We’ve all needed guidance, at some time, through an uncharted new world of developing obsession. A record shop, a nightclub, a bookshop, a cafe: some kind of locus where we’ll either find a way into it or boil our heads entirely. Or both, if we’re really lucky. Thankfully, the culturally restless were well catered for in the Liverpool of my youth.
Much as I’d loved Sefton Park library as a child, by September 1981 it was all over the place. There were thousands of ancient educational curios on shelves that went to the ceiling, many of which had fascinated me in my youth, but now I was 17, and the hippest kid on my block! I was steeping myself in moody French Lit in school, and looking forward to reading Sartre amid stuttering love affairs in black and white. What use did I have now for the Stanley Gibbons’ Stamp Catalogue of 1958? I had a yen for a challenge, something that would sit comfortably with the growing pile of freaky records.
“Do you have any William Burroughs?”
“I’ll check for you, but I’m not too sure, only I’ve heard he’s a bit racy, y’know. Oh, here’s one, Naked Lunch. Will that do you?”
Er, probably. I was too polite to refuse by this point, and left with a book that I would find entrancingly bizarre, grimly hilarious, tediously incomprehensible and nauseatingly scabrous – not to say a bit racy – all on the same page! Where was it supposed to be taking me? If only there was a place where I could talk about this kind of thing, where neither I nor anybody else would feel daft…
There was. There was Atticus bookshop, at the top of Hardman Street in central Liverpool. It was next to the Philharmonic pub, and equidistant from Ye Cracke and the Everyman Bistro, as if sitting on some ley line of cultural magic. Going in there reminded me of going to Probe Records for the first time a few years earlier, an experience which had taught me that I did not, after all, know everything. Or even very much. Atticus had all the fascinations a pretentious sixth former like me could have been dreaming of, and even more that he hadn’t had time to dream of just yet. Poetry, drama, Beat writing, the wickedly avant garde, even some stuff I’d heard of. All of human endeavour was sitting on those shelves, together with a little subhuman endeavour, to err on the side of caution. But above all, it just felt, well, lovely! Nobody was going to shout at you if you hadn’t thought hard enough about the human condition. And they knew full well that Burroughs was, indeed, a bit racy.
I would never have time to cover the whole range of the shop, which seemed to have been stocked in glaring defiance of all traditional business wisdom, and could well have looked like a different beast to everybody who came in. But the esoteric chatter of unfamiliar writers harmonised with the publishers that sang to me like tiny and beloved independent record labels: City Lights, Calder, New Directions, often in the most beautiful editions, enchanting and forbidding in equal measure. Granted, they weren’t all in everybody’s price range – £3.99 seemed a lot to an impecunious teenager, when a pint in the Everyman Bistro cost 80p. But it seemed for every expensive Calder Burroughs there was a between-pay-days Panther edition of Jack Kerouac for half the price. Or you could even have an eighties-friendly Biff postcard for 20p.
To be honest, though, I was led there by the music of the post-punk era, some of which was couching itself in literary allusion. Awkward music and impenetrable books – Atticus felt like the meeting of both worlds! But it swiftly became apparent that many had arrived here on a different cultural bus, and that I was shopping alongside people who had long been drawn to rule-breaking art. My French Lit. teacher, no stranger to the shop, was too busy reading difficult poetry to notice Echo and the Bunnymen’s nod to Camus in “Happy Death Men.” How could he have missed that one, I wondered. And how was I supposed to know that Adrian Henri, the Jarry-loving Mersey poet and free jazz fan, had never even heard of Pere Ubu? Jesus tonight, just how much rule-breaking art was out there? Didn’t I already know everything? No…? Oh no, not again…
Damn it all! So punk hadn’t been the Year Zero of personal awakening after all, just mine, and life before it wasn’t just a woolly world of brown rice and red leb. Atticus was showing me a wider picture of Liverpool’s venerable cultural milieu, to which it had been and would remain pivotal: old hippies, new hippies, poets, playwrights, activists, tosspots, frantics, mystics and dipsticks and every other stripe of life that might be encompassed and nurtured by such a boggling spectrum of artistic pursuit. This was to present me with a lifetime of rapt absorption, gradual assimilation and occasional perplexity, at whatever pace suited the exigencies of the many years ahead. Trips to Atticus were great, throwing open the gate to the uncharted cultural woodlands, but soon it fell to me to wend my own path to the most enchanting thickets. On top of that, now I had a social life, parties to go to, and girls to chat up, and – “ooh, nice Robbe-Grillet!” – friends with bookshelves to check out. And some of those peculiar punky records were starting to sound a bit old, truth be told. Maybe they’d be back…
Atticus kept on opening people’s eyes, to literature, to poetry, to counter-cultural activity and more besides. What greater event than William Burroughs’ instore book signing in 1982, when the maven of the monstrous, the man who had taken an unflinching scalpel to the nightmare excesses of the century, simply breezed in and charmed the pants off everybody in a crowded room? What event more eye-opening than seeing him give a reading that same night, shedding a clear new light upon his intractable work and teaching a gormless teenager to appreciate the cauterisingly avant garde on its own terms. This was a life-long lesson, courtesy of a shop that offered a profound retail experience! And, as unlikely as it may seem, it still prevails, on a main drag in Central Lancaster – a real and inviting bookshop with Franz Kafka on the wall, in an online age where everything is available, but little of it seems quite as desirable.
Yes, of course the old bookish punk era records sound great again – I suppose what goes around comes around. I still haven’t gotten round to Roads to Freedom yet, though, sorry – it looked like a bit of a commitment when all was said and done, and, well, those girls weren’t going to chat themselves up…
William S. Burroughs photographs used with the kind permission of Jill McArdle
Fascism won’t turn up dressed In collar and tie or Sunday best. It may be smart but not severe, You won’t have anything to fear. But it becomes your boring mate Who only speaks of what he hates, Who tells you he’s your only brother, And never should you trust the others.
Fascism won’t keep things clear While ambiguity breeds fear, So never will it waste its time On explanations, reasons, rhyme. It screws you down in three short words, Imperious and yet absurd: “Build back better!” “Get Brexit done!” “Believe, Obey, Fight!” “We…have… won…?”
Fascism knows all too well That facts will take it straight to hell, While lies go round the world before The truth can lock the stable door. A lie told twice stops being false, But three times it’s a dose of salts That shits out more through news, through press, And wipes its arse on truth’s redress.
Fascism will tell you That the minor details must compel, you’ll Feel it slowly crush your soul By miring you in rigmarole. You won’t get time to contemplate The rise of its one-party state, Its lickspittles, its liars, its whores, Their laughing disregard for law,
Their crimes that bring society Not anger but anxiety, Invisibly eroding hope Until you just can’t fucking cope. Their crimes that grind your discontent To grains of personal dissent, Till what was solidarity Is you hate me hate him hate she.
Fascism wields power without Responsibility or account, Or financial propriety, Or honour or integrity. It wanks itself beneath its clothes, Tumescent on how much it loathes you. Power’s bound to cost a lot When every hour’s a money shot!
But Fascism won’t feel ashamed Of hate that dares not speak its name, Of senseless noise we scarcely hear Through clouds of lies and hate and fear And sleaze and self-investigation… …Oh, help us, younger generations, Beat them, crush them, let them burn, And we’ll be right beside the bairns!
