Mr. Jelly Roll

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"High school teachers play better jazz."
-	Duke Ellington about Jelly Roll Morton

In 1938 Ferdinand Joseph Morton was eking out a living running a cheap bar in Washington, D. C. Known as "Jelly Roll" - or more familiarly as just "Jelly" - he had moved down from New York City after being the butt of the jibes and sneers at the famous Rhythm Club. He'd show up and the young musicians would call out, "Hey, Jelly! What's that you said about New York musicians yesterday?"

Sourly Jelly would spit out, "What I said yesterday and today and on Judgment Day and also on my dying day is that it takes one hundred live New York musicians to equal one dead police dog." When the young pups just laughed, he'd add more. "You New York musicians don't know nothing about jazz - you can't play it because you don't know how!"

Hah! Hah! Hah! they all would laugh. How funny it is to hear the spittle flinging diatribes from that old washed-up has-been!

Certainly Jelly Roll had not gone out of his way to make friends once he arrived in New York in 1928. After years playing piano and leading jazz bands from Chicago to California he began publicly belittling the East Coast performers whose fame was rising. Chick Webb? His drumming and his band stunk. That kid, Duke Ellington? Why, he played schmaltz not jazz. Jelly even turned on the legendary W. C. Handy. Shoot, he didn't write the "St Louis Blues"! He, Jelly Roll Morton, had been playing that song long before!

And to rub even more salt into his musical wounds, there was this young clarinet player named Benny Goodman. In 1935, he took one of Jelly's songs written in 1906, "King Porter Stomp" and put it out on a record. Ranking high up on the Billboard charts, the song became Benny's biggest hit of the year - and Jelly didn't get a penny in royalties!

Jelly kept stewing about the way things had turned out. In the mid-1920's he had been one of the biggest jazzmen around. He toured the country. He put over a hundred songs on discs. Publishing companies paid him just to write new compositions. He sported the fanciest suits and drove the biggest cars. He and his wife even had diamonds set in their teeth.

But in New York Jelly found it hard to recruit sidemen. His music was too old fashioned, they said, and no one wanted to hear it. Besides Jelly was just too darn cheap. He might offer $30 total for a two-week stint. And even then you couldn't be sure if you'd actually get paid. So now here was Jelly Roll Morton pouring drinks in Washington, D. C.

But Jelly wasn't entirely forgotten. Sidney Martin, a longtime jazz fan and an avid record collector who had written for Down Beat Magazine knew of Jelly's predicament. He had been thinking of ways to help Jelly out. So he approached twenty-three year old Alan Lomax the newly appointed head of the American Folk Song Archives at the Library of Congress. Sidney told Alan that Jelly had a story to tell to the American people, and he introduced the two men at Jelly's bar.

But to Alan jazz was the enemy. From the 1920's its meteoric rise had been drawing attention from what he saw as America's true heritage. For years Alan and his dad, John Avery Lomax, had traveled the country collecting and recording folk songs. They found the music on front porches, on the farms and ranches, in lumber and mining camps, and even in the prisons. "John Henry", "Casey Jones", "The Old Chisholm Trail"; THAT was the music of the people. Jazz, that Tin Pan alley tripe that blared from the radios, was anything but.

But now hearing Jelly playing his songs, Alan thought his judgement had been too hasty. Maybe jazz was indeed part of America's folk heritage. True, it had evolved and changed but its roots reached back to the enslaved Americans who had brought their own music from Africa.

Jelly agreed to some recorded interviews. In the Library of Congress's Coolidge Auditorium, he sat at the piano, answered Alan's questions, talked about his life, and most of all, he played his music.

Although the first of these now legendary recordings wasn't released for 12 years and technical issues delayed issuing better quality sets for another seven, Alan published selections of the transcripts in his book Mr. Jelly Roll in 1950 to good reviews. But by then Jelly was dead and gone.

Jelly Roll Morton: Where and When?

Uncertainly is the rule regarding Ferdinand Joseph Mouton. No, that wasn't a misspelling. It was Mouton which is pronounced something like moo-TAH⁽ⁿ⁾. This was the surname of young Ferdinand's stepfather. Ferdinand assumed the Anglicized Morton so people wouldn't dub him with some name like "Frenchy".

But Ferdinand's birthname was neither Mouton or Morton. In fact it's not quite clear what it was. His mom was Louise Monette, and her first husband has been cited variously as Edward Lamott, Lemott, Lamothe, Lamonthe, or Lementhe. In any case, he left the family when Ferdinand was just a toddler. Louise then married William Mouton - we repeat, that's Mouton - shortly thereafter. As to when Ferdinand was born, the years that have been reported range from 1884 to 1890, the months listed variously as September or October, and the location cited being either Gulfport, Mississippi, or New Orleans.

