Document text
Accessions no. i
'I 3884
Date received
10/10/40
Consignment no.
A
Shipped from
lash. Off los
Label
Amount
4p
WPA L. C. PROJECT Iriterill UNIT
Form -3
E-01.0.0.reCollection (or Type)
Titie_._3excip_ballroaa
Place of origin_Chia&gar....111,Laiga Date..4/1.4/49
(r.D.C.
Project worker___Zaa...ROILS
Project editor
Remarks
40
9.4
i;
axm BALLRoom
Sam Ross
No. Words
The Savoy ballroom was jammed. The hall was large but there
didn't seem to be any roam for any one. The ceiling was high but
it seemed to turn into a huge piston that kept pounding the air
down hotly. From the rear you could hardly hear the orchestra.
There were gangs of noise, couples and solos. .There was as much
noise as long sheets of rattling tin being unfurled. But it was
not a metallic noise. It was husky and vibrant.
There were white teeth and bleak faces shining with sweat.
Loud laughter gurgled through the thick air. The dancing wad tense,
barely movable in spots. Bodies groveled agonizingly against each
other. They were insinuating bodies,cdome to them, with take ne
faces. The music was slaw and physical, and the dancing was slow and
physical.
Suddenly a break in the jam occurred. A pair of legs kicked out,
and kicked forward. Space had to be cleared. There was ho stopping
that gang of legs and arms and jerking bodies. There was no stopping
that gang of music. Oh, beat it, boy. Hit it, boy. Heat it, boy.
There had never been any dancing like that since St. Vitus. You got
a lift out of watching the abandonment. It stirred through your spine,
and that feeling got all around. Nobody was alone.
Some of the people got the idea that they mould get a better lift
if they could take a ride on Louis Armstrong's trumpet, if they could
get closer to the band. They started to move up. There was a stream
coming and going, both flowing against each other. You had to wrangle
W3664
tangle, squash and lurch through buttock yielding and muscle
unyielding bodies.
A girl had fainted. She was being carried out by a couple
of men. The closeness had gotten her. Part of her rich brown
thighs gleamed above strong carrying arms. Some of the women
were frightened. But there was that terrific ride Louis Armstrong
was going to give them on his trumpet. They ducked in behind their
men into the stream full of boulders. Vapors seemed, to rise from
their impact. Man, man, nobody knew where all the people had come
from. Man, man, nobody knew haw come there was so much sweat in
a body.
There were many people deep away from the band stand. They
just listened and flicked white handkerchiefs into the air, only
to become wet against necks and foreheads. Some of the boys worked
right with the orchestra. They listened the hard way, the "jitterbug"
way: thumping the floor with their feet and leading the orchestra with
pecking heads and jiggling shoulders. They felt no pain. There was no
pain in rhythm, only in nostalgia.
Armstrong took up a trumpet solo, rising clear and solid above
the ensemble. It seemed like there was a terrible weight upon him
and he was lifting it higher and higher until he was clear of it and
out in open fields. Nan, man, haw that boy hits it. Heads shook
reverently. Listen to that boy beat it out.
He was playing a familiar tunes Stardust. A girl had her eyes
half closed. She was sixteen and in live, alone in the vast audience,
alone among people. Her face was a tortured inland lake in a
strong wind. The song Game out of her throat in a hum from
deep within her bosom. There were no words: her voice, and
other vibrating voices, was just a part of the inflecting band
that gave Armstrong the base to improvise. He carefully punched
the notes out of his trumpet. His cheeks were balled and his
eyes were closed. His trumpet flashed upward to high C, flashed
downward as he slurred through the :male, tried to break the
scale dawn. He squeezed his guts into the instrument. There was
no stopping that man. He was out of the world. There was only his
imagination and his instrument, Man, man!
He improvised about eight choruses, each one varied with a new
value. Then the saxophones took the lead with a pathetic and rich
vibrato. Nobody was alone. Each spine passed on its stirred feel-
ing to another. When Armstrong sang his voice seemed to pounce out
of his belly. It was husky and enveloping like a fog. His head
swayed from his deeply felt body. You couldn't get the words, but
you got the idea. The words were sappy anyhow. He gave them
meaning and struoture. His inarticulate deepness gave the song
body.
On full orchestration, with Armstrong inspiring his musicians,
you could feel the sound and rhythm vibrating from the floor.
The audience received the effects and they sent the power back.
The orchestra renewed their efforts with more strength, more abandon-
ment, more passion. There was a perfect integration whioh made for
great playing and great feeling. Doggone, how that boy do itt
Doggone that Satohmot God dog itt Nobody had heard a body
blow a horn like that Satohmo einoe Gabrielt Doggone that
Gate Mouth. 'Rat he do to a bodyt