No, it’s not a Jimmie Lunceford original.  But I just read a newspaper profile by Rachel Swan devoted to the drummer Donald Bailey (whose work I know from recordings he made with Jimmie Rowles) where he spoke about being a young player in Philadelphia.  These words leaped out at me (italics mine):

Bailey started playing drums as a preteen by practicing along with his brother’s records. His timing couldn’t have been better: Be-bop had become the avant-garde, and Philly was a veritable hotbed of it. John Coltrane, Bud Powell, Lee Morgan, Stanley Turrentine, Buster Williams, Jimmy Smith, Dizzy Gillespie, and Charlie Parker all lived in Philly at some point in their careers — and that’s only a partial list. Unknowns like Bailey would hobnob with these elder statesmen at places like the Blue Note Club and get whatever they could get. At that time, the scene was more of a meritocracy, said Bailey. “Nowadays, anybody can get up on the bandstand and play. We couldn’t do that when I was coming up,” the drummer said. “You just couldn’t do it. You would either be too embarrassed or they would embarrass you. They would take you by your pants and throw you out the door.”

Consider that, dear readers.  The full piece can be found here:

http://www.eastbayexpress.com/music/an_old_blueprint_made_new/Content?oid=1228901

Two items from eBay form a lovely combination. 

The first is a Bunny Berigan autograph.  Too bad that the original owner snipped out the signature and glued it to the page, but who knew about acid-free paper and archival storage then?  Probably (s)he just waggled an autograph book open to a blank page in front of Berigan, who signed his name in the neat handwriting characteristic of the time.  

Bunny, not surprisingly, idolized Louis Armstrong — and said in an interview that all a trumpeter on the road needed was a toothbrush and a picture of Louis.  For his part, Louis said, “Bunny can’t do no wrong in music.”  They knew.    

Then there’s the photograph below — the Voice of America jazz commentator Willis Conover (who made jazz accessible behind the Iron Curtain) seated with Louis himself, sometime in the late Fifties. 

Many YouTube videos of jazz performances are exuberant hot music, nearly violent in their emotional effect. 

This tribute to Bix Beiderbecke’s early life, created by Mook Ryan, is something different.  It beautifully melds photographs of Bix’s early life with his composition FLASHES played by Chris Hopkins and Bernd Lhotzky.  And Mook’s video does what great art, deeply understood, should do.  Hearing the music and seeing the panorama, we celebrate Bix and mourn him.  Beautiful, triumphant, evocative, and sad. 

I celebrate Flemming Thorbye again for sharing this clip from Danish television (October 2008).  In it, Joe Muranyi talks about Louis Armstrong and plays YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE, warming up with the Scandinavian Rhythm Boys.  Joe’s candid recollections of Louis and WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD are priceless, as is the music.  If American television was like this, I would still have my set.

My title comes from a 1939 Count Basie Decca record featuring sweet Helen Humes, wondrous Lester Young, odd lyrics, and a difficult arrangement that Jo Jones said that gave the band trouble.  But this post is about the DARK RAPTURE found Sunday nights at the Ear Inn (326 Spring Street, 8-11 PM) when Jon-Erik Kellso and Matt Munisteri (or their friends) co-lead The EarRegulars.  Last night was an extra-special quartet: Jon-Erik and Matt, tenor saxophonist Harry Allen, bassist Neal Miner.  And the Ear is very dark, the jazz often rapturous.  Here are three performances by this intimate, intuitive group. each player visibly and audibly inspiring the others.   

After a trotting Buck Clayton blues, SWINGIN’ AT THE COPPER RAIL, Jon-Erik suggested a song by another trumpet player named Louis, SOMEDAY YOU’LL BE SORRY, at a bouncing tempo:

One of the great virtue of the EarRegulars is their broad and deep repertoire: they know many songs that aren’t SATIN DOLL.  Matt loves to play TISHOMINGO BLUES, and Jon-Erik likes LOUISIANA, AIN’T CHA GLAD? and HAPPY FEET — the latter associated with Bing Crosby and the Rhythm Boys, but recorded most memorably by the 1933 Fletcher Henderson band (the magical group with Henry “Red” Allen, Dicky Wells, Coleman Hawkins, Hilton Jefferson, and Walter Johnson).  It’s one of those songs that, played properly, rocks by itself.  (Incidentally, must I point out that it has nothing to do with a recent animated film about penguins?):

And the last few days in New York (or perhaps the Northeast) have been atypically warm and balmy — so Jon-Erik said, “We really have to play INDIAN SUMMER,” and they did, beautifully:

(I stopped recording at ten minutes — attempting to placate YouTube — so that viewers must imagine a few more notes of the coda.)

Such music makes the darkness shine!

Readers may recall my post about this Harry Woods song — the sheet music a recent eBay purchase whose cover has Bobby Hackett looking solemn.  The music itself came today (the melody is truly dumb) and I now understand Hackett’s expression, the face of a man wishing to be far from this song. 

Maestro!  Let’s all sing!  

(Verse)

Look at me, look at you, Here we are, feeling fine, There’s no rhyme or reason to be this way.  There’s a place that I know, Where all happy people go, Wait’ll you hear them singing, You’ll laugh when you hear them say,

(Chorus)

All night long the glasses tinkle, While outside the raindrops sprinkle,

Do you think a little drink’ll do us any harm?

I love you and you love me, The world is flat and so are we,

So do you think a little drink’ll do us any harm?

In a corner just for two, a sparkling glass before us,

With a spoon we’ll play a tune then all join in the chorus,

All night long the glasses tinkle, While outside the raindrops sprinkle,

Do you think a little drink’ll do us any harm?

Now . . . rhyming “tinkle” and “drink’ll” isn’t Larry Hart.  I can find ”The world is flat and so are we,” funny, but it takes effort. 

Here’s the COMPOSER’S NOTE, which takes up the inside front cover.  Crucial!

To get the most out of this song, it is important to obtain the “Tinkle” effect while performing or playing this number.  It will not only brighten the distinctiveness of the song but will also prove to be highly entertaining.  Place two glasses (or liquid receptacles) on the table a few inches apart.  Tap with a glass mixer (kinfe, fork, spoon or muddler) keeping time from one to the other – one tap for each note — keeping time with the music.  This gives the “Tinkle” effect.

Did the Hackett band take up their liquid receptacles and tinkle away?  The mind reels.  This goofy song makes an ounce more sense when you realize that it dates from 1931 — intended for people drunk on bootleg liquor.  But ”Poor Bobby!” is what I think.

