We believe that everything is knowable. After all, we have Google.
This post is about a ninety-year old artifact that pretends to offer up all its secrets. The oddly appropriate cliche is that it is “an open book,” but its secrets are hidden.
I can’t figure out whether the owner’s name is “Jack E. DuTemple” or “D. Temple,” and no online map turns up a Robert Street; rather, I get sent to Roberts. I never met Jack, but I have faith that he knew where he lived. The last entries in this book are dated Christmas 1933, so that is clear.
THIS JUST IN, thanks to Master Sleuth David Fletcher:
John E. “Jack” Detemple, 1908-1968. Because you knew I would… 🙂 Jack worked in a Binghamton shoe factory along with his dad. Thank God he was a music nut! He ended up in Sidney NY, a longtime Mason and a machinist for Bendix Corp. Several kids– no doubt one of them treasured Dad’s autograph book (and maybe his old records too).
Here is a tour of the music Jack heard in 1933.
Zez Confrey
Henry Biagini
Don Bestor
Rudy Vallee
Fred Waring
Whitey Kaufman
Ace Brigode
“Red” Nichols
Ramona
Paul Whiteman
Kay Kyser
Johnny Johnson
Jack Pettis
Pauline Wright
Bert Lown
Ernie Holst
Todd Rollins
Peggy Healy
Jack Fulton
Eddie Lane
Gene Kardos
Ray Noble
Abe Lyman
Joe Venuti
Dick Fidler (?)
Larry Funk
Happy Felton
Mal Hallett
Doc Peyton
Claude Hopkins
Art Kassel
Charley Davis
a closing cartoon, perhaps of Jack himself.
Ten miles north of the Pennsylvania border, Johnson City, New York is not a metropolis; 15,174 population in the 2010 census. But obviously dance bands came through towns of that size: in 1933, there were more ballrooms and “dance halls” for bands of all kinds. And Jack seems to have been a happily avid listener and perhaps dancer, enjoying both hot and sweet sounds, Black and White groups, famous and less so. The autograph book speaks to his enthusiasm, but also to the variety of live music available to audiences in the Depression. Yes, there was unemployment and breadlines, but there were also men and women making music all over the country, and creating it for actual audiences . . . not people staring into lit screens. I would say flippantly that we have more but they had better.
And “provenance.” I’ve had this book for about ten years. It was a gift from my dear friend and inspiration Mike Burgevin, who found it in an upstate New York antique shop, bought it, and saved it for me, knowing that some day I would share it on the blog. For this and so many other kindnesses I bless him.
My photographic captures are admittedly amateur, but, then again, JAZZ LIVES is not a high-level auction house.
So now you can see how the fabled Jack Pettis signed his name. Hardly a common sight. And perhaps some reader can tell us more about Dick Fidler (?) and Pauline Wright. Google has let me down, which returns me to my original thought: da capo al fine. But energetic readers of JAZZ LIVES now have many more sweet and hot rabbits to chase.
First, some music: STOMPIN’ AT THE SAVOY as performed by Don Redman’s Orchestra in Geneva, Switzerland, October 27, 1946. The band is Bobby Williams, Alan Jeffreys, trumpet; Peanuts Holland, trumpet, vocal; Quentin Jackson, Jack Carman, trombone; Tyree Glenn, trombone, vibraphone; Don Redman, alto saxophone, piano, vocal, arranger; Chauncey Haughton, Pete Clarke, alto and baritone saxophone, clarinet; Don Byas, Ray Abrams, tenor saxophone; Billy Taylor, piano; Ted Sturgis, string bass; Buford Oliver, drums; Inez Cavanaugh, vocal:
The music (in this case featuring Tyree Glenn, Ted Sturgis, Don Byas, and others) is relevant to the pieces of paper below. And for those who would like to hear the whole Geneva concert — happily broadcast on Swiss radio and even more happily, preserved for us seventy-five years later! — here are all the performances:
Now I shall modulate into another key.
As a young jazz fan, I had to decide what variety of souvenir I wanted to take home from an evening’s entertainment. At one point, I fancied myself a still photographer — with a Canon AE-1 — and I would take as many shots as I’d bought rolls of 35 millimeter film. That was especially appropriate in the venues where I had learned beforehand that illicit audiotaping would get me thrown out unceremoniously (as in, “We don’t allow that here. Give it to me and please leave”).
