This is very funny—and it is an absolutely brilliant bit of musical improvisation from Louis Armstrong and Danny Kaye. I think my favorite moment is when Louis says “but don’t forget Fats Waller” to rhyme off of Danny’s Gustav Mahler, and without missing abeat Danny replies “I wouldn’t do that” in what to my ear sounds like a Waller imitation. Genius stuff, this.
Long time readers of Hungry Blues will know that my love of Louis Armstrong began with his deep importance for my dad. I also grew up listening to and watching the movies of Danny Kaye, who was another of my dad’s artistic heroes.
§ Posted by Benjamin T. Greenberg on June 13, 2009 at 10:39 pm
I first discovered Blossom Dearie’s music in 2001, when I heard her song Manhattan in one of the musical interludes for a Fresh Air episode in the first weeks after 9/11. I had never heard Blossom Dearie and I was completely floored—by the lyrics, by the performance, by the perfectly nostalgic wistfulness that was overwhelming after the tragedy that had just struck, the recollection of innocence.
And Tell me what street compares to Mott Street in July
Sweet pushcarts gently gliding by
The great big city’s a wonderous toy
Made for a girl and boy
We’ll turn Manhattan into an isle of joy.
In 2001 or 2002 my wife and I went to see Blossom Dearie perfrom at Danny’s Skylight on W 48th Street in Manhattan, where she played regularly for years and where the photo, above, from the NY Times obit, was taken. Her voice had lost some of the whispery quality that used to characterize it, but she was still a master of understatement and timing—and her piano playing was brilliant as ever. It was one of the great performances that I have seen.
I’ve put together a new Opentape as a tribute to Blossom Dearie and her music. Click on the song list to listen.
(This blog post is adapted from one I posted earlier on my tumblr. Photo by Rahav Segev for The New York Times.)
§ Posted by Benjamin T. Greenberg on February 10, 2009 at 12:30 am
The Beatles were my first musical obsession. When I became a fan of the Beatles in middle school, I collected every recording, poured over every liner note, read biographies, studied the lyrics, listened to the solo projects . . .
It was the first time I’d gotten into music like this. I think it was around my sophomore year in high school that I hit my saturation point with the Beatles. I never stopped liking them, but I moved on. In high school and college, I found Neil Young, Frank Zappa, King Crimson, Steely Dan, Greatful Dead, Talking Heads, Joni Mitchell, Jaco Pastorious, Parliament/Funkadelic, Miles Davis, Charlie Mingus—to name just some, at random . . .
After my dad passed away in 1997, I took it to a new level with Frankie Newton. I compensated for the fact that he only has about 50 recorded songs by collecting recordings by everyone he associated with. For several years, I immersed myself in Newton’s musical milieu, high art, pre-Bop Jazz of the 1930s and 1940s, as well as the earlier stuff from the 1920s, the foundations.
After a while, the Jazz obsession mellowed. Maybe around 2000, I started actively listening again to music from the second half of the 20th century and to current 21st century stuff.
But, as I’ve mentioned before, it’s all come back around to the Beatles. With the help of YouTube, my 4-year-old has been doing with the Beatels what I did starting in around 5th grade. The favorite record for some time has been Let It Be. I am sure we have watched each song played on the rooftop of Apple Records at least 100 times. It’s a good thing the Beatles are so damn good, cause otherwise I’d be going out of mind.
Anyway, I’m telling you all of this to try to explain what it was like to hear this John Lennon outtake from 1968. I love the rooftop performance of “I’ve Got a Feeling.” And I’ve always thought that John makes the song with the song fragment he weaves into Paul’s bluesy love song. What I didn’t know until earlier tonight was that John had recorded “Everyone” separately. From what I could read online, there are a couple of versions out there. So far, I’ve just found this one. It’s rough around the edges, the Julia-like guitar part doesn’t seem totally worked out—and it is beautiful. John really gets me at the end. After the circular lyrics, delivered over repetitive guitar picking, he trails off with that “everybody got the wrong time, everybody got the wrong time . . .”
I had already listened my way through the phenomenal Hot 5 and 7 recordings from the 1920s and fallen in love with Nat Hentoff’s selections from the supposedly inferior big band recordings of the 1930s. In fact I had collected nearly all of the pre-All Stars recordings, had listened to a good number of those later recordings, as well, and had steeped myself in Satch Plays Fats. But I did not fully understand Louis Armstrong’s genius until I saw this clip on TV several years ago—I believe on the Ken Burns Jazz series.
The trumpet licks are—for Armstrong—throwaways. But the vocal performance is mind blowing. I tried to explain something about this experience of Armstrong, in passing, a couple of years ago. I said then that Ellison caught it in words: “vanilla ice cream and sloe gin. . . . red liquid over the white mound, watching it glisten and the vapor rising.”
Fortunately for all of us, we also have the thing itself. We have this document from 1933.
Alternative version: There are several uploads of this video clip on YouTube. This other one has fuzzier picture and poorer sound, but the video and audio seemed a little more in sync to me.
§ Posted by Benjamin T. Greenberg on December 25, 2006 at 9:02 am
The flooding in New Orleans reached its current epic proportions when—after one levee was breached on Monday morning, August 29, in the eastern, downriver portion of the city, known as the Ninth Ward—another was breached across town at the 17th Street Canal Levee, very early Tuesday morning, August 30.
The 17th Street Canal separates New Orleans’ Jefferson Parish (west) from Orleans Parish (east). The canals of the city, as well as the Mississippi riverbanks and the shore of Lake Pontchartrain are lined with earthen levees that usually keep the low-lying city from from being flooded. But as high water and wind from Katrina scoured the levees, large sections washed away, including a section reportedly several hundred feet long along the eastern side of the 17th Street Canal. . . .
