A beautiful eccentric residing in mid-20th century NYC, Louis Thomas Hardin aka Moondog also possessed extraordinary musical vision. An associate of Leonard Bernstein, Arturo Toscanini, and Charlie Parker, a collaborator with Julie Andrews and the Brooklyn Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra, a key influence on the minimalism of Philip Glass and Steve Reich, covered by Janis Joplin, Kronos Quartet, and Antony and the Johnsons; there was truly nobody else like him. After a handful of singles and EPs his long-playing debut arrived with 1956’s Moondog.
A simply fantastic photograph of Moondog is used for the jacket of the 2LP compilation The Viking of Sixth Avenue; it finds him on a ‘50s Gotham street corner standing in front of a lamppost and decked out in full regalia. He cuts quite an appealing figure, but what makes the snap such a kick is the older couple passing by on his left side.
For other than Dwight and Mamie, one would be hard-pressed to find a better, or perhaps I should say more stereotypical, representation of Eisenhower-era America. The contrast between Moondog and this strolling pair is so sharp that the cynic in me has occasionally suspected the pic was staged in an attempt to play-up the legendary composer’s unconventionality.
This is not to insinuate that Moondog’s image was some sort of con. To the contrary, the legit uniqueness of the man’s background rivals that of sui generis American boho-hobo Harry Partch. Born in 1916, Hardin lived in Kansas, Wyoming, Missouri, Iowa, Arkansas, and Tennessee, with exposure to Native American tribal ceremonies having a profound effect on his art. After moving to NYC in 1943 he lived as a street musician and sporadic recording artist until the early ‘70s.
Due to an unfortunate accident with a dynamite cap, he lost his eyesight at age 16. Subsequently, his music was notated using the Braille system. In addition to composer and percussionist, Hardin was also a poet and, like Partch, an inventor of instruments. But a comparison can also be drawn to Sun Ra, though it goes a little deeper than costumes, poetics, and the unusual.
To fully come to grips with both, the listener must not only accept what writer Robert S. Altshuler describes in Moondog’s liner notes as “the enigma,” but endeavor to understand and value the spectacle as an essential component in the overall creative scheme. Separating the sounds from the garb and the ceremony ultimately sells them short and is furthermore in direct odds with the intentions of the creators, for its abundantly clear that both Sun Ra and Moondog intended for their art to be an immersive “multimedia” experience.
Championing the totality of their brilliance might not matter so much today, but due to the decade’s long struggles of both musicians to be taken seriously outside (and even inside) the realms of jazz and modern composition, it’s still worth noting. However, Sun Ra and Moondog share other points of comparison.
For starters, they are amongst the most accessible (if intermittently challenging) practitioners to be found in the avant-garde. Unsurprising, since for most of Sun Ra’s career his (and the Arkestra’s) bread-and-butter derived from gigs, and even more importantly, Moondog was a street performer (get too discordant on the sidewalk and the cops will run you off). But additionally, inspecting their stuff makes plain the two also spent a few evenings mingling in the Exotica lounge.
And the partial focus upon visual motifs can indeed bring a sense of limitation to their releases, though in both cases the circumstance is actually rather minor. Like Sun Ra’s work, Moondog’s records are wholly realized undertakings that have endured the test of time exceptionally well. In fact, if forced to sum up Moondog’s American period (in 1974 he departed for the greener pastures of Germany, where he spent the remainder of his life) in a single word, the one I just might choose is “enchanting.”
The majority of that material belongs to the 1950s. This fact might seem odd to those continuing to dwell on the epoch as the epicenter of gray flannel conformity, but a major factor in Moondog’s prevalence on vinyl at this stage is the very antithesis of the square, namely Jazz. The Viking’s frequent outpost was at the corner of Sixth and 53rd, with that intersection a gateway to a major hub of swinging improvisation.
While he briefly operated his own label Moondog Records (putting him in the company of Charles Mingus and again Sun Ra), his greatest early prominence came through the assistance of other jazz entrepreneurs. In fact, this writer’s introduction to the man was delivered via a worn but still playable copy of “Moondog on the Streets of New York,” a 1953 7-inch released by Mars Records, the short-lived venture of bandleader Woody Herman.
The year was 1989, a few months shy of the Original Jazz Classics CD reissue of Moondog’s self-titled ’56 LP. First released by Bob Weinstock’s Prestige imprint (though a concurrent edition was also produced for Moondog Records), the disc commenced a trio of albums that do an exemplary job of capturing the performer’s essence in this era.
Holding 14 tracks, most of them fairly brief, Moondog is brimming with content. Percussion-heavy opener “Caribea” offers a sextet with Hardin at the piano, and the Martin Denny-esque climates quickly highlight those Exotica connections. But “Lullaby” immediately widens the scope; also for rhythmically-focused sextet, it lacks piano and gains the cries of Moondog’s six-week-old daughter June as his wife Suzuko sings to her.
“Lullaby” greatly amplifies Moondog’s interest in different cultures, an attribute placing him significantly ahead of the contemporary curve (as he’s a poet, it makes sense.) With “Tree Trail,” a quintet featuring the Weiner-Sabinsky Duo, he borrows a surplus of Exotica birdcalls and blends them with expertly-executed chamber strings. And “Death, When You Come to Me, May You Come to Me Swiftly; I Would Rather Not Linger, Not Linger” is scored for sextet, though its distinguishing characteristic is a quote from Moondog translated into Japanese and recited by Sakura Whiteing.
If drawn to diverse cultures, Moondog was just as intrigued by nature and the animal kingdom in particular. To wit, “Big Cat” with Hardin on recorder, “Frog Bog” holding more string duo, and “To a Sea Horse” finding the composer alone at the piano. From there “Dance Rehearsal” is nearly a minute of exactly that, Moondog accompanying a teacher staging a routine for her pupil.
The tri-sectioned and lengthy “Surf Session,” the LP’s final appearance by the Weiner-Sabinsky Duo, makes the strongest case for Moondog in purely classical terms. This aspect would flower later, notably on his ’69 self-titled album for Columbia. Here the emphasis is on inviting experimentation; “Trees Against the Sky, Fields of Plenty, Rivers to the Sea: This, and More, Spreads Before Me” is just overlapping recordings of Moondog’s singing voice.
“Tap Dance” is also self-explanatory, being a duo for Hardin’s drums and Ray Malone’s equally percussive feet. “Oo Debut” contains two Moondog inventions, the oo and the trimbas, played by the composer simultaneously, “Drum Suite” is for Japanese drum and trimbas, and “Street Scene” blends rhythm, dialogue and traffic sounds into a warmly eclectic conclusion.
While the ’69 Moondog stands as his strongest US-based work, everything he made before departure is of interest; the Prestige discs More Moondog (’56) and The Story of Moondog (’57), the second Columbia album Moondog II (’71), and even the mildly off-kilter EP of children’s music cut with Julie Andrews and Martyn Green “Songs of Sense and Nonsense – Tell it Again” (’57).
Moondog’s later work deserves a separate discussion. And it suffices to say that any conversation on bohemia’s rich history will dwell at some loving length on Louis Thomas Hardin.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A
