at the jazz band ball

After all my negativity about the way jazz is going, I have finally discovered my Utopia. The discovery was made during an idle trawl of YouTube, looking for anything to alleviate the ennui I appear to be sliding inexorably towards. I searched on Chris Barber, who for some reason is my band of the moment.

I found a few videos, in particular a superb live rendition of “Ice Cream” in true New Orleans parade style, lead by Barber himself but more than matched by Sunshine and Halcox. But more importantly, I stumbled over a man named Clive who posts prolifically to YouTube under the soubriquet of MoleDfigg.

His YouTube ID is apt, a play on the term “mouldy fig” which used to mean anyone objecting to a saxophone in the Dixieland line-up. Mouldy figs were (probably still are) traditionalists. For them, jazz ceased to be jazz when

• The LP was invented, allowing recordings to exceed the hallowed 3 minutes
• Jazz moved into the concert hall
• Charlie Parker stopped dancing in its tracks
• Arty-farty bohemians grasped the music and claimed it for their own in the name of art

Mouldy figs are fundamentalists. They are radical reactionaries. The women carry parasols in case they feel the need to dance around the fringes of village halls; the men wear beards, usually goatees. They speak lovingly of Lil Hardin, Ken Colyer and George Webb (who crossed the floor last week to join a new type of band). If they are under 80 they are also revivalists. They either have silver hair or use Grecian 2000. They are, in short, the type of people I’d like to meet in Heaven, or would do if I believed in an afterlife.

I’m not strictly a mouldy fig. My record collection contains too many Mingus, Mulligan and Blakey et al for me to lay claim to the epithet. The three mentioned are modern jazz and I’m an avid listener, but I make no apology for asserting yet again that New Orleans style is the only TRUE jazz, the only genre genuinely entitled to be jazz without a prefix.

What I would give for the opportunity to leaf through Clive’s prodigious record collection! He’s posted over 100 tracks, all lifted from those delightfully scratchy 10 inch records I’ve started drooling over, all taken from his vast library of original recordings on labels such as Parlophone and Decca. And he knows his stuff. He lists performers and recording dates, essential data for any self respecting fan. His notes and comments are informed and interesting, unlike my waffle and rant. He has followers.

Keep posting Clive. I’ve already been on e-bay and bought a few ancient 78s as a result of your inspiration - George Webb’s “South” for example, but I can’t play it because my record player operates only at 33 or 45 rpm. (Mrs Dodman thinks I’ve finally lost my marbles) but I’ll take immense pleasure in looking at the record, holding it in my hands, while listening to Clive’s YouTube posting of the track.

And, Clive, thank you for being so positive about your music.

i shall never forget

Acker Bilk told a joke. It went thus: an elderly couple were on a beach and the wife turned to the husband and said “I’d love an ice cream. Can you buy me one? With a chocolate flake, nuts and maple syrup, please.” The husband mumbled away and was gone for two hours, then returned with two meat pies. He handed them to his wife, who snorted “I knew you’d forget the chips.”

A subtle joke, I think, but none the less poignantly topical. On Friday morning Grantham Theatre telephoned to offer me two tickets for the concert that evening. I was so busy congratulating myself on such good fortune that I forgot to take my precious LP with me (see previous posting). I was past the critical point of no return before I realised.

We had good seats in the balcony. I looked down on the pate of Chris Barber standing by the entrance dolling out autographs as if purposely to taunt me for my failing memory. Without a programme, or even my vital note book, I had nothing for him to sign. The ice cream tub was plasticated so that wouldn’t have worked. I’ll just have to wait for another ten years to elapse and catch him next time round.

Mrs Dodman and I watched the three Bs: Barber, Bilk and Ball, in that order, on the same stage but not all at the same time. Any comment I make must be placed in a temporal context - these legends of British traditional jazz are all within a few months of their 80th birthday. And I’d be disingenuous if I didn’t admit that at times their ages showed. Hero worship is a healthy quality only if it also recognises blemishes.

