| remembering a father |
| Jack Joseph D'Amico (1911-1996) Jack D'Amico (born Giacomo) began his musical studies on the violin. His father Luigi D’Amico had learned to play the guitar in his hometown of Santa Croce di Magliano in Molise, Italy, before he came to the United States and became a blacksmith. His fathers love of music informed a tradition of music making, amateur and professional, that continues to this day to shape so many lives in the family. Until the end of Jacks life, he continued to play the violin his father bought for him for those first lessons. His sister Angela, Mary Louise Nanna's mother, took piano lessons from the son of Jacks music teacher and while still teenagers Ange and Jack then played for silent movies, not always agreeing on how to interpret scores which had headings such as allegro misterioso notturno (”for stealthy action in the dark”), and Jack playing with his feet up on a chair to avoid the unsavory condition of the movie theatres floor. He also played the mandolin at Pete Nanna's barbershop, that gentle Barise who would later marry his sister Ange. And after he retired Jack went back to playing the violin with the Cheektowaga Community Orchestra under Mary Louise’s baton. For these and so many other reasons Jack wanted Mary Louise Nanna to play today. They share many qualities, inherited from Jacks mother Giovannina (always known to family and friends as “Mamma Jenny”)—the sharp sense of humor, the impatience with fools, an uncompromising demand for excellence, and a willingness to take on the battles that come with being committed and honest. In the later years of his retirement, Jack also began playing violin- piano duets with his son Robert whenever the two could get together either in Gainesville, Florida or Buffalo. Jack especially loved the piano-music of Fritz Kreisler and the piece that always began and ended their practice sessions was Kreisler’s “Liebesleid” which Mary Louise will play today with Robert as her accompanist. The popular American music of Broadway shows and of the great dance band era was at the heart of Jacks professional life and is represented today by the selections to be played by Dick Riederer, a musician of a younger generation who became Jacks dear friend. They shared their east-side, European roots, their sense of tradition, their musicianship, and their love of the well-crafted popular tune. By the time he started a professional career and married Carol Patti in 1936, the saxophone became his main instrument, but in the cadence of his own life it was the violin with which he began and ended. Like the Patti girl from Schiller street who stayed with the D’Amico boy from Goethe, the violin never left him. You could see his love for both in the way he held them and the look they brought to his face. Jack always said he just “picked up” the tenor saxophone and clarinet because he could find more work doubling. His extraordinary ability to sight read continued from his violin studies and he developed a distinctive, full sound on the horn and thus the saxophone became his “working” instrument. He and his wife Carol started their life together on the road with the orchestra leader Chauncey Cromwell (the stage name of, improbably enough, a Sicilian band leader). During the war he worked at Curtis Wright making airplane engines and resumed, after the war, what was to become a long and distinguished career as in every sense the complete professional musician. He was equally at home on the staff at WGR Radio, in the pit of a theater playing a show, at clubs or private parties, at the circus, backing up performers at the “Towne Casino or Chez Ami supper clubs, or even playing for amateur dance recitals in an era when live music was the rule rather than the exception in public life. He was of an era of musicians who combined a prodigious memory with flawless sight reading. The saying often repeated about these musicians was that if a fly landed on the score, they read it. In the tradition of his father’s social activism, Jack was a leader in the Musicians Union, fighting for better working conditions and fair pay, and having to suffer the consequences of his opposition to the national union leadership on many of these issues. The music business, that oft discussed topic of conversation and debate in his household, began to wane and like many musicians he took a “day job” to supplement his income. First he sold DuMont televisions in the early 1950’s and then he joined Appliance Associates for his second profession in the building business which he approached with the same energy and attention to detail. It rewarded him financially and with some of his dearest friends among the salesmen and builders who met at such places as Anjons or the Red Carpet, on their many trips to Europe, on the cruises with the Builders Association, and always on the golf course. With retirement a new routine emerged of driving to Florida, to spend most of the winter with his son, his daughter-in-law Susan Armstrong, and his grandchildren Julia and Christopher. Those days at the beach, golf courses, and various cafes and restaurants of a small college town passed much too quickly, but they were always followed by the happy return to Greenbranch Road and the beloved view of the trees and the stream. During his last months Jack’s time was mostly spent listening to music—those many beloved violin concertos, the Walton, Mendelssohn, Sibellius, Brahms. And however tired he seemed he never lost his uncanny sense of time, rhythm, and phrasing. One of his favorite motifs was how all of life was rhythm—the way we walk, the way our hearts beat, the way we eat and speak. Even at his lowest point he might open his eyes as a piece began on the radio to remark “Taking it kind of fast arent they?” And they were. In addition to the music what I will always remember about my father is the art of talking. He loved story telling, discussion, argument, jokes and even the sound of special words. It encompassed a general concept of always maintaining a charming, articulate and interesting bearing—what years later I would come to understand as the Italian phrase una bella figura—but I mostly remember it as learning to have interesting ideas and to express them well. I don’t know how he and my mother kept up those two lives— getting up early in the morning for work and going out at night to play, or listen to music or meet their many good friends. Some of my best memories of those years are connected with chance meetings when they were out after my Dad had finished a job, meetings at the Royal Arms for jazz, or to hear Dick Fadale at Jacobbis, or at home for a late night snack and talk at the kitchen table before he would go off to get a few hours sleep before his morning sales calls—never used an alarm clock, just told himself when to get up. This music for me will always bring to mind the routine my father went through before a job—finding a good reed, testing out some new tunes or some old favorites, shaving, shaking out one of those beautifully ironed and folded dress shirts my mother stacked in his drawer, the aphrodesia after shave, the tie, the distinctive gesture of thrusting his hands in his pockets and leaning forward for one last check in the mirror. My father loved this music—he performed and cherished the tradition of classical music, certainly appreciated any form of music that was well played—but he was a man who grew up with the great show tunes, the thirty-two bars, the verse, the refrain and bridge of American popular music at its best. The love of that music was in his face when he would play a new tune for you, or show you how a tricky phrase should be accented, or where there was a nice change in the bridge—lifting the horn a bit and catching your eye. I was lucky to see him once downtown, his saxophone case in hand, just as he was about to turn into the revolving doors of the Statler Hotel, impeccably dressed, probably an hour early for the job, every inch the professional musician. And though he griped about bad jobs—the leaders, the drummers, the drunks—he loved the art of performance and he will always be alive for me in that moment, turning from the dark street into a world of people, light and music. |
| In 1996 I traveled to Buffalo to attend a memorial service for the father of Jack D’Amico—my dear friend I have known these many years back to the days we were students at the university. The service occurred at St Vincents church on Main St, one of the most beautiful churches in a city of churches and a perfect venue for this occasion. Jack Sr was a musician and on this day that was theme--music, both jazz and classical, performed by friends and family and fellow musicians he had worked with for many years. For me it was a Bach trio featuring his niece Mary Louise Nanna on violin that was the highlight. Some months later I wrote a story, Reunion in Buffalo, that ends with a description of the service. I wrote this: Life can be boiled down to a handful of moments. This was one. There is extraordinary music played by extraordinary musicians. But this was different. It was this woman playing this music in this church in this city to honor the memory of this man. There were my own memories and feelings about the old man—and my relationship with Jack. But mostly it was the music—played by this woman. I understood for the first time why the violin was such a fantastic instrument. It perfectly set the tone for this occasion. I started to cry. Normally I don’t cry. The last time was when my second wife left me. But these werent tears of grief or sadness or regret. The music did not evoke these emotions. It was inspirational and glorious. It was unforgettable The piece below was written by Jack and his brother Robert for distribution at the service. I thank them for their permission to publish. |
