Monthly Archives: June 2015
by Tim Harding
(An edited version of this essay was published in Jazzline magazine,
Vol. 48, No. 2, Spring/Summer 2015)
Jazz musical lineages are normally tracked by instrument. Leading musicians are often described in the literature as having been primarily influenced by their predecessors on the same instrument – trumpeters are influenced by trumpeters, saxophonists by saxophonists, and so on. In this essay, I propose to put forward a thesis that in the 1920s, trumpeter Louis Armstrong was the major jazz influence on tenor saxophonist Coleman Hawkins as a soloist; and that Hawkins also influenced musicians on other instruments, such as Roy Eldridge on trumpet. This influence of Armstrong on Hawkins was mediated by bandleader Fletcher Henderson, in whose orchestra both were members from October 1924 to November 1925.
Louis Armstrong is widely regarded as the first great jazz soloist;  although Sidney Bechet was arguably the first notable jazz soloist to make a recording.  Armstrong was born in 1901 in the poorest section of New Orleans. He learned to play the cornet in the Coloured Waif’s Home where he later became leader of the children’s band there. After he left the Waif’s Home, by day he was delivering coal from a mule-drawn cart and later on by night he was playing cornet in honky-tonk bars. In time, he graduated to become a full-time musician, playing in the bands of Kid Ory, Fate Marable and the Tuxedo Brass Band.
Armstrong’s main cornet mentor during his early life had been Joe ‘King’ Oliver, who had left New Orleans for Chicago in 1918 after the closing down of the Storyville red light district. In mid-1922, Oliver invited Armstrong to play second cornet in his Creole Jazz Band at the Lincoln Gardens dance hall on the south side of Chicago. It has never been clear why Oliver made this invitation, as these early jazz bands did not usually include two cornets.
King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band in 1923 with Louis Armstrong seated in the centre
The early New Orleans style of jazz was polyphonic, based on collective improvisation rather than solos with accompaniment. According to Gioia, ‘no early jazz band was better at this ensemble style of playing than Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band’. The only real exceptions to this ensemble New Orleans style were in the breaks, such as the two-cornet breaks in the Oliver band where Armstrong harmonised with Oliver’s lead.
In the 1923 recordings of Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band we can hear the young Louis Armstrong ‘groping towards a solo-based jazz style: he is beginning to express feelings which will not long be containable within the matrix of the New Orleans model from which he sprang’. According to musicologist Gunther Schuller, Armstrong was ‘skillfully treading the fine line between the functional requirements of second cornet to King Oliver and his own burgeoning solo tendencies’.
On ‘Chimes Blues’ Oliver allows Armstrong to play two choruses of the melody alone, but it is not really a jazz solo in the improvised sense.  Similarly, Armstrong’s solo on ‘Froggie Moore’ is primarily a statement of the melody of that particular strain of the tune as composed by Jelly Roll Morton, albeit with some of Armstrong’s own embellishments and rhythmic dash.  
On the 26 October 1923 recording of ‘Mabel’s Dream’, Armstrong plays an innovative and very appealing open horn counter-melody against Oliver’s muted statement of the original melody, which whether intentional or not sounds louder than Oliver’s playing. Schuller describes this counter-melody as an amazing performance in its simplicity. A transcription by Schuller of the first eight bars of both recorded parts is as follows.
Figure 1. – first eight bars of Louis Armstrong’s counter-melody in ‘Mabel’s Dream’, as recorded by King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band on 26 October 1923.
Source: Schuller 1968, 83
The writer and musicologist Edward Brooks classifies Armstrong’s counter-melody as a solo that ‘constitutes one of the most moving climaxes of early jazz’.
Interestingly, on the later 24 December 1923 recordings of Mabel’s Dream, Armstrong appears to have been ‘reined in’ by Oliver as his muted counter melodies are barely audible behind Oliver’s more powerful lead in the same passages of the tune. Such restrictions on his freedom to solo may well have contributed to Armstrong being persuaded by his then wife Lil Hardin to leave the Oliver band in mid-1924. 
