The James A. Drake Interviews • Ted Lewis (Conclusion)

INTERVIEW WITH TED LEWIS
Part 3 (Conclusion)
 James A. Drake

 

This interview was conducted in 1968 at Temple Israel, in Columbus, Ohio,
courtesy of Rabbi Jerome D. Folkman.

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(G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
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I’d like to ask you more about the unique way you perform the lyrics of your songs.  On your Columbia recordings, your early acoustic ones, you seem to sing more than you did when you made your electrical Columbias, and your Decca recordings several years later. 

Well, that had to do more with the way recording was done back then, and also the way that records were promoted.  All of the record companies put out annual catalogs that [listed] their records according to categories.  So there would be a section for dance records, a section for symphonic records, a section for popular music—ballads, waltzes, and what-not—and a section for humorous records, monologs and such, and always a special section for records of opera arias and an overture or section from a symphony.  There may have been one or two others [i.e., categories], but that was the idea, the way these catalogs were put together.

When I made my first records for Columbia with my own band, around 1919, if the label of the record had the words “vocal refrain” or “vocal chorus,” the people who bought the record expected to hear singing.  Not necessarily ballad-singing, but you couldn’t just talk the lyrics, you had to sing them.

When I recorded “When My Baby Smiles at Me” the first time, I was singing into a metal horn, and my band was on bleachers that were in a circle, or semi-circle, right behind me.  If you listen to that [Columbia] record, I sing the line “when my baby smiles at me” just like it’s written.  On any of the later [recordings], I did it like this:  “When my baby”—and I say “baby,” I don’t sing it—“smiles at me”—I sing the words “smiles at,” but on “me,” I speak it.  On the first record, I sang the next line, “My thoughts go roaming to paradise,” all on pitch, singing it “straight,” in other words.  The recording director wanted to hear that “g” in “roaming” on the recording.  Later, I would do it like this:  “My thoughts to roamin’—roamin’—way up there to paradise, yessir,” and I’d “talk” the line.

 

Do you remember where did you make your first recordings for Columbia?

In New York.  The very first ones were [recorded] in space they rented on an upper floor of a building on Sixth Avenue.  Then they built a new set of studios on the top floor of the Gotham Building when it was finished.  Those were nice studios because the building had, I think, twenty-three stories, and the studios were on the top floor, so none of the sounds of the traffic way down below could be heard.  There were big windows on three sides of each studio—there were two separate studios, back to back—and in good weather, the windows would be open and it would be very comfortable in there.

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Were you offered a contract by Victor when you were at Columbia?

 No.  They had other bands by the late-1920’s—[Jean] Goldkette, [George] Olsen, and of course Whiteman—and I was happy at Columbia.  I did well for them, and they did well for me.  They designed a special silver label for my records.  That was the first time any of the record companies designed a special label for a performer.  That became my trademark at Columbia.

 

Another trademark of yours is your white-tipped cane, which you seem to be able to do anything with.  You twirl it so fast that if it had lights on it, they would be a blur.  How long has that been a part of your show, your act?

The baton-twirling?  I had learned it as a kid, and I got to lead a very big medicine show when it came into Circleville.

 

Do you remember the name of the medicine show?  I understand that there were a lot of them in the Midwest at the turn of the century.

It was called Hamlin’s Medicine Show.  It was quite a production—like a circus coming to town.  There would be posters put up everywhere weeks ahead, and the show would come into town led by a marching band.  [Oscar] Ameringer used many of us in the cadet band, along with others, especially brass players, to lead the parade of the Hamlin wagons into town.

I used to practice almost day and night twirling that brass baton.  It wasn’t like the white-tipped walking sticks I use in my act, not like what I use in “Me and My Shadow.”  This one was longer, and it had a kind of bulb on one end.  It was a tapered tube with the other end rounded off.  I got so I could throw it in the air, catch it behind my back, do all sorts of tricks with it.  I wasn’t the only bandleader who could “twirl,” you know.  George Olsen used a baton in his floor shows.  I think he had been a drum major.

 

As you hardly need me to say, there is an ongoing debate about who was first “jazz king,” Ted Lewis or Paul Whiteman.  Would you comment on that debate?

To start with, look at the dates.  When I was playing with Earl Fuller in 1916-1917, Paul was playing viola in a symphony orchestra.  That was his background and training.  His father was the conductor, or maybe director, of the Denver Symphony, which is where Paul got his start.  Then listen to his first records, and compare them to mine.  He didn’t make any recordings till at least two or maybe three years after I was recording with the Fuller band.  Where he was lucky is that he was signed by Victor, and two of the songs his band recorded in one of their first sessions, “Whispering” and “The Japanese Sandman,” were big hits.

Frankly, I never thought of Paul as a jazzman.  He loved that “King of Jazz” title, and that “talkie” [of the same title] definitely put him over with the public more than his first records ever did, but if you listen to his radio shows and read some of the interviews he gave, what he talks about is not jazz in the New Orleans style, but what he liked to call “symphonic jazz.”  Of course, he got that from being the one who introduced “Rhapsody in Blue,” and the one who recorded it with George [Gershwin] at the piano.  But he didn’t have as much to do with that premiere as he claims he did.  Ferde Grofé and Gershwin were the ones who wrote the arrangement.

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Sharing the limelight with Paul Whiteman (October 1928)

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Paul was a solid musician—no question about that.  He had that symphonic training, and he was taught by his father.  But as any of the fellows who were in his bands will tell you, he was not a very good player, and just a so-so conductor.  If you talk to Joe Venuti and ask him about Paul as a violist and violinist, Joe will tell you that [Whiteman’s] playing could be almost embarrassing.  Yet he’d insist on playing a violin solo from the podium, always with a spotlight trained on him, and he’d be sharp or flat throughout the solo.

 

Did you get to know each other when you were both with Columbia in the late-1920’s?

Not really, no.  The reason he left Victor and came to Columbia was because the head man at Victor, Nat Shilkret, had an ego like Paul did, and he wanted to decide what Paul would record.  Paul thought he had made so much money for Victor that nobody there should be trying to tell him what to do.  And there was another fellow [at Victor], Eddie King, who didn’t like jazz at all, and he was a “yes man” to Shilkret.

Now, Ben Selvin, who got the A&R job at Columbia around 1925 or 1926, knew Paul and knew how much interference he was getting from Shilkret, so Ben talked Columbia into giving Whiteman a much better contract.  Not so much better money-wise, but better because Paul could pick all of his players and arrangers, and could record whatever he wanted.  And as they had done for me, the [Columbia] management designed a special label for Paul’s records.

 

As you know, there are music historians who maintain that jazz and blues began with a black players in New Orleans, and that white musicians, especially Whiteman, “stole” the music from its black originators and commercialized it.  To the best of my knowledge, no one ever said that about you.  Do you have any thoughts about that?

Everybody who started playing jazz around the time I did, knew that this was New Orleans music and that the players who brought it to the north, whether we’re talking about the Midwest or New York, were blacks and Creoles.  Louis Armstrong was the giant of all of them, and everybody knew where Satchmo was from.  He was King Oliver’s star player.  Same with Sidney Bechet.  Practically every one of those early jazz and blues players you can name, whether it’s Jelly Roll Morton, or Lucky Roberts, or James P. Johnson, or the blues singers like Bessie Smith and Mamie Smith and Ethel Waters, they were all from the South.

 

I was thinking more about why Paul Whiteman, but not Ted Lewis, has come to be seen as the one who “stole” black music, commercialized it, and made a fortune from it without ever acknowledging its real origins.

I can only give you my opinion, and it’s that Paul promoted himself was the “King of Jazz.”  If you’re going to advertise yourself as the King of Jazz, and you make a movie called “King of Jazz” and you’re the star of it, then you’re almost saying that this is your music, your invention, and that you’re the best one who can play it.

I never did any of that.  And I never pretended to play “symphonic jazz,” or anything like it.  And I didn’t lead a band, let alone try to be a conductor.  My band was the backdrop for my act, which has always been a stage act.  I’ve never promoted myself as a bandleader because I’m not one.  I came out of vaudeville, and my place is the stage, not a podium in front of a big band.

