Glenn Miller Quotes

Louis Armstrong on Mondays, Frank Sinatra on Wednesdays, Glenn Miller on Fridays, and Mozart on Sundays. Unless it was raining. If it's raining, it's always Billie Holiday.

I spent much of my prison time reading. I must have read over 200 large books, mostly fictional stories about the American pioneers, the Vikings, Mafia, etc. As long as I was engrossed in a book, I was not in prison. Reading was my escape.

And if Mozart is for Sundays, who do you listen to the rest of the week?" "Louis Armstrong on Mondays, Frank Sinatra on Wednesdays. And Glenn Miller on Fridays, unless it's raining. If it's raining, it's always Billie Holiday." "What about Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday?" I asked. "Those days are quiet. Unless it's raining.

Invited to think of the futuristic, we will still come up with something like the music of Kraftwerk, even though this is now as antique as Glenn Miller’s big band jazz was when the German group began experimenting with synthesizers in the early 1970s.

first heard the song “Tuxedo Junction” in 1941. I was an MP in Colorado, pulling guard duty at Lowry Field for the Army Air Corps. Most people think it was Glenn Miller who first made that song famous, but it was a black bandleader named Erskine Hawkins.

When we are transported either by Mozart or Glenn Miller, we find ourselves in the presence of the ineffable, for which all words are so inadequate that to attempt to describe it, even with effusive praise and words of perfect beauty, is to engage in blasphemy.

The towering, uniformed, blonde man demanded, rather than ordered yet another whisky. This was one of life’s luxuries exempt from rationing. To the swinging music of ‘Glenn Miller’, Lieutenant Patrick Starkey of the King’s Royal Rifle Corps drank himself into oblivion; the bloody war forgotten for now.

The acknowledgement of White cowardice has driven literally tens of millions of White Americans to try to escape it by undergoing a voluntary human metamorphosis and becoming "part-Indian." 95% would become proven liars by a simple DNA test, but their children grow up believing the lie. Abandoning the White race means not having to fight for it or defend it in any way.

No thoughts had I of anything, Or at least that's what I thought; I even thought I couldn't think, But now I think I never thought.

You cook the native foods to perfection, Robert Childan thought. What they say is true: your powers of imitation are immense. Apple pie, Coca-Cola, stroll after the movie, Glenn Miller...you could paste together out of tin and rice paper a completely artificial America. Rice-paper Mom in the kitchen, rice-paper Dad reading the newspaper. Rice-paper put at his feet. Everything.

Music-good music, great music-is itself magical, it's mysterious inspiration entwined with the mystery of all things. When we are transported either by Mozart or Glenn Miller, we find ourselves in the presence of the ineffable, for which all words are so in adequate that to attempt to describe it, even with effusive praise and words of perfect beauty, is to engage in blasphemy.

You and I both know, deep in your heart, you agree with me. And I will prove it with one hypothetical scenario: you are alone in a closet of your home. There`s a bright red button. You can push that button and presto all Negroes and Jews and all other colored people are instantly removed from the North American continent and returned to their native countries. You`d push it, wouldn`t you whitey? See? See? See? in the final analysis, you agree with me. But of course, you wouldn`t do antything to bring that scenario about, or any other scenario favorable to your Race.

You don`t have to do anything. Why worry? It`s all god`s plan anyway. Just love everyone and believe. Be a limp-wristed wimp and recruit others to be the same. But, give unto Caesar that which is Caesar`s. When Caesar says drop bombs on christian babies in Berlin, or Muslim babies in Iraq, it`s okay. When Caesar says open your borders to tens of millions of dark immigrants, or to bus your children to jungle neighborhoods, or to accept legalized pornography an the abortion murder of babies, then it is Caesar`s responsibility, not the Christian`s. So don`t concern yourselves.

