Dorothy Donegan “at the Embers”

Album cover photos don’t get much better than this one—four well-dressed people sitting at a bar on movable stools, the kind without backs, and tubular steel footrests at the bottom. Two women are on the center stools—wearing skirts and stockings (the photo is cropped above their waists)—and they have slipped off their shoes, which are on the floor below. It’s a rather suggestive photo for 1957. Also, a little weird. I’m not exactly sure what it says, but it seems to say a lot. One would like to assume it’s taken at “The Embers”—and there is music in the air. Drinking is going on, definitely. The men may be more focused on the woman than the woman are on the men. The band is a small jazz combo, sounds like a trio, dominated by piano that I assume is Dorothy Donegan—and her playing is kind of nuts, if I can say it. A lot of energy, and then some. Mostly standards. I have always particularly loved the name “The Embers” for a bar, nightclub, or restaurant—it’s the best.

I wouldn’t call this music “jaunty,” exactly—but it’s definitely not laid back. I might call it “caffeinated”—which I like more than jaunty (the word and the sentiment). It’s certainly energetic. It’s kind of like… why not play 100 notes, where one will do, if you can work in 100 notes. I read a little bit about Dorothy Donegan—classically trained, from Chicago, put out a dozen-and-a-half records from the Forties to the Nineties, but was best known for live performances. Wikipedia notes she was “the first African American to perform at Chicago’s Orchestra Hall”—in 1943. She criticized sexism in the music industry. She was a protegee of Art Tatum. She “was known for performing stride and boogie-woogie, as well as be-bop, swing, and classical.” When you put all those together, what do you get? Rock’n’roll. I’m just kidding—but listen to the short number called “Donegan Walk”—which sounds more like rock’n’roll than most music that calls itself rock’n’roll—it’s my favorite on the record. It’s credited to Dorothy Donegan, as is another one called “DDT”—another rockin’ out number that I’m guessing isn’t named after the insecticide. Maybe it’s “Dorothy Donegan plus something that starts with “T”—(Time, Terror, Tyrannosaurus?). I also very much like some of the standards I know—in particular, a nuts version of “That Old Black Magic,” “Just in Time,” a nice slow version of “My Funny Valentine,” and a hot version of “Lullaby in Birdland” that won’t put you to sleep. All of them are good.

Even though it’s an album cover you might want to hang on your wall, don’t do it! For one thing, you’ve got to protect the record. And for another, you’ll miss the liner notes on back—pretty good ones, though uncredited, which is weird. Even more weird, whoever formatted the liner notes obviously didn’t read them—I won’t go into details, but there are errors—how does that stuff happen—even in 1957? A lot about the Embers—a nightclub/restaurant on East 54^th Street in New York. It was on East 54^th Street, I guess—I looked it up—long gone now—just hideous skyscrapers there, now. Though it’s (was) just around the corner from Dee Dee Ramone Corner. I guess they served food there, too, and for a moment, the liner notes seem to want to turn into a restaurant review—or maybe the author was just hungry! Mostly, it’s some glowing words about Dorothy Donegan and her very popular live performances. A Time Magazine writer is even quoted: “Dorothy shuts her eyes. Her feet begin to pound the floor. Her face contorts as if she were in agony. What comes out is pure Donegan. It has the customers shagging in their seats.” What’s that mean? Well, either they are baseball players, catching fly balls for practice, or they’re f**king!

June Christy “Gone for the Day”

I have one other June Christy record (“Something Cool”) which has one of my favorite ever album covers. This one, from 1957, isn’t quite “polar opposite”—but it’s not quite Equatorial, either—and it’s definitely a spring or summer day. It almost like it’s trying so hard not to be cool, it’s cool in itself, if that makes any sense. It doesn’t, really—but I find this cover fascinating—I’ve always been curious about people having their picture taken with a tree. Sometimes they touch, or hold on to, a branch. I always wondered about that. In this photo, June Christy, hair pulled back, subtle (save her eyebrows) makeup, no earrings, no jewelry except for a pearl bracelet. She’s casually dressed in slacks and a striped, possibly men’s, dress shirt, and is sitting rather awkwardly against a slim, leaning tree—her elbow against the tree, supporting her head, and her other hand holding a small branch. The woods, behind, is out of focus, but the tree seems to be leaning toward what looks like a scum covered pond, with her name and the title, “Gone for the Day,” hovering over it in a stylish, simple font. There’s something about the whole look—from shirt to the tree selection, to the font to the pond, that I just really, really like. It’s as if she’s saying, I really don’t give all that much of a flying fuck. Relaxed! But even kind of annoyed. The only way the cover could be better is if there was a fly siting on her cheek, or visible sweat, or something—you name it—in her shirt pocket.

