Viva Las Vegas, Jacques!

The last few weeks have found me busy with a show called "Jacques Brel Is Alive And Well And Living In Paris". Besides being one of the longest working titles of anything I have been involved in ("A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum" running a close second) it also possesses some of the most gut wrenching lyrics I have ever listened to.

Since I am involved as a guitarist in this production, I have been able to absorb much of what is performed and have come to the conclusion that Brel was an ego-maniacal, eclectic, mad, fantastic genius.

Songs like "The Bulls", or "Fannette", or "Next" hurtle at you. And, as you try to stop them from puncturing your soul, sometimes you fail and are left with a bitter/sweet wound.

Actually, that description would be typical of a Brel lyric.

This post involves the "American Songbook", and in my spare moments, I have found a direct link from Brel to America through his translator, Mort Shuman.

Shuman, born of Polish Jewish immigants in Brooklyn New York in 1936 and died in 1991 from complications after a liver operation. He left behind a wife and four young daughters.

Shuman began writing music and lyrics at the age of 18 while attending The Music Conservatory of New York. He was affected by his love of rhythm and blues and he, along with another son of Jewish immigrants, Doc Pomus, (born Jerome Solon Felder) soon found himself at the Brill Building; that vast concrete and steel percolator of popular song that bent, irrevocably, the course of American music.

His work includes such hits as "Why Must I Be A Teenager In Love", "Save The Last Dance For Me" and erstwhile single-name superstar Fabians' "Turn Me Loose", (oy!)

Allowing for that, he was also the co-writer of "This Magic Moment", "Little Sister" and "Viva Las Vegas", a song that sweeps us back to a time of rhinestones, white leather fringed jump-suits with large collars and the comeback of "The King".

Shuman and Pomus eventually went to Europe where they wrote and sometimes performed songs rather successfully to a huge segment of those thirsting for things American. Such French hits as "Allo Papa Tango Charlie", "Sha Mi Sha" and "Brooklyn By The Sea".

He wrote for the French rockquer Johnny Halladay and even had time to write a hit for Small Faces in England; "Sha La La La Lee".

Mort Shuman was constantly honing his craft and wrote a musical overseas entitled, "Budgie". It was not terribly successful, but it introduced him to the English lyricist Don Black ("Born Free", "To Sir With Love", "Diamonds Are Forever" and a host of Bond movies.) And with this knowledge he began one of his greatest works; a revue highlighting the songs of Jacques Brel.

Occasionally, the full impact of Brels words have been lost in translation; such as "Ne Me Quitte Pas".

Originally written as "Don't Leave Me", Rod McKuen (a close friend of Brel) sings it as "If You Go Away". There is a line which translated correctly says something to the effect "....as for me I will offer you pearls of rain which comes from a country where rain never falls".

Shuman translates as "...but if you stay, I will make you a day that has never been nor will be again."

Somehow, the lyricism is lost.

But it sold a million copy's.

Mort Shuman, along with composer (Milton) Eric Blau, eagerly dove into the music by Brel and produced the revue herein mentioned.

The original opening song shows a knack for writing, but, again, looses something in the translation. "Les Flamandes" as composed by Brel, is a tongue in cheek assessment of the Flemish. But Shuman and Blau turn it into "Marathon", a miniature time line of the United States in the 20th Century, and it bares no relationship to the original.

Regardless of flaws, this revue has been successfully done and redone many times since it opened on Broadway in 1968.

The Music Clinic Theatre Company in central New Hampshire has produced the latest manifestation.

And it is grand! Cest magnefique!

Each member of the cast; Erin Murphy, Bo Guyer, Tom Mann, Rodney Martell and Laurie McDaniel (the creative director and heart of this show) is tuned to perfection. The songs spill into the audience with elan and bright courage. There is joy, trust, cynicism, love and despair, which is worn on the sleeve of each performer.

And the music director, Justin McCarthy plays with a steady hand and a professionalism seldom found in "small market" theater productions.

Then there is me.

A short, gnome-like guitar player with a desire to help, and a limited arsenal of knowledge.

