Saturday, December 7, 2013

Georgia On Our Minds

By David "Chet" Williamson Sneade

She was born Freda Lipschitz in Worcester on August 17, 1919, and before dying in New York City at 87 on December 9, 2006, the singer would try on a closet full of names before wearing Georgia Gibbs to fame.

She is largely remembered as a white singer who was afforded the fortunes denied people of color. Gibbs is accused of building a career out of tunes first recorded by R&B greats like LaVern Baker and Etta James. It’s all true. She did hit the charts with covers of “Tweedle Dee” and “Dance with me Henry,” but Gibbs was so much more than a pale version of these great American R&B artists.

As the Encyclopedia of Music (UK version) points out, Gibbs has been unfairly maligned by rock critics. Her story reaches way back before R&B and rock n’ roll were even invented. “In reality,” the unidentified writer of the encyclopedia article states, “she was a genuinely talented pop vocalist, whose jazz-tinged approach reflected years of experience in the big band era, a period when there was no stigma attached to covers.”



Gibbs first recorded for Brunswick Records in 1936 and would later record with Bing Crosby as well as with the bands of Frankie TrumbauerArtie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey.

Gibbs was the product of Russian Jewish immigrants and the youngest of four children. Her father died when she was only six months old and young Freda was sent to the former Jewish Home for Aged and Orphans at 25 Coral Street. (The home was later moved to 1029 Pleasant Street.)

It was owned by John and Charlotte Beller, who ran it for nearly 25 years before closing the orphanage in 1946. They converted the institution into a home for the elderly and operated that until the couple retired in 1962.

In a 1993 interview about the orphanage, Georgia’s brother Maurice Lipson said, “We were a family in spite of everything. The Bellers did a great many things. He was one of the most wonderful men I’ve ever known in my life.”


Though he didn’t mention them by name, Lipson noted that another sister who grew up to be an artist and a brother also played music and toured with big bands. Lipson was a noted sculptor himself. An example of his work, a bust of a rabbi, had been on display in the entrance way of the Jewish Home for Aged, 629 Salisbury Street.

In an interview in the November 3, 1957 edition of the Worcester Sunday Telegram, Gibbs told writer James Lee that she began singing in variety shows held by the orphanage. He said, “Many Worcesterites recall her as a small child appearing in their annual revues at the Auditorium.”


Gibbs would later reveal that being sent to the orphanage as a young child was a living nightmare. Evidently, in an unidentified New York paper account, Gibbs said, “the frustrated superintendent beat the daylights out of us.” The story was later reported in the local papers. In a July 19, 1952 letter to the editor of The Evening Gazette, Ethel Rosenberg of Worcester wrote a letter to the editor taking issue with Gibbs. Under the title of “Singer’s Statement Called Ungrateful,” Rosenberg said she found herself so upset after reading the item about Georgia Gibbs that she felt compelled to offer her own perspective.


Rosenberg said that Gibbs (Freda, to all who know her.) owes her stardom to the late Mrs. Bertha Beller, the former wife of the orphanage’s superintendent. “Freda was treated with every kindness, as every other child in the home was treated,” Rosenberg stated. “She was given the opportunity to develop her talent of singing, and as a matter of fact, she was given every encouragement by Mr. and Mrs. Beller; also their love, devotion, time and patience. The statement she is reported to have made is shameful, completely false and terribly ungrateful. It is a pity that when good fortune has come her way, she chooses this manner in which to repay her benefactors.”

The Jewish Home for Aged and Orphans housed some 200 orphans between 1914 and 1946. Gibbs said that she was separated from her siblings at the home and because of her working schedule her mother could only visit once a month. The young singer is said to have been left with only a radio for company.



“Some can’t get over they came out of an orphanage,” her brother Lipson told the Telegram. “But I’m a better man because of it.” Stating that he and two sisters also grew up in the home, he added, “All of us who’ve come out of the home have done well. I think it was the home that did it.”



Gibbs says she earned her first money singing at 11. “She got $1.50 for appearing with a Worcester orchestra, singing in a ballroom,” wrote Lee in a 1957 feature in the Worcester Sunday Telegram. “She was Frieda Lipson then. A few years later she was the house singer at the Plymouth Theater, running down from the High School of Commerce each noon at 1 to make the first show. Three times a day she sang a number with Don Dudley’s orchestra on the stage. She was Fredda Lipson then.”