The breach in the levee along the canal’s eastern bank is obvious as a break in the tan line that runs along other portions of the canal. The hole allowed Lake Pontchartrain to pour into the neighborhoods known as the West End. Some homes and other buildings are completely submerged, while the roofs of others appear to float above the murky water.
The West End is 90% white, 1.7% Black. 9.1% of its residents were living in poverty. The Lower 9th Ward is 98.3% Black, .5% white. 36.4% of its residents were living in poverty. On average in New Orleans, 66.6% of the residents are Black, 26.6% are white, and 27.9% lived in poverty. One of the wealthiest and whitest parts of New Orleans, the West End was presumably one of the areas whose residents mostly got out of New Orleans in time to escape the devastation that is now there (though their homes and other possessions may not be so lucky).
The map, above right, shows NOLA neighborhoods by percent white, with the West End outlined in red. Click here to see the same map done for percent African American, Asian and Latino. All demographic data in cited in this post are drawn from 2000 census data, as assembled by the Greater New Orleans Data Center.
The West End has been a wealthy area of New Orleans since the the turn of the 20th century. With lake front property, it was a resort area whose patrons wanted to hear the African American vernacular dance music, known as jazz.
West End was originally called New Lake End to distinguish it from Old Lake End, which sometimes referred to Milneburg.
New Lake End served as a port for craft traveling along the New Basin Canal. Between 1835 and 1876, individuals involved in the coastwise trade and those who belonged to yachting and rowing clubs primarily frequented New Lake End.
The Mexican Gulf Ship Canal Company had begun construction of a harbor with railroad facilities when the city acquired the company’s partially built embankment at the New Basin Canal and the Seventeenth Street Canal. The 100 foot wide bank was raised to a height of eight feet. Subsequently, the New Orleans City and Lake Railroad routed trains to the embankment, which was developed to house the West End resort.
A hotel, a restaurant, a garden and various amusement spots were built on a large wooden platform that was constructed over the water. In 1880, New Lake End took the name West End. Sailing and rowing regattas added to the popularity of West End. Over the next 30 years, West End achieved popularity to rival the resort at Spanish Fort.
West End contributed to the early development of jazz in New Orleans. Its bandstand was a center for early jazz concerts performed by notable jazz musicians including Louis Armstrong. The famous jazz song “West End Blues” was inspired by this resort area.
In 1921, the city completed improvements that included the construction of a seawall 500 feet further out in the lake and filling in the space between the old embankment, expanding the park to thirty acres, all of which resulted in the present West End Park. The first houses were built near West End Park around the 1920s.
Within the city of New Orleans, African American vernacular dance music originated in a number of places, far across town from the West End. One of the most vibrant homes of early jazz was the Back o’ Town neighborhood, where Louis Armstrong grew up.
Back o’ Town included illicit gambling and prostitution houses as well as residences. The adjacent South Rampart Street corridor contained more respectable AfricanAmerican businesses and legitimate places of entertainment. From the turn of the century through the 1920s, Back o’ Town had a concentration. of saloons, social halls, dance clubs, and vaudeville theaters where early jazz was played. These ranged from low-down dives, such as the Red Onion, to a middle-class ballroom like the Parisian Garden room in the Pythian Temple building. Most of the area has been redeveloped for government offices, parking areas, high-rise office buildings, and the Superdome. The Red Onion, the Pythian Temple Building, the Odd Fellows and Masonic dance hall, and the Iroquois Theater remain. Louis Armstrong’s birthplace, Union Sons hall, the Astoria Hotel and Ballroom, Spano’s, and several other important early structures have been torn down.
Another source of musicians for the wealthy audiences on the West End would have been the Eighth and Ninth Wards.
The Eighth and Ninth wards begin east of Elysian Fields Avenue. This was a racially mixed workingclass neighborhood at the turn of the century. Woodmen of the World Hall, where early jazz was played, still stands. Famous residents of the area included Papa Jack Laine, Manuel Mello, Manuel Perez, and John Robichaux.
The African American working class people of the Ninth Ward were still supplying labor for the the greater economy of New Orleans, up until last week, when their neighborhood was destroyed and they were left to the death and chaos of their flooded neighborhood and city. (Map above right: NOLA neighborhoods by percent African American, Lower Ninth Ward outlined in red, other racial composition maps here.)
People in the Lower Ninth Ward use the bus to get to work because of lack of finances, lack of private cars. You’ve got to use the bus even though the services continue to be limited. You’ve got to use the bus because that’s the only means you have to get out to make money. There are no jobs here, and there is nowhere you can walk to do things. (75 year old African American social worker, Fall 2003)
“In other parts of the city, a lot of people have the option of walking to their jobs. But on this side, because of the canal, we are separated from the city.” (53 year old African American laborer, Fall 2003)
We have Amtrak here that could have carried everybody out of town. There were enough school buses that could have evacuated 20,000 people easily, but they just let them be flooded. My son watched 40 buses go underwater – they just wouldn’t move them, afraid they’d be stolen.
People who could afford to leave were so afraid someone would steal what they own that they just let it all be flooded. They could have let a family without a vehicle borrow their extra car, but instead they left it behind to be destroyed.
There’s lots of ways to guess at the meaning of Louis Armstrong’s rendition of his mentor Joe “King” Oliver’s West End Blues. Maybe it was just a blues written while in the West End. Maybe it was a blues for people whom Oliver performed for on the West End. Maybe it was a blues for all the people who worked in the West End and lived someplace else. Right now it’s a blues for all of New Orleans, though some folks have it worse than others . . .