The kids are gradually relieving me of my LPs. “Mmm, nice Trout Mask Replica, dad, can I have a look?” They know their florid curiosity will get me to hand it over, and I will picture them cherishing the gift of music, even though it will become an ornament in a student gaff in Cardiff. Bless ‘em…
But they can bugger off if they think they’re going anywhere near the singles! A lot of us were lucky enough to grow up in a time when, for a modest outlay, a band would present us with a porthole through which we could see their entire world of possibility. Whether it bounced into the charts at Number One or crept out timidly on a twilit independent, a seven-inch single would show a band in their pomp, channelling their entire raison d’être into that small handful of plastic. If they could be bothered, obviously. An LP would tell you everything before the second date, but the right single was an exotic little promise, a whispered intimacy between awkward teenagers, an unforgettable first kiss. A single was Love!
The very embodiment of enigmatic allure.
The romance bloomed in childhood, when there were plenty of records around the tiny house. The singles, a typical late-60s motley, lived in a cut down carton of Heinz 57 Varieties, for reasons of tidiness and poverty, and they exuded an allure that began with the labels as much as the music. There was some educational value in applying my nascent reading skills to artist names and song titles – Joe Dolan, Petula Clark, Ide B The First – and my precocious devouring of the Wide Range Blue Books was surely aided by my understanding that “the unauthorised public performance, broadcasting and copying of this work was prohibited.” It didn’t stop there – the songwriting credits in brackets, the catalogue numbers ending with A or B, the adverts on the covers for Morphy Richards hair dryers and so much else, all of these details held an exotic attraction. But the greatest thrill came from watching the record go round and round, at a breakneck 45 r.p.m., while wondering if the needle was going to reach the end of the groove before the song finished. The race always ended in a draw! It was a miracle, how come the ever-growing swell of Downtown wasn’t too much for such a small space? How come there was still so much massiveness for the band to handle in just one-eighth of an inch of remaining playing surface? Surely one day they’d overrun that little platter and break out into the living room, rattling the sash windows as they blared me from one brass-wailing ecstasy to the next. They didn’t, alas, but they begat the abiding notion that a small piece of plastic could contain all of the joy, the creativity, the very fecundity of human imagination. Well, I actually said something like “wow, they can do anything they like on one of these fellers,” but you get the picture. In the fullness of time my own purchases joined them; “Mama Weer All Crazee Now” by Slade for 40p in Boots chemist, “All Because of You” by Geordie, and various others, all in the uniform guise of banging and shouting. And a few years later, banging and shouting leapt once again to the fore, and all hell broke loose!
All hell breaking loose at the height of punk!
To be fair, all hell actually opened the front door with the chain on, and peeked outside timidly. Punk rock caused such a moral hoo-hah that a shy 13-year-old might have been reluctant to tell his family that he quite liked some of these scions of degeneracy. It became clear, however, that his family wasn’t arsed, so all hell could now slip the chain off and break loose at its leisure! The punk era was a Golden Age for the seven-inch-single, hallmarked by imagination and inspiration, madness and genius, hope and love. And because the music was my own, because it wasn’t going to live in a Heinz soup box, and because the rest of the family thought I was daft, the romance intensified fiercely! Scented seven-inch love letters were left casually around the house, all sworn secrets I wanted to tell everybody. Like the one by the Jam, in a glossy picture sleeve showing them in their suits and bad shoes. This one bypassed the stolen kiss and went straight to ear-nibbling, in the form of…ooh…an etching! Beside the matrix number stamped around the edge of the label were the words “Tim Tom At CBS.” All efforts to play hard-to-get were now doomed. Had this been going on under my nose all the time? The Heinz box was ransacked in the manic search for cryptic engravings in run off grooves, for missed hints and inaudible whispers. The Honeycombs? No. Devil In Disguise? No. Top Pops, Six Hits For 5/11-?
Six top hits for five and eleven! Not the original artists.
Still no. But never mind, Elvis could get back to Squaresville, because the gorgeous private world which I now inhabited had loads of them! The most regular peck on the cheek came from “A Porky Prime Cut,” although others, such as “Spot’s White Powders” on a John Cooper Clarke record, meant that I’d be offering my cheek for the rest of my days. And then came Ian Dury’s “What A Waste,” whose message “999 Rule OK” piqued my interest in the rest of the label. The familiar information was all there, but arranged in a square, and the copyright message was suffixed with a coquettish “don’t fuck about or else.”
Ian Dury’s sweary label.
Heartburst! For the second time in a year the old family singles were scrutinised, this time for disruptive label messages. Who else may have been quietly warning us of the perils of fucking about? PJ Proby? The Monkees? Helmut Zacharias? Absolutely nobody, that’s who. Still, there was some small cultural value in learning how much danger one might expect from a Petula Clark record. But as the music became stranger and the bands and labels more obscure, so grew the subversions: handmade covers, samizdat messages that looked like calls to arms,
A call to arms, probably.
comic strip sleeves, records produced by “nobody,” singles with the same two short mono tracks on each side, postcard inserts, all of it happening in that darkest of dark just behind the spotlight. How was my pocket money supposed to cope with this? Or my mind?
My heart managed, though. For all of that esoterica, buying singles could capture perfectly some beautiful life moments, and every A-side could be coupled with an acute memory of how you acquired it, the time, the place, the weather, who you met, what you did afterwards, how fondly you stared at it on the bus home. It may be impressionistic, but is there any sweeter journal of youth than a collection of 45s, any diary more joyous, more heart-rending, more preposterous, every page a picture sleeve? As the budget moved from school dinner money to a modest wage, so the trip out to buy records became part of a social flowering, of new and deepening friendships, every disc a step towards the formation of a lifelong tribe. And as new romances spread to third and fourth kisses, and to even more spine-tingling whispers, so the love of the seven-inch single started to stand graciously to one side; although they all remain, to this day, in a stout wooden box in the living room. Well, you can’t have too much love, can you?
And anyway, sweet and winsome as they were, not one of those kissing, whispering girls had even heard of Joe Dolan…
1981. Bill Drummond is looking for a direction for the Teardrop Explodes, a band he has managed into a chart career but which is growing ever more easily distracted. He solicits advice from his old mate Ken Campbell, back in Liverpool as Artistic Director of the Everyman Theatre, who offers a solution in return for a hundred pounds.
“Wilder,” he says, trousering a wad of cash.
“Is that it, a hundred quid for one word?”
“Yes, and it’s a bargain. Wilder, Bill, it has to be Wilder!”
