Photo by Ben Collier
Jazz writer Gary Giddins on the incomparable Louis Armstrong. [32:17]
Gary Giddins: There's a famous story Earl Hines used to tell about after he sang for the first time he said the guys would stick their heads out of the window when it rained, hoping to catch a cold so they would sound like Louis Armstrong. I mean, everything he did was imitated. He was the one who just showed you what this music could be. Before Louis Armstrong there was at least one great player in Sidney Bechet, but it was a music that came from a specific community at a specific time. What Armstrong shows is this is a way of playing music. This is not just a folk art. This can accomplish every kind of human emotion, and the trick, if you want to pay this music, is not to copy me or, if you're a white guy, to copy a black guy because you think he's more authentic. Is to find yourself. And when people understood that, jazz by the early 1930s became international. And once you understand that the music is that capacious, that huge that it can enfold every kind of musician, then it becomes a world achievement. It's no longer something from a specific time and place.
That was the award-winning jazz critic Gary Giddins talking about the one and only, Louis Armstrong. Welcome to Art Works, the program that goes behind the scenes with some of the nation's great artists to explore how art works. I'm your host, Josephine Reed. Today, Gary Giddins and I celebrate the legacy of the great Louis Armstrong whose birthday we mark today.
Born on August 4, 1901 in New Orleans; Louis Armstrong is one of America's great artists. It is impossible to exaggerate his contributions to the development of jazz: both as an instrumentalist and as a singer. He was a virtuoso trumpet player, whose improvisations opened the way for solo instrumental performances; he improvised as a singer too bending melody and lyric in a way that revealed new dimensions to songs. Louis Armstrong had hits in every decade beginning in the 1920s and going straight through to the 1960s. He was a charismatic performer who played an average of 300 concerts a year, traveling around the world, and touring Africa, Europe, and Asia under sponsorship of the US State Department. He was the force behind The Louis Armstrong Educational Foundation to create music programs in schools and libraries throughout his adopted city of New York. Despite Armstrong's considerable fame and success, he lived in a modest house in Corona, Queens and would hang with kids on his stoop. Armstrong died in his sleep there in 1971. He never stopped playing music.
When it comes to talking about jazz in general and Armstrong in particular, it's hard to do better than Gary Giddins, a critic who perfectly balances his passion, intelligence, and knowledge. He is a long-time columnist for the Village Voice, an author, essayist, producer and educator who has won National Book Critics Circle Award in Criticism for Visions of Jazz, a Peabody Award for broadcasting, six ASCAP–Deems Taylor Awards, a Guggenheim Fellowship and was given Lifetime Achievement Award from the Jazz Journalists Association. Gary Giddins has written many books, among them a biography of Louis Armstrong called Satchmo: The Genius of Louis Armstrong. Giddins once wrote that Louis Armstrong is "the single most important person in the development of jazz." But when I spoke with Gary at his NYC office, he wanted to amend that statement.
Gary Giddins: I would go further and say in American music, because he codified swing and because when Armstrong came along, a lot of the best black musicians thought that the blues was a fad, a fashion like ragtime that a lot of white people had bought into because they liked watching these sexy black mamas with their boas around their necks singing, people like Bessie Smith. There were many Smiths in that period, and these were very sophisticated musicians and they thought that maybe the blues was just something that was going to go the way of ragtime and that they were going to be playing a music based on much more sophisticated harmonies and so forth. Armstrong proved that not to be the case, and when he came to New York in 1924, the first rehearsal he did with Fletcher Henderson, Don Redman-- the arranger who was writing non-blues pieces, which I would actually characterize as anti-blues pieces in some respects—said that as soon as he heard Armstrong stand up and play of course a trumpet on a piece called "Copenhagen," he knew that he would have to revise his entire approach to the orchestra. All these musicians in the band who thought of him as a rube, a Southerner, a guy who parted his hair funny. We're talking about people like Coleman Hawkins and Buster Bailey and guys who wore suits tailored around their bodies that look just cooler than could be, and it was so hip and sophisticated and knew classical music and were just so much a part of the New York elite, and Armstrong to them was like a country boy. And they all, all of them, changed the way they played. They all started bringing in the blues tonality. Now, the one that you could really see most dramatically was Duke Ellington, because Ellington had been writing kind of a fancy, polyphonic orchestrated music in the middle '20s. None of it is listened to anymore, and then after he hears Armstrong he goes out and hires Bubber Miley, interestingly a trumpet player who was formed in the crucible of the blues but is not an Armstrong imitator, which was not defined at that time. He had his own interesting style, and at that point when Ellington accepts that the blues is the basic scale on which jazz is composed…
Jo Reed: Let me interrupt you. Can you explain what you mean by the blues scale, by the blues tonality?
