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Now streaming: ARTIE SHAW: TIME IS ALL YOU'VE GOT (1985)
Before the war, it was tough to find a frame of footage where Shaw wasn't smiling; postwar was another story
Artie Shaw, then and now.
ARTIE SHAW: TIME IS ALL YOU’VE GOT (1985) Written, Produced, Edited, Directed and Narrated by Brigitte Berman / Music: Artie Shaw / Cinematography: James Aquila & Mark Irwin (1.33:1) / Featuring: Artie Shaw, Mel Torme, Buddy Rich, Evelyn Keyes, Helen Forrest, John Wexley, and Billie Holiday / Distributor: Cinephile (Film Movement Classics) / Not Rated / 115 mins.
Has it really been almost 40 years since Cinemax introduced me to Artie Shaw: Time Is All You've Got? Over those four decades, whenever the subject has turned to top-shelf music documentaries, I have sung its praises — only to find that no one has even heard of it, let alone seen it. So much for the cultural value of taking home an Oscar for Best Documentary. (For once, the Academy got it right.) Now and again, I have found myself myself futilely checking Amazon for a Blu-ray. Sometimes, you just have to let the object of your search present itself: in this case, an email showed up, asking if I’d like a review screener of a new 4K restoration. Not only is the film even better than memory serves, the audio has never sounded cleaner and the image has never looked crisper.
When the documentary was released, I was old enough to have heard Shaw’s music and to recognize his face on album covers, but I knew next to nothing about the man himself. In the late '60s and early '70s, the generally reclusive Shaw had been a frequent guest on Johnny, Merv, and Mike, but he was 75 when Canadian filmmaker Brigitte Berman interviewed him for the movie. It had been almost 20 years since the man put down his clarinet for good.
When he started out, Arthur Jacob Arshawsky's knowledge of music was slight at best. His vision of the American dream involved “getting out of where I was living and up on the stage with pretty girls and bright lights.” At age seven, he and his family moved to New Haven, Connecticut, a lily white community where a name like Arshawsky didn’t exactly roll off the tongue. A shy and withdrawn student, little Arthur was ostracized and frequently made the butt of ethnic jokes. Somewhere along the way, he taught himself to play the clarinet.
Shaw first broke into the business as a commercial songwriter, but was unable to figure out why everyone else was making money at it except him. The manager of the Hotel Lexington brought him up to speed: “If you want to take your pants down and shit on the bandstand, and people will pay for it, then I'll pay you to shit on the bandstand.” To a hip guy like Shaw, the manager's meaning couldn’t have been clearer: nothing succeeds like excess. It was in this moment of “shattering disillusionment” that Shaw realized he wasn’t in the music business, he was in show business — and riding that fine line between the two almost killed him.
Shaw was a musical genius, easily the most cerebral of his band-leading counterparts during the swing era. But "cerebral" has seldom been confused with "popular." The mere mention of Count Basie’s "One O'Clock Jump" was enough to set jitterbugging feet ablaze. Tommy Dorsey’s signature "I'm Getting Sentimental Over You" stirred memories for both G.I.s and their loved ones back home. Small surprise that it took a while for American radio listeners to come around to Shaw’s choice, the decidedly downcast "Nightmare." Shaw was never fully in sync with his fans. It wasn’t until 1939 that he even played on the West Coast. When he referred to jitterbugs as a “pack of morons,” it made headlines. Known to tell autograph hunters to “fuck off, ” Shaw would walk out mid-show if he felt the audience wasn’t interested in the direction his music was taking.
And oh, did it take directions. Shaw saw his individual bands as disposable commodities in service to whatever burst of invention was currently evolving inside his bandleader mind. He would frequently take a break from performing, marinate in his creative juices, and come back with an all new band — with all new band members. Then, after recording a few sides, he’d sell a stack of records, disband the group, and move on.
Shaw was almost as famous for tooting a clarinet as he was for championing civil rights. Interviews with former bandmates not only attest to his musical genius, they reveal a racial sensitivity uncommon during a time of great unrest. “Colored” women weren’t allowed to perform onstage with whites, but that didn’t stop Shaw from inviting Billie Holiday to tour with his band. It was the first time a black woman held a full-time job with a white band. Southern rednecks would allow Hot Lips Page to appear on the bandstand, but only if he stood 15 feet from the nearest white band member. Shaw refused to comply. As one former band mate remembered, “the boss is color blind.”
