Fresh Air - Folk Musician Jerron Paxton Transports Us To the '20s

Episode Date: December 2, 2024

We're going to hear from a musician whose music is vibrant, exciting and new — even if it sounds like it could have been found on a scratchy record from the 1920s. His name is Jerron Paxton and he has a new album called Things Done Changed. He brought some of his instruments to the studio when he spoke with Fresh Air's Sam Briger.Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

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This is Fresh Air. I'm Terry Gross. Today we're going to hear from a musician whose music is vibrant, exciting and new, even if it sounds like it could have been performed in the 1920s. His name is Jaron Paxton, and he has a new album called Things Done Changed. He brought some of his instruments to the studio

when he spoke with Fresh Air's Sam Brigger. Here's Sam with more. Prior to his new album, Jaron Paxton has been entertaining audiences with his take on music that's mostly 100 years old or older. Some of the music dates back to the Civil War. He plays folk music, blues, hot jazz, ragtime, and fiddle and banjo tunes, among others. He's released several albums, but this new album, Things Done Changed, is his first where all the tracks were written by him. Songs that are deeply rooted to music of the 20s and 30s and older, but reflects Paxton's contemporary feelings and observations about things like love, lost and found, gentrification,

and finding yourself far from home. Paxton was generous enough to bring some of the instruments he plays to the studio today. If he had brought all the instruments he plays, he would have had to rent a van. Guitar, fiddle, piano, harmonica, banjo, and the bones is not even a complete list. Paxton who is 35 grew up in Los Angeles near Watts and has called himself a throwback and a family of throwbacks. He now lives in New York. Let's hear the title track from the new album, This Is Things Done Changed. Me to my heart, together so long now we got to get apart Something to change between you and me

Seems just like time, can't be like they used to be You mad, wondering what it's all about Have I pulled up, have I done, feels a lot Oh, think change between you and me between you and me It seems like time can't be like it used to be Smiling faces sure could always be fine And I seem like your smile don't want me around, seem like things change between you and me.

Seems just like time can't be like they used to be. That's the song Things Done Changed from the new album by Jaron Paxson of the same name. Jaron Paxson, welcome so much to Fresh Air. It's good to be here. So as I said, you've released a few albums before, but this is your first album of your own compositions. Have you been writing all along but just recently decided to release these songs? Yeah, songwriting is a funny part of the life of a folk musician. Most of us folk musicians tend to play our culturally inherited music, which isn't quite

the same as doing covers of other people's music, but you play music that's reflective of your culture. And I've mostly done that. And every once in a while, something will inspire me and it'll stick around. And I like writing music based on inspiration more so than anything. So a few of these songs, most of these songs, if not all these songs, came from a little bit of inspiration and at least a little bit of inspiration and also at least a little bit of pushing the pencil along the page, I think as Irving Berlin said.

So you wait for inspiration rather than sit down and say, today I have to write a song? Yes, yes. That's the preferred way of doing things, especially because composition isn't really the thing I'm most interested in. I'm most interested in learning and studying of good music that moves me and sharing that with other people. And composing tunes of yourself and wondering if they're good is one thing, but playing tunes and performing tunes that you know are good because they have moved you before is a completely different thing. And I tend to feel a little bit more confidence in the latter. Can you talk about how you approach the guitar?

Is there a particular guitar player that was very influential to how you play? Well, I think my approach to music in general, not just the guitar, but to all the instruments I play, is to get the most out of them I can. That's the guitar, the banjo, the harmonic, all these things. Everything I like about those instruments and especially the piano is that in the style of music I was steeped in and brought up in, which is

mostly the world, the country blues, there was this magical thing that would happen where one musician would sit down and create this beautiful world where nothing was missing. You didn't need basses or drums or a second musician or anything. They just sit down with their fingers and their instruments and their voice and create this world where nothing was missing. So, that's the approach I took to all my instruments and especially the guitar because that was the world that I was surrounded by. And just having that access to that real full sound is something I want to maintain.

