Author: David Kipp

While many Americkans are singing along to Bing Crosby and Wham! this December, I have been on a different musical mission. In previous Christmastide editions, the Advent Almanack has fixated on unusual seasonal music like the plygain or festive renditions of old carols and classic crooners. This season, I’ve been revisiting the body of work by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.

In our recent rediscovery of vinyl records and retro sounds from the 60s and 70s, have we overlooked Alpert and his enduring contributions to popular music? Perhaps you’ve written him off as a maker of quiz-show music, commercial pop-sugar or, worse, as a late-career adventurer into anodyne smooth jazz. Or maybe he is settled uneasily, like Bert Kaempfert, in the Easy Listening category.

Let us reconsider. And since we are in the final week of Advent, nearing the commencement of Hanukkah, perhaps we can start with a tune from Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass’ Christmas Album, which appeared for the 1968 holiday season:

Winter Wonderland – Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass

Winter Wonderland was a Depression Era tune written in a Scranton PA sanitarium by a chap battling tuberculosis, but it’s become possibly the most covered song of secular Christmas. In this rendition, Herb gives it the instantly recognizable TJB sound.

And what was that sound? The broad outlines of Herb Alpert’s career are fairly well-known; although he capitalized on his dark and handsome visage, along with a Mexican Mariachi-inspired book, to create the TJB, Alpert was in fact a musically inclined Jewish boy from Los Angeles. He played in the USC Marching Trojan Band and was inspired by the music he heard at a bull-fight. With the help of Solomon Lachoff ( aka Sol Lake ) and the percussionist Julius Wechter – one cannot investigate American music and not also investigate Jewish heritage – Herb created a band, sound and aura associated most closely with Mexico. How marvelous!

But another key to the Alpert 1960s catalog was the way he played the trumpet. Unorthodox to say the least. If you were trying to learn the instrument at that time, as I was, Herb Alpert was the guy your teacher told you NOT to emulate. I don’t know where he learned to play it that way, but it was an underpowered, kind of fuzzy sound, with a technique of short, staccato passages known technically as marcato. He sounded closer to Miles Davis in this respect than Harry James, Fred Moch or the Stan Kenton trumpet players that were more classically trained.

Mariachi music often features two trumpets played in close harmony, and the TJB mirrored that approach. However, Alpert’s unique way of playing was often impossible to duplicate, so on many TJB recordings he double tracked the trumpet parts himself, creating an even more distinctive sound. Sol Lake often played to this feature in wonderful minor key signatures, like “Bittersweet Samba” from 1965:

Bittersweet Samba

The record cover featuring Dolores Erickson covered ( mostly ) in whipped cream has become – let us not resort to iconic  – renowned and recognizable by millions. Dolores is 82 these days, Herb is 84. That album featured all songs about food, by the way.

Never to be overlooked in the creation of a “sound” is the role of the recording engineering. A good bit of the TJB work was made in the Gold Star Studio in Hollywood, also legendary in music heritage as the domicile for Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound and the gang of sensational first-call session musicians known as The Wrecking Crew. Herb Alpert was fond of Gold Star and credits the recording environment there, and the production of Larry Levine, for helping him create his distinctive Tijuana Brass sound.

Having listened to most of the TJB’s 13 records, it’s easy to see their progression but difficult to pick out one song that totally exemplifies the group. One of my favorites, though, is the theme song from a 1967 spy spoof movie called Casino Royale. Yes, Bond fans ( of which I am one ) will recognize this also as the title of Daniel Craig’s first incarnation of 007 from 2006. So hard to keep the legacy straight.

Casino Royale – TJB Style

This one has it all: the unmistakable TJB sound, applied to a nice mid-60s Burt Bacharach tune, the Alpert double-tracking, a fantastic power pop arrangement, and even a cool distortion-fuzzed Fender ending.

Herb founded a successful record company (A&M, which lived for some 35 years), created some distinctive spin-offs – who remembers Wechter’s Baja Marimba Band or Sergio Mendes and Brasil 66 ? – and gradually aimed his performing career at jazz music.

