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Jazz musicians depend on intercommunication to achieve and maintain a sense of spontaneity. Musicians encourage each other vocally or through their instruments to attain higher levels of performance. The connection with an audience is also vocal and visceral. Because an original function of jazz was to accompany social dancers, a jazz audience's physical responses signaled the musicians to continue or heighten their level of intensity. Among musicians themselves, the jam session exists as the central agency for communicating in a common musical language, in an atmosphere of collective spontaneity. Parallels between the sense of community in a jam session and an open forum of discussants are clear--a successful session, like group conversation, depends on courtesy, decorum, and mutual respect as well as open-mindedness and willingness to listen.

Thus, the connection between music and language manifests itself in the jazz context. As jazz itself evolved from the experience of African Americans, so did the argot that jazz musicians spoke rise from what is called jive language. H. L. Mencken, in a supplement to his American Language, defined jive language as "an amalgam of Negro-slang from Harlem and the argots of drug addicts and the pettier sort of criminals, with occasional additions from the Broadway gossip columns and the high school campus." [1] The linking of jazz and the underworld is not uncommon. Louis Armstrong recalled his days in the Storyville section of New Orleans, where pimps, gamblers, and prostitutes congregated among musicians playing in the hangouts where they plied their trades. [2] Chicago jazzmen Mezz Mezzrow [3] and Jimmy McPartland [4] have documented their experiences among gangsters and other lowlifes during Prohibition.

In his preface to the Dictionary of American Slang, Stewart Berg Flexner remarks that the need to use slang terms reflects a need to reject the mainstream, to rebel against the squares, in order to be accepted as an insider. He writes, "We would rather share or accept vices than be excluded from a social group. For this reason, for self-defense, and to create an aura (but not the fact) of modernity and individuality, much of our slang purposely expresses amorality, cynicism, and 'toughness.'"[5] Jazz musicians and their followers saw themselves as outsiders: that is to say, in opposition to the mainstream society at large, to more traditional musicians and listeners, to critics, to authorities, to particular bandleaders, clubowners and union officials, and even to other jazz musicians of a former or a succeeding generation.

Between 1934 and 1970, glossaries of jazz slang terms appeared in print, either as articles, appendixes to autobiographies of prominent jazz musicians, or entire volumes referred to as dictionaries. An examination of some of these glossaries and dictionaries, as well as several specific words, can highlight some possible origins as well as a steady and lively evolution of jazz parlance over time.

In a 1932 article for American Speech, James Hart suggested that jazz slang found its way into the cultural mainstream through incorporation into popular song lyrics, for strictly commercial reasons. [6] He wrote, "The use of correct language in jazz will stamp a writer's songs as unnecessarily highbrow and hence hinder his sales. Therefore, the song writer allows the vernacular to slip into his compositions wherever it suggests itself." To illustrate this, Hart mentioned the colloquial use of contractions in titles, such as " 'S Wonderful" and "Wha'd Ja Do to Me"; the reconnotation of family words "mama," "papa," and "baby" into a context of adult relationships; and particularly the vocalization of instrumental sounds, such as "Vo-do-de-o-do," "Boop-boop-a-doop," and "Diga-diga-do-digadoo-doo." Arguably, Tin Pan Alley's version of jazz speech as reflected in song titles and lyrics distantly resembles that spoken by jazz players and others in their immediate social circles.

The composer and Baltimore Sun music critic Gustav Klemm made an early attempt to explain some jazz-related terms for the famously antimodernist journal Etude. [7] In an obvious appeal to Etude's conservative readership, he made no effort to conceal his derision at what he felt was a passing craze. Proclaiming that the Jazz Age was dead, Klemm proceeded to nail down the coffin by ridiculing the punishment that jazz musicians had inflicted upon traditional melodies and instrumental timbres. He portrayed listeners not as fans but as unsuspecting victims of this unrelenting wild bedlam known as jazz, and took upon himself the unpleasant but necessary task of guiding the uninitiated by the hand in his descent into jazz hell.

Klemm was apparently familiar with the sound of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra, whose name frequently appears throughout the article. While many jazz purists questioned whether the sweetened commercial sound of the orchestra, with little improvisation or spontaneity, could even be considered jazz, it was nonetheless far too untamed and clamorous for Klemm. Klemm's preliminary research for this essay seems to have been to examine instrumental parts, presumably from the Whiteman book, identifying unfamiliar terms as found in the parts, and subsequently defining them in a suitably pejorative manner.

