“Hmmm…this doesn’t look right.” The highway had turned empty, the GPS took a lunch break, and suddenly, the road was barely wider than the bus. The farmhouse in the distance looked as friendly as the growling dog chained to the porch.
Chris leaned his head against the tour bus window. Why am I doing this, again? He could be playing trumpet in some classical orchestra, traveling once a year instead of two hundred road shows with a big band. He hoped the Amazon packages were still on his porch when he got back. Christmas shopping is tricky enough without road work.
The Real Story
The Glenn Miller Orchestra played Lynchburg, VA last night.
Chris Stein is real. He’s a darn good trumpet player. He did the String of Pearls solo note for note, and, as leader Erik Stabnau told the chuckling and appreciative audience, the bus did get lost in West Virginia the morning before the show. The rest I made up.
Maestro Stabnau (the “new Glenn”) introduced soloists and shared anecdotes about the music. I put my notebook down mid-scribble. The show would pass me by, I’d miss the magic, and you all would suffer through Mr. Sheehan’s tone was immaculate, Mr. Schweiger drove the band forward with a propulsive swing deft yet stirring, and…..
Whatever. These men and women were consummate professionals, and for objective details, please go to one of their shows and hear for yourself. It’s worth every penny.
But I’d like to tell you a story of what their music did last night, in four “songs.”
Moonlight Serenade
Down went the lights. There they were, behind blue and white boxes emblazoned with THE GLENN MILLER ORCHESTRA. A giant wreath graced the stage, the Academy Center of the Arts’ halls decked. The silvery beams returned in audio form. Moonlight Serenade. Oh, you’re kidding me! I blinked. Did Glenn time travel, and trade his trombone for a tenor saxophone? Or maybe I was back in 1940. Hey, he got contact lenses. No, wait, that’s the new director, Mr. Erik Stabnau. Yeah, but when things are played right, when an idea is cherished, nurtured, kept alive for a thirsty world - what is time? Dreams of sepia tone crowded near the plasterwork ceiling - echoes of a great war, romances lost to time, the soft glow of vintage moonbeams, springing to life again.
The band played on. They had us.
I’ll Be Home For Christmas
Sacrifice is a word I prefer to keep on the “Theoretical” shelf, pondered over a cup of tea and a history book about WWII on a cozy evening. Those boys really gave a lot.
The band knocked the word off the shelf, and brought the 40’s home in HD.
They played the melancholy WWII classic I’ll Be Home For Christmas.
Suddenly, I was an eighteen year old GI, amazed at the beautiful Ms. Swoish as she sparkled and glittered, singing with a marvelous 40’s inflection.
If I was then, I’d leave a girl behind and go to war. Oh, the thought cut, real now.
Mr. Stabnau joined her in a duet. He morphed into the ghost of Mr. Miller, authoritative, competent, yet as living as any of us. The danger, the grinding abyss, and the peril of a world at war echoed just behind the red velvet curtain. The death of ordinary people, young, vibrant, in living color settled like ash on my shoulders.
“I’ll be home for Christmas…if only in my dreams.”
Sacrifice.
I Know Why (And So Do You)
Lyrics on paper can raise an eyebrow. That’s it? But let Dean the drummer, all the way from Philly, put down the hard-swingin’ sticks and pick up some brushes. Let the golden reeds start to blow softly in the Miller tone, and Jenny to step up to the microphone in her red dress and diamond heels…and they spring to life.
Why do robins sing in December? Long before springtime is due? And even though it’s snowing, violets are growing. I know why, and so do you.
Good musicians set a seat for Magic at an empty table. If they’ve honed their craft, if the audience is attentive, and things go just right…
She showed up last night. We all drifted away on the living words.
American Patrol
Glenn Miller was a patriot. It cost him a life. He was in good company. We forget at our peril. The band didn’t.
Mr. Stabnau requested the house lights, and asked the veterans to stand for a round of applause.
The band played them a rousing American Patrol. The deep appreciation was reciprocated.
It was the perfect Christmas program. Shiny traditions, carefully polished, were brought forward into a new season with reverence. Sacrifice and loss were acknowledged. Memories were shared. “Do you remember when?” the trombones seemed to ask when playing “White Christmas.”
Men and women at the top of their game wove a golden tapestry of sound in the frosty air, bringing beauty and mystery into weary hearts. Feet tapped to the spell Mr. Schweiger cast with a swinging groove.
In a dark night in central Virginia, a brassy flame burned brightly.
Thank you, and Goodnight
Chris, I hope your shopping goes smoothly. In other words, thanks to each and every one of you for braving the backroads in lost busses, spending time away from your families, and doing Moonlight Serenade such justice each and every time.
A strange thought landed. Mars sure is missing out - the Red Planet could use a little more gold. How nice it is to be on Earth, and to listen to your careful preservation and continuation of such magic.
Know your keeping of the brassy flame is profoundly appreciated.
Merry Christmas!
OMG LET’S GET A SELFIE, “GLENN!” ( with the gracious Maestro Stabnau after the show.)