Andy Dipitula -- [May 1]

Fore words: This is the first in attempt to deposit daily scribblings—at least for this month—in this space. I certify that each story is true, as best as this tattered brain can remember. Names are rarely changed. Some of the pieces might even entertain. Per usual, brickbats and treacle welcome.

I was hoping for a quick game—and got one. Two Senior League baseball teams, one visiting from a tiny upstate hamlet of which I had never heard. Senior League is what it implies: Little League for big kids. I was umpiring the bases on the “big boy” field: 90-foot bases, etc.

Per usual, I didn't care who won. Even here, in the state tourney, my job was safe/out, fair/foul. Maybe ringing up an unchecked swing. Unlike Little League, few spectators showed. Clots of sturdy adults, folded into flimsy chairs, looked on indifferently. Seems that when little Shannon starts with the Shick, he's not worth the effort.

Good, I thought. No screaming, espadrille-clad moms spieling their Saab stories at us arbiters. And so it went.

As was my gig, when the sacks were empty, my station was Slot A, in foul territory past first. When the visitors took the field, I strolled away from first, lest I get conked by an errant warmup toss by Mason, Logan, whomever.

I used to wonder, when did parents begin using surnames as given names?

But this bottom of one was different. From the first pitch on, I began to hear a buzzing, almost apian sound from my right. Between pitches, I reconnoitered for insects—truly an umpire's enemy. The coast was clear.

Finally, a batter reached first. This caused me to pivot into the infield grass, between the second sacker and his base: Slot B. The sound intensified, this time from my left-rear. The pitcher made a couple of paltry pickoff attempts, requiring me to turn and take notice.

As I spun, the buzzing became words.

“ANDAAAY! ANDAAAY! ANDAAAY DIPITOOOLA!”

What?

The “buzzer” was the second baseman. His incessant infield chatter bounced around my ears. The voice was that of a baritone Munchkin.

After an out was made, the visiting manager exhorted his team to watch for a bunt. Some infielders, including the second baseman, hustled to the mound to confer with “Andaaay.”

As the second baseman returned to his post, I got a first good look at him. It was hard not to eyeball, taboo for an umpire.

The young man stood five-two, maybe -three. He looked like a character Tolkein might have dreamed up after a night of bad plonk: a head like a prone almond on an unseen neck; nigh-Vulcan ears flopping lazily in the twilight; impossibly short arms akimbo on a high waist; stockinged sticks stuck from uniform pants. I didn't want to examine for tufts of hair peeking from a shoe tongue.

Yes, his voice matched his body.

The game wore on in unremarkable fashion. But my little buddy did not waver in his support. At times, he sounded like a sportscaster: “THAT'S ANDAAAY. ANDAAAY DIPITOOOLA. HE'S ANDAAAY!”

After one break, I confronted the commentator: “Say,” I said, “what's that pitcher's name? He's pretty good.”

“That's Andaaay. Andaaay Dipitula.” On cue. A small grin, to boot, revealing tiny, well-spaced dentition.

I trotted to the scorer's booth and peeked at the official book. There stood the actual name: Andy Deptula. Given, of course, its own inflection by his teammate from another planet.

In the middle innings, I was hoping for a home-team runner to reach first, just to better hear the patter. This was truly bad form for an umpire—losing focus. Luck smiled on me; there were no close or controversial calls the entire game.

The intrigue ended in the last frame. As the visitors, up by three or four, entered the field, I noticed a new pitcher. I couldn't wait for the inning to start, to catch what spin Gregor Samsa would impart on the chucker's name.

And all I got was: “Joe. C'mon Joe.”

The Baum voice was subdued, perhaps down a half-octave, almost disinterested. I felt my shoulders sag. Three quick outs and we were done.

Following umpires' tradition, my partner and I left the field via the winners' dugout. I caught the eye of the second baseman and winked, pointing to Andy.

He winked back and then proffered me a full-blown smile, the corners of his mouth seemingly reaching pointy ears. He said, one last time, “That's Andy. Andy Dipitula.”

I never found out the second baseman's name.

The Best Band Ever

I can blame it all on one Karla Jayne DeVito. She of Mokena, IL. A friend recommended that I go see her in concert with a band called Goodnight Louise. She didn't take over the stage that night. She owned it. A high-stepping, song-belting vamp on one hand; sonorous balladeer on the other.

Some months later, she called me from Boston. She was involved in another project. They needed a drummer. Would I like to give it a shot? I would play with her in a vial-laden alley in Bed-Stuy.

I trundled up 95 to The Hub. I met Karla and six others sardined in the dining room of a three-decker on a Saharan day. The band didn't show me any songs, but, in their wisdom, snipped passages for me to assay: regal rock, gnarly punk, hints of funk. Plus skatey-eight other feels. Three excellent instrumentalists, plus four on vocals.

This was Orchestra Luna.

That night in Kenmore Square, I received my first dose of Luna-cy. Not just music, but poetry, dance, costume changes. A mêlée on stage. Songs about Tennessee Williams and kids on the short bus. I was sold.

