Recognizing DCD

“Oh wait! You have to hear this!” There we were, comfortably ensconced in the post-prandial, wine-sipping candlelight of my dining room, and instead of my friend being able to finish a sentence in a story of meeting a medicine man in the mountains of Guatemala, she has to listen to what Louis Armstrong does with his vocal at about 1:40 in “Hotter Than That.” Afterwards comes my excited response. It might be brief. Sometimes I’ll merely emit a sort of punched-in-the-gut noise when a musician achieves something that is unfair to all other musicians for the rest of time. The people who know me probably feel lucky when all they get is that visceral response. But many times a single moment in a recording acts upon my brain like the last left turn of a spanner wrench on a fire hydrant, and from my mouth streams a history of the recording, the musicians responsible, what the temperature was that day, and about the time they injured their leg. In this instance, to my meager credit, I remembered all on my own to wander back to the previous conversation and bid my friend to continue HER story. My etiquette, however, does not always rise up to being so barely adequate. Fortunately for me, my friends seem to love me despite this “charming” trait of mine. 

I have decided to call this DCD, the DeVore Compulsive Disorder. I should probably ask my mentor’s permission before naming a disease after him, but I think he may understand. Do you suffer from this malady? This is a disease who’s chief characteristic is that no matter where a person is or what they’re doing, their ears will hear any and all traditional jazz no matter how faint, and said sufferers will commence struggling, or not, to squelch the urge to illuminate it’s presence. Charlie is stricken with an advanced case, wherein he displays all of the above, but also the symptom of providing music from his own head if there is none in his immediate ambient vicinity. He’ll also provide a song if you happen to string three words together that almost match one of the thousands of lyrics he stores in his noggin. I'm well on my way to this expression of the disorder.

"O-81, O-81. That reminds me of that Gershwin chestnut, 'Oh, Lady Be Good.'"

Despite all of that, I consider myself a good listener. In my previous career as a reflexologist working with patients in a hospital, my years of experience taught me to just be quiet and open my ears. That it’s best to not even tell your own stories of how you can relate to a patient’s pain and suffering. Doing that, in it’s own way, can diminish a patient’s narrative, and most patients want you to know what’s happened to them. The advantage in those circumstances was that in my twenty-four-year career, I think traditional jazz was playing within earshot maybe a total of four times. I almost never had that itchy feeling fever up my brain, making me want to ask questions in the middle of a session like, “Which Fats Waller is that?”

But I no longer do that work, and have been released into the world on my own recognizance. Maybe I’m sitting in a restaurant and my left index finger spasms up in the air, demanding the attention of those at my table as I stare into the middle distance. The middle distance is where I keep all my jazz esoterica. Somewhere buried in the noise of cutlery, other diner’s conversations, ice being restocked at the bar, and that patron yelling at the umpire on the overhead tv, the thread of a Sinatra tune reaches my ears. “That’s from his Columbia years,” I might let slip out of my piehole, while I nod appreciatively. Then I’ll oh-so-smoothly come back, my eyes refocusing. “You were saying?” I ask, as if I were the one waiting. I have actually perpetrated a version of the above scenario on an anniversary dinner. Again, I want to point out how I am a lucky man, having married someone with a high degree of tolerance for my disorder. Her tolerance is partly born of her own love of the music, but still, at our anniversary dinner? I guess, darling, I only have middle distance eyes, but not ears for you, as it were.

The same happens with soundtracks for television and movies. One of my favorite movies of all time is the 1998 film, The Impostors. 

Throughout this fantastic farce, they use a 1962 Eddie Condon release of the song “China Boy” for the chase scenes. Other jazz recordings populate the soundtrack, including a brilliant use of an Armstrong recording of “Skokiaan.” The movie knocks me out every single time I see/hear it. Now that I've taken in about seven viewings, I largely restrain myself from comment, but that first time? I wonder how many times I said, “Are you hearing this? What a soundtrack!” 

