• A brief history of World War II’s impact on New York’s 52nd Street, as told by Arnold Shaw, author of 52nd Street:  The Street of Jazz
  • In this edition, Art Blakey tells a story of Thelonious Monk, Coleman Hawkins and John Coltrane that took place during the 1957 recording session of Monk’s Music.

     

  • Poet Lawrence J. Klumas honors the jazz singer Chris Connor


     

     

  • Ms. Larson’s story, “The Happy Thing of Bayou de Manque,” is the winner of the 47th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest.
  • "War Comes to 52nd Street"
  • Great Encounters #52
  • A poetic appreciation of Chris Connor
  • A short story by Erin Larson
Quiz Show » Jazz History Quiz

Jazz History Quiz #110

This jazz legend’s career included early work with Kid Ory in Barney Bigard’s group in 1942, a tour the following year with Louis Armstrong, and stints with Lionel Hampton, Red Norvo, Art Tatum and Stan Getz.  His last project was a late 1970’s collaboration with folk-rock singer Joni Mitchell.  Who is he?

 

Cannonball Adderley

Gene Ammons

Sonny Stitt

Charles Mingus

Coleman Hawkins

Buddy Rich

Dexter Gordon

Teddy Wilson

Go to the next page for the answer!

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Art

Masters of Jazz Photography: Paul Hoeffler

Photographer Paul Hoeffler, who studied with the likes of Ansel Adams, Alfred Eisenstadt, and Nancy Newhall, discovered an interest in photographing jazz musicians through his regular attendance at Rochester, New York jazz clubs the Pythodd, the Ridgecrest Inn, the Auditorium Theater, the Eastman Theater, and the University of Rochester auditoriums.  He cites Louis Armstrong as an early inspiration, and he subsequently photographed Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Billie Holiday, Chet Baker, Dave Brubeck and a variety of others during their tours through

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Literature » Short Fiction

Short Fiction Contest-winning story 47: “The Happy Thing of Bayou de Manque” by Erin Larson

     “Repeat after me: I will not hunt alligators while Désirée runs deliveries.”

     Léon blinks at me, rich hickory eyes peering up from a face darker than any glancing touch of the sun could produce. He wriggles in a barely-perceptible fashion, bare heels grinding ringlets into the muddy deck, a creature of obstinacy and faux innocence whose smile mystically exiles all suspicion from my mind.

     “’course, Dezzy,” he says. “There aren’t any alligators around right now, you know—they ain’t come out ‘til nighttime.”

      “They don’t come out ‘til nighttime,” I correct him, swiping a hand over the top of his

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