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Louis Armstrong in a dressing room in Las Vegas nine months before his death. |
King Louis
A musician whose genius was compared to that of Picasso and Joyce, the ‘wonderful’ sound of Louis Armstrong was set against a backdrop of critical voices who labelled him an Uncle Tom, writes Gerald Isaaman
Pops: The Wonderful World of
Louis Armstrong.
By Terry Teachout. JR Books £20
THE people expect all that from me – coming out all chesty, making faces. That’s me and I don’t want to be nobody else. They know I’m there in the cause of happiness.”
That was the gravel-voiced response of the late Louis Armstrong, aka Satchmo, aka Pops, to his critics who derided his clowning on stage and, equally, the diminution of his great talent into songs such as Hello, Dolly!
That record alone sold more copies than the top Beatles tune and also added to the malicious claims that he was an Uncle Tom, who wanted to please the white man in a country where he surrendered to racist abuse, even from his own folk, who had their own dislike of the Jews.
Yet – and there always is one – Armstrong was a serious musician, a brilliant sight reader of music who warmed up playing tunes from Italian opera. He was the kid from the waifs home in New Orleans who had a great gift that not only warmed people’s hearts but created modern American music.
Take a little time off to listen to those early Hot Five and Seven tracks again, to the soaring big band version of Struttin’ With Some Barbecue, to Louis and Ella, to Mack the Knife and you understand why he reigned supreme, his genius compared to that of James Joyce and Picasso.
Terry Teachout’s brilliant new book has been a long time coming – Armstrong died in 1971 – but the wait has been truly worth it. For he has diligently listened to hours of personal tapes that Armstrong made and read every word of thousands of words he wrote, using two fingers on his typewriter.
Armstrong called it his hobby. But that personal testimony reveals the sensitive soul who hid behind the joker on stage.
That innate ability to breathe the beauty of life into cascading notes of trumpet virtuosity and scat-singing solos inspired many to hero worship Armstrong, myself among them. I felt privileged to pat him on the back at one Earls Court concert, and once wrote an editorial to the man who encompassed joy and wisdom, when he died.
And I still have vivid memories of Armstrong, in blue immaculate tails, appearing at the Festival Hall with the London Symphony Orchestra, to play a classical arrangement of WC Handy’s St Louis Blues – in aid of refugees from the Hungarian revolution.
Teachout, himself a trained musician, who is drama critic of the Wall Street Journal, presents the far from wonderful world of hate and jealousy that Armstrong endured by being his forever warm, witty, generous self, a smiling man who gave away dollars galore to those who held out their hands.
Armstrong’s own words, which thrive throughout this undoubtedly definitive biography, are often as simple. “The white folks did everything that’s decent for me,” he scrawled in a notebook. “I wish that I can boast those same words for n*****s.”
What is equally remarkable is the revelation that he modelled his philosophy, his love of family, his ability to overcome prejudice and rely on self-help, on a Jewish family.
It was the Karnofskys who befriended him and whom he admired so much he always wore a Star of David round his neck.
He credited the Jewish people with teaching him “how to live – real life and determination.”
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