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

Happy Birthday, George Lewis!

I've crawled out from beneath my blog rock to acknowledge one of New Orleans finest, the great George Lewis. He was born today in 1900. A picture of George hangs on my dining room wall where I practice, and I often look to him for inspiration. You can read a lot more about him in a previous blog I wrote here: The Heroes—George Lewis

But mostly I want to sit and think about how George inspired my mentors, who in turn ushered me into this music I love and by which I make my living. Watch this video of him playing his composition, "Burgundy Street Blues." To George!

"Burgundy Street Blues"

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"

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. 

How To Get Through A Long Winter

February 24^th was one of those days this winter with which we Minnesotans became so familiar. It spent a few hours below zero, and the rest of the day not much warmer; mostly single digits above zero. The Aces were in the studio that night recording “Winter Weather” among other things. It’s a 1941 tune that’s been recorded by folks including Fats Waller, Peggy Lee and Jo Stafford. Fats has my favorite. The first line of the vocal starts, “I love the winter weather…” I remember laughing at the rest of the guys on account of the cognitive dissonance they were experiencing. None of them were loving the winter weather at the moment.

Listen to what Fats was talking about:

Winter Weather

It’s been a doozy of a winter so far. But that’s not a complaint. I’m a winter man. Of this there is no doubt. Snow and cold give me a thrill. I actually don’t remember a year in which I have once stated the common refrain, “I’m so ready for this winter to be over!” I don’t ski or skate, so it’s not about the athletics of the season. In fact, I abhor having anything beneath my feet that has blades or wheels. I’ll leave that to you adventurous types. No, there’s something about the solitude and introspection that gets me. It sparks my creativity. The amount of music I learn and arrangements I put to paper generally increases dramatically during late autumn and winter. Then, around this time of year, I get a little perverse and sadistic. You know those six-inch snowfalls that come after two weeks of spring weather has raised the hopes of the populace? I get downright gleeful. In the last couple of weeks I’ve been saying things like, “It’s too bad we couldn’t hold out for another ten days of below zero so we could break the all-time record.” I wanted that record. I’m probably lucky people have other things to do, or I might find myself the victim of a grisly murder brought on by my hibernal cheerfulness. “How do you like winter now?!” shouts the mob as they dump my pummeled earthly remains into a snowbank. 

So now you can see how for me “Winter Weather” is a theme song of sorts. Nine days later we were in the studio again to have Steve sing his vocal. I know it was a struggle for him to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He cracked us up when he sang “I love the winter,” through his gritted teeth. But what are we talking about, really? It IS a song of love. But Fats loves the winter weather for ulterior motives. What with the cold temperatures he can pull his honey closer so they can both warm up! Mother Nature as wingman. 

He and his band recorded it the day after Christmas, 1941, in New York, along with a few other sides. He ostensibly urged America to apply themselves to the WWII scrap drives in “Cash For Your Trash.” But if you listen closely, and remember Fats’ history of naughtiness, you can’t be certain that “Cash For Your Trash” might not be a euphemism for the oldest profession. It is a debate that rages to this day. At any rate, in “Don’t Give Me That Jive,” he admonished the object of his missive to basically hush up and “come on with the come on.” And my favorite title of the day, “Your Socks Don’t Match, “ wherein Fats proves to be somewhat of a perfectionist in regards to his women. “Winter Weather” is easily the sweetest, warmest song of the session. Although I can’t resist the cleverness of “Your Socks Don’t Match.”

Fats was so very playful. He had enough twinkles in his eye for eleven men. Imagine him and his band gathering in the studio after Christmas to put down that great, just-a-little-bit-naughty music. That’s what I’m thinking of tonight when I reminisce back all those three weeks ago to when six Southside Aces assembled at a mere four degrees Fahrenheit to make sweet winter music. 

Get some more Fats in your diet:

Your Socks Don’t Match

Cash For Your Trash

Don’t Give Me That Jive

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. 

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 Nine '13

This is the Ninth and final installment in a series of historical retrospectives covering the first ten years of the Southside Aces, in celebration of their tenth anniversary.

It took a while for me to recover from our big tenth anniversary party last month and find my way back to the last chapter of this story. According to the people who make this stuff up, a tenth anniversary is often celebrated with aluminum. I tried to get the Aces an Alcoa sponsorship, but my “Does your local jazz band shield their homes with aluminum?” ad campaign fell on deaf ears. So did my offer to change the band’s name to “South Siding Aces.” Some ideas take time to gain acceptance.

