The Mysterious Michael Marmarosa - [aka] Dodo Marmarosa [From the Archives]

 © -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

As was the case with pianist Al Haig, who was the subject of a recent feature on these pages, Michael “Dodo” Marmarosa was another excellent pianist from Bebop’s early days who left the New York scene and faded into obscurity. Although, unlike Al, who remained in music albeit somewhat “stage left” of the major developments in Jazz, Dodo returned to his native Pittsburgh and seemingly just vanished.

Thankfully, Dr. Robert Sunenblick, the owner-operator of Uptown Music, a label that records Jazz artists who are deserving of wider recognition while also specializing in discovering “lost tapes” and obscure live recordings, found Dodo alive and well in Pittsburgh and interviewed him in 1995.

Dr. Sunenblick’s interview with Dodo forms a portion of the insert notes to Uptown’s Dodo Marmarosa: Pittsburgh, 1958 [[UPCD 27.44] which is made up of live performances by Dodo and his trio which were recorded at the Midway Lounge in Pittsburgh, PA. It also includes music from Dodo’s appearance on local television program entitled Jazz Scene, an appearance at the University of Pittsburgh Student Union and some private recordings that Dodo made as part of a quintet of local Jazz musicians.

A lot of well-known jazz pianists came from Pittsburgh - Earl Hines, Mary Lou Williams, Erroll Garner, Ahmad Jamal, Horace Parlan, Sonny Clark, and Johnny Costa (and Billy Strayhorn - if one counts him as a pianist). Perhaps the most unusual story involves Michael ‘Dodo' Marmarosa, who in 1946-47 was everyone's favorite pianist out on the West Coast. When the recording ban (1948) caused the L.A. jazz scene to fizzle, most of the beboppers headed East to New York City. Marmarosa went back to Pittsburgh, and, except for a fleeting appearance in Chicago in the early sixties, was never heard from again.

Serious medical problems was the cause given by most writers to explain his absence from the national scene. Leonard Feather described "the slow slide into obscurity as spelled P-I-T-T-S-B-U-R-G-H." Dodo did go back to family and stability (Pittsburgh); nevertheless, he continued playing regularly and became prominent locally. Feather described him as one of "the great Might Have Beens." But he was there in Pittsburgh for the finding - and occasionally there was even a blurb in the Downbeat calendar (Strictly Ad Lib). Once a musician is out of the national spotlight, the press exposure and the recordings stop, and Dodo 'disappeared’.

Always unassuming, unable to appreciate his creativity or brilliance, two events in the 1950's almost brought about his real disappearance - his wife leaving him (with the resultant loss' of his two daughters) and a short, but harrowing Army experience in 1954 where he was drafted, labeled crazy, hospitalized, given shock treatments, and then discharged three months later. Back home, Dodo became even more remote. He lived day-to-day, seeking no gigs on his own - jobs came because a friend would call him (especially Danny Conn). But he practiced continually, his entire world revolving around the piano. Full of self-doubts, he was unable to share his music - on some nights if you were there and heard him that was enough - no questions, no compliments, no requests, no encores. On other nights, he was very congenial. His family, first generation Italian, rejected any professional help, looking upon this as a stigma.

During 1946-47, Marmarosa was among the most recorded musicians in L.A. He was frequently present when the small post-war record labels had sessions (Atomic, IRRA, Dial, Beltone, Sunset, Down Beat, Keynote). His versatility and exceptional reading abilities led musicians of varying styles to seek him out - Charlie Parker (twice), Benny Carter, Willie Smith, Lester Young, Wardell Gray, Lucky Thompson, Howard McGhee, Barney Kessel, and even Slim Gaillard. In addition to appearing with the L.A.-based Boyd Raeburn Orchestra, he was often on the bill of Gene Norman's large extravagant concerts (Just Jazz) in Pasadena. Dial and Atomic Records even recorded him as a leader (the Dials coming out several years later on an early 10 inch LP, Piano Moods). But the session that brought the young pianist the most attention was the March 28, 1946 Dial date with Charlie Parker (Ornithology,Night In Tunisia, Yardbird Suite, Moose The Mooche). In early 1947, Esquire magazine included him (along with Miles Davis and Lucky Thompson from the same session) among their New Star awards. This prestigious honor in a widely circulated publication placed him among the top piano stylists of the day (the jazz writers polled by Esquire also chose among their New Stars, Ray Brown, Milt Jackson, Sonny Stitt, and Sarah Vaughan!).

When he left Pittsburgh at age 16, he was a fully-formed classically trained pianist. At age 9, his parents thought they had the next boy classical genius, but Dodo started listening to jazz over the radio. He ran into Erroll Garner (who attended a different high school), and together they practiced, exchanged ideas, and would often hang out at the home of Tootsie Davis, an older pianist who provided encouragement and guidance.

After a few local appearances (with Brad Hunt's society orchestra and with vocalist/guitarist Billy Yates), Dodo joined the Johnny ‘Scaf Davis band. Dodo's father literally dragged people to his house to hear his son play. When lead trumpeter Jimmy Pupa (who had made his reputation with Red Nichols and Bunny Berigan, and was with Davis at the time) heard Dodo, he recommended him. As was wont in those times, the wartime draft made it very difficult for bands to maintain personnel, and bands with more financial backing frequently raided other bands seeking musicians. Within months, Gene Krupa raided the Davis band, hiring most of the musicians, including Dodo, but soon after, the band broke up when Krupa was arrested and jailed for marijuana possession.

