Christmas Meat, by Charles Marion Russell (1915)

Though it may not be entirely true that deep in the breast of every aesthete beats the heart of a cowboy, it is certainly true of Your Correspondent.  Thoughts of Christmas always seem to carry with them thoughts of the Wild West – it’s the way my brain is wired.  For many Bing Crosby is the voice of Christmas; at The Jade Sphinx, it’s Gene Autry.  (By the way, there is no better way to feel elderly – if not prehistoric – than by trying to explain who Gene Autry was to a young person.)

We have written about self-proclaimed ‘cowboy artist’ Charles Russell (1864-1926) before.  When we reviewed his letters and diary snippets, we were delighted to learn how wonderfully boyish and enthusiastic Russell was in person.  Russell never fully grew-up and he often approached his life, like his art, with a child-like sense of wonder.

So it comes as no surprise that Russell loved the Christmas season.  He would often retreat into his studio weeks before the holiday, designing his Christmas card(s), writing letters to close friends and oft-times painting a holiday-themed picture.

Today’s beautiful watercolor, Christmas Meat painted in 1915, is a picture of great warmth, despite the presence of snow.  In it, a Westerner brings a fresh-killed stag to a lone homesteader for Christmas dinner.  Russell painted many Christmas pictures with greater whimsy (Westerners coming across Santa during a snowy night, for example), but here he chooses instead to illustrate the holiday with a simple act of kindness.

In these days of easy consumption and near-instant gratification, we forget the every-day difficultly of the lives of previous generations.  Distances in the West were vast; a simple motor trip today would last several days on horseback.  People were extremely isolated on the countryside, with no phones, electronic entertainment, news, or, very frequently, neighbors. 

Russell, who went West in the waning days of the frontier, lived among the cowboys and knew how isolated it could all be.  But, he also loved the West, and was continually moved by the neighborliness, the open-handed generosity and many acts of human kindness he encountered there.

Let’s take a look at Christmas Meat.  As always, Russell’s command of anatomy is sketchy, at best (where, for example, is the rest of the cowboy’s left leg?), but he more he is more than able to pose his figures dramatically in the composition of narrative.  The outstretched hand, the visible smile, the bow-legs, and upheld rifle speak volumes – here’s Christmas dinner, pard, I got it myself.

And look at the homesteader!  Hand in his pants (so, clearly, a bachelor), complete with pipe and red union suit underwear, this man is clearly a character.  And his head leans forward in thanks, in appreciation, and admiration. 

Marvel at Russell’s sense of color.  Blue is the dominant color … and wonderfully suggests the cold.  The frozen trees in the distance are just impressionistic dabs of blue, as is the wooden smokehouse to the left.  Even the smoke from the cabin’s fireplace has a blueish tint … rest assured, it is cold outside.

Also, Russell uses the mountains of his backdrop to illustrate the expanse of the Western terrain.  There is no one for miles around; however, he undercuts the feeling of cold waste by a smart use of yellow.  The yellow light in the distance, along with the warm yellow of the window and doorway of the cabin, illustrate the warmth of human kindness at Christmas time.

The partially cut wood in the foreground may seem superfluous, but Russell, a master of composition, knew that something was essential there to keep the eye moving through the picture.  (It also serves to illustrate the cold … the homesteader does not tread far to get his firewood!)

This is a lovely little grace note of a picture, filled with honest feeling and a great deal of warmth.  It doesn’t descend into the overly sentimental, and it shows people at their best.

As such, it makes for a hell of a Christmas picture.

More Christmas books tomorrow!

Christmas Carols Part II: The First Noel

One of our favorite, traditional English Christmas carols is The First Noel.  (Noel is an Early Modern English synonym for Christmas.)  There are many, many excellent recordings, but perhaps our favorite is that of Bing Crosby (1903-1977), which can be heard here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yLaHb9raSfU.  (Oddly enough, this wonderfully evocative Christmas recording was cut on May 11^th in that long-ago year of 1949.)

The carol tells of the Annunciation to the Shepherds and their adoration of the Christ child.  Oddly enough, the Star of Bethlehem does not appear in the Biblical books that also mention the adoration of the shepherds. 

The carol is Cornish in origin, and was first published in Carols Ancient and Modern (1823) and Gilbert and Sandys Carols (1833), edited by William Sandys.  The version you hear today is usually the four-part hymn arrangement by the English composer John Stainer (1840-1901), published in Carols, New and Old, which appeared in 1871. 

The First Noel has a fairly unusual melody in that it consists of one musical phrase repeated twice, followed by a refrain which is a variation of that phrase.  All three phrases end on the third of the scale.

The first Nowell the angels did say
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay;
In fields where they lay, keeping their sheep,
On a cold winter's night that was so deep:
Refrain
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell,
Born is the King of Israel.

They looked up and saw a star,
Shining in the east, beyond them far:
And to the earth it gave great light,
And so it continued both day and night:

And by the light of that same star,
Three Wise Men came from country far;
To seek for a King was their intent,
And to follow the star whersoever it went:

This star drew nigh to the north-west;
O'er Bethlehem it took its rest;
And there it did both stop and stay
Right over the place where Jesus lay:

Then entered in those Wise Men three,
Full reverently upon their knee,
And offered there in his presence,
Their gold and myrrh and frankincense:

Then let us all with one accord
Sing praises to our heavenly Lord
That hath made heaven and earth of nought,
And with his blood mankind hath bought.

A Christmas Cornucopia Part III: Holiday for Swing! By Seth MacFarlane, Arranged and Orchestrated by Joel McNeely

Before you protest, rest assured that Your Correspondent already knows.  Yes, Seth MacFarlane (born 1973) is an extremely low comedian, a vulgarian, politically incorrect and all the rest.  Check.

