Kenny Dorham, “My Ideal” (Original Jazz Classics LP Reissue)
New Jazz Records Cat. No. 8225 | 1959
Personnel:
Kenny Dorham, trumpet
Tommy Flanagan, piano
Paul Chambers, bass
Art Taylor, drums
I’ve been noticing some buzz on the internet about an up-and-coming mono reissuing of Kenny Dorham’s Quiet Kenny by the Craft label, so I thought I’d feature a track off that album for this edition of Origins of Bop. “My Ideal” dates back to 1930, the year of both its publishing and premier on the silver screen. Playboy of Paris starred Maurice Chevalier, who was also the first to record the song.
After several years of laying commercially dormant, Maxine Sullivan decided to give “My Ideal” a fresh reading. Gone are Chevalier’s humorous French accent, masculine perspective, “B” section, and half-spoken delivery of the final verse. With Buster Bailey’s clarinet taking the instrumental lead, Sullivan’s version is the first to feature a jazz arrangement. Sullivan was 32 at the time of recording but the innocence of her voice suggests a teenage girl waiting for a fantasized heartthrob to make her acquaintance on the way home from school.
Coleman Hawkins followed soon after with his own instrumental version, which retained the structure of Sullivan’s. Over a decade later, Chet Baker tried the tune on in 1956, brining back the “B” section while moving it to the beginning, and two years later Earl Coleman would mimic the Baker arrangement on Sonny Rollins’ Tour de Force album.
A word about the popular music form: It has always seemed like “real music lovers” kind of shun popular music. I’m not one of them. I love pop music. I love it for its simplicity. You get that with Sullivan’s version. Her lyrical inflections are hardly adventurous yet they easily keep my interest. The humility of her straight-down-the-middle interpretation is also admirable. Baker takes a few steps away from that, swinging to-and-fro with syllables rarely falling on-beat. Then Coleman and Rollins wreak havoc on this pretty love song, mangling it to the point of near-unidentifiability.
Is the ease of pop such a sin? These are my opinions, after all, but to me Coleman’s version is the epitome of trying too hard to make things interesting. (Fans of Rollins might guess, like me, that his atypical stylings here are meant to appease Coleman.) Surely I don’t understand the fundamental conception of most jazz vocalists, as numerous legends seem to “jazz things up” in this manner: Johnny Hartman, Sarah Vaughan, Helen Merrill, Sheila Jordan, Cassandra Wilson. Give me Ella or Blossom Dearie and I’m a happy camper.
Thank heavens for Kenny Dorham restoring some order to the universe in 1959 with his version, which, like Hawkins’, is executed in the spirt of Sullivan’s. Dorham’s heartwarming, muffled tone is reminiscent of Baker’s, yet I have always found Kenny to have a unique and understated musical persona that is perfectly complemented by this type of tone. From his sweet playing alone I had originally and erroneously assumed that this song was dedicated by its authors (Newell Chase, Richard A. Whiting, and Leo Robin) to their respective lovers. Yet the lyrics reveal a hopeful story of longing for a partner unknown.
Dorham’s version is a favorite ballad of mine and I’m glad it led me to discover Maxine Sullivan. There’s plenty more Origins of Bop posts to come so please stay tuned.
Welcome to Origins of Bop, a new Deep Groove Mono series aiming to explore the lineage of some of my favorite hard bop recordings. I have always been interested in music history, and with jazz, that has meant finding out more about where my favorite compositions came from. This series is therefore intended to provide some backstory for many of the hard bop performances that we as collectors of twelve-inch vinyl LPs have come to love so much. Quite often, these songs date back to the 78-R.P.M. era of shellac disks, and in many cases I will be happy to feature 78s from my own collection.
