Abdul the Rabbi

This post is not intended to be self-promoting in any way. It was written in a spirit of gratified amazement.

I play in a band called the 4th Ward Afro-Klezmer Orchestra. It's led by the trumpet player Roger Ruzow, best known as a founding member of the Gold Sparkle Band. As the name implies, the band plays a fusion of jazz, klezmer, and Afropop. It's an unusual and interesting band; I very much enjoy being a part of it.

A little over a year ago, Roger brought a new piece to rehearsal. Nothing about it made sense, including the title, "Abdul the Rabbi." Musically, it consisted of a bunch of random-sounding horn riffs over a funk/hip-hop base. It seemed both repetitive and directionless. Roger explained that it was intended to have a rapper laying down a vocal over it, but I couldn't see any way that this piece could work.

But Roger decided that this would be the title tune of our new album. We recorded the tune in pieces, to be assembled later. Roger seemed to have some mysterious vision of where the piece was headed, but I was still clueless. After I recorded as part of the saxophone section, he called me back into the studio to record an odd marimba part. Okay....

Before a gig a few months ago, Roger took most of the band outside to his car and turned on the CD player. "Abdul the Rabbi" had been put together, with some striking guitar melodies I had never heard before. It caught my attention - this was almost something really good.

A few days ago I finally heard the rough mix of the finished product, with a vocal by Atlanta rapper Zano. I was floored. Zano came up with first-person rap in the character of the Arab/Jewish rabbi Abdul.

A religious anomaly, devoid of harmony,
Forged in the kiln of the hot sands....
What I am is unique in its chutzpah,
But most likely it will lead to a fatwa.

Peace between Arabs and Jews is Abdul's desperate, doomed mission.

Got to find the light within the dogma
To impact the knack to crack the surface
With some news other than where the last bomb dropped.

To every last checkpoint, wherever I can plant seeds
Every last synagogue and every last masjid
This I will accomplish even if it be my last deed.

I'm the oldest member of the band at 53, and I'm not that into hip-hop, although I like some things I've heard. But "Abdul the Rabbi" brings a lump to my throat, and the piece gets deeper every time I hear it. I really didn't have much to do with the song, but I'm glad that I was a small part of it; I'm as proud of this as any music I've ever recorded. I can't wait for the album to come out.

Letter to a Clubowner

My quartet played a gig at an Atlanta club back in October. The clubowner told me that they were looking for bands could bring in 30-50 listeners. We had what I thought was a successful gig - pretty good musically, and the 45 or so folks in the audience were enthusiastic about the music.

I waited a reasonable amount of time before approaching them about playing there again. I was told that our last gig had been "a little sleepy, turnout-wise." I pointed out that we met their audience expectations; the owner replied that bar sales had been disappointing, but offered us an earlier weeknight or Sunday slot instead of the more desirable Friday or Saturday. I probably overreacted in sending her this long reply. I've changed her name and redacted the name of the club. Creative Loafing is Atlanta's weekly entertainment paper.

Hi Katie,

I know that what I should say is: sure, we’d love to play on a weeknight or Sunday. But this exchange, as well as some other recent adventures trying to book bands, has brought a lot of things to the surface for me, and here’s what I’m feeling:

I’ve played music for 30 years – commercial music with other folks’ bands, but my own music has always been off-center, jazz-based music. It’s the type of music that will never have a large audience, but it’s the kind I’m driven to create. For the Jeff Crompton Quartet, our October gig at ------- was a good one.

Thinking back on that gig, I remember how nervous I was that we’d attract the required 30-50 listeners. It’s actually embarrassing and kind of humiliating to me when I remember how relieved I was that we’d “passed the test” by drawing the required crowd – at a venue that wasn’t paying us anything.

And now I find out that we didn’t pass after all. So after all these years of struggling, I put a new, excellent band together, and played a show which the clubowner liked, but don’t rate a weekend night. I'm depressed beyond words.

The current system of live music in clubs reminds me of our political system – it’s broken. You and I are part of the problem, and I’m kind of ashamed of myself for contributing to the problem by being willing to play at ------- under the current system. But not only am I willing, I want to. I love -------. I love the feel of the room; I love the acoustics; I love playing there; I love listening to music there; I love the Fin du Monde beer. I love the place.

