The Sadness of St. Louis ["La Tristesse de St. Louis"] by Michael Zwerin

August 19, 2016, 7:00 am

≪ Previous: Pencil Pushers [aka The Arrangers or "Writers"]

Very few of my business trips to Europe turned out as planned; there was always an inconsistency to them.

I suppose that since I was involved with trying to transfer risk on behalf of my clients to international insurance companies, there was always going to be an element of uncertainty in any of these transactions.

I mean when one of the executives you are dealing with has a sign on the wall behind his desk which states in large bold letters - WE DON’T ACCEPT RISK, WE ARE AN INSURANCE COMPANY! - you know that you are in for some tough negotiations and a lot of inconsistency between what you want for your client and what’s on offer by the insurance carrier [who, as an intermediary, is also your client, but that’s another story for another day].

But whether it was tea and scones in London, cafe au lait and a croissant in Paris, or an espresso and biscotti in Rome, one person that I could always count on joining me for breakfast and consistently bringing pleasure to my day was Mike Zwerin.

This was because Mike, who was based in Paris until his death in 2010, wrote a regular Jazz column for the International Herald Tribune, the English language newspaper that is available on a daily basis in most of the major cities of Europe.

And, Man, could Mike ever write.

For those not familiar with his work, Mike was an expatriate for quite a while having left for Europe in 1969.

Mike was a fine trombonist who became known when he was a member of the Maynard Ferguson band. A strange thing happened on the way to the job. His father died and Mike suddenly found himself the president of Dome Steel. I found it very hard to imagine Mike as the head of a steel company; so did he, and in fact he would stash his horn in his office in New York so that he could slip away to play gigs. Eventually he gave the position up, returned to playing full time, and became jazz critic of the Village Voice [1964-1969] and then its London correspondent [1969-71]. He moved to Paris and wrote regularly for the International Herald-Tribune for 21 years while also freelancing for various European magazines and continues playing.

Along the way, Mike authored an autobiography entitled Close Enough for Jazz that was published by Quartet Books in 1984. There's wonderful stuff in that book. It has a naked honesty that is very rare.

Over the years, Mike was also a frequent contributor to Gene Lees’ Jazzletter which is where the following piece appeared.

Gene used it as one example to support his premise that Jazz musicians, on average, are a highly articulate group. His how he explained that premise in the February 1985 edition of the Jazzletter from which the Zwerin article that is excerpted below is also drawn.

“Jazz musicians are often extremely well read. They perceive and think subtly and deeply, although they are often cautious — not shy — about whom they share their insights with. If they know you, they'll talk your ear off. I have already dealt, in one of the early issues of the Jazzletter, with a tendency of jazz musicians in the old days to let outsiders believe they were dumb, in both senses of the word. But this was an affectation, growing out of slavery in America — the camouflage of one's intelligence as a way of lying low. It was a bit of an act, that hey-baby-wha's-happ'nin' manner, which eventually developed into a sort of self-satirizing in-joke. Anyone deceived by it didn't know jazz musicians very well. While I have known a few musicians who fit the shy-inarticulate mould, they have been the exceptions. And even then, you never knew when they were merely taciturn, rather than inarticulate.”

The Sadness of St. Louis

by Michael Zwerin

PARIS

On the Cote d'Azur in the autumn of 1940, Charles Delaunay, secretary general of the Hot Club of France, received a letter from a friend in Paris who told him that all of a sudden the city seemed to be overflowing with jazz fans. On his way north, Delaunay passed through Dijon. He saw posters announcing concerts by Fred Adison and Alix Combelle. Odd. Jazz had rarely left the capitol before the war. The hall was packed and bursting with joy and applause.

Delaunay organized a concert in the Salle Gaveau on December 19. The program included the stars of French jazz, including Django Reinhardt and his new quintet with Hubert Rostaing on clarinet replacing violinist Stephane Grappelli, who was in London. It sold out. But Delaunay was impressed with more than mere numbers. Before the war tout Paris in tuxedos and gowns had fallen asleep to Duke Ellington in a sold-out Salle Pleyel. Now the audience was young, alive, happy — you could feel a certain solidarity. Delaunay repeated the program a few nights later and it too sold out.

