Growing up among genius was something that I took for granted. I thought everybody had people like my parents, Eleanor Klak and Bill Savory, our roommates Sheldon Harnick and Calvin Lampley, and the parade of visitors to whom I was introduced (sometimes at 3 AM) on the weekends when Mom and Dad hosted parties and jazz jam sessions.
Sheldon wrote "Fiddler On The Roof" with Jerry Bock. Calvin was the producer for Miles Davis' "Kind Of Blue" on Columbia Records, and was one of the early black concert pianists who played in Carnegie Hall.
Mom played clarinet, and Dad played piano. An early memory was finding a round cast disc on the living room floor - it was to support the post of a bass violin.
I remember being introduced to Helen Ward one late night. I was struck by her beauty, and years later she became my step-mother. She was Benny Goodman's first vocalist, and the model for many of the jazz singers who followed her.
Writers for Sid Caesar's "Show Of Shows" would come by. Mel Kaminsky, later Mel Brooks, would act out the routines that were banned from the show under various self-censorship protocols. Such a thing for a five-year-old to witness, eh?
The parade seemed endless. Damn, I wish I had recordings. Damn, I wish everyone could have experiences like those.
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