marinemom
03-29-04, 05:55 AM
Memories Tickle the 'First Pianist'
ALS Steals Abilities, But Not His Stories
By Darragh Johnson
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, March 29, 2004; Page A01
That Charlie Corrado -- he could play, and play, and play.
Jerome Kern? George Gershwin? Absolutely. Stevie Wonder? Of course. "Bésame Mucho," for the visiting Mexican president? With gusto. He could do quiet, then spirited. And he could stay invisible -- just what the Marine Band's White House protocol requires -- except when President Bill Clinton suddenly was on the piano bench next to him, singing along.
When President Richard M. Nixon wanted a pianist in San Clemente, Calif., Master Gunnery Sgt. Corrado got the call: "Get to the airport in an hour." When miserable weather canceled the second inaugural parade for President Ronald Reagan, Corrado was dispatched to the White House to play at the indoor celebration.
And when Clinton needed music in the middle of the 1996 blizzard, when many roads weren't plowed and Corrado's unassuming cul-de-sac was a mess of snow, the National Guard sent a Humvee. Corrado's wife took pictures, and perplexed neighbors wandered outside to watch the trim man with the short black hair climb aboard with his uniform -- still the same size as it was in July 1958, when he joined the military.
"The president wants music," Martha Corrado remembers saying to the onlookers, who never had known exactly what the humble man near the end of the street did for a living.
His wife tells the stories now because Charlie Corrado, 64, no longer can. The words freeze in his mouth, then gurgle clumsily when he tries to enunciate. Slightly awkwardly, he leans in the front room of their Potomac home, supporting his half-paralyzed body against his black baby-grand piano.
Over the past two years, Corrado slowly has been imprisoned by Lou Gehrig's disease, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS, a fatal, neurological progression that leaves the brain intact but shuts down the rest of the body. About 30,000 Americans suffer from it, and an average of 15 more a day receive a diagnosis of ALS.
Corrado can't play the piano anymore. He can walk, but he needs his wife's help on the one step down to their family room, where his special "lift and recline" chair sits in front of the TV. He no longer eats, this man who for decades passed up the White House buffets of shrimp and chocolate creams and instead, as his wife has marveled, "came home for stupid leftovers." Through a tube, he is fed eight cans of nourishment a day.
"There he is," Martha Corrado says now, in a round Boston accent. In their front room, walls of historic photos tell his story, and she is the soundtrack. She points to the frame by the door and there, to the left of President John F. Kennedy, is her husband, the dapper, dark-haired Marine in the red coat -- the 23-year-old son of an Italian immigrant who was supposed to be an auto mechanic like his dad.
He'd grown up playing the accordion -- "What Italian family doesn't have an accordion?" Martha asks -- the only one of his three siblings who "took to" the instrument. By the time Corrado turned 13, he and three friends had formed the Four Beats, a rock-and-roll group that played weddings while wearing red satin shirts that had musical notes sewn on the sleeves. They even did a number on "The Arthur Godfrey Show" in New York.
After working in his father's Texaco garage the year he graduated from Hyde Park High in Boston, Corrado enlisted in the Marines, went to basic training on Parris Island, served on Okinawa and then -- because Kennedy loved polkas but the Marine Band had no accordionist -- was invited to try out for "The President's Own." Since the days of Jefferson, the band has had the premier responsibility of playing for the White House.
So there he is, playing accordion for Kennedy's last birthday before the president was assassinated. And there he is -- Martha Corrado moves her hand -- playing for John-John's third birthday, just days after Kennedy's funeral, while the little boy in blue shorts holds tight to two maracas.
And there he is, with President Lyndon B. Johnson. Martha Corrado tells the story of the occasion when Johnson's social secretary asked Corrado and his Marine Corps band members to "pick up the beat," and happily, they obliged, zipping through the chords ever faster. Only later did they learn that the 36th president had hoped to cut the songs shorter, Martha Corrado says, "so he could dance with more ladies."
