But, but, soon you’ll be going to College and everything’s going to change from monochrome to wide vision Technicolor.
A whole new world.
A new frontier.
Godard. Godot.
French New Wave.
Italian Neo Realists.
Abstract Expressionists.
Ginsberg. Corso. Snyder. Ferlinghetti.
Rhythm & Blues. Soul.
Cool Jazz. Bebop. Hard Bop.
Once you get to College you’re going to form a band with your songwriting partner (songwriters work best in partnerships).
Together, once you have the songs, you will as producers and directors make gleaming records which will be as enigmatic as they are addictive.
Those in the know will know.
You will find and cast a gallery of stellar musicians matching their individual and collective talents to the specific demands of each song.
From the vast treasury of tracks spinning in your heads you’ll find influences and inspiration.
You will embed those influences and inspirations in your newly minted creations.
You and your partner will swop riffs and rhythms and references (that’s how you found each other).
Hey, remember that fabulous bass line from Horace Silver on, ‘Song For My Father’ ?
Sure do. Sure do.
The thing about Horace is you play him to people who swear they just can’t stand Modern Jazz and they say … well, now, I do like that .. what did you say his name was?
That’s because Horace’s Jazz is drenched in Blues and Gospel and because he writes a mean theme and knows how to arrange so that the theme grows in power all through a tune.
Look how they have space for the solos and dynamic ensemble playing.
Write a tune that’s simple and deep and you really got something!
Let’s give Song For My Father a few spins right now.
I got a feeling it might just gel with that Rikki song we’ve been fooling around with.
A true message always gets through.
And Donald Fagen and Walter Becker we’re always alert to those messages.
Even if they sometimes expressed those messages in code.
Of course experienced record buyers and Steely Dan fans in particular get a particular frisson from such cryptography.
Occasionally Becker and Fagen affected ennui at their audiences unceasing demand to hear Rikki every time they played a gig.
In such cases trust the song and the audience every time.
Rikki don’t lose that number
You don’t want to call nobody else
Send it off in a letter to yourself
Rikki don’t lose that number
It’s the only one you own
You might use it if you feel better
When you get home
Casting for Steely Dan :
Jeff ‘Skunk’ Baxter on lead Guitar, Dean Parks on acoustic Guitar, Michael Omartian on Piano, Jim Gordon on Drums, Victor Feldman on Percussion, Walter Becker on Bass and backing vocals, Donal Fagen on lead and backing vocals, Tim Schmidt on backing vocals.
Casting Horace Silver :
Horace Silver on Piano, Carmell Jones on Trumpet, Joe Henderson on Tenor Saxophone, Teddy Smith on Bass, Roger Humphries on Drums.
And, no one alive can survive without tidings of comfort and joy.
Comfort and Joy.
Too easy to default to dismay.
Hark! Hark! Hark!
Trust in the tidings.
Tidings of Comfort and Joy.
I have been an admirer of T Bone Burnett since his days in The Alpha band and his sojourn with Bob Dylan.
The thread connecting all his output as an Artist and Producer is an acute sense of how to establish mood spotlighting the virtues of a song through the adept balance of instrumentation and vocals.
Now for some more vintage Yuletide Jazz.
Tommy Dorsey and his Orchestra cutting quite a rug on Santa Claus Is Comin’ To Town.
Whether you’re on the naughty or the nice list this one will get your Foxtrottin’ feet gliding for the next three minutes or so.
Tommy, of course, on the Trombone.
Vocals by Cliff Weston and Edyth Wright.
Paul Weston provided the fluid arrangement.
Mac Cheikes on Guitar and Sid Stoneburn on Clarinet add the filigree.
Dylan Thomas was never going to make old bones.
When the following recording of ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales’ was made in 1952 he had less than two years to live.
He never saw his 40th birthday yet he had already, though he spent his gifts profligately, laid down a legacy of immortal incantatory poetry which will always call out to be spoken and sung.
Whatever his excesses he was a true Poet well acquainted with close and holy darkness.
Pull up your most comfortable chair and follow Dylan’s sonorous voice as he leads you spiralling through the years to the heart of a child’s Christmas.
Always on Christmas night there was music.
