Monday Side-Session: The Many Moods of Indigo

Yesterday, we basked in the original instrumental glory of Duke Ellington's Mood Indigo. Today, we’re flipping the script to listen to how the vocalists took over!

The song acquired lyrics almost immediately. They were ostensibly written by Irving Mills, Duke’s manager, though I always wonder how much actual lyric‑writing he did. My hunch is that he sometimes subcontracted the words while still sharing composing credit with Duke (and in this case, Barney Bigard).

We have a bunch of vocal versions, so let's get started!

The Early Pioneers (1931–1933)

The first vocal version appeared in 1931, when Lee Morse and her Blue Grass Boys recorded it for Columbia:

That's great! And of course, “Blue Grass” didn’t mean “Bluegrass” in 1931 - no fiddles or banjos!

Next came Gene Austin (of “My Blue Heaven” fame), who recorded the song for Victor:

Is that perhaps the first time a Duke Ellington number was recorded as an out‑and‑out pop song?

Also in 1932, The Three Keys cut “Mood Indigo” for Columbia:

The label notes that “Bon Bon” is one of the group members - that’s the great George Tunnell, later featured with Jan Savitt’s band, and an early example of a Black singer starring with a white band.

It’s no surprise that the jazz‑leaning Boswell Sisters got their hands on an Ellington tune, and indeed they recorded “Mood Indigo” for Brunswick in 1933:

The Bozzies always sound great and how can you beat having the Dorsey Brothers for backup?

The Duke & The Divas (1940–1941)

As we move to 1940, we come to Duke Ellington himself, who recorded a vocal version with Ivie Anderson for Columbia:

I believe that’s Duke’s first session with the brilliant Jimmy Blanton on bass and Ben Webster on tenor sax. We’ll be hearing plenty from the Blanton/Webster band as we go forward.

Moving to 1941, we have a terrific version by Dinah Shore, from a Victor album tied to the radio show NBC’s Chamber Music Society of Lower Basin Street.

This was early in Dinah's long and successful career, but she already had the goods!

The Mid-Century Moderns (1950s)

Now we hit the 1950s with The Four Blazes on the small United label in 1952:

So nice and smooth!

Next comes another independent label entry: The Norman Petty Trio on Nor‑Va‑Jak in 1954.

RCA Victor’s subsidiary Vik picked up that recording for national distribution, and it became a hit. Norman Petty is, of course, better known as a producer - especially for Buddy Holly and the Crickets.

Also in 1954, The Modernaires teamed with fellow big band vet Georgie Auld for this version on Coral Records:

The Mods’ doo‑wops and Georgie’s tenor sax give it a distinctly mid‑’50s flavor!

Also in 1954, Billy Eckstine (himself a big band veteran) recorded the song for MGM:

It fits Mr. B like a glove!

Then perhaps the most famous big‑band alumnus of all, Frank Sinatra, included a terrific version on his 1955 Capitol album In the Wee Small Hours:

Frank and arranger/conductor Nelson Riddle are an unbeatable combination!

The Mills Brothers finally got around to "Mood Indigo" in 1958, recording it for their album Mmmm... on Dot Records:

That really does make you go Mmmm...

Next up in 1959 is the incomparable Nat "King" Cole. who included the song on his Welcome to the Club album for Capitol:

Just great! I understand that Dave Cavanaugh is conducting the Count Basie band there!

Also in 1959, Perry Como included the song in his RCA Victor album Como Swings:

I know I've said it before, but Perry was a sneaky-hip square!

Another long-time popular singing star, Doris Day, included the tune on her 1960 album What Every Girl Should Know for Columbia:

I think Doris is underrated as a vocalist these days, since she’s best remembered as a movie star - but at least she’s remembered.

We've really only scratched the surface of this song's life. Do you prefer the early, torchy 1930s takes, or the "Wee Small Hours" sophistication of the 1950s?

Sundays with Duke #13: Setting the Mood

As we hit 1931 with Duke Ellington, we arrive at one of the crown jewels of his entire output: Mood Indigo. Few pieces announce the Ellington sound so completely — the colors, the poise, the sly melancholy, the sense that the band is painting with air.

The discography gets a little twisty right out of the gate. The first recording seems to be this Okeh release credited to the Harlem Footwarmers:

But the waters get muddy, because there’s also this Brunswick recording under the Jungle Band name:

Dreamy Blues was the original title — and only appeared on the very first run — before the tune became Mood Indigo forever after.

