Wikipedia, where almost-cooked facts are arranged for our pleasure, tells me today that Bob Barnard, “an Australian trumpet and cornet player,” born November 24, 1933, died yesterday, May 7, 2022. I heard the news yesterday from the very fine friend of the music John Trudinger. My first reaction was double: I felt as if I’d been pierced right through my chest, but at the same time I heard a great golden sound, that of Bob’s glowing horn. And I thought of what Bobby Hackett had said of Louis Armstrong’s “death,” that Louis was alive as long as we could hear him.
I was fortunate to see and hear and even chat with Bob on his visits to New York and to Jazz at Chautauqua, which is why I start with his rare character. He had his own center, a sweet equanimity. He was ready to find the world both welcoming and amusing, and although I never heard him tell a joke (or be mean at someone’s expense), he always looked as if he was ready to start laughing — of course, not when the horn was at his lips, when he was completely serious. I think of him with a gentle amiability, head slightly cocked at the latest absurdity but ready to make everything right through music.
Along with that ease in the world, and perhaps its foundation, was a lovely mature courage. When he led groups at Chautauqua and elsewhere — musicians who didn’t usually play together or who (let me whisper this) always know more obscure repertoire, he was beautifully unflappable. He called tunes that he knew everyone would enjoy, but when he announced BOULEVARD OF BROKEN DREAMS or GIVE A LITTLE WHISTLE I could see the faintest looks of “What the hell is this? How does the bridge go?” among the very experienced musicians on the stand. Bob called a medium tempo and started playing the melody . . . wordlessly teaching by example, “THIS is how it goes. Follow me and I won’t let you get lost.” And no one did.
I hope that my readers know what an unforgiving instrument the trumpet (or cornet) is, how demanding . . . and if they don’t know, they pick one up sometime and attempt a clear tone, held notes, the barest semblance of agility.
Bob, Pat O’Leary, Scott Robinson, Matt Munisteri at The Ear Inn, 2010.
Bob is — not was — an absolutely spectacular brass virtuoso. But one with deep-seated taste and grace. He came out of Louis and Bix, but with a keen sense of their songful lyricism: the only one who approached his mastery in this is Connie Jones. He was also fearlessly agile all over the range of the horn. I think of Bob’s limber, audaciously sweet playing as skywriting or acrobatics on the highest diving board.
Here’s a sample from Bob’s visit to The Ear Inn, September 26, 2010, with Scott Robinson, tenor saxophone; Matt Munisteri, guitar; Pat O’Leary, string bass:
and also in sweetly Louis-inspired mode, performances with John Sheridan, piano; Arnie Kinsella, drums, at Jazz at Chautauqua, September 16, 2010.
I LOVE YOU, SAMANTHA (from High Society):
LYIN’ TO MYSELF (from the glorious Deccas):
and, finally, THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET. Originally I thought that bringing this performance forward to mark Bob’s moving on would seem a failure of taste, but I think he would laugh at the juxtaposition, never one to take himself too seriously:
And a beautiful interlude from Bob’s last recording session, JUST MY LUCK, with guitarist Ian Date in March 2016:
Bob made his first recordings in 1949, and readers who know him will have their own favorites. But you can hear his style, his joy, his lyrical exuberance in these performances. And if you knew him, even glancingly, as I did, you hear the friendly singular man, in love with melodies, in every note.
Here’s almost an hour of late-period Condonia, presented by Johnson “Fat Cat” McRee as a simulation of one of Eddie’s Town Hall / Ritz Theatre / Carnegie Hall concerts or broadcasts, circa 1944-5. By 1989, few people who had actually played with Eddie were still doing it, but the people on this stand knew their roles well and they offered heartfelt hot music. They are or were John Jensen, Art Poncheri, tbn, Brooks Tegler, Johnny Blowers, d; Marty Grosz, Steve Jordan, g; Kenny Davern, Tommy Gwaltney, Bobby Gordon, cl; Connie Jones, Tommy Saunders, cnt; Clyde Hunt, tp; Betty Comora, voc; Al Stevens, p; Johnny Williams, b.
CHINA BOY Stevens, Davern, Saunders, Poncheri, Hunt, Johnny Williams, Jordan, Brooks / SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES Poncheri, Stevens, Williams / UNDECIDED Jensen-Poncheri, Stevens, Jordan, Williams, Brooks / [RIALTO RIPPLES Stevens] / AT SUNDOWN Saunders, Hunt, Davern, Gordon, Gwaltney, Jensen, Poncheri, rhythm / Blowers in for Brooks, add Connie NEW ORLEANS / Betty DON’T BLAME ME / add Marty Grosz et al. SHEIK – OLE MISS [McRee, kazoo] //
Here’s the flyer for the series, thanks to JAZZ LIVES’ friend, Mr. McGown: obviously printed well in advance, because not everyone announced was able to make the concerts — but those who could brought their best selves:
Beautiful music, embracing the past but wholly alive in 1989.
Maxine Sullivan reminds me of sunlight coming through the window: her cheery delivery, her preference for medium-up tempos, as if saying, “Look, it’s all going to be all right,” her delight in pure singing and in improvising subtle variations. Even when she sings songs theoretically about heartbreak, such as EV’RY TIME (“I’m going to hate all you men.”) it’s clear she is grinning at the hyperbole of the lyrics, as she does with what’s really a tale of romantic betrayal, SURPRISE PARTY. She isn’t the Princess of Darkness; she is a good-humored beacon of swing.
Here’s a short set filled with songs (Maxine liked, in Louis’ words, to “keep it rolling”) from the 1980 Manassas Jazz Festival, with an extra-special band, even though only Dill Jones gets an extended solo. Maxine is accompanied by Connie Jones, cornet; Dill Jones, piano; Spencer Clark, bass saxophone; Cliff Leeman, drums; Van Perry, string bass; Butch Hall, guitar, performing SURPRISE PARTY / I’VE GOT THE WORLD ON A STRING / EV’RY TIME / A HUNDRED YEARS FROM TODAY / THEY ALL LAUGHED / YOU WERE MEANT FOR ME / I’M COMIN’ VIRGINA / WE JUST COULDN’T SAY GOODBYE // This video is from the collection of the late Joe Shepherd:
It’s too late to call for reservations, and — for the Corrections Officers out there — it is late for Bix Beiderbecke’s birthday party, but neither he nor Eddie nor the people in this ninety-minute celebration would object to a little after-party, modeled on a 1944 Condon Town Hall concert where Bix was the subject.
