The Potted Palm Job?

A bleary-eyed but smiling man in a black suit, white shirt and yellow tie with matching socks, could be seen strolling into the Dakota earlier this morning. He was certain he appeared bleary because he didn’t want to hold more than one eye open at a time. Whiskey is a good agent for warming the bones after spending time playing a clarinet outside on an unnaturally frigid May wedding night, but it’s not a good beauty tip for your morning-after eyes. True story. And I’m the hero.

The Southside Aces played at the Dakota on this Brunchtide, a Mother’s Day shindig:

—By the way, check out what I got to put in my pie-hole:

Family Style First Course
deviled eggs, apple+manchego scones, house baked mini muffins & breads, pickled green beans, fried green tomato, apricot jam

Sweet Creamed Grits –blueberry doughnut toast, roasted cippolini onion, glazed yam, crème fraîche, blueberry jelly

Banana Cream Tart
toasted meringue, peach butter, strawberry+tarragon salad—

(Are you kidding me?!)

Ahem. Back to my story. The aforementioned “strolling” of the man in the black suit was an affectation to cover up what was more of a shamble. I was smiling out of that sense of security that comes with having made it to your destination. Once I was able to sit down peacefully in the green room backstage, I worked on forming connecting thoughts, so important when you’re playing jazz! After a half hour of that, however, I found out I’d only written down four songs on a piece of paper. At that rate, had I persisted, I wouldn’t have finished the set lists until it was time to leave. “I could go for some deep, untroubled sleep right about now,” I said out loud. 

But the other men began to arrive, and I perked up. Matt Peterson came in with his string bass in place of Erik and his brass bass. The rest of the band was made up of the usual suspects—The French Tickler, Psycho Stevie, Mr. Class, The Moral Compass and myself. Zack, Steve, Robert and Dave all seemed equable, despite the somewhat distressing hour of 10:00 a.m. Matt, on the other hand, actually went beyond that into a sort of eagerness. I didn’t trust it. Who was this man so hale and hardy of a Sunday morning? I would have to keep that one eye I had open on him. 

Dakota soundman Craig Eichhorn had instructed me of my brunchly duties. “You’re background, but not really background. A little bit more than background. But it’s not a performance either.” We understood each other. I think he wanted to make sure I wasn’t shooting off pyrotechnics and waving flags in attention-grabbing semaphore. The Moms just want to eat their brunch and maybe hear a couple of good tunes! 

Just for a second or twelve, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take a little sidetrack right now. I like to call background/ambience type work the “Potted Palm,” as in, “Yeah, tonight I’m on a Potted Palm job.” You know, where your music makes things a little nicer without a person necessarily being able to pin down why. The other end of the spectrum would be a showcase or feature concert. I like to call those shows “The Big Shoe,” a loose reference to the funny pronunciation Ed Sullivan sometimes had when he introduced his “really big show.” For instance, I might say, “I can’t wait for the Big Shoe tonight.” Of course, when I’ve used this phrase, generally the only person I don’t confuse is myself. Maybe it’s because I have big feet, so people think I’m literally talking about a shoe. Or maybe these days Ed Sullivan is too far beyond the ken. I don’t care; I’m sticking to it! But what about this morning?  A show that falls between the two designations? I don’t yet have one for that. Maybe I could say I’m “Chopping Parsley.” You know, it’s definitely a flavor you’ll use in a dish, but it’s never the main flavor. Hey! Climb off! It was my first attempt!

