RETRO REDUX

As a teenager in the 1950’s, I’m pretty sure that I didn’t catch on to the fact that a revolution was occurring in popular music. (Come to think of it, I missed a lot of things in those days — but that’s another story.) Early rock and roll was evolving, merging the sounds from rockabilly, R&B, and other musical genres into something new and exciting.

But the changing atmosphere in pop music sometimes created an awkward fit for established stars, and many of them floundered when they tried to dip their toes into new waters. Others sort of went with the flow and even poked a little fun at the whole thing, and that was the route taken by Kay Starr, who ended up with a huge hit from her clever novelty tune, “Rock And Roll Waltz.”

By that time in her career, Kay was a veteran jazz singer with a solid background in radio and as a singer for the big bands. She’d also had a number of record hits, including her biggest, “Wheel Of Fortune.” (Video below.) It was quite a life for a girl born on a reservation in Oklahoma, the daughter of an American Indian father and part-Indian mother.

She’d grown up singing, and while still a teenager in the 1930’s began to attract some attention by appearing in local shows and on radio. She soon found herself entering the world of the songbirds - female band vocalists - by being recruited into Joe Venuti’s group, then moving on to sing briefly with Glenn Miller before returning home to finish high school!

During the war years Kay sang with Venuti again and also some other bands, including those of Charlie Barnet and others. During that period she began making some waves with many of her songs, but her career hit a snag in 1945 when she became very ill with pneumonia, and although she eventually recovered her voice was not the same. She took some time off, decided not to chance surgery, and finally began singing again but with a huskier and deeper sound.

It apparently worked out pretty well for her, because in the post-war years she had some of her best selling records, including “You Were Only Foolin’ (While I Was Falling in Love),” “Bonaparte’s Retreat,” and “Hoop-Dee-Doo.” It was a period of solid success for her, and it seemed as if she was everywhere for a while, including appearing as part of a successful duet with Tennessee Ernie Ford.

She continued to thrive into the mid-1950’s and sold a lot of records with “Rock And Roll Waltz,” but it was to be her last big hit, although she remained a popular and respected entertainer for decades. In fact, she’s still around and has her own website. Kay Starr — one of the best.

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It has always tickled me to observe how my mind reacts when I hear a piece of music, because it seldom takes a predictable route. At first I might be just enjoying the music while thinking about the performer or possibly the song itself, but then inevitably my thoughts drift into distant territory

Here’s an example: I was recently listening to a recording of Tom Jones singing one of his best-known pieces, “Green, Green Grass Of Home,” a tune that’s been recorded by about a zillion singers. It’s pretty famously known as a mournful lament from a death-row inmate, but when I hear it my thoughts turn to — grass. And I don’t mean the kind you smoke.

Grass is not my favorite thing. Truth be told, I’ve always had a real distaste for yard work. I have vivid memories of my days as a sullen teenager, completely convinced that I had something better to do with my time than spending it pushing that old hand mower through the grass. Of course my dad thought otherwise, and he was right even if I didn’t think so at the time.

When I became an adult with my own lawn to worry about, I still hated the job and couldn’t wait until my own kids got old enough to take over. But I’m sure it wouldn’t surprise you to hear that I soon found that history was repeating itself, except that this time I was the nagging dad.

In recent years, I’ve hired a guy to come and cut my grass, but I’m still not spending a lot of time worrying about it. For example, I probably don’t call him to come and cut it as often as I should, and I consider anything extra - such as fertilizer, reseeding, etc - to be an unnecessary frill, so the weeds have slowly taken over. And I’ll even admit that I like it when we have a dry spell because the lawn slows down and stops growing.

My next-door neighbor is my exact opposite. His lawn is always immaculate, and is reminiscent of the greens on a golf course. He works in his yard constantly, and I swear I’ve seen him on his hands and knees with clippers, trimming every little blade. That being the case, you might wonder how he’s handled living next door to me and having to look at my scruffy lawn. Simple — he built a tall privacy fence between us.

But back to that song. It just occurred to me that it really doesn’t apply to my lawn. If a death-row inmate was singing about my yard - unlikely, but for the sake of argument let’s say he is - the tune would have to be retitled, “Brown, Brown Weeds Of Home.”