Listening by the piano, Corrado stomps his foot twice and throws back his head, grinning his laughter.
ALS Steals Abilities, But Not His Stories
By Darragh Johnson
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, March 29, 2004; Page A01
That Charlie Corrado -- he could play, and play, and play.
Jerome Kern? George Gershwin? Absolutely. Stevie Wonder? Of course. "Bésame Mucho," for the visiting Mexican president? With gusto. He could do quiet, then spirited. And he could stay invisible -- just what the Marine Band's White House protocol requires -- except when President Bill Clinton suddenly was on the piano bench next to him, singing along.
When President Richard M. Nixon wanted a pianist in San Clemente, Calif., Master Gunnery Sgt. Corrado got the call: "Get to the airport in an hour." When miserable weather canceled the second inaugural parade for President Ronald Reagan, Corrado was dispatched to the White House to play at the indoor celebration.
And when Clinton needed music in the middle of the 1996 blizzard, when many roads weren't plowed and Corrado's unassuming cul-de-sac was a mess of snow, the National Guard sent a Humvee. Corrado's wife took pictures, and perplexed neighbors wandered outside to watch the trim man with the short black hair climb aboard with his uniform -- still the same size as it was in July 1958, when he joined the military.
"The president wants music," Martha Corrado remembers saying to the onlookers, who never had known exactly what the humble man near the end of the street did for a living.
His wife tells the stories now because Charlie Corrado, 64, no longer can. The words freeze in his mouth, then gurgle clumsily when he tries to enunciate. Slightly awkwardly, he leans in the front room of their Potomac home, supporting his half-paralyzed body against his black baby-grand piano.
Over the past two years, Corrado slowly has been imprisoned by Lou Gehrig's disease, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS, a fatal, neurological progression that leaves the brain intact but shuts down the rest of the body. About 30,000 Americans suffer from it, and an average of 15 more a day receive a diagnosis of ALS.
Corrado can't play the piano anymore. He can walk, but he needs his wife's help on the one step down to their family room, where his special "lift and recline" chair sits in front of the TV. He no longer eats, this man who for decades passed up the White House buffets of shrimp and chocolate creams and instead, as his wife has marveled, "came home for stupid leftovers." Through a tube, he is fed eight cans of nourishment a day.
"There he is," Martha Corrado says now, in a round Boston accent. In their front room, walls of historic photos tell his story, and she is the soundtrack. She points to the frame by the door and there, to the left of President John F. Kennedy, is her husband, the dapper, dark-haired Marine in the red coat -- the 23-year-old son of an Italian immigrant who was supposed to be an auto mechanic like his dad.
He'd grown up playing the accordion -- "What Italian family doesn't have an accordion?" Martha asks -- the only one of his three siblings who "took to" the instrument. By the time Corrado turned 13, he and three friends had formed the Four Beats, a rock-and-roll group that played weddings while wearing red satin shirts that had musical notes sewn on the sleeves. They even did a number on "The Arthur Godfrey Show" in New York.
After working in his father's Texaco garage the year he graduated from Hyde Park High in Boston, Corrado enlisted in the Marines, went to basic training on Parris Island, served on Okinawa and then -- because Kennedy loved polkas but the Marine Band had no accordionist -- was invited to try out for "The President's Own." Since the days of Jefferson, the band has had the premier responsibility of playing for the White House.
So there he is, playing accordion for Kennedy's last birthday before the president was assassinated. And there he is -- Martha Corrado moves her hand -- playing for John-John's third birthday, just days after Kennedy's funeral, while the little boy in blue shorts holds tight to two maracas.
And there he is, with President Lyndon B. Johnson. Martha Corrado tells the story of the occasion when Johnson's social secretary asked Corrado and his Marine Corps band members to "pick up the beat," and happily, they obliged, zipping through the chords ever faster. Only later did they learn that the 36th president had hoped to cut the songs shorter, Martha Corrado says, "so he could dance with more ladies."
Listening by the piano, Corrado stomps his foot twice and throws back his head, grinning his laughter.