Today the LaMothes and Monettes and Moutons are referred to as mixed race. But in their day they were Creoles. Specifically they were called Creoles of Color to distinguish them from the non-Cajun white residents of New Orleans who also spoke a dialect of French. As always when trying to create distinct phenotypes from what is a continuum of genomic variations, the lines between the groups are blurred and some members of one group are physically indistinguishable from their neighbors.¹

Ferdinand's own telling of his biography is a bit confusing, perhaps deliberately so. The major figures in his formative years were less his mother and his stepfather (whom he rarely mentions) than his uncle, and particularly his grandmother, Laura Péché, his great-grandmother, Felice Baudoin (called Mimi by her friends), and his godmother Eulalie Hécaud whose professional surname as a Vodou priestes was Echo.²

It would be wrong to characterize Ferdinand as a poor waif living on the streets. His grandfather owned a liquor business whose products were considered a necessity. His father was a bricklayer who later became a building contractor which was a good job in a city that was growing and large buildings were always going up.

Despite his family's affluence, Ferdinand went to work early, partly on recommendations of a physician who thought the skinny kid needed the exercise. His first job was working after school as a dishwasher at a restaurant where he would also get his dinner. He was paid $3 a month. But on payday, his boss told him that after deducting how much Ferdinand ate, there was nothing left to pay him. That was one of Ferdinand's shorter careers.

His next job was both better paid and was longer term. He found work at the Brooklyn Cooperage Company making barrels. This paid a munificent $3 a week.

But Ferdinand wanted to be a musician. He had exhibited early talent, and his first real instrument was the guitar. He said (perhaps with some hyperbole) that he quickly got to be the best guitar player around. But when his friend Bud Scott started showing greater proficiency, Ferdinand looked around for another instrument.

Many homes, even the poorer ones, had pianos in the parlor. In the pre-radio and pre-record days, these instruments provided most of the music for parties and to entertain visitors. The piano was also versatile. You could play anything from simple popular tunes to operatic scores.

But in the good families, that's what girls played, and Ferdinand was afraid his friends would call him a sissy. Nevertheless he began taking lessons. His progress was quick but he soon became bored when he found a lot of the teachers weren't really that good. In fact, one of them only knew one song even though she claimed she was playing different pieces. Ferdinand wasn't fooled and his best teacher was from the St. Joseph's School. But the classical music he learned wasn't to his tastes.

Instead, Ferdinand began listening to the music wafting from the doorways when he went walking around downtown. There he found a pianist named Frank Richards who showed him how to play ragtime, that bouncy syncopated music that had drifted in from places like Sedalia, Missouri. However his stepdad tanned his hide when he heard Ferdinand playing "that dirty stuff" and threatened to throw him out of the house if he heard it again.

This hinderance was short lived. Not long afterwards, Ferdinand's stepdad vanishes from history. As his mom had died sometime before, Ferdinand moved in with various relatives. His favorite uncle was a barber and Ferdinand became his all around factotum paid at a rate of - and Jelly said it was good pay - twenty-five cents a week.

But Ferdinand kept up his playing and in a short time he gained the reputation as one of New Orleans' better young pianists. He and his friends began forming impromptu groups and might even pick up a little remuneration even if it wasn't cash.

Part of their modus musicandi was to find a home where a funeral was being held. Then they would walk in with their instruments and offer to bring solace to the grieving by playing spirituals. So as not to create too much of a disturbance, they would move back to the kitchen where there would also be food and drinks laid out. Ferdinand said sometimes the deceased's widow would join them since "she would be glad he was gone."

The real opportunities for musicians, though, were downtown and in the section known as Storyville. Located between Basin and Canal Streets, it was where Ferdinand and his friends liked to walk around - so they said - just to see the crowds. Of course, they also looked at succinctly-clad ladies who stood by the tiny rooms called cribs calling to the passers-by. Storyville, by the way, was also referred to as the "tenderloin district" a name whose meaning, like Thomas Jefferson's inalienable rights, is self-evident.

But if you believe Ferdinand's older sister, Amède, he did a bit more than just walk around. Grandma Péché would gripe at him for staying out so late, and Amède said one of her grandmother's concerns was that Ferdinand's - ah - "close associations" with the girls might give him a, well, a "problem".

Regardless of how much Ferdinand and his friends interacted with the local entrepreneurs, the bunch was hanging around downtown when someone came up and told them that one of the clubs needed a piano player tout de suite. Ferdinand's friends suggested he apply for the job. So he went to see the quote - "landlady" - unquote - who asked the young man to show her what he could do.

At first Ferdinand didn't play too hot and almost got tossed out on his ear. But as he loosened up, everyone found they liked the young man's technique. The final decision was determined by the tips garnered from the customers. Ferdinand did well and even the girls chipped in. All in all his audition garnered him $20.

The landlady said she'd start him off at $1 a night. Although that didn't seem like much, the landlady pointed out that the $1 was a guaranteed base pay in case the night was slow. The real money came from the tips and she pointed out that he had picked up $20 just from his audition. So Ferdinand started his job as "professor" of piano.

Of course, the family didn't know about his new career path. Ferdinand told his grandmother he was working the night shift making barrels.