But what have musicians come to? It has come to the point where there are hardly any clubs that will actually pay musicians for playing. Well, okay. Times are hard. Many clubs are scraping by. So we musicians have come to accept the fact that we have to play for the door, tips, or nothing. And if we play for the door, we have to hire our own doorman – and if we do that, we probably will have little left after paying him.

But okay – we’ve become resigned to that.

But when did the major responsibility for promoting the gig (and thus the venue), providing an audience, and racking up bar sales become the band’s? They should certainly be part of those things (mostly by playing good music), but it’s just bizarre that it should all fall to the band.

At our October gig, there were indeed some light drinkers and even some teetotalers. But some of those folks wanted to order food, only to find that there was little or none available. And one beer aficionado in the audience complained to me that he had difficulty getting served. I don’t know what the specifics of his problem were, but he wasn’t happy. It was his first time hearing me play, and he genuinely seemed to love the music. But I don’t know if I can get him to come back to -------. So maybe we’re not the right band for a weekend night at -------; maybe our audience is not right for the place – that’s for you to decide. But maybe the disappointing sales weren’t the band’s fault.

And promotion – I did a lot, but I have since thought of some other things I could do. And I’ll do them next time, if there is a next time. But I just looked through Creative Loafing, and none of -------’s upcoming shows are included in the music listings. I can understand if you don’t want to buy ads – I’ve bought Creative Loafing ads, and they’re expensive – but getting your venue included in the listings is free; there’s even a paragraph of instructions on how to get your shows listed.

I’m more discouraged than ever to be a creative jazz musician in Atlanta. I’ve probably pissed you off and burned this bridge, but that wasn’t my intention. To give you the simple answer I should have, instead of this depressing diatribe: Yes, we’d love to play at ------- – on a weekend, weekday or Sunday. Whenever you’ll have us, if you’ll still have us.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Like I said, I love -------, and hope to play there soon, in spite of what I’ve said about the broken system we both contribute to. If that’s not to be, so be it.

Jeff

Deep Rivers

Sam Rivers was born in 1923; he died on the day after Christmas, 2011. The death of an 88-year old can't really be said to be shocking or unexpected, but Rivers' passing caught me be surprise; it sometimes seemed as if he would live forever, creating incredible music for all time.

Sam Rivers was a saxophonist (tenor and soprano), flutist, pianist and composer; he also recorded on bass clarinet and synthesizer (and as a vocalist) on occasion. Jazz is often considered a young man's game, but Rivers was a late bloomer, at least in terms of making a mark in the larger jazz world. Although he had put in stints with Herb Pomeroy's Boston big band and T-Bone Walker and had recorded a Tadd Dameron session for Blue Note (not released until many years later), he was over 40 years old and practically unknown when he joined Miles Davis's quintet for a tour of Japan in 1964.

Recordings from that tour reveal a mature, imaginative, and very individualistic musician. He knows the tunes, knows the changes, and knows how to improvise over them. But he already seems to be somewhere else; his phrasing and note choices push against the confines of the songs. Musically speaking, Rivers wanted to be elsewhere, and his association with the Davis group ended when the Japanese tour was over.

But the floodgates had been opened; by the end of the year, Rivers had recorded Blue Note sessions with Tony Williams and Larry Young, following by Fuchsia Swing Song, his own first album. This seeming explosion of creativity marked the level of accomplishment that would last the rest of Rivers' life.

In 1970 he and his wife Beatrice opened Studio Rivbea in their Manhattan loft home. For most of the decade, audiences had the opportunity to walk through Rivers' living room to the performance space and hear some of the finest avant-garde jazz musicians in the world. Highlights from one week at Studio Rivbea were issued on five LPs - the Wildflower series on Douglas, reissued on CD as The New York Jazz Loft Sessions.

In 1991, he took a step in common with many Northern residents nearing 70 years of age - he moved to Florida. In Orlando, he found a large number of highly skilled musicians who were employed by Disney World, but were hungry to play some challenging, creative music. Rivers' name for his large ensembles was the RivBea Orchestra, and the Florida version of the big band was tight and impressive, even if some of the soloists could not match Rivers' own level of inspiration.

