Joe Turner And Orchestra* - Jumpin At The Jubilee / Lonely World (Shellac)

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Hubert Eisdell. John Fogarty. Tino Rossi with Orchestra. Al Goodman and His Orchestra. Jimmy Saunders - Mandolin Orch. Perry Como. The Buffalo Bills. The Platters. Mel Davis. Bobby Darin. Buddy Greco. Ron Lees. Kenneth McKellar.

John Hanson. Neil Williams. The Carl Tapscott Singers. Eileen Donaghy. The British Legion Choir. Anita Lindblom.

Micky Day. Your turn now. Everything we might expect is transformed when Lester enters, not dancing in on a complex swooping tenor phrase, but announcing his presence on clarinet. His announcement is a simple phrase followed by a rest, but it is arresting. Early in his career, he played a cheap metal clarinet — the kind of instrument students and band musicians, who marched outdoors, would have used instead of the more delicate wooden models.

A digression here. While vacationing in Maine, the Beloved and I went twice to an open-air flea market, the most varied and intriguing one I ever saw. There I saw not one but two metal clarinets for sale, and nearly succumbed to their lure. Visible rust kept me from even inquiring the price. But back to Lester. Although his range is consciously limited most clarinetists cannot resist the temptation to fill the air with ornamental notes that show off technique but destroy potential architecture and his note choices restrained, he is bobbing and weaving over the background.

That background is both plain and propulsive: the muted trumpets of Clayton left and Collins right doing four doo-wah s in succession behind him. And the dynamic contrast is not only strong but unexpected: often, recordings began with the piano or the rhythm section, then went to a chorus of a soloist over that rhythm, then and only then was the soloist joined by other horns in support.

Because of the time limitations of the 78 rpm record, everything seems telescoped: not overly fast, but moving at top speed with no time for elaborate transitions between one kind of display and the next.

The remainder of his solo, its balance between a bridge made up mostly of passages of repeated notes, the upward arpeggios that bookend that bridge their highest note verging on the shrill — could be committed to memory, genuinely his, simple yet inevitable. Another clarinet player might have worked up to a high note, a dazzling technical flurry to conclude his solo; Lester, making way for the next player, winds down into a sweet decrescendo, a musing figure, generously bowing out as if to prepare the way.

When he concludes, the transition is seamless and wondrous. Although he was a modest, reticent man, his artistic identity was so strong that his soloists seem to share his most characteristic thoughts, shapes, and utterances, as he is drawing upon theirs. This record is of course the triumph of individualists, having their instantly recognizable time to say their piece, but it is also the triumph of a completely integrated artistic community, where ideas have become generously-shared communal property.

And the two kinds of expression balance. Soloists step forward, testify, and then take their place in the congregation so that the next person can speak. But his originality is paramount. His solo is not made of a series of ascents, but a progression of descending phrases, somewhere between Bill Robinson dancing down the stairs and a waiter with a full tray of dishes making his way, carefully but rapidly. And Buck seems to improvise on his own ideas: the beginning of his bridge contains a clearly articulated descending figure, which he later turns into a half-comedic slide down an imagined slope.

At times, the solo uses repeated notes not as Lester did in a way that players like Muggsy Spanier would flatten into predictable pounding of simple ideas.

And, as Basie had signaled the end of his solo by playing with one note, Clayton earnestly turns the same figure over and over as his thirty-two bars come to a close. On a more predictable recording, with everyone given a turn, the next soloist would have been Collins, but that would have courted the monotony of one trumpet following another.

And instead of a horn or horns backing him, there is only the rhythm section — but Basie has become his own orchestra, his simple bell-like rhythmic figures new ones this time urging Lester on. Behind him, one must marvel at the supple, pulsing time that Jo, Walter, and Freddie grant — a rhythmic wave that could sustain a weaker soloist and push a strong one to creative heights.

This second solo seems to encapsulate all of his style. It could be sung; it is full of unexpected pauses; it has its own wandering yet logical shape. Swing is king and Americans By label: Victor: over 13 listen to jukeboxes and buy million discs; Decca: large numbers of records.

Independent labels: the remaining 6 million discs. The swing phenomenon shows no letup, and record sales rise sharply. Sales continued to climb into the early s. That reflected a decline of some 35, copies per title just since And those figures represent hit records; less popular songs did proportionally worse, to the point that basic recording costs might not even be met.

