Artie Shaw His Life and Music PDF

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ARTIC (HflUI
Mis Life and (Bum
JOHfl WHITE
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Copyright © 1998, 2004 by John White
Originally published in Great Britain in 1998 by The University of Hull Press.

Revised edition published in 2004 by Continuum, by arrangement with Bayou
Press Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
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permission in writing from the publishers or their appointed agents.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Biddies Ltd, King's Lynn, Norfolk
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
White, John, 1939 Feb. 5-

Artie Shaw : his life and Music / John White.—rev. ed.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-8264-6915-9 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Shaw, Artie, 1910- 2. Jazz musicians—United States—Biography.
I. Title.
ML419.S52W45 2004
788.6^2165 '092-dc22 2004000473
CONTENTS
Preface 9
1 • Perspectives on Swing 17
2 « Interlude in B Flat: The Search for Identity 41
3 • Beginning the Beguine: $ucce$$ and Remorse 75
4 • War and Peace 115
5 • Cinderella and Other Stories 141
6 • Concerto for Clarinet: The Artistry of Shaw 171
7 • 'S Wonderful: Artie Shaw on Record 189
Coda The Best of Intentions 203
Select Bibliography 211
Index 219
She knows exactly how many times everybody's been divorced
and why, and how many Warner brothers there are. She even
knows how many times Artie Shaw's been married, which I
bet he couldn't tell you himself. She asked me if I had ever
married Artie Shaw, and when I said No, seemed to think I
was pulling her leg or must have done it without noticing. I
tried to explain that when a girl goes to Hollywood, she doesn't
have to marry Artie Shaw, it's optional, but I don't think I con-
vinced her.
P. G. Wodehouse, The Mating Season (1949)
I suppose Artie was the first intelligent, intellectual man I'd

ever met, and he bowled me over. I remember that the first
time he took me to a little Italian restaurant across from RKO
studios. Artie looked across at me and said, "Ava, I think that
physically, emotionally, and mentally you are the most perfect
woman I've ever met." His eyes never moved from mine, and
he went on, "And what's more, I'd marry you tonight, except
for the fact that I've married too many wives already." Artie
took it for granted that everyone was panting to marry Artie
Shaw.
Ava Gardner, Ava: My Story (1990)
Artie Shaw was a great clarinet player, but I never felt he gen-
erated the intensive drive that Benny Goodman did. At first,
his band was a spin-off from the Goodman approach, but
some of the things he did with strings were very rewarding.
Artie had no sense of humor, in my opinion, and always took
himself too seriously to suit me.
Charlie Barnet, Those Swinging Years (1984)
For Teresa
PREFACE TO
SECOND EDITION
A s the dashing and handsome leader of one of America's

most accomplished big bands in the 1930s and 1940s,
Artie Shaw achieved measures of fame and fortune which for a
time eclipsed even those of his great rival, Benny Goodman. Ac-
cording to one estimate, Shaw's five top single recordings had
sold over 65 million copies by 1965, and he has calculated that
by 1990, his total sales topped 100 million records. In 1962 at a
special ceremony in New York, Shaw received Golden Disc
awards for his million-seller records: Begin the Beguine, Night-
mare, Traffic Jam, Dancing in the Dark, Stardust, Summit Ridge
Drive, and Back Bay Shuffle. All of them feature Shaw's superla-
tive clarinet playing, remarkable for its plangent tone and aston-
ishing technical facility. Unlike Goodman, who has been the
subject of two recent and well-researched biographies—James
Lincoln Collier's Benny Goodman and the Swing Era (1990), and
Ross Firestone's Swing, Swing, Swing: The Life & Times of Benny
Goodman (1993)—Shaw has not received comparable treatment
by any jazz historian. This book is intended to remedy that omis-
sion.
10 * PREFACE
Born in 1910, Shaw became—and remains—a controversial,

contradictory, and enigmatic figure. Between 1936 and 1955 he
organized and led at least eight different bands and small groups,
some of which were dissolved in acrimonious circumstances. An
early and avid seeker of material success, Shaw on three notable
occasions declared that he was temperamentally unsuited to the
role of public celebrity, and abandoned his career as a profes-
sional musician to follow a variety of pursuits: writer, farmer,
fisherman, marksman, film distributor, broadcaster, lecturer, ar-
chitect, and student of the classical guitar. For five years he lived
in self-imposed exile in Spain. Married eight times, his wives in-
cluded film stars Lana Turner and Ava Gardner, Elizabeth Kern
(daughter of songwriter Jerome Kern), Doris Dowling, Kathleen
Winsor (author of the salacious novel Forever Amber), and ac-
tress Evelyn Keyes. (When asked why he married all these beau-
tiful women, Shaw once reportedly replied: "Should I have
married ugly ones?"). He also reportedly had affairs with Betty
Grable, Lena Home, Joan Crawford, and Judy Garland.
Shaw was one of the first white bandleaders to employ
African-American musicians—singer Billie Holiday, trumpeters
Oran "Hot Lips" Page and Roy Eldridge, and (briefly) drummer
Zutty Singleton—in an era of intense racial prejudice. Like the
late Norman Granz, jazz impresario and record producer, Shaw
fought Jim Crow discrimination in the worlds of jazz and swing.
(In 1947, Shaw, along with Tommy Dorsey, Count Basie, Nat
King Cole, Coleman Hawkins, and Buddy Rich, signed a pro-
posal, drafted by Granz, which pledged jazz musicians not to per-
form to segregated audiences).
PREFACE • 11
A musician of remarkable talent and ability, Shaw has not

played the clarinet (in public or in private) for over forty years.
But in the 1980s—largely due to the urging of the late Willard
Alexander—he agreed to the re-formation of the Artie Shaw Or-
chestra, under the direction of clarinetist Dick Johnson.
The subject of Brigitte Berman's excellent film biography
Time Is All You've Got (1984), which won an Academy Award for
best documentary film, Shaw has more recently been inter-
viewed by Fred Hall on station KKSB in California, in a six-hour
"Tribute to Artie Shaw." The only detailed examination of Shaw's
career is Edmund L. Blandford's privately published Artie Shaw:
A Bio-Discography (1973). Despite its extensive use of articles
and interviews which appeared in Down Beat and Metronome
magazines, and a comprehensive listing of Shaw's recordings as
a sideman and leader from 1931—1954, Blandford's book is shod-
dily presented, poorly written, and excessively adulatory. There
is little sustained attempt to place Shaw's musical career in its
historical and/or musical context, and no attention is given to his
literary output.
The present study—reflecting a growing academic and popu-
lar interest in jazz and its derivatives—offers a narrative account
and analytical assessment of the achievements and concerns of
a major figure in American popular music. More specifically, it
treats Shaw's formative years, his searches for a musical and per-
sonal identity, literary endeavors, questionings of the American
myth of success, and engagement with political and racial issues.
It also utilizes oral testimonies and the statements of Shaw's ad-
mirers and detractors.
12 • PREFACE
At the beginning of the twenty-first century, Artie Shaw is

one of the last great survivors of the Swing Era—that period in
America's history when jazz-inflected music, performed by large
orchestras and small groups reached new levels of precision, per-
fection, and polyphony which, although they can never be satis-
factorily recreated, can still be heard in their original (and
sometimes "enhanced") glory on record, cassette, and compact
disc. Shaw himself has taken advantage of and invested in the
new technology. His Web site (www.artieshaw.com) includes a
third-person capsule autobiography that eschews false modesty
and exudes staggering self-esteem. A few examples will illustrate
the point:
He made his first public appearance as a leader in 1936, in a

Swing Concert (history's first) held at Broadway's Imperial The-
ater. This proved to be a major turning point in his career, and
would in fact ultimately have a significant impact on the future
of American Big Band jazz.
Superstardom turned out to be a status that Shaw (a compulsive

perfectionist) found totally uncongenial.
Shaw is regarded by many as the finest and most innovative of all

jazz clarinetists, a leader of several of the greatest musical aggre-
gations ever assembled, and one of the most adventurous and ac-
complished figures in American music.
As Shaw goes on into his nineties, he has also developed a crusty

humor, as evidenced by an epitaph for himself he wrote for Who's
Who in America a few years ago at the request of the editors: "He
did the best he could with the material at hand."
PREFACE • 13
Critic Gary Giddins suggests that "what is most paradoxical

about Shaw is his resentment of celebrity obligations and his de-
sire to sustain a celebrity-sized following/' Perhaps too gener-
ously, Giddins concludes that it is "best take him at his word
when he insists that he was temperamentally unsuited to the
whole star-making apparatus."1
Every author of a "scholarly" text owes debts of gratitude to
friends, colleagues, and librarians. My special thanks go to
Midge Hayes, Artie Shaw's former assistant and companion, for
her invaluable help in providing me with records, tapes, and pho-
tographs, but above all for her enthusiastic encouragement and
pertinent observations—all of which helped to bring this book to
fruition. I hope that it meets with her approval. Dan Morgenst-
ern and the staff at the Institute of Jazz Studies, Rutgers Univer-
sity, Newark, New Jersey (the most relaxed and relaxing of
archives) made my initial researches as rewarding as they were
enjoyable. Artie Shaw's two collections of short stories (dis-
cussed in chapter 4) were read and "deconstructed" by my col-
league (and fellow jazz enthusiast) John Mowat, Lecturer in
American Literature at the University of Hull, who then gener-
ously shared his insights with me. I also acknowledge my indebt-
edness to the writings of Edmund L. Blandford, Leonard
Feather, George T. Simon, Gunther Schuller, Vladimir Simosko,
Alyn Shipton, Richard M. Sudhalter, and Robert Lewis Taylor
for much of the information presented here. I must thank my
good friend and collaborator Richard Palmer, for his close read-
ing of and trenchant comments on several drafts of Non-Stop
Flight. Thanks also to Alyn Shipton, who reviewed the first edi-
tion of this book on his Jazz Notes programme (BBC Radio 3)
14 • PREFACE
and then allowed and encouraged me to refine and reconsider

my assessment of Artie Shaw—the man and his music.
John White
North Ferriby
East Yorkshire
1 March 2003
NOTE
1. Gary Giddins, Visions of Jazz: The First Century (New York and
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 205-06.
This page intentionally left blank
The new Swing icon
Perspectives on Swing
You could buy Benny Goodman records until 1938, and then
somebody must have realized he was Jewish. After that you could
buy Artie Shaw records because they did not know his real name
was Arshawsky.
Carlo Bohlander [German jazz historian]
M ost jazz historians and critics agree that the Swing Era in
America was launched with the sensational success of
the Benny Goodman orchestra's engagement at the Palomar
Ballroom in Los Angeles in 1935, at the end of its less-than-suc-
cessful transcontinental tour. The young dancers at the Palomar
had listened to Goodman's Let s Dance hour-long broadcasts for
the National Biscuit Company (at a time when their East Coast
counterparts were safely in bed), purchased his recordings of
Blue Skies and Sometimes I'm Happy, and were simply waiting
the arrival in person of their hero and his sidemen. By 1936
Goodman had been hailed by publicists—unaware of or indiffer-
ent to the fact that many of his arrangements like King Porter
Stomp were by the African-American bandleader Fletcher Hen-
derson—as "The King of Swing."1 The American critic Barry Ula-
nov writes that "in the middle and late thirties, swing lost its
18 « A R T I E SHAW
standing as a verb and was elevated to the stature of a noun and a

category. Jazz was dead, long live swing/' Yet as the late Leonard
Feather, British-born jazz enthusiast and promoter, believed:
If the swing era was born with the thunderous success of the
Goodman band in California in the fall of 1935, it can be said to
have enjoyed its baptism at the Imperial Theater in New York on
Sunday evening, May 24, 1936, when Joe Helbock, the manager
of the Onyx Club, decided to bring respectability to the trend
by presenting the first official "Swing Music Concert." Though
Goodman and Duke Ellington were absent, the personnel at the
Imperial that night constituted to a large extent a Who's Who of
the swing era. The participants included Bob Crosby, fronting
the big orchestra that pioneered in the attempt to turn Dixieland
jazz into a vehicle for a full-sized band; Tommy Dorsey, with a
so-called "Clambake Seven" contingent from the new big band
he had formed on breaking up with his brother Jimmy; violinist
Stuff Smith, xylophonist Red Norvo and trumpeter Bunny Beri-
gan with their swing sextets; Glen Gray's Casa Loma orchestra,
and groups from the bands of Paul Whiteman and Louis Arm-
strong.
But the surprise of the evening came from an unexpected quarter

and a relatively unknown performer.
Perhaps the least impressive item on the printed programme

announced the appearance of "Arthur Shaw's String Ensem-
ble/' Shaw, then a radio station musician and almost unknown
to jazz fans, had decided to make a revolutionary move by
backing his jazz clarinet with a string quartet. To the astonish-
ment of Helbock, of the audience and above all of Shaw him-
P E R S P E C T I V E S ON S W I N G « 19
self, the group's performance of Artie's Interlude in B Flat was

the hit of the evening. Within a few months of his unexpected
triumph at the Imperial Theater, Artie Shaw created the first
major schism in the swing field. Benny Goodman, after a year
of unchallenged supremacy, had a rival. The rivalry became
more intense when Shaw, after abandoning his first jazz-with-
strings orchestra, formed a band with the conventional brass-
reeds-and rhythm constitution. 2
During the "Swing Era" in America—roughly the period from

1935 to 1945—big-band music, already pioneered by the Afri-
can-American aggregations of Don Redman and Fletcher Hen-
derson, was popularized (and sometimes diluted) by the white
orchestras of Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Benny Goodman,
Glenn Miller, Charlie Barnet, Gene Krupa, and Harry James. In-
dividually and collectively, these big-band leaders achieved an
enormous following at home and abroad, and ' jazz" and "swing"
became synonymous terms for American popular music, heard
on records, radio, and jukeboxes. Following the repeal of Prohibi-
tion in 1933, the exciting new music was heard in clubs and
dance halls again permitted to sell alcohol.3 According to one es-
timate, by 1940 there were close to two hundred orchestras, of-
fering stylized and immediately identifiable forms of swing. Every
swing orchestra had its complement of ardent and sometimes
hysterical admirers—forerunners of today's rock and pop group-
ies—who possessed an awesome knowledge of their personnel,
arrangers, recordings, and off-the-stand activities. As one con-
temporary observer recorded:
Among many of the jitterbugs—particularly among many of

the boys and girls—the appreciation of the new music was
20 • A R T I E S H A W
largely vertebral. A good swing band smashing away at full

speed, with the trumpeters and clarinetists rising in turn
under the spotlight to embroider the theme with their several
furious improvisations and the drummers going into long-
drawn-out rhythmical frenzies, could reduce its less inhibited
auditors to sheer emotional vibration, punctuated by howls of
rapture/ 4
Swing orchestras also had their theme tunes. Among the

most famous were One O'ClockJump (Count Basie), Let's Dance
and Goodbye (Benny Goodman), Blue Flame (Woody Herman),
I'm Getting Sentimental Over You (Tommy Dorsey), Moonlight
Serenade (Glenn Miller), Cherokee (Charlie Barnet), Chant of
the Weed (Don Redman), Snowfall (Claude Thornhill), Deep
Forest (Earl Hines), and Nightmare (Artie Shaw). Jazz writer Nat
Hentoff recalls:
My own introduction to the jazz life began with a record of

Artie Shaw's Nightmare. I came from a home where any overt
expression of emotion was calculated and measured lest it roar
out of control. Standing in a record store one afternoon, how-
ever, I shocked myself by yelling in pleasure at the first bars of
Nightmare.
He adds that after Shaw "I went to Duke Ellington, Louis Arm-
strong, Fats Waller, blues singer Peetie Wheatstraw and I was
hooked/'5
For all swing orchestras, the role of arrangers was vital—
since swing music was, in effect, "arranged improvisation/' They
worked closely with their respective leaders (some of whom were
notable arrangers in their own right) and it was the arranger who
P E R S P E C T I V E S ON SWING • 21
helped swing bands to achieve their distinctive sound and iden-

tity. Notable arrangers of the swing era included Billy Strayhorn
(Duke Ellington), Jerry Gray (Artie Shaw and Glenn Miller), Ray
Conniff, Buster Harding and Johnny Mandel (Artie Shaw), and
Eddie Sauter (Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw).
Radio stations like WNEW in New York and KFWB in Los
Angeles, with their "Make Believe Ballrooms/' featured programs
by swing bands, many of which were sponsored—in those unen-
lightened and litigation-free times—by cigarette companies.
Benny Goodman and Bob Crosby were presented by Camel;
Glenn Miller and Harry James by Chesterfield; Larry Clinton,
Woody Herman, and Artie Shaw by Old Gold and Tommy Dor-
sey by Raleigh-Kool. Established swing orchestras were also
broadcast by "remotes"—usually late at night—from the hotels,
restaurants, and theaters where they were appearing. Venues
such as the Sherman Hotel (Chicago), Frank Dailey's Meadow-
brook Inn (Cedar Grove, New Jersey), the Palomar Ballroom
(Los Angeles), and Glen Island Casino (New Rochelle, New
York) afforded the swing orchestras valuable exposure, publicity,
and earnings.
Working almost as if by plan, the national broadcasters piped

hotel music to hundreds of thousands of people who would
then flock to dance halls and theaters to hear these same
bands on tour, after which the broadcasters could sell the
bands to sponsors who wished their products to be associated
with these by now "name bands/'6
George T. Simon, veteran chronicler of the big bands, ob-

serves that remote broadcasts also meant that "bands would ac-
22 • A R T I E SHAW
cept low wages for engagements in spots with radio outlets/'

often for weeks at a time and losing money, but hoping to gain
enough national recognition through air time so "that when they
finally did go out on one-nighters and theater tours, they could
demand and get more money."7
In the 1930s and early 40s, the big radio networks also com-
peted to present the top-name swing orchestras to their listeners.
In 1939, the National Broadcasting Company (NBC) carried
forty-nine name bands over its two networks (the Red and the
Blue) including those of Charlie Barnet, Count Basie, the Dor-
sey Brothers, Gene Krupa, Glenn Miller, and Artie Shaw. The
Columbia Broadcasting System (CBS) offered Benny Goodman,
Jack Teagarden, and Cab Galloway, among its much smaller ros-
ter of swing bands.
The swing phenomenon was also very much a part of the
American commercial entertainment business. David W. Stowe
suggests plausibly that:
The Utopian impulses that big-band jazz seemed to embody

and express—freedom, individualism, ethnic inclusiveness,
democratic participation—were ones that inevitably put the
music and its practitioners into conflict with the tendency of
the swing industry toward consolidation, vertical integration,
and homogenization. If swing was the popular music of most
of the 1930s and 1940s, and therefore the first music to be
acted upon by a new kind of culture industry, it was a particu-
lar kind of popular music, one that marked the media through
which it gained its mass appeal.8
Swing orchestras were under the control of managers and agents,

who often exploited as much as they promoted their clients.
Scott DeVeaux has remarked pertinently that the swing phenom-

enon was generated by
a system of economic interdependence in which individual

musicians played clearly defined roles. In the Swing Era, the
integration of dance music with other forms of mass-market
entertainment was carried out on a scale never seen before.
New media—radio, recordings, film—began to tie the vast
American continent together into networks of production and
dissemination controlled from New York and Los Angeles.
Each step brought new efficiencies that increased the poten-
tial for profit, while requiring the individual to yield more and
more autonomy to the system [which] with its booking agen-
cies, radio broadcasts, and record contracts, was pervasive and
all-inclusive. To exist outside of it was either an admission of
incompetence or an act of rebellion.9
Booking agencies like the General Artists Corporation

(GAG)—formed by Tommy Rockwell and Francis (Corky)
O'Keefe—promoted the bands of Bob Crosby, Jimmy Dorsey,
Woody Herman, Glenn Miller, and Artie Shaw. The Music Cor-
poration of America (MCA)—founded by Jules C. Stein—signed
up Shaw's future rival Benny Goodman at the start of his career,
and the Count Basie Orchestra after its arrival in New York from
Kansas City in 1936. Moreover, bandleaders were constantly im-
portuned by publishers' representatives—"song-pluggers"—to
get particular tunes played over the air. Trombonist Tommy
Dorsey, like other band leaders, was highly critical of these
salesmen.
They come in and instead of a direct "Here's a tune that I

think will be good for the band; please look it over," they try
hard as hell to be subtle, put their arms around me, shake my

one hand with two of theirs—all in an attempt to make me
believe that they love me and that I'm really one helluva won-
derful guy. But I know exactly what they are driving at and that
at any minute they're going to drive in for the kill with the
usual stuff about the most "terrific tune" of the year.10
In 1941, when the networks rejected the demand of the

American Society of Authors, Composers and Publishers
(ASCAP) that they should increase payment for performing the
work of its members, many orchestras were forced to play swing
versions of old standards like London Bridge is Falling Down,
Comin' Through the Rye, Loch Lomond, and My Old Kentucky
Home that were out of copyright. There were also swing versions
of such "classical" pieces as Mendelssohn's Spring Song and Jo-
hann Strauss's The Blue Danube—both of which were performed
by Tommy Dorsey in 1937. Musical purists denounced such dep-
redations and demanded that they be banned from the airwaves.
One such protest concerned Benny Goodman's recording of
Each Goes to Town (1938), composed by Alec Templeton and
arranged by Henry Brant. The president of the Bach Society of
Newark, New Jersey, protested to the Federal Communications
Commission (FCC), and suggested that "any station that violates
the canon of decency, by permitting the syncopation of the clas-
sics, particularly Bach's music, be penalized by having its licence
suspended." The FCC declined to issue such a ruling, but did
ask radio stations to exercise "a high degree of discrimination" in
featuring such material.11
Swing performances, whatever their provenance—and per-
haps not surprisingly—also met with a hostile reception from
some quarters of the American press and self-appointed guard-

ians of public taste. Krin Gabbard in his examination of [mis]
representations of jazz in Hollywood movies, notes that "many
white Americans embraced swing because it contained elements
associated with African-American spontaneity, transgressive-
ness, and, most importantly, sexuality. These elements were
clearly implied even when the music was played by an entirely
white band/' 12
Many contemporary commentators perceived—as they also
deplored—this connection. According to one pundit, "swing
deals largely with eroticism—hence its restlessness and pain and
gloom, its mad excitements and its profound despairs."13 In
1938, Professor H. D. Gideonese of Columbia University, with
a fine disregard for logic or contemporary political realities, in-
formed four hundred Barnard College undergraduates that
"swing is musical Hitlerism. There is a mass sense of letting one's
self go." In the same year, the president of the Dancing Teacher's
Business Association told its annual convention that in swing
music, young people found "neurotic and erotic expressions of
physical activity."14 These and similar diatribes led Paul Eduard
Miller to conclude in Down Beat's Yearbook of Swing (1939) that:
"No other music, to my knowledge, has suffered so much violent
criticism nor has been the subject of so many spurious attacks by
both professional and non-professional reformers of the world's
morals."15
Yet as Neil Leonard has ably demonstrated, by the late 1930s
denigrations of swing were being countered by expressions of ap-
proval and understanding. In 1941, the director of the Radio Art-
ist's Guild of America declared that "Benny Goodman has
brought to popular music a virtuosity which many symphonic in-

strumentalists envy." Two years earlier, Mrs. Lilla Bell Pitts, vice-
president of the Music Educators' National Conference, while
not endorsing the preference of America's youth for swing music,
urged her fellow educators to recognize its appeal, and endorsed
Alec Templeton's verdict that "if Johann Sebastian Bach were
alive today he and Benny Goodman would be the best of
friends."16
Big bands and swing stars also appeared in Hollywood mov-
ies of the 1930s and 40s—which generally ranged from mediocre
to abominable in quality and accuracy. Gene Krupa was featured
in the Gary Cooper/Barbara Stanwyck comedy, Ball of Fire, di-
rected by Howard Hawks (1941), in which he played Drum
Boogie—switching from drumsticks to matchsticks in the final
coda. Las Vegas Nights, directed by Ralph Murphy (1941), in-
cluded the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra and an invisible string sec-
tion. It was not all dross. The Benny Goodman Quartet and
Orchestra made appearances that were both musically and visu-
ally satisfying in the Busby Berkeley musical Hollywood Hotel
(1937). 17
Most swing orchestras and small groups centered on their
leaders and their respective instruments: Bunny Berigan, Ziggy
Elman, and Harry James (trumpeters), Tommy Dorsey, Buddy
Morrow, and Jack Teagarden (trombonists), Benny Goodman,
Woody Herman, and Artie Shaw (clarinetists), Charlie Barnet,
Jimmy Dorsey, and Sam Donahue (saxophonists), Duke Elling-
ton, Count Basie, and Earl Hines (pianists), Gene Krupa and
Chick Webb (drummers).
Swing bands, then, played versions of original and popular

tunes, all of which were characterized by the "call-and-response"
interplay between the brass and reed sections, unison choruses,
a steady 4/4 rhythm (provided by the "rhythm section" of piano,
bass, guitar, and drums), and improvised solos from featured in-
strumentalists. Some swing orchestras—notably those of Artie
Shaw, Harry James, Glenn Miller, and Tommy Dorsey—featured
string sections. From the late 1930s, resident and peripatetic vo-
calists came to be identified with the major leaders: Peggy Lee
and Martha Tilton (Benny Goodman), Helen Forrest (Artie
Shaw, Benny Goodman, and Harry James), Billie Holiday (Count
Basic and Artie Shaw), Ella Fitzgerald (Chick Webb), Lena
Home (Charlie Barnet), and Frank Sinatra (Harry James and
Tommy Dorsey).18 Whatever their talents, swing-band vocalists
provided "the most personal, the most literal and often the most
communicative link between the bandstands and the dance
floors, between stages and seats, and between recording and
radio studios and the perennial 'unseen audiences/" 19
Explanations for the rise of swing are as varied as they are
generally unsatisfactory. An editorial in Metronome magazine in
1938 asserted that swing "began to take hold in a national way"
at about the same time as the United States began to emerge
from the Great Depression and entered the era of Democratic
president Franklin D. Roosevelt's New Deal, with its programs
of economic recovery and reform. Other commentators related
the rise of the swing era to the fall of the American (and world)
economy. In this view, swing—and the social activities that it
encouraged—offered those suffering from the continuing after-
math of the Depression entertainment, escape, romance, and ec-

stasy. More recently, Gunther Schuller has offered an amalgam
of these views—of swing as representing, in part, an antidote to
harsh economic realities, as signifying a "searching for deeper life
values and means of spiritual fulfilment rather than the pursuit
of material acquisition/' It was also a commercial and creative
response to the more sanguine atmosphere generated by Roose-
velt's vigorous and innovative political leadership.
Despite the Depression—or perhaps because of it—the thir-

ties were for many people a new beginning. For some minori-
ties the period represented another small but significant step
up the ladder of social and cultural integration and, for many
blacks, opportunities in music—in jazz, that is—were to open
new vistas of economic and social status. In the wake of the
initiative begun in the Jazz Age, the 1920s, more black musi-
cians saw jazz for the first time as a profession. And some, per-
haps, even dared to see it as an art.20
David Stowe has suggested (not entirely convincingly) that

big-band swing, with its emphasis on regimented performances
in which soloists made their personal contributions to the collec-
tive whole, was analogous to "the notion of a co-operative com-
monwealth central to Franklin Roosevelt's vision of America."
Swing's exponents and their audiences reflected the Democratic
Party's constituency of organized labor, intellectuals, farmers,
and urban ethnic groups. Lewis Erenberg makes the insightful
observations that "swing was profoundly cosmopolitan, including
blacks, Jews, Italians, Poles, Irish and Protestants as leaders,
players, and singers." Charlie Barnet had rejected his privileged
and wealthy background to pursue the exciting jazz life; Artie

Shaw, the former Arthur Arshawsky, sought fame and fortune in
the music business as an "alternative to his parents' Jewish iden-
tity." African-American musicians hoped that swing music would
provide them with both artistic and commercial opportunities.
Fletcher Henderson, Don Redman, Duke Ellington, and Count
Basie melded the African-American improvisatory tradition with
a Eurocentric musical tradition.
But there is no entirely persuasive explanation for the rise
and vogue of swing. As the historian and jazz enthusiast Edward
Pessen concludes, "the growing popularity of swing music corre-
lated with any number of social, political, economic, and intellec-
tual trends of the late 1930s. That fact, however, proves nothing
and offers no evidence that it was these trends that induced peo-
ple to respond positively to what to them was a new kind of
music or induced musicians to play it."21
Certainly the black orchestras of Jimmie Lunceford, Count
Basie, Lionel Hampton, Earl Hines, Chick Webb, and Duke El-
lington made their own—and generally superior—contributions
to the swing years. They also had their white admirers. In his
autobiography Along This Way (1933), James Weldon Johnson,
the African-American novelist, songwriter and civil rights activ-
ist, observed the growing popularity of what he called "this
lighter music" which "has been fused and then developed, chiefly
by Jewish musicians," into a national popular idiom.
It is to this music that America in general gives itself over in

its leisure hours, when it is not engaged in the struggles im-
posed upon it by the exigencies of present-day American life.
At these times, the Negro drags his captors captive. On occa-

sions, I have been amazed and amused watching white people
dancing to a Negro band in a Harlem cabaret; attempting to
throw off the crusts and layers of inhibitions laid on by sophis-
ticated civilization; striving to yield to the feel and experience
of abandon; seeking to recapture a state of primitive joy in life
and living; trying to work their way back into that jungle which
was the original Garden of Eden; in a word, doing their best
to pass for colored.22
The world of swing, was "more racially and ethnically mixed

than any other arena of American life," and its ideology was both
"utopian" and "cosmopolitan." Despite racial discrimination in
the music industry, black bands, with the support and encour-
agement of such left-wing enthusiasts as John Hammond, now
"had the opportunity to aspire to national acclaim." As Scott De-
Veaux observes, although African-American musicians gained
only limited benefits from the New Deal, they made some prog-
ress. "Sceptical as they may have been of any opportunities of-
fered by white society, they must have been tantalized by the
possibility for change." But in a period of intense racial discrimi-
nation, African-American musicians did not receive the expo-
sure, facilities or public recognition accorded to their white
counterparts.23 Yet as the British critic Stanley Dance perceived,
"the general preference of [the] white masses for jazz by white
musicians was never altogether the result of racial prejudice.
Translations, and indeed dilutions, were understandably more to
their taste."24 African-American jazz artists were, however, ac-
knowledged by their fellow white musicians as sources of inspi-
ration, who were to be emulated—if not actually offered
employment.25
Yet just what swing was remained a matter of conjecture and

controversy, partly because as Ross Firestone has noted, the new
form—however defined—"did not really involve any radical
break in the jazz tradition." Unlike the "bop" or "bebop" revolu-
tion of the 1940s (or the "free jazz" revolution of the 1960s)
swing was an evolutionary rather than a revolutionary develop-
ment. Moreover, given the common identification of swing with
large orchestras, there is a certain irony in the fact that it was
small groups of musicians, playing "novelty" numbers, and
fronted by such leaders as Louis Prima and Wingy Manone (both
trumpeters) who initially popularized the new jazz style.26 But as
"swing" began to enjoy popular currency, leaders of large orches-
tras increasingly began to bill themselves as "swing" bands—
possibly because the term lacked the racial and sexual
connotations popularly associated with the word "jazz."27
During World War II, Artie Shaw's Navy Band, the Glenn
Miller Army Air Force Band, other swing-inflected aggrega-
tions—and the "V-Discs" made by swing and jazz musicians ex-
pressly for the Armed Forces—did much to sustain American
military morale. On the eve of World War II, Time magazine re-
ported that to most Germans, the United States meant "sky-
scrapers, Clark Gable, and Artie Shaw." A German officer,
captured by the advancing Americans in 1945, reportedly asked,
"Do you have any Count Basie records?" As Gunther Schuller
observes, "This special identity between a people and its music
is perhaps the happiest and most significant aspect of the Swing
Era, a quality impossible to recapture now, and, for those who
did not actually experience it, difficult to savour in retrospect."28
If the offerings of white swing orchestras eventually became ster-
ile, mechanical, and meretricious, the classic performances by

the bands of Charlie Barnet, Bunny Berigan, Tommy Dorsey,
Harry James, Benny Goodman, and Artie Shaw were frequently
rewarding and musically intelligent.
In their comprehensive analysis of jazz styles in New York
City, Samuel Charters and Leonard Kunstadt suggest that given
their "brilliant musicianship and complex arrangements," swing
orchestras could have reached one of the highest levels of musi-
cal achievement that any popular dance music had ever
achieved. But sadly (and increasingly) "for every imaginative and
creative arrangement they played," there were "ten tedious ac-
companiments for the singing of the band's romantic crooner.
For every exhilarating moment of swinging rhythm and drive
there were ten of the most hackneyed dance music."29
In similar vein, Hsio Wen Shih has suggested that it was the
sameness of swing orchestrations and performances that resulted
in the demise of classic big-band swing.
The increasing popularity of swing arrangements on the

[Fletcher] Henderson model led to a general similarity of style
in all the big bands. Goodman, Shaw, the Dorseys, Barnet,
[Earl] Hines, [Cab] Galloway, and [Chick] Webb were all ap-
proaching the same standards of proficiency. By the early
1940s the gradual elimination of stylistic variations had killed
big-band jazz. It was death by entropy.30
Yet Frederick Lewis Allen, a perceptive commentator on con-

temporary American culture and mores, was more impressed by
the fact that even before the United States entered World War
II, the great swing units had produced music that was often both
subtle and complex, and required much more of its devotees

than did the popular music of earlier decades.
The true swing enthusiasts, who only collected records to the

limit of their means and not only liked Artie Shaw's rendering
of Begin the Beguine but knew precisely why they liked it, were
receiving no mean musical education; and if Benny Goodman
could turn readily from the playing of Don't Be That Way to
the playing of Mozart, so could many of his hearers turn to the
hearing of Mozart. It may not have been quite accidental that
the craze for swing accompanied the sharpest gain in musical
knowledge and musical taste that the American people had
ever achieved.31
At the conclusion of a concert and lecture series at New York

City's Town Hall in 1938, presented by Benny Goodman and
John Erskine, president of the Julliard School of Music, the New
York Times reported:
The audience might have assembled to hear a programme of

Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. For subscribers of a series that
had presented serious lecture-recitals on lieder, the sym-
phony, the string quartet and other sober manifestations of the
musical art, the response to what was perhaps their first face-
to-face experience in swing must have been altogether encour-
aging to friends of swing. The applause and cheers that fol-
lowed Mr. Goodman's music left no doubt that the classics
had not spoiled the audience forever for the delights of hot
jazz or swing. Although occupants of the orchestra seats main-
tained a concert-going reserve, those in the balcony were not
ashamed to sway their shoulders and paid no heed to restless
feet.32
Swing was a participatory phenomenon. Its young audiences

were not simply the passive recipients of commercially based
musical products, but informed and dedicated collaborators in a
musical and cultural revolution. Transcending lines of class and
race, by the mid-1930s swing and its devotees exemplified Amer-
ican popular culture. In the era of the New Deal, with its appeal
to the nation's diverse ethnic groups, swing—as James Weldon
Johnson perceived—reflected the impact of European immigrant
cultures on established American White Anglo-Saxon Protestant
norms. In the 1930s, the fusion of syncretic Euro-American mu-
sical forms with a vibrant African-American tradition produced
the exotic hybrid that was designated "swing/' It was, therefore,
wholly appropriate that two of the greatest exemplars of the
Swing Era—Artie Shaw and Benny Goodman—emerged from
the East-European Jewish enclaves in the urban and industrial-
ized America of the 1900s.
NOTES
1. Barry Ulanov, Duke Ellington (London: Musicians Press, 1947).