But it works.

From now through July 31st, it is the perfect way to spend a warm summer evening. As if strolling The Rue De La Pais. Call 603 677-2777 for more info.

Ahh yes, I remember it well.

© 2010 George Locke

What The Person With The Verdigris Said

I'm dyin'

No, really

I'm doin' what the witch said at the end of "Wizard of Oz".

No. Not moaning, "What a world. What a world."

Although that thought has occurred, along with a deep sigh in Al Gore's direction. Tough enough going through a divorce, (even a 'mutually agreeable one, whatever the hell that means....believe me, there is no such animal, no matter how many teeth the separating couple may show in their smiles...it gets ugly at some point, and no one is happy!) now you see what you were talking about has some convenient truth.

I'm melting!

So I have been humming Cole Porter's opus to heat for the last few days.

"It's too darn hot. It's too darn hot. I'd love to sup, with my baby tonight. And play the p-" Well, you get where I'm going. Hopefully anywhere away from the heat here in the northeast.

Hot, hazy and humid.

I wonder if Porter wrote that song when in the middle of one of these stupid meteorological monstrosity's? If he did, he's a better then I am, Gunga Din.

Now there's a guy who understood heat.

"Though I've belted you and flayed you, by the livin' god that made you, you're a better man then I am, Gunga Din." Rudyard Kipling brought the regimental bhisti to life.

And so did Sam Jaffee who played said water bearer in loin-cloth-clad role of a lifetime back in 1939.

When Bob Dylan re-recorded "You Aint Going Nowhere" for "Greatest Hits Volume 2", the re-written lyrics included the line, "Clouds so swift an' rain fallin' in / Gonna see a movie called 'Gunga Din'".

I knew we'd find a music connection some where.

And who could forget that great comedy record in which a much shot-full-of holes Gunga Din tries to play the bugle, (Spoiler Alert, Spoiler Alert) to warn the soldiers, while perched at-top a ridge and as the recording continues the bugling get more distorted and horrible.

Until he dies.

Which takes me back to the beginning of this piece.

Now, there have been other songs about heat, from the American Songbook.

Irving Berlins "Heat Wave".

We're having a heat wave
A tropical heat wave
The temperatures rising
It isn't surprising
She certainly can.
Can-can.

Nope. I'm sorry, but if a partially clad female were to wander by me in the midst of a Can-Can, my lightly steamed eye-lids would register nary a flicker. Boiling temperatures and gut wrenching humidity do not for love make, Young Skywalker.

Porter had it right.

It's too darn hot.
It's too darn hot.
I'd like to sup with my baby tonight.
And play the pup, with my baby tonight
But I'm not up to my baby tonight.
Cause it's too darn hot.

But enough blogging. It's just too darn hot. It make me limp.

© 2010 George Locke

Kazoo's, Scarecrows and Starship Troopers

Frank Loesser was born a hundred years ago today.

He makes me think of scarecrows and kazoo's. And Robert Heinlein.

Bear with me on this one.

Frank Loesser wrote the happiest songs I have ever sung or heard sung. Just the titles make you smile.

"Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition". It was written a few days after Pearl Harbor and helped a stunned nation shake it's head, reeling from a punch, and focus on the enormous changes that lay ahead for America in the next five years. The title was based on an apocryphal statement uttered by a US Navy chaplain aboard a ship under attack at Pearl.

Tommy Tune is not the original long legg-ed lanky dancer. The original is Ray Bolger; the fumbling scarecrow in the 1939 classic "Wizard of Oz".

And it was his buttery voice that sang "Once In Love With Amy" from Loessers' 1948 Broadway show, "Where's Charley?" The song stopped the show every night, and Bolgers' low growl and lecherous laugh and his plea for everybody to "...sing along with me!" had the audience doing just that. God, but I love that song.

Loesser wrote good songs. After "Where's Charley" he strung together some stunners with a wonderful story for "Guys and Dolls"; considered by some the "best" Broadway musical comedy ever written. Such songs.

