Recorded May 13, 1938
Track Time 2:44
Written by “Traditional”
Recorded in New York City
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; Shelton Hemphill, trumpet; J.C. Higginbotham, trombone; Rupert Cole, Charlie Holmes, alto saxophone; Bingie Madison, tenor saxophone; Luis Russell, piano; Lee Blair, guitar; Pops Foster, bass; Paul Barbarin
Originally released on Decca 2230
Currently available on CD: It’s on volume four (1938) of the wonderful Ambassador series, as well as about a thousand other discs
Available on Itunes? Are you kidding?
First off, congratlations to the New Orleans Saints for their Super Bowl victory the other night! I'm a Giants fan, who jumped to the Jets bandwagon when my team fell apart at the end of the year, but I couldn't help but pull for the Saints on Sunday. If any town needed a reason to celebrate, it was New Orleans. Also, I've met so many great people down there during my trips to the Satchmo Summerfest that it makes me smile to picture them going nuts for their team. And hey, it's Pops's hometown so how could I not root for them?
In the last couple of days, the Internet has been exploding with Saints stories that somehow tie-in the song "When the Saints Go Marchin' In." Many of these sites even reference Armstrong or have a link to one of his versions. Remembering that I knocked myself out with a gigantic post on the song two years ago, I decided to spruce it up a bit. Some of the YouTube links have been fixed and I added audio to a couple of verions I missed the first time around. Here you go Saints fans (the team and the song), this is for you!
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On May 13, 1938, Louis Armstrong and his Orchestra walked into Decca’s New York studios to record a song Armstrong had played as a child. The song was “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” and that first Armstrong recording of the tune transformed the piece from a traditional gospel hymn to a jazz standard that has become an anthem of sorts in the United States, having been performed by everyone from B.B. King to Bruce Springsteen. Gospel groups have performed it, it’s been heard in films and television commercials, children are taught to sing it in elementary school and just about every New Orleans-related jazz band closes with it (even if they’re sick of it. As the old sign in Preservation Hall used to read: “$1 for standard requests, $2 for unusual requests and $5 for the Saints”).
Type the title of the song into a YouTube search and you’ll get 694 results to wade through. Type it into an Itunes search and be prepared to sift through 563 results, with versions by the likes of Elvis Presley, Trini Lopez, Yusef Lateef and Harry Belafonte (it’s also on a “Baby Einstein” compilation of music for, well, babies). Allmusic.com lists 929 versions of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” but that website also lists additional versions with altered titles or recordings of it that are part of medleys, which drives the total to over 1,000 recorded versions.
And for better or for worse, it all began with Louis Armstrong’s record, 70 years ago.
I personally think it’s for the better because it led to so many great versions by Armstrong himself. When I type “Louis Armstrong Saints” into MY Itunes library, I get 47 results. Add in the versions I have on videos and DVD and the actual number is probably closer to 60. Now, before you frantically close this window and go back to checking your mail, don’t worry, I’m not going to discuss all 60 versions. But there are some greats ones out there, including a number on video, and I think the evolution of the performance in Armstrong’s repertoire over the course of his career is quite interesting. So stick with me as we celebrate the anniversary of this song with an interactive look at some of the great man’s finest versions. Even if my words put you to sleep, skip ‘em and stay for the music!
Obviously, I’ll start with that first recording, though of course, it was not Louis Armstrong’s first encounter with the song. On the original Decca record, the composer for the “Saints” was listed as “Traditional” and that’s how it’s listed on almost every succeeding version. However, after digging around the Internet, I discovered that a song titled “When the Saints Are Marching In” was published in 1896 with music by James Milton Black and lyrics by Katherine Purvis. However, this is not the one we all know and love. You can read more and even hear a sample of that song by clicking this
link.
According to the always-reliable Wikipedia (sarcasm), other derivatives followed over the years, including “When the Saints March In For Crowning” (1908), “When All the Saints Come Marching In” (1923) and “When the Saints Go Marching Home” (1927), but I don’t know if any of these sounded like the traditional version or the Black and Purvis. The “Saints” we all know and love (loathe, for some) was officially included in Edward Boatner's 1927 book of hymns, Spirituals Triumphant - Old And New. However, a silly website I found has an article about how Virgil Stamps wrote the music and Luther Presley wrote the lyrics…in 1937! Presley was a noted gospel songwriter, but composing “The Saints” in 1937? Impossible!
Louis Armstrong himself talked about hearing the song frequently as a child, both as a sober hymn and as a joyous romp during the second line parades that gathered after a funeral. On the new Armstrong DVD The Portrait Collection, there’s footage of Armstrong on a talk show in 1961 talking about how he played the song as a kid in the Waif’s Home. So Armstrong was quite familiar with the tune, which was already being jammed by the New Orleans jazz musicians, but around the rest of the country, it was mainly known as a gospel tune. That’s how the Paramount Jubilee Singers performed the song when it made its recorded debut in November 1923 on a record. Titled “When All the Saints Go Marching In,” it sounded like this:
Five years later, in January 1928, Blind Willie Davis recorded “The Saints” accompanied solely by his bluesy guitar. He misses some of the changes but it’s a smokin’ performance and I never would have known about it without finding this on YouTube:
In 1930, “When the Saints Go Marching In” was included in the Broadway stage production of Green Pastures, as well as in the 1936 film version of that play. However, I haven’t found any other recordings of it before Armstrong’s and certainly nothing that resembles a jazz version.
Armstrong had recorded almost nothing but pop tunes since he signed with Decca in 1938, though occasionally he got to break out an instrumental classic like “Dippermouth Blues” or “Mahogany Hall Stomp,” while he also got to record the occasional original composition such as “Swing That Music” or “If We Never Meet Again.” But somewhere along the way, Armstrong must have remembered his days of listening and playing “The Saints” as a youngster and thought a good record could be made of a New Orleans-styled treatment of the tune. Armstrong’s pianist Luis Russell cooked up an arrangement and it recorded as the fourth and final tune of the May 13, 1938 session. Interestingly, the session featured a streamlined version of Armstrong’s big band, utilizing only one trumpet, one trombone and three reeds. Thus, without further ado, here’s that first recording of “When the Saints Go Marching In” (note: the Red Hot Jazz version is pitched low in the key of F#. Armstrong played it in G so here it is in the correct key courtesy of Gösta Hägglöf’s Ambassador series, with pitch correction by the fabulous trumpeter, Bent Persson).
I don’t care how sick some people might get of this song, I find the original record to be irresistible, right from the opening “chords” played by the brass and reeds. Paul Barbarin’s parade drumming sets the mood perfectly. In fact, this might be Barbarin’s finest record with Armstrong. I love Barbarin, but he was no Sid Catlett (who was?), the man who replaced him and who became Armtrong’s all-time favorite drummer. Catlett was a bit more “modern” in his approach, while Barbarin favored snare drum work and heavy backbeat cymbal splashes. But Barbarin was a New Orleans man and he always fit in beautifully with that Russell rhythm section of Russell, guitarist Lee Blair and bassist Pops Foster. Whenever Barbarin got to pull out his parade drumming tricks, stand back—“Jubilee” from January 12, 1938 is another classic uplifted by Barbarin’s drumming.
I think New Orleans drumming is an art form and anyone who says it was the boppers who freed up the drums in jazz has never listened to New Orleans jazz where it seems like those cats playing anything BUT straight time. Barbarin really boots along “The Saints” with his snare and those funky bass drum and tom-tom accents in between the choruses, a hallmark of New Orleans drumming.
But naturally, Armstrong is the main event. As the congregation of horns gives Armstrong his padding, the master steps up to the mike to deliver a sermon: “Sisters and brothers, this is Reverend Satchmo getting ready to beat out this mellow sermon for ya. My text this evening is ‘When the Saints Go Marchin’ In.’ Here come Brother Hickenbottom down the aisle with his tram-bone. Blow it, boy…”
Armstrong had been parodying reverends since he was a teenager in New Orleans, creating a character that he would feature in live performance during his New York and Chicago days, as well as on records such as “Lonesome Road.” Of course, his announcement of “Brother Hickenbottom” is a reference to the band’s all-star trombonist, J.C. Higginbotham, who really “sings” the melody with his shouting reading of the “text,” getting cute responses from the high reeds and some somber moaning from the low ones. Russell arranged a neat little interlude to separate the music portion from the start of the vocal, four short bars that stick in the listener’s mind every time he or she listens to the recording (I love that patented late-30s emphasis on the fourth beat of the second bar, shades of Cab Calloway’s “Scrontch”).
Armstrong then delivers the vocal, a favorite of kids from 1 to 92 (or is that “The Christmas Song”?). He sounds joyous in his tenor register, getting echoing responses from the members of the band (as well as a female voice somewhat prominent in the mix). Barbarin lays down the parade beat as alto saxophonist Charlie Holmes takes a fairly bluesy solo, Armstrong telling him to “Blow it, Brother Holmes.” Another Barbarin drum fill leads to the second chorus of singing, featuring the same words as the first. The traditional spiritual featured many different verses but Armstrong was content to do only the first (in later versions he went as far as “When the Saints Go Marchin’ By,” but that was it, no stuff about sun’s refusing to shine or sister’s getting religion).
Before Armstrong’s even done with the vocal, the strutty, funky trombone of Higgy can already be heard in the distance. The song really takes off during Higginbotham’s solo, which is so note-perfect, part of me wonders if he “set” it in advance. Russell’s written figures for the reeds provide a nice counterpoint, while the rhythm section really drives everything along. Another reading of the Russell’s four-bar interlude sets up Pops’s trumpet, taking it out for two choruses. His first sticks pretty close to the melody, but the additional little notes and changes in phrasing carry the day (I dig the blues inflection on the first playing of the word “In” and those almost inconspicuous swoops and glides in his snake-like playing).
In pure New Orleans fashion, Armstrong doesn’t even finish the melody after the first chorus, instead holding a high tonic G to signal the beginning of the next chorus. He’s stays on the G before playing a run that works up to an F#, the major seventh and more or less a direct quote from Armstrong’s composition “Struttin’ With Some Barbecue” (in future versions it would become more direct). Armstrong keeps up his variations before building up to an ending where he nails a high concert D. The band reprises the Russell “interlude” one last time and the record ends with a bang. Classic stuff.
When the record was released, Armstrong was met from resistance from at least one listener: his sister Beatrice, better known as “Mama Lucy.” As Gary Giddins reported this story in his book Satchmo, “Danny Barker remembers how Mama Lucy criticized her brother for tarting up a piece from the church. When Barker told Armstrong what she had said, he got angry and remarked that she didn’t see anything wrong with playing bingo in the church.” Such a great response…
So naturally, the song became a big hit and Louis Armstrong began featuring it every night, right? Not quite. The “Saints” revolution appears to have taken off a little slower than imagined. Wingy Manone recorded it in 1939 and was filmed performing it in 1943 with what was basically a copycat imitation of the Armstrong Decca record:
But that was five years after Armstrong’s recording. Hadn’t the “Saints” begun their march yet? Not quite. Revival hero Bunk Johnson didn’t get around to it until 1944 and there aren’t many other versions from the following couple of years. And what about old Pops? Well, Jos Willems has listened to and charted just about every surviving Armstrong session, broadcast and concert and he lists absolutely zero performances of “The Saints” between the 1938 original and 1946. And trust me, there are a lot of Armstrong broadcasts from those years, but Pops never pulled out “The Saints” a single time. Armstrong’s version led many New Orleans bands, both of the authentic and “revival” kind, to adopt “The Saints” as kind of a theme song, but Armstrong wasn’t playing with a New Orleans band and thus, the piece was kind of left on the back burner.
When it was time to revisit the song, it was for the motion picture New Orleans, a piece of Hollywood fluff that purported to tell the story of the origins of jazz in the titular city. It’s a mess of a movie but Pops lights up the screen and the music is often good. Three short takes of “The Saints” exist, all strictly instrumental and featuring Pops mainly playing the melody in a band that featured his former boss Kid Ory on trombone and future All Star Barney Bigard on clarinet. Armstrong sounds in wonderful form but the large group doesn’t exactly swing, instead marching along on top of heavy tuba beats. Armstrong sounds great riding over the ensemble, but otherwise, it’s kind of murky. Here’s the recording:
By April of 1947, New Orleans was getting ready to make its debut so Armstrong did a lot of promotion including an appearance on Rudi Blesh’s WOR radio show This is Jazz. The broadcast reunited Armstrong with many of his New Orleans cohorts, including clarinetist Albert Nicholas, bassist Pops Foster and drummer Baby Dodds. As I said, the song hadn’t exactly become a staple yet and Armstrong doesn’t seem to have played it much since the original recording nine years earlier. Thus, the arrangement follows that Decca record to a tee. Here ‘tis:
I love the tempo of this version and especially the drumming of Baby Dodds…oh, only if he could have sounded like that on the old King Oliver recordings. Trombonist Georg Brunis (aka George Brunies) makes his presence felt with his extroverted personality and fine, shouting trombone style. Armstrong’s two rideout choruses follow the pattern of the Decca, though this time, when he holds the G going into the second chorus, he uses it as a springboard to a very exciting B. Again, the performance lands on a high D, Armstrong sounding as strong as ever.
One month after the broadcast, Armstrong performed with a small group at Town Hall in New York City. The concert was such a success that Armstrong decided to break up the big band and begin touring with a sextet, the All Stars. Again, using Willems’s discography as a guide, it seems that “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” was an infrequent part of the repertoire in the earliest days of the band, having been played at a Carnegie Hall concert in November 1947 and at the Nice jazz festival in France in February 1948, the only two known versions of the tune in the first year of the band. But by September 1948, the All Stars had a new arrangement of the song, now played as part of a medley with “Shadrack.” After making the original Decca record of “The Saints”, Armstrong began infrequently tackling religious material and “Shadrack” was one of the first up, recorded with a choir on June 14, 1938, one month after “The Saints.” “Shadrack” was a popular recording for Armstrong so it made sense to combine the two.
“Shadrack” would open the medley and when it was over, a drum break would herald the beginning of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” performed faster than any of Armstrong’s previous versions. How fast? The original Decca record weighed in around 190 beats per minute while the live versions with the All Stars kicked off around 250. Armstrong would now play two choruses up front, sing one, then throw it to Barney Bigard, who usually began with a quote from “Pennsylvania 6-500.” Then Armstrong would sing another before Jack Teagarden’s trombone would take over. Then it was time for Pops, who, as always, led the two final rideout choruses, often changing his phrasing of the melody in the first chorus and always holding a note to lead into the second chorus. The second chorus would always begin with the exact phrase Armstrong played on the 1938 recording, though this time it would be played in tandem with Teagarden, while the “Barbecue” quote was more pronounced. And you guessed it, Armstrong would trade phrases with Teagarden until climbing up to that final high D.
The early All Stars versions of “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” are all very exciting (especially the ones with Sid Catlett) but they’re all quite similar. In late 1950, Armstrong and the All Stars recorded a bunch of songs for use in the Mickey Rooney film, The Strip. For the soundtrack, the band recorded their medley of “Shadrack” and “The Saints” in beautiful sound. Here’s that track:
Unfortunately, when it came time to actually film the scene for The Strip, nearly five minutes of running time was a little too long. Thus, here is the medley as it appeared in the film, with a pretty complete “Shadrack” and a too short run-through of “The Saints,” with no vocal and only one trumpet outchorus. It’s not exactly a great film but it has a lot of music and a lot of priceless glimpses of the Armstrong-Teagarden-Earl Hines addition of the All Stars in prime form. Here ‘tis:
So that’s the story of “The Saints” in the early years of the All Stars. However, it was during those years when the popularity of the tune really began to take off in the jazz world. Sidney Bechet recorded it in 1949, Lu Watters waxed it in 1950 and many other versions began springing up. However, by the end of 1951, when personnel of the All Stars began changing, Armstrong momentarily let go of “The Saints.” Willems lists no versions of the song being performed live or on broadcasts between the summer of 1951 and the summer of 1953. Of course, Willems only had access to surviving broadcasts and concert tapes so the exact contents of every Armstrong live show will never be truly known. Besides, it is known that during Armstrong’s 1952 run at the Paramount Theater in New York, he closed each show with a Gordon Jenkins arrangement of “The Saints” for the All Stars and big band. According to a review of the period, “When the Jenkins band joined Louis in the final, ‘When the Saints Go Marchin’ In,’ the house was in virtual bedlam. Jenkins seems to have such a good time up there, looking at Armstrong and Velma Middleton, he should pay to get in.”
In early 1953, when Armstrong embarked on an ill-conceived tour with Benny Goodman big band, those concerts also ended with Armstrong jamming “The Saints” with the orchestra. Goodman basically had a nervous breakdown on that tour and was soon replaced by Gene Krupa. Interestingly, a www.jazzlegends.com release titled “Where’s Benny?” features a set by the Krupa big band and concludes with Armstrong and the band doing “The Saints.” I finally purchased it and blogged extensively about that exciting track last year. If you'd like to read that post (I won't inflate this one any more by quoting it!), click here. If you just want to hear the audio, here 'tis:
By the end of 1953, Armstrong and the All Stars were back to regularly featuring the medley of “The Saints” and “Shadrack.” The band had a new trombonist in Trummy Young and his rowdy, robust concept of trombone playing added a new spark to the band. A broadcast from the Club Hangover in January 1954 showcases the power of this new edition of the All Stars on “The Saints,” whose tempo had now dropped back down to about 224 beats per minute. The Club Hangover broadcast is available on a Storyville C.D. is truly one of my favorites as it absolutely smokes. A big part of the smoking has to do with Young’s blasting trombone, which really spurs Armstrong to great heights. In fact, after so many years of taking two rideout choruses, Armstrong now began taking three, the rhythm team of bassist Milt Hinton and drummer Kenny John really spurring him on. The first chorus would consist of a mostly improvised reading of the melody while the second featured some call and response with Bigard and Young and a swinging descending eighth-note run. The last chorus was the set one he had been playing since 1938, but now the “Barbecue” quote stuck out and Young really came out like a piledriver, repeating notes like a rhythm-and-blues tenor saxophonist while Bigard would hold a high note. “The Saints” never sounded so good but as great as this version is, I’ve chosen right now to share another one from the same period, a ten-minute marathon from Armstrong’s May 8, 1954 afternoon concert at the University of North Carolina.
I blogged a complete review of this concert back in September 2007 but what I wrote about “The Saints” then still holds up today. Please listen along and prepare to be stunned:
Armstrong was in absolutely peak form on that 1954 show and he had just blown up a storm on the “New Orleans Function” and “Lazy River” preceding that track. Here’s what I wrote about it in September:
“If you think I’ve been enthusiastic up to this point, I don’t know how I’m going to convey the wild roller coaster ride that is a ten-minute medley of “Shadrack” and “When the Saints Go Marching In.” After another long piano introduction (you can hear Armstrong make a reference to the Ink Spots), “Shadrack” begins with an absolutely infectious minor vamp (think “Hit the Road, Jack”) and it’s impossible to not get carried away by it. Unfortunately, by this point in the show, something went awry with the tape machine. All of a sudden, John’s drums sound louder and Pop’s voice sounds distant. After “Shadrack,” the band swings into the “Saints” and though it takes some effort to listen for it, what follows might be the most scorching, free-spirited playing of the entire All Stars period. It begins like every other version of the “Saints” and after solos by Bigard and Young, Armstrong leads the way with his set three-chorus rideout pattern, Bigard and Young with him all the way. Armstrong had worked on this routine for years and it works. The song ends on another huge high D and it’s over. The audience goes wild and Pops counts off the tempo for an encore, done at the same tempo. This encore was also pretty set and it, too, works as Pops blows another set of variations before ending on another high D. So far, so good but it’s not over yet. John takes a drum break and we’re off for a second encore, now at warp speed. Now’s where the improvisation begins as Armstrong first plays around with the melody then launches into a positively demonized second chorus, where he blows like it’s his last night on earth, hitting high G’s, smearing phrases, playing some very fleet-fingered ideas and showing complete command of the horn before pushing himself to play the melody a full octave higher than usual in the third chorus, nailing every note before ending on a sickening high E!
And he’s still not done.
He counts off one more time, and this time the band sounds like they didn’t even expect it. Shaw starts walking, John joins in but Pops is the only horn playing for a few seconds. Who needs anyone else when Armstrong is blowing with such fury? Armstrong now turns back the clock and it’s now 1932 again. He starts showing his endurance, hitting high G’s and holding them, the first one for five seconds before glissing to a higher B, the second one for four seconds, before another B and finally a third for three seconds before yet another gliss to yet another B. I’m glad I don’t play the trumpet because I would probably start crying and put my instrument up for sale after listening to this. Then once more, he plays the melody an octave higher, sounding a little shaky at first but almost immediately finding his footing, blasting it out with authority. Bedlam erupts and even Armstrong can’t help laughing his funny high-pitched laugh he only trotted out when he was especially titillated.”
So that’s what I wrote in 2007 though there’s a few items I could add. Armstrong now sang, “I would like to hit the number” instead of “I want to be in that number,” a humorous little touch. Also, Bigard’s “Pennsylvania 6-500” quote bit the dust, replaced by some exciting repeated high notes. I wrote that Armstrong’s first reprise was already kind of set but I think this is the first version in my collection with the encore, including the “National Emblem March” quote. It’s definitely the first I have with the speeded up encores and the playing of the melody an octave higher and it’s certainly not the last. I apologized for the somewhat shaky recording quality, especially the overbearing drums of Kenny John, but fortunately there are other similar versions that exist in better sound.
By 1955, John was gone, replaced by Barrett Deems and the “Shadrack/Saints” medley had become a popular set opener at live shows and on radio broadcasts such as one from the Basin Street club in New York City from around this time. In January 1955, the All Stars performed at the Crescendo Club in Hollywood, where their sets were recorded for Decca. Armstrong began the second set with the medley, which, with the encores, weighed in at seven minutes, too long for the original release. Thus, Decca lopped off “Shadrack,” thanks to some fancy editing in the announcement, and released what might be one of the most perfect versions of “The Saints” in the Armstrong discography. Nothing can match the raw excitement of the Carolina version but this one is the tightest; everything is set, Pops is flying and the sound quality is miles ahead of that from Carolina. Here it is, complete with the originally unissued "Shadrack":
Hot stuff, huh? In between, Armstrong appeared on the CBS show You Are There, playing the role of King Oliver on the last night of Storyville. It’s one of the most ironic television moments of all time. Before this clip begins, Armstrong, as Oliver, delivers scripted lines about blacks and whites playing together. At the same time, the All Stars always featured an integrated line-up. However, the suits at CBS were still afraid of southern viewership not being able to handle seeing an integrated band…in September 1954! When they suggested Armstrong hire a black drummer, Armstrong refused, defending Deems as his drummer to the end. So what the final solution?
Blackface.
Yes, you read that right. Blackface. In 1954. To give the impression of an all-black band. Whose leader just spoke about the benefits of integrated music. It’s truly bizarre, but the music in this clip is stunning. Armstrong jams “The Saints,” first engaging in a “cutting contest” with white trumpeter Bobby Hackett, heard offscreen because, well, he was white and again, that was taboo! Hackett sounds really inspired and Pops comes up with a string of improvised ideas. But at the end, he plays the set All Stars ending, marching and playing like he’s a kid in New Orleans again. A wild clip:
Louis Armstrong All Stars-When the Saints-1954
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By the mid-50s, “The Saints” was officially becoming an anthem in the traditional jazz world. For example, at a 1952 concert, clarinetist George Lewis played it as the fourth song of the first set. The crowd reaction was pure bedlam and just a few short years later, it was closing most Lewis concerts, becoming a standard closer for most New Orleans jazz bands until today. After the Crescendo Club album, Armstrong soon ditched “Shadrack” and began moving “The Saints” from being a set opener to being an evening closer.
By the end of 1955, clarinetist Edmond Hall joined the All Stars, beginning the prime period of the famed group. Numerous versions of “The Saints” exist from the Hall period and I have to share at least one of them. In early 1956, the All Stars embarked on a tour with Woody Herman’s Orchestra. Listening to the surviving recordings and reading the reviews from the tour, it seems like the All Stars played with an extra competitive edge. They often closed their sets with “The Saints,” joined by Herman’s group for some simple riffing. This version is from a one-nighter in Grand Rapids, Michigan and it’s a hot one with some new ideas in Armstrong’s rideout choruses and another crazy encore featuring Armstrong playing the melody an octave higher. Here goes:
Speaking of Herman, Armstrong and Herman met again on December 30, 1957 for the taping of the very first Timex All Star Jazz Show. The finale that year was a wild version of the “Saints” that began with Herman’s orchestra before Armstrong and the All Stars played the melody their way, joined by Jack Teagarden’s band, which could be called the All Stars’s farm team as it featured other members of the Armstrong circle including Bobby Hackett, Peanuts Hucko, Marty Napoleon, Arvell Shaw and Cozy Cole. Then, without missing a beat, the Dave Brubeck Quartet with Paul Desmond plays a couple of choruses before Armstrong sings, backed by Steve Allen, June Christy, Herman, Teagarden and Trummy Young. Gene Krupa and Cozy Cole then engage in a drum battle before Armstrong leads the charge out. It’s a bit messy but the spectacle overshadows any of the hysterics of the playing. By my count, there are 33 musicians on the stage, many in the jazz hall of fame: Woody Herman, Bill Harris, Al Cohn, Paul Qunichette, Zoot Sims, Nat Pierce, Chjubby Jackson, Trummy Young, Edmond Hall, Paul Desmond, Dave Brubeck, Charlie Ventura, Gene Krupa, Cozy Cole, Bobby Hackett, Jack Teagarden…it’s mind-boggling. And for me, the wildest part is listening to all 33 guys blowing at once and through it all, hearing Pops’s sound still shine through. And because the director was probably signaling them to keep going until the credits finished rolling, Armstrong was forced to take more than his usual set three-chorus finish. In his third chorus, Armstrong takes the melody up an octave but the band keeps going, so Armstrong knocks himself out with one high D and E after another. He stays up there for three more choruses before we finally fade out. Well, enough blathering from me; enjoy this incredible moment:
Armstrong was clearly feeling his oats in the 1954-1959 years and 1958 features a bunch of great “Saints.” In fact, on May 13 of that year, the 20th anniversary of the original (and 50 years ago today), Armstrong played it at a concert in North Bay Ontario. Highlights from this concert were released on C.D. in 2006 to absolutely no fanfare but I’ve mentioned it here a dozen times because it’s one of the finest Armstrong discs I’ve ever heard. Pops is in absolutely peak form throughout and especially on “The Saints” where, instead of playing the set third chorus he had been playing for 20 years, he heads right on up to playing the melody an octave higher, with no encore or anything. Unfortunately, the performance is split up between two different tracks on the C.D. so I’m not going to include it here but please, please, please, order this incredible disc at www.worldsrecords.com and prepare to blown away by some ferocious playing by Armstrong and the rest of the band. Here’s the : link.
Shortly after the North Bay concert, Edmond Hall left the group. His replacement was Peanuts Hucko, whose first engagement with the band was at the Newport Jazz Festival that year. I’ve also written about this crime before and I might as well do it again. Columbia recorded Armstrong’s entire set that night and they’ve released a grand total of three tracks from it over the years, each in glorious sound and featuring Pops in glorious form. However, Sony has sat on those tapes for years now, though they’ve released every scrap of Miles Davis in their archives. This summer would mark the 50th anniversary of the concert and what would mark the occasion better than a deluxe issue of the event? Sadly, it looks like it’ll never happen. None of my European contingent of Armstrong nuts possesses a recording the concert and producer George Avakian, who recorded the show, has also had his request for a copy of the concert turned down by Sony itself! It’s an outright crime but hopefully someone from Europe can get into the Sony vaults and issue it when the copyright runs out after this year.
The only good news is Bert Stern filmed a lot of the festival for his film Jazz on a Summer’s Day. Stern filmed some of Armstrong’s set including a brief, closing version of “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In.” Armstrong’s time obviously was drawing to a close to he eliminates all solos and such but my goodness, he plays with fury, again, like in North Bay, skipping the preliminaries, and going straight for playing the melody an octave higher. Stern’s photography is beautiful and the juxtaposed shots of Armstrong wailing really capture the intensity of the man. Here’s Louis's filmed set, ending with "The Saints":
So Pops was blowing his ass off in the summer of 1958, but he might have blown himself out a little bit as he sounds in less than 100% form at the Monterey Jazz Festival from October 3, 1958, and the subject on another one of my early blogs. Armstrong had a rough start that evening, even omitting his customary solo on “Indiana,” but he blew through the pain, eventually settling in a bit towards the end of the concert. However, by the end of the set, his lip was just about shot, as he doesn’t play his usual obbligatos on “St. Louis Blues” and “That’s My Desire.” He saves whatever he has in tank for the closing “Saints” and it’s clear that it hurts. In the opening choruses, he hits a few air notes and he really struggles with the “Here Comes the Bride” quote that bridges the first and second rideout choruses. All the fleet-fingered little phrases are gone but Pops manages to blow through the pain and still hits that high note at the end. Oh, the lengths he went to please his audiences and hit those high notes…
Now, before I march onward, we’ll take a breather. If you’ve been foolish enough to attempt to read this in one sitting, you’ve probably fallen asleep. So if you would like to grab a cold beverage, check your e-mail, call your mother, enjoy a sandwich, take some Swiss Kriss, whatever, go right ahead and knock yourself out. As a means of an intermission, I’ll keep things strictly chronological and throw out a YouTube clip of Armstrong and Danny Kaye doing “The Five Pennies Saints” for the film, The Five Pennies. This was another subject of an older blog entry but there’s really not too much to add. I think it’s a magical film moment and it was recorded in October 1958, right where we are in the narrative anyway. There’s no trumpet playing but the vocal routine is a gas. Enjoy!
Wasn’t that a “gassuh”? The ending, where both men scat their hearts out, gets me every time.
Okay, class—I mean, readers—let’s get back to the nitty gritty. When I left off, Pops was struggling with “The Saints” at the Monterey Jazz Festival. But don’t fret, my children…by the time of his mammoth 1959 tour of Europe, Armstrong was in fighting shape. “The Saints” continued to be a show closer, allowing Armstrong to introduce everyone in the band and though a million versions survive from this tour, there’s not one that’s a dud. If you didn’t notice it on the 1958 clip, the tempo of “The Saints” had now crept back up to 250 beats per minute. Armstrong now sang “I would like to hit the sweepstakes” instead of “hit the number,” a cute touch. New drummer Danny Barcelona now played some accents when Armstrong threw a few punches during the trombone solo. Also, listen for Young and Hucko’s furious riffing as Armstrong introduces the members of the band for their final bows—they’re smoking! Pops’s three choruses come off beautifully, though he doesn’t play the melody an octave higher (also, listen for Hucko doubling Young’s repeated notes). There are a few videos of “The Saints” from this 1959 tour floating around YouTube but I’ve decided to choose one from Stuttgart, Germany, February 15, 1959:
Of course, the 1959 tour is mostly remembered for Armstrong’s heart episode, which either almost killed him or was only a bad case of indigestion, depending on whom you believe. Armstrong clearly suffered some trauma and though he continued to blow beautifully for years to come, he now had to pace himself more. And here’s where the plot thickens, my friends. Because “The Saints” usually closed the evening, Armstrong sometimes no longer had the chops to make his climb to the top. This becomes apparent when watching a clip of the All Stars on the "Ed Sullivan Show" from September 20, 1959, just a few months after Armstrong recovered and began touring again. This is otherwise a fun version and I love the interplay between Pops and Danny Barcelona (“Hawaii Speaks!”) but Armstrong’s chops let him down in that climactic third chorus. Up to then, he sounds fine but his lips do seem to tire and it takes every ounce of willpower to make that high D. Unfortunately, the Ed Sullivan Show took the clip down off of a YouTube. The good news is they put it up for themselves (though they edited out "Hawaii Speaks!"), but without the ability to embed it anywhere. So to see this version go to YouTube by clicking
here.