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Ted Lewis at the Columbia pressing plant, late 1920s
(CBS archives)

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You have been so generous with your time this afternoon, and I don’t want to take any more advantage of it than you have allowed me to.  But I would like to end this interview on the same topic we began, which is the clarinet.  I can’t think of a well-known clarinetist of the 1930’s and 1940’s who didn’t play in one of your bands.  In fact, I can’t think of any big-band member who didn’t play in one of your bands!  If you won’t mind giving me your thoughts about these clarinetists, I’ll really appreciate it.  Let me begin with the two best-known ones, Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw.  You hired both of them for your studio sessions, am I correct?

Yes, both of them played with me at different times when they were studio players.  I had Benny play my some of my solos in my Columbia [electrical] records.  Both are great players, but if you’re asking me which one I consider the best, it’s Shaw.  I haven’t heard high-register playing like Shaw’s since Al Nunez.  I’m not taking anything away from Benny, who’s a terrific improviser.  But Shaw was tops in my book.  I just wish he hadn’t walked away from it when he did.

 

Four other names, if I may:  Johnny Dodds, Jimmy Lytell, Pee Wee Russell, and Lawrence Welk’s discovery, Pete Fountain. 

Johnny Dodds was the real thing, one hell of a clarinetist!  You know, he replaced Al Nunez when Al had some medical [dental] problems.  To me, he wasn’t anywhere near the player that Al Nunez was.  You know, Pee Wee [Russell], who was probably the closest thing to the old New Orleans players, said that Al Nunez was the greatest jazz clarinetist who ever lived.  That tells you a lot about both of them, because if they held one of those old “carving contests” like they had in New Orleans, Pee Wee could outplay just about anybody you’d put up next to him.

You mentioned Jimmy Lytell, who’s a favorite of mine.  Jim can play anything you put in front of him—a hell of a studio clarinetist—and he can improvise with the best of them.  And Jim is an Albert [system] player.  Did you know that?  Of course, that makes him special to me because he didn’t switch like the others did.

Now, about Pete Fountain, there’s no question that he’s a first-rate clarinetist.  I don’t see how he can last with Welk, any more than he could have years ago with, and I’m just picking names, Guy Lombardo or Shep Fields or Kay Kyser or Wayne King.  Those fellows got where they were by sticking to a formula, and it’s not a formula that leaves much room for a “hot” soloist.  Welk doesn’t pay anybody either—he pays scale, or just a little over scale.  He’s lucky to have Pete Fountain because Pete draws people who wouldn’t tune in Welk.

But Welk’s show is really a musical variety show, sort of a cross between the “Hit Parade” and a vaudeville bill—a pop song by the whole band, then an Irish tenor, and the Lennon Sisters, and a violinist, then the kid with the electric guitar, and then Pete Fountain.  For a New Orleans jazzman, that’s not much of an opportunity to play.  So we’ll see how long that lasts with Pete.

 

On a talk show recently, Artie Shaw and Beverly Sills were asked how they manage criticism, whether from music critics or gossip columnists like Dorothy Kilgallen.  In so many words, they said you must have, or else you must develop, thick skin and then consider the source.  You have had a few critics during your long career, and one of them seems to be Eddie Condon.  As you may have heard, he said in his recent book that “Ted Lewis could really make the clarinet talk, and when it did, it said, ‘Please put me back in my case.’”

If he really wrote that, if those were his own words and not his ghostwriter’s, he can’t take any credit for being original.  That line has been around as far back as I can remember, and it applies to any instrument that comes in a case, whether it’s a violin or a trombone or a clarinet.  But, look, he’s trying to make some money to pay the rent, so he thinks he has to put down other people in the business.  It doesn’t bother me not only because it’s not original, but because you have to consider the source.  Eddie Condon is no Eddie Lang.  Eddie Condon plays a four-string guitar.  A four-string guitar?  Please!  That’s nothing but an oversized ukulele.  And maybe I shouldn’t have given Eddie all the work I gave him!

 

I can’t thank you enough for the time you have given me for this interview.  I’m a proud Ted Lewis fan, and will never forget how kind you were to me ten years ago when I asked for your autograph.  And I assure you that I’ll never forget how generous you have been to me today.  Thank you again and again and again.

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© 2018 by James A. Drake. All rights are reserved. Short excerpts may be quoted without permission, provided the source and a link to this posting are cited. All other use requires prior written consent of the copyright holder. Please e-mail Mainspring Press with questions, comments, or reproduction requests for the author.

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Additional content from Mainspring Press

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SOPHIE TUCKER with TED LEWIS & HIS BAND: Some of these Days

Chicago: November 23, 1926
Columbia 1826-D (mx. W 142955 – 2)

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RUTH ETTING with TED LEWIS & HIS BAND: Keep Sweeping the Cobwebs Off the Moon

New York: December 23, 1927
Columbia 1242-D (mx. W 145395 – 2)

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TED LEWIS & HIS BAND: Milenberg Joys

New York: June 22, 1925
Columbia 439-D (mx. W 140709 – 2)

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The James A. Drake Interviews • Ted Lewis (Part 2)

INTERVIEW WITH TED LEWIS
Part 2 of 3
 James A. Drake

 

This interview was conducted in 1968 at Temple Israel, in Columbus, Ohio,
courtesy of Rabbi Jerome D. Folkman.
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(October 1925)

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Going back to the very beginning of your career, who was “Cricket”?

Cricket Smith was his name.  He had a band that he and several other Negro barbers had put together.  Not that all of the players were barbers.  They were black musicians who happened, some of them, to be barbers.

 

In interviews I’ve read, you have given a lot of credit to “Cricket” and his influence on your playing style.  How would you describe what you learned from him?

Syncopation.  I learned that from [Cricket Smith’s] band.  What they played was totally different from what we thought of as a “band,” which was a marching band, a military band, in those days.  Very oom-pah-pah.  The black band players were playing in a syncopated style.

 

Were they trained musicians, any of them?

They didn’t read music.  They played by ear, and they would play a melody to suit themselves.  The sheet music might have, say, eight bars of half-notes and quarter notes, and a rest here and there.  But since these fellows couldn’t read music, they held onto a note if they wanted to, or added what you call “grace notes” here and there, which made their playing swing.

 

How did you come to know Cricket Smith?

I used to sweep out his shop.  I was good at sweeping out stores.  My father had a dry-goods store, and one of my “jobs” was to sweep the inside of our store, and sweep the walkway outside it.

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From “The Jazz ‘King’s’ Climb: He Blew His Own Horn” (Harrisburg [PA] Telegraph, January 9, 1920)

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What was the name of his store?

The name?  You mean my father’s name, or the name of the store?

 

Both, if you please.

My father’s name was Ben, or Benny as he was called, Benjamin Friedman.  Benjamin and Paulina Friedman—they were my parents. The store was Friedman’s Bazaar.  It was on West Main Street in Circleville.  It was about, maybe, seven or eight blocks from the house I grew up in.  It was a two-story home, or three-story if you count the attic, which we also used, on West Mound Street in Circleville, at 158 West Mound.

 

How many were in your immediate family?

I’m the second oldest of five kids; my brother Edgar was the first, then me, then my brother Milt (or Milton), Leon, and Max.  We also had a clerk at my father’s shop living with us, and at times we also had a laundress living with us.

 

You began in a municipal band in your hometown, am I right?

It was what used to be called a “cadet band,” and it was formed by a German bandmaster.  In Circleville, in fact in the big Ohio cities, it was the Germans who were usually the bandmasters.  And were the teachers, too.

 

That would have been Oscar Ameringer who formed and led that band? 

Yes, Oscar Ameringer.  He called himself “Professor” Ameringer.  Just like I call myself “Professor Lewis” when I do “Medicine Man for the Blues.”

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Oscar Ameringer, 1920 (G. G. Bain Collection,
Library of Congress
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Was he the Oscar Ameringer who became a prominent Socialist, and either founded or wrote for labor-union newspapers?

Yes, indeed.  He came to Circleville from Cincinnati, and I think he lived in Columbus for a while, too.  He was very friendly with John L. Lewis, the mine-worker leader.  Oscar was our bandmaster in Circleville.  And he kicked me out of that band.  Do you know that story?

