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                                                              Michael Steinman

                                   Well, This’ll Be Fun

       On a Thursday evening in September 2004, two jazz musicians decided on Eubie
Blake‟s “You‟re Lucky To Me” to begin their performance, set an affable, conversational
tempo, and started – moving from embellished melody to more adventurous
improvisations before coming back down to earth. They stood at one end of a small
rectangular mint-green hotel dining room elaborately decorated with nineteenth-century
chandeliers and moldings. The tall young trumpet player, apparently a college fullback,
wore jeans and an untucked striped dress shirt; the pianist resembled a senior account
executive for a firm that knew nothing of casual Fridays. As the applause slowly
diminished, Duke Heitger, trumpet held loosely at his side, looked slyly at John Sheridan,
the other half of his orchestra, grinned, and said, “Well, this‟ll be fun.” They had just
played the opening notes of the seventh annual Jazz at Chautauqua, a four-day jazz party
held at the Athenaeum, the upstate New York site of the Chautauqua Institution – now a
hotel unused for nine months of the year (no heating system). Appropriately, the site
reflected something of the Chautauqua ideal of entertaining self-enrichment, now given
over to a weekend‟s immersion in the music once our common colloquial language.
       The imaginary map of American culture might seem a homogenous cultural
landscape of Outkast, Diet Coke, press-on nails, and Paris Hilton. But there are millions
of smaller, secret cultural nations pulsing all at once: people subversively playing Brahms
at home, wearing hemp clothing, and making sure that what commercialism has
consigned to the past is kept alive. One of those underground institutions is the jazz party
– an idea quietly subsisting for forty years, now one of the only venues for this music.
       If a newcomer assumed that a “jazz party” is nothing more than two or three
semi-professional musicians playing background music for a roomful of people, perhaps
a singer seated atop a piano, Jazz at Chautauqua would be staggering. It featured nearly
thirty-three hours of nonstop music played to two hundred and fifty people between
Thursday evening and Sunday afternoon by twenty-six musicians: Bob Barnard, Heitger,

Jon-Erik Kellso, Randy Reinhart, and Joe Wilder (trumpet, cornet, and flugelhorn); Dan
Barrett and Bob Havens (trombone); Harry Allen, Dan Block, Bobby Gordon, Bob
Reitmeier, Scott Robinson (reeds); Johnny Frigo (violin); Jim Dapogny, Larry Eanet,
Keith Ingham, and John Sheridan (piano); Howard Alden and Marty Grosz (guitar);
Vince Giordano, Nicki Parott, and Phil Flanigan (bass); Arnie Kinsella, Eddie Metz, Jr.,
and John Von Ohlen (drums); Grosz, Rebecca Kilgore, and Parrott (vocals). These
players are unknown to a general audience but are both remarkable and sought after.
Except for Wilder, the musicians were white, (which didn‟t bother him: he was delighted
to be playing among friends) and many hailed from the tri-state area, with a few startling
exceptions: Barrett and Reitmeier flew from California, Kilgore from Oregon, and the
winner for distance, Barnard, from New South Wales. Most of them were middle-aged
(although Parrott and Heitger are not yet forty), looking oddly youthful (I think that joy
transforms), but jazz musicians, if fortunate, live long: Frigo is 87, Wilder, 82.
       A listener, fortified by food at regular intervals and consistently available drinks
(for me, an excess of caffeine for medicinal purposes – a jam session started while I was
asleep on Thursday night, and I was anxious that I miss nothing else) may sit in a
comfortable chair and listen to eight hours of jazz in short sets, from fifteen minutes for
duets to an hour for a larger band. It was overwhelming, as though someone who had
only read about model trains or Morris dancing had wandered into a convention of
enthusiasts where everything in the ballroom focused on the chosen subject, non-stop.
But Chautauqua was more than a museum: it offered the art itself in action, unfettered
and created on the spot.
       All this is due to its creator and director, Joe Boughton, who feels a moral
compulsion to preserve the music he first heard in the Boston area in the late 1940s.
Boughton is a solidly packed man who in profile resembles a Roman general, but his
more characteristic expression is pleasure when his musicians are playing well and his
audience is reverent. He is the enemy of needless chatter unless it comes from the
bandstand, and printed cards decorated each table, reading, “Afford our artists the respect
they deserve and be considerate to those at your table and surrounding tables who have
come from long distances and paid a lot of money to hear the music and not be annoyed
by talking.” That contains Boughton‟s voice – low-key but impatient with nonsense. He