The orchestra is Pete Rugolo and is very fine, and I love June Christy’s singing—perfect for this mood, and these songs of relaxation and carefree between times. Of the twelve songs, the only one I know well is “When the Sun Comes Out”—one of my favorite standards—and this is a great version. “It’s So Peaceful in the Country” is kind of an epic essay on moving out of the city, quite a song. “Interlude” is a fascinating one, it’s slow and meandering, kind of literary—you can’t really call it a pop song. It’s like a short story, but in a five-minute song. “Love Turns Winter to Spring” is a particularly beautiful one, with subtle vibes—and it fits in one of my favorite song categories—songs about seasons. With a particularly beautiful melody, “When the World was Young” is another epic, played here with the intro—I know this one from somewhere. The breezy, jazzy “Gone for the Day” is the perfect song to name the record after—I like the sentiment. “(Love’s Got Me in a) Lazy Mood” is a lovely one to end with—great song. Really, they’re all excellent songs, and excellent versions—this is a substantial record—it’s one to put on any time—though I suppose hot weather would be the thing.

The Dell-Vikings “Come Go with Me” / “How Can I Find True Love”

The Dell-Vikings (as it says on this record) were more commonly known as the Del-Vikings, and the Del Vikings (though, as far as I know, never The Devil Kings). Their Wikipedia page admits to not having a clue to the origin of the name, but I like the theory that the group’s founders, while meeting at the library, combined the names of two famous book publishers, and voilà! They were a doo-wop band out of Pittsburgh, formed in the Fifties by some Air Force guys. This 1957 45 is on Dot Records—a pretty big label at the time. I love the Dot logo—the one with script letters—yellow “D,” red “o,” and blue “t.” First, I listened to “How Can I Find True Love,” which is enjoyable because I don’t recognize it—and it’s the slower of the two sides—a doo-wop ballad. Still, it is hard to listen to any do-wop without thinking instant audio shorthand for “The Fifties.” Of course, the song “Come Go with Me” is totally familiar—it’s like the most recognizable doo-wop song ever. I feel like I can’t even remotely listen to it objectively, since I’ve heard it in so many movies and TV shows. I can almost see the scenes. But that’s the point of listening to music in a different setting, i.e., scratchy vinyl on my cobbled-together 1970s stereo. At one point, during the sax solo in the middle, for a moment I heard the song with fresh ears and achieved an appreciation for how actually unusual this music is, and for how complex those vocal parts are. That’s always a nice moment.

J. J. Johnson “First Place”

“First Place” refers to—it says right on the album cover—“The most consistent first place winner in jazz polls throughout the world.” Which, I guess, is something that will sell records—like calling a book a “best seller”—even though everyone knows that there is absolutely no correlation between what is popular and what is good—unless there’s, arguably, a negative correlation—except “everyone” does NOT know that—and in fact “everyone” is a group that people who DO know that would prefer not to be a part of. That said, this is nice jazz record—and even though pretty much everyone should be able to enjoy it, “no one” listens to jazz anymore. (So say some—I know that’s not true.) J. J. Johnson plays trombone, which is an insane instrument that you probably hear more in marching bands than jazz. Think about it, the slide trombone—it’s like a mad experiment gone wrong. What a nutso idea. If I had it all to do over, I’d love to dedicate my life to playing the slide trombone. I just took a brief hour reading about the trombone—it’s been around forever. Well, I tried and failed to play brass instruments, so I should quit dreaming. J. J. Johnson is a modern jazz trombonist, in that he embraced Be-Bop—I guess a lot of musicians felt the trombone wasn’t suited to that style, but he did it—even if he did knock over some things or put out an occasional eye. That’s my one trombone joke, sorry. He recorded like 50 records over the second half of the 20^th Century—was a composer and arranger and performer—and was the most consistent first place winner in jazz polls throughout the world.

