Composed by Duke Ellington: arranged by Joe Lippman.
Recorded by Bunny Berigan and His Orchestra for Victor on April 21, 1938 in New York.
Bunny Berigan, first and solo trumpet, directing: Steve Lipkins and Irving Goodman, trumpets; Nat Lobovsky and Ray Conniff, trombones; Mike Doty alto saxophone and bass clarinet; and Joe Dixon, alto saxophone and B-flat clarinet; Georgie Auld and Clyde Rounds, tenor saxophones and B-flat clarinets; Joe Lippman, piano; Dick Wharton, guitar; Hank Wayland, bass; Johnny Blowers, drums.
The music: Bunny Berigan and his band finished the five-tune recording session of April 21, 1938 with one of Joe Lippman’s special arrangements. Berigan’s recording of Duke Ellington’s “Azure” is certainly one of the best treatments this sixteen-bar composition ever received. Lippman’s masterful arrangement on “Azure” is somewhat reminiscent of his great chart for the Berigan band on “Caravan.” In it are frequent changes of timbre and dramatic, contrasting uses of register and dynamics.
Bunny set a perfect dance tempo for this performance, which opens with three of the four saxists playing B-flat clarinets, with Joe Dixon on lead, and Mike Doty playing his bass clarinet. They play the eight-bar intro over drummer Johnny Blowers’s soft tom-toms, and oo-ah brass. Then Bunny sets out the sixteen-bar melody with an open trumpet displaying his unique low register sound; here it is velvety, indeed sumptuous. Berigan, as was often his wont, shapes the notes he plays. Behind him, the reeds provide color, Doty’s bass clarinet again being noteworthy, with the brass adding subtle emphases.
After this, the open brass play what amounts to a miniature fanfare, and Bunny’s suddenly brilliant high register trumpet projects a commanding and stirring transitional figure that ushers in the four-man Berigan reed section, now playing their saxophones. Their sixteen-bar chorus is a model of unity and singing (and swinging) expressiveness. Behind them are Blowers’s insistent high-hat cymbals, solid bass and guitar rhythm, and a few strategically placed brass oo-ahs. A brief muted brass interlude (led by Berigan’s cup-muted trumpet) is followed by a few more bars of splendid work by the saxophones. Then Lippman’s arrangement sets the reeds against the open brass, after which Georgie Auld plays a few bars of solo tenor saxophone. The climax arrives when the Berigan-led open brass, with warm reed voicings beneath them, reprise the melody again, but in the high register. (Hear them shake on their high notes!) The denouement comes via a bit of Joe Dixon’s clarinet, and a reprise of Bunny’s warm, low register trumpet.
This is a remarkable performance of a magnificently constructed arrangement. Few, if any critics have noted what superbly creative use Joe Lippman made of the rather limited instrumental resources available to him in Berigan’s thirteen-piece band with this arrangement. The most salient of those thirteen instruments was one singularly expressive musical voice: Bunny Berigan’s trumpet. This is another one of the “essentials” for Berigan aficionados.
The story: The Brian Rust discography states that the arrangement for Duke Ellington’s recording of “Azure,” recorded by Ellington for Irving Mills’s Master label on May 14, 1937, was written by Joe Lippman.[i] This assertion was denied by Lippman himself. It is significant however that the record that contained Duke’s “Azure (Master 131), had “Caravan” on the other side. This disk probably provided Lippman with the inspiration for the splendid arrangements he wrote for Berigan on both “Caravan” and “Azure.”
Bunny’s April 21 Victor recording session was his most successful in many months. The band’s engagement at the Paradise Restaurant, which began in March, was extended into May. The recent personnel changes that had occurred had actually improved the band overall. Once again, it seemed that Bunny Berigan had weathered a number of challenges, and emerged unscathed. The Berigan luck, which had helped him on a number of occasions while he was starting his band, held.
The recollections of everyone connected with Berigan’s band during its run at the Paradise Restaurant were extremely positive. The band members were very happy to be off the road and at home in Manhattan. New drummer Johnny Blowers, who joined as the band opened at the Paradise, got to know Bunny during that stand. He recalled his Berigan experiences, including some impressions of Berigan’s drinking, more that fifty years later:
“We spent a lot of time together. I believe he liked me as a drummer and also as a person. When we were working at the Paradise, the band would play for two hours and then break for the floor-show, after which we would go back and finish the night. But it was a long intermission, and Bunny would ask me ‘are you going to join me tonight?’ And I usually did. That meant a fast trip to Mama Leone’s, the Italian Restaurant on Forty-ninth Street, for a spaghetti dinner or pizza, and always a large bottle of wine. I would fill my glass halfway, and Bunny would drink the rest. Bunny was an alcoholic, and eventually it killed him, but I don’t think he drank for pleasure. It was a compulsion, and I know he tried to fight it. He took the cure two or three times. I really believe that if AA had come along sooner than it did, he would gladly have joined. I know, too, that he was concerned about his family and wished he could see them more often. But a musician has a hard time trying to spend much time at home.”[ii]
I have found as a result of a lot of research and cross-checking, that some of Blowers’s recollections are less than one hundred percent accurate. I do not really know what he meant when he said that Bunny “took the cure two or three times.”[iii] There is certainly evidence that on many occasions, Berigan tried to greatly reduce the amount of alcohol he drank daily. But he was in no position to take time off and go somewhere to dry out and try to modify his behavior. He was far too busy. He had a lot of commitments, and most of them were sources of pressure for him. Invariably, when Bunny would try to drink less, his mood would turn from jovial and fun loving to sullen and standoffish. His trumpet playing would improve. The multitude of irritants he had in his life as a bandleader would bother him more. He would feel more and more stressed. The quick fix that always seemed to make things better was to take a few more drinks. Berigan was by 1938 completely ensnared in the vicious cycle of alcohol addiction. But he was still able to function well enough when drinking to do what was necessary to perform as a virtuoso trumpet soloist and leader of one of the best swing bands of the day.
As happy and musically successful as Bunny and the band were during the Paradise engagement, things were happening behind the scenes that would ultimately affect the business side of the Berigan band negatively. Gene Krupa, now the leader of his own band, was also being managed by Bunny’s personal manager, Arthur Michaud. Michaud had continued representing Tommy Dorsey through the time he was involved in launching Berigan as the leader of his own band. Most of Michaud’s attention during the spring of 1938 was being absorbed in activities involving the fledgling Krupa band. Michaud and attorney John Gluskin, the “money man” referred to by another Berigan arranger, Andy Phillips, as well as MCA, had all been involved first with TD, then Bunny, and now Gene. It was only a matter of time before conflicts of interest would occur.
[i]Jazz and Ragtime Records (1897–1942), by Brian Rust, Malcolm Shaw, Editor, Mainspring Press (2002), 537–538.
[ii]Back Beats and Rim Shots – The Johnny Blowers Story, by Warren W. Vache’, Scarecrow Press (1997) page 39.
[iii] The only time when Berigan may have actually sought professional medical help to deal with his alcoholism was in July of 1940, when he was in and out of Tommy Dorsey’s band.
This recording was digitally remastered by Mike Zirpolo.
Composed by Louis Alter and Paul Francis Webster; arranged by Joe Lippman.
Recorded by Bunny Berigan and His Orchestra on August 7, 1937 for Victor in New York City.
Bunny Berigan, trumpet, directing: Steve Lipkins and Irving Goodman, trumpets; Sonny Lee and Al George, trombones; Mike Doty and Joe Dixon, alto saxophone and clarinet; Georgie Auld and Clyde Rounds, tenor saxophone and clarinet; Joe Lippman, piano; Tom Morgan, guitar; Hank Waylend, bass; George Wettling, drums.
