Tag Archives: Midge Williams

THE SIL’VRY WATERS KISSED THE SHORE

It was not a complicated or “innovative” song for its time, and it’s nostalgic rather than ground-breaking now.  But it’s lovely, when performed soulfully. I present four sweet variations on the theme.  I’ll wait, if you’d like to have some pineapple while you listen.

ON A LITTLE BAMBOO BRIDGE

Bjarne “Liller” Pedersen sings with Papa Bue’s Viking Jazz Band, 1960:

Midge Williams with Miff Mole and his Orchestra:

Edythe Wright with Tommy Dorsey (glorious percussive commentaries from Dave Tough, a modernist interlude from Bud Freeman, and a three-trumpet passage that looks back to Bix and forwards to Bunny, who leads the trumpets, on January 19, 1937):

And the absolute master in March 1937 (this video provided by my friend Austin Casey) — Louis Armstrong accompanied by Andy Iona And His Islanders : Louis Armstrong; Sam Koki (steel guitar); George Archer, Harry Baty (guitar); Andy Iona (ukelele); Joe Nawahi (bass):

This post is for my friend Nick Rossi, who is enjoying the delights of mid-period Louis Armstrong.

ON A LITTLE BAMBOO BRIDGE two label

May your happiness increase!

MY KIND OF VIC

In my Ideal Jazz World — which exists only in my mind and those of a few people who share my leanings (Dan and Mal and Clint among them)  — Vic Dickenson is one of the greatest creators.

But Vic’s art was very subtle.  People found it easy to see only its broad outlines and thus minimized it as a matter of low-toned naughty growls filling in the gaps in a Dixieland ensemble.  Vic often worked with bands where he was alone on the mountaintop, making his way through BASIN STREET BLUES or IN A SENTIMENTAL MOOD for the ninth time that week.

In addition, trombones tend to get less attention than they and their players deserve, especially if the men and women behind the mouthpiece and slide are reliable.  Reliable players — think of Bennie Morton, Al Hall, Buck Clayton, Ray Nance, Milt Hinton among fifty others — get less attention than dramatic ones.

Vic seems to have come from nowhere — blossoming fully on the 1943-44 Blue Notes, or (for those whose historical perspective starts later) on the Vanguards and Columbias of the Fifties.  But he had been working his magic for a long time.  There’s his marvelous solo on Benny Carter’s MY FAVORITE BLUES, his work on a few 1940 Basie Columbias . . . and earlier — I’ve posted Blanche Calloway’s I NEED LOVIN’, which I think would amaze and terrify any contemporary trombonist — marvelous tumbling epigrams no matter what the context or the tempo.

That garden of delights, YouTube, offers us another aural glimpse of the Vic the musicians knew and admired.  His solo on this little-known record is only sixteen bars, and it comes late in the performance, but it is a marvel.

The original recording was made for Decca in 1937 by the Claude Hopkins band.  MY KINDA LOVE was perhaps best known through Ben Pollack’s recording of it with Jack Teagarden a half-decade earlier.  The Hopkins record is taken up with Hopkins’ pleasant piano and Beverly White’s singing.  Nothing is less than expert — the rhythm section rocks along nicely under Hopkins — but it is music for dancers.  Beverly White sounds close to Midge Williams and even Ella Logan: all the notes are in the right places, her enunciation is precise; she sings clearly and rhythmically, but the overall affect is well-behaved rather than memorable.  This band could play a senior prom in 1937 and not upset the chaperones overmuch.

Beverly was known as “Baby,” and she has her own place in the Jazz Pantheon because Teddy Wilson said he preferred her singing to Billie Holiday’s.  What that statement really means is hard to say: there is so much mythology around the luminous 1935-41 recordings Billie and Teddy made that his words seem heretical.  Perhaps Baby White was easier to work with; she didn’t smoke pot in the hall; she was more professional?  It could be that Teddy simply liked the sound of her voice more.  I wonder if in the years after those recordings were made, there was a slight tinge of rancor that Billie had become BILLIE HOLIDAY and other singers hadn’t.  (Michael Brooks wrote that Henry “Red” Allen told him vehemently that Anna Robinson was also much better than Billie.)

For me, the first two-thirds of MY KINDA LOVE are amiably dull — politely swinging without calling attention to itself — an almost faceless “dance record,” perhaps insisted upon by Jack Kapp.

But when Vic leaps in, for about thirty seconds, my musical world changes.

He begins with a break that owes something to Louis, something that might have come from a Hot Seven record, reinvented through Vic’s own prism of sound.  It’s a witty solo, glancing at Swing phrases that were already conventions in 1937 . . . but Vic’s staccato phrasing and sound are his own.  He doesn’t dramatize; his solo is in the middle register and he doesn’t demand that we admire his pyrotechnics, but the solo amazes as evidence of what he could do in sixteen bars.  A writer of musical epigrams, a painter of miniatures, eight bars here or sixteen bars there with their own logical, funny, shapes.

The thought that I can no longer see Vic on the stand at the last Eddie Condon’s or Your Father’s Mustache or an outdoor concert in Suffolk County makes me sad.  Had I been able to tell him how many people had their lives uplifted by his music, I think it would probably have embarrassed him.  But as I get older and I hear more jazz; as I understand more how difficult it is to create something when the rhythm is moving along inexorably underneath you, the more I prize Vic Dickenson.  It was a miracle that he was with us.  And he still is.

May your happiness increase.

“I’M READY, I’M READY!” or “THE TRUMPET KING OF SWING”

I can identify some of the signatures, but not all.  Where are they playing?

Thanks to Mister Glaser, Luis Russell, Sonny Woods, Midge Williams, Lawrence Lucie, Decca Records, and of course to The Trumpet King of Swing himself!

JAZZ THROUGH THE LENS (on eBay)

This remarkable photograph of Paul Barbarin, New Orleans drummer, when he was driving the Louis Armstrong Orchestra (1935-39) is autographed to Midge Williams, who sang with Louis at the time (as did Sonny Woods, to handle the sweet numbers and to give Louis a rest).  It’s no longer possible to call up Joe Glaser and offer to hire Paul Barbarin, but this photograph — with all those lovely cymbals on hangers, temple blocks and a gong (take that, Sonny Greer!)  — makes us recall that such a thing was once possible.

More from Mr. Strong, the top picture particularly meaningful to me: from one of the Decca sessions that paired Louis with Gordon Jenkins — and someone I never noticed before, half-hidden behind Louis, the Blessed Milton Gabler.  The lower photo depicts Louis in front of what resembles a smaller late-Forties big band, but it’s all mysterious now.

Jean Goldkette and his Orchestra: I’ll rely on one of my scholarly Bixian readers to identify this one: time of day, place, and personnel, please!

I can’t tell whether this rather odd cover collage (was it an art director or someone with a pair of scissors and no supervision?) comes from the same session as the Louis-Jenkins shot above, but this cover is especially dear to me, since it’s one I stared at often through my childhood while listening to the music contained inside.  (And I still have my copy from a half-century ago, which pleases me immensely — considering the way objects evanesce and disappear.)