The Southside Aces In Vogue

Last Friday, for the first time in our existence, the Southside Aces were in vogue. The Vogue Building at 412 South Wells Street in Chicago houses on it’s seventh floor a karate dojo where the members of the 50Fifty dance group hold their monthly dances. They hired us to play music of a Friday and Saturday, so we drove down. Zack was off in Europe somewhere or another, so we enlisted the aid of trumpeter and Chicago native “Kid” Ben Bell Bern. Otherwise, all the usual suspects were in attendance. 

The elevator pours you directly into the hall. Nice wood floor about fifty by twenty feet. Two rows of necessary, load-bearing pillars in the middle of the floor created an automatic increased degree of difficulty for the dancers. Floorcraft is a dancing term that refers to the etiquette of dancing in public. Basically, you try to dance as if you remember that there are other people on the floor besides you and your partner. Giant pillars are unforgiving teachers in this regard. Add the essence of the karate dojo, and I imagined the movie montage where the sensei keeps making the blindfolded Lindy (grass)hoppers bang into the pillars until they achieved floorcraft ESP. 

The Aces were between a couple of those pillars, but were seated so didn’t risk injury. Amongst some of the standard fare, we played great tunes throughout the weekend like “Back Room Romp,” “Honey Hush,” “Blues In The Air,” New Orleans Bump,” “Bogalusa Strut,” “Tootie Ma Is A Big Fine Thing,” “Stardust,” “He’s A Different Type Of Guy,” handfuls of others. But the absolute hit of the weekend had to be the classic “Deep Henderson.”

I guess this meandering story is one about circling back. King Oliver and his Dixie Syncopators had recorded it in 1926. It included some musicians that went on to some greatness of their own, including a couple favorites of mine, Barney Bigard and Albert Nicholas. That recording knocked out and inspired the Hall Brothers Jazz Band to play and record it back in the 1970s. Subsequently, both of those recordings inspired us to record it, releasing it on last year’s Second Thursday. It’s favorite status in the Aces happened back in 2012, when we first played it at the Eagles for a feature on the Hall Brothers Jazz Band. 

So there we were Friday night, done with our work and making plans to go to Lawrence’s for late night shrimp. 

"Shrimply The Best"

Incidentally, the banana pudding with 'Nilla Wafers was also a band favorite.

Ben was going on about “Deep Henderson,” saying, “That’s the cut!” Those three words are about the highest praise a musician can give a song. I said to him, “I’m not going to repeat too many songs this weekend, but we should definitely play that one again tomorrow night.” Ben nodded in agreement and declared, “Chicago needs to know about ‘Deep Henderson’!” 

And there’s the circle. A circle that is making all you jazz history nerds, myself included, already begin to chuckle nerdily. King Oliver and his Dixie Syncopators were playing at the Plantation Café in Chicago, 338 E. 35^th Street, back in 1926 when they recorded the song. A mere five miles from the Vogue Building. A lot further away in terms of the racial geography of the time, but that’s a different story. Chicago has known about the song for nearly ninety years. I admit, there’s a good chance they’ve forgotten about it for probably 86 of those years, but it started in the Windy City, and we brought it back. It was kind of like one of those paintings that gets lost in a war and is restored to it’s rightful country after confirming it’s lineage. In our case nobody noticed, not even most members of the band, I would warrant, but it gave me a small twinge of satisfaction to think about it that way. 

Here's the Southside Aces version off of Second Thursday: 

https://southsideaces.bandcamp.com/track/deep-henderson

Jelly Roll Morton By The Seat Of Your Pants

Last night the Southside Aces reported for jazz duty at the Fraternal Order of Eagles, Aerie #34, ready to serve up some Ferdinand "Jelly Roll" Morton off the seat of our pants. I say this because it's been difficult to gather the Gates for rehearsals, so I really have to rely on the strength of our collective trousers. Sometimes the band can be hard on pants. But last night, as one of my mentors likes to say, was "halfway decent." As he also likes to say, "It could have been worse."

It could have been a lot worse. There is a lot of jazz music that can be easily played even though one or more of the musicians doesn't know the song. Musicians will often hear phrases like this: "It's in B flat, goes to the four in the bridge." It's a message about the key and chord movement of a song. You could say a simple sentence such as that on the bandstand ten seconds before downbeat, and a musician would have a fighting chance to make great music on a song he or she has never before played. Jelly Roll's music does not lend itself to such easy description. The difference between, say, "Exactly Like You" and Morton's "The Pearls," would, respectively, be like the difference of having to describe a lone gunman wearing a Green Bay Packers hoodie as opposed to each of a team of four bank robbers with different heights, clothing and noses spread throughout a lobby. By the time you were done describing "The Pearls" to your poor, unsuspecting fellow musician, the audience would forget that a band was playing, and during the song your poor, now aware fellow musician would be giving you the hard stare that says, "Why the bleeping bleep would you call this song?!"

