To The Lighthouse
November 10, 2005

Regular readers of this column know that I grew up in Hermosa Beach, a tiny dot of sand on the ribbon of Southern California beach between the picturesque Dow Chemical plant in El Segundo and the jutting green shoulder of Palos Verdes Penninsula. My hometown is not renowned for much. Unlike neighboring Redondo Beach and Manhattan Beach, Hermosa was not one of the surfing hot spots the Beach Boys sang about in "Surfin' USA."

But Hermosa does have one longstanding claim to fame: the venerable jazz club The Lighthouse. Only a few wet, sandy footprints away from the actual beach, The Lighthouse was a magnet for hipster jazz aficionados throughout the 1950s and '60s, and into the '70s. Operated by club owner John Levine, along with Howard Rumsey, the bass player who started the in-house band, The Lighthouse All-Stars, the club was a leading proponent of West Coast Jazz, the cool, mellow alternative to the intense, experimental New York jazz scene of Miles Davis, et al. Bud Shank, Shorty Rogers, Shelly Manne, Max Roach and Chet Baker are just a few of the musicians who played The Lighthouse, or participated in the club's fabled Sunday afternoon jam sessions.

The heyday of The Lighthouse was before my time. But I got the lowdown on just how cool the club was, along with a tasty smorgasboard of its musical history, in the excellent documentary Jazz On The West Coast: The Lighthouse, by Santa Cruz filmmaker Ken Koenig. Crammed with music, interviews, and fascinating archival images, the film is made with such sophistication, you'd never guess it was put together entirely on Koenig's home computer. It screens at the Kuumbwa next Thursday, as part of the Thursday Nights Cookin' at the Kuumbwa series. For anyone interested in jazz, Hermosa Beach, or West Coast history, Koenig's film is required viewing. For me, it's a sandy samba down Memory Lane.

The minute my dad mustered out of the Navy when I was a year old, my folks moved the family to Hermosa. They'd honeymooned at the old Biltmore Hotel, right on the Strand facing the beach, and were regulars at The Lighthouse. When I was a teenager, the crumbling Biltmore was replaced by the proverbial parking lot. But The Lighthouse was still going strong, three doors up Pier Avenue from the beach, near Bill's TacoBurrito, our favorite teen hangout. I was a Beatles fan, who only went to the beach in the daytime; I had no idea of what went on when The Lighthouse opened its doors after dark.

But that changed the summer I was 19. Between semesters at junior college, I was working at Metlox Potteries with my girlfriend Jan. Stuck working all day, we wanted to have fun at night, and discovered that Tuesday nights were Ladies' Night at The Lighthouse. There was no cover charge, and, as Jan and I used to joke in our irreverent hippie days, we didn't even have to prove we were ladies. Admission was free with a two-drink minimum, and since we were underage, the drink could be coffee. Lucky for us, since coffee was cheap in those bygone, pre-latte days, and as Metlox drones, we weren't exactly rolling in dough.

By then, the club was no longer devoted exclusively to the West Coast sound. In order to maintain its integrity as a last bastion of jazz (and blues) against the encroachments of rock, the management booked touring acts of all kinds. Jan and I saw the great Mose Allison ("Your Mind Is On Vcation, But Your Mouth Is Working Overtime"), and became lifelong devotees. His opening act was a pre-Kotter Gabe Kaplan, whose centerpiece routine was sportscaster Howard Cosell giving a sonorous play-by-play at the Crucifixion. ("Well, it's just about the end of the line for the gutsy little hustler from Jerusalem.")

We saw Wes Montgomery, with his mellow pop-jazz guitar. And although I couldn't get in to see bluesman John Hammond Jr., on whom I had a huge crush (either it was sold out, or it wasn't a free Tuesday), I stood outside, drooling all over the glass of the little round porthole window in the door, as I watched Hammond onstage, bathed in a moody blue spot.

On a cold, grey day at the beach last month, I went to The Lighthouse again. Unlike previous jaunts south, when I've found the place converted into a disco, or, worse, dark, it's now The Lighthouse Café, with the same brick façade and lighthouse-shaped neon sign on the roof, and the same long, narrow room inside, with its tiny stage across from the bar. Its modest outdoor seating is dwarfed by boisterous, tequila-shooting overflow crowds from the neighboring sports bars. There's a karaoke sign in the window, and business is boosted by weekly events like Reggae Sundays, and Manicures & Martinis Wednesdays.

But on that day a plaque was unveiled commemorating The Lighthouse and its contribution to the history of jazz. A bandstand was erected at the entrance to the pier, where a handful of jazz vets traded licks before a gathering crowd of admirers, despite the cold. Ken Koenig was there, filming it all. Times and tastes change. Bill's Tacoburrito is long gone. But one piece of my wayward youth remains intact: The Lighthouse endures.