At any rate, we did some fine work. The boys kept it subdued for most of the first set. This was good for everyone’s health, as it both served to slowly introduce the idea of a jazz band to the nervous systems of the diners, and to prevent we men in the jazz band from pulling a jazz muscle right out of the gate. We did, however, heat it up several times throughout the day with numbers like “Diga Diga Doo” and “Tootie Ma Is A Big Fine Thing.” You say you don’t really remember those songs being in the Mother’s Day cannon, but I want to point out how it actually says the word “Ma” in the latter tune. My favorite moments, though, were the sweet ones. A Louis Armstrong-inspired “Red Sails In The Sunset.” Evan Christopher’s achingly beautiful composition for a dearly departed friend, “Waltz For All Souls.” But perhaps my absolute favorite was “All Through The Day.” It registers high on the Sweet-O-Meter, with Oscar Hammerstein’s story all about thinking and dreaming of your loved one the livelong day until you can get home to that kiss. We didn’t give it the Frank Sinatra treatment—just instrumental. But Jerome Kern’s melody tells that same story all by itself. I especially love when it comes out of the bridge, changing keys for just three bars, restating the main phrase in the new key. It’s as if your heart needed more room to hold all that love and yearning, and only by changing keys would you be able to keep it all together! Oh boy, I’m a sucker for the sweets!

I think I’ll leave off with that. I want you to hear Frank’s version of the tune. He really does it some justice, I think. And next time you’re around this bleary-eyed, smiling man, go ahead and inquire about hearing a jazz band play it. Happy Mother’s Day!

P.S. I'm also welcoming suggestions for what to call it when it's not background, but it's not performance. I may not be going with "Chopping Parsley"...

"All Through The Day"

Go Ahead, Call Me A Jazz Nerd

“I’m such a nerd.” This I said out loud the other day, after debating with myself the pros and cons of letting Southside Aces fans know that Frankie Trumbauer played C-melody saxophone. Tomorrow night, the Southside Aces will feature Henry Blackburn at the Eagles. This month’s feature is The Alto Sax in Traditional Jazz. He’ll be rendering on his alto one of the most famous saxophone solos in jazz history, “Singin’ The Blues.” In 1927, Trumbauer put the song to wax with his C-melody, so technically we’re not talking about an alto song. But why make that distinction merely while I’m begging fans to make it out to the show? The C-melody is a close cousin to the alto. It’s a bigger cousin, like that one from Nebraska who played right tackle for the Cornhuskers, but a rare thing to encounter in public these days. After reminding myself—not for the first time, you may have been able to guess—of my status as a nerd, I made the decision to omit the C-melody history from the narrative. Given my normal jazz logorrhea, this counts as exercising restraint. Well, wouldn’t you know it; within a day I received notice from friends letting me know that Frankie played C-melody. 

And how about last month? We’re on the stage at the Eagles about to present the public with a bunch of Fats Waller, and Erik almost announced “Ain’t Misbehavin’” as Fats’ “most popular hit.” I tensed up, as only a fastidious historian can. Zack noticed my consternation and didn’t lose much time pointing out what a dork I was. Erik amended his words, telling the crowd the song was, “arguably his most popular hit.” I washed my hands of him, declaring, “I ain’t protecting you from the Charlies out there!” This refers to the fact that there are people like Charlie DeVore who will know exactly which Fats hit was number one. Erik and Zack laughed at me. Erik displayed mock terror with an “Oh no!” face and said, “When we’re done, I’m just going to run off the stage and get out of here, talk to no one!” Our second Fats song was “Honeysuckle Rose.” This, too, was announced as, “arguably his most popular hit.” Thus he diluted the first declaration, and with such ambiguous semantics staved off being cornered by a pack of wild Charlies and Tonys. 

You should know as soon as possible here that I am not complaining about folk writing in to supply me with C-melody information, nor do I feel it is character assassination to use phrases like “jazz dork” or “jazz nerd” in reference to a certain clarinetist when he gets starchy over a muddy history. I have for a long time considered it a badge of honor to even be considered in such light. If I ever manage, for instance, to even hold in my noggin half the knowledge that Charlie has under his white hairs, I’ll feel like I’ve lived a great life. Two of my greatest loves, baseball and jazz, are populated by people who can tell you much more than you would ever need to know about the smallest of minutiae in their respective subjects. Just ask my wife… 

Me? I’m always grateful for these dwellers in the arcane. The information they possess is considered nugatory by most folk, and perhaps rightfully so. But haven’t you ever experienced that moment when you needed to lay your hands on some bit of far-flung esoterica, and somebody in the world actually knew the answer? The moment goes in waves. First you have the “Eureka!” feeling wash over you, happy to find the answer to your question. Then you have the gratitude feeling for the person who bothered to put the answer in their heads or some easy-to-find place. Then you have the semi-mocking, pity sensation of “Wow! Why would someone spend their time collecting that knowledge?” Admit it. You’ve gone through this. We, however, need people like this.