An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang “Cherry Ripe,” and another uncle sang “Drake’s Drum.”
It was very warm in the little house.
Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird’s Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed.
Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed.
I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
Next Alphabet Post on the 17th. M for …. Stay tuned!
Every one of us, poor as we may be, can bring a gift.
The gift of ourselves and the gifts we been given.
Our Hearts
Our Voices.
Our Drums.
Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum, When we come.
Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum That’s fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum, On my drum?
Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum Me and my drum
Bob Seger is a tough hombre who understands that tough hombres sometimes need to admit that they are not so tough (even if they are from Detroit!).
You can rely on road warrior Bob to always play his best.
A gift indeed.
Pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.
Now let’s hit a righteous Christmas groove with Jazz Maestros Jimmy Smith and Wes Montgomery.
When it comes to Organ and Guitar workouts you just can’t beat these two!
Even if it is up to your knees out there Jimmy and Wes will keep you mighty warm.
For our Poem today I turn to Jukebox Favourite Sigerson Clifford (1913 – 1985) whose ‘The Boys of Barr na Sráide’ previously featured here in the Posts for St Patrick series.
His ‘Kerry Carol’ has the stillness of the sleeping world and the hushed anticipation that precedes a great event.
And, sometimes, great events take place in the most humble of circumstances and are witnessed and understood best by the humble of heart.
Brush the floor and clean the hearth, And set the fire to keep, For they might visit us tonight When all the world’s asleep.
Don’t blow the tall white candle out But leave it burning bright, So that they’ll know they’re welcome here This holy Christmas night.
Leave out the bread and meat for them, And sweet milk for the Child, And they will bless the fire, that baked And, too, the hands that toiled.
For Joseph will be travel-tired, And Mary pale and wan, And they can sleep a little while Before they journey on.
They will be weary of the roads, And rest will comfort them, For it must be many a lonely mile From here to Bethlehem.
O long the road they have to go, The bad mile with the good, Till the journey ends on Calvary Beneath a cross of wood.
Leave the door upon the latch, And set the fire to keep, And pray they’ll rest with us tonight When all the world’s asleep.
This Christmas Eve leave your candle burning bright.
Burning bright.
Next Alphabet Post on the 15th. T for …. Don’t you dare miss it!
A very generous measure of hot buttered Rum poured.
Now, you need a smoother than smooth sound to maintain the mood.
Nothing better than Bonnie Raitt with Rhythm & Blues legend Charles Brown with a sultry duet version of, ‘Merry Christmas Baby’.
Now, don’t you feel all lit up like a Christmas Tree!
Kick back and pour yourself another (Eggnog anyone?)
Listen now to the Ramsey Lewis Trio’s perfect yuletide groove, ‘Christmas Blues’ beamed to you all the way from 1961.
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) wrote ravishing visionary poems which settle in the heart.
His Poem, ‘Advent’ will stay with you.
Recitation by Julia Koschitz.
Production and arrangement by Schönherz & Fleer.
Es treibt der Wind im Winterwalde die Flockenherde wie ein Hirt und manche Tanne ahnt, wie balde sie fromm und lichterheilig wird, und lauscht hinaus. Den weißen Wegen streckt sie die Zweige hin, bereit und wehrt dem Wind und wächst entgegen der einen Nacht der Herrlichkeit.
There in the wintry forest the wind blows a flock of snowflakes like a shepherd, and many a fir-tree guesses how soon it will be pious with holy lights, and listens. Towards the white path it stretches out its branches, ready, and braving the wind and growing toward that one Night of Glory.
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Set your Calendar now for December 11th and the next Post in the Christmas Alphabet, I for …
There’s no denying that when times are hard (and someone near you right now is having those hard times) Christmas can be a season of worry rather than wonder.
Sometimes you pray that somehow you will make it through December.
When things aren’t going well the prospect of Christmas can make you shiver more than the coldest Winter winds.
When you’ve got a family to support you’ve somehow got to hang on until the warmer winds appear.
You’ve got to make it through December.
Make it through.
Trust Merle Haggard, the working stiff’s balladeer, to tell it straight.
Let’s change the mood with some more Vintage Jazz.
