The Lone Ranger Riders Again!

This week, we will abandon our usual Fine Arts mandate to observe the 80^th anniversaries of several glorious examples of American Pop Culture.

So as not to disappoint usual Jade Sphinx readers who expect a certain amount of grousing about the deplorable conditions of the world in which we live – let me take this moment to pour the mixture as before.  At one time, American Pop Culture was a great and glorious thing: though made to be disposable and never with the pretentions of High Art, occasionally Pop Art created things of great and lasting beauty.  The Great American Songbook, for example, was art of the most popular kind … and may end up being our sole, enduring legacy.   Movies, too, when they were made for adults and weren’t special-effects laden pap made to sell toys, were also Pop Art of a significant and lasting kind.  All of this, of course, was before the rot set in.  Today, “disposable” is perhaps the kindest thing that can be said for the rancid and diseased corruption crafted to amuse the groundlings in our movie theaters and in front of their television sets.  The fall from Cole Porter to rap music, or from Ernst Lubitsch to J. J. Abrams is a precipitous one – and quite possibly fatal.

But as potent as music and movies were in the 1920s-through-1960 or so, so were pulp magazines and radio drama.  Many people today consider pulp magazines to be the precursors of comics, but that’s an oversimplification of a more intellectually challenged time.  In fact, pulp magazines were monthly novels and short story collections – already more demanding of even the most casual reader than comics – and the magazines could be devoted to western stories or science fiction or romance or detective tales or the recurring adventures of a single character, like The Shadow or Doc Savage.  (More on Doc later this week.)

Similar to the pulps and equally important was radio drama.  Before television, people sat around their radios … looking at them.  Radio was truly a theater of mind because gifted actors and often brilliant sound effects men were utterly invisible to the listener.  It was the art of the radio writer to create landscapes out of the airwaves and people them with compelling stories and captivating characters.  Unlike the spoon-fed tosh found on any (most? all?) television stations, radio drama demanded from the audience attention, imagination, and most of all, participation.

Few radio icons have left a deeper or more mythic footprint on our subconscious than The Lone Ranger. Created by writer Fran Striker (1903-1962), The Lone Ranger first appeared in 1933 on radio station WXYZ, owned by George W. Trendle (1884-1972), who also claimed credit for creating the Ranger.  The show was an enormous hit – it was geared towards kids, but more than half of the audience was made up of adults.  The show would last on radio until 1954 – but, as is often the case, the Lone Ranger was to ride again in a television show from 1949 to 1957.  The Lone Ranger was also the subject of two movie serials, three motion pictures (with a fourth one on the way), and one execrable TV movie.

The Lone Ranger also was featured in eight novels by Striker, countless comic books and Big-Little-Books, and the daydreams of boys without number, including your correspondent.

Though the mythos has often been tweaked over the past 80 years, the basic origin of the Lone Ranger remains the same.  He was one of a band of Texas Rangers who were ambushed in Bryant’s Gap by the notorious Butch Cavendish gang.  All the other rangers died in the attack; their bodies found by an American Indian named Tonto.

Tonto buried all of the rangers, and also made a fake grave for the surviving ranger, so that Butch and other bad men of the West would not seek him out and finish the job.  As Tonto said, “you only ranger left; you Lone Ranger.”

Donning a mask to keep his identity a secret, the Lone Ranger and Tonto first set out to bring Cavendish to justice.  And when that job was completed, the duo realized that – having no real fixed or official identities – that they could…. well, as various announcers for the series said, With his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, the daring and resourceful masked rider of the plains led the fight for law and order in the early Western United States. Nowhere in the pages of history can one find a greater champion of justice. Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. From out of the past come the thundering hoof-beats of the great horse Silver. The Lone Ranger rides again!

The Lone Ranger is a remarkable creation for a number of reasons.  First off, Striker and company obliviously hit some kind of nerve in creating a kiddie show character that so resonated with adults.  To understand the Lone Ranger’s popularity at the time with both children and adults, think of our contemporary obsession with Batman – and then realize that the Lone Ranger was even more popular in his prime.

I suspect that one of the reasons for this is that the Ranger was his own man in his own time.  He had no secret identity (at least, not once his life changed so dramatically), he had no hideout or regular supporting cast, he had no superpowers that rendered him ridiculous.  And, more importantly, he had freedom.  The Lone Ranger and Tonto ride the West without thought of the necessities of making money or advancing careers or of the real needs of wives and children.  They were free men in a seemingly more free time.