And wilder it was. Wilder became the title of the band’s next album, while also describing the band’s social lives, enthusiasms and general behaviour. “Wilder” even encapsulated what was going on, one way or another, in Britain’s inner cities at the time: it summed up the increasing brutality being wrought by Whitehall upon the working class, it epitomised the ever more frenzied attacks upon the country’s industrial base and it crystallised perfectly the spiralling mania of foam-faced greed embraced by the very few. And thankfully, it also told of the mettlesome imagination of some of Liverpool’s poetic apostles, as the punk era’s creative shoots blossomed into a harlequin snook of floribunda in a government-sponsored bombsite. Really, Ken, you could have held out for two ton at the very least…
At this time, a 17-year-old with his own ever-wilder curiosity could easily have viewed Liverpool as the centre of some psychedelic wonderland, as the city’s musical and cultural scenes offered colourful distraction from the monochrome assault of its own government. His coming of age, in 1982, may have been celebrated with works of grandeur and invention, from within a milieu that appeared to have mined a rich seam of exotic-looking arty types – although to be fair, almost anybody could look arty and exotic to a shy Dingle teenager with the arse out of his kecks. There was, as ever, wonderful music everywhere and the clubs – first Brady’s, then The Warehouse – were essential ports of call for any touring band, and great nights out to boot. But the expectations of our wide-eyed youth had been enhanced quite early on by an evening in Mr. Pickwicks…
Plato’s Ballroom started its fortnightly residency at Mr. Pickwick’s, usually a bastion of more clearly-defined entertainment, on Wednesday, 14th January, 1981, hosting one of the earliest gigs by New Order. Punk-era bands had played in the club before, but under the Plato’s banner it became a bit more than a gig. Covering both Liverpool and Manchester, it attracted hitherto-unseen exotic-looking arty types, in addition to some confused regulars trying to chat up the new clientele. Before the headliners took the stage, projections of Bunuel films had shown us dissected eyeballs and ant-oozing hand wounds, a poet had been largely ignored, a chap had emerged from a box in a cloud of talcum powder, and best of all, a young local group called Send No Flowers had become the first band to play this strange new place. They were nervous but vibrant, and sounded like they’d kept what they needed from punk, its economy and its cunning use of resources, while distancing themselves from its less subtle aspects – little apparent impression had been made upon them by Slaughter and the Dogs. They were altogether more confident on their single, “Playing for Time,” which cooked something deliciously enigmatic from frugal ingredients. A simple uphill sidewinder bass looked for a fugitive root note, the top halves of some guitar chords wove themselves around Lin Sangster’s russet vocals, the drums made sure it didn’t all go scarpering off in different directions. It was utterly ingenious – there really wasn’t much there, but it had an entrancing alchemy and its three-and-a-half minutes were over far too soon!
Send No Flowers admit defeat in the search for a fugitive root note
Forthcoming attractions at Plato’s would include A Certain Ratio, Alvin the Aadvark and the Fuzzy Ants, Fad Gadget covering himself in shaving foam and a man in a cowboy suit throwing knives at a woman in a sequinned leotard. Going for a couple of pints down Park Road would never be the same after this! And nobody forgot Box Man, God love him – he’s still here, embroiled as ever in his own world of uncompromised artistry. If only we knew what the mystified habitué at the bar was saying to the lady whose pile of blue hair was held up with knitting needles. Perhaps they made a go of it, maybe they came back to see The Pale Fountains…
The youthful Palies appeared at Plato’s in August 1981, alongside Orange Juice and The
Wild Swans, a serendipitous bill that showcased not only Liverpool’s affinity with Scottish post-punk, but also the growing romanticism of the city’s songwriters and the unstoppable move towards austere hairdressing. It may also have been the first Plato’s night that didn’t burden the audience with an overwanked, pseudo-funky Northern drugs band. Quite cherubic, their look said Five Go Rambling In 1932, and their sweetly-crafted acoustic loveliness showed us views of Bacharach and David and Arthur Lee, as seen from the splendour of Low Hill. Their debut single, “(There’s Always) Something On My Mind,” was all of this and more, plush with strings and melodic trumpet and with Michael Head’s vocal sounding occasionally like a giddy young boy, made up to be singing his songs on a proper record and everything! These fellows clearly had never even heard of Slaughter and The Dogs, and under their gentle guidance our young man’s fondness for the music of the 60s grew still further. At some point in their early days, a straight-faced conversation must surely have gone: “So if we go down the pub in walking boots and shorts, with big thick socks and that, we might get signed by Virgin or someone?” “Nah, we’d have to get a mad ol’ fella’s haircut first, off me granddad’s barber…”
The Pale Fountains fan club crosses the ‘oller to London Road on their way to Mr. Pickwick’s
Severe haircuts were indeed becoming a matter of paramount importance, and Liverpool was blessed with any number of traditional barbers, one-cut wonders who had learned their trade in the armed forces, perhaps in an effort to be discharged. Jax, Max’s, Torbo’s, Blind Wally’s, there were plenty who could perform a cheap and effective back-and-sidectomy with half a dozen passes of a Wahl Number One. Victor, in his tiny room in Liverpool’s city centre, remains the most fondly remembered. People would queue inside and out, sometimes for hours, such were the demands of the individual vision of clippering nuance. Our curly young man, trying to sort his bonce out in time for a night on the town, would go home and forlornly inspect his trim, wondering if the problem lay with his own hair or with the exigencies of a salon with no bathroom. Truth be told, there were people whose cuts suggested that they’d been seen to as the man approached Peak Bladder! A poorly-executed or slightly outgrown Victor’s shearing could leave the victim looking like he was wearing a special helmet made of loaf. Nobody would want to go out looking like that, apart from the few with the chutzpah to carry it off as unique.
And who might they have been, then? Well, The Wild Swans would certainly have gotten away with it, although, curse them, nothing about their personal appearance had to be brazened out. Whether by accident or design, no band better epitomised the fleabitten
Having being turfed out of an absinthe bar for public decadence, the Wild Swans head to the Everyman Bistro where they can still cut it in the Third Room.
splendour of Weimar Liverpool’s merchant houses, the frostbitten crumble, the wisely-shopped jumble sale and the yellowing, derelict glamour of the army surplus store. Their first John Peel session, in May 1982, might have been their defining moment, building on their debut single, “Revolutionary Spirit,” while even more evocative of a sepia absinthe advert filmed in an artists’ club. “No Bleeding,” for many their best song, finds the band sounding almost afraid of their own muse, an elegiac yet unvarnished performance flecked with moments of diffidence, as if they’re trying to grasp what they hadn’t expected to come out of them. Indeed, a more polished version, stripped of the Decadence Verité of the Peel session, may have been the song’s worst possible fate, the nervous heat of incandescent creativity gone in the air. Our now-18-year-old, flush with tiny romantic calamities, was one of the many who were stopped dead by the song, their hearts broken on the spot. He rather liked having it broken so deliciously, and that wobbly mono cassette with the session on it would break it afresh every time it poured out of the speaker, each glass tasting as good as the first.
And it was part of a perfect soundtrack to a fabulous night in the Everyman Bistro, the beloved bolthole of creatives, misfits, flaneurs, food and drink lovers even, and, lest we forget, shameless poseurs. The Bistro experience began with a moment’s surveillance from the bottom of the entrance stairs, followed by a walk to the bar and attendant greetings and cautious half-nods. A drink-laden navigation of the next room took a little longer, the letting-on accompanied by various enquiries about who had done what to whom, and how often; and a right turn at the end led to the third room, where trims and trousers and whatever else would be discreetly inspected while latecomer friends were sought. The wait in Victor’s was justified if only to avoid running this gauntlet in a loaf/helmet scenario. At least our young man’s kecks were now on speaking terms with his arse, however uncertain the relationship of his hair to his ears.
But it wasn’t all beer and bonhomie, of course. Well, not every night. The depredations visited upon Britain’s cities by the Thatcher administration had been particularly brutal to Liverpool. Jobs disappeared hand over fist as the country’s industrial base was dismantled, and while the place limped with unemployment, school leavers faced the corrosive expectation that there was simply nothing out there for them. Thirty years after the Toxteth riots, it emerged that Thatcher was receiving advice to enter the city into a program of “managed decline.” Good of them to tell us. The bards of the town made much of it all, though perhaps none so eloquently or as upliftingly as Pete Wylie. His songs, forceful paeans to strength, empowerment and retaliation in the face of every kind of disaffection, had always bridged the personal and the political, tapping into the zeitgeist of the embattled city yet seldom referring directly to headline events. His mid-82 single, under the name of Shambeko Say Wah!, did all of the above and more.