I think he deserves a second, third and fourth hearing.

The shorthand phrase “people who look like me” is enjoying life at the azimuth of popularity. I wish it all the best, as social approbation today must be a splendid rush. Imitation – casual repetition is perhaps more accurate in this case – is the sincerest praise. However, the Almanack rises, in the cold snow of mid-December, not to praise the term, but to hasten its demise.

Are you surprised? Has Poor David lost his eggnog? No, no, I assure you, I am not about to take aim at cherished idols. My target is far more majestic: offering a more elevating and welcoming path for everyone. And I am aware of the precarious position this piece may land me, if one views it through the lens of popular social theories. However, these stratagems mostly lose me, so I claim invincible ignorance on any accusations originating in theories.

So let us begin, as engineers are taught to do, at the beginning.

“I meant what I said and I said what I meant.”  — Horton the Elephant

Yes, Horton met the terms of his contract and was faithful, one hundred percent. The phrase “people who look like me” describes an impossibility. Technically, no two people look exactly alike. The Brazilian photographer Angelica Dass created her fascinating Humanae project several years ago, in response to questions in her mind about skin color connotations. Listen to her compelling TED talk here.

Dass’ Humanae exhibits are engaging reminders of the glorious diversity of the human face. I believe Ms. Dass has compiled more than 4000 different skin colors. I have yet to be photographed for Humanae, but I make myself a Pantone 7401C. Not bad for a descendant of Northwestern Europe escapees with some possibly less-than-Senator-Warren Plains Indian intermingling. How about you?

Closer to my professional home, human faces are now being subject to recognition by computer algorithms. In my business, “facial recognition” is careening about in our trade press and making its way into airports as a means of identifying that a person is who they claim to be. There is an entire mesmerizing science of machine-based face recognition, but the essence of it is to define a series of measurements that uniquely define a face. The algorithms we use measure color, shape, distance and contour in three dimensions to define a face.

The face becometh data. And the data sayeth that my face is totally, dispassionately and identifiably unique. Nobody looks just like me.

You may be thinking that I’ve missed the social point of this entirely. Bear with me. If we can establish that nobody looks entirely and exactly alike, we are left with two basic ways of proceeding. One is to identify broad and often subjective categories of persons and decide – by means unclear – who belongs where. This is the path of discriminating and it leads, inexorably, to ever finer gradations of separation. Perhaps you are a Pantone 7401A, rather than a 7401C like me.

The second path is to embrace our infinite differences as a natural fact and a source of joy, and to focus more on what people are and less on what they look like. Longing for people who look like me is a euphemistic way of promoting greater inclusion of types of people who are now or have been unjustly inhibited from participation in certain groups. A necessary, worthy and admirable project, the pursuit of which has led us to regular calls for proportional representation. I maintain that Path 2 – the path of what we are – is more likely to attain the goal and produce more happiness.

Nature is non-discriminating. Birth and death, joy and sorrow, achievement and setback, fame and folly all visit us in varying degrees and at varying times, with no discernment about our appearances or preferences. Is it not sensible to approach our relationships with one another with this commonality in mind?

Individuality, and the desire to have our individuality appreciated, is as old as the hills. Nobody would be satisfied with a group where everyone looked the same, so where is the governing principle? Some people? More people? Not too many people? Only 15% of people? You get the picture. My solution is far simpler and more in keeping with our basic humanity.

Name the category and I can probably provide many examples of excellent people I know and have worked with who might drop nicely into that bucket. I’m quite sure you can too. We might fit into categories, but it demonstrates little of value. In fact, the categorization may unintentionally pessundate our ability and willingness to see one another as a rich kaleidoscope of Pantone colors, experiences, attitudes and perspectives. That’s real diversity.