And I don't know, I think that's probably the biggest contribution to why I've remained one of the few soloists out there. There's not too many people who can hold the audience's attention for, you know, two one-hour sets with just one person on stage and their instruments, but my audience has never seemed to be disappointed. I was wondering if you could show us perhaps with an instrumental like how you approach the blues, and the blues can be played lots of different ways, like one of the ways that it's often played is like a simple three-chord song but there's a lot going on in the way you play the blues.

So could you demonstrate that? I know you brought a guitar with you. And I heard when you were getting ready that this is quite an old guitar, huh? Oh yeah, this is the cheapest guitar that Gibson made. Cost $495 when it was for sale, a little Kalamazoo. I just heard an interview by Johnny Shines where he said that he and Robert Johnson both played Kalamazoo guitars, although Robert is pictured with a much fancier version of a Gibson guitar, but apparently he, Johnny Shines said he played a Kalamazoo just like this

one here. And when you say $4.95, I think you mean $4.95. $4.95, half a week's wages. So how old is this guitar then? Is it about 100 years old? I think it's from 28, 29. So not yet a bird, not a century yet, but pretty close. This banjo's getting close.

The banjo's from 25, so it's an old bacon day banjo before they had the F holes on it. Gotcha. So you said that when you're playing a guitar solo, you want it to sound like a bunch of instruments kind of playing together. Could you show us what that's like on the guitar? All right, all right, I got you there. I got you there. All right. Well, when you want that nice full sound out of the guitar,

you've got to have a nice little rhythm behind you, and that could be just about anything. Let's try this one. That's the rhythm of the song. So now you have this nice accompaniment to back up anything you want. And then you've got your voice which you can lay on top of it which I ain't doing nothing now but talking but you also got some fingers that you can play with too That's Jiram Paksim with his guitar joining us today.

He's a new album of all original compositions called Things Done Changed. Jaron, thanks so much. That was really great. I love how you can do that and just explain it while you're doing it at the same time. That's not easy to do, just even playing the music. Was there a point in your life when you were like, okay, I figured out how to do this? Do you remember like when it started to make sense to you? Well, I think when I got to the point where it didn't feel like a big mystery, you know,

when I got to the point where I figured out I was actually doing it and it wasn't magic, you know, I didn't have to sell my soul to the devil or, you know, spend a ridiculous amount of money on guitar lessons and buy books and things like that. When I just sat down and made music for my family and they said, oh, you're starting to sound like that record you sound, especially, you know, my mom really, she still loves my harmonica playing. And her best bit of encouragement she could give me

with my harmonica playing and say, oh, you sounding like Sonny Terry. You sounding like little Sonny Terry in the house. And, you know, when I figured out that it sounded good to other people, just as it did to me, I figured I'd have it. I'd go up to folks, I'd go up to my grandma and say, Granny, did it sound good? And she said, Oh, yeah, baby, that sounds good.

And I say, No, really, do it sound good? Because it sounds good to me. And what you learn is how to keep out of your own way. And you have to figure out what to stop doing just to allow the music to come out of you. And sometimes it's just as simple as that to get some good music out of yourself. Jared, you grew up in South Los Angeles near Watts. What was your home like? Oh, it was a lovely place, I'd say. I was, you know, we didn't have too much money, but I was surrounded by the one thing

you couldn't get enough of, which was love. And had a big multi-generational family. I was in the house with my mother and my grandmother. And for the first few years, it was my grandpa, my uncle, my aunt. So it was with me, it was six of us in there. And my great grandmother was across the street and three of her children were around. And all the cousins would come over at least once a week to visit her. And so I grew up around lots of lovely family and a big backyard that 80% of the food I grew up eating came out of until me and Granny made our last little harvest the year she

passed away. And yeah, it was a lovely place full of music and family. I think I got bored there when I was living there, but now that I'm an older person and you start reminiscing, I recently reconnected with my next door neighbor and we got to commiserating each other saying, boy, those were some of the happiest times of our lives, probably. Well, you've said that you're a throwback from a family of throwbacks. What does that mean? Well, you could probably tell that just in music I love and my aesthetic that things