The station was broadcasting Glenn Miller and his band from some ballroom in Pennsylvania. It was probably one of those “Music of Your Life” stations. Miller's music still sounded fresh generations after it had first been heard. I could hear the tinkling of glasses between numbers as people chatted unaware something wonderful was passing, never to return. Miller himself would not return from WWII.

GLENN MILLER, the epitome of big bands, a group that burst on the scene in 1938, reached the heights, and spent its primary career in five years. Miller was a trombonist, unable to match the technical ability of Tommy Dorsey or the creativity of Jack Teagarden. But he was a superb arranger who knew what he wanted and how to find the men who could produce that esteemed sound. Miller disappeared over the English Channel in December 1944.

No matter how much Steve and I preached about staying legal, most of these men never believed us, and some would grin or wink as we spoke. They thought the CKKKK was like the Klan group their grandfathers belonged to back in the 1920's or 30's, when members could get by with just about anything. That ignorance about the CKKKK extended to the masses of people as well. I received hundreds of phone calls from people wanting me to go out and assault this or that person, for wrongs perceived by the callers. One 65 year old White man called, and after informing me his wife of 67 had left him and moved in with a younger man, demanded that I get some men together and, as the caller put it, "Go Klux 'em," meaning to commit some violent act upon them. A Black girl from Angier called once, saying her boyfriend was dating a White girl, and asked me, "Whut you gone do bout it?" Another elderly White lady called and said that her Black maid was stealing her jewelry, as if that was a classic crime for which the CKKKK should render traditional and just "Klan punishment." It's really incredible.

BIG BANDS AND THE SWING ERA: RECOMMENDED LISTENING Tommy Dorsey, “Opus One,” November 14, 1944 Duke Ellington, “Cotton Tail,” May 4, 1940 Duke Ellington, “Harlem Air Shaft,” July 22, 1940 Duke Ellington, “Take the ‘A’ Train,” February 15, 1941 Benny Goodman, “Sing, Sing, Sing,” January 16, 1938 Benny Goodman Trio, “After You’ve Gone,” July 13, 1935 Coleman Hawkins, “Body and Soul,” October 11, 1939 Fletcher Henderson, “New King Porter Stomp,” December 9, 1932 Glenn Miller, “In the Mood,” August 1, 1939 Artie Shaw, “Begin the Beguine,” July 24, 1938

Cobb was in a Klan group back in the 60's, and told me stories about how they used to throw live 'coons, possums, porcupines, or ganders into Black houses at night in attempts to run them out of Johnston and Harnett County. Cobb said that late one night, he and three or four other local rednecks snuck up on the house of one Black family, peered through the window and saw a huge Black woman sitting in front of a TV watching Gunsmoke, with a gang of children all around her. The window was open and Cobb threw a live possum in her lap. Cobb said she squalled about the loudest and longest he'd ever heard, and jumped about four feet up in the air. Cobb then ran and jumped into a nearby ditch to observe what would happen next, and it wasn't long before they saw the Black woman bust out of the back door and run across a cotton field with a trail of children behind. Cobb said she was as wide as three rows of cotton, but fast and agile. She outran all the young'uns.

Some twenty-three hundred miles away Major General H.H. “Hap” Arnold, head of the Army Air Corps, had traveled to Hamilton Field near Sacramento to personally see off a flight of thirteen B-l 7s destined for MacArthur in the Philippines by way of Hawaii. The first leg to Hickam Field took fourteen hours, so the big bombers flew with only four-man crews and were unarmed. One of the pilots objected. At least they ought to carry their bomb sights and machine guns. Arnold said they could be put aboard but without ammunition to save weight. So the bombers could home in on its signal, Major General Frederick L. Martin, head of the Hawaiian Air Force, had his staff ask station WGMB in Honolulu to stay on all night. Sure thing, general. Another night of ukuleles and Glenn Miller drifting out across the Pacific courtesy of the U.S. Army Air Corps. When Lieutenant Colonel George W. Bicknell of Army intelligence heard about it, he blew up. Why tip our hands whenever we have planes coming in? Why not keep WGMB on the air every night? One of those who caught the station was Lieutenant Kermit Tyler on his way to work the graveyard shift at the radar coordinating station at Fort Shafter. Must be planes coming in from the States, he told himself.

