His apparent awe took me by surprise. I wasn’t exactly Harry James or Woody Herman. I gave him a vague explanation about being in town and wanting to help rising young talent. I also explained why Miss Prentice was not present at the moment and told Katzumi to call me Ray.

“Thank you, then I will,” he replied. “And you should call me Kat. It’s done by everyone I know.”

He stepped in front of the orchestra, and their conversation ceased instantly. ( Jack Donovan was lucky if his band stopped talking while we were playing.) He made an announcement in Japanese, and I noticed that when my name was mentioned a murmur went around the orchestra. I was then introduced formally, and the band members applauded.

“May I be allowed to introduce you individually to the musicians?” Kat asked. I said it would be my pleasure. He took me to the lead alto player, who is in a way the swing band equivalent of an orchestra’s concertmaster. He is also, in my opinion, the person who defines the “color” of the reed section.

“Mr. Ray Sherwood, may I present Mr. Shuki Kinoshita, our first alto saxophone?”

“Beega-fahn,” said Shuki intently as we shook hands.

I looked at Katzumi, who explained, “He’s saying he’s a big fan of your work.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” I said to Shuki and shook his hand again. I turned to Kat. “I don’t understand. Jack Donovan isn’t that well known even here in the U.S.A. How do you know me?”

“Oh, from your arrangements for the Robbins-Feist-Miller corporation,” he said respectfully.

I had to laugh. Over the years, I had written a great number of what are called stock arrangements. These were charts of current hit songs, existing standards, and special-purpose numbers that anyone could walk into a music store and buy for their own ensemble, whether it was an amateur organization or a professional band that didn’t feel the need to make their own artistic statement regarding “Auld Lang Syne,” “Happy Birthday,” “The Anniversary Waltz,” or “The Girlfriend of the Whirling Dervish.” Jack Donovan even had a few of my stock arrangements in his book, not out of respect for this side job of mine, but because if he was requested to play something approximating Benny Goodman’s “Let’s Dance,” Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade,” or Count Basie’s “One O’Clock Jump,” I’d written the chart that everyone in America other than Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, or Count Basie used.

Clearly, some of the Pan-Pacific Orchestra’s “book” consisted of stock arrangements written by me. I considered it to be my hack-work, but to them, this was like Handel dropping in on the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I went down the line of the sax, trumpet, and trombone sections like a visiting dignitary greeting the troops.