But it all can go horribly wrong. You know, knowledge is power and power in the wrong hands and so on. I thought about this “it’s cool to be a nerd” idea some, and decided to google “jazz nerd.” I found out I am three years late to an argument that was hatched from the mind of a Marsalis. Drummer Jason Marsalis, youngest son of the famed New Orleanian jazz family, has a Youtube rant about a certain type of goings on in the jazz world. He initially coined the acronym JNA, meaning Jazz Nerds of America. Once he discovered that the problems he had with the state of jazz was a worldwide plague, he re-coined it JNI, or Jazz Nerds International. Those with membership in the JNI, he says, “reduce the music to as many complex notes as possible while ignoring the simple elements and history behind the notes. The music student has fun but the audience has nothing with which to connect and therefore is sitting on their hands.” He believes that many of the modern, young players ignore the rich past of jazz. Mr. Marsalis believes that one of the central philosophies in this school of music is “swing is old and dated, we have to use the music of today.” He despises the alienation of audiences that this can produce. “The fact is that the jazz audience could care less whether any music is “new” or “innovative.” The audience pays their hard-earned money to hear a good show.” He cautions against spending too much time as a music school technician. You need to live, at least in part, a non-academic life and have that living infuse your music. I couldn’t agree more with the elements of the stand Mr. Marsalis takes, although he needs to be more careful to not accuse everyone of the crime.

Perspectives on jazz nerdery, if you will, appear to be as fractured as the jazz community itself. A young trombonist, Alex Rodriguez, also despises the nerd in jazz, but from another perspective entirely. In his blog, Lubricity, in 2009 he wrote a piece entitled Please Don’t Call Me A Jazz Nerd. He told the story of how he suffered boyhood trauma on account of his being a self-described dork. He disdains the idea of the hipster-nerd. He sees the nerd as being a force of marginalization in jazz. If you want success as a jazz musician, why would you want to be a nerd? “Those of us in the jazz community today have a daunting challenge before us: on one side, we are pressured to measure up and reinvent ourselves within the artistic framework and tradition that has been laid before us by our musical idols; on the other side, we are pressured to make this struggle culturally relevant in a world in which swing — a fundamental underpinning of jazz music — no longer underlies popular music.”

Whew! I better start calling myself something else. Maybe “Professor” with a lightly snide tone or something. Both those guys are presenting good cases for not wanting to be a nerd. One says that the nerds are only embracing modern music with no respect for the past, in the process losing the modern listener. The other is saying the nerd who only hangs on to the past without at least acknowledging the music of today will lose the modern listener. What a rhubarb! But I’m not Marsalis’ nerd. I might be closer to the nerd described by Rodriguez, but I’m not that guy either. I think I need a Jazz Nerd career counselor!

I, as you know, am a ‘20s-‘40s man myself, with those New Orleans revivals of the ’40-‘60s thrown in for good measure. This brings about a whole different type of nerdocity from the ones described above. Once you get past the mid-1920s, you find well-developed jazz genres not just from New Orleans, but from Chicago, Kansas City, and New York, just to name the main hubs. Sure, there was a diaspora of New Orleans cats helping to fuel the spread of jazz, but there were people all over the country creating distinct versions of this beautiful American art. A 21^st Century bandleader such as myself could decide to just be an Armsrong band; an Eddie Condon band (Chicago/New York); a Duke Ellington band (Washington/New York); a Basie/Moten band (Kansas City); or a Kid Thomas/George Lewis band (New Orleans). And that’s just using one hand! Within each of those examples, there is a body of work sufficient to be a band’s sole repertoire. Some bands do this, although I think most travel all around the map, as the Southside Aces do. And, this is important—people have made the case that each of these highly distinct ways of playing music could be a definition of traditional jazz all by itself.

