St. James' Infirmary.

A couple days after my father died I was back in my office and back at my desk. I was still sad but I needed to be busy and I needed to be around some of the people I worked with whom I had grown close to. My partner of the time was a mensch--someone who had the gift of silent companionship and my boss and mentor was as close as I've ever come to working with a father figure. Work is something that when it's working, gives us meaning and after your father dies, that's what you look for, meaning.

I was sitting in my office and listening to the last remaining jazz station in New York, WBGO out of Newark, New Jersey. I called the station and got connected with the disk jockey.

"My father just died," I told him. "I think there's no sadder song than St. James Infirmary. Could you play me the saddest version you have."

"I'm going to play you a few," he answered. And he did. He played the classic by Louis Armstrong, a good (if thin) version by Lou Rawls and something hallucinating by Cab Calloway. Here's Mr. Armstrong's version, with him singing and blowing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QzcpUdBw7gs

I went down to St. James Infirmary,
Saw my baby there,
Stretched out on a long white table,
So cold, so sweet, so fair.
Let her go, let her go, God bless her,
Wherever she may be
She can look this wide world over,
But she'll never find a sweet man like me.

There's a great "radio personality" here in New York named Jonathon Schwartz who plays songs from "the American Songbook" on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. These are classics from Cole Porter, the Gershwins, Nelson Riddle, Jerome Kern and more performed by Sinatra, Bennett, Jo Stafford and more.

Just now Schwartz played St. James Infirmary on a V-Disc, performed by a very young, very raw Tony Bennett. V-discs were recordings done for American soldiers during World War II. Because there was a musicians strike in the U.S. at the time, V-discs were recorded but they never went on sale in the States. They were only for our overseas troops. Most of the records never came home and the masters of the recordings weren't treated with any special reverence. So for years it was rare to get a hold of a V-Disc recording--especially a rare one, though now it seems like many are available on iTunes.

I went down to St. James Infirmary
To see my baby there,
She was lyin' on a long white table,
So sweet, so cool, so fair.

Went up to see the doctor,
"She's very low," he said;
Went back to see my baby
Good God! She's lying there dead.

I went down to old Joe's barroom,
On the corner by the square
They were serving the drinks as usual,
And the usual crowd was there.

On my left stood old Joe McKennedy,
And his eyes were bloodshot red;
He turned to the crowd around him,
These are the words he said:

Let her go, let her go, God bless her;
Wherever she may be
She may search the wide world over
And never find a better man than me

Oh, when I die, please bury me
In my ten dollar Stetson hat;
Put a twenty-dollar gold piece on my watch chain
So my friends'll know I died standin' pat.

Get six gamblers to carry my coffin
Six chorus girls to sing me a song
Put a twenty-piece jazz band on my tail gate
To raise Hell as we go along

Now that's the end of my story
Let's have another round of booze
And if anyone should ask you just tell them
I've got the St. James Infirmary blues

I've looked for the Tony Bennett recording but I couldn't find it. For all its virtues iTunes doesn't have the greatest search mechanism. I'll keep looking for the recording though.

Just as I keep looking for my father.

Professionalism.

One of the manias of our current era is the debasement of the concept of professionalism. We've been sold on the notion that "anyone can do it." And anyone usually does.

We're left with people self-medicating, self-home-repairing, home-schooling and posting their mediocre photographs and moronic likes for one and all to see.

Our business, of course, is heavily afflicted by this disease. People who have no knowledge of the craft of film, no sense of what Eisenstein shot, or Welles, or John Ford editing drivel with meaningless imitation of "technique" that advances little the power of the communication. It's just noise.

Availability has replaced capability.

Lately the notion that "anyone can do it" has been center-stage among the Republican presidential dwarves. It's ok to not be aware of countries like Uzbekistan. It's ok not to know that China has had nuclear capabilities since 1965. It's ok to not be able to finish a sentence you've started.

Knowledge, experience, skill have been denigrated.

Summon "The Idiot's Guide to Absolutely Everything."

This morning my broadcast producer and I had some bullshit work to do. Between us we have probably almost 50 years experience. Because we both get crazy during the day we agreed to meet at 8:00 and jam for an hour, well before anyone else gets in.