Here’s the roadmap, more or less: Johnson “Fat Cat” McRee talks about Max Kaminsky, who couldn’t come / Connie Jones, Tommy Saunders, cornet; Bobby Gordon, clarinet; Art Poncheri, trombone; Jimmy Hamilton, baritone saxophone; Brooks Tegler, drums; Larry Eanet, piano; Tommy Cecil, string bass; Marty Grosz, guitar, vocal: FIDGETY FEET / Grosz, Connie BECAUSE MY BABY DON’T MEAN “MAYBE” NOW / Grosz, Steve Jordan, guitar: DAVENPORT BLUES / I’D CLIMB THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN Gordon announces and tells a Condon joke, Hamilton plays clarinet / add Kenny Davern, clarinet; Saunders, Poncheri, Tommy Gwaltney, clarinet: BIG BOY / Eanet CANDLELIGHTS-IN THE DARK-IN A MIST / Betty Comora, vocal; Connie, rhythm THE MAN I LOVE / WHEREVER THERE’S LOVE FC, add Marty for the chords / Betty I GOT RHYTHM / Connie, Saunders, Davern, Gwaltney, Gordon, Poncheri, Hamilton, FC [kazoo], Cecil, Brooks, Grosz JAZZ ME BLUES / TIN ROOF sign-off with kazoo, Davern on mouthpiece // “Hayloft Dinner Theatre,” Virginia, Saturday night, set two, May 20, 1989:
Connie Jones was an earthly being. I saw him eat ice cream, talk about football, smile affectionately at his wife. And of course, I saw him play the cornet, and sing. But my encounters with him from 2011-2015 convinced me that although he resided in an ordinary envelope, his soul was always striving for beauty, too large for mere mortal things. He visited us; he left us; his spirit vibrates on.
Consider this:
and this:
and this:
Connie’s playing seems as close to celestial architecture as we might encounter. I am not the only one who felt this. My friend Howard Kadison— who appears on recordings with Connie’s Crescent City Jazz Band but whom I knew first as Donald Lambert’s chosen drummer — told me this about Connie:
I worked in Connie’s band for about seven years, off and on, mostly on, and I went to Bogota, Colombia with him during the Bicentennial in 1976. We were there for a month, playing. Part of it was a trade show and part was a Fourth of July celebration at the embassy there. We stayed in a hotel for a month and did a nightly performance.
What was interesting about Connie: of all the musicians I’ve ever known, he was one of the most principled, one of the most studious.
He was a good guy. He could be a tough leader. He once was in a jam, and he hired a guy to play tuba who wasn’t a very good player, and I was having a hell of a time trying to keep things together, and Connie turned around. There was a little riser for the drums, so he put his face right in my face, and he turned around and said, “I don’t know what the hell’s going on back here. Fix it.” That’s all that he said: “Fix it.” I was so pissed that I couldn’t see straight, like I’m supposed to teach this guy how to play?
He could be tough, he could be demanding, but he had a good sense of humor, and he was fun to work with. He was a very very specific kind of a player. He always said he just wanted to play with a good stand-up Dixieland band, that was his phrase.
I brought Connie and Dick Sudhalter together. At one point in my life — it’s the only time as an adult that I wasn’t playing full time — I was very lucky, once I started working, I never stopped. At one point I took a gig on the steamboat, the Delta Queen, on the Mississippi River, and I ended up staying with the gig for ten years, but not playing in the band. I became a manager. I still don’t understand how it happened, but I had a friend who was in the management part of the company and I ended up being in the entertainment department, and subsequently I became director of operations of the land part of the cruise. As you know, putting together all the things that happened “on the bank,” as they called it, on the shore, where they would have all these programs.
I knew Dick Sudhalter from a gig I had in Cape Cod, years before, and I ran into him again and thought he’d be a perfect guy to get to know Connie. I wanted to put a program together where they’d both play on the boat and talk about jazz, because we had jazz cruises. They were on the boat together — remember when we had that Black Tuesday, in the Eighties, with the stock market? — they were both on the boat, on the Cumberland River, in the Nashville area, they were working on that program and I was hanging out with them. They had put together a program where they would both play trumpet and talk about music. It never reached fruition, but they got to know each other, and that recording took place. Getting them together was purely accidental. At the time I was working part-time, playing for Al Hirt, and working for the Delta Queen. Eventually I quit, and went with Jumbo full-time in 1992.
I wanted to tell you one story about Connie that speaks volumes about who he was and what he was. I was working for him, and I had to get a night off, because I had a gig that really paid well. Connie was the kind of guy who would say, “You can make some money? Do it.” He hired a guy named Al Babin. Al was a New Orleans drummer who had what they call a broom route: people sell brooms door-to-door in New Orleans, for housewives, the New Orleans version of the Fuller Brush man. Babin was a great fan of the drummer Monk Hazel, a wonderful self-taught drummer who’s on a lot of recordings. Babin could play just like Hazel, and Connie used to love Hazel’s playing on all those Southland recordings. He hired Babin that night, and watched him very intently, and when I came back to work the next night, and at the end of the gig, he said, “You want to hang a little? I want to talk to you.” He sat down behind the drums and showed me everything he’d watched Babin do, and he could play them perfectly.
And he explained the way Hazel would build in the ensembles, and developed this tremendous push, and he even showed me the grip, the way Hazel would hold the stick. He would play the outchorus on the Chinese cymbal, and he would hold the stick between his index finger and second finger, rather than between his thumb and index, and he would play with the shoulder of the sick on the edge of the cymbal. Connie had watched Babin doing this, very carefully, and he showed me how it was done. It wasn’t necessary, to get that sound, but it interested me that Connie was so astute and careful, that he showed me every aspect of Babin’s playing, which helped me understand more about Hazel’s playing. That’s the kind of musician Connie was.
He was very strong in harmony. He shared that with Bobby Hackett, who had a great harmonic knowledge. Hackett, of course, played guitar with Glenn Miller part of the time. Connie played good piano, and saxophone. But the thing he was most proud of, his father had the parking lot at the Jung Hotel in New Orleans, and Connie used to work for his father sometimes, and he said he could drive a car in reverse faster than anyone.
Connie was like a singer. He would sing on his horn. He played beautiful, lovely music. There was a lyricism. He was funny, too. He said something once that really struck me. Before my wife and I bought our house, we had an apartment on the very last block of Bourbon: we were on the other side of the Esplanade. Connie would always park over there, and we’d walk to our gig. We’d walk about six or eight French Quarter blocks from my house. We had an afternoon gig at that point, we would start at noon and work until four or five. It wasn’t Connie’s gig; we were working for another leader together.
He’d come over and we’d hang, have coffee in my kitchen. We were talking one day, and he just blurted out — it was completely out of context, a surprising thing he said, “If you had one day left to live, what would you do?” Just a question out of the air. I thought about it a while, and said, “I’d probably just do what I’m doing. I’m having a nice time, and it’s fun, so I don’t imagine I’d do anything differently.” I came back at him, and said, “What would you do?” He looked at me and said, “Practice.” I never forgot that, and I’ve thought about it a lot since then.
Connie, location and date unknown, inscribed to Al White, jazz party photographer.
Here’s a little more music from the last time I had the honor of being in Connie’s presence: on the top deck of the steamboat Natchez, during the 2015 Steamboat Stomp. He’s accompanied by Ray Heitger, clarinet; Tom Saunders, tuba; Neil Unterseher, banjo, singing and playing SUGAR (September 19, 2015):
When Connie moved on, in 2019, at 84, Howard wrote, “He was my friend and teacher. It was a privilege to know him, share time with him, and play music with him. Each day brought joy.”
Although I was only an audience member, I understand this. That joy continues.
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:
I don’t know why, while assembling this blog, I thought of the author Byron Katie’s injunction, “Love what is.” Perhaps it’s because this music is “what is” for me, and I hope you love it, too.
This is the third segment of music played (and video-recorded) in Manassas, Virginia, during the weekend of May 19-21, 1989 weekend. You can see the first and second parts here and here. It wasn’t 1939 anymore, nor was it West Fourth Street, but “these guys” (and Betty) would have pleased Eddie, and Johnson McRee’s notion of recreating various Town Hall concerts, in part or in whole, had merit: evoking the past and exploring a wide repertoire of the beautiful songs Eddie and his colleagues loved to honor.