According to the biographer Laurence Bergreen, Armstrong then experienced some racial discrimination when he tried to join the band of Sammy Stewart, who was a light-skinned African-American who had only Creoles and light-skinned blacks in his band. Bergreen’s view is that Armstrong was too dark-skinned for Stewart’s band. Fortunately, Armstrong managed to get a job as first trumpet with Ollie Powers’ band in Chicago. However, as there are no relevant recordings, it is not clear how many solo opportunities Armstrong had in Powers’ band.
In September 1924, the successful African-American dance band leader Fletcher Henderson hired Armstrong specifically to be his featured soloist in New York. Henderson had previously heard Armstrong in 1922 whilst on tour in New Orleans and offered him a job in his small touring band, but Armstrong had turned the offer down.  As Henderson’s 1924 offer now provided Armstrong an ideal opportunity to develop his own musical identity, he readily accepted it and travelled by train to New York from Chicago. Gioia described this transition as a major watershed in jazz history: ‘The New Orleans pioneers exit stage left; Armstrong on trumpet enters stage right heralding the new Age of the Soloist’. Similarly, Giddens credits Armstrong with changing jazz from a collective idiom to a soloists art.
The Fletcher Henderson Orchestra in 1925, with Louis Armstrong 3rd from left and Coleman Hawkins 2nd from left
Before going on to discuss Armstrong’s performances with Henderson’s band, it is appropriate to outline the social and musical context that Armstrong was heading into. Not only was there racial segregation between White and Black musicians, audiences and record buyers; there was also a structured hierarchy amongst the Black jazz musicians. Trumpeter Rex Stewart has outlined what in effect was a four-tiered caste system amongst Black musicians in the New York of the mid-1920s. At the top was the Clef Club, a union of Black musicians founded by former US Army Lieutenant James Reese Europe who played at ‘society’ functions, including for Whites-only audiences. Next were the touring vaudeville musicians such as Mamie Smith and her band who played for both Black and White audiences. Then there were the larger dance bands led by Fletcher Henderson, Sam Wooding and Billy Fowler who played in public for Black-only audiences. On the lowest rung were musicians playing in small clubs, penny-a-dance halls and presumably speakeasies, again only for Black audiences. Black musicians in the higher levels had little to do with those on the lowest level.
Jazz historians agree that Henderson was a major figure, initially as a bandleader and musical talent spotter, and later as an arranger and composer. But before Armstrong joined it, Henderson’s band was primarily an expert reading band playing written dance band arrangements inspired by the leading White bands such as those of Paul Whiteman and Vincent Lopez.  On the basis of their early recordings, the Henderson Orchestra even sounded like these White dance bands, and for this reason are likely to have sold records to White consumers. Yet Henderson also made ‘race records’ backing blues singers, thus appealing to Black record-buying consumers as well. In this way, Henderson had cleverly segmented both the Black and White markets for his recordings.
Henderson himself and his musicians, such as Charlie Dixon, Kaiser Marshall and Coleman Hawkins enjoyed Clef Club membership and contacts. So some members of Henderson’s band may have looked down upon Louis Armstrong socially if not musically.
On the other hand, musicians soon came to admire Armstrong’s unrivalled abilities as a jazz soloist. Schuller is amazed at the disparity in quality between Armstrong’s solos and those of other musicians in the Henderson band’s early recordings. For instance, Armstrong’s hot solo on ‘Mandy Make Up Your Mind’ immediately follows some corny ‘doo-wacka-doo’ four-bar passages by the other two trumpeters Howard Scott and Elmer Chambers. These passages were interspersed with some old-fashioned straight tenor sax playing by Coleman Hawkins, complete with the dated staccato slap-tonguing that very soon would go completely out of style. Louis Armstrong himself described the impact he made on Henderson’s band as follows.
Well, I knew I couldn’t read music as fast as them cats, and Fletcher never let me sing. They’d got me there to blow that hot stuff. Lot of the time all I had to play in the arrangement was a 8 bar, maybe 16 bar solo. First time I did it, they went wild and I did too. Them cats all stood up and applauded and cheered. Just another night to me, you know, but it’s a good feeling to know that they satisfied that you’re with them’.