 

I’ve heard a version of it, but I’d much rather hear it from Ted Lewis personally!

Well, we were playing a concert in the park, and one of the pieces was the “Poet and Peasant Overture.”  Being German, Oscar Ameringer liked the Suppé overtures, especially “Poet and Peasant” and the “Light Cavalry” one.  They were popular back then.   Our band had played [“Poet and Peasant”] so many times that frankly, I was sick of it.

In the middle, and again toward the end of the overture, there’s a passage in ¾ time and the woodwinds, especially the clarinets, are more prominent in those parts.  The brass section “rules the roost” in the opening of the overture, then the strings and brass, then the woodwinds.  Anyway, I think I played the first [section] the way it’s written.  But in the second [section], I stood up and “noodled” my way all the way through that passage.  I was all over the place, improvising in the upper register.  Well, as soon as that concert was over, I got fired!

 

Did Ameringer re-hire you after he calmed down?

No, and it wasn’t long after that when I went to Columbus and started playing there.   Later on, after I got well known in New York, he apologized to me about ten times.

 

What took you to Columbus from Circleville?

Well, my father wanted me to go to college, to learn how to run a business and maybe become part of the family business.  So he paid my tuition to go to a business college in Columbus.

 

Was that Bliss College?

I think it was called Columbus Business College back then, but it’s still going, I think.  I was only there one term, one semester, and it wasn’t for me.  The classes mere mostly in the morning, and I’m not a morning type of fellow.  Show-business folks are night-time folks, you know.  So I didn’t stay in business college.  But if I do say so myself, I don’t pretty well in business.  Not the kind my father had in mind, but in show business.

 

Do you recall where you lived in Columbus?

A boarding house on East Town Street, about two blocks from Town and High Street.  I think it’s still there.

 

Do you recall the name of the store you worked in?

Yes, Goldsmith’s Music Store, on South High Street near where the Capitol building is.  At that time, it was a very large operation.  They sold all kinds of musical instruments, and phonographs, and player pianos, and they also sold and demonstrated sheet music for customers.  I did odd jobs there—sweeping up, and raising and lowering the awnings, and doing deliveries, mainly.  I did learn how to adjust keys and springs on the clarinet, and how to shave reeds, and how to put in pads.  But I was just an errand boy.

 

May I ask you about your religious upbringing?  Although I’m a goy, I study with two rabbis at Ohio State, one Orthodox, Rabbi Marvin Fox, and one Reformed—the great man Rabbi [Jerome D.] Folkman, who has made this interview possible for me.  Not being Jewish, I don’t know if there are strict lines that separate Orthodox, Conservative, and Reformed Judaism, but if you had to characterize your family when you were growing up in Circleville, in which tradition would you place your family?

First of all, in Circleville there were only, I think, five families including ours that were Jewish.  My father came from what you’d call a Conservative background today.  There was no temple in Circleville, and the Jewish families that lived there, if they got together much at all for religious purposes, got together in one of their homes.  Honestly, I don’t remember much of anything about what it meant to be Jewish until I came to Columbus and saw the beautiful synagogues there.  I’m sure you know the name Lazarus, the department-store family.  The patriarch was Simon Lazarus, and he and several other wealthy Jewish families donated the money and headed the fund drives for those wonderful temples in the East end.

As for me, to be honest I’m not [an] observant Jew.  Adah and I were married by a rabbi after [our] civil ceremony because we wanted a mitzvah, a blessing, for our marriage.  But being on the road like I’ve been throughout my career, I couldn’t follow the dietary laws and say all the prayers you’re supposed to say before and after meals, and at sunrise and sunset and throughout the day.  But I’m Jewish and I’m proud of it, and I really like this temple [Temple Israel] where my brother belongs.  And everybody here loves Rabbi Folkman.  I bet he’s a good professor.

 

Indeed he is—and please tell him I said so, although he’s not going to give me any bonus points for a compliment!  Staying with the subject of Columbus and your time there, did you play any of the vaudeville houses in Columbus?

Much later, yes, but not at the time I’m talking about.  At Goldsmith’s, I met a man named Gus Sun, who had a vaudeville circuit that played the East Coast.  He hired me, and it was through him that I got to New York.  I was hired by a band that played at Rector’s, which was a very posh restaurant in Manhattan.

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(The Talking Machine World, October 1925)

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Was that your first band, meaning the first one that was called the “Ted Lewis Band?”

No, my first band was a little before that.  I had put together a band in 1915, just five pieces, two clarinets, two cornets, and a Sousaphone.  We played shows at Coney Island.  We also played a few dates at the Brighton Beach Pavilion.

 

When you formed that first band and were playing at Coney Island, were you playing in the style we hear on your first Columbia recordings?

No.  We were playing songs that were suited to that type of a small band.  We weren’t improvising.  We were playing “straight.”

 

When would you say that you first began playing jazz, then?

Well, the group that popularized jazz was the Original Dixieland Jazz Band.  Nick LaRocca was the one who made that group what it was.  When they got the gig at Reisenweber’s in New York, and then when Victor picked them up and started promoting their records, that’s when jazz really took off.  Now, I had been playing in that style before the Original Dixieland Jazz Band.  I was with a band called Earl Fuller’s Novelty Orchestra.

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Earl Fuller special label. By this time this was issued in early 1920, Lewis had left to form his own band, and Fuller would soon exit the music business. The recordings were reissued on Arto 9009, a September 1920 release.  (Courtesy of Kurt Nauck)

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When and how did you become associated with the Earl Fuller band?

It was either at the end of 1915 or early in 1916.  Earl heard my little five-piece “nut band,” as I called it, and he liked my style, so he offered me a job.  It wasn’t until I got to know him that I found out he was an Ohioan, too.  He was from Warren, Ohio.

 

Did Earl Fuller just lead the band, or did he play in it too?

Earl was a pianist, what we used to call a “novelty pianist” in the style of Zez Confrey and Felix Arndt.  Do you know those names?

 

Yes, “Kitten on the Keys” and “Nola” and so many other piano pieces that I wish I could play!

Are you a musician too?

 

No, sir, except in a very liberal use of the word “musician.”  I play clarinet at a little bar on High Street, a block north of the [Ohio State University] campus.  The owner is a ragtime pianist, and three nights a week I am his clarinetist.  But I hesitate to say that I am a clarinetist in the presence of the great Ted Lewis!

If the money and the tips are helping you get your doctor’s degree, it doesn’t matter how well you play.

 

I’ll remember that, sir.  Going back to your days with Earl Fuller, were the Fuller band and the Original Dixieland band the major jazz bands in Manhattan around the time that the U.S. entered World War One?

No, there were others in and around New York that were novelty bands, although what they were playing was our [New York] version of New Orleans jazz.  Ben Selvin was there, and he had a novelty band, and Gus Haenschen had a banjo orchestra that he’d brought from St. Louis.  The Warings, Fred and Tom, had a banjo orchestra, and there was the Original New Orleans Jazz Band too.  So there were several, and all of them were copying the Original Dixieland Jazz Band—not the “live” band, but their Victor records.  Victor really promoted those records.

 

You left Earl Fuller’s band, as we were talking about earlier, to form your own band.  Was that a mutual decision?

Well, yes and no.  He was older, and doing three shows a night, every night but Monday, was wearing thin for him.  And to be honest about it, I had an act pretty much planned out, and I needed my own band to do my act the way I had conceived of it.  I was full of pep and eager to get started, and I talked to several of the guys in the [Fuller] band, and they were willing to take a chance on sticking with me, so they came along.

 

Did you and Earl Fuller become competitors, then?

Not really.  He was winding down, tired of the grind.  When I was with him, the band had done several trial recordings for Victor, but very few of them were released.  We had better luck with Columbia, and that’s how I got into Columbia and why I stayed with them after I had my own band.  Columbia, you know, was the David to Victor’s Goliath.  Columbia would try new things that Victor was reluctant to do.

