In Lost Chords (Oxford University Press, 1999), Richard M. Sudhalter describes a humorous but powerful image of the working class jazz musician circa 1933:

That most broadcast work was surely, in [Artie Shaw's] words, "boring, mind- numbing garbage" is more than substantiated by a photograph recently unearthed by the Institute of Jazz Studies, at Rutgers University. It shows an orchestra led by veteran saxophonist Bennie Krueger...it's the brass, in the back row that catch the eye. Trumpeters Charlie Margulis and Manny Klein and trombonist Jack Jenney are playing their horns backward, left-handed and perfectly deadpan, while Krueger, none the wise stands in front, his back to them. The message comes across loud and clear.

This little practical joke speaks to a huge divide between passion and a paycheck. Even the most innovative, exciting soloist has bills, and opportunities to earn a living from the music you enjoyed were even fewer and far between in jazz's formative years. Technology and a post-Coltrane universe have spoiled contemporary listeners into expecting dozens of choruses (recorded in pristine digital sound, no less) from their favorite musicians. Yet even the moldiest of figs accepts that "hot" didn't always equate with "paid" or "recorded."

Most early jazz pioneers earned their daily bread in commercial bands, where jazz was usually reconciled to an eight bar solo or half chorus. The juxtaposition of these individual asides with the ensemble whole illuminates what made jazz such a revolution in American music. Collectors and aficionados happily wade through trite vocals, quacking brass and saccharine strings just to hear the band's "hot man" play his way into the future. The infrequency of these moments makes them all the more magical.

As a public service from All About Jazz, we'll save you some time and spotlight just some of these incredible moments. The source material isn't as sophisticated, but whether its Bachian fugues or Indian ragas, jazz has never been afraid to set up shop in different locales. In some cases the visit is little more than a few seconds. Occasionally someone in the recording booth fell asleep long enough to really let the band cut loose. Regardless of setting or duration, the musicians clearly relished breaking away whenever they could.

"Go Long Mule," Fletcher Henderson and His Club Alabam Orchestra
By 1924,