The band arranged for me to bunk in with their publicist, Diana Reddy, and her mom, the learned, soigné Sigrid Watson. I had made some "cheat sheets" for the songs, trying my best to decipher them from board cassettes. The pieces defied musical notation. Sometimes, I'd have to wait for a body to fall (or wings to flutter) before we would launch into the next part. I ended up with a sheaf strewn with arrows, doodles, arcs and covenants. It presaged a Hogwarts textbook.

Somehow, I ended up absorbing the myriad movements. A few weeks into my stint, we played at CBGB, the dung-infested home of new music of the day. As I schlepped a hi-hat and music stand into the venue, a vulpine-looking guy from the Tuff Darts said, "What the fuck is THAT?"

The band, at the Rusty Nail in Amherst, MA: Seated, far left: Peter Barrett•; arc in rear, l-r: Rick Berlin (nee Kinscherf, Bob Brandon, Liz Gallagher, Steven Paul Perry•, Karla Jayne DeVito, the author; groveling: Chet Cahill•
• deceased

The gigs rolled in. We were the punk/theater/vagabond/commedia dell'arte darlings of the eastern seaboard. I learned to deal with songs that careered through multiple grooves, sometimes skidding on the edge of the road, but never falling off the cliff.

The octet itself was a clump of Legos. If Gumby had designed them. The parts would meld together in an odd formation, then split apart and reassemble, sometimes within the same piece.

Bob Brandon, years before a reliable electric piano was invented, held down the keyboard end masterfully, jumping from etude to rag to Jerry Lee. Chet Cahill stood tall with a Rickenbacker bass that could at once soothe, keen and growl. Steven Paul Perry simply shone on guitar. He was one the few players I knew who could play melodically and then kafkafy magically into a death-metal reaper.

Peter Barrett, up with our "front four," could be a wife-beater in one song and a failed Superman the next ("flattened on the sidewalk like a frying pan"). Weighing about as much as a damp jockey, he would contort, distort, bug-eye and slither through traffic jam onstage. Liz Gallagher, often the sultry soubrette, supplied the musky alto voice, rounding out OL's harmonic mishmosh. She served as the perfect foil for the brash, impulsive Karla DeVito, who could kick a Camel from an onlooker's maw at any moment.

Front and center, this seemingly rudderless ship was masterfully guided by Rick Berlin (nee Kinscherf). Lanky, lean and full of gusto, he wrote many of the songs ... and sang them as if he had to leave a part of his soul onstage. Able to move his limbs and hair in five different directions, he would grasp the mike as if it were a lifesaver, barely able to stay afloat within the tune. His boundless energy and willingness to work without a net set the standard for us other seven.

Holding us together were Lennie Rosengard on sound and Mike Scopino on everything else. Still, during my first few weeks with the band, not everything was smooth sailing. Especially offstage. Enter one Billie Best, a longtime friend of Karla. Instantly, she became our drill sergeant, fixer, tampon finder at 3 am, bully and dear friend. I subsequently met tour managers and other staff who couldn't come close to matching her nerve, guts or organizational skills.

Somehow, we made it to our gigs. Big shots would come see us. Max's Kansas City. The Ocean Club. And nearly every club of note in Beantown and Cambridge.

Then we were selected to be the pit band and chorus for the Jim Steinman play, Neverland. A rockish Peter Pan musical, the event was slated for preview at The Kennedy Center in D. C. I didn't realize that when we were playing songs like "Bat Out of Hell," millions would be listening before long.

However, the album deal that had loomed so large on our horizon never materialized. I had recently flown out to LA to play on a friend's album. This is what I wanted to do. In the hardest decision I've ever had to make, I gave the band my notice.  The parting was teary, bleary and difficult. I was glad that the best gig came last: a memorable concert at Alice Tully Hall in Lincoln Center.

After moving to the Coast, I got my wish. Sessions started coming in, along with tour work. No more lugging my drums around. Playing in stadiums. Limos, autographs, women. My own road digs ... and not in a ramshackle hotel, where OL would pancake four to a room.

I rubbed elbows (and worked with) Ronstadt, Rebennack, Midler. I drank with Tom Waits. A record went gold.

But something was missing. As OL soldiered on, through days of Luna and The Berlin Airlift, I often reminisced about the band.

We lost Peter Barrett, Chet married Billie, but also left us too soon. Steven also succumbed recently. Karla, you know about. Rick's Nickel & Dime band out of Jamaica Plain continue to amaze. I think his spark is indelible. Addendum 4.21: Karla has informed me that Mike Scopino passed some years ago. He of the sharp wit and the "get it done" attitude.

I am grateful for the photos and other ephemera that have resurfaced. I write now. The picture above served to jog my memory and force me to sit down and tap out this little piece.

I realize, now more than ever, that I will never recapture the magic, the verve, the sheer effrontery and especially the art that was Orchestra Luna. Luna was, simply, the best band I ever played with.

And they ... were ... fabulous.