Catherine Russell & Colin Hancock’s Cat & The Hounds

There is a tension in traditional jazz between recreation and creation. Colin Hancock has always lived on the rarer side of that line, not content to merely “recreate” old sounds but to accurately create them, as if restoring a lost conversation rather than staging a costume drama. His new album with Catherine Russell, Cat & The Hounds, goes a step further, it is less a nod to a vanished tradition than the return of one.

The idea of the album, according to substantial liner notes from Colin Hancock and Paul Kahn, was to create the sound of a lost 1920s Creole territory band that, by some accident of history, never made it to the recording studio. They conjure a missing link in the music’s lineage, performed not with museum polish but with the vigor of artists who live inside this style now. Territory bands, in case you didn’t know, traveled within a geographic region, and there were regional microstyles that only made it into recordings as echoes from musicians who migrated to the large recording centers like New York City.

Hancock is uniquely equipped for this endeavor. Now 29 and preparing to sit for the bar exam, he is one of the most respected researchers of early jazz now working, a prodigious collector of original 78s, a recreator of lost recordings and styles, and a Grammy-nominated annotator of historical sets. From his earliest cylinder record experiments in high school, playing each instrument and using multi-tracking software to record onto a wax cylinder his visions of recordings that were never made, Hancock has shown an uncanny ability to put his scholarship into sound. What distinguishes Cat & The Hounds is how his command of period style, down to the smallest ensemble detail, meets the interpretive firepower of Catherine Russell.

For our readers, Russell hardly needs introduction. We have reviewed her albums, attended her concerts, and Andy Senior, our publisher, counts himself among her most dedicated admirers. Russell occupies a rare space. She is a singer who can bridge the cabaret and traditional jazz circuits with equal authority, and who seems constitutionally incapable of giving less than a committed performance. In this project, her warm, knowing voice, becomes the thread on which the band’s excursions, as arranged by Hancock, cohere. The rest of the ensemble, Evan Christopher, Jerron Paxton, Dion Tucker, Kerry Lewis, Jon Thomas, and Ahmad Johnson, all lend more than accompaniment; each carries a responsibility for authenticity, a burden Hancock has distributed carefully. This is music arranged for people who know that one misplaced note or misplaced rhythm can collapse the illusion.

The Syncopated Times has followed Hancock since December 2016, when he and his student band were rehearsing for a concert at Cornell to celebrate the centennial of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band recordings that kicked off the jazz craze. I profiled him then as a college student already immersed in re-creating “lost” sides with uncanny accuracy. To look back at that piece now is to recognize the seeds of what has flowered here. Then, he was a curiosity, a teenager playing into a recording horn and making you doubt your ears. Today, he has become a central figure linking the academic study of early jazz with its living practice. Russell, for her part, has only deepened her stature, drawing on her family legacy while making it clear she is not just Luis Russell’s daughter but one of the most consistently compelling interpreters of American song. That these two figures should meet at this moment feels not accidental but inevitable.

It would be easy to cast Cat & The Hounds as an exercise in nostalgia, but the sheer amount of attention it has drawn argues otherwise. By the modest standards of traditional jazz, this album has been heavily promoted. While many excellent albums are reviewed only in this paper, Cat & the Hounds has received at least a half dozen, and its principals have been out making podcast appearances and appearing for interviews all summer. There is an air of momentum around this album, the sense that a project so well conceived, so vividly executed, may find itself breaking into circles that normally pay little heed to music of this vintage. The Grammy conversation may be premature, but it is not fanciful. If ever a contemporary traditional jazz album deserved the nomination, it is this one.

Cat & The Hounds is therefore not simply another entry in the ongoing tradition. It is a marker of where we stand in 2025, at a moment when the historical seriousness of Hancock, the interpretive command of Russell, and murmurings of long dormant institutional support combine to suggest a broader future for the music. If traditional jazz is to have a renaissance in public life, this is what it looks like.

Consider Birdland. Since reopening after the pandemic, the club has leaned ever heavier into early jazz to please crowds. Vince Giordano is a regular on Monday and Tuesday. Miss Maybell graces the stage several times a year, and of course David Ostwald continues his long run on Wednesdays. Indeed, on most days a traditional jazz band, or something adjacent like one of Danny Jonokuchi’s swing bands featuring original material, is on the menu. On September 3rd, Catherine Russell and Colin Hancock’s Jazz Hounds will appear for a set that may already be sold out by the time you read this. The significance is not the show itself but the validation it signals. Birdland remains one of the most visible rooms in the world, and for it to give its imprimatur to this project tells us the music is not only alive but thriving in places once reserved for more “modern” flavors of jazz.

The album’s origins trace to a thwarted 2020 Newport Jazz Festival plan, a “History of Jazz” showcase meant to foreground Black voices in early jazz. Beyond the planned Black ensemble Colin was building, Newport was to feature several notable and popular primarily white traditional jazz bands. A stage at Newport for a whole day with some of the best traditional jazz has to offer would have been a true “moment” for the music this paper covers. My hope is that recognition for this album can be that missed moment.