But … MacFarlane is also having a romance with the Great American Songbook, which he calls, in a most felicitous phrase, “orchestral jazz.”  I actually prefer the MacFarlanism, and will start using it myself.

He has previously released two albums of standards, doing his best to replicate the sound of Frank Sinatra (1915-1998), down to using the same, now-vintage microphone the older artist used.  With sprightly, energized arrangements by Joel McNeely (born 1959), these albums are, in a word, terrific.  (The spirit of homage is evident even on the album cover, which features a painted portrait of MacFarlane in the manner of many early 1960s Christmas swing albums.)

So, it was with a great deal of pleasure that I received a (very thoughtful!) early Christmas gift of his new holiday album, Holiday for Swing!  If you like Orchestral Jazz even a little bit, then this album is for you.  If you like holiday tunes with a touch of swing, this album is for you.  If you like singers who are clearly having fun, then this album is for you.  In short … get it already.

MacFarlane opens with Let It Snow!  This is a tuneful recording, but MacFarlane really hits his stride with the second number, Christmas Dreaming.  This song was only recorded by Sinatra and Harry Connick (that I’ve heard), but MacFarlane is better than either.  I have been humming this infectious tune for weeks, and it is now in my personal pantheon of Christmas classics.

MacFarlane returns to the seldom-heard with Little Jack Frost Get Lost (which I have only previously heard recorded by Bing Crosby) and Marshmallow World, which is also seldom released.  But are excellent – with MacFarlane having so much fun with the latter that we are happy just to listen to him.

His Baby, It’s Cold Outside is, frankly, openly sexy, and his Mele Kalikimaka (also only known to me through Crosby) is delightful.

There are several other numbers included (among them Moonlight in Vermont and The Christmas Song), and all work wonderfully well.

If you had told us that the recording of the season for us here at The Jade Sphinx would be by Seth MacFarlane, we would’ve signed you up for an extended stay in Bedlam.  But … Christmas is known for miracles, so we should expect the unexpected.  This is a great album and a worthy addition to pop Christmas standards. 

A special Christmas message tomorrow!

Vampire Over London: Bela Lugosi in Britain (Revised 2nd Edition), by Frank Dello Stritto and Andi Brooks

Some months ago, we had so much fun reading Frank Dello Stritto’s masterful I Saw What I Saw When I Saw It, his memoir of growing up during the Golden Age of Television, that we decided to dip further into his corpus.  My interest happily coincided with the new, revised 2^nd edition of Vampire Over London: Bela Lugosi in Britain.  For those who love Bela Lugosi (1882-1956) or Dracula, and you know who you are, this book is essential.

It is a strange quirk of history and cinematic fanaticism that the great figures of the age often sink into obscurity and people less respected in their own time find greater posthumous importance.  Such is certainly the case with Bela Lugosi; more books have been written about Lugosi than Clark Gable (1901-1960) or Jimmy Stewart (1908-1997) or Gary Cooper (1901-1961) or Bing Crosby (1903-1977) combined, though those luminaries worked in the upper echelons of the movie industry while Lugosi toiled on Poverty Row.

What is it about Lugosi that makes him so potent a figure nearly 60 after his death, while greater stars (and much better actors) fade into obscurity?  Perhaps it has something to do with the medium of film itself.  Though the camera moves very close, it loves the large gesture, the show of big personality and individuality.  Smaller, more subtle actors are applauded by the critics, but the movie-goer loves people who take it big.  And few actors took it bigger than Lugosi.

Lugosi’s legacy to motion pictures remain a handful of interesting performances, a generous number of truly bad B films, and a legend that has lost none of its potency.  Lugosi first played Dracula on Broadway.  When Dracula premiered at the Fulton Theater, neither the critics nor the audience realized that they were witnessing the creation of one of modern theater history's great signature roles.  Typecast as Dracula forever after his 1931 film appearance, actor and role merged for eternity when the actor requested that he be buried in his vampire costume.

Like many jobbing actors, Lugosi strove to go where the money was.  He made two trips to Great Britain – the 1930s and 1950s, respectively – and little is known of his activity there.  Legends among Lugosiphiles suggest that his 1950s tours of Dracula throughout the English countryside were a dismal failure.  However, research by Dello Stritto and Brooks suggest that the tour was wildly successful, and that it was the last great triumph of Lugosi’s tumultuous life.

Dello Stritto and Brooks interviewed many of the survivors of tour, and also unearthed a great deal of previously unpublished material to make this a rich history indeed.  But a book full facts could be deathly dull – despite the inherent interest of the topic – if the historian cannot make them come alive.  Dello Stritto and Brooks do not drown in his own research.  They are scintillating raconteurs, and this 300+ page book moves along as breezily as a fascinating dinner conversation.

This is not just a chronicle of a once-respected actor trying to recapture former glories, but a wonderful evocation of English provincial theater in the 1950s.  It reflects a lost world of interest to theater buffs, movie buffs, Dracula and Lugosi mavens, and people drawn to the nascent English film industry.  It is all there, from train travel and one-night stands in the sticks, to alliances and challenges among a small company of players, to hoping to open big in London’s West End.  (Sadly, that was a triumph denied Lugosi and company.)

In addition to a lively and inviting text, Dello Stritto and Brooks have managed to uncover dozens of photos never-seen-in-print.  Your Correspondent has spent decades reading about Bela Lugosi, with little hope of anything new on the horizon.  Vampire Over London is crammed with photos I have never seen, that provide a greater understanding of both Lugosi the theatrical presence and Lugosi the man.  This is a terrific book, not to be missed.

Vampire Over London: Bela Lugosi in Britain can be ordered directly from Cult Movies Press at: http://www.cultmoviespress.com/.

