Fundort: Sonnenfels, Joseph von: Fünftes Stück. Siebentes Schreiben. Wien: den 25. Jäner 1768. In: Briefe über die wienerische Schaubühne. Wien: Kurtzböck 1768. S. 90.
Diese Unrichtigkeiten des poetischen sowohl als prosaischen Ausdruks werden eigentlich dadurch begangen, daß der Schriftsteller die angefangene Allegorie fahren läßt, und sich unvermerkt in eine andre verlieret; […] wenn er das Gebirg der Schwierigkeiten hinansteigt, um in Hafen der Unsterblichkeit einzulaufen […].
Klar, Sonnenfels beschreibt hier einen rhetorischen Lapsus, wenn zwei nicht zusammengehörende metaphorische Wendungen verknüpft werden. Das kommt – sowohl als absichtliches Stilmittel wie auch als schlichter Fehler – sehr häufig vor und nennt sich im Jargon Katachrese. Sein Beispiel mit Gebirg und Hafen finde ich aber witzig, weil es sich ja genauso anfühlt, wenn man gerade irgendein Gebirg der Schwierigkeiten hochkraxelt und sich irgendwann fragt: Wofür mache ich das eigentlich? Ist da oben etwa der Hafen der Unsterblichkeit, oder was!? Also, bitte einführen in die Alltagssprache, danke.
In the late
1940s and 1950s, Paris was the European hotspot for American jazz musicians,
the place to go if you were looking for jobs and admiration by European jazz
lovers. As Paris had been associated with jazz eversince the 1930s through
Django Reinhardt and the likes, this seems somewhat commonplace today, but it
does beg some questions: What about London? Why did American jazz greats like
Sidney Bechet or Kenny „Klook“ Clarke (among many, many others) opt
to regularly perform and settle down in the French-speaking world after World
War II as opposed to an English metropolis?
There are a few
more factors, but the main answer, it turns out, lies in one of the oddest
factoids of musical history I encountered for the 20th century: American
musicians were, with few exceptions, banned
from performing in the UK for almost thirty years,from 1933 until the late 1950s.
It comes down to
what is at its core a protectionist conflict of unions. Turns out, the American Federation of Musicians (AMF) and
the British Musicians‘ Union (MU) were
at each others throats eversince the beginning of the century or even before
that. Without going into details, the quibbling was mostly about expectable
things: copyrights, anxiety that foreign musicians flood the market and put
local musicians out of jobs (this was especially a growing concern in the 1930s
considering jobs for the „Talkies“, as jobs for muscially
accompanying silent movies became superfluous). So for instance, the Musicians‘ Union had tried to establish
quite early that for each American playing in the UK, there had to be a British
musician playing in the US:
The law which underpinned the restrictions was the Aliens Restriction Act, originally a wartime measure introduced in 1914 and revised in 1919. In 1920, the Aliens Order was introduced, an amendment to the Aliens Restriction Act of the previous year. Specifically, the part concerning foreign musicians was the Aliens Order, 1920, Part 1 (3) (b), which stated that any foreign musician must „if desirous of entering the services of an employer in this country, produce a permit in writing for this employment issued to the employer by the Ministry of Labour“. In 1923, the Prince of Wales helped to ensure that Paul Whiteman was able to tour Britain. Whiteman was allowed to perform provided that for every American musician employed, a British musician was employed. This became know as ‚the Whiteman clause‘, designed to protect the work of the British musician from the importation of the American musicians.
The application of the Aliens Order was the responsibility of the Ministry of Labour, not the MU. The supposed ban is often referred to as an MU ban, but this is slightly misleading.
(Hodgetts 2017, 65)
Anyhow, the American Federation of Musicians seemed
quite comfortable to simply ignore these kinds of quid-pro-quo-requests and
seemed to be quite a bit more protectionist than its British counterpart (or at
least that is how the Musicians‘ Union
perceived it), and with jazz emerging
the American art form per se, they
probably felt they had some leverage considering demand/supply over the
In 1935, as the popularity of touring US jazz bands grew, the MU managed to get the Ministry of Labour to agree that it would not issue work permits for foreign musicians without Union approval—which was routinely refused. This situation lasted until 1955 and is often referred to as a “ban” on US jazz musicians entering the UK.
(Cloonan 2014, 35)
This led to some
straight-up absurd situations, like the AMF
pushing through deals that the Britons had to financially compensate American
musicians that didn’t even perform, just so English orchestras were even
allowed to play on American ground, as in 1932:
Louis Armstrong visits the UK and plays shows in London, while [English musician] Jack Hylton broadcast to the USA, via. arrangement with NBC. However, while this broadcast was taking place the AFM had struck a deal that the same number of American musicians would sit in a New York studio and receive the same fee as Hylton’s band without playing a note. This typified the bizarre nature of reciprocal deals between the UK and US unions, which returned in the 1950s and 1960s.