Whatever the case, the Victor version from 1931 is the one that became famous, and it still sounds magnificent:

This is the first Ellington original that inspired a zillion cover versions and remakes almost immediately. Everyone wanted a piece of that mood.

Early Covers (1931–1934)

Clyde McCoy returns with this 1931 Columbia recording:

Despite Clyde’s reputation as a corn‑shucker, his style actually works beautifully here — the wah‑wah gives the tune a kind of swampy ache.

A more predictable candidate to cover Ellington was Jimmie Lunceford, whose band cut this terrific version for Decca in 1934:

A lovely arrangement by alto sax man Willie Smith, who always had a knack for elegance.

The Tune Travels (1940s–1950s)

Here’s a fascinating Hawaiian‑style take from Felix Mendelssohn and his Hawaiian Serenaders, recorded for British Columbia in 1942:

I really like this one — it’s dreamy in a completely different way

From 1945, we get Andre Kostelanetz with a lush orchestral version on American Columbia:

The classy “Masterworks” imprint meant 12‑inch discs, so the maestro got two extra inches of groove to play with.

Jumping to 1955, here’s a mambo version by Pérez Prado on RCA Victor:

I'm pretty much a sucker for any Prado mambo take on a standard!

From 1956, Marty Gold gives us a bachelor‑pad arrangement on his Vik album Wired for Sound:

Dig it, cats - it’s pure hi‑fi lounge charm!

Also from 1956, pianist Johnny Maddox tones down the honky‑tonk for this Dot Records 45:

Surprisingly tasteful — it works.

The Co‑Composer Speaks (1957)

Barney (Don't call me 'Albany') Bigard, Duke’s longtime clarinetist and co‑composer of Mood Indigo, recorded his own extended version for his 1957 Liberty album Jazz Hall of Fame:

Pretty cool to hear him stretch out on the tune he helped create.

A Country Twist (1961)

One more before we wrap: in 1961, country piano master Floyd Cramer released this version as the flipside of his RCA Victor hit “On the Rebound”

Nice touch — it’s simple, warm, and unmistakably Cramer.

Tomorrow’s side session will explore vocal versions, and there are some beauties waiting in the wings as Mood Indigo becomes a whole different shade of blue!

Friday Fun: Play Ball!

Now that the 2026 Major League Baseball season is underway, the Hoosier Hot Shots return for some Friday Fun with their version of Take Me Out to the Ball Game!

Let's spin their 1936 record:

Good fun! That's another one that made the rounds of the various budget labels.

Go, Red Sox!

Threaded Thursday: Rural Rhythm

We just enjoyed the animated antics of The Old Man of the Mountain, so today we’re picking up the “mountain” thread to enjoy the equally animated antics of The Hoosier Hot Shots.

The boys had a couple of mountain-themed records in the mid-thirties on the various budget labels that perfectly capture their "Rural Rhythm," so we’ll be giving them a spin.

Are you ready, Hezzie?

The Sentiment: I Like Mountain Music (1938)

Can’t argue with that sentiment - especially when the Hot Shots deliver it with their usual blend of precision, mischief, and controlled mayhem.

The Parody: Them Hill-billies Are Mountain Williams Now (1936)

It’s interesting to note that by 1936, country music was already commercialized enough to be ripe for parody. The Hot Shots were masters at poking fun at whatever Americana trope was floating through the airwaves, and this one is a prime example of their wit.

Serious Musicianship, Unserious Material

As a fan of novelty records and 1930s music, I find the Hoosier Hot Shots endlessly fascinating. I sometimes wonder how clarinetist Gabe Ward might have sounded in an alternate universe where he played straight jazz instead of novelty. He’s a bit like Clyde McCoy in that sense - serious musicianship devoted to unserious material.

And of course… Hezzie is awesome! There’s just no other way to put it. Between the washboard, the bells, and the whistles, he’s the heartbeat of the whole operation!

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Do the Hot Shots make you want to grab a washboard and join the band, or is their brand of "controlled mayhem" best enjoyed from a safe distance?

Word Association Wednesday: Mountain Music

It was a pretty short trip on my train of thought from Duke’s “Old Man Blues” to the 1932 song “The Old Man of the Mountain.” Once that title popped into my head, the rest of today’s playlist practically assembled itself.

The Straight Shoot: Cab Calloway (1932)

Let’s start off with Cab Calloway’s budget-label recording. Cab sings the vocal relatively straight here - almost restrained by Cab standards - which lets his great band stretch out and show off those crisp early-’30s choruses. Even on a bargain imprint, they sound like a million bucks.