"There was no difference between the two kinds of music but distinc-
tions were being made. Swing meant arranged big-band jazz to the ma-
jority of fans and musicians, who used it to denote and connote the
new music/' 166.
2. Leonard Feather, The Encylopedia of Jazz (New York: Bonanza
Books, 1960), 28. The Imperial Theatre "Swing Music Concert" was
soon followed by other presentations—most notably, Benny Goodman's
sensational appearance with his orchestra and stars from the Duke El-
lington and Count Basic bands at Carnegie Hall on January 16, 1938,
and record producer John Hammond's two "Spirituals to Swing" con-
certs (supported by the Socialist paper New Masses), also at Carnegie

Hall in 1938/39.
3. In 1933 there were 25,000 jukeboxes in the United States; by
1939, the number had risen to 300,000. Record sales of jazz and swing
music showed a similar increase. Six million records were sold in 1933;
by 1938, sales had reached over 33 million.
4. Frederick Lewis Allen, Since Yesterday (New York: Bantam
Books, 1961), 214.
5. Nat Hentoff, The Jazz Life (London: Peter Davies, 1962), 9.
6. Broadcasters made "remotes" by running wires to these venues,
where transmitters picked up the live musical performances and broad-
cast them over the radio. "Places featuring live music gladly permitted
remote broadcasting of the programs, for it meant free advertising,
often on a national scale, and musicians in search of exposure wel-
comed the opportunity to get their music broadcast at no charge to
themselves." James P. Kraft, Stage to Studio: Musicians and the Sound
Revolution, 1890-1950 (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins
University Press, 1996), 68. Leroy Ostransky, The Anatomy of Jazz (Se-
attle: University of Washington Press, 1960), 224.
7. George T. Simon, The Big Bands (New York: Macmillan, 1971),
58. "The big swing bands entered into a symbiotic relationship with the
radio stations. For radio, the bands playing in the restaurants and dance
halls were a golden source of free programming; for the bands, radio
was an equally golden fountain of free publicity." James Lincoln Col-
lier, The Making of Jazz: A Comprehensive History (London: Macmillan,
1981), 263.
8. David W. Stowe, Swing Changes: Big-Band Jazz in New Deal
America (Cambridge, Mass, and London: Harvard University Press,
1994), 100. Erenberg suggests that in accounting for the rise of swing,
historians have exaggerated the influence of commercial dissemination
and considerations and the privileged position of white orchestras since
the "paradigms of commercialism and the culture hegemony offer little
insight into the music's appeal to a mass youth audience." Lewis A.
Erenberg Swinging the Dream: Big Band Jazz and the Rebirth of Ameri-
can Culture (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1998),
xii.
36 m A R T I E SHAW
9. The Birth of Bebop: A Social and Musical History (Berkeley, Los

Angeles and London: University of California Press, 1997), 118—19.
10. Simon, The Big Bands, 60-61.
11. Ross Firestone, Swing, Swing, Swing: The Life and Times of
Benny Goodman (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1993), 243.
12. Krin Gabbard, Jammin at the Margins: Jazz and the American
Cinema, (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 27.
13. Barry Edward, "This Mad Thing Called Swing!" Chicago Sunday
Tribune, December 11, 1938.
14. Neil Leonard, Jazz and the White Americans: The Acceptance of
a New Art Form (Chicago: University of Chigago Press, 1963), 153.
Lawrence Levine's comment on the detractors and champions of jazz
in the 1920s applies equally to the controversy over swing in the 1930s.
u
jazz was often praised for possessing precisely those characteristics
that made it anathema to those who condemned it: it was praised and
criticized for being innovative and breaking with tradition. It was
praised and criticized for breaking out of the tight circle of obeisance
to Eurocentric cultural forms and giving expression to indigenous
American attitudes articulated through indigenous American creative
structures. It was, in short, praised and criticized for being almost com-
pletely out of phase with the period's concept of Culture/' "Jazz and
American Culture," in Levine, The Unpredictable Past: Explorations in
American Cultural History (New York and Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1993), 180-81.
15. Swing, Swing, Swing, 242.
16. jazz and the White Americans, 146; 151. The leading exponents
of white swing also looked respectable. "The celebrity bandleaders with
whom the American public associated swing in the late 1930s—
Goodman, Dorsey, Shaw, Miller—embodied in their persons the visual
style of the musical fad. [They] were impeccably groomed, not surpris-
ingly, but their appearances also suggested moderation and sobriety.
Goodman was once described as looking like a high school science
teacher." Stowe, Swing Changes, 45.
17. Hollywood's presentations of jazz musicians has been ably char-
ted by David Meeker in Jazz in the Movies: A Guide to jazz Musicians
1917-1977 (London: Talisman Books, 1977). See also: Gabbard, Jaw-

mih at the Margins. Gabbard observes that: "psychoanalytic and struc-
turalist film theorists have pointed out [that] musical numbers bring
the film's story to an abrupt halt. [But] since narrative is indisputably
what most audiences crave, then a film about jazz [or swing] or a film
with jazz cannot dwell on the music for too long. The music gets shoved
aside to make way for the action, or worse, the music continues, barely
audible in the background while the actors talk. Still worse, perform-
ances by some of the most revered jazz artists are the least likely to
appear on film. For many years black artists were simply left out or con-
fined to short performance scenes that could be excised by nervous ex-
hibitors." 6.
Unaware (perhaps mercifully) of structuralist film theory, a Down
Beat writer observed in 1941: "Hollywood is suffering from a frustration
complex. It is excruciatingly aware of the box-office value of dance or-
chestras, but it hasn't the faintest idea of just what to do about it. No
one has, as yet, come up with a sure-fire formula for the use of dance
bands in pictures—a formula, which by Hollywood tradition, must
eliminate the necessity for imagination and inspiration." Quoted in
David W. Stowe, Swing Changes, 136.
18. Frank Sinatra often commented that as an apprentice vocalist
he had learned a lot by simply sitting on the bandstand with Tommy
Dorsey and watching his breath-control technique as he played the
trombone.
19. Simon, The Big Bands, 33.
20. Schuller, The Swing Era: The Development of jazz, 1930—1945
(New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985), 5.
21. Lewis A. Erenberg, "Things to Come: Swing Bands, Bebop, and
the Rise of the Postwar Jazz Scene," in Larry May, ed., Recasting
America: Culture and Politics in the Age of the Cold War (Chicago and
London: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 277-8. Edward Pessen,
"The Kingdom of Swing: New York City in the Late 1930s," New York
History, LXXX (July 1989), 308.
22. Along This Way: The Autobiography of James Weldon Johnson
(London: Penguin Books, 1990), 328.
23. Swinging the Dream, 250; The Birth of Bebop, 119. Schuller
notes that "when the 'swing' styles reigned supreme, it was the swing
music of Goodman, Miller, and Shaw, not Ellington and [Jimmie]
Lunceford, that became the popular music of the land." The Swing Era,
199.
24. Stanley Dance, The World of Swing (New York: Charles Scrib-
ner's Sons, 1974), 10.
25. The extent and degree of color blindness among white bandlead-
ers and swing entrepreneurs should not be exaggerated. Gabbard ob-
serves that "Popular understanding of jazz among whites began to allow
for a greater black presence in the 1930s. Artie Shaw, John Hammond,
and Benny Goodman deserve credit for their mixed bands of that dec-
ade. Their first steps in this direction, however, were tentative: Ham-
mond saw to it that Billie Holiday did not appear in public with the
white musicians with whom she recorded in the mid-thirties; when
Goodman first brought Teddy Wilson and later Lionel Hampton on
stage, he and Gene Krupa performed with them while his [Goodman's]
all-white orchestra was offstage; and a year passed after Goodman's first
recordings with blacks before he would perform with them in public."
Jammin at the Margins, 19.
26. Swing, Swing, Swing, 156—7. Firestone points out that one song
in particular—The Music Goes 'Round and 'Round—recorded by trum-
peter Eddie Farley and trombonist Mike Riley for the Decca label in
September, 1935, introduced an embryonic form of "swing" to a nation-
wide audience. An immediate success—it sold over a hundred thou-
sand copies—"the song attracted such huge crowds to the Onyx [Club]
where Riley and Farley now led their own group, that there was hardly
any room for the real jazz fans. And it helped make the kind of music
becoming known as swing the latest national fad." 156.
27. On the day that Benny Goodman opened his engagement at the
Congress Hotel in Chicago (November 6, 1935), "Variety introduced a
new weekly column by Abel Green titled 'Swing Stuff/ a sure sign that
the word had by now entered the show business mainstream and that
the music referred to was beginning to register a significant commercial
aspect." Ihid. 155. Scott DeVeaux relates that shortly after the onset of
P E R S P E C T I V E S ON S W I N G * 39
"the initial swing craze, dance orchestras generated nearly $100 million
annually, employing some thirty to forty thousand musicians, as well as
another eight thousand managers, promoters, and other support per-
sonnel." The Birth of Bebop, 127.
28. The Swing Era, 4.
29. Jazz: A History of the New York Scene, 241. Jazz historian and
critic Martin Williams delivered very much the same verdict. "The big
swing bands flourished roughly from the mid-1930s through the late
1940s, and by the early 1950s there were only a handful of survivors.
Since we Americans are very fond of interpreting events in our national
life in terms of economics, we are apt to say that the bands disappeared
because the 'business' could no longer support them. But that is only
another way of saying that large numbers of people no longer wanted
to dance to their music, listen to their music, or buy their recordings.
However, there was a valid artistic reason why the bands should not
have survived. By the end of the 1940s their work was largely done—
almost all their ideas had been thoroughly explored, thoroughly imi-
tated and popularized, and only the greatest or most individual of
them—Ellington being the supreme example—had pressing reasons to
survive." Jazz Heritage (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1985), 31-2.
30. Hsio Wen Shih, "The Spread of Jazz and the Big Bands," in Jazz,
edited by Nat Hentoff and Albert McCarthy (New York: Rinehart and
Co., 1959), 186-7.
31. Frederick Lewis Allen, Since Yesterday, 215.
32. Jazz and the White Americans, 150.
Shaw and Billie Holiday, Boston, 1938
(attrib. Bob Inman)
Interlude in B Flat:
The Search for Identity
I don't dabble in anything; I get involved in whatever I do.

Artie Shaw
If you have a conversation with Artie Shaw and take a breath,

you lose your turn for about fifty minutes.
Mel Torme
I n 1914, over 1,400,000 Jews lived in New York City, where

they were heavily concentrated in the Lower East Side, an
area of little more than a square mile, extending from the Bowery
almost to the East River, and from 14th Street to the Brooklyn
Bridge. British novelist Arnold Bennett, on an American visit in
1912, said that on Rivington Street "the architecture seemed to
sweat humanity at every window and door/' Jewish immigrants
from Russia, Romania, and Austria-Hungary inhabited five and
six-storey "dumb-bell" tenements with dark rooms, shared toilets,
and a cold-water tap typically supplying two apartments of four
rooms at each end of the landing. Yiddish was the lingua franca
of the Lower East Side, and its residents, many of whom were
boarders, often sharing beds on a shift basis, were most com-

monly engaged in the manufacture of ready-made clothing for
the garment trade.
Jacob Riis, a Danish-born police reporter and reform-minded
journalist, observed in his celebrated study How the Other Half
Lives (1890):
The homes of the Hebrew quarter are its workshops also. You
are made fully aware of it before you have travelled the length
of a single block in any of these East Side streets, by the whirr
of a thousand sewing machines, worked at high pressure from
earliest dawn until mind and muscle give out together. It is
not unusual to find a dozen persons—men, women and chil-
dren—at work in a single room.1
In 1899, New York State adopted legislation governing tene-

ment work, with a system of licensing and inspection to ensure
minimum standards of ventilation and hygiene—the result of
which was to drive workers out of the tenements and into factor-
ies. In September 1909, the Jewish-led Ladies' Garment Work-
ers' Union and the Amalgamated Clothing Workers of America
staged a successful strike in protest against working conditions,
lasting until February 1910, and resulting in union recognition
and wage increases. Another strike in the summer of 1910 called
for a 48-hour week, the end of "sweatshop" conditions and union
recognition of the cloak-makers' industry. It ended in victory, but
on March 26, 1911, a fire broke out in the factory of the Triangle
Waist Company, off Washington Place, in which 146 lives—
mostly women and girls—were lost. Yet despite its crowded liv-
ing and working conditions, the Lower East Side had low rates
I N T E R L U D E IN B F L A T » 43
of death and disease—a phenomenon ascribed by health officials

to the high standards of personal hygiene and the strict dietary
laws required by the Jewish religion.
Sarah Strauss, a Jewish immigrant from Austria, and Harry
Arshawsky, a Russian Jew, met and married in New York City,
and their only son, Arthur Jacob Arshawsky, was born there on
May 23, 1910. Nearly eight hundred miles away, and one year
earlier, on May 30, 1909, Dora Goodman had given birth to her
ninth child, Benjamin David, on Chicago's West Side. Her hus-
band, David, was, like his wife, a Jewish immigrant from Poland,
and worked in a clothing factory. Thirty years later, their son re-
lated:
Pop was a tailor. He didn't have his own place but he worked
in a factory, when there was work. At a time when I begin to
remember things more clearly (about 1919, when I was nine
years old), we were living on Francisco Avenue. It was one of
those old three-storey brick houses they have all over the West
Side in Chicago, with dark stairways, small rooms, not much
light. This was a pretty hopeless neighbourhood, the Ghetto of
Chicago that corresponded to the East Side in New York.2
Social reformer Jane Addams's 1910 description of Chicago's

immigrant slums confirms the young Benny Goodman's memo-
ries:
The streets are inexpressibly dirty, the number of schools inad-

equate, sanitary legislation unenforced, the street lighting bad,
the paving miserable and altogether lacking in the alleys and
smaller streets, the stables foul beyond description. Hundreds
of houses are unconnected with the street sewer. The older
and richer inhabitants seem anxious to move away as rapidly

as they can afford it.3
A similar pattern of immigrant aspiration operated on the

East Coast. Artie Shaw (the former Arthur Arshawsky) recalled
that his parents "were in the dressmaking business, doing their
work on sewing machines in their basement apartment on Sec-
ond Street, on the Lower East Side." When Shaw was seven
years old, the family business became bankrupt, and the Arshaw-
skys moved to a house on York Street, in New Haven, Connecti-
cut (now part of Yale University campus), and resumed their
dressmaking enterprise. The young Shaw, already an avid reader
of such classics as Kidnapped and Huckleberry Finn, attended
Dwight Street School in New Haven, where he quickly became
aware of the anti-Semitism of his fellow pupils. Nicknamed "Co-
lumbus Arshawsky," he was told that "we don't want no goddam
Christ-killers saying the Lord's prayer around here. Keep your
dirty sheeny nose out of other people's prayers." The recipient
of this unsolicited advice later reflected: "I now realize that it is
practically impossible for any Jewish kid to grow up in the aver-
age American town—meaning a more or less predominantly
Anglo-Saxon, Protestant community such as New Haven is now
and was then—without becoming aware of the fact that he is
some curious kind of alien."4
Although the young Arthur Arshawsky—a shy and introspec-
tive child—resisted the piano lessons imposed by his mother, he
took up the ukulele and was a regular patron of Poli's Palace The-
atre on Church Street in New Haven, a venue for vaudeville acts.
On one occasion, he was profoundly impressed by a young per-
I N T E R L U D E IN B FLAT « 45
former in a vivid striped blazer who played a song called Dreamy

Melody on a C-melody saxophone. Determined to acquire such
an imposing instrument, Shaw (now aged 13) worked for the
summer at Corn's Delicatessen at a salary of four dollars a week,
bought a C-melody saxophone—"my key to the golden king-
dom"—from Wrozina's Music Shop, and practised for up to eight
hours a day. Burton Peretti suggests plausibly that given his ex-
periences of anti-Semitism in New Haven, Shaw's decision to
become a musician owed less to musical inspiration than to a
general ethnic passion to overcome marginality and to assimi-

late to what each immigrant's child perceived as being
'America/ In this respect he seems more intensely alienated
than the more optimistically adventurous white players of Chi-
cago [but] resembled them in that the 'America' he sought was
not suburbia, but the urban jazz world.
Lewis Erenberg believes that Shaw "sought big-band success

as an escape from both his parents' Jewish identity and the nar-
row bigotry and anti-Semitism of Christian America," and notes
that he "was eager to play black-inspired music because he saw
the blacks as the only group in the industrial age that still re-
tained a sense of humanity and community."5
Unhappy with his marriage, Shaw's father left the family and
went to California, and the aspiring saxophonist drew closer to
his mother. At a neighborhood weekly amateur night in 1924,
Shaw—dressed to his acute embarrassment in a Knickerbocker
suit—won the first prize of five dollars for his rendition of Charlie
My Boy. Determined to become a professional musician, he
promptly purchased a record by saxophonist Rudy Wiedoeft, ac-
quired an alto saxophone (which is tuned in E-flat), and began

to wrestle with his new instrument—with little success and at
the cost of sore lips and bleeding gums. But together with his
friend Gene Beecher Jr., who played banjo, Shaw continued to
perform at amateur nights, and then joined with three other
youths (on piano, violin, and drums) to form the Peter Pan Nov-
elty Orchestra, which played at local events, with the members
taking turns to act as leader.
Shaw remembered that "although I had learned something
about playing my instrument and had begun to develop a fair de-
gree of improvisational skill, no one had bothered to inform me
that I should also try to learn something about sight-reading/'6
Auditioned by Johnny Cavallaro, leader of a New Haven dance
band that included trumpeter Charlie Spivak, Shaw confessed
that he could not read music, and asked Cavallaro to hold the
job open for him.
A young saxophone player approached me and told me his

greatest ambition was to play in my band. It was Art Shaw. I
tried him out with my band and although I could see he had
plenty of talent and a fair tone, he just missed coming up to
the standard I required. I told him to go home, take a few more
lessons and come back and see me in six months. He did and
I put him in the band.7
Tenor saxophonist and vocalist Tony Pastor—later to join Shaw's

first permanent orchestra in 1935—remembered his friendship
with the aspiring musician in New Haven when: "Artie used to
hang around with the John Cavallaro band in which I was playing
and he'd carry my horn down to the railroad station for me. You
I N T E R L U D E IN B F L A T « 47
see, I could play a whole tonal scale in those days, and I guess
Artie must have thought I was a genius."8
In 1924, aged fourteen, Shaw left high school in his sopho-
more year, changed his name to Shaw (over his mother s initial
objections, although she also later adopted the surname), and be-
came a professional musician, playing alto saxophone with Ca-
vallaro at the Cinderella Ballroom and the fraternity houses of
Wesleyan University. Some sixty years later, Shaw reflected that
when he began playing professionally, there were two types of
popular music—"sweet" and "hot"—the latter form exemplified
by pianist/leader Jean Goldkette.
But we didn't call it jazz. We called it playing a "hot chorus/' I

would get up and play what we now call jazz. Basically, that
was a sop to the musicians to get through the evening. You'd
get bored to death playing Mary Lou all night. You'd go crazy.
So you would finally say, "Hey, play a hot chorus song," so the
guy would take the chords and improvise. That became inter-
esting. It made the evening go better.9
Shaw also played "sweet" and "hot" music with other local
outfits, including Eddie Wittstein's Society Orchestra and Lee
Laden's band, which featured Rudy Vallee, a saxophonist and en-
gaging crooner who was later to receive international fame. Rem-
iniscing about this period, Shaw cited his musical influences as
two white musicians: the C-melody saxophonist Frank Trum-
bauer, and cornetist Bix Beiderbecke—"Trumbauer for dexterity,
but Bix musically."10
During an appearance of the Cavallaro band at Bantam
Lake, a summer resort in Connecticut, Shaw had his first en-
counter with alcohol, and was fired after appearing on the band-
stand dressed only in his swimming trunks. Back in New Haven,
he joined a short-lived local band called the Kentuckians which
(ironically), left him stranded in Lexington, Kentucky. He then
rejoined Cavallaro, who had engagements in Florida, and de-
manded that his re-hired sideman learn to play the clarinet.
Shaw discovered that the instrument, which was to bring him
fame and fortune, was extremely difficult to master. On a clari-
net, the fingering is different from that of a saxophone and every
octave change involves several keys. Cavallaro was unimpressed
with Shaw's performances on his new instrument, and he was
again dropped when the band returned to New Haven.
While he was playing alto at New Haven's Olympia Theatre,
Shaw, with the help of drummer Chuck Cantor, obtained a job
with Cantor's brother, Joe, who was playing with his "Far East
Orchestra" at a Chinese restaurant on Euclid Avenue in Cleve-
land, Ohio. With his mother, Shaw moved to Cleveland, and he
began to arrange tunes for the Cantor band, and later transferred
to another Cleveland band, led by violinist Austin Wylie at the
Golden Pheasant Chinese Restaurant. Despite the support of his
mother, who insisted that he always dressed appropriately, Shaw
found the three daily sessions at Chinese dinner-and-dance res-
taurants boring and gruelling. After his mother returned to New
York City, Shaw roomed with a young pianist, Claude Thornhill,
with whom he formed a strong friendship, and brought him into
the Wylie band.11
It was while he was living in Cleveland that Shaw discovered
a stack of Louis Armstrong records at a record jobber's ware-
house. He took them home and "it was like instant satori. I
couldn't believe what I heard. It was 'dirty' music, meaning he'd
slur notes, do things that a trained musician was taught not to
do. And yet it all worked." Shaw took a week off from his band
job and drove to Chicago, where Armstrong was appearing at the
Savoy. "The first thing I heard him play was that cadenza at the
beginning of West End Blues. I could play it for you right now,
note for note on the piano. It's in my head, indelible."12
In 1929, Shaw entered a local newspaper competition de-
signed to publicize the National Air Races, with an essay on
"How the National Air Races Will Benefit Cleveland," together
with a thematic song for the occasion. He won the first prize—an
expenses-paid trip to Hollywood. During his visit, Shaw had a
brief reunion with his father—a difficult experience for both—
and met some musician friends including Tony Pastor, a member
of Irving Aaronson's Commanders. After six months back in
Cleveland, Shaw went back to Hollywood to join Aaronson, but
disliked the band's "comic" routines and costumes.
It was when Aaronson, on tour, stopped for six weeks in Chi-
cago, that Shaw encountered such stellar jazz musicians as
Jimmy Noone, Bix Beiderbecke, Bud Freeman, Gene Krupa,
Muggsy Spanier, Bunny Berigan, and the young Benny Good-
man—then playing with the Ben Pollack band. Shaw recalled
Goodman as "a young kid just beginning to make a name for him-
self in the jazz world. [He] played clarinet and was said to have
learned a lot from another young clarinet player around Chicago
named Frank Teschemacher."13 After finishing work with
Aaronson's Commanders, Shaw would head for the South Side
to sit in with the Earl Hines band, playing at the Grand Terrace.
He was quickly impressed by Teschemacher's facility on three
reed instruments—clarinet, tenor, and alto.
There was an assurance about everything that he did that

made you see that he himself knew where he was going all the
time; and by the time he got there you began to see it for your-
self, for in its own grotesque way it made a kind of musical
sense, but something extremely personal and intimate to him-
self, something so subtle that it could never possibly have had
great communicative meaning to anyone but another musician
and then only to a jazz musician.14
Listening to such luminaries, Shaw began to appreciate one

of the distinctive regional forms of musical expression—
"Chicago Jazz"—that was to be disseminated by records and
broadcasts across the United States.15 It was also in Chicago that
Shaw first heard serious "classical" music—coming out of a lis-
tening booth in a music store. Intrigued, he consulted the propri-
etor, and eventually bought records of Stravinsky's Le Sucre du
Printemps, the Firebird Suite, and Debussy's Prelude a I'apres-
midi d'un faune.
I took [them] home and began to realize that you can learn
music from those guys. I didn't know who "those guys'* were.
I didn't make any distinction between what they did and what
I was doing except that it was lots better, more complicated,
much more evolved. When I began to hear Ravel's Alborado
del Gracioso and Daphnis and Chloe, Stravinsky's Petroushka
and Le Sacre du Printemps and Debussy's La Mer—these were
influences. 16
When the Aaronson band moved to New York City, Shaw's

musical education took another step forward.17 On frequent vis-
its to Harlem, he heard and met the "stride" pianist Willie "The
Lion" Smith, who was playing at Pod's and Jerry's club.
I had never heard any piano playing like that before in my life.
He used to sit there at that battered old upright and make
some of the damndest music IVe ever heard coming out of any
instrument. And all the time his dark fingers ran nimbly over
the chipped yellow keyboard, he would keep up a running ac-
companiment of short growls, intermittent but rhythmic—
almost like little barks—as if to himself, but actually creating
a sort of syncopated, drumlike, contrapuntal undercurrent to
what he was doing with his fingers and hands.18
Shaw occasionally sat in with "The Lion" who remembered

him as "a handsome young man" recently arrived in New York
City, who "was having a dickens of a time getting organized in
music." When the great New Orleans clarinetist and soprano
saxophonist Sidney Bechet, "who was particular about clarinet
players," asked whether Shaw was "a good blues man," "The
Lion" answered in the affirmative.19 During his visits to Harlem,
Shaw made many friends among African-American musicians—
including the young Billie Holiday and drummer Chick Webb—
and relates (rather ingenuously):
For the most part I was actually living the life of a Negro musi-
cian, adopting Negro values and attitudes, and accepting the
Negro out-group point of view not only about music but life in
general. In fact, on the few occasions when I was forced to
realize that I was a white man, I used to wish I could actually
52 * A R T I E SHAW
be a Negro. For with these people I felt a warmth and enthusi-

asm and friendliness, and a sense of life that had been com-
pletely lacking in most of the relationships I had ever had with
members of my own race.20
As Burton Peretti notes, although Shaw was "not a person to

believe for long that he had 'become' black"—unlike clarinetist
Mezz Mezzrow—these Harlem experiences "crystallized Shaw's
sense of racial equality and justice, which came into play during
his years as a bandleader."21
Shaw also renewed contacts with those jazz musicians who
had come to New York and used to gather at a club run by Jimmy
Plunkett on 53rd Street. They included trombonist Jack Teagar-
den, guitarist Eddie Condon, drummers Gene Krupa and Dave
Tough, trumpeters Wingy Manone and Max Kaminsky, pianists
Joe Bushkin and Jess Stacy, and Benny Goodman who had made
the move from Chicago. Kaminsky first met Shaw when they
played in a "society band" for a coming out party at the Biltmore
Hotel, and quickly discovered that he "was always interested in
learning and improving himself. [H]is apartment was loaded with
books and records."22
During the early 1930s, Shaw worked in several prominent
dance bands, including those of Paul Specht and Red Nichols.
At this period, he played alto saxophone more often than the
clarinet, and was in demand as a studio musician for radio pro-
grams. Trumpeter Manny Klein heard Shaw play alto at the Fa-
mous Door on 52nd Street, and remembered him as "one of the
great clarinet players [but] he was a fantastic lead alto. Benny
Goodman was not."23 As first saxophone with the Columbia
Broadcasting System (CBS) staff orchestra, Shaw earned $500 a

week, and although he welcomed the chance to use his growing
musical talents, he disliked the demands of sponsors and the
constraints of commercials. Having achieved a measure of suc-
cess, Shaw—as he would on other occasions—left the music
business. As he comments in Brigitte Berman's documentary,
Time Is All You've Got, "I became very disillusioned with music.
Gradually I began to realize that my life was going nowhere."
After enrolling for a brief period for extension courses at Colum-
bia University, in 1935 he bought a farm in Erwinna, in Bucks
County, Pennsylvania, acquired a business partner, and ran a
firewood delivery service to Greenwich Village. He also at-
tempted to write a novel based on the life of Bix Beiderbecke,
but discovered that "the ability to write grammatically, to make
sentences that sound good, or even the ability to use words skil-
fully, do not make a fellow a writer. I couldn't get anything on
paper that lived."24 But at later stages in his career, Shaw would
return—and with more success—to the craft of writing (see
chapter 5). Moving back to New York City, Shaw—who had not
played a clarinet or a saxophone for twelve months—joined
Roger Wolfe Kahn's orchestra, and toured as far south as New
Orleans.
As already mentioned, on April 7, 1936, Joe Helbock, owner
of the Onyx Club on West 52nd Street, staged a swing con-
cert—as a benefit for the local chapter of the American Federa-
tion of Musicians—at New York's Imperial Theater. He invited
Shaw, on the day after his twenty-sixth birthday, to appear with
a small group during one of the intermission sets between big-
band performances by the Tommy Dorsey, Casa Loma, and Bob
54 * A R T I E SHAW
Crosby orchestras.25 Shaw—who had begun to play the clarinet

and string quartet compositions of Brahms and Mozart with
friends—recalled:
I was a studio musician at the time. Nobody knew me. Joe

asked me to perform with a small group while they were
changing the band set up. I thought, just for kicks, that I'd
write a piece for clarinet and string quartet, plus a small
rhythm section. Nobody had ever done that sort of jazz cham-
ber-music thing. So I asked some of the guys at CBS and NBC
if they'd run it down with me during rehearsal breaks. They
agreed. So, when they liked it I asked if they'd play with me at
the Imperial Theater.26
Performed by "Arthur Shaw's String Ensemble/' the title of

the piece was Interlude in B Flat and it received such an enthusi-
astic audience response that, in one re-telling, Shaw was obliged
to play it again as an encore. Yet a Down Beat report on the pro-
ceedings asserted that "the second selection was Japanese Sand-
man and proved that [the] idea could be adapted to [a] popular
selection with plenty of guts." Apparently unaware that Glenn
Miller had experimented with a string section one year before
the Imperial Theater performance, Shaw later commented that
"what seemed to have caught the attention of those who heard it
was the enormous contrast between the combination of instru-
ments I had used, as against what was being used around that
time in jazz music." If Shaw's instrumentation was not an innova-
tion, it still produced a sensation. British-born jazz critic Leonard
Feather wrote that "Artie's one number, Interlude in B Flat broke
up the show." Scenting (and promoting) a new superstar in the
I N T E R L U D E IN B FLAT • 55
making, Down Beat dutifully reported that Shaw's performance

at the Imperial Theater "will probably keep [Benny] Goodman
awake for several nights to come. Absolutely masterful (sic) on
technique and tone [Shaw] rates with Goodman any day. Ap-
plause tore down the house and necessitated many a bow."27
Whatever its provenance, Shaw's string combo marked a
turning point in his career. After the concert, Tommy Rock-
well—of the Rockwell-O'Keefe booking agency—pressed him to
form a permanent group. Shaw's first band, billed as "Art Shaw
and his Orchestra," consisted of two trumpets, a trombone, tenor
saxophone, clarinet, and a conventional rhythm section, plus the
Imperial Theater format of two violins, a viola, and a cello. It
opened at the Silver Grill in the Lexington Hotel in New York
City in the summer of 1936 and was flagged as "A Dance Or-
chestra Combining At the Same Time a Complete Swing Band
With a Dreamy String Ensemble." Metronome critic George T.
Simon gave the band a favorable "A-minus" notice:
What Shaw has done is to build a star band that can do a neat
job on both swing and schmaltz, and at times even combine
some of the elements of each. Shaw can deliver quite an ade-
quate brand of Dixieland, while just the presence of the strings
helps to appease and even satisfy those folks who have drifted
into the room but who don't want to care much for this new-
fangled thing called swing.
Simon commended Shaw's arrangers, Joe Lipman and Jerry Gray,

and suggested that the leader's clarinet style, while similar to
Benny Goodman's, also displayed distinct originality. Less accu-
rately, Simon predicted a successful future for Shaw's new ven-
ture "not only because he has accomplished so much in such a

short space of time, but also because what he has accomplished
is in the exceptional class."28
In fact, the public was less than enthused about Shaw's
"strings and swing" combination. Reflecting on this period with
some justifiable bitterness, Shaw remembered that neither
agents nor audiences warmed to his novel instrumentation. "No-
body would accept the idea of a jazz band built around a string
quartet. I had to do most of the arranging myself. Nobody was
writing for string quartets and small jazz bands."29
Critics are divided on the merits or otherwise of Shaw's stu-
dio recordings for the Brunswick label with his 1936-1937 band.
Some argue that they project a stiff rhythm, and are ill served by
the interludes, transitions, introductions, and codas played by
the string quartet. Others consider the performances of such ti-
tles as Thou Swell, Copenhagen, Streamline, Sweet Lorraine, and
Sobbin' Blues to have a freshness and vitality, with the strings
adding a certain astringency to the overall sound. Shaw himself,
who never entirely gave up his fascination with the use of strings
in a jazz/swing context, has always regarded his first band with
parental affection.
This first band of mine was virtually two different types of mu-
sical combinations playing together as one. The problem was
to write for the strings in such a way as to realize their particu-
lar kind of tone colour, without interfering with the strictly jazz
part of the band and yet adding something, so as to make an
advantage of the strong section without having to limit the jazz
quality of the over-all musical effect.30
When the band played at the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas, busi-

ness was so poor that the management cancelled its engagement.
On March 4, 1937, this first Shaw orchestra made its final re-
cordings—sixteen titles for the RCA Thesaurus series, broadcast
over the NBC radio network.
After another disappointing engagement in New Jersey, early
in 1937, Shaw—doubtless aware of Benny Goodman's recent
(and stringless) success—formed a second orchestra, and vowed
that it would be "the loudest band in the whole goddam world/'
This was a fourteen-piece aggregation, now advertised as "Art
Shaw and His New Music." In at least one respect, it marked an
improvement over the first edition: the fine rhythm section fea-
tured Al Avola (guitar), Ben Ginsberg (bass), Cliff Leeman
(drums), and Les Burness (piano). The band opened at the Rose-
land Ballroom in Boston in April 1936, where it received "air-
shot" broadcasts twice a week and included trumpeter John Best,
trombonists George Arus and Harry Rogers, and saxophonists
Les Robinson and Tony Pastor. As the new band began to take
shape, Shaw developed and refined a basic concept for its reper-
toire: the compositions of composers such as Jerome Kern, Cole
Porter, Richard Rogers, Vincent Youmans, Sigmund Romberg,
George Gershwin, and Irving Berlin. He later explained: "What
I intended to do was to take the best of this popular Americana
and arrange it in the best way I could. I wasn't aiming at any so-
called style. Each tune would more or less dictate the style of its
own arrangement/' 31
In addition to airshots, the second Shaw band made eight
commercial recording sessions for the Brunswick Company,
playing arrangements (mostly by Shaw himself) of such popular
58 » A R T I E S H A W
tunes of the time as Night and Day and / Surrender Dear, while
a session of September 17, 1937, featured the scat vocalist Leo
Watson on Shoot the Likker to Me, John Boy. Shaw's theme tune,
the moody and aptly titled Nightmare, was also made on this
date. The following month, the band recorded two Shaw origi-
nals, Non-Stop Flight and Free For All, which—together with
The Blues March (originally issued as both sides of a 78-rpm re-
cord—revealed Shaw's maturing instrumental style, marked by
his increasing exploration of the upper octave of the clarinet reg-
ister.32 The band also went on tour and Shaw ruefully recalled:
We hit the road in an old truck we had bought from Tommy

Dorsey. It had Tommy s name painted on both sides, weather-
beaten but legible. Until we had enough money to pay for re-
painting the body, we were stopped three times for having sto-
len it. A cop in Boston arrested our Negro driver and tossed
him into the can. He had heard Tommy Dorsey broadcasting
from New York an hour before. We left our driver in jail, the
truck in the police yard, and went on to our next stand by
bus.33
In what was to be a momentous decision, Shaw hired Billie

Holiday as the band's vocalist in 1938. Max Kaminsky, who
played with Shaw from January to June of that year, claims that
when Shaw was late for the band's first rehearsal in Boston: "I
started the band on a new arrangement [of] Yesterdays [and]
asked Billie to sing the clarinet solo part to fill in for Artie. On
the second time around, she came gliding in, in the nick of time.
While she was singing, Artie walked in, and he just stood there.
He couldn't believe she was that good."34 Kaminsky's anecdote,
while dramatically apposite, also suggests a highly selective

memory. Shaw had been present as a sideman on four Billie Hol-
iday studio sessions in July 1936, and had been so impressed that
he had suggested that she join the band which he was forming.
Aware of the problems that she would face in an all-white or-
chestra, Billie had declined the invitation. Again, Shaw, as men-
tioned, had been a regular visitor to Pod's and Jerry's club in
Harlem. In the "Arena" TV production "The Long Night of Lady
Day" he states that on one occasion he heard a young African-
American girl sing the blues "and she really had a sense of time
and a sense of phrasing that was jazz in the best sense of the
word." Willie "The Lion" Smith had informed him, "That's Billie
Holiday. She drinks too much and gets fired from too many jobs,
but she can sing." When Holiday left the Count Basie orchestra,
Shaw immediately offered her a job because "she was a good
singer. I wouldn't have hired her if she wasn't. She was looking
for work and I could afford her—she wasn't that well-known
back then." In his autobiography, Shaw says that at this period
Billie "a young, healthy kid only about seventeen or so at the time
I first met her [was] already beginning to develop that distinctive
style of hers which has been copied and imitated by so many
singers of popular music that the average listener of today cannot
realise how original she actually is."35
Problems and racial tensions plagued Billie's nine-month
tenure with Shaw. Her first appearance with the band was at
Boston's Roseland-State Ballroom, on March 15, 1938, for a
three-month engagement. One press report noted that "the con-
tract given to Billie to act as part of this outfit is an indefinite
one, and unless racial prejudices intervene, she will remain with
the band from now on/'36 But the Schribman Brothers booking
agency—which had underwritten Shaw's engagement—was not
comfortable backing a white orchestra with a black singer. In her
autobiography, Billie relates:
The sight of sixteen men on a bandstand with a Negro girl

singer had never been seen before—in Boston or anywhere.
The question of how the public would take to it had to be
faced on opening night at Roseland. Naturally, Sy Schribman
was worried. But Artie was a guy who never thought in terms
of white and coloured. "I can take care of the situation/' was
his answer. "And I know Lady can take care of herself/'37
The Holiday/Shaw partnership was a musically happy one.

