Jazz, from the Congo to the Metropolitan;

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ROBERT GOFFIN

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INTRODUCTION BY ARNOLD GINGRICH

DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & CO., INC. GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 1944

2506

FEB 2

Translated by Walter Schaap and Leonard G. Feather

"TL-Z.

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THIS BOOK IS

STANDARD UNGTK

COMPLETE AND UNABRIDGED,

MANUFAaURED UNDER WARTIME CONDITIONS

IN CONFORMITY WITH All GOVERNMENT

RECUUTIONS CONTROIUNC THE USE

OF PAPER AND OTHER *AATERIAIS

COPYRIGHT, 1943, 1944

BY ROBERT GOFFIN

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES

AT

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

FIRST EDITION

"Improvised Jazz is the most fotent force in music at the
'present time: long mxiy it remain so."

Andre Cceuroy

CONTENTS

Inthroduction ix

I Tom-tom in New Orleans i

II Between Tom-tom and Ragtime 22

III Birth of Jazz 43

IV The Pioneers of Jazz t^i^ ^

V Jazz in Europe 68

VI Original Dixieland Jazz Band 84 /

J

VII The Forgotten White Bands 99

New Orleans Rhythm Kings, Cotton Pickers,
Cahfornia Ramblers

VIII Louis Armstrong 114

IX Small White Bands of the Twenties . . . . 129
Pennies and Molers, Bix and Chicagoans

X The Big White Bands 144

XI Benny Goodman 158

XII Satchmo and the Duke 167

XIII The Negro Bands of Yesterday 179

XIV The Small Negro Bands . 183

XV Big Colored Orchestras 190

XVI From Spirituals to Boogie- Woogie 210

XVII Best Musicians and Records 221

XVIII The Future of Jazz . 239

Bibliography 249

vii

I

INTRODUCTION

By Arnold Gingrich

Editor ob Esquire

Robert goffin was the first serious man of letters to take jazz
seriously enough to devote a book to it. That was back in the
early days of that other World War, when the word "jazz" was
still so new that some people were still spelling it "jass." That
book, as it happened, was a book of poems. It was not until 1930
that Gk)ffin devoted a full-length critical book treatment to the
subject, in Aux Frontieres du Jazz. After that came Panassie and
Le Jazz Hot, and Delaunay and the Hot Discogra'phy; and after
all that came the belated American appreciation of jazz as a main
current, if not the main current, of authentic American music.

In other words, it took this Belgian, Goffin, and the two French-
men, Panassie and Delaunay, to get us Americans to sit down
and listen to jazz, even though we'd been hearing it, simply as
something to dance to and talk above, for years.

Oh yes, it can be argued that there was a guy named Gershwin
and a bandman named Whiteman and a concert away back in
the twenties at Carnegie Hall. But all that only confused the
matter and delayed the recognition of real jazz. The only true
jazz presented on that intended-to-be-historic occasion in '24 was
one number offered purely as a novelty and meant to be con-
sidered only as comic relief.

It took another ten years, really, before the differentiation be-
tween the real thing and the fake began to be clear to us over
here. What they knew about American jazz in the twenties in
Europe, and articulated clearly in critical articles, was not even
dimly suspected on this side of the water until the thirties.

It was almost a decade after the "false dawn" of that Gershwin-
Whiteman concert that the light broke over here, with Charles

ix

X INTRODUCTION

Edward Smith's first article in February '34, called "Collecting
Hot." From then on, the way of the righteous, in the recognition
and appreciation of hot jazz, was clear— as clear as Coffin had
made it, in comparable articles in French, ten years earlier.

And now it has taken another full decade, in turn, to get
Coffin on Jazz at last between book covers for American readers.
It's odd that he, who was the first of the three great Gallic mis-
sionaries of the now-at-last accepted gospel of hot jazz, should
be the last to take his place on the short shelf of "must" books
for every jazz enthusiast College kids with crew-cut hair,
those passionate votaries who have made of jazz record collecting
an eighth hvely art, were suckled on Panassie and cut their teeth
on Delaunay's Hot Discogra'phy, but they have had to wait till
now for their Coffin. (The delay is readily accounted for by the
fact that the man had to get out of Belgium with his life, to say
nothing of his manuscripts, but that's beside the point.)

Maybe it's just as well to come to Coffin after the others, at
that. While it is hard to imagine a more delightful initiation into
the mysteries of hot jazz than would be provided by this book,
still it must be obvious that it can be most rewardingly read, or
reread, after you have acquainted yourself with the literature of
jazz that has preceded its publication. Coffin takes you over the
subject as a whole, it is true, and he does go back to the beginning
every time he takes up another phase of it, but he augments and
supplements and goes beyond the other writings, rather than
attempting to supplant them. In other words, this book is a pretty
advanced course in jazz appreciation, and while you can read it
without ever having seen a copy of either the Hot Discografhy or
The ]azz Record Book or Jazzmen, you can hardly get every-
thing out of it that's in it for you unless and until you've read at
least that far in the writings that are a prerequisite to going all
the way with Coffin in this book. It's a little like coming in off
the street to a seminar course in college, without at least having
looked in on the high school first.

This is not to try to say that Coffin is necessarily the last word
on the subject, or even that this book represents his last word on
it. But it is to serve fair warning that you can't expect to argue

INTRODUCTION xi

with him, or even to agree with him, on some of his more
starthng conclusions, without doing some reading, and a lot of
earnest hstening, outside these pages.

That there is a lot of grist for arguments should not be surpris-
ing. There's no field in which the experts are so embattled as this
realm of hot jazz. Some of them would have a hard time agreeing
vdth themselves, from one day to the next. And I can think of
half a dozen of the more rabid expert-cultists who will have
conniptions over Coffin's high rating of the records of the Original
Dixieland Jazz Band, to cite just one of the many new stands he
takes in this book. It has been fashionable to sneer at those early
Victors, dating back to '17 and '18, as possessing merely a rather
quaint historical interest. This is reflected in the fact that, even
though these are the first listed items in the Hot Discogra^hy,
and as such should form the foundation of every record collec-
tion, you can still get them wdth ease, through the regular col-
lecting channels, at about a dollar apiece. On the other hand, the
collectors are now driving each other delirious over one particular
Johnny Dodds disk (Weary Blues on Vocalion 15632) with bids
of forty dollars currently commonplace and no deals developing.
That record was made a good ten years after those latterly de-
spised and low-rated Original Dixieland Victors.

It will be fun to watch what happens, within a measurable
length of time after the appearance of this book, to those Dixie-
land prices. After all, when a critic of Coffin's stature swings his
weight behind a band's recordings, the effect on collectors ought
to be tantamount to the proverbial value of having been seen
walking across the Stock Exchange floor with Morgan.

Here at Esquire, where we've published some of the ranking
jazz experts, indigenous and imported, over the past ten years,
we're inclined to think of Coffin as the most mature, artistically,
of them all, and as well balanced, in his judgments, as any of
them. He's picked All-American bands for us, all by himself,
only to have the correctness of his choices later confirmed by the
consensus of a baker's dozen of the rest of the acknowledged
experts. That's a remarkable feat, not the least surprising aspect
of which is the fact that there ever could he a consensus, since

xii INTRODUCTION

you couldn't print what most of these experts think of all the
others!

In the light of that, perhaps the obvious thing to do, after buy-
ing this book and reading this far, would be to lay it down and
rush out and buy some Dixieland Victors. You might ultimately
get the price of the book back, on the investment.

In fact, that's precisely what this impressionable reader has
just decided to do. Right at this point.

May you find Mr. Coffin's words equally stimulating!

JAZZ

I. TOM-TOM IN NEW ORLEANS

It must have been about 1891 when a Negro barber in New
Orleans, named Buddy Bolden, picked up his comet and blew
the first stammering notes of jazz, thereby unconsciously break-
ing with several centuries of musical tradition. A half -century
later, jazz, America's great contribution to music, has crossed the
threshold of the university and is about to be seriously, even
religiously, considered.

At the outset of this study, it is imperative that I dwell, if only
for a moment, on the truly profound meaning of this innova-
tion. The history of jazz has a social significance of which I am
quite aware and which I am fond of stressing. At the very moment
when America goes to war to defend the democratic spirit against
the totalitarian challenge, it is fitting to remember that, in the
last twenty years, jazz has done more to bring blacks and whites
together than three amendments to the Constitution have done
in seventy-five.

It's about time that America take pride in the tremendous
contribution of a music whose originality and character have
already captivated the European mind. It's about time that
America take pride in those who will surely rai^ ^^^ ^^ the
honor roll of artistic immortality: Louis Armstrong, Duke Elling-
ton, and some others. It's about time that American intellectuals
adopt, as their own, a thing in which all Europe fervently be-
lieves, and find in it a source of a new and truly moving form
of sensibility.

It would be pretentious on my part to say that I discovered
jazz, but I can claim to be the first to have paid serious attention
to it. In 19 1 9, enchanted by the Negro jazz of Louis Mitchell, I

2 JAZZ

wrote a long article in a literary review, Le Disque Vert. Com-
pletely .carried away by this new form of artistic sorcery and, I
am proud to relate, by the playing of Sidney Bechet, who was a
member of the orchestra, I stated, rather clumsily it's true, that
jazz could touch only the primitive hearts among civilized people.
I liked it, I said, because it was a music which appealed to the
senses and because, to feel it, you didn't have to close your eyes
ecstatically and cup your hands around your ears in the manner
of the audience at a concert of serious music. I had already noticed
the difference between jazz musicians, real creators who openly
manifested their joy in playing, and our classical musicians, who
too often affected a melancholic passivity.

In a slender book of poems which appeared in 1920 with a
preface by Jules Romains, and bearing the title Jazz Band, I sang
in verse of all the elusive and diabolical emotion awakened by
this new lyrical challenge. In 1927 I was busy with the first jazz
magazine in the world, Music, and a little later I published in it
chapters from my book, Aux Frontieres du Jazz, which was to
appear in 1931. The American magazine Fortune was nice
enough to acclaim this book as the first work to completely
explain America's new artistic message. The author of this article
declared further that I seemed to know more of the Negroes than
did Carl Van Vechten himself, even adding that many details in
my book testified that I must have spent every night of my life
in Harlem.

Needless to remark, at that time I had never set foot in
America! But such was my love and enthusiasm for jazz that,
together with all the experience which I had accumulated in
almost a quarter of a century during which jazz had been con-
stantly at the base of my emotional activity, this impression was
created.

I am rather proud to think that I was the first in the world to
draw the distinction technically between hot and commercial
jazz. I even had the audacity, on the strength of a few records,
to dedicate my book to Louis Armstrong, "the real King of Jazz,"
explaining that Paul Whiteman had been wrapped in an un-
merited mantle.

J

JAZZ 3

My book was not translated because of its decidedly uncom-
promising attitude. In restoring their true artistic meaning to
musical values which had been upset by clever if not intelligent
commercializers, I think I helped to clarify the issue. I attacked,
with violence, Paul Whiteman, Ted Lewis, and Jack Hylton,
who were then at the summit of their renown; I praised orchestra
leaders like Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Fletcher
Henderson.

Before anyone else, I said that the great geniuses of jazz were
none other than Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Earl Hines,
Bix Beiderbecke, Coleman Hawkins. I still back this choice-
even at the present time no more than two or three names can
be added to it. My right to approach this subject again is vindi-
cated by the lines with which I closed my first book:

If I wished to be complete, I am afraid that many more chapters
would be necessary. But, since jazz does not stop but goes on, how is
it possible to complete its story at any one point? I realize that events
which I believed current have already slid back into the past which
levels all impressions; I know that things which I liked are no longer
pleasing when seen through the prism of distance; I know that con-
tacts which were intimate only yesterday will be forgotten tomorrow.

Nevertheless there has been, "on the frontiers of jazz," a choking
atmosphere, a fiery climate, a strange poetry, which has agitated our
youth. . . .

In the wonderful simplicity of jazz songs, I have rediscovered
poetry in its purest state; the prophetic sobbing of popular tunes has
gone straight to my heart; nor can I think without a shudder of that
marvelous Negro lyricism which Europe knows only by a few revues
and dances and songs which are but the hellish sign of a deeper
beauty.

To discover jazz, one must go to the poems of Langston Hughes,
and feel the syncopated pulse beating in the solos of Louis Armstrong
or in the irrational outbursts of the St. Louis Blues. . . .

Jazz was the first form of surrealism. The Negroes felt the prime
necessity of neutralizing rational control in order to give free play
to the spontaneous manifestations of the subconscious. . . . Jazz is
the highest manifestation of surrealism because it was practiced by
musicians, sometimes anon5mious and never cultured, who submitted

4 JAZZ

to this passion without having first rationaHzed their adherence to this
frenzied lyricism.

I might have concluded by speaking of the future of jazz and of its
influence on "serious" music. I might have mentioned the influence
of Aunt Hagar's Blues, whose theme was of tremendous service to
Darius Milhaud in his Creation of the World. I might have examined
a certain pretentious form of jazz which I dislike in spite of the
musicologists who have acclaimed the Rha'psody in Blue as the
greatest contribution of jazz. I might have spoken of the arrant
stupidity of certain critics, one of whom wrote only a little while
ago that he preferred the Ted Lewis version of St. Louis Blues to
the Armstrong.

Alas! I might have said so many more things, but I have thought
it better not to overburden the chapters of a book, the most beautiful
part of which has not been written.

I published that in 1932, and I do not retract a word of it. But
today I turn my attention back to those pages which I left un-
touched some fourteen or fifteen years ago. Since that time our
knowledge of jazz has been considerably widened; Le Jazz Hot
by Hugues Panassie, American Jazz Music by Wilder Hobson,
Jazzmen edited by Frederic Ramsey, Jr., and Charles Edward
Smith are solid contributions to the study of syncopated music. I
propose to examine here the essential elements of the history
of jazz, together with certain corollary artistic, emotional, and
philosophical considerations.

Jazz is the American Negro branch of music. It has interested
the intelligence of Europe and the world inasmuch as it has been
a revolution, a rupture with musical tradition and a new point
of departure. It often happens that intelligent but ill-informed
persons ask me, "Do you prefer jazz to classical music?" or else,
'Is jazz better than classical music?" These questions are, of
course, idiotic.

In order really to understand the evolution of jazz as a parallel
to, or better, as one result of, classical music, the most intelligible
thing that can be said is that, at the beginning of the twentieth
century, music experienced an evolution which was common to
all the arts.

JAZZ 5

This fact must be fully grasped from the very start, as it is
essential for the comprehension of the true importance and the
present significance of syncopated music. At the beginning. of
the present century there was a sort of qualitative change in
artistic feeling. Up to that time the canons of beauty were based
on clear, logical, and reasonable concepts which were under the
control of the intelligence. A whole sphere of human activity, the
subconscious, had been ignored; man acknowledged the im-
portance only of logical clarity. If one examines the fields of
activity which had been reserved for art, one perceives that the
creative work of our ancestors was under the impulse of a har-
monious equilibrium between reason and sentiment. This con-
ception was overwhelmed by the discoveries of Freud, and art
was quickly modified thereby.

All modem poetry in the tradition of Arthur Rimbaud and
Lautreamont can be truly estimated only by the yardstick of this
modification. Maeterlinck, Blaise Cendrars, Guillaume Apolli-
naire, James Joyce, Archibald MacLeish, Wystan Auden, and
all the surrealists have collaborated in this realization of a new
aspect of human grandeur. In painting, the whole Parisian school
sought after newer, more audacious conceptions, as witness the
progression from James Ensor to Jean Delvaux, including such
names as Chirico, Magritte, Max Ernst, Salvador Dali, and,
above all, the one who was the ideal illustration for our com-
parison—Rousseau, the customs inspector, who like jazz musicians
created things of beauty without knowing just how.

It is the glory of America and of the Negro people to have
been the starting point of a profound revolution in musical art.
It is not a new music; it is a new form of music based on
rhythm, whereas classical compositions arise from great melodic
lines.

I have brought up this comparison of jazz and the other arts
only to show exactly where I stand as a critic of this new artistic
phenomenon, and also to demonstrate the sheer stupidity of
attempting to oppose jazz and music. One might as well ask
whether modern poetry is better than Shakespeare, Milton, or
Racine, or whether surrealism is as good as Rubens, Rembrandt,

6 JAZZ

or Raphael, One must seek not the opposition, but the sense of
continuity and the new contribution.

The discoverer's lot is not a happy one. When the modem
poetry of Walt Whitman or of Rimbaud was being bom, not
even the most highly qualified persons understood its message.
Even today the great surrealistic endeavors of Breton, Eluard,
and others are misunderstood. This is because a new art generally
breaks with the existing rules, and, as there are no standards upon
which to base criticism, it can be studied only with difficulty. It
is only when this art has attained its full vitality and gradually
won popularity that it can be successfully codified.

Thus after twenty years a form of poetry which was derided as
unintelligible has won its way into the theater and music hall.
Similarly, the window dressers of Fifth Avenue have rounded
the cape of surrealism. And jazz, which only yesterday was a
source of ridicule, has today won its struggle— a victory which is
acknowledged by all save the older generations whose minds are
still in the past

All this must be explained. I should like this survey to indicate
the reaction of the intelligent youth to this new phenomenon
whose true importance will be revealed only later. I should like
this study to signify the beginning of a new consciousness, one
which will demonstrate its constructive power in both the critical
and the technical field, and, more particularly, in the relations
which jazz can and must have with the theater and the cinema.

We shall speak of the history of jazz from both the scientific
and the poetic points of view. At each stage we shall consider
certain ideas which, till now, have been neglected by the critics.
The activity of the aficionados of jazz has too often been limited
to listening to records or orchestras and to drawing comparative
conclusions as to the value of the instrumentalists concerned. It
is high time that jazz be subjected to a serious and methodical
analysis.

Not long ago, a Columbia professor presented a scientific paper
in which he asserted that jazz owes nothing to African music. I
have a good deal of respect for science in general, and anthropol-
ogists in particular, but I consider such an opinion as a very

JAZZ 7

serious misconception which only supplements the partial attack
published in September 9, 1909, by the New York Sun:

Those Congo Melodies

When Lafcadio Heam went to New Orleans in 1880 or 1881 he
was inspired by very much the same purpose, though in a more con-
centrated form, that animated Gottschalk in the 50s. He went there
to trace to their original sources the Congo melodies and their strange
words. He did other things for a living for then he was very poor.
He wrote editorials and other matter for the Times-Democrat; he also
translated into English some of the works of Theophile Gautier, Pierre
Loti, Guy de Maupassant, and other French writers. But the real
underlying purpose of his quest was the Congo songs, and that pur-
pose ne pursued with heightened and sleepless energy, unknown to
his fine "society" friends who made much of him and have since
talked and vmtten much with strange fervency.

Hundreds of people knew all about Lafcadio Heam in those days,
and they bridled and chattered accordingly, but in the hour of his
poverty and enthusiasm he hved among the voodoo, was housed in
fact with Marie Lavoux, the titular queen, and he studied the wild
chant and the awe-sounding voices of the Congos in the hope of
locating their primal spring. A quarter of a century before him
Gottschalk had undertaken the same quest. He was a musical genius,
a pianist of the highest order, and into the Bamboula and other aston-
ishing arrangements of "Congo" melodies he injected his divine
aflSatus. Heam was a poet, a dreamer, and a literary genius. But
he had heard the music that Gottschalk wove into his composi-
tions. He felt he knew in his amazing mind that throb and spur
of the wild symphonies and antiphonies that enchanted the bayou
Saint John and tbe Pontchartrain that stirred the souls of students;
but he like Gottschalk realized at last that there was no Negro music.
The strains he heard were barbaric, yet familiar, and it came to him
at last as it came to all other enlightened investigators previously that
the sterling tunes he heard were more or less adaptations. The French
and Spanish songs and lullabies the slaves had heard in Hayti, San
Domingo, or Louisiana, through the windows of the '"big house,"
they translated according to their capacity into coherent Congo
chants. It is now known that the crooning songs the old Negro
mammies of New Orleans utter to their little charges— "Les Croco-
diles," "Les Deux Canards"— and a hundred other nursery cadenzas

8 JAZZ

are nothing more nor less than fumbling transpositions and arrange-
ments pf civilized music.

There is in this country, at least, no African or Congo music. The
descendent native chants to the accompaniment of the tom-toms are
not music in any sense of the term. Certainly they are not the in-
spiration of the beautiful if melancholy music to which the Negroes
of America have devoted their talents and instincts. Nothing o£
course v^ill arrest the chase after African music.

In 1909 Professor Krehbiel wrote an ansv^er to prove that his
friend Lafcadio Heam v\7as convinced of the African origins of
the New Orleans folklore.

But Lafcadio Heam himself had given an eloquent reply to
this inaccurate accusation when he had described an impression
of syncopated scenes in Two Years in the French West Indies,
about 1878:

The melancholy, quavering beauty and weirdness of the Negro
chant are lightened by the French influence or subdued and deep-
ened by the Spanish. Down the street he goes leaping nearly his own
height— chanting words without human signification— and followed
by three hundred boys, who form the chorus of his chant— all clapping
hands together and giving tongue with a simultaneity that testifies
how strongly the sense of rhythm enters in the natural musical feel-
ing of the African— a feeling powerful enough to impose itself upon
all Spanish- America and there create the unmistakable characteristics
of all that is called Creole music. . . .

His chant is cavernous, abysmal— booms from his chest like the
sound of a drum beaten in the bottom of a well . . . and all chant
after him, in a chanting like the rushing of many waters, and vsdth
triple clapping of hands.

Albert Friedenthal has explained in his book Musik, Tanz
und Dichtung hei den Kreolen Amerikas, how rhythm passed
from the Congo to America:

From a musical point of view, the influence of the African on the
West Indian Creole has been of the greatest significance, for through
their co-operation there arose a dance form— the Habanera— which
spread itself through Romanic America. The essential thing in pure
Negro music, as is known, is to be sought in rhythm. The melodic

JAZZ 9

phrases of the Negroes consist of endless repetitions of short series
of notes, so that we can scarcely speak of them as melodies in our
sense of the word. On the other hand, no European shall escape the
impression which these rhythms make. They literally bore themselves
into the consciousness of the Hstener, irresistible and penetrating to
the verge of torture.

This was the music described by Vemey Lovett Cameron in his
book Across Africa^ speaking particularly of a Congo musician:

On arrival he seated himself on the ground, surrounded by his
friends, and then commenced a monotonous recitative. In this he
accompanied himself by shaking a rattle made of basketwork shaped
like a dumbbell, while the circle of attendants joined in a chorus,
sometimes striking their bells and at others laying them down and
clapping their hands in a kind of rhythmic cadence.

This rhythmical influence of the tom-tom had been remarked
also by Professor Wallaschek in his Primitive Music:

/^The general character of African music, then, is the preference for
rhythm over melody (when this is not the sole consideration); the
union of song and dance; the simplicity, not to say humbleness, of the
subjects chosen; the great imitative talent in connection v\dth the
music and the physical excitement from which it arises and to which
it appears appropriate.

^ JaTZj like any artistic phenomenon, represents the sum of an
addition. The factors of this addition are, to my mind, African
music, French and American music, and folklore.

It would take too long and be hardly worth the trouble to draw
up a complete balance sheet of the relationship between jazz and
African music— it would require a full book to do it well. I should
like merely to point out that Cceuroy and Schaeffner have paid
particular attention to this question in their book, Le Jazz, We
shall content ourselves here with an attempt to gain some insight
iiito it through a brief review of the history of slavery.

The white European colonists needed labor to replace the
Indians, who had the unfortunate habit of dying off when in
enforced servitude. They found the answer in a third race on a
third continent. From the beginning of the seventeenth century,

L:

lo JAZZ

the cruel and inhuman slave traders were seizing the Hack
natives of Africa and transporting them in foul, overcrowded
vessels to America.

The poor slaves, roughly torn away from their native soil, their
homes, and their families, were treated hke cattle. What could
they bring with them from their native villages in the Congo?
Nothing— or rather, no material goods. There remained only the
hidden might of memory, and this, deep down in their hearts,
colored their former life with an emotional significance.

This explains why African music— in all its simplicity, and
reduced to its lowest conmion denominator, the tom-tom— re-
tained its influence, symbolic of a happier existence.

Whoever has visited the Congo and been present at tom-tom
ceremonials will recognize the same expression still flourishing
in our present-day drummers.

At first the Negroes of Louisiana had more liberty than those
of the English colonies. This pardy explains why the necessary
crystallization was later to take place in New Orleans and not
elsewhere. ■

The control of the puritanical Anglo-Saxons over their slaves
was such that it quickly stifled any ancestral survivals. On the
other hand, the Negroes in the cotton fields of the Mississippi
Valley could continue to express their artistic folklore. For several
generations the cult of the tom-tom survived as an essential and
all-powerful element in the social life of the slaves.

Lafcadio Heam had been much interested by this new form
of music and had noted in his book. Two Years in the French
West Indies:

The old African dances, the Caleinda and the Bele (which latter
is accompanied by chanted imftovization^y are danced on Sundays
to the sound of the drum on almost every plantation in the land. The
drum, indeed, is an instrument to which the country-folk are so much
attached that they swear by it, Tambou! being the oath uttered upon
all ordinary occasions of surprise or vexation. But the instrument is
quite as often called "ka," because made out of a quarter-barrel, or
quart, in the patois "ka." Both ends of the barrel having been re-
moved, a wet hide, well wrapped about a couple of hoops, is driven

JAZZ II

on, and in drying the stretched skin obtains still further tension. The
other end of the ka is always left open. Across the face of the skin a
string is tightly stretched, to which are attached, at intervals of about
an inch apart, very thin fragments of bamboo or cut feather stems.
These lend a certain vibration to the tones.

In the time of Pere Labat the Negro drums had a somewhat dif-
ferent form. There were then two kinds of drums— a big tamtam and
a little one, which used to be played together. Both consisted of skins
tightly stretched over one end of a cylinder, or a section of a hollow
tree-trunk. The larger was from three to four feet long, with a di-
ameter of from 15 to 16 inches; the smaller, "Baoula,'' was of the
same length, but only eight or nine inches in diameter.

The skilful player (bel tambouy6) straddles his ka stripped to the
waist, and plays upon it with the finger-tips of both hands simul-
taneously, taking care that the vibrating string occupies a horizontal
position. Occasionally the heel of the naked foot is pressed lightly
or vigorously against the skin so as to produce changes of tone. This
is called "giving heel" to the drum— bailly talon. Meanwhile a boy
keeps striking the drum at the uncovered end vdth a stick, so as to
produce a dry, clattering accompaniment. The sound of the drum
itself, well played, has a wild power that makes and masters all the
excitement of the dance— a complicated double roll, with a peculiar
billov^ rising and falling. The Creole onomatopes, blip-blip-blip-
b^hp, do not fully render the roll; for each stands really for a series
of sounds too rapidly flipped out to be imitated by articulate speech.
The tapping of a ka can be heard at surprising distances; and experi-
enced players often play for hours at a time without exhibiting weari-
ness, or in the least diminishing the volume of sound produced.

The evolution which took place can readily be imagined. By
the second generation the French language had become the
means of communication. Some remnants of Katanga or of the
Ueles* tongue were mixed in, but little by little the linguistic
heritage died away. Lafcadio Heam even discovered some traces
of Voodoo influence, and he wrote in a letter:

Your friend is right, no doubt, about the

^T'ig, tig, malaboin

La chelema che tango

Redjoumr

12 JAZZ

I asked my black nurse what it meant. She only laughed and shook
her head: "Mais cest Voudoo, ga; je n'en sais Hen!"

*Well/* said I, "don't you know anything about Voudoo songs?**
*Tes/' she answered; "I know Voudoo songs; but I can't tell you
what they mean/* And she broke out into the wildest, weirdest ditty
I ever heard. I tried to write down the words; but as I did not know
what they meant I had to write by sound alone, spelling the words
according to the French pronunciation.

But the African origin of certain words and of the music was
demonstrated before 1914 by H. E. Krehbiel when he explained:

There is nothing peculiar to these American folksongs in this re-
current refrain, but it is worth noticing that the feature in the form
of an alternating line of improvization and a reiterated burden is -
found throughout Africa. "Their style is the recitative broken by a
full chorus," says Sir Richard Burton, speaking of the people of the
lake region of Central Africa. Carl Mauch, in his "Reisen in Siid-
Afrika," says of the music of the Makalaka that it usually consists
of a phrase of eight measures, repeated ad infinitum, to which are
sung improvized verses with a refrain.

Heam was so deeply moved by this African music that he had
decided to study the evolution of this expression, and he wrote
to Krehbiel about his intentions:

Something about the curious wanderings of these griots through
the yellow desert northward into the Maghreb country, often a soli-
tary wandering; their performances at Arab camps on the long
journey, when the black slaves came out to listen and weep; then
the hazardous voyage into Constantinople, where they play old Congo
airs for the great black population of Stamboul, whom no laws or
force can keep within doors when the sound of griot music is heard
in the street. Then I would speak of how the blacks carry their
music with them to Persia and even to mysterious Hadramant, where
their voices are held in high esteem by Arab masters. Then I would
touch upon the transplantation of Negro melody to the Antilles and
the two Americas, where its strangest black flowers are gathered by
the alchemists of musical science and the perfume thereof extracted
by magicians like Gottschalk. (Hovv is that for a beginning?)

JAZZ 13

The means of expression which did survive was the music,
/because it was international, common to all the Negroes, and
did not have to be translated. In the evenings, chained to their
niches in the slaves' courtyard, they resurrected the splendors of
the tropical night.

Travelers have described to me certain unforgettable scenes-
Negroes dancing and singing to the eternal, monotonous rhythm
of the drum. At the first drumbeat the dancers are literally en-
tranced—out of the world. Reason and sensibility no longer re-
strict their actions. It is a scene of religious ecstasy— the mystical
enchantment of pure rhythm. Both men and women dance,
stamping their feet and twisting their bodies with a continuous
movement. They keep going until exhausted, and such dances
often last all night.

What remained of such rhythmic orgies at the time jazz was
bom? This is the point which interests us here. The book The
French Quarter by Herbert Asbury devotes an entire chapter
to very similar public spectacles in New Orleans which dated
back to the time of the Louisiana Purchase.

When the slaves began to use the site for dancing, the whole area
was popularly known as the Place des Negres, and later as the Congo
Plains; and the square itself, to which the slaves were restricted when
the Plains were divided into building lots, was called Congo Square,
and is still so known among the Negroes of New Orleans.^

The slaves usually began to assemble in Congo Square an hour or
so before the time fixed for the dancing, the men strutting proudly
in the cast-off finery of their masters, and the women in dotted cali-
coes, with bright-colored Madras kerchiefs tied about their hair to
form the popular headdress which the Creoles called the tignon. With
them were their children, in nondescript garments relieved by bright
feathers or bits of gay ribbon. On the outskirts of the chattering
crowd were the hawkers of refreshments, some with great trays slung
around their necks and others with deal tables screened from the sun
by cotton awnings, and all offering ginger beer, pies, lemonade, and
little ginger cakes called "mulatto's belly.*' At a signal from a police
official, the slaves were summoned to the center of the square by the

^Herbert Asbury, The French Quarter (N. Y., 1938), p. 240. Published by
Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

14 JAZZ

prolonged rattling of two huge beef bones upon the head of a cask,
out of which had been fashioned a sort of drum or tambourine called
the bamboula. As the dancers took their places, the rattling settled
into a steady drumming, which the Negro who wielded the bones
maintained, without a pause and with no break in the rhythm, until
sunset put an end to the festivities. The favorite dances of the slaves
were the Calinda, a variation of which was also used in the Voodoo
ceremonies, and the dance of the Bamboula, both of which were
primarily based on the primitive dances of the African jungle, but
with copious borrowings from the contre-danses of the French. The
movements of the Calinda and the dance of the Bamboula were very
similar, but for the evolutions of the latter the male dancers attached
bits of tin or othsr metal to ribbons tied about their ankles. Thus
accoutered, they pranced back and forth, leaping into the air and .
stamping in unison, occasionally shouting "Dansez Bamboula! Ba- '
doum! Badoum!" while the women, scarcely lifting their feet from
the ground, swayed their bodies from side to side and chanted an
ancient song as monotonous as a dirge. Beyond the groups of dancers
were the children, leaping and cavorting in imitation of their elders,
so that the entire square was an almost solid mass of black bodies
stamping and swaying to the rhythmic beat of the bones upon the
cask, the frenzied chanting of the women, and the clanging of the
pieces of metal which dangled from the ankles of the men.^

This evidence leaves not the slightest doubt as to the survival
of the African tradition. I think it certain that the important
role of the drummer, from the very beginning of jazz, may be
traced back in direct line to the African tom-tom beaters. At the
base of jazz, then, we find African rhythmic expression forming a
counterpoise to the traditional music of the inhabitants of the
Mississippi Valley.

A friend of mine, who had just arrived from the Belgian
Congo, accompanied me to the Savoy in Harlem a few months
ago. For quite a while we stood watching the drummers of Lucky
Millinder and the Savoy Sultans. My friend was bowled over
with surprise, for, he explained, certain solos by each drurmner
had exactly the rhythm of the Congo tom-tom, and furthermore
their gestures reproduced the physical motions of their ancestors

Hhid., pp. 242-43.

JAZZ 15

of two centuries ago, in so far as these are exemplified by the
identical movements of the contemporary Congo.

He added that certain parts of the Lindy Hop are very similar
to analogous movements of the Congo dancers, aroused by the
tom-toms hammering out a simple but very moving rhythm into
the tropical night

What was the second factor which went to make up jazz? In
Louisiana, and particularly in New Orleans, the tradition of
French popular music survived. To understand exactly what
took place, gaps in the remaining historical evidence must be
bridged by the use of poetical imagination.

The slave trade was a monopoly of the Mississippi Company,
which landed the first Negro slaves in Louisiana in 171 2. By
1725 the Negroes outnumbered the whites in a population of
about five thousand. This was the time when Governor Bienville
promulgated his Black Code, the first article of which, strangely
enough, was directed at the Jews.

Toward the middle of the century the new governor, the
Marquis de Vaudreuil, tried to transplant the splendor of Ver-
sailles to the far-off colony. It was a period of considerable
development for New Orleans. It contained six taverns. The sale
of alcohol to Negroes and Indians was prohibited. It was a color-
ful period in which the only inhabitants of Louisiana were white
adventurers who made the perilous journey to the far-off banks
of the Mississippi. The problem of marriage became acute, and
the French Government tried to solve it by the wholesale expedi-
tion of women of easy virtue, such as Manon Lescaut. These
were married off as soon as they landed, regardless of the fact
that they came straight from prison.

The presence of handsome children of mixed blood in the
followdng generations demonstrated that the settlers took great
care to break their own inhuman laws. This intermediary popula-
tion of quadroons and octoroons was generally released from the
bonds of slavery.

The end of the century was the period of Spanish rule, a
period which left few traces, inasmuch as France became once
again the mistress of Louisiana in 1800. Soon the expansion of

i6 JAZZ

commerce and the development of New Orleans multiplied the
numbers of taverns, cafes, gambling dens, and joints in general,
v^hich, nestled in its picturesque slums, gave the port its reputa-
tion as a great city of pleasure.

Soon a new century brought considerable changes; France sold
Louisiana to America, and, one by one, the French traditions
glimmered away. This was the attractive period of rich Creole
cotton planters, with their hospitable mansions and their romantic
duels under the mossy oaks. Meanwhile, French music, which
had been temporarily steeped in the Spanish, maintained its
vigor. A French opera house was built, and it became a center
of the social life of New Orleans.

But the Negro slaves did not frequent the theater. The musical
patrimony to which they did have access was French popular
music. Folk songs, dance tunes of the period, polkas, mazurkas,
quadrilles, military marches, funeral marches— these were the
songs with which the Negroes were in contact.

As generation succeeded generation, the two musical poles of
African rhythm and folk song fought against each other for
control of the interior life of the Negro, By some strange process
of osmosis, mutual influence, and fusion, the two gave birth to
jazz many decades later.

The middle of the nineteenth century was the troubled and
passionate period in which an aristocratic society, with its social
traditions, outmoded codes, and formalistic duels, was slowly
withering away, to die in the convulsions of the Civil War.
""^t various affairs— for example, the celebrated Quadroon Balls
at which the gallant planters selected mistresses from among the
beautiful girls of mixed blood— the Negroes learned the popular
tunes. These they unconsciously transformed, because their in-
stinctive rhythmic sense altered the melody of the French songs
to fit a syncopated background.

Toward 1850 certain masquerade groups organized remarkable
parades, replete with song, which developed later into the interna-
tionally famous Mardi Gras celebration.

This was the cultural medium in which was nourished the
germ which was to develop into jazz.

JAZZ 17

Freed by the Civil War, the Negroes could celebrate in the
open what they had previously performed in the shadow^s. After
1880 the tradition of the dances in Congo Square continued.
Dancing to the tom-tom was still a source of high elation to the
Negroes.

The picturesque scenes of Congo Square came to an end when
the city administration divided the place into lots. Henceforth, on
Sunday afternoons, the Negroes of the town and its environs
came together in an abandoned yard on Dumaine Street. The
spectacle hadn't changed; entranced couples swayed and stamped
their heavy feet, and the same grimacing and ecstatic black buck
beat out the rhythm on a donkey skin. Asbury cites the words of
a correspondent of a New York newspaper who attended one of
these African orgies:

A dry-goods box and an old pork barrel formed the orchestra. These
were beaten with sticks or bones, used like drumsticks so as to keep
up a continuous rattle, while some old men and women chanted a
song that appeared to me to be purely African in its many voweled
syllabification. . . . Owing to the noise I could not even attempt
to catch the words. I asked several old women to recite them to me,
but they only laughed and shook their heads. In their patois they
told me— "no use, you could never understand it. C'est le Congo!— it
is the Congo!" The dance was certainly peculiar, and I observed that
only a few old persons, who had probably all been slaves, knew how
to dance it. The women did not move their feet from the ground.
They only writhed their bodies and swayed in undulatory motions
from ankles to waist. . . . The men leaped and performed feats of
gymnastic dancing which reminded me of some steps in the jota
Aragonesa, Small bells were attached to their ankles. "Vous ne com-
'prenez fas cette danse-ld?" an old woman asked me. I did not alto-
gether understand it, but it appeared to be more or less lascivious as
I saw it. I offered the woman some money to recite the words of the
Congo song. She consulted with another and both went off shaking
their heads. I could obtain no satisfaction.®

After the Civil War the generation of former slaves kept their
sense of inferiority. Their children made better use of theic

^Herbert Asbury, The French Quarter, pp. 252-53.

i8 JAZZ

liberty. Young Negroes tried to escape the strenuous labor of
plantation and port, attempting to make out of their love for
music a supplementary profession at least.

Soon the Negroes began to imitate the musical ceremonies of
the whites. At picnics, balls, and burials, music was a necessity.
Slowly but surely a hybrid form of music— without rules and
without limits— was developed.

To understand this phenomenon, we must try to recapture its
atmosphere. About 1890 some Negroes who could not read
music compensated for their ignorance through exceptional
qualities of inventiveness and memory. Out of such an insignifi-
cant fact was to spring an essential and permanent feature of
jazz music.

These Negroes were poor and illiterate, but from father to
son they had handed down the melancholy work songs of the
cotton fields and docks. The song was altered to suit the cir-
cumstance: the stone breakers accompanied their hammer blows
with tunes marked by a strongly accentuated beat; the water ven-
dors uttered long, syncopated wails. All of these intermingled
and developed, working toward a now-imminent crystallization.

Those who had the inclination were chosen for the occasions
which called for musical celebration. Being poor people, they pos-
sessed only the cheapest instruments. There was a sort of class
struggle going on among the musical instruments. Only the
rich owned the nobler instruments— violins, cellos, pianos— the
Negroes had little contact with them. In the beginning they had
to content themselves with lesser instruments, particularly those
practicable for military bands. The purchase of an old tuba or a
clarinet was an important event in the life of a Negro. It was a
form of liberation which permitted the musician to avoid the
more arduous labors.

In certain unmentionable dives reserved for criminals and
longshoremen, the musical labor of Negroes replaced that of
whites because it was cheaper. Thus gradually the dregs of the
New Orleans population were subjected to a hybrid music, with-
out a name but with certain characteristics which revolted re-
spectable people and which they mocked.

JAZZ 19

The first performers enriched their repertory with local French
tunes which they had memorized and which they played in their
own peculiar way. They manhandled polkas and mazurkas, im-
posing the raggedy beat, unusual stresses, and breaks of their
rudimentary artistic comprehension of the European music. Their
playing was characteristic of the music of unlettered people who
had somehow to make up for their lack of education. One should
not be astonished to find them with an admirable sense of rhythm,
a gift for improvisation, a vivid sensitivity, and an instinctive
sense of the measure.

The heyday of the quadrille was from 1880 to 1900. A compli-
cated dance with formal and regular patterns, the quadrille
passed from the salons of the Second French Empire to the
provinces, and thence abroad. The very same airs which had
charmed the halcyon days of lovely ladies in crinoline could be
heard in provincial ballrooms some twenty-five years later. From
1880 to 1 9 14 Europe still danced to these old refrains. It was a
genuine emotional experience for me when I discovered that
the famous Tiger Rag was none other than the distorted theme
of the second tableau of a quadrille I used to hear as a boy at
all the balls of Walloon Belgium. I used to know by heart this
part of the quadrille, during which the four couples turned and
crossed each other until a crescendo stopped the dancers, who
honored their partners and even kissed them.

This tune had a somewhat different fate at New Orleans. It
scored its first successes at the Quadroon Balls, and then passed
to the swankiest afiFairs of Negro society. The first Negro orches-
tras dubbed it Praline and really pulverized it. It was all the
rage during the Golden Age of jazz, and the chorus improvised
by the early clarinetists has changed but little in half a century.
You can still hear musicians like Sidney Bechet and Buster Bailey
play it in pretty much the old style.

At this time the word "jazz" was not yet invented. These
pieces were locally termed "shouts," "rambles," or "rags." The
fact that all these early tunes were deformations of old French
songs cannot be overestimated.

Handed dov\m from father to son, the memory of many French

20 JAZZ

tunes persisted for several generations. For example, there was
a march played by the bands of every French village, which
was transformed into High Society. Just remove its syncopated
rhythm and you'll have the original theme.

There should be musical scouts entrusted with the task of
tracing these songs to their sources. Another piece on the reper-
tory of the military band of my village in Belgium was a quick-
step whose melodic line was modified at New Orleans, where it
became known as Panama.

This kind of reincarnation is one of the most important and
interesting phenomena in the study of this American music. It is
really incredible when you think about it: tunes bom in France
and popularized some five thousand miles away by trained
musicians, then passing into the realm of folk song, where they
were transmuted by ignorant musicians who repeatedly altered
them until the day arrived when a more gifted instrumentalist
fixed their basic themes forever.

/ Before arriving at this final stage, that of jazz, Negro music
passed through a number of more or less transitory types. There
were the coon-songs or lullabies, plantation songs, and the songs
which the Negroes sang while dancing the Cakewalk, that
grotesque dance which dated back to the dark days of slavery.
There were the melancholy plaints which were finally to be-
come the blues, and there were the spirituals, an arranged music,
codified and controlled by the preachers.

John Mason Brown, in the Lifpincott's Magazine of December
1868, analyzed the primitive music of the slaves in the Southern
states and traced the following subdivisions :

1. Religious songs, e.g., "The Old Ship of Zion," where the refrain
of "Glory, halleloo" in the chorus keeps the congregation well together
in the singing and allows time for the leader to recall the next verse.

2. River songs, composed of single lines separated by a barbarous
and unmeaning chorus and sung by the deck hands and roustabouts
mainly for the howl.

3. Plantation songs, accompanying the mowers at harvest, in
which the strong emphasis of rhythm was more important than the
words.

JAZZ 21

4. Songs of longing; dreamy, sad, and plaintive airs describing the
most sorrowful pictures of slave life, sung in the dusk when return-
ing home from the day's work.

5. Songs of mirth, whose origin and meaning, in most cases for-
gotten, were preserved for the jingle of rhyme and tune and sung
with merry laughter and vnth. dancing in the evening by the cabin
fireside.

6. Descriptive songs, sung in chanting style, with marked em-
phasis and the prolongation of the concluding syllable of each line.
One of these songs, founded upon the incidents of a famous horse
race, became almost an epidemic among the Negroes of the slave-
holding States.

The birth of jazz was now imminent. The music was no longer
folk song and not yet jazz. It was something strange and in-
definable; it was a cry of lament and of joy piercing through the
night from the fabulous red-light district, Storyville. Among the
unbelievably numerous bars of Basin Street, inside the legendary
hot spots in which gambling, alcohol, and vice flourished, there
came into the world an as yet unbaptized music.

An incredible period which was later to prove a gold mine for
the American stage and screen! Storyville was the only section of
an American town legally set aside for vice. Guidebooks gave all
the available information about the best addresses: The Green
Book or The Gentleman's Guide to New Orleans, the Red Book,
the Blue Book. Here were listed all the names of creatures who
already belong to the past: Tom Anderson, the evil saloonkeeper
and boss of the reserved quarter; Mamie Christine; Lulu White,
the madame of Mahogany Hall; Abbie Reed, madame of a house
on Delord Street, who was seriously wounded by her lover;
Gertrude Livingston— "Queen Gertie" of the red-light district;
Kate Tov^nisend; Minnie Haha; the elegant mansion of Josie
Arlington; Countess Willie Piazza, and the evil frequenters of
"The Real Thing."

The red lights gleamed in the warm nights. A clarinet wailed
out its woes into a narrow gaslit street which never felt the heavy
tread of the policeman. Customers drank hard liquor, the girls
only half listened to the music as they discussed the latest scandal.

22 JAZZ

Nothing remains of all this but a music which has conquered
the world. Nothing remains but the cruel memory of the days of
slavery, when Creole planters spent money recklessly, fought
duels on the slightest provocation, and kept beautiful quadroons
as mistresses.

Walk through the streets of New Orleans. You may glimpse
the shades of these haunted figures of the past— see! perhaps that
face which fades into the blackness of the night at the comer of
Perdido Street is the phantom of the handsome Marquis de
Vaudreuil. There, a bit farther on, is the asylum where the first
great jazz musician gasped out his last breath in 1931. The echo
of a sob still reverberates in the deserted streets of the French
Quarter . . . but it is only the first tragic cry of a new art . . .
that jazz to which the gates of every city in the world were to
open. There, if you but look, lie the romantic and passionate
elements of the music which we all love.

II. BETWEEN TOM-TOM AND RAGTIME

It is generally made to appear that by some miraculous stroke
of good fortune Buddy Bolden appeared like a bolt from the blue,
and jazz was bom. That is the impression given by most accounts
of his career. The evolution of jazz as described in jazzmen had
no intermediate stages between the tom-tom and King Bolden.
For Ramsey and Smith have taken the description of the Congo
Square tom-tom background from Asbury's French Quarter, and
have proceeded immediately to Bolden's syncopated playing.

Until very recently I too thought that this was indeed the case.
I was wrong. This inaccurate impression was due to the lack of
dependable information as to the popular music of New Orleans.

From the description given by Herbert Asbury we have been
able to reconstruct the origin and the culmination of this New
Orleans music, but not the intermediary period of transition. As
a matter of fact, a long and unknown evolution had slowly trans-

JAZZ 23

formed the tom-tom beat into jazz music considerably before the
first great cometist of the Delta City made his appearance in
1891.

Asbury describes the dances of Congo Square as a, veritably
, African scene in which one or more tom-tom beaters hypnotized
1^ the Negro participants.

I So it was when these Congo Square dances were first inaugu-
rated, and during the first half of the century. But, little by little,
the Negroes were aflFected by contact with the melodic music of
the whites. The process is readily comprehensible. The Negroes,
underprivileged, were impressed by the music of their rich
masters and incorporated it into their playing. On the other hand,
the whites, proud and complacent, disdained the crude beauty of
the African rhythms.

Slowly but surely the music of Congo Square evolx^ed. An
orchestral music was substituted for the primitive tom-tom. Evi-
dence is necessary to prove that this natural transformation
actually took place, and I had the good fortune to discover a
few extremely important pages which illustrate this process of
evolution from pure rhythm to polyphony.

Lafcadio Heam has given a description of the music which
originated in New Orleans between i860 and 1880:

I fear I know nothing about Creole music or Creole Negroes. Yes,
I have seen them dance; but they danced the Congo and sang a purely
African song to the accompaniment of a drygoods box beaten with
sticks or bones and a drum made by stretching a skin over a flour
barrel. That sort of accompaniment and that sort of music you know
all about; it is precisely similar to what a score of travellers have
described. There are no harmonies— only a furious contretemps. As
for the dance— in which the women do not take their feet oflF the
ground— it is as lascivious as is possible. The men dance very differ-
ently, like savages, leaping in the air, I spoke of this spectacle in my
short article in the "Century.^' . . .

The Creole songs which I have heard sung in the city are Frenchy
in construction, but possess a few African characteristics of method.
The darker the singer, the more marked the oddities of intonation.
Unfortunately, the most of those I have heard were quadroons or

24 JAZZ

mulattoes. One black woman sang me a Voudoo song, which I got
Cable to write— but I could not sing it as she sang it, so that the music
is faulty. I suppose you have seen it already, as it forms part of the
collection.

After many researches Lafcadio Hearn had even discovered a
Creole song with direct African influences. Afro-American Folk
Songs, by H. E. Krehbiel, quotes this private letter:

Here is the only Creole song I know of v\dth an African refrain that
is still sung— don't show it to C, it is one of our treasures.^

(Pronounce * wenday," "makkiah.") i

Ouende, ouende, macaya!

Mo pas barrasse, macaya!
Ouende, ouende, macaya!

Mo hois bon divin, macaya!
Ouende, ouende, macaya!

Mo mange bon poulet, macaya!
Ouende, ouende, macaya!

Mo pas barrasse, macaya!
Ouende, ouende, macaya!
Macaya!

I vnrote from the dictation of Louise Roche. She did not know the
meaning of the refrain— her mother had taught her, and the mother
had learned it from the grandmother. However, I found out the
meaning, and asked her if she now remembered. She leaped in the
air for joy— apparently. Ouendai, or ouende, has a different meaning
in the eastern Soudan; but in the Congo, of Fiot, dialect it means "to
go," "to continue to," "to go on." I found the word in Jeannest's
vocabulary. Then "macaya" I found in Turiault's "Etude sur le Lan-
guage Creole de la Martinique": "9a veut dire manger tout le temps"
— "excessivement." Therefore, here is our translation:

Go on! go on! eat enormously!

I ain't one bit ashamed— eat outrageously!
Go on! go on! eat prodigiously!

I drink good wine!— eat ferociously!
Go on! go on! eat unceasingly!—
I eat good chicken— gorging myself!
Go on! go on! etc.
*H. E. Krehbiel's, Afro-American Folk Songs, published by G. Schirmer, Inc.

JAZZ 25

How is this for a linguistic discovery? The music is almost precisely
like the American river music— a chant, almost a recitative, until the
end of the line is reached: then for your mocking music!

And in the Nation of May 30, 1867, we find this important
description of the passage from the "spiritual" to singing scenes:

But the benches are pushed back to the wall when the formal
meeting is over, and old and young, men and women, sprucely dressed
young men, grotesquely half-clad field hands— the women generally
vdth gay handkerchiefs twisted about their heads and with short
skirts— boys with tattered shirts and men's trousers, young girls bare-
footed, all stand up in the middle of the floor, and when the "speri-
chil" is struck up begin first walking and by and by shuffling around,
one after the other, in a ring. The foot is hardly taken from the
floor, and the progression is mainly due to a jerking, hitching motion
which agitates the entire shouter and soon brings out streams of per-
spiration. Sometimes they dance silently, sometimes, as they shuffle
they sing the chorus of the spiritual, and sometimes the song itself
is also sung by the dancers. But more frequently a band, composed
of some of the best singers and of tired shouters, stand at the side of
the room to '%ase" the others, singing the body of the song and
clapping their hands together or on the knees. Song and dance are
alike extremely energetic, and often, when the shout lasts into the
middle of the night, the monotonous thud, thud of the feet prevents
sleep within half a mile of the praise-house.

To tell the truth, by 1880 the dances of Congo Square no
longer were as described by Asbury. The author of The French
Quarter was deceived by outdated witnesses. No one has yet
noticed that his account of that extraordinary spectacle was taken
from the diary of J. G. Flugel, a German traveler who had been
in New Orleans in February 181 7.

That is why the book Jazzmen leaped all unknowingly from
the primitive period to jazz itself. By 1880 jazz was in gestation,
the conditions which were to make its birth possible were under
preparation. What had become of the music which had set the
Negroes dancing in Congo Square? The lines which follow wdll
show how the orchestra was gradually built up. The evolution of

26 JAZZ

the drum toward its present manufactured form was clearly indi-
cated. The banjo appeared as the indispensable instrument it
was to be for the early jazz orchestras. Finally came the wind in-
struments. One fact stands out clearly in the following document:
until this time the orchestra was almost exclusively rhythmic, and
rhythm was to remain as the solid background of a jazz orchestra.
The time was at hand for the melodic instruments to be added.
This magnificent page, which reveals hitherto obscure facts,
was written by George W. Cable in the Century Magazine for
1885:

The drums were very long, hollowed, often from a single piece of
wood, open at one end having a sheep or goat skin stretched across
the other. One was large, the other much smaller. The tight skin
heads were not held up to be struck; the drums were laid along on
the turf and the drummers bestrode them, and beat them on the head
madly with fingers, fists, and feet, with slow vehemence on the great
dnmi and fiercely and rapidly on the small one.

Sometimes an extra performer sat on the ground behind the larger
drum, at its open end, and beat upon the wooden sides of it with two
sticks. The smaller drum was often made from a joint or two of very
large bamboo, in the West Indies where such could be got, and this
is said to be the origin of its name, for it was called bamboula. . . .

One important instrument was a gourd partly filled with pebbles or
grains of com, flourished violently at the end of a stout staff with
one hand and beaten upon the palm of the other.

Other performers rang triangles, and others twanged from jewV
harps an astonishing amount of sound! Another instrument was the
jawbone of some ox, horse, or mule, and a key rattled rhythmically
along its weather-beaten teeth. At times, the drums were reinforced
by one or more empty barrels or casks beaten on the head with the
shank bones of cattle.

The author continues his description of this ensemble, which
included at least six musicians, and adds others, including one
who played a sort of marimba, and then notes:

But the grand instrument at last, the first violin, as one might say,
was the banjo. It had but four strings, not six: beware the dictionary.
It is not the "favorite instrument of the Negroes of the southern

JAZZ 27

states of America*' . . . but for the» true African dance, a dance not
so much of legs and feet as of the upper half of the body, a sensual,
devilish thing tolerated only by Latin-American masters, there was
wanted the dark inspiration of African drums and the banjo's thrump
and strum.

And then there was that long drawn cry of tremendous volume,
richness, and resound to which no instrument v^thin their reach
could make the faintest approach:

Eh! pour la belle Layotte ma nourri 'nocent
oui 'nocent ma nourri!

All the instruments silent while it rises and swells v^dth mighty
energy and dies away distinctly, 'Tea-a-a-a-a!" Then the crash of
savage drums, horns, and rattles.

To all this there was sometimes added a Pan's pipe of but three
reeds, made from single joints of the common brake cane and called
by English-speaking Negroes "the quills ..."

Such was the full band! All the values of contrast that discord
can furnish must have been present, v^dth whatever there is of ecstasy
in maddening repetition, for of this the African can never have too
much.

The presence of jazz can already be sensed from this descrip-
tion. The twoto-the-bar rhythm of the bass drum and the faster
beat of the traps, the added melody of the banjo and the pipes of
Pan, the raucous voices of the singers, the sudden stopping of the
instruments for a break, their savage re-entry, the shouts of satis-
faction punctuating the music— all these are present. The author
adds, "Its contact with French taste gave it often great tenderness
of sentiment."

Consider for a moment the state of this music. It is no longer a
simple percussion, as Asbury would have us believe; we are in
the presence of an organized body of music. This is no longer
pure rhythm, but, on the contrary, a genuine orchestra provid-
ing a full rhythmic background for the low-voiced singers.

For the first time we have vmtten proof that sung tunes were
an integral part of the ceremonies of Congo Square.

What were these tunes?

28 JAZZ

They were Creole songs! The extract quoted by Cable was
from an old Louisiana ditty called Ma Layotte. The Negroes,
who had long ago broken down the French of their masters into
a delightful fatois, handed down touching plaints in this dialect
from generation to generation. The French words were muti-
lated: for instance, the old Negroes were called cocodrilles (a cor-
ruption of crocodiles. Can this have any relation to the "alliga-
tors" of today?), and the younger were baptized trouloulous (cor-
ruption of a slang word for crabs).

Specialists are needed to study these moving songs which dot
the threshold of jazz. The primitive psychology of their authors
merits particular attention. As Cable remarks, they have a poetical
aspect which is most interesting. They are the songs of a down-
trodden and long-suffering race for whom outward nature offers
little of interest. There is no trace in these naive couplets of the
beauties of landscape or season, of verdure or flower, of sun or
sky.

The Negro confined his song to the five or six functions which
encompassed the whole of his earthly existence. "Love was his,
and toil, and anger, and superstition, and malady." Love his im-
mediate and most important goal, sleep his balm, food his
strength, dancing his pleasure, rum his cup of forgetfulness, and
death the gateway to the great unknown which might permit the
disinherited to return to the African paradise of his ancestors—
these were the things of which the Negro sang.

Such airs were very popular between 1880 and 1890. Some
had different rhythms and were the accompaniments for various
dances called the Babouille, the Cata, the Counjaille, the Calinda,
the Voudou, and the Congo. In these dances we can find all the
choreographic elements of the contemporary Susy Q, Big Apple,
and Lindy Hop. Cable noted particularly that the movements of
the dancers were unique in that they were of the upper body
rather than of the legs and feet.

Certain parallels are most intriguing. I couldn't help thinking
of the Saturday night amateur contests at the Savoy in Harlem
when I read the following description of the Congo Square orgies
of the '80s:

JAZZ 29

Now for the frantic leaps! Now for frenzy! Another pair are in the
ring. The man wears a belt of little bells, or, as a substitute, little tin
vials of shot '^hram-hratn sonnette." And still another couple enter the
circle. What wild— what terrible delight! The ecstasy rises to madness;
one— two— three of the dancers fall— bloucoutoum! boum!— with foam
on their lips and are dragged out. . . , The musicians know no
fatigue; still the dancers rage on.

Quand fatate la cuite na va mange It.
(When that tater's cooked don't you eat it wpO

The author mentions certain "nonsense lines" which are a
clear indication of the scat songs of a later date.

No one has yet studied this very interesting period of Louisiana
folklore. Yet this music is highly important. It is indeed surpris-
ing that the Americans of the time did not savor its appeal. It
was almost universally disdained as an unworthy manifestation of
art. Not until after the birth of jazz was this rich poetical vein
first tapped, and then by a New Orleans composer who had
studied in Paris, Louis Moreau Gottschalk. Between 1890 and
1905 Gottschalk devoted his time to recapturing the moods of
the plaintive and fervent Creole music. During his concert tour
in Europe at the beginning of the present century he seems to
have enchanted Dvorak with these new rhythms.