They also were equal partners.  Most people unfamiliar with the actual radio or television series believe Tonto was a monosyllabic stooge; but actually listening or watching the series would dispel this notion.  Tonto was the Ranger’s superior in woodcraft and outdoorsmanship, and was an excellent scout and information resource. More often than not, it was Tonto who did the initial reconnaissance and told the Ranger who and where the villains could be found.  It was also a true friendship – both men cared for and loved each other.  (As is often the case with these long-lasting sagas, there is some debate as to how the two actually met.  The adopted story is that they were boyhood friends and it was chance that brought Tonto to Bryant’s Gap after the ambush.  Each man calls the other Kemo Sabe, which means “faithful friend.”)

Another key, I think, was the duo’s famous mounts, Silver and Scout.  Tonto rode Scout, an incredibly capable paint horse, but the Ranger rode a magnificent white stallion, Silver.  The Ranger rescued Silver when the horse was beset by an enraged Buffalo, and then Silver would never leave his side.  The Lone Ranger also used silver bullets, and the overriding theme of silver helped underscore the character’s sense of purity.

Most famously, the Ranger had a very strict moral code.  The Lone Ranger never took a life, never shot to kill, never took unfair advantage.  Today, a concept like that would never fly, when even the most innocent of family movies have a high body count.  But these were different times and a different America – a more aspirational land when we wanted people to emulate rather than feel smugly superior.

I had the great good fortune to interview Clayton Moore (1914-1999) who played the Lone Ranger on television and in two feature films, around the time he wrote his autobiography, I Was That Masked Man.  Aside from being an amusing and intelligent man, the thing that stuck most with me was how he felt the Ranger had changed his life.  While no saint, Moore spoke candidly of how he tried to “live up to” the Ranger and his ideals.  The stories of Moore taking his role very seriously are legendary – a particularly amusing one can be found here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KFabfnfhIaY.

When closing the interview, Moore, in complete sincerity, asked if I would like for him to recite the Lone Ranger’s Code.  How could I refuse!  Taking a pause, Clayton Moore/The Lone Ranger said:

I believe...

That to have a friend, a man must be one.

That all men are created equal and that everyone has within himself the power to make this a better world.

That God put the firewood there, but that every man must gather and light it himself.

In being prepared physically, mentally, and morally to fight when necessary for that which is right.

That a man should make the most of what equipment he has.

That 'this government of the people, by the people, and for the people' shall live always.

That men should live by the rule of what is best for the greatest number.

That sooner or later...somewhere...somehow...we must settle with the world and make payment for what we have taken.

That all things change but truth, and that truth alone, lives on forever.

In my Creator, my country, my fellow man.

I will be the first to admit that there was as much corn as gold in our Golden Age of Pop Culture.  However… there is something about the Lone Ranger that still resonates, still has the capacity to touch some more innocent and hopeful self.  And I say without shame and certainly without irony that I miss him.

Who was that Masked Man?  He was the best part of ourselves.

Vince Giordano and the Nighthawks Orchestra

No retrospective of the Great American Songbook would be complete without a look at modern masters of the form.  There are several to choose from, and all of them have much to recommend them.  Michael Feinstein (born 1956) is a wonderful scholar of the material and a noted Grammy-winning performer, as well.  Harry Connick (born 1967) is perhaps the most aggressive seeker of Frank Sinatra’s throne, and he, too, has much to commend him.  But neither of these artists, talented as they are, have managed to quite capture the true sparkle of the 1930s, the era when this music was most inventive, most vital and spoke in the most uniquely American dialect.  Feinstein is at times too precious and too mannered in a post-War supper-club style; Connick with his brassy bombast too closely aligned with a Sinatra-esque Las Vegas vibe.  Both artists understand the music, but it seems to them grafted on, a niche they occupy rather than an artistic mission.

For this correspondent, the finest modern interpreter of the American musical canon is Vince Giordano, who fronts the magnificent Nighthawks Orchestra.  Giordano, born in Brooklyn in 1952, is an avid (one may say rabid) scholar of the sound of the 1920s and 1930s, and has a unique genius for this American idiom.  Vince plays the bass saxophone and is the Nighthawks’ only vocalist.  He uses his magnificent library of more than 60,000 arrangements to capture that unique sound, and, when performing live, introduces the sets.  Always at his side is an authentic 1920s era microphone.

Vince and the Nighthawks have performed at many of New York City’s most famous musical venues, including Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Smithsonian, the 92^nd Street Y and the Red Blazer.  For a long time they were a weekly feature at the lost, lamented supper club the Cajun in Chelsea; they are now at Sofia’s Restaurant, 221 West 46^th Street, every Monday and Tuesday from 8:00 – 11:00 p.m.