is also a one-man campaign to rescue jazz from the deadening effects of a limited
repertoire. Jazz musicians who are thrown together on the stand choose familiar songs:
variations on the blues, on “I Got Rhythm,” “Sweet Georgia Brown,” as well as crowd-
pleasers “Take the „A‟ Train” and “Satin Doll,” which Boughton calls “Satin Dull.” At
Chautauqua, now-rare melodies filled the air -- jazz standards ranging from King Oliver‟s
“Canal Street Blues,” circa 1923, to the Parker-Gillespie “Groovin‟ High” of 1945 and
John Lewis‟s “Skating In Central Park,” but rare once-popular surprises, including “I‟m
Sittin‟ On Top of the World,” “Smiles,” “Ida,” “Aren‟t You Glad You‟re You” and
“Moon Song.” Although the songs might seem antique, the approach is not self-
consciously historical: the young tenor saxophonist Harry Allen (to cite only one
example) who delivers eloquent solos while standing motionless, once leaning against the
bar, would fit in well with the bebop legend Clifford Brown or the Harlem stride master
James P. Johnson.
       Each of the four days was full of highlights, rarely loud or at a high pitch, but
emotionally exhilarating all the same, from the first set on Thursday, as the Heitger-
Sheridan duet became a trio with the addition of drummer John Von Ohlen (who
resembles Ben Franklin in coiffure but Franklin, from eighteenth-century reports, tended
to drag at fast tempos – something that Von Ohlen, sharp and attentive, never does) on a
Benny Goodman Trio –tempoed “Liza” that blossomed into a quintet in mid-performance
with tenor saxophonist Dan Block and bassist Phil Flanigan joining in because they
couldn‟t wait until it concluded. Block looks as though he had slipped off from his
professorship at an esteemed university, but has (unlike Allen) all the archetypical tenor
saxophonist‟s violent physical gestures, moving his horn ecstatically as his phrases
tumble out, adopting a hymnlike tone on a ballad or floating at a fast tempo in the best
Lester Young manner. Flanigan hoisted this band (and others) on his shoulders with his
elastic, supple time and when it came to his solo, no one succumbed to bass ennui, for his
choruses had the logic and emotion of Jack Teagarden‟s architectural statements.
(Flanigan is married to the eloquent singer Hanna Richardson, who had been at
Chautauqua in 2003 and was much missed this year.)
       Thus, Thursday night, an hour along, had become 52nd Street or Minton‟s again,
with no cigarette smoke or watered drinks in sight. No one got up and danced, a pity, but

no one clapped to an imagined beat while the musicians played – an immense relief.
What made the music memorable might have escaped a casual listener who expected jazz
performances to be lengthy, virtuosic solos. The players were concise, saying what they
had to say in two or three choruses, and the technical brilliance was usually in making the
difficult seem easy, whether on a racing hot performance or a tender ballad (although
perfectly placed high notes did ornament solos). What distinguished the performances
was a joyous, irresistible forward motion – listeners‟ heads steadily marked the beat, and
everyone had their own sound: I could tell who was taking a solo with my eyes closed.
And there was an affectionate empathy on the stand: although musicians in a club chatter
during others‟ solos, these players listened intently, created uplifting background figures,
and smiled at the good parts. Off-duty players stayed to admire. And when the last set of
the night ended, the players gathered around the bar to talk about music – but not
predictably. Rather, they swapped stories about symphonic conductors: Joe Wilder
sharing Pierre Boulez anecdotes, Dan Block giving us Fritz Reiner gossip. The general
bonhomie also turned into friendly banter with their colleagues and the audience: most
musicians like to talk, and most are naturally witty. The unstoppable Marty Grosz,
beginning to explicate the singing group the Ink Spots for a late-evening tribute, said,
“I‟ll make this short, because I already hear the sounds of chins hitting breastbones.” (He
was wrong: the crowd followed every note.)
       Some stereotypes are truer than not, however: I overheard this conversation
between a musician I‟ll call “M” and a solicitous member of the Chautauqua staff:
       “M, would you like a drink?”
       “Yes, thank you! Gin.”
       “A martini? With ice? Olives? An onion? Some tonic?”
       “No. [Emphatically.] Gin.”
       Gin in its naked state was then provided.
       On Thursday evening, I had talked with Phil Flanigan about the paying guests. I
had brought with me gloomy doubts about the aging, shrinking, and exclusively white
audience, and the question of what happens to a popular art when its supporters die off,
envisioning nothing but empty chairs in ten years. I had expected to find a kindred
pessimism in Flanigan, earnestly facing his buffet dinner, but it didn‟t bother him that the