Yet another classic presentation of the illness may occur with live performances, especially those that are part of a party. In this case, based on true events, a musician—I’ll call him McHenry Henryson—thought it a lamentable state of affairs that another musician on the bandstand—whom I’ll call Sam Miltich—wasn’t being given full attention, despite his stellar playing on the song “Swing Gitan.” Understand that when I say “bandstand,” it was actually the space in a basement rumpus room formerly occupied by a ping pong table, and that same rumpus room was elbow to elbow with happy, happy wedding guests shouting, drinking, hugging, and otherwise celebrating the nuptials of good friends. Also understand that when I say “rumpus room,” I’m saying it pretty much so that I can use the phrase “rumpus room,” which makes me laugh. At any rate, McHenry’s desire was that one of the grooms be dragged from the middle of the fracas and planted directly in front of Sam’s guitar, so that he could know what kind of genius music was being played right in his very own rumpus room. I don’t really blame him. Many a time I’ve asked someone at a club if they heard the way the band did this or that, only to be given the I’m-sincerely-trying-to-remember look before they answer, “I must have missed it.” But I had to stop him from insisting.

His motivations are noble. This is not a man who bases his self-esteem on how many people at the party are paying rapt attention to the band. He is not an Artiste demanding, “Silence!” before a performance. We sufferers of DCD see our actions as a sort of public service announcement. For instance, there exists in our world the British Hedgehog Preservation Society. Their whole purpose is to bring awareness to the little buggers, essentially so that those folks who live in Hedgehog Land don’t run them over. There is even a Hedgehog Awareness Week in May. 

Hedgehog Crossing

I didn't know they carried bindles.

This makes two blog postings in a row where hedgehogs have come up. I think I have an infestation. Anyway, whether it’s me at a candlelit table, or Charlie in a movie theater, or McHenry Henryson at a rumpus room reception, we’re just providing the same service. Jazz Awareness. “Look! Jazz!! Don’t run it over!” Where our nobility falls flat, however, is in our utter disregard of the etiquette of each situation. A man shouldn’t oughtta drag his friends away from their lives every time he hears the Bix and Tram recording of “Singin’ The Blues.” Of course, those of us with terminal cases of DCD believe that it’s everyone else in the world that is failing to observe proper etiquette for when jazz is crossing the road. 

As the years go by, it occasionally occurs to me that there are some areas of my behavior in need of improvement. In the case of my DCD, I have had to develop a conscious ability to be aware of my surroundings and maintain a state of repose when confronted by the tunes about which I’m so keen. I once had to actually tell myself, “No, Tony. Right now you don’t need to mention how amazing it is to hear the Bechet/Spanier ‘Four Or Five Times’ in a coffeeshop. Let your friend tell you about his seasonal depression.” To my friends, I would have you all know that I truly do value your conversation and your company. My distraction has nothing to do with a boredom brought about by the stories of your days. I always want to know what’s going on in your lives. It’s purely a mechanism of my brain and spirit that automatically lights up when I hear this music I love. But I love you more. Really, I do. Really…Oh!  But check out Barney Bigard on this trio recording! Zutty Singleton’s on drums and…

Barney Bigard, “Barney’s Bounce”

Here are the other links to the highly distracting soundtrack for this post:

Louis Armstrong, “Hotter Than That”

Fats Waller, “Latch On”

Frank Sinatra, “One For My Baby”

Eddie Condon, “China Boy” (live version)

Louis Armstrong, “Skokiaan”

“Swing Gitan”

Bix Beiderbecke, “Singin’ The Blues”

Sidney Bechet, “Four Or Five Times”

A Decade Of Aces: Part Seven '11

This is the Seventh in a series of historical retrospectives on the Southside Aces, in celebration of their tenth anniversary.

The Southside Aces Big Four represented the band at the Eagles to start 2011. It was a meager winter crowd, but at least they didn’t outnumber the band. During the second set, we had to pause to let Erik disassemble his sousaphone to actually remove snow. I wonder if insurance covers ice dams in your sousaphone? We also played a 1923 A.J. Piron tune, “Bouncin’ Around,” which Erik introduced as, “the second oldest song ever composed.” 

The Best of Midwest Burlesk again happened at the end of January. I had arranged ACDC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” for the band to open each show. The crowd seemed to love the hard rock put through the New Orleans filter. This year had more than seventy different performers over four shows in two nights. As one of Andy’s coworkers mentioned later, “I kept expecting them to run out of ways to take their clothes off, and they never did!” 