From this distance, we can see that “Remember” could have been twin-towned with “Paperback Writer.” Not only was it the last of his old-school guitar-powered belters before the move to more lavish production, but like its twin it had an irresistibly relentless beat, an echo of Motown, no middle eight and it wasn’t long enough. Why wasn’t this number one for the whole summer, in an age when even Scritti Politti were aiming at the charts? To a young chap in a post-A-level limbo it now seemed like the sun was shining all the time, and while he couldn’t afford as many trips to the Everyman Bistro as he might like, he’d certainly walk up Hardman Street more briskly with this breathless exuberance in his mind’s ear! Later in the year Wah! would release “Story Of The Blues” and make their eternally-awaited debut on Top Of The Pops. An entire Liverpudlian generation seemed to have something in its eye, even their mothers were filling up, and the world felt just right for a while, like somebody had finally switched on the third bar of the electric fire.
But what to do with all that “leisure?” Well, you could certainly read. There were bookshops to cater to almost every literary leaning and political bent – feminism, socialism, Marxism, anarchism, bagism and shagism. Atticus, on Hardman Street, offered the most enthralling esoterica to Liverpool’s most inquisitive. Here was every cultish, obscure, or heroically opaque writer anybody had ever heard of, or would get round to shortly, honest, and all in gorgeous editions tailor made for rubberneck protrusion from a jacket pocket. Musicians had jackdawed literature for a long time, of course, William Burroughs being a particular favourite: in the 70s, Steely Dan, The Heavy Metal Kids and Dead Fingers Talk had borrowed from his work, as did Liverpool’s Nova Mob and 051, whose title Breakthrough In Grey Room was a direct quote. By the end of the decade 051 had morphed into The Room, frontman Dave Jackson hitting the bookshop again – hmm, did the name of the band refer to the Pinter play, or to the Hubert Selby Jr. novel, mused our hero, now fancying himself as a bit sophisticated? Er, neither. Bugger! It came from a short story in Sartre’s Intimacy, written in the mid-1930s when he was contemplating Husserlian phenomenology. Honest to God, how could anybody keep up with this? Wasn’t two years spent achieving a low grade French A-Level enough? How many Marguerite Duras novels did a chap have to trudge through before he might gain some purchase on the machinations of his town’s bookworm
The Room celebrate a fabulous new album
counterculture? Still, in 1982 the Room’s erudite post-punkery would be lightened by the fresco cantabile of “One Hundred Years,” which sounded like someone putting a book down and rubbing their eyes before running out into the sunshine – especially to somebody despondently holding the knotted tatters of sophistication’s burst balloon. Just after this a line-up change would bring an even more ambitious new album, the luxurious “Clear!” ornamented with Paul Cavanagh’s intricately decorative guitar, and in the fullness of time Jackson would become a lecturer in Creative Writing. Who’d have thought? In case Liverpool hadn’t had enough of Burroughs, in October 1982 Atticus managed not only to present him reading his work in Liverpool’s Crest Hotel, but also to persuade him to come to the shop to do a book signing. Our man with the blown mind, present at both, struggles to this day to comprehend the magnitude of this event which appeared, in the light of the city’s cultural abundance, to have been organised, staged and attended so casually. If he’d read in a countercultural history that something similar had gone on in City Lights or Compendium, he’d have bristled with envy, but this seemed to have been arranged as insouciantly as a gig in The Warehouse.
It was a major event, in any case, and its impact became ever more apparent with the coming years, especially on one eighteen-year-old in the audience. The reading was his first exposure to The Extremely Avant Garde, and Burroughs’ dry delivery of his intractably opaque work brought some semblance of sense to it, albeit, perhaps, a sense entirely of its own. But this was the victory of the evening – in good time the outer reaches of free jazz and any amount of other artistic abstraction would present him with little problem, on account of this early help with viewing it on its own terms. A simple enough lesson, perhaps, but an eye-opener at a time of supernova curiosity!
The imago now surfaced. In two short years an awkward and reserved down-at-heel teenager from the Dingle had become an assured and enlightened down-at-heel teenager from the Dingle, with kecks that fitted where they touched, a vague semblance of a job, an even vaguer semblance of a haircut and a shelf of impenetrable books to read on the bus to the pub. Heaven was in a wild flower, the planets were in his palm, a whole world of excitement and adventure and romance was his for the taking, should he ever get round to it. In the meantime. Send No Flowers morphed into Kit, the Pale Fountains into Shack, Wah! into Wah! Everything, The Room into Benny Profane. Paul Simpson put the Wild Swans on hold for a while to form Care with Ian Broudie and made My Boyish Days a record that sounded like the sun coming up on young adulthood’s rapt awakening, and encapsulated in three minutes the imagination and delight that grew wilder by the day! Pure joy won out, again!
…three hundred, in fact, Easily. Five hundred, a grand, anything – he was only going to chuck it on the fire!
“You like a lot of old Robert Crumb jazz, don’t you?”
A musician friend, Serge Lefevre, was seeking to refresh his palate. My mind started putting together a CD before he’d asked, a delectable salmagundi of classics and curios. “Of course, I’d love to, but just give me a day or two to trot out a couple of lines of background for each song…”
Bits of history attached themselves to each other, until all 18 tracks carried some musical, social or biographical detail to add context, or at least amusement. And underpinning all of it, of course, was the extraordinary stylistic development that attended jazz recording as the 1920s progressed. Serge and I, and many others of our age, can surely be forgiven for drawing parallels with the 1960s and 70s, when music spread from comfort to confrontation and delivered creative firebrands and mobs of imitators in equal measure. Do enjoy sorting out the Real Things from the Plastic Bertrands, and good luck finding your own Mark E. Smith!
But now, music, beautiful music, everywhere! Your ears will thank you forever.
Doctor Jazz – Jelly Roll Morton and his Red Hot Peppers (16.12.1926)
Jelly Roll Morton’s Red Hot Peppers form an orderly queue for the charabanc
An absolute joy, part of the gallery of miniature masterpieces that Morton and his band bestowed upon the world in 1926/7. Doctor Jazz was composed and recorded by King Oliver, but Morton’s arrangement and orchestration make it pretty much his own; instrumental touches like Omer Simeon’s long clarinet notes and the whipcrack drum punctuation carry Morton’s imprimatur, and the jauntily relaxed rhythmic flow gives the impression of a happily crowded charabanc bouncing along a seaside road. Your life is already ten times better, and we’re only on track one!
Dippermouth Blues – King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band (06.04.1923)
King Oliver’s Jazz Band behaving in a manner sadly frowned upon by the modern jazz ensemble
Gennett Records was born of Starr Piano, a piano-making company in Richmond, Indiana that was seeking to keep up with the times by producing gramophones and, logically, records to play on them. The manager of their Chicago store, Fred Wiggins, could but notice that the boom town’s ever-growing black migrant population had enough disposable income to generate a whole entertainment industry, and that Gennett might do well to grab some of the action. Meanwhile the main recording companies, Columbia and Victor, were too slow both to notice the demographic shift and to pay attention to what the little label from out of town was up to. Consequently, Gennett issued early and even debut recordings by some of the legends of jazz and blues, Jelly Roll Morton, Bix Beiderbecke, Louis Armstrong, The New Orleans Rhythm Kings, Charley Patton and Big Bill Broonzy, together with any number of upmarket dance orchestras, backwoods fiddlers and gospel shouters – the record industry would not get it quite so wrong again until a Decca executive claimed that guitar groups were on the way out!