Originally I thought this weekend was part of the Manassas Jazz Festival, but my friend Sonny McGown (who was there) reminded me that the MJF was held in the autumn, that this was a special weekend. Sonny also sent this flyer:
This segment begins with the closing chorus of NOBODY’S SWEETHEART (with perhaps unsolicited technical advice given to the videographer, an occupational hazard) by Clyde Hunt, Connie Jones, trumpet; Bobby Gordon, clarinet; Art Poncheri, trombone; Jimmy Hanilton, baritone saxophone; Tommy Cecil, string bass; Larry Eanet, piano; Steve Jordan, guitar; Johnny Blowers, drums / SONG OF THE WANDERER / SINGIN’ THE BLUES: Connie, Gordon, Poncheri, Hunt, Hamilton, Gordon / DOCTOR JAZZ, with offstage comedy by Marty Grosz, a racing tempo, and Johnson “Fat Cat” McRee vocal / GHOST OF A CHANCE: Betty Comora, Connie, rhythm section / BIG BUTTER AND EGG MAN: add Grosz, Kenny Davern, clarinet; Tommy Saunders, cornet; John Jensen, trombone // May 20, 1989, Saturday brunch, set one.
There are two more lengthy segments to come. “Whee!” as Eddie signed autographs.
For your dining and dancing pleasure, JAZZ LIVES presents another performance video from the May 1989 tribute to Eddie Condon. I’ve posted one hour-long video about a week ago, with much explication: here it is.
And what follows truly deserves a WHEE!
Originally I thought this weekend was part of the Manassas Jazz Festival, but my friend Sonny McGown (who was there) reminded me that the MJF was held in the autumn, that this was a special weekend. Sonny also sent this flyer:
SEPTEMBER IN THE RAIN Tommy Saunders, cornet; Art Poncheri, trombone; Tommy Gwaltney, clarinet; Jimmy Hamilton, baritone saxophone; Al Stevens, piano; Steve Jordan, guitar; Johnny WIlliams, string bass; Brooks Tegler, drums
Brooks Tegler and Johnson “Fat Cat” McRee talk about Gene Krupa
ROSE ROOM Bobby Gordon, clarinet, Stevens, Jordan, Williams, Brooks Tegler
EASTER PARADE Bobby Gordon, Kenny Davern, Tommy Gwaltney; Connie Jones, cornet; Saunders, Poncheri, John Jensen, trombone; Hamilton, McRee, kazoo, Stevens, Jordan, Williams, Brooks Tegler
ONE HOUR Kenny Davern
YOU’RE LUCKY TO ME Betty Comora, vocal; Connie, John Jensen, Saunders, Gwaltney et al.
EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY Marty Grosz, guitar and vocal; 3 clarinets, rhythm, Saunders, Poncheri, Connie, et al — with a lovely Brooks Tegler solo:
As I write this, the days get darker and shorter. Many of the wondrous musicians here have moved on to other gigs. But their sounds still light up the rooms of our lives.
Thanks to Brooks Tegler, Betty Comora, Jimmy Hamilton, Al Stevens, Professor Hustad, “Fat Cat,” and of course Eddie himself.
By day a tax accountant and perhaps a financial advisor, by night a deep jazz enthusiast, concert producer, record producer, singer and kazoo player, Johnson “Fat Cat” McRee” knew and loved Eddie (and Phyllis) Condon, and the music that Eddie and friends made.
When “Fat Cat” began his jazz festivals in Manassas, Virginia, Eddie, Wild Bill Davison, George Brunis, Bobby Hackett, Jimmy McPartland, Cliff Leeman, Buzzy Drootin, Vic Dickenson, Bob Wilber, and many of Eddie’s stalwart individualists were alive and well. By 1989, few were left and playing (Max Kaminsky had just turned eighty and was advised by his doctor not to join in). But over the weekend of May 19-21, 1989, he staged a series of CONDON REVISITED / CONDON REUNION concerts, each attempting to reproduce a precious 1944-45 Town Hall or Carnegie Hall or Blue Network broadcast from 1944-45. It was a hot jazz repertory company: Connie Jones acted the part of Bobby Hackett, Betty Comora played Lee Wiley, Bobby Gordon was Pee Wee Russell, Tommy Saunders became Wild Bill Davison, and so on.
The results were sometimes uneven yet the concerts were beautiful.
I’ve acquired these videos through the kindness of deep jazz collectors and here’s a listing of everyone who takes part, to the best of my record-keeping ability. I asked permission to post from the Survivors who appear in this and other concert videos — the very gracious Brooks Tegler, drums; Jimmy Hamilton, baritone saxophone and clarinet; Tommy Cecil, string bass; Betty Comora, vocals. (Update: my friend Sonny McGown told me that John Jensen, Clyde Hunt, and Al Stevens are still with us, which I had not known. I’ve reached out to John and Clyde but haven’t found Al. Any leads gratefully accepted.) Had I been able to, I might have edited out the kazoo solos, but I leave them in as a tribute to “Fat Cat.” Imperial privilege.
Originally I thought this weekend was part of the Manassas Jazz Festival, but my friend Sonny McGown (who was there) reminded me that the MJF was held in the autumn, that this was a special weekend. Sonny also sent this flyer:
Here’s the bill of fare: ‘S’WONDERFUL Clyde Hunt, trumpet; Tommy Saunders, cornet; Art Poncheri, trombone; Tommy Gwaltney, Bobby Gordon, clarinet; Jimmy Hamilton, baritone saxophone; Al Stevens, piano; Steve Jordan, guitar; Johnny Williams, string bass; Johnny Blowers, drums; Johnson “Fat Cat” McRee, kazoo / DINAH Marty Grosz – Bobby Gordon / CLARINET CHASE Bobby Gordon, Tommy Gwaltney, Kenny Davern / THE ONE I LOVE / I’VE GOT A CRUSH ON YOU Betty Comora, vocal; Connie Jones, cornet; John Jensen, trombone / THAT DA DA STRAIN / RIVERSIDE BLUES Connie Jones, Al Stevens, Marty Grosz, Johnny Williams, Johnny Blowers / OL’ MISS McRee, ensemble.
Thank goodness for such tributes — full of individualists who have the right feeling — and for the video-recording. As Eddie would say, WHEE!
The splendid people at jgautographs (on eBay) have reached into the apparently bottomless treasure chest and come up with an assortment of photographs for sale. The auction has a time limit, so don’t (as we say) dither.
Bill, Kenny, and Bob, also riding the range, although dressed like city slickers.
Question: what do Bobby Hackett, George Barnes, Flip Phillips, Bob Wilber, Bud Freeman, Connie Jones, Max Kaminsky, Joe Venuti, Lou Stein, Joe Wilder, Zoot Sims, Ralph Sutton, Kenny Davern, Dick Wellstood, Scott Hamilton, Milt Hinton, Bucky and John Pizzarelli, Greg Cohen, Dick Hyman, Urbie Green, Trummy Young, Vic Dickenson, Hank Jones, Bob Haggart, Dick Cathcart, Jess Stacy, Joe Bushkin, Dave McKenna, John Best, Franz Jackson, Wild Bill Davison, Butch Miles, Jack Lesberg, Dick Johnson, Bob Havens, and a few others have in common . . . . aside from their musical glories?