“Turn On That Red Hot Heat (Burn Your Blues Away)” is undoubtedly one of the best recordings Bunny Berigan ever made, though it has only rarely been released as a part of the many anthologies of his recordings. The arrangement, the band’s performance, and especially Berigan’s trumpet playing, are all superb. Once again, newcomer Gail Reese is saddled with a pedestrian lyric, but such was often the lot of girl vocalists in big bands then. Joe Lippman reprised his very successful opening from “All God’s Chillun Got Rhythm” with a few new dramatic twists here: drummer George Wettling’s pounding tom-toms, and the growling open trombones of Sonny Lee and Al George, followed by the wailing clarinets, then the ooh-aah trumpets tell the listener that this heat is to be found in Equatorial (or is it Ellingtonian?) Africa. In any case, it is a masterful use of contrasting registers and timbres. Then the maestro steps out, plunger in hand, growling away on his otherwise open trumpet, to state the melody for sixteen bars, backed by those tasty clarinets. Joe Dixon then takes his turn, with sixteen bars that start in the juicy lower register of his clarinet. He is backed by the open brass. As he moves up into his high register, there is a corresponding heightening of excitement. Dixon’s solo is first-rate jazz.
The band then struts on into the vocal chorus, which Gail Reese does invest with some enthusiasm. Berigan returns on open trumpet for another sixteen bars with a sound so huge that it almost overloads the microphones. His exultant solo is the quintessence and culmination of everything he had been working to achieve as a jazz soloist for the previous ten or more years. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end to this solo: it is a perfect musical statement, and marvelous jazz. It is also technically dazzling, but not at the expense of the music in his playing. Note in the finale when Berigan joins the rest of the brass section playing the first trumpet part for the ride-out. The music soars.
This tune was written by Louis Alter (music) and Paul Francis Webster (lyric). Webster would do much better in later years with the lyrics to memorable songs like “The Shadow of Your Smile” (the title to which the great lyricist Johnny Mercer hated); “Somewhere My Love,” “Love Is a Many Splendored Thing,” “The Twelfth of Never,” and “Black Coffee.”
Bunny Berigan’s 1937 recording of “Turn On That Red Hot Heat” is definitely a swing era sleeper that deserves to be heard.
The recording used in this post was digitally remastered by Mike Zirpolo.
Composed by Bennie and Buster Moten; arranged by Ray Conniff.
Recorded by Bunny Berigan and His Orchestra live from a broadcast over WABC-New York from Roseland Ballroom in New York City in October of 1938.
Bunny Berigan, first trumpet, directing: Johnny Napton and Irving Goodman, trumpets; Ray Conniff and Andy Russo, trombones; Milton Schatz, lead alto saxophone; Arcuiso “Gus” Bivona, alto saxophone and clarinet; Georgie Auld, tenor saxophone; Clyde Rounds, tenor and baritone saxophones; Joe Bushkin, piano; Dick wharton, guitar; Hank Wayland. bass; Bernard “Buddy” Rich, drums. Solos: Bunny Berigan, trumpet; Georgie Auld, tenor saxophone; Gus Bivona, clarinet; Ray Conniff, trombone.
This is the first of three posts that will appear at the sister blog ofbunnyberiganmrtrumet.com swingandbeyond.com celebrating the centenary of drum legend Buddy Rich’s birth. This first post will focus on Rich’s first big-time jazz gig: his six months as the drummer in trumpeter Bunny Berigan’s band. NOTE: This post is a bit more detailed than the one that is posted at swingandbeyond.com covering Rich’s time with Berigan.
The story:Bernard “Buddy” Rich, perhaps the most technically astonishing drummer in the history of jazz, was born on September 30, 1917, in Brooklyn, New York. His parents were vaudeville performers, and almost from infancy Buddy was onstage performing with them. His prodigious drumming talent manifested itself when Buddy was only eighteen months old. This led to a very successful vaudeville career for Rich, which lasted through his childhood years. By 1937, he began his career as a jazz drummer, first with Joe Marsala, then in 1938 with Bunny Berigan. Berigan’s swinging band provided Rich with an excellent laboratory to experiment with techniques of driving a big band that he later perfected. Rich’s big break came when he joined Artie Shaw’s band at the beginning of 1939, just as Shaw was ascending to a place of national prominence with his band. With Shaw, Rich’s stunning drumming technique was first put on display before a national radio and movie audience.
From Shaw he went, in late 1939, to Tommy Dorsey, who featured him as a soloist almost as much as Gene Krupa was featured in his own band. His tenure with Dorsey lasted until 1945, although he did serve in the Marine Corps during World War II. After World War II he led his own big bands with modest success in the late 1940s. He worked for many bandleaders in the 1950s and into the 1960s, including Les Brown, Tommy Dorsey, and most notably, Harry James. He also worked extensively with Norman Granz’s Jazz at the Philharmonic, and on his own with small groups. In 1966, Rich formed a big band, which he led with considerable success, until his death. Rich was helped immeasurably in this endeavor by television personality Johnny Carson, who was an amateur drummer, a personal friend, and an idolator. Rich appeared on Carson’s Tonight Show dozens of times from the 1960s to the 1980s. In addition to his virtuoso drumming, Rich would easily trade witticisms with Carson. Rich also had an explosive temper and the sidemen in his last bands took delight in surreptitiously recording his rages to band members within the confines of the band bus. Buddy Rich died on April 2, 1987, in Los Angeles, California.
Berigan’s tenor sax star Georgie Auld related how Rich got into the Berigan band:
“Y’know I met Buddy when I was 14 and he was 16, which means we knew each other for 54 years. I got him in Bunny Berigan’s band and I got him in Artie Shaw’s band. He and I both lived in Brooklyn. Bunny was looking for a drummer, he was upgrading the band at the time, and I said ‘there’s a buddy of mine that’s a genius behind the drums but he can’t read a note of music.’ Bunny said ‘well, that’s no good.’ In those days we played theaters and we usually had 5 acts of vaudeville. He said, ‘What’s gonna happen when we play a theater and we get a dance act or something and he can’t read music?’ I said, ‘He’ll do more without reading than any 30 drummers you get that can read.’ Then Bunny said, ‘All right let him sit in for a tune.’ The exact same thing happened with Artie Shaw.” [i]
Rich joined the Berigan band on July 5, 1938 at Manhattan Beach in New York City. Dick Wharton, Berigan’s guitarist, remembered the gig, and Rich’s impact on the Berigan band: “Manhattan Beach was an amusement park with an open-air bandstand next to Coney Island. Johnny Blowers had just left and Georgie Auld was Bunny’s contact for enticing the young Buddy Rich away from Joe Marsala and persuading him it was a great opportunity for him. Buddy was loud from the very start and Bunny would have to insist on him cutting down the volume. But Bunny apparently liked the rhythmic ‘figures’ Rich played, and had Buddy’s ‘licks’ worked into some of the arrangements.”[ii] The Berigan band, with their new drummer, played at Manhattan Beach for a week, closing there on July 11. Buddy Rich began to slowly settle in.
After the Manhattan Beach stand, they played one-nighters west to Michigan, including one at the Queen’s Ball for the National Cherry Festival at Traverse City, Michigan on July 13.[iii] They opened on Friday July 15, at the Fox Theater in Detroit,[iv] for a one-week engagement. Here is the review of the show that the Berigan band was a part of:
“Berigan blows into the Fox with his trumpet and band to keep the jitterbugs happy and it’s a lively package of talent that Berigan has with him in the stage show. Bunny’s band is plenty smooth and keeping up the festivities are the Frazee Sisters, song stars of Billy Rose’s Casa Manana, returning by popular demand, three sophisticated ladies whose knockabout antics get plenty of laughs. Sharpe and Armstrong do a very clever satire on ballroom dancing, and Ruth Gaylor and Dick Wharton sing several popular lyrics. It is sixty minutes of lively stage fare to accompany the movie, We’re Going to Be Rich, starring Gracie Fields, Victor McLaglen and Brian Donlevy.” [v]
[i] Don Manning interview, cited in the White materials: July 5, 1938.
[iii]Traverse CityRecord Eagle: Wednesday, June 29, 1938. Information provided by Carl A. Hallstrom.
[iv] The Fox Theater, located at 2211 Woodward Avenue, Detroit, was built in 1928 by Hollywood film pioneer William Fox. Its seating capacity of 5,048 makes it the second largest theater in the United States. (Only Radio City Music Hall in New York is larger.) Its twin is the Fox Theater in St. Louis, which has 500 fewer seats. The Fox Theater has remained a vital entertainment venue since its opening.
[v]Detroit Free Press: July 16, 1938, cited in the White materials: July 15, 1938.
The Berigan Mystique:
Here is some first-hand information from a young Berigan fan (my father), that will give you an inkling of what the Berigan band was all about in the summer and fall of 1938. He saw Berigan and company at the Capitol Theater in Steubenville, Ohio (for two shows) on Sunday August 28, 1938.