January 31^st is my birthday, and I spent it at Famous Dave’s on the Aces job. The Butlers made me do a birthday dance, which meant I was given the opportunity to break Claudia’s, Shannon’s, Lisa’s, Heidi’s and, yes, Bill’s toes. The band was determined to never stop, so I ran away from the dance floor in terror of the liability I was facing causing injury to any others foolish enough to join the brawl. 

We played in February at the Eagles, for the first time with six guys. Mark Kreitzer was on guitar again, and Darrin Sterud played his hot trombone. Erik showed up early so he could get the $7 steak dinner. Mark sang seven verses of “Mack The Knife” in the original German. Oppressive! We also spent St. Patty’s Day at the Eagles. All six Aces assembled to play the dance, and to have band photos taken for our upcoming new album. We did one of those old-fashioned band pictures, like some Midwest territory band swinging through Minneapolis in 1934, pausing long enough for a photo to be taken and sent ahead to Rapid City for advance publicity.

Erik came back from the bar after procuring whiskey, and told me about a 96-year-old WWII veteran named Ernie, survivor of Pearl Harbor among other things. Ernie was a harmonica player and had asked if he could sit in. The band got started, and for some reason during the set played “I Found A New Baby,” “Bill Bailey” (which Robert sang as “Bill O’Bailey” in honor of the holiday), and “I’ll See You In My Dreams” all in a row. An old guy, sitting upright in his uniform, shouted, “They’re all in F!” I think a good jazz band makes an effort to separate songs in the same key, but that was the first time in my experience someone actually noticed! Erik whispered, “Tony! That’s the guy who’s going to sit in!” After a few seconds of all of us looking at him, Erik said, “Doesn’t he look like the white Uncle Lionel?” Ernie Mattson played “Jambalaya On The Bayou” and “Saints” with us, combining that mournful prison tone with a rhythm like a square dance. Rick Rexroth sang “Danny Boy,” and the Beaujolais Sisters gave us “Everybody Loves My Baby,” ala the Boswells, with Randi singing for two! What a night!

Everybody Loves Randi’s Baby!

On April 1^st, a quartet of Aces was asked to provide music at Temple Israel for a memorial.  Since most New Orleans memorial and funeral music comes out of the Baptist hymnal, I had a conversation about not wanting to bring offence into Temple with that repertoire. It was solved when I learned that the deceased had loved Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald. The man’s son didn’t want to conduct the transaction on the day of the memorial, so we met the day before and he handed me, a perfect stranger, an envelope with cash payment. A very rare case of a 21^st Century handshake deal. It felt good to work on trust. We ended up playing “Mahogany Hall Stomp” in place of “Saints” for the postlude. 

The Eagles was shaping up to be a special place for us by this point. It has a culture all of its own, and it always seems easy to settle in and be comfortable there. The barkeep’s name is Royal, so over the past few months I had grown fond of walking up to him and placing my order, “Royal. Crown Royal.” When I found out, however, that Jim Beam was $1.25 cheaper, I decided to forego my whiskey-ordering haiku from then on. Erik had his hyperbolic burners on in April, so he introduced Andy this way: “Andy Hakala. He’s a blues man! The Roughrider! He eats three steak specials before he plays a note!” Ernie Mattson sat in with us again. When I went to collect him the second time at his table to help him to the stage, he handed his wife his cane and said, “Hang on to this. I don’t need it. I’m all exercised up!”

Ernie!

The following week, a Big Four outfit made it down to New Ulm’s Grand Café again. Joe, the now former mayor, who had led choruses of “Ein Prosit” during earlier visits, shook my hand at the break and said, “You guys create the flow out there! The harmonious juices of society!” If I had a dollar for every time someone said that to me!

On May 12^th, four Aces were hired by the Minnesota Historical Society to play the first annual Retrorama. This event celebrates the vintage, targeting Mid-century. That year featured a Munsingwear exhibit which showed examples of undergarments from the 19^th century all the way through the 1980s. A vintage boutique, vintage cocktail and cooking demonstrations, and the opportunity for patrons to decorate their own pair of boxers, including the optional Munsingwear penguin logo! This led to the line of the night, uttered by Robert. We were playing near the tables full of boxers. “Look at those people…drinking and making underwear!”

