CHARLES PETERSON’S VISION

This is the second part of what I hope will be a long series on the jazz photography of Charles Peterson, who mystically saw the essence of jazz.  00000005

Here’s Peterson the documentary photographer — his casual, offhanded shot of a quartet led by Sidney Bechet, who is characteristically both in command and absolutely at the service of the music he is creating, the experience ecstatic and powerful.  What I find fascinating are the expressions on the faces of his sidemen: Cliff Jackson (whom I remember seeing in later photographs as white-haired) looks up at the Master to see where the currents of music are going; Eddie Dougherty, a wonderful and little-known Brooklyn-born drummer, seems anxious, although he may have only been caught in mid-comment, and Wellman Braud is quietly gleeful, rocking in rhythm.  They seem small objects drawn into Bechet’s vortex.  The photo suggests that any cohesive jazz group forms itself into a unit, but each musician retains his or her essential personality, and in this picture we see the quiet tension between the Selves and the Community.  And this photo brings up another of Peterson’s unintended gifts to us: how many people ever were fortunate enough to be at the Mimo Club in Harlem to hear this quartet, much less at this moment on February 16, 1942?  But — with a substantial record collection, some memory and imagination — we can invent the music that this band is creating. 

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This is a new split-second capture from a famous jazz session and photo shoot: the Commodore Records session of April 20, 1939, where Billie Holiday recorded STRANGE FRUIT, YESTERDAYS, I GOTTA RIGHT TO SING THE BLUES, and FINE AND MELLOW.  The musicians are bassist Johnny Williams, trumpeter Frank Newton, altoist Stanley Payne, and tenorist Kenneth Hollon.  Billie is holding a long-noted syllable; is it the “Yes” in YESTERDAYS?  And she is very young, very beautiful, also giving herself up to the music, her hands folded, her eyes almost-shut, Peterson’s lighting capturing her mouth, chin, and throat.  What distinguishes this portrait from others at this session is Billie’s lovely and obviously-treasured fur coat.  I find it ironic, seventy years after the session, that there is such a gap between Billie in her fur — which she deserved more than anyone — and the material she sings with such deep emotion.  One song, most famous, describes lynchings in the South; another describes a “fine and mellow” lover who doesn’t treat his woman well; a third and fourth describe bygone happinesses, all gone now, and the blues one sings when one’s lover has left.  And Billie sang these four songs as if her heart would break . . . wearing that fur coat.  Later in the session, of course, she got warm and took it off.  And no doubt the irony didn’t occur to her and she would have laughed it off if someone pointed it out, “Lady, you look too good to be singing those blues!”00000010

Hard at work is all I can say.  The caption states that this is the Summa Cum Laude band — led in part by Bud Freeman, arrangements by valve-trombonist Brad Gowans — performing at Nick’s in December 1938.  The band must be negotiating some serious ensemble passage, for they all look so intent.  Bassist Clyde Newcome stares out into space, as does Pee Wee Russell; Gowans and Freeman, especially Brad, are watching the band warily, or perhaps Brad is reading the music off the stand in the center.  I would guess that the drummer is Al Sidell, but I would hope that it is Stan King* — drummers shuttled in and out of this band.  The rather somber effect of this picture suggests to me that the band is playing one of its medleys of current hits (you can hear them on the airshots in 1939-40 from Chicago’s Panther Room at the Hotel Sherman . . . grown men of this artistic stature playing SIERRA SUE, but what can I say?)  Serious business indeed.  (In his later comment, Mike Burgevin points out that I left out Max Kaminsky.  How did I do this?)  *Don Peterson confirmed that the drummer is indeed Stan King — one of jazz’s entirely forgotten men. 

