Tbilisi, 1902

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It was winter in the South Caucasus, and an American recording engineer in his mid-20s named William Sinkler Darby was on the road.

Darby was already a pioneer in that fledgling industry, having worked in Emile Berliner’s studio in Washington, DC, in the mid-1890s. After arriving in London in 1899 to meet his former colleague at Berliner, Fred Gaisberg, and to help establish the soon-to-be massive Gramophone Company, Darby would begin an itinerant lifestyle that would take him across multiple continents in just a few years – rarely, it seems, with the time to look back. The market for sound recordings was beginning to explode.

He began traveling long distances by rail as Gaisberg’s steadfast companion and assistant, demonstrating the new gramophone and recording artists across Europe. Within a short time, they’d recorded in Leipzig, Budapest, Vienna, Milan, Paris, Madrid, Valencia, Glasgow, Belfast, and Cardiff. By 1901, Darby started to lead recording expeditions on his own, bringing him again to Germany, the Netherlands, Poland, and Moscow, recording hundreds of sides. By February of 1902, Darby had already recorded in St Petersburg multiple times, learning how to deal with extreme cold and the temperament of Feodor Chaliapin.

Yet, this trip was different. It seems unlikely that any recording engineer had set foot in the Caucasus region to make recordings of local music – music that was decidedly different than anything the Gramophone Company had recorded before, in an utterly contrasting atmosphere and culture. The closest they had come was with Fred Gaisberg, who in 1901 traveled to Kazan in Russia, to record the music of Tatarstan. Gaisberg was horrified during his entire visit to Kazan and unleashed his prejudiced invective in his diary: “The Russian part especially contains handsome buildings and churches. Streets are orderly, and there are plenty of parks. But the Tatar section is beyond a doubt the dirtiest, filthiest vile-smelling place I have ever come across. All the Tatars have that Oriental smell about them that seems to asphyxiate you. I always feel faint when near them.”

One wonders if Darby felt the same. Likely the music was baffling to these engineers from America. Up to that time, the normal recording repertoire for the Gramophone Company was what one might expect. It primarily consisted of Western classical vocalists and instrumentalists, comic singers, military bands, and other entertainers. A substantial amount of European folk music had certainly been recorded by that time – in Spain, for example – but Asia was a different story. In 1902, even Cairo had not yet been visited and captured on disc. This was an industry in transition in more ways than one; improving rapidly in terms of technology, yet still in its earliest stages, recording anything, expanding markets. The Gramophone Company’s records at that time were one-sided, and pressed in the company’s plant in Hanover, Germany. The reverse sides of these discs were etched with the image of a cherub cutting grooves into a record with the quill of a feather. In 1901, a 10″ disc that held 3 minutes of recording was perfected and put into use – but the 7″ disc was still commonly used as a primary sound carrier on these excursions, and at the home office in London…even if it sometimes held far less than two minutes of music.

Despite the vast expanse of mountainous, rural terrain to cross, there were important, multicultural urban centers in the Caucasus, and Darby was sent to explore them on this brief trip, presumably to investigate if business was viable. And by doing so, he accidentally made history. His two stops were Baku, in present day Azerbaijan, and Tbilisi, in Georgia. It’s likely that he took the Transcaucasus Railway, which by the early 1880s reached both cities. In any case, Darby arrived in Baku at 2 AM, February 6th, 1902. He spent only two days in the city, though he managed to record 57 discs’ worth of material – mostly brief, 7″ masters. Azeri music was labeled “Persian Tatar” when Darby’s recordings hit the shops, but he also recorded a number of Armenian artists. He recorded several sazandar, the trios associated with Azeri mugham music, as well as instrumental soloists, a poet, and folk dances.

It took approximately two days for Darby to arrive in Tbilisi, some 600 km away. Tbilisi, or Tiflis, was considered the cultural epicenter of the Caucasus – an ancient city where numerous peoples intersect, with its own fascinating musical history and styles, and which was then under the Russian Empire. When Darby arrived at 8 AM on February 10th, he went to the old Hotel London. It was already common practice for engineers to set up sessions in hotel rooms – this procedure went on for decades. The Hotel London, with it’s banner sign in French (“Hotel de Londres”) sat right on what was once known as Alexander Park, named after Alexander II. (It is now known as April 9 Park, in commemoration of the tragedy of April 9, 1989, at an anti-Soviet march where many protesting Georgians, mostly young women, were killed or injured by the Soviet army.)

Darby spent a total of 9 days in Tbilisi, and what we know of the recordings he made there again show the musical diversity of the region. He recorded the first Georgian polyphonic choirs, violin and tar improvisations, a host of Armenian and Georgian singers, double reed duets of duduk and zurna, even soloists on the wooden salamuri flute and the tárogató reed. There were songs from the Georgian regions of Guria, Kakheti, and Kartli. All told, he recorded 117 records, more than two-thirds of which were one-sided 7″ releases. Only 31 were longer performances on 10″ masters, of which this example is one.

Where were these discs sold? According to Anzor Erkomaishvili of the Rustavi Choir, the Gramophone studio shop in Tbilisi was in operation from 1901 to 1914, and at least for a time run by G.S. Davidov. It was located on the main street of Tbilisi – what was then called Golovinsky Prospect and now known as Rustaveli Avenue.

This appears to have been the only recording from those sessions featuring music from the region of Abkhazia. An instrumental featuring two double-reed zurnas and percussion. (I thought, perhaps, that they might be playing the Abkhaz reed, the abyk, but I don’t think so – at the same session two zurna players are listed performing some duets with duduk, so it is very likely those are the same performers.) The label of the disc itself says only one thing in Georgian handwriting: “Abkhazuri” along with “Grusinian” in English, which was the old adjectival form for “Georgian.” No performers are credited, though we do have some additional notes that exist in the original ledgers – the term “Kabardinskiy Tanetz” was listed. This indicates that it’s a dance tune from northwest of Abkhazia, in the region known as Kabardinia, now part of the Russian republic of Kabardino-Balkaria. Whether or not these are Abkhaz musicians, we’ll probably never know.

Instrumental Trio – Abkhazuri, Kabardinskiy Tanetz

The Gramophone Company must have found some success in these sessions, as they sent engineer Franz Hampe back to Tbilisi in late 1903 and again in 1905. His brother Max Hampe arrived in 1907 to record, and then again in 1909 on his Central Asian tour so well-documented in Will Prentice’s Before the Revolution CD on Topic, as well as the Drinking Horns and Gramophones CD on Traditional Crossroads – both essential discs and primary references. One year later, engineer Edmund Pearse recorded a host of sides in Tbilisi every year from 1910 to 1914. Then, the Great War, and the Russian Revolution.

