Buzz

So I’m in this Barbershop chorus, right? 

Well, back on my first visit, this summer, I was sitting and watching in awe as the boys dress-rehearsed their brilliant piece for the international competition.  I didn’t watch alone; in the chair in front of me sat a wizened army veteran, flat-topped and in uniform.  At the break, my buddy Bruce introduced me to him: Warren “Buzz” Haeger.  He came off as one of those delightfully warm, tender chaps who wouldn’t hurt a bug, but could break all your teeth if he needed to. 

After we’d exchanged pleasantries and parted, Bruce muttered to me: “Buzz is one of the biggest names in Barbershop; he’s arranged our best pieces, he won the international quartet championship back in the day… we’re VERY lucky to have him with us in this chorus.”

I glanced back at the quiet figure, with his big eyebrows and grateful little smile.  I asked myself, for the tenth time that day: “How did I get here?”

Fast-forward five months.

I dressed up Saturday morning for the memorial service.  I didn’t know the three songs we were singing, but there was no way I was missing this.  I couldn’t interpret the outfit requirements in the e-mail, so I’d found a three-piece suit and tie the night before, then threw khakis, a polo, and my choir tux in the car just in case.  I slipped on my cowboy boots and was off.

I found the church with some difficulty, and hustled in, late for our call-time.  The Lobby tables held up picture-boards covered in black-and-white photos of a young and spectacularly handsome Buzz, in quartet after quartet, in yellowed newspaper clipping after newspaper clipping, wearing and holding medals and trophies beyond number.  I was hailed jovially in the lobby by two of the guys who I usually count on to know what’s going on.  I shuffled to them.  “Hey, uh, sorry I’m late… I wasn’t sure what our uniform was supposed to be, does this work?”

            They gave me a joking look-over.  “Hmm, I dunno, Bruce, would Buzz accept him?”

“Dunno, George, what do you think?”

They both laughed.  “Buzz would accept you, Tom.  Get up there.”

We ran through our songs, made some last-minute notes, then sat down as the organist took over and the people trickled in.  Soon the sanctuary was filled with buzz’s many friends and family, and a few barbershop dignitaries.  Though well-dressed, the crowd looked mostly inconspicuous but for the conspicuously huge medals worn by about half the men.

The service began, and Buzz’s business partner gave us a long and exquisite portrait of the beautiful man:  a jack-of-all-trades who gave his all to everything and everyone he touched.  A man of whom everyone recounted: “Buzz was my best friend.”  I listened keenly, devouring story upon story of this shining soul who changed everything he could, for the better.  At last he finished with Hamlet’s sendoff “Good-bye, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”  It was like the Gettysburg address; nobody clapped.

Kids my age, we really have some tough acts to follow.  I hope you all realize this.

We sang “I’ll Walk With God,” then finally Buzz’s own gorgeous “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.”  ‘Till I die, I’ll never hear anything like the sound, in that big, wooden, sanctuary, of that final ringing tribute to our old pal; I doubt Buzz even needed to lean down from heaven to hear us.

After the service, everyone shifted over to the afterglow reception, with yummy tuna sandwiches, blue cheese, and the like.  We listened to a few old superstar quartets, and a few anecdotes from old friends.  We learned a few tags.  Then our chorus was called up to sing one of Buzz’s finest pieces, “Lost In The Stars.”

“I don’t know it,” I said to a section leader as he stashed his food and headed to the front.

“C’mon up anyway and stand with the basses; it’s fine.”

We invited everyone who knew the song to join us (i.e. virtually every male at the reception).  The walls shook as we neared the end:

Now, I’ve been walkin’ through the night and the day,

‘Till my eyes get weary and my head turns gray,

AND SOMETIMES IT SEEMS MAYBE GOD’S GONE AWAY,

FORGETTING the promise that we heard him SAAYY…

My eyes are misting even as I write, recalling all 100+ of us belting out the classic song to its beloved author.

Then more quartets, more tags, more singing, more stories.  And what stories…  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing about this guy. 

I kept piecing together Buzz’s achievements, from what I was hearing.  He was able to hear all the parts to a score before ever putting pen to paper.  Apparently, he basically pioneered the modern barbershop style that everyone uses now.  He arranged about 400 pieces, and his quartet “The Four Renegades” had been a household name back in the day.  World tours, big record deals, and it seemed like all these old guys at the party had shared that golden world with buzz.