Some mutes particularly irked Mr. Klemm. Here begins his explanation of the "wah-wah," or Harmon, mute for trumpets and trombones.

We imagine that our troubled searcher will come up short on that...term "wah-wah." "Ah. Ha," he may cry, "an old Indian custom. Probably named after an Indian chief." But, alas, he would be wrong. No Red Man ever heard of it. One loud "wa-wa" across the Western plains of yesteryear and every Indian within hearing distance would have gathered his blanket tighter about him, turned two shades lighter under his war paint and headed for the nearest, tallest, timber.

Remember, this is 1934. Similarly, the kazoo mute resembles "a monster bee buzzing about in a wide neck bottle." A hat mute "drops over the bell of his instrument [i.e., a trumpet] in a rather shamefaced manner...apt to startle any one who may be watching." And, of course, the plunger, an easy target, gets this treatment: "Not only does the humble but invaluable plunger serve to clear up the flow of water from the bathtub, but it also serves the versatile trumpet player in a well-contrasted but only slightly more elevated capacity."

Unusual terms and markings on parts catch Klemm's inscrutable eye and judgment. The word "flare," defined in Panassie's and Gautier's Guide to Jazz [8] as "a note held by a player at the end of a chorus to lead the band into a final collective improvisation," sounds according to Klemm "like the sudden ripping of a piece of metallic cloth." Similarly, the "whip," unseen elsewhere, is simply "a convulsive, tonal rip, ending sharply and leaving the listener feeling that he has been slapped in the face." Klemm remarks that the smear, a glissando effect usually associated but not limited to trombones, is self-evident, but hastens to add that "the sloppy player or beginner finds this one of the easiest effects to master." Klemm includes other words that, even though they may not appear in other glossaries of terms, reinforce the notion that jazz instruments imitate non-musical noises, particularly those from the barnyard. Such terms include "the bark," "the yelp," "the meow," "the caw," "the horse-neigh," and "the roar." Some more human terms include "the laugh" and "the sneeze." Although he doesn't include "the burp," or other human bodily sound samples, perhaps because of prevailing taste in Etude, Klemm does relate saxophone slap-tongue techniques to the "burping of frogs."

An unusual squiggly line marked over a note, indicating a shake, does not baffle Klemm for long. He refers to this as a "worm" or a "nanny," reflecting the image of the marking and the effect it produces respectively. And of course he describes this as another aural assault: "The player gives it a sort of violent, convulsive twist that, using an automotive term, sounds as though the instrument had stripped gears."

It is fairly easy, from today's perspective, to ridicule Klemm's dismissal of jazz and prejudice toward its players. Yet his article informs us that such an attitude reflected that of musical traditionalists. (In the same article, Klemm lambasted modernism in the concert hall, in particular orchestras imitating freight trains and football games.) Undoubtedly the good readers of Etude must have been heartened to see their negative assumptions about this strange music confirmed by Klemm's authoritative essay on jazz terminology. For more astute jazz-friendly readers, the following year saw the publication of the earliest published glossary of jazz slang. Carl Cons, a co-editor of Down Beat and a saxophonist, compiled "The Slanguage of Swing: Terms the 'Cats' Use."[9] Cons expanded the list four years later for inclusion in Down Beat's Yearbook of Swing.[10] The 113-word list was arranged in three categories: "swing phrases," "musicians, etc.," and "musical instruments." The glossary celebrates jazz from player s' and listeners' perspectives. Included are terms for elements of the music itself, many of which are still in use (e.g., "lick," "break," and "jam"); instruments, many of which are not ("dog house," "moth box," "grunt-horn," "rock crusher," "syringe," "woodpile," and "squeak box" for upright bass, piano, tuba, accordion, trombone, xylophone, and violin, respectively). Appreciation of instrumental prowess appears in terms such as "balloon lungs" for a brass player with great endurance, and "staccato spitter" for a wind player with superb tonguing technique. If you can swing, you are considered a "hot man."

Derogatory terms for those outside the jazz clique also appear in this glossary. Classical musicians are represented by the terms "long hair," "salon man," and "paper man" (this latter term suggesting that such a person can not free himself from the printed page of music). Light classical and non-swinging popular music receive labels such as "schmaltz," "corn," "ricky-tick," "Mickey Mouse," "rooty-toot," "sugar," "schmooey," "lollipop," and, perhaps most tellingly, "strictly union." The musician's union secretary, typically the dues collector and enforcer of union rules, is known as "the Warden," and if a musician is summoned to the union hall, or the "mad house," and called up before the union's trial board, he is said to be "climbing the Golden Stairs." If he has been playing for underscale pay, his fellow musicians tag him "Joe Below."