However, Ferdinand's change in fortune soon became evident. He started decking himself out in the fanciest duds with the best shoes - not what barrel makers typically wore. His grandmother noticed his new appearance and asked him flat out where he was getting his money. Ferdinand decided to 'fess up, and more in sorrow than in anger, his grandmother said a musician was nothing but a bum and a "scalwag". If he stayed around, he'd be a bad influence on his sisters. So he had better move out.

Ferdinand Mouton, now Jelly Roll Morton, didn't just move out. He left New Orleans altogether and went to Biloxi, about 80 miles away and just across the border of Mississippi. The money for the professors wasn't as good there as it was in New Orleans and he soon fell sick with typhoid. When he recovered he got a job in another establishment that was owned by and catered only to whites. Soon rumors began circulating that he was being too friendly with the landlady. Although this wasn't true, he quickly left and returned to New Orleans.

Again it's worth pausing and asking just how old Ferdinand was during the time frame of 1900 to 1905. Jelly Roll himself said that in 1902 he was "about" seventeen, which would put the birth year at 1885. But those who question Jelly Roll's stories point out that his claim he invented jazz in 1902 required him to backdate his birthday.

One of the few pieces of documentary evidence we have about Jelly's early years is a baptismal record which records the christening of one Ferdinand Joseph "Lemott" who was born on October 20, 1890. You'd think that despite the misspelling this would clinch the matter but nothing about Jelly Roll is simple.

Despite the baptismal certificate, the earlier birthdate seems to have good corroboration. For one thing his sister agreed Jelly was born in 1885. Then the well-known jazz trumpet pioneer, William "Bunk" Johnson, remembered Jelly playing piano in Gulfport, Mississippi, as early as 1902. Another reliable informant said that when Jelly returned to New Orleans after his stint in Biloxi, he was playing at high class clubs by 1904. So that Jelly started his professional career around 1902 seems hard to dismiss. A twelve year old playing in a sporting house and inventing a new form of music seems, as Eliza Doolittle said, not bloody likely.

But what about the baptismal record? How can that be reconciled with a birth in 1885? Well, the simplest answer is the baptism really was for someone named Ferdinand Joseph Lemott and not Ferdinand Joseph Lamothe, Lamonthe, or Lementhe. In other words, it may not be for our Jelly Roll at all.

Whatever Jelly Roll's age, after he returned to New Orleans he began playing piano at The Frenchman's which was a swank establishment at the corner of Villere and Bienville (now a residential area). There the best pianists would gather and swap tunes. The clientele was completely integrated and it was also well-to-do. Some customers were millionaires and in 1904 a million dollars was a lot of money.

But Jelly had not been well. In fact, in Biloxi he got very sick and had trouble controlling his hands. Back in New Orleans his problems were noticed by Papa Sona, a local but unorthodox "doctor" (note quotes) who came up and commented on Jelly's condition. Jelly joked that someone had put a hex on him.

Papa Sona said in that case he could fix him right up. But Jelly knew the services - which included Papa dancing bare foot on a blanket and feeding his patients jambalaya and poppy seeds - came high. But Papa said don't worry. With his connections he'd get Jelly a job playing piano for Miss Hilma Burt who owned the highest class "mansion" - there are a lot of euphemisms in the business - in Storyville. He'd easily make enough to square the bill.

And at Miss Burt's - ah - "mansion" - Jelly made plenty of money, and said he was pulling in $80 to $100 a night. But he saw that some of the customers were making even more cash while they waited. Jelly decided he might want a piece of that action and as he put it:

I wanted to be the champion pool player in the world, so I left New Orleans, where there were too many sharks, to go to some of these little places where I could practice on the suckers. My system was to use the piano as a decoy. I'd get a job at one of these little honky-tonks along the Gulf Coast, playing piano, then some of the local boys who called themselves good would ask me to play a game of pool. I'd play dumb, until the bets rolled up high, then I'd clean them out.

In his later memories and interviews, Jelly Roll spoke about his pool playing taking in as much if not more money than his piano. You get the feeling that he saw himself as a pool player who played piano rather than the other way around. This characterization agrees with the memories of one of Jelly's acquaintances who said when he knew him, Jelly was operating mostly as a gambler.

But although lucrative, Jelly's new occupation was distinctly more hazardous than tickling the ivories. He had been sitting at the piano when a large and burly man stepped up and asked about a game. He told Jelly he could beat him easy. Sure, said Jelly Roll, and they'd play for $2. Then after Jelly won, the guy admitted that Jelly was better. But rather than paying off, he asked Jelly if he'd make the $2 a "loan". Jelly Roll said fine, but warned him not to try to take anything from him again.

Shortly after this rather odd game, one of the New Orleans' biggest gamblers, Robert Rowe, took Jelly Roll aside and advised him not to play the man again. Why not? asked Jelly Roll. He could beat him easily. Well, yes, said Bob, but the man he had been playing was Aaron Harris, one of most dangerous men in town and had even killed his own brother. Jelly immediately agreed not to play Aaron again and realized that being known as the man who bested the most ruthless killer in New Orleans wasn't a healthy reputation. He decided that departure was the better part of valor.

