A Good Travel Agent - Ben Sidran

I like to talk about the history so much that I can go on and on and on.

To save you the pain of that experience I have managed to condense everything I

know about jazz in America into three simple constituent parts.

And it is my belief that after I lay these three simple elements on you,

you too will know everything you need to know about jazz music.

How can he do it, they ask?

Can he do it?

Yes indeed he can.

You see I have studied scientifically how to synthesize this material,

and in the caldron of knowledge known as the road, the bebop road,

that goes on and on and on, I have boiled the information down to three little

pearls of wisdom.

The most important thing about jazz in America — it has been true since the

first note turned blue in 1902 — number one the most important thing in jazz?

It’s a bad romance.

You got to have a bad romance to play this music.

Now I don’t mean a little sad romance.

No baby.

I don’t mean a little one or two week affair that just turned square.

No buddy.

I mean a really, really bad hurt, somebody had to get their just desert.

And given all the bad romance in the world today, it’s a surprise there aren’t

more jazz players trying to play with us here today.

Number two, the second most important thing in jazz, what could it be?

It’s a good travel agent.

The second most important thing in jazz music is a good travel agent.

Because nothing will get you out of town faster than a bad romance.

And I have proof of whereof I speak.

To whit:

Cast your mind back to that time when that note first turned blue, 1902.

The place, Lake Ponchetrain, Louisiana.

It’s a hot summer night, it’s August and the crickets are cricketing and the

chirpings are chirping.

And out on the end of a pier, he’s got a cornet in one hand, he’s got his eyes

on the prize way up in the skies, a wonderful trumpet player named Buddy Bolden.

Now let me ask you: how many people in the room here tonight have heard the

music of Buddy Bolden?

No you’re lying brother.

You never heard Buddy Bolden.

Buddy Bolden never recorded.

He didn’t make record one.

And why?

He didn’t have a good travel agent.

But that same night, that same pier, that same moonlight, that same year,

another young man had a horn in his hand but he had himself a better plan.

He picked it up and put it down: he got out of town.

He went to Chicago.

He went to Kansas City, Kansas, way beyond, San Francisco, Moscow, Bejing,

Seoul.

I’m talking about Pops, Louis Armstrong.

That man had himself a terrific travel agent.

You got to get out and move if you want to keep this groove.

This song is really about a young man whose true love was blind

He was crying all the time

Thought he would find a new love

In Paris France (he's gonna do the Paris dance)

But when he got to town all he found was he couldn’t speak French

He was sitting on a bench)

All alone not mentioned embarrassed

Ah but music is the language of love (play on play)

Bud Powell was in town

So he thought he’d make it down

And order a round of the rarest

(wine that is)

But as so often happens in this world of travail and cheap wine

The ridiculous becomes sublime

(it's part of the great design)

Your final reward,

It’s down at the end of the line

Because just then someone put a side on the box

And Bird flew bye like he was chasing a fox

Bird fluttered by

Sang a hipper melody from the sky

Bebop bebop

Nothing like the sound of bebop

It’s steady going on

And it won’t never stop

But I digress.

I promised you three simple constituent parts to take to your hearts and have

so far delivered only two: let’s review.

Number one, the most important thing in jazz, a bad romance.

Number two, a good travel agent.

Number three.

What could it be?

I’ll tell you right now.

Sea Food.

Well what do you think Buddy Bolden was thinking about back there at Lake

Ponchetrain?

I happen to know: Soft shell crab.

And what do you think got Louis Armstrong out of town so fast?

He was gonna go out with some trout.

But nobody said it better than that fine philosopher of jazz, Thomas «Fats» Waller.

He gave us those immortal lines, «Shrimp and rice, mighty nice.

Give me some seafood mama!»

That’s what I want, you know what I need…

Nothing like the sound of bebop going on and it won’t never stop.