Victor, as I said, promoted the Original Dixieland records pretty well, but that wasn’t what the [Victor] management wanted in 1917 and 1918.  Their biggest selling band was the [Joseph C.] Smith band, which was a “society” outfit.  Now that changed when they got [Paul] Whiteman, but that was after the Original Dixieland fellows had run their course.  Earl, you see, wanted to be like Joseph C. Smith and be a society band.  And that was exactly what I didn’t want to be.

 

Did you and Earl Fuller stay in contact after you became famous on your own?

Just incidentally.  Earl went into radio when it became big.  He stayed in radio, pretty much in the Midwest.  Somewhere around World War Two, I think, he was the musical director for a big station in Cincinnati.  So he did all right for himself—another Ohio boy who made good in the music business.

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COMING IN PART 3: Columbia records, Paul Whiteman, Lewis on jazz

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© 2018 by James A. Drake. All rights are reserved. Short excerpts may be quoted without permission, provided the source and a link to this posting are cited. All other use requires prior written consent of the copyright holder. Please e-mail Mainspring Press with questions, comments, or reproduction requests for the author.

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Additional content from Mainspring Press

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Beginning in the later 1920s, Ted Lewis sometimes let younger musicians handle the clarinet work. These three examples feature Don Murray, best remembered for his work with Bix Beiderbecke, Frank Trumbauer, and the Jean Goldkette Orchestra.

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TED LEWIS & HIS BAND: Jungle Blues
New York: April 3, 1928
Columbia 1525-D (mx. W 145954 – 4)

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TED LEWIS & HIS BAND (Lewis, vocal): A Jazz Holiday

New York: April 3, 1928
Columbia 1525-D (mx. W 145953 – 3)

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TED LEWIS & HIS BAND (Lewis, vocal): Maybe – Who Knows?

Los Angeles: May 26, 1929
Columbia 1854-D (mx. 148562 – 3)

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The James A. Drake Interviews • Ted Lewis (Part 1)

INTERVIEW WITH TED LEWIS
Part 1 of 3
 James A. Drake

 

This interview was conducted in 1968 at Temple Israel, in Columbus, Ohio,
courtesy of Rabbi Jerome D. Folkman.

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I’d like to ask you several questions about the clarinet.  When I had the privilege of meeting you between your shows at the Ohio State Fair about ten years ago, the clarinet you used in your show was an Albert system.  I know of some players who started with the Albert and then switched to Boehm.  Did you ever do that?  Can you play both systems?    

The Albert [system] was popular with the ragtime fellows, but the Boehm was what many of the New York fellows were playing.  I tried to learn it, but it was so different than the Albert that I just couldn’t stick to it.  So I stayed with the Albert.

 

Do you recall the name, or brand, of your first B-flat clarinet?

Yes, it was a Lambert.  It was a good name in clarinets.  Made in Paris, and imported over here.

 

Is that the instrument you were playing when you joined the Earl Fuller band?

Well, I still had the Lambert when I went with Earl, but not too long after I settled in New York, I tried out a clarinet made by a fellow named Brancati, O. M. Brancati, who had a store on Lexington Avenue.  I heard that he had an arrangement with Vandoren in Paris to ship him barrels, pads, keys, spring, and such.  His [Brancati’s] workmen would assemble and adjust the instruments to suit the client.

 

Do you have a preference in mouthpieces?

I think I’ve tried them all at one time or another.  For a while, I was playing with a glass mouthpiece.  The one I learned on was a wood mouthpiece.  It was okay because it was well seasoned, but I was always worried that I might drop it and put a chip in the tip.  I worried about that with the glass mouthpiece too.  I used a hard-rubber mouthpiece on and off, and it was very stable.  I use Bakelite mouthpieces most of the time.

 

I wondered if you were using a plastic mouthpiece these days.

I should try one of the newer ones.  Plastic has come a long way, and I hear that some of them are pretty good.

 

You use a standard metal ligature.  Did you always use a metal one?

Yes, and I’ve had several different ones.  The one I liked the best had three screws instead of two.  Now, the old players, the ones who came up from New Orleans, they used string for a ligature.  Some of them used fishing line to hold the reed in place.

 

Of the several New Orleans clarinets who came to New York when the jazz movement started, did any of them have an influence on your playing?

Oh, yes—there were several, as you say, but Al [Alcide] Nunez was the one I really admired.  All of the New Orleans fellows he played with thought Al was the tops.  He had a nickname, “Yaller,” which was the way the fellows who played with him pronounced “yellow.”  I don’t know if you know this, but Al was with the band that became the Original Dixieland Jazz Band when they were just a five-piece band playing in Chicago.  About the time I started with Earl Fuller’s band, word was coming out of Chicago that Al Nunez was the hottest clarinetist of them all.

 

What was it about his playing that influenced your style?

In one word, everything!  If you listen to the records he made with the Louisiana Five, you hear how easily he could play in the upper register—and I mean an octave above what almost any other clarinetist could play.  You don’t hear his low register in those records, because it didn’t record very well, but his low-register playing was almost like what you’d hear from a classical clarinetist.  Oh, he could do the growling, “reedy” low notes that you hear Sidney Bechet play when he’s on clarinet.  But Al could play like a conservatory graduate when he wanted to.  Every note he played had the same quality, high to low and low to high, and his vibrato never varied from top to bottom.

 

Your own clarinet sound and your high-register playing are really distinctive.  Has your tone and your style changed a lot from when you were starting out with the Earl Fuller band?

You mean my “wah-wah” vibrato?  That’s the style I developed when I was with [the] Fuller [band].  We were a novelty act, a “clown band.”  The kind of music we played, meaning the songs we played, were called “nut songs” back then.  I developed that high-register “wah-wah” as my part of the act.  I always held the clarinet pointed upward, and moved it all around—left and right, up and down—while I was playing.  Sometimes I would do a dance while I was playing, or I’d mimic a guy marching with big, high steps.  That’s where the top hat came in, too.

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In your show, and also in your second RKO album, in the introduction you make to “Wear a Hat with a Silver Lining,” you talk about your famous hat.  “Since nineteen-six / it’s played the sticks / from Maine to Mandalay” is one of my favorite lines.  Can I induce you to talk about how you acquired your famous hat?

I tell that story in my act—I won it in a dice game.  That’s not the shabby one I wear onstage, though.  That first hat was a pretty nice, shiny top hat.  It wasn’t my exact size, so I wore it cocked to the side.  I have about a dozen of them.

 

What prompted you to make that battered hat a kind of signature, along with your clarinet and your distinctive way of delivering a song?

Well, the top hat was always associated with high society.  You know, “a top hat, a white tie, and tails,” as Irving Berlin wrote.   If you wore a top hat, people might say that your nose was up in the air, that you were stuck up.  If a fellow put on airs, somebody might say, “He’s high-hatting us,” meaning that he’s got his nose in the air.  So to take a beat-up top hat and wear it was a little like what Chaplin did with the derby.  It was taking a high-society hat and putting it on a riverboat tramp.  It was my trademark, but there were others who used a battered hat for a similar effect.  Harpo Marx was one.

 

But why a beat-up top hat, when you were always dressed in a dark suit or a tux? 

The contrast was what I was after.  I wore the hat like the Currier and Ives comic characters did.  That’s where I got that from.

 

Would that have been from the “Darktown” series of Currier & Ives?

You’ve seen those, have you?  That’s where all of the Negro acts came from.  They patterned themselves after those [Darktown] characters.  If you’re familiar with the great Bert Williams, you’ll know that a couple of his characters from his “Follies” acts were made up and dressed up like those Currier & Ives Darktown characters.

 

Back to the clarinet, do you recall the first clarinet you learned to play?

Well, the first one was the E-flat, the smallest clarinet, and then when I got big enough I went to the B-flat [clarinet].  The E-flat one was a metal Albert [system] clarinet.  That’s the one I learned on.

 

Was the clarinet your first instrument?

No, I started with a piccolo, believe it or not.  I was just a tyke and my fingers weren’t long enough to reach the keys of a clarinet.

 

In a Columbia catalog supplement from the late-1920’s, there is a photo of you playing saxophone.  Did you “double” on sax and clarinet in your band, or any of the bands you played with before you formed your own group?

