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Jun 26 2023
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Alfie Evans: Everything in a Day’s Work

Alfie Evans appears in personnel listings with popular dance bands and next to several jazz legends. He didn’t change the course of music, but a little research shows he enjoyed a long musical career while earning kudos from colleagues and collecting some fascinating anecdotes. I hope you enjoy reading about him as much as I enjoyed learning about him.

Musical Roots

Alfred Lewis Evans was born on June 20, 1904, in the Pennsylvania borough of Olyphant. That middle name came from his Welsh-born father, who named his son after a late brother who had died in the Scranton mines.

Music was likely an important part of young Alfred’s life from the start. His father was the pianist for Olyphant Baptist Church and Scranton’s Strand Theatre. After moving to White Plains, New York, later in his life, the elder Evans continued playing with radio orchestras until his death at the age of 80.

Evans’s father also played trumpet while leading his own bands. As a Bucknell University student, arranger Bill Challis recalls Alfred playing “hot violin” with his father’s group as early as 1922. He was already going by “Alfie.” At some point, Evans met fellow Pennsylvanian and future swing star Jimmy Dorsey. He likely also met Jimmy’s trombonist younger brother, Tommy.

A childhood friend of the Dorseys remembered Alfie as a “violinist who switched to sax and clarinet after just three weeks of training with [Jimmy].” That was more than enough training. By the start of 1923, Evans was playing saxophone with the Saxons Society Orchestra. This elitely-named band also played hot dance numbers like “Chicago,” “Lovin’ Sam,” and “Toot Toot Tootsie.” By the start of the following year, Evans seems to have relocated to New York City. He may have moved there with his family; his marriage certificate indicates his parents were living in the city by 1926.

The Scranton Times on January 27, 1923. The center panel shows the Saxons Society Orchestra with Alfie Evans seated second (?) from the left.

A photo from this period shows Evans with the Scranton Sirens when Billy Lustig led the group as “Billy Lustig and His Sirens Orchestra.” In an informative piece about guitarist Eddie Lang, researcher and audio engineer Nick Dellow notes that this “local band through which many dance band and jazz luminaries passed” played the Beaux Arts Café Atlantic City, New Jersey, for two weeks starting on New Year’s Day of 1924. Banjoist Jack Bland recalled Evans, both Dorsey brothers, Lang, and Morgan with the Sirens at that venue. Alfie was barely older than 20 and already keeping impressive musical company!

Billy Lustig and His [Scranton] Sirens Orchestra. Alfie Evans is second from the right. Photo from Russ Morgan’s collection and shared by Josh Duffee on The Bixography Discussion Group.

After the Beaux Arts gig, the Sirens embarked on a series of one-nighters, but it’s unclear whether Evans went on the road with them or stayed in the area. He joined Dinty Moore’s orchestra at the Hunter Island Inn in Pelham, New York, around May 1924. Variety reported this band playing “regulation jass [sic] stuff and selections from comic operas…[and] a cycle of Victor Herbert works.” Moore featured all his band members—“especially” Evans—as soloists. The magazine also mentioned Evans having played under Herbert, an esteemed conductor and composer.

Dance Bands

In a letter to historian Stephen Hester, tuba player Joe Tarto said Evans played clarinet and alto sax with Sam Lanin at the Roseland Ballroom in 1924. Biographies of Bix Beiderbecke also mention that Evans and cornetist Red Nichols were living in a hotel while playing with Lanin. Beiderbecke soon moved in when the Wolverines band came to New York.

Evans shared some unique views about his roommates in a letter to Beiderbecke biographer Phil Evans (no relation):

Red had all of the Bix recordings that were available, and he would play them over and over and again over. So, I knew Bix’s work very well before I met him…Red played most of Bix’s choruses on RCA Victor with George Olsen’s band…I found that Bix had ideas that were six years ahead of his ability to play them. He had a range of maybe a tenth, not much tone, but he could do wonderful things with his limited technique…[Bix] and I would sit up until the wee hours trying to wear out my new recording of Petrushka. Bix would sit there and drool over some of Stravinsky’s chords.

“Not much tone” will likely surprise many Beiderbecke fans (and the writer doesn’t know George Olsen’s records well enough to say who’s playing what on them). Evans sure had definite tastes and expectations in music!

But when did he join Lanin in 1924? A Billboard article from May 10, 1924, lists Lanin’s reed section as Larry Abbott, Maurice Dickson, and Merle Johnston. By October, Variety was reporting that “Lanin’s sax section—Clarence Heidke, Al Evans, and George Slater—are a crack trio for harmonies and rhythms.” That’s the same section listed in Tarto’s letter.

Johnson and Shirley’s American Dance Bands on Record and Film (ABDRF) lists Evans on a December 26, 1924, session with a Lanin group recording as Bailey’s Lucky Seven. That seems to be Evans’s first recording date, inaugurating a lengthy recording career. Tom Lord’s online Jazz Discography lists “Alfie Evans” and “Alfred Evans” on nearly 200 sessions. ABDRF shows 40 index entries, with many spanning multiple pages. That doesn’t count recordings outside the sometimes arbitrary labels of “jazz” and “dance music.”

Ironically, despite Evans’s extensive discography, it’s difficult to identify him as a soloist or in ensembles for most of his career (at least for this writer’s ears). Part of the issue is pinning down Evans’s “voice” on any of the instruments that multiple discographies assign him through all those personnel listings. Following that period’s sax section conventions, Evans often appears alongside at least two other reed players. Those players often doubled various permutations of reeds: clarinet and sometimes bass clarinet; soprano, alto, and/or baritone saxophones; and a decent amount of flute, oboe, and other orchestral reeds.

Doubling may be expected of professional musicians. Just being able to meet that expectation is impressive. Evans seems to have exceeded that professional standard for decades. His skill and versatility allowed him to not just survive but thrive for his entire career.

That still doesn’t help locate him on records. Discographies show Evans as the sole reed on two sessions with The Red Heads waxed for Pathe Actuelle on February 4 and April 7, 1926. Discographies are not perfect. Their sources aren’t always clear. Evans might not be on these sessions, but they might be the best opportunities to isolate his sound.

In the ensemble on “Poor Papa,” the clarinetist plays in syncopated accents between the cornet’s lead and the trombone’s counterpoint. It’s a different approach than the tumbling arpeggios and heavily inflected lines of some other players. In solos, the clarinet has a medium-bright tone with a slight sandiness in the mild register.

On alto for “‘Taint Cold” and “Hi-Diddle-Diddle,” the player crafts lines in stepwise phrases and short intervals. He displays a neutral tone and light vibrato that (to the writer) sound different from the lead/solo alto(s) on Lanin’s recordings at the time.

Evans continued to record with Lanin throughout the twenties. But his regular day job shifted. He moved between multiple groups filled with top musicians who had the skill and versatility to play hot dance music, complex arrangements, and the range of material required to be a successful working band—yet another indicator of Evans’s talent and hustle.

After joining Ray Miller’s band at the Arcadia Ballroom for the 1924 winter season, Evans may have spent time with Roger Wolfe Kahn in 1925 before officially joining him the following year. George Van Eps remembered Evans as part of the Kahn band—along with Vic Berton, Lang, and Joe Venuti—at Manhattan’s Pennsylvania Hotel during an instrument makers’ expo. By the summer of 1925, Evans was with Ross Gorman’s pit orchestra for Earl Carroll’s Vanities show as well as broadcasts on the radio and records made for Columbia. In addition to their multi-reed virtuoso leader, Gorman’s sidemen also included Tony Colucci, Miff Mole, and Nichols. Evans was still with Gorman through at least November.

Ross Gorman’s Vanities Orchestra. Image from Record Research 34, April 1961, and retrieved from archive.org.

Beside legitimate nightclubs and ballrooms, Evans also played the circuit of after-hours mob-run speakeasies. For many musicians of the time, working with organized crime figures was just part of the job. Evans seemed to enjoy a courteous, professional relationship with these gangster businessmen. He shared one story with his son and grandson highlighting this curious dynamic and Evans’s shrewdness in tough situations.

Over dinner with one venue’s management, Evans happened to admire a Cadillac driving by outside. Two days later, that Cadillac was parked on the lawn at his Long Island home. It wasn’t just the same model; it was (somehow) the exact same car. Evans thanked his employers but politely explained that he could not accept such a gift. He knew that accepting it would mean being indebted to the wrong people. Evans was extra cautious after hearing about a singer who ended up with maimed vocal cords after quitting a venue. He had to play for some dangerous people to make a living but diplomatically avoided any involvement outside professional music.