I asked very few musicians for autographs, because I was afraid that they would say, “Was that a cassette recorder I saw in front of you? Kindly bring it here so that I can smash it with my shoe, if you don’t mind.” I also felt at the time that asking for a hero’s autograph relegated me to the status of “fan,” where conversation would have been limited. I could speak to Bennie Morton, but if I’d asked him to sign something, perhaps he would have done so, said a few polite words, and the interchange would have ended.
Eventually I also realized that approaching an artist for their autograph right before a set was ungenerous (“Let me get prepared, let me discuss the first song and the key, or let me get my charts together”) and after a set perhaps more so (“I just gave you my all for 45 minutes; I’m depleted, and want to visit the facilities”) so thrusting a tiny piece of paper in the Idol’s face was not always a kindness.
I must say, though, that in 1971 if I delayed Teddy Wilson for three minutes to ask him to sign my copy of PRES AND TEDDY and send beams of admiration at him, I feel no guilt now, and a prize of mine (thanks to the very dear Mike Burgevin) is an enthusiast’s 1933 autograph book that has a Jack Pettis signature. So I am not free from such urges.
Many people, however, perhaps with less timidity, have asked for autographs. Their ease, decades after the fact, results in slips of paper being offered for sale on eBay. One of the most rewarding sites is “jgautographs”— and here are a few items of unusual interest from a recent auction.
Don Redman’s 1946 orchestra (including Don Byas) that “went to Europe”:
and
and one of its trumpet stars, Peanuts Holland:
another Quentin Jackson signature (he deserves the attention):
our hero, James Rushing, Esquire:
the underrated and superb drummer Kansas Fields:
A souvenir of the 1938 Paul Whiteman orchestra, featuring Charlie Teagarden, Frank Signorelli, and George Wettling, and what looks like a Miff Mole signature squeezed in at the bottom:
Finally, a trio that I would have loved to hear — perhaps at a festival in 1978 — Jo Jones, Milt Hinton, and Ray Bryant:
Holy relics, mingling gratitude, admiration, affection, passing back and forth from artist to happy listeners.
(Postscript: none of these seem mechanical: if you haunt eBay, as I do, you can find what seem like hundreds of signatures by certain famous musicians, and I suspect they sat at a table, as do sports stars, and signed a thousand in an afternoon, which now are for sale. These seem to be signed in real life and under real circumstances, which is a very fine thing.)
Fast-forward thirteen years to another part of the forest.
“Sally, there’s mail for you. I left it on your bed. It’s this Friday!”
“Can I come with you?”
“Of course, Clarice. But don’t get all wrapped up in those boys like you did last time. Remember when you had too much beer and ruined my green sweater? I’m going to go so I can get Mr. Robinson’s autograph.”
“Who?”
“Clarice, don’t you hear anything I say through those rollers on your head? I’ve told you ten times. Prince Robinson. He played with McKinney’s Cotton Pickers. Coleman Hawkins said he admired Mr. Robinson when he was a young man. And Mr. Robinson played with Louis.”
“Louis?”
“Clarice, I give up. Louis Armstrong.”
“All right, Sally. I’ll wear the blue chiffon. Those boys were dreamy. And four trumpet players, too!”
And a postscript. The music above stands on its own, as do the holy paper relics. I’ve indulged myself in inventing conversations. But online life is both peculiar and marvelous. “Flo” is untraceable and I think no longer on the planet, given the arithmetic of 1937 and 2021. But “Sally Green” from Vassar College is less phantasmal: she’s second from left in the front row — page 3 of the Vassar Chronicle, April 19, 1952. She looks like someone who would properly appreciate Prince Robinson!
Once I was a hero-worshipping autograph-seeker (“hound” is so dismissive). Beginning in 1967, I asked Louis, Teddy Wilson, Jo Jones, Vic Dickenson, Sonny Greer, Buck Clayton, Bobby Hackett, Zoot Sims, and others, for theirs. Oddly, only Jo, who had a reputation for being irascible and unpredictable, asked my name and inscribed my record “To Micheal.” Other musicians I would have liked to ask but either found them intimidating, or — since I was a criminal with a poorly concealed cassette recorder — thought it best to stay hidden.