Many Morton songs follow ragtime patterns, with three different strains, interludes and key changes. I mention "The Pearls" because it is one of my favorite jazz compositions of all time. And that's the thing about that rascal Ferdinand. Though he did go down in history as a rascal, he also is arguably the first person to provide us with jazz compositions. The first to codify ways of playing jazz that musicians take for granted today. Morton said, "In all my recording sessions and in all my band work, I always wrote out the arrangements in advance. When it was a New Orleans man, that wasn't so much trouble, because those boys knew a lot of my breaks; but in traveling from place to place I found other musicians had to be taught. So around 1912 I began to write down this peculiar form of mathematics and harmonics that was strange to all the world." 

As you can see, Jelly Roll was not oblivious to his own prodigious talent. About "The Pearls," he is legendarily supposed to have said he gave the song it's name because he felt each movement was just as perfect as the last. It really is a beautiful song, the third strain being my favorite, filled with a sort of wistfulness, but not lacking in swing and strut. 

The Aces fared well on some great ones last night. "Kansas City Stomps," for instance. The writer and jazz critic Albert Murray was talking about his 1927, fifth-grade self when he wrote, "I was already trying to project myself as the storybook heroic me that I wanted to be by doing a syncopated sporty limp-walk to the patent leather avenue beat of Duke Ellington's then very current 'Birmingham Breakdown'. [That], along with old Jelly Roll Morton's 'Kansas City Stomps,' and Fletcher Henderson's 'Stampede' functioned as my personal soundtrack some years before Vitaphone movies came into being." I don't know about you, but I'm going to start practicing my "sporty limp-walk."

The Aces also took to menacing the crowd with the dark and lurking "New Orleans Bump," and bounced them about the place with the steamrolling phrases of "Tanktown Bump." Our "bump" set. I want to know what a "bump" is. Our "Jungle Blues" was majestic, which is an amazing testament to Jelly Roll. How did he make an earthy blues song that pretty much has just one chord sound so majestic?

We did, however, strain the fabric on the seat of our band pants a couple of times. We were slightly frantic on "Black Bottom Stomp," but the said seat of said band pants maintained it's integrity. "Original Jelly Roll Blues,"on the other hand, tore off one of our back pockets and possibly popped a belt loop or two. The song is considered to be one of, if not the first published jazz composition, a century old this year. It combines blues, stops and ragtime effortlessly. We didn't combine them so effortlessly. It was the most confounding 32 bars of music we played the whole night. But you know what? We got to play it. A hundred years later, and the Southside Aces got to play it. 

Our rendering of "The Pearls" wasn't as perfect as Jelly Roll composed it, but it was pretty dang good. We lost hardly any corduroy on that one. Are you tired of my extended seat of the pants analogy yet? My problem is that I consider "pants" to be one of the funniest words of the English language. But I'll give you a break and leave you with Jelly Roll Morton and his Red Hot Peppers from 1927:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXx2hvbiiyk

Jazz Life Under A Blood Moon

Yesterday began per my usual Sunday; opening one eye at a time to check for life. I was grateful to discover my limbs fully functioning. I used them to move my cadaver beneath a hot shower. After putting on clothes to avoid unnecessary complications with the neighbors, I stepped outside into a beautiful summer morning. The out-of-control Morning Glories tried to trip me going down the steps, but I didn’t let it bother me. After all, per my usual Sunday, I get to play music.

My cheerfulness thusly restored, I appeared at the Aster Café on the river, and was greeted by the smiling faces of the staff there. October will mark five years Patty and the Buttons have held down the job of playing brunch in the establishment, so we’re all together in the cause. The man with the colorful Mohawk who strides the boards is one of the best barkeeps with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure to work. Troy and his cohort Del are instantaneous with the mocha with which I start each Sunday. Troy moves with the speed of an object in an elapsed time photo film. You have to use the kind of care with your gestures one might reserve for an auctioneer; a single raised eyebrow will make a scone materialize before you even knew you needed one.

It may be tough some Sunday mornings to make our way down there, but it’s a great job. I love sitting on that stage with my young boss, accordionist Patrick Harison, and my fellow Buttons, Keith Boyles on bass and Mark Kreitzer on guitar and banjo. We’ve been playing together long enough now—nearly seven years—that we aren’t just tossing out songs like a pitching machine. We’re constantly striving to be a tiny jazz orchestra, which supremely suits my sensibilities. I love the improvisation, but I love our set pieces equally well.