King Oliver’s Creole Band were in Richmond for two hot April days in 1923, cutting the first series of jazz classics made by an all-black band. The previous year Oliver had summoned Louis Armstrong to come and play second cornet with his band in Chicago, and he took the northern train to join a band bejewelled with stars from his home town, among them Johnny and Baby Dodds and his future wife Lil Hardin. The sides they cut for Gennett are among the ancient scriptures of jazz, their commandments guiding the swing and big band eras and beyond – the cornet solos on this disc sound like the entirety of the British Trad boom condensed into one record! If modern ears struggle with the acoustic recording, primitive even for its day, they might enjoy simply cranking it up and marvelling at a band in their moment begetting one of the 20th century’s most significant musicians.
(Footnote, for anybody who might think Gennett sounds like a beacon of indie-label probity… The company’s facilities were available on a contract hire basis for anybody who wished to make records for personal, corporate or any other reasons – payment was upfront, so it made sound business sense. However, in the early 20s, Indiana had the highest Ku Klux Klan membership of all of the United States, some quarter of a million people directing their confused Protestant outrage at the post-war influx of Catholics, Jews and anybody else who wasn’t the same as they were. While the owners of Gennett disdained the organisation personally, they viewed making records for them as mere commercial pragmatism. Indeed, the studio engineer, Ezra Wickemeyer, was said to be a member, leaving us with the uneasy irony of some of the cornerstones of African-American music being recorded by a Klansman!)
Potato Head Blues – Louis Armstrong and his Hot Seven (10.05.1927)
And here is Oliver’s second cornet a few short years later. Louis Armstrong’s Hot Five was a studio group, convened at irregular intervals over two years or so and occasionally augmented to the Hot Seven. To listen to their sides is to hear a history of jazz, as their acoustically-recorded beginnings, steeped in the New Orleans tradition of collective cornet/clarinet/trombone interplay, evolve into a whole new language of soloistic panache. While Armstrong’s invention is granted unfettered expression, the records still had an easy-going, last-day-of-term feel about them, a sense that the band was off-duty. In your mind’s eye they are smiling as they casually knock out another in the long line of classics that would shape jazz as we know it!
Such as this one, which gives us all that is great about jazz in three minutes! Armstrong leads the ensemble through the first chorus before taking a sixteen bar break, followed by a fleet 32 from Johnny Dodds’ clarinet, itself worth the price of admission. But a few strums of a banjo precede a stop-time solo that could be used to define jazz to schoolchildren, a bravura display of virtuosity, brazen imagination, even insolence, everything you could ask for from a jazz record, and better dressed for its nakedness.
And to think the record – indeed, a whole swathe of musical history – might never have appeared had it not been for another irony of segregation. To appeal to (or to tap the commercial possibilities of) the booming African-American market, the recording companies launched “race” catalogues in which to place jazz and blues, fearing that too much excitement might disconcert their more sedate white audiences. While the very notion of “race records” might seem controversial, without them Armstrong’s beautiful, thrilling, genre-defining early records might never have seen the light of day, and we absolutely cannot countenance a musical world in which they hadn’t happened!
Weather Bird – Louis Armstrong and His Savoy Ballroom Five (05.12.1928)
And just eighteen months later…
Louis’ Hot Fives and Sevens period only lasted for an aggregate of three weeks, all of the recordings under that name taking place in 22 sessions scattered between November 1925 and July 1928, although this and other small group masterpieces appeared over the following year or so. Louis’ time during “the Hot Five days” was actually spent commuting between two or three club and theatre jobs, and it was at one of these that he met pianist Earl Hines. A year later, working at the Sunset Cafe in Carroll Dickerson’s orchestra, the two men were encouraged by the café’s owner, one of Chicago’s more persuasive businessmen, to form and record a smaller band under their own aegis. More masterpieces followed, as the two men pushed themselves and each other ever further beyond any connection to ragtime or to New Orleans classicism. Weather Bird sees jazz at what by then was its most advanced. Hines was revolutionising jazz piano with what became known as his “horn style,” letting his left hand accentuate off-beats, sudden halts, even silences, as well as adding it to his right hand in following the soloists, egging them on to be more adventurous. Here we find the two great men totally au naturel, the duo setting giving an unadorned and uncluttered picture of what they were capable of, stripping the composition down and restructuring it as Hines moves further away from its initial stride rhythm, their exchanges becoming shorter and shorter as though they’re winding each other up until they fall apart laughing. This is a performance of breathtaking modernity and invention, which over the intervening 90 years has been discussed and dissected with a fervour that shows no sign of abating. Genuine classical music!
Krazy Kat – Frankie Trumbauer And His Orchestra (28.09.1927)
The band was drawn from the Jean Goldkette Orchestra and featured Bix Beiderbecke on cornet. This, in its quiet way, was also pushing at the boundaries of jazz.
Bix’s premature death aroused claims that he was driven to alcoholism by the music he was playing in his later years, popular and symphonic work with the massive orchestra led by Paul Whiteman, the self-styled “King of Jazz,” who had employed Bix and other jazzmen to add heat to some of his numbers. Whatever one’s opinion of the output of this prototype James Last, his musicians were fabulously well-paid and looked after, Whiteman even keeping Bix’s chair (and pay packet) open for him for months on end while he attempted inconclusively to confront his demons. In truth, Bix relished the challenges presented by Whiteman’s tightly-scored arrangements, and still enjoyed the solo spots which gave latitude for his improvisational leanings.
This jazz-tinged “Tone Poem In Slow Rhythm” hails from Bix’s pre-Whiteman days, and shows that he was already keen to experiment in areas other than hot blowing and jamming. Compositionally it was miles away from “hot” music, but he clearly has no problem with playing both the solos and the tricky lead parts. Bix often felt held back by his limited ability to sight read, and it has been mooted that this contributed more to his drinking that any amount of Whiteman material. Had he not died so young, had he applied himself more to his reading, there would have been no saying where he might have gone with it all.
Original Tuxedo Rag – Original Tuxedo Jazz Band (23.01.1925)
The Original Tuxedo Jazz Band, together with their guest list
Now we’ve heard the music at its most advanced, we might ask what it had advanced from. The sides recorded by Oscar “Papa” Celestin’s Original Tuxedo Band on an Okeh Records field trip in 1925, are among the few recordings of New Orleans music made in the town itself, and they are the closest we have to the real thing, to the relentless, rattling thrill, the breathless, clattering ensemble onslaught, the embroidered tumult of the city’s trademark tutti. Celestin led the band at the Tuxedo Dance Hall from 1910, but kept the Tuxedo Band name after it had closed. They remained one of the biggest draws in the Crescent City, and though his music had fallen out of broader fashion by 1926 and the Depression put them out of business altogether, Celestin convened an all-new Original Tuxedo Band after World War Two, proving more popular than ever and even playing the White House for President Eisenhower in 1953. No one was bothered back then about them not being the original Original band, not like nowadays…
Auburn Avenue Stomp – J. Neal Montgomery and His Orchestra (14.03.1929)
The idea of jazz being birthed in New Orleans is romantic, if approximate. True enough, the place enjoyed massive ethnic, cultural and social diversity, and a great need for music appropriate to its many and varied requirements. It’s also true that most of the early jazz masters came from the Big Easy, taking the music with them wherever they went. But the city had no monopoly on street bands, blues shouters, gospel choirs or brothel pianists, and outside of New Orleans, America was a ceaseless criss-cross of travelling dance outfits, territory bands whose role in cross-pollinating American vernacular music can barely be overestimated. Smaller than the major touring orchestras, they’d play for dancers, or perform in Vaudeville revues or generally pursue whatever opportunities the booking agencies could find for them. And their polite dance music and covers of the popular songs of the day would pick up (and drop off) other influences, especially if they were thought to have commercial potential. The list of jazz notables who started out in territory bands is massive – Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Earl Hines, so many more – and the bands themselves continued to thrive into the 1950s, when a changing world called time on them. J. Neal Montgomery’s orchestra, from Atlanta, is a case in point, giving us a very tidy and buttoned-down dance record whose initial unison themes resolve about half way through into a series of twelve-bar solo spots. All of these are dispatched with varying degrees of jazzworthiness, some of the boys embracing their moment with a little more aplomb than others – the clarinet player was positively twitching with excitement, although the chap with the alto sax was clearly knackered after four bars. Terrific fun!
