PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities

“Hi there, Tex, whadda ya say?”

If you’re a swing fan, that line needs no explanation. If you’re not,

it’s the opening line from Glenn Miller’s “Chattanooga Choo-choo” -- and

the “Tex” in question is Tex Beneke, who passed away Tuesday in Costa

Mesa at the age of 86.

Beneke was a legendary figure in the Big Band era and a truly nice guy

whom I had the pleasure of meeting a few times. He was born in Fort

Worth, Tex., and was instantly popular with everyone he met.

His soft, Texas drawl put everyone at ease. Like swing itself, it was the

vocal equivalent of a mischievous wink that said, “Let’s have some fun.”

Add the silky harmony of the Modernaires vocal group to the mix, and you

can be assured that people will still be listening, and smiling, 100

years from now.

“Pardon me boys, is that the Chattanooga Choo-choo? Yaz, yaz, track 29!

Boy, you can give me a shine. You leave the Pennsylvania station ‘bout a

quarter to four ... read a magazine and then you’re in Baltimore. Dinner

in the diner, nothing could be finer ... than to have your ham and eggs

in Carolina.”

It was Miller himself who dubbed Gordon Beneke “Tex.” Although he’s most

often remembered for his vocals, Beneke was a top-notch saxophone player.

Bandleader and drummer king Gene Krupa auditioned Beneke and was blown

away, but his sax section was full. He recommended him to Miller, who was

putting together a new band in New York at the time. Beneke picked up the

phone one night in Detroit and heard a voice as distinctive as his own on

the other end.

“Is this Gordon Beneke?” the caller asked. “My name is Glenn Miller. I’m

starting a band in New York, and you come highly recommended by a

gentleman named Gene Krupa.”

Beneke set out for the Big Apple immediately, at the height of a fierce

winter storm. When he finally arrived, Miller shook his hand and said,

“Hi there, Texas, what do you say?” Thus was born Beneke’s nickname, and

what would become the opening line of “Chattanooga Choo-choo,” when

Miller discovered that Beneke could sing.

Even though “Chattanooga Choo-choo” and “(I’ve Got a Girl In) Kalamazoo”

were the two biggest hits in history at the time, Beneke was never

entirely comfortable with the spotlight that came with singing. In my

opinion, he never got the full respect he deserved as a sax player,

especially compared to his contemporaries Coleman Hawkins and Johnny

Desmond.

One measure of his real value, though, was that of all the world-class

players, Miller’s wife asked Beneke to take over the band after Miller’s

plane vanished over the English Channel in December 1944.

After the war, Beneke expanded the band to 36 pieces with strings (a

change Miller had planned before his death) and thrilled audiences for

another four decades with the unmistakable Glenn Miller sound. At the end

of the day, Beneke was a true gentleman, a great musician and a Big Band

institution, despite his unrelenting modesty.

A funny thing happened, though, on Beneke’s journey home. At least two

reports in the national press coverage of his death implied it was a bit

ironic that he passed away “... in Orange County, a suburb of Los

Angeles.” The idea being, isn’t it odd that someone who played

world-famous venues like the Paramount, the Palladium and the Avalon

should end up in that sleepy, buttoned-down “suburb of Los Angeles”

called Orange County?

Hmm. It could only be called “ironic” if you didn’t know much about the

history of a city called Newport Beach.

No question, today’s Newport Beach is a sophisticated, stylish lady of

impeccable breeding and substantial means. But in the 1930s and 1940s? Wow. And that’s an understatement.

Balboa’s Rendezvous Ballroom was a mecca for the Big Bands, and the fans

that worshiped them -- hundreds of fans on any given night, shrieking,

whistling, dancing until they were forced out the door in the wee, small

hours.

But the Big Band era wasn’t the first chapter in Newport’s “wild child”

past. It was one of the last. The book itself could have been penned by

detective writer Dash Hammett. It all started with an obscure congressman

from Minnesota named Andrew Volstead.

Volstead was a dreary, humorless, generally unpleasant man who never,

ever got invited to any parties. Andy only accomplished one thing in all

his years in Congress, but it was a lulu. It was called the “Volstead

Act” -- better known as “Prohibition.” As of Jan. 16, 1919, in these

United States, it was no booze, no way, no how -- but lots of fedoras and

overcoats.

Development and hi-tech in Orange County were very slow in the 1920s and

early 1930s, but bootlegging was quite robust. There were two ways for a

beverage entrepreneur to get inventory: Make the stuff or smuggle it in.

If your marketing plan called for smuggling from Mexico, the Orange

County coast was the first stop on the distilled superhighway. Ships from

Mexico would transfer the hooch to high-powered launches, which would

race up the coast then slip into coves along the Laguna and Newport

shorelines.

Large, unpleasant-looking men would load the stuff onto trucks and, in no

time at all, people in speak-easies and hidden clubs far and wide would

be slurring their words and knocking things over.

By the early 1930s, characters like Tony “The Admiral” Cornero were

operating “floating casinos” from Santa Monica to Newport Beach. As long

as the ships stayed at least three miles offshore, what was called the

“Dolls, Drinks and Dice” fleet was as good as a license to print money

signed by the president.

Handbills and posters that read “Let’s Go Nowhere Tonight!” were tacked

up everywhere and everyone knew what they meant.

The police? Please. The county sheriff in Santa Ana was the top cop, and

you’d be better off calling Cornero first. In fact, Cornero’s budget for

“salaries: law enforcement” was probably twice the size of the sheriff’s.

So by the time the Rendezvous and the Big Bands came along in the ‘30s,

Newport was already where it was all happening.

In 1933, Prohibition was repealed and the rumrunners faded away. But the

floating casinos hung on until World War II. It was “jump, jive and wail”

at the Rendezvous until the Big Bands started to shy away from dance

dates after the war.

So, goodbye, Tex -- and you couldn’t have picked a better place to cross

over. Around here, upscale retail and hi-tech may be the order of the

day, but that eight-to-the-bar tempo and the beat of the tom-toms are

just below the surface.

I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays. He

can be reached via e-mail at o7 PtrB4@aol.comf7 .