Louis recorded the song in Chicago, after he had left New Orleans and had already spent some time in New York City. The Hot Five/Hot Seven recordings were not three minute digest versions of what he was doing in the clubs. Rather, the ensembles and the arrangements were assembled especially for the studio dates. Louis’ West End Blues were designed for the act of recording and were therefore a blues for all us.
Anyone with an ounce of compassion also has more than just a touch of the West End Blues—especially if they’re asking questions like Marsha Joyner’s questions.
Did Katrina open our eyes to a problem, which has been glossed over? Are we seeing the under belly of America, the poor, the minorities, the people who could not afford to evacuate; whose very existence depends on the meager handout of the government. A government, which we saw was too long delayed in coming to the rescue.
Did Katrina show us an America that we pretend does not exist? The magnitude of everyday suffering is intolerable and such conditions must be changed through social action. We, members of SNCC and countless others, worked tirelessly to enact social changes only to see subsequent Administrations dismantle them. We are now back to square one. Like Victor Hugo, again, we must convince America that the poor, the minorities, the outcast, the people stealing in the midst of Katrina, the outcast—the misérables—are worth saving.
Louis Armstrong And His Hot Five, West End Blues
June 28, 1928, Chicago
§ Posted by Benjamin T. Greenberg on September 5, 2005 at 12:01 am
Louis Armstrong and His Savoy Ballroom Five, December 12, 1928, Chicago
Louis Armstrong – trumpet, vocal
Fred Robinson – trombone
Jimmy Strong – clarinet and tenor sax
Don Redman – clarinet
Earl Hines – piano
Dave Wilborn – banjo
Zutty Singleton – drums
This recording is from the last of the Hot 5/Hot 7 recordings that Louis Armstrong made between 1925 and 1928—stylized reinterpretations of the early 20th century Jazz style from his native New Orleans. Drummer Zutty Singleton was another musician who hailed from New Orleans during that time when Jazz was being born.
§ Posted by Benjamin T. Greenberg on September 2, 2005 at 9:25 pm
This is a little dated, but it’s good and Technorati says hardly anyone blogged it. For all my fellow red diaper babies:
Pete Seeger Is 86
by STUDS TERKEL
It is hard to think of Pete Seeger as an elderly gaffer, because the boy in him, the light, remains undimmed. It was sixty-five years ago I first ran into him. He and three of his colleagues, calling themselves the Almanac Singers, were on a cross-country jalopy tour singing and creating songs for the industrial unions aborning. The CIO had begun, and how could there be labor rallies without songs? It was in the true American tradition, like the Hutchinsons, a family of singing abolitionists during the Civil War. Some of the most heartbreaking music of that fratricidal conflict was theirs.
That night when I first encountered the four wandering minstrels was a cold Chicago beauty. At 2 in the morning, my wife heard the doorbell ring. I was away rehearsing the first play in which I had ever appeared. It was Waiting for Lefty, of course. There, at the door, were the four of them. The first was a bantam–freckled, red-haired and elfin. He handed my wife a note saying: “These are good fellas. Put them up for the night.” Putting them up was a rough assignment, even for a Depression-era social worker, what with the only spare bunk being a Murphy bed that sprang from the wall. Freckles announced himself as Woody Guthrie. The second was an Ozark mountain man named Lee Hayes. The third was a writer, Millard Lampell. The fourth, somewhat diffident, more in the background, was a slim-jim of 20 or so, fretting around with his banjo. He was Pete Seeger.
Since then, Woody has died. So has Lee Hayes. So has Millard Lampell. Only Pete breathes and sings, mesmerizing audiences, whether they be Democrats, lefties, vegans or even a sprinkling of Republicans. For sixty-five years, he has held forth continuously through periods known more for their bleakness than for their hope: the cold war, the witchhunt, the civil rights and civil liberties battles. Pete has been in all of them. Wherever he was asked, when the need was the greatest, he, like Kilroy, was there. And still is. Though his voice is somewhat shot, he holds forth on that stage. Whether it be a concert hall, a gathering in the park, a street demonstration, any area is a battleground for human rights. That is why describing him as an 86-year-old gaffer is not quite true. The calendar often deceives. This is a sparkling case in point.
Of course, he’s been blacklisted so many times he probably holds the dubious record, with the possible exception of Paul Robeson, who was often his partner in crime.
Before we hoist one for Pete, let’s also remember that he’s one of the best choirmasters in the country. He may not have the technique of Robert Shaw, but the result is just as explosive. Imagine an audience of thousands as Pete sings, say, “Wimoweh.” As Pete waves his arms gently, the audience reacts as a professional choir might. I’ve seen a wizened little man, who obviously is somebody’s bookkeeper, at the command of Pete become a basso profundo, reaching two octaves lower than Chaliapin. This is the nature of Pete Seeger, who reaches out toward the further shores more effectively and more exhilaratedly than anyone I’ve ever run into.
Hail Pete, at 86, still the boy with that touch of hope in the midst of bleakness. There ain’t no one like him.
Might as well mention, in case you missed it the first time around, that I did a little bit about Pete Seeger a just over a year ago. I was actually writing about Louis Armstrong, but Pete figured into it, too.
In that post from last summer, I mention getting Pete Seeger’s Children’s Concert at Town Hall on cd after having listened to the lp endlessly as a child. The cd has been getting a lot of play around here lately because at almost 2 1/2 my son is now old enough to have his own enjoyment of Pete Seeger.