On this Sunday, Myra, the leader of Miss Myra and the Moonshiners, sings a couple with us. “Ain’t Misbehavin’” and “Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives To Me.” Sam Skavnak, clarinetist for Miss Myra, sat in for our short final set. In addition to the Buttons repertoire, I got to play songs today like “Singin’ The Blues,” “Blue Again,” and “Stars Fell On Alabama.” Just a good ol’ Sunday.

From there, I went home to fancy up a bit. The Southside Aces were hired for what I kept calling a “society job.” A couple hours later, I and my black suit were moseying through the front door of the Louis Hill House, 260 Summit Avenue in St. Paul. The place was built in 1902 as a wedding present to Louis from his dad, James J. A decade later, Louis added what amounts to another mansion on to the front of the house. The kind of joint where the center hallway has more square footage than my whole apartment. Near the other end of this hall was a life size statue of a ballerina. She had plenty of room. In my house, we’d have to hang our hats and coats on her extended arms to justify her existence. Next to that was a living room where I began to set up. I kept thinking about Erik’s sousaphone when I looked at fragile crystal lamps and vases. I’m sure any catastrophe could eventually be worked off doing the dishes.

The event was a fundraiser for the Madeline Island Music Camp, dedicated to providing intensive classical music instruction. We were to be handsomely paid for a single hour of work. I had been impressed by Thomas George, the man who hired us, because he asked for us to play hot jazz, but to temper it with the sweet. “Hot and sweet” is familiar, historical terminology used to describe our music, but I’ve never before had a client specifically request it in that fashion. 

About this time Nancy, our hostess, descended from upstairs in full gown. I already knew what she looked like from several portraits of her and her family hanging on the walls of the center hall. Whoever the painter was was good enough to capture the combination of mischief and steel that both reside in her eyes in good measure. We chatted looking out the front door. She joked about the summer heat, and implored me to take my coat and tie off. I didn’t. In the next breath, she made sure of a couple of performance details in a businesslike tone. I liked her. She was gracious, funny, a little high-societally naughty, but was very clear in communicating what she wanted, and making sure things got done. 

I had Steve Rogness on trombone. He was the next Ace to arrive. I stood at the front door and was able to point and say, “Go all the way down the hall and take a left at the ballerina.” The others taking a left at the ballerina that day were Dave on drums, Erik and his crystal-endangering sousaphone, Henry Blackburn and his bristling trio of reeds, and Butch Thompson on piano. When Dave saw where we were playing he said, “That’s nice. I get to play on the good rug.” When Henry was walking up the driveway, about thirty feet away, he didn’t realize that the woman standing next to me was our hostess. He yelled, “Are they going to let us in the front door?” She paused before answering. I swear I could actually hear the gears of her graciousness grinding into place, and she merely beckoned to him to enter. About twelve feet away he still didn’t realize to whom he was addressing his comments. He later told me he for some reason thought it was Claudia standing next to me when he added jovially, “The Hostess with the Mostest!” Ah, these low-down jazz types. 

We were all there except Butch. She asked who would be playing piano. I told her, and she swooned with excitement. Then she pointed at the baby grand in the living room and said, “I feel bad that this isn’t my best Steinway.” To her everlasting credit, she immediately laughed and said self-mockingly, “Oh, my life is so hard that I can’t provide my best Steinway.” But it was true. She instructed all of us to go upstairs to the ballroom just to look around. Part of the 1913 addition, the ballroom itself boasted of 3,000 square feet. It was here we counted four or five more grand pianos, tucked here and there in corners and up on the stage. The house was lousy with Steinways. The infestations of the rich.

It was time to begin. Our hostess had been looking after my comfort when earlier imploring for me to remove my coat and tie. This had to do with my first playing station. Thomas had told me Nancy had put in the invitations something to the effect, “Arrive to the seductive sounds of the clarinet.” While the rest of the band started the cocktail hour set inside, I would play by myself outside, joining them after about twenty minutes. I had been joking all week with the fellas about that one. The band was all sitting in place, talking quietly, when I stood, hitched up my pants with exaggerated gusto, and said, “Well, time to go be seductive.”

It was hot out. But despite the invitation of our hostess, and the possibilities of seduction such action may have encouraged, I would not remove any clothing. Obviously, this was to maintain my appearance of high class. I still, however, enjoyed myself out there. I played “Honey Hush,” “Stardust,” “My Blue Heaven,” “Quincy Street Stomp,” (I’m not certain of the seductive qualities of a stomp), and “Where Or When,” the sound carrying out past the joggers on Summit Avenue. I then rejoined the rest of the band to the left of the ballerina.