Dodo, Jimmy Pupa, and Buddy DeFranco (from the Davis band) made a pact which meant, according to Pupa, that "if one of us got hired on a good band, we would see to it that the rest of us got hired too." After Krupa, they joined in succession the bands of Ted Fio Rito, Charlie Barnet and Tommy Dorsey. With Krupa and Dorsey, Dodo was featured in small groups. (After Krupa's release from prison, Dorsey re-united the original group - Krupa, DeFranco, Dodo - for a V Disc session). Charlie Barnet also highlighted the young pianist on a Decca recording when he renamed the Ralph Burns' composition Dick Tracy Liquidates 88 Keys, The Moose (“The Moose” was another name Barnet called Marmarosa).

In late 1944, Dodo joined the high-profile Artie Shaw big band and obtained national exposure through the many recordings for RCA Victor and Musicraft, especially the hot combo within the band, The Grammercy Five. Although the small group recorded only 6 sides (also featuring Roy Eldridge and Barney Kessel) the records became very popular on the radio. Shaw disbanded in Los Angeles in November 1945, and Dodo stayed out on the West Coast, joining Boyd Raeburn. Raeburn led a large experimental band which provided an outlet for adventurous composers, arrangers and young musicians. During a typical concert, in the middle of the impressionistic George Handy compositions and sultry vocals by Ginnie Powell, Marmarosa was introduced to play a few solo pieces.

A post-war population boom occurred in Los Angeles with the migration of many southern Blacks to the new factory and shipyard jobs. Little jazz clubs sprung up everywhere with the focus being on Central Avenue in south L.A. and the chic Billy Berg's supperclub in Hollywood. Musicians of all styles made the migration, but the new music, bebop, was introduced by its flag-bearers Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker when they opened at Billy Berg's in December 1945. Parker spent much of 1946-47 (although he was hospitalized 6 months from July 46 - Jan. 47) on the West Coast, leaving in April 1947. Jazz promoters Gene Norman (Just Jazz) and Norman Granz (JATP) booked large auditoriums for all-star concerts. Marmarosa was at the center of this activity. He lived in a little two-story house in a working class neighborhood in Hollywood, practiced continually on his rented Steinway upright, wrote music and dreamed. He painted the inside of his bathtub green (to resemble the South Seas) and waited for the next call. He made a lot of recordings, but interestingly never worked with any of the leaders who called him (except for Lester Young, Wardell Gray and Benny Carter). He made the rounds of the after-hours clubs, and even appeared as a solo feature at both Billy Berg's and the 400 Club (on Western Ave.) in Hollywood. And then James Petrillo, the autocratic head of the American Federation of Musicians called for a recording ban, and it all slowly ground to a halt.

Dodo returned to Pittsburgh and played local gigs until the late 1960’s when he “retired” from making public appearances. His last gig was as a solo pianist at the Colony Restaurant in his home town. The owner of the restaurant really cared for Dodo and picked him up and drove him to the gig every night.

Dodo died in 2002.

INTERVIEW conducted by Robert Sunenblick, MD with Michael “Dodo” Marmorosa

JUNE 19, 1995, PITTSBURGH, PA.

RS: How did you get the name Dodo?

Dodo: When I was a little kid, my parents used to ask me, "What's your name?", and I couldn't say Michael. They gave me the name Michael. I don't know why. So, I ended up with Dodo. It stuck with me. I started playing and everybody called me that. So I said, well, I didn't really like the name, but...

RS: The Moose was a name that Charlie Barnet made up for you [based on a song title]?

Dodo: Ya

RS: Did band members call you Moose?

Dodo: Ya, they used to call me Moose.

RS: The real name of the song was Dick Tracy Liquidates 88 Keys?

Dodo: Just The Moose. You know Ralph Burns, the great arranger. He wrote it for

himself and then he left the band and then I joined. Barnet said Well, Dick Tracy

Liquidates 88 Keys is no good, we will call it The Moose. It wouldn't fit on the label.

RS: Erroll Garner...You knew him when you were in high school? Dodo: Right

RS: And you used to go down to Tootsie Davis’ house and you used to practice?

Dodo: Right

RS: Who was Tootsie Davis?

Dodo: He was a piano player. I don't know what he did for a living. I think he was on welfare or something. He and his wife lived in a house and we would go there in the afternoon, four o'clock… after I got out of school... I would listen most of the time... The first time I ever heard any jazz was when Erroll played. I studied classical piano, and one time I ran into him. I met Erroll and he played for me. It's the beginning of my influence in jazz... what started me out. I said, "Erroll, that's good. I want to play."

RS: Who were some of the influences that...I mean everybody gets asked this thing...

Dodo: You mean piano?

RS: Ya.. .or even somebody that wasn't a piano player that sort of influenced you?

Dodo: Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins,

Chu Berry, Benny Carter...

RS:You recorded with Benny Carter didn't you?

Dodo: I worked with him. That's one group I did work with in Hollywood. Billy Berg's [club].

RS: What role did Art Tatum or Teddy Wilson or Bud Powell have on your piano?

Dodo: I used to listen to their records. Art Tatum, Teddy Wilson, and Billie Holiday's group, you know the group they had with Teddy Wilson, Roy Eldridge…

RS: Was Art Tatum one of the people that influenced you?