Steubenville, Ohio, is located on the Ohio River about twenty-five miles due west of Pittsburgh. One of its most notable sons, Dino Crocetti, later to achieve fame as Dean Martin, who in the late 1930s was dealing blackjack and poker in one of the city’s many illegal gambling casinos, described it as: “a rough and tumble Ohio River town full of steel mills, speakeasies, and whorehouses.”[i]The Capitol Theater there had an agreement with the Stanley Theater in Pittsburgh, then one of the major stops on the big band and vaudeville circuit, that allowed the Stanley’s current attractions to play at the Capitol on Sundays when they could not perform in Pennsylvania because of that commonwealth’s “blue laws.” Almost every performer who played at the Stanley Theater, therefore, also played at the Capitol Theater. Bunny Berigan and His Orchestra opened at the Stanley Theater on Thursday, August 25, 1938, for a one-week stand.[ii]
By the time my father actually saw Bunny Berigan in person he had known about him for probably three years, had purchased many of his Victor recordings, and had heard him many times on the CBS Saturday Night Swing Club radio show. The band that Berigan led that night at the Capitol Theater consisted of the following: Steve Lipkins (lead), Irving Goodman, trumpets; Nat Lobovsky (lead), Ray Conniff, trombones; George Bohn (lead), Joe Dixon, Georgie Auld, and Clyde Rounds, reeds; Joe Bushkin, piano; Dick Wharton, guitar/vocals; Hank Wayland, bass; Buddy Rich, drums; and Ruth Gaylor, vocals. My father remembered the Andrews Sisters, who did appear at the Capitol with Berigan, only as “a corny vocal group,” and didn’t recall the dancers at all. He stated that there was no movie, but that the band played two one-hour shows, with the theater being cleared between them.His sole reason for going to the Capitol Theater that night was to see and hear Bunny Berigan. His expectations were high, and he was not disappointed.
The day had been “roasting hot, with stifling humidity.” The 2,000-seat Capitol “was filled to the rafters with a very wild audience.” My dad was seated somewhere in the first few rows, and was able to see Bunny and the band very clearly. Those there wanted hot music, and Berigan and his musicians made no apologies about swinging hard, and playing loud.
“As the curtain rose, Bunny was standing in front of the band; they came on playing his theme, ‘I Can’t Get Started,’ for a few bars, then segued quickly into a loud up-tempo swinger, which lasted for about five minutes. The audience responded with a roar of approval, and the show proceeded in like fashion for the next hour, with little letup. Berigan himself was a big guy, probably six feet one, with powerfully built arms and shoulders (the result no doubt of lifting a trumpet to his lips for anywhere from three to seven hours a day for the past ten years). He had magnificent reddish-blonde hair, and arresting blue-gray eyes. He was wearing an immaculate light colored suit, with blue necktie and kerchief in his breast pocket. He was a very good-looking guy. He looked like a movie star. He said very little to the audience between numbers and seldom flashed his teeth, like many other bandleaders, because his teeth looked crooked. His trumpet seemed to be extra long, and he would hold it so it was straight out and level when he played. But when he would play a high note, he would point the trumpet up, at about 45 degrees.”
My father recalled one or two vocals by the girl singer in each show, “to allow the band members to catch their breath between romping swingers. Bunny and all of the other soloists played much longer solos, completely different from those on the records, with the arrangements being extended by Bunny setting up spontaneous riffs in the various sections behind the soloists.” This was rarely done in white bands then, and not done too frequently even in black bands (with the exception of Basie’s). The Berigan band played both shows without any music stands or written music.
Bunny’s trumpet sound was awe inspiring: He had a huge sound. It was full and rich and ringing, but always very warm. He was not a blaster, like Ziggy Elman, or a screecher, like Cat Anderson and Maynard Ferguson, who came later. “His sound was just enormous, in all registers of the horn. I have no idea how he did it, but when he played, and that trumpet was pointed at you, my God, it was like being enveloped by that gorgeous sound. It completely filled the theater; it was like the walls were bulging. And his ideas were fantastic: he could play an entire improvised chorus without even the hint of repetition or cliché. The music just flowed out of his trumpet. He was clearly inspired when he was onstage in front of his band playing, and that was very contagious, to his musicians and to his audience. He put a lot into his playing, both physically and emotionally. I had never seen mist come out of the bell of a trumpet before. That night, I saw it frequently. It seemed that when Bunny played a solo he was able to communicate with his audience in a very immediate, powerful, magical way. His band gave him everything they had every second they were playing. That was one swinging band!”
As a result, the audience was stirred to frenzy, and remained at fever pitch throughout the evening.
“At the end of the first show, he let his drummer play, and he was fantastic. His arms were flying around the drum set and cymbals, and he was swinging. We had no idea who he or any of the others in the band were because Bunny didn’t introduce anybody. He just let them play.”
The drummer in question was Buddy Rich. Anyone who knows anything about Buddy Rich knows that he was not one to engage in exercises in nostalgia. He was, nevertheless, a very emotional man who was very proud of having played with many of the greatest musicians in the history of jazz, including Bunny Berigan. When he formed his big band in the 1960s, one of the first things he did was to commission from arranger Dave Bloomberg a lovely, evocative arrangement of “I Can’t Get Started.” I personally witnessed Rich and his band play this arrangement more than once. Buddy never made a big issue about dedicating it to Berigan, but he did clearly announce that this tune was “the theme song of Bunny Berigan.” When Rich decided to record this arrangement, his tenor saxophonist Jay Corre had a solo. Here is what Corre remembered: “I had begun playing my solo when I happened to glance over at Buddy. He was playing brushes and leaning over the snare drum crying his eyes out; teardrops were running down his face and falling on the snare. I knew right then that he was probably thinking about Bunny Berigan and the times they had spent together. I got caught up in Buddy’s emotions and it affected my playing as well. It’s a moment that I will always remember.”[iii]
The Capitol Theater in Steubenville, Ohio was not air-conditioned.
“I had never seen a human being sweat like Bunny, and I had worked with guys in kilns in the brickyard. He perspired so heavily that by the end of the first show, he was completely soaked, with sweat coming through the lapels, arms, and back of his suit jacket, and indeed, the crotch of his trousers. During the show, he had a towel hidden inside the lid of the piano, and he would go over there while someone else was playing, and wipe his face.”[iv]
After the first show, the theater was cleared, and within about a half hour, the second show began. My dad and his friends, including some Steubenville “relatives,” had paid little kids to stand on the ticket line for them for the second show. (“We gave them a dime when we went in for the first show, and then another dime when we came out. They knew if they took off with that first dime, we would go looking for them.”) It was, if anything, more swinging and exciting than the first show. Berigan, who had changed suits (and probably everything else) during the intermission, “strode out from behind the curtain playing ‘I Can’t Get Started,’ but this time he played it all the way through, exactly as he had recorded it. The audience was quiet for the first and only time that night. At the climax of the performance, as Bunny went into the high register, his trumpet pointed skyward, a clap of thunder shook the building, and wild cheering erupted.” Once again, Berigan had immediately stirred the audience, and he then proceeded to play a completely different program of tunes, most of them up-tempo swingers, for the second show. “By the end of the second show, Bunny was again drenched. So were we. That theater smelled like a horse barn by then!” The audience departed and was able to cool off in a hurry as they walked out into a full-scale thunderstorm.
[i]Dean and Me, by Jerry Lewis and James Kaplan, Broadway Books, (2005), 16.
[iii] Quote from Jay Corre is in the liner notes to Buddy Rich’s Pacific Jazz CDP-7243-4-94507-2-1 (1998) entitled The New One!
[iv] In order to deal with so much perspiration, Berigan used great quantities of talcum powder.
Withina few weeks of playing at the Capitol Theater in Steubenville, Ohio, the Berigan band, badly shaken by the great hurricane of 1938, which blew them out of a prime two-week engagement at the Roof Garden of the Ritz-Carleton Hotel in Boston, was scrambling for work. They secured a series of Wednesday night appearances at the Roseland Ballroom, 51st and Broadway in Manhattan beginning on October 5. There were at least two Wednesday appearances at Roseland by Berigan, the one on October 5, and one a week later, on October 12. (Note: Broadcasts from those dates were recorded and exist somewhere. If they were to be released to the public, they would showcase the best band Berigan ever led, romping away on some 15 different selections, all with Buddy Rich on drums.If anyone knows anything about these recordings PLEASE contact me.) It is my opinion that this recording was made on either of those dates (possibly as a part of a broadcast on those same dates other than the ones referred to above), or was possibly recorded on October 19.
