It Looked so Good in the Window

Copyright © 2008 by Sid Cooper

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Contents

Sid Cooper’s Memoirs

CODA

This memoir could not have been

completed without the big-band

knowledge of my wife,

Patricia Kim Loo.

I love you.

Sid

Sid Cooper’s Memoirs

It looked so good in the window. That shiny brass, those pearl buttons, the beautifully curved instrument laid out on a mat of black satin attracted me at the age of ten. This was in 1928. As I matured, I realized that this image was my earliest visual contact with the female body. To this day, whenever a lovely lady is on stage, TV, or cinema, music portrays her presence with a moody, groovy alto sax solo.

I spent many hours peering into the front window of the New York Band and Instrument Company, located at Van Buren Street and Broadway in the Ridgewood section of Brooklyn, New York, between 1928 and 1930.

The salesman of that music store, Nick Engleman, saw me standing there every Saturday afternoon, on my way home from the Van Buren movie house, located directly across the street. By the way, the cost of the movie then was one nickel. The show consisted of a full-run movie, usually a western, plus a short serial of a continuing series, which always ended for that day with a dreadful situation about to happen. You had to come back the following week to find out how the hero or heroine came through that particular plight. A good example was being tied to railroad track by the villain and his gang. Naturally, it all came out okay—or else there could have been no movie serial.

Nick Engleman knew that one day soon I would enter the doors of that magic palace of shiny brass and white pearl. Nick was later to become my good friend. He changed his position and became the finest saxophone and clarinet repairman in the band business. He told reed players young and old the story of the little boy who had stood in front of the window every Saturday and how he had wondered how long it would be before I entered the store to ask about an instrument. He did not know as yet which one I was attracted to: saxophone, trumpet, trombone, clarinet, banjo, drum, or violin. Sadly, I must report that Nick Engleman died in April of 1991.

I really did not know the sound of the saxophone, and still its appearance fascinated me. My curiosity was so aroused that I started to listen to one of the treasures my mother and stepfather managed to purchase in those very difficult days of economic pressure: an Atwater Kent radio. It had one big horn (speaker) and three dials, which had to be tuned in perfectly to receive a local New York station. Naturally, I went for the music programs.

At that time the alto sax was very popular, although its quality of sound was completely different than what we know today and, incidentally, has changed many times from the 1920s to the ‘90s.

First, there were the marvelous early jazz bands and the dance orchestras of the time. I always felt that the alto sax belonged to the black players, some of whom had studied. But most were self-taught or taught by a teacher who instructed in all instruments. These early players paved the way. They had a sound in their heads and brought it forth to give the alto sax its beginning. The best example is Johnny Hodges. On the other hand, there were Rudy Vallee, Wayne King, a very young Jimmy Dorsey, and various others. And these were the known players of that era. When I think back and remember the way they sounded (except for Jimmy Dorsey and Johnny Hodges) you would have to wonder why I would want to play an alto sax. Once again I say: "It looked so good in the window."

I have been asked this coming question many times: Where did you get your musical talent and the relentless drive to play music? Although I never knew my paternal grandfather, I was told by my mother, Rosie, that he was a cantor in Romania. He sang all the melodies that you will still hear at temple on the Sabbath and High Holy Days, generally in a high baritone going into the tenor range. With these melodies, the congregation very often will follow the cantor and join him to follow his chant. There is always some member who will sing ahead of the cantor to show the rest of the group that he knows the music also. He is generally sneered upon and, not only that, he sings out of tune.

I could never check this out with my father, Isadore. He died when I was two years old. The older relatives of my family told me that Isadore was a good singer also, so I have to credit my father and his father for the mysterious need I had to become a musician, plus the fact that Rosie was very musical.

I was born in Montreal, Canada, on November 2, 1918, the first and only son of Isadore and Rosie Kupperman. Before me were my eldest sister, Helen; next, Belle; and then Ruth, all a few years apart. Needless to say, as the youngest, and being a boy, I was well taken care of.