Dodo: I used to listen to all his records. I used to buy his records. Had a little record store on Broad Street where the Hunting and Fishing Club is. When I was going to high school, they used to have a little record store in there, and I used to have a little money. My Dad would allow me so much spending money. I was just starting out listening to jazz and I used to go in and get records of Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Teddy Wilson and Billie Holiday. And those records like that and they influenced me, naturally. They influenced everybody. Dodo: Benny Goodman's quartet records were marvelous. I used to listen to them with Johnny Guarnieri and Artie Bernstein, I think was the bass player, and I don't know the drummer, Nick Fatool. They made some good recordings. Air Mail Special and Poor Butterfly and The Sheik. Guarnieri was a great piano player. He had a wild left hand. He played something I could never do, something I could play with two hands, he could play with his left hand. Halleluiah. Have you ever heard of that record? I could never do that 'cause it takes time to get from here to there, and I thought how the hell does this guy do that. It always amazed me how he did that. It sounds reasonable, you know. You play the roots and then you have to play a chord. It takes time to get from here to there.

RS: The first trio recording you were in was the Krupa one, wasn't it? Dodo: VDisc. Liza and The Man I Love, Hodge Podge.

RS: I thought there were just two songs?

Dodo: There were four all together. Three or four songs. I think probably 4.

RS: Was there also a trio within Tommy Dorsey's band?

Dodo: Quartet. Buddy Rich, Buddy DeFranco, Sidney Block, and myself.

RS: And on the live performance, he would feature the quartet?

Dodo: Yes. That was good, boy. Buddy Rich, he was something else, great drummer, the greatest. Buddy, he'd just gotten out of the Marines. Nobody liked him, but I got along good with him. I don't know, maybe I shouldn't have said that. He was hard to make friends with or something, but we got to be real good friends. We drove around in his car. He used to take me out in his convertible. Mel Torme was with us. We used to go out to the beach, drive around, you know. Buddy was something else. Then he got his own band. They were playing the Palladium one night. I went there after he got his own band.

RS: The Lester Young recording, how did that come about?

Dodo: Well, I was staying at a hotel in Hollywood, and I went back to my hotel in the morning and they said there's a note for you from Lester Young. He wants you to be at the Radio Recorders at 11 in the morning, the record date. So I thought... I went to my room lor a while and rested. I went at 11 o'clock and met him In the recording room. He was sitting in the corner, you know, he was sitting all by himself and said, “OK, play these tunes in E-flat..."

RS: Was Freddy Green on that recording?

Dodo: No

RS: How did the Charlie Parker thing come about?

Dodo: Same way., He called me for a date. I had an apartment, a small house. I just got calls from different people and they would ask me to make a date. I stayed there about three or four years and did lots of recording dates.

RS: When was the first time you met Charlie Parker? Was it because Dizzy sat in one night with Charlie Barnet? Did that ever happen?

Dodo: Ya, I think so. Dizzy played a couple of shows with Barnet when I first met him. We got to be pretty good friends. I used to go up to 52nd Street and listen to these guys play and he was playing the Downbeat. I'd go and listen to Erroll Gamer. I was playing with Artie [Shaw’s orchestra] and I'd go up and listen to Erroll Garner. He was playing with, I forget he had a trio. I'd go up there, have a few drinks, and listen you know, and then they said, "Here's the Downbeat." I went over to the Onyx club, Ben Webster was playing across the street at the Onyx club. I used to go over and listen to him and then I went over to the Downbeat a couple of times. Diz was playing over there. He had a couple of other guys and they asked me to sit in one night. They played, "Sweet Georgia Brown" in really fast tempo. I couldn't keep up. I was playing all kinds... some things playing half-time instead of playing four beats. That's pretty fast.

RS: After the Charlie Parker recording, did you ever play with him live at the Finale Club?

Dodo: No

RS: So it was just a recording and you never played with him live?

Dodo: No

RS: And then after that it seems like there was a group with Howard McGhee and

Teddy Edwards. Did you play with them at the Finale Club?

Dodo: I never played there,  no.

RS: But you had a group with Lucky Thompson, is that correct?

Dodo: A recording. We never worked. The only one I ever worked with was

Lester. We worked for one week, three days, or something like that. I forgot

where we played. I think it was San Diego. I'm not sure...

RS: Did you ever play live with Slim Gaillard?

Dodo: Recordings

RS: Wardell Gray?

Dodo: Ya, I may have played with him.

RS: What about Barney Kessel?

Dodo: He played on my recordings.

RS: When you got back from the West Coast the only band you joined around that time was Artie Shaw? Is that correct?

Dodo: Ya, in 1949...I think it was

RS: For how long?

Dodo: About a couple of weeks.

RS: And they broke up?

Dodo: No, no, they didn't break up. I got drunk when I was playing in the Officer's Club and I broke some windows. I pushed a plate glass window. I was drunk... they said, "You're subversive... or something like that. I'm going to have to let you go. I don't want to, but you will get me in trouble if I keep you on the band. It was a good band, a swinging band. Al Cohn would play tenor in that band, DonFagerquist [trumpet]...

RS: What about that recording that took place with Jazz Wallace and Thomas Mandrus.

Dodo: Let's see... They called me at home and said, "Do you want to make a date with your own group," and I said, "OK", so he said, "You take your musicians and go Sunday." The guy who supervised the recording... his name was Bass... Ralph Bass. I think it was if I’m not mistaken.

RS: Was that originally done for Savoy Records? They recorded it?

Dodo: They recorded it in Pittsburgh. New York label I think. They sent a man in to supervise the recording. Hyde? George Hyde.

RS: Did you ever play anywhere with Jazz Wallace or Tom Mandrus?

Dodo: I played with Tom Mandrus. Never worked anywhere with Jazz Wallace.

