The above was transcribed from http://www.parabrisas.com/d_morganr.html
Additional information is found in the Russ Morgan website
at
http://www.russmorganorchestra.com/
Russ Morgan's band in the Marine
Dining Room
at the Edgewater Beach
Hotel, August 1946.
Photo by Betty Hulett.
Bix, Russ,
and Jean Goldkette.
Russ Morgan knew Bix Beiderbecke
personally.
Russ joined the Jean Goldkette Orchestra in 1924 at the recommendation
of Fred
“Fuzzy” Farrar. Farrar, just like Russ Morgan, as well as Tommy
and Jimmy Dorsey, was an alumnus of
the legendary Scranton Sirens and may have played with Russ with the
Pennsylvania band.
In the January 1989 issue of the IAJRC Journal, Stan
Kuwik
writes, "Trumpeter Fred Farrar recommended Russ
Morgan <>
from Eddie Gilligan’s
Band in Pittsburgh. A telegram to join the band
sounded so good that it brought Morgan to Dettroit. After hearing the
band he
was ready to go back to Pittsssburgh. He told Goldkette he wouldn’t
play in the
band if he was given $1,000 a night. "Fire the whole band and I’ll show
you how
to organize a good hot band.!" When Goldkette expressed his desire
to be
the “Paul Whiteman of the West,” Russ suggested that he become the Jean
Goldkette of the World.” This so impressed Goldkette that he hired
Morgan right
then and there. Morgan’s tenure ushered a new era in the development of
the
orchestra. Apart from his musical ability, he was an able arranger from
which the
orchestra derived much benefit. It wasn’t long before Morgan was
promoted to be
musical director, replaced in the orchestra by Spiegle Willcox, a
beautiful-toned trombonist from Paul Whiteman’s Collegians. Morgan
reworked the
rhythm section and the Goldkette Orchestra emerged with its new
unmistakable
sound.”
In the Spring of 1926, Russ Morgan
accepted
a position as arranger for one of Detroit’s main theatres and remained
there
for over a year.
Bix joined the
Goldkette Orchestra for a short time,
about a month, in November of
1924. Bix played, briefly, with one of the Goldkette
outfits in the
summer of 1925. Bix was with the Goldkette band for over a year between
May 1926
and September 1927.
Bix and Russ knew each oher during the periods when
both were members of the Jean Goldkette organization.
Russ Morgan's autobiography "Coaldust to Stardust"
as told to Cleo Lucas has not yet been published. One chapter in the
biography is devoted to Bix Beiderbecke. I am pleased and honored,
through the courtesy of Jack Morgan, to be able to publish this chapter
in the Bixography website. I am indebted to Jack Morgan for his
generosity and for his permission to transcribe the chapter here.
CHAPTER SIX
“THE KID FROM
DAVENPORT”
From
COALDUST TO STARDUST
by
RUSS
MORGAN
As
told to Cleo Lucas
The Kid
From Davenport
Some people
become legendary only after they are dead. Bix was a legend while he
was
living. He belonged to the Jazz Age as much as F. Scott Fitzgerald or
Louis
Armstrong. Or Clara Bow.
He breathed in its music and blew
it
out again, enriched, chastened and embellished with little pieces of
his soul.
If he had been born in another era he might have been a Paderewski, for
there
was in him an inherent yearning, a driving for the classic. But he
stubbed his
toe, and fell into the Roaring Twenties and there he stayed and played
his
music the only way he knew.
Dorothy
Baker, in her forward to her
book, “Young Man With A Horn”, states clearly that her inspiration was
“the
music but not the life of Leon “Bix” Beiderbecke. ---a
statement that
most people seem to ignore.
The real Bix has become so fused with
the Baker story that I want to correct a few of the misconceptions
about him
and to humbly place my own private laurels on his everlasting crown.
If there were a “Who’s Who of the Jazz
Age”, Bix would certainly be in it even though there could be only one
short
sentence after his name – "Played cornet and piano" – for that is all
he
did.
The rest of the statistics would be
brief:
Born- March 10, 1903, Davenport, Iowa
Died – August 6, 1931, New York City
Played in jazz bands all over the
country. Made a few recordings for
Gennett.
Best known for appearance with the Wolverines
No
one can run up much for a recap in the short span of twenty-eight
years, of
which only half of them were spent in playing a cornet and piano. What
can
never be written in books is how he played them.
With a naturalness and rich
originality and a consuming love of music he devoted himself to his
art. He
gave everything he knew about it and learned about it with all his
heart and
soul, and eventually, with his life.
