Hot Air

A few weeks late again, but I’ve just caught up with the new look BBC Jazz Record Requests. The former presenter, the laconic and languid Geoffrey Smith, has been shuffled to a midnight slot. I’d like to listen to his new programme because I know I’ll enjoy it even more than JRR… but midnight? The last time I was up at midnight was because of a weak bladder. So until I can figure a way to record the programme, I’ll give it a miss.

Alyn Shipton is the new presenter of JRR and presumably he’s been brought in to bring about changes. I’ve always enjoyed change but only when it brings an improvement. As far as I can hear, nothing much has changed with the music. So where are the improvements?

In my opinion, Alyn Shipton does a fair enough job. Mr Smith had a certain special flair and panache, though. He could read the script and make it sound as if he was ad-libbing. And what I really liked about him is that he didn’t just understand jazz - he understood the jazz lover as well. At exactly the right time (i.e. after each track) he would tell us who performed on it and when it was recorded, absolutely essential information for all aficionados.

Now if I want to know, for example, the name of the bassist on Eric Dolphy’s ‘GW’I must go on line and look at the BBC Radio 3 JJR website. I resent that because often I don’t have access to the internet when I’m listening to the radio. The entire experience is therefore marred. I’m not alone in this. Others suffer a similar sense of discographical deprivation.

Personally I believe capital punishment should be the penalty for anyone using the phrase "I have an idea for improvements." Ideas for improvement are the root cause of every ill in the world. And whereas the new look JRR hardly ranks alongside civil war or the abolition of the 11+, the sceptic will be forgiven for feeling that nothing good will come of this 'improvement' to my favourite programme on radio. So unfurl the banner - bring back discographies shall be my mantra.

Don't Get Around Much Anymore

After a silence of over a year, I feel the impulse to release the coiled spring within and catapult into verbal motion again. Perhaps this revitalised energy was prompted by a Twitter posting read to me by Mrs Dodman: I was going to look up the meaning of the word procrastination but I left it for another day. The iron cools too quickly; moss grows beneath my feet; my stone rolls once again. Here’s another stitch just in time.

The fact is I’ve recently become a card-bearing OAP, which means I now have a little over 15 years left to live. In a few days’ time a camera will be thrust into that intimate place where sunshine would originate were I able to do no wrong. The results could tell me whether or not I’ve miscalculated my mortal span on this azure globe. I hope whatever condition I have is kindly disposed towards my anatomy, for I’ve just discovered something exciting and new that I’d like to enjoy for many years. It’s called YouTube.

I know the website has been around for a long time but I’ve never really used it other than to watch a demonstration of how to assemble a bed in a Trigano Tribute campervan. Recently, however, I input search words such as “New Orleans Jazz Street” and – POW – what a rich seam of musical gold I’ve struck.

Here are four of my favourites:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2rMXP_q2hs – an anonymous NOLA street band singing “Blue Spirit Blues.” I don’t like the word out of context, but ‘sexy’ is the only one I can think of to describe this girl’s incredibly rich voice.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhH3FyRflWM&feature=related – The irrepressible Smoking Time Jazz Club of NOLA performing “When I Get Low I Get High.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ib_NkfuctA – a British representative: Stella Goodey singing “Hard Hearted Hannah” at the heartland of international jazz, Bracklesham Bay. She poached my words (see an earlier blog) so I hope she doesn’t mind my reciprocal link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EbH3HJvh2N0&feature=related – Back to NOLA with Doreen’s superb clarinet playing on “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.”

What’s interesting is that all these latter-day jazz/blues stars are youngish (not a grey hair between them) yet they perform with an exuberance and empathy we’d expect of people discovering something entirely new – and the music has been around for a century or more.

I’m not qualified to say whether these stars are technically proficient in what they’re doing. In my view Jazz is more about enthusiasm, creativity and ardour than absolute command of the proponent’s chosen medium, instrument or voice. But I can say that these are eminently gifted musicians because they have the power to move and enthral. Or me at any rate and that’s good enough for me.