Wow.  And there’s me, who didn’t know that barbershop had ever been popular… see, that’s the sort of info we oughta be learning in U.S. History class.

One fellow recounted when he’d been in a quartet with Buzz’s brother Moose in the ‘60s.  They had a show in El Paso, but Moose got sick.  Moose called and said, “Don’t worry I’ll send Buzz instead.”  “But Buzz has never sung with us.”  “You boys worry ‘bout your parts, he’ll be fine.”  Buzz flew in just in time, and without rehearsing, he did the show, the afterglow, the late-night show, and the breakfast show next morning, and never missed a note.

Wow.

Another guy described Buzz’s conducting style: Now ordinarily, a good barbershop conductor, with concentration and coordination, can use his hand to illustrate the pitch of your part, and teach it to you visually.  Thus they demonstrate any one of the four parts, as they conduct.  Buzz, however would use his right hand to show the Baritone part, and his left hand to show the Bass part, all the while singing the Lead part, as he conducted.  Then, for the tenor part (you ready for this?), he would be using his EYEBROWS? ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?!  Yes indeed, he put his massive eyebrows to work, and was able to communicate any song perfectly, to all four parts, the first time through.

Wow, wow, wow.

Even more of his old quartets.  More stories.  After many hours, our time in the room was up and we were ordered to vacate, which we only did sluggishly and grudgingly.  But not before one final story.

“During those last weeks, I was in the hospital with Buzz frequently, always trying to get him to eat; ‘Buzz, you’re looking more and more like a scarecrow every time I’m here.’  Or, ‘You better watch yourself if you go by anyone whitewashing their fence, ‘cause if you turn sideways you’ll get painted up just like another picket.’  At the end, it was to no avail, and I sat by him after he’d gone unconscious.  We didn’t expect him to come around again, and he didn’t until one day:  He abruptly opened his eyes and sat up straight.  I said ‘Buzz? What is it?’  But he didn’t answer.  Didn’t even look at me.  He just reached out his arms toward the wall in front of him, staring intently.  After a moment, he leaned back, and never moved again.  We were confused by his gesture, though, until I realized what must have happened: See, Buzz awoke that morning to see the hospital wall open up to a grand, golden light. And he heard the angels singing.  The heavenly barbershop quartet was singing their best song for him.  Then he heard ‘em hit a few clinkers and went up to correct them.”

            As I started my car, I asked myself for the hundredth time that day:

“How did I get here?”

www.rememberbuzz.com

Currently Listening Think Before You Think By Danu see related

I Checked My Facebook And Laughed

Decisions, decisions.

Currently Listening Irish Drinking Songs By Various Artists Beer, Beer, Beer see related

You'll See A Big Parade

            As a brand-new member of The West Towns Barbershop Chorus, I am currently working on a jaw-dropping piece called “The South Rampart Street Parade.” 

Do you hear the beat?  Way down the street?

Do you hear the neat little rhythm of the happy dancin’ feet?

Well look, there, the people are runnin’

And right now they’re gonna have a lot of fun!

Make way, ‘cause everybody’s comin’ and you’ll see a big parade…

            Also being a brand-new painter, I’ve been humming snatches of this tune while whitewashing a big picket fence in Wheaton the last couple days.  And thinking about parades.  As far as I can see, a parade is the greatest institution created by man.  You can watch it go by, and cheer for whoever or whatever the parade is honoring.  Or just cheer for the parade.  No one cares why you’re cheering; that’s the best part.  The second option, of course, is to join the parade.  Everyone who really really wants to, will figure out a way to jump into any good parade.  Crashing a parade shows the sincerest support possible.  It says “I will make a complete fool of myself before I even consider standing aside to watch.”   This takes courage and humility.  You are exposed and vulnerable; they can throw you out; this is why no adult can do it, and why no child can resist.