His sister, Clara Gottschalk, wrote in 1 906 :

Dr. Dvorak has claimed there is in time to be a native school of
American music based upon the primitive musical utterances of the
Indians and the Negroes among us. Then truly these melodies of the
Louisiana Negroes, which, quaintly merry or full of a very tender
pathos, have served to rock whole generations of Southern children,
are historical documents of some interest to the students and lovers
of music.

After a concert of Louis Moreau Gottschalk, a European critic
wrote: "Nothing is more interesting to hear than the compositions
of these young Creoles. Listen to the Bamhoula, and you will
understand the poetry of this tropical clime."

These various popular songs which inspired Louis Moreau
Gottschalk are collected in a book of Slave Songs from the United

30 JAZZ

States, edited by Charles P. Ware. The tides alone illustrate the
naive poetry of these ditties: La Belle Layotte, Voyez Ce Mulet-la,
Fo Peti' Mamze, En Avant, Grenadier, Pwpa Va a la Riviere.
Here is the translation of the final triplet of this last song, which
is about the calalou, a Creole soup made with crabs:

Pafa goes to the river.
Mamfna goes to psh for crahs.
Sleef on, sleep on, crahs in calalou.

Here are the unexplored headwaters of jazz. About 1890 the
African scenes of Congo Square came to an end when the
Negroes transferred their activity to the vacant lot on Dumaine
Street.

Litde by litde the great choreographic Sabbath changed its
aspect, as contact with the whites increased. Certain colored
musicians were permitted at the Quadroon Balls, as we are re-
minded by another old couplet which informs us that only the
trouloulou musicians could penetrate into the sanctum where the
white patricians received the beautiful quadroons.

Yellow girl goes to the hall,
Nigger lights her to the hall.

Fiddler man!
Now what is that to you?
Say what is that to you?

Fiddler manl

Thus Cable concludes his vibrant testimony, in 1886:

Times have changed and there is nothing to be regretted in the
change that has come over Congo Square. Still a glamour hangs over
its dark past. There is the pathos of slavery, the poetry of the weak
oppressed by the strong, and of limbs that danced after toil, and of
barbaric love-making. The rags and semi-nakedness, the bamboula
drums, the dance, and almost the banjo are gone but the bizarre
melodies and dark lovers of rhythm live on. . . .

Times had changed and a new era was beginning— the era of
ragtime. Ragtime music existed before it was so christened, and it

JAZZ 31

was to retain that name until about 191 5, when it was rebaptized
"jazz." Many of the attributes of jazz music akeady were present
in the earhest rags.

In 1 9 14 Irving BerHn, when interviewed about the new musi-
cal phenomenon called syncopation by the magazine Theatrical
Mirror, stated, "Syncopation is nothing but another name for
ragtime. The compositions of the old masters possess it in a stiff
and stilted way. Modem ragtime is syncopation."

Just what was ragtime, really? Irving Schwerke, an American
music critic, gave a long explanation of it, which I quote:

The musical term ragtime is not of recent invention. It originated
years ago at a southern dance when one of the darkies present asked
the band to repeat a certain piece. To their question which piece he
meant, the darky replied, 'The one that had a ragged time to it, a sort
of ragtime piece." His explanation was so nice that, years after they
had forgotten the originator of the expression, the players continued
to refer to the piece as "the ragtime number."

About 1890 some Negro amateurs had digested and unified
this multiple musical folklore: African music, Creole songs,
popular French tunes, Congo Square tradition. Colored musi-
cians had attended the Quadroon Balls, where they had picked
up the popular dances: polkas, mazurkas, quadrilles. At the time,
this dance music was so important that explanatory books were
published. A man named Wirth published a Complete Quadrille
Call Book in which he describes the five figures of the new
dance:

1. First four forward to center

2. Chase by couples to right between side four in a star

3. Join right hands, circle in a star

4. Circle back with left hands

5. First four chase to the left to center.

At the time there was a considerable number of tunes which
had been imported from France and other countries, notably
Sheldon's Polka Quadrille, the Presidential Polka, the Lancers,
the Prairie Queen, the French, and the Cake-Walk Quadrilles,

32 JAZZ

There are some who assert that ragtime began at St. Louis
and then worked its way down to New Orleans via the Missis-
sippi River boats before 1890. There was a great improviser
named Louis Chauvin who played tunes by ear, since he couldn't
read. This is the period when the rags of Scott Joplin, a colored
musician who even essayed an operetta, were in vogue. Played
by illiterate pianists like Louis Chauvin and Tom Turpin, the
Scott Joplin rags were all the rage about 1 890.

Such tunes as these were the music heard by fifteen-year-old
Negro boys of the '90s. They knew the veritable African scenes
of Congo Square only by reputation, and their musical folklore
was already the melange we have mentioned. Was jazz originated
by choral and orchestral groups of such youths? It is a possibility.
Here is what Herbert Asbury has to say about the origin of jazz—
an account used by Edna Ferber to provide the background to
her best seller, Saratoga Trunk:

One of the most popular of these combinations— though not for
dancing— was a company of boys, from twelve to fifteen years old,
who called themselves the Spasm Band. They were the real creators
of jazz, and the Spasm Band was the original jazz band. There were
seven members besides the manager and principal organizer, Harry
Gregson, who was the singer of the outfit— he crooned the popular
songs of the day through a piece of gas-pipe, since he couldn't afford
a proper megaphone. The musicians were Emile Lacomb, otherwise
Stalebread Charley, who played a fiddle made out of a cigar-box;
Willie Bussey, better known as Cajun, who performed entrancingly
upon the harmonica; Charley Stein, who manipulated an old kettle,
a cow-bell, a gourd filled with pebbles, and other traps and in later
life became a famous drummer; Chinee, who smote the bull fiddle,
at first half a barrel and later a coffin-shaped contraption built by the
boys; Warm Gravy; Emile Benrod, called Whisky, and Frank Bussey,
known as Monk. The three last-named played whistles and various
horns, most of them home-made, and each had at least three instru-
ments, upon which he alternated. Cajun Bussey and Stalebread
Charley could play tunes upon the harmonica and the fiddle, and the
others contributed whatever sounds chanced to come from their
instruments. These they played with the horns in hats, standing upon
their heads, and interrupting themselves occasionally with lugubrious

JAZZ 33

howls. In short, they apparently originated practically all of the antics
with which the virtuosi of modem jazz provoke the hotcha spirit,
and sometimes downright nausea. The Spasm boys even screamed
**hi-de-hi" and "ho-de-ho"— and incidentally these expressions, now the
exclusive howls of Negro band-leaders, were used in Mississippi River
songs at least a hundred years ago.

The Spasm Band first appeared in New Orleans about 1895, and
for several years the boys picked up many an honest penny playing
in front of the theaters and saloons and in the brothels, and with a
few formal engagements at West End, Grand Opera House, and
other resorts, when they were advertised as "The Razzy Dazzy Spasm
Band.*' Their big moment, however, came when they serenaded Sarah
Bernhardt, who expressed amazement and gave them each a coin.
About 1900— the date is uncertain— Jack Robinson, owner of the Hay-
market dance-hall on Customhouse Street between Dauphine and
Bourbon, engaged a band of experienced, adult musicians, who imi-
tated the antics and contortions of the Spasm Band and, moreover,
used their billing— Razzy Dazzy Spasm Band. When the mem-
bers of the original Spasm Band appeared at the Haymarket vsdth
their hands and pockets filled with stones and bricks and made violent
protest, Robinson repainted his advertising placards to read: "Razzy
Dazzy Jazzy Band!" Thus it began. And now look!

We must not give too much importance to this account. There
were undoubtedly several groups similar to the Spasm Band, and
even before its formation in 1895 real orchestras of true musi-
cians had made their appearance.

Precise details about the period are lacking. Near as it is, we
can grasp its character only through the statements of the heroic
originators who still survive, and their accounts tend to exaggerate
so that truth has become legend.

We owe to J/izzmew, to Jazz Information, and to the Hot
Record Society Rag most of the facts we have about the men who
made jazz. Buddy Bolden was a barber who played comet in a
local band where he learned quadrilles, polkas, and mazurkas,
which he played spontaneously with the syncopated inspiration
of the Congo Square tradition. At this time the technique of the
Negroes was not fixed by any rules. Most of them taught them-

34 JAZZ

selves or learned a friend's style of playing, and thus the very
methods of playing instruments were transformed. /

The European school taught the technique of the "slap tongue"
for the brasses; that is to say, the player didn't puff out his cheeks,
and he minimized the work of the breath. For this, the Negroes
substituted an empirical system which may seem grotesque at
first, but which gave such extraordinary results that professors in
European conservatories couldn't believe their ears when they
heard Louis Armstrong play.

The new Negro school went its own way. At the time when
Buddy Bolden began to play, there were several orchestras which
functioned at private parties, picnics, and burials. One such band
was that of Adam Olivier, which had Tony Jackson on piano and
Bunk Johnson on comet. New Orleans was indeed a city with
an enormous appetite for music. During the Mardi Gras carnival
some two hundred musicians— professionals and amateurs— were
mobilized into active duty.

Many of these musicians were hired during the day to play
on large wagons which toured the streets, advertising dances or
other events. It would have taken a very clever person to predict
the future of this embryonic art. There were no fixed laws regu-
lating even the most essential elements of jazz. There was only a
group of Negroes who had unconsciously discovered a new
process, and who continued to play without knowing just how
to go about it. Its environment inevitably reacted upon the forma-
tion of the syncopated music. The early orchestras, having to
march in the streets of uptown New Orleans or to play in the
limited space of a moving wagon, were forced to discard heavy
and unwieldy instruments like the piano, and sometimes even
the drums.

For several years the soul of jazz was absent from its music-
jazz was at the Crossroads. What remained of the great fusion of
the African music of Congo Square and the French music of the
Quadroon Balls? The Negroes were now using European instru-
ments and seemed to have abandoned the complicated percussion
apparatus which had served them so well in the past.

JAZZ 35

Then Buddy Bolden brought his group together behind his
shop in Franklin Street. By day he cut hair and shaved beards;
by night he blew his horn at dances. Soon his talents as im-
proviser and instrumentalist made him a celebrity, and there
was a great demand for the services of his five-piece band, which
included Willy Cornish on valve trombone, Jimmie Johnson on
string bass, Brock Mumford on guitar, and Willy Werner or
Frank Lewis on clarinet.

At the present time Buddy Bolden is made out to be an epochal
figure, his importance in the history of jazz seems to be over-
whelming, and legends are woven about his person : he was some-
what of a scoundrel and sot, he never paid his musicians, he
delighted in regaling or shocking his audience by singing obscene
couplets, his instrumental talents and his powers of improvisa-
tion earned him the sobriquet of "King" Bolden; he used to place
himself near the open window and blow his horn like a maniac,
he could be heard miles away across the river, and all within
range, attracted as if by a magnet by this clarion call, would flock
around the great cometist. We are vdtnessing the birth of an
epic of our own times.

Whatever be the actual truth of the matter, King Bolden was
indisputably the greatest trumpet of the Delta City. He was the
idol of all the kids from Perdido to Rampart and from Franklin
to Basin Street. King of the rag and the ramble, he was adored
by countless women who carried his paraphernalia and gave him
presents. When two of the musical advertising wagons met in
the street and locked wheels for a "cutting contest," woe betide
the band that dared to contest the sway of King Bolden.

In 1895 he modified the composition of his orchestra. After
having played without a drummer for five years, he added Cor-
nelius Tillman on drums. Then Frank Lewis, the clarinetist who
sometimes played together with Warner, joined another band,
and Bolden had to find someone to replace him. Clarinetists not
being easy to find, Bolden decided to add a second comet instead.
Thus came into being the classical form of the New Orleans
jazz band. The new comet was Bunk Johnson, another legendary
great, who is still living and to whom we are indebted for much

36 JAZZ

of our infonnation. A little later Frankie Dusen replaced Willy
Cornish on the trombone. During the succeeding years several
changes modified the composition of the group : Bob Lyons, bass;
Sam Dutrey, clarinet; "Zino/* drums; and even Jimmie Palao,
violin, became members of the band. These changes are similar
to the personnel changes of present-day orchestras.
f In the beginning jazz v^as restricted to a limited field— the city
of New^ Orleans and the surrounding territory. Then it spread
up the Mississippi Valley on the river boats, which employed
Negroes only for the most menial tasks and for playing music,
the latter a step or two higher in the social hierarchy.

A group of two or three dozen musicians created jazz and first
breathed life into it; we know the names of the best of them.
There were two or three good orchestras headed by featured stars,
and ten or so others of lesser quality. The same names bob up at
one time or another in several of these orchestras. Some of these
bands have left us a legendary reputation. There was, for ex-
ample, the Olympia Band with at least two peerless musicians,
Freddie Keppard the comet and Picou the clarinet, as well as
Joseph Petit on trombone and "Ratty" John Vean and later Louis
Cottrelle on drums.

These orchestras shed their names almost as readily as they
changed their personnel. After King Bolden was put away in an
institution the group was re-formed as the Eagle Band with Bunk
Johnson on comet. The Olympia Band became the Original
Creole Band, with Freddie Keppard on comet, George Baquet
clarinet, Eddie Venson trombone, Jimmie Palao violin, and Nor-
wood Williams guitar.

There were other groups, such as those of the "Frenchmen,"
so called because they came from the dov^nitown Creole section
and stemmed from the French rather than the African musical
tradition. These included the Imperial Band, with Emanuel
Perez, and the orchestras of John Robichaux and Piron.

Little by little these bands evolved a set pattern. The drums,
which had been momentarily cast aside in the beginning, once
more held free sway as the main counterpoise to the melodic in-
struments and soon were to see a spectacular development.

JAZZ 37

At this glorious epoch, inspiration made its own rules. The
drum came back, never again to leave the jazz orchestra. The
piano, once so neglected, suddenly found itself in great demand,
thanks to fortuitous circumstances— namely, the need of the sport-
ing houses of Storyville for "professors" to entertain their inmates
and guests. For the dawn of a new century brought a boom
period to the reserved quarter of New Orleans. The houses of ill
repute, bars, gambling dens, and barrel houses, where raw
alcohol was sold, needed music to bolster up their artificial gaiety.

Once again its environment was to condition the orchestra.
The raucous outfits which played on the wagons would be unbear-
able indoors. Plush interiors called for nobler and more subdued
instruments. The coarseness of the early jazz bands gave way to
the piano, and, thanks to some musicians of great talent, a mov-
ing polyphonic style was developed on that instrument. When
the piano was joined to the other instruments, the balance of a
perfect rag band was created.

Many of these pianists who won the applause and the small
change of their pleasure-seeking audience are anonymous. Others,
like Jelly Roll Morton, Clarence Williams, and Richard M. Jones,
have become famous. This infiltration of the piano into the sport-
ing houses had an important aftermath for the music which was
still developing. Until this time ragtime minstrels were self-taught
amateurs, but the piano cannot be learned in the same way as
the trumpet. The pianist, with few exceptions, has to know music,
and he thereby added a bit of co-ordination to the savage and un-
trained art. Gradually the music was adapted to its function.

A young lad named Sidney Bechet was intrigued by this new
music. He began to play clarinet, learned how to read, and soon
became a member of the Eagle Band, where he was considered a
first-rate instrumentalist. Still in knee pants, he played next to
such musicians as Bunk Johnson, Frankie Dusen, Tubby Hall,
Pop Foster, and ClijGF Stone.

By degrees these orchestras gathered a repertory. Each group
had its favorite tunes: the Eagle Band inherited the compositions
of Buddy Bolden, the Olympia Band featured Picon's numbers.
Many of these old tunes are still popular: High Society, Panama,;

38 JAZZ

Tiger Rag, Muskrat Ramble, Snake Rag, Alligator Hof, Frogs
Legs, Olynifia Rag, Steamhoat Blues, Reffer Rag, Mafle Leaf
Rag, Rose Leaf Rag, Lowdown Blues, West End Blues, Gettys-
burg, Get It Right, The Old Cow Died, Let's Go around the
Belt, Milneburg Joys, Didnt He Ramble, King Porter Stom^f,
etc.

What was the real worth of these pioneers of jazz? In the first
chapter of Jazzmen, William Russell and Stephen W. Smith
praise them to the sky. They give, in addition to the mine of
information which has been of great help to me, an aura of
almost godlike genius to the reputation of these early musicians.
Whether they are right or wrong depends on your point of view.

Taking their era and their local reputation into account, there
can be no question but that King Bolden was a very great musi-
cian, that Bunk Johnson played with sincerity and feeling, that
Picou was a fine clarinetist, and that Keppard really earned his
wide renown. On this reduced scale, there can be no debate.

But it is a different matter to try to judge these dead and
extinguished stars by the same criteria as Louis Armstrong or Bix
Beiderbecke. For we have no way of evaluating their way of play-
ing except by hearsay, which is a decidedly different thing from
actually hearing them play, if only on wax.

How is it possible to compare the pioneers of jazz with the
giants who followed them? An absolute judgment is impossible;
at best we can attempt only a relative verdict.

We mortals are inclined to overembellish the past and endow
the great names of yore with more glory than they perhaps de-
serve. I think it pretty certain that the playing of Buddy Bolden
and his contemporaries was but a confused, albeit moving, stam-
mering next to that of men like King Oliver, Bix Beiderbecke,
and Louis Armstrong.

I have, moreover, a certain point of comparison which enables
me to make such a statement vdth some authority. In 191 8 I
heard the orchestra of Louis Mitchell, the first to arrive and re-
main in Europe. As I shall explain later, it was one of the best
to be heard at the time. Suffice it to say that Sidney Bechet was a
member of it and that his partners were up to his level, to give

JAZZ 39

you an idea of the excellence of the orchestra, an all but un-
known orchestra to which American critics will one day pay hom-
age. The composition of the group was: Louis Mitchell, drums;
Cricket Smith, drums; Vance Lowry, banjo; Walter Kildare,
piano; Frank Wittess, trombone; and Sidney Bechet, soprano.
Cricket Smith was an improviser of the highest class, and Sidney
Bechet continually demonstrated that he lay in the direct line
of the New Orleans masters.

In 1920 the orchestra left Brussels for Paris. I retained the
most marvelous impression of it, paying particular veneration to
Cricket Smith. For many years I considered him the King of
the Trumpet, and later, even after hearing such masters as Arthur
Briggs, who has played with Noble Sissle and the Georgians, I
still kept Cricket Smith at the apex of my hierarchy of trumpets.
In 1926 he returned to Brussels, leading his own orchestra this
time, but still playing in the old way. A few minutes sufficed to
convince me that I had been grievously mistaken. My error was
in continuing to judge the Cricket according to the enthusiasm
he had aroused in me seven years earlier. My illusions were shat-
tered; I had poeticized the past. There was really no comparison
between Cricket Smith and the later musicians who followed
him.

I have told this story to show how the emotions and enthusi-
asms of the past can lead a critic astray. Those who have heard
King Bolden and Bunk Johnson have retained the impressions
they then received, but critics who accept these impressions at
their face values err in judging from an absolute point of view.

My own impression is that these pioneers were somewhat more
than mere discoverers, but the halo with which they have been
crowned is a good deal exaggerated. Let's continue to reverence
them, but let's reserve our real praise and emotion for those whom
our own ears have confirmed as belonging to the Valhalla of great
jazzmen.

One man who has remained on the top for thirty years is
Sidney Bechet. He himself has confessed to me that there are
layers and layers of quality between his earliest style and the way
he plays today. Each epoch has its own standards of judgment

40 JAZZ

and points of reference. There are only two or three geniuses of
jazz whose personahties have surpassed their periods. The others
are only unconscious discoverers who accepted the heritage of
ragtime and did their bit toward further fertilizing it until jazz
itself was ready to take name and substance.

To give oneself a rough idea of what the music of the early
epoch was like, one must listen to two record albums which have
appeared in the last few years.

The first is the Jelly Roll Morton album of "New Orleans
Memories" to which Charles Edward Smith has contributed a
descriptive "Blue Book" named after the once-famed publication
of Tom Anderson. Here we find some admirable solos of that
fine pianist who, alas, passed away two years ago.

Jelly Roll sought to convey the impression of that troubled
period in which jazz was being formed. He plays the old themes
and tries to revive the emotion which he felt as a youth back in
1890. I shall not mention the blues here, but I should like to
point out that the rags— Original Rag, Mister Joe, King Porter
Stom'p—ha.ye a simpHcity of interpretation in which the sweet
naivete, marked with the imprint of sensibility and beauty in its
purest state, succeeds in re-creating the atmosphere of those early
days.

It is well to point out that the first pianists were self-made men
who had to create their own peculiar style. This fact accounts for
their plentiful use of a powerful left hand, a tradition which per-
sists in the playing of certain great pianists of the present day, in-
cluding Fats Waller and especially the boogie-woogie specialists.

The album put out by Delta Records goes even more directly
to the heart of the problem. Hey wood Broun, Jr., who had it
recorded, went to the trouble of digging up some genuine New
Orleans old-timers and let them play the good old tunes: Low-
down Blues, Gettyshurg, Panama, High Society, Weary Blues,
Get It Right, Clarinet Marmalade, Milnehurg Joys, Listen to
these records and you will get a rather exact idea of the begin-
nings of jazz. Bear in mind, however, that the musicians used on
this date were old men and that some of them had not played
for many years.

JAZZ 41

Note that the titles are alternately blues and rags, though titles
are sometimes deceptive on this point. Zutty Singleton has this to
say on the subject:

In my time they had the blues and ragtime. They played the blues
about once or twice a night. A special number, kind of set off by itself.
Dippermouth Blues was a rag. Just because they named it a blues
didn't make it a blues. They played it stomp. That was the typical
New Orleans style of playing ragtime. They would swing.

The musicians were intelligently chosen for the date: Henry
Rena, trumpet; ''Big Eye" Louis Nelson, clarinet; Alphonse
Picou, clarinet; James Robinson, trombone; William Santiago,
guitar; Joseph Rena, drums; and Albert Glemy, bass.

These records support my point of view. The musicians can-
not be compared with those of the present day; their technique is
faulty, they are often out of tune, and they fail to get together
on the ensembles.

So it is impossible to rate the early musicians on the same scale
as contemporary ones despite Jelly Roll Morton, who says defi-
nitely that King Bolden was the most powerful trumpet he ever
heard, the most powerful figure in the history of jazz.

Such a statement coming from a musician like Jelly Roll Mor-
ton cannot be easily ignored. Anyway, there is one important
point upon which there is no disagreement. These records are a
rather exact reproduction of the spirit of the golden age of jazz,
and this spirit counts for far more than mere individual skill.

It is as if we have traced jazz back to its sources. We are face
to face with what was the greatness and the potentialities of
syncopated music. That's what I like about it. With all their
imperfections of technique, these old musicians profoundly touch
me.

The present conception of jazz has lost this power of enchant-
ment. American music must return to its source, and begin again
at the beginning. It has been led astray by commercialism, just
like the movies.

The cinema was an independent art which should have been
left to develop as the pioneers wished, independently of the

42 JAZZ

theater and literature. Chaplin and a few others have made
motion pictures; the rest have made plays.

Jazz was an independent art of improvisation which should
have been left to develop as the pioneers wished, independently
of past orchestral conceptions and overarranged combinations.
King Bolden, Alphonse Picou, and a few others made jazz; the
rest, those of today, have made music.

What charm and what power beneath the awkwardness and
naivete! There are more potentialities in this simplicity than in
all the arrangements of the world. This music really demonstrates
that jazz is a new^ phenomenon which comes from the heart and
goes to the heart Technique is only a means; the end is the
trance.

Ancient authors used to say about eloquence, "Si vis me flere
dolendum est [If you wish to make me cry, first cry yourself]."
Certain talented and clever musicians have tried to supplant the
spontaneous creation which comes from the heart, with a reasoned
organization which comes from the intellect. As far as I am con-
cerned, this would signify the bankruptcy of jazz. Collective
improvisation— of itself— sometimes throws off sparks of genius. A
written arrangement is but a difficult and complicated substitute.
Only geniuses like Duke Ellington can successfully replace the
sensibility of improvisation by cold intelligence.

What excites me about jazz is not the product of a learned
skill, but, on the contrary, the naive art of men who have some-
thing to say. Jazz is a return to primitive instinct, and those who
attempt to transform it into an art of the intellect are wrong—
they are quite as misguided as an aesthetic dilettante of Congo
wood sculpture would be if he tried to transform these fetishes
by a technical expression comparable to the perfection of Rodin.

Jazz has no need of intelligence; it needs only feeling. The
musicians of New Orleans had plenty of feeling to spare. That is
what I love about them, and I fervently express the hope that
their message will not be forgotten.

JAZZ 43

111. BIRTH OF JAZZ

We have tried to depict the origins of jazz and its first hesi-
tant notes. We find ourselves now at the point where syncopated
music— in the form of rags, rambles, and stomps— had been
flourishing for several years but was still a purely local phe-
nomenon, confined to New Orleans.

We have already shown how its formative process was due to
a series of interdependent causes. This was an evolution which
proceeded along logical lines. The most favorable circumstances
prepared the way until the point was reached when custom and
experience fixed certain laws which would endure, although they
were to be continually revised.

At the very beginning the forms of this new music were closely
allied to burlesque and all that was grotesque in the world of
entertainment. Just as in comedy scenes certain Negroes dressed
up in top hats and painted their mouths white and their faces
even blacker in order to gain a few cents, so did rag music earn
its way. It was a music symbolic of the proletariat, a revenge of
the people who suffered from the apathy of the bourgeoisie.

The intellectuals and the whites of New Orleans easily con-
fused these two forms of a single manifestation, and tended to
group the music together with the buffooneries of the cakewalk.

But soon the rag developed, thanks to the workings of the law
of supply and demand. Jazz players, dressed like clowns, played
the buffoon on the musical advertising wagons, to the great joy
of the neighborhood kids and the rather shocked amusement of
respectable people; they accompanied funeral processions, again
followed by a "second line'' of kids proudly aping the movements
of their favorites; small orchestras were an integral part of picnics
on Lake Pontchartrain or at Milneburg; singers were invited to
private parties or clubs; Negro bands were used for dances in the
red-light district, as their music seemed to fit the atmosphere and

44 JAZZ

certainly was more suitable for the low-down dancing. In all
these ways the seed was sown, and soon it was ready to spread.

A few musicians had unconsciously inspired a new gospel,
and their message was received by certain youth, predestined to
glory by some strange form of divine grace, who in turn devoted
their own lives to spreading the new gospel.

This evangelical power of jazz is a thing which has always im-
pressed me. Even in Europe I knew some young men of promise
with distinguished and well-paying positions who chucked their
future in order to play trumpet or saxophone in a jazz band.

What is this extraordinary effect, which I have felt myself,
and which is quite unparalleled save by the attraction of certain
poets to a few kindred elite soulsi^ Jazz has an obvious appeal for
simple and sentimental souls, but it has likevdse gained numerous
converts among the intellectuals of Europe. Try to understand
how its call was received by a young and impetuous throng which
was converted into fervent devotees of a cult only half a century
old.

What is astonishing is that a new musical spirit has been bom
in this way. At a moment when all art was in a state of flux and
ready to burst the chains which bound it to outmoded classic
forms— at this very moment, the phenomenon of improvisation
in a trance-like state came into being. Poetry broke out of the con-
fines of the academies and set out to search for adventure. Before
long the naive and fervent fantasies of the Douanier Rousseau
were widely appreciated. European intellectuals began to under-
stand the beauty of primitive Negro art; poetry tried to find its
stride along the tortuous paths of dadaism and surrealism.

Something new was in the air, something new in human
hearts and sensibilities. Soon even the white folks of New
Orleans were interested in the curious phenomenon of syncopa-
tion. We must try to understand what took place.

At that time there were several white orchestras used for the
same sort of work as the Negroes. The success of the colored
bands soon forced these whites to adapt their playing to the new
music. Jack Laine, a drummer, rapidly transformed his orchestra
into "jack Laine's Ragtime Band."

JAZZ 45

It even appears that the new music helped to reconcile the two
proletariats. Racial mottoes are useful only to a leisure class which
wishes to protect its goods, and not to those whites who are just
as poor as the Negroes. Having the same task to perform and
the same bread to earn, the musicians of both colors even united.

Thus Jack Laine's band was composed of both colored and
white musicians, although the color of the former was light
enough to permit the orchestra to pass for white. For the first
time music constituted a factor of social reconciliation.

The orchestra consisted of Jack Laine, drums; Achille Baquet,
clarinet; Lawrence Vega, comet; Dave Perkins, trombone; Willy
Guitar, string bass; and Morton Abraham, guitar. Note that this
first group had no piano.

The band was quite successful. It had its own repertory; one
old plaint which they called Meat Ball has been handed down to
posterity as the well-known Livery Stable Blues.

About 1905, still in the heroic age, the composition of the
orchestra changed, and it assumed the name of ''Reliance Brass
Band,'* with Yellow Nunez on clarinet, Johnny Lala and Manuel
Marlow on comets, Jules CasofiF on trombone, Mike Stevens on
small drum, and Jack Laine on bass drum. The presence of two
drummers is probably due to the fact that this was a marching
band rather than a dance band.

It is not easy to depict the atmosphere of New Orleans during
the first decade of this century. Jazz was growing up in spite of
the scorn of the bourgeoisie, who considered its enthusiasts as
raving maniacs.

To get an idea of the extent of this scorn on the part of the
"wiser" population of the Crescent City, listen to this quotation
from an article in the Times-Picayune of 191 8:

Why is the jass music, and therefore, the jass-band? Jass was a
manifestation of a low streak in man's tastes that has not yet come out
in civilisation's wash. Indeed one might go farther and say that jass
music is the indecent story syncopated and counter-pointed. Like the
improper anecdote, also, in its youth, it was listened to blushingly
behind closed doors and drawn curtains, but, like all vice, it grew
bolder until it dared decent surroundings, and there was tolerated

46 JAZZ

because of his oddity ... on certain natures sound loud and mean-
ingless has an exciting, almost an intoxicating eflFect, like crude colours
and strong perfumes, the sight of flesh or the sadic pleasure in blood.
To such as these the jass music is a delight. . . .

In the matter of jass New Orleans is particularly interested, since
it has been widely suggested that this particular form of musical vice
had its birth in this city— that it came, in fact, from doubtful sur-
roundings in our slums. We do not recognise the honour of parent-
hood, but with such a story in circulation, it behoves us to be die last
to accept the atrocity in polite society, and where it has crept in we
should make it a point of civic honour to suppress it.

These grotesque words form a fitting companion piece to the
Jim Crow laws as evidence of the stupidity and injustice prevalent
in the South (though not only there).

The man who penned those lines is a lineal descendant of
those centuries ago which couldn't forgive the theater its low
origin and likewise dreamed of suppressing it as a matter of
civic pride. For the theater too was bom in circumstances which
educators have tried hard to forget. Everything that has been
said about jazz can be applied, mutatis mutandis, to the theater.
To my mind this is no reproach to jazz; it is, rather, the indication
of an exciting parallelism which gives us good cause to believe
that jazz will know the same glory as its fellow art, which has
risen from the baptismal font of vice.

Not more than three or four years after the publication of the
Tim^es-Picayune article, Aragon, a leader of the surrealist school,
characterized the new form of poetry in just about the same terms
as the New Orleans reporter used, but praised its consequences
instead of damning them.

As for the expression "musical vice," the unknown journalist
never wrote a truer word. From the viewpoint of the intelligence,
it is a musical vice. Those who have been caught up by these
bewitching melodies are so oblivious to the rest of the world that
syncopated music becomes the very reason for their existence. I
know a dozen or more musicians, whom I am proud to call my
friends, all of whom are gifted with a high and lucid intelligence.

JAZZ 47

For them, jazz is a vital necessity, one which occupies their every
instant.

But don*t speak to me of a "sexual art." Exactly the opposite is
true. A devotee of jazz does not slacken the rein which checks his
lower passions. On the contrary, when I hear a good jazz band
nothing exists outside this all-sufficing, shadowy power which acts
on my emotions like pure poetry. And I am not £he only one who
feels this way.

If this was what the reporter meant, it's true enough. If he
wished to indicate the bizarre and sordid atmosphere in which
jazz developed, he wasn't mistaken. But his conclusions from
these facts are ridiculous.

Until about 191 o jazz was a plant which could only grow in
the fertile Mississippi delta.

When white men spoke of it, they would indicate, with a ges-
ture in the direction of the Negro quarter, "J^^z came from
there." The meaningful gesture conveyed the feeling that it came
from the red-light district.

- The French Quarter! Those narrow and sordid streets whose
names already are famed in song and legend. A district which
came to life only after the bedtime of respectable people. A neigh-
borhood into which the bourgeois never strayed at night unless
guarded; dim, gaslit streets whose mysterious atmosphere made
their ladies shiver in frightened anticipation.

-Through the night the great port hummed with activity. At
nightfall, illicit pleasure came out with the moon, to reign as
mistress of the Crescent City. The nocturnal revelry began.

Doors closed, others opened. The red lights blinked on, one
by one. The women who had slept through the day, those women
of the night who hadn't seen the sun for years, awoke and began
to ply their trade. There was pleasure to fit any purse. Like moths
attracted by a flame, a motley group of men fluttered around the
red lights, symbolic of the warmth to be had within.
-f^Soon a syncopated wail of music rose above the fetid atmos-
phere of the low-down dance halls, the reeking fumes of the vile
liquor of the barrel houses, the verminous cribs, and the marble-.

48 JAZZ

plush-, and gilt-decorated public houses. But this spasmatic
melody did not cater to the lecherous beast which sleeps in every
man; it enhanced, rather, the melancholy and tragic aspect of
these denizens of the night. Jazz was a balance wheel to their
passions, an essential backdrop to the scene.

Tom Anderson, boss of the reserved quarter, ran a saloon
which served as the vice-City Hall as well as the City Hall of
vice. This king of the underworld knew all his subjects-
gangsters, gamblers, idle rich, perverts, and playthings of passion
—and greeted them by their first names. They swelled his coffers
with an unending flow of tainted gold. Much of this was diverted
in turn to those who made their living by catering to the passions
of others: barmen, dope-peddlers; ample-bosomed madames with
pearl necklaces, prostitutes with faces ravaged by liquor, in-
somnia, and sin; scar-faced pimps, husders who could tell you
the price of each miserable girl; white musicians; colored trum-
peters with rosy lips; pianists who partially dismantled their in-
struments so that they made more noise and kept the customers
awake.

^^ Listen to this great cry of melancholy, the melody surging from
the heart of an oppressed people, singing out its sadness and woe.
This slow and majestic cantata, akin to the spiritual and the
funeral march, is the blues. No one yet knows what it is, nor just
what there is about it, but sensitive souls weep.

At Countess Willie Piazzas, at Ranch loi and later Ranch
1 02, at Lulu White's Mahogany Hall, at Josie Arlington's, at Pete
Lala's— in short, everywhere in the quarter bounded by Perdido,
Rampart, Bienville, and Basin streets where nocturnal revelry
was the rule, musicians forgot the night, the stifling atmosphere,
the drunks, and the prostitutes, and shut their eyes in order better
to express the passion of the hot art which was a driving force
within them.

This is the great period of the as yet unnamed art. Through
open doors the rhythms pulsed out into the night. All the musi-
cians thought of the giant who had crystallized the soul of a
generation in the shouting notes of his trumpet. Buddy Bolden,
King Bolden, surpassed them all in talent. He became famous;

JAZZ 49

women followed the King in the street and fought to get near
him; the kids adored him.

Already newcomers kept up the tradition, and added the im-
print of their personalities and emotions to the new music. There
was Pete Johnson; Joe Oliver; Jelly Roll Morton; Tony Jackson;
Ann Cook, one of the first blues singers; Clarence Williams, who
dedicated one of his famous tunes, Mahogany Hall Stoni'p, to
Lulu White; Perez, Lorenzo Tio, Fred Keppard, Buddy Petit,
and others who banded together and broke up as circumstances
dictated.

Soon a new white orchestra was formed— Ernest Giardina's
Ragtime Band, with Giardina on violin, Vega on cornet, Edwards
on trombone, Baquet on clarinet, Piagas on piano, and Sbarbaro
on drums.

The house presided over by Josie Arlington was one of the
most popular in Storyville. A luxurious mansion on Basin Street,
it was described in Tom Anderson's Blue Book as "a palace fit for
a king." Flitting from red light to red light, she ran sporting
houses successively or simultaneously on Customhouse, Basin,
and Esplanade streets, Storyville, selling liquor and octoroons in-
discriminately.

A young pianist was engaged by the Arlington to provide
music for the nightly revels. His name was Ferdinand Morton,
and the women of easy virtue soon christened him with the
grotesque title of Jelly Roll. He had been bom in 1885 and had
been apprenticed, as a child, to a barber. One evening he heard
the exciting horn of Buddy Bolden in Johnson Park, and thence-
forth this music was to be his life. Still a child, he heard a certain
Mamie Desdume sing the primitive blues. The music went to
his head like alcohol. In later years he was fond of thinking back
to the pioneer days and their legendary heroes, and he said with
characteristic exaggeration :

Yes, any time it was a quiet night out to the Lincoln Park which
I before stated was about ten or twelve miles from the corner where
we used to hang out, maybe an affair wasn't so well publicized. So
in order to get it publicized in a few seconds, old Buddy would take
his big trumpet and turn around towards the city and blow this very

50 JAZZ

tune . , . and the whole town would know that Buddy was there,
and in a few seconds, why, the park would start to get filled.

Of course, no trumpet ever could be heard five miles away, but
the giants of jazz have assumed the Gargantuan dimensions of
folk heroes anywhere. Roland once played a powerful horn too.

Jelly Roll Morton played on Josie Arlington's piano the themes
he had heard as a boy, and a new bunch of kids hung around the
open door to hear the hot music. There were dozens of them—
many now famous: Zutty Singleton, Wingy Mannone, Spencer
Williams, Shelton Brooks. Pale-faced white boys stood next to
coal-black pickaninnies drinking in the sound.

A friend of mine who left New Orleans before the first World
War once described this enthusiasm to me:

We planted ourselves against the wall, ears wide open. A police-
man passed slowly along the sidewalk, and we shrunk back until the
heavy hobnailed tread had faded in the darkness. Then we resumed
our vigil. The giggling of drunken women seeped through the open
doorways. We were already well acquainted with the violent odor
of alcohol and vice. Then a sudden silence split the night. Our
hearts stopped beating. The night became alive with an everlasting
song which throbbed out to us and quickened the blood in our veins,
and we returned home singing the blues and the stomps.

Spencer Williams has written:

All along this street of pleasure there were the dance halls, honky-
tonks, and cabarets; and each one had its music. My old friend Tony
Jackson who composed "Pretty Baby" and "Some Sweet Day" used to
play piano at a house run by Miss Antonia Gonzales who sang and
played the comet. The largest of the cabarets on Basin Street was the
Mahogany Hall, owned by my Aunt Miss Lulu White and when my
mother died I went to hve with her and became her adopted son. Td
go to sleep to the sound of the mechanical piano playing ragtime
tunes, and when I woke in the morning it would still be playing.
The saloons in those days never had the doors closed and the hinges
were all rusty and dusty. Little boys and grownups would walk along
the avenues swaying and whistling Jazz-tunes.

JAZZ 51

Soon a young Negro formed the Magnolia Band. It was Joe
Oliver, who, fascinated by the new art, had learned to play
cornet. His orchestra had Edward (Kid) Ory on trombone,
Johnny Dodds on clarinet, Edward Polla on violin, Edward Gar-
land on bass, and'Henry Zeno on drums.

The great individuals of ragtime had finally appeared on the
horizon. The musicians who were to compose the nucleus of the
Original Dixieland Jazz Band, which was to stand New York on
its ear, and King Oliver's Creole Jazz Band, which was to do the
same for Chicago, were now working musicians. Others there
were— Albert Nicholas, Sidney Bechet, Buster Bailey, Shelton
Brooks, the future composer of Darktown Strutters Ball, the
Brunies brothers, Tom Brown, Larry Shields, Emmett Hardy.

From door to door they flitted, these boys whose heritage was
to bring them greatness. Among them you might have seen a
coal-black newsboy with coral-colored lips and intelligent eyes
standing, silent, next to a pale lad with feverish eyes and moist
lips— Louis Armstrong and Leon Rappolo.

We all know Louis, the King of Jazz, who, more than any
other, molded the new American music. But Rappolo was not
long enough v^th us to create so profound an impression.

What was to be the strange destiny of these two boys? Louis
Armstrong found his father s pistol in the house, one Christmas
morning, took it out with him, and fired it to celebrate. He was
immediately arrested and sent to reform school. At the reforma-
tory he learned how to play bugle and comet, and was thus
launched on the career which brought him world-wide fame.

As for the other boy, he learned the violin and then the
clarinet. He had to learn fast, for his days were numbered. Jazz
bewitched him, seared him, and finally consumed him. Rappolo
had just enough time to wax a scant dozen improvisations, which
would preserve his name for eternity. Then he blew himself out,
and the great Leon Rappolo spent the rest of his wretched days
in a sanitarium, where jazz was not permitted.

The war of 19 14 was not far off. The bawling baby which was
jazz had developed into a sturdy brat, and its lusty manhood was
in the offing. At the time the path it was to take in its peregrina-

52 JAZZ

tions about the United States had not yet been determined. But
the river boats of the Mississippi provided a logical exhaust valve
for the New Orleans music.

Soon both singers and musicians were hired to ply the Missis-
sippi. At first their rags were but an entertainment music, played
in front of a humorous backdrop for the amusement of week-end
outing parties. The drums became a spectacular part of these
river-boat bands. No mere skin-beater, the drummer vented his
ire on a whole battery of cymbals and other percussive instru-
ments, to the delight of the audience. There were any number of
grotesque utensils to replace the drums of Congo Square. The
noisemaker had made its appearance. After seeing such an array
of percussive paraphernalia in Europe in 191 8, I described it in
my first book:

An enormous bass drum with a bold inscription which is illuminated
from within, a kind of continuous-action pedal to work the drumstick,
a drum mounted on a tripod for introductory rolls, gourds reserved for
delicate passages with oriental shadings; a cowbell mounted over the
drums, smaller bells, wooden blocks with a tuneful sound, noisy metal
boxes, a miniature xylophone, a metallic fan for beating out crescen-
dos, numerous cymbals beaten with blows that would fell an ox,
covered pots, bottles filled in graduated series, ear-splitting sirens,
barrels studded with copper-headed nails, whistles blown with deep
breaths, noisy traps with eccentric actions, and many other utensils.

And I added luckily: 'That is not what I like about jazz, and
had this been my only contact with it I should probably share
the opinion of all those who hate its infernal racket and have re-
mained prejudiced against it."

And I should like to add further that jazz had to have many
admirable qualities to escape this infantile malady.

A comedian, destined for fame, happened to be in New Orleans
when he was hired for a Chicago engagement. He decided to
bring along Tom Brown's Band, then the sensation of Lamb's
Cafe.

But even before this, the contagion of jazz had spread to every
city touched by Old Man River. Memphis, St. Louis, Kansas

JAZZ 53

City, all succumbed to the feverish new music. Every time the
showboats docked, the kids would rush out, and some of them
would return home humming the melodies to themselves.

A Memphis Negro, William Christopher Handy, played in
minstrel shows and heard a tune which ripened in his head until
it blossomed as the St. Louis Blues.

E. Simms Campbell recalled those wonderful days when ships
laden with syncopated cargoes sailed majestically down the river:

They streamed up from New Orleans and Memphis and played
Jazz the length and breadth of the Mississippi and many was the hot
sticky summer night when I, along with many of my friends, listened
breathless as these masters of weird melodies shot their golden notes
out over a muddy river. During the summer on Monday Nights, the
Negroe.3 of St Louis were privileged to use the older of two paddle-
wheel steamers for their boat excursions. I remember the names of
both of them— the J.S. and the St Paul. The St Paul was the one we
used. Lodges and fraternal orders of all sorts would get together and
have a benefit— to this day I have never found out what the benefits
were for— but they always meant plenty of ice-cream and cake for us,
and above all— music, the blues. These boat rides usually ended up in
fist fights, knife fights, and bottle throwing contests. Drinking St
Louis corn, packed on the boat like cattle, bunny hugging to the tunes
of Jelly Roll Morton, some too ardent boy friend would cut it on
another's girl . . . then fireworks! I can still see an excited crew, red-
faced and panting among a sea of black faces, trying to restore order
—and then the clear strains of Charlie Creath's trumpet drowning out
the noise and the scuffling. Charlie had cut loose on the "St Louis
Blues."

Charlie Creath led one of the first river-boat bands. A powerful
trumpeter, he was famous in his day. On another boat Fate
Marable, a pianist, directed the rhythm.

About the same time jazz was spreading also to the rest of
America. Companies of singers and entertainers traveled from
city to city. It would be a grave mistake to believe that New
Orleans still enjoyed a monopoly of the syncopated music.

In a small town in New Jersey a young Negro named James P.
Johnson heard the early jazz. Even sleepy Philadelphia was

54 JAZZ

stirred by the new music; another young Negro, Louis Mitchell
by name, decided to give up his theatrical ambitions for this
music, Mitchell went traveling with minstrel shows about 1910
and after, while Johnson played with Barron Wilkin's orchestra
in a New York cabaret.

In New Orleans orchestras succeeded each other, passing away
and resurrecting themselves like the phoenix. The sporting houses
changed their names, but the red lights remained. Spencer Wil-
liams passed his childhood as the adopted son of Lulu White,
the madame of the celebrated octoroon house of North Basin
Street, Mahogany Hall. On the same street was the house of
Mamie Christine, and a bit farther on was Queen Gertie's. After
going to bed, Williams used to hear the popular themes which he
was later to write down as I Ain't Got Nobody and Basin Street
Blues.

Larry Shields was hired by Tom Brown. Every day at Ranch
102, three young white musicians rehearsed their syncopated
repertory of the traditional tunes. These were Alcide Nunez
clarinet, Henry Ragas piano, and Johnny Stein drums.

The celebrated madame, Josie Arlington, died in 19 14. One
winter's morning she was buried in the grand style, piped to the
grave by the traditional band, playing funeral marches on the
way to the cemetery and rags on the way back. The marble and
gilt of her famous mansion were duplicated in her elegant tomb-
stone.

Fate plays its ironical tricks. The cemetery was skirted by a rail-
road line, and, as an almost unbelievable coincidence would have
it, a red signal lamp shone full on the white shaft of Josie's tomb-
stone. Even in death, she kept watch over a red-light district.

This lovely anecdote has been used by Edna Ferber. But I can
vouch for the truth of it. A friend of mine returned to New Or-
leans from a long trip and wanted to hear the orchestra at the
Arlington Annex. He asked a cabdriver to take him to Josie's, in
the red-light district. He was surprised to see the cabby take a
roundabout route, and completely flabbergasted when the cab
stopped at the cemetery. He understood what it was all about
only when the driver pointed out the stone of Josie Arlington

JAZZ 55

with its halo of red light. Then they drove slowly back to the city.
Clusters of kids still hung around the open doors of the Story-
ville establishments listening to the same old music, but some
of them had graduated into positions with the bands. At Ranch
1 02 Ragas caressed the ivory keys of the piano. A woman sang
a rather fast tune the orchestra had taken from an old quadrille.
. . . She was called "The Tigress.'* . . . Ragas was in love with
her. ... So he called the number Tiger Rag. Meanwhile the
names of the Original Creole Band, the Louisiana Six, and Kid
Ory's Band were already celebrated.

IV. THE PIONEERS OF JAZZ

It is difficult to draw an exact distinction between the impor-
tant stages of the history of jazz. The periods bestraddle one an-
other, the orchestras are continually changing their personnel,
musicians sink back into obscurity and then return to the spot-
light.

By 1 910 jazz was still vdthout a name. But the infant had left
its cradle. Jelly Roll Morton was in Chicago, and Tony Jackson
was on the way. Ragtime was still associated with burlesque
comedy scenes, and even in Chicago colored bands blared forth
their music on publicity wagons.

Negro musicians were seeking employment throughout the
world. I remember that at the Brussels Exposition of 191 o, crowds
were drawn by a cakewalk act. This consisted of Negroes with
whitened mouths and loud-checked suits, who danced to the
accompaniment of a piano, banjo, and traps.

Who were these scattered missionaries?

In 1920, when I was first possessed by the jazz demon, I
shopped in all the record stores and was particularly attracted
by the records of one orchestra. Although no one has ever spoken
of it, the Southern Rag and Jazz Band which recorded Tiger Rag
and Mammy o Mine was certainly the first to reveal pure synco-

56 JAZZ

pated music to me. When I wrote my first book on jazz, I remem-
bered the group and had this to say about it: "A very old Negro
orchestra with an amusing name ... A rather confused and
tormented music; not yet is there any great individual improvisa-
tion, but rather a kind of ragged bouncing by all the musicians.**

It would be interesting to find these early records, which had
been reissued by "Winner" in England. They might enlighten
us as to whether we have any illusions about the nature of the
first jazz.

We can only judge the early orchestras by their recordings and
by the words of those who heard them. As to this hearsay evi-
dence, it is hardly trustworthy. They speak of the orchestras, they
praise the musicians, but they neglect to inform us as to the real
character of the music.

Many musicians tell us that Buddy Bolden was the greatest.
George Brunies says Emmett Hardy was the best. Preston Jack-
son grants the palm to Mutt Carey. Many remember how Joe
Oliver and Mutt Carey met one day and decided to settle their
old rivalry by a trumpet duel. Mutt Carey was proclaimed the
victor, and King Oliver threw away his cornet in disgust, vowing
never to play again.

Such facts we know. But just how did they play? On this point
it is impossible to deliver a documental opinion. It is my im-
pression, however, that the music played by these uncultivated
musicians consisted of confused and syncopated ensembles rather
than solos.

I base this opinion on my remembrance of the early recordings
which I tenaciously sought out and listened to. I remember hear-
ing, when they first came out, the records of the Southern Rag
and Jazz Band, Naylor s Seven Aces, and the first King Olivers,
all of which presented this character. I may be mistaken, but I
believe that I first heard improvised solos on records by white
bands, especially the New Orleans Rhythm Kings, whose orig-
inality and importance have not been sufficiently recognized.

Many people believe that jazz first hit New York with the
Original Dixieland Jazz Band. This is not the case. It is indeed
strange how many erroneous ideas are in circulation about a

JAZZ 57

period whose leading figures, in large part, are still living. No-
body has ever spoken of Louis Mitchell, who played a role of
capital importance in the development of jazz. It was he who first
introduced jazz in New York and brought it triumphantly to
Europe.

Louis Mitchell was bom in Philadelphia in December 1885,
and sang, as a lad, in choirs and on the stage. Soon possessed by
the demon of jazz, he left the stage and began to form an or-
chestra which he called the Southern Symphony Quintet. They
opened on April 15, 191 2, at the Taverne Louis in the Flatiron
Building. I have seen programs of the period which proclaim
''refined music and singing" with a "turkey trot" specialty num-
ber. This is the ragtime era. A newspaper reported :

New York naturally attracts musicians such as the Southern Sym-
phony Quintet who have been appearing at Taverne Louis (Flat Iron
Building) and Cafe des Beaux- Arts (40th and 6th avenue). They are
regarded as the best colored bands extant and play besides ragtime an
extensive repertoire of high class music.

Their success must have been considerable, since the band
remained several months at the Beaux-Arts. The bizarre compo-
sition of the orchestra demonstrates that jazz had not yet found
itself: P. Jones, piano; Vance Lowry, banjo; J. Hope, bandoline;
W. Riley, cello; Louis H. Mitchell, drums.

Enjoying a great reputation as a ragtime artist, Mitchell was
engaged by Reisenwebers on February 15, 19 14. This successful
engagement was played three full years before the Original Dixie-
land appeared there. Their boss at Reisenweber's considered
Mitchell's Quintet as the best band in America, and when an
important producer arrived from London in search of a sensa-
tional attraction for Europe he hired the orchestra of Louis
Mitchell. Accompanied by the dancing team of Louise Alexander
and Jack Jarrett, the band left for London shortly before the war
and scored another triumph at the Piccadilly. The London news-
papers at the time hailed Mitchell variously as "the world's great-
est trap drummer" and the "noise artist supreme." But the war
broke out, and Mitchell returned to America, where he toured

58 JAZZ

with the seventy-five-piece colored orchestra of the Clef Club.
As a tenor soloist, he played Philadelphia, Baltimore, Richmond,
and Washington. At Richmond a local journalist v^nrote:

In many respects the most remarkable concert ever given in Rich-
mond was offered in the City Auditorium by the Clef Club, aR
organisation of Negro Singers and instrumentalists under the direc-
tion of the well known James Reese Europe, assisted by William H.
Tyers. . . . Louis Mitchell in the marching song of the English
soldier "Tipperary" has his whole audience with him.

This James Reese Europe is the celebrated Jim Europe who
later won a European reputation vdth a band which included
Noble Sissle. At this point it is well to remark that jazz was still
at the crossroads. The musicians still sought a definite solution as
to the nature of their art. Jim Europe believed that the rag should
be interpreted by enormous ensembles of singers and instru-
mentalists. For several years this was the commonly accepted
formula.

Louis Mitchell soon left this group and returned to London,
where he opened on August 6, 191 5. At the Empire in London
he received equal billing with Helen Hayes. He was later en-
gaged by Ciro's. His greatest hits were ragtime numbers which he
sang with Jordan.

Bustanoby, the proprietor of the Beaux-Arts, wrote Mitchell
in October 191 5 begging him to return to New York. He had
combed the country looking for an attraction to replace Mitchell.
Alas! he wrote, Mitchell was irreplaceable and he had to content
himself with an Argentine quartet which didn't bring in as much
business as the syncopated group had.

At Ciro's Mitchell was billed as a ragtime drummer; his famous
orchestra, the Seven Spades, consisted of Vance Lowry, banjo;
Walter Kildare, pianist; Set Jones, rag singer; Ferdie Allen,
bandoline; S. Edwards, bass; F. Jones, mad dancer.

They were a hit and drew big crowds. They were called either
rag band or coon band, the word "jazz** not yet having been
coined. A journalist who heard the Seven Spades wrote, 'TThere

JAZZ 59

was a coon band, but a coon band can be almost pleasant in a
very large building/'

Another devoted a long article to Giro's:

Giro's is altogether charming— first-rate food and surroundings
pleasant. But, if I may venture to offer a tip, I should say: Water
down the music a bit! One goes to a place like this not only to dance,
but to talk. At Giro's only the loud lunged have a chance. For at one
end of the room are many indefatigable black men who bang drums
and cymbals and even sound motor horns.

During this engagement Mitchell once played at a private ball
in the home of Mrs. Evalyn Walsh McLean. It was a big society
affair with the Prince of Wales, Tallulah Bankhead, and the
Dolly sisters among those present. A special reception was or-
ganized for the prince in a salon on the second floor. The poor
Seven Spades, flanked by the Dolly sisters, were installed on the
ground floor far away from the reception. But when the Prince
of Wales arrived he spent the whole evening listening to the
orchestra and encouraging the musicians. The swanky reception
upstairs was ignored and had to be called off.

About the same time Al Jolson was in London and tried to
engage the orchestra permanently, to accompany his mammy
songs. On another occasion the famous dancer, Vernon Gastle,
who considered Mitchell's group one of America's best, sent
Mitchell a letter: "Send me . . . some piano copies of rags,
Memphis Blues, or some real rags."

New Orleans, 191 5— Freddie Keppard, the celebrated comet,
had left for Ghicago; the heyday of Storyville was drawing to a
close; Spencer Williams wrote his first tunes; the Original Dixie-
land Jazz Band was soon to be formed, and three of its members
were playing together at Ranch 102; a new star, Joe Oliver, had
appeared in the musical firmament.

On the banks of the Mississippi more than a hundred Negro
and white musicians played syncopated music. Most had been
inspired by the playing of Buddy Bolden, whose career had come
to an end.

The poor fellow had played himself out in a few years. Accus-

6o JAZZ

tomed to earning only a few cents a day as a barber, he had begun
to make real money, which he spent like a drunken sailor. Lack
of sleep^ liquor, women, hot music, gradually sapped his strength.

Only at certain moments did he still sound like the great King
Bolden; at other times his sidemen noticed that he played his
comet as if mad. Possessed themselves, they came to fear this
insane music which attacked their minds. Finally, in 19 14, it
became known that Bolden had to be put into an asylum. Kep-
pard took his place in the Eagle Band, and when he left for
Chicago young Joe Oliver began his career.

He was born in New Orleans in 1885 and, at a very early age,
learned to play. His talent did not become rapidly apparent, and,
at the age of seventeen, he played v\dth an amateur band of
youths. On an outing, one day, he got into a fight and was
wounded in the eye. The injury was permanent and earned him
the nickname of "Bad Eye Joe.''

There were mighty few occupations left open for Negroes.
Oliver became a butler and spent several years of his life serving
a white family, with respectful "Yessirs." All his leisure time was
devoted to mastering the comet. Bunk Johnson helped him to
learn the instrument, and the day arrived when Joe was capable
of filling Keppard's place in the Eagle Band, then composed of
Joe Oliver on comet, Frank Dusen on trombone, Frank Lewis
on clarinet, Alcide Frank on violin. Brock Mumford on guitar,
Bob Lyons on bass, and James Philip on drums.

For two years Joe Oliver remained with the Eagle Band in New
Orleans. At first he was greatly inferior to King Bolden or Fred-
die Keppard. Gradually he improved, and he composed his
famous improvisation on Differmouth which later became the
Sugar Foot Stomf. Joe left the Eagle Band for the Onward Band,
directed by Manuel Perez, which played in Storyville.

Here Oliver gradually gained his reputation. Intense rivalries
flourished among the several bands, which played practically
next door to each other. When two music wagons bumped into
each other on Basin or Perdido Street, they would lock wheels
and hold a cutting contest. It was a regular musical bombardment,
a barrage of syncopation in which trumpet and trombone, the

JAZZ 6i

units of heavy artillery, fired broadside after broadside of hot and
heavy notes. Thus Joe Oliver found himself pitted against the
leading lights of the time, and he v^on a reputation equal to Bunk
Johnson or Perez.

By this time Joe was playing with his own orchestra in a cabaret
on Bienville Street. With him were "Big Eye" Louis Nelson on
clarinet, Richard Jones on piano, and Deedee Chandler on drums.
One night he successfully challenged both Perez and Keppard,
by striding out into the street, blowing loud and beautiful horn
in their direction. After this feat Joe was "King" Oliver as well
as "Bad Eye."

The new King soon organized the Magnolia Band, with Zue
Robinson on trombone, Lorenzo Tio on clarinet. Buddy Chris-
tian on piano, and Zeno on drums, to fill an engagement at Pete
Lala's cabaret.