When I first began listening to jazz in the late 1950’s I was initially drawn to the older big-band style, but over the next few years I began to discover another type of music with appeal. Some of the younger guys were playing a different form of jazz, and it caught my attention.

My first favorite was Dave Brubeck, and I still remember playing his big hit, “Take Five,” over and over on the jukebox at my college student center. But even though I remain a fan of his to this day, I eventually began to look beyond Brubeck to see who else was making interesting jazz. One of the first to catch my eye - or my ear - was Jimmy Giuffre, and I was reminded of that recently when I saw that he’d died in late April, just two days short of his 87th birthday.

His music was certainly different from that of Brubeck, and I was intrigued and fascinated by his edgy sound, full of breathy tones and hypnotic rhythms. Although he was new to me, I learned that Giuffre had been around since the days of the big bands, playing sax and clarinet for Jimmy Dorsey, Buddy Rich, and Woody Herman. In fact, he’d written one of Herman’s bigger hits, “Four Brothers.”

But by the time he came to my notice he’d formed one of his many trios, and small groups would be his style for most of the rest of his career. However, he often experimented with different combinations of instruments within the groups, beginning with the Giuffre 3, which consisted of himself, Jim Hall on guitar and Ralph Pena (later Jim Atlas) on bass. At one time, he also formed a trio with Hall and trombonist Bob Brookmeyer, and yet another trio was composed of himself, pianist Paul Bley and bassist Steve Swallow.

His best-known tune from those years was probably “The Train And The River,” (video below) and it’s one of my favorites, but I’ve also always liked “Voodoo,” which also shows Giuffre’s constantly inventive approach to jazz. It was a quest that defined his career, which actually was pretty low profile for the last few decades of his life. Although he continued to perform - and record - through the years, much of his time was spent in other aspects of music, including as an educator.

His music isn’t heard much these days and his passing didn’t get a lot of attention, but he should be remembered as one of the jazz world’s true innovators.

I was listening to some World War II era music recently, and a tune by Harry James and his orchestra triggered some thoughts from childhood. The song was “Waiting For The Train To Come In,” and it brought back a memory of my Uncle John coming to visit us and arriving on the train.

I’ve had several uncles - and been one myself for a lot of years - and it’s a relationship that’s always sort of fascinated me. Uncles seem to inhabit a special place in the family dynamic, sometimes providing a slightly off-kilter influence on our childhood. Maybe it’s because they’re able to get away with things that a dad might not, or just that they provide a touch of adventure.

I had lots of uncles on both sides of the family. My dad had two brothers and a sister (I had numerous aunts too) and they’d been orphaned before reaching adulthood, so sort of went their separate ways. All four ended up spending time in the service during or after World War II, but Uncle John was the only one of the four who had a long and successful career in the military.

He spent many years in the Navy, putting his time to good use by becoming an expert in diesel engines, and he became so good at it that he later taught the subject at the big Naval facility in North Chicago. I remember visiting him there when I was a teenager, and by then he’d settled down with a wife and two young daughters. Eventually he retired and landed a good job in private industry.

But most of my earlier memories revolve around his visits to us while he was on leave, because he’d sometimes talk about his travels as part of the crew of different ships that always seemed to be going to exotic places. I loved those times and remember even seeing some of his mementos from those trips.

One of his biggest adventures occurred in 1955 when I was a little older. He was part of the crew of the Navy icebreaker USS Glacier on the first Operation Deep Freeze. It was a highly publicized expedition to Antarctica, one of many that would be made through the years. I can still remember him showing us his many keepsakes from the trip, and I think he might have even given me a couple. Wish I still had them.

In 1990, an old song appeared in a couple of memorable movies, in the process introducing itself to a new generation. On the soundtrack of Goodfellas it was performed by Vito and The Salutations, but it made a much bigger impression in another film — Ghost, starring Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore. That movie appearance helped make a big hit of the Righteous Brothers’ version of “Unchained Melody.” (Video below.)