Urbie, the one, the only.
Answer: They were all caught in performance by Al White and his roving camera (many of them at Dick Gibson’s Colorado jazz parties) — asked to sign the photos — the ones I’ve seen have all been inscribed to Al — and these 8 x 10″ black and white beauties are now being offered at the site above.
In 2000, Al and Ralph Sutton’s biographer James D. Schacter created a large-format book, JAZZ PARTY, with over a hundred of these inscribed photographs, but that book is now out of print, although copies can be found.
Al started life as an amateur drummer and jazz fan, then put on concerts and parties in Arkansas . . . . and at some point began to specialize in candid shots of the musicians he admired.
The noble Dick Cathcart.
The photographs offered on eBay have, for me, a special resonance. For a moment in time, Bobby or Urbie had to touch this piece of paper to sign it, so they are beautiful artifacts or relics or what you will.
I’ve been running out of wall space for some time now (and it would be disrespectful as well as damp to start hanging photographs in the bathroom) so the field is clear for you to visually admire and place bids, even though I might be tempted in two days and twenty-something hours.
I thought you might like some jazz-party-jazz, so here is the priceless 1977 color film (102 minutes) of the Dick Gibson party, “The Great Rocky Mountain Jazz Party,” featuring everyone:
My awareness of the amazing musician Donald Lambert began in 1970, when I heard this music coming out of my FM radio speaker when Ed Beach (WRVR-FM of sainted memory) offered a program of Lambert’s then few recordings:
I loved then and still love the beautiful carpet of the verse. But I was uplifted by the rollicking tempo and swing of the chorus. And not only by the pianist, but by the drummer, cavorting along — not overbearing, but personal and free, saying “Yeah!” to Lambert at every turn, but not too often.
The magic possible in cyberspace has made it possible for me to talk with Howard Kadison, the nimble drummer on that recording and — no cliche, a witness to history, because he knew and played with people we revere. First, he and Audrey VanDyke, another gracious scholar, made available to me the text of an entire periodical devoted to the Lamb, which I have posted here eight months ago. It’s an afternoon’s dive, I assure you: I’ve also presented the two fuzzy videos of Lambert, solo, at Newport, July 1, 1960, that are known on YouTube.
But Howard and I finally had a chance to talk at length, and I can offer you the very pleasing and sometimes surprising results. Howard doesn’t have a high profile in the jazz world, and I suspect he is content with that. But he played drums with Danny Barker, Connie Jones, George Finola, and many others whose names he recalls with pleasure. However, he was most famous to me as the drumming sidekick — the delightful accompanist — to stride piano legend Donald Lambert. The session they created for Rudi Blesh (pictured above) always lifts my spirits. As did my conversation with the man himself.
On May 5, Howard graciously talked to me about “Lamb” and his experiences being Lambert’s drummer of choice — both at Frank Wallace’s High Tavern in West Orange, New Jersey, and in the recording studio. Sit back and enjoy his beautiful narrative. He was there, and he loved Lambert.
HOWARD KADISON REMEMBERS DONALD LAMBERT
I always fooled around with the drums. I was really drum-crazy — I used to have a telephone book with brushes, and I’d play with the radio when I was fourteen, fifteen, twelve years old. I always liked music and if I heard a song I could always remember it. I had come from a divorced home and was dividing my time between Chicago and Miami when my parents split up. And when I was in Miami I heard a radio station, WMBM, “The Rockin’ MB,” Miami Beach, and I didn’t know what kind of music it was, but it was jazz. I had no idea about jazz. And I listened to it and just fooled around with it. Then I went on to college, and in my junior year, I really decided that I wanted to play drums. Whenever there was music in Miami, I would go to whatever event it was. I always had a peripheral interest.
In 1959, I went to New York, and was very serious about it, and started taking lessons. When I was in college, I was an econ major, so it was quite a change. I studied with Jim Chapin initially, and for a long while with George Gaber. I had an endless series of day jobs, and one of them had me working in the mailroom of ABC. George Gaber was a staff percussionist, and he was a brilliant teacher who eventually ran the percussion program at Indiana University. But before he left New York I studied with him for a couple of years. The way I met him was he was practicing one day — he came in and was warming up — and I watched him. I was delivering mail, and he just started talking to me. He asked me if I was a drummer, because I was watching him so intently. I told him I was trying to be, and he took me under his wing.
While I was there, I ran into a banjoist and guitar player who became one of my mentors, Danny Barker. Danny was playing at a place called the Cinderella, which was on West Third Street in the Village. He kept in touch with me, and he started giving me little gigs that would come up. And there were a bunch of guys playing around at that time. There was a wonderful piano player named Don Coates, and Ed Polcer, and Kenny Davern and Dick Wellstood. They were all older than I, but I got to know them a little bit. I started working, just gradually. And then Don Coates, who was from Jersey, brought me out to hear Don Lambert play. I just thought it was the most wonderful music. I forget exactly how it happened, but this was shortly after Lambert had gone to Newport in July 1960.
Danny Barker told me that Don came up on the bandstand at Newport, at what they called the Old-Timers concert in the early afternoon, and there were a lot of good stride players there, and he got up and, to use Danny’s words, “this old man killed everybody. He got up there and played and scared the crap out of everybody in the place.” And Danny never used language like that. “He left those people there shaking like a leaf.”
So I met Lambert through Don Coates, and Lambert said, “If you ever want to come in and bring a snare drum, there’s not much room back here, but you can bang a few notes with me.” That’s a direct quote. So I took the Hudson Tubes to Newark, and then got on a bus, and finally found myself in West Orange, New Jersey, I think it was, and would walk from the bus to Wallace’s High Tavern, which was where Lambert was playing. I brought a snare drum, and played some brushes.
I should explain. He played behind a long oval bar on a platform which was just enough room for a baby grand piano. Guys would come sit in with him occasionally, but there wasn’t a whole lot of room to play with. Anyway, I played a couple of tunes, and as I was leaving, Frank Wallace came up to me — he was the owner of the place — and he said, “Would you like to come in once and a while and play? Lambert enjoyed your playing.” You know, Lambert didn’t talk to me; he did. And I said yes: I didn’t know he was offering me a gig, I thought he was just talking to me to come in and play once in a while. I did it a couple more times, and then he said, “What would be involved to get a set of drums back here?” I said, “Well, there’s not much room.” There was just room for a snare drum to fit in one little place. I used sit near a display of alcohol on one side and Lambert on the other, and in the middle there was a cash register where he would ring up the sales. He had me sitting next to the cash register, and when he’d ring up a sale, if I wasn’t careful and didn’t duck, the drawer would hit me in the head, which I’m sure explains a lot of my behavior these days.
Anyway, he figured out a way of getting a bass drum in there, and he moved some things under the bar. I think there was a connection to a sink or something, he kind of juggled some stuff and I was able to get a small bass drum in there, a hi-hat, and one cymbal. It was pretty cramped in there, but I was able to do it. And I started playing on a regular basis, about three nights a week, and it was eight bucks a night plus a sandwich, one of those heated sandwiches where they use an electric bulb and they put them in those cases. I was working days, and Frank would drive me to the train station after the gig, and I’d take the train home, back to New York City. But I would go there by bus, from Port Authority bus station, through the Hudson Tubes, and then a pretty long walk. I’d have to leave the drums there. That went on for a while.