Don Redman leads an All Star band featuring the imperious Tenor Saxophone of Coleman Hawkins.
I think we can safely say that now we have found those warmer winds!
Throw another log on the fire!
Trumpets : Joe Wilder, Charlie Shavers and Al Mattaliano
Trombones : Sonny Russo, Jimmy Cleveland and Bobby Byrne
Saxophones : Don Redman George Dorsey, Milt Yaner, Al Cohn, Seldon Powell and Coleman Hawkins.
Piano : Hank Jones, Guitar : George Barnes, Bass : Al Hall Drums : Osie Johnson
New York, July 1957
Thomas Hardy as Poet and Novelist proved himself to be a fearless, wintery, anatomist of the human heart.
So, his Poem, ‘The Oxen’ has for me a special poignancy in the heart wrenching desire to believe that there yet may be miracles in the gloom.
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,”
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.
*
We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.
*
So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
“Come; see the oxen kneel,
*
“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.
*
Here’s a gorgeous setting by Jonathan Rathbone sung by The Swingle Singers from their 1994 CD, ‘The Story of Christmas’.
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Set your Calendar now for December 9th and the next Christmas Alphabet Post R for …
A chance to look back at all that you have done and the things you didn’t quite get round to doing.
A chance to look forward and plan for a brighter future.
I hope you and yours have fun.
Take the time to cherish the near and the dear ones and remember those far away in time and space.
Indulge the young and the old.
Be kind to yourself.
Merry Christmas!
The Immortal Jukebox once again celebrates the season with a Christmas Alphabet stuffed with musical and poetic delights.
Let’s begin with a tender meditation from Mary Chapin Carpenter.
‘Still, still, still’ is an Austrian Weihnachtslied a Christmas Carol and a lullaby.
The melody is a mid 19th Century folk tune from Salzburg.
The German Lyric has been attributed to Georg Gotsch.
Mary’s vocal and the arrangement beautifully capture the feeling of vigil, stillness and mystery as the drifting snow wraps us in peaceful sleep while the angels keep their watch.
Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Dream, dream, dream.
Still, still, still.
Still, still, still.
Still, still, still One can hear the falling snow For all is hushed The world is sleeping Holy Star its vigil keeping Still, still, still One can hear the falling snow
Sleep, sleep, sleep ‘Tis the eve of our Saviour’s birth The night is peaceful all around you Close your eyes Let sleep surround you Sleep, sleep, sleep ‘Tis the eve of our Saviour’s birth
Dream, dream, dream Of the joyous day to come While guardian angels without number Watch you as you sweetly slumber Dream, dream, dream
Of the joyous day to come
Our next selection features a giant of Jazz, Benny Carter, who effortlessly combined wit and elegance in his arrangements and Instrumental virtuosity.
Here he is from 1936 leading his Swinging Quintet with my all time favourite version of ‘Jingle Bells’.
Hop aboard the Sleigh!
Jingle Bells was recorded in London in 1936 with Benny on Clarinet and Alto Sax, Scotland’s Tommy McQuater was on Trumpet, England’s Gerry Moore on Piano, Albert Harris on Guitar, Wally Morris on Bass and Al Graig on Drums.
Now a Poem from the great English Poet John Clare (1793-1864).
I discovered John Clare in my late teens and have been a fervent admirer of his work ever since.
His Poem, ‘Christmas Time’ is characteristically generous of heart and acutely observed.
Glad Christmas comes, and every hearth Makes room to give him welcome now, E’en want will dry its tears in mirth, And crown him with a holly bough; Though tramping ‘neath a winter sky, O’er snowy paths and rimy stiles, The housewife sets her spinning by To bid him welcome with her smiles.
Each house is swept the day before, And windows stuck with evergreens, The snow is besom’d from the door, And comfort the crowns the cottage scenes. Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks, And yew and box, with berries small, These deck the unused candlesticks, And pictures hanging by the wall.
Neighbors resume their annual cheer, Wishing, with smiles and spirits high, Glad Christmas and a happy year To every morning passer-by; Milkmaids their Christmas journeys go, Accompanied with favour’d swain; And children pace the crumpling snow, To taste their granny’s cake again.