Zack subbed for Andy at Famous Dave’s that month, Steve Pikal for Erik. After wandering a bit on the bridge to “Coquette,” Zack apologized to me, “Sorry about that bridge. I was pretty close to the melody, wasn’t I?” I adopted a sage expression and replied, “That’s actually our job. To get pretty close to the melody.” As was mentioned previously, I’ve been accused of possessing the vocal stylings of Vincent Price. Our chart of “My Very Good Friend, The Milkman” is keyed low enough that if I had any good sense I wouldn’t sing it. I like the words, though, so I did. When I was finished I looked back at the stunned expressions of my bandmates and called out, “One of you save me!” Steve Pikal’s smile never wavered when he called back, “One?!”

The last day of May had Robert and I in KBEM’s studios with Mary Ann Sullivan on her show, Corner Jazz. We were building up steam for the next week’s release of our third album, an eighteen-month journey from conception to finish. We had experienced delays in the shipment of the CD. I was in Andy’s backyard drinking margaritas on June 8^th, the day before the CD release, wondering why I hadn’t heard from Erik yet about a FedX delivery. I said, “I’ll bet in the next conversation I have with him he says something like, ‘Well, Tonya’s sister’s friend’s uncle owns a fleet of ice cream trucks, and he was at a Blue Bunny convention in Milwaukee, and so I got him to swing down and pick up the CDs. He should be in town tomorrow about 7:30.” But there was no more drama after all. They made it!

A Big Fine Thing was released to the world at the Eagles. We had a great crowd of dancers and listeners. From the title tune to some of my favorites like “Perdido Street Blues” and “Back To Black,” we were loose and having a blast all night. We packed up and as Andy left he said, “I’m going to go home and check our online sales. I bet I find out we’ve gone viral and we’re going to be on the next episode of Veronica Mars!” Back at my house I fed Erik snacks and a cheese sandwich. This was like one of those moments when you have to let go of the dog treat quickly or get your fingers snapped up. Erik vowed, “The next time at the Eagles I’m going to order two steak dinner specials, one for before the show, and one for after!”

What you see there is about a ninety-year age range of fans!

Erik working up another appetite.

On June 13^th, we helped a family memorialize their dad in the morning, helped Steve’s daughter, Rose, celebrate her 21^st birthday at Famous Dave’s that night (even playing “The Rose Of The Rio Grande”), and, Dave and I anyway, ended up at the tavern called Cuzzy’s over on 5^th and Washington much later. I was wearing my “Bix Lives!” tee shirt, a memento of the Bix Beiderbecke Jazz Festival in Davenport, Iowa. Danny, the young barkeep, said, “Cool shirt. I love Bix’s music.” This dropped Dave and I on the floor in shock. The chances of someone in his thirties working a downtown bar in the 21^st Century who knows Bix is probably in the .000something percentile. He explained, “My mom grew up in the Quad City area and I grew up listening to that stuff.” I told him the story of Bix and his “pivot tooth,” which I got out of Eddie Condon’s book. Bix and those guys were traveling one winter, and Bix’s false tooth flew out of the car. They apparently spent an hour looking for it in the snow, before someone miraculously found it. This led to the creation of a shot called the “Pivot Tooth.” Rail gin—Bix drank too much of the bathtub variety—with a garnish of a white Good-N-Plenty. It was awful, but we felt we appropriately honored that Davenportian. 

Cuzzy’s—Open ‘til closed

I was hired to put together a brass band for Westminster Church’s Town Hall Forum. A few Aces and a lot of brass band guys were otherwise occupied that day, so we had to do a big time shuffle. Steve moved to sousaphone, Erik strapped on a bass drum, Chuck DeVore played snare, Wittacee trombone, and I still had Robert come in with a banjo. We were a brass band without a trumpet and sporting a banjo. When we all assembled in the green room, I asked out loud, “Is this what people mean when they say, ‘perpetrating a hoax’?” Erik gave me a quick, affirmative nod. But Wittacee could fill the sanctuary of Westminster by himself, and we only had to play six songs, so we ended up doing great. Although it took us three choruses to find each other on our parading exit song, “Mardi Gras In New Orleans.” Back in the green room, I remarked how good it felt to finally gel on “Mardi Gras.” Erik said, “Like getting a rock out of your shoe.” Robert riffed, “The Rock In Your Shoe Brass Band!” Erik exclaimed, “We should hire out all the time!” I commented, “As long as the job’s only thirty minutes.” Erik—“The Thirty Minute Brass Band!”