Over the past 27 years, since Georgia declared its sovereignty, Abkhazia has been the site of strife, accusations of ethnic cleansing, and war between Russia and Georgia. The Abkhaz consider themselves a Russian republic, though they are recognized by just a few international entities. Georgia considers it an autonomous republic of Georgia.

The Hotel London, as it stands today, is a shadow of its formal self. It’s now a private apartment building in a state of arrested decay. I went past just two weeks ago. Its front entrance has been replaced, but peek inside the side entrance and you might be able to imagine the sounds coming out of one of the rooms that February, 115 years ago.

Canario y su Grupo – La Rumba en el Cacique

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One of the reasons I hadn’t yet posted an early Puerto Rican track is, first, that it’s quite difficult to find pre-1935 78s from Puerto Rico in playable condition. Many are exceptionally rare. And second, there have been some top shelf reissue collections already produced – namely the Los Jardineros compilation on Yazoo, and Lamento Borincano on Arhoolie – it’s hard to augment what’s already outstanding. However, when I heard this 1932 recording by one of the great groups of the day, which had not been reissued, I thought it might be a nice addition to the fold.

Manuel Jiménez was born in 1895 in central Puerto Rico, in the town of Orocovis. By the age of 10, he was already working in a sugar mill. According to several biographies, he stowed away on a ship as a teenager and effectively became a merchant seaman, bringing him first to Barcelona and then eventually to New York City in the late 19-teens. At some point during his early years, he was given the nickname that would stick with him for his life: El Canario (“Canary”).

Confirming Canario’s early activities in New York will run you into contradictions. According to several sources, Canario first recorded for Pathé as early as 1914, and for Odeon in 1915 or 1916. However, these were apparently Mexican corridos. I could find no confirmation or identification as to what these recordings were. Also, additional sources state that Canario was part of Rafael Hernández’s famed Trío Borinquen in 1926 during their first session, although discographers do not include his name as a member of the band. What can be confirmed is that, according to interviews with Canario, those early years were pretty destitute for new Puerto Rican arrivals. Ewin Martínez Torre wrote that Rafael Hernández was known to busk around Brooklyn in the 1920s, possibly for mere food. Apparently things changed in the late 1920s, when larger audiences and venues became available to New York’s Puerto Rican musicians. Canario launched his lengthy and successful tenure with the Victor company in April of 1929, where he would solidify his reputation as one of the great Puerto Rican bandleaders. He branched out and began playing for other labels in 1932, first briefly for Brunswick, and then for Columbia through the late 1930s, continuing his success.

Canario is known today for introducing the plena to New York’s Puerto Rican record-buying public, and his reputation still rests on that. The plena is a musical style with African influences linked to the coastal, southern regions of Puerto Rico, and which developed in the sugar plantations. Canario’s first recorded tunes were plenas, but scholar Ruth Glasser documents that this may have been more of a canny marketing move for Canario, as he may not have been particularly familiar with the genre long prior to that time, but recognized its commercial potential. Canario was a vocalist but not technically a musician, either. He was known as being a generous group leader, with his group touring regularly, rotating top musicians in and out of its various iterations. With that in mind, it’s not surprising that Canario, throughout his 80+ sides for Victor, also recorded plenty of boleros, guarachas, “seis corridos,” Christmastime aguinaldos, and even a few rumbas, like this one, recorded April 13, 1932, accompanied by two guitars, trumpet, percussion, and vocalist Fausto Delgado. The songwriter, Pastor Villa, played with Canario as well as the Trío Boricua, Grupo Antillano for Brunswick, the Grupo San Juan, and the Grupo Victoria. He is remembered as a colorful personality who was later involved in the numbers racket, according to his relatives. Canario died in 1975, and Villa in 1959 or 1960.

Canario y su Grupo – La Rumba en el Cacique


Image courtesy of the Center of Puerto Rican Studies, Hunter College, New York. Canario is in the rear, center.

Notes
Label: Victor
Issue Number: 30718
Matrix Number: BRC-72282

Itokazu Kame and Hunakoshi Kiyo – Tancha-me-Bushi; Katsuren-Bushi

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When people in the West hear “Okinawa,” their thoughts probably start and stop with America’s military. During the Asia-Pacific War including the Battle of Okinawa, nearly 150,000 non-military Okinawan civilians died. After the post-World War II occupation of Japan, the U.S. continued to stake claim over Okinawa until 1972. Once they relinquished control to Japan, they’ve continued to operate a total of 32 military bases on the 70-mile-long island. Okinawans continue to protest, and many want the complete removal of the American military. Many also want complete independence from Japan, as well.

Okinawa isn’t just a victim of international geopolitics…nor is it just one island. It’s one puzzle piece in the fascinating history of the Ryukyu or Nansei archipelago – a unique part of the world, with its own thriving indigenous culture. Situated between Taiwan and Japan are the 55 islands that were once the Ryukyu Kingdom, which played an important role in maritime trade for centuries, between Southeast Asia, China, and Japan. Once a tributary kingdom of China during the Ming dynasty, then a tributary kingdom of Japan, the Ryukyu Kingdom continued all the way to the late 19th century, when the 1,100+ square mile area it encompassed was usurped into Japan.

The islands have been occupied for perhaps as far back as 32,000 years, and the native Ryukyuans, or Uchinaanchu, have their own languages which are more than just dialects, and are in fact unintelligible to Japanese speakers. Their folk music, at least to my underexposed ears, feels situated just as its geography – somewhere between Japan, China, and Southeast Asia. It’s got a separate feel entirely from the geisha songs with samisen from Japan, often has a driving rhythm, and is deeply rooted in local folk traditions. The main instruments that you’ll hear on this piece are the snake skin covered, three-stringed Okinawan lute, the sanshin, which is similar and perhaps a precursor to the samisen in Japan; at least one taiko drum is heard, as well as the clacking sound of the yotsutake, which are handheld pieces of bamboo that are clapped together to the beat of the rhythm.

When I found this disc, it had the word “Fisherman” carved into the label by a previous owner. I knew it had to be good. This is a seamless medley of two folk songs performed by the “Princesses of Okinawa Music,” Itokazu Kame (1915-1991), and Hunakoshi Kiyo (1914-1998). Itokazu Kame provides the main vocal throughout, and Hunakoshi Kiyo plays the sanshin and sings backup. Teruya Rinsuke plays the taiko drum(s), and Maekawa Choushou plays the mandolin. The first piece, “Tancha-me-Bushi,” is a song about the Tancha-me Beach, near the town of Onna, on the main island of Okinawa. This is a well-known melody from the region – a song about the annual harvest of sururu fish on the beach, and how local fisherman are proud of their daughters selling sururu on the streets. The second piece, “Katsuren-Bushi,” is about the beauty of the women on the Katsuren Peninsula, and how fishermen from other islands pine for them – but the unpredictable currents and tides around the peninsula make the journey too risky, so they can only yearn.