At the beginning of the first World War the Original Creole
Band left California for Chicago, its drummer, Dink Johnson,
remaining on the Coast to organize his Louisiana Six. Another
group followed Horace Greeley's advice, and Kid Ory's Band,
with Mutt Carey on cornet, played the Coast. Texas was visited
by a band which boasted Bunk Johnson, Sidney Bechet, and
Clarence Williams among its members.

Chicago had called the Original Creole Band— Eddie Venson,
trombone; Jimmie Noone, clarinet; Lottie Taylor, piano; Bill
Johnson, bass; and Paul Barbarin, drums— which had an engage-
ment at the Royal Gardens Cafe, as well as another New Orleans
band composed of Sugar Johnny, Lawrence Dewey, Roy Palmer,
Herbert Lindsay, Louis Keppard, to which were added, in Chi-
cago, Sidney Bechet, Lil Hardin, Wellman Braud, and Tubby
Hall. Both these bands needed a comet star, as Keppard had left
the Original Creole and Sugar Johnny had made too much
whoopee for his own good.

So both these orchestras sent for Joe Oliver to come up to the
Windy City. The King had to decide which group of friends to
join, and he solved the dilemma neatly by playing with both.
With the arrival of King Oliver in Chicago, the era of jazz can
be said to have begun.

62 JAZZ

In Aux Frontieres du ]a2Z I delved into the question of the
derivation of the word "jazz" and the origin of jazz music. I had
this to say:

Many have doggedly but vainly sought to find out when, where,
and how jazz was bom. A thousand and one explanations have been
advanced, each believes that he alone has the truth, every city in
America puts forth a story on the strength of which it claims the credit
for the origination of jazz; profound mystery of human motives and
actions, jazz, bom only yesterday, already is entering the realm of
legend and overtaking the glory of old Homer, of whom seven
Grecian cities claimed to be the birthplace. . . .

The word "jazz" owes its origin to a colored musician named Jess
who played in a certain raggy way; he became so popular that the
common expression was "to play like Jess,'* and by contraction "to
play Jess,*' and by corruption jazz; such is the explanation which was
given to me by many Negroes IVe questioned. Others say, as do
Coeuroy and SchaeflEner, that a common expression in the New Or-
leans barrel houses was "Jazz them, boys," or else that jazz came from
the name of a performer in a Negro cabaret, Jasbo Brown, to whom
his enthusiastic audience cried: "More Jasbo, more Jas."

Others, such as Schwerke, ... fix rather clearly on New Orleans,
an old French town, as the cradle of jazz, declaring . . . that the
word "jazz" is from the root of the French word "jaser," and jazz
would be a cackling.

That isn't all; an English author, Stanley R. Nelson, wrote an im-
portant article on the etymology of the word in the May 1930 number
of Rhythm. You will note that none of the hypotheses which he
reports coincides with those I've given. Here is what he says :

'What is this word 'jazz?

"How many times has it been said that jas, jass, jaz, jazz, jasz, or
jaszz, originated in the African dialect of the Negroes in their native
country."

In the Literary Digest (August 25, 1917) Walter Kingsley ad-
vances this theory, saying that the Negroes, newly transported to the
cotton fields of the early plantations, used it to induce in themselves
a delirious joy.

We could also cite that dilettante writer, Lafcadio Heam, who,
forty years previously, expressed the same opinion, writing that "the
Creoles of New Orleans used the word Jazz, taken from the Negro

JAZZ 63

patois and signifying 'excite/ to designate a music of syncopated
and rudimentary type/'

Another rather ingenious theory mentions a quartet which played
in New Orleans about 1903 under the name of "Razz Band": the
initial consonant R was in the long run transformed into J. This ex-
planation is scarcely plausible, for phonetic transformations generally
are into a harder sound (rather than from the resonant R towards the
softer J).

The oft-cited explanation of Vincent Lopez attributes it to a star
drummer called ^'Charles Washington/' whose name was contracted
to *'Chas" or *'Chaz" (as is often the case). This man possessed an ex-
traordinary talent and sense of rhythm. ... It is said that he gener-
ally had to be reprimanded at rehearsals, and the orchestra leader used
to say, "Come on, Chaz," when it was time for this contortionist to
do his number.

From this it was deduced that any form of exaggerated syncopation
was called chaz and later jazz.

It was further suggested that the word originated in the dance halls
of Western mining towns, where one had to be a bit ribald simply
as a release. The word was used with an obscene meaning, and the
contemporary suggestive dances are analogous (in the opinion of the
propounder of this theory) to the antics of these drunken miners and
their loose companions.

After examining all these explanations, it can be safely assumed
that the opinions of Kingsley and Lafcadio Heam are closest to the
true origin of the word.

Ferdie Grofe has said that it was commonly used in San Francisco
before the war with the meaning "ensemble"; but this can be taken
as an example of a geographical difference in interpretation, a fre-
quent philological phenomenon.

After this long citation, I concluded:

Of course, I am not content with the opinions of Nelson or of
Lafcadio Heam for the very good reason that we have no precise
knowledge about this etymology, which will provide a really tough
job for the linguists and epigraphers of a hundred years hence. The
only thing that matters is that jazz was not bom on a certain day. It
existed before it was given a name; the ragtime era encroached on the
jazz era, just as the blues, which became a classification about 1925,
was at first only the title of a few nostalgic tunes.

64 JAZZ

But examining these same theories today, twelve years later
and in America, I hesitate to express any judgment. A new
theory, adopted by Jazz-men^ has it that the word "jazz" was bom
in Chicago during the engagement of Tom Brown's band at
Lamb's Cafe in June 191 5. As his musicians were not union
members, the local musicians' union picketed the place, carrying
signs saying that the music in Lamb's was a "jassmusic." This
meant that Tom Brown played whorehouse music. The word
was actually the ugliest slang term to designate relationships in
houses of prostitution. As it happened, however, the picketing
boomeranged, people wondered what jass music was like, and the
cafe proprietor took advantage of this interest and billed the
orchestra as "Tom Brown's Dixieland Jazz-Band." Thus was born
the word "jazz" as applied to hot music.

All this is open to extreme doubt. According to this story, the
word "jazz" had never been used in New Orleans. If Lafcadio
Hearn's statement is true, this omission seems very astonishing.

Also, if the word "jazz" was first used in 191 5 it must have
spread with incredible rapidity, since Louis Mitchell was already
using it in London by 19 17.

Meanwhile, a catastrophic event had occurred in New Orleans.
After the United States entered the war the Army made the city
government close down Storyville. One night in November 1917
the police began to enforce rigorously the decision of the Secre-
tary of the Navy, and the doors of those elegant mansions, deco-
rated with mirrors, gilt, and marble, were closed once and for alL

Tommy Ladnier, a few days before his death, told me the story
of this episode. At the appointed hour the girls, madames, dancers,
pimps, and musicians were moved out, and they remained in the
streets until daybreak, playing, drinking, and discussing this
change in the old order of things.

So were thrown into unemployment more than one hundred
New Orleans musicians, and the musical proletariat of Louisiana
was subjected to a severe depression. The sudden loss of the chief
market for New Orleans musicians explains why the Delta City
has not since developed any great musicians.

Gradually, the better and the. more adventurous part of these

JAZZ 65

unemployed musicians expatriated themselves and went up north.
Chicago became the great ragtime center. A number of orchestras
found employment in the neighborhood of 35 th and Calumet,
and, during the boom days of Chicago racketeering, even made
a good deal of money.

So, little by little, all the good Nev^ Orleans musicians made
their way to Chicago. Only a few orchestras continued to eke out
a precarious existence in the Crescent City. Some old-timers like
Bunk Johnson remained and adapted themselves to the misfor-
tune which had fallen upon them.

When King Oliver was given the chance to emigrate, he seized
it without a moment's hesitation. As we have said, he played in
both the orchestras which had summoned him. He found many
old friends in Chicago, including the clarinetist Sidney Bechet,.
still one of the glories of jazz. Other younger musicians, like
Tommy Ladnier, Pop Foster, Red Allen, Zutty Singleton, were
looking for work, and many found jobs on the river-boat bands.

For two years King Oliver was little more than one of many
musicians. His reputation was spreading, however, and when
Dreamland asked him in 1920 to organize an orchestra, he had
arrived. The great King Oliver period was about to begin. At
Chicago he was considered the greatest comet in America. The
only luminaries to challenge his sway were the already-beaten
and fading star, Freddie Keppard, and the obscure young man
who had taken Oliver's place in New Orleans, a fellow named
Louis Armstrong.

To form his orchestra, he got together Lil Hardin, a bright
young pianist from Memphis; Honore Dutrey, trombone; Ed
Garland, bass; and Minor Hall, drums. He tried to get Jimmie
Noone, a clarinetist in the moving tradition of "Big Eye" Louis
Nelson, but Noone was engaged elsewhere. The King had to
send for the best clarinet remaining in New Orleans. So it was
that Johnny Dodds arrived in Chicago to join King Oliver's
Creole Jazz Band.

The band made a trip to California, at which time Baby Dodds
replaced Minor Hall on drums. Then it returned to the Lincoln
Gardens Cafe in Chicago. Then began the period of King Oliver s

66 JAZZ

greatest glory. The King brought young Armstrong up from Pete
Lala's in New Orleans, to play second comet in the Creole Jazz
Band.

During this period the band was recorded by both Gennett
and Paramount. These disks are a milestone in recorded jazz, and
they constitute a new point of departure which enabled Negro
jazz to develop into the magnificent thing it was to become. I
must confess that, contrary to the opinion of most critics, I am
more deeply moved by the records which certain white bands—
the Original Dixieland Jazz Band and the New Orleans Rhythm
Kings— had been making since 19 17. These King Oliver records
feature improvised ensembles which are somewhat more uneven
and confusing than those of the above-mentioned white bands,
but, in spite of the poor recording of the music, they stand out
for their biting ensembles and for the first recorded solos— and
very good ones, too— of Louis Armstrong and Johnny Dodds.

Little by little the pre-eminence of King Oliver was challenged
by the rising glory of Louis Armstrong. In 1924 the Creole Jazz
Band was broken up for the first time; Oliver, Louis, Lil Hardin,
Buddy Christian on banjo, John Lindsay on bass, Albert Nicholas
on clarinet, Rudy Jackson on saxophone, and others, went on the
road; while the Dodds brothers and Dutrey remained behind with
another group.

After this trip the star of King Oliver began to fade in the bril-
liance of the newly arisen sun. Everyone who knew the two men
affirms that Oliver taught Armstrong, but all the musicians recop-
nize that the pupil surpassed his master. Nobody knew yet that
Louis was the genius who would be the very body and soul of
jazz, but he was obviously the most original man they had ever
heard. King Oliver's renown declined. Louis married his pianist,
Lil Hardin, and left the band. His great period over, Oliver had
to join Peyton's Symphonic Syncopators at the Plantation Cafe,
as a featured soloist but not the leader. His eaglet flew on its own
wings toward a greater glory, one which we shall examine later.

In 1925 King Oliver formed another fine orchestra, the Dixie
Syncopators. It is astonishing to see the unparalleled sureness of
judgment with which Joe Oliver chose the members of his sue-

JAZZ 67

cessive groups. This one had Luis Russell (piano), Paul Barbarin
(drums), Al Nicholas (clarinet), Barney Bigard (tenor), and
Kid Ory (trombone)— a first-rate outfit.

In 1927, when playing at the Savoy in Harlem, he added two
great musicians: Henry Allen, Jr., as second trumpet, and Pop
Foster as string bass. From among hundreds of trumpets, Oliver
had unerringly chosen the one who was to be second only to
Armstrong, "Red" Allen.

In 1928 King Oliver turned down an engagement at the
Cotton Club, and his place there was taken by the obscure band
of a young pianist, Duke Ellington. From then on, misfortune
after misfortune beset the King, who died in obscurity in April
1938. The letters he wrote his sister during the months before his
death, as reported in Jazzmen, bear witness to the fact that King
Oliver was a great man as well as a great musician.

The importance of King Oliver is that, arriving at a difficult
period when jazz still knew no law, he definitely established the
classic New Orleans formula for the composition of the orchestra
and for its music of collective improvisation. His intelligence and
instinct cleared the way for Louis Armstrong. Himself a very
sincere and very touching musician, he stamped a whole period
with his influence. In Louis Armstrong, you will still find many
of King Oliver s ideas, albeit developed, digested, and perfected.
Louis Armstrong had something more than King Oliver and the
rest— genius. But that's another story.

But just consider the magnificent procession of musicians who
passed through the school of King Oliver. Draw up a list of their
names. True, some have disappeared from the firmament of jazz,
but not one was a mediocre musician. Most still shine forth
among the greatest names of the jazz of today. So we can say that
the greatness of King Oliver still lives in the playing of those
who were his pupils.

68 JAZZ

V. JAZZ IN EUROPE

Until the present time, American critics have ignored those
early jazzmen who, far from their native soil, remained isolated
from the mainsprings of jazz but nevertheless had considerable
historic importance, inasmuch as they gave rise to that curiosity
about the new music which was prevalent in Europe before it
was in America.

We left Louis Mitchell, the first to bring a jazz band to Europe,
at the time of his second visit, when he was leading his own band
in London. He went to Paris for a three- week engagement and
then returned to England. Here he picked up a dancer who was
none other than the handsome Rudolph Valentino. The English
press, it must be said, was far more partial to Louis Mitchell, "the
genius of agility and noise,*' than to the future Sheik and his
beautiful partner, Leonore.

In 1 91 7 the orchestra, still known as the "Syncopated Band,"
was playing in Belfast, Ireland, but soon it returned to Paris,
where it assumed the title of "Mitchell's Jazz Kings." His or-
chestra, the first Negro jazz band I ever heard, was composed of
Louis Mitchell on drums, Cricket Smith on trumpet, Joe Meyers
on guitar, Dan Parish piano, Walter Kildare bass, Frank Withers
trombone, and James Shaw saxophone. Vance Lowry, unless I
am mistaken, had gone to the celebrated Boeuf sur le Toit, where
Wiener and Doucet were to be such a great piano sensation that
Jean Cocteau, Picabia, Radiguet, and other poets took turns in
sitting in on drums. Mitchell went from the Alhambra to the
Casino de Paris.

One extremely important fact must be noted. When Louis
Mitchell left London for France, he was replaced by the Original
Dixieland Jazz Band. Mitchell's band was then being handled
by Volterra, who, with an eye for business, left Mitchell with a
three-week contract in Paris and went back to London to hear
the band which had replaced his. Unconvinced by the music of

JAZZ 69

the white musicians, he decided to keep his colored orchestra,
whose reputation was increasing by leaps and bounds.
An American correspondent, Ralph Tyler, reported:

The big attraction at the Casino Theatre here and the big attraction
for every Parisian theatre that can bid high enough for his services,
is Louis A. Mitchell, a colored American, who just drummed his way
to Paris and into the hearts of Parisians. Mitchell over here is known
as "the lightning trap drummer" and "noise speciahst" who has intro-
duced into his business over fifty effects and who, by his "noise,'' has
set Paris theatre-goers wild.

Paris, at the end of the war, was a wide-open and exciting
place. Louis Mitchell earned money hand over fist. He received
seven thousand francs for a week's engagement, or just about ten
times the salary of a Cabinet member.

The band suppHed the music at the gala opening of the Perro-
quet of sainted memory. It scored another triumph; Louis
Mitchell had become the most popular star in Paris. He recorded
some sides for Pathe, the first jazz recordings made in Europe,
records which remain completely unknown over here. It is un-
likely that any copies are still in existence, but, if found, they
would make an important and highly interesting addition to our
store of recorded jazz. I remember a few of the numbers: When
Buddha Smiles, Peaches, Bright Eyes, Jada. Cocteau, who was
correcting the proofs of his Coq et VArlequin, expressed his
amazement in a note which became celebrated:

The American band accompanied them on banjos and big nickel-
plated horns. On the right of the small black-clad group was a barman
of noise behind a gilded stand laden with bells, rods, boards, and
motorcycle horns. He poured these into cocktails, putting in a dash
of cymbals every now and then, getting up, strutting, and smiling to
the angels.

M. Pilcer, in full-dress suit, gaunt and well rouged, and Made-
moiselle Gaby Deslys, a great ventriloquist's doll with porcelain face,
corn-colored hair, and ostrich-feathered gown, danced through this
tornado of drum and rhythm, a sort of domesticated catastrophe
which left them, intoxicated and myopic, beneath a shower of six
anti-aircraft searchlights.

70 JAZZ

Mitchell, the king of noise, won fame and fortune far away
from his country, long before any other American orchestra. The
papers adulated him and made much of his accomplishments. His
programs announced that he would pay five francs for any new
noisemaker which he could use.

On January i8, 19 19, Louis Mitchell signed a contract with
Volterra which provided for the formation of a fifty-piece Negro
orchestra. He left for New York to recruit his musicians, and
Harlem received him like a god. The New York Age headlined:
"FRENCH NOW WANT COLORED MUSICIANS."

If you will cast your mind back to that time, you will realize
that jazz had reached a turning point, A new formula was in the
wind. We have seen the sort of huge orchestra that Jim Europe
envisioned. And at the very same time King Oliver was in Chi-
cago with his small band, which was to be the seed for the future
development of jazz.

At the time, who could have predicted which would win out?
Jazz narrowly missed taking the other path.

Will Marion Cook organized a big jazz group in 191 8 and,
after having trained it in Philadelphia, left for London in May
1919. The name of the band was "Southern Syncopated Orches-
tra." The composition of the musical sections was pretty strange
and revealed some West Indian influence, even in the choice
of some horns and musicians. Here is the complete formation as
given me by the pioneer, Bobby Jones: two pianos: Mattie Gil-
more, Ambrose Smith; four bandolines: Joseph Caulk, Carl Mor-
gan, Lawrence Morris, Henry Saparo; two basses : Santos Riviera,
Pedro Vargas; one drum: Buddy Gilmore; one tjmipanum:
Bemie Peyton; two trumpets: Arthur Briggs, Bobby Jones; three
trombones: Frank Withers, John Forrester, Jacob Patrick; one
cello: Joseph Porter; one clarinet: Antonio Riviera; one flute:
Salnave; two saxophones: Mazie Mullins, Fred Coxito; two
violins: Angelita Riviera, George Smith.

With these exponents was a choir directed by a leading lady
singer, Hattie Revis, and helped by Lottie Gee. In this singing
group was a quartet: John Payne, Earl McKinney, C. C, Ros-
mond. Bob Williams; two baritones; one bass; and four extra

JAZZ 71

singers : William Fatten, Bert Marshal, George Baker, and Frank
Denny.

The success of the band in London was terrific. The best jazz
musicians of the time had been chosen, and the London papers
explained the general appreciation. The London Daily Chronicle
said: "They bring new blood into the cultured music of Western
civilizations. . . . The syncopated orchestra has certainly some-
thing to teach musicians of older tradition.'' And the London
Times: "It is an entertainment which all would feel better for
seeing and hearing.'' And the Camhridge Magazine qualified
their music: "The most delightful entertainment which has yet
been offered."

Financial difficulties very quickly broke up this orchestra. It
had whole sections of string instruments which had to be fired
and sent back to America.

Meanwhile, Louis Mitchell was having trouble recruiting his
fifty pieces. Instead of five weeks, as planned, he spent five
months in America. Finally, everything was set, the musicians
were collected, their visas and contracts in order. Then, on the
very eve of their sailing, there came a laconic cable:

"engagement too late for men. return yourself only."

The forty-five men were rehearsing at the Lafayette Theatre on
131st Street in Harlem when this thunderbolt struck. You can
imagine their consternation. All had been prepared to sail on the
morrow. Louis Mitchell visibly paled when he told me about it
at a later date: "My God, it was enough to start a revolution in
Harlem."

I have seen these contracts and even the programs, which had
already been printed. It is well that the names of these men be
set down in this history of jazz, for they were chosen from among
the best musicians of 191 8. Here is the complete list: Cricket
Smith, Dewitt Martin, comets; Frank Withers, Herbert Flem-
ming, trombones; Morrie Mullen, Adolph Crawford, Sadie
Crawford, Herbert Dunar, saxophones; Albert de Rosa, Joseph
Porter, Joseph Meyers, Walter Cooper, cellos; Pedro Vargas,
Alston Hughes, bass; Sidney Bechet, Jonathan Thompson, clari-

72 JAZZ

nets; Gustave Gregh, W. Nehecomb, violins; Dan Parish, Am-
brose Smith, Jessie WilUams, James Short, George Davis, pianos;
Peggy Holland, Victor Greene, Edgar Miller, drums; Ed Hardie,
banjo; C. Jackson, O. Jackson, E. Ross, James Wheeler, Joseph
Could, Robert Young, bandolines; Andrew Copland, Bernard
Debs, James Parker, singers; Harry MacDaniel, Nathan Nunez,
Harry Sapiro, trio.

After receiving the cable, Louis Mitchell left for Paris, bring-
ing only Dan Parish, Cricket Smith, Joe Meyers, Walter Kildare,
Frank Withers, and James Shaw with him. He brought this or-
chestra to the Alhambra in Brussels in 1919, and, shortly after,
I heard them there with Sidney Bechet playing soprano sax.

It was the greatest emotion I had ever experienced. A sort of
physical shock marked me for life. As far as I can remember, their
music consisted mainly of raggy and bumpy ensembles. They left
an extraordinary impression. That night something new was born
for me and took its place beside the poems of Guillaume Apol-
linaire and Blaise Cendrars and the paintings of the Douanier
Rousseau and Chagall.

What were my previous experiences wdth syncopated music?
In 1 9 1 8 I had been the civilian interpreter for the 72nd Scotch
Battalion from Vancouver. Among the soldiers there were some
Americans who taught me their songs: Are You from Dixie, I
Want to Be, Rohinson Crusoe, Smiles, Over There.

Then, as a student at the University of Brussels, I heard Bel-
gian and French orchestras play jazz. An Englishman, Billy
Smith, was the first person to bring to Belgium a bass drum
worked by a foot pedal.

I still remember the words of a friend who told me to go to
hear Mitchell : "It's funny. You can't recognize the tunes, but you
are electrified by them."

Of course I spent most of my days listening to Bechet,
Mitchell, and the rest. I didn't know Bechet at the time, nor did
I get to know him until twenty-two years later, when I heard him
at the Mimo in Harlem.

As I say, this orchestra introduced me to one of the great pas-
sions of my life, but what was the exact impression I received?

JAZZ 73

Under its influence I contributed my articles to the Disque Vert
in 1920. Possessed immediately by a sort of frenzied lyricism, I
wrote Jazz Band, a collection of poems in praise of the new
music, about the same time. A great cubist artist contributed
four woodcuts representing musicians, to illustrate it. No more
copies of this book are to be had, and I doubt if more than twenty
still exist.

As for my impression, I transcribed it a bit later in my book
Amx Frontieres du ]azz:

Mitchell was the leader and presided over the destinies of the
group. There were seven of them, these men who were plotting
against the future of music: Mitchell, a fine Creole head, supple and
happy, always dressed meticulously in the latest style, as are all the
Negroes in Europe, a marvelous jazz drummer with a world of
imagination, irradiating nervous tics which he delicately transmitted
to his instruments, to the amazement of the women who adored him;
after Mitchell, the one who conducted the orchestra, always on his
feet, exhaling his nostalgia into a short cornet. Cricket old boy, with
his appearance of sturdy bamboula and an embouchure of steel, with
the fine eyes of the good Negro, expressive and humid; then there was
Joe [Meyers] , an extraordinary banjoist whose hands fluttered, with-
out a pick, over the taut strings of his instrument; a melodious saxo-
phone who moved his reed from side to side of his puffed-up mouth
while playing [I was alluding here to Sidney Bechet, whose name I
didn't yet know]; Parish, an enormous pianist, who partially dis-
mantled his piano to make it noisier; a bass fiddle; and finally Frank
Withers, called the king of the trombone.

The Mitchells, as they were called for short, brought over a fine
cargo of American tunes which soon became all the rage; translated,
they were sung by such stars as Mistinguette and Rose Amy, and
some, including Hindoustan and La Fdquerette et le Ver Luisant
[translated from Just a Baby's Prayer at Twilight^, became POPU-
LAR French songs which are now tolerable thanks only to the benef-
icent action of memory.

Oh for those first cocktail hours I spent, tucked neatly into a little
comer of the bar, religiously taking in the cadenced scrollwork of the
Mitchells; the illumination behind me, the difficulty of setting the
hiccoughs, the breaks, and the counterpoint, in order, so that a diffuse
and intangible melody could seep through; the joy of finding the

74 JAZZ

same friendly faces installed at the same places and reflected in the
same mirrors, and especially those moments when the entire audi-
ence, carried away, was shaking and clapping hands in accompani-
ment to the music and demanding another number when the jazz
was turned off.

The enumeration of these early tunes enables me to recapture my
state of mind : ]ada, Pelican, I'll See You in C-U-B-A, Swanee, Croco-
dile, Peaches, Sand Dunes, Mammy d Mine, You'll Be Surprised,
Old Man Jazz, Panam-a, By Heck.

How can I give you precise indications about the music of that
timci^ The problem presents enormous difficulties, as I fully re-
alize. To get a rough idea, you can listen to the music of the
Original Dixieland Jazz Band, but Mitchell's technique was less
vibrant and bumpy. The instruments were interwoven into the
ensembles and seemed to answer each other, as in the first Gen-
nett recordings of King Oliver.

The bass drum, of course, kept up a two-to-the-bar beat, while
the hands kept up a rapid and bewildering percussive action. The
banjo was more of a melody than a rhythm instrument. Sidney
Bechet was already improvising moving solos, which differed
from the raggy style of the orchestra. Frank Withers, who unless
I am mistaken succeeded Bechet, was a great musician. He played
a very hot trombone somewhat in the style of George Brunies
with the New Orleans Rhythm Kings on Gennett.

Louis Mitchell soon left to return to Paris, and his place in
Brussels was taken by Joe Clark and His Hawaiians, which
couldn't be called a jazz orchestra even with the greatest stretch
of the imagination. Paris, which had been dying of boredom
without Mitchell, welcomed him back with open arms. A little
later, Mitchell won enough in a crap game to take over the Grand
Due night club, whose reopening was another triumph.

Revelers in full-dress suits and their elegant ladies covered with
jewels frequented the Grand Due. The patronage which jazz
enjoyed presents a curious paradox. In New Orleans and in
Chicago at this time jazz was the preserve of the dregs of the
population. In Paris the cream of society went to hear Mitchell.

JAZZ ^^

In the short space of two or three days the following personages
passed through the portals of the Grand Due: Mrs. George
Gould; M. van Dongen, the great painter; Nita Naldi, the famous
cinema star; Mrs. Forester Agar; Billy Jordan; Miss Elizabeth
Marbury; the Duchess of Sutherland; the Marquis de Polignac;
Deering Davis; Weston Stevens; Lady Aldy; Princess Cystria;
the Marquesa de Salamanca; and the Grand Duchess Marie of
Russia. Included among the frequenters of the Grand Due were
the Prince of Wales and Carol of Rumania.

Who do you suppose was the doorman of this famous estab-
lishment? None other than the fine Negro poet, Langston
Hughes, who was later to v\n:ite Weary Blues.

Today, Louis Mitchell is back in Harlem, and I sometimes
see him, looking exactly the same, in front of a Seventh Avenue
bar. We speak of the present day, but the former King of Paris
only lives among his memories. He earned millions in Paris, but
he liked to play the horses and shoot dice. Today he passes un-
noticed, a member of the anonymous throng, and nobody knows
that this still elegant man, now approaching his sixtieth year, was
once the idol of Paris, the man who introduced jazz to Europe,
a man whose importance in the history of syncopated music was
unsurpassed in his day.

Meanwhile, the Syncopated Band had broken up. Will Marion
Cook returned to America with his string sections, and the musi-
cians who remained naturally grouped themselves into small
orchestras. I still have fond memories of one of them, Wilson's
band, which played at the Gaiete. I found the band even better
than Mitchell's. Its members were an admirable trumpeter, Bobby
Jones, Frank Withers, later to be the trombone with MitchelFs
Jazz Kings, Wilson at drums, Felix Vemar on piano, and Narciss
on banjo. Wilson's band brought some new tunes with them:
You'll Be Surmised, Margie, Avalon, Sand Dunes, Dardanella.
Cherie, Alice Blue Gown. I can still picture it all in my mind. I
can see the cellar of the Gaiete in Brussels or of Chez Pan in
Ostend where the orchestra played. I remember the coal-black
ban joist, a hot singer, who moved his Adam's apple vdth his left

76 JAZZ

hand, to the great amusement of the audience. This action, as
a matter of fact, gave him an unusual vibrato. Bobby Jones was
an excellent comet who doubled on alto sax (one seldom saw a
tenor sax in those days). It's strange, but this fine musician, who
would surely have become a star in the American jazz world,
remained in Europe all those years. Every time I went to Paris
I used to see him there; even on that last occasion, on May lo,
1940, after the chutist attack on Belgium, I found him sitting
with Arthur Briggs in a bar on the rue Pierre Charon. Bobby
Jones was to return to America a few days later, and, after twenty-
two years in Europe, he immediately joined an American band.

Another one of these groups which was formed in England
soon left for the Continent. It featured the drummer Harry
Pollard, who, to my mind, was the greatest drummer of the heroic
age. He already possessed that wonderfully supple sobriety which
only Chick Webb was later to equal. Strangely enough. Pollard
was the first and the only one to use a four-to-the-bar rhythm on
the bass drum. With him was Arthur Briggs, the first Negro to
use the trumpet instead of the comet. Briggs was the very back-
bone of transatlantic jazz. Possessing an amazing technique, an
exciting feeling for hot music, and a characteristic swing (long
before the swing era began), Briggs was one of those great Amer-
ican pioneers who taught jazz to all of Europe.

In 1922, when I played trumpet in a humble orchestra which
some friends and I formed, Briggs gave us lessons. It was he who
explained hot or, as we then called it. New Orleans music to us.
Today, Arthur Briggs, that great and sincere musician, is im-
prisoned in a German concentration camp in France. Only one
witness is necessary to prove the class of this musician: Louis
Armstrong, himself, was a great admirer of Briggs and compli-
mented him on more than one occasion.

Besides Briggs there was Burnett on alto sax, a trombone who
must have been Forrester, and a white Italian pianist named
Gabriel. They played more new tunes: StuTuhling, Sweetheart,
Young Mans Fancy, Montmartre Rose, Red Head Gal, Daffer
Dan, Sunny Jack.

Another outfit, the International Five, arrived in Paris. This

JAZZ 77

consisted mainly of choral sections which, swaying to the slow
rhythm of the piano, sang sorrowful blues which enchanted the
heart of Paris.

About the same time I heard a mixed band which was led by
a famous contortionist drummer, Buddy Gilmore, whose reputa-
tion was great although, to my mind, he was not Harry Pollard's
equal. I mustn't fail to mention another orchestra, which suc-
ceeded Louis Mitchell at the Alhambra in Brussels. I even be-
lieve that it was organized by Mitchell himself, since the twelve
young colored musicians billed themselves as "MitchelFs Jazz
Finzz." The only thing I remember of them is that they played
a new tune, the Wang Wang Blues. I hope that someday we
shall know the names of these completely forgotten musicians.

I think it was about 1923 that I first heard the Georgians at
the Claridge in Paris. Although few Americans know it, they
were extremely important in their day. When the recordings of
Bix Beiderbecke and Red Nichols began to arrive in Europe, the
European jazz fans took them in their stride, since they had heard
a similar and equally fine music from the late Frank Guarente
and his Georgians.

The importance which Mitchell had had at the end of the war
had been gradually dissipated, and the halo of glory had passed
to the Georgians. I must dwell quite a bit on the importance of
this group. The course of jazz was marked by its influence, yet
since Penassie was too young to have heard it, and since the
American critics had no contact with the European orchestras,
it too has unfortunately remained obscure.

Frank Guarente, more than any white musician, helped
the uncultivated Negro jazz to evolve toward a clearer and more
musical medium. An excellent musician, he had an extraordinary
classical training and as a trumpeter could be compared only to
Louis Armstrong. He didn't have Louis's savage power, but at
certain moments, playing without a mute, he held notes which
had the tone of a violin.

He was born in Ajaccio, Corsica, spent his childhood in Italy,
and was hired by the Creatore orchestra which toured America.
He fell ill in New Orleans in 191 3, and this enforced stay in the

78 JAZZ

Crescent Cit}!' changed his plans for the future, which he had
intended to devote to classical music.

Frank Guarente was fascinated by the ragtime orchestras of
New Orleans. He haunted the night clubs and cafes, enchanted
by this music, which had so little in common with his traditional
training in the European conservatories. Gradually he mingled
with the musicians. Joe Oliver was his friend! They admired each
other considerably; Frank was impressed by the original ideas of
the uncultured musician, and Joe was impressed by the amazing
technique of the European, from which he profited. For hours he
used to try to swell or to thin out his notes.

In 1 9 14 Frank Guarente was the featured soloist at the Kolb
Restaurant, and then he joined the Mars Brass Band, one of the
first white orchestras. They accompanied outings to Pontchartrain
and Milneburg, and during the Mardi Gras parade all the kids
in New Orleans followed Guarente, the city's best trumpeter. In
191 5 Tom Anderson himself hired Frank for one of his Rampart
Street houses. At the same time the Original Dixieland Jazz Band
was opening a few blocks away on Iberville Street.

Soon Guarente's reputation spread. He toured Texas as a fea-
tured soloist and was known as "Ragtime Frank.'' Then he played
Coney Island with the Alabama Five. His career was interrupted
when he joined the Army.

Back from the war in 1919, Frank joined Charley Kerr's or-
chestra. In Philadelphia he met a wandering guitarist named
Eddie Lang, and, a little later, he found a young unemployed
Italian violinist named Joe Venuti who had amazing qualities
which he developed.

Jazz was going full blast at this period. Until this time it had
recruited only untrained musicians. Frank Guarente was to bring
rhythmic co-ordination to jazz. After a period with Paul Specht's
orchestra he headed the Georgians, with Arthur Schutt on piano,
Jimmy O'Donnell on clarinet, Chauncey Moorehouse on drums,
and Ray Stillwell on trombone. They recorded early, waxing
Chicago and Sister Kate for Columbia, the first record on which
the transitions were orchestrated (by Guarente and Arthur
Schutt) while the solo parts were left open for improvisation.

JAZZ 79

When Frank Guarente left for Europe, Paul Specht replaced
him with Red Nichols, then Charlie Margulies, and finally with
Charlie Spivak, but as Specht himself confessed, Guarente was
irreplaceable. Before leaving for Paris, the Georgians had made
several recordings which greatly influenced the contemporary
American musicians: Shake Your Feet, Minding My Business,
Farewell Blues, Way Down Yonder in New Orleans, Old
Fashioned Love, Mama Loves Pa^pa. Harl Smith, the Georgians'
drummer, who was responsible for Bix and the Wolverines com-
ing to New York, told me on several occasions that Bix had been
strongly influenced by Frank Guarente's playing, and when the
first Beiderbecke records arrived in Europe we were able to note
this influence.

The Georgians were so successful in Europe that they re-
mained there long enough to lose all contact with America. The
group as I knew it contained many front-rank musicians, such
as Russ Morgan or Buck Weaver, whose trombone solo on
Doodle Doo Doo in 1 923 pointed the way to those who followed.
Joe Murray was an excellent pianist, and the two saxes, Rudy
Adler, now with the Chamber Music Society of Lower Basin
Street, and Ernie White, were the equals of any other saxophones
of the time. A later composition of the Georgians included, in
addition to Guarente and Murray, Eddie Bare and Harold Con-
nelly, altos; Hutchinson and Ted Noyes, tenors; Ben Pickering,
trombone; Johnson, banjo; Jack Ryan, bass; and Harl Smith,
drums.

Frank Guarente's conception of jazz was actually very close
to that of the great band leaders of today, such as Benny Good-
man and Glenn Miller, and the Georgians had a sense of swing
which far outdistanced the white bands of the pre- 1923 era.

About the same time I heard the Lido- Venice orchestra in
Brussels, the band which left me with the greatest impression,
since it played pure improvisation. The leader was Harl Smith,
later the drummer of the Georgians. The orchestra must have
been formed in 1922.

The jazz critics who never have heard this band have really
missed something, for I place it in the first rank of the bands

8o JAZZ

which relied on pure improvisation. Whereas the Georgians were
an orchestral forerunner of Benny Goodman, the Lido- Venice
was the equal of any hot orchestra of its time. It was as good as or
better than the Wolverines or the New Orleans Rhythm Kings.

The Lido- Venice failed to match the success of Arthur Briggs
in Brussels for more than a month. Their formula was so ad-
vanced that they disappointed the dancers. I well believe that it
was the hottest music I have ever heard, since I never had the
good fortune to hear the Original Dixieland Jazz Band. Alas! the
Lido- Venice band never played in America. If it had only left us
some recordings, it would perhaps be even more famous than the
Chicagoans.

It is strange that none of these musicians acquired great fame.
Circumstances were against them. When they arrived in Europe
there were only a fev/ of us who could understand their message.
Each afternoon this faithful handful stuck to their posts, en-
tranced from the first note to the last. Judging from the compara-
tive impression which I felt, these were the most immortal mo-
ments I have ever spent.

After their short stay in Brussels the Lido-Venice band moved
on to Berlin, and then to the Four Hundred Club on rue Dau-
nou in Paris, where I heard them for the last time. A.t this time,
when all the dance halls in Brussels sought hot orchestras, the
Paris market wished only melodic jazz. After only a few days the
Lido-Venice was replaced by Sleepy Hall's orchestra which had,
on saxophone, Rudy Vallee, who was replaced by Jim Moynahan.

The Lido- Venice band broke up, some of its members return-
ing to New York, and others trying their luck in Paris. The most
extraordinary band of its time had passed out of existence. It had
left behind it an over\vhelming impression, one which was to
shape my taste for hot jazz. Let me quote a piece I wrote around
1929:

One fine afternoon the Lido- Venice made its appearance before a
curious public, which was rather disconcerted by the new rhythms.
It was the first hot orchestra in Brussels. A huge pianist, Willy, whose
features I think I have recognized in a photo of Red Nichols' orches-
tra; an exciting violinist, Nathan, who played in the style of Joe

JAZZ 8i

Venuti; Barney, who alternated between the trombone and the bass
sax; Davie, the banjoist, who soon joined Billy Arnold's orchestra^
and who also played soprano sax; Harold Smith, an excellent drum-
mer; and a peerless saxophonist who must be playing with Ray
Miller's orchestra at the present time.

These musicians brought us, for the first time, wide, light-colored
trousers, square-toed shoes, small pointed mustaches, and, in the bar-
gain, a musical well-being which astounded us from the first.

The orchestra played only hot; a crisp lyricism grasped them all as
acrobatic solos succeeded sinuous ensembles. They were individual
to such an extent that after one of them had played a particularly fine
break, the musicians all laughed and applauded, or else made the very
American gesture of striking the right fist into the left palm.

The Lido- Venice boys improvised to such an extent that we were
sometimes surprised to find that we failed to recognize a number
which we ourselves played. The strange perfume of their frenzied
playing still haunts me after all these years. I still remember Southern
Roses, Yes Sir I'm Going South, Please Don't Shimmy while I'm^
Gone, Some of These Days, Hard Hearted Hannah, and especially
Som-ehody Stole My Gal, which Barney used to sing in his nasal^
froggy voice, that old and very American tune which had such in-
comparable success with all the bands.

In spite of this overflowing enthusiasm, I did not do the or-
chestra justice when I wrote my first book, because I was not
objective enough. Had I compared their performances with the
records which were then arriving in Europe, I should have said
that, next to the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, the Lido- Venice
was the best group of the heroic era of jazz.

What a shame that they never recorded! A small orchestra
which somehow or other gets off for only two minutes on wax
will live eternally, while nothing remains of a marvelous group
like this.

Nathan, the violinist, actually played clarinet and sometimes
even trumpet as well. He was one of the hottest characters to be
found. I know whereof I speak, since I heard some Gennett rec-
ords in 1929 and discovered Rappolo. I contribute this great truth
to the history of jazz: Nathan was at least as good as Rappolo.
No other clarinetist has left so great an impression on me.

82 JAZZ

What has happened to him? I have never since heard of any
of them. Some months ago, however, while walking along Cen-
tral Park South, I happened upon a face which I hadn't forgotten
after nineteen years. It was the pianist, Willy Heidt. It turned out
that he was playing in a waltz and rumba band at the Essex
House. Last year in Maine I. discovered at least the name of the
trombone : Benny Russel; but he had died four years ago.

With the Georgians and the Lido- Venice band, the European
heroic age came to an end. Not until 1930 did new groups bring
further obscure personalities to the honor roll of jazz.

However, we cannot leave the subject of jazz in Europe with-
out discussing its great influence on European culture. Besides
the crowds which went wild over certain colored revues and
especially stars like Florence Mills and Josephine Baker, the in-
tellectuals found food for thought in it.

It is important to note that during this whole period jazz and
surrealism, the two sides of the same coin, developed along paral-
lel lines but without any mutual influence. As most of the Amer-
ican jazz musicians had little general culture, the artistic problem
for them was limited to their musical experience. Likewise, Andre
Breton and others like him have never attacked the important
question of the relationship between the school of which he is
the chief and the new musical means of expression, for Breton
claims to be impervious to music. I have at various times tried to
interest him in the question, but he simply replies that music is
a confusionist art.

European intellectuals rapidly succumbed to the charm of the
American music. What is the reason for their discovering it be-
fore the Americans themselves? The answer is rather simple:
race prejudice played, as it still plays, an important part in the
critical considerations of many Americans. It was inconceivable
to them that a race which they looked down upon could possibly
have contributed an immortal art to their country.

Consequently, the orchestras which emigrated to Europe were
just as important as those that remained in America. If it was in
America that jazz developed and was propagated, thanks to the
invention of the phonograph, it was the European orchestras

JAZZ 83

which introduced jazz as a cultural phenomenon, and the Euro-
pean critics who showed the way to the American jazz fans.

Who can deny that Europe had the first jazz critics: Hugues
Panassie in France, Carlos de Radzitzki and Bettonville in Bel-
gium, Joost van Praag and several journalists in Holland. Before
there was any magazine devoted to jazz in its homeland, there
was De Jazzwereld in Holland, Jazz in Switzerland, Jazz Tango
Dancing in France, Melody Maker and Rhythm in England,
Musik Echo in Germany, and Music in Brussels.

No one can deny the great influence, and indeed the capital
importance, which my friend Hugues Panassie has had in the
history of jazz. What is for me simply one among many artistic
problems has become his specialty and practically his sole interest
in life. One need not always agree with him, but his viewpoint
has always been enlightening, and will continue to be so.

Furthermore, America should know that jazz immediately
commanded the enthusiasm of European musicians and com-
posers. The prejudiced Old Guard fought it to the last ditch, but
jazz justified itself before the tribunal of classical music. For the
piece that inspired Darius Milhaud's Creation of the World was
none other than Aunt Hagar's Blues, and Stravinsky was so de-
lighted by the marvelous tonal qualities of jazz that he changed
the composition of his orchestras, and even wrote a suite for Jack
Hylton.

Ravel himself was moved by jazz. I published an article by this
great genius in Music magazine, in which he ardently defended
jazz against its unintelligent critics.

Need I add that jazz has not made any important contribution
to serious American music. Composers like Gershwin and Ferdie
Grofe made a mistake in trying to develop a concert jazz, since
they were trying to intellectualize a phenomenon of sensibility.
Behind their musical constructions one senses the mind rather
than the heart. That isn't and can never be jazz.

Those who love pure improvisation can never wholly like the
Rhapsody in Blue, although they find worthy objects for their
attention in fine numbers like Nashville Tennessee, in which
Gershwin gives a better account of himself.

84 JAZZ

Darius Milhaud understands this essential distinction. A few
months ago he told a friend, who passed it on to me, that he
would trade his whole work for the St. Louis Blues. I would not
go as far as that, but this is a further proof that good jazz must
come from the heart. And to paraphrase Verlaine, all the rest is
literature.

VI. ORSGINAL DIXIELAND JAZZ BAND

This book does not proceed in strictly chronological order;
every now and then the author is compelled to anticipate himself
or to cast a backward glance. Having thus far studied the history
of black jazz from its origins to the epoch-making entry of Louis
Armstrong, we shall return to the beginning of jazz as such, about
1916, and concentrate on the history of white jazz.

Until this time syncopated music had been considerably de-
veloped by Negroes, whose extraordinary lyrical potentialities
compensated for their lack of musical knowledge. Their strivings
were sincere and praiseworthy, but it must be acknowledged that
the hearts of these musicians were greater than their fingers. I
mean, by this phrase, that their feeling for music was superior to
their technique.

Then, in 1917, appeared the white orchestra which, like the
dislodged pebble on a mountain peak that sets an avalanche in
motion, was to set going the great movement of syncopated music.

After twenty-five years we can look back objectively at the
phenomenon called jazz, and attempt to define its main currents.
Jazz really brought something incredibly new into the world.
Until it appeared, a piece of music continued to be played ac-
cording to the same unchanging conception; Beethoven's Fifth
Symphony, for example, wdll remain identical to the last syllable
of recorded time. Once a composer of genius has translated into
written terms an opus conceived in his brain, the work has ex-
hausted its lyrical potentialities. The musician's task is simply to

JAZZ 85

inteq^ret, as faithfully as possible, the conception of the composer.

Unlike musicians, actors can modify their vehicle by putting
in a greater or lesser amount of emotional expression or stage
business. They are interpreters whose mission is to convey the
emotion conceived by the dramatist in whatever way they deem
best. Musicians, however, are subordinated to the composer's
prescription, the written text; their personality is perceived only
through that of the creator; they are but the projections of another
genius, whose sole duty is to reflect his greatness as perfectly as
possible.

Jazz is another matter entirely; it is a sort of commedia delV
arte. The original manuscript is only a rough outline, to be given
body and soul by the musician. What is important in jazz is not
the vmtten text, but the way it is expressed by the musician. Zola
once defined art as nature perceived through a temperament. For
classical music, it is nature (or beauty) perceived through a com-
position; for jazz, it is beauty perceived through a performer.

In classical music, the composer is the prime element; in jazz,
it is the musician. Jazz, as I remarked a decade ago, is a sort of
I musical revolt of the proletariat against the sacrosanct caste of the
creators. For the first time in the history of music the power to
s, create has been torn from the hands of the masters and passed
into those of the servants who have endowed it with a strange
and savage sense of beauty.

A symphony is "eternaF'; jazz is dynamic and many-sided. In
the words of Baudelaire's famous sonnet, "It shifts its lines daily."
And the most extraordinary thing is that this revolution (whose
tremendous significance for the history of all music will be fully
appreciated only in a century's time) was prepared and launched
by simple folk with no knowledge of music.

Jazz has gone along its own way, a strange untrod path which
must be retraced conscientiously and objectively by the sincere
critic. I see first of all in jazz a perpetual struggle between the
revolutionary elements and the traditional elements of music.
This struggle is but a recapitulation of the history of all art,
which is the recital of the eternal triumph of new ideas over
tradition.

86 JAZZ

When a new school of poetry, painting, or sculpture first makes
its appearance, it is not understood, because of its newness. It's
the old, old story of the failure of the public to appreciate great
artists during their lifetime. Poe, Whitman, Rimbaud, Oscar
Wilde, Manet, Renoir, Zadkine, Modigliani— none of these were
understood when they started.

As soon as they made their appearance, conservatives en-
trenched in high places attacked the newcomers to defend their
own unmerited glory. Then, through a gradual transitory process,
the new artistic truth came to be accepted and appreciated.

Jazz proceeded in the same fashion. When syncopated music
first entered the worldly scene, it was greeted by the glacial scorn
of nearly all musicians. Just as the formally attired purveyors of
'music" were shocked by the informal and loud garb of the
disciples of the new music, so was their attitude of academic
formalism outraged by what they called the "cacophony of
savages.''

Then some of the best of them fell under the spell of syncopa-
tion. Immediately the conservatives resorted to half -measures and
compromises which deformed the new music in order to flatter
the taste of the public. America fell under the sway of Paul
Whiteman, and England under that of Jack Hylton.

I am getting a bit ahead of my story, since other phenomena
deserve our attention before we reach the era of Whiteman and
Hylton. The most remarkable thing about the first school of jazz
is its characteristic collective improvisation. All the instruments,
generally no more than seven in number, improvised as they
went along. Clarinet, cornet, and trombone played together, the
ideas of each intermingling with those of the others. Usually one
of the three instruments held the lead, which it relinquished in
turn to each of the others. Occasionally one of them took off in a
solo. Such a technique was possible only when the players were
real creators, linked together by a sort of common trance. Reason
had nothing to do with this spontaneous miracle; sensibility and
the subconscious were the sole guides of the musicians.

Extraordinary qualities on the part of the instrumentalists
were necessary to obtain this ephemeral beauty. The heart alone

JAZZ 87

was the creative element; when its potentiahties were filtered
through a horn, a music of a haunting loveliness was born.

But the laziness of man soon forced this school, despite its
universal artistic interest, to succumb to the principle of the least
effort. There gradually appeared compromising schools which
mingled improvisation with prearranged patterns. Then there
came the schools of ersatz jazz in which improvisation disap-
peared under the weight of melodic and symphonic orchestra-
tions. Then, at last, with the appearance of the big bands, a
variety of new formulas were introduced.

With Louis Armstrong, the great genius of jazz, we have the
impact of a unique personality upon an orchestral backdrop
whose function is to set off the star. With Duke Ellington, we
have the expert fusion of musician and orchestra, the measured
and rational maturation of an improvisation which leaves noth-
ing to chance. With Jimmy Lunceford, we have a tumultuous
orchestra which has found itself thanks to the centripetal qualities
of its arranging staff supported by the talent of its members. With
Benny Goodman, the King of Swing, we have an admirable
improviser who has supplanted hot improvisation by a more
mechanical music which nevertheless produces the same delirious
impression as spontaneous creation.

But, as yet, we have reached only the stage of collective impro-
visation as exemplified by the Original Dixieland Jazz Band. The
remarkable careers of Dominick La Rocca, Larry Shields, Daddy
Edwards, Henry Ragas, and Tony Sbarbaro make an extraor-
dinary story.

We can picture their thankless youth in New Orleans in the
days when a nameless music took form. All of them were born
before the present century— Eddie Edwards in 1891. They lived
in uptown New Orleans: La Rocca on Magazine Street, Shields
on 3rd Street, Edwards on 4th. Inspired by the music they heard
around them, they formed an amateur orchestra to which Tony
Sbarbaro, a downtown boy from Louisa Street, was soon added.
It is astounding to note that, although the colored band of Buddy
Bolden and the white band of Papa Laine were the outstanding
orchestras of those halcyon days, Daddy Edwards frankly con-

88 JAZZ

fesses that he never heard Bolden, and that his recollection of
Papa Laine is of a cacophonic band.

The little group was led by La Rocca, the left-handed comet,
and before long there was a new band playing such tunes as
Under the Bamhoo Tree, Chinatowfij My Little Dream Girl,
Panama, Down Home Rag, at Crescent City affairs. They had
three melody instruments which improvised continuously while
piano and drums marked the rhythm. A sort of majestic divina-
tion led them toward the musical texture which was the very
essence of jazz.

But the boys couldn't find a steady job. The Brunies brothers
were working at Ranch 1 02, but La Rocca and Shields had to go
far afield to seek employment.

In 1916 Harry James (not the Harry James) signed them up
for the Schiller Cafe in Chicago. Judging by the words of some
reporters, people of culture did not conceal their aversion to "the
blatant shrieks of the Original Dixieland.''

Why was their name changed from "New Orleans" to "Dixie-
land"? I asked Eddie Edwards, who told me that it was because
they were disgusted with New Orleans, which had rejected
them : "The town was like a mother which disowned her child."
Casting around for a new name, they lit on "Dixieland." About
the same time the word "jazz" was introduced, and Harry James
added "Jass Band" to their billing.

At first they flopped at the Schiller. Only the appreciation of
Harry James kept them there after the first disastrous week. They
were not so popular as another New Orleans band, directed by
Tom Brown, which was playing a few blocks away. This band
boasted a marvelous sax named Gus Miller, who is still greatly
admired by those who heard him.

Gradually the patronage as well as the repertory of the Dixie-
land Band began to grow. One of the first great successes added
to their repertory was the Tiger^ag. This was taken from an old
theme, familiar in New Orleans, where the boys had picked it up
bit by bit from a Negro pianist. La Rocca published it under his
ov^rn name, which started a quarrel which nearly broke up the
band since all claimed equal paternity.

JAZZ 89

Among the foremost admirers of the band was the famous
gangster, Johnny Torio, who showered them with gifts. He
wanted to hear more of them than Chicago's one o'clock closing
hour would permit, so he opened a place called "Coney Island"
in Burnham, Illinois. Every night when the Schiller closed its
doors, the members of the Dixieland band could be seen piling
into Torio's powerful limousine, which took them out to "Coney
Island," where they played till dawn.

While the Original Dixieland Jazz Band was playing at the
Schiller, there was a mediocre pianist, Ernie Erdman, who ac-
companied the singers. Inspired by their syncopated music, he
wrote Oceana Roll, one of the year's big hits, and Oh for the Life
of a Fireman, which made a fortune for the publisher, to whom
he sold it for a few dollars.

Meanwhile Eddie Edwards became the band's manager and
began to improve its financial status. Chicago was getting used
to jazz and even liking it, although nothing in the column of
Drury Underwood of the Chicago Herald indicated particular
tenderness toward the new music or the men who made it. Ob-
scure musicians appeared on the scene. A colored pianist at the
Elite (whose clientele did not live up to its name) sang the words
and played the tune which was to become famous as the Dark-
town Strutters Ball.

An agent named Max Hart became interested in the Dixieland
Band and procured it an engagement at Reisenweber's, in New
York. They opened on January 27, 191 7, and promptly fell flat.
The public, accustomed to the Hawaiian orchestras of Joe Clarke
and Doreldina or the waltzes and mazurkas of Joe Figey, the
gypsy violinist, turned a deaf ear to the infernal Dixieland
racket. Only a few kindred spirits sensed the inner beauty behind
the unaccustomed noise. One friend had them appear at a big
charity affair at the Century Theatre, where the program featured
such diverse entertainment as Billy Sunday and the great Caruso.

Then, suddenly, they were a success, the rage of New York.
Ragas, the pianist, did not live long enough to enjoy the fame
and fortune which followed the hard upward climb. He died,
and the others found Sidney Lancefield, whom Edwards con-

90 JAZZ

siders the best pianist the band ever had, to replace him, but
Lancefield soon quit.

With fame came a recording contract with Columbia and a
long string of records which made them the world's best-known
band.

The personnel of the band underwent several changes. Ed-
wards went to the Army and was replaced by Emil Christian on
the trombone. Robinson succeeded Lancefield on the piano, and
in turn gave way to Billy Jones for a while.

At the height of their glory they were engaged by Albert de
Courville for a show starring George Ruby and Frank Hale, and
they toured the country on the Keith circuit. Then they left for
London in March 19 19 and scored a success in Joy Bells, in
which the big hit was The Bells of Su Mary's. Successive engage-
ments at Rector's, the 400 Club, and the Dance Palace followed.

They returned to New York for a sensational engagement with
the Folies Bergeres, the culminating point of their career. Eddie
Edwards, back from the Army, resumed his trombone chair.
Record after record popularized the Dixieland style. They Won
any number of eager converts— Frisco, Frankie Farnham, De
Sylva. Other musicians tried to imitate them.

In 1923 they were playing at the Balconades on the corner
of Columbus Avenue and 66th. Every night regularly, at a few
minutes before one, a slightly tipsy young man entered the dance
hall and drank deeply of the intoxicating music. Sometimes he
went to the bandstand and played his own composition, In a Mist.
It was Bix Beiderbecke. About this fime Frank Signorelli re-
placed Robinson, who quit the orchestra in a huff because they
didn't play his numbers enough.

But the fickle public began to demand new stars, and the
popularity of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band waned. For six
years the group of friends had remained together. Success had
not turned their heads; they had kept intact the excitement which
flamed in their music. Now dissensions split their ranks.

One of them quit and went back to New Orleans. Unable to
find a capable replacement, the orchestra broke up. Shields and
La Rocca went back south, and Robinson joined the police force.

JAZZ 91

In 1937 the Original Dixieland Jazz Band was resurrected,
and for a brief moment these men who made jazz history played
together again. They made some records, they played at the
Texas Exposition, and that was all. Their time was past; their
formula was outmoded. Once again the Dixieland Band broke
up. Daddy Edwards, the great trombone, went back to coaching
sports at a Y.M.C.A.

It is my impression that the critics haven't paid enough honors
to the Original Dixieland. They have been quite unjust to the
first great white orchestra, which, to my mind, made jazz. They
have turned the spotlight on the Negro New Orleans pioneers,
but they have left in the shadow the group which was the first
to preserve on wax musical performances which were years ahead
of their time. I have listened to these records again— twenty-five
years later— and am in a position to judge them comparatively.

I know that some critics say the Original Dixieland lacked
swing. But how could they possess a thing which did not yet
exist? Furthermore, these same critics would be hard put to it to
define the swing which they say is lacking. For my part, I should
say that svdng is an element which didn't appear until some
fifteen years later, and is inapplicable to bands based on pure
improvisation.

I know at any rate that men like Bix Beiderbecke, Brad
Gowans, and Jim Moynahan swore by the Dixieland Band, and
strove to bring themselves up to the level of their predecessors.
Taking into account the necessary evolution of jazz style, I do
not believe that any orchestra has ever topped the Original Dixie-
land Jazz Band.

Each time I hear their records I experience a new and over-
whelming joy. I can't imagine how this miracle of balance was
ever possible. How did these ignorant musicians of genius pro-
duce such spontaneous displays of beauty, which are beyond the
grasp of our highly touted contemporary orchestras?

Although more refined ensembles^ and more creative per-
sonalities, like Armstrong, have been recorded, my critical con-
sciousness compels me to say that never in the history of jazz
have there been such interdependent creations and such tightly

92 JAZZ

knit ensembles. In one fell swoop the Original Dixieland Jazz
Band reached the summit of all beauty, the highest emotional
level, and this without any compromise with commercialism, with
new and original means. Aided by a new spirit whose technique
they had not quite mastered, they played their raucous melodies
and broke decisively with all musical tradition. So magnificent a
gesture of independence would not have been possible for a musi-
cian with even the rudiments of traditional schooling to have
dared.

The Dixieland ensembles were so frenzied that anyone with
the slightest idea of what jazz is about realizes that such creation
is possible only for completely entranced musicians. Here is one
group at least that didn't give a dam about the commercial con-
ditions of their art. They played as their hearts dictated, and that
was all they needed. Sudden halts in their playing, unexpected
outbursts, growls, contrasting breaks, showers of drumbeats, in-
cessant repetitions of cowbell sounds— these were their stock in
trade.

