© Copyright ® Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.
'This is the task, this is the labor."- VERGIL
“Shaw's fine technique and piping sound let him effectively go toe to toe with Goodman all through the great years of the swing era, and his capricious temperament and impatience with what he had to do to succeed made him just as awkward a figure: where Goodman was a martinet, Shaw was more like his own worst enemy. Landmark records such as 'Concerto For Clarinet' (1940) underscore his impeccable credentials as a clarinet player, but they also hint at suffering-artist syndrome: Shaw never achieved anything immortal as a writer of prose, and his attempts at 'serious' music were trumped by his great hit records. Yet he was smart enough to realize that studio conditions only rarely brought out the best in the big bands, and when he helped in compiling the definitive Self Portrait collection
of his best work for RCA Victor, he often picked broadcast versions of tunes over their studio counterparts.
Like Goodman, he pioneered having black musicians in his otherwise white bands, giving work to Billie Holiday, Roy Eldridge and Hot Lips Page, and while he found time to woo Ava Gardner and Lana Turner, among several other spouses, he has left a substantial discography for a man who was always breaking up his own bands. In his old age, he was tempted out of retirement in 1983 to conduct (though not play in) an orchestra that brought some of his old scores back to life, and the band continued - though usually under the stewardship of Dick Johnson rather than Shaw - into the 90s. He remained a tough talker with a vivid and candid memory, right up until a few weeks before his death.”
- Richard Cook’s Jazz Encyclopedia
Chapter 41, The Trouble with Cinderella: An Outline of Identity [1952], Artie Shaw, autobiography
“IT'S LATE AT NIGHT—around one-thirty A.M.
We're in a big dark basement. Piles of junk are lying around here and there. Huge steel columns support the weight of the building overhead — and directly above us is the polished dance floor of the Roseland State Ballroom, a public dance hall in Boston, Massachusetts, located about a block from Symphony Hall.
Over at one end of the basement there is a piano, a set of drums, a cluster of music racks, a scattering of brass instruments and saxophones and clarinets, a guitar, a string bass, and a number of straight-backed chairs standing around in random groups. A naked electric bulb hangs from a wire. There's no other light. Huge shadows dapple the dirty floor, sprawling in grotesque patterns.
Now we hear footsteps echoing on the stairway leading down here, and in a moment a band boy of twenty-one or so appears in the pool of light shed by the naked bulb. He starts arranging music racks and chairs into a kind of formation.
Four music racks down front, each with a chair facing it.
Three racks behind these chairs, each with its chair facing it.
Behind these three more racks, three more chairs.
The drums are set carefully to the right of this chair-and-music-rack formation, in the space between the formation and the piano, which he has hauled into position some six or eight feet over to the right of all this.
Now he sets one other chair into the space between the drums and the piano, somewhat forward of both. He picks up the guitar, carefully lays it on the chair, and sets a music rack in front of it.
The string bass lies between the drums and the piano, behind the guitar chair. The band boy puts another music rack down in front of where the string bass lies, a chair next to that, another chair behind the drums, still another at the piano.
He goes around setting trumpets, trombones, saxophones, clarinets—each on its own chair. The front row of four, saxophones and clarinets; the next row back, three chairs, three trombones; the last row, one trumpet for each chair.
There's one more music rack, a taller one; this goes down in front of everything, toward the middle of the whole formation.
Now there is a tidiness about the whole setup, a kind of order, a neatly arranged pattern in what was just a short while ago a collection of assorted objects.
Only one thing is missing now.
The band boy goes up the stairs, and presently we hear footsteps again, this time many footsteps—and in a few moments men come straggling down the stairs.
They're young fellows mostly-ranging from eighteen to twenty-five or so. They're of every type and description; blonde, brunette, sandy-haired; short, tall, and in-between; thin, stocky, even fat. Some wear slacks and sweaters; others plain business suits. Some smoking, talking, kidding around with one another; others silent and alone.
They mill around aimlessly for a few seconds. One wanders over and picks up a trumpet; he blows it tentatively, quietly, then louder; finally a cascade of brassy sounds comes blasting out of the horn. A thin boy takes up a saxophone and plays a few arpeggios, the sounds competing contrapuntally with the blaring of the trumpet. Neither pays any attention to the other; each is intent on what he is doing.
Gradually others pick up instruments. The drummer sits down and tests the sound of a cymbal. He shifts his chair, puts his foot on the bass drum pedal and gives the bass drum a few loud thuds. He taps on the snare drum, then starts twisting the key that controls the snares, taps again, twists again, taps again, until he is apparently satisfied with what he hears. He bangs out a long roll on the snare drum, crescendoing to a loud crash on a huge cymbal dangling from a metal arm fastened to the rim of the bass drum. Now he puts down the sticks, lights a cigarette, and sits there dragging on it and staring somberly off into the darkened end of the basement.