InVictor introduced a new product, the Duo. This gadget consisted of a 78 r p m turntable and not m u c h else; it had no tubes or speakers. The Duo, however, served only as a stopgap; it could not pre- vent record sales from declining further. The music business needed a tonic, not another record player, but not until did record sales again begin a long, slow climb to their former levels.

Thomas Edison, despite his considerable reputation as a pioneer in record- ing technology, realized the plight of the industry and stopped marketing records altogether, turning his back on his own invention. He had stubbornly persisted in manufacturing acoustic recordings, and his market simply dis- appeared. Clinging to a straw, Edison continued to manufacture his already- obsolete phonographs and cabinets, along with radios and dictating equipment.

Shortly thereafter, he admitted defeat on all fronts and ceased manufacturing phonographs. While the record industry seemed mired in insoluble problems, radio ex- hibited ever-growing strength.

Victor, which had been part of the Victor Talking Machine Company sinceearly on established itself as one of the premier recording firms, but lacked the financial resources to withstand the straitened economy. In a related move, RCA had also created the RKO for Radio-Keith-Orpheum studio, a film production company, thus providing it access to movies, recordings, and of course, radio. In short order, RCA had entree to all of the electronic mass of the day, a feat that provided it some insulation from most of the economic fluctuations and troubles of the period.

If recordings faltered, the movies might prosper, and radio seemed impervious to anything. This brief history of Victor records gives but a hint of the byzantine trans- actions that occurred throughout the American recording industry during the s. Brunswick Records, a part of the Brunswick-Balke-Collender Company of Dubuque, Iowa, had come into being shortly after the parent firm began manufacturing phonographs in Previously noted for pool tables and pi- anos, the Iowa firm saw great potential in the whole phonograph industry.

Its recording subsidiary, boasting the latest technology, bought the once- prosperous Aeolian and Vocalion catalogs in and seemed poised to be- come a major label. Brunswick also owned a budget line called Melotone. Even with its acquisitions, the company saw overall sales continue an inex- orable decline, and the Warner Brothers film studios purchased Brunswick in When it made the purchase, Warner Brothers enjoyed high profits and seemed poised to expand.

But then the moviemakers, like the rest of the nation, fell on hard times after the market crash. EMI unloaded the label to the company manufacturing Majestic radio receivers. The economic crisis continued, however, and the sales of Majestic receivers dropped, a situation that placed Columbia once more on the auction block. This move resulted in the always-alert American Record Company picking up the once-prestigious label in for next to nothing. The Columbia Phonograph Company, one of the original parents of Co- lumbia Records, had, in the s, grown rich during those Jazz Age boom times.

In its heyday, it manufactured not only Columbia discs and phono- graphs, but also Silvertone and Supertone records for Sears, Roebuck and Company, from to In addition, from to it produced Diva Records for the W. Grant chain of five-and-ten-cent stores. Okeh Records, another division within Columbia, produced considerable jazz and dance music; it continued as a semi-autonomous branch from until The Columbia Phonograph Company's wealth allowed it to assist in the creation of the Columbia Broadcasting System in What no one foresaw, of course, was how radio would prosper, while the formerly thriving recording industry would stumble.

In an ironic turnaround, CBS in thus acquired not just the namesake Columbia label, but the entire American Record Company operation, giving NBC's primary rival a significant stake in the recording industry.

In ad- dition, it should be noted that Paramount Studios, another Hollywood giant, owned 49 percent of CBS as a result of a deal finalized in ; this arrange- ment further cemented the film-radio-recording connections and made the network a worthy rival to NBC. Before falling on its own hard times, the American Record Company, by virtue of its sharp discountingits discs sold from 25 to 50 cents apiece, and often retailed at three for a dollarbecame a force in popular music.

Some of these little-known labels also featured subsidiaries. Cameo owned Romeo Records, a brand sold by the S.

Kress variety stores. It also held the Lincoln brand, a label that featured dance music and jazz. To stay in business, these firms sometimes obtained masters from the big- ger labels like Victor and Brunswick and stamped cheap copies from them.

