THAT’S MY WEAKNESS NOW was a very popular song in the late Twenties: in my memory, it is connected to Whiteman, Bix, and the Rhythm Boys; Helen Kane; Cliff Edwards, and I am sure two dozen others.

If you’ve never heard it, here is Miss Kane’s 1927 version (with the verse and at a sweet tempo):

Its bouncy melody and amorous conceit –“[S]he loves these [apparently difficult] acts, so I am compelled to perform them also — pity poor me who has to suffer billing and cooing [but not really]” — made both singers and audiences float along in amusement.


But between 1929 and 1939 no one recorded it in a jazz context (according to Tom Lord’s discography) and it’s understandable: its bouncy two-beat melody line and rhythms didn’t lend themselves all that easily to a smoother Swing Era treatment, and it may have seemed to contemporary audiences a relic of their parents’ now-ancient flapper / sheik past.  (The song re-emerged in later decades — with recordings by George Lewis and Humphrey Lyttelton — as a sweet homage to the late Twenties, and that is how modern bands play it today.)

I don’t know who thought of the song for this July 1944 record date, but it’s a wonderful choice.  This was one of Harry Lim’s Keynote dates, so he might have been the inspiration — or leader Pete Brown might have liked the song as a perfect match for his own jaunty, accented, ebullient playing.

As a record producer, Harry Lim had a thousand virtues: good taste in musicians, a liking for medium tempos and melodic improvisation, and the courage to have players who weren’t household names lead sessions.  His 12″ 78 recordings are a body of work that remains its freshness.  (I am only sad that when I was a young record-buyer at one branch of the New York City Sam Goody’s, I didn’t recognize him, wring his hand embarrassingly and tell him how much his fine musical taste had enriched my life.)

Here is THAT’S MY WEAKNESS NOW, performed by Brown, alto saxophone; Joe Thomas, trumpet; Kenny Kersey, piano; Milt Hinton, string bass; J.C. Heard, drums.

I think the beauties of this recording are self-evident to anyone willing to listen closely for just over four minutes — perhaps a seeming-lifetime in our restless century.

The disc starts with an unaccompanied introduction by the under-celebrated Kenny Kersey, who had absorbed Teddy Wilson and Earl Hines but also was very much aware of what the jazz critics like to call, retrospectively, “advanced harmonies,” but which musicians of the time might have called “funny chords.” Kersey had played with Andy Kirk as well as with Red Allen’s Cafe Society band, and (for me) his accompaniment nearly steals the show during the first chorus, where the melody is played in a neat, clipped way by the horns.  And as for bass and drums: they provide a swing heartbeat.

The horns offer very individual sounds.  I don’t think an experienced listener would mistake Brown for any other altoist: the way he pushes the beat, as if his notes and phrases were impetuous, his solos impatient to get out of the horn where they could be heard.  And his tone!  Lemony, bittersweet, tart?  One would need a truly subtle food writer to describe the sound of his alto.  Joe Thomas, ah, Joe Thomas — glowing and spare but deeply emotive without playing one more note than needed . . . a true lesson in storytelling, full of nuance but never over-elaborated.  In the melding of the horns, they are synchronous (you hear the professionalism of musicians used to working in sections, in big bands, where blending was essential) but their individual voices are audible, their sounds so personal.

Even on longer-playing discs, the idea of splitting a chorus (the horns play the first sixteen bars of a thirty-two bar chorus; another instrument takes the eight-bar “bridge,” then the horns return or let the other players have the second half) was nothing new, but Kersey’s piano, spare and elegant, is refreshing.  But while Kersey is exploring, so — in the most sympathetic way — is Milt, climbing higher on his instrument without ever seeming to solo.  Heard’s emphatic brushwork (out of Sidney Catlett) never falters, wavers, or becomes mechanical.  The following sixteen bars are equally calm — they are riffing this evening! — with an emphatic flare on the last notes of the chorus, where the horns seem especially determined to repeat the title in song.

Brown was either a  generous or wise leader — I think both — content to build a performance architecturally rather than saying THIS IS MY RECORD and playing all through it, so if we are waiting for the leader to solo, it doesn’t happen for some time.