Many Memories, Little Thanks -- Hope: Entertainer of the Century, By Richard Zoglin

Here is something rare and wonderful: a celebrity biography that is not only balanced, nuanced and impeccably researched, but deeply human and moving.  Richard Zoglin (born 1948) has managed all of this in his indispensable Hope: The Entertainer of the Century, which is simply one of the very best books of 2014.

It should be noted that we here at The Jade Sphinx think Bob Hope was a wonderfully funny man.  I saw him live at Madison Square Garden in 1989, where he played with George Burns.  Though the show itself was quite bare-bones, it was a great joy to see them both, and Burns was in particularly good form.  Hope’s Road films, with frequent costar Bing Crosby, were the only comedy series that paired two comic actors of equal caliber; and also remarkable were the number of standards in the Great American Songbook introduced by Hope throughout his film career.

Though alternately forgotten or reviled today, Bob Hope was one of the great comedians of the 20^th century and a legitimate hero, as well.  Hope was born Leslie Townes Hope in England in 1903.  His family moved to Ohio in 1908, where they led a fairly hardscrabble existence.  Though things were difficult, Hope (and his many brothers) did remember this time with affectionate nostalgia.  However, despite the haze of Norman Rockwell reminiscence, it seems clear that Hope lived in a fairly rough environment, and was something of a rough kid himself.  Zoglin’s research uncovered some time spent in reform school (most probably for shoplifting), which Hope in later years either deflected with an offhand joke, or sought to expunge it from memory for good.

Hope loved attention and was a born entertainer.  He moved from street busking to the vaudeville circuit where he honed his craft as dancer, comedian and monologist.  Most important – he created the man known as “Bob Hope,” the brash, confident and urban wise guy.  Here was a comic who did not rely on baggy pants or ethnic tropes, but, rather, was the new All-American model; it is one of America’s greatest acts of assimilating while defining the national character.  Hope ascended quickly, conquering Broadway, early movie shorts, and radio before becoming a comedic leading man in films, a legitimate radio star and Broadway name.  The age of Hope had arrived.

In a book of deft touches, one of the many things that Zoglin conveys wonderfully is Hope’s seemingly inexhaustible well of energy.  His capacity for work would deplete a platoon of men.  Most comfortable onstage, where he could inhabit his created persona, Hope would move from film shoot to radio show to personal appearance or charity event in stride.  No wonder he lived to be 100.

The defining moment of Hope’s career was his stint entertaining the troops during World War II.  Not content with setting up camp shows and providing song-and-dance perilously near firing lines, Hope and his entourage went from hospital to hospital visiting the wounded, would scrupulously return messages home, and provide a much-needed morale boost.  Zoglin peppers his account with several hair-raising moments (Hope’s plane nearly crashed outside of Alaska), along with heart-felt reminiscences from the ground-forces comforted by Hope.

Following the war, Hope was a juggernaut – he made many of his finest films, his radio show was immensely popular, he would go on to host the Academy Awards more than any other celebrity, and the well of goodwill he created seemed nearly inexhaustible.  He would go on to conquer television, the only star of his generation to continue to work regularly in the medium (and to good ratings) well into the 1990s.

Sadly, things would crumble around him during the 1960s.  It was a decade that was not only a public catastrophe for the United States (from which we never recovered and are still reeling from the effects), but a personal one for Hope as well.  The social, cultural and political changes effectively ended the American Century, and the sneering dismissal of the left and the political disconnect of the right rendered Hope, the first great comic to deal in current events, rudderless.  He would continue to do what he always did – entertain the troops – but in a polarizing war; Hope became a tool of the right and an object of scorn to the left.  He never fully understood what happened.

It is part of the power of Zoglin’s book that Hope emerges from his life a tragic-hero.  Here is a man who achieved not only the absolute pinnacle of success in his profession, but was a beloved national treasure.  Then, suddenly, the public turned on him, leaving Hope bewildered, unsteady and resentful.  Despite the multiple millions Hope made during his career, it was adulation and applause that he needed most.  When it stopped, the protective shell that he created – the Bob Hope persona – became redundant.  The personal man, the interior Hope, was insufficiently developed; retirement wasn’t an option, and Hope overstayed his welcome, tarnishing his once-sterling reputation.  He deserved better.

Zoglin does not sugarcoat Hope’s many personal failings.  He was a chronic philanderer, often villainously cheap, occasionally high-handed and filled with a sense of entitlement.  But Zoglin also details the many, many acts of simple kindness, his generosity to family and friends, and his untiring civic service (there is not a charity event that Hope would not play).  In addition, Hope defined what it meant to be a celebrity and a comedian – inventing the standup monolog, harnessing the power of his fame for good causes, and his deep connection to his fans.  (The book includes a wonderful story of Hope and frequent costar Bing Crosby leaving a hotel with Hope carrying a pillowcase of his fan mail to answer; an incredulous Crosby said he threw his out.)

After spending four days in Hope’s company while devouring this book, I was reluctant to let him go.  While it is possible to quibble with Zoglin on some of his assessments (Zoglin dismisses Son of Paleface rather airily, while your correspondent thinks it one of the greatest comedies of the 1950s), it is impossible to disregard the achievement of this book.  Your correspondent confesses to actually crying at the end … and how many celebrity bios can produce that effect?

Hope: The Entertainer of the Century is required reading for anyone interested in American Pop Culture.

Christmas Bells

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Christmas Bells is a magnificent poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) that has also been set to music to make for one of our most beautiful Christmas carols.  As with most art, the gestation period was not an easy one…

Longfellow was a celebrated American poet, nearly as famous today as he was in his own era.  Most of us can recite snippets of Longfellow without necessarily knowing who it is we quote – it was Longfellow who wrote Paul Revere’s Ride and The Song of Hiawatha, as well as Evangeline. 

Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine (then part of Massachusetts) and spent some time abroad before becoming a professor at his alma mater, Bowdoin.  He taught for several years before retiring in 1854 to focus on his poetry and translations (he is the first American to translate Dante’s Divine Comedy). 

Longfellow was married twice, his first wife dying in childbed and his second wife died tragically when her dress caught fire (a not-uncommon occurrence at that time). 

In March 1863, Longfellow’s oldest son, Charles Appleton Longfellow, left the house late at night and vanished.  It was not until weeks later that Longfellow received a letter explaining what had happened.  Charles ran off to join the Union army, then embroiled in the Civil War.  Charles initially reported to Captain W. H. McCartney, commanding Battery A of the 1st Massachusetts Artillery, to enlist. McCartney knew the family and wrote to Longfellow asking his advice.  Longfellow granted his permission and Charles served honorably, attaining the rank of lieutenant, before he was severely wounded in the Battle of New Hope Church during the Mind Run Campaign.

Charles was shot through the left shoulder, the bullet travelling around his back, nicking his spine and exiting through his right shoulder.  When Charles returned to Washington, D.C. to recover, Longfellow and his other son Ernest went there to take the boy back home.  They arrived back in Cambridge on December 8 (today marks the 147^th anniversary of this event) and Charles spent the next many months recovering.

On Christmas Day of that year, Longfellow wrote Christmas Bells:

    I HEARD the bells on Christmas Day
    Their old, familiar carols play,
        And wild and sweet
        The words repeat
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

    And thought how, as the day had come,
    The belfries of all Christendom
        Had rolled along
        The unbroken song
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

    Till ringing, singing on its way,
    The world revolved from night to day,
        A voice, a chime,
        A chant sublime
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

    Then from each black, accursed mouth
    The cannon thundered in the South,
        And with the sound
        The carols drowned
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

    It was as if an earthquake rent
    The hearth-stones of a continent,
        And made forlorn
        The households born
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

    And in despair I bowed my head;
    "There is no peace on earth," I said;
        "For hate is strong,
        And mocks the song
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

    Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
    "God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
        The Wrong shall fail,
        The Right prevail,
    With peace on earth, good-will to men."

The poem was first published in February 1865 in an edition of the popular magazine Our Young Folks.  It was first set to music in 1872 by John Baptiste Calkin, wedding the words to a melody he had written as early as 1848.

The Calkin rendition was extremely popular for a long while, but it was supplanted (to this listener, at least) by a melody written by Johnny Marks (1909-1985). The Marks version, often called I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day, has been recorded by such artists as Fred Waring, Kate Smith, Frank Sinatra and, most successfully, Bing Crosby.  In almost all recordings, verses Four and Five of the poem/carol are omitted.  If you can, track down the Crosby version on You Tube; it is a remarkable recording.

Charles Longfellow recovered, but never sufficiently to return to active military duty.  Using family money, he became a global traveler with a taste for the Far East.  He died of pneumonia in 1893 and the souvenirs of his travels are on view at Longfellow House in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Vince Giordano and the Nighthawks Orchestra

No retrospective of the Great American Songbook would be complete without a look at modern masters of the form.  There are several to choose from, and all of them have much to recommend them.  Michael Feinstein (born 1956) is a wonderful scholar of the material and a noted Grammy-winning performer, as well.  Harry Connick (born 1967) is perhaps the most aggressive seeker of Frank Sinatra’s throne, and he, too, has much to commend him.  But neither of these artists, talented as they are, have managed to quite capture the true sparkle of the 1930s, the era when this music was most inventive, most vital and spoke in the most uniquely American dialect.  Feinstein is at times too precious and too mannered in a post-War supper-club style; Connick with his brassy bombast too closely aligned with a Sinatra-esque Las Vegas vibe.  Both artists understand the music, but it seems to them grafted on, a niche they occupy rather than an artistic mission.

For this correspondent, the finest modern interpreter of the American musical canon is Vince Giordano, who fronts the magnificent Nighthawks Orchestra.  Giordano, born in Brooklyn in 1952, is an avid (one may say rabid) scholar of the sound of the 1920s and 1930s, and has a unique genius for this American idiom.  Vince plays the bass saxophone and is the Nighthawks’ only vocalist.  He uses his magnificent library of more than 60,000 arrangements to capture that unique sound, and, when performing live, introduces the sets.  Always at his side is an authentic 1920s era microphone.

Vince and the Nighthawks have performed at many of New York City’s most famous musical venues, including Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Smithsonian, the 92^nd Street Y and the Red Blazer.  For a long time they were a weekly feature at the lost, lamented supper club the Cajun in Chelsea; they are now at Sofia’s Restaurant, 221 West 46^th Street, every Monday and Tuesday from 8:00 – 11:00 p.m.

And it is not just lucky New Yorkers who can hear Giordano and the Nighthawks.  Vince’s playing with the Dick Hyman Orchestra can be heard on the soundtracks of several Woody Allen films; he provided music for the CD celebrating the release of Kevin Kline’s Cole Porter 2004 biopic, De-Lovely; he can be heard on the soundtrack of Martin Scorsese’s The Aviator (2004) and Johnny Depp’s Public Enemies (2009).  And fans of the HBO series, Boardwalk Empire (which features Vince as the bandleader) should know that the soundtrack album has just been released.  In addition, Vince and the Nighthawks are frequent guests on Garrison Keillor’s A Prairie Home Companion.