But the song had actually been around for a long time, and had appeared on the charts with versions by everybody from rockabilly’s Gene Vincent to Les Baxter’s big band. Ironically, the tune originated as the theme from an earlier movie, 1955’s Unchained, which was an otherwise undistinguished prison film. The song was nominated for an Oscar but didn’t really get a lot of attention. However, through the years it has become one of the most recorded songs in modern pop history, with an estimated 500 artists trying their hand.

One of the earliest - and best - of those versions arrived early in the life of the song, when R&B singer Roy Hamilton was one of the first to record it. His version of “Unchained Melody” ended up as his biggest hit, breaking into the top ten on pop charts and reaching number one on the R&B side.

Hamilton is not much remembered these days - his career was sadly cut short by his death at the young age of 40 - but he was very influential. He came from a background that included time spent in the boxing arena, but he was also well-trained in music — both gospel and the classics. He dedicated himself to a musical career, and his talent began to draw attention in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s on songs such as “You’ll Never Walk Alone” and “Ebb Tide,” before he hit it big with “Unchained Melody.”

He also had lesser hits with “Don’t Let Go” and “You Can Have Her,” but his health began to fail and he took time away from music for a while. Eventually returning to singing, for the next decade he had limited success but kept working, until his health worsened again and a stroke led to his death in 1969. Although his name is not heard often, he certainly inspired many other singers, including Jackie Wilson — and maybe even the Righteous Brothers with their brand of ‘blue-eyed soul’.

I was thumbing the TV remote control the other day and happened to land on an old I Love Lucy rerun, and although I’m not a huge fan of those shows I noticed that Ricky (Desi Arnaz) was talking about someone threatening to replace him and his band with Xavier Cugat’s outfit. I would guess that it was kind of an inside joke for them, because Cugat was actually Desi’s mentor in the early days of his musical career.

I’ve written before about Desi and his music and how Cugat helped him get started, but Cugat is a pretty good story too. Francisco de Asis Javier Cugat Mingall de Cru y Deulofeo was actually Spanish, but his family moved to Cuba when he was very small. He ended up as one of the most influential figures in Latin music, with a career that started before 1920 and didn’t really end until his death in 1990.

During his biggest years he had a number of hits, including “Perfidia,” the original (pre-Desi) “Babalu,” and “Brazil,” and he also created a showcase for many other Latin musicians. In addition to Desi, members of his orchestra included Tito Puente and other budding stars. He also provided a spotlight for some gorgeous ladies — even marrying a few of them. Rita Hayworth (who was not one of his wives) got her start with him, and his third and fourth wives, Abbe Lane and Charo, starred in his shows.

Charo is probably more familiar to most of us these days, from her many appearances on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show and her famous “coochie, coochie” and other comedic routines. She always made it part of her act to mangle the English language too, but was - and still is - fluent in several languages, in addition to being a fine guitarist. Abbe Lane was a talented entertainer who also made some appearances with Johnny Carson, but probably with a little less flamboyance.

Cugat was a master at finding ways to gain exposure, whether it was having beautiful ladies appear in his act or making movie appearances, and he even had his own short-lived TV show (although he didn’t appear on Lucy and Desi’s show). He was often dismissed by critics for his pop music approach but he had the final word on the subject when he said, “I would rather play ‘Chiquita Banana’ and have my swimming pool than play Bach and starve.”

The first time I became aware of jazz legend Fletcher Henderson was - surprisingly enough - in a movie. But it was definitely a very musically-oriented one, 1955’s The Benny Goodman Story. And even though Henderson’s character appeared in the movie, he had actually died a few years earlier and was played by Sammy Davis (Senior).

Sammy didn’t do a lot of acting - not nearly as much as his famous son - but it was a small part, and only required a short, black, soft-spoken guy in a suit, and he nailed it. I remember noticing that everyone seemed to have a lot of respect for him, and since the movie was filled with real jazz musicians playing themselves, I assumed that he was the real thing.

The real Fletcher Henderson was one of the most important of the early jazz pioneers, beginning as early as 1921 when he first began making records. But even though he was a capable pianist, his strengths lay in other areas. Within a few years he’d formed an outstanding jazz band and for the next three decades was tremendously influential, not just as a leader but as a composer and arranger.