Benny Goodman's "Where Or When"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6TED6XVLiDs

Steve asked me if I had managed to be seductive. I said, “Well, they all came into the house didn’t they?” Henry quipped, “Are you sure it wasn’t to escape the sound of the clarinet?” We settled into playing, nothing too strenuous. We would heat it up and bring it down, showing nice restraint and dynamics. During our set, an elderly gentleman came up to us just loving our music, and Butch’s playing especially. He said, “You know, this music reminds me of about twenty-five years ago when I hired a piano player for a party. I wish I could remember his name.” Henry said, “Was it Butch Thompson?” The guy, standing just eighteen inches from Butch, wrinkled his eyebrows which we interpreted as a no, so we suggested Rick Carlson. He said “That doesn’t sound familiar. It was definitely a jazz pianist, though.” Henry repeated, “Was it Butch Thompson?” which made me snort, because all this time Butch was silently looking at the man waiting for him to answer. The man brightened. “Butch Thompson! That’s it!” Henry pointed at Butch, “There’s the man himself” which gave a start to our fan.

The man himself provided perhaps my favorite musical moment when I had him start “Careless Love” solo. That man does all right on the piano. Henry and me on “Goodbye, Don’t Cry” was also pretty high in my rankings. Afterwards, packed up and on the sidewalk out front, I talked with Erik and Steve. Steve said, “I wonder if I somehow came into millions of dollars if it would even occur to me to have my portrait painted.” Offering no explanation, Erik said, “Probably.” 

I went back home to fancy down a bit. I ate a sandwich and put on jeans and a tee. I hiked the mile or so over to Palmer’s Bar. It has been there that Miss Myra and the Moonshiners have been holding forth on Sunday evenings for a couple months now. At the beginning of my Sunday, I specifically planned on wanting this juxtaposition of experiences, the Louis Hill House to Palmer’s Bar. Palmer’s, of course, is significantly rougher. “Sorry, We’re Open” says the sign outside. The shoals of Palmer’s Bar make it far too easy to sink your ship. But it is a pretty colorful island on which to become shipwrecked. When I arrived, much of the humanity was gathered outside to stare at the blood moon coming on the heels of the lunar eclipse. 

I urged Sam to get Myra to introduce them as “Miss Myra and the Blood Moonshiners,” but she wouldn’t bite. The band served up the music, and Seneca, the bartender, served up the bourbon. Even though it had been three weeks since the last time I was there, she remembered my order. She snickered at me and said, “I saw you looking over everything as if you weren’t going to end up with the same as usual.” I replied philosophically, “A man owes it to himself to know what his options are.”

The music is drawn from the repertoire of early jazz and blues, a lot of songs out of the Firehouse Five fake book. A girl named Angie has learned some drums to be in this band. A boy named Luke plays electric bass. On electric guitar is Zane Palmer. Jeanine, or “Red,” is Myra’s sister and plays trumpet. Sam, of course, on the clarinet. Myra plays rhythm guitar, sings and leads the ensemble. They are a spirited bunch, attacking music some of which was eighty years old before they were even born. They are rough and unpolished, but possess the charisma of earnest youth. I like them. I want them to succeed. 

Then there’s the rest of the Palmer’s landscape. A mountain of a Native American man in a Minnesota Viking’s shirt stood in the middle of the bar with a slide whistle trying to play along with the band. He was terribly out of tune and loud. I was trying to figure out the non-judgmental, personally safe way to get him to stop when Cindy, Sam’s mother, just walked up to him and told him he was being rude. Just like that he ended his solo work. I think the force of Motherhood caused his obedience. But from somewhere I don’t know he produced a pair of bones he claimed were from a buffalo, and began to beat out rhythm on his thigh. This was not so intrusive, so everyone got to be happy. It did make me wonder what other weird instruments he had on his person.

A black man with dreadlocks tried to get up a dance with a woman. I think she had actually come in with him, but then pulled out the rug. She sort of sarcastically moved her hips for about seven seconds, then abruptly turned away and walked through the back door out to the patio, leaving him standing in the middle of the floor. I gave him a loud, sympathetic “Awwww!” He came over to me and said, “Man! I just hate to use a cliché, but that’s the story of my life!”

I dispensed unasked for music advice to the young kids that are Miss Myra and the Moonshiners before they headed out at the end of the night. In the bathroom before I left, I ran into a handsome black man in his thirties, wearing a porkpie hat. He said his last name was Brunious. I said, “Like the New Orleans music family?” He proceeded to name off Wendell, John and others of the family, surprised I knew of them. “I don’t have any of the trumpet skills of my father or anything, but I know about music. I’m trying to help these kids.” Of course I run into a Brunious in the bathroom at Palmer’s. 

And what of these “kids,” these Moonshiners? They sure are being looked after by a lot of folks. Brunious, Papa John Kolsted, me and others. It’s like they’re an orphaned jazz band in the perilous Jazz Woods, and we’re a bunch of adult Jazz Bears making sure they survive. Whether they want or need our protection or not.

