Tag Archives: Freddie Martin

A NEW SONG FOR THE COMMUTE, THANKS TO LEO, RALPH, and RICH

RUSH HOUR

Last night, coming home from The Ear Inn, I tuned in to everyone’s Sunday-night pleasure, THE BIG BROADCAST, that delicious periscope into the first forty or so years of the last century, watched over by the generous and unpredictable Rich Conaty.  (Quick translation: It’s a radio show.  Fordham University Radio, New York, WFUV-FM and streaming: 8 PM to midnight, our time.)  Details  here.

I heard this song — new to me but immediately captivating — IN A ONE-ROOM FLAT.  It isn’t ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE or THANKS FOR THE MEMORY, but it sticks whimsically in the brain.  The 1933 recording is by Freddie Martin and his Orchestra; I believe the singer is Terry Shand, who had deep jazz connections.  And it comes from a Maurice Chevalier musical film called THE WAY TO LOVE (with Ann Dvorak, Edward Everett Horton, and Douglas Dumbrille).

And the song — perhaps one of their trifles? — is by Leo Robin (lyrics) and Ralph Rainger (music), two of my secular saints.

It raises the larger question: what do you need to make you happy?  Worth pondering.  For now, listen a few times and I can almost guarantee that you will be humming it later in the day.

May your happiness increase.

A JOHNNY DODDS SIGHTING

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

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

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

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

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