He makes it but it’s not easy. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t become any easier in the coming months. Just a few weeks later, Armstrong and the All Stars played an outdoor concert at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi. This concert was never commercially issued but it survives in beautiful sound. Probably because it was an outdoor concert, Pops has some trouble with his chops, hitting a lot of air notes and struggling with his dexterity (you can hear him complain that “It’s cold” during “Tiger Rag”). Oddly enough, Armstrong’s highest notes come out clean as a bell but he struggles with the middle register (I’ll never understand the trumpet!). Both sets of the concert survive and both sets end with “The Saints.” And on both versions, Armstrong, knowing deep down that he’s probably not going to make it, omits his final three-chorus solo. The first time around, he introduces everyone, then throws it right into Barcelona’s feature on “Mop Mop,” which didn’t require an Armstrong solo. At the end of the second set, Armstrong takes “The Saints” at a slower tempo, getting the entire audience to sing and clap along. After the vocal, Armstrong picks up the chorus and plays one chorus, sounding fairly strong. But again, not wanting to chance it, he cuts it off abruptly and heads into the closing theme “Sleepy Time Down South.”
And that, sadly, was the end of Armstrong’s wondrous three-chorus rideout on “The Saints.” At the 1960 Newport Jazz Festival, he segued into the “Star Spangled Banner” once he introduced the members of the band. At the Oregon State Fair in September 1960, the tempo slowed further while Young and clarinetist Barney Bigard tried out some new riffs during the introductions. But once the introductions are over, Armstrong throws it over to “Mop Mop” again, a tactic from the Keesler that would be repeated at an African concert in November 1960 and at a Swedish concert in early 1961.
So loyal readers, was this the sad fate of “The Saints” in Louis Armstrong’s repertoire? A few choruses up front, a vocal, then a short drum solo? Thankfully, no, as Pops wised up and probably noticed how much the audience loved singing the tune. So by at least a September 1961 engagement in Pennsylvania, Armstrong was playing two choruses up front, then leading a sing-a-long with the band members and the audience. Clarinet and trombone still took solos but now the tempo dropped dramatically to around 166 beats per minute, slower than any previous Armstrong version. In 1961, Jewel Brown became the group’s new vocalist and initially, she played a prominent role during “The Saints,” dancing, clapping and singing some remarkably high counterpoint notes. It’s impressive as far as singing goes, but it got in the way of the performance. By the middle of 1962, she toned it down to simply clapping and shouting encouragements.
But in April 1962, the All Stars were filmed doing “The Saints” for a Goodyear jazz short. Here, Brown really tries taking the spotlight, to the point where she seems to annoy Pops with her high notes towards the end. However, the real reason to celebrate this clip is Pops’s decision to take a couple of choruses in the middle. Pops is full of new ideas, including a quick “Dixie” quote and some scorching high notes in the second chorus. It represents one of the last great surviving solos Armstrong ever took on “The Saints.” Here it is, courtesy of a YouTube video that’s seen more than 1.5 million hits:
As I said, that was a pretty padded version. Here are the All Stars in May 1962, just one month later, performing “The Saints” in Sweden, a good representation of how Armstrong approached the song in the 1960s:
Thus, that became the normal routine for “The Saints” from about 1961 to 1964: Pops plays two up front, sings, trombone and clarinet solo, the band is introduced and Pops encourages one last sing-a-long. It’s pretty good, but I always get annoyed at Billy Kyle’s overly-church-ified piano comping, playing static inversions on the first and third beats, which usually clashed with Danny Barcelona’s straight swinging drums.
In 1964, “Hello, Dolly” became all the rage, a bigger sensation than “The Saints.” Starting around 1965, “The Saints” was moved back to the first set closer, setting up intermission and that’s where it usually remained. If the All Stars did a one set show, then “The Saints” might still close it, but after the band introductions, Armstrong would head back to “Dolly” for one final chorus.
Yet Armstrong wasn’t ready to retire “The Saints” just yet. In late 1964, Louis appeared at an Australian TV and actually opened with "The Saints." That wasn't the only surprise: he also took two entirely new trumpet choruses at the end! I didn't possess this recording two years ago so this is all new to the blog. Pops sounds FANTASTIC! Dig it:
In April 1966, Armstrong recorded a version of it for Mercury, his first studio recording of the song since the 1938 original. It’s an okay record, but please don’t compare it to the original. Armstrong’s opening monologue is fun as he recounts seeing a bunch of “soul brothers” who wanted to sing and blow “The Saints.” Then Armstrong picks up his trumpet and plain and simple, sounds fairly weak. His tone is still there, if a bit dimmed and though his variations on the melody are somewhat beautiful in their subtle nature, the tower of the strength we were used to hearing in the 1940s and 1950s simply isn’t there. And this doesn’t mean he was dead; Armstrong still had some great blowing in front of him. But 1966 seems to be a rough year for Pops on record and from then on, the status of his chops could be erratic from night to night. And sadly, after that first, weakened chorus, Armstrong’s trumpet is silent for the rest of the record. He still had his voice and he puts on a good show introducing the members of the band, but it’s not quite the same. Here's the audio:
But as usual, don’t shed any tears for ol’ Pops yet. In 1968, Armstrong’s chops sounded quite strong again. On top of that, “The Saints” was sometimes moved to the closer status, now once again sporting a faster tempo. This is how it was played on a BBC television show in the summer of 1968 and I’d like to share that recording right now. Pops takes two up front and sounds better than he had in years, though he has to go low a few times where he once went high. Nevertheless, it’s a good one:
After illness forced him to miss more than a year of performing, Armstrong became a ubiquitous presence on television in 1970. In my collection, I have a great version of “The Saints” from the “Mike Douglas Show,” with Pops singing and leading a band that included Pete Fountain, Eddie Miller and Sammy Davis Jr. on drums! Zutty Singleton’s in the audience and everyone has a ball. Later that year, Armstrong sang it on the “Flip Wilson Show,” looking resplendent in a tuxedo and as happy as ever. In between, Armstrong recorded “Boy From New Orleans,” a new autobiographical tour of Armstrong’s life set to the familiar strains of “The Saints.” He would perform it on the “David Frost Show” in February 1971, just months before his passing.
But to close, I can’t think of a better clip to wrap everything up than this one: Louis Armstrong, taking “The Saints” back to church and back to New Orleans, where it all began for him. The occasion was a Newport Jazz Festival 70th birthday tribute to Armstrong. For the finale, Armstrong and gospel queen Mahalia Jackson duetted on “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” and “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In.” So there’s the church aspect for ya…but midway through, the Eureaka Brass Band of New Orleans comes marching out, filled with musicians Armstrong grew up listening to and playing with. They give “The Saints” the second line treatment Armstrong remembered hearing as a youngster. Pops marches around the stage like a kid again before stepping up to the microphone, clapping his hands and singing from the heart, ol’ Reverend Satchmo, still leading the congregation after all those years.
The full clip has been pulled from YouTube but is now availabe on the DVD "Good Evenin' Everybody" (more on that in a future post). However, the Internet is a magical place and the video is available on a Russian website. I couldn't figure out how to embed it here but if you'd like to see it--and you really should--click
here.
And that, my friends is that. I don’t know if I can possibly say anything more about Louis Armstrong’s long and fruitful association with “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” but I know I had a helluva lot of fun taking a tour of all these different versions. “The Saints” has become pretty beaten to death over the years, but any and all Armstrong versions still sound fresh as a daisy. As always, comments and e-mails are always welcome…any additions? Corrections? Questions? Answers? Feel free to leave a comment or drop me a line at dippermouth@msn.com. Thanks for taking this tour with me, celebrating the 70th anniversary of when the head saint himself—Pops—first came marching in, taking the whole music world with him…
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Blue Turning Grey Over You - 1955
Louis Armstrong And His All Stars
Recorded April 27, 1955
Track Time 4:57
Written by Fats Waller and Andy Razaf
Recorded in New York City
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; Trummy Young, trombone; Barney Bigard, clarinet; Billy Kyle, piano; Arvell Shaw, bass; Barrett Deems, drums
Originally released on Columbia CL 708
Currently available on CD: Satch Plays Fats
Available on Itunes? Yes
Welcome back to part two of this week's celebration of Louis Armstrong's recordings of "Blue Turning Grey Over You." Earlier this week, I examined Armstrong's 1930 OKeh recording of this magnificent Fats Waller-Andy Razaf composition, recorded 80 years ago this past Monday. It's a great record, but it's somewhat characterized by a nervous energy in Armstrong's performance; his playing, muted and open, and his singing have an urgent quality on the original, consistently threatening to erupt in a double-timed run of some sort, making good on that threat numerous times over the course of the record.
25 years later, Armstrong remade "Blue Turning Grey Over You" for the Columbia album Satch Plays Fats. It's doubtful he had performed it in the intervening years but it didn't matter. What mattered was that he had matured tremendously in his approach to his music. As time went on, his playing grew less exhibitionistic and began to value melody over running up and down his horn. He even began singing clearer. Critics frowned, wanting Armstrong to return to the dazzling virtuosity of his 1920s recordings. But while they were busy complaining, Armstrong went on making some of his greatest recordings in the 1940s, 1950s and into the 1960s. Without a doubt, the 1955 "Blue Turning Grey Over You" is one of the greatest recordings Armstrong made in any period.
Armstrong's producer at Columbia, George Avakian, hit a home run the previous year with his idea of matching Armstrong and his All Stars with the music of W.C. Handy. Eager to do it again, Avakian hit upon the idea of having Armstrong do an album of Fats Waller songs. I think the resulting album is another classic but George still has a few regrets. First, Armstrong didn't exactly revere Fats as he did Handy; as Avakian told me, Fats was more of an old "drinking buddy" to him. Second, Avakian wanted Louis to try some of Fats's lesser known compositions--"Willow Tree," for one, as well as "I Hate to Leave You Now," which Louis recorded for Victor in 1932. However, the All Stars were in the middle of such a grueling tour of one-nighters, they didn't have any time to rehearse anything new. Thus, Avakian had to stick to some of Fats's most tried and true tunes, many Armstrong and his group could have played in their sleep. The weary All Stars arrived in Columbia's studios in April 1955 and over the course of three sessions, managed to churn out nine songs, a relatively low number (the Handy album had 11 cuts).
But even George knows these are minor quibbles; Armstrong and his group (minus Barney Bigard, who was going through a prolonged period of playing with zero feeling) nailed the material and the resulting album was a big seller for Columbia. George told me that he was just proud to have done the album for two tracks alone: "Black and Blue" and "Blue Turning Grey Over You."
He has every right to be proud of "Blue Turning Grey Over You." Unlike the original, which was on the more medium side of the tempo scale, the song was slowed down dramatically for the 1955 reading. And it's Armstrong's show from start to finish: one chorus muted, a beautiful vocal and a dramatic open horn chorus at the end. It's one of the best testaments to Armstrong's work in his later years. Yes, the later Louis might not have been able to execute the daring runs and breaks the younger Armstrong did with ease; but the younger man could not interpret a ballad with as much maturity and feeling and soul as the elder. Listen for yourself...and you might want to have a box of tissues nearby:
Absolutely exquisite music. It's the kind of recording where I kind of feel that it's useless to go on and on for a thousand words because the music speaks for itself. So here's a few highlights that move me every time:
*Armstrong's opening pickup; four simple notes that perfectly set the tempo and definite slow swing
*The entire opening chorus, where Armstrong simply gives a master's class in how to play a melody. He keeps it front and center, yet rephrases it just enough to make it his own, filling in all the cracks and turnarounds with all sorts of vocal-like improvisations (I love the repeated G's at the end of the first eight bars and again at the bridge)
*The simple, understated backing by the All Stars: lovely harmonies by Young and Bigard, suitable fills by Kyle, throbbing bass by Shaw and tasteful brushwork from Deems
*That vocal! In 1930, Armstrong tried really hard to sound serious, a la "I Can't Give You Anything But Love," but his voice then couldn't convey the warmth of the gravel pit of later years. Every scat break is a thing of perfect (some are lifted verbatim from the original record). But just listen to the actual singing; the way he sings the word "found" in the last eight bars gives me chills. And you gotta love the New Orleans accent turning it into "Blue Toining Grey Over You"!
*Through the magic of editing, Armstrong's trumpet immediately follows the vocals, playing the same pickup to announce to any and all listeners that something special is about to take place. And it does.
*Listen to Armstrong's rhythms, especially on the double-timed runs. The urgency of the 1930 version isn't there, but he's in greater command of his instrument (remember when he kind of fluffed that one high note on the OKeh) and from a rhythmic standpoint, he's almost more free-floating than ever before in 1955. I wrote the other day about how the younger Armstrong tended to approach slower tempos with more fleet-fingered playing. I should have added the same as sometimes true of the later Armstrong: listen to "That's For Me" from 1950, "You Can Depend On Me" from 1951 and this track for some great examples.
*That bridge! With the All Stars turning up the heat in their rhythmically accented backing, Armstrong responds by completely rhapsodizing with his improvisation, leading into a stunning break, started with a gliss to a high B before another string of G's that shake me to my core.
*Again, listen to that ridiculous spiraling downward run in the last eight bars, the rhythmic flow to it and how he stops on a time and shoots to a surprising higher C, giving a little shake to wring out every last bit of emotion.
*I mentioned last time that I didn't like the ending of the 1930 recording but this one is perfect. It's standard Armstrong, building up to a long, held high C, shook for all its glory. Put it in the time capsule...
If you really feel like starting an argument, you can say, "But wait, Rick, the original was one solid take while Armstrong's 1950s' Columbia recordings featured songs and solos pieced together from various takes by George Avakian...that shouldn't count!" True enough, the pioneering Avakian did do a lot of editing and splicing on his albums but I say so what? All of his artists were thankful for it and the end results George got more than speak for themselves.
Though the kindness of George and David Ostwald, I was able to listen to the complete session reels for Satch Plays Fats during the preparation for my upcoming book, including about 25 minutes of takes of "Blue Turning Grey Over You." I can attest that Armstrong played brilliantly throughout all the takes and especially throughout all the sessions; George must have had a helluva time editing it all together because Armstrong gave him a lot of gold to choose from (not so with Bigard; it's a miracle Avakian was able to make him sound like a coherent musician after hearing some of his work on the tapes).
After running through the arrangement, the band still didn't have things down cold when Avakian began rolling the tapes for takes 1 and 2, each of which breaks down (Louis can be heard practicing his first scat break during one of the breaks; it's one he originally sang on the 1930 version so I wonder if he had listened to it to keep it fresh). Finally, on take 3, everything clicked and the band was well on its way to making a perfect take when it all fell apart during the final bridge as the band couldn't exactly get the rhythms straight on how they wanted to back Armstrong. Armstrong asked, "Is the rest all right?" causing Avakian to respond in awe, "Oh, the rest is beautiful!"
George knew they had something special so capitalizing on it, he called for another take to begin from Armstrong's concluding solo. From the sixth bar through the finish, Armstrong played what appeared on the final record (you can barely hear a splice at the 3:34 mark on the master). Thus, that final masterpiece of a solo is almost entirely one take so I don't want to hear anything about it being the work of an editor. Got it?
Happy, George still called a few more takes to have some vocals and opening choruses to choose from. Louis, ever the professional, knows when things aren't right; he calls off one take when his voice doesn't quite make a high note during a scat break and he calls off the fourth full take when the band takes too long to enter after one of the breaks. George finally got a perfect vocal on take 5 and another damn good trumpet solo, to boot (more on that in a minute). Arvell Shaw complained of a "goof" at the end of the take and Armstrong brought up something else that didn't go quite right but George brushed it off, saying that there was plenty to splice from the other takes.
So yes, the opening solo is from one take, and the vocal is from take five and the solo is almost entirely the insert take after the third attempt...again, who cares? The final result more than speaks for itself. It's an absolute masterpiece, one that we could not have enjoyed if George Avakian hadn't recorded and edited it...and if Louis Armstrong and his All Stars didn't play it with such feeling!
In 2000, Sony finally reissued Satch Plays Fats but idiotically didn't include a set of new liner notes Avakian wrote for the occasion. They also could have made it a deluxe box set with many of the full alternate takes that survive. Unfortunately, in Sony's eyes, the name Louis Armstrong doesn't mean the same thing as the name Miles Davis and that's a crying shame. Sony did release four "edited alternate takes" on the album but didn't make any attempt to explain what they are. They included one of "Blue Turning Grey Over You" and I personally think it's another masterpiece, another example of how much greatness poured out of Armstrong on this session.
Being an "edited alternate take" means just what it says: this take is all of take three until it broke down at the final bridge. From the bridge on, it uses Armstrong's concluding solo from the fifth and final take. Armstrong's scat break is a "gassuh" (I love that "Yeah, man!") and if you can stand it, there's even more dramatic passion from the trumpet. Here's the "edited alternate":
See what I mean? I could only imagine how tough it was for George Avakian to make his final editing choices. But George, God bless him--he'll be 91 next month--made the right choices so let's be thankful that. And let's be thankful to Fats Waller and Andy Razaf for writing such a beautiful song. And of course, thanks to Pops and the All Stars, who in the face of almost unyielding criticism in the 1950s and 1960s, continued to make such timeless, glorious music as the performances shared today. I hope you were as moved by them as I. Have a wonderful weekend and if you're one of my fellow east coasters who is going to be shoveling snow for the next two or three days, just blast "Blue Turning Grey Over You" out of some loudspeakers...there's enough warmth in that 1955 recording to melt all the snow in Alaska!
Recorded April 27, 1955
Track Time 4:57
Written by Fats Waller and Andy Razaf
Recorded in New York City
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; Trummy Young, trombone; Barney Bigard, clarinet; Billy Kyle, piano; Arvell Shaw, bass; Barrett Deems, drums
Originally released on Columbia CL 708
Currently available on CD: Satch Plays Fats
Available on Itunes? Yes
Welcome back to part two of this week's celebration of Louis Armstrong's recordings of "Blue Turning Grey Over You." Earlier this week, I examined Armstrong's 1930 OKeh recording of this magnificent Fats Waller-Andy Razaf composition, recorded 80 years ago this past Monday. It's a great record, but it's somewhat characterized by a nervous energy in Armstrong's performance; his playing, muted and open, and his singing have an urgent quality on the original, consistently threatening to erupt in a double-timed run of some sort, making good on that threat numerous times over the course of the record.
25 years later, Armstrong remade "Blue Turning Grey Over You" for the Columbia album Satch Plays Fats. It's doubtful he had performed it in the intervening years but it didn't matter. What mattered was that he had matured tremendously in his approach to his music. As time went on, his playing grew less exhibitionistic and began to value melody over running up and down his horn. He even began singing clearer. Critics frowned, wanting Armstrong to return to the dazzling virtuosity of his 1920s recordings. But while they were busy complaining, Armstrong went on making some of his greatest recordings in the 1940s, 1950s and into the 1960s. Without a doubt, the 1955 "Blue Turning Grey Over You" is one of the greatest recordings Armstrong made in any period.
Armstrong's producer at Columbia, George Avakian, hit a home run the previous year with his idea of matching Armstrong and his All Stars with the music of W.C. Handy. Eager to do it again, Avakian hit upon the idea of having Armstrong do an album of Fats Waller songs. I think the resulting album is another classic but George still has a few regrets. First, Armstrong didn't exactly revere Fats as he did Handy; as Avakian told me, Fats was more of an old "drinking buddy" to him. Second, Avakian wanted Louis to try some of Fats's lesser known compositions--"Willow Tree," for one, as well as "I Hate to Leave You Now," which Louis recorded for Victor in 1932. However, the All Stars were in the middle of such a grueling tour of one-nighters, they didn't have any time to rehearse anything new. Thus, Avakian had to stick to some of Fats's most tried and true tunes, many Armstrong and his group could have played in their sleep. The weary All Stars arrived in Columbia's studios in April 1955 and over the course of three sessions, managed to churn out nine songs, a relatively low number (the Handy album had 11 cuts).
But even George knows these are minor quibbles; Armstrong and his group (minus Barney Bigard, who was going through a prolonged period of playing with zero feeling) nailed the material and the resulting album was a big seller for Columbia. George told me that he was just proud to have done the album for two tracks alone: "Black and Blue" and "Blue Turning Grey Over You."
He has every right to be proud of "Blue Turning Grey Over You." Unlike the original, which was on the more medium side of the tempo scale, the song was slowed down dramatically for the 1955 reading. And it's Armstrong's show from start to finish: one chorus muted, a beautiful vocal and a dramatic open horn chorus at the end. It's one of the best testaments to Armstrong's work in his later years. Yes, the later Louis might not have been able to execute the daring runs and breaks the younger Armstrong did with ease; but the younger man could not interpret a ballad with as much maturity and feeling and soul as the elder. Listen for yourself...and you might want to have a box of tissues nearby:
Absolutely exquisite music. It's the kind of recording where I kind of feel that it's useless to go on and on for a thousand words because the music speaks for itself. So here's a few highlights that move me every time:
*Armstrong's opening pickup; four simple notes that perfectly set the tempo and definite slow swing
*The entire opening chorus, where Armstrong simply gives a master's class in how to play a melody. He keeps it front and center, yet rephrases it just enough to make it his own, filling in all the cracks and turnarounds with all sorts of vocal-like improvisations (I love the repeated G's at the end of the first eight bars and again at the bridge)
*The simple, understated backing by the All Stars: lovely harmonies by Young and Bigard, suitable fills by Kyle, throbbing bass by Shaw and tasteful brushwork from Deems
*That vocal! In 1930, Armstrong tried really hard to sound serious, a la "I Can't Give You Anything But Love," but his voice then couldn't convey the warmth of the gravel pit of later years. Every scat break is a thing of perfect (some are lifted verbatim from the original record). But just listen to the actual singing; the way he sings the word "found" in the last eight bars gives me chills. And you gotta love the New Orleans accent turning it into "Blue Toining Grey Over You"!
*Through the magic of editing, Armstrong's trumpet immediately follows the vocals, playing the same pickup to announce to any and all listeners that something special is about to take place. And it does.
*Listen to Armstrong's rhythms, especially on the double-timed runs. The urgency of the 1930 version isn't there, but he's in greater command of his instrument (remember when he kind of fluffed that one high note on the OKeh) and from a rhythmic standpoint, he's almost more free-floating than ever before in 1955. I wrote the other day about how the younger Armstrong tended to approach slower tempos with more fleet-fingered playing. I should have added the same as sometimes true of the later Armstrong: listen to "That's For Me" from 1950, "You Can Depend On Me" from 1951 and this track for some great examples.
*That bridge! With the All Stars turning up the heat in their rhythmically accented backing, Armstrong responds by completely rhapsodizing with his improvisation, leading into a stunning break, started with a gliss to a high B before another string of G's that shake me to my core.
*Again, listen to that ridiculous spiraling downward run in the last eight bars, the rhythmic flow to it and how he stops on a time and shoots to a surprising higher C, giving a little shake to wring out every last bit of emotion.
*I mentioned last time that I didn't like the ending of the 1930 recording but this one is perfect. It's standard Armstrong, building up to a long, held high C, shook for all its glory. Put it in the time capsule...
If you really feel like starting an argument, you can say, "But wait, Rick, the original was one solid take while Armstrong's 1950s' Columbia recordings featured songs and solos pieced together from various takes by George Avakian...that shouldn't count!" True enough, the pioneering Avakian did do a lot of editing and splicing on his albums but I say so what? All of his artists were thankful for it and the end results George got more than speak for themselves.
Though the kindness of George and David Ostwald, I was able to listen to the complete session reels for Satch Plays Fats during the preparation for my upcoming book, including about 25 minutes of takes of "Blue Turning Grey Over You." I can attest that Armstrong played brilliantly throughout all the takes and especially throughout all the sessions; George must have had a helluva time editing it all together because Armstrong gave him a lot of gold to choose from (not so with Bigard; it's a miracle Avakian was able to make him sound like a coherent musician after hearing some of his work on the tapes).
After running through the arrangement, the band still didn't have things down cold when Avakian began rolling the tapes for takes 1 and 2, each of which breaks down (Louis can be heard practicing his first scat break during one of the breaks; it's one he originally sang on the 1930 version so I wonder if he had listened to it to keep it fresh). Finally, on take 3, everything clicked and the band was well on its way to making a perfect take when it all fell apart during the final bridge as the band couldn't exactly get the rhythms straight on how they wanted to back Armstrong. Armstrong asked, "Is the rest all right?" causing Avakian to respond in awe, "Oh, the rest is beautiful!"
George knew they had something special so capitalizing on it, he called for another take to begin from Armstrong's concluding solo. From the sixth bar through the finish, Armstrong played what appeared on the final record (you can barely hear a splice at the 3:34 mark on the master). Thus, that final masterpiece of a solo is almost entirely one take so I don't want to hear anything about it being the work of an editor. Got it?
Happy, George still called a few more takes to have some vocals and opening choruses to choose from. Louis, ever the professional, knows when things aren't right; he calls off one take when his voice doesn't quite make a high note during a scat break and he calls off the fourth full take when the band takes too long to enter after one of the breaks. George finally got a perfect vocal on take 5 and another damn good trumpet solo, to boot (more on that in a minute). Arvell Shaw complained of a "goof" at the end of the take and Armstrong brought up something else that didn't go quite right but George brushed it off, saying that there was plenty to splice from the other takes.
So yes, the opening solo is from one take, and the vocal is from take five and the solo is almost entirely the insert take after the third attempt...again, who cares? The final result more than speaks for itself. It's an absolute masterpiece, one that we could not have enjoyed if George Avakian hadn't recorded and edited it...and if Louis Armstrong and his All Stars didn't play it with such feeling!
In 2000, Sony finally reissued Satch Plays Fats but idiotically didn't include a set of new liner notes Avakian wrote for the occasion. They also could have made it a deluxe box set with many of the full alternate takes that survive. Unfortunately, in Sony's eyes, the name Louis Armstrong doesn't mean the same thing as the name Miles Davis and that's a crying shame. Sony did release four "edited alternate takes" on the album but didn't make any attempt to explain what they are. They included one of "Blue Turning Grey Over You" and I personally think it's another masterpiece, another example of how much greatness poured out of Armstrong on this session.
Being an "edited alternate take" means just what it says: this take is all of take three until it broke down at the final bridge. From the bridge on, it uses Armstrong's concluding solo from the fifth and final take. Armstrong's scat break is a "gassuh" (I love that "Yeah, man!") and if you can stand it, there's even more dramatic passion from the trumpet. Here's the "edited alternate":
See what I mean? I could only imagine how tough it was for George Avakian to make his final editing choices. But George, God bless him--he'll be 91 next month--made the right choices so let's be thankful that. And let's be thankful to Fats Waller and Andy Razaf for writing such a beautiful song. And of course, thanks to Pops and the All Stars, who in the face of almost unyielding criticism in the 1950s and 1960s, continued to make such timeless, glorious music as the performances shared today. I hope you were as moved by them as I. Have a wonderful weekend and if you're one of my fellow east coasters who is going to be shoveling snow for the next two or three days, just blast "Blue Turning Grey Over You" out of some loudspeakers...there's enough warmth in that 1955 recording to melt all the snow in Alaska!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
80 Years of "Blue Turning Grey Over You"
Louis Armstrong And His Orchestra
Recorded February 1, 1930
Track Time 3:31
Written by Fats Waller and Andy Razaf
Recorded in New York City
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; Otis Johnson, Henry “Red” Allen, trumpets; J.C. Higginbotham, trombone; William Thornton Blue, Charlie Holmes, alto saxophone, clarinet; Teddy Hill, tenor saxophone, clarinet; Luis Russell, piano, vibes; Will Johnson, guitar; Pops Foster, bass; Paul Barbarin, drums
Originally released on Okeh 41375
Currently available on CD: Volume four of the JSP Hot Five and Hot Seven series has it, as does volume six of Columbia’s old Armstrong series (St. Louis Blues).
Available on Itunes? Yes
80 years ago this week, Louis Armstrong recorded his first version of "Blue Turning Grey Over You" for OKeh records with Luis Russell's Orchestra. If you've been a regular visitor of my blog for the past couple of months, you've waded through a few of these celebrations. Armstrong and Russell shared four recording dates between December 10, 1929 and February 1, 1930 producing seven wonderful sides (and a slew of alternate takes).
"Blue Turning Grey Over You" was their last collaboration until Armstrong officially began fronting Russell's group full-time in 1935. The song was written by the terrific team of Fats Waller and Andy Razaf, whose "Ain't Misbehavin'" really put Armstrong on the map in the summer of 1929. Armstrong and Waller were good buddies and Pops always seemed to thrive on Fats's compositions. "Blue Turning Grey Over You" is no exception.
"Blue Turning Grey" is one of those compositions that can be treated as either a soggy ballad or a hot swinger. Recordings made at the time of its publishing illustrate this point. If you'd like to hear Lee Morse give it a sentimental treatment, click here. And if you like hot dance band performances, look no further than this 1930 recording by British bandleader Bert Ambrose and his Orchestra:
When Fats finally got around to recording it in 1936, he treated it as an extended instrumental romp. I know this is kind of getting away from the subject, but I also know there are a lot of Fats Waller nuts out there, so here's Fats's version:
It's all great stuff. But no one quite owned the tune like Pops. Armstrong saw the wistfulness of the lyrics and immediately braced the qualities that made this song such a lovely ballad. With mute firmly in the bell of his Selmer trumpet, this is how "Blue Turning Grey Over You" turned out (of course, you might already know how it turned out since I used it to discuss Paul Barbarin's drumming on my "Song of the Islands" post...can't hurt to hear it again!):
The Russell band takes the intro, which is very heavy and serious (and probably could have used another run-through), until Pops's light muted beeps turn up the swing quotient. Armstrong starts off with the melody, but almost immediately he's off to his variations, bubbling over with double-time brio during the first turnaround.
At this stage in his career, Armstrong's operatic tendencies were starting to come into view, especially on uptempo songs. But on slower pieces (not necessarily ballads), he tended to state the melodies muted, filling in the gaps with as many double-timed phrases as possible (see "All of Me," "Little Joe," "Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea" and others). As time went on, this aspect of his style seemed to disappear, though he still liked to play certain melodies with a straight mute.
Armstrong continues going for broke thoughout his first chorus, not quite making a daring rip into the upper register at the end of the bridge. Armstrong's vocal follows a similar pattern; he's a little more respectful of the melody but he can't resist using the turnarounds for scat escapades. His last reading of the titular phrase is especially declamatory.
J.C. Higginbotham plays a humorous break setting up a slightly boozy 16-bars. Armstrong, unmuted, launches himself into the bridge with a lightening-fast run and he continues bubbling during the bridge, not so much by playing strings of notes, but by playing with an urgency that suggests a mountain about to erupt. He finally comes across two pitches he likes and dramatically riffs on them, calling everyone home for the final eight bars. A few years later, the record might have ended with a slow candeza, but at 3:31, it was already pushing the limits of a 78 rpm record so Pops just goes out with the band on a little arranged passage.
The original "Blue Turning Grey Over You" has some wonderful moments and it's clearly a record worth celebrating. However, I can never get too enthused about for one reason: Armstrong's 1955 remake cuts it to ribbons. Don't believe me? Come back in a few days for part two at this look at Louis Armstrong's history with "Blue Turning Grey Over You"!
