CD Review: Jack McVea, Rarely Was Honkin' Sax So Much Fun (4 CD Set)

Highly recommended

Back in the '40s, there was no bright line between jazz and rhythm and blues. Both genres were classified as “race music.” You could pick up an Ivory Joe Hunter record on King and hear an alto sax solo by Johnny Hodges on the break. One musician who frequently recorded in both genres was tenor and alto sax man Jack McVea. He was well enough respected in the jazz community to play with Norman Granz's first Jazz at the Philharmonic band, yet over time, his career veered more and more toward R&B. For the first decade after World War II, he was an important figure on the Central Avenue night club scene in Los Angeles. Sadly, his contributions are not as well remembered as they should be.

McVea was born in 1914. His father was a bandleader (Satchel McVea's Howdy Entertainers), and he learned to play several instruments. He played alto with Lionel Hampton's first band from 1940-1943, and was present on their seminal recording of “Flying Home.” He recorded with Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker, and backed up important blues artists such as Wynonie Harris and T-Bone Walker.

The first three volumes of this four CD box set on the British JSP label cover McVea's entire recorded output under his own name from 1944 through 1948, on the Rhythm, Melodisc, Apollo, Black and White, and Exclusive labels—73 cuts in all. There are also two choice Apollo tracks by his primary vocalist Rabon Tarrant with a band headed by Lucky Thompson (but without McVea). Finally, the last CD is completely McVea-less, consisting of vocals by LA blues shouters George “The Blues Man” Vann (22 tracks) and Alton Redd (four tracks).

About two-thirds of McVea's records are vocals, the majority by his drummer and sidekick Rabon Tarrant (blues), Cappy Oliver and Sammy Yates (novelties), and Arthur Duncan (ballads). His early instrumentals are a mixture of swing, boogie woogie and bebop. Toward the end of the decade, he anticipates the honking and shouting style of '50s R&B.

McVea's fifteen minutes of fame came in 1946, when he and Tarrant recorded a version of vaudeville comedian Dusty Fletcher's routine, “Open the Door, Richard.” The record is little more than a drunk-sounding man banging on a door and shouting the title, alternating with a simple vocal chorus by the band. The dialogue is vague enough to permit speculation about what it “really means.” (One theory is that it alluded to Black demands for integration.) There were many cover versions by folks such as Count Basie and Louis Jordan, but McVea's original version went to #2 on the R&B charts. Unfortunately, McVea became involved in a lengthy copyright suit brought by Fletcher and eventually lost most of his royalties. After the success of “Richard,” he made several other attempts at comedy.

McVea's only other significant recordings were made for the Combo label in 1954-1957. They can be found on the Ace CD Fortissimo. Like many other R&B pioneers, he faded from view in the '50s, and was replaced by the younger performers that teenage consumers preferred. After a brief retirement from the music business, McVea receive a call in 1966 saying that Disneyland was looking for a clarinet player. Although he hadn't played the clarinet in years, he rehearsed a few tunes was hired as part of a three-man dixieland band that strolled around the park. He held that job for 25 years, and died of cancer in 2000 at the age of 86.

It's hard not to like Jack McVea. He was a great showman, and as the title of the set suggests, this is good time music. He kept his ear to the ground and integrated the latest musical trends into his act. Many of these songs are covers, including “Flying Home,” Benny Carter's “O-Kay For Baby,” and Louis Jordan songs like “Don't Let the Sun Catch You Crying” and “Inflation Blues.” One of his earlier jazz instrumentals is an excellent version of “Don't Blame Me” that is reminiscent of Coleman Hawkins' “Body and Soul.” Among his later rockers is a spirited tune, “Jack Frost,” that shows that he could make his tenor sax scream with the best of them, albeit with more restraint than some later tenor men.

His jump blues were competitive with those of contemporaries like Jordan, Tiny Bradshaw, Joe Liggins and Roy Milton. Another highlight is the original version of “Blues With a Feeling,” with vocal by Tarrant and McVea on alto. The song later become one of Little Walter's best known recordings (for which Chess mistakenly gave Walter composer credit).

The fourth CD is a bit of a let-down. The 22 tracks by Vann, backed by various small groups, are probably his entire output during the '40s. He starts out quite strongly, but his songs—mostly slow blues—eventually become repetitive. Finally, the Redd vocals are the first four of 15 sides I found in his discography. I didn't particularly want to hear more. Coincidentally, like Rabon Tarrant, Vann and Redd were both singing drummers.

The main reason I have not deemed this set an essential purchase is that there is quite a bit of filler on these four CDs. Some of Duncan's ballads are truly dismal. In spite of Tarrant's excellent singing, his slow blues are quite similar. McVea recorded a number of boogie woogie instrumentals fronted by pianists such as Bob Mosely, Lloyd Glenn and Tommy “The Crow” Kahn. These too are largely interchangeable. Finally, some of McVea and Tarrant's post-“Richard” comedy routines are not particularly funny. The best of McVea's recordings would have easily fit on two CDs, but this poses a dilemma for the set's compiler Neil Slaven. If he had dropped a third of these tracks, we would have always wondered what we were missing.