Tag Archives: antiquing

A JOHNNY DODDS SIGHTING

It’s been almost seventy years since anyone could hope to glimpse Johnny Dodds in the flesh . . . so this will have to do.  

The Beloved and I were seriously downtown in New York City a few weeks ago, on our way to a presentation.  She spotted a little antique store — “A Repeat Performance,” 156 First Avenue (212. 529.0832) and we walked in.  It’s a long narrow shop, crammed with more than the eye can take in — but all of it neatly arranged, including vintage clothing, musical instruments, typewriters, books.  My eye was caught and held immediately by an elementary-school style phonograph near the entrance.  (I find phonographs captivating, having spent so much of my life in front of them, and the equation is not complicated.  Phonograph = Music = Pleasure.)  

But what really drew me was the 78 on the turntable.  It was a Bluebird 78, which might have resulted in something less than enthralling: Charlie Barnet or Freddy Martin.  But not this time.  I stood still, picked it up, admired its shiny surface, and asked the proprietor, as casually as I could, “How much do you want for this?”  “Five dollars,” she said, perhaps seeing something in my eye that said she had a customer’s interest in something that clearly was worth more than fifty cents.  “Done,” I said, paid her, and we went on our way — because otherwise I would have made us seriously late.

I’ve heard this music before on various vinyl issues, but never seen it on a shiny Bluebird 78 reissue, I presume ten or so years after it was first recorded.  All hail Johnny Dodds! 

We haven’t found our way back to that shop yet, but I wonder what other treasures are there.  Where there’s one jazz record, usually there are more . . . hiding.

NOW, WE’RE GETTING WARM!

I hope readers have not wearied of my chronicles of jazz-shopping . . . but another chapter took me and the Beloved to Troy, New York, for a multi-dealer antique store on River Street.  I spent a long time poring through albums of dull late-Forties 78s (who knew that there was such enthusiasm for the Harmonicats?) with little enthusiasm until I came to the last album, most of its pages empty, which clearly dated from another time.  First:Amy Bauduc ChinaBoy 002

 More interesting than Tony Martin, but nothing to make the pulse race.  I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was an early (acoustic) Brunswick.  However, I dimly remembered that the elusive Jack Purvis had made his first recordings with Arnold Johnson, circa 1928 (see the wonderfully-documented Jazz Oracle issue), so I turned the record over:Amy Bauduc ChinaBoy 003

 Since I always associate CHINA BOY with hot music, I bought the record (without depriving us of groceries for even a moment).  Later on, I saw online that it was circa 1923, so I have no hopes of Purvis.  Has anyone heard this, and is it an iota more than a dance-band curio?  But that was only the jazz hors d’oeuvre as it were.  In the rear of the store I saw a metal stand with horizontal slots meant for Ludwig drum accessories.  The stand was empty, fairly characterless and, at $225, not essential.  Below the empty shelves were music instruction books — piano, show tunes, accordion, and the last one, face down:Amy Bauduc ChinaBoy 004

 That looked promising, but I held myself back — too many “Dixieland” records and music books have a very tenuous relationship to the real thing.  I turned it over:Amy Bauduc ChinaBoy 005

 and opened it up . . . . to see a long written introduction and analysis of the style, as well as this glorious picture:Amy Bauduc ChinaBoy 006

My thanks go out to the no doubt defunct W.F.L. drum company, to the noble shade of Ray Bauduc, and to the anonymous person who in 1937 gave up a hard-earned dollar to buy this book in hopes of sounding just like Mister Bauduc on those wonderful Bobcats Deccas.  Oh, how I hope he or she realized that objective!  This post, of course, is for Kevin Dorn, Mike Burgevin, Hal Smith, Arnie Kinsella, Jeff Hamilton, and the other players who keep the faith, who know what it is to beat out the time on the wooden rim of the snare drum.  I’ll be holding viewings in September . . . say the word.

BIX, BING, and FRIENDS IN THE BERKSHIRES

The Beloved and I are fond of a certain kind of antique store — not too expensive, devoted to fine French furniture costing thousands, and not specializing in rusted tools and old newspapers.  She is currently entranced by certain kinds of McCoy pottery (planters, not the terrifying cookie jars); I, predictably, look for sheet music and old records.  I might gaze longingly at a Victrola but have no intention of making a commitment to one. 

Sheet music is often in terrible shape if it’s been stored in the barn, and if it’s been well-cared for, the prices rise.  Today we were in Sheffield and Great Barrington, Massachusetts, and I was directed in one store to a fine small collection of music.  Someone had taste: there were Cole Porter songs I’d never heard of, a Swing Era-vintage STOMPIN’ AT THE SAVOY, and a batch of early African-Americana: IF THE MAN IN THE MOON WAS A COON and BY THE WATERMELON VINE, MAH LINDY LOU.  But these nicely-preserved artifacts were out of my price range.

