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Our hearts, and donations, go out to all those devastated by Sandy, in New York City, Long Island, New Jersey, and Connecticut. New Yorkers are a very special breed, no matter where they come from; and New York is a place we'll always call home, no matter where we're living.

Hang in there.



(The music: Home, 1944, with Jack Teagarden, trombone and vocal; Coleman Hawkins, tenor sax; Joe Thomas, trumpet; Hank D'Amico, clarinet; Herman Chittison, piano; Billy Taylor, bass; George Wettling, drums.)

When Irving met Mildred

[Unfortunately the YouTube clip I describe from the film On the Avenue is no longer available.] No, that's not Irving and Mildred in the clip; it's Dick Powell pitching ardent woo and singing You're Laughing at Me to a certain "Miss Hasenfeffer" in the 1937 movie On the Avenue. The Irving of my title is the songwriter, last name Berlin.

You're Laughing at Me is one of Irving Berlin's most ingenious creations. Despite its interesting features -- maybe because of them -- it's not among his most memorable or beloved songs, certainly less well-remembered than four other Berlin songs from the same movie: He Ain't Got Rhythm, This Year's Kisses, I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm, and Slumming on Park Avenue.

The verse is simple, conventional, leading to the highly unusual opening phrase of the chorus ("You're laughing at me"). It begins on the sixth note of the scale, dips a half-tone, then rises four tones to three repeated notes, a forlorn little phrase leaving the first-time listener momentarily adrift, not knowing where it's headed next -- a fleeting moment of uncertainty suggesting the state of mind of a wooer unsure of where he stands vis-à-vis the wooee. The tonality is quickly clarified with the long phrase, "I can't be sentimental for you're laughing at me, I know," ending in a pleading, chromatic descent. Then a surprise: with the words "I want to be romantic, but I haven't a chance," the key-change sounds exactly like the bridge in a conventional A-A-B-A song, except that the B section has arrived eight measures too soon! Four bars later, another unexpected modulation ("You've got a sense of humor...") leading us back to a repeat of "You're laughing at me..." We've been fooled; turns out it's one of those "half-and-half" songs -- call it A1-A2 in form. Berlin's musical sleight of hand isn't cleverness for its own sake. The sudden shifts in tonality in bars 9 through 16 mirror Mr. Powell's inability to sustain a romantic mood in the face of heartless Hasenfeffer laughter. It's a brilliant example of form reinforcing meaning, as deft as it gets in melding words and music.

How this musically unschooled songwriter did such subtle things is one of life's great mysteries. On his compositional methods Berlin shed remarkably little light, hiding his creative struggles behind a matter-of-fact facade:

I get an idea, either a title or a phrase or a melody, and hum it out to something definite. When I have completed a song and memorized it, I dictate it to an arranger..... It's not a matter of inspiration with me at all. Generally I decide in a very prosaic way that I'm going to write something, and then I sit down and do it..... Writing both words and music, I can compose them together and make them fit.

Of You're Laughing at Me he'd probably say, "It just sounded right that way."

In his Victor recording of You're Laughing at Me, Fats Waller sings it with a light touch but surprisingly straight, in the original tempo, taking few liberties apart from some verbal asides (and, near the end, getting the lyrics wrong).

I can't imagine Mildred Bailey singing it at this tempo; apparently neither could she. Although she was capable of expressing great vulnerability in ballads (Mildred could sing any kind of pop song, superbly) she reinvents You're Laughing at Me as a medium-tempo swinger, stripped of all self-pity. Of course when it's 1937 and you're in a recording studio with Roy Eldridge on trumpet, Scoops Carry and Herbie Haymer on alto and tenor saxes, Teddy Cole, piano, and a rhythm section of John Collins, guitar, Truck Parham, bass, and Zutty Singleton, drums, swinging will be high on your agenda.

I don't know what Irving Berlin thought of Mildred's version, or if he ever heard it, but I doubt he'd be crazy about it. Most egregiously, from the songwriter's viewpoint, she changes the tempo. For Berlin, tempo and rhythm were of primary importance. What's more, she recomposes the first eight bars of his chorus, as well as the ending. Mildred's new melody line is streamlined, its predominant feature the descending chromatic phrase, which makes perfect dramatic sense in its own way. (It's also possible that, as written, the melody was too range-y for her.) Dispensing with the verse, the record is solid from the start, with Roy's muted trumpet leading the way. I like the feisty quality imparted to the song at this tempo, propelled by Mildred's marvelous feeling for time and the tasty figures played by the accompanying horns. One gets the feeling that the next time Mildred pitches woo and gets laughed at, she'll find herself a different catcher.

P.S. I recently learned, by accident and to my surprise, that Mildred's Says My Heart, recorded with the Norvo band and a particular favorite, was one of her biggest commercial successes, staying atop the pop charts for four weeks in 1938. I'm not sure why this should make me feel good 74 years after the fact -- a ton of junk records also were #1 -- but it does.

