<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html charset=utf-8"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;" class="">Really interesting. I couldn't access the film, but in a way it doesn't matter because I couldn't be sure myself, let alone "settle" the matter. But as is so often the case, the legend is better than the truth.<div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Charles</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div style=""><blockquote type="cite" class=""><div class="">On Jul 9, 2019, at 12:14 PM, Robert Ringwald <<a href="mailto:rsr@ringwald.com" class="">rsr@ringwald.com</a>> wrote:</div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"><div class="">
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<div style="font-size: small; text-decoration: none; font-family: Calibri; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; display: inline;" class=""><a style="FONT-SIZE: 23px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" href="https://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/an-eight-second-film-of-1915-new-orleans-and-the-mystery-of-louis-armstrongs-happiness" target="_blank" class=""><strong class="">An Eight-Second Film of 1915 New Orleans and the Mystery
of Louis Armstrong’s Happiness</strong></a></div>
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<div style="FONT-SIZE: 15px" class=""> by Gwen Thompkins</div>
<div style="FONT-SIZE: 15px" class=""><div class=""><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/mrss/feeds/everything.xml" target="_blank" class="">The New Yorker</a> / 2019-07-08 17:03</div></div>
<div class="m_-2089941995191564734linkAnchor" style="FONT-SIZE: 16px; LINE-HEIGHT: 150%" dir="ltr"><div class="">A <span class=""></span>lot of kids grow up in New Orleans not knowing much about
jazz. That was the case with me and my sisters. Never mind that the
clarinettist Pete Fountain was always on television back then, or that our
neighborhood was only a ten-minute drive from where the jazz master Jelly Roll
Morton once lived. It was the early nineteen-seventies, and we weren’t
interested in a man that dead. Nor did we care that our tiny house was three
blocks from the tiny house where the trumpet player and composer Terence
Blanchard was growing up. He was just another boy at the bus stop. We never
heard him play.</div><div class="">But, when I was in the third grade, we found a Zenith stereo under the
Christmas tree and the Louis Armstrong album “Hello, Dolly!” perched just so
in the fake snow. Armstrong looked awful on the cover, all toothy and sweaty.
His name was in fat red letters across the top and, in the black, white, and
beige image below, he looked feverishly pale. That cover was clearly the work
of white people. No black man would ever have approved that much beige. And
yet “Hello, Dolly!” made us so happy. Listening to it, I could feel my ears
popping open. Scholars now might call the recordings boilerplate Louis, but
there’s no such thing. My favorites were “A Kiss to Build a Dream On,” “Hey,
Look Me Over,” and the title track, along with “Jeepers Creepers.”
Eight-year-olds love the word “peepers.”</div><div class="">Armstrong sounded happy—like he knew something the rest of us didn’t. He
was hip to some delightful, mysterious fact. That aura of happiness has amazed
and confounded Armstrong fans for more than a hundred years. How could Louis
Armstrong, who was born indisputably black at the height of Jim Crow, in New
Orleans, and raised in a rock-’em-sock-’em neighborhood known as the
Battlefield, and whose family ate from dumpsters and who landed at least twice
in juvenile detention, for relatively minor infractions—how could he be so
happy? In his own time, <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2009/12/14/the-entertainer-2" target="_blank" class="">he caught hell for it</a>, and, occasionally, he still does.
Some musicians called it false or, worse, “tomming,” to gain favor with white
audiences. Others were more loving. As Billie Holiday famously said, “Louis
toms from the heart.”</div><div class="">But that happiness seems to have come from somewhere deep down, and you can
see it, I think, in <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=8&v=NLGrD3aCelk" target="_blank" class="">an eight-second film</a> that the journalist and Armstrong
sleuth James Karst recently found and has written about, <a href="https://64parishes.org/young-satchmo" target="_blank" class="">in the magazine
<em class="">64 Parishes</em></a>. If the film is what he thinks it is, and what the
jazz scholar Dan Morgenstern agrees it is, and what the Armstrong biographer
and Louis Armstrong House Museum curator Ricky Riccardi says he’s almost sure
it is, then it may be the most significant finding of Armstrongalia in more
than thirty years.</div><div class="">The silent footage, taken by unknown cameramen in 1915 or thereabouts,
captures a busy corner in downtown New Orleans, at the intersection of
Dauphine and Canal streets, on what appears to be a sunny day. The action
moves a hair faster than the reality likely did, as in a Buster Keaton movie.