Only when I had to, meaning when another sax player was necessary for an arrangement.  The sax was the electric guitar of the 1920’s, you know.  You may have heard of Rudy Wiedoeft—

 

Yes, the composer of “Saxophobia,” and the man from whom Rudy Vallée borrowed his first name.

That’s right.  Rudy Wiedoeft, and a group called the Six Brown Brothers, and also a fellow who worked for me from time to time, Benny Krueger, were the ones who were considered the top men on sax in those days.

 

Staying with Rudy Valleé for a moment—and he was just here [in Columbus] about two months ago, and I interviewed him about this—he said that when he put together his first band, the Yale Collegians, he did an impersonation of you.  His impersonation of you, along with the one he did of Maurice Chevalier, became part of his show at the Paramount Theater.  I would guess that you and Maurice Chevalier and Al Jolson have been impersonated more than any other performers.  Would you agree?

If you’re talking about performers in general, not just singers and musicians, I think you’d have to add Groucho [Marx] to that list.  But, yes, I saw Rudy’s impersonation in one of his shorts [short films], and it was pretty good because he could imitate my swaying and my “strut,” you might call it.  And he could play the clarinet in my style, too.

Of the stars you just mentioned, I think I’m the easiest to imitate because I don’t really sing, I “talk” a song.  Chevalier and Jolson “talked” lyrics too, but they were singers.  They talked a little just for an effect.  Now in my case, a fellow can get himself an old battered top hat, and a white-tipped cane, and a clarinet—even if it’s just a prop and they don’t play it.  And if they can mimic my inflections and my gestures, why, they can do me pretty easily.

 

Were you and Al Jolson friends?

I knew Al, of course, but Al was a fellow who didn’t socialize much.  I’ve belonged to the Friars Club for more years than I can remember, and I love going there and playing cards with my friends in show business.  Al wasn’t like that, you see.  Al was always “on,” even when he wasn’t onstage.  He had to be in the spotlight, no matter where he was or what he was doing.  Everybody in the business knew Al and respected him as a great performer, a big star, but Al was a loner.

 

Your delivery of a song is so distinctive that I think it’s right to say it’s unique.  How did you develop it?  Where did it stem from?

From Cohan.  George M. Cohan.  He “talked” a song, you know.  I saw every one of his hit shows, and each one was greater than the one before it.  Have you seen the movie with Jimmy Cagney?

 

Yes, several times.

Jimmy Cagney was a dancer, you know, but his style was nothing like Cohan’s.  But when you see him dancing as Cohan in that movie, you’d swear you were seeing George M. Cohan.  Now, Jimmy doesn’t sound like Cohan, but he “talks” the lyrics like Cohan did.  The only difference was that Cohan would sing more of the lyrics than Jimmy Cagney does in that film.  Jimmy’s not a singer, he’s a dancer.  Cohan could sing “straight” when he wanted to.

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© 2018 by James A. Drake. All rights are reserved. Short excerpts may be quoted without permission, provided the source and a link to this posting are cited. All other use requires prior written consent of the copyright holder. Please e-mail Mainspring Press with questions, comments, or reproduction requests for the author.

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Ted Lewis (clarinet) with Earl Fuller’s Famous Jazz Band

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EARL FULLER’S FAMOUS JAZZ BAND (Ted Lewis, clarinet):

Jazz De Luxe

New York: June 13, 1918
Edison 50541 (mx. 6224)

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TED LEWIS & HIS BAND: Barnyard Blues [Livery Stable Blues]

New York: June 5, 1924
Columbia 170-D (mx. 81808 – 2)

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COMING IN PART 2: Cricket Smith, more on Earl Fuller,
Lewis starts his own band

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Highlights from the Pathe Records Catalog (August 1916)

From the Bill Bryant papers at Mainspring Press. Note the issue by Rector’s New York Dance Orchestra (Leopold Kohls, director), which is missing from American Dance Bands on Records and Film. A bit of trivia for the organ fans out there, from a page not pictured: Pathé’s “exclusive” studio organ was a Mason & Hamlin (a popular line of reed organs), model not mentioned.

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Collectors’ Corner • Some March Finds (Fletcher Henderson, Sammy Stewart, William Haid, Wendell Hall, Bob Deikman)

After a sluggish start that included plowing through more red-label Columbias, etc., than anyone should ever have to, March ended with some nice finds from a collector who’s downsizing. If you’re doing the same, and have material of similar quality to dispose of, let us know (top prices paid for top records, if needed for the collection; true E- or better, on the VJM scale, with strong V+ the minimum acceptable grade except in rare cases). Here are a few favorites from the new batch:
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FLETCHER HENDERSON & HIS ORCHESTRA: You’ve Got to Get Hot  [EE-]

New York: October 1923
Vocalion 14726 (mx. 12199)

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FLETCHER HENDERSON & HIS ORCHESTRA: Charleston Crazy  [E]

New York: November 1923
Vocalion 14726 (mx. 12376)

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SAMMY STEWART & HIS ORCHESTRA: Copenhagen  [E-]

Chicago: September 1924
Paramout 20359 (mx. 1891-1)

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WILLIAM HAID: Shim-Sha-Wabble [sic] & I’ll See You in My Dreams  [V+]

Marsh Laboratories, Chicago: c. January 1925
Autograph unnumbered (mx. 701)

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WENDELL HALL: Hot Feet  [E-]

New York: March 29, 1927
Champion 15295 (Gennett mx. GEX-561)

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BOB DEIKMAN’S ORCHESTRA (as Grandview Inn Orchestra): Roll Up the Carpets  [E]

Richmond, IN: December 25, 1927
Champion 15401 (Gennett mx. GEX-991)

Gennett Odd-and-Ends • How to Pronounce “Gennett” (1920) / H. Ross Franklin Orchestra Personnel (1922)

We’ve heard “Gennett” pronounced every which-way over the years, and apparently so had the Gennett family, who finally placed an ad in 1920 to set the record straight. Here you have it, from the folks who knew best:

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Muncie [IN] Evening Post, January 16, 1920

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For anyone owning the H. Ross Franklin Orchestra’s Gennett personal record — all two of you, perhaps? — here are the rather obscure personnel (not listed in the American Dance Band Discography and derivative works) who were present at that session on March 6, 1922. This list is transcribed verbatim from The Fort Wayne [IN] Journal-Gazette for April 2, 1922, and probably contains some misspellings:

H. Ross Franklin [piano] directing: Vern C. McDermitt (trumpet); Benjamin West (trombone); Glendon C. Davis (clarinet); Harold D. Smith (alto saxophone); Lawrence G. Pape (oboe); Steward C. Loranze (violin); Edward Melching (banjo); Paul E. Dickerson (brass bass); John Kehne (percussion).

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The Journal-Gazette reported that this session entailed “eight hours of strenuous effort.” A third title, “You Know,” was also recorded, but so far we’ve not found any reliable evidence that it was issued. Let us know if you have a copy, and be sure to include a photo or scan for confirmation. Franklin’s orchestras cut two additional sides for Gennett in October 1928, but both were rejected.

For more on Franklin and several of his musicians, see Duncan Schiedt’s superb The Jazz State of Indiana (Indiana Historical Society, 1999).

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Free Personal-Use Download: Brian Rust’s Complete “Jazz and Ragtime Records, 1897-1942” (6th and Final Edition)

Response to the initial Personal Use Edition of the late Brian Rust’s JR-6 (1917-1934) has been so positive that we’re now making the complete work (1897-1942) available free of charge for the benefit of the collecting and research communities, in keeping with Brian’s wishes.

This edition is in Adobe Acrobat only. (A plain-text file is not being provided, but text files can be created from Acrobat by various methods. Please note that we are unable to provide any technical assistance in this regard; information can be found in your Acrobat or word-processor documentation, or online.)

Be sure to open the Bookmarks sidebar, on the left side of the screen, for easy navigation through the entries. Abbreviation lists  will be found at the end of the file. Indexes are not included, nor are they needed any longer, thanks to Acrobat’s superior search-engine capabilities.

 

CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD BRIAN RUST’S
JAZZ & RAGTIME RECORDS, 1897-1842

Free Complete 6th Edition, for Personal Use Only (~ 10mb)

 

LICENSE INFORMATION: By downloading this file, you signify your understanding of and agreement to the following terms:

All data in this work have been placed in the public domain (i.e., released from copyright) by Mainspring Press LLC, the sole copyright holder in this work by 2001 contractual assignment from Brian Rust.