Two months after she joined the band, Metronome reported that
"the addition of Billie Holiday to Shaw's band has put this outfit
in top brackets. Her lilting vocals jibe beautifully with the Shaw
style; and her stuff is going big with the customers. The personal-
ity and musicianship of this real jazz gal have won and unified
the whole band, and more than one solo is being played straight
at Billie/' But in a sharply dissenting opinion, "White Man's Jazz
No Good for Holiday?" Down Beat commented:
Billie Holiday is still singing with Artie Shaw, but it is a damn

shame she has to waste her talents with a band of that caliber.
Understand, in spite of Cliff Leeman's pseudo-sizzle cymbal,
Artie has a swell outfit, but they don't show off Billie any. Nat-
urally they play white man's jazz and that's no backing for Bil-
lie's singing, which, even during its more commercial
moments, has a definite "race" flavour. When she had Count
Basic behind her, the girl was right. Now she's as incongruous
as a diamond set in a rosette of old cantaloupe rinds with cof-

fee grounds.38
Writing in Down Beat, John Hammond commented that al-

though Benny Goodman's recently revised band "has something
no other white band can touch, the combination of Artie and Bil-
lie makes me feel that Benny is going to have to watch out for
himself."39 But there were also problems. Song-pluggers pres-
sured Shaw not to allow Billie to sing their songs over the radio,
because of her deviations from the written melodies. And she
was not allowed to sit on the stand with the band's white singer,
Helen Forrest.
When the Shaw band toured the southern states, Holiday
encountered the degrading practices and customs of racial segre-
gation and discrimination. She became sick of repeated scenes
in roadside diners where she was often not even allowed to eat
in the kitchen. "Sometimes it was a choice between me eating
and the whole band starving. I got tired of having a federal case
over breakfast, lunch and dinner."40 Shaw was well aware of Bil-
lie's volatile nature when confronted by racial bigotry, and in The
Long Night of Lady Day remembers warning her to expect trouble
in the South, and promising to help if things got out of hand. At
one southern location, Billie sang Travelin' with the band—to the
delight of the white audience who wanted an encore. One patron
kept yelling "Have the nigger wench sing another song," which
Shaw (correctly) interpreted as a redneck expression of critical
approval. Billie, understandably outraged, leaned forward and
mouthed the expletive "motherfucker" to the offending patron.
"It looked like pandemonium. This guy saw her—he couldn't be-
lieve what he saw. He heard the word. She used to get very salty
with people like that/'
Shaw has also related that "as a gag we once got Billie into a
hotel by painting a little red dot on her forehead between her
eyes. Two guys carried her bags. She got the room not as a black
person or a coloured person, but as an Indian/' Billie remem-
bered how Shaw propelled her into the largest hotel in a small
Kentucky town by having eight band members escort her to the
desk, "like it was as natural as breathing. I think the man at the
desk figured it couldn't be true what he thought he saw, and I
couldn't be a Negro or nobody would act like that. I think they
thought I was Spanish or something, so they gave me a nice room
and no back talk/'41
Not all the Shaw/Holiday appearances were marred by racial
tensions. On October 17, 1938, they performed a benefit concert
at the Savoy Ballroom in Chicago, sponsored by the African-
American newspaper, the Chicago Defender for the Negro
Christmas Basket Fund. Posters for the event proclaimed that
Billie Holiday "America's First Lady of Song" would be appearing
with Artie Shaw "King of Clarinet Players." As Billboard duly re-
ported:
Local Harlemites (sic) coughed up close to $3,500 last Mon-

day eve to swing and sway to Artie Shaw. All attendance re-
cords were broken and Artie with his sepia songstress Billie
Holiday had to work an extra half hour after pleading with the
throng to go home. The crowd couldn't get enough of Shaw's
jiving—a surprise to Rockwell O'Keefe as Shaw is still not a
name in this sector.42
But Billie ran into racial discrimination later in the same

month when she appeared with Shaw at the Blue Room of the
Lincoln Hotel in New York City. Maria Kramer, the hotel's man-
ager and owner, would not allow her to enter the Blue Room
through the main entrance, but made her come up through the
kitchen. Billie told a reporter from the Amsterdam News, "I was
billed next to Artie himself, but was never allowed to visit the bar
or the dining room as did other members of the band [and] had
to remain alone in a little dark room all evening until I was called
on to do my numbers. And these numbers became fewer and
fewer as the night went on/'43 Shaw's recollection is that Maria
Kramer complained to him that Billie was using the public eleva-
tor to get to her dressing room and that southern guests had ob-
jected that the Lincoln was "taking coloured." Shortly after the
episode, Billie left Shaw, blaming his managers for her problems.
The circumstances of her departure aroused considerable
comment. The columnist Walter Winchell wrote that Billie's
friend and mentor, John Hammond, "was sitting in the Lincoln
Hotel supper room enjoying Artie Shaw's band not knowing Bil-
lie had given her notice two days before. The outside billboards,
however, still stated that she was among the Lincoln's attrac-
tions." In a 1993 interview, Shaw told Stuart Nicholson that "the
press were on to me at that time; they said I fired her because
she was black, conveniently overlooking that when 1 hired her
she was black too! I've been castigated for hiring her; I was told
I was exploiting a black person. I was not exploiting her, I was
doing the best I could to present her in an impartial light as a
musician singing with my band."44
64 * A R T I E S H A W
Despite an acrimonious departure from Shaw—in one inter-

view she claimed the Lincoln incident was the occasion but not
the cause of her departure and that "I simply got enough of Art-
ie's snooty, know-it-all mannerisms"—Holiday retained affec-
tionate memories of their close friendship.
There aren't many people who fought harder than Artie against
the vicious people in the music business or the crummy side
of second-class citizenship which eats at the guts of so many
musicians. He didn't win. But he didn't lose either. It wasn't
long after I left him that he told them to shove it like I had.
And people still talk about him as if he were nuts because
there were things more important to him than a million damn
bucks a year.45
Shaw, for his part, stated later that:
My band was obviously a rather strange place for her to be,

our music wasn't like any of the music she sang with. It
worked, but in a very strange way, and oddly enough a lot of
people didn't like it. RCA for example. When she left my
band, it was a mutual agreement. She was under contract to
me and I offered to finance her act and buy her gowns and
arrangements. We remained good friends to the day of her
death.46
With exposure on records, broadcasts from the Roseland

Ballroom and its nationwide tours, Shaw's orchestra had begun
to attract critical attention in the musical press. Not all of the
notices were favorable. One Boston writer criticized the band for
playing a thirty-five minute version of the blues, and accused
Shaw of having claimed that he would be the new "King of

Swing" within a year. Shaw rebutted the charge in an indignant
and revealing letter to Metronome:
My personal craving for success and the contributions I wish

to make to swing music do not hinge upon my being crowned
"King." There is room for twenty, even fifty swing bands, and
I say more power to any contemporary leader who makes an
outstanding success. If I were writing a novel, I wouldn't par-
ticularly want to be known as the greatest novelist. I'd have
satisfaction if my book were judged a success on its own and
not on a basis of comparison and that's how I feel about my
music. I want the public to recognize me, naturally, but I gain
plenty of personal satisfaction without necessarily bowling
over all rival orchestras. I'd like to deny that ["King of Swing"]
statement because I personally would have contempt for any
individual who made such a pompous, bombastic announce-
ment.47
In the course of a long and excruciatingly written review of

the band in the November 1938 issue of Swing magazine, its re-
porter observed:
There's a new Pied Piper coming over the swing horizon. He's
dark-haired, young and collegiate and he plays a brand of dan-
sapation that grows on jitterbugs and schmaltz-lovers alike.
He's Artie Shaw. It didn't seem possible that with Pied Piper
Benny Goodman still having swing's children dog his heels in
throngs, another fellow playing a black bubble-pipe could take
a top-ranking place in the musical sun, but that man Shaw is
doing it fast.48
In the same year, Shaw was invited to record for the RCA
Victor Company, who renamed him Artie Shaw—allegedly be-
cause a Victor executive said that Art Shaw sounded like a
sneeze. Among the first titles recorded by "Artie Shaw and His
Orchestra" on July 24, 1938, were Indian Love Call (featuring a
hoarse vocal by Tony Pastor), Back Bay Shuffle, and Billie Holi-
day's only known studio session with the Shaw band, Any Old
Time, which was not released for some years because of contrac-
tual problems. In conversation with broadcaster Fred Hall, Shaw
recalled the events surrounding Any Old Time—which he had
written and arranged.
That came about when we were off a couple of nights on the

road doing one-night stands—and we were in a town, near
Binghamton, New York, and there's not a hell of a lot you can
do of an evening in Binghamton. Billie Holiday was with the
band, and I thought I'd write a tune for her. When we went to
record it. RCA wouldn't release it, so I went to Billie and said,
"Look, they don't want to release the record, so I guess that if
I want the tune released at all, I'll have to do it with someone
else." So I did it with Helen Forrest, and they released that.49
Barry Kernfeld suggests plausibly that in her rendition of Any

Old Time, Holiday "perhaps out of courtesy to the composer and
leader, stays closer to the shape of Shaw's melody than she might
have done with her own and [pianist] Teddy Wilson's groups, but
she gives its rhythm her usual treatment, floating across and
around the beat." Kernfeld also notes that in Shaw's arrange-
ment, the instrumental passage immediately before Holiday's
vocal anticipates the theme of Glenn Miller's String of Pearls,
I N T E R L U D E IN B FLAT » 67
composed and arranged by Jerry Gray three years after the Shaw/
Holiday performance.50
But it was Shaw's recording (at the same session as Any Old
Time) of the longest popular song ever written—a tune with a
remarkable 108-bar structure—which was to catapult him to na-
tional (and international) prominence. And, as Shaw confirms, it
happened almost by accident.
Everybody around the RCA Victor studio thought we had a hit

record. As it turned out, the RCA people were quite wrong.
Indian Love Call had an enormous sale, but that wasn't be-
cause it was a hit. It just happened to be on the other side of
a nice little tune of Cole Porter's.
The "nice little tune" was Begin the Beguine, the recording
of which Shaw has identified as "my real turning point"; yet the
circumstances were hardly auspicious and in the end pure seren-
dipity ruled. Shaw remembers that the song had died "a fast
death" after a brief appearance on Broadway in a flop musical
show called Jubilee.
I had just happened to like it so I insisted on recording it at

this first session, in spite of the recording manager who
thought it a complete waste of time and only let me make it
after I argued that it would at least make a nice quiet contrast
to Indian Love Call.51
The eventual—and massive—success of Begin the Beguine

(it sold over a million copies) provided Shaw with "a new
status"—one, which he claims, obliged him "to learn to function
in a new way." In his witty and opinionated study, American Pop-

ular Song, Alec Wilder writes of Cole Porter's composition:
[It] is a maverick, an unprecedented experiment, and one

which, to this day, after hearing it hundreds of times, I cannot
sing or whistle or play from start to finish without the printed
music. I suppose it conjures up for the listener all sorts of ro-
mantic memories embodying the ultimate tropical evening and
the most dramatic dance floors ever imagined [But] along
about the sixtieth measure I find myself muttering another
title, End the Beguine.52
Yet that "new way" was already in evidence in the recording

itself, which is notably audacious and imaginative. Shaw
changed the original beguine tempo into a modified 4/4 and then
"began the beguine" with a unison brass statement coordinated
with a single snare-drum shot on the downbeat of the first bar.
An infectious riff provides the setting for Shaw's dazzling solo
entrance. The remainder of this seminal recording consists of
statements and restatements of the theme by Shaw, the full en-
semble, the saxophone and trombone sections, and Tony Pastor's
tenor. The whole performance is anchored by drummer Cliff
Leeman's 4/4 swing combined with rimshots and splash cym-
bals—most clearly evident behind Pastor's solo. Most impor-
tantly, Begin the Beguine made Artie Shaw, at the age of twenty-
eight, into a dazzling new star in the Swing firmament, and cata-
pulted him "into the very situation he'd dreaded most."53
NOTES
1. Maldwyn A. Jones, Destination America (London: Weidenfeld

and Nicholson, 1976), 173, 176.
I N T E R L U D E IN B F L A T • 69
2. Benny Goodman and Irving Kolodin, The Kingdom of Swing

(New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing Company, 1961), 15; 17-19.
For accounts of Goodman's early years, see James Lincoln Collier,
Benny Goodman and the Swing Era (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1989), 1-12, and Ross Firestone, Swing, Swing, Swing: The Life
and Times of Benny Goodman (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1993),
17-35.
3. Firestone, 19.
4. Artie Shaw, The Trouble With Cinderella: An Outline of Identity
(New York: Da Capo Press, 1979), 22-3.
5. Burton W. Peretti, The Creation of jazz: Music, Race, and Cul-
ture in Urban America (Urbana and Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1992), 90.
6. Ibid. 74.
7. Edmund L. Blandford, Artie Shaw: A Bio-Discography (Hastings,
Sussex: Castle Books, 1973), 11.
8. George T. Simon, The Big Bands, 391.
9. The Semantics of jazz: A Symposium. Moderator, Artie Shaw.
California Lutheran University, Sept. 12, 1987. Transcript in author's
possession.
10. Robert Lewis Taylor, "Middle-Aged Man Without a Horn," The
New Yorker, May 19, 1962, 50.
11. Thornhill was to lead a subtle and intelligent band during and
after World War II, and inspired Miles Davis, Gerry Mulligan, and pi-
anist-arranger Gil Evans in the "Birth of the Cool Band" of the 1950s.
12. Ted Berkman, "Why Artie Walked," Santa Barbara: The Maga-
zine of Santa Barbara County (February/March 1986), 56.
13. The Trouble With Cinderella, 197.
14. Ibid. 199
15. For the evolution of jazz in Chicago and the relations between
black and white musicians, see William Howland Kenney's excellent
study: Chicago Jazz: A Cultural History, 1904-1930 (New York and Ox-
ford: Oxford University Press, 1993).
16. Henry Duckham, "A Masterclass With Artie Shaw," The Clari-
net 12 (1985), 11.
17. Shaw's arrival in New York City was not without incident. He
was involved in an accident when a pedestrian walked in front of his
70 m A R T I E SHAW
car and was fatally injured. Lengthy police enquiries were to exonerate
him from blame, but when Aaronson left without him, Shaw, now nine-
teen and unemployed, had to wait six months before he was eligible for
membership of the local chapter of the American Federation of Musi-
cians.
18. The Trouble With Cinderella, 224. Shaw's description of "The
Lion" is close to Duke Ellington's memoir of his first encounter with
the pianist at the Capitol Palace in New York City. "My first impression
of The Lion—even before I saw him—was the thing I felt as I walked
down the steps. A strange thing. A square-type fellow might say, 'This
joint is jumping/ but to those who had become acclimatized—the
tempo was the lope—actually everything and everybody seemed to be
doing whatever they were doing in the tempo The Lion's group was lay-
ing down. The waiters served in that tempo; everybody who had to walk
in, out, or around the place walked with a beat." Music Is My Mistress
(New York: Doubleday, 1973), 90.
19. Willie "The Lion" Smith and George Hoefer, Music on My
Mind: The Memoirs of an American Pianist (London: The Jazz Book
Club, 1966), 169. "The Lion" adds that "Artie used to encourage me to
get my tunes written down and published. Later when Artie had his
first band, he recorded some of my numbers. He featured the introduc-
tion to my tune Music on My Mind under a new title, I've Got the Mis-
ery." 170.
20. The Trouble With Cinderella, 228-9.
21. Peretti, The Creation of Jazz, 207.
22. Max Kaminsky with V. E. Hughes, My Life in Jazz (New York:
Harper and Row, 1963), 94.
23. Arnold Shaw, 52nd Street: The Street of Jazz (New York: Da
Capo Press, 1977), 116.
25. The other major attractions at this concert included Louis Arm-
strong and his Orchestra, Red Nichols and his Five Pennies, Bunny
Berigan and his Swing Gang, and violinist Stuff Smith and his Onyx
Club Band.
26. Liner notes by Artie Shaw to the Book-of-the-Month Club re-
cord set Artie Shaw: The Legacy (Camp Hill, Pennsylvania: 1984). This
compilation purports to include a digitally re-mastered recording of his

performance at the Imperial Theater. (See Chapter 7). According to
the printed program, Shaw's ensemble included Harry Bluestone and
Emanuel "Mannie" Green (violins), "Izzie" Zir (viola), "Rudy" Sims
(cello), Carl Kress (guitar), and Arthur Stein (drums).
27. The Trouble With Cinderella, 299. Firestone, Swing, Swing,
Swing, 177. Richard M. Sudhalter, Lost Chords, 577.
28. George T. Simon, Simon Says, 68-70. Simon also commended
the Shaw's band's "showmanship angle/' Shaw himself, "a clean-cut
looking chap, presents a pleasing, reserved front. Quite obviously, he
knows what the dancers want for not only does he contrast his tempos
nicely, but he also sets tempos that are thoroughly danceable." Reflect-
ing on this 1936 review years later, Simon added: "To anyone who has
watched Artie on those TV talk shows, 'reserved' is sure a misnomer."
29. Chip Deffaa, Swing Legacy (Metuchen, New Jersey: The Scare-
crow Press and the Institute of Jazz Studies, Rutgers University, 1989),
23.
30. The Trouble With Cinderella, 302. He adds: "There was no room
for the sort of musical subtleties I was trying to create with this atypical
little band. Those were the days of the tousled-haired, eye-rolling, gum-
chewing drummers—those boys who hit everything in sight except the
customers. A new fad had swept the nation. If a band couldn't play
good music, it could always call itself a 'swing band' and play loud
music instead." Ibid. 310.
31. Ibid. 331.
32. Max Kaminsky claims that initially Shaw's band was "very imma-
ture and had no definite style. The players became very great later on—
Tony Pastor, Chuck Peterson, Cliff Leeman—but at that time they
were unseasoned and inexperienced. Their worst trouble was learning
to play in time, and except for Tony Pastor, they didn't know much
about jazz or swing." My Life in jazz, 96.
33. Chris Albertson, "Artie Shaw," Liner notes for The Swing Era,
1937-1938 (New York: Time-Life Records), 38; The Trouble With
Cinderella, 328.
34. My Life in jazz, 97.
35. Stuart Nicholson, Billie Holiday (London: Victor Gollancz,

1995), 99. See also: Donald Clarke, Wishing on the Moon: The Life and
Times of Billie Holiday (London: Penguin Books, 1995), 140, and John
White, Billie Holiday: Her Life and Times (Tunbridge Wells: Spell-
mount Books, 1987), 68-9. The Trouble With Cinderella, 230.
36. Ken Vail, Lady Days Diary: The Life of Billie Holiday 1937-1959
(Castle Communications: Chessington, Surrey, 1996), 19.
37. Billie Holiday with William Dufty, Lady Sings the Blues (Lon-
don: Sphere Books Edition, 1973), 69. In fact, June Richmond, de-
scribed by George T. Simon as "an extremely effervescent and very
large coloured gal" had appeared in public with the Jimmy Dorsey band,
early in 1938. The Big Bands, 150.
38. Metronome, May 1938. Down Beat, August 1935, 5.
39. Firestone, Swing, Swing, Swing, 231.
40. Lady Sings the Blues, 73.
41. Ibid. 70.
42. Lady Day's Diary, 26.
43. John Chilton, Billies Blues (London: Quartet Books, 1975), 57.
44. Nicholson, Billie Holiday, 106.
45. Lady Sings the Blues, 80. Billie would often drive to engagements
with Shaw in his newly acquired Rolls Royce, and they became very
close—although there is no evidence that they were ever lovers. "Some-
times Fd walk into his hotel suite and take one look at him and know
that that day he was Mister Shaw and he didn't want to be messed
with. Other days he was "Old Man" or "Artie." Sometimes he would
want to get lost on his farm without shaving for months, staying in this
one pair of overalls, the way he did when he wrote Back Bay Shuffle!'
Ibid. 78. Billie also referred to Shaw—who suffered from bad breath,
as "Breath." Drummer Cliff Leeman relates that after Shaw had gone
to the Catskills and attempted to write, he hadn't shaved for two
months, and liked to say "before I came back to New York I looked
like Jesus Christ." Billie was sarcastically unimpressed by this repeated
anecdote, and "whenever she had the chance she used to say 'Jesus
Christ, His Clarinet and His Orchestra/" Clarke, Wishing on the Moon,
142.
46. Chilton, Billies Blues, 59-60. Critic Leonard Feather, writing in

the Melody Maker, suggested that "Holiday left Shaw because (a) His
new radio sponsors, the "Old Gold" cigarette people, refused to use her
on the air—maybe because Billie smokes a different kind of cigarette
and (b) she was made to enter the Lincoln Hotel, where the band plays,
by the back door." Ibid. 58.
47. Simon, The Big Bands, 416.
48. Blandford, Artie Shaw, 50-51.
49. Fred Hall, Dialogues In Swing: Intimate Conversations With
Stars of the Big Band Era (Ventura, California: Pathfinder Publishing,
1989), 133. The lyrics of Any Old Time also contained allusions to
other popular songs—Stormy Weather, Through the Years, and Yours and
Mine—the last title had been recorded by Holiday with Teddy Wilson
in 1937. Shaw recalled that "I did that as a sort of stunt. Billie was
joining the band, and I wanted to give her a song she could sing. You'd
be surprised—or maybe not—how few people caught it." Sudhalter,
Lost Chords 823, Note 39.
50. Barry Kernfeld, "Big Bands," in Kernfeld, ed., The Blackwell
Guide to Recorded Jazz (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1992), 127. In
conversation with Chip Deffaa, Shaw remarked: "My band didn't have
a quote, style. I didn't have, for example, that thing that Glenn Miller
had—that one thing, that monotonous sound. We used it sometimes—
the end of Any Old Time, which I wrote and arranged for Billie had the
clarinet over the saxophones. But that wasn't a thing we foisted on
every tune." Swing Legacy, 27. Shaw retains a healthy contempt for
Glenn Miller's saccharine and decidedly un-swinging sound, and told
Fred Hall, "I don't like to be [a] revisionist on history, but I think that
band was like the beginning of the end. It was a mechanized version of
what they call jazz music. I still can't stand to listen to it. But that's the
one of the period that everybody buys, for some reason." Dialogues in
Swing. 144.
52. Ibid. 335. American Popular Music: The Great Innovators 1900-
1950 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1972), 240.
53. Sudhalter, 820, Note 15.
Still from The Dancing Co-ed, 1939
Beginning the Beguine:
$ucce$$ and Remorse
When I was a kid I played clarinet, and my first influence was
Artie Shaw. I heard him play on records and the radio, and I
thought he played heautifully, with a wonderful sound and a
great technique. Then I saw a picture of him. He was going to
he married to a movie star. She was heautiful. He seemed very
glamorous to me. And 1 never doubted for a second that I could
he as great as Artie Shaw.
Art Pepper, Straight Life: The Story of Art Pepper
W hen the Shaw band stopped off to play a prom at Indiana

University in the summer of 1938, there were repeated
requests for Begin the Beguine, which had just been released
(unknown to Shaw) by RCA. It was to become his greatest hit
and second signature tune. Trumpeter Bernie Privin recalled: "I
joined the band three weeks after Begin the Beguine became
available in the stores. Before I knew it, the band was the hottest
thing in the country. The record was played everywhere. Because
of it, Artie suddenly became a major celebrity/'1 Some time after
the record had climbed into the American Hit Parade, Shaw met
Cole Porter, who remarked cheerfully "I'm glad to meet my col-
laborator."2
Nearly sixty years since its appearance, Shaw's interpretation

of Begin the Beguine still retains its freshness, excitement, and
sensuality, and confounds Owen Peterson's peevish comment
that "listening today [1969] to Beguine, it's difficult to imagine
what all the fuss was about. It isn't as musically outstanding as
many later Shaw recordings, and it isn't in the same league as
Glenn Miller's American Patrol"* Gunther Schuller—by no
means an unqualified admirer of Shaw's oeuvre—writes that his
solo on Beguine demonstrates Shaw's "ability to spin long, ele-
gant, vibrant, seamless lines, almost as if he were trying to cap-
ture on his clarinet what a violin, without the need to breathe,
could do so naturally and effectively." He also notes Shaw's uns-
tinted admiration for the violinist Jascha Heifetz.4
Jerry Gray's arrangement of the Cole Porter song certainly
contributed to its musical quality, with a masterly blending of
textures, ensemble passages, and interspersed solos. As men-
tioned, in arranging Porter's tune, Gray had substituted a modi-
fied 4/4 beat for the original beguine rhythm, and dancers at
Roseland State Ballroom had responded enthusiastically to the
innovation. Gray himself remarked, "I felt I had to get the atten-
tion of the dancers in the ballroom, and that's why I wrote that
hard introduction."5 Gray was also a contributor to Shaw's later
successes, with splendid arrangements of such titles as Lover
Come Back to Me, Jumpin' on the Merry-Go-Round, Who's Ex-
cited?, and Prelude in C Major.
Schuller feels that Shaw has given insufficient credit to his
arrangers. Unlike other leaders, he either did not recognize or
would not admit "that the style of the band is determined un-
equivocally by the arranger, not the leader (unless the leader is
BE G I N N I N G THE B E G U I N E • 77
also the style-setting arranger)." Again, Schuller maintains that

Gray's scores for the 1939 Shaw band were less cluttered and
more spacious that either Shaw's own or those of his earlier writ-
ers. "Gray's arrangements were full of contrasts of color, of tex-
ture, of dynamics, breaking up the old formularized arranging
roles into new and different ensemble combinations. [He] took
the trumpets out of the top-of-the-staff upper range, using them
instead in all kinds of registers, mutings, dynamic levels, and tim-
bral mixtures." With similar voicings for the reeds, Gray's charts
"lent themselves to a more swinging performance style" better
suited to the dancing craze that swept America during the swing
era.6
Schuller's analysis of Gray's contribution to the success of
the 1939 Shaw band is judicious, but his contention that Shaw
did not appreciate it is erroneous, since he [Shaw] has stated:
Jerry came very close to being to me what Billy Strayhorn was

to Duke [Ellington]. He was a pupil and he was a friend. I
taught him how to arrange. I was an arranger before I was a
band leader. Jerry started with my string band in 1936. He was
my first violinist. And he played some jazz accordion. Later, in
1939, when I broke up the band, I called Glenn Miller and
told him that I had a few people he ought to listen to. He hired
Johnny Best on trumpet and he hired Jerry [who] did Glenn a
lot of good. Jerry wrote A String of Pearls for him.7
From July 1938 to November 1939, the Shaw band recorded

prolifically for RCA Victor, under the terms of a contract which
guaranteed him a minimum of $100,000 over two years. The re-
makes of Non-Stop Flight and Nightmare are superior to the ear-
lier Brunswick versions, and with Lover Come Back to Me,
recorded in January 1939, Shaw's band reached levels of preci-

sion, quality, and drive that equalled those of Benny Goodman's
contemporary offerings.
Musicians and fans were divided in their loyalties to Good-
man and Shaw. Goodman was often said to possess a better jazz
sense, while Shaw was judged to have greater harmonic and
high-register skills. Goodman himself reportedly said of Shaw
during this period: "He knows his instrument well, has extreme
development in both registers, and an amazing harmonic sense/'8
Whitney Balliett observes that during the 1930s, "Goodman and
Shaw governed from opposite poles. Goodman, an arpeggio
player, had great facility and passion. He had a fine tone and was
a first-class melodist. [He] seemed one of the finest of all jazz
players. Artie Shaw was cooler, narrower, and deeper. He was
an even better melodist, and though his tone was smaller than
Goodman's, he was more interesting harmonically. Musicians
tended to relish Shaw."9
The drummer Buddy Rich provided much of the Shaw
band's new drive. Formerly with Harry James, Rich ignited the
ensemble with his ability and enthusiasm, often urging on his
colleagues with vocal exhortations—even on studio recordings
like the roaring Traffic Jam. Rich had been a member of trum-
peter Bunny Berigan's band, and tenor saxophonist George Auld,
who left Berigan to join Shaw, introduced him to the exciting
young drummer. Shaw agreed to let Rich play a set with the band
at the Blue Room of the Hotel Lincoln. But critic George Simon,
during the course of a largely positive review of the band's per-
formances in Dawn Beat (February 1939), was less than happy
with drummer Cliff Leeman's new replacement.
Buddy Rich is a brilliant percussionist, he has tremendous

technique, he's steady and he gets a fine swing, but, like so
many drummers whoVe grown up in the [Gene] Krupa era,
he's cursed with the misconception that the drummer is sup-
posed to do more than supply a good background. As a result,
Buddy in his enthusiasm plays too much drums, consequently
breaking up the general rhythmic effect. 10
In a 1992 interview, Shaw himself appears to have shared

Simon's estimate of the rambunctious young Buddy Rich.
When he first came in the band he used to throw everything

he had into every chorus, playing like the Czechoslovakian
army. I taught him that it was better to start quiet and then
build up. Eventually I talked him into quitting [in 1939] when
I told him that he was playing much more for himself than for
the band.
Shaw is not entirely consistent in his evaluations of Buddy

Rich. For example, he told George Simon that although Rich
"had enormous energy, enormous vitality in his playing/' he was
a totally undisciplined musician. "The hardest job was to keep
him within the bounds of what I was trying to get the ensemble
to do." Yet after settling in to his new surroundings, "he made the
band into a practically new band overnight. I was quite grateful
to him." Shaw has also been quoted as saying:
When Buddy came in the band, in 1939, he couldn't read

music—and, for that matter, I don't think he could read any
better at the end of his life. I told him that some of our ar-
rangements were pretty complex. He asked me if he could sit
out front a couple of nights and learn the arrangements. He
did, and said he was ready, and he was—amazingly so. He was

an amusing, ebullient kid, and sometimes he'd get so excited
when he was playing that he'd yell and rush the beat. Near the
end of the year he was with the band, he began going off on
his own in his playing, doing things that were good for him but
not for the band. I sat him down and told him what he'd begun
doing, and not long after that we parted amicably. He went
with Tommy Dorsey, which was just right, because Tommy
had a big show band.11
Recalling his one-year tenure with the Shaw orchestra, Rich

told his friend and biographer, Mel Torme: "They were all in
shock when I came on the band. No drummer had ever punctu-
ated brass licks with the bass drum before. All of a sudden, I
come along, kicking the band right up its ass with bass drum ac-
cents. They couldn't believe it, but they liked it."12
Whatever the peccadilloes of its dynamic drummer, the solo
strength of the band had been greatly improved with the arrival
(in December 1938) of trumpeter Bernie Privin and tenor saxo-
phonist George Auld. Brooklyn-born Privin had played local en-
gagements with Harry Reser's band, before joining successively
the orchestras of Bunny Berigan, Tommy Dorsey, and Jan Sav-
itt. 13 Auld, born in Toronto, had moved to New York in 1929,
where he won a Rudy Wiedoeft Scholarship in 1931, and studied
with the alto teacher for nine months. After hearing Coleman
Hawkins's recording of Meditation, Auld switched to tenor saxo-
phone and came to prominence with Bunny Berigan's orchestra
in 1937—1938. A hard-driving tenor player in the Hawkins-Ben
Webster tradition, Auld was later a member of Benny Goodman's
orchestra and sextet. Mel Torme, who cites Shaw's band of 1939
B E G I N N I N G THE B E G U I N E « 81
as "my favourite band of all time/' believes with some justifica-

tion that Auld and Rich were the "two batteries" who "vitalized"
the band.
George Simon, despite his noted reservations about Buddy
Rich, gave the band's performances a favorable review in Down
Beat's February 1939 issue. Shaw's aggregation, Simon reported,
"really kicks out freely with Seabiscuit gusto when it trots out its
swing" and "can play much prettier stuff than just about any of
the ranking swing outfits." But it was, he suggested, emphatically
a dance band—whatever the tempo.
Shaw, unlike many of the swing bandleaders doesn't hit a lot

of killer-diller tempos in which it's just a matter of the musi-
cians or dancers pooping first. Instead, Artie really beats out a
fine time. He does what few white leaders do and that is beat
out a number of measures to himself until he hits just the right
tempo, and then passing it on to his men.14
The Shaw band was definitely news. Down Beat rushed to

publish breathless capsule biographies of members of his 1939
orchestra. Among the more fanciful entries, trombonist George
Arus was billed as the "Swami of Swing." Trumpeter John Best
was said to be "related to Nathaniel Greene and Nathaniel
Macon of Revolutionary War fame." Tenor saxophonist Tony Pas-
tor was "fond of spaghetti" and also sang "huskily in [the] col-
oured style." Pianist Bob Kitsis's interests included "concert
music, good literature, Harvard-Yale games and Hedy Lamarr,"
while drummer Buddy Rich—"the fastest drummer among the
whites"—had "been playing the skins since he was a 3 year old."15
In its January issue of 1939, Life magazine featured a photo-
graphic essay of Shaw's residency at the Hotel Lincoln, in its se-
ries Life Goes to a Party. The caption of one photograph of the

band playing for evening dancers noted "As the Night Wears On
the Jitterbugs Become Considerably Less Sedate." Another Life
picture showed a young socialite "Trucking on a Table Top While
a Waiter Discreetly Removes a Bottle." The rivulets of supporting
text contained the intelligence that "twitching jitterbugs" were "a
familiar part of American life," but that they were now cavorting
to a new master of the swing idiom.
Like [Benny] Goodman, Shaw leads a solid, exciting band.

Like Goodman, he plays the clarinet cleanly and with good
taste. His great forte is swinging old popular songs, like The
Indian Love Call. He is 28, was born in New York City and
has played the clarinet for a dozen years. Three years ago he
was a respected but little known free lance, [and] played in a
jazz concert in New York with a string quartet as accompani-
ment. Next day he was deluged with jobs. But his unusual
group proved a flop. Shaw had to form a more orthodox band.
Though he is now growing rich with it he still insists wistfully
that his clarinet and strings were a swell combination.
Shaw's burgeoning popularity was attested to by extracts

from a poll conducted by Variety on the musical tastes of college
students. The results, Life observed, "show that swing still re-
mains the most popular kind of jazz, although most campuses
maintain a nice balance between sweet and swing." Artie Shaw
was still "new to most collegians," but his recording of Begin the
Beguine was popular in the fraternity and sorority houses. A Vas-
sar undergraduate had reported "Artie Shaw is coming fast." A
Dartmouth student was quoted as saying, "Shaw is a growing love
but is well behind Tommy Dorsey [and] Benny Goodman." An
BE G I N N I N G THE B E G U I N E * 83
informant from the conservative campus of Vanderbilt University

in Tennessee announced that his peers liked music they could
dance to—"[Kay] Kyser, Dorsey, [Hal] Kemp. Only the intelli-
gentsia know Shaw well/'16 This last remark would surely have
appealed to the cerebral Shaw.
In forming his several orchestras, Shaw (like Duke Ellington)
would often hire relatively inexperienced players and mold them
to his musical demands. Shaw's great rival, Benny Goodman
(with one notable exception) tended to favor established musi-
cians—like trumpeters Harry James, Ziggy Elman, Jimmy Max-
well, and Cootie Williams—who would immediately fit into the
band's format.17 Whatever the merits of the Shaw/Goodman hir-
ing policies, the Shaw band of 1939, galvanized by the contribu-
tions of Jerry Gray, Buddy Rich, George Auld, and Bernie Privin,
inspired Shaw himself to reach new peaks of technical and musi-
cal excellence. "In effect/' Schuller writes, "what Artie Shaw
couldn't get out of his first two bands, the second one, at mid-
juncture, got out of him"18 Shaw confirms this opinion in his rec-
ollections of a live engagement played by the band in Pennsyl-
vania:
Everybody [was] tired, hungry, beat after a long jump on the

road—and suddenly it happened. It was the best jazz night of
my life. Most nights, I halfway hoped for rain, so nobody
would turn up. That way we could play without interference—
the crowd almost always got between me and the music. But
on this night everything worked. I had a red-hot first trum-
pet—and when that first phrase ripped out, everything swung.
I was at the point where I didn't want to hear the rhythm sec-
tion. I wanted to do it without leaning on anyone else's beat.
Nobody needed leading. We nearly tore the roof off that place.
I could see people looking up out of the sea below, mouths
wide open. Funny thing was, later, when the men and I talked
it over, nobody had any idea why then. What had happened?
Next night, we tried again the same way, we blew all right,
but the wildness, the savage stuff, had packed up for a while.
Funny—maybe a little sad too.19
Ironically, the recording and the subsequently revitalized

band, which launched Shaw's career as a major figure in Ameri-
can popular music, also brought attendant problems. By his own
testimony, Shaw—having craved success (or, as he spells it in his
autobiography, "$ucce$$")—now found it difficult to cope with
either his fellow musicians or a clamoring public.
The men [in the band] began to treat me more as an employer

than as a friend. I soon noticed that they were beginning to
behave strangely toward me. I had occasionally gone out to eat
with one or another of them when we were out on the road.
Now I found a curious reluctance on the part of any one of
them to be seen in public with me. Any one of the men who
might show any intimacy with me began to be regarded with
suspicion by the rest.20
Shaw also expressed his dissatisfaction with the excesses of

an adoring public—in 1938 he was mobbed by fans on Boston
Common, who ripped off his lapels, split his jacket, and badly
scratched his face. On another occasion, an excited patron
jumped onto the stage of the theater where he was performing,
and almost knocked out his front teeth. (This incident elicited
from Shaw the laconic comment "Jonn Wilkes Booth, I pre-
sume").
B E G I N N I N G THE B E G U I N E » 85
The late George Auld remembered the hysteria which sur-

rounded the Shaw band after the release of Begin the Beguine.
In those days, we went into Begin the Beguine and played it

four times during the night. They were dancing on top of the
tables. It was unbelievable. One kid jumped off the front bal-
cony [at the Strand in New York City] and broke a leg. Every
time we went into the theme, thirty, forty kids would jump up
on the stage. Security would have to come up and put them
out. One show we did, as the pit was going down, this little
broad jumped on top of the pit, grabbed hold of Artie, and
started to dry-hump him! He's holding his clarinet above his
head; he don't want to break his reed. Artie was as on fire then,
as Sinatra was when he hit it big.21
Shaw also began to question the material rewards that were

the consequence of such fame and notoriety. As he reflected al-
most fifty years later: "At the peak of that '38 band, I was making
$60,000 a week, which is the equivalent of $600,000 today. It
seemed insane. I began to ask myself, 'How can I be getting
$60,000 a week when the first clarinet player in the Philhar-
monic only gets $150 a week?' It began to dawn on me that it
was lunacy/'22
Temperamentally and intellectually unsuited to the life of a
teen-age idol, Shaw objected to the police protection and secur-
ity precautions surrounding his every public appearance. Yet
there were repeated claims that swing music—and its latest
icon—posed dire threats to American youth. During an appear-
ance of the band at the Fox Theatre in Philadelphia, Shaw was
told that there had been such a drop in attendance in the city's
schools that a formal complaint against him had been lodged by
the Board of Education with the police department.
Shaw also became tired of repeating his growing number of

hit recordings. As he later remarked to an interviewer, "How do
you do the same tune every night in the same way? How many
years can you play Begin the Beguine without getting a little vom-
ity? I mean, it's a good tune if you are going to be associated with
one tune, but I didn't want that/'23
At the height of his success, Shaw began to express his dis-
satisfaction with some of the music masquerading—and being
accepted—as Swing. In a magazine article published in 1939, he
distinguished carefully between two types of big-band music:
The first type of swing is that which attempts to blast off the
roof. Offensive to most ears and definitely of the musically
punch-drunk variety, it is an out-and-out menace. The second
classification bears the alliterative titles of "smooth" or "so-
phisticated" swing. For sheer monotony I don't believe this
type of music can be surpassed. There is no attempt at colour
or ingenuity. Instrumentalists can almost doze off on the
bandstand and it would have no effect on their playing.
Swing—and I mean real swing—is an idiom designed to make
songs more listenable and more danceable than they were in
their original form. It is, in sum, the creation and sustenance
of a mood. In it, there is blasting, purring, subtlety, obvious-
ness—each in its place. That's what swing means and it will
remain only if it continues to explore the possibilities of a com-
position, whether it is by Bach or Duke Ellington.24
The physical strains of an exhausting schedule also took their

toll. In addition to recordings, personal appearances, and broad-
casts from the Lincoln Hotel, Shaw was musical Master of Cere-
monies on the CBS "Melody and Madness" program, sponsored
by the makers of Old Gold cigarettes. In the spring of 1939, the
Shaw band opened at the Palomar Ballroom in Hollywood—

where, four years earlier, the Goodman orchestra had made its
sensational breakthrough. On the opening night, Shaw—who
was already suffering from a sore throat—collapsed on the band-
stand and was rushed to hospital. Unconscious for five days with
a form of leukemia, diagnosed as malignant leucopenia or agran-
ulocytosis, and with a temperature of 105 degrees, he was not
expected to live. Confounding medical opinion, he made a slow
recovery and remembers that on first gaining consciousness, he
saw his friend, singer/actress Judy Garland, sitting at his bedside.
During this California period, Shaw made his first Holly-
wood movie for MGM—The Dancing Co-Ed—and during the
shooting stayed at the famous Garden of Allah hotel, where he
met F. Scott Fitzgerald, the preeminent novelist of the "Jazz
Age." Directed by S. Sylvan Simon (Shaw later remarked that "S
stood for 'Simple'") the film—a mindless vehicle for its rising
starlet, Lana Turner, who later briefly became Mrs. Shaw—was
a campus "comedy" which capitalized on the swing phenomenon
then sweeping the country. It features a great deal of jitterbugg-
ing, a jam session in a plane, and Artie Shaw and his orchestra
playing Nightmare, Non-Stop Flight, I've Got a Feeling You're
Fooling, Traffic jam, Lady Be Good, Jungle Drums, and Stars and
Stripes Forever.
From the outset, Shaw was unhappy with the demands and
requirements of moviemaking. In Time Is All You've Got, he
states that the director was "totally insensitive," and Shaw the
actor resolutely refused to deliver a line of dialogue beginning
"Hepcats and alligators" because "I said, 'I don't talk that way.
I've got a radio programme sponsored by Old Gold that's heard
by 20 or 30 million people a week/'' Sylvan retorted that "The

audience you play for is infinitesimal compared with the one
that's gonna see this movie." Shaw responded scathingly, "You
hope/' and tried to buy his way out of the film, but the producers
refused the offer. "From then on in," Shaw remembered, "if I
didn't speak the exact lines in the script, I wasn't gonna get to
talk. We ended up with a movie where I say nothin' but 'Yeah,
but . . / Too stupid for words." On another occasion, Shaw said
of The Dancing Co-Ed: "Talk about abortions—boy, that was
long before they were legal."25 Lana Turner remembered that
during the filming of The Dancing Co-ed, Shaw "never missed a
chance to complain that it was beneath him to appear in a Holly-
wood movie. The crew plotted to drop an arc light on his head."26
Back in New York City, where the band commenced a long
engagement at the Cafe Rouge of the Hotel Pennsylvania, Shaw
received a great deal of publicity for his stinging comments on
the mindlessness of the jitterbugging generation. In an interview
with New York Post columnist Michael Mok, Shaw had an-
nounced "I hate the music business. I'm not interested in giving
people what they want. I'm interested in making music." Warm-
ing to this theme, he added: "Autograph hunters? The hell with
them. They aren't listening—only gawking. My friends, my advi-
sors tell me that I'm a damned fool. 'Look here,' they shout at me.
'You can't do that. These people made you/ You want to know my
answer? I tell them that if I was made by a bunch of morons,
that's just too bad."
Benny Goodman—also recoiling from the excesses of "hood-
lum jitterbugs" and the coarsening of Swing—issued a similar
(but less robust) critique in Collier's magazine in February 1939:
"We learned to play against hell and high water. We played loud
when we should have played soft and played louder when we
normally would have played loud. Musical subtlety, just coming
to life, went out of the window and the era of Sandblast Swing
came in."27
Following complaints from outraged fans, Old Gold can-
celled its sponsorship of Shaw's radio show. Talking to George
T. Simon, shortly after the Post revelations, Shaw confirmed and
amplified his attitudes, "I don't like jitterbugs. I don't like the
business angles connected with music. I can't see autograph
hunters. I thought the Old Gold programme was lousy for my
music." He also told Simon:
Frankly, I'm unhappy about the music business. Maybe I don't

belong in it. I like the music—love it and live it, in fact—but
for me the business part plain stinks. Two years ago we used
to love playing; we made up tunes on the stand. Now it's all
business. I'm a musician, not a businessman. If I wanted to go
into business, I'd enter Wall Street and at least keep regular
hours.28
In fact, during his six-week convalescence in California,