But for many listeners, Rivers was at his best in a trio setting, joining a bassist and drummer to play seamless sets of mostly-improvised music that flowed in and out of different keys and rhythms. His mid-70's trio, with Dave Holland and Barry Altschul, was almost telepathic in the musicians' responses to each other. His Florida trio, with Doug Mathews on bass and Anthony Cole on drums, was also excellent. Mathews doubled on bass clarinet and Cole on tenor sax, so they sometimes produced surprising all-woodwind textures. Personally, I feel cheated that the only recorded evidence of a really magnificent trio, Rivers, bassist Richard Davis, and percussionist Warren Smith, is six minutes from a 1972 concert released on Rivers' Hues album.

I was lucky enough to hear Rivers perform three times. The first was at Tyrone's in Athens, Georgia, where he played a stunning duet performance with Dave Holland in 1979. He was back a week later with a quartet, but the Art Ensemble of Chicago had a concert a few blocks away the same night - what a choice to have to make! - and I went with the Art Ensemble. (As I write this, I'm listening to the two wonderful Rivers/Holland duo albums on the Improvising Artists label.)

I didn't hear Rivers in person again until 2002, when his trio with Mathews and Cole played in an old stone church with wonderful acoustics, just a few blocks from my house in Atlanta. About a year and a half later he drove up from Orlando (no limo or private jet - the jazz business ain't exactly big-time show biz) to play a concert with the Jason Moran Bandwagon trio at a concert hall south of Atlanta. One of the selections they played was Rivers' tune "Beatrice," from the Fuchsia Swing Song album; this is the only one of Rivers' compositions that has become something of a jazz standard.

And now I am left with not only the memories of some wonderful concerts, but with regret. I always meant to make the eight-hour drive to Orlando to hear the RivBea Orchestra perform, but somehow never got around to it. I was excited to have a chance to redeem myself this Spring - I was planning to meet a friend in Sarasota for some shows Rivers had scheduled in March. Now, of course, that won't happen.

Reading what I've written, I'm struck with what a shallow tribute this is. I've only scratched the surface; Sam Rivers deserves a book, not a little blog post. So long, Sam Rivers, and thanks for the endlessly creative music.

George Hornsby

This post is a rebuttal of sorts. As I write, I've got my copy of Bill Russell's American Music by Mark Hazeldine open to page 100. This page represents the major source of information in print anywhere about Pittsburgh pianist George Hornsby. And I don't like what it says.

William Russell's American Music label has long fascinated me. Russell started the label in 1944 to issue the recordings of New Orleans musicians he was making at the time. Some of the best recorded work by Bunk Johnson, George Lewis, Kid Shots Madison, and Wooden Joe Nicholas was issued on American Music. Russell issued 40 78 RPM records and 13 10" LPs before letting the label go dormant in the early 1950s. Some 20 years or so later, Russell began licensing American Music material to the Storyville label in Denmark and the Japanese Dan label, but in the intervening years, American Music recordings became legendary - not only for their musical quality, but because they were so scarce. Many collectors in those years first heard acetate dubs of the American Music 78s and albums before they ever saw the the actual records. The label is now owned by George Buck's Jazzology group, and most of the issuable music Russell recorded is available on CD.

As I said, most of the music Russell recorded and issued was by traditional New Orleans musicians, but he did venture into related areas. He recorded the St. Louis ragtime pianist Charlie Thompson and the Mobile Strugglers, a black string band from Alabama that played blues and country ragtime. And in February or March, 1947, he took a gospel pianist he found in Pittsburgh, George Hornsby, into Phifer Recording Productions in that city and recorded ten selections, eventually releasing four of them on 78s.

The two George Hornsby 78s represent some of the very few American Music recordings that have not been reissued - not on American Music, not on Storyville or Dan, not even by any enterprising bootleggers anywhere in the world. So of course, I kept my eyes open for them. I found a copy of American Music 521, "Bye and Bye" backed with "Jesus Gave Me a Little Light," about a year and a half ago. And a month ago I finally tracked down American Music 522, "I Know It Was the Blood" and "My Soul Loves Jesus."

George Hornsby is an elusive figure. According to Russell's biographical notes, he was born in Alabama in 1912, and in the 1930's had his own jazz band in Pittsburgh, the Fess Hornsby Orchestra. His name sometimes comes up in biographical discussions of Kenny Clarke - Clarke, a Pittsburgh native, played drums in Horsby's band. Russell indicates that Hornsby turned exclusively to religious music in 1939, and had a weekly radio show, "Modern Hymnology," in Pittsburgh.