Autograph-seeking presumes reverential distance. I am a Fan, you are The Star. The Fan approaches the Star, timidly, politely, holds out a piece of paper or some other object, and asks for a signature or an inscription. In that ten-second interchange, the Fan feels seen, and the Star may feel exhausted or be gratified by the appearance of a Fan or a line of them. (In my literary life, I asked Seamus Heaney, Paul Muldoon, Richard Ford, and Julian Barnes to sign books. And Whitney Balliett.)
But I no longer chase Stars. Were I to have asked Jim Dapogny, Connie Jones, Jake Hanna, or Joe Wilder for “an autograph,” they would have found the request strange, because I had been talking or eating with them as a presumed equal. I am sure the anthropologists have a name for this kind of cultural transgression, as if your mother made special waffles for your birthday and you left her a tip, even 25%. In my world, at least, many of the Stars have become Friends: whether formality is a thing of the past or my stature has changed, I have no need to investigate.
I will say that, a few years ago, when a musician-friend of mine, thinking to praise me, said I was “the best fan” he knew, I snapped, “I’m not a Fan!” and then explained what I associated with the term. He changed his designation, to what I don’t remember, and it felt better.
Yet I think autographs are sacred — here is a photograph that Sidney Catlett held and wrote on. The Deity comes to Earth for thirty seconds and touches down. I have bought or copied pieces of paper signed by Pete Brown, Rod Cless, Henry “Red” Allen, Pee Wee Russell (who wrote his first name as two separate words, should you wonder), Adrian Rollini, Claude Hopkins, and more.
I continue to keep track of such holy relics on eBay, as people who follow JAZZ LIVES know. In that spirit, here are manifestations of the autograph dance.
Someone came to Cab Calloway — anywhere between 1942 (when the record was issued) and his death in 1994, and asked him to sign this lovely purple OKeh 78, which he did, with his signature phrase, in the white ink used for record labels:
I have seen enough Cab-signatures to think this one authentic.
And here he is — in his best passionate mode, with a very early reading of Alec Wilder’s classic:
This autograph’s closer to home for me:
Again, completely authentic. But from what I know — from my own experience of Ruby (and this could have been signed any time between 1954 and 2002) I am reasonably sure that when the admiring Fan approached him, Ruby would have said something dismissive, because he disdained his early work vehemently. I recall when I first met him in 1971, praising his MY MELANCHOLY BABY on a new Atlantic recording by George Wein’s Newport All-Stars, and Ruby’s response was terse, curt, and precise, “THAT shit?” Difficult to find shades of ambiguity in that response.
Here’s Ruby’s ELLIE (one of his few compositions) from that date, with Johnny Guarnieri, Walter Page, Bobby Donaldson:
Some artists, remarkably, used the occasion to impart a message — in this case, a moral lesson. Saxophonist Don Lanphere, later in life, was born again and changed his life completely . . . so much so that an inscription became a chance to spread the Gospel:
It feels as if Don had more than a momentary acquaintance with Debbie, Ron, and Bob, but I may be assuming too much.
Here’s his beautiful DEAR OLD STOCKHOLM from the 1983 sessions, a duet with pianist Don Friedman:
Those three examples suggest face-to-face contact, and certainly a few words being exchanged. The closing artifact, here, comes from another dance entirely. For instance, I have a photograph signed by Connee Boswell, in her distinctive hand, and then personalized by her secretary, and I presume this all was done by mail, that the Fan wrote to Miss Boswell asking for an autographed picture — and that Connee, sometime, somewhere, sat down with a pile of them and signed her name a hundred or five hundred times in a sitting, and the photos could then be sent off. (Better, mind you, than Benny Goodman requiring people who worked for him to copy his signature onto photographs.)
I had to do some quick research to find out (to remind myself) that the 8-track tape was popular between 1965 and the late Seventies . . . it was replaced by the smaller, more flexible cassette tape, which could also be recorded on. I saw these tapes and players in action, but neither my parents nor I had an 8-track deck in our respective cars.
But some people did. Thus . . .