Chicken and waffles and corn muffins and the Fort Hamilton Philharmonic

So it's absurdly early of a Sunday morning, Brooklyn Girl is still sleeping, The Little One is coming over for a visit in a few hours, and what am I doing? Naturally, I'm making corn muffins, my favorite complement to the daily caffeine fix (except when there's a cheese danish lurking somewhere in the vicinity).

As per custom, my culinary labors are accompanied by the iPod merrily shuffling its way through a jazz playlist -- softly, so as not to waken BG. And just as I'm giving the finished muffins "the toothpick test" (they passed with flying colors), what should come up in the shuffle but Bunny Berigan's Chicken and Waffles, a 1935 side with Bunny in dazzling mid-season form on trumpet; Eddie Miller, tenor sax; Edgar Sampson, clarinet; Cliff Jackson, piano; Grachan Moncur, bass; Ray Bauduc, drums.

Needless to say, the sight of my eighteen perfectly puffed-up muffins, combined with the record's evocative title, got the gastric juices flowing at a rapid rate, requiring a supreme effort to quell. (It's considered extremely bad form for the chef to gobble up half the meal before the guests have arrived.) Meanwhile the nostalgia was also flowing thick and fast. Sixty years ago, a Bunny Berigan memorial album on Decca -- including Chicken and Waffles, Blues, You Took Advantage of Me, I'm Coming Virginia, The Buzzard, and Tillie's Downtown Now -- was one of the cornerstones of my tiny collection of jazz 78s. It was the early 1950s and I was a high school freshman. Inspired by Bunny and Pops, I was taking trumpet lessons while holding the second chair in the trumpet section of the Fort Hamilton High School orchestra under the baton of the kindly Mr. Chelimsky. Actually I did more than hold the chair; I played some, too.

Of course I couldn't improvise, but I knew Chicken and Waffles so thoroughly that I was able to replicate Bunny's coda (from 2:52 to 2:57), an effort that taxed my technique to the limit but was highly satisfying nonetheless. I taught this little coda to my trumpet section-mate and it became part of our warm-up ritual before rehearsals, a running gag that soon spread to the other orchestral sections. (It amuses me to think that dozens of Fort Hamilton graduates with absolutely no interest in jazz probably still remember Bunny's coda to Chicken and Waffles.)

I wish I could report that my Berigan-inspired warm-up exercise bore musical fruit, but in truth my trumpet career didn't last long. As soon as triple-tonguing reared its ugly head, I was a goner. (The syllables "tu-tu-ku" still strike terrror in my heart.) But the memory of the Fort Hamilton Philharmonic's rendition of Wagner's Rienzi overture, especially its crashing climax, still brings a smile to my lips, followed closely by guffaws. I'll never forget the sight of Mr. Chelimsky, arms waving frantically as the strings, woodwinds, brasses, and timpani lumbered noisily -- and almost in synchronization -- toward the overture's conclusion. The expression on the maestro's face strongly resembled that of some unfortunate chump who finds himself standing on the railroad tracks face-to--face with an onrushing train.

On a more positive note, today's corn muffins were delicious.

"Nothing is missing and nothing is superfluous"

Federico Mompou (1893-1987)

In the 1920s, the Spanish composer Mompou was part of a group of artists, writers, and musicians called Noucentistes ("Twentieth-centurists") whose aesthetic aim was a return to clarity and simplicity. Inspired more by the French impressionists than by the modernism of Stravinsky or Hindemith, Mompou declared, "My only desire is to write works in which nothing is missing and nothing is superfluous."

Much of Mompou's set of Cançons i Danses for piano draws on Catalan folk themes, but this one, No. 6 -- my favorite  -- is entirely original. You can go to YouTube and hear the song section played by the legendary pianist Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli, but the dance is omitted. You can hear the complete No. 6, song and dance, played by the composer himself, but Mompou's aging fingers were regrettably past the dancing stage when he recorded it. (It's no disrespect to Mompou to say that someday I'd love to hear this music in the hands of a great jazz pianist/improviser -- a Rossano Sportiello, for example.)

As usual when it comes to Spanish piano music, Alicia de Larrocha's recording is definitive, the song section memorably lyrical, the dance rhythms beautifully articulated.

Enjoy.

Serenade to a bed quilt

It's the biggest, most beautiful present I've ever received: a king-size bed quilt, lovingly made by Brooklyn Baby over many months. BB has become a quilt-making whiz (just one of her many whizbang qualties) but this project eclipses all others in complexity, detailed craftsmanship, and sheer humongosity, which may explain why it arrived six months after my birthday. If ever a gift was worth waiting for, this was it. (The making of this epic production is chronicled here.)