This is another example of how commercial 78s were everywhere, even in what might be considered to be rural, hard to reach communities. This was the case of a smaller, local record company providing Okinawan music for both Okinawans, and the Okinawan diaspora. Okinawan or Ryukyuan folk music performed by actual Okinawan musicians seems to have been only occasionally recorded during the 78rpm era until after the Second World War. The first label that was active was named Marufuku, and was established in 1927 in Osaka, a city which at the time held a large amount of Okinawan immigrants. The Tahei label, active as a Japanese imprint since 1930 or so, issued some Okinawan material after 1950, and two local independent labels cropped up, including Marutaka. This piece is on Marutaka from ca. mid-1957. Marutaka was established in 1955 by an Okinawan businessman named Koura Jiro, and Jira Takara, who owned the Takara Watch Store on Helwa Street in Naha City in Okinawa. It was, at least at first, a subsidiary of Victor in Japan, who pressed the records.

Itokazu Kame and Hunakoshi Kiyo – Tancha-me-Bushi; Katsuren-Bushi

Many thanks to JiHoon Suk for detailed information and translation, Kato David Hopkins, and to Izumi Kinoshita for introducing me to this music.

Notes
Label: Marutaka
Issue Number: T-823
Matrix Number: PEN-2317

Saveli Walevitch – Bayoushky Bayou

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Sometimes a song that’s deeply instilled in a culture can be just as effective to a listener as a piece that’s entirely new – although, effective in perhaps different ways. This classic Russian lullaby is usually titled and transliterated to “Kazach’ya Kolybel’naya,” or “The Cossack Lullaby.” While there appear to be several iterations of this ubiquitous tune, the version sung on this record is an abbreviated version of the one written by the famed Russian romantic poet Mikhail Lermontov, written in 1840.

It is sung by a mother to a son. As a lullaby, it certainly has a preoccupation with war, and includes a malicious swipe at the Chechens (a translation is below). Humanity loves to throw each other under the proverbial bus, doesn’t it. This was not the only poem where Lermontov uses the phrase “vicious” or “evil Chechen,” which I’ve seen whitewashed in some translations as “sly brigand.” Though I claim no prowess in this area, the historic reason for this is likely because Lermontov at the time had become the commander of a Cossack regimen of the Russian army, and fought the Chechens precisely in 1840. Lermontov was, and is still unquestionably considered to be a brilliant, even Byronesque writer, but no doubt a complicated man. He was an aristocrat, excessive, and often described as scornful and, like Lord Byron, “obnoxious.”

Yet, this performance by the relatively unknown Saveli Walevitch, with his guitar that threatens to go out of tune and the occasional random studio noises (10 and 15 seconds in), is perfectly earnest in its execution. Although he had a career spanning several decades, touring across the United States and Europe singing all manner of Russian folk songs, Walevitch’s output consists of just four songs on two records – all recorded in Camden, New Jersey for the Victor company, on May 24, 1928.

As a performer, Walevitch appears as early as 1921, in a folk song collection titled “Folk Songs of Many Peoples.” By the mid-1920s, he was regularly playing places like Steinway Hall in New York, Goodman Theatre in Chicago, the University of North Carolina, Stanford University, the Art Institute of Chicago, as well as for local groups like the Women’s City Club of Detroit, the Society of Arts in Palm Beach, Florida, and the Scarsdale Golf Club. His records were favorably mentioned in phonograph newsletters. A portrait of him was exhibited at Barnard College that same year. His wife, Anne Whelpley Walevitch (1893-1975), from Chicago, was his touring companion, accompanist, and wrote his program notes. He died in 1963.

Below is a transliteration of Walevitch’s version of the Cossack Lullaby, followed by a translation (any corrections needed, please advise).

Kazach’ya Kolybel’naya (as sung by Walevitch)

Spi, mladenets moy prekrasnyy,
Bayushki bayu;
Tikho smotrit mesyats yasnyy
V kolybel’ tvoyu. (x2)

Po kamnyam struitsya terik,
Pleshchit mutnyy val;
Zloi chechen polzyot na bereg,
Tochit svoi knizhal (x2)

No otets tvoi staryy voin
‎Zakalyon v boyu;
‎Spi, malyutka, bud’ spakoyin,
Bayushki bayu (x2)

Sam uznayesh, budit vremya,
Brannoye zhit’yo;
Smyelo vdyenish nogu v stremya
I voz’mosh’ ruzh’yo (x2)

Bogatyr’ ty budesh’ s vidu
‎I kazak dushoi;
Provozhat’ tebya ya vyydu —
‎Ty makhnosh’ rukoy (x2)

Da, gotovyas’ v boy opasnyy,
‎Pomni mat’ svoyu;
Spi, mladenets moy prekrasnyy,
‎Bayushki bayu (x2)

Translation by David Mark Bennett:

Sleep, my dear, beloved baby,
‎Bayushki bayu;
Silently the crystal moon shines
‎On your cradle blue (x2)

Muddy Terek River splashes
Boulders in the shade;
Evil Chechen creeps ashore while
‎Sharpening his blade (x2)

But your father is a warrior,
‎Battle-hardened, too:
Sleep, my son, and don’t you worry,
‎Bayushki-bayu (x2)

Soon enough there’ll be a time to
‎Learn the soldier’s way;
Bravely step into the stirrup,
Shoot while in the fray (x2)

You’ll look like a hero and be
‎Cossack through and through.
I’ll go out to see you off—
‎And you’ll just wave, it’s true (x2)

Think, when bracing for fierce battle,
‎Of your mother true;
Sleep, my dear, beloved baby,
‎Bayushki-bayu (x2)

Saveli Walevitch – Bayoushky Bayou

Notes
Label: Victor
Issue Number: 81263
Matrix Number: BVE-45063

Image courtesy of Amazon. Additional information from Lermontov’s “A Hero Of Our Time: A Critical Companion, edited by Lewis Bagby. For another excellent Walevitch track, see the Secret Museum Vol 1 (where else?)…

Mbuyiseni Mtshali’s Concertina – Dumazile

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Ten years. I think now that we’ve reached ten years of Excavated Shellac, why not experiment with a new look, instead of something that reeks of 2007. I’d like to say something, but I won’t wax rhapsodic, or take some fond look back. I feel guilty enough for the slow posts. Plus, I think I’ve already done enough of that periodically, and really, the most important thing is that it keeps going.