Bearing in mind the current debate about regulation of the internet, I hope our idiot politicians and pious do-gooders who are making capital out of trying to stifle the originality of the web will take a look at these four clips and realise just how damaging any form of censorship would be. The internet as a power for good far outweighs occasional risks.

dance of the infidels

Now less than a year away from OAPism, I realise that I’ll never be an expert in anything. Take jazz, for instance. My random ramblings here are about what I enjoy or perceive of the subject. Nothing I write should ever be taken as a pretension of expertise or even knowledge. I’m entitled to my opinion and the essence of blogs is that I can express that and the reader can take it or leave it. Perhaps that’s why I peruse numerous blogs but follow just two fairly regularly – one by a Lincolnshire photographer and the other by an American biographer writing a book about Roland Kirk. They both talk sense.


A couple of weeks ago I was in a shop leafing through a low pile of jazz LPs. It contained the usual selection of Magenta Haze and misplaced Klaus Wunderlich, but nothing I wanted. A man pushed an album across to me and said “That was in the wrong pile. It should be with jazz.” The record he referred to was “Dixieland Dance Party” by Eddie Condon, starring such luminescent names as Rex Stewart, Bud Freeman, Cutty Cuthsall and George Wetling (Quote: suggested personnel Unquote).

“I’ve never considered Eddie Condon as Dixieland, though,” the donor added. I leapt in with both feet splayed. “I don’t know. I always think of Condon and Dixieland together, although perhaps he rather leaned towards Chicago.”

What utter bosh I speak sometimes! Where did that comment come from? I’ve always been a Condon fan, ever since I read his book “We Called it Music” about five decades ago. I think I can say that Eddie played wonderful Dixieland jazz, but I’m not sure he was actually Dixieland. It’s a little like saying Jeremy Clarkson is an oaf because he behaves like one from time to time.

We chatted for a few minutes. The man obviously suffers from withdrawal symptoms caused by a dearth of people willing to talk about jazz. It turned out he was a member of Ken Colyer’s club in Great Newport Street, London, as was I in the middle 60s. Whenever I went there the club was virtually empty beyond 1am and yet almost everybody I know claims to have been a member. The place should have been heaving every night. Of course, those were in the days before jazz became an art form.

Those for whom that amorphous entity ‘the arts’ is a way of life forget one simple fact: the word ‘art’ is derived from the same root as artificial, artifice and artisan. When jazz became an art form, it began to leak the quiddity of the music. If you doubt the truth of this, review some of the old Steve Race presented BBC2 jazz nights and take a look at the implacable and statuesque bodies of the audience. And some of the musicians went so far up their own backsides I’m surprised they managed to walk off the stage.

What appealed to me about this album of Eddie Condon is that it contained the word ‘dance.’ It’s purely symbolic because I can’t dance; my four left feet keep colliding with my five right. But the inclusion of the word, especially linked to ‘party’, takes jazz back to where I’m convinced it started – out of a desire to make people dance.

Much of today’s jazz is sweet, melodic and anal. It seems to be only the old Dixielanders going out to enjoy themselves and being bothered to actually entertain the audience. Others seek deep meaning in their art and turn inwards, thus losing the precious link between instrumentalist and listener. Here’s a philosophical question: if a jazz musician plays an instrument but there is no audience to listen to it, does he still make a sound? Perhaps the question should add a corollary: if they hear sound, do they care?

My many records, CDs and downloads include cherished albums by Charles Mingus, Ornette Coleman, Wynton Marsalis, Joe Harriot, Don Rendell, Sonny Rollins, Gerry Mulligan, Art Pepper, Cannonball Adderley, Art Blakey and loads more proponents of jazz from a wide range of genres. So I’m not actually the mouldy fig I probably seem.

But I do wish there were less (should that be fewer?) bollocks talked and written about the subject. And on that note, I’ll heed my own wishes. After all, what do I know?

jumpin' at the woodroffe

I’d like to introduce you to a jazz band that you’ve probably never heard of before. It’s called “The Saxophone Choir” and consists of a soprano, several altos, a couple of tenors and a baritone. If I remember correctly, they number eight in all, occasionally augmented by other players according to availability and, presumably, the whims of the leader.