Randy Sandke

Photographer John Herr captured some fascinating portraits at the October 2009 concert of the Dick Hyman Sextet at Hamilton College, featuring Hyman, Bucky Pizzarelli, Nicki Parrott, Jackie Williams, Randy Sandke, and Evan Christopher — playing the music that they’ve practiced all their lives, working hard at it to make it seem marvelous and effortless.  The joy and the risk-taking are shown in their faces:

Nicki Parrott

Dick Hyman

Jackie Williams

Bucky Pizzarelli

Evan Christopher

I don’t use those words lightly.  If you’ve never heard Chris play, go immediately to the clip below:

Think of delicacy and intensity in every phrase, his sound, his touch, his chord voicings — the subtlety of a great jazz musician who knows how to get inside Arthur Schwartz’s beautiful melodies while keeping a strong pulse going.  

I first heard Chris on a CD some years back with Hal Smith’s Rhythmakers — and then on a Marty Grosz session.  And I said aloud, “Who the hell is that?!” in the fashion of someone making an astonishing, delightful discovery.  “That boy plays fine piano!” is what I imagine Thomas Waller saying.  Or Jimmy Rowles.  Or Barry Harris.

And here’s more — one of my favorite bouncing Twenties love songs — played by a phenomenal small band.  How about Dan Barrett and Hal Smith rocking with Chris?  And two players who are new to me – Denny Hardwick (guitar), and Christoph Luty (bass).   Hilarious and perfectly apt quotations by Dan, and a beat that no one could stop from Hal, Denny, and Christoph. 

And the best news is that this is part of a new CD to be released by Chris Dawson. 

Is it too unsubtle to write in italics — “I want this CD now.  Not later, but now”? 

Watch this space: I hope to have more news of Chris Dawson and his good works.  He’s GOT it, as you can hear. 

Although I have tried to hear all the recordings Teddy Wilson ever made over more than half a century, the man himself was harder to find.  True, I did hear him in person several times at Newport Jazz Festival concerts in New York City, once at the Highlights in Jazz concert series, at The New School (alongside Claude Hopkins, Dill Jones, and Eubie Blake!), and once at a shopping mall, Roosevelt Field, where, in the winter of 1971, he was one of four or so jazz performers who had hour-long gigs among the shoppers.  (I recall that one other group was Roy Eldridge, an organist whose name I can’t recall, and the recently departed Eddie Locke; another was Joe Farrell, Wilbur Little, and Elvin Jones.  My friend Stu Zimny was there, too, and might have driven the car as well.)  Wilson brought with him the veteran bassist Al Lucas and drummer Gary Mure, son of the guitarist Billy Mure — if I remember correctly.  In his perfformance, Wilson did what had, by that time, become an “act”: his Benny Goodman medley, his Gershwin medley, his Fats Waller medley, his Count Basie medley — glistening but routine.  

I was a terribly earnest jazz-mad college student; one of my most precious records was the 1956 PRES AND TEDDY, reuniting Lester Young, Teddy, Gene Ramey, and Jo Jones.  After the concert was over, I stood by the piano, waiting patiently until some of the fans and hand-shakers had dispersed (perhaps some of them were telling how much they remembered Teddy’s work with the Benny Goodman Trio in 1935).  I shyly came up to Wilson, told him how much I admired his work and how much I loved this recording and would he sign it for me (all in one breath), and he gave me the faintest hint of a polite smile, said, “Thank you very much,” signed his name neatly and handed the record back to me.  And that was it.  

The photograph at the top of the page — with Teddy, Lester, and Jo — comes from that session, I believe. 

In retrospect, Teddy’s reticence makes a good deal of sense.  Playing music for shoppers can’t have been good for the psyche: Wilson logically would want to have collected his fee and gone home.  And he was perfectly polite: I just had the sense that talking to fans was alien, that I had unwittingly attempted to breach his privacy, the door had opened a crack and had closed quickly and decisively. 

I was reminded of this experience today in my small expedition to the New York State Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center. 

As someone whose fact-chasing predates the internet — I like doing research in libraries.  I’ve spent a good deal of my life in the stacks, or in Special Collections, or in handling one-of-a-kind documents (while protective librarians usually come up behind me and hiss that I am NOT to put my elbow on the page). 

Which brngs us back to Teddy Wilson.  Years ago, I found a 10″ lp on the Jolly roger label in a second-hand store (price four dollars) of his solo performances of songs I had never heard before — among them WHEN YOU AND I WERE YOUNG, MAGGIE — which I bought, clutching my treasure until the moment I could put it on the phonograph.  The solos were new to me, and they were splendid, including a version of I’LL SEE YOU IN MY DREAMS which had a sweet little descending figure in the bass after the first statement of the title phrase. 

Eventually I learned that these 1938-39 performances were part of a business enterprise called THE TEDDY WILSON SCHOOL FOR PIANISTS.  I don’t think Wilson was terribly ambitious, but he was looking for ways to capitalize on the fame and recognition his work with Goodman and Holiday had brought him in the second half of the Thirties.  And someone (was it Wilson?) suggested that he could set up a correspondence course for the young men and women who wanted to play in the Wilson manner.  Leo Feist and other music publishers had tried to capitalize on this by selling music books of Waller, Tatum, James P., and other pianists’ transcribed solos — how accurate the transcriptions were is always open to dispute.  Wilson’s “school” was different in one crucial aspect: at the end of his Brunswick sessions, he would record one or two solos, which would be pressed as 78 records with the SCHOOL label and sold through the mail, as well as transcriptions of what had been played.  Theoretically, the student could follow along — hearing the record and reading the score — to know exactly what Wilson was doing. 

In his oral history, TEDDY WILSON TALKS JAZZ, Wilson recalled this about the experience (an excerpt I found at www.doctorjazz.co.uk., a thrilling site for anyone interested in piano jazz and jazz arcana of the highest order):

I have done quite a bit of private teaching in my life, too, and the young people I’ve had as pupils have always been between sixteen and twenty years of age. At one time I had my own school in New York, “The Teddy Wilson School for Pianists,” from 1936 to 1939, with three excellent partners, and we turned out some very good students. J. Lawrence Cook was my chief assistant there and he was great on the theoretical side of the jazz piano and shaped the printed courses we had, containing sheet music of my improvisations on popular melodies. They proved very successful in teaching by mail. However, I had to give it up in the end because costs just kept soaring. Advertising and copyright payments were heavy items, especially as the latter were always for very popular songs. The other partners in my school were Eve Ross and Teddy Cassola. Their contribution rounded out the work done by the [sic] Cook and me. My having to be away traveling and performing so much of time led some to believe I only “fronted” the school. Not so. I was completely involved. [TW 110-111]

I have never seen an original SCHOOL 78, although a vinyl issue on one of Jerry Valburn’s collectors’ labels — probably Meritt — collected all the issued and alternate takes from this series, and I have it — a prize!  And later the SCHOOL recordings were issued chronologically on the Classics and Neatwork CDs.  (The Commodore Music Shop was involved in this project as well, so I think that the music was first “officially” reissued on the first Mosaic Commodore box set.