at certain levels of contemporary don't quite appeal. And I tend to like, some people call it tradition, some people call it old fashioned, you know. I just like things of a certain aesthetic that tend to be a little bit older than what we have now. And my grandmother was the same way. She was born in 28 and she was sort of a throwback to not her mother's age, she was born in 1906, but more her father's age, and he was born in 1886. In certain ways she was like that, but in certain ways she was born in 1906, but more her father's age, and he was born in 1886. In certain ways, she was like that, but in certain ways, she was a very modern woman. So, when you've got a person who's throwing back to the 1880s, you know, you've got something there. And

then her father was a bit of a throwback himself. And when you're a throwback and you're born in 1886... Pete Slauson You're going back pretty far. You're going back a long ways. He played a throwback banjo, which is why I played this instrument. The instrument he didn't play didn't match his age, it more matched his parents' age, but that's the kind of person he was.

Sounds like you were particularly drawn to the country blues. What do you think it was that spoke to you? Well, it was the thing that spoke to me the most about the music was the tone of the instruments. And it's something till yet I still have a prejudice towards. I truly, at my heart of hearts, believe acoustic instruments have more power than any other instruments around. Even hearing the same acoustic music through a speaker or through headphones or anything like that does not compare with having an instrument in the same room as you and having the air that vibrates out of that instrument vibrate you and your eardrums. And you, you know, I've done it, I've experienced it as a participant and as an audience member. Just the power, the emotional power of being in the room with somebody playing the instrument

quite well, it can't be beat. And I think I could gather that at that young age through those old scratchy records, not even knowing what it was, having no idea. You know, like I said, I was a seven, eight-year-old kid who, you know, first heard John Hurt and Scott Dunbar and Bucklewhite and people like that. And I didn't know, you know, I didn't know that there was any, that there were two kind of guitars or things like that, but that just the sonic beauty of those instruments just wrapped me up and took me away. And when did you start playing banjo?

I started playing banjo before I played the guitar. I started playing banjo when I was about, oh, I think about 13 and a half, about 18 months after playing the fiddle and being pretty bad at that in my early days and realizing most of the fiddle I like was surrounded by banjo music. And you said your grandfather played the banjo? He played the banjo, the guitar, and the fiddle, so I've heard, but this would be my great grandfather. Pete Slauson Your great grandfather. Joe Boudreaux Yeah, my grandma's daddy who was born way back in 86, but according to granny, they had to run off a plantation when she was about six or seven or so years old and had to leave Joe's instruments behind. And so, nobody too much younger than her, which she was the oldest, which, shoot, that includes

everybody. Nobody younger than her really remembers Joe playing any instruments, but she remembers seeing a banjo on the wall and hearing the sounds of it and guitars and fiddles and things like that. I don't know how great a musician he was, but she knows he played them. Well, you brought a banjo with you today. It's kind of a special banjo. Can you tell us about it? J.D. BELLAMY Yeah, this banjo, this banjo I brought with me here, it's one I've been playing

for a while. It's an 1848 model banjo, a stickter model banjo, as they call it. They don't know how many of these, how popular these things got, but I like the way they're constructed. They tend to produce a mighty sound. And this says nylon strings rather than steel strings, is that correct? I don't play a banjo with steel strings. All my banjo have gut nylon strings. Even the fretted banjo I play have gut nylon strings, just produce a better sound. I think it was only the Gibson Banjo Company that produced banjos that left the factory with steel strings.

I think every other company had gut strings on their banjos until the post-war time. 05.30 To me, it sounds like with the nylon strings, you can play, your sound can be mellower, but it also seems to allow for a lot more dynamics. Do you think that's true? I think it's very true, especially on the modern banjo. Most Gibson-based banjos only have one color to paint with, and it's a mighty beautiful color, especially with bluegrass music. But I feel that the nylon strings give you so much more

control of color that you can paint with the banjo that it ends up being a lot more expressive. On the song that you play on the album, it's all over now. In the liner notes, you say that you play this stroke style. Can you explain what that is or demonstrate that for us? All right. The stroke style is what they called in books published at the time is, I guess, what they call claw hammer banjo now or freilin' or whatever. And I think most of those words can be traced back to none other than the great New Yorker Pete Seeger. Pete Seeger had a big influence on banjo culture, much bigger than he's given credit for, which

