Master of Ceremonies: A Memoir Read Free Page B

again.
    By the time I was born—and Ronnie, four years later—Dad had become a fixture in the Cleveland music scene. As a kid, I loved to tag along with Dad to the RKO Palace Theatre, where he played in the orchestra under the direction of Maurice Spitalny, Phil’s brother, who was well known for the tight white flannel pants he wore to show off his “manhood” while conducting. There was no more magnificent destination than the vaudeville theater and picture house. You couldn’t get any grander than the two sweeping staircases of white marble, imported crystal chandeliers, and hand-woven, 67-foot gray carpet adorned with roses. And that was just the lobby! The gigantic, 2,800-seat theater with its vaulted ceilings of painted friezes and gold leaf could have been a real palace. It was nice enough for the famous comedians George Burns and Gracie Allen to get married there.
    I never saw the show from the audience, but I couldn’t have cared less. As far as I was concerned, the view from the orchestra pit underneath the stage was the best one in the house. Hidden off to the side, I kept true to my promise to be quiet and not “get in the way” of stagehands, wardrobe people, performers, and anyone else running around. There was no way I would have ever misbehaved—I just so loved being there. (That’s why Ronnie wasn’t allowed to go; he was too little to be quiet.) I watched the supporting acts come onstage, which could be as many as ten in a night. There were magicians such as Ade Duval, who could make a cocktail shaker disappear and brought scarves to life in his “Rhapsody in Silk” act, and dancers such as Toy & Wing, formerly of the tap-dancing trio the Three Mahjongs, who were dubbed “the Chinese Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers.” I marveled at the pageant of comics, animal trainers, opera singers, mentalists, and more, all introduced one after the other by big, electrically operated name cards, just as they were in nearly every vaudeville house across the country.
    The bright lights were always changing, changing, changing as I tried to see what was going on and who was doing what. When the card would flip to the name of the famous headliner—Jean Harlow, Edith Piaf, Sophie Tucker, Jack Benny, Milton Berle—the excitement and applause would rise to a delicious crescendo. It was something I wanted to be a part of, although I didn’t know why or how.
    I loved being around Dad when he was at work. He was not only a virtuosic clarinetist, but I could tell that his fellow musicians absolutely adored him. Whether it was the other players in the RKO orchestra; the members of the big band he used to play with at the Golden Pheasant Chinese restaurant; or the klezmer musicians with whom he did bar mitzvahs and weddings, they all wanted to hang around him, because he had a story for everyone.
    My father made it his business to listen to and collect stories during the week. He’d regale the other musicians with them while they were changing into their tuxes in the dressing room or were tuning up in the pit. My father’s repertoire—which came from comedy acts, the music store where he bought his reeds, or even our family—fit perfectly into the scene. Everyone crowded around him, laughing at his jokes and praising his musicianship. My father’s stories were hilarious but never vulgar or mean; that just wasn’t his style. Dad was a very sympathetic person, the kind of guy who always stuck up for the underdog or tried to help when there was a problem. Once, while playing on the steamer Goodtime, a pleasure boat that went from Cleveland to Put-in-Bay, he witnessed a black couple being told they were not allowed to dance. His response was to stop the band. “If they can’t dance, then I’m not playing,” he said.
    The admiration and affection my father received from his bandmates and countless audience members each night differed vastly from the lack of respect he got at home. Mother, who believed her station