Tag Archives: Maui

“SUNDAY, BY THE POOL, IN LOS ANGELES”: DAN LEVINSON, MOLLY RYAN, MARK SHANE, KATIE CAVERA, RALF REYNOLDS, REBECCA ZOE LEIGH (Sept. 5, 2011)

Certain phrases evoke an instantaneous positive reaction: “on the beach in Maui,” “No school today,” “Friday after work,” “hand in hand in the park.”  You can certainly invent those that make for happy vibrations.

A new one to add to my personal lexicon is “Sunday, by the pool, in Los Angeles.”  It needs some clarification: I don’t swim well and Los Angeles is not the California city closest to my heart . . . but when these words connect with the Sweet and Hot Music Festival (as they did in September 2011), what could possibly go wrong?

Nothing, as far as I am concerned.  And the measure of this swing session is that even with the bright light, the early hour, and the wind gusts, the music was sweetly triumphant.  The participants were Dan Levinson, his phrasing so easy and comfortable on clarinet and tenor sax; Mark Shane, a pianist who has a real problem in that he finds it impossible not to swing; the tenderly compelling singer (and solid rhythm guitarist) Molly Ryan; the invaluable Katie Cavera on guitar.  (Scientific studies, for what it’s worth, say that “multi-tasking” is a sham, that we can’t do more than one thing at once well: I would like to say, “Science, meet Katie Cavera.”)  And then some guests — one an Eminence, one a Newcomer, showed up and made us even happier.

Myabe because the sun was out, they began with SHINE:

Poolside, unfortunately, is not the best place for a singer with a microphone — the Weather Channel could explain the prevalence of gusty winds.  But Molly Ryan, who is a resilient performer used to transcending larger obstacles than this, absolutely triumphed with a heartbreaking rendition of the Ink Spots’ hit, IF I DIDN’T CARE.  Molly cares!  And her swinging empathy comes through in every note — a performance that was one of the highlights of Sweet and Hot 2011 for me.  No, it’s not a 1938 Vocalion or Victor — it’s happening now:

And here comes the Eminence — not His Holiness, but the Prince of the Washboard, the Sultan of Hot, Mister Ralf Reynolds, to join in the fun.  I don’t know if Ralf is essentially an optimist, but he spreads joy copiously — so he suggested WHEN YOU’RE SMILING (rather than GLOOMY SUNDAY):

Then Dan invited a young woman up from the crowd and asked her to sing something.  She really can and does — I introduce you to Miss Rebecca Zoe Leigh, having a good time with BABY, WON’T YOU PLEASE COME HOME?  (She knows the verse: extra credit on the final):

The sky is dark and stormy: I wish we were back at poolside right now.  And if that’s not possible, I’ll immerse myself in these delightful performances.

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MORE WORDS TO LIVE BY

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The implications are limitless. 

Hookipa Beach Park, Maui, Hawaii, January 2009

“YOU ARE GENE KRUPA.”

Gene Krupa was born one hundred years ago today, January 13, 1909.

Krupa, alive and dead, has been the subject of a good deal of speculation — trying to establish his place in jazz, in history, in American culture.  I prefer to celebrate him as a musician who was at one with his instrument, someone who kept his artistic identity intact (except for a brief period in the late Forties, when the band wore berets to show that they too were beboppers).

My title comes from a film clip — from a movie that must have been made in two days, if that, called BOY! WHAT A  GIRL!  The scene below includes my hero Sidney Catlett, Benny Morton, Dick Vance, Don Stovall, and a few others . . . with a surprise visit from Mr. Krupa.  He plays, incidentally, as he did in 1927 with Condon and McKenzie, in 1938 with Goodman, and as he did at the New School in 1972, the last time I saw him: throwing himself fully into the beat.   ‘

The conceit of Krupa surprising Catlett (who is asked to pretend that he doesn’t recognize his friend Gene, one of the most famous figures in the world in 1947) is fanciful, somewhat like one of those cameos Hope and Crosby used to do in each other’s movies, but Sidney’s tagline, “You are Gene Krupa,” makes me pause.

One of Krupa’s great gifts was that he made a whole generation, perhaps two, want to do “tricks with the sticks” just as he did.  Think of Louis Bellson, of Mel Torme, of a young Kevin Dorn.  And think of all those people, practicing paradiddles on their Slingerland Radio Kings, who wanted to be Gene Krupa.  And they believed that they could be Gene.  Bing Crosby made millions of people think that they could sing just as well as he did.  That gift — of making people think such mastery was possible  — is a rare one, and we dare not undervalue it.  Some artists — Charlie Parker and Art Tatum come to mind — are so far beyond the ordinary that we know emulating them is a lifetime’s work.  But Krupa, whose art was no less subtle, humbly suggested by his very presence that his art and the resulting pleasure was within our reach.  It was as powerful a democratic idea as FDR talking to Americans through their radios as if they and he were . . . just people, to whom you could tell the truth.

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I will conclude this post with a picture of a man who looks out of place in a jazz blog.  He doesn’t have a suit; he doesn’t hold a musical instrument.  (His clothes, mind you, are something we all should aspire to.)

But he belongs here.  Readers will have noticed that the Beloved and I have been visiting Maui (from where I am writing this).  A few days ago, we drove to Makawao and visited the church’s thrift store, where we both bought excellent clothing.  On our way out, this gentleman — energetic, garrulous, and enthusiastic — arrived to donate a chair he had made himself (you can see it in the picture) to the thrift store.  He didn’t want any money for it, although he said they should charge $75 for it, and told me that he made it just to keep himself healthy.