In that hour we got a week's work done.

We are professionals.

And proud of it.

Mama Joy's, 1979.

The other day I took a long cab ride with some co-workers back from the client. I generally like to sit in the front seat in such situations. It not only gives my 6'2" frame a bit more leg room, but it also means I've got a bullet-proof plexiglass barrier between me and account services.

One thing I've always been in the habit of doing is being open to cab driver's conversation. I once had a summer job driving all around Chicago--to 25 supermarkets a day doing shelf-checks, and I know how lonely it can be to be driving all day. Usually cabbies welcome talking to a fare.

This particular driver was a jackpot for me. He was older--he probably had a couple years on me and he's lived in New York for most of his life, residing now in Upper Manhattan in what used to be a war-torn Dominican neighborhood.

We got to talking, naturally, about the old days and together we made a quick visit to 1970s New York in our memories. I told him that I went to Columbia University and we talked about how that neighborhood had changed, from down at the heels and threatening to a benign, somewhat sanitized place today.

He mentioned some of his old hangouts.

The Golden Rail--with two dollar beers and a two dollar cover.

I countered with Salter's, an old-time book seller with a cellar crammed with millions of books and sales help that was way better read than I, a mere PhD. student studying literature.

I told him that V&Ts was still there, home to one of the best pizzas in a city of great pizza. The very thought made us both hungry.

Then he brought up Mama Joys, a deli qua grocery on Broadway between 112th and 113th.

"There," he said, "you could get a sandwich. Carnegie Deli had nothing on them."

I concurred. And brought up the manner of the tall West Indians who worked behind the sandwich counter.

"Meanest men in the world," he remembered and I agreed.

The sandwich guys were brusque, cutting off conversation like they'd cut the dried end off a salami. They had a stock phrase that put an end to all conviviality.

It was, "Just tellllll me what you want. Don't telllll me what you don't want."

So if you asked for a turkey sandwich with provolone, lettuce and tomato and said you wanted no mayonnaise, they'd assault you with that line.

Now, complying with their strictures didn't mean you were on easy street. Ordering a sandwich went like this.

"I'll have a turkey on rye with black pepper, lettuce, provolone and tomato."

"You want lettuce on that sandwich, mon?" They would scream.

"Yes, lettuce, provolone and tomato."

"Just tellllll me what you want, don't tellllll me what you don't want."

And that's the way it was.

And I gave the guy a nice big tip.

The renaissance revisited.

Over the last two decades or so, historians have begun to shy away from calling the Dark Ages the Dark Ages. The notion that the world was engulfed in uneducated dumbness and violence has been assailed. While Europe was no longer enthralled in the glory that was Rome, and the Renaissance had yet to begin, historians have uncovered gleams of light. They have become less absolute in their assessment of the period.

I'm thinking about this because amid all our collective gloom about the world, part of me wonders if we aren't living, right now, in the best of all possible worlds. If we aren't enveloped in a flowering of thought, art and literature.

Right now in the budget-constrained world we inhabit, there is probably more good writing available to more people--for free--than in any time in the history of the world. In fact, just yesterday I happened for the first time upon this blog http://www.ben-kay.com/ and I almost cringed. It was so good. How could I ever find the time to squeeze even more into my reading list.

Last night, a dvd arrived in my house of an amazing movie made 40 years ago, "I Never Sang for my Father," starring a young Gene Hackman, and old Melvyn Douglass and Estelle Parsons. Virtually every movie ever made is available to you now. Usually for less than $10 a pop.

Museums, at least in New York, are getting bigger and better, if more expensive.

Taking the subway home last night I was exposed to three genre of live music in three locations. They weren't all my taste but they were all pretty good.

It's all around us, this flowering.

Sure, there are cretins all around us, too. Rick Perry. Sarah Palin. Michelle Bachman and more. Sure we are Lohanized and Kardashianed almost to death. But even a voracious reader like myself keeps falling further and further behind. There are more great books being published today than any other time in world history.

Hey, it's Thursday already.

The weekend is almost here.

Make plans to hear some music or visit a museum.

And lighten up, willya.

A bifurcation.