Recorded February 1, 1930
Track Time 3:31
Written by Fats Waller and Andy Razaf
Recorded in New York City
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; Otis Johnson, Henry “Red” Allen, trumpets; J.C. Higginbotham, trombone; William Thornton Blue, Charlie Holmes, alto saxophone, clarinet; Teddy Hill, tenor saxophone, clarinet; Luis Russell, piano, vibes; Will Johnson, guitar; Pops Foster, bass; Paul Barbarin, drums
Originally released on Okeh 41375
Currently available on CD: Volume four of the JSP Hot Five and Hot Seven series has it, as does volume six of Columbia’s old Armstrong series (St. Louis Blues).
Available on Itunes? Yes
80 years ago this week, Louis Armstrong recorded his first version of "Blue Turning Grey Over You" for OKeh records with Luis Russell's Orchestra. If you've been a regular visitor of my blog for the past couple of months, you've waded through a few of these celebrations. Armstrong and Russell shared four recording dates between December 10, 1929 and February 1, 1930 producing seven wonderful sides (and a slew of alternate takes).
"Blue Turning Grey Over You" was their last collaboration until Armstrong officially began fronting Russell's group full-time in 1935. The song was written by the terrific team of Fats Waller and Andy Razaf, whose "Ain't Misbehavin'" really put Armstrong on the map in the summer of 1929. Armstrong and Waller were good buddies and Pops always seemed to thrive on Fats's compositions. "Blue Turning Grey Over You" is no exception.
"Blue Turning Grey" is one of those compositions that can be treated as either a soggy ballad or a hot swinger. Recordings made at the time of its publishing illustrate this point. If you'd like to hear Lee Morse give it a sentimental treatment, click here. And if you like hot dance band performances, look no further than this 1930 recording by British bandleader Bert Ambrose and his Orchestra:
When Fats finally got around to recording it in 1936, he treated it as an extended instrumental romp. I know this is kind of getting away from the subject, but I also know there are a lot of Fats Waller nuts out there, so here's Fats's version:
It's all great stuff. But no one quite owned the tune like Pops. Armstrong saw the wistfulness of the lyrics and immediately braced the qualities that made this song such a lovely ballad. With mute firmly in the bell of his Selmer trumpet, this is how "Blue Turning Grey Over You" turned out (of course, you might already know how it turned out since I used it to discuss Paul Barbarin's drumming on my "Song of the Islands" post...can't hurt to hear it again!):
The Russell band takes the intro, which is very heavy and serious (and probably could have used another run-through), until Pops's light muted beeps turn up the swing quotient. Armstrong starts off with the melody, but almost immediately he's off to his variations, bubbling over with double-time brio during the first turnaround.
At this stage in his career, Armstrong's operatic tendencies were starting to come into view, especially on uptempo songs. But on slower pieces (not necessarily ballads), he tended to state the melodies muted, filling in the gaps with as many double-timed phrases as possible (see "All of Me," "Little Joe," "Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea" and others). As time went on, this aspect of his style seemed to disappear, though he still liked to play certain melodies with a straight mute.
Armstrong continues going for broke thoughout his first chorus, not quite making a daring rip into the upper register at the end of the bridge. Armstrong's vocal follows a similar pattern; he's a little more respectful of the melody but he can't resist using the turnarounds for scat escapades. His last reading of the titular phrase is especially declamatory.
J.C. Higginbotham plays a humorous break setting up a slightly boozy 16-bars. Armstrong, unmuted, launches himself into the bridge with a lightening-fast run and he continues bubbling during the bridge, not so much by playing strings of notes, but by playing with an urgency that suggests a mountain about to erupt. He finally comes across two pitches he likes and dramatically riffs on them, calling everyone home for the final eight bars. A few years later, the record might have ended with a slow candeza, but at 3:31, it was already pushing the limits of a 78 rpm record so Pops just goes out with the band on a little arranged passage.
The original "Blue Turning Grey Over You" has some wonderful moments and it's clearly a record worth celebrating. However, I can never get too enthused about for one reason: Armstrong's 1955 remake cuts it to ribbons. Don't believe me? Come back in a few days for part two at this look at Louis Armstrong's history with "Blue Turning Grey Over You"!
Sunday, January 24, 2010
80 Years of "Song of the Islands"
Louis Armstrong And His Orchestra
Recorded January 24, 1930
Track Time 3:31
Written by Charles E. King
Recorded in New York City
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; Otis Johnson, Henry “Red” Allen, trumpets; J.C. Higginbotham, trombone; Albert Nicholas, Charlie Holmes, alto saxophone; Teddy Hill, tenor saxophone; Luis Russell, piano, vibes; Will Johnson, guitar; Pops Foster, bass; Paul Barbarin, drums; 3 unknown, violin
Originally released on Okeh 41375
Currently available on CD: Volume four of the JSP Hot Five and Hot Seven series has it, as does volume six of Columbia’s old Armstrong series (St. Louis Blues). It’s also available on about a hundred other discs!
Available on Itunes? Yes
80 years ago today, Louis Armstrong went Hawaiian with his recording of "Song of the Islands." I originally blogged about this momentous occasion back in December 2007 but back then, I wasn't very savvy regarding how to share audio clips. Also, since then, my pals Dave Whitney and Michael Steinman have taught me some new things about the subject at hand. So it's revisiting time once again, friends...grass skirts optional.
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Today’s entry will deal with Charles E. King’s 1915 opus, “Song of the Islands,” which on some releases gets the subtitle, “Na Lei O Hawaii.” Now, I don’t speak Hawaiian, but I do believe that that must be Hawaiian for “Song of the Islands.” Pretty bright am I, eh?
I have no idea how this song wound up at a Louis Armstrong session, but after hearing the end results, I’m not complaining (though I wouldn’t be surprised if The Polynesians recorded “Dippermouth Blues” by accident that day…). Hawaiian music must have been on the upswing when Armstrong recorded the song in 1930, as the sheet music for the then-14-year-old song was reissued in 1929. Here’s a copy of this artifact, courtesy of eBay (please, no bidding):
Now, in writing these little entries, I usually like to do a little research on the song and the songwriter. So who was Charles E. King? A Google search turned up some information on the songwriter from—no joke—Hana Hou, “The Magazine of Hawaiian Airlines.” I quote: “On occasion, Queen Lili‘uokalani taught music, and one of her students, Charles E. King, wrote Hawaii’s best-known opera, Prince of Hawaii, which debuted in 1925. A tale of love and machinations in ancient Hawaii—replete with prince, princess, hula dancers, a chorus and musicians—Prince contained twenty-four songs, several of which have become Island classics, including ‘Beautiful Kahana’ and ‘Ke Kali Nei Au’ (better known as ‘The Hawaiian Wedding Song’).” Thus, King knew his Hawaiian sounds and it’s no surprise that “Song of the Islands” has lived on in countless film and cartoon appearances as a way of setting a Hawaiian atmosphere.
What is surprising is that King’s simple 16-bar melody would become a jazz standard, performed and recorded by the likes of Count Basie, Gene Ammons, Earl Hines and many more. Of course, it’s not so surprising when one considers that Louis Armstrong introduced it to the jazz world, much as he did the same with so many other future standards with his records of 1929-1933. When Armstrong entered OKeh’s New York studios on January 24, 1930, he was still more or less a freelance musician. His first New York session on March 5, 1929 was done with members of Luis Russell’s band. Armstrong obviously felt at home with the group, which featured a number of musicians from New Orleans, as they again backed Armstrong up on two classic sessions from December 1929, as discussed on this blog just last month. On those 1929 sessions, Armstrong even let young trumpeter Henry “Red” Allen blow a bit. Allen was obviously influenced by Armstrong (who wasn’t?) but he was really his own man, with a thoroughly modern approach to trumpet playing that hinged on devil-may-care rhythmic phrasing and the exciting use of nonchord tones. At the time, some accused him of playing wrong notes but he was just ahead of his time, though once the bop school started being hailed for playing those same “wrong notes,” Allen became a largely neglected figure. In taking a jazz historiography class at Rutgers while obtaining my Master’s degree, I was stunned that the majority of the class had no real clue of what a genius Red Allen was. A crime.
Anyway, on January 17, 1930, the Russell band backed Armstrong for a one-nighter at a midnight dance at Baltimore’s New Albert Auditorium, drawing 1,400 people. One week later, the Russell band shared an OKeh date with Armstrong, recording two of their own arrangements, plus “Song of the Islands” with Pops. The Russell band was up first with “Saratoga Shout.” I absolutely adore Luis Russell’s own recordings and I think his rhythm section deserves credit for being one of the first truly swinging units in jazz history. You can hear them in their glory by listening to “Saratoga Shout” here:
Red Allen’s hot solo on “Saratoga Shout” was taken with Armstrong looking on, as John Chilton writes in his marvelous Allen biography, Ride, Red, Ride. “Louis was visibly impressed by Red’s startling 32-bar-chrous on ‘Saratoga Shout’ and offered genuine congratulations, much to the young man’s delight. One suspects that Louis, even, then, knew that Red would never overtake him, but nevertheless Red, on top form, was a formidable rival.” Chilton goes on to quote Armstrong’s second wife, Lillian Hardin, who once was caught listening to a Red Allen record in Armstrong’s prescence. “He must have stood there for a minute with an angry expression on his face, then, after a bit, he smiled and said, ‘Yeah, he’s blowing.'"
With the Russell band sufficiently warmed up, it was time for Pops to perform “Song of the Islands.” Though it might have been something of a crazy idea from the a-and-r man, the group definitely had “Song of the Islands” down by the time they recorded it. I’m also guessing they must have given it a test spin at that Baltimore dance the previous week. Also, the Russell band was augmented by three violinists whose names have been lost to posterity, though Allen remembered them as white musicians from a local theater orchestra, according to Chilton. Before I go any further, why don’t you have a listen to the relaxing sounds of “Song of the Islands":
From the opening note of the record, we’re already shrouded in controversy. We hear a vibraphone (ten months before Lionel Hampton used it to introduce “Memories of You”) but the question is who is playing it? According to Chilton, Red Allen remembered every detail of his sessions with Armstrong and he made an effort to let discographers know that Armstrong’s valet played drums on “Song of the Islands” while Russell band drummer Paul Barbarin played the vibes. Chilton refers to the valet as “Tout Suite,” which sounds like a mishearing/misspelling to me. There’s a photo of Louis and some friends fooling around on a fake boat at Coney Island in 1929 (the photo can be found on page 143 of Michael Cogswell’s Armstrong book, among other places). Standing tall in the photo is a man clearly wearing a valet’s uniform. Armstrong labeled the photo and next to this man, he wrote, “Too Sweet, our chauffer.” Thus, I tend to believe his name was “Too Sweet” rather than “Tout Suite,” but regardless, he did exist and Red Allen seemed pretty sure that he played drums. This could indeed be true because the entire record features nothing but a simple brush pattern on the snare drum. The tempo never lags but there’s no accents (notwithstanding one cymbal hit) or anything flashy whatsoever. Perhaps “Too Sweet” knew a thing or two about the drums and he maintain one pattern at one tempo for three minutes. However, the revered Jos Willems has listened carefully and he doesn’t buy the “Too Sweet” argument. Willems makes the convincing point that the drumming is identical to Barbarin’s work on “Blue Turning Grey Over You.” See what you think by listening to that seminal recording, recorded just one week later (uh oh, do I smell another future anniversary post?):
Willems makes a good point. So who is playing vibes? Willems notes that no piano is heard until the seventh bar of the theme statement so that makes Luis Russell a good candidate. But though I agree with all of Willems points, why would Allen vividly remember the valet playing drums? It seems like something he wouldn’t make up but I guess we’ll never know. Chalk it up to another unsolved jazz mystery, I suppose.
Anyway, I’ve only discussed six seconds of the record and I haven’t even gotten to the part that makes most jazz purists throw up their lunch. Immediately after the vibe introduction, the melody of “Song of the Islands” is sweetly played by the three unknown violinists. With the vibraphone still going on in the background and Pops Foster bowing a two-beat pattern, this does not quite sound like a Louis Armstrong or a Luis Russell record, but maybe more like something by Andy Iona. This goes on for 16 bars before a commercial sounding arranged passage that sounds like quintessential 1920s dance band music.
Flash-forward to just last week when suntanned Michael Steinman, doing a bit of investigative reporting from Maui, wrote me about a 1929 short featuring Ben Pollack and His Orchestra. The short ends with Pollack's men--featuring the likes of Benny Goodman, Jack Teagarden, Jimmy McPartland and Ray Bauduc--playing a chorus of "Song of the Islands" with violins taking the melody, a bowed bass and vibes in the background! I couldn't believe it when I saw, especially the vibes are being manned by Jack Teagarden. The short is from 1929 and Armstrong recorded his in January 1930 so obviously he was copping Pollack's idea or perhaps it was all written into a stock arrangement the two men shared. Anyway, here's the entire eight-minute short. Fast-forward to 7:00 to catch the "Islands" and see what you think. Thanks Michael!
Back to the task at hand. We’re 36 seconds into the record and Gunther Schuller has already contemplated suicide. Don’t believe me? Here’s Schuller himself: “By January 1930 the crrpy tentacles of commercialism had begun to exert an alarming degree of stylistic constraint. On Song of the Islands we can hear the results. A painful mélange of non-jazz elements intrude upon Armstrong, and he himself does not escape entirely unscathed. And how could he?”
Ah, Gunther. Doesn’t the man have any sense of period charm? So the first 40 seconds of “Song of the Islands” isn’t great jazz. So what? I’m sure the guys in the band thought the same thing, but I’m sure they must have had a good time making a Hawaiian sounding record. Regardless, when Pops enters, it does become a great jazz record, so really, why get so bent out of shape about a couple of violin players and a vibraphone? At least Schuller did come up with the perfect adjective for Pops Foster’s bass playing during this segment of the song: “voompy.”
Anyway, when Pops finally does enter, muted, it’s like a breath of fresh air. Am I the only one who thinks that the sappy violins and faux-Hawaiian atmosphere actually enhance Pops’s playing? He’s light years ahead of the arrangement and I think more can be said about his contribution to the song than the “commercial” aspects. I actually find it somewhat comical when I hear his entrance. He’s from a different planet. It’s like the Harlem Globetrotters ending up on Gilligan’s Island.
As I already said, “Song of the Islands” isn’t exactly a work of Gershwin or Ellington. It’s 16 simple bars and almost the entire written melody consists of whole notes or quarter notes. And out of such shoddy mud, Armstrong sculpts a masterpiece of storytelling. He takes the simple melody and keeps it simple, though his subtle repetitions of the main pitch practically define swing, especially in his second bar. He leaves plenty of space in those first four bars, but in bar five he begins to loosen up with a phrase that is 100% out of the Armstrong vocal book (I’m thinking “Don’t Play Me Cheap” or “Some Sweet Day,” among other examples). Heading into the second eight bars, he leaves two more beats of space before playing a neat little triplet figure in the turnaround. He then runs up and down with an arpeggio made up of a couple of more triplets before settling on the concert F of the original sheet music. He repeats it a few times, relaxed, before another rhythmically slippery phrase that sounds like he’s playing an obbligato to his own reading of the melody. After two more beats of space, Armstrong concludes his statement with more of the melody, though his phrasing couldn’t be more smooth and cloudlike.
Armstrong then hands the ball over to the great J.C. Higginbotham, who gives the melody more respect than it deserves, but he does repeat a few notes much as Armstrong did. A modulation from Ab to F sets up Armstrong’s wordless vocal, sung with glee club backing by a few members of the Russell band. People like Schuller hate this stuff, but Armstrong’s performing career began by singing in a vocal quartet in New Orleans and many of his classic early records feature this device (“Basin Street Blues,” “Wrap Your Troubles In Dreams,” “Squeeze Me” and more). This is one of the most trumpet-like scat solos Armstrong ever took. It’s almost completely centered around swinging repetitions of a single note or two. Again, do you want to define the feeling of swing? Listen to the vocal a few times until it’s drilled in your head. Then, tap your table or desk at the same time as every one of Armstrong’s individually scatted notes. Then, sing it in your head and just tap. The combination of on-the-beat phrases juxtaposed with the notes placed in between the beats, well, if that’s not swing, I don’t know what is.
The band then takes a 16-bar arranged passage, a good opportunity to grab a quick beverage. Please, don’t judge the Russell band by a performance like this. This is just a dead arrangement but in a matter of seconds, you’ll forget all about it as Armstrong reenters, this time playing back in Ab. Much like his opening outing, Armstrong begins by working over that concert Eb. Again, in bar five, where he originally inserted that vocal-ish phrase, he plays another incredibly smooth arpeggio, beginning on an Ab, heading down to a low D, then right back up to a higher C, repeated three times before Armstrong bends and stretches an Eb like Silly Putty. After the usual amount of space, Armstrong begins the next eight bars with six repeated Eb’s, all on different beats, before a nifty little Eb-F-Eb turn of a phrase. Then, much like he did the first time around, Armstrong plays the F’s from the melody, then improvises a new little obbligato based around the notes of a Bb7 chord. Then it’s back to the melody. It’s a fine chorus with some nimble phrases but nothing earth-shattering. Until…
Armstrong joins the band for two bars of an arranged passage that leads to a modulation to the key of Db. Now Armstrong demonstrates the pure power and brilliance of his chops. He approaches the tune in much the same way as his first two go-arounds, but because of the key change, he’s now pumping out high Ab’s instead of Eb’s…a big difference. He still leaves plenty of space, allowing the listener all the more time to marvel at the beauty of his tone. In the sixth bar, Armstrong plays his calling card phrase, Bb-Db-Bb-Db-F-F-Db before uncorking another series of arpeggios in bar seven. The notes of a Db chord? Db-F-Ab. The notes of Armstrong’s arpeggio? Ab-F-Db-F-Ab-Db-Ab-F-Db-F-Ab. Armstrong rattles it off like it’s simple and again, I’ll use the word “smooth” to describe the flow of his faster phrases. But with the velocity shelved, Armstrong concentrates on power and drama for the ending. Immediately, from the start of the key change, you know what Armstrong has to do if he’s really going to play the melody that high. And of course he does it, letting a high Bb ring out clearly before toping out at a spine-tingling high C. Having reached his climax, Armstrong builds downward and ends on a low-key Db-Eb-Db phrase. Someone, anyone, strikes a somber chord on the vibraphone and the record comes to a close. A gem of Armstrong’s OKeh big band period.
For many, this is where Armstrong’s association with “Song of the Islands” ends, but he did revive it with his big band. A new uptempo arrangement of the song was performed on a couple radio broadcasts from 1940 and 1941, available, as usual, on the peerless Ambassador label. The first one comes from the Cotton Club in April 1940 and though it’s ten years later, Armstrong’s still fronting the Russell band with Red Allen, Higginbotham, Charlie Holmes and Pops Foster still aboard. This arrangement has nothing to do with the relaxed, Hawaiian feel of the original. It’s about twice as fast and opens with the reeds only alluding to the melody in between responses from the brass. It’s a nice example of the Swing Era being “orchestrated Armstrong,” as some have called it. All traces of dance band-sounding violins and vibes are gone. It now swings from note one and the casual rephrasing of the melody stems very much from Armstrong’s language. Here's the audio:
After one chorus, Higginbotham takes one on his “tram-boon.” All it takes is one listen and you can understand why Pops enjoyed Trummy Young’s blustery playing so much in the 1950s. Higgy’s entire solo is proto-Trummy and it’s exciting as hell. And in a nod to Armstrong’s original, J.C. plays that Armstrong vocal-type phrase in the same exact place Armstrong played it in 1930. Like the original, the tune modulates for an Armstrong scat vocal, once again over glee club backing. This time Armstrong takes two choruses, a break joining them and the band indulges in some arranged singing, repeating Armstrong’s last phrase, to allow Armstrong to get his chops together. And when he does, stand back! There’s no more modulating. Armstrong begins right off in Db and wails for four full choruses, sticking exclusively to the upper register throughout. He sticks closely to the melody for much of it, but still finds time to throw in some nimble improvisations such as, you guessed it, that same vocal phrase in bars five and six. With each passing chorus, Armstrong shows off the pure raw power of his 1940 chops. In 1930, the buildup to that high C is very dramatic; you see it coming and when he hits it, you feel exhilarated. By 1940, every chorus featured a high C hit seemingly without any effort. Armstrong’s favorite drummer, Sid Catlett, really knew how to drive Pops and Pops responds with some real exciting work in the last two choruses. It’s tremendously exciting and is all over in two minutes and 30 seconds, a full minute shorter than the original. This particular version is available on the Ambassador disc, At the Cotton Club, which should have been hailed by the jazz community but instead is almost impossible to find. Ah, where would us Armstrong lovers be without the late Gösta Hägglöf!?
Volume eight of Ambassador’s Armstrong series contains an extremely rare broadcast from the Grand Terrace in Chicago on November 27, 1941. The quality is poor, but I’m just thankful the music survives. The fast arrangement of “Song of the Islands” is trotted out again, picking up with Louis’s scat solo. Armstrong’s four-chorus improvisation is very similar to the one he played at the Cotton Club the previous year. Armstrong was from the generation who worked on their solos until they were perfect. This didn’t mean that Armstrong didn’t improvise but sometimes, when he had a good solo “set,” it remained that way. This is not a bad thing. Never mind the critics who might complain about such matters. I picture a dancer at the Cotton Club in April 1940 or someone standing around the bandstand of the Grand Terrace in November 1941. They were the ones Armstrong was playing for, not some critic writing 65 years later, and I’m sure they were gassed by “Song of the Islands” when they heard it. How could you not be? Here's how it came out at the Grand Terrace:
Now let’s flash forward to 1956 and Louis Armstrong’s last run-in with “Song of the Islands” from the Autobiography. As I’ve stated a hundred thousand times, I’m a big big big supporter of the Autobiography project where the 55-year-old Armstrong tackled man of the songs he originally made famous in the 1920s and 1930s. Some people are so anal about Armstrong’s greatness as a young man that they don’t give the Autobiography sessions a fair shake. I think this is big mistake. Armstrong was completely relaxed for the Autobiography with no other gigs to occupy his time or chops. He was going through a peak period of blowing between 1953 and 1959 and he had the finest edition of the All Stars backing him up, the one with Trummy Young and Edmond Hall. Armstrong responds with brilliant playing on every track, sometimes topping his original efforts. For a great example, listen to Armstrong crack the final high Eb on the original 1929 “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love,” just barely getting it out. Then listen to the Autobiography version where he hits it and holds it. After playing this example during one of my Armstrong lectures at the Institute of Jazz Studies, esteemed trumpeter Randy Sandke remarked that he had no doubt that Armstrong was a technically better trumpet player in his 50s than he was in his 20s. And the Autobiography is filled with dozens of these great moments, many courtesy of the remarkable Sy Oliver sessions.
Oliver was hired to recreate the OKeh and Victor big band recordings and these sides, to me, are the Autobiography’s masterpieces. The December 13, 1956 session started right off with “Song of the Islands.” Here's how it came out:
Oliver usually kept his arrangements pretty streamlined, but he brought the original ones at least somewhat into the future. Thus, the vibraphone and violins are out on “Song of the Islands,” replaced by a delicate Billy Kyle piano intro and the melody stated by the rich reed section made up of great players like Hilton Jefferson and Lucky Thompson. The tempo’s a little slower than the original, which lends an even more relaxed feeling to the proceedings. Pops enters in Ab, gently massaging the Eb. The “vocal phrase” in bars five and six is gone, replaced by a neat little downward phrase that sounds like he’s skipping downhill. Armstrong really sticks to the melody here, not offering many frills but his tone is beautiful and he his last two bars are rhythmically tricky.
As in 1930, a trombone solo follows and it’s a mellow one played by Trummy. After the modulation for the vocal, Armstrong begins his scat solo, but this time he’s all alone with no other voices to back him up. This is one of my very favorite scat sessions. As I already mentioned, Armstrong was very relaxed during the Autobiography sessions. Decca producer Milt Gabler made sure the All Stars had no other bookings and he made sure to stuff the sessions full of good food and good friends. One of those good friends was the actor Slim Thompson, who, according to IMDB, had four roles in movies of the 1930s, including The Petrified Forest and Green Pastures, before leaving the film industry. Since “Song of the Islands” was first up, it’s easy to picture Armstrong arriving at the studio, warming up and welcoming his friends, perhaps telling a dirty joke or two.
Thus, when Armstrong began his scat vocal on “Song of the Islands,” he almost immediately slips in the phrase “Slim Thompson-face” into his scat! I can only imagine the smiles in the studio at that one. Three seconds later, Armstrong offers a shout-out to another friend. This was a mystery scat for years; the great Dan Morgenstern thought it was something about "Rinsofax" and though it made little sense, that was good enough for me. But leave it to the sharp ears of the great Dave Whitney who heard it as Armstrong calling out the name of his good friend "Lorenzo Pack." Once you think of it that way, you'll hear "Lorenzo Pack" for the rest of your life. Pack was a boxer in the 1930s with a record of 19 wins, 9 losses and 1 draw. According to his record at www.boxrec.com, he was knocked out by both Jersey Joe Walcott and "Two Ton" Tony Galento. In addition to being a good friend of Armstrong's, Pack wrote the song "This Black Cat Has Nine Lives," which Louis recorded on the 1970 album Louis Armstrong and His Friends. I always thought that was a pretty weak tune and maybe Louis was recording it as a favor...I think I was right!
Two seconds after calling attention to Pack, Armstrong sings, “What you say, Gate?” so clearly, he didn’t care about the record any more. He was giving a performance to those in the studio and I’m sure they were loving it.
As the scat goes on, Armstrong lets the listeners in on why he loves “Song of the Islands” so much. Take away the Hawaiian elements, the violins and vibraphone on the original. Take away the swinging call and response of the 1940 broadcasts. Take away the glee club backings and scat vocals. What attracted Armstrong to “Song of the Islands”? He reveals the secret at the 2:27 mark in yet another aside to the studio crowd: “Them changes gate.” It might have only been 16 simple bars, but Armstrong dug the chord changes. There’s the opening (in Ab) Ab-Adim7-Eb/Bb and the Ab to F7 to Bb7 in the second eight, two somewhat sentimental patterns that Armstrong must have felt to be quite beautiful. And in his horn, they are.
Like 1930, the tune modulates back to Ab for Armstrong’s trumpet reentrance, which is one of my favorite moments of the performance. Three declamatory notes followed by six beats of space before Armstrong tip-toes back in to create some very lucid ruminations on the melody. It’s all tone and damn, what a tone it is. At the end of these 16 bars, the band prepares for the climactic modulation, rewritten by Oliver to sound much more exciting with Trummy’s trombone on top. Armstrong enters with that beautiful high Ab, the band digging in behind him over backbeats by Deems. On the original, Armstrong stuck mainly to that Ab, but in 1956, Armstrong goes up to a Bb, a welcome addition to this gorgeous solo. The buttery smooth arpeggios and double-timed phrases are gone but like a pitcher who loses a few miles off their fastball with age and has to become a finesse pitcher (unless he’s Roger Clemens—insert steroids joke here), Armstrong made due in his later years with a huge sound, a golden tone and a relaxed phrasing that still defied conventional rhythm while defining the concept of swing. Armstrong floats through this portion of “Song of the Islands” until it’s time to hit the high Bb’s, which he does beautifully. I love the sound of his tone on the repeated Bbs. It’s so pure and he doesn’t even sound like he’s struggling, though God knows what this did to his chops. The high C sings like a bird but instead of replicating the original low-key ending, Armstrong plants his feet firmly, hits a high C and ends with a gigantic high Db, higher than any note he played on the 1930 original.
“Song of the Islands” is one of my favorite highlights of the Autobiography, but that December 13 day was just getting started when you look at the amazing blowing that followed: “That’s My Home,” “ Memories Of You” and “Them There Eyes.” Unbelievable stuff. But I think to write any more about “Song of the Islands,” I would have to actually fly to Hawaii. Or maybe read a Hawaiian in-flight magazine. Either way, listening to it will give you at least a few minutes of warmth to combat this ferociously cold winter here in New Jersey (stay in Maui, Michael!).
Recorded January 24, 1930
Track Time 3:31
Written by Charles E. King
Recorded in New York City
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; Otis Johnson, Henry “Red” Allen, trumpets; J.C. Higginbotham, trombone; Albert Nicholas, Charlie Holmes, alto saxophone; Teddy Hill, tenor saxophone; Luis Russell, piano, vibes; Will Johnson, guitar; Pops Foster, bass; Paul Barbarin, drums; 3 unknown, violin
Originally released on Okeh 41375
Currently available on CD: Volume four of the JSP Hot Five and Hot Seven series has it, as does volume six of Columbia’s old Armstrong series (St. Louis Blues). It’s also available on about a hundred other discs!
Available on Itunes? Yes
80 years ago today, Louis Armstrong went Hawaiian with his recording of "Song of the Islands." I originally blogged about this momentous occasion back in December 2007 but back then, I wasn't very savvy regarding how to share audio clips. Also, since then, my pals Dave Whitney and Michael Steinman have taught me some new things about the subject at hand. So it's revisiting time once again, friends...grass skirts optional.
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Today’s entry will deal with Charles E. King’s 1915 opus, “Song of the Islands,” which on some releases gets the subtitle, “Na Lei O Hawaii.” Now, I don’t speak Hawaiian, but I do believe that that must be Hawaiian for “Song of the Islands.” Pretty bright am I, eh?
I have no idea how this song wound up at a Louis Armstrong session, but after hearing the end results, I’m not complaining (though I wouldn’t be surprised if The Polynesians recorded “Dippermouth Blues” by accident that day…). Hawaiian music must have been on the upswing when Armstrong recorded the song in 1930, as the sheet music for the then-14-year-old song was reissued in 1929. Here’s a copy of this artifact, courtesy of eBay (please, no bidding):
Now, in writing these little entries, I usually like to do a little research on the song and the songwriter. So who was Charles E. King? A Google search turned up some information on the songwriter from—no joke—Hana Hou, “The Magazine of Hawaiian Airlines.” I quote: “On occasion, Queen Lili‘uokalani taught music, and one of her students, Charles E. King, wrote Hawaii’s best-known opera, Prince of Hawaii, which debuted in 1925. A tale of love and machinations in ancient Hawaii—replete with prince, princess, hula dancers, a chorus and musicians—Prince contained twenty-four songs, several of which have become Island classics, including ‘Beautiful Kahana’ and ‘Ke Kali Nei Au’ (better known as ‘The Hawaiian Wedding Song’).” Thus, King knew his Hawaiian sounds and it’s no surprise that “Song of the Islands” has lived on in countless film and cartoon appearances as a way of setting a Hawaiian atmosphere.
What is surprising is that King’s simple 16-bar melody would become a jazz standard, performed and recorded by the likes of Count Basie, Gene Ammons, Earl Hines and many more. Of course, it’s not so surprising when one considers that Louis Armstrong introduced it to the jazz world, much as he did the same with so many other future standards with his records of 1929-1933. When Armstrong entered OKeh’s New York studios on January 24, 1930, he was still more or less a freelance musician. His first New York session on March 5, 1929 was done with members of Luis Russell’s band. Armstrong obviously felt at home with the group, which featured a number of musicians from New Orleans, as they again backed Armstrong up on two classic sessions from December 1929, as discussed on this blog just last month. On those 1929 sessions, Armstrong even let young trumpeter Henry “Red” Allen blow a bit. Allen was obviously influenced by Armstrong (who wasn’t?) but he was really his own man, with a thoroughly modern approach to trumpet playing that hinged on devil-may-care rhythmic phrasing and the exciting use of nonchord tones. At the time, some accused him of playing wrong notes but he was just ahead of his time, though once the bop school started being hailed for playing those same “wrong notes,” Allen became a largely neglected figure. In taking a jazz historiography class at Rutgers while obtaining my Master’s degree, I was stunned that the majority of the class had no real clue of what a genius Red Allen was. A crime.
