"Dodo Marmarosa," said Charlie Parker one night as we stood sipping at the White Rose Bar on Sixth Avenue at 52nd Street, "is a bitch."
Bird knew what and whom he was talking about. Though the name of Michael Marmarosa is now almost as dead as the proverbial dodo bird, he occupies a small but significant place in the evolution of a music once quaintly characterized as bebop, later as bop.
Charles Mingus’ recent book bore the apt title Beneath the Underdog. Marmarosa, like many of his generation, belonged to a musical culture that was beneath the underground. The boppers had problems. Whether their personal difficulties (many of them were disturbed, unhappy men) were cause or effect of the manner in which their innovations were stigmatized is anyone’s guess. Whatever the answer, most of the men who came up in the shadow of Charlie Parker, Bud Powell and their contemporaries were faced with a gigantic hurdle. They had created a new music, a new avenue to jazz improvisation and composition, that was ignored by the public, scorned by most critics and appreciated only by a minority of the younger and more open-eared jazzmen.
Born in Pittsburgh December 12th, 1925 Marmarosa was a schoolmate of Erroll Garner. Often they would sneak out of classes to hold keyboard sessions. There was a big difference: Garner, without learning to read music, went on to develop a maverick style that was never quite a part of bop. Dodo, while acquiring the necessary technical and reading skills that enabled him to hold down chairs in name bands, became an early participant in the bop movement.
He was barely 15 when he joined the band of Johnny “Scat” Davis, one of the first of several orchestras in which he and c'arinetist Buddy De Franco worked together. (Others were, chronologically, Gene Krupa, Ted Fio Rito, Charlie Barnet and Tommy Dorsey.)
By the end of his formative years Dodo had developed a style that had much in common with that of Bud Powell: a horn-like insistence, expressed most effectively in straight-ahead linear terms, but capable of surprising harmonic complexity.
Barney Kessel, the guitarist on many of Dodo’s early combo dates, recalls him with nostalgic pleasure tinged by regret that the career of the young Turk never quite became airborne. “He was one of the most brilliant musicians I met during that entire period,” he recalls.
Unlike most of the early boppers, Dodo brought a classical discipline to his music. In fact, the first thing he ever played for me was the Revolutionary Etude. When he was through and I expressed my appreciation, he said, ‘Well, if you like the way I did it, I have a 13-year-old sister at home who can play it much better’.
Dodo's early experience did not logically equip him for bop. After the classical training he went into the world of dance bands, and he came to bop as a dance band pianist. I always felt that he didn’t have a chance to evolve fully in the new jazz. But he had fire and imagination, not to mention complete unpredictability both as a person and a musician.
"At one time, when we were both in Artie Shaw’s orchestra, we doubled on a trio gig here in L.A. playing after the job with Artie. All the tunes we’d played as ballads with the band, he’d start tearing into at Cherokee tempo; and the numbers that were up tempo with Shaw, like maybe After You’ve Gone, he would play as ballads. He kept you on your toes, believe me."
After settling on the West Coast in 1945, Dodo played for a while with the orchestra of Boyd Raeburn, an arranger and saxophonist who was so far ahead of his time that Duke Ellington offered him encouragement and, reportedly, financial support. If he had to work within the framework of a large orchestra, Raeburn’s was the best setting; but Dodo’s brightest moments, as I recall them, came with the opportunities to express himself on a combo record date. Unfortunately most of these were made for short-lived labels and only a few were ever transferred to LPs. There were sessions with Lem Davis, Slim Gaillard, Dizzy, Bird, Howard McGhee, Lester Young (he was on a memorable Prez date that produced D.B. Blues and Lester Blows Again), and a combo date I put together under Lucky Thompson’s name for RCA, a couple of tracks from which have been preserved in an Esquire Poll Winners LP (Dodo won his first and last poll as the New Star in the experts’ 1947 tally.)
What happened to Dodo Marmarosa? Did the creative fire go out, was it extinguished by the attrition of new aesthetic values, or was a wall built around it so that we could no longer see it burning? In a sense this last conclusion seems to be the most viable, but it was Dodo himself who built the wall. Always a remote personality, seemingly he withdrew more and more into himself. He was back with the Artie Shaw orchestra again in 1949-50; then began the slow slide into obscurity (spelled P-l-T-T-S-B-U-R-G-H). During the early 1960s he made the Chicago sessions represented by these live recordings; surfaced again for an LP produced by a long time admirer, Jack Tracy, then sank back into limbo. Now he is the definitive forgotten man.
The brilliance of Marmarosa’s luminous days, close to the forefront of jazz, is illustrative of a broader point: there are, at every stage in the evolution of an art form, those who achieve long-term recognition and continue to evolve through the years (a classic example is Mary Lou Williams); there are those who make their contribution to a particular era, stop short, and later die tragically, as was Bud Powell’s lot; and there are the others, who might best be described as the great Might Have Beens. This album shows not only what Dodo might have been, but more relevantly, just what he was, at a point in time when too few were interested enough to listen.