I was eleven years old when I hit one of Life’s lotteries, and began playing the trombone. I thought it might be fun. Because of this one youthful decision, I’ve met many incredible people, seen places around the world I never imagined I’d be able to visit, and made more life-long friends than anyone has any right to have.
At that time, rock and pop bands didn’t include trombones or trumpets. You’d see and hear a tenor sax occasionally, but that was about it until several years later when bands like Blood, Sweat, and Tears and The Chicago Transit Authority (later, just “Chicago”) included horn sections in live performances and on their recordings. They opened a door for many horn players in pop and rock, but prior to that, if you wanted to hear a trombone (for instance), you had to turn to jazz or big band music, or…go back a few years.
I asked my very patient and kind father if there were any records around the house that might have a trombone player I could hear. I wanted to hear what one was supposed to sound like. It sure wasn’t supposed to sound the way I’d been playing it!
He put down his newspaper, and thought for a minute. Then he said, “Come with me.”
I followed him into our home’s small hallway. He opened a closet door. Sitting on shelves inside, I saw three long rows of 78 rpm discs. I’d never paid any attention to them before. They were in no particular order, so it took my dad a few minutes to find the three he wanted. He passed them to me, admonishing me to be careful with the old, brittle discs. He led me to the RCA console in the living room: AM-FM radio, and a three-speed turntable, both set in a polished mahogany cabinet. Woo-woo!
He said whatever the 1960s equivalent of “knock yourself out” may have been, and went back to his newspaper.
Those three records are now sacred to me. The first was a Brunswick reissue of two songs recorded in 1929, by Red Nichols and His Five Pennies. One title was “(Back Home Again In) Indiana”; the other, “Dinah.” In addition to great solos by a very young Benny Goodman, and intelligent arrangements by Glenn Miller (and drumming by Gene Krupa), both tunes featured trombone solos by Jack Teagarden. I memorized both solos. “Dinah,” especially, still kills me.
The second disc was an RCA Victor recording of “Star Dust,” by Artie Shaw and His Orchestra. This was the 1940 juke box hit record, as close to a “perfect” record as one can find here on earth. (I think “Temptation” is on the flip side, but I never listened to that). Trumpeter Billy Butterfield opens the side beautifully. Then Shaw follows on clarinet, improvising a solo that has long been regarded as a classic. Finally, the notoriously alcoholic trombonist (is that redundant?) Jack Jenney plays a magnificent eight bars, gently kissing a high F toward the end of his lyrical solo. His technique and control are in Tommy Dorsey’s class, but his warm sound and sheer melodic inventiveness are all his own.
Finally, I got to the third record. I’ve scratched it up and worn it out over the years. I’m happy I found a near-new copy of it a few years ago. It is a twelve-inch 78. (Like most 78s of the time, the other two discussed here are ten-inch discs. The extra diameter meant the musicians had another minute or so of playing time beyond the usual three-minute limit). According to the label, it was recorded in Chicago in 1945 for the Black and White company. The label of this record lists “Lil ‘Brown Gal’ Armstrong and Her All-Star Band.” Lil of course was the great Chicago pianist and singer, who had first recorded in that city with King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band. By now, most of us know she married the band’s second cornet player, Louis, and wisely decided to retain his last name after their amicable divorce. (If a marriage had changed my last name to “Armstrong,” I probably wouldn’t want to give it up, either!)
Other band members—listed on the label—were: Al Gibson, clarinet & bari sax: Sylvester Hickman, bass; and Baby Dodds, drums. The two brass players were Jonah Jones (trumpet) and J.C. Higginbotham (trombone)! The pair of tunes on the disc were “East Town Boogie” and the old standard, “I’m Confessin’,” called simply “Confessin’” on the B&W label.
Trombonist Higginbotham plays two shouting, preaching choruses on the romping “East Town Boogie,” but Jonah Jones owns that side from the moment he appears. As luck would have it for this budding trombonist, Higginbotham gets the lion’s share of “Confessin’.” However, Jonah Jones opens the record, playing a beautiful introduction followed by a very pretty, warm half chorus. I listened to him, too.