Evans recalled mostly playing alto sax at these jobs, which could last into the earliest hours of the morning. Unlike some of his fellow musicians, he skipped any alcohol-fueled carousing after the gigs. Evans’s son remembers his childhood home as a popular dinner spot for musicians and an occasional stopover when they were exhausted or hungover. One morning, as a little boy, he walked down the stairs to find Tommy Dorsey snoring on the family couch and sleeping off the night’s festivities!

By the start of 1926, Evans had replaced Dick Johnson in Roger Wolfe Kahn’s band at the leader’s Peroquet de Paris club on West 57th Street. The Kahn band was another group of all-stars that included Vic Berton, Arnold Brilhart, Tony Colucci, Tommy Gott, Lang, Leo McConville, Arthur Schutt, and Venuti.

Roger Wolfe Kahn’s band. Photo from Record Research 34, April 1961, and retrieved from archive.org.

He also accompanied his friend Rudy Wiedoeft in a saxophone ensemble concert at Aeolian Hall on April 17, 1926. Evans said that Wiedoeft saw working as a sideman as beneath him—which Evans thought was for the best because he considered Wiedoeft a poor section player!

From the program of Rudy Wiedoeft’s Saxophone Ensemble concert at Aeolian Hall on April 17, 1926. Evans is listed with the first name “Alford” (that is partially cut off above). Image from Saxophones in Early Jazz by Karl Koenig.

 A few weeks later, on June 7, 1926, Evans married his high school sweetheart, Myrtle Sullivan. They would have two children together: Alfred Jr., who went on to become a successful attorney, and Marjorie, a devoted worker in John F. Kennedy’s presidential campaign.

Evans continued recording with Kahn and recording with Lanin groups like the Broadway Bellhops and Ipana Troubadours through 1928. Red Nichols told Record Research writer John Steinert that Evans played alto in the ensemble on the cornetist’s dates for Edison as Red and Miff’s Stompers, but there are no solo, obbligato, or lead choruses to identify him. Evans may also be on records by Frank Farrell’s augmented recording band. After that, he recorded with the Dorsey Brothers, large orchestral bands led by Red Nichols on Brunswick, and some of Joe Venuti’s hot big band sessions as “The New Yorkers.”

Radio Career

Evans had plenty of work. Yet the birth of his first child in August of 1928 may have inspired him to seek more regular hours, company benefits, and other advantages of full-time employment while still doing what he loved.

At the time, the growth of radio networks opened up huge opportunities for musicians even as it hurt record sales and, to some extent, live performance. A radio gave listeners unlimited access to a variety of music without having to spend money on a 78 or a cover charge. Radio even managed to grow after the stock market crashed. Evans must have observed these trends and watched fellow musicians make the transition. With his ability, experience, and connections, it would have been easy for the new “Alfred Evans Sr.” to find work as a radio staff musician at a major network.

It’s unclear exactly when Evans started work as an NBC radio staff musician. He seems to have been in place by early October 1929 (if not sooner). If that was the case, his timing was impeccable. The stock market crash on October 24 signaled the end of the roaring twenties and the start of the Great Depression.

An article in the Jersey Journal dated October 11, 1929, paints a picture of Evans right at home in the NBC studio a few weeks before the financial collapse:

[Evans] works in a chromatic run that’s a ‘wow…’ Alfie Evans is the ‘sweet alto sax.’ But he too is wandering all over the studio tooting a clarinet into corners, through an old hat, anything to make it sound different. ‘Hey! Philly [i.e., Phil Napoleon] ’ yells Miff [Mole]. ‘Front and center! Let’s try this over with Alfie…’ Alfie warbles furiously on the clarinet, making it talk bass.

Evans could play sweet or hot as the occasion demanded. But jazz was just one element of the job description for a staff musician. Louis Reid reported on the day-to-day for these players: 

The staff musicians of the broadcasters, craftsmen trained to play with a symphony orchestra one hour and with a jazz band the next, don’t get their names in the papers often nor are their names familiar to ear cuppers. Yet they occupy an important position in the radio scheme of things. Without them, the day’s run of programs would be a bleak affair. Approximately 1,000 musicians play every month in the studios of [NBC]. The staff musicians, however, are a smaller group. At present [around September of 1930], there are 75 men who report every day and who are the company’s musical backbone…These men must be versatile. They must be able to respond to the dynamic urge of Cesare Sodero when he is conducting opera, to the rhythmic baton of Hugo Mariani when the tangos of the Argentine are punctuating the ether, and to the feverish beats of William Daley when a jazz program is on the air…New conductors never worry them. Nor do new music scores. Whether Berlin or Beethoven stares at them from their music racks, it is all in a day’s work.

For Evans, the day’s work often put him front and center. Frank Kelly mentioned Evans as the “principal lead alto sax” on the NBC staff—a prominent role and crucial element in shaping an ensemble’s sound. He also played under the legendary conductor Arturo Toscanini in the NBC Symphony Orchestra (likely on clarinet, oboe, or other orchestral reeds); with esteemed violinist David Rubinoff for the popular Chase and Sanborn Hour; and with Murray Kellner on the Let’s Dance show in 1935.

The “Kel Murray” society orchestra and Xavier Cugat’s Latin group alternated with Benny Goodman’s increasingly popular swing band. Kellner likely provided the more sedate musical offerings on Let’s Dance. But he led an army of generals with the likes of Arnold Brilhart, Hymie Farberman, Manny Klein, Sammy Lewis, Charlie Margulis, Arthur Schutt, and concertmaster Louis Raderman. Evans was also a featured soloist playing saxophone compositions by Wiedoeft and Andy Sannella and a marquee accompanist for singers such as Chick Bullock, The Bonnie Laddies, and Smalley and Robertson.

Radio work could pay far more than union scale. Even during the leanest years of the Great Depression, Evans did quite well for himself. He provided for a growing family in his home on Long Island Sound. He picked up sailing after purchasing a boat. And he supported several relatives outside his immediate family amidst the country’s economic hardships.

Evans watched several musicians in his circle move from sideman to star soloist to bandleader. But he was happy in his role. Evans’s grandson recalls his grandfather mentioning a professional “fork in the road” he simply didn’t want to take. Maybe he saw some of his colleagues’ sacrifices to become “really big.” Perhaps the work/life balance was just right for him as is.

With a newborn in the house and during a depression, the regular paycheck and steady hours were probably blessings. And set hours suited Evans’s demeanor. Alfred Jr. remembers his father as a homebody and family man. He loved his job as a musician but also enjoyed coming home to spend time with his wife and their children.

In that regard, Evans resembled one of his musical idols: Frank Trumbauer, another saxophonist who preferred being home with his family to partying after the gig. Ruth Shaffner Sweeney, Bix Beiderbecke’s girlfriend, said Trumbauer “never cared much about going out after hours. When Bix, Pee Wee [Russell], and the other members of the [Jean Goldkette] band went out with my sisters and me, Frank would always go home. He had an adorable wife and little son, and he was a homebody type.” Swap out a few names, and this may be an accurate description of Evans.

In a letter to Beiderbecke biographer Phil Evans (no relation), Alfie Evans expressed earnest admiration for Trumbauer:

I fell in love with his work long before I ever met him. Sax men, in the early days, spent much time and effort trying to develop a tone that didn’t sound like a buzz saw going through a pine knot…along came ‘Tram,’ with his easy, flowing way of playing a tune full of interesting little turns, etc. without destroying the tune.

Even among the incredibly talented but often anonymous pool of studio musicians, Evans collected his own admirers. When listing radio musicians who exemplified the skills he described, Louis Reid put Evans at the top of his list. In a 1930 retrospective of Ross Gorman and his alumni, columnist Graham McNamee mentioned Evans as “one of the best radio saxophonists” at the time. In his Tune Time magazine column, violinist Jack Harris described Evans as “one of the most valuable men in the dance world today. He plays a hot fiddle almost as well as Venuti, and his clarinet and saxophone work is simply astounding.”

Orchestral saxophonist and teacher Larry Teal called Evans, Arnold Brilhart, and Merle Johnston “the top section in New York.” An ad for Conrad reeds lists Evans as one of the “prominent reed players” endorsing their products along with Arnold Brilhart, Chester Hazlett, and Artie Shaw. In 1940, among the likes of Louis Armstrong, Harry James, Ziggy Elman, Jack Teagarden, Miff Mole, and Mannie Klein, Evans also contributed his expertise to a volume on The Answer to Wind-Instrument Playing Problems published by M. Grupp Studios.

Evans also acquired some celebrity status among his son’s schoolmates. On a class field trip to Manhattan to watch the NBC orchestra, Evans greeted his son after the performance. A dumbfounded Junior watched his classmates gather around his father for an autograph!

Some of Junior’s school friends may have recognized his dad from the big screen. As a member of Henry Levine’s band on NBC’s Chamber Music Society of Lower Basin Street program, Evans was audible and visible in numerous “Soundies.” In addition to these short music videos played on jukebox screens and movie theaters during the forties, the group broadcast nationwide and made records for Victor.

