By Marilyn Lester***Frivolity was promised and frivolity was delivered. The mutli-talented singer-musician Bryce Edwards performed his Frivolity Hour at a packed Birdland, and the result was, in the old show-biz tradition, a show that left ’em begging for more.
Edwards has said that he takes frivolity very seriously, and vows to entertain his audience or die trying. Add “humorist” to his accomplishments‚ the Frivolity Hour was deliciously laced with it. Who couldn’t love a charming, and, oh, yes, adorable, entertainer who plays the ukulele, banjo, tenor guitar, mandolin, songophone and kazoo, plus some other esoterica from the 1920s? From his opener, Cole Porter’s “Let’s Misbehave,” we were hooked. Best, yet, Edwards so obviously loves what he’s doing that the passion is joyously catching.
And what he’s doing—singing and performing principally the music of the 1920s highlights that music from a century ago still lives and breathes with resonance. In this scribe’s experience, it seems that a considerable number of young folks are drawn to the Roaring Twenties. It was the Jazz Age—the decade between a World War (and a pandemic) and the Great Depression. Booze was underground in speakeasies; Prohibition was on. The mood of the land was giddy and it made room for eccentricity: novelty songs, strange instruments and more. Dancers danced the two-step; bands played for dancing and not for concertizing. 
Rhythm was syncopated. And think about this: very little technology. It was an unplugged world. And all of this Edwards embodies. You might make a case that he actually time-traveled a century forward.
If he did, he also brought his band with him: masters of the music Conal Fowkes on the keys, Scott Ricketts on cornet, Ricky Alexander on clarinet and tenor saxophone and Jay Rattman on baritone saxophone. Listen closely and you’ll hear Rattman’s omp-pah beat. It was mostly the tuba that kept time back then; double basses were just coming to the fore. There’s authenticity on the Edwards stage (notice the mic he uses). In that spirit it’s delightful to hear him tell the back stories of the tunes he sings and the performers who first sang or wrote the material—fascinating stuff.
Another joy of the Frivolity Hour was hearing tunes that entered the American Songbook but are seldom heard t
oday: “Nobody’s Sweetheart (Now)” (Billy Meyers, Elmer Schoebel, Gus Kahn, Ernie Erdman), “At Sundown (When Love Is Calling Me Home)” (Walter Donaldson) and a clever novelty tune, “The Broken Record” (Boyd Bunch, Charles Tobias, Cliff Friend) are fine examples. For jazz lovers, some songs might be familiar, such as “Whispering” (Vincent Rose, Richard Coburn, John Schonberger, Marvin Schonberger), made famous by Paul Whiteman, and “If I Could Be with You (One Hour Tonight)” (Henry Creamer, James P. Johnson) a hit for a young Louis Armstrong.
More overflowing charm and delight ensued when Edwards brought his “sweet patootie” to the stage, Reilly Wilmit. Pefectly matched and paired, the duo sang “Button Up Your Overcoat” (Ray Henderson, B.G. DeSylva, Lew Brown) with kazoos and a few musical oddities flying fast. They sang a golden oldie, from the 1920s perspective, “Shine on Harvest Moon.” The song is attributed to vaudevillians Nora Bayes and Jack Norworth and was debuted by them in the 1908 Ziegfeld Follies, but was written sometime before that.
Closer was a hat tip to Ted Lewis, who fronted one of the most popular, best-selling Jazz bands of the 1920s. He was often dismissed as being corny—he famously asked his audiences, “Is everybody happy?”—but was a solid, even pioneering musician despite his chatty eccentricities. Edwards a la Lewis, offered one of the Lewis “Sunshine” songs, with the band members each taking a feature.
Keep an eye on young Edwards. He’s the bee’s knees. You couldn’t spend a better hour of frivolity. Guaranteed you’ll leave feeling like the cat’s pajamas.
Photos by Andrew Poretz