Montreal was a small part of my baby years. Canada was a stopover in the lives of my parents. My father, Isadore, was a furrier for a company in New York. They opened a branch in Montreal and sent him to manage the business. My mother and three sisters went to join him, and, somewhere along the way, I came into the picture.

I’m told that in our home music was always present. We had a windup console phonograph and the available records of the day, plus a player piano with many rolls of popular music. Isadore and Rosie and the girls would sing the popular songs of the day. My sisters all had a shot at piano lessons. Belle had the best love for the piano, and, when I was studying, she helped me through some hard times. My father enjoyed playing cards, especially pinochle. One of his friends was an insurance agent by the name of Harry Rabinovitch. He was a good card player and could be found at my house many an evening, where he joined my father in his favorite game. Harry’s wife was an unfortunate target of the great flu epidemic of 1918. She passed away shortly after my father, who, at his young age of thirty-four, had a bad heart, and in those days there was so little to be done for him—and he passed on. I mention this now because my mother, a young widow with four children, was later to correspond with Harry from New York to Montreal. Rosie had returned to New York after the death of my father. Gosh, how many times I needed Isadore and wished I could have known him even a little or could have felt his arm around my shoulder. I’m sure that some of the confidence I lacked at various times in my life would have been there had Isadore lived to guide me.

Looking back, some of the happiest times I had growing up were when Belle sat at the piano and the rest of the family sang along. I came up with some of the usual homemade instruments, such as two soup spoons. I would place one between my index finger and my fourth finger of my right hand and the other between my pointing finger and my middle finger. With my left hand, I would hit the top spoon against the bottom spoon against my leg above the knee and so make various types of percussive rhythms. This could also be done with two pieces of wood about five or six inches long. Pots and pans were snare drums and cymbals. A washboard and a thimble rubbing against the grooves were part of the act. Actually, all these toys were part of the vaudeville acts I had seen at the Lowes Gates Theater and the RKO Bushwick Theatre in Brooklyn.

I found out that a harmonica could make a lot of music, so I bought a Hohner marine band instrument for fifty cents. There were no sharps or flats, but Swannee River and most Stephen Foster songs could be played. I found out that by blowing a certain way you could flatten a note, therefore enabling me to play the blues.

Added to this was the Jew’s harp, not of much musical value but, again, I played what I could afford to buy. The kazoo was easy—you just sang into the pipe and out came the melody. The kazoo could be made by putting a piece of tissue paper around a hair comb and singing across it. It would vibrate the paper, and there was one more instrument to add to the rest.

When I was seven years old, the family insisted that I had to be the learned Jew and go to Hebrew school. This would enable me to become bar mitzvahed, and so it was off to Hebrew school five times a week immediately after I came home from public school. It was not easy, but that was expected of me, and I had no choice. So I learned alef, bet gimel, etc. Considering how I faked most of it, I got along quite well with the rabbi and received decent marks, so the family was happy.

There were many trying and unhappy days, since my mother agreed to marry Harry from Canada, and he came to New York with two of his four children. They were two boys, older than I was and not too friendly. Joe was an angry boy. After all, he had lost his mother and been brought into a family that he had no reason to like. Richard was in his late teens and he was easier to get along with. You must remember that there were three girls in the family, two of whom were the equivalent ages of Joe and Richard. Joe became Ruth’s friend and Richard Belle’s. I was too young to understand that teenagers had feelings that brought boys and girls together. I guess they had their moments. Rosie watched carefully. Harry couldn’t care less, and I thought it was all a big joke.

Rosie had purchased a candy store with the insurance money from Isadore’s death. It was located in Long Island City in Queens, New York. There were rooms in back of the store and that’s where we lived. Harry had not as yet arrived from Canada with his kids.

I remember being alone quite a lot. The three girls were in elementary school. I was four years old, too young to go to school and, for the most part, in my mother’s way.

The store was located across the street from a Catholic church and school. This store was not only a candy store but had a bit of everything: a soda fountain, a showcase full of penny candy, and shelves with all the necessary pencils, paper, pads, pens, ink, and stationery that the kids in school would need.

