Thursday, March 17, 2016

You're Lucky to Me

Louis Armstrong and His Sebastian New Cotton Club Orchestra
Recorded October 16, 1930
Track Time 3:31
Written by Eubie Blake and Andy Razaf
Recorded in Los Angeles, CA
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; George Orendorff, Harold Scott, trumpet; Luther Craven, trombone; Les Hite, alto saxophone, baritone saxophone conductor; Marvin Johnson, alto saxophone; Charlie Jones, clarinet, tenor saxophone; Henry Prince, piano; Bill Perkins, banjo; Joe Bailey, bass; Lionel Hampton, drums
Originally released on OKeh 41478
Currently available on CD: It’s on the JSP two-disc set The Big Band Sides, 1930-1932. The alternate take in on an old Columbia disc Volume 7: You’re Driving Me Crazy.

In 2015, I began what I hoped would be an extended series celebrating the 85th anniversary of all the great songs Louis Armstrong recorded while in California from July 1930 to March 1931. Alas, my wife's pregnancy and the ultimate arrival of Baby Lily put an end to that but anniversaries be damned, I still want to celebrate these sides so I'm soldiering on.

On October 16, 1930, Armstrong and Les Hite's Orchestra recorded two numbers composed by the great team of Eubie Blake and Andy Razaf for "Lew Leslie's Blackbirds." The first one was "Memories of You," which I've covered in the past, but the second one is new to this blog: "You're Lucky to Me."

Ethel Waters introduced it in "Blackbirds" and according to Elmer Snowden, she "hit the ceiling" when "Memories of You," sung by Minto Cato, became the show's big hit. Waters got to it first on recording waxing it on September 1, 1930. Here's her version, opening with sweet strings and the verse:


Waters treats it as a passionate love song for the first half of the performance before she swings out gently in the second half, backed by some pretty athletic piano playing (is that Eubie? He backed her on it during the show so it would make sense).

Though "Memories of You" became a bigger hit (and better-known standard), that didn't stop "You're Lucky to Me" from being recorded by a variety of musicians in late 1930. The first jazz recording I can find is this stomping version by the Charleston Chasers done on September 30, 1930 and featuring Phil Napoleon, trumpet, Tommy Dorsey, trombone, Jimmy Dorsey, clarinet and alto, Frank Signorelli, piano and Stan King on drums--dig King's press rolls!



The Charleston Chasers version demonstrates that jazz musicians already found it an appealing song to rough up a bit but remember, jazz was still not "America's popular music" quite yet. To get a taste of what was still selling the most records in 1930, here's a dance band treatment byJustin Ring and His Dance Orchestra with a typical vocal for the period by Irving Kaufman. Really let this sink in--the muted straight reading of the melody by the trumpet, Kaufman's don't-change-a-note vocal, everything:


Okay, got that in your head? Now let's listen to Louis Armstrong and His Sebastian Cotton Club Orchestra romp on October 16, 1930:





I say it all the time, but it's like he's from another planet (my real favorite example of this comes on "You're Driving Me Crazy," which I'll update and post something about it the hopefully not too distant future). After the neat little arranged opening, Louis is on his own to deliver the melody as only he could; in fact, it almost sounds like he's playing the melody and an obligato at the same time, as he answers the melody statements with perfect little responding phrases (the descending arpeggio leading into the bridge is classic Armstrong vocabulary). The rhythm section swings behind him, Lionel Hampton keeping it swinging on drums while guitarist Bill Perkins plays such an attractive countermelody, it could almost be considered a trumpet-and-guitar duet.

The band takes a short interlude to allow Louis to step up to the microphone to deliver another one of those classic early 1930s vocals that drove the likes of Irving Kaufman into a new line of work.  Perkins's guitar still doesn't quit but the main attraction is Louis who immediately enters by singing a new melody rather than the one Blake had written. Except the the moan before the second eight bars, the "oh baby" before the bridge and the "Nowwww" before the last eight bars, Louis is very respectful from a linguistic standpoint, actually singing Razaf's lyrics and not breaking into any scat detours. Still, someone should transcribe the melody Louis sings and compare it with Blake did because its really its own marvelous creation.

After the passionate, soulful end to the vocal, it's time for another instrumental soloist to step up, this time bandleader Hite and his baritone saxophone. The solos on these California recordings never bother me, mostly because the soloists are good (though Lawrence Brown had left by this point) and the rhythm section swings like mad (take a bow, Hamp). Hite burps and croaks effectively while the other horns riff simply, but swingingly. I wonder if they even had an arrangement on this one; beside the introduction and the setup to the vocal, everything is very sparse and sounds like a "head" creation. Piano takes the bridge, or should I say "pianos"; discographies list Henry Prince and Harvey Brooks as pianists on this session. Does anyone hear two pianos? It's possible but I'm not quite sold.

Hite finishes the chorus before Louis enters with a perfectly placed single note, foreshadowing late such entrances on records like "I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues." Louis is so ultra relaxed here, swinging easy, but he wakes up for a surprising, twisty break before resorting back to the lower register for more floating, including a mini-gliss. His second break contains more prime Armstrong language but he fluffs one note and it doesn't quite come off as he intended.

We're halfway through the final chorus and though Louis's playing is wonderfully loose, he hasn't quite flexed the muscles yet. In fact, he sounds like he's conserving his strength for the end of the record. He hits a few high ones in the bridge but leaves an awful lot of space; it's a nice dramatic effect, building up the tension. For a minute, one might wonder, "Hm, are his chops hurting?" Just keep listening: he comes out of the bridge with a dazzling break, ends up in the upper register and powers through the melody an octave higher building up the the big ending where he glisses up to a high concert F for the first time on record. It's a bit of a squeak but he hits it. It's a good example of Louis gradually starting to expand his register; that high F would be super fat and crystal clear in just a short time.

As if to emphasize their leader's super ending, the band shouts, "Gate!" in unison, something, again, sorely lacking from many dance band records of the time. "You're Lucky to Me" went on to be a moderate standard in the jazz world, once again, thanks to Louis, but I don't think he ever returned to it (the flip side, "Memories of You," had a longer association in his career). Still, there's no duds in Armstrong's California bunch, something proved next time out when I finally tackle "Sweethearts on Parade" for the first time in the nearly nine-year history of this blog. Stay tuned!

Friday, February 26, 2016

90 Years of the Hot Five's Greatest Session

Louis Armstrong and His Hot FiveRecorded February 26, 1926
Recorded in Chicago
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; Kid Ory, trombone; Johnny Dodds, clarinet; Lil Armstrong, piano; Johnny St. Cyr, banjo

On July 12, 1954, Louis Armstrong recorded six songs in one evening for the epic album "Louis Armstrong Plays W. C. Handy." While working on the sixth and final tune, "Long Gone," producer George Avakian came up to Louis and asked, "What's the last time you made six in one evening?" "Man," Armstrong responded, "it's been years since that shit. It's wonderful."

Armstrong wasn't kidding. Six tunes in one session is a lot for any artist and Armstrong hadn't it done it many times before. One occasion that jumps to mind is an immortal Decca session on May 18, 1936 that included gems like "Lyin' to Myself," "Swing That Music" and "Mahogany Hall Stomp." (I covered that session for its 75th anniversary and might revisit it for its upcoming 80th.) And the Victor session of January 26, 1933 was another six-tune classic, including "I've Got the World on a String," "I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues" and four other performances for the time capsule.

But I don't think that anyone can argue that pretty much the most ridiculous six-song session Louis Armstrong ever recorded was done 90 years ago this week, a Hot Five session on February 26, 1926. The rundown? "Georgia Grind," "Heebie Jeebies," "Cornet Chop Suey," "Oriental Strut," "You're Next" and "Muskrat Ramble." My goodness, that's a lot of history in session.

In 2011, for the 85th anniversary, I posted separate entries on all six pieces, but for the 90th, I'm combining those original entries (with updated info when possible) into this massive manifesto.

First, a little back story. As chronicled here recently, November 12, 1925 marked the very first Hot Five recording session. Three tunes were waxed, with "Gut Bucket Blues" being pegged as the first "A-side" with "Yes! I'm in the Barrel" being the flip. It was released in late December 1925 and from what I can tell, it seems to have taken off pretty quickly. OKeh obviously wanted more…..a lot more.

On February 22, the Hot Five knocked off "Come Back Sweet Papa," another fine instrumental, while Louis spent February 23 and 24 lending his accompaniment on nine separate sides by blues singers Bertha "Chippie" Hill, Baby Mack and Hociel Thomas. After a day off on the 25th (presumably some rehearsal time was scheduled), the Hot Five returned on 26th to knock off six sides, including what would become, by far, their most popular recording: "Heebie Jeebies."

E. A. Fearn, the man overseeing the Hot Five recordings for OKeh, liked Armstrong's spoken contributions to "Gut Bucket Blues" and requested more such vocal numbers. The February 26 session, thus, began with "Georgia Grind," a close relative (twin, perhaps?) of "Shake That Thing."

So what came first, “Georgia Grind” or “Shake That Thing”? All signs seem to point to “Shake That Thing,” though do not be confused: Ford Dabney wrote a ragtime piece titled “Georgia Grind” in 1915 but it has nothing to do with the Spencer Williams tune Armstrong recorded in 1926 (certain websites claim Williams wrote it in 1915…wrong!). Some versions of “Shake That Thing” credit the tune to “Traditional” but from what I can tell, it really belongs to New Orleans banjoist Papa Charlie Jackson, who recorded the first version of the song in May 1925. It’s pretty uptempo compared to some later versions, but a lot of the hallmarks are there, including the line about the “Jellyroll king.” Jackson’s record must have been something of a hit because by the end of 1925, it was already being covered by the likes of Clarence Williams’s Blue Five (December 15, 1925) and Ethel Waters (December 23, 1925). Waters slowed it down to give it more of a blues feeling.

The “Shake That Thing” craze continued into 1926 with Jimmy O’Bryant’s Washboard Band waxing it in January and Abe Lyman’s California Ambassador Orchestra recorded a hot version on February 1. With one “Shake That Thing” cover after another being recorded, it was only a natural to have a copycat version soon appear. Enter our friend Spencer Williams. Williams perhaps remembered the title of the Dabney piece but more to point, Jackson’s first line referenced the peach state: “Now down in Georgia, they got a dance that’s new/ There ain’t nothin’ to it, it is easy to do/ Called ‘Shake That Thing.” Williams then borrowed a line that had been around for years:

Papa, Papa, just look at sis, out in the backyard shaking like this

On his Library of Congress recordings, Jelly Roll Morton sings this line on more than one occasion, including on “Michigan Water Blues” and “Hesitating Blues.” He sings it as:

Mama, mama, look at sis, she’s out on the levee, doin’ the double twist

Obviously, Williams substituting “shaking like this” for “double twist” is a sly wink to “Shake That Thing.” Otherwise, both tunes are identical, though even I’ll admit, there are traces of this melody in many other blues tunes, including the verse to “Hesitating Blues.” And Joe Oliver’s solo on “Jazzin’ Babies Blues,” the one that Armstrong would borrow many times throughout the years, also has a “Shake That Thing”-type feel to it. But it does appear that Armstrong’s Hot Five was the first group to take a crack at the “Georgia Grind” so if you’d like to hear how they did, here 'tis:


Now I like “Georgia Grind” because it’s one of those Hot Five records that didn’t set out to change the world, instead only aiming to entertain its listeners. It was recorded on the same day as “Heebie Jeebies,” “Cornet Chop Suey” and “Muskrat Ramble,” three tunes that indeed change the world and more power to ‘em, but “Georgia Grind” is one those reminders that young Louis “the artist” also had quite a bit of “the entertainer” in him as well. And by sharing the vocal with his wife Lil, why, it’s a practical blueprint for the duets with Velma Middleton of later years (more in a bit).

Armstrong starts the record at the V chord of the blues as the simples means for an introduction. He plays the melody in a very straight-forward fashion with Dodds and Ory sounding very comfortable (this didn’t always happen). We’re not even 30 seconds in and here comes Lil with the vocal:

Papa, Papa, look at sis, out in the backyard shaking like this,
Doing that Georgia Grind, that old Georgia Grind,
Now everybody’s talking about that old Georgia Grind.

I can shake it east, I can shake it west, but way down south I can shake it best,
Doing that Georgia Grind, I said dirty Georgia Grind,
Now everybody’s raving about that old Georgia Grind.