The British trumpeter Humphrey Lyttelton reports Henderson’s principal arranger and lead alto player Don Redman as saying that ‘Louis, his style and his feeling, changed our whole idea about the band musically’.  Every bandleader then wanted to hire a trumpet soloist in Armstrong’s mould, from Paul Whiteman to Duke Ellington.
According to Lyttelton, only one of Henderson’s other musicians, tenor saxophonist Coleman Hawkins, had any potential as an improvising jazz musician. (This is in the absence of trumpeter Joe Smith who replaced Howard Scott about seven months after Armstrong joined.)
Like Henderson, Coleman Hawkins came from a middle-class African-American family. His tours with Mamie Smith’s Jazz Hounds in 1922-23 placed him high in Rex Stewart’s second tier of black musicians. One of the few other jazz tenor saxophonists of this period, Prince Robinson had toured with Lillian Jones Jazz Hounds in 1919-21. In this way, the tenor saxophone came to jazz via vaudeville.
Mamie Smith’s Jazz Hounds in 1923 with Coleman Hawkins 2nd from right above playing tenor saxophone
Hawkins joined Fletcher Henderson’s Orchestra in 1923, where he remained until 1934, sometimes doubling on clarinet and in the early years, on bass saxophone. Prior to Louis Armstrong joining Henderson, Hawkins’ solos, whilst musically competent, lacked ‘swing’ or a jazz feel to them. They were typical of the early dance band style of this period.
According to the musicologist Jeffrey Magee, Armstrong’s influence left a profound mark on Hawkins. He was stunned by the strength of Armstrong’s music and strove to adapt this style to the tenor saxophone. This influence is illustrated by Hawkins solo on Henderson’s ‘The Stampede’ recorded on 14 May 1926, and notated below. In this solo, ‘Hawkins now deploys a legato fluency in place of the heavy, slap-tongued staccato articulation’ of his earlier style.
Figure 2. – first fifteen bars of Coleman Hawkin’s solo in ‘The Stampede’, as recorded by Fletcher Henderson and His Orchestra on 14 May 1926.
Source: Magee 2005, 113
Magee describes Armstrong’s influence on this solo as follows:
In the first four bars, for example, Hawkins takes a cue from Armstrong’s openings, with a syncopated phrase leading to the familiar three-note figure (mm. 1-2)….Other Armstrong-like effects spring up confidently, like the syncopated double-leap in m.10, and the rising, chromatic downbeat triplet in m.11…..In The Stampede’ we can hear Hawkins telling a story, working on the musical “coherence” that made Armstrong’s solos unique. At the age of 21, fuelled by his encounter with Armstrong, Coleman Hawkins had made impressive strides towards achieving an original solo voice.
Lyttelton puts it this way:
Perhaps the most startling revelation of Armstrong’s liberating influence comes when Coleman Hawkins leaps out of the ensemble for his solo. Here for the first time is a glimpse of the tenor saxophone player from whom all rivals were to stand back in awe for the next decade. Not only is his solo couched in terms strikingly similar to Armstrong’s up-tempo contributions, but the actual notes themselves have a vibrant life of their own.[47}
Hawkins’s dramatic solo may have been one reason that ‘The Stampede’ was taken up by many other bands, with other saxophonists strongly influenced by Hawkins’s ‘Stampede’ phrases. . Roy Eldridge learned the solo by heart on trumpet and got his first job after playing it for an audition.  In this way, Eldridge was influenced by Armstrong indirectly via Hawkins; as well as directly by hearing Armstrong play in person rather than from recordings. Hawkins went on to become ‘the undisputed master of the tenor saxophone’ and to have a major influence on all the early top tenor saxophonists except Lester Young. 
This essay has illustrated how the young Louis Armstrong emerged from the New Orleans ensemble tradition to become jazz’s first great soloist. By the medium of the Fletcher Henderson Orchestra, and with the encouragement of Fletcher Henderson himself, Armstrong in turn became a major influence on other early jazz soloists such a Coleman Hawkins and Roy Eldridge. In doing so, Armstrong established the general stylistic direction of jazz for several decades to come.
 Schuller, Gunther. Early Jazz- Its Roots and Musical Development. New York: Oxford University Press. 1968, 89-90.