Shaw had already resolved to quit the "music business." The
causes were long-standing: his frequently declared dissatisfac-
tion with the state of the entertainment industry in which he was
an increasingly unwilling participant, the intrusions on his pri-
vate life, and his conviction that commercial catering to popular
taste relied on the lowest common denominator. The occasion
for his announced—but short-lived—retirement came on No-
vember 18, 1939, at the Pennsylvania Hotel's Cafe Rouge after
"a slight unpleasantness with some idiot on the floor in front of
90 « A R T I E SHAW
the band, who was evidently trying to impress his partner by

using me as a focal point of his witticisms." Eschewing violence
against the offending patron, Shaw relates, "I walked off the
bandstand, went up to my room, called my lawyer and told him
I was leaving."
Buddy Rich, in conversation with Mel Torme in 1975, re-
membered that on opening night at the Cafe Rouge, Shaw "left
during the first set. He didn't show up on the bandstand.
'Where's Artie?' The room was packed. I sat down behind the
drums and waited. We all started looking around at each other.
Everybody in the brass section looking at me. I'm looking at
them. Finally after about five minutes of waiting, Tony Pastor got
up in front of the band and called a set. Artie never came back.
We came in the next night. Artie was not there."29
Over the objections of his advisors—who correctly pointed
out that he was under contract to RCA—Shaw insisted that he
was departing immediately for a long vacation, and that the band
and its responsibilities were theirs. He left that night, and drove
out of New York City, with no idea of his destination: "I remem-
ber coming out on the Jersey end of the Holland Tunnel and sud-
denly realizing I was out from under all that misery and idiocy I'd
been buried in for so long."30
Shaw's precipitate action, widely reported in the press, drew
from the New York Times the gnomic reflection that:
Any commentary that might occur to us would be lost in our

sense of admiration at the Shakespearean sweep of Mr. Shaw's
exodus: the kind of spectacularly irreverent farewell to his
work and former associates that even the timidest soul must
B E G I N N I N G THE BEGUINE • 91
occasionally dream of, a beautifully incautious burning of all

his bridges behind him.31
Down Beat magazine also came to Shaw's defense, citing his

"tough publicity breaks" following his Very human preference to
be a good musician instead of a good businessman." In fact, he
was to be praised for his "courage and honesty," which deserved
the respect of "businessmen and promoters for the musician try-
ing to be a better musician."32
More than thirty years after this signal event, Shaw was pre-
pared to concede that he had acted hastily:
I just got up and walked away in the middle of the night; leav-
ing all the debris behind and letting anyone who wanted to
scrabble for what was left. What I really should have done
would have been to present my agents and lawyers with a via-
ble set of alternatives. As it was, I kept saying "I need a vaca-
tion!"33
George T. Simon—the recipient of this confession—has summa-

rized the myriad responsibilities of bandleaders, who were re-
quired
to deal daily and directly—and not only on a musical but also

on a personal basis—with their musicians, their vocalists and
their arrangers, directing and supervising and bearing the re-
sponsibilities of each of these groups. But that wasn't all. Their
survival also depended a great deal on how well they dealt with
all kinds of people outside their bands—with personal manag-
ers, booking agents, ballroom, night-club and hotel-room oper-
ators, with head waiters and waiters and busboys, with bus
drivers, with band boys, with the press, with publicity men,
with music publishers, with all the various people from the
radio stations and from the record companies, and, of course,
at all times, with the ever-present, ever-pressuring public. No
wonder Artie Shaw ran away to Mexico!34
Writing in the Melody Maker in December 1938, Leonard

Feather attempted to explain (and exonerate) Shaw's flight to his
British fans. Reminding them that Shaw had, on several occa-
sions, threatened to quit the music business, Feather suggested
that he was "a sincere musician, with an extremely sensitive na-
ture, and unaffected personality/' emotionally unsuited to the
demands and rigors of the commercial world of swing and its gro-
tesque portrayal by Hollywood. Citing Shaw's controversial New
York Post interview, Feather commented:
To Artie Shaw, fame, money, the adulation of his thousands of

admirers meant nothing, especially if it means he has to hypo-
critically smile at them, sign autographs [and] be a movie actor
when he isn't one. Unfortunately he was unable to do either
without doing it for the listening public, who would pay to
make it financially possible for Artie Shaw to continue doing
those things he wanted to do.
Feather concluded his apologia with the assurance that

Shaw had not given upon the idea of being a band leader. Rather,
he no longer wanted to lead a swing band in the conventional
sense of that term, and still "considered his original band (which
featured strings prominently) of far more value musically than
the orthodox combination of which he has just unburdened him-
self."35
BE G I N N I N G T H E B E G U I N E • 93
The subject of these reflections was spending his time relax-

ing and enjoying the local scene in Acapulco, where he "swam,
fished, lay in the sun, loafed around [and] did absolutely nothing
I didn't feel like doing."36 On his return to the United States,
Shaw wrote a long article for the Saturday Evening Post in which
he offered further reflections on the sterility of the current music
scene:
Anyone can lead a dance band. At least, anyone could lead

many of today's name bands. None of them need leaders—and
very few have them. The average band leader is only a front, a
window dressing. If he has capable musicians behind him and
imaginative arrangers behind the musicians, it doesn't matter
whether he's on or off the platform—the music will sound the
same.
There were, of course, honorable exceptions, and the most hon-

orable was Duke Ellington.
Jazz means more to him than a cacophony of blasting brasses

or the saccharin strains of a corny ballad. I wish every amateur
musician could sit in on an Ellington rehearsal. Music is made
on the spur of the moment, ad lib. Phrasing is born of inspira-
tion. The man lives it.
Given his repeated attacks on the "commercialism" of the big-

band industry, and his unhappy experiences with sponsors, man-
agers, and philistine jitterbugs, Shaw's conclusion was quaintly
illogical.
I should never have been a success or made money in the

music business. Having broken every rule and regulation for
subservience, having fed the public songs everyone was con-

vinced the public didn't want to hear, I should have been out
in the cold a long time ago. Some people in the business think
I'm either cracked or a poseur. They refuse to believe that,
with me, music is first.37
Shaw now announced his intention of forming a sixty-five

piece orchestra, but was still under contract to RCA Victor for
six more recording sessions. On March 3, 1940, with a band
composed largely of Hollywood studio musicians, Shaw pro-
duced the delightful Frenesi—based on what he believed was a
folk tune that he had heard during his stay in Mexico—and ar-
ranged by the African-American composer William Grant Still.
With its cheerful and sprightly scoring for strings, and a melodic
trumpet solo by Manny Klein, Frenesi was an immediate suc-
cess—despite having already been recorded by Xavier Cugat—
and enjoyed huge sales and generous air time.
Schuller damns Frenesi with faint praise as being "only mini-
mally and sporadically related to anything one could call jazz/'
despite superbly executed and melodic solos by trumpeter
Manny Klein and horn player Jack Cave. Again, Shaw's idea of
hiring William Grant Still "to arrange all six tunes on that first
1940 date, was perhaps a noble and generous thought but musi-
cally a mistake. Still's arrangements—Frenesi was by far the
best—were mostly trite, formless, eclectic in the extreme—and,
incidentally, quite jazz-less."38
If Frenesi was not "jazz," it certainly was not "folk" music.
Shaw later confessed that "I thought it was a folk song. That little
error cost me approximately half a million dollars. Under the
usual system, I could have made a deal with the composer [Al-
berto Dominguez] for 50 per cent of the take in return for record-
ing the tune. As it was, he got the money/'39 The other titles
recorded on the same day as Frenesi were Adios, Marquita Linda
(another tune Shaw had heard in Mexico), and Gloomy Sunday
(with a vocal by Pauline Byrne). Richard Sudhalter writes that
William Grant Still's arrangement of Gloomy Sunday—with its
unusual instrumental combinations and timbres—"turns the
dirge-like Hungarian song into a tone poem, a multi-hued tapes-
try." Also notable were My Fantasy, Don't Fall Asleep, and an or-
chestration of Edward MacDowell's piano piece, A Deserted
Farm, unissued until 1978. Schuller aptly comments on this last
title that: "It would have been better left in the Victor vaults, for
in Still's turgid transcription it sounds like a fourth-rate out-of-
tune symphony orchestra, the naively touching romanticism of
the piano original mired in a morass of sentimentality." 40 But
Down Beat praised these new recordings by "a beautiful and me-
lodic-sounding group, with special arrangements by Artie and
William Grant Still, the noted Negro composer and arranger."41
The success of Frenesi prompted Shaw to organize a new
band which, with several changes of personnel, lasted until
March 1941. It included a string section and several eminent
jazz players: trumpeter Billy Butterfield, trombonists Jack Jenney
and Vernon Brown, tenor saxophonist Jerry Jerome, pianist
Johnny Guarnieri, and drummer Nick Fatool. Their recording of
Stardust, arranged by Lennie Hayton, with solos by Butterfield,
Shaw, and Jenney, and sensitive scoring for the string section,
was a major hit. Shaw credits Lennie Hayton with much of the
success of Stardust.
I wrote a simple sketch for Stardust with the basic framework,

and then Lennie Hayton orchestrated it. I would often write
out the lead for most of our songs and let others finish it and
give them credit. I differed with Benny Goodman about that.
He'd fire people if they received more applause than him, but
I figured that if they are playing well, it makes my band sound
better; besides, my name is still up in front.42
Buddy DeFranco, who absorbed the advanced innovations of

be-bop, and transposed them to the clarinet, informed Whitney
Balliett in 1982 that "it's arrogant to destroy a melody/' and ad-
vised him to "listen to Artie Shaw's solo on his recording of Star
Dust. It's the greatest clarinet solo of all time."43 Gunther Schul-
ler recalls being on tour in 1943 as a young horn player "and
hearing Shaw's Star Dust on every jukebox in every restaurant—
three years after the record was issued." For Schuller, the high
point of Stardust was Jenney's remarkable trombone solo, which
was
considered in its day, for all its romantic cast, a major break-
through statement, both in technical and expressive terms.
The (for the time) extraordinary octave leap to high F was ad-
mired far and wide by musicians and sophisticated audiences,
not only for the ease with which Jenney managed the deed,
but for his elegance and sensitivity of phrasing. Few trombon-
ists have ventured into that uppermost range of the instrument
[and] never head-on in such a difficult, dare-devil octave leap.
Jenney's rich, full-bodied sound added to the emotional appeal
of the passage.
Shaw has confirmed Schuller's memory of the sensational

impact of Stardust.
Harry Myerson, an A & R man, called me one day [and] said,

"We want to do Stardust, two sides with our biggest-selling art-
ists—you and Tommy Dorsey. Two versions, same record. No
A & B sides. How does that strike you?" I said, "Fine," and we
went into the studio to make the record of Stardust. It worked
on the first take. I said, "Fellas, let's go home because it ain't
gonna get any better," and we left. About a week later, I called
Harry. I said, "What happened?" He said, "Well, Tommy came
in and he wanted to hear what you did. The guys were sitting
in the studio waiting to go, and they put on your record, and
Tommy says, "I ain't getting on the back of that." So that was
the end of that. My record came out, and Tommy lost on the
sale of about 16 million records.44
From this new band, Shaw formed the first of several ver-
sions of his "Gramercy Five"—actually groups ranging from quin-
tets to septets, but all listed as "Artie Shaw and His Gramercy
Five." Named after a New York City telephone exchange, Shaw's
original and subsequent Gramercy Fives were his rather belated
response to the existence of small groups formed by other ban-
dleaders out of their orchestras: Benny Goodman's Trio, Quartet,
and Sextet, Tommy Dorsey's Clambake Seven, Woody Herman's
Woodchoppers, Bob Crosby's Bob Cats, and the classic small-
group studio recordings of the 1930s by Duke Ellington, Lionel
Hampton, Teddy Wilson, and John Kirby. Whitney Balliett sug-
gests that
In the late thirties, big bands, which had been prevalent in

American popular music for over a decade, remembered that
they had grown out of small bands, and, as a salute to their
origins, many of them formed small bands-within-bands. All
these, lest they grow presumptuous, were given rib-tickling

names. Tommy Dorsey and his Clambake Seven, Chick Webb
and his Little Chicks, Artie Shaw and his Gramercy Five, Bob
Crosby and his Bobcats, Woody Herman and his Woodchop-
pers'45
More specifically, Shaw's use of the harpsichord (played by

Johnny Guarnieri) in his first Gramercy Five may have been di-
rectly prompted by Benny Goodman's successful appearances
and recordings with Lionel Hampton on vibraphone, as a mem-
ber of the Benny Goodman Quartet.46 Alyn Shipton places the
Gramercy Five somewhere between the Dorsey (Dixieland) and
Goodman (Swing) small units.
Its most distinctive element was that pianist Johnny Guarnieri

played harpsichord, which gave the rhythm a jangly, staccato
structure, although his carefully picked out right-hand solo
lines sounded like a rather strange and stilted breed of acous-
tic guitar, contrasting with the fluency and smoothness of Al
Hendrickson's genuine electric guitar.47
Unlike Goodman, who went outside his regular band to form

his first Trio and Quartet, Shaw was able to draw on the mem-
bers of his current orchestra: Billy Butterfield (trumpet), Johnny
Guarnieri (harpsichord), Al Hendrickson (guitar), Jud DeNaut
(bass), and Nick Fatool (drums). John P. Callanan writes:
Shaw put his newly-formed Gramercy Five through its paces

in his Hollywood home on Summit Ridge Drive, rehearsing
only head arrangements of both original and standard material.
Nothing was committed to paper, which partly accounts for
B E G I N N I N G THE B E G U I N E • 99
the loose feel displayed by the group. Apart from the skilfully
executed ensemble passages, everything played by these musi-
cians was improvised.48
The Gramercy Five made its first studio recordings in Holly-

wood on September 3, 1940: Special Delivery Stomp, Summit
Ridge Drive (the biggest seller of all the Gramercy Five record-
ings), Keepin Myself for You, and Cross Your Heart. These were
followed two months later by four more titles: Dr. Livingstone, I
Presume (on which Shaw plays an amusing cadenza in the Jewish
frahlich style, popularized by trumpeter Ziggy Elman on Benny
Goodman's recording of Bel Mir Bist Du Schon), My Blue
Heaven, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, and When the Quail Come
Back to San Quentin. Commenting on his 1954 Gramercy Five
version of the last title, Shaw admits that it was a play on the
demotic phrase "San Quentin Quail," meaning a sexually attrac-
tive girl, under the legal age of consent, or "jail bait"—as in the
phrase "a quail who could put a male in San Quentin prison."
When Shaw was pestered by a song-plugger to record the maud-
lin When the Swallows Come Back to Capistrano, he eventually
"obliged" with the scatological title.
Shortly before his death in 1988, trumpeter Billy Butterfield
recalled his tenure with the Gramercy Five units:
It was a marvellous little band. We rehearsed a lot, we worked

on it, and every number that we did was well prepared long
before we did it. Artie was a perfectionist, like Benny Good-
man. Both of them were perfectionists. Artie was a really good
guy to work for. He treated you very well. He told me one time
"You know, to be a player you gotta practice and live with the
horn at all times." And [then] he didn't want to be that strict

of a player any more, and rather than trying to do it halfway,
he just said, 'I'll do it no way/' and he became a writer.49
During the first Gramercy Five period, Shaw and his orches-
tra were also filming the Paramount movie Second Chorus (re-
leased in 1940) in Hollywood. Directed by H. C. Potter, the film
provided Shaw with a featured and semi-autobiographical role.
Initially, at least, he was enthusiastic about the script, written by
his friend, Frank Cavett.
It was a serious story about a young, second-generation Irish

kid, son of an immigrant Irishman who settled out West and
built himself a big contracting business. He wanted his son to
have the advantages he didn't, and sent him to college. Kid
went to Yale, where Frank had gone and played in the Yale
college band where I met him when I was a little kid. So this
trumpet player went to Yale and while he was there he got
struck by the beginnings of jazz and became a sort of a young-
man-with-a-horn kind of thing. And when he went home from
college, he told his father he had no intention of taking over
the old contracting business but wanted to be a musician.
Father being horrified, rather than break the old man's heart,
the kid finally agreed he would give it a year or so, and try
working in the contracting business. After two or three years
he said to his father, "Look, I'm sorry but I can't do it. I've gotta
get back." So he went to New York and tried to get back in the
music business, and in those two or three years that had gone
past him, he was no longer in. It was meant to be a kind of sad
story and comment on what jazz was as a growing, evolving art
form. In those days, people thought if you were playing jazz,
you were stepping down. And in the film, we had the intention
of showing that if you wanted to play jazz, you had to step way
up.50
John Garfield was to have played the part of the young trumpet
player, but Boris Morros, the producer, opted for Fred Astaire,
together with Burgess Meredith and Paulette Goddard, in what
became a travesty of the original script. New Yorker film critic
Pauline Kael provides a succinct summary of the plot and per-
formances of Second Chorus—one of Fred Astaire's most dismal
musicals:
At the time, it was generally considered his worst picture, and

Astaire himself later concurred in the judgement. He plays an
overage undergraduate—a swing bandleader who keeps flun-
king his exams so that he can stay in college. The band is actu-
ally Artie Shaw's considerably augmented. Astaire's romantic
and tap partner is Paulette Goddard, who manages the band.
The funnymen, Charles Butterworth and Jimmy Conlin, don't
compensate for the scarcity of good numbers.51
Shaw is seen with his band, playing several titles, including

Dig It, Sweet Sue, and Poor Mr. Chisholm. Nick Fatool is promi-
nently displayed and heard on drums, Bobby Hackett ghosts the
trumpet playing of Astaire, and Billy Butterfield that of Mere-
dith. In the most interesting musical sequence, Shaw performs
a Swing Concerto—later expanded and recorded as Concerto for
Clarinet—and remembered:
There was a sequence in it [Second Chorus] where we were

playing a concert and I wrote a piece for Fred [Astaire], who
was going to do a dancing/conducting thing—which was so
cornball but we had to do it. By then we were stuck and that

was the last movie I had anything to do with—that is, as a per-
former. So during the concert, there was a sequence in which
my band had to play something; it was obligatory. There I was
in the picture. So I wrote a thing called Concerto for Clarinet.
It was a framework. I didn't really write anything. I just dic-
tated a frame. Part of it was blues; part of it was not.52
The new Shaw orchestra began to attract attention, and was

heard on the Burns and Allen radio show, performing such num-
bers as Jungle Drums, Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen, and
Diga Diga Doo. Studio recordings by the band at this time in-
cluded Who's Excited? Chantez les Bas, Stardust, and, most fa-
mously, Concerto for Clarinet, Parts 1 and 2, which has elicited
differing critical and descriptive comments. Albert McCarthy
writes:
Shaw states the theme over the strings before the full ensem-
ble plays a bridge to [Johnny] Guarnieri's boogie-style solo,
after which Shaw, [Jerry] Jerome, [Vernon] Brown and [Billy]
Butterfield are featured. The first part closes with Shaw ini-
tially in the high register against the full ensemble, scaling
down to a quieter passage by him against the strings. The sec-
ond part is virtually all Shaw, much of the time playing over
an insistent tom-tom beat by Nick Fatool; he concludes with
a coda in the high register. It is a very impressive virtuoso per-
formance, and one that led to a number of poor imitations dur-
ing [the] war years.53
On the other hand, Gunther Schuller dismisses Concerto for

Clarinet as "a pastiche thrown together out of some boogie-woo-
B E G I N N I N G THE B E G U I N E • 103
gie blues, clarinet-over-tom-tom interludes, a commonplace riff

towards the end, all encased in opening and closing virtuoso ca-
denzas from the leader's clarinet/'54 McCarthy is closer to the
mark. The classic nine-minute-and-thirty-two-second perform-
ance of Concerto for Clarinet is an exciting and memorable dem-
onstration of Shaw's ability to improvise on blues changes,
without becoming either repetitive or trite.
In March 1941, Shaw brought some members of the band
that now included trombonist-arranger Ray Conniff (who, in the
1950s was to achieve fame with his instrumental and vocal ar-
rangements of light popular music) to New York, where they re-
corded four instrumental titles at the Victor studios: If I Had You,
It Had to Be You, Georgia, and Why Shouldn't L
Shaw again disbanded, and before organizing a new orches-
tra, assembled an unusual group, comprising three major Afri-
can-American musicians—Henry "Red" Allen (trumpet), Benny
Carter (alto), and J. C. Higginbotham (trombone)—together
with a rhythm section of Sonny White (piano), Jimmy Shirley
(guitar), Billy Taylor (bass), and Shep Shepard (drums), plus thir-
teen strings—including harpist Laura Newell—to record two ti-
tles with vocalist Lena Home: Love Me a Little and Don't Take
Your Love from Me. There were also instrumental versions of I'm
Confessin That I Love You and Beyond the Blue Horizon.
In the autumn of 1941, Shaw formed another band, which
featured (in addition to a string section) Conniff and Jack Jenney
(trombones), George Auld (tenor), Dave Tough (drums), and the
Texan-born black trumpeter Oran "Hot Lips" Page, who is the
soloist and singer on several fine recordings, including Blues in
the Night, Take Your Shoes Off, Bahy, and St. James Infirmary.
One of the great jazz trumpet players—although considerably

less talented than his idol, Louis Armstrong—Page was a master
of the plunger mute, and can be heard to good effect in many of
his solo spots with Shaw (1941-1942). When the General Artists
Corporation demanded that he drop Page from a tour of the
Southern States in 1941—unless he sat no closer than fifteen
feet to the nearest (white) member of the band—Shaw cancelled
thirty-two Southern engagements. The Daily Worker promptly
hailed Shaw for his stand against "Jim Crow in popular music
circles/'55
Shaw expressed great hopes for his new aggregation, which
received a generally favorable notice by George Frazier in Down
Beat:
Artie Shaw's new band represents nothing either radical or

deeply significant, but it is one of the most competent bands
anywhere. It is big (32 pieces), beautifully drilled, and musical
all over the place. The star of Artie's band is Dave Tough. His
drumming is nothing short of stupendous. There is never any
exhibitionism to anything that Tough does, never any of the
juvenile delinquency of Buddy Rich's playing, for example—
just enormous competence, impeccable taste, and one of the
most miraculous beats in jazz.
The praise for Tough was decidedly prescient, since his superb
drumming was crucial both to the fire and the success of Woody
Herman's wonderful First Herd.
Shaw, Frazier asserted, had collected "some of the most
glowing talents in the profession and moulded them into some-
thing, if not unique, at least immensely satisfying." The string
section was "anything but disagreeable/' and blended well with

the rest of the band. Among the band's "first-rate" soloists, Fra-
zier listed Max Kaminsky and Lips Page, Jack Jenney and Ray
Conniff, and altoist Les Robinson. Shaw himself was playing su-
perbly and appeared "to be a much changed guy personally. The
men enjoy working for him and are grateful for the fact that he
shows no disposition to tell them how to play their instru-
ments."56
On record and on tour, Shaw's final pre-war band played es-
sentially jazz-inflected dance music. George T. Simon character-
izes the 1941 Shaw orchestra as "simply a fine dance band, with
strings and an ability to play exceptionally good jazz and ballads,"
and one which would "have caused more of a general furore had
it lasted long enough."57
Shaw himself was continually experimenting with and add-
ing to the band's library. He hired various arrangers—Bill Chal-
lis, Lennie Hayton, Margie Gibson, and Fred Norman—all of
who attempted to integrate the string section effectively with the
orchestra. Shaw also commissioned Paul Jordan to write classi-
cally based pieces for the band. Born in Chicago in 1916—and
mistakenly identified in some accounts as an African-Ameri-
can—Jordan produced two interesting compositions, Evensong
and Suite No. 8, for Shaw. Schuller devotes four pages to an in-
depth musical analysis of these two pieces and writes: "Evensong
is a little gem. Essentially an 'Aria' for clarinet and orchestra, se-
rene in its twilight mood, it affords Shaw an excellent opportu-
nity to display his supremely beautiful tone." Schuller identifies
Hot Lips Page as the trumpet soloist in Suite No. 8, and judges
Shaw's solo as displaying "fine swing energy" but also, in defer-
106 » A R T I E SHAW
ence to Jordan's framework, confining himself "to a relatively

controlled improvisation." Schuller also suggests persuasively
that these two pieces "stand in relation to Shaw's orchestra much
as Ralph Burns's Summer Sequence stands to Woody Herman's
1945 Herd/' while Shaw's relationship with Jordan anticipates
that of the "Progressive" bandleader Stan Kenton with Bob
Graettinger.58
Sixteen days before Shaw recorded Jordan's two composi-
tions, the Japanese (on December 7, 1941), attacked the Ameri-
can fleet at Pearl Harbor, and the United States formally
declared war on the Axis powers. On what Franklin D. Roosevelt
termed a "day that will live in infamy," the Shaw band was ap-
pearing at the Metropole Theater in Providence, Rhode Island.
Asked by the manager to announce to service personnel in the
audience that they had to report to their bases immediately,
Shaw cancelled the remainder of the performance. In retrospect,
Shaw believed that "my career as a serious dedicated player of a
musical instrument ended in 1941, when the war started. With
the whole world in flames, playing Stardust seemed pretty point-
less."
Ironically, given Shaw's expressed disenchantment with the
role of civilian bandleader in a time of national crisis, the war
years revitalized the popularity of big bands on the home front,
and provided welcome employment opportunities for those mu-
sicians who did not serve in the armed forces. By 1941, the bur-
geoning war industries and full employment brought America
out of the Depression years, and stimulated the entertainment
industry. But the artificial stimulation of a wartime economy also
"temporarily disguised the structural problems in the music in-
dustry and postponed the inevitable collapse of the Swing Era

until shortly after the troops returned home in 1945/'59
Before enlisting in the armed forces, Shaw went to Califor-
nia and returned to the East Coast with Elizabeth Kern, daughter
of Jerome Kern, and shortly to become Mrs. Shaw. After playing
a final engagement in Detroit, Shaw was driven by his new wife
to 90 Church Street in New York City, where he was formally
inducted into the United States Navy.
NOTES
1. Ross Firestone, Swing, Swing, Swing, 232.

2. Artie Shaw, Taped Interview with Joe Thompson, Newbury
Park, November 20, 1979, in possession of author.
3. Owen Peterson, 'Artie Shaw/' Jazz Journal, 22 (Sept. 1969), 16.
Peterson's unabashed admiration for Miller's American Patrol is the
more remarkable since that plodding opus resolutely refuses to swing.
He also appears to be singularly unaware of (or immune to) the sheer
sexiness of Shaw's Begin the Beguine. In the Introduction to his collec-
tion of jazz record reviews, originally published in the Daily Telegraph,
Philip Larkin imagines his readers (of 1968) as "sullen fleshy inarticu-
late men, stockbrokers, sellers of goods, living in 30-year-old detached
bouses among the golf courses of Outer London, husbands of ageing
and bitter wives they first seduced to Artie Shaw's Begin the Beguine"
All What Jazz: A Record Diary 1961-68 (London: Faber and Faber,
1970), 28.
4. Schuller, The Swing Era, 698.
5. Simon, The Big Bands, 415—16.
7. Gene Lees, Meet Me at Jim & Andy's: Jazz Musicians and Their
World (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 63.
8. Swing, Swing, Swing, 232. Schuller comments that "Shaw's
greatest success, both popular and critical, came at the very time (mid-
1939), when Goodman had slipped down from the high crest of his
initial popularity, reaching a temporary nadir, and in fact disbanding for
a while, but reorganizing a few months later with an entirely new band/'
The Swing Era, 701.
9. Whitney Balliett, Barney, Bradley, and Max: 16 Portraits in Jazz
(New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 191.
10. Blandford, Artie Shaw, 61.
11. Scott Yanow, "Profile: Artie Shaw/' Jazziz, 9 (July 1992), 102.
The Big Bands, 548. Whitney Balliett, Goodbyes and Other Messages: A
journal of jazz 1981-1990 (New York & Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1991), 196.
12. Mel Tonne, Traps The Drum Wonder: The Life of Buddy Rich
(Edinburgh and London: Mainstream Publishing, 1991), 44. Schuller
has no doubts on this score: "Rich brought to the Shaw band the musi-
cal energy and drive that he had gleaned from Chick Webb, Jo Jones,
Sid Catlett, and other major black big-band drummers. This elemental
force in turn stimulated Shaw to ever greater heights, not only as a solo-
ist but even as an arranger/' The Swing Era, 701.
13. After leaving Shaw, Privin became a member of Charlie Barnet's
band and then joined Glenn Miller's Army Air Force band in 1943.
Privin found Miller's strict discipline hard to accept. On one occasion,
Miller ordered all band members wearing moustaches to shave them
off—to the great detriment of Privin's embouchure. He rejoined Good-
man after being discharged and then spent twenty-two years as a staff
musician for CBS.
14. George T. Simon, Simon Says, 122-26.
Seabiscuit was a champion racehorse of the 1930s. In a later esti-
mate, Simon conceded that "Buddy did soon settle into a tremendous
groove and the Shaw band began to swing as it never had with any of
its previous drummers." In his 1939 review, Simon also faulted the sax-
ophone section which was "inclined to be sloppy, not so much in the
attacking as in the holding of notes."
15. Blandford, 55-58. Passim.
16. Life, Vol.6 (January 23, 1939), 60-62.
17. The great exception is electric guitarist Charlie Christian, who
was introduced to—and imposed on—an initially reluctant Goodman
by John Hammond. See John Hammond with Irving Townsend, John

Hammond on Record (Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin Books,
1981), 223-28, 232-33. Philip Larkin relates: "When critic John Ham-
mond smuggled Charlie Christian through the kitchen and on to the
stand of the Victor Hugo in Los Angeles in August, 1939, he was un-
wittingly setting one of those legendary scenes that jazz abounds in.
The leader, Benny Goodman, was having dinner. Arriving back, he was
furious to see this 20-year-old gangling, unpolished Negro planted, am-
plifier and all, among the Sextet: he might have ordered him out. In-
stead, he called for Rose Room. It was a wise decision. That was the
longest Rose Room Benny ever played, forty-five minutes of trading
new, exciting phrases with a jazz stylist of complete originality. Chris-
tian's long-running single-note phrases and seemingly inexhaustible vo-
cabulary of riffs were utterly contemporary—even, perhaps, a hint of
things to come. At the end of Rose Room the Goodman band had a new
guitarist/' "Goodman's Guitar Man," All What Jazz, 170-71.
19. Taylor, "Middle-Aged Man Without a Horn," 63.
21. Traps The Drum Wonder, 44.
22. Joe Smith, Off the Record: An Oral History of Popular Music, ed-
ited by Mitchell Fink (London: Sidgwick and Jackson, 1989), 1.
23. Ibid. In the same vein, Shaw asked rhetorically: "Do you know
how boring it is to start a show with 'S Wonderful and end it with Con-
certo for Clarinet? Whenever I changed a tune, the manager would
come running and say, 'Dammit, don't do that. Those kids will be here
all day.' How could you live with that?" Ibid. Philip Larkin recognizes
and identifies this problem. "The golden rule in any art is: once you
have made your name, keep in there punching. For the public is not so
much endlessly gullible as endlessly hopeful: after twenty years, after
forty years even, it still half-expects your next book or film or play to
reproduce that first fine careless rapture, however clearly you have
demonstrated that whatever talent you once possessed has long since
degenerated into repetition, platitude or frivolity. A commonplace in
the more established arts, it is true of jazz also." "Great Expectations,"
All What Jazz, 239.
24. Bruce Crowther and Mike Pinfold, The Big Band Years (London:
David & Charles, 1988), 65.
25. Tom Nolan, "Still Cranky After All These Years," Los Angeles
May 1990, 111; Dialogues in Swing, 137.
26. Quoted in Sudhalter, Lost Chords, 607.
27. Torme, Traps The Drum Wonder, 49-50. Firestone, Swing,
Swing, Swing, 244.
28. Simon, Simon Says: The Sights and Sounds of the Swing Era,
1935-1955 (New Rochelle, New York: Arlington House, 1971), 18-19.
Shaw told Simon in November 1935 that he was "glad" to have broken
with his Old Gold Sponsors: 'The show was built all wrong for me.
When I auditioned for it, I had a definite musical formula, but it gradu-
ally turned into a comedy which didn't do the band any good. Besides,
it was on a weak network, thus killing its rating, and the new schedule
called for a west coast show at 11 o'clock Saturday nights and I couldn't
leave the Pennsylvania] Hotel for that."
29. The Trouble With Cinderella, 351. Torme comments: "What is
fascinating about Buddy's recollection is that he insists that he was still
playing with the Shaw band the night Artie left. Yet Down Beat reported
him joining [Tommy] Dorsey prior to Artie's leave-taking. Since Shaw's
actions were of great significance during that period, it would seem un-
likely that Rich would forget an episode as startling as Artie walking
away from his own men." Traps The Drum Wonder, 51. Trumpeter Ber-
nie Privin also retained vivid memories of the Cafe Rouge episode. "An
elderly woman asked Shaw to play a tango, maybe it was a rhumba. He
said, 'Lady, you're in the wrong room.'" Jerry Gray recalled with some
bitterness that Shaw "said not a goddamned thing to us. [He] should
have faced us." Guitarist Al Avola reflected that when Shaw walked
away "he took the band with him. We tried. We played the same music
and it was swinging. But something was missing. He was the band."
Chris Albertson, "Artie Shaw," Liner notes to The Swing Era 1937-
1938 (New York: Time-Life Records).
31. "Middle-Aged Man Without a Horn," 63. Richard Sudhalter
comments wryly on the episode: "No other defection, even at the height
of the Cold War decades later, has been as widely publicized—with so

little attempt on the part of its chroniclers to understand what it was,
what drove it, and what effect it had." Lost Chords, 588. Acapulco may
have been Shaw's final destination, but singer Helen Forrest recounts
that he was romantically involved with the young Judy Garland—much
to her mother's disapproval. Shaw reportedly phoned Garland from Lit-
tle Rock, Arkansas, requesting her advice. Her reply was that "the world
was going nuts because he was among the missing" and suggested that
he should "cool it for a while."
Other accounts assert that Betty Grable was the new object of
Shaw's attentions at the time of his flight from New York. Ibid. 822,
Note 35.
32. Chris Albertson. Liner notes to Begin the Beguine: Artie Shaw
and his Orchestra (RCA CD).
33. The Big Bands, 546-7.
34. Ibid. 9-10.
36. The Trouble With Cinderella, 355. One thing that Shaw did feel
like doing was to rescue—at the cost of a broken kneecap—a young girl
swimmer who was in distress.
37. Blandford, Artie Shaw, 73, 81.
39. "Middle-Aged Man Without a Horn," 65.
40. The Swing Era, 793, n.35.
41. Blandford, Artie Shaw, 84.
42. Yanow, "Artie Shaw," 103.
43. Barney, Bradley, And Max, 196. Richard Sudhalter endorses—
and amplifies—DeFranco's encomium, suggesting that Shaw's Stardust
solo is "one of the great set-pieces of the jazz canon." Again, like Louis
Armstrong's West End Blues and Coleman Hawkins's Body and Soul, it
has convinced many listeners "among them a few clarinetists of stature
that the solo can't have been spontaneous [but] must have been worked
out very carefully in advance." Lost Chords, 592. Alyn Shipton praises
Shaw's Stardust solo as combining "great tonal beauty with the inevita-
bility of phrasing of the finest jazz soloists, paraphrasing the melody in
a way that created a new structure, but keeping the original firmly in
view." Stardust, he concedes, "is unquestionably a jazz record, but
within it, improvisation is limited to the solos, and like much of Shaw's
output it prompts yet another examination of where the definition of
jazz should start and finish." A New History of Jazz, 349-50.
44. The Swing Era, 704. Schuller might also have noted that Jen-
ney's role in this Shaw band presaged that of Bill Harris in Woody Her-
man's 1945 "Herd"—for example, his plangent solo on Bijou.
45. He adds parenthetically: "Mundane old Benny Goodman, mind-
ful that he might one day frequent the conservatory, simply had his
trios, quartets, quintets, sextets, and septets.'' Night Creature: A Journal
of Jazz, 1975-1980 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1981), 33.
46. Guarnieri remembers that "Artie Shaw gave me a lot of liberty.
He generated enthusiasm and stimulated my thinking. It led to my
playing harpsichord with the Gramercy Five, and I became the first
jazzman to jam on a harpsichord. I helped put a lot of those Gramercy
Five things together." Arnold Shaw, 52nd Street: The Street of Jazz
(New York: Da Capo Press, 1977), 308. In a 1979 radio interview,
Shaw recalled that Guarnieri "had a terrible struggle with it [the harpsi-
chord] at first." He might have added that other notable performers—
Meade "Lux" Lewis, Erroll Garner, and Oscar Peterson—failed to
transpose their (differing) pianistic techniques entirely successfully to
the harpsichord. Two pianists who have made this transition are Hank
Jones and Lalo Schifrin.
47. Alyn Shipton, A New History of Jazz (London and New York:
Continuum, 2001), 350. Shipton asserts that, despite its popularity,
"the jazz potential of Shaw's small group was held in check by the gim-
mick of the harpsichord, and its soloists seldom reached the high levels
they managed in other contexts." Ibid.
48. Sleeve note to Artie Shaw: The Complete Gramercy Five Sessions
(RCA CD).
49. W. Royal Stokes, The Jazz Scene, An Informal History from New
Orleans to 1990 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 96.
50. Dialogues in Swing, 137-8.
51. Pauline Kael, 500] Nights at the Movies (London: Arrow Books,
1987), 518.
52. Dialogues in Swing, 138-9.

