On this wintry day — the blizzard outside my New York window looked like bits of ripped-up tissues falling from the skies — what could be more warming than thirty-five minutes with Dan Morgenstern telling tales of his Chicago days, including the story of Gene Ammons’ release from jail? And Dan reminds us that jazz “is a communal music,” and tells tales of King Kolax and jazz on television as well:
and here’s the second part where Dan talks about jazz on television — the wonderful show “JUST JAZZ,” produced by Robert Kaiser and featuring Erroll Garner, Don Byas, Dexter Gordon, Bobby Hackett and Vic Dickenson:
Thank you, Dan, for warming not only this day but any other day you’re on the scene.
(This profile first appeared in JAZZ AT RONNIE SCOTT’S (May-June 1996) and was reprinted in JUST JAZZ (October 2004). The editor of that excellent British traditional jazz magazine, Mike Murtagh, has made it available to me for this blog, knowing of my nearly obsessive interest in Spike. More information about JUST JAZZ below.)
I don’t know many timber merchants, white, middle-class, educated at a public school, devout believers in private enterprise and private education, with the unshakeable belief that Tories had the divine right to rule, who were officers in the Tank Corps, who played jazz trumpet as near to Louis Armstrong as any white man of any nationality ever achieved. In fact, I know of only one — Ian “Spike” Mackintosh, who died on January 18, 1996, aged 77.
He was a much loved man, although frequently, his arrival at sessions with trumpet in hand was cause for alarm. It was no secret that he was very partial to a taste and after over-imbibing his playing was uncomfortably erratic. At his best he could uplift a session; at his worst, he could reduce it to a shambles.
Short, dapper, with a military moustache and a Hooray Henry accent — a gentleman jazzman, you might say — he was the most unlikely carrier of the Armstrong torch.
Two other Spikes
Spike Mackintosh was born in London, on the 9 February 1918. He attended the City of London School where he developed an interest in jazz and took up trumpet to emulate hero Louis Armstrong. He admired the big black bands of the time — Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Fletcher Henderson, Chick Webb and Don Redman, and was particularly fond of the recordings by Spike Hughes and his Negro Orchestra. He adopted the nickname ‘Spike’ as a mark of respect for the Anglo-Irishman who had travelled to New York in 1933 to make those historic recordings with a personnel that included Red Allen, Coleman Hawkins and Benny Carter.
Typically, he volunteered for the Army at the outbreak of war, was soon commissioned in the Royal Tank Corps and saw action in France. Following Dunkirk, he was one of the few survivors of a troopship sunk by enemy action. He was picked up clutching his trumpet. He was again in action at El Alemein. Commanding one of the tanks assembled to launch an attack that proved one of the most decisive of the war, Lt. Mackintosh received his order to advance, but at that moment was listening to West End Blues by Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five from a Forces station, and it was not until Louis had finished his majestic coda that Spike Gave his order. Hitler — and Field Marshal Montgomery — could wait. First things first with Spike. His tank was knocked out by enemy fire, and German soldiers, believing him to be dead, stripped him of every possession, except his trumpet.
Later, in Naples, Spike was one of a team of judges for a dance band competition. One of the bands included Gunner Spike Milligan on trumpet. Milligan, quite bitterly, recalled the contest in his ‘Where Have All The Bullets Gone?’ one of his very funny war memoirs. He wrote, ‘The compère was Captain Philip Ridgeway. He was as informed on dance bands as Mrs. Thatcher is on groin-clutching in the Outer Hebrides. The other judges were Lt. Eddie Carroll and Lt. ‘Spike’ Mackintosh. Can you believe it? We didn’t win. WE DIDN’T WIN! I wasn’t even mentioned! Why were the 56 Area Welfare Services persecuting me like this? At the contest I heard shouts of “Give him the prize.” No-one listened, even though I shouted it very loud. Never mind, there would be other wars.’