Excavated Shellac speaks for itself. As a 78-related site, it was more or less the first of its kind: focusing solely on global vernacular and traditional music.
There are well over 220 individual transfers to listen to, download, and read about.
Most of the discs here have never been publicly issued before, though a number have since been extensively bootlegged.
The writing is book-length. It’s protected only by a Creative Commons license.
It is not written for collectors, though collectors sometimes read it.
Each chapter is meant to be an entry point for anyone.
The information is often collated here for the first time, drawn from various sources, many of which are unpublished. Plenty of new information on these discs is found here.
It is not representative of my collection, and is only a snapshot.
It is also meant to be an expansion on others’ influential works.
There are no ads on the site, something that I deliberately pay for.
We have no t-shirts.
There are no Kickstarters, and no GoFundMes – only an occasional recommendation.
The site has been quoted as a reference, used as a source in books, and honestly has allowed me to produce individual, hard-copy releases.

I think you know what I’m getting at – Excavated Shellac is meant as an alternative to the disproportionate amount of worldwide scholarship, reverence, and proselytism surrounding early recordings of jazz, blues, country, Western classical and popular music. Not because that music isn’t amazing – it often is. But, the world’s recorded music is absurdly bigger than those stories, fascinating as they are. Each country on earth had its own Robert Johnson or Charley Patton – some might have had two dozen of them. Companies in Europe were recording tanbur-playing Uzbeks almost 20 years before the United States had the notion to record a country record. How would you know otherwise unless you did some exploring? You could say that’s a “political” stance, and that would be pretentious. But it wouldn’t be wrong.

So, thank you for continuing to stop by. I’ve made many friends through this endeavor. I’ll breeze into year 11 with something I love – South African concertina music. This disc was recorded ca. 1954, during what I would consider the golden age of Sub-Saharan African 78 recording, roughly from 1947-1965. I’ve mentioned this before, but prior to World War II, recording in Sub-Saharan Africa was a bit erratic, mostly in fits and starts, not getting started until the late 20s, and interrupted by the Depression. But after World War II, all hell broke loose. Well over 100 individual labels were active in Sub-Saharan Africa recording all manner of artists, and the quality as well as the variety of talent that appeared was just incredible. People have sometimes asked me if there’s an African 78 discography. Er, not yet. We’re talking something like 25,000 78s in West Africa alone, never mind Congo, East Africa, and Southern Africa, all preposterously rife with popular indy labels and cheap shellac.

The concertina in South Africa has always been associated historically with itinerant miners, or itinerant entertainers, as they traveled from town to town. There are more traditional concertina performances, like this one, but the instrument is also used in more “modern” sounding music, too. Several scholars have called it “transport music,” meaning the instrument was supposed to help you as you walked long distances. Even the rhythm feels like walking….marching forward…

Mbuyiseni Mtshali’s Concertina – Dumazile

Label: HMV
Issue Number: JP 549
Matrix Number: 0AS.1262

Zerbib – Ya Men Erid Ektali

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This one is special for several reasons: while it’s not the earliest disc I’ve featured here (that goes to Imdad Khan’s 1904 sitar solo), it’s among the earliest Algerian records ever made. It is difficult to pinpoint a date when it was recorded, but I’ve been advised that it was no later than October of 1907. The precise identity of the artist, Zerbib, is still unknown to us, but he was almost certainly a Jewish singer, and perhaps a member of the Zerbib family of Constantine, Algeria. He sings Andalusian classical music here on this 11 1/2″ disc, reminding me of the style performed later by artists such as the ones I featured on Opika Pende, Sassi Lebrati and Mahieddine Bachtarzi.

This information, while scant, doesn’t come out of thin air. Nor is it often found in books – or if it is, it’s in wildly disparate sources that need to be triangulated. It also helps to know kindred spirits. Our friend Thomas Henry, aka Ceints de Bakélite, along with our local comrade Chris Silver of the Jewish Maghrib website, are also keen collectors and researchers of early North African music. Thomas recently delivered a presentation about early recordings in the Middle East and North Africa at the Médiathèque Musicale de Paris last Thursday, and this made me think that it was time to try and transfer this baby. I consulted them both for additional information, as well as engineer Chris Zwarg, and they were able to help solidify some facts.

This is the very first “vertical cut” recording that’s appeared on Excavated Shellac. Those take some special care. I know I have a number of hardcore 78 collector maniac readers, but I also know that the majority are not entrenched in that insular camp. So, I’ll briefly explain this process, hopefully without too much needless pedantry. Bear with me…

Most 78s, and most records as we know them today are “lateral cut” – meaning the sound vibrations of a recording are cut by a stylus into the sides of the groove. In the early years of recording, cylinders and discs by a few record companies were made using a vertical process, also known as “hill and dale.” With the vertical process, the cutting stylus etched the sound recording vibrations into the bottom of the groove. The most notable companies who practiced this are now legendary names: Edison in the United States and Pathé Frères in France, who issued today’s entry. To play back these records on contemporary equipment, you either have to manually switch the pin connections to your turntable cartridge, or use one of the couple of preamplifiers that have this function built into them.

The early records that the frères produced seem designed to be contrarian. Apart from their non-standard record sizes (a group that ranged from 8″ to a mammoth 20″), Pathé’s records were “center-start” until the mid-19-teens, meaning you started the record at the center and it played outward toward the edge. Until the mid-1910s, they did not use a paper label, and instead engraved the artist, title, and disc information right where a label might be, filling the engraved letters and numbers with a light pigment as you can see in the top scan. Pathé’s vertical cutting method caused discs to sometimes have a deep or a shallow groove, which today can cause tracking problems with some contemporary turntables, sending lighter tonearms skating across records. Consumers at the time had to use a special Pathé-branded sapphire ball-shaped stylus with their records, but that ball-shaped needle was not usable with any other 78s that were vertically cut besides Pathé’s! Maybe most importantly, Pathé used a reproduction method that was different than other companies, and it often lessened the sound quality of their releases. Most companies were recording acoustically onto beeswax masters, which were electroplated to create metal masters or “shells.” Pathé had to be different. Until 1929, the company would make initial recordings on blank wax cylinders, and then mechanically (or “pantographically”) copy the grooves of the cylinder as it played, onto a master disc as it spun. If on this or any Pathé record you hear some repetitive scraping noise, it’s very likely the sound of that master cylinder spinning! And let’s not even begin to discuss speed, which for Pathé can be anywhere between 85 and 100 rpms. It seems a large percentage of this oversized disc wasn’t even used, as the tracks are a little over 2 minutes long and play at about 90 rpm. This would indicate that it was probably originally released as a cylinder. Who here has seen an Algerian cylinder recording? They have near vanished.

