THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, December 7, 1994 TAG: 9412070426
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: GUY FRIDDELL
LENGTH: Medium: 64 lines
On WHRO-FM, someone was asking to hear from those who recall the old Virginia Beach Dome. Astounding that it had come to be regarded as a relic!
Until the city began to destroy that geodesic half-moon in September, I had thought of it as new. After all, it hove on the horizon in 1958. Ye gods, I've got a suit that old! Wouldn't think of giving it up.
Wouldn't think of giving up having heard two performers - one hot, one cool - in the Dome.
When hot Louis Armstrong blew his horn, he seemed to be a genie ballooning from his shoes.
On four encores of ``Hello, Dolly,'' shoulders flapping, wings of a wounded bird, great mouth shouting every fourth word between fast mops of his handkerchief, eyes bulging in mock dismay, his face shook on the long-drawn last note as if about to fall apart.
In the shadows between songs, his mug went impassive as an old coconut, eyes dumb dark spots, mouth a sad, wide fold; but then the spotlight fell on him, the face split and spilled again in a great white grin as he shuffled forward and raised the rich orange horn to the beat-up bird beak of a lip.
Backstage, Gin asked for an autograph. As I fumbled my notebook, she offered her ivory-white linen purse. He, glancing at her, signed his name across its face, drawing back his hand with a flourish. I saw it last night, amid sweaters.
Pianist Duke Ellington strolled on stage, cool before teenagers found the word, not bored, blase cool, but the cool that is aware, the quiet aliveness of a man of 67, weighing, savoring every note.
The cool of a man who could brush the keys with a touch light as dust, and direct his big, driving band with a raised eyebrow, a lift of the chin, a soft finger snap (``Don't push it, let it fall''), a glance.
Once, he stood aside, slouched, arms hanging loose, and led the band with slight movements of the body, a boy riding a bike with no hands.
He knew it so well and the band was so responsive, he refined directing to quick abstractions, fingering essentials. His talk, too, was light satire, mainly at himself.
He had been all elegance since he was 15, a soda jerk in Washington, D.C., nicknamed ``Duke'' because he was so ``prideful'' of his stiff, starched uniform. After hours, he sat in for the pianist.
Playing ``Mood Indigo,'' he led with occasional brisk, slashing, horizontal strokes, white cuffs flashing, an old master, sure of himself, brushing in design and figure. The band before him was both palette and canvas. Color ran riot in music.
So told, he leaned forward. ``My first recognized talent was painting. In high school I won a scholarship to the Pratt Institute. I was very good. I confess it! I admit it!''
There's money in music, ``but I have fun, and that's the main thing. If I write something tonight I have to hear it tomorrow, and so I keep a band so I can play it.''
Kublai Khan never had a finer pleasure dome than did we. ILLUSTRATION: File photo
Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington are among the performers who
graced Virginia Beach's Dome, demolished this year.
by CNB