But ever since I’ve had a computer, I’ve been checking Google for the scores themselves.  I am a sub-amateur pianist, but I harbor the hope that if I had a Wilson score in front of me, something placid, not TIGER RAG, then perhaps I could spend a winter working my way through thirty-two bars.  (I have the “Teddy Wilson” music books from the Thirties and Forties, but don’t trust them.)

Nothing emerged in cyberspace until a year or so ago, when I found that the Performing Arts Library (in the Lincoln Center complex) had an entry for the scores.  It seems that an American composer-pianist-arranger named Brainerd Kremer left his papers to the library, and in one of the boxes he had a set of the Wilson School scores. 

I filed this information away in the back of my mind until today, when I found myself with several hours of free time twenty blocks north of Lincoln Center, and set out, a brave researcher in search of the jazz Grail. 

The quest required a series of small perseverances on my part, taking me from one floor of the library to the other.  I hadn’t had a New York Public Library card for nearly fifteen years, so I had to reapply for one (simple and pleasant), had to log onto their system and find my way (reasonably simple), had to explain myself to the reference librarian (easy and quite pleasant) and then take my slip of paper to the third-floor Special Collections print department, hand it in, and wait for my number — 24 — to be displayed on the indicator above.  They were both busy and understaffed, so the ten minutes I had been told it would take turned out to be more like thirty-five, but then 24 was visible and I approached the desk.  The pleasant young woman had nothing in her hands but a piece of paper, always a bad sign, and she politely told me that they could not find what I was asking for, but that I should give them my name, phone, and email, and they would call me in a week if they found it. 

I hope they do, even if I have to buy a pad of music staff paper and start copying (for nothing so simple as photocopying happens without labyrinthine restrictions in most Special Collections) but I’m not optimistic.  Do any of my readers have a copy of the Wilson scores they wouldn’t mind lending me?  Or any good suggestions?  I need to learn how to play I’LL SEE YOU IN MY DREAMS as Teddy did.  I know this.  And I would hate to think that the elusive Mr. Wilson had eluded me after death in the library, too.

If you saw the title and assumed that this was a Sonny Rollins tribute band, get that thought right out of your head.  As much as I admire Rollins, the tenor saxophone is sufficiently well-established in jazz so that it doesn’t need the extra publicity.

No, TENOR MADNESS looks like this:

I’m only sorry that the picture is bite-sized, for it captures Phil Flanigan, heroic bassist, his wife Hanna Richardson, a wonderfully unaffected yet hip singer (and tenor guitarist), and Tom Bronzetti (also on tenor guitar).  Oh, say can they swing! 

They have a MySpace page, where you can hear them and see where they are playing next: http://www.myspace.com/tenorguitarmadness. 

I’ve been an admirer of Hanna and Phil’s for some years now, ever since I was asked to review their first CD (on the LaLa label) for the late lamented Mississippi Rag — I became a fan as well as a convert to their insouciant swing.  Jazz party producers, are you paying attention?  This trio is compact yet their swinging music pours out generously.  And they don’t care if the piano in your living room is out of tune.  I predict great things!

Deep thanks to my fellow jazz cinematographer, Flemming Thorbye — http://www.thorbye.net – who took his video camera to the Kulturhus Brønden, Brøndby Strand, Denmark, on October 25, 2009, to capture three songs by the Scandinavian Rhythm Boys with Joe Muranyi as their esteemed guest star.  The SRB consist of Robert Hansson, trumpet; Frans Sjostrom, bass sax; Ole Olsen, bass; Michael Bøving, banjo/vocal. 

Perhaps it’s their tempos, their choice of songs, their incredible feeling — but I felt as if Louis was everywhere on that stage.  Not that the players copied his solos — but his intensity and his eloquence.  See if you don’t feel it, too.

First, a stately NEW ORLEANS — even though Boving does his own version of Carmichael’s lyrics, the spirit resonates fervently:

Much beloved of Jimmie Noone and Nat Cole, SWEET LORRAINE:

Finally, a walking SUNNY SIDE OF THE STREET:

Bless all of them for their willingness to show their feelings.  And what feelings they are!  Visit the SRB website to learn about the band, to hear performances, and to buy their CDs.  (http://www.srbjazz.com) And bless Thorbye for sharing this very moving music.

I paid a visit to eBay not long ago to search for my usual favorites, among them Bobby Hackett.  The expected records and compact discs were all there, but this was new:

Stops you cold, doesn’t it?

Reader, I bid on it.  And now it’s MINE!  (Awaiting delivery, mind you, but I am a patient fellow.)  I could ruminate here about the practice of musicians, singers, and vaudevillians paying to have their portraits put on the covers of sheet music, and wonder if Feist paid Hackett or Hackett actually agreed to have his big band play THE TINKLE SONG in hopes that it would be a hit.  Harry Woods (of TRY A LITTLE TENDERNESS and many others) had been successful, although THE TINKLE SONG seems to have perished without so much as a . . . trace.  On that subject, Paul Riseman, seller-extraordinaire of sheet music, has offered a copy of STAIRWAY TO THE STARS, presumably the same vintage, with the same youthful Hackett photograph, and I once saw a sheet of the song LITTLE SKIPPER with the same photo. Aside from STAIRWAY, the other two songs offer sad evidence of just how low the Hackett band was in the eyes of song-pluggers, don’t they? 

I will report on the lyrical-musical content of the song when I get the sheet music and peruse the lyrics.

THE BRONZE MESSENGER, by Ericka Midiri

I’m very happy to report that cornetist Danny Tobias has finally come out with his own CD, aptly called CHEERFUL LITTLE EARFUL – a subtle trio session, intimate yet propulsive.

I was fortunate enough to write the very brief notes for the CD:

Danny Tobias is an old-fashioned jazz player in the best modern way, at home in any swinging jazz context. Like his heroes Buck Clayton and Ruby Braff, he loves melody, his improvisations have a beautiful shape, and he is always recognizably himself. Danny didn’t learn his jazz from a textbook but through experience – early gigs with Ed Metz, Jr., Paul Midiri, and Joe Holt, and a fifteen-year musical apprenticeship with drummer Tony Di Nicola and master clarinetist Kenny Davern.