Jelly "Road" Morton

From 1905 to 1910, Jelly's itinerary is complex and convoluted to say the least. He is reported to have traveled as far north as Alaska and as far south as Tijuana. He even ventured to New York City for a time. He performed both as a solo artist and as a member of traveling entertainment troupes.

We know that in 1908 Jelly was back in Biloxi. There he met a young vivacious woman named Bessie Johnson. She came from a musical family and her brother Bill became one of the better known bass players and lived to the ripe old age of a hundred. Her other brother Ollie (called Dink) achieved fame as a piano player. Bessie and Jelly became a pair and were known as Mr. and Mrs. Morton.

But then so were Jelly and a lady named Rosa Brown. She and Jelly became entwined around 1912 and toured as "Morton and Morton" for some years. Jelly's tendency to see the indissoluble state of matrimony as somewhat fluid later led to some problems for the ladies.

But whoever Jelly kept company with between 1908 and 1914, the year 1915 found Jelly in Chicago and apparently single. Chicago was a good hub for traveling around the country, and the city also offered opportunities not always available elsewhere. There were recording studios, yes, but this new technology was yet to make it big. Better yet were the music publishing houses whose piano sheet music was selling like hotcakes. And Jelly had been writing his songs down.

Jelly wanted to turn his music into moolah. So he took his tune "The Original Jelly Roll Blues" to publisher William Rossiter who issued a piano version. Despite the early date and the song being sold as a "foxtrot", the music is definitely jazz and not ragtime. Instead there's a lot of "stride" piano to the sound similar to what would be the hallmark of the younger players like Fats Waller. "Jelly Roll Blues" as the tune is better known today is often credited as the first published jazz composition.

Jelly never stayed in any city too long. He had been hustling pool and playing piano in Chicago when one of the local big shots came up. You know, The Local Big Shot said, there was a job for him at the Cadillac Cafe in Los Angeles if he wanted it. That was one of the swankiest places in the country and a lot of movie stars hung out there. Think of the money he'd pick up. Jelly had been wanting to leave Chicago anyway and so he headed west.

Of course Jelly didn't just play at the Cadillac. He said other restaurant and club owners knew his reputation and that he'd bring in some many customers that they would hire him whenever he asked. True, Jelly might have been stretching the blanket a bit. But certainly Jelly was doing well. He began wearing diamonds on his tie and on his cuffs and collars. He even had a diamond set in his front gold incisor.

Jelly liked the West and he decided to take a side trip on the highway east out of LA. What made Nevada unique is it was in the only state that permitted casino gambling. And there Jelly bumped into Bessie Johnson, his old flame from Biloxi. Bessie was now running a saloon and calling herself Anita Gonzalez. As before they became something of a pair but Jelly didn't see much future in staying in the small dusty town named Las Vegas.

But if not all roads led to Rome, then at least a lot of them led to Chicago. In 1923 we find Jelly back in the Windy City. He quickly saw that new technology had been changing the recording industry. The wax cylinders that wore out after a few playings had been replaced by more durable plastics. Cylinders, the pride of Thomas Edison, were now being edged out by the 10" flat discs of Emile Berliner. Some companies were even putting a song on each side!

Jelly's songs "Wolverine Blues" and "King Porter Stomp" had already been recorded by Don Bestor and the Benson Orchestra. The Norfolk Jazz Quartet had released "Jelly Roll Blues". Well, Jelly reasoned, if people were buying Jelly Roll Morton songs played by someone else, they'd surely buy Jelly Roll Morton songs played by Jelly Roll Morton.

He quickly assembled a jazz band he commonsensically called "Jelly Roll Morton's Jazz Band". He approached the executives at Okeh, a record company that specialized in country and blues - then called "hillbilly" - as well as "race" records. They agreed to let Jelly cut some sides. In 1923, they released "Some Day, Sweetheart", and "London Blues".

Okeh was not a bad company but Jelly wanted something better. So he went to Victor, one of the biggest record companies in the country and had them agree to a contract for Jelly Roll Morton and His Red Hot Peppers. Even though the Red Hot Peppers didn't really exist, Jelly found some of the best musicians in Chicago and made the band a reality. These included trombonist Kid Ory, clarinetist Johnny Dodds, and Johnny's brother, Warren (called Baby) on drums.

From 1925 to 1927, Jelly Roll and His Red Hot Peppers recorded seventeen sides for Victor. They were hits but Jelly didn't realize the cornucopia he expected. The problem, it seems, was with the way the agreement with Victor had been drawn up. To draft the contract Jelly had gone to a music store owner named Walter Melrose who listened to Jelly and immediately decided if he could run a music store, he could also be a publisher and talent agent.

As to why Jelly had to have a middle man was a sad commentary on the times. Record companies almost never dealt directly with black musicians. Instead, they worked through white agents who naturally would make sure that the agreements were drawn up in their interest. "Their interests" meant the agents, not the musicians.