On demobilisation, Spike Mackintosh returned to the family timber business and sat-in on jam sessions, at the height of the Traditionalists v Modernists war. He had no liking for Be-bop, nor banjo-dominated revivalism. He found his musical, and drinking company with the mainstreamers, most of them renegade traditionalists. One of these was clarinetist / cartoonist Wally ‘Trog’ Fawkes, leading his Trogdolytes. They recorded some twenty excellent sides for the Decca label on which Mackintosh proved just how much he had absorbed the essence as well as the phraseology of Armstrong. On some of these sessions the Trogdolytes were joined by ‘modernists’ Eddie Taylor (drums), ex-Johnny Dankworth Seven, and Lennie Bush (bass), a founder-member of the seminal Club Eleven where British Be-bop started.
Spike was equally authoritative at a private party session in the company of veteran US saxophonist Bud Freeman, the set captured on portable equipment. He was not the least bit in awe of his distinguished session mate.
Wild Bill Davison
But he was not a consistent performer. On one occasion he moved, uninvited, to sit-in with a band led by the brilliant Welsh pianist, Dill Jones. Jones, himself no stranger to the juice, perceived Spike’s condition and turned him away. Undeterred, Spike made his contribution from a seat in the audience. He had his insensitive side. He was at a party given in honour of the white US trumpeter, Wild Bill Davison, and the tactful Mackintosh said to Davison, “Ah, Wild Bill, my fourth favourite trumpeter.” “Oh, yes,” growled Davison, “and who are the other three?” Mackintosh replied, “Louis Armstrong, Cootie Williams, Red Allen and Roy Eldridge. No — you’re my fifth favourite!”
Spike ran a weekly record session at the one-bar Drum and Monkey, Blenheim Terrace, St. John’s Wood, NW London, his fellow enthusiasts including Jack Hutton, ex-editor of the ‘Melody Maker,’ clarinetist Ian Christie, trombonist Mike Pointon, and pianist Stan Greig, dubbing themselves The Codgers. The rest of the clientele, whether they liked it or not, had their ‘quiet drink’ shattered by Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Mills’ Blue Rhythm Band and the like, at a mind-blowing volume. They were also regaled with Spike vocally duplicating Armstrong’s singing and playing. The irrepressible enthusiast! The landlord approved. His takings shot up at those sessions.
When Spike turned up at Ronnie [Scott]’s, the eponymous Mr. Scott was treated to Spike singing (or, rather playing) Louis phrases. In face, Ronnie used to do an imitation of Spike imitating Louis. Not many people know that.
Spike continued playing trumpet almost up until his death, along with Wally Fawkes at the King Alfred, Marylebone Lane, West London. His thirst remained undiminished, and his ‘lip’ often faltered, but on his good nights the stirring resonances of Armstrong licks sang throughout the pub and beyond.
One of the familiar spectacles of these sessions was pianist Greig, with a tense expression on his craggy features, his hands anxiously poised over the keys waiting to plunge them down for the resolving chord(s) to bring a Mackintosh coda spectacular to a triumphant finish, and when it finally happened there was a great sigh of relief from musicians and audience. Not that all of these finishes came off. Spike’s cliff-hangers were fraught occasions.
He was indeed a combination of the opposites; the reiterative soak and erratic trumpeter when too deep in his cups; the amusing companion and fine player when he’d paced himself; the High Tory who was one of the chaps.
Shouldn’t that child be in bed?
There are hundreds of stories about Spike, some of them undoubtedly apocryphal. One of them about him, totally legless, being apprehended by a policeman and solemnly telling the officer, in that public school posh voice of his, that any unsteadiness was due to a war injury, but my favourite tale concerned him at a party given by Wally Fawkes. Spike, well loaded, fell against a bamboo room divider, bringing down the ornaments with a tremendous clatter. The noise awakened Joanna Fawkes, then about five, and, in tears, she stood at the top of the stairs leading to the drawing room. Spike, wiping bits of Italian pottery and trailus acanthus from his person, looked up, and said, “Wally, it’s none of my business, but shouldn’t that child be in bed?”
I can vouch for that tale. I was there.
He is survived by his wife Diana, and three sons, Nick, Robert and Cameron, the latter a famous theatrical impresario.
Of course, if any UK collector or Bud Freeman fancier can unearth a copy of that private party tape, I know I would be interested in hearing it. Spike must have been captured live somewhere, sometime, but so far no holy relics have emerged.
