I spent most of yesterday afternoon at the Buckminster Hotel near Fenway Park listening to some of the really worthy jazz improvisers strutting their wares before an informal and appreciative crowd. There was Sandy Williams, one of the lesser known but very individual Negro trombonists; there were some fairly fair local boys, each of whom at times had some interesting things to say on their little instruments; and there were Max Kaminsky, the stubby trumpet player who is right in his element in front of a small band, and semi-legendary Peewee Russell, who painfully extorted a half-hour's worth of intoxicated notes from his ram-shackle clarinet, after playing most of the afternoon at the Ken's rival session. Peewee hadn't been too exciting at the Ken, I understand--something about the other men not playing in the right key. But with his colleague Kaminsky to kid him along he gave of his knocked-out best.

I heard only a few minutes of the Ken music. They had many more names than the Buckminster: Red Allen and his men, Al Morgan, Sam Donahue, and three of Fats Waller's band. But that sardine can atmosphere you find there, with people at, on, and under every table trying to get a look at the performers, is not conducive to enjoying the music at all. Still, if you were comfortable enough to listen, the output was naturally quite savory.

These two Sunday sessions, though, are not alone in their glory this hot June exam week. Allen's band plays of an evening at the same Ken, where his man Don Stovall plays every pleasing alto. Tuesday time-honored Sidney Bechet will bring another colored group there as a relief band, and if that means no more floor show so much the better. There is Fats Waller at the Tictoc as well, not to forget Sabby Lewis at the hardy perennial Savoy.

And apart from music by real live people, I can recommend the soundtrack of "Syncopation" at the RKO Boston, which has the finest jazz recorded on it of any movie I can remember, including "Second Chorus" and every picture featuring a name band. It's encouraging to hear Bunny Berigan, who does nearly all of the trumpet work, in top form again.

With all this evidence you can't deny me that there is better hunting for the chasseur de jazz now than when I inherited this young column, to play with a year ago. And finding all this to listen to and write about has been an increasing justification for my doing so regularly in a paper which reviews plays, books, and movies only casually and occasionally runs something about classical music. If there is enough interest shown next fall to warrant continuing the "Swing" column when the Crimson returns to a five-day week, a competition will be run, and I know there are some well-jazzed editors who will be around to pick the winner.

I have no idea how many people ever looked at these effusions. I know jazz followers can't get enough reading matter on the subject, whether that matter is worth attention or not. But I also know that those who are more than casually interested in the subject are in a minority here as anywhere, and my hope is that by hammering away week after week from different angles I may have aroused a spark or two of curiosity in some fine fellows who have a great deal of musical enjoyment ahead of them. And trusting that this may be so, I get drafted happy.