The music: This arrangement of “Moten Swing” was one of the first charts 22 year old Ray Conniff wrote for the Berigan band. Conniff had joined the band as a trombonist in the spring of 1938, but almost immediately he and Berigan began discussing ways that the Berigan band might alter its musical orientation slightly, to reflect the bracing swing then emanating from the Count Basie band, then beginning its ascent to national prominence. Conniff was a great admirer of the Basie method of swing. At some point that summer (probably after Berigan halted a rehearsal that was not proceeding well and told his musicians to go listen to the Basie band, then appearing at the Famous Door on 52nd Street in New York), Berigan asked Conniff to write an arrangement that was in the Basie mode. Conniff wrote two: “One O’Clock Jump,” (Basie’s theme song), and a retooling of “King Porter Stomp” called “Gangbusters Holiday.” Bunny liked both of them, and he and his band played them. The apparent third Conniff arrangement to come into the Berigan band book was “Moten Swing,” which had been associated with Basie since the early 1930s (and indeed was associated with him for the next 45 years).
This performance starts with no introduction. From the downbeat, the band is in a deeply swinging groove. Listen for Rich’s clever use of his tom-tom, and his bass drum offbeats. His exuberant shouts are also present, even at this early date. Berigan solos first. At the beginning, he plays his trumpet open for a few bars, then he grabs the kazoo he sometimes used as a mute, and holds it inside the bell of his trumpet loosely. The resulting sound is quite growly…it reminds me of some sort of large predatory jungle cat roaming about a jungle. Rich supports Berigan’s improvisation with rock-solid back beats and bass drum offbeats. Auld follows, with a robust solo that shows him developing in the direction of fellow jazz tenor saxophonist Herschel Evans, then being featured with Count Basie (along with Lester Young). A few bars into Auld’s solo, we hear a voice shouting Yes! That was none other than Bunny Berigan himself, greatly enjoying leading this terrific band. Following Auld, clarinetist Gus Bivona has a bright, happy solo. Ray Conniff starts his trombone solo by quoting from the 1938 cutting-edge Basie swing opus “Every Tub.”
About this unique historical recording.
The recording used in this post was taken from Bunny Berigan’s personal collection of in-performance recordings. Those recordings are now housed in the Bunny Berigan archive at the Mills Music Library at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Berigan caused those recordings to be made while he was a bandleader so he could check how his band was performing when they were broadcast over radio. I use the words “caused to be made” because earlier in his years as a bandleader, Berigan contracted with professional transcription services to make recordings of many of his radio broadcasts. But when this recording was made, I suspect that he had his wife Donna (or possibly vocalist Lee Wiley), make it on a home recording device. Those devices were quite sophisticated in the late 1930s, though rather expensive. So the average music fan would have found the cost of such a device prohibitive.
This recording, and many others like it (it was on a non-commercial ten-inch acetate disk that had no information on its label), lay unplayed and hidden away from 1938 until I discovered it in 2012. I had it and many others like it digitally transferred. A number of those recordings were then remastered by audio engineer supreme Doug Pomeroy, and issued on the Scottish label Hep (CD-96). This performance of “Moten Swing,” regrettably, was not among the ones on the Hep disk because of the gap in it. (See below for an explanation.)
The particular acetate (plastic) disk that contains this recording could hold approximately four minutes and thirty seconds of music on each side. As you will hear, this performance, which is far longer than four minutes, was captured by the amateur recordist in two pieces: the first part, which is four minutes and thirty seconds, and then after the break in the recording, the second part, which is thirty-one seconds. This recording ends with a fade out indicating this tune was probably used by Berigan to wrap-up the broadcast. Unfortunately the person recording this broadcast had to turn the disk over right in the middle of trombonist Ray Conniff’s trombone solo because side one had run out of space.
The digital transfer of this recording from the original acetate disk was done by Doug Pomeroy. The digital remastering and audio restoration was done by Mike Zirpolo.
Recorded by Benny Goodman and His Orchestra for Victor on September 27, 1935 in Los Angeles, California.
Benny Goodman, clarinet, directing: Bunny Berigan, Ralph Muzzillo and Nate Kazebier, trumpets; Jack Lacey and Red Ballard, trombones; Hymie Shertzer and Bill DePew, alto saxophones; Dick Clark and Arthur Rollini, tenor saxophones; Jess Stacy, piano; Allan Reuss, guitar; Harry Goodman, bass; Gene Krupa, drums.
Recently, I was talking with friends about creating correct captions for photographs that range in age from 100 or more years to about 70 years.The challenges inherent in doing that are compounded when one confronts boxes of uncurated documents, doodads and old pictures in archives that usually do not relate in any way to each other. Don’t get me wrong, I am most grateful that whatever I find in the various archives I have visited is actually there. I’m sorry to say that a great deal of historically significant material is lost whenever the person who collected it either dies or becomes incapacitated, and his/her relatives have no idea as to the importance of a lot of old unidentified artifacts. All too often, these precious and often unique historical objects end up in a dumpster, and a bit of history is lost forever.
Whenever I was writing “Mr. Trumpet,” I was extremely fortunate to have stumbled across a number of photographs of Bunny Berigan that I had never seen before. I was very happy about this because I wanted to include in the book as many previously unpublished photos as possible. The photo above, which I found in the University of Wisconsin-Madison Bunny Berigan archive, was one such photo. Creating an accurate caption for this photo was relatively easy because many pictures exist of the various musicians in the Benny Goodman band in the summer of 1935. The mystery man in the photo was the only non-musician in it, road manager Mort Davis. His name was written on the back of the actual photo, I think, and that solved the mystery immediately.
Some time later, I came across the photo shown above. Obviously, Berigan is the man on the right. But who are the other two men with him? Under a deadline with my publisher to provide captions for the photos that would appear in the book, including this one, I used the information I had at hand. That included the facts that in the early to mid 1930s, Berigan had reddish blonde hair (it was darker later), and wore small wire-rimmed glasses. Not recognizing either of the other two men as members of the 1935 Benny Goodman band, which Berigan played in in the summer of 1935, and since Berigan did not tour with any band in the summer of 1934, I went back to the spring and summer of 1933, when Berigan toured throughout the South and Midwest, with Paul Whietman. I still didn’t recognize either of the other two men as musicians I could identify from the 1933 Whiteman band (even though an extremely knowledgeable friend questioned whether the man with the hat was long-time Whiteman sideman Frank Trumbauer). I uncertainly submitted the following caption to my publisher: Berigan relaxes with members of the Paul Whiteman band on tour (Texas, April 1933). That caption was published and is in the book.
Almost immediately after the book was published, I got an email from another knowledgeable friend, suggesting the man in the middle might be trumpeter Ralph Muzzillo, who indeed was a member of the Benny Goodman band during the summer 1935 tour, the final stop of which was at the Palomar Ballroom in Los Angeles. (The BG band was very well received at the Palomar Ballroom. Their stay there eventually ran some six weeks.) I started looking through every book I had that might contain a picture of Muzzillo (he was a highly respected lead trumpeter during the swing era), but found only photos of Muzzillo taken from a distance, where I could not see his face clearly. Of course, I also began to revisit the process I used to identify this photo, and began noticing some similarities between it, and the one at the top of this post, of the BG golfers. Although it is not clear if Berigan is wearing the same shirt in each photo, it does look like he was wearing the same trousers and belt. Also, I detected a similar southern California Mission-style architecture in the buildings in both pictures. All of these things suggested to me that the two pictures may well have been taken on the same day at the same place, since the golfers picture was most certainly taken in Los Angeles in the summer of 1935. Perhaps the other picture had in it another musician who was in the Goodman band at that time, like Ralph Muzzillo.
