".

I sat back down on our blanket at Wolftrap on that humid summer night. The stage had been reset for a sextet as the audience waited to endure the rest of the evening. Five young musicians took their places and the stage lights came up. The small group played a spirited piece and they were actually quite good. The crowd took notice. These were probably the top players from the big band.

After the young group finished their piece, Goodman appeared from the wings. Pale, bent and frail, looking like a long-retired banker, he shuffled very slowly to his stool, picked up his horn and took a seat. He spoke into a microphone.

"These kids are pretty good. I hope I can keep up with them."

He smiled and the crowd returned a nervous chuckle. He counted the beat and the group started a jumpy piece with Goodman mixing in nicely. The group traded solo riffs until it was Benny Goodman’s turn and he started out in his usual subtle and restrained manner. He started to increase his volume and lift his horn slightly and then something incredible happened. The clarinet began to move slowly in an arch and the music coming out of it began to take unusual twists and turns. Goodman rose from his stool, his face glowing with color, and he stood straight and tall. His music soared and his body began to sway. The horn raised into the air as a sensational trill of dancing notes reached a crescendo. Then the notes began to fly, filling the night, first up, racing to the sky in explosions of light, then down, cascading into pools of deep melodic cooling waters. The crowd erupted into spontaneous cheers. The young musicians smiled and tried to keep up. The crickets stopped to listen. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I stood and shouted and cheered with the rest of the crowd and was transported with the music to heights of emotional inspiration. When the other musicians came back in for the group finale to the piece, the crowd cheered again and didn’t stop until long after the musicians had finished.

For the rest of that glorious and unforgettable set, five "kids" and an old man treated themselves and the audience to a comprehensive and joyous exploration of jazz. From perfect unison harmonies, to traditional solo riffs, to wild improvisations taken to the edge, the small group celebrated the intimacy, perfection and transcendence of music. And there, as the leader, sage and instigator, was the master - sharing, deferring and showing off his mastery. It was a lesson in greatness. Benny Goodman had always done much of his greatest work with small combos, where his range and nuances were most apparent, and there at Wolftrap, we were privileged to witness a culmination of his artistry.

Near the end of the evening’s performance, Goodman introduced the other members of the sextet, paying tribute to their skills, and then he introduced his final number.

"Thank-you all for coming out tonight. I hope you have enjoyed yourselves. We certainly have, and it’s been a pleasure to be with you. We’d like to close the evening with a little tune written by Gordon Jenkins called "Good-bye"."

For more than fifty years, Benny Goodman had closed his shows with the same simple and haunting melody. And on this night, sitting on his stool on the giant stage at Wolftrap, glowing in the warmth of an adoring audience, humbled colleagues and converging spotlights, he said "Good-bye" again. He spoke through his clarinet with wisdom and clarity. His gentle artistry caressed the souls that it touched. Each note carried the subtle, intimate emotions of the tone poem that he left us with. Benny Goodman said "Good-bye" as no one else could... and the moment passed...and a voice from somewhere high above Olympus said, "Well done, Benny Goodman".

* * *

Benny Goodman died less than a month later in New York City. Musical historians surmised that he had probably continued to practice for hours every day until the very end, still seeking the perfection that was his standard of excellence.

* * *

Those of us at Wolftrap that night saw and heard Benny Goodman play "Good-bye" for the last time. I wish that I could have said "Good-bye" back, and "Thank-you", but I could not have hoped to speak with the eloquence that he had conveyed through his artistry.

* * *

Now, I guess I’m an old-timer, myself. Fifty and not counting. Jubilee. All debts released. All property returned to its original owner. But no last hurrahs for me. Just a clean slate and the spirit to go on, and to learn, and to grow, and to practice, and to do things a little better each time as new horizons continue to loom ahead. I’m just another rookie in a new season filled with hope. As I take the field to warm up for another game, the words of Ernie Banks echo in my head. "Let’s play two!"

Line another one deep into left-center and leg it out for a stand-up triple, Willie. Repeat your sailing leaps and spins to conquer the shadows of the forest, Mikhail. Make the crickets stop and listen once again, Benny Goodman. It is music to my ears.

Sites of Related Interest
Benny Goodman
Jass.com: Early Jazz on the Net
IsabelDeco Gallery

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