TWO DANCERS

This is about two dancers I know: Sebastian LaSapio and Sammi Fo.

Sebastian first. No, a big background thing first.

I went to grammar school at Our Lady Of The Valley in Orange, New Jersey, from first grade until seventh and it remains for me a wildly eventful time, maybe because being so young I took everything in without resistance. I had nothing in the way of opinions, you could tell me anything and I'd buy it. I'd kneel in church waiting for a statue to move. I had (and still have, it seems) so much more than my reasonable share of naivete. Grammar school was a little like taking LSD...everything that happened seemed undeniable, unavoidable, you couldn't get around it. Grammar school was in your face. It was out of the question for me to have any perspective. It has dawned on me slowly that part of the bliss of adult life is that I get to refuse or at least critique certain experiences and notions; for better or worse to have my yes's and my no's all worked out and ready to roll at a second's notice. Man, is that freeing.

But.

Yo, just as when I was a child, there were some times I would have been well served to have a damn opinion instead of this tabula rasa stuff, so there are times now as an adult that I wish this old man would abandon one or two of his damn opinions once in a while. Sometimes just knowing you have an opinion is enough to get around it, though, or at least neutralize it for a damn minute.

Other times, wow, am I glad I've gotten at least this thing straight. With the computer thing I got into looking up classmates, and I'm so grateful in this wise to be living in the future, that this (at one time inconceivable) pastime has been afforded me...life certainly has changed in this regard, huh? Back in the day if one moved away one would never know without a lot of trouble and effort what had happened to those with whom one was once so close. It's like a little crystal ball, the Internet. You used to have to hire a private detective or you went to the gypsy at the carnival. Does she still think of me? Maybe, we shall see, twenty-five cents, please.

Writing songs is a way of fly-in-amber-ing an experience so that it lingers in a somewhat maybe slanted original form...a song isn't necessarily factual all the way though, sometimes one gets (well I get) to reshape the situation closer to the heart's perceptions and desires. A bit of an alternate universe. That's-a my job, to reshape things closer, to get things righter. Or sometimes just to relax and be willing to try to show exactly how things were. Sometimes I'm after trying to be my own gypsy. But sometimes, man, it's so beyond my power.

O.K. Sebastian...

He was in my class, though I didn't ever talk to him or hang out with him or anything. You know it wouldn't have occurred to me then to just go up to a kid and say: tell me about yourself. I certainly wish I'd been that kind of person, wasn't, though. And ours was a big class, it would've taken a lot of time (and a lot of balls) to interview everyone...when they talk about overcrowded classrooms today and give a number I always think, geez, wasn't our class twice as big as that? Man, Aloysius Rimback was twice as big as that.

And whenever there was an assembly for glee club, or a talent show, there would be: Sebastian LaSapio. He tap-danced to Lullaby of Broadway. Possibly other tunes too, but certainly Lullaby Of Broadway. He wore formal evening clothes when he did this, including a white scarf and a top hat, and carried a black and white cane. He was small and thin, Sebastian, and he had olive skin and a Goyaesque face, beautiful eyes with long lashes. There was a children's talent show on New York TV on Sunday mornings at ten called The Children's Hour, those kids were always tap-dancing to Lullaby Of Broadway and I'm sure he would have fit right in. I wouldn't have been surprised to see him on that show, except he would've prolly had to miss Mass. But I didn't really understand then, how could I?, what an effort like Sebastian's dancing took, and I wasn't moved to get all ecstatic and appreciative.

These days if I experienced Sebastian LaSapio I certainly would be much more ready to be charmed (As I was leaving Winooski, Vermont on the darkest morning a few days ago I drove past a lit-up school marquee advertising the fifth and sixth grade doing Wizard of Oz next weekend and thought: Oh man I so wish I could stay and catch that.). Watching Sebastian today I'd be gratified by his effort and think about the work that he'd put into the routine and him getting fitted for the tux and all and would have clapped a lot more enthusiastically at the end.