Oh do not let the Dead March play O’er these at Madingley do stay For they were young and old-style gay, Play their music of the day; Tunes of Dorsey, songs of Bing, Let them hear Glenn Miller’s swing Then too the crosses well may sway With those at Madingley do stay.

Over the years, they’d become accomplished at avoiding unpleasant topics. Their burdened demeanors spoke volumes through the silence.

The end of the war marked the end of the bands. Glenn Miller had been lost over the English Channel in 1944. Artie Shaw had disbanded and regrouped and disbanded again. Though name leaders like Goodman and Basie and Harry James would always find work, the financial base eroded and the labor troubles lingered. When Petrillo called a second strike in 1948, the die was cast. Perhaps, as Barnouw said, the cause was just and the problem serious, but in the end the strikes hurt no one more than the union’s own membership. As Pogo put it, “We have met the enemy, and he is us.

At around 6:00 a.m., April 30, 1987, we were awakened by a loud bull horn while inside our rented mobile home at an Ozark, Missouri trailer park. "Glenn Miller, Jack Jackson, Douglas Sheets, Tony Wydra, this is a United States Marshal. You have three minutes to come out with your hands up, or we will commence firing." The feds had flown in two SWAT teams; one from Kentucky, the other from Louisiana (40 in all, plus the Marshals and local authorities) to make the arrests. We were surrounded. I had a hang-over, couldn't find my pants, and had to pee, bad.

The establishment was almost empty on the humid afternoon of July 26 when Tom Hamburger, a reporter for The Washington Post, settled into a quiet corner. One of the more seasoned members of a distinct Washington breed, investigative reporters who specialize in digging through thick stacks of campaign finance reports and finding sources privy to backstage maneuvers, Hamburger had worked at the Los Angeles Times and The Wall Street Journal, where he toiled alongside Glenn Simpson before the latter’s departure from the news business to found Fusion GPS.

Tommy Dorsey’s Opus One, had Moonlight Cocktails with Glenn Miller and his band, took a Sentimental Journey with Les Brown and Doris Day, and finally boarded a Slow Boat to China with Kay Kyser, Harry Rabbit and Gloria Wood. By the time a nostalgic two-hour-long segment replaying old radio shows like Suspense and Jack Benny, Dangerous Assignment and Rocky Jordan finished, I was feeling better.

John is standing at the other end of the table, drinking Coke and nodding his head to the beat. I’ve been so busy running around, we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. I lean over the table and call out, “Having fun?” He nods. Then, quite suddenly, he bangs his glass down on the table, so hard the table shakes and I jump. “All right,” he says. “It’s do or die. D-day.” “What?” “Let’s dance,” John says. Shyly I say, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, John.” “No, I want to. I didn’t take swing-dancing lessons from Stormy for nothing.” I widen my eyes. “When did you take swing dance lessons from Stormy?” “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just dance with me.” “Well…do you have any war bonds left?” I joke. John fishes one out of his pants pocket and slaps it on the refreshments table. Then he grabs my hand and marches me to the center of the dance floor, like a soldier heading off to the battlefield. He’s all grim concentration. He signals to Mr. Morales, who is manning the music because he’s the only one who can figure out my phone. Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” comes blaring out of the speakers. John gives me a determined nod. “Let’s do this.” And then we’re dancing. Rock-step, side, together, side, repeat. Rock-step, one-two-three, one-two-three. We step on each other’s feet about a million times, but he’s swinging me around--twirl, twirl--and our faces are flushed and we’re both laughing. When the song is over, he pulls me in and then throws me back out one last time. Everyone is clapping. Mr. Morales screams, “To the young ones!” John picks me up and lifts me into the air like we’re ice dancers, and the crowd erupts. I’m smiling so hard my face feels like it could break.