Why haven't Hornsby's recordings been reissued? Well, according to Hazeldine's book on the American Music label, Russell wasn't happy with the results of the recording session, although I guess he was initially satisfied enough to issue four of the sides. On page 100, we find this passage:

This was the least successful of all the American Music sessions and Bill Russell was always reluctant to discuss it. Having listened to all of the [Hornsby] masters I can confirm that the playing is of a poor standard and there are no plans to issue any of the above tracks in the AMCD series.

Well, pardon my language, but this is bullshit. I haven't heard all ten recordings (plus alternate takes), as Hazeldine has, but the issued 78s are the work of an accomplished and excellent musician. There is nothing "of a poor standard" about these records.

I feel that Hazeldine has adopted Russell's values in decrying these recordings. William Russell was conservative in his musical tastes - he didn't care for later jazz developments, or even for the saxophone, which he felt had no place in jazz. I suppose that at some point he realized that George Hornsby wasn't a "primitive" gospel pianist, but a knowledgeable, modern (for the time) musician. Hornsby had formidable technical abilites, and his approach to the piano had more in common with Earl Hines than with Cow Cow Davenport or Jimmy Yancey. This was not to Russell's liking, apparently.

It's a shame that these excellent records have never been reissued, and probably won't be. So that interested listeners can hear them and make up their own minds, I've posted mp3's of the two issued George Hornsby 78s here. I invoked the name of Earl Hines in the last paragraph, and these recordings may remind some listeners of what Hines might have sounded like if he had turned to gospel music.

I don't know what happened to George Hornsby after his American Music session, or when he died, as he presumably has. But I'm unwilling to let the negative opinion expressed in the one readily available reference book mentioning him go unchallenged. I dig your music, Fess Hornsby!

New Orleans Report 2011

For the past 21 years, I have visited New Orleans annually; it feels somewhat like a second home to me. For my friends, here's a brief report on my recent trip.

This year I made the trip during the second full week of September; the 17 months since my last visit represents my longest spell away from the city since 1990. It was the kind of New Orleans visit I have every once in awhile - things didn't quite "click," at least until my last night.

On my way across Mississippi, I turned south off of I-10 at Biloxi and drove the rest of the way to New Orleans on U.S. 90, along the coast. I was a little shocked at how much destruction Katrina had caused in this area, and how little has been rebuilt. I made a few stops to do some geocaching, notably in the Bayou Saugave Wildlife Preserve, where I had a nice, very hot, hike.

I hit the city on Wednesday afternoon and went to Preservation Hall that night. I was disappointed to see trumpeter William Smith walk in instead of Mark Braud, who was scheduled to be there; Smith has disappointed me at times in the past. But he played well on this occasion, and the music was very enjoyable. There was one of those nice moments when the audience sang responses to Smith’s vocal phrases on “Yes Sir, That’s My Baby.” That tune was the band’s response to a toddler putting some money in the kitty. The band was led by Charlie Gabriel, who played clarinet on the first two tunes and tenor on the others. Freddie Lonzo was on trombone, Rickie Monie on piano, Jeffery Hills on tuba, and Joe Lastie on drums. “Dinah” was short, with no solos, to fill out the set. It was all the stronger for that, and had some nice collective improvising. The set I heard was:

China Boy
Caravan (drum feature)
St. Louis Blues (Lonzo vocal)
Yes Sir, That’s My Baby (Smith vocal)
Dinah

From there I walked to Mimi’s, at the edge of the Bywater neighborhood (the other side of the street would be Marigny) to hear a set by Aurora Nealand’s Royal Roses. They were an impressive young group. Nealand played soprano sax most of the night, but did a tune or two on clarinet. They played:

Shake It and Break It
Tishimingo Blues
Douce Ambience
Everybody Loves My Baby
The Old Rugged Cross
China Boy

and one other tune which I don’t remember. “Old Rugged Cross” went pretty far afield, starting with the guitar solo – trad free jazz, or something like that. Aurora is a really fabulous saxophonist - and pretty good on clarinet, too.

Nealand was scheduled to appear at Buffa’s with Tom McDermott, my favorite New Orleans pianist, on Thursday, but she posted on Facebook that McDermott wouldn’t be there that night, so I stayed in. But I did take a walk through Marigny and Bywater and found a couple of of interesting sites – the spot where Homer Plessy boarded a segregated train car, leading to the Plessy v. Ferguson case, and Jack “Papa” Laine’s house on St. Ferdinand Street. Laine was the patriarch of the white jazz scene around the turn of the 20th century.