I think the tragedy of his
life should
be an example to many musicians who permit the somewhat inchoate
turmoil of
their music to make a crazy quilt of their lives.
Bix was picking out tunes at a
tender
age, and when he was only three, his wonderful ear for music had
already
developed to such an extent that he knew the air of the Second
Hungarian
Rhapsody. In the lazy summer nights when the neighborhood kids were out
playing
games, Bix stole silently away to the
river boats that were anchored on the banks of the Mississippi and
listened to
the jazz that drifted out over the dark water like music from another
world.
He took a few lessons on the
piano,
not enough to learn to read music, and he taught himself all that he
ever knew
about the cornet. His fingering was crazy and unprofessional, but
somehow, with
it he developed a rich firm tone that later so hypnotized people who
heard it
that they trailed in his wake like children after the Pied Piper.
His period of education was
brief
because he had no time for anything except music. At the Lake Forest
Academy in
Chicago he was at the head of his class in his one favorite subject,
but he
refused to study the required curriculum and consequently he flunked
out.
But the school was in Chicago
and jazz
was in Chicago. The war was out and Prohibition was in. Capone had
organized
his famous syndicate and Jazz rocked along with it in the new strange
world it
created.
In the reeking, smoke-filled,
dingy
atmosphere of the speakeasy, Bix listened to the New Orleans Rhythm
Kings
beating out their tempestuous “Wabash Blues”. To the clarinet of Leon
Rappolo
and the silver trumpet of Louis Armstrong. To George Brunies on the
trombone.
He listened and learned and played back their tunes to them like a tape
recorder. And they, in turn, listened to him and took him into their
lives.
He played with small pick-up
bands
until 1923 when a piano player, Dick Voynow, who was with an outfit
called The
Wolverines heard Bix play. He grabbed him. There were some records for
Gennett.
Hoagy Carmichael heard the recordings and brought the band to Indiana
University for a prom date. There were eight return engagements and The
Wolverines almost overnight became one of the sensations of the year.
More
recordings and more success and young Bix was on his way.
Bix was playing at Hudson Lake, a
resort about seventy miles from Chicago when he stretched out his hand
for my
telegram. Aside from he fame of the Goldkette band, I think that Bix
wanted to
join the band where he thought he could play semi-classics.
Although I heard him on
recordings I
had never heard him play in person, but I had heard plenty about him.
It simply
never occurred to me that a guy whose fame was spreading so fast could
not read
music.
I stood there looking at the
placid
puss of a kid with mousy hair and a suit of clothes that had obviously
housed somebody
else, and wondered what to do with him.
“Well,” I said, “if you can play, --
play.”
“What do you want?”
“Oh,” I said, casually, “give me
Spanish Shawl”.
“Don’t know that one”, Bix said. “You
give it to me first.”
I guess it was
the spiritual look about him that got me. Maybe it was curiosity.
Anyway, I sat
down and played it through.
“Now”, said Bix.
He
sat down and played the piece back for me, note for note without a
single
deviation except his own embellishments which he moved into so subtly
that I
wondered if the notes were actually there and I hadn’t read the music
right.
It
was magic. It was mystery. Like meeting a person coming out of the
jungle and
hearing him speak perfect English. A thing like that gives you a shock
because
there is no way to figure it out.
I
came out of my coma. Bix was still fooling around on the piano and the
rest of
the boys were standing in a kind of trance-like silence.
“You
play cornet, too,” I said.
Bix took out the
silver horn from his
case. “Name it”, he said.
He blew a
few notes and put them
together with so much rhythm and feeling that I wanted to shout with
joy. Here
was a guy who had been positively slugged by Euterpe, and the easy way
he
played and the sort of blank look he gave me made me wonder if h knew
the old
goddess had even brushed against him.
No part was ever written in the
orchestration for Bix. After the band was through rehearsing, I
summoned him
and let him add his own part to the pieces. With this kind of
arrangement there
is usually some distortion to the melody, but with Bix there was none.
I don’t know how to describe
his
embellishments because I’ve never
heard anything like them before or since. The only way I can explain it
is the
way it came through to me. It was like hearing and seeing and feeling
something
all at the same time. It was soft and delicate., like looking a t a
piece of
beautiful lace. And knowing that the lace was woven with thread so fine
that it
would break it you touched it. That each pattern was something you
wanted to
remember because you knew it would not be duplicated.
There was a
touch almost
bordering on
femininity in his work, and yet the masculine strength was also there
so that
like himself, his music was a strange paradox.
That he was a genius is an
indisputable fact, and like all geniuses, he was impossible to reach.