"Luck be Lady", "Fugue for a Tinhorn", "If I Were A Bell" and the title song just pop out of the speakers and the smiles dance across the faces.

"Most Happy Fella'" gave us "Standing of the Corner", and "Im-a' the most happy fella. In-a the whole Napa Valley......!!"

There was a near miss with "Greenwillow" and one ot the songs, "Never Will I Marry" is difficult for those that attempt to sing it. Including your's truly.

And movies. O Lord. What songs.

MGM's "Hans Christian Anderson" is one movie I could watch over and over. "Inch Worm", "Anywhere I Wander", "Thumbelina", and the title with the seasoned warmth of Danny Kaye pushing out those lyrics to those sweet, sweet tunes.

Other movie hits include, "Baby It's Cold Outside". A sleek Ricardo Montalban (yes the same actor who gave Kirk fits as Khan Noonien Singh) seduces Esther Williams. Another duo of the same tune by Red Skelton and Betty Garrett from "Neptunes Daughter".

Who hasn't plinked "Heart and Soul" out on the piano? Hoagy Charmichael wrote the tune but Frank gave us the words. Tom Hanks the ultimate version in "Big".

"Slow Boat to China", "I Don't Want to Walk Without You" and "Two Sleepy People" sung in that slow southern way by the aforementioned Charmichael.

I think of kazoo's when I think of Frank Loesser. Bobby Morse with that upturned chin and grin of impetuous youth from "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying." Singing "I Believe in You" to his reflection with a kazoo chorus behind him.

And Frank wrote the song, "The Ballad of Roger Young" about a real Medal of Honor Winner who died in the south Pacific during World War 2. It's a song of courage and selflessness that is quoted extensively by Robert Heinlein in his sci-fi opus "Starship Troopers." I never thought to make the leap from "Guys and Dolls" to the 1997 film by Paul Verhooeven. But I did.

Frank Loesser. The world smells sweeter for his being around.

His daughter Susan wrote in her biography about him that "...he was a bright burning comet who's light was extinguished too soon"

I'll drink to that.

© 2010 George Locke

Where Would We Be Without A Song?

Vincent Millie Youmans. Born in 1898 and died in 1946 was a member of that pantheon of American Songbook genius's that gave us so much.

He wrote melodies. Wonderful tunes that appeared in such Broadway shows as "No No Nanette", (which, as a Red Sox fan I wish to distance myself; see "Curse, Bambino of" filed under "No Longer Applicable".) or movies like "Flying Down To Rio" in which we first glimpse Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers (they were NOT the stars; it was Dolores Del Rio and Gene Raymond) dancing together to "The Carioca".

You remember. That was the scene where Fred and Ginger were touching foreheads as they twirled about on a fabulous RKO set. At one point they even comically "clonked" together like coconuts.

But, I digress.

Youmans also wrote such terrific time surpassing goodies such as "Tea For Two", "I Want To Be Happy"and a song which pierces my heart with such sweetness that it almost makes me weep when I hear it sung, "More Then You Know."

But, with lyrics by Billy Rose and Edward Eliscu we were favored with "Without A Song".

And it is upon this I wish to meditate.

There have been wonderful interpretations of this from Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennet and Louis Armstrong to "Little" Jimmy Scott, Mahalia Jackson and Nana Mouskouri (who has a remarkable version available on Youtube.) My favorite is Ray Charles' from "Standards" in which he implores the Raylettes to "sing the song, children."

There are only a few songs which contain the perfect intersection of words and lyrics that make it what I consider, a Profound song. I capitalize "profound" because it transcends your average into someplace deeper. A few examples of "Profound" songs are:

The aforementioned, "More Then You Know"
"Imagine"
"Someone To Watch Over Me"
"As Time Goes By"
"Like A Rolling Stone"
"Johnny B. Goode
"Fortunate Son"
"Skylark"
"Sophisticated Lady"
"Strange Fruit"

"Without A Song" is considered "most certainly an art song" by Alex Wilder, author of "American Popular Songs-The Great Innovators 1900 to 1950" (Edited by James Maher and published in 1972 by Oxford University Press). He goes on to say that at the least it is a favorite of concert singers, as it has the range of a full octave and a fifth; challenging and within the comfortable bounds of most good singers.