It is entirely possible – even probable – that I have set forth on this matter before. As a Gentlemen of a Certain Age, I retain the privilege of forgetting what I’ve had to say before and, owing to its urgency in my mind, repeat it. The Almanack also takes some salubrious pride in returning, like the biblical dog to its vomit, to a few recurrent follies.

One such folly is the “terms of our contract,” a notion extracted from Almanack favorite Saul Bellow. In Bellow’s book Mr. Sammler’s Planet, keen social observer, Polish intellectual and “registrar of madness” Artur Sammler ponders the craziness of 1960s New York City. The novel ends with a beautiful prayer, which Sammler delivers silently to his deceased nephew Dr. Elya Gruner, but addresses to God:

“Remember, God, the soul of Elya Gruner, who, as willingly as possible and as well as he was able, and even in suffocation and even as death was coming was eager, even childishly perhaps . . . to do what was required of him. At his best this man was much kinder than at my very best I have ever been or could ever be. He was aware that he must meet, and he did meet—through all the confusion and degraded clowning of this life through which we are speeding—he did meet the terms of his contract. The terms which, in his inmost heart, every man knows. As I know mine. As all know. For that is the truth of it—that we all know, God, that we know, we know, we know.”

It is a stunning passage to which I return often. The idea of meeting the terms of an inner contract returns with such regularity, in my life and in that of others, that one must pay attention. The terms of one’s contract, the one understood instinctively and without coaching or external reference, that we already know. It is as good a guide as I’ve found to acting with purpose in every facet of life. It works in sickness and in health, in peaks and valleys, in private and public life, at work and at home. If I think of my too-infrequent best moments, those flashes I sometimes feels of deep satisfaction, they always correlate to my contract.

A strange way to think of personal conduct, isn’t it? A contract seems like a business and legal term, until you meet Mr. Sammler. My friend Andrea Howe spends a great deal of time writing and talking about this subject in the business context; she calls it trust. I think of Andrea as the Duchess of Trust and her acute observations of what it takes to cultivate trusting relationships track quite nicely with Sammler’s dictum to do what is required. A severely abbreviated sampler:

“Business is personal.”

“Be quiet and listen if you want to be heard.”

“Getting real. Honestly, it’s not for everyone.”

Indeed. Doing what we know is required of us and what is consistent with our own star and compass, is personal, quiet and often difficult.

If you look closely at a human face, you can often detect the most exquisite sadness of those who have experienced tragedy and grief, and met them with humanity in excelsis. Sometimes this appears in the young, more often in the aged. In such faces, the meaning of Sammler’s contract become more visible, more beautiful. This is why, if you ask me, you sometimes hear people speak of their attraction to photographs of older people.

Like the fictional Artur Sammler, the non-fictional Viktor Frankl survived the Holocaust, where virtually every human attachment was removed from prisoners. Frankl, an Austrian psychiatrist, developed a premise that the only thing that could not be taken from a person is their meaning. In my interpretation, the terms of their contracts kept some Jews alive in even the most dehumanized circumstances.

Frankl famously quipped that the Statue of Liberty should be accompanied by a Statue of Responsibility on the west coast.

Saul Bellow’s 1970 had its share of degraded clowning, as the counterculture began its steady slouch toward cultural sloppiness. 50 years hence, may we be forgiven for having made some matters worse, with a thousand daily opportunities for disgraceful behavior. All the more important, then, that we understand our responsibilities, the meaning of our existence and the terms of our contracts.

The ones we know.

24 October 2019

Today we take a brief detour from the main road – The Blacktop, as it is known in parts of Eisenhower’s Kansas –  and bumble off into the tall grass.

One leadership quality that I think is often overlooked and vitally important to any endeavor is prudence. Without it any undertaking, no matter how exciting, visionary, difficult, unrewarding or some combination of those, is more than likely to run asunder and not stand the test of time. Some of the most admirable people, projects and institutions share a common ingredient: a generous helping of prudent leadership. Often not as easily visible and sometimes even uncomfortable or awkward in its manifestation, there is always some prudent voice that instills confidence in great teams. Prudence: what a dull and uninteresting word to describe something so essential!

