"Some good things happened while I was in California. I sat in with some of the musicians at the Lighthouse on a few occasions and they made a record out of that." --Miles Davis

Jazz came to HB in this Fashion:
A tall black-haired chap, named Rumsey, swaggered through town. Bored/frustrated of playing in big band groups, he walked into a virtually empty Lighthouse. It was one day after WW II. Owner John Levine had bought it, sight unseen, on the basis of wartime business.

Conversation went something like this:
Rumsey: Levine, you ever experimented with a music policy in this joint?

Levine (irritated): Everybody and his brother has tried to tell me how to run this place…Now you walk in off the streets and tell me what I should do?”

Rumsey leans back. Levine takes him in.

Levine: Convince me.

CUT TO:

1950’s - -- the lure HB is the infamous Light House was its resident jazz group, Howard Rumsey’s Lighthouse All-Stars. A top citadel of jazz on the south coast.

They operate in a long, low, oblong, dimly lit room with an informal, easy atmosphere for shirt-sleeve jazz. At one end are photos of Stan Kenton (most of this group including leader Rumsey are ex-Kentonites), June Christy and other artists. At the other is a green-lit clock and a couple of red glowing ship's lanterns.

Along the walls are a series of impressionistic paintings done in bas-relief with Plaster of Paris. They have such titles as "How Can I Understand You If You Don't Say What I Already Know Blues?" "Some Days I Feel Aggressive" and "Who's Got The Melody?"

Overhead, above a false ceiling of open crossed batting strips, are a set of four, newly installed, giant hi-fidelity speakers. Their mission is to carry accurate sound without distortion to every far corner of the room. They do.

The patrons sit in a semicircle at low tables around the small bandstand with its mirrored back, or on cushioned stools at the bar which runs the length of the room on the opposite side.

Since then, Rumsey has had three different jazz groups. He considers the current one the finest of the lot. The personnel: Rumsey on bass, Bob Cooper (husband of singer June Christy) on tenor sax, Bud Shank on alto sax, Claude Williamson, piano, and Stan Levey, drums. Claude Williamson on trumpet, joins them in week ends.

Eighty percent of their music are originals. They are tunes such as "Viva Zapata," "Witch Doctor," "Warm Winds," "Albatross," "Mambo Los Feliz," "Comin Thru the Rye Bread."

Bob Cooper and Bud Shank decided to explore the possibilities of the flute and oboe in jazz. It was such a success that the group's latest long-play record for the Contemporary record label features their oboe-flute duets.

Such tunes as "Aquarium," "Still Life" and "Hermosa Summer", with the soft brush of drums and Rumsey's forceful bass beat as accompaniment, are some of the most beautiful and moving jazz numbers I have heard.

faint thoughts half thought

In the early 1950's a west coast jazz scene, the Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach produced moonlite sounds of "Round Midnight" and "Stella By Starlight" heard faintly on the beach through the club's open doorway. ..Chet Baker and Art Pepper frequented the joint.

All the children are insane waiting for the summer rain

My flight back home-- I was mesmerized by the eerie brown clouds hovering over the coastline. The West Coast is on FIRE. The Santa Anas are a blazin' and the moon glowed red.

Passenger sitting near aisle, a sometime working actor mentioned that Mercury was in retrograde. He explained all things chaotic on this cycle. Actors tend to be among many things, hyper-sensitive to astrology. Regardless thousands of people are without homes. Displaced.It's odd. One minute life is routine and there's some sort of order. Then in a blink of an eye it goes up in smoke.

I took the shuttle back to Hermosa. Miles away from the destruction, the air was still toxic. My lungs hurt. The next morning I made my usual trek to the beach. Coffee in hand I stared at the horizon... An unnatural brown streak stained the brilliant blue. I watched two boys wrestle in the October waves. Retrograde and Mercury would not dampen their thrills.

Hi-Altitude Shenanigans

Mo had a good time in Chinatown. She was bouncing around in the cab back to the airport, “Time to retire that miniskirt, sweets. You are done.

"I'm wearing Cargo pants, Mo."

Mo responds, "Exactly. Exactly."

Whatevers. I had a great time and was ready to kill that screenplay.

Within the hour we were on our flight back to Kauai. Mo, a pessimistic passenger, who sees no point in paying attention to the flight attendants pre-flight safety lectures

"Blanket and a pinot noir sounds tasty."

"You should listen to her. Exit doors are not in the same place on every airliner, Mo. Seriously, people are lulled into a false sense of security because air travel has become so safe that they think any danger is remote. Accidents happen, it's best to be prepared."

"You sound like a P.S.A." Mo put her head on my shoulder, "I booked us for Zip-Lining in Princeville tomorrow."

"Fears will be conquered." I said. Specifically, my fear of heights.

I read Scar Tissue, the Anthony Kiedis book, for the rest of the flight.

I aint jokin woman, I got to ramble...

My best friend Mo was adamant about island hopping, I had planned to stay put at the Outrigger Waipoli Beach Resort until I finished my work on the screenplay. But there was no stopping Mo, who was getting Kauai Fever. She’s from New Jersey. Enough Said. My deadlines were fast approaching. But I was a bit stir-crazy so off we went. At the Kauai airport, I had a momentarily lapse of reason and told Mo, that I had to go back to the hotel to finish the pages. Mo said, with a somewhat heavier east coast accent, “Listen, I need some pollution, car exhaust..Something! My lungs can’t handle this much botany!" I surrendered.
We opted to Island Hop to Honolulu’s Chinatown. My internal whining died down when the plane arrived in Oahu. Mo lit a cigarette outside the airport while we waited for a cab, “What do you say we rent some motorcycles?”
I was systematically checking our carry-on’s, something felt like it was missing. My brain went into instant panic. Did I forget something? It felt too light. Looked around again, “Mo, they rent scooters not motorcycles.” Mo snorted, “Scooters are for bitches.”
She threw her cigarette out. A Japanese woman glared at me. Instantly, I forgot about my earlier panic and flagged a cab.

Once the cab dropped us off in Chinatown, we hit Thirtyninehotel, a gallery by day. We sipped a colored cocktail called Hawaiian Punch. Afterwards, to continue the art theme we found ourselves across town at Arts at Marks Garage, a gallery cum performance space that exhibits work by leading local artisans. Mo mentioned this would be a good day to find gifts for family/friends. So we bought pikakes, straw bags, and silk cheongsams at Cindy’s and across the street at Lin’s. For $2.00 we caught the Bus from Ala Moana Center and discovered Indigo at Nuuanu St., where we enjoyed a twilight aperitif.

Mo’s thirst was quenched. Chinatown was a mixture of people and culture. Fun and activity. Her urban island expectations were met. My feet hurt and I remembered our earlier plan to rent scooters/motorcycles. Mo was just about to get her second wind. I thought twice.