There was one very critical thing that happened that was helpful. The set-up didn’t allow me to see Lambert while he was playing. We would play almost with our backs to one another, or at right angles. So I had to listen very intently to everything he was going to do, because he didn’t do a lot of talking when he played. He’d go from one tune to another, and I’ve often thought in retrospect that this experience of really listening was very important, because it required a very specific kind of focus to know what he was going to do. He’d play an introduction, then he’d play the time, and that was it.
That went on a couple of years, and then there was a project that came up. It was a guy named Rudi Blesh was going to record Lambert. That didn’t involve me at all. I think it was going to be a solo album with Lambert. I don’t know how the conversation began, but they said that they wanted to add a drummer. Blesh wanted to use some other players, and Lambert wanted to use me. Danny Barker, who was at Newport when Lambert played, heard about the project — I’m not quite sure of tthe mechanics involved — but Danny, I learned later, recommended me and said that if I’d been playing with the guy, I’d probably be the one you’d want to get. When they asked me if I wanted to do it, I was terrified, because I’d never done anything like that before. Ultimately, I was the one who made the recording, and that was primarily because of Danny. Frank Wallace, the owner of the bar, had kept in touch with Danny after Lambert played, and evidently Danny told Frank that Lambert should use me. A lot of tap-dancing, a bunch of up-and-back stuff. I didn’t know anything about it. I was just a kid playing drums, and that’s it.
(At this point the Editor interrupted and reminded Howard that there was a story extant of Lambert telling Blesh, “That’s my drummer,” referring to Howard.)
Yes. That was one of the most thrilling things that had happened to me. If I’d quit playing drums after that, I could have been happy. I could have died happy. I was astounded by all of it. I didn’t know what the hell to do. I just sat down, and Lambert said, “Hey, man! Just do what you do with me at the bar. That’s it!”
Sometimes I’d go out at night after the gig and shoot pool with Lambert, if I didn’t have to work the next day at my day job, hang with him in Newark, and sometimes he would talk about music.
I learned a lot on the job. He’d make comments. If he wanted me to do a specific thing, he’d turn around and say, “Now, don’t do something until you hear me sound like I’m ready to have you play.” Then he’d wait and turn around and say, “And then, put me in the alley!” That was one of his favorite phrases, “Put me in the alley!” He didn’t talk a whole lot, but he spoke volumes, the way he played things. If you just listened carefully, you didn’t have to watch him. If I were going to speak about people who guided me, it would be Danny Barker and Don Lambert.
One of the rules that I learned, that I thought was extremely important, is that you have to focus, to remember whom you’re accompanying. And that’s important. You’ve got to find a way to connect with the soloist. I never thought of drumming as soloing, I always thought of it as being an accompanist. And that was something I took away from two extraordinarily different experiences, completely dissimilar in every respect, as far as music. But the philosophical approach to every gig is the same: you’ve got to listen, be part of the solo, and help the soloist. And that’s, I believe, of critical importance. That’s all you can do!
There was a thing that Danny Barker used to say. He would tell me, “Hey, man, if you’re a drummer, most of the time you’re going to be playing for other people, you’re not going to be playing drum solos. So it’s nice to do all kinds of monkeyshines” (and I quote) “but your real job is to be an accompanist. So you gotta learn how to back people up,” and he always talked about that. He was a wonderful guitarist, and playing time with him was marvelous. You’d get such a groove, and, hey, if you could get that going, why would you want to do anything else? So the trick is to be good at accompanying people. I was lucky, because I got to play with him, and I did an album with him. And that was a great pleasure.
You could learn on every gig. You might learn how to develop your chops with a teacher, but in the final analysis, you’re doing it so that you can play with people. So, to me, the trick is to just stay in the background and play for somebody else. That’s it.
I’ll tell you a story, and I don’t know the details. It’s something that Don Coates told me. At one point, Lambert was working as a janitor or a clean-up guy at the Adams Theatre in Newark. Jack Teagarden was there with a big band. There was evidently a piano backstage. Lambert was fooling around with it, and Teagarden happened to hear what he was doing. There was a song that Lambert played, a song he had written himself, and Lambert gave Teagarden the music, and, according to what Coates told me, Teagarden used it as a kind of opening theme for his big band. The story is fuzzy and not very precise, and there’s no way to verify it, because Coates has passed away, but there was some connection between Lambert and Teagarden. (At this point, the Editor interrupted to tell the story of Lambert being at Jack’s 1940 HRS session, documented in a photograph.)
I’d call him “Lamb,” because that’s what he always did. And I’d call him “Don” sometimes. The other thing you might be interested in, one of the sterling times I had with Lambert, is that Frank Wallace called me one day and said, “We’re going to go visit Eubie Blake at his house in Brooklyn. Would you like to come along?” I was tongue-tied, but I said, “Sure.” And I just sat there and listened to them talk, and didn’t say a word the whole time. It was great, listening to them talk, up and back. And they both played.
He had interesting things he would say. His mother was his piano teacher, and she used to tell him he should learn every tune in every key, and he did. Every tune he played, he could play in all twelve keys. He was technically a very fine player. I’ve heard stories about when he was in New York in the Thirties and early Forties, and then he left and kind of buried himself in Jersey. He was always very humble. He told me once that he thought he was one of the better piano players in the state of New Jersey. That’s a direct quote. Lambert was a lot of fun. He had a good sense of humor. He was generous, and he was helpful. He’d come over sometime and say, “Remember what you just did, because that was OK.” And that was nice. I mean, I just played with the guy and had fun. I was a kid and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I was very lucky, and he was very kind.
Lambert didn’t live a lot longer after the record date. He had a stroke at one point, and he was still playing, and playing well. But he wasn’t feeling well, and he didn’t always take care of himself as well as he should. He was in a place in Newark called Martland Medical Center, I think the name of it is, and I visited him there once, and after that he passed away. I went to his funeral, as a matter of fact. A very bad time, a difficult time. I loved him very much. He was a good guy.
I want to close — in a mist of gratitude to Howard and Audrey and the Lamb — with three ways to celebrate Donald Lambert, and none of them is a photograph of a headstone, because well-loved people are never relegated to such forms.
Second, a marvel. At the site called Wolfgang’s Concert Vault, the Voice of America tape of the “Old-Timers'” afternoon concert at the Newport Jazz Festival, arranged by Rudi Blesh, including Lambert, Eubie Blake, Willie “the Lion” Smith, the Danny Barker Trio with Bernard Addison and Al Hall — some 93 minutes — can be downloaded herein high-quality sound for $5.
And finally, another marvel. Videos exist of that afternoon: two solos by Lambert, several each by Barker, Eubie, and the Lion — but this one, I don’t think, has been widely circulated or ever circulated. I caution finicky viewers that the image is blurry — perhaps this was a film copy from a television broadcast, or it is the nineteenth copy of a videotape (I do not have the original). But here are Eubie Blake and Donald Lambert essaying CHARLESTON. Eubie takes over early and Lambert is in the most subsidiary role . . . but we see what he looked like at the piano, and that is a treasure.