Kenny was an inspiration. He taught me what not to play, how to play in an ensemble, and how to construct a solo. He could build a solo as well as anyone who has ever played. Period. Tony and Kenny were always willing to teach me and I loved every night that I had the privilege to work with them. Since those two passed away I’ve been traveling with the Midiri brothers to festivals all over the country and leading my own groups whenever possible. It’s funny but when I looked at the tunes I’d picked for this CD almost all of them were written between 1925 and1935. I don’t think of these songs as old. They speak to me and remind me of Tony and Kenny.

When I asked Danny about his original compositions, he said, The names of my tunes are rather silly. I rehearse with an organ trio once a week in Trenton saxophonist Dom DeFranco’s cellar. Hence the name DOMINIC’S BIG CELLAR, which is based on LOVE ME OR LEAVE ME. When I brought up NO MATH, he just grinned. And the song with the most striking title has an intriguing explanation: HOW’S YOUR MOTHER was first written as a Christmas song for my three sons. The title comes from a gag of mine (with people I know very well): when someone mentions something off color or foul, I will say “How’s your mother?” as if the bawdy comment has jogged a memory.

Danny’s trio is completed by two very sympathetic and supportive players. Pianist Joe Holt is a fixture in jazz rooms along the Eastern Seaboard, and he and Danny have been playing together for years, often with the Midiri brothers. (You can see them on YouTube.) Gary Cattley has his Ph.D. from North Texas State University, plays tuba in addition to string bass, and appears with the Princeton Symphony as well as Marty Grosz.

This easy-going trio got together for sessions in summer 2009, with the head arrangements done by Danny. The results remind me of the finest sessions for Keynote Records in the Forties or the John Hammond sessions for Vanguard a decade later: neat but inspired. Each performance was completed in one or two takes. This CD captures the kind of jazz that musicians play for their own pleasure when only the attentive customers are in the club. It’s comfortable, late-evening music, from the sorrowing SAY IT ISN’T SO to the romping CHICAGO RHYTHM and the title tune, a perfect description of Danny Tobias’s jazz.

The disc is available from the modest, soft-spoken Mr. Tobias himself for $15.00.  Send check, cash, or other negotiable instruments to Danny at 38 Fenwood Avenue, Mercerville, New Jersey 08619.  More to come!

P.S.   When Dan Barrett started his New York City tour — sadly too brief — one of the first things he said to me was that he had played two concerts in New Jersey with a wonderful cornet player, Danny Tobias.  Did I know him?  (I murmured assent but Dan was so intent that I don’t know if it registered.)  That young Mr. Tobias was so good, so melodic that he reminded the elder Dan why he had taken up the cornet himself: to play the melody.  Dan (Barrett) continued, looking at me sternly, “You really ought to mention Danny in your blog,” and I happily said, “I have, at length, and he’s coming out with his own CD.  He’s a fine player and a fine person!”  All true!

I’m only up to page 138 — which is the year 1948 — in Robin D.G. Kelley’s monumental THELONIOUS MONK: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF AN AMERICAN ORIGINAL (Free Press, 2009, 588 pages) but I had to write something about this book now rather than waiting sedately until I finish it.  Kelley doesn’t need my enthusiasm, judging by the reviews and media coverage, but his book is seriously worthwhile.

It’s clearly the product of fourteen-plus years of research, and the result is thorough without being overwhelming.  Writing about Monk isn’t easy: previous studies have tended to overemphasize his “weirdness,” his apparent reclusiveness, his tendency towards gnomic utterances — as if saying, “Both the man and his music come from the same unreachable, inexplicable sources.”  But Kelley went to the most logical sources — the Monk family and friends — so that the portrait we get is not of someone strange and threatening, but the loving husband and parent.  This may seem a terrible cliche by now, but it’s a relief from those books that equate Genius with Madness or at least with Cruelties.  I find those equations wearisome.  Although Kelley doesn’t invent scenes of Monk going to Home Depot or being a secret suburbanite, it is reassuring to find that in some deep ways, he made sense — if not always to the prying world outside, at least to those who loved him.  (This demythologizing is welcome.) 

Kelley has also had the benefit of being able to speak at length with Monk’s manager, Harry Colomby, so that the book becomes far more than the record of a musician’s life — which often follows a predictable trajectory: early encounters with the music, youthful influences, first success, and then a boring chronicle of gigs and concerts.  About twenty percent of the anecdotes are familiar, but the rest are new and often greatly revealing.  Kelley, a jazz pianist himself, gets under the surface of Monk’s music without being overly technical.

He also grapples with two other issues: the role of the media in the Forties (often the role of people who earnestly wanted to make sure Monk received wide coverage) in making Monk “the High Priest of Bebop,” thus peculiar — because peculiarity brings people to clubs more than benign normality.  He has also faces the larger — and painful — question of Monk’s mental illness, or bipolar disorder, or chemical imbalance . . . call it what you will — honestly rather than speculatively.  I haven’t yet read enough of the book to see how he takes on the unanswerable question, “If Monk had been medicated early, if he had been a compliant patient, if more had been known, would he have been happier?  And would we have those astonishing records?”

Reviewers have to complain about something so that readers know they are attempting to be objective, so I have two Official Complaints.  Kelley doesn’t mention that Louis Armstrong made influential records of JUST A GIGOLO and BYE AND BYE — material that receives some emphasis in the text.  And, perhaps in his desire to be unbuttoned, friendly rather than academic, Kelly is occasionally a bit too casual, too slangy for me.  Monk may have called it “reefer,” and Bessie Smith did, but Kelley’s hipness rings false. 

But I am a seriously finicky reader . . . and if these are the only things I could find to complain about, it has to be a beautifully written and carefully documented book.  Thrilling, even, in its diligence, intelligence, and compassion.

When Dan Barrett was in New York City — playing exquisitely — he offered me a flyer for the July 5-11, 2010, workshop detailed below.  It’s very exciting — the chance for the amateur musicians all around the world to perfect their jazz skills in the old-fashioned way, by learning from the Masters.  My instrumental skills would still need a few years of serious polishing before they would let me in the gate, but surely some of my readers would have a fine time here. 

Or it could be a splashing birthday present for the jazz savant in your household!

