Chimes Blues

Chimes Blues holds a distinction that should make it one of the most celebrated recordings in jazz history: it contains Louis Armstrong's first recorded solo. Not his first great solo, not his first famous solo — his first solo, period. Twenty-two-year-old Louis Armstrong, who would go on to become arguably the most important musician of the twentieth century, steps forward from the ensemble for a brief cornet statement that is, honestly, unremarkable. It's competent, it's melodic, it's nothing special. And that's what makes it fascinating.

Armstrong in 1923 was still Oliver's sideman, still playing a supporting role, still figuring out what his voice sounded like when it wasn't blending with someone else's. The genius that would explode on the Hot Five and Hot Seven recordings two years later is present here only as potential — a slight rhythmic freedom in his phrasing, a warmth in his tone that the acoustic recording technology barely captures. You have to know what's coming to hear it in what's here.

The 'chimes' in the title refer to a brief chime effect — likely a set of orchestra bells — that appears in the arrangement. It's a novelty touch that Oliver used to add variety to his recordings, and it works the way a garnish works on a plate: it doesn't change the flavor, but it makes you look twice. Oliver was a showman who understood that records needed hooks. The chimes were a hook. Armstrong turned out to be a much bigger one.

Lil Hardin, the band's pianist, would later marry Armstrong and push him to leave Oliver's band and pursue his own career. She saw what the Chimes Blues solo only hints at — that the second cornet player was not a sideman by nature but a leader waiting for a stage big enough to hold him. She gave him the push. He gave the world everything that followed. And it starts here, with a modest solo on a Tuesday in Indiana, recorded in a room next to a railroad track.