Jazz

What does Boston have to offer in the way of hot music? To be quite frank, the answer is: not much. The Copley Terrace used to give sessions under the impetus of the Boston Jazz Society, but nowadays the section of the Terrace where the hot men used to play looks like an unfinished pool room, which perhaps it is. The once jumping Ken Club is now indistinguishable from a thousand and one other marginal niteries. Best bet out of a poor field is the Club Savoy near the corner of Massachusetts and Columbus Avenues. Here a former Hampton sideman, Earl Bostie, manipulated the keys of his alto in an exceptionally adept but rather confusing manner. The member of his unit, a remarkably happy looking and youthful bunch compared with most jaded jazzmen, were largely recruited from Benny Carter's and Lionel Hampton's outfits some months ago in New York. They have recorded several items on the Gotham label none of which equal their personal performances.

At two o'clock last Sunday afternoon, a band of intrepid adventurers gathered together to inaugurate a new period in the colorful history of jazz at Harvard A haphazard group of instrumentalists it is no doubt they were, with two clarinetists and one clarinet, a cornet, a trombone, a piano man and a suitcase expert. But they were united in their devotion to the principle that jazz sans arrangements, sans rehearsals, and in short sans everything but spirit, lung power, and a smattering of relative pitch is worth an hour or so every week. By the sixth chorus of the initial piece, "Darktown Strutters Ball," it had become apparent to the bystanders that here was an occurrence above and beyond the usual order of things. From thence and in the following order "Sweet Sue," "Blues in B Flat," "Tea for two," "Ja Da," and "The Sheik" were attacked. One of the reed men, a startling cross between Johnny Dodds and Joe Marsala blasted out a machine gun-like obligatto in answer to the adept growlings of the slip horn, while the cornetist, feeling no doubt that he was being attacked from both sides, lashed out wildly with punchy, agitated jabs. During these gyrations, the pianist managed the almost superhuman job of bringing order out of chaos. It was a never-ending source of amazement to the bystanders that at the end of each chorus, every man was able to return from his excursions just in the nick of time. Quite often, after a quarter hour's extended treatment, a piece would actually end with all participants on the same note. In short, the meeting was a success; but not so much of a success that any other aspiring musicians will be turned away when the group scrapes itself together again at seven o'clock next Thursday evening. At present they have been unable to find a regular meeting place safe from the unsympathetic ears of Harvardian philistines, but the plan is to meet at Lowell B-11 Thursday night anyway in the hopes that somebody will crash through. Prospective hot artists should not stay away because of fears of getting involved in a time consuming project. This is not an association of eager beavers or of people who consider themselves well enough off to spare more than a couple of hours a week.