Leningrad's would-be Louies jam with local hot lips in Hopkinton Dixieland detente. So many extraordinary things happened routinely these days, we can begin to take even the wonderful for granted. Allow me to report that I saw and heard something wonderful in Hopkinton the other night. I heard and saw the New Black Eagle Jazz band jamming with a group of Russians. I had been hoping that the Black Eagle and the Leningrad Dixieland Jazz Band would end up sharing the stage at some point in their concert at the Sticky Wicket Thursday, but midnight rolled around, and the two groups were still sticking strictly to their protocol. Black Eagle would play; the Russians would sit offstage. The Russians would play; Black Eagle would sit offstage and the worst sign of all finally happened. Elf Newberger of the Black eagle had packed up his tuba and headed for the door after his band's final set. It was time to head out in the rain for home. Now I'm not suggesting that up to that time the evening was a downer. MetroWest has become a hub of the musical universe hereabouts, and this concert was something special. I had never heard the folks from Leningrad before, but I doubt that the home town team ever played better than it did with the Russians in the audience. I suspect the Russians were also at the top of their form. They were darn good, especially as the night wore on and they began to relax a bit and get less mechanical. I have never heard better version of "Putting on the Ritz," and you have to believe these sons of Marx and Lenin were aware of the ironies as they played. They were an interesting group of performers to watch. The drummer with his keen and craggy face looked like a young Johnny Unitas. Later, he sang a song and sounded disconcertingly like Marilyn Monroe. The trumpeter was a slight man with a Louis Armstrong voice and mournful eyes, who was intent on watching and gently guiding the clarinetist who was blind. The trombone palyer looked a bit like a Clevelend cab driver. He was a heck of a trombone player. The piano player was the star of the band and its youngest player. He had a light beard and wary smile. He played one of his own compositions, Central City, Colorado. It sounded a bit like Joplin. The banjo player wore leather clogs and occasionally punctuated the music with great surprising lips. The order horn player smoked, as did the trumpeter, on every break. I don't recall whether Louis Armstrong smoked. I imagine he had to, to get that voice. Ah, if they would play only jam, the night would be perfect. But after Newberger headed out the door, I began to gather up my own gear before being stopped in my tracks by what was happening on stage. There, the Americans had finally joined Russians and now the room was rocking to thr sounds of "When the Saints Go Marching In." It was no longer a Russian band and an American band. It was a stage filled with all-star musicians having a blast. The men in those funny gray suits and black shoes and Eastern bloc haircuts looked no different than the Americans in their suburban casuals. In fact, they were out of a melting pot as much as we, and had as much claim to the sound of breaking free, the sound of jazz. Earlier, the Russians had played "Always" and one of them noted that Irving Berlin was 100 years old and born in Russia, as if one fact explained the other. He had probably arrived wearing one of those gray suits. Ken Hartnett Middlesex News Sunday, June 18, 1989 |