Do those looks say, "We got away with it!" or what?

During rehearsal in July, we pulled out our calendars to talk about upcoming shows. Erik had a worried look on his face as he looked over Steve’s shoulder. “Steve! That’s a 1983 calendar!” Sure enough, it was. Steve shrugged, “I lost this year’s calendar, so when I looked around the house, I found this one. It turns out the dates matched.” You’ll have to ask Steve why he still had a 1983 calendar sitting around the house.

We played on the grassy knoll at Abbott under beautiful skies both for lunchtime and for dinnertime. We started the afternoon slot for some reason in a perversion where we decided to play only songs in Ab. “Bourbon Street Parade,” “Tiger Rag,” “Postman’s Lament,” and “San” happened before Erik finally gave in. “We gotta get off the Ab! That much Ab in a row, I feel like I’ve been eating butter brickle for an hour!” During the evening show, Andrew “Diz” Gillespie subbed for Dave. He showed up with what used to be a white dress shirt in his hand. “This is Erik’s.” It was stained yellow by sweat and beer. When Erik arrived, he and Diz discussed the shirt’s history. “This was from Seattle?” Erik asked. “That was years ago. I thought I lost this shirt.” The shirt had traveled from Minneapolis to Seattle for a Mama Digdown’s show, then on to New York where Diz currently lives. It hung around there until it was perfectly ripened. Erik began using words like “vinegar” and “bleach” and “sun,” boasting, “I bet I can bring it back!” I said doubtfully, “To what, ecru?” He unrolled the shirt he wore that day to show a six-inch tear in the sleeve. “Maybe I can swap out the sleeves.” Robert chimed in, “Then you can sell the rest of the shirt on craigslist for parts.”

I hired Chuck DeVore to play snare for the Autumn Brew Review. There would be two sessions this year, so we would be on the brewery grounds from noon to seven. I told Chuck to get there early because of the paucity of parking. I said, “We should at least start the day as professionals,” predicting that, what with a jazz band being around that much beer for seven hours, something might happen to diminish that image. Chuck was confident, “We’ll still be professionals! We’ll just be drunk!” Andy and I visited a brewer who brought root beer, cream soda, and raspberry ginger ale. Andy said, “This is great, but bringing root beer to a beer festival is like bringing a knife to a gunfight.”

Jazz band and beer connoisseurs 

We were hired for the first annual Oysterfest, put on by Meritage restaurant in St. Paul. Chef Russell Klein and his wife, Desta Maree, have themselves quite the joint, and we loved them for our inclusion in this fantastic party! They blocked off St. Peter Street and flew in oysters from all over. There was even a special Oyster Stout from Lift Bridge Brewery. Did you hear me? Oysters, beer and jazz! Chef friends from other restaurants were part of an oyster-shucking contest. It was unseasonably warm for October 9^th, so people were in shorts and sundresses, looking summer beautiful. Robert ran late, biking up wearing one of those fit biking outfits. He had his whole suit stuffed in his banjo case. Erik managed to stuff three-dozen oysters into his craw throughout the day. Never let that man near your mollusks! But we were a great fit, especially when we second-lined through the street and into the restaurant. 

On October 13^th, we went into the Eagles Aerie #34 with a mission. It was the first time that we were to feature a specific artist or composer from jazz history. This was the night we featured the music of George Lewis. This also started our tradition of conducting a raffle for our fans to win fantastic prizes. Sometimes “fantastic” might be a bit of a strong word to describe our prizes, but you still get to feel like a winner! Our second raffle winner of the night complained, however. “We thought we were going to win one of you guys!” Steve told her, “I’ll meet you in the parking lot later.” 

In November, we featured Jelly Roll Morton. Our “Winin’ Boy Blues” kept clear of the Library of Congress filthiness that Jelly recorded. How often do you get to read the phrase “Library of Congress filthiness?” I scandalized Dre, Heidi and Mrs. Butler with a private reading of those lyrics later. One of my favorite tunes of the night was “New Orleans Bump,” a sinister, minor key song with a manly swagger. 

“New Orleans Bump” Wynton Marsalis-style 

Butch Thompson was also on hand that evening to capture the band for his four-part radio series “Classic Jazz MN,” and later in the night turned in a great, quiet solo on the very same “Winin’ Boy Blues” I said was so dirty. If you don’t sing the thing, it’s a gorgeous bit of music!

