Word Association Wednesday — Jumpin’ and Jivin’

Following Sunday’s Jump for Joy, we make a quick jump back to 1939 for Cab Calloway’s great hit The Jumpin’ Jive.

Let’s spin Cab’s 1939 Vocalion record:

That’s just a blast — a perfect little nugget where everything snaps together. One of those records so alive, so self‑contained, that the contemporary cover versions never quite do it for me. It’s Cab’s song, full stop.

Here’s Cab again, singing The Jumpin’ Jive in the 1943 Twentieth Century‑Fox picture Stormy Weather, joined by the incomparable Nicholas Brothers:

That’s a tremendous amount of talent in one frame — Cab in full command, the band cooking, and the brothers defying gravity like it’s a parlor trick.

JJ's Jive

If we jump all the way to the 1980s, there is one version I love: Joe Jackson’s take from his 1981 A&M album Jumpin’ Jive:

Joe doesn’t just copy the style — he inhabits it. He treats the song like a living thing rather than a museum piece, and it shows.

And here’s Joe again, live on his 1986 tour:

Tom Teeley’s guitar gives the whole thing a rockabilly edge, and I dig it. It’s a different kind of jump, but still true to the spirit.

Warehouse Whispers

Time is a funny creature. When Joe Jackson’s version came out in 1981, 1939 felt like ancient history — a sepia‑toned world far, far away. But now more time has passed between Joe’s version (45 years) and today than had passed between Joe’s version and Cab’s original (42 years). Yet 1981 doesn’t feel distant at all.

I don’t know what to make of that!

Tuesday Tidbit: Smoke Rings

Still thinking about Duke Ellington’s I Got It Bad (And That Ain’t Good), I’m reminded of how I first encountered that record. It goes all the way back to my early big‑band‑fan days — young, curious, collecting anything I could get my hands on, absorbing the era one 78 at a time.

One of the most enlightening finds from that period was the Smoke Rings album of Victor 78s from 1944. Eight discs, eight bands, each with a hit from 1936–43. It felt like a curated crash course in the pop landscape of the time. Duke’s side was in there, of course — and hearing it in that lineup made a lasting impression.

So today, I thought it would be fun to revisit all eight sides and add the impressions I had back then.

Side 1: These Foolish Things Remind Me of You — Benny Goodman

At the time, I mainly knew Benny Goodman as the King of Swing — Sing, Sing, Sing, Don’t Be That Way, all the up‑tempo instrumentals. So hearing his band play a ballad was a surprise. Helen Ward’s fragile, wistful vocal style fits the song perfectly, like tissue paper around a keepsake. It was my first glimpse of BG’s softer palette.

Side 2: Once in a While — Tommy Dorsey

A lovely record from the cold‑open trombone solo straight through the quartet vocal. I already knew Tommy Dorsey’s trombone sound, so that felt familiar. Jack Leonard I recognized from Marie, and later — once I’d heard more TD sides — I realized Edythe Wright was tucked into the vocal ensemble even though the label claimed it was a male quartet.

Side 3: My Reverie — Larry Clinton

My favorite of the set. Larry Clinton wasn’t as famous as Goodman, Dorsey, or Miller, so this felt like a real discovery. A star arranger leading a band rather than a star instrumentalist — that intrigued me. And Bea Wain’s vocal is just gorgeous. I raved about this one in this earlier post.

Side 4: Moon Love — Sammy Kaye

A wild card. Sammy Kaye sits firmly in the sweet‑band category, and sweet bands don’t get much respect now (or then), but they were an important part of the era’s musical tapestry. Same basic instrumentation as the swing bands — trumpets, trombones, saxes, rhythm — yet completely different results. That's always been fascinating to me.

The sweet bands heavily featured vocalists, such as Clyde Burke here. I liked this side then, and I still do — singing song title and all!

Side 5: All the Things You Are — Artie Shaw

This one’s the goods — wonderful song, wonderful band, wonderful singer. Artie Shaw’s clarinet is every bit as brilliant as Goodman’s, just in a different way. And Helen Forrest is one of the great canaries of the period.