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This photo lets me imagine a time before I was born when James P. Johnson could wear his pin-stripe suit and play the piano, which is what he was meant to do.  It was taken in 1946, on a “Jazz on the River” cruise organized by Rudi Blesh and Art Hodes to go up and down the Hudson River.  From left, there’s the hand of an unidentified bassist, James P., Baby Dodds, Marty Marsala on trumpet (with the appropriate handkerchief) and guitarist Danny Barker — some of the same crew who turned up on the THIS IS JAZZ radio broadcasts.   But my secret pleasure in this photograph comes from the pretty woman whose head seems (although much smaller) in the same plane as James P.’s.  She is tidily dressed; her cardigan, pulled together at the collar, reveals a neat floral blouse beneath; we sense that she wears a neat wool skirt.  Her eyeglasses gleam in Peterson’s flashbulb; her hair is demure; her modest lipstick is in place.  Her hands are decorously in her lap.  Yet it’s clear — although she is prim, restrained, the last person to whoop and knock over her highball — that she is deeply pleased by what she hears.  As much as Bechet or James P., she is in the grip of the music, wanting it to go on forever. 

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Berenice Abbott told Hank O’Neal that most of photography was having the patience to wait for the right moment.  I’ll end this series with a superbly right moment — with only two musicians, Eddie Condon and Bobby Hackett, playing at the “Friday Club” jam sessions held at the Park Lane Hotel in Manhattan — this one on February 17, 1939.  Hackett here is much as I remember him, up close, in 1972: a small, slender man, neatly dressed, dark eyebrows, thin wrists with black hair on them.  Here he is all of 24, and so small that while standing he is only inches taller than Condon, sitting.  The expression on his face might be a smile or it might be that he is working hard to bring off a particular nuanced phrase.  But our attention is drawn to Condon, also young and healthy.  Condon called Hackett “The Impostor,” because — with his peculiarly ornate wit, he said “Nobody can be that good.”  The teasing compliment almost slips away, but you get the point.  What is more important in this picture — more than Condon’s neat attire — is his grin, his head turned in delight and pleasure and admiration towards Hackett, who is clearly playing something marvelous, inimitable, lovely.  Condon is astonished by what he’s hearing, but he’s expected no less from Bobby.  This photograph captures the joy (and the labor) of this music better than any prose. 

Thank you, Charles Peterson!

P.S.  It didn’t surprise me that Peterson’s offspring were particularly talented in music, film, and writing.  His daughter, Karen Yochim, a successful country-and-western songwriter, lives in Louisiana, has written extensively about Cajun culture for newspapers and magazines — and is branching out as a crime novelist.  Peterson’s granddaughter Schascle “Twinkle” Yochim (her name is Cajun, pronounced “Suh-Shell”) is a professional singer with several CDs, concentrating on soul, rock, and to a limited extent, country-and-western. She’s also a songwriter, with songs accepted in feature films currently in production.  

After a career in the Navy, Peterson’s son, Don, worked for the Navy Department in Washington, DC, doing motion picture & television scriptwriting.  Don also wrote scripts for many film and television productions.  He retired in 1986 and now concentrates on marketing his father’s photographic legacy, most lavishly accessible in the book SWING ERA NEW YORK.

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9 responses to “CHARLES PETERSON’S VISION