I think includes finding those words and making them ubiquitous among banjo players. But the stroke style is you stroke the string with the tops of your fingers rather than picking it like that with each individual finger. You hit it with the top. And you can hear the difference between picking and each one of those stroke notes have a little bit punchier sound and you combine that with the way you play with your thumb and you get a nice cross-cultural reference here. Ah, that's called a brand new shoes. John, that was great. We need to take a break here.

We'll be back after a moment. I'm Sam Brigger and this is Fresh Air. Wood and Mississippi bottom, filled with mud and clay Wood and Mississippi woman stole my heart away Baby if you didn't want me, you sure didn't have to stall Baby beauty woman You sure didn't have to stall I can get me more lovers Than a passenger train can hold Cause you take rocks and gravel To build your solid... It's cuffing season, the cold months where we might look for a warm somebody to cuddle up to.

But dating isn't always warm and fuzzy, and this year there were so many big debates about how we love. On It's Been A Minute, our cuffing season series will help you answer some big questions like, what is the ick really about? Or is it okay to date for money? To find out, listen now to the It's Been A Minute podcast from NPR. Support for this podcast comes from the Neubauer Family Foundation, supporting WHYY's fresh air and its commitment to sharing ideas and encouraging meaningful conversation.

When you were a kid, did you just spend a lot of time on your own just playing music, like learning how to play, like practicing and practicing? J.D. Oh, yes. Well, I did and I think I practiced the stuff I'm the most comfortable with, you know, the stuff I could talk over and play for you. I think most of that stuff and stuff in that vein I learned through muscle memory and, you know, there's a certain point where you have to sit down and really study. You know, you've got to be focused for about 45 minutes and figure out all the funny turns and twists as to what you have to do and how to position your hand, all these things that go into being a great musician. But one thing that people tend to overlook that I found the most valuable is after I

had done that, I would put on The Simpsons, The King of the Hill, and for an hour or two after supper, just rap on my banjo and play the guitar and things like that and watch these programs. And you know, my folks would say, how you going to play music and watch TV at the same time? I say, well, I got to, you know. If I both get these two things I really enjoy out the way, playing music and watching TV. You've got to multitask. Exactly.

And it also makes the music become a part of you, you know, because if I get to a point where everything stays groovy while the active listening part of my brain is focused somewhere else, well, the music is an actual part of me. You know, it's like my heartbeat, it's like my breath. It's something that can just happen without me willing it, absolutely. And when that starts to happen, then you get an opportunity to be real inventive with what's in you. You know, this music, especially when you were a kid, the internet wasn't as prevalent everywhere.

It's not easy music to find. You have to search it out. So, like, how did you find out more about the music? Did you look for old 78s? Did you go to the library? What did you do? Man, when I came up, all the 78s had been pilfered out of my neighborhood. And I'd love to imagine a world where, you know, there are these $10,000 country blues records just floating around the hood and all my neighbors are, oh yeah, I've got all my Lemon Jeffersons and mama's blues records sitting back here. You know, that has happened before, but it's not frequent. I really wish I could have learned from a stack of extremely valuable 78s.

That's not the case. Poor people didn't really have the internet until I'd say around, in my era, they didn't have the internet until around 2004, 2005. And I was about 15 to 16 then. So I had a bit more access to it back then. But, you know, I remember going to the local swap meets and just asked for what CDs they had of the blues. And I'd look and see if there was any names I'd recognize. And if there were, like Sonny Terry and Brownie McGee or Big Bill Brunsey or something like that, I'd take them home

with me. And also, I'd say one of the biggest exposures I had to that good music was all those wonderful documentaries that came out on public television about the blues and things like that. You not only got to hear the people, but you got to see them. So there was a few, and then you get a list of names and found out that you were listening to some like Buckewite. I was listening to him my whole life. Scott Dunbar I had to come up on later, but then I remember getting Charlie Patton's name and writing down my list of people to look up and then going to my auntie's

house who had the internet and listening to 30-second samples and say, oh, that sounds good and asking for a bunch of records during the holidays and consuming them for the rest of the year and reading all the little pamphlets that came in the records so you know a little bit about the person's life. That's kind of how I got my start with delving into the artist. It sounds like you also met people who knew some of the older musicians, like you met people that knew the guitarist Johnny St. Cyr, because I guess he died in Los Angeles when he was older. So he played with Louis Armstrong as well as Jelly Roll Morton. And