The shepherd, now no more afraid, Since custom doth the chance bestow, Starts up to kiss the giggling maid Beneath the branch of mistletoe That ‘neath each cottage beam is seen, With pearl-like berries shining gay; The shadow still of what hath been, Which fashion yearly fades away.
The singing waits — a merry throng, At early morn, with simple skill, Yet imitate the angel’s song And chaunt their Christmas ditty still; And, ‘mid the storm that dies and swells By fits, in hummings softly steals The music of the village bells, Ringing around their merry peals.
When this is past, a merry crew, Bedecked in masks and ribbons gay, The Morris Dance, their sports renew, And act their winter evening play. The clown turned king, for penny praise, Storms with the actor’s strut and swell, And harlequin, a laugh to raise, Wears his hunch-back and tinkling bell.
And oft for pence and spicy ale, With winter nosegays pinned before, The wassail-singer tells her tale, And drawls her Christmas carols o’er. While ‘prentice boy, with ruddy face, And rime-bepowdered dancing locks, From door to door, with happy face, Runs round to claim his “Christmas-box.”
The block upon the fire is put, To sanction custom’s old desires, And many a fagot’s bands are cut For the old farmer’s Christmas fires; Where loud-tongued gladness joins the throng, And Winter meets the warmth of May, Till, feeling soon the heat too strong, He rubs his shins and draws away.
While snows the window-panes bedim, The fire curls up a sunny charm, Where, creaming o’er the pitcher’s rim, The flowering ale is set to warm. Mirth full of joy as summer bees Sits there its pleasures to impart, And children, ‘tween their parents’ knees, Sing scraps of carols off by heart.
And some, to view the winter weathers, Climb up the window seat with glee, Likening the snow to falling feathers, In fancy’s infant ecstacy; Laughing, with superstitious love, O’er visions wild that youth supplies, Of people pulling geese above, And keeping Christmas in the skies.
As though the homestead trees were drest, In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves, As though the sun-dried martin’s nest, Instead of ic’cles hung the eves; The children hail the happy day — As if the snow were April’s grass, And pleased, as ‘neath the warmth of May, Sport o’er the water froze to glass.
Thou day of happy sound and mirth, That long with childish memory stays, How blest around the cottage hearth, I met thee in my younger days, Harping, with rapture’s dreaming joys, On presents which thy coming found, The welcome sight of little toys, The Christmas gift of cousins round.
About the glowing hearth at night, The harmless laugh and winter tale Go round; while parting friends delight To toast each other o’er their ale. The cotter oft with quiet zeal Will, musing, o’er his bible lean; While, in the dark the lovers steal, To kiss and toy behind the screen.
Old customs! Oh! I love the sound, However simple they may be; Whate’er with time hath sanction found, Is welcome, and is dear to me, Pride grows above simplicity, And spurns them from her haughty mind; And soon the poet’s song will be The only refuge they can find.
Don’t hesitate to share The Christmas Alphabet as widely as possible – spread the Christmas Cheer!
Notes :
‘Still, still, still’ can be found on Mary Chapin Carpenter’s highly recommended CD, ‘Come Darkness, Come Light’.
My favourite Benny Carter compilation is a 4 CD set from Proper, ‘Music Master’.
‘John Clare : The Major Works’ from Oxford University Press is an excellent compendium of both his Poetry and his autobiographical writings.
‘John Clare : A Biography’ by Jonathan Bate from Picador is a superb critical study fully worthy of its subject.
Set Your Calendar now for December 7th and the next Christmas Alphabet Post – H for ….
Coaches and Gurus and Snake Oil salesmen will portentously promise to reveal the secret to you.
Better save your money and your time and learn the things that can be taught – vocal exercises, relaxation, the whole assembly of skills that adds up to Technique.
But Presence?
No way.
You’ve either got it or you haven’t.
The gods or muses dispose as they will.
Hard to define but easy to recognise.
Greta Garbo.
Marlon Brando.
Rudolph Nureyev.
Maria Callas.
Miles Davis.
Muhammad Ali.
Van Morrison.
Intensity.
Impact.
Cultural, emotional and spiritual impact.
