Life Sketches by Terry Berkson

Private Seller’s Vocal Debut

As my dad’s taxi headed for the Brooklyn Army Terminal, where I was to board a ship bound for Germany, he confided that he had slipped Walter Rolfe’s Century “Manual of Harmony” into my duffle bag.

“You’re bound to have some off-duty time,” my father said. “If you can find a piano, this book will teach you a lot of stuff that will come in handy.”

It was a small, pocket-sized book of about 50 pages that covered major and minor scales, the theory of triads, dominant seventh chords, and much more. My dad often said that in learning music, if you don’t go forward you go backward.

I arrived in Ludwigsburg shortly before Christmas and, after recovering from an extended bout with seasickness, settled into a military medic’s routine. There was a USO recreation building on Coffee Kaserne. That was the name of the base, but I soon learned that the German nationals called the place Gangster Barracks. Sure enough, there was a piano room in the “off duty” building and I managed to get several practices in before one evening I arrived to find another soldier was occupying the room—and the piano. His name was John Sellers. He was black, soft spoken and from the south. I later learned that he was a Seventh Day Adventist. He had a nice baritone voice and was using the piano to help him go through his vocal exercises. From that time on, we good naturedly competed in getting to the piano. It wasn’t long before we became friends and worked out a harmonious routine for practice. We even went downtown one night to view a screening of “My Fair Lady.”

The Enlisted Men’s Club was another facility I frequented on the base. It was a rough place that probably averaged a fight a night. You wouldn’t want to drink your beer directly out of the bottle for fear someone would give it a shove and knock your teeth out. Being a bouncer at that place was a pretty difficult job. Some of the fights were over German national girls that sometimes frequented the place, but drinking and lonely soldiers being away from home provided countless reasons for fighting. One time this American Indian, Wahoo, whose real name was David Zuniga, got into a fight with the Lewis brothers, who were twins. Wahoo was a boxer and was doing pretty well until one of the brothers bit a piece of the Indian’s ear off. When I saw him later at the barracks, his head was bound in bandages that made him look like Vincent Van Gogh.

A soldier by the name of Kelly, who was fresh from Vietnam, rotated to my unit in Ludwigsburg. At six foot six and weighing more than 250 pounds, he may have been the biggest man in the army. When he entered the club one night, Werner Randecher, the leader of the live German band playing on the stage, stopped everything to ask Kelly, “Boy, vat dey feed you?”

Kelly responded with a robust sounding, “BOY?”

Shortly after that he was hired as a bouncer for the club—but he only lasted a few days before he was cut down to size and quit.

Most nights I would go downtown to a guesthouse called the Pfisterer, where I had made some German friends. Unlike the club, the place was quiet and well lit. Usually there was a card game or a fussball game going on and some “ump pa pa” music coming out of the juke box. A matronly Frau Heinrich owned and ran the place. She had two pretty daughters—Evelyn, a “zoftig” brunette, and Claudia, a trim blond. Both waited on tables. I had a crush on Evelyn, who would sometimes sit at my table and teach me German. Most times I was the only American there.

One snowy night I didn’t go downtown and instead took a short walk to the club. I was surprised to find Sellers standing by a window near the entrance.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Listening to the music,” Sellers replied. “It’s a good band.”

“Yeah, they get plenty of practice—why don’t you come inside?

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not my kind of place.”

“Just stand inside the door so you can hear better,” I said, while pulling on his arm.

“Okay, but just for a little while.”

The band was in the middle of playing a tune called “Ebb Tide” and at the right moment Randecher lifted a glass of beer off the piano, took a gulp and started gargling into the microphone. He was pretty much ignored by the noisy crowd of GIs in the place.

“They could use a good singer,” I said.

“Not my style,” Sellers observed.

“They can play anything. You want to sing with them?”

“Not really.”

“Then why were you standing outside?”

“I was just listening.”

“Wait here,” I said, while heading for the band on the stage. When I told Randecher that I had somebody who wanted to sing, he didn’t look impressed but said, “Zend him ofer.”

I motioned for Sellers to come forward, but he waved me off, so I went and got him to walk up to the stage. Then I stood back as the bandleader began to talk to my friend. A few minutes later a casual announcement was made as the music started and this terrific voice began to belt out “Summer Time” like I never heard it sung before. The place gradually grew quiet as Randecher looked at Sellers in disbelief. I had never heard Sellers singing a song—only his exercises. Now, all I could hear was my friend’s voice in front of the band. Soon the song ended to enthusiastic applause as Sellers, looking humble, thanked the band and squeezed my arm as he made his way toward the door. In spite of his great performance, he never sang at the Enlisted Men’s Club again.

Years later and long gone from the Army, I saw a small notice in “New York” magazine featuring Brother Sellers in concert at a hall in Manhattan. I had no idea if this Sellers was the soldier I had known back in Germany. Unfortunately, at that time, I was too caught up with work and a young family to make more than a feeble attempt to track down an old friend. I still have the music manual given to me by my father but unfortunately, without the incentive of competing with Sellers for the piano, I haven’t mastered all that the book had to offer.

Terry Berkson’s articles have appeared in “New York” magazine, “Automobile” magazine and many others. Reviews on his critically-praised memoir, “Corvette Odyssey,” can be found on TerryBerkson.com.