This first installment features a tune composed by one of the founding fathers of bebop. I was introduced to Charlie Parker’s “Ah-Leu-Cha” back in 2001 through the first jazz LP I ever bought: Miles & Monk at Newport. One rainy afternoon in Albany, New York I had a break between my college classes, so I decided to hop in my car and venture downtown to Last Vestige, a local record shop. With a musical background largely focused on hip hop and rock at the time, my experience with jazz was limited. All I had was a cassette tape from a friend with Kind of Blue on one side and My Favorite Things on the other. But as a DJ, I had been seeing lots of cool covers for jazz albums popping up on the Turntable Lab website, and I had recently gotten interested in Madlib’s new electronic jazz project, Yesterday’s New Quintet. I was also DJing with an R&B cover band, and I befriended the group’s saxophonist, who was a locally-renowned jazz musician and composer.
My first-ever jazz vinyl purchase
This all had an influence on me when I decided to check out the jazz section of that shop for the first time. The copy of Miles & Monk I found was a stereo ‘70s reissue, it costed six dollars, and I pretty much bought it solely on the strength that I had heard of both leaders before. Side 1 was the Miles side. “Ah-Leu-Cha” was the first track, and it wasted no time ripping my face off. Miles liked to play fast live, and this Newport Festival reading was taken at a blistering pace, nearly twice as fast as Parker’s original 1948 recording, which by no coincidence also featured Davis. If I’m being honest, I remember wondering if I would even like jazz if this was what most jazz sounded like! Today I love that recording for its tenacity, high fidelity, and airtight performances. But back then, knowing nothing about jazz and being quite unfamiliar with such high levels of musicianship, I felt utterly confused.
Many years later when I discovered Davis’ classic ‘Round About Midnight, I was pleasantly surprised to find a slower, more accessible version of “Ah-Leu-Cha”. It was recorded three years before the Newport date in 1955 and features Miles’ First Great Quintet. Philly Joe Jones sounds snappy, his patented loose-wrist cymbal work creating an inimitable groove for each soloist to work with. The exceptional fidelity of this recording needs to be noted as well.
Side 1 label for CL 949
Prior to reviewing ‘Round About Midnight for my blog several years ago, I had never noticed Parker as the composer of “Ah-Leu-Cha”, and when I listened to Bird’s version for the first time I was caught off-guard by its syrupy tempo. Recorded for Savoy Records at Apex Studios in New York City (mentioned last week in a blog post here), engineer Harry Smith set the rhythm section back a ways behind a very present front line. This was a standard mixing aesthetic in the 1940s, and it makes jazz recordings from that period unmistakably of-the-era. Max Roach could tear it up like no one else in 1948, but he’s much tamer here. Peppering the backbeat with gentle fills throughout, the drummer manages to quickly trade two half-bar solos with bassist Curley Russell before the track’s closing. As a composition, the counterpoint of Bird and Miles creates exciting harmonic motion that makes my ears smile every time I hear it.
Recorded September 11 and September 24, 1929 in New York City
Selection: “My Feelin’s Are Hurt” (Waller)
While I still haven’t delved all too deeply into ‘pre-bop’ jazz, I managed to find another great 78 from that era. For a stretch in 2019 I was accustomed to seeing the silly grin on Fats Waller’s pudgy face regularly while volunteering at the National Jazz Museum in Harlem. Footage of Waller performing was part of a video on loop there, and I was regularly reminded what a natural entertainer he was.
It was enough to make this “serious” jazz fan (who sometimes takes himself too seriously) avoid Waller’s records whenever they came up. But trying to be more open-minded about older jazz, I figured I would give Fats a chance if I could find an instrumental record of his. Then I found this. Despite knowing how influential all the stride pianists were on my favorite bop pianists including Thelonious Monk, I’m still not decided on how I feel about boogie/stride piano numbers like “Smashing Thirds”, the B-side here (pretty awesome title, though). For this 78, it was the “A” that caught my attention.