Jazzin’ July – workshop 2010                  

5th to 11th july 2010

1 week workshop, classic jazz music:

Jazzin’ July, hosted in the idyllic Golden Tulip Jagershorst, Eindhoven NL, is one of the few workshops dedicated to the instruction of classic jazz music.  For this week an international team of teachers, led by Frank Roberscheuten, has been selected based upon their excellent reputation as performers and their ability to motivate and guide students.  A main feature of the course is the focus on playing in bands which develops your knowledge and feeling for various styles such as Blues, New Orleans and Swing. In the daily lessons you will work on the optimal control of your instrument, while emphasis will be given to technique, harmony, improvisation and interpretation. Jazzin’ July is oriented toward practice and competence, aiming to prepare you for actual performance work and to give a new impulse on your personal development.

 Teachers

Howard Alden (guitar & banjo, USA) – www.howardalden.com

Karel Algoed (bass & sousaphone, B) – www.swingcats.nl

Dan Barrett (trombone, USA) – www.blueswing.com

Colin Dawson (trumpet, GB) – www.echoes-of-swing.de/dawson.htm

Shaunette Hildabrand (vocal, USA) – www.swingcats.nl

Chris Hopkins (saxophone, D) – www.hopkins.de

Bernd Lhotzky (piano, D) – www.lhotzky.com

Oliver Mewes (drums, D) – www.echoes-of-swing.de/mewes.htm

Frank Roberscheuten (saxophones & clarinet, NL) – www.swingcats.nl

Engelbert Wrobel (saxophones & clarinet, D) – www.swingsociety.de

 Programme

Monday 5/7 - 18-19: welcome and introduction, 19-21: dinner, 21-24+: jam session

Tuesday 6/7 - 10-12: courses, 12.30-14: lunch, 15-17: courses, 19-21: dinner, 21-24+:  jam session

Wednesday 7/7- 10-12: courses, 12.30-14: lunch, 15-17: courses, 19-21: dinner, 21-24+: jam session

Thursday 8/7 – 10-12: courses, 12.30-14: lunch, 15-17: courses, 19-21: dinner, 21-24+: jam session

Friday 9/7 – 10-12: courses, 12.30-14: lunch, 15-17: courses, 18-21.30: exclusive Jazz Dinner presenting the Jazzin’ July Teachers Band, 22-01+: jam session

Saturday 10/7 – 10-12: courses, 12-14: lunch, 15-17: courses, 18-21.30: exclusive Jazz Dinner presenting the Jazzin’ July Teachers Band, 22-01: Student’s Concert

Sunday 11/7 – 10-11: breakfast and farewell

 Golden Tulip Jagershorst, Eindhoven NL

In the beautiful nature of the Leenderbos woods, one can find hotel Golden Tulip Jagershorst Eindhoven. The city of Eindhoven can be reached by car within 15 minutes and the hotel is easy to reach from the A2. Guests can park their car at the hotel for free. During a stay there are numerous possibilities to explore the countryside, the historic buildings and quaint villages in the vicinity. The surroundings are perfect for a walk, a bicycle ride and horseback riding.  The hotel has uniquely decorated rooms that are equipped with amenities such as a bath tub, an LCD television, internet and a minibar. Guests can make free use of the wellness center (including sauna and swimming pool). In the hotel there is a brasserie and a bar, where one can enjoy drinks and nice dishes. On sunny days guests can take a seat on one of the hotel’s two outside terraces and enjoy the weather.

Rates

Participants

single room – full board

+ workshop + jazz dinners                 € 960,- pp

Companions

full board (per night)                    € 75,- pp

(supplementary charge of €25,- for each jazz diner)

!  Attention: final date for registration is februari 1, 2010

For information regarding the Jazzin’ July Workshop contact:

Frank Roberscheuten, Bleekstraat 11, 3930 Achel, Belgium

tel & fax +32 11 515326

frank.roberscheuten@planet.nl

Visitors

Jagershorst will be serving an exclusive 4 course Jazz Dinner (beverages included) on both Friday and Saturday, 18.00 till 21.30. Between courses guests will be treated to a unique musical intermezzo from the superlative Jazzin’ July Teachers Band.

4 course dinner (bev. incl.)                        € 65,- pp

Jagershorst Single special: 4 course dinner (beverages incl.)

+ single room + breakfast                         € 125,- pp

Jagershorst Double special: 4 course dinner (beverages incl.)

+ double room + breakfast                        € 215,- 2ps

To make reservations for  the Jazz Dinner contact:

Golden Tulip Jagershorst

Valkenswaardseweg 44, 5595 XB Leende

The Netherlands

Tel +31 40 2061386

Fax +31 40 2062755

info@goldentulipjagershorst.nl

www.goldentulipjagershorst.nl

The photographs Charles Peterson took offer magic windows into places and emotions we would otherwise never experience.  Here’s what he captured on a truly magical afternoon in 1942, shared with us through the generosity of his son, Don.

It’s a jam session – hardly unusual for Peterson — but this is no ordinary gathering.       

This jam session didn’t take place at some smoky Fifty-Second Street club or a hotel ballroom, but at the Walt Whitman School where Don was a fifth-grade student.  Whitman was an extremely forward-looking school, whose students got to see foreign films, adventurous art, and more.  So when Charles Peterson suggested that some of his musician friends might come down and play for the kids, none of the administrators raised a worried eyebrow. 

Peterson, I assume, had more than one motive — staging a jam session with the finest musicians he knew would bring pleasure to everyone, and the photographs that resulted might very well be charming enough (Hot Jazz in the Schoolroom; Hot Jazz Goes to School) that a major magazine would want to buy them.  Hot jazz, good publicity for the musicians, possibly a paying gig for the photographer.  Considering that Eddie Condon and friends — including Joe Sullivan and Pee Wee Russell, depicted below – were also playing odd daytime gigs in Lord and Taylor’s for the holiday shoppers, any way to let people know about the gospel of Hot would have been welcome.     

I’m sure that Peterson asked his friend Eddie to get the musicians together.  And it’s a tribute to how much these men would have looked forward to playing alongside one another that they woke up early for a non-paying gig, no drinks and nothing to smoke in sight.  For the kiddies!    

To begin: Max Kaminsky, Brad Gowans, Pee Wee Russell, Joe Sullivan, Eddie Condon, Zutty Singleton, perhaps a group Condon had assembled for nighttime work at Nick’s in Greenwich Village:

The band first: Sullivan is poised to launch a powerful right-hand chord, perhaps one of his ringing, thunderous octaves; Zutty is bent attentively over the cymbal, his face both serious and contented.  Pee Wee is, for once, not caught in brave-explorer anguish.  Kaminsky is watching Gowans, who is intent, and Condon is gleefully vocalizing (exhorting, encouraging) and grinning.  In fact, Condon looks even more gleeful than usual: his face looks cherubic, transported, the same age as the students!  

