Steve Kuhn at two years old

jeffcrom · May 11, 2012

Humorist H. Allen Smith published a book called Low Man on a Totem Pole in 1941. It's a collection of humorous anecdotes and portraits of odd individuals. The last five pages are devoted to Steve Kuhn at age two. I inherited this book from my mom. This section doesn't seem to be on the web anywhere, so as a public service, I present some excerpts from this long-out-of-print book:

As I approached the conclusion of this book a letter came from a publicity man named Eddie Jaffe. Eddie is a little guy who scurries up and down Broadway in the small hours, boasting that he is the ugliest press agent in the world. He said he had a child prodigy for me to interview.

There have been many child prodigies who played the fiddle or ocarina. There have been others who smoked cigars and lifted their papas off the floor. Eddie Jaffe had a different kind of prodigy, and I undertook one of my rare excursions into deepest Brooklyn to look at him.

His name was Stephen Lewis Kuhn; he was two and a half years old and he lived on Avenue X in a bungalow containing his parents and some modernistic furniture. His mother is a physical-education teacher in the public schools, and his father is a buyer of hides, calling himself a “bovine dermatologist.”

It was early evening when I arrived at Stephen’s house. He was a chubby youngster and, though he could neither read nor write (he couldn’t talk too well), he appeared to know more about swing music than the head usher at the Paramount Theater.

Stephen had a small electric phonograph which he operated himself, playing his 150-odd records, changing the needle when the needle needed changing, bursting into baby-talk song now and again and sometimes executing a bit of tap dance in perfect rhythm.

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At sixteen months he could sing “Begin the Beguine,” “Hold Tight” and “Pony Boy.” By this time he was already disc-daffy. Now that you know something of his background, let us examine his genius as of the day I called on him.

“His lullaby,” said Mrs. Kuhn, “is a two-part swing record. He gets furious if I try to sing him a conventional lullaby.”

She picked up a record and held it toward Stephen, who was jigging around on the other side of the room.

“What is this?” she asked.

“’Pick-a-Rib,’” he said after the briefest of glances. “Benny Goo’man.”

“Which part?” asked his mother.

“Pot two,” he replied without hesitation.

He was so far away that he couldn’t possibly have read the inscriptions on the records. Mrs. Kuhn riffled through the stack, picked out another and held it up.

“’Wug-Cutter Swing!’” cried Stephen from across the room.

And another one.

“’Wot a Man Pay a Fess,’” he announced. It was a piece called “I Was Watching a Man Paint a Fence.”

The kid could indentify every one of those records by a mere glance at it and from a distance where we couldn’t have read the titles if he had known how to read.

Mrs. Kuhn said that “Pick-a-Rib” is Stephen’s lullaby song. He will not go to sleep at night unless it is played for him and he won’t be satisfied with one part. He has to have “Pick-a-Rib,” part one and then part two.

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At the time I visited him he was playing “Scrub Me Mama, with a Boogie Beat” and “The Big Noise From Winnetka” more than any other of his records. He is extremely careful in handling the records. Whenever a record is cracked Mrs. Kuhn puts it away in the bottom compartment of a secretary. That compartment, to Stephen, is a sacred tomb.

His mother opened it while I was there and took out three records.

“What’s the matter with these, Stephen?” she asked him.

He ducked his head and put his hands over his eyes.

“Cwacked,” he said mournfully. “Puttum back. Puttum back, Mama. Puttum back in dest.”

Then he started to cry.

“When a record breaks,” said his mother, “all the color drains out of his face, and he gets hysterical.”

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I got my hat and prepared to leave and at the door I said to his mother:

“Where do you think it will all lead?”

“I really don’t know,” she said. “He has always been an unusual child. He doesn’t like candy but simply adores cod-liver oil.”

Edited May 12, 2012 by jeffcrom

Late · May 11, 2012

... he lived on Avenue X in a bungalow containing his parents and some modernistic furniture.

Prodigies. Always the kids who grow up on Avenue X. That, and that dang mid-century modern stuff!

Thanks for posting. Enjoyed the read.

David Ayers · May 11, 2012

Priceless!

Noj · May 11, 2012

Incredible.

.:.impossible · May 11, 2012

Wow!

JSngry · May 11, 2012

At the time I visited him he was playing “Scrub Me Mama, with a Boogie Beat” and “The Big Noise From Winnetka” more than any other of his records. He is extremely careful in handling the records. Whenever a record is cracked Mrs. Kuhn puts it away in the bottom compartment of a secretary. That compartment, to Stephen, is a sacred tomb.

His mother opened it while I was there and took out three records.

“What’s the matter with these, Stephen?” she asked him.

He ducked his head and put his hands over his eyes.

“Cwacked,” he said mournfully. “Puttum back. Puttum back, Mama. Puttum back in dest.”

Then he started to cry.

“When a record breaks,” said his mother, “all the color drains out of his face, and he gets hysterical.”