Gary Giddins: There are a lot of different ways to define the blues. The blues has a form; it's a 12-bar form, sometimes 16 bars, sometimes 8 but basically a 12-bar form with 3 chord changes. But the blues is also, of course, a feeling. People have always talked about feeling blue, and it's also a scale, a tonality, where notes are pitched just left of center, in the cracks between two adjacent white keys on the piano, and that sound, that tonality, is the harmonic and in some ways the melodic basis of the music, and when Ellington realized that, when Henderson realized that, that's when jazz really becomes very much alive.
Jo Reed: Armstrong, as you point out, is unique in the sense of his impact as an instrumentalist and his impact as a vocalist. His singing is astounding.
Gary Giddins: He's the only figure in Western musical history who is equally influential as an instrumentalist and as a vocalist, and you have to- this is a snobbish response, I suppose, but it always amazes me that so many singers in the '20s who we don't listen to anymore who were very corny singers, Rudy Vallée being the most conspicuous example, got it immediately when they heard him. They just knew. They knew that their style of singing was going to have to change. I mean, Rudy Vallée, who became a wonderfully adept comic-actor, you know, he created the role of Boss in "How to Succeed in Business." And he had quite a career, but as a singer, hardly anybody ever listens to him anymore. He sounded always like he, holding his nose, very nasal and very corny. And yet he wrote the introduction to Armstrong's first book, Swing That Music, in which he says- he's a little condescending. He says, "This may be difficult for you to understand that this man with this very gravelly voice has influenced every single singer in America," but he did. He influenced country singers. He influenced pop singers. Bing Crosby was the first guy to really take it into the mainstream, which is what Artie Shaw was referring to when he said, "Bing Crosby is the first hip white person born in the United States." He became friendly with Armstrong very early in the game and realized that that time, that paying attention to where "the one" was could transform you. It could indemnify you against any song you sang. I remember when I started writing my Bing Crosby biography and I was talking to a musician, very much a modernist, and he said, "Oh Crosby! I love Crosby." I said, "Really? I'm sort of surprised," and he said, "Well, where do you think we got the songs from?" He said, "In the 1940s and '50s, when we were coming up, he was the only guy on the radio, the white, mainstream pop singers, who had time." A lot of other singers who were very popular, like Perry Como, really had terrible time. He was a good ballad singer, but that was about it, but Crosby, no matter what he sang, you could always hear that "one." And this was one of the things he brought to music, but the main thing, the thing that revolutionized the industry, not just the style of the singers, was that it was no longer the music, the song, that was the main thing; it was the singer. Before Armstrong, the industry was run by music publishers, and all they cared about was pushing sheet music, and if you wanted to record, you sang the sheet music as it was written. Hopefully you had a decent voice, good pitch, all of that, pleasant timbre, whatever, but you supplemented, you surrendered to the song. When Armstrong came along, I mean, he sings songs like "Stardust" and "Body and Soul" that everyone in the world knows, and he completely recomposes them on the record. Now, he creates a standard for improvisation that very few singers would ever be able to match, but every singer understood suddenly that you can embellish. Frank Sinatra was not an improviser, per se, but he was a great embellisher. He knew how to change a note to make a phrase better, more powerful, and this became standard. Before Armstrong, the music-publishing hold was so great that you were not allowed to change pronouns in the lyrics, which is one of the reasons there were so few women recording in that period. So, Bing Crosby, for example, recorded a tune, "There Ain't No Sweet Man Worth the Salt of My Tears." Now, five years later, after Armstrong-- two years later, he would've sang "There Ain't No Sweet Gal," same one syllable, but, no, you listen to Bing's record and it's "There Ain't No Sweet Man Worth the Salt of My Tears," because you could not change the pronoun. After Armstrong, after Crosby, after that great changeover that came about in the early years of jazz, the '20s, when it became popular in the '30s, the power completely changed to the artist.
Jo Reed: Well, Armstrong certainly transcended a lot of the material, though in the case of "Stardust," I mean, he took that gem and, oh, God, what he does with "Stardust" I think is amazing.
Gary Giddins: It's amazing, isn't it?