  1. Pingback: CHARLES PETERSON’S VISION

  2. “Nothing is forever.” “Everyone will be famous for 15 minutes.” In Mr. Peterson’s beautiful photograph of the SCL band at Nick’s, in uniform no less, the trumpeter (cornetist) is not indentified. Eddie Condon made mention of him as being able to play a lead like nobody’s business and he was indeed on many of EC’s record dates. He is on some of Lee Wiley’s most memorable recordings- how about “I’ve Got Five Dollars.” On 4 tracks of this early SCL band (Decca?) with Davey Tough, we find this trumpeter wailing on the “Friars Point Shuffle” out chorus while Davey is literally pummeling his drum kit. Then on “Nobody’s Sweetheart” Davey levitates this trumpeter his opening solo while riding his Chinese Cymbal- and what a ride! Jack Teagarden sang “I started up to see…? this unidentified trumpeter on a least one version of “Jack Hits The Road.” George Brunis said “Growl it____? Growl it!” on a Commodore session. Listen to his soulful opening chorus on the Commodore “Basin Street” (no intro.) in the company of Pee Wee, Benny Morton, Joe Buskin and Big Sid.
    Well, for those who really want to know, the trumpeter is Max Kaminsky- “Maxie!” A fiesty, dimunitive Bostonite who fit in anywhere. Bobby Gordon and Jimmy Andrews loved working with him. Me, too! Engaged in conversation with him coming home from a gig- he said of himself- in his Boston accent- “There ah givas and there ah taaakas… I’m a taaaka!” He was honest… his playing was honest… his sound was instantly indentifiable. I loved him and I loved his gift to jazz music… glad and appreciative I shared the bansdstand with this “original.” There ya go Maxie! Nothing is forever… we will all be famous for 15 minutes.

  3. Odd experiences follow anyone who wants to make his thoughts public, as in a blog. I was so eager to get to the demure woman absorbing James P. and to Condon’s delight that I skimped and omitted Max Kaminsky, whom I also revere. But my omission provoked MB to write his beautiful reminiscence . . . so, with apologies to Max and MB, things do have a way of balancing, and for more than fifteen minutes.

  4. Sorry if I sounded a bit pissy, Michael, especially on your lovely blog… It’s that I heard quite a few of musicians put Maxie down regarding his playing- a rather unimportant contributor to the music, as it were. It was time for me to make a positive statement about him. Some of the guys are still alive so I hope they read it! Years ago I was asking him about Big Sid and Maxie related this to me. He referenced the record date with Bud (I think “Tennessee Twilight”, “Madame Dynamite”)- Sid was waiting on the street in front of the studio and Maxie came along. Sid was so glad to see him he grabbed hold of his arms and lifted him straight up off the pavement… at arms length- Towering “Big Sid” and little Max! And– that all he had with him for the date was his snare and one cymbal. Hmmmm.

  5. Where Big Sid was concerned, a snare and a single cymbal might have been sufficient!

  6. I had the same thought — except, being more vehement, I thought that they were sufficient (hearing those sides, you miss nothing) and Sid might even have done well without the single cymbal. Or the snare! Affly, MS

  7. I can help you out, Michael, about that JotR photo, provided you’ll reconsider the year. You see, I kept a diary of the jazz events I attended when I was in high school. And on June 13, 1947 (Friday 9pm-1am) my entry reads: Jazz on the River, Blesh– Marsala, Nicholas, Archey, Barker, Johnson, Foster, Dodds, Wellstood, Traeger. Pretty sure we’re talking about the same night.

    The revelation to me that evening was actually Jimmy Archey…the only one I had never seen nor heard before. Seemingly too short for his trombone; but my, how he could punch it out!

    So the bassist’s hand belonged to either Pops Foster; or to Charlie Traeger (of Bob Wilbur’s Scarsdale High gang)…a tall, hulking, light-haired guy, definitely not too short for his instrument. (Nor was the tall, thin Foster.)

    Do you have any more photos of that night? I attended with a buddy of mine, and both of us were vying for the attention of a charming girl who was dancing up a storm. But the music won out, of course. An exciting, unique night.

  8. I dont think that it is a fur coat that Billie is wearing, it looks to me more like one of the fashionable then, fox fur wraps. Whatever – she looks fine to me too!
    Jim

  9. Karen Peterson Yochim

    Thank you for your marvelous writing re my father’s photos. Your love of music is highly audible through these words. Music was my father’s great love throughout his life…and he passed that love on. Check out on You-Tube: “Old Texas Picker”…his granddaughter, Twinkle, singing my lyric about the importance of music. Twinkle lives for music as well as her granddad. My heart goes out to you, and I can’t thank you enough for your incredible sensitivity to these artists. God bless!

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