You may copy, print out, distribute, alter, and/or incorporate this data in other works free of charge and without permission, for personal, non-commercial, non-profit use only, provided that you fully cite the source.

Mainspring Press retains the full and exclusive worldwide commercial publication rights (as distinguished from copyright) in this work. This work may not be published or otherwise distributed commercially, by any method (including but not limited to print, digital, and/or online media) without the prior written consent of Mainspring Press.

________

Note: Please do not send additions and corrections to Mainspring Press; we are not producing any further editions of this work.

Some Corrections to Johnson & Shirley’s “American Dance Bands,” from Vic D’Ippolito’s Date Books

Horn-man Vic D’Ippolito’s 1920s date book is the sort of primary-source documentation (like Ed Kirkeby’s files) that causes discographers to salivate. The late Woody Backensto transcribed D’Ippolito’s original data in the late 1950s, a portion of which was published in a special (and now quite rare) October 1958 supplement to Record Research magazine. It’s since been largely overlooked — not least of all by Brian Rust and followers Johnson & Shirley, none of whose dance bands discographies include this information. So to set the records straight, here are a few nuggets we’ve uncovered in just our initial skim:

BLACK SWAN 2106
Brashear’s California Orchestra: Crinoline Days / Lady of the Evening

ADB UNDOCUMENTED IDENTITY AND DATE:
Nathan Glantz’s Orchestra (c. late 10/ 1922)

IDENTITY AND ACTUAL DATE IN D’IPPOLITO LOG:
“Sam Lascabza” [sic? Mike LoScalzo?]  (11/28/1922)

A bit of a mystery here. Backensto interpreted  D’Ippolito’s entry to read “Lascabza,” which could easily be a misreading on his part, or a misspelling on D’Ippolito’s part, for LoScalszo. We’ve not found a Lascabza or a Sam LoScalzo making records at this time, but Mike LoScalzo’s band was recording for Olympic (masters from which were frequently issued on Black Swan under pseudonyms); thus, he seems the most likely suspect. At any rate, there’s nothing in D’Ippolito’s entry to suggest Glantz.

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BLACK SWAN 2110
Laurel Dance Orchestra: Burning Sands / You Remind Me of My Mother

ADB UNDOCUMENTED IDENTITY AND DATE:
Listed as an actual orchestra (c. 12/ 1922)

IDENTITY AND ACTUAL DATE PER D’IPPOLITO LOG:
“Sam Lascabza” [sic? Mike Loscalzo?] (11/28/1922)

Same comments as above. The “Laurel Dance Orchestra” pseudonym also appears on other Black Swan issues confirmed as LoScalzo’s.

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CAMEO 289
Blue Bird Dance Orchestra: Whistling
CAMEO 290
Blue Bird Dance Orch: Teddy Bear Blues

ADB UNDOCUMENTED IDENTITY AND DATE:
Possibly Arthur Lange (c. late 10/1922)

ACTUAL IDENTITY AND DATE PER D’IPPOLITO LOG:
Al Burt’s Orchestra (12/14/1922)

“Blue Bird Dance Orchestra” isn’t so much a pseudonym as an incomplete artist credit, probably used because Al Burt was an Edison artist at the time. Burt’s band was appearing at the Bluebird Dancing Palace, as confirmed by a check made out to Burt that was endorsed by the dance-hall, which survives at the Edison National Historic Site.

“Teddy Bear” is an under-appreciated little item (as one might expect of a record condemned to Arthur Lange Hell by the supposed experts), with D’Ippolito front-and-center:

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CAMEO 724
Mike Speciale’s Orchestra: Something’s Wrong

CAMEO 727
Mike Speciale’s Orchestra: Cross Words

ADB UNDOCUMENTED IDENTITY AND DATE:
Orchestra identity is correct, but Vic D’Ippolito not shown in the undocumented personnel listing  (c. 4/20/1925)

ACTUAL IDENTITY AND DATE PER D’IPPOLITO LOG:
Vic D’Ippolito is present (4/21/1925)

 

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VOCALION 14475
Broadway Syncopators: Without You

ADB UNDOCUMENTED IDENTITY AND DATE:
Ben Selvin’s Orchestra (c. 12/6/1922)

ACTUAL IDENTITY AND DATE PER D’IPPOLITO LOG:
Emil Coleman’s Montmartre Orchestra (12/4/1922)

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ACTUAL RECORDING DATES FROM THE D’IPPOLITO BOOK (ADB BAND IDENTITIES ARE CORRECT):

Cameo 256: 9/13/1922 (Apparently for the remake session [takes D-F], based on the master-number gap between these sides and those on the other two sides [takes A-C] from this session) (ADB: c. 7/1922)
Cameo 265 (both sides): 9/13/1922 (ABD: c. 8/20/1922)
Cameo 273 (both sides): 10/13/1922 (ADB: c. 9/20/1922)
Cameo 274 (both sides): 9/25/1922 (ADB: c. 9/19/1922)
Cameo 713 (both sides): 4/7/1925 (ADB: c. 4/6/1925)
Cameo 727 (both sides): 4/21/1925 (ADB: c. 4/20/1924)
Federal 5244 (both sides): 1/5/1923 (ADB: c. 1/1923)
Federal 5245 (Starlight Bay): 1/5/1923 (ADB: c. 1/1923)
To be continued….

 

The Playlist • Annette Hanshaw (1927–1930)

msp_hanshaw-composite1

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ANNETTE HANSHAW & HER SIZZLIN’ SYNCOPATORS: Who’s That Knockin’ at My Door?

New York: September 1927
Perfect 12372 (mx. 107766 – )
Various works cite an undocumented recording date of September 8.

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ANNETTE HANSHAW & HER SIZZLIN’ SYNCOPATORS: I’ve Got “It” (But It Don’t Do Me No Good)

New York: May 5, 1930
Velvet Tone 2155-V (mx. W 150388 – 3)

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ANNETTE HANSHAW (as Dot Dare): Is There Anything Wrong in That?

New York: November 22, 1928
Diva 2792-V (mx. W 147483 – 3)

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ANNETTE HANSHAW (as Patsy Young): I Want To Be Bad

New York: March 14, 1929
Velvet Tone 1878-V (mx. W 148077 – 2)

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ANNETTE HANSHAW: I Think You’ll Like It

New York: October 28, 1929
Mx. W 149196 – 2
From a c. 1960s custom vinyl pressing of the original stamper.

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No accompanying personnel are listed in the company files for any of these sessions, although experienced collectors will readily recognize Joe Venuti, Eddie Lang, Frank Signorelli, Benny Goodman, and others on various sides. Speculative personnel, based on aural evidence, can be found in our free download of Brian Rust’s Jazz & Ragtime Records (Personal-Use Edition, 1917–1934).

The Playlist • “Some Of These Days,” Four Ways (1910–1930)

msp_tucker_some-of-these-da

 

Four very different treatments of Shelton Brooks’ 1910 hit, beginning with a Victor release by studio singer Billy Murray in auto-pilot mode. Given what we know of Victor’s musical assembly-line of the period, Murray’s first encounter with the song quite likely came when a company representative handed him the score and gave him a few days to prepare for the recording.

The song might have died on the spot, given such treatment, but Sophie Tucker made it her own. She brought audiences to their feet (and folks of the sort who carped about “white coon shouters” to near-apoplexy), and it would serve as her signature tune for the rest of her career. Here are two of Tucker’s many recorded versions — the original, and a mid-1920s reworking with the Ted Lewis band that incidentally marks one of the earliest fruits of the Columbia-Okeh merger. Lewis was exclusive to Columbia, Tucker to Okeh; the fact that Columbia got the release was perhaps a not-so-subtle reminder of who was boss in the new relationship.

And finally, a full jazz treatment by The Missourians, the sensationally hot band that Cab Calloway had recently taken over. Within a few months he would begin adjusting personnel and reducing them to glorified accompanists, but here we have them in their final, untampered-with glory.