Anyway, on January 17, 1930, the Russell band backed Armstrong for a one-nighter at a midnight dance at Baltimore’s New Albert Auditorium, drawing 1,400 people. One week later, the Russell band shared an OKeh date with Armstrong, recording two of their own arrangements, plus “Song of the Islands” with Pops. The Russell band was up first with “Saratoga Shout.” I absolutely adore Luis Russell’s own recordings and I think his rhythm section deserves credit for being one of the first truly swinging units in jazz history. You can hear them in their glory by listening to “Saratoga Shout” here:
Red Allen’s hot solo on “Saratoga Shout” was taken with Armstrong looking on, as John Chilton writes in his marvelous Allen biography, Ride, Red, Ride. “Louis was visibly impressed by Red’s startling 32-bar-chrous on ‘Saratoga Shout’ and offered genuine congratulations, much to the young man’s delight. One suspects that Louis, even, then, knew that Red would never overtake him, but nevertheless Red, on top form, was a formidable rival.” Chilton goes on to quote Armstrong’s second wife, Lillian Hardin, who once was caught listening to a Red Allen record in Armstrong’s prescence. “He must have stood there for a minute with an angry expression on his face, then, after a bit, he smiled and said, ‘Yeah, he’s blowing.'"
With the Russell band sufficiently warmed up, it was time for Pops to perform “Song of the Islands.” Though it might have been something of a crazy idea from the a-and-r man, the group definitely had “Song of the Islands” down by the time they recorded it. I’m also guessing they must have given it a test spin at that Baltimore dance the previous week. Also, the Russell band was augmented by three violinists whose names have been lost to posterity, though Allen remembered them as white musicians from a local theater orchestra, according to Chilton. Before I go any further, why don’t you have a listen to the relaxing sounds of “Song of the Islands":
From the opening note of the record, we’re already shrouded in controversy. We hear a vibraphone (ten months before Lionel Hampton used it to introduce “Memories of You”) but the question is who is playing it? According to Chilton, Red Allen remembered every detail of his sessions with Armstrong and he made an effort to let discographers know that Armstrong’s valet played drums on “Song of the Islands” while Russell band drummer Paul Barbarin played the vibes. Chilton refers to the valet as “Tout Suite,” which sounds like a mishearing/misspelling to me. There’s a photo of Louis and some friends fooling around on a fake boat at Coney Island in 1929 (the photo can be found on page 143 of Michael Cogswell’s Armstrong book, among other places). Standing tall in the photo is a man clearly wearing a valet’s uniform. Armstrong labeled the photo and next to this man, he wrote, “Too Sweet, our chauffer.” Thus, I tend to believe his name was “Too Sweet” rather than “Tout Suite,” but regardless, he did exist and Red Allen seemed pretty sure that he played drums. This could indeed be true because the entire record features nothing but a simple brush pattern on the snare drum. The tempo never lags but there’s no accents (notwithstanding one cymbal hit) or anything flashy whatsoever. Perhaps “Too Sweet” knew a thing or two about the drums and he maintain one pattern at one tempo for three minutes. However, the revered Jos Willems has listened carefully and he doesn’t buy the “Too Sweet” argument. Willems makes the convincing point that the drumming is identical to Barbarin’s work on “Blue Turning Grey Over You.” See what you think by listening to that seminal recording, recorded just one week later (uh oh, do I smell another future anniversary post?):
Willems makes a good point. So who is playing vibes? Willems notes that no piano is heard until the seventh bar of the theme statement so that makes Luis Russell a good candidate. But though I agree with all of Willems points, why would Allen vividly remember the valet playing drums? It seems like something he wouldn’t make up but I guess we’ll never know. Chalk it up to another unsolved jazz mystery, I suppose.
Anyway, I’ve only discussed six seconds of the record and I haven’t even gotten to the part that makes most jazz purists throw up their lunch. Immediately after the vibe introduction, the melody of “Song of the Islands” is sweetly played by the three unknown violinists. With the vibraphone still going on in the background and Pops Foster bowing a two-beat pattern, this does not quite sound like a Louis Armstrong or a Luis Russell record, but maybe more like something by Andy Iona. This goes on for 16 bars before a commercial sounding arranged passage that sounds like quintessential 1920s dance band music.
Flash-forward to just last week when suntanned Michael Steinman, doing a bit of investigative reporting from Maui, wrote me about a 1929 short featuring Ben Pollack and His Orchestra. The short ends with Pollack's men--featuring the likes of Benny Goodman, Jack Teagarden, Jimmy McPartland and Ray Bauduc--playing a chorus of "Song of the Islands" with violins taking the melody, a bowed bass and vibes in the background! I couldn't believe it when I saw, especially the vibes are being manned by Jack Teagarden. The short is from 1929 and Armstrong recorded his in January 1930 so obviously he was copping Pollack's idea or perhaps it was all written into a stock arrangement the two men shared. Anyway, here's the entire eight-minute short. Fast-forward to 7:00 to catch the "Islands" and see what you think. Thanks Michael!
Back to the task at hand. We’re 36 seconds into the record and Gunther Schuller has already contemplated suicide. Don’t believe me? Here’s Schuller himself: “By January 1930 the crrpy tentacles of commercialism had begun to exert an alarming degree of stylistic constraint. On Song of the Islands we can hear the results. A painful mélange of non-jazz elements intrude upon Armstrong, and he himself does not escape entirely unscathed. And how could he?”
Ah, Gunther. Doesn’t the man have any sense of period charm? So the first 40 seconds of “Song of the Islands” isn’t great jazz. So what? I’m sure the guys in the band thought the same thing, but I’m sure they must have had a good time making a Hawaiian sounding record. Regardless, when Pops enters, it does become a great jazz record, so really, why get so bent out of shape about a couple of violin players and a vibraphone? At least Schuller did come up with the perfect adjective for Pops Foster’s bass playing during this segment of the song: “voompy.”
Anyway, when Pops finally does enter, muted, it’s like a breath of fresh air. Am I the only one who thinks that the sappy violins and faux-Hawaiian atmosphere actually enhance Pops’s playing? He’s light years ahead of the arrangement and I think more can be said about his contribution to the song than the “commercial” aspects. I actually find it somewhat comical when I hear his entrance. He’s from a different planet. It’s like the Harlem Globetrotters ending up on Gilligan’s Island.
As I already said, “Song of the Islands” isn’t exactly a work of Gershwin or Ellington. It’s 16 simple bars and almost the entire written melody consists of whole notes or quarter notes. And out of such shoddy mud, Armstrong sculpts a masterpiece of storytelling. He takes the simple melody and keeps it simple, though his subtle repetitions of the main pitch practically define swing, especially in his second bar. He leaves plenty of space in those first four bars, but in bar five he begins to loosen up with a phrase that is 100% out of the Armstrong vocal book (I’m thinking “Don’t Play Me Cheap” or “Some Sweet Day,” among other examples). Heading into the second eight bars, he leaves two more beats of space before playing a neat little triplet figure in the turnaround. He then runs up and down with an arpeggio made up of a couple of more triplets before settling on the concert F of the original sheet music. He repeats it a few times, relaxed, before another rhythmically slippery phrase that sounds like he’s playing an obbligato to his own reading of the melody. After two more beats of space, Armstrong concludes his statement with more of the melody, though his phrasing couldn’t be more smooth and cloudlike.
Armstrong then hands the ball over to the great J.C. Higginbotham, who gives the melody more respect than it deserves, but he does repeat a few notes much as Armstrong did. A modulation from Ab to F sets up Armstrong’s wordless vocal, sung with glee club backing by a few members of the Russell band. People like Schuller hate this stuff, but Armstrong’s performing career began by singing in a vocal quartet in New Orleans and many of his classic early records feature this device (“Basin Street Blues,” “Wrap Your Troubles In Dreams,” “Squeeze Me” and more). This is one of the most trumpet-like scat solos Armstrong ever took. It’s almost completely centered around swinging repetitions of a single note or two. Again, do you want to define the feeling of swing? Listen to the vocal a few times until it’s drilled in your head. Then, tap your table or desk at the same time as every one of Armstrong’s individually scatted notes. Then, sing it in your head and just tap. The combination of on-the-beat phrases juxtaposed with the notes placed in between the beats, well, if that’s not swing, I don’t know what is.
The band then takes a 16-bar arranged passage, a good opportunity to grab a quick beverage. Please, don’t judge the Russell band by a performance like this. This is just a dead arrangement but in a matter of seconds, you’ll forget all about it as Armstrong reenters, this time playing back in Ab. Much like his opening outing, Armstrong begins by working over that concert Eb. Again, in bar five, where he originally inserted that vocal-ish phrase, he plays another incredibly smooth arpeggio, beginning on an Ab, heading down to a low D, then right back up to a higher C, repeated three times before Armstrong bends and stretches an Eb like Silly Putty. After the usual amount of space, Armstrong begins the next eight bars with six repeated Eb’s, all on different beats, before a nifty little Eb-F-Eb turn of a phrase. Then, much like he did the first time around, Armstrong plays the F’s from the melody, then improvises a new little obbligato based around the notes of a Bb7 chord. Then it’s back to the melody. It’s a fine chorus with some nimble phrases but nothing earth-shattering. Until…
Armstrong joins the band for two bars of an arranged passage that leads to a modulation to the key of Db. Now Armstrong demonstrates the pure power and brilliance of his chops. He approaches the tune in much the same way as his first two go-arounds, but because of the key change, he’s now pumping out high Ab’s instead of Eb’s…a big difference. He still leaves plenty of space, allowing the listener all the more time to marvel at the beauty of his tone. In the sixth bar, Armstrong plays his calling card phrase, Bb-Db-Bb-Db-F-F-Db before uncorking another series of arpeggios in bar seven. The notes of a Db chord? Db-F-Ab. The notes of Armstrong’s arpeggio? Ab-F-Db-F-Ab-Db-Ab-F-Db-F-Ab. Armstrong rattles it off like it’s simple and again, I’ll use the word “smooth” to describe the flow of his faster phrases. But with the velocity shelved, Armstrong concentrates on power and drama for the ending. Immediately, from the start of the key change, you know what Armstrong has to do if he’s really going to play the melody that high. And of course he does it, letting a high Bb ring out clearly before toping out at a spine-tingling high C. Having reached his climax, Armstrong builds downward and ends on a low-key Db-Eb-Db phrase. Someone, anyone, strikes a somber chord on the vibraphone and the record comes to a close. A gem of Armstrong’s OKeh big band period.
For many, this is where Armstrong’s association with “Song of the Islands” ends, but he did revive it with his big band. A new uptempo arrangement of the song was performed on a couple radio broadcasts from 1940 and 1941, available, as usual, on the peerless Ambassador label. The first one comes from the Cotton Club in April 1940 and though it’s ten years later, Armstrong’s still fronting the Russell band with Red Allen, Higginbotham, Charlie Holmes and Pops Foster still aboard. This arrangement has nothing to do with the relaxed, Hawaiian feel of the original. It’s about twice as fast and opens with the reeds only alluding to the melody in between responses from the brass. It’s a nice example of the Swing Era being “orchestrated Armstrong,” as some have called it. All traces of dance band-sounding violins and vibes are gone. It now swings from note one and the casual rephrasing of the melody stems very much from Armstrong’s language. Here's the audio:
After one chorus, Higginbotham takes one on his “tram-boon.” All it takes is one listen and you can understand why Pops enjoyed Trummy Young’s blustery playing so much in the 1950s. Higgy’s entire solo is proto-Trummy and it’s exciting as hell. And in a nod to Armstrong’s original, J.C. plays that Armstrong vocal-type phrase in the same exact place Armstrong played it in 1930. Like the original, the tune modulates for an Armstrong scat vocal, once again over glee club backing. This time Armstrong takes two choruses, a break joining them and the band indulges in some arranged singing, repeating Armstrong’s last phrase, to allow Armstrong to get his chops together. And when he does, stand back! There’s no more modulating. Armstrong begins right off in Db and wails for four full choruses, sticking exclusively to the upper register throughout. He sticks closely to the melody for much of it, but still finds time to throw in some nimble improvisations such as, you guessed it, that same vocal phrase in bars five and six. With each passing chorus, Armstrong shows off the pure raw power of his 1940 chops. In 1930, the buildup to that high C is very dramatic; you see it coming and when he hits it, you feel exhilarated. By 1940, every chorus featured a high C hit seemingly without any effort. Armstrong’s favorite drummer, Sid Catlett, really knew how to drive Pops and Pops responds with some real exciting work in the last two choruses. It’s tremendously exciting and is all over in two minutes and 30 seconds, a full minute shorter than the original. This particular version is available on the Ambassador disc, At the Cotton Club, which should have been hailed by the jazz community but instead is almost impossible to find. Ah, where would us Armstrong lovers be without the late Gösta Hägglöf!?
Volume eight of Ambassador’s Armstrong series contains an extremely rare broadcast from the Grand Terrace in Chicago on November 27, 1941. The quality is poor, but I’m just thankful the music survives. The fast arrangement of “Song of the Islands” is trotted out again, picking up with Louis’s scat solo. Armstrong’s four-chorus improvisation is very similar to the one he played at the Cotton Club the previous year. Armstrong was from the generation who worked on their solos until they were perfect. This didn’t mean that Armstrong didn’t improvise but sometimes, when he had a good solo “set,” it remained that way. This is not a bad thing. Never mind the critics who might complain about such matters. I picture a dancer at the Cotton Club in April 1940 or someone standing around the bandstand of the Grand Terrace in November 1941. They were the ones Armstrong was playing for, not some critic writing 65 years later, and I’m sure they were gassed by “Song of the Islands” when they heard it. How could you not be? Here's how it came out at the Grand Terrace:
Now let’s flash forward to 1956 and Louis Armstrong’s last run-in with “Song of the Islands” from the Autobiography. As I’ve stated a hundred thousand times, I’m a big big big supporter of the Autobiography project where the 55-year-old Armstrong tackled man of the songs he originally made famous in the 1920s and 1930s. Some people are so anal about Armstrong’s greatness as a young man that they don’t give the Autobiography sessions a fair shake. I think this is big mistake. Armstrong was completely relaxed for the Autobiography with no other gigs to occupy his time or chops. He was going through a peak period of blowing between 1953 and 1959 and he had the finest edition of the All Stars backing him up, the one with Trummy Young and Edmond Hall. Armstrong responds with brilliant playing on every track, sometimes topping his original efforts. For a great example, listen to Armstrong crack the final high Eb on the original 1929 “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love,” just barely getting it out. Then listen to the Autobiography version where he hits it and holds it. After playing this example during one of my Armstrong lectures at the Institute of Jazz Studies, esteemed trumpeter Randy Sandke remarked that he had no doubt that Armstrong was a technically better trumpet player in his 50s than he was in his 20s. And the Autobiography is filled with dozens of these great moments, many courtesy of the remarkable Sy Oliver sessions.
Oliver was hired to recreate the OKeh and Victor big band recordings and these sides, to me, are the Autobiography’s masterpieces. The December 13, 1956 session started right off with “Song of the Islands.” Here's how it came out:
Oliver usually kept his arrangements pretty streamlined, but he brought the original ones at least somewhat into the future. Thus, the vibraphone and violins are out on “Song of the Islands,” replaced by a delicate Billy Kyle piano intro and the melody stated by the rich reed section made up of great players like Hilton Jefferson and Lucky Thompson. The tempo’s a little slower than the original, which lends an even more relaxed feeling to the proceedings. Pops enters in Ab, gently massaging the Eb. The “vocal phrase” in bars five and six is gone, replaced by a neat little downward phrase that sounds like he’s skipping downhill. Armstrong really sticks to the melody here, not offering many frills but his tone is beautiful and he his last two bars are rhythmically tricky.
As in 1930, a trombone solo follows and it’s a mellow one played by Trummy. After the modulation for the vocal, Armstrong begins his scat solo, but this time he’s all alone with no other voices to back him up. This is one of my very favorite scat sessions. As I already mentioned, Armstrong was very relaxed during the Autobiography sessions. Decca producer Milt Gabler made sure the All Stars had no other bookings and he made sure to stuff the sessions full of good food and good friends. One of those good friends was the actor Slim Thompson, who, according to IMDB, had four roles in movies of the 1930s, including The Petrified Forest and Green Pastures, before leaving the film industry. Since “Song of the Islands” was first up, it’s easy to picture Armstrong arriving at the studio, warming up and welcoming his friends, perhaps telling a dirty joke or two.
Thus, when Armstrong began his scat vocal on “Song of the Islands,” he almost immediately slips in the phrase “Slim Thompson-face” into his scat! I can only imagine the smiles in the studio at that one. Three seconds later, Armstrong offers a shout-out to another friend. This was a mystery scat for years; the great Dan Morgenstern thought it was something about "Rinsofax" and though it made little sense, that was good enough for me. But leave it to the sharp ears of the great Dave Whitney who heard it as Armstrong calling out the name of his good friend "Lorenzo Pack." Once you think of it that way, you'll hear "Lorenzo Pack" for the rest of your life. Pack was a boxer in the 1930s with a record of 19 wins, 9 losses and 1 draw. According to his record at www.boxrec.com, he was knocked out by both Jersey Joe Walcott and "Two Ton" Tony Galento. In addition to being a good friend of Armstrong's, Pack wrote the song "This Black Cat Has Nine Lives," which Louis recorded on the 1970 album Louis Armstrong and His Friends. I always thought that was a pretty weak tune and maybe Louis was recording it as a favor...I think I was right!
Two seconds after calling attention to Pack, Armstrong sings, “What you say, Gate?” so clearly, he didn’t care about the record any more. He was giving a performance to those in the studio and I’m sure they were loving it.
As the scat goes on, Armstrong lets the listeners in on why he loves “Song of the Islands” so much. Take away the Hawaiian elements, the violins and vibraphone on the original. Take away the swinging call and response of the 1940 broadcasts. Take away the glee club backings and scat vocals. What attracted Armstrong to “Song of the Islands”? He reveals the secret at the 2:27 mark in yet another aside to the studio crowd: “Them changes gate.” It might have only been 16 simple bars, but Armstrong dug the chord changes. There’s the opening (in Ab) Ab-Adim7-Eb/Bb and the Ab to F7 to Bb7 in the second eight, two somewhat sentimental patterns that Armstrong must have felt to be quite beautiful. And in his horn, they are.
Like 1930, the tune modulates back to Ab for Armstrong’s trumpet reentrance, which is one of my favorite moments of the performance. Three declamatory notes followed by six beats of space before Armstrong tip-toes back in to create some very lucid ruminations on the melody. It’s all tone and damn, what a tone it is. At the end of these 16 bars, the band prepares for the climactic modulation, rewritten by Oliver to sound much more exciting with Trummy’s trombone on top. Armstrong enters with that beautiful high Ab, the band digging in behind him over backbeats by Deems. On the original, Armstrong stuck mainly to that Ab, but in 1956, Armstrong goes up to a Bb, a welcome addition to this gorgeous solo. The buttery smooth arpeggios and double-timed phrases are gone but like a pitcher who loses a few miles off their fastball with age and has to become a finesse pitcher (unless he’s Roger Clemens—insert steroids joke here), Armstrong made due in his later years with a huge sound, a golden tone and a relaxed phrasing that still defied conventional rhythm while defining the concept of swing. Armstrong floats through this portion of “Song of the Islands” until it’s time to hit the high Bb’s, which he does beautifully. I love the sound of his tone on the repeated Bbs. It’s so pure and he doesn’t even sound like he’s struggling, though God knows what this did to his chops. The high C sings like a bird but instead of replicating the original low-key ending, Armstrong plants his feet firmly, hits a high C and ends with a gigantic high Db, higher than any note he played on the 1930 original.
“Song of the Islands” is one of my favorite highlights of the Autobiography, but that December 13 day was just getting started when you look at the amazing blowing that followed: “That’s My Home,” “ Memories Of You” and “Them There Eyes.” Unbelievable stuff. But I think to write any more about “Song of the Islands,” I would have to actually fly to Hawaii. Or maybe read a Hawaiian in-flight magazine. Either way, listening to it will give you at least a few minutes of warmth to combat this ferociously cold winter here in New Jersey (stay in Maui, Michael!).
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Armstrong vs. Bechet: The Final Round - 1945 Esquire Concert
On January 17, 1945--65 years ago last weekend--Louis Armstrong and Sidney Bechet locked horns for the last time. If you've been following this series, you know the story: the two geniuses took part in two historic slugfests on the tune "Cake Walkin' Babies from Home" in the mid-20s, creating spectacular fireworks with their competitive playing. When they reunited in 1940 for a small group session on Decca, they were different men. Armstrong was the star and was determined to dominate, a role Bechet was often accustomed to, leading to a bit of friction. They still turned in two very exciting takes of "Down in Honky Tonk Town," but Bechet was unhappy with the results, blaming Armstrong for turning it into a "bucking" contest.
Five years later, the two tangled for the last time. Like some boxing trilogies, the third contest was a bit ugly and anticlimactic--think of the foul-filled Pep-Saddler fights or think of Sugar Ray Leonard and Roberto Duran boring people to tears in 1989. Still, it's worth listening to as an example of egos in action and as evidence that sometimes the most star-powered "super groups" in the world can provide disappointing music when the members don't play nice.
Esquire magazine was a major friend to the 1940s jazz scene. Their annual awards were usually celebrated by all-star studio recordings while in 1944 and 1945, they slapped their name on two extravaganza concerts. The 1944 Metropolitan Opera House featured a dream band of Armstrong, Roy Eldridge, Jack Teagarden, Coleman Hawkins, Barney Bigard, Art Tatum, Al Casey, Oscar Pettiford and Sid Catlett, with vocals by Billie Holiday and Mildred Bailey (ho hum). It was a marvelous night though Armstrong was plagued by kidney stones and a pain in the neck--the latter being in the form of Roy Eldridge, who tried his best to lure Armstrong into a cutting contest by consistently taking exhibitionistic solos throughout the evening. Even with that--which led to Armstrong getting some negative reviews--it was still a successful night and the music holds up well today.
The following year Esquire decided to throw another concert, this time going all out by making it a three-city extravaganza: Louis Armstrong in New Orleans, Benny Goodman in New York and Duke Ellington in Los Angeles, along with small groups and celebrities such as Jack Benny and Danny Kaye.
By this point, the moldy fig movement was turning into an uprising (notice, no full-on bop was played at either concert). Armstrong was still toting his big band around, which made the purists ill. Thus, there were big expectations of putting Armstrong back in his hometown fronting a small group with the dream team front line of Pops, Bechet and J.C. Higginbotham and a dynamite rhythm section of James P. Johnson, Richard Alexis and Paul Barbarin. What would go wrong?
Obviously, everything. As discussed last time, Armstrong had no patience with Bechet's dominating ways, leading him to blow with fury as to not allow Bechet a chance to take over, annoying Bechet in the process. Well, it was more of the same in 1945 and this time the ugliness reared its head at the rehearsal. According to John Chilton's essential Bechet biography, "Other musicians (including Alphonse Picou and Henry Allen, Sr.), who were seated in the auditorium during the run-through, observed that Armstrong became very angry and showed this by yelling at Sidney, 'I ain't gonna have no two leads in my band.' thereafter the trumpeter played as though he was determined not to give Bechet any room to manoeuvre."
Chilton wasn't kidding. At the concert, Armstrong and Bechet teamed up for "Back O'Town Blues," "Confessin'," "Dear Old Southland" and "Basin Street Blues." Would you believe that on all four numbers, Bechet takes ZERO solos???
The closest Bechet came to taking a solo was on the opening number, "Back O'Town Blues." On paper, the front line of Armstrong, Bechet and Higgy sounds like something to drool over. But just listen to the first ensemble chorus and prepare to grimace. Bechet starts off low for a second, but immediately jumps into his upper register, determined to make his presence felt. And Higgy, God bless him, sounds like he had too much to drink. Armstrong loved Higgy but his playing is all elbows. Armstrong keeps his lead up front, not allowing anyone to take over, but the result is like listening to three people trying to shout over each other.
After this collision course, Armstrong sings his fun vocal on the tune, with Higgy and Bechet still trying to chew the scenery in the background. But listen closely to the cruelest moment, though it's kind of funny in a sadistic way. Armstrong finishes his vocal and Bechet immediately swoops in with a dramatic high note. "This is my moment," he seems to be saying, ready to take over...until Armstrong--in a record-breaking display of getting his chops in his horn--swarms in and takes over the closing ensemble. Higgy and Bechet put up a brave fight but Armstrong smotes them both with a perfect punch: a searing high Eb that he usually didn't go for on this piece. No one could touch Pops when he played angry...
Listen to the blow-by-blow yourself:
After James P. Johnson restored order with a stroll through the "Arkansas Blues" it was time to feature Armstrong once again, this time on "Confessin'," one of his great ballad showpieces. This time, Higgy and Bechet behave themselves in the first chorus, allowing Armstrong to have the spotlight to play the melody (maybe he beat them into submission during "Back O'Town"). Higgy takes an out-of-this-world break before Pops croons the melody beautifully as usual. Armstrong then instructs Higginbotham to take eight bars but even during this brief solo, Armstrong starts turning up the volume on his backing, making sure Bechet doesn't get a word in. Then it's Armstrong's turn for 16 spectacular bars topped off by an absolutely stunning break. The crowd cheers wildly and Armstrong, carried away a bit, continues playing for a second until he realizes it's time to close the number out on a break. The only person not impressed? Bechet, who, immediately after the break plays perhaps the most demeaning note in jazz history. It's a sarcastic little moan that seems to say, "Oh wow, that's SOOO impressive...big deal!" Makes me laugh every time. Still, he can't steal Armstrong's thunder. What a feature! Here 'tis:
Next up, "Dear Old Southland," a number identified with both Pops and Bechet. So who would come out on top this time around? Alas, the answer is Higgy, who uses it as his feature. Finally, the two main combatants play nice and back J.C. with some light riffs, though Higgy still sounds like he's having an off night. No need to share this one.
Finally, a little treat, as old Bunk Johnson was dusted off to join in with Pops for a few choruses of "Basin Street Blues." Unfortunately, it's too short but it's still a fascinating glimpse at the different sounds of two of New Orleans's best-known hornmen. Here's the audio:
Bechet was completely stifled, shut out in the solo department. However, he managed to fix his sights on Johnson, with whom he'd team up with for an engagement soon thereafter. Bechet treated Johnson as a sparring partner, completely dominating him until Bunk quit the gig.
As for Pops, there was no quit in him. There was some messy music played that night in New Orleans but Armstrong's ego and temper instilled his playing with quite a bit of heat. He definitely won this one by knockout.
Though Bechet lived for 14 more years, his path never again crossed with Louis. Bechet was supposed to perform at Armstrong's famed Town Hall concert but at the last minute, he called out sick (though witnesses said he spent the night playing with Max Kaminsky at Jimmy Ryan's). 10 years later, Bechet was expected to fly to America to take part in Armstrong's 1957 birthday celebration at the Newport Jazz Festvial but that fell through, too.
In the end, for all their combativeness, Armstrong and Bechet did have respect for each other. Bechet, after knocking the 1940 Decca sessions, spent some time praising Armstrong's ability as a "musicianer" in his autobiography. Armstrong played at Bechet's memorial concert at Carnegie Hall and during a 1956 Voice of America interview, named Bechet's Blue Note recording of "Summertime" as one of his personal favorites. So all might have ended well, but it's those dramatic moments they spent together on stage and in the studio that will truly live forever. Not all of the music produced was of A+ quality but the inherent edge in their collaboration always made for fascinating listening.
Boxing had Ali and Frazier. Jazz has Armstrong and Bechet.
Five years later, the two tangled for the last time. Like some boxing trilogies, the third contest was a bit ugly and anticlimactic--think of the foul-filled Pep-Saddler fights or think of Sugar Ray Leonard and Roberto Duran boring people to tears in 1989. Still, it's worth listening to as an example of egos in action and as evidence that sometimes the most star-powered "super groups" in the world can provide disappointing music when the members don't play nice.
Esquire magazine was a major friend to the 1940s jazz scene. Their annual awards were usually celebrated by all-star studio recordings while in 1944 and 1945, they slapped their name on two extravaganza concerts. The 1944 Metropolitan Opera House featured a dream band of Armstrong, Roy Eldridge, Jack Teagarden, Coleman Hawkins, Barney Bigard, Art Tatum, Al Casey, Oscar Pettiford and Sid Catlett, with vocals by Billie Holiday and Mildred Bailey (ho hum). It was a marvelous night though Armstrong was plagued by kidney stones and a pain in the neck--the latter being in the form of Roy Eldridge, who tried his best to lure Armstrong into a cutting contest by consistently taking exhibitionistic solos throughout the evening. Even with that--which led to Armstrong getting some negative reviews--it was still a successful night and the music holds up well today.
The following year Esquire decided to throw another concert, this time going all out by making it a three-city extravaganza: Louis Armstrong in New Orleans, Benny Goodman in New York and Duke Ellington in Los Angeles, along with small groups and celebrities such as Jack Benny and Danny Kaye.
By this point, the moldy fig movement was turning into an uprising (notice, no full-on bop was played at either concert). Armstrong was still toting his big band around, which made the purists ill. Thus, there were big expectations of putting Armstrong back in his hometown fronting a small group with the dream team front line of Pops, Bechet and J.C. Higginbotham and a dynamite rhythm section of James P. Johnson, Richard Alexis and Paul Barbarin. What would go wrong?
Obviously, everything. As discussed last time, Armstrong had no patience with Bechet's dominating ways, leading him to blow with fury as to not allow Bechet a chance to take over, annoying Bechet in the process. Well, it was more of the same in 1945 and this time the ugliness reared its head at the rehearsal. According to John Chilton's essential Bechet biography, "Other musicians (including Alphonse Picou and Henry Allen, Sr.), who were seated in the auditorium during the run-through, observed that Armstrong became very angry and showed this by yelling at Sidney, 'I ain't gonna have no two leads in my band.' thereafter the trumpeter played as though he was determined not to give Bechet any room to manoeuvre."
Chilton wasn't kidding. At the concert, Armstrong and Bechet teamed up for "Back O'Town Blues," "Confessin'," "Dear Old Southland" and "Basin Street Blues." Would you believe that on all four numbers, Bechet takes ZERO solos???
The closest Bechet came to taking a solo was on the opening number, "Back O'Town Blues." On paper, the front line of Armstrong, Bechet and Higgy sounds like something to drool over. But just listen to the first ensemble chorus and prepare to grimace. Bechet starts off low for a second, but immediately jumps into his upper register, determined to make his presence felt. And Higgy, God bless him, sounds like he had too much to drink. Armstrong loved Higgy but his playing is all elbows. Armstrong keeps his lead up front, not allowing anyone to take over, but the result is like listening to three people trying to shout over each other.