Even if you don’t have kids, the Children’s Concert is really worth getting. My wife gets choked up almost every time she hears all the children in the audience singing along—which only makes Pete’s “touch of hope in the midst of bleakness” that much more poignant, especially these days . . .
The concert was recorded in 1962, so all those kids are grown up and older than I am. I sometimes wonder who they are in the world today.
§ Posted by Benjamin T. Greenberg on July 16, 2005 at 12:51 am
The hospice nurse checks again
The water temperature.
Swelling in the hands,
The legs, the sensitive feet,
My father in the lift device
Shows no discomfort,
Even beams a little,
Looking at me.
Fluorescent light in the poster frames.
Around a breezy field, silver coastline . . .
The patient closes his eyes
And moans as he is washed.
2.
Dream #2: I pull into the driveway
With a gift for the dying man.
Pink blossoms crowd the rose bush.
At this point in the story,
The sun-bleached, unlovely petals
Should already have littered the lawn
And disappeared. Why these clusters
Around the light post, why still
These flowers hiding the metalwork?
The neighborhood is busy with autumn raking.
Call and response of bamboo, plastic, steel.
The sun shines. The cicadas drone.
3.
An autumn drive, the suburb’s decorative elms and poplars.
Then the rural scenery, the foliage all around.
Fiery reds, greens edged with yellow,
The sky cloudless, without depth.
Then the look out point, the destination.
From the open car window, a view of the Helderbergs.
At the guardrail, a boy throwing stones into the treetops, below,
Then the clamor of beating wings, a flight of starlings
Rising, dome shaped, then taking off
In every direction, the air cold, the dying man tired.
4.
Frank’s Orchestra had three records, six songs
Under-recorded, dumped on, taken advantage of
coming out of an orphan asylum in Virginia . . .
somebody heard the melody and made it into a hit
Frank’s melody
The Blues My Baby Gave To Me
Stolen, never made a penny on it
There’s no places like Minton’s
no clubs like Nick’s or The Savoy in Boston
I remember when I came to New York . . .
sixteen years old, leaving Mom all alone in Brighton
. . . it was unbearable, Dad gone again
my brothers fighting in the War
The coincidence was I got to the City and kicked around
looking for a job, still trying to become a jazz musician
and worked in Greenwich Village in Jerry Newman’s record store
and Jerry gave me an acetate copy from his original
of the session at Monroe’s
all seven minutes and nineteen seconds
Frank, improvising Sweet Georgia Brown
This is it, this next one
§ Posted by Benjamin T. Greenberg on February 24, 2005 at 9:35 pm
I mentioned in part III of this series that I can date the handwritten drafts of Long Days Short Nights because of a passage about Frankie Newton. I am posting that passage here, though it was not intended for publication. It is an unpolished prose sketch, written in one shot, to get the material down on paper. The passage begins with some garbled and embarrassingly sentimental sentences, which I omit. The first sentence in the omitted passage is “Nine years ago he stopped breathing,” which dates the writings in 1963, since Frankie died in March of 1954.
[Prose sketch from Long Days Short Nights ms., summer or fall, 1963]
by Paul A. Greenberg
My first memory is not music but tennis. I met Frank when I was barely in my teens. I don’t remember whether it was at a friend’s house or at a record shop but he was looking for someone to play tennis with the next day. In my youthful exuberance I exaggerated my prowess and we arranged a date. You may recall that Newton was a big man and athletically well developed. After 5 minutes it was obvious that this was a tennis lesson not a game. Newton: “It’s a good thing you are nice because you sure ain’t a tennis player.” He invited me to the club he was working in. My memory fails but I believe it was in the Fenway in Boston. I do remember Vic Dickenson and Horsecollar Williams and Pete Brown were in the band. And I do remember that it swung. Lord it swung. I brought my clarinet but Frank said no he would not be embarrassed but I might be if my playing was equal to my tennis. He was right. During the next few years I saw Frank every time he was in Boston which was frequently. I learned a lot of music by the osmosis of listening. We established a man-boy relationship that was fatherly without being paternal, brotherly without being filial. We explored sports, books, politics and mostly people. I learned how to listen, doubt, and feel. I learned much about being human and some of the anguish of being negro.
I first became aware of the problem of friendships “across the wall” when we were walking in an area where Frank felt we were not welcome. He asked me to walk half a block behind him. I asked him why the parade? He said if we were jumped I should run like hell. I had thought about his being paranoid then. It was later that I found out there was wisdom in his approach. I still don’t know if I would have run like hell or not.
The summer of my 17th year I arrived in N.Y. with 65 cents, a clarinet which I played at best poorly, and the ill fitting clothes I had on and presented my self to Newton as his new roommate—uninvited. He goddamned me and told me to go home but took me in. Times were tough. Frank’s jobs were infrequent but we shared what he had. I remember some of the dates. Some of the people who played those dates were Sandy Williams, Pete Brown, Art Hodes, [Bill?] Pemberton, Pops Foster, Hank D’Amico, Ike Quebec, Roger Ramirez, Frank Orchard, Bob Casey. The places? Webster Hall, a club in the Bronx, organization dinners in Brooklyn. What was the music like? Moody! Some nights it was terrible, a fight all the way. Others it swung. By now Frank was playing the flugelhorn. It’s a shame we don’t have records. He played it with love and what music. The horn had belonged to Boston friend, Doc Kiley who died in the army and left it to Frank who treasured the friendship and the horn. Several years later a fire destroyed the apartment and in the remains he found a twisted piece of the horn which he made into a piece of jewelry which hung around his neck. What are the real memories? I learned about girls, drinking and fun. I found out what shuffling meant. I learned anti-conformity. Some of the memories are clear. I can’t always distinguish what I saw from what I heard. There were three neighborhood youngsters, brothers. Frank called these little toughs Big Jazz, Little Jazz and No Jazz. He taught the kids in the neighborhood. He was always puzzled by the fee question. He felt playing was a good discipline. On the other hand he said, “How much do you charge a note.” His attitude was that any kid that wanted to learn had a right to a good teacher. He was a great teacher even if the lessons were spasmodic and on a whimsical basis.