 Lyttelton, Humphrey. The Best of Jazz. London: Portico, 1999, 116-122.
 Schuller, Early Jazz, 196-198.
 Giddins, Gary. Visions of Jazz. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998, 88.
 Collier, James Lincoln. Louis Armstrong. London: Pan Books, 1984, 42.
 Ibid., 93.
 Gioia, Ted. The History of Jazz. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011.
 Schuller, Early Jazz, 79.
 Brooks, Edward. Liner Notes for King Oliver Volume One 1923 to 1929. Festival Records, CD recording, D 26123, Sydney, 1995.
 Schuller, Early Jazz, 90.
 Giddins, Visions of Jazz, 81.
 Collier, Louis Armstrong, 105.
 Schuller, Early Jazz, 80.
 Giddins, Visions of Jazz, 81.
 Schuller, Early Jazz, 83.
 Brooks, Liner Notes.
 Panassie, Hugues. Louis Armstrong. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1971, 10.
 Schuller, Early Jazz, 78, 90.
 Bergreen, Laurence. Louis Armstrong – An Extravagant Life. London: HarperCollins, 1997, 233.
 Ibid., 234.
 Collier. Louis Armstrong, 42.
 Giddins, Visions of Jazz, 91.
 Schuller, Early Jazz, 90-91.
 Gioia, Ted. The History of Jazz, 53.
 Giddins, Visions of Jazz, 88.
 Magee, Jeffrey. The Uncrowned King of Swing – Fletcher Henderson and Big Band Jazz. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005, 30.
 Magee, Jeffrey. ‘Fletcher Henderson, Composer: A Counter-Entry to the International Dictionary of Black Composers’ Black Music Research Journal, Vol. 19, No. 1, Spring 1999, 2.
 Ibid., 29.
 DeVeaux, Scott and Giddins, Gary. Jazz. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2009, 123.
 Magee, The Uncrowned King of Swing, 34.
 Ibid., 30.
 Schuller, Early Jazz, 91.
 Meryman, Richard. Louis Armstrong – a self-portrait. New York: The Eakins Press, 1966, 32.
 Lyttelton, Humphrey. The Best of Jazz. London: Portico, 1999, 109.
 Giddins, Visions of Jazz, 92.
 DeVeaux and Giddens. Jazz, 150.
 Lyttelton, The Best of Jazz, 108.
 Magee, The Uncrowned King of Swing, 31.
 Schuller, Gunther. The Swing Era – The Development of Jazz 1930-1945. New York: Oxford University Press. 1989, 427.
 Magee, The Uncrowned King of Swing, 112.
 DeVeaux and Giddens. Jazz, 163.
 Magee, The Uncrowned King of Swing, 112.
 Lyttelton, The Best of Jazz, 113.
 Magee, The Uncrowned King of Swing, 114.
 DeVeaux and Giddens. Jazz, 163.
 Lyttelton, The Best of Jazz, 410.
 Magee, The Uncrowned King of Swing, 114.
 Lyttelton, The Best of Jazz, 113.
 Ibid., 408-411.
 Schuller, The Swing Era, 426.
 Gioia, Ted. The Imperfect Art. Stanford: The Stanford Alumni Association, 1988, 142.
 Schuller, Early Jazz, 89.
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by Mal Vickers
I love the Mind Body Spirit Festival – I really do. But I don’t love having to part with the (grrrr…..) twenty dollars just to get in. My partner tried her hand at The Secret or the power of positive thinking and attempted to get in for nothing, but the security guard shattered her confidence.
Luckily an essential oil called Confidence was readily available from the nearby Pro-Oils stand. This place made it all worthwhile. I happened to find a bottle of Clear Thinking – perfect for a Skeptic like me. I took one long, deep sniff, right to the bottom of my lungs. Somehow my world appeared better, sharper, colours were more vivid, my mind cleared, my thoughts were more focused, yes… I just inhaled a bunch of liquid herbs. You too can buy a 12ml bottle of Clear Thinking on Show special for…
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by Tim Harding
(This review was published in Jazzline magazine, Winter 1989)
It is generally accepted that the primary characteristics that distinguish jazz from other forms of music are syncopation, improvisation and swing. Most of us know what syncopation and improvisation are, but swing is harder to define. For me, it means an entrancing inner momentum or self-propulsion, like a powerboat lifting itself out of the troughs between the waves and planing along on top.
