This Week on Jazz Spectrum - 7/19-7/21

Song of the Week - “A Foggy Day” — by George & Ira Gershwin

Each week, Fritz exchanges thoughts with Aly Krajewski about the Song of the Week featured on Jazz Spectrum Saturday.

By Fritz Byers

Dear Aly,
 
When they close the roofs on the two Wimbledon courts that have covers, everything changes.  The first time I encountered this was in 2012 during the men’s final between Roger Federer and Andy Murray.  At the time Roger had won the then-inconceivable total of 16 majors, but he was in a bit of a lull, with Rafa Nadal and Novak Djokovic invading his realm and unsettling his legendary aplomb as he sat uneasily atop his tennis empire.  Andy, on the other hand, was still in search of his first major, heavily burdened by the incommensurable pressures of the long dry run for British men – no British man had won the title since Fred Perry in 1936.  (Murray, a proud Scot, of course also marked his historical quest against his countryman Harold Mahony, the last Scot of either sex to win Wimbledon, way back in 1896.)
 
Andy won the first set in as straight-forward a manner as one can achieve on grass against Roger; and he mostly dominated the second, having multiple chances to break Roger’s serve.  But Roger fended off the break points, and he turned the tables by breaking Andy at 4-5 to win the set and even the match.  Roger, however, was rattled, beneath his Anna Wintour-approved whites, and Andy was getting more than the usual number of looks at Roger’s usually unconquerable serve.
 
Then . . . rain.  They closed the roof, the climatic irregularities that were bedeviling Roger ebbed, Roger’s serve stabilized – if memory serves, Andy didn’t threaten Roger’s serve any more – and the last two sets were the definition of a Routine Roger win – 6-3, 6-4. 
 
This year, I saw all this up-close-and-personal.  The whole thing was a thrill – not just Wimbledon, but London, where I’d not been for, as you youngsters like to say, a minute.  I’ll tell you all about all of it soon, Aly – we’re long overdue.  
 
 With all the heavy weather crashing down from above in London, the roof on Centre Court was closed for all three of my days at the Championships.  But it turns out, grass needs air to dry – who knew?  So the revered greenswards of Wimbledon, already innately slippery, became something more like a slip-n-slide, although you wouldn’t want to say that to anyone in the Royal Box – one of them would be sure to make a Superbad joke.
 
So, yes, grey skies were the norm for the entire week.  We saw more torrents of rain than we saw fog, and they usually began when we were halfway through a long walk through some neighborhood or other, with nary a shelter in sight.  On the other hand, a spot of weather turns the whole world friendly.  Some of our most enjoyable interludes with locals came when we improvised a gathering under an overhang or in a vestibule.  
 
O, by the way: the British Museum really has lost its charm.  At least it had on the day we visited.  Were it not for an art installation we came across in a remote space way up and away from all the stolen relics, we would have thought, Pfft.
 
So choosing this week’s song of the week wasn’t even a choice – the song had been bouncing around in my head since we walked the long hallways of Heathrow after landing.
 
“A Foggy Day (in Londontown)” is among my favorites of the Gershwins’ creations, which is to say it’s up there with about 75 other songs of theirs.  Ira wrote some of the wittiest and most appealing lyrics ever, and these bear his unmistakable mark. But on this tune, George gets center-stage – the melody is among his best, which is to say it’s among the best in all of the Great American Songbook.  And beyond.
 
The song is a melancholy valedictory – it was published September 16, 1937, two month after George died, aged 38 years, of a brain tumor.   I don’t know if it’s the last melody he wrote, but I think of it that way.  I’ve long admired the image of U.S. Grant, burned out and near death, writing and revising his memoirs until the very end, and leaving behind one of the great books.  Now I have an image to pair with that one – George, refining the melody of “A Foggy Day” as he saw the end coming ever closer.  A romanticized contrivance, maybe, but I’m going with it.
 
George was working to finish the music for the Fred Astaire vehicle, A Damsel in Distress.  I read somewhere that the idea of turning P.G. Wodehouse’s novel into a movie for Fred began with George.  I read the novel years ago under the urging of a friend who’s still unconvinced that Americans deserve access to printing presses.  The “hero” of the novel is an American composer, so maybe George thought, Autofiction!   In any event, George was adamant that the movie would be made, and that he’d populate it with great tunes. 
 
 The music and Fred’s dancing are, predictably, the best things about the movie.  I just know you have memorized the scene in which Fred sings “A Foggy Day” and solo-dances his way through a sylvan backdrop.  So this version, lifted from the movie, is where we begin – I like it far better than the other versions Fred recorded.
 
Then Artie Shaw and His Orchestra.  It’s possible this pick was influenced by my having read a long article, while in London, about Ava Gardner, which included more than a passing reference to Artie.  But I don’t think so.  I think this early version of the song captures perfectly, as Artie’s playing and arrangements so often do, the intricacies and implications of the melody.  I love the rhythmic drive.
 
Then Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, together.  You know, better than almost anyone, why I couldn’t omit their joyful can-you-top-this meander through the tune.  
 
The first set finishes with the trumpet mastery of Roy Eldridge.  Since he was, and still is, so often eclipsed by Louis, and then by Dizzy Gillespie, it seems like a form of archaeology to make sure Roy gets a good listen.  So here he is.
 
Billie Holiday recorded the song only once, and it was late in her life.  This version, which begins Set 2, is from her touching release, Songs for Distingue Lovers, recorded in January 1957 with Ben Webster, rather than Lester Young, on tenor.  This post already has enough references to great artists trying to manage the endtime waltz, so I’ll say only that this one can break your heart.
 
