Robbie Berry and Louie Louie

Innocent of malice aforethought

Here is a picture of me in about the 4h grade, when I first picked up the saxophone.  In those days, Victory School had a robust music program.  I selected this instrument under the influence of my dad.

He said when he was growing up in rural Mississippi, it was well known that girls shouldn’t listen to saxophone music, because it “corrupted their morals”, so to speak.  I think the way dad put it was “it made them want to dance.”  At the time, I was suffering from a crush on my fourth-grade teacher, Miss DeVecchio, so the idea of making her want to dance was appealing.  I went along.  I imagine if you saw my face at the time I imagined this romantic scenario, I must have looked like Ralphie admiring the Red Ryder BB gun in the department store window. I was smitten with the whole idea.

After dad took me to the music store and rented my first alto saxophone, and the guy at the store showed me how to mount a reed on the mouthpiece, I took it home proudly, went to my room to get a little privacy for the first experiment. I installed the reed as I was instructed.  The first sound I made sounded more like a wounded goose in distress, whose painful honking wasn’t going to make anyone feel like dancing.

But as you can see from this picture, I had the moves ready. All I needed was a little bit of skill.  I applied myself.  Soon, as a supplement to my elementary school band leader, dad arranged private lessons with an old gentleman who worked at San Joaquin General Hospital in the kitchen, where my dad was running the X-ray department.  His real name I forget.  I knew him as Ziggy Ziegler.

Ziggy was his Vaudeville stage name. Yes, he played the joints back then and was known as “Ziggy Ziegler and his laughing saxophone.”  He taught me the technique of his trademark lick. It’s hard to describe, but sure enough, it sounded like a jolly laugh if you did it right.  I learned how to do it right, and this convinced Ziggy I might have talent.  He learned that I didn’t like to practice too much.  Despite that lack of discipline, Ziggy did teach me enough to allow me to control my instrument better than average. But note that average was defined by the skill levels across the talent pool at Victory Elementary. 

Well, I graduated from Victory, sax in hand, and moved on to Daniel Webster Junior high, composed of 7th to 9th graders.  I made sure to join the band.  The band leader there was a sincere, kind man that had the patience of a saint.  He smiled a lot.  No matter how bad we sounded, and believe me, that warm-up note that started every class was something so ugly only a mother could love.  He never failed to offer encouragement.

His one bad habit was how he abused his baton, that little white stick conductors use to lead the musicians.  It is a thin rod of fiberglass with a cork handle.  He used to call our attention by whacking the music stand in front of him.  He also banged on it to signal us to stop and try again.  By the end of the week, all he was holding was a little stub of fiberglass, sort of frayed and splintered on the end, sometimes with a piece being barely held on by a single fiber or two.  Thinking back, replacing those batons must have been quite an expense.  Who knows how many of those things he destroyed in his career?

One time in band class we had a substitute teacher.  She was a young, innocent type of substitute, a very friendly and sincere woman in her 20s.  As we were getting seated, someone came up with the idea of switching instruments.  I think I got a tuba, and a trumpet player got my sax.  The clarinet section became flutists.  When she stepped onto the platform and called us to attention, she asked for the traditional C note to get started. We raised our instruments, took a breath, and let it out on command.

What billowed forth cannot be called musical.  It was horrendous. It was painful. It was atrocious.  What made it worse was our innocent substitute’s reaction. She tried and succeeded to keep her smile.  In her mind, she was probably thinking, “Don’t be judgmental. They are just kids.”  She bravely lowered her arms, gathered herself up, and said, “OK, let’s try that again.”  As if it would be better if we tried it again.

Even us cruel and insensitive kids had our limits.  That level of acceptance of our shenanigans was too much for even our high threshold for guilt.  Before she committed to the second try, the band stood up and switched the instruments back to their rightful owners.  The next note was not exactly beautiful, but it was one hell of an improvement over the first attempt.  The grown-up in the room smiled at the realization that she had been had.  She was a good sport.  We worked a little harder than average for her that day.  She didn’t come back.

Every year, we held a concert at the Stockton Civic Auditorium for parents and masochists that found it somehow entertaining to listen to kids try to struggle through a rendition of a Sousa march.  We practiced all year in preparation for playing two tunes at this concert. All the band members wore white on top and black on the bottom, shirts or blouses, pants or skirts.  It was a big deal.  We played on the same stage as James Brown later would.

As concert night neared, our leader reminded us to get our clothes ready and make sure we took our instruments home the night of the concert.  I did have my clothes ready.  Otherwise, I proved to be completely unreliable and irresponsible.

I don’t know when it was that I realized my instrument was still locked up in the band room, but I said nothing to anyone.  I got dressed and my parents took me to the concert. We had to be there a couple of hours early.  They dropped me off, and I sought out Mr. Ubani, our leader.  I quickly confessed.  I must have looked pretty ashamed, and I was. He would have been justified, and I was fully prepared for him to say, “Well, Robbie, that’s too bad. You can sit in the chair but you won’t be playing.”  That’s not what he did.