To keep manufacturing costs at an absolute minimum, the smaller labels recorded on surfaces like waxed or chemically treated paper, and also on metal or tin foil. As might be expected, fidelity was minimal, and the recording seldom lasted much beyond a handful of plays.

They also specialized in what the industry disingenuously called "hick discs," performances by little-known rural bands and singers playing songs that required no copyright fees.

Conqueror Records, another ARC acquisition, typified the small recording company of that era and provides a good illustration of the practice: Sears, Roebuck sold the label's records from untiland Conqueror utilized mail-order marketing, trafficking in rural areas of the country.

By owning a number of these firms, the American Record Company became one of the largest distributors of phonograph records in the thirties, exceeded only by England's EMI group. Instead of pricing Brunswick selections at their prevailing to cent rates, ARC made Brunswick its prestige line and retailed the label at a premium 75 cents a disc.

This move may have cost ARC some sales, but it gave the company stature in the market. While the American Record Company wheeled and dealed, the other sur- viving record firms dropped artists, cut back on recording sessions, and re- duced individual takes on a particular number to just one, provided no obvious defects could be detected. They also slashed prices for their products and experimented with various marketing schemes. Seventy-five-cent records went on sale at two for a dollar, and fifty-cent discs could be bought at three for a dollar.

Victor, which had stubbornly held prices to its 's levels, cre- ated the Bluebird label in as a response to ARC's pricing policies; the new Bluebirds sold for thirty-five cents. Boasting a bargain price of fifteen cents and often retailed at newsstands, "Hit of the Week" records could be found between and Their "Durium" surface gave listeners three to five min- utes of poorly recorded music and wore out quickly.

With record sales down sharply during the De- pression, they served as one of several attempts to lure buyers with cheap recordings. Between and"Hit of the Week" Records tried selling discs at newsstands. The one-sided records, boasting a bargain price of fifteen cents and made of "Durium," a concoction of paper and resin, gave a listener three to five minutes of scratchy music.

Ina British investor by the name of Ted Lewis not to be confused with the pop- ular entertainer of the same name started American Decca, a new label and the offshoot of English Decca, a well-established label. Lewis persuaded Jack Kapp, then the head of Brunswick Records, to lead the new operation, and Kapp brought with him many of Brunswick's leading performers, including crooner Bing Crosby.

American Decca also gained the catalog of Gennett Records in this move. An old label that had built a rich trove of blues and jazz sides, Gennett's list included the first recorded version of Hoagy Carmichael's classic "Star Dust" in To battle ARC's low prices, Kapp de- cided to sell Decca recordings for a bargain 35 cents, making them strong competitors in the marketplace. In a short time, Decca's cheap discs, along with their roster of stars, especially Crosby, made the company one of the sales leaders for the decade.

The Depression hurt jazz and black music particularly hard. Most of the small independent labels failed, which meant the disappearance of many companies that had recorded black musicians and catered to black audiences.

Their recordings carried the term "race records," meaning that they usually could be obtained only in predominantly black neighborhoods. Larger dis- tributors, fearful of a white consumer backlash, refused to carry them. Cou- pled with the restraints of Prohibition, the small clubs and bars that once dotted neighborhoods shut their doors, effectively closing another avenue for black musicians, and for musicians of every stripe as well.

Not until the late s and the explosive growth of swing along with the popularity of juke- boxes did musicians again find widespread employment opportunities. The story of Black Swan Records, a subsidiary of Paramount Records no connection to the movie studioillustrates the dilemma of black musicians.

The label had specialized in recording black artists, which meant Black Swan discs, or "race records," had little entree into white markets. The Depression finally caught up with Black Swan inforcing it out of business just be- fore swing brought about a renewed interest in jazz and dance bands. The label would, however, be reactivated in the early s.

Swing did indeed prove the tonic the industry needed. It re-invigorated many struggling companies, especially the fortunes of three labels. Colum- bia including its Brunswick and Okeh subsidiariesDecca, and RCA Victor including its Bluebird subsidiary dominated the American recording field in the later years of the decade.

Other companies continued to issue purely pop sides and music geared to more specialized tastes, but these three mo- nopolized the big bands.

Ever optimistic, several new independents entered the growing field for swing and jazz. Clearly jazz-oriented, the label survived, but remained popular pri- marily with dedicated collectors searching for specific artists or songs. Fol- lowing a similar path, Blue Note Records came into being in Neither label became a major player in the swing mass market, but instead remained on the sidelines, catering to the wants of specialists.

