MEL TORME had come to town, swinging for a week at the Beverly Hills Hotel (Rexdale, Toronto) "Hook And Ladder" Club Room.  I had never seen "the Velvet Fog", so used my media invite on opening night to catch MEL with an 18-piece band (orchestra, really).  CKFM's Phil McKellar (a friend of TORME's) saw me, and we sat together.  I was dumb-founded watching/listening to this "singer's singer" roll through an 18-minute medley of Gershwin tunes with no sheet music, while the orchestra raced to catch up while flipping pages.  It was breathtaking.  As was his "A Nightingale Sang In Berkley Square" as you almost saw the leaves slowly lingering as they floated to London's ground.
    When the unforgettable show finished, McKellar turned to me and asked: "If you have the time and can wait for MEL to head back to his room and catch his breath, we can join him for a drink".  I didn't have to be asked twice.  From about 11:30 to 3:15 am, we sat on chairs or the floor, talking about everything: politics, gun control, capital punishment... then it turned to TORME's work. 
    He expressed his feelings about always being an "outsider;" a white jazz singer of standards who never made the pop charts, not much play on contemporary radio stations, never had even one hit.  Yet he described a week's gig at a "swish" upscale club in San Francisco.  He remembered after one evening's performance, the Maitre d' told him that they almost didn't let an old man into the room who was wearing an worn trench coat, sporting a shaggy growth on his face, so they just kept a watchful eye and he made no disturbance.
    A few weeks later MEL was doing a show in England, and had just returned to his hotel room late one night and the phone rang.  The voice of an older man sounded vaguely familiar, and the man teasingly chastised TORME by saying how difficult it was for (the caller) to locate him.  He continued by saying he had not dressed properly for MEL's San Francisco engagement, not knowing how fancy the venue was, and had barely been allowed in.  He said he wanted to tell the singer how he loved that night, and for years wanted to tell him he believed he was absolute top tier of any English language vocalist, of ANY genre.  TORME thanked him, and asked for his name.  The reply: "Bing Crosby".  MEL told us he could have been knocked over by a feather; that it was one of his most treasured moments of his entire life..... he did not know how to thank Mr. Crosby.  He told us that it was the moment he realized he wasn't really an outsider or a "wannabe;" he was actually loved by his toughest critics: his peers.
    I had hit a "wall" and felt it was time to leave.  Yet I had also just been given a gift: that story.  MEL was looking tired, his heavy eyes drooping a wee bit.  So as I thanked the singer and Phil for the wonderful evening, I turned to TORME as I stood and reached for the door.  I said: "You mentioned earlier about never having had a hit.  You know, there are one-hit wonders who are now tending bar in Hoboken, selling carpet or used cars in Los Angeles.  You wrote many songs, one of them a diamond that is played, recorded and loved yearly.  It's 'The Christmas Song' (first recorded by Nat King Cole).  If you never wrote another tune, sang another song, you have given the world a gift that is everlasting and will outlive anything else".
    Mr. TORME looked up at me, said he was too close to that seasonal chestnut to have thought of its impact or realized it's importance.  His tired eyes looked moist as he thanked me for that perspective, and said "Good night".
    So next time you hear "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire........" enjoy Cole's or one of hundreds other interpretations of that gem, but think about the modest man who felt second-rate, yet gave that gift directly to you.  One of many you and I have, that we unwrap every December!

The first year I was privileged to work at (then) Canada's premiere radio station CFRB, I was asked to substitute host the hour-long Betty Kennedy interview program.  Along with potential guests suggested by her researcher-producer, I wanted to include several of the big name broadcasters long affiliated with the station.  One was the longevity and ratings leader, legendary morning show announcer Wally Crouter.  The other was beloved news commentator and reader Jack Dennett.
My theory was that the audience would be intrigued to hear directly from the human being behind the voices they knew and relied upon, like family.  Part of Dennett's duties included delivering the top-rated 8 am news, which was always sold-out with national sponsors such as Ford, who would have to wait years for an opening to occur just to get into the commercial rotation.

When Jack rolled into the studio (just a year before he was to leave us at age 59), he told some wonderful stories about his life, work and a few interesting inside radio station stories.  Dennett was so highly thought of, it would take him an hour to cross the floor of a convention centre fund-raiser event, as everyone who saw him wanted to say "hello" and happily shake his hand.  

Jack had the prime-time morning news shift, which meant that he was on air with major newscasts in and around number-one rated Crouter.  Yet his modesty came through, as he mentioned that Wally's huge audience, not his own talents, was responsible for the station's highest ratings, even greater than those of New York.  No wonder that listeners loved the warm-voiced, thoughtfully intelligent delivery that came through each morning as people began their daily toils.  He was the real deal, modest to the core and totally unaffected by his public stature.

My favourite as Jack told it, was one about Sinclair.  Long before the famous station was to move "uptown" to Yonge and St. Clair (which "Sinc" bellyached about because he thought the marble hallways and state-of-the-art studios were too "upscale" for his taste), it was located more in the commercial heart of town in the old Creed's building on Bloor Street, where the cement towers of the Manulife Centre now stand.  It was a frequent habit of Dennett and Sinclair to dine together at a luncheonette further along the busy Toronto east-west thoroughfare.

As Mr. Dennett told us, it was one of the coldest days of the year as he and publicly-proclaimed millionaire newsman Gordon Sinclair (who liked to challenge the audience by saying: "If I can do it, so can you!") headed out in their warmest winter finery.  On their way along the high-rent district, they passed a beggar on the sidewalk, with his hand out for a contribution.  Sinclair muttered his complaint to Dennett, suggesting that the man's fate would be different if he would simply get a job.

Upon reaching the simple restaurant, Gordon told Jack to order his usual; he had remembered to get something left behind at the radio station.  A few minutes later when Sinclair returned, his companion noticed he was without his expensive Harris Tweed overcoat, and mentioned it to Sinc.  Gordon growled, remarked that he must have left it back at his office, and would not talk about it further.  

Later, as the two left the luncheonette on their way back to CFRB, Sinclair quietly said: "I also must have lost my favourite pair of gloves!" as he jammed his hands into his suit pockets.  When Jack said what a wonderful thing Gordon had done, Sinclair just said "We will not speak of this, again!"