Average age in the ensemble is about 15. When I saw them, the boys and girls were resplendent in school uniform. Standing in line on a makeshift stage, each player concentrated intently on individual scores ranged on music stands in front of them, always keeping wary eyes on the leader/conductor, the class’s music teacher, a petite blonde.

She bounced around with glee, keeping time as much with her hips as her hands. That young woman had more intuitive rhythm and enthusiasm than any of this year’s contestants on the X-Factor. And her obvious enjoyment of the music was infectious. She was upbeat, so her musicians responded and proved that jazz can swing at all levels and in all genres.

The band played for about 20 minutes during a pre-Christmas bazaar in the main hall of Dorset’s Woodroffe School. It was the best 20 minutes of jazz I’ve enjoyed since Chris Barber in Grantham. I’m not sure what sort of jazz you call it. I didn’t recognise any of the numbers and I think some were home-brewed. But it was varied and funky, groovy and swinging. (Why do I cringe when I type those adjectives?)

The point is that here’s a bunch of school children taking jazz to their hearts. The tenor soloist would have received empathetic appreciation at Ronnie Scott’s and the baritone player maintained the bass line like an old professional, although the instrument almost smothered her. I hope all the band’s members keep up their interest in jazz. We need youngsters and teachers like this so the most noble music of all is kept kicking and jumping and in a position to compete with the dross churned out by Cowell, Walsh et al.

Jazz is alive and well and living in Lyme Regis.

keep on knockin'...

Suddenly, I want to know about my Jewishness. After a life time of disinterest, if not uninterest, my curiosity has finally been pricked and I find myself seeking new knowledge about the life of a people that I feel otherwise are destined forever to be a mystery to me.


My paternal forebears were Germanic Jewish. If I go back far enough (to the late 19th century) they were all even fully-fledged Jews. Am I allowed to differentiate without breaking moral ethnic codes? I ask because strictly speaking I’m an in-betweener. I don’t actually belong anywhere. If Hitler had succeeded, I’m one of those post-war people who would have tasted the bitterness of the man’s ‘Final Solution’ by virtue of my name (Dodman is a soubriquet) and probably appearance. On the other hand, Jews don’t want to know me because my mother and grandmother were gentiles, and we all know Jewishness passes down through the maternal bloodline. So I’m stuck in the middle – out on my own: damned as if I were and damned because I’m not.

One of my first objectives, therefore, is to determine whether the Hebraic way of life is a religion, a race or a culture. I feel this is a valid starting point because I’m not in the least religious; in fact I eschew all forms of religion. Eternal life! Can you imagine anything worse? Also, if Jewishness is a race I can’t suddenly perform a Kafkaesque metamorphosis as something I’m not already. Cultures on the other hand can be learnt and assimilated.

Let me make this clear: I’m not applying for membership. I’m not even sure I know anyone well enough to ask for sponsorship. And I’m not like Treslove in ‘The Finkler Question,” the man for whom the status of vicarious Jew by association was the result of his ambition to be accepted and absorbed into Jewishness.

This is rather a ground level “Who do you think you are?” question. I’m not fussed about knowing where I fit into the theoretical grand scheme of things. Intellects far superior to mine have tried (and failed) to make philosophical sense of the meaning of life. I’m more pragmatic.

Being almost 64, I realise that if I don’t educate myself now I probably never will. I failed at school and school failed at me. As a result, I launched myself into the adult world with the belief that I’d finished learning. So I was late acquiring the inquisitive impetus to discover more. As an opsimath, I now want to know about my family’s Jewish history. Genealogy has been my pastime (pun intended) for many years, but only recently have I delved back far enough to uncover solid pedigree Jewish roots. And I’m swamped and wallowing in ignorance.

Recent research has been an eye opener. So far, I’ve found over 600 German Jews with whom I can claim a direct (if meandering) lineage. And yet I know nothing about Jewishness, motives and aspirations, life and culture, apart from what I learnt through “The Merchant of Venice.” Is this irony? I played Shylock. Could Mr Morrison at Dartford West have been more perceptive that I thought?