I note with amusement the ages of the attractive couple on the cover: would you think that in 1970 they would be close-dancing to Harry rather than the Stones? I doubt it. And inside:
This was on sale on eBay for a very low price: $10 plus 3.99 shipping, and I asked a dear friend who admires Harry if he wanted it as a gift, and he snorted and said, “Please,” in the way that people do when they really mean, “I’ll kill you.” I amused myself by imagining the scene of the person or couple coming across the dance floor to Harry at the set break and asking him to sign their new treasure, which he did quickly and without fanfare. But I was wrong, because a return to eBay showed two other signed sets, which suggests to me that Harry spent some tedious hours at home or in a hotel room, signing set after set, box after box. Hence:
At least those purchasers got a “Sincerely.” I remember sets packaged by the Longines Symphonette Society, but can’t recall whether they were offered on television after 11 PM, and whether the autographed sets cost more.
Here’s a favorite recording by Harry, the October 1939 SLEEPY TIME GAL, in three tempos, with just the rhythm section — Jack Gardner, piano; Brian “Red” Kent, guitar; Thurman Teague, string bass; Ralph Hawkins, drums:
I hope you noticed the profound Louis-influence there, starting with the opening references to SLEEPY TIME DOWN SOUTH. It’s the perfect segue to this delightful photograph — place, date, and photographer unknown (thanks to Loren Schoenberg for the Facebook “Rare Jazz Photos” group) of two men beaming love at each other. Feel free to invent appropriate dialogue:
The nimble folks at “jgautographs” had their hands full of surprises . . . although their holdings range from Frederick Douglass to Marilyn Monroe to Irene Dunne, Stephen Sondheim, and Thomas Edison, it’s the jazz ephemera — no longer ephemeral — that fascinates me and others. Here’s a sampling, with a few comments. (The seller has many more autographs, from Sonny Rollins and Eubie Blake to Gene Krupa and Conrad Janis, so most readers of this blog will find something or someone to fascinate themselves.) For those who want(ed) to buy what they see here, the auction ended this evening: if you are curious, I bid and lost on the Ivie Anderson and Jimmy Rushing; I won the Henry “Red” Allen and will be giving showings at a future date. Check Eventbrite for tickets.
A number of the older autographs were inscribed to “Jack,” as you’ll see, and some of the newer ones to “Mark,” “Mark Allen,” and “Mark Allen Baker,” which led me on another path — more about the latter at the end of this post.
Husband and wife, very important figures in popular music, now perhaps less known. Arranger Paul Weston:
and warm-voiced Jo Stafford:
Yusef Lateef lectures Mark:
while Louie Bellson is much more gentle in his inscription:
Lady Day, to Jack:
and Billie’s former boss, who called her “William”:
Notice that the Count’s signature is a little hurried, which to me is proof of its on-the-spot authenticity, because artists didn’t always have desks or nice flat surfaces to sign autographs after the show. His calligraphy is in opposition to the next, quite rare (and in this case, quite dubious) signature:
Beautiful calligraphy, no? But Helen Oakley Dance told the story (you can look it up) that Chick was embarrassed by his own handwriting, and when Helen asked for an autograph, Chick said, no, his secretary should sign it because her handwriting was so lovely . . . thus making me believe that this paper was not in Chick’s hands. People who are less skeptical bid seriously on it, though.
Blossom Dearie, who arouses no such doubts:
And James Rushing, of that same Count Basie band:
I saw Mister Five-by-Five once, and his sound is still in my ears:
another Jimmy, happily still with us:
yet another Jimmy, playing at the Hotel Pennsylvania:
Would you care to join me for dinner?
Perhaps you’d like to meet both Dorsey Brothers?
and we could stay for the “Bombe Borealis,” whatever it looked like:
A woman I would have loved to see and hear, Miss Ivie Anderson:
She continues to charm:
Smack:
Jay Jay:
and Cee Tee:
The wondrous Don Redman:
Ella, whose inscription is elaborate and heartfelt:
One of the million he must have signed:
Jim Hall, always precise:
One can’t have too many of these:
an influential bandleader and personality:
one of Lucky’s great stars — and ours — from an era when you noted what instrument the star played, even if you couldn’t quite spell it:
Here’s the musical background, in the foreground:
finally, something that deserves its own scenario, “Mister Waller, could I have your autograph?” “Of course, young lady. What’s your name?” “Mildred.”
which raises the question: was the bus ticket the spare piece of paper she had, or were they both on a Washington, D.C. streetcar or bus? At least we know the approximate date of their intersection:
Neither Fats nor Mildred can answer this for us anymore, but here is the perfect soundtrack:
Mark Allen Baker, in the pre-internet world I come from, would have remained a mystery — but I Googled his name and found he is a professional writer, with books on sports teams and boxing, but more to the point, on autograph collecting. So although I would have hoped he’d be a jazz fan, my guess is that his range is more broad. And the autographs for sale here suggest that he has found the answer to the question, “Why do you collect autographs?” — the answer being, “To hold on to them and then sell them,” which benefits us.