Pathé’s history as it pertains to global music is still being discussed and discovered. Those discs appear so infrequently, it’s difficult to complete the picture. What we do know is that Pathé, like the other major labels of the day, recorded global folk music quite extensively. During their “etched” era, well over 100 years ago, they recorded as far away as Tatarstan, India, and Thailand. While they may not have been the very first to record in Algeria (the Gramophone Company first made recordings there in 1906, Odeon (Disque Yafil) sometime in 1907), Pathé was on the forefront to capture local sounds.

To hear more of what are likely the only examples in existence, please browse the “Archives de la Parole” collection in Gallica, the Bibliothèque nationale de France’s digital library; here’s one example to whet your appetite.

Zerbib – Ya Men Erid Ektali

With thanks to Thomas Henry, Chris Silver, and Christian Zwarg.

Notes
Label: Pathé
Matrix Number: 10144
Transfer/Serial Number: 21422 BC

It looks better in an original sleeve:

pathe2

Some Aspects of Patriotism and Nationalism on 78

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img_6570

Nationalism, patriotism, and cultural romanticism in its various forms have been present in all manner of global recorded music, including vernacular and folk music. Ask many outside the United States and surely they’ve observed examples of America’s juggernaut of musical pride, whether it’s the plainly stated “do or die” patriotism of George M. Cohan’s “Yankee Doodle Boy” (commonly known as “(I’m a) Yankee Doodle Dandy”), or the symbolic folk populism of “This Land Is Your Land.” To clarify, I’m not really talking about topical songs that merely reference current events, but instead, musical styles and songs that are meant to evoke cultural and/or national pride.

Of course it’s true that nationalistic music can sometimes be brutal and offensive, purely propagandistic, and even hurtful to other people – the WWII-era German “Charlie and his Orchestra” recordings are an extreme example. That said, this is not to say that nationalistic or patriotic songs can’t be musically interesting. The fact remains that they can sometimes be uplifting to both those for whom they were intended to reach, or even to outsiders, despite their complex baggage.

A glaring aspect to consider whenever discussing the tricky topics of patriotism and nationalism is perception. Whether or not a musical work is patriotic or nationalistic, completely inspiring or utterly repulsive, might be up for righteous debate depending on whom you ask, at what point in history you ask them, their background, and their viewpoints. It’s a fascinating topic to me (and one that has been written about by many experts) as someone who likes to explore music I’m unfamiliar with, and to learn a little about how it was consumed, and the different forms that appeared on record during the 78 era. I’m especially interested in how my own mind reacts when confronted with something that immediately sounds deeply traditional from my admittedly Western standpoint, yet upon examination may also be viewed, directly or obliquely, as some form of propaganda.

People’s Record, or Renmin Changpian, was based in Shanghai, and was formed after the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, and the subsequent nationalization of the Chinese record industry. Foreign companies that were active in China prior to 1949, such as EMI and Victor, had been sent packing. The 78s issued on People’s Record were varied, and many of them were in effect paeans to the new CCP and its leaders, as part of the larger effort to unify the country. On the other hand, some material issued by the China state-run imprints were master pressings of classic vocal performances by Chinese opera stars such as Mei Lanfang, taken from previously existing discs.

Perhaps taking a cue from Stalin’s Soviet Union, which made it a point to record varied folk music from regions with minority populations in the USSR, People’s Record also issued compelling traditional music performed by China’s ethnic minorities, the likes of which had never been commercially recorded before. This piece is sung by two Miao women of Guizhou Province. “Miao” is a broad term used for several ethnic groups in the mountainous areas of China and parts of Southeast Asia, including the Hmong. The title of the piece is descriptive and listed as “Minzu quyu zizhi xiaochang,” which loosely translates to “Little song about Regional National Autonomy.” It is sung in a local language (not Mandarin), and is a praise song to Chairman Mao (the first sung words of the song) and the CCP, suggesting that everyone gather together and build up their community. A Pao, one of the singers of this piece, was documented as having met Chairman Mao numerous times, and having recorded this praise song in 1953. She was born in 1930, yet died young in 1966, one month after the official start of the Cultural Revolution. People’s Record was operational until about 1955, when it was merged to form “China Record” (Zhongguo Changpian).

A Pao and Yang Huiyun – Minzu Quyu Zizhi Xiaochang

4img050The gusle is the one-stringed fiddle of the Balkans made of maple wood, and the “guslari” is the Serbian term for the people who play it, singing epic poetry in an emotional, droning wail, quite unlike other music from the region. One writer in 1913 described it as “a sighing-forth of sound.” The gusle is used as a backdrop for the singing of epic poetry, usually about the historical struggle of Serbs against Ottoman rule, and by extension it has been a powerful instrument for national identity.

Ian Nagoski, in his Black Mirror CD release, re-introduced the contemporary public to Petar Perunović Perun (born 1880), a Serbian nationalist of Montenegrin birth, veteran of the Balkan Wars and World War I, and a gusle player both on and off the battlefields. Perunović toured the United States regularly, playing for Balkan communities in order to stir national pride. Based in Saint Paul, Minnesota for some time, he recorded several discs privately in the summer of 1927 at the famed Marsh Laboratories in Chicago – noted for being the first studio to make electrically recorded discs (albeit primitively). These discs were issued under the label name Srpske Gusle (Serbian Gusle). This topical and patriotic piece is from a hitherto undocumented 12″ recording from the same session, whose title translates to “Warfare for Liberation and Unification of Yugoslavia.” Perunović died in Montenegro in 1952. A monument dedicated to him exists in the town of Tunjevo.

Petar Perunović Perun – Vojevanje za Oslobodjenje i Ujedinjenje Jugoslavensko

Not all patriotic or nationalistic music is overt – some is by its very nature simply pastoral, wistful, or a deliberate tribute to cultural tradition. Countries as different as Bulgaria, Ukraine, and Switzerland all had recorded folk song types that were more like scenes played out in an imagined mountain air, with musicians acting as shepherds in the recording studio, ringing bells, making animal noises, shouting joyful banter…until a music break, which in this particular example is a group yodel with string instruments.