In these deals the contract would be drawn up in the agent's name. He would get the royalties and how the money reached the musicians had to be part of a separate agreement. The common practice was the agents would advance the musicians a lump sum and the "debt" would be paid back out of the royalties.

Now scrupulous and honest agents would continue to pay the musicians as new royalties accrued. The agent's percentage was supposed to be about 10%. But those of less probity would make the first payment and then claim that the records weren't selling. So, they smiled, there was no money left for the performers.

But Jelly knew how well his records were selling and not getting royalties galled him. For his part Walter began to grump that Jelly was being "difficult" and decided not to pursue any further business deals with him. "Further deals" meant paying him royalties. Besides Walter didn't need Jelly anymore. He was soon to craft similar arrangements with other black musicians, and the royalties from these inequitable contracts supported Walter for the rest of his life and he died a wealthy if not particularly famous man.

Despite having one of the most lopsided recording contracts in history, Jelly still found some pleasantness in Chicago. It was during this interlude that he met a young dancer named Mabel Bertrand. They became a pair and Mabel said she and Jelly were married in 1928 in Gary, Indiana. Although Jelly's travels often kept them apart, they remained together, mostly.

As the Roaring Twenties faded and moved toward the Thirsty Thirties, Chicago was becoming decidedly less friendly to musicians, particularly to black jazz musicians. Racial strife had been growing since the war and in 1919 the city had erupted in race riots that were quelled only by the governor calling out the National Guard. Thirty-eight people had been killed, most of them black, and although things had quieted down, tensions remained as the African American population increased and began drifting into what were traditionally white neighborhoods.

Musicians found that the clubs that would hire them were now getting raided and closed down. Jelly was soon limited to playing in cheap bars and he even began to play for high school dances.

It seemed a good time to move on and in 1927, Jelly was approached by the Music Corporation of America - the biggest impresario of live entertainment. They offered Jelly a deal to go on tour. MCA had never booked a black bandleader before and this seemed to be a real windfall. Jelly accepted the offer but when the tour ended, Jelly ended up back in Chicago which wasn't getting any friendlier. So Jelly decided to follow the other musicians like Louis Armstrong and Sidney Bechet and "git". As to where to "git" there was only one place and that was New York City.

Who's Jelly Roll Morton?

New York, though, was a buyer's market for musicians and the best clubs already had their house bands. Duke Ellington was playing on national radio from the Cotton Club swapping with Cab Calloway who was also drawing capacity crowds. Benny Goodman was also in New York and had hired a young trombonist named Glenn Miller who later split off and formed his own band. The big name venues, it seems, were fully subscribed.

Pounding the pavement and finding no jobs was a bitter pill to swallow. After some time Jelly managed to get work at Harlem's Roseland Ballroom, which was a rather grandiose name for a room up a rickety flight of stairs where men would pay a dime to dance with the girls.

Jelly wasn't going to give up. His records for Victor had sold well and he now went to the company's New York studio where the executives agreed to some new releases. Unfortunately, his new band was no Red Hot Peppers and the records mostly gathered dust on the warehouse shelves.

Popular tastes had changed. People wanted the new Swing Music with big bands and big sounds. A seven-piece ensemble playing "hot" jazz sounded old fashioned and was too small for the massive New York ballrooms. You needed a twenty piece orchestra to produce the mellow but full sound that the dancers wanted.

Finding no bookings in New York, Jelly took his band on the road. They stuck to the East and ranged from Pennsylvania and Ohio. The pay wasn't very good and one band member remembered once they weren't able to buy food for two days.

Then the worst thing possible happened. Jelly and his band were playing for a college dance in Connecticut. One of the kids had seen the poster advertising the band and now he walked up to the platform.

"Who's Jelly Roll Morton?" he asked.

Or maybe that wasn't the worst. Radio had become big business now and Jelly wrote to Station WINS asking for a spot in their programs. When the station manager wrote back saying their schedule didn't have room for another band, the letter began, "Dear Mr. Martin..."

Or maybe what really was the worst was that Jelly kept hearing his songs on the radio. But they were being played by others, and he wasn't getting a dime.

Finally in 1935, Jelly decided to call New York quits - and along with it the music business. He went to Washington hoping that he might be able to promote boxing matches.

It quickly became evident that a piano player was going to have trouble recruiting quality athletes. About the only boxers Jelly could find were palookas who thought training for a match was sitting around getting stewed. Jelly soon abandoned this particular business plan.

With no other prospects, Jelly went to Cordelia Lyle, the owner of the Jungle Inn. The Jungle Inn, which soon changed its name to the Blue Moon Cafe and then to the Music Box, was a walk-up bar in a still extant building at 1211 U Street. Cordelia agreed to supply the liquid libations while Jelly would tend the bar and provide music. So for the next three years Jelly kept playing piano and serving drinks to the trickle of customers who could manage the climb.