Delaunay had read Mein Kampf. He had no illusions about Hitler: "I knew that sooner or later the Nazis would ban jazz, which they did after the United States entered the war. They called it 'decadent Jewish Negroid Americano jungle music/

"I told the musicians, most of whom used to come regularly to listen to records and jam in the Hot Club offices on Rue Chaptal, ‘Go on playing the same songs, whatever you like. Just change the names.'"

So St. Louis Blues became La Tristesse de St. Louis, and Honeysuckle Rose became Le Rose de Chevrefeuille, and Sweet Sue Ma Chere Susanne. Delaunay emphasized in interviews and articles that jazz was now an international phenomenon, a mixture of European (French first), African, Latin, and Anglo-Saxon influences.

An aperitif named "swing" came on the market during the German occupation of France, not such a swinging time.

Etes-vous Swing? and Mon Heure de Swing were hit songs. The sartorial fad modeled after Cab Calloway's zoot suits was called swing, and the youngsters who wore it, les petits swings, came to be known as zazous after Calloway's scat-singing syllables — zazouzazou hey!

Zazou boys wore pegged pants with baggy knees. High-rolled collars covered their hair. Long checked jackets several sizes too large, dangling key chains, gloves, stick-pins in wide neckties, dark glasses, and Django Reinhardt mustaches were all the rage. The girls wore short skirts, baggy sweaters, pointed painted fingernails, necklaces around their waists, bright red lipstick. Both sexes smoked Luckies, frequented Le New York Bar, and cried, "Ca Swing!"

"Swing" became a password. To swing was really zazou. Singer Johnny Hess was crowned King of Swing — even more ersatz royalty than that other King of Swing. Les petits swings related to swing — the music — the way the hippies later related to hipsters. All image, little substance. Ersatz was king.

Zazous were considered decadent by Germans and French alike. They were also bringing a lot of heat down on the music whose name they had co-opted. "We tried to keep our distance from the zazous," recalls Delaunay. The Hot Club sponsored lectures, produced concerts, records and a magazine, Jazz Hot, throughout the Occupation, though with shortages of paper, ink and printing facilities and with so much political and social heat, the magazine dropped its title and appeared in shortened form on the back of concert programs. In 1941, Delaunay wrote, "The interpretation some give to swing is becoming dangerous for our music, their abuses risk leading to the banning of jazz itself."

Hoping to avoid repression, using propaganda for positive ends, he went on to criticize "a turbulent, uneducated youth which, under the pretext of being swing, thinks itself permitted the worst excesses."

Since the time of slavery in the United States, swing has been a metaphor for that disorderly robust state called freedom. And at no time was it more symbolic than under the Occupation.

The late Polish writer Leopold Tyrmand tells of the time in 1943 when he listened to a recording of Sidney Bechet's Really the Blues during a "clandestine jam session" in Frankfurt. The uniformed German soldier sitting next to him to him bragged, "It's my record."

"Why do you like this music?" Tyrmand asked him. "What does it make you think of?"

"Free people," the German answered. "Don't ask me why."

Delaunay's concert programs either left the word "jazz" out completely or qualified it as "Jazz Francais". He told the Germans that jazz had French roots in traditional New Orleans Creole airs and that, for example, Tiger Rag was based on Praline, a Nineteenth Century quadrille. The Germans wanted French collaboration and went out of their way to respect French culture.

At the end of the drole de guerre [in this instance, “phony war”] in 1940, the clean, lean, blue-eyed and clear-headed Germans had attracted French collaboration. Collaboration was not yet a dirty word. Collaboration implied realistic affirmative action.