Gibbs billed as Miss Hot Lips
Gibbs, nee Lipson, also sang in the area with the Dol Brissette Orchestra at the Bancroft Hotel. At the Plymouth she also worked with Ed Murphy’s Orchestra. At the Rathskeller, she performed with Bud Goldman and his Orchestra.

In a December 10, 1952 issue of The Evening Gazette, she told writer Bob Thomas that she started her singing career at 13 years-old. “I had to go to work, so I lied about my age and toured with small bands,” Gibbs said. “It was back breaking work, traveling 400 miles between one night stands. I was singing 50 or 60 songs a night. If your voice can stand that, it can stand anything.”

Gibbs also said, “It’s the best possible training for a singer. You find your range, you find out what songs you can sing and what songs you can’t.”

By the time she was in the eighth grade she was taking home $20 a week to help support the family. In addition to working local ballrooms and theaters, Gibbs was venturing out as far as the Raymor Ballroom in Boston.


In an interview with the singer at the Marguery Hotel in New York in August of 1946 local writer Douglas Kennedy talked about her transition from Worcester to Boston. “She landed a job singing in a dance hall from eight to eleven, from which she could just make it to the Theater Club for another vocal chore from midnight to three. It was a rugged existence for such a little girl.”

Gibbs quit school in 1936 and joined the Hudson-DeLange Orchestra, a great regional band led by Eddie DeLange and Will Hudson. Both leaders were also extraordinary songwriters. DeLange penned such hits as “A String of Pearls,” “Do You Know What it Means to Miss New Orleans,” “Darn that Dream,” and “Solitude,” and Hudson is the author of “Deep in a Dream,” (w/Delange) “Moonglow,” (w/Delange) and “Organ Grinder Swing.”



Eddie DeLange















In her book Great Pretenders: My Strange Love Affair with ‘50s Pop Music, Gibbs told author Karen Schoemer that she did the gig for “about six months, and it was the most unbelievably hard work in my life. Every night was 200, 300 miles. We didn’t have a bus. It was a broken-down car with the shift between my legs and bleeding, chapped thighs because there was no heater. It was marvelously horrible.”

Talking about her one-night stands on the road, Gibbs once told a writer for TIME magazine, “It was hell, honey: 18 men and me.”

Gibbs made her first recordings with the band as Fredda Lipson for the Brunswick label. One of the sides was the memorable, “I’ll Never Tell I Love You.” The studio experience, however, was regrettable.

She would later reveal that a record company executive assaulted her after she refused his advances. Frustrated, he then tried to kill her career. Trying to shed that horrible memory, Gibbs once again changed her identity. Writing her obituary for the Washington Post, Adam Bernstein wrote: “Recording periodically as Fredda Gibbons or Gibson, Ms. Gibbs had changed her name by the early 1940s because a music industry executive had raped her and threatened to ban her from the airwaves, according to Rochelle Mancini, the executor of Ms. Gibbs’s estate.”

Though the recording was a bad experience it led to more work. TIME magazine picks up the story: “One night in Ithaca, at a Cornell prom, Fredda got a call from Orchestra Leader Richard Himber: He had heard her recording of “I’ll Never Tell You I Love You,” and wanted to try her out in a radio show. Fredda borrowed $10 from the band manager and lit out for Manhattan. The orchestra hasn’t heard from her since.

“Himber took one look at her plain little face and groaned. But she got the job, sang on Himber’s ‘Studebaker Champions’ program for 13 weeks. Then a song-plugger told her about a big audition at NBC. Like the songstress in Frederic Wakeman’s The Hucksters, she was cautioned to sing “loud and fast. . . and on the beat.” About 150 other girls were trying out, too (“An acre of mink and silver fox, honey, and me in a little old suit”). But Lucky Strike’s late George Washington Hill liked Fredda’s hep style, and she got the contract. For the next two years she was the unsung singer for the ‘Lucky Strike Hit Parade.’”



In 1937 she first appeared on “Your Hit Parade,” then “Melody Puzzles” and “The Tim and Irene Show.” In 1940 she hooked up with the Frankie Trumbauer band. She was also heard with Joe Venuti and Hal Kemp.