The group here is the Streichmusik “Edelweiss” Trogen, named for the town of Trogen in the aforementioned Appenzell Innerrhoden Kanton. Formed in 1913, the group featured Hans Rechsteiner (1893-1986) conducting and playing the cello, brother Jakob Rechsteiner on bass, Ulrich Graf playing the hammered dulcimer of the Appenzell region known as the hackbrett, Emil Fürstauer (1891-1975) on bowed bass, Josef Inauer yodeling, and Jakob Neff on violin (the lineup on this track could be slightly different). This track, “Appenzeller Alpauffahrt” is an imitation of an annual, festive event known as the Alpauffahrt. Dressed in traditional costume, locals in Appenzellerland honor the customary migrating of cattle and goats from protected winter enclaves, to pastures higher in the Alps when spring has officially arrived. Thousands of Swiss folk 78s were recorded, yet it’s precisely these nostalgic outdoor scenes that deliberately imitate and evoke a romanticized vision of an older, rural way of life, perhaps even creating the mood that the shepherds in the Alps continue tradition in the face of modernization. The Trogen group is now based in Herisau, about 30 minutes further west.

Streichmusik “Edelweiss” Trogen – Appenzeller Alpauffahrt, Pt 1

Despite my point that this broadly defined phenomenon was, and remains, global, it feels disingenuous to not provide an American example. Every morning in my little grade school we had to face the American flag, put our hands over our hearts, and sing “America the Beautiful.” However, I don’t collect American jazz, blues, country, R&B, popular, or classical music on 78, so I can’t offer anything “new” from my collection. I’ll just settle for a link to a clip of one of the most painfully overused pieces of musical Americana, sadly co-opted and abused by people on all sides of the political spectrum in the decades after it was written, to invoke their concept of “freedom.” It’s especially important to remember that this piece of music was written by a progressive, gay, anti-militant agnostic of Lithuanian Jewish heritage, who was inspired by a speech made by New Deal liberal Henry Wallace.

Notes
Label: Renmin Chiangpan (People’s Record)
Issue Number: 53356-1
Matrix Number: n/a

Label: Srpske Gusle
Issue Number: 5668
Matrix Number: n/a

Label: Edison Bell
Issue Number: F576
Matrix Number: BK369

A photo of the Edelweiss group, thanks to reader Reto. Note the phone number is simply “9”!

edelweiss

Traveling With the Taishōkoto

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The roots of the instrument known as the taishōkoto begin with a trip to Europe and the US during the early 1900s by a man with the stage name of Gorō Morita (real name: Nisaburo Kawaguchi). A musician and successful instrument maker, Gorō Morita returned to Japan and began working on a portable musical instrument that was, according to researchers, meant to be an inexpensive way for Japanese people to play western music, and one which applied some of the same mechanics found in a typewriter. Some of this history is cloudy. It’s also stated that he was influenced by the two-string nigenkin instrument, a kind of variation on the koto. Perhaps it’s safe to say that he was influenced by zithers in general, and several posit that while in Europe he may have come in contact with the violin-zither, the German akkordolia instrument, or maybe even the Swedish nyckelharpa. Some also suggest that while in the U.S., he may have seen the mountain dulcimer.

taishokoto_ebay

In any case, in September of 1912 in his family home of Nagoya, Morita perfected his instrument, introducing the Japanese version of what is ostensibly a keyed dulcimer or “keyed banjo” as it’s sometimes called (though it’s not much like a banjo). Morita first named it the kiku koto, then later changed the name to taishōkoto (also commonly taishōgoto) because of its relation to the koto coupled with a nod to Emperor Taishō. The instrument has a hollow body like a zither and a row of numbered keys that are pressed against the strings to changed their pitch, and it’s always strummed. The early version had only two strings, though today’s Japanese version normally has six strings.

Sales were apparently slow for several years, though there is proof that the quick learning-curve to play the instrument was part of its sales pitch and eventual popularity (even with advertisements directed toward geisha girls, indicating that they could learn taishōkoto faster than the shamisen). Gradually, it became a hugely successful amateur instrument during the later Taishō era, especially with young people as an acceptable method to play Western music. Interest waned during the run-up to the World War II, and it was forgotten in the country until the 1970s, when it became a popular instrument once again, directly marketed toward middle-aged women.

Despite this long preamble, I’ve never found a Japanese 78rpm disc that featured taishōkoto. Doubtless they do exist (if anyone can contribute, please do) amid the scores of shamisen and koto records and the thousands of western-influenced Japanese discs – but I’ve not heard one. To me, the story of the taishōkoto is interesting because of where it ended up.

“Waves of nightingales” is the rough English translation of the name of the South Asian instrument known as the bulbul tarang or “Indian banjo.” Another scholarly source translated it as “the nightingale’s cascading voice.” But, essentially it’s a modified taishōkoto! Like its ancestor, its history is also muddy. Some sources state that the taishōkoto arrived in India from Japan in the 1930s, leading to its popularity as an instrument for amateur and home use in the Punjab region. The South Asian version has two sets of strings – one set for melody, which is what the keys hammer, and another set of tuned drone strings. The scant technical writing on the bulbul tarang usually mentions that the instrument is humble or unadorned, even rudimentary, something close to a children’s instrument.bulbul

Because of its amateur status, it’s not surprising that very little bulbul tarang was recorded during the 78 era. Examples are all very rare, and recorded in the 1930s, featuring instrumental performances by artists such as Jagannath Mohile, K. Arumuga Mudaliar, and the example here, recorded in Calcutta by Master Shankar Banpel, in the Mishra Kafi raga.

 

A surprising twist in this story is the abrupt appearance of the taishōkoto in recordings from Kenya, beginning in the mid-1950s. Fans of CDs of 60s Zanzibari and Kenyan music may recognize it instantly. East African taarab music had been sporadically recorded in the early 20th century. The first major burst began in 1928 and lasted approximately three years, with HMV recording artists like Siti binti Saad and her group, Columbia recording in Zanzibar, and Odeon recording in Mombasa. After the early 1930s, there was a major recording lull in East Africa. Up to that point, the taarab music recorded was more traditional, principally featuring oud, violin, and darabukka drum. After World War II, when recording picked up again, that older style seems to have given way to two strains of a more orchestrated type of taarab – one that was influenced by Middle Eastern orchestras, and another that was influenced by Indian and Bollywood orchestras, referred to as taarab ya mtindo ya kiHindi. This is not surprising, since many Indians in East Africa were in the independent music and film industry, operating and owning music stores, theaters, and small record labels. Indian taarab especially adopted the taishōkoto, and one of the primary stars (he’s often credited as “Radio Star”) was Yaseen Mohammed. To accompany the bulbul tarang solo, I’ve uploaded a piece by Yaseen and his erstwhile partner Mimi (last name unknown – for now), on a Kenyan 78 from probably 1956 or so. Yaseen recorded for many labels (Jambo, Mzuri, and Columbia just to name a few) and was obviously a sought-after crooner.

It’s a perfect example of taishōkoto on a Kenyan disc, and has both Indian and Middle Eastern influence. Hundreds of records in this style were recorded and enjoyed. They turn up rarely, if ever. While there are valiant attempts being made, with the East African market flooded with over 50 small 78 labels, it’s unlikely that we’ll see a true discography any time soon – I still come across, or am made aware of, entire labels for which there appears to be no existing documentation whatsoever.