The first thing that stood out about “My Feelin’s Are Hurt” was that it is not an uptempo stride tune. More of a brisk walk, it reminds me of Monk’s tendency to avoid faster paces. Fats starts the tune off by playing with numerous ideas and finally settles on a rhythmic romp halfway through the side. Like the Louis Armstrong sides I reviewed recently, his super-steady playing here makes me move every time. Toward the end Waller breaks out into stride for a brief spell, then slows things back down to return home with a beautiful cadence.
For many collectors including myself, exclusivity ultimately plays a role in the extent to which a particular record is desired. Very rarely is a recording unavailable via streaming services like Spotify and Apple Music. That being the case for the A-side here, don’t say I never did anything for you. This is a fun tune you’re not gonna hear anywhere else on internet, so enjoy and I’ll see you for the next installment of Shellac Spotlight!
Recorded May 7 and May 10, 1927 at Okeh Studios, Chicago
Selections:
“Willie the Weeper” (Melrose-Bloom)
“Alligator Crawl” (Waller)
So far, Deep Groove Mono’s coverage of 78s has been limited to the very first 78 I ever acquired and the Dual idler wheel turntable I recently picked up for its popularity with 78 collectors. Since I have replaced that first 78 with a cleaner copy, abandoned the economical Califone portable featured in that post, and now prefer my modified Technics 1200 to play 78s over the Dual, this in some ways is my inaugural 78 post.
I have managed to build up a modestly-sized 78 collection over the past six months, and without trying to sound too self-congratulatory, I worked hard for it. It took a lot of research, shopping, patience, reception of packages, cleaning, critical listening, transferring, and photographing. Time for me to finally relax and enjoy the fruits of my labor.
For Jazz Historians
I have always taken an interest in the historical roots of the hard bop I cherish most. After exhausting all my resources for bebop 78s recently, I shifted gears to collecting original vocal versions of my favorite jazz standards. But jazz history is deep as the ocean, and it surely does not end with the white popular vocal artists featured on most of these earlier records. The music of colossal jazz legends like Louis Armstrong and Fats Waller was clearly a major influence on my favorite bop musicians, and even if it isn’t naturally the first music I would reach for, I still felt a drive to understand it and the way it’s connected to bop. Maybe I would develop a more genuine interest in the music from there; either way, the records those guys put out have historical value to me.
In the process of exploring “hot jazz”, I stumbled upon the Instagram page of Hot Club of New York. Founded and maintained by a young, bright WKCR alum and disciple of Phil Schaap that I only know as “Fat Cat”, his passion and enthusiasm for hot jazz is infectious, and it surely inspired me to further explore the subgenre.
Ever since I watched Ken Burns’ (somewhat controversial) Jazz documentary, I had been curious about Louis Armstrong. The thing I noticed right away about that documentary (probably true of any history of jazz) was how unanimous the interviewees seemed in their agreement that Louis Armstrong is essentially the gravitational force of creativity at the center of the jazz galaxy. More than any other figure in the music’s history, experts seem to agree that Pops is tops. For obvious reasons, this white boy born in 1980 had trouble understanding that universal sentiment, but I too wanted to share in the knowledge of Armstrong’s lasting influence on jazz.
Author Gary Giddins’ input on Satchmo made an especially strong impression on me. Giddins spoke about Armstrong’s importance with certainty and conviction. There was also a moment in which I really felt I understood just how special Louis Armstrong was. During footage of an October 21, 1933 live performance with his orchestra in Copenhagen, his immense charm and skill is on full display as he effortlessly shifts between addressing the crowd, dancing along with the music, and taking his solos with utmost poise and seriousness. Fashioning a white rag to wipe the sweat from his brow, one can’t help but remember trumpeters past like Buddy Bolden who would drape a rag over their hand to protect the secrets of their fingering from onlooking players. Witnessing Louis’ swagger then made it perfectly clear why he was far and away “the man” in his day.
For Record Collectors
Once I started researching Armstrong’s 78 catalog, it didn’t take long to realize that his Hot Five and Hot Seven recordings for Okeh in the late 1920s are considered by many to be the creme-de-la-creme. So I started listening on Spotify. Of the dozens of sides I heard, two stood out above the rest. Not only that, both were originally issued on the same 78, and even more coincidental, there was a decent copy for sale on eBay — surprising since these Louis Okeh 78s seem rare and in regular demand.