By this time everyone has taken up an instrument. They are all at it now. It's bedlam. The blaring of trumpets, brassy, shrill, now and then ascending to a shriek, alternates with and overlaps the lower-pitched blatting of trombones resounding in the stuffy air; and over and through all this come the rippling scales of squawky-sounding alto saxophones, the sonorous throatiness of tenor and baritone saxophones. And far, far underneath — at occasional momentary ebbs in the din-there is the gurgle of the piano, the plunking thud of the guitar, the booming resonance of a string bass being plucked at random alternating with the wheezy scraping of the bow across the heavy strings.
A dark-haired boy of twenty-six or so comes down the stairs and strides over to the tall music rack down front. He looks around, then turns and yells over his shoulder into the darkness, "Hey, Gate! Where the hell's the music?"
The band boy shuffles back into the light. He says something but you can't hear him for the various instruments barking, screaming, groaning, chuckling, rippling, each clashing against and over the rest and flooding the whole place with noise.
The dark-haired boy nods and waits quietly while the band boy goes over to a heap of battered-looking fiber cases lying over to one side, opens one, picks out a large, queer-looking fiber container, brings it over to the dark-haired boy's music rack, and opens it up like a book. Now we can see the contents— a thick stack of tattered, dirty music manuscripts, with ink notes and pencil marks scrawled all over the pages.
The band boy has gone off into the darkness again; in another moment he returns, dragging a high stool which he sets in front of the dark-haired boy's rack. He goes off to one side, opens up a small instrument case, takes out a collection of sawed-off black wooden pipes, fits them one into the other, adds a bell-like piece of black mood to one end and a mouthpiece to the other end of the assembled collection, thus transforming the whole into a clarinet. This he brings over and hands to the dark-haired boy, who takes it, removes the shiny nickel-plated cap from the mouthpiece, blows several notes, then lays it down on his music rack across the ink-scrawled manuscript pile.
He sits on the stool now, shuffles through the stack of music for a moment, carefully holding on to the clarinet meanwhile, and finally, having selected a piece of manuscript from the pile, lays it out on top of the pile. He stares at it intently for ten or fifteen seconds.
All the time, the din is growing louder and louder as the various musicians keep blasting and rippling up and down the scales — here a long, loud ripping burst of shrillness exploding out of the bell of a trumpet, there a throaty scattering of notes from one of the saxophones, answered by an angry bellow from a trombone, all punctuated by the crash of cymbals, the burbling of the piano, the smacking thud of the brass drum, the booming reverberation of the string bass, the plinking of one thin, delicate guitar sound now and then peeping through the thick jungle of sound.
Suddenly the dark-haired boy puts down the piece of music he has been examining, and shouts mildly, "O.K., fellas-let's go!"
No one pays any attention.
"Come on—let's go!" he yells again.
One or two of the musicians stop now, but most of them keep blowing, tinkling, smacking.
"Hey! Come on. Break it up—let's get going, what do you say?"
There is a general slackening-off of noise and a general drift toward the chair-and-music-rack formation. The noise dies down more and more, and finally diminishes to almost silence, except for an occasional sporadic blast, as if someone had had a sudden afterthought at the end of a long and heated discussion.
"Come on, fellas—what the hell, we don't want to be here all night. Let's go, huh?"
And now there is only the sound of chairs scraping plus a certain amount of familiar small talk as the musicians take their places. These boys have been together a long time and know each other well—as people do who live together, travel together in broken-down buses and jalopies, share rooms in cheap hotels and tourist camps, eat together in diners and roadside hamburger and hot dog stands, work together in dance halls and amusement parks, barns and arenas, through month after month of barnstorming, one-nighters, occasional split-week or week stands, and an endless procession of rehearsals like this one now about to start.
"Yeah, yeah," grins one, "I hear you talkin'. Next time you get the broads, you're such a killer with the chicks."
"O.K., I will," says another, "At least they won't be dogs like these ones you come up with."
"Hey—throw me a straight mute, will you, Gate?" one of the trumpet players yells over to the band boy, who is quietly dozing over in a corner. "AH right, all right," he mutters, laboriously getting up and going to another large fiber packing case, rummaging around in it, then picking up an aluminum mute and tossing it over the heads of the saxophones and the trombones, to the trumpeter, who catches it and places it in the wire-and-metal mute rack beside his chair.
"Get out number seventy-eight," the dark-haired boy calls out.
There is a rustling as the men reach into their music-books. A slight delay, as one trombone player mumbles something or other about not being able to find his part. "Here, George," he says, handing half his music to his neighbor. "Go through that, will you? Guess it got mixed up on the job tonight." His neighbor takes the pile of music, they both start thumbing through it, until suddenly the first boy says, "O.K., O.K.—I got it." He takes back the rest of his music, puts it back on his music stand, spreads out the piece he has been looking for.