53. McCarthy, Big Band Jazz, 265.
54. Schuller, The Swing Era. In a footnote Schuller notes that
Shaw's Concerto for Clarinet was not only "published and seriously
studied by clarinetists and classical musical teachers, [but] is still
played nowadays by high-school and college orchestras, trying to show
their 'progressiveness.'" 705.
55. Trumpeter Max Kaminsky, who was playing with Shaw at this
time, claims to have introduced him to Page, and also relates a possibly
apocryphal story. "Lips broke up audiences even in the most segregated
sections of the Deep South. One night after the show, a cracker came
up to the bandstand and said he thought Lips played so great that he
wanted to meet him. After shaking Lips's hand, the southerner said,
'And Ah want you to know this is the first time Ah ever shook the hand
of a coloured man/ Lips flashed one of his wide, happy grins and said
in his wonderfully pleasing way, 'Well, buddy, it didn't hurt you, now
did if?'" My Life in Jazz, 126. Shaw himself recalled: "It was difficult in
those days for some of the black people in the band. Hot Lips Page
could handle it. He was one of the only ones who could. Lips would
say, 'Don't fuck with my living, man.' He was a spark plug." Off the
Record, 2; Swingin' the Dream, 130.
56. Blandford, Artie Shaw, 119-20. A later Down Beat update re-
ported: "The young man with a stick who once told off America's jitter-
bugs is now watching them pay cash money to see and hear his new
band. Maybe no other leader could have gotten away with it, but Artie
appears to be stronger now at the box office than at any time in his
stormy career." Ibid. 122.
57. The Big Bands, 421-2.
58. The Swing Era, 707-9. Largely neglected by—or unknown to—
most Shaw commentators, Evensong and Suite No. 8 (which, as has
been mentioned, is one of Shaw's favorite recordings) are, Schuller sug-
gests, as valid as other "serious compositions" of the swing era: Ralph
Burns's Summer Sequence, Claude Thornhill's Snowfall, or Shaw's own
Concerto for Clarinet. "Recording and performing Jordan's works," he
concludes, "was one of Shaw's most felicitous and generous undertak-
ings, for which we owe him much respect and gratitude." Ibid. 710.
59. Meet Me at Jim and Andy's, 84-5. The Birth of Bebop, 156.
Performing in the Navy, South Pacific, WWII
War and Peace
Artie's personality was still getting people's backs up, but he was
having his awn troubles too, adjusting to military life and all the
Navy red tape and regulations, and he was a natural target in his
crisp white chiefs uniform, for the bored Navy wives, who all
trained their guns on him at every dance we played.
Max Kaminsky
D avid W. Stowe has suggested that the dynamism and

promises associated with swing during the 1930s—"a be-
lief in American exceptionalism, in ethnic pluralism and demo-
cratic equality"—were "ideally suited to the collective needs of a
nation battling fascism/'1 Swing bandleaders were pressed into
the war effort—promoting war bond drives and converting their
music "into a semi-official morale-raising medium for military
personnel around the world and war industry workers at home."2
In 1943, Dawn Beat published a "Band Leaders' Honor Rolf
which listed thirty-nine former band leaders in the Army, seven-
teen in the Navy, three in the Merchant Marine, and two in the
Coast Guard.3 Less than a month after the attack on Pearl Har-
bor, two hundred swing-band musicians volunteered for United
Service Organization (USO) tours of military bases. On Christ-
1 16 m A R T I E SHAW
mas Day 1942, the Coca-Cola company presented forty bands—

including those of Duke Ellington, Harry James, and Benny
Goodman—in a twelve-hour broadcast over 142 American radio
stations. Most important for the dissemination of jazz and swing
music to American military audiences was the Army's "V Disc"
program, established in late 1943 by the Special Services Divi-
sion. Manufactured by engineers and producers from RCA Victor
and Columbia, the twelve-inch discs—studio and "live" record-
ings, air checks, and film scores—featured such jazz notables as
Louis Armstrong, Roy Eldridge, Duke Ellington, Benny Good-
man, Coleman Hawkins, Billie Holiday, Art Tatum, and Fats Wal-
ler. Broadcast through the American Expeditionary Service, V
Discs were also heard by radio listeners in Europe, and gained
new (and often literally captive) audiences for swing music.4
Artie Shaw's two great clarinet-playing rivals did not see active
service. Because of a back condition, Benny Goodman was classi-
fied as 4-F by the US Army; Woody Herman was granted exemp-
tion because of a hernia. Shaw's first naval duty as an apprentice
seaman—after being medically upgraded from category 3-A to 1-A
—was aboard a minesweeper, docked at Staten Island, New York.
He was then sent to Newport, Rhode Island, to form a band. The
prospects were decidedly unpromising. He remembered: "I had
two men who could blow good; the rest were terrible. Obviously,
our only hope was to shape up with a uniform sound, so I asked
the two good men to blow bad. Oddly enough, they refused. I was
back where I started as a kid with the Peter Pan Novelty Orches-
tra."5 After brief hospitalization for migraine attacks, Shaw went to
Washington, D.C., where he persuaded the Secretary of the Navy,
James V. Forrestal, to allow him to form a new band to take to the
Pacific, and was promoted to the rank of Chief Petty Officer.
WAR AND P E A C E « 117
Among the drafted or enlisted musicians recruited by Shaw

for "Naval Reserve Band 501" (later known as "The Rangers")
were trumpeters Max Kaminsky, John Best, and Conrad Gozzo,
tenor saxophonist Sam Donahue, pianist Claude Thornhill, and
the drummer Dave Tough. The underweight and ailing Dave
Tough only passed his medical test when Shaw informed the ex-
amining officer, "This is the world's greatest drummer." Shaw
had a particular fondness and genuine respect for Tough, who
later went on briefly to power the first Woody Herman Herd.
I first knew Davy in the thirties when he was with Tommy Dor-
sey, and we'd go up to Harlem to listen to music. He was a
sweet man, a gentle man, and not easy to get to. He was shy
and reclusive. He had great respect for the English language.
He read a lot and I read a lot, so we had that in common.
During the Second World War, he was in my Navy band, and
we'd manage to get together once in a while and talk. He was
an alcoholic, and he always found things to drink. I'd assign a
man to him if we had an important concert coming up—say,
for the crew of an aircraft carrier—and that man would keep
an eye on him all day, so he wouldn't get drunk and fall off the
bandstand, which he had done a couple of times. I think he
was the most underrated big-band drummer in jazz, and he got
a beautiful sound out of his instrument. He tuned his drums,
he tried to achieve on them what he heard in his head, as we
all do, and I think he came as close as you can get. Whenever
I pointed to him for twelve or eight or four bars, he'd smile and
shake his head and go on playing rhythm drums.6
The selection was completed by the end of November 1942.

After preliminary duties in Lower Manhattan, where it was re-
quired to perform as a marching band for Navy celebrations and
to boost civilian morale, Shaw's Navy band was ordered to Pearl

Harbor, where it later joined the battleship North Carolina en
route to Noumea in the South Pacific. As Max Kaminsky relates,
the Shaw band had a poor record for marching:
We'd rise at 5:30 a.m., my normal bed-time, and march out on

the pier to play Stars and Stripes Forever, Under the Double
Eagle Flag, Anchors Aweigh, and The Washington Post March
while the poor gobs went through their exercises. Dave
[Tough] wasn't strong enough to carry a drum or even the big
cymbals, so they gave him a peck horn. It was very funny to
see him wrestling with this unfamiliar instrument and trying
to get some kind of tone out of it. In fact, we were a horrible
excuse for a military band, in spite of the good musicians.7
Shaw quickly became disillusioned with life in the US Navy,

and spent an inordinate amount of time trying to secure accom-
modations for his men. "I was," he recalled, "the lowest of the
low. The [top] brass considered our mission silly and I heard a
lot of 'You're not in Hollywood now/"8 For nearly five months,
the band stayed in Honolulu, playing at the officers' club, at par-
ties, and giving concerts at camps around the islands. On January
30, 1943, Shaw and the Rangers band played Begin the Beguine
over the Armed Forces Radio Service (APRS) as part of America
Salutes the President—a program celebrating Franklin D. Roose-
velt's sixty-first birthday. The Rangers then embarked on a tour
of the South Pacific, without Claude Thornhill, whose piano
playing had so impressed Admiral Chester W. Nimitz that he
was (with Shaw's intercession) allowed to remain in Honolulu
and form another Navy band. Shaw's long friendship with the
gifted—and guileful—Thornhill had been severely tested when
he joined Shaw's Navy band in 1942. Shaw recounts:
WAR A N D P E A C E • 119
I was a CPO, and I was responsible for band discipline, but

Claude and I couldn't arrive at a modus vivendi. After all, we
had been close a long time, and it wasn't easy being thrust into
what amounted to a master-servant relationship. He would
miss muster or bed check or rehearsals, and resentment began
to build on both sides. He was already a heavy drinker, and
that didn't help. He made it known that he wanted his own
band, so I talked to Admiral Calhoun, and they gave him one
before we left Hawaii for the Pacific Islands. Our relationship
was never quite the same, and I didn't see much of Claude
after that.9
Shaw and the Rangers were overwhelmed by the reception

they received from the American forces on their various stops.
"We'd set up shop in some eerie tropical setting—palm trees all
around, board benches, Navy boys sitting on them or on the
ground—and we'd swing into one of the old favourites, really
socking it, you could see tears come into their eyes/'10 Max Kami-
nsky remembered arriving in New Caledonia and being ferried
out to the aircraft carrier Saratoga to give a concert.
Since it was night the men were gathered on the lower deck,
and our entrance alone sent them off into an uproar. We set
up the bandstand on the huge aircraft elevator and began play-
ing our theme song Nightmare as we descended slowly into the
midst of the wildly cheering men. It was like being back at the
Paramount again, except that the bandstand there used to rise
slowly from the pit, while on the "Saratoga" it descended into
the audience. As I sat there looking at these thousands of sail-
ors and feeling the waves of homesickness flow out of them at
the sound of the familiar songs, I began to fill up so much that
when I stood up to take my solo on the St. Louis Blues I blew
like a madman. On hearing me let loose, Dave [Tough] started
to swing the beat, and when I picked up my plunger and

started to growl, those three thousand men went stark raving
crazy. Even the fellows in the band were shaken.11
But the Rangers' tour of duty also brought physical and men-
tal exhaustion—as well as the constant fear of enemy attack. By
the time it reached Australia and New Zealand, Shaw and his
musicians had begun to disintegrate. "By then/' he writes, "our
instruments were being held together by rubber bands and sheer
will, having survived any number of air raids and damp spells in
fox holes; and the men themselves were for the most part in simi-
larly varying states of dilapidation." In an interview which he later
gave to Metronome, Shaw, recounting his experiences aboard US
Navy ships, exclaimed:
Was I scared? You bet I was. Conditions were grim. Nearby

boats were being torpedoed. You just quake and wonder if it's
you or the next guy who got hit. You take your battle station
and you do your job.12
There were other hazards, including the climate, which de-

stroyed musical instruments. Shaw would be playing a solo "and
a pad would drop out of my clarinet/' Reeds were scarce, guitar
and bass strings kept snapping, "and most of the time there
wasn't a PA system, the guys had to blow their brains out to be
heard."
Not surprisingly, Shaw himself also snapped. On Guadalca-
nal, which was being bombed by the Japanese every night, he
wandered off into the jungle, suffering from a partial loss of
memory. After being picked up by a Navy doctor, he spent some
time recovering in a field hospital. By mid-June 1943, he was
WAR AND P E A C E • 121
again leading the Rangers band on various Pacific islands, and

again, the response from the troops was overwhelming. Shaw re-
membered that: "We played many of the old arrangements/' and
that it was "amazing how the kids out there [were] familiar with
the band. They got so excited when we showed up on some god-
forsaken island unexpectedly. Some would throw gifts at the
band. Most would just sit there and just listen, devouring every-
thing we kicked off/' He also recalled hearing his records being
played over Radio Tokyo with the accompanying announcement
that the band was currently appearing at the St. Francis Hotel in
San Francisco: "The idea was to make the Yanks feel home-
sick."13
When he was finally shipped back to San Francisco at the
end of 1943, Shaw was photographed down on his knees, kissing
the dock. With recurrent migraine headaches, he was medically
discharged on February 23, 1944—along with Max Kaminsky
and Dave Tough—after spending a period in the Naval Hospital
at Oak Knoll, California.14 The Rangers band—which had won a
poll in Esquire magazine as the favorite band of the American
armed forces—continued under the leadership of Sam Donahue.
It became the US Navy Liberation Forces Band, dispensed with
the Shaw library, and toured successfully in several European
countries.
Divorced from Elizabeth Kern, but greatly attached to their
infant son, Stephen, Shaw now underwent a course of psycho-
analysis. It was during this period also that he joined several left-
wing organizations, some of them with Communist connections,
with unforeseen consequences for the future.
In the summer of 1944, Metronome announced that Shaw
was planning to form a new seventeen-piece band—and one
without any strings attached. He had told critic Barry Ulanov

that "I don't want to do a lot of theatres. A guy who plays six or
seven shows a day in theatres must hate music. I'm critical of my
work [and] I'm cursed with serious-mindedness." Ulanov took
Shaw's professions of "serious-mindedness" seriously, and char-
acterized him as possessing "a remarkably alert and provocative
mind," reflected in his 'Voracious" reading. The Victim of crude
appraisal at least as often as he has been properly praised as a
forceful, forward-looking creator," Ulanov predicted that Shaw
"despite the questionable limitations and contradictions and ab-
errations" in his personality could "be counted on the side of
what we who look forward to great things in jazz naively call
Truth and Beauty."15
Shaw formed what was to be the most consistent, innovative,
and jazz-oriented of his several orchestras in 1944. Whitney Bal-
liett offers a collective profile of Shaw's various bands:
The Begin the Beguine outfit was tight and springy; it was a
snappy Ford coupe. The Frenesi band, with its bouffant strings
and walk-along tempos, was gentle and subtle, but it had an
unmistakable jazz persuasion. It was also a peerless dance
band. The 1945 band, with Roy Eldridge, was the closest
Shaw came to an out-and-out jazz group. It was a disciplined,
swinging, straight-ahead band.16
The first titles recorded by the 1944-1945 band for the Vic-
tor company on November 23, included Ac-cent-tchu-ate the Pos-
itive, with a vocal by Imogene Lynn who also sang on the ballad
Let's Take the Long Way Home. A Jimmy Mundy composition,
Lady Day, was obviously intended as a tribute to Billie Holiday,
while Jumpin on the Merry-Go-Round was later used as a signa-
ture tune on the British Armed Forces network in Germany. The

rhythm section was Shaw's best, and featured drummer Lou
Fromm, bassist Morris Rayman, guitarist Barney Kessel, and pi-
anist Dodo Marmarosa. After Shaw himself, the African-Ameri-
can trumpeter Roy Eldridge was the band's star soloist, and with
arrangements by Ray Conniff, Eddie Sauter, Buster Harding,
and Bobby Sherwood, they recorded such exhilarating titles as
September Song, Lucky Number, Bedford Drive, 'S Wonderful,
Love Walked In, Soon, Tea for Two, and a special feature for El-
dridge, Little Jazz.17
Shaw himself took great care with the recordings of his
1944—1945 band, and is particularly proud of Eddie Sauter's ar-
rangement of Summertime, which also features Roy Eldridge. In
Time Is All You've Got, he remarks that Eldridge did not want to
play the "growl" trumpet chorus, fearing that he would be ac-
cused of copying Duke Ellington's expert in that department,
Cootie Williams.
Ray Conniff in particular again made an enormous contribu-
tion to the band's sound. His arrangements "were characterized
by a deep, rich, orchestral sound, finely balanced, set in spicily
chromatic harmonies and voicings" as well as by "a structural
clarity that consistently avoided congestion and permitted solo-
ists and sections to develop a deep, spacious, laid-back swing."18
In fact, this was primarily an arranger's band: there were few solo
opportunities for Eldridge, and even fewer for Marmarosa, who
was already showing enviable talent as a bop-influenced pianist.
Fortunately, both Eldridge and Marmarosa were to be featured
prominently in a reconstituted Gramercy Five, formed in 1945.
It first recordings—Grabtown Grapple (named after Ava Card-
ner's hometown in North Carolina), and The Sad Sack—made on

January 9, feature Eldridge's abrasive trumpet and Shaw's lucid
clarinet. Scuttlebutt, recorded on August 2, derives from a slang
term that became common during World War II (and may have
reflected Shaw's naval experiences). The water bucket or drink-
ing fountain on a ship, in everyday usage it came to mean a
rumor or a piece of gossip—because such talk was often in-
dulged in during relaxed conversations around the watering hole:
"just scuttlebutt."
The new Gramercy Five was featured wherever the Shaw
band appeared, including a broadcast of September 12, 1945,
which received a favorable notice in Metronome.
Artie and his lilting clarinet, his star Roy Eldridge, and his
band all made a good showing. High spots were the old Shaw
favourite Summit Ridge Drive, in which Roy and Artie were
supported by the same four fine musicians present when the
current band was formed: Dodo Marmarosa, Barney Kessel,
Lou Fromm, and Morey Rayman. Solos by Marmarosa on
piano and Kessel on guitar were tasteful, and Artie himself
seemed inspired instead of tired.19
Shaw's agents, the General Artists Corporation (GAG), ac-

tively promoted his return to band leading, and press handouts
stressed his war service. The "handsome ex-Navy veteran" it was
claimed, "isn't faced by the problems that face touring bands
today" because as a Chief Petty Officer in the Navy he had "led
a band in the war-torn areas of the Pacific [and] has played under
every handicap imaginable." Aside from numerous torpedo at-
tacks, the Shaw Navy band had "lived through 17 different
bombing attacks, usually from high-flying Jap precision bombers
WAR A N D P E A C E • 1 2 5
trying to score direct hits on U. S. warships which carried Shaw

from island to island/' Shaw himself was quoted as saying:
We hitch-hiked everywhere. Sometimes on a large ship, then

a smaller one, and sometimes by airplane. We travelled any
way we could. We went without sleep. But for everything we
went through, it seemed like nothing compared to what the
fighting men endured. That pleasure we brought them and the
smiles they gave us are worth all the hardships we had gone
through. I'd do it again, anytime.20
Another release neatly combined a summary of Shaw's war-

time experiences with his present situation and intentions.
A long hitch in the Navy did Shaw a lot of good. He lived with
the other GFs and had little time for his own thoughts and
problems. Instead of worrying about the world situation or the
lack of new ideas in music, Artie spent his time ducking the
bombs that fell from Japanese planes. In the South Pacific
Shaw underwent many attacks, often during a performance.
He then saw how much music meant to the men in combat.
It made Artie realize that there were many things that could be
done in music. He is now making full use of that experience.21
GAG publicity flyers also claimed (improbably) that a re-

formed if not repentant Shaw was preparing to meet—and sat-
isfy—popular tastes.
Artie has taken the public into consideration first and is point-
ing every tune at the audiences hell face. It's quite a change
for the high-riding youth who played only what he wanted to
during the late thirties when his band was on top. He's still
the biggest figure in the music business, but Shaw has ma-
tured after a Navy hitch. From now on it's John Q. Public

come [sic] first and foremost in the selection of songs.22
Such public relations statements suggested that a chastened

and more circumspect Artie Shaw had returned from the Pacific.
It remained to be seen whether he would, in fact, adapt to the
conditions at home as the war drew to a close. As he quickly
discovered, one problem—that of persistent white racism—
continued to plague African-Americans.
Trumpeter Roy Eldridge's short tenure with Shaw's first post-
war band was marred by several incidents of racial prejudice and
discrimination. On one occasion, Eldridge was refused admis-
sion to a venue where the Shaw band was appearing—even
though his own name was on the marquee outside. Finally al-
lowed entrance, he played the first set with "tears rolling down
my cheeks/' After the performance, he went to his dressing
room, still crying, and recalled that "Artie came in and he was
real great. He made the guy apologise that wouldn't let me in,
and got him fired." Ava Gardner recounts a similar, if not the
same, episode in 1944 when she was with the Shaw band at an
engagement in San Diego, and Eldridge failed to appear on the
stand.
Artie was furious, so much that he was still steaming when we

went out the stage door after the first set to enjoy a cigarette.
And there was Roy Eldridge, sitting in the gutter, holding his
trumpet and crying, the tears pouring down his cheeks. He
hadn't been allowed in the building. He'd been told: "A nigger
playing in a white man's band? Don't give us that crap. Get
out of here, nigger, if you know what's good for you." Artie was
often testy. This time he was not testy, he was volcanic with
WAR A N D P E A C E • 1 27
anger. The result: Roy Eldridge was allowed into the building.
At that next set, Roy Eldridge blew his horn until the notes
shimmered off the rooftops. He played a tune called Little
Jazz. In those days, when the kids really liked a number, they
stopped dancing and clustered around the bandstand. This
time they hemmed in to listen to Roy s fantastic playing. I'll
never forget that occasion. Roy stood there blowing his heart
out, tears streaming down his face. It was heartbreaking. I
wept with him.23
Shaw, always a liberal on racial matters, understood and sympa-

thized with Eldridge's situation.
It was very tough for him in my band, just as it had been for
Billie Holiday when she was with me in the thirties. When I
hired Roy, I told him that he would be treated like everyone
else in the band, and that he would be paid very well, because
he was the best. I told him that I could handle racial matters
when we were on the stand, but there was very little I could
do when we were off. Droves of people would ask him for his
autograph at the end of the night, but later, on the bus, he
wouldn't be able to get off and buy a hamburger with the guys
in the band. He thought he was travelling through a hostile
land, and he was right. Things came to a head at the San Fran-
cisco Auditorium when he arrived late and they wouldn't let
him in the main entrance. He was a bitch of a player, and
everybody in the band loved him.24
For reasons that are unclear, Shaw again disbanded in 1945,

but at the end of the year signed with the Musicraft label. On
November 14, he recorded three excellent instrumental: The
Glider, The Hornet, and Let s Walk. He also made some sides for
128 * A R T I E SHAW
Musicraft with the young jazz vocalist—and Shaw enthusiast—

Mel Torme, who writes:
I had been in awe of Shaw for years. Back at Hyde Park High
[in Chicago], the controversy had raged daily: who is the better
clarinetist, Goodman or Shaw? I was firmly entrenched in the
Shavian camp. The Shaw 1939 band was my favourite of that
era. If I felt like showing off in front of my schoolmates, I
could rattle off the names of every single member of that
band.25
There is substantial jazz content on such numbers as What Is

This Thing Called Love? and / Got the Sun in the Morning, and
Torme credits Shaw for his advice on nuances of inflection on
this last song.
In 1947, Shaw gave up playing jazz for a year, concentrated
on classical music, and was featured with the WOR studios
string quartet in broadcasts of Mozart's Clarinet Quintet in A
Major and Russian composer Alexander Krein's Hebrew Sketches
(see chapter 7). Listening to these recordings as they were being
prepared for Book-of-the-Month Club release in 1984, Shaw pro-
vided a commentary on the context of his performances.
I showed up at the WOR studios one Sunday and talked the

piece [Mozart's Clarinet Quintet] over for a few minutes with
the string players. They were the staff quartet at the station.
They had been playing there for some time, and I appeared as
a guest soloist. We went on the air that Sunday morning and
played the piece through without rehearsing one note. There
are some imperfections—a few rubatos, for example. But it's
OK, I don't mind it being out there.26
WAR AND P E A C E » 129
He also recorded specially commissioned works by composer

Alan Schulman—Mood in Question and Rendezvous for Clarinet
and Strings—and in 1948 appeared at Carnegie Hall as guest so-
loist with Leon Barzin conducting the National Youth Symphony
in a performance of Nicolai Berezowsky's Concerto for Clarinet
and Orchestra in B-Flat, op. 28. Still in a classical vein, Shaw also
recorded eight short pieces by Ravel, Debussy, Kabalevsky, and
Shostakovitch, adapted for clarinet and symphony orchestra by
the arranger Hershey Kay, and conducted by Walter Hendl.
Gunther Schuller, who has listened carefully to these (rare) re-
cordings, believes that they reveal another side of Shaw's talent,
"his classical playing—that he had previously only touched
lightly, easily demonstrating that he could hold his own with any
clarinetist in the world, classical or otherwise, including his nem-
esis, Benny Goodman."27
Shaw's increasing preoccupation with classical music was
made dramatically apparent to the jazz fraternity when in May
1949 he appeared as the opening attraction (and for a one-week
appearance) at Bop City, a new jazz venue at Broadway and West
49th Street in New York City—with a forty-piece "symphony" or-
chestra. Leonard Feather, who was master of ceremonies on the
opening night, reported:
At 9:30 p.m., Artie's group of strings, woodwinds et al.,

marched on to the specially enlarged stage. Then Artie him-
self, looking amazingly young for his 38 years, entered, turned
his back on the audience and gave the downbeat. His clarinet
was nowhere to be seen. His program comprised music by
Koio, Kabalevsky, Debussy, Milbaud, Prokoviev, Finzi, and
other pieces.
Poorly received by the patrons with "flurries of sarcastic clap-

ping/' Shaw's program at Bop City astonished and outraged the
critics. Metronome commented that Shaw's "well-staffed organi-
zation" was billed as the "big attraction" but it proved to be an
"under-rehearsed orchestra, which ran sometimes nervously,
sometimes confidently, through a program both light and heavy,
all twentieth-century in vintage. Ella [Fitzgerald] really took over
after his departure." Shaw did play clarinet during his one-week
appearance at Bop City, but neither his playing nor his conduct-
ing impressed Down Beat critic Mike Levin, who asserted scath-
ingly:
Never before has such miserable conducting been seen or

heard anywhere in the music business. Shaw's concept of
leading consists of raising and lowering his arms in what he
thinks is approximate conjunction with the beat. Dynamics,
shadings, tempo, or any coloration whatsoever are things com-
pletely outside his ken or capability. Mr. Shaw is a pretentious
young [sic] man who evidently feels his capabilities are com-
pleted unlimited, his horizons unbounded. The only things un-
bounded about him are his ego and his musical ignorance.
Shaw's clarinet playing was described and dismissed as "sterile

and stiff" with "a tone of the familiar fire-siren quality" and "clod-
den heaviness" in which "clinkers were prominent," together
with "faulty intonation" in what was, overall, a "second-rate hack
performance."28
Shaw gave a typically idiosyncratic—and in some respects
equally curious—performance of another kind when he ap-
peared later in the year as a subject for Leonard Feather's "Blind-
fold Test" in Metronome.29 As Feather subsequently related:
WAR A N D P E A C E » 131
I wasn't sure whether we were embarking on a blindfold test,

a general interview or a social occasion with no journalistic ob-
jectives. It turned out to be a weird combination of all three,
and after sorting out in my dazed mind some of the 25,000
words or more that must have been exchanged during the dia-
logue, I decided [that] a resume of some of the more tangible
statements would be worth reporting.
One of these "more tangible statements" concerned saxophonist

Boyd Raeburn's recording of Boyd Meets Stravinsky, featuring pi-
anist Dodo Marmarosa. Shaw summarily dismissed the perform-
ance as "very exhibitionist/' and simply an attempt "to show they
can play very fast. I don't know where the musical value comes
in."30 Woody Herman's seminal 1946 recording of the four-move-
ment Summer Sequence, composed and arranged by Ralph
Burns, and featuring trombonist Bill Harris and, most notably,
tenor saxophonist Stan Getz, received qualified Shavian ap-
proval—for its arrangement: "I half enjoy this and half say to my-
self why doesn't he [Burns] do something with his talents."
After listening to the Dizzy Gillespie orchestra's 1948 re-
cording of Lover Come Back to Me—a tour de force for Gilles-
pie's alternately tender and explosive trumpet playing—Shaw
asked rhetorically: "What do other people think of these things?
Do people buy this? Is music going along these lines? What is
the excuse for butchering something?" He then offered his own
very decided views on the piece. It was "a negation of the classic
definition of music—melody, rhythm and harmony." As for Gil-
lespie's trumpet playing, Shaw asserted that "I'm not interested
in him. So he can play high F! Good—bad—by what standards?
I'm afraid we're talking in a vacuum."
Gillespie was also present on another recording played by

Feather—the 1949 "Metronome All Stars" poll-winners' fluently
joyous version of Victory Ball. Other "modernists" present on this
studio session included Miles Davis and Fats Navarro (trum-
pets), J. J. Johnson (trombone), Buddy DeFranco (clarinet),
Charlie Parker (alto saxophone), Lennie Tristano (piano), and
Shelly Manne (drums). Shaw refused to listen to the entire take,
commenting brusquely that "it's really no use our going on with
this. There just isn't any point of contact. All I can say is, if this
is the quintessence of what jazz is doing, I don't want to go back
into it."
Asked by Feather for his reactions to bop, Shaw (who was
shortly to form his short-lived but most "progressive" orchestra)
replied—more reasonably—that he rejected the false swing/bop
dichotomy, since he didn't approve of "terms that imply that one
thing has stopped and something else has taken over. I'm against
the cultist's idea that the old jazz is no good." Pressed to explain
what he had been trying to do during his recent engagement at
Bop City, Shaw replied that he had wanted "to find out the reac-
tion of a typical American audience to some music that was not
the usual fare they're handed," but conceded that "the first night
was a mess." Questioned about his "ultimate objectives in
music," Shaw immediately saddled and rode his now-familiar
hobby horse.
I'm not interested in keeping a band together—running a band

means keeping payrolls and so forth, and that's business. I'm
not interested in business. I might get an orchestra together
just for once in a while, combining the idea I had at Bop City
with another, smaller group playing popular music.31
Shaw's 1949 strictures against "bop" and Dizzy Gillespie—

one of its prime exemplars—contrast with Benny Goodman's re-
sponses in a Blindfold Test of December 1948, when Feather
played him some recordings by Fats Navarro and Tadd Dam-
eron—both of whom were immediately recognized by Good-
man—who also praised Dizzy Gillespie's (unfortunately titled)
Shaw 'Nuff as "a very good record." Neither Shaw nor Goodman
were particularly drawn to the innovations of bop, but the latter's
remarks suggest that he was more in sympathy with this develop-
ing form of "modern jazz."32
Shaw's statements in 1949 recall Philip Larkin's celebrated
diatribe (twenty years later) against "modernism" in the arts
whether "perpetrated" by "Parker, Pound, or Picasso."33 But
whereas Larkin, to the end of his life, professed a (not entirely
convincing) abhorrence of "modern jazz," Shaw came to express
an apparently genuine enthusiasm for the bop revolutionaries he
had earlier slighted and dismissed. In the commentary, already
mentioned, which accompanied the release of his 1954 Gra-
mercy Five and earlier recordings, Shaw relates:
It's pretty hard to continue in a craft and not recognize what's

going on around you. Once Charlie [Parker] and Dizzy [Gilles-
pie] and some of the others like Thelonious Monk came along
and changed the entire face of jazz—actually, they were the
first wholly new influence since Louis Armstrong—the music
couldn't possibly have remained the same. They had been lis-
tening to the same music I listened to all my life, so I never
was uncomfortable with the "new" chord structures they were
playing. After Dizzy and Charlie came along I was, for the first
time in my life as a player, able to stretch out and do what I
had always wanted to do but what audiences wouldn't hold

still for when I was at my zenith. At that time I had to stay
within the frame of what mass audiences understood. So it
was a great relief when the hoppers arrived. I was quite com-
fortable with those guys.34
This more considered comment suggests that perhaps Shaw had

become wiser after rather than during the heady days of the bop
revolution. It's also distinctly possible that during the earlier con-
versation with Feather, the adversarial Shaw was being deliber-
ately polemical in his denigration of bop.
Following a brief visit to Britain—where, owing to Ministry
of Labour restrictions, he was unable to perform with British mu-
sicians—Shaw returned to Hollywood and in August 1945 began
to assemble a new orchestra. Barry Ulanov, in a Metronome arti-
cle the following month, reported that Shaw had said that he was
"not going to lead any jazz revolutions/' Instead, he would be
playing music which the public "seems to want from me, music
that's been summed up as 'Frenesi-Begin the Beguine-Stardust,'"
and for the remainder of the time, "whatever I want to play." As
for style, Shaw asserted, Til try anything/'35"
One of the things that Shaw now seemed willing to "try"
were arrangements for his new band by such accredited and es-
tablished "modernists" as Gerry Mulligan, Mary Lou Williams,
Eddie Sauter, and Tadd Dameron—although only the writing of
Dameron appears to have been recorded. Shaw's new orches-
tra—which included at various times such ex-Woody Herman
alumni as tenor saxophonists Al Cohn, Zoot Sims, Herbie Stew-
ard, and Don Lanphere—with pianist Dodo Marmarosa and gui-
tarist Jimmy Raney, toured in New England, Canada, and the
Mid-West over a two-month period. But when audiences failed

to respond to Shaw's new "progressive" sounds, he adopted an-
other tactic. "I had a bandboy named Tommy Thompson/' he re-
called, "and I told him, 'You're the arranger now. Get the latest
copy of Variety, pick out the ten top tunes, and buy stock ar-
rangements of them all. That will be the nucleus of our library.'"
At whatever personal cost, Shaw also acted the part of a musical
clown. "I did all the things I'd shied off from all my life. I
laughed, I ogled, I waggled my head, I laid my clarinet over my
shoulder and marched, and some S. O. B. in Brooklyn had the
gall to tell me: "Artie, this is the best outfit we've had here since
Blue Barron.'"36
Studio recordings of the Shaw 1949-1950 orchestra (chap-
ter 7) reveal it to have been capable of producing swinging per-
formances of such updated items in the Shavian lexicon as Begin
the Beguine, Softly As in a Morning Sunrise, and Stardust, along
with more innovative originals like Krazy Kat, Orinoco, Innuendo,
and Freds Delight—the last arranged by Tadd Dameron. Shaw's
playing on all these (and other) titles is quite superb—lyrical,
poised, crystal clear, and, on some numbers, decidedly boppish.
But Shaw—perhaps because of his mortification over the
Blue Barron "compliment"—was again losing interest in the mu-
sical scene. In March 1950, he took a band —this time playing
stock arrangements—into Bop City. Critical responses were, at
best, lukewarm. George T. Simon reported that although Shaw
had "played fine technical clarinet, sounding most inspired with
his smaller group, it was a sorry exhibition from a man who has
apparently given up."37 That Shaw had again—at least temporar-
ily—"given up" the life of a peripatetic band leader was shortly
illustrated by his conspicuous absence from the music scene for

the next two years.
NOTES
1. Swing Changes, 143. Yet as Lewis Erenberg contends, World