At three o’clock the store became quite crowded. I loved it then. The one thing that troubled me was the availability to me of all the goodies that other kids had to buy. I desperately wanted to buy something, so I took a few pennies every once in a while and walked two blocks to another candy store and bought the same things that I had for nothing at Mom’s store. What a good feeling that was, giving somebody money to have a piece of candy.

The priests, nuns, brothers, and sisters enjoyed coming into the store to visit with the widow Cooper. They were fine people and really cared for my mother and me.

One day the priest came in after school and saw me sitting on the floor playing, and he wanted to know why I was not in school. Mom explained to him that I was only four years old and could not go to public school until I was five. I was pretty big for my age and looked older than four. He suggested to my mother that he would enroll me into his school, so that I would be out of her way for a few hours each day. She agreed, and I was off to parochial school. I was not thrilled and a bit scared. The black-and-white dress of brothers and sisters did not agree with me. They were very nice to me, but, as young as I was, I did not feel that I was in the right place.

A lot of the teaching was done with charts that hung from the wall of the class like window shades. There were holy pictures on these pull shades, and, for some reason, at four years old I was frightened of them, and soon I did not show up in school again.

I eventually went to kindergarten in public school, and that suited me a lot more. I was five then and was glad to be out of the store.

When Harry came into the family, there was no room for his kids and us. He did not like the candy store, so my mother sold it. They bought a grocery store in Brooklyn and a flat over the store with many rooms, so all the kids had their places.

Hebrew school was ten blocks away from the store. Public school was three blocks away. We all went our separate ways.

The piano went along with us, and we continued to sing. Against all odds—depression, lack of clothing—we never had a need for food. The grocery store was our saving grace until Mom and Harry could not carry the burden anymore and eventually gave it up.

In the interim the rabbi told me that I did not have to wait to be thirteen to be bar mitzvahed. I could be a man at twelve, because I had no father. That was a good way to knock off one year of Hebrew school.

I joined the Boy Scouts at the age of eleven. I was supposed to be twelve, so I faked it and was accepted. You know, On my honor, I will do my best to tell the truth, etc. still worked well for me. I was a good scout and reached Star Scout with five merit badges when I retired from the scouts. I was an expert at knot tying, bow and spindle, and fire by flint and tinder. I remained a scout for a couple of more years.

I started to have special study for my bar mitzvah. I went to the rabbi’s house nightly after dinner and learned my Haftorah, Blessings from the Torah and all the other Hebrew chants that were part of the bar mitzvah service on the Sabbath that was chosen for me.

On the special date, which was January 10, 1931, I was twelve years and two months old, I was bar mitzvahed. All of my aunts, uncles, and cousins came to our flat and then walked to the temple to hear my performance. It was a great success. I had good pitch vocally and pronounced the Hebrew just as the rabbi had taught me.

All the relatives came back to the flat and partook of pickled herring, cream cheese and bagels, and all the usual European Jewish foods that we all loved. The relatives would have a glass of wine, a lot of very wet kisses, and a gift. Mostly the gift consisted of small amounts of money, a few fountain pens and pencils, and a scarf and gloves. In any case it was a bonanza. I received thirty-five dollars in cash. Wow! I never had so much money that actually belonged to me, and I could do with it whatever I wanted.

Naturally, after these years of making toy instruments to replace the beautiful saxophone of which I dreamed, I was now going to reach out and see if all of this was real.

Rosie and I took a walk to the New York Band and Instrument Company and very proudly walked in the doorway, but not until I took one more look at the shiny brass, pearl buttons, and curved shape of the saxophone.

I was sure this was it. Nick Engleman greeted us with a smile a mile long and waited for my request. I told him I was interested in the saxophone in the window and he immediately took a case out of stock, opened it up, and allowed me to touch it. It was even more attractive than I could imagine. My mother, knowing that this was inevitable, had done some checking on her own and found that our grocery store owners across the way had a son who was a professional saxophone player working at Steeplechase Ballroom in Coney Island. What a break! Nick knew Al Postal, and when we mentioned his name he took special care to choose a saxophone of quality for me. I gave Nick the thirty-five dollar of bar mitzvah money and promised to pay a dollar per week for ninety weeks. The total cost was $125 for a Buescher Aristocrat alto saxophone. My mom signed the papers, and we were on our way home to start my lifelong experience with the alto sax.