Music critic Scott Yanow describes the show as “a satire of classical music broadcasts where the announcer could often be stuffy, excessively high-brow, and a little too intellectual for his own good…the show had all of the musicians being introduced as either Professor, Dr., or Maestro [and] mixed together humorous commentary and occasional comedy acts with excellent music.”

The Lower Basin Street band exudes an easygoing swing and bright dynamic with obvious warmth and humor. Nick Dellow interviewed its leader, Henry “Hot Lips” Levine, and summarizes the trumpeter’s legacy and ability:

Levine was a veteran jazz and dance band musician who had briefly played with the Original Dixieland Jazz Band in the early 1920s, subsequently becoming established as a reliable sideman who could turn out respectable hot solos when required. He was part of the close-knit coterie of studio dance band musicians in New York, often “subbing” for Red Nichols when Red was too busy to fulfill studio dates. Evans undoubtedly knew Levine in the 1920s.

Chamber Music Society broadcasts often featured a famous guest musician like Sidney Bechet, Benny Carter, or Jelly Roll Morton. Evans was just one of the crack musicians in the group playing with these greats. He also played reeds in Paul Laval’s jazz-oriented woodwind ensembles on NBC.

Paul Laval and His Woodwindy Ten in 1941. Photo by NBCU Photo Bank/NBCUniversal via Getty Images. Evans is second from the left.

The four horns of Levine’s octet often combined for “orchestrated Dixieland,” trombonist and historian David Sager’s term for a voicing with “the first available harmony line [usually taken by the trombone] below the cornet lead, while the clarinet [takes] the first available harmony above the lead.” Rudolph Adler’s tenor sax added a fourth voice to the typical front line of trumpet, trombone, and clarinet, which added body to this exceptionally bright harmonic stack. Playing as a harmonized section also provided textural contrast to solos and collectively-improvised ensembles.

Picking out solos in this ensemble-based style is an anachronistic approach. But these are the best recordings to hear Evans. Highlights include him having a ball playing obbligato behind Linda Keene’s vocal on “When My Sugar Walks Down the Street” and his long lines in “Ja-Da.” “Georgia On My Mind” is just Evans and piano god Art Tatum over the rhythm section.

Retirement

It’s unclear exactly when Evans left radio work and, seemingly, full-time professional performance. He was still working in that capacity by 1950 but was running a music store by 1960. The NBC Symphony Orchestra stopped broadcasting after 1954, so perhaps that was his cue. After leaving NBC, he taught lessons at his White Plains store and a studio on 44th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues.

An advertisement in Woodwind magazine humbly states, “Alfie Evans, radio and recording artist now accepting students on saxophone and clarinet.” He didn’t need to say much more than that. Saxophonist Ray Beckenstein explained that, when he was seeking a teacher after joining Bobby Sherwood’s band, “The saxophone teachers in New York [around the early forties] were Merle Johnson, Alfie Evans, Henry Lindeman, and Joe Allard. Those were the people that everybody went to, to study saxophone.”

By 1970, Evans had retired and moved to Florida. His grandson remembers visiting him in an age-restricted community in Deerfield Beach, near Boca Raton. He never saw his grandfather pick up an instrument, but he recalls a keen interest in photography and plenty of high-end equipment. When a representative from the Polaroid company demonstrated their product to potential investors, Evans declined because he thought the photos were of inferior quality. He looked at the photos as a connoisseur (not a consumer) and was just as discerning of photography as music. Evans was also an amateur meteorologist. “Grandpa” kept huge maps with multicolored pins plotting hurricane trajectories. Golf was another favorite pastime.

Evans’s activities in his senior years, and their apparent distance from anything musical, point to someone who had truly retired from music. He might have viewed music as a job he loved, but a job nonetheless, and one he was ready to move on from. He may have wanted to use his time to explore other interests. Maybe he still played music on his own terms, without an audience, and purely as a form of expression and a craft all to himself. Following complications from a fall, he passed away in 1991 at the age of 87. His wife of over 65 years died soon after.

More Than Jazz

“Sidemen, section players, studio guys”: whatever else we call these incredible talents, discographies are full of musicians who doubled multiple instruments but rarely soloed on them. Their contributions are now often viewed through a jazz lens. Nowadays, that usually means a laser focus on soloists, improvisation, and contemporary ideas about what counts as “Jazz.”

Widening the lens, Evans becomes more than a guy in a section or a name in a discography. He remains someone who, by working hard at his musical craft, played a unique role in American music. Sustaining a lifelong career by expertly playing several instruments well enough to perform with the company Evans kept is remarkable. That would be the case if he never improvised a single note. May we all be fortunate enough to have such talent and passion (that can also pay our bills).

Appreciation

Many thanks to Alfie Evans’s grandson for graciously speaking to the writer and sharing information about his grandfather and his father. Thanks also to Nick Dellow for reading through this article and providing suggestions.

Sources

In addition to the articles and books below, ancestry.com provided several census, death, marriage, and military records as well as ship passenger lists and other documents. Many sources were retrieved online through archive.org, The Bixography Discussion Group, and newspapers.com.

  • “200 at Clique Club Dance in North Jamaica” in The Daily Star of Long Island City, Queens, on December 13, 1932
  • “A Thumbnail Sketch of Frank Farrell’s Career” by Woody Backensto in Record Research 65
  • “As I Knew Eddie Lang” by Jack Bland in The Jazz Record
  • “Band and Orchestra Reviews” in Variety on August 27, 1924, and October 8, 1924
  • “Bill Challis” in Jazz Gentry by Warren Vache
  • “Concert Bureau to Present All-Star Program Tonight” in Elmira Star-Gazette on December 7, 1928
  • “Eddie Lang: The Formative Years, 1902–1925” by Nick Dellow in VJM 167
  • “I Remember…” by Jack Harris in Tune Times of January 1934
  • “Lewis Evans, Musician, Dies” in The Tribune of Scranton on July 19, 1960
  • “On the Radio Last Night” in Brooklyn Daily Eagle of March 20, 1928
  • “Psychology Not of Jazz But of Jazz Musicians” in Jersey Journal of Jersey City on October 11, 1929, via Ralph Wondrascheck on The Bixography Discussion Group
  • “Ray Beckenstein” by David J. Gibson in Saxophone Journal, volume 12 (1987).
  • “Saxophone Sense” by Frank G. Chase in International Musician of March 1942
  • “Symphony and Swing Can Be Mixed” in Down Beat of December 1937
  • “The Voice of the Anthracite is Heard in Splendid Concert” in The Times-Tribune of Scranton on January 27, 1923
  • “Two of a Kind” in International Musician of September 1940
  • “Variety Of Music And Church Services Are Weekend Air Features” in Rochester Times-Union on May 26, 1928
  • “Washington’s Birthday to Be Commemorated on Radio Today” in Rochester Democrat and Chronicle of February 22, 1929
  • “Where Are They Now” in Frank Kelly’s “Reminiscing in Tempo” column from Record Research 109, February 1971
  • Ad for Conrad reeds in The International Musician of November 1938
  • Ad in Variety on November 4, 1925
  • American Dance Bands on Record and Film by Johnson and Shirley
  • Announcement in Orchestra World of January 1926 cited by Albert Haim on Bixography forum
  • Article about staff musicians in Louis Reid’s “The Loud Speaker” column in Syracuse Journal of September 13, 1930, cited by Albert Haim on The Bixography Discussion Group and available on Tom Tryniski’s Old Fulton NY Post Cards website
  • Billboard on May 10, 1924, cited in ABDRF
  • Bix: The Leon Bix Beiderbecke Story by Phil Evans cited by Albert Haim in The Bixography Discussion Group
  • Buffalo Evening News of July 3, 1930
  • Evans in “More About Fud” by Richard DuPage in Record Research 25
  • George Van Eps quoted in Lost Chords by Richard Sudhalter
  • Internet message with Nick Dellow
  • Jazz and Ragtime Records, 6th, ed., by Brian Rust
  • Jimmy Dorsey: A Study in Contrasts by Robert L. Stockdale
  • Letter from Evans to Phil Evans from the Richardson-Sloane Special Collections Center of the Davenport Public Library
  • Liner notes to The Complete Wolverines 1924–1928 (Archeophone (RCH OTR-03) by David Sager
  • Alfred Evans Jr.’s obituary in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution on May 2, 2009
  • Phone conversation with Alfred Evans III
  • Profile of James Crossan as a teacher in an ad for the Lopez Music House in Allentown Morning Call on April 22, 1937,
  • Profile of Ross Gorman in “Graham McNamee Speaking” column in The Sunday Star of Washington, DC, on November 2, 1930
  • Radio listings in Hartford Courant of April 25, 1930
  • Richard DuPage’s article “Miff Mole: First Trailblazer of Modern Jazz Trombone” in Record Research 34 of April 1961.
  • Rochester Times-Union of May 7, 1928
  • Rubinoff’s Chase-Sanborn Orchestra recording of “The Betty Boop Song” per Marc F. on Facebook.
  • Saxophones in Early Jazz by Karl Koenig
  • The American Dance Band Discography, 1917–1942 by Brian Rust
  • The Jazz Discography online, ed. Tom Lord
  • The World-News of March 8, 1929
  • Interview with Larry Teal on July 30, 1983, cited by Harry R. Gee in Saxophone Soloists and Their Music: An Annotated Bibliography
  • Tram: The Frank Trumbauer Story by Phil Evans
  • Variety of July 22, 1925, as cited in Richard DuPage’s article “Miff Mole: First Trailblazer of Modern Jazz Trombone” in Record Research of April 1961
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Jun 11 2023
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The Original Memphis Five: Some Ideas About Their Music and Importance