In May of 1942, bandleader Artie Shaw caught Gibbs singing in the Music at Work show at the Alvin Theater in New York for Russian War Relief. He then hired her to record. She scored her first hit, “Absent Minded Moon,” with the band. It was Shaw who took her to the William Morris Agency. They changed her name to Georgia Gibson.

In October of ‘42, while still answering to the name of Fredda Gibson, Gibbs was called upon to fill in for Connee Boswell on the “Camel Caravan” program with hosts Jimmy Durante-Gary Moore. It was Moore who her tagged her with her famous nickname “Her Nibs.” The moniker is derived from her size. It means “important or self-important person.” Gibbs stood a whisper over five feet tall in stocking feet and weighed 99 pounds fresh out of the shower.



The rest of the Gibbs story is well-documented history -- including how she became Georgia Gibbs. Go online, punch in any one of her many names and look it up. It should be noted that she was married to journalist Frank Gervasi, who was a WWII correspondent for United Press and the official biographer of Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin. 


He died in 1990. Gibbs’ later years were spent working with her lawyer, Mark Sendroff successfully collecting royalty payments owed to her from reissues of her master recordings. At the time of her death in New York’s Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, a family friend, Leslie Gottlieb, said she died due to complications from leukemia.

It should also be noted that after leaving Worcester, Gibbs returned to town from time to time, including a successful vaudeville show at the Plymouth Theater. The Worcester Sunday Telegram covered another one of the live shows. In the Sunday, July 11, 1954 edition, under the heading, “The Joint Really Jumps as Georgia Returns: Her singing sends ‘em, reviewer Jack Kelso wrote: “The brass section slashed into ‘Georgia on My Mind,’ putting plenty of beat in it, and every head in the crowd swiveled as the home town girl in the flouncy dress bounced onto the stage to punch out the lyrics of her first number.

“It was Georgia Gibbs in her first appearance in Worcester in 12 years. Since that time she has gone places -- and it was easy to see. The blue-jean set rocked right down to their moccasins as the little singer with the big voice laced into “Somebody Stole de Wedding Bell.”

“And when she threw back her head and lost herself in her best-known hit, “Kiss of Fire,” several teenage girls in the crowd -- with dreams of their own -- smiled softly and lifted their heads, too.

“Looking out over the crowd at White City Park from the open-air stage, ‘Her Nibs’ Miss Gibbs claimed she saw some classmates from Commerce High School. Even with the footlights shining directly into her eyes she pointed here and there -- left, right and center -- to the familiar faces. She told them it was nice to be back.”

This piece was originally published on May 1, 2008.

Note: This is a work in progress. Comments, corrections, and suggestions are always welcome at: walnutharmonicas@gmail.com.  Also see: www.worcestersongs.blogspot.com  Thank you.

Resources





Friday, November 22, 2013

Bob Dukoff

By David "Chet" Williamson Sneade

The jazz history books list him as being born in Worcester, but there is very little information available about that. Most, like Leonard Feather’s bible, The Jazz Encyclopedia, typically mention him like this: "Robert 'Bobby' Dukoff, tenor sax, b: Worcester, MA, USA. – raised in Sioux City, IA, USA."

Now, the question is how long did he stay in town and do we have anything more to claim of him other than being the place of his birth?


Dukoff is a giant in the world of the saxophone. Here’s a quick biographical sketch taken from his company’s Website: “Bobby is well-known to record buyers around the world having started the style of lush tenor stylings with voices. His Sax in Silk album for R.C.A. Victor started the trend by being a best seller. Many albums followed.”

Bob Dukoff, 1945


There was a series of these records, including Swingy Saxy SoundSax in Satin and Sweet Swingin’  Sax in Stereo, among others. It also should be noted that Dukoff was a veteran of the Big-Band era, logging time with such notables as Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, and Jimmy Dorsey.

His playing career is one that any professional would be proud of, but as Craig Harris points out in All Music Guide, “Dukoff has made his greatest contribution to jazz as a designer and manufacturer of the world’s leading saxophone mouthpieces. Designed in 1943 and first marketed two years later, the mouthpiece has provided saxophone players with greater facility to play their 
instruments.”