Needless to say, I did not sleep a wink that night, just kept opening and closing the case to look at the horn. I don’t think I was ever more excited in my young life.

The next day was anxiety plus, and I could not wait to finish my school day and make contact with Al Postal. I should have known that my mother had already taken care of that. I remember that he was busy for a few days and could not see me until Saturday morning of that week. He worked ’til 1:00 am in the Steeplechase and, and I waited until he awoke on Saturday, and then went for my first lesson. The first thing he did was to put the separate sections of the sax together: the body, the neck and the mouthpiece, the reed and ligature (which held the reed onto the mouthpiece). It seemed too complicated, and I was so afraid that he would bend something, and then he took it apart and asked me to do the same thing.

It really wasn’t that hard to do; I just didn’t want these moments to be over with. I did everything he asked, only I took twice as long. Wow, what magic!

Then came the unexpected: Al took his mouthpiece and reed and put it on my saxophone and blew notes testing the instrument. It was so exciting—everything he played sounded so fast and utterly impossible, and yet all he had done was take a breath and blow into the mouthpiece and move his fingers. It was all that easy, until I tried to blow the horn. No sound came out—not because it was that hard to do; I just thought it was and blew too hard, which squeezed the reed to the mouthpiece so that there was no room for the air to go through. Disappointed, I felt the tears coming from my eyes. Al saw it and was very kind and explained what had happened.

Al was a good man and a fine music teacher, although I never questioned him about his experiences with other students and he never talked about it. I was only concerned with my own musical education. I did not know that there were special schools that majored in music. To me, Al Postal was my only connection with the saxophone and music. He taught me the rudiments of music as well as could be. I did not know the difference between a half note and a quarter note or what forte or a pianissimo meant. Actually, when I look back at the need I had to play music, I feel I was a gift to a teacher. Many times later on, as I taught, I would listen to a new student and hope that he had some of the God-given talent that I had. I took a lesson once a week and I think I could have practiced more, but things came so easy that I prepared my lesson and that seemed to be enough.

I must tell you that my sister Belle paid for my lessons. The cost was one dollar per week. She was a strong force and gave me much confidence. She helped me with my studies and answered many questions that came up between meetings with my teacher.

Belle played the piano very well. I remember her playing parts of the Rhapsody in Blue. More than that, she played popular music very well and did a very notable job with light classical, such as Strauss, Offenbach, Sousa, etc.

Shortly, I became equal to her talent and we were able to play music written for the piano. Al taught me how to transpose from piano to alto sax. It was not an easy feat. For example, middle C on the piano is equal to the note A on the alto sax. Eventually I was able to do it by rote.

Belle and I played daily after she came home from her job. She was a unique lady and I know that she loved me with a musical passion.

We played light classical and popular music, some of which I remember being: The Blue Danube Waltz, Leibestraum, Stars and Stripes; and music of the day: Varsity Drag, Charleston, Some of These Days, and If I Could Be with You One Hour Tonight. We really enjoyed ourselves, and I do believe the rest of the family enjoyed it also. They would gather around and sing with us.

Soon after that period, at the age of fourteen, I saw an ad in the daily papers in Brooklyn called the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. A very small hotel in the Catskill Mountains of New York State was looking to hire a musical group to entertain their guests. I had not played with a group as yet. Belle had been my only partner. I did remember that a neighbor my age played the violin; his name was Morris Dembo. I called upon him, and he was interested in doing the audition that the hotel people requested. We rehearsed a few songs, and without Belle or anyone else—just Morris and I—we played Blue Prelude, The Moon Song and some of the tunes that Belle and I played.

Needless to say, it was very easy for the hotel people to realize that we were very young and inexperienced. They came up with a proposition: if we would help out in the dining room—play bus boy—at lunch and dinner, we could have the job. The payment was room and board—no money! We accepted.