Ory then plays the melody for a few bars before improvising a simple solo that practically screams his name. Then Pops steps up to the mike for a good-time vocal. He was still in his enthusiastic, half-speaking, half-shouting days and I love it:

Come in here gal, come in here right now, out there trying to be bad and you don’t know how,
Doing the Georgia Grind, ohhhh, the Georgia Grind,
Everybody’s trying to do the Georgia Grind.

Say Old Miss Jones was bent and gray, saw the Georgia Grind, threw her stick away,
She did the Georgia Grind, yessir she went crazy about the Georgia Grind—you know one thing?
Everybody’s trying to do the Georgia Grind.

I love those two choruses. Armstrong sings with more soul and feeling than those in the soul and R&B music world of today. Just listen to how he sings "Ole Miss Jones," for one example, while I can’t imagine another pure blues singer doing better than Armstrong on words like “Everybody,” where he bends the first syllable beyond the blue horizon. And that quick, “You know one thing” would become something of a trademark. After the vocal, Johnny Dodds takes an eight-bar solo before Pops leads the rideout for the final four bars. No high notes, no stop-time solos, no dazzling feats of rhythmic risk-taking. Just some straightforward lead horn and a fun vocal and that’s all I need. After listening to it, I feel entertained and for Pops, that was mission accomplished.

With a big name like Spencer Williams behind it, it only made sense that the “Georgia Grind” would spread much like “Shake That Thing” had only months earlier. On March 18, Duke Ellington recorded it under the banner of The Washingtonians. Ellington creatively took it at an up tempo but using long meter to keep the same feel of the melody over the double-timing rhythm section. You can hear that version by clicking here. Thomas Morris and His Seven Hot Babies recorded it on July 13 and just eight days later, Jelly Roll Morton accompanied Edmonia Henderson on her version of the tune. After that, “Georgia Grind” kind of disappeared but the lyrics would be used again and again in a hundred incarnations. In April 1928, Henry Williams recorded something called “Georgia Crawl” which “borrowed” more than a little from “Georgia Grind.” It begins with the “Papa, Papa, look at sis” chorus, continues with the “I can shake it east” chorus and even has Pops’s “Come here right now” segment. Blind Willie McTell would also sing about a “Georgia Crawl” in some of his early 30s blues tunes while Coot Grant and Kid Wilson sung about “shaking it east.”

As the years went on, “Georgia Grind” more or less vanished, only being performed by some European trad bands that remembered the Hot Five record. “Shake That Thing” lived on, though, in both blues and New Orleans jazz circles, though the lyrics often changed. When Kid Ory recorded it for Good Time Jazz in 1954, he opened his vocal by singing, “Mama, mama, look at sis” from “Georgia Grind.” The Preservation Hall Jazz Band continues to perform it.

But back to our hero, Mr. Armstrong, he wasn’t quite done with “Georgia Grind,” either. When he tackled the massive Autobiography project of 1956 and 1957, “Georgia Grind” was one of the tunes selected for the Hot Five recreations, overseen by Bob Haggart. The performance follows the 1926 original to a tee, though the tempo is a little slower, which I think is an improvement. And I always like to point out that in recreating the Hot Fives and Sevens for the Autobiography, Pops didn’t feel the need to recreate the chunky feel of the original rhythm section. Times had changed and Pops was clearly more comfortable with the All Stars’s swinging feel, augmented by George Barnes’s smooth electric guitar comping. Here's how it came out in 1957:



Pops again plays the intro and one chorus up front, playing a dazzling phrase at the 16 second mark as the I chord turns to the IV. It’s a short burst of velocity that shows that even in his mature style, he was more than capable of the quick flurries that marked his younger playing days.

Velma plays the role of Lil here and it’s a perfect fit. Elsewhere on the Autobiography, Velma had to play the role of the blues queens of the 1920s and though she did a professional job, it wasn’t exactly her forte and as a result, those sides are pretty forgettable (besides some stirring obbligatos from Pops). But “Georgia Grind” was right in her bag and as she sings, Pops can be heard interacting with her, which he didn’t do with Lil in 1926. He answers her lines and even repeats the title phrase after she sings it. It’s really a duet in the true sense of the word. Trummy takes a smooth trombone spot before Pops takes over. His shouting days were pretty much behind him but he still speaks part of his lines and his reading of the phrase “Georgia Grind” is priceless. Pops continues on with his vocal—the “you know one thing” line is still there—while Edmond Hall offers fine support behind him. Hall then takes a hot solo before Pops leads the final rideout chorus. On the original record, he only entered for the last four bars but here he takes a full one. Trummy’s ready to play, entering before Hall’s solo is even finished and Pops sounds very bluesy in his lead playing. The song has such a great feel that I wish they could have jammed a couple of more choruses, but I’ll take what I can get (though Pops does get to stretch out a bit at a similar tempo on the very exciting “Snag It” from the Autobiography).

*********************
With one song out of the way, it was now time to make history. "Georgia Grind" was all well and good, but not exactly earth shattering. Well, that all changed with the next tune on the docket, "Heebie Jeebies."

This is a performance that has been written to death about since it was waxed 90 years ago today and it's still shrouded in mystery. I don't think I can shed any definitive light on it, but it's always a fun track to listen to and debate what conspiracy theories we have as to what really happened that day.

What we do know is the song was written by Chicago violinist Boyd Atkins, a member of Louis's band at the Sunset Cafe. But the first mystery arises around the lyrics: were there any when Louis got around to recording it? Banjoist Johnny St. Cyr remembered that OKeh head E. A. Fearn asked Louis to whip up some lyrics for this "Heebie Jeebies" song. St. Cyr remembered Louis sitting in the corner, writing them out and trying to familiarize himself with them before the recording light went on.

Hmmm, maybe this happened, maybe it didn't (I don't know why St. Cyr would make it up). But of course, it's what happened once the recording began that has become the stuff of legend. Richard M. Jones, who oversaw a lot of black music recorded for OKeh, was the first to tell the tale that while Louis singing the vocal, he dropped the words and started to scat. According to Jones, Louis carried the microphone with him to the floor at the same time that Jones dove for the lyrics, causing both men to hit their heads! Armstrong kept going, the record was released and viola, scat singing was on the map.

A fine story, but one aspect of it completely wrongheaded: there were no microphones in the studio as the song was recorded acoustically. So right there, the whole idea of Louis at a microphone, hitting his head and all that stuff, becomes rather silly.

But what if we remove the microphone part? What if we just stick to the basics: Louis was singing the song, dropped the sheet with the lyrics, scatted for a while and the record was released. A lot of people have trouble with this story as well, but you know what? After hearing it for so many years, I think I've started to maybe believe it.

Never mind Jones; Louis never wavered in his telling the story that way for over 30 years. He was asked it countless times and he always gave the same answer, as can be heard on a number of his private recordings housed at the Louis Armstrong House Museum. In my private collection, I have a number of interviews and conversations Louis did, including one with producer George Avakian at the Armstrong home in 1953. Avakian produced the first major reissue of this material in the early 40s and quoted the famous "dropped lyrics" story in his notes, which really turned it into legend. But there he was, grilling Armstrong at his home in private and Pops still didn't change his story.

On top of that, Johnny St. Cyr and Kid Ory said the same thing! Really, what did it matter to them? Armstrong and Ory had a somewhat awkward relationship and Ory could have easily said it was bunk. I'm sure there wasn't a private, Hot Five reunion phone call in the 1940s with each man making a solemn promise to stick by this story.

And then there's the matter of the record itself, which isn't very polished and contains a giant gaffe in the routine at its conclusion. Shall we listen to it now? Let's...


There it is. Did you catch the gaffe at the end? Of course, it's Kid Ory jumping the gun with his response, "Whatcha doin' with the Heebies?" In Armstrong's first Hot Five session, Johnny Dodds suffered mike fright during "Gut Bucket Blues" and Ory was the one who had to rescue the day. But here, the Kid blows the routine, allowing for the incredibly awkward moment of silence as Lil and St. Cyr play that weak Charleston beat. The whole thing reeks of a first take but according to Armstrong, Fearn was so tickled by the scat interlude that he stopped the proceedings right there, knowing they had just created something special. Louis, as we'll hear, did exaggerate it a bit, I feel, as he usually said that Fearn walked into the studio and said, "Louie Armstrong, this is where scat was born." That sounds a little convoluted, but again, early newspaper articles from the period did soon refer to the "skat" craze, so maybe Fearn predicted it all in a matter of minutes.

So let's listen to Louis. In 1956, he gave a series of interviews for the Voice of America where he introduced his favorite recordings. Here's the intro to "Heebie Jeebies" with Louis telling a definitive version of the "dropped lyric" story:


There it is, straight from the source. One thing Louis mentions there is Jelly Roll Morton's "Library of Congress" recordings. It should be mentioned that when "Heebie Jeebies" was released, it created a nationwide scat-singing sensation. But as has been proved countless times, this was not the first scat vocal to be recorded; Cliff "Ukulele Ike" Edwards and Don Redman both beat Louis to the punch. But "Heebie Jeebies" was a hit and helped make Louis a star and to many, Louis innovated the whole concept.

Well, Louis never claimed this to be true, as he often said he was doing this kind of singing was still in vocal quartets in New Orleans. But when Jelly Roll Morton did his Library of Congress interview with Alan Lomax, he took offense to Louis getting the credit for inventing scat. Naturally, Jelly Roll claimed he invented it, doing it with Tony Jackson while Armstrong was still a baby. Louis got a kick of out this section and I think was more than a little annoyed, as he brought it up in many, many interviews. He usually told Jelly's side with a laugh but there is one private tape at the Louis Armstrong House Museum that must be heard to be believed. Louis owned Jelly's Library of Congress records and transferred them to tape many times. But one time, he got to the scat story, stopped the tape, picked up his microphone and addressed Jelly directly…even though he was dead for over 10 years by this point! That didn't stop Louis from pretty much telling him off and bragging that he (Louis) was still performing and Jelly, for all his big opinions, was six feet in the ground!

Anyway, to get back on point, "Heebie Jeebies" isn't the first record to feature scat singing and Louis Armstrong didn't invent the concept, but it did a helluva lot to make it something that people began incorporating into their vocals almost immediately (so when you see a poor amateur singer incorporate a snatch of awkward scat on "American Idol," sending the crowd into a tizzy, thank "Heebie Jeebies"). Just think: this was Louis's third full vocal on record and he already upset the world. Amazing.

Louis kept scrapbooks with many of his 1920s reviews and the great majority mentioned "Heebies" (one naming him as "one of 'Heebies' pet writers"). Louis began featuring it with Erskine Tate's orchestra at the Vendome Orchestra and even did a dance to go along with it. A magazine titled Heebie Jeebies was formed, putting Louis on the cover, as well as Ethel Waters and composer Boyd Atkins, in September 1926:



But once he went out as a single in the late 20s, "Heebie Jeebies" seemed to have left the Armstrong repertoire...for good.

Seriously, there's not a single live performance of the tune in entire Armstrong discography except for one, and thankfully, it is a gassuh. It comes from the "Eddie Condon Floor Show" from September 3, 1949 and features Louis in pretty good company, surrounded by Wild Bill Daviso, Cutty Cutshall, Peanuts Hucko, rnie Caceres, Joe Bushkin, Condon, Jack Lesberg, George Wettling and Jack Teagarden. Armstrong tells the famous dropping-the-sheet-music story before recreating the performance. I love the vocal chorus because it features Condon's guitar playing, which I've always enjoyed. In most mixes, Condon's lost the in the shuffle, but occasionally he stood a little too close to the microphone, resulting in a chance to appreciate his driving pulse and seamless chord-work. Armstrong's on fire during the vocal, setting up some good solos (Hucko begins by quoting Armstrong's original scat solo!) before Pops up his horn for some absolutely dazzling playing. Overall, he takes three choruses , building to a ferocious climax driven by George Wettling's tidal wave of a roll. The original "Heebie Jeebies" is pretty historic but from a purely musical standpoint, this remake cuts the original to ribbons. Dig it:



And like "Georgia Grind," Pops payed one last tribute to this Hot Five classic in his 1957 project, Satchmo: A Musical Autobiography. The one thing I haven't mentioned about the original "Heebie Jeebies" is the quality of the instrumental music played, which is okay, but nothing spectacular. For the Autobiography, Louis had his greatest All Stars with him, including Edmond Hall on clarinet and Trummy Young on trombone, and the difference in quality of the solos is marked. The tempo is faster, like the Condon version, and the whole thing romps from start to finish. Unfortunately, it's over a little too quick--there was definitely time for one more chorus, a la the Condon version--but there's good news: the "whatcha doin' with the Heebies" hokum is straightened out! And for that, we should be thankful. In fact, Armstrong's friend Jeann Failows was in attendance at this session and a few of her write-ups survive at the Louis Armstrong House Museum, each of them making special emphasis on this performance and how much fun everyone had doing it. Enjoy!