It is here that your correspondent must confess to great admiration for Vince – both as a man and for his brilliant musicianship. He has approached his craft and this musical idiom with a sense of mission, and his love for his art is infectious.  I have followed his career for more than a decade, and have caught his shows at the Cajun, Sofia’s, the Red Blazer and Carnegie Hall.  Listening to the Nighthawks has been one of the great joys of my adulthood – his music is so energetic, so freewheeling and so much fun.  It is no exaggeration at all to say that he has made me grin till my face hurt, and cry tears of joy.

So what, one wonders, is it that is so unique about the Giordano sound?  It is a puzzle not easily solved for the music is so seamless, the sound so natural.  Listening to Vince is akin to hearing a consummate artist married to the right material – it becomes an extension of the man and he becomes, in a way, the music.

A perfectly fine example of this is the great Louis Armstrong (1901-1971).  Armstrong was not a great singer, but everything about him, from his phrasing and his delivery to his peerless trumpeting, made the man music.  Vince has this same gift – when playing the Great American Songbook, Vince becomes the music.

Watching him play is an unqualified delight.  Unlike most of the post-rock era musicians who behave as if they are suffering, or bearing the great weight of their ‘art,’ Vince singing or playing is consumed by joy.  This cat grins, and when he plays the bass, he is dancing with himself.  He is an example to every modern musician and every lover of music.

Vince has recorded many fine CDs, all of which are available directly through him.  My personal favorite is Cheek to Cheek, a collection of songs associated with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.  His rendition of The Carioca is simply the finest instrumental recording of the song, ever.  His take on The Continental is perhaps nearly as ethereal as the latter Astaire-Oscar Peterson recording, and Let Yourself Go is Vince at his most energetic and fun-loving best.

His Cotton Club Revisited includes a delightful Stormy Weather and the hyper-jazzed Minnie the Moocher.  His Harlem Holiday is nearly enough to make you want a holiday of your own, and Get Yourself a New Broom and Sweep the Blues Away a tonic for most anything that ails you.

Quality Shout! is packed with delights, particularly Mournful Serenade, Sugar Food Stomp and Stoppin’ the Traffic.  Quality Shout! Is one of Giordano’s most personal recordings; the tunes selected are off-the-radar to all but the most dedicated hot-music devotees, and it was recorded using a small number of microphones, creating balances acoustically and by positioning the musicians to best recreate a late 1920s sound.

For Vince’s album The Goldkette Project, he worked with Bill Challis, who was the staff arranger for Jean Goldkette and Paul Whiteman.  Challis was the man behind both of those band’s most jazz-oriented numbers, and he also later wrote for Frankie Trumbauer’s small-group dates with Bix Beiderbecke.  Challis befriended a very young Vince and his siblings, and The Goldkette Project is a labor of love.  That love can be heard in every number.  Particularly adept tunes include Sometimes I’m Happy, Idolizing, Since My Best Gal Turned Me Down and Slow River.

Vince recently broadened his musical net by tackling the Big Band hits of the later 1930s and 40s.  His album Moonlight Serenade is a musical ode to the war years, and his In the Mood, Moonlight Serenade and You Made Me Love You are simply magnificent.

These discs are all available at $17 each (which includes postage and tax) with a check or money order made out to Vince Giordano at 1316 Elm Avenue, Brooklyn, New York 11230-5916.  I would be hard pressed to think of a better way to spend your money.

Coming soon to the Jade Sphinx, a special, two-part interview with Vince Giordano!

The Sinatra Paradox

We continue examining the voices that make up the Great American Songbook with a look at Frank Sinatra (1915-1998), the most polarizing figure of the classic American pop era.  Polarizing, I think, because more than any of the other figures we have looked at thus far, Sinatra’s persona is the one most imitated by his followers; indeed, there is an entire “Sinatra Way of Life” that inspired several generations.  Sinatra has had, for adults, much the same bad influence as the Beatles had on children.

However, it’s not for us to judge an artist’s work – and Sinatra was certainly an artist – by his personal life.  (Indeed, our canon of artistic heroes would indeed become a small one!)  And Sinatra’s iconic status is undeniable.  He was the last “superstar” of the Great American Songbook, and the last of his ilk to continue producing hit records after the advent of the rock era, when music descended into hopeless juvenilia.  Even for those for whom music begins and ends with the rock era, Sinatra is a presence to be reckoned with.

Sinatra began his singing career in the Big Band era, fronting for both Harry James and Tommy Dorsey.  He was often dubbed The Voice, and listening to his clear, clean and sweet tones, it is easy to see why.  His voice was certainly the most honeyed of his era, and listening to his late 1940s recordings of such songs as All or Nothing at All, There’s No Business Like Show Business and Why Was I Born, illustrates why legions of teenage girls (the Bobby Soxers) fell under his thrall.

However, the most fascinating thing about the voice of the early Sinatra is that its beauty is the only thing it has to commend it.  He was not a particularly affecting singer, and, unlike, say, Bing Crosby or Fred Astaire, he didn’t really connect with a song and what it meant.  He was all talent and no technique.

Sinatra found his incredible popularity begin to wane in the early 1950s.  He returned to the concert stage after a two year absence in Hartford in 1950, but his vocal chords hemorrhaged onstage at the Copacabana later that year.  It seemed as if his meteoric career was about to burn out.

Then something happened.  He landed a key supporting role in From Here to Eternity (1953) and won the Oscar.  His renewed popularity did much to renew his vitality, and he signed a contract with Capitol Records, where he worked with some of the industry’s finest musicians, including Billy May and Nelson Riddle (the two men most associated with the Sinatra Sound).

And it is here, really the second act of Sinatra’s career, that Sinatra the artist emerged and the paradox begins.  Paradox because after 1950, Sinatra’s voice was never the same – it has lost its beauty and sweetness; but, he also became a much better singer.