But he feels the words are pretentious and basically without substance. Certainly the word "darky" which is used in the second verse would never be used now.

I remember once when a friend and I in the Army were getting ready to perform for a camp talent show (I was accompanying him on guitar) and he had chosen this song, he left out that word and substituted "man". I looked at his beautiful African-American face and with complete innocence asked..."why?" He smiled, older then me by a few years and dozens of decades of repression and said, "Well, that word is about the same as the $64 dollar word. You know what I mean?" His smile never faded.

I suddenly knew what he meant. And an ignorant white kid from New Hampshire had just attended class.

But the sense of the song is, without a doubt, very personal and very true. We cannot get through any thing in life without a song.

The song begins with the words: "Without a song, the day would never end." I always thought it rather odd that the lyricist would begin at the end of the day.

But there is no doubt that sometimes we hear a song just before we click off the lamp.

Certainly we recall a lullaby.

Ray Charles' version begins as it was written, but then he ad-libs at the end, "When you wake up in the morning, you gotta have a song." And that's what I feel when I do wake up. A song is somewhere in the mumble-jumble of my dream shattered sleep (to use a phrase from Gordon Lightfoot's. "Carefree Highway"). A morning melody that snaps me to attention and gets me moving.

It could be something as mundane as "Break Me Off A Piece Of That Kit-Kat Bar" or it could be Gershwins "Rhapsody in Blue".

"When things go wrong, a man ain't got a friend." Deep down within every person lies the moan that can only be expressed with a heart-felt song. When grief over whelms us, it is sometimes the healing touch of a melody that can salve the wound.

"That field of corn would never see a plow. That field of corn would be deserted now." Every generation, every nation, every person who has ever put a hand to a tool, be it a sun baked hoe handle or a Dell keyboard does so with a song. We listen during our busy day.

We are strung by melodies and musical notes through centuries. Builders of pyramids, workers on roads, those who help the cities rise above the skyline and those who constructed the boats we sail and the planes we fly. Those who toot clarinets for a living or sell wind-up toys on the street corner. The man or woman who rides the subway at dawn to toil away in a crowded office. All of us share music as a way to make it through the day.

And then the line..."A man is born. But he's no good no how. Without a song."

Ah. Here is where me and the lyricist disagree. Is it right to think that someone born without music can be "no good no how"? I don't believe so. Oh, certainly, there are times when we need to collect our thoughts. To meditate silently on the questions of the moment.

However, I don't believe anyone is born without music. Perhaps it is only the beating of our hearts, or the rhythm of our breathing that we feel. Maybe it is the gentle caress of our mothers hand. All of us are born with music. Certainly, Vincent Youmans was.

The bridge affirms what we already know..."I got my troubles and woes, but sure as I know, the Jordan will roll (again, an African-American influenced lyric indicating escape from slavery and the Christian symbolism of the 'washing away of sins' in the river where Jesus was baptized by his cousin John.)

The song ends with the singers questions of the unknown...."I'll never know what makes the rain to fall. I'll never know what makes the grass so tall. I only know, there is no love at all, without a song." We all know what makes these particular things happen. But, metaphorically, there are some things we have no understanding of.

Why, when I am in a line of traffic and I pull into the other lane that is zipping along, does it all suddenly slow down? Why, after buying dozens of hangers for my clothing, the next day I can't find any again? Why does the guy I bench in my fantasy baseball team, because he has been playing like a broken legged idiot, suddenly turn into Babe Ruth or Cy Young? These are my questions.

But I do know there is no love at all, without a song.

Your significant other and you have a song which will always remind you of the day you met and fell in love. Or proposed.

Your song.

Mine was "Stardust." My wife thought better of it. She knew it was, "You Were Meant For Me" sung by Gene Kelly from "Singing In The Rain." I agreed. It has become our song.