The Harmony: The Mills Brothers (1932)

Next up are The Mills Brothers, who bring their signature early-1930s blend of vocal harmony and uncanny instrument imitations. 

We're fortunate that The Mills Brothers were captured on film singing "The Old Man of the Mountain" as featured in the 1933 Paramount short "The Little Broadcast":

That's pretty awesome! The emcee is Roy Atwell, perhaps the preeminent exponent of spoonerisms prior to Doodles Weaver!

The Studio Oddity: Victor Young, The Boswells & The Mills Brothers

Things get even more interesting with this next record. It brings back The Mills Brothers, but also includes Connee Boswell and The Boswell Sisters, plus Fran Frey, all backed by Victor Young (who co-wrote the song). It’s a true crossover before crossovers existed. The “Lucky” designation likely ties it to the Lucky Strike radio shows. If anyone has the deep discographical scoop on this one, I’m all ears!

I like how Connee (still "Connie" at this point) gets a solo chorus and solo billing but also gets a hot chorus with sisters Martha and Vet! (I put this sentence in Helvetica font as a little wink to Helvetia Boswell!)

The Curveball: Fred Waring and His Pennsylvanians

Now for a fun one: Fred Waring on Victor, with session singer Chick Bullock and drummer Poley McClintock chiming in as the Old Man himself. 

Waring made some wonderfully oddball novelty sides in this era - playful, tightly arranged, and just a little unhinged. It's hard to believe this is the same Fred Waring who, after a decade-long break from recording, would reemerge as the patron saint of square respectability in the 1940s!

The Visual: Betty Boop & Fleischer Surrealism

Of course, no discussion of The Old Man of the Mountain is complete without the Betty Boop cartoon. This is where the song goes full pre-Code surrealism. Through rotoscoping, Cab becomes the Old Man—slinky, supernatural, and just a little dangerous. It’s fascinating how the character shifts from a harmless hermit in the song to something far more sinister on screen.

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So that’s today’s trek - from budget labels to animated cliffside shimmies. Does the Old Man feel like a friendly neighbor to you, or does that Fleischer rotoscoping make him a little too "Mountain King" for comfort?

Monday Side-Session: Flipping Over Flips

We enjoyed Duke Ellington’s Old Man Blues yesterday, so today we’ll flip that Victor record over to hear the B‑side: another Ellington original, Jungle Nights in Harlem.

I believe that’s another one‑and‑done tune for Duke - he doesn’t seem to have recorded it again, not even for Brunswick under the Jungle Band moniker.

But just because Duke recorded it only once doesn’t mean the record companies released it only once. And that’s where things get interesting.

HMV Gets Creative (1933)

In 1933, HMV - essentially the British counterpart to Victor - paired Jungle Nights in Harlem with another one‑off: Irving Berlin’s Swanee Shuffle, recorded in 1929.

This track features some very snazzy string‑work from ace guitarist Teddy Bunn (shown at top of page), who sat in with the band for a couple of sessions. Shades of Lonnie Johnson!

Bluebird Mix‑and‑Match (1936)

Then in 1936, Victor’s budget label Bluebird reissued Jungle Nights in Harlem with another non‑Duke tune: Hot Feet, by Jimmy McHugh and Dorothy Fields, also from 1929.

The label credits the scat vocal to Charlie Williams, but he's known to everyone (except maybe his mother) as Cootie!

Tracing the Original Flip (1930)

Hot Feet was originally issued on Victor in 1930 with a different flipside: Barney Bigard’s Sloppy Joe, which also features a scat vocal — this time by drummer Sonny Greer.

Full Circle… Sort Of

We come (sort of) full circle when Bluebird later reissued Sloppy Joe with yet another flip, this time Jazz Lips, which we just heard as the B‑side of Double Check Stomp!

I’ve now flipped so many times, I feel like a stack of pancakes. Pass the syrup, please!

Sundays with Duke #12: Old School

We stay with the 1930 RKO picture Check and Double Check for one more Sunday as we visit the song “Old Man Blues,” which also gets a prime feature in the movie.

The Session: Old Man Blues (1930) 

Old Man Blues moves along at a fantastic clip. It’s one of those early Ellington sides that shows how Duke could take a basic “blues” structure and make it swing with incredible forward momentum — tight, punchy, and already pointing toward the band’s 1930s evolution.