War II both "highlighted and then exhausted swing as it brought the
central tensions of the 1930s to a head. As swing became enmeshed in
national purpose, it became more bureaucratic and sentimental. Al-
though Glenn Miller supported [cultural] pluralism, his orchestra was
a whitened and corporate version." Swinging the Dream, 251.
2. Ibid. 9.
3. Ibid. 148.
4. See especially Mike Zwerin, La Tristesse de Saint Louis: Swing
Under the Nazis (London: Quartet Books, 1985), Michael H. Kater,
Different Drummers: Jazz in the Culture of Nazi Germany (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1992), and Ralph Willett, "Hot Swing and the
Dissolute Life: Youth, Style and Popular Music in Europe 1939-49,"
Popular Music, Volume 8, No. 2 (1989), 157-63.
5. "Middle Aged Man Without a Horn," 65.
6. Blandford, Artie Shaw, 128-9. Whitney Balliett, American Mu-
sicians: 56 Portraits in Jazz (New York and Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1986), 123-4.
7. My Life in Jazz, 135.
8. "Middle-Aged Man Without a Horn," 67. Frequently patronized
by his superiors, Shaw was disgusted when an officer asked, "Can I
shake the hand of the hand that held Lana Turner's tit?" Chris Way,
The Big Bands Go to War (Edinburgh and London: Mainstream Pub-
lishing, 1991), 266.
9. Whitney Balliett, Barney, Bradley, And Max. 85.
10. "Middle-Aged Man Without a Horn," 68.
11. My Life in Jazz, 143.
12. The Trouble With Cinderella, 373. The Big Bands Go to War,
266. Not all American troops welcomed press reports of Shaw's military
exploits. "Servicemen in the South Pacific wrote angrily to protest effu-

sive coverage of Artie Shaw's heroic tour that ignored the deprivation
experienced by GIs in the trenches." Swing Changes, 149-50.
13. The Big Bands Go to War, 268.
14. During a 1992 interview Shaw offered another reflection on the
war years. "In a way, the war saved my life, because it ended that period
of success. By the time I was discharged, I was a wreck and was suffer-
ing what we now refer to as post-traumatic stress. I didn't have a clue
who I was, so I left the marriage [to Betty Kern] and got into analysis.
The Navy had shaken me up pretty good, not to mention the fact that
I was confused enough when I enlisted." Kristine McKenna, "Artie
Shaw Tells It Like It Is," LA Weekly, November 12-18, 1999.
16. Whitney Balliett, New York Notes: A Journal of jazz, 1972-1975
(Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1976), 106-7.
17. Little Jazz, composed by Eldridge and Buster Harding, who also
wrote the arrangement, is the only recording of the period on which
Shaw does not solo—a mark of his respect for Eldridge.
19. Blandford, Artie Shaw. 141.
20. "Nothing Bothers Artie Shaw After Playing for Uncle Sam,"
Press Information Department. General Artists Corporation, New York
City. Artie Shaw File. Institute of Jazz Studies, Rutgers University.
21. "Artie Shaw's Return to Music Welcomed," Ibid.
22. "New Artie Shaw Band Called Greatest," Ibid. Another GAG re-
lease claimed that: "The formula for the success of Artie Shaw is largely
based on his musical integrity. Artie Shaw's is a remarkably alert and
provocative mind. He is a voracious reader, a stimulating thinker, a
seeker after knowledge. When you combine these things with his very
great talent as a musician, you have the size and shape of a very large
creative force." "Shaw Follows Simple Formula—Music Must Sound
Good to Him!" Ibid.
23. Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff, eds. Hear Me Talkin' to Ya: The
Story of Jazz by the Men Who Made It (New York: Rinehart, 1955),
320-21; Ava: My Story (New York: Bantam Books, 1992). 110-11.
24. Whitney Balliett, "A Hostile Land," Goodbyes and Other Mes-
sages: A Journal of jazz, 1981-1990 (New York and Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1991), 253; "Little Jazz," American Musicians: 56 Portraits
in Jazz, 173.
25. Mel Torme, It Wasn't All Velvet: An Autobiography (London:
Robson Books, 1989), 88-9. Torme adds that "Artie is someone with
whom working has always been a treat and often instructive. I always
regretted his having forsaken the clarinet at a far-too-early retirement
from the music business/' Ibid. 266.
26. Liner notes to "Artie Shaw: A Legacy/' (Camp Hill, Pennsylva-
nia: 1984). 13.
27. The Swing Era, 713. In an acerbic footnote, Schuller—
apparently unaware of Shaw's WOR broadcasts—remarks: "How it
must have rankled Shaw to see Goodman engaged by the major sym-
phony orchestras and leading string quartets to perform the works of
Mozart, Weber, Debussy, Bartok, Milhaud, Copland! Shaw was obliged
to hire his own free-lance orchestra for the 1949 Columbia recordings."
More pertinently, Schuller also suggests that given Shaw's admiration
for classical composers and penchant for semi-symphonic aggregations,
it is perhaps surprising that he was not commissioned to perform Stra-
vinsky's Ebony Concerto, written for and performed by Woody Herman.
Schuller hazards the guess that perhaps Stravinsky, with his decided
jazz sympathies, "preferred the un-bridled string-less excitement of
Caldonia to the more sedate musical essays of Paul Jordan (or the pre-
tensions of Concerto for Clarinet)." Ibid. 706.
28. Blandford, Artie Shaw. 147-8.
29. Feather instituted the "Blindfold Test" in Metronome in 1946,
transferring the feature to Down Beat in 1951. Jazz musicians were
asked to identify—and rate on a five-star scale—the records they heard.
As Feather explains: "The objective of the blindfold test is honest sub-
jective reaction. The blindfoldee is always reminded that commercial
values are secondary, and that the guessing of an artist's identity is of
less consequence that the listener's evaluation on a purely aesthetic
level." Feather, "The Jazzman as Critic: The Blindfold Test," The Ency-
clopedia of Jazz (New York: Bonanza Books, 1960), 474.
WAR AND P E A C E • 1 39
30. Schuller points out that the Raeburn orchestra's version of Boyd
Meets Stravinsky echoed the introduction to the African-American
bandleader Don Redman's famous 1931 recording of Chant of the
Weed.
31. Blandford, Artie Shaw. 149-52 passim.
32. Firestone, Swing, Swing, Swing, 348.
33. Philip Larkin, Introduction to All What Jazz: A Record Diary
(London: Faber and Faber, 1970), 17. Larkin adds mischievously that
he cites "these pleasantly alliterative names to represent not only their
rightful owners but every practitioner who might be said to have suc-
ceeded them." Ibid. In a Footnote to the Second Edition of All What
Jazz, he declares unrepentantly: "If Charlie Parker seems a less filthy
racket today (1984) than he did in 1950 it is only because much filthier
rackets succeeded him."
34. "Artie Shaw: A Legacy" 10.
35. Blandford, Artie Shaw. 153-4.
36. "Middle-Aged Man Without a Horn," 93. Blue Barron, the
leader of a "Mickey-Mouse" dance orchestra, specialized in "comedy"
routines and assorted musical japes that did not have even the most
tenuous relationship with big-band swing. George T. Simon described
the band's style in a 1938 Metronome review as: "obnoxious over-phras-
ing, saxes with whining vibratos, trumpets that growl and rat-a-tat and
slur into harsh, irritating mutes, a trombone that glisses over all cre-
ation, all sorts of over-slurring, an electric guitar, a rhythm section that
puts most of its emphasis upon a tuba burping on the first and third
beat, attempted glee club effects, and all similar, musical tricks that
associate corn with commercialism and commercialism with corn." The
Big Bands, 491. Barron, who once delivered the considered opinion
that "Swing is nothing but orchestrated sex, a phallic symbol set to
sound, [and] music that cannot shake off its origins in the lowest sport-
ing spots of the Deep South," may not have been too offended by Si-
mon's verdict. Firestone, Swing, Swing, Swing, 242.
37. Blandford, 157-58.
Artie Shaw (Albie Snow): the writer at work
Cinderella and
Other Stories
You try different things—Picasso went through five different

phases.
Artie Shaw
Artie Shaw [was] a meshuggener (crazy man) if there ever was

one. I roomed with him once. He's been married so many times
that you might think he was a swinger—a real gone guy with
the broads. But what do you think he did at night? He kept me
up—believe it or not—with his typing. He was writing some sto-
ries.
Manny Klein
A fter his "retirement" from the music business in 1950,

Shaw bought a cattle farm—"Picardy Farm"—in Pine
Plains, Dutchess County, New York. With characteristic thor-
oughness and application, he studied agricultural reports and at-
tended livestock auctions as far afield as Wisconsin. In
retrospect, he remembers this as being "probably the happiest
and most self-fulfilling period of my life."1 From December 1950
until February 1952, he also worked on his autobiography, The
Trouble With Cinderella, subtitled Aw Outline of Identity. An es-

sential item in the Shaw oeuvre, it is by turns informative and
opaque, entertaining and irritating, concise and convoluted, re-
warding and repetitious, as much a cliche-ridden account of
Shaw's "philosophy" of life as of his musical career. Despite his
assertion that "My essential idea was to tell what I had seen,
done, learned, felt etc., while living the life of a white jazz musi-
cian in the late twenties and early thirties," there is surprisingly
little of substance concerning Shaw's various orchestras. Again,
apart from the description of pianist Willie "The Lion" Smith in
Harlem, there are only fleeting references to the major jazz musi-
cians Shaw encountered or employed. At its (considerable)
worst, Shaw's prose is quite appalling:
When it comes to final values, I add to the punctuation of the

world a tiny question mark. In the vast enigma of the entire
universe, I flaunt the childish riddle of myself and my own tri-
fling self-preoccupations. My life is just one more ridiculous
toy in the littered cupboard of the spinning galaxies that wheel
unendingly through an infinity of time and space.2
This overblown and embarrassing passage appears in the

concluding chapter, which is prefaced by a quotation from Wil-
liam Butler Yeats: "And I would find myself and not an image."
Such verbal excesses call into question Shaw's literary gifts and
also, more seriously, the editorial practices of his publishers.
Such verbal excesses are the more remarkable, given Shaw's con-
cern to stress his friendships with such notable stylists as Wil-
liam Saroyan, Robert Benchley, Nathaniel West, Dorothy Parker,
S. J. Perelman, John O'Hara, John Steinbeck, and Sinclair Lewis.
C I N D E R E L L A AND OTHER STORIES • 143
Their names appear in a text heavily larded with maxims from

such luminaries as Lewis Carroll, Kierkegaard, Bernard Shaw,
Henri Bergson, Rousseau, Seneca, Voltaire, Ibsen, Samuel John-
son, Walt Whitman, and Shakespeare. Given the triteness and
vulgarity of much of Shaw's autobiographical prose, these
literary/ philosophical references suggest a flourishing of intellec-
tual credentials and the aggressive self-consciousness of an auto-
didact.
But The Trouble With Cinderella does contain one superla-
tively written and instructive piece. Prefaced by a line from Vir-
gil—"This is the task, this the labour"—chapter 41 recreates the
sights, sounds, and tensions of a swing-band rehearsal. It was re-
printed in its entirety in the anthology Eddie Condons Treasury
of Jazz with the comment that "it gives an excellent picture of
what goes on at a big-band rehearsal/'3 The scene is set in a "big
dark basement" at around 1:30 a.m., situated directly under "the
polished dance floor of the Roseland State Ballroom, a public
dance hall in Boston located about a block from Symphony Hall."
Amid a cluster of instruments, music racks and straight-backed
chairs, "a Negro boy of twenty-one or so" begins to arrange some
order out of the chaos. The musicians themselves, of assorted
sizes, shapes, and ages, smoke and chatter, and try out tentative
scales on trumpets, saxes, and trombones, while a piano, bass,
and guitar provide a subdued undertone to the increasingly rau-
cous proceedings. The leader—"a dark-haired boy of twenty-six
or so"—suddenly appears and calls for order. He directs the play-
ers to "Get out number seventy-eight" and the men rustle
through their scores, looking for "letter C." The leader then taps
out the tempo with his foot.
There is complete silence now except for the foot-tapping in

regular rhythmic intervals—and then, over the tapping and in
time with the tapping, he counts off, one number for each of
the 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 gurgling and
groaning and bellowing and tinkling and thudding and plunk-
ing and plinking and booming, there is the sound of instru-
ments 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 trom-
bone-and-low-saxophone base. [Tjhe trumpets break off in
abrupt cessation, the saxophone-and-trombone mixed-choir
carry on above the rhythm pulse in a low-voiced blend so inter-
woven that it is hard to tell which is saxophone and which is
trombone. The tune is an old one, of early jazz vintage, Some-
day 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."4
As a piece of well-constructed, descriptive, and evocative

prose, this passage partly compensates for the prolixity, cracker-
barrel philosophizing and dubious assertions which are sprinkled
liberally throughout The Trouble With Cinderella. For example,
discoursing on the incompatibility of commerce and art, Shaw
pontificates that "popular music has little or nothing to do with
musical values at all. It"s fundamentally functional—just one
more form of 'entertainment'—and the music is only incidental."
Dance-band leaders were dominated by "market-place values . . .
CINDERELLA AND OTHER STORIES • 145
to such an extent that musical ones finally cease to exist."5 Yet

Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Benny Goodman, Woody Her-
man—and Shaw himself, although more erratically than these
contemporaries—contrived to produce music of great quality
and universal appeal, despite the pressures of the "market-place/'
Gunther Schuller, unimpressed by Shaw's fascination with
such pieces as The Chant with its "awful fake-voodoo-atmo-
sphere" and tom-tom rhythms, observes:
How he [Shaw] could chastise fellow musicians for being in-

tellectual pygmies, for not knowing and reading Shakespeare,
Balzac, and Joyce, or not listening to Beethoven string quar-
tets, and at the same time consistently produce such trashy
numbers as The Chant, Nightmare, Uhangi, and Hindustan—
which the gullible public in its need for exotica, of course,
loved, and turned into commercial hits for Shaw—is again one
of those confounding contradictions in Shaw's personality.6
Shaw's first book raised the eyebrows of its reviewers—if it

did not always elicit their most lucid or profound responses. The
Chicago Sunday Tribune announced that "Shaw has written his
story with all the emotion at his command. He has fathomed his
own personality in a wise, sensitive manner, and remains opti-
mistic in the face of discouraging reality." Roland Sawyer, in the
Christian Science Monitor, observed: "The book is written frankly
and will be vulgar in a few places for some readers. Perhaps this
is because Shaw tried to write as completely an honest account
of himself as he could. The life of a jazz musician in America, as
revealed here in gripping realism, is not a pretty or hopeful one.
[This] is a fascinating narrative of a contemporary American, an
absorbing account of a man's struggle with himself." Thomas

Sugrue, writing in the New York Herald Tribune, announced pa-
tronizingly: "No illiterate, this fellow Shaw-Arshawsky, and he
has done an impressive job of educating himself in the realities
of personal existence, both abstract and concrete. His adventure
thus far in life is purely American, yet even in the America of
today it is unique." The New Yorker, in a less purple and more
informative notice, suggested:
[This] story of the metamorphosis of little Arthur Arshawsky,

the son of poor Jewish immigrants, into Artie Shaw, the mer-
curial jazz-band leader and idol of American youth is a fasci-
nating one, and his dissection of the world of hot music—of
what makes a fine musician and a fine jazz band—is as good
as anything of the sort in print. His soul-searchings are fre-
quently embarrassing, and he has a marked tendency to bab-
ble. But when he has a good grip on himself—and, fortunately,
that is more often than not—he is an excellent writer.
Jazz critic Ralph J. Gleason, writing for the San Francisco

Chronicle, found much to admire in Shaw's autobiographical
musings, and surmised that "had he seen fit to discuss his various
marriages—and he's had about as many wives as jobs—the book
might have been sensational." Rex Lardner, in the New York
Times, commented somewhat ambiguously that in a recent tele-
vision appearance Shaw had said that "of all the people in the
world, he would most rather be George Bernard Shaw. Well, he
is not George Bernard Shaw and he is certainly not Carlyle; but
in his own field the young man with a clarinet is perhaps as tal-
ented as they and has written a book that deserves to be read—if
only because he wrote it."7
C I N D E R E L L A AND OTHER STORIES « 147
Although he was increasingly drawn to writing, Shaw had not

yet entirely abandoned his intermittent career as a professional
musician. One edition of a latter-day Gramercy Five, which
never recorded, appeared at a New York Scandinavian restau-
rant, The Iceland, in the winter of 1950—1951. In fact, it was
pianist Billy Taylor's quartet, featuring Shaw. Interviewed by Le-
onard Feather about his Iceland booking, Shaw was decidedly
unenthusiastic:
I don't know why they even bother to put on a show. What's

the point? You stand there and say "Now we're going to play
this, or next we'd like you to hear that," and there they are, a
bunch of middle-aged women, not hearing, not caring or un-
derstanding what you're playing; probably wishing you'd get off
so they can get on with their meal.
Asked why he was prepared to play for an uninterested audience,

Shaw replied:
I just came down here to pick up a few fast bucks. It's strictly
for the loot. You can't make music any more—the band busi-
ness as we know it is dead. People don't follow bands and
know all the soloists the way they did. The people who have
been through a war and want to be reminded of the days be-
fore it are not dance band fans any more; they are middle-aged
people with families. And if they are a little older they develop
a nostalgia for the razz-ma-tazz era of the 1920s. That's why
Dixieland has come back. It's not the music, it's everything
people are reminded of by it.
When Feather asked him "If you're not interested in the

music business, what are you interested in?", Shaw replied la-
conically, "Cows. With me right now it's just a matter of how

soon I can get back to my farm. I don't want to go out like Joe
Louis. I want to realise when I am through, and I don't want to
try and fit in where I don't belong."8
Musically, temperamentally, and politically, Shaw did not
"belong" in the increasingly conformist America of the early
1950s. On February 9, 1950, Joseph McCarthy, an obscure Re-
publican senator from Wisconsin, caused a sensation with a
speech delivered in Wheeling (in his home state) in which he
reportedly announced:
While I cannot take time to name all of the men in the State
Department who have been named as members of the Com-
munist Party and members of a spy ring, I have here in my
hand a list of two hundred and five that were known to the
Secretary of State and who nevertheless are still working and
shaping the policy of the State Department.9
McCarthy's wild—and totally unsubstantiated—assertions

on this occasion drew upon and strengthened American fears of
domestic subversion, Communist "conspiracies," unorthodox
opinions, and "deviant" behavior in the era of the Cold War. Har-
old H. Velde, a former FBI agent, was a Republican congressman
who had campaigned on the slogan "Get the Reds out of Wash-
ington and Washington out of the Red." At the end of 1952, he
was the chairman-designate of the Committee on Un-American
Activities (HUAC), which quickly turned its attention to "sub-
version" in the Hollywood and New York entertainment worlds.
There were elements of farce (as well as of personal tragedy) in
the committee's investigations. During its hearings in Los
Angeles, it transpired that one "undercover" FBI agent was a
sixty-eight-year-old grandmother, while another agency source

reported that "Communists" were allegedly distressed by Ameri-
can radio soap operas because they did not portray the role of
women in the revolutionary struggle. Film producers, directors,
and actors were summoned before the committee, and some "in-
formed" on their friends and colleagues—who were subse-
quently blacklisted—with their careers and reputations ruined.10
In 1953, Shaw was asked to appear before HUAC. An item
in the Los Angeles Times reported: "House Communist hunters
disclosed today that much-married band leader Artie Shaw will
be the lead-off witness in New York on Monday at hearings on
Red activities in the metropolitan area/' In his testimony before
the Committee, Shaw—with tears welling in his eyes—
announced that he was not sure if he had ever been a Party
member, but had probably been "a dupe." He "confessed" that "I
was certainly a bad Communist. It was never my intention to be
one, and to the best of my knowledge I have never been one,
although these people may have assumed I was, as I could proba-
bly assume some of those people were." He also claimed that
he'd had refused to join the Communist Party after attending
four "cloak and dagger" meetings in 1946, because he favored
freedom of speech, and was now "relieved" to be able to clarify
what he termed three years of "haze and rumours" about his past.
An abject Shaw fervently promised that he would not again sign
anything of a possibly incriminating nature "unless I had the ad-
vice of seven lawyers and the granting of permission or clearance
by this Committee."11
In the course of his forty-five page testimony (during which
he admitted joining such "subversive" organizations as the Holly-
wood Independent Citizens Committee of the Arts, Science, and
1 50 * A R T I E SHAW
Professions, the American Peace Mobilization and several other

groups) and in one of several emotional outbursts before the
Committee—during which he used his hands to cover his eyes—
Shaw announced:
I would just like to say one thing. This is no prepared state-

ment, or anything. It may sound garbled, but I have, I think,
personally, a very large stake in this country, and I want to do
anything I can, as I always have, to defend American institu-
tions and American folkways. This country has been very kind
to me. I started out as a minority member of a poor family, and
I have come a long way for a guy like me; and I have found on
the road [that] I am met with a lot of love and a lot of affection,
and when I was serving in the service that same thing hap-
pened. I never had any intention of doing anything detrimental
or disloyal to the interests of this country.
Shaw's fervent testimony, denying his Communist links or

sympathies—won Chairman Velde's approval. At the end of the
proceedings, he shook Shaw's hand and congratulated him, and
before he was excused as a witness, the entire Committee
thanked an overwrought Shaw for his co-operation.12
A newspaper photograph taken at the time shows Shaw ap-
parently tearful and full of remorse after the hearings. One head-
line proclaimed: "Band Leader Artie Shaw Had Tears In His
Eyes," with the sub-text: "Told House probers he had been dupe
of Communists." Shaw—who frequently contrived to run with
the hare and the hounds—has always vehemently denied this
story, maintaining that the blinding lights of press photographers
in fact produced his apparent tears of remorse. An Associated
Press report carried the heading: "Artie Shaw Asserts He Never

Was Red, As Far As He Knows/'
Shaw has since declared (unconvincingly) that he had only
"total contempt" for the HUAC proceedings and was "shocked
by some of the questions"—including his alleged support for the
World Peace Congress. He asserts that "I tried to walk a narrow
line between not informing on anybody and not saying I plead
the Fifth Amendment." In 1962, he told New Yorker writer Rob-
ert Lewis Taylor: "I was in favour of a 'World Peace Congress'
[and] I put my name to any group identified with words I was
interested in, like democracy and peace, but I never got close to
Communism. Out of curiosity, I attended a couple of Commu-
nist meetings under the name of Witherspoon, but I asked so
many impertinent questions that they told me: 'Witherspoon,
you aren't Communist material.'" In the Introduction to the sec-
ond edition of The Trouble With Cinderella, Shaw is less than
candid (or accurate) about either his involvement with or the
consequences of his appearance before HUAC.
Anybody out there still remember the so-called McCarthy

Era"? Joe McCarthy, that is. Of course—good old Joe, the ster-
ling Super-American, the man who knew exactly what Un-
American meant because he knew exactly what America
meant and was by God going to see to it that America re-
mained American. It's almost impossible, now, to believe it all
really happened. Well, O. K. I lived through that particular lit-
tle firestorm. As an invited guest of the House Un-American
Activities Committee. The whole shot. And watched the grey
pall fall over my entire life as a direct result of having been
branded a 'controversial figure'—meaning, in simpler and
more direct terms, an Untouchable."
1 52 • A R T I E SHAW
Shaw's appearance and testimony before HUAC was not his

finest hour. Lewis Erenberg—who has studied the entire tran-
script—relates that Shaw informed the committee that after his
demobilization in 1945
[He] was angry at domestic reactionaries and black marketeers

and set out to fight for a Fair Employment Practices Commit-
tee and other leftist causes as part of his conception of Ameri-
can war ideals. He confessed to being "duped" and pledged
to "defend American institutions and American folkways" and
never to sign any petitions or protest letters again. He also
swallowed his anger at the anti-Semitism that had scarred his
personality and the racism that had marred his attempts to in-
tegrate. Instead, he expressed his gratitude for what the nation
had done for him, "a member of a minority." Humiliated by
having to repudiate his former beliefs, Shaw exiled himself to
Spain.13
In addition to his traumatic appearance (and questionable

performance) before the Velde committee, Shaw also faced a
$80,000 federal back-tax claim. To raise the required amount, he
had to sell his farm and go on tour with a hastily assembled band.
Almost certainly, he found the experience both demoralizing and
debilitating, but tried to disguise such feelings in a Metronome
article (September 1953).
Being a soloist has its limitations. I know that after having

played Begin the Beguine I don't know how many thousands of
times. IVe long passed the stage where I can find something
new to play. There just aren't that many combinations of notes
to fit the chords. But I find that if I don't think of the other
times that I've played it before, I get much more of a kick out
of it. Each version is a new one to me. I may play it in Dallas
in 1953 and that's the Dallas 1953 version. Then I may play it
in Hartford a month later and that becomes the Hartford 1953
version. I can really make believe and convince myself that
this is the first time that I'm playing this, and it shows both in
my playing and also in my attitude toward my audiences. I can
sense that they feel I'm pretty happy in what I'm doing [and]
believe me, I'm having much more of a ball playing with my
band even though we repeat an awful lot of numbers, than I've
had in years.
On his recently completed tour, audiences had demanded such

staples of the Shavian repertoire as Begin the Beguine, Back Bay
Shuffle, and Traffic Jam, and Shaw reflected:
It didn't surprise me; I'd expected it. Four years ago I started
off with a great band with a full book of modern things by
Johnny Mandel and Tad Dameron and Eddie Sauter and really
fine arrangers like that. But by the time we had finished the
tour in New York, I wanted to break up the band because
hardly anyone wanted to hear those great things we were play-
ing. They wanted the standards I mentioned and the popular
tunes of that era. This time, before we started out, I told the
hooker in Texas, where we played most of our dates, that I
wanted to bring down a good band, like the one I started out
with last time. I figured, or hoped, that things had improved
since then, because everyone seemed to be talking about
bands and good music coming back. He told me that if I did
he wouldn't guarantee me a successful trip, because what the
promoters wanted was my old recorded stuff, so I dug out the
1937 book and we did have a terribly successful trip.
A more tolerant Shaw, it appeared, now enjoyed—or was

prepared to accept—catering to the expectations of his audi-
ences, and with unconscious irony (given his earlier comments
on the "humiliating compromises'' which he had been forced to
make) lamented the fact that his sidemen had not been so adapt-
able.
The guys did what they had to do well enough. It was a job for
them and that was that. It's too bad, though, that they couldn't
have had as good a time as I did. I know I'm older and more
mature than they are, and maybe I've done a bit more reading
and studying, but I wish that at least some of them could have
adopted that attitude I've been talking about. I think they
would have felt much more satisfied both with their music and
with themselves. And it's quite possible that both they and the
audience would have heard better music, and have had a lot
more fun. I know I certainly did.14
In September 1953, Shaw went into the Embers Club in

New York City with a new Gramercy Five unit—actually a sex-
tet—with Shaw on clarinet, Joe Roland (vibraphone), Hank
Jones (piano), Tal Farlow (guitar), Tommy Potter (bass), and De-
nzil Best (drums). Metronome duly reported:
Artie is magnificently himself; rather immutable but hardly

dated. He uses an inverted megaphone into which he occa-
sionally blows to get an effect remarkably like a sub-tone clari-
net. Whether in old or new tunes, in or out of the megaphone,
he played with delicacy, purity and facility not at all dimmed
by the due process of years.
The other members of the group also received favorable mention.
Joe Roland is playing the best vibes of his career, crisp, deci-
sive and swinging, yet with a delicacy the style calls for. Hank
Jones's piano is similarly improved. Tal [Farlow] does thrilling
things with one or all the strings. Bassist Tommy Potter swings
as is his wont, and Denzil Best blows the kind of drums for
which he is famous. Within a framework of cute, sometimes
clever arrangements, the solos were of consistently high qual-
ity, making this one of the top musical groups in the country,
whose essence promises greater things with maturity.15
Time magazine reported Shaw's return to the "music busi-

ness" at the Embers and remarked that, on the first evening, he
"sounded like a musical Displaced] P[erson], playing as if he
could not decide between his own swing style and something
considerably more glittery and progressive/' But:
As the early crowd gave way to the late one, the little band
began to perk up. Vibraphonist Joe Roland bent over his in-
strument like a chef over a hot stove. Shaw began to interpo-
late light-hearted musical comments on his own flights—the
raised eyebrow of a grace note, the shrugging arpeggio, the de-
layed take, the impudent echo. His glum face relaxed into
smiles, and the crowd began to hear the new Artie Shaw. With
his balding head now shaved ascetically, he is far from the dis-
traught young hero who deserted his bandstand and disap-
peared into Mexico 14 years ago, and far, he says, from the
compulsive husband who married and divorced six times.16
Variety, the cheerfully vulgar and ungrammatical newspaper

of the show-business fraternity, reported that "this gig is strictly
for listening and he [Shaw] is dishing it out in socko style/' The

reconstituted Gramercy Five "is belting out the kind of rhythm
that hasn't been heard in these parts for some time/' Shaw's clari-
net playing, although "it might lack some of the free-wheeling
spirit of the '30s, now has a maturity that gives it an added listen-
ing appeal. [The] Fact that he holds tablers through sets running
to about 45 minutes is a tribute to his musicianship." It noted
further that "Shaw has his head shaved, several degrees below
crew cut, for this stand, but unlike Samson, he has lost none of
his power."17 Billboard also lavished praise on Shaw's perform-
ances at the Embers.
The spark of the new Gramercy Five is all Artie Shaw, tho [sic]
the boys do yeoman work with him. When he is playing clari-
net the group has a brightness and sparkle and it swings; when
he is not—you're hearing just another good jazz unit. Shaw
showed that he can still play a lot of clarinet, and he retains
the identifiable tone that helped put him on top of the heap
years ago. He isn't playing the same exciting type of clarinet
that he once did, but this could be due to the warm, cozy style
he is trying to achieve with the new group. There seems to be
little question that the new Artie Shaw Gramercy Five could
prove to be a strong attraction for class clubs where musical
entertainment is the big draw. The group is smooth, and the
tunes should please any crowd. It may not thrill the real gone
jazz cats looking for musical excitement, but it will draw many
others. The Shaw name should still be potent at the box of-
fice.18
The New Yorker reported that Shaw, "who in recent years has
only now and then picked up the clarinet that made him Benny
Goodman's closest rival in the mid-thirties." was "playing as well

as ever, with the same fine tone and the same easy invention."
More remarkably, perhaps, Shaw himself "appeared unruffled by
the noisy audience, in contrast to his celebrated touchiness of
past years." Yet the group's performances left something to be
desired. A rendition of Frenesi, with a Latin-American back-
ground, had bowled along merrily for the first chorus. "Then the
Six noodled around somewhat aimlessly for a few choruses in
straight jazz fashion, after which they rode the number out to its
finish, in much the same way they had begun." With seasoned
and mutually acquainted musicians, the New Yorkers critic con-
cluded, such "leeway" could result in magnificently improvised
performances. But Shaw had effortlessly eclipsed his sidemen,
playing "beautifully, and always with the composure of a true
artist."19
That Shaw was well aware of the radical changes which had
already taken place in jazz—and his own cautious responses to
them—was evident in an article in which he explained the partly
didactic/proselytizing purpose underlying his new small group.
Most listeners, he suggested (reflecting his experiences at the
Embers) did not possess "the musical background to compre-
hend the complex forms most of our better young musicians are
now playing." But, if they were provided with "a simple melodic
framework," audiences would appreciate—and respond to—the
more complex forms of jazz. Unfortunately, the dominance in
popular music of "honkers and wailing vocalists of both sexes"
had dulled the sensibilities of the postwar generation, and Shaw
doubted if he would "live to see a mass preference for good in-
strumental jazz over gimmicked vocal arrangements/' He had

made a related point in The Trouble With Cinderella.
[No] matter how much rehearsal a band gets, no matter how

skillfully and carefully the arrangements are tailored to the
abilities of the men playing them, there is still nothing that
can take the place of appearing night after night in front of
audiences. The very tension that results from being aware of
an audience is one of the biggest single factors in smoothing
out the rough edges and polishing the surface of a band.20
The Embers engagement was to be Shaw's final public ap-

pearance as a playing leader. Fortunately, this last—and most
underrated—Gramercy Five was captured on record (see chapter
7).
For the next five years, Shaw lived in Spain, where he de-
signed and found a contractor to build a magnificent house, set
in the hillside of the medieval village of Bagur on the Costa
Brava. He spent his time fishing, writing, and making occasional
visits to Rome and Paris. It was on one of his trips to Paris that
Shaw (now divorced from Kathleen Winsor) met and married (in
Gibraltar) the movie actress Evelyn Keyes—who had formerly
been the wife of film director John Huston. In Brigitte Berman's
documentary, Ms. Keyes speaks fondly of their life together in
Spain, of Shaw's "hobbies" of fishing and astronomy (both of
which he carried to the point of professionalism), his wide-rang-
ing reading and well-stocked library, and his compulsive tidi-
ness—which included an insistence on the fixing of toilet rolls to
unwind from the front and not the back. "Every time I change a
toilet roll/' she recalled, years after their divorce, "I think of Artie
Shaw/'
It was in Spain that Shaw returned to his second (if not his
first) love of writing, working on the three short stories which
would be published in 1955 as I Love You, I Hate You, Drop
Dead! Variations on a Theme. Surprisingly—given the excesses
and longeurs of The Trouble With Cinderella—Shaw's first ven-
ture into fiction was much better than might have been antici-
pated. The aptly titled "Grounds for Divorce" examines the
breakdown in communication between a magazine editor,
Buddy, and his dreadful wife, Marjorie, following her sabotage of
an unusual arrangement by which he had agreed to buy back a
prized watch, given to him by his father, and appropriated by a
mugger.21 The neat plot and deft handling of dialogue evoke
shades of John O'Hara, while in its suspicion of women, the story
may offer clues as to why the author himself was divorced so
often. "Old Friend" describes and delineates the break-up of a
marriage after a virulently anti-Semitic husband discovers that
his wife is Jewish, and the narrator's direct addressing of the
reader also recalls an O'Hara story, "Pal Joey." "Whodunit," the
third "Variation" (which unconsciously anticipates Anthony
Shaffer's Sleuth) charts the stormy and jealous relationship of a
TV producer and the sponsor of his show—the head of a cosmet-
ics company, who is also his wife.
Shaw's first work of fiction received considerable critical ac-
claim. Terry Southern (author of the classic novel of "soft" por-
nography, Candy) felt that the stories offered "a deeply probing
examination of the American marital scene," and judged the writ-
ing to be "swift, deft—but never superficial." Frederic Morton
160 • A R T I E S H A W
believed that Shaw's trilogy "reveals the hypocrisies, pretensions

and foibles of men and women. Mr. Shaw gets many of his most
highly charged and insightful effects in an apparently incidental,
conversational and therefore spontaneous manner." Robert
Lewis Taylor, already familiar with Shaw's checkered career, ob-
served:
The subject matter here discussed is love, marriage and di-

vorce, an area in which Artie Shaw is uniquely, and perhaps
painfully, expert. Students of these touchy human relation-
ships will seize on these stories with glee, prizing them as,
among other things, valuable precursors of the undoubted
Shavian works to come.
In many respects, these highly readable stories offer more

revealing insights into Shaw's perceptions of the relations be-
tween men and women than the self-serving platitudes offered
in The Trouble With Cinderella. For example: "when a fellow has
been married as often as I have, there's one distinct conclusion
that you must arrive at about him—he is seeking some sort of
solution to his basic loneliness, trying to solve this problem
within the established forms of the culture he happens to be liv-
ing in."22
In 1953, the Shaws moved back to the United States and
bought a large house in Lakeville, Connecticut. Here Shaw
opened a rifle range, manufactured guns, became an expert com-
petitive marksman, formed a film-producing company (its first
release was also its greatest hit—Seance on a Wet Afternoon, star-
ring Richard Attenborough and Kim Stanley), appeared on TV
and radio shows, and lectured on music at Yale. After separating
C I N D E R E L L A AND OTHER STORIES * 161
from Evelyn Keyes (they were later divorced, but remain on good
terms) Shaw moved to California in 1973, purchased a house on
Outpost Drive in the Hollywood Hills, and taught a seminar in
local colleges on the interaction of aesthetics and economics that
he called "Three Chords for Beauty, and One to Pay the Rent."
He also contributed to the sound track of the motion picture The
Man Who Fell to Earth—a science-fiction vehicle for rock star
David Bowie. In 1978, Shaw moved from Los Angeles to a com-
fortable house in Newbury Park, in the Conejo Valley, and since
then has continued to write, oversee the new Artie Shaw Orches-
tra, appear on local radio and TV stations, entertain like-minded
friends, and regard the rest of humanity with a cynical eye.
The Best of Intentions and Other Stories was published in
1989, although some pieces were written in the 1940s. Shaw's
second collection of fiction is, in many ways, superior to his first,
and two of the stories have obvious autobiographical content.
"Snow White in Harlem, 1930," retails the meeting between the
narrator, Al Snow, a young clarinet and saxophone player with a
Harlem stride pianist. Wandering around Harlem, "hoping to run
across a jam session someplace," Al hears the sound of a piano
coming from the basement of an old tenement building at the
corner of 134th Street and Lenox Avenue. He is immediately
transfixed.
This cat sounded like some kind of an unlikely combination of