About JUST JAZZ: it’s a well-written, candid magazine devoted to traditional jazz in all its forms. The editor is Mike Murtagh, and the offices are at 29 Burrage Place, Woolwich, London SE18 7BG. I haven’t found an official website, but you can contact Mike at justjazzmagazine@btinternet.com. to inquire about subscription rates.
It has been nearly 40 years since I first heard the cornet magic of ‘Papa Ray’ Ronnei…
In the mid-‘60s I was a dedicated fan of the San Francisco style as played by Lu Watters, Turk Murphy, Bob Scobey, the Firehouse Five and…Vince Saunders’ South Frisco Jazz Band. In 1966 my parents had taken me to Huntington Beach, Californiawhere the South Frisco band played weekends at the ‘Pizza Palace’. We became instant fans of the SFJB after that first evening and made regular trips up from La Jolla to catch the band on weekends. The band members were especially kind to a young fan. Washboardist Bob Raggio, then an employee of Ray Avery’s ‘Rare Records’ was particularly helpful in locating several out-of-print Murphy and Watters LPs for me.
Late in 1967, Bob sent a note along with an LP he had found for me. The note mentioned that on the coming weekend, a ‘very special edition of the South Frisco band would perform at the Pizza Palace, with ‘Papa Ray’ Ronnei on cornet.’ I had heard of Ray Ronnei, but had not actually heard him play. 1 Even so, my parents accompanied me to Huntington Beach to hear the band.
At the Pizza Palace we settled in at a table, not knowing quite what to expect, when the band took off on ‘You Always Hurt The One You Love’. Ray Ronnei’s brassy, staccato attack and almost surrealistic phrasing was like nothing I had ever heard! 2 It was a glorious and unique sound; one I still have not recovered from! The tune selection was a radical departure from the San Francisco repertoire I was so used to: ‘Bogalusa Strut’, ‘Salutation March’, ‘Big Chief Battle Axe’, ‘One Sweet Letter From You’, ‘Ugly Chile’, ‘Blue Bells, Goodbye’, ‘Sweet Lotus Blossom’, ‘Bugle Boy March’ etc. This night at the Pizza Palacethe first time I had heard any of these numbers! 3
When the performance ended—much too soon to suit me!—we headed home to La Jolla. My head was spinning from the spellbinding sound of Ray Ronnei’s cornet. Despite my continuing interest in the San Francisco style, I wanted to hear this hornman again—as soon as possible! I did not have to wait too long, as South Frisco’s cornetist Al Crowne took a leave of absence from the band in 1968. His replacement: Ray Ronnei! My family made dozens of journeys north to Huntington Beach during Papa Ray’s tenure with the South Frisco in 1968-69.
The SFJB lineup varied during this period. 4 Trombonist Frank Demond moved to New Orleans and was replaced on by Eric Rosenau, then Roy Brewer. Mike Baird was usually on clarinet, though Jim Bogen and soprano saxophonist John Smith sometimes filled in for him. Ron Ortmann was the regular pianist, spelled at times by Dick Shooshan, Bill Mitchell and Robbie Rhodes. Tubist Bob Rann was usually present, with Mike Fay on string bass in Rann’s absence. Banjoist-leader Vince Saunders was a constant, as was washboardist Bob Raggio—until the latter moved to Pittsburgh to play at baseball star Maury Wills’ nightclub. But despite the shifting personnel, that distinctive cornet sound continued to ring joyously over the ensembles.
When the South Frisco repertoire expanded, three of the ‘new’ tunes—at least new to me—caught my fancy: ‘Here Comes The Hot Tamale Man’, ‘Messin’ Around’ (by Cook and St. Cyr) and ‘Flat Foot’. These three have been my favourite ‘trad’ numbers since hearing Papa Ray play them in 1968. Though Vince Saunders was the bandleader, he frequently let Papa Ray kick off tunes. The latter tended towards brisk tempos and kicked them off old-style, i.e. ‘one-two-three-four ONE! TWO! With only a little imagination I can still hear the powerful band roaring through all-ensemble versions of ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ and ‘Cakewalking Babies’ (with Papa Ray playing the same burst of capsicum on the outchorus that Mutt Carey played on the ‘New Yorkers’ record of the same tune). The South Frisco Jazz Band in 1968-69 was truly one of a kind.