Don pointed out — with amusement — the little boy on the left who is, for the moment, sorry that he has pushed his way into the front row, and is now holding his hands over his ears against the volume.

But there’s more here.  The settling is so atypical — to find these musicians in a large, well-ornamented room (note the plaster decorations on the wall) — is so far from the usual “night club” world of smoke and darkness, that it lends this photo a Magritte aura, as if two worlds have been superimposed on one another, peacefully but oddly.  The effect is intensified when we see those boys and girls, their school clothes all quite neat, except for one little boy in the rear who seems to have gotten the seat of his trousers dirty from his shoes.  Even from the rear, they look so beautifully-tended, as if they should be singing Christmas carols rather than hearing this band explore SOMEDAY SWEETHEART.

One other photographic digression.  I don’t know the speed of Peterson’s exposure, but think it might have been longer than we are accustomed to in this century.  So did he often opt to photograph the musicians when they were holding whole notes (or “footballs”) behind a soloist, expecting that they would be holding still?  I wonder.   

Now to the full band.  If you asked Bobby Hackett if he would like to play his horn alongside his idol, he wouldn’t have had to think about his answer.  And when Louis had a choice (say, at the 1970 Newport Jazz Festival tribute to him which had what seemed like a dozen trumpeters ready to accompany him), he only wanted “little Bobby Hackett,” who found those “pretty notes,” every time.

This famous shot has sometimes been cropped because of its imperfections, such as the soft focus on Gowans and Hackett, and the lighting making Louis’s very sharp suit look just this side of garish.  But the overall effect suggests that Louis is divine or at least from another planet, and has brought his own luminescence with him — a jazz god who has decided to play at being a mortal for an afternoon.  And the viewer’s eye is inextricably drawn to the glowing bell of Louis’s horn — from whence all good things came. 

(It is possible that the group shot below was taken before the close-up, but I trust my readers will not object excessively.)

Can you imagine the sound coming from that now-crowded bandstand?  Its embodiment is on the face of the smiling little girl, whose profile we see at the right.

I would draw your attention to four faces in this photograph.  Louis is hitting a high note or making a point with all the sincere dramatic eloquence he could command.  Head thrown back with emotion, his neck full of energy, his hand on his heart.  And he’s delightedly making the music, with the music, and wholly IN the music.  Look at how lovingly and happily Zutty’s face echoes Louis’s — they went all the way back and had been the best of friends two decades earlier.  Hackett might be taking a breath, but it looks as if he’s ready to laugh with pure joy — as if he can’t contain himself.  And here we see the grown-ups.  Because this was a program for the boys and girls, the adults had to stay off to the side, but I delight in the woman who is to the extreme left, her grin perilously broad, having the time of her life.  (And the older woman who is standing behind her is almost as transported.)

In the late Bob Hilbert’s biography of  Pee Wee Russell, I found this: “Another special date was a benefit at the “progressive” Walt Whitman School in New York in which the guest of honor was Louis Armstrong.  Louis jammed with the Condon band, but the trumpeter drew the line at singing the blues because, as he explained, the only ones he could remember were dirty and not fit for the kids.  For more than an hour, the band thrilled the students and an overflow crowd of adults as well” (141).  

Maybe Louis reached back to 1936 and sang PENNIES FROM HEAVEN for the kids, with its optimistic message, or reminded them that “When you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you!” 

This photograph, not irrelevantly, reaches forward to Nina Leen’s shots of Louis at the Eddie Condon Floor Show, telling the story of THE THREE BEARS to the children, and the famous shot of Louis in Corona, on the porch, with two little boys, one of whom is paying homage to his friend and idol with a plastic toy trumpet.  Maybe some jazz musicians are hard-pressed to be ideal parents, but Louis deserved a troop of children of his own.  Alas. 

Speaking of children: during a break between numbers, we find Pee Wee as kindly uncle (his usual nature), perhaps responding to the little girl at the bottom right who is smiling).  Louis is holding court, telling a story — look at Hackett’s face!  Condon is watching everything. 

But my attention is always drawn to the little girl in the front row who has turned her head and is clearly saying something defensive or offensive to the child near her.  Those of us who recall elementary school or have taught it know that expression well.  It’s trouble, and whether it’s ”Sally stepped on my dress!” or “Make Timmy stop pulling my hair!”  It doesn’t bode well.  But chaos threatens only when the music isn’t playing.  Music hath charms, we know . . .

Harmony reigns over the land.  That same little girl is now transfixed by the sound of Louis’s horn, its bell less than two feet from her face.  She doesn’t need to clap her hands over her ears.  If she could have gotten closer, she would have, for she knows what she’s hearing!

None of the musicians in this photograph are alive (Max Kaminsky left us in 1994) and most of those boys and girls would be in their eighties now . . . but if any of them see these photographs, I would give a great deal to hear their memories of that afternoon.

As I’ve written, part of the essential charm of these photographs is that Peterson took his camera to places most of us never got to visit.  I wasn’t born in 1942, and if you count up the people in this room, perhaps fifty mortals were able to have this experience.  And it seems to me that the Walt Whitman School is no longer in existence.  So these photos are gifts to us, welcoming us into worlds now long gone.  But Peterson’s gift was also in what he saw and captured for us.  These are living examples of Peterson’s most generous art.

To have the man you consider one of the greatest photographic artists capture your heroes at work and play . . . what could be better?

I am happy to present three of Charles Peterson’s on-the-spot portrait studies of Bobby Hackett and Pee Wee Russell in their native habitat.  Hackett met Russell when Bobby was quite young, and, much later, credited Pee Wee with “teaching him how to drink,” not the best lesson. 

But if you listen to their playing — captured on records for more than twenty-five years – they were busy teaching each other more salutary things.  Standing next to Russell on a bandstand would have been a joyously emboldening experience: “Here, kid, close your eyes and jump off.  Nothing to be afraid of!”  Pee Wee’s willingness to get himself into apparently impossible corners was always inspiring.  “What could possibly go wrong?”  And, for Russell, having Hackett nearby, that sound, those lovely melodies, that sensitivity to the harmonies, would have been soul-enhancing: “Listen to the beautiful chorus the kid just played!” 

The portrait above was taken at one of the Sunday afternoon jam sessions at Jimmy Ryan’s, January 19, 1941, and it presents another Ideal Moment in Time and Space that Peterson captured.  It’s possible that Brad Gowans (playing his “valide,” a combination slide / valve trombone of his own manufacture). Bobby, and Pee Wee are doing nothing more adventurous than holding whole notes behind someone else’s solo: they seem remarkably easy, effortless.  But that would have been enough for me. 