I loved all three of the trombone players on those three discs. They were each different, and each great. I memorized the two Teagarden solos. I longed for the day when I might have enough “chops” to play the Jack Jenney solo on “Star Dust.” I also used to race home from school, put on “Confessin’” and try to play along with Higgy. I didn’t understand jazz. I knew that these guys (and Ms. Armstrong) were “making it up,” but I didn’t really know how that worked. I just knew I liked it, and liked it a lot.
Now watch the calendar pages fall off the wall until you reach the late 1970s. I was in my early twenties by then, playing with trad bands around southern California. A few friends and I were at someone’s house, listening to some “sides.” It’s too long ago for me to remember whether our source was an LP, or cassette tape. (This was long before the advent of compact discs). It doesn’t really matter. Whatever the medium may have been, we were listening to an anthology of small groups from the 1930s.
We sipped on beer (probably), and listened intently (definitely). In addition to playing and jamming every chance we got, this is how were learned about the music. As we were listening to the terrific three-minute recordings, one especially-swinging side came on. The tempo was pretty fast, and the rhythm section had it locked in. After a fine tenor sax solo, a trumpet player entered. He was “swinging like the clappers,” as our English friends would say. A few guesses were made as to his identity (we had no information about the anthology). No one was sure, until Jim Goodwin—the legendary cornetist and one-of-a-kind person—laughed out loud. “I’ve got it!” Jim announced. “It’s Jonah Jones!”
Since then, I’ve heard a good share of Mr. Jones’s playing on record. Jones was one of the top-tier trumpeters of the 1930s and into the ’40s. In the middle ’30s, he was featured with violinist/vocalist Stuff Smith’s hot little band at the Onyx Club on 52nd Street in New York City. Soon after that, Jones joined Cab Calloway’s exciting big band, where he was the featured trumpet star.
The beboppers took a lot of the spotlight in the later ’40s, but Jones continued to play strong, inventive trumpet throughout the ensuing decades, enjoying a return to the public eye in the ’50s and ’60s, via recordings of Broadway hits played in his accessible style. He was still leading a quartet—and playing wonderfully—in the 1980s, when I encountered him in New York City.
I have written before about moving from southern California to New York. The move was at the behest of my close friend, Howard Alden. Howard is an amazing guitarist, from whom I learned a lot about music and life. He moved to the Big Apple in 1982; I followed him a year later. I was twenty-seven years old.
I was lucky enough to have a ready-made gig waiting for me: I joined the Widespread Depression Orchestra, a nine-piece “little big band” that was stacked with great young players, The band (later known as the Widespread Jazz Orchestra) played an interesting mix of hip material from the Swing Era and later. Smart adaptations of Ellington and Strayhorn arrangements constituted a good share of the band’s book.
So, there I was in New York City. As another guitarist, Wayne Wright laughingly put it, I was “another mouth to feed!” I had been in town for about two months or so when the Widespread crew was booked at Lush Life, a trendy new club down in Greenwich Village. We had played a couple of sets to a good-sized, appreciative audience. I had a few solos along the way, and was having a great time with the new band.
The alto saxophonist Mike Hashim (who is still swinging at this writing) fronted the band. Late in the evening, he announced that the band was going to take a short break before our last set. I had noticed a distinguished-looking man standing at the far end of the bar. He was of medium build and wore a stylish gray sharkskin suit, with a crisp white shirt and dark tie. He had very dark skin, and black hair with a few white patches here and there. Maybe it was the other way around.
The Widespread band included: three saxes; two trumpets; one trombone, and three rhythm (piano, bass, and drums). As the other guys left the small bandstand, I leaned over to trumpeter Jordan Sandke, seated next to me. (Jordan is the brother of the better-known Randy, and a fine player in his own right.) I quietly asked him if he knew who the guy was at the end of the bar. Jordan squinted his eyes and peered through the cigarette smoke. (Remember, this was 1983). He said, “Oh, yeah. That’s Jonah.”