What Sinatra learned was what Astaire and Crosby had known instinctually – that phrasing, lyricism and telling the story of a song is the final piece of the puzzle in making a great singer.  It was during this period that some of his signature recordings – I’ve Got the World on a String, Love and Marriage, They Can’t Take That Away From Me, Three Coins in the Fountain, South of the Boarder, Hey Jealous Lover – were all recorded.  These were not simply songs knocked out after a few rehearsals, but deep and personal mediations on the narrative of each number, delivered in a style best matching the overarching story. 

Sinatra was able to maintain this winning streak – professionally and artistically – throughout the 1950s and 1960s, despite changing national tastes in music.  In the 1970s and 1980s, he recorded a string of epics or anthems (including the unfortunately ubiquitous My Way), and started his own record label, Reprise.  But the bloom had long since faded from the rose.

Frank Sinatra is a remarkable study for those interested in the history of American popular song – he was the greatest singer who ever lost his voice.

Tomorrow – Vince Giordano and the Nighthawks!

Fred Astaire

We continue examining the voices that make up the Great American Songbook with a look at Fred Astaire (1899-1987).  Your correspondent must confess, upfront, his boundless admiration and affection for Astaire – indeed, it is my firm belief that when all good men die, as a reward they then become Fred Astaire.

At this point, many of my readers are wondering why Astaire, one of the protean dance figures of the 20^th Century, is included in a review of the voices of the Great American Songbook.  Well, I have included Astaire because, not only is he the greatest dancer to appear in motion pictures, but he was also a singer of subtle and distinct phrasing, who knew what a popular song needed and delivered it with a (seemingly) effortless panache.  In fact it was Irving Berlin (1888-1989) – who, along with Cole Porter (1891-1964) and George Gershwin (1898-1937) comprises the trinity of 20^th Century songwriting genius – who said his favorite singer was Fred Astaire.  Several of Berlin’s signature tunes, including Dancing Cheek to Cheek, Steppin’ Out With My Baby, and Puttin’ On the Ritz – were all introduced by Astaire.

So, for the purposes of this exercise, we will overlook Astaire’s monumental contribution to the dance (which, admittedly, is rather like writing about Saturn without mentioning its rings).  Nor will we take especial interest in his consummate style – indeed, cineastes debate who was the most debonair man in American cinema: Astaire or Cary Grant (1904-1986).  While many cite Grant’s well-tailored ease, there was something about Astaire’s carriage and poise that bespoke magic.  It is possible to derive pleasure simply by watching Astaire walk … and snippets of Astaire walking down Fifth Avenue in Easter Parade (1948) should be required viewing before leaving any respectable school.

Astaire is famous for his “white tie and tails,” an ensemble which he personally loathed.  But Astaire was more than formal wear: his leisure clothes were relaxed and unaffected yet elegant.  An unusually thin man (co-star Bing Crosby said he could “spit through him”), Astaire was blessed with the ability to inhabit his clothes rather than having them wear him. 

Instead, let’s look at Astaire the actor and the singer.  He entered movies dancing beside Joan Crawford in Dancing Lady (1933).  It was really little more than a cameo; and he and Ginger Rogers were supporting players in their first film together, Flying Down to Rio (1933).  He and Rogers (1911-1995) were sensations in that film, and they went on to make a total of 10 films together, including Swing Time (1936), Top Hat (1935), and Shall We Dance (1937).  The Astaire-Rogers corpus encompasses some of the finest American musical films ever made, and is essential to an understanding of the evolution of American musical movies.

Astaire in the 1930s is a marvel.  His performances are simple and easy – he exudes enthusiasm, high spirits and an unaffected sophistication.  He seems almost boyish and at times brash – he is irresistible.  And, aside from his acting, his singing has a unique lyricism.  (Jerome Kern would consider him the supreme male interpreter of his songs).

And then … something happened.  The 1930s were Astaire’s first heyday, but he lost considerable ground in the early 1940s.  It’s not that he did not make good films – his Holiday Inn (1942) and Blue Skies (1946) with Bing Crosby are quite terrific – and some of his loveliest dance partners come from this era, including Rita Hayworth and Eleanor Powell. 

What happened, really, was the national zeitgeist changed.  In the 1930s, at the height of the Great Depression, it was important for Americans to have, I think, a sophisticated ideal.  White tie and tails and penthouses and cocktails were the stuff of dreams, and Astaire personified an ideal that many aspired to, but could never achieve.

With World War II, the struggle against Nazism was a struggle carried mainly by the Average Joe.  In fact, I believe that the 1940s were Crosby’s decade more than Astaire’s because Crosby was able to capture that Average Joe quality of that moment in ways that were simply beyond Astaire’s temperament and ability. 

And so, after playing second fiddle to Crosby again in Blue Skies, Astaire retired … only to reappear a short two years later, teaming with Judy Garland to make the now classic Easter Parade.  This film started a new collaborative period with MGM, and a new phase of his career.

During this second chorus for Astaire, he made some of his finest films, including Royal Wedding (1951), Funny Face (1957), Silk Stockings (1957) and, perhaps his masterpiece, The Band Wagon (1953).  Many of his most famous ‘trick’ dances – including dancing on the walls and ceiling, hoofing with a hat stand, and dancing with a legion of disembodies shoes – occur in these films.

Curiously, though, there is a profound change in Astaire in his post Easter Parade films.  His dancing is more fluid, more sensuous, more ornate than his movements of the 1930s, but his acting seems to have constricted somewhat, as if letting lose in the dance left too little energy for fun in his performances.  The Astaire persona of the 1940s and 1950s is a little tighter, a little more crabbed than the buoyant boy of the 1930s.

After Silk Stockings, Astaire went on to triumphs in television, winning an Emmy for one of his many TV specials, and straight acting roles in a wide range of films, both good and bad.  But nothing could take away the memory of his greatest achievements.