Or is it? Does the word prudence call to mind Chaucer’s Parson?

He was a shepherde and noght a mercenarie.

And thogh he hooly were and vertuous,

He was to synful men nat despitous,

Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne,

But in his techyng discreet and benynge. 

Or is prudence crusty Henry Potter taking over the soft-hearted and unprofitable Bailey Building and Loan? Is Prudence your great grandmother in a high starched collar and plain dress?

No fun at parties these prudent guys.

Our modern era has incorrectly reformulated prudence as cautious or prudish ( an unrelated word to which we return in due course ). Upon further review, as we say in the NFL, prudence has a long and lovely history stretching back thousands of years and her origins are far from boring.

Aristotle used the word phronesis to describe “practical wisdom,” and summed it up in a bit of charming folk wisdom worthy of any Almanack:

“A man is aware that light meats are easily digested and beneficial to health but does not know what meats are light. Such a man is not so likely to make you well as one who knows that chicken is good for you.”

 Yes, enough with the theoretical; chicken good. Phronesis gradually was rendered in Latin as prudentia and no less a worthy than Thomas Aquinas regarded prudence as the first and most important of the virtues, since it guides us on how to act in concrete circumstances and acts as a governor on our self-will. Not flashy perhaps, but it’s hard to think of a more foundational quality than prudence, whether the enterprise is a scout troop, county government or Google.

By the Middle Ages, Prudence  – one of the four Cardinal Virtues – came to be personified as a gentle and attractive woman holding a mirror in one hand and a snake in the other. The mirror suggests self-awareness, perspective or wisdom and the serpent a threatening or difficult situation. Holding them both at the same time? Something quite fascinating: having the capacity to arrive at the best course of action, under any condition, that results in the greatest good. The art of acting well in particular situations.

Until my own recent enlightenment, I would have guessed that the words prudence and prude are relatives. They are not. Such is the misuse and misunderstanding of modern prudence. Prude derives from an entirely different root; prode femme would have been a good woman in old France where it originated. Today, that interpretation is a bit…..dated.

If asked to associate prudence in a well-known person, I give the nod to Dwight Eisenhower, whose stock has been steadily rising since his charismatic successor led us into the age of sound bites and photo ops. Ike was a commanding general, yet his political leadership was marked by a quiet confidence and practicality in domestic and foreign matters. No theoretician with Utopian schemes or slick talking sales-man, Eisenhower was roundly criticized for his bumbling, inarticulate style and mocked by his detractors as an ineffectual bumpkin.

Dwight Eisenhower ended the Korean War, preserved peace and prosperity at home, patiently diminished the Red Scare and refused to enact profligate policies that betrayed his bedrock principles and experience. He defeated the theorizing egghead Adlai Stevenson twice. He was a man you could and did respect for his steady hand and wisdom.

One of the more famous campaign slogans, from 1952:

Revisiting Eisenhower, The Atlantic ran this interesting article a few years ago

The Brilliant Prudence of Dwight Eisenhower

Ike, channeling his inner Aristotle and his windy Kansas origins, notes with approval the Robert Frost line, “The strong are saying nothing until they see.”

So we come to see prudence not as high-minded parson, narrow-minded banker or disapproving scold, but as the minder of the serpent and one skilled at steadfast action guided by experience and foresight.

Is this not the kind of leadership most prized in enduring organizations? The sort of person you want on your team? I think sometimes we get so enamored of the latest cool ideas and transitory fads that we forget fundamental things.

18 September 2019

Today, the Almanack staff is on an oceanic trajectory from Orlando to Los Angeles, vectoring away from Tropical Depression Imelda that is swirling around in the Gulf of Mexico. A five-hour ride in the stratosphere permits some reflection not as readily attainable in the terrestrial world.

