Las Vegas Sun

March 28, 2024

Jivebombers: The New Morty Show

First published on Aug. 2, 1997.

"Hey, man," the voice crackles from the receiver.

"Morty!" I howl. "How's it going, baby?"

It's gotten to the point where Morty Okin is just as happy to hear from me as I am from him. I don't play the role of unapologetic fanboy very often, but in the case of The New Morty Show, well, it's hard to hang with these jivebombers without slinging a fair amount of slobbering praise their direction.

"All right, can't complain," he says. "Listen, we were wondering what the weather was like out there."

"Hot." I wish I could put an amusing spin on the weather, but it's not possible. It's goddamned hot, plain and simple. The band was set to play its first gig at the Hard Rock Hotel as part of their summer-long Hollywood Swing series, and I wasn't about to put these swank Bay Area hepcats poolside in Las Vegas in wool suits. If they came to Vegas in the threads they wore for their regular Vegas gig at New York-New York's boisterous Empire Bar, they would melt like Popsicles in a microwave and I told him so.

"Oh, well," says Morty. "We'll do it casual. Say, did Big Bad Voodoo Daddy come out in their Zoot Suits?"

"Yeah."

"They're specially made," he chuckles. "Little-known secret: it's a lighter material than the real stuff. Makes it easier to play."

"I may wear my Rat Pack suit this time out," I tell him. "Just 'cause I love you guys more than life itself."

"Nah, fuck that," says Morty. "Be comfortable. We will."

In more ways than one. The New Morty Show was literally born to play Las Vegas; the band was assembled for a New Years' Eve gig at the Mirage a few years back. But there's more to it. Of all the new swing bands currently making the rounds-including the aforementioned BBVD, Cherry-Poppin' Daddies, the Royal Crown Revue, the ascending Squirrel Nut Zippers and dozens more nationwide-the NMS is the most innately Vegas. No other band comes close.

It starts in the rhythm section. Bassist Dan Andrews more or less fences with drummer Dave Rubin, trying to out pace the percussionist's fluid hands. Guitarist Whitney Wilson hangs to the side, head cocked, following the action with a wry smile. John Quam pounds the keys fervently, flavoring all with his enthusiasm. The horn section-David Murotake on tenor sax, Tom Griesser on baritone sax and Mr. Van Hughes (the oldest and most experienced of the group, Van has earned his proper title) on trombone-punch out the charts loud enough and well enough to knock down buildings.

Out in front, elegant and sexy Connie Champagne invests her heart and soul in every vocal, while co-vocalist Vise Grip works the stage, the band, and the whole room into a frenzy with a pure Vegas style that Jimmy Durante would have been proud to claim as his own.

And then there's Morty Okin, the cat with the trumpet. For the most part, Morty anchors the horn section, takes the occasional potshot from Vise, actually Morty's father ("Knock it off, kid, or I'll take the baby seat out of the Volvo"), and conducts the band through the more frenetic arrangements.

It's then you can see it, if you're looking. Even in 100-degree weather, Morty wears an expression as close to pure ecstasy as one can wear in 100-degree weather. As the band wraps "Peter Gunn," Morty holds his trumpet aloft, then swings it downward in a triumphant swoop normally executed by someone who's discovered gold. It's The New Morty Show in Fabulous Las Vegas-hot, happy and the best goddamn swing band in Sin City. If only they weren't based in San Francisco, the movement would be complete.

"You know, you're rapidly becoming the hardest working band in this town, bar none," I tell Morty later.

"But we're not, though," he laments, ever the gold-plated workaholic. "That's the problem."

FATHER OF MINE

When the New Morty Show is on, they're on. The schmoozing doesn't shut off at will. Sitting among the band members between sets at New York-New York's Empire Bar is tantamount to sitting at the business end of a shooting gallery. The zingers fly fast and hard.

"He has more hair in his eyebrows than I have on my head," Morty goads his old man.

"You fathered this guy?" I ask Vise.

"Yeah," he says, rolling his eyes. "Tried to pull out, but it was too late."

"Conceived in the back seat of his Vega," Morty laments. "David here is my half-brother."

"Yes, he's my half-brother," David confesses. "I met him at a gay bar, dressed as a samurai."

So, did Vise pretty much sire the whole band?

"Pretty much," says Vise.

"Plus, we've got Uncle John over there, and our grandfather Van," Morty gestures.

"Just call me Methuselah," Van says, twinkling.

"Van's been here since the Gold Rush," Vise interjects.

"I worked for Wells Fargo back then," says Van.

"He drove the stagecoach, and played trombone at weddings," says Vise.

It's an uphill battle, but a few facts manage to spill out. The band appeared in the Francis Ford Coppola comedy "Jack", and Vise appeared briefly in "The Game". Vise fronts another band, The Ambassadors of Swing, and was recently voted San Francisco's Best Bartender by the Bay Guardian alternative newsweekly. Until recently, Connie taught drama to high school kids.

Van has played with several legitimate jazz greats, including Harry James and Stan Kenton. Morty and David played with Undercover S.K.A.-with or without Samurai costumes none can say. And Dave the drummer is somewhat loath to leave his six-figure career for Vegas gigs, prompting the hire of Vegas-only drummer Kevin Stevens, an affable longhaired cat.