Very recently, while doing research for another blog post, I came across the photo of Ralph Muzzillo at left on the Internet. (It was clearly identified and was grouped with other similar photos about Muzzillo’s work with Jimmy Dorsey’s band.) I immediately went back to the photo with the mystery man in the middle, and came to the conclusion that I could now positively identify that man as Ralph Muzzillo, and that that photo was in all likelihood taken in either late August or in September of 1935 at a golf course/country club in Los Angeles on the same day as the BG golfers photo was taken. It has taken me some nine years, but I think I finally have the caption right, at least as it correctly identifies Ralph Muzzillo. The identity of the third man, however, remains a mystery. The only member of the Goodman band then who looked even remotely like the man in the hat was tenor saxophonist Arthur Rollini, but I cannot identify that man as Rollini with certainty.
The music: The Benny Goodman band made one Victor recording session in Los Angeles while they were resident at the Palomar Ballroom, on September 27, near the end of the engagement. Three tunes were recorded: “Santa Claus Came in the Spring”; “Goodbye” (printed as “Good-Bye” on the label of Victor 25215-A); and “Madhouse.” “Santa Claus Came in the Spring” is a pop tune that was arranged by Spud Murphy, featuring a vocal by Joe Harris,[i] and a tasty sixteen-bar solo by Berigan, using a tightly fitted cup mute. Bunny also played first trumpet throughout most of that performance.
“Goodbye,”[ii] a lovely ballad, was composed and arranged by Gordon Jenkins, then working in the Isham Jones band. (Jenkins was friendly with Goodman during the time BG was forming his band, and recommended that Benny hire the marvelous, but almost never featured trombonist Sterling “Red” Ballard, who had been working with Jenkins in the Jones band. Ballard remained with Benny until 1940.) By the time this recording was made, BG had decided to use “Goodbye” as his closing theme. This recording of “Goodbye” is magnificent, indeed one of the most memorable of the swing era. The performance is superb, and the fidelity excellent. The Jenkins arrangement has Goodman playing the somber melody, with Berigan behind him, playing a recurring three-note phrase on his straight-muted trumpet. Bunny’s playing here is purely straight, but strangely evocative. The trumpeters in the Goodman band quickly dubbed these three notes the “go-to-hell” notes, and joked among themselves about who was going to play the “go-to-hell” notes behind the boss in the closing theme. While he was a member of the Goodman band in the summer of 1935, it was usually Bunny Berigan. The brief trombone solo is played by Jack Lacey, and the big-toned first trumpet part by Ralph Muzzillo.
[i] Trombonist Joe Harris (1908–1952) was a splendid instrumentalist and fine jazz player, as his solos on the Benny Goodman records of “Basin Street Blues” and “Stompin’ at the Savoy” plainly show. However, he did not play trombone in the Goodman band during its 1935 cross-country tour. He was used only as a “boy vocalist.” The jazz trombone solos then were handled by Jack Lacey, also an excellent trombonist. Harris moved into the trombone section only after Lacey left the Goodman band, which was immediately after they closed at the Palomar Ballroom.
[ii] “Goodbye,” according to D. Russell Connor, was at first entitled “Blue Serenade.” See The Record of a Legend—Benny Goodman, by D. Russell Connor, Let’s Dance Corp. (1984), 58. I suspect that Gordon Jenkins or his publisher changed the title to avoid confusion with a then very popular song entitled “A Blues Serenade.”
Composed by Larry Conley and Gene Rodemich; arranged by Fletcher Henderson.
Recorded by Bunny Berigan and His Orchestra live from the Paradise Restaurant in New York City on April 10, 1938.
Bunny Berigan first and solo trumpet; directing: Steve Lipkins, Irving Goodman, trumpets; Sonny Lee, first trombone; Al George, trombone; Mike Doty first alto saxophone, Joe Dixon, alto saxophone; Georgie Auld and Clyde Rounds, tenor saxophones; Joe Lippman, piano; Tom Morgan, guitar; Hank Wayland, bass; Johnny Blowers, drums.
This is the third in a series of broadcast recordings by Bunny Berigan and His Orchestra from the Paradise Restaurant in the spring of 1938.
“Shanghai Shuffle, ” like another pseudo-Chinesecomposition from the mid-1920s, “Limehouse Blues,” reflects the cultural mixing that occurred when jazz musicians played in Chinese restaurants, which they seemed to do quite often in the U.S. in the 1920s. It is one of many Fletcher Henderson arrangements in the Berigan band’s book. (*) It is also associated with Louis Armstrong, who played it in his days as a Henderson sideman, recording it on October 13, 1924. Louis’s solo on that record was a paean to his mentor, Joe Oliver. Undoubtedly, that record was in young Bunny’s collection when he was growing up. “Shanghai Shuffle” evolved over the years in the Henderson band, and the arrangement the Berigan band plays here is the one Fletcher recorded on September 11, 1934, for Decca.
On the first performance of “Shanghai Shuffle” presented in this post, from April 10, 1938, Bunny sets a perfect dance tempo, and his band digs into this chart with gusto: hear the precise, but swinging interplay between the brass(led by Berigan) and reeds (led by Mike Doty) throughout. Tenor saxophonist Georgie Auld plays solo first, energetic as always. As Louis had paid tribute to King Oliver, Bunny pays tribute to Louis in his solo, which is molten-hot. The swinging back-beat platform on which this performance rests was fashioned by drummer Johnny Blowers. The brief alto solo toward the end is by Joe Dixon. The overall feeling of this performance is one of intensity, but that in no way diminishes the romping swing of the Berigan ensemble.
The second performance, from April 24, 1938, demonstrates how different the same arrangement played by essentially the same band (**) only a few days later could sound. The key to that is in tempo: Bunny set the tempo of this performance a little slower than the previous performance.
For whatever reason, drummer Johnny Blowers and bassist Hank Wayland fall into a deeply swinging groove about midway through the first chorus, and they carry the band along with their relaxed yet driving rhythm throughout the rest of the piece. Blowers’s use of a 4/4 rhythm played on his top cymbal (later called the “ride” cymbals when they were larger in diameter), to drive the band was somewhat avant-garde for the spring of 1938, and the essence of hipness. Later in 1938, drummers such as Cliff Leeman (with Artie Shaw), and Buddy Schutz (with Benny Goodman), also flirted with this technique of driving a big band lightly but strongly. Others (Kenny Clarke was one who also embraced this technique in the late 1930s), began using it as a means of driving small jazz groups that were experimenting with the rhythms that eventually led to bop. By the late 1940s, this method of drumming was de rigeur in both big bands and small groups, with offbeats being played on the snare drum and bass drum. (The bass drum offbeats were called “dropping bombs.”) Use of the high-hat cymbals as the major driver of the rhythm, which was standard during the swing era, greatly diminished in jazz after World War II.
Tenor saxophonist Georgie Auld was not quite 19 years old when this recording was made. From his first days with Berigan he was a wonderful technician and a good reader. Bunny taught him how to be a jazz musician. In this performance, he has a bit of trouble finding his footing in the first few bars of his solo, but he quickly and creatively recovers to produce some good jazz.
Berigan enters his solo in the lowest register of the trumpet (he was renowned for his artistic use of this difficult trumpet technique), (***) and he really works down there. Then he vaults way up high, on the way to creating a passionate improvisation. Bunny does hit a few clams (missed notes) in his solo, and also hits one in the finale. I must point out however that at this time, Berigan was playing at least 50% of the first trumpet in his band, in addition to all of the trumpet solos. That was an incredibly demanding and taxing thing to do well night after night. How he managed to do it as well as he did is a testament to his great stamina and trumpet technique. We must also remember that Berigan was all about jazz: he loved nothing more that trying to create a new improvisation each time he played a solo. That, of course, had its risks, which Berigan accepted happily as a price to pay for creative improvisation. Starting in early 1939, Bunny carried three trumpets instead of two, and he used one or more of them to play the first trumpet book most of the time. He would chime in on lead parts when he thought the top voice in the ensemble needed a little extra zing. This was most effective in preserving his lip, and creating excitement when it was called for.
(*) This is one famous Fletcher Henderson arrangement that Benny Goodman did not play.
(**) By April 24, 1938 the Berigan’s trombones were: Nat Lobovsky, first trombone; Ray Conniff jazz trombone.