Side 6: Intermezzo — Freddy Martin

Another sweet band, but Freddy Martin always stood apart. His tenor sax tone gave the reed section a rich, unmistakable sound. And his fondness for classical‑leaning material makes Intermezzo a perfect fit. I still occasionally mix up Clyde Rogers and Clyde Burke, though!

Side 7: I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good — Duke Ellington

Here’s the seismic shift. At the time, I think I only really had heard the fabulous Take the “A” Train as far as Duke Ellington records. But this record was something else entirely. Ivie Anderson’s vocal, the band’s texture, and that brief Johnny Hodges alto solo between her choruses — that solo alone sent me down a rabbit hole.

And it wasn’t lost on me that Duke was the only Black bandleader included in the set. In 1944, that was a statement.

Side 8: That Old Black Magic — Glenn Miller

A fitting closer. Glenn Miller was the band I knew best back then — LP compilations of his records were readily available. But this was my first time hearing Skip Nelson instead of Ray Eberle, which felt different, but Skip fit in well during his brief stint before Glenn entered the service.

When this album was released, Miller was in the AAF, and no one could have imagined he’d be lost later that year. It’s bittersweet in retrospect.

I look back on Smoke Rings as a key piece of my big‑band education — a curated sampler that opened doors, raised questions, and helped set me on the path I’m still walking today.

Thanks for strolling down memory lane with me.

Warehouse Whispers

Because it’s my job to wonder about such things, I’ve always been intrigued by the billing of the bandleaders on the album cover. It’s not in chronological order, but it’s not quite alphabetical either.

My take: the artists who were still under contract to Victor at the time — including Glenn Miller — are listed alphabetically first, with Larry Clinton and Benny Goodman appearing afterward. Clinton had left the music business to serve as a flight instructor for the AAF during WWII, and Goodman was recording for rival Columbia by then, so Victor didn’t have much incentive to promote them too heavily.

Look at me thinking like a 1940s record‑label exec!

Threaded Thursday - Smoky

From yesterday’s Dream, we tug on that silky 1940s Capitol Records thread — the soft‑focus, late‑night “dream” vibe — and land right on Jo Stafford’s 1947 recording of Smoke Dreams.

Let’s spin Jo’s Capitol side:

Jo is, of course, Jo: effortless, centered, and luminous. She gets gentle, velvety support from The Starlighters and her future husband Paul Weston, whose arranging always feels like it's guiding you through the tune.

Smoke Dreams served as the theme song for radio’s Chesterfield Supper Club, where Jo alternated hosting duties with Perry Como. Hard to believe now, but there was a time when cigarette companies practically owned the airwaves — huge sponsors of network programs, and cigarette references floated casually through popular songs like it was just part of the weather.

But here’s the twist: Smoke Dreams wasn’t a one‑song title. There was an earlier tune with the same name, featured in MGM’s 1936 picture After the Thin Man.

So let’s spin Benny Goodman’s Victor recording of that Smoke Dreams, sung by the incomparable Helen Ward:

This comes from Helen’s final session with the Goodman band. And while Benny certainly had wonderful canaries after her — Martha Tilton, Helen Forrest, Peggy Lee — Helen Ward had a quality that never quite got duplicated. A kind of direct, unaffected warmth that sat right in the center of the beat.

And the song itself? You’d think it would be another cigarette‑smoke reverie, but no — this one is about campfire smoke drifting into the night. Two songs, same title, totally different worlds.

Hope you enjoyed these spins. And remember, kids: don’t smoke — and only you can prevent forest fires.

Monday Side‑Session: Two More Dreams

Following yesterday’s Day Dream — which began life as an instrumental from a Johnny Hodges–led unit inside the Duke Ellington orchestra — let’s spin a couple more dreams from the small groups.

These sides were recorded in 1939 while Duke was still under contract to Columbia, but they didn’t hit the shelves until 1940, after he moved to Victor. That little overlap period produced some of the most relaxed, beautifully lit small‑group moments in the whole Ellington universe.

