It would be easy, romantic even, to say that the effervescent clarinettist Monty Sunshine, now in his 70s, is currently enjoying a resurgence in his long career. The truth is that he has never been away. Sunshine has always reigned. He was there at the time in the late 1940s when camps were being formed and styles explored. Shrewdly, Londoner Monty assured himself of recognition by joining the ground‐making Ken Colyer Jazzmen before neatly side‐stepping to the rival Chris Barber outfit with which he recorded the Bechet tune “Petite Fleur”. It soared into the hit‐parade of 1956 and Sunshine’s reputation, as well as his old‐age pension, was sealed. Of course, he has not been able to make the same impression on Tin Pan Alley since. Nevertheless, Monty has worked consistently with an amazingly high level of musicianship, remaining close to his New Orleans jazz roots. On this latest offering, though, his solos are increasingly by the book; Sunshine, nevertheless, demonstrates that he knows his craft inside out. There are no surprises, or ground‐breaking revelations, then, just the usual, dependably reliable, good, strong revivalist jazz. For this, much of the credit goes as well to master trumpet player Alan Gresty.
Like Sunshine, Acker Bilk relied on a pop‐chart success with the two‐million‐selling “Stranger on the Shore” (coupled with a fancy waistcoat, bowler hat and a “Zummerzet” accent) to establish himself as an easily identifiable jazz figure. At the time, the showmanship and the humour were greeted with a direct mix of envy and disdain. Yet it is often forgotten how accomplished a musician Bernard Stanley Bilk is. Working with Ken Colyer in the mid‐1950s, he developed a silky, evocative vibrato style which eventually made him about the biggest star of the UK’s traditional jazz boom. Like Sunshine, Bilk calls his chart‐busting “Stranger” his pension, and with good reason. It proved to be our good fortune, too. It guaranteed that he stayed around to entertain as an honestly impressive, middle‐register player who seldom wastes his talents to spurious effect. The choice for this CD was simply made from a single album and a couple of EPs made in the late 1950s. They capture the Paramount Jazzband at its best. Apart from a couple of numbers, it delves into an area of unlikely tunes, particularly a set of stirring marches. It is Bilk doing blues and rags, too, with a raw, unembellished quality. Acker was and remains a major figure in British jazz.
Like Sunshine and Bilk, the Temperance Seven seem to have been part of the UK’s jazz folklore for a musical lifetime. The truth is they have not. They just happen to be experiencing a musical renaissance after a 30‐year‐plus layoff. If you believe the fanciful blurb on the CD, a workman renovating London’s old Pasadena Cocoa Rooms, accidentally uncovered a suitcase, containing long‐lost recordings by the band. The faded label, the text claims, was mysteriously inscribed Sheik H (alias John R.T. Davies). It is all pure harmless nonsense, of course. But there ought not to be an excuse for releasing an excellent collection of musical artefacts from the 1960s, wallowing unashamedly, as they do, in a richly edifying mix of mush and nostalgia. The result is a treasure trove of tunes played by as colourful a range of characters as you are likely to encounter. Whispering Paul McDowell, on megaphone; and vocals; Capt. Cephas Howard, on trumpet and euphonium; Sheik Haroun, a dean, squire, major, professor, etc. Their splendid repertoire is unlikely to be repeated. This release, then, is vital for posterity’s sake capturing the mood and the moment in such masterpieces as “You’re Driving Me Crazy”, “Pasadena” and a host of foot‐tapping treasures.
Unlike Sunshine, Bilk and company, the irrepressible Chris Barber has never been absent, either. A thoroughly schooled and skilful musician, Barber is still there among the best trombone players in the land and a fine bass player, too. Barber found his true métier in the crisp‐sounding band led by Ken Colyer in 1953, but which soon became Chris’s own band. It became distinctive as probably our best group in what might be termed the UK’s style of jazz. It has little of the New Orleans tone about it, but played in a style which is superbly captured in this CD. The stuff comes close to the California Ramblers’ bands of the 1920s, no great depth, just crisp, almost staccato sound, authoritatively played by Barber, capably assisted by the faithful Pat Halcox (trumpet), Monty Sunshine (clarinet), Lonnie Donegan (banjo), Micky Ashman (bass), Ron Bowden (drums), with vocals by the delightful Ottilie Patterson. The result is some basic, pleasing and successful jazz. As with most UK bands the rhythm is inclined to be plodding, weak or unenterprising. Yet, it is important to remember the band was all but a year old when the major part of this recording was made and still manages to display a considerable maturity. The CD offers 11 tunes associated with Harlem in the 1920s and early 1930s and serves up a confident atmosphere and excitement. The icing on the cake is the inclusion of American Country Blues duo Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, who add an extra sparkle to a very effervescent cocktail.
Humphrey Lyttelton is another icon who has never been away. Probably the country’s greatest jazz ambassador, broadcaster, quiz master, media wit and unrivalled keeper of the flame, he has secured a place few musicians could aspire to. Today in his 70s he remains a sincere, skilful player who styled himself at the outset on the most difficult role model of all ‐ Louis Armstrong. The sheer consistency of Humph, spanning half a century, more than justifies release of but a few fragments of the high standard he has achieved in a success‐littered lifetime. The first nine titles here surfaced by surprise in London after lying untouched for years. It guaranteed the sound quality. The rest is a contemporary session, mostly recorded 40 years later, also featuring Humph on clarinet and still for all that, reliant on the exquisite clarinet playing of the wonderful Wally Fawkes. The CD builds a bridge between the traditional and mainstream shores which Lyttelton kept faith with in a catholic philosophy few have cared to attempt, let alone maintain.
“Romanticism on rage”. That was how Lyttelton described the impact of Scots‐born Alex Welsh’s band after his untimely death in 1982. It perfectly summed up the pent‐up ferocity of this taut, wee chappie with a gammy leg and fine cornet. Like many of the Chicagoans that Welsh admired, this band burned itself out too soon but is remembered with more affection than almost any other and not only because, admirers claim, it was probably the best small band of its kind in the world. It was also a tight, much‐loved family ensemble whose settled personnel made it an obvious choice to accompany a host of visiting American stars. In return for sympathetic support, Welsh gained immeasurable experience from these exposures. These recordings stem from two LPs made in the late 1950s and trace an early period in the band’s life. They had formed three or four years earlier, with talent skimmed from another band. The total integration of Roy Crimmins on trombone, fellow Scot Archie Semple (clarinet) and Hunt (piano), made for a consistency and honesty which all devotees of the Eddie Condon Chicago school of jazz will unhesitatingly approve.