Here’s a modified draft of liner notes I submitted some time ago for a reissue of the Original Memphis Five’s recordings. This essay is longer and more subjective in tone than I now aim for in my writing, but I know a few readers also enjoy their music, so I decided to share the draft in case anyone might want some thoughts on this band. You can also skip my verbiage and head straight for a lot of great music (though many of the recordings listed here were unavailable online)!

from Zefren Anderson at YouTube

Historical information below is from Ralph Wondraschek’s landmark, incredibly thorough research into the OM5, which he published in multiple parts for VJM.

How many orchestral combinations, ten times the size of this quintette of exceptionally capable musicians, can boast that they are making records for eleven different concerns, and are scheduled for weekly appearances in three different dance palaces?
—The Metronome Orchestra Monthly, December 1922

In their heyday, the Original Memphis Five (OM5) made hundreds of records and earned plenty of press coverage. And they’ve enjoyed a decent number of reissues on LP and CD. Yet even with an extensive historical and discographical legacy, it seems like early jazz specialists and hot music aficionados are the only listeners interested in this band.

Musicologist Gunther Schuller devotes one brief (and far from complimentary) paragraph to the OM5 in his landmark analysis Early Jazz. Richard Sudhalter’s Lost Chords gives the group considered musical appraisal (rather than measuring it against more well-known contemporaries). Liner notes by Mark Berresford and Hans Eekhoff for OM5 compilations on the Frog, Retrieval, and Timeless labels also give the OM5 its creative as well as historical due. And several articles in periodicals for record collectors and jazz aficionados do the same. The OM5 also gets plenty of attention on various online social media boards aimed at such specialists.

Still, Smithsonian anthologies and PBS documentaries don’t bother with the band. Most jazz history textbooks omit the OM5. It’s safe to assume many university jazz courses do the same. Miff Mole gets an occasional mention for the influence of his groundbreaking trombone technique, but typically in passing before the story moves on to Jack Teagarden.

Works of jazz history only have so much room, so they tend to include what the authors deem “historic” but not necessarily all of music history. Jazz blogger Michael Steinman analogizes a Biblical progression along the lines of “Oliver begat Armstrong, who begat Roy Eldridge, who begat Dizzy Gillespie, etc.” This approach generates a tidy sequence that explains the music familiar to most listeners today. Yet it offers a narrow picture of the music as it was performed and experienced in its time. Learners are left with an endless history of the avant-garde that emphasizes innovation above all else.

Bands like the OM5 get overshadowed in a form of jazz history that only catalogs the key musicians and events that took the music to new levels. These narratives—overtly or by omission—sometimes relegate the OM5’s music to a well-crafted dance artifact of its time, perhaps beyond reproach but not groundbreaking enough to make it into jazz hagiography. But, as Sudhalter notes, “no band was more universally popular [and] admired on musical grounds” in the early 20s than the OM5. They must have done something special.

The Price of Being Prodigious

Even the most vehement OM5 detractor has to admire the sheer consistency of energy and polish across the OM5’s many recordings. It’s hard to hear the group having a bad day, missing notes, playing sloppily, or performing with anything less than total commitment.

Yet craftsmanship that impresses audiences or even fellow artists doesn’t always win over music historians. Comments along the lines of “X is no Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker, Mozart, etc.” make for convenient critical copy: superficially discriminating, self-pleasingly flip, versatile enough to use in academic articles or conversation at cocktail parties, and still saying little about either the idol or the supposed also-ran.

The sheer size of the OM5’s discography makes assessment difficult. For some, it even makes the group’s creative credentials suspect. In his liner notes for Retrieval’s reissue CD of the OM5’s complete instrumental sides recorded for the Pathe label (RTR 79044), Mark Berresford points to the unfortunate and unfair dismissal of the OM5 as “slick manipulators of a jaundiced, racist recording industry system, churning out a production line of anemic, soulless records.” The suggestion that this band actually introduced a unique musical style that set it apart from predecessors and contemporaries rarely enters the mainstream jazz discourse.

More Than ODJB Imitators

The OM5 was one of the groups that arose in the wake of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band (ODJB)’s immense popularity during the 20s. Passing mention of these “fabulous fives” often implies they were all simply trying to seize upon the ODJB’s commercial success through outright, and at times exaggerated, imitation.

The ODJB, the OM5, and similar groups shared instrumentation of cornet/trumpet, clarinet, trombone, piano, and drums. They all played fast and furious instrumentals full of wild collective ensembles. OM5 pianist Frank Signorelli and clarinetist Jimmy Lytell even became regular members of the ODJB:  Signorelli from April 11, 1921, to February 10, 1922, and Lytell from January 14, 1922, to February 10, 1922. ODJB leader Nick LaRocca even accused Signorelli of stealing the ODJB’s arrangements.

Decades later, the OM5 is occasionally mentioned as a  transitional step between the ODJB’s more aggressive (yet nonetheless infectious) rag-a-jazz and the looser, bluesier southern and southwestern bands that began recording more often during the 20s. In academic jazz histories, when they’re even mentioned, the OM5 is portrayed as a stylistic placeholder that held people’s attention until they heard “authentic” jazz (whatever that meant at any given moment to each writer). 

More than a mere copy or variation of the ODJB, the OM5 expanded upon the ODJB’s approach with a different melodic sensibility and a more measured though still exciting ensemble interplay (and in much better sound due to advances in recording technology, specifically on the Victor and Brunswick labels). The OM5 smoothed out the ragtime-derived phrasing of the ODJB while adding a distinctly New York accent and pushy momentum that was always melodic. “Sob Sister Sadie” surges forward as though the lady can barely catch her breath, but the parts still link together naturally without sounding forced. The OM5’s unity of concept and instrumental clarity never let things spill over into excess.

Hot Lyricism

It is also much easier to pick out a tune on OM5 sides, partially because of better sound on certain labels but largely due to Phil Napoleon’s clear, confident lead. Hundreds of sides demonstrate the cornetist’s powerful but always focused drive, his perfect rhythmic placement, and his sheer beauty of tone—especially on acoustic recordings.

Paradoxically, Napoleon’s sturdy style—a clear melody that doesn’t sacrifice thematic invention or sheer drive—may have allowed later commentators to take him for granted as jazz trumpeters began playing higher and faster. But at the height of the OM5’s popularity, that style must have been advantageous for powerful record companies and music publishers eager to get the actual song heard by as many listeners as possible.

All bands recorded pop tunes, but the OM5, as Napoleon told Sudhalter, “learned them as fast as they published ‘em.” In the OM5’s hands, popular songs are both recognizable and personalized. The now well-known melody of “Everybody Loves My Baby” gets its turn as-is through Lytell’s slurring middle register before Napoleon plays squawking variations on the bridge a la Earl Oliver and Tom Morris. Napoleon’s crisp, relatively unadorned chorus of “How Come You Do Me Like You Do?” still sounds deeply personal.

The sheer frequency of OM5 sessions shows that it was meeting public demand for melody and rhythm while maintaining its own musical style. That style also jettisoned the novelty effects that were so profitable for their contemporaries. Far from Schuller’s assessment of the OM5 as being another group “seduced…away from jazz towards commercial dance or slapstick music,” the OM5’s discography has few instances of barnyard onomatopoeia, kazoo solos, and other gimmicks (and this writer makes no negative value judgments about bands using them). Resisting the fad for novelty wasn’t unique; the Georgians, for example, also avoided these effects on record. But selling so many records without novelty effects set the OM5 apart.

A Five-Piece Orchestra

As a regular gigging band and an active recording group, the OM5 developed a rapport that allowed them to develop and adhere to their musical ideas while sharpening their already impressive musicianship. It’s no small wonder the OM5 always sounds so cohesive.

