Jelly Roll Morton, General 4003, 1939
It’s a tribute to a guy whose brief period of glory was in a place called Funky Butt Hall, before he spent his last twenty-four years in a mental institution, totally incompetent. It’s sung by a guy whose nickname is slang for the male sex organ. The singer doesn’t quote the honoree spouting words of wisdom, but instead urging someone to “open up that window and let that foul air out.”
All that said, listening to Jelly Roll Morton playing and singing “Buddy Bolden’s Blues” (also known as “I Thought I Heard Buddy Bolden Say”), recorded in 1939, just a couple years before Morton died, is a glorious experience, time after time.
The mysterious Buddy Bolden is the person most people credit with inventing jazz—except for, ironically, Jelly Roll Morton, who always claimed he invented jazz. Of course, no one person “invented” jazz. It has way too many antecedents. But you can hear in this record a nice example of the mix of blues, sacred music, and swing that Bolden’s said to have made his mark with.
The record label gives the writing credit to Morton, but most agree that the music and lyrics originated with trombonist Willy Cornish and other members of Bolden’s band, as they played at the Union Sons Hall (the place everyone called Funky Butt Hall). No recording of Bolden and company has ever been found, and Buddy’s estrangement from reality began in 1907, before anything we’d think of as jazz made it to a recording studio.
Mr. Morton was all but forgotten in the thirties, after his heyday during the preceding decade. Styles had changed, former friends and associates had been alienated. But he went out with a bang, recording solo and raconteuring away for Alan Lomax, who also put together a nice bio, Mister Jelly Roll: The Fortune of Jelly Roll Morton, New Orleans Creole and “Inventor of Jazz” in 1950. The full-band recording of “Buddy Bolden’s Blues,” with Sidney Bechet, Zutty Singleton and other New Orleans lights assisting, is probably as close to being a perfect evocation of that great city in music (and what better way to evoke NOLA?). But the solo Jelly displays piano-playing as deft and artful as always and a voice as timeless as New Orleans’ mystique. It somehow matters not at all that he’s singing about funky butts, foul air, and a man who died crazy and nearly lost to history. “Buddy Bolden’s Blues,” whoever wrote it, is divine.