The climax of
these petty fights came in 1934, and of course we need another historical name
for this event: Duke Ellington.
[In 1933], Duke Ellington plays a series of shows in London and is quoted as saying “if it doesn’t become an annual trip, I’ll be most disappointed.” However, the protectionist policies of both the MU and the AFM, meant that he would be unable to return until 1958. This was the last major performance by a US dance band in the UK until the 1950s.
The Ministry of
Labour (technically not the MU, but
they pushed for it) refused Ellington re-entry in 1934, when the orchestra was
scheduled to play. The Ministry is quoted in Hodgetts (2017, 67) as stating
that they were „becoming
more and more alive to [the] entire absence of reciprocity“ from
the AMF. This procedure was repeated
in 1935 for Duke Ellington and became the standard attitude towards American
performers for the coming twenty years.
What can I say? All
this kerfuffle didn’t really start to change again until 1955/56, with some
penny-pinching, intercontinental swapping of British and American acts, but the
weirdness didn’t stop immediately. My favourite anecdote about the ongoing
quarrelling is that British skiffle-star Lonnie Donegan was indeed allowed to
tour the US in 1956 – but he was refused to play his guitar (in order to
ensure the hiring of an American backing band). By the way, according to Billy
Bragg’s book Roots, Radicals and Rockers
(2017), Donegan was ‚exchanged‘ for what the English newspapers announced as a
certain „Elvin“ Presley.
Anyway, back on
topic: American jazz and its new developments from 1930 to 1960 were basically
banned from being performed in the UK for the probably most seminal three
decades of its development (in stylistic and commercial respect). This not only
made Paris the jazz-capital of Europe, with no truly relevant jazz scene in
London (sorry). It also made sure that young people in the UK couldn’t witness
any of the transformations of jazz from swing to bop to cool jazz to hard bop
first-hand. Let’s think about this in terms of what happened: For instance, Bragg
puts forward the thesis that this ‚ban‘ basically created the British Invasion
in the long run, as rock&roller Bill Haley’s UK tour of 1957 was greeted by
young UK-audiences as a sort of big bang or messianic event, and, since there had
been no fancy jazz going on, young folks flocked to the simple guitar- or
banjo-based skiffle style à la Lonnie Donegan – there simply wasn’t anything
else nearly as cool and American. Skiffle bands (instead of, I don’t know, a
Liverpool-bebop scene – dibs on the genre name „liverbop“ for my alternate
history novel about this. I know „merseybop“ is more obvious, but
liverbop sounds cooler) led to Beat music, voilà: British Invasion of the US as
soon as the ban was loosened in the early 1960s. By the way: The
quid-pro-quo-approach for performing musicians was technically in place until
scenario in which the ban never happened. Imagine a young Paul McCartney
growing up in a world surrounded by jazz giants having relocated to England
instead of France. «Yesterday» becomes his «Body and Soul» on the saxophone. Or
let’s say the ban had stuck around in its severe form until much later. No
British Invasion at all, the Beatles being refused to perform in the US for the
entire decade, just like Duke Ellington during the 1930s in the UK. And so on.
There’s a number of alternate history-novels here.
Bragg, Billy: Roots, Radicals and Rockers: How Skiffle
Changed the World. London: Faber & Faber 2017.
Hennessey, Mike: Klook. The Story of Kenny Clarke. London:
Quartet Books Limited 1990.
Hodgets, Andrew: Protection and internationalism: The British
Musicians‘ Union and restrictions on foreign musicians. In: Fagge, Roger and
Nicolas Pillai (eds.): New Jazz Conceptions: History, Theory, Practice. London/New
York: Routledge 2017, 63–89.
Rating: 6.3/10 Rated as: Album Album Status: for Genre-Enthusiasts Released: 1972 Specific Genre: Singer-Songwriter, Contemporary Folk Main Genre: Folk, Singer-Songwriter Undertones: Folk Rock, Country Rock, Soft Rock Label: Columbia
If love were made of clouds, I almost wish that it would rain
A sweet and elusive singer-songwriter album, a bit on the cheesy side of acoustic folk, with a female ghost choir and glockenspiel kicking in around one minute into the record. With his fragile voice and rather feeble performance, Andersen falls into the vicinity of James Taylor. He belongs to the introspective, romantic sort of folk troubadours: gentle tunes, gentle performance, gentle lyrics, the production is spare but clever. There’s never just a guitar, there’s always a harmonium, or a glockenspiel, or flute-like keyboards, or gospel-ish piano clusters… and occasionally a fuller band-sound bordering on the soft-rock of the early 1970s Southern California-scene (though Andersen wasn’t part of that scene).