Swing is Count Basie’s main legacy to jazz. As an arranger, it was largely he who lifted the wallowing Bennie Moten band out of the troughs onto a higher rhythmic plane. As a bandleader, he added key soloists from Walter Page’s Blue Devils, creating a new style of big band. As an instrumentalist, he demonstrated the value of short silences or gaps in improvisation. I have been told that the venerated Australian jazz musician Ade Monsborough once said ‘the notes you leave out are as important as the ones you put in.’ (This point appears to be lost on some modern-style improvisers, with their endless runs of quavers and triplets).
My first live contact (confrontation?) with Basie’s music was in about 1968, when Jeremy Kellock (later Jerry Noone of ‘Daddy Cool‘ fame) asked me to join a short-lived Basie-type band playing some of his tunes from the late 1930s. Although we found the ensemble riffs relatively easy, we found the rhythmic side very difficult. We just could not get that band to swing anything like Basie’s, and soon gave it away. Later on, I was fortunate enough to hear the Basie band in person at the Dallas Brooks Hall in East Melbourne, and I realise how wise we were to give up trying to play like them.
Basie’s characteristics of swing and improvisation are exemplified on this CD album (hep1025), produced by John R.T.Davies for the hep label. The album reissues tracks from the first recording sessions by the full Basie band in 1937. The band had been ‘discovered’ in 1936 by wealthy New York jazz writer and entrepreneur John Hammond. Late one night on his car radio in Chicago, Hammond by chance picked up a broadcast by the Basie band from the Reno Club in Kansas City. Hammond was astute enough to realise he had stumbled on a unique new style of jazz, and how right he was!
The new Basie style is evident from the very first track, Honeysuckle Rose, based on the Fletcher Henderson arrangement. (Henderson was kind enough to give the fledgling Basie some of his arrangements to help them through their first gigs). Former Blue Devil vocalist, Jimmie Rushing, features on six of the sixteen tracks, including the melodic title track, Listen…my Children and You Shall Hear and Good Morning Blues, which later became the title of Count Basie’s autobiography.
Another feature of this album is the marvellous ‘duelling tenors’ in the contrasting styles of Herschel Evans and Lester Young, particularly on One O’Clock Jump, Time Out, and John’s Idea (named after John Hammond). Buck Clayton’s trumpet shines on Swinging at the Daisy Chain, (named after a popular Harlem bordello), and Topsy, a wonderfully hot composition and arrangement by Basie trombonist Eddie Durham. Topsy also features a good baritone solo by Jack Washington, as does Exactly Like You.
The stars of the album, however, are the legendary Basie rhythm section of Jo Jones, Walter Page, Freddie Green and the Count himself. These are the guys who mainly generate the swinging momentum or propulsion, to which I referred earlier, and which no band has been able to emulate since.
The album sleeve has an interesting photo of the 1937 band on the front cover, together with comprehensive sleeve notes by Frank Driggs. I would recommend it as an important addition to any broad-minded jazz record collection.
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UK researchers recently reviewed the hiring practices of 13 elite law, accountancy and financial companies, and found that applicants with posh accents were favoured over their working class counterparts.
So, does a similar process hold in the Australian context? Are your employment chances rooted and rooned by not having a posh accent?
Not in Australia. But the UK study serves as a caution of sorts, and it’s worth reviewing the dynamics of accent and employment in the UK, Australia and beyond.
How we judge accents
We don’t judge accents themselves, but rather the speakers of those accents and our perceptions of those speakers’ qualities. Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor (1519-1556), reputedly spoke Spanish to God, French to men, Italian to women and German to horses.
We commonly judge accents and their speakers along dimensions of prestige and pleasantness.
To these ends, Brits with posh accents may be doubly advantaged. Many are born into these accents or acquire them at elite public schools. And, on the pleasantness spectrum, we tend to be drawn to accents most like our own.