After this collision course, Armstrong sings his fun vocal on the tune, with Higgy and Bechet still trying to chew the scenery in the background. But listen closely to the cruelest moment, though it's kind of funny in a sadistic way. Armstrong finishes his vocal and Bechet immediately swoops in with a dramatic high note. "This is my moment," he seems to be saying, ready to take over...until Armstrong--in a record-breaking display of getting his chops in his horn--swarms in and takes over the closing ensemble. Higgy and Bechet put up a brave fight but Armstrong smotes them both with a perfect punch: a searing high Eb that he usually didn't go for on this piece. No one could touch Pops when he played angry...
Listen to the blow-by-blow yourself:
After James P. Johnson restored order with a stroll through the "Arkansas Blues" it was time to feature Armstrong once again, this time on "Confessin'," one of his great ballad showpieces. This time, Higgy and Bechet behave themselves in the first chorus, allowing Armstrong to have the spotlight to play the melody (maybe he beat them into submission during "Back O'Town"). Higgy takes an out-of-this-world break before Pops croons the melody beautifully as usual. Armstrong then instructs Higginbotham to take eight bars but even during this brief solo, Armstrong starts turning up the volume on his backing, making sure Bechet doesn't get a word in. Then it's Armstrong's turn for 16 spectacular bars topped off by an absolutely stunning break. The crowd cheers wildly and Armstrong, carried away a bit, continues playing for a second until he realizes it's time to close the number out on a break. The only person not impressed? Bechet, who, immediately after the break plays perhaps the most demeaning note in jazz history. It's a sarcastic little moan that seems to say, "Oh wow, that's SOOO impressive...big deal!" Makes me laugh every time. Still, he can't steal Armstrong's thunder. What a feature! Here 'tis:
Next up, "Dear Old Southland," a number identified with both Pops and Bechet. So who would come out on top this time around? Alas, the answer is Higgy, who uses it as his feature. Finally, the two main combatants play nice and back J.C. with some light riffs, though Higgy still sounds like he's having an off night. No need to share this one.
Finally, a little treat, as old Bunk Johnson was dusted off to join in with Pops for a few choruses of "Basin Street Blues." Unfortunately, it's too short but it's still a fascinating glimpse at the different sounds of two of New Orleans's best-known hornmen. Here's the audio:
Bechet was completely stifled, shut out in the solo department. However, he managed to fix his sights on Johnson, with whom he'd team up with for an engagement soon thereafter. Bechet treated Johnson as a sparring partner, completely dominating him until Bunk quit the gig.
As for Pops, there was no quit in him. There was some messy music played that night in New Orleans but Armstrong's ego and temper instilled his playing with quite a bit of heat. He definitely won this one by knockout.
Though Bechet lived for 14 more years, his path never again crossed with Louis. Bechet was supposed to perform at Armstrong's famed Town Hall concert but at the last minute, he called out sick (though witnesses said he spent the night playing with Max Kaminsky at Jimmy Ryan's). 10 years later, Bechet was expected to fly to America to take part in Armstrong's 1957 birthday celebration at the Newport Jazz Festvial but that fell through, too.
In the end, for all their combativeness, Armstrong and Bechet did have respect for each other. Bechet, after knocking the 1940 Decca sessions, spent some time praising Armstrong's ability as a "musicianer" in his autobiography. Armstrong played at Bechet's memorial concert at Carnegie Hall and during a 1956 Voice of America interview, named Bechet's Blue Note recording of "Summertime" as one of his personal favorites. So all might have ended well, but it's those dramatic moments they spent together on stage and in the studio that will truly live forever. Not all of the music produced was of A+ quality but the inherent edge in their collaboration always made for fascinating listening.
Boxing had Ali and Frazier. Jazz has Armstrong and Bechet.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Down in Honky Tonk Town - Revisited
Recorded May 27, 1940
Track Time 3:06
Written by Chris Smith and Charles McCarron
Recorded in New York City
Louis Armstrong, trumpet; Sidney Bechet, soprano saxophone; Claude Jones, trombone; Luis Russell, piano; Bernard Addison, guitar; Wellman Braud, bass; Zutty Singleton, drums
Originally released on Decca 18090
Currently available on CD: Mosaic's recent "Complete Louis Armstrong Decca Recordings 1935-1946" box has both takes
Available on Itunes? Yes
Yes, dear readers, it's "revisit" time and unfortunately, I don't have piles of new information on "Down in Honky Tonk Town" to share. As crunch-time for my book continues at a frantic pace, I don't envision time to write any lengthy new posts for at least a week. Fortunately, my "Cake Walkin' Babies From Home" post has been warmly received by a number of my readers so I'm following it up with an in-depth look at a song Armstrong and Bechet recorded during their 1940 set of rematches (these sessions were done 70 years ago this year so consider this an anniversary posting, too...nice!). This was one of my earliest blogs so I've actually had to do a bunch of editing and updating to keep it relevant, but otherwise, here's what I had to say about "Down in Honky Tonk Town" in 2007 (I've edited out a lot of repeat info already given in the "Cake Walkin'" blog).
In the 15 years between the 1925 New York sessions and the Decca reunion, one couldn't imagine two musicians's careers taking such different paths: Armstrong changed jazz history with the Hot Five and Seven records, started making standards out of pop tunes, toured the world with big bands and starred in major Hollywood movies. Bechet, on the other hand, spent time in jail, ran a tailor shop in New York, toured with a big band and made a series of modest selling records under his own name.
But by the late 30s, the New Orleans jazz revival was starting to blossom and, championed by French critic Hughes Pansassie, Bechet became a hero to the moldy fig fans of this music, in addition to making a popular record in 1939 with his rendition of "Summertime." The reunion was a wonderful idea in a period when Decca experimented greatly with Armstrong. From March 14, 1940 through April 11, 1941, Armstrong made seven sessions for Decca, but only two featured his regular touring big band; the others featured Bechet, the Mills Brothers and a small group dubbed the "Hot Seven" for nostalgic reasons.
Unfortunately, what once passed for extreme competition had now blossomed into a slight feeling of animosity between the two New Orleans giants. Bechet was jealous of Armstrong's success and besides, never had much use for trumpet players. Armstrong was used to being the dominant ensemble musician because of the pure power of his trumpet and didn't want to have to compete with Bechet's clarinet and louder soprano saxophone. Fireworks were bound to fly.
And on "Down in Honky Tonk Town," they flew all right, but didn't come close to reaching the heights of "Cake Walkin' Babies From Home" (pretty high heights). The intense, one-upmanship didn't exactly produce the same historic results in 1940, perhaps because things to a little too intense. According to Bechet, it was Armstrong's fault because "it was like he was a little hungrier." Bechet claimed that Lil Hardin Armstrong contributed some sketches for the date but Armstrong refused to follow them, instead playing with more of an edge rather than with any sense of teamwork. "The man who was recording the numbers, he told him, 'Louis, take it easy. Just play Louis. Play natural. Don't worrya bout what Sidney's doing."
Bechet continued, "But Louis, it seemed like he was wanting to make it a kind of thing where we were supposed to be bucking each other, competing instead of working together for that real feeling that would let the music come new and strong."
Now anyone with any knowledge of Bechet's attitude towards music might find this a little hard to believe. Teamwork was usually the last thing on Bechet's mind as his horns gleefully dominated any ensemble they were apart of. Some trumpet players stood out of the way and let Bechet his do his thing (Buck Clayton), some tried and succeeded to complement Bechet's work without overshadowing him (Muggsy Spanier), some joined forces with him to melt the studio walls with a blistering combination of hell and heat (Wild Bill Davison) and some just couldn't keep up with him and had to quit (Bunk Johnson).
With Armstrong, Bechet had not only met a true equal, but also someone who wasn't going to take any crap. I'm sure ego had something to do with it. Armstrong was a huge star, used to being predominantly featured with big bands. I don't think he wanted to give Bechet an opening to take over, as Bechet had on the first Red Onion Jazz Babies version of "Cake Walkin' Babies." So Armstrong approached the entire date with unusual aggression, rubbing Bechet the wrong way and leading to some exciting music, if not necessarily prime candidates for a time capsule.
The session began wonderfully with "Perdido Street Blues," Bechet's clarinet especially declamatory in the opening and closing minor-keyed strains. Armstrong's three-chorus solo unfurls beautifully with Bechet and trombonist Claude Jones riffing urgently in the background. It's the kind of performance that causes the listener to sweat with excitement, propelled greatly by master of New Orleans drumming Zutty Singleton. "2:19 Blues" followed with Armstrong's vocal being the centerpiece of a very mellow performance.
Then it was time for "Down in Honky Tonk Town," a piece from 1916 co-written by Chris Smith of "Ballin' The Jack" and you guessed it, "Cake Walkin' Babies From Home" fame. Fortunately, it exists in two takes that seem to have been released almost simultaneously by Decca. Thus, I'm not 100% sure which is the "master" and which is the "alternate." The one I always thought was the master was issued by Mosaic last year as being the alternate. But who cares about all of that, let's just take it one take at a time. Here's the first:
Armstrong comes charging out of the gate, playing the opening strain with simple support from trombonist Jones while Bechet harmonizes with low soprano notes. Bechet asserts himself on the main strain and there's some nasty clashes between Bechet and Jones in the ensemble. Jones was the only one at the session who wasn't raised in New Orleans and the polyphonic style wasn't his strong point. Armstrong sticks to the melody, with Bechet filling the very small gaps with some more simple low notes. Bechet gradually gets a little higher, warming up for his solo, which he sails into before Armstrong's even finished playing the melody. It's a typically exciting Bechet affair with some especially violent phrases around the 1:23 mark. He alludes to the melody before going out high, much like a trumpet. Jones is up next and his solo is a mess, going through the motions without any feeling or swing. Fortunately, Bernard Addison is right behind him and his acoustic, chorded guitar solo is on the money. Zutty's up next with a 24-bar drum solo, exploring all the different sound possibilities of his drum set, before the horns rush in to complete the final eight bars of the 32-bar main strain (that sentence featured more bars than the Jersey Shore...and I know because I live minutes from Seaside Heights!).
[Note: I wrote that parenthetical sentence in 2007, two years before MTV's "Jersey Shore" reality series swept the nation. If you don't know what that is...good.]
With about a minute to go, you know the gloves are going to come off and they do. Armstrong's still on the melody before he finally improvises an exciting rideout, though the melody's never far away. Bechet's with him the entire time (Jones works that tiny-toned gliss to death) and it builds up quite a head of steam. Armstrong's half-time, high note ending is purely the 1940 Louis, something he wouldn't have played in 1925, but it works. Not quite "Cake Walking Babies," mind you but but the piece could have used some more free-for-all blowing or even some breaks.
You can probably picture Louis and Bechet grumbling around the studio after that first go-around. One more take would be necessary to smooth out some of the bumps. Here's how it came out:
"Down in Honky Tonk Town" features a pretty repetitive melody and it's instructive to listen to how Armstrong alters it here and there to keep it from becoming monotonous--doubling a note a few times, allowing certain phrases to breathe a little better, etc. He was a master of taking stiff melodies and making them come alive. Armstrong's subtle changes are always fun to hear, as are the incredible similarities between both takes, such as the way he smears a concert Db into three connected notes about 21 seconds in. Armstrong also enters the main strain on this with a flashier phrase than the held single note on take 1. Bechet's solos contain some similar phrases, but the upper register work on this one isn't quite as violent. Midway through, at 1:20, Bechet plays with two pitches in a way, it almost sounds like an Armstrong trumpet cadenza (think "Skeleton in the Closet")...perhaps a little dig?
Listening to both recordings, what's funny is Claude Jones's trombone playing, almost identical from take to take, except for this solo, which begins with a more effective opening phrase than on the first take but soon gets into more meaningless meandering. In John Chilton's masterful Sidney Becehet biography "The Wizard of Jazz," Jones is quoted as saying, "Louis and Bechet were in peak form that day, but the recording manager just wore me down. He kept coming out of his sound-proof box and shouting, 'Give that horn more tailgate, Jones, more tailgate,' and he got me so mad in the end that I messed up my solo in 'Down in Honky Tonk Town.'" At least he knew it! Otherwise, I think the rideout features more aggressive playing by Armstrong on the second take. On the first, Armstrong sounds like a damned good New Orleans ensemble trumpeter: mostly melody, allowing Bechet some space,he doesn't get up in the high upper register until the end, etc. On this take, however, he sounds more like Louis Armstrong: alludes to the melody but improvises more, plays more quarter notes than half notes and is already hitting some high notes in the second 16 bars of the chorus. Armstrong's use of space is genius; the daring, fast "combinations" of the "Cake Walkin' Babies" days are over. Armstrong's now a strong, aggressive power puncher, managing to take charge--and swing mightily--without running up and down his horn.
Bechet's clearly audible throughout and what he plays sounds exciting enough but it's Armstrong's show, which must have rankled Bechet, especially since he had recently made some wonderful records in a quartet setting with a much more sympathetic brassman, Muggsy Spanier. Some people, such as Bechet disciple Bob Wilber, knocked Armstrong's ensemble style from the 40s on because it was too showy, full of too many high notes and wasn't a true New Orleans lead (whatever that is). While it's true to an extent, I don't think it's a reason to knock Armstrong. This is who he was. Even by 1927, he was dominating his own records and making jazz more of a solo art. I love Armstrong's ensemble playing, especially with the All Stars, and especially when he had a sympathetic front line.
Bechet's a genius but he wasn't sympathetic. In fact, the next time Armstrong and Bechet locked horns was at an Esquire Awards concert in New Orleans in 1945...January 17, 1945, 65 years ago this week. Do you smell a third and final chapter to the continuing saga of Armstrong vs. Bechet? Stay tuned...
Track Time 3:06
Written by Chris Smith and Charles McCarron
Recorded in New York City
Louis Armstrong, trumpet; Sidney Bechet, soprano saxophone; Claude Jones, trombone; Luis Russell, piano; Bernard Addison, guitar; Wellman Braud, bass; Zutty Singleton, drums
Originally released on Decca 18090
Currently available on CD: Mosaic's recent "Complete Louis Armstrong Decca Recordings 1935-1946" box has both takes
Available on Itunes? Yes
Yes, dear readers, it's "revisit" time and unfortunately, I don't have piles of new information on "Down in Honky Tonk Town" to share. As crunch-time for my book continues at a frantic pace, I don't envision time to write any lengthy new posts for at least a week. Fortunately, my "Cake Walkin' Babies From Home" post has been warmly received by a number of my readers so I'm following it up with an in-depth look at a song Armstrong and Bechet recorded during their 1940 set of rematches (these sessions were done 70 years ago this year so consider this an anniversary posting, too...nice!). This was one of my earliest blogs so I've actually had to do a bunch of editing and updating to keep it relevant, but otherwise, here's what I had to say about "Down in Honky Tonk Town" in 2007 (I've edited out a lot of repeat info already given in the "Cake Walkin'" blog).
In the 15 years between the 1925 New York sessions and the Decca reunion, one couldn't imagine two musicians's careers taking such different paths: Armstrong changed jazz history with the Hot Five and Seven records, started making standards out of pop tunes, toured the world with big bands and starred in major Hollywood movies. Bechet, on the other hand, spent time in jail, ran a tailor shop in New York, toured with a big band and made a series of modest selling records under his own name.
But by the late 30s, the New Orleans jazz revival was starting to blossom and, championed by French critic Hughes Pansassie, Bechet became a hero to the moldy fig fans of this music, in addition to making a popular record in 1939 with his rendition of "Summertime." The reunion was a wonderful idea in a period when Decca experimented greatly with Armstrong. From March 14, 1940 through April 11, 1941, Armstrong made seven sessions for Decca, but only two featured his regular touring big band; the others featured Bechet, the Mills Brothers and a small group dubbed the "Hot Seven" for nostalgic reasons.
Unfortunately, what once passed for extreme competition had now blossomed into a slight feeling of animosity between the two New Orleans giants. Bechet was jealous of Armstrong's success and besides, never had much use for trumpet players. Armstrong was used to being the dominant ensemble musician because of the pure power of his trumpet and didn't want to have to compete with Bechet's clarinet and louder soprano saxophone. Fireworks were bound to fly.
And on "Down in Honky Tonk Town," they flew all right, but didn't come close to reaching the heights of "Cake Walkin' Babies From Home" (pretty high heights). The intense, one-upmanship didn't exactly produce the same historic results in 1940, perhaps because things to a little too intense. According to Bechet, it was Armstrong's fault because "it was like he was a little hungrier." Bechet claimed that Lil Hardin Armstrong contributed some sketches for the date but Armstrong refused to follow them, instead playing with more of an edge rather than with any sense of teamwork. "The man who was recording the numbers, he told him, 'Louis, take it easy. Just play Louis. Play natural. Don't worrya bout what Sidney's doing."
Bechet continued, "But Louis, it seemed like he was wanting to make it a kind of thing where we were supposed to be bucking each other, competing instead of working together for that real feeling that would let the music come new and strong."
Now anyone with any knowledge of Bechet's attitude towards music might find this a little hard to believe. Teamwork was usually the last thing on Bechet's mind as his horns gleefully dominated any ensemble they were apart of. Some trumpet players stood out of the way and let Bechet his do his thing (Buck Clayton), some tried and succeeded to complement Bechet's work without overshadowing him (Muggsy Spanier), some joined forces with him to melt the studio walls with a blistering combination of hell and heat (Wild Bill Davison) and some just couldn't keep up with him and had to quit (Bunk Johnson).
With Armstrong, Bechet had not only met a true equal, but also someone who wasn't going to take any crap. I'm sure ego had something to do with it. Armstrong was a huge star, used to being predominantly featured with big bands. I don't think he wanted to give Bechet an opening to take over, as Bechet had on the first Red Onion Jazz Babies version of "Cake Walkin' Babies." So Armstrong approached the entire date with unusual aggression, rubbing Bechet the wrong way and leading to some exciting music, if not necessarily prime candidates for a time capsule.
The session began wonderfully with "Perdido Street Blues," Bechet's clarinet especially declamatory in the opening and closing minor-keyed strains. Armstrong's three-chorus solo unfurls beautifully with Bechet and trombonist Claude Jones riffing urgently in the background. It's the kind of performance that causes the listener to sweat with excitement, propelled greatly by master of New Orleans drumming Zutty Singleton. "2:19 Blues" followed with Armstrong's vocal being the centerpiece of a very mellow performance.
Then it was time for "Down in Honky Tonk Town," a piece from 1916 co-written by Chris Smith of "Ballin' The Jack" and you guessed it, "Cake Walkin' Babies From Home" fame. Fortunately, it exists in two takes that seem to have been released almost simultaneously by Decca. Thus, I'm not 100% sure which is the "master" and which is the "alternate." The one I always thought was the master was issued by Mosaic last year as being the alternate. But who cares about all of that, let's just take it one take at a time. Here's the first:
Armstrong comes charging out of the gate, playing the opening strain with simple support from trombonist Jones while Bechet harmonizes with low soprano notes. Bechet asserts himself on the main strain and there's some nasty clashes between Bechet and Jones in the ensemble. Jones was the only one at the session who wasn't raised in New Orleans and the polyphonic style wasn't his strong point. Armstrong sticks to the melody, with Bechet filling the very small gaps with some more simple low notes. Bechet gradually gets a little higher, warming up for his solo, which he sails into before Armstrong's even finished playing the melody. It's a typically exciting Bechet affair with some especially violent phrases around the 1:23 mark. He alludes to the melody before going out high, much like a trumpet. Jones is up next and his solo is a mess, going through the motions without any feeling or swing. Fortunately, Bernard Addison is right behind him and his acoustic, chorded guitar solo is on the money. Zutty's up next with a 24-bar drum solo, exploring all the different sound possibilities of his drum set, before the horns rush in to complete the final eight bars of the 32-bar main strain (that sentence featured more bars than the Jersey Shore...and I know because I live minutes from Seaside Heights!).
[Note: I wrote that parenthetical sentence in 2007, two years before MTV's "Jersey Shore" reality series swept the nation. If you don't know what that is...good.]
With about a minute to go, you know the gloves are going to come off and they do. Armstrong's still on the melody before he finally improvises an exciting rideout, though the melody's never far away. Bechet's with him the entire time (Jones works that tiny-toned gliss to death) and it builds up quite a head of steam. Armstrong's half-time, high note ending is purely the 1940 Louis, something he wouldn't have played in 1925, but it works. Not quite "Cake Walking Babies," mind you but but the piece could have used some more free-for-all blowing or even some breaks.
You can probably picture Louis and Bechet grumbling around the studio after that first go-around. One more take would be necessary to smooth out some of the bumps. Here's how it came out:
"Down in Honky Tonk Town" features a pretty repetitive melody and it's instructive to listen to how Armstrong alters it here and there to keep it from becoming monotonous--doubling a note a few times, allowing certain phrases to breathe a little better, etc. He was a master of taking stiff melodies and making them come alive. Armstrong's subtle changes are always fun to hear, as are the incredible similarities between both takes, such as the way he smears a concert Db into three connected notes about 21 seconds in. Armstrong also enters the main strain on this with a flashier phrase than the held single note on take 1. Bechet's solos contain some similar phrases, but the upper register work on this one isn't quite as violent. Midway through, at 1:20, Bechet plays with two pitches in a way, it almost sounds like an Armstrong trumpet cadenza (think "Skeleton in the Closet")...perhaps a little dig?
Listening to both recordings, what's funny is Claude Jones's trombone playing, almost identical from take to take, except for this solo, which begins with a more effective opening phrase than on the first take but soon gets into more meaningless meandering. In John Chilton's masterful Sidney Becehet biography "The Wizard of Jazz," Jones is quoted as saying, "Louis and Bechet were in peak form that day, but the recording manager just wore me down. He kept coming out of his sound-proof box and shouting, 'Give that horn more tailgate, Jones, more tailgate,' and he got me so mad in the end that I messed up my solo in 'Down in Honky Tonk Town.'" At least he knew it! Otherwise, I think the rideout features more aggressive playing by Armstrong on the second take. On the first, Armstrong sounds like a damned good New Orleans ensemble trumpeter: mostly melody, allowing Bechet some space,he doesn't get up in the high upper register until the end, etc. On this take, however, he sounds more like Louis Armstrong: alludes to the melody but improvises more, plays more quarter notes than half notes and is already hitting some high notes in the second 16 bars of the chorus. Armstrong's use of space is genius; the daring, fast "combinations" of the "Cake Walkin' Babies" days are over. Armstrong's now a strong, aggressive power puncher, managing to take charge--and swing mightily--without running up and down his horn.
Bechet's clearly audible throughout and what he plays sounds exciting enough but it's Armstrong's show, which must have rankled Bechet, especially since he had recently made some wonderful records in a quartet setting with a much more sympathetic brassman, Muggsy Spanier. Some people, such as Bechet disciple Bob Wilber, knocked Armstrong's ensemble style from the 40s on because it was too showy, full of too many high notes and wasn't a true New Orleans lead (whatever that is). While it's true to an extent, I don't think it's a reason to knock Armstrong. This is who he was. Even by 1927, he was dominating his own records and making jazz more of a solo art. I love Armstrong's ensemble playing, especially with the All Stars, and especially when he had a sympathetic front line.
Bechet's a genius but he wasn't sympathetic. In fact, the next time Armstrong and Bechet locked horns was at an Esquire Awards concert in New Orleans in 1945...January 17, 1945, 65 years ago this week. Do you smell a third and final chapter to the continuing saga of Armstrong vs. Bechet? Stay tuned...
Friday, January 15, 2010
Celebrate Big Sid Catlett's Centennial With A Little "Steak Face"
This Sunday, January 17, drum legend "Big" Sid Catlett would have been 100. A real tragedy of Sid's life was the fact that he didn't even make 50, passing away at the age of 41 in 1951. But the beautiful thing about musicians is once they make a record--even if it's only one single tune--they instantly become immortal. And brother, Sid was one of the immortals.
I wish I had the time to wax poetically about Sid's greatness and the special chemistry he has with Louis Armstrong in their multiple stints together. Unfortunately, it is crunch time for my book as I am officially in the trenches these days, editing chapters each and every night (it's only unfortunate for the blog....it's VERY fortunate for me and the book!). However, I know that Michael Steinman, one of Sid's greatest supporters, will have something beautiful to share on his Jazz Lives blog so keep checking for that. And my good friend from England, Phil Ralph, has written in to tell me that Sid's greatness is going to be celebrated on BBC radio this week. Fortunately for those who don't live in England, the Internet was invented to make listening to these things quite easy. Paul Barnes will be doing a tribute to Sid on Saturday that will be able to be accessed by clicking this link starting on Sunday. And the author Alyn Shipton will be able to heard by clicking here.
So if you have some free time to spend on the Internet this weekend, it will be quite easy to get your Big Sid fix. Though the concept of free time is alien to me, I have to do something to mark the occasion. I could chose almost any Armstrong-Catlett recording and believe me, you'll get the message. But which one? "Wolverine Blues"? "I Never Knew"? "Musktrat Ramble" from Symphony Hall?
All great recordings but I think I should share a feature. And to those in the know, there was no greater Catlett feature than his workout on "Steak Face," recorded live at Symphony Hall in Boston on November 30, 1947. It's truly one of the great drum solos of all time not because Catlett smashes things hard and fast. Instead, it's the subtlety of it, the slow burn, the build-up to a ferocious climax, the obvious bits of showmanship we can only hear (Sid was a master at tossing the sticks), the melodic nature of it all. Tour de force is an often overused phrase but I dare you to come up with a better one.
"Duh, Ricky," some of the know-it-alls might be thinking. "Of course, you'd pick 'Steak Face' for a Catlett tribute. Borrrr-ing." Naturally, I have something up my sleeve...how about an unissued version of "Steak Face" from Carnegie Hall recorded just two weeks earlier on November 15, 1947? Ah, now I have your attention, huh?
The All Stars played a magnificent show at Carnegie Hall that night but none of the music has been issued (though I've shared some performances before). A few performances no longer exist and some do survive in cruddy sound. But a bunch are in briliant sound and they're not only brilliant, but very instructive to listen to. The All Stars had only been an official group for about four months but they already had the show down pat. Many of the same songs were repeated at Symphony Hall, including the features. Hell, many of the same solos were repeated at Symphony Hall. The Boston outing has been rightfully hailed as a classic for 60 years but after listening to the Carnegie Hall show, I can tell you that it was just another astonishing night by a band that had many of them.
One of my constant themes on this blog surrounds Armstrong playing "set" solos, something critics beat him up for. Well, he wasn't alone. It was clearly a generational thing and it's nothing to be ashamed of: fellow All Stars Jack Teagarden and Barney Bigard played almost identical solos at both the Carnegie Hall and Symphony Hall shows. But what about Catlett? Yes, him, too. The "Steak Face" at Carnegie Hall is so similar to the Symphony Hall version I've known for so song that the first time I listened to it, I thought it was the Symphony Hall version by accident. Nope, Sid just had that routine together.
That's what surprised me the most...and maybe even the least. Okay, a trumpet player can play a set solo or a saxophone player. But a drummer? I never thought of drummers playing set solos. But "Steak Face" was such a brilliantly conceived outing that it makes perfect sense to imagine Sid perfecting every second of that routine night after night. That doesn't diminsh its power or authority one single bit. Listen for yourself and raise your glass to the heavens in honor of Big Sid, the greatest drummer to ever pick up a pair of sticks (in my humble opinion).
Here's the Carnegie Hall "Steak Face":
And the famous Symphony Hall version:
Happy birthday, Big Sid!
I wish I had the time to wax poetically about Sid's greatness and the special chemistry he has with Louis Armstrong in their multiple stints together. Unfortunately, it is crunch time for my book as I am officially in the trenches these days, editing chapters each and every night (it's only unfortunate for the blog....it's VERY fortunate for me and the book!). However, I know that Michael Steinman, one of Sid's greatest supporters, will have something beautiful to share on his Jazz Lives blog so keep checking for that. And my good friend from England, Phil Ralph, has written in to tell me that Sid's greatness is going to be celebrated on BBC radio this week. Fortunately for those who don't live in England, the Internet was invented to make listening to these things quite easy. Paul Barnes will be doing a tribute to Sid on Saturday that will be able to be accessed by clicking this link starting on Sunday. And the author Alyn Shipton will be able to heard by clicking here.
So if you have some free time to spend on the Internet this weekend, it will be quite easy to get your Big Sid fix. Though the concept of free time is alien to me, I have to do something to mark the occasion. I could chose almost any Armstrong-Catlett recording and believe me, you'll get the message. But which one? "Wolverine Blues"? "I Never Knew"? "Musktrat Ramble" from Symphony Hall?
All great recordings but I think I should share a feature. And to those in the know, there was no greater Catlett feature than his workout on "Steak Face," recorded live at Symphony Hall in Boston on November 30, 1947. It's truly one of the great drum solos of all time not because Catlett smashes things hard and fast. Instead, it's the subtlety of it, the slow burn, the build-up to a ferocious climax, the obvious bits of showmanship we can only hear (Sid was a master at tossing the sticks), the melodic nature of it all. Tour de force is an often overused phrase but I dare you to come up with a better one.
"Duh, Ricky," some of the know-it-alls might be thinking. "Of course, you'd pick 'Steak Face' for a Catlett tribute. Borrrr-ing." Naturally, I have something up my sleeve...how about an unissued version of "Steak Face" from Carnegie Hall recorded just two weeks earlier on November 15, 1947? Ah, now I have your attention, huh?
The All Stars played a magnificent show at Carnegie Hall that night but none of the music has been issued (though I've shared some performances before). A few performances no longer exist and some do survive in cruddy sound. But a bunch are in briliant sound and they're not only brilliant, but very instructive to listen to. The All Stars had only been an official group for about four months but they already had the show down pat. Many of the same songs were repeated at Symphony Hall, including the features. Hell, many of the same solos were repeated at Symphony Hall. The Boston outing has been rightfully hailed as a classic for 60 years but after listening to the Carnegie Hall show, I can tell you that it was just another astonishing night by a band that had many of them.
One of my constant themes on this blog surrounds Armstrong playing "set" solos, something critics beat him up for. Well, he wasn't alone. It was clearly a generational thing and it's nothing to be ashamed of: fellow All Stars Jack Teagarden and Barney Bigard played almost identical solos at both the Carnegie Hall and Symphony Hall shows. But what about Catlett? Yes, him, too. The "Steak Face" at Carnegie Hall is so similar to the Symphony Hall version I've known for so song that the first time I listened to it, I thought it was the Symphony Hall version by accident. Nope, Sid just had that routine together.
That's what surprised me the most...and maybe even the least. Okay, a trumpet player can play a set solo or a saxophone player. But a drummer? I never thought of drummers playing set solos. But "Steak Face" was such a brilliantly conceived outing that it makes perfect sense to imagine Sid perfecting every second of that routine night after night. That doesn't diminsh its power or authority one single bit. Listen for yourself and raise your glass to the heavens in honor of Big Sid, the greatest drummer to ever pick up a pair of sticks (in my humble opinion).
Here's the Carnegie Hall "Steak Face":
And the famous Symphony Hall version:
Happy birthday, Big Sid!
Friday, January 8, 2010
85 Years of Cake Walking Babies From Home
Eva Taylor acc. by Clarence Williams' Blue Five
Recorded January 8, 1925
Track Time 3:04
Written by Clarence Williams, Chris Smith and Harold Troy
Recorded in New York City
Louis Armstrong, cornet; Charlie Irvis, trombone; Sidney Bechet, soprano saxophone; Clarence Williams, piano; Buddy Christian, banjo
Originally released on OKeh 40321
Currently available on CD: Available on many, many compilations under both Armstrong's and Bechet's name. For boxed sets, it's on Armstrong's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man set and Bechet's Mosaic Select box
Available on Itunes? Yes
Let's get ready to rumble!