I jumped in a cab. I was full of whiskey, song and thoughts of egalitarianism. That pretty much describes a career in music. I handed out my card in three different places today. To a swing dancer in a middle class river café. To a woman wearing a dress that probably cost as much as six months of my rent, in the middle of her richly appointed living room at one of the Summit Avenue mansions. And to a man trying to live up to the expectations set by the many generations of his New Orleans music family, in the men’s room of a dive bar. Meanwhile, the moon looked down on all of us while it went about it’s business of eclipse and blood. 

New Old Jazz

As you may have figured out by this recent barrage of posts, I have strong, unchecked urges to tell you all about the Southside Aces new release, Second Thursday. I remember back on a cold night in December of 2013, when the Aces had just finished our Christmas Pageant at the Eagles. I had an impromptu band meeting regarding our upcoming February nights in the studio. I said, “Guys, I have a goal of having at least three original tunes on the new record.” 

There is debate in the early jazz world, or maybe mostly in my own early jazz head, about whether or not a person should bother writing new material. The question revolves around the fact that despite diligent effort on the part of any musician, there is very little chance said musician has enough time to get around to playing all the great tunes that were written in the way back. So why throw new ones up on the heap? Even if I confined myself to three of my favorite guys, Jelly Roll Morton, Sidney Bechet, and Duke Ellington, after all the tunes I’ve already learned I still have about 29,000 to go. I may be hyperbolic, but you get the idea.

One of the 29,000.

by Duke Ellington and Harry Carney. 

"Demi-tasse"

I mean, just listen to that! For a long time, I kept myself safely entrenched in that school of thought. But then, coinciding with my decision to become a full-time musician at the end of 2012, I had an epiphany. I can break it down into a drama in two parts:

Part One: Artistic Man 

(classic orator pose—standing center stage, one arm extended with palm facing up)

“The Great American Invention called Jazz is a living, breathing organism! I shall compose original music inspired by the masters as well as my 21^st Century life. This shall invigorate Old Jazz, like a puppy to an old hound!” 

The dog analogy wasn’t actually a part of my original epiphany. I have to tell you, though, the next time I bring a dog into my life, I have to strongly consider naming it “Old Jazz.”

Part Two: Pragmatic Man

(classic problem-solving pose—sitting at breakfast table, staring off and to the right, twisting the lips to the left, furrowing the brow, and slowly nodding head)

“Hmm. The more originals I put on my next album, the less I have to pay in royalties. Take that, Sonny Bono!”

My seemingly random pot shot at Congressman Sonny is a subject for a whole other post. Depending on your perspective, he did a good thing or a frustrating thing, or both. No matter what, though, its fun to say, “Take that, Sonny Bono.” Try it.

The truth of my philosophy combines elements of all the above. I do believe that the music of the ‘20s through the ‘40s would be more than enough for any musician to be getting on with. I also believe that fresh composition injects new life into the art form. I also like saving money when I record an album. Dead horse, high horse, pack mule. At that time in 2012, I surprised myself with a creative need to resume composing, something I hadn’t done in years. I sat down at my piano in January of 2013, and out flowed “Little Duke.” 

Do you hear how that Ellington recording above behaves? “Demi-tasse” features tight, swinging harmonies, with all the solos backed up by underlying riffs. It and its ilk really is some of the happiest music ever, and will put all kinds of bounce in your step.  It's on the modern end of my jazz-listening spectrum (true modern jazzers will laugh), but is some of my favorite music of all time. Though there isn’t a particular song to which I can point, that famous Washingtonian’s small group stuff was definitely a guide in my composing.

Inspiration comes in many forms, however, and sometimes in small packages. I am the jazz uncle to a little man name of Edward. Just a few years ago, not long after Edward came into the world, his father asked me which famous jazz guys were named Edward. I told him Duke Ellington seemed kind of famous. So the youngster wasn’t yet out of infancy and he had already earned a righteous jazz nickname. "Duke!" Incidentally, in case you historians were thinking of writing in, don’t imagine I didn’t think of Kid Ory. But I’ll go on record right now: “Duke” is a much better nickname for a child than “Ory.” Edward loves music SO MUCH. To watch his deep connection and response to it reminds me every time I see him of how miraculous it is that I get to be a musician. True inspiration for the song came from him. He is “Little Duke.”

So there you have it. New Old Jazz. Ellington gave me the form, and my jazz nephew filled it in with the wonder and joy of it all. A combination of a jazz master and my 21^st Century life made me write a song, and now you can hear it:

"Little Duke"

Getting Cozy With The Southside Aces

“Yeah!” Out of all the people who’ve ever uttered that singular word of excitement, out of the entire history of being excited, I think Fats Waller arguably uttered it best. I think his inflections could give it about seventeen different meanings. Of course, you add an “Oh” to it, and the honor shifts to Mr. Armstrong. But we can debate Yeah Semantics another time. My point is to talk about “Winter Weather.” Upper case. This song appears on the slowly-being-released Southside Aces album, Second Thursday, a vocal feature for Steve. As far as your lower-case winter weather goes, this year Minneapolis might lose it’s status as the go-to spot for a white Christmas. What we have instead is a rainy, foggy, sunless dreariness. The go-to spot for Rudulph! But it doesn’t diminish my enthusiasm for the tune.