The verse on “Static Strut,” played with Lytell and Napoleon in tight upper-register unison, is so flawlessly executed that it comes across as a section in a larger band with the agility of a small group.

“Cuddle Up Blues” is just one example of the group’s pinpoint dynamic contrasts.

When the band dips down in volume on “I Never Miss The Sunshine” for Brunswick, the parts remain transparent and swinging: Lytell plays counterpoint in his lower register under Napoleon’s soft muted lead while Miff Mole plays a near-whispering bass line on trombone. At a time when jazz was popularly heard as unrelentingly loud, the OM5 played with a wide dynamic range demonstrating taste as well as attention to detail.

Arrangement undoubtedly played a large part in the band’s consistently unified sound. The use of arrangement/memorization was common at the time. It wouldn’t become a death sentence for authenticity as a jazz player until writers introduced more doctrinaire definitions decades later.

Multiple versions of the hot OM5 original “Great White Way Blues” for the Arto, Banner, Brunswick, Edison, Gennett, and Pathe labels may not yield startling differences in improvisation. Still, they display crack musicianship and a sense of constant spontaneity.

The OM5’s consistent energy level throughout hundreds of sides and engagement with predetermined musical roles may even be all the more remarkable given their intense work schedule.

Regardless of the level of arrangement, the OM5’s credentials as an outright hot band and their unashamedly danceable aesthetic are clear. “Laughin’ Cryin’ Blues” struts from the outset with Napoleon’s lead and witty breaks plus drummer Jack Roth’s rims clicking away in the background. “I’ve Got A Song For Sale” shows a lighter side of the OM5, still danceable but perhaps intended for softer steps.

John Cali’s percussive banjo joins the group on the Brunswick recording of “You Tell Her, I Stutter” to create one of the OM5’s most uninhibited sides. On “‘Taint Nobody’s Biz-Ness If I Do” on Pathe and “If Your Man Is Like My Man,” the band dirties up their otherwise clean timbres, adds a deliberate drag, and inserts inflections as carefully placed musical devices rather than stock effects. On “Evil Minded Blues,” Napoleon plays double-time runs that sound similar to those of the Memphis-born, pre-Armstrong New York jazz trumpet virtuoso Johnny Dunn but with fewer blue notes. The OM5 comes across as unified, even cultivated, even on earthier material.

Authentic To Themselves

The OM5’s tight, well-crafted sound has led some commentators to fault them for a lack of visceral drive or raw emotion. Compared with New Orleans bands recording at the time—such as King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band or even Freddie Keppard’s ragtime-tinged recordings—the OM5’s phrasing sounds more even with more defined articulation and less vocally-inflected timbres. For example, it makes the OM5’s “That Da-Da Strain” seem willfully tense. The Dixieland warhorse comes at modern listeners with a motor energy that now seems to fly in the face of most New Orleans and Chicago-style renditions.

Like fellow New Yorkers such as the California Ramblers and the pre-Armstrong Fletcher Henderson orchestra, the OM5 pushed (rather than rode) the beat with sharp syncopation, adding decidedly instrumental embellishments and insisting on pinpoint note placement. Jazz teleologists are free to sketch a hierarchy of styles. On record, the music is just a different approach to jazz. And in hindsight, the OM5’s style may even be refreshingly unrelaxed. Its two-beat style on “Down By The River” has a more confident, swaggering feel next to the Henderson band’s steady four on its recording of the same tune.

OM5 members likely heard New Orleanians visiting New York City, including Freddie Keppard and Sidney Bechet at Coney Island. Phil Napoleon briefly studied with King Oliver as a young runaway in New Orleans. Trombonist Charles Panely (aka “Panelli”) had played with New Orleanians in the Louisiana Five. Miff Mole even sat in with New Orleans trumpet legend King Oliver’s band in Chicago between February 23 and March 5, 1920.

Yet Lytell, Mole, Napoleon, Panely, Roth, and pianist Frank Signorelli were all native New Yorkers. Garvin Bushell notes in his autobiography that “there wasn’t an eastern [i.e., New York, east coast, non-southern] performer who could really play the blues. We later absorbed it from the southern musicians we heard, but it wasn’t the original with us.” For the OM5, the blues and other folk musical traditions would have been incidental rather than formative. And while many New Orleans musicians trained in the outdoor New Orleans brass band tradition—a unique and popular idiom of the Crescent City—New Yorkers like the OM5 would have been more familiar with the range of theater and dance music popular in the Big Apple.

Why would five musicians sound like musicians from the South? Nearly a century later, do we still need to fault them for sounding like themselves?

Of course, musicians from all regions and communities adapt and learn from various influences. But it’s no surprise that the OM5’s rendition of “Tin Roof Blues” differs from the New Orleans Rhythm Kings (NORK)’s haunting original performance of the tune from just a few months earlier. The NORK is clearly indebted to groups such as King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band. The OM5’s recording instead plays to the band’s unique strengths: tight interplay, crisp accents, and clean, often breathlessly executed musical statements that are as affecting in their own fashion.

The Sum of Incredible Parts

Comparing Napoleon’s open, almost concert-like lead against NORK cornetist Paul Mares’s big round wail or King Oliver’s raspy, muted declarations, it’s easy to fall into stereotypes about conservatory training versus folk traditions, staid and proper northeast versus the earthy South, etc. Or we can look at mere differences of musical priorities and matters of degree when it comes to rhythm, ensemble color, thematic variation, and other musical elements.

Lytell’s clarinet parts are less incisive than the high-flying descant lines of New Orleanians such as Johnny Dodds and Jimmie Noone. His scoops and smears add a different color to the overall sound. Lytell sometimes fills in the harmony from the top instead of creating independent lines decorating over the lead, for example, on “Snake Hips.”

“Red Hot Mamma” for Emerson demonstrates Lytell’s knack for sneaking slick little asides into breaks or between the briefest pauses. For keen insights into Lytell’s musicianship, check out Phil Melick’s liner notes for Jazz Oracle’s reissue of Lytell’s complete trio recordings.

With his superlative technique, Miff Mole could incorporate the tailgate style of the New Orleans trombonists as just one role in an ensemble. On sides like “Chicago,” Mole’s elegantly swinging lines jell with the ensemble with the inevitability of polyphonic chant. His advanced technique and imagination also allow him to range under, over, and around the ensemble beyond the trombone’s traditional role in the three-person frontline, for example, on “Steppin’ Out.”

Panely’s style comes across as more pared down compared with Mole’s. He emphasizes chord tones rather than linear lines and acts as more of a ground bass. Far from being simpler, any arranger would have been proud to pen the ensemble lines Panely lays down on “No One Knows What It’s All About” and “Duck’s Quack.”

On the New York Scene

Listening to the OM5 within the context of its fellow New York City bands brings their musical style into even sharper focus. For example, just as the OM5 is compared with the ODJB, the Original Indiana Five (OI5) is often compared with the OM5. Perhaps trying to avoid sounding like an OM5 imitator, OI5 clarinetist Nick Vitalo doubled on alto saxophone—something Lytell rarely did on record. Proportionately, far more OI5 sides include a banjo. Yet the OI5 did not display the same effortless technical facility (how many bands could?) or balance of instrumental voices.

On “St. Louis Gal,” as just one example, the OM5’s parts lock in with each other and generate momentum and interest inside the ensemble. On the same tune, the OI5’s horns duplicate notes more often, playing in more of a loose heterophonic style than a polyphonic one. The OI5 rhythm section is also more of an accompaniment rather than an interactive part of the front line. As another example, pianist Harry Ford, banjoist Tony Colucci, and drummer/leader Tom Morton mark the beat more deliberately than either the OM5 or NORK on “Tin Roof Blues.”

The Georgians, Paul Specht’s band-within-a-band, were one of the more overtly jazz-oriented groups of the time. Leader and cornetist Frank Guarente was a King Oliver disciple, pianist Arthur Schutt was already translating the spontaneity of jazz into written arrangements, and drummer Chauncey Morehouse could spur and color a band with even the sparest of studio-sanctioned kits. The Georgians’ and OM5’s recordings of “You Tell Her, I Stutter” demonstrate different but equally valid hot sensibilities: the Georgians’ slightly denser instrumental sections versus the OM5’s more transparent ensembles, the OM5’s brighter edge against the Georgians’ richer voicings, Guarente inserting classically-oriented touches amidst dirty, muted lines while Napoleon plays bel canto even in his folksiest outbursts.