Jo Reed: Absolutely, and I love that song. I love Hoagie Carmichael.
Gary Giddins: There were a number of songwriters who hated musicians doing that. Richard Rogers was notorious, where he actually attacked Ella Fitzgerald's magnificent "Rogers & Hart" album because, "If I wanted that note to be that note, I would've written it that way." Jerome Kern was similar. When he died, Kern's estate thought they were doing his ghost a favor by suing Dizzy Gillespie, who recorded four Kern tunes in bebop arrangements; too much liberties were taken. But there were other songwriters like Hoagie Carmichael or John Green, who wrote "Body and Soul." I met John Green in the, I guess, early '80s, late '70s, and I asked him rather nervously, "How did you feel about Coleman Hawkins' "Body and Soul"?" It's one of the supreme jazz improvisations, and hardly a note in it is from Johnny Green's actual song, even though it's called "Body and Soul" and he gets the mechanical royalty. And he said, "How do you think I felt? Do you know what it feels like to realize that something you wrote can inspire a genius like Coleman Hawkins?" That's a very rare attitude among those songwriters. They thought that what they wrote was-- they wanted it engraved in stone, and so jazz was troublesome. So Armstrong, his "Stardust," you know it's "Stardust." You know it's Hoagie Carmichael, but it's not like anybody else's.
Up and hot "Stardust"
Sometimes I wonder why I spend
Such lonely nights
oh baby lonely nights
dreaming of a song
The melody haunts my reverie
And I am once again with you
When our love was new, oh baby
And each kiss an inspiration
Now that baby you know was long ago
Oh beside a garden wall
When stars are bright
You are in my arms
The nightingale tells his fairy tale
A paradise where roses bloom
Though I dream in vain
In my heart it will remain baby
My stardust melody
Oh memory oh memory oh memory
I mean he actually depends the feeling of the song. He gives it an emotion that goes beyond what is already pretty much a perfect piece of songwriting, an inspired piece of songwriting.
Jo Reed: Louis Armstrong did a number called "Black and Blue." Talk about the significance of that song?
Gary Giddins: Well, "Black and Blue" was a song written for review by Fats Waller in the '20s, and the theme of the song was one that was very current then and was for many decades before and for many decades later, which was about the color lines within the African-American community. The song is sung by a dark-skinned woman, who has lost her man to a light-skinned woman, and she's saying, "What did I do to be so black and blue?" That's the context of the theatrical revue in which the song was initially created and known. And at the Cotton Club, they had what was I think called the "brown paper bag standard." You could not be in the chorus unless your color was no darker than a brown paper bag. They wanted all very light-skinned, tan women, not-- if you were black, you did not work in the Cotton Club, at least in the chorus line. And so Armstrong takes this song and he records it, and simply by the force of his interpretation it becomes the first genuine protest song in the history of the mainstream recording, I mean, there were folk tunes and things that were arcane and had sort of speaking in tongues references, but this was a popular tune by a popular artist, and suddenly it was about race in terms of white and black. Now, some of the lyrics, when we look at it now, are old-fashioned or even distasteful: "I'm white inside, but that don't help my case." You wouldn't write something like that now, but it didn't matter, because what mattered was Armstrong's performance, his just completely embracing this idea about the idiocy of segregation and of condescending to people because they have dark complexions. That's what the song is about. That's what the song means when Ralph Ellison turns it into the primary metaphor at the beginning and the end of "Invisible Man," his great novel. And it's what happens. It's what we see coming alive in the audience in Africa, in Ghana, when he sang it for Edward R. Murrow CBS cameras, and Prime Minister Nkrumah is in the audience with tears glistening in his eyes hearing Armstrong sing "Black and Blue" –one of the great performances of that piece.
Up and hot "Black and Blue"
How will it end...ain't got a friend
My only sin is in my skin
What did I do to be so black and blue
Jo Reed: Well, in your book, "Satchmo," you divide it basically into two parts. It's the entertainer as artist and then the artist as entertainer, and this division really has particular significance, I think, for Armstrong.
Gary Giddins: Yeah. At the time I wrote the book, it seems a case that had to be argued, because so many people- the approach to Armstrong was that he was this fantastic artist, this incomparable genius of the 1920s, and then he became popular and just became a kind of public, clownish performer on "Ed Sullivan." I mean, Gunther Schuler is himself a distinguished composer and has had a great deal of influence in jazz and third-stream music and so forth, wrote in his very important book, "Early Jazz," that Armstrong should've been given by the government some kind of a stipend so he didn't have to demean himself by singing "Hello, Dolly!" night after night, which of course <laughs> you'd have had to put a gun to Armstrong's head to get him off the road, and he loved doing that. He loved audiences and he loved- and to me it shows a complete misunderstanding of the man's genius, because "Hello, Dolly!" he transfigured just as mightily as he did "Black and Blue."