If you have the great good fortune of practicing in the airport business, you are becoming very aware of, familiar with and possibly – depending on your frame of mind – sick of the word innovation. We use it for everything from smart toilets ( despite its advantages, there remains something uncomfortably personal about this ) to exotic security equipment that is the envy of any brain surgeon. Entire airport symposia are devoted to innovation; committees and task forces are launched around the world; airport executives thirst for ways to innovate; and consultants, catching the scent of the gold rush, scurry to slake that thirst.

And yet, a highly respected colleague, a person of great education and experience who is steeped in advanced technology, asked me: what is the purpose of all this innovation ? Does it really have value ?

Which immediately calls forth the most precious jewel among airport innovation enthusiasts: the use case. If you are not familiar with the term use case, you are living in splendiferous, blissful ignorance and are in danger of having your innovation privileges revoked. The use case is the means by which we demonstrate to ourselves that an innovative technology is beneficial to the operation to which it is applied.

A very topical example: facial recognition software used to validate a passenger’s identity and allow them to board an international flight without a boarding document or passport. How that works technically is not as vital to the airport and airline as whether it is beneficial, and in this case, it is. It speeds boarding, reduces labor and pleases most passengers, all largely quantifiable goods. Facial recognition systems for international exit has a good use case.

Other schemes’ use cases are less clear. Here one might expect a catalog, or at least an example or two, of ill-advised adventures that have no benefit to anyone. Perhaps there are those examples, but my thesis in this post is that sometimes the use case for innovative ideas takes a bit of time and imagination.

One of my favorite tales of innovation takes us back to 1831 and the prolific, self-taught English scientist Michael Faraday.

The story goes that Faraday was demonstrating his discovery of electromagnetic induction and alternating current during a lecture, when a listener rose to ask:

“That’s very interesting Mr. Faraday, but of what use is it ?”

To which Faraday adroitly replied in the English way:

“My dear sir, of what use is a newborn baby ?”

Well. I suppose we may all agree that there are such things as answers for which the questions have not yet been discovered. Faraday’s discoveries and subsequent developments in electrical engineering produced use cases – and equipment – on which modern life now depends.

And this in turn is how we might think usefully about innovation in aviation. Some of the smartest airport people I know are ardent advocates of trying new ideas and technologies, even when the use case is not entirely clear. They experiment in trials and pilots; they build innovation labs; they collaborate with universities and government research agencies; they learn from others and share what they know.

Here are just a few examples of innovations that are on the horizon whose use cases are still indistinct:

• Gesture Recognition
• Common Use Self Service Bag Drop
• Light Detection and Ranging ( LIDAR )
• Facilitation of Travel for Impaired Passengers
• Smart Parking Systems

At the Almanack, we think the answer to my colleague’s question is that we don’t always know. Some innovations are like newborn babies, beautiful potential that under the right conditions and with the right nurturing, could be something we never even imagined.

Imagination is at the Wright Brothers’ experiments in aviation in the first place. It was the seminal feature. Let us continue to look for the practical benefits of the use case, but not lose sight of a potential benefit that may only become apparent in an unpredictable future.

July 28, 2019

Yesterday was smoked brisket day. Many cooking adventures are therapeutic for me, but a day spent slow smoking tough meat cuts is an exciting day that merits eager anticipation. I’m not sure when this fascination started – several years ago anyway – and like most fixations, it grew gradually. One Christmas Eve I smoked a pork butt overnight and waited for Santa Claus; it was heavenly.

I started on a cast aluminum charcoal grill, which was challenging to maintain the proper temperature ( 225-250F if you’re interested ) and involved more guesswork than I would have liked. Although that guessing game gave me a decent instinct for the craft. Subsequently, I experimented with our gas grill, which permits good temperature control, and used improvised smoking equipment fashioned out of aluminum roasting pans. Better, but Andrea was dismayed with the detritus of this operation.

Recently, my brother couriered over a Green Egg from Kansas City, which my dad had rarely used. This ceramic miracle is the real deal. Hardwood charcoal, covered with unsoaked chunks of pecan, apple, hickory or mesquite, generates a beautiful low temperature smoke. It’s quite nice for brisket, chicken, pork and fish.