They all look so young.  And — adopting the slang of the period — spiffy.  Pee Wee’s crisp suit, folded pocket handkerchief; Brad’s bowtie; their hair, neatly slicked back.  Of course, the combination of Pee Wee’s height and the low ceiling — as well as the angle of Peterson’s shot — makes the three men seem too big for the room.  Which, in terms of their talent, was always true.

As always with Peterson’s work, I find the details I didn’t catch immediately are as enthralling as the big picture.  There’s another musician on the stand — a drummer I can’t immediately identify.  Is it Zutty Singleton?  He is hidden behind Gowans, both the man and the instrument, and less than half his face is visible.  But from what we can see, he is taking it all in, delighted. 

This photograph, with Eddie Condon’s taciturn caption, “TRIO,” appears in the irreplaceable EDDIE CONDON’S SCRAPBOOK OF JAZZ, assembled and edited by Hank O’Neal — one of the many things we have to thank Mr. O’Neal for.

The next view comes from a rehearsal for a Commodore Records date a few years earlier — I believe in the rather claustrophoblic Brunswick studios.   (It seems that every studio of that time except for Victor’s Camden church and Columbia’s Liederkrantz Hall stifled both the sound and the musicians.  That so much stirring jazz was captured in such circumstances makes me agree with Norman Field who said, “Can you imagine what those guys sounded like live?”).  The recognizable figures are again Bobby and Pee Wee, with Bud Freeman to the right.  The man I didn’t recognize until Don Peterson identified him, second from left, is jazz enthusiast and amateur drummer Harry Ely.  This is a rehearsal rather than a jam session, so it’s possible that the three men are trying out chords for a background,  Russell and Freeman are intent, but Hackett is at his ease.  His shirt-sleeve is neatly rolled up (revealing his boyish, thin arm), he holds the horn casually.  Musicians dressed beautifully for recording sessions even when no photographers were present — their habit and custom! — thus the neckties and suspenders, the fresh white shirts. 

Here, again, the photograph can’t convey the sound these men made.  And if you were new to the art and had been handed the photograph, it would just seem reasonably antique: three men in archaic dress with instruments to their lips, a metal folding chair, its paint worn off in spots, in front.  But look at Ely’s face!   Head down, a mild smile, eyes closed to block off any visual distraction — although he never got to make a record, he is IN the music, serene and thrilled.

Finally, a photograph from one of the “Friday Club” sessions at the Park Lane Hotel, circa 1939, with an unusual lineup.

Of course, that’s Eddie Condon on the left, Hackett, Zutty Singleton at the drums, Jimmy Dorsey on alto sax, left-handed Mort Stuhlmaker at the bass, and the intrepid Mr. Russell on the far right.  Condon is exhorting as well as strumming, and everyone else is floating along (Dorsey watching Condon to see what will happen next). 

Pee Wee has struck out for the Territory, jazz’s Huckleberry Finn, and where he’s going is not only uncharted and exciting but the journey requires every bit of emotional and physical effort.  I can hear a Russell wail soaring above the other horns.  And — perhaps as a prefiguring? — Russell’s face, almost cavernous with the effort, is an unearthly echo-in-advance of the famously skeletal man in the hospital bed in 1951, when Jack Teagarden and Louis Armstrong came to comfort and solace him. 

After Russell’s death, Hackett wrote of his friend, “Pee Wee and I were very close friends for many years and what little musical knowledge I may have I owe plenty to him.  He was truly a great artist and a very honorable man.  His music will live forever, along with his wonderful spirit.  I’m sure we all miss him, but thank God he was here.”

I feel much the same way about Charles Peterson, who saw, recorded, and preserved marvels for us.

The singer Hanna Richardson is one of our hidden treasures — lightly swinging, earnest without being over-serious, matching her mood to the song.  I’ve most often heard her alongside bassist Phil Flanigan (her husband), guitarist Chris Flory, and others of equal stature.  Here she is, cheerfully sweeping away the potential angst of Billie Holiday’s FOOLIN’ MYSELF, accompanying herself adroitly on the tenor guitar, with the nifty piano playing of Patti Wicks to keep things slyly rocking.  A treat!  And I was informed of this YouTube clip by another rare and splendid singer, Melissa Collard.

As the waitperson says when (s)he sets your salad down in front of you, “Enjoy!”

Agustin Perez Gasco is the sole proprietor of the wondrous blog MULE WALK AND JAZZ TALK.  Its website’s name, http://thereisjazzbeforetrane.blogspot.com., says a good deal about his ideological bent, one that I certainly share. 

I am convinced that Agustin is the sorcerer of jazz paper — newspaper clippings, old magazines, anything remotely connected with wood pulp and swing. But he’s outdone himself this time.  See this 1929 advertising flyer, which contains multitudes:

First, I was astonished by LOU.  Louis himself referred to Luis Russell on recordings as “Lou,” but I can’t think of an example on record where someone calls him (Mr. Strong) anything but Dipper or Papa Dip or Satchelmouth or Louis (pronounced Lew-is, not Loo-ie).    I like “Ball Room,” too: perhaps the printer thought it was more high-class to make it into two words.  And that picture, so distant to us now, was a fairly recent one of the star (who would be in front of “America’s Greatest Broadcasting Orchestra,” suggesting of course that they were on the radio.  Acetates, anyone? 

I hope that the letter from Carroll and Lou brought many thousand friends in!  And that everyone, uplifted by a man who was “rarin’ to go,” with a trumpet “too tight,” was ready to sing I CAN’T GIVE YOU ANYTHING BUT LOVE — starting with the verse.

And, just when I was about to content myself with this “borrowing,” which I mean only to shine some light on Agustin’s noble works for those who might not know his blog, he came up with this one.

A scholarly study of Tommy Ladnier.  What?!

On his blog, I found out about this new book, published in a limited edition of 500 copies by two French jazz scholars — TRAVELING BLUES — devoted to the little-known but eloquent and short-lived trumpeter Tommy Ladnier, someone who recorded with Ida Cox, Lovie Austin, Sidney Bechet, and other luminaries.  Visit  http://www.jazzedit.org/Traveling-blues.html for details.  The book looks remarkably detailed; it can be purchased with a CD that contains (in mp3) form all of Ladnier’s 189 recordings.  It’s a delight that Ladnier should be so splendidly celebrated: he was a great, thoughtful player with deep feeling.  I’ll have more to say about this enterprise when my copy arrives!