(This prose sketch was previously published in “The Search For Frankie Newton,” by Jennifer Wagner, in The Historical Society of Washington County, Virginia Bulletin, Series II, No 39a, 2002.)
§ Posted by Benjamin T. Greenberg on February 23, 2005 at 10:49 pm
In 1994 my father spoke during the week of Martin Luther King Day at Temple Gates of Heaven, a Reform synagogue in Schenectady, NY. In his speech, he commented on Black-Jewish relations in a way that illuminates his own relationships with Black folks.
I don’t intend to raise the question of Black-Jewish relations in part because I think it has been addressed to little avail at length by our community and in part because I think what I will raise speaks to the question in a more meaningful way than the usual discussion that tries to rekindle a better past that I personally don’t think ever existed. . . .Simply put we who are conscious and actively Jewish live within two cultures Jewish and American. Our effort individually and collectively is to find a place of comfort and ease so that we can have both.
Let me say quickly and emphatically right here so that there is no misunderstanding. The Jewish American experience and the Black American experience are not the same nor can we find an easy equation between the two. I am indicating that we share this relationship to America. We want our own identity and we want to participate fully in our country’s bounty and its decision making.
In the same speech, my father recalled the experience that first made him clearly aware of his Jewish identity and first made him conscious of living in two cultures.
I don’t remember whether I was seven or eight but the scene is vivid in the feeling part of my memory. We were living in Taunton, Massachusetts. Until that day (it must have been summer because I wasn’t in school) I was only vaguely aware of being Jewish. I had heard the family stories, I was somewhat embarrassed by my paternal grandmother’s accent and I loved Bible stories especially the Exodus tale.They were starting a baseball game. Sides were being chosen. I stood there expecting to be chosen around fourth or fifth. I was realistic about my ability. I wasn’t the best but I was far from the worst. I made up in determination what I lacked in size. While waiting in pleasant expectation lightning struck. “Do you want Jewboy? I don’t want him on my side.” It took several seconds for me to realize he was talking about me. JEWBOY! JEWBOY! JEWBOY! The word crashed through my being. My insides were raw with pain. “I am an American,” I screamed in a tearful combination of fear and rage. “Jewboy!” ” Jew cry baby!” “Mockie!” Christkiller!” “Scram, Jews can’t play baseball.” I stood my ground and yelled the most meaningful words I could find, “it’s a free country!” I don’t know who threw the fist blow but a general melee ensued. I was badly bruised and I would like to believe several of my tormentors carried home some effects of my frantic and violent surge of energy.
In the 1930s and 1940s antisemitism was still quite overt in the US. My father’s tormentors may not have understood much about the culture he came from, but they stood ready to keep him out of theirs. Dad had a number of stories like this one, lessons in being on the outside. The most developed one, and the most fully fictionalized, is “Lonesome Blues”, the story I posted in September, named after the song [RealPlayer] by Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five. In “Lonesome Blues,” the high school years of a suicide jazz musician, Mo Bartel, closely mirror my father’s.
The other live factor in my life was basketball. I was going to show them that a Jew could be as tough as anyone. I made the team by determination rather than skill. Years later I asked Tony Nucola, who was our coach, why he put me on his squad and he told me that any one who fought that hard to play was worth having on the team. I don’t know whether he did me a favor or not. I was always playing 9 men. The opposing 5 and our other 4.
This time around, he knows where he stands. His imaginative and intellectual powers are dominated by the activity of assessing boundaries, identifying gatekeepers and allies, and developing entry and exit strategies.
Do you remember my Tuesday to Saturday Blues? That’s what it was all about. Keefe invited me on Tuesday and I had to wait until Saturday. I went and didn’t over and over. I was sure they were putting me on. I would flunk the test and be the laughing stock of the school. They would remember I was Jewish and ask me to leave. One country indivisible with liberty and justice for all that crap and they would call me Jewboy and I would start a fight. I wouldn’t know what to say. I hated popular music.On Saturday I walked up the hill to Keefe’s house like a car with a couple of spark plugs out. By the time I got there I was shaking, inside my stomach felt like mush. Mrs. Riley, pretty, friendly, lovely Mrs. Riley answered the door and told me “the boys are down in the basement.”
Eight boys looked like an army and sounded like two. I was trapped. Eight enemies of my privacy were looking at me, surveying me. I was searching for something to say when Keefe made it easy—easy like scaling Everest easy like dying. “Hi Mo. Guys this is the clary man I told you about Mo Bartel. Mo did you bring any sides?”
“Yeah, two my left and right.” I made it. I was in and still breathing.
Someone shoved a coke in my hand and I was able to ward off questions about how long I was playing or who my teacher is when Keefe shouted above the din “let’s get organized and start spinning some sides first one for Mo, Pops Armstrong’s Lonesome Blues featuring Johnny Dodds on clarinet.”
Love on first sound? Three minutes on another planet. I mean it hit me like where have you been all my painful life. This was what I felt. The truth head on. It cried without the tears showing, it screamed pain without being sent to the nuthouse. It was all about being alone, alone, alone.