RS: How did he get picked for the date?

Dodo: I knew of him. Joe Wallace. They used to call him Jazz, right. Marvelous, he's still going.

RS: Did you ever get to New York City after you came back from California? You went to Chicago, but did you ever go to New York?

Dodo: When I first came back that's when I joined Artie's band. I went to New York. It was in 1949. We ployed a couple of one-nighters in Maine and Canada.

RS: Which place in Canada?

Dodo: Montreal, I think. I think we played there or we just stopped there. We were in a big hotel and all kinds of clothes.I had never seen a place as beautiful... really nice.

RS: The last place you ever played was the Colony Restaurant?

Dodo: Ya

RS: Did you ever play after that professionally, in any clubs, festivals,

anything like that?

Dodo: No

RS: When you made the Argo recording and you picked a lot of those tunes, I guess Leonard Feather made some remark about the kinds of tunes you picked.

Dodo: He wasn't too fond of it. Well, I didn't pick all of them. Jack Tracy was the producer. I improvised a little thing they called, Tracy's Blues, or I suggested they call it that...minor thing.

RS: So he picked some of those tunes, April Plays The Fiddle, Me And My Shadow, Why Do I Love  You.

Dodo: No, Why Do I Love You was my choice.

RS: The album opens with Mellow Mood. That's beautiful.

Dodo: Well, I wrote that when I was 14 years old.

RS: You recorded that more than once, didn't you?

Dodo: Yes, with Jackie Mills, I'd forgotten it for a long time, of course. I never had the introduction for it. Sorta weird introduction. Just sorta came to me... Fourth of minor, Fourth minor, minor, major... than a major on 5th and said, well that would be good. It was a nice record. It wasn't real modern or anything.

RS: Did you ever join Johnny ‘Scaf Davis again?

Dodo: Ohya.

RS: When was that?

Dodo: In I960, around there sometime. I don't remember how It came about. Let's see. I was in Chicago. I was staying on the North side, and I got a call from somebody. Bass player, I think it was and he said, "You want to come out and join 'Scat's' band? Come out and listen to us play. They were in another part of town. I heard the band. They had a piano player and he left the band, and I joined the next night, for about a month and a half, two months, or something I like that.

RS: Tell me about being in Chicago.

Dodo: I went there with Tubby (Vitullo). We had a big apartment, two beds in each room. Tubby and I shared one room and the bass player Murray Horn and Jerry Morris, the drummer in the 'Scat' quartet. .. Tubby used to go around town and everything. He'd drive me in my car. I had a little 1950 Ford, and he'd drive me to work and then he'd take the car and there was plenty of gas in it. He didn't have any money or anything, but I just took him along 'cause he was a good buddy of mine. If he wanted to go on a vacation, I'd say come along with me and we'd go to Chicago. We'd start off, I'd say, "We'll go to the coast, you know, 'cause I wanted to see my wife and kids. When I got married, we moved to California and we got separated and all that and I went back to Pittsburgh. I wanted to go back out there to see them, so I'd say, "Come out with me," and he'd help me drive. I said, "You don't need any money." I had all the money. I gave him half of the money to put in his pocket. I kept the other half, so at least he had some money and then he’d pay for the gas or I'd pay for the food. You know, back and forth. Make him feel like it was... He was a good guy.

RS: How far did you get?

Dodo: We got near Chicago and he was driving and he said, I don't think this car is going go make it." He said, "I think we better go up to Chicago." I said, "Okay, you know about cars more than I do. If you say it won't make it, it won't make it." So we went up to Chicago on the North side. We got a hotel room together and we got this little place... you know where... Sir Gants is in Chicago? On the North side. I guess he'd probably been there before 'cause he knew where it was or something and I think I got a job playing in the bar. I played there a while and I had a good time and then Tubby moved east to his own apartment over at the St. Lawrence Hotel. He got a job working in a shoe store, and then I got the job with 'Scat Davis in the country somewhere. It was a big night club. It had just opened. I drove out with Murray the bass player and I let Tubby have the car. We had a good time. It was a good experience.

RS: How did the Argo recording come about?

Dodo: Joe Segal drove me out. He had to go somewhere. He drove me out from downtown Chicago to Sir Gants. He said I'll pick you up. That was the night I got drunk, drinking all this wine. I was supposed to have a job and then he said we're going to have some recordings. I didn't get the job 'cause I acted like a damn fool, but I was drunk, you know. If I was sober, I'd never think of doing such a thing. But this wine, boy. I can't drink wine worth nothing. (Note: Sir Gants was a restaurant/bar on the North side of Chicago.)

RS: So when he called the recording and you got in the studio, had you ever seen Richard Evans or Marshall Thompson before?

Dodo: No, no.

RS: He's tasty isn't he, Marshall Thompson

Dodo: Oh, beautiful. Richard Evans, beautiful bass player. I was very happy with that day. A lot of people didn't like it, but a lot of: people told me I thought you were good. It's not real modern or anything like that. I was trying to be a little on the commercial side you know. Sometimes you play too far out and people don't understand it. I wanted to get some gigs out of it. Get the record out and get some good gigs out of it. But I'm sort of happy with it.

Dodo: I wrote a lyric to Mellow Mood. I never had a lyric, but I wrote a lyric to it. Tell me what you think of this lyric.

There's a moon on high

There's a reason why

It's a Mellow Moon

Way up high.

It's a night in June

There's a lovely tune

It's A Mellow Moon. I put in

Moon instead of Mood.