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BILLY MURRAY & AMERICAN QUARTET: Some of These Days

Camden NJ: December 27, 1910 (Released March 1911)
Victor 16834 (mx. B 9740 – 3)

Personnel not listed in the Victor files. The American Quartet at this time normally included Murray (lead tenor),  John Bieling (tenor), Steve Porter (baritone), and William F. Hooley (bass).

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SOPHIE TUCKER: Some of These Days

New York: February or March 1911 (Released May 25, 1911)
Edison Amberol 691 (four-minute cylinder)

The Edison studio cash books list Tucker four-minute sessions on February 17 and 24, and March 2, but do not indicate the titles recorded at each.

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TED LEWIS & HIS BAND with SOPHIE TUCKER: Some of These Days

Chicago: November 23, 1926
Columbia 826-D (mx. W 142955 – 2)

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CAB CALLOWAY & HIS ORCHESTRA (Cab Calloway, vocal):
Some of These Days

New York: December 23, 1930
Brunswick 6020 (mx. E 35880 – A)

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The Playlist • “Charleston Back to Charleston,” Three Ways (1925)

msp-sm_charleston-back

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JACK STILLMAN’S ORIOLE ORCHESTRA:  I’m Gonna Charleston Back to Charleston

New York: c. October–November 1925?*
Paramount 20423 (mx. 2333 – 1)
*Evidence is mounting that Paramount’s New York studio did not always assign final master numbers at the time of recording — particularly some discrepancies between the date ranges given in traditional discographies (like the questionable one shown here), and confirmed date ranges extrapolated from talent-broker Ed Kirkeby’s session files. Could this be one of those instances, given that companies for which original files exist recorded this title during the mid-summer of 1925? A large amount of research remains to be done in this regard, but we’re on it — stay tuned!

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COON-SANDERS ORIGINAL NIGHT HAWKS ORCHESTRA (Carleton Coon & Joe Sanders, vocal): I’m Gonna Charleston Back to Charleston

Camden, NJ: July 13, 1925 (Released  August 21, 1925;  Deleted 1927)
Victor 19727 (mx. BVE 32768 – 4)

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CALIFORNIA RAMBLERS: I’m Gonna Charleston Back to Charleston

New York: July 9, 1925
Columbia 419-D (mx. W 140674 – 1)
Rust’s Jazz & Ragtime Records 1897–1942 and derivative works, including American Dance Bands on Records and Film, give the date as June 9, in error. July 9 is confirmed in the Kirkeby logbook and Columbia files.

More Discographic Updates: Correct Personnel for Okeh’s 1927 “Ted Wallace” Sessions, from Ed Kirkeby’s Payroll Books

MSP_kirkeby-ed_3
Ed Kirkeby

Some more corrections to the undocumented personnel listings for Ed Kirkeby groups that appear in Johnson & Shirley’s American Dance Bands on Films and Records — this time for the 1927 Okeh sessions by Kirkeby’s conventional dance orchestra that were issued under the name of “Ted Wallace,” along with  various other pseudonyms.

The correct personnel shown here are from Ed Kirkeby’s payroll books; see the previous posts for details on the Kirkeby archival materials. Names in boldface are correct entries from the payroll books (an underline indicates a name that does not appear in the ADBFR listing); struck-out names are incorrect guesses in ADBFR. In some cases, musicians the ADBFR compilers state are “definitely present” definitely are not.

ADBFR’s listings for the 1928–1929 Okeh and Columbia “Wallace” sessions show only the compiler’s “collective personnel,” consisting of about 45 names (read: “Throw enough crap at the wall, and something’s bound to stick”). Actually, Kirkeby’s payroll books contain very specific personnel for all of those sessions (including some names not found among the “collective”), which we’ll consider posting if there’s sufficient interest in the current posts.

 

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New York: February 14, 1927

“Oh! Lizzie” (mx. 80418, as “Okay Kate” in EK log); “The Cat” (mx. 80419); “My Regular Gal” (mx. 80420, remade March 17)

 

Tpt: Chelsea Quealey, Roy Johnston, Bill Moore

Tbn: Tommy Dorsey, Abe Lincoln “definitely present”  [?; one of the unidentified below?]

Reeds: Arnold Brillhart “definitely present,” Sam Ruby, Adrian Rollini  Pete Pumiglio, Spencer Clark

Vln: Hal White, Joe LaFaro

Pno: Jack Russin  Lennie Hayton

Bjo: Tommy Felline  Carl Kress

Percussion: Herb Weil  [?; one of the unidentified below?]

Unidentified instrument(s): R. Busch, R. Rossan

Note: Kirkeby originally entered a $50 payment to himself, which he crossed-out.

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New York: March 17, 1927

“My Regular Gal” (remake, take D); “Nesting Time” (mx. 80639); “For Mary and Me” (mx. 80640)

 

Tpt: Sylvester Ahola, Chelsea Quealy

Tbn: Ivan Johnston  Edward Lapp

Reeds: Arnold Brillhart “definitely present,” Bobby Davis, Sam Ruby, Adrian Rollini

Vln: Al Duffy or Hal White  [none listed]

Pno: Jack Russin

Bjo: Tommy Felline

Percussion: Herb Weil

Unidentified instrument(s): An unidentified artist was paid $15 for this session

Note: Kirkeby originally entered a $50 payment to himself, which he crossed-out.

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New York: June 27, 1927

“Bless Her Little Heart” (mx. 81110) / “Who-oo? You-oo, That’s Who” (mx. 81111) / Pleading (mx. 81112) / Love and Kisses (mx. 81113)

 

Tpt: Chelsea Quealey, Frank Cush?

Tbn: Abe Lincoln  Tommy Dorsey

Reeds: Johnny Rude or Arnold Brillhart or Sam Ruby  Bob Fallon, Bobby Davis, Adrian Rollini

Vln: [None listed]

Pno: Jack Russin

Bjo: Tommy Felline

Percussion: Herb Weil

Unidentified instrument(s): [?] Black

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New York: September 9, 1927

“Cornfed” (mx. 81429) / “Buffalo Rhythm” (mx. 81430) / “Zulu Wail” (mx. 81431)

 

Tpt: Chelsea Quealey, Frank Cush

Tbn: Tommy Dorsey or Abe Lincoln  Joe Vargas

Reeds: Bobby Davis or Johnny Rude or Arnold Brillhart, Adrian Rollini, Sam Ruby, Bob Fallon, Pete Pumiglio, Spencer Clark

Vln: [None listed]

Pno: Jack Russin

Bjo: Tommy Felline

Percussion: Herb Weil

____________________

New York: November 23, 1927

“Mary” (mx. 81858) / “Changes” (mx. 81859)

 

Tpt: Henry Levine  Chelsea Quealey

Tbn: Al Philburn

Reeds: Harold Marcus, Sam Ruby  Pete Pumiglio, Bob Fallon

Vln: Al Duffy

Pno: Jack Russin

Bjo: Tommy Felline

Bass: Jack Hansen  [None listed]

Percussion: Herb Weil

Unidentified instrument(s): [?] Black, [?] Hart, [?] Lloyd

____________________

New York: December 7, 1927

“For My Baby” (mx. 81924) / “There’s Something Spanish in Your Eyes” (mx. 81925) / “Cobblestones” (mx. 81926)

 

Tpt: Chelsea Quealey, Henry Levine

Tbn: Al Philburn

Reeds: Harold Marcus  Sam Ruby, Pete Pumiglio

Vln: Al Duffy   Joe LaFaro

Pno: Jack Russin

Bjo: Tommy Felline

Bass: Jack Hansen

Percussion: Herb Weil

.

 

Discographic Update: Corrected Personnel for the 1927 Okeh “Goofus Five” Sessions, from Ed Kirkeby’s Payroll Book

We continue with our corrections to the undocumented (and thus, often very incorrect) personnel listings in Johnson & Shirley’s American Dance Bands on Films and Records, successor to Brian Rust’s American Dance Band Discography.

The following listings, taken from Ed Kirkeby’s payroll books,  correct ADBFR’s speculative personnel for the 1927 “Goofus Five” sessions at Okeh’s New York studio. Names in boldface are correct personnel, from the payroll books. Struck-out names are incorrect guesses that appear in ADBFR. See the previous posting for more information on the Kirkeby archival materials.