In his book French and Germans, Germans and French, historian Richard Cobb explores its ambiguities: "There existed on both sides ties of friendship that had been created in the interwar years; and, finding themselves, almost overnight, in control of the complicated administration of a capital city — an event for which they had never planned . . . the Germans sought out in the first place those Frenchmen and Frenchwomen they already knew. A German railway engineer would seek out his opposite number, a German detective would have contacts in the police judiciare . . .

"One of the young (German) university graduates, who was all at once to find himself in charge of Paris publishing, had written a thesis on a French literary theme and had spent several years as a lecteur d'Allemand the University of Toulouse. He embarked on his new task with a sense of personal excitement, for it offered him a unique opportunity to come into close personal contact — sometimes daily — with all the leading figures of the Parisian literary scene. To see him merely as a censor, the obedient instrument of the Propaganda Staffel, would be to oversimplify a relationship that was much more personal and vital. He wanted to get to know as many novelists and poets as possible, and to publish as many of their works as he could. In both aims, he was extraordinarily successful; and at the end of an idyllic four-year stay in the French capital — a city he loved — he could look back to a publishers' list of enormous distinction and variety. His concern throughout had been... to see into print the works of a host of authors whom he admired and liked."

Jazz had something more than the other arts, a certain purity and honesty, that brought "enemies" together under conditions of mutual trust. Many Germans told me that anybody who liked jazz could never be a Nazi, which seems to be generally true. Dutch and Belgian musicians working in Germany during the war jammed with the young members of the Frankfurt Hot Club, formed in 1941. Nobody was accused of collaboration. One Dutch band sneaked the three dots and a dash V for Victory figure into their arrangements.

If you look a little closer, there are exceptions. Werner Molders, swing fan and Luftwaffe ace, switched on the BBC when crossing the Channel to catch a few minutes of Glenn Miller before bombing the antenna. (He later persuaded Hitler to add some swing to German radio.)

But the sound of freedom which the soldier next to Tyrmand heard somehow put jazz above the fray, neutralized it, changed the rules.

"I knew many German musicians who had been in Paris before the war," says the Guadeloupian trombonist Al Lirvat. "Now they were back as soldiers. We talked about music, we played together. I felt no racism coming from them. I never knew anybody who had any trouble for being black, no black person I knew went to a concentration camp. One cafe had a sign in the window, ‘No Jews or Niggers', but that was the French who did that. The French were much more racist against blacks than the Germans."

Lirvat worked in La Cigale in Montmartre. He says that the manager did not want to hire black musicians because he was afraid the Germans did not like gens de couleur. There had been a scene in Dijon. A French woman who refused to date a German officer was later seen with a black musician. Their band had been fired for it.

The leader, a Camerounais who spoke German, complained to the German authorities that the owner of the La Cigale was keeping French citizens from working because they were black. According to Lirvat, a German official who liked jazz issued a permit. "And I can tell you," Lirvat said, "that not only was there never a problem, but the Germans were happy to hear us. They applauded. We had a special authorization to play jazz. If it had been illegal, the authorities would have stopped German soldiers from coming there. We had good relations. We never talked politics. We talked about music and the weather."

They had special authorization?

"Yes. We knew we were playing music that was banned, but we had it in writing. The word ‘jazz' was written on our permit. That's all we played. The French owners were nervous but the place was always full of Germans. There were plenty of Germans who just liked good music. We didn't go out of our way to be friendly. You never knew when you'd fall on some racist nut, but that's not all that different from now."

Delaunay adds: "There were a lot of Germans who liked jazz. Don't forget that. The officials may have suspected what was going on, but they had more pressing worries. We used to have jam sessions in our clubhouse cellar on Rue Chaptal and one German officer often came to sit in on piano. He knew a lot of Fats Waller tunes. He couldn't do that in Germany."