On Friday I went back to Preservation Hall to hear Leroy Jones, whom I’ve always liked. It was kind of a mixed bag. I’m pretty sure that the Finnish trombonist Katja Toivola was Jones’ wife or girlfriend; I found her playing to be of borderline competency. It was nice to hear Daniel Farrow on tenor sax again, though. And I've always like Mari Watanabe's piano playing. Mitchell Player was on bass, and the drummer was introduced as “Jerry Barbarin Anderson” – I didn’t know he was part of that famous family. The set I heard consisted of:

Margie
Muskrat Ramble (Jones vocal)
Baby, Won't You Please Come Home
Come Down to New Orleans

I was in a somewhat unsettled frame of mind, though, until Saturday night, when I went to the Spotted Cat to hear (and sit in with) the Panorama Jazz Band. That event brought the whole trip into focus and made it all worthwhile. At the beginning of their second set, I played “Dolgo Hora” and “When My Dreamboat Comes Home" - I had always wanted to play the latter tune with a New Orleans band. Aurora Nealand sat out the two tunes I played, but when she came back to replace me, she really bore down and played hard. I took that as a compliment. Ben Schenck and the rest of the band sounded better than ever.

Sunday morning I took one last walk around the French Quarter. Although it was not the best visit I’ve ever had, in the end I really didn’t want it to end. Even when a New Orleans trip is slightly disappointing, it still hurts to leave.

