Freddie Keppard: Ken Burns & Wynton Marsalis Got Him All Wrong (+Bonuses)

(For Paying Subscribers, there are Keppard recordings below.)

(I thank my friend and former grad student, trombonist, and jazz historian David Sager for his input on today’s essay. David has worked for many years at the Library of Congress, where he is currently a Reference Assistant in the Recorded Sound Research Center.)

I’m sure that I don’t have to tell you that Ken Burns’ public television series, Jazz, got very mixed reviews among jazz critics, fans, and musicians. If you never followed that controversy, simply read any of the many reviews available online, such as here, here, and here. And/or Google this: Ken Burns jazz and its critics. Although I will be critiquing the Ken Burns jazz series today, my goal is not to stir up that old debate again. Instead, I’d like to use an excerpt of his film to illustrate some problems that occur when research is done in a careless and hasty manner. And, along the way, you will hear and enjoy some music by the legendary cornetist Freddie Keppard (1890-1933).

As I recall, Burns was rather rudely dismissive of the criticisms, stating on several occasions that the typical audience member, the person who was new to jazz, loved his series, and that the experts who wrote negative opinions were nitpickers and nerds. (When he made his Civil War series, I don’t remember him insulting the experts in this same way!) He also repeatedly stated that he was not knowledgeable about jazz, and that a true professional documentarian should pride himself or herself on being able to do a topnotch job on a subject they know nothing about.

But Burns was sidestepping the fact that someone who truly knows nothing about a subject must rely entirely and uncritically on his or her consultants. That is, he or she has no way to evaluate the information he gets from them. And the problem with his primary consultant, Wynton Marsalis, is that he was unable or unwilling, it seems, to say that there were some subjects that he was not qualified to discuss. That is apparently what happened in the segment about Freddie Keppard, in episode 1, entitled Gumbo, of the Jazz series.

First of all, let me address two myths about Keppard: A number of times people have said to me, “It’s too bad that Keppard never recorded.” As all jazz historians know, that is entirely false. He recorded just about enough to fill a CD, and there have been in fact several “complete Keppard” albums released over the years. You can hear some of them on the usual streaming services. The only question is exactly how many tracks he recorded, because there are about 19 on which he definitely appears, and then there are another few where the cornetist is unidentified, but that some feel is Keppard.

The second myth is that “Yes, he was recorded, but he was way past his prime.” That one would take a long time to address fully, but let me say here that he started to record at the age of 33, which was not old even then. And his playing is strong, fully in the character of the day, and exactly in line with descriptions of his playing at its peak.

Now, as I understand it, Marsalis’s “shortcut” method when asked to discuss something he didn’t know much about, at least at that time, was to obtain a relevant album, do some quick listening, and form an opinion. Based on that, here was his description of Keppard’s style:

But wait a second: All he says is that Keppard “did a lot of things like laughing,” and that he played with a wah-wah mute. Wynton then demonstrates the “laugh” which he says he got from a Keppard record. But there is No recording where Keppard makes a laughing sound! And, although Keppard did use a wah-wah mute when required for a specific recording or gig, that wasn’t his specialty, nor was he ever known for a “laughing” effect.

So what is Marsalis talking about? Well, all of the “complete Keppard” albums contain the six tracks he made in January 1924 with Doc Cook’s orchestra. But on these recordings there are two cornetists. The other cornetist is Elwood Graham, and as one goes through the tracks in chronological order, the first really prominent cornet solo is on “So This is Venice,” where Graham displays his famous “laughing cornet” routine. Graham didn’t invent this—it was known among musicians, and a “laughing cornet” had been recorded by, for example, white cornetist Louis Panico in 1921. But Graham may have been the best at it—he sounds just like a human voice. Listen, and please remember that this is Not Keppard:

Very cool! But not Keppard. So, it may be that Wynton got this far into the album, heard this one solo, figured he now “got” Keppard’s style, and didn’t continue on to the tracks where Keppard is the only cornetist, and is heavily featured. Or, perhaps he did listen to the whole album, but this solo was the most memorable—which in some ways it is, because it’s such a humorous effect. But it’s not Keppard.