It’s not my living room, I assure you: too neat, no CDs.
Jon-Erik Kellso, trumpet; Chuck Wilson, alto saxophone; Ehud Asherie, piano; Kelly Friesen, string bass; Andrew Swann, drums. “Sweet Rhythm,” October 26, 2008, THERE’LL BE SOME CHANGES MADE:
Tal Ronen, string bass; Mark Shane, piano; Dan Block, tenor sax. “Casa Mezcal,” October 26, 2014, I’LL ALWAYS BE IN LOVE WITH YOU:
(This is not a post about numerology or the significance of October 26 in jazz.)
Tim Laughlin, clarinet; Connie Jones, cornet; Clint Baker, trombone; Chris Dawson, piano; Katie Cavera, guitar; Marty Eggers, string bass; Hal Smith, drums. “Sweet and Hot Music Festival,” September 5, 2011, TOGETHER:
Ray Skjelbred and the Cubs: Ray, piano, composer; Kim Cusack, clarinet; Clint Baker, string bass, Katie Cavera, guitar; Jeff Hamilton, drums. “Sacramento Music Festival,” May 25, 2014, BLUES FOR SIR CHARLES:
I will explain.
“Sweet Rhythm” was once “Sweet Basil,” a restaurant-with-jazz or the reverse, in New York City. Now it is just a restaurant. “Casa Mezcal,” across the street from the Tenement Museum, also offered jazz as well as food. Now, only food. The two California festivals depicted above are only memories now. (I could have included the Cajun, Bourbon Street, Roth’s Steakhouse, Banjo Jim’s, the Garage, the Bombay Club, Jazz at Chautauqua, and perhaps a dozen other vacancies in the cosmos — in my time, which isn’t the whole history of the music.) Jazz clubs become apartments, drugstores, dormitories, nail salons. Or what was once a jazz bar now has karaoke night and game night.
That’s not difficult to take in. Everything changes. “Things are tough all over,” as my father said.
But I’ve included the chair and ottoman because so many jazz listeners prefer the comforts of home to live music, and thus, venues collapse and are not replaced.
The expression I’ve heard from festival producers is the blunt ASSES IN SEATS. It presumes that other body parts are attached to the asses, of course. But it’s simple economics. When a club owner looks out at the landscape of empty chairs and tables with napkins undisturbed, when there are more musicians on the stage than there are people in the audience, you can imagine the mental cogitations that result. This has nothing to do with musical or artistic quality — I’ve heard terrible music played to filled rooms, and once in a New York club I was the audience (let that sink in) — not even me, myself, and I — for the first few songs by a peerless band. And if you think that musicians are a substantial part of the club budget, it isn’t so: a world-famous jazz musician told me once of being paid sixty dollars for three hours’ work, and some of my favorite musicians go from fifty-and-seventy-five dollar gigs, or they play “for the door.”
And as an aside, if you go to a club and sit through two sets with your three-or-five dollar Coke or well drink or standard beer, you are subsidizing neither the club or the music. Festival economics are different, but even the price of the ticket will not keep huge enterprises solvent. I hear, “Oh, the audience for jazz is aging and dying,” and the numbers prove that true, but I think inertia is a stronger factor than mortality, with a side dish of complacency. And people who study the swing-dance scene say that what I am writing about here is also true for younger fans / dancers.
So before you say to someone, “I’m really a devoted jazz fan,” or proudly wear the piano-keyboard suspenders, or get into arguments on Facebook over some cherished premise, ask yourself, “How active is my commitment to this music? When was the last time I supported it with my wallet and my person?”
I do not write these words from the summit of moral perfection. I could have gone to two gigs tonight but chose to stay home and write this blog. And I do not go to every gig I could . . . energy and health preclude that. And I am also guilty, if you will, in providing musical nourishment for viewers through technology, so that some people can live through YouTube. I admit both of these things, but on the average I go to more jazz gigs than some other people; I eat and drink and tip at the jazz clubs; I publicize the music here and elsewhere.
But you. Do you take the music for granted, like air and water? Do you assume it will go on forever even if you never come out of your burrow and say hello to it, that other people will keep supporting it? Do you say, “I must get there someday!” and not put wheels under that wish? Mind you, there are exceptions. Not everyone lives close enough to live music; not everyone is well-financed, energetic, or healthy. But if you can go and you don’t, then to me you have lost the right to complain about clubs closing, your favorite band disbanding, your beloved festival becoming extinct. Jazz is a living organism, thus it needs nourishment that you, and only you, can provide. Inhaling Spotify won’t keep it alive, nor will complaining about how your fellow citizens are too foolish to appreciate it.
If you say you love jazz, you have to get your ass out of your chair at regular intervals and put it in another chair, somewhere public, where living musicians are playing and singing. Or you can stay home and watch it wither.
The 1932 best-seller (with a Will Rogers movie a few years later):
Even before I was 40, I was slightly suspicious of the idea, even though it came from better health and thus longer life expectancy. Was it an insult to the years that came before? And now that I’m past forty . . . .
But the San Diego Jazz Fest and Swing Extravaganzais celebrating its fortieth this year and is in full flower. So no Google Images of birthday cakes for us — rather, music of the highest order.
The bands and soloists who will be featured include John Royen, Katie Cavera, the Holland-Coots Jazz Quintet, Grand Dominion, John Gill, On the Levee Jazz Band, the Mad Hat Hucksters, Carl Sonny Leyland, the Heliotrope Ragtime Orchestra, the Yerba Buena Stompers, the Chicago Cellar Boys, Titanic Jazz Band, the Night Blooming Jazzmen, and more than twenty others, with youth bands, sets for amateur jammers, and the Saturday-night dance extravaganza featuring On The Levee and the Mad Hat Hucksters.
The Festival is also greatly comfortable, because it is one of those divine ventures where the music is a two-to-five minute walk from the rooms at the Town and Country Convention Center.
is the “almost final” band schedule for Wednesday night through Sunday. I will wait until the “final” schedule comes out before I start circling sets in pen and highlighting them — but already I feel woozy with an abundance of anticipated and sometimes conflicting pleasures.
For most of the audience, one of the pleasures of the festival circuit is returning to the familiar. Is your trad heartthrob the duo Itch and Scratch, or the Seven Stolen Sugar Packets? At a festival, you can greet old friends both on the bandstand and in the halls. But there’s also the pleasure of new groups, and the special pleasure of getting to meet and hear someone like John Royen, whom I’ve admired on records for years but have never gotten a chance to meet.
Here’s John, playing Jelly:
And here are a few previously unseen videos from my visits to the Jazz Fest. First, one of my favorite bands ever, the band that Tim Laughlin and Connie Jones co-led, here with Doug Finke, Katie Cavera, Hal Smith, Chris Dawson, and Marty Eggers — in a 2014 performance of a Fats classic:
and the Chicago Cellar Boys — who will be at this year’s fest — in 2018. The CCB is or are Andy Schumm, John Otto, Paul Asaro, Johnny Donatowicz, and Dave Bock:
and for those deep in nostalgia for traditional jazz on a cosmic scale, how about High Sierra plus guests Justin Au and Doug Finke in 2014:
Pick the bands you like, explore those new to you, but I hope you can make it to this jolly explosion of music and friendship: it is worth the trip (and I’m flying from New York). You’ll have an unabridged experience and lose your anxieties!