In 1969, Papa Ray left the South Frisco group and Al Crowne returned. Earlier, the band recorded an LP for the Vault label entitled ‘Here Comes The Hot Tamale Man.’ Unfortunately, that LP has not yet been reissued on CD. However, Ted Shafer’s Merry Makers Record Company has released a CD of the South Frisco Band live at the Pizza Palace, recorded in 1968 by clarinetist Ron Going. This disc ‘tells the story’ of just how exciting a time 1968-1969 was for fans of Papa Ray’s cornet work.
While still a resident of Los Angeles, Papa Ray played with the Salutation Tuxedo Jazz Band, Crescent Bay Jazz Band and other groups. Before signing on with South Frisco, he worked with Ted Shafer’s Jelly Roll Jazz Band in the Bay Area. He returned to the Jelly Roll Jazz Band temporarily in 1969. I was able to enjoy his music via tapes made previously at the Pizza Palace, LPs by the El Dorado Jazz Band, Jelly Roll Jazz Band and the then-new South Frisco LP. On one occasion, our family was watching a San Francisco Seals hockey game on tv. After a Seals goal, a jazz band in the stands struck up ‘Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight’. Clarinetist Bob Helm and trombonist Bob Mielke were instantly identifiable, as was the peppery cornet—Papa Ray, of course!
I continued to see and hear Ray Ronnei on his visits to the L.A. area. Sometimes he would play at a Sunday-afternoon jam session at one of the local jazz societies. On one memorable occasion, I was asked to play a set with Papa Ray, Dan Barrett, Ron Going, Dick Shooshan, Doug Parker and veteran New Orleans bassist Ed Garland. I don’t have a recording of this session, but at least I got a photo!
Living away from California, I would hear occasional news concerning Ray’s appearances on various jobs. Later, there was a disheartening rumor that he had quit playing. I had the recordings to listen to, but still hoped to hear the ‘real thing’ again some day. In the early ‘90s I returned to California and wound up playing once a week at the ‘Hofbrau’ in Fullerton (Orange County), California. The bands in rotation at the time included Gremoli, Evan Christopher’s Quintet and my own Frisco Syncopators. One night, Mike Fay came to hear the band—with Papa Ray in tow! Ray looked the same as he had the last time I saw him, in the ‘70s. What a blast it was to see him, and in good health at that.
Later, when key personnel became unavailable to play the Hofbrau, the Frisco Syncopators gradually became the New Orleans Wanderers. Papa Ray was still making an occasional appearance at the club, though I had not been able to induce him to play. But Mike Fay stepped in, describing the band’s sound and repertoire and we managed to get Ray on cornet! With Alan Adams (trombone), Mike Baird (reeds), Vic Loring (banjo), Mike Fay (bass) and myself on drums, we hit ‘You Always Hurt The One You Love’. It unleashed a flood of happy memories, of good times at the Pizza Palace. And best of all, Ray had his lip and his drive. No one had to shoulder an extra load that night! I still don’t know why I didn’t take a tape recorder. Unfortunately, no one recorded us that night! The lack of recording is all the more unfortunate because Ray was unable to make the job on a regular basis. The Golden Eagles’ Ken Smith stepped in and became our regular hornman.
My last encounter with Papa Ray was in 1995, when the Wanderers recorded a session for release on cassette. We assembled in Mike Fay’s living room in Claremont, California and saw that a guest was settling in to listen to the session. Papa Ray was happy to see his musical friends and obviously enjoyed our performances. He would not join in on cornet, but we managed to coax him into singing ‘How Long Blues’, which was released on the cassette.
Since then, I continue to hear that Papa Ray has taken part in occasional sessions and the report invariably includes the line ‘He sounded as great as ever’. I am sure the reports are true. Hearing Papa Ray Ronnei on cornet has always been a magical experience; one of the biggest thrills I have experienced in jazz. To me, he will always be one of the greats!