Astaire’s artistic contribution to the American culture is a unique one.  Not only was he the preeminent popular dancer of his day, but Astaire was a gifted film actor and, most important here, one of the great interpreters of popular song.  His movements were music, his speaking voice had a unique rhythm, his singing a gift of phrasing and style.  Fred Astaire is, simply put, the greatest artist to appear in American musical films.

Tomorrow – the Frank Sinatra Paradox!

Bing Crosby

Any list of the most important 20^th Century artists would have to include Harry Lillis "Bing" Crosby (1903 – 1977) – and he would quite possibly be at the top of it.  Nor do I simply mean a list of great or influential recording artists, despite the fact that Crosby currently has over half a billion records in circulation.  No, it is because Crosby’s voice and demeanor helped define the American consciousness and identity; he personified an idealized American Everyman.  And when seriously assessing the importance of the Great American Songbook, it is impossible to overlook his Olympian presence.

In this post-rock age, Crosby is the ultimate forgotten man.  This is all the more incredible considering that he is the direct inspiration for artists as diverse as Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley.  He is the popular singer with the most Academy Award wins and nominations (in fact, he is one of only four actors ever nominated twice for playing the same character).  Between 1927 and 1962 he scored 369 charted records under his own name -- yes, 369 charted records.  That record has never been beaten; indeed, no one has come close.  Even the most diverse musical performers are shy by more than 100:  Paul Whiteman (220), Frank Sinatra (209), Elvis Presley (149), Glen Miller (129), Nat “King” Cole (118), Louis Armstrong (85) and the Beatles (68).  In fact, Bing continued to have an average of 16 charted singles per year through 1950, peaking in 1939 with 27 (beaten by the Beatles in 1964, with 30), and never falling below double-digits until 1951, when he placed nine singles in the top 25. 

Crosby also perfected the template by which recording artists built larger and more multi-faceted careers.  It was Bing who first conquered recordings, then radio or television and then Hollywood.  This was the model followed by Sinatra in the 1940s, Presley in the 1950s and Barbra Streisand in the 1960s.  Though each of them was successful in these endeavors, no recording artist has matched Crosby’s long-term success and influence as an all-media star.

For those of us who are interested in statistics, Bing was:

• The first full-time vocalist ever signed to an orchestra
• The man with the most popular recording ever, White Christmas, the only single to make American pop charts 20 times
• The man who scored the most number one hits ever, 38, compared with 24 by the Beatles and 18 by Elvis Presley
• The only pre-1980 film star to rank as the number one box-office attraction five times (1944-48), and between 1934 and 1954 he scored in the Top Ten 15 times
• He was nominated for an Academy Award for best actor three times and won for Going My Way
• He financed and popularized the development of tape, revolutionizing the recording industry

But, finally, what does all of this mean?  Is popular success the definition of an artist?  Do record sales translate into aesthetic achievement?  Obviously not, for if that were the case then, good Lord, we would degrade the label artist by using it on the largely talent-free figures that swamp the post-rock scene.  (It is significant that the greatest talents of popular American musicians clustered in a period when music was written by and for adults, and not undulating children and adults unwilling to challenge themselves with melody, lyric, sentiment and sophistication.)

Bing was a great artist for a variety of reasons.  First and foremost, he had one of the most pitch-perfect voices during the golden era of the Great American Songbook.  More importantly, he was a terrific jazz singer, particularly in his 1930s recordings.  He was perhaps at his best in duos, and his duets with Connie Boswell, Louis Armstrong, Fred Astaire and Rosemary Clooney have a collaborative quality that these artists were never able to achieve with another partner. 

Bing was also the first artist to really make use of one of the most revolutionary musical tools – the microphone.   Bing knew that the microphone was a passport to intimacy, and he was perhaps the first great American popular singer who sang to his audience, rather than at them. 

Like most great artists, he was able to achieve a corpus of work that is both timeless and reflective of the time in which it was created.  Many Bing aficionados, like myself, prefer the Jazz era Crosby of the 1930s, while others find greatest satisfaction with the American troubadour Bing of the 1940s and 50s.  Bing managed to change with the times (until the advent of rock), finding the mode of delivery most resonant to people of three decades, and then defining it. 

As a screen actor, Bing had few peers.  His film work in pictures as diverse as Country Girl (1954), where he plays an alcoholic actor, and as a journalist in Little Boy Lost (1953) is remarkably adept.  His career as a musical comedy star is of a very high order, and is on view in films as different as Holiday Inn (1942), High Society (1956) and Anything Goes (1936).  He was also a gifted comedian; indeed, the most fascinating thing about the Bing Crosby/Bob Hope (1903-2003) dynamic in a series of seven Road pictures, is that they are cinema’s only evenly-matched duo.  Most comedy teams pair ‘funnyman’ and ‘straight man,’ but Hope and Crosby were never separated by this dynamic, as each were farceurs in their own way.  Thus, movie magic is made.

Crosby is the subject of an excellent biography by Gary Giddins, Bing Crosby: A Pocketful of Dreams-the Early Years, 1903-1940, published in 2001.  It is the first volume of a two-volume life, and is highly recommended to serious students of jazz, American music and the history of pop culture.

In the final analysis, we must rate Crosby as the consummate popular artist of the 20^th Century.  I believe his remarkable oeuvre lays in wait for future generations to rediscover, and when it comes, the Bing Crosby renaissance will be a formidable one.  One can only hope.

Tomorrow – Fred Astaire!