He was also great at spotting talent, and the list of alumni of his band reads like a honor roll of black jazz musicians. It includes Louis Armstrong, Coleman Hawkins, Benny Carter, and Lester Young — and even Fats Waller sat in for a while. His band was one of the most popular early groups, and his appearances at hot spots such as the Roseland ballroom and the Cotton Club were well-attended. One of his best from those days is very evocative of the era: “Sugar Foot Stomp.”

But even though the public knew him best as a bandleader, it was as an arranger that he was most appreciated by his peers. Good arrangers were (and are) one of the most critical facets of any successful group, and although the rise of new, hot swing bands in the 1930’s overshadowed Henderson’s band - and led to its demise - those same bands needed his arranging abilities. Smart bandleaders knew that a great arranger could mean the difference between success and failure for a band.

Henderson began contributing to some of the best bands, especially Benny Goodman’s (as in the movie) and had a hand in many of the band’s hits, including “King Porter Stomp” and “Down South Camp Meeting.” Later in the decade he reformed his own band and had a minor hit with “Christopher Columbus,” but that success was short-lived and he eventually returned to full-time employment with Goodman, even occasionally playing a little piano.

During the 1940’s, Henderson tried several times to again make it as a leader, but it wasn’t until the end of the decade that he finally did well with a sextet he’d formed that featured saxophonist Lucky Thompson. Unfortunately, Henderson had a stroke soon after, and that ended his career. When he died a couple of years later, the jazz world lost one of its best.

I’ve written before about how appealing California was to me as a Midwestern teenager in the 1950’s, but my fascination with the golden West didn’t end with the decade. As a young man in the early 1960’s I continued to find myself intrigued by some of the things happening out there, especially those of a musical nature.

Although the British musical invasion was beginning to attract a lot of attention, the surfing sound - sometimes called beach music - was also making a strong bid for the loyalty of pop music fans. There were lots of talented groups around California and tons of great songs that seemed to personify the new sound.

Local bands such as the Beach Boys gave us “California Girls,” and transplanted groups such as the Mamas and Papas contributed “California Dreamin’,” but there was one tune that really nailed the California sound. The funny thing is that the song was recorded by an Indiana band.

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, the Rivieras actually originated in South Bend, Indiana, so as a fellow Hoosier I might have been even more appreciative of their one big hit, “California Sun.” But I didn’t really need the connection because it was a great song all on its own, and has been described as “one of the last great gasps of pure American rock and roll”.

The original Rivieras included Doug Gean on bass, Otto Nuss on organ, Bo Fortson and Joe Pennell on guitar, and drummer Paul Dennert. In the early days they were a successful local band in Indiana, but hit the big time nationally when they took a song had originally been recorded by R&B artist Joe Jones, and added some pizazz.

The now familiar drum opening, followed by sizzling guitar licks and a pounding organ, appealed enormously to listeners at that time and is still a great sound. The song climbed the charts and was kept from the top spot only by a British group with the odd name of the Beatles.

As for the Rivieras, they hung around for a couple of years and had some good records but nothing approached the success of that one big hit. The band’s members went their separate ways in 1966, although some of them did get together for a while twenty years later, playing a few dates but with limited success. They had peaked many years before, with that one special song.

If you’re reading this, then you’re probably familiar enough with current technology to know that these days most of us load up our hard drives - and our portable players - with digital music, picking and choosing our favorite tunes from various sources. Just like before, we still sometimes buy entire albums just to get a specific song or two, but now we rip those to our computer and then put the CD away. And sometimes we just buy specific tunes from download stores, simplifying things even further.

But you’ve heard all that before. What I’d like to talk about is something new that I’ve noticed about my own collecting methods. It’s just a small part of the overall picture, but I’m beginning to think that it’s a lot more common that I had suspected. I’ve found that being able to be more selective about getting specific songs has allowed me to load up on some of my favorites, with multiple versions by a lot of different musicians.

From what I’ve seen on music blogs and other places, there are a lot of people out there who are doing the same. Please note that I’m not talking about “theme” blog posts where the writer lists a bunch of tunes that relate to one subject, such as a holiday or the opening of baseball season, but rather the same song by different artists.