I think you play one of his rags, is that right? Yes, sir. Johnny is a great influence. That Louisiana culture has been in Los Angeles for several generations. You could always meet people who made the big trek from Louisiana, just like my family did in the 50s. People made that transition, some of them in the teens, some of them in the 1890s if

you go way far back. And Johnny was one of them that came in the 50s and came like everybody else looking for work and then ended up finding it as a musician, which is something he pretty much gave up because I got to see one of his business cards and there's nothing that mentions music. So Johnny St. Cyr, a general workman does general jobs, you know. Would you mind playing a little bit of that song? Let me set this down here. All right.

I hope you're treating that old banjo nicely. Oh, no, not a bit. She's a mud kicker. Let's see. So That's great, that's Jerome Paxton, playing a rag by Johnny St. Cyr, who played with Louis Armstrong and Jelly Roll Morton. More after a break, this is Fresh Air. When you were a teenager, you started having trouble with your eyesight. What was happening? Well, I'd had trouble with my peripheral vision my whole life. But then I had two different eye diseases that start to mess with my central vision. Once that start to happen the problems with my peripheral vision got to be

Pretty unavoidable and you know in some places got to be a little bit hazardous, you know I don't know if you know the people from South Central especially during the day in time I grew up we didn't move too much and Los Angeles being a big driving culture. You sure didn't walk any place, you know, I Yeah, I left as 18 year old having I think maybe walked a mile in my neighborhood and could count the times I did that on one hand So, you know things like curbs were a bit unfamiliar to me. So, you know imagine a herbs were a bit unfamiliar to me. So, you know, imagine a pretty healthy strapping boy just kind of bumbling and falling all over the place. That's what I was up to for a little while.

What's your eyesight like now? It's about the same. I still have big troubles with my peripheral vision, which stops me from driving. My central vision, I think it's better than what it was, but part of that is the technology's improved. I used to go around New York City with a little small telescope around my neck to see things like train signs and street signs and things like that. Now, but now that, you know, now that I'm an iPhone user, which I never thought I would be, you know, I could zoom in on something ten times and that's actually a lot more handy than this little telescope I was using. So things like that in Google Maps has made the world a lot more accessible for me. And as

soon as they straighten out the kinks with these self-driving cars, I think I'll regain some of the independence I don't have at the current time. Well, I think because of your eyesight, you had to reconsider what you wanted to do for work. Is that correct? Yeah, yeah. I was going to drive trains and things like that. And I'd probably have done some of the other labor and jobs that most of the folks in my family have done, but when I say not being able to drive

is just about the biggest disability I have, it's really true, you know. Bumping into things and not being able to recognize people is inconvenient and things like that. But the one thing that kind of stopped me from doing exactly what I wanted in the world was, you know, not being able to drive. You know, I couldn't be a plumber without a truck. I couldn't be a farmer without a truck. A lot of those jobs aren't available if you can't drive, especially in a place like Los Angeles. So So that's one of the reasons I moved to New York City, where there's a place where

not being able to drive wasn't really a disability. And it's one of the reasons I loved this city and stayed here for so long. Since you were so interested in trains or you were interested in being a train driver as a kid, do you particularly like train songs? Oh yeah, I think so. As much as people who like rural music tend to get stereotypes as loving songs about trains and mama, you can't help it, I don't think. But if I find a good train song,

I'll sit and listen to it for a good while. Would you mind playing one that you like particularly? Well, my favorite is probably the Pullman passenger train, which I can't do here. Let's see. Before you play the harmonica, I just want to say that like all the instruments you play, you seem to be able to make it sound like you're playing two different parts on the harmonica. So I just want, I don't know if you do that in this song, but I just wanted listeners to keep an ear out for that.