You’ll recognise it when you confront it.
Mark Knopfler is a gifted songwriter and as a guitar player has undoubted Presence.
He is also canny enough to know that some songs require an extra ingredient that he does not possess.
A voice with Presence.
So, for his Song, ‘The Last Laugh’ he called up Van Morrison.
There must have been a moment in the studio as they listened back when Mark exhaled and smiled deeply as the sound of Van’s voice at the beginning of the second verse lifted the work to a wholly new level.
Presence.
Emotional and Spiritual impact.
Van Morrison.
Sing it Van!
Games you thought you’d learned
You neither lost nor won
Dreams have crashed and burned
But you’re still going on
Out on the highway with the road gang working
Up on the mountain with the cold wind blowing
Out on the highway with the road gang working
But the last laugh, baby is yours
And don’t you love the sound
Of the last laugh going down
Very few singers merit the Bold and the Italics.
Van Morrison always has and always will.
Don’t you love the Sound!
Presence.
Cultural, Emotional and Spiritual Impact.
Demonstrated time after time in studios and on stages from Belfast to Buffalo.
Hey Girl! Baby Blue. Brown Eyed Girl. Sweet Thing. Moondance..
Linden Arden.
Listen to The Lion.
The Healing has begun.
No Guru. No Method. No Teacher.
Just Van and that Voice.
It ain’t why, why, why, it just IS.
A voice capable of transcendence as only the rarest voices are.
A voice that reaches up to the Moon.
Don’t you love the Sound!
Van is 74 this week.
So, Happy Birthday Van!
A heartfelt thanks for all the Songs and all the Singing.
May your Song always be Sung.
if this is your visit to The Immortal Jukebox you are very welcome!
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There are more Posts about Van than any other artist here on The Jukebox so, in case you missed one or would like to be reminded of an old favourite here’s the Van Compendium for your delectation and delight!
Brown Eyed Girl’.
An introduction telling the tale of my headlong plunge into obsession following my first hearing of Van’s best known song.
A meditation on Time featuring 2 astounding versions of John Lee Hooker’s tender Blues Ballad. One a reaching for the stars take of a teenager the second the work of a fully realised master musician.
Preston Epps, Manu Chao, Mongo Santamaria, Jack Constanzo & Bongo Joe with a bonus of a Disney bear who’s not Ballou and 2 Nobel Prize Winners (and a tip of the hat to a third for my really savvy readers).
Sometimes you just feel unsettled.
Windows shakin’ all night in your dreams.
You can feel like you are a prisoner in a world of mystery.
No one can push that ticking clock back.
You start from here.
Maybe time to take a walk and clear the cobwebs from your head.
Far from the Towns in the rolling South Downs.
The hounds are out for their morning exercise.
The air’s so fresh you feel your heart expand.
Twang of the arrow and the snap of the bow.
What’s the thing that will snap you out of lethargy?
Maybe a trip to Tibet?
Maybe a full-length leather coat?
Or, Or, maybe those tunes rattlin’ the windows these last few nights weren’t dark forces tryin’ to get in but drums, Bongos indeed!
Bongos telling you to get up and dance.
Dance, dance, dance!
Bongo! Bongo! Bongo!
Now you think of it there’s a particular tune that always starts the windows shakin’.
What was the guy’s name?
Sharp dressed dude with a hat.
Preston Epps – how could I forget a name like that!
And, how could I ever forget, ‘Bongo Rock’!
Take it away Preston.
Bongo! Bongo! Bongo!
That’ll flat get it!
Preston, who died in May this year, appeared on many fine records as a side man but his immortality as a musician was guaranteed once he recorded Bongo Rock in 1959.
Some things you can get tired of but Bongo Rock – Never!
OK, as Ballou the Bear from The Jungle Book would say :
‘I’m gone man, solid gone!’
So, we are going to keep those Bongos going.
Bongo! Bongo! Bongo!
Now your mama might not have been queen of the mambo and your papa may not have been monarch of the Congo but as soon as Manu Chao hits his stride here you and your monkey will most assuredly know that you are the King of Bongo, baby!