Today all this seems a bit outmoded and "corny." But it is

outmoded because later musicians didn't completely digest their

message and didn't have the courage to keep their music un-

i adulterated. Their technique in attacking the beat is also called

(corny because the Dixieland Band hit after the beat, whereas
modern swing bands hit before it.
\ Wilder Hobson has explained this evident basis of sync^opated
music: ". . . often in a jazz performance the only instruments
playing regularly on the heat are, say, the bass drum and string
bass; the rest are playing rhythms variously suspended around the
beat . . . often, in fact, no one is on the beat, which is 'felt' but
not heard."

I am sure that, in fifty years' time, the Original Dixieland Jazz
Band will stand out in all its glory, blotting out the insignificant
musicians of today who play meaningless riffs and copy each
other s phrases without putting the least bit of feeling into their
playing.

The Dixieland Band didn't possess swing, because they didn't
need it. They had something better. They were right in the

JAZZ 93

pulsing heart of jazz, where improvisation was at its purest.

The only thing that interests me in jazz is its original contribu-
tions. The later musicians content themselves with seeking tech-
nical proficiency. If only they had followed in the path which
the Original Dixieland had marked out for them, what might
they not have accomplished with their superior gifts?

I will go even further and say that the future of jazz lies along
this path, and nowhere else. And as I write these words, I cannot
help but think of the phrase of Lautreamont, the great surrealist
prophet, "Poetry will be made by all, not by one alone." So too
will jazz be made by all and not by one alone.

No one admires the great figures of jazz more than I do, but,
as in football, it is the great team, not the great star, that v^dns
games. Besides, no truly great figures have appeared in recent
years, since our present conceptions stifle that precocious en-
thusiasm which has been the mark of every great jazzman.

What excites me is the spectacle of a group creating together,
infused with a spirit which makes each one surpass himself and
the others so that a unified pattern of beauty is achieved. The
subconscious and the sensibilities, not logic and technique, col-
laborate to produce this sort of beauty. This new process of crea-
tion proved so awe-inspiring and so difficult that it had to be
abandoned.

The miracle of the uncultured musicians of New Orleans was
duplicated by the Original Dixieland Jazz Band. The former
group produced many fine themes which remain as vibrant wit-
nesses to their greatness: Milnehurg Joys, High Society, 1 Ain't
Got Nohody, Perdido Street Blues, King Porter Stom'p, Shitn-tne-
shaw-wahhle, Basin Street Blues, Panama, and a host of others.
What was the original contribution of the latter group? It was
something which has never since been equaled. Nearly every
number they waxed was their own creation, nearly every tune
was a model of simple, yet powerful, composition. Many of their
themes have been used or just plain plagiarized by other com-
posers. Ostrich Walk, for one, was shamelessly copied to produce
Wang Wang Blues.

What was the impression on those who actually heard the

94 JAZZ

orchestra? I have met some o£ them, and I was astonished to see
how the memory hghts up their faces, even after a quarter of a
century. I am told that Bix Beiderbecke received one of the
greatest impressions of his hfe, one that helped stamp the char-
acter of his future greatness. When you speak of these super-
human pioneers to Muggsy Spanier, Frank Guarente, Brad
Gowans, or Jim Moynahan, they just shake their heads. They
know they'll never find the words to express what they feel.

How could it be otherwise? After twenty-five years, the reign
of the clarinetist Larry Shields is still acknowledged by countless
musicians who use his ideas and phrases on that instrument.
Larry Shields was for the clarinet what Louis Armstrong has
been for the trumpet. He organized the role of the clarinet and
breathed life into it; he gave it his vitality of improvisation, his
excited expression, his liquid tone, and his crackling breaks.

As for La Rocca, he was the first great classic trumpet. Much
has been said about Bix's debt to King Oliver and Louis Arm-
strong, but not enough about the inspiration he drew from Nick
La Rocca. La Rocca had the perfect temperament for a hot musi-
cian. He excelled in playing the tune almost note for note, his
tone and his mastery of the attack before the beat producing a
simple yet amazing effect.

Listen closely to Palesteena or even Margie, for example. La
Rocca accented the notes very simply by swelling or fluttering
them. Listen next to Singing the Blues and you will note how
deeply Bix was inspired by La Rocca. In Beiderbecke's lovely
solos it seems that he is trying to recapture the general impression
of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band. He attempts to achieve the
interwoven play of trumpet, clarinet, and trombone, but is frus-
trated by the inadequacy of his musicians.

This is not said in depreciation of Beiderbecke; far from it. I
realize the greatness of Bix's character and the contribution he
has made to jazz. But knowing him so well, I can justifiably assert
that Bix's records may well be forgotten long before those of the
Original Dixieland Jazz Band. I hope this is not blasphemy, but
I listened studiously to most of Bix's recordings the other day,
and, with two or three exceptions, they were not. worth listening

JAZZ 95

to. Nothing is more old-fashioned or corny than his orchestral
accompaniment.

Whereas the Dixieland Band was composed of a group of
master musicians from the very first, the fact that Bix never sur-
rounded himself with musicians of his own class must be recorded
on the debit side of his ledger.

I must not neglect to mention the efficient drum work of Tony
Sbarbaro, whose natural sense of rhythm has seldom been
equaled. As for Eddie Edwards, he was a phenomenal musician.
He founded the great school of trombonists which reared two
of our best contemporaries: Brad Gowans and George Brunies.
Modem trombone playing has been greatly refined and its role
in the ensemble has changed, but nevertheless I cling to the
opinion, which many will laugh at, that the old Dixieland trom-
bone style was more effective than any which has followed.

With the passing of Brad Gowans and George Brunies, the line
of trombonists who rely on pure improvisation will have come to
an end. The swing trombonists of today rely on the arranger to
determine their ensemble playing. It's not at all the same thing.

Honor is not always given where honor is due: the laurel is
often placed on the brow of an undeserving person, and many
worthy figures pass neglected. I hope that this situation will soon
be remedied, that the American public will pay its respects to
those who have given it a great music. It will realize one day that
Eddie Edwards, Brad Gowans, and George Brunies deserve more
homage than certain highly paid orchestra leaders whose crea-
tions are so devoid of significance that they are forgotten in two
months' time.

Can one draw a parallel between the Original Dixieland Jazz
Band and the other orchestras? Jazz critics have conscientiously
avoided the very difficult task of judging orchestras comparatively.
The first school of criticism consisted entirely of an exposition of
the comparative value of individual musicians. Hugues Panassie
and others who followed this critic have drawn up a highly im-
portant graded honor roll of instrumentalists; it is time that the
same thing be done with orchestras.

I interrupt myself a moment to point out a strange truth. At

96 JAZZ

first the role of the Negro musicians had been ignored. Then
their importance was fully recognized, and certain critics-
grouped around periodicals like Jazz Information and books like
Smith and Ramsey's Jazzmen— hstve dug out innumerable details
on Negro jazz from Bolden to Armstrong. These groups have
dealt almost exclusively with the Negro pioneers, so that now,
amazingly enough, the importance of the early white musicians
is hidden behind the glory of their colored colleagues.

Nobody has been more appreciative than I of the role of the
Negro in the development of jazz, and therefore I am entitled
to express the opinion that the music would never have become
what it is if it were not for orchestras like the Original Dixieland.
I am a great admirer of the colored New Orleans musicians who
made their headquarters at Chicago, but the willful and sys-
tematic neglect of their white contemporaries is cruel and un-
just. Before Louis Armstrong and Fletcher lienderson, no colored
orchestra reached the level attained by the Original Dixieland
Jazz Band or the New Orleans Rhythm Kings. Great as he was,
the recordings of King Oliver are confused and fumbling next
to those of the New Orleans Rhythm Kings.

Where can you hear a pre- 1924 Negro ensemble with the
unity, consistency, character, and continual explosiveness of the
Original Dixieland? Only sporadically did black jazz reach those
heights. Later, it is true, the balance swung in the other direc-
tion, when white jazz was sidetracked away from the paths of
pure jazz.

I am certain that those who, like me, prefer music of pure im-
provisation will confirm my opinion if they have taken the trouble
to listen to the miraculous polyphony of the Original Dixieland.

The two records they made in 1 9 1 7 ^Dixieland J ass One Step
—Livery Stable Blues, Darktown Strutters Ball— Indiana) are ad-
mirable. Larry Shields is astounding, the hard and clear rhythm
of the drums is eloquent in its simplicity, the low notes of the
trombone go straight to the heart.

The 19 1 8 recordings attain a peak of musical interpretation.
The trombone sometimes plays in a very original staccato style;
Shields's clarinet is as good as ever. Shieids's work and Sbarbaro's

JAZZ 97

drumming, especially in Ostrich Walk and At the Jazz Band
Ball, are ample proof of the debt of jazz to New Orleans march
music. Jazz was not yet an exclusively dance music.

These first recordings are highly important, since they give
the conscientious critic valuable information about the various
influences which shaped New Orleans jazz. A bizarre tango
rhythm in St. Louis Blues, for example, reminds one that Spanish
music played its part in the Mississippi delta.

In these recordings and those of 191 9, Larry Shields demon-
strates the greatness of his talent. The three melody instruments
(comet, clarinet, and trombone) supported by the two rhythm
(piano and drums) interweave their improvisations very cleverly.
One of them always leads this collective creation, directing its
movement and animating the play of the others. This is the ad-
mirable formula which later musicians were to discard in favor of
more commercial compromises.

La Rocca, as we have said, plays simply a bare skeleton of the
theme as compared with the surging notes of Bobby Hackett, for
example. Shields's style of playing has unfortunately disappeared,
as all modem clarinets insist on using a stereotyped and colorless
style. He didn't give equal value to all his notes, holding some,^
glissing some, swallowing some, as his inspiration dictated. Lany
Shields played after the beat, unlike the technique perfected by
Benny Goodman, which hits before the beat. The influence of
Benny Goodman has been so considerable that everybody since
has followed his formula, except for a few musicians of the old
school such as Jimmie Noone and Sidney Bechet.

Following the five records waxed in 1 9 1 9, of which Tiger Rag
and Clarinet Martiudade (played more slowly than in the later
version) are my favorites, the composition of the band was
changed: Emil Christian replaced Daddy Edwards, and J. Rus-
sell Robinson succeeded Henry Ragas, who died in his hotel
room only a few days before their departure for England. At
several recording sessions in London from April 1919 to July
1 92 1, they waxed many fine, and a few not so fine, disks. Barn-
yard Blues, for instance, a faster version of Livery Stable Blues,.
is not nearly so good. Satanic Blues, on the other hand, is marked

98 JAZZ

by a diabolical kind of beauty. On the return of the orchestra to
the United States, they found the situation had changed in their
absence, and wrongly decided to modernize their band by adding
Benny Krueger on sax and Al Bernard as vocalist.

For a while they enjoyed the same success as of yore. They
were a big hit at a number of balls, and they inspired a host of
musicians. Brad Gowans sometimes took La Rocca's place on the
bandstand. Bix, as he confessed to his friends, modeled his play-
ing after the pattern of the Original Dixieland.

Margie, a composition of the new pianist, became a hit tune
and a standard, but, on the whole, the band had exhausted its
creative vein, and did nothing but repeat itself. Daddy Edwards
came back on trombone, but Larry Shields gave way to Artie
Seaberg, Benny Krueger to Don Parker, and Russell Robinson to
Henry Vaniselli.

The band had had five years of glory and had given the world
many tunes which are now established classics. But the first band
in the discography of jazz outlived its great period. At the end it
composed no new numbers, playing its big hits— Toddlin Blues,
Some of These Days, Tiger Rag, and Barnyard Blues— ovei again
on its record dates. Like poets who have said all they have to say,
they went on repeating their old stuff wearily. The old feeling
was gone, their numbers did not have the drive of yesteryear. As
always when heart and youth have given way to routine, all
lyrical quality was missing.

What does it matter? The Original Dixieland Jazz Band had
five great and fruitful years. There are very few instances of
such character and unity in the history of American music. And
they have left us a pile of records which I play over and over
again, as they represent the purest sort of jazz.

Eddie Edwards today is the coach of a Y.M.C.A. football team,
and has been completely forgotten by those who have photo-
graphed and reprinted all the minor details concerning the most
insignificant banjo-strummer of New Orleans. It is all right for
researchers to try to re-create the conditions of New Orleans jazz,
but it is high time that we pay just homage to the first white jazz
immortals : Shields, Edwards, Sbarbaro, and the rest.

JAZZ 99

You can imagine the feelings of these men who are all but for-
gotten even while their work is still being copied and plagiarized.
I saw Eddie Edwards pass in front of Reisenweber's some months
ago. He didn't even raise his eyes, for his memories are too burn-
ing to permit him to grasp the grim reality. I followed him down
Broadway to 52nd Street. It was a hot summer's night, and pufiFs
of jazz wafted out of the open night club doors. From behind the
facade of Kelly's Stable one caught wisps of Tiger Rag. The
clarinet was playing Shields's part, and the trombone was trying
to copy Edwards. Edwards listened for a moment— a shade among
the shadows— then lowered his head again. His imitator was soon
to be hailed as an inmiortal of jazz.

VII. THE FORGOHEN WHITE BANDS

New Orleans Rhythm Kings, Cotton Pickers,
California Ramblers

While the Original Dixieland Jazz Band was in Europe the
memory of their wonderful message continued to inspire many
American musicians. They had scattered sparks which fell on
the hearts of white youths in New York, New Orleans, and
Chicago. These young musicians, improvising in woodsheds
throughout the country, sought outstanding personalities around
whom their music could crystallize. In New Orleans there were
the clarinetist Rappolo, and the trombonist Brunies; from the
Midwest came Bix Beiderbecke and Muggsy Spanier, trying to
recall La Rocca's improvisations, and Frank Teschemacher, who
had not yet decided on the clarinet as his medium of expres-
sion.

Many orchestras had sprung up in the tradition of the Original
Dixieland Band, including the Georgians, the Original Memphis
Five, the New Orleans Rhythm Kings, the Bucktown Five, the
Wolverines, the Cotton Pickers, and the California Ramblers. I
have spoken at great length of the Georgians, but I have more to

icx) JAZZ

say about this great band, which has been so unjustly and so
completely forgotten these many years. Neither the Hot Discog-
ra'phy of Charles Delaunay nor Charles Edward Smith's Jazzmen
mentions them. Yet they were great in their day.

To realize this, you have only to listen to their records: Mama
Loves Papa, Land of Cotton Blues, Snake Hifs, and Farewell
BVaes. Played in the blended style of the Memphis Five and the
Cotton Pickers, these records are bathed in an invigorating atmos-
phere. In 1923 Frank Guarente was the best white trumpet to be
found. His playing in Land of Cotton Blues will indicate the
debt Bix owed him, and Dancing Dan might be said to be Bixian
before Bix. The imagination of the Georgians is brilliantly dis-
played in the unusual ending of Snake Hifs, and Lovey Come
Back is fine from the rhythmic bouncing trombone of the begin-
ning to the soulful clarinet improvisation of the end. Johnny
O'Donnell, the clarinet, improvises a solo on Farewell Blues
which is identical to Rappolo's on the same tune. I leave it for
others better informed to decide which came first.

This was one of the great periods of white jazz. Colored
orchestras had not progressed nearly as much; contact with the
whites was necessary to set them going again. Only with King
Oliver did Negro jazz live up to its earlier promise. At the same
time the New Orleans Rhythm Kings were very close in many
respects to King Oliver. If truth be told, both white and Negro
bands reacted on each other; each copied the other s inventions
until the point where they became a part of the public domain.

The core of the New Orleans Rhythm Kings, a band which
had a preponderant influence on the musicians of the time, con-
sisted of Leon Rappolo and the Brunies brothers. They were bom
in New Orleans about the turn of the century and, as kids, fol-
lowed the marching bands at Mardi Gras time. They studied
music at an early age, Rappolo learning the violin, which he dis-
carded for the clarinet, and the Brunies studying with Papa
Laine. Their first job was in Storyville.

The band was organized about 19 19, and it continued to play
in the New Orleans tradition of collective improvisation. Before
their trip to Chicago and fame, they played in their native city

JAZZ loi

and toured Texas, which was a sort of testing ground for Delta
City bands.

At this point I interpolate a long aside to consider a little fact
which has had tremendous repercussions on the history of jazz,
a fact which might be glossed over were it not for the insight it
gives into the psychological problem of jazz. Leon Rappolo
smoked marijuana, a narcotic weed growing wild in Mexico and
all over the South, and peddled at prohibitive prices in all Ameri-
can population centers.

Yes, Rappolo smoked marijuana, and it helped him along the

road to madness. I hesitate to delve into his private life like this,

and if addiction to reefers had remained a foible of Rappolo

I alone, I should not. But the habit spread to a great many musi-

^ cians and even today is not uncommon. Why is this so?

I have already explained that jazz is based on improvisation,
which, to be successful, must be free from the control exercised
by the superior brain centers. Every man possesses a faculty
known as intelligence or reason, which controls the actions of
the sensibilities and the subconscious mind. It is a sort of head
supervisor which maintains the equilibrium of its subordinates.
Every psychologist is acquainted with this distinction in the
organization of the human mind.

Jazz and surrealism upset this balance. No longer is the intel-
ligence the faithful superintendent of the mind; its action is re-
^ duced and the other faculties are given free rein. The great jazz-
I men are those who can, of themselves, neutralize the role of
^ reason. Men like Louis Armstrong can do it; this is the psy-
chological explanation of their genius. Louis Armstrong can put
himself into a trance-like state in a few seconds, and, from then
on, he is out of the world, speaking only from the heart.

This phenomenon of trance or frenzy is the musician's means
of inspiration. Nor is this to be wondered at! Poetry springs from
the same source. A true poet cannot write with his intelligence.
The highest lyrical peaks have been scaled only by frenzied poets.
Unfortunately, exalted moments are rare; one cannot enter this
state at will. The great moments of poetry are few and far be-
tween. The same is true for that other form of poetry, jazz.

I02 JAZZ

I affirm that such a trance is the very base of all jazz, and those
who love and create this music ceaselessly strive toward it. When
I hear an orchestra which reaches straight into my heart, I know
that its members are carried away by this frenzied spirit and
welded into a miraculous unity. There can be no jazz without
frenzy. The Original Dixieland Jazz Band was frenetic; so was
King Oliver; and so was and is Louis Armstrong. Rappolo, too,
for Rappolo had found, in marijuana, an artificial means of in-
ducing the trance-like state.

The great clarinetist had noted that it was difficult to enter
into the necessary state of grace. He realized that two or three
mouthfuls of marijuana fumes would neutralize the severe con-
trol of reason and leave the sensibilities free to examine the un-
explored possibilities of music. He discovered for himself and
for others an easy way of inducing this condition. It appears,
furthermore, that the weed enhances the musical qualities of its
addicts; no longer checked, their auditory faculty expands and
triumphs over both time and space. I have asked many of these
unfortunates just what was the power of their drugged elation.
Most tell me that they hear better, create better, and take more
pleasure in the music. This is purely illusory.

Many musicians still smoke marijuana, and the habit has given
jazz much of its vocabulary (and very likely many of its best
efforts), as the following titles indicate: Muggles, Sending the
Vipers, Texas Tea Party, and Chant of the Weed.

This is the reason for the prevalence of the habit among jazz
musicians. It serves the same psychological function as an aid to
the creative power as opium does for Jean Cocteau. It is re-
grettable, however, that the most insignificant saxophonist in
Harlem thinks that all he has to do to become a great creator is
to smoke muggles. Needless to say, not everyone is a Rappolo or
an Armstrong. Marijuana is a means, not a cause. Those who
have nothing to say deep down inside of them can smoke tea all
their lives without creating one single bar of beautiful music.

Moreover, in the long run it will be found that the production
of a man who is under the influence of drugs will end in incoher-
ence. The artificial trance leads to exaggerations which a natural

JAZZ 103

trance does not produce. It is like manufacturing pearls. There
are artificial ways of producing pearls, but a specialist has no
trouble in telling them from the real thing. And, as in jazz, only
real pearls are highly valuable.

Leon Rappolo, poor fellow, was finally consumed by the weed.
On certain nights after having smoked, he was completely out
of the world. Floating on top of the music like a cork on a stream,
he seemed a personification of music itself. When spoken to, he
did not answer; he was completely v^nrapped up in his inner
dream. Eyes closed, he strained every fiber of his being in order
to find expression for the creative turmoil inside. His reason was
annihilated, no longer able to command his body. All that re-
mained was his enchanted heart, his pale lips, and his moist
hands flowing up and down the keys of his clarinet.

The New OrleansJRhythm Kings had their great moments.
Their audience remained open-mouthed, unable to grasp fully
the tonal miracle being performed before them. Their music was
in the direct line of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, but some-
what modified and more musical. It was still collective improvisa-
tion, but certain passages were prepared beforehand. This first
defection from all-out improvisation became more and more
pronounced with the Memphis Five, the Bucktown Five, the
Cotton Pickers, and the California Ramblers.

Nevertheless, what beauty they produced! As far as I am con-
cerned, the superiority of the white orchestras was unchallenged
until Louis Armstrong made his appearance. Even King Oliver,
whom I greatly admire, never equaled the fluid and melodious
sensibility of the New Orleans Rhythm Kings. The Original
Dixieland excites me by its savage power, the Rhythm Kings by
their flexible and ingenuous sensitivity.

I am extremely proud that I appreciated them, and said as
much, way back in 1930 when I knew them only through a
couple of records, and had never heard of Dixieland.

May I quote what I said then in Aux Frontieres du Jazz?

I shall now speak of the general style of the orchestra— a rather
risky thing to do, since I have heard only a few of their recordings,
and that, some five years ago. These were Tiger Rag, Angry, and Mo-

I04 JAZZ

hile Blues. [This last was really Tin Roof Blues, which I had con-
fused with Mobile Blues as both belonged to the Melrose collection.]
If my memory is accurate, the group played very hot polyphonic
ensembles such as no orchestra has since attempted, yet which por-
tended great things for the evolution of jazz. This formula, to my
mind, is not a forgotten experiment— these records can stand com-
parison with the best of today. The accompaniments are perfectly
balanced, and I particularly remember the trombone's counterpoint
in Shim-me-sha-xvahlole, whose savage beauty tops anything I have
heard since.

I would willingly sign this statement today, and I am happy
to mention in passing that the trombonist was George Brunies,
whose playing still hits me square on the button.

Besides Brunies, the fine musicians of the orchestra included
Rappolo on clarinet, Paul Mares on trumpet, Elmer Schoebel on
piano, Lew Black on banjo, Arnold Loyocano on bass, Frank
Snyder on drums, and Jack Pettis on sax.

You will notice that this composition is a reinforced version of
the Dixieland setup. The Rhythm Kings, like the Original Dixie-
land in 1923, added a saxophone and amplified the rhythm sec-
tion. Their personnel changed frequently as they moved from
their Wisconsin debut to the Cascade Ballroom and Friar's Inn
in Chicago.

It is interesting to trace their evolution by means of their
discography. Very few of their fine recordings are available in
America today, and this is greatly to be regretted. They should be
reissued, for, as jazz advances, records like those of the Rhythm
Kings stand out in bolder relief.

Their first recorded period consisted of seven sides on Gennett
(Oriental, Fareripell Blues, Discontented Blues, Bugle Call Blues,
Tiger Rag, Panama, Eccentric) played by the musicians listed
above, except that Steve Brown had replaced Loyocano.

Note the propulsive power of the rhythm section, especially
the rhythmic rebound of the banjo supported by the bass and
drums. The playing of the three melody instruments is inter-
woven in true Dixieland style. Here you will find two great jazz-
men, Rappolo and Brunies. Paul Mares is good, but he lacks the

JAZZ 105

power of his two friends. After due reflection I have come to the
conclusion that the band's chief driving force was George Brunies,
a contemporary yet ignored giant. Without him the orchestra is
hfeless. Three or four other musicians of almost equal talent
could have been found to replace Rappolo.

A bit later the orchestra was somewhat smaller, consisting of
the same melodic base— Mares, Brunies, Rappolo— and a rhythm
section composed of Mel Stitzel, piano, and Frank Snyder, drums.
They made Weary Blues, Wolverine Blues, Da-Da Strain, Shim-
me-sha-wahhle. Sweet Loving Man, and Mafle Leaf Rag, all
tunes which bring back the memory of the days when jazz first
hit me. Da-Da Strain and Shim-me-sha-wahhle are and will re-
main among the peaks of recorded jazz.

The orchestra was enlarged after 1922, the solid basis of
Mares, Brunies, and Rappolo remaining to breathe life into a
new body. Jack Pettis, Don Murray, or Glenn Scoville played
sax, and the rhythm section consisted of Lew Black and Steve
Brown back again, Charlie Pierce on piano, and Ben Pollack on
drums. They waxed Angry, Sohhin Blues, Clarinet Marmalade,
Mr. Jelly Lord, Milnehurg Joys, Marguerite, London Blues, Mad.
Many of these were beautifully played; the ensembles of Clarinet
Marmalade and especially Angry were among the records which
inspired me most.

After this group of recordings the individuality of the New
Orleans Rhythm Kings was lost. Its great triumvirate was broken
up, Rappolo or Brunies being absent on each occasion. The loss
of its two greatest musicians was irreparable. Without the purity
of Rappolo and the power of Brunies, the orchestra no longer
came up to its earlier standard.

The end of Rappolo's career is a tragic story. His dependence
on marijuana increased from day to day. He had begun by taking
two or three mouthfuls, which was enough to send him into a
trance. Friends have described him to me— feverish, thin, pant-
ing, with dark rings around his eyes. He played marvelous solos,
eyes closed in ecstasy, then rushed into the alley to relight his
reefer. He took a few puffs, holding it with the ends of his fingers
so as to breathe in smoke and air together, extinguished it again.

io6 JAZZ

and went back to the band. He would remain high for an hour.
His creative power was raised to a high pitch, and few who saw
I him realized that here was a person who was committing suicide
i in order to produce beauty.

Before long the dose needed to affect him was doubled and
tripled; he now smoked five or six reefers a day. He had terrible
fits, no longer ate, no longer drank. He passed the stage where
creativeness was stimulated, and spent all his time in a dream.
Frightful apparitions haunted him; he alternated between the
heights of musical passion and the utmost depths of despair.
Finally he reached the point where, half dead from the weed of
despair, he flung his clarinet into Lake Pontchartrain. The great
musician, Leon Rappolo, was no longer a musician— he was
scarcely even a man. Laid low by the malevolent fumes, he spent
the rest of his life among the fantasies which the drug had
produced. A man without a mind, he became an inmate of a
lunatic asylum. His fingers ran idly up and down the keys of a
clarinet which someone had given him. He still had the fingers,
but his control was gone, his sensibility was gone. Such is the
frightful story which must be told to all. Rappolo died in the
sanitarium in 1943.

In the folklore of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band and the
New Orleans Rhythm Kings lies material for two of the most
touching films imaginable. I feel their attraction, I know their
story. God grant that someday I may produce them.

When the Original Dixieland broke up, its great founders dis-
appeared from the musical scene, and no vestige of it remained.
The story of the Rhythm Kings is somewhat the same. Though
the Brunies brothers tried to resurrect the orchestra in 1925 under
the name of Meritt Brunies and His Friars Friends, the attempt
was not very successful. Very seldom does a jazz orchestra give
birth to a direct descendant.

Santo Pecora, the last trombonist of the Rhythm Kings, and
Ben Pollack, its drummer of 1924, formed a small orchestra
known as the Bucktown Five. In this group we find the initial
appearance of Muggsy Spanier, who was to become one of the
greatest white cometists; Volly de Faut, a new clarinetist; and

JAZZ 107

Mel Stitzel, who had also been with the Rhythm Kings on piano.

This fine band recorded only seven sides, on Gennett. I heard
two of them, Buddy's Hahits and Someday Sweetheart, back in
1925, and they made a terrific impression on me. They had a
flair for improvisation, and the new ideas of Muggsy Spanier
were a welcome addition to the elements inherited from the
Kings.

As for George Brunies, he played with the Wolverines for a
short period, then joined Ted Lewis and was reduced to a
clownish role. In the last few years he has played with Muggsy
Spanier, Art Hodes, and recently with Jimmy MacPartland and
Pee Wee Russell or with Chelsea Qualey and Rod Cless. My
opinion of him has never changed— he moves me more profoundly
than any other trombone.

During the period when the New Orleans Rhythm Kings
struggled up the glory road, another orchestra was formed which
included two sometime members of the Original Dixieland Jazz
Band, Frank Signorelli and Jimmy Lytell. This group had Phil
Napoleon on trumpet, Miff Mole on trombone, Lytell on clarinet,
Signorelli on piano, and Jack Roth on drums. The Memphis Five
had a long career, during which they recorded for many labels,
leaving some very good records and some very mediocre ones.

The memory of this orchestra and of its variant, the Cotton
Pickers, has grown dim, yet it played an important role in winning
converts in the twenties. This neglect is most unjust. I grant that
it had no transcendent figure who has emblazoned his name on
the list of jazz greats. What does that matter? I know that it does
not rank as high as the Original Dixieland on my book. Already
the spirit of compromise which was to gnaw away at the heart of
jazz had begun its work. The conception of collective improvisa-
tion and perpetual trance had proved too difficult to maintain it-
self; these musicians still improvised, but they arranged certain
transitions, practiced brass effects, and wrote introductions.

Many musicians played with this group, which lasted from
1922 to 1928. Its core consisted of Phil Napoleon and Miff Mole,
who infused their ideas into the other musicians. Phil Napoleon
was not himself an outstanding hot musician; Mifif Mole was far

io8 JAZZ

superior. He is the one who modified the staccato style of George
Brunies. I beheve that Panassie has pronounced a wrong verdict
on this trombonist. Miff Mole's influence on jazz has been
equaled by very few others. In jazz there are not only the in-
strumentalists of genius; there are also the musical organizers,
those who shape the characters of the orchestras with which they
are associated. From this point of view Miff Mole was an ace. He
was the very life of the Memphis Five and the Cotton Pickers.
And those who say they don't like the way Miff Mole played
make me laugh. He was the equal of almost any present-day
trombone, and the best of today, like J. C. Higginbotham, who
has progressed considerably in the last few years, are very close
to the nuanced style of Miff Mole. No longer do we find Higgy
playing the passionate outbursts of Jack Teagarden or Brunies.
On its own level, the Mole style has a melodious unity which
only the obtuse will fail to see.

The Memphis Five and the Cotton Pickers had a great char-
acter which was all their own. Like the Dixieland style and the
Rhythm Kings style, there was a Cotton Pickers style. It was a
great orchestra, one which I really loved. If its critics would be
silent long enough to listen closely to the admirable polyphony of
State Street Blues, Down and Out Blues, Got to Cool My Doggies
Now, Cofenhagen, Ramfart Street Blues, and Just Hot, they
would realize the many fine qualities of Miff Mole and the band.

I admit that their performances were not so pure as those of
the Original Dixieland, yet anyone who faces the fact will realize
that they had more personality than most of our modem bands;
this orchestra had a soul, not a motor. ...

At the present hour there are no more ensemble personalities.
Excepting a few orchestras, which can be counted on the fingers
of one hand, they all play alike. I don't want to hurt anyone's
feelings, but nothing sounds so much like one colored orchestra
as another colored orchestra. They are reduced to the same level
by the mediocrity of arrangement. And the same goes for the
white bands. The spirit is gone. For a price, they deliver the same
cold dish every night in the week.

JAZZ 109

The Cotton Pickers were head and shoulders above 90 per cent
of the big mechanized bands. Among the whites the only thing
I find acceptable is the small Dixieland outfits of the Chicago
group. And unless some big bands return to the old tradition of
pure improvisation, the only real jazz will continue to come from
similar small groups.

For two years I have heard the New York bands time and
again. Save for two or three, I am extremely bored by their
shallow and spiritless performances. If a band like the Cotton
Pickers could be formed— of course, the evolution of jazz would
make certain changes in its style necessary— it would eclipse the
reputations of all the highly publicized name bands as far as any
true lover of jazz is concerned.

I have just spoken of several successive and even parallel
groups. The strength of the white orchestra of the heroic age
has come down to us only through examples preserved on wax.
Who now remembers that the Memphis Five played at the
Balconades on Columbus Avenue in New York?

Jimmy Lytell was an excellent clarinetist who is almost worthy
of being ranked among the greatest. His style reminded me of
that of Nathan, of the Lido-Venice band. It is with emotion that
I remember three of the tunes of the golden age— Aggravatin
Fafa, I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate, and Runnin
Wild, whose hot and savage style indicates that this was the early
period without the balance of the Dixieland Band.

Among the best of the pile of interesting records which demon-
strate the band's vitality, I cite Shufflin Mose, Sioux City Sue,
Way Down Yonder in New Orleans, Snake Hifs, and especially
Just Hot,

These last recordings were attributed to the Cotton Pickers.
The true Cotton Pickers was a somewhat different organization,
consisting of Napoleon, Mole, Chuck Muller on clarinet, Lucian
Smith and Frank Trumbauer on saxes, and Rube Bloom on
piano.

At a later period Red Nichols replaced Phil Napoleon. This
band produced two excellent records: Stomf Off Let's Go and

no JAZZ

Carolina Stomf (without Trumbauer), and Fallin Down and
What Did I Tell You which was the last Cotton Pickers record
which reached Europe.

The character of this band was very different from that of the
Dixieland Band or the Rhythm Kings, which had been domi-
nated by an improvising triumvirate. The influence of Nichols
and Trumbauer led it along another path. After the Red Nichols
period, or perhaps concomitantly, Phil Napoleon was associated
with the Dorsey brothers and Arthur Schutt, who had been the
Georgians pianist. On certain records Eddie Lang and Hoagy
Carmichael were among those present.

But the same process that we have already noted in the other
bands was repeated. The personality of the group was dead; its
offspring had very few hereditary traits. I should like to set down
here what I had to say about the Cotton Pickers some fifteen years
ago:

From the first, the Cotton Pickers took care to avoid melodic banali-
ties, and to seek tunes which were not dominated by the ritomello.
For this reason they were naturally led to improvise and even to com-
pose tunes suited to their talent and mood. Their exciting character
is revealed in Just Hot and Shufflin Mose, especially in the former,
which is so knocked out that all that remains is the rhythm which
introduces a completely new cadence which has since been copied by
all the bands— for one, the Georgians, who have incorporated the
famous theme "mi sol mi sol mi sol sol mi" in Copenhagen and Sweet
Sixteen. [The Wolverines* Copenhagen, it should be noted, is an
exact duplicate of the Cotton Pickers', unless it is the other way
around.]

In Just Hot the Cotton Pickers attained an irreproachable perfec-
tion; no flourishes, no squalling, no static, just a pure and moving line
without any of the few errors in taste (wa-wa, corn-fed rhythm, etc.)
which mar their earlier work. It is interesting to study their evolution
from these records; the trumpet becomes more and more sober, and
the clarinet uses a style which we will find further developed by Pee
Wee Russell. By the time they recorded Blue Rose, one of the sum-
mits of jazz music, they had a sureness and animation which was no
longer found in the otherwise excellent Fallin' Down. Here one can
sense the profound change brought about in jazz by the considerable

JAZZ III

contribution of Red Nichols and the Red Heads. . . . Finally the
Cotton Pickers broke up, with the satisfaction of having accomplished
a great work, one to which I hereby pay homage.

There is nothing to be added or subtracted from these lines,
which, I trust, will serve to gain for the Cotton Pickers a little of
the appreciation they deserve.

I should like to speak now of an orchestra which has been
totally forgotten— the California Ramblers. You will not find this
name in Panassie's Hot Jazz or in Delaunay's Hot Disco gru'phy;
jazzmen merely mentions it in three places; my first book is the
only one which consecrates space to it. Yet this orchestra was a
rallying point for many white musicians who were to be among
the major figures of the following period, and some of whom are
today stars of the first magnitude. It is interesting to study their
evolution as an indication and an illustration of the continuing
struggle between pure and composed jazz, between art and com-
mercialism. The early period of improvisation gave way to one of
prefabricated organization of jazz and finally to the showy formula
of the big bands.

I haven't been able to hear their records recently, because music
shops and collectors have neglected these old disks. So I can only
transcribe my impressions as I noted them at the time :

It is certain that different musicians played in the orchestra at dif-
ferent times, and one can't be sure whether anyone was permanently
in it. Melody Maker cites the following musicians as members of the
Ramblers: Red Nichols, Bill Moore, Roy Johnstone, Chelsea Qualey,
trumpets; Jimmy Dorsey, Arnold Brilhart, Bobby Davis, Pete Pumig-
lio, Fred Cusick, Fud Livingston, saxes; Tom Dorsey, trombone;
Adrian Rollini, Spencer Clark, bass sax; Tommy Felline, banjo;
Irving Brodsky, Jack Rusin, piano; Stan King, Herbert Weil, drums.

Who was the leader of the California Ramblers? Who organized
it and gave it its ideas? I know not. At any rate, the band followed a
formula which, at the beginning at least, represented a compromise
between straight and hot jazz. Each number began v^th a melodic
ensemble in which tone and expression were stressed, then in sharp
contrast came a crackling hot solo, which was answered on another
instrument, which was followed by the final ensemble.

112 JAZZ

Three kinds of instruments played the hot parts— sax, clarinet, and
trumpet. I think this was due to the increasingly evident superiority
of Adrian Rollini, Jimmy Dorsey, and Red Nichols. The role of the
trombone was limited to accompaniment, and, on the records I heard,
the banjo simply played rhythm, using all four chords and not demon-
strating anything unusual in the way of technique. Jimmy Dorsey
very quickly attained a fine hot style which had more to it than the
trumpets. I am not sure who played this last instrument [it was
actually Red Nichols], but on the records I've heard— Southern Rose^
Little Old Clock, Nashville Tennessee, Red Hot Henry Brovpn, No-
body Knows, and some others— it seems to me that he had not ac-
quired either the virtuosity or the sense of jazz which was later de-
veloped, and which ♦■he New Orleans [Rhythm Kings] trumpet had
already foreshadowed.

How can I help but feel grateful to the Ramblers? They were
the first to introduce me to jazz in which individual improvisation
was substituted for the collective improvisation I already knew
and loved.

I propose that the record companies reissue an album of the
Cotton Pickers and California Ramblers. I should like to be able
to choose these records at my leisure, since I am sure that both
bands made at least a few records which would suffice to rescue
them from their present state of neglect. R.emember that the
reputation of many a musician is founded on one record, and
consider that here is more than merely a solo inspired in a happy
moment: there is a spirit of cohesion, a character, and a lyrical
soul, which constitute a veritable trade-mark which makes them
identifiable after only a few bars.

One very important critical observation on the history of jazz
must be made here. As orchestra succeeded orchestra, the stream
of jazz became more and more polluted. The spirit was watered
down continually. Paul Whiteman became known as the King
of Jazz. He organized a huge orchestra which played melodic or
even "symphonic'' jazz, and was extremely successful. Hot musi-
cians swallowed their principles and catered to the public taste.

The purest orchestra of them all was the Original Dixieland
Jazz Band. The New Orleans Rhythm Kings were somewhat

JAZZ 113

more musical and made some concessions to the public taste. The
Cotton Pickers went even further, mixing written arrangements
with inspiration; the Georgians subordinated improvisation to a
central idea; and finally the Ramblers completely revolutionized
the creative principle. Instead of a tripartite collective improvisa-
tion, they relied on a melodic part and the improvisation of a
single instrument accompanied by an ensemble background. This
marked the beginning of the big-band formula which was to lead
jazz into an impossible impasse, since really creative improvisa-
tion demands that all the musicians be in a trance. It looks as if
the great soloists of the future will not be insfired men singing
from their hearts, but mechanical men vdth dexterous fingers.
The present formula stifles any great individuality, which can no
longer develop freely as in the heroic age. We shall return to this
question later, when we discuss the big bands.

Anyway, no one can deny that the evolution of jazz at this
time was chiefly due to white musicians. The contribution of the
classic white bands has given me many lasting memories. The
Negro bands of the same period had little to say, if truth be told.
Their performances certainly cannot be compared to those of the
whites. Yet in Chicago there was King Oliver's orchestra, which
contained elements which were to shape the future of jazz. All
future ensembles were to profit from Oliver s example, just as all
future improvisers were nourished, consciously or unconsciously,
from the genius of Louis Armstrong. The present Negro or-
chestras are a projection of the creative spirit of King Oliver. The
white name bands have unfortunately forgotten the marvelous
flowering of white hot music and now try to play like Negro
bands. They have not profited from the example of their pred-
ecessors. Who will be the first great white musician to get out
out of the rut and return to a really creative formula? For my part,
I should like to see someone like Benny Goodman return to the
tripartite "hot'' conception he has loved so well, acting in con-
junction wdth the Chicagoans, who are at present the only ones
who have profited from the teachings of their great forerunners
and who have strenuously avoided commercialism by playing, in
the old lyrical vein, a music which sends me each time I hear it.

114 JAZZ

Vm. LOUSS ARMSTRONG

When i wrote Aux Frontieres du Jazz, Paul Whiteman was
known as the King of Jazz. No one in either America or Europe
dared to deny his right to this symboHc crown. He had emulators,
all right; Jack Hylton, in England, for one. The purpose of my
book was to smash these two popular idols, whose music was
utterly worthless as jazz. The history of these usurpers had to be
retold in order that people might realize that the real king was
someone else entirely. I dedicated my book to Louis Armstrong,
the true King of Jazz, as an expression of my fervent admiration
for him. I made this decision after hearing a dozen or so Arm-
strong recordings, so overwhelming was the impression, and I
have never had cause to regret it.

This choice still holds good. Armstrong is more than the King
of Jazz; he is its soul, he is jazz itself, he is the great standard
against which all other jazzmen are measured. To my mind he is
the one indisputable genius American music has produced, and,
as years go on, he appears ever more outstanding. No true lover
of jazz denies his predominant position.

Still alive and active, he is already a legendary figure. His
career is now well known, and I do not intend to repeat the many
details which have been recounted in Armstrong's autobiography,
Swing That Music, and elsewhere.

He was bom in New Orleans at the beginning of this century,
and lived the banal day-to-day existence of the Delta City picka-
ninny. With his friends, he wandered through the picturesque
streets of the uptown Negro quarter.

The reveille of jazz had already been sounded by the comet of
King Bolden by the time Armstrong was a lad. The strange
melodies which floated through the open doors of Storyville estab-
lishments went straight to his heart.

JAZZ 115

Young Louis used to earn a few cents by picking up stray
chunks of coal along the docks. Then, one day, he found a gun
and fired it in the streets to celebrate New Year's and impress his
friends. He was picked up by the police and sent to reform
school. Here he first learned to play the bugle and the comet.
His will to learn was so great that he clipped his mouthpiece in
order to fit it better to his lips.

At fourteen Louis was released from the Waifs* Home and sent
back to his family. For a couple of years he worked at odd jobs,
at a grocery and a dairy. But music had already become the focal
point of his existence. With some of his friends, he organized a
choral group which formed a part of the "second line" at marches,
funerals, and Mardi Gras parades.

He knew all the men who first made jazz, from Bolden on
down. On a spring evening when the Spanish moss was begin-
ning to turn green again, he would sit on the stoop of his James
Alley house and listen to the tormented wail which arose over
the quiet of the night in the poor district. King Bolden was blow-
ing his soul from Lincoln Park. At the first sound, black heads
popped out of the windows, and pretty soon a crowd would be
streaming in the direction of the trumpet call. There were others
too— Bunk Johnson was playing at Masonic Hall, and Freddie
Keppard was also around. Louis made no mistake; he knew what
he liked, and he recognized their talent.

Meanwhile King Bolden had slipped from the scene. Worn
out by liquor and vice, he had taken to playing weird and in-
human things on his comet. Finally he had to be shut up in the
asylum. And as dusk fell in the old French Quarter, Louis Arm-
strong, like hundreds of other Negro boys, dreamed of becoming
the new king.

Still in short pants, Louis was playing the cornet and looking
for professional engagements. From time to time he substituted
for the better-known New Orleans cometists. Then came 19 17,
and Storyville was shut up by government order. The jazz stars
sought employment elsewhere, and Louis Armstrong was chosen
to replace King Oliver when the latter left for Chicago. He
already had a group of ardent admirers which included Picou,

ii6 JAZZ

Sidne)^ Bechet, Albert Nicholas, Baby Dodds, and Zutty Single-
ton.

Armstrong was married about this time, but domestic bliss was
interrupted by frequent spats with his wife. Deciding to get away
from it all for a while, Louis quit his job and joined Fate
Marable's orchestra, which played on the river boats. Together
with such musicians as Boyd Atkins (sax), George Foster (bass),
Eugene Sedric (sax), Johnny Dodds (clarinet), and Zutty Single-
ton (drums), he spent several seasons on the flowing stream of
Old Man River. Then he went back to the Verger cabaret in
New Orleans (which has contributed one of the figures of the
Lindy Hop to posterity), and played with the Tuxedo Marching
Band.

He was tops in New Orleans, and his reputation spread, by
word of mouth, everywhere jazz was played. In Chicago, home-
town musicians praised the boy wonder to King Oliver. Joe may
have been worried about keeping his crown and desirous of safe-
guarding it from any direct challenge, but, whatever the reason,
he decided intelligently to send for Louis to join his band at the
Lincoln Gardens (31st and Gordon streets, in Chicago).

Armstrong quickly revealed himself as a star of the first magni-
tude, but so long as he remained as second trumpet to King
Oliver he could not expand. He was ambitious, and others,
especially Lil Hardin, the band's pianist, were ambitious for him.
She was the one who took him aside and taught him music,
transcribing for him some typical transitions which were to be
the very base of Armstrong's style. She helped develop his talent
and urged him to strike out on his own. Armstrong became first
trumpet at the Dreamland.

Louis married Lil in 1923 and left in the winter to try his
luck with Fletcher Henderson's orchestra at the Roseland in
New York. He took advantage of his stay in Manhattan to make
several recordings, with Henderson, with Clarence Williams, and
as accompanist for featured vocalists. Returning in November
1925 to the Dreamland in Chicago, he doubled as a soloist with
Erskine Tate's pit band at the Vendome Theatre.

As a cornetist, vocalist, and actor, Louis revealed himself a

JAZZ 117

peerless performer. A good-natured showman, he seemed the Hv-
ing expression of the enthusiastic soul of his race. His singing
sounded ridiculous at first, but there was something to the warm
vibrato of his throaty voice, something to the guttural slang- he
confided to his megaphone, something instrumental in his scat
phrasing, that went straight to the heart once you got used to it.
In his playing and singing was glory pure and simple.

When Louis Armstrong formed his own orchestra the first
period of jazz, which may be called the New Orleans period,
came to an end. Before we examine the new phase of his great
artistic career, which opened in 1926, we might do well to con-
sider the first part of his life in retrospect. During all this time
Armstrong was little more than one musician among others. As a
member of orchestras led by other men, he could not inspire
them with his own conceptions. His own personal qualities,
except for his talent as instrumentalist, were kept hidden. This
explains the diverse character of the recordings he made during
this period, with King Oliver, Fletcher Henderson, Clarence
Williams, and as accompanist to Bessie Smith and other blues
singers. During this stage of development he participated in en-
sembles whose atmosphere was generally that of New Orleans
collective improvisation. It should be noted, however, that
Fletcher Henderson's was a big band, impractical for pure im-
provisation, which had to resort to written arrangements to pre-
serve its balance.

There is no doubt but that Louis is an extraordinary instru-
mentalist, head and shoulders above the rest. His playing on these
early recordings is the most interesting thing about them. For
example. Chimes Blues, on which is Louis's first recorded solo,
is interesting to the extent that Armstrong participates in it. The
great talents of the other musicians— Johnny Dodds and Sidney
Bechet, to name but two— add additional sparkle to his improvisa-
tions. The spirit of the old New Orleans and river-boat orchestras
can be found in these old tunes: Canal Street Blues, Differ-
mouth (better known as the Sugar Foot Stoni'p^, High Society,
Buddy's Hahits, Camf Meeting Blues.

Playing with Louis in Fletcher Henderson's orchestra were

ii8 JAZZ

such jazz greats as Buster Bailey (clarinet), Don Redman (alto),
Coleman Hawkins (tenor). Louis's outstanding greatness be-
comes evident when you compare his already-mature talent with
the almost ludicrous playing of Hawkins at that time; listen to
Alahamy Bound, Cofenhagen, and Til See You in My Dreams.
In records like Sugar Foot Stomf the trumpet section is better
balanced, thanks to the addition of Joe Smith.

I am very fond of the records which Louis made at the same
time with Clarence Williams* Blue Five, a band which played in
the old New Orleans tradition of collective improvisation. It was
composed of Armstrong, Sidney Bechet, Clarence Williams
(piano), Buddy Christian (banjo), and Charlie Irvis (trom-
bone).

During the second period of Armstrong's career he led small
bands of his own which still relied on collective improvisation.
This was probably his greatest epoch from the point of view of
pure jazz. He was still a band musician, with his own part
in the collective playing, but now he directed the ensemble. I
hope you will grasp the difference between this and his previous
role; it stands out clearly in the recordings. Until this time the
general expression of each record was under the control of a band
leader who had hired Louis along with the other musicians. From
this point on the improvisations were directed according to Louis's
own conception. He was the orchestra leader, cometist, singer,
and the driving force.

The band was generally known as "Louis Armstrong and His
Hot Five," although it recorded under other names (such as "Lil's
Hot Shots," in honor of his wife). Besides Louis, the group in-
cluded Kid Ory on trombone, Johnny Dodds on clarinet, Lil
Hardin Armstrong on piano, Johnny St. Cyr on banjo. They
waxed a succession of beautiful sides, including Georgia Bo-Bo,
Yesl I'm in the Barrel, Cornet Chof Suey, Heebie Jeehies, Musk-
rat Ramhle.

In 1 927 the Hot Five became the Hot Seven, with the addition
of a bass and Baby Dodds, Johnny's brother, on drums. They con-
tinued the unbroken string of musical masterpieces, all the way
from Wild Man Blues to Savoy Blues. Louis was now becoming

JAZZ 119

famous as the steel-lipped cometist whose ideas and technique
amazed all who heard him.

In 1 928 we find him with a new Hot Five, one which has lost
most of the New Orleans flavor. This band had Earl "Father"
Hines on piano, Fred Robinson on trombone, Jimmy Strong on
clarinet, Mancy Cara on banjo, and Zutty Singleton on drums.

Armstrong was now at the height of his artistic and technical
powers. He was surrounded by other outstanding jazzmen who
were, in turn, inspired by the power of their great leader. Earl
Hines, for example, one of the greatest of all jazz pianists, never
again possessed the magnificent punch of Fireworks, West End
BlvLBs, Ski'p the Gutter, Knee Drofs, A Monday Date, Sugar
Foot Strut, Squeeze Me, and Two Deuces, which rank among
the summits of recorded jazz.

West End Blues particularly is a great recording which jazz
lovers never tire of (listen to how closely Cootie Williams follows
Armstrong's interpretation in his recent recording of the num-
ber). This is the period in which Louis definitely emerged as the
greatest of them all. Not only was he the finest musician and the
best improviser, but he became the man of jazz, indeed jazz itself.
The genius of Louis Armstrong was henceforth to shape the
/destinies of jazz. All the trumpeters imitated him; they tried to
copy his technique, his fingering, his breathing, his imagination,
his phrasing. This plagiarism became so flagrant that many even
copied his solos note for note, and even then only the best suc-
ceeded in making them sound anything like Louis. Only one
trumpet was not subjected to Armstrong's influence, and de-
veloped his own lyrical style— Bix Beiderbecke.

The dominant role which Louis Armstrong has played in the
development of jazz is hard for us fully to realize today. Not
very many are aware of the fact that most of our present-day
trumpets are simply repeating from memory ideas which Louis
created almost twenty years ago. It was he who fertilized the new
art, intensified it, animated it, and gave it the lift which has
carried it to the present time.

Later Don Redman was added to the band as saxophone and
arranger, and a long series of records, including St. James In-

I20 JAZZ

{irmary, Basin Street Blues, I Can't Give You Anything hut Love,
and Ain't Mishehavin, followed. During this period Armstrong's
^fame spread far and wide. The whole pattern of jazz was changed
by his influence. The white bands, whose development had
been arrested, were completely obliterated by the new tendency.
Armstrong's personality was so powerful, his improvising so pure,
that nothing mattered besides him. So it happened that the ad-
mirable phenomenon of collective improvisation gave way to the
individualist conceptions of Louis Armstrong.
I wrote as long ago as 1930:

Armstrong is sublime to such an extent that he has cleansed music
from all unnecessary flourishes. His work is full of exquisite ideas,
fresh and spontaneous. He has introduced themes and transitions
which have been copied by his whole generation. A skyscraper mu-
sician, he is able to climb into the upper register with a facility which
disconcerts all his rivals. A witty musician, he injects a bit of the
Rhapsody in Blue at one point, a glimpse of Kitten on the Keys at
another, incorporates the beginning of the Black Bottom into After
You've Gone, In Mahogany Hall Stomf he holds a note for ten bars,
and repeats a group of five notes seven times; and while this sort of
playing might seem crude and barbarous at first, Louis's gift for
rhythm and phrasing makes it extremely effective. . . . And this
extraordinary interpretation will be copied by all the name bands;
Duke Ellington's Ring Dem Bells uses the effects of Mahogany Hall.
... Until Armstrong, jazz seemed to be baffled by words; Louis put
heart and sensibility into his singing; he swallows his words, chews
them, pulverizes them, forgets them, and substitutes inarticulate syl-
lables which resound like trumpet notes. His singing is a veritable
oracle, like the frenzied utterances of the Delphic pythoness pos-
sessed by the spirit.

There is nothing to add to these hyperbolic words of praise,
save that Louis has maintained his unfailing greatness for twenty
years now. As we shall see in examining his technical develop-
ment during the third phase of his musical career, he remained
the greatest of jazz musicians.

After many recording sessions, notably the famous Knockin a
Jug date when Jack Teagarden, Happy Cauldwell, Joe Sullivan,

JAZZ - 121

Eddie Lang, and Kaiser Marshall played with him, Armstrong's
genius was universally recognized. White musicians were proud
to play with him. His spectacular qualities were so great that
those of the accompanying band were ignored. The only thing
that mattered was the genius of Armstrong. Louis's personality
was used to fill the gap left by the discarding of the old collective
improvisation formula. The orchestra was now no more than a
backdrop designed to set off the superb qualities of its leader. The
backdrop had little importance; the ringleader was all that mat-
tered. There was enough passionate explosiveness in Louis to
leave his accompaniment hidden in the penumbra behind him.
The band no longer improvised as of yore. Playing arrangements,
they acted as a springboard from which Louis could plunge into
his dazzling solos. When one of them took an occasional solo, it
was to give Armstrong a rest. Orchestral unity based on equality
had given way to orchestral unity based on subordination.

This was the formula he adopted when playing with Carroll
Dickerson's orchestra. Louis was acquiring his stage presence
during this period, which produced Aint Mishehavin, Black and
Blue, That Rhythm Man, Sweet Savannah Sue, Some of These
Days, When You're Smelling.

Then he secured the solid assistance of Luis Russell's orchestra,
with Henry Allen and Otis Johnson in the trumpet section; J. C.
Higginbotham, second only to Jimmie Harrison among the col-
ored trombonists; a reed section composed of Charles Holmes
(alto), Teddy Hill (tenor), Albert Nicholas (clarinet); and a
rhythm section consisting of Luis Russell (piano). Will Johnson
(guitar). Pop Foster (bass), and Paul Barbarin (drums). This
was another great period, about 1930, when I Aint Got Nohody
and Rockin Chair were waxed. This was the band to which Louis
returned several times during the whole decade, although he
deserted it from time to time to play with other groups.

During 1930 Armstrong made three records— including Dinah
and Tiger Rag— with a band which included Eddie Anderson
as second trumpet and Cass McCord on tenor. That winter Louis
was on the Coast with Les Hite's orchestra at Sebastian's New
Cotton Club, which featured Lawrence Brow^, who later became

122 JAZZ

one of Duke Ellington's trombones, and Lionel Hampton on
drums.

Band succeeded band. Louis made a series of recordings with
Zilner Randolph and some others; my favorites are When It's
Sleeky Time Down South, You Rascal You, Georgia on My
Mind, and Stardust. Then Chick Webb's band became Arm-
strong's supporting vehicle.

Meanwhile, Armstrong made a successful tour of Europe, Re-
turning, he made a dozen or so more records with Zilner Ran-
dolph again, this time with Teddy Wilson on piano. On another
triumphal jaunt through Europe he played with a bunch of
colored musicians whom he found in Paris: Jack Hamilton,
Leslie Thomson, trumpets; L. Guimaraes, trombone; Pete Du-
conge, Henry Tyree, and Alfred Pratt, saxophones; Herman
Chittison, a fine pianist; M. Jefferson, guitar; O. Arago, bass; O.
Tines, drums. With this combination he waxed some very rare
sides: St. Louis Blues, Supper Tiger Rag, On the Sunny Side of
the Street (two parts). Song of the Vipers, Will You Won't you.

Armstrong went back to America in 1935. He divorced Lil
Hardin, from whom he had long been separated, and married
Alpha. Luis Russell's band, which had been on tour, was hired
again to play with Louis, and it has remained with him to this
day, although its outstanding members— Red Allen, J. C. Higgin-
botham, Charles Holmes, Al Nicholas, Pop Foster, and Sidney
Cadett— all left it about two years ago, and Russell himself left
late in 1943. Louis has also recorded with several other groups of
late— of the most diverse character imaginable : with white bands
including musicians such as Jimmy Dorsey and Bunny Berigan;
with exotic outfits like Andy Zona and His Islanders, the Poly-
nesians with Lionel Hampton, the Mills Brothers, with a mixed
Negro choir; and finally with a New Orleans band which in-
cluded Bechet.

The mechanism of genius is a difficult thing to determine, the
more so when the art is new and the artist still living. The task,
however, imposes itself on the conscientious critic, and one could
fix on no better case than Louis Armstrong. I have often pondered
this problem, and wondered what was the reason for his superi-

JAZZ 123

ority. Why do so many excellent musicians recognize that Louis
is way ahead of them, in a class by himself?

The answer is simple, but it doesn't explain very much. Louis
Armstrong has the precise balance which is necessary for the full
expression of a great jazz musician. All the necessary elements,
and these of the required strength, are providentially brought
together in him. He has the spirit which is needed in order to
conceive, and the tool which is necessary in order to put into
eflrect. These two qualities, developed to such a degree, are to be
found in one man only once in a generation. There are other
musicians who have the ideas, who have the creative power, but
who have not been able to master their means of expression. Roy
Eldridge, for example, is exciting and brilliant, but he lacks Arm-
strong's sureness and perfection. Some have the necessary intelli-
gence and memory to serve their creativeness, but they do not
have Louis's spontaneous spirit— they only repeat his ideas in
dilute form. Others have somewhat less imagination and some-
what less technique than Louis but, even so, are top-flight
trumpets.