Oh, yeah. It's not sounding like I'm playing two different parts. I am playing two different parts. Oh, yeah. okay. Fair enough. Let's see, maybe I'll start off, start off this way. Oh, that harmonica's been set on. Hold on. Oh, that one's been set on too. I'm going to be a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a

little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a

little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a

little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a

little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy

I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy I'm gonna be a good boy. That was great. Thank you. That was our guest, Jerron Paxton, playing the harmonica.

Was that hard to figure out how to do? In the words of Fats Waller, it's easy to do when you know how. Pete Slauson Okay. Well, that couldn't be more cryptic than if I'd asked Mr. D. Pete Slauson Yeah, I watched a video of you playing and singing a song, Hesitation Blues. Yeah, and no, no, no, but at one point you were singing and then you played the harmonica with your nostril. Hey, there's a lot of different ways to skin a cat and entertain the audience here.

Well thank you for doing that. Our guest is musician Jaron Paxton. He's got a new album of his own original songs called Things Done Changed. We'll be back after a short break. This is Fresh Air. So you said you moved to New York because in part because of the difficulty you were having with your eyesight, but I've also read that you moved to New York in part to learn maybe and play more stride piano. Was there no real scene for that in Los Angeles? You know, I got to the state to go to college in Poughkeepsie, New York. And one trip down kind of made that realization. So I didn't cross the country because I figured New York would be a good place to get along as a visually impaired person.

But once I got to the other side of the country and took a trip down to New York City, it was like, oh, I didn't need a taxi cab or cell phone or anything. I just, you know, ooh, you remember MapQuest, I bet. So I remember looking at some directions up on MapQuest about how to get to the Jaloppe Theater from Poughkeepsie, New York. And after that, I was like, all right, I guess I could be independent. Because Jalopy Theater has a lot of old time music in it. Yeah.

So, but tell us about Stride Piano in particular. I guess one of your heroes is Fats Waller. One of my heroes is Fats Waller, and even a bigger hero than him is someone who's still alive, which is Mr. Dick Hyman. I kind of got drawn to New York because I heard, oh, there's a jazz school. I later found out this wasn't true and Mr. Dick Hyman had moved to Florida at the time, I said. But I got, New York got

on my radar because I heard there were some schools out here, some jazz schools, where they'll find somebody who plays a style you love and get them to teach you. And I was like, oh, well, if I could study with Dick Hyman, I'd be great, because I don't know if you know Dick Hyman, but he's just a master of all the great styles of jazz, piano. And I was casually listening to an Art Tatum interview and he was talking about all the great musicians he'd sit and listen to. And he'd say, Oh, have you heard this young cat called Dick Hyman? He's just a fantastic music. Now, when Art Tatum is

singing your praises, you know you to catch pajamas, you understand. And so, I'd say even more so than Fats Waller, who is, I'd say he's pretty low on my list of my favorite stride pianos. I think the first one I noticed was Willie Lyon Smith. I think my most favorite is probably Lucky Roberts. And then right after him would be James P. Johnson, because James is just the master of the piano. And you know, Fats Waller sounds like a human version of James P. Johnson because James is just the master of the piano. And, you know, Fats Waller sounds like a human version of James P. Johnson. So, I figured if I wore the saddle like James P. Johnson and I, you know, shooting for the moon and missing, I'd land amongst Fats Waller and be able to write a handful of keys and ain't misbehaved and

things like that. Not too shabby. Ain't that pretty good? He did better than his mentor, as a matter of fact. He did, in certain ways, he was more famous and more known today than JNP Johnson, although I think JNP's royalty checks outdoes anybody's. Well, I wanted to play a bit of you playing sort of old-time jazz piano. And this is from a duet album that you did with the clarinetist and mandolin player Dennis Lichtman. The album is appropriately called Paxton and Lichtman. And this is part of the song called Caution Blues.