(Morty said that Dave refused to play Vegas, "unless we get a gig at the Hard Rock Hotel." Unbeknownst to both of us the band would get their wish less than a month later, and sure enough, Dave hopped back into the drummer's seat.)

"Do you guys find yourselves having to fight this din when you play?" I ask, gesturing broadly to the surrounding casino.

"Actually, we play in the same key as the slot machines," smiles Connie. "Ding, ding, ding... It kinda works as an extra harmony part."

WE LOVE THE DOUBLE DOWN

This being a Tuesday, the band has to let the low gaming rumble win out. The volume and energy level are somewhat lowered, at the request of NY-NY's management.

"Otherwise, they've been absolutely great to us," Morty stresses. "You should see the view I've got."

"I'm overlooking the neon In-N-Out Burger sign," bassist Dan grins. "In, out, in, out, flashing all night."

Usually, the band's set includes a killer version of Benny Goodman's "Sing, Sing, Sing" that incorporates pieces of the Sex Pistols' "Anarchy In The U.K." and the Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated."

"We can't do the punk stuff during the week," says Morty. "During the early shows, we have to tone it down a bit."

The set normally includes any number of swingified punk/metal/ska covers, including Madness' "One Step Beyond," X's "Hungry Wolf" and Metallica's "Enter Sandman," Van's favorite.

"I love any song that's got a bass solo in it," Dan deadpans.

"The blue-hairs, they're not rocking too much to 'Enter Sandman'," says Vise. "Not at a 7:30 show."

Break over, the band kicks into their second set of three. They assay Louis Jordan's "Caledonia," Lionel Hampton's "Flying Home" and Cole Porter's "Night And Day" with self-assured relish. When the band kicks in-really kicks in-they seem unbeatable. Connie really belts out her vocals, reaching the high casino ceilings with what appears to be minimal effort. Vise's legs seem to move independently of his torso, carrying him all over the stage in a whirlwind-over to John, dancing with Connie, and finally over to his son, who he insults with good-natured panache.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my son," Vise announces. "Can you believe that he's single, girls? Ever watch 'Fantasy Island?'"

Morty won't take this lying down. "My dad," he shoots back, "voted worst-dressed man in Las Vegas."

The crowd is mostly stationary, tapping their feet or bobbing their heads. A few brave souls manage to swing around a nonexistent dance floor, but for the most part, the fanny-pack crowd stays put.

"There's a lot of people from Arkansas [watching tonight] who think this is culture," grins Whitney.

Actually, there's quite a few locals you couldn't convince otherwise. Morty's local following is large, vocal and devoted. Many of them will check out the band's every performance, swaying gently as Connie sings the soulful "Fifteen Months In Jail," a smoker she wrote with John.

They jump and howl as the band tears through "In the Groove" and "Buddha's Bop." The band has a good-sized repertoire of original songs that Morty promises will be compiled on a record by the end of October-not a minute too soon for their growing fan base.

"There's a real scene out here," says Vise after the set. "These kids are hungry for good music."

"And I love the Double Down Saloon," Connie adds. "Thanks for the hundred bucks, guys."

Later, I ask Double Down bartender Grant about the band's visit.

"They were a great bunch," he says. "They played nothing but swing [on the jukebox] for two hours."

THE 40-YEAR SPREAD

As the current swing revival starts to break, and numerous punk or ska bands ditch their fuck-you attitudes for patent leather, adding a horn section to what is basically a rockabilly cover band, the NMS is pure swank clear down to their socks. Even with "Enter Sandman" firmly entrenched in the set, they could go back in time and open for any Rat Pack member that struck their fancy.

"It's a pretty dynamic band," says John. "There's a 40-year spread from [the] youngest to oldest member. Plus, every personality is represented, from manic-depressive to anal-obsessive."

The second-to-last song in the band's last set is "New York, New York." As Connie and Vise croon the classic composition into the vast space of the casino, I catch sight of Dan, who's grinning wide enough to split his skull. John is bobbing his head, digging his own sounds. The horn section sways from side to side, shifting their weight from one collective foot to another.

Considering this high energy, it's hard to believe there's a manic-depressive in the group. Then again, they hadn't yet played their first gig in 100+ degree temperatures.

FAT BOP CONFIDENTIAL

It's called 'Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow'," says Morty. "I'm not sure of the label. It's a tribute record; covers of all those hair bands of the 80s-Poison, Warrant... We did 'Unskinny Bop.' Want to hear it?"

With that, Morty plays the band's latest recording over the phone. It is indeed recognizable as the Poison song-only ten times better. Vise and Connie take the arena-rock goofiness of the vocal and make it into something almost sexy. The horn section goes ballistic.

Suddenly, Morty turns the song off.

"There's only a minute left," he says apologetically. "You want to hear it?"

"Hell yes," I demand. "Put that wax back on."

He does, immediately. The office can't understand why I'm bobbing my head and tapping my feet to a phone call, but they'll find out soon enough. Within four years, The New Morty Show should be rocking the big room at Caesars, shaking ancient Rome down to its foundations. And Las Vegas will finally acknowledge that, for the first time since Sammy, Frank or Dino ruled these streets, there's a good reason to get dressed up and go to town. And even the blue-hairs will go nuts for "Enter Sandman," as it should be.

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