Automatic Human Jukebox

© Thomas Wilson Shawcross 19 May 2005


The writer Shiela Hanlon e-mailed me recently about a story she is developing about “timing” and how it affects our lives. How are we impacted when we fiddle with the expected “timing” of major life events? For example, what is the difference between completing college in four consecutive years versus having a gap of many years between one’s Junior and Senior years?

Interesting questions, but hard to answer. I gave this some hard thought for about twenty minutes, and when I didn’t come up with an answer, I did what I usually do – I stopped thinking about it. Now you know something about me, and yes, this is why my capsules for human invisibility combined with the power of flight cannot be found on your pharmacy shelves today. I couldn’t crack that nut in twenty minutes of hard thinking, so I quit on it.

However, while I was still thinking about the “timing” question, I did happen to recall something I had not thought about for several years, and that will be the topic for this story.

Shiela had inspired me to think about timing. I was still thinking about this at the Sons of the American Revolution luncheon last Tuesday (see my story about Auckland), when the President of my local S.A.R. chapter told us that donations were needed in order to replace the “Freedom Tree” that had been planted some years ago. It seems the tree, a Live Oak, had been obliterated by Hurricane Frances, and now there was just an empty spot that was accompanied by a brass plaque that said a tree was there. But there was not even a Dead Oak there now – only a lonely plaque remains. Obviously, this is a timing problem. At one time, the tree and the plaque had coexisted in happy cosynchronicity. Don’t bother looking this word up, you are the first to read it – as I just made it up. It means they existed at the same time. Now, however, it was a different time, and the tree and the plaque were no longer to be found together, even though it once had seemed that they would be together always (like Prince Charles and Diana). Timing.

From here, it was just a chip shot to start thinking about timing and The Automatic Human Jukebox. Whenever I visited San Francisco, I saw him.



Tom Shawcross and the Automatic Human Jukebox
San Francisco, California 1974

If I could count on anything in this topsy-turvy world, I knew I could always count on the Automatic Human Jukebox. Whenever I visited San Francisco, he could be counted on to be there. The writer Richard Brautigan told of a friend who always answered his phone whenever Richard would call him, no matter what the time of day, no matter what the season. The Automatic Human Jukebox was like that for me. I knew that I would always find him somewhere along Beach Street. Sometimes he would be by Victoria Park, as he is shown here. Other times, he might be down by the Cannery or closer to Ghirardelli Square. But he was always there.

This is how he operated: He would sit in his phone-booth sized cardboard box. The flap that you see with the musical note would be in the down position, so he was not visible. Helpful instructions printed on the side of the box told the passer-by what to do: 1. Insert coin(s) 2. Select Tune.

Upon the insertion of coins with a minimum value of twenty-five cents, a slide whistle would blow, and the flap would be elevated, exposing the Automatic Human Jukebox and his trumpet. One would then tell him the name of the song that one wanted to hear, and he would play it on his trumpet. The length and the quality of the trumpet playing appeared dependent upon how many coins had been inserted.

One feature that puzzled me was why one side of the box listed the names of tunes that one could suggest. Did that mean he didn’t know any tunes besides those or did it mean that some people had trouble thinking of the names of tunes? I suspect it was the latter, because I never selected any of the suggested tunes, and he always played what I requested.

In the photo shown here, I had just inserted a quarter, and he had raised the flap. What happened next is that I requested “Bye Bye Blackbird.” It was not on his list of suggested tunes. He must have liked this song too, because he played an unusually long (and excellent) version of it. Quite a large crowd gathered as he was playing, and most of us started singing the words to the song: Words & Music by Ray Henderson & Mort Dixon, 1926
Recorded by Eddie Cantor, 1953

Pack up all my cares and woe,
Here I go, singin’ low –
Bye bye blackbird.

Where somebody waits for me,
Sugar’s sweet, and so is she – Bye, bye blackbird.

Bridge:

No one here can love or understand me;
Oh what hard luck stories they all hand me.

Make my bed and light the light,
I’ll arrive late tonight –
Blackbird, bye bye, blackbird, bye bye.

This is a very fond memory for me. I had never seen him draw such a large crowd, and I had never seen so many people sing as he played. He even smiled afterward, and I had never seen him do that. Usually, he just blew the slide whistle again and closed the flap, to await the next request and the next paying customer.

Then, one year, I went to San Francisco and he was not there. I asked around. It seems that someone in the City of San Francisco had decided that there were getting to be too many street performers. There had been a crack down, and the Automatic Human Jukebox was gone.

Later, I read a story about him. As I recall, he had been a schoolteacher. I think he taught eighth-grade English. Then one day, he realized he could make a better living as an Automatic Human Jukebox (note to self: we really should pay our schoolteachers more). I wonder what he is doing now?

Timing is everything.