            A week ago, I followed Molly out to tend the horses.  In the waning sunlight, we noticed a large and rather warlike company of crimson clouds.  When I pointed them out, Molly recounted: “I was on a trail ride with Rosie when I was little.  It was a brilliant sunset, and there were all these huge fiery clouds.  Rosie said to me ‘See those clouds, Molly?  One day, Jesus will come back here, and he’ll be riding on the clouds.  So if you look up in the sky one day, and you see him coming down, and he asks you to ride with him… which horse are you going to ride?’  I just think that’s so cool.”

            “Which horse was it?”

            “What horse did I pick?  Oh, I don’t remember… I probably picked one that’s old and fat now, like RB.  Today, it would be Caspian; he’d be so cool and nothing would faze him.”

“Which horse can I ride?”

“You should ride Lady; she likes you.”

            “Sounds good.”

Every boy’s got a girl             (They’re doin’ it, Soft-shoein’ it)

The town’s gonna whirl          (They’re tryin’ it, Untyin’ it)

Tonight’s                                 (They’re drivin’ it, Revivin’ it)

The Jamboree                         (I TELL YOU)

And if you come along,           (They’re struttin' it, Rug-cuttin’ it)   

You'll join in the song….         (They’re shakin’ it, And breakin’ it)

Hey Dad                                  (Hey Dad)

Not bad                                   (Not bad)

I’m glad that                           (I’m glad)

You’re diggin’ all those TROMBONES….

            And so on.  As I painted, I thought with a smile what it might be like, to ride out with the Good Lord, from the back of the old barn… all the while with this “Parade” song stuck in my head.

Every boy’s got a girl, the town’s gonna whirl         

Tonight’s the Jamboree                                 

And if you come along, you'll join in the song….

            I noticed that the beauteous vision of a little kid finding a makeshift disguise and slipping into the marching band of the grand, rambunctious parade, beaming at his shy and jealous friends on the sidewalk, made my eyes burn in the same way as Molly’s “little apocalyptic equestrians” story did.  When they were side by side, their similarity surprised me.  Now someone would ask: what do these two crazy ideas have in common?

            I might suggest that they have everything in common.  I suggest that the only way to ride out with the Great Teacher and Judge is to screw your inhibitions and go for it.  I suggest that to ride to the Kingdom, you must take yourself lightly.  And I suggest that to enter it, you’ll have to become like a little child.

It ain’t fast (it ain't fast) and it ain’t slow, (oh, it ain't too slow)

But oh, that

[CLAP]

Glory, Hallelujiah!

Sway, sway, sway                                            (Ain’t it funny how they sway)

the way they play, the way they play              (Just the way they play)

Makes a body wanna stay                               (Makes a body wanna stay)

Wanna stay all day                                          (Wanna stay all day)

Hush my mouth, hush my mouth, yeah!          (Hush my mouth, yeah!)

That’s that South                                            (They’re struttin’ it, rug-cuttin’ it)

Rampart Street, Rampart Street                     (Revivin’ it, they’re drivin’ it)

PARADE!

Hush my mouth! Lordy, that’s the South        (Oh, my Lordy, that’s the South)

Rampart

Street (How I love the beat)

That beat (The beat of that Rampart Street)

Parade, (They’re shakin’ it,) Parade, (and breakin’ it)                                             

Parade, (They’re swayin’ it) Parade, (I’m sayin)

I STILL HEAR THE BEAT! THAT SOUTH RAMPART STREET PAAAAAAA-

RAAAAAAAAAA                                             (Lordy, how I love to hear ‘em play!)

AAAAAAAAAAA                                             (Makes a body want to stay all day!)

AAAAAAAAAAA-AAA-AAA-                          (South rampart street PAAA-AAA-AAAA)

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADE!

            I really like this song.

            So then, shall the World end with a bang?  A whimper?  Or a big, bloody parade?  Food for thought... we’ll find out soon enough anyhow.  See you there.

Currently Listening The 2nd Irish Folk Festival on Tour By Various Artists The Jolly Beggarman see related

I GOT A CONCERTINA I GOT A CONCERTINA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

It came in the mail Monday night.  And it is amazing.

As you can see, Anthony is as excited as I am.

So... I might be, er, indisposed… for a week or two, while we get to know each other. :) I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.  I am happy.  In not too materialistic a way, I hope....

Thank you again, Dan, for ordering that.  I owe you.