It took a few weeks before we touched down in 2013. We re-entered that hallowed hall of ribs-and-such called Famous Dave’s. We were offered more money and a year’s worth of dates. Our previous negative experience was just enough in our past for us to say yes, so there we were. I decided we would go in there as the “Southside Aces Big Five,” always as a quintet, to make the money slightly better for each man, and to give guys the option of not always playing. Famous Dave’s didn’t exactly come off firing on all cylinders for us this first night back, advertising us as “Jack Knife and the Sharps.” A bemused band, we. At the end of the first set, Erik introduced Zack as “the brass knuckles of the band,” me as, “the Secret Weapon of the band,” Robert as, “Mr. Class,” Dave as being “all the way from St. Paul, Minnesota,” and himself as “Santa Claus on the Santaphone.” The legend continued.

Our appearance at the Eagles was considerably classier than usual. And Robert wasn’t even there! A satellite looking down on that portion of the earth would have detected a huge surge of sophistication beaming from the south ballroom. A Johnny Mercer flare. Maud Hixson and Rick Carlson joined the Aces to feature the music of that Savannah legend, from “Moon River” to “I’m Old Fashioned,” to “That Old Black Magic.” Maud and Rick were incredible, as were the raffle prizes. Mercer’s hometown is also famous for it’s hushpuppies, so one lucky fan walked home with a $1.99 package of hushpuppy mix. Like I said, classy.

Some hot oil away from deliciousness!

The jazz was played on the first Monday of February at Famous Dave’s, with Steve Pikal on bass and Reid Kennedy on drums. We launched with “Under The Bamboo Tree,” and stuck a fork in it with Kermit Ruffins’ “Goodnight.” How’s that for a 95-year span of jazz? In between we comported ourselves well on tunes such as “Blue Again,” “Comes Love,” and a very hot “China Boy.” 

Check out Kid Ory on that 1901 classic, “Under The Bamboo Tree.”

The following Sunday found us the unfortunate recipients of a huge, wet snow storm, which fell right on top of our Mardi Gras Tea at the Sokol (Czech Hall) in St. Paul. Not enough folks emerged from their hibernaculums to ensure the Sokol a profit that day. I believe I still take issue with the people who were scared off by the snow, on account of the example our good friend, Mimi, set by driving TWO HOURS from Wisconsin so she could get her second line on. Let that be a lesson to you people! A good ol’ time was had nonetheless. The Southside Aces with New Orleans caterer Cajun 2 Geaux in a beautiful 1897 hall made sure things were done right. From “If Ever I Cease To Love” to “Mardi Gras In New Orleans.” Jim, one of our fans, gave us one of the best compliments a performer can receive. “You guys! You could have folded up your spirits with this small crowd. Back in my younger days, I played in a crummy scab band and we couldn’t hack a small crowd. But you guys just shined, played all out!” It’s my blog. I can let you know when someone is patting me and my band mates on our respective backs if I want to.

One of six stage backdrops at Sokol Hall painted in 1932

Mardi Gras proper found us doing our “Thirty Minute Brass Band” routine in between Cajun bands at the Eagles again. The Aces with Chuck DeVore on snare, and Wittacee on sousaphone. Six musicians, twenty-seven minutes, three hundred dollars. Wittacee had received the call to sub for Erik less than an hour before we played. I met him at the bar, handed him a PBR Tallboy and $60, ten dollars more than everyone else received. “You get the twenty percent bonus for the rush job,” I told him.

I entitled our Valentine’s dance at the Eagles, “Sweethearts On Parade.” Unprecedented in our history was our online auction of a romantic night for two. Peg and Emily won this unbelievable prize package: two entries, a table for two up on the stage with the band, pizza from bartender Royal’s toaster oven, two vending machine deserts, $2 in quarters for the skill crane (Peg actually won something called a “Love Bear”), ten song requests, with the band committed to honoring two of them, and three opportunities throughout the night to yell “Hit it, boys!” All of that was beside the raffle! A heart-shaped tin of strawberry lollipops with Yoda on the lid, Valentine-colored peanut M&Ms, chocolate-covered dried Bing cherries, an oinking Valentine pig that pooped candy into a tray by it’s butt, and a pair of predominantly red Popeye boxers that said, “Thinking of you” across the butt. Oh yeah, and we played some music.

On March 1^st, we traveled to Des Moines to play the Heartland Swing Festival. I recommend Velma’s homemade rhubarb pie that she sells out of the second story of the red barn that is the rest stop part of Diamond Jo’s Casino and rest stop off of 35. I had that with some Dr. Pepper and Cheetos. I bought the Cheetos so I could get some protein in my lunch. 