But Jelly kept hoping and every now and then something would turn up that looked like it might turn things around. He'd land a spot playing on the radio - once. Or a writer of a local paper might write a story of how Jelly Roll was in town.

Finally in early 1938, one of the stories actually brought some fruit. An employee of the federal government named Ron Carew had lived in New Orleans as a young man. In 1904 he took a job as a bookkeeper and in his off hours he would go downtown to see the sights.

Once while walking along Basin Street, he heard some hot piano music coming from a doorway. He didn't go in but asked someone who was playing. Why, that was Jelly Roll Morton, he was told, one of the best players around. Impressed by the music, Ron soon became a fan and even an expert on jazz pianists. Though he never met Jelly, he befriended Tony Jackson, the one pianist that Jelly said was his better.

Now Ron read one of the stories in the paper. Ha? Jelly Roll Morton? Here in Washington? Ron immediately went to the Jungle Inn and introduced himself. At first Jelly wasn't quite sure what to make of this customer who wanted to talk about jazz rather than drink.

But when Ron mentioned he had heard Jelly in New Orleans and that he knew their mutual friend Tony Jackson, Jelly took a liking to the middle aged bookish civil servant. Ron's interest certainly provided a boost to Jelly's morale. But soon Ron was able to help Jelly even more.

Earlier that year, Ron had heard a broadcast of "Ripley's Believe It Or Not" whose house band was led by another of the Swing whippersnappers named Ozzie Nelson. During the listing of the latest oddities and curiosities, the announcer stated how, believe it or not, William Christopher Handy was the "originator of jazz".

Ron knew that this wasn't correct. So he sat down at his typewriter and in Jelly's name began to write:

Dear Mr. Ripley:

In your broadcast of March 26, 1938, you introduced W. C. Handy as the originator of jazz, stomps, and blues. By this announcement you have done me a great injustice, and you have also misled many of your fans.

It is evidently known, beyond contradiction, that New Orleans is the cradle of jazz, and I, myself, happened to be creator in the year 1902.

When he completed the 1400 word letter he took it to Jelly who signed it:

Ron sent the letter not just to Robert Ripley but also to Down Beat Magazine. This was too good for the editors to pass up and so on the cover of the August 1938 issue blared out the following headline:

W. C. HANDY A LIAR!
SAYS JELLY ROLL MORTON

Naturally W. C., now the Grand Old Man of Jazz, was miffed. He ripped off his own letter back to Down Beat. For one thing, he never made any claim that he had invented jazz. Besides, he said, he didn't play jazz at all. He played the blues and he never claimed he invented that music either.

As far as Jelly's claims, W. C.'s only explanation was that Jelly was old and possibly demented and had nothing to do except go around claiming other people had swiped his music.

But at least the letter and the controversy put Jelly back in the news. It would be nice to say that he arose like a phoenix and assumed his place as one of the Titans of Jazz and regained the respect and admiration of the public and musicians alike.

No such luck. Jelly's three years in Washington remained a combination of hope followed by frustration and disappointment. Not that Jelly didn't try to get his due. He estimated the musicians and publishers owed him $3 million. Jelly wrote to everyone he could think of including the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP) and Charles Evans Hughes, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. Chief Justice Hughes actually responded but said he could only handle cases that came to the court through the proper channels. ASCAP said they would put him on their list of composers. Finally Jelly got $185.

Jelly just couldn't get the breaks. He and Ron set up a music publishing company where he wrote some songs and Ron penned the lyrics. They even managed to arrange a deal with a New York publishing firm to issue the sheets. But nothing sold. He had also understood that Alan Lomax had agreed to pay a fee for the interviews earlier that year. But Jelly never saw a cent.

Mable had remained in New York and she knew how hard Jelly's life had become. She was so worried about Jelly's health that she closed up the apartment and moved down to Washington. She volunteered to pitch in at the Music Box.

Late in 1938 - the exact date is obscure - one of the customers got obnoxious. He wouldn't quiet down, so Jelly, who also assumed duty as the bouncer, walked over and gave the loudmouth a smack. Thinking the matter was closed, Jelly sat back down at the piano.

Now one rule of a bouncer is never turn your back on a troublemaker. And just as Jelly sat down, the man jumped up, pulled a knife, and sank the blade between Jelly's ribs. Jelly jumped up and not realizing how badly he had been hurt, turned around and knocked the man to the floor. By the time Mabel and Cordelia came out of the kitchen, Jelly was pounding the man. He grabbed an iron pipe and was about to brain the EssOhBee when Mabel and Cordelia pulled Jelly back. The assailant beat it and was never seen again.

The cops came and took Jelly to the hospital. He was laid up for some time, and before he returned to work, Cordelia told him that the trickle of customers had dropped to near nothing. There was no point to do anything but to close up.

Back in New York, Jelly kept trying to form a new band that would set things right. Victor agreed to make some records and Jelly was able to get some of the better musicians including Sydney Bechet to show up for the sessions. Things were looking better and in September 1939 Jelly appeared on a nationally broadcast radio program We the People.