Fats Waller and Earl Hines, with a touch of James P. Johnson,
Scott Joplin, and Jelly Roll Morton, plus a little Meade Lux
Lewis or even Albert Ammons or even Pine Top Smith thrown
in for good measure.
Al meets the pianist—"a burly looking coloured guy"—when

he emerges onto the sidewalk and discovers that the basement
is, in fact, the "Begonia Club" or "Bob's 'n' Sherry's." The pianist
introduces himself as "Eddie White"—better known the "The
Tiger"—and invites Al into the club where he is acutely con-
scious of being the only white person present. Invited by his new
acquaintance to sit in, Al chooses / Got Rhythm and despite his
nervousness turns in a creditable performance, after getting used
to "The Tiger's" eclectic style—"quite different from anything he
had ever heard before" with a "funny choppy-sounding, semi-rag-
time-y type of beat"—accompanied by snorts and grunts. Asked
by his new patron where he was from, Al tells him that he has
recently arrived from Chicago, where he had listened to Louis
Armstrong, Earl Hines, Jimmy Noone, Jack Teagarden and
Henry "Red" Allen. On reflection, Al decides not to tell "TheT-
iger" about his enthusiasm for "people like Debussy and Stravin-
sky and Bartok." The remainder of the story recounts AFs
meeting with a black transvestite singer called "Gloria Swanson"
who specialized in obscene and suggestive versions of songs like
Honeysuckle Rose, and "The Tiger's" assurance that "Bob"—who
had bought the club to listen to the kind of jazz that he liked—
was certain to invite Al back to play every night.
"A Nice Little Post-War Business" is a first-person narrative
of the experiences of a band leader aboard a US Navy ship in
the Pacific during World War II. It recounts a surreal and comic
conversation between the anonymous narrator and "Sammy"—
one of the members of his band—about possible occupations in
civilian life. These include breeding giant bullfrogs, opening a fly
farm, or raising silver foxes. "Sammy" as he is described in the
story is a thinly disguised Max Kaminsky.
Sammy was one of the guys in my outfit. Before the war he

had worked in my band for a year or so, and before that I had
known him around New York for a number of years. Sammy
had a reputation as one of the better jazz trumpet men around
town, and always managed to earn his coffee and doughnuts
and a few bourbons on the side by working in one or another
of those little jazz joints on 52nd Street or the Village, where
the Hot Club boys with the crew-cuts used to hang out and
discuss Jazz In The Context of Indigenous American Folk Cul-
ture. When I joined the Navy and began putting together a
service band to take overseas, Sammy joined up too, and we
arranged to have him transferred to my outfit. 23
In "The Fabulous Courtship of Joe Kubak," the eponymous

hero, a movie addict and "the owner of a combination delicates-
sen-lunchroom in Kenosha, Wisconsin" convinces himself that
he has married the film star Bette Davis. In this instance, Shaw's
appreciation of slang serves wonderfully to place Joe as both a
provincial and as a man who thinks he is up-to-the-minute:
"Hotsy-totsy"/"oakie-doakie." The story is clever in conception
and execution. One knows that this is a (very) tall tale, but goes
along with it to see where Shaw will go. It is also "post-modern-
ist" in its readiness to confuse the reader with shifting planes of
reality: Joe is fictional, but Bette Davis actually existed.
The remaining stories are less satisfying. "A Stolen Story" is
as convoluted as "Joe Kubak," but the narrator, a man who always
knows best and despises his friends, is a lot more unpleasant
than Shaw seems to realize. "Let George Do It" concerns two
friends, Joe and Steve, and their rifle-firing confrontations with
pheasants—and themselves—set in what appears to be rural up-
state New York. The title story is less satisfying than the original
version, Grounds for Divorce, contained in 7 Love You, I Hate You,

Drop Dead!, which had a strong post-World War II ambience,
whereas the update seems to take place in limbo.
Currently, Shaw is working on his magnum opus, a fictional-
ized account of the life of a jazz musician that will be titled The
Education of Albie Snow. As he informed a reporter in 1990:
It deals with the making of a musician, starting in that period

when dance music started becoming jazz, and when guys who
wanted to play jazz in a band had no place to go. White guys,
that is. You couldn't play with black bands in those days, or
black guys with white bands. That was the state of the world
then. So I'm writing something that, as far as I know, I'm
uniquely qualified to write. I was there.24
That Shaw (then in his seventy-fourth year) was also very

much here insofar as knowing what he wanted from his reformed
orchestra was very evident in his responses during a telephone
conversation with the late Rod Soar, jazz presenter for Pennine
Radio, which was published in 1984. Asked how the orchestra
(fronted by clarinetist Dick Johnson) was bedding down, Shaw
(echoing the theme of his splendid chapter in The Trouble With
Cinderella) responded:
It's very difficult to get a band of this size playing with the pre-
cision that it really requires in order to render the kind of
music that I am playing properly—you can't do it with re-
hearsal alone. You can use rehearsal to indicate and finally drill
the men to do precisely what you want, but it takes at least a
month to three months for it to shape down properly. People
have to learn how to breathe together and make their vibratos
match, blend, and mesh in such a way that the saxophone sec-
tion sounds like one man doing a five note chord.
Queried whether the new band would be playing the old arrange-
ments of Shaw favorites, the reply was interesting—and familiar.
I determined when I started this band [that] I wasn't going to

do it as a clone of myself. I didn't want the band to sound like
it did in the late thirties and early forties. I wanted to retain
the identity of the band and utilise the same sounds, arrange-
ments, orchestrations and so on of that band, and play the
tunes which are identified with my name and my orchestra.
But I didn't want them played the way they used to be. We are
playing with a contemporary sensibility, because the musi-
cians and the type of playing that contemporary musicians are
capable of is totally different from that of the '38-39, '40-42
period. So what we are doing is playing more or less the same
notes but the music is quite different, the whole approach is
different, as is the authority and bite and attack that these
men provide. I promised myself that I was going to get this
band to a point where it would sound as though I had played
right through from the time I broke it up to the present.
Asked if his re-formed orchestra (like its predecessors)

would be presenting "classical swing music/' Shaw—always con-
cerned with semantics—expressed his persistent unease with
the word swing.
Swing was a publicist's word, when they talk about "swing

music" that was jazz music, and there were big bands playing
it and small bands playing it, but jazz must swing and if it
doesn't swing it isn't jazz. That's why swing is, as far as I'm
concerned, a verb, not an adjective and not a noun.25
166 m A R T I E SHAW
Shaw's grammatical distinction goes to the heart of things,

and continues to inform the work of the Artie Shaw Orchestra—
even if his incomparable clarinet is absent. Recordings of the
1980s and 1990s demonstrate that under the careful guidance
of its founding father the band was recreating and recasting the
distinctive and joyous sounds of swing. They do not just play
swing (noun); the whole ensemble swings (verb), and does so in
a fashion that is as authentic as it is felicitous.
NOTES
1. The Trouble With Cinderella: With a New Introduction by the

Author, v.
2. Ibid. 393. That Shaw's autobiographical prose has hardly im-
proved over time can be gauged from his introduction to the 1978 edi-
tion of the book: "And so time slogged on. And wrought its many
wonders. Not the least of which was the miracle by which an earnest
young cat like me (of all people) apotheosized into a fully-fledged show-
biz celeb during a wacky decade or more now known as the Swing Era/'
xii.
3. Eddie Condon and Richard Gehman, eds. Eddie Condon's Trea-
sury of Jazz (New York: Dial Press, 1957), 330-39. Condon and Geh-
man also note that "A musician we know, upon hearing that Artie Shaw
had written a kind of autobiography called The Trouble With Cinderella
responded, 'Why doesn't he call it The Trouble With Artie?'" 330.
5. Ibid. 380.
7. Book Review Digest 1952, 806. Pace Gleason's remark, Shaw de-
serves credit for refusing to sensationalize his memoirs by including
prurient details of his 'Various marriages." More recently, Gene Lees
has generously commended The Trouble With Cinderella as "an unspar-
C I N D E R E L L A AND OTHER STORIES * 167
ing and self-searching essay on the life of one troubled man living in a
fame-crazed America/' and asserts (implausibly) that: "It is an ex-
tremely well-written and literate book [which] implicitly expressed a
peculiarly American belief that one can do more than one thing well."
Meet Me At Jim & Andy's, 77.
9. Richard H. Rovere, Senator Joe McCarthy (London: Methuen,
1960), 101-2.
10. Walter Goodman, The Committee: The Extraordinary Career of
the House Committee on Un-American Activities (New York: Farrar,
Straus and Giroux, 1968).
11. Victor S. Navasky, Naming Names (New York: The Viking Press,
1980), 73. Navasky terms Shaw an "uninformed informant/'
12. Michael David Whitlatch, The House Committee on Un-Ameri-
can Activities Entertainment Hearings and their Effects on Performing
Arts Careers. Ph.D. dissertation. (Ohio: Bowling Green State Univer-
sity, 1977), 184-5.
13. "Middle-Aged Man Without a Horn," 68. Swinging the Dream,
243.
15. "Artie Shaw," Metronome (December 1953), 19. Shaw's public-
ity agent, Virginia Wicks, released an upbeat statement regarding the
new Gramercy Five. Marking his "official return to music [Shaw] con-
siders it his most serious venture. He devoted the summer months of
'53 to writing for the group and spending three to six hours a day in
rehearsal." At its opening night on October 5, 1953 at the Embers
"thousands of people were turned away from the doors. Groups milled
about on the sidewalk to catch the strains of the Shaw music. A two-
week engagement became one of eight weeks, while additional book-
ings poured in from clubs and theatres throughout the country. The
kind of music played by the Gramercy 5? The great Shaw classics, of
course. And also jazz for tomorrow, for as ever, Shaw believes in forging
ahead!" Artie Shaw File. Institute of Jazz Studies, Rutgers University.
16. "Native's Return," Time, October 19, 1953.
17. "Artie Shaw & Gramercy 5, Embers, N. Y.," Variety, October 14,
1953.
18. "Shaw Unveils Commercial, Cooler Combo/' Billboard, October

17, 1953.
19. "Tables For Two: The Pied Piper," New Yorker, October 17,
1973.
20. Artie Shaw, "Dixie, Swing, Bop or What?" See Magazine, Sept.
1954. Shaw also noted perceptively that: "As one of the few musicians
trying to make a musical bridge between the generations, I understand
why audiences still cling emotionally to the music of the big swing
band. It flourished in the 1938-40 period, the peak of contact between
musicians and listeners/' Ibid. 308.
21. It was to appear in a revised form as the title story in Shaw's
second collection of fiction, The Best of Intentions and Other Stories
(1989).
22. / Love You, I Hate You, Drop Dead! Variations on a Theme by
Artie Shaw (New York: Fleet Publishing Corporation, 1965). Dust
jacket notices. George Plimpton commented more mischievously: "A
fine clutch of stories. Emerson once said that genius is a bad husband
and an ill provider. How unfortunate for Evelyn Shaw!" Ibid. 362.
23. This story also conveys the uncertainties of life aboard US Navy
ships in the Pacific during the war. "I can't say how things were in any
other war, but in the only one I was ever in it seemed as though you
were always aboard some ship bound for some place or other, but no-
body ever told you where. As usual the scuttlebutt was running wild all
over the ship. One day a rumour would get started that we were on our
way to New Caledonia, next day it would be the Aleutians, then one of
the messcooks would say he'd overheard the navigation officer telling
the gunnery officer about the climate on Espiritu Santo."
24. Tom Nolan, "Still Cranky After All These Years," Los Angeles,
May 1990. 114. Shaw also informed Nolan: "Fourteen hundred pages
so far. I just passed chapter 76. I'd say I'm about seven chapters from
the end." Ibid.
25. Rod Soar, "The Beguine Begins Again," Jazz Journal Interna-
tional, 37 (Dec. 1984).
General Artists Corporation publicity flyer, c. 1934
Concerto for Clarinet:
The Artistry of Shaw
Artie Shaw was probably the greatest natural clarinetist. He had

an impossible range. But he suffered from other things. He felt it
was beneath his dignity to sign autographs and play for dancers,
so he finally just took a walk.
Woody Herman
Artie Shaw was a hell of a clarinet player. My time was always

more legato than his, but his sound was more open. It carried a
lot farther.
Benny Goodman
I n 1985,Tsuyen Hirai, a student of the clarinet, sent tapes of

Shaw's Concerto for Clarinet (1940) and Besame Mucho
(1953) to the Japanese solo clarinetist of the Symphonisches
Berlin—who had never heard Shaw perform on record or in per-
son. The reply which Hirai received contained the statement:
"I've never heard a clarinetist with such enormous technique. If
he wanted to play contemporary music, he could play whatever
he wanted—perfectly!"1 Two years earlier, Yoel Levi, conductor
of the Cleveland Orchestra, decided to perform Shaw's Concerto
1 72 * A R T I E SHAW
for Clarinet and obtained a transcribed copy of his solo. When

Franklin Cohen, the orchestra's chief clarinetist saw the musical
score, he did not anticipate any problems. But when he heard a
tape of Shaw's actual performance, Cohen related, "I told Yoel
he was crazy/' and continued:
Shaw was unbelievable. He could improvise endlessly, on and

on. He was an amazing talent. Shaw's the greatest player I ever
heard. It's hard to play the way he plays. It's not an overblown
orchestral style. He makes so many incredible shadings.2
Jazz critic John McDonough is equally commendatory—and

even more specific—about Shaw's clarinet virtuosity. Although
he was prepared to "take melodic chances with daring phrases,"
Shaw was not, McDonough suggests, a musical revolutionary.
Rather, his genius resided in a tone "which gave substance and
often majesty to his ideas." Shaw's control of tone was most im-
pressive in the upper register, and "he was capable of pulling off
sudden leaps into the highest ranges that startled the ear and
pierced the senses." Shaw's break on Non-Stop Flight (1938)
provides a classic example of this enviable ability. In addition,
Shaw was a superlative blues player—the acid test for any jazz
instrumentalist or vocalist, and McDonough cites the two-part
performance of William Grant Still's The Blues (1937), where
Shaw's "intense vibrato in the highest register can make a listener
shiver." This comment would apply equally to Shaw's dazzling
solo on The Blues—based on St. Louis Blues by W. C. Handy,
which he performed with the Paul Whiteman Orchestra at Car-
negie Hall the following year (see chapter 7).
CONCERTO FOR CLARINET • 173
McDonough also offers a comparative perspective on Shaw's

extremely personal style, and suggests that like Sidney Bechet,
Shaw's "sound was so much his own that he did not spawn a
school of imitators/' Again, compared with Benny Goodman,
Shaw was an iconoclast who "played little clusters of notes in
which the tones were often smeared together, so as to create
scoops of sound," while his "swift flights, spanning all registers,
were often accented by sudden diminuendos and crescendos
that gave his legato a slurred effect." Precisely because his
phrases were "seamless," Shaw possessed the technique to cre-
ate long improvisational lines "stretching out across several bars."
Again, Non-Stop Flight (1938) exemplifies this remarkable skill.
Schuller offers a very similar assessment of Shaw's artistry,
suggesting that by 1939 he "had progressed from a proficient imi-
tator of Benny Goodman to a real master of the clarinet, virtually
incomparable in the beauty of his tone and unique in the flawless
control of the instrument's higher register. Primarily a lyric
player, Shaw excelled in his peak years in the long, flowing,
seamless soaring line." But Schuller adds pertinently that al-
though Shaw "eventually learned to play with considerable rhyth-
mic verve, swing [as a verb] was not \\isforte. Indeed, it was his
weakness in the early years, and an element of his playing which
was at best variable, dependent a great deal on the swing capabil-
ities of his rhythm sections."3
Among jazz critics, Whitney Balliett has come the closest to
evoking a musician's sound in words. Philip Larkin observed that
he "belongs to the reportage school of criticism, in which at least
half the writer's talent goes into making you hear or see the
cricket, the boxing, the jazz."4 Balliett's description of Artie

Shaw's artistry illustrates the truth of Larkin's tribute:
He had an innocent, delicate, impeccably tailored style. His

tone was not robust. In the low register, he was soft and con-
vincing, but he lacked the velvet spaces of Goodman and Ed-
mond Hall and Pee Wee Russell. His solos, whether
embellishments of the melody or full-tilt improvisations, were
faultlessly structured. He had a way of playing the melody that
invariably suggested that this is the way it should sound. And
he was right. If the melody had any excess weight, he elimi-
nated a note here, a note there. If it was on the skinny side
he added flourishes or moved down to the chalameau register,
which tends to make every note sound treasured. He im-
pressed his melodic approach so thoroughly on certain tunes
that when they surface anew one automatically hears Shaw's
rendition. Vide Moonglow and Stardust and Dancing in the
Dark. Shaw's improvising was canny and agile. He used a great
many notes, complex little runs that were almost asides, an on-
the-beat attack, almost no vibrato, and soaring ascensions into
the upper register. And he demonstrated considerable emo-
tion on an instrument that resists it.5
Jerome Richardson, a notable jazz clarinetist, flautist, and

saxophonist, has remarked:
I was a Benny Goodman fan until I heard Artie Shaw, and that
was it. He went places on the clarinet that no one had ever
been before. He would get up to Bs and C's and make not
notes but music, melodies. He must have worked out his own
fingering for the high notes, because they weren't in the books.
To draw a rough analogy, Artie Shaw was at that time [the
1930s and 40s] to clarinetists what Art Tatum was to pianists.
It was another view of clarinet playing. A lot of people loved
Benny Goodman because it was within the scope of what most

clarinet players could play and therefore could copy. But Artie
Shaw took the instrument further.6
Saxophonist and clarinetist Bob Wilber believes that Shaw's

playing had "a great lyric intensity. They say he worked out his
solos beforehand. Certainly they are more like compositions than
improvisations. He had a brilliant way of using sequential figures
against the rhythm. He was very clever/'7
Barney Bigard, the New Orleans clarinetist and long-serving
member of Duke Ellington's orchestra, was—perhaps surpris-
ingly, given their widely differing styles—also an ardent admirer
of Shaw.
What Shaw did to begin with was to make the clarinet sound
unusually beautiful in the upper register. He wasn't a low-reg-
ister guy, but he was more creative than Benny Goodman.
Benny did all the popular tunes and standards, but Artie made
up his own and played them so well. The guy could execute
like mad. Benny could also execute, and had much more drive
than Artie, but I like Artie for the things that were almost im-
possible to do on the clarinet.8
Shaw—as the sales of his records alone attest—had an enor-

mous popular appeal in the 1930s and 40s, but aspiring jazz mu-
sicians of a younger generation than Bigard's also found in his
playing much to engage their attention and admiration. Bop clar-
inetist Buddy DeFranco remembered that when he first heard
Benny Goodman, "I was enthralled. He had fire and facility." But
the young DeFranco had quickly switched his allegiance to
Shaw. "He was more linear in his musical thinking than the ar-
176 * A R T I E S H A W
peggiated Chicago players like Goodman. And he was more mod-

ern harmonically/'9 Altoist Paul Desmond, best-known for his
recordings with the sensationally popular Dave Brubeck Quartet
in the 1950s and 60s, recalled that as a high-school student in
San Francisco in the late 1930s, his first instrument was the clar-
inet: "I was a real clarinetnik, I could play entire Artie Shaw
choruses."10 Bop trumpeter Benny Harris, in the course of a
1961 interview that appeared in Metronome, remembered that:
"We listened to Artie Shaw instead of Benny Goodman. Good-
man swung, but Shaw was more modern/'11
Such estimates suggest that while Shaw might not have been
perhaps the greatest jazzman ever to play the clarinet, he was
certainly among the most gifted clarinetists ever to have played
jazz. Unlike the majority of jazz clarinetists who elect to ignore
the top register of the instrument, Shaw was perfectly at ease in
this rarefied atmosphere. And, as he explained to Henry Duck-
ham, a professional clarinetist and faculty member of the Ober-
lin Conservatory of Music in Ohio, this enviable ability grew
directly out of conditions prevailing in the 1930s.
My upper register developed from playing in front of a strong

brass section when microphones weren't very good and large
speakers didn't exist. I couldn't compete with trumpets playing
high Ds and E-flats so I had to play high Gs and As and Bs
and even Cs to get above them. In most clarinet literature
there's no reason for that. I decided [that] if I were going to
play up there it should sound like normal notes. I didn't see
any reason for the tone to thin out. I worked at it. In front of
my band you were playing in dance halls the size of Zeppelin
hangars. There was only one microphone in front of the whole
band.12
Along with Benny Goodman, Shaw was the virtuoso clarinet-

ist of the Swing Era, and (like Goodman) was equally at ease
with the demands of classical composers for the instrument.
Shaw did not—either with his several orchestras or Gramercy
Fives—produce a body of recorded work that compares with that
of either Duke Ellington or Count Basie, the two pre-eminent
African-American orchestra leaders whose seminal contributions
to jazz both antedated and survived beyond the years of classic
big-band swing. But Shaw has every claim to be considered as
a great innovator of American popular music, not least for his
fascination and (not always successful) experiments with string
sections, and the inclusion of a harpsichord in the first edition of
the Gramercy Five.13
Albert McCarthy correctly observes that Shaw—despite or per-
haps because of his constant changes of personnel—should be
considered as an exemplar of the best qualities of swing. His
great achievement
was to prove that it was possible to organize a swing band that

eschewed certain of the obvious conventions of the period, no-
tably in showmanship and repertoire, and to succeed with a
musical policy that was comparatively sophisticated. Shaw
might not have been able to achieve all that he wished, but he
did manage to produce a body of recordings in which musical
values are paramount. In so doing, he triumphed more thor-
oughly than perhaps he ever realized over the aspects of the
music business which he so disliked.14
But it was with his small-group recordings, even more than

in his orchestral ventures, that Shaw most clearly demonstrated
a visceral feeling for jazz and improvisation. Vladimir Simosko, a
serious student of Shaw's Gramercy Five sessions, believes that

they illustrate "a clear evolutionary tendency" in his playing from
1940 to 1954. The final Gramercy Five sessions, Simosko be-
lieves, "represent the culmination of his art as an instrumentalist
and, to a certain extent, as a composer, in their treatment of old
and new Shaw compositions." Simosko also makes the pertinent
observation that
It is instructive to compare these late Shaw items with the

work of other major clarinetists in small group performances
in the same period. Compared with the clarinet with rhythm
and vibes recordings by Goodman, Shaw sounds polished, in-
tellectual, and modern. Compared to the clarinet with rhythm
performances of Buddy DeFranco or Tony Scott, Shaw sounds
far more subtle and less boppish. The essential qualities of dis-
cipline and tightness in the performances Shaw produced be-
come very obvious in this way.15
Always the complete musician, Shaw—unlike many of his

contemporaries—sensed the limitations and restricted possibili-
ties of conventional swing. From initially appearing to oppose the
innovations of Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker, Shaw—with
more success than Benny Goodman, who had only a brief flirta-
tion with the idiom—came to welcome and then to incorporate
some of the complex musical vocabulary of bop into his last re-
corded work.
What is more difficult to gauge is the meaning which jazz
(and swing-derived-from-jazz) had for Shaw. Gunther Schuller
suggests that although jazz played an important part in Shaw's
life, "it was a tenuous relationship, which could be broken at will.
At times, jazz seemed for him only the vehicle by which he could
CONCERTO FOR C L A R I N E T • 179
dominate the music field and acquire the very fame which he
then so very disdainfully decried in public." But of all the enig-
mas posed by Shaw's checkered career, Schuller believes that
"the most profoundly perplexing one is how a true musician of
his remarkable talents could so unconditionally leave music."16
Shaw himself has frequently been asked this question. Typi-
cal of his responses is this statement to George T. Simon in
1971:
You see, music is such a horrendously all-consuming disci-

pline. To play it up to the standards I had, I knew finally that
I had to become such an overspecialized human being that
there was nothing left for anything else. I just didn't want to
become a half-assed human being in order to become a whole-
assed musician. So I gave up.
More recently Shaw told Fred Hall that
playing the way 1 demanded of myself required pretty much

full-time commitment. And there was no time for anything
else. I couldn't have any other kind of life. And finally I had a
choice: playing and having the respect of your colleagues and
making a lot of money and doing all of the things that go with
success in show business is 40 per cent of a good life. Living
is 60 per cent of a good life without music. So I'd have to opt
for 60 as opposed to 40. But there's still 40 missing here. And
I couldn't put the two together at the time. And by the time it
became possible to put it together, to go out and play a series
of 12 or 15 two-hour concerts and make enough for the year
to support yourself so you could go on doing it the following
year, I was, by that time, long gone from it. I'd gotten involved
in literature and writing, and that was what I decided to do."17
In the same conversation, Shaw offered some thoughts on

popular music in general and the Beatles in particular. Whereas
Cole Porter, Lorenz Hart, Richard Rodgers, and Oscar Hammer-
stein had written musical compositions and lyrical poetry, the
Beatles were responsible for We All Live in a Yellow Submarine—
"hardly a musical statement/'18
Asked for his opinion of the rhythmic element in the popular
music of the 1970s, Shaw conceded that much of it had "energy
and ferocity" yet quickly added a proviso and a historical dimen-
sion.
But then, take the energy and ferocity of what was going on in
the late thirties and early forties. That's hard to beat. It's hard
to top what a Basie does or an Ellington at his peak. It's hard
to top what I was doing at my peak, or what Benny was doing
at his peak, or Tommy [Dorsey] at his. Take Jimmie Lunceford,
that was a great band too.
Glenn Miller, Shaw pointedly observed, did not belong in

this select company, since "musically, his was essentially ground-
out music—ground-out like so many sausages." As for his own
role as a bandleader, Shaw reflected that "I think the music I
played was the best I could contrive to play, given what audi-
ences would accept, given the length of records you had to
make." Although his various orchestras had been playing in ball-
rooms, Shaw recalled that his concern had not been with danc-
ing: "Our music was for listening primarily. Within the so-called
dance format, we were playing concerts." In the halcyon years of
Swing, this had been regarded as an eccentric idea. But, within
a very few years "people finally got the idea that American jazz
was a music worth listening to, that you didn't have to get up and
dance."19
As mentioned, during his 1949 "Blindfold" test by critic Leo-
nard Feather, Shaw had announced his admiration for Louis
Armstrong. More recently, recalling his childhood in the 1920s,
Shaw was more specific about Armstrong's influence and stature.
"By the time you were old enough to appreciate Louis, you had
been hearing those who derived from him. He defined not only
how you play a trumpet solo but how you play a solo on any in-
strument." And he speculated that "had Louis Armstrong never
lived, I suppose there would be jazz, but it would be very dif-
ferent."20
Invited by Chip Deffaa to name his first "musical influ-
ences," Shaw responded:
I think probably [Frank] Trumbauer and Bix [Beiderbecke],

first. And then Louis. And then I went off to all the standard
brands. Jimmy Noone, a few guys like that. There weren't too
many people. I first heard Trumbauer and Bix on records.
Then when they came nearby, when I was living in New
Haven, I made a pilgrimage to Bridgeport one night. They
were playing, the [Gene] Goldkette band came there [to] the
Ritz ballroom, and I stood in front of that band open-mouthed.
Then later I went to Harlem. And when I met Willie "The
Lion" Smith, he was a big influence. Then I worked in radio
with some fine musicians who weren't jazz players but I
learned a lot about breathing and tone control and discipline
in playing.21
Other jazz performers who have received Shaw's stamp of

approval include the pianists Art Tatum and Hank Jones, tenor/
alto saxophonist/clarinetist Art Pepper, altoists Julian "Cannon-

ball" Adderley and Lee Konitz, and tenor saxophonist/clarinetist
Lester Young. In a 1984 interview with Loren Schoenberg, Shaw
spoke of his admiration for Young's tenor playing. Recalling his
friendship with Young in the 1930s, when they frequently
jammed together, Shaw remarked that "Lester had more of an
effect on me than any clarinetist" and extolled one particular as-
pect of Young's style:
Lester played very, very relaxedly; he wasn't pushing the beat.

If anything, he was lagging behind. This was not done at that
time. His ability to handle eighth notes without rushing them
was beautiful. Also, Lester played music first, jazz second.
When Lester played something, and I would follow him, we
were kind of meshing. It was a very interesting kind of juxtapo-
sition of two quite different sensibilities doing almost identi-
cally the same thing.22
In 1992, Shaw permitted the release of private recordings of

his 1954 Gramercy Five on CD (see chapter 7). Reviewing these
"Final Sessions," New York Times critic John S. Wilson found
much to commend. He also offered an informed perspective on
Shaw's post-World War II career—and the public's response:
Unlike his band-leading peers in the Swing Era—Tommy Dor-

sey, Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller—Mr. Shaw was stimu-
lated by the new jazz called be-bop that cropped up in the
1940s. He began incorporating bop musicians in his band
[and] his own clarinet playing became coloured with bop
ideas. His old fans, like most swing band fans, resented bop
and were not prepared to accept his new approaches. When
he felt that his 1954 Gramercy Five was so good that its work
CONCERTO FOR C L A R I N E T • 183
deserved to be preserved, but no record company was inter-

ested, he took the group, morning after morning, into a record-
ing studio at 5 a.m. after a night's work at the Embers and
recorded its entire "book."
The 1954 Gramercy Five sessions, Wilson suggested, prompted

the thought that Shaw had quit the music business prematurely,
just as "a new kind of combo jazz"—represented by The Modern
Jazz Quartet and baritone saxophonist Gerry Mulligan's cele-
brated quartets—was about to capture a wide audience. In ef-
fect, Shaw had been "a bridge between the Swing Era and these
1950s groups," and had he delayed his retirement, might have
discovered "many of his old friends who had not adjusted to his
new moves primarily because it was he who made them, waiting
for him in the jazz atmosphere that. . . Mulligan and the Modern
Jazz Quartet and others created in the mid-50's."23
The same critic hailed Shaw's return to fronting a big band
in 1983. At seventy-three years of age, Shaw was "trim, tanned
and vigorous, bald with a fringe of greying hair and a grey mous-
tache." Conducting a newly formed Artie Shaw Orchestra, with
the clarinet parts played by Dick Johnson, Shaw was quoted as
saying: "I feel like I'm coming down in a flaming chariot like an
icon. I haven't wanted to play for 30 years but now I'm really
turned on. This band is doing things after only two weeks that
my old band struggled with for six months. Ultimately, I hope to
get my band to sound as though it had continued from where I
left and had gone on into the 1980s." Performing a mixture of
updated arrangements of such 1940s hits as Traffic Jam and
Dancing in the Dark, Shaw was also introducing new material,
like Miles Davis's Milestones. But this was an Artie Shaw Or-
chestra in name only. Shaw called Dick Johnson "the best clari-
netist IVe ever heard," but added that "he's in an impossible
position. He's trying to be me, and he can't be himself/'24
An irascible and quixotic survivor of the Swing Era, Artie
Shaw was one of its most gifted performers, and led one of the
best white swing aggregations.25 He also remains swing's most
intriguing figure, at once its most gifted and miserable partici-
pant, most anguished critic, and unabashed latter-day celebrant.
If and when it is finally completed, The Education of Albie Snow
should provide a fuller understanding of the troubles and tri-
umphs of Arthur Arshawsky and his alter ego Artie Shaw. Until
then, newcomers to his music might well Begin (with) the Be-
guine, Summit Ridge Drive, Frenesi, and Stardust—or any of the
Shavian confections and delights discussed in the next chapter.
NOTES
1. "Homage to Artie Shaw/' The Clarinet 14 (Summer 1987), 32.

2. Gene Lees, Meet Me At Jim & Andy's, 60.
3. John McDonough, "Artie Shaw: Non-stop Flight from 1938,"
Dawn Beat, 37 (January 22, 1970), 13. The Swing Era, 693.
4. Richard Palmer and John White, eds., Larkin's Jazz: Essays and
Reviews 1940-1984 (London and New York: Continuum, 2001). 79.
5. New York Notes, 107.
6. Lees, Meet Me at Jim & Andy's, 60.
7. Whitney Balliett, American Musicians: 56 Portraits in Jazz (New
York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), 60.
8. Stanley Dance, The World of Duke Ellington (New York: Charles
Scribner's Sons, 1970). 88
9. Balliett, Barney, Bradley, and Max. 198.
10. Joe Goldberg, Jazz Masters of the Fifties (London: Collier-Mac -

millan, 1965), 156.
11. Albert J. McCarthy. Sleeve note to Artie Shaw. Concerto for
Clarinet (RCA Records, 1972).
12. Henry Duckham, "A Masterclass with Artie Shaw/' The Clari-
net, 12(1985), 13.
13. Jazz critics have generally deplored the magnetic attraction of
string sections to such major performers as Stan Getz, Billie Holiday,
Sarah Vaughan, Charlie Parker, Art Pepper, Clifford Brown, and Wyn-
ton Marsalis—yet they have all produced some of their finest work in
these surroundings.
14. Big Band Jazz, 265.
15. Vladimir Simosko, "Artie Shaw and his Gramercy Fives," Journal
of Jazz Studies, 1, No. 1 (October 1973), 51. In conversation with Si-
mosko (and before the release of all of these 'last recordings"), Shaw
commented: "They contain the best playing I ever did. We would go
down to my house after work and really stretch out. We did reinterpre-
tations of tunes like Begin the Beguine and Stardust, but in a more con-
temporary style, and originals that never got on record like Overdrive,
but they could never be released by commercial recording companies.
They aren't interested in little subtleties that make a better perform-
ance; they want something that will sell." 49.
16. The Swing Era, 714. Shaw himself, obviously stung by Schuller's
rhetorical question, has commented that: "Schuller couldn't figure out
why I quit. My God, I've said it enough times. He's telling me more
about himself, like 'if I'd had that kind of success I'd never have quit.'
That's what comes out between the lines." Notes to "Artie Shaw: The
Last Recordings: Rare & Unreleased." Musicmasters Jazz CD (Ocean:
New Jersey, 1992).
17. The Big Bands, 548. Dialogues in Swing, 142-3.
18. Ibid. 549-50. Philip Larkin takes an analogous view of the
Beatles' later offerings. Reviewing the record "A Collection of Beatles
Oldies" in 1967, he typified it as "more a short history of this musical
phenomenon from She Loves You to Eleanor Righy [that] would prove
admirable demonstration material for Marx's theory of artistic degener-
ation: WEA lecturers please note/' All What Jazz, 178. In an earlier
notice of the album With the Beatles, Larkin suggested that "their jazz
content is nil, but like certain sweets, they seem wonderful until you
are suddenly sick." Ibid. 102.
19. The Big Bands, 547. Shaw gave a similar answer to Chip Deffaa
when asked what bands he most admired. "I liked Ellington, when he
was good, when he was real good. But he never had much of an influ-
ence, musically, on bands . . . I'm talking about an overall influence.
Basic had an influence. I had an influence. Benny had an influence.
Even Tommy Dorsey had an influence at his best, because Tommy was
a fine musician and he insisted on perfection in that band. And they
gave him that. Very close to it. The only thing is, he got into singers.
When you get into singers, you're in the entertainment business."
Swing Legacy. 33.
20. Meet Me at Jim & Andy's, 70.
21. Swing Legacy, 21.
22. Loren Schoenberg. Liner notes to Musicmasters CD "Artie
Shaw and his Orchestra: 1949: Previously Unreleased Recordings'
(Ocean, New Jersey, 1990). After his discharge from the Navy, Shaw
sat in with the Count Basie orchestra when it was appearing at the
Plantation Ballroom in the Watts section of Los Angles. On these occa-
sions, Shaw traded clarinet breaks with Lester Young (soon to be
drafted into the US Army). After Young's induction, Shaw would play
Young's tenor parts on the clarinet. In a later conversation with
Schoenberg, Shaw remarked that he had not been influenced only by
horn players: "I think I learned as much from Earl Hines as I did from
Louis [Armstrong], and I learned as much from Art Tatum as I did from
any clarinet player." Liner notes to Artie Shaw: More Last Recordings:
The Final Sessions (Jazz Heritage CD 52344F: Ocean, New Jersey: Mu-
sical Heritage Society, Inc., 1993), 9.
23. John S. Wilson, "Artie Shaw Rarities Come to Light," New York
Times, (no date), 1984. Shaw File. Institute of Jazz Studies.
24. John S. Wilson, "Artie Shaw Returns at 73," New York Times,
December 19, 1983.
25. Whitney Balliett endorses this verdict, but also poses and an-
swers the question: "What, after all were the others like? Glenn Miller's
C O N C E R T O FOR C L A R I N E T « 187
band, with its bosomy reed voicings and high-heeled rhythm section,
had a feminine air, as did Harry James's band, which was dominated by
his divalike trumpet. Jimmy Dorsey's band was bland and buttery, while
his brother's veered back and forth between Walpurgisnacht and moon-
sville. . . . Jan Savitt and Glen Gray operated well-oiled pumps, and so
did Benny Goodman, except for that brief, green time in the summer
of 1941 when he had Cootie Williams and Mel Powell and Charlie
Christian and Sid Catlett." New York Notes, 106. (Curiously, Balliett
leaves Woody Herman out of his reckoning.)
'S Wonderful: Artie
Shaw on Record
I created a piece of Americana that is going to go on and on—
whether I'm here or not.
Artie Shaw
A number of celebrity "castaways" on the long-running BBC