But anyway, that tap-dancing thing, in my head he became a tap-dancer forever; it colored my memory of him (There was a This American Life episode where they talked about things that sit in your head unexamined and when you take them out into the sun after years in there in the dark it's kind of embarrassing, like this one guy who had for years assumed that quesadilla was Spanish for "What's the deal?") and so for years when Sebastian would drift across my consciousness for one reason or another (this is embarrassing) I'd always think: Manhattan babies don't sleep tight until the dawn... I had this picture of him sitting in the dark in a trailer park somewhere with his little bitty tuxedo hanging on the wall and him a has-been because, let's face it, who tap dances to Lullaby of Broadway any more and gets work? And him, like, ruminating, Oh man, I shoulda missed Mass and done Children's Hour.

So one day I thought: Oh I could look him up. And, sadly, I got a recent obit. And of course I knew it had to be him because how many guys are named Sebastian LaSapio? And are my age and come from Orange? And dig it, he had gone to Bloomfield College and become a public school teacher and then a Teacher Of The Year a couple of times in New Jersey and a principal and a big guy in the Teachers' Association...a Star, only in education, and had a lot of kids, grandkids etc. and he'd had a very very solid, respectable, successful forty-year career. [See alumni magazine tribute.] (www.michaelsmithmusic.com/images/lasapio-tribute.pdf) And there was this picture of him and he was so happy looking and the picture was taken on the beach and the water was behind him and he looked so big and prosperous, solid and muscular, with a lot of silver gray hair and this big smile and great teeth and he just communicated Total Joy in this photo.

Not one word about tap-dancing.

And me, I got this big welling of emotion for him, though we'd never had a word together...a welling of gratitude and also, really, as I said, I was embarrassed. I was like: what? a trailer park? and a little bitty tux? Michael, you dork. To quote William Kotzwinkle: Dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky... but I do trust Sebastian would've found my whole thing funny. And here I would like to say: bless you, dear classmate, for turning out to be so cool, for making such a great endeavor from the start and for bringing such joy to the world all your whole life long. Ladies and gentlemen, Sebastian LaSapio.

Applause, applause, applause, applause.

Now Sammi...

I was like nineteen when I met Sammi and she was maybe eighteen. Me and my girlfriend Demetra had driven from Little Falls, New Jersey to Warsaw, Indiana in the summer of '61 to see our friend Jim Weston acting in summer stock there. I had a white '54 Ford convertible that cost $400 and it made it to Indiana and back, not bad, huh? It wasn't like I ever changed the oil or anything. Different show every month at Warsaw, they were doing South Pacific when we were there. Sammi was in the company, too, she was from Michigan. She was of Hawaiian and Native American ancestry and she was easily the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. Big dark brown eyes, long dark hair, an incredible smile and a sweet kind of foggy, caressing voice. She seemed so happy all the time, kind of bemused, very cheerful, so cheerful she made both Demmy and me suspicious until we got used to her. You certainly got happy around her. Her beauty alone was enough to brighten your day, and as it turned out she was a genuinely benevolent person.

I was working in a factory in Clifton called Kearfott, which made missile navigation systems and is gone now (from the Kearfott second story window I saw JFK on his campaign for president riding down the street in a convertible, waving).

Couple of weekends I went into NYC and saw Sammi work at the Hawaiian Room at the Hotel Lexington. She roomed with two other dancers, Ku'uleialoha and Kalani, beautiful ladies with beautiful names, how could you ever forget them? There was a party at their apartment where the three girls did the hula for everyone and they were so perfectly synchronized, it's a wonderful memory, I was sitting on the floor, above me they were like three smiling waves flowing into the shore. I felt privileged to watch them dance, especially because it wasn't a show. They were doing it for friends, for the joy of it. The hula is God's gift, you know, to make you want to keep on living in His mystery.

Sammi got work in Nevada and married Buddy Fo, (www.buddyfo.com/index.html) who had a group called The Invitations, who were kind of like the Hawaiian Hi-Lo's. They were very good, very pro. Later Sammi and Buddy moved (for him, back) to Hawaii and worked together; you can find them on Youtube, he plays and sings, she dances. He passed away maybe a year ago, and they had a memorial show for him which got put on Youtube also. The Fos clearly are loved there. [See tribute-interview with Sammi about Buddy.] The few Youtubes I've seen of them performing, at small gatherings in Hawaii, are all comparatively recent. She is still so graceful and still so beautiful. I'll always be her fan.