Jo Reed: I mean, is there anybody else we can stand to hear sing that song?
Gary Giddins: Nobody.
Jo Reed: No.
Gary Giddins: Nobody. Absolutely not. When Frank Sinatra recorded it, he sang "Hello, Louis!" No. He made it his own song, and, in fact, if we talk about that song for a second, when he recorded it in Chicago, David Merrick was about to mount the show on Broadway, and in those days they would sort of try to get an important performer to sing a song hoping that it would boost sales. And so they contracted for Armstrong to do it. He was not particularly excited when he saw the lead sheet. The producer and everybody involved seems to have thought the band guys all thought that the flipside was going to be the hit, which was "Got a Lot of Living to Do," from "Bye-Bye, Birdie." And the piece "Hello, Dolly!" when the show opened was performed as a dirge, without real tempo. It was, <sings> "Hello…" as Dolly makes her entrance down the grand staircase. And the show was in trouble; it was closing, and then suddenly this Armstrong record takes off and it becomes the number-one record in the country, the only record that year in '64 displacing the Beatles. Imagine being displaced by a guy who made his first hit in 1926. I mean, you're never going to see another guy who has hits that far away from each other.
Up and hot – "Hello, Dolly"
This is Louis, Dolly
It's so nice to have you back where you belong
You're looking swell, Dolly
I can tell, Dolly
You're still glowin', you're still crowin'
You're still goin' strong
I feel the room swayin'
While the band's playin'
One of my our old favorite songs from way back when
So take a wrap, fellas
Find an empty lap, fellas
Dolly, never go away again
Anyway, but in tribute to Armstrong's recording, they rearranged it for the show. It became a hot number, a rhythmic number, and David Merrick's way of thanking Armstrong was to put him in the movie.
Jo Reed: The only watchable part of the movie.
Gary Giddins: The only watchable part of that dreadful movie, quite agree, and yet he's only in the movie for two and a half minutes and he's top billed, as he deserved to be, but that was a way of acknowledging the fact that he saved the show in addition to making something of the song.
Jo Reed: Why are people so offended by popularity?
Gary Giddins: Hell, I don't know. I just don't know. I was in high school when Decca put out an album called The Rare Louis Armstrong, something like that. It was all pieces from the '30s. Dan Morgenstern, great critic, mentor of mine, wrote the liner notes, in which he just said almost matter of fact, "These are one of the greatest recordings of Armstrong's career," and yet the album was called "Rare Louis Armstrong." This stuff from the '30s had been dismissed because it was a big band, because it was as much singing as trumpet player, because they were popular. And yet you listen to them and they're among the most mind-blowing performances in jazz history. Now, everybody can seize that, but then, after those were conceded, people put down the '40s band or they would put down the '50s band. The first edition of the Grove encyclopedia of jazz basically says his career ends in 1946 musically and everything after that he's just a showman. This is just absolute nonsense. Can I tell you an Armstrong story?
Jo Reed: Please.
Gary Giddins: So, something that I'll never forget: There was an event. I forget what this occasion was, but it had to do with opening the Armstrong Museum or the Armstrong House in Queens.
Jo Reed: In Corona…
Gary Giddins: in Corona. There was a cocktail party early on and everybody in the jazz world was there, I mean, a lot of musicians, lot of critics. It was just such great fun. You just knew everybody, and we were all drinking and eating canapés and having a grand old time, and during the whole time they're playing Armstrong recordings in the background. And they go into a record that is sort of a real cult item among Armstrong fanatics but that was also very popular. The public dug it, and that is his 1956 recording of "When You're Smiling." And I am standing with a group of people. I can still remember who they were, and as it starts, we just all stop talking, and you can hear around the room people are stopped talking when the trumpet solo gets under way, and somebody on the podium gets up there finally to introduce the program: And he says two words and somebody shouts at him, "Not yet!" And he just stood there and everybody stood there until that recording was finished. They did not whip it off the machine, and then somebody said, "Now!" It's that kind of performance. You can't interrupt it.