Chris Barber’s band was crammed with reeds. He played mainly Cotton Club Ellingtonians with a sprinkling of his favourite spirituals and a couple of essential standards. With him was a second trombone. Barber always experimented with jazz styles and instrumentation and that’s why I’ve spent most of HIS career listening to him. I could have listened to this band all night – exquisite.

Acker Bilk was next on. He both plays the clarinet and walks across the stage as if he has to think carefully about what he’s going to do next. His jokes were brilliant; his music almost purist New Orleans except for a solitary diversion into schmaltz with his inseparable “Stranger on the Shore.” For me, his trombonist was the star of the night. Mrs Dodman and I applauded the entire set loudly and sincerely.

Kenny Ball’s band was more commercial and a little more slickly professional. He brought along a second trumpet, openly confessing that he was struggling to reach the top notes because of ill-health. But he held centre stage and deserved the limelight as the band munched through the truffles: “Midnight in Moscow” and “Sukiyaki.” No doubt Ball had a good reason for finishing on “All You Need Is Love.” Much of the audience seemed to enjoy the number but it was past our bedtime and I turn grumpy when tired.

I know I can sometimes be overly critical. It’s a privilege of age as far as I’m concerned – or maybe it’s nature’s compensation for dwindling faculties. But this was honest jazz (mainly) with all the wrinkles and warts undisguised. And that’s what real jazz is about. When it turns polished and lubricated it loses some of its verve; the friction and the frisson evaporate. This bunch kept the excitement alive. We wouldn’t have missed the concert in exchange for a whole cart load of ice cream and chips.

Thank you to the young lady at Meres in Grantham who kept in mind that we wanted tickets and bothered to telephone. When the chips are down, she has a memory to envy and admire. I wish I could remember her name.

can't think of a name for it

We’ve just returned from a visit to Devon and Dorset. On the way down, we stopped off in Bristol for a day’s retail respite. A little dispirited with the homogenised city centre, we found our way to Clifton, a sort of Blackheath Village of the West Country.

There, in a charity shop, I found a Chris Barber double-LP. The album consists of concert recordings, with Barber’s band accompanied by Ray Nance (the Ellington trumpeter) and Alex Bradford, the professor of gospel music. Quote: recorded live at the Funkhaus Hannover 28th September 1974 unquote.

Barber is famous for extending his music beyond the boundaries of British Trad. That’s why he has endured and is adored by such a wide appreciative audience. The album was irresistible. I paid the requisite 99p (generously I donated the 1p change from a pound) and bore the album home.

I would have bought the album anyway, but my appetite was filliped when I saw three signatures on the inside cover, all obviously scribed in the same blue biro. The first was of Russell Procope and was underscored 1976. The second was Chris Barber himself. And the third was virtually illegible, but looks as if it could have been somebody named Ned Bill Dove.

That last one puzzled me. Jazz aficionados with greater knowledge will be ahead of me here, but I couldn’t imagine any self-respecting jazz musician retaining the name Ned Dove. I turned to the internet.

Now – Google seems to be taking a lot of flack lately. I’m not sure why because I think that what they’ve achieved is nothing short of genius. But humans are foresters by nature. We plant, grow and nurture – then chop down as soon as it suits us. I Googled “Chris Barber Russell Procope 1976” and in less than a second up popped the answer – Wild Bill Davis (organ and piano). If I turn the page sideways, squint and use the benefit of hindsight, the signature is obvious. Google triumphs again!

Both Davis and Procope were on tour with Barber in 1976. Over thirty-three years ago, an anonymous jazz lover had taken this album to a concert and managed to persuade the three great jazzmen to autograph the inside cover. I’m trying to buy tickets for Barber’s band in Grantham for Friday night, but needless to say the concert is sold out. That’s a shame, because I’d like to take the album with me to see if I can have some signatures added.

Perhaps I’m a sad elderly sot, but the thought of the provenance of this old LP excites me. By adding signatures, the yellowed cover has acquired a unique, if hidden, history which I wish I could unravel. How did it end up in an Oxfam shop in Clifton? What happened to it after that wonderful jazz evening all those years ago?