Come On And Stomp, Stomp, Stomp – Johnny Dodds And His Black Bottom Stompers (08.10.1927)
Johnny Dodds taking a dim view of his kid brother’s shenanigans.
Jazz antiquity attaches itself with baffling regularity to some of the idioms of the day. Blues, stomps, rags, joys, only the most assiduous student may know in a “blind” test where one ended and another began. This one is definitely a stomp, though. Everything about it is stomping, from the name of the band onwards. By whose measure is “Auburn Avenue Stomp” a stomp after this? This is even more stomping than the Dave Clark Five! The drums are provided here by Warren “Baby” Dodds, Johnny’s versatile if prodigal younger brother who outlived his abstemious sibling by nineteen years, giving him the chance to make two albums of drum solos that showed just how incompletely his 1920s recordings actually served his talent.
Johnny Dodds himself played with impressive adaptability in Louis Armstrong’s Hot Fives and Sevens as well as Jelly Roll Morton’s Red Hot Peppers and King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band, although his reputation rests more on the entirety of his contribution than on individual recordings. He died of a stroke in 1940, aged 48, after recurring ill-health prevented him from recording much in the 1930s. So many of the classic jazz recordings of the age are graced with his clarinet, blues-drenched and rich with vibrato.
Beau Koo Jack – The Omer Simeon Trio (21.08.1929)
Omer Simeon studiously avoiding vibrato
In the New Orleans of the early 20th century, lower class blacks, the descendants of freed slaves, found themselves at liberty to pursue some degree of upward mobility. On the other hand, mixed-race “Creoles of colour,” once an elite enjoying privilege, property ownership and education, were sent spiralling downward as increasing numbers of whites were unwilling to accept a three-tiered society. The two groups met somewhere in the middle, or more likely near the bottom, given the attitudes of the time. This is something of a potted version of events, of course, to shed light upon a musical quirk, as the situation added two distinct flavours of jazz playing to New Orleans’ already scrumptious gumbo. The former, often self-taught and with some familiarity with blues and rural music, had no qualms about vibrato, ripped notes or whatever else might add emotional freight to their performance. The Creoles tended to betray classical musical training, every note perfectly formed and executed, nary an elision in earshot. Here we can hear the Creole Omer Simeon (a favourite of Jelly Roll Morton) piping his meticulous clarinet while chivvied along throughout by Earl Hines’ rollicking, ragtime-proof piano. Simeon would work with Hines’ orchestra throughout the 1930s to considerable effect, but the joyous, small-group clarity of this earlier recording presents the work of each man in wonderfully sharp relief. Delicious!
Wild Cat Blues – Clarence Williams’ Blue Five (Featured Soloist: Sidney Bechet) (30.07.1923)
Sidnet Bechet embraces barometric intensity
“Listen, when we were making all that jazz history, Bechet wasn’t even there!” (Albert Nicholas).
It would be lovely, wouldn’t it, to think that the musicians in New Orleans were a big, cuddly, happy family, irrespective of racial or cultural background, and that they all migrated to Chicago at the same time on a train bursting with jollity. Just like Liverpool in the Merseybeat era, when all those contract-waving A & R men met a friendly bunch of loveable rogues and had a nice cup of tea and…oh, hang on…
The early jazz scene had as much rivalry and friendship, often at the same time, as any other cultural milieu. But it also bred its lone wolves. If we look at Jelly Roll Morton, for example, we see a man who by his teens was a highly-regarded pianist in New Orleans’ fabulously extravagant sporting houses and who wouldn’t touch the rougher cabaret bands with a big stick, let alone join them. He only settled in Chicago after years of peregrinations, and even then he didn’t join his erstwhile New Orleans compatriots, preferring to work with the Melrose music publishers and to record only with bands of musicians he’d chosen himself. Sidney Bechet also stood apart and bucked trends with a similar self-assurance. While other well-schooled Creole clarinet players took pride in classical precision, Bechet favoured a vibrato that made him one of the easiest musicians to identify blindfold. As others took root in Chicago, Bechet made only a fleeting and unsettled visit, and by 1919 he was touring Europe with Will Marion Cook’s Southern Syncopated Orchestra. After chancing upon a soprano saxophone in a London pawn shop, he became the first jazzman to make it a primary instrument, impressed by its fluid fingering and its power to dominate an ensemble. In 1923, following an altercation with a prostitute, he was deported from Britain to New York, where he joined the nascent Duke Ellington band for a few months as well as cutting his first records, including this one with Clarence Williams’ Blue Five.
A Fats Waller composition, “Wild Cat Blues” was Bechet’s first record and he delivers it with the forthright aplomb that he would build upon throughout his career. He leads throughout, his fleet soprano negotiating the relentless four-to-the-bar while Thomas Morris’ cornet sits quietly in the passenger seat. This one performance alone was enough to secure his place as the first great saxophonist in jazz (Coleman Hawkins was playing in the Fletcher Henderson Orchestra at this point but his true solo style would be hampered for a while by the band’s material). In the 1930s Bechet would make records of barometric intensity with trumpeter Tommy Ladnier, as well as many with various other musicians that showed a heart-rending understanding of the blues, in both form and feeling. It remains a tragedy, though, that he was too doggedly independent to develop the group empathy that would have brought about a consistent and invincible body of defining work.
The Stampede – Fletcher Henderson Orchestra (14.05.1926)
Fletcher Henderson at the peak of the meat product bartering boom
Meanwhile, up in New York, before the First World War, Vernon and Irene Castle had become stars of screen and stage, appearing on Broadway and in silent films and prompting a massive dance music craze. Such was their rise that the “dance hall,” once deemed a source of rather humble entertainment, became hugely fashionable, and as bigger and bigger dance halls began to spring up, the sizes of the dance orchestras ballooned to the point where the Castles’ musical director, James Reese Europe, staged a concert in Carnegie Hall in 1914 that featured a 125-piece band! Even the more humble outfits were three or four dozen strong – really, what did they all do?
The bands had to trim down somewhat, and as the banjo sections and what have you were given their cards, we were left with something approaching the standard dance-band model: brass and saxophones to give weight, embellished by a clarinet’s higher-pitched excitement. In the meantime, however, New York had seen an influx of migrant workers and musicians from the south, bringing with them a demand for the blues-soaked, rough and ready music they’d left at home. As this demand met the borderline hysteria that accompanied the arrival of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band in 1916, the dance bands split roughly into two camps – those who continued to play in the old-fashioned sweet and symphonic style, and those who sought one way or another to embrace the changes, employing hot players and incorporating improvised passages into their repertoire.