This night in June

Stars up in the sky

Know the reason why

Skies are blue

Rain begins to fall

There's no moon at all

Let the raindrops fall

I could care at all

When the moon's on high

Everyone stops to sigh

It's a Mellow Moon, Mellow Moon.

RS: Do you remember being on the TV program with Danny (Conn)?

Dodo: It was after the Argo recording. It hadn't been released yet. It was released the next year. (On the TV program), We played Devil Moon and I played the first part twice. It was wrong the way I played it. Before the TV show, we had a rehearsal in the afternoon and then we went out to get something to eat and came back and we were in a different state of mind. Then we did a thing on Gone With The Wind. And Dodo's Blues. I didn't put that name on it. Dodo's Blues is the one I wrote on the other side of Mellow Mood, the original, the first one with Jackie Mills and Ray Brown on Atomic Records.”

The Birth of the Newport Jazz Festival by Burt Goldblatt

 © Copyright ® Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

Judging from the following excerpts from Burt Goldblatt’s Newport Jazz Festival: The Illustrated History [1977], jealous rivalries among the wealthy “high society” set in the 1950s seems to have played a significant role in the advent of the Newport Jazz Festival.

Boredom and ennui were also involved to some degree.

John Maxon who was the director of the Rhode Island School of Design during this period and the originator of the idea of a Jazz Festival in Newport is quoted as having said: “The thing which I think is particularly important is that Newport is a very strange place. They really are terribly unimpressed. They're bored and worldly, but they are nice people, and they're terribly grateful for something new.…”

"The Festival was a peculiar phenomenon of the fifties. It could never have happened in the sixties, and it happened at a particular point in the evolution of popular music. It happened in Newport, and that was the only place it could have happened." [Emphasis mine]

With Jazz Festival now a commonplace occurrence on an international level, I thought it might be fun to have a look back at the granddaddy of them all and how it all began from an observer who was there from the very beginning.

“During the summer of 1953 retired philanthropist George Henry Warren, a New Yorker whose family had been summer residents of Newport for many years, and his wife hosted a garden luncheon at their home near the Old Stone Mill. Among the dozen guests was the director of the Rhode Island School of Design, John Maxon, who remembers the occasion quite vividly: "It was a thoroughly proper Newport summer lunch, with the least likely people ever to be involved in jazz. George Warren would have had his back north. It was a curving table, arranged so that the sun would not be in the guests' eyes." The Louis P. Lorillards were among the guests. Louis was tall, round-faced, and balding. "Always impeccably dressed, but a bland and colorless guy."

In a Festival board meeting report of December 5, 1955, Lorillard made this evaluation of his position: "I am President for some reason. Probably because of being called a producer. If anything goes wrong, I have to produce something out of my own pocket to make up the difference. But I am not a technician in jazz. Basically my job is to pull things together. I don't intend to keep this job forever. I am sure that if it is deemed necessary, a professional musician or technician in jazz will gladly take my job over. Then I can go back to the travel business where I belong."

During the summer of 1953 the Lorillards had helped in the presentation of two concerts by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, trying to bring some life into the community. The concerts, planned to be held out of doors at the Newport Casino, were forced by inclement weather to be held in the casino theater, which had poor acoustics. Elaine Lorillard later commented, "Hardly anyone came." The concerts were a financial flop. In addition, as Maxon said, "While it was not a pickup orchestra, I don't think the concerts could have been held any other place that would have made it sound any better.

"At the luncheon, Mrs. Lorillard, sitting on my right, was complaining about the way the concerts were going. Brahms was being discussed, and I remember saying, 'Well, why do you put on a music festival for which there is no particular desire or reason, which are the standard things you hear anyhow? Do you really think people want to hear what they undoubtedly hear in the wintertime? They would like to hear something different. If you want to do something, why don't you put on a jazz festival? It would be a wild success. You can't fail.’ 

The great virtue of the Jazz Festival in its early days was putting on material that hadn't been heard too often. I think there was a great deal of naivete on the part of Mr. Wein, and that primordial innocence on the part of the city fathers of Newport. The thing which I think is particularly important is that Newport is a very strange place. They really are terribly unimpressed. They're bored and worldly, but they are nice people, and they're terribly grateful for something new. The colonists' reaction to the jazz festival, not the city fathers', is rather like their reaction to the annual hurricane; it was something over which they had very little control, and you went on with what you had to do. I never knew whether Louis or Elaine were remotely interested in it or whether it was a permutation of their relationship. Elaine had her motivations, and I'm sure that Louis had his."

(John Hammond, jazz critic and confidant of many well-known musicians, said later, "Louis couldn't carry a tune, except for a couple of things played by Count Basie.")

"The Festival was a peculiar phenomenon of the fifties. It could never have happened in the sixties, and it happened at a particular point in the evolution of popular music. It happened in Newport, and that was the only place it could have happened."

Patrick O'Higgins, author of the best seller Madame (about Helena Rubinstein, whose advisor he was), also handled publicity for the Festival for three years. In a recent interview he stated, "The Lorillards were eminently respectable in every way, but Elaine wasn't liked by most of the ladies because they feared her, or they feared that she was cleverer or more amusing or whatever. I think what happened was, they said we'll all go to this bloody Festival because it's going to be a terrible flop. Mrs. Lorillard was going to be chased out of town, and much to their surprise it had the exact opposite effect."