Therefore, if you happen to be one of the estimated 3-5% of Brits who has a posh accent, and you’re reviewing the application of poor Cockney flower girl Eliza Doolittle, then, yes, for poor Eliza, a job will ardly hever ‘appen.
But accents index both positive and negative attributes to employers and potential customers, and posh accents have been fraying in the British sphere since the 1990s. Studies have shown while posh accents index “intelligence” and “success” they are also considered “less friendly” and “less trustworthy” than regionally marked or difficult-to-place accents.
This has led, among other things, to the emergence of what has been labelled Estuary English, a mix of a posh accent and certain Cockney features, such as glottal stops. Tony Blair and Princess Diana were well known speakers of Estuary English.
Linguist Emma Moore talks about Tony Blair and Estuary English in the following video:
Alongside this process, Scottish accents have emerged as having a certain value add in British society. For instance, a 2008 survey found Scottish accents to be the most reassuring and soothing in a crisis. And a 2012 survey found them to be hardworking and reliable in business.
‘Posh’ accents in Australian English
Australian English is judged variously and inconsistently throughout its history, both at home and abroad.
Winston Churchill called Australian English “the most brutal maltreatment that has ever been inflicted on the mother-tongue of the great English-speaking nations”.
Twain was impressed with how Ballarat speakers rendered thank you to a simple Q and you’re welcome to km. Such shortenings he mused, give the tongue “a delicate whispery and vanishing cadence which charms the ear …”.
Within Australia, there has historically been a clear social distinction between Cultivated (British-oriented) and Broad or General, distinctly Australian ways of speaking.
This distinction can be traced to the early decades of the colony. In the early 19th century, GA Wilkes notes new arrivals from Britain garnered the label stirling after money with official standing.
Conversely, those born in the colony bore the label currency, a money with less standing and less value. By 1827, one British observer noted the currency could be identified by their Aussie pride, poor teeth and “nasal twang”.
The tide arguably turned in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, when, as lexicographer Bruce Moore observes, Australians derided the migrant whinging poms, who the Australians believed were often openly and vocally disappointed by the new country.
Among other things, Moore links the word “pom” to the fondness of early 20th century Australian children for giving nicknames, and the subsequent playground rhyming of immigrant, jimmygrant and pomegranate for Brit children. The term whinging pom itself had emerged by 1962.
The late 20th century saw the decreasing relevance of British-oriented, cultivated ways of speaking. This can be linked to a number of factors, including increasing Australian nationalism and the establishment of an Australian Language Research Centre. The ABC first permitted distinctly Australian accents in its broadcasts in 1952.
The prime minister’s office maintained a cultivated feel until 1966 with RG Menzies, who, as Moore points out, described himself as “British to the bootstraps”:
But, by 1972, Gough Whitlam had given the prime minister’s office a distinctly Australian voice:
In contemporary Australia, linguist Felicity Cox observes that a cultivated accent might work against you. She writes, “many Australians feel that that Cultivated accent is not reflective of Australian values”.
“Vowel cancer” and crabs in the workplace
While posh accents are less relevant in Australia, the UK study does illustrate a critical point which is valid in Australia. Accent remains fair game when it comes to racism and classicism. Where it might be unacceptable, to pass comment on ways of dress or manner, ways of speaking tend to fly under the radar.
This process is well-studied within the US and the British spheres. For instance, Rosina Lippi-Green has famously argued that accents in Disney films draw on as well as reinforce minority stereotypes.
Lippi-Green notes that African American accents leading up to the 1990s are predominantly attached to animal rather than humanoid characters in these films. More so, the male minority characters in these films are generally unemployed, and seem to be concerned with nothing more than having fun and please themselves.
This is instructive for the Australian sphere, where speakers of any number of non-standard or broad accents might have the potential to be marginalised.
Writer Kathy Lette (with Gabrielle Carey) brilliantly documents the Australian vernacular the 1979 novel Puberty Blues. Yet, Lette has also been known to warn teens off such colloquial ways of speaking, calling them “vowel cancer”, and encouraging teens to practice “tongue fu”.