One of the things I like about being Jewish is that we've narrowed all human behavior down to essentially two states.

You're either:

1. a schmuck

or

2. a mensch

Schmucks, to be completely solipsistic about this are schmucks. They put their names on work they didn't do. They show up late for meetings. They speak when they have nothing to say. They shirk responsibility. They shoot first and ask questions later.

Mensches do good. They are honest. They help people. They do the right thing. In their own way, whether it's large or small, they make the world better.

That's how I divide the agency world.

I know I am, in the words of my daughters "all judgey and hatey." But that's how I see things.

There are schmucks.

There are mensches.

As far as I'm concerned, we all have a choice. Which we choose to be.

In advertising we have to work with both sorts. We have to get along. We have to co-exist with schmucks. Make peace with schmucks. We often have to lunch with schmucks.

That's just the way things are.

Sorry if I'm acting like a schmuck.

Immediacy.

Since its foundation a decade and a half ago, the web has been regarded (at least by ad agencies) as a visual medium. Writing hasn't just taken a backseat, it's been relegated way back to the trunk.

It's funny that it's like that. Because many of the most popular sites are word heavy. Google. Facebook. Craig's List. Ebay.

In any event, there are those of us who believe in the power of good ideas and good writing. Often, the best writing has both immediacy and detail that transports you to a setting or a moment. It makes the abstract visceral and real.

Today I came upon some war writing by the great Russian writer Vasily Grossman. Many people have mentioned Grossman's novels in the same breath as Tolstoy. So he's no slouch. "Life and Fate," which evokes Tolstoy's "War and Peace" was widely heralded when it was finally released in the West. His much slimmer volume "Everything Flows" received even greater acclaim.

Here's a picture Grossman paints from 1941. (Junkers were German war planes):

"Three Junkers appeared. Bombs exploded. Screams. Red flames with white and black smoke. We pass the same village again in the evening. The people are wide-eyed, worn out. Women are carrying belongings. Chimneys have grown very tall, they are standing tall amid the ruins. And flowers--cornflowers and peonies--are flaunting themselves so peacefully."

Here's another, a report from the destruction of the village of Gomel:

"Howling bombs, fire, women...The strong smell of perfume--from a pharmacy hit in the bombardment--blocked out the stench of burning, just for a moment. The picture of burning Gomel in the eyes of a wounded cow."

Joe Frazier.

At one time during my pre-adipose days I was a fairly decent (for a Jew) long distance runner. I could do a sub-40-minute 10K, and ran a dozen marathons, three at 7:10 pace. Suffice it to say that I spent a good portion of my free-time running in Central Park.

One weekend I was running down by Tavern on the Green with a bunch of friends. A couple hundred yards up ahead there was a commotion. There was a bunch of people--photographers--aiming their Japanese cameras at a runner.

We ran over to investigate and there he was. Smokin' Joe Frazier was doing roadwork in our fair city.

I've lived in New York for my whole life barring two years in Boston and one in San Francisco. And I've seen a lot of strange wardrobes. But I've never seen anyone with a get up like what Frazier was wearing.

He had on the vest from a three-piece suit, long black satin boxing shorts and black ankle-cut Army boots. He punched the air with taped hands as he hobbled along.

The Champ (a title he deserved even if someone else held the belt) didn't look in fighting shape. That was the reason he wore the vest--it hid his less-than-sculpted abs while it allowed him to show off his arms which were the size of telephone poles.

There are people who lift weights and work out and they call their arms "guns." Joe Frazier had guns. Everyone else--even those poseurs who lift weights for a living are nothing but imposters.

If I'm ever in a situation where I'm intimidated I think about what it must have been like to be on the receiving end of Frazier's left hook.

It's a good way to keep things in perspective.

I give you this Laurel and Hardy handshake.

There's a new 10-disc boxset of Laurel and Hardy shorts that's just been released. It was thoughtfully reviewed in today's "New York Times." You can read the review here: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/06/movies/homevideo/new-dvds-laurel-and-hardy-the-essential-collection.html?src=dayp

When I was a kid, local TV stations played a lot of Laurel and Hardy on after-school kiddie shows. They helped me survive and laugh through a pretty sordid childhood.