Some battles took more of a toll than others. Before the war, it was tough to find a frame of footage where Shaw wasn't smiling; postwar snaps make it practically impossible to find one where he is. During the film, his upper teeth never see daylight. (Maybe once.) Even when he's conveying an amusing story, the voice may hasten a bit, but his eyelids and mouth are a study in parallel lines. The flatlined grin was a result of time spent in the Navy.
The day after Pearl Harbor, Shaw broke up the band and enlisted. But he found it difficult to adjust to the close confines and rigid rules that were part and parcel of signing on for a tour of duty. Unlike show business, Shaw couldn't simply take a break from the military. After 18 months of performing, sometimes four shows a day, Shaw had a nervous breakdown. The man who had played for millions was suddenly stuck in a quonset hut all by himself. They shipped Shaw to a veteran’s hospital in San Francisco, where he spent 3 months recuperating from a severe case of depression. Alone, bombarded by feelings of apathy, he entered psychoanalysis. (A further medical mishap: unbeknownst to Shaw, he had a rare form of leukemia that once caused him to pass out on stage.)
There were certain memories from the Cinemax viewing that four decades could not diminish. The film does its best to steer clear of gossip, but a singular spicy tidbit stuck with me: a friend recalling the schmuck who cornered Shaw in a men’s room looking “to shake the hand that felt the tit of Lana Turner.”
Moving from the salacious to the sublime: seated in a wingback chair, Shaw conducts along with one of his recordings, "The Blues," made on Christmas night in 1938 — his first time performing at Carnegie Hall. (Paul Whiteman and his All-American Band headlined, with Shaw at the bottom of a bill that included Louis Armstrong and Raymond Scott.) The performance plays like Shaw's swing equivalent of air guitar. His bobbing head starts gently keeping time. Soon, one finger begins tapping on the knee, followed by a snap or two, before all five fingers join in. Damn if he didn’t remember every note on the chart, never once missing a beat.
Epilogue: The film performed better than anyone expected. A year after Berman took home her Oscar, Shaw sued, arguing that the picture took in more money than originally anticipated. He wanted his share. The lawsuit was thrown out later that year. *****
Now streaming on a leading digital outlet near you.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Now streaming: ARTIE SHAW: TIME IS ALL YOU'VE GOT (1985)
Before the war, it was tough to find a frame of footage where Shaw wasn't smiling; postwar was another story
Now streaming: ARTIE SHAW: TIME IS ALL YOU'VE GOT (1985)
Before the war, it was tough to find a frame of footage where Shaw wasn't smiling; postwar was another story
Artie Shaw, then and now.
ARTIE SHAW: TIME IS ALL YOU’VE GOT (1985) Written, Produced, Edited, Directed and Narrated by Brigitte Berman / Music: Artie Shaw / Cinematography: James Aquila & Mark Irwin (1.33:1) / Featuring: Artie Shaw, Mel Torme, Buddy Rich, Evelyn Keyes, Helen Forrest, John Wexley, and Billie Holiday / Distributor: Cinephile (Film Movement Classics) / Not Rated / 115 mins.
Has it really been almost 40 years since Cinemax introduced me to Artie Shaw: Time Is All You've Got? Over those four decades, whenever the subject has turned to top-shelf music documentaries, I have sung its praises — only to find that no one has even heard of it, let alone seen it. So much for the cultural value of taking home an Oscar for Best Documentary. (For once, the Academy got it right.) Now and again, I have found myself myself futilely checking Amazon for a Blu-ray. Sometimes, you just have to let the object of your search present itself: in this case, an email showed up, asking if I’d like a review screener of a new 4K restoration. Not only is the film even better than memory serves, the audio has never sounded cleaner and the image has never looked crisper.
When the documentary was released, I was old enough to have heard Shaw’s music and to recognize his face on album covers, but I knew next to nothing about the man himself. In the late '60s and early '70s, the generally reclusive Shaw had been a frequent guest on Johnny, Merv, and Mike, but he was 75 when Canadian filmmaker Brigitte Berman interviewed him for the movie. It had been almost 20 years since the man put down his clarinet for good.
When he started out, Arthur Jacob Arshawsky's knowledge of music was slight at best. His vision of the American dream involved “getting out of where I was living and up on the stage with pretty girls and bright lights.” At age seven, he and his family moved to New Haven, Connecticut, a lily white community where a name like Arshawsky didn’t exactly roll off the tongue. A shy and withdrawn student, little Arthur was ostracized and frequently made the butt of ethnic jokes. Somewhere along the way, he taught himself to play the clarinet.