(***) I have a recording in my library of the great trumpet technician Charlie Shavers playing in the very low register, I think it was recorded at a Jazz at the Philharmonic concert in the late 1940s. Oddly, Shavers chose to use the low register in that performance to create comic flatulent sounds. Berigan never succumbed to that temptation, at least not when being recorded.
These recordings were sonically restored and digitally remastered by Mike Zirpolo.
Composed by Vernon Duke (music) and Ira Gershwin (lyric).
Recorded by Bunny Berigan and His Boys for Vocalion on April 13, 1936 in New York City.
Bunny Berigan, trumpet and singing, directing: Artie Shaw, clarinet; Forrest Crawford, tenor sax; Joe Bushkin, piano; Morty Stulmaker, bass; Stan King, drums.
The story: On approximately February 10, 1936 a small jazz band led by singer Red McKenzie[i] (with considerable help from guitarist Eddie Condon),[ii] opened at the Famous Door, located at 35 West Fifty-second Street. The Famous Door was one of many clubs on West Fifty-second Street in the two long blocks between Fifth and Seventh Avenues then featuring live music. The “concept” that led to the creation of the Famous Door was to have a small club where musicians could come and jam, in the mode of Plunkett’s, the popular musicians-only bar that existed nearby a few years earlier. The originators of this concept were musicians who worked in the nearby radio and recording studios, mainly under pianist/arranger Lennie Hayton, who was then the conductor on the Ipana Troubadors and Fred Allen network radio shows. The original investors in the project were: violinist Harry Bluestone; trombonist Jack Jenney; trumpeter Mannie Klein; bassist Artie Bernstein; trombonist Jerry Colonna; arranger Gordon Jenkins; saxophonist/clarinetist Jimmy Dorsey; and trombonist/arranger Glenn Miller. They each put up $100. The major investors however, were Hayton and Jack Colt, who was not a musician, but who had experience in the club business. They each put up $1,000.[iii]
The name of the club came from a door that trumpeter/singer Wingy Manone said he bought at a lumberyard, had the original investors sign, then shellacked. It was also signed later by the musicians who played in the club, and celebrities who visited. Sam Weiss (not the drummer), who was a host at the Famous Door, explained how the club looked and how the door was displayed: “You went down a few steps to enter the building. Then you would go down a dark, narrow hallway that took you to the club entrance on your left. The bandstand was to your right and the bar to your left. The ‘famous door’ itself rested on a small platform near the bar.” [iv]
The Famous Door had opened on March 1, 1935, with a small group (which included clarinetist Pee Wee Russell) led by a then unknown trumpeter Louis Prima, who also sang, on the bandstand. Prima’s dynamic showmanship, which later made him a fixture in the lounges of Las Vegas, soon had nonmusicians lining up to come into the Famous Door, and the club became a commercial success with the general public, something its organizers had never intended. By the summer, Prima had moved on and trombonist George Brunies replaced him. At about the same time, trombonist Mike Riley and trumpeter Eddie Farley were packing them in at the nearby Onyx Club, with a show that had more to do with comedy and hokum, typified by their smash recording “The Music Goes Round and Around,” than music. The management of the Famous Door then made the decision to return to their original concept. Red Norvo’s Swing Sextet opened a stand there on September 29, 1935. Norvo was followed by Wingy Manone, and then the small group co-led by singer Red McKenzie and guitarist Eddie Condon, that featured Bunny Berigan.[v] Also in the McKenzie-Condon band with Berigan were: Paul Ricci, clarinet and tenor sax; Joe Bushkin, piano, trumpet, and singing; Morty Stulmaker, bass. There was no drummer.
Here is how Metronome reported this engagement some weeks later, after Forrest Crawford replaced Ricci: “This is one of the best, if not the best strictly jam band to be heard around town. It’s purely a case of the boys getting together, sitting down (or standing up), deciding on a tune and doing what they feel with it. Fortunately for all concerned, the individuals at the Famous Door are ace jam men. There are few hot trumpeters in the country today who can touch Bunny Berigan, when he’s right. He of the high squeezes, the individual and free style, the phenomenal, but not often heard, lower register and the oft misspelled name, is a grand hornman, grand to listen to, not only because of his acts of execution, but, even more so because of his refreshingly different style. The one danger, though, is catching Bunny on an ‘off’ night. There’s no doubt that this man, doing all the house work at Decca studios, broadcasting regularly over CBS and putting in his 42 hours a week at the ‘Door,’ is doing too much. Either overwork or staleness can account for the occasional disappearance of the Berigan trumpet vitality. The other melodist, tenorman Forrest Crawford, a recent importation from St. Louis, displays an equal amount of vitality in attack, ideas and execution. Possessor of a really ‘dirty’ tone, typified by growls that are bound to send you, this man has already won himself a host of swing admirers. The three rhythm-masters stick it at you plenty. Little Joe Bushkin has become a much improved pianist, Eddie Condon still remains the greatest tenor guitarist in the business today, while left-handed Morton Stulmaker is a fine bassist with a big tone, at times much too big for the room into which it zooms. Leader McKenzie has been a favorite with this department for years. The man has an entirely distinctive low-slow vibrato that either gets you or leaves you cold. If it gets you, you’re lucky and you’ll get much kick from Red’s few offerings, wisely done in extremely slow tempos as contrasts for the more wild jamming that precedes. All in all, the six men swing well. Swing fans should have an evening of much fun.”[vi]
As was noted by the writer of the above-cited Metronome article (probably George T. Simon), Berigan, who was noted for taking every gig possible, especially if it would allow him to play jazz, was once again overworking, this time to a preposterous degree. If one adds to the forty-two hours a week he was working weekly at the Famous Door, even a low estimate of the time he spent each week at CBS, say thirty-five hours, he was working seventy-seven hours a week. And then there were the hours he was working at Decca. What drove this man to work ninety to one hundred hours a week? (Answer: he wanted to lead his own big band and needed all the money he could earn, and more, to start that enterprise.) [vii]
The meeting of nineteen-year-old Joe Bushkin with Berigan in this band was fortuitous for Bushkin, and began a professional association between the two men that would last, with interruptions, for the following four and a half years. Joe Bushkin recalled: “I wound up at the Famous Door in 1936, playing piano. I was living at home with my parents. George Zack started the gig on piano. Sometimes Dave Tough would sit in, along with a good tenor player named Forrest Crawford. One night, (pianist) George Zack passed out and they asked me to fill in. I played all the bridges wrong, which disturbed Berigan, and I guess what made me nervous was the beauty of Bunny’s playing and being exposed to the clarity of the guitar bass. Condon had a marvelous chord sense. I learned from him how to keep chord patterns simple and colorful. In fact, Condon sketched out the chords for the opening and middle section of Berigan’s ‘I Can’t Get Started.’ The Famous Door was in the bottom of a narrow town-house. It had a bar and about 14 tables and the piano was near a window that looked out on Fifty-second Street. It got its name from a fake door with signatures of famous people, which was set up on a little stage near the bar. I guess the place had some trouble, because the sheriff shut it (later in) 1936. Berigan used to play behind me when I sang and he let me do duets with him on trumpet. It was beautiful.” [viii] (From the early 1940s until his death on November 3, 2004, Joe Bushkin was a fount of stories about Bunny Berigan.)
The music: On April 13, at what otherwise was another strictly ordinary (that is commercial) recording session, Bunny Berigan was given the opportunity to record the version of “I Can’t Get Started” he had been working on with the small band at the Famous Door. In the ten days between an April 3 Decca recording session (where Berigan was a part of a small band that backed Red McKenzie in a rather ordinary performance of “I Can’t Get Started”), and this session at ARC-Brunswick, guitarist Eddie Condon suffered an attack of pancreatitis, and had to be hospitalized. The little band that accompanied Berigan on this recording, billed as: “Bunny Berigan and His Boys,” consisted of Artie Shaw, clarinet; Forrest Crawford, tenor sax; Joe Bushkin, piano; Tommy Felline, guitar; Morty Stulmaker, bass; and Stan King, drums. (Also on the session was vocalist Chick Bullock, then an ARC mainstay (American Record Corporation, parent of the Vocalion and Brunswick labels), who sang the other three tunes recorded that day.) [ia]
It is in this recording of “I Can’t Get Started,” issued initially on Vocalion 3225, later on Brunswick 7949, and backed by “Rhythm Saved the World,” that we begin to hear the outline of what eventually became the definitive performance of this song, recorded by Bunny some sixteen months later with his big band for Victor. The “arrangement” that we hear in this performance was largely devised by Berigan himself, except for the succession of chord changes after the vocal and tenor sax solo over which Berigan plays, and which serve as a modulation from concert C to D flat, springing Bunny into the stunning solo trumpet passage which closes the record. That part was worked out by Eddie Condon.