Laurel and Hardy are rarities now. They're not played on TV, and unless you live in an area that has a movie house that plays revivals, you're not likely to see them screened. As David Kehr the reviewer for the Times points out, "And then there is the matter of pace. These are, for the most part, magisterially slow films, comedies in which an individual sight gag — Ollie falling into a water fountain, for example — is only the point of departure for a series of slow-burn reactions: Ollie’s baleful look directly into the camera, in which he seems to be soliciting the viewer’s sympathy, punctuated with a barely audible sigh of resignation; Stan’s gradations of surprise, incomprehension (was he really responsible for that?) and withdrawal into a state of blank-eyed obliviousness, as if the world and all its troubles had suddenly become too much for him, and he’s regressed into a perfectly serene, fetal state."

In other words, these comedies are hardly frenetic as seems the pace of so much today.

The clip I've pasted above is from a short called "Brats." My mother used to pretend she was a Russian peasant and sing me the song Oliver sings to put his children to bed.

New York. Then and now.

There's a new book that has just come to my attention called "New York in Color" photographs of New York edited by Bob Shamis. The photo that illustrated the write-up on the book in "The New York Times" really brought me back to less sanitized days.

In the 70s, New York had really jumped the rails. We were averaging nearly 6 murders a day and it seemed we were never more than a blackout away from having a riot.

I was in high school during some of these years. I remember playing the outfield during a game against another school. The field was rutted and worn. A bankrupt New York had no money for playing fields. I remember a couple of guys coming up to me while the game was going on and trying to sell me drugs. I remember working nights and coming home to my small apartment at 3 in the morning with my keys woven between my fingers. Protection, however slight, against being mugged.

Nothing seemed to work in those days. The subways had no air-conditioning in the summer and no heat in the winter. They were as covered in ink as an ambitious hipster.

Of course, New York even during its descent into hell was still New York. It still had a fury, a life and a beauty that I've never seen matched. Gordon Parks captured a bit of that in here:


I'm not really nostalgic about the days of fear in New York. I like the city as safe. I like that things seem somewhat in control these days. I don't miss the fires in the Bronx, the sky high murder rate and the live sex shows on 42nd Street.

A local New York public radio station is running a promotion called Beethoven Appreciation Month. They have posted this around town. It's a very different place today.

The quintessence of dust.

Every day, or nearly so, for the last couple weeks, I've been hauling books from my overly-crowded apartment (which is bursting at the seams with books) to my over-crowded desk which is bursting at the seams with the detritus of the model of a modern major ad agency.

The office space I occupy, not just my table, looks like a tornado hit it. Papers are everywhere. Multi-colored sticky notes are pasted on monitors. There are bins to hold documents, racks to hold documents and documents in piles in nearly every nook and cranny.

What there aren't are books.

There are no annuals. No dictionaries. No landscapes of Ansel Adams or sketches by Reginald Marsh. There are no "Archives." No "CAs." No trade magazines. No general interest magazines.

Today I brought in a book I ordered from the UK. "Hegarty on Advertising. Turning Intelligence into Magic."

It will sit on my desk unsullied--no one will borrow it. No one even knows who John Hegarty is.

Out of force of habit I take a Sharpie to my books within seconds of their arrival at my desk. I write my name all over them. I want them shared; I'd like to think there are active learners around me, but I don't want them stolen.

Every day my pile grows another couple of inches, like kudzu in the American south or bamboo after too much rain. But the books don't get touched.

Not by young creatives who you think would be eager. Or even by account people who you'd think my profit from ingratiating themselves with me.

I'm told people today go online to find such things. To "browse" annuals. To find wonderful art.

So maybe the book-deniers are right and I'm just an anachronism. After all, I remember getting lost in the library for hours at Hal Riney, Ally & Gargano and, Ogilvy, home to the biggest agency library of all.

Dave Trott sent me a link this morning of David Abbott singing the praises of independent booksellers. http://www.ben-kay.com/2011/11/david-abbott-on-independent-bookshops/ That's what got me going.

I find it sad that the few things I hold dearest in the world are now considered by entire dark-aged generations as little more than eccentricities.