Record companies vied for recording rights to specific bands as swing cap- tured the public imagination. The players found themselves in the position of rushing into recording studios and having to play a new number on first sight. This required a high level of professionalism and mastery of both music and instruments, something musicians had in remarkable quantity during this hectic decade.

The vast majority of sidemen had studied hard and played with numerous aggregations, so reading new arrangements had be- come second nature.

Recording four or more new sides in a single session of just a few hours' duration might be challenging, but in the Big Band Era seldom seemed impossible. In just a couple of takes playing the same num- ber two times, usually with only slight changesa new classic might emerge, or certainly a recording suitable for airplay and wide distribution.

Because audio technology at that time lacked the sophistication later taken for granted, the bands recorded directly onto wax or acetate. Tape played no role, so splicing did not exist as an option, and digital editing had not entered even the most vivid imaginations of engineers; the take consisted of "all or nothing.

A popular hit promised big money to the band recording the preferred ver- sion, so arrangers worked hard to alter tempos, vocalists stylized their rendi- tions, soloists improvised on the written score, and the leaders themselves added touches of their own.

As a result, hit songs like "One O'Clock Jump" ; music by William "Count" Basie and "I'll Never Smile Again" ; words and music by Ruth Lowe might exist in several interpretations at the same time; it rested with the audience as to which version sold the best. In the case of the two songs mentioned, "One O'Clock Jump" at first en- joyed its biggest sales by the Basie band, but their success proved short-lived. Instead of one overriding favorite, many bandsHarry James and Benny Goodman, for examplesoon had competing versions, and they Joe Turner And Orchestra* - Jumpin At The Jubilee / Lonely World (Shellac) well also.

Often the public liked a particular band, and individual songs carried less importance than the orchestra itself. The etymology of "jukebox" remains a murky one. In West Africa, a "juke" meant a house of prostitution. With slavery, the word made its way to the United States and took on new meanings. In the South, a "juke" sometimes spelled "jook" signified a dance hall, especially a lower-class one, and then even some of the dances themselves.

To "juke" meant to dance, but in a sug- gestive way at a roadside joint. In the late s and on into the s, coin- operated record machines began to replace the small bands and combos that had traditionally played in these dance halls, or "juke joints.

A "jukebox" played in juke joints for juking. Over time, "jukebox" has clearly evolved into an innocent term with few connec- tions to its colorful past. The manufacturers of these machines, in a futile at- tempt to disassociate their products from any such past, insisted on calling them "Multi-Selector Phonographs," "Automatic Coin-Operated Phono- graphs" or "coin machines," but the public stuck with "jukeboxes. Bythese primitive forerunners had all but disappeared.

By the begin- ning of the s, J. InAmericans rejected Prohibition in no uncertain terms; Repeal said people could legally consume alcohol once again.

The reopening of lounges, bars, and nightclubs meant they had to have music, either live or recorded, and jukeboxes sprang up everywhere, becoming standard fixtures. They spread to ice cream parlors, soda fountains, and restaurantsplaces where music might boost business. Customers saw them as a form of cheap entertain- ment; proprietors saw them bringing in more customers.

About 25, jukeboxes could be found scattered across the country by the end of That number jumped to overby the mid-i93os,byand it just kept climbing: in excess ofjukeboxes played the latest hits to millions of listeners and dancers with nickels in their pockets or six tunes for a quarter when the thirties drew to a close.

Coupled with the rise of swing and a limited economic recovery, jukeboxes had lost any negative connotations and could be found just about anywhere by With their sinuous curves, shiny chrome and plastics, neon tubes and flashing lights, s jukeboxes served as a kind of summation of the popu- lar Streamline design of the era. They represented modern architecture, sky- scrapers in miniature.

More importantly, they made money, both for the establishments having them and for the music business in general. In the Swing Era, jukeboxes devoured over half of all records on the market and helped to encourage fads and fashions in music. Because of their ubiquity, they went a long way in determining a record's popularity. For the record business, jukeboxes represented a godsend. These insatiable machines consumedrecords a week, 30 million a year, toward the end of the s, and went a long way toward saving the flagging record in- dustry.