This performance starts out with Berigan stating the melody on open trumpet, the clarinet and tenor sax noodling quietly behind him for eight bars. Bunny wisely slowed the tempo down, knowing that would highlight what he had in store for later in the piece. Then he sings for an entire chorus. On the main strain of the song, the quality of his voice is pleasant and unaffected, with a fast vibrato. On the bridge, he attempts to croon, in the manner of der Bingle (Bing Crosby), which I’m sure sounded more musical in the mid-1930s than it does today. In his last eight bars he returns to a more genuine mode of singing. Morty Stulmaker uses his bow to provide an arco bass foundation behind the vocal that is different, but it unfortunately imparts a rather lugubrious feeling to what is otherwise a peaceful and gentle rendering of the lyric. Thankfully, Stulmaker sets down his bow after the vocal chorus and resumes plucking the strings of his bass so as not to weigh down in any way the musical fireworks that are about to begin. Forrest Crawford then plays a softly melodic eight bars that lead into the Condon-fashioned series of chord changes. Jazz historian (and trumpeter) Richard M. Sudhalter best described what happens next:
“A drum tap brings (Berigan) on for the piece de resistance. He begins it with four self-contained episodes, announced by single rhythm section chords but all, in effect, part of one great cadenza. The first establishes mood and expectancy. The second changes the key and moves effortlessly through the entire range of the horn in developing the idea. The third is delivered sotto voce and intimately. The fourth takes him deep into his low register for some final thoughts. Now he is ready. Leaping nearly two octaves, Berigan chimes out a cluster of clear, ringing high Cs and takes flight, avidly supported by the band. Working in the taxing range above high C, he tosses off E flats and one titanic high F, turning Vernon Duke’s enchanting melody into an anthem. Totally in charge of his instrument and material, he lowers the intensity level to a hush for a reprise of the melody, contemplative and soothing, then parades it home, as Shaw fills in the spaces, crowning his performance with a high B flat and a glorious, resounding E flat above that. It is all fresh and new, the apotheosis of Berigan’s art as trumpet soloist in the bravura tradition established a decade earlier by Armstrong—romantic, rhapsodic, emotionally unrestrained “. [iia]
This recording began to garner critical plaudits soon after its release in May, and it began to sell in numbers higher that the run-of-the-mill pop tune vocal records that were being churned out by the dozens by ARC, Decca, and other labels.
Years later, Eddie Condon provided a bit more background about how Bunny Berigan and “I Can’t Get Started” got started together: “Johnny DeVries (a New York advertising executive who liked jazz and helped jazz musicians), is really responsible for Bunny having made the tune in the first place. Johnny heard the song in the 1936 Vernon Duke show and thought it had a little exposure. After insisting for a couple of months that Bunny play the song,he went to the publisher himself and got an orchestration of it. He hummed the tune to Joe Bushkin who in turn played it for Bunny. Bunny and ‘I Can’t Get Started’ have been inseparable ever since.” [iiia]
Today, West 52nd Street betweeen Fifth and Seventh Avenues looks nothing like it did in the mid-1930s. (**) The development of the Rockefeller Center complex between Fifth and Sixth Avenues and 49th and 51st Streets in the 1930s caused the gradual demolition of the three or four story residential structures on the east-west numbered streets nearby. (If you want to get some idea what 52nd Street looked like when it was swing street, walk a few blocks west on the numbered streets in Hell’s Kitchen, between West 51st on the north, West 45th on the south, and Eighth and Tenth Avenues. Incredibly, Manhattan real estate developers have not (yet) demolished the quaint old residential buildings on those streets.) By the 1970s, the area on West 52nd where the jazz clubs stood was filled with glass and steel skyscrapers. The only reminder of the musical history that was played out on 52nd Street in the 1930s and 1940s are a few street signs that say “swing street” along that two-block stretch of high-rises. Most people today, alas, have no idea what that means. I hope that this post raises new awareness about Mahnattan’s fabled 52nd Street.
(*) “Blue blowing” was achieved when Red McKenzie would “play” a pocket-comb by covering its tines with tissue paper, and then blow on it as one would blow on a harmonica.
(**) Only one building from the glory days of 52nd Street remains. The 21 Club Restaurant, sleekly preserved and updated, at 21 West 52nd, is wedged incongruously between the skyscrapers now on 52nd.
[i] Vocalist William “Red” McKenzie was born in St. Louis, Missouri, on October 14, 1899. He was raised in Washington, D.C., until the deaths of his parents, after which he returned to St. Louis, working at a variety of jobs including as a professional jockey. McKenzie began singing, as well as playing the kazoo and the comb, in the early 1920s. With two others, he formed a novelty act called the Mound City Blue Blowers, and began recording in February 1924. The group’s initial release, “Arkansas Traveler,” became a hit, and they toured extensively in the United States then went to London. Upon returning to the United States, McKenzie led the group over the next several years. He spent a year with Paul Whiteman, 1932–1933, then reorganized the Mound City Blue Blowers, and began to appear at clubs on Fifty-second Street as well as on record both with and without the group. He returned to St. Louis in 1937, and was seldom seen in New York thereafter. The years prior to his death were spent in ill health owing to the progression of cirrhosis of the liver. McKenzie died in New York City on February 7, 1948.
[ii] Guitarist, bandleader, and impresario Albert Edwin Condon was born in Goodland, Indiana, on November 16, 1905. He moved to Chicago in 1921, and spent most of the next decade there playing with many of the young white musicians who were then embracing jazz. He went to New York in 1928 and began musical associations with an ever-widening group of performers both on and off record, including Louis Armstrong, Fats Waller, and Red Nichols. He continued an earlier association with Red McKenzie while in New York in the 1930s, and also began long but intermittent associations with Joe Marsala, Bobby Hackett, and Bud Freeman. During World War II, Condon began to lead bands for various concerts in Manhattan, and for residencies at Nick’s in Greenwich Village. At the end of 1945, he opened the first of his own jazz clubs, which would remain on the scene for many years, though most of the time without Condon on their bandstands. Condon was successful on TV in the 1950s, and was a master of the bon mot, often delivered with just the right mixture of sarcasm and irony. He toured widely throughout the 1950s and 1960s, and died in New York City on August 4, 1973.
[iii]52nd Street…The Street of Jazz: by Arnold Shaw, Da Capo Press (1977) page 106.
[vi]Metronome: April 1936, cited in White materials: February 10, 1936.
[vii] It is certainly possible that by this time, Berigan was in discussions with personal manager Arthur Michaud about forming his own band. Michaud may well have told Bunny that in order to form a band, a lot of money would be needed. That could explain Bunny’s incredibly heavy workload in the early months of 1936.
[viii] White materials: February 10, 1936. The White materials quote Bushkin from the recollections he shared with Whitney Balliett for an article about Bushkin that appeared in The New Yorker. Unfortunately, they do not give any citation to The New Yorker or the date of the article which was November 18, 1985. Balliett later included this article in a compendium of articles he had written over the years about jazz musicians for The New Yorker entitled: American Musicians—56 Portraits in Jazz, Oxford University Press (1986), 216–223. A slightly more detailed account of how Joe Bushkin came to meet Bunny Berigan at the Famous Door can be found in Robert Dupuis’s Berigan biography, Bunny Berigan…Elusive Legend of Jazz, at pages 121–122.
Composed by Bulee “Slim” Gaillard, Leroy “Slam” Stewart, and Bud Green. Probably arranged by Andy Phillips.
Recorded by Bunny Berigan and His Orchestra for the Thesaurus Radio Transcription Service on June 27, 1938 in New York City.
Bunny Berigan, first and solo trumpet, directing: Steve Lipkins and Irving Goodman, trumpets; Nat Lobovsky, first trombone; Ray Conniff, trombone; Mike Doty, first alto saxophone; Joe Dixon, alto saxophone and clarinet; Georgie Auld, tenor saxophone; Clyde Rounds, tenor and baritone saxophones; Joe Bushkin, piano; Dick Wharton, guitar; Hank Wayland, bass; Johnny Blowers, drums. Vocal by Bernie Mackey with chanting by the band members.