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New York: February 8, 1927

“Farewell Blues” (mx. 80402) / “I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate” (mx. 80403) / “Some of These Days” (mx. 80404)

 

Tpt: Chelsea Quealey  Roy Johnston

Tbn: Abe Lincoln  Ivan Johnston

Reeds: Sam Ruby, Bobby Davis, Adrian Rollini

Pno: Irving Brodsky  Jack Russin

Bjo: Tommy Felline

____________________

 

New York: April 14, 1927

“Muddy Water” (mx. 80730) / “The Wang Wang Blues” (mx. 80731) / “The Whisper Song” (mx. 80732) / “Arkansas Blues” (mx. 80733)

 

Tpt: Chelsea Quealey

Tbn: Abe Lincoln  [none listed]

Reeds: Sam Ruby, Bobby Davis, Adrian Rollini

Pno: Irving Brodsky  Jack Russin

Bjo / Gtr: Tommy Felline

Percussion: Herb Weil

____________________


New York: June 15, 1927

“Lazy Weather” (mx. 81015) / “Vo-Do-Do-De-O Blues” (mx. 81016) / “Ain’t That a Grand and Glorious Feeling?” (mx. 81017)

 

Tpt: Chelsea Quealey

Tbn: Al Philburn  Tommy Dorsey

Reeds: Bobby Davis, Sam Ruby, Adrian Rollini

Pno: Jack Russin

Bjo: Tommy Felline

Percussion: Herb Weil

Vocal: Ed Kirkeby

____________________

 

New York: August 10 and 12, 1927

August 10: “Clementine” (mx. 81207) / “Nothin’ Does It Like It Used to Do-Do-Do” (mx. 81208)

August 12: “I Left My Sugar Standing in the Rain” (mx. 81219; originally scheduled for August 10 session)

 

Tpt: Chelsea Quealey

Tbn: Al Philburn  [none listed]

Reeds: Bobby Davis, Sam Ruby, Adrian Rollini

Pno: Jack Russin

Bjo: Tommy Felline

Percussion: Herb Weil

Note: The vocalist (Beth Challis) was not on Kirkeby’s payroll.

____________________

New York: November 3, 1927

“Blue Baby, Why Are You Blue?” (mx. 81772) / “Make My Cot Where the Cot-Cot-Cotton Grows” (mx. 81773) / “Is She My Girl Friend?” (mx. 81774)

 

Tpt: Henry Levine, Chelsea Quealey

Tbn: Al Philburn

Reeds: Bob Fallon, Pete Pumiglio, Spencer Clark

Pno: Jack Russin

Bjo: Tommy Felline

Percussion: Herb Weil

Note: The vocalist (Les Reis) was not on Kirkeby’s payroll.

Discographic Update: Corrected Personnel for Gennett 1926–1927 “Vagabonds” (California Ramblers) Sessions, from Ed Kirkeby’s Payroll Books

We continue with our corrections to the undocumented (and thus, often very incorrect) personnel listings in Johnson & Shirley’s American Dance Bands on Films and Records, successor to Rust’s American Dance Band Discography.

The following listings, taken from Ed Kirkeby’s payroll books,  correct ADBFR’s speculative personnel for the California Ramblers’ 1926–1927 “Vagabonds” sessions at the Starr Piano Company’s Gennett studio in New York. Names in boldface are confirmed in the payroll books. Struck-out names are incorrect guesses that appear in ADBFR. Perhaps the most important correction to note is the absence of Tommy Dorsey on all of these records.

In addition to Ed Kirkeby’s “diaries” and payroll books (two separate sets of documents, which when merged provide a very complete picture of each session), we are using Perry Armagnac’s unpublished annotations, which were made with Mr. Kirkeby’s personal assistance in the early 1950s. At that time, Kirkeby was able to clear up some of the ambiguities in his files, which included providing full names for some of his lesser-known part-time musicians (generally, only last names were entered), and the instruments they played. In other cases, he was unable to recall full details; rather than guess (although in some cases the answers seem fairly obvious), we’ve listed those personnel as [?],  to avoid muddling the original data.

 

___________________________________________

New York: March 19, 1926

“Gimme a Little Kiss” (mxs. X-43) / “Could I? I Certainly Could (mx. X-44) / “I’d Climb the Highest Mountain” (mx. X-45)

 

Tpts: Chelsea Quealy, Frank Cush  Leo McConville, Roy Johnston

Tbn: Abe Lincoln  George Troup

Reeds: Sam Ruby, Bobby Davis, Arnold Brillhart, Adrian Rollini

Pno: Irving Brodsky  F. Fabian Storey

Bjo: Tommy Felline  [?]

Percussion: Stan King  Herb Weil

Unknown instrument(s): [?] Deacon, [?] Frink

Note: The vocalist (Arthur Fields) was not on EK’s payroll.

____________________

New York: August 19, 1926

“Looking at the World Thru’ Rose Colored Glasses” (mx. X-227) / “On the Riviera” (mx. X-228) / “The Birth of the Blues” (mx. X-229 — Rejected per Gennett ledger; remade by Willie Creager’s Orchestra on X-259*)

 

Tpts: Frank Cush  Chelsea Quealy, Roy Johnston

Tbn: Tommy Dorsey  George Troup

Reeds: Arnold Brillhart, Bobby Davis, Sam Ruby, Adrian Rollini

Pno: Irving Brodsky  Jack Russin

Bjo: Tommy Felline

Percussion: Herb Weil

Unknown instrument(s): [?] Stark

* Musicians’ pay was reduced proportionally (to two titles from three) because X-229 was rejected. ADBFR’s claim that X-229 appeared on Champion 15079 is unconfirmed. If you have the Ramblers’ version of this record and can supply confirming photo and audio evidence, please let us know.

Kirkeby paid himself $26.65 for unspecified services on this session.

____________________

 

New York: “Seeley — Starr,” January 14, 1927

“College Girls” (—) / “Sam, the Old Accordion Man” (—)

It is not certain that this was a California Ramblers session. It is listed only in Kirkeby’s logbook; no corresponding entry has been found in his payroll book or the Gennett ledgers. Although it’s tempting to speculate this refers to Blossom Seeley, we’ve so far found no evidence to support that.

 

_____________________

New York: May 2, 1927

“I’m Back in Love Again” (mx. GEX-635) / “Yes She Do — No She Don’t” (mx. GEX-636) / “Sluefoot” (mx. GEX-637)

 

Tpts: Frank CushChelsea Quealy

Tbn: Tommy Dorsey  Edward Lapp

Reeds: Arnold Brillhart, Bobby Davis, Bob Fallon, Sam Ruby, Adrian Rollini

Pno: Irving Brodsky  Jack Russin

Bjo: Tommy Felline

Percussion: Herb Weil

Unknown instrument(s): [?] Black

The Playlist • “Yellow Dog Blues,” Four Very Different Ways (1919–1934)

MSP_smith-columbia-14075-D

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JOSEPH C. SMITH’S ORCHESTRA, Featuring HARRY RADERMAN & HIS LAUGHING TROMBONE: Yellow Dog Blues — Medley Fox Trot, introducing “Hooking Cow Blues”

New York: October 1, 1919 — Released December 1919 (Deleted 1926)
Victor 18618 (mx. B 23282 – 1)

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BESSIE SMITH (acc: Fletcher Henderson’s Hot Six):
Yellow Dog Blues

New York: May 6, 1925
Columbia 14075-D (mx. W 140586 – 1)

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DUKE ELLINGTON & HIS ORCHESTRA: Yellow Dog Blues

New York: June 25, 1928
Brunswick 3987 (mx. E 27771 – A or B)
The selected take (of two made) is not indicated in the Brunswick files or on inspected pressings.

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MEMPHIS JUG BAND: Rukus Juice and Chittlin’

Chicago: November 8, 1934
Okeh mx. C 801 – 1
From a c. 1960s vinyl pressing from the original stamper. This recording was issued commercially on Okeh 8955, as part of the final group of Okeh race releases made before the 8000 series was scuttled.

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