The compositions here, while today totally familiarized by the likes of Taylor or Carole King, must have been regarded as pretty ‚serious’ folk music in their day. Today, they are tame at worst and well-written somberness at best. Andersen isn’t afraid to tackle a surprising variety of styles here (why is it surprising? The production is so homogeneous that you don’t notice any variety the first few spins). He does standard balladry, Cohen-inspired depression („Sheila“, one of the better numbers) and even hints at country rock with the bittersweet, jaunty „More Often Than Not“ and, as a bonus track, the Hank Williams-classic „Why Don’t You Love Me“.
As a performer, Andersen lacks the intriguing bittersweet subtlety of Nick Drake or the abyssal baritone-dirge of Leonard Cohen. „More Often Than Not“ is a standout in both ways: it is a straight jaunty country song as opposed to the usual slow-tempo ballads here and one of the most immediately memorable numbers. Although the lyrics imply a sozzled roadrunner telling his story to an equally sozzled crowd, Andersen sticks to his usual contained singing style – the contrast this creates with what would be obvious crowd chant-along lines as „And here’s to all the ladies / That I’m not with tonight!“ or „And here’s to all the bottles / That I’ve drunk in my time!“ has its own charm. It’s just a sobering-up as opposed to a drunk version of that song. Of course, this song is so far from Andersen’s usual romantic staple poetry and ballad compositions, it goes unsaid this is the only song here not from his feather (as I said, on the CD there’s the Williams-cover as a bonus – it seems Andersen had a soft spot for upfront honkytonk country when not writing pained songs to Jesus, as on the ultra-cheesy „Round the Bend“).
Anyhow, this is a decent album if you’re into über-gentle singersongwriter balladeering from the early 1970s. It’s just good enough not to be very boring. This is a must I guess if you’re the kind of person that avidly listens to Carole King, James Taylor and the likes. For me, the record is mostly about „Sheila“ (Andersen’s only moment of true pain here) and the funny „More Often Than Not“. Of the qualities I personally like in Andersen, there’s just other guys and gals in those fields that are quite a bit better.
Mitbewohner A. entwickelte neulich das Konzept der Bad Smell Party, in Anlehnung an die bekannte Bad Taste Party. Er hat das laut Eigenaussage schon selbst auf Facebook geteilt, also kann ich das hier ohne Eigencredits nochmal aufrollen: Die Bad Smell Party besteht also aus einer Ansammlung schlechter Gerüche, Mitbewohner A. hat auch einige Parfums dazu entwickelt, ich erinnere mich nur noch an „Chanel N°2“ und „Hugo Bosshog“. Meine Beiträge waren „Fäulnisch Wasser“ und der Slogan: One smell of a party.
Rating: 1.2/10 Rated as: Anthology Compilation Status: Useless Released: 1989 Recorded: 1951, 1952, 1970 Specific Genre: Chicago Blues Main Genre: Blues, Electric Blues Label: Blues Encore
1 I Ain’t Superstitious 2 Sittin‘ on the Top of the World 3 Built for Comfort 4 The Red Rooster 5 Highway 49 6 Cause of It All 7 Killing Floor 8 Brownskin Woman 9 The Sun Is Rising 10 I’m the Wolf 11 House Rockin‘ Boogie 12 Dog Me Around 13 Keep What You Got 14 My Babe Stole off 15 Crying at Daybreak 16 Passing By Blues 17 Poor Boy 18 Commit a Crime 19 Wang-Dang-Doodle 20 Do the Do 21 Worried About My Baby 22 Rockin‘ Daddy
You better keep what you got
Completely pointless cash-in compilation by the greatest hollerer there ever was. Although you get 22 tracks on a single disc, this isn’t worth your while: The track choice is completely random, all the tracks are either from 1970 or 1951/52; the sequencing is random (the disc starts with a bunch of 1970-recordings, tracks 1–7, the 1950s tracks follow, 8–16, then back to a row of the 1970-tracks, 17–22); the sound of this European issue is just awful (not scratchy, as these are studio recordings, but this is the most compressed, tinniest and flattest audio quality I’ve heard in my lifetime – which is all the worse, as Howlin‘ Wolf is about his roaring sound, totally betrayed here). Tracks 8–11 are from the same 1952-session in Memphis (but were published partly on different records under fishy circumstances), while 12–16 are from two Memphis-1952 sessions (September and October). In neither cases are these all of those sessions‘ tracks, so what’s the point? But worst of all: all the 1970-tracks are directly and redundantly taken from the famous London Howlin‘ Wolf Sessions-album, whose versions weren’t so hot to begin with.
There are so many good compilations by Howlin‘ Wolf, don’t be fooled by the large number of tracks here and be sure to skip this one. To check on how to collect Wolf’s material, compare my RateYourMusic-list Complete Blues Discographies: What to get.