Joe Coria: A different drummer (column)

Joe Coria's brush with what some people might consider the big time began when he was a kid growing up in Hazleton.

He was always banging on things, pots, pans, whatever, drumming on tables. As long as he can remember, it was in him. He just always wanted to be a drummer.

He grew up with music. His parents loved music. His father, a retired Army colonel who worked for Mack Truck, played a little guitar. His mother played sax in the school band. Music was a part of the household, big band music, mostly – Glenn Miller, Sinatra, all of that.

When he was about 9, his parents took him to a Christmas party at the VFW, and the band leader asked whether there were any kids in the audience who wanted to play an instrument. He jumped at the chance, surprising his parents. They had no idea.

He got on stage and played a tune with the band, "Birth of the Blues," best known as a signature song for Frank Sinatra and Louis Armstrong. He nailed it. It just came naturally, he said. He knew what to do with the sticks.

After the show, one of the band members approached his parents and said: That kid should be playing music.

And soon he was.

His first gigs came when he was 10 or 11, playing with a polka band every Saturday night at a bar named Jockey's in Treskow, just south of Hazleton. At first, the band leader didn't think he could hack it, being so young. But after sitting in a couple of times, he became the band's regular drummer.

His parents would take him to the gigs because Jockey's was no place for a kid. Everyone went there. The place was always jammed on Saturday nights. But it could be rough. There were fights almost every Saturday night. The smoke was so thick, he recalled, you couldn't see across the room.

It was a great time, people dancing all night to the rhythms he beat out on his kit.

That gig lasted a couple of years. He took some lessons and moved on to play with a band called The Chords, led by a sax player named Joe Calabrese, a Hazleton cop. Calabrese had heard Coria play with the polka band, and when his drummer took off to play on the road, he called Coria. The band was pretty popular, playing at clubs and private parties.

When he was in high school, he formed his own band, The Cupids, playing everything from Bobby Rydell to Chubby Checker. They once opened for The Kingsmen, known for their hit "Louie, Louie," at a  now-defunct amusement park, Lakewood Park, near Tamaqua.

They thought they were on their way, opening a show for a band that had a hit song on the radio.

But it wasn't so.

When he was a senior in high school, his parents moved to Hagerstown, Md., his dad being transferred by Mack. He found work, playing with anybody, anytime. Soon, he hooked up with Dick Harp's band in Frederick and was working giving lessons at a local music store.

He stayed home to take care of his parents. They were in ill health. His father died at 48 and his mother at 42, three weeks apart.

After his parent's died, he joined the Navy and did his four years. When he got out in '69, he got a gig with Andy Angel out of Harrisburg and hit the road for Vegas. Back then, entertainment in Vegas ran 24 hours a day and the demand was there. But it was a tough town.

He played with the show band at the Frontier. They backed up everybody, from Ray Anthony to Frank Jr. to Vic Damone, all of the acts that rotated through town. Drummers were always coming and going, and there seemed to be a lot of work.

It led to opportunities. He was on the road for about a year with the legendary jazz artist Lionel Hampton, a great gig and a lot of fun.

But it was volatile. He was newly married and Cheryl was still back home. He thought about moving her out to Vegas. He had the opportunity. Anthony's drummer got himself into a bit of a jam, and seeing as it's hard to play a gig from jail, needed to be replaced. Coria thought about taking the gig, but a guy from the band advised against it. Anthony, he told him, was tough to work for, and it wouldn't be long before he told Coria to hit the bricks.

It was no way to make a living if you wanted to have a family, which Coria wanted, and wanted some stability. He was also playing a lot on the road and was tired of waking up and having to remember what town he was in, living in hotel rooms, out of suitcases. He didn't want to move his wife out to Vegas, not knowing whether he'd have a job when she arrived. He didn't want to dedicate himself to music only to wind up working in a shoe store.

So he bagged it and came back home – and eventually settled in York.

Which eventually led to the best musical experience of his life.

He got a job as national program director for Susquehanna Broadcasting, picking music for its 14 radio stations. That led to a job at Susquehanna Pfaltzfgraff, working his way up from the shop floor to become vice president of manufacturing. The company paid his tuition to earn a college degree – and eventually a masters.

But music still called.

He played with anybody who would call. He formed a duo with an organ player for a while, playing such hot spots as the Pump Room, the Lincoln Woods, the 2+9. At one point, he was playing six nights a week, making some pretty decent money. They played the Billy Bud, the Rathskeller, the Host Farm in Lancaster.

He also played pickup gigs in Jersey, traveling to Wildwood and Atlantic City to back up stars who would fly in and play a show for a bus trip group, getting the call because he could read music and could play with anybody in just about any style. He'd head down in the morning, rehearse and play two shows, a matinee and a dinner show, and go home. The stars, he never really met them. They'd come in, do the gig and leave. He did have dinner once with Frankie Valli and Bob Gaudio of the Four Seasons. But that was about it as far as hanging with the stars.

Those gigs, though, dried up. And it wasn't very satisfying. It paid alright, but most gigs there just wasn't any real musical camaraderie. Most of the time, he barely knew any of the other guys in the band.

One night in 1983, he invited pianist Randy Yoder and bass player Mark Linkins to his Dallastown home to talk about forming a band. After dinner, standing in the kitchen, Coria asked them: How about it? Do we have a band? The guys agreed. Coria said good; he'd already booked 35 weeks at Archie's. They called the band A Touch of Class.

That began a 25-year association. They became more than friends and musical collaborators. They were like family, Coria said.

They played all over at a lot of places that no longer exist – the Sword and Shield, the Lincoln Woods Inn, the old Eagle's Nest, the Flamingo, the Grapevine. They played weddings from here to Philly and as far away as Virginia. The gig money, Coria said, put his kids through college.

They could have played every night of the week. They recorded three albums of standards and original compositions.

Then those gigs began to fall away. Clubs changed ownership. People stopped going out to listen to live music. Things happened.

The band's last gig was Coria's daughter's wedding in February 2015. It wasn't really a gig. They just got up and played a few tunes.

Coria, by now retired from his day job, still taught and would occasionally take a gig if the money was right, and he liked the musicians.

But now, at 70, he's mostly retired. He enjoys doing what he wants and having reduced responsibilities, being able to take off for the winter for Florida or South Carolina.

He sometimes thinks about his brush with the big time. But he has no regrets.

"I've always been on the fringe," he said. "The closest I came, I guess, was when I was out in Vegas. But the music business can be very, very cruel. If I'd stayed out there, I would have missed out on a lot. It's no life if you want to have a family, which I wanted. And I would have missed out on the best musical experience of my life."

Mike Argento's column appears Mondays and Fridays in Living and Sundays in Viewpoints. Reach him at (717) 771-2046 or at mike@ydr.com.