Cowboys and Indies: The Epic History of the Record Industry by Gareth Murphy Page A

destiny.
    Typically, Vanderbilt sons were expected to study law at Yale and be groomed for a successful career in big business. John tried Yale for a while, then dropped out and began floating. In 1931, at the age of twenty-one, he set sail for a short vacation in London, where a chance meeting brought him into contact with the music publication Melody Maker. Invited to submit articles about the American jazz scene, Hammond returned to New York—using a pen as his divining rod.
    His controversial articles, openly championing the supremacy of black jazz musicians, provided only pocket money. At a time of 30 percent unemployment, he was receiving $12,000 per year from the family trust fund—more than enough to pay for his new apartment in Greenwich Village and his car. Hammond wasn’t good at holding down a job, but then again, he didn’t have to be.
    Duke Ellington recommended Hammond to Irving Mills, who called one day offering him a job on one of his house magazines. He went to Mills’s office to discuss it. “How much do you want to work for me, John?” asked Mills.
    “One hundred dollars a week.”
    “I’ll hire you half time for fifty dollars a week,” concluded the notoriously skinflint impresario. In the ensuing conversation, Mills asked, “You know what we’re going to put there?” He gestured with his cigar toward a space on the wall. “Muriels.”
    In a pattern that would become familiar, the erudite journalist was quickly fired for not plugging the house catalog with adequate bias. He also lost an interesting job as a jazz deejay at a Jewish station on the top floor of the Claridge Hotel. Following complaints from the hotel management about black musicians walking through the lobby, Hammond refused to force his musicians to take the freight elevator.
    Because his apartment on Sullivan Street was within walking distance of Columbia’s offices, he began running into Columbia’s musical director, Ben Selvin. One night in the Hofbrau House, Selvin explained that he’d been getting requests from England for jazz records and asked Hammond for an opinion. Realizing his articles for Melody Maker had earned him legitimacy, Hammond suggested Fletcher Henderson’s band and offered to produce four sides at union scale. To his delight, Selvin agreed.
    On the morning of the planned session, the musicians trudged into the studio almost three hours late. Feeling guilty, they banged out three numbers, but there was no time to record a fourth. Columbia was furious. Apparently, Henderson’s lateness was due to the poor deal he was getting. “Most Negro bandleaders were discouraged, if not defeated, by the Great Depression,” explained Hammond. “Duke Ellington and Cab Calloway were making it. No one else was.” Fortunately, that first record sold well enough for Columbia’s ill feelings to be quickly forgiven. Now welcome to drop by Columbia’s offices, Hammond caught the itch for producing.
    At the beginning of 1933, he dropped into Monette Moore’s place to find a replacement, a pretty seventeen-year-old black girl by the name of Billie Holiday. Hearing her unusual rendition of “Wouldja for a Big Red Apple?” Hammond fell under a spell. “This was the kind of accident I’d dreamed of, the sort of reward I received every now and then, by traveling to every place where anyone performed. Most of the time I was disappointed, but every now and then it all became worthwhile.”
    Hammond began following Billie around the Harlem speakeasies where she performed for tips. Her real name was Eleanora, he learned. She had arrived from Baltimore, got caught up in prostitution, and served a jail term. Beautiful, notoriously moody, and already a moderate marijuana smoker, she sang popular songs in a distinctive manner that made everything her own. Unable to play an instrument and often accompanied by a solo piano, Billie didn’t fit the description of jazz singer, but Hammond heard something unique in her voice. He