So here's to one song that says it all. And check out some of these versions.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IH2fBMcwOFQ

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fyJAtc-pcwU

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OrqhbzsdwWk

© 2010 George Locke

Without A Song words and music by Edward Eliscu, Billy Rose and Vincent Youmans

When I Sit Down Late At Night

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost but now am found
Was blind, but now I see.

'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed!

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,
We have already come;
'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who called me here below,
Will be forever mine.

John Newton, Olney Hymns, 1779

I must preface this with a caveat. This blog is titled "The American Songbook" but, the subject matter is not American.

Through the recordings of Pete Seeger, Judy Collins and others, "Amazing Grace" has been considered by some an Appalachian folk song. Not true. It is English in origin. However, it is perhaps one of the most recorded of all songs by American performers. With that in mind, I begin.

All of us hit that spot when the world has just become too much to bear. Thankfully, it is usually a passing phase in the events that wash over us as the days tick by. This is not meant as a... "poor me". It's just a fact we all face.

Sometimes, it is the events of the day itself that burdens us.

A missed call.

A harsh word from someone who matters in our life.

A bill we forgot or neglected to pay. Or several bills, piling up behind the dam we've built of our denials or lack of funds. Or both.

Sometimes, it comes to those who face a day without work....nor even the possibility of acquiring a job that would satisfy them, and, though that may sound selfish, it is important,......and the loneliness of a silent house when all who live there have scampered off to their daily tasks.

Often it is the tv or newspaper or radio; blaring forth the ignoble and horrifying things one human does to another. Or many others. A wrong choice. Or even a planned evil.

It could become fear in a few moments.

If you play an instrument or love the sound of music; this is when you seek refuge.

I ask you. What is the song that gives you hope?

To me, "Amazing Grace"; strummed without a pick in the soft, dark oasis of my kitchen, with a light from the stove and a small lamp glowing from the living room like pools of dim water; this becomes my anchor in a sea of depression.

A song written by an eighteenth century slave trader when faced with a moment of truth, John Newton did not change is profane ways immediately. He was known as a writer of exceedingly obscene and totally improper words put to popular sailors tunes. He had turned his back on religion as a young man, and became immersed in all the debauchery life presented.

While aboard a ship, The Greyhound, in March of 1743, a violent storm put the entire crew at risk. Newton was manning a pump furiously, and stepped away for a moment. When he returned, the man who took his place was gone. Washed overboard.

It was later reported that at this point he yelled to the captain, his voice straining to be heard above the lashing winds and driving rain. "If this will not do, then Lord have mercy on our souls!"

The Lord apparently heard and the ship road out the storm without another loss of life.

Newton pondered what he had said and then, in a moment akin to what Paul must have felt when knocked off a horse on his way to Damascus, he made a decision.

He was a slaver. He continued in this profession for several more years.

Soon, however, he left the sea and settled in Liverpool as a custom agent. He studied Greek and Latin and poured over the many books available to a man who wished to become a preacher. And a preacher he did become, ordained in "The Church of England" in 1764 where he became a curate in Olney, in Buckinghamshire.

He, along with poet William Cowper, began writing hymns; the most famous being....."Amazing Grace." It is the most recognizable song in the English language. Perhaps in the entire world.

Bagpipers squeeze and poke the melody from their chanters. The famous and infamous have sung it, from Judy Collins to Johnny Cash. From "The Lemonheads" to Aretha Franklin, Mahalia Jackson, Elvis, "The Byrds" and everything in between.

Sometimes, I don't even sing the words. I just strum the chords. And everytime. The clock ticks back into place. The world seems a little bit saner.

If you're a performer, you have probably waited for the applause to subside after a song you have done. Even if there are only a half dozen people left in the audience. And, if you're like me, when there is nothing left to do, you have begun to sing "Amazing Grace" a'capella, because, at that moment, it feels right. It becomes the most beautiful thing in the world, not from anything you have done.

No.

It is not your skill or lack thereof that creates this breathtaking moment.

It is the soul of the song. And each and every time I have done this, without fail and no matter what the venue; in church... in a club... in a bar... at a school....or wherever, everyone knows the song, at least the first verse. And it is always sung with a spirituality I have never found in other songs.