Every Sunday a Big Broadcast

Jade Sphinx readers know of my deep love and respect for what has come to be known as The Great American Songbook.  This is the truly classic American sound, created at the apex of what was the American Century.  Such brilliant creative artists as Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, Yip Harburg and Arthur Freed created the songs America sang for nearly 40 years.  Equally brilliant interpretative artists, such as Bing Crosby, Russ Columbo, Rudy Vallee, the Boswell Sisters and Judy Garland gave voice to these immortal tunes.

This sophisticated sound defined an age sadly gone.  The impact of this loss upon our culture has been incalculable.  The sense of fun, of elegance, of poetry and romance, of melodic complexity, let alone of yearning or idealism, are missing completely from contemporary music.  The cultural missteps of America have been many, but few as bewildering or destructive as the closing of the American Songbook.

Fortunately, once discovered, this music is usually savored.  One such connoisseur is Rich Conaty, host of The Big Broadcast, heard every Sunday on WFUV.FM (90.7 on the dial).  The Big Broadcast also streams, and boasts audience members as far as Australia.   Conaty has been a staple of the radio dial for more than 30 years, and his program is a fresh, fun and smart as ever.

The Big Broadcast focuses on my favorite era of the music – the sound of the 1930s.  This decade is perhaps the high water mark for American popular culture; a time when music, film and radio created the American Voice and defined the Everyman.  Listening to the Big Broadcast on Sundays is a chance to visit this mythic and vanished era.

Mr. Conaty will also be appearing at the Friends of Old Time Radio Convention on Friday, October 21^st, at the Holiday Inn North at Newark International Airport.  Mr. Conaty took time from his busy broadcast schedule to speak with us.

Please first tell us a little about your background?

I was born in Astoria, New York on November 30, 1954.  I was glued to the TV growing up, and got my Mom to take me to Howdy Doody, Johnny Jellybean and The Sandy Becker Show.

You are a young man – surely you would’ve grown up listening to The Beatles and the Rolling Stones.  How did you detour into 1920s and 30s music?

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, many of the people I play where still performing: Bing Crosby, Louis Armstrong, the Mills Brothers, and Joe Venuti were all working.  I was introduced to the music through Mark Adler's Genesis of a Record program on the Hofstra University station.  But I was also a fan of Ed Beach on WRVR, Joe Franklin and Danny Stiles.

What were some of the first vintage records you bought?

The first 78 I remember finding was "Who Dat up Dere?" by Woody Herman, a record "too new" for me to play on The Big Broadcast.  Genesis of a Record and the rest got me interested in even earlier things.  I bought a Victrola at a shop near the 59th Street Bridge, and then started picked up 78s at Merit Music on West 46th.

The Big Broadcast has had quite a history.  I remember listening to it in college on WNEW, when they had a Great American Songbook format.  Can you tell us a little about traveling around the dial?

I was a staff announcer at Hofstra's WVHC in the summer of 1971, between Junior and Senior year of high school.  I picked Fordham because of its radio station, and started at WFUV in late 1972.  The first Big Broadcast was the following January.  Jim Lowe gave me my first paying job at WNEW-AM in 1983.  Not a bad place to start!  I followed the format, and continued doing The Big Broadcast on WFUV.  In 1992, I moved the show to WQEW, where I worked for almost five years.  The Big Broadcast has been on every Sunday since January 1973, almost two thousand weeks.

While a show like The Big Broadcast seems unique now, I remember there was a huge ‘nostalgia craze’ in the 60s and 70s, when the likes of Crosby or the Marx Brothers had as much cultural currency as contemporary artists.  Why do you think this happened? 

I think partly it was demographics.  Forty years ago there were still plenty of people who remembered the music first-hand.  And younger audiences were being introduced to it through the Busby Berkeley musicals, Our Gang comedies and all the rest on TV.  Plus the cartoons!  I think our continued love for animated cartoons from this period has done a lot to keep the music alive.

Tell us a little about your current audience.  Are most of your listeners New Yorkers, or is most of your listenership from streaming audio?

The online audience is growing, but the majority listen the "old fashioned" way.  But the archived shows give even the locals a chance to catch up.

The Big Broadcast really focuses on the 20s and 30s, hardly ever touching on the 40s or 50s (or even 60s, when Sinatra and Streisand, for example, were still carrying this musical banner).  Why focus on this period?

That's just how the show has evolved.  There's no shortage of great stuff to play from the 20s and 30s.  With a few exceptions, I don't think the newer stuff fits with it.  It's difficult to make a "soft landing" going from then even to the 1940s.  It’s a different and unique sound.

What is your take on the subculture that has recently evolved around this era and its music?  Things like the Governor’s Island Jazz Party and young people dressing like Art Deco dandies?

I think it's wonderful.  Vince Giordano and the Nighthawks have done more than anybody to get this music in front of the public.  I look at the fans of my show on Facebook -- almost 1400 people, and the grey heads, like me, are in the minority.

If you had to define this unique sound in just a few words, what would you say?

I don't know.  Classic Pop & Jazz, Hot Dance Music.  I'm even okay with "cartoon music" nowadays.

Who are some of your favorite artists?  Favorite songs?

I was always a Bing Crosby fan.  I dig the Dorsey Brothers, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Cliff Edwards, Al Bowlly, Connie Boswell.  I like a solid dance band, like Bert Lown.  And the British bands are great.  No real specific song favorites, but like the music or Harold Arlen and Walter Donaldson.  Ray Noble's "Love Locked Out" is lovely.

I understand you were involved in someway with the creation of the Nighthawks….

In the early days of the show, I tried forming a Big Broadcast Band, but it didn't go anywhere until Vince got involved.  He ran with it, to say the least!  Now, he supplies the music for Boardwalk Empire!

What do you think this music has to say to us today?

It's very direct and literate.  We could all benefit from its polish and enthusiasm.

Many thanks, Rich Conaty!