White people are hurrying in every direction—men in three-piece suits and
women wearing long-sleeved blouses buttoned up to here and skirts flowing down
to there. In their haste, the people sometimes brush against one another. Only
a few glance into the camera. Then a nimble black newspaper boy enters the
frame, just after the three-second mark. At first, his back faces the lens.
Then he turns around and models the front page of the day’s paper,
sidestepping the white pedestrians—easy, like a dancer. The boy is ever so
relaxed and natural, like Maurice Chevalier walking the Champs-Élysées. He’s
thin and dark-skinned; he wears long pants, rolled-up shirtsleeves, and a
newsboy cap. He’s on the tall side; he might be a mature eleven-year-old or a
dewy teen-ager. When he smiles at the camera, it’s almost impossible not to
smile back. He’s friendly. He’s funny. And he’s Louis.</div><div class="">At least, I think so. I’ve watched it a half-dozen times. Karst has done
more than that. He’s hired a graphics expert to measure the boy’s features and
compare them to later images of Armstrong as a man. He’s contacted all of the
best-known Armstrong experts and—despite a few hedges—he’s found the closest
thing he’ll likely find to consensus. “I do think this is indeed our man,”
Morgenstern, the jazz scholar and friend of Pops, wrote to Karst in an e-mail.
“There’s a special aura Louis had and it’s there to me.”</div><div class="">Not every detail in the film fits what’s known about Armstrong’s youth.
Armstrong was not a tall man; he peaked at about five feet six. Nor was he
particularly slim until his final years. And, depending on the month when the
film was shot, he could have been as old as fourteen. “The most I could say is
that it could be him—there’s certainly enough facial similarity,” Bruce
Raeburn wrote in an e-mail to Karst. For more than forty years, Raeburn
curated the Hogan Jazz Archive, in New Orleans, which specializes in oral
histories of and research into the earliest forms and practitioners of local
music. “He seems taller and thinner and maybe a bit old compared to the two
waif’s home images we have,” Raeburn conceded. “But teens grow up fast.”</div><div class="">Getty Images, which has<span class=""></span> featured the film on its Web site
since 2007, has yet to verify its provenance, except to say that it was shot
in New Orleans around 1915. It’s unclear exactly why cameramen would be
collecting B-roll images of that particular corner downtown. A big hurricane
hit the city that year, but the buildings in the film appear unscathed.</div><div class="">Karst thinks that the boy in the film is hawking a copy of the old New
Orleans <em class="">Item</em>, an afternoon paper that later merged with the
<em class="">Times-Picayune</em>. But he’s not yet found the headline we see,
“<em class="">BANDITS WRECK N.O. TRAIN</em>,” in the microfilmed stacks of the
<em class="">Item,</em> or in any newspaper of the time. That headline could have run
in an early edition of the paper that’s not kept in the city archive, or
perhaps it’s been lost. In his memoirs, Armstrong wrote about a number of jobs
that he held as a boy in his home town—scavenging for metal, hauling and
selling coal, collecting salable junk, washing dishes, delivering milk,
demolishing houses, offloading bananas from ships, playing the cornet at jazz
funerals and honky-tonks, and peddling the <em class="">Item</em>. The city’s census
confirms that black boys were selling papers around that time. The 1910 census
notes four newsies listed as black; the 1920 census mentions five. And the
corner of Dauphine and Canal is a quick walk from where young Louis is
believed to have lived, with his mother and sister, and across the street from
where the <em class="">Item</em> later reported him selling newspapers as a youth.</div><div class="">These are the facts that Karst believes place Louis at the scene and in the
film. But there is also an intangible quality that can’t be fact-checked: the
aura that Morgenstern mentioned, which makes this eight-second film feel like
a diamond in a bucket of glass. The newsie, in a matter of seconds, gives a
star turn, maybe his first, without ever picking up a horn.</div><div class="">Armstrong rarely missed an opportunity to talk about his earliest years
back home. His memoir, “<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0306802767/?tag=thneyo0f-20" target="_blank" class="">Satchmo: My Life in New Orleans</a>,” is filled with stories
about the rounders and other characters that he knew as a child in the
Battlefield, people who sometimes took advantage of him but who also rooted
for him to succeed. (Black Benny Williams, a wife beater and one of the
greatest drummers Louis had ever known, was a kind of fairy god-hustler.)
