The Sound Between the Notes

There’s a famous scene in American music where Louis Armstrong was in the middle of a recording session and accidentally dropped his lyric sheet. Unable to grab it while the tape was still running, he had to think of something to do or say in that moment — and alas, scat singing, the sound of musical yet seemingly random syllables, was invented on the spot.

It’s a great story. But like many great stories, it becomes even more interesting when you look beneath the surface.

Many people know about the important role the Karnofskys, a family of Lithuanian Jewish immigrants in New Orleans, played in Armstrong’s early life. Armstrong worked for them as a boy and remembered them with deep affection. They were religious Jews, and he heard them praying and singing in their kitchen. He later wrote that they “instilled in me singing from the heart.”

“Singing from the heart” is not about perfection. It is not about hitting a note as cleanly or correctly as possible. It is about meaning what you sing. It is about communicating something real, something true.

Armstrong reportedly told his friend, Cab Calloway, that his inspiration for scat singing came from hearing the Karnofskys praying — what he called “the Jews rockin’.” He never spoke about this publicly, because he worried people might think he was making fun of Jewish prayer. But that wasn’t it at all. He was moved by it. He heard something in those sounds that stayed with him.

So maybe the syllables of scat weren’t quite as random as they seemed. Maybe some of that sound came from Lithuania, through a Jewish kitchen in New Orleans, absorbed by a young Black genius who would transform American music.

Around the same time, in upstate New York, another young musician was listening closely to Louis Armstrong.

His name was Chaim Arluck. He was the son of a cantor and received much of his early musical education in the choir at his father’s synagogue. Eventually, he changed his name to Harold Arlen and became one of the great American songwriters, composing “Over the Rainbow,” “Stormy Weather,” “Come Rain or Come Shine,” “Get Happy,” and so many other classics.

Arlen was Jewish. Armstrong was Black. One came out of the synagogue; the other came out of New Orleans. But Arlen heard something familiar in Armstrong’s music.

“I don’t know how the hell to explain it,” Arlen once said, “but I hear in jazz and in gospel my father singing.”

Arlen’s father, Samuel, was a cantor and, according to his son, a remarkable improviser. Ben Sidran writes that Arlen considered his father “the most delicious improviser I ever heard.” Arlen recalled listening to a Louis Armstrong record with his father when Samuel suddenly became agitated. He wanted to know where Armstrong had gotten a particular phrase. Arlen explained that it was a common riff, but his father insisted it sounded exactly like something he had improvised during a synagogue service.

At the same time that Arlen was falling in love with Black music, one of the great Black artists of the 20th century was falling in love with Jewish music.

Paul Robeson, the singer, actor, activist, and towering cultural figure, felt a deep connection to Jewish song. As a young man, he reportedly encountered Jewish music through the synagogue of composer Jerome Kern’s grandfather, who served as a cantor. That experience helped spark a lifelong fascination. Robeson went on to perform songs in Hebrew and Yiddish and spoke movingly about the relationship between Black spirituals and Jewish liturgical music.

“From the songs preached or spoken by Negroes in their religious life, and in their deep trouble under slavery,” Robeson said, “it is only a step to the beautiful songs of the Jewish people which are sung or chanted in their synagogues.”

And maybe that is why so much Black and Jewish music seems to live in the same emotional neighborhood.

‘Singing from the heart’ is not about perfection. It is not about hitting a note as cleanly or correctly as possible. It is about meaning what you sing. It is about communicating something real, something true.

It’s hard to explain exactly what drew so many music-loving American Jews to Black music — and vice versa — but perhaps the answer lies in the “blue note” both cultures share.

Unlike most European classical traditions, the goal in both of these musical cultures is not precision. The goal is truth. Hitting the note right at its center is not the only way to hit it. Sliding into or out of the note is more than acceptable — it’s essential. The music lives in the space between the notes.

Don’t believe me? Try playing the sheet music to a blues, gospel, or cantorial piece exactly as written. You’ll feel something missing.

Bob Dylan was asked how he responds to people who say he has a bad voice. His answer was unforgettable: “Sam Cooke said this when told he had a beautiful voice: ‘Well, that’s very kind of you. But voices ought not to be measured by how pretty they are. Instead, they matter only if they convince you that they’re telling the truth.’”

That idea was confirmed for me recently in a unique way. I found myself in the exciting but slightly intimidating position of sitting with one of the most important composers in American music: Mike Stoller, of the legendary Leiber & Stoller songwriting team. They wrote “Hound Dog,” “Stand By Me,” “Kansas City,” and so many other classics.

I told Stoller something I’d always felt but never voiced: “If you play most Jewish songs exactly as written, or most Black spirituals exactly as written — or, and I mean this as a compliment, a lot of your songs, too — they just don’t sound as good. I think they’re meant to be interpreted soulfully. They’re not written for precision. They’re written for truth. Does that resonate with you?”

He lit up.

“Absolutely,” he said. “Back in the early ’50s, Capitol [Records] and others would record our songs with their artists, and we never liked the results. So, we became record producers — to protect the intention of the songs. If we couldn’t be the ones singing or playing, we needed to guide those who did, to make sure it sounded the way we heard it in our heads.”

That line stuck with me: We became producers to protect the intention of our own songs.

To Leiber & Stoller — and later, to Burt Bacharach and others — the written notes were just a sketch. The real magic came in the phrasing, the rhythm, the bend of the note, the breath between syllables. And that’s not something you can fully write down.

It has to be felt.

And that is the sound between the notes.