I hesitated and parroted, “…Jonah…”
Jordan chuckled, and said, “Oh, yeah,” again. “I forgot: you’re new to New York, ha, ha. That’s Jonah Jones, man! He likes the band. He comes out to hear us when he can. Hey, c’mon! I’ll introduce you.”
I followed Jordan to the back of the club. Jonah was smiling, and extended his hand. Jordan shook it, while Jonah paid him a few nice compliments; one trumpet man to another. Jordan modestly accepted them then introduced me.
“Hi, Dan. Please call me Jonah.” We too shook hands. He went on. “Yeah, you’re the cat the guys told me about. All the way from California! Well, I hope the Apple treats you right.” Then, it was my turn to receive a few compliments. They still mean a lot to me, if only because he was so specific. He said, “I’m glad I got to hear you. The guys were right: you’ve listened to the right cats. Man, I hear Vic (Dickenson), and Larry Brown, and some Tricky Sam with that plunger mute. I also hear Jack Teagarden in your playing.” He smiled and said. “Would that be about right?”
I guess my mouth was wide open. Back in California, I had been virtually ignored by the Los Angeles jazz crowd (all except Jake Hanna, Bill Berry, and maybe a couple of others), Now here’s a jazz legend who had actually paid enough attention to my playing to be able to call out my influences. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. Jordan smiled at both of us.
I stammered a “Thank you.” Jonah got his lips around a straw, and took a sip of his Coke.
He suddenly said, “Hey, listen, you two! I got a friend in town from Paris. He’s here tonight; he’s sitting across the room. My apartment is right across the street. He’s coming over later, after you cats finish tonight. Why’n’t you both join us?”
I looked at Jonah and then at Jordan, and said, “Well, Mister Jones—Jonah—our last set ends at one in the morning…”
Jonah looked at me blankly. He said, “So?”
This was the Big Apple, all right.
After the set, Jordan and I packed our horns, stowed our music books, and said good night to the other guys and a few fans. Jonah was over at a table next to his Parisian friend, who was Dan Vernhettes, a good trumpet player and a published jazz historian. (Dan’s series of jazz books are among the most detailed—and well-researched—books about the music I’ve ever seen. Highly recommended!) After introductions all around, we followed Jonah out the door in to the warm night. His shiny suit reflected the streetlights as we walked a short distance down the sidewalk and crossed the narrow street.
Jonah led us through a glass doorway, to a small elevator. The four of us crowded in. Jonah pressed a button, and we started rising. In the ceiling, an old fluorescent light blinked intermittently, lending a noir touch to the proceedings. To this day, I clearly remember standing in that elevator thinking, “This is surreal! I have to remember this…” So far, I have.
We got off on the third or fourth floor of the small apartment building. Jonah led us down a carpeted hallway, and stopped at a door. He turned toward us, and made the classic “keep quiet” move, holding a finger up to his lips. He whispered, “You cats please be quiet. My wife’s asleep…”
I was amazed. Here was one of the greatest trumpet players in jazz, worrying about something as mundane as waking his wife.
We entered a neat, spotless living room furnished with a couch, chairs, and a nice coffee table with a few magazines spread strategically across its top. Jonah silently motioned for us to sit down. We did.
He said, very softly, “Now, guys, truth is I ain’t had a drink since 1966…but I bet you all want a beer, right?”
I looked at the other Dan, who looked at Jordan. We all shrugged, as in, “you got us.”
Jonah nodded, and padded into the kitchen. He brought out three cans of Budweiser with three chilled glasses. He had another Coke.
He pulled a chair close to us as I looked around the room. There were a couple of abstract paintings on the wall, and several framed 8 by 10 photos; presumably of family. Then I noticed a card table behind the couch, by the large window. There were perhaps ten trophies—silver, with wooden bases, lined up neatly on the table, On then did I finally notice about twenty similar trophies, evenly-spaced on narrow, waist-high wooden shelves that ran around the perimeter of the room.
