Jeff Salamon
I was a not-bad student at BBHS, and never felt any dearth of approval from my teachers -- they were a wonderfully supportive group of people, and we were all lucky to have encountered them at such an important juncture in our lives. Still, even though choir was hardly my strongest subject, a compliment I received one afternoon in the LGI meant more to me than pretty much anything Del or Pete or Pando ever told me, much as I hung on every word those guys (hi Del!) said.
It was senior year, ‘Little Mary Sunshine’ rehearsals, and there was this scene Trauty had us do again and again: Mary was sitting in a chair, singing a song, surrounded by us Mounties (we were Mounties, right?), who were kneeling at her feet. We didn’t have to do that much -- just kneel and look adoringly at Mary (which the presence of the lovely and talented Laura Gussoff made not so difficult to do at all). But, for whatever reason, the group just couldn’t nail whatever it was Trauty was looking for. Finally, in the middle of the third or fourth try, Trauty stopped us abruptly in mid-song and yelled, “Everybody but Laura Gussoff, Jim Steinthal, and Jeff Salamon -- off the stage!” (Actually, Craig B may have been sitting next to her as well.) “All of you Mounties, watch what Jim and Jeff do when Mary sings. Don’t look at Mary -- just look at them!” The piano started up again, Laura started singing, and Jim and I did this bit of business we’d worked up sometime earlier: clutching our hands to our hearts, and looking at Little Mary with moony, lovestruck eyes. “That’s it! That’s what I want!” Trauty roared when the song was over. (All of this dialogue is, obviously, approximate.) “If you boys can do that, then everything will be fine! If you can’t do that, THEN GO BACK TO WHATEVER HOLE IN THE GROUND YOU CRAWLED OUT OF!”
A small moment, of course, and, really, there was nothing so challenging or impressive about what Jim and I had done -- we were just hamming it up; it hadn’t occurred to me to do anything but ham it up. (Who knows, if Trauty had been in a different mood, maybe he would have castigated me for hamming it up. “Jeff Salamon, do you think this is your show? Is this show called ‘Little Jeff Salamon’? No, it’s called ‘Little Mary Sunshine’! Stop trying to steal the spotlight from my leading lady!”) And yet, and yet, and yet -- George Trautwein said something nice about me! And he said it in front of a room full of people! A small thing, perhaps. But I think I floated on that high for at least a few days. And, honest, for even a few years after that, when for some reason something in life got me down, one way I’d console myself was by thinking, “Well, one evening not so long ago, George Trautwein told me I was special.”
So, for the hundredth (but not nearly enoughth) time, thanks, Trauty.
Jeff Salamon
One more happy Trauty story: It was the after-party for one of the musicals, held at the Mesh house (Cyndi, do you remember which musical it might have been? [probably Little Mary Sunshine or Brigadoon]), and the good times were full on from the word go -- great music, pumped-up crowd, and I was already tipsy, or pretending to be tipsy, and maybe doing such a good job of pretending that I convinced myself that I really was tipsy -- and Trauty was taking *forever* to show up. 'Where's Trauty? Where's Trauty?' we all wondered. And if memory serves (and I may have unconsciously restaged this in my mind's eye to make it even more magical than it was), someone put Side One of Michael Jackson's "Off the Wall" on the stereo, and suddenly there was a roar from the crowd, not for the song, but for Trauty, who walked through the front door and could be seen from both the upper and lower floors of the Mesh's split-level house. I thought, "Oh my God, he must hate this music! Why are we playing this now?"
But I had, of course, completely underestimated Trauty's appetite for a good time. He paused for a moment, took the pulse of the crowd and the scene, cocked an eyebrow, threw his hands on the air, and danced his way down the steps, shaking his hips in perfect time to the music and letting out a celebratory roar.
The party no doubt went on for a couple more hours, but, really, it could have ended right then and there, and that would have been fine.
Anybody but me remember anything like my version of that evening?
Jeff Salamon
I, too, have a poem I would like to share.
Ode to a Choir Instructor
There once was a man named George Trautwein
Who's life followed a very wise outline:
Keep a song in your heart
Bear down, do your part
And everything else will turn out fine.