But nothing turned into any substantial cash. And Jelly's wounds were still giving him trouble but he couldn't afford a doctor. It wasn't until he was having an apparent heart attack that Mabel took him to the hospital. The treatment was painful and included a spinal puncture. Back home he could barely climb the stairs and collapsed as soon as he got to the apartment. Finally he was diagnosed with atherosclerosis and congestive heart failure.

As 1940 came to an end, Jelly finally realized nothing would happen in New York. Then he learned that his godmother Eulalie Hécaud had died in California and her husband was old and in need. He told Mabel he was heading to Los Angeles to put Eulalie's estate in order. He managed to scrape together $40 and in mid-October he headed south to Pennsylvania and then turned west on the Lincoln Highway.

Ah, Jelly Roll Morton!

The trip took a month. The Lincoln Highway - US 30 - runs from Pennsylvania to Astoria, Oregon, via towns like Canton, Ohio, Joliet Illinois, Ames, Iowa, and Pocatello, Idaho. To get to Los Angeles, you'll turn off at Portland and head south. Today this would be called the scenic route.

It was up in Portland that Jelly found Anita Gonzalez (i. e., Bessie Johnson). She had moved up from Las Vegas and had married. The marriage though seems to have been fairly flexible and like Jelly's matrimonial ties had little documentation. So when Jelly said he was determined to get his $3 million in royalties, Anita decided to throw in her lot with a potentially triple millionaire. Apparently Jelly voiced no objections.

When they rolled into Los Angeles, Jelly found that there was no need for him to handle Eulalie's estate. That's because there wasn't any estate left. As soon as she died, thieves had come in and cleaned out the house, leaving Jelly's 80 year old godfather with literally nothing but the clothes he wore. As for Jelly himself, he, too, was broke, but he was determined to regain the fame and hopefully the fortune.

And for once he was finding real opportunities that weren't immediately leading to dead ends. A lot of his old friends who were in LA and were still playing professionally. He even found veterans of his Red Hot Peppers band like Kid Ory. They were happy to help Jelly out and he managed to make arrangements to rehearse at a local Elks lodge.

Among the musicians was Benjamin "Reb" Spikes, a multi-instrumentalist (although he preferred saxophone). Reb was willing to go halves with him in a publishing venture. Happily they found they no longer needed ASCAP, as there was a new composers cooperative, Broadcast Music, Incorporated (BMI). BMI agreed to accept the Spikes/Morton output and to collect and pay them fair royalties. Jelly had also made the rounds of the movie studios and some were interested. Real job offers finally began coming in.

Unfortunately, Jelly's prospects may have improved but his health had not. He found it harder and harder to breathe, and a Hollywood job offer wasn't much good if he was too weak to sit at the piano.

By June Jelly was virtually immobilized and clearly needed immediate medical assistance. He managed to get admitted to the Los Angeles Sanitarium where he was told he needed at least a month of complete rest. But with no money he couldn't remain and had to move to the county hospital. He was admitted on June 29 and had to spend his first few days in a broom closet until space opened up in the ward.

Knowing there wasn't much hope, Jelly drew up his last will and testament. Since one part bequeathed Jelly's sister $1 and another part stated:

"I hereby devise and bequeath all the rest and residue of my estate, whether real or personal property or mixed, to my beloved Anita Gonzales who has been my beloved comforter, companion, and help-meet for many years, and whose tender care I sincerely appreciate. This shall include all ASCAP royalties ... and all property of every kind personal and otherwise wherever located."

... it's believed that much of the actual text was drafted by Anita. And no, Mabel wasn't mentioned at all.

Jelly only lived until July 10 and was given a Catholic burial in Calvary Cemetery six days later. A hundred mourners showed up - maybe not the biggest crowd but respectable enough. Old friends like Kid Ory, Mutt Carey, and Ed Garland were the pall bearers.

But except for an article in Down Beat - which pointed out that Duke Ellington was in town but neither attended the funeral nor sent condolences - there wasn't much news about Jelly's passing. For years there wasn't even a headstone. Maybe Jelly was going to be forgotten after all.

Then nine years later, Alan Lomax put together a partial transcript of the interviews and supplemented it with additional third person sections to produce Mister Jelly Roll: The Fortunes of Jelly Roll Morton, New Orleans Creole and "Inventor of Jazz".

Alan's book gave Jelly and his music a shot in the arm. The book received good reviews including a write up in The Crisis, the Civil Rights magazine founded by W. E. B. Dubois. Soon other articles began appearing in magazines like Jet and even in LIFE where Jelly was described as "a nice guy but full of notoriety".

Jelly Roll Morton: Inventor of Jazz

• 
  It takes a thousand men to invent a telegraph or a steam engine or a phonograph or a photograph or a telephone or any other important thing - and the last man gets the credit and we forget the others.
• Mark Twain to Helen Keller, March 17, 1903.

All right. Did Jelly Roll Morton really invent jazz?

People used to laugh this question off just like the guys hanging around the Rumble Inn. No single person invented jazz!

