The record changer (Jan-Dec 1951)

editorial In summertime, as Ira Gershwin once noted, the living is easy. By having expended a liberal amount of the sweat of our brow in the creation of our double-barrelled Pictorial History issue, we had earned ourselves a brief period of relief from the sweatbox that serves as the office of The World's Greatest Jazz Magazine. So we all scattered to what is sometimes known as the four corners of the land, and it is from California, and Nova Scotia, and an indolent island off Massachusetts called Martha's Vineyard that we have reluctantly reassembled to wrestle with this issue and with another eleven months of the ups and downs of jazz. In summertime, it is hot and you have earned your respite, and you'd think a sensible man could shuck off all signs and symptoms of his rest-of-the-year activities. But we must confess that we know of a theoretically sensible publisher and managing editor and art director, and respective wives,* who found that the aura of jazz clung to them with strange and unappreciated persistence. There is the case of the pallid bassist. The ferry from the mainland pulls slowly into Vineyard Haven, and is met by a motley crowd in a variety of dungarees and short sleeves. But on the ferry from which one section of the Changer masthead disembarked to visit with another third there was, by abominable coincidence, a strange apparition. A young man walked off the boat, dressed in a powder blue suit, with dank and lengthy blondish hair, with the incredibly pallid face that is one of the badges of the profession, and dragging a monstrous bass. . . . To the Changer's managing editor, a dabbler in science fiction, the only possible solution was that he must have wandered out of a 52nd Street bop joint some year, for a breath of air, and stumbled * As much-imitated Time might phrase it: MARRIED — Last benedict hold-out among the celebrated triumvirate that monthly produces famed jazz-fan magazine, The Record Changer, Paul Bacon, to Maxine Lee, in famed wedding spot, Tia Juana, Mexico. 'The date: July 5, marking second near miss in Changer's attempt to steal attention from birthday of famed trumpeter Louis (Satchmo) Armstrong by scheduling important events: (Last July 5's event: birth of son to Changer editor Keepnews.) the record changer SEPTEMBER 1951 Volume 10, No. 9 editor-publisher bill grauer, jr. managing editor orrin keepnews circulation jane grauer art director paul bacon into some space and time warp that deposited him on this island where the native folk music is strictly the do-si-do. But we still feel that he never would have materialized if we hadn't been on hand. . . . Then there is the case of the Cape Breton New Orleans kick. Cape B. is at the most isolated northern tip of Nova Scotia, more miles from NO than we'd care to count up on our fingers at the moment. But it was there that the local radio station suddenly broke into That's A Plenty. Our representative in those wilds tried hard, but he couldn't place it — ergo, it must be rough and ready local talent. So down the street to Station CJCB and C.TCX, to wait like Stage Door Johnnies (as the phrase goes) to add this discovery to our long list of great young bands. "Band? What band?" said the guy at the station ; "live band, whazzat?" It was, to be precise, an NBC transcription by a group headed by a fellow named Yank Lawson. But, there was a live disc jockey, a spreader of the gospel in the Far North, who said he was trying to bring Dixieland to the townspeople and having some success. "Record Changer," we an nounced ourself. It was a very blank look he gave us, we are sorry to report. While we weren't busy travelling, we listened to the radio one night, and while that was a very hot night, a check of the radio page of the local newspaper proved we didn't dream it up out of tea and perspiration. There's a real jazz-type radio program running around these days, (also on the omnipresent NBC), called Pete Kelly's Blues. It all takes place in the '20's; Pete plays in a Chicago speak, and solves a murder every week, like the stars of most radio dramas (though, as far as we know, unlike most musicfans). The ramifications of a jazztype network show offer, of course, boundless opportunities for sardonic chuckling by knowledgeable jazz folk like you and we, so we'll tease you with only one example. Seems that one week's murderer was a fellow named Touro — no relation to Relaxing at the . . . since he was relatively busy playing horn soloes (capably ghosted by studioman Dick Cathcart), busting out of the Big House, and getting caught at the end of the half-hour by the good guys. But since characters in radio dramas invariably run to extremes, there was one deathless line of dialogue, to the effect that "There have only been three great trumpet men: Buddy Bolden, Joe Oliver, and Gus Touro." In next month's issue., guaranteed: a definitive Gus Touro discography. We're already trying to interest Carl Kendziora in the project. And now we are back from our wanderings, and instead of listening to the radio we'll faithfully spend our evenings turning out the Record Changer, and all will simmer back to normal, and soon it won't even be summer any more. But at the moment it remains hot, and we trust that our brief travelogue has given you a refreshing hint of ocean breezes, as well as an indication of how resolutely we follow the pursuit of jazz (or it follows us). Before you know it, though, there'll be autumn in the air, and another annual Record Changer Jazz Band Competition, and another discovery of the true authentic origin of jazz, and another Christmas. So, a very Happy New Year to one and all.