Armstrong describes his mother’s good food; he talks about arguing with his
sister, Beatrice, a.k.a. Mama Lucy, and babysitting two stepbrothers, his
father’s children from a later marriage (Henry was sweet, Willie not so
much).</div><div class="">“I came up the Hard way, same as lots’ of people,” Armstrong wrote in 1970,
a year before he died. But in all the stories he told about his childhood—and
he had plenty—he didn’t equate “hard” with “unhappy.” No doubt, he could fib.
He claimed to be born on the conveniently historic date of July 4, 1900,
though a baptismal record shows his actual birth date as thirteen months
later. (The late jazz historian Tad Jones found the document at the Sacred
Heart of Jesus Church, on Canal Street, in 1988—the last great discovery of
Armstrong-related primary-source material.) But no amount of scholarly digging
has upended or undermined that bright and apparent tendency toward happiness.
“It’s a funny thing how life can be such a drag one minute and a solid sender
the next,” Armstrong wrote.</div><div class="">Yes, Louis’s mother likely took suitors to pay the bills. Yes, he saw
violence in New Orleans that children should never see. Yes, he had to work
from such a young age that he never finished school. But it seems that his
mother and grandmother, his sister and father and stepmother, made him feel
that their troubles were not so fully his. Plus, he says that they were funny,
particularly his mother, Mayann. And when music entered Armstrong’s
consciousness—from the time he wore short pants and sang four-part harmonies
for coins with the other neighborhood children—it appears to have made up for
most everything else that was missing from his life, which is something that
music can do.</div><div class="">I almost cried when I saw the film that Karst found. The newsie isn’t much
older than I was that Christmas when jazz came to our house. He sure looks
smarter, though. Even in silence, he seems to be aware of a world beyond that
intersection and its hard-faced passersby. This black boy who can smile so
kindly into the camera in New Orleans in 1915. It’s an extraordinary feat.
Armstrong looked happy when he felt he had reason to be, just like everybody
else. Except he seemed to see his reasons more consistently, more vividly,
than the rest of us. That’s what this little sliver of film appears to be
saying—right there in black-and-white. -30 <br class=""></div>
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<div style="FONT-FAMILY: ; COLOR: ; LINE-HEIGHT: normal" class=""><font style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt" class="">Bob Ringwald<br class="">Amateur (ham) radio station
K6YBV<br class=""><a href="http://www.ringwald.com" class="">www.ringwald.com</a><br class=""><br class="">“The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy has
this to say on the subject of flying. <br class="">There is an art, it says, or rather,
a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the
ground and miss." <br class="">--Douglas Adams, from Life, The Universe and Everything,
p.59</font><br class=""><br class=""><br class=""></div></div></div></div>
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<div style="FONT-SIZE: 16px" class=""><div class="">z</div></div></div><br class=""><br class="">
<div id="m_-2089941995191564734AppleMailSignature" dir="ltr" class="">Sent from my
iPhone</div></div></blockquote></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>
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