"All set? Everybody got seventy-eight out?" asks the dark-haired boy now.
No one says anything.
"All right," he says. "Now look. Over at letter C, where the saxes come in under the brass and then saxes and trombones take it by themselves—see where I mean?"
The men look at their music.
"Let's just run that part down and I'll show you what I mean," says the leader.
He sets a tempo by tapping rhythmically with his foot. There is complete silence now, except for the foot-tapping. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, in regular rhythmic intervals — and then, over the tapping and in time with the tapping, he counts off, one number for each of two pairs of taps—"one," tap, "two," tap — and suddenly the musicians hit it at "letter C" at the point where count "three" should have come if the leader had gone on counting.
Only now, instead of disorganized blaring and screaming and gurgling and groaning and bellowing and tinkling and thudding and plunking and plinking and booming, there is the sound of instruments fused in an organized, rhythmic pattern, brass blending into a sectional choir, floating over the rhythmic fusion of drums, piano, bass, and guitar, and resting lightly on the trombone-and-low-saxophone base. At last, the trumpets break off in abrupt cessation, the saxophone-and-trombone mixed-choir carry on above the rhythm-pulse in a low-voiced blend so interwoven that it is hard to tell which is saxophone and which trombone. The tune is an old one, of early jazz vintage, Someday Sweetheart, and at a certain point in the music, just before the melody soars to a high note, the leader cuts in with his clarinet, plays a crisp fill-in phrase, and suddenly takes his clarinet out of his mouth, shouting—"O.K.—hold it, that's the spot I mean."
The music straggles on for a moment, then raggedly peters out. The men look up quietly.
"See that place where we just stopped?" the leader says. "Right before letter D, where the brass goes off by itself away from the sax section—see where I mean?"
Several men nod, and one says, "Right there at a bar before D, you mean?"
"That's it," says the leader. "Now, you see what happens there? George and Les are doubling the melody, and it comes out too heavy against the rest of the horns. What it should sound like is a heavy, thick chord—but all I can hear is that one melody voice. Come down a little in there, can you, George— and you too, Les. The rest of you blow up to them a little more. Let's see if we can't get it sounding like a thick blend, rather than just a melody with the rest of the voices accompanying. O.K.? Let's hit it again."
Once more the foot-tapping, then counting and tapping together, and once more the whole band hits it, and once more they're stopped at the same place.
"That's a little better," says the leader this time. "Only I think you can come down still more — Les and George only. The rest of you are about right now — just Les and George down a bit. Let's go — same spot."
Tapping again, then tapping and counting. Once more the same music. Once more the stop.
'That's got it," the leader says.
A couple of men start blowing their horns now. "Hold it, will you?" the leader shouts over the noise. The men seem not to hear, "Hey! Chuck!" the leader yells now, at one of the men, who puts his trumpet down. "George!"—and the other one puts down his trombone and looks up.
"Come on, let's quit fooling around and get this one over with," says the leader, mildly, now that he can be heard.
Silence.
"I want to hear another spot in the same piece," the leader goes on. "Over near the ending, about six or seven bars after letter L — where the whole band is supposed to build up to a big loud peak." Turning toward the drummer, "I think you'd better come in under that with a rim shot, Cliff, just to kind of accent it and underline the whole thing."
The drummer looks down at his music. "You mean that spot where the brass goes —" he sings a phrase and looks up questioningly. Several of the men grin. The drummer has a strange goaty voice, and his singing of the phrase has an odd sound, but he seems unaware of anything funny.
"Yeah, that's it," the leader says. "Mark it, will you? Sixth bar after L, fourth eighth-note of the bar."
"Who's got a pencil?" the drummer asks, looking around. The piano player hands him a stub of a pencil, he takes it, starts to make a mark on his music, and suddenly looks up. "Say, Art — what about the high-hat cymbals in that spot?"
"What do you mean—what about the high-hat cymbals?" asks the leader.
"Well — when we hit that spot I'm on high-hat, and now if I take both sticks to make the rim shot I'm going to have to get off the high-hat to do it."
"Well?"
"Won't that sound kind of empty? I mean, the beat'll sorta come to a pause, won't it?"
"The whole thing shouldn't take more'n a split second at the most," says the leader. "And by that time we've got enough of a beat going to keep it right up there. Anyway, can't you make the rim shot with one stick?"
"Well, O.K."
"Let's try it and see," and the leader starts tapping again. Tapping, counting-tapping, and the band smacks in once more, this time a different sound altogether. They come to the spot, the drummer smacks his rim shot, the leader nods at him and waves the band to another ragged halt.
"That's it," the leader says to the drummer. "It needed that."