It can be dangerous and misleading to judge a job applicant along a single social dimension such as accent. Perhaps this is best illustrated in closing with the 19th century writer Price Warung’s yarn about an Echuca steamboat deckhand named Dictionary Ned. Warung’s stories often focus on the inequities of the convict system.
Ned loved words and carried a dictionary with him wherever he went. Over time, Ned came to memorise the entire dictionary. Yet, Ned found his Aussie pronunciation of these words constantly derided by College Bill, a man of position and the town drunkard.
In the yarn’s climax, Ned, realising his Aussie accent will never be accepted, shocks the town by shifting into French. From that point onward, College Bill is known in town as Ned labels him: “mo-va-soo-jay” (mauvais sujet “evil”). And more relevantly, the town folk come to realise that their myopic focus on Ned’s accent has led them to underestimate his wit and linguistic prowess.
One of the most ludicrous things about the anti-science movement is the enormous number of arguments that are based on a lack of knowledge about high school level chemistry. These chemistry facts are so elementary and fundamental to science that the anti-scientists’ positions can only be described as willful ignorance, and these arguments once again demonstrate that despite all of the claims of being “informed free-thinkers,” anti-scientists are nothing more than uninformed (or misinformed) science deniers. Therefore, in this post I am going to explain five rudimentary facts about chemistry that you must grasp before you are even remotely qualified to make an informed decision about medicines, vaccines, food, etc.
1). Everything is made of chemicals
This seems like a simple concept, but many people seem to struggle greatly with it, so let’s get this straight: all matter is made of chemicals. You consist entirely of chemicals. All food…
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In 1979/80 I was the Mayor of Fitzroy, an inner suburb of Melbourne now described as ‘one of the most hipster suburbs of the world’. (Back then, it was mainly a low-income area with a significant migrant population).
Like all Mayors, I received lots of invitations to various events and functions. One that particularly caught my eye was an invitation for me and my then partner to an evening reception for HM Queen Elizabeth II and HRH Prince Phillip at the National Gallery of Victoria. You don’t get invitations like this every day so I accepted, mainly out of curiosity (my fellow councillors and I were nearly all republicans).
At around 7.30pm on the night, we parked in the Gallery car park, flashed our invitation and proceeded to one of the big rooms of the Gallery lined with nineteenth century paintings. There we were served drinks and hors d’oevres by black tie waiters (we guests mainly wore lounge suits and evening gowns). In the crowd, I recognised some Members of Parliament and other Mayors, so I assume that the invitation list consisted of MPs, Mayors and Shire Presidents plus Supreme Court judges and top public officials such as the Chief Commissioner of Police. Including spouses and partners, this would amount to around 1000 people filling several big gallery rooms. There was a white line taped to the floor, where we were obviously supposed to stand when the Queen and Prince Phillip arrived.
People started forming up on this white line when they saw others doing so, indicating that the Queen had started her ‘procession’. After a few minutes we saw Her Majesty gliding slowly and silently towards us, with Prince Phillip walking the customary one step behind. She was wearing a lacy white evening gown with a blue diagonal sash, plus a diamond tiara and necklace (like the picture below). She was carrying a small bouquet of flowers, presumably so that nobody would try to shake hands with her. Prince Phillip was wearing a black tuxedo plus the smaller version of his medals. I was surprised that the lapels of his tuxedo were a bit crumpled – perhaps this tux was an old favourite.
The Queen was aged in her mid-fifties at this time, so her hair was a light brown colour under the diamond-studded tiara. She wore heavy white make-up, presumably for the media photographs, and was a little stouter than I had imagined. She didn’t nod and smile at everybody, presumably to avoid RSI of the neck and facial muscles. But at about every tenth person, she would pause, smile and say ‘Oh hello. Where are you from?’ ‘I’m the Shire President of Nar Nar Goon, Your Majesty’ was a typical reply. Then she would say ‘How nice. Where is that?’ ‘It’s near Koo Wee Rup’ came the helpful explanation.
Unfortunately or fortunately, I was not one of the lucky 100 out of 1000 she talked to. So within a couple of minutes, she was gone. I never saw her again. In the words of the poet Thomas Ford, ‘I did but see her passing by…’