George Frazier (former entertainment editor of Life and columnist on the entertainment world), in Esquire, August 1955, quoted George Wein, the Festival's director, on the Newport old guard: "They resented jazz musicians coming into Newport, but they'll never be able to do anything about it, because the Festival is backed by one of their most respected members, Louis Lorillard, who will fight for his convictions even at the expense of being branded a traitor to his own class."

“Elaine Lorillard," Patrick O'Higgins said, "has always remained a marvelous friend to me and I love her dearly, but in a way I think that it was Elaine's revenge on Newport. In a strange way she just wanted to let Mrs. Van Alen [society matron from one of Newport's first families] know. 'Look what I can do.' I've been on Bailey's Beach [the strip of sand and rocks reserved only for the wealthy] and seen ladies suddenly disappear into a cabana so they wouldn't have to say hello to her."

John Maxon laughed. "It always amused me that innocent chit chat had more effect on more people than anything else I've ever done. The truth of the matter is, I did give Elaine the idea, and from then on it went." When I asked John Maxon why he never attended a Festival, he replied. "The idea simply never occurred to me."

Elaine thought about Maxon's suggestion, discussing it with her husband over the rest of the summer. In the fall she made periodic trips to Boston. "Eddie Condon was the only jazz person I knew socially," she said. "I was trying to put the idea into a more concrete form and Eddie suggested Ernie Anderson [producer of jazz concerts and friend to many musicians]. He sent a wire off to Ernie, but he was off in Europe, so I got in touch with a very good friend of mine, Sylvia Marlowe, a harpsichordist. I knew that at one time she had played some boogie-woogie, so that she was sympatico with jazz. I came to New York to see her, and she arranged a meeting with John Hammond. When we discussed the project, he was very enthusiastic."

Hammond made a number of suggestions about who could pull it all together, and among the names was George Wein's. An interesting combination, Mrs. Lorillard and Wein were polar opposites in almost everything except their interest in jazz. She is pretty, lively, and full of life. Patrick O'Higgins described Wein as "shrewd, tough, but there is a great deal of sweetness in him, and he does know his business. He's a jazz impresario the way Mr. Zeigfeld was a Broadway impresario. I've seen George Wein at work, and I've always admired the way he conducted himself. I think he always treated everyone fairly."

For years Wein has been a source of controversy in the music community. He has a saving sense of humor and a guttural, choppy laugh, but his earthiness rubs many people the wrong way. His organizational ability and shrewdness are as undeniable as his lack of sensitivity in his dealings in the music business.

Willis Conover's may be the voice more people hear around the world than any other. Five nights a week, in every part of the world except the United States, he is the jazz voice of the Voice of America. Willis also was the master of ceremonies of the Newport Jazz Festival from 1955 to 1962. In 1957, he was elected to its board of directors. He also supervised the recording and broadcasting of the Festival for overseas transmission. Conover offered this analysis: "George, after all, has proved that he knew what he was doing because he's now running the Newport Jazz Festival. I think there's no question that from the beginning George felt that the Newport Festival was George Wein's festival; at least he always said, 'my festival,' 'my musicians,' my this, and my that. Occasionally my jesting with people takes a cruel turn, and I'm afraid I did it with him when I said, 'Please don't say "my master of ceremonies" to me.'

"My objection to George as a programmer has been that he makes decisions that to me seem influenced by questions of publicity rather than of good programing. George is a sucker for a celebrity, particularly a celebrity outside of jazz. He doesn't need to be. He's a celebrity. He has a lot on the ball. Just as he didn't have to in the old days try so hard to prove that he wasn't cultured, by talking and acting like one of us low-class jazz types. This to me was a kind of insult to the musicians, to say I'm just as bad as you are, in effect. It seems to me, and I exaggerate the point, that if Jesus came back to earth, he would try to get him to get up and MC one night, even if he knew nothing about jazz."

John Hammond said in a later interview: "I have never known George to retain animosity. I can cite case after case where people have screamed at George and written horrible things about him and said worse things, and it rolls off George's back. Frankly, I think George is one hell of a guy. George is a man of tremendous integrity. He has taken some of the most terrible financial beatings I've ever seen and bounced right back. When they closed up the Festival that last year at Newport, he was a broken-hearted man, but he bounced right back. You've got to be tough to run a festival."

George Wein ran a jazz club called Storyville, located in the Hotel Copley Square in Boston. He had been playing piano in a group led by the brilliant jazz drummer Jo Jones, who had sparked Count Basie's great orchestra during the thirties and forties. A few days after they had played together Jo put his arm around his employer's shoulder in a fatherly gesture and declared, "George, you have to make up your mind whether you want to run a nightclub or play the piano. I'm sorry, but I just can't use you." Wein later laughed about the incident, agreeing wholeheartedly that he had played badly.

On the other hand, Budd Johnson, the fine tenor sax man and fatherly figure in the jazz world, told me, "George is all right as long as he's doing his own thing. He plays very good in his bag. I've never seen him force himself on anybody."

"I met George on one of my Boston trips, two weeks before the George Henry Warren party," Elaine Lorillard said. “After dinner with my brother [Tom Guthrie], we went at his suggestion to Storyville to hear some jazz."

At that meeting also was Donald Born, professor of English and the humanities at Boston University. Tom Guthrie had been a student of Born's, and he introduced Elaine to the professor. When Born commiserated with her about the failure of her Philharmonic concerts, Elaine replied that she would be much more interested in putting on a jazz festival. Born knew George Wein and brought him over to the bar to meet them.