Google couldn’t help on that. Perhaps I over-rate them.

there i've said it again

Philip Larkin hit the news last week when an eponymous society made an appeal for funds to raise a statue of him in Hull. For my international following (Sleepy in China), I’ll explain that Philip Larkin is a famous English poet of the middle 20th century.

He wrote such classic lines as “They Fuck You Up, Your Mum and Dad” and “Why should I let the toad work squat on my life?” Needless to say, members of the Philip Larkin Society claim their man to be the best poet ever. In my view he was good, but for me his laureateship was earned as a jazz critic – an honest one for whom flummery and pontification were anathemas.

Honest jazz critics have almost died out. Now all jazz musicians, every jazz genre, everything with ‘jazz’ in the title, are regarded as great by those lucky enough to be paid to write about the music. I don’t know whether this is because modern critics fear being sued, or whether they simply want an easy ride, but harsh truths as in “this band is crap” are very hard to find. Just read Clive Davis in the Times if you doubt me.

I know I harp on about good and bad jazz. Sometimes I feel I’m a lone voice in a wilderness of heretics and vested interest. Misuse of the word ‘jazz’ is rife and endemic in today’s warped society. Yet Philip Larkin’s views on jazz accord with mine. If I could have one wish, apart from winning the lottery, having my time over again and maybe a few other secret desires involving Felicity Kendall, it would be to invite Philip Larkin to supper and have the opportunity to discuss jazz with him.

But he’s long dead. For me, his lasting legacy is a fine compilation of reprints of his erstwhile regular column in the Daily Telegraph, 1961 to 1971. They are bound together in a dog-eared old book entitled “All What Jazz.” A copy sits proudly on my bookshelf.

This is not the first time my blog has mentioned Larkin. I might mention him again. The man certainly features in the top half of my personal list of 3000 people to toast over supper. What I especially liked about him was his genuine criticism of many performers, yet later he wrote that he’d wished he’d been a little more forthright. How I wish today’s reviewers and critics would display such sincerity and humility.

I sometimes doubt my own opinions because the views of so many published commentators appear to be at variance with mine. But then I pick up “All What Jazz” to dip into the pages and find instant reaffirmation. I’m right; the rest (bar Larkin and maybe his pal Amis) are wrong.

This, then, is a bit of an appeal, silent though it may be. The statue’s design has been selected. It will depict Larkin hurrying for the train. I don’t know why. For perpetuity he will be portrayed as trying to avoid being late. Or is he striding to escape Hull? Whatever the conceptual aspirations of the sculptor, I hope that when Larkin’s statue is eventually ready to be erected in the city centre, the words “and genuine jazz lover” can be read after the inevitable inscription “poet.” I like to think he would have appreciated the ambiguity.

Thank you.

one word - in 684 of them

Recently the Maestros paid an overnight visit to Victoria Street. At supper, the conversation inevitably turned to the subject of music. Mr Maestro is a classical conductor (a sort of formal Günther Schuller); Mrs Maestro plays one of those funny instruments tucked under the chin and played with cat’s intestines (Joe Venuti played something similar).

With us were the Teachers. Mr Teacher plays a brass horn where the hand is stuck down the bowl (per Julius Watkins) and Mrs Teacher sings in choirs (she’s a sort of diminutive pastoral Bessie Smith). All four guests are deeply immersed in classical music, not necessarily to the exclusion of all other genres but they’ll physically wince if Arlo Guthrie comes on the radio singing “City of New Orleans” and they share the opinion that Chris Barber should be an example of nominative determinism.

During the rhubarb crumble, Mr Maestro used the words “a piece of music.” In my usual simplistic way, I asked if he knew of a single word to replace the phrase “a piece of music.” Now - the Maestros are erudite. They have a vocabulary which would be respected by Samuel Johnson. Yet The Maestro’s response surprised. “There is no word for it,” he asseverated.