Anita Boyer
Dukoff was married to singer Anita Boyer. She worked with Tommy Dorsey, Jerry Wald, and Harry James. She died in 1984. Here is a clip of her singing -- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NaeWuAe7W0U&fmt=18

Born October 11, 1918, Dukoff’s website bio goes into even more detail about his inventions: “Bobby has always been fascinated with the mechanics of mouthpieces as he realized that ‘the sound' started there. While playing top shows in California he started experimenting in his garage and soon all his friends from the Big Band days were coming around to have Bobby just “touch up” their mouthpieces.



“This naturally led to his own mouthpiece business and today those early California models are collectors' items. Bobby’s natural curiosity has kept him constantly experimenting to come up with a better product. Mouthpieces to Bobby have a character of their own and it is his desire to fit the correct mouthpiece to the style of the player. Bobby is still a playing musician and well aware of the problems to be met on every job.”


Dukoff recently celebrated his 89th birthday. He now makes his home in Miami. (*Note: This article was originally published in October 31, 2007.) Getting back to the Worcester connection, that same article in All Music Guide lists Dukoff as a native of Sioux City, IA. Here’s where things get confusing. In 1987, Dukoff gave an interview with Arthur Woodbury that appeared in the Fall edition of Saxophone Journal (Vol. 12 Number 3), Dorn Publications, Inc., P.O. Box 206, Medfield, MA 02052 USA.

After an introduction citing Dukoff’s accomplishments, Woodbury asked him about his past. “How do you look back on those early days?” To which, Dukoff responded, “I’ll give you a little fast bio, okay? I was born in Sioux City, Iowa and the first time I saw a saxophone was in a music store in Sioux City. I was seven years old.”

Whoa, wait a minute. What about all the jazz history books citing Dukoff as being born in Worcester? Well, according to the City Clerk’s office at City Hall, there was a Robert C. Dukoff born in Worcester on October 11, 1918. His father was Harry D. Dukoff, from an “unknown” origin in Russia.

Harry D. is listed in the 1917 edition of the Worcester Directory as a floorwalker (a person who is employed in a retail store to oversee clerks and aid customers) at a long gone department store at 474 Main Street. He is also listed as a boarder at 7 Murray Ave. His mother was Esther King.


Bobby has often said that his earliest inspiration was his mother’s piano-playing. After seeing his first saxophone, Dukoff also noted that from that moment on he had a love affair with the horn. “I’d never seen anything like it in my life,” he told Woodbury. “That’s all I ever thought about -- owning a saxophone. I asked my father to please buy me a saxophone. He bought me a violin instead. Can you beat it?”

The 1918 edition of the Worcester Directory lists Harry D. Dukoff as removed from the city’s population to Rochester, NY. That means, if this was Bobby’s dad, his mother gave birth to him that year, and soon after the family moved temporarily to NY, before heading out west.

It may be interesting to note that at the age of 10, Bobby moved with his family to Mt. Vernon, NY, which means he probably had extended family there. That’s where young Bobby started playing the horn he loved. “When I was 14, I bought my own saxophone,” he told Woodbury. “It was summer vacation and I worked at a delicatessen delivering orders. I saved $45, and this was during the Depression! I went to a little music store up on the second floor on 4th Avenue and bought the horn.”

Okay, these City Hall records must hold the truth to the mystery of one Bobby Dukoff from Worcester. I figured, he’s still alive, I’ll call him. According to All Music Guide, Dukoff moved to Kendall, FL, a suburb of Miami, and “opened his own recording studio, Dukoff Recording in 1956. He continued to run the studio until the early ’70s.”


Robert "Bobby" Dukoff died on May 3, 2012 at the age of 93. Not long before he passed, his number was still in the phonebook. I called him and requested an interview. Unfortunately, I did not speak with the man directly, but he did send me an e-mail.

This is all he wrote: “Dear Chet, I was born in Worcester, Mass.; however, we moved to Sioux City when I was 6 months old. I would like to see a copy of your column, and would appreciate it if you would send a copy to me. Thank you very much for your interest. Sincerely, Bobby.”

This is a work in progress. Comments, corrections, and suggestions are always welcome at: walnutharmonicas@gmail.com. Also see: www.worcestersongs.blogspot.com  Thank you.

Resources

Thursday, November 7, 2013

Our Otis Ferguson

By David "Chet" Williamson

In his book, Changing the World: Clark University's Pioneering People, 1887-2000, President Emeritus Richard P. Traina chose a remarkable list of important figures who had been affiliated with the school during that time.