In the fashion of such conversations, he asked me where I was from.  When I said, “New York,” he got very excited and told me that he had been in New York in 1942, as a member of the 82nd Division, that he had been a paratrooper with 300 jumps, that he had stayed in New York at the Hotel Chesterfield (for two dollars a night), had been to the Statue of Liberty.

And then he paused, for dramatic emphasis.  “I went to Madison Square Garden.  Do you know who I saw there?  I saw GENE KRUPA!  Do you know who Gene Krupa is?  He (pantomining) played the drum!”

He was beaming, and so was I.

This man, who must be in his late eighties, still has Gene Krupa in his thoughts, in his memory, as if 1942 was yesterday.

If you give yourself generously to people, as Krupa did, you never die.  Happy Birthday, Gene.

FOUR STRINGS IN MY FUTURE?

Two days ago on Maui, we wandered into a second-hand store in Wailuku and I saw a beautiful ukulele hanging on the wall.  In the grip of musical hubris and hopefulness, I asked to see it and improvised a simple Thirties single-note riff, impressing the Beloved, who said, “I didn’t know you could play!”  “I didn’t either,” I replied.

mele-curly-kpa-tenor-2-holeSince I was quite young, I have made half-hearted attempts at learning a number of musical instruments.  Some of those nstruments ornament my apartment, although I am cautious lest it turn into a one-bedroom version of a music store / pawnshop. 

The ukulele has appealed to me for a long time, because I had the notion that it might be fairly simple to play — four strings rather than some more intimidating number, and not a great deal of aesthetic ambition attached to it (unlike, say, the violin).  It also has a Jazz Age history — on all the Twenties and Thirties sheet music I collect, the line above the treble clef has chord diagrams for imagined ukulele players to read off the page — and the diagrams are just my speed, a diagram of the four strings with a dot on each string to show where the novice should place his or her fingers. 

I haven’t bought the ukulele yet, although we visited the Mele store, where Peter (the resident self-taught virtuouso) tried to teach me to play YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE, with middling results. (I am a recalcitrant, stubborn pupil.)   The second-hand store was closed today, and I refuse to pay full price unless I am compelled to by circumstances.  I also don’t plan to turn into Arthur Godfrey, Don Ho, or Tiny Tim, never fear.  My aesthetic model is Cliff Edwards. I don’t aspire to starring in Technicolor, being the voice of a Disney character, or dying penniless, but his swinging insouciance is immensely appealing.

There are many wonderful Ukulele Ike clips on YouTube — too many to up or download, so you might want to investigate them on your own.  I’ll report back about the results of my four-string quest.

(On YouTube, you can also see a brief clip of Buster Keaton at home in 1965, happily croaking his way through “June Night,” accompanying himself on a tenor guitar with a fair deal of skill.  Who knew?)

JAZZ IN THE AIR

 plane-seats1Getting from New York to Maui (with a brief stopover in Los Angeles) is not all that arduous, and we are lucky to have such travel plans.  But time spent in an airplane seat tends to drag (the recycled air, the shrinking space one is allowed, the stranger who wants ever so eagerly to talk about life in the plaster business) so the iPod is more and more a blessing.  (With noise-cancelling earbuds, of course.)

Here’s my entirely self-referential list of what I was listening to on this most recent trip, in no order of preference:

John Gill, LEARN TO CROON (from his upcoming CD of the same name for Stomp Off, honoring Bing Crosby)

Jeff Healey / Dick Sudhalter / John R.T. Davies, A CUP OF COFFEE, A SANDWICH AND YOU (from”Among Friends”)

Louis Armstrong and assorted Hawaiians including Lionel Hampton, TO YOU, SWEETHEART, ALOHA, and ON A COCONUT ISLAND (good psychic warmups for the islands)

the Norman Payne tracks from the two-CD set, “The Influence of Bix Beiderbecke” on Jass Masters

Jon-Erik Kellso / Scott Robinson / Mark Shane, ISN’T THIS A LOVELY DAY, from Jon-Erik’s “Remembering Ruby,” on Gen-Erik Records

Connee Boswell / Bunny Berigan, IN A LITTLE SECOND-HAND STORE, and ME MINUS YOU (Mosaic)

Jack Teagarden, THANK YOUR FATHER, “1930 Studio Sessions,” (Jazz Oracle)

The Blue Note Jazzmen, EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY (both takes)

Ehud Asherie, A PORTER’S LOVE SONG TO A CHAMBERMAID, from “Swing Set,” on Posi-Tone Records

the four new CDs Anthony Barnett has released on his AB Fable label — devoted to Eddie South and a variety of improvising violinists and hot string ensembles

Melissa Collard, WHEN SOMEBODY THINKS YOU’RE WONDERFUL, from “Old Fashioned Love,” Melismatic Records

Becky Kilgore / Dave Frishberg, SAY IT, from “Why Fight the Feeling?” on Arbors Records 

There was more music, but I’m trying to save something for the return trip.  I bought a car kit for the iPod and have (by mutual consent) been playing the early Thirties recordings of the Mills Brothers.  And marveling, of course — although the back seat of the tiny rental car sometimes starts to feel crowded, even with only one guitar.