So the next chorus is apparently a Kersey solo, and what an elegantly swinging pianist — great musical intelligence and no cliches — he was.  But just as Kersey stole the show behind the horns, the horns (with their simple little pushing riff) might easily distract us from his gleam.  Horn backgrounds to a piano solo used to be commonplace — in the departed ideal world — but one does not hear them in this century, with some exceptions.  The way the whole band — is it only a quintet? — sounds, with such sweet subtle variety — is gratifying.  Kersey has some of the same quiet energy of Johnny Guarneri (someone Lim also loved and featured) but he is his own man, steering his own course between Fats and Bud Powell.

With a push from Heard, Thomas is on.  And how beautiful his tone is — dark, clear, not “sweet” but not harsh, brassy.  All his trademarks are in place: the careful repeated notes, the breath-like phrasing, the upward arpeggios, the pace (no matter how fast the tempo gets, at his best, Thomas mastered the Louis trick of relaxing, of “playing whole notes,” of letting everyone else seem hurried while he takes his time, admires the scenery, adjusts the knot on his tie just so.  His bridge is especially luxurious.  If, perhaps, you think, “Oh, that’s just Louis-influenced Swing Era trumpet playing, and everyone was doing that,” may I respectfully suggest that a deep immersion in the period will prove revelatory. No one sounded like Joe.  Ask a trumpet player you know to listen to that solo, closely, and see if it’s easy to create such a sound, such an effect.

Behind Thomas, Brown has been nudging the band along (there are no dead spots on this record) as it shifts into a higher gear, with Heard and everyone else deciding — to use the Thirties expression — “to put the pots and pans on,” to get seriously playful.

And then comes our leader — Mister Brown to you.  What a remarkable sound!  At first, it makes me think of someone with laryngitis who insists on speaking although his voice croaks and cracks, but one quickly gets accustomed to the sound because Brown’s pulse is so warm and enthusiastic.  He doesn’t rush, but he intently gives each phrase its own shape and a rocking momentum.  And his solo is made up of small gems, a phrase turned round and round over the harmonies, without pressure or monotony.  (I am not usually fond of quotations — some musicians overindulge — but Brown’s reference to FUNKY BUTT at 3:12 is hilarious. I hope that there is no particular connection between that subject and what the imagined lover prefers, but more likely it was just a witty idea, floating by, that laid nicely over the chords.)

And that last chorus is a marvel of tidy architecture, of generosity, of variety: sixteen glorious bars for the Judge, Milt Hinton — no one ever talked through his solos! — with the band riffing around and through his sonorous notes, then a “modern” bridge featuring Kersey, four more bars for Milt (how many people understand what Milt understood about the string bass, parallel to Jimmy Blanton?) then four bars where the band says in a politely declamatory ensemble, “THAT’S MY WEAKNESS NOW!” and the record is over.

Yes, I have heard recordings like this in our century, and, better yet, bands actually doing these glorious acts of solo brilliance and communal swing on the bandstand, in person, but this 12″ 78 is imperishable.  There are a million ways for an improvising jazz group to sound, and I wouldn’t be such a bully to insist that this is the only one, or the best one, but it moves me every time I hear it.

May your happiness increase!


  1. Just played that 5 times in a row, thank you Michael.

  2. How cool is that, Michael. You actually met Harry Lim.Love to hear more. I was once in the same room with John Hammond ( Eubie Blake’s memorial at Saint Peter’s ). Sadly, he seemed to have become rather senile. Jeff Atterton used to work at J & R.on Park Row during my medical school days.

  3. I don’t know why this has stuck in my memory for 40 years. I share it to keep the rhythm going in discussing a musician about whom no one else (before Michael) has had much to say:

    Andre Hodeir, “Jazz – Its Evolution and Essence,” page 202 (Grove Press, 1956)

    “An extreme abundance of syncopations is usually not desirable. Some of Pete Brown’s solos that are made up almost exclusively of syncopated notes produce a rhythmic monotony that ultimately destroys the feeling of swing in spite of the excellent saxophonist’s flexibility and precision.”