November saw us in an unbelievable 1902 Stillwater lumber baron’s ballroom for a wedding, and down in Richfield at the American Legion for the Third Annual All Airborne Ball. We had Zack in the lineup, and were graced by Rick Carlson on piano. Charlie DeVore sat in. In his customary singing exuberance, he accidentally kicked a mic stand off the stage, which took out a whole row of decorative paratroopers. He’s so punk rock! He apologized to Bill Butler during break. Bill said, “That’s all right Charlie. I’m just glad you didn’t go over with the mic, or next year we’d have to call it the Charlie DeVore Memorial All Airborne Ball.” 

Our December Eagles featured Christmas music; including the first time we performed Donny Hathaway’s “This Christmas.” It was a fun night. One of our raffle prizes was a carton of eggnog. Despite it being advertised as a Christmas show, a ballroom dancer appeared in the middle of the feature set and yelled, “No more Christmas songs!” Erik, with full approval of the Southside Aces board, of which I am a trustee, replied on mic, “This is our Christmas feature. We get one set a year, and we’re going to play it. If you don’t like it, you can go sit down until we’re done!” It was one of my favorite Erik speeches ever. We love to please our fans, but sometimes you have to hold your ground. Plus, isn't your sweet caramel chocolate that much better with a little salt?

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!”

The Lineage Of Inspiration

“Hey, Rick! What was that that shot my dad’s finger off?” If I’d had any doubts about where I was, if, as the medical professionals say, I wasn’t oriented to place, then that woman’s shout brought me into focus. My place in the world on this night was the Fraternal Order of Eagles, Aerie #34.

I was in the ballroom, and the shouting went on in the bar, so I wasn’t privy to the visual. A man, presumably Rick, replied with a laugh, “I think it was a BB gun. A Red Ryder BB gun.” Another man’s voice weighed in, “No, that how you shoot your eye out.” The woman who was the source of the inquiry had had enough. She was intent on the truth. “Come on, you guys! What was it that shot his finger off?” The men just kept laughing. We would never find out.

I was there to play some jazz music, not compare gunshot wounds. The Southside Aces would feature the Hall Brothers Jazz Band. It was like an Inspiration Funhouse of Mirrors. The Aces inspired to play the music of the Hall Brothers inspired to play the music of King Oliver, Sam Morgan, etc. Hall Brother stalwart, Charlie DeVore, has unerringly guided me to all those original inspirers as well, thus the reflections break off, come back, go deeper, sometimes become moderately distorted. Speaking of distorted, how about this analogy? But the jazz music can be a funhouse, and the owner of the carnival, Charlie, would himself be seated in the cornet chair. Stop me! Enough already!

We wouldn’t be able to get our guitarist for the night, Mark Kreitzer in his chair until at least halfway through the first set, so we had to behave like a combination brass band/dance band. Charlie suggested we begin with “Bugle Boy March.” “Do you know that one?” he asked. I shook my head and Erik said, “Not yet. But we know ‘Bourbon Street Parade.’” Who doesn’t? So we started the night roasting that chestnut. Steve sang “My Blue Heaven,” and we rendered “I Want Somebody To Love” in a sweet but stompy fashion. Just then, Mark knocked on the ballroom side-door to be let in. The band, aided by Charlie’s vocal, went on with “We’ll Understand It Better By And By.” Mark put the Western in the Swing warbling “Jambalaya On The Bayou.” As per usual, I called a waltz for the good folk at the Eagles, “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” Charlie asked, “Do you guys play the verse?” Erik answered with mock terseness, “Not. Yet. Charlie, you’re pushing us!” We then stuck a fork in the set with our good friend, David West, singing “San.” We did know the verse on that one. 

Dave had brought the record sleeves of his entire collection of Hall Brothers albums and 45s. He had affixed them to the curtain behind the band. This meant we were even more of a visual spectacle then usual. Audience members came in closer during the break to peer at all the artwork.