One week after Morris and I had departed from Brooklyn, my mother, Rosie, came upstate to see us and check out our living conditions. Needless to say, they were bad. We had a little shed in the back of the chicken coop and it smelled of chicken shit. Rosie immediately took us away from there and brought us to The Campbell House, another small hotel on Briggs Highway in Ellenville, New York. The owner was a family friend, Mr. Strober, a very nice, easygoing guy. Once again, we had to work in the kitchen and play at night—same deal. There was a lady guest who played the piano; she was not good, but she tried. It was a shade better than nothing. So we played every evening for an hour.

At The Campbell House there were no facilities for swimming. Every day after lunch, Mr. Strober would take a carload of guests to the falls, about two miles down the road. One day, it was so hot that I asked permission for Morris and me to go along. There was no room in the car, so we rode on the running board. On the way to the swim, Mr. Strober was having a conversation with the guests while he was driving. He did not see a turn in the road and ran into a tree, breaking a windowpane near to me and throwing me from the car. The splintering glass cut my right wrist just above my hand. We went to the hospital in Ellenville, and they botched up what should have been a routine stitching. I went home to Brooklyn and saw my family doctor, and he treated my wound. It had become infected, and the nerves were damaged. To this day I can’t be touched in that area without getting a shock. It could have been corrected, but I did not want to take a chance of losing the dexterity in my right fingers.

I could not play the sax for the whole summer. As I was healing, I thought a lot about starting a real band. I had a lot of time while I was not playing, and my time was spent listening to bands and records and learning a great deal.

When school started again that fall I had decided to go ahead with becoming a bandleader. I called on some of my school chums who loved music as much as I did, and they responded with a great deal of excitement.

Back in Brooklyn, I was living in a tenement on Jefferson Avenue, between Howard Avenue and Saratoga Avenue, sort of the borderline of the Bushwick section and the Brownsville area. I thought it was a wonderful place to be. All of our neighbors were pretty much in the same financial straits as we were. Something else that I look back on was the mixture of immigrants and their American-born children all getting along famously. No one was envious of another. Everyone had about the same existence.

I continued to practice. I played, quite loudly, near an open window, so that Al Postal, living across the street, could hear me. I used to sit near the window, which was next to the upright piano. I could see the kids in the street playing stickball, box ball, skate hockey, kick the can, and ring-a-leeveo. I was envious of them, and I know they wished that they could play music.

Little by little the band took shape. We met once a week, and we all tried to learn from each other. I will come back to the band.

Presently, I must tell you about my next door neighbors, the Schwartzes: husband and wife, two sons and two daughters, and a dog. The two daughters, Cookie and Mabel, were beautiful, tall, and exciting-looking women. They became showgirls at the International Casino in Manhattan. The other member of the family was a Belgian shepherd dog, and he took a fancy to my practicing. He would come to my door and scratch until I allowed him to come in. He would sit right next to me, and when I played a certain few notes on the alto sax he would sing along with me. I remembered that very well. Many years later, I was with the NBC orchestra playing on The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson. Every once in a while Johnny would have a contest of singing dogs. My friend would have been the best. He was wonderful. When I stopped practicing, he would just leave my home and come back again the next day.

Returning to my first band: I found a drummer named Jack Quataroro. He was six feet tall and handsome as Rock Hudson. His family were wonderful Italian immigrants who didn’t know who I was or where I came from, but if I was a music lover, I was okay with them.

I was invited every Sunday afternoon to join them in a dinner that was unforgettable. You name it they had it, from the first appetizer to the last piece of fruit. Sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles—the whole family came to the Quataroro’s for Sunday dinner.

One sister, Rose, was very attractive and my age, fourteen. We had an attraction for each other, and big brother Jake managed to keep it just at that.

The next addition to the band was Jerry Corollo, playing banjo and guitar, mostly banjo. He was a good guy with a good feel for rhythm. He couldn’t play melody to save his ass.

