He was born in the spring of 1909, and beginning with his first hit recording, "Moon Glow" in 1934, he routinely scored a dozen top-ten hits on a yearly basis. Some regard his title, "The King of Swing," as insulting to the African-American tradition that became America's indigenous art form, jazz. It's true that Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Chick Webb, and Fletcher Henderson probably deserved the title, but Benny Goodman was also deserving, and moreover an admirable, seminal representative of the historical period that became known as the "Swing Era." Moreover, in his 1938 Carnegie Hall concert he broke both the "cultural" barrier that insisted on privileging classical European music over "vulgar" American popular forms as well as the color barrier that made it unusual, unlikely, and often impossible for white and black musicians to play on the same stage. Benny was a great musician, as in command of a classical repertory as of jazz, but he was also an ambassador and an example, making the public aware of the music of Billie Holiday (he also introduced Peggy Lee), Lester Young, Lionel Hampton, Teddy Wilson, and the beauties of a music that was a sophisticated American music as well as a highly swinging one.
Forget the plot of this adequate but conventional love story. You'll have to look long and hard to find a movie with this much great American music. And give some thought to the revolution that began in the 1950s and changed the American landscape in the 1960s after the "British invasion." Goodman looked like a boring banker. He wore suits and ties--and he played clarinet! How could he have been adopted by a primarily young generation as a hero if not major pop star? Steve Allen is a bit better looking (and far more clever and articulate) than Goodman, but he won't explain the revolution that made hair, guitars and grubby jeans more worthy of our time, attention, and money, tons of it, than a genteel adult like Goodman. Benny instead introduced us to a guitarist who was black, wore suits, and became known as the "Father of the Jazz guitar," Charlie Christian. Benny Goodman was about sophistication, civility, and competence--and that's exactly what you get, and in abundance, from the musically hip Steve Allen.
Thanks to this movie, I developed a lifelong love of jazz. I'm still swinging, and I'm still left puzzled by the sounds of distorted guitars, of groups that can't perform without vocals, and of drummers who are clueless about the subtle, airborne groove of a 4/4 walking bass, a tight hi-hat, and a shimmering ride cymbal. And I still fail to grasp the entertainment value of performers who wear torn jeans, earrings and tattoos while commanding tens of thousands for a single performance. If you can't hear music unless the beat sounds like an amplified, mechanical drill hammer, you probably won't like this movie.
Forget the plot of this adequate but conventional love story. You'll have to look long and hard to find a movie with this much great American music. And give some thought to the revolution that began in the 1950s and changed the American landscape in the 1960s after the "British invasion." Goodman looked like a boring banker. He wore suits and ties--and he played clarinet! How could he have been adopted by a primarily young generation as a hero if not major pop star? Steve Allen is a bit better looking (and far more clever and articulate) than Goodman, but he won't explain the revolution that made hair, guitars and grubby jeans more worthy of our time, attention, and money, tons of it, than a genteel adult like Goodman. Benny instead introduced us to a guitarist who was black, wore suits, and became known as the "Father of the Jazz guitar," Charlie Christian. Benny Goodman was about sophistication, civility, and competence--and that's exactly what you get, and in abundance, from the musically hip Steve Allen.
Thanks to this movie, I developed a lifelong love of jazz. I'm still swinging, and I'm still left puzzled by the sounds of distorted guitars, of groups that can't perform without vocals, and of drummers who are clueless about the subtle, airborne groove of a 4/4 walking bass, a tight hi-hat, and a shimmering ride cymbal. And I still fail to grasp the entertainment value of performers who wear torn jeans, earrings and tattoos while commanding tens of thousands for a single performance. If you can't hear music unless the beat sounds like an amplified, mechanical drill hammer, you probably won't like this movie.