A few years after the pandemic and Newport founder George Wein’s passing derailed the planned Newport performance, Hancock, Russell, and Turtle Bay’s Scott Asen, reimagined it as a studio project during a chance meeting where Russell attended a performance of Hancock’s. Asen has helped bring a number of great albums into existence in the last several years but he has really outdone himself here.

The musicians surrounding Hancock and Russell are far more than sidemen. Each brings a lifetime of immersion in early jazz styles. Clarinetist Evan Christopher carries the Creole tradition in every phrase, his sound shaped by both deep study and years on bandstands. Jerron Paxton is a natural showman, a multi-instrumentalist whose banjo and harmonica fold the blues, vaudeville, and early jazz into one seamless voice. On trombone, Dion Tucker adds a broad and confident tone, equally at home in vintage styles or modern bands, here he sounds as though this repertoire has always been his focus. Kerry Lewis on tuba provides the surest anchor, long trusted in New Orleans ensembles and supplying the heartbeat that makes the “territory band” idea feel authentic. Ahmad Johnson plays the drums with a lift and clarity that recall the classic New Orleans style while showing the poise of a rising talent already making his mark. Pianist Jon Thomas, delivers stride with a left hand that pushes the beat forward and a right hand that sparkles. Their chemistry is palpable, not just in the precision of their playing but in the shared commitment to authenticity without sterility.

A few years ago I got a call from someone looking to book an all Black traditional jazz band and had to tell them that, outside of New Orleans, such a thing just didn’t exist. There were plenty of fine Black musicians scattered around the country, leading a band or as a sideman, some well known, some purely local talents, but not any full working bands. Now there is one. The significance of that is their ability to explore the material together in a fraternal way that has been lost for decades.

I asked Colin Hancock for a comment on approaching material as an all Black band, that for a long time, most Black jazz musicians would rather ignore or even forget.

“With Cat & the Hounds we saw a rare opportunity to address the sounds and approaches to Black vaudeville, comedy, and humor from the jazz age, and present it with authenticity and respect for the craft. While it’s not an exaggeration that there were extreme difficulties for Black performers during that time, it’s also true that the performing arts were often a space for Black expression free of social constraints, especially when presented to Black audiences. Butterbeans and Susie were such artists, who weren’t just appreciated by Black and White audiences, but were immensely popular for their honest humor and approachable portrayal of Black life at the time. Sort of like the logical next step from Bert Williams and George Walker. Now that a new generation of Black performers are rediscovering these artists and building a new appreciation for them, it seemed like a great opportunity to bring those styles of performance to light.”

Not knowing it at the time, back in 2016 Colin Hancock himself may have been a turning point creating a trad band at Cornell and beginning to cast off an academic jazz history establishment that placed everything before Miles Davis onto a single page. He’d be the first to tell you Wynton and others led the way, but it feels like something different is happening now. An openness to meet the history where it is and explore the artistry expressed by Black jazz musicians before bop.

The album opens with “Panama Limited Blues,” a number that immediately ties Russell’s voice to her father’s own northward migration from Panama. The piece is about the Illinois Central line, the railroad that carried so many musicians from New Orleans into Chicago and was, at that time, renamed for the new Panama Canal. Paxton’s harmonica, evoking a train whistle, and Hancock’s taut cornet provide the soundscape, while Russell sings with the authority of someone who knows this story in her bones. It is at once personal (Luis Russell himself played the tune) and a thematic opening; this album will be about movement, about connections, about bringing the past into the present.

From there, the band plunges into “Cake Walkin’ Babies (From Home),” one of the inescapable classics of the era, when syncopatedtimes.com was brand new, it played as soon as you opened the page. (Few webmasters would admit that!) The reference point here is Bessie Smith’s 1925 recording, and Russell rises to the occasion with a performance that made this the obvious choice for a music video released for the album. Hancock’s muted cornet snakes in and out of her lines, and the ensemble plays with a fire that will thrill audiences no matter their familiarity with the material.

“Telephoning the Blues” is from Victoria Spivey’s 1928 collaboration with Luis Russell. Here, the family legacy is explicit, but the performance is more than filial duty. Dion Tucker’s trombone all but steals the show, while the lyric’s sly humor evokes vaudeville stages where blues and comedy intertwined. The balance of play and heat gives the track its punch. It becomes clear that there is something different when Catherine Russell and this band perform these songs than, say, one of the incredibly gifted young ladies who fronted trad bands in the ’60s and ’70s. The humor is there, but the approach is authentic, only as tongue-in-cheek as it was always meant to be.

With “You’ve Got Everything a Sweet Mama Needs But Me,” Russell shifts into the comic blues territory pioneered by singers like Edna Hicks. The percussion suggests a click-clack, the band members step forward for quick solos, and the whole thing has the revue-like feel. Russell teases the lyric, not overselling the humor or dominating the music, but instead letting its sharp wit speak.

