Let’s start with some Frank Sinatra stories (why not!). Here are a couple of good ones that I found recently:

Violinist Carmel Malin played for Sinatra many times. She posted this on Facebook:

“I was always impressed by the love that passed between Frank Sinatra and his audience. One particular incident comes to mind. We were in Verona, Italy, playing the ancient amphitheatre there. Midway through the concert it started to pour and it never let up. Not a soul moved — I’m sure they were soaked to the skin. The canvas that covered us was threatening to collapse from the weight of the water. The crew was climbing the jungle gym-like structure, holding it up and using their backs to push the water off. Frank looked at his wet audience and stepped to the edge of the stage — which was not covered — and proceeded to get thoroughly soaked. To top it off, he sang ‘Pennies from Heaven,’ and the audience went wild. They just loved him.”

And Pete Hyde sent me this one:

Stan Rubin got a real Plum job with his big band one night, at the Waldorf Hotel. It was a formal roast for Elizabeth Taylor, and many of the elite entertainers of the time took part, including Dean Martin, Red Buttons, Joan Rivers, and Frank Sinatra. Stan called our band together just before the job and said, “You don’t have to sit up on the bandstand during all the speeches, so I’ll tell you when we can get off. Frank Sinatra is scheduled to be the last speaker, and I want to bring him on with a splash. I’ll tell you when to get back on the stand, get up ‘New York, New York,’ and when they announce Sinatra’s name, we’ll play the intro. And maybe he’ll get into the spirit of the night and start singing. So be prepared to play the whole arrangement if he does.”

It was a fun night for the audience, and for the band, too, and all went smoothly. Stan called us up to the bandstand at just the right moment, and when we played the oh-so-familiar opening, three bars and a quarter note, to start up “New York, New York,” everyone was on high alert to see what Sinatra would do next. There were about five seconds or so of silence, then Frank announced in a quiet, clear, authoritative voice, “Don’t ever play that music again!” After another few seconds of absolute silence in the room he added, “I thought ‘My Way’ was bad!”

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Jean-Marie Juif posted this story on Facebook. It was originally from a New Yorker article.

Two years before Duke Ellington died, in 1972, Yale University held a gathering of leading jazz musicians in order to raise money for a department of African-American music. Aside from Ellington, the musicians who came for three days of concerts, jam sessions, and workshops included Eubie Blake, Noble Sissle, Dizzy Gillespie, Charles Mingus, Max Roach, Mary Lou Williams, and Willie (the Lion) Smith.

During a performance by a Gillespie-led sextet, someone evidently unhappy with this presence on campus called in a bomb threat. The police attempted to clear the building, but Mingus refused to leave, urging the officers to get all the others out but adamantly remaining onstage with his bass.

“Racism planted that bomb, but racism ain’t strong enough to kill this music,” he was heard telling the police captain. (And very few people successfully argued with Mingus.) “If I’m going to die, I’m ready. But I’m going out playing ‘Sophisticated Lady.’”

Once outside, Gillespie and his group set up again. But coming from inside was the sound of Mingus intently playing Ellington’s dreamy 1930’s hit, which, that day, became a protest song, as the performance just kept going on and on and getting hotter. In the street, Ellington stood in the waiting crowd just beyond the theatre’s open doors, smiling.

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When comedian Charlie Callas once sat in on Sonny Igoe’s drums, Sonny’s big band played a tune with him. When it was finished, trumpeter Charlie Camilleri called out: “Better than Mickey Rooney, not as good as Mel Torme.”

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Bill Easley posted this on Facebook:

At the airport, David Baker’s cello didn’t show up at the baggage carousel, and he went to baggage claim department, very upset. He said, “That cello was made in 1872!”

The baggage claim agent said, “Thank God it wasn’t a new one.”

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In memory of some old friends, here’s an item from one of my old columns:

In 1958, bassist Don Payne, fresh out of the Army, moved into a cottage in the Hollywood hills, where a group of local musicians that called themselves “The Jazz Messiahs” often rehearsed, trying to develop their own sound. Don Cherry, the trumpet player with the group, introduced them to Ornette Coleman, who had written some interesting originals. One day they were working on “The Blessing,” one of Ornette’s tunes. Walter Norris had worked out the harmonies, and they were playing it over and over to memorize it. Suddenly the door opened, and Payne’s next-door neighbor walked in.

After nodding hello, he took a sheet of music paper and quickly wrote down the tune they had been playing, and added an improvement to the chords at the end of the bridge. He reached over Walter’s shoulder and put the music in front of him on the piano, bowed and smiled to the other musicians, and went back out the door.

Walter played what he had written and said, “This works!” He turned around to say thank you, but the man was already gone. He asked, “Who was that?” Don said, “That’s my neighbor, Johnny Mandel.”