“Wow!” I said, loud enough for Jonah to quickly look in the direction of his bedroom.
“Sorry!” I whispered. “But Jonah! You sure have a lot of trophies!” Jordan and “Paris Dan” nodded in agreement. I recognized “Esky,” the monocled bon-vivant who was the mascot of Esquire magazine. Back in the day, Esquire used to run a jazz poll, and even produced recording sessions featuring the poll winners. There were similar trophies from Down Beat and Metronome magazines, who also published jazz polls and produced recordings.
Jonah looked around at his collection as though he hadn’t been aware of it. “Yeah,” he whispered back at me. He chuckled some more, and shook his head. “But, look at ’em! Most of ’em are Silver awards. That’s second place, see? That’s ’cause Louis and Dizzy and Roy were always gettin’ the Gold trophies!” I marveled that I was sharing an evening with a guy who was a colleague of Louis Armstrong, and Dizzy Gillespie, and Roy Eldridge. If Jazz Trumpet Playing had been an Olympic event during those years, Jonah Jones would have stood on the Winners’ podium many times, right alongside the others.
Then, Jonah got up and walked over to the table. On his way there, he smiled at us with a kind of devilish grin. “Look here, though.” He held up a trophy, shaking it like an Academy Award. I hadn’t noticed it before. “This one’s gold, baby! 1947. See, Louis and Dizzy, and Roy…they were all in Europe that year, so the magazine finally had to give me the Gold one!”
We all laughed quietly, and silently applauded. Jonah placed the trophy reverently back in its spot on the table. He glanced at the empty glasses in front of us, and went out to the kitchen again. He returned with three more beers, and another Coke.
After we all had a few more sips, Jonah turned to Dan Vernhettes. “Hey, Dan! You think these younger cats would like to see those photos I told you about?”
“Paris Dan” said, “I’m sure they would, Jonah.’ He spoke English well, with a mild French accent.
Jonah went over to a small desk, and from a drawer produced a good-sized flashlight. He clicked it on. Jordan’s right hand flew up to his eyes, right where Jonah had accidentally aimed the bright flashlight. “Sorry,” he said, and clicked off the light.
He led us down the short hallway that ended at the bedroom. We were all as quiet as possible.
Jonah clicked the light on again, and shone it on a framed photo on our left. He said to Jordan, “Let’s see how many of these cats you recognize…”
Jordan peered at the photo. Paris Dan and I looked at it over Jordan’s shoulder while Jonah stood off to the side, carefully keeping the flashlight’s beam on the photo.
I nearly flipped out! The vintage photo was sepia-toned, and in sharp focus. It showed four men standing in front of a large old bus. On the side of the dark-hued bus was painted, in large white lettering, CAB CALLOWAY ORCHESTRA.
Each of the four bandsmen wore an overcoat over a suit and tie, and all four sported light fedoras. One held a trombone case up under his arm.
Jordan said, “Well, the trombone player is Tyree Glenn. Milt Hinton is standing next to him. That’s…oh, my God, that’s Chu Berry right next to Milt! And on the end,,.is that Cozy Cole?”
Jonah beamed at Jordan like a happy father. “I’m proud of you, man! You got all four!”
I’d never seen that photo in any of my jazz books, and haven’t seen it since that night.
Jonah showed us the other photos so carefully and lovingly displayed on the hallway walls. I don’t remember them specifically, but there were other shots of the Calloway band, and a few later photos reflecting different periods in Jones’s long career. There’s no telling where those photos are now.
We returned to the living room. It was approaching five in the morning! This Big Apple was some city, all right.
Jonah asked “”You guys want another taste?”
We all looked at each other and collectively felt that it was probably time to leave.
We thanked Jonah profusely and bid him goodnight. He said he wanted to do it again soon.
The four of us got into the elevator. The fluorescent light blinked some more.
There was not much for us to say on the way down.
