Guy Stuff

Guy Lombardo, being from Canada, grew up pronouncing his name as though it was “gee,” a command used to turn a horse to the right (as opposed to “haw” ... what Canucks call a lady of the evening.) But, after many years dealing with the boobs south of the 49th parallel, the baton of the “Royal Canadians” orchestra eventually relented and started answering to “Guy” (rhymes with “pie.”) Early in his career, Mr. New Years and his fellow music makers dressed as Mounties in Smoky-the-Bear hats, gray jodhpurs, red riding jackets, high black saddle boots, cross-chest leather straps, and brass-buckled belts. However, as their midriffs drifted east and west, they switched to a double-breasted tuxedos with white carnations.

Actually, Guy Lombardo hated New Years and everything that went with it. His audience was generally loud and boorish. His band members would often get sloshed and pee themselves. Champagne gave him a crotch itch and caviar, the runs. He hated wall-to-wall football throughout New Year’s day since he invariably had a rip-roaring headache from all the ambient cigarette smoke of the previous night. But his wife was a gridiron junkie so he was forced to endure every last tackle. And he was still brushing confetti out of his dinner jacket in July. But since 1954, the Royal Canadians were getting enormous fees to usher in New Years on national television. They had become a holiday icon much like the lighted ball dropping above Times Square. So Guy always put on his game face and smiled his way through this annual ordeal. In fact he claimed that when he died he was going to take New Years with him.

In 1992, the Lombardo orchestra was to play out the old year at The Rainbow Room in Rockefeller Center. He had assembled most of his best players from times past and augmented them with a string section from the New York Philharmonic. The festivities started at 7:30 with a eight-course dinner including roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and black-eyed peas (for the superstitious). The meal ended with Lindy’s cheesecake and a token haggis for those with “Mac” prefixing their last name. Guy and his guys played light vespers throughout dinner and moved to show tunes after the coffee was served. Then he brought on vocalists for the more romantic golden oldies which were punctuated, about ever fifth melody, with a rumba, a samba, or a polka. The evening went swimmingly until sometime after 10:30 when things started getting a little strange.

It all began when a slide trombone player hit three sour notes in a row during a “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” solo. This was unusual in and of itself, but when the first violinists broke his G-string during “Some Enchanted Evening”, Guy started to show some concern under his facial patina of teeth. Then the drummer put his stick right through the skin of his tom-tom ... and four reeds of the saxophone section all broke simultaneously during “Midnight Sleigh Ride.” By 11:15, Guy’s world was rapidly coming apart. Up till then the TV networks had been able to cover most of these faux pas’ by cutting to commercials. But at this point, things were unraveling so fast that the networks were forced to broadcast any new errata to the entire nation ... like when the guitar player fell off his stool during “Spanish Eyes” right into the horn of the tuba. Or when the piano lid collapsed during “Kitten on the Keys” ... taking a portion of the pianist’s scalp with it.

By this time the audience had stopped dancing and just stood there, mouths agape, watching this scene out of a Keystone Kops movie. Guy tried to dispel the spell by calling an extended break during which the networks panned over the revelers in Times Square or switched to “A Horn Blows at Midnight,” starring Jack Benny. During this time out, Guy assembled his band members and forbade them to have anything more to drink. He also summarily dismissed two woodwind players who already had stained the knickers’ fronts ... and forced steaming hot coffee into his only flautist, since she was needed for “Auld Lang Syne.”

When they returned, it soon became clear that it wasn’t just the booze at work ruining this “first night.” Next acoustical tiles began dropping from the ceiling. Then the fountain in the middle of the dance floor went berserk and sprayed many patrons with cheap champagne ... while, at the same time, its multi-colored lights began shorting out, sending sparks leaping across the wet floor to the dancers. Five were electrocuted on the spot ... quivering like they were enraptured with ecstasy. Then the spinning mirrored ball came crashing to the floor, killing the bass player and badly injuring five spectators. And as the witching hour approached, things became even more bizarre. Tables began levitating. Forks and knives came alive and embedding themselves in peoples’ posteriors.

Through the glass ceiling above the dance floor, one could see incredibly bright lighting flashes under gray, ominous clouds. Then thunder came rolling into the restaurant, almost drowning out the orchestra which, by now, was almost completely out of syncopation due to its lack of a drum beat or bass notes. But they played on ... like the band on the sinking Titanic. At the first stroke of midnight those guests not already dead or injured were looking for a rapid escape route. Right then, Guy noticed a unfamiliar face in the brass section. This player was clearly not an ASCAP member. He had a flowing silver beard and was dressed in a long white robe. As he raised his trumpet to his lips, Guy noticed a name badge pinned to the breast of his cassock. It clearly spelled out, in diamond-inlayed lettering, “ARCHANGEL GABRIEL.”

Those of you reading this are obviously living in a parallel universe.

© Copyright, George W. Potts