Oh, I don't play it all the time. Sometimes a three chord, 12 bar blues; played as slowly as possible, is what rolls out in those dark, desperate hours. And I just moan, sort of like Satchmo did in "West End Blues". A quiet kind of song with no words.

Sometimes.

But, mostly its "Amazing Grace".

© 2010 George Locke

George, Benny and Yoda Part 1

There was a time, long ago, in which I never knew Benny Goodman or George Gershwin existed.

It was a sultry summers day in central New Hampshire and I had just finished work. I was fifteen and a caddy at the local country club. I whizzed my 10 year old bike into town the ra-a-a-at-t-t-a-a-t sound of the ace of spades clothes-pinned to the spokes; drowning out the cicada's droning; hidden high above in the elms still not hit by the Dutch blight that would wipe out those giant green shade trees in a few years.

I had a few bucks in my pocket from tips after staggering through 18 holes of golf, carrying fat bags owned by even fatter golfers.

So I stopped in to see Hi.

His real name was Sherman, but everybody called him Hi. He owned the only music store in town and I always found time to drop by and see if a new Kingston Trio album was in. Or, just to touch the guitars hanging from the walls. I couldn't play yet. But I soon would find myself in hock to him when, several years later, and out of the Army, I walked out of his store with a new Gibson safely tucked in a guitar case.

He had something on the store turntable. There was always music humming in the background. The door tinkled behind me.

"Hi, Hi." I always laughed at my clever play on his name and a greeting. He smiled as though it was the first time he had heard those double syllables together. "What's that?" I asked, pointing to the spinning disc. It was an LP.

"Oh, some Benny Goodman.", he handed me the record jacket. "The 1938 Carnegie Hall Jazz Concert". It was a re-release of the famous Columbia live recoding first issued in 1950. It captured a moment in musical time that, up until then, I had never been aware of.

The Goodman quartet, with Hamp, Gene Krupa, the impeccable Teddy Wilson and the King of Swing himself grooving to "Avalon", an old Al Jolson standard. It caught my ear.

"This is pretty good.", I said as I scanned the notes on the back. I was tapping my feet and suddenly I began to feel happy. I had never heard this kind of music before. It had always been "How Much Is That Doggie In The Window', or "The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane". Then later "Tom Dooley", "Thunder Road", by Robert Mitchum (yeah, he could sing!) or the "Theme From Peter Gunn" by Ray Anthony.

But this. This was something else. My hormones were expanding at a rapid rate and I asked Hi about Benny.

Hi was about to become my "Yoda". My Jedi master who would teach me the ways of "The Force". Music. All kinds of music.

Again, it would be decades before any of us knew who that short green Oz-voiced muppet was.

Hi had been in radio for years, locally. He was first and engineer and later an announcer for the local station which had first went on the air in 1923. I later worked for the same outfit. He knew all there was to know about the business of broadcasting. In fact he was the engineer on duty the day CBS veteran newscaster Lowell Thomas came to town and did a live broadcast.

Hi was my parents age and a link to a time and place before the war I had only read about.

"That's good stuff." He smiled. He always smiled.

And then he said something that stopped me in my tracks.

"You do realize that those musicians are making up all that stuff on the spur of the moment?"

What? I pondered that fact.

"You mean everything they play is off the top of their heads?" Hi nodded.

I ran with that thought for several months. And I mean completely. I thought that those musicians had never played together before and was making stuff up on the spur of the moment. Well, not really. Most of the songs the guys had played over and over again from radio studios to sweaty bandstands and freezing basement clubs for years. And most of them were trained to read and write music.

Everything those guys are playing on that record, except for the melody, was all extemporaneous. That idea blazed in my head and I was hooked on jazz. And especially Benny Goodman.

I bought the album for three dollars and ninety-eight cents. I went home and played it over and over again. But when I got to "Sing, Sing, Sing" my jaw dropped. It hasn't returned to a closed position since.