In this corner! From New Orleans, Louisiana! 23 years old! Undefeated in his first 90 recordings! They call him Dippermouth..."Little" Louis Armstrong! Armstrong!
And in this corner! Hailing from New Orleans, Louisiana! 27 years old! The first great jazz soloist! Undefeated in his first 27 recordings! A smash hit in Europe! The New Orleans Feetwarmer himself...."Young" Sidney Bechet! Bechet!
When the bell rings, I ask both of you men to come out swinging. Let's get it on!
Okay, okay, the boxing introduction is probably a bit corny but what else could I open with when dealing with the two of the greatest slugfests in jazz history? Armstrong and Bechet are our Ali and Frazier and I love celebrating their epic wars. And tonight, January 8, 1925, marks the 85th anniversary of one of the greatest recordings ever made in the history of the music, the Clarence Williams version of "Cake Walking Babies From Home."
How great is this recording? Let me indulge you in a quick story; I taught jazz history to undergraduates at Rutgers for a year, one of the greatest experiences of my life. I had never taught before but relished the challenge of standing in front of 55 students--who clearly took the class because they thought it would be easy--and making them care about records that were made before their grandparents were born. Fortunately, I had enough enthusiasm to border on making a fool of myself and I managed to make some deep connections. When I got to Armstrong and Bechet, I didn't talk about it as hi-falutin' art. I treated it as an epic battle of two geniuses with pretty large egos.
I built up Bechet's personality--the older man who liked to dominate the ensembles with his loud soprano saxophone, a true genius who could get downright violent about musical matters, the first great soloist who was used to dominating every musical situation he took part in. Then I built Armstrong--the younger man, a genius in his own right, who was much more respectful, unwilling to play over his fading mentor, King Oliver, yet possessing enough talent to turn the entire New York jazz scene on its head when he joined Fletcher Henderson's popular dance orchestra in 1924. And then I pressed play and played them two scratchy three-minute recordings that were already 80 years old at that point. By the time the second "Cake Walking Babies" ended, the room was electrified and people were cheering for Louis. More on the outcome in a bit but for me, it was a personal triumph to make these kids react so enthusiastically to these records. But once you listen to them, is it possible to react any other way?
Before getting to the records, a little more background. Armstrong and Bechet obviously knew of one another in New Orleans. Bechet was the older man but fondly remembered "Little Louis" blowing the famed "High Society" piccolo/clarinet part on a cornet. Bechet left New Orleans before Armstrong, made a splash in Europe and was taking astounding solos on records like "Wild Cat Blues" and "Kansas City Man Blues" in 1923 while Armstrong was still playing second cornet with Joe Oliver. Armstrong left Oliver to join Henderson in New York City, where he became something of a fixture in OKeh's recording studios, accompanying blues singers and vaudeville performers as often as humanly possible. Bechet was part of the New York scene, too, at this point, also putting in his time by accompanying various OKeh artists. Thus, it was only a matter of time before the two joined forces in a recording studio.
That first time came on October 17, 1924 for a recording of "Texas Moaner Blues," which I feel is one of the great early jazz records. Armstrong's solo is completely poised, made up of phrases that never quite left his blues vocabulary, but Bechet is the real star of the show with his passionate, almost animalistic playing. That same day, Armstrong and Bechet backed up the singer Virginia Liston on two numbers, each man adding some spirited playing to the proceedings. Two months later, on December 17, the same exact lineup--Armstrong, Bechet, trombonist Charlie Irvis, banjoist Buddy Christian and pianist/leader Clarence Williams reconvened to back Williams's wife Eva Taylor on two numbers. On one, "Mandy Make Up Your Mind," Bechet broke out a sarrusophone to use to snort and bark his way through the ensemble. Armstrong's hot playing was magnificent but the ear still finds its way to Bechet's bizarre gargling.
Five days later, the bulk of the same personnel got together for another session under the name the Red Onion Jazz Babies, this time for Gennett records. Armstrong, Bechet, Irvis and Christian made the party but this time, Williams and Taylor were nowhere to be found (perhaps it was their date night). Armstrong's wife Lil Hardin took over the piano duties while the vocals were handled by the great Albert Hunter, billing herself as "Josephine Beatty." After waxing "Nobody Knows the Way I Feel Dis Mornin'" and "Early Every Morn," it was time to record a third and final tune: "Cake Walking Babies From Home."
The song had a lot of talented fingerprints on it as it was co-written by Clarence Williams, Harold Troy (known for writing the gospel tune "Jesus, I Love Calling Your Name" and Bessie Smith's "Red Mountain Blues") and Chris Smith, the man behind early jazz classics such as "Ballin' the Jack" and "Down in Honky Tonk Town." All three men had roots in vaudeville, explaining the almost minstrel-esque tone to the lyrics:
Here they come, look at 'em, demonstratin',
goin' some, ain't they syncopatin'?
Talk of the town, teasin' brown pickin' 'em up and layin' 'em down
Dancin' fools ain't they demonstratin'?
They're a class of their own
Now the only way to win is to cheat 'em,
you may tie 'em but you'll never beat 'em
Strut your stuff, they're the cake walkin' babies from home
Not exactly Gershwin. Fortunately, the changes were good for blowing and more importantly, the vocal would be so short, it would ensure plenty of time for just that. So without further ado, here is the epic first match between Armstrong and Bechet, December 12, 1924:
What a fight! There's no feeling-out process; everything's forecasted in the performances opening seconds when Armstrong and Bechet simultaneously play the first three notes of the song. Who's going to play lead? I guess they didn't discuss that in the dressing room! Throughout the entire first chorus, there's kind of a duel-lead going on; trombonist Irvis sticks to playing tailgate smears but Armstrong and Bechet are already battling for the listener's attention. Bechet cedes the lead over to Armstrong who, following Oliver's advice, pushes out the melody with plenty of swing. Bechet probably preferred it that way as it allows him to unleash a never-ending stream of ideas, exploring every region of his horn with complete command. Just listen to Bechet during the turnaround at the midway point of the first chorus...my goodness, he just keeps building onward and upward into the second half like an unstoppable force.
Like many records of the period, the band goes back to the verse after playing the first chorus. Armstrong continues rhythmically pumping out the melody while Bechet, who toys with playing a harmony part for a few bars, continues on his own way doing his own thing. Then Hunter and and Clarence Todd sing a pretty boring duet on the vocal, reeking of dated vaudeville. I mean, I love everything vaudeville but come on, this is dull...especially with the greatest vocalist in jazz history standing a few feet away (no, not Sidney "It's been a long time since I've heard my backbone crack" Bechet).
Fortunately, by my clock, there's still about a minute-a-half before the record ends so you know you're going to get your money's worth. Now if you're scoring at home, Bechet won the early rounds so it's up to Armstrong to get back in the fight. Ready to start swinging, Armstrong plays a funky lip trill to announce his arrival; the gloves are off.
Armstrong's now front and center, playing his variations on the melody. The aggression almost seems to catch Bechet by surprise for a second as he sounds lost in the mix but soon enough, he's running his arpeggios up and down his soprano. Bechet gets the first break and it's a pretty good one but ends a bit awkwardly. Armstrong sees his opening and turns on the heat during his ensemble playing before turning in an absolutely dazzling break. Score that round for Pops...
With the fight even heading into the final chorus, the momentum's on Armstrong's side. He holds a note to announce the start of the last go-around but Bechet reads his mind and holds the same note. At that point, Armstrong stumbles as one of his notes gets muffed a bit. Smelling blood, Bechet pours it on, his virtuosity overwhelming Armstrong for 14 bars leading to a break by...Charlie Irvis? What the hell is he still doing here? The slight breather allows Armstrong to gather himself for a second and he comes back with some hot playing but again, one or two of those notes don't sound fully baked. Going in for the kill, Bechet pulls out all the stops in his final break, basically snarling with his saxophone. Armstrong, needing a big finish, rallies strongly, entering with another growling trill before using rhythm over virtuosity to swing to the finish line. Both Armstrong and Bechet work over different two-note motives until the final bell sounds. It was an epic fight and though Pops had his moments (that break!), I award it to Bechet by split decision.
Everyone involved must have known they had created something special. Clarence Williams didn't take part in the session but he knew a good opportunity when he saw it. Thus, 17 days later, Williams led another date for OKeh and decided to record "Cake Walking Babies From Home" again, this time with Eva Taylor taking the vocal. As great as the Red Onion Jazz Babies version is, this one, to me, is the real one for the pantheon, which is why I've decided to commemorate its anniversary instead of doing that for the earlier recording.
Bechet must have known he got the better of the younger man in the first scrap. Armstrong would have to go back into training and find his eye of the tiger. Both men took tune-up fights before their next meeting: Armstrong accompanied blues singer Clara Smith on two numbers the day before while Bechet backed up Margaret Johnson (with Bubber Miley serving as a sparring partner) earlier the same day. Finally, it was time for the rematch. Grab a ringside seat. Ding, ding:
Fight of the century! Why, do you know that I've listened to that recording about six jillion times and that final chorus gives me the chills every time? Every time. Makes my heart pound. Real visceral stuff. I'm all for soggy ballads and splendid teamwork. But sometimes a good old-fashioned cutting contest/competition can really get the blood pumping.
For starters, the sound quality is much better on the OKeh, with Armstrong's horn a little more prominent in the mix. (and I'm using a really dynamite-sounding reissue on the Pristine Audio label, which could be purchased by clicking here). This time, Bechet cedes the lead to Armstrong, not sharing the opening three notes with him. Bechet's still a force in the opening ensemble, but he's doesn't quite indulge in the perpetual motion of the first recording. Armstrong still sticks mostly to lead but he changes it up a little more than he did before, generating a little more heat with his playing. A bit cautious, but I score the opening round for Armstrong.
Then Eva Taylor steps up to demonstrate how to really deliver a vaudeville vocal; gotta love it! Once again, Armstrong enters with a little lip trill, but this one is much tamer than the one from 1924. By now, Bechet is unleashing the combinations, growling through another break and more or less swarming Armstrong in the ensembles. This was Armstrong's time to shine previously but now Bechet mops the floor with him, leading to one of my all-time favorite extended Bechet breaks. The man's positively on fire and seemingly cruising his way towards another points victory.
And it's at that point where Pops says, "ENOUGH!" Armstrong respected his elders, as already mentioned, refusing to play over King Oliver and such. But dammit, he's the cornet player and going to lead the damn ensemble! He finishes the rest of the chorus soberly before unleashing another trill, probably the angriest note of his entire career. Armstrong then reaches way back and gives us the opportunity to hear what Joe Olive must have sounded like when he was in his prime. He alternates two notes in the most swinging, rhythmic way, leaning on the first and third beats, creating a bit of phrasing that he would employ elsewhere in his career, both vocally and instrumentally. However, in the 1950s, Armstrong gave two interviews where he told a story about playing in a baseball game in New Orleans when a funeral passed. Oliver was leading a brass band in playing "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" and he swung the second chorus so hard, all the kids dropped everything and began second lining with the parade. And in both interviews, Armstrong sang what Oliver played: it's the exact phrasing as his "Cake Walking Babies" lead in the final rideout chorus. Here's a ten-second excerpt of this from a 1956 Voice of America interview:
Armstrong might have gotten the idea from Oliver but the heat, the power, the fire, the swing, that's the Louis Armstrong that changed the world. Armstrong comes on so hot, Bechet completely disappears from the ensemble. I mean completely. The man's out on his feet! When he returns a few seconds later, he just hits a few single harmony notes, one of them an awkward choice; it's as if his equilibrium was completely thrown off by Pops's furious playing.
Smelling blood, Armstrong takes an absolutely ridiculous break...and I mean that in the best way possible. It's a simple motive, alternated between the upper and lower registers of his cornet but it's mind-boggling to fathom how a) his mind came up with it and b) how he managed to execute it so perfectly. Well, that break clearly scored a knockdown but Bechet, a man of great dignity, gets up to finish the fight. In the next eight bars of ensemble playing, Bechet manages to toss out a few jabs from instinct but holy mother of God is Pops tearing it up on his horn. To drive the point home one last time, Armstrong takes a four-bar break that has to rank as one of the most mind-blowing moments of his career. The rhythmic tension of the first part of it is enough to make the listener queasy; I mean, what time zone is this man playing in? (And I don't mean time as in a clock.) He straightens out of it with some swinging syncopation, follows it with a rip up to the upper register and takes it out with some lowdown blue notes. Genius, genius, genius.
Bechet's contribution to final bars is nil, though he wakes up long enough to trade a couple of blows at the final bell, duetting with Armstrong on the last phrase of the performance. It was still an amazing, close, hard-fought battle and Bechet looked like he was taking charge there for a moment after the vocal but man oh man, Pops's final lead almost blew him out of the studio. Winner and new champion...
Fortunately, Bechet didn't pack up his soprano and leave town as the two men created another magical tune that day with "Pickin' On My Baby." But that's the subject for another time, another day. And also, it wasn't the end of the Armstrong-Bechet rivalry, which still had two more acts, both of which I'm planning on discussing this month so stay tuned. But for now, just bask in the heat and fury generated in those two viciously swinging, timeless, priceless, joyous, epic versions of "Cake Walking Babies From Home."
Recorded January 8, 1925
Track Time 3:04
Written by Clarence Williams, Chris Smith and Harold Troy
Recorded in New York City
Louis Armstrong, cornet; Charlie Irvis, trombone; Sidney Bechet, soprano saxophone; Clarence Williams, piano; Buddy Christian, banjo
Originally released on OKeh 40321
Currently available on CD: Available on many, many compilations under both Armstrong's and Bechet's name. For boxed sets, it's on Armstrong's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man set and Bechet's Mosaic Select box
Available on Itunes? Yes
Let's get ready to rumble!
In this corner! From New Orleans, Louisiana! 23 years old! Undefeated in his first 90 recordings! They call him Dippermouth..."Little" Louis Armstrong! Armstrong!
And in this corner! Hailing from New Orleans, Louisiana! 27 years old! The first great jazz soloist! Undefeated in his first 27 recordings! A smash hit in Europe! The New Orleans Feetwarmer himself...."Young" Sidney Bechet! Bechet!
When the bell rings, I ask both of you men to come out swinging. Let's get it on!
Okay, okay, the boxing introduction is probably a bit corny but what else could I open with when dealing with the two of the greatest slugfests in jazz history? Armstrong and Bechet are our Ali and Frazier and I love celebrating their epic wars. And tonight, January 8, 1925, marks the 85th anniversary of one of the greatest recordings ever made in the history of the music, the Clarence Williams version of "Cake Walking Babies From Home."
How great is this recording? Let me indulge you in a quick story; I taught jazz history to undergraduates at Rutgers for a year, one of the greatest experiences of my life. I had never taught before but relished the challenge of standing in front of 55 students--who clearly took the class because they thought it would be easy--and making them care about records that were made before their grandparents were born. Fortunately, I had enough enthusiasm to border on making a fool of myself and I managed to make some deep connections. When I got to Armstrong and Bechet, I didn't talk about it as hi-falutin' art. I treated it as an epic battle of two geniuses with pretty large egos.
I built up Bechet's personality--the older man who liked to dominate the ensembles with his loud soprano saxophone, a true genius who could get downright violent about musical matters, the first great soloist who was used to dominating every musical situation he took part in. Then I built Armstrong--the younger man, a genius in his own right, who was much more respectful, unwilling to play over his fading mentor, King Oliver, yet possessing enough talent to turn the entire New York jazz scene on its head when he joined Fletcher Henderson's popular dance orchestra in 1924. And then I pressed play and played them two scratchy three-minute recordings that were already 80 years old at that point. By the time the second "Cake Walking Babies" ended, the room was electrified and people were cheering for Louis. More on the outcome in a bit but for me, it was a personal triumph to make these kids react so enthusiastically to these records. But once you listen to them, is it possible to react any other way?
Before getting to the records, a little more background. Armstrong and Bechet obviously knew of one another in New Orleans. Bechet was the older man but fondly remembered "Little Louis" blowing the famed "High Society" piccolo/clarinet part on a cornet. Bechet left New Orleans before Armstrong, made a splash in Europe and was taking astounding solos on records like "Wild Cat Blues" and "Kansas City Man Blues" in 1923 while Armstrong was still playing second cornet with Joe Oliver. Armstrong left Oliver to join Henderson in New York City, where he became something of a fixture in OKeh's recording studios, accompanying blues singers and vaudeville performers as often as humanly possible. Bechet was part of the New York scene, too, at this point, also putting in his time by accompanying various OKeh artists. Thus, it was only a matter of time before the two joined forces in a recording studio.
That first time came on October 17, 1924 for a recording of "Texas Moaner Blues," which I feel is one of the great early jazz records. Armstrong's solo is completely poised, made up of phrases that never quite left his blues vocabulary, but Bechet is the real star of the show with his passionate, almost animalistic playing. That same day, Armstrong and Bechet backed up the singer Virginia Liston on two numbers, each man adding some spirited playing to the proceedings. Two months later, on December 17, the same exact lineup--Armstrong, Bechet, trombonist Charlie Irvis, banjoist Buddy Christian and pianist/leader Clarence Williams reconvened to back Williams's wife Eva Taylor on two numbers. On one, "Mandy Make Up Your Mind," Bechet broke out a sarrusophone to use to snort and bark his way through the ensemble. Armstrong's hot playing was magnificent but the ear still finds its way to Bechet's bizarre gargling.
Five days later, the bulk of the same personnel got together for another session under the name the Red Onion Jazz Babies, this time for Gennett records. Armstrong, Bechet, Irvis and Christian made the party but this time, Williams and Taylor were nowhere to be found (perhaps it was their date night). Armstrong's wife Lil Hardin took over the piano duties while the vocals were handled by the great Albert Hunter, billing herself as "Josephine Beatty." After waxing "Nobody Knows the Way I Feel Dis Mornin'" and "Early Every Morn," it was time to record a third and final tune: "Cake Walking Babies From Home."
The song had a lot of talented fingerprints on it as it was co-written by Clarence Williams, Harold Troy (known for writing the gospel tune "Jesus, I Love Calling Your Name" and Bessie Smith's "Red Mountain Blues") and Chris Smith, the man behind early jazz classics such as "Ballin' the Jack" and "Down in Honky Tonk Town." All three men had roots in vaudeville, explaining the almost minstrel-esque tone to the lyrics:
Here they come, look at 'em, demonstratin',
goin' some, ain't they syncopatin'?
Talk of the town, teasin' brown pickin' 'em up and layin' 'em down
Dancin' fools ain't they demonstratin'?
They're a class of their own
Now the only way to win is to cheat 'em,
you may tie 'em but you'll never beat 'em
Strut your stuff, they're the cake walkin' babies from home
Not exactly Gershwin. Fortunately, the changes were good for blowing and more importantly, the vocal would be so short, it would ensure plenty of time for just that. So without further ado, here is the epic first match between Armstrong and Bechet, December 12, 1924:
What a fight! There's no feeling-out process; everything's forecasted in the performances opening seconds when Armstrong and Bechet simultaneously play the first three notes of the song. Who's going to play lead? I guess they didn't discuss that in the dressing room! Throughout the entire first chorus, there's kind of a duel-lead going on; trombonist Irvis sticks to playing tailgate smears but Armstrong and Bechet are already battling for the listener's attention. Bechet cedes the lead over to Armstrong who, following Oliver's advice, pushes out the melody with plenty of swing. Bechet probably preferred it that way as it allows him to unleash a never-ending stream of ideas, exploring every region of his horn with complete command. Just listen to Bechet during the turnaround at the midway point of the first chorus...my goodness, he just keeps building onward and upward into the second half like an unstoppable force.
Like many records of the period, the band goes back to the verse after playing the first chorus. Armstrong continues rhythmically pumping out the melody while Bechet, who toys with playing a harmony part for a few bars, continues on his own way doing his own thing. Then Hunter and and Clarence Todd sing a pretty boring duet on the vocal, reeking of dated vaudeville. I mean, I love everything vaudeville but come on, this is dull...especially with the greatest vocalist in jazz history standing a few feet away (no, not Sidney "It's been a long time since I've heard my backbone crack" Bechet).
Fortunately, by my clock, there's still about a minute-a-half before the record ends so you know you're going to get your money's worth. Now if you're scoring at home, Bechet won the early rounds so it's up to Armstrong to get back in the fight. Ready to start swinging, Armstrong plays a funky lip trill to announce his arrival; the gloves are off.
Armstrong's now front and center, playing his variations on the melody. The aggression almost seems to catch Bechet by surprise for a second as he sounds lost in the mix but soon enough, he's running his arpeggios up and down his soprano. Bechet gets the first break and it's a pretty good one but ends a bit awkwardly. Armstrong sees his opening and turns on the heat during his ensemble playing before turning in an absolutely dazzling break. Score that round for Pops...
With the fight even heading into the final chorus, the momentum's on Armstrong's side. He holds a note to announce the start of the last go-around but Bechet reads his mind and holds the same note. At that point, Armstrong stumbles as one of his notes gets muffed a bit. Smelling blood, Bechet pours it on, his virtuosity overwhelming Armstrong for 14 bars leading to a break by...Charlie Irvis? What the hell is he still doing here? The slight breather allows Armstrong to gather himself for a second and he comes back with some hot playing but again, one or two of those notes don't sound fully baked. Going in for the kill, Bechet pulls out all the stops in his final break, basically snarling with his saxophone. Armstrong, needing a big finish, rallies strongly, entering with another growling trill before using rhythm over virtuosity to swing to the finish line. Both Armstrong and Bechet work over different two-note motives until the final bell sounds. It was an epic fight and though Pops had his moments (that break!), I award it to Bechet by split decision.
Everyone involved must have known they had created something special. Clarence Williams didn't take part in the session but he knew a good opportunity when he saw it. Thus, 17 days later, Williams led another date for OKeh and decided to record "Cake Walking Babies From Home" again, this time with Eva Taylor taking the vocal. As great as the Red Onion Jazz Babies version is, this one, to me, is the real one for the pantheon, which is why I've decided to commemorate its anniversary instead of doing that for the earlier recording.
Bechet must have known he got the better of the younger man in the first scrap. Armstrong would have to go back into training and find his eye of the tiger. Both men took tune-up fights before their next meeting: Armstrong accompanied blues singer Clara Smith on two numbers the day before while Bechet backed up Margaret Johnson (with Bubber Miley serving as a sparring partner) earlier the same day. Finally, it was time for the rematch. Grab a ringside seat. Ding, ding:
Fight of the century! Why, do you know that I've listened to that recording about six jillion times and that final chorus gives me the chills every time? Every time. Makes my heart pound. Real visceral stuff. I'm all for soggy ballads and splendid teamwork. But sometimes a good old-fashioned cutting contest/competition can really get the blood pumping.
For starters, the sound quality is much better on the OKeh, with Armstrong's horn a little more prominent in the mix. (and I'm using a really dynamite-sounding reissue on the Pristine Audio label, which could be purchased by clicking here). This time, Bechet cedes the lead to Armstrong, not sharing the opening three notes with him. Bechet's still a force in the opening ensemble, but he's doesn't quite indulge in the perpetual motion of the first recording. Armstrong still sticks mostly to lead but he changes it up a little more than he did before, generating a little more heat with his playing. A bit cautious, but I score the opening round for Armstrong.
Then Eva Taylor steps up to demonstrate how to really deliver a vaudeville vocal; gotta love it! Once again, Armstrong enters with a little lip trill, but this one is much tamer than the one from 1924. By now, Bechet is unleashing the combinations, growling through another break and more or less swarming Armstrong in the ensembles. This was Armstrong's time to shine previously but now Bechet mops the floor with him, leading to one of my all-time favorite extended Bechet breaks. The man's positively on fire and seemingly cruising his way towards another points victory.
And it's at that point where Pops says, "ENOUGH!" Armstrong respected his elders, as already mentioned, refusing to play over King Oliver and such. But dammit, he's the cornet player and going to lead the damn ensemble! He finishes the rest of the chorus soberly before unleashing another trill, probably the angriest note of his entire career. Armstrong then reaches way back and gives us the opportunity to hear what Joe Olive must have sounded like when he was in his prime. He alternates two notes in the most swinging, rhythmic way, leaning on the first and third beats, creating a bit of phrasing that he would employ elsewhere in his career, both vocally and instrumentally. However, in the 1950s, Armstrong gave two interviews where he told a story about playing in a baseball game in New Orleans when a funeral passed. Oliver was leading a brass band in playing "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" and he swung the second chorus so hard, all the kids dropped everything and began second lining with the parade. And in both interviews, Armstrong sang what Oliver played: it's the exact phrasing as his "Cake Walking Babies" lead in the final rideout chorus. Here's a ten-second excerpt of this from a 1956 Voice of America interview:
Armstrong might have gotten the idea from Oliver but the heat, the power, the fire, the swing, that's the Louis Armstrong that changed the world. Armstrong comes on so hot, Bechet completely disappears from the ensemble. I mean completely. The man's out on his feet! When he returns a few seconds later, he just hits a few single harmony notes, one of them an awkward choice; it's as if his equilibrium was completely thrown off by Pops's furious playing.
Smelling blood, Armstrong takes an absolutely ridiculous break...and I mean that in the best way possible. It's a simple motive, alternated between the upper and lower registers of his cornet but it's mind-boggling to fathom how a) his mind came up with it and b) how he managed to execute it so perfectly. Well, that break clearly scored a knockdown but Bechet, a man of great dignity, gets up to finish the fight. In the next eight bars of ensemble playing, Bechet manages to toss out a few jabs from instinct but holy mother of God is Pops tearing it up on his horn. To drive the point home one last time, Armstrong takes a four-bar break that has to rank as one of the most mind-blowing moments of his career. The rhythmic tension of the first part of it is enough to make the listener queasy; I mean, what time zone is this man playing in? (And I don't mean time as in a clock.) He straightens out of it with some swinging syncopation, follows it with a rip up to the upper register and takes it out with some lowdown blue notes. Genius, genius, genius.
Bechet's contribution to final bars is nil, though he wakes up long enough to trade a couple of blows at the final bell, duetting with Armstrong on the last phrase of the performance. It was still an amazing, close, hard-fought battle and Bechet looked like he was taking charge there for a moment after the vocal but man oh man, Pops's final lead almost blew him out of the studio. Winner and new champion...
Fortunately, Bechet didn't pack up his soprano and leave town as the two men created another magical tune that day with "Pickin' On My Baby." But that's the subject for another time, another day. And also, it wasn't the end of the Armstrong-Bechet rivalry, which still had two more acts, both of which I'm planning on discussing this month so stay tuned. But for now, just bask in the heat and fury generated in those two viciously swinging, timeless, priceless, joyous, epic versions of "Cake Walking Babies From Home."
Monday, January 4, 2010
Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive
Louis Armstrong and His Orchestra
Recorded February 13, 1945
Track Time 4:32
Written by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer
Recorded live at the New Zanzibar in New York City
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; Jesse Brown, Thomas Grider, ANdrew "Fatso" Ford, Ludwig JOrdan, trumpet; Russell "Big Chief" Moore, Norman Powe, Adam Martin, Larry Anderson, trombone; John Brown, Joe Evans, alto saxophone; Teddy McRae, tenor saxophone, conductor; Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis, tenor saxophone; Ernest Thompson, baritone saxophone; Ed Swanston, piano; Elmer Warner, guitar; Alfred Moore, bass; James "Coatsville" Harris, drums
Originally released on AFRS "One Night Stand" Program #540
Currently available on CD: Available on a homemade disc on the "Crabapple Sound" label
Available on Itunes? Yes, on some cheapie compilations
Last week, during a mention of the never-ending "Rockin' Chair" choking-vs.joking debate (this is making health care woes look like a game of marbles), I mentioned that Louis sang "choking" as an aside during a 1945 radio broadcast of "Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive." Tonight, while looking for an appropriate song to start off the new year with, I selected this tune since I'm sure it hasn't been previously heard by many of my readers. Thus, a blog was born...
This sermonette was penned by the formidable team of Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer. Mercer's Capitol recording of it in late 1944 became a bona fide hit in January 1945. Unfortunately for our hero, Pops was going through a bit of a dry spell in the recording studio (zero tunes in 1943 because of the recording ban, three tunes that were all rejected in 1944 and only two for the entire year of 1945). Thus, Armstrong never made a studio recording of "Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive," but he almost immediately began performing an arrangement of it as soon as the song looked like it had the makings of a hit. (Louis covering pop tunes and hit records in the 1940s shouldn't be a surprise since he did the same thing in the 1930s and late 20s but thick-headed people still like to cry out "he went commercial" when needing an excuse to dismiss his later years.)
Two Armstrong versions survive of this tune, both in listenable, though not exactly ideal sound. The first comes from the New Zanzibar in New York City on February 13, 1945. By this point, Armstrong's big band was filled with youngsters including Joe Evans (who wrote about his experiences with Armstrong in his autobiography Follow Your Heart), pianist Ed Swanston and the legendary Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis on tenor. Jaws took a few short solos during the Zanzibar gig but he only stayed with Armstrong for four or five months and as far as I can tell, never talked publicly about his experiences with the group.
A couple of weeks earlier, George T. Simon blasted Armstrong's band in a review of broadcasts from the Zanzibar engagement, writing, "I’ve heard several of [the broadcasts] and never in my life have I heard anything that does anyone a greater injustice. The choice of tunes, many of the arrangements, the pacing of the shows, and, in many instances, the band behind him are positively abominable. Nothing could possibly do more harm to such a great artist. It’s absolutely murderous. If Louis can’t be presented to the radio public in a better light that that, he shouldn’t be presented at all. I sincerely hope that by the time this gets into print somebody will have give this subject some thought and rectified the ridiculous conditions, or else that Louis will be spared future embarrassment and the rest of his broadcasts be cancelled."
As should be known now, I'm usually the first to defend Armstrong against any kind of criticism, but in this case, I can't disagree too much. By the mid-40s, Armstrong's musical director Ted McRae must have figured he had to follow brassy outfits like Stan Kenton's if he wanted to keep Louis musically hip. Unfortunately, this just led to a bunch of loud, unswinging, sloppily played pieces that makes one yearn for the days of Luis Russell's backing of just a few years earlier. As Joe Muranyi once pointed out to me, the mid-40s arrangements were made as an attempt to keep Louis up-to-date but when you listen to them today, it's the arrangements that are dated and Louis that is just as timeless as ever.
With that out of the way, here's the audio to "Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive" from the Zanzibar:
You can hear the ponderous playing of the group during the opening melody chorus but Louis steals it with his short trumpet break (what a gliss he ends it with!). But Louis really comes alive during the vocal, which he opens by adopting his "Reverend Satch" persona. As Terry Teachout pointed out in his recent Armstrong biography, this tune's message seems to embody Armstrong's outlook on life more than anything else and Pops really conveys the message (did you catch the "choking" during the bridge?).
Armstrong brings on "Brother McRae" for a slightly bombastic tenor solo (if I wanted bombast, I would have preferred Lockjaw's variety). Pops swoops in for the bridge and the final A section and sounds in peak form, getting downright funky with his use of blue notes. But it's the vocal reprise that really gets me every time. Armstrong really preaches, talk-singing in such a righteous way, it's impossible to not get swept up in the atmosphere. Armstrong then picks up his horn and takes it out with an extended coda backed by James "Coatsville" Harris's drums. He has a quick bit of shakiness towards the end but he makes it. A righteous good time.