Jack played with almost everyone in the Who’s Who of 20th century Jazz and Showbiz – from Frank Sinatra to Charlie Parker to The Supremes!
Have Bongos – ready to Party was Jack’s mantra.
Bongo! Bongo! Bongo!
There must be something in those Bongos because Jack almost made it to 99 before he went to play Bongos in the afterlife.
Going to finish up here with Bongo Joe.
Now, strictly speaking he doesn’t play the Bongos per se.
He actually plays the 55 Gallon Oil Drum.
But, I have to say there was no way I was going to write a post titled Bongo! Bongo! Bongo! and leave out my man Bongo Joe.
Joe started out as a ‘regular’ musician even playing piano for Sammy Davis Jr but he found his true calling when he found the sounds he could conjure from 55 gallon Oil Drums.
His birth name was George Coleman but he became and will always be remembered as Bongo Joe.
As Bongo Joe he became a legendary figure on the streets of Galveston and San Antonio over three decades.
In 1968 the ever perspicacious Chris Strachwitz at Arhoolie Records captured Joe in scorching form on his only recording, ‘George Coleman : Bongo Joe’.
Just before I moved down to the South Downs nearly three years ago I gave almost all my Vinyl to Oxfam but I kept my copy of Bongo Joe – some things are too precious to give away!
Now tell me that didn’t dispel any residual cobwebs!
Dig that whistling!
Ain’t nothin’ like the Bongos to cheer a body up.
I am just about to apply for a new Passport.
I was going to put ‘Writer’ for my Occupation but maybe in some countries that may not grant you so warm a welcome.
So, I am now resolved to write, ‘Bongocero’.
Everybody, everywhere, when you get right down to it loves the Bongos.
Bongo! Bongo! Bongo!
Bongo! Bongo! Bongo!
Bongo! Bongo! Bongo!
More Bongo Lore :
My favourite Disney character is Bongo the Bear from the excellent, ‘Fun and Fancy Free’ from 1947.
I never tire of Dinah Shore telling the story of how escaped circus bear Bongo wins the heart of Lulubelle and defeats the dangerous wild bear Lockjaw.
The story comes from Sinclair Lewis ‘book, ‘Little Bear Bongo’.
Sinclair Lewis was a Nobel Prize winner as was a very enthusiastic Bongo Player – Maverick Physicist Richard Fenyman.
Maybe getting his Bongo groove on agitated the grey cells and released those genius insights!
In 1959 then teen heartthrob Cliff Richard appeared as a character called Bongo Herbert in a, ‘Satire’ called, ‘Expresso Bongo’.
I was never a fan of Cliff’s and when I see him on TV I usually mutter – oh look there’s Bongo Herbert!
Look out for Bongo Blues on the soundtrack performed by Hank Marvin and The Shadows.
Bongoland in Tanzania means a place where people have to be smart and savvy to get ahead.
There are two fine films called Bongoland and Bongo is apparently a generic term for the Tanzanian film industry.
A favourite childhood memory of mine is watching Magicians on TV.
My particular favourite was Ali Bongo who was something of a magician’s magician twice being granted the accolade of the presidency of The Magic Circle.
Rickie Lee Jones, Fats Waller, Cab Calloway, Django Reinhardt & The Impala Troubadours.
And generous measure of chewing tobaccky and wicky-wacky- woo.
The holiday season is upon us.
As we live nestled in the South Downs we have chosen this year to explore far flung coastal towns in the East, the West and the North spending a week or so in each destination.
As our delightful Granddaughter, now 10 months old, is travelling with us there is even more planning and packing to be done before we set off.
Much more kit to be found or sourced then safely stowed.
For my part the annual deeply considered decisions about which books to take.
So, essential to have a really well compiled poetry anthology – ‘The Rattle Bag’ edited by those Himalayan figures of the poetic art, Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes, will do the job very well.
A Poetry collection by a living Poet – without question this will have to be, ‘Distance’ by Ron Carey. The emotional acuity and impact of this book ensures that it is always close at hand.
A couple of non fiction works examining aspects of my continuing obsessions.
So in respect of the American Civil War, ‘A Year in the South 1865’ by Stephen V Ash.