Notes
I never heard the El Dorado Jazz Band in person. They played mostly in bars where a teenager could not enter, according to California state law. I bought the El Dorado Epitaph and Item-1 LPs after hearing Ray with the South Frisco band. The band finally broke up in mid-1966, but this ‘special edition’ of the South Frisco Jazz Band would be composed almost entirely of El Dorado veterans.
At the time I was unfamiliar with the recordings of Freddie Keppard, Abbie Brunies and especially Mutt Carey, who were the premier inspirations for Ray Ronnei. (Ray studied with Mutt Carey in the late ‘40s).
I discovered Bunk Johnson, George Lewis, Kid Ory and ‘British Trad’ after hearing this ‘New Orleans’ version of the South Frisco band. Bassist Mike Fay played that night, as did pianist Dick Shooshan. Besides hearing Ray Ronnei for the first time and hearing a wealth of ‘new’ tunes, this was my first exposure to New Orleans style string bass and Jelly Roll Morton type piano.
There were surely more substitutes and guests with the South Frisco Jazz Band during this period. My listing is based on those I actually heard, or who were recorded at the Pizza Palace.
P.S. Ray Ronnei, born in 1916, is happily still with us! Although he no longer plays the cornet, his composition SALTY BUBBLE can be heard in the 2009 Woody Allen film WHATEVER WORKS, and Ray plans to continue composing! The original recording can be purchased here: http://www.worldsrecords.com/pages/artists/r/ronnei_ray/ray_ronnei_64328.html
Edward A. Beach, a Eugene resident who worked for 25 years in New York theater and radio, died December 25th. He was 85.
Beach was born January 16th, 1923, in Winnipeg, Canada, to Peter and Matilda Beach, and moved to Portland Oregon in 1950.
Educated at Grant High School, Lewis and Clark College, and as a graduate assistant in Cornell University’s Theatre Department, for most of the 1950s he worked in theatre as a professional actor. In 1957 he joined New York City’s WNYC; then from 1961 through 1976 produced and hosted a daily jazz show on that city’s WRVR-FM. By the mid-`60s he was recognized as “The Dean of Jazz Air Personalities,” winning awards for excellence in broadcasting from Jazz Interactions, Inc., and the Council of Churches of the City of New York. The distinguished composer-conductor-jazz historian Gunther Schuller, in his “Early Jazz” history’s Preface, thanked “Ed Beach and station WRVR in New York for providing endless hours of superb listening, for his indefatigable enthusiasm, incorruptible taste, and unpretentious, accurate comments.” The tape recordings of the program, Just Jazz with Ed Beach, are in the Library of Congress collections.
He returned to the Portland area with his family in 1977, and moved to Eugene in 1999.
He is survived by a son, Mark Peter, and grandsons Kamon Alexander, Jack Kamon, and Alex Kamon of Eugene.
Disposition was by cremation. A private family celebration of life will be scheduled. In lieu of flowers, donations in his name to The Child Center, 3995 Marcola Road, Springfield, OR 97477, 541-726-1465, are appreciated.
I’ve just learned that Ed Beach is dead. He was 86 and had lived in Oregon (his home state) for a long time. No service is planned, so people who recall him, love him, and love what he did will have to perform their own affectionate memorials in their heads.
Fittingly, for a man who spent his life as a voice coming through the speaker, there is no picture of Beach on Google Images. But that voice — cavernous, drawling, amused, dragging out certain syllables — is here in my memory, and when people like myself who grew up listening to Beach speak of him, one of them will bring forth his cherished phrases and start laughing.
What I know of his biography is limited. Oregon-born, he was a capable West Coast jazz pianist who admired Tatum and the early bop players. How he got into radio I don’t know, but my first awareness of him began in 1969, when I saw in the New York Times that there was a two-hour program called (rather flatly) JUST JAZZ on the then reigning non-commercial New York jazz station, WRVR-FM, 106.7, broadcasting from the Riverside Church.