But then no single inventor invented anything. And that means, the telegraph, the light bulb, the radio, motion pictures, or (gag) the television.

For instance, let's take a sampling of some of Thomas Edison's most important patents. And among these inventions you'll find titles like:

Patents by Big Tom

Patent 90,646:	Improvement in Electrographic Vote-Recorder
Patent 91,527:	Improvement in Printing-Telegraphs
Patent 111,112:	Improvement in Governors for Electro-Motors
Patent 114,656:	Improvement in Telegraphic Transmitting Instruments
Patent 128,608:	Improvement in Printing-Telegraph Instruments
Patent 130,795:	Improvement in Electro-Magnets
Patent 131,334:	Improvement in Rheotomes or Circuit-Directors
Patent 132,455:	Improvement in Paper for Chemical Telegraphs
Patent 133,841:	Improvement in Type-Writing Machines
Patent 141,777:	Improvement in Relay-Magnets
Patent 142,999:	Improvement in Galvanic Batteries
Patent 146,812:	Improvement in Telegraph-Signal Boxes
Patent 147,917:	Improvement in Duplex Telegraphs
Patent 154,788:	Improvement in District Telegraph Signal-Boxes
Patent 169,972:	Improvement in Electric-Signaling Instruments
Patent 200,521:	Improvement in Phonograph or Speaking Machines
Patent 201,760:	Improvement in Speaking-Machines
Patent 203,017:	Improvement in Telephone Call-Signals
Patent 203,329:	Improvement in Perforating-Pens
Patent 205,370:	Improvement in Pneumatic Stencil-Pens
Patent 210,767:	Improvement in Vocal Engines
Patent 214,637:	Improvement in Thermal Regulators for Electric Lights
Patent 217,781:	Improvement in Sextuplex Telegraphs
Patent 218,166:	Improvement in Magneto-Electric Machines
Patent 218,866:	Improvement in Electric Lighting Apparatus
Patent 222,390:	Improvement in Carbon-Telephones

The key word here is:

IMPROVEMENT

So if Tom Edison could be one of the greatest inventors ever by making "improvements", we have to ask. Did Jelly Roll improve jazz?

Few would deny that. So then can't we say just that:

IF THOMAS EDISON INVENTED THE LIGHTBULB,
THEN JELLY ROLL MORTON INVENTED JAZZ!

References

Jelly's Blues: The Life, Music, and Redemption of Jelly Roll Morton, Howard Reich and William Gaines, Da Capo Press, 2003.

Mister Jelly Roll: The Fortunes of Jelly Roll Morton, New Orleans Creole and "Inventor of Jazz", Alan Lomax, Grove Press, 1950.

Jelly Roll Morton, Martin Williams, A.S. Barnes and Company, 1963.

88: The Giants of Jazz Piano, Robert Doerschuk.

"Morton, Jelly Roll", The Biographical Encyclopedia of Jazz, Leonard Feather and Ira Gitler, Oxford University Press, 1999.

Jelly Roll Morton: 'I Created Jazz In 1902, Not W.C. Handy', Down Beat.

"Jazz Musician Jelly Roll Morton 1941 Calvary Cemetery", Los Angeles Morgue Files, July 10, 2015.

"'I Just Couldn’t Let You Get Away With That': The Saga of Mister Jelly Lord [sic]", Ricky Riccardi, Louis Armstrong House Museum Virtual Exhibits, April 24, 2020.

"Morton, Jelly Roll", Encyclopedia.com.

"'King Porter Stomp' and the Jazz Tradition", Jeffrey Magee, Columbia Academic Commons, Columbia University Libraries, 2002.

"Doctor Jazz: Jelly Roll Morton", John Szwed, Jazz Studies Online.

"Library of Congress Recordings 'The Saga of Mr. Jelly Lord'", Doctor Jazz.

"Review: Jelly Roll Morton: A Review Article", Alan Merriam, Midwest Folklore, Vol. 8, No. 4 (Winter, 1958), pp. 217-221.

"The Harlem Renaissance: Guide to Historic Jazz Clubs", Lew Shaw, Syncopated Times, November 28, 2018.

"Books of the Day: Mr. Jelly Roll by Alan Lomax", The Daily [Dayton, Ohio] Express, March 21, 1951.

"When Jazz Moved to Chicago", Peter Gerler, Humanities, Spring 2019, Volume 40, Number 2 , Reprinted: National Endowment for the Humanities

"Ferd 'Jelly Roll' Morton", Doctor Jazz. Moravia Sound Studio, 1999-2020.

"Book Reviews", The Crisis, March, 1951, p. 212.

"America's Own Music In Its Lusty Youth - JAZZ", LIFE Magazine, December 22, 1958, p. 64 - 73.

Jelly Roll Morton Collection, Guides to Special Collections in the Music Division of the Library of Congress, 1992.

"Jelly Roll Morton", Discography of American Historical Recordings, University of California - Santa Barbara.

"Patents of Thomas Edison", Edison Innovation Foundation.