He lived
in a world that only he could understand. His actions and reactions
simply did
not fit on this earth.
When the night’s work on the
stand was
over he wanted to stay right there and keep on playing. The other boys
found
plenty of earthly pleasures to pursue. They couldn’t get their horns in
their
cases fast enough, but Bix, whatever else he was, was an artist in the
true,
unalterable sense of the word.
It was as if some strange
force was
constantly driving away all human desires – women, food, success and
rest, and
pressing him to always play his music.
If I believed in such things,
I would
say he might have had a premonition of his early death, and that he
must take
advantage of every minute to do the only thing he ever loved.
There was never time enough
for Bix to
get all the music out of his system. He talked music, ate and drank
music and
lived music.
He never slept. He was always
awake at
any time of the day or night you happened into his room.
“When do
you sleep?” I asked him.
<>
“I don’t”
Bix said solemnly, “not
anymore “. He smiled. Somebody was always waking me up. It seemed
easier to
just stay up."
I knew this was true. His fame was
phenomenal. He was besieged by people. They came from everywhere. They
were
everybody. And he let them all in. Generously he shared with them then
the
greatest treasure he had to give.
Besides his reputation as a
musician,
people were drawn to Bix because of the unbelievably soft nature and
disposition. He was never known to engage in an argument of even the
smallest
dimension. Any offense or insult he received was justified by him
because he
said the offender must be ill and therefore deserved sympathy. He
waited
patiently for the apology that inevitably came.
One time I was sitting quietly
with
him in a bar. His eyes happened to be looking down toward the end of
the room
where an oversized gent and his lady friend were having a little
tête à tête.
The man had no way of knowing
that, as
usual, Bix’s mind was worlds away. He thought his trance-like gaze was
fixed on
the girl friend. He came up and tried to pick up a quarrel, and since
this was
an impossibility with Bix, he hauled off and landed a haymaker right
across his
face.
Bix was a little fellow. He
fell over
like a mechanical doll that had suddenly run down. I picked him up and
then I
started in on the big guy. I was ready to do battle but Bix came to his
defense
like a shot. The apology that came from the gent when he discovered who
he had
pasted so erroneously, was one for the record.
I don’t want to give any false impressions, Bix was different. He
was strange. He was ethereal, but he could do things that could simply
drive a
band leader crazy. Even so, he had a kind of innocent trust that
precluded any
ordinary discipline.
One
of these times occurred when the Goldkette orchestra was on its way to
play an
engagement at Notre Dame.
About
forty miles this side of our destination the train stopped at a small
town. I
happened to be looking out the window and I was almost certain I saw
Bix
standing on the platform as the train pulled out. A quick check of the
boys
confirmed my doubt. Bix was not on the train.
At
the next stop I got off and hired a taxi to drive me back to the little
town
that was now twenty-five miles away.
I
stormed and fretted every inch of the way. What was he up to? Was he
off on a
binge or ditching the band for good, or just plain mute? When the taxi
rolled
up to the station, Bix was sitting on the platform, his hands folded
over his
cornet case.
I
was so mad I decided to say nothing until I had a chance to cool off. I
got him
into the taxi and on the way back I felt calm enough to talk.
“Look,
Bix,” I said gently, “I’m not mad. I’m just curious, that’s all. Why
the
hell did you get off the train back there?"
He
shot me a look of pure wonderment. “A lot of people got off
there,
Russ."
There
was no answer to that one. After a little he took his horn out of the
case and
began to play. He played for twenty minutes straight, when he quit I
was
speechless.
It
was his turn to be surprised.
“What’s
wrong,” he asked, “why are you staring at me?”
“Because
it was superb music,” I said.
He
looked at me strangely.
“What
was it?”
“You
don’t know?”
Bix
shook his head.
“It’s
Stravinsky’s ‘Berceuse’ from the “Firebird Suite””, I told him, “note for note. And it was the sweetest
rendition I ever hope to hear."
Bix
looked at me in complete amazement. “But I don’t know Stravinsky’s
‘Berceuse’ ”
he said stubbornly, “I wonder where I ever heard it."
I
gave up.
“I
don’t know,” I told him honestly, “Maybe it was in your dream world.
While you
were getting off back there at the station.”
And
maybe it was.
___________________
End of Chapter Six, "Coaldust
to Stardust" by Russ Morgan as told to Cleo Lucas.
This material is copyrighted and cannot be used without the expressed
permission of Jack Morgan.
Questions about this
page are to be addressd to ahaim@bixography.com
Return to the Bixography.
<>