[Dixielandjazz] Pre-rock popular music in England

[Marek Boym]

Very intersting, but...
British bands started employing American musicians quite early on,
forst - white, then - also black.  Jack Hylton, for example, hired
Coleman Hawkins.
There are early (mid- and late twenties) recordings of British bands
that compare quite favourably to their American counterparts.  Fred
Elizalde, Ambrose, and others turned out numerous hot "swingers," in
addition to the lachrymose ballads.  A good part of Harry Roy's output
swings, and the band led by Nat Gonella (which came a bit later)
compared favourably with such bands as Miller's, but was "jazzier,"
since Gonella was a jazzman at heart.

The BBC band which recorded with Benny Carter in the mid-1930's was
also basically a dance band.

True, they recorded lots of sentimental ballads, but not any more
lachrymose than those recorded by Erskine Hawkins, for example, and
his band was American, and black at that.

The article quoted skips the British "pop" music of the 1950's through
mid-60's - trad, that British style of traditional jazz.  Acker Bilk,
Chris Barber and Kenny Ball were great stars, but the entire scene
flourished and Britain danced to the sounds of jazz.  All that changed
with the advent of the Beatles, but that is another story.

I expect British listmates to further elaborate on this matter.  As
for me, I'll continue listening the the "jazzier" recordings of
Elizalde or Ambrose, and I still consider Nat Gonella's version of "In
the Mood" superior to Miller's.