I have a long way to go. From what I understand from my readings, even elderly Jews who have been Jews all their lives have no idea what Jewishness is. But I’m making a start. I’m about to download ‘Oliver Twist’ to my Kindle. I shall study intently.

Shalom.

russian lullaby

My collection of jazz on old LPs is steadily growing. However, as I’ve probably said before, real jazz fans don’t discard good recordings. This is perhaps the reason I’m often disappointed at the quality of tracks on pre-owned albums I buy. Usually only the lacklustre get into the second-hand shops. But there are exceptions.

Recently I had a grand piece of luck. Poking around in a charity shop, I noticed a Vic Dickenson record languishing beneath a pane of grubby glass at the counter. It was a little more than I usually like to pay (I was charged £2 for it) but I bought it anyway.

It’s not actually an LP. It’s a 10” long-playing single with one extended track on each side. The title: Vic Dickenson Septet Vol. 1. They really knew how to create compelling names for records back in 1953. The producers probably burnt gallons of midnight oil to come up with the sequel: Vic Dickenson Septet Vol. 2.

Here’s the good news. Side 1 is Russian Lullaby, a superb example of fifties jazz. The liner notes by Stanley Dance call it ‘mainstream,’ a genre sitting slightly awkwardly between New Orleans and Modern. Whatever type of jazz it is, Russian Lullaby swings like a catkin in a summer breeze. Now that probably seems a contradiction; a swinging lullaby sounds like an oxymoron. But take a look at the line-up of the rhythm section and genuine aficionados will understand me: Sir Charles Thompson (p) Steve Jordan (g) Walter Page (b) Les Erskine (d).

These lads might sit at the back, but they surge forward like the metaphorical Formula 1 drivers they are. And the three in the front row (Vic Dickenson (tb) – Ruby Braff (t) and Edmond Hall (cl) rise to the occasion and turn what could so easily be a desultory ramble into a championship event. And they all cross the line together. The pace isn’t fast, but it’s driven. The momentum carries it ahead of so many rivals. Too much jazz just doesn’t swing. This recording does.

At my age I need something to wake me, not send me nodding into a dribbling cocoon of senescent boredom. This Vic Dickenson is just what my psychiatrist prescribed.



red kites in the sunset

A couple of weekends ago we trundled the motor-home down to Henley-on-Thames. As I fumbled to untangle the electricity cable, I glanced up and saw immediately above my head a red kite soaring low and languid. Then a second appeared, and a third, and yet a fourth.

What amazed me is not that these powerful birds of prey are here on the Buckinghamshire/ Oxfordshire border, but that everybody else on a packed camp site ignored them as if such sights are everyday occurrences. A man walked past carrying his toilet (we do that sort of thing when we’re camping) and he shrugged as if to say ‘so what?’

With friends, we walked into town. Close to the old bridge over the river (engines one at a time please) we encountered more red kites. They are everywhere. The lovely and knowledgeable lady in the Tourist Office bubbled as she explained that now they reckon to have over 200 breeding pairs, and the families are slowly fanning out over wider and wider territories as the wily birds organise themselves not to compete with each other for food.

They ARE everyday sights then. The last time I saw one was on the Black Isle some years ago and then it was quite a rarity. Now, it seems, just to the west of London they are more common than house sparrows.

Of course I exhibited my tourist’s credentials. Instead of enthusing over the phalanxes of rowing boats sculling up the Thames, I focussed my monocular on the sky to watch graceful kites wreathe and loop over the brows of Remenham Hill. In fact, I was so engrossed I became an obstacle to the many cyclists pounding along the tow path in pursuit of the boats. Furiously pedalling team managers breathlessly exhorted “keep contact with the water,” a little pointlessly I thought for an oar-centred propulsion system. But I suppose they have to feel they’re making some contribution other than pushing me off the footpath.

The people of Henley seem blasé about these wonderful birds in their midst. We have marsh harriers around us, but I can’t believe I’ll ever stop being excited at the sight of one quartering the dykes and field edges.

So, good luck to you Henley. Apart from red kites, the Thames and the remarkably patient staff in Pizza Express, you have very little going for you.