I love the album cover—it’s a bold design, nice colors, very cool. J. J. Johnson sitting in front of a tan table with a tan background—he’s wearing a suit and tie, has a ring. In front of him, his trombone, mouthpiece removed, an ashtray, matches, and a glass of liquor with no ice. Also, a hat on the table—though I can’t really tell if it’s a snap-brim or a beret. It’s a very cool album cover. On the back are three columns of zine-size, tiny print—liner notes by Nat Hentoff—in which he goes in depth at length. I’ll make a generalization that people used to read more—and that includes the liner notes on their popular albums—in 1957 than they do now. And also, maybe jazz fans read more than fans of other music. Also, there’s an ad for a Columbia Hi-Fi—a one-piece thing, on legs—I wonder if it’s like the one my parents had? (This record is on Columbia, by the way). The band is Max Roach, Paul Chambers, and Tommy Flanagan—drums, bass, piano—among the best there was, in jazz, at those instruments. The nine songs are a combination of standards and numbers I haven’t heard—including three compositions by J. J. Johnson—they all go together nicely. I’ve always liked the name J. J., by the way—because it was my dad’s name (he went by others, too, as do most J. J.s). J. J. Johnson’s name was James Louis Johnson—so why he went by J. J. and not J. L.—well, I guess, a matter of preference—I suppose anyone could go by J. J.—but if neither your first nor middle nor nick-name didn’t start with a “J”—that might be kind of weird. But still, you could do it.

Jerry Byrd “On the Shores of Waikiki”

This is one of the more striking Hawaiian music records I’ve heard—not that I’ve heard tons, and I’m no authority. I generally like Hawaiian records, and they’re easy to find without spending too much money. But maybe I’ve mostly heard the more mainstream and bland ones, since I’ve generally considered them something pleasant and mellow to have on in the background while you sip a Mai Tai, Planter’s Punch, Caipirinha, Yaka Hula Hickey Dula, and so forth. But each of the songs on this record stands out and wants you to listen—and they’re all quite different, too. There’s a variety of vocals, several singers, more than one language (I’m assuming the Hawaiian language)—with sightly varying moods, even—though it all evokes what we imagine to be the essence of Hawaii. The other constant is the insane steel guitar—it’s some of the most steel guitar steel guitar I’ve heard—and I guess that’s Jerry Byrd. This record is from 1957, and there were a lot of Hawaiian records out by then, including several by Jerry Byrd—but there’s something about the sound of this one that makes you feel like you’re hearing this exotic stuff for the first time.

The cover says “the GUITAR of Jerry Byrd and his orchestra”— but the liner notes tell us that Jerry Bird (“King of the Steel Guitar”) brought in Danny Kuaana and his instrumental and vocal group, “The Islanders.” So I might have called it a record by Jerry Byrd and Danny Kuanna and The Islanders—but I guess these dudes had it figured out—no reason for me to get involved. The front cover is a wide beach landscape, dominated by a tree in the foreground—it looks like one of those trees with coconuts. Everything else is in the far distance including bathers that are about a quarter of an inch tall. It almost looks like a painting, but I think it’s a photograph. But also, there’s a GUY in the foreground, I guess sitting under the tree—we see him in semi-profile—mostly the back of his head. I’m wondering if this guy knew that it was him on the album cover—if he did, his friends probably got tired of him saying, “Look, that’s me!” But any of us would be excited to be included incidentally on an album cover—especially one as enduring as this.

Louis Armstrong and His Orchestra “Town Hall Concert Plus”

I’m not sure where I picked up this record—I’m guessing they pressed a million of them and you can find it in a thrift store—and if you do, buy it. It sounds great—even this copy, that looks like a truck drove over it, is very fine. This is a live Louis Armstrong record from 1957, that doesn’t really sound live—I mean that in a good way—a lot of live records strike me as a kind of compromise—in that you’re not there seeing and hearing the performance live—and the sound isn’t as good as a studio record. I’m just not a fan of the “live record”—with a few notable and major exceptions. It’s funny, I was just out walking and a guy rode past me on a bicycle, playing music so loud I could make it out, and it was: “Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends!” Ha, that’s the part I heard (I suppose the guy could have had, like, a loop of that playing, the weirdo.) That’s an Emerson, Lake & Palmer record, which I believe is a triple album, with songs that are way, way too long. I make fun of that band, a lot, but I did see them live once, in Cleveland, late Seventies, I think—and they were pretty great. It’s not every day you get to see a guy act like he’s having sex with a Hammond B3 organ.