We featured the music of Fats Waller at the Eagles, with pianist Steven Hobert subbing for Robert. Before the show, Dave tells me a clove of garlic fell out of his suit when he took it out of his closet. This from the late night pizza we had after the last job. There’s where a fella can be happy he didn’t have his suit pressed between shows. We began the feature set with “Ain’t Misbehavin’.” Erik wanted to announce it as Waller’s “most popular hit.” I told him it wasn’t necessarily true, and Zack made sure I remembered how much of a nerd I am. Erik announced it as, “arguably his most popular hit.” I washed my hands of him, saying, “I ain’t protecting you from the Charlies out there!” referring to how Charlie DeVore was sitting fifteen feet away, and would probably know exactly which tune topped the Fats Waller hit parade. He and Zack laughed at me. Erik displayed mock fear, “When we’re done, I’m just going to run out of the building, talk to no one!” The very next song, “Honeysuckle Rose,” he also announced as, “arguably his most popular hit,” thus diluting his original declaration, and perhaps saving him from the wrath of historians.

In April, Henry Blackburn gave us what for on our show, “The Alto in Jazz.” Captain John Handy, Joe Poston, Harold Dejan, and “Singin’ The Blues,” Frankie Trumbauer’s famous recording. I know Frank was technically on a C-Melody saxophone, but who—except for you three people who sent me emails— is going to argue? Among many greats, the crowd heard “You Can’t Escape From Me,” “Ice Cream,” and “Curzon Hall Boogie,” a tune I got off of an album Henry did with Kid Dutch. Henry told the story of how I had asked where Curzon Hall was in New Orleans. The piano player on the date with Henry was named Andrew Curzon Hall. Not a place but a man! Erik said, “I hope someday someone names a song ‘Owen Jacobson Boogie.’”

We played Famous Dave’s in May with Keith Boyles on bass. Zack wanted to dig deeper into our book, so I took him at his word and called several that don’t usually come across our desk. A couple of Irving Berlin numbers, including “The Song Is Ended.” When I sang my high E flats on that one, it sounded like someone was cinching me too tightly. “Jazz Me Blues,” Bix style. A King Oliver “Riverside Blues.” In the second set, I called three from the A.J. Piron repertoire, “Red Man Blues,” “Bouncin’ Around,” and “Mama’s Gone Goodbye.” Keith admitted that he’d been liking the repertoire, but he begged, “Tony! Can we play something I know?” Zack chimed in, seconding the motion. I looked at them, perhaps a bit too triumphantly, and said, “I broke you guys! I broke you!”

The Guitar in Jazz was our feature at the Eagles. We added guitarist Dean Harrington in order to hot club it up. We played “Montmartre (Django’s Jump),” and a great version of “Nuages” with the stormtrooper introduction. Our instrumentation on “Minor Swing” was Zack on rhythm guitar, Dave playing brushes on HIS guitar, Dean, Robert and Erik. Four guitars and a sousaphone. That can’t have happened before. Robert did the famous Santo and Johnny solo, “Sleep Walk.” 

“Sleep Walk”

For the raffle, I had done my research. One of Django’s favorite foods was roasted hedgehog, or as he knew it, “niglos.” I even found a recipe for it’s traditional preparation. Needless to say, however, I didn’t have time to find, kill, herb up, roll in clay, throw in a fire, de-quill and package one of the little darlings, so I settled for a large bag of in-the-shell peanuts and a best of Django recording. The peanut bag was at least in the shape of a hedgehog. Erik told the crowd I had made a mistake not calling him first. He said, “I have hedgehog.” Then he added, “I’m not saying it’s fresh…”

Uncooked hedgehog

The Aces played at the Dakota on Mother’s Day. Craig Eichhorn told me “It’s not a performance, but it’s not a background job either.” Somewhere between the spotlight and the potted palm, I guess. I remember the incredible grits they made that day. We had Matt Peterson on bass both for that one and the June Famous Dave’s. Matt and Robert spent every non-music moment talking feverishly about their other shared passion, bikes. 

On the sixth we played at the Harriet Tap Room over on Minnehaha Avenue. We were able to partake of their beer, and Chef Tim from Cajun 2 Geaux brought his food truck out and was very generous to the band. It was a bit cool and damp for June, but not unlike most of the nights by this halfway point of 2013. Steve said with a straight face, “This winter isn’t going too bad.” We had a regular sound check. “Kick,” said the soundman, and Dave played his bass drum. “Set for the overhead,” said the soundman, and Dave flailed around on the rest of the drums. “Oboe,” said the soundman for me, and the band cracked up. Zack called me “Kid Oboe” that night. Outside of the comedy highlight, we knocked out a sweet version of “Smoke Rings,” like you do when you play in a brewery.