Cheers

On 15/01/2010, Robert Ringwald <rsr at ringwald.com> wrote:
> Long, delete now if not interested.
>
> Pre-rock popular music in England
>
> The Forgotten World of Pre-Rock Pop Music
> Conventional wisdom has it that pop music began in the 1950s, but as early as the
> 1920s, dance bands were soundtracking British life in the same way.
>
> by Maddy Costa
> London Guardian, January 15, 2010
>
> When Bert Ambrose died, on 11 June 1971, he was down on his luck. He was the manager
> of singer Kathy Kirby, whose career was in terminal decline, and his own heyday was
> buried in the rubble of the second world war. Once, he had been one of the highest-paid
> musicians in Britain, a pop star before such a term was coined. He performed every
> Saturday night on BBC radio, recorded countless singles, and was renowned for having
> an unerring ear for a hit. But by 1971, popular culture had forgotten him.
> Ambrose and his contemporaries in the 1930s dance-band scene, such as Lew Stone,
> Jack Hylton and Ray Noble, were by the beginning of the 70s revered only by the nostalgic,
> and those for whom rock'n'roll and everything that followed it represented an unlistenable
> racket. They were beginning to receive appreciation from jazz fans; in the same year
> that Ambrose died, Albert McCarthy, a leading jazz writer of the day, published one
> of the first books to celebrate the dance bands. But these refined music-makers from
> an alien era had nothing to offer to kids raised on electric guitars. Nik Cohn wrote
> them out of pop history in the opening chapter of his scabrous book Awopbopaloobop
> Alopbamboom, published in 1968, when he was 22. Modern pop, he declared, began in
> the mid-50s and was raucous and wild, while the music of the 30s was "soft, warm,
> sentimental... snug like a blanket". It was old people's music, and it deserved to
> be buried in dust.
> It's true that the British dance bands of the 1920s and 30s don't conform much to
> post-rock'n'roll notions of what constitutes a pop act. They looked more like orchestras:
> a bandleader up front, often with a conductor's baton; musicians divided into sections
> of rhythm, brass, wind instruments, sometimes strings; singers who were essentially
> anonymous, their names only rarely credited on recordings. Yet they formed the soundtrack
> to British life, and helped to shape the pop industry that we know today.
> Their existence coincided with the birth of both radio and record companies, which
> freed musicians from an existence confined to theatres and music halls -- and allowed
> pop fans to experience their favourite songs at home without having to play them
> themselves on a piano in the front room. The dance bands quickly realised the commercial
> potential of these new media, and exploited it fully. One of the more lamentable
> results of this savviness was a preponderance of novelty songs in the dance bands'
> discographies, from The Teddy Bears' Picnic to Makin' Wickey Wackey Down in Waikiki.
> Equally prevalent was the sentimental ballad, the quivering, lachrymose music that
> Cohn found so distasteful. It's true that songs like Goodnight Sweetheart or Love
> Is the Sweetest Thing, both written by Ray Noble, threaten to clog modern ears with
> treacle. But it's also remarkable how little the sentimental ballad has changed in
> the decades since singers like Al Bowlly, Britain's answer to American crooners such
> as Bing Crosby, learned how to negotiate a microphone. And these 1930s songs have
> a wonderful purity of emotion, comforting in its tenderness.
> In between these two extremes, the dance bands adopted myriad styles and put their
> stamp on a preposterous number of songs. They worked almost ceaselessly: the leading
> bands performed once a week on radio, but also nightly in a West End hotel or nightclub,
> plus afternoon sessions in the recording studio, committing up to 12 songs at a time
> to wax. And dance-band life presented irritations at every turn. Playing live to
> high-society audiences, they had to play waltzes and foxtrots at a volume that was
> loud enough to dance to, but not so loud as to disturb anyone's conversation. It
> was "oom ching, oom ching, all night long", wrote Sid Colin, a guitarist with the
> Ambrose and Lew Stone bands, in a memoir of the era. Song publishers were in charge
> of the music industry, and controlled which band could record which song, and what
> they could do to it. Meanwhile, the BBC -- directed by John Reith, who believed culture
> should provide edification, not entertainment -- frequently betrayed misgivings at
> allowing pop bands so much airtime. Most strikingly, in 1929 the Corporation made
> the bewildering decision to ban announcements of song titles, and even the singing
> of lyrics that made the title obvious. Public outcry ensured that this edict lasted
> only a few months.
> If more American songs from this era are remembered today than British ones, that's
> partly because so much of the dance bands' material was sourced from the US. It's
> in their attempt to assimilate American music -- and particularly African-American
> music -- that the dance bands most set a precedent for the decades of British music-making
> that followed their decline. They couldn't always pull it off: the Ambrose band's
> 1933 recording of the Johnny Mercer song Lazybones, with its deep south inflections
> translated into cut-glass English by singer Sam Browne, is just execrable. But at
> their best, the dance bands managed to marry an English restraint and sophistication
> with a more loose-limbed style of playing adopted from African-American jazz to create
> a music that thrilled "teenagers" two decades before they were identified as a separate
> tribe.
> Some of the jazz-inspired recordings of the 1930s are startling for their modernist,
> even futuristic sounds -- sounds that continued to reverberate, decades later, in
> surprising ways. Message from Mars, one of many electrifying instrumentals composed
> by Ambrose's reed-player and leading arranger Sid Phillips, contains whirring melodies
> that anticipated 1950s and 60s space-pop; the instrumentation in the Tornados' 1962