First, and most striking, even though the disc is in G+ condition.
Here’s another photograph — less sharp but closer in:
The eBay link is here, should you want to spend $799.00 on it outright or start bidding. Or, you could buy this disc for just under $25 (the seller says it’s in V condition, but as we know such things are terribly subjective:
I’m not proposing any criminal acts, but you’d have a great deal of money left over for a pen and white ink at your local crafts store. Or you could listen to Billie sing NIGHT AND DAY for free:
And if your optimism is threatening to overpower your life, GLOOMY SUNDAY may be just the thing to offset it with darkness:
But hearing Billie and seeing a holy relic should not be gloomy.
Jack Hylton meets Ellington at Waterloo Station, 1933
This disc pictured below is a serious Holy Relic — a RCA Victor Program Transcription with autographs — Harry Carney, Johnny Hodges, Hayes Alvis, Rex Stewart and Ivie Anderson. The seller candidly says, “E- condition. Rough start on ‘East St. Louis.'”
The price is $400, but shipping is a bargain: “Buyer to pay $5.00 shipping (which includes $1.00 for packing material) in the United States. Shipping discount for multiple 78s. Insurance, if desired, is extra.”
Here‘s the link. Too late for Christmas, but always a thoughtful gift for the Ellingtonian in your house.
And perhaps you don’t have $405.00 for this. There’s no shame. I don’t either. So here’s the music:
and here’s the “stereo” version. This was created in the Seventies, I think, when Ellington collectors discovered two versions of this performance, each recorded with a different microphone setup, then stitched them together to create a binaural recording. No autographs, though:
This post is for my dear friend Harriet Choice, who always knows the difference.
Audrey Baxter and I never met, although we would have had some enthusiasms in common. She had good taste in music and encountered artists I admire, leaving behind a few precious relics. Taking a chance on Google, I found these possibly incorrect shards of evidence from the 1940 United States Census. I say incorrect because hers is a common name, but on April 1, an Audrey Baxter was about 27 years old and was living with her brother Don Haney and his wife Edna on Monteith Avenue in Cincinnati, Ohio. The census-taker noted she was “Female,” “White,” and had been born in Ohio.
The reason for my new fascination with Audrey Baxter is that she collected autographs from bands and musicians from the Thirties to the Fifties, and a few delights have turned up for sale on eBay. The signatures look genuine to me, and Audrey dated the back of the photographs, presumably noting when she got the autograph and inscription.
Here are a few delicacies:
Gene Krupa, October 1, 1939:
I think she thumbtacked Gene to the wall — anathema to collectors, but to me those loving damages are an indication of how eager and enthusiastic she was about the subjects, their music, and her brief connection with them.
Ray Noble, with terriers and calligraphy sublime, March 18, 1941:
and what is to me the absolute prize, Eddie Condon, Oct. 21, 1946. The photograph is beyond my budget but I love it seriously:
When we die, the fate of our physical selves is fairly clear, no matter what plans we may have made. Will our precious possessions end up on eBay? That is another question entirely.
Thank you, Audrey, for being such an enthusiastic Swing fan.
Late last year, I did one of my periodic eBay browsings, which have provided many images for this blog. The items below are no longer for sale, but the images are available for us to linger over.
In HERE AT THE NEW YORKER, Brendan Gill told a story of showing his friend, the writer William Maxwell, a Roman coin he had bought, and Maxwell thoughtfully saying, “The odds are on objects.” A cryptic utterance, but my time spent on eBay suggests that Maxwell was right. For one thing, objects are longer-lived than their owners, and they are put up for sale.
These thoughts are motivated by yet another visit to that site — in this case, to a “store” which has folded its tents as far as jazz and big band collectors are concerned. But they offered these four artifacts for sale. The seller knew their value: the prices ranged from $279.20 to $2,399.20. But looking is free.