That was the nucleus of the band. Both Jake and Jerry lived in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn. Consequently, they went to Bushwick High School and that’s how we met.

On the corner of Sydam Street and Central Avenue in Brooklyn was a bar. They served mostly beer and also had a free lunch available. We got ourselves booked to play Saturday night from 7:00 to 3:00 am. Pay was ten dollars for the trio and all we could eat and drink. During the same period I was at high school and not doing too well. There was too much music in my life—still my teachers understood my talent and relieved me of the responsibility of being an academic wonder.

I played in the school orchestra. I say orchestra, because we did have a few violins. Miss Charney was the music teacher. She was a lovely lady. She enjoyed what she was doing, and early on she realized that in me she had someone who knew nothing about orchestral music but was interested only in pop music. Eventually, at age sixteen, I conducted the orchestra for graduation ceremonies. Miss Charney and I had an ongoing musical relationship. I don’t think she taught me anything, and I never got her to believe in my love for pop music.

As far as the trio was concerned, we continued at the bar for many Saturday evenings.

One marvelous revelation in my life was my working for Frank Sinatra for seventeen years and my best friends being Joe and Carmel Malinaggi, Tony and Mitzi Mottola. Joe and Tony and Carmel were the best of musicians. Jake, Jerry, Joe, Tony, Carmel—where did I come in? From chicken soup to minestrone (ref. Adam L.).

I wrote earlier about the Boy Scouts of America, my other great accomplishment. Believe me; I was thrilled to be part of Troop #84 of Brooklyn, New York.

I always made time for the meetings and the rallies. Mr. Meyer, scoutmaster, was a gem. He understood youngsters and, without trying too hard, made us champions at what we did.

I repeat, my things were knot tying, fire by friction, flint, and tinder, and of course, bugle and drum. I say of course bugle and drum, because it was still music that I could do without training. Somehow I took to the knot-tying technique quite easily. They were simple knots, and yet, if you didn’t have the feel for it, you could bomb out. Square knot, slip knot, bowline, fisherman’s knot, double half hitch, sheepshank, and they go on and on. I did accomplish them and invented other ways to do them, so that time was saved and this enabled our troop to win rallies against other troops in Brooklyn.

With bugle and drum we did not have a very respectable band. I played bugle and drum in whatever section was short a player; I would go to the weak side and fill it out.

There was a very important day for the scouts each year in the month of June: this was Brooklyn Day. Troop #84 would be all decked out in uniform and flags and neckerchiefs, and the band would march along with church groups, the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW), and any other organization that loved Brooklyn. This particular day we were in need of a street drum player, but no drum was available. I could do the job, but I had no drum. I went down to the New York Band and Instrument Company where I had purchased my saxophone and told my friend, Nick Engleman, of my predicament. Within minutes he took a drum and sticks from stock and helped me to tune it, and off I was to Troop #84 and the Brooklyn Day Parade.

It was hot—I would guess now about 83° and full sun. One of the things I found out shortly was that one should not play a tightly tuned drum in the sun. As we were marching, pop! went the skin on the drum, and I was out of my mind. I did not own that drum—how was I going to return it to Nick? I went home and explained to my mother, and she said, You just take it back, and Nick will understand. Yes, Nick took it with a smile and said, Sid, you should not waste your time with a parade drum! I had no idea what he was driving at, and I looked at him questioningly. He slyly took a clarinet out of the show window, handed it to me, and said, Al Postal would know what to do with you and the clarinet.

It never crossed my mind that this was the beginning of me being a doubler (playing more than one instrument, separately of course). I said, Nick, I haven’t paid off the saxophone as yet, and now you hand me a clarinet. He said, We will work it out. Take it to Al Postal and see what he says. Of course, I showed it to Rosie, my mom. She said, Nick knows, so do what Nick and Al say.

The clarinet, a LeMaire, was made in France. It was fine, weathered ebony wood and wonderful silver-plated keys—twenty-nine dollars. Again I had a new instrument — again I was paying one dollar a week.

Al agreed. He gave me a beginner’s book and a fingering chart. He showed me how to read the