The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
About seventy years ago when I was a young teen and a precocious collector of jazz, my mom made it clear she was unhappy with her youngest son. The conversation ran like this: “Jazz has a bad name. You fool around with it and you’ll wind up like Gene Krupa.” (Gene had his day in court ten years earlier, in 1943.) My dad came to my rescue by reminding her that “no one should be tar-brushed without good reason.” I continued collecting.
Upon graduation from high school, I indicated I intended to move to New Orleans. That worried her, too. She had heard bawdy tales about New Orleans. However, In June of ’53, my parents drove me as far as Louisville and I caught a train from there to the “bawdy” city. A year and a half later, after I became a member of the Army’s Third Infantry Division Band, I heard no complaints from home.
For some, jazz has had a bad name from its earliest years. The word “jazz” had a strong sexual innuendo attached to it. Early in the last century, New Orleans’ Storyville, had its many “houses of ill repute” entertaining both the townspeople and most of the sailors from the New Orleans Navy Yard. Besides the “ladies of the night,” most houses also offered jazz pianists, who usually featured ragtime.
Some people pointed accusingly at the many steam boats with their jazz bands. Check the Chicago ne