Among those to make the cut include such recognizable heroes as “Rocket Man” Robert Goddard and lesser known people like the great writer of jazz and film criticism, Otis Ferguson.

In his biographical essay on Ferguson, Traina opens with a non-attributed quote that reads: “Those who seriously appreciate film or jazz might sometimes wonder when those endeavors were first earnestly and critically treated as art forms.”

Clark University campus
Traina answers the supposition with: “Otis Cowan Ferguson was a pioneer with respect to those fields of popular culture, bringing to them uncommon and often ground-breaking insight and respect. Ferguson, during what was generally a transforming period of American history; put the world of criticism on a new level of artistic appreciation and intellectual engagement and he did it, as he did most everything, on his own terms.”
His piece on Bix Beiderbecke alone warrants Ferguson such distinction. Though he didn’t have a chance to complete books in his lifetime, two have been published posthumously, In the Spirit of Jazz: The Otis Ferguson Reader (December Press) and The Film Criticism of Otis Ferguson (Temple University).

The bulk of the writings were collected from essays originally published in The New Republic. Like Bix, Ferguson lived hard and died young. Unlike his hero however, Ferguson was a victim of World War II and not the bottle (although he was known to have a taste for Four Roses).
Bix Beiderbecke
Ferguson, who was born in Worcester to Mary (Cowan) Ferguson and M. Howard Ferguson on August 14, 1907, was a graduate of Clark University, class of 1933. He arrived at the school at the age of 22, after already collecting a lifetime of experience. He spent his childhood bouncing around with the family in their unsuccessful attempts at farming in Ware and West Boylston.


Returning to the city as a teenager, young Otis started making his own way. At 15 he worked a score of odd jobs including a position as a pin boy in a local bowling alley.


At 17, Ferguson left South High School before graduation to enlist in the Navy, rising to the rank of first class seaman. Of the experience, he once wrote: “I saw some rather comic-opera action in China, was paid off in Newport at the age of 21 with a thousand dollars in the bank, and went back to high school.” 



Both he and his brother, Stanley, a classically trained trombonist, went to South. Otis was a straight-A student. The family lived at 17 Catalpa Street in Worcester. 





South High School Honor Roll, 1930-1932

As Traina reports, Ferguson arrived at Clark’s Main South campus with “working-class identification and an autonomous spirit that would mark the rest of his brief, but productive, life.”

Traina called Ferguson’s years as a Jonas G. Clark Scholar as “omens” of what was to transpire in his career. “Majoring in history and English and graduating from the University in three years, Ferguson devoted himself to writing “displaying talent in fiction, criticism, commentary, poetry and even as it unhappily turned out, someone else’s master thesis in history. He achieved some notoriety by reviewing for a Clark student publication James Joyce’s Ulysses at a time when the book was still banned in the United States.”
While at Clark, Ferguson also won a college essay writing contest that was sponsored by The New Republic. The piece was called, “Gaush!” He would later find his first bylines in the magazine (through the approval of Editor Malcolm Cowley) and soon hired by the publication where he eventually became its assistant editor.

Before leaving school, Ferguson was elected senior-class poet and won the Prentiss Hoyt Poetry Award. Cowley reports that the young writer’s name first appeared in The New Republic in 1930. It was a review of a George Gershwin concert in New York. While still at Clark, Ferguson wrote articles, play reviews, poetry and fiction for the Clark Quarterly. In 1933, Ferguson was the editor of Pasticcio, the college yearbook, where he indicated that his future plans were: “None.”

“Following graduation, in the depths of the Great Depression, the young working-class writer from what was essentially a working-class university, set out for New York,” Traina stated. “As a failing Fuller Brush salesman and very freelance writer, he began to see some of his book reviews published.

Malcolm Cowley
“Then came a defining moment: A first piece of film criticism published in The New Republic in January 1934. Ferguson could not have been more fortunate, for the editor of that highly regarded, style-setting periodical was Malcolm Cowley. Cowley, who was probably an acquaintance of every significant figure on the American cultural scene, was attracted to this off-center talent. The editor described Ferguson at the time as “a hungry young man with a lot of wavy black hair, dark eyes that slanted down and a straight uncompromising mouth that might have been telling the world to go to hell.”