Coming out of Memphis and playing with blues composer WC Handy, cornetist Johnny Dunn was bound to apply more blues inflection than Napoleon. Yet overall, Dunn’s records have a more aggressive, military-influenced feel than those of the OM5. Even the OM5’s tense sound on Dunn’s “Four O’Clock Blues” comes across as more playful next to the slightly ponderous but more spacious approach by the composer’s Original Jazz Hounds. And Dunn’s group was also already incorporating a moaning sax section.

A Constant Quintet

The OM5’s loyalty to the five-person jazz band format and eschewal of the saxophone would become a stylistic hallmark (and perhaps a reason for other bands eventually outpacing it in historical hindsight). The Georgians included a sax section with players doubling other reed instruments. Fletcher Henderson was already synonymous with separate brass and sax sections, setting the stage for an orchestral concept of jazz that would change the course of jazz. Since its inception, the California Ramblers, perhaps the most popular New York band of the 20s, exploited the use of the saxophone in sections, solos, and even its rhythm section via leader and bass saxophone virtuoso Adrian Rollini. Even the Ramblers’ myriad small group spin-offs usually included one or two saxophonists alongside a cornetist rather than the standard three-person front line of trumpet, trombone, and clarinet.

As Wondraschek explains, “after the ODJB’s departure for England in March 1919, the saxophone became more and more regarded as an indispensable part of any jazz band. Nevertheless, the OM5 stuck to their instrumentation and managed to become popular without the use of a saxophone. The OM5 were the torchbearers against the then omnipresent trend of increasing the size of the jazz and dance bands.”

The OM5’s Tennessee Ten sides for Victor did include a two-sax section, and some of its Cotton Pickers sides include one saxophone. While the saxes add a contrasting texture, the core OM5 remains the most musically interesting and exciting part: Lytell’s clarinet answers the saxes on “‘Taint Nobody’s Biz-Ness If I Do” and Napoleon’s magnificent embellished lead on “I Never Miss The Sunshine” becomes all the more rhythmically interesting against the straighter saxes. The effect is so pronounced on “Waitin’ For The Evenin’ Mail” that it borders on parody. Trends aside, the five-person lineup could still give those tentets some competition.

The OM5 also proved downright ingenious within the five-person format. Their arrangements did not always rely on New Orleans-style polyphony with a cornet lead, trombone counterlines, and clarinet obbligato. Napoleon cleverly uses contrasting open and muted horn, as in “A Man Never Knows.” He sounds like two different players when he plays the bridge with a muted squawk on “Take Me.” The lead also gets passed around to other instruments, resulting in such novel effects as a brass duet on “Lovey Came Back,” call and response between the front line and the piano on “Papa Blues,” low register clarinet melody with muted trumpet obbligato on “Hot ‘N Cold” and trombone lead with the trumpet playing the melody as an obbligato underneath it on “Cuddle Up Blues.”

Like most bands on record at the time, the OM5 was primarily ensemble-based, so a full chorus of total solo improvisation radically departing from the melody was rare. Passing along the lead allowed for subtle variation, making the theme one’s own without necessarily transforming it or resorting to harmonic refashioning. In this regard, the OM5 resembled other New York-based bands such as Lem Fowler’s Washboard Wonders, emphasizing melodic embellishment rather than a complete reinvention of the tune. This ensemble variety puts the OM5 miles away from King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band, with its leader’s documented rigid division of roles and even register between instruments.

One of the OM5’s favorite musical effects was a break in collective improvisation in the middle of the record for the front line to part ways for a single horn over Signorelli’s accompaniment. Nearly all OM5 records include such a chorus, often with Napoleon keeping the lead but now using a mute for added contrast. These horn and piano choruses add further textural and timbral variety as well as another way to share the lead. They could be heard as an embryonic attempt at contrasting a soloist with the full band, an effect that would become the hallmark of swing-era big bands.

Syncopated harmonized breaks for the entire front line as on “Buzz Mirandy,” “Chicago,” “Loose Feet,” and “My Sweetie Went Away” are another favorite OM5 device that points to later section writing that aimed at sounding like a soloist. Ensemble hits on sides such as “No One Knows What It’s All About” or the harmonized patterns between the trombone lead on “Runnin’ Wild” also anticipate swing big band arrangements. The brass riffs behind Lytell’s clarinet on “I’m Going South” separate instrumental families, an essential sound in Don Redman’s pioneering big band charts.

Brief spotlights for drums also spring up with an unusual regularity for the time. “Gypsy Blues” shows the instant rise that Jack Roth’s drums provide by being strategically deployed rather than relentlessly forward in the mix. “Lonesome Mama Blues” demonstrates Roth’s emphasis on syncopated accents rather than steady beats. “Memphis Glide” shows off his variations on cymbals. Jazz age drummers have suffered the most because of technology, with what little equipment they could bring into the studio at the mercy of recording engineers.

Signorelli is now typically mentioned for playing with Bix Beiderbecke, but his work with the OM5 and frequent features with the group show why he got to play with some of the greatest names in jazz. He plays in a florid, stomping style, often simultaneously accompanying and ornamenting the other instruments. The OM5’s “Farewell Blues” comes off as the most intense version of the tune from this period. Granted, it’s faster than recordings by the New Orleans Rhythm Kings or The Georgians, but the hot factor is primarily due to Signorelli’s pumping left hand and treble fills. His accompaniment for the vocal on “That Red Head Gal” seamlessly underscores the sung melody while bursting into carefree asides. Signorelli seems to have never forgotten his ragtime roots, often relying on bright textures and crisp articulation that add a steady sense of tension and release (even as late as 1955 on an album of duets with drummer George Wettling).

Room For More

Of course, more seasoned ears may simply hear all of this music as a well-crafted artifact of its time, which itself might be enough to earn the OM5 some musical kudos. The OM5 had its own signature sound rooted in creative and impressive musicianship. Other musicians would forever change the course of jazz, but, at the very least, the OM5’s music can now be heard as a fascinating alternative, another unique sound of the historical “scene” rather than a vestigial part weeded out through some form of jazz evolution. Unlike jazz history textbooks, record shelves have room for all kinds of music.

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Jun 06 2023
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“Bill Moore: The Hot Hawaiian?” By Nick Dellow

Nick Dellow is a diligent researcher (and an audio engineering wizard), so I’m excited to share his latest project: an investigation into trumpeter Bill Moore. This article originally appeared on Mr. Dellow’s Facebook page. I asked him to share it via my blog for those who don’t use Facebook.

Dellow is (as always) assiduous and passionate, and Moore was a talented jazz musician who led a fascinating life—which Nick sheds plenty of light on! It was a pleasure to contribute some research to his piece. I know readers will learn a lot from it.

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Apr 14 2023
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Notes On Lucien S.

A profile of the Ipana Troubadours in Radio Broadcast magazine singles out just one sideman in the band. Even among musicians that leader Sam Lanin “picked from the country’s best dance and symphony orchestras,” he receives special attention:

Lucien Schmit, for instance, virtuoso cellist, was Walter Damrosch‘s first cellist for five seasons and is also an accomplished pianist and saxophone player. Schmit is a representative member of the group.

A photo of the Troubadours shows an unidentified player holding a cello with a saxophone at his feet. Section mates on either side of him hold their saxophones. But the cellist’s sax doesn’t even get a stand; it rests directly on the floor. If the reader didn’t know any better, they might assume that sax was just an occasional double.

From Radio Broadcast of September 1926 via worldradiohistory.com.

Of course, “Lucien Schmit” sounds like “Lucien Smith,” a name record collectors and hot dance aficionados likely recognize as one of the saxophonists on several recordings by Lanin and other bandleaders. It’s found next to more well-known names like Bennie Krueger, Miff Mole, Red Nichols, Harry Reser, and the Dorsey brothers in many discographies.

A 1931 radio listing makes the connection more explicit, but even the copywriter faces an identity problem with his subject:

Many performers know how to double in brass, but Lucien Smith will demonstrate the talent which permits him to triple in brass and strings. He will appear as soloist on piano, cello, and saxophone. Best known as a master of the cello, Mr. Schmit has won the praise of music critics for years…it was [conductor Eugene] Ormandy‘s idea to present him in the three phases of his artistic accomplishment.

Mistaking the saxophone as a member of the brass instrument family may be mere carelessness. But the switch between “Smith” and “Schmit” suggests which artistic phases are more or less important. Smith may play many instruments, but Schmit is the cello master earning critical praise.

In contemporary reports, saxophonist “Lucien Smith” didn’t get much attention. With just a couple of exceptions, that name is limited to discographies. For the sake of argument (and according to far more knowledgeable researchers than this writer), it’s safe to assume they were the same musician. And some cursory research shows he enjoyed a long and varied musical career spanning different instruments, repertoires, and artists.