After Louis, there are a dozen or so front-rank trumpets whom
I greatly admire. For many of them, their misfortune is to have
come into the world at the same time as Armstrong, whose trail
blazing has limited the possibilities of their expansion. I can
readily imagine that, had Armstrong never existed, men like Red
Allen, Cootie Williams, and Roy Eldridge might have been able
to develop on their own, eventually reaching a position as great
as Louis has. But with Louis having shown the way, it becomes
very difficult to develop a personal path aside from the one which
Armstrong was the first to explore.

This sort of thing is common in any art form, as witness the
various schools of literature. When a genius appears he gathers
a group of disciples around him, and their influence is reflected
even among artists of the second rank. The mold is shaped by
the dominating genius, and it is well-nigh impossible for any of
his school to develop a distinct personality of his own.

As I say, there are a dozen or so admirable trumpets with ex-
ceptional qualities, yet all lack a certain something. There is per-

124 JAZZ

haps one whose extraordinary balance of invention and technique
merit him a higher position: I refer to Charlie Shavers. He has
the individuality and the ingenuity which almost permit him to
escape Armstrong's domination. He is exciting, bold, tasteful,
witty, facile. Time will tell whether or not I am mistaken, but
every time I hear him play at one of the jam sessions run by my
friend Harry Lim, I sense an emotion which has become increas-
ingly rare these days. I have but one regret: the splendid but
overrefined formula of John Kirby's band may smother his power
of improvisation.

But let's get back to Louis Armstrong. The most phenomenal
thing about Louis is that it is as easy and as everyday a thing
for him to create beauty as it is for an apple tree to bear apples.
The second he hits a note, his emotions and his heartbeats flow
into it.

I have previously spoken of the process which permits Louis
to maintain his uniformly high level : namely, the trance. Besides
the two qualities which I have just mentioned— imagination and
technique— Louis possesses the great gift which permits him al-
most automatically to enter into a trance and then to express his
sensibility by means of his instrument. The other two qualities are
possessed to a greater or lesser degree by the musicians we have
just compared to Armstrong. Here is a fact I want you all to mull
over. Many musicians, particularly among the whites, have
plenty of natural talent; yet, for these, the phenomenon of the
trance is rare if not completely nonexistent. Armstrong's gift is
present in a few Negroes— Charlie Shavers and Leo Watson, to
name but two— but I know of no white musician who is able to
forget himself, to create his own atmosphere, and to whip himself
up into a state of complete frenzy.

Louis Armstrong is indeed an exception to the common run of
mortals. I think I know other Negroes who can work themselves
into a state of trance, but these, unfortunately, do not play the
trumpet. And there are many other Negroes who play the trum-
pet but who seldom can get out of this world.

How then, you may ask, can I class certain white orchestras

JAZZ 125

among the greatest? Because what an individual cannot accom-
plish automatically, as Louis Armstrong does, a group of pre-
disposed persons can do by suggestion and interaction. When one
Negro becomes possessed at a baptism, the whole crowd is agi-
tated and follows suit.

Except for gifted people like Louis Armstrong, this is im-
possible for any musician to accomplish, and effectively extin-
guishes any spark of excitement. It is not the untrammeled heart
of the soloist of a large orchestra which inspires his playing, but
merely his fingers, which produce a soulless music from memory.

We shall see later that this kind of excitement can still be
found in a few small Dixieland bands, but here we are concerned
only with the exceptional gift of Louis Armstrong.

I think that I heard my first Armstrong record in 1928. It hit
me with a terrific impact, and I realized that something new and
important had been bom in jazz, something outside the limits
of my previous experience, which went from the Original Dixie-
land through Red Nichols. My friend Ernest Moerman devoted
a long poem, which appeared in the Negro Encyclopedia, to
Louis. When I heard in 1932 that the star whom I knew solely
through records was coming to England, I arranged to make the
trip especially in order to see him in the flesh.

I remember how excited I was at the time; as far as I was con-
cerned, London didn't exist except as the place where Armstrong
was to make his miraculous appearance at the Palladium on a
Monday. I immediately ran to the music hall, and its caretaker
told me that Armstrong was waiting for some colored musicians
who were to arrive from Paris at four o'clock, and that they were
to rehearse at five, on Poland Street.

Shortly before the train was to arrive I was walking impatiently
up and down the platform at Victoria Station, straining my eyes
to catch a glimpse of Louis Armstrong. I looked in vain. I had the
impression that everyone waiting there was, like me, drawn for
love of jazz. I saw a gentleman with a loud tie, carrying a box
which I thought was an instrument case. I approached him and
asked if he were waiting for Louis. He didn't understand. (My

126 JAZZ

English then was a good deal more approximate than it is now.)
He made a gesture to indicate his failure to comprehend me. I
pointed to his case and asked, "Saxophone?"

"No," he replied, "fox terrier!"

I moved on toward a pretty girl with a bouquet in her arms.
She looked at me with obvious English distaste. Finally I per-
ceived a dark-skinned face. I went up and asked, "Are you wait-
ing for Louis Armstrong?"

His rosy mouth opened to show his dazzling white teeth.
"That's me, sir."

Ten minutes later he was calling me "Gate," and I was calling
him "Satchmo'." I gave him a copy of my book, the first to appear
on jazz. He saw the dedication and was very moved by it, even
kissing it. We left for the rehearsal together with the musicians
I knew from Paris— Charlie Johnson, Joe Haymes, and a few
others.

Until late in the evening I remained in the hall listening to
Louis rehearse. It was unbelievable. He shut his eyes, flourished
his trumpet, twisted his handkerchief, sang in tears, climbed up
to hit notes with his neck and cheek so distended that I thought
they would burst. What a revelation it was!

This still was during the era of American prohibition. Sud-
denly Armstrong's manager, Johnny Collins, came into the hall,
soaked to the gills. He had been making up for lost time ever
since his arrival in London. He started drunkenly to argue with
Louis, and then turned to leave. Blotto as he was, he tried to exit
through a mirror which the actors used. He broke the tremen-
dous cigar which he had been puffing so furiously.

Monday at the Palladium was a sensation. Never have I ex-
perienced such an emotion. Sleeky Time Down South, Them
There Eyes, When You're Smiling, Tiger Rag. The place was
rocking like a steamship in heavy weather. Young chaps sank to
their knees; young girls wept.

I went to join Louis in his box. Jack Johnson, the old world's
heavyweight champion, was there; so were Nat Gonella and
some other British musicians, who could scarcely believe their
eyes and ears. Some young trumpeters asked to examine Louis's

JAZZ 127

mouthpiece; they couldn't beheve that anyone could achieve such
power without some mechanical aid. Fanny Cotton, the hand-
some singer, came up in a taxi, having flown to London, but
Alpha was keeping close watch over her man.

Together with the manager and Alpha, we left very late, to
go to the Monseigneur, where Joe Grossman and Nat Gonella
were playing. They seated us in the balcony. Only five minutes
remained during which liquor could be legally served. Johnny
Collins whispered a few words in the waiter's ear, and a few
minutes later, up came a tray loaded wdth thirty big glasses of ale.
After the sixth glass the manager had just about passed out.
Louis's eye was still alert. I said to him, "What will you do if,
when you get to Paris, you find you aren't well received because
you don't sing French?'*

Louis answered with a broad grin, 'Til sing 'em Til Be Glad
When You're Dead You Rascal You."

At that moment Collins spoke to me, "Can you fight?"

"Yes," I said.

"Then I won't pay," Collins shouted.

This started a terrible riot. We had to carry Collins off like a
sack of potatoes, and Armstrong signed for the check.

I saw Louis several times after that— in Paris, Brussels, and
Rotterdam. I flatter myself that we became friends. When he
came to Brussels he was received with great pomp at the home
of the president of the Bar Association. He spent an evening at
my house and sang I Ain't Got Nohody and J Cover the Water-
front for us, with Chittison playing the piano. We played some
records for him, and he listened appreciatively, keeping time to
them. I played some Chicagoans, the Chocolate Dandies' Got
Another Sweetie No%v, and finally No. When he heard this last,
Armstrong approached the phonograph, interested, and listened
closely, rolling his eyes. "What's that fine band?" he asked.

"Louis Armstrong," we told him.

So diverse is his playing that he hadn't recognized himself.

Is Armstrong a moving musician? He is emotion itself. I should
like to tell you a story to prove this point. I had often discussed
the emotive power of jazz with Antoine Ysaye, son of the great

128 JAZZ

violinist. He had received a classical training, and denied that
the new American music had any artistic value whatsoever. One
Sunday morning I took him with me to hear Armstrong play in
Rotterdam. On the train he laughed at my enthusiasm in antici-
pating the music we were about to hear.

ril never forget that concert, which began with a terrific ren-
dition of the St. Louis Blues. I closed my eyes to hear it better.
It finished with a jolt. Suddenly I heard a strident yell next to me.
I opened my eyes, and there was Ysaye standing on his chair,
shouting, stamping, weeping. I had to calm him down. Louis
Armstrong had convinced (and how!) a confirmed disbeliever
in jazz. And Ysay2 proclaimed, "Armstrong is the greatest musi-
cian in the world."

After this trip in Europe, Armstrong wrote:

During my own three years playing in England and on the Con-
tinent, the very first music critics would come back to my dressing
room, or call upon me at my hotel, and talk with me for hours about
the significance of our music and what they thought it meant. . . .
That had never happened to me before in America.

Then came my trip to America, where I spent several evenings
with Armstrong, and finally my exile during the bleak days of
1940. A half-hour after the parachute blitz on the Low Countries,
I had broken with my past. Now, here I was in New York, wor-
ried about the future, and looking up all my old friends. I went
to see Louis, who was playing at the Paramount Theatre. He
was resting in a huge armchair and held out his light palms to
me. His wife was putting on make-up. He didn't say anything in
front of her but, in his dressing gown, took me out into the cor-
ridor. He took my hand, looked me in the eye, and said, while
rolling his expressive eyes, "My dear friend, if you need money,
no matter how much, don't you ask anyone else but old
Satchmo'."

I went off, weeping. He was the only one of my friends who
had given a thought to what my situation might be. Jazz meant
a lot to me at that tragic moment of my life. I dried my tears,
joined the anonymous throng in the theater, and listened to

JAZZ 129

Louis, far oflE on the stage, gargling the eternal lament of his
Tiger Rag,

IX. SMALL WHITE BANDS OF THE TWENTIES

Pennies and Molers^ Bix and Chicagoans

Following the heroic age of the great white bands, there came
a period of varied musical currents which played a part in shap-
ing the evolution of jazz, jazzmen has given us a good many anec-
dotes about this period and the men who made it; we are inter-
ested here in its salient characteristics and its lasting effect on
jazz music.

Pure jazz in orchestral form was no longer a paying item. The
tendency was toward large, pretentious, symphonic bands. Paul
Whiteman's debut in Carnegie Hall was symbolic of the era in
which someone like Whiteman could be known as the King of
Jazz, Other bands modeled themselves on his: George Olsen,
Sam Lanin, Ray Miller, Don Voorhees, Roger Wolfe Kahn, Vin-
cent Lopez, and so on.

The genuine hot musicians were themselves forced to seek jobs
in the big bands of the day. They earned their bread this way,
and they satisfied their craving for real jazz by after-hour jam
sessions with other hot men from whatever big bands were in
town. From time to time these small pickup bands were fortunate
enough to hold recording sessions. Needless to say, the music they
preserved on wax has been dealt with far more kindly by
time than the pretentiousness of the syraphonic swdng bands.

The groups we shall discuss in this chapter carried on in di-
verse forms between 1925 and 1932. Their intentions varied
widely, and so did their luck, but, in general, they can be de-
scribed as small recording bands grouped around a few central
figures and sharing a common conception of jazz.

The Pennies and the Molers, by which terms I include all
the recording groups which were organized and inspired by Red

I30 JAZZ

Nichols and Miff Mole, were easily the most prolific of these
bands. Whatever be their faults, the stamp of their sensitive per-
sonality had an undeniable charm.

As for the second group, the centripetal power of a great musi-
cian, Bix Beiderbecke, drew together some transitory groups of
musicians who lacked the team play of the Nichols group. But
the lyrical qualities of Bix's flawless tone and imagination made
up for this. The big bands with which he played even tried to
re-create a similar atmosphere for him.

The Chicagoans possessed the spirit, the formula, and the feel-
ing, rather than a unified ensemble of outstanding personalities.
The name has been applied to a group of young white musicians
from Illinois and Indiana who tried to follow in the direct line
of the New Orleans Rhythm Kings and the Original Dixieland.
Theirs was improvisation pure, featuring the all-out final en-
semble. The group was not very definite; they got together from
time to time but didn't record very often. But some of the records
they made around 1928 were so perfect that, unlike those of the
Nichols and Beiderbecke groups, every note still stands out as
a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

Red Nichols was bom in California and spent his childhood in
San Jose, in the Sierra Nevada, near San Francisco. He used to
play trumpet in the marching band of his natal town. He went
east and played in the band of the Culver Military Academy.
Here, George Olsen happened to hear him and hired him on the
spot. Arriving in New York with Olsen, Nichols heard two
cometists who made a lasting impression on him: Louis Arm-
strong at the Roseland, and Bix Beiderbecke at the Cinderella.

Red also met a charming and well-mannered young man. Miff
Mole by name, who had won a great reputation with the Mem-
phis Five and the Cotton Pickers. The two hit it off immediately,
and soon they were playing together with the California Ram-
blers. And the recording groups which we shall describe are but
a prolongation of this old band.

The musicians who figured in these groups were, on the whole,
an outstanding lot. There were the now-famous Dorsey brothers,
Jimmy and Tommy, who had received musical training at an

JAZZ 131

early age. There was Arthur Schutt, who had been an insignifi-
cant small-town pianist who played in a motion-picture theater
(those were the days before the talkies), when he was discovered
by Paul Specht and featured with the Georgians.

Eddie Lang and Joe Venuti had been wandering troubadours
before Frank Guarente came along and recognized their possi-
bilities. Adrian Rollini, an important member of the California
Ramblers, had a tremendous influence, though one which has
disappeared completely, as a bass saxophonist. He went to Eng-
land in 1928 to play with Fred Elizalde's band in London. We
mustn't forget Fud Livingston, a great clarinetist, or his succes-
sors, Bobby Davis, Pee Wee Russell, Babe Rusin, Benny Good-
man, Sid Stoneberg, Bud Freeman, Frank Teschemacher. Among
the trombonists were Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Jack Tea-
garden— not a bad assortment!

The basses of the band during its first period consisted of Red
Nichols, MiflF Mole, Jimmy Dorsey, Arthur Schutt, and Vic
Berton.

Red Nichols, who appears to have been the organizer and soul
of the group, used it to express his reaction against the big bands.
They tried to play hot, mingling the inspiration of improvised
jazz with orchestrated music. Red Nichols and his friends re-
tained the heritage of solo improvisation but dropped the tradi-
tion of collective improvisation.

The Red Heads was the first of these Nichols groups, all of
which had their own personality and resonance. The contexture
of the group— both in technique and in sentiment— is easily rec-
ognizable.

Nichols himself was an excellent instrumentalist but not a
great improviser. This should not be held against him; neither
are Duke Ellington and Fletcher Henderson, nor is their glory
the least bit dimmer for it. For a whole decade Red Nichols
conducted a work which played an important role in the evolu-
tion of jazz. At his side constantly was Miff Mole, an extraor-
dinary trombone whose solos can be heard time and time again
without losing interest.

I remember the first records which came over and captivated

132 JAZZ

our European hearts: Fallen Arches, Hi Diddle Diddle, Dyna-
mite, Hurricane, That's No Bargain, Heebie Jeehies. To my
mind, they represent something great, an effort which has been
very unjustly condemned.

What else was there at the timer' Nothing! The great orig-
inators had retired, the Chicagoans were still kids learning how
to play, and even Bix had not yet decided what lyrical path to
follow. When Hugues Panassie passed judgment on these three
groups in 1932, it was simple for him to make the choice to which
everyone has since concurred. His reaction against Red Nichols
in support of the great tradition was quite unnecessary, yet there
was a great deal of difference between this opinion and refusing
all consideration of the many fine products of the Pennies-Molers
group between 1925 and 1930.

Moreover, Nichols was the first to bring public attention to
many great musicians who then were lost in the big bands around
New York: Eddie Lang, for example, or Pee Wee Russell, or
Adrian Rollini.

The period of Red Nichols and His Five Pennies which dates
from 1927 has been shamefully mistreated. In the long series of
their recordings are some unquestionable masterpieces. The band
had a pleasing individuality, a moving expressiveness, and a gen-
uine soul. Though Nichols was surely no Bix, his orchestra stood
for a happy reaction against commercialism. And I think it likely
that the Nichols ensembles will still be listened to with interest
when the banal orchestral contexture which surrounded Bix will
be absolutely unbearable to hear.

My particular favorites are Washboard Blues, That's No Bar-
gain, Buddy's Habits, Boneyard Shuffle, Bugle Call Rag, Ida,
Feelin No Pain, Riverboat Shuffle.

What do I care if other musicians have greater power, if other
records are more effective? There are many reasons for liking a
band— because of its atmosphere, because of one musician in it,
because of its swing, or simply for some intangible subjective
reason. I like these Red Nichols records for their individual and
sustained flavor, for certain solos by Jimmy Dorsey, for such mas-
terfully orchestrated passages as in Boneyard Shuffle, for the

JAZZ 133

sweet melancholy of Ida, for Fud Livingston's playing in Margie,
or Pee Wee Russell in There'll Come a Time, or Benny Goodman
in Chinatown, On the Alamo, Dinah, and Indiana.

Success came to Red Nichols, and he became more ambitious.
He increased the size of his orchestra and recruited front-rank
musicians for it. But despite this, the future recordings no longer
had the accent of sincerity of the earlier period.

Take Peg d My Heart for example— a Glenn Miller arrange-
ment. The band was composed of Red Nichols, Charlie Tea-
garden, Jack Teagarden, Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Babe
Rusin, Joe Sullivan, Gene Krupa, and others. Despite this array
of individual talent, the ensembles lack any outstanding qualities.

The band recorded under any number of pseudonyms: Red
and Miff's Stompers, Arkansas Travelers, Louisiana Rhythm
Kings, Six Hottentots, Alabama Red Peppers, Charleston
Chasers, etc.

Around 1929, under the title of "Louisiana Rhythm Kings,**
a band consisting of Nichols, Jack Teagarden, Pee Wee Russell,
Bud Freeman, and Dave Tough recorded some wonderful sides:
That Dada Strain, Basin Street Blues.

Miff Mole began recording about 1926 as Miff Mole and His
Little Molers. I have a warm spot in my heart for two of his
records : Alexander's Ragtim^e Band, Some Sweet Day, and A Hot
Tim,e in the Old Town, Darktown Strutters Ball. I could listen
to these four sides until the end of my days without growing tired
of them. They have an unexpected spontaneity and freshness,
and Eddie Lang really gets off.

As for Shim-m.e-sha-%vahhle, recorded by Miff Mole, Red Nich-
ols, Frank Teschemacher, Joe Sullivan, Eddie Condon, and Gene
Krupa, it is a true jazz masterpiece equal to the work of the New
Orleans Rhythm Kings and the Wolverines on the same number.
An album containing all these Shim-m-e-sha-wahhles should be
issued; it would be interesting to hear and would illustrate the
stages in the evolution of jazz.

Today the members of the Nichols-Mole groups are scattered,
and fate has treated them in the strangest and most disparate
fashion. Red Nichols, after playing with a long series of differing

134 JAZZ

bands until two or three years ago, has disappeared from the jazz
world. Miff Mok confined his activity for many years to the
radio, but was with Benny Goodman in 1943. The Dorsey broth-
ers had a band, split, and now each leads one of America's most
popular bands. Adrian Rollini now leads a trio at Jack Dempsey's
or elsewhere, playing vibraharp. Benny Goodman has long since
become the King of Swing.

Thus the spotlight has picked out some of these old comrades,
and others have been left forgotten in the shadows. But those
who laugh at Red Nichols and His Pennies fail to remember
that the bands they praise to the skies are led by alumni of the
Nichols-Mole aggreaation.

Bix Beiderbecke has already become a legend, and it is diffi-
cult to distinguish between fact and fiction in his career. With
jazz, as with painting and poetry, death imparts great qualities
which are never discovered in living artists. Bix had no need of
this halo, yet it is my impression that his importance had been
deformed and made to appear more important by this attitude.

Make no mistake about it. When I cite the great hot musicians,
I always mention Armstrong, Beiderbecke, Coleman Hawkins,
and Earl Hines. Others perhaps have played equally important
roles in the history of jazz, it is true. Yet, even though Louis Arm-
strong is the only one who has completely withstood the test of
time and continues to play great jazz, I stick to this list. Others
have assumed much greater importance in the last decade, not-
ably Benny Goodman and Jimmy Lunceford, who have shaped
white and colored swing respectively.

But we must reconsider our opinion of Bix Beiderbecke, the
"young man with a horn." Already he has been the inspiration
for a novel. All that his career needs is a good love story to make
an extraordinary theme for the movies.

Leon Beiderbecke was bom in Davenport, Iowa, where, as a
boy, he first was stirred by the call of the new music. He used to
listen to the river-boat bands, and, pale and deeply moved, he'd
go home, his destiny whirling about in his brain. In the evening
he listened to the phonograph and dreamed of being able to make
music himself. He taught himself to play the comet and later

JAZZ 135

remained faithful to that instrument even after it had been gen-
erally superseded by the trumpet.

There has been a good deal of verbiage wasted in discussing
the various influences on Bix. King Oliver, Louis Armstrong,
Paul Mares, and Emmett Hardy have been mentioned, and we
have seen that Nick La Rocca and Frank Guarente also belong
on the list.

Some have sought to include among these influences the name
of Johnny Dunn, the reputed inventor of the wa-wa style. That's
going a bit too far. I have often listened to Johnny Dunn, and
I fail to see how his banal playing could possibly have influenced
Bix's passionate style.

Around 1 92 1 Bix entered Lake Forest Academy, near Chicago.
At this time he was a shining-faced young man for whom jazz
had become a daily need. Whereas I use up the better part of my
time in listening to bands and buying records, Bix found a better
solution to the problem of the jazz fan. He played it himself and
mingled with those of his own age who felt the same enthusiasm.

Around 1922 a small group of pure musicians— half amateur,
half professional— began to gig around in Ohio and Indiana,
Among its members were Dick Voynow (piano), George John-
son (sax), Jimmy Hartwell (clarinet), Al Gande (trombone).
Bob Gonzelman and later Vic Berton (drums). Bix soon joined
this bunch and rapidly became its inspiring force. Except for
Bix, the band, which left its Midwestern birthplace for the Cin-
derella Ballroom in New York, boasted no extraordinary musi-
cians, although George Brunies and even Frank Teschemacher
played with it for a while. Imagine what the triumvirate of Bix,
Brunies, and Teschemacher might have accomplished if they had
been allowed to develop together in the same band! But such
conjectures are vain. In jazz, one plus one plus one does not nec-
essarily equal three. Psychological factors are so important that
a group of obscure musicians often produces better music than
an all-star band.

This band is another convincing demonstration that musical
inventiveness varies inversely with musical culture. Jazz, we
should always remember, was the product of uncultured persons,

136 JAZZ

and many of its greatest moments were due to illiterate musicians.
Such is the case here, since scarcely any of the Wolverines were
able to read music. Why is this so?

Why? Because reliance on written music kills off inspiration.
Bix was great because he taught himself and adapted his tech-
nique to fit his need and mood. Those who study music, and try
to modify their own personalities to acquire the proper technique,
should keep this in mind.

The Wolverines, in records like Copenhagen, inspired the
whole white school of music. Bix, who had accompanied the
band to New York, where he spent much of his time listening to
the Original Dixieland, had already begun to drink heavily be-
fore he left it.

Returning to Chicago, Bix played for a while (so the books
on jazz inform us) with Charlie Straight's band at the Rendez-
vous. The group was in rather close contact with Ethel Waters.
But Bix was dissatisfied with Straight; he failed to find the echo
to his emotional craving for creation, and quit. He left for St.
Louis, where he joined Frankie Trumbauer at the Arcadia Ball-
room. The two men understood each other and complemented
each other perfectly.

When this outfit broke up, both Bix and Trumbauer joined up
with Jean Goldkette, who was building up the best big band in
America. Bix was teamed with Ray Ludwig and Fred Farrar in
the trumpet section. But Bix was bored by the written section
work and felt stifled by the general atmosphere, which left him
free only for a bar or two here and there in its recordings. With
Jean Goldkette, Bix made some lasting friendships with such
musicians as Don Murray and Chauncey Moorehouse. The
presence of Bix finally determined Goldkette to split his or-
chestra in two— a hot band, and a melodic band.

Mezz Mezzrow has often told me of the admiration and affec-
tion he felt for Bix. Mezzrow himself had fallen under the swav
of jazz, and learned to play saxophone and clarinet in Chicago.
He used to go out to hear Goldkette's band, half asleep at the
table behind his bottle of bootleg liquor until the warm and flow-

JAZZ 137

ing phrases of Bix's cornet woke him up. Returning to Chicago,
he sometimes sat in with a band which contained Teschemacher,
Bud Freeman, and Jimmy MacPartland, who succeeded Bix with
the Wolverines. They were playing in a cheap little, Chicago
spot. Mezz would listen to them, wet-eyed and silent, attracted to
this pure music as by the Promised Land. But Bix's initiative was
already sapped by liquor, and he found it easier to earn big
money with the large orchestras. Yet, with all his heart, he
yearned for the difficult life of the devotee of pure jazz.

Later, Bix, together with many of Goldkette's stars, left to join
Paul Whiteman. He was received like the prodigal son.

Bix drank more and more, and the irregular hours of the mu-
sician did him no good. He lay abed all morning, sometimes
dreaming of the big blonde who had stared at him all night at the
Greystone Ballroom in Detroit, and who had abandoned every-
thing in order to follow him for several days. What had become
of her? Sometimes he felt like quitting and going back to Cin-
cinnati. Then he'd drown his sorrows in liquor, or forget them
under the strain of creating beauty on his comet.

Finally Bix reached the point where he could no longer play
vdth the band. He tried his best to reform. He made drastic reso-
lutions, which he promptly forgot on the morrow. He was on the
point of joining the Casa Loma band, but a drinking bout ruined
this opportunity.

He went back with Paul Whiteman, but from time to time he
had to rest up. Finally, he caught cold on a date at Princeton.
Only a shadow of his former self, Bix did not have the resistance
to overcome his illness. And so Bix, who day after day promised
himself that he would return to Davenport to drink milk and
play in the grass, finally went west in August 1 93 1 , but not the
way he planned.

Bix brought to jazz one of the most original and highly per-
fected talents it has ever commanded. Had his will power not
been destroyed by alcohol, this great improviser might have be-
come the great man of jazz. But he failed to surround himself
with musicians who could bring out the best in him. The list of

138 JAZZ

his recordings is a list of pitiful failures in which the beauty of
the purest and hardest gem is marred by the inadequacy of its
setting.

His first recording band, Bix and His Rhythm Jugglers, con-
tained Don Murray and Tommy Dorsey. Next he recorded his
deeply moving piano solo, In a Mist, or Bixology. Then came his
best recording period, when he surrounded himself v/ith a group
of friends for a number of sessions: Bill Rank (trombone), Don
Murray (clarinet), Adrian Rollini (bass sax), Frank Signorelli
(piano). Howdy Quicksell (banjo), Chauncey Moorehouse
(drums), were the basic group, although the personnel varied
from session to session. At the Jazz Band Ball, Jazz Me Blues,
Royal Garden Blues, Goose Pim'ples, Sorry, Since My Best Girl
Turned Me Down, Somebody Stole My Gal, Rhythm King,
Louisiana, are the numbers which will outlive most of Bix's
recordings.

About the same time, recording under the name of Frankie
Trumbauer, he made some fine sides, including Singing the
Blues and Clarinet Marmalade, There are sparks of genius in the
other recordings, but the constantly changing personnel never
permitted the various groups to attain a real orchestral unity. The
larger bands of a slightly later date, which produced Crying All
Day, Lila, My Pet, and Dusky Stevedore, were insipid in char-
acter. There'll Cow,e a Time and Mississippi Mud, however, are
still moving renditions. The others, like the recordings with Gold-
kette and Whiteman, can scarcely be listened to with a straight
face.

The all-star recording sessions organized by Hoagy Carmichael,
when Bix, Bubber Miley, Benny Goodman, the Dorseys, Bud
Freeman, Jack Teagarden, Gene Krupa, Joe Venuti, and Eddie
Lang made Rockin Chair, Barnacle Bill, and Georgia, did not
produce the best Bix items. They were made vv^hen Beiderbecke
was already well along the road to his premature grave.

During the winter of 1931 Paul Whiteman's band played with
one chair left vacant— the chair of Bix Beiderbecke. His friends
realized that a genius had committed suicide, and that his place
could never be filled.

JAZZ 139

Somewhat later, when the "young man with a horn" had al-
ready become legendary, a group of musicians made the long pil-
grimage to Davenport. They arrived early and went straight to
the cemetery, from which they saw a woman in mourning emerg-
ing. It was Bix's mother. The men knelt before the grave of the
great jazz hero, not saying a word. The sun was rising above the
near-by forest; the wind was playing with the leaves and the
flowers. The men remained wordless, but they spoke to Bix in
the only language he ever understood. They took out their in-
struments, muted, and played In a Mist.

The "Chicagoans" and "Chicago style" are terms which were
put into currency by Hugues Panassie. They refer to a small
group of musicians, gathered in the Windy City during the late
twenties, who played in the old New Orleans tradition, slightly
modified. They fulfilled the same mission as the New Orleans
Rhythm Kings and the Cotton Pickers had before them.

This, however, was no definitely constituted and durable or-
chestra. It was simply a bunch of fellows attracted to the old con-
ception of pure jazz music. Its nucleus was drawn from several
mediocre Midwestern bands, whose hot members got together,
wherever the opportunity presented itself, for jam and recording
sessions.

As a matter of fact, the Chicagoans contained amateurs as well
as professionals. Love rather than necessity drew them to jazz.
They were not after money; they were satisfying an emotional
need. That is why their conception remained pure and their
attitude uncompromising. That is why, amidst all the musical
fans of recent years, they are still the ardent zealots of their
youth. They prefer to play as they please in small bands rather
than pull down big salaries as members of name bands. Their
intransigence has saved their integrity, and we all owe a debt
. to Hugues Panassie for having helped in arousing their conscious-
^* ness of their mission.

The groups of Red Nichols and Bix Beiderbecke compromised;
both of them served as the well-paid stars of big bands. Nothing
remains except musicians who felt the spirit, made a few fine
recordings, and passed on the torch to others. The poet Lamartine

I40 JAZZ

said that poetry made only those at the two extremities of life
weep— the young from hope, and the old from regret. The same
is true of jazz.

The nucleus of the Chicagoans was a group of schoolmates
who met on the common ground of their admiration for jazz.
They found idols in Rappolo and Beiderbecke. They listened to
the Cotton Pickers and the California Ramblers, whose records
were then popular, and grasped the distinction between true in-
spiration and its substitutes. They began to play instruments
themselves. Once again, we have the astonishing spectacle of men
who, from the academic point of view, scarcely knew music, yet
produced some of the finest and purest music of all time.

There were the MacPartland brothers. Bud Freeman, Jim
Lannigan, and Frank Teschemacher— all schoolmates at Austin
High. To them was added a smiling, blue-eyed youth who had
early joined the ranks of jazz musicians: Benny Goodman. For
this child of a working-class Jewish family, jazz must have repre-
sented the noblest means of rising above his station in life.

Others were drawn into the circle: Joe Sullivan, the pianist,
Dave Tough, the drummer, and Floyd O'Brien, a University of
Chicago student who bought himself a secondhand trombone.

The boys went to hear King Oliver and the New Orleans
Rhythm Kings, modeling themselves on the white band and call-
ing themselves The Blue Friars after it.

Soon the young Chicagoans were launched professionally.
Jimmy MacPartland was chosen to replace Bix with the Wolver-
ines. Milton Mezzrow and Fud Livingston were playing in a
carnival band. Those were indeed carnival days in Chicago, days
of musical fireworks. The night air of the Windy City was split
by the explosive trumpeting of King Oliver and Louis Armstrong.

Benny Goodman has told me the details of those nights, which
were so similar and yet so different. Jazz, and only jazz, was the
basis of the nocturnal life of those young boys: the jazz to which
they listened, and the jazz they played.

A new rhythmic conception inspired them. They played on
the beat, and their collective endeavors began to distinguish
them from the other bands round about. New converts joined the

JAZZ 141

group. George Wettling sat in on the drums. Then Muggsy
Spanier blew into town with the Bucktown Five. He speedily
realized the spirit of the new band and resolved to team up with
them whenever he could. Later came Jess Stacy and Wingy
Mannone.

Often they met men from the Negro bands of Chicago after
hours, and the two races vied fraternally in the most extraor-
dinary jam sessions.

As more and more of the Chicagoans found regular jobs in
various bands, further replacements came up. The very young
Marsala brothers came around, and so did Bob Zurke, a pianist
from out Detroit way. A whole book would be necessary to de-
scribe how they all came together: Bud Jacobson the clarinet,
John Mendel the trumpet, Art Hodes the pianist, Rod Cless the
clarinetist, and others.

Many of these lads of bourgeois families began by learning
the violin. This was true of Pee Wee Russell, whose family had
moved from Oklahoma to Illinois. In St. Louis he heard some
Negro bands and decided to devote himself to the clarinet. He
was the one who became acquainted with a trombone from far-off
Texas whose new kind of technique ran rings around the old
Miff Mole style— Jack Teagarden.

Then a jazz-crazy jockey. Red McKenzie, left the race tracks
and mingled with these musicians. Unable to play any instru-
ment, he fashioned a rudimentary one by blowing into a comb
wrapped in tissue paper, succeeding in producing some interest-
ing music. Nor must we fail to mention Eddie Condon, the or-
ganizer of many of their groups, who today is still one of the most
ardent defenders of pure jazz.

"Chicago style" refers less to a style (which is really no mpre
than modified Dixieland) than to a spirit. It is the generic term
which Charles Delaunay, in his HotDisco'grafhy, used to classify
a great number of recordings made by a wide variety of bands,
mostly assembled specifically for the recording date, from 1927
to the present. "Chicago style" groups recorded under the fol-
lowing names: McKenzie and Condon Chicagoans, Chicago
Rhythm Kings, Frank Teschemacher's Chicagoans, Eddie Con-

142 JAZZ

don and His Footwarmers, Eddie Condon's Hot Shots, Milton
Mesirow and His Orchestra, Mezz Mezzrow and His Swing
Band, Bud Freeman and His Orchestra, Bud Freeman and His
Windy City Five, Billy Banks and His Orchestra, The Rhyth-
makers, Jack Bland and His Rhythmakers, Louisiana Rhythm
Kings, Kentucky Grasshoppers, The Lumberjacks, Whoopee
Makers, Ten Blackberries, Jimmy McHugh's Bostonians, Varsity
Eight, Jack Pettis and His Orchestra, Irving Mills' Hotsy Totsy
Gang, Benny Goodman and His Orchestra, Gil Rodin and His
Orchestra, Arcadian Serenaders, Barbecue Joe and His Hot Dogs,
Wingy Mannon's Orchestra.

"Chicago style," if v^e may generalize about it, consisted of a
three- or four-part pure improvisation (clarinet, trumpet, tenor
sax, and/or trombone) in which the clarinet was often the
dominating instrument. As in Dixieland, each of the instruments
/soloed in turn, with backing supplied by the others, and final
fl chorus was an all-out ensemble climax. This is, to my mind, the
/ most successful formula which hot jazz has found. Such a com-
bination permits polyphonic discoveries of a savage, haunting
beauty.

The glory of the Chicagoans was firmly established by just
three records made in 1928. These records are among the very
few jazz masterpieces that will live forever. If I had to choose
only twenty records, a quarter of them would be by the Chicago-
ans. I would have to include Sugar and China Boy, Nobody's
Sweetheart and hiza, I've Found a New Baby, and There'll Be
Some Changes Made, Margie and Oh Peter, Muskrat Ramble
and After a While (the last two sides by Benny Goodman,
whose Room^ 1411, Basin Street Blues, and Beale Street Blues,
with Jack Teagarden, would be hard to leave out).

Yet, on May 10, 1940, I had to leave home on half an hour's
notice, to flee the Nazi invaders. Which of my three thousand
records did I take with me? The choice was too heartbreaking—
I left them all behind!

But I could very easily spend the rest of my days listening to
the best Chicagoan riffs. What wonderful musicians! Frank
Teschemacher, Pee Wee Russell, and Benny Goodman are all

JAZZ 143

among the greatest and most moving clarinetists; Muggsy Spanier,
Jimmy MacPartland, and Wingy Mannone are direct and sensi-
tive trumpeters; Mezz Mezzrovi/'s plaintive accents stamp him as
one of jazz's leading personalities; Eddie Condon is swing itself
on the guitar; Joe Sullivan was and is one of the world'^s hottest
and most sensitive pianists; Wettling, Krupa, and Tough are three
of the greatest drummers anywhere.

This spirit still persists with little change. Chicago musicians '/
were among the first to attempt to break down the barriers be-
tween black and white. Mezzrow and Goodman were the first
white band leaders to use colored musicians. And a Chicagoan
record of 1929 mixed jazzmen of both races to produce one of
the hottest sessions ever preserved on wax. The musicians were
all good: Red McKenzie (blue-blowing), Glenn Miller (trom-
bone), Pee Wee Russell (clarinet), Coleman Hawkins (tenor),
Eddie Condon (banjo). Jack Bland (guitar), Al Morgan (bass),
and Gene Krupa (drums).

Never was Coleman Hawkins a greater musician than on that
day. His solo on One Hour is of the most serene beauty im-
aginable, and on Hello Lola he attains a savage fury which un-
leashes the greatest power a saxophone can produce. Excited by
the great saxophonist. Pee Wee Russell surpasses himself. And
the rhythmic section is extraordinary. All in all, it is another of
the greatest records ever issued.

The Chicagoans have been treated by fate in her usual random
manner. Frank Teschemacher, the chief animater of the group,
was killed in an automobile accident some ten years ago. Others
have deserted jazz, such as Jim Lannigan, now with a symphony
orchestra. Some— Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, Jack Teagar-
den, Muggsy Spanier, Gene Krupa, Bob Zurke, Wingy Man-
none— have had name bands of their own.

* Most, however, still continue the old tradition, playing to-
gether in small New York spots rather than seeking the big money
of the large orchestras. I have heard them often, at Nick's and
elsewhere: Muggsy Spanier, still the most moving of white cor-
netists; Bobby Hackett, Max Kaminsky, Jimmy MacPartland,
Bill Davison, all still echoing the glory that was Bix; Brad Cow-

144 JAZZ

ans, a great trombonist humbly improvising a solid accompani-
ment; Pee Wee Russell, with his amazing throaty tone on the
clarinet; Joe Sullivan, tinkling the keys beautifully.

These are the men who are giving me my greatest impression
of contemporary jazz. I remember hearing them play a while ago
at the Walt Whitman School. All of them were there, intelligent,
sensitive people. Louis Armstrong was there too, and together
they played a couple of palpitating numbers that 111 not soon
forget. This is true jazz, jazz with a capital J, or, if you prefer,
just plain yazz.

X. THE BIG WHBTE BANDS

When paul whiteman usurped the title of King of Jazz, he
threw real jazz off its course. For his conception was utterly dif-
ferent from that of King Oliver or the Original Dixieland Jazz
Band.

This man who had such a great influence on the course of
jazz began very modestly as a violinist in insignificant orchestras
on the west coast. His first big engagement was at the Fairmont
Hotel in San Francisco. His success was assured and his fame
spread by a concert which he played in Carnegie Hall before his
trip to Europe about 1921.

At the height of his glory Paul Whiteman organized concerts
in most of the cities of America. He had a radio program and
played in the first talking pictures. After a while he scarcely
played for dancers at all, and his friends could hear him only on
the phonograph and on the radio. He had a one-hour radio pro-
gram sponsored by Old Gold which paid him ten thousand dollars
a week. He recorded for Victor and later for Columbia, whose top
star he became. His most important engagement took place in
1928, when the famous film The King of Jazz was built about
him. The film showed him alone with a big bag from which he
drew out all his musicians, whom he proceeded to inspire with

JAZZ 145

his creative breath. But Ferdie Grofe's orchestration was a cruel
disappointment. Paul Whiteman had the opportunity to pro-
duce a completely original and modem work. His reputation was
great enough to permit such audacity, and it would have been a
marvelous piece of propaganda for real jazz. But he missed it; he
preferred to submit to the banal taste of the public or of his pro-
ducer. So what might have been a tremendous contribution was
an artistic failure and has, by now, been completely forgotten.
Paul Whiteman was the first to find a compromise between
f real jazz and the prejudices of the bourgeois public, which could
Unot swallow certain of the novelties of syncopated music. He
realized that to be produced successfully, jazz music would have
to be watered down unmercifully. His jazz band was a melodic,
even a symphonic one. Its quality was, however, improved by the
addition of many first-rate musicians. On the whole, his work
was banal, for he had nothing to say. He sought after tonal effects
which would flatter the cultural poverty of his admirers. His
records between 1920 and 1927 are the perfect example of how
jazz should not be played. Take, for example. Mister Gallagher
and Mister Shean, Doo Wacka Doo, Paradise Alley, I Love Yau,
Somebody Loves Me; these records have no originality, no bright
moments, no relief, and they feature those frightful changes of
key tempo which were so characteristic of the time and which
seem so outdated today.

For a while, toward the middle of the twenties, it seemed as
if the success of Whiteman would put an end to hot jazz. But
the new music did not succumb, largely because the musicians
themselves, even in the melodic bands, professed great admira-
tion for real jazz. And, as the lovers of jazz became more and
more numerous, the domination of Paul Whiteman ceased to be.
If you look at the composition of Paul Whiteman's orchestra
as it was in 1 926, not one of the names will be familiar. In 1 929,
however, Whiteman had to introduce hot elements into his band
in order to rejuvenate his music. Many of these new men, such
as Frank Trumbauer, Bix Beiderbecke, Fud Livingston, Joe
Venuti, and Eddie Lang, came from Jean Goldkette's orchestra.
This transfusion of new and useful blood kept the orchestra

146 JAZZ

going for several years, but Paul Whiteman ceased to be a signif-
icant figure after 1932.

Paul Wbiteman had many imitators during the twenties. One
of the most famous was Ted Lewis. Bom Theodore Louis Fried-
man, he became known to his admirers in his native Ohio village
as *'the poet of Circleville." One day he heard an orchestra led
by the barber of the town, one Cricket Smith, who may have been
the same man who played trumpet in Louis Mitchell's band. It
seems that this barber had the charming habit of singing spiritu-
als or ragtimes as he served his customers. At any rate, Theodore
Friedman decided he would become an orchestra leader and
changed his name.

In 19 10 he had a dance band in Circleville. After many odd
jobs he left for Chicago, where he played minor parts in a few
reviews; then he found a job with Earl Fuller, who had a well-
known band in Coney Island. Next he went to Rector s in New
York, and by 191 7 he had acquired a reputation. By the time the
Original Dixieland came to New York, Ted Lewis was already
famous on Broadway, and he even opened a night club.

Speaking of his music, he himself said : "Sure, I used to make
ten dollars a night and now I make five thousand a week. But
this progress is only financial, for I still play the same music as
in the old days at Circleville."

In other words, his music has always been banal, colorless, and
unbearable. Yet, on other occasions, Lewis seems to have had illu-
sions as to his own worth. After one of his trips to Europe the
surrealist poet Robert Desnos wrote: "Ted Lewis, the King of
Jazz, is never tiresome. Those who have had the privilege of
hearing him at the Apollo know that the man is worthy of his
voice. This big and singularly elegant brigand leads a band of
rogues who create rhythmic noise in an atmosphere of mystery.
And Ted Lewis recited poetry. . . ."

I heard him at Ostend in the summer of 1930. At the time Ted
Lewis had some great soloists in his band— Muggsy Spanier, the
Chicagoan cornet; George Brunies, the New Orleans trombone;
and Jimmy Dorsey on saxophone. But I confess that I was greatly
disillusioned by the band. These three fine musicians were com-

JAZZ 147

pletely stifled by the musical ideas and antediluvian jive of their
leader.

It's a strange thing that Ted Lewis, a believer in melodic or
novelty music, should have had the good taste to hire clarinetists
like Jimmy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, and Frank Teschemacher,
and use musicians like Muggsy, Brunies, and Fats Waller.

Europe too had its Whiteman imitators, of whom Jack Hylton
was the foremost. In Aux Frontieres du Jazz I attacked him merci-
lessly. I am sorry that I hurt him so, but my problem was to
choose between two conceptions— Whiteman and Armstrong. I
had made my choice. There is no need to enumerate all the
melodic orchestras which followed the path indicated by Paul
Whiteman. They have already fallen into the obscurity which
they so richly deserve, and I, for one, do not intend to turn the
spotlight on their pitiful endeavors.

Other orchestras, however, followed the line of Fletcher Hen-
derson. The best of these was led by Ben Pollack, the former
drummer of the New Orleans Rhythm Kings. He had in his
band, in 1926, such stars as Jimmy MacPartland (trumpet),
Glenn Miller (trombone), Benny Goodman (clarinet), and Jack
Teagarden, who later replaced Miller. The hot musicians of the
Pollack band formed a small recording band which made a fine
series of records, under various pseudonyms, now generally
grouped as the Whoopee Makers.

Pollack's band of the thirties was the nucleus of the present
Bob Crosby aggregation, with such fine musicians as Charlie
Spivak, Eddie Miller, Matty Matlock, and Ray Bauduc. In 1936
Harry James made his debut in big time with Ben Pollack, and
a bit later Muggsy Spanier came out of retirement to play with
Pollack.

For all this, Ben Pollack did not succeed in finding the
formula which makes great svdng bands. His band of the twen-
ties was neither flesh, fish, nor fowl, sometimes swinging to-
ward the Whiteman conception and sometimes toward that of
improvised jazz. As a developer of fine hot musicians, however.
Pollack has few equals.

The case of Jean Goldkette is very similar to that of Pollack.

148 JAZZ

Among his musicians he numbered such outstanding stars as Bix
Beiderbecke, Frankie Trumbauer, Joe Venuti, Eddie Lang,
Jimmy Dorsey, and Tommy Dorsey. Yet he too never succeeded
in finding the formula which would allow free play for their
talents.

The problem was indeed difl&cult Fletcher Henderson had
solved it, and other Negro bands had followed in his tracks. But
the white bands stumbled about, slowly seeking something new.
A change was in the air. The formula of collective improvisation
gave way to a mechanized orchestration. Instead of individual
discoveries based on a general trance came an incessant repetition
of prefabricated phrases, known as "riffs," which substituted the
power of loudness and repetition for the vital spirit of pure jazz.
So, swing was born.

This transition from melodic bands to swing bands was not
accomplished overnight. It took several years of adaptation, ex-
periment, and perfecting. The problem appeared almost insoluble,
and certain critics believe that it has not yet been solved and
never will be. Spectacular jazz requires at least a dozen musicians,
but where there are whole sections of instruments, improvisation
is impossible. Band leaders hesitated between the two concep-
[tions, and only after stumbling into many false passageways did
I they finally discover the empirical rules of swing, which is nothing
: more than a mechanization and a vulgarization of improsivation.

We have already told how, some months before his death, Bix
Beiderbecke almost became a member of the Casa Loma band.

What made the friends of the great cometist think that Bix
would be comfortable among the musicians of this new band?
It was because they thought that the Casa Loma band had come
closest to the goal of all the large orchestras.

The Casa Loma band was formed by a group of obscure musi-
cians who had had a long engagement at the Casa Loma, in
Toronto, Canada. After that they played in many of the big
American hotels, but their fame came chiefly from their engage-
ment on the Camel Caravan radio program and a series of book-
ings at college proms throughout the United States.

The composition of the band was Joe Hostetter, Frank Mar-

JAZZ 149

tinez, Bobby H. Jones (trumpets); Walter "Pee Wee*' Hunt,
Russell Rauch (trombones); Glenn Gray (Knoblauch), C.
Hutchenrider, Pat Davis (saxes); "Mel" Jensen (violin); Joe
"Horse" Hall (piano); Gene GifFord (guitar and arranger);
Stanley Dennis (bass); Tony Briglia (drums).

The band also recorded under the name of the "O.K. Rhythm
Kings" and as "Glenn Gray and His Orchestra." Its personnel,
in 1937, was Frank Zullo, Grady Watts, Walter Smith (trum-
pets); Billy Rauch, Pee Wee Hunt, Fritz Hummel (trombones);
Clarence Hutchenrider, Art Ralston, Danny D'Andrea, Kenneth
Sargent, Pat Davis (saxes); Joe "Horse" Hall; Jack Blanchette
(guitar); Stanley Dennis (bass); Tony Briglia (drums); Glenn
Gray (leader).

It is easy to understand the impression which Casa Loma made
on its listeners. Its first lecords— China Girl, Alexander's Ragtime
Band, Casa Loma Stomf, Royal Garden Blues—seemed to have
something really new to offer. The arrival of the Casa Loma
band gave an official stamp to the nascent svdng music, thanks
to the orchestrations of Gene Gifford, who created polyphonic
effects supported by loudly played riffs. Improvisation was sub-
ordinated to this constant repetition, but it must be said that Casa
Loma achieved its ends. For most of those who danced to it, this
artificial excitement seemed to be the very trade-mark of real
jazz.

The band had a character all its own. Most of its recordings
are insignificant, but some present balanced section work, which
is extremely fine. My favorite is Indiana, It has a meticulous
ensemble, a power of attack, a simple transformation of the
melody, which is immediately followed by an astounding saxo-
phone solo by Pat Davis.

This orchestra, with slight changes in its personnel, recorded
a hundred or more disks. Gene Gifford, whose arrangements had
given the band its unique personality, left; and since then various
arrangers have worked for it. Its orchestral unity has thus been
disrupted.

Meanwhile, the word "swing" had been created to designate
this new power, this artificial dynamism which had replaced en-

I50 JAZZ

semble improvisation. The big bands had finally found a suc-
cessful formula for commercial hot music.

For the flights of spontaneous fancy had been substituted the
controlling force of the intellect. A vicious circle had been com-
pleted. Jazz is a musical revolution v^hich broke the monopoly of
the composer in order to give the musician a greater importance
and a role in creation. But the new^ school tried to vmte out its
arrangements beforehand, once again subordinating the in-
dividual musician. This w^as a backward step, a complete break
with the New Orleans tradition and spirit.

We critics are often asked whether swing is better than the
old Dixieland jazz. Let us make clear at first that no categorical
ansv^er can be given to this question. It is a question of whose
swing and whose Dixieland. Just as improvisation depends upon
the talent of the musician, orchestrated music depends on the
talent of the arranger.

Nevertheless, it would take a musician of great genius to re-
create by cold intellect alone the same atmosphere as improvisa-
tion. This is not merely theory— just look at the results. We be-
lieve that swing has done a good deal of harm to jazz. And from
the tremendous production of the big bands of the last ten years
has come only a quarter as many worth-while records as from
the unpretentious groups of the past.

The problem is easy to understand. In pure improvisation the
great individuals have free rein for their genius, and, playing
together, the musicians are inspired to surpass themselves. For
written music, the arranger must supply all this genius from him-
self alone. And this is where the trouble lies. For there are only
two or three arrangers who stand out above the throng that
provides the music for the daily consumption of America.

In reality there is only one great genius among these arrangers:
Duke Ellington. He has succeeded in finding something new, in
creating his ov\m individual atmosphere, in establishing a new
means of l3rrical expression. After him come some other fine
arrangers: Fletcher Henderson, Benny Carter, Sy Oliver, Don
Redman, Gene Gifford. These are men of great talent, certainly,
but there is no unity to their work. They worked first for one

JAZZ 151

orchestra and then for another, and, as each orchestra plays some-
what differently, the personality of the arranger is submerged
and not permitted to develop along its own lines.

Around 1928 there were a dozen or so orchestras which em-
ployed genuine hot musicians in contrast to the purely com-
mercial bands. In the following years all these orchestras tended
toward swing and went after the big money. The leader of a suc-
cessful big band coined money; it was possible for a saxophonist
earning fifty dollars a week in an obscure orchestra to lead a big
band a month later and become a Rudy Vallee— a tempting
prospect. This explains why the best musicians moved from band
to band in search of gold and glory. It is rather difficult to follow
the movements of these men who played with one band for a
month and then went on to the next.

One of the first swing bands was that of the Dorsey brothers,
who gathered many outstanding musicians around them : Mannie
Klein, Glenn Miller (whose day was yet to come), Joe Venuti,
Eddie Lang, Arthur Schutt.

Looking back on the recordings of the Dorsey brothers, one
realizes that it was never as great a band as it seemed at the time.
They made some good records, such as their Honeysuckle Hose,
but they lacked vitality.

Most of those who were to become famous band leaders in the
succeeding period won their reputation as improvisers in small
groups. Just look at the list: Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey,
Jimmy Dorsey, Glenn Miller, Jack Teagarden, Gene Krupa,
Wingy Mannone, Muggsy Spanier, etc. How many can you
name who are the products of the big orchestras like Paul White-
man's?

Yet these men who have risen from the ranks of a small band
have never ceased to betray the kind of music that first gave them
fame. It's hard to explain just why this is so. Just imagine what
jazz might have become had they stuck to the old formula! But
music is not made with might-have-beens. We must discuss the
situation as it actually was and is, and try to understand it. Benny
Goodman, to whom we shall devote the next chapter, made swing
a success. His band was and is the best of the swing bands, and

152 JAZZ

all the others were to copy his style to a greater or a lesser degree. |

A successful swing band is achieved through the fusion of the
spirit of improvisation and the ability to dazzle by spectacular
musicianship. And it must be confessed that showmanship has
triumphed over art in most cases.

Look at the bands of Gene Krupa and Harry James, for
example. Both earned their reputation with Benny Goodman—
Krupa for his spectacular drum breaks, James for his brilliant
trumpet solos. Fame assured, each went after the big money by
organizing his own orchestra. Krupa's band, founded on the
qualities of its leader, went in for long and wearisome drum solos,
and Krupa is responsible more than anyone else for such noisy
and contortionist exhibitions, which generally are not worthy of
being called music. They certainly have nothing in common with
good jazz.

Harry James, one of the youngest of the great jazz stars, broke
into big time with Ben Pollack's orchestra in 1936 and then
passed into Benny Goodman's outfit. His tremendous power, his
ability to climb into the upper register, his gifts for improvisation,
and the showy qualities of his playing made him the favorite
trumpeter of America.

Soon Harry James formed his own recording bands, wdth musi-
cians drawn from the orchestras of Benny Goodman and Count
Basic. Finally he broke away from Goodman and formed his own.
group, a loud, blaring outfit featuring his own trumpet work in
gaudy show pieces. As with Louis Armstrong's later bands, the
orchestra is of little importance, serving only as a backdrop to
show off the spectacular, skyscraper solo work of the leader.

I remember hearing Harry James play at the Savoy, in Harlem,
one night in 1939, when he had already achieved the pinnacle
of success, at least as far as the jitterbugs were concerned. His
band was overloaded with brasses: Jack Palmer, Claude Bowen,
Jake Schaeffer (trumpets); Truett Jones, Dalton Rizzotto, Bruce
Squires (trombones); Dave Matthews, Drew Page, and Claude
Lakey (saxes); Jack Gardner (piano); Red Kent (guitar); Thur-
man Teague (bass); Mickey Scrima (drums). No great jazz-
men here, except possibly Dave Matthews.

JAZZ 153

But this personnel was only a temporary one; big swing bands
are not made up so much of individual musicians as of inter-
changeable parts. Every week money questions come up, some-
times personal questions. At any rate, musicians come and go,
and it is almost impossible for the band to develop a distinc-
tive character. Thus Steams and Buono replaced Palmer and
Schaeffer; Vido Musso played tenor for a while and was later
replaced by Johnny Fresco, the fine Dutch tenor, who came
straight from Brussels, where he had played with Jean Omer at
the Boeuf sur le Toit. In 1941 Harry James went so far as to add
a violin section to his band, but the change was not nearly so
great as one might expect.

The band is greatly admired by a good many jazz fans, for
whom Harry James's trumpeting is the most wonderful thing
ever. For my part, I do not care very much for the band. When
the arrangement is good the band is all right, but otherwise it has
nothing but James himself to offer. Still, we must praise Harry
James's constant search for new rhythms and melodies. I would
not be surprised if this spirit of initiative should lead Harry
James to become, one day, the man who will break with the
present banalities and create an integral jazz. But will he have
the nerve?

The most popular band, some three years ago, was that of Artie
Shaw. Shaw came up late in the twenties, became a friend of
Bix's, and recorded with Frankie Trumbauer. At the time he
alternated between clarinet and alto sax. Later he played on
recording dates, supporting Mildred Bailey and Billie Holiday.

In 1935 he formed his own orchestra, a revolutionary group
which included a string section as an integral part of it. The
composition of this group at the time of its first recordings was:
Willie Kelly (trumpet); Mark Bennett (trombone); Artie Shaw
(clarinet); Tony Zimmers (tenor sax); Julie Schechter, Lou
Klayman (violins); Sam Persoff (viola); Jimmy Oderich (cello);
Fulton McGrath (piano); Wes Vaughn (guitar); Hank Way-
land (bass); Sam Weiss (drums). Later, Tony Pastor became the
featured tenor soloist, and George Wettling the drummer.

This band was more of an artistic than a financial success, and

154 JAZZ

Shaw was forced to give up the idea of a string section. He
formed a conventional swing band which, at first, sounded hke
any other. Soon, however, the band found its stride and sky-
rocketed to fame, thanks to its clever arrangements and finished
performances (for example. Begin the Beguine, Indian Love
Call).

Shaw now enjoyed the success which his revolutionary Sweet
Strings had never achieved. It was almost like a Horatio Alger
story: he played at the best hotels, his records sold like hot cakes,
he married a Hollywood star.

But Shaw was a strange fellow, and a cultured man in the
bargain. From time to time he felt like giving up music and
settling down to write. He had no compunctions whatsoever about
insulting the jitterbugs who worshiped him. And, at the height of
his career, he abandoned his orchestra on the spur of the moment
and went off to dream in Mexico. He was by now the most sensa-
tional figure in the jazz world, and when he returned he began
to organize a band according to his own conception. This meant
the reintroduction of a string section in the orchestra. His most
recent band was a huge group which featured hot stars, both
Negro and white (Hot Lips Page and Maxie Kaminsky played
side by side in the trumpet section). But neither did this band
last very long; either its size proved too much of a financial strain
or its capricious leader didn't care any more, I can't say which.