Up and hot……"When You're Smiling"
Gary Giddins: It's just something that's so overwhelmingly powerful and emotional it completely cuts the 1929 version, which-- that's a masterpiece, because 1929-- because only us very hip people knew about it. But the 1956 recording is unquestionably superior, and so many of the recordings he made in the '50s, his version of "Blue Turning Gray Over You." This is a recording that he did for-- also mid-'50s album of Fats Waller tunes, and it's just one of his great trumpet solos. And there's so many instances of this almost right up until the end.
Jo Reed: In 1947 one of my favorite songs, "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?" and if you didn't know, you just have to listen to Louis Armstrong and you will.
Gary Giddins: Absolutely. This was a piece that he did in a movie, a really silly movie called New Orleans. It was the only film that Billie Holiday was contracted to be in, and when she got out there and realized she was playing a maid, she walked off the set after a couple days filming and never returned, which is why her part disappears so quickly. But there's the music.
Up and hot - "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?"
Do you know what is means
To miss New Orleans
And miss it each night and day
I know I'm not wrong
The feeling's getting stronger
The longer I stay away
Miss the moss covered vines
The tall sugar pines
Where mocking birds used to sing
And I'd like to see
the lazy Mississippi
A hurrying into spring …
Oh Mardi Gras….
The music is real, even when the script is foolishness. When you hear him sing it's always for real. It doesn't matter what he does. He made a record for the Disney Company in his very last years. I think it was called "Disney Songs the Satchmo Way," and he does "Chim-Chim-Cheree." I mean, the arrangement is as hip as the version John Coltrane made in the same decade, all one a very modal-styled vamp. And my favorite solo is on "The Ballad of Davey Crockett." I mean, he just sings that song as if he were having more fun than anybody in the world, and to dismiss that as some kind of buffoonery is to completely miss the fact of Armstrong's approach to music, which is that he is an extremely generous man. He's generous in every way and he's generous to the culture, and everything that he embraces he makes better, he makes part of himself. He is superior to nothing. That's part of his genius. He knows how great he is. I mean, we know that from his letters. We know it from his memoir. We know it from private interviews that were recorded. He never had any doubt, even when black bandleaders like Fletcher Henderson wouldn't let him sing because of the gravel in his voice, he said Henderson had a million dollars in the band and never even knew it. He knew how good he was, but he had his incredible humility in the way he approached material. He never approached it condescendingly. He looked at it and said, "What can I do with this?" and he almost always could do something.
Jo Reed: You met him. You brought him to your college, Grinnell.
Gary Giddins: Grinnell in Iowa, yeah.
Jo Reed: Tell us about that.
Gary Giddins: Oh, boy. The college was having a colloquium with about 50 of the most celebrated artists and intellectuals in the country. Ralph Ellison was there, Marshall McLuhan, Rauschenberg, S.I. Hayakawa. I mean, it was pretty amazing stuff, and it was just panels for two or three days of all these people. And the president of the school asked-- told the faculty person who was-- I was the Concert's Programmer and Film, and they asked me to get somebody really special, because this was going to be a special weekend. It was a Saturday-night dance. So my first choice was Armstrong. I never thought we had a chance, but one thing bookers hate is an empty night, so you always go on that chance. So, as it happens, Armstrong had almost every night in the week booked somewhere in the Midwest but that night happened to be free, so we got him at a very reasonable price. I was beside myself. I couldn't believe it. I was, what, 19? I was going to meet Louis Armstrong, bringing him to Grinnell. He showed up with the band. It was in the boys' gym. Actually, it was in the gym, but the band was in the boys' locker room. That was our green room in those days. All the musicians are back there and I walk over to Marty Napoli and the pianist, and he was like me. He was like a kid who couldn't believe his luck of playing with Armstrong. I mean, he'd been in the band for years – oh, it was amazing talking to these guys. They were just all still turned on, and he said, "Pops is going to love you," so we wait until the doctor finishes with him, and he walks over to him and he says, "Pops, this young man"-- he knew my name. I mean, I told it to him, but you don't expect him to remember. He says, "This young man, his name's Gary Giddins, and he loves you and would really like to meet you." And so he came over to me and we shook hands, and it was an awesome moment. I mean, a jolt went through my whole body and I remember feeling some disquiet, because, first of all, he had skin grafts on his upper lip when he was younger and used to play all those high C's. He tore it one too many times and they had to stitch up with skin taken from another part of his body. In pictures they would sort of clean it up a little bit, but seeing it in person, it was a pretty disquieting-looking scar, and also he had a sort of a gray pallor. He looked his age. He looked a little older than his age, and I thought, "Why is he still on the road? Why is he in Grinnell, Iowa?" And there was a series of steps that you walked up to mount the stage, and it was-- the stage was brightly lit, but the steps were in complete darkness, completely in shadow. And I stood back and I watched the guys, Armstrong being the last of them, climb the stairs, and by the time Armstrong headed for the stairs, I went out to the front, and when he came out of the dark, it was a different guy. His color was back. He had that smile. He had that energy. He was radiant. I mean, my friends and I, we were just-- I mean, we still talk about it. I remember somebody saying, "He's playing as though he were auditioning for a gig." He couldn't play every tune at that period. What he would do is he'd play a piece and then he'd say, "Now we're going to have the trombonist," and then he'd walk back where you could hardly see him in the shadow and he would rest up for four minutes while the trombonist did it and then he would come back. But when he played, he gave everything. It was unbelievable.