-- j.a. salamon
I was a not-bad student at BBHS, and never felt any dearth of approval from my teachers -- they were a wonderfully supportive group of people, and we were all lucky to have encountered them at such an important juncture in our lives. Still, even though choir was hardly my strongest subject, a compliment I received one afternoon in the LGI meant more to me than pretty much anything Del or Pete or Pando ever told me, much as I hung on every word those guys (hi Del!) said.
It was senior year, ‘Little Mary Sunshine’ rehearsals, and there was this scene Trauty had us do again and again: Mary was sitting in a chair, singing a song, surrounded by us Mounties (we were Mounties, right?), who were kneeling at her feet. We didn’t have to do that much -- just kneel and look adoringly at Mary (which the presence of the lovely and talented Laura Gussoff made not so difficult to do at all). But, for whatever reason, the group just couldn’t nail whatever it was Trauty was looking for. Finally, in the middle of the third or fourth try, Trauty stopped us abruptly in mid-song and yelled, “Everybody but Laura Gussoff, Jim Steinthal, and Jeff Salamon -- off the stage!” (Actually, Craig B may have been sitting next to her as well.) “All of you Mounties, watch what Jim and Jeff do when Mary sings. Don’t look at Mary -- just look at them!” The piano started up again, Laura started singing, and Jim and I did this bit of business we’d worked up sometime earlier: clutching our hands to our hearts, and looking at Little Mary with moony, lovestruck eyes. “That’s it! That’s what I want!” Trauty roared when the song was over. (All of this dialogue is, obviously, approximate.) “If you boys can do that, then everything will be fine! If you can’t do that, THEN GO BACK TO WHATEVER HOLE IN THE GROUND YOU CRAWLED OUT OF!”
A small moment, of course, and, really, there was nothing so challenging or impressive about what Jim and I had done -- we were just hamming it up; it hadn’t occurred to me to do anything but ham it up. (Who knows, if Trauty had been in a different mood, maybe he would have castigated me for hamming it up. “Jeff Salamon, do you think this is your show? Is this show called ‘Little Jeff Salamon’? No, it’s called ‘Little Mary Sunshine’! Stop trying to steal the spotlight from my leading lady!”) And yet, and yet, and yet -- George Trautwein said something nice about me! And he said it in front of a room full of people! A small thing, perhaps. But I think I floated on that high for at least a few days. And, honest, for even a few years after that, when for some reason something in life got me down, one way I’d console myself was by thinking, “Well, one evening not so long ago, George Trautwein told me I was special.”
So, for the hundredth (but not nearly enoughth) time, thanks, Trauty.
Jeff Salamon
One more happy Trauty story: It was the after-party for one of the musicals, held at the Mesh house (Cyndi, do you remember which musical it might have been? [probably Little Mary Sunshine or Brigadoon]), and the good times were full on from the word go -- great music, pumped-up crowd, and I was already tipsy, or pretending to be tipsy, and maybe doing such a good job of pretending that I convinced myself that I really was tipsy -- and Trauty was taking *forever* to show up. 'Where's Trauty? Where's Trauty?' we all wondered. And if memory serves (and I may have unconsciously restaged this in my mind's eye to make it even more magical than it was), someone put Side One of Michael Jackson's "Off the Wall" on the stereo, and suddenly there was a roar from the crowd, not for the song, but for Trauty, who walked through the front door and could be seen from both the upper and lower floors of the Mesh's split-level house. I thought, "Oh my God, he must hate this music! Why are we playing this now?"
But I had, of course, completely underestimated Trauty's appetite for a good time. He paused for a moment, took the pulse of the crowd and the scene, cocked an eyebrow, threw his hands on the air, and danced his way down the steps, shaking his hips in perfect time to the music and letting out a celebratory roar.
The party no doubt went on for a couple more hours, but, really, it could have ended right then and there, and that would have been fine.
Anybody but me remember anything like my version of that evening?
Jeff Salamon
I, too, have a poem I would like to share.
Ode to a Choir Instructor
There once was a man named George Trautwein
Who's life followed a very wise outline:
Keep a song in your heart
Bear down, do your part
And everything else will turn out fine.
-- j.a. salamon
