Like you, I tried to imagine all those players assembled in one place and failed. But everything is possible on YouTube. Melissa Collard called my attention to the Don Redman / Betty Boop clip, circa 1932-33.
Has anyone written a history of Max and Dave Fleischer and associates? I know there are Betty Boop fanciers, but I wonder about Fleischer’s choosing famous African-American jazz musicians and their bands in his cartoons. Did he love the music? Or was it because he could get these bands and players (think of Louis, Cab, and an uncredited Luis Russell ensemble) fairly inexpensively? Anyway, here is I HEARD:
The opening theme is CHANT OF THE WEED — the vipers’ theme song, punctuated by wood blocks and the oceanic swaying on beautifully-dressed musicians. Then we enter the deliciously surrealistic world of the Never Mine — the noon whistle eating its lunch, the beaver cooking pancakes on its tail. Not to mention the whole peristaltic underground travel system. All of this while Redman himself sings HOW’M I DOIN’? I hope he didn’t mind being transformed on film into a canine member of the waitstaff. Betty’s vocal (presumably that is Mae Questel) is also accompanied by a miniature mixed choir who pop in and out of the staircase in time.
When the lunch hour is through (note how that whistle lets everyone know) all the miners reverse their steps — going back under the shower which now rains down filth so they are suitably attired for the mine — to the strains of I HEARD. Don’t miss the cat-telephone-switchboard while Claude Jones, Ed Inge, and Bob Carroll have brief solo spots before Don’s vocal. It’s hard to keep up with the action of a terrifying descent down an elevator shaft (Betty, characteristically, loses her dress for a moment), ghosts playing baseball with a bomb — all the nightmare anyone could imagine while the Redman band plays goblin music. But everything ends well — the bomb does the miners’ work for them and they can go home to the strains of WEED, which is perhaps an in-joke here.
These cartoons happily mix the surreal and the swinging, the wild camera angles anticipating later films.
After that, almost anything would seem sedate. However, an Eddie Condon group (circa 1952) does its best in real time, no animation, working out on FIDGETY FEET with Wild Bill Davison, Cutty Cutshall, Ed Hall, Gene Schroeder, Condon himself, an off-camera Jack Lesberg, and Cliff Leeman. (I was reminded of this and the last clip by Loren Schoenberg.)
The Mob seems to be doing a gig on an aircraft carrier, but that’s of less import than the fine sound and the beautiful interplay of this group. They had performed FIDGETY FEET thousands of times at the club, so the routines are razor-sharp in performance, but what I delight in here is the collective exuberance, particularly that rhythm section. Cliff Leeman!
And watching a very expert and enthusiastic Gene Schroeder makes us remember just how much piano he played, night after night, without anyone paying sufficient attention. (He made one 78 session, four songs, as a leader, for the Black and White label, in 1944, but he deserved more.) And Condon himself, so often slyly categorized as someone who talked more than played and drank more than he talked, shows how he directed and drove this band. Imperishable stuff, fierce and compact at the same time.
Finally, how about seeing — not just hearing — Lester Young play POLKA DOTS AND MOONBEAMS?
The rhythm section on this Art Ford telecast (from 1958, I believe) is Ray Bryant on a terrible piano, a happy Vinnie Burke on bass, and an unacknowledged drummer who sweeps his brushes most respectfully. Yes, the clip is out of synch, but that adds to the poignant dreaminess of the performance, with Rex Stewart wandering in the shot. Since there’s so little Lester on film, this is even more precious.
What follows suggests that no one — at the moment — recognized how beautiful a performance it was, or perhaps it was just that Art Ford (and his passel or posse of jazz critics at home, ready to call in) had to “keep it rolling.” Sylvia Syms, with the same rhythm and a perky Rex Stewart offstage, wisely change the mood. Who would be foolish enough to follow Lester in the same lovely, mournful mood?
All the Olympians . . . .