Wurlitzer, the leading manufacturer of coin-operated machines, was turning out 45, a year byand its competitors boasted equally im- pressive numbers. What sold on a jukebox got repeatedendlessly, both in its original format and by imitators. This led to repetition and musicians getting stuck in sty- listic ruts. They had to keep sounding like their most recent hit, thus stifling creativity. But hidden benefits emerged for one group of musicians. By the mid.

From dilapidated road houses to ritzy nightclubs, the chrome and neon boxes dispensed the latest hits and Joe Turner And Orchestra* - Jumpin At The Jubilee / Lonely World (Shellac) of audiences everywhere. In this photograph, the jukebox has replaced the live musicians, and someone even moved it to a prominent place in front of the bandstand. It appears the dancing couple voiced no objections.

In its mechanical way, the jukebox served as an equalizer in a segregated world. Of course, they only played records, and so they replaced live musicians who might otherwise be performing at a dance hall or club. Like so much modern technology, a curse accompanied the bless- ing. They feltjustlythat radio and coin-operated devices deprived both musicians and songwriters of income, since most of them received no royalties when stations played their record- ings or a patron's nickel keyed a song.

Founded in to take advantage of revised U. This split would result in a long fight over musicians' rights, a recording ban, and finally some resolution in the mid-iS. Another story, another decade, but its roots lay in the s and the proliferation of both radio and recording.

Some mechanically reproduced music took an unusual turn in the thirties. InMuzak, a service that went directly to restaurants, dancehalls, facto- ries, and offices, made its debut in Cleveland, Ohio. It piped in soothing back- ground music with no attempt made to copy the latest hits or dance numbers. This consisted of packaged music just below the level of consciousness, a kind of subliminal sound massage, and it had little impact on the popular music business.

Despite the Depression, music flourished during the s, available to millions easily and cheaply. Although many people associate the s with swing and all the dance bands of the time, the decade also stands as the golden age of American songwrit- ing. And those names make up just the short list; many other distinguished songwriters also deserve a spot on any such compilation. They took the popular music format and turned it into an art form; at the same time, the big bands were creating dance classics with similar materials.

Almost weekly, it would seem, new songs appeared by these consummately talented people. Destined to become standardssongs known by a large au- dience that remain popular for generationstheir compositions have en- dured, still vibrant for Joe Turner And Orchestra* - Jumpin At The Jubilee / Lonely World (Shellac) of all ages.

For whatever reasons, the decade produced some of the finest, most lasting, music in the history of American popular song. The inroads of jazz, swing, and, later, rhythm 'n' blues and rock 'n' roll, cannot be denied, but for sheer longevity and uniformity, the American pop- ular song remained recognizably unchanged for much of the twentieth cen- tury.

Such classics possess a deceptively simple structure: almost always written in a verse-chorus form see belowthe verse sets the scene or poses a situation and then the chorus, or refrain, brings about a resolution.

During the s, jazz and swing, for all their appeal, had to adapt more to the verse- chorus format than it to them. In many ways, the thirties marked the apoth- eosis of the popular song in American musical culture. As a rule, these songs are built on discrete units called phrases. Following a brief instrumental opening, listeners will usually hear an introductory sec- tion, or verse, normally a sixteen-bar phrase. The verse introduces the tempo, or rhythm, of the music, although it will not be found in every instance, since some songwriters chose deliberately to omit it.

When dealing with words set to music, many composers and lyricists use the verse for an introductory comment, a kind of preface to the story the cho- ruses, or refrain, will cover.

Many contemporary listeners, however, do not know these little stories that so often opened the standards of the decade. The three- to four-minute time constraints of radio broadcasts and recordings, coupled with a sharp drop in sheet music sales, brought about a decreased emphasis on the verse, so what people heard might not include all that the songwriters had originally included.

In time, popular songwriting witnessed the decline, if not outright disappearance, of the verse. By the last years of the twentieth century, few popular songs deemed the verse a necessary com- ponent in musical structure. Today, many orchestras and performers, espe- cially when recording a song, leave out the opening verse, preferring to move straight to the choruses. The song usually concludes with a coda, a short s u m m i n g - u p of what has gone before.