He was in and still breathing but in is a state of mind and out was still where he was, and Johnny Dodds was talking about it and
After it finished I got up walked upstairs and out down the hill and with tears in my eyes I ran down the hill…
I am interested in this complicated process of Mo Bartel née Paul Greenberg’s identification with African American culture—among other things, that it occurred, at least in the story, in a room full of white high school boys. They knew about Louis Armstrong’s mid 1920s breakthrough, modernistic refashioning of New Orleans jazz. Mo didn’t, but they seemed to think he would. In their eyes a Jewish clary man had a touch of the exotic and was automatically identified with jazz rather than the classical music he was learning to play. They wanted to entertain him or prove they were in the know.
I am interested in the story’s rough hewn prose style and in how Mo Bartel, and his foil, the narrator, fit into the literature of American Jewish urban experience, which should be familiar to anyone who has read Nat Hentoff or other jazz literature, like Max Kaminsky’s forgotten classic My Life in Jazz. But when looking at this story as a text about my father, there is something else to know. The drafts of it, along with the other sketches and segments for the novel Long Days Short Nights it was to be part of, are handwritten on the backs of copies of the flier at right (click on image to enlarge).
Presumably Dad was the organizer of the event: William Douthard (aka Meatball) was his very close friend from when he was working for the SCLC in Birmingham, Martin Luther King was his boss, and James Farmer was a close associate, whom he revered. I don’t know how well Dad knew Constance Baker Motley, but they were both part the Civil Rights Movement community in New York. My family lived in Co-op Village and Dad was highly active in left organizations on the Lower East Side. So the flier has my father written all over it in more ways than one.
During some of his most direct involvement in the Civil Rights Movement, his inner life was preoccupied elsewhere. He didn’t treat the political fliers as documents to save for posterity, but as surfaces on which to write and fictionalize his life—as if his committed activism was only the backdrop for a personal journey. Of course the two things were not really separable. In fact, the suicides in “Lonesome Blues” may well be precisely what underlies my father’s participation in the Southern Freedom Movement. From “Lonesome Blues,” first paragraph:
They will say he was only 37 years old no one knew he was sick that he left a wife and two children and 300 records behind. They will find out he was broke and remember he was the first whiteman to tour with Prince Kingsley.
In the summer and fall of 1963 Paul Greenberg was thirty-five years old and a one time aspiring jazz clarinetist; he had a wife and two daughters, and kept a sizable collection of records, a large portion of which were jazz. I said suicides, in the plural, because there are really two. There’s Mo Bartel who seems to have taken his own life in a Chicago hotel room, and there’s the journalist-narrator, whose method of narrative transmission spells a kind of professional suicide, a sacrifice of his means of publication in exchange for the hope that his revelation of Mo Bartel’s inner life will see the light of day.
I don’t want the assignment. I wrote the Mo Bartel story 10 years ago and you didn’t print it. Enclosed is the carbon copy of the story filed with you then. Print it and buy all of his records with my check otherwise forget it. I won’t interview his wife or any of the guys he played with. Fire me—get a new Jazz Critic for our lousy magazine but I won’t do that kind of story.
The narrator dies a professional death so that the biographical Mo Bartel, whose music is already immortal, can have life after death.
At my father’s funeral, my girlfriend, now the woman I’m married to, said it’s a good thing he couldn’t carry a tune: otherwise he wouldn’t have done all this important political work. Lack of musical talent had much to do with it, but for him jazz was “a way of walking, talking. / Had it in his soul.” His story in politics was the story of a lonely, Jewish high school kid in Brighton, Mass. who was catapulted by Johnny Dodds’ clarinet into Frankie Newton’s apartment in Union Square and into the Communist Party, the unions, SANE, and the Civil Rights Movement. The jazz life was a fading, youthful dream, and Dad was at a painful threshold, a moment just prior to when loss translates the past into nostalgia.
The final thing to note here is that I can date the handwritten draft material for Long Days Short Nights with assurance only because there is an extended passage about Frankie Newton that locates the manuscript in time. That bit of prose will make up part IV of this series.
§ Posted by Benjamin T. Greenberg on February 23, 2005 at 3:37 pm
Not long after my father died in 1997, I started collecting Frankie Newton’s recordings myself. There’s the core group of twenty some songs that were recorded under Frankie’s name, with bands that he led. But then there’s another fifty or so recordings with other bandleaders and in loose, pickup bands. As with any musical obsession of mine, I devoured liner notes and quickly formed interests in the other musicians on the recordings and what else they recorded and with whom, outside of the original Newton sides.
Through Newton, I came to know a fantastic constellation of jazz stylists who all came through the swing era, the era of big bands, and produced an exciting range of small group recordings that at various times:
• take popular forms to great heights of refinement and virtuosity — e.g., Benny Goodman (cl.), Charlie Christian (g.) and Lionel Hampton’s (vibe) 1939 “Stardust”; Edmund Hall (cl.) and Sidney (trp.) and Wilbur (trmb.) De Paris’ 1944 turbo charged “I’ve Found A New Baby”
• explore directions outside conventional swing formats — e.g., Rex Stewart (crn.), Django Reinhart (g.), Barney Brigard (cl.) and Billy Taylor’s (b.) breathtaking and inspired 1939 performance of “I Know That You Know”; Pee Wee Russell (cl.), Zutty Singleton (d.) and Joe Sullivan’s (p.) wild, dare I say primal, 1941 trio version of “Sing, Sing, Sing,” known as “Deuces Wild”
• give direct and powerful expression to a blues or standard — e.g., Sidney Bechet’s bowl you over 1939 soprano sax rendition of “Summertime,” with Teddy Bunn (g.), Meade Luxe Lewis (p.), Johnny Williams (b.), Sid Catlett (d.); Jelly Roll Morton’s 1939 vocal performance on “Buddy Boldon’s Blues” (doesn’t really count as small group, since the band is just Morton accompanying himself on piano)
With each new find, and with each jazz reference book, I came back to the same frustration that there is terribly little biographical information about Frankie Newton. It was frequently the case that I knew more about him from my conversations with my father than I could find in published materials. I desperately wanted to know more.