And it is not just lucky New Yorkers who can hear Giordano and the Nighthawks.  Vince’s playing with the Dick Hyman Orchestra can be heard on the soundtracks of several Woody Allen films; he provided music for the CD celebrating the release of Kevin Kline’s Cole Porter 2004 biopic, De-Lovely; he can be heard on the soundtrack of Martin Scorsese’s The Aviator (2004) and Johnny Depp’s Public Enemies (2009).  And fans of the HBO series, Boardwalk Empire (which features Vince as the bandleader) should know that the soundtrack album has just been released.  In addition, Vince and the Nighthawks are frequent guests on Garrison Keillor’s A Prairie Home Companion.

It is here that your correspondent must confess to great admiration for Vince – both as a man and for his brilliant musicianship. He has approached his craft and this musical idiom with a sense of mission, and his love for his art is infectious.  I have followed his career for more than a decade, and have caught his shows at the Cajun, Sofia’s, the Red Blazer and Carnegie Hall.  Listening to the Nighthawks has been one of the great joys of my adulthood – his music is so energetic, so freewheeling and so much fun.  It is no exaggeration at all to say that he has made me grin till my face hurt, and cry tears of joy.

So what, one wonders, is it that is so unique about the Giordano sound?  It is a puzzle not easily solved for the music is so seamless, the sound so natural.  Listening to Vince is akin to hearing a consummate artist married to the right material – it becomes an extension of the man and he becomes, in a way, the music.

A perfectly fine example of this is the great Louis Armstrong (1901-1971).  Armstrong was not a great singer, but everything about him, from his phrasing and his delivery to his peerless trumpeting, made the man music.  Vince has this same gift – when playing the Great American Songbook, Vince becomes the music.

Watching him play is an unqualified delight.  Unlike most of the post-rock era musicians who behave as if they are suffering, or bearing the great weight of their ‘art,’ Vince singing or playing is consumed by joy.  This cat grins, and when he plays the bass, he is dancing with himself.  He is an example to every modern musician and every lover of music.

Vince has recorded many fine CDs, all of which are available directly through him.  My personal favorite is Cheek to Cheek, a collection of songs associated with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.  His rendition of The Carioca is simply the finest instrumental recording of the song, ever.  His take on The Continental is perhaps nearly as ethereal as the latter Astaire-Oscar Peterson recording, and Let Yourself Go is Vince at his most energetic and fun-loving best.

His Cotton Club Revisited includes a delightful Stormy Weather and the hyper-jazzed Minnie the Moocher.  His Harlem Holiday is nearly enough to make you want a holiday of your own, and Get Yourself a New Broom and Sweep the Blues Away a tonic for most anything that ails you.

Quality Shout! is packed with delights, particularly Mournful Serenade, Sugar Food Stomp and Stoppin’ the Traffic.  Quality Shout! Is one of Giordano’s most personal recordings; the tunes selected are off-the-radar to all but the most dedicated hot-music devotees, and it was recorded using a small number of microphones, creating balances acoustically and by positioning the musicians to best recreate a late 1920s sound.

For Vince’s album The Goldkette Project, he worked with Bill Challis, who was the staff arranger for Jean Goldkette and Paul Whiteman.  Challis was the man behind both of those band’s most jazz-oriented numbers, and he also later wrote for Frankie Trumbauer’s small-group dates with Bix Beiderbecke.  Challis befriended a very young Vince and his siblings, and The Goldkette Project is a labor of love.  That love can be heard in every number.  Particularly adept tunes include Sometimes I’m Happy, Idolizing, Since My Best Gal Turned Me Down and Slow River.

Vince recently broadened his musical net by tackling the Big Band hits of the later 1930s and 40s.  His album Moonlight Serenade is a musical ode to the war years, and his In the Mood, Moonlight Serenade and You Made Me Love You are simply magnificent.

These discs are all available at $17 each (which includes postage and tax) with a check or money order made out to Vince Giordano at 1316 Elm Avenue, Brooklyn, New York 11230-5916.  I would be hard pressed to think of a better way to spend your money.

Coming soon to the Jade Sphinx, a special, two-part interview with Vince Giordano!

Fred Astaire

We continue examining the voices that make up the Great American Songbook with a look at Fred Astaire (1899-1987).  Your correspondent must confess, upfront, his boundless admiration and affection for Astaire – indeed, it is my firm belief that when all good men die, as a reward they then become Fred Astaire.