Sammi did one gig, however, that you will be so grateful to me for pointing out to you: When Elvis did his TV show in Hawaii and sang Blue Hawaii Sammi was the dancer on that number and it's on Youtube. (www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXp430ATiaI) Elvis is about thirty-eight and sounds great, looks beautiful and perfect. Sammi is about thirty and I won't try again to describe her beauty, her smile, and the joy and power of her dancing. You just have to see it. Sammi and Elvis and Hawaii and that gorgeous song together. Sammi gets some close-ups which are so spectacular with beauty and benevolence and mystery that every time I watch her, it makes me want to cry. And Elvis, man. I'm so glad to be living in the future to get to see this. The night is young and so are we... Ladies and gentlemen, the beautiful and graceful and spectacular Sammi Fo.

Applause, applause, applause, applause.

So I finished work on a project this week which I have essayed twice before in past years, which is: I write "personalized" songs for some of the people who subscribe to, and contribute a certain amount to, WFMT, and who ask to have this done, I'm told, of their own free will.

WFMT, of course, is Chicago's world renowned classical and folk music station, and Rich Warren of WFMT's "Midnight Special" allows and encourages me to do this. I get to contribute some specific and specialized labor to the station which gives so much to the world (and which has certainly played my songs a bunch on their folk segments).

I usually construct these things guided by written, sometimes beautifully written, input from the folks who are getting the songs composed for them, although at other times I'll have no real information to use except a name and address. It's always a challenge and a great learning experience. So I thought you might find some things I have discovered, during this endeavor, to be thought-provoking. Or by now you've dialed up My Drunk Kitchen.

When I encounter the info upon which I'm to construct a song, if the subscriber has been reasonably thorough in her/his composition my first response is usually: this person is asking too much of me, I can't get it all in there, they're nuts to think I can cope with this. Because I'm so aware that people are writing in about parts of their lives that are very personal and precious to them, I mean, why else would you want to have this stuff put in a song? And I don't want to disappoint them, and at this beginning stage, I'm so sure I will.

Well, this time I got the picture and I trust I won't be fooled again by this early response, my body saying Oh Please Don't Ask Me To Do This Today, Let's Go Get Some Ice Cream. For one thing, that's my first response to everything. Second stage, when I'm actually working on the songs, I'm like: this is so fun, I can do a hundred of these. And you know, both of these reactions, I think I can't and I think it'll be easy, aren't accurate. What turns out to be the case is, I can, but I can't toss it off. It's a lot of work to get it to the point where it's acceptable. This is THE life lesson, isn't it? If Mr. Krishnamurti or the Pope or Billy Graham or anyone who calls himself a teacher had gotten this notion through to me when I was, say, sixteen, I think I'd still be following them around for their perspicacity, and you get it free with this paragraph.

More practically, I read about the following songwriting method somewhere, possibly in Steve Gillette's fine book about songwriting. People have been doing this for centuries, you construct a lyric by writing a person's name with the letters vertically arranged and do a line that starts with every letter. Have I described this clearly? (My plane geometry teacher at Passaic Valley, the unforgettable Mr. Werner, bless him, used to say that there's no way to describe a spiral verbally, you always wind up having to whirl your finger around.) When I construct a song with the letters of a person's name as a lyric guide, something happens to my ordinarily earnest making-up-lyric function. It now can only use a certain letter, and it says oh wow, let's find something cool, within these restrictions. The restrictions take away the responsibility (yeah!). It becomes a puzzle, a game. I used this method a bunch this year and I think I got some interesting stuff.

But here's the work part: in order to have a clue as to what lines are reasonable to accept you kind of have to dive right into the (presumed) emotions of the person you're writing for, and that's so hard on your emotions, as I heard some lady say on television today: my hormones are in flux. It's like being an actor, like the Actor's Complaint. "I got so into it that my body forgot I was me". One reason why it wasn't easy to be Phil Ochs, you betcha. That damn empathy, I've been right all along to avoid it.

Oh I read something funny: Peter Sellers said if he got to live his life over he'd do everything the same, but he wouldn't have gone to see The Magus.

Happy New Year to all.