The story and the music: On Monday June 27, 1938 Bunny Berigan and his bandsmen entered the RCA Victor studios in Manhattan. This time they were scheduled to make recordings for RCA’s Thesaurus Transcription Service. (*) The sixteen inch 33 1/3 rpm disks on which the Thesaurus transcription music was marketed were leased or sold to radio stations under the generic name “Rhythm Makers” or “The Rhythm Makers.” No identification of the many bands that made Thesaurus transcriptions was ever done. Radio stations simply played whatever music was on the disks they acquired (tunes were identified), and announced the performance as by “The Rhythm Makers Orchestra.” Few swing aficionados were fooled however. They usually knew who was playing after hearing only a few bars of the music, especially when the performer was Bunny Berigan, one of the most individual of all trumpet soloists.
It is extremely fortuitous that this opportunity existed for the Berigan band, because this Thesaurus recording session, and one which would take place in the not too distant future, like the airchecks of the band from the Paradise Restaurant and elsewhere (and unlike many of their Victor records), allow us to have a much more complete understanding of the Berigan band’s capabilities. Also, the difference between this band and the one Bunny had led on his previous Thesaurus session almost two years earlier is immense. The earlier band sounded very much like what it actually was—a part-time band with no identity. This Berigan band, after about a year and a half of performing, had reached the place where it was imbued with its leader’s passionate musical persona: it was powerful, exciting, and sometimes a bit unpredictable, even reckless.
They recorded twenty tunes that day, and as always was the case with transcriptions, only one take on each tune was made. There is no indication of when the session started or ended. Indeed, there is some question as to whether this session took place in New York, or at Victor’s Camden, New Jersey “church studio.” I think that this session was recorded in New York because I know that other Thesaurus recording sessions with many other bands, including Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, Les Brown, Joe Haymes, Charlie Barnet, and Chick Webb, all took place in New York. Although Joe Dixon, Bunny’s clarinet soloist, on at least one occasion recalled recording these transcriptions in Camden, every other source I have ever checked indicates that all Thesaurus sessions took place in Victor’s Twenty-fourth Street studios in Manhattan.
The Berigan band obviously recordedmany of the same tunes for Thesaurus they had recorded for Victor. Bandleaders would often use these transcription sessions to record a snap-shot of the repertiore they were presenting to dancing audiences at the time. Sometimes the vocal chorus of the previously recorded arrangement was omitted, sometimes not. It is always interesting to listen to versions of the pop tunes Berigan recorded for Thesaurus with the vocal chorus excised. Very often, removal of the vocal results in a better overall performance. Why Bunny would not have allowed an instrumentalist to play a jazz solo in lieu of the vocal on The Thesaurus recordings where the vocals are omitted is not known. That would have improved these performances even more. (Note: Given the powerful influence music publishers exerted on all recording artists during the swing era, there was undoubtedly pressure on bandleaders to record as many of any given publisher’s tunes as possible, even without a vocal chorus. Publishers were paid when their tunes were played on radio. Presence or absence of a vocal chorus was irrelevant to that.)
Of much more interest however, are the titles that Bunny recorded for Thesaurus that he did not record for Victor. One of those was “Flat Foot Floogie,” which was a zany then-current pop tune composed by the often hilarious pianist/guitarist Slim Gaillard, the fine bassist Slam Stewart (then performing together as “Slim and Slam”), and Bud Green. (Bunny was aced out at Victor on this tune by Benny Goodman, who made a good cover recording of it on May 31, 1938.) In this Berigan/Thesaurus version, Bernard N. “Bernie” Mackey, is the singer. Mackey, who had subbed for an ailing Robert “Little Gate” Walker as the Berigan band’s equipment manager/truck driver earlier in the year, remained as Little Gate’s assistant when he returned. Hewas tapped by Bunny to sing the jivey lyric, probably because Bunny thought, correctly, that Mackey could provide a vocal interpretation that was most consonant with the original Slim and Slam recording. Although this seems rather improbable, Mackey was then studying guitar, and later (1944) joined the Ink Spots vocal group [i] playing guitar and singing. So he apparently had some singing experience. He clearly enjoys singing the nonsense lyric, as do the band members who chant enthusiastically about the floy floy and floy doy.
Pianist Joe Bushkin, who had only recently joined the Berigan band when this recording was made, starts things off in a swinging, funky manner. Bushkin brought a strongly personal jazz piano style to the Berigan band. Bunny then contributes an exuberant trumpet solo which covers much of his instrument’s range. Also recently arrived in the Berigan band was trombonist Ray Conniff, who plays a nice eight-bar bridge in Bunny’s solo chorus. (Very soon, Berigan would discover that Conniff, in addition to playing very good jazz trombone, could also arrange. That would cause some stylistic changes in the music Bunny’s band played.) Tenor saxist Georgie Auld, and clarinetist Joe Dixon also play happy solos. Clocking in at 3:48, this performance of “Flat Foot Floogie” hints at what the Berigan band would do in front of audiences, by extending arrangements to allow for more (and sometimes longer) jazz solos.
There is no indication anywhere as to who wrote this chart, though I suspect it was one of Andy Phillips’s first arrangements for the Berigan band. If one listens to the Slim and Slam original recording of “Flat Foot Floogie” (presented below), it is clear that Phillips listened carefully to the rhythms in that performance, and then incorporated them into his arrangement for the Berigan band.
Drummer Johnny Blowers, whose always swinging rhythms are present if this performance, related an incident that occurred in the wake of this Thesaurus recording date that is indicative of the way Arthur Michaud, Bunny’s much-disliked (by Berigan band members) personal manager, handled the Berigan band’s business. After not being paid extra for the Thesaurus recording sessions (as required by musicians’ union regulations and Blowers’s contract with Berigan), Blowers went to Michaud and asked where his money was for the transcription date. “‘What transcription date?’ Michaud said, trying to look innocent. ‘My contract states that I’m to get paid extra for recording. That transcription date was supposed to pay over $400.’ (Probably for the whole band. This was happening in 1938, and the Great Depression was still very much a reality then.) ‘I want my money or I’m going to report you to the union.’ The threat worked, and everybody in the band was paid for the date.”[ii]
This incident led directly to Johnny Blowers leaving the Berigan band, despite the facts that he greatly enjoyed playing in that band, and liked Bunny personally. Berigan, on the recommendation of his tenor sax star Georgie Auld, then hired a twenty-year old drummer from Brooklyn, New York who had grown up there with Auld: Buddy Rich.
(*) In an effort to explain the corporate relationships that existed at the time this recording was made: Radio Corporation of America (RCA), owned Victor Records. RCA also owned the National Broadcasting Company (NBC), and the Thesaurus Radio Transcription Service. Thesaurus radio transcriptions were often used on-air by NBC radio network affiliate stations.
[i] The Ink Spots were a very popular black vocal group from the 1930s–1940s that found acceptance among white as well as black audiences. Their vocal stylings led to later developments like rhythm and blues, rock and roll, and doo-wop.
[ii]Back Beats and Rim Shots…The Johnny Blowers Story, by Warren W Vache’ (1997) Scarecrow Press, page 40.
As a bonus, I am also posting the original recording of “Flat Foot Floogie” made by its composers Slim Gaillard and Slam Stewart. This is a very humorous recording which Slim and Sam originally entitledFlat Fleet Floogie. A large cross-current of humor, often ironic, flowed through the music (and hip jargon) of the swing era.
Take note of Slam Stewart’s bass playing, both pizzicato (plucked strings), and arco (bowed strings), and Stewart’s melodic humming along with his arco playing.
“Flat Fleet Floogie”
Composed by Slim Gaillard, Slam Stewart and Bud Green.
Recorded on February 17, 1938 by Slim and Slam for Vocalion in New York City.
Slim and Slam, including: Slim Gaillard, guitar, vibraphone and vocal; Slam Stewart, bass, vocal and vocalizing; Sam Allen, piano; Pompey “Guts” Dobson, drums.
The recordings presented in this post were digitally remastered by Mike Zirpolo. Some sonic restoration was also required on the Slim and Slam recording.