This brings me back to how the early traditional jazz nerds can muck things up. The types of nerds that Marsalis and Rodriguez describe are only the top branches of the Jazz Nerd Family Tree. This is the tree that blocks all the light so no other trees can grow. Imagine you’re leading a six-piece band such as the Southside Aces, and you play the tight arrangements of, say, a Duke Ellington small band of the late thirties. That’s when the Only-Improv-Is-Jazz Nerd emerges from the crowd during break to inform you how it’s not really jazz because it is arranged music, not freely improvised. Conversely, you might encounter resistance from the Big Band Nerd, who would prefer you not stomp all over his sweet songs with your rough, unarranged, Kid Thomas sound. Or, you’ll get the Museum Nerd saying something along the lines of, “You know, that wasn’t really the way Bix played it on the 1927 recording.” A band could also spend an evening laying it all out there on the music of Louis Armstrong’s All Star bands of the 1950s, only to run into the brick wall put up by the Hot Fives and Sevens Nerd, who only believes in Louis’ 1920s work. The Jazz Nerd Family Tree is huge, and in need of pruning. Is there a Jazz Nerd Arborist in the house?

Speaking of the Museum Nerd, I admit I love arranging and having the band recreate moments off records from the wayback. It’s incredible music, and exciting to play. But I pick and choose those moments judiciously. It would be far too stifling for it to be more than just a small percentage of our book. My goal is to not let my sometimes overly-developed sense of history prevent me or my cohorts or, god forbid, the audience(!) from having a good time. When the band plays, we have to have a chance to grow musically, both individually and as a unit. Marsalis also said, regarding the million or so jazz camps, “Rather than dividing it up with categories like “traditional” and “modern” or “old” and “new,” it should be viewed as a century’s worth of information.” I like that. I love to listen to a good Bix band, but that would never be enough for me. For example, if the Southside Aces confined ourselves to just Bix, how would we let ourselves play the great brass band music of New Orleans. Or how about 21^st Century music not even intended to be jazz, such as tunes by Amy Winehouse and Lady Gaga? A 21^st Century sound through a New Orleans filter can sound fantastic!

Now, if you hang onto your hats, I’m going to switch metaphors. This is for everyone, the musician, the fan, the critic: There is a wrong side of the tracks in Jazz Nerdtown. This is where the people live who use their JAZZ SENSIBILITIES to be anti-social and confining. They’re just sensibilities, not rules. Myself? I’m a work in progress. These days, I probably still live near the tracks, but on the right side, I think. And any day now, I’m moving to an even better neighborhood!

To read Alex Rodriguez tell you why not to call him a jazz nerd, read it here:

Lubricity

If you would like to see Jason Marsalis rant about the JNI, go to this Youtube:

Jazz Nerds International

Finally, if you would like to read Jason's full explanation, go here: 

Definition of a Jazz Nerd

Tighten The Belt

Here I am, nearly three months into my life as a full-time musician. I can tell you without hesitation that I have never experienced so much internal happiness at a career choice as I have these past 87 days. I mean never. A few people, familiar with my countenance both pre- and post-Decision have even been heard to say how I appear happier, more peaceful. Anyone, however, who’s asked me to explain myself, will tell you how often I’ve used the phrase “tightening the belt” to describe one aspect of my choice. This, on account of how I certainly don’t yet make as much money as I did when the order of things was Real Job supports Messing-Around-With-Music. Now, of course, it’s simply Music Is My Work. Incidentally, while I may say, “tightening the belt,” that might not be a problem, what with the recent opening of Glam Doll Donuts over on Nicollet and 26th. If I spend all my days sitting in their cheery, vintage-furnished shop, eating my way through their amazingly creative, razed-glazed menu as I intend to, I won’t need a belt to hold my pants up. Important as this is, however, I digress.

