LP liner notes.txt
BIXIELAND
EDDIE CONDON and his All-Stars
At the Jazz Band Ball
Ol' Man River
I'll Be a Friend with Pleasure
Singin' the Blues
Fidgety Feet
From Monday On
I'm Comin' Virginia
Royal Garden Blues
Louisiana
Jazz Me Blues
Notes by Eddie Condon
Writing notes on your own recordings is comparable to mourning at your own wake. There are risks involved, not the least of which is the possibility of being misunderstood in certain weekly publications which form a kind of lowbrow edition of "The Record Changer."
Actually, the main part of this comment was written eight years ago by the oversigned and a fine, courageous man named Tom Sugrue. We both contracted writers' rheumatism in a book called "We Called It Music," published by Henery Jolt and purchased by blood relatives, bargain shoppers, and other marks. The book's dedication said: "FOR BIX: I hope he isn't wearing a cap."
The best way to explain the dedication is to pull out the text itself. It told, in part, of my first sight of Leon Beiderbecke, whom everyone called Bix. It said,
I stood in the station and watched Pee Wee come at me with three other guys. One was a dude, the other was an ordinary human being. The third was a kid in a cap with the peak broken. He had on a green overcoat from the walk--up-one-and-save-ten district; the collar was off his neck. He had a round face and eyes that had no desire to focus on what was in front of him. Pee Wee introduced us. The guy in the cap was first.
"This is Bix Beiderbecke."
I'm stuck with this clam digger for two months, I thought.
"Hello," Beiderbecke said. Great talker, I thought.
The dude was next; his name was Wayne Hostetter. The ordinary human being was Johnny Eberhardt. Eberhardt was the saxophone player; Hostetter played clarinet and violin. Nobody said anything about Beiderbecke's instrument.
Pee Wee said, "Bix wants to go over to the College Inn and see Louis Panico. Let's walk over."
The College Inn was in the Sherman House, a loop hotel. Louis Panico was playing trumpet in Isham Jones's band. He was only eighteen, and had written "Wabash Blues," and was getting $350 a week. They'll never let us in, I thought. This corn-cobber probably has heard Louis on a record and hasn't any better sense than to think he can march in wearing that cap and hear him play. I fell back and walked with Hostetter, the dude.
"Is Beiderbecke our cornet player?" I asked.
"By way of understatement, yes," Hostetter said. "Wait until you hear him play. You'll go nuts."
I can believe it, I thought. What kind of music have these guys heard? What is their standard? How can a guy in a cap and a green overcoat play anything civilized?
We walked right into the College Inn without being stopped. Pee Wee and Beiderbecke pushed their way up to the band stand. I spotted Panico about the time he saw Beiderbecke. His face lighted up like a drunk on Christmas Eve.
"Bix!" he yelled. He leaned over to shake hands and the boys in the band looked around as if free drinks had been announced. Beiderbecke must be something, I thought, but what?
My eyes were just getting used to the glare in there when Pee Wee said, "Bix wants to go to the Friars' Inn."
Well, I thought, they let us in here, why not the Friars' Inn? The Friars' Inn was a flashy cabaret for big spenders. For music it had the New Orleans Rhythm Kings, the famous white jazz band. I had heard their records on Gennett. If any of the Rhythm Kings spoke to Beiderbecke he was somebody, cap and all.
We walked in . . . right up to the bond stand. The players fell over themselves greeting Beiderbecke. Have I got to buy a cap to make good, I thought?
Beiderbecke smiled like an embarrassed kid and muttered something. Then he got up on the stand and walked over and sat down--at the piano. "Clarinet Marmalade," somebody said. Bix nodded and hit the keys.
Then it happened. All my life I had been listening to music, particularly on the piano. But I had never heard anything remotely resembling what Beiderbecke played. For the first time I realized that music isn't all the same, that some people play so differently from others that it becomes an entirely new set of sounds.
All that was nearly thirty-five years ago. The music inside the envelope you are now holding in your hands was made more recently--on April 20th and 22nd, 1955, to be specific. This music is not guaranteed to make you lick your insides, or even your outsides, but it may make your feet stir. Beiderbecke is not on any of these, but his spirit is--or something very similar to it.
What it all boils down to is this: a group of very compassionate and complaisant fellows, all of whom admire Bix Beiderbecke, some of whom played with him, got together on a couple of afternoons to make recordings of some of the tunes that Bix liked best to play.
The whole idea belongs to George Avakian of Columbia, who also has to answer for the title. This title gives George the privilege of sitting out the notes, which is why I'm here.
The ceremonies were held in Columbia's converted church on 30th Street in New York, and a suitably subdued atmosphere was provided by a communicant named Chivas Regal, who was carried in.
In addition to Chivas, the following burglars were present:
Wild Bull Davison and Pete Pesci, cornet and trumpet respectively (the Bull played on "Jazz Band Ball," "Ol' Man River," "Fidgety Feet," "Louisiana," and "Jazz Me Blues"; Pete played on the others);
Cutty Cutshall, trombone;
Dick Carey, alto horn;
Edmond Hall, clarinet;
Gene Schroeder, piano;
Walter Page, bass;
George Wettling, drums;
Pete Pesci's night-time boss and all-time headache, guitar; Bud Freeman, utter silence.