Master Shankar Banpel – Mishra Kafi

Yaseen and Mimi – Nalihi Tafuta

Notes
Label: Columbia
Issue Number: GE 1833
Matrix Number: CEI 7135-1

Label: Columbia
Issue Number: EOM 20
Matrix Number: CES 10034-1A

Photos:
a) eBay
b) Fotokannan – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10581114

Osvalds Uršteins – Vilciens no Rīgas uz Valku

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I’m very happy that Pekka Gronow has offered us another guest post, after his fascinating article on Ukrainian music in June of 2015. Pekka, as I mentioned in his previous post, is a pillar in the world of discography, audio archives, and ethnomusicology. He’s an adjunct professor of musicology at the University of Helsinki, although readers may know him from his published works in conjunction with Dick Spottswood, his book An International History of the Recording Industry (written with Ilpo Saunio), and any number of appearances and articles on these and related subjects.

This one is a bit different – as Pekka explains, there was little to nothing recorded in Latvia in the way of “folk” music… – JW

Pekka Gronow:

The Train from Riga to Valka

Today we know a great deal about the history of recorded sound. Many artists, labels, and genres have been documented in detail, and some countries even have comprehensive national discographies – online or in print. There is not much about the history of recorded jazz or opera that has not already been researched.

Yet there are still many blank spots on the discographical map. I am not just thinking of exotic countries such as Burma or Bolivia. Even the recording history of many smaller European countries is poorly documented, unless they happen to have internationally known musical genres such as rebetika or fado. What do we know about the recording history of Chile or Slovakia? Are we missing something?

You can imagine my surprise when recently I came across a history of Latvian recordings from 1903 to 1944. How many such recordings can there be? The book soon dispelled any doubts I might have had on the subject. Latviešu skaņuplašu vesture, by Atis Gunivaldis Bērtiņš, is a beautifully illustrated book with numerical listings of several thousand Latvian 78s, beginning with the first recordings on the Gramophone label made in Riga in 1903, a detailed history of Latvian record labels, and biographies of major artists.[i]

From 1945 to 1990, Latvia was an involuntary member of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics; it was not politically correct to study the cultural productions of the former independent Republic of Latvia. Although some Latvian institutions had small collections of 78s, the largest collection can be found in the author’s private museum on a farmhouse near Kuldiga. (The museum is open to visitors by appointment, and last summer I found the owner a most congenial host, but it is a bit off the main roads).[ii]

A few years ago the National Library of Latvia embarked on a project to build a comprehensive collection of historical Latvian recordings. This resulted in a cooperative project which I believe to be unique: a virtual, digital, national collection of historical recordings which is to a large extent based on records in private collections. On the library’s website, we can listen to more than two thousand historical recordings. Most of us are unlikely to ever see copies of the records listed in Latviešu skaņuplašu vesture, but now it is easy to listen to a cross-section of pre-1945 Latvian recordings.[iii]

After reading the book, it becomes clear that during the first half of the 20th century, Riga was actually one of the centres of the European recording industry. (Even if you do not read Latvian, you will get a great deal of new information here.) Riga was known as “the Paris of the North,” a rapidly growing art nouveau city, and in 1903 Gramophone Company opened its second continental factory here to serve the rapidly growing Eastern European market. Soon Pathé, Lyrophon, and other European labels also had Latvian catalogues.

BellaccordThe story becomes really interesting in 1931 when the businessman Helmars Rudzitis started the Bellaccord label. It got its start by pressing imported masters from Artiphon, Kalliope and occasionally even American ARC, but soon built an impressive catalogue with local artists. The main categories are classical music, comic songs, operettas, and dance music. There was also some Russian repertoire, and a few Jewish titles. During the war, when Latvia was first occupied by the Russians and then by the Germans, Bellaccord recorded “A song for Stalin” and then “The song of the Latvian legionnaires.” The company also had special Estonian, Finnish, Lithuanian, and Swedish series’ for export.

What is there to hear? If you like Verdi, it is refreshing to hear Il Provenza sul mar sung in Latvian. If you are looking for authentic folk music on 78s, you will be disappointed. Like in most Northern and Central European countries, little folk music appeared on 78 rpm records. However, you can get a feel of Latvian folk melodies by listening to recordings made by classically trained artists. The category tautas dziesmas / folk songs on the website includes 218 titles, which give us a chance to hear a broad selection of folk songs, mainly performed by opera singers.[iv] Try, for instance, Apsegloju melnu kuili by Ernests Elks-Elksnītis, with amazingly good sound from 1908.[v]

To me, the most interesting are the recordings of Latvian pop songs of from the 1920s and 1930s. All over Europe and America, record companies were turning out fox trots, tangos and waltzes on an industrial scale, and at first hearing they may all sound the same, but they are not. Every country had its local tunesmiths and regional variants of international trends. It is fascinating to follow the flow of popular music across national borders. Today, English-language popular music prevails, but in Latvia in the 1920s, there was little evidence of Anglo-American domination. Instead of Tin Pan Alley, we find Latvian adaptations of German dance hits and film tunes. Only towards the end of the 1930s, there is an occasional American swing melody, like “Jeepers creepers” or “Bei mir bistu shein.”

There was also a flow of tunes between the smaller European countries. My special favourite is Vilciens no Rīgas uz Valku (The train from Riga to Valka), recorded by Osvalds Uršteins with a “jazz band” in 1938. In spite of the reference to jazz, the song is a comic waltz recounting a train ride from Riga to Valka, a small town on the Estonian border.

No Rīgas iet vilciens uz Valku.
Uz platformas stāvu es viens.
Te redzu es meiteni smalku,
Tai vaidziņš kā medus un piens.

There is a train from Riga to Valka
I stand on the platform alone
Then I see a pretty maiden
Her cheeks are like honey and milk

They meet on the train, and as it turns out that both will be leaving the train in Cesis, they decide to meet the same evening in the castle park (a popular tourist attraction even today). But the girl was just playing, and in the evening the man waits in vain:

Zem bērziem es vakarā staigāju viens,
Nakts ir jau pagalam, bet nenāk neviens.
Cik skumja ir vasara, acīs mirdz asaras,
Tevi es aizmirst vairs nespēju.