Here is a postwar V-Disc, its talk and music taken from the April 26, 1947 WNEW Saturday Night Swing Session, hosted by Art Ford, featuring Louis, Jack Teagarden, Sidney Catlett, Roy Ross, accordion; Nicky Tagg, piano; an unidentified string bassist. Louis and Jack used the same pen:
That’s an authentic signature (to me) even if Louis didn’t have his pen, filled with green ink, on hand.
I coveted that disc intensely for a few minutes, then calmed myself down by thinking of the impossibility of displaying it properly — honoring Louis yet turning Jack’s “face” to the wall. And the price, of course. Here’s another piece of holy paper, even though this slip has been reproduced in a book on Bird (however, the seller has offered a note from the Parker collector Norman Saks, verifying the authenticity):
What I would like to know, of course, is the name of the person who advanced Bird the money — not a small sum in 1950. Whether Bird actually went to the doctor, and for what reasons, I leave to you.
From Bird to Miles — in 1957:
and a close-up of that somewhat faded ink signature:
Finally, a contract for Billie to perform at the Tiffany Club in 1952:
and a close-up of her signature and pianist / bandleader Buster Harding:
Since none of these objects is as durable as a coin, it’s marvelous that they have survived. Did their owners keep them safe for love of Louis, Jack, Miles, and Billie, or because of an awareness of their monetary value? Or both? I can’t surmise, but I am glad that these things exist for us to look at, and perhaps own.
To the right of me, next to this keyboard, I have an index card that Louis Armstrong signed for me in April 1967. And I’ve seen many examples of his angular handwriting, the idiosyncratic crabbed loops and slurred letters that a person who signs his name millions of times does.
I love eBay and visit it often — sometimes to purchase an out-of-print CD or book, sometimes to browse. Readers of this blog know that I have returned from my time at the monitor with surprises that I share.
Today, however, I offer an unsolicited yet short lesson in authenticity. I am not a certified specialist in autographs, but I know Louis’ signature as I know his voice. And I am startled to find forgeries being offered at high prices. I’ve given up contacting the sellers, because although they may be innocent (or is it ignorant) they assert that the consigner said the signature was genuine. (Incidentally, I’ve discussed with others a forged Coltrane “manuscript,” and other debatable autographs. I know that there are “fan” signatures — the star’s secretary signs a photograph and sends it off, but the inauthentic Louis signatures are more egregious to me.)
Here, for instance, is a 1949 letter that is clearly Louis: not only the handwriting, but the individualistic prose style, the punctuation, and the sentiments:
And, by the way, the writer’s love for Poppa Bing is also genuine.
Here’s an autograph that also strikes me as the real thing:
I love that the seller identifies Louis as “(DEC’D) TRUMPETER.
Above is a genuinely warm inscription to Chris Clufetos, known better as Chris Clifton, whom Louis befriended.
Here’s an inscription in Wild Bill Davison’s copy of HORN OF PLENTY, the Robert Goffin book about Louis. Again, visibly genuine:
Are you beginning to get the idea? Now, does this signature below resemble the others?
This one’s a harder test, but I have faith in my readers:
Now, here’s the real thing. Forget that some eBay sellers know that the average buyer is trusting and perhaps naive; forget that some people on both sides of the deal are not well-informed.
Good luck! Anyone can use a green pen, but there is only one Louis. Keep hustlin’ and bustlin’ for the real thing. Make your dream come true.
I’ve been eBaying once again — cyberspace’s version of going to antique stores in person — and I found four intriguing objects, all musical.
A song Mildred never recorded:
but the intriguing part of this cover (it might have been a very good song, given the credits of Isham Jones and Charles Newman) is the store listing, bottom right — a jewelry store that sold victrolas, records, and music in a town in Wisconsin. Evidence of a wondrous and now vanished past.
One year later, a song Lee Wiley should have recorded (music by her paramour Victor Young):
The jazz versions I know are Jack Teagarden and Art Tatum — both contemporaneous.
Now, two discs. Autographed ones, from the collection of Bill Thompson.
Mister Mercer and Mister Teagarden, if you please:
They were a wonderful team (I think not only of these duets but THE BATHTUB RAN OVER AGAIN, and LORD, I GIVE YOU MY CHILDREN).
And the prize. Was George French or was Louis being Louis?
