For years, I've been mystified by the reputation enjoyed by Raymond Scott, considered (by those who consider him such) a great, important, ahead of his time, etc. American composer. From the word go, I found his material to be fluff. My introduction to Scott may have been my Columbia 78 of
In an Eighteenth Century Drawing Room, which didn't impress me enough to keep. Or I may have first heard him on (a recording of) a Paul Whiteman broadcast or something. One way or another, I've been aware of him for a long time.
His material has always struck me as extremely well done. And extremely trite. Give me the less skillful music of Gershwin, who packed more art into two slow measures than Scott knew how to instill in four minutes of
boom-cha, boom-cha (fast 16th notes), boom-cha. Of course, I don't know how Scott indicated his fast figures, but I'm guessing 16th notes at a very rapid tempo.
My intention is not to give the man's memory a hard time--I have no desire to dis a talented musican whose pieces just happen to leave me wondering. After all, my standards--plus a buck-something--will get you coffee at McDonald's. Unless they're closed. Rather, I find his fanship hilarious. It's the kind of over the top praiseship and dead-serious devotion I expect from young rock listeners--yet the Scott swoonership includes professional musicians, musicologists, and other people who ought to be behaving less star-strickenly.
This has been my view for a while. And then I heard the
Raymond Scott Centennial Tribute at YouTube, linked to
here. Or about 1/3 of it, anyway.
And I still feel the same way. (You saw that coming a paragraph away, no?)
Not sure what to say about these performances. The performers are excellent, which is to be expected--Scott's music requires a lot of chops. You won't see me out there attempting it. But the literal mummy dance for the mummy square dance selection--somebody had to be kidding. Wasn't the music inane enough to begin with? And the drums, as good as they were, were painful to listen to. Wasted skill is a phrase that comes to mind.
157 West 57th Street, on the other hand, is pretty charming, and pianist Kimberley Bartczak is fabulous. I stand in awe. (Well, sit.) And I used to think I was cool because I can sight-read the average rag. Reality just came a-ticklin' the ivories.
If you check out only one of the YouTube Scotts, check out Kimberly's. I'm on my fifth or sixth play.
Anyway, a while back I managed to effectively parody Scott's style with nothing but my budget music software and a little creativity. And my limited knowledge of percussion. A snare on the after beat and syncopated riffs of the type that Glenn Miller wrote in the early 1930s. And the melody out in front.
Scott isn't that special. I'd rather reserve my amazement for our many more amazing writers of semi-jazz novelties.
Lee