*********************
So that's "Heebie Jeebies," an absolute iconic moment in the history of jazz singing. But an equally iconic moment would follow it, this one for the history of jazz solos. At this point in the session, the Armstrong horn still hadn't had much to do.

Well, that all changed with the third song written that day "Cornet Chop Suey." This is a piece that has gotten writers breathless for decades and I don't know how much I can add. You want to know what made Louis Armstrong such a revolutionary musician in the 1920s? Well, it's all right here for you. He's in complete command of his horn, playing almost clarinet figures his trumpet (or cornet). The melody of "Cornet Chop Suey," which he wrote, is very forward-thinking, a harbinger of snake-like melodies that would come later on in the bop era (Scott Robinson recorded a wonderful updated take on this tune in recent years, but I'd love to hear a bebop front line of trumpet and alto tear through this melody in unison...wouldn't sound out-of-date for a second).

And then there's that stop-time solo, every note so perfectly placed and swinging, it's almost as if he wrote it out beforehand. But that could never happen, not in these righteous days of pure jazz, when, if you weren't improvising, well, you might as well be playing dance band music with Vincent Lopez. Right? Hello? Bueller?

Of course, some of you might not know where I'm heading, but here's the straight dope: every note of "Cornet Chop Suey" was written down by Louis Armstrong and registered at the Library of Congress on JANUARY 24, 1924! Two years before he recorded it!

Don't believe me? Well, I don't know how good this is going to work, but Lawrence Gushee wrote a defintive piece on Louis and improvisation that now appears in the book "In the Course of Performance." That book is available on Google Books and you can scroll to page 300 to see a copy of it, right in Louis's hand. Here's a link.

This is not new news. The Library of Congress deposits were discovered in the 80s and have been writen about often since. In fact, when I was a member of the Master's program in Jazz History and Research at Rutgers, when we got to the subject of Armstrong in our Jazz Historiography class, our professor, Lewis Porter, passed this around to make the point that improvisation in the early days wasn't exactly a given. Soloists such as Louis and Kid Ory and King Oliver worked on their solos and once they had it down perfect, well, why in the hell mess with it? They were playing for dancers and making records for a quick buck, never thinking that students at universities would be analyzing their every eighth-note rest.

Louis himself admitted as much. I don't have the quotes at hand (but--plug alert--they're in my book), but he talked about it with Richard Meryman in the 1960s, basically saying that everything he played was improvised at one point. But once he got it down, that's it, only change a few notes here and there, as long as they fit. He made sure to stress that's how it was in the old days, when everybody was supposedly improvising.

So here's "Cornet Chop Suey" two years before it got waxed, and it's all there: that incredible introduction, the melody and even every note of the stop-time chorus, marked by Louis as the "Patter" section. Now should this change anyone's opinion of "Cornet Chop Suey"? I should hope not. If so, if you really need every note of your jazz to be freshly minted from the tortured artist's brain, I feel sorry for you. Because me, I can admire what Louis put into composing this work and how he must have worked on it until it sounded like perfection. He probably didn't play it with King Oliver or Fletcher Henderson, but he probably did play it with Lil on piano at their Chicago home (her solo, while not an all-time classic, is one of her best ones, in my opinion).

Above, I shared a Voice of America interview with Louis where he introduced and discussed "Heebie Jeebies." From that same session, he did the same thing with "Cornet Chop Suey." Here he is talking about it in 1956, downplaying it as just an unpublished compisition, recorded to make some quick money to go to the cabarets, with no thoughts about royalties or anything like that.



So with Louis serving as our disc-jockey, let's dig into the original "Cornet Chop Suey":



Right off the bat, for some of you who may have enjoyed this song for 90 years, it might sound a little different. That's because I went with the version of the song in the key of F, as included in Phil Schaap's "Complete Hot Fives and Sevens" box set of about a decade ago. In his own notes, Schaap mentioned that authorities like Randy Sandke and James Charillo believed it to be in Eb. That's how Bobby Hackett played it and that's how John R. T. Davies mastered it in his JSP set.

But Louis wrote it down in F and the three subsequent versions he made of the song (which we'll get to in a bit), were each in F. That's good enough for me, but Norman Field really did the fieldwork in 2005 and published his results here. Check that out and you'll be listening to this version for good.

And then there's the matter of "cornet vs. trumpet." Everyone asks when did Louis switch and why? I can't give an exact date for the switch but it was around this time when Louis joined Erskine Tate's orchestra at the Vendome Theater. Thus, it's possible that "Cornet Chop Suey" was played on a trumpet! Here's Louis on the Voice of America again, right after playing "Cornet Chop Suey," discussing the difference between the two instruments and why he made the switch:



So there you have it, again, straight from the man himself. Of course, later that year, on "Big Butter and Egg Man," Louis sings, "As long as I can keep this cornet up to my mouth." Was he switching between the two horns, maybe still using cornet on record dates. Hmmmm….

One final note: many writers have said Louis titled it this way because exotic material was usually associated with Asia back then (see "Oriental Strut" from this same session). But I don't hear anyting exotic about "Cornet Chop Suey"; I think the title is a play on "Clarinet Marmalade" that works in Louis's love of Chinese food, something that started as a kid and continued until the end of his life.

I've said very little about the playing on "Cornet Chop Suey" but I think the record speaks for itself. It's a masterpiece of the 20th century and was one of those recordings that pretty much said, "Jazz...follow me!" Interestingly, when "Cornet Chop Suey," hit the markets, it was marketed as just another fun fox trot, as seen in this advertisement, clipped from one of Louis's scrapbooks:



Hmm, no mention of "This record will change the world"? Well, it did, but Louis seems to have left "Cornet Chop Suey" behind. I have never seen any mentions of him playing it for the next 20 years of life but the next time he dug it out, stand back!

The occasion was the historic Town Hall concert in May 1947. This concert plays a crucial role in the beginning of the book and I center on "Cornet Chop Suey" as the start of things to come. Thus, I'm not going to run my mouth about the subject for long, other than to say, dig it:


That, to me, is just an amazing performance. It's Louis with just a rhythm section with Dick Cary on piano, Bob Haggart on bass and George Wettling on drums. This concert was supposed to throw Louis back into his "old" styles, all at a time when the dixieland revival had trad bands trying to recreate 1920s recordings with painstaking details.

And here comes Louis and not for one second does he treat it like 1926. That rhythm section SWINGS, Wettling dropping subtle bombs and all sorts of accents. And perhaps because he hadn't played it in so long, Louis is completely free. He makes plenty of allusions to the original, but makes enough changes to keep it fresh, right up to that giant high note at the end, all 1947. Definitely a magical performance that helped usher in the later years of Louis's career.

Concert programs from the early days of the All Stars listed "Cornet Chop Suey" as part of the repertoire but I have never come across a live performance of broadcast of it. Instead, it would be ten more years before Louis would take another crack at it and once again, he came through with flying colors. Like "Heebie Jeebies" and "Georgia Grind," Louis revisited it on Satchmo: A Musical Autobiography"

The Hot Five and Hot Seven recreations were arranged by Bob Haggart, who transcribed every note of the original recordings. Louis was well rested and had plenty of time to rehearse during these sessions, so his playing is note-perfect, but perhaps not quite as free as the Town Hall version.

Regardless, Haggart has some neat ideas, such as having George Barnes's guitar double Louis's acrobatic introduction. Louis sounds in command and the rest of the band is equally enthusiastic (though the Barrett Deems Drum Machine 2000 is too rigid; not his fault, Haggart wrote in the arrangements "closed hi-hat" on Deems's parts, keeping him locked down for some reason). Everyone gets a solo but of course, the spotlight is on Louis for the stop-time bit and he nails it, though he passes the ball to Trummy for a half-chorus, probably to give his 56-year-old chops a bit of a breather before the rideout, which has a new ending. Louis's crazy spiraling bit from the original is gone, replaced with the raw power of the 1950s Armstrong. Enough from me, give it a listen:



Alas, my final version of "Cornet Chop Suey" is a bit of a letdown. It's from only two years later, but different circumstances lead to different recordings. This time around, Louis did "Cornet Chop Suey" with the Dukes of Dixieland. First off, the session was only weeks after Louis's heart attack in Spoleto, Italy, which didn't have any major effects on his trumpet playing, but did seem to affect his ability to execute fast runs on the horn, something that especially became noticable in the mid-1960s.

Also, this session was the Dukes seems like it was just thrown together, without any prepartion or rehearsal. In fact, they just did a lot of songs Louis was already performing live and/or had just recorded for Decca. Because of that, Decca stepped in and didn't allow the recordins to be released until theirs had been on the market for a certain period of time. Armstrong and the Dukes got their act together and recorded fresh material for a fantastic album in 1960 but this 1959 meeting flew under the radar for years.

After recording so many familiar songs--"Back O'Town Blues," "Someday," "Struttin' with Some Barbecue"--and some different material with basic routines--"Dippermouth Blues" "Riverside Blues," "Bill Bailey"--someone in the Dukes probably suggested "Cornet Chop Suey." This was the kind of material the Dukes ate up (Dukes trumpeter Frank Assunto takes the melody in the first chorus) but Louis hadn't played it regularly for years and when he recorded it for the Autobiography, he had an arrangement in front of him.

Thus, judged solely on itself, this recording features some fine, powerhouse playing by the 1959 Armstrong. But you can hear his memory trying to conjure up those phrases and then you can feel the execution slowing down tremendously since the 1957 project. Like an aging fastball pitcher, Louis still has the knowhow to throw enough offspeed stuff to strike the batter out. In fact, for a longtime, I winced when I heard this stop-time solo until I learned to just listen to it on its own. And you know what? It's grown on me until I think it's pretty terrific, with lots of new ideas to make up for what old ideas he couldn't execute anymore. Still, it's a different ballgame from those 1947 and 1957 versions. And the whole thing is over in 2 minutes and 15 seconds so it's like everyone just wanted to get it over with. Anyway, here it is:



I doubt Louis ever performed "Cornet Chop Suey" again after this recording (there's an alternate from this session but it's very similar and I don't think worth sharing). I enjoy each of these versions but really, that first one, recorded 85 years ago this week, is the one that changed history.

*********************

The next song recorded that day, didn't exactly do that, but it's still worth remembering. History has kept the wonders of "Heebie Jeebies" and "Cornet Chop Suey" flowing for 85 years but what about the next two songs recorded that day, "Oriental Strut" and "You're Next"? These have kind of flown under the radar for too long so I think it's time they got a little attention. So let's jump in and give a listen to Johnny St. Cyr’s composition, “Oriental Strut.”


Joy personified. The title makes it sound like it’s going to be some kind of pentatonic-fest, complete with Asian-inspired hokum. Alas, there’s none of that and, except for the interesting chord changes, the only vaguely “foreign” sound to the piece comes during the exotic, minor banjo-and-piano vamp at the end. Banjoist Johnny St. Cyr got credit for writing the tune but like many Hot Five classics, it might have been a collaborative effort on the spot. Perhaps, St. Cyr thought of some of the chord changes or the vamp. Or who knows, he might have written the entire thing out as it does encompass three strains and, like I said, the changes are anything but ordinary in the blowing strain.

Regarding the title, these sort of ethnic things were common in the 20s (Johnny Dodds did a small group number, complete with vocal, called “Oriental Man” around this time). The Hot Five also did “Irish Black Bottom,” while there was also the Jamaican routine on “King of the Zulus.” Later Armstrong went Hawaiian with “Song of the Islands,” Native American with “Indian Cradle Song” and really, really caucasian with the vocals of Seger Ellis on “To Be In Love.”

Regardless, let’s get on with the music. The introduction is pretty tight so obviously the musicians had rehearsed this one pretty good. After the exotic vamp, Armstrong leads the group through two go-arounds of the eight bar A strain, based on a descending chord pattern in Dm (the chords don’t quite descend--Dm, Dm7, Gm6, A7--but Ory uses a D-C-Bb-G pattern from the changes to make it work). Also, am I on the only one who thinks of Jerome Kern’s “Yesterdays” when I hear Armstrong play for the first few bars of this strain?

Then it’s off to the B strain, which slickly moves from Dm to a major, D7 tonality. I don’t know what’s written and what’s not but I like how Armstrong leans on the Bb in the second bar of this strain, which is the flatted sixth of the D7 chord in question. The second half of the B strain heads to Bb before a short circle of fifths (A7-D7-G7-C7) leads to the final blowing strain.