Just Another Dream — Barney Bigard (Okeh, June 1939)

This one is exactly what the title promises: Just Another Dream, carried almost entirely on Barney Bigard’s clarinet. It’s practically a solo feature from start to finish — a soft, wandering little reverie with Barney’s tone floating like a lantern in a quiet room.

Dream Blues — Johnny Hodges & (Vocalion, September 1939)

Then Johnny steps back in for Dream Blues, and his alto does what it always does: it brings the dream, and it brings the blues. Hodges could make even a simple phrase feel like a velvet curtain being pulled open.

These small‑group sides always feel like a gift — a chance for the individual sidemen to stretch out, breathe, and let their personalities shine without the full orchestra swirling around them.

Musician Roll Call

Both tracks use nearly identical instrumentation, with the spotlight shifting depending on who’s leading the date:

• Barney Bigard group (June):
  Rex Stewart (cornet) and Juan Tizol (valve trombone) support Barney’s clarinet.

• Johnny Hodges group (September):
  Cootie Williams (trumpet) and Lawrence Brown (trombone) join Johnny’s alto.

And anchoring both sessions:

• Harry Carney — baritone sax, the bedrock

• Duke Ellington — piano

• Freddy Guy — guitar

• Billy Taylor — bass

• Sonny Greer — drums

A dream team for dream tunes!

Word Association Wednesday – Very Mellow

For today’s Word Association Wednesday, we take the “mellow” from In a Mellow Tone and let it drift us over to Billie Holiday’s Fine and Mellow — a song that wears its title perfectly.

Billie Sets the Mood (1939)

Billie first recorded it in 1939 for the Commodore label:

Billie wrote the tune herself, and it appeared as the flipside of her searing, history‑making recording of Strange Fruit. Even with that kind of company, Fine and Mellow holds its own — a blues that feels lived‑in, unhurried, and unmistakably Billie.

Erskine Hawkins & Dolores Brown (1939)

A couple of bands picked it up after Billie’s version hit. Here’s Erskine Hawkins with vocalist Dolores Brown on Bluebird from late 1939:

I like this one a lot. Dolores Brown isn’t Billie — nobody is — but she brings a nice, steady presence. The real star for me, though, is pianist Avery Parrish. His playing here already hints at the mood and touch of his big hit After Hours, which he’d record just a few months later.

Andy Kirk & June Richmond (1940)

Andy Kirk took a swing at the tune in 1940 with June Richmond:

June’s vocal is terrific. She’s not trying to imitate Billie; she’s got her own thing going, and it works beautifully. And Mary Lou Williams on piano? Always a treat — she lifts every record she touches.

Nellie Lutcher and Her Rhythm (1947)

The pianists keep rolling as we jump ahead to 1947 for one more version. This time it’s Nellie Lutcher, playing and singing for Capitol:

Nellie always makes a song sound like it was written for her. She reshapes the tune just enough to make it feel like a Nellie Lutcher original.

Billie in Full Bloom — The Sound of Jazz (1957)

Before we wrap up, let’s watch Billie herself performing Fine and Mellow on the 1957 television special The Sound of Jazz, surrounded by a stellar group of musicians:

Billie really seems to savor those instrumental solos between her vocal choruses — listening, reacting, almost conducting with her eyes.

So yes… fine and mellow indeed.

Threaded Thursday: Lots of Sugar

Following yesterday’s Clyde McCoy song Wah‑Wah Lament, it feels downright mandatory to stay on the McCoy thread and spin his signature number, Sugar Blues — the tune that made Clyde’s wah‑wah trumpet a national novelty sensation.

Columbia, 1931 — The First Taste

Clyde’s original 1931 Columbia recording is a fabulous showcase for that unmistakable wah‑wah style. It’s instantly clear why the record caught fire: nobody else sounded like this, and nobody else could sound like this.

Decca, 1935 — The Definitive Sugar

This is the version I first knew, and it remains the definitive take for me. Clyde kept the same basic arrangement for decades, but this Decca side has that perfect balance of novelty, swagger, and sweetness.

Capitol, 1952 — Sugar Blues Boogie

Clyde must have performed the tune a zillion times in that style, but this Capitol remake is a fun curveball. The “Boogie” treatment gives the old warhorse a fresh coat of paint without losing the trademark wah‑wah personality.