It’s as if I feel I have to say I’m punching extra holes in my belt to prove to those inquiring after my wellbeing that I am actually aware of reality. My friends are very good to me—they’re not asking me for this proof of being oriented to time and place…and income—but I say it anyway. Erik could tell you how I have an acute ability to always be aware of the worst-case scenarios of any situation. An excellent quality for disaster-preparedness perhaps, but one that can cause unneeded anxiety in everyday life. This mechanism, or reflex, is being activated more than likely by all the ding-dang happiness I’m going through. Imagine a two-panel cartoon of me. In the first panel, I have an open, haloed face and I’m saying, “I’m a Musician! I wake up to Music every day!” In the second panel, my face takes on a stern expression as I shake my finger and say, “Don’t think I’m not aware that I could end up face down in a pool of Old Overholt in front of the public library after six hours of busking “Greensleeves” on a slide whistle because my clarinet’s in hawk!”

Now you see how far I take my disaster-preparedness. Old Overholt is a good rye for how cheap it is, but I really have no intention of ending up in a pool of it under any circumstances. To that end, I am working hard at my craft. And I am refining my sense of how day-to-day decisions in my music will affect my income. Patrick would probably frown to read this, but he is a mentor for me in this aspect. Though a generation younger than I am, and supporting a young family with his musicianing, he says, “It can’t always be about the money. You have to love what you’re playing, too.” Conversely, there will be days where it can’t always be about loving what you’re playing; you have to make a living, too. Patrick, I think, would wholeheartedly agree. But part of my current joy is stemming from this incredible freedom: the love of my music has the power to make very tiny the significance of my bottom line.

This brings me to last night at the Eagles. To make the shows at the Eagles happen, I create the themes, arrange the music, rehearse the fellas, drive around finding raffle prizes, promote, arrive early to set the stage, and of course practice and play the music. For this, I get a guarantee of $50. When all is said and done, about three dollars per hour, sometimes less. But it is worth every second. Here’s what I get for my investment:

The Southside Aces played the music of Fats Waller to a crowd aged nineteen to ninety. Pianist Steven Hobert joined the back row, and some righteous swinging was heard, yes, yes, yes! Per usual, we raffled off prizes, including Heidi’s homemade raspberry rhubarb jam. I talked to friends about my Minnesota Twins, with Cynthia showing me pictures of spring training taken during her and her husband’s recent vacation to Florida, and Hammond stadium. I partook of some of Jim Beam’s version of rye. Charlie DeVore sang three from the Fats Waller book, “Porter’s Lovesong To A Chambermaid,” (do try to be in the same room sometime when he’s doing that!) “Keepin’ Out Of Mischief Now,” and “My Very Good Friend, The Milkman.” When we traveled off the Waller path, those of the promenading persuasion filled the floor on that old Mexican waltz, “Over The Waves,” Zack sweetly tore up “La Vien Rose,” and our “Diga Diga Doo” cooked the end of the night to a nice crisp! 

This is why I said to Erik last night, “Well, I just checked and yep, this is still the most fun!” Fortunately, not all of my musically and socially rewarding jobs have such a low rate of pay. Otherwise, maybe I’d be steeping a little too long in my idealism. The point is, it balances. A man can eat, put a roof over his head, and experience sometimes overwhelming happiness on not too many dollars per day. Tighten the belt, indeed. I say, “Nice belt!”

Love and New Orleans

Happy Mardi Gras, everybody! Tonight I get to play New Orleans jazz with two different bands in two different places. Also at two different times, just so you know. I’m not one of them temporal clarinetists. One of the joints is called The Bungalow, where the Mouldy Figs will reside, the other the Fraternal Order of Eagles, Aerie #34. It is there the Southside Aces will throw in with three other bands and a vat of beans and rice. A lucky jazzman it is who gets to provide some of the Gras of Mardi Gras. I hope you will do your best to bring the Carnival Season to a swinging, crashing, whiskey-sipping, bead-throwing, second-lining, gumbo-wolfing, purple, green and gold, so-what-if-you’re-a-little-tired-on-Wednesday close! I know I will.