Shaw first broke into the business as a commercial songwriter, but was unable to figure out why everyone else was making money at it except him. The manager of the Hotel Lexington brought him up to speed: “If you want to take your pants down and shit on the bandstand, and people will pay for it, then I'll pay you to shit on the bandstand.” To a hip guy like Shaw, the manager's meaning couldn’t have been clearer: nothing succeeds like excess. It was in this moment of “shattering disillusionment” that Shaw realized he wasn’t in the music business, he was in show business — and riding that fine line between the two almost killed him.
Shaw was a musical genius, easily the most cerebral of his band-leading counterparts during the swing era. But "cerebral" has seldom been confused with "popular." The mere mention of Count Basie’s "One O'Clock Jump" was enough to set jitterbugging feet ablaze. Tommy Dorsey’s signature "I'm Getting Sentimental Over You" stirred memories for both G.I.s and their loved ones back home. Small surprise that it took a while for American radio listeners to come around to Shaw’s choice, the decidedly downcast "Nightmare." Shaw was never fully in sync with his fans. It wasn’t until 1939 that he even played on the West Coast. When he referred to jitterbugs as a “pack of morons,” it made headlines. Known to tell autograph hunters to “fuck off, ” Shaw would walk out mid-show if he felt the audience wasn’t interested in the direction his music was taking.
And oh, did it take directions. Shaw saw his individual bands as disposable commodities in service to whatever burst of invention was currently evolving inside his bandleader mind. He would frequently take a break from performing, marinate in his creative juices, and come back with an all new band — with all new band members. Then, after recording a few sides, he’d sell a stack of records, disband the group, and move on.
Shaw was almost as famous for tooting a clarinet as he was for championing civil rights. Interviews with former bandmates not only attest to his musical genius, they reveal a racial sensitivity uncommon during a time of great unrest. “Colored” women weren’t allowed to perform onstage with whites, but that didn’t stop Shaw from inviting Billie Holiday to tour with his band. It was the first time a black woman held a full-time job with a white band. Southern rednecks would allow Hot Lips Page to appear on the bandstand, but only if he stood 15 feet from the nearest white band member. Shaw refused to comply. As one former band mate remembered, “the boss is color blind.”
Some battles took more of a toll than others. Before the war, it was tough to find a frame of footage where Shaw wasn't smiling; postwar snaps make it practically impossible to find one where he is. During the film, his upper teeth never see daylight. (Maybe once.) Even when he's conveying an amusing story, the voice may hasten a bit, but his eyelids and mouth are a study in parallel lines. The flatlined grin was a result of time spent in the Navy.
The day after Pearl Harbor, Shaw broke up the band and enlisted. But he found it difficult to adjust to the close confines and rigid rules that were part and parcel of signing on for a tour of duty. Unlike show business, Shaw couldn't simply take a break from the military. After 18 months of performing, sometimes four shows a day, Shaw had a nervous breakdown. The man who had played for millions was suddenly stuck in a quonset hut all by himself. They shipped Shaw to a veteran’s hospital in San Francisco, where he spent 3 months recuperating from a severe case of depression. Alone, bombarded by feelings of apathy, he entered psychoanalysis. (A further medical mishap: unbeknownst to Shaw, he had a rare form of leukemia that once caused him to pass out on stage.)
There were certain memories from the Cinemax viewing that four decades could not diminish. The film does its best to steer clear of gossip, but a singular spicy tidbit stuck with me: a friend recalling the schmuck who cornered Shaw in a men’s room looking “to shake the hand that felt the tit of Lana Turner.”
Moving from the salacious to the sublime: seated in a wingback chair, Shaw conducts along with one of his recordings, "The Blues," made on Christmas night in 1938 — his first time performing at Carnegie Hall. (Paul Whiteman and his All-American Band headlined, with Shaw at the bottom of a bill that included Louis Armstrong and Raymond Scott.) The performance plays like Shaw's swing equivalent of air guitar. His bobbing head starts gently keeping time. Soon, one finger begins tapping on the knee, followed by a snap or two, before all five fingers join in. Damn if he didn’t remember every note on the chart, never once missing a beat.
Epilogue: The film performed better than anyone expected. A year after Berman took home her Oscar, Shaw sued, arguing that the picture took in more money than originally anticipated. He wanted his share. The lawsuit was thrown out later that year. *****
Now streaming on a leading digital outlet near you.