Part of the problem in studying and appreciating early jazz is that, in a funny way, people have been spoiled by hearing Louis Armstrong’s magnificent Hot Fives and Sevens from the late 1920s. Bolden never recorded, but when people read that Armstrong was preceded by Keppard, and by Armstrong’s mentor King Oliver (who I’ve already written about), they expect their recordings to sound something like Louis. And they’re disappointed by what they hear, and that’s why you get rumors like “Well, that must not be what he sounded like at his best.” The real answer is, to put it clearly: There was no Armstrong before Armstrong!

If one studies all the cornet recordings made before Armstrong, one begins to get a realistic idea of the styles that preceded his. I happen to enjoy Keppard’s playing a lot—it’s high-energy, and it stays with me. But it’s not Armstrong. Below I have made an audio track with three examples of what Keppard really sounded like. First you will hear the end of another Doc Cook group, “Cookie's Gingersnaps,” playing "Here Comes the Hot Tamale Man," recorded in June 1926. Keppard leads the group with power here, with breaks for a voice. This is followed at 0:42 by the beginning of “Salty Dog,” the originally issued take, and then at 1:20, the end of that take. (The full recordings of “Salty Dog,” both takes—included below for Paying Subscribers—feature the legendary “Papa” Charlie Jackson in a vocal, which I’ve omitted here in order focus on Keppard’s cornet.) “Salty Dog” is performed by Keppard and his Jazz Cardinals, recorded September 1926 in Chicago. It’s from the only session that Keppard recorded as leader of his own group, so it’s an important source for hearing his cornet style:

If you want to hear one of the rare examples of Keppard using the wah-wah mute, check out Doc Cook's group in 1924 on “Scissor Grinder Joe.” Graham solos at about 0:40 and again at 1:57, but at the very end of that second solo, around 2:17, almost overlapping, Keppard comes in and he does a little bit of a wah-wah effect. When required, Keppard used other mutes inside the bell of the cornet to soften its sound, as Doc Cheatham describes in the next clip below. But he never did the “laughing” effect.

Now, let’s watch the rest of the Keppard segment. There is also a recording in the soundtrack of this section of the Ken Burns documentary. Let’s see what they chose in order to provide a sample of Keppard’s actual sound. It plays behind the narration, so please listen for it in the background:

Oh no! I can’t believe it! For the only recorded example of Freddie Keppard, one of the “Creators of Jazz,” as he is titled at the beginning of this scene, they chose one of the disputed recordings, Jasper Taylor's ‘Stomp Time Blues,” which is now definitely known to be Not Keppard! It is most likely Punch Miller, although some knowledgeable people have proposed other cornetists. But whoever it is, it is not Keppard.

So, let’s see: The Ken Burns segment on Keppard features Marsalis demonstrating the “laughing cornet” routine of Elwood Graham, followed by Punch Miller (or someone else) on a recording. It contains Nothing—and I mean Zero—by Keppard! How embarrassing that would be, if Burns and Marsalis even knew their error—but they don’t.

Should a documentarian be proud that he or she knew nothing about the subject? I say, in the strongest possible terms, no, no and no! This is also a good example of why my method is to hear, as much as possible, Everything by a given artist before presuming to discuss that person’s style. That takes time—and there is no shortcut.

All the best,
Lewis

P.S. Some of the best biographical research on Keppard is available in a big and generously illustrated book with the unlikely title of Jazz Puzzles (Vol. 1), by Bo Lindström and Dan Vernhettes. Volume 1 also includes long chapters with the first new information in years about Buddy Bolden, as well as chapters about “King” Joe Oliver, Sidney Bechet, and others. The printed book is sold out but you can ask about a PDF version (via the website linked above). Volume 2, still available as a printed book, has new information about Louis Armstrong’s early years, and much more.

P.P.S. To thank my Paying Subscribers, the three complete recordings that Keppard made as a leader are below.