Charlie Mingus pretty much stuck to his own compositions, so it’s notable that he chose to record “A Foggy Day” on one of his early Atlantic albums, the essential Pithecanthropus Erectus.  I know nothing about why Charlie was drawn to this tune, but I’ll look into that and get back to you.  Meanwhile, you’ll be interested in his reverent deconstruction.
 
Then . . . my fave – Jimmy Rowles, playing and singing.  Jimmy is the pianist on Billie’s version, and on that track he was, as always, a perfect accompanist.  Listen to this several times, and when we’re together next I’ll tell you about what it was like to see Jimmy perform in person amid the intimacies of Bradley’s, which was the world’s great jazz venue.
 
And we conclude with another master of the American songbook, the pianist Bill Charlap.  The track is from his homage to the Gershwins, The American Soul.  I’ve listened to Bill with his unrivaled trio, including the bassist Peter Washington and the drummer Kenny Washington, nearly as much as I’ve listened to anyone.  It’s nice this time around to hear him explore “A Foggy Day” in the company of Frank Wess on tenor, Slide Hampton on trombone, and Nicholas Payton on trumpet.  

Aly, might you want to meet for a pint later this week?
 
F

Aly's Response

Fritz! Long time no write. I was starting to think we lost you to the wiles of European living. 

I'm writing my response to you this week from the steps of the Toledo Museum, on a particularly lovely sunny day – not a cloud in sight, and very different from the gloomy Londontown vista you painted in your note. Almost shamefully, I admit I haven't had the chance to explore London yet in my life; I'm sure I'll get there someday, but you'll have to forgive any ignorance I may show in my limited knowledge on those Limeys and their baked bean breakfasts. (How am I doing so far?) Though I will do my best to sink myself into the same foggy headspace as you, just know it will be a little difficult with the smell of lilacs and the soft July breeze meandering by as I type. 

I am not adept enough to go tete-a-tete with you on the matters of tennis, so I will absolutely not embarrass myself with incorrectly-used terminology or a half-hearted attempt to wax poetic on Federer. What I can definitely wax on, though, is a Gershwin! I was curious if George Gershwin would have had substantial experience in London before he wrote this SotW. With a little digging, I found that George's first trip to the UK was in 1923 (aged 24); He was thrilled when the Customs Officer at Southampton recognised him as the writer of "Swanee", and when he went ashore, he was interviewed by a reporter which delighted him. On a return trip in 1924 to work on the show Primrose, George stayed with his producer friend, Alex Aarons and his wife Ella in their flat at 10 Berkeley Street.  George described it as “one of the cheeriest flats”.  This is just around the corner from Berkeley Square, so it's fitting that the first song he composed with Desmond Carter was ‘Berkeley Square and Kew’. By all accounts, George loved being in London – dining out, shopping, playing golf, and (get this!) watching tennis at Wimbledon. I wonder if you sat in the same spot relative to the court as George this year, watching with the same excitement and intensity? He probably also experienced at least one rainy match there too, you'd think. I find something so charming about envisioning the "layers" of overlap that we have with people who existed over 100 years ago, about the mundane moments that link us all together in some metaphysical way or another. 

George's last trip to London would be in 1928. This time, he had come with Ira and Leonore, and his sister, Frances. Soon after arriving in London, Gertrude Lawrence took him shopping; they went to Savile Row for suits, Hawes and Curtis in Jermyn Street for ties and shirts, had dinner with the Mountbattens, chatted with the Prince of Wales at the Embassy Club and attended a party in George’s honour at the Kit Kat Club. Talk about the most interesting man in the world! All things considered, it seems that George's time spent in England would have, on the whole, been at least enjoyable, if not exuberant. If there was inclement weather (and I'm sure there was), it didn't dampen Gershwin's spirits or creative juices. I feel very thankful that he had a rosy picture of London from his travels – rosy and foggy, I suppose. 

You know, considering his immense contributions to the American Songbook (and many other musical endeavors) in such a short lifespan, George Gershwin really got the bum end of the stick. What would he have been able to add to his incredible legacy if he had another 38 years on earth, at least? Ira continued to work after George's death, and we have amazing songs like "Long Ago (And Far Away)" and "The Man That Got Away" because of it, so I will not look a gift horse in the mouth too much; but I have to imagine that Ira, without his brother, had to scale a proverbial mental mountain in order to feel like he wasn't "missing" something in his work. Or perhaps there was a bittersweet feeling of relief that he wouldn't have to be in George's enigmatic shadow any longer. Whatever his feelings, Ira ensured that the Gershwin catalog would continue to flourish after George died, and "A Foggy Day" is one of the first tasks that Ira would have had to shepherd into the public sphere in 1937. 

There's a sweet bit of parallelism in the lyrics for "A Foggy Day" and this note, I think. The feeling of "lifting the veil" between the past and the present is always a favorite pastime of mine; so to have some time to listen to this SotW and think about George's british excursions (and the ways that you may have overlapped with him) was time very well spent. Thanks for queueing up a great deep cut this week, too; From Charlie to Ella, Bill to Roy, all of these versions are sublime examples of how amazing George's melodies have been and still are today. (Billie's version was particularly magical in this week's setlist, if I'm being candid–but let's not pick favorites this time...)

While I'm wandering the Museum today, I think I'll try to see things through the lens of someone who lived many moons before me; try to find the invisible footsteps that I can fall into; see if I can slip into a shimmering space between then and now and find some meaning to it all. Maybe it'll have to be more ritualistic and I'll have to wait for the next fog to roll into Toledo to see the outlines of people's past. Either way, I'm glad to have a SotW soundtrack to back all of this up. 

Let's meet at the Tate next time,
Aly