This post is for my dear friend, the fine young trombonist Joe McDonough, who worships at the Teagarden shrine. A few days ago, I began to collect orts, fragments, and holy relics (from the treasure house of eBay and elsewhere) for him, and for you. Along with Louis, Sid Catlett, and Teddy Wilson, Jack was one of my earliest jazz heroes — and he remains one, memorably. Wonderful pieces of paper follow below, but no tribute to Jack could be silent. Although there are many versions of his hits in his discography, he made more superb recordings than many other players and singers. Here’s one of his late masterpieces, a sad song that reveals Jack as a compelling actor in addition to everything else. The trumpet is by Don Goldie:
and an early one, with support from Vic Berton and frolics from Joe Venuti:
and since we can, here’s another take (who knows at this point which is the master and the alternate?):
And the 1954 LOVER, with an astonishing cast: Jack, Ruby Braff, Sol Yaged, Lucky Thompson, Denzil Best, Milt Hinton, Kenny Kersey, Sidney Gross:
An early favorite of mine, the 1947 AUNt HAGAR’S BLUES, with beautiful work from Eddie Condon, Wild Bill Davison, and Pee Wee Russell:
And now, some pieces of paper. Remarkable ones!
Pages from an orchestral score for SUMMERTIME (title written in by Jack):
and
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and
The seller of some of these treasures has a pleasing explanation, which I offer in full:
This is the score for Jack TEAGARDEN, when he performed in bands and orchestras, throughout the 1930s and 1940s. Jack TEAGARDEN was known as the jazz singer and jazz trombonist, who was an innovator at both. He was famous for playing trombone with the best – Paul WHITEMAN, the Dorseys, Louie Armstrong, etc., etc.
Teagarden’s wife, Addie was a great personal friend, throughout the 1980s. She shared some of Jack’s personal effects, including this historic and valuable score for “Summertime”, which Jack actually used in studio and on stage. This is a genuine original score. What a great piece of jazz and musical history.
Jack’s part on trombone is designated (in a small rectangle), on each of six, large, hand-written score sheets from Los Angeles and San Bernardino, California. The front of the sheets, when closed, has the words, Summer time, which have been doodled, by Jack.
I will be selling other TEAGARDEN and Louis Armstrong memorabilia, over the next year.
Weldon Leo “Jack” Teagarden (August 20, 1905 – January 15, 1964) was a jazz trombonist and singer. According to critic Scott Yannow of Allmusic, Teagarden was the preeminent American jazz trombone player before the bebop era of the 1940s and “one of the best jazz singers too”.[1] Teagarden’s early career was as a sideman with the likes of Tommy Dorsey, Paul Whiteman and lifelong friend Louis Armstrong before branching out as a bandleader in 1939 and specializing in New Orleans Jazz-style jazz until his death.
At my age (77), I am beginning to sell a lifelong, eclectic, collection of unique artwork. I enjoyed this great collection. Now, it’s time to share it with others.
Is it “Milly” or “Willy”? Jack wished her or him the best of everything:
In 1936 and perhaps 1937, Jack was one-third of a small band aptly called THE THREE T’s. Here’s a page from a fan’s autograph book (selling for 449.95 or thereabouts on eBay):
in 1940, Jack either played a Martin trombone or advertised one, or both:
Some years later, the Belgian label issued BOOGIE WOOGIE by Jack — which is from his 1944 transcription sessions:
And this is a Billboard ad for that same or similar band:
At the end of the Swing Era, when big bands were dissolving and throwing their leaders into deep debt, Jack got telegrams, at least one decidedly unfriendly:
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Jack inscribed this photograph to the Chicago photographer Nat Silberman:
and the newspaper advertisement for Jack’s last gig, at the Dream Room in New Orleans — where Connie Jones was with him:
At the end of the trail, Jack’s headstone with its very moving inscription, although I wonder if those sweet moving words were his idea:
Although I grew up listening to recordings of people who had already moved on, I’ve tried hard to make this blog a chronicle of living music and musicians, so it isn’t JAZZ DIES. But I am still reeling from the deaths of Jim Dapogny and Connie Jones, and I do not use that cliche lightly. I will shine the spotlight more on Prof. in future, I guarantee you, but this post is all about Connie.
I was enthralled by the music Connie created so effortlessly, that I followed him when he appeared in California (2011, 2012, 2014) and once in New Orleans (2015). Others saw him more often, to be sure, but if you search this blog for “Connie Jones,” you will find more than fifty postings, all with video-evidence.
But here is something you haven’t seen yet, Connie and friends on their own magic carpet, taking us along to places unimagined yet familiar.
It is a glorious and mournful memory both: the last time I had the privilege of seeing, hearing, and recording Connie, here captured among brilliant friends Bob Havens, trombone; David Boeddinghaus, piano; Banu Gibson, rhythm guitar instead of her usual wonderful singing. This performance took place below decks on the steamboat Natchez, at the final Steamboat Stomp based in New Orleans. PERSIAN RUG is a song I associate with the Louisiana Sugar Babes but also with Jack Teagarden, with whom Connie worked at the end of Jack’s life. It is a charming piece of “Orientalia,” complete with verse, and it swings in celestial ways here.
I offer this video with great reverence. To some casual viewers, it may simply be “another live video”; to me, it is touching evidence of what Connie did so nobly and with such apparent ease. He made magic.
Blessings on him, on Bob, David, and Banu also:
No one can replace Connie, although we should all try to create — whatever it is we create — as beautifully as he does here.
Here’s something for the intellectual puzzle-solvers in the JAZZ LIVES audience.
One.
Two.
Three.
Kenny Davern, Yank Lawson, Connie Jones, Pee Wee Erwin, Doc Cheatham, Chuck Folds, George Masso, Don Goldie, Johnny Varro, Jon-Erik Kellso, Paul Keller, Ed Polcer, Eddie Higgins, Marty Grosz, Bill Allred, Bob Schulz, Bobby Rosengarden, Milt Hinton, Brian Torff, Johnny Frigo, Peter Ecklund, John Sheridan, Brian Holland, Rebecca Kilgore, Dan Barrett, Eddie Erickson, Ken Peplowski, Vince Giordano and the Nighthawks, the Fat Babies, and more.
Figured it out? The answers, although indirect, are below, and they relate to the Juvae Jazz Society and the Central Illinois Jazz Festival: the story of their inception is here.
I confess that Decatur, Illinois has really never loomed large in my vision of bucket-list places. But I have been terribly myopic about this for the past quarter-century. Consider the poster below, please:
The Juvae Jazz Society is celebrating its twenty-fifth anniversary, and rather than expecting people to bring them silver plates and candelabra, they are throwing a one-day jazz party, which you might have understood from the poster above. (The list of musicians is just some of the notables who have played and sung for them in the last quarter-century.)
Although I admire Petra van Nuis and Andy Brown immensely, I’ve never had a chance to hear Petra and the Recession Seven live. The Chicago Cellar Boys are one of my favorite bands and would even be so if Dave Bock wore a more sedate bow tie. Other surprises are possible as well.
This morning, I learned through Ed Wise and Tim Laughlin that Connie Jones died in his sleep at home next to his beloved wife Elaine. Although I hold to cherished ideas about death and transitions — that those who leave their earthly form behind never leave us utterly, that they have merely moved to another neighborhood — I find it hard to write that Connie has left us. He was a great poet without a manuscript, a great singer of immediate heartfelt songs even when he wasn’t singing.