THANK YOU, Agustin!

I’ve given up on academic conferences — but this is one I can recommend, not only for its Exalted Subject, but for the Presenters.  And it’s free / open to the public, too:

LOUIS ARMSTRONG SYMPOSIUM, November 21, 2009   9:00 AM – 5:00 PM, at the College of Staten Island (CUNY: City University of New York), 2800 Victory Boulevard, Staten Island, New York 10314 (609.936.3719).

On Saturday, November 21, 2009, a gathering of jazz scholars will present their research on various facets of Louis Armstrong’s life and music at CUNY’s College of Staten Island.  The event will take place from 9 AM to 5 PM in Building 1P, Room 120, the Recital Hall of CSI’s Center for the Arts.  It is open to the public and admission is free of charge.  However, due to limited seating capacity, advance reservation is strongly suggested.

To make reservations and for more information, contact William R. Bauer at: 718-982-2534, or at thearmstrongsymposium@gmail.com.  For those who will drive, parking will be available in Lots 1 and 2. For directions to the College of Staten Island, visit the college website (click on prospective students and then on visit our campus): <http://www.csi.cuny.edu/prospectivestudents/visit.html>.  For a campus map, go to: <http://www.csi.cuny.edu/prospectivestudents/maps.html>

The Louis Armstrong Symposium will feature a keynote address by Dan Morgenstern, jazz historian, author, editor, archivist, current Director of the Institute of Jazz Studies, and former chief editor of Down Beat.  Presenters include Ricky Riccardi, Michael Cogswell, John Szwed, James Leach, William R. Bauer, and Jeffrey Taylor.  In morning and afternoon sessions, each presenter will offer a distinct perspective on his subject.  Each session will be followed by an open-ended panel discussion and question-and-answer session that will elaborate on themes that emerged during the talks.  A conceptual jam session for jazz scholars, this format will give scholars and audience members alike a forum for in-depth discussion about Louis Armstrong’s musical and cultural legacy.

Ricky Riccardi, whose book about Louis Armstrong’s later years will be published in 2010, will use Armstrong’s renditions of “Back Home Again in Indiana” to challenge the negative critical reception that the trumpeter often received during the latter part of his career.

Michael Cogswell, Director of the Louis Armstrong House Museum and curator of the Louis Armstrong Archive at Queens College’s Benjamin S. Rosenthal Library, will share and discuss samples from Armstrong’s vast collection of LPs and 78s.

John Szwed, Professor of Music and Jazz Studies at Columbia University and John M. Musser Professor Emeritus of Anthropology, African American Studies, and Film Studies at Yale University, will explore Armstrong’s role in Orson Welles’s unfinished movie The Story of Jazz, and in other projects the filmmaker was working on in 1941.

James Leach, who teaches jazz history and theory at Grand Valley State University in Allendale, Michigan, will focus on Armstrong’s vocal and instrumental renditions of the Hoagy Carmichael classic “Stardust” to set in relief Armstrong’s approach to singing and trumpet playing.

William R. Bauer, from the College of Staten Island and CUNY Graduate Center faculties, will present research from his current book project, an investigation into the jazz vocal techniques Armstrong used in his early recordings.

Jeffrey Taylor, Director of the H. Wiley Hitchcock Institute for Studies in American Music and Professor of Music at Brooklyn College, who also teaches in the CUNY Graduate Center’s Ph.D. Program in Music and its American Studies Certificate Program, will consider the impact of various pianists on Armstrong’s work during the trumpeter’s Chicago years in the 1920s.

The scholarship presented at this symposium will both deepen and expand our understanding of this giant of twentieth-century music.  The Louis Armstrong Symposium is produced with funding from the CUNY Research Foundation, and with support from the College of Staten Island and the Center for the Arts.

The Perfect image (1932) below is a generous gift from Rob Rothberg, who has a collection that Philip Larkin would envy and a sensibility that Larkin would (at least in its more historical moments) share.  

This label always cheers me, because of the two figures (Arabic?  Indian?  Pre-Colombian?) at top who seem to be kneeling reverently, genuflecting if you will, to the shrine of Hot Jazz and Pop Music of the time.  Or they may well be worshipping Electricity.  I am also amused to find the title slightly elided or truncated: it was either I WOULD DO MOST ANYTHING FOR YOU or I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR YOU, perhaps depending on the sincerity of the singer at the moment — but the ARC people had only so much space available on the label.  So be it.  A great song, courtesy of the under-praised Claude Hopkins and the far less-acknowledged Alex Hill.  Bob Williams was, I believe, a trumpeter in Hopkins’ band. 

Does anyone know the verse?

The poet and acerbic jazz lover Philip Larkin wrote in ALL WHAT JAZZ (his collected jazz criticism) that he had spent his life waiting for a reissue of the 1932 sides issued under various permutations — mostly THE RHYTHMAKERS — featuring Henry “Red” Allen, Pee Wee Russell, Joe Sullivan, Fats Waller, Frank Froeba, Jack Bland, Eddie Condon, Al Morgan, Pops Foster, Zutty Singleton, Gene Krupa, Jimmy Lord, Happy Caldwell, Tommy Dorsey, and unique vocalizing by Billy Banks (also Chick Bullock and, happily, Allen himself). 

Having referred to this music in a previous post (FINE FIG JAM) I felt duty-bound to explore the web . . . these records have been in and out of circulation for eighty years now, in a variety of forms.  My CD, on the Collector’s Classics label, has the distinct advantage of being taken from original 78s remastered by my hero John R.T. Davies — but it was issued in 1992!  So, in the name of doing public service, I offer two YouTube clips of the RHYTHMAKERS.  Before you fall over in a faint, there’s no motion picture attached.  That may have to wait for the next life, I fear.  What the generous poster, who calls himself “formiggini,” has provided, is a slideshow of the participating musicians and a good transfer from a mint-copy CD.  Larkin, no doubt, would have had scathing things to say about a world where we could no longer hear records without going to the computer, but I worried that there might be someone in my audience who had never ever heard the fiery interplay of BUGLE CALL RAG (which features Allen, Russell, Sullivan, Condon, Bland, Morgan, Krupa, and Banks) and SPIDER CRAWL (Singleton on drums). 

Larkin thought all of jazz had declined from this point.  I can’t quite agree, but it surely is the apex of a particular kind of rare, cherished Hot Music.

BUGLE CALL RAG:

SPIDER CRAWL:

And if anyone needs a scholarly explication of the lyrics, I will happily provide one,