I decided to take a chance on the disk, which was graded “V” (I have learned that V for 78s is more comparable to VG- with LPs). There’s something about these really old 78s where the older the record is, the more forgiving I am of playback issues. The record proved conservatively graded, and even with some minor playback issues I decided it was worth the price of admission (my time collecting has shown me that effectively determining what does and does not constitute an “enjoyable listen” is a skill that needs developing). And I’ll be honest: these gorgeous Okeh labels and their highly-stylized typography inevitably enhance my enjoyment. Perhaps a less shallow assessment would be that records like these are pieces of history that make listening exciting in a special way.
For Music Lovers
I still have a lot to learn about the history of Louis Armstrong’s small groups, but I have managed to figure out that these are some of the earliest sides cut by the newly-formed Hot Seven in Chicago in early May 1927. Tuba and drums were added to what by modern standards seems like an odd conception of a rhythm section, which in the Hot Five consisted of a pianist and banjoist. Pops is still on cornet at this point, and while we catch the band in the middle of a one-year Kid Ory hiatus here, trombonist John Thomas succeeds at filling his shoes, and clarinetist Johnny Dodds remains faithfully flanking our leader to complete the septet’s front line.
The band comes roaring out the gate at the beginning of “Willie the Weeper”, an old Vaudeville song that saw a sort of resurgence around the time this disk was cut. For the very first moments of the take the band is in complete rhythmic unison, creating momentum that makes me nod my head every time. No doubt this is busy music. The parts individually have a beautiful simplicity but together they ensue a happy sort of chaos that is a proven hallmark of hot jazz.
I’ve heard many historians say that one of the great original contributions Armstrong made to jazz was the way he created space for soloists to make their mark on a tune. In “Willie the Weeper”, John Thomas leads off and does not disappoint. In fact, while casually perusing my Hot Five and Hot Seven playlist on Spotify, this was probably the first solo that made my ears perk up. I continue to fashion hot jazz as a little ‘silly’ sounding (regardless of how ignorant or historically invalid that opinion may be), and while I find Thomas’ solo fits this description to a tee, I find it entirely captivating at the same time.
Dodds comes in next and steals the show. A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of joining a virtual meeting of the Hot Club of New York on Zoom, at which time Fat Cat proceeded to school me on the brilliance of Johnny Dodds. With embellishments shifting at each chord change, Dodds resolves the first and second halves of his solo with a matching pair of high notes that create a most satisfying sense of cadence.
I’m not sure how typical this was of Armstrong but he lets his bandmates take the lion’s share of the spotlight here. After a brief appearance by Satch, pianist Lil Armstrong pounces through her solo and is followed by guitarist Johnny St. Cyr, who registers yet another catchy solo for the group. The leader then triumphantly returns with a chorus that is pure rhythm. Accompanied by Baby Dodds’ syncopated bashing of a choked cymbal, the two proceed to create a bouncing rhythm that makes it impossible to sit still. They are eventually rejoined for a victory lap by the rest of the band and they ride out the side together.
Things slow down on the B-side with “Alligator Crawl”. Written by Fats Waller, I wonder if Louis learned of the song back when he was playing with Fletcher Henderson in New York. Dodds opens things up and is followed by a chorus from the band. Then we finally get to hear Louis unleash over Pete Briggs’ bossy tuba and Baby Dodds’ choked cymbal, which again, along with Armstrong’s highly rhythmic sense of playing, provides motivating syncopation. St. Cyr enters jarringly just as Armstrong exits, does some strumming, and the band plays the tune out.
I’m not sure how much more Hot Five and Hot Seven stuff I’m going to collect but this disk definitely does it for me. Stay tuned, I’ll be back with another Shellac Spotlight post soon!