L JLradio program "Desert Island Discs" have chosen record-
ings by Artie Shaw to lighten their solitude. These declared
Shavians included tennis player Tony Mottram (Frenesi), come-
dians Tony Hancock (Gloomy Sunday) and Eric Morecambe and
Ernie Wise (Begin the Beguine), arranger Nelson Riddle (Fren-
esi), singers Bing Crosby (Begin the Beguine) and Mel Torme
(The Carioca), and actor-director Mel Brooks (Begin the Be-
guine). Asked in 1979 on a California radio station to select his
own desert island discs, Shaw—after some hesitation—selected
The Maid With the Flaccid Hair, an Eddie Sauter composition,
adapting the title of Debussy's Maid With the Flaccid Air, re-
corded by Shaw in 1944, and the composer Paul Jordan's Suite
No. 8, a Shaw recording of 1942.
Artie Shaw is well represented in the current record cata-
logues, and reissues of his various orchestras and small groups
190 » A R T I E S H A W
are increasingly available on CD compilations. The following

items—forming only a small part of his oeuvre—are offered as
suggested (and rewarding) listening.
ANTHOLOGIES
Artie Shaw: Non-Stop Flight, (Jazz CD 016) in the Jazz

Greats series (Marshall Cavendish Partworks Limited, 1996) is
an excellently re-mastered collection of Shaw big-band and
small-group recordings from 1938 to 1941. Titles include Any
Old Time, Stardust, Begin the Beguine, Nightmare, Frenesi, and
Concerto for Clarinet. More readily available—and even more
enticing—is Artie Shaw: The Classic Tracks (KAZ CD 305),
a superb compilation of studio recordings (1937-1940) which
includes—in addition to many of the titles on Artie Shaw: Non-
Stop Flight—both The Blues March, Parts 1 & 2 (1937), and
The Blues, Parts 1 & 2 (1940).1 Artie Shaw: Stardust (Hall-
mark CD 306672) and "Gloomy Sunday": Artie Shaw and
His Orchestra 1938-1941 (Jazz Roots CD 56003) are inex-
pensive and also worth acquiring, as is A Jazz Hour With the
Artie Shaw Orchestra: Indian Love Call (JHR 73565), all
1938 recordings.
Pride of place goes to Self Portrait (Bluebird 09026-63808-
25CD), a five-CD set of ninety-five titles selected by Shaw him-
self. It is the most representative collection to date of his oeuvre,
with studio and live recordings from 1936 to 1954. The impres-
sive accompanying booklet includes Shaw's (alternately modest
'S W O N D E R F U L . A R T I E SHAW ON R E C O R D « 191
and boastful) comments on his selections in conversation with

Richard Sudhalter.
THE EARLY YEARS
The young Artie Shaw can be heard to good effect on four

Billie Holiday studio sessions recorded in July, 1936 (The
Quintessential Billie Holiday: Volume 2, Columbia CD, CK
40790), in the distinguished company of Bunny Berigan (trum-
pet), Joe Bushkin (piano), Dick McDonough (guitar), Pete Pe-
terson (bass), and Cozy Cole (drums). On Did I Remember? No
Regrets and Summertime, Shaw plays competent if unremarkable
accompaniments, but on Billies Blues he delivers a fine blues-
drenched solo—as does Berigan. Shaw was also present at the
session which produced the first (1936) Berigan version of I
Cant Get Started With You, contained on Bunny Berigan and
The Rhythm Makers: Volume 1, (Jass J-CD 627).
The famous Shaw string quartet and rhythm section per-
formance of Interlude in B Flat, given at the Imperial Theater in
New York City in 1936, can be found with some application (but
in poor sound quality) on Artie Shaw: A Legacy (Book-of-the-
Month Records: 1984). Richard Sudhalter suggests that this ver-
sion of Interlude was, in fact, a studio—rather than a "live"—
recording. Shaw himself is unsure: "I must have taken the group
into a studio, perhaps right afterwards, and recorded it. But 1
don't remember doing that."2
This eight-volume LP special edition set (yet to be issued
on CD) also includes Shaw's appearance with Paul Whiteman's
Orchestra at Carnegie Hall on Christmas Day, 1938, in a ravish-

ing and extended solo on The Blues. Shaw has commented on his
performance of The Blues:
This wasn't rehearsed. Paul Whiteman asked me if I'd appear

on his annual Christmas concert as a guest soloist. I said I
could appear, but I couldn't possibly find time to rehearse. I
said, "Give me Ferde Grofe or Bill Challis or one of your other
arrangers, and I'll dictate a framework and they can write it
out." I think the arranger he gave me was Irving Szathmary, a
Hungarian with a fair knowledge of jazz who had joined
Whiteman to write for that big orchestra of his. You'll notice a
point where I go up to a high G and go bop-bop-bop, four
beats to a bar, for a few bars. I did it because the orchestra,
not being an organized jazz band, was not too with it when it
came to hitting a beat. I decided it was time to settle them
down a little. You'll notice I'm almost behind the beat, slowing
them down, getting them to stop rushing.3
Richard Sudhalter comments that this "lengthy essay" on the

blues, played at various tempos, included "a long cantorial cen-
tral cadenza section, a paraphrase of St. Louis Blues and a clari-
net-and-tom-tom episode faintly reminiscent of [Benny]
Goodman's Sing Sing Sing party piece," culminating on "a preter-
naturally high C." But the most amazing aspect of this bravura
performance was the fact that Shaw sustains the listener's inter-
est for nearly eleven-and-a-half minutes. "There are scarcely four
bars anywhere in this performance when he is not playing. It is
all Shaw."4 Arguably Shaw's finest recorded solo, it needs to be
reissued in a digitally re-mastered version.
'S W O N D E R F U L : A R T I E SHAW ON R E C O R D • 193
The Book-of-the Month set also contains Shaw's perform-

ances of Mozart's Clarinet Quintet in A Major, K. 58 J , and Kr-
ein's Hebrew Sketches, No.2, op. J 3, with the WOR studio's string
quartet from a radio broadcast of 1947, and Berezowsky's Con-
certo for Clarinet and Orchestra in B-Flat, op.28, recorded at Car-
negie Hall in 1948 with Leon Barzin and the National Youth
Symphony.5
Studio recordings by Shaw's first orchestras are on Thou
Swell: Artie Shaw and His Orchestra (Living Era LP, AJA
5056, also available with additional tracks on CD). Titles include
Shoot the Likker To Me, John Boy, All Alone, Blue Skies, The
Chant, and Thou Swell. Apart from Shaw himself, trumpeter
John Best and drummer Cliff Leeman are the outstanding musi-
cians on these sessions (with various personnels) of 1936-1937.
An older LP compilation, Free For All (CBS Realm 52636),
produced by Frank Driggs, is worth looking for in specialist
shops. An anthology of Shaw's 1937 recordings for Brunswick, it
contains such essential items as All Alone, Night and Day, Night-
mare, Free for All, Non-Stop Flight, and The Blues: Parts 1 and
2. (Reviewing this record on its release in 1969, Philip Larkin
noted: "It's entertaining to note how drummer Cliff Leeman
bought a cymbal halfway through the year that sounded like a
metallic sneeze, and couldn't leave it alone").6
Artie Shaw and His Orchestra 1938 (Le Jazz CD 8108)
covers a seminal year in Shaw's career, with the release of Begin
the Beguine and Indian Love Call, and contains nineteen other
studio recordings.
Broadcasts by the Shaw orchestra of 1938-1939 have been
collected on three Hindsight CDs, King of the Clarinet
1938-39 (HBCD—502). Jerry Gray or Shaw himself arranged

most of the titles, and the personnel includes George Auld, Les
Robinson, and Tony Pastor (saxophones), Les Jenkins and
George Arus (trombones), Bernie Privin and Chuck Peterson
(trumpets), Bob Kitsis (piano), Sid Weiss (bass), and Buddy Rich
(drums). Vocals are by the mediocre Pastor and the excellent
Helen Forrest. These "airshots" also offer interesting and instruc-
tive comparisons with studio versions of the same titles. A single-
volume anthology of these broadcasts is contained on Artie
Shaw and His Orchestra: 22 Originals From 1938-1939
(Hindsight HCD 401), with a generous playing time of nearly
one and one-half hours. Buddy Rich can clearly be heard exhort-
ing the band in a storming performance of Carioca, and there are
spirited renditions of Shine on Harvest Moon, My Heart Stood
Still, What Is This Thing Called Love, and (improbably) The
Lambeth Walk. Listening to these selections, Shaw has com-
mented on their "spontaneity" and daring, in comparison with
studio sessions of the period when "there was no tape and you
knew you were going to have to be perfect. The tension got very
high [and] often you wouldn't take chances on doing things that
might go wrong/'
THE RCA YEARS
Shaw's most renowned—and arguably his finest—orchestral

and small-group recordings were those produced by the RCA
Company from 1938 to 1945. As Eric Thacker observes of th
big-band sessions: "The embracing vision is Shaw's own. He is a
'S W O N D E R F U L : A R T I E SHAW ON R E C O R D « 195
tutelary spirit combining Prospero and Ariel in one, and his writ-
ers must often have been expressing his concepts at least as
much as their own. As a player, his range of ideas is not wide,
but with a tone squeezed from the blues into affective sounds
and an intense, almost harrowing, attenuation in upper registers,
and with a facility of technique saved from glibness by the fine
excitement of his constantly soaring melodies, he gives the band
much of its distinction."7 These astute comments are borne out
on Begin the Beguine: Artie Shaw and His Orchestra (RCA
Bluebird ND 82432), which contains the title track plus Traffic
Jam, Back Bay Shuffle, What Is This Thing Called Love, Indian
Love Call (featuring a Shaw trademark—a duet between tom-
toms and clarinet), Deep Purple, Moon Ray, Carioca, and other
classics. The informative sleeve note is by Chris Albertson.
Blues in the Night: Artie Shaw and His Orchestra featur-
ing Ray Eldridge and "Hot Lips" Page (RCA Bluebird ND
82432) is a welcome compilation of 1941—1945 sessions spot-
lighting Shaw's two great African-American trumpet players.
Page is featured prominently on St. James Infirmary and Blues in
the Night, while Eldridge shines and dazzles on Little Jazz and
Lady Day. This CD also has performances of scores by Eddie
Sauter (Summertime and They Didn't Believe Me) and Paul Jor-
dan (Suite No. 8, Carnival, and Two in One Blues). Dan Morgen-
stern's accompanying essay is perceptive and instructive.
Artie Shaw: The Complete Gramercy Five Sessions
(RCA Bluebird ND 87637) features two editions of Shaw's fa-
mous small group, with Johnny Guarnieri's harpsichord or Dodo
Marmarosa's piano lending some "ancient" and "modern" bounce
to the respective proceedings. Both groups sound surprisingly
fresh and animated, with the instruments juxtaposed in an en-

gaging variety of combinations and shades of emphasis. Trumpet-
ers Roy Eldridge and Billy Butterfield make their own sterling
and idiosyncratic contributions. When the Quail Come Back to
San Quentin, Scuttlebutt, Mysterioso (two takes), and Smoke Gets
in Your Eyes are among the other titles. Needless to say, the lead-
er's clarinet is polished, immaculate, and exhilaratingly agile on
both sessions (1940 and 1945).
In the Blue Room/In The Cafe Rouge (RCA Victor 74321
18527—2) are CD versions (in very acceptable sound quality) of
1938/39 performances (with a short spoken introduction by
Shaw, recorded in the 1950s for the LP issue). On both dates,
the band plays its hit charts with great enthusiasm, and Shaw,
rising to the occasion(s), offers some biting and characteristically
lucid solos.
Artie Shaw and His Orchestra 1944-45 (Hep CD 70)
is a splendid three-volume set of recordings made in New York
City and Hollywood for the Victor and Musicraft labels. It in-
cludes such Shavian gems as 'S Wonderful, Summertime, The
Maid With the Flaccid Air, September Song, Bedford Drive, and
Grabtown Grapple. There are also exhilarating "Jubilee" radio
broadcast performances by Shaw with the Count Basie Orches-
tra (Lady Be Good and Artie's Blues), and a Gramercy Five Kraft
Music Hall appearance with Bing Crosby (/ Was Doing All Right
and You Took Advantage of Me).
LATER RECORDINGS
Artie Shaw and His Orchestra: 1949 (Musicmasters CD

CIJD6 0234 M and Cassette CIJD4 0234 T) are previously un-
'S W O N D E R F U L : A R T I E SHAW ON R E C O R D * 197
released recordings by Shaw's most "progressive" and adventur-

ous aggregation. The distinguished personnel include Al Cohn
and Zoot Sims (tenors), Herb Stewart (alto), Don Fagerquist
(trumpet), Fred Zito (trombone), and Irv Kluger (drums). Shaw
says of his clarinet playing on these sessions: "My whole sound
and approach to playing had changed. It got pure, and a little
more refined. Instead of a vibrato, I tried to get a ripple/' The
exceptional results can be heard on updated versions of Stardust
(where Fred Zito recreates Jack Jenney's original solo),
'S Wonderful and such originals as Krazy Kat (arranged by Johnny
Mandel), Fred's Delight, and So Easy (arranged by Tad Dameron
and Shaw).
The critically underrated (with one notable exception) 1954/
55 Gramercy Five studio sessions are now available in their en-
tirety as Artie Shaw: The Last Recordings (Musicmasters CD
65701-2) and More Last Recordings: The Final Sessions
(Music Masters and Jazz Heritage 52344F). Available earlier
only on abridged Verve and Book-of-the-Month Club compila-
tions, they are revelatory latter-day examples of Shaw's artistry,
inventiveness, and humor. Shaw has remarked that these "last
recordings" contain "the best playing I ever did." On all the
tracks, he sounds totally involved and supremely confident. As
he recalled: "I hadn't played for about a year and a half when I
made these records, but I had been listening a lot. When I put
this group together I wanted to work with modern players." The
(distinguished) "modern players" were Hank Jones (piano), Tal
Farlow or Joe Puma (guitar), Tommy Potter (bass), and Irv Kluger
(drums). Among other things, these recordings show—as Dan
Morgenstern notes—that Shaw had (finally) "retired at the
height of his powers." His playing on both of these (double) CD
198 » A R T I E SHAW
sets, delicately balanced between the poles of swing and bop, is

remarkably lithe. There are extended performances of familiar ti-
tles in the Shavian lexicon—When the Quail Come Back to San
Quentin, Begin the Eeguine, Stardust, Frenesi, Grabtown Grap-
ple—together with less well-known Shaw originals—Stop and Go
Mambo, Lugubrious, and The Chaser, together with standards
like Imagination, How High the Moon, and Tenderly. Every track
contains its own delights and revelations, and it would be invidi-
ous to single out a particular performance. Suffice it to say that
in the company of sympathetic and accomplished sidemen, these
"last recordings" are essential items in the Shaw discography.
Like the best of small-group swing/jazz, they offer inventiveness,
intelligence, involvement, rhythm, and (not least) rapture. Ironi-
cally, they also suggest that Shaw was perhaps at the height of
his powers as an improviser on the eve of his (final) retirement.
In an appreciative and incisive review of these sessions, critic
Gary Giddins asserted that "they are among the finest perform-
ances by one of the eminent clarinetists of the [twentieth] cen-
tury" and are to be considered as "among the most enchanting
small band recordings in jazz history, virtually unrivaled in defin-
ing the nexus between swing and bop."
The music is romantic, daring, and exquisitely played—it

doesn't sound like that of any other small band of the era. No-
where does one sense the slightest tension between players or
styles. [Hank] Jones has never sounded more liltingly atten-
tive; [Tal] Farlow is fleet and witting; [Joe] Roland is percus-
sive ly sure; and [Tommy] Potter is an oak.
But it is Shaw who receives the greatest praise for what were
perhaps his greatest performances on the clarinet.
'S W O N D E R F U L : ARTIE SHAW ON R E C O R D • 199
The first thing that grabs you is his sound, which is almost
ethereal; the next thing is his breath control. His phrases
aren't merely long, but cannily long—always pressing for one
more detail, one more turn, rarely content to fold into the
eight-bar phrases of the songs themselves. For the first time
in Shaw's career, at the very moment it ended, we hear him
disporting himself in expansive play. Even his quotations have
an air of inspiration.8
NOTES
1. Balliett observes of this five-and-a-half minute performance that

"Shaw excepted [it] is a funny and rather touching instance of white
boys trying to play those low-down Negro blues." New York Notes, 108.
2. Lost Chords, 820, Note 15.
3. Booklet with Artie Shaw. A Legacy, (Camp Hill, Pennsylvania:
Book-of-the-Month Club, Inc., 1984), 14.
4. Lost Chords, 587.
5. On Mozart's Clarinet Quintet Shaw employs vibrato. Asked by
other clarinet players why he had adopted this unconventional ap-
proach to the piece, he retorted: "Why shouldn't the clarinet use vi-
brato? Why should it come out sounding like a miniature foghorn
playing with the strings?" and adds pertinently: "Vibrato is simply a way
of embellishing tone. You can play the instrument dead or with some
embellishment." Shaw recalled of this performance of Berezowsky's
composition: "The first movement baffled the audience totally. But by
the second movement they apparently began to understand that there
was also humor in the piece, and at the end of that movement they
finally unbent enough to laugh. The last movement is one of the tough-
est things I have ever played on the clarinet. There's one segment of
ten or eleven seconds that I spent almost three months practicing."
Artie Shaw: A Legacy, 13.
6. All What jazz, 227.
200 m A R T I E SHAW
7. Max Harrison, Charles Fox and Eric Thacker, The Essential Jazz
Records: Volume I, Ragtime to Swing (London: Mansell Publishing,
1984), 331.
8. Giddins, Visions of Jazz, '"Artie Shaw (Cinderella's Last Stand),"
204, 208-09.
Shaw, London, 1949
CODA
The Best of Intentions
Go away
Artie Shaw: Revised Epitaph for Who's Who In America
All Artie ever wanted was for you to tell him how good he was,
or more, how much better he was than Benny.
Johnny Guarnieri
I n 1992, the American clarinetist and saxophonist Bob Wil-

ber—now living in England—persuaded Shaw (a few days
after his eighty-second birthday) to conduct a concert at the
Royal Festival Hall, performed by the Wren Orchestra and a
small jazz combo. The program included Shaw's own composi-
tion Concerto for Clarinet, recreations of his Gramercy Five re-
cordings, and Prokofiev's Classical Symphony. An admirer of
Shaw's Concerto for Clarinet, Wilber observed in a newspaper
interview that "it has a cadenza that starts climbing from concert
double-F and slides through every note up to high B-flat which
is quite stratospheric for the clarinet." He also singled out the
1940 version of Stardust as a superb example of musical construc-
tion: "You could put that solo on paper and it would attract any-
one who had never heard him play it."1
204 • CODA
Shaw's conducting appearance in London saw a flurry of

newspaper articles and interviews that offered some pertinent
facts about and comments on his life and times. Guardian read-
ers were informed that Artie Shaw "has been described by those
who admire him as a stickler for discipline, outspoken, hot-
headed and cantankerous." Those who might never have heard
of (let alone heard) Shaw were told that he was "the New-York
born musician [who] had rocketed to fame during the swing era
as a bandleader idol of bobbysoxers and jitterbugs."2
Stephen Pile, journalist for the Sunday Telegraph, had visited
Shaw at his Newbury Park home in California, shortly before his
departure for the London concert. "A lot of people," Pile reported
"think [that] Artie Shaw has been dead for years. In fact, this jazz
legend, clarinetist and bandleader of the Forties simply stepped
out of the limelight in 1954."
During a four-hour interview, Pile asked the "jazz legend"
about his many marriages, and received a gnomic (or self-justify-
ing) reply.
None of them were real marriages. They were legalised affairs.

In those days you couldn't get a lease on an apartment if you
were living in sin. People ask me why I married Ava Gardner.
Did you ever see Ava Gardner? When a ravishing woman
comes up and says she has always adored my work, what do
you expect me to do? I had no choice but to marry her.
Shaw also offered another (not entirely convincing) explana-

tion of his decision to leave the music business in 1939. "My
own musical development and public taste coincided for a brief
THE BEST OF I N T E N T I O N S • 205
period at the end of the Thirties. After that, public taste stayed
the same and I went on developing. But they wouldn't let me do
it. They paid me millions to go on playing the same tunes/'
Concerning his celebrated search for musical perfection,
Shaw claimed: "I only hit what I wanted on a clarinet once in 30
years. It was a cadenza at the end of the old Decca recording of
These Foolish Things. The band came to a stop and I improvised
something that takes people six months to learn. It sounds like a
composed piece." Asked by another interviewer to select his fa-
vorite solo, Shaw replied: "There are about 11 bars that I played
that are about perfect, or about as close to perfection as you can
get. They are the 11 bars or the cadenza at the end of These Fool-
ish Things—that isn't even in print any more. It's remarkable
clarinet, you can't do better. If anybody did it as well, it wouldn't
be better because [they would be] copying me."3
Artie Shaw, as his most severe (and occasionally spiteful)
critic Gunther Schuller concludes, was "compelled with an all-
consuming passion to prove that he could play the clarinet better
than anyone else." A lifelong and often frantic searcher for a mu-
sical identity, Shaw despite his protestations to the contrary, was
"at heart a populist" who "could rarely resist the temptations to
commercialize his talents, thereby undermining the best that was
in him as a creative musician." Yet he "was able in his finest ac-
complishments to sweep us along in his searchings and discover-
ies and at one point (1939) represent the best the Swing Era had
to offer."4 As Shaw himself not immodestly informed journalist
Joe Smith: "I was the biggest thing there was. I was doing fine,
but I didn't like the life. There were six of us who made that
206 • CODA
era—Dorsey, Goodman, me, Miller, Lunceford, and Basie. All

of them are dead, and here I am. I must have done something
right/'5
Shaw's longevity is to be welcomed, but his cavalier omis-
sions of Duke Ellington, Fletcher Henderson, and drummer-
leader Chick Webb from the roster of stellar contributors to the
Swing Era are both curious and perverse. Ellington's 1942 or-
chestra not only assimilated everything Swing had meant, it also
enriched and extended the genre. As one of Ellington's biogra-
phers asserts: "The Duke Ellington orchestra predated the swing
craze by a decade, helped in fact to foster it, popularized its catch
phrase [It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing], and
provided its highest benchmarks of originality."6
In a 1992 interview, Shaw recalled that Ellington had once
told him that "he was tired of the problems of leading a band,
and that he [had] kept it going because it was the only way to
hear his compositions."7 As has been seen, Shaw was never
wholly dedicated to a life in music. Consequently, his achieve-
ments as a bandleader are neither as consistent or as impressive
as those of Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Benny Goodman, or
Woody Herman.
Yet Shaw also achieved greatness in his clarinet playing. Not
least—and unusually for a white musician—he had real empathy
with the blues, the taproot of jazz. Asked in a recent radio profile
to account for this feeling and facility, Shaw remarked: "My
background was Russian Jewish. I think blues has a great deal
of affinity with the Jewish experience—as it did with the black
experience. A minority group is very hip to what the blues are
about."
THE BEST OF I N T E N T I O N S • 207
Given his introspective nature, volatile temperament, and

eclectic interests, Shaw's "non-stop flight" in the perilous worlds
of American jazz, swing, and popular music was always a hazard-
ous as well as a romantic adventure—not unlike that of the epon-
ymous heroine of Cinderella. But unlike that decidedly feminine,
yet unfeminist, creature who achieved success by marrying her
prince and living happily ever after, the more perceptive Shaw
found that "$ucce$$"—at least in an unashamedly capitalist so-
ciety—brought its own penalties. In his liner-note comments on
the performances contained in the five-CD set "Artie Shaw-Self
Portrait" (see chapter 7), Shaw reflects: "The big problem for
some people—and unfortunately I'm one of them—is that you
eventually reach a point where you're never satisfied with what
you're doing. You finally get to where good enough ain't good
enough. It's as if someone had laid a curse on you. I was never
satisfied." Surveying his checkered career(s), self-justifying ratio-
nales, and current iconic status, one is drawn to Richard Sud-
halter's verdict that despite "the best of intentions" the troubled
Shaw himself was (and remains) "his own trouble with Cinder-
ella."8
NOTES
1. Ronald Atkins, "Hot Head Comes Back on a High Note," The

Guardian, June 11, 1992.
2. Ibid.
3. Sheila Tracy, Bands, Booze And Broads (Edinburgh and London:
Mainstream Publishing, 1995), 237-8. See also: Henry Duckham,
'Artie Shaw's Cadenza from These Foolish Things/' The Clarinet, (Sum-
mer, 1987), 33.
208 • CODA

5. Off the Record, 22.
6. John Edward Hasse, Beyond Category: The Life and Genius of
Duke Ellington (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1993), 202. Hasse
emphasises this point: "Ellington's music exceeded the conventions, ac-
complishments, and boundaries of swing/' 203, Scott Yanow observes
that Count Basic and Duke Ellington "were satisfied to lead just one
orchestra during the swing era, and Benny Goodman (due to illness)
had two/' Artie Shaw led jive, although "all of them were distinctive and
memorable." Michael Erlewine et al., eds. All Music Guide to Jazz (San
Francisco: Miller Freeman Books, 1996), 652.
7. Hasse, Beyond Category, 357.
8. Lost Chords, 619.
Swing Survivor
SELECT
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214 * SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY
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SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY « 215
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Artie Shaw, 1053
INDEX
Aaronson, Irving, 49 Berman, Brigitte, 11, 53, 158

Addams, Jane, 43-44 Berrigan, Bunny, 26, 32, 49
Adderley, Julian, 182 Best, Denzil, 154
Alexander, Willard, 11 Best, John, 57,81
Allen, Frederick Lewis, 32-33 Bigard, Barney, 175
Avola, Al, 57 Blandford, Edmund L., 11
Any Old Time, 66 Blue Skies, 17
Armstrong, Louis, 18, 48-49, 181 Bohlander, Carlo, 17
Arus, George, 57, 81 Bop City, 129-30
Astaire, Fred, 101 Bowie, David, 161
Auld, George, 80, 85 Brooks, Mel, 189
Burness, Les, 57
Bach Goes to Town, 24 Burns, Ralph, 131
Back Bay Shuffle, 9 Butterfield, Billy, 95, 98, 99-100
Ball of Fire, 26 Byrne, Pauline, 95
Balliett, Whitney, 78, 97-98,
122, 173-4, 186-7n.25 Callanan, John P., 98-99
Barnet, Charlie, 20, 27, 28 Cantor, Chuck, 48
Barron, Blue, 135 Cavallaro, Johnny, 46
Barzin, Leon, 129 Christian, Charlie, 108-09n.l7
Basic, Count, 10, 20, 29, 196 Cohen, Franklin, 172
Bechet, Sidney, 51 Cole, Nat, 10
Begin the Beguine, 67—8, 75—6, Collier, James Lincoln, 9
85, 118, 189 Committee on Un-American Ac-
Beiderbecke, Bix, 47 tivities (HUAC), 148-51
Bennett, Arnold, 41 Concerto for Clarinet, 102-3, 203
220 • INDEX
Conniff, Ray, 103, 123 Frenesi, 94, 139

Crosby, Bing, 189 Fromm, Lou, 123
Crosby, Bob, 18,23
Cugat, Xavier, 94 Gabbard, Krin, 25, 37n.l7
Gardner, Ava, 10, 123-4
Dameron, Tadd, 134 Garland, Judy, 10,87, lln.31
Dance, Stanley, 30 General Artists Corporation
Dancing Co-Ed, 87 (GAG), 23, 124-6
Davis, Bette, 163 Giddins, Gary, 13, 198-9
Deffaa, Chip, 181 Gillespie, Dizzy, 131, 132
DeFranco, Buddy, 96, 175-6 Gleason, Ralph J., 146
DeNaut, Jud, 98 Gloomy Sunday, 95
Desmond, Paul, 176 Goddard, Paulette, 101
DeVeaux, Scott, 23, 30, 38-9n.27 Goldkette, Gene, 47
Donahue, Sam, 26, 121 Goodman, Benny, 9, 17-18, 20,
Dorsey, Jimmy, 19 43,49, 89, 116, 171
Dorsey, Tommy, 10, 23—4 Gozzo, Conrad, 117
Dowling, Doris, 10 Grable, Betty, 10
Duckham, Henry, 176 Granz, Norman, 10
Gray, Jerry, 55, 76
Eldridge, Roy, 10, 123, 126-7 Guarnieri, Johnny, 95, 98,
Ellington, Duke, 70,n.l8, 93, 206 112n.46, 203
Elman, Ziggy, 26, 99
Erenberg, Lewis A., 28, 35n.8, Hackett, Bobby, 101
45, 136n.l, 152 Hall, Fred, 11, 179-80
Hammond, John, 30, 61
Farlow, Tal, 154 Hampton, Lionel, 29, 98
Fatool, Nick, 95, 98 Hancock, Tony, 189
Feather, Leonard, 18-19, 34n.2, Harding, Buster, 21, 123
54, 73n.46, 92, 129, 130-1, Harris, Benny, 176
147 Hasse, John Edward, 208n.6
Firestone, Ross, 9, 31, 38n.26 Hawkins, Coleman, 10
Fitzgerald, Ella, 27 Hayton, Lennie, 95
Forrest, Helen, 27 Heifetz, Jascha, 76
Frazier, George, 104—5 Helbockjoe, 18, 53
INDEX « 221
Henderson, Fletcher, 17, 29, 206 Krupa, Gene, 19, 22, 26

Hendrickson, Al, 98
Hentoff, Nat, 20 Lady Day, 122
Herman, Woody, 20, 116, 131, Lardner, Rex, 146
171 Larkin, Philip, 107n.3, 108-
Hines, Earl, 20, 29, 50 9n.l7, 109n.23, 133, 139n.33,
Hirai, Tsuyen, 171 185-6n.l8
Holiday, Billie, 10, 27, 59-64, Las Vegas Nights, 26
72n.45 Lee, Peggy, 27
Home, Lena, 10, 27, 103 Leeman, Cliff, 57, 68
Lees, Gene, 116-7n.7
Indian Love Call, 66 Leonard, Neil, 25
Interlude in B Flat, 19, 54, 191 Levi, Yoel, 171-2
Levin, Mike, 130
James, Harry, 19, 78
Levine, Lawrence W., 36n.l4
Jenney, Jack, 95
Lipman, Joe, 55
Johnson, Dick, 11, 164, 184
Lunceford, Jimmie, 29
Johnson, James Weldon, 29-30
Lynn, Imogene, 122
Jones, Hank, 154, 181
Jordan, Paul, 105, 189
McCarthy, Albert, 102, 177
Kael, Pauline, 101 McCarthy, Joseph, 148
Kahn, Roger Wolfe, 53 McDonough, John, 172-3
Kaminsky, Max, 52, 58-9, Mandel, Johnny, 21
113n.55, 115, 118, 119-20 Marmarosa, Dodo, 123, 134
Kern, Elizabeth, 10, 107, 121 Manone, Wingy, 31
Kern, Jerome, 57, 107 Meredith, Burgess, 101
Kernfeld, Barry, 66-7 Mezzrow, Mezz, 52
Kessel, Barney, 123 Miller, Glenn, 19,20, 180
Keyes, Evelyn, 10, 158-9 Miller, Paul Eduard, 25
King Porter Stomp, 17 Mok, Michael, 88
Klein, Manny, 52,94, 141 Morecambe, Eric, 189
Konitz, Lee, 182 Morton, Frederic, 159-60
Kraft, James P., 35n.6 Mottram, Tony, 189
Kramer, Maria, 63 Mulligan, Gerry, 134-183
Krein, Alexander, 128 Mundy, Jimmy, 122
222 • INDEX
Music Corporation of America, Sauter, Eddie, 123, 189

23 Sawyer, Roland, 145—6
Schafer, Anthony, 159
Nichols, Red, 52 Schoenberg, Loren, 186n.22
Nightmare, 20, 58, 77 Schuller, Gunther, 28, 31, 76-7,
Non-Stop Flight, 58, 77, 172, 173 83, 94, 96, 102-3, 105-6,
108n.l2, 129, 138n.27, 145,
O'Hara, John, 159 173
O'Keefe, Francis, 23 Schulman, Alan, 129
Second Chorus, 100—02
Page, Oran Hot Lips, 10, 103-4 Shaw, Artie, and Communism,
Palomar Ballroom, 17, 21 148-52; early bands, 18-19;
Pastor, Tony, 46-7, 57, 81 early years, 44—55; and Roy El-
Pepper, Art, 75, 182 dridge, 126-27; estimates of,
Peretti, Burton W., 52 10-11, 171-79, 205, 207; first
Pessen, Edward, 29 "retirement," 87-93; Gramercy
Peterson, Owen, 76 Fives, 97-100, 123-24, 147,
Pile, Stephen, 204-5 154-57, 178; and Benny
Pollack, Ben, 49 Goodman, 34, 49, 72n.45, 78,
83, 138n.27, 173-76, 178; and
Porter, Cole, 57
Billie Holiday, 58-64, 66; /
Potter, Tommy, 154
Love You, I Hate You Drop
Prima, Louis, 31
Dead, 159-60; The Best of In-
Privin, Bernie, 80
tentions and Other Stories,
161-64; and Buddy Rich,
Raney, Jimmy, 134
78-80; The Education of Alhie
Rayman, Morris, 123
Snow, 164, 184; The Trouble
Redman, Don, 19,20 With Cinderella, 142-46; re-
Riddle, Nelson, 189 cordings, 189-200; web site,
Rich, Buddy, 10, 78-80, 90 12; and World War II, 106-7,
Richardson, Jerome, 174 116-21, 168n.23
Riis, Jacob, 42 Shih, Hsio Wen, 32
Robinson, Les, 57 Shipton, Alyn, 13-14, 98, 111-
Rockwell, Tommy, 55 112n.43, 112n.47
Roland, Joe, 154 Simon, George T., 21-22, 35n.7,
Roosevelt, Franklin D., 27, 106, 55, 71n.28, 81,89, 91-2, 105,
118 135, 139n.36
INDEX • 223
Simon, S. Sylvan, 87 Torme, Mel, 80-81, 110n.29,

Simosko, Vladimir, 177-8 128,189
Sinatra, Frank, 27 Tough, Dave, 104, 117
Singleton, Zutty, 10 Trumbauer, Frank, 47
Smith, Willie "The Lion," 51 Turner, Lana, 11, 87, 88
Soar, Rod, 164
Sometimes I'm Happy, 17 Ulanov, Barry, 17-18, 34n.l, 122,
Southern, Terry, 159 134
Specht, Paul, 52
Stardust, 95-6, 203 Velde, Harold H., 148, 150
Still, William Grant, 94, 95
Steward, Herbie, 134
Waller, Fats, 116
Stowe, David W., 22, 28, 115
Watson, Leo, 58
Stravinsky, Igor, 50
Webb, Chick, 26, 29, 51,206
Strayhorn, Billy, 21, 77
Wiedoeft, Rudy, 45, 80
Sudhalter, Richard, 110-lln.31,
Wilber, Bob, 175,203
192, 207
Wilder, Alec, 68
Sugrue, Thomas, 146
Williams, Cootie, 123
Tatum, Art, 181 Williams, Martin, 39n.29
Taylor, Robert Lewis, 151, 160 Wilson, John S., 182-3
Teagarden, Jack, 22, 26 Winchell, Walter, 63
Templeton, Alec, 24, 26 Winsor, Kathleen, 10, 158
Teschemacher, Frank, 49, 50 Wise, Ernie, 189
Thacker, Eric, 194-5 Wylie, Austin, 48
These Foolish Things, 205
Thornhill, Claude, 20, 48 Yanow, Scott, 208n.6
Tilton, Martha, 27 Young, Lester, 182

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ARTICiUAUl

Also available from Continuum:

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Copyright © 1998, 2004 by John White

Originally published in Great Britain in 1998 by The University of Hull Press.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

White, John, 1939 Feb. 5-

2 « Interlude in B Flat: The Search for Identity 41

3 • Beginning the Beguine: $ucce$$ and Remorse 75

4 • War and Peace 115

5 • Cinderella and Other Stories 141

6 • Concerto for Clarinet: The Artistry of Shaw 171

7 • 'S Wonderful: Artie Shaw on Record 189

Coda The Best of Intentions 203

Select Bibliography 211

I suppose Artie was the first intelligent, intellectual man I'd

A s the dashing and handsome leader of one of America's

Born in 1910, Shaw became—and remains—a controversial,

A musician of remarkable talent and ability, Shaw has not

At the beginning of the twenty-first century, Artie Shaw is

He made his first public appearance as a leader in 1936, in a

Superstardom turned out to be a status that Shaw (a compulsive

Shaw is regarded by many as the finest and most innovative of all

As Shaw goes on into his nineties, he has also developed a crusty

Critic Gary Giddins suggests that "what is most paradoxical

and then allowed and encouraged me to refine and reconsider

standing as a verb and was elevated to the stature of a noun and a

But the surprise of the evening came from an unexpected quarter

Perhaps the least impressive item on the printed programme

self, the group's performance of Artie's Interlude in B Flat was

During the "Swing Era" in America—roughly the period from

Among many of the jitterbugs—particularly among many of

largely vertebral. A good swing band smashing away at full

Swing orchestras also had their theme tunes. Among the

My own introduction to the jazz life began with a record of

helped swing bands to achieve their distinctive sound and iden-

Working almost as if by plan, the national broadcasters piped

George T. Simon, veteran chronicler of the big bands, ob-

cept low wages for engagements in spots with radio outlets/'

The Utopian impulses that big-band jazz seemed to embody

Swing orchestras were under the control of managers and agents,

Scott DeVeaux has remarked pertinently that the swing phenom-

a system of economic interdependence in which individual

Booking agencies like the General Artists Corporation

They come in and instead of a direct "Here's a tune that I

hard as hell to be subtle, put their arms around me, shake my

In 1941, when the networks rejected the demand of the

some quarters of the American press and self-appointed guard-

brought to popular music a virtuosity which many symphonic in-

Swing bands, then, played versions of original and popular

math of the Depression entertainment, escape, romance, and ec-