Jazz musician nicknamed Pops

Jazz musician nicknamed Pops, Have you noticed how nicknames have pretty much disappeared from jazz and baseball? There’s only the odd half-decent one around, say, Joey Bats or Trombone Shorty.

Consider the jazz past: Jelly Roll, Satchmo, King, Duke, Count, Fatha. Bunk, Bix, Bunny, Cootie, Wingy, Jabbo. Bubber, Baby, Muggsy, Bumps. Tricky Sam, Rabbit, Bean and Prez. The Lion, the Beetle, Pinetop, Fats, Slim and Slam, not to mention Bam. Klook, Newk, Bags, Babs, Jug, Keg, Philly Joe, ‘Trane and Cannonball. Lots of Reds, Shortys, Pee Wees, Luckys. Oh baby!

Or take a look at baseball’s nickname glory days: “the Sultan of Swat,” “the Peerless Leader,” “the Grey Eagle,” “the Iron Horse,” “the Meal Ticket,” “the Yankee Clipper,” “the Splendid Splinter” and so on.

Swank vs. swing

Nowadays, not only does jazz not have nicknames, but players’ actual names have gone all formal: Nicholas, Marcus, Branford, Terence, Elliot, Reginald, Wycliffe. Sounds like the register at some swanky English men’s club, like they should all have “Sir” in front of them or “Esq.” after them. I’m all for jazz musicians gaining more respect and social standing and everything, but can’t we cool it a bit with the tony names? Maybe have the occasional Cornbread or Bricktop around to liven things up a little?

Just try to picture the landscape of jazz history if things had always been this formal. Would a band called Edward Ellington and His Orchestra have been quite so singular? Do the names Thomas Waller, Charles Ellsworth Russell, Wilbur Clayton or Roland Berigan grab you? No, but Fats, Pee Wee, Buck and Bunny do.

These nicknames have colour and poetry, rhythm and meter, they swing, just as their owners did. They’re not just nicknames, they’re calling cards of distinctive identity, announcements of personality and individualism.

The Wild Hoss of the Osage and other classics

Baseball history is also rich in nicknames, though in the baseball nickname heyday it worked a bit differently. Jazz nicknames were permanent fixtures, names the various musicians were always called, whereas many baseball nicknames were full phrases or titles, often dreamed up by sportswriters, sometimes by fans or fellow players, bestowed as a respectful tribute to a player’s greatness.

They could be quite ornate and fanciful, as in “the Wild Hoss of the Osage” for Pepper Martin, or “Death to Flying Things” for Bob Ferguson and his great glovework at third base. Things like “Babe Ruth’s Legs” for Sammy Byrd, a late-inning defensive sub for the Bambino and “Old Aches and Pains” for the shortstop Luke Appling, in recognition of his mild hypochondria.

Nicknames in baseball became livelier and more personal over time, often describing a player’s personality, his mannerisms, appearance, special abilities or even flaws. Johnny Evers was known as “the Crab” for his grouchy intensity, Burleigh Grimes was “Ol’ Stubblebeard” for his grizzled look. Paul Waner and his kid brother Lloyd were known as “Big Poison” and “Little Poison” – because that’s how New Yorkers pronounced “person” – and Brooklyn’s Carl Erskine was known as “Oisk” for much the same reason. And of course Dick Stuart was “Dr. Strangeglove” for his butcherous defence at first base – one of the great nicknames ever.

So, why no new nicknames?

I’ve barely scratched the surface, there were hundreds of nicknames and those are just a few favourites. As to why they’ve virtually disappeared and what this means, well, those are big questions.

Maybe the fading of nicknames boils down to the fact that individualism is less valued now; we no longer have as emotional or personal a response or attachment to jazz musicians or ballplayers as many once did. These figures were given nicknames because they were unique, distinctive and because people felt close to them – even if they weren’t.

It was personal in a way that we don’t feel about our stars anymore. We admire them; some of us idolize and obsess over them in excessive and very odd ways. We envy them, secretly crave and celebrate their occasional downfalls, but we don’t feel close to them.

There’s far too big a gap between them and us for that to happen now. The revenues in the sports and entertainment industries have become too big and corporate to allow a real connection that might lead somebody to call a ballplayer Twinkletoes, or a jazz musician Pops.

The spiralling salaries have also been a factor – a guy making $15 million a year probably wouldn’t take too kindly to the nickname “Choo Choo,” any more than you’d feel inclined to call him that. Nobody is going to write a piece about the viability of signing a free agent named “Puddin’ Head” Jones or “Losing Pitcher” Mulcahy, any more than they’re going to write a serious critical profile of a jazz singer nicknamed “Mr. Five by Five,” even though Jimmy Rushing is about as serious as jazz singing gets.

I’m not trying to suggest that baseball or jazz is any worse because of the dearth of nicknames, or that either could be instantly improved simply by a return to the days of inventive monikers – although it sure couldn’t hurt. It’s more that it’s cheering when the warmth and humour of jazz and baseball nicknames shine through from the past (you know, minus the Depression, lynchings, Second World War, McCarthyism and other fun stuff). It makes the present seem a little more colourful, a little less drabsville, as they might have said back in the (nickname) day.