By September 1945, Armstrong's former musical director Joe Garland was back to direct the band, whipping the group into better shape than McRae did (Armstrong always praised Garland for having no tolerance for wrong notes). The arrangement is still a little ponderous, trying too much to be like Sy Oliver's "Yes Indeed" without any of the swing. Otherwise, Armstrong's playing is more poised and the mock-sermon preaching stuff still kills:
Last week, a version popped up on YouTube from the Zanzibar on New Year's Eve 1945. According to Jos Willems's "All of Me" discography, it's not certain whether or not this is the same version we just heard from September 1945 with some added applause and cheers added in the beginning. What is certain is that the sound quality of this version is far superior to the above so dig it:
Few broadcasts survive of Armstrong in 1946 so it's not known how long this tune stayed in the Armstrong book but I'm still glad to have this 1945 versions to enjoy. Any time "Reverend Satchmo" showed up, a good time was guaranteed. And besides, I think the song makes a perfect New Year's resolution, right? Happy 2010!
Recorded February 13, 1945
Track Time 4:32
Written by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer
Recorded live at the New Zanzibar in New York City
Louis Armstrong, trumpet, vocal; Jesse Brown, Thomas Grider, ANdrew "Fatso" Ford, Ludwig JOrdan, trumpet; Russell "Big Chief" Moore, Norman Powe, Adam Martin, Larry Anderson, trombone; John Brown, Joe Evans, alto saxophone; Teddy McRae, tenor saxophone, conductor; Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis, tenor saxophone; Ernest Thompson, baritone saxophone; Ed Swanston, piano; Elmer Warner, guitar; Alfred Moore, bass; James "Coatsville" Harris, drums
Originally released on AFRS "One Night Stand" Program #540
Currently available on CD: Available on a homemade disc on the "Crabapple Sound" label
Available on Itunes? Yes, on some cheapie compilations
Last week, during a mention of the never-ending "Rockin' Chair" choking-vs.joking debate (this is making health care woes look like a game of marbles), I mentioned that Louis sang "choking" as an aside during a 1945 radio broadcast of "Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive." Tonight, while looking for an appropriate song to start off the new year with, I selected this tune since I'm sure it hasn't been previously heard by many of my readers. Thus, a blog was born...
This sermonette was penned by the formidable team of Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer. Mercer's Capitol recording of it in late 1944 became a bona fide hit in January 1945. Unfortunately for our hero, Pops was going through a bit of a dry spell in the recording studio (zero tunes in 1943 because of the recording ban, three tunes that were all rejected in 1944 and only two for the entire year of 1945). Thus, Armstrong never made a studio recording of "Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive," but he almost immediately began performing an arrangement of it as soon as the song looked like it had the makings of a hit. (Louis covering pop tunes and hit records in the 1940s shouldn't be a surprise since he did the same thing in the 1930s and late 20s but thick-headed people still like to cry out "he went commercial" when needing an excuse to dismiss his later years.)
Two Armstrong versions survive of this tune, both in listenable, though not exactly ideal sound. The first comes from the New Zanzibar in New York City on February 13, 1945. By this point, Armstrong's big band was filled with youngsters including Joe Evans (who wrote about his experiences with Armstrong in his autobiography Follow Your Heart), pianist Ed Swanston and the legendary Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis on tenor. Jaws took a few short solos during the Zanzibar gig but he only stayed with Armstrong for four or five months and as far as I can tell, never talked publicly about his experiences with the group.
A couple of weeks earlier, George T. Simon blasted Armstrong's band in a review of broadcasts from the Zanzibar engagement, writing, "I’ve heard several of [the broadcasts] and never in my life have I heard anything that does anyone a greater injustice. The choice of tunes, many of the arrangements, the pacing of the shows, and, in many instances, the band behind him are positively abominable. Nothing could possibly do more harm to such a great artist. It’s absolutely murderous. If Louis can’t be presented to the radio public in a better light that that, he shouldn’t be presented at all. I sincerely hope that by the time this gets into print somebody will have give this subject some thought and rectified the ridiculous conditions, or else that Louis will be spared future embarrassment and the rest of his broadcasts be cancelled."
As should be known now, I'm usually the first to defend Armstrong against any kind of criticism, but in this case, I can't disagree too much. By the mid-40s, Armstrong's musical director Ted McRae must have figured he had to follow brassy outfits like Stan Kenton's if he wanted to keep Louis musically hip. Unfortunately, this just led to a bunch of loud, unswinging, sloppily played pieces that makes one yearn for the days of Luis Russell's backing of just a few years earlier. As Joe Muranyi once pointed out to me, the mid-40s arrangements were made as an attempt to keep Louis up-to-date but when you listen to them today, it's the arrangements that are dated and Louis that is just as timeless as ever.
With that out of the way, here's the audio to "Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive" from the Zanzibar:
You can hear the ponderous playing of the group during the opening melody chorus but Louis steals it with his short trumpet break (what a gliss he ends it with!). But Louis really comes alive during the vocal, which he opens by adopting his "Reverend Satch" persona. As Terry Teachout pointed out in his recent Armstrong biography, this tune's message seems to embody Armstrong's outlook on life more than anything else and Pops really conveys the message (did you catch the "choking" during the bridge?).
Armstrong brings on "Brother McRae" for a slightly bombastic tenor solo (if I wanted bombast, I would have preferred Lockjaw's variety). Pops swoops in for the bridge and the final A section and sounds in peak form, getting downright funky with his use of blue notes. But it's the vocal reprise that really gets me every time. Armstrong really preaches, talk-singing in such a righteous way, it's impossible to not get swept up in the atmosphere. Armstrong then picks up his horn and takes it out with an extended coda backed by James "Coatsville" Harris's drums. He has a quick bit of shakiness towards the end but he makes it. A righteous good time.
By September 1945, Armstrong's former musical director Joe Garland was back to direct the band, whipping the group into better shape than McRae did (Armstrong always praised Garland for having no tolerance for wrong notes). The arrangement is still a little ponderous, trying too much to be like Sy Oliver's "Yes Indeed" without any of the swing. Otherwise, Armstrong's playing is more poised and the mock-sermon preaching stuff still kills:
Last week, a version popped up on YouTube from the Zanzibar on New Year's Eve 1945. According to Jos Willems's "All of Me" discography, it's not certain whether or not this is the same version we just heard from September 1945 with some added applause and cheers added in the beginning. What is certain is that the sound quality of this version is far superior to the above so dig it:
Few broadcasts survive of Armstrong in 1946 so it's not known how long this tune stayed in the Armstrong book but I'm still glad to have this 1945 versions to enjoy. Any time "Reverend Satchmo" showed up, a good time was guaranteed. And besides, I think the song makes a perfect New Year's resolution, right? Happy 2010!
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Happy Birthday to Jack Bradley!
Hello fellow Pops lovers and welcome to 2010. I'm sure you've done plenty of celebrating between the December holiday season and New Year's Eve but I ask you today to raise a glass and toast the birth of the world's greatest Louis Armstrong fan, Jack Bradley!
As longtime readers of this blog know, my current day job is serving as the project archivist for the Louis Armstrong House Museum, where my duties pretty much revolve around the arranging, preserving and cataloging of Jack's Armstrong collection. I've gotten to know Jack pretty well over the past couple of years and it's simply and honor and privilege to be in charge of his massive collection. If you don't mind, I'd like to update Dizzy Gillespie's 1970 tribute to Louis Armstrong: I'd like to thank Jack Bradley for my livelihood...literally!
If you don't know much about Jack's Armstrong collection, check out this wonderful New York Times article from 2008 by clicking here. And if you missed my personal account of visiting Jack and his wife Nancy at their Cape Cod home in October (complete with pictures), click here. And finally, if you'd like to relive one of the great moments of Jack's life, the famous, two-hour-plus "Slivovice" interview with Armstrong and Dan Morgenstern from 1965, you can listen to the whole thing by going here.
Thus, it's safe to say that I think Jack's the greatest and like, Pops, he, too, should be celebrated every day. But today, on behalf of Pops fans from around the world, I want to say happy birthday, Jack...you're the top! Here's Pops himself relaying the message in his 1957 recording of a Russell Garcia arrangement. Enjoy!
As longtime readers of this blog know, my current day job is serving as the project archivist for the Louis Armstrong House Museum, where my duties pretty much revolve around the arranging, preserving and cataloging of Jack's Armstrong collection. I've gotten to know Jack pretty well over the past couple of years and it's simply and honor and privilege to be in charge of his massive collection. If you don't mind, I'd like to update Dizzy Gillespie's 1970 tribute to Louis Armstrong: I'd like to thank Jack Bradley for my livelihood...literally!
If you don't know much about Jack's Armstrong collection, check out this wonderful New York Times article from 2008 by clicking here. And if you missed my personal account of visiting Jack and his wife Nancy at their Cape Cod home in October (complete with pictures), click here. And finally, if you'd like to relive one of the great moments of Jack's life, the famous, two-hour-plus "Slivovice" interview with Armstrong and Dan Morgenstern from 1965, you can listen to the whole thing by going here.
Thus, it's safe to say that I think Jack's the greatest and like, Pops, he, too, should be celebrated every day. But today, on behalf of Pops fans from around the world, I want to say happy birthday, Jack...you're the top! Here's Pops himself relaying the message in his 1957 recording of a Russell Garcia arrangement. Enjoy!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
New Year's Eve - December 31, 1954
I couldn't resist...
Here, direct from the Down Beat in San Francisco 55 years ago today, are Louis Armstrong and His All Stars performing a 15 minute broadcast for CBS. This is peak mid-50s Pops surrounded by Barney Bigard on clarinet, Trummy Young on trombone, Billy Kyle on piano, Arvell Shaw on bass, Barrett Deems on drums and Velma Middleton on vocals. This is great little set, opening with the obligatory "Sleepy Time" before a ferocious "Indiana." Louis and Velma then romp on "Butter and Egg Man" before a swinging "High Society" is cut short to squeeze in a chorus of Armstrong playing "Auld Lang Syne" on his trumpet (it never sounded better). Dig it all and have a safe, happy New Year! Or as Pops sometimes signed his letters, "Merry Swiss Kriss and Happy Bis Ma Rex!"
Here, direct from the Down Beat in San Francisco 55 years ago today, are Louis Armstrong and His All Stars performing a 15 minute broadcast for CBS. This is peak mid-50s Pops surrounded by Barney Bigard on clarinet, Trummy Young on trombone, Billy Kyle on piano, Arvell Shaw on bass, Barrett Deems on drums and Velma Middleton on vocals. This is great little set, opening with the obligatory "Sleepy Time" before a ferocious "Indiana." Louis and Velma then romp on "Butter and Egg Man" before a swinging "High Society" is cut short to squeeze in a chorus of Armstrong playing "Auld Lang Syne" on his trumpet (it never sounded better). Dig it all and have a safe, happy New Year! Or as Pops sometimes signed his letters, "Merry Swiss Kriss and Happy Bis Ma Rex!"
Monday, December 28, 2009
End-Of-The-Year Odds and Ends
2009 is rapidly winding down meaning that this crazy blog of mine has survived another year. I don't quite know how it happened, with my daughter being born in April and the crazy daily commute I've endured since October. But here I am with blog number 118 for the year. And by the time you get to the bottom of this e-mail, you will have endured the 351st audio sample I have shared this year alone. Madness.
Of course, I'd have given up a long time ago without the support of my loyal readers. I receive e-mails almost daily from around the world and that's what fuels me to spend much of my free time keeping this blog going strong. Though I started it in July 2007, I never figured how out to track this site's traffic until this past March when I installed an invisible tracker. I was pleased with the initial returns in the spring but starting in September, my hits began going through the roof (don't get too excited; I'm not exactly breaking records here but for such a specialist's blog, I think I'm doing all right!). Since then, I've topped my previous high with each successive month and I sit here on Monday night 100 hits away from setting another personal high. So thank you, thank you, thank you to all of my readers, from the ones who have been with me from day one to the ones who are just finding this site for the first time.
I try to pack my posts with sometimes graphic amounts of information, hoping that when I hit the "publish post" button, I'll never have to revisit that topic again. Fortunately, I have generous readers who remind me of things I missed or sometimes just send me rare Armstrong material without my even asking. Thus, I've decided to re-open a few of my entires from throughout the year to share some things I missed the first time around.
Last January, I obsessed over what I called "The Tiger Rag to End All Tiger Rag's," a nearly 10-minute performance from January 21, 1959 in Copenhagen that found Armstrong taking four inhuman encores, hitting freakish high notes like he was a young man again. To read my original breathless account of that performance, click here. It wasn't long before my Swedish friend Peter Winberg wrote me to inform that he had a similar, four-encore performance of "Tiger Rag" FROM THE SAME DAY! (No wonder Pops had a heart attack that year.) Peter was kind enough to send me a copy of it, which I would like to share right now. Armstrong and the All Stars were doing two shows a day for most of the tour so this is the earlier version. It's not quite as poised as the evening version, but it's still exciting as hell, with a "Whispering" quote that always knocks me out. Here 'tis:
Pretty incredible, right? If you don't feel like immediately revisiting my older post and want to hear what Pops did with "Tiger Rag" later that evening, here's that audio again:
Back in September, I went through an Eddie Condon Floor Show phase, sharing the audio from four appearances Armstrong made on that pioneering television program. Once again, help arrived from Sweden in the form of the great Håkan Forsberg who sent me two discs of ALL the surviving Condon material with Armstrong including a bunch of tracks I missed the first time around. First up, two tracks from a November 23, 1948 broadcast, "King Porter Stomp" and "Where the Blues Were Born in New Orleans." Unfortunately, these are the only two songs to have survived, though we know that Armstrong and the All Stars performed others such as "Muskrat Ramble," "Don't Worry 'Bout Me" and "Small Fry." Hopefully those performances will turn up some day, but for now, enjoy these two stomping numbers. "King Porter" was one of the most exciting numbers of the early days of the All Stars so any surviving performances of it are welcome. Pinch hitting for the notoriously cheap Barney Bigard is clarinetist Peanuts Hucko (Bigard often turned down television appearances if the money wasn't right) while original All Stars pianist Dick Cary is onboard rather than Earl "Fatha" Hines. Here's "King Porter Stomp":
And from the motion picture New Orleans, here's the introduce-the-band number "Where the Blues Were Born in New Orleans":
On June 11, 1949, Armstrong turned in a performance on Condon's program that contained, in my opinion, some of the best trumpet playing of his entire career. But to demonstrate how those chops of steel could sometimes hit a rough spell, Armstrong returned to the show on July 30 completely unable to blow his horn, a real rarity for this point in his career. Instead, he led a Condon group with Hucko, Cary, Bobby Hackett and George Wettling, bringing along Earl Hines and Velma Middleton from his own All Stars. Armstrong did his best to lead the Condonites through his regular routines but clearly something's missing, though it's nice to hear "Brother Hackett" get a solo. Here's a medley of "Shadrack" and "When the Saints Go Marchin' In":
And here's "Velma's Blues." When the All Stars played this one, the routine was tight as a drum to correspond with Velma's dance choreography. Here, you can hear Pops probably trying his damndest to lead the musicians down the right path, but the overall result is a little sloppy though it fades out before anyone gets seriously hurt:
Now a real treat, courtesy of Mr. Forsberg. In my previous entries, I discussed Armstrong's performance of "Someday You'll Be Sorry" on the August 27, 1949 broadcast and "Going Back to Storyville" on the one from September 3. Well, earlier in the day on August 27, Armstrong rehearsed both of those numbers...and someone kept a tape recorder running! Thus, here's Louis Armstrong at work, going over keys and routines with vocalist Helen Cherell and the Swan-Tones on "Someday" and learning "Going Back to Storyville" with help from the tune's composer, pianist Joe Bushkin. Both rehearsals are incomplete, but offer fascinating glimpses in Armstrong's all-business rehearsal process. Here's the rehearsal for "Going Back to Storyville," done on August 27:
Clearly, they must have known it needed a little more work as the tune wasn't performed until the following week's broadcast. As I mentioned in my earlier entry, Pops still struggled a bit with his opening trumpet reading of the melody. On the rehearsal, he played it strongly but I think I know why. The rehearsal begins with Bushkin saying that they're going to play it in Db but first, they'll play it in the key it was written in for the trumpet, Bb. Armstrong plays it well but is thrown off for a moment when Bushkin modulates to Db for the vocal (for those with perfect pitch, the rehearsal is pitched a half-step too high). But when it came time to the actual broadcast, Bushkin played the whole thing in Db. Thus, you can hear Armstrong have a huge brain fart (official musicological term) as he takes a second or two to figure out what key he's in. Once settled, he shows his musicianship by playing it in the different key without a problem. Anyway, here's how it aired, complete with a wondrous Jack Teagarden solo:
The rehearsal for "Someday You'll Be Sorry" with Helen Cherrell and the Swan-Tones is just as fascinating. Armstrong starts off play playing it in his usual key until Cherrell mentions that she and the Swan-Tones have rehearsed their part in another key. No problem, as Pops modulates everything in his head to play it in Db on the trumpet before modulating to Bb for his vocal. These moments are priceless because they illustrate just how much of a professional musician Armstrong was. He could play just about anything in just about any key at the drop of a hat. Here's the rehearsal, which unfortunately is incomplete:
And here's how "Someday" sounded on the air later that day, with the proper modulation (and Earl Hines on piano instead of Bushkin):
We're going to leave the world of Eddie Condon and travel back to my home in "Indiana," a song that was the subject of a blowout entry for me back in 2008. I liked the way it came it out so I used it as the basis for a presentation I gave at the Louis Armstrong Symposium at the College of Staten Island in November. To mark the occasion, I updated my blog on the topic and thought that would be that. Well, literally a week or so after I published, here came another package in the mail from Mr. Forsberg in Sweden containing a version of "Indiana" from October 1954...WITH ANOTHER COMPLETELY DIFFERENT TRUMPET SOLO! First off, if you want to revisit the entire story of "Indiana" and Armstrong, click here. In my narrative, I discuss how Armstrong tinkered with that solo for about five years before all the pieces fell into place in 1956. By 1954, he had the final 16 bars pretty much set but was constantly looking for something solid for the first half. In May and August concerts from 1954, he was trying to work out a lick he originally played during the 1925 Bessie Smith recording of "St. Louis Blues" but it always came out a little awkward. I also shared versions from December 1954 and January 1955 that were completely different. And now thanks to Håkan, we can now hear an "Indiana" from around October 6, 1954. 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:
In November, I began a three-part expose on "On the Sunny Side of the Street," which you can revisit by clicking here. I opened it by mentioning that Armstrong must have been performing the song before he had the chance to record it because Chick Webb already recorded it with trumpeter Taft Jordan aping both Armstrong's singing and playing. I shared Webb's version from September 10, 1934 but a reader named Elliott wrote in to remind me that Webb recorded it on December 12, 1933 in a version that was slower and even more in an Armstrong bag than the one I used. He wasn't kidding; Jordan even closes by reprising the ending to Armstrong's 1929 record of "Black and Blue." Here's Webb's earlier version of "Sunny Side":
And I concluded my look at "Sunny Side of the Street" by writing that as far as I knew, Armstrong rarely played the tune with the All Stars after 1960. I still believe this is true but I forgot that on a 1970 NBC television special, "Sun City Scandals," he sang a wonderful version of the tune. In my second post on the subject, I shared a bit of editing I did linking together all the different scat breaks Armstrong utilized in his performances of the song. It's interesting that in his second chorus break, he perfectly reprises the one he was singing in the early-50s. (Hmm, does anyone else find that interesting?) Anyway, he swings beautifully and it's definitely worth a listen (and yes, that's Johnny Carson introducing him):
And finally, "Rockin' Chair," which I just wrote about a couple of weeks ago. One thing that looks like it will never get resolved is the "what cabin, joking/choking" line as I received written arguments for both sides. Desmond Polk wrote me to tell me that the Mills Brothers sang "what cabin, choking" on both of their 1930s recordings of the songs. And while listening to a broadcast of Armstrong singing "Accentuate the Positive" from the New Zanzibar in New York City in 1945, I was floored to hear Armsstrong sing during the bridge, "To illustrate, my last remark/ Jonah and the whale, Noah and the ark/ What did they do--CHOKING!--when everything seemed so dark?" The "choking" comes out of nowhere and it's clearly "choking" not "joking." On the vocal reprise, Armstrong elmininates "choking" and substitues "grabbin'" as an aside. "Grabbin'," too, was part of the "Rockin' Chair" routine. So I really think the only person who knows what Armstrong had in his mind with the whole "choking/joking" thing is Armstrong himself and unfortunately, it's too late to ask him!
I tried shaping my "Rockin' Chair" post to include only the essential versions but there are two from a Bing Crosby radio show from December 1950 that I wanted to share but didn't for the sake of time. Now, with a second chance, I'd like to lay 'em on ya. The first one is the standard Armstrong-and-Teagarden duet though it contains Armstrong's aside "you don't want no water, father," which he only did with Teagarden twice. Interestingly, they only sing one chorus before something rare occurs: Teagarden goes right to the bridge with his trombone with Armstrong providing quiet support behind him. Armstrong then steps in and passionately plays the last eight bars on the trumpet, the last time he ever did so. Here 'tis:
That episode of Crosby's show was dedicated to Bing's 20th anniversary as a solo performer. To mark the occasion, Armstrong, Teagarden, Dinah Shore and the Jud Conlon Rhythmaires stepped in to sing a parody version of "Rockin' Chair" that acted as a bit of a roast of Papa Bing. It's pretty funny but Louis's reading of the response, "Say, how long have you been blind?" always makes me laugh out loud. Give it a listen:
And that, I think, is that for my 2009 entries. Last year, I shared an Armstrong New Year's Eve broadcast on New Year's Eve and I still might do that but I think I might let this entry linger for a while because it would take about an hour to just get through the above audio samples. So again, I thank all of you for your interest, support and friendship and I look forward to another year of Armstrong crazienss in 2010 (especially with the book coming out in May!). Happy New Year!
Of course, I'd have given up a long time ago without the support of my loyal readers. I receive e-mails almost daily from around the world and that's what fuels me to spend much of my free time keeping this blog going strong. Though I started it in July 2007, I never figured how out to track this site's traffic until this past March when I installed an invisible tracker. I was pleased with the initial returns in the spring but starting in September, my hits began going through the roof (don't get too excited; I'm not exactly breaking records here but for such a specialist's blog, I think I'm doing all right!). Since then, I've topped my previous high with each successive month and I sit here on Monday night 100 hits away from setting another personal high. So thank you, thank you, thank you to all of my readers, from the ones who have been with me from day one to the ones who are just finding this site for the first time.
I try to pack my posts with sometimes graphic amounts of information, hoping that when I hit the "publish post" button, I'll never have to revisit that topic again. Fortunately, I have generous readers who remind me of things I missed or sometimes just send me rare Armstrong material without my even asking. Thus, I've decided to re-open a few of my entires from throughout the year to share some things I missed the first time around.
Last January, I obsessed over what I called "The Tiger Rag to End All Tiger Rag's," a nearly 10-minute performance from January 21, 1959 in Copenhagen that found Armstrong taking four inhuman encores, hitting freakish high notes like he was a young man again. To read my original breathless account of that performance, click here. It wasn't long before my Swedish friend Peter Winberg wrote me to inform that he had a similar, four-encore performance of "Tiger Rag" FROM THE SAME DAY! (No wonder Pops had a heart attack that year.) Peter was kind enough to send me a copy of it, which I would like to share right now. Armstrong and the All Stars were doing two shows a day for most of the tour so this is the earlier version. It's not quite as poised as the evening version, but it's still exciting as hell, with a "Whispering" quote that always knocks me out. Here 'tis:
Pretty incredible, right? If you don't feel like immediately revisiting my older post and want to hear what Pops did with "Tiger Rag" later that evening, here's that audio again:
Back in September, I went through an Eddie Condon Floor Show phase, sharing the audio from four appearances Armstrong made on that pioneering television program. Once again, help arrived from Sweden in the form of the great Håkan Forsberg who sent me two discs of ALL the surviving Condon material with Armstrong including a bunch of tracks I missed the first time around. First up, two tracks from a November 23, 1948 broadcast, "King Porter Stomp" and "Where the Blues Were Born in New Orleans." Unfortunately, these are the only two songs to have survived, though we know that Armstrong and the All Stars performed others such as "Muskrat Ramble," "Don't Worry 'Bout Me" and "Small Fry." Hopefully those performances will turn up some day, but for now, enjoy these two stomping numbers. "King Porter" was one of the most exciting numbers of the early days of the All Stars so any surviving performances of it are welcome. Pinch hitting for the notoriously cheap Barney Bigard is clarinetist Peanuts Hucko (Bigard often turned down television appearances if the money wasn't right) while original All Stars pianist Dick Cary is onboard rather than Earl "Fatha" Hines. Here's "King Porter Stomp":
And from the motion picture New Orleans, here's the introduce-the-band number "Where the Blues Were Born in New Orleans":
On June 11, 1949, Armstrong turned in a performance on Condon's program that contained, in my opinion, some of the best trumpet playing of his entire career. But to demonstrate how those chops of steel could sometimes hit a rough spell, Armstrong returned to the show on July 30 completely unable to blow his horn, a real rarity for this point in his career. Instead, he led a Condon group with Hucko, Cary, Bobby Hackett and George Wettling, bringing along Earl Hines and Velma Middleton from his own All Stars. Armstrong did his best to lead the Condonites through his regular routines but clearly something's missing, though it's nice to hear "Brother Hackett" get a solo. Here's a medley of "Shadrack" and "When the Saints Go Marchin' In":
And here's "Velma's Blues." When the All Stars played this one, the routine was tight as a drum to correspond with Velma's dance choreography. Here, you can hear Pops probably trying his damndest to lead the musicians down the right path, but the overall result is a little sloppy though it fades out before anyone gets seriously hurt:
Now a real treat, courtesy of Mr. Forsberg. In my previous entries, I discussed Armstrong's performance of "Someday You'll Be Sorry" on the August 27, 1949 broadcast and "Going Back to Storyville" on the one from September 3. Well, earlier in the day on August 27, Armstrong rehearsed both of those numbers...and someone kept a tape recorder running! Thus, here's Louis Armstrong at work, going over keys and routines with vocalist Helen Cherell and the Swan-Tones on "Someday" and learning "Going Back to Storyville" with help from the tune's composer, pianist Joe Bushkin. Both rehearsals are incomplete, but offer fascinating glimpses in Armstrong's all-business rehearsal process. Here's the rehearsal for "Going Back to Storyville," done on August 27:
Clearly, they must have known it needed a little more work as the tune wasn't performed until the following week's broadcast. As I mentioned in my earlier entry, Pops still struggled a bit with his opening trumpet reading of the melody. On the rehearsal, he played it strongly but I think I know why. The rehearsal begins with Bushkin saying that they're going to play it in Db but first, they'll play it in the key it was written in for the trumpet, Bb. Armstrong plays it well but is thrown off for a moment when Bushkin modulates to Db for the vocal (for those with perfect pitch, the rehearsal is pitched a half-step too high). But when it came time to the actual broadcast, Bushkin played the whole thing in Db. Thus, you can hear Armstrong have a huge brain fart (official musicological term) as he takes a second or two to figure out what key he's in. Once settled, he shows his musicianship by playing it in the different key without a problem. Anyway, here's how it aired, complete with a wondrous Jack Teagarden solo:
The rehearsal for "Someday You'll Be Sorry" with Helen Cherrell and the Swan-Tones is just as fascinating. Armstrong starts off play playing it in his usual key until Cherrell mentions that she and the Swan-Tones have rehearsed their part in another key. No problem, as Pops modulates everything in his head to play it in Db on the trumpet before modulating to Bb for his vocal. These moments are priceless because they illustrate just how much of a professional musician Armstrong was. He could play just about anything in just about any key at the drop of a hat. Here's the rehearsal, which unfortunately is incomplete:
And here's how "Someday" sounded on the air later that day, with the proper modulation (and Earl Hines on piano instead of Bushkin):
We're going to leave the world of Eddie Condon and travel back to my home in "Indiana," a song that was the subject of a blowout entry for me back in 2008. I liked the way it came it out so I used it as the basis for a presentation I gave at the Louis Armstrong Symposium at the College of Staten Island in November. To mark the occasion, I updated my blog on the topic and thought that would be that. Well, literally a week or so after I published, here came another package in the mail from Mr. Forsberg in Sweden containing a version of "Indiana" from October 1954...WITH ANOTHER COMPLETELY DIFFERENT TRUMPET SOLO! First off, if you want to revisit the entire story of "Indiana" and Armstrong, click here. In my narrative, I discuss how Armstrong tinkered with that solo for about five years before all the pieces fell into place in 1956. By 1954, he had the final 16 bars pretty much set but was constantly looking for something solid for the first half. In May and August concerts from 1954, he was trying to work out a lick he originally played during the 1925 Bessie Smith recording of "St. Louis Blues" but it always came out a little awkward. I also shared versions from December 1954 and January 1955 that were completely different. And now thanks to Håkan, we can now hear an "Indiana" from around October 6, 1954. 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:
In November, I began a three-part expose on "On the Sunny Side of the Street," which you can revisit by clicking here. I opened it by mentioning that Armstrong must have been performing the song before he had the chance to record it because Chick Webb already recorded it with trumpeter Taft Jordan aping both Armstrong's singing and playing. I shared Webb's version from September 10, 1934 but a reader named Elliott wrote in to remind me that Webb recorded it on December 12, 1933 in a version that was slower and even more in an Armstrong bag than the one I used. He wasn't kidding; Jordan even closes by reprising the ending to Armstrong's 1929 record of "Black and Blue." Here's Webb's earlier version of "Sunny Side":
And I concluded my look at "Sunny Side of the Street" by writing that as far as I knew, Armstrong rarely played the tune with the All Stars after 1960. I still believe this is true but I forgot that on a 1970 NBC television special, "Sun City Scandals," he sang a wonderful version of the tune. In my second post on the subject, I shared a bit of editing I did linking together all the different scat breaks Armstrong utilized in his performances of the song. It's interesting that in his second chorus break, he perfectly reprises the one he was singing in the early-50s. (Hmm, does anyone else find that interesting?) Anyway, he swings beautifully and it's definitely worth a listen (and yes, that's Johnny Carson introducing him):
And finally, "Rockin' Chair," which I just wrote about a couple of weeks ago. One thing that looks like it will never get resolved is the "what cabin, joking/choking" line as I received written arguments for both sides. Desmond Polk wrote me to tell me that the Mills Brothers sang "what cabin, choking" on both of their 1930s recordings of the songs. And while listening to a broadcast of Armstrong singing "Accentuate the Positive" from the New Zanzibar in New York City in 1945, I was floored to hear Armsstrong sing during the bridge, "To illustrate, my last remark/ Jonah and the whale, Noah and the ark/ What did they do--CHOKING!--when everything seemed so dark?" The "choking" comes out of nowhere and it's clearly "choking" not "joking." On the vocal reprise, Armstrong elmininates "choking" and substitues "grabbin'" as an aside. "Grabbin'," too, was part of the "Rockin' Chair" routine. So I really think the only person who knows what Armstrong had in his mind with the whole "choking/joking" thing is Armstrong himself and unfortunately, it's too late to ask him!