One of the fun bits of smoking days is getting up early. Augustus McCrae, one of the finest literary creations of Larry McMurtry, understood this from his biscuit-making in Lonesome Dove, Texas:

“The heart of his breakfast was a plenitude of sourdough biscuits, which he cooked in a Dutch oven out in the backyard. His pot dough had been perking along happily for over ten years, and the first thing he did upon rising was check it out. The rest of the breakfast was secondary, just a matter of whacking off a few slabs of bacon and frying a panful of pullet eggs. Bolivar could generally be trusted to deal with the coffee.

Augustus cooked his biscuits outside for three reasons. One was because the house was sure to heat up well enough anyway during the day, so there was no point in building any more of a fire than was necessary for bacon and eggs. Two was because biscuits cooked in a Dutch oven tasted better than stove-cooked biscuits, and three was because he liked to be outside to catch the first light. A man that depended on an indoor cookstove would miss the sunrise, and if he missed sunrise in Lonesome Dove, he would have to wait out a long stretch of heat and dust before he got to see anything so pretty.”

 Perhaps the sunrise in Kirkwood Missouri is not so romantic. But a fragrant. smoky Green Egg and a cup of extra black coffee as the sun comes up on a summer middle western morning is a splendiferous spiritual exercise.

By 2 pm, the outdoor temperature was up past 90 degrees. The singing insects were buzzing in the trees and the brisket had attained the beautiful ebony crust known to enthusiasts as “bark.” An hour to settle and fill our house with wood-smoked aromatics and we were in the chow business !

If you stay in hotels as much as I do, you see and hear people do all kinds of things. Your temporary domicile is a well-appointed human storage facility, with us, the stored units, living within several feet of one another in any direction.

The most common disturbances to be heard are late-night revelers and couples arguing. Both are largely alcohol fueled, in my experience, although not always. Sometimes there are the natural happy giggles of young sports teams. But it’s a safe bet that when you hear elevated noise-making in the wee small hours, products of fermentation and/or distillation are involved. One poor fellow argued violently with his hotel cohabitant for perhaps an hour and eventually stormed away, only to return some time later with renewed vigor for the dispute. Possibly he had rediscovered the physiological properties of ethanol.

Distressing.

Sometimes in the summer, one encounters a different kind of hotel resident: the dog. Dogs come along for family summer vacations and in many storage units, are permitted to accompany their families indoors. Dogs enliven the hotel experience a good deal.

Recently, one canine resident took up the role of night sentry and began sounding the alarm with one of his best tools: Barking.

Many people are averse and even hostile to dog barking. It is not unheard of for neighbors to hurl things, phone the police and even shoot at dogs disturbing the peace. But I like dog barking, under almost all conditions. I like it far better than rap or hip-hop “music.”

The hotel guests were sensitive to their neighbors and could be heard shushing the animal. I however, slept as peacefully and happily as if a gentle rain could be heard tapping on the roof.

July 13, 2019             Saint Louis Missouri

Occasionally, I am obliged to point out that I am not Catholic. The usual reason for this is that I’m on about some obscure aspect of Catholic theology that has captured my attention. My friend and colleague Marci Greenberger observes – accurately – that I pick and choose aspects of religious belief that appeal to me, discarding the rest. Well, yes.

I think of it as the Magpie Mind, which is equally unflattering.

In any case, Catholicism has three phrases that are so interesting that they deserve a prominent place in my nest. My attraction to them is only loosely related to their meaning in the catechism.

1. Way of Proceeding – a Jesuit term, I believe, but one that has far richer euphony than, say, an “action plan.” A way of proceeding is to an action plan as a gentle bluebonnet is to a common pigweed.
2. Disordered Affections – again, I think we owe this to the friends of Saint Ignatius Loyola, although I would not be certain of that without goggling. Ignatius wrote his famous “Spiritual Exercises” in 16^th century Spain, under the original title

Spiritual Exercises to Overcome Oneself, and to Order One’s Life, Without Reaching a Decision Through Some Disordered Affection.