The Otis Ferguson Reader, first published in 1997 was edited by Robert Wilson and Ferguson’s widow, Dorothy Chamberlain. In the biographical notes in the back of book, the editors also note that Ferguson joined the editorial staff of The New Republic in the summer of 1935 and in addition to reviewing books, theater and movies, wrote about jazz and contributed to more than a dozen other periodicals.



They also talk about how he died: “When this country entered World War II, Ferguson became a member of the National Maritime Union and registered as an able-bodied seaman. In February, 1942, he was assigned to the Exford, a merchant ship destined for the perilous run to North Russia. The Exford did not reach Archangel until September, and it was February, 1943, before it docked in its home port and the crew was paid off.

Ferguson next signed on the S.S. Bushrod Washington, which was bound for North Africa, Sicily and Italy. On September 14, 1943, while the ship was anchored in the Gulf of Salerno waiting to unload its cargo, it was hit by a radio-guided bomb released from a German plane, and Ferguson was killed in the explosion.”


Crowley says, “The other seamen escaped before the vessel burned to the waterline, but the bomb had exploded in the mess room, to which Otis, as was his custom, had gone down alone for a cup of coffee.”

In the forward, Crowley writes: “I find with regret that the work and even the name of Otis Ferguson are generally unknown to readers under 60. Older persons are likely to remember the work with pleasure. Much of it dealt with swing bands or unpretentious, well-crafted films and, by extension, with the revival of popular culture during the 1930s, an aspect of the period that is often neglected. [He] approached those subjects freshly, accurately, with lyrical enthusiasm and with contempt for anything faked. Everything he wrote was attentively read in its time, besides leaving echoes in the work of later critics.”
Benny Goodman

The book includes all of Ferguson’s writing on jazz including some unprinted material and unpublished pieces that were excerpted from two unfinished book manuscripts: Benny Goodman: Adventures in the Kingdom of Swing, which Crowley says was to be a critical evaluation of his work and a description of the band and how it functioned. The other book is To the Saint James Infirmary, a look at instrumentalists, bands and blues singers. Cowley reports that one-third was to be a long essay on Bix as well.

Bix Beiderbecke
Teddy Wilson














In a previously unpublished piece simply called "Teddy Wilson," Ferguson writes: “A pianist. Black. He has played with all remnants of the old-timers, usually without a credit line. He is known to the public for his music, not his name. I hear a lot of music, high hat and low brow, but I can’t say that any of it will stand up, for the initial delight and subsequent lasting power, with the improvisations of Teddy Wilson. He has developed, quietly and probably without any realization of how it would look in words, a style. This gives him an individuality that makes him identifiable anywhere; but within the narrow limits of jazz playing, it pushes him into repetition of himself. (Just, you might say if you still have a fresh approach to the subject, as Bach developed, with all his architectural grasp of the medium, a style and as Bach could be identified anywhere.)”
Dorothy Dodds Baker

Traina says Ferguson’s predilection for jazz inspired him to write critical reviews of jazz performances with the same consuming interest “always aiming at both the audience and the musicians. Whitney Balliet, writing in The New Yorker 40 years after Ferguson’s death did not exactly agree, saying that Ferguson ‘disguised literary pretensions behind slang and pseudo toughness, sometimes silly, sometimes mystical, sometimes melodramatic gargle.’ Yet according to Cowley, jazz musicians themselves, ‘unlettered men who had never before opened a journal of opinion and would never open one again after Otis died,’ were reading Ferguson’s pieces ‘with admiration.’ And as Ferguson himself wrote, ‘the best people in the world to learn about music from are actual musicians, who would not be caught dead in the type of talk [so often] used to describe the work.’ Cowley himself later resorted to the lyrical when writing about his then deceased assistant editor: ‘Sometimes I think that his ideal was to write as Bix Beiderbecke played the jazz cornet, with “always this miracle of constant on-the-spot invention, never faltering or repeating, every phrase as fresh and glistening as creation itself.’”

Cowley wrote more on Ferguson saying, “In 1936 he began writing about the big swing bands that flourished at the time as they would never flourish again. ‘Breakfast Dance, in Harlem,’ describing a night at the Savoy Ballroom, was his first excursion into the field. It was followed in the same year by the famous ‘Young Man with a Horn,’ a lament for Bix Beiderbecke, and by ‘The Spirit of Jazz,’ about Benny Goodman’s band. All these were memorable ventures, and the novelist Dorothy Baker was right to say of them, while echoing his style, that Otis ‘built himself a medium there and developed it in those short pieces, so that he had a thing that was all his own, right length, the right beat to the phrase, everything perfect.’”