He sort of slumped his shoulders, tapped his foot, pursed his lips, and came to a decision.  “Let’s go,” he said.  He led me to his car, drove all the way across town, opened the classroom, stood at the door while I retrieved my instrument, and drove me back to the concert. That was the last I ever heard of it.  I didn’t even tell my parents until some time afterward.  As a kid, I was surprised and happy that I suffered almost no consequences for my negligence. As an adult looking back, that seems like the most generous thing that anyone could do for a dumb kid.

I was learning to enjoy my instrument by the 9th grade.  I had some control and I was getting into music in a big way.  Recall that in 1963/64, Motown and soul music were happening, and AM radio was what we listened to. KJOY was our station.  Night Train, Georgia on My Mind, Respect, Baby Love and of course Louie Louie were big hits.  I listened to songs and wondered if I could play that.  I figured I could figure out Louie Louie, and I did.  The sax part of that song was classic, but it was also simple. I nailed it.

The original song was written by a man also named Berry, and that version had the sax intro. 

The later version that made it popular, performed by the Kingsmen, used guitar. 

I later played the song as part of a high-school Junior/Senior prom in a band we called the Avantis.  That is another story altogether.

Band class was my first period, and we always began the first period with the flag salute.  It was still before class, the bell hadn’t rung yet and the room was filled with the cacophony of squealing chairs scooting on the floor, kids laughing, and instruments being warmed up with random notes of widely varying quality. Mr. Ubani had not yet taken his position on the podium.

I had been learning Louie Louie, which begins with a sax “solo”, though it was just 3 notes.  I didn’t want to blast it out, so I was using my voice to make the sound, and fingering the notes to show my friend.  I had to use a loud voice to make myself heard over the racket, even though we were sitting next to each other.

While I was busy showing off what I’d learned, my back turned away from the podium, Mr. Ubani stepped up and turned towards the flag to signal it was time for the ritual.  Have you ever been in a noisy room, and suddenly the room turns quiet, you don’t notice, and you find yourself shouting in a silent room?  As the rest of the class stood up and got ready the words, “I pledge allegiance…” I was singing through my saxophone, “Da da da, da da, da da da, da da” at a volume that made the entire class turn to look at me, including Mr. Ubani.  He was not amused.  Apparently, he was patriotic and didn’t appreciate the disrespect I was showing to the flag and tradition.  I froze and looked at him, feeling 60 eyeballs on me, wide with astonishment at my behavior. I swear, I didn’t mean it…but I wisely froze silently in place.

Mr. Ubani looked at me with a stern gaze I don’t recall ever seeing before.  “Pack your instrument and go to the office.  Take it with you.”  Everyone waited while I complied.  If I could have slunk out in the dark, I would have, but no, I had to walk past everyone, leaving a room still in complete silence.  I remember my ears feeling hot.

I carried my case filled with the instrument of shame to the office, where I was instructed to sit down and wait for the Vice Principal to invite me into his office.  I tried to imagine what was in store for me and remembered the rumors about the big paddle hanging on his wall.  I could see it through the glass door that separated me from his chamber of torture.

After a bit, this friendly and smiling man opened the door and invited me in. Strangely, he didn’t seem mad.  It seemed like he didn’t even know why I was there.  He asked me to explain.  I did. I told him the exact truth, that I was playing Louie Louie during the flag salute.  But I pointed out I was ambushed, taken by surprise, and had I realized what was happening, I never would have done it. He changed the subject.

He asked how I liked the saxophone, and wondered if I was any good.  I faked humility.  He started talking about himself, how he played saxophone, and how he wished he still had one.  “Hey, would you mind loaning yours to me for a couple of days?” 

“Sure!” I said. I was in a position to be very generous, especially since I might not be welcome in Mr. Ubani’s band class for a while. I handed it over.  He thanked me.  He suggested I go to the library for first period the next couple of days. That was it.  I was off the hook.  What an incredible stroke of luck.

When my time out had expired and it was time to pick up my saxophone from the vice principal’s office and return to band class, I got there early.  I apologized to Mr. Ubani but made sure to throw in the fact that I wasn’t paying attention and meant no disrespect. At least that is what I remember saying. Who knows what actually came out of my mouth, but whatever was, all was forgiven and I rejoined the band in my customary seat.

It is hilarious to think back on such things as a rather “seasoned” adult.  Mr. Ubani, the man who banished me for playing Louie Louie was the same man that drove me across town to correct my self-inflicted wound.  I’m willing to bet that the Vice Principal didn’t really play the saxophone. I’m guessing that he figured I really was innocent of malice, but he had to do something, and by “borrowing” my sax, he could tell Mr. Ubani that he confiscated my instrument and sentenced me to the library.  He didn’t moralize when it really wasn’t necessary, and he didn’t make me feel any worse than I needed to.

I suppose the public school system still has teachers like these two, tucked away in the corners you never hear about. But these two men were memorable, even after all these years.  They did more than they had to, and did it with kindness and respect, even though I was just a silly kid who couldn’t get out of my own way.  Looking back, I appreciate the kindness now much more than I did at 13.  I wonder if they knew I might.  God bless them, wherever they are.