SPOTLIGER Roosevelt Sykes, Harry Jam Farewell blues

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ROOSEVELT Sykes and Harry James both appear in the catalogues under the general heading 'Jazz and Blues' They both died in late July. Apart from that they didn't have much in common -But the differences between them tell us much about popular music this century.

James was a white trumpet player and band leader; Sykes was a black pianist and blues singer.

James died a wealthy man, famous far beyond the confines of the jazz scene; Sykes ended up comfortably off and well respected in limited circles - a far better situation than many of his contemporaries, but definitely not in the James league in terms of material success.

Sykes is credited with influencing Ray Charles, Fats Domino, and even Elvis Presley, and the kind of harddriving urban blues he played has long been a part of the basic rock vocabulary.

Born in Elmar, Phillips County, in 1906, Sykes moved with his family to St. Louis in 1909. At the age of nine he ran away from home to play piano in the pool halls and brothels of St. Louis' 'Deep Morgan'. , area - once described as 'the ugliest spot in the world'.

Ugly it may have been, but it spawned some powerful music. At about the same time young Roosevelt started up there, Big Bil Broonzy, 'Jazz' Gillum and Washboard Sam were, all to be heard in the neighbourhood.

Sykes soon established himself as a top blues player, and also as a bit of a flash harry. His nickname the Honeydipper' refers to an approach to life in general (and women in particular) that would these days be described as sexist, to say the least.

Prolific

He made his first records (for the Okeh label) in the late twenties, and in the thirties he recorded prolifically (though not particularly profitably) for the numerous small 'race' labels that specialised in black music mainly in Chicago.

Like all his contemporaries Sykes was totally eclipsed by the swing boom of the late Jim thirties (when people like Harry James hit the big-time) but unlike many he persevered, and. was rewarded in some small measure by the revival of interest in the blues, sparked by folklorist Alan Lomax's 'rediscovery' of Leadbelly in the mid '40s. • The blues 'revival' - together with the increasingly bluesey style of the late-forties "jump' bands like Louis Jordan's - in turn gave birth to rock n' roll. And while some black artists (notably Fats Domino and Joe Turner) did well out of the new fad, it was the white boys who really cleaned up.

Rock n' roll also sounded the final death knell for the old-style big swing bands - though some, like Harry James, kept going on a limited basis, appealing to ageing white middle class audiences on a nostalgia kick.

James was born in Albany, Georgia in 1916, into a family of circus musicians. In 1931 his family moved to Texas, where James became a professional trumpeter.

His first big break came in 1935 when he joined Ben Pollack's band - one of the few white dance bands with any real jazz feel at that time.

However, it wasn't Pollack, but a former sideman of his, clarinetist Benny Goodman, who discovered that a mass audience existed for a white dance band playing up-tempo jazz-inspired arrangements.

In 1936 Goodman's band was on its uppers and in desperation he threw caution to the wind and dug out the jazz arrangements acquired from the black band-leader, Fletcher Henderson. The kids in the dance halls went wild and, as they say, swing was born.

When Harry James joined the Goodman band in 1937, it was riding high and Goodman was the undisputed 'King of Swing' with a fanatical following of 'bobby soxers' and lucrative sponsorship from Camel cigarettes.

lo his credit, Goodman always acknowledged the debt he owed to Fletcher Hendson (the black arranger, of course, received no public acclaim and little financial gain from the juggernaught he'd set in motion) and made a point of featuring black players like Lionel Hampton and Teddy Wilson in trio and quartet spots.

James, however, was initially less willing to acknowledge the debt. Leftist jazz promoter John Hammond recalls being appalled by James' racist depreciation of black musicians, and decided something had to be done about it.

Hammond and singer Billie Holiday brought James along to hear Count Basie's black band with lyrical Buck Clayton leading the trumpet section. They proved their point. James was forced to admit that white players still had a lot to learn.

After a slow start in 1938 James' own band took off commercially. By the end of 1942 he had won the Coca Cola show's favourite recording poll and unseated Glen Miller for the top spot in Martin Block's 'Make Believe Ballroom' poll.

In June Columbia Harry James (left) with Benny Goodman announced a 'shellac famine' had been caused by demand for the James recording of I've heard that Song before' which was then the company's all-time biggest seller at 1,250,000 copies.

Dorsey and didn't know it, but the success Sinatra brought them back in their faces after the war when the record and radio companies reansea tney alan 1 need the expense involved in carrving the big bands. in car yiey heeded nds.

La solo singer sinatr backed y a studio orchestra Simple economics killed the bands, and though Harry James and a few others kept going sporadically throughout the '50s and '60s, the big wing bana became a so of nusical dinosau whose nain attraction was its curiosit value.

James himself seemed to lose whatever taste he had for jazz quite soon atter leaving Goodman..

He could still play virtuoso trumpet right up to the last years of his life, but numbers like "Carnival of Venice' or 'Flight of the Bumble bee' were hardly the stuff jazz is made of.

The music industry today is still very much the wheeler-dealer world of high finance, contractual intrigue, exploitation of young fans and all the other unsavoury features of the 'swing boom' that Harry James was (however unwittingly) a part of. In fact, it's a great deal worse.

But as for the music itself - that's a different matter. James leaves behind him a handful of jazz recordings of lasting value - 'Blues in C Sharp' with Teddy Wilson. and Red Norvo, for instance.

Roosevelt Sykes leaves a musical heritage that remains very much a part of the best of today's popular music. Maybe Sykes did get the last laugh after all.

By Darian Nashe EVER nurtured a grudge against your employer? Ever wanted to get your own back — to do him real damage?

If so, I hope you saw "The last Company Car' (Sunday, ITV) a delightful short play a real carnival of the exploited.

Tommy has saved hard for a new car, and finally draws all the money from his Building society to buy a new Fiesta.

In contrast, his boss's son, 'young' Midgeley, rides round in a brand new company Mercedes.

Next day comes the announcement: the firm is bust, everyone redundant. Midgeley and two other managers make a mad dash for their company cars - which Tommy learns they have bought at knock-down prices knowing that.the firm was finished.

Consumed with anger at this symbol of injustice, Tommy longs for revenge. First he vandalises Mercede - only to realise that this is not enough to hurt Midgeley. Then he 'borrows' two shotguns from Jack, a policeman friend, and goes off to force Midgeley into a duel.

In the confrontation, Tommy vents his resentment at the idle, sponging, privileged, conservative and wasteful existence of Midgeley: he in turn replies expressing his public school bourgeois contempt for the working class - before dropping dead of a heart attack.

There had been no union in the plant: Tommy's had been an individual solution - but he got his man. And fortunately his wife and Jack's are on hand to lend a more intelligent and practical approach than that of the men - 'one dead and two daft' • A good laugh.