Appreciative listeners are labeled "cats" and "alligators," but those who dislike or misunderstand swing are "icky" and have a "tin ear." Professional critics are given the name for that universally dreaded but undefinable being, "bogey men."

The definitions are also worded in jazz argot, frequently but not always employing other terms in the list. For example, "Break it down" is not merely defined, but almost shouted: "Get hot! Go to town! Swing it! etc." Other definitions are even further open to interpretation. The definition for "modulate," for example, is "a high brow word meaning to break the monotony."

Interestingly, also included in this list are numerous terms for marijuana and its users. "Vipers," "weed hounds," and "tea hounds" were smokers of "muggles." The inclusion of these terms in a nationally distributed publication conveys the notion of pot use being common to jazz culture in the 1930s. Louis Armstrong, for example, made no secret about his use of the drug; one of his compositions in fact is titled "Muggles." Perhaps the degree of laxity in enforcing drug laws in the 1930s is another factor in explaining the appearance of these terms in the Down Beat glossary.

Around the same time Vanity Fair published an article entitled "Hot Jazz Jargon" by E. J. Nichols and W. L. Werner.[11] Although most of the words defined in this essay are also included in the Down Beat list, the approach of Nichols and Werner was novel: they contrived an imaginary jazz musician's complaint about recording schmaltzy tunes, instead of being able to cut loose.

That's the third date we've grooved half a dozen schmaltzy tunes for that wand-waver with never a swing item in the list. He's not making a salon-man of me: let him date the long-haired boys for his commercials. He puts a solid man like Joe on the suitcase and hires three other gutbucket boys; then his idea of good get-off is to waste sure rough tone on those corny licks he likes to wax. We'll never catch a wire in a decent nitery without pressing some barrel-house to make the cats swing. There ought to be a hot coupling on every platter; but none of these plates will be senders. He never takes the brass out of the hats so the boys can really ride a couple. [12]

The remainder of the article expanded on the slang terms of the monologue, placing them in their proper context in the jazz musician's lifestyle and the recording industry.

Louis Armstrong's 1936 autobiography, Swing That Music, included a "glossary of swing terms" as an appendix. [13] This collection of thirty-one words and phrases refers to stylistic or episodal elements in music, people's names, and references to works. It also illustrates a sense of changing taste: as swing became more popular, disdain for early jazz was expressed in a new definition of "corney." Formerly the jazz term for non-jazz music, "corney" was redefined by Armstrong as "the razz-mah-jazz" style of the twenties--presumably the style that he himself played in the previous decade.

The term "barrelhouse," which refers to collective improvisation either in a passage during a piece or to an entire jam session, became pejorative in Armstrong's list, and thereafter in other glossaries. The term itself derives from a late-nineteenth-century euphemism for a cheap saloon. Armstrong's definition: "Every man for himself, playing without regard for what the others are playing."

In a 1937 New Yorker profile of Benny Goodman, the term is similarly disdainful: barrelhouse is referred to as "wild swing music that's likely to end in what sounds like a dog-fight." [14] Another word whose definition evolved because of changing taste was "clambake." Originating around 1930, a clambake simply meant a jam session. During the swing era, it was redefined derogatorily, as musical cacophony, lacking melody and order. By the mid-1950s the related term "clam" came forth, meaning a misplayed note.

Interestingly, Armstrong's most famous nicknames derived from non-jazz terms. "Pops" formerly was a term of respectful greeting among musicians, "satchelmouth" for a brass player with strong, almost leathery, lips. As his stature grew to international proportions, both these terms became associated with Armstrong, the latter shortened of course to Satchmo. Conversely, the term "Armstrong" entered the vocabulary to mean a very high and sustained trumpet pitch, as in "man, you should have heard this cat hitting the Armstrongs with Basie last night."

In February 1937, Russel B. Nye compiled the "Musician's Word List" for American Speech. [15] Nye gathered this collection of 116 terms relating to dance orchestras during conversations with traveling musicians. Noting the regional variance of jazz slang (a musician from the eastern part of the country would not necessarily speak the same jargon as a Westerner), Nye checked his list against issues of Down Beat to determine the degree of widespread use of his terms.