Fletcher Henderson had moved to New York from Atlanta University, ostensibly to embark upon a course of postgraduate research but instead being drawn into music publishing, where he built up an impressive list of contacts. Working with arranger Don Redman, he was looking to create a modern jazz orchestra, although the catalyst for this would not be found until 1924, when Louis Armstrong was coaxed to New York from Chicago, where he had recently left King Oliver. Even then, it was a while before his energy spread to the rest of the band. Some of the early records sound as though he’d been parachuted in as the obligatory jazz star, the effect being almost as incongruous as the Sex Pistols appearing as guests on the Mike Yarwood Show. It was a full year before the others caught up with him, his influence becoming more apparent after he’d left, but when they did…
“The Stampede,” another Fats Waller composition, sees a galvanised Henderson orchestra charging headlong with a distinct sense of purpose, finally beginning to wrest themselves free of their earlier stodginess. Rex Stewart shows his clear adulation of Armstrong by his fiery cornet breaks in the opening theme, fine trumpet work from Joe Smith keeps the engine stoked in the second half, but in between bursts forth a solo from Coleman Hawkins that shows how he would become the tenor player by which others would be measured for some years to come. He is clearly fizzing with an excitable energy, placing accents before and after beats and making every note sound positively bulbous with life. Henderson’s musicians were now among the finest of their time, and their ability to cram three minutes with excitement, detail and surprise was to be equalled only by the Ellington bands. While Jelly Roll Morton was crafting beautifully ornate small group masterpieces at the same time, his records sounded, to some extent, like miracles being wrought from history. The Henderson orchestra, on the other hand, was beginning to sound like the future, dance band and jazz traditions simply providing grist to the mill of the combined creativity of the individual musicians. Magnificent!
And to think that Fats Waller allegedly sold the tune to Henderson as part of a job lot of nine tunes, in exchange for a plate of hamburgers. At least it was a large plate…
The Chant – The Original Memphis Five (26.11.1926)
The Original Memphis Five conjuring up a musical hex that will eventually reduce pianist Frank Signorelli to the size of an amoeba
The OM5 was established in New York in 1917 by dance band stalwarts Frank Signorelli and Phil Napoleon. They made their first record under the name of The Original Dixieland Jazz Band (see below), although reports vary as to whether this move was blessed or protested by the actual band. After that they spent the 1920s recording hundreds of sides under a bewildering variety of names, frequently acting as a studio splinter group for recordings supervised by leaders of bigger dance orchestras seeking to harness the energy of the jazz that the ODJB had brought to New York, and for whom some or all of them may have been working. Thus a band that had never been to Memphis recorded with equal geographical licence as The Tennessee Ten, The Savannah Six, Jazzbo’s Carolina Serenaders and Ladd’s Black Aces. No, they weren’t black and no, we don’t know who Ladd was, but at least they were ace! Phil Napoleon, by the way, was an influence on the young Bix Beiderbecke.
Singin’ The Blues – Bix Beiderbecke (04.02.1927)
Bix looking suave
“Singin’ The Blues” was credited to the Frank Trumbauer Orchestra, an aggregation drawn from the Jean Goldkette Orchestra. The record shows perfectly how Bix’s relaxed but ingeniously subtle middle-register playing style suggested a new direction for some jazz players. He could play hot with the rest of them, for sure, but he wasn’t one to chase top C, and his gorgeous pastel solo here seems barely to step beyond the range of the conversational human voice – a ripped note in the middle of it comes as quite a shock. And Bix isn’t the only star of the show – Frank Trumbauer’s undulating sax offers a lovely contrast, and a short clarinet break from a squiffy Jimmy Dorsey ties things up nicely, but we must not overlook the priceless contribution of Eddie Lang, whose guitar manages both to propel the whole thing and embellish it with solo playing within the ensemble. There were other musicians present too, among them Chauncey Morehouse on drums and Miff Mole on trombone, but through luck or judgement they were placed near the back of the room, allowing the frontline to create an uncluttered classic that sounds like a picnic on a riverbank.
Bix died in 1931, aged 28, and legends sprung up swiftly around his premature demise, not all of them without foundation – yes, alcohol played a very large part. But then, as now, such speculation does no favours to a complex man and a discreetly brilliant musician.
The Pearls – Jelly Roll Morton and his Red Hot Peppers (10.06.1927)
Even dogs were spellbound by Jelly Roll Morton
Morton led a picaresque life. By his teens he was a piano “professor” in Storyville’s most esteemed sporting houses, a respect far ahead of that enjoyed by other musicians. He left New Orleans shortly afterwards when his family discovered that he was not, as he had told them, working as a night watchman, and threw him out on to the street. He toured the southern states in a Vaudeville revue; elsewhere he made money as, variously, a gambler, a pimp, a pool shark, even as a musician. Somewhere in all of this he wrote and arranged music that would form the basis of his reputation, and on settling in Chicago in the 1920s he recorded his compositions on piano rolls and solo discs before signing to the Victor Talking Machine Company and preserving them in their pomp with a well-rehearsed band picked from the finest New Orleans musicians in the city. The sides cut by the Red Hot Peppers are among the high watermarks of jazz antiquity, indeed of any kind of musical endeavour. More than any other jazz musician of the day, Jelly viewed the three-minute recording window as an opportunity rather than a limitation, and his classic sides are self-contained masterpieces of exquisite detail, like little symphonic haikus. Even after years and years of listening they continue to yield surprises and subtleties in the arrangements, instrumental colorations and harmonic details, unnoticed elements of genius, and they will never die
“The Pearls” was a tribute to a lady of some standing within Jelly’s orbit, perhaps from one of the notoriety establishments where he was held in such esteem, who knows..?
Mojo Strut – Parham/Pickett Apollo Syncopators (December 1926)
The hilariously-named Tiny Parham, as depicted by Robert Crumb
You know how sometimes a record just doesn’t do it for you because you know that everything that’s going to happen in it has happened within the first thirty seconds? You know how ashamed you are to be so dismissive? You know how part of you wonders if this means you’re tiring of music itself? The Parham/Pickett Apollo Syncopators have felt your pain. They will sort you out.
Tiny Parham (piano) and Leroy Pickett (violin) led the pit orchestra in Chicago’s Apollo Theatre in 1926. As might be expected from a band that had to shift moods instantaneously and precipitously, their record is, well, full of stuff. A cheesy “look-out-behind-you” opening gives way to an eastern-promise ensemble section driven along by some rather determined tub-thumping, which takes us in turn to a jovial violin lead and a stop-time trumpet break. And in the second minute we have a fat-bloke trombone interlude and a solo on wooden blocks (or is somebody tapping his teeth with his fingernails?) before the reeds and the tubs take us to a final collective dash for the tape. Half a dozen records for the price of one, fabulous!
Parham cut forty-odd sides for Victor in the late 20s, a number of them being compared to the contemporaneous Duke Ellington records on account of their painstaking attention to detail and almost cinematic imagination. Some people, on the other hand, were rather less circumspect about the whole thing…
Crazy Quilt – Dixon’s Jazz Maniacs (January 1927)
Mastery of the clarinet is notoriously hard won. There is unavoidable pressure on the mouth, teeth and neck. The slightest wrong movement can cause squeaks and dropouts, and the correct pitching of notes in the outer reaches of its range can be positively treacherous.
None of this even remotely troubled Vance Dixon, however. His unfettered performance here, blowing his blackstick to kingdom come with an abandon that leaves the listener feeling winded, sounds almost like a distant precursor of free jazz. A couple of years later he surfaced with a new band, Vance Dixon and His Pencils, but the move from Maniac to Pencil carries a palpable sense of diminuendo – even a title as promising as “Meat Man Pete” failed to crawl out of the ordinary, despite a vocal by Papa Too Sweet.