At some point in 1999 I remembered how in 1991 my father had relished reading to me from a set of liner notes by an expert who did, in fact, appreciate Frankie’s greatness. The record was God Is In The House, a collection of live after hours performances by Art Tatum. In the early 1940s, a Columbia University student named Jerry Newman, had portable disc recording equipment that he took around to private jam sessions. He captured priceless moments of jazz improvisation from a period when records were only three to four minute studio recordings, generally limited in their structure and scope. The recordings Newman collected are rare, often arresting documents of how the music was played in front of live audiences. God Is In The House captures Tatum at five venues in 1940 and 1941. Some of the performances are just him on solo piano, some include other musicians. The last two tracks, “Lady Be Good” and “Sweet Georgia Brown,” are with Frankie Newton and Ebenezer Paul (bass) at Clark Monroe’s Uptown House. The writer of the notes is Dan Morgenstern:
The two final performances . . . are sensational. Newton is up to playing with Tatum—his ear is sure enough not to be thrown by the unorthodox backing, especially on “Sweet Georgia Brown.” On “Lady Be Good,” Newton shows us where Sweets Edison comes from. A master of mutes (including the almost whispery one he plays here), he was one of the three great post-Armstrong trumpeters, along with Roy Eldridge and Lips Page. It’s good to have these indications of his worth; he was under-recorded throughout his career.
The complexities of Tatum’s accompaniments and solos are such that it is impossible to take these two performances in at even several hearings. You’ll find yourself listening first to Art, then to Frank, then to both, again and again. “Sweet Georgia Brown,” I humbly submit, is one of the most remarkable pieces of spontaneously improvised jazz music ever captured by a recording device.
When we did our Frankie Newton session in 1991, Dad read out the whole two paragraphs, giving that last sentence particular emphasis, as if it were vindication of all that he believed in. He explained that Morgenstern is a famous jazz critic, a professor at a university, maybe Princeton.
I wondered if Dan Morgenstern could help me find out more about Frankie Newton. A little googling revealed that Morgenstern is the director of the Institute of Jazz Studies, housed not at Princeton but at Rutgers. I sent him a letter on September 7, 1999. More than a month went by. I’d just about given up all hope of receiving a reply when in mid-October an envelope arrived in the mail with “Institute of Jazz Studies” in the return address. A letter from Morgenstern! It began:
Dear Benjamin Greenberg,
I was both delighted and saddened to receive your letter. Delighted because for more years than i can remember I’d hoped in some way to find a man I could recall only as “Paul.” We met somewhere in Greenwich Village–in a jazz joint, a bar, at someone’s house party–and had an intense, wonderful conversation about Frankie Newton during which I learned some of the things your letter conveys about your father. (Our brief encounter took place so long ago that I had not yet begun to write professionally about jazz–I was just “hanging out” and absorbing all kinds of stuff–so your father would not have remembered when he later read my liner notes, but I’m so very pleased that he did so, and seems to have approved.)
. . . let me just note that I never knew Frankie–by the time I came to the U.S., in late April of 1947, he was already elusive, and it wasn’t until about a year later that I really became aware of his true stature in the jazz trumpet pantheon–I knew only a few records. But one of those, “The Blues My Baby Gave To Me,” had made its mark, so when I met and became friends with Nat Lorber, whom everyone called “Face,” who played the trumpet and whose three heroes (after Louis, of course) were Hot Lips Page, Roy Eldridge and Frankie, I was ready to learn. I saw Frankie just once–not playing, but having a bite to eat in a little village restaurant and bar called Calypso-plus-something I can’t recall–but was too timid (not quite 20 yet) to approach him. That was around 1950 . . . and then, in 1954, Frankie died, just on the verge of trying a comeback. But Nat spoke vividly of him, and then that moment with your father, and other recollections by musicians, almost make me feel as if I somehow knew him.
I was beginning to feel I somehow knew him, too. And getting closer to Frankie Newton was also getting closer to my father.
§ Posted by Benjamin T. Greenberg on February 22, 2005 at 2:30 am
Listen ain’t you heard the news
There’s another thing to choose
A brand new world clean and fine
Where nobody’s hungry
And there’s no color line
A thing like that’s worth
anybody dyin’
The two existing recordings of these verses by Langston Hughes, set to music and played by James P. Johnson, are pretty obscure, so it’s hard to say if my father would have known the lines. Be that as it may, these words are at the crux of what drove him to live as he did. In these lines and in my father’s mind, the world doesn’t have to be this way: poverty and racism can be eliminated. It’s all a matter of making choices, choices that may well mean putting one’s life on the line. Underlying my searching the life and times of my father is the question, what leads to this kind of commitment? The song’s answer is them hungry blues—the real physical hunger caused by deprivation, but also a spiritual hunger, different in each person.