It was 1941 when pianist Ted Shapiro wrote this holiday classic. When I call it a “holiday classic,” I’m saying it because the Internet tells me to. It’s more apt to call it a “seasonal” classic, as it maintains a strict focus on weather, not Christmas. At any rate, I confess it didn’t cross my radar until a few years ago, and I even like holiday tunes. Ted also had the distinction of being Sophie Tucker’s musical director for some forty years, and for her he wrote, “Nobody Loves a Fat Girl, But Oh How A Fat Girl Can Love.” I must be out of the loop, because that song never even bothered to come within the same county as my radar. Only “The Last Of The Red Hot Mamas” could sing a song like that! It included the line, “I’m just a truck on the highway of love.”

Red Hot Mama and Ted

I do digress. “Winter Weather” has a few things going for it. The melody has a falling, sighing quality perfect for a lyric that champions the benefits of spooning. But chief among its virtues is the fact that Fats Waller recorded it.

Click to hear Fatsy Watsy: Winter Weather

He brings it in on piano in that jaunty yet sly way that was his specialty. Even while he was being masterful, Fats always made you feel like he was winking at you. Then he sings a chorus. I’ve mentioned before how Shapiro’s lyric puts Mother Nature in the roll of wingman (see my previous post about that and the other songs Fats recorded in that session: “How To Get Through A Long Winter”).

I’m going to again boil the story of the song down to one paraphrased sentence: “When the temperature drops I get to snuggle with my sweetheart, so I’m going to go ahead and say I love the cold!” Fats is saucy, as you’d expect, making the innocent song blush just a little. “I love the winter weather,” he sings, “because I got my love to keep me warm.” He thoughtfully lingers on how warm his love is in the coda, “So warm, so nice and warm,” and concludes with one of his aforementioned famous exclamation points. “Yeah!” 

Did I mention naughty?

A young Peggy Lee had a hit singing it with Benny Goodman. I like it; it swings. But it’s speed makes the kissing and cuddling a little perfunctory. So we took our cue from Fats. In our recording, I copped Fats’ introduction for the horns to play, then we trade choruses with Steve, the band going first. The tune inspires a certain amount of lazy warmth, and we play as if we’re saying, “Hey. It’s cold out. Wanna come cuddle with the Southside Aces?” In case the image of cuddling with the whole band makes you a little uneasy, I won’t mention it again. Steve’s vocal on the other hand is sweet and personal, a slow dance. The rest of us cut in to say, “But if you want to take a nap with the whole band…” Sorry, I promised. Steve takes it back and finishes, down to the last “Yeah!”

Now. We made a mistake. When the Aces were going through the mixing stage of the album, we sort of forgot about “Winter Weather.” There’s quite a bit of reverb on the song that we never pulled back. At first we smacked our collective foreheads. But the more I listened, the more I thought “Happy mistake!” To me, the song comes on like a 1960s network Christmas special. 

I’m using Dino as my template

I picture Steve in profile looking to his left at the camera, fake strolling in front of a rolling winter diorama, soap flakes falling all about. Or maybe Steve in a smoking jacket lying on a plush white rug in front of the fireplace winking over a snifter of brandy, the band backing him up from the stairway that goes to a nonexistent second floor stage right…

I know I covered this, but are you sure you don’t want the Aces over for some cozy time? Come on, just put your head on our shoulder.

Click: Southside Aces “Winter Weather”

Skokiaan—Or—How A Motion Picture Influenced The Southside Aces

Watch The Impostors. I’m not normally given to issuing commands, but this is highly important. I’ve mentioned this 1998 movie in a previous post, Recognizing DCD.

The Impostors was written and directed by Stanley Tucci, and starring himself along with Oliver Platt. I’m talking about a fantastically funny farce that tells the story of two starving actors who find themselves accidental stowaways on a cruise ship. You need every single one of your digits plus a few of your cat's to count up all the shenanigans, which begin the moment the movie opens, and don’t end until the credits are done rolling and you start watching Terms Of Endearment just to balance out all the laughing. I’ve hurt my gut from the laughter each of the eight times I’ve seen it so far. Laughter hernias. Plus, I say PLUS, it’s all accompanied by a soundtrack that knocks me out every time. This is how I was introduced to one of my favorite Louis Armstrong recordings, “Skokiaan.” From the movie to my brain, my brain to the Southside Aces book, and now what do you know, we’ve recorded it ourselves.