(Actually, Bud was not present, being in exile at the Van Rennselaer, but it's nice to see his name in print, especially for Bud.)
These sides were not made to imitate Bix.
Nobody could do that. They were made, as mentioned above, to catch his spirit, without going to the trouble of putting on caps. Bix needs no imitators: he can be heard on the three volumes of Columbia's Bix Beiderbecke Story.
As a matter of fact, I can say without being too much of a braggart that, all things considered, most of these records come off better than the original Bixes. I'll tell you why. Bix was always handicapped, it seems to me, by the blood relative-sounding musicians he played with. It was his bad luck to be forced to comport with some real hobos, musically speaking. Why, I remember one day when Lennie Hayton played drums on a record.
For that reason, every time Beiderbecke took a lunge, he'd bump into one of those Iron Chancellors. As soon as he came in for a chorus it sounded like somebody was in town, but when the others came in, it sounded as though they were all trying to leave town. It was too bad, too, for he was a very gentle guy.
On our sessions, we had no such problems. The only intruder was Mr. Chivas, who was more than welcome. And we had the good luck to get together on days when everybody was feeling lucky and playing the same way.
The trumpet-cornet work is especially remarkable in these sides. (I have to be extremely careful in apportioning credit in this department, for otherwise Pete might up and slug Bill.) Pete did it one day, and made the pretty tunes sound the way their composers intended; Bill did it the next, and proved once again that there is no harder-driving, or more masculine, cornet in the entire business, the lead man with Sammy Kaye included.
In the last chorus of "I'll Be a Friend," Pete's work is about as close to Beiderbecke as it's humanly possible for a living man to get. Incidentally, Pete was the only man who really knew this tune from Go, and he helped the rest of us with it. There may be a few harmonical errors in this one, but it's one side I certainly would not want to burn.
As for Davison--well, he doesn't have to be proud of this performance. The performance speaks for itself, quite eloquently.
While on the subject of Beiderbecke resemblance, and I insist there is very little of it here, I might also mention the "chase" chorus on "From Monday On." Bix and Frankie Trumbauer used to "chase" each other on many of the recordings they made with the Paul Whiteman band. On ours, the chasing is done by Pesci, Cutshall, Ed Hall, and Carey, in that order--and very nicely, too. My, but Mr. Chivas was cooperative that day.
The hero of the two days was George Wettling, who deserves as much credit for the success of these efforts as any two of the rest. George was in shape that day; we all knew it, and so did he. It's conjectural as to how the music might have sounded if there had been anybody else on drums.
There are many good kids playing drums today, but none of them have George's flexibility, imagination, and virtuosity (are you with me, Whitney?). Some of the kids keep good time, but when they try one of George's own-style breaks, they get caught between the bases--which can be spelled another way.
As for the others: Ed Hall turned up fitted out, as usual, to defend his title of Best Dressed Musician, and to show that he need not claim the Most Versatile Clarinetist crown. He's got that. I couldn't begin to single out any solo as an especially fine one, because they all were. Gene Schroeder again proved that there are few pianists in the business who can equal him either as soloist or member of the rhythm section. Walter Page's bass is as broad and solid as Walter himself, and the way he and George play together is something I'm glad to have on records. I would hate to have my grandchildren miss it.
I have to say something more about the rhythm. Over a period of years, Page, Schroeder, and Wettling never worked better together--and they had a lot of chances, in and out of studios. These boys keep time, that's all.
As to Cutty Cutshall--well, listen to him driving in such things as "Royal Garden," and then listen to "Singin' the Blues," and you'll see why he's worked at Condon's Downtown Hideaway for so many years. This once again demonstrates forcibly that when I picked Cutty to play trombone in our band I hadn't lost that day's round to the booze.
At several points in these recordings, the untrained listener might believe, for a second, that Cutty is taking additional solos in a higher register. Not true. That trombone-like sound emanates from Dick Carey's upright--the alto horn he used on "Jammin' at Condon"s," the album we made just before this one. After a spell at piano, and another at trumpet, and great success at both, Dick began working with this unfamiliar instrument with astonishing results. It's a real asset to the band. God knows what he'll begin working on next. I understand that Mitch Miller has suggested the triangle.
Upon listening to these things at long distance, I find very few faults to find. One reason I'm proud of these guys is that they both romped and balladed it up, both days. On the brighter numbers where the rhythm section was so vital, the section came through--and you can prove it for yourself by listening to the guys who weren't in the rhythm section. On the sweeter numbers, everybody was beautifully in horn.
I am not apologizing for any of these, and neither is Chivas Regal.
And if only Bix could hear them, nobody would have to request him to remove that cap.
Cover Photo: Hugh Bell
[Liner notes to original LP release, Columbia CL 719, 1955.]
|
|