This blog started out as a vehicle for me to write about my father. Knowing more about his life and his times has changed me and has consequently broadened the scope of what I do here. Lately, I have been writing very little about him and instead posting a lot about race and racism in America. Learning more about my father’s participation in the Civil Rights Movement, reading Movement history, and getting to know Movement veterans has made me much more sharply cognizant of what they fought for, the risks they took, and the gains they made for America. This awareness makes witness of the Bush administration’s assault on low-income people and people of color disturbing to a degree that I could not have anticipated. My liberal sensibilities were certainly offended by programmatic racism before, but in the last year it has had a radicalizing effect on me. My father’s own sense of his life’s purpose was deeply wrapped up in the social transformation he and so many others made sacrifice upon sacrifice to achieve. As I have watched their successes unravel, I have found my own sense of purpose becoming much more closely aligned with my father’s.
The process of aligning my purposes with my father’s does not actually begin with the Southern Freedom Movement. The process began in 1991, when I made my first attempt to understand my father’s relationship with Frankie Newton, the mostly forgotten jazz trumpet player, whose career peaked in around 1939, during the period when his band backed Billie Holiday at the Cafe Society in New York. If you know the original 1939 Commodore recording of Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit”, then you’ve heard Frankie. That’s him on the melodramatic trumpet intro. If you also know Billie’s 1939 version of “I’ve Gotta Right To Sing The Blues,” from the same Commodore recording session, and you can remember the sophisticated interplay between the trumpet and Billie’s voice (especially in the final verse), then you already have an inkling of Frankie’s artistry.
I’ve written before about how circa 1944 my father, then a teenage aspiring jazz clarinet player, ran away from home in Brighton, MA to Frankie Newton’s apartment on East 17th Street in Manhattan, just off Union Square. Frankie was an African American, political radical, who hung out with other artist-intellectuals like Paul Robeson, Beauford Delaney, Henry Miller, Canada Lee, and William Saroyan. On the trumpet, Frankie was a great and subtle stylist, a master of mutes and moods, who attracted a cult following of aficionados, critics, and musicians. It’s hard to say what would have happened to my father if Frankie hadn’t taken him in. During that year or so when they were roommates, Frankie introduced my father to life in the Communist Party and he taught my father to read James Joyce and John Donne and how to look at the paintings of Picasso and Matisse. And he taught my father volumes about what it means to be Black in America. Frankie was outspoken about race matters, often protesting injustice to his own detriment, losing gigs and being marginalized in the music profession. Being in Frankie’s milieu got my dad his job at Jerry Newman’s record store, selling records to likes of Pee Wee Russell and Cozy Cole and befriending them, and led to my dad’s first union jobs, organizing tobacco workers across racial lines in North Carolina and textile workers in Massachusetts.
Frankie Newton died in 1954 at age 48, by then alcoholic and shut out of professional music. In those last years of his life, Newton painted and was politically active, and he was married to a white Jewish leftist, Ethel Klein. They lived in the West Village on Barrow Street, across from the Greenwich House settlement house, which had (and still has) a music school where Newton sometimes taught music to low-income city kids. Frankie died a poor man, under-recorded and largely forgotten by jazz history. To my father Frankie was one of the great heroes of jazz, as well as a stand-in parent, a brother, a mentor, a friend.
My oldest sister was born two and half years after Frankie died. Dad named her Francine, after Frankie. If Dad got your ear about Frankie, there was an urgency with which he had to communicate Frankie’s importance, as an artist and as a human being. By the time I was in my twenties, my father was one of the few people alive who had such intimate knowledge of this national treasure whose life had not been documented, whose music had been stolen and undervalued.
1991 was the year I graduated from college. Home for the summer, before I moved out to Oregon for a while, I sat my father down with his Frankie Newton records and asked him to educate me. We made a mix tape of the tracks, and I taped him as he expounded on the music and reminisced about Frankie. I took the tapes with me when I moved out west, but I did not dwell on the music or what I’d learned. A year or two later, my first cousin Alan tracked down a British cd that collected most of Frankie’s major recordings and sent copies to me and to Dad. But that was about it for me and Frankie Newton until 1997 when my father was dying of cancer.
My father died on Election Day, November 4, 1997. I had been driving from Boston to Albany, New York every other weekend to be there with him in the last months and support my mother who was his primary care giver. I was there the weekend before he died, but drove back to Boston on Sunday the 2nd, not knowing that was the last time I’d see him living. On Saturday night, we listened to Miles’ Sketches of Spain. “Music is the staff of life,” he said. On Sunday afternoon, I came into the sick room to be with him before I had to go back to Boston. As usual, he was in pain. I asked him if he wanted to hear some music. “I don’t know,” he said. I put on the Frankie Newton cd that Alan had found for us in England. My two sisters were there, too. We tried making conversation, hoping the blend of our voices and the music would lift him out of depression. But when The Blues My Baby Gave To Me [mp3] came on, we weren’t allowed talk: that was Frank’s masterpiece.
— Photo: Frankie Newton & Sidney Bechet at Port of Harlem Jazzmen session for Blue Note, June 8, 1939 (Charles Peterson)
§ Posted by Benjamin T. Greenberg on February 20, 2005 at 9:24 am
Folks I've got them hungry blues
And nothin' in this to lose
People tellin' me to choose
Between dyin' and lyin' and
keep on cryin'
Tired of them hungry blues
Listen ain't you heard the news
There's another thing to choose
A brand new world
clean and fine
Where nobody's hungry
And there's no color line
A thing like that's worth
anybody dyin'
I ain't got a thing to lose
But them doggone hungry blues
The 
Another source of musicians for the wealthy audiences on the West End would have been the 
The process of aligning my purposes with my father’s does not actually begin with the Southern Freedom Movement. The process began in 1991, when I made my first attempt to understand my father’s relationship with Frankie Newton, the mostly forgotten jazz trumpet player, whose career peaked in around 1939, during the period when his band backed Billie Holiday at the 
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