But first let’s head back to 1947, when The African Dance Band of the Cold Storage Division of Southern Rhodesia released the original, the B-Side of which was a rough but spirited version of “In The Mood,” By the way, I’m serious, that’s the name of the band. I mean, it would be like if the Southside Aces were called The New Orleans Traditional Jazz Band of the Men Who Are Aces Department of South Minneapolis. I’m not here to criticize marketing choices, but just imagine the band stationery! How much you’d have to pay to make teeshirts! In 1954, the same recording was released under the band name Bulawayo Sweet Rhythms:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q1RFfQBfULA

Doesn’t that feel better to your tongue? Can you imagine there must have been some days before the name change when someone asked one of the musicians what the name of the band was, and they started, “The African Dance Band of…oh, forget it.” Sometimes a man can’t be buggered to finish a sentence. The leader of the band, August Musarurwa, published his tune in 1952—

This is the sheet music I have...Secret Weapon!

—and the 1954 release became a nice hit for the Zimbabweans. The melodies and rhythms really are great. I mentioned "rough but spirited." The rough playing may have had something to do with the source of the title. Skokiaan is a type of African homemade liquor. It’s usually pretty harsh stuff, a single-day brewed moonshine concoction that can sometimes include ingredients like kerosene or battery acid…for flavor. When you listen to the Bulawayo fellas play it, notice how the trumpet enters at about 1:08 and only lasts about twenty seconds. Like a barstool debater, who interrupts with slurry eloquence to say what's already been said, and subsides shortly afterwards when he forgets he's the one talking. Spirited indeed. Too much skokiaan will do that to a person. I imagine him tipping out of his chair. I don’t have any proof of the high proof—the session may have been a sober affair—but I may or may not have personal experience with how a horn sounds after an unwise amount of imbibery. 

The record reached the ears of the western world that year, and several diverse artists decided to cash in:

But my favorite, of course, was by Louis. His All Stars recorded it with the Sy Oliver Orchestra. If you compare the original instrumental’s great rhythms and melodies to the Armstrong recording, you can really tell Louis absorbed the Bulawayo Sweet Rhythms version. But he also sings! Where’d those words come from!? Now, here’s the thing about the lyric. An American, Tom Glazer, added words during the 1954 American craze for the tune. It comes off like an African tourist bureau song. 

Oh, ho, Far away in Africa, happy happy Africa, (nonsense, nonsense, nonsense)…

Oh, ho, Take a trip to Africa, any ship to Africa, (nonsense, nonsense, nonsense)…

You get the idea. As far as I can find out, nobody consulted August to see if any insult was brought about by what I like to call “racist fluff.” “Skokiaan” was from that era of song when it was considered harmless popular diversion to write lyrics with minority stereotypes. But don’t underestimate Louis! He never was one to let a silly lyric get in the way of a superb performance:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6YTS9jFB084

Now here we are sixty years later about to put it on the next Southside Aces record! It was one of those where we go, "Eh, if we get a good take, we'll put it on the record." If it didn't make the cut, we wouldn't have exactly been despondent. As it turns out, it's becoming one of my favorites. It's a strong cut! We, however, dispensed with the singing. The Zimbabwe tourist office never got back to me. My arrangement, though, is obviously influenced by the Louis version; Zack even nails the high B-flats at the end. We’re in the mixing and mastering stage right now, so you’ll have to wait a little. In the meantime, get your hands on that movie, The Impostors. Do it! And if you can’t find it, let me know and I’ll have a screening over here at the house. 

The Curse—or How Bob French and Butch Thompson Saved The Day

Well, we’ve gone and done it again. On Wednesday, the Southside Aces warbled away into microphones in order to stick a fork into the perfectly barbequed, tender meat of our latest recording. That made me sort of uncomfortable to say. Steve insisted that what we were doing wasn’t overdubbing vocals, but “underdubbing.” If you want to know exactly what that means, you’ll have to ask him. He conducts workshops and autograph sessions after gigs at the Stop and Shop on 17^th and East Lake Street. Confession: I appropriated, purloined, pirated and otherwise directly stole that joke from Erik. Although how do we know Steve doesn’t sign autographs at the Stop and Shop? We don’t keep tabs on him. We again employed Mr. Lance Conrad, the owner and talented engineer of Humans Win! studio (the exclamation point is his). Before our vocal night, we Aces men first spent two chilly February nights up in his Nordeast, Minneapolis joint to capture all the sounds necessary from the brass, reeds, strings and skins. The chill was kept outside, though, as all six of us were staring at each other in this room:

Now with the vocals, we have a carton chock full of jazz, some assembly required. It will be a good handful of months, however, before you can put your ears to it, so until the time comes I’ll be building up your excitement. Can you even tolerate the thrill? All sarcasm aside, I’m actually in a tizzy wanting to get it into your hands! Instead, for the time being I’m going to have to content myself sharing with you some of the originals that inspired us to play and record these great tunes. 