The band which succeeded Artie Shaw as the most popular in
America was conducted by a very different character— Glenn
Miller. Miller is a hard worker, a drill master, and a capable
businessman upon whom fortune has smiled. He is a fine trom-
bonist who used to play in bands like Red Nichols' and the
Chicagoans' when Miff Mole, Jack Teagarden, or George Brunies
was not available. On the Mound City Blue Blowers One Hour
and Hello Lola he was certainly the weakest man on the date.
But he was a good trombonist, as his career from the Wolverines
and Ben Pollack down through Nichols, the Charleston Chasers,
and the Dorsey brothers indicates. He developed into a fine
arranger whose orchestrations were generally loud, finely bal-
anced, and often inspired by the latest Negro technique.

JAZZ 155

For many years Glenn Miller was merely one musician among
the others. He had a band which recorded, without very great
success, in 1935. But in 1939 his big band, modeled along the
same lines as Benny Goodman's and Tommy Dorsey's, became
an overnight sensation. Its success was due to the quality of its
arrangements and the precision of its playing rather than to any
individual skill in improvisation. It had its hot stars, however,
notably Miller himself and the tenor soloist, Tex Benecke.

The appeal of this orchestra to its jitterbug fans can readily
be understood by listening to his greatest successes: Tuxedo
Junction, In the Mood. All the ingredients in these performances
are minutely counted, measured, weighed. The slightest effect is
calculated, and a mechanical rhythm is maintained.

The Dorsey brothers, Tommy and Jimmy, have entered our
story from time to time as they starred in various orchestras and
recording bands. We have already seen how they organized one
of the best big bands of the early thirties. A quarrel between the
brothers put an end to its promising career, and each formed a
band of his own.

Tommy Dorsey's band, as it was formed in 1935, had the fol-
lowing personnel: Andy Ferretti, Sterling Bose, Bill Graham,
Cliff Weston (trumpets); Tom Dorsey, Ben Pickering, Dave
Jacobs (trombones); Sid Stoneburn, Noni Bemardi, Clyde
Rounds, Johnny Van Eps (saxes); Paul Mitchell (piano); Mac
Cheikes (guitar); Gene Traxler (bass); Sam Rosen (drums).

He later added several hot stars, such as Max Kaminsky and
Bunny Berigan (trumpets). Bud Freeman (tenor), Johnny
Mince (clarinet), and Dave Tough (drums). Together with
Tommy himself, on trombone, this made a nucleus for an excel-
lent jazz band within the band— the Clambake Seven, which
swung out in the Dixieland vein. The full band excelled chiefly
in sweet and choral numbers (for example, the theme Getting
Sentimental Over you, Marie, and later I'll Never Smile Again^,
although it has produced some fine jazz music (Song of India;
Stof, Look, and Listen^.

Since the sensational success of his arrangement of Marie,
some seven years ago. Tommy has continuously ranked among

156 JAZZ

the leading three or four bands of the country. In recent years he
has featured the arrangements of Sy Ohver and the trumpet
work of Ziggy Elman.

Jimmy Dorsey took a longer time really to get going. His band
at first was composed of the following musicians: Joe Meyer,
Toots Camarata, Sy Baker (trumpets); Bobby Byrne, Bruce
Squires, Don Matteson (trombones); Jimmy Dorsey, Fud Living-
ston or Dave Matthews, Charles Frazier, Leonard Whitney (saxo-
phones); Freddy Slack (piano); Roc Hillman (guitar); Jack
Ryan (bass); Ray McKinley (drums).

Jimmy kept his band on the Coast for several years and was
scarcely known to Eastern listeners. He played mostly sweet
music; his attempts at hot jazz were rather a hybrid, novelty swing
featuring wacky breaks (for example, Parade of the Milk Bottle
Cafs, Dorsey Dervish, John Silver^.

Since coming east, a few years ago, Jimmy has become one of
Decca's best sellers. But nint tenths of his music is sweet and
has nothing in common with hot jazz.

We might devote a few pages to the bands of Jack Teagarden,
Charlie Bamet, Woody Herman, Will Bradley, Bunny Berigan,
Tony Pastor, George Auld, Charlie Spivak, and Claude Thorn-
hill. But what's the use? Their music is practically indistinguish-
able: they resemble each other like twin brothers. They have
similar arrangers, similar musicians, similar ideas, and similar
successes. That seems to be all they care for, and it is all their
public demands.

There are a few bands worthy of special notice. Red Norvo, a
wonderful xylophonist, has created a music all of his own. He
has had the help of his wife, Mildred Bailey, one of the best
vocalists, many outstanding musicians, and such fine arrangers as
Eddie Sauter. But Red Norvo's type of music is a sort of jazz
chamber music and is off the direct line of jazz tradition. Some
months ago I heard him in the Three Deuces with a wonderful
young pianist. Hank Kohout.

Special mention must be made of the one big band which has
made a continuous attempt to keep up the Dixieland tradition : I
refer to Bob Crosby's. Bob is a brother of Bing, and he sang with

JAZZ 157

him for a while in Paul Whiteman's Rhythm Boys. In 1935 he
formed an orchestra whose nucleus was drawn from Ben Pollack's
band. Its personnel was: Andy Ferretti, Yank Lawson (trum-
pets); Ward Silloway, Artie Foster (trombones); Matty Matlock,
Gil Rodin, Deane Kincaide, Eddie Miller (saxophones); Gil
Bowers (piano); Bob Haggart (bass); Milton Lamare (guitar);
Ray Bauduc (drums).

The band took quite a while before it caught on. Joe Sullivan,
who was to be his pianist, became ill, and had to be replaced by
Bob Zurke. The band has had a wealth of talent: Charlie Spivak,
Sterhng Bose, Billy Butterfield, and Muggsy Spanier have graced
his trumpet chairs at various times; Eddie Miller is just about the
best tenor player of the present time, and Fazola and his suc-
cessors are fine clarinetists; Floyd O'Brien, considered as the best
exponent by Panassie, joined the trombone section; and when
Zurke left to form his own band, Joe Sullivan and later Jess Stacy
took over his duties at the keyboard.

The arrangers Kincaide, Haggart, and Matlock have given a
unique flavor to the orchestra, which sometimes is reminiscent of
the New Orleans Rhythm Kings, as they have played the old
numbers: Sugar Foot Stomf, Mushrat Ramble, Royal Garden
Blues, Panama, etc. I particularly like the fresh style of Eddie
Miller on tenor, who plays with the direct emotion of the old
days, and not like the overheated robot which most present-day
saxophonists seem to be.

Bob Crosby has recently become a movie star. The band broke
up in 1942, and Eddie Miller formed a similar outfit. It is to be
hoped that he will go all out for Dixieland.

It goes without saying that all these bands are commercial,
and scatter their worth-while music between unbearably sac-
charine pieces. A lover of true jazz can hardly stand listening to
this music, which is devoid of any artistic content. It is my im-
pression that most of the present recordings will sound pretty
terrible in a few years and inside a decade will be as completely
forgotten as those of Paul Whiteman and Ted Lewis. True, there
are fine spots here and there, but the solos of the real hot musi-
cians are lost in the banality of lifeless arrangements.

158 JAZZ

It must be stated that all these years of swing music have not
given us one musician of the stature of the greats of the hot jazz
era. The big bands impose a uniformity on all their members, and
no longer can a great improviser develop freely. For me, this
indicates the artistic bankruptcy of present-day jazz, in which
nothing resembles one white band so much as another white
band, unless it be a Negro band.

The name bands come and go. One musician alone has suc-
cessfully withstood all his rivals, and he alone emerges from
amidst the swing era. He is the man who started swing, the man
to whom we devote our next chapter— the King of Swing, Benny
Goodman.

XI. BENNY GOODMAN

One warm evening in the summer of 1941 a clamorous mob
besieged the box office of Lewisohn Stadium and overflowed onto
the street. But not a seat was to be had, and hundreds had to
be turned away.

What was the magnet which had drawn these thousands so
far uptown? They had come to pay homage to the King of Swing,
who was scheduled to extend his sway to classical music as well
as jazz.

Inside, the audience was going crazy. Thousands of shoulders
shook to the intoxicating rhythm, thousands of hands clapped in
unison, and thousands of feet went up and down in an automatic
cadence reminiscent of a well-trained ballet corps or the violin
section of a symphonic band. Special police were necessary to
keep the enthusiasm of the horde within limits. After the third
number a bunch of youthful enthusiasts tossed their hats in the
air to indicate their approval; a dowager, sitting near me, even
threw away her lorgnette and kept complaining thereafter that
she couldn't read the program. Before the concert was over some
irrepressible jitterbugs had burst the restraining cords and were

JAZZ 159

cutting the rugs of the aisles with their frenzied Hndy hops. And
above them all, the clarinet-scepter in his hand, stood Benny
Goodman with a broad grin on his face.

Who is this King of Swing? Who is this musician who was
unknown, except to hot jazz fans, only ten years ago, and who
has led America's most popular jazz band for the last six years?
Who is this boy who rose, through music, to fame and fortune,
who married an heiress of an old American family? His story is
made to order for Horatio Alger, though the theme of jazz which
runs through it would have baffled old Horatio.

The Goodman family emigrated from Poland and settled in
Chicago. The father was a poor tailor, a religious man who
observed the Sabbath and the Commandments. Life was hard
for him. He raised a family of nine children, and the thought of
nine little bodies to clothe and nine hungry mouths to feed was
not an entrancing one.

Benny's childhood knew no luxury; he lived from day to day.
What could the future hold in store for him, his brothers, and
his sisters? Jobs as clerks, perhaps— maybe even shops of their
own— but certainly no more than that. Or so it seemed.

Benny had few toys, but he had the will to make a success of
himself. The kids' band organized at Hull House provided him
with both plaything and opportunity. The clarinet was his in-
strument; he was so young and frail, and this was the only in-
strument cut to his size. He joined the Hull House band and took
lessons from a bespectacled music master named Franz Schepp.
After a few months of scales and exercises, he attacked the easier
pieces of Mozart and Brahms. This was to influence him for the
rest of his life. He kept a nostalgic sentiment for serious music,
and, even at the height of his jazz career, he remembered Franz
Schepp's scorn for the noisy music of the streets. This explains
his later excursions into the classics.

One day Benny asked his teacher about some strange numbers
he had heard around town, in the night club section. It might
have been King Oliver or Louis Armstrong, but whoever it was,
it began to haunt the lad. Schepp, however, burst out laughing
and ridiculed the idea that this was music.

i6o JAZZ

But there was something about this low-down Negro music,
its compelling and somehow tragic rhythm, which struck a re-
sponsive chord in the heart of the Jewish boy. Soon he was able
to recognize some of the tunes. He saw the last of the musical
publicity wagons and heard Kid Ory's tailgate trombone. More
than once he felt the glare from Joe Oliver s bad eye, as he sought
to hide himself behind the bandstand where he could hear better.
He heard Rappolo, and his fingers strove to produce similar
beauty from his secondhand clarinet.

One day when a musician at the small Central Park Theatre
fell sick, the Goodman youngster took his place and got quite a
hand for his Ted Lewis imitation. He began to gig around with
other boys at Waukegan and on Lake Michigan excursion boats.

Legend has it that Bix Beiderbecke, playing a boat date, found
a kid in short pants fooling around with the instruments during
an intermission. He chased the boy away, but Bix was soon to
have a great shock. For when he came back to the stand for the
next set, there was this same kid in short pants, little Benny Good-
man, playing clarinet with the band.

About this time the Chicago group began to come together.
The Austin High gang began to play in a small cafe, the Three
Deuces. There were half a dozen young men, friendly rivals on
clarinet and sax— Frank Teschemacher, Bud Freeman, Pee Wee
Russell, Milton Mezzrow, Benny Goodman— who tried to cut
each other in jam sessions after work, or went around together
to hear King Oliver and Louis Armstrong. Benny didn't make
much money playing, but he could hear Larry Shields, Leon
Rappolo, Johnny Dodds, and Jimmie Noone.

Then one fine day Ben Pollack, the New Orleans drummer,
blew into town, looking for musicians. He signed Benny and
Harry Goodman, Jimmy MacPartland, who had succeeded Bix
with the Wolverines, Glenn Miller, and Gil Rodin. Later Jack
Teagarden and Ray Bauduc came. Pollack organized one of the
finest bands of the day.

- In 1928 jazz was going strong: Louis Armstrong had suc-
ceeded to King Oliver's throne. Red Nichols and Bix were gain-
ing recognition, the Chicagoans were waxing their greatest

JAZZ i6i

masterpieces. All this time Benny G(X>dman was hard at work
recording with Ben Pollack and with numerous small groups.

Most of these recordings were made with a bunch of Pollack
stars who called themselves the Whoopee Makers (or mas-
queraded under various pseudonyms: Kentucky Grasshoppers,
Jimmy Bracken's Toe Ticklers, Broadway Broadcasters, Lumber-
jacks, Dixie Daisies, Cotton Pickers, Ten Blackberries, Varsity
Eight, Jack Pettis and His Pets, Gil Rodin's Boys, Mill's Hotsy
Totsy Gang, etc.) or with Red Nichols combinations. During a
period of six years or so, Goodman also recorded with Bix for
Hoagy Carmichael, with Ted Lewis, Phil Napoleon, the
Louisiana Rhythm Kings, the Hot Air Men, the Lang-Venuti
All-Stars CParewell Blues, Someday Sweetheart, After You've
Gone, Beale Street Blues were the four great All-Star sides),
Adrian Rollini, Bessie Smith, Reginald Foresythe, Red Norvo,
the Charleston Chasers, Jack Teagarden, and others.

During this time Benny Goodman won recognition as the best
clarinetist around. Teschemacher was dead, Jimmy Dorsey's
reputation was slipping, and the colored clarinets of the New
Orleans school were known only to a limited audience.

Benny was ambitious; like most of his fellow musicians, he
wanted to cash in on his popularity by organizing a permanent
band of his own. Furthermore, he realized the trend jazz was
taking; he witnessed the rise and success of Fletcher Henderson,
Duke Ellington, and the Casa Loma band. Big band jazz was the
thing; small Dixieland outfits were out. If you put the emphasis
on orchestration but left spots for instrumental solos, you might
be able to produce good commercial jazz, or swing. Benny laid
his plans.

It was around 1934 that his project began to take shape. A
musical comedy. Free for All, was about to open on Broadway.
Benny was chosen to direct the pit band, composed of Sam
Shapiro, Russ Case, Jerry Neary (trumpets); Jack Lacey, Red
Ballard (trombones); Benny Goodman, Ben Kan tor, Hymie
Shertzer, Arthur Rollini (reeds); Claude Thomhill (piano);
George Van Eps (guitar); Hank Wayland (bass); Sam Weiss
(drums). The band was no great sensation, although it had some

i62 JAZZ

fine recording dates. The numbers were arranged by Benny
Carter, Deane Kincaide, and Will Hudson and left the im-
pression that Goodman tended toward the Negro style of Fletcher
Henderson rather than toward the mechanical arrangements of
Casa Loma.

Personnel changes took place which brought in Frankie Froeba
on piano, Toots Mondello on sax, and Pee Wee Irwin and Nate
Kazebier successively on trumpet. The band went into Billy
Rosens Music Hall, improving all the time. Jack Teagarden sat
in on trombone for a date or two, and one of the greatest of all
white trumpets. Bunny Berigan, who died recently, became a
featured soloist with the band. And the Henderson brothers
began to contribute some of the greatest swing arrangements of
all time to the Goodman books.

The use of Henderson arrangements was a logical step for
Benny Goodman, who realized that Negro jazz had developed an
exciting vitality which put the more restrained white bands to
shame. A partial explanation for this apparently racial difference
is that white orchestras generally played in big hotels and had to
cater to the musically bad taste of their well-to-do clients, while
colored bands generally played in dance halls for Negro dancers,
who loved fast and marked rhythm and hot playing. Goodman
realized that black jazz at this time was the only worth-while
music, and he went to work to make his white customers ap-
preciate it.

After the Music Hall period, Goodman signed a contract for
a radio program, every Saturday for thirty-six weeks. Meanwhile
the band played one-night stands around New York. Success was
slow in coming, but the program was building up a considerable
and very appreciative audience of young folks, and the name of
Benny Goodman became one to conjure with. He was on the
road to glory.

Goodman's style became more and more distinctive, beautifully
balanced with full-toned brasses, delicately nuanced saxes, and a
galaxy of fine soloists with Benny's own clarinet featured. One
thing was lacking, however: Goodman himself was neither a
composer nor an arranger. Fletcher Henderson might provide a

JAZZ 163

wonderful arrangement of King Porter Stoni'p and Edgar Samp-
son an equally terrific scoring for Stomping at the Savoy, for
example, but the orchestral unity of Duke Ellington could not
be achieved under such conditions. The full-time services of a
great arranger are necessary to attain such unity.

Benny Goodman realized wherein lay his strength and his
weakness. He realized that his full orchestra could not provide
a wholly satisfactory solution to the basic problem of improvisa-
tion, and to remedy the situation he set up a smaller group along-
side the band, which could give free rein to its improvisatory
talents. With this dualist formula Goodman began, like Elling-
ton, to veer toward the concert stage.

With a big swing band and a freer small combination, Good-
man was able to secure a wider range of effects. This happy idea
of a Goodman Trio was bom one night when Benny played with
Teddy Wilson and a drummer at a party in Mildred Bailey's
house. Benny Goodman, Teddy, and Gene Krupa formed the
first Trio, which scored a huge success both in person and on
record. Most of the other big bands followed Goodman's lead in
developing small jam combinations within the orchestra.

One interesting fact must be clearly brought out. Until 1934
Benny's musical career had been bound up with the Dixieland
style, in the tradition inaugurated by the Original Dixieland Jazz
Band, continued by the New Orleans Rhythm Kings, and de-
veloped by the Chicagoans. Yet in organizing a jam band within
his white swing band, he turned to Negro musicians and music
rather than organize a small group a la Joe Sullivan, Pee Wee
Russell, or Bobby Hackett. This was because Benny was a great
admirer of Negro jazz, and he didn't lack the courage necessary
for any white band leader who might have the audacity to want
colored musicians in his orchestra. Benny was the first of the
name leaders to break down racial barriers in this way, and others
have since followed in his steps.

The Trio was certainly an exciting one. Benny played a
clarinet which everybody was to imitate in a year or two; Teddy
Wilson, playing his own modification of Earl tiines's style, at
least came close to deserving his reputation as the best jazz

i64 JAZZ

pianist; and Gene Krupa was demonstrating the talent which was
to make all America drum-conscious very shordy. The Trio be-
came a Quartet with the addition of Lionel Hampton, the master
of the vibraphone.

This band within a band showed a persistent tendency to ex-
pand. The Quartet became a Quintet with the addition of a bass
player (John Kirby or Artie Bernstein). One by one the members
of the original Quartet left to form his own orchestra. Krupa,
the first to go, was replaced by Goodman's drummer of the
moment— Hampton, Dave Tough, Buddy Schutz, Nick Fatool;
Wilson by the pianist of the moment— Guamieri, Fletcher Hen-
derson, Mel Powell, although Count Basic sat in on some record-
ing dates. Hampton was irreplaceable, although a substitute was
found in the person of the late Charlie Christian, a fine colored
electric guitarist.

The Quintet became a Sextet and finally a Septet with the
addition of trumpet (Cootie Williams) and tenor sax (George
Auld). The Septet presented at least the external appearance of
the old New Orleans and Chicago bands, with its four rhythm
and three melody instruments. Its style of playing was very dif-
ferent, however. It was modern, smart— a bit like the small Negro
groups of Fats Waller, Teddy Wilson, and Red Allen.

Goodman has had the good sense to leave pop tunes to the
heavy orchestral arrangements, and the small group generally
played jazz classics, usually the best pop tunes of the twenties
and early thirties, but often old New Orleans or Dixieland airs.

But we Ve gotten past our story; let's get back to the birth of
swing. The Goodman aggregation went through the heartbreak-
ing struggle which all young bands experience— a dreary succes-
sion of one-night stands in the hinterland, with hundreds of
miles to cover each day. There were moments of hope and
moments of despair. The band was booked at the Hotel Roosevelt
in New York, but Guy Lombardo was hurriedly called back to
replace them after two unsuccessful weeks. They secured a nice
contract to play at a Denver spot, but the horrified proprietor sent
them packing after just two days. They wound up this dishearten-
ing transcontinental trek at the Palomar Ballroom in Los Angeles.

JAZZ 165

Benny was pretty well discouraged and convinced that hot
music didn't pay. But to his amazement, the enthusiastic Palomar
crowd clamored for real jazz, for the stuff they had heard Good-
man play on the air. The band was an overnight success, and
the Swing Era had commenced. In contrast to the trip west, the
return from the Coast was a triumphal procession, what with six
big weeks at the Congress Hotel in Chicago and the Manhattan
Room of the Pennsylvania in New York awaiting him. By the
time he got back to New York Benny Goodman was the King of
Swing, America's Number One Jazz Band in all popularity polls
for several years.

Needless to say, the band's personnel was in an almost con-
tinual state of flux, and it is not possible here to give an accurate
account of its various metamorphoses. The trumpet stars have
been at various times: Bunny Berigan, Sterling Bose, Gordon
Griffin, Ziggy Elman, Harry James, Cootie Williams; Vernon
Brown and Lou McGarity were the best of his trombonists; the
sax section has been graced by Vido Musso, Babe Rusin, Dave
Matthews, George Auld, Lester Young (records only); the
rhythm section has seen many pianists and drummers trying to
fill the shoes of Jess Stacy and Gene Krupa respectively, a suc-
cession of fine musicians.

Benny Goodman has been on top a long time; those who know
are certain his popularity will outlast Artie Shaw and Glenn
Miller, both temporary pennant winners. His dominant position
has enabled him to secure the services of the best musicians and
arrangers. And despite the continual personnel changes, the spirit
of the band has remained the same and a choice group of soloists
continue to get off against brilliantly figured ensembles. Good-
man's standing has also enabled him to ignore racial barriers, as
when, in 1940, he reached out for Cootie Williams, a Duke
Ellington fixture for a decade, and Sidney Catlett, Louis Arm-
strong's drummer.

The line-up of the Goodman aggregation in 1 94 1 was : Jimmy
Maxwell, Alec Fila, Irving Goodman, Cootie Williams (trum-
pets); Lou McGarity, Red Gingler (trombones); Benny Good-
man (clarinet); Pete MondeUo, Les Robinson, Jack Henderson,

i66 JAZZ

Gus Bivona, George Auld (saxes); Bemie Leighton, soon to be
replaced by Mel Powell (piano); Charlie Christian or Mike
Bryan (guitar); Artie Bernstein (bass); Harry Jaeger (drums).

This was an excellent band, well balanced, with almost perfect
section work. Fletcher Henderson continued to be the mainstay
of the arranging staff, although there were occasional contribu-
tions from the pens of Jimmy Mundy, Mary Lou Williams, and
others; and Eddie Sauter, a white musician, began to assume
more and more importance until he superseded Henderson.

With the departure of Big Sidney Catlett, the death of Charlie
Christian, and the defection of Cootie Williams, who formed his
own band, the Goodman orchestra lost its colored musicians.

Benny's most famous musicians have made their reputations
as spectacular musicians rather than as "hot" personalities. For
some strange reason the big bands of the last ten years have not
been able to produce outstanding individuals known and ap-
preciated throughout the world as hot jazzmen. Georgie Auld,
Jerry Jerome, and Lou McGarity, for example, are excellent musi-
cians. But since they were brought up in the school of the full
orchestras, they substitute for the exciting trance of the old days
an academic and rather conventional jazz based on intellect and
technique.

But it is an impressive demonstration of Benny Goodman's im-
portance when you consider how many musicians acquired such
reputations with him that they were able to start bands of their
own. Bunny Berigan, Gene Krupa, Teddy Wilson, Harry James,
Ziggy Elman, Lionel Hampton, and now Cootie Williams are the
cases which leap to mind most readily.

One after the other the stars whom Goodman has developed
and brought into the limelight have deserted him to form their
own bands. But such losses never seem to worry Benny. His
standing is so impregnable and his income so great that he is
able to replace any musician with a more than capable substitute
at a moment's notice.

JAZZ 167

Xir. SATCHMO AND THE DUKE

Louis Armstrong is a full-blooded Negro. He brought the
directness and spontaneity of his race to jazz music. Other full-
blooded Negroes— Tricky Sam Nanton, Harry Carney, Cootie
Williams, Leo Watson, etc.— are likewise noted for the explosive
force of their playing.

Future critics may make much of this fact in noting that the
musical expression of mulattoes like Fletcher Henderson and
Duke Ellington is very different from that of Armstrong. Both
these conductors seem to unite symbolically within themselves
the musical conceptions of both races. Both strove to find a
formula which would combine the power of Negro jazz with the
refinement of white jazz.

Fletcher Henderson was studying pharmacy at Atlanta Uni-
versity when he decided he preferred the piano to the mortar
and pestle. He went up to New York and found that the chances
of a musician were much better than those of a pharmacist in
Harlem.

At the time the hot collective improvisations of King Oliver's
band had won the heart of New York's colored folk. The whites
still went in big for stuff like Paul Whiteman and Vincent Lopez,
commercial and showy jazz. There was room for someone who
could be original enough to attract interest, and yet conventional
enough not to alienate the uninitiated. Along with others not so
talented as he, Fletcher Henderson tried to solve this eternal
problem of the struggle between novelty and tradition.

For one thing, the small jazz band had to be enlarged. The
distinctions between instrumental sections had to be established,
and they had to be properly balanced. One had to be careful to
prevent individual improvisation from getting out of hand, and
even more careful not to efface it completely, as Paul Whiteman
had done. In a word, better orchestrations were needed, which

i68 JAZZ

would preserve the appearance of excitement and permit soloists
to get off.

Fletcher Henderson has received a good deal of well-merited
praise. It must be said, however, that he led true jazz astray and
modified its original essence and expression. What had been
spontaneous joy in Joe Oliver's band was carefully prepared be-
forehand by Henderson. For the first time, intelligence and skill
took the place of sensitivity and spontaneity. Here, again, lies the
problem of all art, one on which definite judgment cannot yet be
passed.

Too often in music as in literature clever persons have tried to
substitute intelligence for the genius which they lack. Naturally,
they cannot succeed. They may be able to deceive their contem-
poraries, but time invariably shows them up. So has it been with
Fletcher Henderson: the best parts of his recordings are those
which were not worked out beforehand. The arrangements have
proved all too mortal, but the solo work of his inspired musicians
will live eternally.

It must be said, however, that Fletcher has shown remarkably
good taste in selecting his musicians; the arrangements he has
provided for them are beautifully balanced, full of swing, and
allow ample room for individual solos against well-planned hot
backgrounds. His work has won him one of the greatest reputa-
tions in jazz, one which has lasted right down to the present day.

I like him, although my critical sense tells me that Fletcher
Henderson has had a deleterious effect on jazz music. He pre-
pared the way for swing, which was to devitalize jazz. The swing
era, still going strong, has not made any significant contributions
to pure art.

Put seven real musicians in a room, let them play together
for a while, and when they feel the spirit they will create some-
thing unique, a music with a character all its own. It's an entirely
different matter when you put fourteen musicians together in a
room. Collective improvisation becomes impossible, and it's a big
job to replace it with ersatz inspiration.

Why is this? Because three melodic instruments— trumpet,
trombone, and clarinet— can create individual melodic lines which

JAZZ 169

can cross in intelligible and exciting polyphony. When ten
melodic instruments are present, the composer or arranger has to
fix the melodic line of each instrument. Unless the arranger is a
genius, the musician can't very well be one.

Fletcher's first orchestra, which played at the Glub Alabam
way back in 1922, was composed of: Howard Scott, Elmer Cham-
bers (trumpets); Charlie Green (trombone); Buster Bailey
(clarinet); Don Redman (alto sax); Coleman Hawkins (tenor
sax); Fletcher Henderson (piano); Charlie Dixon (banjo); Bob
Escudero (bass); Kaiser Marshall (drums). This band had its
points; its playing was marked by a delicate sensibility. Buster
Bailey's style was already fully developed, and Don Redman's
talent had almost matured. Coleman Hawkins, on the other
hand, gave no indication that the tenor of Chattanooga and Red
Hot Mamma would one day attain the fullness and fervor of
One Hour and Hello Lola.

I remember the first Henderson recording I ever heard— I Cant
Get the One I Want. It was a fine platter, whose fluidity and
purity pleased me greatly. Henderson had an easy musicality
which King Oliver lacked. This was, at the same time, both his
strength and his weakness. For in gaining it, Fletcher lost Oliver's
spontaneity. During this first period, which lasted from 1922 to
1924, Henderson waxed some fifty recordings, with the band as
well as accompanying several blues singers: Lulu Whitby, Josie
Mills, Edna Hicks, Alberta Hunter, Ethel Waters, Rosa Hender-
son. Rosa Henderson, almost completely forgotten today, was one
of the greatest blues singers, ranking with Bessie Smith and Ma
Rainey. I am not acquainted with the sides, some twenty in
number, which she made wdth Fletcher, but I remember five or
six numbers which she recorded on Oriole. The spontaneity,
vigor, and depth of her voice lent these records a matchless atmos-
phere, I am sure the future will restore her to her rightful place
among jazz greats.

Slowly but surely the orchestral talent of Fletcher Henderson
developed. The reed section, composed of three great musicians,
outbalanced the brass section. Henderson remedied this disparity
by sending to Chicago for the second comet with King Oliver s

I70 JAZZ

Creole Jazz Band, a young man named Louis Armstrong. Arm-
strong and Henderson skyrocketed to fame together, and all the
white musicians in New York went to the Roseland Ballroom
to hear this sensational orchestra. Here was a music they could
understand, yet a vital music which put Paul Whiteman, Ted
Lewis, and Paul Specht to shame.

A number of admirable recordings marked the progress of the
band: Everybody Loves My Bahy, I'll See You in My Dr earns,
Alahamy Bound, Copenhagen. Compare these with the records
of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, the New Orleans Rhythm
Kings, and the California Ramblers, and you will see the in-
fluence of white jazz on Henderson.

During this period all the great blues singers chose contingents
from Fletcher Henderson's orchestra to accompany them on
record dates: the Smiths— Trixie, Clara, and the incomparable
Bessie— Ida Cox, Maggie Jones, Ma Rainey, and a host of others.

Louis brought with him from Joe Oliver's band a New Orleans
number called Dippermouth with a trumpet solo which has be-
come the oldest tradition in jazz. Rebaptized Sugar Foot Stomp,
it became a stand-by of Fletcher Henderson's orchestra, and only
the first of a series of New Orleans tunes which were converted
into riffs and added to the Henderson repertory.

Fletcher continued to develop his orchestra, and most of the
great names of jazz played in it at one time or another. Russel
Smith and the incomparable Joe Smith joined Louis in the
trumpet section, and after Armstrong went back to Chicago his
chair was occupied by such great cornets as Rex Stewart, Tommy
Ladnier, and Bobby Stark. Fats Waller sat in on piano, and a
new trombonist named Jimmie Harrison was added.

Jimmie Harrison was one of the jazz immortals who was not
long for this world. Many musicians and critics agree that he
was the greatest trombone of all time. Certainly his style of play-
ing has influenced all the Negro trombonists since and, through
Jack Teagarden, most of the whites as well. But none of his
imitators can match the feeling which Harrison put into every
note he ever blew.

With men like Harrison, Rex Stewart, Tommy Ladnier, and

JAZZ 171

Joe Smirh in the brass section, the orchestra was at its peak.
Listen to Fidgety Feet and Sensation, and you'll realize that what
has become an aimless mechanism in present-day orchestras pos-
sessed a tremendous power in Fletcher Henderson's old band. If
it is true, for example, that Henderson's Clarinet Marmalade can-
not stand comparison with the Original Dixieland's, it is even
more obvious how fine the Henderson recording is, compared to
most commercial performances by big bands.

In 1928 the line-up of the Henderson orchestra presented an
unbroken front of outstanding musicians: Russel Smith, Bobby
Stark, Rex Stewart (trumpets); Jimmie Harrison, Benny Morton
(trombone); Buster Bailey, Benny Carter, Coleman Hawkins
(saxophone); Fletcher Henderson (piano); Clarence Holiday or
Charlie Dixon (guitar); June Coles (bass); Kaiser Marshall
(drums).

About this time an event in Fletcher Henderson's orchestra
shook the jazz world with sensational repercussions. The tenor
saxophone, thanks to the sudden development of Coleman Haw-
kins, took its rightful place among the solo instruments. The first
jazz bands had only one reed instrument— the clarinet. When the
saxophones were added to the orchestra the alto sax was the
featured solo instrument— as witness Jimmy Dorsey, Frank Trum-
bauer, and Don Redman. Adrian Rollini won fame on the bass
sax, but the tenor remained the orphan of the reed section.
Hawkins himself played a heavy, uninspired tenor as late as
1927. Then he changed his style, and his new inspiration won
him universal acclaim as the greatest of all saxophonists. Hawkins
became for the sax what Armstrong was for the trumpet, and
under his influence all, save a mere handful of recognized alto
stars, deserted the alto sax for its broader-toned brother instru-
ment.

In the early thirties Henderson was playing at Connie's Inn
up in Harlem with the following band: Russell Procope, Harvey
Boone, Coleman Hawkins (saxophone); Russel Smith, Bobby
Stark, Rex Stewart (trumpet); Claude Jones and Benny Morton
(trombone); Clarence Holiday (guitar); John Kirby (bass);
Walter Johnson (drums); Fletcher Henderson (piano).

172 JAZZ

The mid-thirties saw Henry Allen (trumpet), Dicky Wells
(trombone), Hilton Jefferson (alto), and Coleman Hawkins
(tenor) as the featured soloists with the band. In 1936 and 1937
Roy Eldridge (trumpet). Buster Bailey (clarinet), Chu Berry
(tenor), and Horace Henderson (piano) provided most of the
solo work.

By 1938 Fletcher was fronting the following orchestra: Russel
Smith, Richard Vance, Emmett Berry (trumpet); George Wash-
ington, J. C. Higginbotham, Edward Cuffee (trombone); Jerry
Blake, Hilton Jefferson, Elmer Williams, Chu Berry (saxo-
phone); Fletcher Henderson (piano); Lawrence Lucie (guitar);
Israel Crosby (bass); Walter Johnson (drums).

But by this time Henderson's orchestra had ceased to be an
important factor in the jazz world. Henderson's arrangements,
the best in the early days of swing and which, played by Benny
Goodman's orchestra, had done much to assure the success of the
swing era, became more and more mechanical and less and less
distinctive. Henderson was beaten on his own ground by Basic,
Lunceford, and Goodman. He finally gave up his band entirely
and devoted his talents to arranging for Goodman. For a short
period in 1939 he became Benny's regular pianist.

Fletcher recently fronted a new band at his old stamping
ground, the Roseland. The less said about it, the better. Hender-
son has had many great bands in his day, but his day seems to be
over.

Looking over the career of Fletcher Henderson, we can see
that he moved steadily away from spontaneous inspiration toward
premeditated orchestration. To do this successfully requires a
boundless supply of originality. For all his talent, Henderson was
limited, nor did he have the strength to hold his musicians in
line and dominate his orchestra with his own personality through-
out its varied metamorphoses. The qualities so grievously lacking
in Henderson, however, were abundantly present in the person
of another band leader, Duke Ellington.

Edward Kennedy Ellington was born in Washington, D.C.,
in 1899, the son of a government employee. He received a solid

JAZZ 173

musical education as a boy, studying the piano with a teacher
named Thomas.

With this background and classical training, Ellington could
never become an explosive genius like Louis Armstrong, who
had the New Orleans tradition behind him. Indeed, there was
nothing very outstanding about him as a pianist. His genius lay
elsewhere, in a totally new conception of what American music
should be, and he gave jazz one of its most integral and highly
personal expressions. For Ellington, untrammeled instinct was
not enough. It remained, of course, as the basic impulse of jazz,
but on top of it he superimposed the most painstaking and intel-
ligently planned elaboration.

Few of those who heard Ellington's five-piece Washingtonians
could have foreseen the tremendous development in his music
which was to follow. They came to New York to play at Barons*
and then went to the Kentucky Club. This was the time when
the most famous colored bands in the city were Fletcher Hender-
son's orchestra at the Roseland and King Oliver's at the Savoy.
When the Cotton Club looked around for a sensational band for
its opening, it first asked King Oliver. He refused and thereby
opened the way to glory for Duke Ellington.

At the same time Irving Mills took over the management of
the band. As its business manager and as an intelligent musical
counselor. Mills had much to do with the artistic and commer-
cial success of the Ellington orchestra.

The Duke skyrocketed to fame at the Cotton Club in 1927.
Meanwhile his ideas were developing into a wholly new concep-
tion of jazz. He had something which Fletcher Henderson lacked,
which some may call luck but others will call genius. His style
was unique, and he played original numbers whose melodies
were well fitted to it.

We have already seen how the Original Dixieland Jazz Band
created its own repertory of Dixieland tunes. Ellington did like-
wise. His new themes were not, however, drawn out of the blue—
they were worked over laboriously until they were perfected. A
basic idea would occur to some member of the band, the Duke

174 JAZZ

would develop it, another musician would add a phrase or change
it, and by such a conscientious gestation a distinctly Ellingtonian
composition was born.

Such a procedure has produced an unprecedented continuity of
inspiration and interpretation. This explains why Duke Elling-
ton's was, and is, the best orchestra in the United States.

The greatness of the band is amply demonstrated by the hun-
dreds of records it has waxed under various names for different
labels : Duke Ellington and His Cotton Club Orchestra (Victor),
The Jungle Band (Brunswick), Harlem Footwarmers (Okeh),
Sonny Greer and His Memphis Men (Columbia), Georgia Syn-
copators (Oriole), Earl Jackson and His Musical Champions
(Melotone), The Lumberjacks (Cameo), and others.

But his activities were not limited to recordings. He accom-
panied Maurice Chevalier on the stage, played Gershwin tunes
for the Ziegfeld Follies, and toured all America and Europe.

After making a few recordings with a band which included
Jimmie Harrison and Don Redman, Ellington's Washingtonians
took definite form in 1927. The personnel consisted of Bubber
Miley (trumpet); Tricky Sam Nan ton (trombone); Rudy Jack-
son, Otto Hardwick, Harry Carney (reeds); Duke Ellington
(piano); Fred Guy (banjo); Wellman Brand (bass); Sonny
Greer (drums). Some of these nine still play with the band.

Ellington has knov^m how to choose his musicians and how
to infuse them with his own feeling for jazz, so that the orchestra
remains an integral whole. But in welding their talents to his ov^ni
purposes, he has been careful not to destroy their individual tem-
peraments—indeed, he makes use of them to widen the range of
the orchestra.

Another of Ellington's contributions was his realization that
the soul of the Negro race needed different forms of expression,
that black jazz must not be the same as white jazz. With this in
mind and men like Bubber Miley and Tricky Sam in his band,
he created the famous "jungle style," which relied on growl
sounds obtained with the wa-wa mute. He composed and per-
formed such original and gripping pieces as the East St. Louis

JAZZ 175

Toodle-00, Black and Tan Fantasy, Creole Love Call, and The
Mooche.

The Duke also recorded some piano solos. Black Beauty is
played simply and with a good deal of feeling, though Ellington's
pianisms never leave the terrific effect of an Earl Hines, a Fats
Waller, or an Art Tatum.

Meanwhile, the orchestra continued to develop as Louis Met-
calf , Freddy Jenkins, and Juan Tizol were added to the brass sec-
tion and Barney Bigard and Johnny Hodges to the reeds. Every
trip to the recording studios produced several gems of jazz. It is
difficult to single out any of these records for special mention,
they're all so good. I particularly like the collective excitement
and lovely solos on Bandanna Babies and the way in which the
two sides of Tiger Rag stand out sharply from the pale imitations
of the Original Dixieland version which other bands put out.

In 1930 came the first serious change in the band's personnel
as Bubber Miley left it shortly before his death. The composition
then became: Arthur Whetsel, Freddy Jenkins, Cootie Williams
(trumpets); Tricky Sam Nanton, Juan Tizol (trombones); Barney
Bigard (clarinet); Johnny Hodges (alto sax); Harry Carney
(baritone sax); Ellington, Guy, Braud, Greer (rhythm).

Cootie Williams was the perfect choice to succeed Miley. Not
only did he continue the growl tradition perfectly, but he played
beautiful open horn a la Armstrong. Had Louis never existed.
Cootie might well have been the greatest of them all. Bigard, a
New Orleans clarinet, is considered by many as the best on his
instrument, and he undeniably was the best for a big band like
the Duke's. Johnny Hodges plays simple and direct alto and
soprano vdth a world of feeling. He, too, is considered best on his
instrument by most critics, and only Benny Carter, Willie Smith,
and Pete Brown are in his class.

The orchestra continued to put out terrific recordings. To get
an idea listen to Jungle Jamboree, Echoes of the Jungle, Lime-
house Blues, Cotton Club Stomf, Lazy Duke, Ring Dem. Bells,
Jungle Nights in Harlem-, Big House Blues, Saturday Night
Function, Mood Indigo, Rockin in Rhythm-, Creole Rhapsody,
and the famous It Don't Mean a Thing.

176 JAZZ

It was in this last number that Ivy Anderson sang:

It don't mean a thing
If it ain't got that swing,

and a new word had been bom, a word which has since been
erroneously used instead of hot jazz.

In 1932 Otto Hardwick rejoined the band, and a new trom-
bone, Lawrence Brown, was added. The delicately nuanced style
and tone which Brown used proved a perfect foil for Joe Nanton s
savage jungle trombone. The band recut some of its classics,
accompanied Bing Crosby in the St. Louis Blues, and recorded
such melodic originals as Moon over Dixie, Blue Ramhle, Blue
Harlem, and Ducky Wucky,

In 1933, some months after Armstrong's visit, Duke Ellington's
orchestra toured Europe. The European jazz fans liked it tre-
mendously but were rather bewildered by the difference between
Ellington and Armstrong. Trying to analyze the Duke's orchestral
style, they realized that here was something more than pure im-
provisation. Some believed that all its music must have been
arranged down to the minutest detail.

I was interested in this point myself, and went to London to
hear the band play at the Palladium.

It was one of the greatest thrills of my life. I was excited by
certain muted brass ensembles, by Harry Carney's powerful bari-
tone work, by Freddy Jenkins' simple and direct trumpet, by the
melodious charm of Lawrence Brown's trombone, and by Hodges
and Bigard, who proved themselves just as great as their record-
ings indicated. I realized that here was no static, lifeless music,
but a dynamic, flexible, ever-moving music. Even the ensembles,
whose structure would seem to be rigid, differed according to the
mood of the musicians.

A bit later, when the band came to Paris, I had the opportunity
of spending an evening with Hugues Panassie and the Duke. I
asked him many questions about his technique, and he described
his method of composition just as I have recounted it to you.
Melody and execution are experimented with, until gradually
musical perfection is attained. All this takes a considerable

JAZZ 177

amount of time; the orchestra tries out themes, gives them up,
and goes back to them. The Duke consults his musicians, Hstens,
compares, seeks the right chords. After a long and slow matura-
tion of the basic theme, the number is ready to go into the books
and be preserved on wax. In more recent years the music has
been largely preconceived on manuscript, however.

In 1935 the orchestra was further enlarged as Rex Stewart
was added to the trumpet section, and Wellman Braud gave way
to Hayes Alvis and Billy Taylor, a marvelous two-bass team.
There were no further changes until 1939, except that Wallace
Jones replaced the ailing Artie Whetsel. This is the band which
returned to Europe for a series of concerts in the spring of 1939,
when I heard it in Brussels.

Since their return there have been several personnel changes
of considerable importance. A young and gifted bassist, the late
Jimmy Blanton, joined the rhythm section. Then Ellington added
Ben Webster to round out the sax section with a tenor soloist.
Finally, Cootie Williams, after a decade with the Duke, accepted
an enticing offer to join Benny Goodman, and he was replaced
by Ray Nance, who doubles on violin.

I have heard the band several times during the past few years.
Duke Ellington seems at times to be deserting jazz and flirting
with concert music, but we mustn't worry too much about such
evolutions. The band has had bad spells from time to time in the
past, but has always rallied in a few months. Duke Ellington is
too sensitive a man to let things remain out of kilter. Still, one
always senses the difiFerence between the Ellington and the Arm-
strong approach to jazz; one is constructive intelligence, the other
unbridled instinct.

I have spoken at length about jazz with Duke Ellington, who,
in addition to being one of the greatest figures in contemporary
music, can analyze the problems of jazz with great acumen. He is
an advocate of rhythm and considers the rhythm section as the
most important in an orchestra. Without an impeccable rhythm
as a solid base, an orchestra cannot be very good, no matter how
fine its melodic sections. At the same time Ellington criticizes the
monotony of certain bands which rely on a continual four-beat

178 JAZZ

rhythm, which destroys the musicians' individuaHty by forcing
them to play mechanically.

In the Duke's opinion the most important member of the
rhythm section is the pianist, whose function is to round out the
rhythm with arpeggios and rapid chromatics. Playing solo, how-
ever, the pianist should give free rein to his imagination, in so far
as his technique permits, yet always remember to keep a steady
rhythm lest the other musicians be confused. As a pianist and a
band leader, he believes that the afterbeat is just about the most
effective rhythm, provided the accent is on the bass.

Duke Ellington's orchestra plays only special arrangements,
written by the Duke himself or his brilliant assistant, Billy Stray-
horn. This, together with the comparative permanence of its per-
sonnel, accounts for the distinctive and continuous individuality
which the band has always had. Practically all the other bands
sound alike, at least in their ensemble playing, but there is no
mistaking a number played by the Duke.

The first step in these arrangements, as Ellington himself
told me, is to take care of the rhythm section; all the instruments
—piano, guitar, bass, and drums— should play the same rhythm
simultaneously. At the same time a good deal of attention is paid
to the melodic instruments, particularly the brasses, in order to
obtain a full, deep, tonal quality.

Before concluding, we might mention that the Duke has
written more popular hits than any other major jazz figure. His
melodic vein is indicated, though by no means exhausted, by the
following titles: Moon Indigo, Sophisticated Lady, Solitude, In a
Sentimental Mood, I Let a Song Go Out of My Heart, I've Got
It Bad, Don't Get Around Much Any More. An impressive list
of popular songs, not one of which is banal.

For six months in 1943 Duke Ellington was the star of the
Hurricane in New York with a rejuvenated band in which musi-
cians like Jimmy Hamilton, Nat Jones, Taft Jordan, and others
came under the genial direction of the great leader.

There is no need to dwell further on the importance of Duke
Ellington's contribution to jazz or on his tremendous influence
on other orchestras. Just as Armstrong has inspired all soloists,

JAZZ 179

even on instruments other than the trumpet, Ellington has fur-
nished a wealth of material for all other composers and arrangers
to chew over. His great achievement is that he has attained as
high a degree of perfection as only pure improvisation had
thitherto produced, by the addition of carefully and intelligently
prepared elements to those furnished by instinct alone.

Thus, Ellington stands out in sharp contrast to Armstrong.
With Louis the band doesn't count— all that matters is his own
genius expressing itself through the bell of a trumpet. The Duke
thinks orchestrally; as a piano soloist he is, although wonderful,
less interesting, but he has succeeded in molding a great orchestra
with the stamp of his own genius.

XIII. THE NEGRO BANDS OF YESTERDAY

We have seen how jazz evolved from New Orleans to Chicago,
from Buddy Bolden to King Oliver, reaching its full stature in
the person of Louis Armstrong. A new line of jazz had been
started by two great orchestras: Fletcher Henderson's and Duke
Ellington's. This chapter will deal with the present-day Negro
orchestras, first paying tribute to those which are now but
memories. Needless to say, we cannot examine them in complete
detail within the limits of this book.

Perhaps the first of the big colored bands, next to Fletcher
Henderson's, was McKinney's Cotton Pickers, a band which
should not be confused with the original Cotton Pickers, which
was a white orchestra.

The band consisted of Langston Curl, John Nesbitt (trum-
pets); Claude Jones (trombone); Don Redman, Milton Senior,
George Thomas, Prince Robinson (saxes); Todd Rhodes (piano);
Dave Wilbom (banjo); Bob Escudero (bass); Cuba Austin
(drums), at the time of its first recordings. This band originated
in Ohio and played around Chicago. Don Redman was its main-
stay and was responsible for most of its arrangements.

i8o JAZZ

Their first great hit was Four or Five Times, which they fol-
lowed up with such classics as Nobody s Sweetheart, Some Sweet
Day, Shim-Tne-sha-wahhle. Redman's arrangements were quite
advanced for the time, although they are somewhat dated today,
and Prince Robinson was one of the best tenors of the period
before Hawkins attained his prime.

Hawkins himself joined McKinney in 1929, along with Joe
Smith and Sidney de Paris (trumpets), Benny Carter (alto),
James P. Johnson (piano), and Jimmy Taylor (bass).

The saxophone trio— Don Redman, Benny Carter, Coleman
Hawkins— formed an ideal section, and was just about perfect
for the time.

Later personnel changes brought Rex Stewart into the trumpet
section and Cuffy Davidson into the trombones. But, despite its
wealth of talent, McKinney's Cotton Pickers passed out of ex-
istence at the beginning of the thirties.

Don Redman formed another orchestra under his own name
about 1 93 1 . He wrote the arrangements with the help of Horace
Henderson. Its first record. Chant of the Weed and Shakin the
African, made a tremendous impression.

I had already realized that, with Duke Ellington and Don Red-
man, jazz had begun to fall under the sway of the intellect. Duke
Ellington had been the first to introduce this more complicated
form of jazz, but Chant of the Weed indicated that Redman was
likewise capable of producing original and thoughtful composi-
tions. It is one of those themes which depends on rhythmic and
tonal effects, and whose melody can never be remembered.

I prefer Shakin the African, which is more in the old vein,
mingling hot solos and Don's wonderful vocal with a loose, free
arrangement.

Don Redman formed various recording bands from time to
time, and he has some twenty or thirty records to his credit. Many
great hot jazz musicians— Red Allen, Bill Coleman, Sidney de
Paris, Benny Morton, Sidney Catlett— have played with him.

McKinney's Cotton Pickers continued in slightly altered form
as the Chocolate Dandies. Under this name Rex Stewart, J. C.
Higginbotham, Don Redman, Benny Carter, Coleman Hawkins,

JAZZ i8i

and Thomas (Fats) Waller recorded That's How I Feel Today,
Six or Seven Times, for Okeh in 1929.

This is one of the best personnels ever assembled, and the sec-
tions were well balanced. Don Redman provided fine connections
between the solos, and the intelligent presence of Benny Carter
is keenly felt. Carter himself directed and arranged a later Choco-
late Dandies date for which the personnel was: Bobby Stark,
Jimmie Harrison, Benny Carter, Coleman Hawkins, Horace Hen-
derson, Clarence Holiday, John Kirby. This group produced five
sides which rank among the greatest Negro jazz. The Hawk was
at the pinnacle of his success, Jimmie Harrison was the greatest
of all Negro trombones, and the other musicians were of almost
equal stature.

Got Another Sweetie Now is one of my very favorite record-
ings, a bit of musical perfection. The tune is melodic but not trite
and is fresh and sprightly; it is played with warmth and precision,
and the ending has a charming simplicity which brings tears to the
eyes. The saxophone solo does not show off any amazing tech-
nique, but it is one of the most moving things imaginable, and
Jimmie Harrison's trombone and vocal demonstrate what a great
loss his death was for jazz music. This is one record surely des-
tined for immortality.

Two years later the Chocolate Dandies recorded again, but
this time it was a mixed band in which white Chicagoan musi-
cians joined with the colored stars. The complete personnel was:
Max Kaminsky (trumpet); Floyd O'Brien (trombone); Benny
Carter (alto sax, trumpet, and arranger); Leon (Chu) Berry
(tenor sax); Teddy Wilson (piano); Lawrence Lucie (guitar);
Ernest "Bass" Hill (bass); Sidney Catlett (drums). They re-
corded four fine sides for the English market.

About the same time Benny Carter assembled an excellent
group of musicians to record for Spike Hughes, the Irish jazz
critic. This all-star band recorded the laborious and modernistic
compositions of the Britisher— Noctzirne, Pastoral, Arabesque.
Compare these with Got Another Sweetie Now and you'll see the
difference between spontaneous and cerebral jazz.

Another big Negro band which enjoyed great popularity dur-

1 82 JAZZ

ing these years was the Blue Rhythm Band. This band was or-
ganized about 1 93 1 without any exceptional musicians, though
it did have such fine men as Castor McCord, the tenor, and
Edgar Hayes, the pianist. The band had a rather personal flavor
imparted to it by the somewhat mechanical arrangements of Nat
Leslie and Harry White. For a while it was directed by Benny
Carter, but finally, in 1934, it passed to the leadership of Lucky
Millinder. A considerable amount of excellent talent joined the
band: Red Allen, J. C. Higginbotham, Buster Bailey, and Joe
Garland. In 1936 Charlie Shavers, trumpet, and Billy Kyle,
piano, joined the band. These two, together with Buster Bailey
and O'Neil Spencer— also Lucky Millinder, alumnus— were later
to form the major part of John Kirby's band.

Among the orchestras which have been almost completely for-
gotten is that of Sam Wooding, which played in Europe for sev-
eral years. It consisted of: Bobby Martin, Ted Brock (trumpets);
Willie Lewis, Gene Sedric, Ralph James (saxophones); Albert
Wynn and Herbert Flemming (trombone); Justo Baretto
(piano); June Coles (bass); Ted Fields (drums); John Mitchell
(banjo).

Upon Wooding's return to America he organized the follow-
ing group: Garvin Bushell, Jerry Blake, Buggey Watson, Gene
Sedric (saxophones); George Swazie, Frank Wilson, Frank New-
ton (trumpet); George Walker, Nathaniel Story (trombones);
Bernard Addison (guitar); George Howe (drums); Harold Wal-
ton (piano); Louis Hill (bass).

Wooding, who today directs a choir, made only a few record-
ings, and these were not very good. His alto saxophonist, Willie
Lewis, remained in Europe until 1940, and scored a considerable
success with a band composed of some other Wooding alumni
and such newcomers as Bill Coleman, Louis Bacon, Big Boy
Goodie, Benny Carter, and Herman Chittison. Willie Lewis had
easily the best band in Paris, although we mustn't forget Freddy
Taylor, whose Villa D'Este orchestra, in 1935, consisted of:
Fletcher Allen (tenor); Chester Lanier (baritone); Freddy Taylor,
Charlie Johnson (trumpets); John Ferrier (piano); Oscar Ale-
man (guitar); D'Hellemmes (bass); William Diemer (drums).

JAZZ 183

XIV. THE SMALL NEGRO BANDS

A BIG ORCHESTRA necessitates a continuity or organization and
administration which is difficult for all but a few talented leaders
to achieve. A small band, on the other hand, is a much easier
form and permits any musician to have his day as a band leader.
There are very few first-rate jazzmen who have never, at some
time or another, satisfied their ambition to lead a band. When
a musician in a big band shows some spectacular solo ability, the
record companies are after him to gather a date band together to
record for their labels.

The term "small band" refers to a group of five to eight musi-
cians, including generally a rhythm section composed of piano,
bass, drums, and guitar, and a melodic section consisting of trum-
pet, trombone, and clarinet or saxophone. For the most part, it is
such small bands which continue in the tradition of improvised
jazz, while the big bands go in for arranged swing.

During the King Ohver period, when Chicago was the great
musical center, there were many small bands to be heard around
the Windy City. One of these was led by the New Orleans
pianist Jelly Roll Morton and consisted of Nat Dominique (trum-
pet), Roy Palmer (trombone), Townes (clarinet), Jelly Roll
Morton (piano), and Jaspar Taylor (drums).

In 1926 Jelly Roll Morton's Red Hot Peppers made the first
of a series of fine recordings. The band which recorded Black
Bottom Stomf, Doctor Jazz, Grandfas Shells, Cannon Ball Blues,
etc., was composed of the following fine musicians: Jelly Roll
Morton, George Mitchell (comet); Kid Ory (trombone); Omer
Simeon (clarinet); John St. Cyr (banjo); John Lindsay (bass);
Andrew Hilaire (drums). Later Jelly Roll assembled such men
as Ward Pinkard (trumpet), Geechy Fields (trombone), Johnny
Dodds and Barney Bigard (clarinets) for various recording dates.
Many of these recordings are most impressive, but in my humble

1 84 JAZZ

opinion (which is not that of most jazz critics) they are not the
equals of the New Orleans Rhythm Kings of the same time.

Another New Orleans musician who has led small bands in
Chicago, from the King Oliver days right down to the present,
is Jimmie Noone. Jimmie has had a great influence on clarinet
style, and even such white musicians as Benny Goodman and
Jimmy Dorsey show traces of Noone's influence. Noone's com-
binations have featured the playing of Earl Hines and Zinkey
Cohn on piano and Joe Poston on alto, in a long series of records
down through the years. Records like Four or Five Times, Afex
Blues, Sweet Lorraine, and River Stay Way from My Door have
lost little of their charm.

Some years ago Noone came to New York to record with a
band which boasted Charlie Shavers on trumpet, Pete Brown on
alto, and Teddy Bunn on guitar. More recently he recorded for
Decca's "New Orleans Jazz Album," using old-timers with the
New Orleans-Chicago background.

Little non-commercial outfits like these perpetuate the cult
of good jazz. Jimmie Noone himself is a wonderful improviser
with a style all his own. Hugues Panassie considers him the great-
est of all jazz clarinetists.

The outstanding small Negro band in New York, in the mid-
dle and late twenties, was Clarence Williams' Blue Five. As it
recorded in 1925, it consisted of Louis Armstrong, Sidney Bechet,
Charles Irvis (trombone), Clarence Williams (piano), and
Buddy Christian (banjo). The fine music played by this early
group is hard put to it to overcome the difficulties of rather primi-
tive recording technique and poor vocalists. Nevertheless, Clar-
ence Williams groups have produced many wonderful records.

Some of the small band leaders have given up big bands in
order to return to more intimate jazz; such is the case of Teddy
Wilson. While he was featured with Benny Goodman's Trio
and Quartet, Teddy Wilson led small recording groups which
accompanied Billie Holiday on a long series of swell recordings.
When he left Goodman, however, he organized a sixteen-piece
band— a very undistinguished one— which played at the Famous
Door.

JAZZ 185

He gave up this large combination and opened at Cafe So-
ciety with a seven-piece outfit, which had Bill Coleman on trum-
pet and Benny Morton on trombone. The band, which is still
playing at Cafe Society, has a melodic section consisting of
Emmett Berry or Joe Thomas, fine trumpets; Benny Mor-
ton, trombone; and Ed Hall, one of the finest jazz clarinetists.
The music they play is scarcely pure improvisation; Teddy Wil-
son mixes solos with arranged ensembles and riffs and, with the
wonderful drummer Sidney Catlett, has now the best little band.
The group of Red Allen contains Don Stovall on alto, the incom-
parable trombone J. C. Higginbotham, and previously featured
Kenneth Kersey on piano.