Definitions of terms in Nye's glossary are elegant. He seems to have written for an informed readership, familiar with basic music terminology but not necessarily appreciators of jazz themselves. Examples of usage often accompany the definitions. A particularly fine example of Nye's style can be found in his definition of "swing" and "swing out":

A combining of rhythm and melody, each adding something to the other, to produce an effect of balance and fullness. The rhythmic characteristic of swing is an almost imperceptible hurried accent of the second and fourth beats. The word really defies definition, for most musicians protest that swing cannot be regarded wholly as a matter of rhythm, but that it depends rather on a personal emotional response to rhythm that cannot be written in any musical notation. As one musician says, "A man either has swing in him or else he hasn't, and if he hasn't, nobody can teach him how to swing." [16]

H. Brook Webb's approach in his compilation "The Slang of Jazz" was to take his list of eighty-three words and phrases and sort them into nine categories, such as "names for instruments" (blackstick, doghouse, god-box, pretzel); "the style of the individual player" (dirty, clean, lowdown, solid, lift); "the style in which the band as a whole is playing" (sweet, hot, go to town, muggin, bleed all choruses); and "places of employment" (barn, dime grind palace, herring farm, laundry, starvation jaunt). Each category is prefaced by sample headlines from Down Beat, such as "Picks Men Who Can Lay on Sugar or Groove It" and "Ex-Champion Works Out on Groan Box." [17]

The swing craze reached its apex in the late 1930s and throughout the next decade. Coast-to-coast concert tours in high-profile theaters, ballrooms, and concert halls, and appearances in Hollywood feature films and shorts elevated swing musicians to the status of celebrities--their personalities, language, and styles of dress were as well known to the general public as their music. No longer seen as an incomprehensible argot spoken only within a small clique on the fringes of society, jazz talk was now the norm among swing fans throughout the country, and during wartime, overseas. It was in the best interests of the recording and songwriting industries to promote this element of swing culture.

Between 1938 and 1946, the earliest monographs of jive terms appeared. The first, Cab Calloway's Hepsters Dictionary, appeared in 1938 and underwent six editions in the next six years. [18] The sixth is reprinted as an appendix in Calloway's autobiography Of Minnie the Moocher & Me. [19] Calloway, whose novelty scat style was enormously popular, incorporated jive talk and mannerisms into his performance. The dictionary, which Calloway admitted was actually compiled by his press agent Ned Williams, consists of almost two hundred words and phrases. Relatively few of these have actual musical connotations; they mostly pertain to various aspects of life in and around nightclubs--friends, clothing, places of entertainment, finances. Obviously published to promote Calloway's career, this list is sanitized, free of any sexual, drug, or criminal references. It conveys the popular image of Cab Calloway as a high-living and carefree hep cat, reminiscent of the character Sportin' Life in Gershwin's Porgy and Bess, actu ally portrayed by Calloway in a 1950 revival.

A similar publication, Hepcats Jive Talk Dictionary, appeared in 1945. [20] Compiled by songwriter Lou Shelly, the fifty-page dictionary contains jive words and phrases. Like the Calloway dictionary, only a small percentage of the entries have musical connotations. Yet this dictionary is clearly intended for swing fans--the cover illustration depicts exuberant dancers, and the book contains photographs of Duke Ellington, Frank Sinatra, Armstrong, Bing Crosby, the Andrews Sisters, and many other swing stars. The preface declared, "A new language has been born, and with its usual lustiness youth has made jive talk heard from one end of the land to the other." On the other hand, Shelly maintained that jive is an "incomprehensible dialect to all save those who [are] hep," including the youthful, lusty reader, of course.

Shelly's dictionary has two unique components: a section of "G. I. Jive" (World War II military slang) and a section of "Jeographical Jive." For example, a heavy eater is a "big fork from New York"; a wanderer is a "gypsy from Poughkeepsie"; a hopeless person is a "gone goose from Syracuse"; a hurry-up guy is "Pronto from Toronto"; an easy pickup is "Flash Flo from Buffalo"; and a fast worker is "Lothario from Ontario." Rhyming slang was already a component of jazz talk. Clothier Harold Fox claimed that he originated the term for a famous men's fashion item. "It was cool in those days to talk in rhymes. I needed a word to rhyme with suit, so I used the letter of the alphabet that is the end to end all ends--Z--and came up with zoot." [21]