Yes, you could — even in a concentration camp. The Ghetto Swingers were formed in Theresienstadt, an old fortress turned into a model camp to impress the Red Cross. The band's theme song was I Got Rhythm. In a 1960 Down Beat magazine, surviving Ghetto Swinger trumpeter Eric Vogel described their leader-clarinetist Fritz Weiss as "one of the best jazz musicians of prewar Europe. We had quite a good band. We played with swing and feeling, mostly in the style of Benny Goodman."

The Ghetto Swingers appeared in a Nazi documentary about "the good life" in Theresienstadt, but after the film crew and the Red Cross left, the band went on the road to Auschwitz.

Jazz musicians are outlaws if they are serious about what they are doing. There is no valid reason to play this music other than love — outlaw motivation in a money-oriented society. Gypsies, who generally refuse to abide by society's rules, are considered outlaws by regimented systems. A Gypsy jazz musician is a double outlaw. Survival is not easy. Django Reinhardt more than survived.

A relatively obscure culture hero before the war, he became a superstar overnight. People whistled his song Nuages in the street and his name was on the walls of Paris. He lived in sumptuous apartments, gambled in posh casinos, ate in the best restaurants. Bombs frightened him, however, and he lived near the Pigalle metro stop, the deepest in Paris, just in case.

"He was as well known as Maurice Chevalier," Delaunay says. "When he came to town for a concert, people knew that something was going to happen for a change." Even though he was a Gypsy — 500,000 of whom died in the camps — his fame protected him. There was increasing pressure for him to tour Germany, something he desperately wanted to avoid. He resisted by continually raising his price, but time ran out and he tried walking into Switzerland. He was caught. The police found his English Society of Composers membership card. This by itself could have been enough to have him convicted of espionage. The German officer began his interrogation with a smile, "Mon vieux Reinhardt, que fais-tu la?" [My old/dear Reinhardt, what are you doing here?], and freed him with a warning. Another German jazz fan.

Demand for swing music was so great that sidemen quickly became leaders, Saturday night amateurs full-time sidemen. The Americans had gone home, competition was light, and just about any European who could blow a chorus of the blues had all the jazz gigs he could handle.

About the time Swiss clarinetist Ernst Hollerhagen walked into the Schumann cafe, where he was working with Teddy Stauffer and his Teddies in Frankfurt, clicked his heels, raised an arm and greeted his friends with a "Heil Benny!", Luftwaffe Oberleutnant Dietrich Schulz-Koehn was marching along the railroad tracks near St. Nazaire with three other officers. Four American officers came towards them. Small-arms fire could be heard in the distance. The 1944 winter was cold. The men danced and blew on their hands. The day was grey, like on old print of a black-and-white war movie. This was a sideshow, and these men had minor roles.

The main theater had moved to the Fatherland.

A hundred thousand German soldiers were cut off and worn out here on the Brittany coast. The Allies were prepared to let them starve, but civilians were starving too and the Red Cross arranged evacuation negotiations along these tracks. They had been going on for an hour or two a day for two weeks now. The soldiers on the opposing sides got to know each other, took photographs of each other, and traded the prints.

An Afro-American officer who had been admiring Schultz-Koehn's Rolleiflex asked,

"How much do you want for that camera?" .

"It's not for sale." The lanky bespectacled German liked Americans, particularly Afro-Americans. He was more than pleasant about it, but he liked his camera too. But as a matter of fact, there was something he wanted. Schulz-Koehn pulled himself up straight and adjusted his leather coat. It was worth a try. "Do you have any Count Basie records?"

Toward the end of the war, Lulu of Montmartre ran a club called La Roulette featuring Django Reinhardt. Like a lot of clubs, she closed her doors at curfew time and ran a party until it lifted at dawn. English was spoken as well as French and German at Lulu's. Gestapo officers sat alongside British secret service agents, all of whom had their taste for swing in common.

His inaccessibility had made Django something of a legend in the United States, where the press had reported several rumors of his death. Right after the Liberation, he played at an army party. Considering America the big time, wanting badly to appear there, Django tried hard to please. He was, however, quite cool answering an official who asked how much he would want for an American tour.

