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Sweet
Fiddle Blues - The Tune Wranglers «I
didn't really know much about
Texas swing when I came across
this dusty old 78 in a wooden
box, stuffed in the way back of a
very crowded antique store in
Lawrence Kansas. It was about
1991 and I was killing time
before an inevitably bad sound
check at yet another awful little
bar. My only hobby at the time
was the accumulation of funky old
music on 78's and here in this
former bank building just off the
main drag of a midwestern college
town I felt like I hit the mother
lode. From that old wine box I
scored several life-changing
recordings: a Greek language
pressing by Gypsy accordionist
Mishka Ziganoff, Yiddish Dance
Band clarinetist Dave Tarras
blowing wild in a rare session
with the Bobriker Kapelye from
Chicago, a couple of Big Bill
Broonzy's amazing hot jazz tunes
with full band and even more Bob
Wills Columbia releases, hoping
to find alternate solos and the 4
different sets of lyrics to «Take
Me Back to Tulsa» Didn't pay too
much attention to the old
Bluebird disc with the hokey band
name, until I got home a month
later an actually put it on the
old Victrola.
At
the time I shared a rickety old
house with a much more famous (and
in my opinion altogether more
well rounded) bassist named Kevin
Smith. His band at the time, High
Noon, was pumping out the purest,
sweetest and most raucous old
rock and roll anyone is likely to
encounter. He had a perfectly
operating RCA Victor record
player about the size of a
washing machine set up in the
corner of our front room, like a
little shrine to recorded music.
The low end of this 8 watt mono
player could rattle the rafters
of our flimsy pier-and-beam
construction 100 year old house
and we both took great joy in
finding new discs to out rattle
each other. As it turned out he
was out on the road when I got
back home, so I had the player
all to myself for a few days. I
carefully unpacked my discs and
set them up on the player.
I don't know why I picked out the
Tune Wranglers first, but I guess
I thought the name was kind of
dumb and I wanted to see if the
track was worth a damn before I
consigned it to the skeet
shooting pile. You know the stuff
: all those Kay Keyser and Guy
Lombardo 78's you have to buy
when the shop owner says "you
have to buy the whole box"
just so you get the one Ocie
Stockard disc you found in it.
Well anyway, I let the record
fall on the player and heard the
clunk of the stylus locking into
the groove.
First
you hear a fiddle intro,
confident and bluesy in a left-handed
Joe Venuti sort of way. He's soon
joined by piano, bass, guitar and
banjo rhythm section in a
moderate fox-trot. A lazy
clarinet struggles to play a
harmony in it's lowest register
and out of the blue some yells
out "Al ha!" The groove
hasn't even settled in and the
exhortations commence over the
fiddle solo, and from several
quarters; "yes, yes!..that's
right!" By the second chorus
the clarinet heads for the
sweeter spot of his range and
quotes the head, this time
wailing like he really means it.
He passes off his B section to an
as yet unheard lap steel man,
doing what sounds like his best
Bob Dunn impersonation; just a
behind the beat, open 5ths all
over the place and drunkenly as
possible. Behind him the piano
plays little falling cascades
swirling around the open spaces
of his phrasing, the sort of
symbiotic playing that only comes
from knowing each other for a
long time. The fiddle peeks back
for 8 bars still solidly in a
Venuti mold until the steel gives
a final swooping chime at the end
of the bar.
Meekly,
a vocalist speaks up "I got
the sweet fiddle blues.."
and he's not convincing me one
bit, his voice none too strong
and wavering just a tad in a key
not well suited for him anyway.
The lyrics are pretty strange and
even racy for the time, equating
listening to a particularly
gifted fiddler with an addiction
to drugs: "Now some people
dip, and some take a trip into
the arms of weed and snow. But my
only vice, is perfectly nice:
It's listening to that sweet man
go!" It's not Shakespeare or
anything but I can relate
immediately. The piano player has
blessedly grabbed my attention
with a rich lattice work of
arpeggio phrases and after one
chorus it's all over.
Not
for me though. I played that damn
record over and over again.
Truthfully, I flipped it over,
but to this day I can't tell you
what the B side was as it made
little impression. I still can't
properly describe what it was
that drew me to this throw away
session from a San Antonio based
radio band better know for it's
singular hit "Texas Sands"
in the late 1930's. They sound
like they really like their jobs,
and are genuinely happy to be in
the studio this day. They are
conformable with their craft and
with each other and it translates
across the years and through the
recording. The words are
conversely stupid and deeply
profound, a dichotomy I've
learned to seek in all things.
Some one told me it's a musical
homage to Joe Venuti, who was
monstrously popular with Texas
fiddlers in the 30's, which makes
sense given the fiddler's
affectations. But I prefer to
hold on to my emotional response
to the first time I put needle to
shellac. I wish I made records
that communicate like that. God
knows I've tried.
I
used to keep it on an an honored
nail on the living room wall
along with several other musical
oddities that have shaped my
artistic outlook over the years.
One bleak day long after Kevin
had moved out to live with his
girlfriend, taking his record
player with him, the old Bluebird
78 fell off the hook after a mean
spirited girlfriend slammed the
door on her way out for the last
time. The old record fell
straight down, hit the baseboard
and fell forward, not shattering
as I would have expected, but
causing a deep crack all through
one side. It still played but,
now with a pronounced "thunk"
at a regular interval, not one
bit congruous to the beat of the
performance. Even after that,
from time to time I pulled out
the wounded shellac disc and put
it on whatever player I had
available, reveling in the subtle
rhythm of a Texas string band in
an uncomplicated groove, blowing
over a silly little tune of no
real importance.
In fact, if you'll excuse me...
«Forgive me if I ball, when they
say ‘that’s all’…
I got those sweet fiddle blues…»
Mark Rubin
Austin, TX USA
December 11, 2004
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