Dan Burley's Original Handbook of Harlem Jive is the largest and most comprehensive of the three jive dictionaries of the swing era. [22] In addition to the alphabetical list of terms under the tide "The Jiver's Bible," this handbook includes parodies mocking high culture, such as "Jive Othello" and "Jive Joyce Kilmer's Trees" ("I think that I shall never dig / A spiel as righteous as a twig," and so forth). Burley, a pianist and journalist who at the time of the handbook's publication was editor of the New York Amsterdam News, stated that he compiled the book at the insistence of Langston Hughes. Despite its humor, the handbook reveals a more serious purpose: to educate readers about the origins, history, and social context of jive.

From the late 1940s, jazz music was gradually taken more seriously as an artform, rather than dismissed as a mere craze or youthful diversion. In 1947, the first college degree in jazz studies was introduced. Jazz criticism evolved and the reference literature expanded. In his 1949 article for Notes, Arnold Shaw included a bibliography of sixty-two glossaries and articles relating to jazz and song industry jargon, in addition to his list of almost 225 terms. [23]

The giant of jazz slang terminology is Robert S. Gold's A Jazz Lexicon, later expanded and revised as Jazz Talk. [24] Using as his sources hundreds of periodicals, newspapers, slang dictionaries, autobiographies, critical histories, jazz fiction, liner notes to recordings, and poetry collections, Gold pinpoints the history of jazz slang terms as they are documented, illustrates their usage, and traces changes of connotation or meaning. Unlike several of the dictionaries previously mentioned, Gold includes older terms which faded out of parlance after a brief span of use. Sexual and vulgar terms are included as are terms for illicit drugs and nicknames of famous musicians. Browsing through this pinnacle of jazz slang lexicography can be immensely gratifying--one can experience the variety and inventiveness of a living, ever-shifting vernacular, directly relating to the musical creativity of those who spoke it.

Subsequent to Jazz Talk, jazz slang terms have comprised special sections in general slang dictionaries, particularly in Eric Partridge's Concise Dictionary of Slang and Jonathan Lighter's Historical Dictionary of American Slang. [25] Clarence Major's Juba to Jive: a Dictionary of African-American Slang incorporates and identifies jazz slang terms in the broadest context. [26] This is an indispensible resource for students of Black English. The New Grove Dictionary of Jazz contains ninety-five terms formerly appearing in jazz slang glossaries. [27] Over the decades, terms such as "lick," "riff," "smear," "bend," "stop-time," "lay back," and "shout" have transformed into serious jazz terminology with strict definitions.

Musicians themselves had differing views on jazz parlance. Sidney Bechet felt that most jazz slang was mere pretence and posturing. On the other hand, Dizzy Gillespie declared that jazz music and spoken language were strongly connected, and fused with racial identity. "As black people we just naturally spoke that way.... As we played with musical notes, bending them into new and different meanings that constantly changed, we played with words." [28]

But by the 1950s and 1960s, jazz slang gradually faded. Some elements of jazz slang were incorporated into the parlance of concurrent youth culture--the so-called beatniks and hippies. The presence of such lingo in the language of jazz musicians declined, as jazz became more institutionalized, and rock and other popular music genres superceded jazz in mass popularity.

Traditionally, the worlds inside and outside jazz were described by the opposites "crazy" and "square," both of which entered jazz parlance in the mid 1940s. These are two examples of meanings turned upside down to connote the jazz musician's otherliness. According to Lewis A. Erenberg, "the word square defined the black and white middle class as obsessed by work, dominated by a repressed sexual ethic, and racially prejudiced. Crazy functioned as a term of approval and implied that that which was good was outside the normal world." [29] In short, crazy was hip; square was unhip.

What is hip, anyway? More specifically, what is the difference between hip and hep? As the New Grove Dictionary of Jazz sheds no light on this query, we turn to Gold and Major for assistance. According to Juba to Jive, hip most likely originates from the Wolof "hipi," which means to open one's eyes. Gold identifies a connection with hip boots, which a fisherman must wear while wading in deep water to avoid trouble. The word means to be aware, wise, sophisticated, and especially understanding of the music. Rep, on the other hand, comes from outside jazz musicians' circles--simply a mispronunciation of hip. Hep might have been a hip word for a brief time, but its popularity was short-lived.