Original Jelly Roll Blues – Jelly Roll Morton and his Red Hot Peppers (16.12.1926)
The Spanish Tinge, earlier today
“if you can’t manage to put tinges of Spanish in your tunes, you will never be able to get the right seasoning, I call it, for jazz.” (Jelly Roll Morton)
Cuban music had found popularity in the USA in the nineteenth century and beyond, the habanera and tangana cropping up in the work of formal composers like W.C. Handy. Jelly believed that “The Spanish Tinge” (his description of the rhythms of Afro-Spanish music) was integral to music that should be “sweet, soft, plenty rhythm;” indeed, he loosely organised his own compositions into Blues, Stomps and Spanish Tinge. This wasn’t the first Spanish Tinge that he’d written and recorded, but it was certainly the most explicit, even featuring castanets to banish the shadow of doubt, and it sashays fabulously into the Red Hot Peppers’ impeccably furnished ballroom. Would the Latin American influence have made such inroads into jazz without Morton’s encouragement? Well, probably. But would it have been as much fun..?
Dixie Jass Band One Step – The Original Dixieland Jazz Band (26.02.1917)
The ODJB and their teddy bear, as exciting in their day as The Clash were in theirs.
And where better to end than at the very beginning? Here we have one side of what is generally considered to be the first ever jazz record. (The other side, “Livery Stable Blues,” found the band imitating farm animals, a mercifully short-lived novelty). As with rock’n’roll, you could point to earlier musical hybrids, perhaps to the proto-jazz sides cut by James Reese Europe or to any number of ruggedly enthusiastic ragtime records, but this is our “Rocket 88.” The ODJB had formed in New Orleans, taking notes at the feet of King Oliver and others, and moved first to Chicago in 1916 then to New York in 1917. As it happened, they were following in the footsteps of Freddie Keppard’s Original Creole Band (honestly, early jazz had more originals than a vinyl fetishist’s record collection), who a year or two earlier had also proved a hit in both towns and would have been the first to record but for Keppard’s mistrust of the whole thing. But if Freddie was a success, the ODJB was a sensation, and their residency at Reisenweber’s restaurant in Columbus Circle caused near-mania throughout New York society and among many of the city’s more stolid dance orchestras. They could now do nothing wrong: the records they cut for Victor in February of that year were instant hits, the London Palladium booked them for a nine-month, fervour-spreading tour of Britain, and they returned to a hero’s welcome. They remained in good favour for a couple of years and their influence was massive, bands cut from similar cloth turning out untold quantities of equally dementing records in the “new” style (like this one) but in due course their material became more banal until 1925 when their leader, Nick LaRocca, put the band on indefinite hold following a nervous breakdown.
But they have remained loved, however history may have treated them. By the late 1930s, the “New Orleans Revival” led any number of enthusiasts to dig ever deeper into the roots of the music, and history was re-written. Or, more accurately, “written.” Earlier accounts had been blessed with far less information and a certain amount of assumption, leading to a widespread belief that jazz had been immaculately conceived in Victor’s recording studio. But now there was testimony from Jelly Roll Morton, Bunk Johnson and Sidney Bechet, among many others, all of whom waxed eloquently of the rough and ready jazz played many years earlier in New Orleans and beyond. It’s hard now to imagine a time when this wouldn’t have been common knowledge, but back then the news was ruinous to the trailblazing reputation that had been foisted upon the ODJB. The music won, thankfully, and while they were ultimately shown up as being perfectly decent and fortuitously placed (if not wholly original), their records became cornerstones of the New Orleans revival and formed some of the urtexts of the ensuing Trad boom. And why wouldn’t they? A hundred years later they still sound crazily energetic, crude, manic, almost grating but impossibly thrilling, rattling with the bone-shaking momentum of a cycle ride down a cobblestone hill with solid tyres and no brakes. You can almost hear your mother shouting at you from the bottom of the stairs to turn that bloody racket down! Jazz could only, possibly, be a force for good in the world after starting like this – ageless maybe, deathless undeniably
Does anything in our shopping basket recycle its own ordure quite as romantically as wine does? While other items find their way to the shops via the path of purity, the wine route demands wellingtons, and its shelves present us with a whole glossary of evocative terms which ultimately tell us that we want this stuff because it’s full of gunge. Indeed, the quantity of it we want seems to be in direct proportion to the amount of contributory gunge, delivered in such cunning guises as:
1. Maceration. This gives red wine tannin, body and colour, and entails leaving the wine on the stems, stalks and skins left over after pressing – none of which you’d otherwise have much use for. Least of all putting into your mouth. If you want a big, meaty, deep-coloured and tannic beast of a wine, then the chances are it will have sat for some time on its own detritus.
2. The Ripasso Method. This is a popular Italian way of producing often delicious wine, whereby grapes are fermented over the residuum of the production of another wine, usually Amarone. So all the stuff that was unpleasant enough to feature in point one lives to fight another day!
3. Filtration. Many wines will produce some sort of unpleasant sediment, and may need a degree of filtering before bottling. The extent of filtration will depend on the whim of the winemaker, so the consumer might get to enjoy some of the unpleasant sediment as well!
4. Fining. Even after filtration the wine will need to be clarified, as residual proteins can make it look unappetising. So to get your tummy rumbling it will be treated with ground fish bones, or dried egg white, or even with a clay called bentonite. Yum, perfection achieved!
5. Muscadet Sur Lie. “Sur Lie” translates as “on the lees,” the lees being a layer of gunk produced by dead yeast cells during the fermentation process. The flavours of the wine are enriched by prolonged contact with said gunk, especially if treated to battonage, which is the process of stirring up the gunk from time to time. Idiomatic French speakers might also recognise “sur lie” as a regional dialect term meaning “on gunk.”
6. Riddling. Champagne is produced by the secondary in-bottle fermentation of a still wine, and thus can’t avoid a certain amount of precipitate because the lees form in situ. Riddling is the process, manual or mechanical, whereby the bottles are gently tilted to encourage the precipitate to accumulate in the neck. Mmm, keep talking! And after that…
7. Disgorgement. The goo is frozen into a pellet, the cap is removed and the pressure of the bottle ejects it. All over the place.
8. Crusted Port. Port revels in its involvement with its attendant refuse, but honorary mention can surely be made of the crusted port style. This receives additional bottle-ageing so that more crud can develop, and so that the producer can call the end product “crusted,” while meaning “crud-enriched.”
9. Decanters. Now you’ve been persuaded to pay more for a bottle of wine that’s clearly superior because it’s full of crap, you will be encouraged to buy an expensive crystal decanter to pour it into, because, hey, what’s all that crap? Who on earth would want that?
10. Flor. While ageing, a fino sherry runs the risk of oxidation. To lessen this risk, a protective layer of yeast residue called flor is encouraged to form across the surface of the wine, offering an attractive seal against the perils of the outside world. This not only adds depth and tanginess to the wine, but it also illuminates a process whereby a wine’s own cack can stop it from turning into cack; a bit like never washing your hair to preserve its nourishing oils. Except it works. But perhaps a Lifetime Achievement Award can go to…
11. Wine Writing. Just like wine itself, wine writing is often enriched by a healthy dollop of sludge. It might occasionally leave an unpalatable taste, but without the odd shovelful of madness and delusion, wine writing would be a dull and monochromatic documentary, instead of a three-dimensional, technicolour experience that offers a rewarding plot for every different taste and which keeps the audience coming back for more. Again, just like wine itself. So please don’t cut the crap, things would be awful without it!