"How much does Gary Cooper make?" he asked. "I want the same thing."

-MZ

A Footnote

“Like everyone else with a love of jazz, and a certain fascination with its mythology, I had heard the story of the German officer looking for Count Basie records during negotiations. About 1960, fifteen years after the war, when I was editor of Down Beat, the German jazz impresario and writer Dietrich Schulz-Koehn came to Chicago, and it was my not unpleasant duty to be courteous to him.

Over lunch, I asked him if he had heard the story, and knew whether it was true. Yes, he assured me, it was true. I asked how he could be sure, and he said, "Because I was that officer."

Perhaps three weeks later I was in New York, this time having lunch with my friend Alan Morrison, who was the New York editor of Ebony magazine, a warm and pleasant man who was a great friend of jazz and who, I'm sorry to say, died some years ago. I said, "I had a strange experience recently." And I told him of asking Schulz-Koehn about the incident in Brittany.

Alan smiled softly and said, "Did he tell you who the American officer was?"

"No," I said.

"I was."

— Gene Lees

↧

Joe Morello - A Career Overview

August 20, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: The Blue Angel Crowd by Dave Frishberg

≪ Previous: The Sadness of St. Louis ["La Tristesse de St. Louis"] by Michael Zwerin

"The first thing that comes to mind in thinking about Joe is that he was the greatest drummer in the world. He had students and people that he taught who were in awe of him. His drum solos were musical. ... He was just beyond most drummers."

- Dave Brubeck upon the passing of Joe Morello on 3.12.2011

Warning! This will be a lengthy posting; a very long read.

It's another of the editorial staff at JazzProfiles efforts to take a collection of previous posts about a Jazz musician and "put it all in one place" for future reference.

I've always thought that Joe's gifts as a drummer, both from a technical perspective, as a soloist and as a rhythm section accompanist, were worthy of a book length treatment and perhaps the information and opinions about him in the following piece could serve as the basis for the beginnings of such a project by an energetic and enterprising Jazz fan who shares my views about Joe's greatness.

One aspect of Joe's career that is not covered well in the following materials is the significant role he assumed as a teacher following his retirement as a performing musician with the disbanding of the classic Dave Brubeck quartet in 1968.

Through the many drum clinics he conducted as a representative of the Ludwig Drum Company, as a private instructor, and through his drumming technique books and instructional videos, Joe helped guide and teach untold number of aspiring drummers until his death in 2011.

“At the start of 1956 Brubeck made a personal decision that proved to be a most important change in his group. After three years with the quartet, drummer Joe Dodge decided to leave. Brubeck took a chance by hiring Joe Morello. Actually, little risk accrued from this decision as Morello was a masterful choice as his polished virtuosity and marked creativity made an immediate contribution to the quartet.

Described by some critics as a sort of purgatory for jazz drummers, Morello was to absolutely flourish in the confines of this supposedly ‘unswinging’ ensemble, especially with its high visibility, daring improvisations and later experimentation with odd or unusual time signatures.

All these factors helped launch Morello to a position of preeminence in the world of jazz drumming and with good cause. The leap into the limelight was no concoction of media hype but well-deserved fame for an exceptional musician.

With the Brubeck quartet, this powerful young workhorse on drums continued to have the same effect on audiences, but now in larger concert halls rather than in small clubs. Soon Morello was no longer a discovery, but a known commodity, emulated by a generation of young percussionists. “

- Ted Gioia,The San Francisco Scene in the 1950’s West Coast Jazz: Modern Jazz in California 1945-1960, [p.96 and p.98, paraphrase].

In 1938, the legendary photographer Alfred Stieglitz was presented with one of the 500 copies of Ansel Adams’ photographic masterpiece – Sierra Nevada: The John Muir Trail.

Upon receiving this gift, Stieglitz declared: “I am an idolater of perfect workmanship and this is perfect workmanship.”