I tried shaping my "Rockin' Chair" post to include only the essential versions but there are two from a Bing Crosby radio show from December 1950 that I wanted to share but didn't for the sake of time. Now, with a second chance, I'd like to lay 'em on ya. The first one is the standard Armstrong-and-Teagarden duet though it contains Armstrong's aside "you don't want no water, father," which he only did with Teagarden twice. Interestingly, they only sing one chorus before something rare occurs: Teagarden goes right to the bridge with his trombone with Armstrong providing quiet support behind him. Armstrong then steps in and passionately plays the last eight bars on the trumpet, the last time he ever did so. Here 'tis:
That episode of Crosby's show was dedicated to Bing's 20th anniversary as a solo performer. To mark the occasion, Armstrong, Teagarden, Dinah Shore and the Jud Conlon Rhythmaires stepped in to sing a parody version of "Rockin' Chair" that acted as a bit of a roast of Papa Bing. It's pretty funny but Louis's reading of the response, "Say, how long have you been blind?" always makes me laugh out loud. Give it a listen:
And that, I think, is that for my 2009 entries. Last year, I shared an Armstrong New Year's Eve broadcast on New Year's Eve and I still might do that but I think I might let this entry linger for a while because it would take about an hour to just get through the above audio samples. So again, I thank all of you for your interest, support and friendship and I look forward to another year of Armstrong crazienss in 2010 (especially with the book coming out in May!). Happy New Year!
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Night Before Christmas
As promised, today is the day before Christmas, so what better way to celebrate than by listening to Louis Armstrong's reading of "The Night Before Christmas." This was Armstrong's final record, made February 26, 1971 in his home in Corona, just a few days before his last extended engagement at the Waldorf-Astoria, an engagement that pretty much sealed the fate of the frail trumpeter. He passed away on July 6, 1971.
But enough sadness! Louis Armstrong was the personification of joy and the man was terrific around children, two attributes that come to the forefront of this reading. When Brunswick originally issued it, they added some silly sound effects and background music. To hear that version, click here:
Fortunately, they also released it sans music so if you want to hear just the pure voice of Louis Armstrong reading a classic Christmas tale, enjoy this YouTube video and have a wonderful holiday!
But enough sadness! Louis Armstrong was the personification of joy and the man was terrific around children, two attributes that come to the forefront of this reading. When Brunswick originally issued it, they added some silly sound effects and background music. To hear that version, click here:
Fortunately, they also released it sans music so if you want to hear just the pure voice of Louis Armstrong reading a classic Christmas tale, enjoy this YouTube video and have a wonderful holiday!
Monday, December 21, 2009
A Very Satchmo Christmas - 2009 Edition!
Don't let the "2009" fool you, as this is pretty much the same exact thing I posted for each of the past two years. But I feel like the six Christmas songs Armstrong recorded for Decca in the 1950s are worth celebrating every year at this time so if you don't mind, let's do it one more once. Crank up the speakers, pour some egg nog and get ready to enjoy them all over again.
So, as already mentioned, this entry will focus on the six Christmas records Armstrong made for Decca in the 1950s. And when I say records, I don’t mean long-playing discs but rather, six three-minute singles. It might seem odd that someone who brought more joy to the world than Santa Claus would have so few yuletide classics in his discography, but alas that’s the case. In fact, Armstrong didn’t get around to recording his first Christmas song until 1952, unless, of course, you count Armstrong’s two versions of “Santa Claus Blues” from 1924 and 1925.
When Decca finally corralled Armstrong into the studio to record some Christmas cheer, they gave him first-class treatment by backing him with the lush arrangements of Gordon Jenkins. Jenkins’s sentimental string and voices sound revived Armstrong’s recording career with the 1949 hit “Blueberry Hill.” By the early 1950s, Jenkins was a veritable recording superstar. Anything with his name on it sold tremendously so it made sense for Decca to pair him with label stars like Peggy Lee and Armstrong. On September 22, 1952, Armstrong and Jenkins teamed up for their fourth session together. On one of their sessions, from February 6, 1951 Jenkins jettisoned his strings and turned in some very fine small-big band arrangements but for the 1952 session, the strings were the whole show on the Christmas number, though current All Stars Bob McCracken, Marty Napoleon, Arvell Shaw and Cozy Cole were in the studio band that day (as was guitarist Art Ryerson, who would do many post-“Hello, Dolly” sessions with Pops in the 60s).
Both of the Jenkins Christmas numbers are unusually low-key. They feature no trumpet and no surges of emotion or anything. They’re very sober but the best word to describe them has to be “warm.” Pops is at his most tender, singing as if he’s whispering a loving lullaby to a small child. “White Christmas” is up first and, of course, was property of Armstrong’s friend and disciple, Bing Crosby. From the opening seconds, we know we’re in Gordon Jenkins country. “White Christmas” demonstrates that many of our best-loved Christmas songs feature quite a range of notes and you can hear Pops stretch here and there, but I always loved his tenor voice—as well as that basso profundo he would break out when necessary. Both are needed on “White Christmas,” which finds Pops reaching for a high D on “the ones” to the C an octave lower on “children.” On the final “be white,” Armstrong goes down to a low B on the coincidental word “be.” Where you’d expect a scat break or a “oh babe,” Pops lays out, leaving the gaps to be filled by Jenkins’s beautiful strings. After a brief string interlude, Armstrong reenters with the final eight bars, featuring, I think, some of his most touching singing. You can hear him smiling as he sings “and bright.” Again, he goes way down for that final “white,” holding it for an impressive amount of time. Very pretty stuff. Enough from me, enjoy it for yourself:
“Winter Wonderland” is up next and it’s more of the same. Though most performers do this one at an uptempo, Armstrong and Jenkins give it the same gentle ballad treatment as “White Christmas.” Again, Pops rarely deviates from the melody but he doesn’t have to, he’s singing it so sweetly. Am I weird for actually feeling warmed by the way Pops sings “as we dream by the fire”? Jenkins goes back to the bridge for another one of his trademark sounds. Marty Napoleon plays the melody in single notes an octave lower than you’d expect. I know, it doesn’t sound like much, but hey, this was popular music in 1952 and it gave Jenkins an identity. Pops reenters for the final eight with a cute extended coda. Armstrong repeats the word “walking” while the pizzicato strings “walk” gingerly behind him. Finally, Armstrong unleashes a little bit of scat and the record comes to a mellow conclusion. Dig it:
Don’t worry, though. If Jenkins’s Christmas records make you a little sleepy and ready to curl up by the fire, here comes Toots Camarata’s Commanders to violently wake you up, visions of Ed Grady’s cymbals ringing in your head. I devoted an entire entry to this session in October 2008 because I believe it's one of the greatest dates Armstrong ever did in his entire career. The Commanders were a ferocious studio band co-led by arranger Camarata and drummer Grady. They were brass heavy—three trumpets, four trombones and only two reeds—and featured a peerless rhythm section propelled by Carmen Mastren’s rhythm guitar and Grady’s earth-shattering big band drumming. The October session began with two Christmas songs and both are a lot of fun. After trying out a few standards on the Jenkins sessions, Decca gave Armstrong a few novelties to cut up on and he does just that, infusing these two trite, silly songs with such enthusiasm that they’ve in turn had a shelf life of over 50 years of being listened to and enjoyed. First up: "Zat You Santa Claus?"
Right off the bat, you can hear that Decca gave their sound effects man some extra work on the date and the record starts off with howling winds and jingle bells. Grady’s drums “knock” on the door (how often did he have to change his snare head?), Pops asks the title question and we’re off, the reeds falling into a standard descending minor vamp. The lyrics are back in the “Old Man Mose” mold as Pops, frightened by the outside noises (cue the sound effects guy), hopes it’s Santa Claus making that racket and not someone sinister. The song does have a great bridge and the Commanders swing through it easily. The lyrics really are kind of goofy, but man, Pops sounds like he’s having a ball, which in turn, spreads to the listener. After one chorus, the band takes over, trading four bars with Pops and playing with such force, it threatens to become the most badass Christmas song ever recorded. Pops’s vocal on the trades grows more nervous and frantic, adding more fun to the proceedings. But perhaps the highlight of the record comes during the coda when a clearly petrified Armstrong pleads, “Please, a-please, a-pity my knees!” I love the way he sings that word “please.” The song ends with a big ending and after another “knock” from the drums, Pops yells, “That’s him all right,” while more sound effects take us out. It’s not “White Christmas,” but it’s very atmospheric and it’s easy to get swept away by Pops’s vocal.
Next up was “Cool Yule,” lyrics and music by comedian and television talk show pioneer Steve Allen. Due to its use in a few recent movies, “Cool Yule” has probably become Armstrong’s best-known Christmas recording. During my 50 trips to the mall this season, it’s sometimes hard to hear the piped in Christmas music, but man, that Armstrong horn during the bridge always manages to cut through the noise! (2009 update: it even cuts through the noise while running around a crowded Port Authority bus station in New York City in December.) Allen’s trademark sense of humor infuses the lyrics with all sorts of funny psuedo-hip references and Pops again, sounds like he’s having a ball. Here 'tis:
The song begins with more jingle bells before the band enters with a sprightly shuffle beat—wait a minute, is this Louie Prima or Louis Armstrong? The changes are fairly simple: “rhythm changes” for 16 bars, then a modulation for more “rhythm changes” in the bridge, kind of like Count Basie’s “Easy Does It.” Only the second half of the bridge doesn’t have “Rhythm,” as it’s punctuated by giant accents by the band on two and four. Again, Pops sings wonderfully but dig that band. Every drum hit, every brass punch, every note of the instrumental interlude…it’s so precise, so explosive, so swinging. I wish Armstrong made a dozen albums with the Commanders. After eight bars from the band, Armstrong picks up his horn for the first time during the session and it’s a preview of the tremendous blowing that was to be the hallmark of the date. Though the song has nothing to do with the blues, Pops instills his entire solo with more blue notes than you might expect. He gets downright funky with some of his note choices and I can never refrain from giving a “Yeah,” when he gets into that bridge. The highlight of the trumpet solo comes in the bridge when plays the melody phrase like a human being, then skyrockets an octave higher to play it again, ending it on a high concert D. After the vocal, Pops still has time to sing another entire chorus and he does so with even more enthusiasm than the first time, especially on the bridge (and listen to Grady on the final A section). Pops legitimately breaks himself up by yelling “Cool Yule” at the end and if you’re not smiling, you’re surname must be Scrooge. But as much fun as “Cool Yule” is, it’s also responsible for this:
Yikes.
Anyway, Decca wasn’t finished yet and two years later, on September 8, 1955, they brought Armstrong in to record two more Christmas songs, this time backed by a studio band arranged and conducted by the great Benny Carter. This has become one of those forgotten Decca sessions, never reissued on C.D. by the label itself but it is available on the Ambassador label’s Moments to Remember disc, which collects all of Armstrong’s Christmas work for the Decca, the entire Commanders session and other odds and ends that are hard to find on compact disc or Itunes. Carter wrote a great arrangement for Armstrong on The Platters’s “Only You” and Armstrong manages to sound quite tender on the Four Lads hit, “Moments to Remember.”
The first Christmas song that day was Dick Sherman and Joe Van Winkle’s “Christmas In New Orleans.” Here's the audio:
Carter’s arrangement begins with a hardened “Jingle Bells” quote that sounds like it belongs in an episode of Dragnet (remember, Carter was doing a lot of film work at the time). It soon settles into a gentle two-beat that really works for this song. The lyrics are almost a waste of time with their references to stuff like a “Dixieland Santa Claus,” but as always, Pops sounds like the happiest guy in the world. And how could he not? He loved Christmas and he loved New Orleans so any song that combined the two, even with dopey lyrics, was bound to inspire him. What’s truly inspired, though, is the trumpet solo. The tune starts off kind of like “Basin Street Blues” before it goes its own way but the changes obviously had enough meat for Armstrong to sink his chops into. This isn’t one of those grandiose high-note extravaganzas; however it is a good time to appreciate Armstrong’s rhythmic mastery. It’s one of those solos that I always enjoyed but never really devoted 100% attention to until an afternoon I spent in Joe Muranyi’s house. Muranyi recorded “Christmas In New Orleans” for his Jazzology C.D., Joe Muranyi With The New Orleans Real Low-Down. For the disc, he transcribed Armstrong’s solo to be played in unison by his clarinet, Duke Heitger’s trumpet and Tom Baker’s tenor sax. You get so used to hearing horns playing unison lines on bop heads and the like, but not on Armstrong solos and all of a sudden, this solo that I kind of took for granted, became a whole new thing. While listening to it with me, Muranyi said, “It’s tough to notate this part. I worked so hard on it. What you do is, I did it and then I put it away. I mean, I had done it maybe two or three years before this and when I took it out again and refined it, you keep finding little things. It’s not easy. It’s interesting to hear it in this context. It sounds more complex than when he plays it.” It really does. Here's Muranyi's performance:
For the final track on the date, Decca reached back and picked “Christmas Night In Harlem,” written by Mitchell Parish and Raymond Scott for the “Blackbirds of and 1934 and memorably recorded by Paul Whiteman with a vocal by Jack Teagarden and Johnny Mercer. Carter’s arrangement begins with another Christmas quote—Billy Kyle playing the beginning to “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town”—before the horns punch out a descending line that reminds me of a Ray Charles record (I think I’m thinking of “Greenback Dollar Bill”). Armstrong sings the first chorus harmlessly—it’s a pretty repetitive melody and he does his best with it. Carter’s arrangement swings after the vocal and you can hear Barney Bigard holding a high note. (This was Bigard’s next-to-last session with the All Stars as he would be replaced by Edmond Hall in a matter of weeks.) Armstrong’s trumpet solo is curiously low-key. He more or less sticks to playing the melody in the middle register. Naturally, the Armstrong sound makes it worth listening to, but he doesn’t really blow with any force until the last eight bars. It’s a fine solo but I think that Pops could have maybe used one more take to wail a little more. After the low-key solo, Pops returns to sing the bridge, which features a very funny moment. Armstrong sings, “Everyone will be all lit up,” and laughs to himself, “lit up” clearly having a different meaning to him than most. He swings the lyric on the final A section, boiling it down to one note, but the arrangement is now too polite; where’s Ed Grady’s drums to wake things up? The highlight of the record is Pops’s eloquent scatting and singing as the record fades. A charming record, but not my favorite Louis Christmas song.
And that ends this tour of Louis Armstrong’s Christmas recordings for Decca. Of course, Armstrong wasn’t completely done recording yuletide music as in 1970, he performed “Here Is My Heart For Christmas” for RCA. And Armstrong’s very last recording is a reading of “Twas the Night Before Christmas” that is quite charming and is one I hope to share this Thursday. Til then...
So, as already mentioned, this entry will focus on the six Christmas records Armstrong made for Decca in the 1950s. And when I say records, I don’t mean long-playing discs but rather, six three-minute singles. It might seem odd that someone who brought more joy to the world than Santa Claus would have so few yuletide classics in his discography, but alas that’s the case. In fact, Armstrong didn’t get around to recording his first Christmas song until 1952, unless, of course, you count Armstrong’s two versions of “Santa Claus Blues” from 1924 and 1925.
When Decca finally corralled Armstrong into the studio to record some Christmas cheer, they gave him first-class treatment by backing him with the lush arrangements of Gordon Jenkins. Jenkins’s sentimental string and voices sound revived Armstrong’s recording career with the 1949 hit “Blueberry Hill.” By the early 1950s, Jenkins was a veritable recording superstar. Anything with his name on it sold tremendously so it made sense for Decca to pair him with label stars like Peggy Lee and Armstrong. On September 22, 1952, Armstrong and Jenkins teamed up for their fourth session together. On one of their sessions, from February 6, 1951 Jenkins jettisoned his strings and turned in some very fine small-big band arrangements but for the 1952 session, the strings were the whole show on the Christmas number, though current All Stars Bob McCracken, Marty Napoleon, Arvell Shaw and Cozy Cole were in the studio band that day (as was guitarist Art Ryerson, who would do many post-“Hello, Dolly” sessions with Pops in the 60s).
Both of the Jenkins Christmas numbers are unusually low-key. They feature no trumpet and no surges of emotion or anything. They’re very sober but the best word to describe them has to be “warm.” Pops is at his most tender, singing as if he’s whispering a loving lullaby to a small child. “White Christmas” is up first and, of course, was property of Armstrong’s friend and disciple, Bing Crosby. From the opening seconds, we know we’re in Gordon Jenkins country. “White Christmas” demonstrates that many of our best-loved Christmas songs feature quite a range of notes and you can hear Pops stretch here and there, but I always loved his tenor voice—as well as that basso profundo he would break out when necessary. Both are needed on “White Christmas,” which finds Pops reaching for a high D on “the ones” to the C an octave lower on “children.” On the final “be white,” Armstrong goes down to a low B on the coincidental word “be.” Where you’d expect a scat break or a “oh babe,” Pops lays out, leaving the gaps to be filled by Jenkins’s beautiful strings. After a brief string interlude, Armstrong reenters with the final eight bars, featuring, I think, some of his most touching singing. You can hear him smiling as he sings “and bright.” Again, he goes way down for that final “white,” holding it for an impressive amount of time. Very pretty stuff. Enough from me, enjoy it for yourself:
“Winter Wonderland” is up next and it’s more of the same. Though most performers do this one at an uptempo, Armstrong and Jenkins give it the same gentle ballad treatment as “White Christmas.” Again, Pops rarely deviates from the melody but he doesn’t have to, he’s singing it so sweetly. Am I weird for actually feeling warmed by the way Pops sings “as we dream by the fire”? Jenkins goes back to the bridge for another one of his trademark sounds. Marty Napoleon plays the melody in single notes an octave lower than you’d expect. I know, it doesn’t sound like much, but hey, this was popular music in 1952 and it gave Jenkins an identity. Pops reenters for the final eight with a cute extended coda. Armstrong repeats the word “walking” while the pizzicato strings “walk” gingerly behind him. Finally, Armstrong unleashes a little bit of scat and the record comes to a mellow conclusion. Dig it:
Don’t worry, though. If Jenkins’s Christmas records make you a little sleepy and ready to curl up by the fire, here comes Toots Camarata’s Commanders to violently wake you up, visions of Ed Grady’s cymbals ringing in your head. I devoted an entire entry to this session in October 2008 because I believe it's one of the greatest dates Armstrong ever did in his entire career. The Commanders were a ferocious studio band co-led by arranger Camarata and drummer Grady. They were brass heavy—three trumpets, four trombones and only two reeds—and featured a peerless rhythm section propelled by Carmen Mastren’s rhythm guitar and Grady’s earth-shattering big band drumming. The October session began with two Christmas songs and both are a lot of fun. After trying out a few standards on the Jenkins sessions, Decca gave Armstrong a few novelties to cut up on and he does just that, infusing these two trite, silly songs with such enthusiasm that they’ve in turn had a shelf life of over 50 years of being listened to and enjoyed. First up: "Zat You Santa Claus?"
Right off the bat, you can hear that Decca gave their sound effects man some extra work on the date and the record starts off with howling winds and jingle bells. Grady’s drums “knock” on the door (how often did he have to change his snare head?), Pops asks the title question and we’re off, the reeds falling into a standard descending minor vamp. The lyrics are back in the “Old Man Mose” mold as Pops, frightened by the outside noises (cue the sound effects guy), hopes it’s Santa Claus making that racket and not someone sinister. The song does have a great bridge and the Commanders swing through it easily. The lyrics really are kind of goofy, but man, Pops sounds like he’s having a ball, which in turn, spreads to the listener. After one chorus, the band takes over, trading four bars with Pops and playing with such force, it threatens to become the most badass Christmas song ever recorded. Pops’s vocal on the trades grows more nervous and frantic, adding more fun to the proceedings. But perhaps the highlight of the record comes during the coda when a clearly petrified Armstrong pleads, “Please, a-please, a-pity my knees!” I love the way he sings that word “please.” The song ends with a big ending and after another “knock” from the drums, Pops yells, “That’s him all right,” while more sound effects take us out. It’s not “White Christmas,” but it’s very atmospheric and it’s easy to get swept away by Pops’s vocal.
Next up was “Cool Yule,” lyrics and music by comedian and television talk show pioneer Steve Allen. Due to its use in a few recent movies, “Cool Yule” has probably become Armstrong’s best-known Christmas recording. During my 50 trips to the mall this season, it’s sometimes hard to hear the piped in Christmas music, but man, that Armstrong horn during the bridge always manages to cut through the noise! (2009 update: it even cuts through the noise while running around a crowded Port Authority bus station in New York City in December.) Allen’s trademark sense of humor infuses the lyrics with all sorts of funny psuedo-hip references and Pops again, sounds like he’s having a ball. Here 'tis:
The song begins with more jingle bells before the band enters with a sprightly shuffle beat—wait a minute, is this Louie Prima or Louis Armstrong? The changes are fairly simple: “rhythm changes” for 16 bars, then a modulation for more “rhythm changes” in the bridge, kind of like Count Basie’s “Easy Does It.” Only the second half of the bridge doesn’t have “Rhythm,” as it’s punctuated by giant accents by the band on two and four. Again, Pops sings wonderfully but dig that band. Every drum hit, every brass punch, every note of the instrumental interlude…it’s so precise, so explosive, so swinging. I wish Armstrong made a dozen albums with the Commanders. After eight bars from the band, Armstrong picks up his horn for the first time during the session and it’s a preview of the tremendous blowing that was to be the hallmark of the date. Though the song has nothing to do with the blues, Pops instills his entire solo with more blue notes than you might expect. He gets downright funky with some of his note choices and I can never refrain from giving a “Yeah,” when he gets into that bridge. The highlight of the trumpet solo comes in the bridge when plays the melody phrase like a human being, then skyrockets an octave higher to play it again, ending it on a high concert D. After the vocal, Pops still has time to sing another entire chorus and he does so with even more enthusiasm than the first time, especially on the bridge (and listen to Grady on the final A section). Pops legitimately breaks himself up by yelling “Cool Yule” at the end and if you’re not smiling, you’re surname must be Scrooge. But as much fun as “Cool Yule” is, it’s also responsible for this:
Yikes.
Anyway, Decca wasn’t finished yet and two years later, on September 8, 1955, they brought Armstrong in to record two more Christmas songs, this time backed by a studio band arranged and conducted by the great Benny Carter. This has become one of those forgotten Decca sessions, never reissued on C.D. by the label itself but it is available on the Ambassador label’s Moments to Remember disc, which collects all of Armstrong’s Christmas work for the Decca, the entire Commanders session and other odds and ends that are hard to find on compact disc or Itunes. Carter wrote a great arrangement for Armstrong on The Platters’s “Only You” and Armstrong manages to sound quite tender on the Four Lads hit, “Moments to Remember.”
The first Christmas song that day was Dick Sherman and Joe Van Winkle’s “Christmas In New Orleans.” Here's the audio:
Carter’s arrangement begins with a hardened “Jingle Bells” quote that sounds like it belongs in an episode of Dragnet (remember, Carter was doing a lot of film work at the time). It soon settles into a gentle two-beat that really works for this song. The lyrics are almost a waste of time with their references to stuff like a “Dixieland Santa Claus,” but as always, Pops sounds like the happiest guy in the world. And how could he not? He loved Christmas and he loved New Orleans so any song that combined the two, even with dopey lyrics, was bound to inspire him. What’s truly inspired, though, is the trumpet solo. The tune starts off kind of like “Basin Street Blues” before it goes its own way but the changes obviously had enough meat for Armstrong to sink his chops into. This isn’t one of those grandiose high-note extravaganzas; however it is a good time to appreciate Armstrong’s rhythmic mastery. It’s one of those solos that I always enjoyed but never really devoted 100% attention to until an afternoon I spent in Joe Muranyi’s house. Muranyi recorded “Christmas In New Orleans” for his Jazzology C.D., Joe Muranyi With The New Orleans Real Low-Down. For the disc, he transcribed Armstrong’s solo to be played in unison by his clarinet, Duke Heitger’s trumpet and Tom Baker’s tenor sax. You get so used to hearing horns playing unison lines on bop heads and the like, but not on Armstrong solos and all of a sudden, this solo that I kind of took for granted, became a whole new thing. While listening to it with me, Muranyi said, “It’s tough to notate this part. I worked so hard on it. What you do is, I did it and then I put it away. I mean, I had done it maybe two or three years before this and when I took it out again and refined it, you keep finding little things. It’s not easy. It’s interesting to hear it in this context. It sounds more complex than when he plays it.” It really does. Here's Muranyi's performance:
For the final track on the date, Decca reached back and picked “Christmas Night In Harlem,” written by Mitchell Parish and Raymond Scott for the “Blackbirds of and 1934 and memorably recorded by Paul Whiteman with a vocal by Jack Teagarden and Johnny Mercer. Carter’s arrangement begins with another Christmas quote—Billy Kyle playing the beginning to “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town”—before the horns punch out a descending line that reminds me of a Ray Charles record (I think I’m thinking of “Greenback Dollar Bill”). Armstrong sings the first chorus harmlessly—it’s a pretty repetitive melody and he does his best with it. Carter’s arrangement swings after the vocal and you can hear Barney Bigard holding a high note. (This was Bigard’s next-to-last session with the All Stars as he would be replaced by Edmond Hall in a matter of weeks.) Armstrong’s trumpet solo is curiously low-key. He more or less sticks to playing the melody in the middle register. Naturally, the Armstrong sound makes it worth listening to, but he doesn’t really blow with any force until the last eight bars. It’s a fine solo but I think that Pops could have maybe used one more take to wail a little more. After the low-key solo, Pops returns to sing the bridge, which features a very funny moment. Armstrong sings, “Everyone will be all lit up,” and laughs to himself, “lit up” clearly having a different meaning to him than most. He swings the lyric on the final A section, boiling it down to one note, but the arrangement is now too polite; where’s Ed Grady’s drums to wake things up? The highlight of the record is Pops’s eloquent scatting and singing as the record fades. A charming record, but not my favorite Louis Christmas song.
And that ends this tour of Louis Armstrong’s Christmas recordings for Decca. Of course, Armstrong wasn’t completely done recording yuletide music as in 1970, he performed “Here Is My Heart For Christmas” for RCA. And Armstrong’s very last recording is a reading of “Twas the Night Before Christmas” that is quite charming and is one I hope to share this Thursday. Til then...
Sunday, December 20, 2009
I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm
Ella and Louis Again
Recorded August 13, 1957
Track Time 3:13
Written by Irving Berlin
Recorded in Los Angeles, California
Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, vocal; Oscar Peterson, piano; Herb Ellis, guitar; Ray Brown, bass; Louis Bellson, drums
Originally released on Verve V-4006-2
Currently available on CD: Available on Ella and Louis Again, which has been reissued around 700 times by the Verve/Universal people.
Available on Itunes? Yes
The snow is snowing
The wind is blowing
But I can weather the storm.
What do I care how much it may storm?
I've got my love to keep me warm.
You can't blame me for having those lyrics rolling around my head for the last day or so as my sleepy community of Toms River, NJ has been pelted with two feet of snow. No exaggeration. Two feet. We even made the CBS news the morning which, out all of the cities and towns in the Garden State, picked Toms River for a photographic representation of the havoc of this storm. Need proof? Here's the parking lot of my development, the family car on the left, my car on the right:
And here's a view of our back porch:
(The small pillar to the left used to be a table.)
Thus, in the middle of a weekend of cabin fever with the wife and baby (endless viewings of Dora the Explorer), Irving Berlin's lyrics to "I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm" shot into my mind. It was definitely apropos; the snow was indeed snowing, I honestly could not remember a worse December and between duel combinations of Margaret and Ella and Louis and Ella, I had plenty of love to keep me warm and sane. So let's go back to Los Angeles in August of 1957 (not exactly a wintery) scene and listen to the magic conjured up by the unbeatable team of Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald, with swinging backing back Oscar Peterson, Herb Ellis, Ray Brown and Louis Bellson.
Now if that doesn't heat things up, I don't know what will. There's no trumpet playing (Armstrong's lip was going through a tough time and he didn't pick up the horn once on that August 13 date) but the sound of two of the greatest voices in jazz history more than makes up for its absence. Speaking of those voices, my eight-month-old baby daughter could tell you that they are quite different. On all their pairings, Ella and Louis usually found common ground when it came to keys but "I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm" is a pretty wide-ranging outing, resulting in some quick switches. The song begins in Bb, with Pops reaching way down low to hit some of those notes. For his chorus in the sun, the group modulates up to C, but then back to Bb for Ella's reentrance. The piece stays in Bb until the end with Pops having no trouble with the bridge in that key and coming up with some nice harmonies in the final A section. The rhythm section is hot enough to melt all the snow in Jersey. Not exactly a historic performance but it's still incredibly enjoyable.
That's all for me. I hope to be back on Tuesday with my third annual "Very Satchmo Christmas" posting. I hope to have left the house by that point but you never know. My wife, a schoolteacher, has already had her high school closed for Monday. As for me, the Armstrong Archives will be wide open but my 2 1/2 hour commute could easily turn into 4 so don't be surprised if I take a one-day hiatus from the dream job. Thus, another day off with the wife and baby will insure plenty of love to keep all of us warm.
Now if only that love could dig out my car...
Recorded August 13, 1957
Track Time 3:13
Written by Irving Berlin
Recorded in Los Angeles, California
Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, vocal; Oscar Peterson, piano; Herb Ellis, guitar; Ray Brown, bass; Louis Bellson, drums
Originally released on Verve V-4006-2
Currently available on CD: Available on Ella and Louis Again, which has been reissued around 700 times by the Verve/Universal people.
Available on Itunes? Yes
The snow is snowing
The wind is blowing
But I can weather the storm.
What do I care how much it may storm?
I've got my love to keep me warm.
You can't blame me for having those lyrics rolling around my head for the last day or so as my sleepy community of Toms River, NJ has been pelted with two feet of snow. No exaggeration. Two feet. We even made the CBS news the morning which, out all of the cities and towns in the Garden State, picked Toms River for a photographic representation of the havoc of this storm. Need proof? Here's the parking lot of my development, the family car on the left, my car on the right:
And here's a view of our back porch:
(The small pillar to the left used to be a table.)
Thus, in the middle of a weekend of cabin fever with the wife and baby (endless viewings of Dora the Explorer), Irving Berlin's lyrics to "I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm" shot into my mind. It was definitely apropos; the snow was indeed snowing, I honestly could not remember a worse December and between duel combinations of Margaret and Ella and Louis and Ella, I had plenty of love to keep me warm and sane. So let's go back to Los Angeles in August of 1957 (not exactly a wintery) scene and listen to the magic conjured up by the unbeatable team of Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald, with swinging backing back Oscar Peterson, Herb Ellis, Ray Brown and Louis Bellson.
Now if that doesn't heat things up, I don't know what will. There's no trumpet playing (Armstrong's lip was going through a tough time and he didn't pick up the horn once on that August 13 date) but the sound of two of the greatest voices in jazz history more than makes up for its absence. Speaking of those voices, my eight-month-old baby daughter could tell you that they are quite different. On all their pairings, Ella and Louis usually found common ground when it came to keys but "I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm" is a pretty wide-ranging outing, resulting in some quick switches. The song begins in Bb, with Pops reaching way down low to hit some of those notes. For his chorus in the sun, the group modulates up to C, but then back to Bb for Ella's reentrance. The piece stays in Bb until the end with Pops having no trouble with the bridge in that key and coming up with some nice harmonies in the final A section. The rhythm section is hot enough to melt all the snow in Jersey. Not exactly a historic performance but it's still incredibly enjoyable.
That's all for me. I hope to be back on Tuesday with my third annual "Very Satchmo Christmas" posting. I hope to have left the house by that point but you never know. My wife, a schoolteacher, has already had her high school closed for Monday. As for me, the Armstrong Archives will be wide open but my 2 1/2 hour commute could easily turn into 4 so don't be surprised if I take a one-day hiatus from the dream job. Thus, another day off with the wife and baby will insure plenty of love to keep all of us warm.
Now if only that love could dig out my car...
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