In this vast lexicon of linguistic delight known as the English language surely we must afford ourselves the brevity of a single word, I pondered. The answer seems to be no. I ventured several possibilities, but each was politely declined for one reason or another – too specific; too general; also covering other branches of the liberal arts. My favourite was “composition” but that could equally apply to verbal essays, art and digital photography. Next came “opus” but apparently any artisan can lay claim to the word. “Melody” was greeted with derision; “Tune” with disdain.

Later, I flicked through Roget’s with no success and vainly perused lists in the Reader’s Digest Reverse Dictionary (1st Edition – 1989 - £6.50 Oxfam – inscribed with pencil “in print @ £24.95”). Even after surfing the net (is that an obsolete term now – surfing the net?) I remain ignorant of any singular verbal counter-point to “piece of music.”

The search is on. I need a single word meaning “a piece of music.”

While mulling over the problem, I found a Fats Waller album in my favourite charity shop in Boston (Lincolnshire). I’ve never been a fan of Waller. Everything I heard of him as a youth seemed to be novelty music and I could never quite take him seriously. My aversion was compounded by the fact that the piece of music entitled “Sheik of Araby” became my bête noir of jazz. I hated it then and I hate it now.

I noticed with an instinctive chill down my spine that the first track on the album was the black beast. However, I decided extempore that now is the time to give old Fats a second chance. My tastes are changing. I’m older now and perhaps even a little more mature, so… who knows? I bought the album: The Real Fats Waller – RCA Camden – Mono CDN-131, with unusually readable and pragmatic liner notes by Peter Clayton, 1959. Tracks were recorded between 1929 and 1943.

These recording details are given in full because somebody out there has the actual LP. Inside the Waller sleeve I found a pristine copy of Django – HMV – CLP 1249. I mean of course Reinhardt, not the mystifying Bates. I’m not bereft, because the pieces of music are electrifying, but I have them already on CD. They are not what I wanted, but I’m happy enough. At least it’s not Klaus Wunderlich or The Sound of Music.

Presumably someone has my Waller album enclosed in a Django Reinhardt sleeve. I’d like to repatriate the LP with the correct sleeve. Perhaps we can do a swap, either the album or the sleeve; which one matters not. But I think how nice it would be to reunite mother with daughter, especially if at the same time I can solve the problem of finding a single word for “piece of music.” All comments welcome, even in Chinese.

paradox

Surprising myself, I found a new hobby. In recent weeks I’ve taken up painting with acrylics. I can’t draw, so all my efforts are geometrical abstractions. For example, one I’ve just finished is my Grande Opus IV.

The term “Grande Opus” by the way is a portmanteau phrase. I think I’ve invented it because I can’t imagine anyone else combining French and Latin in such a blatantly disrespectful manner. But the alternative term “magnum opus” suggests that greatness is in some way involved and that would be risible when applied to me or any of my exasperated liberal arts.

Yesterday I painted. The Maestros stayed the night before, inevitably encouraging the imbibing of excessive quantities of wine and I was feeling jeune-eyed as we waved them off along Victoria Street in the morning. To recover, I decided to spend a relaxing day waving desultory bristles at a canvas.

My Grande Opus IV is entitled “Infinity.” Throughout the day I worked assiduously on the schematic. The principle of “Infinity” is that I divided the canvas into two halves, painting one half in a single colour and then dividing the other half into two equal portions again. One half of that is painted in a single but different colour and the remainder is then again divided into half… and so on. Thus the picture can never be finished. Repeatedly halving the remainder takes us into infinity. It’s a funny feeling, infinity. In a way it’s like being crapulent.

The problem with my “Infinity” is that I entered a microscopic world. At the last, I was using extra strong reading spectacles augmented by a magnifying glass to allow me to see where the paint was bound. This was now micro-painting, the nanophase of my Grande Opus IV, quantum art. Finally, the image disappeared up its own rectum in the middle of the canvas; I could physically divide the squares no more. They are too small for my fading eyesight and quaking hands. So I declared the painting to be finished apart from where I’ve daubed blue acrylic on yellow during a moment of tremor. I’ll repair that later. Come to think of it, that’s an end to infinity. A paradox - I’ll have to consider the philosophical implications over a glass of Montana.