First comes the verse, in which an unresolved situation is described:. And now the purple dust of twilight time Steals across the meadows of my heart, High up in the sky the little stars climb, Always reminding me that we're apart. You wandered down the lane and far away, Leaving me a song that will not die, Love is now the star dust of yesterday, The music of the years gone by.

Those eight lines complete the verse. It is then followed by the refrain, in this case consisting of two choruses. They contain the familiar melody and lyrics that people everywhere recall, and the situation presented in the above verse reaches a resolution.

The melody haunts my reverie, And I am once again with you, When our love was new, And each kiss an inspiration, Ah, but that was long ago: Now my consolation Is in the star dust of a song. Chorus 2: Beside a garden wall, When stars are bright, You are in my arms, The nightingale tells his fairy tale Of paradise, where roses grew. At the completion of the second chorus "The memory of love's refrain"many recorded versions of the song then instrumentally repeat the music of the choruses, and this repetition serves as the coda, the summation of what has gone before.

As to the age-old question, "Which came first, words or music? For "Star Dust," when Hoagy Carmichael first composed the melody inhe cre- ated a slightly up-tempo piece that contained no lyrics.

A modest success at best, this original version certainly cannot be thought a standard. Inlyri- cist Mitchell Parish slowed down the tempo of Carmichael's tune and con- tributed the now-famous words, making it into a contemplative love song. Only then did "Star Dust" start its climb toward immortality as a great Amer- ican standard.

The creative process thus varies among individuals and writing teams. For example, when working on a production for stage or screen, a playwright or a director will have an idea or a concept.

He or she might ask a composer to score some "sad" or "happy," "inspirational," etc. If the songs in- clude vocal components, a lyricist then fits appropriate words to them.

On the other hand, a lyricist may have some lines that need music to ac- company them. In that case, the writing of the music follows the words. Oc- casionallyIrving Berlin or Cole Porter, for examplethe same person handles the two tasks. No definitive answer can be given, but for the s there existed no shortage of either inspired music or equally inspired words. In popular American song, therefore, lyricist and composer stand as co- equal. But whether one creator or two, the abundance of enduring songs during the decade serves as a tes- tament to the musical richness of the Joe Turner And Orchestra* - Jumpin At The Jubilee / Lonely World (Shellac).

Economic ups and downs color the history of American music in the early decades of the twentieth century. Popular songs usually came from one of four sources: the theater i.

This last term identifies a geographical sec- tion of New York City where composers, lyricists, arrangers, and song plug- gers people trying to sell a particular song or an idea for one; see Chapter 3 for more on this profession congregated and interacted with various music publishers. Geographically, the "alley" signified Manhattan's Twenty-eighth Street, the section between Fifth Avenue and Broadway.

As these people min- gled, often in tiny offices equipped with no more than a desk, a couple of chairs, and an upright piano, a body of popular music developedindeed Joe Turner And Orchestra* - Jumpin At The Jubilee / Lonely World (Shellac) well. In the Roaring Twenties, the hopes of independent composers and lyricists had never been higher; the decade witnessed the greatest number of popular songs published in history.

But sheer numbers of songs do not guarantee hits, and this volume of music failed or survived not just on the whims of popular taste, but also on the effectiveness of distribution. As a rule, the prod- ucts of Tin Pan Alley seldom enjoyed movie or stage performances, but re- lied instead on a direct connection with consumers for their success. These songs usually went straight into sheet music and recordings. If stores lacked sufficient copies, either printed or recorded, people would turn to something else.

Keeping local outlets stocked with all the latest numbers could deter- mine a tune's fate, not just public taste. As those in the business knewor quickly learnedthe public displayed little patience, and would turn to other music if it could not purchase a specific song.

Among those who labored in Tin Pan Alley, a widely held belief said that pop- ular taste determined a hit; the public exercised free will and the merits of a piece of music decided its success or failure. In the s, however, this some- what naive point of view underwent considerable revision, and radio in par- ticular forced the reevaluation: well over 40 percent of American homes had receivers by and the percentage kept growing.

On the other hand, sheet music and recordings cost money at the time of purchase. Because cash was scarce and had to be allocated to meet needs, people faced a heightened awareness about expenses. After the traditional food, clothing, and shelter, buying music, either printed or recorded, might be thought a luxury few fam- ilies could afford.

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