Todd, 1959 — Hot Sugar Blues

Another playful arrangement, and it sounds especially nice in stereo. Clyde knew how to keep his calling card fresh without ever abandoning the thing that made him Clyde. But Waa-Waa?

Lots of Sugar, Lots of Fun

I love novelty records, intentionally corny music, and idiosyncratic trumpet players — so Sugar Blues has a special place in my heart. And if that sentiment sounds as corny as Clyde’s trumpet, well… that’s part of the charm!

Bonus: Ella Enters

You may have noticed that the sheet music at the top of this post mentions that Ella Fitzgerald had her own Decca recording of Sugar Blues, so let’s give her 1940 version a spin:

This comes from the period when Ella was fronting the Chick Webb band after Webb’s untimely death in 1939. It’s always interesting to hear a non‑wah‑wah take on the tune — Ella brings a completely different kind of sweetness.

McCoy Matinee

Before we leave, here's a fun movie short from 1938 featuring Clyde McCoy and his band:

Always nice to see vintage musicians in "live" action!

Word Association Wednesday: Clyde’s Lament

Today’s WAW spins straight out of Never No Lament, and in my little corner of the musical universe, “lament” can only mean one thing: a wah‑wah lament — courtesy of the king of the wah‑wah trumpeters himself, Clyde McCoy!

The 1933 Columbia Cry

Clyde first put Wah‑Wah Lament on wax for Columbia in 1933:

It absolutely lives up to the title — pure Clyde, pure wah‑wah, pure personality.

Flip It!

And because we always enjoy flipsides here in the Warehouse, let’s turn that Columbia disc over for Nobody’s Sweetheart:

Clyde’s trumpet work here is a touch less wah‑wah‑y (if that’s a word), but still unmistakably his:

The 1935 Decca Detour

When Clyde moved over to Decca in the mid‑1930s, he revisited several of his popular numbers, including a 1935 remake of Wah! Wah! Lament:

Two exclamation points and plenty of wah‑wah — Clyde wasn’t about to leave his signature sound behind.

Flip It Again!

Flip that Decca disc and you get Dry Ice:

A surprisingly straight performance: not much trumpet, not much stylization, just a cool little side that shows Clyde could dial it back when he wanted to.

Final Spin

All in all, when Clyde McCoy is on the turntable, there’s never no lament — except, of course, a wah‑wah lament!

Threaded Thursday: How They Hypnotize

From yesterday’s detour into the 1938 Mercer/Warren tune that felt like it should’ve been in a Warner Bros. picture (Something Tells Me), we follow the thread to a 1938 Mercer/Warren song that actually was in a Warner Bros. movie: Jeepers Creepers, introduced in Going Places.

The song wasn’t just a hit — it was a big hit, Academy Award–nominated and instantly absorbed into the bloodstream of American pop.

We'll be spinning versions from its 1938–39 moment of peak popularity, let’s drop the needle...

Satchmo Starts the Spell

Louis Armstrong introduced the tune in the film and then cut his Decca version in January 1939:

It’s hard not to treat this as the definitive reading — the one that sets the hypnotic pattern.

Ethel Enters

But Satch wasn’t first in the studio. That honor goes to the wonderful Ethel Waters, who recorded it for Bluebird in November 1938:

I don’t usually slot Ethel into the novelty lane, but she handles the material with real ease.

Ford's Focus

Ford

Victor handed the tune to Larry Clinton, with Ford Leary on the vocal:

Ford was also a trombonist, so he’s similar to the Tex Beneke/Sully Mason side character, but not from the sax section and Ford was his middle name, not a nickname.

Pops' Swing Wing

Jack

Then there’s the king of the singer/trombonists, Jack Teagarden, singing with The Four Modernaires and Paul Whiteman’s Swing Wing for Decca:

Always fascinating to hear the Modernaires before their Miller years.

And yes — this is the version used in the 2001 horror film Jeepers Creepers. Not my beat either.