In respect of Popular Culture, ‘Pulp Culture – Hardboiled Fiction & the Cold War’ by Woody Haut.
An old faithful Novel that I never get tired of re-reading, ‘A Month in the Country’ by J. L Carr.
Finally, a big book that will in equal measure delight and challenge – time to get James Joyce’s ‘Finnegan’s Wake’ off the high shelf and dive in!
Opening it at random I found this :
’… aign he draws for us is as flop as a plankrieg) the twinfreer types are billed to make their reupprearance as the knew kneck and knife knick knots on the deserted champ de bouteilles.’
Now by some mysterious process of neuro chemistry this immediately had me singing a song I doubt Jim ever sang himself, ‘Nagasaki’.
Such are my thought processes!
Hot gingerbread and dynamite That’s all there is at night Back in Nagasaki where the fellows chew tobaccky And the women wicky-wacky-woo!
They got a way that they entertain They wouldn’t hurry a hurricane Back in Nagasaki where the fellows chew tobaccky And the women wicky-wacky-woo!
Fujiama, get a mama Then your troubles increase, boy! It’s south dakota you want a soda First shake me then ten cents please
They hug and kiss each night By jingo, boys, it’s worth that price! Back in Nagasaki where the fellows chew tobaccky And the women wicky-wacky-woo!
Back in Nagasaki where the fellows chew tobaccky And the women wicky-wacky-woo!
Come on you Troubadours!
Ipana for the Smile of Beauty indeed!
Yowsah! Yowsah! Yowsah!
Now don’t that just say Holiday to you!
I plan to have Nagasaki ringing out on every coast this summer!
Can’t beat that hot gingerbread.
Eternal thanks to Harry Warren and Mort Dixon for writing in 1928 a song that unfailingly sweeps away all cares and ushers in unbridled joy.
Oh yes, I’m going to let all parts of this United Kingdom know that, whatever they do round here – Back in Nagasaki the fellows chew tobaccky and the women, Lord don’t you know, they sure wicky – wacky – woo!
By jingo I think we can all agree that Nagasaki was just perfect for the Mills Brothers.
Throughout their career they had a way to entertain that wouldn’t hurry a hurricane.
I cut quite a rug to this one i can tell you!
I have read a number of biographies of the Fats Waller so I think I can safely assert that fellows chewing tobaccy and women very well versed in the arts of the wicky-wacky- woo! were everyday experiences for the great man.
Imagine your delight as you quaffed another cocktail in your favourite speakeasy to see Fats sitting down at the piano.
Now, an all night jumpin’ jamboree is 100 per cent guaranteed!
You bring the hot gingerbread – Fats will bring the musical dynamite.
Don’t matter whether the bar is in South Dakota, Fujiyama, Hunstanton or Nagasaki, Fats is going to set the place alight!
I’m calling on each of you to supply your own vocal here ….
Funnily enough when I played back my own vocal to Fats’ incomparable piano pyrotechnics I found that ol’ Cab Calloway took exactly the same approach as me.
You want a Soda?
Fine, I’ve been drinking something far stronger and it sure does wonders for your ability to remember lyrics and the precision of your enunciation.
Time to chew more of that tobaccky and seek out that wicky-wacky-woo!
In the same way that Fats Waller could drop all jaws playing the 88 Keys no one astonished 6 string afficianados more than Django Reinhardt.
Genius is a term to be used sparingly but Django fully merits the accolade.
Freddie Taylor supplies the vocal to the guitar wizardry.
However many cents I have to shake down to get a Jukebox fired up to play this one is a pure bargain.
To conclude let’s put ourselves in the very capable hands of Rickie Lee Jones.
Rickie, an official Jukebox favourite, is as Hep as you can get and don’t she prove it with her joyful jive take on Nagasaki.
No one needs to teach Rickie anything about that old Wicky-Wacky- Woo!
That’ll do just nicely!
Just before we left for our trip I read an article which provided sage advice on how to ensure you had a happy and heartening holiday.
But you don’t want to hear those hoary homilies.
No, just follow the tried and tested recipe :
Hot gingerbread and dynamite …
Nothing like that tobaccky and wicky-wacky-woo to revive the spirit!
The Immortal Jukebox 