I think that is positively begging to be made into a t-shirt, but I picture people coming too close, squinting at it, and asking for explanations, so this idea may have to go in the basket where the almost-good ideas are kept.
Some Swing fan had very good taste in his / her autograph quest, getting our heroes to sign their names on the same piece of paper:
That assemblage comes from the Benny Goodman Orchestra in early 1941 (February – March): Charlie Christian, electric guitar; Jimmie Maxwell, trumpet; Mike Bryan, guitar; Skippy Martin, alto saxophone / arranger; Pete Mondello, tenor saxophone; Cootie Williams, trumpet; Dave Tough, drums.
I first saw this browning piece of notebook paper as part of the Larry Rafferty Collection: someone no doubt has bought it by now but there’s no reason JAZZ LIVES can’t share the image with the Faithful.
And some of my favorite music of all time (I think I first bought the record of this in 1972): an excerpt from a Goodman Sextet without Benny, warming up in the studio: Charlie, Cootie, Dave, Johnny Guarneri, George Auld — working on what would be called A SMOOTH ONE:
I don’t hear the string bass of Artie Bernstein, but do I hear the voice of John Hammond early on? “Mop!” is our man Cootie Williams. This is music — like a deep pool — that one could descend in to for a long time. Bliss that it was recorded at all, and even better that the whole rehearsal / informal session did survive, was issued in several formats (Meritt Record Society and Masters of Jazz, vinyl and CD).
A year after he signed this paper, Charlie Christian (1916-1942) was dead.
Even the most astute jazz historians sometimes assume that jazz was played primarily in a half-dozen cities, their names familiar. But in the Fifties and Sixties, there were many opportunities for famous musicians to tour, to touch down at clubs we haven’t heard of, for a week or so. The photograph below came from Walt Gifford’s scrapbook, was passed on to Joe Boughton, and made its way to me after his death.
I believe that this was taken some six decades ago, somewhere in what New Yorkers and Californians would call “the Midwest,” which could have been Cincinnati, Milwaukee, St. Louis, or Columbus, Ohio. The quartet, from the left, is bassist John Field (well-known in Boston), Walt at the drums, Wild Bill Davison, cornet; Marie Marcus, piano (a pioneering jazz player, not all but forgotten, unfortunately).
You can imagine how good they sounded. “Hi Waltie!” to be sure.
In June 1952, according to TIME, Phil Napoleon was there (possibly with Kenny Davern) — music to my ears and everyone else’s.
And when we go to Nick’s, I should bring a notebook. Maybe some of the musicians will give us their autographs? Here’s the evidence (courtesy of the Riverwalk Jazz site and the daughter of a fan who went there 150 nights — true devotion!):
and
I know Gourmet Garage — the current replacement for Nick’s — has wonderful coffee and a cheese display, but somehow it isn’t the same thing.
Thanks to one of JAZZ LIVES’ friends — Charlie Decker — for sending this along for all of us to muse on.
Edith, whatever else we might know about her, had excellent taste in singers, and she acquired autographed pictures of them — whether in person or by mail.
In both cases (courtesy of eBay) I believe the signatures are genuine. I would vouch for Mildred’s because her calligraphy was distinctive, and Maxine’s elegant script was the same when she autographed a record for me in the very early Seventies. It is possible that Mildred signed her name to dozens of photographs and then wrote in the recipient’s name — the ink is slightly different — but that was common practice, I think.
Mildred:
Maxine:
So, Edith, thank you for being such a diligent and discerning fan!
First, a neatly posed tableau from the UK (via eBay):
and then we find the Sisters, circa 1930, in a Hawaiian mood:
The Sisters were always full of surprises, so it’s fitting that these posthumous delights should keep surfacing. And I know there are more to come — a splendid book and a remarkable documentary film!
First, a canvas board dating from early 1977 — whether from sessions at the Nice Festival or two American sojourns. Signers include Muddy Waters, Pinetop Perkins, Earl Hines, Wallace Davenport, Fred Kohlman, Dick Hyman, Pee Wee Erwin, Jimmy Maxwell, Clark Terry, Johnny Mince, Zoot Sims, Benny Carter, Vic Dickenson, Teddy Wilson, Trummy Young, Milt Hinton, Joe Williams, Orange Kellin, and Barney Bigard.