Prodigy

Government records indicate that Lucien Alexander Schmit was born in Belgium on January 6 of either 1898 or 1899 (depending on which draft card). A New York Times obituary from July 22, 1976, fills in the blanks and notes early talent:

Lucien S. Schmit, a cellist who first performed publicly at the age of seven in Paris and who became a member of the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra at 13…came to this country in 1909. He became first cellist in the New York Symphony Orchestra in 1921 under Walter Damrosch.

Still, there’s a big issue here. And it’s not just the middle initial, which was reprinted as “S” elsewhere. The obituary omits the subject’s many recordings as a reed player with several bands. It even ignores his extensive work as a cellist on recordings with everyone from Quincy Jones to David Sanborn.

This obituary doesn’t mention any ability—let alone talent—for playing saxophone. “Lucien Smith” got left out of the obituary for “Lucien Schmit.”

Symphony Cellist

Across multiple discographies, newspaper articles, radio listings, promotional materials, and other documents, the division between names and roles is surprisingly consistent. “Lucien Smith” plays reed instruments, mainly sax, and “Lucien Schmit” is a cellist. And, based on the amount of historical documentation, the cellist received a lot more press and promotion.

Conductor Walter Damrosch’s pick for principal cello was bound to get plenty of attention. Audiences and critics respected Damrosch for his musical direction, premiering new works, and educational efforts. Damrosch’s New York Symphony was a respected institution later incorporated to form the New York Philharmonic. He remains a well-known name to this day.

This writer cannot remember the source for this image.

Aside from brand recognition, a principal cellist would probably have handled most (if not all) of the solo parts for the orchestra. Several reviews talk about “Lucien Schmit” featured in works such as Saint-Saëns’s Cello Concerto in A Minor and cello pieces by Bach and Boccherini. One New York Times critic praised Schmit as a “graceful and fluent player” in a program of contemporary classical pieces. A writer for Etude magazine, years after hearing Schmit with the Lutèce Trio, recalled that an audience of about 5,000 people “thought him the star performer” despite playing on a mediocre instrument.

Schmit played under Damrosch for five seasons. Half a decade playing to critical acclaim with a renowned orchestra under an esteemed conductor casts a large shadow. At this time, many listeners were more likely to turn their noses up (in public, anyway) to jazz and popular music. Among self-identified “respectable” circles, European art music was the accepted social currency. It was bound to get more press in mainstream publications. It also seems like Lucien Smith, the saxophonist, was rarely featured as a soloist. In short, his dance band legacy might have suffered based on cultural associations and sheer audibility.


On June 30, 1923, Lucien Schmit, cellist, recorded Rubenstein’s Melody in F (mx. 0543) and “The Swans” from Saint-Saëns Carnival of Animals (matrix number 0544). Audio of each side follows. Images and audio from Internet Archive.

Published in 1922, “Flower of Araby” was recorded by several bands but it’s unclear if Schmit himself recorded the song. Image from IMSLP.

Saxophonist

It’s unclear when he began playing saxophone with dance bands. The earliest discographical entry (that the writer could find) for “Lucien Smith,” the reed player with Lanin and others, is a February 1922 session with Bailey’s Lucky Seven for the Gennett label. Smith is listed as playing tenor sax in the probable personnel. Yet at the time, he was still the principal cello under Damrosch. It’s also hard (for this writer) to single out a distinct tenor sax voice on “My Mammy Knows” or to identify the tenor lead “On the ‘Gin, ‘Gin, ‘Ginny Shore.”

His reasons for deciding to play saxophone professionally are beyond this writer’s research or qualifications. He may have wanted to try something new. Maybe the popularity of dance bands seemed financially promising or musically challenging. It was likely some combination of practical and personal reasons. Whatever the cause, saxophonist Lucien Smith doesn’t appear on another dance band date until August 1924.

From that point, he’s on plenty of great hot dance and jazz records! Discography entries that include “Lucien Smith” read like a who’s who of hot dance/jazz bands: Nathan Glantz, Dave Kaplan, Krueger, Lanin, and Ben Selvin are just a few of the names. Tom Lord’s online jazz discography lists Schmit on 85 sessions between 1922 and 1931—and that’s just what made it into the discography as “jazz.” He likely doubled multiple saxophones and clarinet as a working dance band musician. His substantial presence with these bands indicates significant skill, versatility, and reliability.

Despite the obvious talent, the last session listing Lucien Smith on reeds appears to be August 7, 1931, with violinist Billy Artz’s band. Artz and Lucien both played in B.A. Rolfe‘s famous orchestra, where Lucien is listed as doubling clarinet, tenor sax, and cello. The two likely forged a connection there. He may also be the hot tenor sax on “There’s A Time and Place for Everything.” But at this point, maybe regularly playing tenor was unneeded or less lucrative during the Great Depression.

Radio Cellist and More

Instead, cellist “Lucien Schmit”—who happened to also play saxophone and piano—resurfaces in the press and discographies. The New York Times obituary states that “During the 1930s, he was active in radio musical programs…musical director of ‘The Royal Typewriter Hour’ and for 20 years was featured on such programs as ‘The Telephone Hour,’ the Firestone Show, the Longines Symphonette program and ‘The Prudential Family Hour.'” But that obituary is entirely framed around his work as a cellist.

Some contemporary reports of “Lucien Schmit” reference work as a saxophonist and pianist, like this April 24, 1930 radio listing in the Hartford Courant:

Lucien Schmitt [sic], the violincellist of the Melody Moments orchestra and other concert orchestras on the networks, will demonstrate his ability to triple in brass and strings…He will contribute piano, cello, and saxophone solos to the concert.

In directories for the New York American Federation of Musicians, Local 802 (generously provided by Vince Giordano), there’s only “Lucien A. Schmit” listed in the “Cello” section. Whatever else he may have played on the radio, Schmit’s primary role was always as a cellist.

Over the next few decades, in addition to radio work, his cello as well as his violin and viola are listed in studio recordings with Kenny Burrell, Perry Como, Johnny Griffin, Coleman Hawkins, Artie Shaw, and Wes Montgomery, among others. Almost inevitably, it’s “Lucien Schmit” in the string section. Grammy-wining bandleader and hot music historian Vince Giordano explains that pianist Dick Hyman recalls “Lucien” coming to sessions carrying both reed instruments and his cello.

Along the way, he and his wife raised their only child (who went on to a respected career in engineering). Lucien passed away following a stroke on July 20, 1976, in a hospital near his Manhasset, Long Island home.

Musician

Depending on the area of his considerable experience, you might end up reading two different narratives. Almost all the discographies and press clippings that mention the cellist reference Schmidt, Schmit, or Schmitt. Except for very few contemporary articles, Lucien Smith, a saxophonist, is only found in discographies (though the prolific and knowledgeable discographer Javier Soria Laso gets a lot of credit for covering all the bases by referring to “Lucien Smith/Schmitt/Schmidt”).

There may be a better or more straightforward explanation for using different names. And wider research may show that the associations between the names weren’t as cut and dried. Maybe “Smith” was a deliberate alias or just a propagated typo. But just looking at (some) writings, you might think Lucien Smith’s saxophone was a temporary side hustle compared to Lucien Schmit’s cello.

That probably says more about audiences’ and reporters’ perceptions of “serious” and “popular” music during Lucien’s lifetime. His musical career makes for a single interesting story. You’d just better know who to look for.

From the sheet music for “Tamiami Trail,” published in 1927 by Jerome H. Remick & Co. Image retrieved online from Florida International University libraries.

Sources

  • American Federation of Musicians, directories from 1937, 1943, and 1958
  • American Dance Bands on Record and Film by Johnson and Shirley
  • ARSC Journal, vol. 24, no. 1: “Georges Barrere” by Susan Nelson
  • Brunswick Records: A Discography of Recordings, 1916-1931 by Ross Laird
  • Buffalo Times on January 16, 1930
  • Daily News [New York] on April 7, 1932
  • Etude magazine on April 1922
  • Florida International University libraries
  • Hartford Courant on April 24, 1930
  • International Music Score Library Project (IMSLP)/Petrucci Music Library
  • Journal of the National Medical Association, Vol. 17, No. 4, December 8, 1925
  • Tom Lord’s Jazz Discography online
  • Music News on December 28, 1923
  • The Musical Blue Book of America for 1922
  • Nassau Daily Review on August 26, 1931
  • Nathan Glantz’ Orchestra as the Tennessee Happy Boys by Javier Soria Laso
  • National Academy of Engineering Memorials: “Lucien A. Schmit Jr., 1928-2018”
  • New York Philharmonic website
  • New York Times articles
  • Pittsburgh Press on January 22, 1928
  • Portland Press Herald on April 24, 1930
  • Radio Broadcast, September 1926
  • Recordings of Bennie Krueger’s orchestra for Brunswick and Vocalion by Javier Soria Laso
  • Rhythm on Record by Hilton R. Schleman
  • Times-Union [Albany] on April 24, 1930
  • U.S. census records
  • U.S. draft records

Appreciation

Many thanks to Vince Giordano for sharing his recollections, relevant newspaper articles, and 802 directories. Thanks also to Javier Soria Laso for his insights into the subject and meticulous discographies that first connected the names for me. Thank you, Aaron K., for your fine edits. And thanks to “P.C.” on Facebook.