The drummer shrugs. "I guess so."
The leader nods.
They go over several other short sections of the same arrangement, and finally that one is put back into the pile of music. Another piece comes out and the whole process begins again — the same process we've just seen, with slight variations. After an hour or so, a sense of vague restlessness begins to permeate the whole group; the leader says, "O.K., fellas — take five."
The men lay down their instruments, get up, one or two stretching and yawning, light cigarettes, wander off in groups of twos and threes, talking, joking, laughing.
The leader sits on his stool, smoking and shuffling through the pile of manuscripts on his music rack. Five or six minutes later, he looks at his wrist watch and shouts, "O.K., let's go, fellas. We've got a few more to run down before we start taking the new ones."
"What new ones we got, Art?" one of the saxophone players asks as he sits down.
"Couple of things — one original and a new arrangement of Man I Love."
"What's the matter with the one we got on Man I Love?" another musician asks.
"Don't like the way it sounds," the leader answers abstractedly, shuffling through the pile of music in front of him.
He calls out another number, the men get out their parts, and they go through the same process as before. An hour or so later, another five-minute rest, then another hour or so of the same polishing-up rehearsal, and now it is three-thirty A.M.
At this point there is still another five-minute break. During the break two more people come in. The short, stocky one is the arranger, the other the band manager. The arranger is carrying two large manila envelopes. He comes over to the leader, who now gets off his stool and stretches lazily.
"Hi, Art," the arranger says.
"Hi, Jerry,” says the leader.
The band manager is talking to the men over at one side of the band setup. He looks harassed. He is trying to explain about the time of departure for tomorrow night's job. The men are asking various questions about the bus, how much time it will take to get to the job, why they can't sleep longer and get started a little later, and so on and so forth, with everybody in on a discussion which grows more and more heated (since everyone has a different idea of what is the best way to handle the thing) until in the end the band manager hollers impatiently — "All right, for the love of Pete-shut up, will you, you guys? The bus leaves from the front of the goddamn hotel at two-thirty, and that's that. Anybody who doesn't feel like making it can get there his own way-period."
Grumbling, muttering, a bit of griping — but the matter is settled.
Meanwhile the leader and the arranger have been looking over the two freshly-copied new arrangements. They go over various parts of the music and then, the five-minute break over, the leader turns to the band manager. "O.K., Ben—get the boys together so we can get started on these."
The men have wandered off, some of them upstairs, others to the toilet, still others outside for a breath of fresh air. The air in here is now heavy and thick with shifting planes of cigarette smoke floating and eddying in the light from the one naked bulb.
The band manager goes off and returns several minutes later herding the men back down like a sheep dog worrying and snapping at the heels of a flock.
Everyone is finally seated in his place again, the new music is passed out, and this time the rehearsal starts in earnest. Note by note, measure by measure, phrase by phrase, section by section, chorus by chorus, the two new arrangements are dissected, explained, argued about, thrashed out, understood, played over a couple of times for good measure, numbered, and put into the books. Some hours later, when it is all over, the leader says, "O.K., fellas—that's it. See you tomorrow."
"So long," some of the men say. Others are busy putting their instruments away, getting their music numbered and put away before leaving the setup to be broken down by Gate, the band boy.
The leader Hands his clarinet to Gate, says goodnight to him, and goes off with the arranger and the band manager.
Within five or ten minutes, they are all gone except Gate, who shambles tiredly from chair to chair, picking up music and putting the folders together into the fiber trunk in which they are carried from place to place as the band travels around the country. He folds up the collapsible music racks with the initials A.S. on them, breaking down the whole setup he put together only a few hours back. Once finished, he switches off the one dangling bulb, shuffles off by the light of a small pocket flashlight, and climbs wearily up the stairs.
In the morning he will be back to gather up all the paraphernalia and transport it to the bus before the men are picked up.
For tonight, one more rehearsal is over, and to Gate it's all part of the day's work. Right now it's time to catch some sleep. . . .
There you have some idea of what this part of the job is all about. Just what has been accomplished?
Well, the band has learned a little more about several arrangements that were already in the books, which they will now be able to play that much more smoothly on tomorrow night's job. Besides that, they have two new arrangements which will be played in public tomorrow night for the first time — and these, if they still sound all right after a week or two of playing and re-rehearsing and polishing, will be kept in the books as a regular part of the band repertoire.
So much for rehearsals, then, and the part they play in the development of an organization of this kind. What else is necessary — what else is required? After all, we're aiming at the top. What other problems are we going to have to solve before we can get there?
Are they all musical problems?
Because if that were the case, all we'd have to do to make a successful big time bandleader would be to look around and find a good musician, a fellow who can play his own instrument well and/or arrange the music for his band so as to make them sound good—and there we'd be. …”