The quilt is called "Bear Pa" (bear paw) and as you can see, it's a model of harmony and balance, its patterns and colors a source of unceasing interest and delight. Now examine the photo above using a high-powered microscope. You'll find exquisite hand stitching around each paw and "free-motion" quilting in the shape of little leaves in the outer borders, making the quilt as pleasing texturally as it is visually. Incredible.

Mom would take one look at this quilt, shake her head in awe, and say, "Imagine, all that work!"

As the adage says, the proof of the quilt is in the sleeping. I've lived with "Bear Pa" for well over two weeks now, and can report having copped many soothing z's beneath it. Nor did the quilt's tactile appeal go unnoticed by our two pussycats, who are expert in the matter of finding good napping places. Upon the quilt's arrival, they promptly pencilled "Bear Pa" into the late-afternoon slot on their daily itinerary. I've been told that, given the choice between hand-made and mass-produced, pussycats will choose hand-made every time. I believe it. When it comes to comfort and pleasure, cats have unerringly good judgment.

How to celebrate and give thanks for such a gift? I consulted my memory-bank (otherwise known as iTunes) for an appropriate song title. Rejecting such obvious, mundane choices as Thanks a Million and other thank-you songs, I settled on Under a Blanket of Blue. Okay, so it's a quilt, not a blanket, and it's not blue, but the title comes close enough, and the mood of the melody is right on the money.

Naturally I thought first of the 1944 Keynote version with Coleman Hawkins, Buck Clayton, Teddy Wilson, Slam Stewart, and Denzil Best. It's a great record, but Hawkins' intense, probing improvisations produce a feeling of agitation not appropriate here.

Taken at a more placid tempo than the Hawkins, this less well-known 1947 version of Under a Blanket of Blue perfectly captures the mood of repose induced by my new quilt. It's a Red Norvo group including Red on xylophone, Benny Carter, alto, Dave Barbour, guitar, Arnold Ross, piano, Billy Hadnott, bass, and Jesse Price, drums, but the highlight for me is the opening chorus, which does not stray far from Jerry Livingston's lovely melody. The theme is stated simply and eloquently by Eddie Miller's tenor sax in a manner aptly described by one perceptive critic as "melting," with Bobby Sherwood taking the B section on cornet, carressing each phrase with Bobby Hackett-like delicacy.

As the "pa" in the quilt's name (and the "bear," too, for that matter) I can't thank BB enough for this precious gift. Imagine, all that work!

Visiting Mom

Tomorrow we're off to visit Mom to help celebrate her one-hundred-and-first-and-a-half birthday. Still fresh are the memories of her one-hundredth birthday party. The "surprise at 3:00" mentioned on the invitation was a concert by Rebecca Kilgore, Dan Barrett (with trombone), and Dave Frishberg.

That day's musical highlights are indelible in our memory. Becky sang Mom's request Laughing At Life (wise words to live by). Dan played a slyly humorous, slow-tempo Margie (which happens to be Mom's name), a performance that would have delighted Vic Dickenson as much as it delighted us. Mom has always been a big Frishberg fan, and Dave played and sang her favorite Frishberg song, I Want to Be a Sideman. (A one-hundred-year-old requesting I Want to Be a Sideman? How hip is that?)


To honor Mom this year, I turn to another version of Margie, this one recorded in 1938, featuring the great Bill Coleman at his nimble best on trumpet, Alix Combelle, tenor sax, Eddie Brunner, clarinet, and Herman Chittison, piano. If you're wondering why this side swings so fiercely, consider the soloists and the rhythm section: Tommy Benford, drums, and Oscar Alemán, guitar.


Happy one-oh-one-and-a-half, Mom!

Batgirl defies science!

According to the findings of physicists at the University of Leicester, published in the university's Journal of Special Physics Topics and reported in Wired Science:

“Clearly gliding using a batcape is not a safe way to travel, unless a method to rapidly slow down is used, such as a parachute.”

The proposed parachute would surely diminish the impact of Batman’s stylish flourish when he flicks the cape aside on landing — not to mention, detract from the terror it instills in enemies when he goes for the full wing span, narrow-eyed bat impersonation, pre-attack.

Nevertheless, the physics is undeniable.

After accounting for the drag and lift forces acting on Bruce Wayne in flight, the doomed trajectory was calculated. The 15.4-foot wingspan is just half that of an ordinary hang glider and, when launching off an 492-foot-high Gotham city skyscraper and gliding (successfully, the team predicted) for around 1,150 feet, Batman’s velocity would peak at 68 mph before levelling off at a life-threatening 50 mph descent.

The paper does admit that variations in the angle of the glide were not taken into account, and could contribute to a safe landing. However, Batman would need to slow significantly to avoid becoming a messy afterthought for Gotham city’s road sweepers.

The paper also does not take into account Batgirl's fearlessness and dedication to justice. You can see it in her eyes.