In the second half of the piece, when Krupa rat-a-tats-BANG and Harry James comes blazing in from the balcony and holding on to dear life as he rides his horn like a mustachioed Valkyrie to the end, when even business men in penguin tuxedos are shagging in the aisles and stomping so loud you can hear it on the record, I was mesmerized. I couldn't believe the intense rhythm I was feeling nor the sense of joy I felt as Jess Stacey played his piano like Bach or when Krupa changed the beat in Benny's solo to a gut wrenching tom-tom stomp.

That one cut from that one album changed my life forever. I never looked at music the same way again.

I began seeking out other big bands, Artie Shaw, Woody Herman, Count Basie and Duke Ellington. I looked into solo recordings from current musicians, like Ruby Braff, Stan Getz and then back to the early days again. Django Rheinhardt, Earl Hines, Louis and the rest.

Good music has always had room for "making it up" as they went along. Even Bach and Beethoven allowed places for musicians to extemporize on the score. And I love the fact that it can never be duplicated. Someone once asked the prototypical jazz-age and doomed trumpeter
Bix Beiderbecke if he could play a particular lick over again from a recently recorded set. He said he couldn't. Not that he wouldn't. He just couldn't.

I have happily been immersed in jazz ever since that summer day so long ago. It would be the first time "Yoda" guided me towards new doors in music appreciation. It wouldn't be the last.

© 2010 George Locke

Roux

Wynton Marsalis once spoke of the "roux" of jazz.

The thickner.

What holds the gumbo together, in other words.

He called it, the blues.

Roux is traditionally made from a combination of flour whisked together with a bit of melted butter.

And, in the matter of jazz, I call the butter, Louis Moreau Gottschalk.

If you haven't heard of him, don't feel too bad. Neither did I till a few years ago when the local library was cleaning out their LP's to make room for the on rushing tide of CD's.

I saw some piano duets featuring the music of Gottschalk.

Oh, what the heck. I'll get it. It'll probably end up in the local dump store. (Where I do some of my best shopping, by the way.)

I took it home, slipped it out of the sleeve, noticed it had probably never been played, and dropped a needle on the first track, titled "Le Banjo".

What the......? I picked up the record jacket and scanned the back. I looked at the label, spinning merrily around. Yup. It was the album, all right.

But the music was filled with chocolate skinned women in pastel dresses, twirling silk umbrellas under a Brazilian moon. I heard purple parrots and scarlet macaws and bell-like banjo chords swelling through shiny green, long leaves in a velvet black jungle on a languid summer night. I smelled jasmine.

Wow! Who was this guy? What had I been smoking?

What had I been missing!

Gottschalk was born in New Orleans in 1829, the son of a German Jew and a Haitian creole mother. He was a child genius at the keyboard and studied under many teachers both at home and abroad. And when he was ready to write, what came out was rhythmically profound and with a tonal freshness never heard before.

Except in the pulsing music of his people.

Creole, Haitian, Spanish, French. All the folk music he knew and loved. He wrote it down and pushed it through the seive of his intellect and musical training. And it became the butter of the jazz roux.

Most of those who know, and I cannot include myself in such high company, say he was the precursor to ragtime. The genesis of dixieland. He was the grandaddy of Johnny St. Cyr, and when Louis began to sing "Stardust" with that single note persistence, that no one, and I mean no one had ever attempted before, the driving sound, and syncopation of the other Louis hovered like a ghost in the background.

Gershwins "Cuban Overture" owes it's life to George and his chords, but it owes it's birth to Louis Moreau Gottschalk.

And to go back even further, it was a powerful influence for Scott Joplin and all of the unsung hero's of ragtime. "The Entertainer", "Maple Leaf Rag". and all the rest hang on a branch that sprouted from a pot of gumbo helped along by this African American genius.

If you have never heard his stuff, Youtube has "Le Banjo" played by the pianist Johathan Plowright, as well as many other things by Gottschalk on their website.

I love jazz. Especially with a road straightening-4/4-get-out-of-my-way beat. This music is alive and well.

And a pound of Creole butter helped get it started.

© 2010 George Locke