I’m usually not so technical, but I’ve always found the chords of this section to be rather interesting. Two bars of an F immediately go to two bars of Db, which is a neat little surprise. The next two bars of F resolve to a D7, which also works nicely. After two bars on Gm, the piece turns minor again for the next two, A7 and Dm. But then it gets sunny again with two more odd choices for the key of F, E7 and A, before the A leads to a C which leads to a turnaround and we’re off again from the beginning. If you’re not a musician, sorry if that bored you, but I think it’s interesting because a lot of these Hot Five tunes are pretty complex, with multiple strains and some challenging changes, with a little more meat than “old-timey” jazz is sometimes given credit for.

Ory plays the incredible sparse melody, made up of almost nothing but whole notes and half notes, with less than a handful of quarter notes. At the same time, it’s the kind of melody that sticks with you long after listening. After Ory’s somber statement, Dodds comes in with some variations but he seems a little weary of the changes. For instance, when he gets to the second change to Db, he responds by rhythmically repeating a string of Db’s! However, he makes it through the rest of his solo without a problem as the E7 and A7 are replaced by a simple 2-5-1 at the end of his chorus, Gm to C7 to F.

A short interlude by composer St. Cyr’s banjo sets up the main event, a dazzling stop-time solo by Armstrong. I’ll admit, this isn’t a flawlessly executed outing, like a “Potato Head Blues” or “Cornet Chop Suey” (whose solo was pre-written) but it’s quite exciting hearing Armstrong think, inventing ideas with abandon and taking chances as the bars pass him by. His opening phrase, of course, smacks of “Potato Head Blues,” which would be recorded the following year, but after that, it’s a whirlwind of invention. Unlike Dodds, he isn’t daunted by the Db, playing a descending phrase made up of all chord tones before turning an F chord completely inside out. He’s very melodic, but some of the notes are slightly cracked around the eight bar mark, not terribly, but not hit on the nose as he might have liked. The band swings for three bars setting up a simple break which leads to Armstrong’s second stop-time helping.

Pops begins the second half with a slicing rip up to an A an octave higher than written before he makes mincemeat out of the Db with a lightening fast triplet phrase he liked to employ during this period (it crops up near the end of “Ory’s Creole Trombone” to name one example). His rhythm then gets even more daring as he goes on; I love the way he hits the low A and kind of lets it linger in the third bar of this half. Soon, the band starts swinging behind him, but Armstrong continues powering through, playing a sweetly singing high E with an attractive vibrato. But then it’s time to get nasty as he trills a snarling C to signal one more joyous chorus.

And it’s a good one, with Armstrong at his most New Orleans-centric. Not too much longer after this, Armstrong would begin pulling away in his ensemble playing, exploring the higher register of his horn and generally dominating the records. Here he’s on good behavior, hitting a few higher notes here and there but mainly keeping it peppy, playing around St. Cyr’s melody but always keeping it somewhat in the forefront. A short four bar coda ends the song with a cute Charleston beat.

That’s all I have on this fun record, one unjustly dismissed by many of the elite jazz writers, though good musicians always know a good record when they here it; this is the record that so knocked Jack Teagarden out, Wingy Manone remembered Big T actually burying a copy of the OKeh 78 underground to keep it preserved forever!

*********************

The next tune recorded 90 years ago today is the appropriately titled, "You're Next." This was a Lil Hardin Armstrong composition and proof that everybody was getting a chance to bring something to the table that day. After Spencer Williams's "Georgia Grind," they recorded "Heebie Jeebies" by friend Boyd Atkins (with possible uncredited lyrics by Louis), "Cornet Chop Suey" by Louis, "Oriental Strut" by Johnny St. Cyr, "You're Next" by Lil and finally "Muskrat Ramble" by Kid Ory (though as we'll see, maybe not by Kid Ory). Only Johnny Dodds didn't get to bring a song to the party.

The Hot Five was not a working band so it's all speculation whether each one of these musicians brought in a song, worked it out in the studio and recorded it or if some of these numbers were made up on the fly. There is a copyright deposit for "You're Next" by Lil, but it wasn't filed until May 1926, so who knows if she wrote a simple lead sheet based off of the recording?

Regardless, "You're Next" is a simple little record without any fireworks to speak of. Backed by "Oriental Strut" on the original 78, it has never been greeted with much fuss. And that's fine since you're not going to hit a home run every time. Not that "You're Next" is a strike out; it's a hard hit, line-drive double in the gap. (No strikeouts in the Hot Five canon, in my opinion).

I think Louis needed a breather after blowing his chops apart, as young and strong as they were, on "Cornet Chop Suey" and "Oriental Strut."  Before we get into that, let's listen to "You're Next":


Lil claims the spotlight instantly with a classical introduction that shows she was a well-rounded pianist. Some knock her and I'll admit she fails in comparison to an Earl Hines, but she had a beat that Louis obviously liked; you can hear it in her minor vamping directly after her classical introduction, very groovy stuff.

Then Louis enters with the vamp, backed by the four-beats-to-the-bar comping by Lil and Johnny St. Cyr. Louis is very relaxed and clearly enjoys the minor changes. In fact, I wish the entire thing stayed in that minor key. But eventually they get to the main strain, based on some fairly basic changes, Ory and Dodds joining in for a conversational ensemble, with St. Cyr handling the break and stop-time interlude.

Lil and Johnny Dodds then split a chorus, each playing well, if not over their heads. Louis comes back in for the final bit of ensemble playing, his first little descending phrase hitting me in the gut; so simple, so effective. Ory finally gets to peak his head out of the ensemble for a short stop-time segment before Louis takes it out with a pet phrase that crops up in later Hot Five performances of "Big Fat Ma and Skinny Pa" and "Irish Black Bottom." A fine performance to cool down with, especially considering "Muskrat Ramble" was due up next.

*********************
Finally, we arrive at "Muskrat Ramble," the sixth and final song recorded by the Hot Five on February 26, 1926. "Heebie Jeebies" and "Cornet Chop Suey" are rightly known as major Armstrong landmarks but of all the songs recorded that day--and possibly in the history of the Hot Fives and Sevens--I don't think there's any other song that's had the life of "Muskrat Ramble," which continued popping up as a hit record in the 50s and 60s and is still one of the good old good ones in today's traditional jazz scene.

But where did "Muskrat Ramble" come from? Well, that's going to take some detective work and I don't know if we'll ever know for sure. The song has always been attributed to Kid Ory since the very first version was released by the Hot Five in 1926. Ory made it his big feature and never stopped playing it. Ory claimed he wrote it in 1921 while still in Los Angeles, taking the gist of the tune from a book of saxophone exercises. That's fine, but then there's Sidney Bechet, who said it was an old tune already popular in New Orleans, performed as early as the Buddy Bolden era, and known then as "The Old Cow Died and the Old Man Cried." Hmmm...

And there's Louis. Louis performed the song with the Hot Five, seemed to forget about it for a couple of decades, then featured it regularly with his All Stars from inception in 1947 until at least 1967, when his chops began to give out. Louis played it hundreds, if not thousands of times and each time he called it, in the back of his mind, he must have thought, "Damn Ory, I wrote this song."

Finally, in 1965, Louis publicly broke his silence. Louis was hosting his friends Dan Morgenstern and Jack Bradley in his den one afternoon in May of that year. Dan had brought along his tape recorder and turned the results into a wonderful profile of Louis published in "DownBeat" that summer (and currently found in Dan's essential anthology, Living with Jazz). Fortunately, years after the interview was published, the complete, unedited tapes were found and aired by Phil Schaap on WKCR. Since then, the interview has become known as the "Slivovice interview," named after the bottle of plum brandy the three polished off over the course of the afternoon (I posted the full audio right here on this blog back in May 2015).

Louis was in the middle of a discussion about original compositions. Morgenstern and Bradley asked if he had written much after his 1947 song "Someday (You'll Be Sorry)." Louis admitted that he really hadn't and the few ideas he did have in mind, he didn't even know where to bring them anymore. He then discussed how it was different with the music publishers in the 1920s and how he was willing to write songs and sell them outright, just to get some quick money. It's at this point that Jack Bradley asked him point blank, "Pops, did you write 'Muskrat Ramble'?" Here's Louis's answer:


So there it is. Morgenstern published Louis's answer but it didn't really make any waves. Louis clearly didn't want to make a fuss about it and it had already been known as Ory's tune for almost 40 years, so nothing really changed. But Louis must have felt strongly about it, because he made similar accusations during his series of Voice of America interviews in July 1956, interviews that were far less conspicuous in that period, especially compared to a "DownBeat" cover story.

I've shared Louis's Voice of America introductions and stories revolving around "Cornet Chop Suey" and "Heebie Jeebies" and now I'll do the same with "Muskrat Ramble." (To read more about--and get a link to listen--these magical Voice of America interviews, see this blog I wrote last year.) It's fascinating because not only does Louis insinuate that the song was made up in the studio and Ory was the only one with the nerve to claim it--9 years before the Slivovice interview, remember--but it's the only time I've ever heard the full story of the title of the tune and what muskrats were used for in Southern homes: a means to stop bed wetting! Don't believe me? Listen to Louis for yourself:


Isn't that a riot? Louis almost sounds embarrassed telling the story. Interestingly, he said Ory named it and got to claim it, but Ory said Lil Hardin Armstrong was the one who named it. So it's safe to say, we'll never know who named it and who wrote it but that shouldn't stop anyone from enjoying it.

I will say that "Muskrat Ramble" isn't exactly something simple to just jam on, like a 12-bar blues, whipped up in the studio in no time. The song, like "Cornet Chop Suey," had multiple 16-bar strains, echoes of the ragtime era. Each strain features different changes and a different melody, there's an ensemble that features big fat punches from Ory and responses from the band, Ory's solo is set up with accents by the other horns, there's a perfectly executed tag by the trombonist...I don't know, if this was indeed whipped up in the studio, bravo gentlemen and lady.

Okay, I think I've said all that can be said about the backstory and we're still where we started. So forget about all of that and enjoy the first version of "Muskrat Ramble":


Yeah, man, that's still a fun record...no wonder the tune keeps going strong. The very opening of the ensemble is arguably more evidence that this piece was more arranged than given credit for: Louis plays the melody with an earthy lead, Ory plays nothing but quarter notes and Dodds kind of has a harmonized countermelody he works over for a while before he starts to go off on some of his more typical flights the second time through. After that second time, the band heads into the second strain, everybody hitting those accents nice and tight while Ory really gets around on his horn; he's definitely very comfortable with the routine.

Ory's solo, with those giant smears, is a great summation of the Kid's style, but I don't think it's his best work (he sounds better in the ensembles). Louis, however, uncorks a gem. Right from those opening three quarter-notes, you know you're about to hear some good stuff. There aren't many pyrotechnics, but Louis's sense of swing and choice of harmonies (dig that held high G, representing Louis's favorite major-seventh off the Ab chord) is in another world from Ory and Dodds, who follows with a typically insistent solo.

After the round of solos, Ory's smears again take center stage while Louis answers them with the melody and Dodds continues to play harmonized countermelodies instead of going too far off the reservation. Louis then uncorks one of his angry lip trills to lead into the exciting rideout chorus. Louis didn't break out the trill often in his later years, but he loved it in the mid-20s (see "Oriental Strut" from the same session and "Sweet Little Papa" from a few months later for just a couple of examples). After Louis's trill, the whole thing takes off in 16 bars of pure euphoria. Louis's lead is so swinging and strong, but without any crazy high notes (moldy fig critics of Louis's later style often point to this as an example of Louis's pure New Orleans lead, without the need for any upper register fireworks....you know, the stuff that made Louis sound like Louis). Meanwhile, Ory's aggression effectively pushes everyone along, with Dodds really breaking out of his shell, too. And how about that rhythm section? St. Cyr's banjo is supremely driving and creates a unique kind of swing that would disappear soon after in mainstream jazz. And then there's Ory's tag, which would become part of just about every succeeding performance of the tune.

Back in 2011, I used this as a springboard for a multi-part investigation into Louis's succeeding history with "Muskrat Ramble." If that's something that interests you, click away to Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5 and Part 6.

But I think I'm approaching the legal limit for the length of one blog so I'll quit now, secure in the knowledge that the impact the music the Hot Five created on February 26, 1926 can't be fully measured in any word count. They walked into OKeh's studios 90 years ago today, knocked out six songs, and jazz--and American popular music--was never quite the same.