At this point, many of my readers are wondering why Astaire, one of the protean dance figures of the 20^th Century, is included in a review of the voices of the Great American Songbook.  Well, I have included Astaire because, not only is he the greatest dancer to appear in motion pictures, but he was also a singer of subtle and distinct phrasing, who knew what a popular song needed and delivered it with a (seemingly) effortless panache.  In fact it was Irving Berlin (1888-1989) – who, along with Cole Porter (1891-1964) and George Gershwin (1898-1937) comprises the trinity of 20^th Century songwriting genius – who said his favorite singer was Fred Astaire.  Several of Berlin’s signature tunes, including Dancing Cheek to Cheek, Steppin’ Out With My Baby, and Puttin’ On the Ritz – were all introduced by Astaire.

So, for the purposes of this exercise, we will overlook Astaire’s monumental contribution to the dance (which, admittedly, is rather like writing about Saturn without mentioning its rings).  Nor will we take especial interest in his consummate style – indeed, cineastes debate who was the most debonair man in American cinema: Astaire or Cary Grant (1904-1986).  While many cite Grant’s well-tailored ease, there was something about Astaire’s carriage and poise that bespoke magic.  It is possible to derive pleasure simply by watching Astaire walk … and snippets of Astaire walking down Fifth Avenue in Easter Parade (1948) should be required viewing before leaving any respectable school.

Astaire is famous for his “white tie and tails,” an ensemble which he personally loathed.  But Astaire was more than formal wear: his leisure clothes were relaxed and unaffected yet elegant.  An unusually thin man (co-star Bing Crosby said he could “spit through him”), Astaire was blessed with the ability to inhabit his clothes rather than having them wear him. 

Instead, let’s look at Astaire the actor and the singer.  He entered movies dancing beside Joan Crawford in Dancing Lady (1933).  It was really little more than a cameo; and he and Ginger Rogers were supporting players in their first film together, Flying Down to Rio (1933).  He and Rogers (1911-1995) were sensations in that film, and they went on to make a total of 10 films together, including Swing Time (1936), Top Hat (1935), and Shall We Dance (1937).  The Astaire-Rogers corpus encompasses some of the finest American musical films ever made, and is essential to an understanding of the evolution of American musical movies.

Astaire in the 1930s is a marvel.  His performances are simple and easy – he exudes enthusiasm, high spirits and an unaffected sophistication.  He seems almost boyish and at times brash – he is irresistible.  And, aside from his acting, his singing has a unique lyricism.  (Jerome Kern would consider him the supreme male interpreter of his songs).

And then … something happened.  The 1930s were Astaire’s first heyday, but he lost considerable ground in the early 1940s.  It’s not that he did not make good films – his Holiday Inn (1942) and Blue Skies (1946) with Bing Crosby are quite terrific – and some of his loveliest dance partners come from this era, including Rita Hayworth and Eleanor Powell. 

What happened, really, was the national zeitgeist changed.  In the 1930s, at the height of the Great Depression, it was important for Americans to have, I think, a sophisticated ideal.  White tie and tails and penthouses and cocktails were the stuff of dreams, and Astaire personified an ideal that many aspired to, but could never achieve.

With World War II, the struggle against Nazism was a struggle carried mainly by the Average Joe.  In fact, I believe that the 1940s were Crosby’s decade more than Astaire’s because Crosby was able to capture that Average Joe quality of that moment in ways that were simply beyond Astaire’s temperament and ability. 

And so, after playing second fiddle to Crosby again in Blue Skies, Astaire retired … only to reappear a short two years later, teaming with Judy Garland to make the now classic Easter Parade.  This film started a new collaborative period with MGM, and a new phase of his career.

During this second chorus for Astaire, he made some of his finest films, including Royal Wedding (1951), Funny Face (1957), Silk Stockings (1957) and, perhaps his masterpiece, The Band Wagon (1953).  Many of his most famous ‘trick’ dances – including dancing on the walls and ceiling, hoofing with a hat stand, and dancing with a legion of disembodies shoes – occur in these films.

Curiously, though, there is a profound change in Astaire in his post Easter Parade films.  His dancing is more fluid, more sensuous, more ornate than his movements of the 1930s, but his acting seems to have constricted somewhat, as if letting lose in the dance left too little energy for fun in his performances.  The Astaire persona of the 1940s and 1950s is a little tighter, a little more crabbed than the buoyant boy of the 1930s.

After Silk Stockings, Astaire went on to triumphs in television, winning an Emmy for one of his many TV specials, and straight acting roles in a wide range of films, both good and bad.  But nothing could take away the memory of his greatest achievements.

Astaire’s artistic contribution to the American culture is a unique one.  Not only was he the preeminent popular dancer of his day, but Astaire was a gifted film actor and, most important here, one of the great interpreters of popular song.  His movements were music, his speaking voice had a unique rhythm, his singing a gift of phrasing and style.  Fred Astaire is, simply put, the greatest artist to appear in American musical films.

Tomorrow – the Frank Sinatra Paradox!