In my case, these songs tend to be old jazz standards, and I’ve probably gotten a little carried away with it. For example, I have six versions of the big band tune, “I Can’t Get Started,” and five of another favorite, a ballad that had a brief rebirth when it served as the theme song for the 1997 Clint Eastwood film, Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil. The movie featured k.d. Lang doing the vocal, but I’ve always liked a much older version, with smooth baritone Billy Eckstine backed by the orchestra of Earl Hines — “Skylark.“

Earl Hines was one best jazz pianists of all time, and was enormously influential for many who came along later, including Nat Cole and even Art Tatum. He built his reputation as a soloist early in the jazz age, and in 1928 debuted his own big band. For the next two decades it was one of the most successful - and respected - groups around, and helped further the careers of many of the greats. He even helped give a start to the bebop movement by employing Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillispie in the early years of their careers.

In the early 1940’s, singer Billy Eckstine joined the band and was a big hit for several years, but eventually moved on. By the late 1940’s the big bands were finding it difficult to survive and Hines dissolved the group, later joining Louis Armstrong and others in various ensembles. He also led his own smaller groups and continued to be a much-admired jazz legend for decades, performing regularly until his death at age 79.

Although I only have one tune by Hines, my other multiples are numerous and they  cross genre boundaries too. For example, Latin jazz is well-represented — I have five versions of “Besame Mucho”, six of “Wave,” and seven of “Brazil.” But my number one multiple is Ellington’s immortal composition, “In A Sentimental Mood,” which shows up ten times in my collection — and I want more. I guess I’ve become a multiple-music addict.

It’s pretty much impossible to write about Karen Carpenter without first mentioning her tragic, premature death from the effects of an eating disorder. It’s the first thing most of us think about. But having acknowledged it, I’d like to now leave it behind because I’d much rather remember Karen Carpenter the singer.

The Carpenters began as the Richard Carpenter Trio in the late 1960’s, with Karen’s vocalizing backed by both her brother and bassist Wes Jacobs. They worked hard for a while, and even won a battle of bands at the Hollywood Bowl which led to making a few records, but none did well. Jacobs eventually left and was replaced by John Bettis, and the group was also renamed Spectrum, but it still struggled and Bettis soon disappeared too.

Richard and Karen began performing as a duo and eventually caught the attention of musical star Herb Alpert, who was also the head of A&M Records. As Alpert later said about their music, and especially Karen’s voice, “It just jumped right out at me. It felt like she was in the room with me”. He signed them to a recording contract and they were on their way.

Playing the drums in a brother-sister musical act already made Karen unique, but when the duo burst into the pop music world it wasn’t her drumsticks that drew attention. When she sang, her voice - with four-octave range and a depth and warmth that’s difficult to describe - surprised and charmed listeners. And although brother Richard’s skillful and lush arrangements certainly played a part in the act’s rise to stardom, it was her singing that made the difference.

And yet, her voice was not always appreciated by the cutting-edge crowd. Some critics dismissed the Carpenters’ music as light-weight and described her singing as too “simple” or “tame”. But others fully appreciated it. Rolling Stone said, “Hers is a voice of fascinating contrasts, combining youth with wisdom; chilling perfection with much warmth.”

But never mind the critics — audiences loved the Carpenters, as did the record-buying public. The Grammy-winning duo were regulars on the charts during the 1970’s, with a bunch of number-one hits that included “Close To You,” “We’ve Only Just Begun,” and “Rainy Days And Mondays.” They also had a lot of lesser hits, including one my favorites, “This Masquerade.”

It was a glorious decade for the pair but there were clouds on the horizon. Not only were Karen’s problems growing, but Richard’s bouts with pills required him to spend time in an addiction recovery clinic. As the 1980’s began, the pair found their popularity declining and Karen even tried a solo act for a while, with mixed results.

The two soon reunited and issued their last album, Made In America, which sold moderately well, but things were winding down. Karen’s health continued to suffer and she died in 1983. In the years after, Richard for a time devoted himself to the production side of things and eventually began performing again, but with limited success. The magic was gone.