Monday, February 22, 2016

Come Back Sweet Papa

Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five
Recorded February 22, 1926
Track Time 2:33
Written by Paul Barbarin and Luis Russell
Recorded in Chicago
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; Kid Ory, trombone; Johnny Dodds, clarinet; Lil Armstrong, piano; Johnny St. Cyr, banjo
Originally released on Okeh 8318
Currently available on CD: Both the JSP and Sony Complete Hot Five and Hot Seven boxes have it (I like the JSP better but the Sony has much better packaging if you go for that sort of thing)

In November, I celebrated the 90th Anniversary of the first Hot Five session, a celebration I'll be continuing this week with a blowout post on the SIX recordings the group churned out on February 26, 1926. That blog is already in the can and will post on Friday, but what about "Come Back Sweet Papa," the lone Hot Five number recorded in between these two historic sessions? I think it's time to take a look on this Hot Five gem, recorded 90 years ago today.

Probably because of the odd-numbered amount of tunes recorded on November 12 inaugural session, OKeh's E. A. Fearn knew he'd have to make a fourth side sooner or later to balance everything out. That side was knocked out on February 22, 1926, the start of a busy week of recording activity for young Louis Armstrong: between February 22 and February 26, he'd be a part of 16 separate sides as either leader or sideman!

For the February 22 date, Louis once again reached back to two of his New Orleans homeboys, Paul Barbarin and Luis Russell--then working with King Oliver in Chicago--for their composition, "Come Back Sweet Papa." One of my theories is that with the formation of the Hot Five, Louis wasn't looking to obliterate his New Orleans roots in the quest to turn jazz into something more modern ("a soloist's art"), but rather, wanted to pay tribute to those roots, hiring three musicians from the old Kid Ory band (including Kid Ory) and performing compositions by longtime associates such as Barbarin and Russell. He never forgot his roots. (And here's Armstrong fronting Russell's orchestra with Barbarin on drums just a few years later!)



Here's how "Come Back Sweet Papa" came out, 90 years ago today:



As in the first session, this isn't quite the ensemble-fueled "jam session" some folks like to believe the Hot Five embodied. This is a well-rehearsed outfit who liked their music arranged. Thus, there's a neat introduction based on the tune's inherent four-note ascending motif, Armstrong and Ory swapping lead and breaks.

Where's Johnny Dodds through all of this? Oiling up his alto saxophone for a melody statement that has not held up very well. I love Dodds's hot clarinet playing where even his sometimes stiff phrasing can be overlooked because of the sheer emotion of his playing. But here, he's playing alto with a queasy tone and basically reading the melody off the lead sheet as stiffly as human possible.

It's a rough outing, but it only makes what follows so incredible: Louis steps up to deliver the melody in his own fashion and probably looking at the same lead sheet as Dodds, he makes it his own and more importantly, he swings. As Andre Hodier wrote, "In respect to swing, Louis cannot in any case be compared with his sidemen in the early Hot Five, whose rhythm is extremely weak. Listen to Johnny Dodds's alto solo in 'Come Back Sweet Papa.' Isn't it an excellent sample of not getting the notes in the right place, rich in rhythmic faults and anti-swing if anything ever was? Now listen to the next chorus, in which Louis is perfect; he seems to want to give the clarinetist a lesson in swing." Oof, that's harsh (sorry, Johnny) but I can't really argue with it.

But oh, that ensemble chorus is a joy! Not only is Louis's lead so relaxing, but Dodds's switches to the more effective clarinet and Ory is feeling super punchy with his energetic tailgate playing. The only way to top it is with some delicious breaks towards the end by young Louis.

This is followed by the then-common practice of playing the verse, again, set up by a dazzling Armstrong break. In the middle of the verse, Armstrong uses an example of flutter-tonguing, putting an almost "angry" spin on a note (he didn't do this often but always did it effectively; see Trummy Young's later feature "T'ain't What You Do" for good examples).

We're only at the 1:47 mark, but the band decides to only do one more chorus, the first half of which is taken up by a meaty two-fisted piano attack by Lil Hardin Armstrong. Louis re-enters with a searing held note and continues keeping the melody front and center, Ory really raising hell behind him. A short stop-time section allows Armstrong to float a bit before the arranged ending, complete with stop-time break.

"Come Back Sweet Papa," to me, is a great recording for that middle ensemble chorus alone (and yes, I've used it lectures to illustrate the rhythmic difference between Armstrong and Dodds and as an example of what swing is all about) but it's never been one for the pantheon (though it has inspired some very nice recordings, including an early one by Bob Crosby). The real biggies would be recorded later that week so come back sweet papas--and mamas--to get the full scoop on those.

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Body and Soul

Louis Armstrong and His Sebastian New Cotton Club Orchestra
Recorded October 9, 1930
Track Time 3:16
Written by Johnny Green, Edward Heyman, Robert Sour, and Frank Eyton
Recorded in Los Angeles, CA
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; George Orendorff, Harold Scott trumpet; Luther Craven, trombone; Les Hite, alto saxophone, conductor; Marvin Johnson, alto saxophone; Charlie Jones, tenor saxophone; Henry Prince, piano; Bill Perkins, guitar; Joe Bailey, bass; Lionel Hampton, drums.
Originally released on OKeh 41468
Currently available on CD: It’s on the JSP two-disc set The Big Band Sides, 1930-1932, as well as about a hundred other discs

In his essential tome Stardust Melodies, Will Friedwald begins his chapter on "Body and Soul" with what he refers to as an "outrageous statement: 'Body and Soul' is probably the most-played melody in all of jazz." I don't think it's outrageous at all. "Star Dust" was up there for a while but I don't think it's a tune that everyone still plays; yet everyone in the jazz world, young and old, seems to still know "Body and Soul." "Rhythm Changes" are heard everywhere but how many folks actually play the song "I Got Rhythm"? "St. Louis Blues" was the song for much of the 20th century but again, to many in the younger generation, a blues is a blues and I don't think W.C. Handy's habanera-tinged masterpiece gets called like it used to. But "Body and Soul" won't die, published in 1930, becoming a Swing Era favorite, put through its paces in the world of bop and still called by most masters of "modern" music.

And like everything else, Louis Armstrong introduced it to the jazz world.

I highly recommend seeking out Friedwald's aforementioned book for the full story on how "Body and Soul" came together, with music by 21-year-old (!) Johnny Green and lyrics by Edward Heyman (with partner Robert Sour also getting credit, as well as Frank Eyton, who helped get it recorded). The short version is "Body and Soul" was written as a torch song for singer Gertrude Lawrence, who brought it to London, where it became a sensation in early 1930, first recorded by Jack Hylton on February 7 of that year.



Hylton and other popular British artists such as Ambrose, Elisa Carlisle and Carroll Gibbons recorded it and it was the hit of England (Hylton even re-recorded it in a "concert" arrangement). It eventually reached America, where it was shoved into the score of the upcoming Broadway production of Three's a Crowd, but not before undergoing a new set of lyrics (possibly with the aid of Howard Dietz). It was copyrighted in the States on October 14, 1930 and was featured in the opening of Three's a Crowd on October 15.

Between Gertrude Lawrence and Libby Holman, who introduced it on Broadway, "Body and Soul" became a favorite of female torch singers such as Ruth Etting and Annette Hanshaw. Here's Etting's version:


 The buzz around the song was so strong, dance bands such as Paul Whiteman and Leo Reisman began recording it in September 1930, Reisman's version featuring the great Ellington trumpeter Bubber Miley:


It was a matter of time before the jazz world discovered "Body and Soul" and like most future standards, the man who introduced it to that world was none other than Louis Armstrong. Armstrong was still in the middle of his California residency at Sebastian's Cotton Club, fronting a band organized by alto saxophonist Les Hite and featuring young Lionel Hampton on drums. Louis started a remarkable run of recordings in California in July, waxing "I'm a Ding Dong Daddy (from Dumas)" and "I'm in the Market for You" in July and "Confessin'" and "If I Could Be With You (One Hour Tonight)" in August. (Who am I fooling: I wanted to keep the California series going with "Body and Soul" in October but was just too busy to do it for the anniversary. Better late than never!)

Armstrong and the Hite band showed up to OKeh's Los Angeles studio on October 9--still a week before Three's a Crowd opened--to record their own interpretation, using an arrangement by Russ Morgan. Here's Louis Armstrong's "Body and Soul":
Over a yearning chord by the band, Armstrong foreshadows the melody before playing an eighth-note rhythmic pattern that's echoed by the reeds. Pianist Henry Prince sounds off two repeated octaves and Louis is off and running with the melody. I love these types of moments because Morgan's arrangement calls for the reeds to play the melody just as Green wrote it. Meanwhile, a muted Armstrong plays it in his own fashion, sticking fairly close (the song was so brand new I doubt he had been playing it before the session) but making enough changes to illustrate his own unbeatable genius at interpreting a melody. (I might have mentioned this before, but my "Music of Louis Armstrong" students were really blown away by this back-and-forth of playing the melody and improvising around it at the same time....truly a lost art!)

After another double-timed run in the turnaround, Armstrong really relaxes in his second eight bars, simply floating over the rhythm (hmmmm, floating? Pops was smoking a lot of marijuana in those California days). For the famous bridge, the band gets away from the melody, playing simple half-note harmonies while Louis takes the lead, kind of cracking one note in the middle, but recovering strongly in the second half. The band takes the last eight bars in best dance-band style (oh, how Louis loved those Lombardo-esque reeds), allowing Armstrong to get up to the mike.

Once there, he sings the original set of lyrics, again phrasing it in his own inimitable way and and sounding like he's from another planet when compared the other contemporary versions shared above. Here's those lyrics, with an approximate translation of his additions (and subtractions):

My days have grown so lonely / for I have lost my one and only
My pride has been humbled / for I'm hers Body and Soul (oh babe!)
I was a mere sensation, babe / my house of cards had no foundation
Although it has tumbled / I still am her Body and Soul
What lies before me, the future is stormy / the winter that's gray and old
Unless there's magic, the end will be tragic / and echo the tale that's been told so often
My life revolves about her / what earthly good am I without her?
My castles have crumbled / but I'm hers Body and Soull.....UH!

Wee! Now that's a vocal. There's the usual little additions (two "babes") but really it's the phrasing that does me in, such as that magical bridge, most of it delivered on one pitch. Even if he never picked up the horn, my goodness what he did for singing!

After his declamatory shout, trombonist Luther Craven takes the first part of the bridge to allow Pops to get his chops together. The band is swinging now, with Hamp really starting to rattle the drums. Louis enters with two notes, almost shouting "Ba-by" through his horn, now open. He goes into the upper register strongly and gets out of the bridge with once again with a double-timed run of repeated notes, but this time ending with some hip note choices. To bring it home, Armstrong turns up the drama, reverting back to the melody with the band pulsating behind him. Morgan's arrangement then has a dramatic ending with the band stopping to allow Louis to take his time getting to the final high note. It's a great glimpse at the types of endings Louis would begin tacking on to the end of almost all of his recordings just a few years later.

Well, that was all the jazz world needed to hear; contemporaries such as Red Allen, Benny Goodman, Roy Eldridge, Chu Berry, Coleman Hawkins (who had the biggest hit), Billie Holiday and others picked up where Pops left off in turning "Body and Soul" into one of the all-time great standards (and most performed ones, too). Louis, however, doesn't seem to have kept it in his repertoire during the 1930s and 1940s. It eventually returned to his life when he formed the All Stars in 1947, but only as a feature for two of his pioneer sidemen, Barney Bigard and Jack Teagarden.

Barney had the first crack at it. Numerous live versions survive but it's still tough to top the famous one from Symphony Hall on November 30, 1947:
Barney sometimes gets beat up for his features--hell, I've done plenty of beating him up for them, too--but "Body and Soul" has always been one of my favorites. It opens as a ballad with Bigard playing a soulful reading of the melody while Armstrong and trombonist Jack Teagarden offer gorgeous playing behind him (nice stuff from pianist Dick Cary, too). Barney sounds great, too (dig those swooping phrases in the bridge). At the 2:15 mark, drummer Sid Catlett drops a bomb and they go into a swinging tempo, Bigard playing it in "long meter," a popular way to treat the tune after Roy Eldridge did it that way with Chu Berry. Catlett really shows off his great touch with the brushes here, working together with bassist Arvell Shaw to swing like hell. After a full chorus in the lead, Louis finally re-enters to play the melody, Teagarden filling in the cracks and Bigard swinging over them both. It's a wonderful moment and Louis sounds terrific. For the bridge, Bigard takes the lead and Catlett turns on the heat with those heart-pounding backbeats. Eventually they return to the original ballad tempo for the final eight bars, Pops playing so soulfully, with Teagarden, too, joining him in the upper register of his own horn. Bigard gets to do a closing cadenza as only he could, going on for just the right amount of time (some of Bigard's features had "endings" that went on for five minutes--or longer). Bigard at his finest and some really great playing by Louis.