audience that had once danced to Benny Goodman had thinned out. Flanigan told me,
emphatically, how he treasured these people. “They‟re dedicated fans. They come to
listen.” “What about their age?” I asked. “Lots of age,” he said. “This is a good thing.
Think of the accumulated wisdom, the combined experience. These are the folks who
supported the music when it was young. When they were young! What do you know?
They just happened to be loyal and long-lived.” (Flanigan‟s optimism, however, would
have been tested to the limit by the affluent, fiftyish couple who shared our table and
seemed to ignore the music in favor of the New York Times, barely looking up.)
       Flanigan‟s commentary was not the only surprise – especially for those who
consider jazz musicians as inarticulate, concerned more about reeds than realities. The
next day, I had attached myself to Joe Wilder for lunch. The conversation, steered by
Wilder, weaved around memories of his friends, famous and not – but he really wanted to
talk about Iraq and eco-devastation, and his perspective was anything but accepting.
       Friday began with rain, and the hotel corridors were ornamented by white plastic
buckets; from one room I heard an alto player practicing; behind another door trumpeter
Jon-Erik Kellso was turning a phrase this way and that in the fashion of a poet accenting
one word and then another while reciting the line half-aloud. I spent some costly time
entranced by the displays of compact discs, buying and considering.
       Later, the party began officially in the main ballroom with fourteen musicians (six
brass, four reeds, four rhythm), stretched from left to right, jostling for position on the
stage of the main ballroom, played “Way Down Yonder in New Orleans,” at its original,
yearning tempo, with the trumpeter Randy Reinhart directing traffic, the musicians
creating simple chordal backgrounds of organ tones played in whole notes (called
“footballs” for the way they look on music paper) and the brilliant anachronism Vince
Giordano switching from his bass saxophone (an instrument out of fashion by 1935) to
the only aluminum double bass I have ever seen, as the spirit took him, the convocation
suggesting Eddie Condon meeting Count Basie in 1939.
       The set that followed was a masterpiece of small-band friendship, featuring Allen,
Wilder, Block (on alto), the underrated Washington, D.C., pianist Larry Eanet, Howard
Alden, Flanigan, and Von Ohlen. In forty minutes, they offered a strolling “If Dreams
Come True,” with Flanigan beginning his solo with a quote from the verse to “Love in

Bloom,” a speedy “Time After Time,” usually taken lugubriously, with the melody
handed off among all the horns and Alden in eight-bar segments, an even brisker “This
Can‟t Be Love,” notable for Eanet, who offered his own version of Hank Jones‟s pearls at
top speed and for Wilder – who now plays in a posture that would horrify brass teachers,
his horn nearly parallel to his body, pointing down at the floor. His radiant tone, heard on
so many recordings of the Fifties, is burnished now into a speaking, conversational one –
Wilder will take a simple, rhythmic phrase and repeat it a number of times, toying with it
as the chords beneath him go flying by, a Louis Armstrong experiment, something
fledgling players shouldn‟t try at home, and he enjoys witty musical jokes: quoting
“Ciribiribin” and, later, “Mona Lisa,” in a solo on “Flyin‟ Home.” Often he brought out a
bright green plastic cup and waggled it close to and away from the bell of his horn,
creating growly, subterranean sounds Cootie Williams would have liked. (“From the five
and ten,” he said, when I asked him about the cup.) Wilder‟s ballad feature, “I Cover the
Waterfront,” was a cathedral of quiet climbing phrases. And the set closed with a trotting
version of “The Jeep is Jumpin‟,” a Johnny Hodges riff on “I Got Rhythm” changes,
played the way it was in 1941, before musicians believed that audiences needed to hear
everything faster and louder.
       A series of beautifully shaped impromptu performances followed, including a
Bobby Gordon – John Sheridan duet full of Gordon‟s breathy chalumeau register, and a
Rebecca Kilgore set. Kilgore has a serious, no-nonsense prettiness and doesn‟t drape
herself over the microphone to woo an audience, but she is an affecting, sly actress, who
uses her face, her posture, and her hands to support or play off of what her beautiful voice
is offering. She is especially convincing when she is acting herself and her twin at once:
on “Close Your Eyes,” a song full of serious assurance that the hearer will be safe forever
in the arms of the true love, Kilgore managed to suggest that the lyrics were absolutely
true while she audibly winked at the audience, as if to say, “Do you believe this sweet,
silly stuff I‟m singing?”
       Friday closed with Vince Giordano‟s Nighthawks, an explosive ten-piece band,
replicating late Twenties and early Thirties jazz and dance orchestras. Giordano, who
resembles a movie idol who could have partnered Joan Blondell, is remarkable – an
eloquent melodist and improviser on his unwieldy bass saxophone, where he gets a room-