Under the birches, in the evening I walk alone
The night has gone, but no one comes
How sad is the summer, tears glitter in my eyes
I can never forget you

The song has become a “golden oldie” in Latvia, although it has not been on the market since 1945. The people seem to believe that it is a local song; you can find the full lyrics on a Latvian website where the author is listed as Alfreds Vinters, a productive composer of the era who fled to Sweden after the war.[vi] But the label clearly shows that the song is of Finnish origin. The composer is listed as “E. Salama”, and the original recording by Matti Jurva and the Ramblers orchestra was a big hit in Finland in the same year. The Finnish original, Savonmuan Hilima, is also the story of a train journey and a disappointed lover, although in this case the train is going from Kouvola to Kuopio. Even a birch tree occurs in both versions.[vii]

Very few Finnish pop songs have ever been translated into foreign languages. How did this song become known in Latvia? As it happens, Matti Jurva also recorded in Riga for Bellaccord’s Finnish series (but not this title), and was obviously successful in promoting his songs as well. But there were not many people then (or today) able to translate songs from Finnish into Latvian; the name of the translator remains a mystery.

After 1945, Rudzītis migrated to the United States, where he published his memoirs in 1984. He died at the ripe age of 97 in 2001.[viii] There is a train from Riga to Valka even today; it is the longest rail connection in Latvia. Vilciens no Rīgas uz Valku is also the name of a popular Latvian TV series that is accessible on YouTube. In the series, a host dressed as a conductor interviews guests in a saloon car. My favourite episode features Sestā Jūdze (“The sixth mile”), a Latvian country and western group.[ix] It reminds us that there are many examples of fascinating local popular music in Europe which are ingenious mixes of many traditions. Latvian “Kantri mūzika” groups wear orthodox cowboy attire, guitars and pedal steel dominate the sound, but the repertoire consists almost exclusively of original songs in Latvian.[x] I only hope there is an archive somewhere which preserves all these fascinating YouTube clips for future generations.

Thanks to Jukka Rislakki for helping with the song translation.

 

Osvalds Uršteins – Vilciens no Rīgas uz Valku

Record Electro

Notes
Label: Bellaccord
Issue Number: 3756
Matrix Number: M 4656

 

[i] Atis Gunivaldis Bērtiņš: Latviešu skaņuplašu vēsture. Laika Grāmata, Riga 2015. 367 pp., illustrated, discographies.

[ii] http://www.visit.kuldiga.lv/lv/ko-darit-apkartne/vesture-un-kultura/skanuplasu-un-senlietu-muzejs

[iii] http://audio.lndb.lv/en/objects/

[iv] http://audio.lndb.lv/en/objects/genres/folk_lv/

[v] http://audio.lndb.lv/en/advanced-search/object?id=61580

[vi] http://www.dziesmas.lv/d/Vilciens_Riga_-_Valka_-_A-Vinters/4775

[vii] Matti Jurva, Ramblers orkesteri: Savonmuan Hilima (E. Salama). Columbia DY 171, 1938

[viii] Helmars Rudzītis: Manas dzīves dēkas. Grāmatu Draugs, Brooklyn, N.Y. 1984

[ix] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_a8AFR8DDA

[x] http://www.countrymusic.lv/kantri-muzika-latvija

Zutty and his Band – Runenae Papa (I Want a Lot of Love)

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This is what is known as a “sleeper record.” A “sleeper” has a few definitions, but by my standards it’s a record that otherwise has all the superficial hallmarks of being relatively common or uninteresting, whether it’s because of the label, the label series, the artist, or sometimes all three – but instead, it’s been overlooked, it’s not that common, and outstanding. In the course of trying to find ideal discs for the site, and maybe obsessively avoiding repetition, and while churning away at other projects in the background, I thought this would be yet another chance to push the boundaries a little. As a listener, I can’t always submit to the plaintive wail.

This record is a beautiful example of a mixture of styles. It’s a Latin or Caribbean-flaired “rhumba” being played by hot jazz musicians – a kind of Creole tune, performed by musicians from the south and midwest. It was recorded in Chicago, on March 27, 1935, and the first of three records made by a small group led by Arthur James “Zutty” Singleton (born 1898), a journeyman New Orleans jazz drummer who had already made his mark in music history by playing on the legendary 1928 “Hot Five” sessions by Louis Armstrong, some outstanding Jelly Roll Morton discs (including those by his “Trio”), and records by both Charles Creath’s Jazz-O-Maniacs and Fats Waller.

In 1934, the British-based Decca Record Company started an American branch. They’d been cannily active throughout the Great Depression, noted as a hideous time for most record companies, who were dropping like flies or merging to stave off certain collapse. Decca acquired several labels that had once been strong and were now fallen giants (Brunswick, Edison Bell, and some of the Champion catalog, among others), and when they began pressing music for the recovering American consumer, they charged a competitive 35 cents a piece.

Zutty’s band at this time consisted of Zutty of course on drums, Leonard Bibles on bass, Henry Gordon on piano, Mike McKendrick on guitar, Vernell Yorke on trumpet – and the determining factor on this disc: the great Horace Eubanks (born 1894) on clarinet and vocals. Eubanks was from East St. Louis, and was also a Creath and Morton alumnus from sessions going back to 1923. According to legend he learned clarinet from New Orleans musicians, and his playing as well as his eccentric vocal (outside of the chorus, what exactly is it he’s saying?) make this more of a Horace Eubanks solo record than anything else. He’s credited as writing the A-side, an equally strong Caribbean “beguin” [sic] titled “Look Over Yonder.”

Was this eccentricity the reason this two-sided proto-Latin-jazz disc didn’t sell nearly as well as the other sides Zutty’s band cranked out that same day? “Bugle Call Rag” and “Clarinet Marmalade” were two jazz standards from those sessions, and those well acquainted with stacks of jazz 78s will easily recognize those titles. I was introduced to this record by a Los Angeles collector and it took a good 4 years to find a nice copy. And in true sleeper fashion, it was just a few dollars.

Zutty moved to Los Angeles in the early 1940s and recorded for numerous bands, famously appearing on Slim Gaillard’s novelty tunes like “Atomic Cocktail” and Harry “The Hipster” Gibson’s “Who Put the Benzedrine (In Mrs Murphy’s Ovaltine)” as well as popping up in films like the 1950 scenery-chewing Kirk Douglas vehicle Young Man With A Horn. He passed away in 1970. Horace Eubanks unfortunately died in 1948, after apparently spending some years institutionalized.

Caveat: this record has appeared once on CD, on a release titled The History of New Orleans Rhythm and Blues Vol 1: Jazz, Blues, and Creole Roots, 1921-1949. But I think it’s safe to say that this transfer is markedly better. Let’s give it some new life, eh?

Zutty and his Band – Runenae Papa (I Want a Lot of Love)

Thanks to Cormac!

Notes
Label: Decca
Catalog Number: 431
Matrix Number: C881-A