That was a diversion, but anyway, as good as some of these live rock acts were in the Seventies, I’m sure it would have really been unforgettable seeing Louis Armstrong, at any point in his career. You might not directly hear it, but all popular and rock music owes everything to him. All good songs on this record, and the orchestra—all excellent. From the credits, it seems to be a mishmash of live performances—but it comes across a pretty uniform. Maybe I should read the extensive liner notes. Half of the text is a quoted introduction by Fred Robbins, when he introduced Louis Armstrong and orchestra at a Town Hall show in 1947, NYC. It’s a pretty inspired statement—part of what he said is similar to what I just said, above! So, six of the songs are recordings from that concert, and the rest are various other numbers—they seem to be well selected. His fine rendition of “Pennies from Heaven,” that starts out the second side, it occurred to me, is so great, you could drop it into any movie, or any situation, at any point, and it would both change everything and make it somehow better. And that includes my afternoon, today.

Martin Denny “Exotica”

I’ve had a lot of Martin Denny records over the years—I must have left some behind when I moved, here and there—they’re relatively easy to find, cheap—kind of your classic thrift-store record that is worth picking up, even if scratchy. They must have sold a lot of them. This one is the first “Exotica” genre record, apparently—from which Exotica got its name. It’s a good name for anything. It would be a good name for a soap review website: Soap Exotica. Oh, wait, that exists (it’s mine). It would be a good name for a restaurant, say Egg Exotica, or Exotica Taco. Martin Denny kept putting out several records a year all through the Sixties and beyond—I don’t know how many in all. I suppose there are some real connoisseurs of this music who might have their favorites, might have them all ranked, even! Those kind of nuts walk among us! I will, at some point, try to find some good writing about Martin Denny, and Exotica in general, and see if there is a consensus “best” record. I believe I have a few more, right now, but I’m not sure. As a fun exercise, I’m going to try to imagine I’m hearing this (and this type of music) for the first time. First, there’s the novelty of the birds, the sound effects, the jungle sounds. Depending on who you are, that might get old, say, anywhere from one listening to never. Then, I guess, somewhat, it reminds me of stuff I’d hear as a kid, like the Latin rhythm George Shearing records that my parents played. I can’t remember if they had any Martin Denny, or Arthur Lyman records, but I don’t think so. Anyway, I could listen to this stuff all day long, when I’m in the mood for it, but who can predict one’s moods? I would probably be a much bigger fan, overall, if my apartment was decorated to look like a Tiki Bar (something I could do), and if I was mixing up an occasional rum drink with tropical fruit (something I’d be better off not getting back into, at this point).

The Dell Trio “Cocktail Time”

I expected this to be one of those corny records, like “Music for…” (“Music for Dressing Deer,” “Music for Cleaning Game”) like you’ll find in the open-one-day-a-week antique stores in the North Woods, and are sometimes on the sound-system of supper clubs—but this isn’t corny at all, it’s just a great record. Since the record has no info on it whatsoever (except song titles, and ads for about 50 other Harmony (the label) records, I’ll just have to make up a bio: The Dell Trio consists of Grandma Eunice Dell on the church Hammond, local handyman Charlie Bill Pike on accordion, and Bob Flippen mixing the cocktails, occasional jug, and glass percussion. No, wait, there’s a guitar on there, too. I suspect that the organ is playing bass and also doing the percussion. But like I said, I just made that up—there are actual real people playing on this record, not fictional characters, and a real Dell Trio somewhere in the past. Or maybe they’re still together, playing in an early spot at this year’s Pitchfork Music Festival. But most likely they are elderly, not touring much, or passed on. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to find anything about them with the internet.