But why would I talk about Mardi Gras when I can talk about Valentine’s Day? Once we finish lending a hand observing Fat Tuesday, two days later the Aces come back to the Eagles to provide a Valentine’s Day dance. Sweethearts On Parade! Every few years or so, both Mardi Gras and Valentine’s Day make their appearance in the same week. I checked into it, and the last time they fell on the same day was 1961, the next time 2040. It’s like the Haley’s Comet of dual holidays. One of the only other dual holidays that has come to my attention is on June 14^th. Flag Day and National Bourbon Day. Hard to beat that. Except that a Mardi Gras/Valentines has bourbon anyway, plus you get candy. At any rate, you have quite awhile before you have to begin worrying about placing your special order for a heart-shaped King Cake. 

This year Mardi Gras falls on Lincoln’s birthday. I don’t know what to do with that. Instead, I’m going to focus on the combination of Love and New Orleans. On June 26^th, 1950, the Decca studios in New York recorded Louis Armstrong with the Sy Oliver Orchestra, Earl Hines on piano. It was French pop music day, apparently, because not only was “La Vien Rose,” put on record, but the B side was “C’est Si Bon.” These were big, orchestral pop arrangements, something Louis began to do more often starting in 1949. Music critics, who found it impossible to seek out jazz in so-called “commercial” surroundings, often overlooked these recordings. In Ricky Riccardi’s book, What A Wonderful World—The Magic of Louis Armstrong’s Later Years, there is a section recounting a radio interview from around that time where Louis gives us a great education about the mistaken idea that “commercial” necessarily equates to lack of jazz. I did not feel sorry for the deejay as Louis gave him a fantastic dressing down. You’ll have to get the book and read it yourself (pages 50-51). Or call me up and I’ll read it to you. The upshot was his final word to the deejay. “Every tune’s hot until you make it otherwise, Pops.” Someday, I’ll weigh in more on that subject, but today I’m going to stick with Love and New Orleans, and “La Vien Rose.” 

What Louis did with that Edith Piaf-penned hit was remarkable. For four bars the orchestra holds a gentle C, while Earl Hines gives us beautiful piano glissandos; all creating a soft cushion of space that literally makes me take a deep breath before Louis’ entrance. Here he is playing this slow, slow melody, all the while making you feel the swing of the thing. And there’s his old Chicago pal, Earl Hines, dropping in piano phrases behind him. You’d think a full orchestra would be unwieldy to these two jazzmen, but not so. The conviction of their swing could shrug off an orchestra of a hundred. He finishes the melody, and Earl and the orchestra go back to the top to give us that C cushion again. Then Louis sings.

Not many people use the word “tender” when describing Louis Armstrong’s vocal qualities. I consider this to be perhaps his most tender vocal on record. And what kills me even more is how he combined that real tenderness with his unequaled syncopation and swing. He creates a feeling of true love…and of wanting to do something about it. And just about when you’re saying, “Dang!” over what he just sang, the orchestra goes up a fourth to the key of F and Louis puts his trumpet to his lips to finish the song. It’s soaring and powerful, yet filled with the same tender tone of his vocal. The orchestra pauses right before the end, and he hits and holds a high C that makes you shake your head and think, “Nobody but Louis!”

The Southside Aces trumpet man, Zack Lozier, hasn’t been overlooking Louis’ “commercial” recordings. No sir. If you step into the Eagles Aerie #34 this Thursday, you will get to hear “La Vien Rose.” Though you don’t have to admit it to anyone, you’ll probably swoon just a little bit. It’s all right. How else are you supposed to respond to a strong dose of Love and New Orleans coming at you all at once?

Check out Louis for yourself:

"La Vien Rose"