filling tone both sinewy and caressing; his aluminum string bass, ferociously propulsive
tuba, and boyishly energetic vocals. The Nighthawks reunion band featured whizzing
tempos, bright solos, and on-target ensemble passages on a for-dancers-only repertoire,
circa 1931, Savoy Ballroom. Most listeners have never heard a band like the Nighthawks
live – they shout to the heavens without being extraordinarily loud, and their ensemble
momentum is thrilling. Hoarse and dizzy, we climbed the stairs to our rooms at 1:30
       Saturday morning began sedately, with solo piano, some pastoral duos and trios,
and then caught fire with a Kilgore-James Dapogny duet. Dapogny is a rolling, rumbling
pianist in the style that used to be called “Chicagoan”: right-hand single note melody
lines, flashing Earl Hines octaves, stride-piano ornamentations supported by a full,
mobile left hand, and he and Kilgore had never played together before. Kilgore let
herself go on the nineteenth-century parlor favorite “Martha,” subtitled “Ah! So Pure!”
which Connee Boswell took for a more raucous ride with the Bob Crosby band sixty-five
years ago. Kilgore‟s approach was gliding and swinging, with hand gestures that would
not have disgraced a Victorian songstress or a melodramatic 1936 band singer (a raised
index finger for emphasis, a gentle clasp of her own throat), but the sly glint in her eye
and the sweetly ironic quotation marks in her delivery suggested that Martha‟s purity was
open to question. Then came a trio of Dan Barrett and Bob Havens on trombones,
backed only Marty Grosz, someone his Chicago comrade Frank Chace has called “a one-
man rhythm gang,” in a short set notable for fraternal improvising and Barrett‟s
interpolating one vocal stanza of a lewd blues, “The Duck‟s Yas Yas” into “Basin Street
Blues.” More brass ecstasy followed in a trumpet extravaganza, ending with a six-
trumpet plus Barrett version of Bunny Berigan‟s famous “I Can‟t get Started” solo, by
now a piece of Americana, with the ballroom‟s walls undulating with the collective
passion. The Nighthawks played an afternoon session, full of exuberance and wit:
Giordano, calling a difficult tune for the band, smiled at his players and said, “Good luck,
boys,” in the manner of Knute Rockne encouraging Notre Dame, before they leapt in to
the forests of notes. And it wasn‟t all simply hot music: where else in America, I
wondered, could you hear someone sing “Okay, Baby,” with its deathless, funny lyrics
about the romantic couple: “The wedding ring I‟ve bought for you / Fifty-two more

payments and it‟s yours, dear”? Grosz followed with a set devoted to those musicians
who would have turned 100 this year – Coleman Hawkins, James P. Johnson, Jimmy
Dorsey, and Fats Waller, where Grosz (who knows these things, having come here from
Berlin as a child in 1930) commented, “America is the land of easy come, easy go,”
before singing a Waller ballad, “If It Ain‟t Love,” as tenderly as if he were stroking the
Beloved‟s cheek.
       Sunday morning began with a solo recital by guitarist Howard Alden, which itself
began with a rueful “Blame It On My Youth” – Alden also had elevated all the rhythm
sections of the bands he had been in, as well as being a careful, lyrical banjo soloist with
the Nighthawks – but the temperature of the room soon rose appreciably. A nearly
violent “It‟s All Right With Me” featured three storming choruses of four-bar trades
among Harry Allen, Wilder, Barrett, and Dan Block; Duke Heitger closed his set with an
extravagant “You‟re Driving Me Crazy,” with its seldom-played stomping verse, here
played twice before the ensemble strode into the chorus; the band supported by Grosz,
constructing chordal filigrees at a very fast tempo; Giordano, slapping his aluminum bass
for dear life, and Ed Metz, Jr., recalling Zutty Singleton, Armstrong‟s drumming pal of
the late Twenties, if Singleton had gone to the gym regularly.
       Then it was time to go, to close with another Boughton extravaganza – a ballad
medley lifted up greatly by Scott Robinson‟s “Moonlight Becomes You” on bass flute,
Jon-Erik Kellso‟s “Willow Weep For Me,” growled as if he had become one of
Ellington‟s brass in 1929, and the clarinetist Bob Reitmeier‟s soft “Deep Purple.” These
heartfelt moments gave way to the true closing “After You‟ve Gone,” which featured
impromptu piano duets among the many pianists, and an uproarious enthusiasm – greeted
with the cheers it deserved.
       I wasn‟t surprised that on Sunday afternoon, driving back through Erie,
Pennsylvania (where Lloyd‟s Fireworks advertised “pepper spray, stun guns, sale on
Lord of the Rings tape”) that my thoughts drifted back to Heitger‟s Thursday-evening
prediction. Yes, there had been too much white and blue hair to make me feel confident
about the future of the audience, Flanigan notwithstanding; there had even seemed to be
too much music, pushing me to the brink of satiety, and it had all been evanescent – but
Heitger had been right: it had been fun.

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