By January 1951, perhaps Bigard got bored "Body and Soul" as his feature because at the famous Satchmo at Pasadena concert of January 30, it was now the property of none other than Mr. Jackson Teagarden. All those superlatives I just heaped on Barney? All true, but his version doesn't compare to the glorious performance Teagarden gives of it in Pasadena:
Earl Hines's piano intro starts off a little too jaunty but Teagarden enters right where he wants it and provides another master's class in how to make a melody your own (Louis can be heard saying, "Play it pretty, Jack," early on). After Teagarden's clinic, Hines takes a half-chorus in his own unique style. It's an effective outing with a gorgeous beginning, a surprising middle and something of a rushed, sloppy ending. Teagarden restores order (and tempo) on his way out, Louis supplying some quiet harmony but otherwise allowing his friend to stay in the driver's seat, right through a jaw-dropping cadenza of his own. No wonder Armstrong named Teagarden as his favorite musician.

Though Armstrong had stayed out of the spotlight regarding "Body and Soul" for so many years, he found himself recording not one but two studio versions within nine months time in the mid-50s. The first attempt was part of that towering achievement Satchmo: A Musical Autobiography. This project kicked off on December 11, 1956 with a six-song session, "Body and Soul" bringing up the rear. Here's the remake, with a new arrangement by Sy Oliver:
Oliver follows Morgan's original arrangement (that opening note sounds a little more ominous though) but instead of having the reeds playing the melody the entire time in the background, they just offer some pads for Armstrong to caress it in his best 1950s style. Older and wiser (and at a slower tempo), Louis takes his time, really bringing out the beauty of Green's melody but still phrasing it his own way. Trummy Young steps up to take the lead on the last eight bars (Louis can be heard singing "Oh yeah" quietly behind him) before another interlude by pianist Billy Kyle finally sets up the vocal.

Now, Louis sings the alternate set of lyrics, still adding some Pops-isms when appropriate:

My heart is sad and lonely / for you I sigh, for you dear only
Why haven't you seen ittttt (mmm) / I'm all for you Body and Soul.....yes
I spend my days in longing....babe / and wondering why it's me you're wronging
Ohhh, I'll tell you I mean it / I'm all for you Body and Soul....yeah
I can't believe it, it's hard to conceive it / that you turned away romance...eeeeee
Are you pretending, it looks like the ending / unless I could have one more chance to prove it.
My life a wreck you making / you know I'm yours for just the taking
Ohhhh, I'd gladly surrender / myself to you, Body and Soul......YEAH!

Again, what a killer vocal. When Louis remade some of his 1930-31 California songs later in life, he usually offered more sober vocals but this one is pretty damn close to the original in terms of mood, feeling, inventiveness (again, the repeated notes on the bridge) and even humor (one "babe" this time but that final "Yeah!" is righteous!).

Trummy then plays the role of Luther Craven in the bridge, the reeds playing on one-and-three, before Louis enters, this time setting the mood with a four-note setup phrase. He flexes his muscles on the second half of the bridge (again, this is the SIXTH song recorded that day) before referencing the original eighth-note descending phrase he played on the original turnaround. The tempo is so much slower than the original, so Louis really milks it for all the drama its worth, even throwing a blue-note in before the slow climb to the final high Bb, nailing it just as if it was 1930. Bravo!

Nine months later, on August 16, 1957, Louis found himself recording "Body and Soul" one more time, this time for Norman Granz's Verve label and the eventual album Louis Under the Stars. Armstrong was now backed by the orchestra of Russ Garcia, getting a lovely bed of strings to play and sing over. However, he was pretty taxed in the summer of 1957, performing in Vegas at night and recording for Granz in Los Angeles by day; some of the trumpet playing on Louis Under the Stars and its companion, World on a String, suffers when compared to the work he did while fully rested for Milt Gabler and George Avakian at the same time. Here's his final go at "Body and Soul":
Armstrong sounds strong at the start--the August 16 date was one of his finest--but his playing grows a little more coarse as he goes on. He's in pain but has too much pride and too much damn talent to turn in a subpar performance. It's a lovely reading of the melody, followed by an even lovelier vocal. Armstrong eschews the humor of the previous performances, singing in a most heartfelt style for one-and-a-half choruses, right up to a slowed-down ending with his vocal replacing where his trumpet usually closed the show. It's a truly beautiful, nearly five-minute performance but I must admit, it's overshadowed by the superhuman Autobiography rendition, not to mention the 1930 one that put the song on the map.

Regardless, there's no use picking favorites. If you've devoted the roughly 25-minutes listening to all the Louis Armstrong-related versions of "Body and Soul" found in this blog, your spirit should be lifted.....not to mention your mind, body and soul. Happy Valentine's Day!

Saturday, January 30, 2016

65 Years of "Back Home Again in Indiana"!

Recorded January 30, 1951 (and about a million other times)
Track Time 5:30 (other versions range from 3:50 to 5:48)
Written by Ballard MacDonald and James Hanley
Recorded in Pasadena, California (and everywhere else around the world)
Louis Armstrong, trumpet; Jack Teagarden, trombone; Barney Bigard, clarinet; Earl Hines, piano; Arvell Shaw, bass; Cozy Cole, drums (as well as versions with every succeeding edition of the All Stars)
Originally released on Decca DL 8041 (plus dozens of others, bootleg and legit)
Currently available on CD: The original “Indiana,” as well as an even better later version, can be found on The California Concerts. And if you’re looking for other versions, really, it shouldn’t be so hard!

“Ahhhhh, we’re going to jump the good ol’ good ones for you tonight, opening up with ‘Back Home Again in Indiana’....”

I originally tackled "Indiana" back in 2008 and updated my entry in 2010. Today, for the 65th anniversary of the first recorded version (as performed on the album Satchmo at Pasadena), I'm revisiting it again, this time with a few newly discovered audio sample and more crazy analysis. This might take you a day to get through but I think it's one of my most important blogs.

Attempting to scale Armstrong’s numerous versions of the tune is a bit like trying to scale Mount Everest; I have probably over 100 versions of “Indiana” in my library, while Jos Willems’s “All of Me” discography lists the song on 82 separate pages, with some of those pages containing multiple versions. The tune must have literally been performed by Armstrong thousands of times without a recording device present. It’s one of the most exciting tunes the All Stars ever performed. And it’s also one of the most maligned songs in the entire Armstrong repertoire.

Critics have been using “Indiana” as a springboard for years to launch a steady stream of attacks on Pops: he played the same songs every night, he played the same solos every night, he was too old-fashioned, he didn’t know how to improvise, etc. To some degrees, these statements have slight bits of truth in them, but in no way are they 100% accurate. And if you have a couple of dozen hours, let me take you through the history of Louis Armstrong and “Indiana” and perhaps when I’m finished, you’ll have a new appreciation for Armstrong’s invariable and invariably exciting opening number.

For once, I don’t think I need to go into any backstory. The tune was published in 1917, stealing a bit from “On the Banks of the Wabash” in the process, and was immediately seized by jazz musicians, especially after the Original Dixieland Jazz Band chose it for their first Columbia recording session. In the ensuing decades, everyone took a stab at it; even the more “modern” factions used its changes for tunes like “Donna Lee” and “Ice Freezes Red.” But Louis Armstrong had no prior flings with “Indiana” until an All Stars concert in Pasadena on January 30, 1951.

“Wait a minute,” you might be thinking, “I thought Louis Armstrong opened EVERY show in the history of the All Stars with ‘Indiana.’ What gives?” Well, imaginary reader, that’s just the first of many myths that have to either leave the scene or at least be seriously revised. There are countless surviving All Stars documents, including many broadcasts from the late 40s. There are zero versions of “Indiana” from before 1951. He didn’t play it at Town Hall, he didn’t play it at Symphony Hall, he didn’t play it in Europe nor at a Philadelphia nightclub. In my extensive research, I have come across many concert reviews and magazine articles and there are absolutely no mentions of “Indiana” until that 1951 live performance.

So what did Pops open up with? It always changed, but it was usually an instrumental like “King Porter Stomp,” “Panama,” “Royal Garden Blues,” “Way Down Yonder in New Orleans,” “Muskrat Ramble” or “Struttin’ With Some Barbecue.” It didn’t matter what song it was, Pops just liked to open with something uptempo and instrumental, a vehicle to make sure the chops were in shape. At a Vancouver concert recorded just four days prior to the Pasadena outing, Armstrong opened with “Rose Room,” a tune that would go on to become a Barney Bigard clarinet feature.

So we’re already four years into the history of the All Stars and we haven’t come across any mentions of “Indiana.” But at Pasadena, Armstrong called it and an opener was born. Now, I highly doubt that Armstrong, knowing that Decca was recording this, would call a tune he had never played before for the first one of the evening, so he probably had played this at least a couple of times. But every time I listen to this first version, I’m always struck by the looseness of it all. Please give a listen:


Anybody who knows any later versions will immediately notice that the tempo is a little slower than it would become just a couple of years later. But here’s piece of evidence number one that this had to be one of the band’s first shots at the tune: Earl Hines’s piano intro. It’s kind of rambling and hesitant and he doesn’t even play the horns in. He only plays the first 16 bars, which sounds to my ears a little odd as the song’s built-in “C” section is a natural for a piano introduction. But then it’s Armstrong leading Teagarden and Bigard through two opening ensemble choruses. Armstrong once gave his improvising philosophy as follows: “The first chorus I play the melody. The second chorus I plays the melody round the melody, and the third chorus I routines.” Armstrong only plays two up front on “Indiana,” but I think playing “the melody round the melody” just about sums it up.

After solos from Hines and bassist Arvell Shaw, Armstrong enters with the very first “Indiana” solo he ever recorded. Now before I get carried away, I'd like to interrupt myself and share a solid version of the "set" solo, taken from the "Chicago Concert" of June 1, 1956. This is the "Indiana" solo after all the tinking was finished. I think it's illuminating to hear it first, get it inside your head, then go backwards and hear how Armstrong added up all the pieces. So here's the "set" solo from 1956:



Got it? Okay, back to 1951. Armstrong always liked to follow bass solos, perhaps because the juxtaposition between the quiet bass and loud trumpet made for a more dramatic contrast. Regardless, here is just that first solo again:


It’s a damn good one and please take note that almost none of what Armstrong played here would appear in his later, “set” solo. I’ve always felt uncomfortable about the opening of the solo because Shaw’s not back in place yet, so the bottomless sound is pretty empty. Armstrong also slightly cracks two early notes but he soon settles in for a solo that practically defines relaxation. Rhythmically, he’s his usual free-floating self, though I like how he ends the first half with a Pops-ian “doddle-doddle-da-da” phrase. The only part Armstrong would retain for later versions are the triplets in the last eight bars, giving the solo a touch of a 3/4 feeling, as well as the very last phrase of the solo. Nice stuff.

Bigard’s up next and Pops immediately lays some background riffs on him. Piece of evidence number two that this is one of the first versions, if not the very first: Teagarden’s following him, but they’re by no means tight. Armstrong’s leading the way and Jack is doing his best to follow his lead. After Teagarden’s solo, Armstrong reenters for the final charge, giving Cozy Cole a neat eight-bar drum break. Teagarden and Bigard are very reticent in the background; great players but this is not my favorite version of the All Stars. Pops ends on a high one and sounds happy with the results. Decca must have been happy, too; on the original “Satchmo at Pasadena” album, they cut out five or six numbers performed, but they did include “Indiana.”

So, you’re guessing, “Indiana” became the standard opener, Pops played the same solo on it every night and there’s no reason to ever listen to another version, correct? WRONG-O! In fact, it’s not even for certain that “Indiana” became the immediate opener after the Pasadena concert. Only one (still unissued) version of "Indiana" survives from the 1951 edition of the All Stars from the Palomar Theater in Seattle. Here, for the first time, is just Louis's solo, very different from Pasadena with Louis going for a two-note/blue-note riff at the end instead of triplets:



After that, a return to Pasadena in December 1951 found “Royal Garden Blues” in the leadoff spot while a trip to Boise, Idaho in February 1952 began with “Way Down Yonder in New Orleans.” But a May 13, 1952 concert in New Orleans found Armstrong opening up with “Indiana” and after that, there was almost no turning back. “Indiana” was IT and that’s a good thing.