Records, too, are usually disappointing: the great days of junking for Paramounts and Gennetts are long, long gone.  More typically I face Bobby Vinton and Frankie Carle, Donna Summer and Christmas songs.  Now and then a popular Goodman or Glenn Miller collection emerges, or a Jazztone from the Fifties, but such appearances are not the rule. 

Today, which happened to be the first Monday in August, before we turned for our temporary country home, the Beloved said, “Let’s cross the street and go into that shop, the one advertising farm tables.”  The shop was somewhat disorderly, and the owner was surprised, he said, that he could direct me to some sheet music (which turned out to be in bad shape).  On the way there, my vigilant eye was caught by a pile of records — microgroove issues without cardboard jackets scraping against one another mingled with 78s. 

When looking through records, one tends to make judgments on what one finds most often: too many Sammy Kaye and Eddie Fisher records and I begin to droop.  78s from the Fifties, obviously, are newer and have had fewer chances to crack and break.  All was reasonably dull until I came to two records, almost adjacent to one another.  I asked the owner, as innocently as I could, what he was charging, and he said, “Oh, a dollar apiece.”

When I took my two finds to him, he said, “Oh!  These are more valuable.  I thought that pile was only Sinatra and Tony Bennett.”  I stood there quietly and said, “Yes, they are more valuable.  What do you want for them?”  And he smiled at me, rather resignedly, and said, “Oh, a dollar apiece,” which I happily paid him.  It was an odd moment: he knew they were worth more but was being generous and perhaps feeling relieved of the burden of two more objects that threatened to overwhelm him.  

Neither record is in splendid condition.  But they both have been played over and over again, which makes them more valuable emotionally even if some eagle-eyed grader would rate them somewhere between V- and G.  Who knew that Bix and Bing got to Massachusetts, and that they had been preceded by the Original Memphis Five?  Someone in the Twenties had, as they say, an ear.  And you can now see the results.

East Chatham Summer 2009 I 018East Chatham Summer 2009 I 017

East Chatham Summer 2009 I 019

East Chatham Summer 2009 I 020

 The photographs are slightly blurry, but my pleasure in these discoveries and the casual generosity of the shop owner is sharp and clear.  “From Monday on, we’ll be in clover . . . !”

FATS FINDS ME

July 2009 New York 006

This wonderful jazz artifact emerged from an antique store somewhere near Hillsdale, New York — a hot little room with too much sheet music to go through in one visit.  (The double and triple copies of songs that must have been popular are always revealing: in Maine, everyone must have been singing CHONG, HE CAME FROM HONG KONG in 1931; here, I perceived a collective obsession with songs about Old Wyoming.  Go figure.)  I picked out about a dozen pieces of music — Ray Noble, Connee Boswell, and others — and took them to the counter to find out the prices the amiable proprietor had in mind.  Of course, when she began to mutter after every other sheet, “Oh, this one’s going to be expensive,” I knew I was in trouble.  But I had to have the Waller-Razaf one above.

I admire its Deco caricatures, top and bottom, as well as the list of other Waller-Razaf songs (all obscure) that made up the musical score.  And, of course, this post is another example of cyber cross-pollination: Ricky Riccardi — sole proprietor of The Wonderful World of Louis Armstrong online — has been posting extensively researched segments on Louis’s recordings of the song from 1929 on.  Extremely rewarding reading! 

But there’s more.  Songs of that period had both choruses and verses — the verse serving to set up the song’s dramatic situation.  And the whole idea of chorus and verse was tied to theatrical presentation.  AIN’T MISBEHAVIN’ has two simultaneous verses.  One I knew (as recorded by Seger Ellis and others) turns out to have been the boy’s part.  But I had never heard the girl’s . . .

Here they are, for your edification and for singing around the parlor piano.  Or perhaps in the car – – –

BOY:  Though it’s a fickle age, With flirting all the rage, Here is one bird with self-control; Happy inside my cage.

GIRL:  Your type of man is rare, I know you really care, That’s why my conscience never sleeps; When you’re away somewhere.

BOY:  I know who I love best, Thumbs down on all the rest, My love was given heart and soul; So it can stand the test.

GIRL:  Sure was a lucky day; When fate sent you my way, And made you mine alone for keeps, Ditto to all you say.

The Boy’s lines are slangy; the Girl’s much more sentimentally pedestrian (and perhaps the logic of her conscience never sleeping is awry) but they do Andy Razaf every credit. 

More purchases to share soon!