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

dragged his jazz friends along to hear her. “All I could do was talk and write about her,” he would recall.
    In the spring of 1933, as the Great Depression hit rock bottom, it was once again the London connection that opened new doors. When he arrived back in England, Hammond was pleasantly surprised to find that he was something of a celebrity among Melody Maker readers, thanks to his inspirational work as a jazz writer. Hanging out with editor Spike Hughes who had recently begun working as a recording director for the newly established Decca Records, Hammond asked for an introduction to Louis Sterling.
    As well as managing EMI, Sterling was among Britain’s most committed supporters of culture. Victor’s well-respected music director, Fred Gaisberg, noted that Sunday evening dinners at the Sterlings’ grand home on Avenue Road “had become a regular feature of bohemian London … At the Sterlings’ one always met agreeable colleagues in the theatrical, film and musical worlds. On [one] occasion Schnabel and Kreisler were soon deeply engrossed in discussing the political situation in Germany and were joined by ex-Mayor Jimmy Walker and Lauritz Melchior, greatly to the discomfort of a bridge party in the next room, which included Chaliapin and Gigli.” The rise of Hitler was of particular concern to Louis Sterling, who over the coming years would sponsor the immigration of Jewish employees of his labels in Berlin. Supporting Charles Lahr and his Progressive Bookshop, he was also building one of Britain’s most valuable book collections.
    In their brief meeting, Sterling explained that he needed someone to make American jazz records for the English market directly. The young Hammond pounced on the opportunity and secured his first contract, for a total of twenty-four recordings with four artists: Fletcher Henderson, Benny Carter, Joe Venuti, and Benny Goodman. As usual, in all the excitement Hammond forgot to negotiate any payment for himself.
    He returned to New York on a new mission. His first port of call was Benny Goodman, who he knew often hung out at a speakeasy called the Onyx Club. At about ten thirty, sure enough, Goodman walked in. Tightening his gut, Hammond introduced himself and offered the clarinettist a Columbia recording contract.
    “You’re a goddamn liar,” snapped Goodman, who the previous week had heard from Ben Selvin the label was bankrupt.
    “But this isn’t American Columbia,” pleaded Hammond. “This is with English Columbia, which has money.”
    Goodman presumed Hammond was a weirdo, but he was earning only $50 a week, so he forced himself to calm down. Hammond then explained his plan to recruit a band of master musicians capable of improvising free-flowing jazz.
    Checking out Goodman’s band the next day, Hammond squirmed in his chair. “The English public will laugh us off the turntable,” he told the insulted but ambitious Goodman. Swing was not just a genre term for Hammond; it meant a certain rhythmic spirit. At the suggestion of hiring black musicians, Goodman put his foot down. “If it gets around that I recorded with colored guys I won’t get another job in this town.”
    “It can’t be that bad.”
    “John, you don’t know. It’s that bad.”
    Fortunately, Benny Goodman was a born dancer who had spent many nights out in Hammond’s favorite clubs, and he would graciously accept that yes, black musicians were by far the best rhythm conjurers in the craft. For the time being, Hammond rounded up an all-whites band; Artie Bernstein, Dick McDonough, Joe Sullivan, Charlie Teagarden, and Manny Klein. He even drove to Boston to convince the master drummer Gene Krupa to join in. The musicians each earned a meager $20 for the three-hour session, but one of the three recordings, “Ain’tcha Glad,” caught the attention of Ben Selvin, who persuaded Hammond to sign it directly to American Columbia with a full artist contract for Benny Goodman. More than happy to do what was