Those of us who have followed a number of these artists know that the signatures are genuine. But here are two documents advertised as being signed by Louis Armstrong. The first is not even a convincing forgery:
This one (context notwithstanding) is the real thing.
No one at eBay has asked me, but I would give the seller of the first item Swiss Kriss regularly. Perhaps that would increase his candor.
“Correctives to what?” you might ask. To the people who find JAZZ LIVES as part of their search for “billie holiday drugs” or “billie holiday nude.”
I’d prefer to think of Miss Holiday this way, her voice full of dramatic arching passion that none of her emulators has ever captured. We should be thanking her:
My title may mystify and confound. Let me explain in reverse: Red Norvo was born Kenneth Norville: his new name was in part a response to his hair color and the inability of bandleader Paul Ash to correctly recall and pronounce his surname. “Norvo,” he told Whitney Balliett, “stuck.”
JAZZ LIVES readers will of course recognize the woman at top — and her distinctive handwriting. Born Eleanora Fagan, daughter of Sadie Fagan and Clarence Holiday, she took “Billie” as her chosen name after the silent film actress Billie Dove. But I have called her “Mrs. McKay” here in sly obeisance to the thousands of readers who want to know more about Billie and her last husband Louis McKay. Why they are so fascinated by this conjugal bond I can’t say — no one, as far as I know, searches for information on Billie and trumpeter Joe Guy, but the ways of love and of online queries are both mysterious.
A few more remarkable pages from the recent eBay explosion — Joe’s autograph book, most of the signatures from 1936-40 with a few later additions. Some of the appeal is deeply simple: Sidney Bechet touched this object and it has his power. For me, these pages also summon up a time and place where people would throng around jazz players and singers and ask (or demand) their autographs — a time in our recent past when Jess Stacy and Edythe Wright (obviously left-handed) were stars rather than footnotes. Whatever their appeal to others, these pages resonate.
Roy Eldridge and guitarist John Collins, presumably from their 1939 appearance at the Arcadia Ballroom in New York City.
More members of that same band: Truck Parham, the short-lived and legendary Clyde Hart, Joe Eldridge, Billy Bowen, Dave Young, Harold “Doc” West.
To some, Blanche Calloway is notable only because she was Cab’s sister — but she recorded with Louis and led good bands in the Thirties.
What would Philip Larkin say? As a vocal stylist, Banks was more odd than memorable, but he had been the figurehead for some of the hottest records ever made — not simply in 1932-33, but for all time — the Rhythmakers — records that Larkin thought were one of the high points of Western art.
Noble Sissle’s band also gave Sidney Bechet a regular gig in the Thirties.
Andy Kirk’s men were exceptionally polite, adding sweet-natured wishes as well as their names — the outstanding signature on that page is that of saxophonist Dick Wilson, influential, handsome, and short-lived.
A few Goodmen and women: Peg LaCentra, Harry James, Lionel Hampton, Harry Goodman, Benny himself, Gordon “Chris” Griffin, both Gene Krupa and Dave Tough — this page, like others in the book, suggests that Joe asked musicians to sign in on relevant pages at different occasions. I haven’t yet figured out whether he glued the photos onto the pages before asking for autographs or after . . .
More heroes: Red Norvo, Mildred Bailey, and the other vocalist in Norvo’s band, Terry Allen.
Two other minute points of swing anthropology come to mind. I wonder when the practice of musicians identifying themselves by their instrument was in fashion? And — as my friend David Weiner has pointed out — the often hasty signatures are further proof of authenticity: a studio portrait of, say, Glenn Miller with “his” name signed in a flowing hand is more likely to be the creation of a secretary in his office: the Mildred and Red signatures above, for one example, are much more likely to be real — the product of someone standing up, leaning on a small book for support.
Ultimately, these pages are resilient evidence that once all our heroes and heroines were alive — they had fountain pens, you could ask them to sign your book, perhaps have a few sentences of conversation.
That’s Tommy Dorsey, Frank Sinatra, Bunny Berigan, Buddy Rich, and John Huddleston, caught by a fan at Frank Dailey’s Meadowbrook in 1940. All of them — or their signatures — can be yours here!
Thanks to hot man Chris Tyle for pointing me to this rare piece of paper, and to Berigan scholar / biographer Michael P. Zirpolo, who says it’s authentic, based on calligraphy.
JAZZ LIVES 