And we're going to start sort of partially into the song where Lichtman's playing some clarinet and then we'll hear you play some piano so let's just listen to this So So That's my guest, Jaron Paxton, playing from a duet album that he did with Clarence Dennis Lichtman. So, Jaron, when you got to New York, did you find sort of more like-minded musicians who played the kind of music that you enjoyed playing yourself? Oh, yes. New York was a good town for the music I was getting into at that time, which was jazz. You know, there were some great musicians in Los Angeles, but very clearly not enough action down there for a person who, like I said, couldn't drive around town to support a livelihood. But when I got to New York City, boy, the culture for traditional jazz around here was

absolutely amazing. It still exists, you know. Trad jazz, New York City jazz is a part of New York's folk culture. And you know, as a folk musician, you often deal with the idea that folk music is something rural. But, you know, there are innumerable folk songs that are made right here in New York City. You know, one of my favorite is Hall to Wood Piled Down that, you know, people think it's some ancient Anglo sea shanty or some country song from Georgia, Florida, or something like that, but it's a Broadway song written in New York City in 1887.

But it became a Southern folk song, you know, same with things like the chicken reel, songs from Boston that, you know, tend to emblemize the South and folk culture of various city songs, you know. And coming here and just having this access of people that's like, oh, I play some Jane Fee Jon Snow. Having people like Dalton Rydenow who plays that style and having Terry Waldo here that plays like a protege, a Ubi Blake. And, you know, just having that culture so

palpable here, it was an amazing change. Well, I wanted to end with a song that I think you like very much. It's written in 1928 by Irving Berlin. It's called Sunshine. I'm going to play this from the album that you did with Dennis Lichtman called Paxton and Lichtman. But before we hear it, could you tell us about the song, like, when you first heard it and what you like about it? I first heard it, I think the first person to play that for me might have been Frankie Fairfield or Mike Kiefer. Mike Kiefer's a great record collector and Frankie Fairfield doesn't need much of an introduction.

And I think we were sitting around listening to Vitaphone shorts, which Mike Kieffer collects. And I might have heard it there for the first time. But the first time that it really stuck with me is when Frank played it for me. And we watched it again and he just fell in love with the song and the lady singing it and he started playing it on guitar and singing it and, you know, I think I picked it up from him and soon got to be one of my favorite songs. Pete Slauson And so, Vitaphone shorts are like shorts that they would play in front of movies? J.D. Yeah, it was some of the early sound in theater process, I think, made by Fox Movie Tone way back in the 20s.

And so there'd be a lot of shorts and things like that, comedic acts and their first film and things like Vaudeville, which later ended up killing the business. Well, we'll hear the song in a second. But first, Geraint Paxson, I just want to thank you so much for coming in today and bringing your instruments and playing some music for us. Thank you very much. Thank you, Sam.

And this is Sunshine written by Irving Berlin. Lots of cobwebs in your head, you're getting rusty so you sin, you're feeling badly and everything looks great You're feeling rusty, yes indeed I know exactly what you need A little sunshine will make you feel okay Give the blues a change will make you feel okay. Give the blues a change, find a sunny place. Go and paint your face

with a little bit of sunshine. Pay your doctor bill, toss away his bill Cause you can cure your ills with a little bit of sunshine Why don't you take your tear drivers one by one before it is too late Hang them up out in the sun So they evaporate when your troubles start Bounding at your heart Just rub daddy into your toy with a little bit of sunshine.

Geron Paxton spoke with Fresh Air's Sam Brigger. Tomorrow on Fresh Air, our guest will be visual artist, Mickalene Thomas. Her art was described in the New York Times as bold and bedazzled paintings and photographs in which she centers images of her mother, herself, her friends and lovers in sumptuous or art historical tableaus as a celebration of black femininity and agency. Hope you'll join us. Our technical director is Audrey Bentham.

Welcome back Audrey, we're so happy to see you. Our thanks to Adam Staniszewski for his splendid job filling in as our engineer of these past couple of months during Audrey's absence. Our co-host is Tonya Mosley. I'm Terry Gross.