One day last month it was announced that Louis Armstrong would play a three-week stand at Bop City in New York. This notice badly frightened those who have been looking to Satchmo' to stifle the moans and yelps of the musical fringe that is bop; but the fright passed as Armstrong stuck to his two-beat last and gave no ground to the banana-split-and-beret coterie that haunts the "bars" in bop halls. It would seem that there are still people who prefer the easy phrases of Dixieland to the jolts and bumps of the new form.

Considerable credit for the continued popularity of honest jazz goes to a few small record companies which have pressed more and more Dixieland sides as demand increased-established houses like Commodore and Blue Note, and newer ones like Circle.

Organized in 1945, Circle Sound, Inc. has poked and pulled more than 20 albums and many singles into circulation, as well as compiling a monumental 45-record Jelly Roll Morton cycle which is available in some libraries or at a fine price to the more opulent admirers of Mr. Morton. Among the best albums presented are by two bands which appeared on the "This Is Jazz" program in 1947-one led by Kid Ory, the other by Wild Bill Davison.

Ory's band (This Is Jazz: II, 2 12-inch records) was composed of older players, men who for the most part had given up music until 1943, when Ory put them together for a West Coast tour. These four sides, cut in 1947, are fine examples of a Dixieland that even the purists will like; yet neither old age-Edward Ory was born in 1889-nor an old style can make these records dated.

The opening side, "Snag It," puts Ory right out in front with a long, gutteral, uncompromising trombone solo. He lacks the force of an artist like George Brunis, but his low-register slides and his beautiful background work for Bud Scott's dry vocal make a neat piece. The other side of this one, "Savoy Blues," takes off on this old standard to display all the talents in the band-trombone, clarinet, guitar, bass, piano, and trumpet solos are packed between opening and closing choruses. Joe Darensbourg's clarinet stands out among the others here.

The same plan is followed on "Weary Blues," with Andrew Blakney's trumpet just before the final chorus the highlight here. "Down Among the Sheltering Palms" closes out the album; as Ory exhibits a lightness that seems incredible after his happy shouting phrases on the other sides, and guitarist Scott contributes a shouting, pushing vocal that shows a fine scorn for the loving spirit of his lyrics.

Ory and his men are old, if still rugged. Davison's group (This Is Jazz: 1, 3 10-inch records) is young, and it likes to fiddle around with tunes. A fine rhythm section-Baby Dodds, drums; Pops Foster, bass; Ralph Sutton, piano; and Danny Parker, guitar-make the base for all of these pieces. This segment stands out in "Eccentric" behind Davison's trumpet. Jimmy Archey, the small trombonist who made such a big noise in Boston last winter, handles the leads on "Hotter Than That" and "Big Butter And Egg Man," teaming on the latter with Sutton to manufacture a beautiful duct.

"Tishomingo Blues" is a slow number for a smooth Davison-Archey coup; "Sensation" a quickstep for Baby Dodds' imaginative drums. Those who like Chippie Hill's brash singing will clap their hands for joy when they play "Baby Won't You Please Come Home," for the venerable lady appears here for one side.

These two albums are varied in style: Ory's band is thinking in terms of a pre-prohibition New Orleans and Davison's in terms of a speak easy Memphis or Chicago. But they are both honest, both pretty much unrehearsed, both happy and medolie. These men are playing around with old friends. When Ory breaks in to ask "How you feeling, Mr. Wilson?", the latter replies with a two-chorus solo that is all the answer required. If you're sick of singing saxophones, try these for a chaser. At present, only Briggs and Briggs and the College Music Shop are kind enough to stock them; but even the people that sell television sets instead of music might try them if they heard them. They'd feel as good as Mr. Wilson, too.