I felt pain seeing the spot where thernStrand Theater had been (where I hadrnhad the pleasure of seeing and hearingrnArtie Shaw, his clarinet and orchestra,rnplav a dazzling arrangement of ColernPorter’s “Begin the Beguine”). Pain seeingrnthe location of the once-Loew’s StaternTheater (where I had been transportedrninto swing heaven by Duke Ellington,rnhis piano, his orchestra, and the hauntingrnblues of his “Mood Indigo”). And painrnwalking by the Paramount Building withrnits tacky street-front stores hawkingrntourist gimcracks and discount consumerrnwares. For gone is the big ParamountrnTheater, the glamour of a theater inrnwhich, it seemed, I practically grew up,rnwith its grand marquee bespeaking ofrngiants of the stripe of Benny Goodman,rnGlenn Miller, Jimmie Lunceford, andrnTommv Dorsey. hi person! On stage!rnAnd what a stage, as the first faintrnspine-tingling notes of the big band’srntheme music sounded—Goodman’srn”Let’s Dance,” Miller’s “Sunrise Serenade,”rnLunceford’s “Jazznocracy,”rnDorsev’s “I’m Gettin’ Sentimental OverrnYou”—as the curtain parted, as up slow-rn1 out of nowhere rose the stage with thernleader and his band into partial, thenrnfull and glorious view, as the ever-louderrntheme number reached a crescendo, asrnthe audience, myself included, clappedrnand stomped when not (as at earlymorningrnshows for an army of truantrnhigh schoolers) standing and screamingrnand then dancing and jiving in the aisles.rnJitterbugs, the press labeled us.rnPain in not becoming a swing musicianrnat age 16 came in 1937, when MomrndiscoNcrcd a pair of drumsticks in mvrnbedroom closet. That night when Poprnand Brother George, more than sevenrnyears mv elder, got home from workrnthere was the devil to pay. An explanationrnwas demanded. Trapped, I confessedrnthat, yes, I was taking privaterndrum lessons from a professional musicianrnat the Loew’s Jersey City Building.rnHow much a lesson, they wanted tornknow. Four dollars an hour, I replied,rnconceding, sure, it was a lot of moneyrnbut proclanning that the world neededrnanother Gene Krupa or Lionel Hampton.rnMom declared me crazy in her nativernSwedish (the Swedes have four differentrnwords for crazy, and she used all four).rn”What’s to become of him?” she asked,rnlooking up, presumably to God. Pop saidrnI should seek a more practical career.rnBrother George concurred. Close torntears, I agreed to drop the lessons andrnstudy harder at Dickinson High School.rnEven so, high school pals saw how lostrnin swing I still was, as I clicked my fingersrnto some inaudible tune going around inrnmy brain. They urged me to enter DeejayrnMartin Block’s competition for studentrncritics to review new swing recordsrnat WNEVV’s “Make-Believe Ballroom,”rna popular radio show with teens andrnother swing addicts in its day. My threepagernapplication letter must havernclicked, for I got to represent DickinsonrnHigh with a counterpart from BrooklynrnHigh. That night I put Dickinson andrnJersey City on the map. I was famous.rnKids told me so the next day in class andrnin the hallways.rnOnce the great Jimmie Lunceford orchestrarncame to a Jersey City dance hall.rnWithout a date I spent the entirernevening at the bandstand, swaying to thernrhythm, enthralled by great Sy Oliver arrangementsrnlike “Annie Laurie” and “ForrnDancers Only,” collecting autographsrnfrom leader Lunceford and every bandrnmember. Jimmy Crawford, Lunceford’srnsuperb drummer, seemed to take a likingrnto the gawky swing-struck kid, winking atrnme as he pretended with puffed cheeksrnto blow a drumstick around and around,rna stick he was spinning with his fingers.rnWow!rnAnother coup came when I got a writingrnassignment—my first ever. It wasrnfrom Swing Magazine to interview DukernEllington at Hariem’s Apollo Theater inrn1941. Thrilled but rattled, I checkedrnwith my journalism professor at NewrnYork University (major economics, minorrnjournalism). What do I ask? How do Irnknow when the interview is over?rnThe easy part was taking in the show.rnIt brought down the house with, accordingrnto my write-up (only four inches butrnwith my proud signature-initials, WIIP),rn”Creole Love Call,” “Take the ‘A’ Train,”rnand “Sophisticated Lady,” with thernlyrics sung by the lovely Ivy Anderson.rnAfter the show, I knocked nervously onrnthe Duke’s dressing-room door. Howrnshocked I was at the closet-sized roomrnbut how charmed I was at the Duke’srngenerosity, his famous smile and joie dernvivre.rnI tried not to act awestruck but plainlyrnwas, I recall, as I sat in the presence ofrnthis jazz immortal—swing’s composerpianist-rnarranger-leader extraordinairern(who composed some 3,000 orchestralrnpieces). Just like the reporters I had seenrnin the movies, I popped questions andrnmade notes in a pocket-size notebook. Irnlearned how, for example, trumpeterrnCootie Williams helped devise the growlrnhorn technique and earn an Ellingtonrnclassic, “Concerto for Cootie,” whichrnevolved, with lyrics, into “Do Nothing ’tilrnYou Hear From Me.” My eyes neariyrnpopped at the sheer wonder of suchrnEllingtonia and at the Master himself.rnThe Duke took it all in graciously, and asrnwe stood up he thanked me. Me? Irnmumbled appreciation. Back on 125thrnStreet, story in hand, I jumped for joy.rnWhat a triumph at age 20!rnThings changed in 1942. Painfully. Itrnwas the beginning of the end of swing,rnthough I didn’t realize it at the time.rnVocalists like Frank Sinatra and PerryrnComo began to overshadow the bigrnbands. Giants like Glenn Miller andrnClaude Thornhill along with millions ofrnfans went into uniform. Gasoline rationingrnshut down top dance spots likernNew Jersey’s Meadowbrook and NewrnYork’s Glen Island Casino. A two-yearrnmusicians’ strike against the record industryrnalso hurt. Swing never quite recoveredrneven with a bit of a comeback afterrnthe war. Instead, something calledrnrock came along. An era had ended.rnThey say nothing is forever. Swingrntells me otherwise. Sure, life is irreversiblernand Heraclitus was wise in sayingrnthat only change endures, that you canrnnever swim in the same river twice. Butrnliving is experience and the mind canrnfreeze experience into memor’, forever ifrnyou let it.rnSic transit gloria mundi. To my way ofrnthinking, swing’s more than a phase ofrnjazz history, a culture past; it’s part of myrnlife and I’m part of it. Still. I low well Irnrecollect swing drummer Jimmy Crawfordrnthrowing that wink my way morernthan a half-century ago.rnRecollections, nostalgia, the past becomesrnthe present and future. Youth.rnSwing. Bliss. Lost and found. Forever.rnPartly thanks to the genius of records,rnCDs, and audio cassettes. Mostly thanksrnto memories that light up the years ofrnlong ago. As a Fred Astaire-Ira Gershwinrnmovie lyric puts it: No, no, they can’trntake that away from me.rnWilliam H. Peterson is an adjunctrnscholar at the Heritage Foundation.rnAPRIL 1994/47rnrnrn