    Whatever your take on Pete Brown, the Hodeir book is well worth owning. He didn’t get Dodds, but the chapter on Dicky Wells is especially fine, and his perspective on the Miles Davis and other recordings that were, at the time, essentially brand new seems to have worn quite well.

  4. Hodeir could be very severe — consider his long essay on the majesty and then violent decline (to his way of thinking) of Dicky Wells. I don’t find Brown monotonous, though.

  5. You give me more credit than I deserve, Mark, for which thanks. I found out later that Harry was working at Goody’s, and I am fairly sure I saw him there . . . but I didn’t know about Keynotes in any serious way, so I was too young or too uncooked to know who was showing customers where the ______ records were. Happy trails! We were among giants, and not all of them played instruments.

  6. Michael Burgevin

    A Sunday morning lift! — Not that often we get to hear the great Joe Thomas and this sure is a beauty so thanks for that MS — and all-together what a band! A testimony to Harry Lim’s great contribution to producing jazz records, as you mentioned. What also stands out on this date, in this setting, is the marvelous drumming of JC Heard, and it’s such a important conrtribution to the music… it is the heart beat of it all, is it not? Imagine listening to this record with the absence of his drumming. What is apparent in so many cases today, especially on the NYC jazz scene, is the disappearance of the drummer (and there are some fine ones available- Jackie Willaims, Kevin Dorn, Alvin Queen, Dave Ratajczak- just to mention 4)- if only using a snare as Sid Catlett did so often — and the music (imo) suffers. There is no spark, lift, nor flow to the music… there is no heart beat… maybe even there’s no HEART, period! But there sure is plenty of all that in the track you gave us this morning! — Wham!

  7. interesting 1959 interview with Miss Kane:

    (And long live Pete Brown!)

  8. Goodness, the memory has kicked in! I remember my mother singing this, and I actually sang along with Miss Kane! How could you “not” get wrapped up in that sweet version of this great tune. Thank you so much for the delightful post, NM. I will be singing this for a week or more!

  9. Andrew J. Sammut

    “If, perhaps, you think, ‘Oh, that’s just Louis-influenced Swing Era trumpet playing, and everyone was doing that,’ may I respectfully suggest […] a deep immersion…”

    That type of immersion could probably rescue a lot of prewar jazz musicians from the limbo of being ersatz-Armstrong/Hawkins/Young/Wilson or Tatum, etc. I am glad your blog is out there to do so.

  10. Oh, how I loved to read your comment on Pete Brown’s Keynote-recording! I listened to the entire session again twice on the Keynote-LP-Box and wondered why Harry Lim issued only 2 of the 4 tracks on 78s. This one was not among them – which shows how much terrific music Lim recorded within a short time. Pete Brown is just incredible here – better only on “Rompin’ from 1938, I’d say.
    Thanks very much for bringing his art to the attention of us older collectors again – and to those new to forgotten artists like PB, Joe Thomas, Kenny Kersey, Milt Hinton and J.C. Heard.

  11. Dear Jaffa,

    I work hours on this blog to find people as enthusiastic about the music as you are! I suspect that some of Lim’s choices were economic rather than aesthetic. Shellac was scarce in 1944; 12″ 78s were more expensive to make and sell, so that he might have wanted to save his resources for a session with “bigger” names. I prefer Pete’s playing on this date to the Panassie Victors, but those are exquisite recordings. Somewhere in my massive cassette hoard I have a fifteen-minute broadcast (recorded by WNYC c. 1943 or 4) of Pete, piano, and bass. It will surface. Once again, thanks! Michael

  12. Dear Michael
    Thank you for your very kind reply ! I fully agree with you – 12” 78’s were both, hard to sell and expensive to press at the time.
    Actually I’d be most interested in the broadcast you mention – I’ll have to check my LP’s as I think that something similar was issued on a bootleg-vinyl back then.
    In case you have the “Classics”-CD by Pete B. (or any other on that label) you now know who likes this artist tremendously – and also who had written all liner notes 😉
    I enjoy reading your posts and watch (with envy for being in Europe) many of your videos: Please keep up the GREAT job !

  13. Well, I continue to get a great deal of pleasure from the Classics CDs, although I didn’t catch all the ones I wanted when they first appeared. Cheers and thanks, Michael

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