I’m going to begin with The Curse. Over the years, you may have heard Erik announce “Bogalusa Strut” from the stage as his favorite tune. It’s a great song that gets in your hips and stays there, moving you around despite yourself. Back in 2005, when we were figuring out which tunes we wanted to record for our 2006 release, Bucktown Bounce, it was a natural selection. The Aces found the song from a couple different directions. There was Erik, who came to the tune through one of his mentors, the late New Orleans drummer Bob French. 

Bob in the New Orleans Times Picayune. Click here for his obituary

My route to the tune was through my mentor Charlie DeVore of the Hall Brothers Jazz Band. The original was written by Sam Morgan and recorded by his band in 1927. It all came from this:

Bogalousa Strut

In the video, check out the first picture of the Sam Morgan Jazz Band. You can see a young Jim Robinson on trombone. You may also have noticed that Sam spelled his tune  “Bogalousa Strut.” That is how they spell the name of the Louisiana town down there, after all. At some point we jazz folk all dropped the O after the L. Maybe it’s because silent Os are dangerous. 

So while you were listening to that, did you run and get your copy of Bucktown Bounce? Maybe you scanned the tune list up and down and couldn’t find the song. It’s because we simply couldn’t get it done. We tried and we tried, until we got fed up with ourselves and left it alone. “Oh well,” you think. You try to be philosophical because there’s always going to be a tune or two that doesn’t make the cut. We were disappointed, but didn’t yet think of the song as cursed. But then came the 2010 sessions for A Big Fine Thing. Take after take of the tune only served to produce enough wincing to get a headache. I believe Erik was the first to say, “That song is cursed.” What was wrong with us? Dave, our band archivist, likes to point out that we could release a whole album of failed “Bogalusa” takes. Don’t worry. That won’t happen unless we get really famous, pass away after long and glorious careers, and our record company (because we’d actually have a record company if we were famous) thinks they could drag a few extra bucks out of you, the fans, if they released all our garbage. They could call it Bogalusa Cut. Or how about Bunch-a-Losers Strut.

It wasn’t the song’s fault, though, and we still loved it and kept working it out on our many stages. The Bob French version originally guided us. He had even added a vocal about a troubled girl—not in the Morgan version—that we used. On top of that, we began to dig into the Hall Brothers recording. Young Butch Thompson produced an epic clarinet solo with the band building up behind him all the way. He starts out alone, and on each chorus they keep adding instruments until they run out of musicians. It’s exciting stuff. 

Check out young Butch on the left. If you have your magnifying glass handy.

So here we are in 2014, after all this absorption and hard work, ready to break The Curse! Right? For us, it would be a double homage. Maybe The Curse could be overcome by the inspiration of two bands. In fact, Bob just passed away in 2012, and this year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Hall Brothers recording. Talk about inspiration! We better do it right.

We set a good Bob French tempo, not quite as slow as he liked to do it, but still with that great mischievous bounce that he perfected. Like a man walking by a bunch of women hanging out on a stoop. We all relaxed into that for a couple of minutes, followed by the middle section, where the rhythm guys laid down a couple of choruses by themselves. This was so we could “underdub” Bob’s vocal later. Then came my clarinet odyssey, the Hall Brothers portion of the homage, where I was supposed to burble along by myself to start things, just like Butch did half a century ago. What happened? Dave accidentally played through for a bar, almost yelling an expletive as he did it. 

You have to understand something. Dave NEVER makes a mistake like that. I’m not exaggerating. He NEVER does. We all finished the take, sort of pounding away at it with a lack of dynamics born of frustration, and looked at each other mystified. None of us blamed Dave. It had to be supernatural causes. Did The Curse grab Dave’s arms and force him to play through, like some sort of evil windup monkey drummer?

I’d like to build the drama here. Tell a story of a baker’s dozen of takes each ruined mysteriously. A mistake here, a power outage there, the ghost of a Gypsy woman appearing before Robert pointing her long, bony finger at him, a ceiling tile falling on Zack’s head. The camera spinning around the room showing the men, pale and sweaty, lashing out at each other in frustration as the tension grows and the night wears away, but then…just when they were going to throw in the towel someone grittily says, “We’re going to break this curse if it’s the last thing we do!” They take deep breaths and you see a finger hit the record button, and they valiantly forge on to victory! That’s a good tale, but I’m actually glad I don’t have to tell it that way. As it turned out, victory was right around the corner. We got it on the next take. No drama, we just plain got it! The Bob French mischievousness combined with the Hall Brothers buildup is story enough. The Curse was lifted, and I can’t wait for you to hear it.