The Minnesotan legend, cornetist Doc Evans, is whom we featured that month. We recreated the record that was made of his 1953 appearance at the Walker Art Center. We began with one of Doc’s quotes regarding how he was happy to play anywhere: “Jazz doesn’t know where it is, and it doesn’t care.” Then we launched with “Under The Double Eagle.” Doc tended to play with West Coast Dixieland tempos, meaning that they really stepped on it. Be careful not to fall off the back of the truck! But the Aces are the Aces, so we marked the difference between Doc and us right off the bat. Our “Double Eagle” had a groove, despite it being an 1893 march. Charlie DeVore came right up to the stage upon the last note to shake my hand. “That was the perfect tempo!” he extolled. “None of that racehorse business with you guys!” In response, Erik said on mic, “You have to feel pretty good about the way you played a song when Charlie DeVore comes up and shakes the band’s hand!” As an introduction to “Muskrat Ramble,” Zack had Erik tell this story to the crowd:

“We’re all adults here right? So, the other day Zack was standing on a bank doing some fishing when he noticed a couple of Muskrats, well, in a romantic situation.” I said in an aside to Zack, “A ramble, so to speak.” Zack got up to finish the story. “When they saw me, the male muskrat ran back into its cave, and the female was so mad at me for the interruption!”

Muskrat, perhaps angry, I'm not sure

We had a rehearsal at my house for an upcoming big show at the Old Log Theater in July. With twenty tunes to get through, I set the bar low for what passed for moving on to the next song. “That’s my goal,” I told Rick Carlson, “a minimum of familiarity. That way, when the band has entirely forgotten about the music by next month’s show, they can open the books and experience déja vu.” 

July Famous Dave’s featured the Southside Aces Big Four Brass Band on account of Robert being in Wisconsin at the start of the night. I, too, once received that phone call that gives you that terrible sinking feeling, when someone tells you that you aren’t where you signed up to be. But we rolled with it just fine. At the Eagles the next week, we featured the music of Benny Goodman, with Keith Boyles on bass and Rick Carlson on piano. My personal pantheon of clarinetists tends toward the New Orleans men, but the King of Swing has been impressing my listening ears as of late, especially his small group recordings. We performed tunes like “Shivers,” “Pick-a-Rib Part 1,” the trio version of “Oh, Lady Be Good,” with the four key changes, and “Slipped Disc.” I had a ball! 

"Slipped Disc"

The Southside Aces Big Four—this time Zack, me, Robert and Steve Pikal on bass—made our way down to New Ulm to please the denizens of that famous German town at the Grand Café. Steve is the nephew of a legend in those parts, Wally Pikal. Wally was famous for being able to play three trumpets at the same time while on a pogo stick. When I told Zack this, he sort of frowned and said, “Why would you do that?” I also remember how we couldn’t fulfill five requests in a row. FIVE. The crowd still liked us that night, but I’m not sure if they trusted us.

On July 15^th, we went into the Old Log Theater with Maud Hixson and Rick Carlson to do it up in large fashion on the music of Johnny Mercer. This was one of the last shows in which owner Don Stolz involved himself. He had sold the theater after 73 years of running things! Maud and I began collecting what we called Don Stolz Hangups. Don is great to work with, but we had to accustom ourselves to his way of using a phone. The second he obtained whatever information he needed from us he would hang up. No wasting time on the usual niceties. For instance:

Me: “So do you write up a contract, or would you like me to put one together?” 

Don: “Could you do that?”

Me: “Sure. Where…” 

Click, dial tone

Or the time Don called Maud to ask her to change the date:

Maud: “I’m looking at our calendar, and that looks fine with us.” 

Don: “You’re a good girl! And I love you for it!”

Maud: “Thanks, Don, I lo…”

Click, dial tone

We would always find ourselves finishing sentences to a dial tone. We sort of became perversely proud of these. “I got another one!” we’d say when reporting in to each other. At any rate, we were very grateful to Don for having us out there. I really felt like it was a magical night, and a perfect place to present that music. Maud sang beautifully, Rick made you go “Dang!” and the band proved we belonged in a concert hall just as much as we do a joint. Charlie DeVore made an appearance as well, laying us all low with his rendering of “Strip Polka.” This was one of my favorite nights as a musician.

At the end of July we played for Abbot Northwestern Hospital in what’s become an annual occasion. The beginning of August had us at the Social Dance Studio on 23^rd Avenue and 38^th Street and, of course, Famous Dave’s. Steve Pikal subbed for the rib joint hit. I think Erik is going to drop in on that job maybe only once every four months or so, like a retired uncle who comes back into town from his travels once in a while to tell stories and hand out souvenirs. 

Speaking of stories, this wraps up ten years and brings me up to the actual anniversary show. I’ll have to tell that one another time. For now, I want to thank all the fans who’ve made it out to a decade’s worth of the Southside Aces. I am always grateful that I get to play this music I love so much, and that there are people who want to hear it. And I want to thank my fellow musicians for being such good Aces. To another ten years! Cheers!