Baker had written a widely praised novel and motion picture based on Bix Beiderbecke, Young Man with a Horn, after borrowing both her subject and her title from Otis, with his permission.

In his review of the book, Young Man with a Horn by Dorothy Baker, which was based on his writings on Bix, Ferguson writes: “Just behind the pages of this book there is the picture of that odd and endearing and forever cocky little figure, who followed the copy of all great artists working from the heart of their environment, in being as tall as heaven and as simple and good as pie. He is there for me, that is, and the music he represents behind him. So while I know this to be a good book for any man’s money, I cannot report on just how good it will be to those who, not having seen the beauty it talks of as it was passing, will merely read, digest, and file away some bit of its wide range of knowledge. I would sincerely like to have written such a book, if that’s anything.”

Sidney Bechet

In the section of “Origins of Jazz: I,” Ferguson sets the table by riffing about some of the architects of jazz, Sidney Bechet, Louis Armstrong and King Oliver. He writes: “The boys didn’t have to ask what jazz was, any more than you’d have to ask about the wind in the trees -- it’s just there. Being a natural folk art, as natural as singing, jazz made its own tradition without the need of conservatories, and though it suddenly swept the country in general during the war, just as jazz with real swing to it became a national craze as this-here-new-swing a couple of years back, it had been going on in certain places for quite a while, and before that had been partly present in other forms of music for generations.”

Freddie Keppard
Ferguson opens “Origins of Jazz: II” with, “New Orleans had been crammed with musical talent all along, and now talent was getting even thicker. Among trumpet players alone,” he says, “you find such names as Oliver, Armstrong, [Freddie] Keppard, [Leon] Renee, [Wingy] Manone, [Henry "Red"] Allen and [Buddy] Bolden. Then before you can say, clarinet marmalade, Ferguson takes up the matter of race, saying, “There may be a New Orleans supremacy in jazz playing. (You’ll find many to say so, but you’ll have a lot of uncomfortable explaining to do about the original and lasting influences of [Fletcher] Henderson and [Duke] Ellington if you try to argue the point.) And there may be a ‘definitely negroid’ pattern on everything that swings. (But when you try to prove it, not just say it, you run up against such top ratings in the field as a Jack Teagarden, Bix and Benny. And incidentally, Bix came from Davenport, not Chicago; Teagarden started in Texas, Louisiana.


Jack Teagarden
In the piece titled, “The Man with the Blues in His Heart,” Ferguson states, “Jack Teagarden (otherwise, Jackson, Mister Jack, Mister T., Big Gate, etc.) is one of the really high men in the jazz collection. I’ll tell you more about it. At the outset it should be said that he has been playing around half of his lifetime in a business that sets the most grueling pace of any. On the stand, off the stand, on the train, and up on another stand night after night after night, rehearsals and recording dates, a different hotel and different babes but the same arrangements and iron routine.

“And the same bottle. Yet a man is supposed to bring it out clean and inspired every time his number is called, and it is a mortal truth that playing it that way in jazz means playing as though you had a fire under you. Teagarden has been on this griddle a long time. Though still a fine musician, he seems tired and cynical, his creation a bit shopworn, which knowing gentlemen have not hesitated to remark or less knowing gentlemen to echo, which in itself is enough to embitter a fellow and make him listless.”

Putting Ferguson's legacy into perspective under the heading of “Music and Musicians,” in the Reader, Cowley aptly noted that the late Worcester author is legendary in the field of jazz. “He has been called ‘the best writer on jazz who ever lived’ and ‘the most brilliant of them all.’ One of the first critics to write seriously about this native American music, he brought an understanding and appreciation of jazz to an audience far wider than the original small group of aficionados. Professional jazz musicians have been among his most ardent admirers.”

See Jess Stacy’s "Blues for Otis Ferguson" at: 
http://www.allmusic.com/song/blues-for-otis-ferguson-mt0004714145

Jess Stacy
Note: This is a work in progress. Comments, corrections, and suggestions are always welcome at: walnutharmonicas@gmail.com. Also see: www.worcestersongs.blogspot.com  Thank you.

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