“Gypsy Blues (Intro: Serenade Blues)” is an instrumental, and one only Colin Hancock could achieve so thrillingly. It combines two instrumentals from Sissle and Blake, one derived from Victor Herbert and the other from Franz Schubert. It is “modeled after the style of instrumental recordings cut by the backing bands of vaudeville blues vocalists” during the 1921-1923 time period of acoustic recordings. It is all so a hot number that lets the band impress without the distraction of one of the most captivating vocalists of our own age.

“Elevator Papa, Switchboard Mama” is pure vaudeville fun. Russell and Paxton trade verses with audible delight, embodying the Butterbeans & Susie spirit without slipping into parody. Hancock’s muted horn sighs in the background like a third character. Indeed you barely perceive the rhythm sliding it all along. The notes suggest that this was a title Catherine Russell had wanted to perform for a long time. Jerron Paxton is nearly uniquely suited to the male part. I could listen to a whole album of these two performing this bawdy material.

“West Indies Blues” brings us back to New Orleans and the Caribbean inflections always present in its sound. This is a Clarence Williams and Armand Piron number, first recorded by Esther Bigeou, and it gives Evan Christopher a chance to weave clarinet lines of great suppleness. Vince Giordano makes his only appearance on the album here, contributing a colorful bass sax that grounds the whole thing in a weighty bottom. The vintage drum work, suitable to primitive recording techniques, also stand out here. There is rich history presented in the liner notes connecting Russell to this song, at least tangentially, it reminded me that Catherine’s husband, Paul Kahn, is working on a biography of Luis Russell, though I have no idea if there is a connection to this particular anecdote.

“Everybody Mess Around,” Alberta Hunter’s 1927 swinger, is given a joyous treatment. Kerry Lewis, on tuba is front and center, and who can resist? Russell drives the lyric with abandon, and it feels like a rousing closer, but there are several more to go.

“Goin’ Crazy with the Blues,” a Mamie Smith side, finds Russell in her element. This one reminded me of the best of her live performances. Tucker’s trombone swells beneath her, Hancock’s cornet rises above, and the rhythm stomps hard, but most of all her delivery demands your attention.

“Crazy Blues” was a necessary inclusion given the Jazz Hounds’ name. This paper has spilled a lot of ink on this Mamie Smith song as a breakthrough for Black music 105 years ago, and what strikes me every time I hear it is how cinematic and full Perry Bradford’s lyrics are. It deserves its exalted status. Russell has sung “Crazy Blues” before, most memorably for Boardwalk Empire. She clearly enunciates each word with a genuine swing, and the performance as a whole will impress upon the uninitiated audiences that I hope this album finds that lyrical genius and human insight are everywhere in 1920s music for those who choose to explore it.

“Carolina Shout” is Jon Thomas’s showpiece, the stride pianist playing with authority on what was once a test for Harlem’s best. Paxton’s banjo adds to the drive, making this less a solo display than a collective celebration of stride as ensemble music. It’s hot, especially into the second half.

The closer, “Sweet Man,” takes us to Ethel Waters and Fletcher Henderson’s orchestra. Russell delivers a sensuous vocal, Hancock plays muted cornet in a nod to Harry Tate, and Paxton salutes Johnny St. Cyr on banjo. It’s a classy and sensual song, more fit for a New York cabaret than the territories. Maybe they have finally arrived.

Cat & The Hounds is not just a successful experiment in style, it is an argument for the continuing relevance of this music. That argument is made on multiple fronts, through Hancock’s historical rigor, through Russell’s interpretive authority, through the presence of musicians like Christopher and Paxton who embody the living tradition, and through the support of Turtle Bay, the small but ambitious label founded by Scott Asen that has made preservation and renewal its mission.

The album is also a statement about lineage. Luis Russell is not just Catherine’s father but one of the central bandleaders of the transitional 1920s, the man who connected King Oliver’s generation to Armstrong’s big-band ascendancy. By reviving pieces from his repertoire, Hancock and Russell are not indulging in family nostalgia but reasserting Russell’s importance to the story of jazz. In so doing, they highlight a broader point, that this music’s story is still being written today, by artists including those on this album.

And then there is the matter of reception. Traditional jazz rarely intrudes into the broader cultural conversation, but Cat & The Hounds has already generated unusual attention. Its Birdland booking is one sign, its multiple reviews another, its critical buzz still another. If we are serious about asking what a jazz revival might look like in the 21st century, here is one answer; a project that combines intellectual weight, artistic excellence, and institutional support, without sacrificing the sheer joy of the music.

We may or may not see this record in the Grammy nominations, but that is beside the point. The point is that this music, played this well, by these artists, commands notice. For those of us who have followed Hancock’s journey from the beginning, and for those who have admired Russell over the years, Cat & The Hounds is a moment of convergence, a reminder that the tradition is not a static museum but a living, breathing, art form, and amazing things are yet to happen.

Cat & The Hounds
Colin Hancock’s Jazz Hounds
featuring Catherine Russell
www.turtlebayrecords.com