To my mind, this band represents an honest, sincere, and mov-
ing attempt to play real jazz. Rarely has a small band united
musicians who play so well together. Red Allen is second only
to Louis Armstrong, with whom he was associated for so long
a period. Red was bom in Algiers, near New Orleans, and his
father led a band back in the days of King Bolden. Red— Henry
Allen, Jr.— became a noted trumpeter while still young and joined
Luis Russell's orchestra, where he was hailed as a second Louis.

J. C. Higginbotham was bom in Atlanta, in 1 906, and studied
music at Morris Brown University. His first job was in Wesley
Helkey's small band, and after playing with a few such obscure
groups he joined up with Luis Russell in New York, in 1928.
Here he met Red Allen for the first time and became his friend.

Red Allen's band had punch and bite, but alas! such orches-
tras never lead a continuous existence. The musicians are laid off
for a few days between engagements, and some other band seeks
the services of one of the men. So, when the band finds a new
job it has to find another musician to replace him. This accounts
for the continuous personnel changes which destroy the unity
of most bands.

Coleman Hawkins, since his return from Europe in 1939, is
a case in point. He tried to organize a big band but had to con-
tent himself with a more modest group consisting of: Joe Guy,
Tommy Lindsey (trumpets); Earl Hardy (trombone); Jackie
Fields, Eustace Moore, Coleman Hawkins (saxes); Gene Rod-

1 86 JAZZ

gers (piano); William Smith (bass); Arthur Herbert (drums).

When I heard the great tenor play at Kelly's Stable, in 1940,
he had already lost one of his trumpets. The personnel kept on
changing as the band moved from New York to Chicago.

About the same time I heard Roy Eldridge's band. Eldridge
is a terrific trumpeter who won his reputation with Fletcher Hen-
derson's orchestra around 1935. He plays with a good deal of
dash and originality, though he lacks Louis's control. The or-
chestra was excellent, but it was not long-lived. Roy Eldridge
left to become a featured soloist with Gene Krupa's band from
1 94 1 to 1943, when he led a little combination in Swing Alley,
New York.

There are many such band leaders who, unable to find jobs
for their orchestras, are forced to join up with other bands. Be-
sides Eldridge, we can cite Pete Browai, Frankie Newton, Sidney
de Paris, and Sam Price, not to mention a host of minor figures.
Others formed trios and quartets which, because of their reduced
personnel, have a better chance of finding work.

There are countless small bands that have played in New York
and Chicago spots: Chris Columbus, Savoy Sultans, Earl Bostic,
Willie (the Lion) Smith, Kaiser Marshall. I should like to make
special mention of Bobby Martin's group, which played in Green-
wich Village.

One extraordinary small band is led by Eddie South, the mar-
velous violinist who plays jazz and gypsy music with equal
facility. Eddie has led several different groups at various times;
I particularly liked the band he had in Europe. At the present
time he is the best jazz violinist and has become one of the regu-
lars at Cafe Society. Unfortunately, he spends half of the time
playing waltzes, tangos, or gypsy music.

Together with Eddie South at Cafe Society has been the or-
chestra of John Kirby, perhaps the only small band which has
led a continuous existence wdth the same personnel for a five-
year period. John Kirby played bass with Fletcher Henderson and
many other orchestras before forming his own band. He realized
the difficulty for a colored band to achieve commercial success,
but that didn't stop him. His band was unusual, refined, and

JAZZ 187

composed of first-rate musicians: Charlie Shavers (trumpet),
Buster Bailey (clarinet), Russell Procope (alto), Billy Kyle (pi-
ano), John Kirby (bass), O'Neil Spencer (later Bill Beason,
drums).

I first heard them at the Onyx Club in 1939 and was im-
pressed with their powers of improvisation. Since then the or-
chestrations have been much more rigid, and the soloists have
been held in much tighter rein. The music is about as far removed
as possible from the New Orleans tradition. Its personality is
completely due to the unusual caliber of its arrangements, which,
though rhythmic, are highly intellectualized.

I have already stated how much I admire Charlie Shavers,
who seems to me to be the ideal trumpet for a small improvising
band. One might think he would be out of place playing the
arrangements of John Kirby, but, as a matter of fact, he writes
many of them himself. As for the ever-smiling Buster Bailey, he
has kept the same flowing style of rapid notes down through the
years, and has ranked as one of the leading clarinetists for al-
most two decades. Russell Procope is a solid rhythmic alto who
plays on the order of Charlie Holmes, but with his own indi-
vidual touches. He is a native of New York and studied the
violin before taking up the saxophone. He played with Fletcher
Henderson's orchestra during the Connie's Inn period, when the
bass player was John Kirby, who likewise was a violinist and had
studied music at the Baltimore Conservatory.

The orchestral ensemble is perfect, since the members have
played together for so long. The highly refined, sophisticated,
and melodic music which they have played has been responsible
for their great success at Cafe Society and at the Monte Carlo.

A completely different sort of music was that of the Spirits of
Rhythm, a highly exciting outfit. I often heard them at the Onyx
Club in 1939, when they were a six-man string combination.
The success of this very effective and unusual group was largely
due to Leo Watson, who is one of the hottest temperaments of
the present day. He animates the orchestra, electrifies it, and puts
it into a trance. Sometimes he attains a sort of rhythmic mania
which represents the purest surrealistic tradition of jazz. The sub-

1 88 JAZZ

consciousness alone is responsible for his tormented vocals, in
which scat syllables, the tune, the rhythm, and the imagination
are merged to form a potent mixture. Leo Watson is at his best
when he is neither too low nor too high; his wildness is super-
imposed on the more precise and calmer music of the orchestra.

The group was reduced to four men in 1940, when it played
at Nick's and in the Hickory House. Its leading instrumentalist
was Teddy Bunn, who plays the guitar with such a high degree of
skill that he has been chosen for the rhythm section on many
recording dates. One of these was the Mezzrow-Ladnier session
organized by Hugues Panassie when he visited the United States.
This date produced some of the finest recordings of the last few
years, notably Rosetta, on which Pete Brown takes an extraordi-
nary alto solo. In addition to Leo Watson and Teddy Bunn, there
are the two Daniels brothers, one an excellent bass player, the
other a marvelous and poignant vocalist who also plays trumpet.

Teddy Bunn played on a Blue Note recording date on which
the Higginbotham Quintet (Higginbotham, Bunn, Meade "Lux"
Lewis, John Williams, Sidney Catlett) recorded a good Basin
Street Blues, and the Port of Harlem Seven (the same band with
the addition of Frankie Newton and Sidney Bechet) made other
fine records.

I shouldn't forget to mention the small band led by Stuff
Smith, the fine jazz violinist. He made his reputation back in
1936, when Jonah Jones was his trumpet and Cozy Cole his
drummer. Both have since joined Cab Calloway, but StuflF has
continued to lead his group at Kelly's Stable and various other
places from New York to Hollywood.

And now, for the last and one of the best small orchestras— Fats
Waller's. It seems to me that he is the man who has stood out
above his rivals during these last few years. Fats is a native Har-
lemite, the son of a pastor and himself destined for the pulpit
until the spirit of jazz won him from the church, just as it had
taken Irving Berlin away from the synagogue. His religious train-
ing did have one important effect on Fats— it gave him a solid
technique on the organ.

Fats Waller gradually slid toward profane music. With his

JAZZ 189

talent and his amazing personality, he was a natural. He played
the piano with a style of his own, marked by the continual
rhythmic use of the left hand. Besides his skill as an instrumen-
talist, he ranks with Louis Armstrong and Leo Watson- among
the vocalists who mean most to me.

Fats Waller has played with many orchestras and recording
bands, from his days with Fletcher Henderson, the Morris Hot
Babies, and the Louisiana Sugar Babes, down through Ted
Lewis and the Chocolate Dandies, to his recent sessions with
Eddie Condon on the Commodore label. He has also cut many
sides of piano and organ solos. His first band under his own
name was called "Fats Waller and His Buddies," which recorded
the excellent Minor Drag,

Recording since 1934 as "Fats Waller and His Rhythm,"
he has used such musicians as Mezz Mezzrow, Floyd O'Brien,
and Bill Coleman, although the regulars of his melodic section
were Herman Autrey (trumpet) and Gene Sedric (clarinet and
tenor).

I should like to say a few words about Gene Sedric, the ex-
cellent reed man who played in Europe with Sam Wooding, and
whom Hugues Panassie considers the best tenor after Coleman
Hawkins. Sedric was bom in St. Louis in 1906 and began his
musical career with Charlie Creath in 1922. In 1923 he played
with Louis Armstrong and Johnny Dodds in Fate Marable's or-
chestra on the river boat St. Paul. After playing with Julian Hu-
thor, whose band accompanied Jimmie Cooper's revue in Harlem,
he was engaged by Sam Wooding in 1925.

Since returning to America, Sedric has been almost continu-
ously with Fats Waller. His solid style, his long, well-rounded
phrasing, and his original and sincere ideas have lent considerable
interest to Waller's records.

The personnel of Fats Waller's band just before its dissolution
was: Bugs Hamilton (trumpet), Eugene Sedric (tenor). Fats
Waller (piano), Ed Smith (guitar), Cedric Wallace (bass),
Slick Jones (drums).

I heard it several times, and it was a great band. Thanks to
the forcefulness of its leader, it succeeded in avoiding the banality

I90 JAZZ

of mo^ orchestras. Fats is always wonderful, whether he sings,
plays the piano, or plays the organ. I have only one reproach
to make: he spends too much time in jiving around, posturing
idiotically, and rolling his big eyes. Fats should leave such bur-
lesqued gestures to those who need it to cover up their lack of
talent. He is too great a musician to spoil the effect with such
imbecilities.

Fats has been without a band for more than a year now, and
Sedric recently had an excellent little group of his own, featuring,
Henry Mason on trumpet.

XV. BIG COLORED ORCHESTRAS

There are countless important Negro orchestras today, a de-
tailed list of which would be almost endless. All of them, from the
best to the worst, have the same fundamental approach to their
musical subject. The metamorphosis of jazz into svdng has re-
duced the majority of these groups to the same general level, with
a few outstanding exceptions which I should like to discuss.

In every American city you can find a typical swing band of,
say, seven brass and four reeds. Whether it is in Daytona Beach
or in New Orleans or Hollywood, the musical product is gener-
ally the same and of little significance. However, jazz cannot be
produced on a mass scale like doughnuts. Stock arrangements
have been made from time to time of most of the best-known
works by the great Duke Ellington, for the benefit of those who
wish to reproduce the music he created. Nevertheless, not one
of these orchestras has managed to duplicate the artistic achieve-
ments of Ellington himself, because none of them has succeeded
in reproducing the exact musical personality of the original.

It stands to reason that the large number of arrangements
turned out by v^iters of commercial orchestrations cannot all be
endowed with greatness or inspiration. Even the so-called name
bands ofiFer no guarantee of an exception to the rule. Some time

JAZZ 191

ago in New Orleans I heard a band led by Sidney Desvigne,
a veteran steeped in the pioneer jazz tradition. The band sounded
just like Ersldne Hawkins', Les Hite's, or any other average col-
ored outfit. All of these combinations are satisfactory, but they
lack the kind of personality which enabled one to distinguish
between such pioneer bands as the New Orleans Rhythm Kings
and the Memphis Five.

Among the best Negro band leaders of the past decade. Chick
Webb comes to mind as an outstanding figure. This brilliant
little artist, tortured by a severe physical affliction, was a splendid
drummer who produced a number of first-rate recordings.

Chick Webb was a crippled youth from Baltimore who con-
quered his handicap through a natural racial faith in his music.
Partly cured through a difficult operation, he was given sufficient
courage to start working with small bands. He started in New
York at the Balconades on Columbus Avenue, where the cus-
tomers recalling the memorable music created there by the Dixie-
land Band were somewhat surprised to see the little hunchbacked
figure at the drums. But this little man was possessed of a soul,
and before many years he had earned himself a place among
the immortals of jazz.

In his first band were such men as Johnny Hodges, later fa-
mous as Duke Ellington's alto man, and Bobby Stark on trumpet.
By 1 93 1 he had a fine band of stars: Shad Collins, Louis Hunt,
and Louis Bacon, trumpets; Jimmie Harrison, trombone; Benny
Carter, Hilton Jefferson, and Elmer Williams, saxophones; Don
Kirkpatrick, piano; John Trueheart, guitar; Elmer James, bass;
and Chick himself at the drums.

This was the band that recorded the remarkable Heehie
Jeehies, which brought something fresh and rhythmic to the
musical scene. I remember the first time Hugues Panassie played
this record to me in Paris, when we were immediately convinced
that a great new band had been bom.

Whoever wrote the arrangement of Heehie Jeehies somehow
recalled the atmosphere of the old Chocolate Dandies, vdth
Benny Carter and Jimmie Harrison working together again. After
their departure, though, this was still a great band. In 1934 there

192 JAZZ

were Mario Bauza, Renald Jones, and Taft Jordan, trumpets;
Sandy Williams, trombone; Peter Clark, Edgar Sampson, Elmer
Williams, saxophones; and John Kirby replaced Elmer James in
the rhythm section. This was the important period when Chick
Webb rose suddenly to a top place among the Negro name bands.
Edgar Sampson, a good saxophonist, was an important acquisi-
tion, since he had a hand in most of the arrangements, giving the
band a truly individual stamp. Interesting listening today are
such sides as Sunny Side of the Street, Darktown Strutters Ball,
and That Rhythm Man; this last was recorded in 1935 with
Bobby Stark and Wayman Carver. By that time Sampson and
Kirby had left the band. That the personality of the band was
affected by Sampson's departure might well be gauged from the
fact that, after Hilton Jefferson had taken over his chair for a
short while, Sampson was brought back; and shortly afterwards
about ten numbers were recorded in which the band achieved
the qualities for which it had been striving.

Around this time an important new figure entered the band
in the person of Ella Fitzgerald, a young orphan girl who had
saved up to spend an evening at the Apollo Theatre in Harlem,
where she took part in the regular Wednesday night amateur
hour. Although she was accorded a hostile reception by the un-
predictable Apollo crowd, Webb, immediately struck by her
charm and vocal style, hired her for the band. Before long her
deep, vibrant voice and searing, emotional tone had won her the
admiration of every jazz lover and made her the central figure
of the Webb organization. The band reached its zenith of public
acclaim during Ellas first era of popularity, but in 1939, after
achieving his greatest successes and completing his mastery of
the drums, ChicFs career was cut short by death. His technique
was marked by a rhythmic suppleness never marred by heavy
effects; he was a brilliant exponent of wire-brush technique and
helped to popularize their use. I heard his band a few months be-
fore his death and was deeply moved by his fine qualities as a
leader. One of the numbers I heard. Undecided, had the same
charm that had made A Tisket a Tasket such a tremendous hit
for Ella and the band.

JAZZ 193

Earlier, Chick Webb had worked up some idea with a htde
five-piece group out of the band, known as "Chick Webb and His
Little Chicks/' He also made a number of recordings under the
name of "Ella Fitzgerald and Her Savoy Eight," using men from
his own band. After Webb's death the band continued under
Ella's name, but one by one the best musicians left and were re-
placed by newcomers.

On many occasions I heard the Fitzgerald band at the Savoy
Ballroom, on Lenox Avenue in Harlem, where it alternated with
such groups as Lucky Millinder s, Erskine Hawkins', the Savoy
Sultans, Earl Hines's and others whose music reflected the ex-
cited spirit of this veritable jazz conservatory from which so many
fine bands graduated.

Unfortunately, the band did not have the financial success
under Ella that it had enjoyed before Chick's death. Several
musicians successively took over the leadership, while Ella re-
mained merely the nominal head. Eventually, in 1942 the great
Webb tradition departed forever as the band broke up. Ella
worked in 1943 mosdy at solo acts in night clubs and theaters.

The Blue Rhythm Band has been best known to the general
public since it was taken over by Lucky Millinder. In 1937 there
were several important names to uphold the reputation of this
band: Charlie Shavers on trumpet, Wilbur de Paris on trombone.
Tab Smith on saxophone, Billy Kyle on piano, and O'Neil
Spencer on drums.

All these musicians have been replaced, but Lucky still has an
important band. A year or two ago at the Savoy it was a big mo-
ment when his new tenor man started on a solo, and the lindy
hopping became more and more frenzied as the music came out
of the amplifier. In recent years the important commercial asset
of the band has been Sister Rosetta Tharpe, a former Holy Roller
gospel singer who does semispiritual numbers, accompanying
herself on the guitar.

When Lucky Millinder was away from the Savoy, most often
it was Erskine Hawkins' orchestra that would be there to keep the
dancers jumping. Both bands are on pretty much the same order,
though each has individual musicians with a degree of individual

194 JAZZ

style. Tuxedo Junction, which made Hawkins a big name, is
already a thing of the past. The band plays furiously, but it might
almost be any other band until its style is established in a char-
acteristic trumpet solo, whose ideas constitute an example of
everything that should not be done in real jazz. Actually Wilbur
Bascomb, who took the famous trumpet solo on Tuxedo and many
other Hawkins records, is a far better artist than the leader him-
self.

Les Hite had a relatively obscure band until he happened to
meet Louis Armstrong, who at that time had no band of his own.
King Louis stayed in California for some time with Hite's band
at Sebastian's Cotton Club. The personnel at that time included
such men as Lawrence Brown, trombone; Les Hite, alto sax;
Jimmy Prince, piano; and Lionel Hampton, drums. This was the
band with which Louis recorded the wonderful Ding Dong
Daddy, I'm in the Market for You, Confessin, and If I Could Be
with You.

After these records were made, Lawrence Brown left the band
and joined Duke Ellington. Later Louis made Memories of You,
Body and Soul, and the side which happens to be my own. fa-
vorite Armstrong disk. Shine. The beginning is sensational;
Armstrong's singing, merging abruptly from real words into a
scat phrase, is vastly entertaining, and his trumpet solo reaches a
climax through skyscraper notes in a manner that has always
given this performance an irresistible appeal for me.

After Louis Armstrong, Les Hite continued his career on the
west coast. Eventually he came east in 1940 and appeared a couple
of times at the Apollo, where I heard the band. It was a com-
petent organization playing adequate arrangements, nothing
more. The personnel at that time comprised Paul Campbell,
Walter Williams, Forrest Powell, trumpets; Britt Woodman,
Allen Durham, trombones; Floyd Teemham, Judillis Martyn,
Rogers Hurd, Sol Moore, saxophones; Nat Walker, piano; Frank
Paseley, guitar; Al Morgan, bass; and Oscar Bradley, drums. Hite
returned to California in 1942 and retired temporarily from band
leading early in 1943.

I had already been familiar for many years with Claude Hop-

JAZZ 195

kins when I caught his band at the Apollo in 1939. Nostalgically,
I recollected that it was he who had accompanied Josephine
Baker on her European tour in the 1920s. By the standards of
those days it was a very exciting combination, playing for an out-
standing singer. In addition, Sidney Bechet appeared as a star
soloist with his soprano sax, which was a treat in itself.

It was a great disillusionment in 1939 to see how Hopkins'
band had changed. Some of his records which I had heard in
Europe included some great clarinet work by Ed Hall, one of the
most authentic exponents of the New Orleans style. But Hall had
left the band, which now seems to lack any particular impact. By
way of compensation Benny Carter was producing some wonder-
ful music around the same time in 1939 at the Savoy, with a
band composed of Joe Thomas, Russel Smith, Link Mills, trum-
pets; Tyree Glenn, Vic Dickerson, James Archey, trombones;
Jimmy Powell, Carl Frye, Ernie Powell, Cass McCord, saxo-
phones; Eddie Heywood, Jr., piano; Ulysses Livingston, guitar;
Hayes Alvis, bass; Ted Fields, drums. Benny led on alto, trumpet,
and clarinet.

At the end of one exciting evening which I spent with Louis
Armstrong at the Savoy listening to Carter's music, Louis ex-
pressed his boundless admiration for Benny, describing him as
one of the four or five greatest personalities in jazz.

Carter's name has appeared frequendy in these pages, but only
a small idea has been given of his multiplicity of talents. In 1933
he had an excellent band in which were Bill Dillard, Chu Berry,
Sidney Catlett, and other stars. During that year Carter as-
sembled the musicians who made a number of recordings under
the name of the visiting Irish composer-critic, Spike Hughes.
Later in the year Carter had a band with an even stronger per-
sonnel, including a remarkably powerful trombone trio: J. C.
Higginbotham, Fred Robinson, and Keg Johnson. At the piano
was Teddy Wilson, playing his first New York engagement and
creating a sensation with his new and original style.

A year later Benny Carter had a new band, with Russel Smith,
Otis Johnson, and "Mouse" Randolph, trumpets; Benny Morton,
Keg Johnson, trombones; Ben Smith, Russell Procope, Ben Web-

196 JAZZ

ster, saxophones; Teddy Wilson, piano; Clarence Holiday, guitar;
Elmer James, bass; Walter Johnson, drums.

In 1935 Benny Garter left for Europe, to work in Paris with
Willy Lewis' band. On his first trip he was unable to disembark
at Le Havre, owing to domestic legal complications. After re-
turning to New York and straightening out his problems, he
finally landed and went to work, at Chez Rorence, where the
swing fans congregated nightly to hear his brilliant work on both
alto and trumpet.

The following year Carter went to London and became stafiF
arranger for the BBC radio house band. He recorded several
sessions with a pickup band composed of British musicians,
among them Max Goldberg, Tommy McQuater, trumpets; Lew
Davis, trombone; Buddy Featherstonhaugh, tenor sax; Eddie
Macauley, piano.

After several Continental appearances Carter spent a summer
in Holland, where he was joined by another giant of the saxo-
phone, Coleman Hawkins, in a record session which also fea-
tured Freddy Johnson on piano and George Chisholm, the tal-
ented Scottish trombonist. Later he recorded another session in
Paris with Bertie King, clarinet Fletcher Allen, alto; Alix Com-
belle, tenor; Yorke de Sousa, piano; Django Reinhardt, guitar;
Len Harrison, bass; Robert Monmarche, drums— a truly interna-
tional band including British and French Negroes and whites.

On all his recordings, of course, Benny Carter is responsible
for the arrangements and displays his usual peerless talent on
both alto and trumpet. On several of his English recordings,
notably Nightfall, he also played beautiful tenor sax.

In the course of many meetings with Benny Carter, both dur-
ing his European tour and later on my owai visit to New York,
I found him a musician of superior intelligence— incidentally, he
had acquired a thorough knowledge of the French language— and
a man with very distinct ideas on the future of jazz.

On several occasions I heard Benny with a small band which
worked for him at Kelly's Stable and the Famous Door. He
showed himself as much at ease in a small improvising band as
he always has been in a big organized band. Having always been

JAZZ 197

a stubborn defender of the small improvising groups, I frequently
discussed my point of view with Benny, who showed a sympa-
thetic understanding of this attitude.

Moreover, he expressed a viewpoint which seemed to me logi-
cally sound. Small improvising bands are preferable, he declared,
only when it is possible to build them out of the very greatest
musical talent. Otherwise it is impossible to let every man strike
out for himself, and the need for leadership and preparation be-
comes evident. This provides a good basis for some kind of gen-
eral agreement on the much disputed question of the relative
values of improvised jazz and swing— a problem which has di-
vided the jazz critics* camps irreconcilably. It is simply a matter
of relative values: Are the individual artists more important than
the talent of one good arranger, or is the latter s influence more
vital than the band's power of improvisation? This is an eternally
moot question among the critics, and there will always be dis-
agreement among them in the assessment of these values.

In the case of Benny Carter, the entire music field seems to
be in accord on the potency of his versatile musical personality.
In recent years he has done commercial radio and movie studio
work on jobs which are usually denied to Negroes.

The last time I heard Carter in person he was co-starred at the
Apollo vsdth Billie Holiday. He has had several bands since his
return to this country, from the neat and perfecdy balanced small
bands to the customary big band formula of seven brass and five
reeds, always bearing the stamp of his own personal and charming
style.

Although his band generally outclasses the majority of hi?
more commercially successful contemporaries, Benny has seldom
been able to hold his musicians together very long, owing to fi-
nancial difficulties. Duke Ellington owed some of his success to
the stability of his personnel, a factor that Benny has never been
able to count on. Given this advantage, Benny might be one of
the few musicians capable of competing on an equal footing
with the Duke, and of expressing himself musically without any
trace of imitativeness or banality. During 1943, his first year
spent in California, he at last began to acquire the reputation he

198 JAZZ

deserves, and kept his personnel much more consistendy than
hitherto.

Cab Calloway is one of the more fortunate folk in the jazz
picture, since his band is one of the three or four biggest money-
makers among the Negro outfits. He was a big name as far back
as 1930, and in February of the following year he took over the
bandstand from Duke Ellington at the Cotton Club, where he
became a key figure in the entertainment at this celebrated night
spot, first in Harlem and later on Broadway.

Cab Calloway was a young law student who had not yet truly
decided on a career. However, his talent as a scat singer and
master of ceremonies eventually drew him into the jazz scene.
With his band he quickly made a name for himself, and by 1931
he had established himself on the road to fame by way of radio
and records. Harry Cooper, by the way, had left the band and
gone to live in Paris. The band at the Cotton Club included Dick-
erson, Lamar Wright, and Reuben Reeves, trumpets; De Priest
Wheeler, Harry White, trombones; William Blue, Andrew
Brown, Walker Thomas, reeds; and the same rhythm section.

This was the band which made a series of records (eight sides
were reissued in the summer of 1943 on Brunswick), some of
which were of musical interest. After hearing one of them. Some
of These Days, when it was first released in Europe, I observed
new possibilities in the astonishing ensembles of this arrangement
at breakneck tempo, and something new and different, even after
Armstrong, in the unique vocal style of the leader.

Cab's international name value brought him to Europe in 1 934
for a successful tour. During an afternoon he spent at my home in
Brussels I found that he had some sound views on jazz, appreci-
ated the work of the best musicians, and explained the difficul-
ties of resisting the temptations offered by commercial suc-
cess. He had hit on a formula and was exploiting it to the full.
He made a few records, such as Margie, which showed that the
band was capable of producing some first-class jazz. Little by
little he changed his band until it became one of the best aggre-
gations of talent in the business.

My last evening with Calloway was spent in Amsterdam; with

JAZZ 199

us was the late Edwin Swayze, his trumpet player, whom I had
previously met in Europe with the Plantation Band. Al Morgan,
the bassist, known among the musicians as '"Kingfish," was also
in the party later.

Some young, blue-eyed, flaxen-haired Dutch girls came to
interview Cab, who was in good spirits and oflFered to give a
performance, to benefit a Dutch Indies charity, at which he would
transform any given theme into his hi-de-ho style. The results
were colossal; some of the more conservative Dutchmen were
scared out of their wits. Cab's scat syllables burst forth with
rhythmic and sometimes mechanical precision. The climax came
when a French sailor started to hum the Marseillaise. Although
Cab had never heard it before, we were soon treated to an in-
credible scat version of the French national anthem.

Calloway's orchestra, as I last heard it in New York, comprised
Mario Bauza, Dizzy Gillespie, Lamar Wright, trumpets; Tyree
Glenn, Keg Johnson, Quentin Jackson, trombones; Hilton Jeffer-
son, Jerry Blake, Andrew Brown, Walter Thomas, and the late
Chu Berry, reeds; Benny Payne, piano; Danny Barker, guitar;
Milton Hinton, bass; and Cozy Cole, drums.

A number of changes have been made with the band since
then. Dizzy Gillespie, after playing with several other bands, in-
cluding Benny Carters, joined Earl Hines in 1943. Chu Berry,
the great tenor man, died in an automobile accident. Many critics
had considered him Coleman Hawkins' main rival. Calloway, of
course, continues a triumphal career, enjoying a reputation shared
by very few Negro bands. In 1 943 a great new tenor man, Illinois
Jacquet, joined the band. J. C. Heard took over Cozy Cole's chair
late in 1942.

Earl Hines was the first artist to elevate the piano to its full
glory as a medium for jazz. His role in Louis Armstrong's band
was hailed as the work of a genius, and his records with Louis's
Hot Five around 1928 were a unique contribution to the annals
of recorded jazz. Hines revealed a superb imagination combined
with astonishing technique and power. His two hands worked
together to produce rhythmic effects that brought something revo-
lutionary to jazz piano style. Earl Hines has often been described

200 ' JAZZ

as one of the four or five great jazz pioneers. His solos, such as
Caution Blues and ^y Varieties, became the model and inspira-
tion of every young pianist.

Hines was a v^onderful musician who seemed still further
inspired by his partnership with Armstrong. Was his genius ap-
parent in other surroundings as it had been with the Hot Five?
On the basis of such evidence as Harry Dial's records vdth the
Blusicians, or the Jimmie Noone and Omer Simeon records, it
would seem that his inspiration in other environments was not
quite the same. The explanation is simple: power attracts power,
and inspiration feeds inspiration.

Sometime after his first great recordings, Hines became a name
in Chicago as the band leader at the celebrated Grand Terrace
Ballroom. His first band in 1930 was composed of local musicians,
including George Mitchell, Shirley Clay, trumpets; William
Franklin, trombone; Toby Turner, Lester Boone, Cecil Irwin,
reeds; Hines, piano; Claude Roberts, guitar; Hayes Alvis, bass;
Bud Washington, drums. Later Earl enlarged to six brass and
four reeds in 1932. Around this time came Blue Drag and his
theme, Deep Forest, which did not particularly impress me as
great jazz.

To explain my attitude a little more clearly I might recommend
a comparison of Hines's record of Angry with the same tune as
recorded by the New Orleans Rhythm Kings. The difference
between mere workmanship and inspiration becomes apparent
after the first hearing, despite the fact that this superlative pianist
himself is in fine form.

In the past two years I have heard Hines's new band and found
it very enjoyable; however, it sounds exactly like all the colored
bands. He has several first-class musicians with him, such as
Scoops Carey on alto, one of the very best on his instrument.
Hines's own work sounds a little mechanical at times nowadays;
the dynamic effects he used to improvise, the wonderful flow of
ideas, seem somehow to have become mere formulas. Fortunately,
though, I heard Hines at one of Harry Lim's jam sessions, where
he played in such company as Benny Carter and Charlie Shavers.
I can recall few occasions when I was so profoundly impressed.

JAZZ 20I

Charlie Shavers' electrifying power had in turn excited the
normally calm disposition of Benny Carter, and Hines was in
rhythmic fury at the keyboard. It was one of the great moments
in jam session history. To my mind this again proves what a
stimulating effect the atmosphere of a small improvising band
can provide.

The role played by New Orleans in the evolution of jazz was
paralleled later by the Kansas City group of musicians, who pro-
vided two important factors in the shape of the Andy Kirk and
Count Basic bands.

Kirk has an important combination which was originally
formed in 1 927. He won his spurs in Kansas City, later going to
Chicago, where reputations were made and broken. In its early
days Kirk himself played bass. Many of the arrangements were
vmtten by Mary Lou Williams. The first records reveal little in
the way of rhythmic originality; for example, Casey Jones Special
and Dallas Blues had nothing particular to offer, in comparison
with the contemporary offerings of Henderson and Oliver.

Kirk's band stuck together through many hard years; around
1936, when the leader was playing baritone sax, he had his first
real commercial success vdth some Decca records, which ulti-
mately brought him on a series of Eastern tours, including some
successful visits to New York. In 1939, by which time Kirk con-
fined his activities to conducting, he had with him Harry Lawson,
Earl Thompson, and Clarence Trice, trumpets; Ted Donnelly
and Henry Wells, trombones; John Harrington, Rudy Powell,
Dick Wilson, Don Byas, reeds; Mary Lou Williams, piano; Floyd
Smith, guitar; Booker Collins, bass; Ben Thigpen, drums; and
June Richmond, vocals.

Heard later in the band briefly was the fine trumpeter Bill
Coleman. Ed Inge replaced Don Byas in the reeds. The two
pillars of the band were always Kirk and his talented girl pianist-
arranger, whose solo work always displayed a great personality,
aided by a power and attack rare among women musicians. In
addition to her records v^th the full band, Mary Lou waxed
some sides with her Kansas City Seven on Decca and, under the
pseudonym "Six Men and a Girl,** on Varsity.

202 JAZZ

Andy Kirk has earned a place among die foremost colored
bands. The band's work, though by no means sensationally orig-
inal, is generally interesting and enjoyable.

Count Basic achieved his reputation after inheriting a band
which had already had its measure of local recognition: Benny
Moten's Kansas City Orchestra. At first this band had three brass
and three reeds; several of its records, I remember, came to
Europe, but it did not stir up any particular comment. The band
was rough and crude; its arrangements were disorganized. Moten
Stomf is worthy of mention, and Sugar was pleasant despite the
barking of the sousaphone. To get a good perspective it is inter-
esting to note that the Chicagoans' famous version of Sugar was
recorded about the same time.

After 1 93 1 the Moten band began to develop some more
potent characteristics through the work of such men as Hot Lips
Page, trumpet; Eddie Barefield, alto and clarinet; Ben Webster,
tenor; William (Count) Basic, piano; and Walter Page, bass.
All these men were superior artists whose work was to achieve
much wider recognition before long.

Gradually the band underwent a change of character, in which
the asperity of the Benny Moten manner gave way to the more
advanced ideas of the pianist. Count Basic. Typical of this new
style was Moten Swing. Basic, his style a little closer to that of
Fats Waller than to Earl Hines's, was responsible for the or-
chestral development of the group, with emphasis on the repeti-
tion of riffs, punctuated by a very simple rhythm in which a few
notes from the piano provided the high spots.

In 1936 Basie formed a band of his own, using a nucleus of
the former Moten group. It was not long before his name began
to be discussed in New York jazz circles. John Hammond, hear-
ing this talk about the band, caught one of its local broadcasts
from Kansas City. Fascinated, he wrote a long article about this
new discovery. Before long Basie had hit Chicago and the Grand
Terrace, where the enthusiastic dancers welcomed something
that immediately showed signs of becoming a new fashion in jazz.

Basie had achieved a truly original style of musical expression
through his band, and within a matter of weeks he had hit the

JAZZ 203

road to fame. Along with the improvising of Louis Armstrong
and Fats Waller, there were at this time two other great bands
with distinctive personalities: Ellington's and Lunceford's. Panas-
sie had come out with the allegation that Jimmy Lunceford had
the best American jazz orchestra. The truth was that Ellington
and Lunceford had two different and marvelous personalities
and owed nothing to each other. Suddenly a third big name came
on the scene, as Count Basic's arrangements began to make their
mark, revealing a style completely different from those of the
other two bands. Basic's band was responsible for the populariza-
tion of the riff style, using short, incessantly repeated phrases.
After 1936 this style came into general use among most of the
swing bands. A new excitement had captured the music world,
and a new swing style had started to replace pure improvisation.

One of Basic's first records. Honeysuckle Rose, demonstrated
the transformation of the theme into a series of mechanical repe-
titions along the lines that were to provide the basis for so much
of the big band jazz from that time.

This new style had a magical and stimulating effect upon
audiences everywhere, and no less upon the musicians them-
selves. When Panassie visited New York in 1938 a group of
musicians, including the late Tommy Ladnier and Mezz Mezz-
row, were assembled in a recording studio for a session. At that
time Hold Tight was the hit song of the moment. One of the
musicians started to play the second phrase from this tune, I
Want Some Sea Food Mama. The seven notes sounded wonder-
ful, constituting a perfect riff. The musicians kept repeating it;
Mezzrow, too, joined in, and Tommy Ladnier added himself to
the ensemble. Panassie started to sing along with them, and the
whole bunch, possessed by this riff delirium, completely forgot
about the matter of making records.

An examination of the evolution of Count Basic's orchestra
reveals not only his own excellent musicianship but also his good
taste in the selection of musicians. Newcomers to the band in-
ccluded Dan Minor and the tenor sax of Lester Young, who
sseemed to be one of the few men on this instrument never in-

204 JAZZ

fluenced by Coleman Hawkins. The rhythm section was rein-
forced by Joe Jones's supple drurmning.

In 1940 the band reached a new peak in its climb to glory.
After many changes Basic had settled down with a personnel
that comprised Buck Clayton, Ed Lewis, Harry Edison, and Al
Killian, trumpets; Vic Dickerson, Dicky Wells, and Dan Minor,
trombones; Earl Warren, Tab Smith, Jack Washington, Lester
Young, and Buddy Tate, reeds; Basic, piano; Freddy Green,
guitar; Joe Jones, drums; and Walter Page, bass.

For several years I have listened to Basic's band every time it
has visited New York. I heard him at his most vibrant and
rhythmic groove, at the Apollo; soon after, with Paul Bascomb
in place of Lester Young, he was at the Cafe Society, and later
at a big Broadway movie theater. The evening at the Cafe offered
unmitigated delight, but the theater engagement showed them
way below form, with James Rushing's traditional blues singing
as the chief redeeming feature.

In 1943 Basic increased his brass section to eight. Tab Smith
is no longer with him, and Don Byas has the tenor chair originally
held by Lester Young. The band has spent much of its time on
the west coast, making several successful movie appearances.

Last but not least comes the great Jimmy Lunceford band. I
remember that not long after the publication in Europe of my
first book on jazz, I was told that a new band had come to the
forefront in the States; it was even whispered that Louis Arm-
strong's reputation as a skyscraper trumpet artist had been shat-
tered, and on his own home ground, and that one of Lunceford's
men, Sy Oliver, had exceeded Louis's range by a whole octave.
Incredible as all this sounded at the time, we were inclined to
believe it when the records of ]a2znocrcicy and Star Dust arrived.

At that time it seemed to me that Lunceford was greatly influ-
enced by Duke Ellington, whose compositions he played, though
in a very dijBFerent style which sometimes gave new life to them.

Lunceford was bom near Denver, Colorado. Leaving the
mountain surroundings while still very young, he spent his child-
hood in Mississippi, where he lived amidst a fast-developing jazz
idiom that had already grown far from its New Orleans origins.

JAZZ 205

Tall, broad-shouldered, round-faced, a fine figure of a man, he
was seriously devoted to his studies, earned a college degree, and
became a high school teacher in Memphis, another colorful city
where he was steeped in more of the jazz tradition. It was there,
along the levee, that the blues were said to have been born. Many
years before, W. C. Handy had heard a hobo singing a nostalgic
blues theme, which was later to be incorporated into the St. Louis
Blues,

Lunceford set out to impart his knowledge of science to the
colored youths; in the evenings he would spend many hours
dreaming about the future of his race and its music. Jazz seemed
a form of evasion and liberation for the Negro. Lunceford set out
to learn to play saxophone, and before long he was blowing in
amateur bands, along with such men as Elmer Snowden and
later, around 1925, in the band of Deacon Johnson. Finally
Lunceford found himself at the crossroads of his career and de-
cided in favor of adventure, music, and glory. Giving up his
teaching job, he became a full-time musician.

In 1 93 1 this determined and personable young man formed
the Lunceford Chickasaw Syncopators, with Eddie Tompkins,
Sy Oliver, and Paul Webster, trumpets; Eddie Durham, Elmer
Crumbley, and Russell Bowles, trombones; Willie Smith, Dan
Grissom, Earl Carruthers, and Joe Thomas, saxophones; Ed Wil-
cox, piano; Al Norris, guitar; Mose Allen, bass; and James Craw-
ford, drums.

Thus, the men who turned out to be the pillars of the Lunce-
ford edifice were with him from the start. In the brass section the
admirable Sy Oliver contributed many modem and constructive
arranging ideas which helped in the evolution of the band. In the
reed section were Willie Smith, expert alto man and deputy
leader, and Joe Thomas, who plays the tenor with a warmth cal-
culated to excite the coldest of hearts. James Crawford's mag-
nificent drums provided an invaluable solid foundation for the
rhythm section.

Subsequent changes strengthened the band. Arrangements
were written by Sy Oliver, Ed Wilcox, and others in the band,
as well as by outsiders such as Will Hudson. Gradually Lunceford

2o6 JAZZ

steered the band toward the achievement of a truly individual
style which has earned the description "Luncefordian." All the
men in the ensemble were excellent musicians who combined a
gift of improvisation with the ability to read and play well in the
section.

The orchestrations were based on sweeping ensemble efiFects,
powerful successions of brilliantly scored sectional passages, and
the eventual introduction of the soloists. A great part of the band's
individuality was contributed by the underlying work of the
rhythm section. The soloists would tear out impressively from the
ensembles with their muted trumpets and occasional use of force-
ful riffs.

Lunceford owed a great debt to Sy Oliver, who is certainly
one of the most interesting personalities in modern jazz, and who
gave his whole musical soul to the band. He has an intelligent,
calculated talent, mixing polyphony with sheer rhythmic power,
finding new tonal effects in his orchestration and occasionally in-
terspersing some delightful touches of musical humor. It was he
who taught the trumpet section some of its flashy and somewhat
noisy tricks in the skyscraper register, which is one achievement
for which he deserves less credit. However, he is one of the few
arrangers who brought touches of genius to swing, which can so
easily become a boring substitute for real jazz when the arranger
lacks any true creative power. For the past four years Oliver has
been staff arranger with Tommy Dorsey and has given up trum-
pet playing. To my mind he is the type of musician who could
organize a band of his own and make it as much an individual
expression of its leader's ideas as are the bands of Duke Ellington
and Benny Carter. His work with Dorsey, however, has been less
consistent in the past couple of years.

An important new personality joined the Lunceford band in
1937 when Trummy Young came into the trombone section and
was also featured as vocalist. Ted Buckner, another fine alto man,
came into the reed section about this time. Such numbers as
Margie illustrate the constructive power of the ensemble. Run-
ning Wild, arranged by Willie Smith, was an example of bar-

JAZZ 207

monic balance between the brass and reeds, with imaginative by-
play between the trombones and Joe Thomas' tenor incantations.

The dynamic impact of this band improved as time went on.
'Willie Smith proved himself a sensational alto man, comparable
with Hodges and Carter; powerful, yet simple, always playing
from the heart Working as a sideman in the Lunceford band,
he was perhaps a little overshadowed despite his great personal
charm. Bom in 191 o in Charleston, S.C., he spent his childhood
daydreaming in the parks, in flower gardens where camellias
and magnolias heralded the spring. He was familiar with the old
blues and spiritual traditions perpetuated by the Negroes of South
Carolina— the same themes I heard myself in 1941 at an extraor-
dinary camp meeting in Yemassee, where I saw scenes of choral
incantations and virtual musical trances in the Negro spiritual
idiom.

Willie started on the clarinet at ten, playing in amateur bands
' for Sunday concerts. Beginning his professional career at home,
he later went to Georgia and Alabama. One Sunday he arrived
in Memphis, where the musicians of 1930 were still reminiscing
about the sporting houses of Beale Street, and of the faraway
days when Jelly Roll Morton played the blues in gambling dens
while the waiters robbed their drink-sodden customers.

It was in Memphis that Willie Smith, who incidentally is pale
enough to pass for a white, joined the Lunceford band, which he
left in 1942 to join Charlie SpivaVs white band. The following
year he was inducted into the Navy and was assigned to a band
at Great Lakes.

In 1939 I attended a number of rehearsals of the Lunceford
band on Seventh Avenue in Harlem. Lunceford, sitting on a
trunk, was giving directions with his baton. In one comer Sy
Oliver was busy rehearsing the brass section; in another, Willie
Smith was training the reeds. The tune was T' Ain't What You
Do, The bold and melodic ideas of Sy Oliver, who was breaking
in two new trumpet men, Gerald Wilson and Snookie Young,
were immediately apparent. When Sy departed shortly afterward,
Lunceford lost an irreplaceable figure. He had been to this band

2o8 JAZZ

what Duke Ellington had been to the history of swing. The style
of his arrangements was always immediately apparent, as in
Annie Laurie, which was the epitome of Luncefordiana.

William Moore, Jr., took Sy's place as staff arranger with the
band. Since Moore's departure the Lunceford library has been
composed of arrangements by various other writers, including
Eddie Durham, Roger Segure, Bud Estes, and Ted Dameron.
Moore was excellent, but it was hard to replace Sy. Such num-
bers as Pretty Eyes and I Got It revealed Moore's qualities, but
also showed the difiFerences between his style and Sy's; this, in
turn, explains the evolution of the Lunceford band. Duke Elling-
ton has always been composer, arranger, and exponent. Lunce-
ford is none of these; he is merely the spectacular director of the
band. In the course of long conversations with Ellington and
Armstrong I have heard them often talk with enthusiasm on
musical history and technique. When I tried to discuss these sub-
jects with Lunceford he seemed disinterested in thern.

I have spent many pleasant hours with the members of the
Lunceford band. Men like Joe Thomas and Ted Buckner enjoy
discussing at great length, and with great conviction, the different
qualities of contemporary saxophonists. I remember one evening
at the Renaissance Ballroom in Harlem, when the crowd was
yelling its enthusiasm and reacted violently to the most exciting
ensembles and solos. Joe Thomas or Willie Smith would start
the frenzy, Trummy Young would keep it up at fever pitch,
and the trumpet section would emphasize the general state of
ecstasy. These evenings of musical delirium would generally be
followed by a long session of general conversation.

In the past two years Lunceford has lost most of the band's
original key men. Late in 1943 Trummy Young was with Charlie
Bamet; the trumpet section had only Paul Webster left of the
originals; Crawford, Buckner, and Crumbley had gone, as well as
Willie Smith, and for a while Lunceford had to play saxophone
himself, for the first time in many years. The band has lost some
of its old precision and fire but still has many admirable arrange-
ments in its books.

All the big colored bands discussed here have reached their

JAZZ 209

maturity and cannot be expected to add any further innovations.
They have reached the full bloom of their powers of expression;
some of them have retained their qualities, while others are
slowly losing them and slipping into the past.

For five or six years swing music has lived on the initiative and
energy of such bands as these. Perhaps something new is needed
now. The danger lies in the fact that what was originally a thing
of inspiration can degenerate into a routine. These bands are
getting old, just like human beings. Which is to be the young
band that v^ll inscribe its name below those famous ones in the
book of jazz fame? Will it be Jay McShann, with his volatile new
bunch from Kansas City, or King Kolax, who was a hit in Chi-
cago but failed to make an impression in New York? Will it be
the young organization led by Cootie Williams, or Harlan
Leonard and His Rockets, who attempted to rejuvenate the old
Kansas City style?

It is difficult to guess the answer, but perhaps the band which
will turn out tomorrow's sensation is Lionel Hampton's for
Lionel's powerful personality and imagination have enabled him
to make rapid strides. He has gone a long way from the music
made by his specially assembled recording bands in 1938-39,
when such men as Cootie Williams, Lawrence Brown, Johnny
Hodges, Jess Stacy, John Kirby and Cozy Cole contributed in a
number of first-rate improvisations. His present band was formed
in 1940 after he left Benny Goodman. Its first appearance at the
Apollo Theatre, when it was not much more than a year old, was
a revelation. Since then the band has undergone many changes
in personnel. It now includes an extraordinary pianist, Milton
Buckner^ brother of the former Lunceford sax man, and a great
tenor, Amette Cobbs.

Cootie Williams' band has proven itself worthy of its brilliant
leader. Using excellent arrangements by Don Kirkpatrick and
others. Cootie has featured such men as Eddie Vinson, the
unique blues singer and alto sax, and several other fine soloists.

To sum up, it must be conceded that the modern swing style,
which has taken the place of pure improvisation, makes a diffi-
cult medium for the expression of musical beauty. Some great

2IO JAZZ

arrangers have appeared on the scene, giving hfe to the bands;
the rest are all about the same, and of no particular merit. It takes
a great deal of talent to produce collective improvisation, but there
is no doubt that nothing short of genius is necessary to give
swing music the qualities of a major art.

XVI. FROM SPIRITUALS TO BOOGIE-WOOGIE

We have already discussed at some length the evolution of the
jazz orchestra. Having examined the trees, we should next get
a clear perspective of the woods, in order to gain a more general
view of our subject.

It is hard to determine the exact periods marking the trans-
formation from one style to another. When did the spirituals and
popular ballads begin? Some authorities would set the date
around the middle of the nineteenth century. It seems to me
that at that time there were already some spirituals in existence
which were passed along from generation to generation. Cer-
tainly the spiritual goes back to the time of Negro slavery in the
Southern agricultural states, and these religious songs of hope
survived despite a lack of acceptance by whites of that period.

During the Civil War Colonel Wentworth Higginson, coming
from the North, heard some colored groups of religious singers
who impressed him greatly with their style, which was rhythmic
though not syncopated. The spirituals were a product of hymns
heard by Negroes in the Southern churches, mixed with planta-
tion songs in which a more syncopated element can be found.
At the outset these spirituals were called jubilees. After falling
into obscurity they were revived through the important work of
a Fisk University group started in 1871 under the direction of
George White. This group took the traditional religious airs and
adapted them to be sung throughout the world. Similar vocal
groups were organized at Tuskegee, Atlanta, and Hampton. The
complete success of this musical renaissance movement was con-

JAZZ 211

firmed in a book on the subject written about 1900 by Dr. Du
IBois. America had begun to be moved by this simple and direct
poetry, sung by a race so often humiHated and spumed.

Henry Krehbiel published a book of Afro-American Folk
I Songs, in which were rejuvenated some of the old hymns that
Ihad been born in Southern congregations and had passed into
I the realm of folklore.

At first the spirituals were sung by choirs. Today there are
many fine groups interpreting spirituals, including those of Eva
Jessye and Hall Johnson. Through the early choral interpreta-
tions, the popular and religious expression of this music took on
a new rhythmic perfection; later there were smaller combinations
and outstanding soloists identified with the spiritual, among
them Nathaniel Dett, Carl Ditton, Ballanta-Taylor, and Law-
rence Brown.

Such spirituals as Glory Road, Go Down Moses, and I Want
to Be Ready developed alongside the popular songs such as ]ohn
Henry, Steel Drivin Sam, and Joe Turner.

It has been observed that the French influence on the Negroes
allowed them greater liberty for their powers of syncopation. The
spiritual seems to have been a product of the contacts between
the Negro and Anglo-Saxon religious elements. The puritanical
control thus involved seems to have brought about a suppression
of the essentially African characteristics in the spiritual. The
difference between the British- and French-dominated areas of
the United States is reflected in the contrast between the musical
products of Virginia, Georgia, and the Carolinas— Carr}' Me
Back to Old Virginny, Casey Jones, John Henry— and the Mis-
sissippi region's Joe Turner and the early blues.

The blues, a product of the spiritual, was another popular
form which was crystallized and formalized considerably later.
Curiously enough, it was only in recent years that the blues
achieved any real recognition and understanding by Mnriters and
critics. In Jazzmen, as Leonard Feather has pointed out, the^
examples selected by E. Simms Campbell were actually not blues
in many cases. Campbell was misled by the superficial character
of certain compositions. The blues is a Negro product which

212 JAZZ

antedates jazz as a whole. Generally, it is based on a three-line
theme in which the first and second lines are similar.

Discussing the musical form of the blues, Dr. Alain Locke
wrote in The Negro and His Music:

The tunes are built around a succession of three common chords on
the keynote, the subdominant and the chord of the dominant seventh.
The repetition of the second line gives emphasis, a chance for impro-
vised variation, leaving a wait in which originally to think up the last
Hne, and later in which to improvise and vary the rhythm before
returning to the regular pattern of the original theme. This interval
is the original 'TDreak"— the narrow cradle for improvised rhythm and
eccentric tone intei.*vals from which jazz was bom. ^

The blues, contrary to the popular development of jazz songs,
was always based on a theme only twelve bars long. I have ex-
plained how the musical folklore of the Mississippi was exploited
by the musicians whose names I quoted. The most important of
these was Louis Moreau Gottschalk, a man of mixed blood who
enjoyed considerable success in Europe, and who, incidentally,
wrote the original Cuhana which formed the basis for the famous
Peanut Vendor.

For a long time these strange musical manifestations known
as the blues were in the hands of such obscure characters as
Blind Tom, who came from Georgia but took his music as far
abroad as England. Later such minstrel troupes as Lew Johnson^s
Plantation Company and the Georgia Minstrels carried these
themes throughout the States, helping to spread the fame of
Stephen Foster, who was the first white man to assimilate suc-
cessfully the Negro musical spirit with his Swanee Rivery Old
Black Joe, My Old Kentucky Home, and many others. A further
evolution developed early in the twentieth century with the
formation of larger groups like Black Patti's Troubadours and the
Clef Club, mentioned previously in connection with Louis
Mitchell.

By that time, ragtime had started to establish its formula, later
to be given world-wide fame by Will Marion Cook and Jim
Europe. The choral groups at Negro universities had played

JAZZ 213

a similar role, twenty-five years earlier, in perpetuating the
spirituals. In Europe I heard the Fisk University student group
and the Utica Jubilee Singers, but the passionate spirit that has
made jazz a universal music could not be found in the same
degree in the music of the spirituals. The latter consists of a
simple theme developed with monotonous repetition; there is
hardly any element of improvisation, even in the interpretations
of such modem groups as the famous Golden Gate Quartet.

The precision, the repetition, the intonation and syncopation,
leave a great impression on a first hearing of a spiritual, but its
limitations are soon discovered, and the advantages of jazz, with
its freshness of improvisation, can be appreciated. The blues is
not static like the spiritual, having played a basic part in the
origin of jazz improvisation. Alain Locke explained: "]qzz im-
provisation came rocketing out of the blues. It grew out of the
improvised musical 'filling in' of the gap between the short meas-
ures of the blues and the longer eight-bar line, the break interval
in the original folk form of the three-line blues." This interesting
viewpoint was further expounded in an article by Walter Sidney
in ]azz Information entitled "Blues in Disguise" :

This harmonic freedom was the heart of the collective improvisa-
tion that produced so great a music. It aided the growth of a natural
counterpoint, an ensemble in which each player could develop his
own melodic line, with complete independence. The freedom from
traditional scales, of course, made the early jazz sound horrible to
academically trained ears. When Armstrong's staccato trumpet cut
across Dodds' Sobbing Blues, the successive dissonances, according
to academic standards, should have prostrated the listener. The efEect,
however, was incomparably exciting and beautiful to anyone actually
familiar with the blues language.

These were the same sensations experienced with bewilder-
ment by W. C. Handy, veteran composer known as "the father
of the blues." Handy, bom in Florence, Alabama, in 1873, was
the son of a Methodist preacher who gave him a classical musical
background. Very early young Handy had to go to work, and
his life changed rapidly. At nineteen he was an employee of a

214 JAZZ

pipe manufacturer in Bessemer. Little by little he became aware
of the popular musical forms, of syncopation and spirituals and
traditional songs. In 1909 he was heading a little band in Mem-
phis. After some adventures around Beale Street and experiences
with a minstrel troupe, he was hired to provide musical propa-
ganda for the election of a new mayor, Mr. Crump. Handy and
his group went through the city playing on street comers, with
the spirit of Negro folklore uppermost in his memory. A Negro
walking by the levee had hummed a theme which he recalled; a
street worker toying with the old twelve-bar strain had given him
further inspiration. He wove these themes into his first song
effort, which brought scorn from a music publisher, because it
was based on a twelve-bar theme instead of the then conventional
sixteen. But Mr. Crumfy written for the election, was eventually
published and became famous under its later title, Memfhis
Blues.

Later Handy was to publish his immortal St. Louis Blues, a
work of poetic purity and naivete, which must have inspired
Gershwin many years later when he v^ote Summertime for
Porgy and Bess.

The blues was bom ofiBcially when Handy documented this
form, and it was to achieve new recognition through the blues-
singing Smiths. Three famous singers, all with the same name
but related only by their love of the blues, were Bessie Smith,
Mamie Smith, and Trixie Smith, whose relative merits have
often been the subject of critical discussion. All three had their
own eras of glory, and their fame was preceded by that of the
unforgotten Ma Rainey, bom in Georgia in 1886. Ma Rainey
followed a minstrel troupe around in her childhood days and
spent most of her life on the road, eventually becoming pro-
prietress of a theatrical group herself.

Ma made her first records after World War I, and achieved a
legendary importance in the days when jazz was beginning to
crystallize as a new form. Her moving, deep, earthy voice had an
emotional and rhythmic expressiveness seldom found in present-
day singers.

Bessie Smith, generally considered the best of all blues singers,

JAZZ 215

was a pupil of Ma Rainey as a child. During a tour in Tennessee
Ma Rainey heard this young girl, singing with an unusual sense
of rhythm. Immediately she put her to work, and Bessie Smith
began her illustrious career when most children of her age were
still in school. With the increased popularity of phonograph
records, Bessie Smith's fame became nation-wide; she recorded
with the best musicians, after having spent many years working
in the South for low pay.

Bessie was designated "Empress of the Blues," to her own sur-
prise. She had spent her life wandering from tent to bam, in an
environment of adventure and constant travel. Suddenly her
reputation blossomed; before long she was a rich woman, and the
sudden change in her way of living made her fantastically ec-
centric in her habits.

Ma Rainey had lived in the first era of the blues pioneers, of
the blues that had been passed dov^oi to a new generation and
endowed with the Negro's sensitive musical qualities. She ex-
celled in the interpretation of those nostalgic lamentations whose
lyrics will always be an important part of Negro folklore. The
story of Ma Rainey's blues was mostly that of the girl who was
unlucky in love, expressing her infinite woes. Her titles are typical
and significant: Levee Camf Moan, Wee^pin Woman Blues, Big
Boy Blues, Deef Moanin Blues.

Tommy Ladnier, wdth whom I frequently discussed this blues
veteran, described her as a strange figure, swaying as she sang;
mournful yet vulgar, often obscene. Her suggestive lyrics en-
thralled the colored audiences, who eagerly devoured her tales of
misery and despair.

This same idiom was employed by Bessie Smith. Accompanied
by Clarence Williams, Fletcher Henderson, Billy Jones, or James
P. Johnson, she continued the popular tradition of the blues.
Bessie expressed the soul of her people with grace and emotion.
Her titles, like those of Ma Rainey, are indicative of the blues
spirit, to which she gave new life: Gulf Coast Blues, Down-
hearted Blues, Aggravatin Papa, Midnight Blues, Jailhouse
Blues, Graveyard Dream Blues, Haunted House Blues, I Ain't
Goin, Send Me to the 'Lectric Chair, and, best of all, her tragic

2i6 JAZZ

Etn'pty Bed Bliies. These are not artistic blues prepared by
modem musicians : the music is pure and clean, even though the
lyrics were impure and dirty; the emotional strains came straight
from a soul that had known suflFering.

As if to justify the dramatic portent of the blues, Bessie Smith,
once rich as Croesus, returned eventually to poverty. Desperate,
embittered, soddened by gin, she heard the graveyard blues echo
a last chorus for her in 1937 when she was injured in an auto-
mobile accident in Tennessee and carried bleeding to the hos-
pital. For all the whites at the hospital knew, she was just another
neglected Negro woman about to die; for the jazz lovers she was
the Empress of the Blues, taking leave of the vale of tears which
she had enriched with her talent.