But surely, Armstrong ceased improvising in his later years and started playing the same solos over and over, right? Damn you, rhetorical voice, you don’t know what you’re talking about! Here’s the New Orleans version, featuring an almost entirely new line-up: Bigard and Cole are still around but now Russ Phillips is on trombone, Marty Napoleon is on piano and Dale Jones plays bass.:


Marty Napoleon’s intro is right on the money, very swinging, though like Hines, he, too, chooses to play only the first 16 bars. From there, the routine is identical to the earlier version and would remain so until the end: two ensembles up front, one piano, one bass, one trumpet, one clarinet with riffs, one trombone and a closing ensemble with drum breaks. Because of the sameness of the routine, the rest of this blog is going to focus on the development of Armstrong’s solo.

Now this is where things get complicated. From the beginning of the All Stars, Louis Armstrong began coming under attack for what critics called “playing the same solos every night.” Again, there’s an element of truth to this, but it’s not completely accurate. The only way to combat hasty conclusions is to listen, listen, listen. And that’s what I’ve done since Armstrong’s music hit me right between the eyes 20 years ago. The great Gary Giddins once wrote about the repetition of tunes in the Armstrong discography, saying something to the effect that even it one could listen to every recording Louis Armstrong ever made, one might not necessarily want to. Well, I do! And in doing the listening, I can tell you honestly that yes, Louis Armstrong did have some “set” solos but that doesn’t mean he didn’t change them when he felt like it and it doesn’t mean that always played them exactly the same way.

Mezz Mezzrow once was asked about this and I’d like to echo his response: “People who say that don’t really listen. Sometimes the variations will be in the phrasing rather than the notes, but those solos are always changing, depending on the tempo, the atmosphere, or who’s playing with him at the time.” Amen, brother Mezz.

You see, tackling this issue leads to some very complicated thinking. It’s almost philosophical in a way: Louis Armstrong IS jazz. Without him, jazz would not have followed the same path. However, Louis Armstrong also worked on solos and often didn’t change them. Louis Armstrong didn’t freshly improvise every note he played every night. Thus, if Louis Armstrong is jazz, shouldn’t we accept jazz musicians who don’t freshly mint every note they play?

This is where it gets dicey, because jazz is always practically defined as “improvised music.” If you’re not improvising, you’re not playing jazz, right? Isn’t that how it goes? You’re playing the same solos every night? Get out of here, stop wasting my time. This is a central line of thinking in jazz circles.

But with Louis Armstrong, things are different. People view him as an improvising genius in the 1920s who “changed” and began taking the easy way out, playing set solos in his later years. But what the hell do we know about Armstrong on a day-to-day basis in the 20s? He had features with Erskine Tate, songs like “Poor Little Rich Girl” that he played every night. He had features at Connie’s Inn, standing up to play “Ain’t Misbehavin’” every night. On some Fletcher Henderson alternate takes, you can hear him barely play a different note from his solos on the issued master. After decades of hailing “Cornet Chop Suey” as an improvised masterpiece, a Library of Congress deposit was found showing that Armstrong had written and copyrighted every note of that solo a few years before he even waxed it in the studio.

Of course, he improvised like a maniac on the Hot Fives and Sevens. But those were record dates, a slight diversion from Armstrong’s steady gigs. Sure, he improvised; he was creating some of those tunes on the spot. He also improvised like hell on his record dates in the 1950s and 1960s. That didn’t affect what he played on a nightly basis. And perhaps the same went for the dashing, heroic Louis Armstrong of the 1920s. Sure, when the musicians were in the house, he’d play 300 high C’s. And even in later years, he often came up with fresh ideas on tunes like “Royal Garden Blues” and “Muskrat Ramble,” so clearly he never lost the knack for improvising.

But listen to “Chinatown” in 1931, then listen to it in Stockholm in 1933 and on the Fleischmann’s Yeast broadcast from 1937. Do the same with “Tiger Rag.” Or the various “Dinah’s” from the 1930s. Sure, there are subtle differences, but those are show pieces and for the most part, they settled into pretty set patterns. He almost blew his lip out on the first “Swing That Music,” but on his second record of it, he had a new solo, one that he played live for years to come without much difference. And take “Sunny Side of the Street,” a tune that Taft Jordan recreated Louis Armstrong’s solo on ...years before Armstrong even had the chance to record it himself! Clearly, the pattern of Armstrong playing these set solos wasn’t something that happened only during the All Stars period.

But as Mezzrow said, there ARE differences in these versions, but sometimes they’re subtle, the kinds of things only nuts like me can discern. But just because Louis Armstrong did play these set solos, should we criticize him for it? Again, this can lead to some pretty fierce debating. As for me, I look at his contemporaries. I’d exclude Sidney Bechet, because Bechet was an improvising marvel until the day he died (though even he had pet phrases and routines on songs like “China Boy” and “St. Louis Blues”). Many trumpet players from Armstrong’s generation didn’t live as long as he did: King Oliver, Bix Beiderbecke, Freddie Keppard, Tommy Ladnier, Mutt Carey, all dead before 1950. We know Oliver sure as hell minted that “Dippermouth Blues” solo to the point where every trumpet player today still plays it. And of course, Oliver was Armstrong’s mentor so that must have had an effect. And take the trombonists: Big Jim Robinson, one of my heroes, seemingly had about six different solos. Ory, too, while a master at tailgating, didn’t exactly provide a wellspring of different ideas in his solos.

The entire history of early jazz is featured with great solos that became set parts of the tune. I’m thinking of George Brunies’s trombone solo on “Tin Roof Blues” or Bix’s “Singin’ The Blues” masterpiece, soon copied by the likes of Rex Stewart. Man, in the 1920s, if you had a great solo, it was something to be proud of. Play that damn thing every night! You worked on that solo, you came up with those variations, they sound great, now stick with it. That was the mentality for a long time, probably until Lester Young came around and promised to not be a “repeater pencil,” whatever the hell a repeater pencil is (I’ve checked on eBay; they don’t exist).

(But even Pres played many similar versions of “Lester Leaps In” in the 1950s. And speaking of “Indiana,” that was one of the seeming dozen or so tunes that remained in his later repertoire and he always ended it with the same last eight bars or so on every live version I’ve ever heard him do.)

So Pops was of that mentality from the earlier generation: you work on your solo until you’re satisfied, then you stick with it. My book includes quotes from a 1952 interview with Pops in the All Stars period talking about how he specifically tells the other musicians in the group to learn their solos and try to play them the same way night after night because he felt it made them better musicians.

Now wait a minute, wait a minute, waiting a minute!!! Louis Armstrong IS jazz. Yet, he’s telling his musicians to learn how to set their solos. This might make some people’s mind completely melt down but it’s true so you just have to learn to deal with it. And how do you do that? The best way I know of is to always keep in mind something Joe Muranyi told me: Louis Armstrong is a great composer. Yes, he’s the greatest trumpeter, greatest singer, greatest entertainer, greatest personality that jazz has ever seen (arguable, but really, what did you expect me to say?). But do not ever underestimate his ability as a composer.

And I don’t just mean writing tunes like “Some Day You’ll Be Sorry.” I’m talking about those incredible, mind-blowing solos. It’s so easy to roll your eyes and say, “Oh dear, another version of ‘Indiana’ with that same damn set solo. Ho hum.” But it’s entirely different to think about Louis’s thought process, knowing how hard he worked on those solos. Think about it: the man was a nut about tape recording. And what did he tape record? His own concerts. When I originally published this in 2008, I hadn't started working for the Louis Armstrong House Museum yet; after years of studying his tapes I can now say that he didn't tape EVERY show as I once thought but he tape enough of them and constantly studied them. Surviving members of the All Stars told me that they would sneak away at night and ask the hotel for a different room on another floor because Pops would play his own stuff so loud! He’d listen to his own solos. See what he could keep and what he could change. He’d listen to the reactions his jokes got or the kind of receptions certain songs received. He studied every concert like an individual jewel yet so many people continue to write-off the entire All Stars period as if he was going through the motions, a commercial entertainer content to play it safe with the same songs and solos night and after night. It’s not fair.

So with the diatribe now over, let me get back to the topic at hand and demonstrate some of my beliefs the only way I know how: with cold, hard audio facts. We’re going to examine the process that Louis Armstrong took in the 1950s to “set” his “Indiana” solo. We’ve already heard the two different 1951 solos and we might as well hear the original Pasadena version again:


Now, here’s the May 1952 New Orleans solo:


Again, the epitome of relaxation, but it shares almost nothing in common with the January 1951 solo...though the genesis of the set solo can be heard in bars 20-23. Armstrong also clearly likes the “When I dream about the moonlight on the Wabash” melody in the last eight bars as he almost always plays it straight. He comes out of it with a nice gliss downward, which also would crop up later. Finally, the very singable phrase that Armstrong plays in the last two bars obviously struck a chord with him. The wheels were turning...

So now let’s flash forward to October 1952 for a solo from a concert in Sweden:


Again, almost a completely new solo, complete with a “My Sweetie Went Away” quote borrowed from Lester Young’s “Sometimes I’m Happy” solo. Again, bars 20-24 are the same, as is the melody playing of the “Wabash” line, though this time it’s broken up by an earlier gliss. But now, the singable phrase that I said struck a chord with Pops is gone. Instead, he goes back to the triplets of the 1951 solo and hammers them home for four full bars, ending with a giant gliss.

Just a month later, Armstrong turned in a completely different solo in Lausaane, Switzerland. His chops were a little down on this occasion, so there's a conspicuous absence of high notes, but there's definitely no lack of ideas:


Here's another new one from a still unissued Symphony Hall concert from April 1953. The opening is fairly set but in the second eight bars, he reaches back and uncorks something he originally played behind Bessie Smith on "St. Louis Blues" in 1925! And after that, it's an almost entirely improvised outing:


By the summer of 1953, Armstrong was starting to turn up the heat on “Indiana,” with the tempo rising several degrees on this and subsequent performances. At an undisclosed location in that summer, the All Stars played a concert that featured Pops in absolutely peak form. However, on “Indiana,” he’s almost too excited and overblows a little bit:


He now officially has an entrance, perhaps feeling a little more comfortable diving right in at this tempo, leaving some of the relaxation of the earlier attempts behind. He sounds strong as hell but it sounds like he runs out of ideas at the halfway point a bit, reverting to some quarter notes. Also, the smoothing out process of the second half of the solo has begun. It’s a little shaky and he misses a note here and there, but he has almost set the back end of the solo. Notice the mixture of elements from the earlier versions: the “Wabash” melody, the gliss, the triplets and the perfectly concluding singable phrase.

But now he needed something for the first half and that could take some work. This next solo, from Japan on New Year’s Eve 1953 is unlike any other “Indiana” that I’ve ever heard:


He really charges out of the gate on that one. And what rhythm! The triplets, the fleet-phrases, the dramatic glisses, he’s all over the place and the result is thrilling. The second half of the solo is more improved than the previous example, with a killer chromatic run (you can hear bassist Milt Hinton yell, “Go Pops!”). He’s getting there...

Five months later, in May 1954, Armstrong played it an afternoon concert at the University of North Carolina. This concert, which I’ve blogged about in the past, features a heroically strong Armstrong but on “Indiana” he runs into a little trouble. Again, it’s at the halfway point as you’ll hear him attempt this long winding "Bessie Smith obbligato" phrase. Here's the lick:


Armstrong loved that lick (it became part of his "Back O'Town Blues" routine) but in Carolina, he gets tangled up for a half-second and has to resolve it with three quick quarter notes. After a moment to pause, he plays the second half beautifully, sounding stronger every time:


Also, you can hear the faster repeated triplets in the beginning of that solo, something that Armstrong clearly liked to play on the tune. Next, a version from Basin Street East in New York City in August 1954:


As you can hear, it’s very similar to the North Carolina one but now Armstrong plays the "St. Louis Blues" phrase without any problem, resolving it with a bluesy little flick of the valves, followed by some of those quicker triplets.

After my 2010 edition of this entry, my good friend Hakan Forsberg sent me a rare version of "Indiana" from October 1954...with another completely different trumpet solo. By this point, he abandoned the "St. Louis Blues" lick and turns in some wild playing in the second eight bars! Here's the solo:



Isn't that terrific? He's really squeezing those blue notes. Here's the entire "Indiana," which unfortunately was butchered by whoever did the original recording (it was done for the U.S. Saving Bonds Division of the Treasury Department) with choruses missing and other odd edits. But it's still an exciting performance:



And continuing with the new treasures, in 2015, a superb digital release of two Melbourne, Australia performances was issued without any fanfare. On it was yet another piece of the "Indiana" puzzle, with Pops again turning in a super exciting, super different second eight bars:


Armstrong was now experimenting more and more,  blowing with hellish fury anytime he was confronted with those second eight bars. Here’s another example from New Year’s Eve 1954:


I love how he just steamrolls everything with that gigantic gliss up to a freakish high Eb, which I don't think he intended to hit. Arvell Shaw yells “Go, go” and Pops does. The high note is exciting but once up there, it’s a little bit of an awkward ride back down to terra firma. Nevertheless, remember Mezzrow’s words when listening to the second half. Just when we thought we had a set second half, he clearly changes some of the phrasing and ends with a series of triplets into a gliss, something we haven't heard since the Stockholm version of October 1952. Interesting...