On September 11th, a Poem by Ai

Dread

My name is Shirley Herlihy,
but to the lowlifes on my beat,
I am Officer Girlie.
They do not mean to diss me.
It is a sign of respect
that I let them think is ok with me, and it is,
when I am trying to do my community policing.
After my brother disappeared
at the World Trade Center,
the word went out.
The lowlifes even gave me a bouquet of flowers
I could not accept.
They came from the Korean store
before somebody tossed a Molotov cocktail
through the front door
in retaliation for a “situation”
that involved the girlfriend of a drug dealer
shoplifting disposable diapers and Tampax.
The fact is I appreciated the thought
if not the deed.
I mean the flowers were at least a sign
I had not become a cop
turning a blind eye on the misery of the street.
I was known as someone who was tough,
but fair in meting out justice.
God knows it’s hard to toe the line
every single time a perp messes up, but I tried.
If somebody’s mother needed a ride
to a bail hearing,
my transportation specialist,
Bobby J, the gypsy cab guy would oblige.
I’d say thanks by slipping him
tickets to a ball game, a movie
or some lame excuse for entertainment.
I kept the wheels turning,
so I didn’t fall under them.
I only had to use my gun once in two years
against a sonofabitch
who murdered his uncle
and hid his body in a dumpster.
Original, huh?
Stanko, the wino, found him on his garbage rounds.
We cornered the asshole in an alley
behind that shooting gallery
in the building that’s now been gentrified
and is home to a decorater, six cats
and stacks of old cool jazz albums.
Anyway, the asshole said he had nothing to lose
fired and missed, fired again
and clipped me in the shins,
but I got him as I went down.
He died, but the paramedics revived him
and now he’s in prison.
He’s born again and keeps claiming Christ has risen,
as if nobody heard the news.
Once in a while, he calls me to apologize
and proselytize. I let him last time,
even as I sat, holding the telephone,
wishing my brother would come back.
I keep telling myself he’s gone forever,
but it’s so hard to accept.
He was always rescuing things
when we were kids – injured cats, birds,
even a German shepherd
who had been known to bite without provocation.
I used to tease him by singing,
“Patrick Kevin’s going to Heaven.”
I wonder if he made it, or if he’s suspended between the life
that didn’t mean much to him
and the death that means everything to me?
He was such a good boy.
He would have been a better man, if only…
After our parents died
when I was fifteen going on twenty-five
and he was twelve, we raised ourselves.
No one else had the time.
It’s a busy world out there
the addicts tell me and I believe them
because I know.
I bet they’re lining up at Smitty’s
crack house right now to score.
I should be there to arrest someone,
but I’ve turned in my badge and gun
and come downtown to search this crater
for some sign of Pat,
even if it’s only a feeling
that he’s still around in spirit at least,
if not in body.
There’re just a few of us
who won’t give up.
With our shovels, picks and garden tools
we dig among the hunks of steel,
the concrete and remnants of people
who went to work one day
and vanished into our memories.
I dread finding him and dread I won’t
as I choke from the fumes less poisonous
than the hope that keeps me awake at night,
but I can’t give up.
He’d do the same for me.
Patrick Kevin Herlihy, I repeat under my breath
as I uncover another credit card
and a wallet with something that looks
suspiciously like blackened flesh fused to it.
I turn them in and return to digging
until faint from the effort and fumes, I collapse.
Two other searchers take me by each arm
and help me to a chair,
but I don’t stay there long.
After a candy bar and a glass of water,
I’m back at my task.
On the job, I never questioned what I was.
I had my role to play
in the day to day give
and mostly take of the criminals
who inhabited my world,
but this sixty acres is a city of ghosts
and I don’t know where I stand with them.
When I arrived this morning,
nothing greeted me but the wind
and a grackle making a din
as it pecked and scratched
at flat, charred patches of ground.
Maybe it’s a good sign
that the birds have returned,
a sign of rebirth. But whose? I wonder,
as I stare at my bruised hands.
Last year, I solved the robbery
of a palm reader.
As a lark, I let her read my lines.
She said, “In the future,
you’ll find the one you lost,
but it will cost you.”
Now as I stand above a hole seventy feet deep,
looking down, I don’t see Pat.
When I call his name,
my voice is swallowed up by the roar of machines.
At first, that sound signified the possibility
of finding him
and made my heard beat faster,
but now it’s just the white noise
I hear in my nightmares
that always begins at the scene of a shooting
that occurred during a domestic disturbance
between a man and a woman in Queens
that left two teens bereft of a mother and father
and made them cling to one another much too tightly,
so that now the one left behind is frightened
by her utter loneliness
and drinks Irish whiskey at the pub
where her brother, Pat, used to hold up the bar,
promising the patrons he was going to quit drinking
one of these days
and to assorted laughter
call for another round of drinks,
knowing his sister would never let him
sink as low as he wanted to go.
He’d seen the fight. I hadn’t
but I was haunted too
although I tried not to show it,
especially to him.
That day when I got home
from basketball practice,
I found Pat cowering under the stairway
as I had so many times before
when our parents fought,
but this time, I knew something was different.
He wasn’t crying for a change.
“Are Mom and Dad fighting again?” I asked.
“They were,” he said, without a trace of emotion,
then he told me Dad had come into his room,
hugged him and said goodbye.
That’s when I knew something terrible had happened.
All the years since, I’d nursed him
through the rough times, the blue funks
and the highs that were too much
and always ended in a rush
of promises to stop drinking.
He worked construction, he’d say,
I wouldn’t catch him falling off some scaffolding
high above Manhattan,
even drunk he could maintain his balance.
The truth was he was often unemployed,
but I supported him.
I’d long since moved into our parents’ room,
but he stayed in his
across the hall from where they’d died,
surrounded by all his trophies from high school, comics
and posters taped and retaped to the walls.
The week before the attack,
he’d told me he was going back to work.
He’d stopped drinking for good
and I believed him, as I looked deeply into his eyes,
and saw a boy who having barely escaped
the inferno of family violence
would still finally perish in fire’s cold embrace.

Ai (October 21, 1947 – March 20, 2010)

Chris, Tabby, and the Blues

Tonight I listened to a blues CD that I have always enjoyed - Red Mud by Chris Thomas King. King, the son of Baton Rouge bluesman Tabby Thomas, is an eclectic musician whose output includes electric blues, old-style country blues, hip-hop, soul blues, and more. Red Mud, from 1998, is an interesting mix of originals (blues and otherwise) and blues classics. Like I said, I've always enjoyed this album, and I was enjoying it tonight. But two tracks unexpectedly grabbed me and brought me to the edge of my seat.

Those two tracks were "Hoodoo Party" and "Bus Station Blues," both written by Tabby Thomas, and both featuring his vocals. These two songs got to me on a level that that King's own songs and covers (though excellent) didn't. I'm not sure what the significance of this is, if any. Tabby is a more limited musician than his son, although his voice is perhaps more compelling. Is the "lesson" here that the further one gets from the source of the blues, the more diluted the message gets? Maybe the most powerful blues performances are by those musicians whose level of sophistication doesn't permit them to play anything else but the blues.

I'm not sure what all this means, but I made sure to play a couple of Tabby Thomas 45s before I went to bed. They sure sounded good.