That in itself was interesting: it was on two hours every weekday and for four hours on Saturday night. In this age of digitized music and internet streaming, those hours may not seem like a great deal, but it was a boon even then. And what caught my attention was the listing of a two-hour show on Lee Wiley, someone I’d read about but hadn’t heard. (I’d read George Frazier’s love-besotted liner note reprinted in EDDIE CONDON’S TREASURY OF JAZZ. More about that book and that piece sometime.) So I found a new box of reel-to-reel tape and sat in front of the speaker while Ed Beach played Lee Wiley’s recordings and spoke in between them.
I didn’t know at the time that I had uniwttingly encountered one of the great spiritual masters, someone who (along with the musicians themselves and Whitney Balliett) would teach me all that I needed to know about jazz.
Beach’s show began with his chosen theme — Wes Montgomery’s BLUES IN F — played softly as connecting-music in between the performances he wanted to share with us. Then, that deep voice, introducing himself and the show, and offering a very brief sketch of the artist who was the show’s subject . . . and into the music. He didn’t overwhelm with minutiae; he didn’t teach or preach. (Yes, I am comparing him with the Phil Schaap of today, but defenders of Phil need not leap to his defense. This is about Ed Beach.)
Beach wasn’t terribly interested in full personnels, in the best sound quality, in the original label of issue, presenting alternate takes in sequence, arranging an artist’s career chronologically.
Rather, his was an eclectic, human approach — as if you had been invited to a listening session with someone who had a large collection, was eager to share his beloved treasures, moving from track to track as delight and whim took him. So his approach was personal, apparently casual — as one selection reminded him of another, not just for their apparent similarity, but for the juxtapositions and the range of an artist’s work he could show in two hours. Someone like Lee, whose recorded career was compact (this was in 1969, before all those versions of LET’S CALL IT A DAY surfaced) could be covered well in two hours. Other artists, with longer careers, got multi-part shows: four hours on Louis in the Thirties. Beach’s range was wide: I remember shows on Rollins and on Johnny Dunn. And — given his format — he didn’t replay his favorite recordings. Ed Hall today, Hank Mobley tomorrow, and so on.
In hearing and recording and rehearing those shows I was not only learning about performances and performers I hadn’t heard of (because much classic jazz was out of print and my budget was limited) but about a loving reverence for the music, a point of view that could shine the light on the ODJB and on Clifford Brown, without condescending to either. He mixed reverence for the music and irreverence for things outside it (he was powerfully funny in an understated way). He tried to teach us all what to listen to and how to listen to it.
Now, when we can buy the complete recordings of X — going for hours, with unissued material, arranged in sequence — a Beach show might seem a fragmentary overview. And I remember the mixed feelings I had, perhaps thirty-five years ago, when my collection (in its narrow intense way) began to expand past what he had played — or, even given new discoveries — what he had known. I had that odd sense of a student discovering something that his much-admired professor hadn’t had access to . . . mingled emotions for sure.
(Beach also had a program, for some brief time, BEACH READS, where he did just that — in that resonant voice, purling his way in hilarious deadpan through S.J. Perelman. I can hear those cadences now. And he was just as articulate off the air. I remember having a small dialogue with him through the mail. Powerfully under the spell of Mezz Mezzrow’s REALLY THE BLUES, I had written something negative to him about Red Nichols, accusing Nichols of being in it for the money. Forty years later, I remember Beach’s sharp response: “Jazz musicians don’t play for cookies and carrots.”
All things, even Golden Eras that no one recognizes at the time, come to an end. JUST JAZZ started to be aired at odd hours. I set my alarm clock to get up at 7 AM on a Saturday morning to tape a two-hour Sidney Catlett show. Pure jazz, without commercials, was not a paying proposition. WRVR changed its programming schedule, putting Ed “in drive time,” airing brief jazz-related commercials (one of them was for the Master Jazz Recordings label — MJR of sainted memory) and then the station was sold. I heard him again only on my deteriorating tapes and then only in my imagination.
I hope that others who had the precious experience will share their memories of Ed — and perhaps this post will make its way to his family, so that they will know even more of how “Uncle Gabchin” or “Sam Seashore,” of the firm of “Wonder, Blunder, and Thunder,” some favorite self-mocking personae — how much Ed Beach was loved. And remains so.
Few people gave us so much, with so little fanfare, so generously.
JAZZ LIVES 