I, too, am an idolater of the perfect workmanship that is to be found in the drumming of Joe Morello as primarily exemplified in the many recordings he made with the Dave Brubeck Quartet from 1956-68. Sadly, Joe made too few recordings outside the DBQ including those under his own name.

Sadly, too, none of the major drum anthologies contain a chapter on Joe nor to my knowledge has Joe been the subject of a biography.

So to compensate for this omission, in the coming weeks, the editorial staff at JazzProfiles thought it might be fun to compile some selected writings about Joe and feature them as postings on the blog.

The following excerpts are from the chapter on pianist Marian McPartland’s trio in bassist Bill Crow’s From Broadway to Birdland: Scene from a Jazz Life [Oxford]. Bill’s reminiscence highlights three of the qualities that I most admired about Joe: [1] his prodigious technique, [2] his well-developed sense of humor which he often exhibited in his playing, and [3] his humility.

“Pianist Marian and I and drummer Joe Morello worked the Hickory House for several years, with occasional hiatuses when she booked a couple of weeks for us in Chicago, Detroit, or Columbus, Ohio. The Hickory House had featured jazz since 1933, but by 1949, like many of the other Fifty-second Street clubs, it had given up on live music. At the time Birdland opened, the Hickory House was using a disc jockey for entertainment.

In 1951, Jerry Shard reintroduced live music there with a trio, and was followed by guitarist Mary Osborne. Marian started there in February 1952, and I joined her two years later. …

When Marian hired Joe Morello [1953], the Hickory House became a mecca for young drummers who admired Joe's superb technique. Joe played at a very tasteful level with the trio, but now and then, when Marian saw that a lot of his fans were in the house, she would give him an extended solo. John Popkin, the boss, often sat at a table near the cash register, perusing the racing news. As Joe pulled out all the stops, we would see the newspaper that hid Popkin's face begin to tremble. Then he would throw it down and rush to the bar, shouting up to the bandstand, "Stop that banging! Stop that banging!"

Morello was a spectacular drummer, but he felt embarrassed when people compared him to Buddy Rich, Max Roach, and Louis Bellson. To fend off such discussions, he invented a mythical drummer named Marvin Bonessa who he said could cut all of them. Marvin was supposedly a recluse who never recorded and rarely came to New York. Marian loved the joke. She and I abetted Joe in it, as did his friend [guitarist] Sal Salvador, to the point that Bonessa began to accumulate votes in jazz polls. Joe still tells some of his young students about the legendary Marvin Bonessa.

Between sets we usually sat in a back booth, where Joe was regularly joined by drummers who came to talk to him and watch his hands. Joe practiced constantly on the table top, using a folded napkin to dampen the sound.

Sometimes he would use just the forefinger of his left hand to keep his drumstick tapping at a rapid, controlled speed. On drum solos he would combine that finger trick with wrist accents.

I fooled around with Joe's drumsticks until I got the hang of his finger trick. When his students marveled at his use of it, Joe would say, "Gee, anybody can do that. Even my bass player can do it."

He'd hand me a stick and I'd casually demonstrate, ruining their day.”

The following video tribute to Marian McPartland finds her along with Bill and Joe performing Tickle Toe.

Marian’s trio with Joe on drums is also featured on the following video tribute to Bill Crow, this time playing How Long Has This Been Going On.

Joe Morello - Drum Talk, - Down Beat, March 26, 1964

Can’t you just imagine the following interviews occurring in the context of today’s video conferencing capabilities!?

The full introduction explains how the Drum Talk project came to be and a list of all the participants.

In our quest to compile information about Joe Morello in order to develop a more extended profile on him, this introduction is followed by only an ordering of the questions that Joe offered responses to.

Drum Talk Coast-to-Coast, March 26, 1964

The discussion that begins on this page is out of the ordinary in that it was held at three separate locations on separate dates. The first discussion was at Down Beat's New York City office with Art Blakey, Tony Williams, Mel Lewis, and Cozy Cole. The second get-together was appropriately, at the Professional Drum Shop in Hollywood, Calif., with Shelly Manne, Nick Ceroli, Donald Dean, and Mel Lee participating. The last conference was held in Down Beat's Chicago office with Elvin Jones and Joe Morello.