I had the immense good fortune to see and video-record Connie in performance from 2011 to 2015: mostly at the San Diego Jazz Fest, but once at Sweet and Hot and once during the Steamboat Stomp, and I’ve posted as many of those performances as I could.
We didn’t converse much: I suspect he had some native reticence about people he didn’t know, and perhaps he had a perfectly natural desire to catch his breath between sets, ideally with a dish of ice cream.
His playing moved me tremendously. I tried not to gush, although my restraint failed me once, memorably. After a particularly affecting set, I came up to him and said, more or less, “Do you think of yourself as a religious man?” and he gave me the polite stare one gives people who have revealed themselves as completely unpredictable, and said, after a pause, “Yes, I do,” and I proceeded to say, quietly, “Well, I think your music is holy.” Another long pause, and he thanked me. And I thanked him. Which is what I am doing in this post.
With all respects to the people who recorded him and played alongside him in various recording studios, I think the real Connie Jones only came through complete when he was caught live — one reason I am proud that I had the opportunity to catch him, as it were, on the wing. He was the bravest of improvisers, reminding me at turns of Doc Cheatham, of Bob Barnard, of Bobby Hackett — someone so sure of his melodies that he would close his eyes and walk steadily towards a possible precipice of music . . . but creating the solid ground of loving music as he went.
I expect to have more reason to celebrate and mourn Connie in the future, but I think this is one of the most quietly affecting vocal and instrumental performances I will ever hear or witness. See if you don’t agree: Connie, cornet and vocal; Tim Laughlin, clarinet; Doug Finke, trombone; Chris Dawson, piano; Katie Cavera, guitar; Marty Eggers, string bass; Hal Smith, drums, at the San Diego Jazz Fest on Nov. 29, 2014:
He was so unaffected, so generous in what he gave us. No one can take his place.
When you feel embraced and uplifted by a harmonious existence, you know it, perhaps because it happens all too rarely. Readers will have their own remembered experiences, but for perhaps four years I could be certain of being transported to another, delicate yet solid plane of consciousness: when Connie Jones began to play. He’s retired from playing, but the music he created is like a light in the darkness.
I saw Connie almost exclusively in the company of Tim Laughlin, who understood Connie’s irreplaceable majesties, and played wonderfully because of that inspiration. I’ve been saving some video performances — not quite for my old age, but for a time when we might well need infusions of beauty. So here are eight more performances: savor them gently and slowly. The splendid band (all of them happily active) is Doug Finke, trombone; Chris Dawson, piano; Marty Eggers, string bass; Katie Cavera, guitar; Hal Smith, drums — performing at the San Diego Jazz Fest on November 30, 2014. (By the way, that Fest is still perking along nicely: I’ll be there this Thanksgiving.)
MY GAL SAL:
YOU CAN’T LOSE A BROKEN HEART:
THAT OLD FEELING:
LINGER AWHILE (a different set):
A HUNDRED YEARS FROM TODAY:
GENTILLY STRUT:
SOMEBODY STOLE MY GAL:
Connie and friends bless us, so consider returning the compliment.
Connie and Tim Laughlin at the San Diego Jazz Fest
I will write few words because Connie Jones is so much more eloquent. Thanks to Joel Albert for photographing this at the New Orleans Traditional Jazz Camp, Banu Gibson’s dream, and for sharing it with us:
“There was just the way [Connie] played”:
And we can learn from Connie the way Ed did.
“Here’s one of the good old good ones that musicians all like to jam . . . the ROYAL GARDEN BLUES!” From the San Diego Jazz Fest, November 30, 2014, you can hear Connie, Tim Laughlin, Doug Finke, Chris Dawson, Katie Cavera, Marty Eggers, Hal Smith.
What are the lessons of the Master?
Humility before the Music. Devotion to one’s Art. Honoring the tradition and honoring one’s Self. Willingness to work to create Beauty. Actions more than words. “I cannot be alive without hearing a melody.” It’s all about love, which should be evident, and it’s a living, life-long focus on what’s important.
Bless the humble Master Connie Jones, who blesses us.
I am not a certified Hoarder, although perhaps someone scrupulous would look at the books and music in the room I’m writing this in and say otherwise. (I like clear paths in and around objects.) But if I am guilty of Hoarding, it would be of video recordings of performances by the Tim Laughlin – Connie Jones All Stars, such as the two that follow, recorded at the San Diego Jazz Fest in November 2014). You’ll understand why evidence of this magical orchestra is precious to me in about four bars. Melodic, gentle, intense, swinging. Tim, clarinet; Connie, cornet; Doug Finke, trombone; Chris Dawson, piano; Marty Eggers, string bass; Katie Cavera, guitar; Hal Smith, drums.
Irving Berlin’s ALL BY MYSELF:
and the folk-tinged favorite, DOWN BY THE OLD MILL STREAM:
This band won’t come again, but if JAZZ LIVES’ readers want to see and hear more, all that is needed would be to type in “Tim Laughlin” and “Connie Jones” into the magic Search box, and the whole day could be deliciously spent on things more uplifting than the news. And . . . Tim, pianist David Boeddinghaus, and Hal have recently created the second volume of Tim’s “Trio Collection,” which I am told will soon be available to the eager public, of whom I am one.
Why, you ask? Why would a reasonably stable person spend most of a day traveling across the country on Thursday and then do the same on Sunday night? The answer is the 37th San Diego Jazz Fest, which runs from November 23 through the 27th. Many of my friends — musical, personal, and both! — will be there. (Facebook page here).
Here’s a sample of what happened in November 2015:
and in 2014:
a day earlier in 2014:
and in 2013:
Optimism in 2012:
and a feature for the rhythm section in 2012.
Tim and Connie won’t be there this year — Connie has retired from playing, alas — but these videos sum up what I find most endearing about the Fest. There’s nothing like it. And it’s worth sitting in seat 7C, coming and going. I assure you. And here is the schedule: if you can’t find something / someone to listen to, you might not be trying at all.
And, as a joyous bit of laginappe, here is a Frolick from Dixieland Monterey 2011 (John Reynolds, ever polite, calls this song, CALIFORNIA, HERE I BREATHE HEAVILY):
Dixieland Monterey is no more. You — yes, you — are essential to keeping these mammoth enterprises afloat. But you know that.
I once read a Persian poet on music. The translation ran, “Melody is the song the universe sings to us, harmony the beautiful twining-together of many songs, and rhythm is the universe’s heartbeat echoed in our own.” Although that poet lived and wrote perhaps five hundred years before the 2014 San Diego Jazz Fest, I am sure that he would have agreed that the performances I offer you today exemplify those words.
They come from the final set of the Tim Laughlin – Connie Jones All Stars with the addition of clarinetist Jim Buchmann for several numbers. That’s Tim, clarinet; Connie, cornet; Doug Finke, trombone; Chris Dawson, piano; Katie Cavera, guitar; Marty Eggers, string bass; Hal Smith, drums.
Here is the full band for AS LONG AS I LIVE:
Then, two clarinets plus rhythm for THE ONE I LOVE:
Another helping of that nice combination for IT’S THE TALK OF THE TOWN:
JAZZ LIVES 