Wein acted with complete indifference to the suggestion that a jazz festival be organized. In the August 18, 1967. issue of Holiday magazine Wein described that meeting: "There was this society woman at the club that night talking to me about jazz concerts and Newport. I'd never thought about Newport before then, but I figured it might work, and I knew I wanted to do more in life than own a jazz club, and so I kept saying, 'Sure, sure, but call me in a couple of days if you're really interested,' half knowing that these people wander into the club and unburden themselves of some great project and never call you back, and half hoping that she would."

Elaine Lorillard received a note about a week later from Terri Turner, George's girl Friday. "Evidently George had mentioned it to her, and Terri. a jazz enthusiast, had talked George into getting in touch with Louis and me. She said, 'Why don't we come down and talk to you about it, because I think it's a great idea!' Charlie Bourgeois, Terri Turner, George Wein, my husband, Louis, and I were present at that meeting. Meanwhile, Louis had talked to the people at the Newport Casino because we were going to do it whether we got George or whoever. I'm not trying to downgrade George, but it's about time that my husband, Terri, and I got credit for having been the forerunners of the Festival."

James A. Van Alen, president of the Newport Casino and himself a member of one of the socially prominent Newport families, was eventually convinced that the casino could function as a concert site without harm coming to the tennis facilities.

The casino's board of governors voted unanimously to allow its use for the Festival for the nominal sum of $350. Louis P. Lorillard's grandfather had been one of the casino's founders; Louis P. Lorillard was a director of a prominent Newport bank and a board member of the casino. The Newport Casino was having financial difficulties; it wasn't as heavily endowed then as it is today. Somehow, all these factors helped to smooth the way.

In late fall of 1953 George Wein was selected to organize the Festival. The Lorillards deposited twenty thousand dollars in an account to defray expenses for the talent to be booked. They helped find sponsors among some of the country's leading scholars and musicians, including Cleveland Amory, author of The Last Resorts; Marshall Stearns, associate professor of English at Hunter College in New York City; Father Norman O'Connor, chaplain of the Newman Club at Boston University, sometimes referred to as 'the jazz priest"; John Hammond ; and Leonard Bernstein, composer and conductor of the New York Philharmonic.

The Lorillards. leaving Wein in charge, then took off in April of 1954 for a vacation in Capri.

To Wein's everlasting credit, with the Festival barely three months away, he was able to line up talent and make arrangements for it. The man he could not have functioned without was Charlie Bourgeois. Charlie, once a bartender at the Boston Health Club, had presented a series of piano jazz concerts at John Hancock Hall. One musician described him to me as "the man who knew where everything was at and how to get it."

In the August 1955 Esquire article Wein described his problems in organizing the Festival: "My biggest aggravation was talent. Everybody apparently decided to ask way above what they usually got. They didn't seem to realize that the Festival was a nonprofit project and that if I made any money the surplus went to assist musicians and jazz in general. The prices I had to pay were absurd. I almost lost my mind because last year the bookers held us up. The bookers never thought it was an authentic thing, a nonprofit thing. They just thought it was a George Wein promotion to make a dollar. Stan Kenton asked for two thousand dollars for two nights just to narrate the thing, plus transportation from the coast. But I needed him because Duke couldn't make it."

Then there were the Newport residents. Invitations were sent to sixty-five Newport families to help sponsor the Festival. There were two acceptances, and only one came from a socialite member of the community: George Henry Warren. (The other acceptance came from Edward Capuano, a businessman from Providence and a comparative newcomer to Newport.)

So in 1954, with the arrival of the first Festival, the massive casino building on Bellevue Avenue, almost strangling in the luxurious vines that covered it, was about to be refurbished with some original American culture. But first there were the social preliminaries.

The Warrens invited a large gathering of the prominent to a garden party at their home in Newport. Henry Warren had long been a fan of pianist Teddy Wilson, so Wilson played for the occasion. "He even paid his salary for the evening," Elaine Lorillard said. "Lee Wiley was one of Charlie Bourgeois' favorites, and I'm sure that she appeared at his suggestion." In any event the choices seemed to be just right for the occasion.

During the evening Lee Wiley, blond and lovely in a pink gown, encircled by a crowd of well-wishers, sang music by the Gershwins, Cole Porter, and Rodgers and Hart. Teddy Wilson complemented her soft voice with a gentle touch, accenting in all the right places as her voice floated through the cool night air. The appreciative audience applauded loudly, with shouts of   Bravo!" It seemed a portent of things to come. The crowd mixed happily with the musicians, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves enormously. At the party, Mrs. Lorillard was heard remarking that "the old-line set will probably come around, but it's the members of the younger set that seem most cautious."

The charter was drawn up and filed with the secretary of state of Rhode Island on April 29, 1954. The fee was five dollars. It was called The Jazz Festival of Newport, R.I., Inc. The five names that appear on the document are those of Louis and Elaine Lorillard and three attorneys. The purpose of the corporation, according to the charter, was to promote an interest in music; hold music festivals, jazz bands festivals and other entertainments for the public; conduct musical competitions; raise funds for the establishment of scholarships for the assistance of talented persons interested in music; and generally conduct and promote various functions, without profit, for charitable purposes.

On April 1, 1958, the name was changed to the American Jazz Festival Inc., and under that name the corporation was forfeited [failure to pay a renewal tax] on August 1, 1962. Newport Jazz Festival was incorporated on April 1, 1964. It too was forfeited on August 30. 1968.

The first program book, published in 1954, outlined the Festival's purpose more specifically: "to encourage America's enjoyment of Jazz, and to sponsor the study of our country's only original art form."