The Alternate Take: The Harlem Footwarmers (1930)

Recorded for Okeh the very same year, this version was issued under the pseudonym The Harlem Footwarmers - Duke’s way of slipping an extra side into the marketplace without competing with himself. It’s a different arrangement, looser in some spots and more sharply accented in others, and it gives us a fascinating glimpse of how Ellington could rethink the same tune in real time.

The Cover: Through the Ringer

We have one contemporary cover of Old Man Blues — a snappy budget‑label recording by the Washboard Rhythm Boys. 

Let’s spin it:

They had me at washboard!

The Remake: Sidney Bechet (1940)

For our remake, we turn to the Old School itself: Sidney Bechet. Recorded for Victor in 1940, Bechet’s soaring soprano sax brings a whole new fire to the composition. It’s bold, brash, and unmistakably Bechet — and it sounds terrific.

The Warehouse Reel: Duke in Action

To close out our movie coverage, here is a clip of the band actually playing "Old Man Blues" in the film. It’s a rare treat to see the 1930 lineup looking sharp and swinging even harder than they do on the record.

So nice to see them in action!

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Does the Washboard addition make this your favorite version of the tune, or does Bechet — or Duke himself — still hold the crown?

Friday Fun: The Bluebird Flight Begins

 

For today’s Friday Fun, we jump from Larry Clinton’s dreamworld into a very different kind of reverie - the one that launched a juggernaut.

The Opening Salvo: My Reverie (1938)

Glenn Miller’s version of My Reverie, the first song recorded at his very first session under his brand-new Bluebird contract, was literally the opening salvo of the Miller era. He wasn’t famous yet, but you can hear the ambition, the polish, and the early hints of the sound that would soon take over America.

One of the things that’s always struck me about this record is that cold-open trombone solo. I think it may be the only Miller side that begins this way - and it’s the first recording he ever made for Bluebird! It feels more like something Tommy Dorsey would do - and Glenn was no TD. Very soon afterward, he realized he didn't want to be seen as a road-company Dorsey, so he featured his own trombone far less.

Ray Eberle also sounds a bit tentative with his vocal here. He was only nineteen, so it’s understandable. Bea Wain was only twenty‑one when she recorded My Reverie with Larry Clinton, but she’s light‑years ahead of Ray in confidence and interpretive poise.

It’s also worth noting that Larry Clinton was five years younger than Glenn Miller, yet he beat him to the top of the charts!

What really “makes” Glenn’s version, though, is that fabulous Miller reed sound. The sax section already includes mainstays Wilbur Schwartz on lead clarinet, Hal McIntyre on alto, and Tex Beneke on tenor. Audiences must have been thinking, “Hey… what’s that?” when they first heard that blend.

The "King Porter" Connection

The flipside of this debut disc is also intriguing: Glenn’s take on King Porter Stomp:

We traced Jelly Roll Morton’s old tune through Fletcher Henderson to Benny Goodman here, and by 1938 it was a big-band staple. Glenn plays some genuinely hot trombone on this side!

This record may be a humble beginning, but it shows that Glenn Miller’s new band could mix sweet and swing in a most pleasing way. With this disc, Glenn Miller arrives as a bandleader - no longer that trombone player who’s a pretty good arranger and always trying to start a band, but the man who’s about to define an era.

Which side of this debut do you think pointed the way forward: the "Reverie" or the "Stomp"?

Threaded Thursday: Into My Reverie

Yesterday’s Word Association Wednesday spun out from Double Check Stomp and landed us squarely in the world of Larry Clinton and Bea Wain—a world I’m always happy to revisit. If I Double Dare You was their calling card, then today’s pick - My Reverie - is the masterpiece that sealed their legacy.

The Masterpiece: My Reverie (Victor, 1938)

This is the Clinton orchestra at its most elegant, and Bea Wain at her most luminous. This is the record where everything that made them special suddenly crystallizes: Clinton’s gift for tasteful, uncluttered swing; his knack for adapting classical themes without a hint of pretension; and Bea’s ability to float a melody with warmth, poise, and just enough emotional shading to make it feel personal.

The tune itself began life as a Debussy piano piece (“Rêverie”), but Clinton’s arrangement turns it into something unmistakably 1938 - a dreamy, slow-dancing swirl of reeds, muted brass, and that signature Clinton polish. And then Bea enters, and the whole thing lifts off. She doesn’t oversell a single phrase. She doesn’t need to. Her voice is the reverie.