> chart-topper Telstar may be different, but the sentiment isn't. Slicing through Lew
> Stone's arrangement of a Bing Crosby hit, My Woman, is a snarling melody that will
> sound familiar to anyone who knows Darth Vader's theme music in the Star Wars films;
> the same melody sampled gave a sinister undercurrent to a 1997 No 1, Your Woman by
> White Town.
> The sepia-tinted spectacles through which the dance bands are viewed today wash out
> that modernity. We see the musicians impeccable in their evening dress, entertaining
> glamorous society crowds; we don't see them finishing a West End job at 2am and rushing
> to one of the underground nightclubs such as the Nest, a hangout for London's almost
> invisible black community, to passive-smoke pot and jam until dawn. To be fair, radio
> listeners of the 1930s didn't see them that way either: it was a widespread complaint
> among bands that the conservatism of audiences prevented them from being as musically
> adventurous as they would have liked.
> That became a problem when American dance musicians began to rethink their relationship
> with jazz. Benny Goodman got the ball rolling in 1935, when his band performed some
> 1920s arrangements by the black musician Fletcher Henderson, and thus invented swing
> (the same process by which white singers in 1950s America appropriated black rhythm
> and blues songs and created rock'n'roll). Swing was brash, energetic, unfettered:
> by comparison, Sid Colin later wrote, British dance music sounded "effete and fussily
> old-fashioned". And swing heralded other developments, notably the schism between
> jazz and youth-oriented pop: on the one hand, young black musicians, exasperated
> by this colonisation of jazz, evolved a more abstract music dubbed bebop; on the
> other, the singers who appeared with dance bands reacted against their accessory
> status and began solo careers.
> British musicians wanted to respond to these changes, but as the 1930s proceeded,
> the rise of Nazism became a more pressing concern. The outbreak of war in 1939 didn't
> put a stop to the dance- band scene -- people still needed entertaining, to keep
> morale up -- but it did eradicate musical innovation. And even when the war ended,
> British pop remained in stasis. New bands came into being, notably that led by Ted
> Heath, previously a trombonist with Ambrose and Geraldo, and many musicians clung
> to this existence for several decades. But as the 1940s drifted into the 50s, the
> only thing that passed for change in the pop scene was the unassailable rise of the
> singer -- and British audiences were not especially enamoured of British singers.
> It's salient that when the American bandleader Tommy Dorsey -- who had, in the early
> 1940s, helped to launch the career of Frank Sinatra -- invited English singer Denny
> Dennis to join his band in 1948, Dennis's British career was in the doldrums. As
> far as the British were concerned, the one vocalist who compared favourably with
> his American contemporaries was Al Bowlly, and he had been killed by a bomb in April
> 1941. Week after week following its launch in 1952, the NME singles chart was packed
> with American names. The exceptions -- Vera Lynn, Dickie Valentine, Lita Roza --
> had, like their American counterparts, chiefly started their career with a dance
> band. No wonder Bill Haley and the Comets' Rock Around the Clock had such a seismic
> impact on British teenagers when it arrived here in 1954: it was the first new sound
> they had ever heard. Even so, the next few years of rock'n'roll copyist British pop
> output were also dismissed by Cohn as "pure farce", sealing the impression that no
> British pop before the Beatles is worthy of attention.
> Not everyone has shared this dismissive attitude, and much has been done since the
> 1960s to keep the dance-band sound alive. Much of that activity has been on the fringes
> of pop culture: there are still bands who tour the country performing this repertoire,
> plus several independent labels dedicated to reissuing dance-band material, and internet-based
> radio stations that play nothing recorded post-1960. But some of it has had a striking
> effect on the mainstream. During the 1970s and 80s, film-maker Dennis Potter did
> much to revive interest in the dance bands, notably with his 1978 TV drama Pennies
> from Heaven, where the dreamily nostalgic soundtrack of 1930s popular songs contrasted
> sharply with the dark and challenging storyline of adultery and murder.
> A revival was in the air when Potter was working, and that was reflected by the BBC.
> >From the early 1970s until 2008, 30 minutes of Radio 2 time each week were dedicated
> to the dance-band era, latterly in a Sunday night programme presented by DJ Malcolm
> Laycock. That ended when the Radio 2 producer with most responsibility for this music,
> Bob McDowell, decided it was time to integrate British dance bands into a bigger
> picture of -international big band music. In keeping with the BBC tradition, established
> in 1929, of infuriating dance-band fans, this break with tradition has caused uproar
> among listeners, who have been petitioning furiously to have the programme reinstated.
> In their way, today's nostalgia enthusiasts are as conservative as audiences were
> 80 years ago: it's hard to imagine a compilation of music by Lew Stone, or Ambrose,
> let alone the black British dance bands, topping a 21st-century album chart the way
> Vera Lynn did in August this year. Because the dance band scene atrophied while Britain
> was at war, the temptation to sentimentalise this "golden age" is irresistible. But
> the era contained more variety, and more excitement, than this sentimental picture
> gives credit for -- and until that is recognised, the dance bands will remain separate
> from British pop history, buried in dust.
> -30
>
> --Bob Ringwald K6YBV
> rsr at ringwald.com
> Fulton Street Jazz Band
> 916/806-9551
>
> Check out our latest recording at www.ringwald.com/recordings.htm
>
> My reading of history convinces me that most bad government results from too much
> government.  -Thomas Jefferson
>
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