I love the term “disordered affection.” It suggests erroneous thinking, an indispensable insight in today’s kultursmog.

3. Invincible Ignorance – this has a very specific meaning in Catholic teaching having to do with the inability to remove ignorance due to having not heard evidence or knowledge. It’s better than vincible ignorance. But the phrase invincible ignorance, when appropriated for lay usage, is quite delightful. I myself am regularly accused of invincible ignorance.

 So ends this warm summer day, as the locusts begin their evening vespers in our large trees. It’s wonderful to be home.

July 10, 2019

Houston Texas in the hot July sun and business landed me at two Italian restaurants in one day, where I enjoyed 1.1 meals.

Damian’s is an old school Italian restaurant in Midtown that is perfectly felicificative for an old school fellow like me. It’s darkish, quiet, the waiters are well-mannered older gentlemen wearing white jackets and black ties, and the music is Sinatra and Bennett.

I had spaghetti and meat-balls to mark the experience.

The second stop was Little Napoli in downtown Houston near the theater district and the Buffalo Bayou River. Since spaghetti and meat-balls were just digesting, I was limited to a prandicle of cappuccino, and enjoyed more excellent music from Bobby Darin and Louis Prima, among others.

Italian restaurants playing Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett ( Anthony Benedetto ), Bobby Darin ( Walden Cassotto ), Dean Martin ( Dino Crocetti ) and Louis Prima has become a bit of a trope now, I suppose. But I’m in favor of it; singers of Italian descent gave us some of the finest and most memorable interpretations of the American Songbook ever.

From the PBS show “Italian American Crooners:”

“But whether you were a titan like Sinatra, or a lesser idol like, say, Al Martino, all Italian-American crooners owe a great deal of debt to Russ Columbo. Columbo was the first Italian-American crooner. Equipped with the good looks of Rudolph Valentino and the romantic lyricism of Rudy Vallee, Columbo had a minor rivalry with Bing Crosby in the early 1930s, both as a singer and actor. He died young, however, at age 26 in an accidental shooting death, shortening an otherwise promising career. His legacy was substantial, especially among the next generation of Italian-American singers. The song “Prisoner of Love,” penned expressly for Columbo by lyricist Leo Robin, became his signature tune. It remained a standard well into the 1960s, and was even recorded by fellow Italian Americans Perry Como and Frank Sinatra.

The next generation of Italian-American crooners after Columbo included Perry Como and Frank Sinatra, and both singers transcended their Italian heritage to become genuine American superstars. Como’s real fame didn’t come until the 1950s—he spent most of the 1940s in the shadow of Sinatra, despite being older. But Mr. C, as he was often called especially in his television days in the late 1950s and 1960s, started out as a big-band singer in Ted Weems orchestra. That was until 1942, when he broke out on his own, signed with RCA Victor, and joined in on the “crooner craze” that Sinatra already started the previous year when he left Tommy Dorsey’s band. Como was even named “Crooner of the Year” in 1943.

As far as Italian-American entertainers go, you cannot ignore Louis Prima—although the word “crooner” never really applied to Prima. ”Shouter” seems more appropriate. A trumpeter and bandleader from New Orleans, not unlike another famous Louis, Prima drew upon his Italian heritage quite often in his music—sometimes edging on parody with fake Neapolitana, or talk of Italian food. But Prima was as fine of a musician as they come, and his music and energy could excite like no one else in American Popular Song.”

We should thank every red-checked tablecloth restaurant in the US for keeping alive these Italian guys singing songs by Jewish guys.

All of this in one fine day in Houston. Houston gets a bad rap, even from Texans. Maybe especially from Texans, for its humidity, raucous oil-patch swagger, hurricanes and total lack of zoning. But if you give Houston a chance, it can surprise you in very nice ways.