The feature set was a doozy. As Charlie would say later, “I love playing all those songs, but I’ve never played them all in one set!” I risked the ire of the dancing crowd by having Charlie give some historical context as to just why we were playing these songs. Why the Hall Brothers played them originally. I have to say he conducted himself rather circumspectfully, if I may take liberty with the usage of the word. I know it’s a dance, and the dancers like when a band moves along, but I believe everyone in that room benefited from an understanding of the lineage of performance. 

Our first tune, for instance. The Sam Morgan Band in New Orleans records “Bogalusa Strut” around 1927. A young Jim Robinson plays trombone in that band, and goes on to be one of the main trombonists of New Orleans jazz from the fifties through the seventies, and was one of several New Orleanians who mentored the Hall Brothers. The Hall Brothers go on to record the song themselves in the sixties. In that recording, Butch Thompson takes a gazillion choruses on his clarinet. The band arranges to break it down so that on his first chorus he’s all by his lonesome. They then start the layering with the bass, going chorus to chorus adding rhythm men one at a time, finally Russ Hall on the trombone and Charlie on cornet. It’s a great record. So here we are in 2012, and I have the temerity to recreate that moment. I hold myself together, and we’re off!

“Sing You Sinners” was Hall Brother Doggie Berg’s vocal. Doggie, of course, is no longer with us (I wore one of his ties in honor of the occasion), so Charlie did the singing. It involves stops, key changes, odd forms, and a coda. All the Aces had huddled up before the set to go over the roadmaps on several of these songs. Mark already was beginning to doubt his memory on this one. Dave helped him out with some pointers, but especially when he said, “And if you don’t get it, it’s all right. You’d only be blowing history.” 

The Luis Russell tune, “Saratoga Shout,” was a bit rough but solid. Charlie sang “Waiting At The End Of The Road.” We ripped up “Stevedore Stomp.” Then Charlie sang what’s become one of his classics, “Mister Johnson.” We finished with what might be my new current favorite, “Deep Henderson.” The band loves it. The dancers expressed specific enthusiasm for it. And with that, history circles around once again. Charlie told me about the Hall Brothers whipping dancers into a frenzy out on the Funky Butt Dance Floor at the Emporium of Jazz with “Deep Henderson.” Here we are decades later moving a new generation of dancers around. Talk about deep. 

We hold a raffle during these features. Erik told the crowd we would be “raffling off an actual Hall Brother.” We didn’t, of course, but we raffled off their recordings. We always have a food portion of the raffle as well. A trip to Ingebretsen’s, Minneapolis’ own Scandinavian store on 16^th and east Lake, and I had procured a jar of herring in Cajun Sauce. Erik wove this story, “Since we’re a band of Minnesotans, with some Scandinavian heritage in there, playing the music of another band of Minnesotans who play the music of New Orleans, we thought Cajun herring was appropriate for the occasion.” What could be better to represent a Minnesota/Louisiana connection than Scandinavian/Cajun pickled fish?

The third set was looser now that the history was, well, history. Butch Thompson sat in. He wore his Sorrels and a green knit cap. He sat down and apologized for his attire. “No, it’s great,” I assured him, “You’re providing a direct tie-in to the Eagles.” This is funny, though it may sound a bit snooty. But it’s true! When we show up in our New Orleans black pants, white shirt and tie, we invariably stick out. But truth be told, the Eagles only has to look at you once up and down and they accept you as you are. Have I mentioned how I love this place?

The music of the last set began with “It’s Tight Like That,” vocals by Charlie and myself. Charlie spun Mary Ellen around the dance floor while Butch and I sweetened up the night a bit with “Sweet Lorraine.” When Charlie stepped back onstage, Erik said on mic, “Hey Charlie, nice of you to show up.” Charlie charmed us with “A Porter’s Lovesong To A Chambermaid.” Then the absolute surprise of the night! Butch Thompson sang! He and Charlie harmonized on “Ready For The River.” A great Jimmie Noone moment. The evening finally ended with Steve singing “Going Down To New Orleans.” 

This, people, was a fantastic night of music. It really brought clarity to the lineage of inspiration up here in Minnesota, at least as I’ve experienced it. Charlie and Butch are perhaps two of the speediest people I know when it comes to sidestepping compliments that run along the lines of “You guys have inspired us to play this music!” They quickly point to the originals of the music, saying they deserve all the credit. But I wouldn’t be playing this music if it wasn’t for all those Hall Brothers and their commitment to playing the music that inspired them.