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The Kid thought more of his $^30 banjo than he did of himself. But big Russ Winslow, the drummer, thought both were worth saving.
nstmad in the Adirondacks
(Many orchestras, now at the top of the heap, did not walk over a bed of roses to get there. This is an account of an incident that occurred by RICK ALLISON back in 1928. The leader of this band is now known to everyone who is familiar with popular music.)
IT WAS after one o'clock and there was the usual crowd of young folks, musicians and heroworshipers who always stay late to watch the crewmen of a nationallyknown band pack up their instruments and fold back into the bus.
"That's no band, that's a mob," remarked one of the boys who was obviously a trumpet player in one of the local outfits. You could pretty near always tell a trumpet player by his carefully nursed little mustache.
Yes, it was a big band, 18 pieces. Most of the musical foremen were toting around nine or ten men those days and calling it a big band.
The crowd had thinned and now and then somebody would stroll over to a window and comment on the snowflakes as big as saucers and the ten inches or a foot of white blanket covering the ground. Outside the 1928 Fords and Chevrolets were having a hard time getting loose.
Two or three of them were still stuck while their spatted chauffeurs pushed, tugged and cussed.
"How far is our next jump, Paul?"
"Oh," he replied, "about two hundred and ten miles, straight north, right up through the Adirondacks. But they say the road is plowed out all the time and we won't have any trouble."
Within half an hour the 18-piece orchestra was packed, crammed and jammed into the wheezing old bus that had been adequate when the boss was making the one nighters with ten pieces.
The snow beat softly against the windows as the bus headed north out of Albany. Came two o'clock, three, yes, even four and there wasn't a sign of trouble.
But by five o'clock the hills were getting steeper, the snow deeper, and the old bus was steaming like a tea kettle.