This is a really good record, though, and worth picking up if you see it in a thrift store. It’s got a racy album cover, what looks like a man’s legs and a woman’s legs protruding from a sofa, though we don’t see the rest of them, they’re out of frame, but we’re led to believe they’re making out. The room is over-lit by a hanging paper lamp, and there’s green and orange/pink pillows on the floor, suggesting bohemianism. A little table is holding two cocktails, a Martini and an Old-Fashioned, and there’s a standing ashtray with a cigarette that has gone out. There’s also a little clay-potted plant on the table—I don’t know what the plant is, but I think it’s supposed to suggest, but not advertise, marijuana. Songs include “Cocktails for Two” and “Stumbling” (never heard that one before!), two moon songs in a row, and also a couple of my favorites, “September Song” and “Laura”—nice versions. One could have a worse hobby than collecting all the recorded versions of “Laura”—there’s a lot, and they’re pretty much all good. I’m obsessed with that movie, if I haven’t mentioned that recently.

The George Shearing Quintet and Orchestra “Black Satin”

This George Shearing Quintet record is a little different than some others I have in that there is orchestra, arranged by Billy May. There’s something about it that I like almost better than any I’ve heard—it’s hard to say why. There’s something kind of odd about how that Shearing sound—his distinctive piano, coupled with vibes and guitar—sounds with the orchestra. Maybe it’s just that this was one of the records my parents had, and I heard it a lot as a kid. I don’t remember at this point exactly which Shearing records they did have, but pretty much every time I hear any of them, it takes me back to childhood more completely than anything—I can smell what the house smelled like, the carpet just after vacuuming, the late-afternoon sun coming in the west-facing picture window. There’s always something a little sad about it, but comforting, too. I could probably put this record on once a week for the rest of my life. No weak spots—but then there rarely is (that I’ve found) with Shearing. The drawing on the back cover, with the brief liner notes, is a formally dressed rich, young, white man and woman sitting on one of those round couches, like a plush couch wrapped around a post, like the ones in the lobby of the Hotel Breakers, in Sandusky. The joke here is: “Get a room,” because if you ever tried having sex on one of those round couches… what am I saying? No one’s tried that! The cover photo shows a young woman in a slim back dress with some kind of crazy beads draped around her neck that looks like a dead fish, if you squint. She’s reclining on, maybe partly under, what’s supposed to be, of course, “black satin”—but if you really look at it, it more resembles a photo-studio setup of black, plastic trash bags! I’m not sure this doesn’t represent a very bad day in a Capital records photo studio. The woman looks pretty great, like she’d just as soon kick your ass as make out—and if you use your imagination, you could comfortably put this cover photo on a movie poster about alien pod people or a punk rock album various artist collection called, “Straight Outta Da Trash.”

Lena Horne “Stormy Weather”

This is a record I imagine a lot of people having in their collections in the late 50s—it’s got a classy cover, a photo of Lena Horne spotlighted in the darkness, maybe next to a piano—what I’d imagine to be a studio photo replicating a concert setting, but I don’t know. She was a huge star—the liner notes on back talk about how she was a star of first name recognition, like Ella and Frank—and those two come to mind listening to this record of standards—as her singing is every bit as singular as theirs—though none of them sound remotely like each other. So I like to think about a time when this record was on the normal person’s turntable—it’s anything but a boring record. I wonder if younger people know her? I suppose when you say “Lena,” now, more people think of Lena Dunham. As familiar as she is, I know nothing about her really—she lived into her 90s, had a 70 year career, passed away 10 years ago. She was at some point married to Lennie Hayton, who was known to wear captain’s hats, and conducted the orchestra on this record. One wonders if they are an inspiration to the Captain & Tennille. This LP is beat to hell, yet it plays—and just takes me back to a time before I was born. The first song, “Tomorrow Mountain” (Duke Ellington/John Latouche) is spectacular—crazy lyrics—the first I’ve ever heard it. Some of my favorite songs are here, including “Summertime,” “Stormy Weather,” “I’ll Be Around,” and “Just One of Those Things.” All 11 songs are good—nothing bland here, actually—you can’t really call this easy listening—there’s nothing easy about it. It’s out there, it’s jazz, it’s art—even a little challenging. I guess I’m going to have to keep an eye out for other old Lena Horne records now—I’m certainly happy to open another door to the richness of the past.