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Dec 08 2022
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Fosdicksiana

Vintage Jazz Mart magazine was kind enough to publish an article I wrote about Gene and Dudley Fosdick. Researching their rich, varied lives and careers was fascinating. If you’re interested, visit vjm.biz for instructions on how to get a copy of the autumn 2022 issue. It’s a long piece, but I hope you enjoy reading about these musician brothers.

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Sep 02 2022
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Dud, Fud, and Perfectionism

I hope anyone still reading this blog is doing well. I wanted to share this recollection (that I found interesting) here in case you had not seen it elsewhere.

Dudley Fosdick recalls arranger and reed player Fud Livingston, as quoted in George W. Kay’s profile of Fosdick in The Indianapolis Jazz Club’s winter 1964 issue of Jazz Notes (which originally appeared in the July 1958 issue of Jazz Journal of London):

In case the image does not come through, here is a transcript:

“I remember [Livingston’s] ‘Avalon’ chorus, which was terrific in conception but in execution was a disappointment to him. It was a few days before we were scheduled to record at Brunswick that Fud, Miff [Mole] and I wrote the arrangement—it was the tune that Fud chose to showcase his ‘great work of art,’ the Fud Livingston chorus that future generations would rave over in awestruck reverence. To assure absolute command of every note of his solo, Fud wrote down the entire clarinet passage and memorized it note for note by rote method. At the studio, we tacked [sic] ‘Avalon’ with all the precision of a typical well-drilled [Red] Nichols unit. The ensemble work in the first chorus clicked smoothly. Then ‘fidgety’ Fud took off on his stratosphere flight, in complete command of the situation as he sped along the path of his memorized solo. Midway through his chorus, things began to happen. Conception began to forge ahead of execution. Soon Fud found himself playing ‘off the elbow’ as he charged down the homestretch, like a rider clutching the reins of a runaway steed. Fud wheezed and squeaked down to the last, desperate note, and finished a complete nervous wreck.”

And here is the record referred to by Fosdick:

If that’s what execution falling behind conceptions sounds like, I’ll take it!

Ben Pollack’s Reed Section c. 1927: Benny Goodman, Fud Livingston, and Gil Rodin.
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Mar 22 2022
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Listening For Don Murray With Ben Selvin

Don Murray didn’t live nearly long enough for me to tire of his playing—but who lives to a thousand? I’m always eager to hear more of his bright, spiraling clarinet and gorgeous sax work from the few years he recorded during his tragically short life. So, based on some leads from far more experienced listeners, I shook one discographical branch.

This open document collects my listening and uneducated guesses. Please feel free to add your own annotations and comments or just enjoy the music!

More Don Murray? Click Here.

Don Murray in Paris during 1928. Cropped from Mark Berresford’s photo shared on the Bixography forum.
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Sep 01 2021
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Darnell Howard: Part Two of Two

Here‘s the second and final part of my look into the life of Darnell Howard, an incredible musician and utter mensch! This one was a pleasure to research. Thanks again to The Syncopated Times for this opportunity to share some of his story. I hope you enjoy it.

Aug 12 2021
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Darnell Howard Feature In The Syncopated Times

For years, I’ve enjoyed Darnell Howard’s work as the fiery clarinetist on records spanning Jazz Age Chicago to West Coast “revival.” But researching his life and career helped me appreciate him as a versatile musician, hustling performer, proud Chicagoan, and—by all accounts—a warm soul.

The Syncopated Times was kind enough to let me share more of Howard’s story, and I hope you enjoy it.

Jun 23 2021
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A Happy Band And A Mysterious Record

This is the story of a record, a photograph, a discographic mystery, a quizzical image, and a lot of smiles.

Said smiles belong to Charles Elgar and his band, seen in this photograph dated November 1921:

Elgar’s Creole Orchestra, from left to right: Charles Elgar, Leroy Bradshaw, William Shelby, Walter Wright, Walter Gossette, William Neely, William Randall, Bert Hall, Harry Swift, Richard Curry, Joe Sudler, Clifford King, and Darnell Howard. Photo from Mark Berresford’s collection. Web image courtesy of The Syncopated Times.

The photo is from Mark Berresford’s collection. While researching the life of Darnell Howard—seated all the way to the right with the biggest grin in the bunch—I emailed the collector and historian about using the image in a future article, and he mentioned the following:

I’ve always been fascinated by that photo, as the implication, judging from their faces, especially Darnell Howard’s, is that they are listening to themselves. If that’s the case, it may give credence to the Autograph test pressing of “Muscle Shoals Blues.”

The record he mentioned is a rollicking performance of the tune from an unidentified band on an unissued recording. The music was not available on YouTube, so I offer apologies for my limited knowledge of iMovie in putting this video together:

It’s uncertain who made this rollicking music, but thankfully, they committed it to record. As Berresford explains in his liner notes for the Timeless Historical CD From Ragtime to Jazz, Vol. II (which introduced me and many others to this recording):

“Muscle Shoals Blues” is a mysterious and historically important record. Nothing is known of the band, other than they sound Black, and as the record was made in Chicago, it is likely they played in one of the large dance halls in the Windy City. Unlike New York, Chicago had a reputation early on for large African American bands such as those led by Sammy Stewart, Dave Peyton, Erskine Tate, Charles Elgar, and Carroll Dickerson, and it is possible one of these aggregations is heard on this record.

Berresford explains that if this were the Chicago-based Elgar band, “they would have had to get their skates on.” He pointed out that George W. Thomas published his “Muscle Shoals Blues” in August 1921. By November 1921, Harry Raderman’s Jazz Orchestra in New York City had supplied the tune’s first (known) recording. Berresford also suggested that with Thomas having been in Chicago since 1920, he could have plugged the song to local bandleaders in the Windy City, including Elgar.

This test pressing was from the Autograph label, which was owned by Marsh Laboratories and Orlando Marsh, a pioneer in electrical recording. I was intrigued by the connection between this image and this record, and Berresford was kind enough to connect me with Richard Raichelson. Among his extensive musical scholarship, Prof. Raichelson wrote the book on Marsh: Orlando R. Marsh: Chicago’s Pioneer of Electrical Recording.

Raichelson had heard the theory before, was still interested in the possible connection, and was similarly gracious in sharing his knowledge:

The photo shows a band of 12 members, including Elgar. We only wish that he had not placed his hand in a position to obscure the label. Elgar is certainly playing a record that seems to put a smile on everyone’s face. But why? The date on the placard is November 11, 1921: Armistice Day. Were they laughing over a recording of a performance that they were supposed to do for the holiday?

He dates the record to November of 1921. His research shows that Thomas copyrighted his tune on August 29, 1921, with a copy of the sheet music listing an office in Chicago. He also offered that even with the tune being copyrighted in 1921, Thomas may have written it earlier.

As Raichelson explains in his book, it was likely by a nine-piece Chicago theater band comprised of two trumpets, trombone, clarinet, flute, violin, possibly a tenor saxophone, brass bass, and drums. The sound offers further clues for him:

The recording of the band by Marsh is quite good. Despite being early, it’s better than many of the others he recorded at the time. His studio in 1921 was the Essanay Film Company. However, this recording sounds like it could have been made in a theater or a hall. Elgar did play at the Navy Pier, which was also a ballroom, during this time. Since Elgar’s band played at the Navy Pier and Harmon’s Ballroom, were there any ads that specified any of the tunes he performed?

Raichelson also suggested that the band may have been appreciating a now lost record. He shared a clipping from the Chicago Whip of September 24, 1921, that mentions Elgar may record for the Emerson label. “Based on the date,” he asked, “would it be possible that they did and were listening to an Emerson test in that photo from November 11, 1921? This is the only reference I’ve seen to a recording on Emerson.”

From the Chicago Whip of September 24, 1921. Courtesy of Richard Raichelson.
From the Chicago Whip of September 24, 1921. Courtesy of Richard Raichelson.

What began as a request for permission to use a photo turned into a fascinating set of connections. If this is the Elgar band on “Muscle Shoals Blues,” it’s a welcome look into a band and bandleader that didn’t record much, a fascinating snapshot into the sound of a Chicago big band from that time, and Darnell Howard’s first recorded work on clarinet to boot. And it all began with his smile! My sincere thanks to Mark Berresford and Richard Raichelson for sharing their insights and their time with me.

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