Then I had another surprise. If my painting is a fair depiction of reality, with each sector representing one year, I’ve discovered that infinity is four years, perhaps five if I am generous to myself and assume the splodgy anal pinprick at the centre is somehow symbolic of one more. I’m not quite sure how that correlates with the Biblical conceit of eternity, or the scientific concept of infinite space. Even Aesop would be surprised to discover that infinity is only 5 years. And I thought I’d manage at least ten.

While I was struggling through my moments of artistic epiphany, I listened to Charles Mingus, or more precisely Danny Richmond, his long-suffering drummer. When I listen to jazz, I’m forced by nature to tap my feet. It’s something in my DNA I think. Dad was the same with Bill Hailey. With most drummers, I keep time reasonably well. Danny Richmond tips me all over the place; I constantly have to adjust the pattern of my taps, sometimes needing to stop, listen and pick up the beat at a later point.

In my Polyhymnian naivety, I’ve always considered Danny Richmond to be a bit of a rubbish drummer. But I knew that I had to be wrong, because Mingus never suffered fools at all. He wanted perfection and he demanded it from his colleagues or he sacked them. And Richmond lasted as the Mingus drummer for over twenty years. I’ve often puzzled this apparent contradiction.

The second epiphany of the day came – Mingus (the leader of the band) was constantly changing tempo. Someone a little less adoring and more cynical might suggest he was erratic. But in most of the tracks he repeatedly and deliberately changed rhythms and beats and tempi, challenging his sidemen to keep up. And good old Danny did, matching his maestro to the nano-second of shifting beat. He worked his percussion with unerring precision, riding the tumult in total synchronisation with the bass man. Mingus & Richmond; Richmond & Mingus – they should be linked by ampersands so well are they musically matched.

So Danny Richmond was not a crap drummer. He was a bloody genius. Why hadn’t I realised this before? I’ve been listening to Mingus for over 50 years. Where has my brain been all that time? I want to make amends so I’m going to dedicate Grande Opus VII to the pair. But that’s in the future. I’m now making a start on Grande Opus V. I’m feeling in a Sonny Rollins mood. “Paradox” I think, a 1955 recording with Max Roach on drums. He keeps good time with my toes.

i just can't get started

My blog posting rate is diminishing. It’s not that I have nothing to say. On the contrary, words and phrases tumble around inside me like lottery balls in a drum. My problem is getting the words to form sensible phrases and then converting them into something intelligible.

My typing skills are failing. A short paragraph now takes me three times longer than it used to because I’m committing so many errors needing to be corrected as I proceed. Too many times I find myself forced to retrace my metaphorical steps and retype a word, or check a spelling, or even amend grammar. I try to type slower but inexorably my speed increases and with it the incidence of error. Fingers will not hit the right key, or more likely I hit two keys at once and interpose an unwanted character into an otherwise perfect construction

The order of letters sometimes defeats me. I type the word “disestablishmentarianism” and it comes out “disestaboishmenttarianism.” Another problem is I forget what I’ve typed, so I’ll preview what I’ve written and see that I’ve used the word “nice” repeatedly in one paragraph. I could rewrite it all but finding synonyms is much quicker.

“We had a nice time the other evening. Dinner was nice and the company was nice. How nice to be among nice people enjoying nice conversation in nice surroundings with your nice dog nipping my ankles.” So I consult my copy of Bradford’s and effect changes as expeditiously as possible, resulting in: “We had an accurate time the other evening. Dinner was nine-pence and the company was precise. How fastidious to be among French city people enjoying pat conversation in dainty surroundings with your finical dog nipping at my ankles.”

My faculties are on the wane. The tides of my creative and functional abilities are ebbing. My literary last bus has left the stance. The stumps are being drawn and I never even got to bat.

Time is short so this jazz blog is brief: nobody plays the soprano saxophone like Sidney Bechet. Discuss.