Tag Archives: Chelsea Quealey

ARTHUR and ADRIAN

I’ve just finished reading the charming autobiography of saxophonist Arthur Rollini (1912- 93), THIRTY YEARS WITH THE BIG BANDS, and it gave me the opportunity to learn about his first recordings — music graciously provided by the estimable AtticusJazz on YouTube.  Here are his first two recorded sides (April 12, 1929, in London) — the first a head arrangement of NOBODY’S SWEETHEART, the second the full Fred Elizalde orchestra performing SINGAPORE SORROWS in an arrangement by Fud Livingston.  Arthur was seventeen (as was the brilliant trumpeter Norman Payne, heard briefly on the second side); his legendary brother Adrian was then not yet twenty-six.

Of the first side, Arthur writes, “Bobby Davis took the first half of a chorus and I picked him up for the second half.  Adrian played brilliantly.”  Recalling SINGAPORE SORROWS, he praises Norman Payne, “This little solo in Bix’s tradition still stands up today.”  Especially in SWEETHEART, I hear the influence of the contemporaneous Nichols recordings, and beautiful playing throughout.

The small band is Fred Elizalde, arranger / leader; Chelsea Quealey, trumpet; Bobby Davis, clarinet, alto and soprano saxophone; Max Farley, tenor saxophone; Adrian Rollini, bass saxophone; Billy Mason, piano;  Tiny Stock, brass bass; string bass; Ronnie Gubertini, drums; Al Bowlly, guitar.

The large band is Fred Elizalde; Chelsea Quealey, Norman Payne, Nobby Knight, trumpet; Frank Coughlan, trombone; Bobby Davis, Max Farley, Phil Cardew, Fud Livingston, Arthur Rollini, Adrian Rollini, reeds; George Hurley, Ben Frankel, Len Lees, violin; Billy Mason, Jack Hull, banjo; Al Bowlly, Tiny Stock, Ronnie Gubertini.

Before I was deep into this book, I already valued it because it explained the early death of Adrian. Arthur tells us just how seriously Adrian was accident-prone: “He inadvertently smashed cars, stepped into holes and, although he was not a clumsy person, frequently tripped.  It was so bad that insurance companies refused him coverage.  Eventually, even his death was the result of an accident. It happened in Florida when he fell down a flight of stairs into a pit of coral rock” (17).

Then, as I read on in this low-keyed, modest book, I encountered compelling anecdotes of Benny Goodman’s oblivious cruelty, Richard Himber’s aberrational behavior (intentionally aimed flatulence as his idea of comedy?!), brief portraits of Bunny Berigan, Dave Tough, Hank D’Amico . . . Paul Whiteman uttering Turk Murphy’s “three little words” to a society matron who had pushed him too far, the eccentric Raymond Scott, and more.

As the Swing Era ends, Arthur and others find comfortable jobs in network radio for a decade or more, but the book slowly records the end of an era in popular music.  He doesn’t moan or rant, but “thirty years with the big  bands” as a sideman have left him without a place to go.  Oh, there are gigs in Long Island clubs, but he doesn’t have the name recognition of, say, Buddy Tate, or the chameleon-like abilities of Al Klink. He and his wife try non-musical businesses, and they have a hard time, with all underscored by her eventually fatal illness.  So I felt much sorrow in the final pages of the book, and I was undecided if I would keep my copy or pass it on.

Then I saw this picture (which I have poorly reproduced with my phone) and said, “I’m keeping this!”: the 1938 Benny Goodman softball team with Dave Tough in the front row with a mitt (what kind would it be?) that seems too big for him.  The other players, in the back row, are Bud Freeman, Chris Griffin, Harry Goodman, Arthur, Harry James, Ziggy Elman, Vernon Brown, Noni Bernardi; in the front, Benny Heller, Pee Wee Monte, Dave, Red Ballard.  (And for the Lesterphiles in the audience, Arthur tells of the inside-the-park home run the Pres hit in one game.)  You can find a much better copy of this photograph here.

And here, courtesy of THE POP OF YESTERCENTURY, a superb blog — temporarily on vacation,

the Rollini brothers send their best — from 1937, but the sounds are eternal.

With thanks to A.J. Sammut, as always.

May your happiness increase!

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YOURS SWEETLY, JACK PURVIS

Trumpeter / composer Jack Purvis is known not only for his brilliant playing but for his incredibly strange adventures — suicide attempts, thefts, deceptions, impersonations befitting a Baron Munchausen.  A good deal of the Purvis saga suggests mental instability or someone with no discernable impulse control: if the woman you are infatuated with plays the harp, what could be wrong with smashing a plate glass window, stealing a harp, asking her for lessons, and then (when rebuffed) smashing the window again to return the harp to its display? 

These exploits — colorful reading now, probably deeply puzzling and irritating to all who knew Purvis — are recounted in the very detailed and entertaining booklet by Michael Brooks, part of the definitive Purvis set (three CDs) on the Jazz Oracle label. 

Purvis’ recorded performances often show a kind of nervous excitability — hot playing in the extreme, courageous leaping here and there with a quick vibrato, no mountain too high to scale. 

So it’s a surprise to once again come across a 1931 California Ramblers recording of the pretty Fats Waller song, CONCENTRATIN’ ON YOU (with funny, sweet lyrics) — recorded on other occasions  by Connee Boswell and Mildred Bailey — that has Purvis noted as the trumpet soloist.  This generosity is courtesy of the record collector and silent-film scholar “Atticus70” on YouTube:

The probable personnel is Chelsea Quealey, Jack Purvis, Fred van Eps Jr., trumpets; Carl Loeffler, trombone; Bobby Davis, clarinet, soprano saxophone, alto saxophone; Elmer Feldkamp, clarinet, alto, vocal; Joe Gillespie, clarinet, tenor;  Adrian Rollini, bass sax when used [and possibly chimes or vibraphone]; Jack Wechsler, violin; Lew Cobey, piano; Noel Kilgen, guitar;  Carl Smith, bass; Herb Weil, drums. New York, October 5, 1931.

Could it be that the recordin contractor told Purvis to behave himself and play sweetly, or was Jack deeply in one of his romantic infatuations?

Of course, if the trumpet work is by Chelsea Quealey, my theories go to the ocean bottom — but it’s a pretty dance record, no matter who’s playing what.