Paula's Peepers

Future Modernaires partner Paula Kelly sings it with Al Donahue’s band on Vocalion:

I’ll say it again: Paula was an underrated canary.

Leo Leaps In

Leo on left, Gene on right

The wonderfully unpredictable Leo Watson gives a relatively “straight” vocal with Gene Krupa on Brunswick:

“Straight” being a very relative term in Leo‑land! Hear more Leo here.

The Mills Make Eyes

A terrific Mills Brothers version — issued by Brunswick only in England at the time:

It sounds exactly like what the Mills Brothers singing Jeepers Creepers in 1939 should sound like!

Ambrose & Evelyn Abroad

While we’re in England, here's Ambrose and his Orchestra with Evelyn Dall on British Decca:

A sharp, stylish arrangement — very Ambrose.

Hot Club Creeping

Then to France for the Quintette of the Hot Club of France:

Django and Grappelly never miss!

A Four‑Vocalist Free‑for‑All

We close with a Benny Goodman Camel Caravan aircheck from January 17, 1939 — four vocalists, each taking a turn. I won't spoil who they are, Johnny Mercer will let you know:

You can probably guess who I think walked away with it.

And One More Cartoon Thread

Before we leave the hypnotic spell of this tune: I have to mention that there was a 1939 Looney Tune titled Jeepers Creepers. A fun watch — and another place where the song’s DNA seeped into the culture.

And yet, after all this spinning…we're still no closer to knowing where those peepers came from!

Word Association Wednesday: Telling Something

For today’s WAW spin‑off from Something to Live For, the logical landing point — at least for me — is the 1938 Johnny Mercer–Harry Warren tune Something Tells Me.

It had a surprisingly busy little year, popping up across labels, bands, and even an animated operating room.

Fats Starts the Conversation

The first version out of the gate was Fats Waller’s Victor recording:

Fats gives it that patented sly, side‑eye delivery — but he’s not mocking the song. He’s just letting it wink.

Bluebird Brightness: Jan Savitt & Bon Bon

Recorded just after Fats but released a bit earlier was the Bluebird entry by Jan Savitt and his Top Hatters, featuring George “Bon Bon” Tunnell:

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Bon Bon was one of the best band vocalists of the era!

Kay’s “Sassy” Sully Session

Kay Kyser brought the tune to Brunswick with Sully Mason on the vocal:

Maybe it’s my imagination, but it always sounds like Kay introduces him as “Sassy” Sully Mason.” Sully is a prime example of one of my favorite side characters — the sax‑section guy with a fun nickname who steps up to the mic for a novelty vocal!

Sweet Bands and Bell Music

Even more gimmicky than Kyser’s late‑’30s outfit were Bert Block and his Bell Music, who cut the tune for Vocalion with Bill Johnson singing:

These late‑1930s sweet bands have a charm all their own — a kind of earnest, slightly sugary optimism.

Decca Doubles: Will Osborne & Louis Armstrong

Decca issued two versions. First up: Will Osborne with canary Janice Todd:

Those wonderfully slurpy trombones are pure period flavor too!

And then, the heavy hitter: Louis Armstrong:

Satch gives the song a little grit and credibility after all that sweetness while still keeping it fun.

Across the Pond: Silvester Steps In

For one more spin, let's hop over to England for Victor Silvester and his Ballroom Orchestra:

Silvester made mountains of dance‑oriented records, and you can practically see a couple quick‑stepping across a parquet floor to this one.

A 1938 Time Capsule

The song didn’t travel far beyond its debut year, but it remains a delightful artifact — a snapshot of how a mid‑tier pop tune could ripple across labels, bands, and styles in the late ’30s.

Warehouse Whispers

You’d think a Johnny Mercer–Harry Warren song published by Warner Bros. would’ve come from a movie. Something tells me it was probably part of a stack of tunes written by the pair — some destined for films, some left to float around the publishing department.

But all was not lost: The tune did find a second life in several Warner Bros. cartoons, most notably 1938’s The Daffy Doc:

Recognizing popular songs in Carl Stalling’s scores for Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies never stops being a thrill — like catching a familiar face in a crowd of animated chaos!