John Hammond was introduced by George Wein at the 1975 festival as   the man who has done more for jazz than anyone else I might name." Hammond stated recently, "As far as I'm concerned, Elaine Lorillard should have the whole credit for the concept of the Newport Festival. I think it was the most important social concept of the fifties as far as jazz is concerned and I bless her for it. I only wish she were back on the board of the New York Festival, but I don't think she'd want to be on anything so commercial."

In the beginning there was a feeling of purpose, high hopes, and determination. Beneath those blue-and-white-striped tents was a lot of good feeling and camaraderie.”

Cole Porter’s "Night and Day" - A Lasting Song of Longing by John Edward Hasse

 © Copyright ® Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

Cole Porter’s Lasting Song of Longing

Written for Fred Astaire, Porter’s sensuous, extensively recorded ‘Night and Day’ heightens its passion with insistent rhythms and a surprising, extended form

By John Edward Hasse

Mr. Hasse is curator emeritus of American music at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. His books include “Beyond Category: The Life and Genius of Duke Ellington” (Da Capo) and “Discover Jazz” (Pearson).

Appeared in the November 26, 2022, print edition as 'A Lasting Song of Longing'.

“Cole Porter’s “Night and Day” stands as his most famous song, and deservedly so, a marvelous work of wit and tuneful innovation, of obsessive sexual longing.

During the first half of the 20th century, before the rise of singer-songwriters, popular songwriting was the collaborative work of lyricists and composers, but Cole Porter—along with Irving Berlin—was an illustrious exception, penning both the words and the music.

In contrast to many successful songwriters of the 1920s—Berlin, Jerome Kern, the Gershwin brothers, all New Yorkers of Jewish background—Porter was a WASP from small-town Indiana. He led an unusually privileged life, from his wealthy upbringing, to Yale, Harvard and Paris, where he lived for nearly a decade. Porter loved parties and decadence; was married but had many male lovers.

After more flops than hits, his ninth Broadway show, a farce called “Gay Divorce” (when gay meant cheerful), opened on Nov. 29, 1932. It proved successful, largely because of one song, “Night and Day,” which Porter wrote for the dancer and singer Fred Astaire. On Broadway, said Astaire, “Gay Divorce” became known as “The ‘Night and Day’ show.” It was to be Astaire’s final musical there before Hollywood wagered on him. The 1934 film version, starring Astaire and dancer Ginger Rogers, had to be renamed “The Gay Divorcee,” because Hollywood censors ruled that a marital split should not be seen as happy, but perhaps an ex-wife could be.

Porter told conflicting stories about where he got his inspiration for “Night and Day.” The most credible is that while living at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in New York, he, atypically, got the idea first for the melody. When his friend, actor Monty Woolley, stopped by and heard Porter play just the tune, Woolley reportedly said, “It’s terrible!” Porter was not dissuaded and finished the lyric the next day, lying on the beach in Newport, R.I.

Porter chose a title that’s crisp and memorable—both day and night are universal, more so than romantic love—and plays on the phrase “by night and day,” which goes back at least to Shakespeare.

Porter’s gifts for clever, sensuous lyrics and rule-breaking music are on full display here. Right away, the song draws you in with its insistent rhythm, its spellbinding incessant note—B-flat—and its unusual opening simile: “Like the beat beat beat of the tom-tom.” The first theme begins with a string of 35 recurring notes, likely a record at the time. Maurice Ravel famously wielded unending repeats throughout his 1928 “Boléro” to create a hypnotic effect, but Porter’s degree of melodic repetition was novel in popular song.

To the tune of that repeating note, Porter’s first lines include “Like the tick tick tock of the stately clock . . . Like the drip drip drip of the raindrops.” Serving as “word painting,” the verbal and melodic repeats suggest continuity, perpetuity, even obsession. It’s a timeless, erotic song of aching desire: “Till you let me spend my life making love to you.”

Porter’s unconventional harmonic shift from the first to the second theme surprises the listener. His second delivers a gift: instead of the standard 32 bars, we get 48, heightening the lyric’s expression of passion.

Not long after “Gay Divorce” opened, Porter received a letter from Irving Berlin: “Dear Cole, I am mad about ‘Night and Day,’” wrote Berlin. “And I think it is your high spot.”

It soon became a popular standard and an international hit. By one account, within three months, 30-some artists had recorded “Night and Day.” Porter said that in a 1935 visit to Zanzibar, “all these ivory dealers from East Africa were sitting around in their burnouses and listening to ‘Night and Day’ being played on an ancient phonograph . . . the greatest surprise I ever had.”

“Night and Day” became a favorite of singers, dance bands, and instrumental soloists. In the jazz tradition alone, there are now more than a thousand recordings. Eminent among these, virtuoso pianist Art Tatum’s 1956 recording with saxophonist Ben Webster combines romance, swing, decoration and pure invention.

But “Night and Day” reaches its full potential when sung. In the song’s very first recording in November 1932, Leo Reisman’s dance band opens and closes with exotic colors, and Astaire sings both the first and second themes. Sinatra made five studio versions, notably a tender rendition from 1942 with Axel Stordahl’s orchestra, a brassy 1956 reading with Nelson Riddle’s swinging arrangement, and a lush 1961 recording with both themes, backed by Don Costa’s dreamy strings. Among pop performers, Sergio Mendes and Brasil ’66 turned it into a catchy bossa nova.

Even after nearly a century, at any hour of the day or night, surely someone somewhere is performing or listening, singing along, dancing, or making love to this singular song.”