Weeks later, in January 1955, Armstrong recorded another live version for Decca, this time from the Crescendo Club. Again, in the problematic second eight bars, Pops uses brute force, alternating high C’s and Db’s before skipping downward right into a daring chromatic turn of a phrase that always takes me by surprise. In fact, even before that Pops plays some new ideas. This might be one of the very hottest “Indiana” solos Pops ever took:


By the summer of 1955, Pops had it worked out. In those second eight bars, instead of a gliss to an impossible high note or alternating high notes of the Crescendo Club version, Armstrong now played a completely logical phrase building up to two high Db’s and a C. He then worked his way back down with those quick, repeated, almost ragtime-esque three-note phrase, as he had been fooling with for a while. Between June 1955 and March 1956, this is pretty much the "set" solo. I'll pick one example to demonstrate, from Sweden, October 1955:


So is that it, the set solo? Not quite! The longer Pops worked on his solos, the more they would sometimes get infiltrated with quotes (by the mid-50s, his "Muskrat Ramble" playing featured an astonishing collage of quotes strung together seamlessly). Thus, in March 1956, Armstrong elminated those bubbling three-note phrases in the first half and instead inserted a quote from "I Cover the Waterfront." On March 17, Armstrong played this solo at a Carnegie Hall concert. Here 'tis, the set solo:


Great stuff (though John S. Wilson gave the All Stars a bad review that evening and complained that Armstrong was playing the same stuff and putting on the same vaudeville show as usual). How set was that solo? Nine days later, a recording device captured it in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Using the magic of editing, here are both March 1956 solos being played at the exact same time:



Pretty consistent, eh? So think about it: “Indiana” didn’t enter the All Stars’s book until 1951, year four of their existence. Pops didn’t have a concrete set solo on it until 1956. That’s the ninth year of the All Stars! He spent FIVE YEARS tinkering with that thing, only to have people write it off today, “Oh, he always played the same solos.” That, my friends, is a masterpiece of composition. Listen to that solo again. Really study it. It’s a perfect solo. If I was to play a trumpet solo on “Indiana,” I would want it to be that one. When Hal Leonard printed a book of Armstrong trumpet transcriptions a few years ago, they included one of “Indiana.” They had a thousand to choose from but they chose one from Chicago, June 1, 1956 featuring my favorite front line with Armstrong, clarinetist Edmond Hall and trombonist Trummy Young. I already started this tour by playing the solo but I think the entire performance deserves to be heard in full:


Incredibly exciting stuff. And listen to how much Pops plays on the tune: it’s an eight-chorus song and Pops plays on five, leading two in the front, taking his own solo, setting riffs behind Hall and coming back for the rideout. He’s all over the damn thing. But it’s great solo, isn’t it? I just love when he refers to the original melody in the last eight bars, then hits that bluesy-as-hell concert B-natural and turns it into a falling gliss, sliding to a lower G. He’s in complete command: the high notes are popping, he’s very flexible, his rhythm is exemplary (dig the repeated Ab’s in bars 5 and 6, each one landing in between the beats), he’s just in great form. Even the contrast between a grandiose phrase like the build-up to the high Db’s in the eighth bar is immediately resolved by Armstrong happily skipping back downward with some swinging quarter-notes. There’s a lot of meat in a solo that so many people have taken for granted for so long.

It’s interesting because that Chicago version was performed at quite a time in Armstrong’s life. His popularity was hitting new highs: touring Europe as “Ambassador Satch,” being profiled by Edward R. Murrow, scoring a hit record with “Mack the Knife,” conquering Africa, etc. He was arguably more popular than ever before. Yet with that came the most scathing reviews of his career. 1956 is one of Armstrong’s greatest years as a player but man, you don’t want to read the reviews. Armstrong was no being called an “Uncle Tom” in places like Metronome magazine, “Down Beat” gave his set at the Newport Jazz Festival a scathing notice, John S. Wilson claimed the All Stars were more vaudeville than jazz...trust me, it got ugly. But I listen to that “Indiana” and can’t help but feeling pity for those critics and for anyone else who didn’t get riled up by such a wonderful group.

So now that we’ve reached the set solo, you might think it’s time for me to pack it in, but of course, I can’t do that yet. There’s some other versions I’d like to share (if you’re still with me) beginning with Armstrong’s only full-on studio version of the tune. It’s August 1957 and Armstrong was doing a date backed by the Oscar Peterson Trio and Louie Bellson on drums as part of the second album of duets with Ella Fitzgerald. Producer Norman Granz needed a balance and obviously the musicians wanted to warm up. Pops called “Indiana” and he was off, sounding hesitant in spots (this was a warm-up after all) but uncorking a lot of new ideas before finally settling into the set solo at the end. Here ‘tis:


One year later, Armstrong performed “Indiana” at the Monterey Jazz Festival, as issued on C.D. in 2007. Here’s this solo:


Wait, where’s the solo? Exactly. This is a red flag, my friends. Whenever you find a version of “Indiana” that goes from bass solo to clarinet solo, that only means one thing: Pops’s chops were down and he needed to pick his spots. Thus, there are multiple “Indianas” where Armstrong plays the ensemble choruses but has to bypass his solo spot because of chop troubles. It wasn’t easy being Louis Armstrong, that’s for sure...

But please don’t think Pops was a finished man in 1958. His European tour of 1959 was filled with wondrous moments and many great versions of “Indiana.” Here's Pops and the All Stars (Trummy, Peanuts Hucko, Billy Kyle, Mort Herbert and Danny Barcelona) doing “Indiana” in Amsterdam, February 7, 1959:


Armstrong sounds great, he’s having fun (listen to him singing behind the clarinet solo) and the solo is crackling with a new gliss in the second eight bars and some different phrasing in the second half. However, did you notice what happens after the solo? Along with Trummy Young, Armstrong plays the first few notes he had use to back up the clarinet solo since that first 1951 version. However, he then stops and he and Trummy begin laughing and slapping five like it’s a kind of inside joke. According to the great Dave Whitney, he heard that Peanuts was not fond of background riffs and asked for Armstrong not to play them behind him. Armstrong obliged both on this and "Struttin' with Some Barbecue." When Peanuts left, the riffs returned on "Barbecue" but not "Indiana."

As the 1960s dawned, Pops was still an incredible force, though slowly but surely, he was beginning to lose a little flexibility in his horn playing. Those delightful little fleet-fingered phrase became somewhat harder to execute as he began the next decade of his punishing career. Amazingly, at the same time, his tone actually appeared to get larger. I have dubbed this phenomenon “Cootie Williams Syndrome” (this is not an actual medical condition) as it reminds me of the great Ellington trumpet player who often sounded like he was playing in slow motion in the 1960s, yet had a pure sound that could move mountains. Though “Indiana” had some tricky moments, Pops managed to keep much of his set material in place except for one spot: the always singable closing phrase of his solo, one that he had toyed with since 1952 and had kept playing since mid-1953. Now, he needed a new way to close the solo, often trying out different things. For example, in July 1960, Armstrong sounded like Hercules during some concerts in Highland Park, Illinois, outside of Chicago. Because of the location, Armstrong decided to conclude his solo with a three-note phrase that’s reminiscent of the standard “Chicago” before embarking on a huge gliss(he also quoted this at the June 1956 Chicago concert during “Ko Ko Mo”):


That same month at the Newport Jazz Festival, Armstrong reached all the way back to that Stockholm 1952 solo, ending with a series of slow triplets before another powerhouse gliss:


Armstrong came up with yet another way to end the solo at the 1961 Newport Jazz Festival:


Video time! Pops continued experimenting with the end of “Indiana” throughout 1961 and 1962. Here’s a full version from Sweden in 1962. Notice, he ends with some neat falling glisses ("Indiana" begins at 3:30):
On the same tour, Armstrong seemed to have a remedy: end the solo with some fierce high notes and a gliss. Here’s an example from a German concert in April of 1962:


Of course, some nights were a struggle for Pops. At a Paris concert 12 days after the above German clip,, Pops’s chops obviously had a rough time getting warmed up. But then again, that’s the point of opening with something familiar like “Indiana,” right? Listen to him heroically push his way through this solo, playing through the pain, and ending with one of the most suspenseful glisses he ever took. Does he make it!? Find out:


He made it! Phew... And to prove that he was back, here he is killing those last eight bars at the Newport Jazz Festival in 1962:



When I originally wrote this, I didn't have any "Indianas" from 1963 but now I have one from Tokyo and can attest that Louis knocked it out of the park, as he also did during an Australian television appearance late in 1964 (do you really need audio evidence? Haven't the above 200 clips been enough for ya???). In March 1965, Armstrong embarked on a historic tour of Europe, conquering the Iron Curtain a bit by playing places like Prague and East Berlin, garnering some incredible ovations. He responded by doing some of the best blowing of his later years. Seriously, if you ever see a C.D. with stuff from this tour, grab it, because you won’t believe the form Armstrong was in.

Now keep in mind, by this point, “Hello, Dolly” put Armstrong back on top of the world. This gave jazz critics a whole new line of jive to complain about: Armstrong’s new fans were coming to see some old buffoon sing a showtune and had no idea that he was such a great trumpet player. Well, pretend you know nothing about Armstrong other than he’s a funny old cat you saw singing “Hello, Dolly” on the “Ed Sullivan Show.” So you get tickets to see him play and after a gentle “Sleepy Time Down South,” he plays “Indiana” and takes a solo like this one, taken from an East Berlin concert in March 1965:


Thanks to my man Austin Casey, let's watch the entire East Berlin "Indiana":

I don’t know about you, but I would think that was a pretty damn good trumpet player up onstage, banging out those high C’s and glissing like that at the end! And really, that was what Louis Armstrong was all about: pleasing the public, knowing that every time he played a one-nighter, he wanted to give that audience his best, knowing it was comprised of many people who had never seen him before. So sure, the jazz critics could complain about the same songs and the same solos but if I was going to see him live for the first time, I’m sure the effect would have been electric. Hell, it still is for me and I know what’s coming half the time!

I know I’ve taken up entirely too much time but there’s not far to go because of the 10+ versions of "Indiana" I have from after 1965, there are zero that feature Armstrong taking a solo. Joe Muranyi joined the band in the summer of 1967 and he told me that Pops rarely played the solo and that one time he did and faltered badly. Again, Armstrong was still playing well but now the effects of age and decades of fierce blowing were taking its toll: the solo on “Indiana,” handcrafted over a period of five years in the 1950s, would have to be retired.

But he continued opening with the tune, still blowing two choruses up front and leading the charge during the rideout. Again, the chops could go up and down, as evidenced by a series of recorded performances in late July 1967. In Copenhagen on July 25, Louis struggled like hell to get through the opening two ensemble choruses:




After the solos, he also sounds pretty out of gas on the rideout:




I once wrote an entire blog on a sad photo of Louis in the wings that evening. But two nights later, not only were the chops back, but Louis, for the last time (as far as recorded evidence goes), went back to the 50s (!) during his ensemble playing. Check out the second ensemble chorus!


And he's even stronger at the end, alluding to his old fleet-fingered ways and going way up to high C at the end:


And if you like watching rather than listening, here's video of that great performance (starts around 2:40):



I'm sure there were more nights when he summoned the magic like that, but they haven't surfaced (yet!). Still, there's a bunch of very good versions from the late 60s, most featuring a nifty new quote of "Memories" (or maybe “Sidewalks of New York”).  So let’s listen to the last recorded example of Louis Armstrong playing trumpet on Indiana, from England in July 1968:





He still sounds pretty good, right? He’s not Superman anymore but he’s still a pretty good lead trumpet player from New Orleans. Though notice how often he plays little runs to keep his chops up: there’s a note during the piano intro and he noodles behind both the clarinet and trombone solos, always testing his chops at every chance. But he still can play that thing, holding the high Ab at the end, glissing up to a C for good measure.

And that’s all I’ve got. I know it was exhaustive but if it makes you, dear reader, approach “Indiana” with a different mindset, I’ve done my job. Now it's off to listen to something else--anything!--because if I don't get this solo out of my head in the next 24 hours, I'm checking into Bellvue!