Perhaps the true connotation of hip is subject to its context and therefore shifting in definition. As spoken slang varies widely among circles defined by race, gender, social class, and geographical region, hip might in the end be too slippery and subjective to define. As expressed in the lyrics of the jazz-funk band Tower of Power, "What is hip? Tell me tell me, if you think you know.... Hipness is. What it is! Sometimes hipness is, what it ain't." [30]

Rick McRae is associate librarian of the music library at the State University of New York at Buffalo. This article is a revision of a paper given at the Music Library Association New York State-Ontario Chapter meeting in Buffalo, N.Y. on 14 October 1999.

(1.) H. L. Mencken, The American Language: An Inquiry into the Development of English in the United States, suppl. 2 (New York: Knopf, 1962), 704.

(2.) Louis Armstrong, Swing That Music (New York: Longmans, Green, 1936), 50-70.

(3.) Mezz Mezzrow and Bernard Wolfe, Really the Blues (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1946), 49-151.

(4.) Max Jones, Talking Jazz (New York: W. W. Norton, 1988), 151-69.

(5.) Harold Wentworth and Stuart Berg Flexner, eds., Dictionary of American Slang (New York: T. Y. Crowell, 1967), xi-xii.

(6.) James D. Hart, "Jazz Jargon," American Speech 7 (1932): 241-54.

(7.) Gustav Klemm, "The Jargon of Jazz," Etude 52 (1934): 455-56.

(8.) Hughes Panassie and Madeleine Gautier, Guide to Jazz, trans. Desmond Flower, ed. A. A. Gurwitch (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1973), 95.

(9.) Carl Cons, "The Slanguage of Swing: Terms the 'Cats' Use," Down Beat 2 (November 1935): 1.

(10.) Paul Eduard Miller, Down Beat's Yearbook of Swing (Chicago: Down Beat, 1939), 171-76.

(11.) E.J. Nichols and W. L. Werner, "Hot Jazz Jargon," Vanity Fair (November 1935): 38, 71.

(12.) Ibid., 38.

(13.) Armstrong, 135--36.

(14.) Henry Anton Steig, "Alligators' Idol," New Yorker 13 (17 April 1937): 27.

(15.) Russel B. Nye, "Musician's Word List," American Speech 12 (1937): 44-48.

(16.) Ibid, 48.

(17.) H. Brook Webb, "The Slang of Jazz," American Speech 12 (1937): 179-84.

(18.) Cab Calloway's Hepsters Dictionary ([New York], 1938).

(19.) Cab Calloway and Bryant Rollins, Of Minnie the Moocher & Me (New York: Crowell, 1976), 251-61.

(20.) Lou Shelly, Hepcats Jive Talk Dictionary (Derby, Conn: T.W.O. Charles Company, 1915).

(21.) Lewis A. Erenberg, Swingin' the Dream: Big Band Jazz and the Rebirth of American Culture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), 56.

(22.) Dan Burley, Dan Burley's Original Handbook of Harlem Jive ([New York], 1944).

(23.) Arnold Shaw. "The Vocabulary of Tin-Pan Alley Explained," Notes 7 (December 1949): 33--53

(24.) Robert S. Gold, A Jazz Lexicon (New York: Knopf, 1964) and Jazz Talk (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1975).

(25.) Eric Partridge, A concise Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English, from A Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English by Eric Partridge, ed. Paul Beale (New York: Macmillan, 1989); J. E. Lighter, ed., Random House Historical Dictionary of American Slang. 2 vols. (New York: Random House, 1994).

(26.) Clarence Major. ed., Juba to Jive: A Dictionary of African-American Slang (New York: Penguin Books, 1994; originally published as Dictionary of Afro-American Slang [New York: International Publishers, 1970]).

(27.) Barry Kernfeld, ed., The New Grove Dictionary of Jazz, 2 vols. (London: Macmillan, 1988).

(28.) Dizzy Gillespie and Al Fraser. To Be, or Not--To Bop Memoirs (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1979; reprint, New York: Da Capo Press, 1985), 280-81.

(29.) Lewis A. Erenberg, Swingin' the Dream: Big Band Jazz and the Rebirth of American Culture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 1998), 232.

(30.) Emilio Castillo, David Garibaldi, and Stephen Kupka, "What Is Hip?" (North Hollywood, Calif.: Bob-A-Lew Songs, 1973; recorded 1973 by Tower of Power, Tower of Power[Warner Bros. 2681]).
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