Let's give it a spin:

The Architect

On a personal note, this was one of my early “gateway” records—the kind that quietly rewires your ears. I already knew Larry Clinton had done arranging work for other bands, most notably Tommy Dorsey, but hearing My Reverie for the first time was the moment I realized: this is what happens when the arranger finally gets to present his own vision. Larry’s arrangement of Larry’s song, played by Larry’s band. No house style to fit into, no compromises, no trombone-centric polish to accommodate. Just Larry’s taste, Larry’s textures, Larry’s sense of space—fully realized. It doesn’t sound like anything else from 1938. It’s a three-and-a-half-minute trip to another level, a little pocket universe where Debussy drifts through a swing orchestra and Bea Wain becomes the dream guide!

The Canary

While we’re being honest, I’ve always had a bit of a retro-crush on Bea Wain. Not in the pin-up sense -although she was very attractive - more in that “voice that understands you” way. She had this warmth, poise, and intelligence that comes through even in a 78rpm groove. She didn’t oversell a lyric; she invited you into it. That kind of charm is timeless.

The public felt it, too. “My Reverie” became one of Clinton’s biggest hits and the performance that cemented Bea Wain as one of the era’s defining canaries. If you ever need a single track to explain why I consider Larry Clinton the most underrated bandleader of the Swing Era—this is it.

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Does this version of Debussy feel like a "swinging of the classics" gimmick to you, or does it stand on its own as a modern masterpiece?

Word Association Wednesday: The Double Dare

 

For this week’s Word Association Wednesday, we’re springboarding off Sunday’s Double Check Stomp and following the word double straight into one of 1938’s most irresistible pop confections: I Double Dare You. It’s one of those songs that seemed to be everywhere at once in the late ’30s - a perfect blend of bounce, flirtation, and that lightly sassy wink that defined so much of the era’s dance music.

And if we’re talking I Double Dare You, there’s only one place to start.

Larry Clinton and Bea Wain

Let me just say it plainly: Larry Clinton is the most underrated bandleader of the Swing Era. The man had taste, polish, and a knack for arrangements that were both danceable and musically satisfying. He wasn’t flashy, he wasn’t gimmicky - he was just good, consistently and quietly good, in a way that history tends to overlook.

And then there’s Bea Wain, my favorite big‑band “canary” of them all. She had that rare combination of warmth, clarity, and rhythmic poise - never overselling, never underplaying, always landing right in the pocket. On I Double Dare You, she’s at her absolute best: bright, confident, and just teasing enough to make the title feel like a promise.

Let’s spin their Victor record:

The Clinton/Wain version is the hit for a reason. It’s crisp, buoyant, and utterly charming — the kind of record that makes you understand why 1938 dancers kept dropping nickels into jukeboxes.

Satchmo Doubles Down

For contrast, we hop over to Decca for Louis Armstrong’s take, recorded in January of 1938 — just weeks after Larry Clinton had already put his version in the can at the tail end of ’37. Clinton’s record hit the market first, but Armstrong wasn’t far behind, and the two versions ended up circulating side by side through most of 1938.

At this point in time, Decca often paired Louis with then‑current pop material to keep him in the mainstream ear. His I Double Dare You sits alongside other pop covers that he transformed into Armstrong vehicles through sheer personality.

It’s fascinating how the same tune can wear two completely different suits: Clinton’s is pressed and tailored; Armstrong’s is relaxed and lived‑in. Both work. Both swing. Both show how flexible a good pop tune could be in the hands of musicians who knew exactly what to do with it.

A curious footnote: Even though Terry Shand was currently leading a band and had just come off a stint as singer–pianist with Freddy Martin’s orchestra, neither he nor Martin seem to have ever recorded I Double Dare You!

Which One Wins?

Depends on your mood. If you want polish, charm, and the best canary in the business, Clinton and Wain take the crown. If you want personality, grit, and that unmistakable Armstrong joie de vivre, Decca’s your stop.

Either way, “I Double Dare You” proves that a simple word - double - can open the door to a whole little corner of 1938 worth revisiting.

St. Patrick's Day Bonus!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

In keeping with the situation, let’s pull a shamrock from the stack of 78s and spin a fun Irish‑themed novelty from 1942.

Here’s Freddy Martin and his Orchestra on Bluebird Records with “Rose O’Day.”

That’s our old friend Eddie Stone handling the vocal. He fits as well with Freddy's band as he did with Isham Jones's!

I once heard this song described as an “Irish ‘Hut Sut Song,’” which absolutely nails it — the same bouncy nonsense‑syllable charm, just with a brogue and a wink. A fun little nugget from the pot of gold!