Jo Reed: Finally, Gary, three pieces for someone who's never heard Louis Armstrong, to give them a sense.
Gary Giddins: Well, you certainly want to hear "West-End Blues" from 1928. That's sort of the--jazz's Beethoven's Fifth. It just is a piece that you have to know. From the 1930s, I think I would choose "Swing That Music" from the big-band period, and then from the '50s I'd go with either "When You're Smiling," but you have to really hunt to find a Louis Armstrong record that's disappointing. There is a record of country tunes I don't much care for, and there is a few concert records that probably should never have been released or that were released after his death. But for the most part if you get a good collection of the so-called "hot five" and "hot seven" records, I mean, you can't really go wrong, but … Warning: Armstrong, like Ellington, is pretty much an addiction, and once you really fall into it, once you really begin to get it, you want to hear it all. You really do.
Jo Reed: Gary Giddins, thank you so much. I appreciate it.
Gary Giddins: My pleasure.
Jo Reed: Thank you.
That was jazz writer Gary Giddins talking about the great American musician, singer and artist, Louis Armstrong.
You've been listening to Art Works, produced at the National Endowment for the Arts. Adam Kampe is the musical supervisor.
Excerpts from "Stardust," "Hello Dolly," and "What Did I Do to Be So (Black and Blue)," used courtesy of Sony Music Entertainment.
Excerpts from "Do You What It Means to Miss New Orleans" and "When You're Smiling," used courtesy of Universal Music Enterprises.
The Art Works podcast is posted every Thursday at www.arts.gov. And now you subscribe to Art Works at iTunes U—just click on the iTunes link on our podcast page.
Next week, David Seidler talks about his inspiration for his academy award winning screenplay, The King's Speech.
To find out how art works in communities across the country, keep checking the Art Works blog, or follow us @NEAARTS on Twitter. For the National Endowment for the Arts, I'm Josephine Reed. Thanks for listening.
ADDITIONAL MUSIC CREDITS – PUBLISHING.
Excerpt from "Stardust" written by Hoagy Carmichael and Mitchell Parish from Stardust, used by permission of EMI Mills Music and Peer Music, Ltd [ASCAP.]
Excerpt from "When You're Smiling…" written by Larry Shay, Mark Fisher, and Joe Goodwin from Louis Armstrong: The Definitive Collectionused by permission of EMI Music Publishing [66.6%] and Music By Shay o/b/o The Songwriters Guild of America[33.3%], ASCAP.
Excerpt from "What Did I Do to Be So (Black and Blue)," written by Andy Razaf, Thomas Waller, and Harry Brooks, from Louis Armstrong: The Definitive Collection, used by permission from EMI Mills Music; ANNE RACHEL MUSIC CORP % WARNER/CHAPPELL MUSIC INC; and RAZAF MUSIC C/O RUMINATING MUSIC, C/O WIXEN MUSIC PUB, INC. [ASCAP.]
Excerpt from "Do You What It Means to Miss New Orleans" written by Louis Alter and Edgar DeLange from Louis Armstrong: The Definitive Collection, used by permission ofALTER LOUIS MUSIC PUBLICATIONS % THE SONGWRITERS GUILD OF AMERICA and DE LANGE MUSIC CO .C/O BUGHOUSE % BUG MUSIC INC.
Exerpt from "Hello Dolly," written by Jerry Sherman, taken from Louis Armstrong: The Definitive Collection used by permission of MPL Communications [ASCAP.]