Ida Cox, a Tennessee girl, also had an adventurous childhood,
like all the artists who were brought up against a background of
wandering minstrelsy. She roamed through the South telling her
lyrical tales of sorrow and affliction. Ida traveled for some time
with the Clark Minstrels, but she earned her fame during the
days she spent at the recording studios. She was accompanied by
Louis Armstrong, Buster Bailey, Fletcher Henderson, and later
by Lovie Austin and Her Blues Serenaders. With this last group
she made Graveyard Dream Blues and Blues for Ramfort Street,
about the same time Ma Rainey made her Barrelhouse Blues,
The Serenaders specialized in backgrounds for blues singers.
With Tommy Ladnier on trumpet and Jimmy O'Brien on
clarinet, they gave wonderful encouragement to Ida Cox, Ma
Rainey, Julia Davis, Ethel Waters, Edmonia Henderson, Viola
Bartlette, and Ozie McPherson.

Many years later Ida Cox appeared at Cafe Society in New
York, backed by Red Allen's band. Alas, she seemed ill at ease be-
fore a sophisticated audience; her gowns, designed to please the
colored audiences of the Deep South, struck a false note with this
white crowd. Her musical sensitivity and emotional qualities
affected by this lack of sympathy, she left soon afterward and
returned to the world of traveling minstrels.

There is no need to repeat here my tribute to the great Rosa
Henderson. Many pages could be written, too, on the famous

JAZZ 217

Ethel Waters, whose Da-Da Strain with Fletcher Henderson im-
pressed me so much, and whom I was to see a generation later,
and still great, in Cahin in the Sky.

Josephine Baker was the first artist whose blues siuging I
studied religiously in Europe. She was beyond all praise; glam-
orous, colorful, spontaneously inspired. It took several years in
Europe to spoil her talents. Another of my happiest recollections,
perhaps best of all, is of Florence Mills's performance at the
Kursaal in Ostend, Belgium, with the Plantation Band, where I
listened to her for many evenings in rapt admiration. After the
show I would stay behind for many hours reminiscing with her
about familiar tunes. Joe Ha)anan, now playing saxophone with
Louis Armstrong, and the late Ed Swayze were with us. Florence
Mills died not long after her return to America. Today she is
almost forgotten. The jazz books hardly mention her, and critics
have overlooked her, though the people of Harlem still remember
her and often put flowers on the grave of this girl who was peer-
less in her day.

Mention should also be made here of Eugenia Daniels, whom
I found one night in a little Harlem dive, singing Honeysuckle
Rose. Two days later she was embarking for Europe, to sing with
a band in Belgium, but she arrived to find war had just broken
out and was obliged to make an immediate about-face. She is a
fine artist who has still had virtually no recognition.

Dozens of other great girl singers deserve a word: Chippie
Hill, Ivy Anderson, Maggie Jones, and more recently Pearl
Bailey and Betty Roche. The story of Ella Fitzgerald is told else-
where in these pages; others to be cited are Maxine Sullivan, a
singer of real talent, and Helen Humes, former star of Count
Basic's band.

It would, indeed, be impossible to give full credit to all the
singers who have given their talent to the cause of jazz. Success
is not always directly proportionate to ability; audiences are misled
by irrelevant considerations instead of the sheer artistic values
that guide the critics. Thus, for example. Hazel Scott and Lena
Home have achieved limitless success largely on the basis of a

2i8 JAZZ

good appearance which does not happen to be an attribute of
better singers, such as the above-mentioned Eugenia Daniels.

Laurel Watson, bom in Poughkeepsie, started her career
modestly in a small band led by a brother of Don Redman. She
has all the necessary qualifications of a great star— expression,
style, and personality— but in some of her jobs, such as her work
with the big band of Lucky Millinder, she was hampered by her
environment. With a small band well suited to her musical teni-
perament, she could be a real success. Laurel made a few records
with Don Redman and Roy Eldridge.

One important name remains : that of the singer who was con-
sidered by many as a candidate for the place left empty by the
death of the Empress of the Blues, Bessie Smith. Billie Holiday
is something more than an ordinary jazz singer; she has provided
a style that is imitated by every singer who cannot find a style of
her own. She has had as much influence on the jazz voice as
Louis Armstrong and Coleman Hawkins have had on the trumpet
and the tenor saxophone. Many of her contemporaries and chief
competitors have been inspired by Billie.

A poor child from the Negro section of Baltimore, she arrived
in Harlem while still a baby and started her career in a noisy,
smoky dive on Seventh Avenue, from which she soon graduated,
starting toward fame in 1935 through a few recordings made
with Benny Goodman and Teddy Wilson. In the years since
then she has made hundreds of records with various combina-
tions. In 1936 she had an admirable band on one session includ-
ing Bunny Berigan, trumpet; Artie Shaw, clarinet; Joe Bushkin,
piano; Dick McDonough, guitar; Pete Peterson, bass; and Cozy
Cole, drums. She worked for some time with the bands of Count
Basic and Artie Shaw, as well as making numerous night club
and theater appearances on her own. In 1940 she recorded with
Lester Young on tenor, Joe Sullivan on piano, Joe Jones on
drums, and Walter Page on bass. All her recording bands were
first-class.

Billie*s personality has improved steadily. Not dynamic or
spontaneous like the traditional jazz singers, she is a well-
prepared, conscious, and precise artist, whose effects are bril-

JAZZ 219

liantly conceived. Billie tears at the words, deforms the phrasing,
goes beyond the hmits of jazz with her expressive style.

"Lady Day," as she is called, is an impressive sight as she
walks into the Onyx or the Famous Door, magnolia in her hair,
her eyes bright, her cheeks full, her lips vibrant and sensuous.
The piano plays her introduction, and the audience is suddenly
silent as her wistful plaints begin. This is not the rank-and-file
lament of a Ma Rainey, a Bessie Smith; it is a cerebral lamenta-
tion in suggestive pastel shades, so subtle that often it escapes
many of her listeners. It may be many years before Billie Holi-
day's importance is fully realized. She is doing for the jazz song
what Duke Ellington has done for the jazz orchestra. She has
opened the way to a new musical culture, toward a vital expres-
sion that unites intelligence and instinct.

Of the few white girl singers worthy of mention, Mildred
Bailey is discussed elsewhere, Anita O'Day is the only outstand-
ing white girl jazz singer to come to the forefront in recent years.

Switching to the male singers, I will pass lightly over Louis
Armstrong, having already made it clear that I consider him in
a class entirely by himself. Credit should also be given to such
modem blues singers as Joe Turner, T-Bone Walker, Jimmy
Rushing, Eddie Vinson, Big Bill, Louis Jordan, and many others
familiar through their records. I should like to pay a special
tribute to an artist who falls into a special category. His name is
Leo Watson, and he is gifted with an extraordinary musical tem-
perament, combining dynamic force with petulance, and a
rhythm that makes him second to none.

Willie Duke has nothing to do with the blues; his place is in
the traditional line of jazz scat singers. He might even be de-
scribed as the perfect swing singer.

More directly related to the blues than many of the singers
mentioned in the preceding pages is the subject of boogie-woogie.

Hugues Panassie contributed toward a revival of interest in
Chicago-style jazz; Charles Edward Smith and his colleagues
drew attention to the New Orleans pioneers; and similarly John
Hammond is credited with the propagation of boogie-woogie. All
of which, by the way, indicates the importance of the influence

220 JAZZ

some jazz writers have had in altering the course of jazz history.
Boogie-woogie is a very old piano style which retained its
strange vitality in the dives and dens of the South and the Middle
West. Through Hammond's influence it rose to the surface of
society and became generally accepted.

Jelly Roll Morton spoke of several early pianists who, he

I claims, played in boogie-woogie style. In reality, boogie-woogie is
the style of the pianists who had na real style and had not learned
to play. Ignorant of the rules of accompaniment and of the

I assistance that the left hand must give to the right, they changed

I the traditional functions of the bass, and in so doing they revolu-
tionized the whole style. The later boogie-woogie pianists gave the
left hand an essential and complicated role— a role carefully inter-
twined with the improvisations in the right hand. This new con-
ception may be related to the fact that there were no pianos in
the early New Orleans jazz bands, and that the pianists or "pro-
fessors'* in the bawdyhouses had to supply a continual and excit-
ing rhythm in their solo work. The essential difference between
boogie-woogie and ordinary jazz, of course, is that the bass is
founded on eight beats to the bar, in straight eighth notes or
xdotted eighths and sixteenths, instead of the conventional four

^ beats to the bar.

One of the first to spread the gospel of boogie-woogie was
Jimmy Yancey, a former vaudeville artist who toured Europe
many years ago, but fell on lean times in recent years and was
discovered by some jazz research men, working in a ball park in
Chicago. His name was forgotten, but it was revived through
Meade Lux Lewis, who, after achieving a boogie-woogie reputa-
tion of his own, paid tribute to Yancey by recording a number
which he called Yancey Special.

Other early pioneers of boogie-woogie included Pine Top
Smith and Cow Cow Davenport. More recently popular, besides
Meade Lux Lewis, have been Albert Ammons and Pete Johnson,
featured as a two-piano team since 1939 at Cafe Society in New
York. Albert Ammons recorded with a small band known as
Ammons* Rhythm Kings, but he became best known as a boogie-
woogie soloist. He played a long time at the De Lisa in Chicago,

JAZZ 221

where he was discovered. At that time John Hammond was look-
ing for Meade Lux Lewis, who had disappeared for years from
the musical scene. Lewis was found washing cars in a Chicago
garage. Surprised by Hammond's visit, he underwent a rapid
change of fortune. He made some new records and appeared at a
concert held in 1936 at the Imperial Theatre in New York. After-
ward came a big concert at Carnegie Hall dedicated largely to
boogie-woogie, with Meade Lux Lewis representing the St. Louis
brand, while Ammons and Johnson represented Chicago and
Kansas City. Since then Cafe Society has been a virtual academy
of boogie-woogie, with thousands of its own devoted fans. Some
of the critics have unearthed further pioneers of eight-to-the-bar.
Cripple Clarence and Romeo Nelson and Speckled Red, whose
value is more legendary than real. Also prominent in recent
years, and an excellent exponent of blues and boogie-woogie, is
Sammy Price, a prolific recording artist.

What will be the ultimate role and influence of boogie-woogie
in jazz? The fashion for this brand of music has been encouraged
beyond its real value by a number of confused amateurs who have
been carried away by its superficial rhythmic excitement. Will
Bradley's Orchestra even started a fashion for adapting boogie-
woogie to orchestral forms. The possibilities of boogie-woogie are
too limited to allow for any really important developments. Most
boogie-woogie is, of course, based on the twelve-bar blues form,
and the whole thing should merely be treated as a branch of the
blues idiom.

The blues has an important and permanent place in the de-
velopment of jazz. Boogie-woogie is a technical trick which will
have no bearing on the future of rhythmic music.

XVII. BEST MUSICIANS AND RECORDS

I GIVE HERE two articles that Esquire asked me to write on the
best "All-American Band" and my favorite recordings. I add a

222 JAZZ

few observations and commentaries explaining some errors and
new impressions which have forced me to alter my previous de-
cisions for the "All-American Jam Session Band," to appear in

1944-
To begin with, it's very simple. Opposite the place where it

says "Trumpet,'' you merely set down the name of Louis Arm-
strong. After that, you go gently mad.

Pitting the merits of one musician against another, even though
only on paper, is about as complicated a business as one could
well devise. There is no accepted starting point, which makes it a
bit difficult, to say the least, to arrive at the finish line. The
welter of conflicting claims and counterclaims, advanced by the
innumerable self-appointed champions of the leading performers,
merely confuses the issue.

Concerning the selection of Louis Armstrong as trumpeter on
the "first team" of the All-American Band, there can be, as I say,
no dispute. He made jazz and is the true King of Jazz. Anyone
who knows anything about the subject will concede this. Con-
cerning the other nominations, there may be some dispute.
Nevertheless, here they are and here are the reasons for their
selection.

But first let me briefly define my terms. In my opinion, the
thing that makes jazz what it is today is the phenomenon of
improvisation. We must make a vital distinction between hot jazz
and swing. Hot jazz is basic American syncopated music, im-
provised by a band usually composed of five to seven persons in
a Dixieland group, although the unit sometimes numbers ten
or more pieces in certain jam sessions. Swing is more or less the
Xmechanization of hot jazz; it is achieved by big commercial bands,
with effects produced by musical sections. Improvisation is not
left to the personal inspiration of the musician; the arranger fixes
the whole tune, leaving only a few free bars to the soloists.

I do not for one moment mean to disparage the importance
and value of swing music. It has been a tremendous contribution
and stimulus. But after all, my task is to select 'performers, not
composers or arrangers, and the merit of swing is chiefly de-
pendent on the talent of the arranger. He can be a genius, like

JAZZ 223

Duke Ellington, or a mediocrity, of whom there are far too many.
The real, living art, in which the performer meets his true test,
lis hot jazz, which finds its best expression in the jam sessions—
ithat is to say, the meetings which take place every week, prin-
cipally in New York, in which musicians from all sorts of bands
join and play together vdthout any former preparation or re-
hearsal. The imperative requirement of such a session is to im-
provise, and out of the general excitement to rise to a frenetic
acme of realization.

For a jam session, the composition of the band is most variable;
it can be from five to ten pieces. Generally, a good combination
would involve four rhythms (piano, drums, bass, guitar) and
three improvisers (one clarinet or saxophone, one trumpet, one
trombone). This latter section can, naturally, be increased, as I
have often seen it done at Nick's, Jimmy Ryan's, or Harry Lim's
jazz sessions.

Certain musicians' high rank is conceded by almost every con-
noisseur. I have already spoken in no uncertain terms of Louis
Armstrong. Ten years ago there was no doubt about the su-
premacy of Bix (trumpet). Earl Hines (piano), and Coleman
I Hawkins (tenor); but Six died, and I do not think that the other
two men have retained their supremacy in the intervening
decade.

Among the soloists whose ability I cannot personally question
there are George Brunies (trombone). Art Tatum (piano), and
Leo Watson (singer). They are clearly the best in their fields
by the most impartial standards one can set up, although I pre-
sume I can be sure that some of the critics will not agree
with me.

This is, after all, a subjective matter, such as the judgment of
poetry, painting, or any art form. In jazz, as in other arts, of
course, the relative values are better measured in the perspective
Df time. We know today without the slightest question that Louis
Armstrong has proved himself far above Paul Whiteman, while
contemporary critics of the year 1925 could conceivably question
this point.

But instead of generalizing, let us get down to cases and

224 J^ZZ

analyze the selection of the individual performers in Esquires
All-American Band and in the All-Time Band. The latter group,
obviously, makes no distinction betv^een the past and present,
M^hereas the selection of the three "teams" in the first group is
based on contemporary performances.

Trumpet: A word more about Louis Armstrong is necessary
here. He possesses powers of technique and of improvisation be-
yond comparison. His style is altogether personal, sensitive, and
versatile. Incidentally, of the many times I have heard him, he
proved to be most nearly perfect in a Dixieland combination jam
session at the Walt Whitman School.

Next to him, seven or eight trumpeters can aspire to second
place. My choice would include Harry James, Red Allen, Cootie
Williams, Charlie Shavers, Emmett Berry, Roy Eldridge, Muggsy
Spanier, and Arthur Briggs. The last, a colored trumpeter who
has lived in Belgium and France for twenty years, is now de-
tained in a concentration camp.

After weighing their qualities carefully, although I am at-
tracted to Charlie Shavers, Muggsy Spanier, and Red Allen, I
feel Harry James should get the call because of his tremendous
power and his extraordinary technique, joined to a considerable
capacity for improvisation. Cootie Williams, to my ear, is per-
haps too uniform, with his ever-growling style. Roy Eldridge has
not enough control over his horn. For these reasons I have
selected Charlie Shavers for the third team. I don't always enjoy
his style in John Kirby's band, but in any jam session he is a hit:
wild, frenetic, imaginative, powerful, sensitive!

With respect to the All-Time Band, Bix Beiderbecke, whose
improvisation was poetic and fresh, is the only name that need be
mentioned. He died too early to show the complete measure of
his ability. Louis Armstrong still stands without competitors.

Trombone: Here I am glad to be able to single out a man,
relatively unknown, who is famous only among the Dixieland
admirers whom you meet every day at Nick's. Lou McGarity,
Jack Teagarden, Tommy Dorsey, J. C. Higginbotham, and Brad

JAZZ 225

Gowans are all great instrumentalists, but in my opinion the man
whose virtuosity has been overlooked by the critics is George
Brunies.

I w^ould say that as far back as 1923, wdth the New Orleans
Rhythm Kings, Brunies was the best— and still is. And if some-
times a trombonist may challenge him, no one can excel him.
One is attracted by both the continuity and the explosive quality
of his improvisations. It will constitute a tribute to the good
judgment of the public if George Brunies is at last accorded the
recognition he has so long deserved.

Ten years ago I was very much intrigued by the playing of
Tommy Dorsey, whose full potentialities have unfortunately not
been realized even today. Brad Gowans is too limited with his
valve trombone; and the style of Higginbotham underwent a
sweetening process some time back. My second and third candi-
dates would be Jack Teagarden and Lou McGarity. Both are
ejffective. Jack deserves the second-place niche because he in-
fluenced jazz affirmatively, sings wonderfully, and has made some
of the best records.

The selection for the All-Time Band is limited to George
Brunies, Jimmie Harrison, and Leo Vauchampt. Jimmie Harrison,
in my opinion, was wonderful. Vauchampt, a French trombonist
whom I heard in Paris and in London during the twenties, was
also tops. Today he is a musical director in Hollywood. I vote for
Brunies because, alone in his field, he delivers the sort of punch
that is most admirable.

Clarinet: This instrument is perhaps the most controversial
of all. There are at least eight men whose power is very nearly
equal, in spite of the differences in their style: Artie Shaw, Benny
Goodman, Pee Wee Russell, Ed Hall, Barney Bigard, Buster
Bailey, Jimmie Noone, Irving Fazola.

In assembling these mythical aggregations, it would be interest-
ing to contrast two different conceptions of style and select two
clarinets for each group. My first-team choice would be Benny
Goodman and Edmond HaU. This would bring together the
swing king with an old-timer whose reputation has suddenly

226 JAZZ

grown during the last two years, causing him to be rated as one
of the purest clarinetists of the day.

For the second team I designate Barney Bigard and Pee Wee
Russell; for the third, Artie Shaw and Jimmie Noone. It would
be something of an experience to confront technicians hke Good-
man and Shaw with improvisers such as Pee Wee Russell and
Jimmie Noone, who devoted their entire lives to small bands,
preferring their complete independence, despite the compara-
tively low compensation, to the restrictions of the big-time, big-
money bands.

In making a single selection for the All-Time Band, one finds
three truly great players in the annals of jazz. Larry Shields, the
clarinetist of the Original Dixieland Band, who was so powerful
and so inspired in 191 7, was one. In a way, no one else has
brought to jazz what he did, and all clarinetists have since relied
on his imagination. Even Rappolo, the crack clarinetist of the
New Orleans Rhythm Kings, was influenced by Larry . . . but
what an inspiration!

Nevertheless, Frank Teschemacher cannot be passed by. He
produced only some ten records, but some bars in them are the
most thrilling sound in jazz. The critics recognize Teschemacher s
genius as supreme. He must be the selection for the All-Time
Band-

Tenor sax: There are many good tenors. Coleman Hawkins is
one of the best; he was so effective that he universalized the use
of the tenor sax. It is difiicult to say to what extent he has
retrogressed and to what degree some of his followers have gained
in brilliance, but Coleman Hawkins no longer stands alone in his
class. Each of the following men is able to achieve a wonderful
hit chorus: Eddie Miller, Lester Young, Ben Webster, Gene
Sedric, Vido Musso, Bud Freeman, Tex Benecke, Joe Thomas,
and Al Sear, not omitting the late Chu Berry.

At the risk of provoking considerable disagreement, I select as
my first choice Eddie Miller, of Bob Crosby's band. I consider
his inspiration the purest and most sensitive; he is never forced—
an error into which too many have fallen nowadays. Coleman
Hawkins is certainly still good enough to be the second selection,

JAZZ 227

although today one sometimes encounters too much of the routine
in his style. My third man is Ben Webster, the tenor of Duke
Ellington's band. His recent performances demonstrate that he is
indeed not far behind the first- and second-team choices.

As for the All-Time Band, I choose the Coleman Hawkins of
1928 to 1930. This was his best period, when he recorded Hello
Lola, No one has since attained that peak.

Alto sax: There are perhaps more good alto saxophones than
tenors in the profession. One can count only one outstanding
soprano, Sidney Bechet, and one baritone, Harry Carney; but
there are many altos of very high ability, among whom I would
list Johnny Hodges, Benny Carter, Willie Smith, Pete Brown,
and Charlie Holmes. Incidentally, Johnny Hodges, who achieves
the purest solos, is so commercial on the stage occasionally that I
cannot stand him. The hottest man, very personal in a style all
his own, and very sincere, is Pete Brown.

I do not forget that Benny Carter is perhaps our most versatile
musician, playing the alto and trumpet equally well, in addition
to having proved himself to be an exceptional arranger. Willie
Smith is the most expressive and effective with a big band. My
selection for the three teams would be: Johnny Hodges, Benny
Carter, and Pete Brown, in the order named.

I want to mention, in passing, that some months ago at the
Village Vanguard I heard a jam session wdth Earl Hines (piano),
Benny Carter (alto), and Charlie Shavers (trumpet). It was the
best thing I ever listened to this side of heaven! In this field, for
the All-Time Band, I believe the honors go to the contemporary
performers. I consider the Frankie Trumbauer of fifteen years
ago outranked by the Johnny Hodges of today.

Piano: Earl Hines was easily tops some time ago. Before 1930
he made some marvelous records with Louis Armstrong. In my
opinion there can be no question as to the best pianist of the
moment: he is Art Tatum. I do not always like him as a soloist,
but in a band he is terrific!

Other candidates are Fats Waller, Jess Stacy, James P. John-
son, Count Basic, Teddy Wilson, Herman Chittison, and Joe
Sullivan. For the second and third selections I nominate Count

228 JAZZ

Basie and Teddy Wilson. Both men are more constructive, and
at the same time more frenetic, than the others.

As suggested before, Earl Hines once attained a peak that
neither he nor any other pianist has since equaled. He is there-
fore the logical selection for the All-Time Band. His supreme
performances were accomplished during the short period he
touched the ivories in company with Louis Armstrong, when he
recorded the immortal West End Blues.

Drums: Plenty of drummers truly can be classed as sensa-
tional. I believe that the old-timers are excelled by the young
men. Among the best performers are Zutty Singleton, George
Wettling, Sidney Catlett, Cozy Cole, Joe Jones, Gene Krupa,
James Crawford, and Dave Tough. Each of them is excellent,
but my attention would turn first to Sidney Catlett, who proved
ideal with Benny Goodman's and Louis Armstrong's bands.

Second choice is Gene Krupa, provided he overcomes his habit
of introducing too many monotonous solos. For the third team I
choose Cozy Cole, admirable drummer for Cab Calloway.

For the All-Time Band it is difficult to make a selection in this
category. However, I pick Sidney Catlett, though I am not sure
that Zutty Singleton was not the best of them all twelve years
ago.

Bass: At the head of this class are Artie Bernstein, Al Morgan,
John Kirby, Hayes Alvis and Billy Taylor. After long delibera-
tion I select Al Morgan, John Kirby, and Billy Taylor, in the
order named. I understand well how others might prefer Artie
Bernstein. For the All-Time Band, Al Morgan is again my
choice.

Guitar: Three supreme guitarists have died: Django Rein-
hardt, Charlie Christian, and Eddie Lang. The genius was
Django! Today, I can point to Teddy Bunn, Oscar Moore, and
Eddie Condon, in the order named, with honorable mention to
Clarence Holiday and Bobby Hackett, who plays guitar and
trumpet with Glenn Miller.

The choice lies between two men when it comes to the AU-
Time Band: Django Reinhardt and Eddie Lang. Both were won-

JAZZ 229

derful; Django, the French gypsy guitarist, was the more thrill-
ing of the two. His renditions can be compared only with three or
four top performers, and he impressed me as forcibly as Louis
Armstrong. He was alone in his class.

Singers: I would designate Louis Armstrong as the best male
singer, but he is already selected for the trumpet. So I propose
Leo Watson and Billie Holiday. Leo Watson gives voice to the
inner trance of jazz. Billie Holiday is more sophisticated and I
would like her to "swing'' it more, but she is nevertheless first
choice.

Second place would go to Willie Duke and Mildred Bailey.
(Duke, incidentally, could give better expression to his fine talent
if he would forget some of his unfunny jokes.) Third place goes
to Jack Teagarden and Laurel Watson. I can see how the gen-
erally ignored Genia Daniels, who sings in a very pure style,
might offer competition. But I prefer Laurel Watson, who puts
more zest and more swing into her art.

The two best singers I ever heard are certainly Louis Arm-
strong and the late Bessie Smith. Fifteen years ago I might have
preferred Rosa Henderson, but now I choose Bessie. As for Louis,
even if he plays trumpet I would ask him to sing too, because he
is the best of them all and the real King of Jazz!

The All-American Band

First Team.

Second Team

Third Team

Trum'pet:

Louis Armstrong

Harry James

Charlie Shavers

Trombone:

George Brunies

Jack Teagarden

Lou McGarity

Clarinets:

Benny Goodman
Edmond Hall

Barney Bigard
Pee Wee Russell

Artie Shaw
Jimmie Noone

Tenor Sax:

Eddie Miller

Coleman Hawkins Ben Webster

Alto Sax:
Piano:

Johnny Hodges
Art Tatum

Benny Carter
Count Basie

Pete Brown
Teddy Wilson

Drums:
Bass:

Guitar:

Sidney Catlett
Al Morgan "
Teddy Bunn

Gene Krupa
John Kirby
Oscar Moore

Cozy Cole
Billy Taylor
Eddie Condon

Male Singer:

Leo Watson

Willie Duke

Jack Teagarden

Female Singer.

: Billie Holiday

Mildred Bailey

Laurel Watson

230 JAZZ

The All-Time All-American Band

Trumfet: Louis Armstrong Drums: Sidney Catlett

Trombone: George Brunies Bass: Al Morgan

Clarinet: Frank Teschemacher Guitar: Django Reinhardt

Tenor Sax: Coleman Hawkins Male Singer: Louis Armstrong
Alto Sax: Johnny Hodges Female Singer: Bessie Smith

Piano: Earl Hines

After one year the success of the choice of this best band was
found so interesting that Esquire decided to dedicate more im-
portance to jazz and to organize the most wonderful jam session
ever heard in the world. This manifestation has even a symbolic
meaning, for it is going to be rendered in the temple of serious
music: the Metropolitan Opera.

I must note that the previous observations on Johnny Hodges
and Cootie Williams, well translated as they were, appear too
critical applied to these wonderful musicians, whom I admire
really deeply.

We asked many jazz experts and fans to choose the best actual
jam session band. The answers are good and correspond with the
perfect sense of justice. The reader has to consider that some of
the best men, like Gene Krupa and James Crawford, were not
eligible for various reasons. Critics have said that Armstrong was
the old-time superman, but they voted for someone else.

The answers are self-explanatory and show that the experts
know who good musicians are even if they disagree sometimes
on some particular exponents.

The results are based on votes cast by the following sixteen
experts: S/Sgt. George Avakian, E. Simms Campbell, Leonard
Feather, Robert Coffin, Abel Green, Elliott Grennard, John Ham-
mond, Roger Kay, Harry Lim, Paul Eduard Miller, Bucklin
Moon, Baron Timme Rosenkrantz, Charles Edward Smith, Frank
Stacy, Bob Thiele, Barry Ulanov.

JAZZ

231

ESQUIRE'S ALL-AMERICAN BAND

Trumpets

Trombones

Louis Armstrong

16

Jack Teagarden

13

Cootie Williams

8

Lawrence Brown

8

Roy Eldridge
Bill Coleman

5
5

George Brunies

J. C. Higginbotham

7
6

Bobby Hackett
Harry James
Charlie Shavers

6

3
3

Tommy Dorsey
Lou McGarity
Vic Dickerson

3
2

2

Muggsy Spanier
Buck Clayton
Red Nichols

2
2
I

Dicky Wells
Floyd O'Brien
Miff Mole

2
2
I

i^- '

Benny Morton
Tyree Glenn

I
I

Clarinets

Saxophones

Benny Goodman
Barney Bigard
Edmond Hall
Irving Fazola

24
8

5

4

Coleman Hawkins
Johnny Hodges
Benny Carter
Ben Webster

17
10

8

4

Pee Wee Russell

2

Pete Brown

2

Buster Bailey
Hank D'Amico

Lester Young
Bud Hunter

2
2

Sidney Bechet

Don Redman

I

Jimmie Noone

Babe Rusin

I

Bud Jacobson

Joe "Flip'' Phillips
Eugene Sedric

I
I

Pianos

Guitars

Art Tatum
Earl Hines

17
7

Al Casey
Oscar Moore

II

10

Teddy Wilson
Jess Stacy
Joe Sullivan
Mary Lou Williams

5
4
3
3

Teddy Bunn
Eddie Condon
Freddy Green
Les Paul

7
6

4
2

King Cole
Art Hodes

2
2

Lonnie Johnson
Roc Hillman

J2.
2

232

Pianos— Con.

Johnny Guamieri
Fats Waller
Count Basic

JAZZ

Basses

^jd^'

LA^

Oscar Pettiford
Milton Hinton
Al Morgan
John Kirby
Red Callender
Slam Stewart
Walter Page
Wellman Braud
Serious Meyers
Israel Crosby
Ed Safranski
Sid Weiss
Bob Haggart
Billy Taylor
Doc Goldberg

Odd Instruments

Red Norvo

Lionel Hampton

Sidney Bechet

Eddie South

Ray Nance

Joe Venuti

Harry Carney

Peter "Rabbit" Graham

15

15
6

3
3

3

2

I

Guitars— Cow.

Lawrence Lucie
Mary Osborne
Jack Purcell
Carl Kress

Drums

Sidney Catlett
Cozy Cole
Joe Jones
Zutty Singleton
George Wettling
Specks Powell
Arthur Herbert
J. C. Heard
James Crawford

16

9

7
6

4
2

2

I

I

Male Vocalists

Louis Armstrong

II

Leo Watson

9

Joe Turner

7

Jack Teagarden

3

Cab Calloway

2

Josh White

2

T-Bone Walker

2

Eddie Vinson

2

James Rushing

2

Bob Eberle

2

Louis Jordan

2

Bing Crosby

2

Harry Babbitt

I

Willie Duke

I

Walter Brown

I

FEMAii Vocalists

JAZZ 233

Armed Forces Favorites

Billie Holiday

^3

Artie Shaw

5

Mildred Bailey

15

Willie Smith

3

Ella Fitzgerald

4

Dave Tough

3

Helen Forrest

2

Max Kaminsky

Ethel Waters

2

Arthur Bernstein

Betty Roche

I

Mel Powell

Peggy Mann

I

Joe Bushkin
Stanley Atkins

Here is my person

al selection:

First Choice Second Choice

Louis Armstrong Charlie Shavers

George Brunies Jack Teagarden

Benny Goodman Edmond Hall

Coleman Hawkins Johnny Hodges

Trumpet:
Trombone:
Clarinet:
Saxophone :

(Alto or Tenor)
Piano:
Guitar:
Bass:
Drums:
Male Singer:
Female Singer:
Other Instrument:

(Violin, vibraphone, etc.)

Favorite Musician Now in U.S. Armed Forces:
Willie Smith

Art Tatum
Teddy Bunn
Slam Stewart
Sidney Catlett
Leo Watson
Billie Holiday
Red Norvo

Teddy Wilson
Oscar Moore
Bill Taylor
Cozy Cole
Willie Duke
Mildred Bailey
Sidney Bechet

I have now to explain my changes. I voted deliberately for
Coleman Hawkins because the two or three times I heard Eddie
Miller didn't convince me of his actual superiority, and on the
other hand the wonderful Coleman, who a couple of nights
performed for me, was definitely a hit. I have to confess that for
the second and third choice of the tenors I would have certainly
considered Bumps Meyers, Eugene Sedric, and Joe Thomas
rather than Ben Webster.

As to the basses, I have enjoyed so much Slam Stewart and
Oscar Pettif ord, I think they are the next champions.

234 JAZZ

The Bible tells us that when Sodom and Gomorrah were de-
stroyed God saved the innocent and allowed them to flee the
cities. Three years ago something of the kind happened in
Belgium— though when Hitler took over not all the innocent
were able to flee. Luckily, I escaped. The penalty I paid was to
lose my collection of three thousand phonograph records.

I have never bought a phonograph record since that day. But
IVe often wondered, if I were able to go back for, say, twelve
records, without turning into a lump of salt, which ones I would
choose. Could I choose twelve jazz records which I would listen
to fifty years hence without shuddering? And how would I choose
them— for the tune itself, for the arrangement, for the solo artist?

Taste in jazz music is as personal as the contents of a man's
trousers pockets. This list of mine may be "expert," but it could
cause another expert acute pain.

Original Dixieland Jazz Band— Tiger Rag^ Ostrich Walk.

New Orleans Rhythm Kings— Shimme-Sha Wahhle, That Da-Da

Strain.
Original Wolvennes— Shimme-Sha Wahhle, The New Twister.
Louis Armstrong— West End Blues, Fireworks. Columbia.
Louis Armstrong— S/zme, Just a Gigolo.
Louis Armstrong— Cow/essiwg. Decca.
Duke Ellington— Tiger Rag (Parts I & II).
Duke Ellington— It Don't Mean a Thing, Rose Room.
Chocolate Dandies— Got Another Sweetie Now. Columbia.
Chicago Rhythm Kings— I Found a New Baby, There'll Be Some

Changes Made.
Mound City Blue Blowers— Owe Hour, Hello Lola. Victor.
Eddie Lang- Joe Venuti All Star Orch.— Beale Street Blues.

I asked six jazz specialists— both men who make music and
men who tear it apart— what twelve records they would take were
they fleeing from this or that wicked city. The first to be ques-
tioned was the urbane Duke Ellington.

"Well," said the Duke thoughtfully, 'Td take Ravel's Dafhnis
and Chloe; Delius' In a Summer Garden; Debussy's La Mer and
Afternoon of a Faun; and the Planets Suites. . « ."

JAZZ 235

On closer questioning he admitted he would take a few jazz
records. "One of Art Tatum's records— any one* —and the rest
would be:

Coleman Hawkins' Body and Soul. Bluebird.

Berigan's I Can't Get Started. Victor.

Artie Shaw's Nightmare. Brunswick.

Fats Waller's I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter.

Victor.
Sidney Bechet's The Mooche. Victor.
Willie 'The Lion" Smith's What Can I Do with a Foolish Little Girl

Like You. Decca.
Duke Ellington's Something to Live For. Brunswick.

"About that record of my own/* Duke explained. "I like it for
the singing by Jean Eldridge.*'

Art Hodes, the noted pianist, took just five minutes to make up
his list. Though he's a Chicago pianist, not a single Chicago-
style record is included. Hodes likes the blues, and the old style
of the men around King Oliver:

King OliveT— Canal Street Blues, Dif^ermouth Blues. Brunswick.
Ma Rainey— Blacfe Bottom, Georgia Cake Walk (Collector's Item)
Bessie Smith— Yellow Dog Blues, Soft Pedal Blues. Okeh.
Louis Armstrong— Strutting with Some Barhecue. Decca.
Louis Armstrong— Lonesome, All Alone and Blue. Okeh.
Sippie Wallace— Have You Ever Been Down, Dead Drunk. (Col-
lector's Item)
Pine Top Smith— Boogie Woogie, Pine To'p's Blues. UHCA.
James P. Johnson— Swowy Morning Blues. (Collector's Item)
Albert Wynn— DoiiTn hy the Levee, Parkway Stomf. Vocalion.
Johnny Dodds— Weary Blues. Vocalion.

Jelly Roll Moxton— Black Bottom Stom'p, The Chant. Bluebird.
Jelly Roll Morton— Kansas City Stomf, Grandma's Sfell. Gennett.

Both Hodes and Leonard Feather, radio emcee of WMCA's
"Platterbrains" jazz quizz, swing critic for Look, Metronome,
and other publications, chose their records-for-exile with, an
economical eye. They selected not so much the best records ever
made, but the best couplings. Most of those on Feather's list

236 JAZZ

below are more or less obtainable, and all are stand-outs on botli
sides:

Louis Armstrong— West End BlueSj Muggles. Columbia.

Barney Bigaid— Minuet in Bliies, Barney Goin Easy. Vocalion &
Okeh.

King Cole Trio— Sweet Lorraine, This Side Up. Decca.

Duke Ellington— T/ze Flaming Sword, Warm Valley. Victor.

Duke Ellington— Portrait of Bert Williams, Bojangles. Victor.

Duke Ellington— Crescew<io and Diminuendo in Blue. Columbia.

Duke Ellington— BflttZe of Swing, Jazz Potpourri. Brunswick.

Benny Goodman Quintet (with Lionel Hampton, Teddy Wilson)—
I Cried for You; Goodman Trio— Where or When. Bluebird.

Billie Holiday (with Artie Shaw, Bunny Berigan)— BiZIies Blues,
Summ-ertime. Vocalion.

Jimmy Lunceford— Uptoot^ Blues, Put It Away. Okeh.

Metronome All Star Band (with Harry James, Cootie William§f J. C.
Higginbotham, Benny Goodman, Benny Carter, Coleman Haw-
kins, Count Basie, etc.)— Owe O'clock ]umf. Bugle Call Rag.
Victor.

Muggsy SipSLuieT—Relaxin at the Touro. Bluebird.

Teddy Wilson Quartet (with Harry James, Red Norvo)— Jwst a
Mood (Parts I & II). Brunswick.

Art Tatum & Band (with Joe Turner)— Wee Bahy Blues, Battery
Bounce. Decca.

Feather apparently planned to greet Manhattan with a couple
of extra records under his tunic. And if they'd relax the rules, he
would include Pete Brown's Unlucky Woman, with Helen
Humes (Decca).

Tenor saxophonist Eugene Sedric never heard of Sodom, but
he did know twelve good records. Sedric formerly played with
Fats Waller and is rated by Panassie as second only to Coleman
Hawkins. His list is no amateur's catalogue; Sedric is a technician,
and, though a wonderful improviser, he prefers organized jazz
to the pure jazz of improvisation:

Louis Armstrong— My Sweet.

Casa Loma— For You.

Tommy Dorsey— Lowesowe Road.

JAZZ 237

King Cole ^lio— Honeysuckle Rose,

Duke Ellington— S/ap|7mg yth Avenue with the Sole of My Shoe,

Fletcher Henderson— W/iitewaw Stomf.

Jimmy Lunceford— Iw Nuts About Screwy Music

iPaul Robeson— Water Boy.

ipats Waller— A Million Dreams of You.

Paul VJhiteimn—Rha'psody in Blue.

Teddy Wilson— Dow't Blame Me,

George Frazier, who has written on jazz for music magazines
but is currently working for Life, said: "No arrangements. No
rmodem-style swing. Just sentiment and spontaneity." With these
twelve examples of pure jazz Frazier would be banished, smil-
ing:

Louis Armstrong— No One Else hut You. Columbia.
Louis AunstTong— Tight Like This. Columbia,
Mildred Bailey— Honeysuckle Rose. Decca,
Bix Beiderbecke— Sorry. Columbia.
Bunny Berigan— I Cant Get Started. Victor.

Chicago Rhythm Kings— T/iere7I Be Some Changes Made. Bruns-
wick.
Eddie Condon— Ballin the Jack. Commodore,
Duke EWington— Jungle Blues. Brunswick.
Earl Hines— i4 Monday Date. Columbia.
Bessie Smith— Give Me a Pigfoot. Okeh.
Count Basic Quintet— La^y Be Good. Okeh.
Jess Stacy— Barrelhouse. Decca.

Charlie Barnet, a band leader whose popularity blooms like a
hardy perennial, spoke for modem swing. A glance at his list of
"twelve records I would take from Sodom** tells where Barnet's
band gets its musical inspiration:

Duke Ellington— Lig^twin'.
Duke Ellington— Ec/ioes of Harlem.
Duke Ellington— Cotton Tail.
Duke Ellington— T?ie Gal from Joe's.
Duke Ellington— Warm Valley.
Duke Ellington— T?ie Flaming Sword.
Duke Ellington— Rocfeiwg in Rhythm.

238 JAZZ

Duke Ellington— Sej7ifl Panorama.
Louis Armstrong— Kwocfeiw' a jug.
Charlie Bamet— YowVe My Thrill.
Charlie Bainet— Afternoon of a Faun.
Charlie Ba.Tnet—Dafhnis and Chloe.

To a real jazz collector, twelve records are only a crumb before
the banquet, but if they are good ones they make excellent anti-
pasto. For those who snoop in secondhand stores and First
Avenue music shops, I have compiled a list of records which
cover modem American jazz from the time it was just an itch in
a drummer's hand to the present.

The older recordings which start this list off are my own selec-
tions. The more recent examples were chosen for me by Leonard
Feather.

Original Dixieland Jazz Band— Tiger Rag. Victor, Columbia.

New Orleans Rhythm Kings— That Da-Da Strain. Gennett.

Original Wolyerines—Shim-Me-Sha Wahhle. Brunswick, Vocalion.

Bessie Smith— Empty Bed Blues. Columbia.

Bessie Smith— YeHow Dog Blues. Columbia.

Louis Armstrong— West End Blues. Columbia.

Louis Armstrong— Saline. Okeh.

Louis Armstrong— Hey Lawdy Mama. Decca.

Duke Ellington— T/ze Mooche. Victor, Brunswick.

Duke Ellington— Blacfe and Tan Fantasy. Victor, Brunswick.

Duke Ellington— East St. Louis Toodle-00. Victor, Brunswick.

Jimmy Lunceford— Awwie Laurie. Decca.

Bix Beiderbecke— At the Jazz Band Ball, Jazz Me Blues. Columbia.

Bix Beiderbecke— Sowel'o^y Stole My Gal. Okeh.

Glenn Gray's Casa Loma Oich..— Indiana, 1 Never Knew. Brunswick.

Benny Goodman— Blue Skies. Victor.

Chicagoans— Nol7oJy's Sweetheart, Liza. Okeh.

Chicagoans— I Found a New Bahy. Brunswick.

Mound City Blue Blowers— Owe Hour, Hello Lola. Victor.

Red Nichols— Itfa, Feeling No Pain. Brunswick.

Miff M.o\e— Alexander's Bagtim-e Band. Columbia.

Venuti-Lang— Farewe// Blues. Vocalion.

Jelly Roll Morton— Mamies Blues. General.

Ladnier-Bechet— I Found a New Bahy. Victor.

JAZZ 239

Ted Lewis— Dallas Blues, Royal Garden Blues. Columbia.
Jimmie Noone— River Stay 'Way from My Door. Brunswick.
Memphis Vive—Ramfart Street Blues.
Quintet of Hot Club of France— Some of These Days,

Benny Goodimn— Clarinet a la King. Okeh.

Benny Goodman Sextet— Gowe with What Wind? Columbia.

Artie Shaw— Concerto for Clarinet. Victor.

Artie Shaw's Gramercy i^— Summit Ridge Drive. Victor.

Tommy Dorsey— For You. Victor.

Jimmy Dorsey— Sorglzww Switch. Decca.

Duke Ellington Panorama— Victoi Album.

Jimmy Lunceford— W/zflt s Your Story, Morning Glory? Columbia.

Jimmy Lunceford— B/^tes in the Night. Decca.

Lionel Hampton— FZ}/mg Home. Decca.

Lionel Ham-pton-Blue. Victor.

Count Basie— Yow Cant Run Around. Okeh.

Count Basie— Fiesta in Blue. Okeh.

Teddy Wilson & Billie Holiday. Columbia Album.

Anthology of White Jazz. Decca Album.

Anthology of Colored Jazz. Decca Album.

XV8II. THE FUTURE OF JAZZ

It remains now to dispel some of the enthusiastic aggressive-
ness which has entered into jazz criticism and created so many
stubborn, partisan, and intolerant opinions. I realize how many
different matters could have been brought into the scope of this
book. Sooner or later some enterprising editor will probably
undertake the publication of a jazz encyclopedia of several
volumes, to embrace the entire subject. In this encyclopedia a
synthesis of critical opinion could be compiled by allowing each
writer to expound at length on the particular branch of jazz in
which he is most interested, and leaving it to the public to draw
its own conclusion.

The idea of this would be to put the problem on a higher

240 JAZZ

rather than a lower plane. There are too many tyros for whom
jazz has been an escape from other forms of culture. The im-
portance of jazz can only be measured by its development along-
side the other arts and by its relationship to and creative force
as compared with theirs. We have been fortunate enough to wit-
ness the birth of a new art form, a complete understanding of
which has been long overdue. It is regrettable that the American
intelligentsia has allowed the constructive period of jazz to pass
by without serious study in the beginning, without a real
bibliography or discography. It is not my place to criticize this
lack, but one may well imagine how it will be observed by
American intellectuals a couple generations from now.

Jazz, basically a music of African origin, created by white and
colored men amidst a rich and tragic folklore, has become the real
music of America. The United States has had many great poets,
writers, and painters, but few musicians of comparable impor-
tance. American art lacked self-confidence, and it was one of the
most despised and least privileged of its people that unconsciously
gave the means of attaining a great and influential power.

But America has always been suspicious of jazz, and its con-
servative elite element, ever reluctant to admit something new in
art, has still not been able to reconcile itself.

Nevertheless, jazz is destined to become something more than
a local phenomenon or even a national music. Jazz is on its way
to conquering the world and becoming the music of the world.

It is significant that the victory of 191 8 brought jazz as well
as peace to Europe, where its qualities were recognized and estab-
lished among progressive and cultured people.

Jazz has already played an important part in the fight for
human freedom. It is the music of freedom, freedom of in-
dividuals and of races. It is the great art of democracy, irrecon-
cilable with the philosophy of the dictators.

It is high time for America to be aware of this, and to prepare
to establish this power all through the world. Jazz can be a uni-
versal instrument in the accomplishment of a bloodless victory.
The time is not far distant when jazz will develop in every
continent along the lines of local influences, with the same power

JAZZ 241

that enabled the so-called European classical music to submerge
many national musical forms until today.

This is not merely an indication of artistic importance, but also
a proof that American civilization is one of world-wide signifi-
cance. This power of radiation parallels the history of the Greeks
and the Romans, who were able to impose their artistic achieve-
ments on the limited expression of their contemporary and
subsequent civilizations.

Such is the future of jazz, provided America herself realizes
the importance of this international factor. To arrive at this end,
jazz must be allowed the same cultural basis and encouragement
which has been granted to other arts. It is paradoxical that this
country, which has spent millions of dollars on the promotion
and patronage of the French impressionist school of painting,
has shown no such concern, but rather open contempt, for its
own music.

French impressionism actually serves as a good object lesson.
All the impressionists, from Renoir to Gauguin, and from Manet
to Pissarro, and finally Rousseau, were misunderstood and de-
spised by their contemporaries and died unrecognized. Today
these men, who starved to death, are worth a fortune to those
who buy and sell their works. So it may be too with jazz!

To avoid this, steps should be taken without delay to open con-
servatories in which the spirit of jazz can be developed; a com-
mittee of jazz students should be organized to work constandy
on all matters pertaining to the study and betterment of this
music.

Today in New Orleans a wonderful branch of folklore is
dying almost undiscovered. There are still men who can recall
the earliest tom-tom scenes and the birth of ragtime. In the
Belgian Congo can be found the same music that arrived here in
slave ships. All this should be of interest to Americans. Only an
official research body could undertake this important investiga-
tion.

A comprehensive record library should be established with a
classified selection of all the great recorded examples of jazz.
Already many of the most important disks have disappeared. It

242 JAZZ

should be possible to arrange for the reissue of some particularly
rare examples. Similarly, there is a need for a library and for a jazz
academy which would be as important to the American people as
the academies of Hterature and science in France, England, and
Belgium. All the Negro and white heroes of jazz should be rep-
resented in this Academy of Jazz.

These are the first steps to be undertaken. They are important
in that they would allow another American art, the motion pic-
ture, to maintain a permanent laboratory which would help Holly-
wood in the documentation in which the film industry must
continue to participate.

For some time I have had these ideas of an essential cultural
and social plan in mind; and at this writing the project seems to
be on the verge of realization. In Mr. Arnold Gingrich, editor of
Esquire, I have found an ardent spirit ready to make vital con-
tributions for which the next generation will remember him
gratefully. It is to be expected that the seeds sown here will bear
fruit and that the powerful influence of the motion pictures will
be brought into this organization for the development of Ameri-
can music. Perhaps it would not be too much to hope for some
official form of patronage. Certainly it would be the best means
of wiping out race prejudice.

On the day when Hollywood shows Negroes and whites work-
ing together in the dramatization of the roles they have played
in jazz, the principles of American democracy will have reached
a new practical basis.

The consideration of these generalities regarding social evolu-
tion as it is affected by jazz must not distract me at this point
from discussing the question of jazz criticism. When all these
dreams have been realized and jazz has been universalized by
the movies, the most advanced of the American critics will be
able to tackle the subject and study it at length.

In the meantime there have been nothing more than well-
meaning amateurs. An uncertain and changeable art has met a
chorus of confused criticism. Most of the time those who have
devoted themselves to the cause of jazz have lacked the neces-
sary culture which might give their efforts more consistency. I

JAZZ 243

am even willing to bet that the violent disputes of certain among
them cannot even be understood by the majority of people inter-
ested in jazz.

Jazz, like all the arts, is an objective creation designed for sub-
jective appreciation. One literary critic may like Robert Frost;
another may prefer Archibald MacLeish; others may wax en-
thusiastic over William Carlos Williams or Stephen Vincent
Benet. In other words, the readers, like the jazz fans, are divided
into groups preferring one or the other emotion or one or the
other music.

But strange to relate, when the literary critics are not unani-
mous in their appreciation, they do not insult each other in de-
fense of their convictions, and above all their readers do not start
taking up the issue for the critic.

In jazz it is different, for these young people have been seized
by such a delirious enthusiasm that they may actively detest a
certain musician or even a certain v^iter who has said, for
example, that Benny Goodman is better than Pee Wee Russell,
or vice versa.

It seems to me that jazz, which is a democratic creation, should
endow its followers with tolerance and broadmindedness. When
I listen to these petty quarrels I try to imagine the devotees of
La Boheme insulting those of Wagner's operas because the only
real opera music belongs to one group or the other. It is a
grotesque yet somehow pleasant thought.

It all proves the great vitality of jazz. But it also proves that
a spirit of artistic objectivity has yet to be strived for by the
critics.

Jazz has passed from the stage of pure improvisation into that
of swing, which might be called an intellectual construction as-
sisted by solos. Some prefer one format, some the other; those
who are sufficiently objective can like both kinds, taking into full
consideration the respective differences of evolution and atmos-
phere.

Until two or three years ago most of the critics leaned toward
the vibrant reality of pure improvisation and were horrified by
the idea of big band jazz. Let us discuss first this group, which

244 JAZZ

we might describe as the classical jazz critics. They are in agree-
ment on the general formula, but not on its application, nor on
the detailing of their own particular taste. This is perfectly
normal, and one would not want it to be another way. In art,
nobody can ever be positively and completely right where sub-
jective appreciation is involved.

Hugues Panassie, to my mind, defined very accurately the
necessity for improvisation and the contrast between the early hot
jazz and the saccharine products of the "straight'' melodic or-
chestras of that period. His stubborn temperament, however,
brought him to introduce a vain system of describing one musi-
cian as "better ' tha^i another, which seems all wrong to me, and
opposed to the real spirit of jazz. After all, this is an ensemble
music; when Jimmie Noone, Milton Mezzrow, Teschemacher,
Edmond Hall, or Fazola plays or played clarinet with one or an-
other group, his style may have differed. The group is more im-
portant than the individual!

Panassie underwent an extraordinary flip-flop in his views,
which astonished his American readers. After going overboard
for the white Chicagoan school, he suddenly decided in his last
book that he believed only in the strictly Negro jazz. What is
colored is good; what is white is only good inasfar as it tries to be
colored! This forced him into certain gymnastics of logic to try
to make himself appear consistent. But what matter? Panassie
loves jazz; he has devoted his life to it, though he suffers from the
terrible limitation of judging it all through phonograph records.
I believe that all his last book was spoiled by a lack of under-
standing even of swing, which he defined erroneously, and which
distorted his attitude toward jazz. Moreover, Panassie prefers
Mezz Mezzrow to Teschemacher, and Jimmie Noone to Benny
Goodman. This is his right, and these are his sincere beliefs.
However, in these expressions of loyalty one must be aware of
the circumstances. Some say that Panassie praises Mezzrow be-
cause they are personal friends. Surely the contrary could be
asserted— that they are friends because Panassie likes Mezzrow's
music.

When I published Aux Frontieres du Jazz, in France, and

JAZZ 245

came to know Panassie, I also established contact with John
Hammond, who has done a great deal of good for the cause of
American jazz. Hammond wrote a number of important articles
and did some other work, the significance of which will be appre-
ciated later. He has a passionate love for jazz, but with the reser-
vation that his interest is specialized in the Count Basic and
Teddy Wilson schools and in the resurrection of boogie-woogie.
His great sincerity has put him into several remarkable situations,
notably one when he publicly denounced the band of his brother-
in-law, Benny Goodman, and more recently when he declared
that in his opinion Duke Ellington was deserting jazz in order to
create a more advanced music.

When Panassie was active in Paris the Belgians and the Dutch
had already preceded him. Brussels had its magazine. Music,
which was the first of its kind in the world and which features
articles by such people as Andre Hennebicq, Bettonville, and
especially Carlos de Radzitky, who had one of the deepest feel-
ings for jazz of all the writers I know.

In Holland the Jazz Wereld played a similarly important role,
with Van Praag, a great swing fan and Duke Ellington admirer,
as the most authoritative critic.

The gap left by Panassie was brilliantly filled by George
Frazier, a follower of the small jam bands, especially the white
Chicago-style musicians and a few Negro artists playing in that
style. His consistent admiration made him one of the best de-
fenders of Dixieland.

His tastes inclined him toward the study of those ever-changing
little groups of individuals who have more love for jazz than for
money.

Charles Edward Smith and his admirable group, with Frederic
Ramsey, Jr., and William Russell, did jazz a great service in
helping to bring jazz back to its origins. Inspired by the work of
the pioneer musicians, they set to work to discover and bring back
into the limelight some of these early artists. They also specialized
in parts of Negro jazz history from Buddy Bolden through King
Oliver and Jelly Roll Morton to Sidney Bechet and Louis Arm-
strong. According to them, swing represents the deformation and

246 JAZZ

perdition of jazz; it is a musical flood, drowning out improvisa-
tion, against which it is too late to build a dam.

Thus every field of jazz before the rise of swing has been
minutely explored, with the exception of the whole white school
of improvised jazz, from the Original Dixieland to the Chicagoans
—a great injustice, it seems to me.

I have tried to show that until the arrival of Armstrong there
was as much important jazz exploited and created by whites as by
Negroes. This theory is contrary to Panassie's and partly different
from Charles Edward Smith's. It is nearer to the attitude of
George Frazier, with the difference that I try to go objectively
beyond my own personal tastes and judge the evolution of jazz,
in its swing era, in its boogie-woogie manifestations, and even in
its present form; for whether or not we like what has evolved, we
must accept its presence. This viewpoint is shared by Bob Thiele
and his magazine. Jazz.

Down Beat has done inestimable good for jazz in a spirit of
enlightened commercialism. The distinction made in its record
re\dews between jazz and swing is of great importance and should
help the study of jazz.

In addition to these critics, who are agreed on the necessity for
pure improvisation, and who have held out against the spirit of
the big bands, there are a number of critics who have inclined
more toward the swing school. The two best-qualified representa-
tives of this school are Leonard Feather, who has written for
Metronome, Look, and other publications, and Barry Ulanov,
editor of Metronome.

These writers are enthused by the best of modern improvisa-
tion and believe that improvisation should be allowed in big band
arrangements too. They point out that enormous strides have
been made in this music in the past generation, that very little of
what was played twenty years ago would sound good today, and
that some of the older musicians have been built up into false
gods, more on legendary or sentimental value than through the
permanence of their music. They do not believe that the latest
ballad played by Jimmy Dorsey or by Harry James is jazz, but
they do declare that these bands play real jazz arrangements inter-

JAZZ 247

mittently. According to Feather, there is no such thing as a sharp
distinction between jazz and swing, the latter merely being a
newer word which in many cases is interchangeable with jazz.

Personally, I am only partly in agreement with these views,
though on the subject of Duke Ellington I concur with them and
believe John Hammond was right when he said: "Duke is still
the greatest creative force in jazz, and his band is a wonderful in-
strument, tonally if not rhythmically." But on the subject of
Ellington and his musical evolution, I might add that I did not
have to wait for jazz to interest me in the kind of modem music
at which he is aiming. It existed twenty years ago; and since at
that time I preferred jazz to certain modem formulas of Stravin-
sky and Milhaud, I do not wish to be brought back to them by a
detour.

I can well understand that a listener may not react to the im-
provisation of a Kid Rena or a Mezz Mezzrow, and may prefer
Count Basic or Charlie Bamet or above all the great Duke Elling-
ton, but I wonder why those who swear only by Ellington have,
as far as I know, ignored the modems for twenty years.

All this should provide the material for discussion and argu-
ment that will never end in our generation. Where does jazz end
and where does it begin? Is jazz swing? Do the big bands have
the spirit of jazz? Can a soloist develop as well in a swing band
as in a jam band? These are the general ideas that will always
continue to provide food for disputes among critics and thou-
sands of other Americans.

In this book I have put forward my ideas sincerely. I do not
vdsh to convince anyone; I merely hope to enlighten. I do not
claim to be infallibly right. Time will bring us all into agreement.
But I can't help thinking that those who reserve their praise solely
and exclusively for the big bands today are the modem counter-
parts of those who claimed fifteen years ago that the inconsistent
small groups did not represent jazz, which must be looked for in
Paul Whiteman and Jack Hylton. They justified their arguments
by pointing to the popularity of the bands they defended. Never-
theless, after fifteen years the Whitemans and the Hyltons are
not important. I believe that most of the work of today's big bands

248 JAZZ

will be similarly forgotten fifteen years from now, and that to
find the truth about the jazz of our time it will be necessary to
look back on the litde bands and individuals who helped to make
jazz a living thing of beauty, rather than on those who were
merely interested in achieving the power of money through it.
Poverty has often been the price of art

Jazz has not escaped this handicap in its first struggles. More
power to those who appreciate this; but let the thousands of
enthusiasts who think they have seen the light beware the tempta-
tion to indulge in insults and bickering. Jazz is a great art which
is practically newborn, and it must be nurtured in a spirit of
honesty, understanding, and tolerance.

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JAZZ 251

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JAZZ 253

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254 JAZZ

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C1926).

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