The same basic questions were asked at each discussion; the participants' comments, in some cases, have been juxtaposed in order to show different approaches to the same subject or differences of opinion.

THE PARTICIPANTS:

Cozy Cole has been among the most respected drummers ever since the 1930s when his work with Stuff Smith and Cab Calloway gained wide notice. He currently teaches in New York City.

Art Blakey has led his Jazz Messengers practically around the world in recent years, but he first gained influence as a sideman with Billy Eckstine's big band. He also worked with Buddy De-Franco for some time before forming his own group in the 1950s.

Mel Lewis is a veteran of the Stan Kenton Band and other West Coast musical groups and has toured with Benny Goodman in Russia. He has also done much studio and recording work and is the drummer with the Gerry Mulligan Concert Band. He currently lives and works in New York City.

Tony Williams is still in his teens. A native of Boston, he worked with Jackie McLean before joining the current Miles Davis Quintet.

Joe Morello is one of the most well-liked and respected drummers in jazz. Long a member of the Dave Brubeck Quartet, Morello has won the last two Down Beat Readers Polls.

Elvin Jones has worked with many groups but his greatest fame has come since he has been associated with John Coltrane. One of the most influential drummers, he was winner in the drum division of the 1963 International Jazz Critics Poll.

Shelly Manne is another poll winner, having won the Down Beat Readers Poll several years running. For years one of the busiest Hollywood studio musicians, he has led his own group since the '50s and owns his own night club, Shelly's Manne Hole, in Los Angeles.

Nick Ceroli is a young drummer making a name for himself in the Los Angeles area, where he has worked with the big bands of Gerald Wilson, Les Brown, and Ray Anthony,

Donald Dean is another Los Angeles drummer beginning to make his presence known in the jazz world. He has worked with Kenny Dorham, Dexter Gordon, Curtis Amy, and Carmell Jones, among others. He now is with Gerald Wilson's band.

Mel Lee, though relatively young, has had varied experience with Louis Jordan, Johnny Otis, Phineas Newborn, Etta Jones, Gloria Lynne, and many others. He currently is a member of the Harold Land-Carmell Jones Quintet.

Down Beat:It used to be that other musicians looked down on drummers as being not quite full-fledged musicians. In recent years this has changed some" what. To what extent has it been overcome and how? And how can it be completely overcome?.

Joe Morello: I think that in the last 15 or 20 years the drummer, the role of the drummer, has changed quite a bit, because the music during the last 15 or 20 years has developed to such a degree that the drummer today is not only required to keep time but also to shade and phrase, and so on, with the band in order to create a more interesting rhythm line for the band to play on.

Down Beat:Does the drummer have to be more musicianly now?

Morello: Yeah. Today it's very difficult for a drummer who can't read to go into a recording session — he's in trouble if he's playing with a band that has more than 10 men, if they have charts. He doesn't only have to be able to read them, he has to interpret this music and still create, improvise, make the sound, and make the band swing.

I think drummers are listening more today as well as using the undertones. I think that in the next 15 or 20 years there's going to be another great trend towards development in the rhythm section.

Down Beat:Today there may be an over dependence on the bassist for keeping the time. Has the switch from the bass drum to the high-hat for time-keeping deprived young drummers of essential training? Dizzy Gillespie has been quoted as saying that most drummers — not just the young ones — don't know how to play the bass drum.

Morello: I've played it both ways; I've played in bands where I've used the bass drum on all four, and I've played in bands where I just use it for accents and so on. But I'm inclined to go along with Diz, in that a lot of kids don't put as much importance on the bass drum as they should. Take the old Basic band with Jo Jones. The blend of the piano, bass, guitar, and drums . . . every beat, the bass drum was right there. It never became overbearing.

Morello: A lot of the young drummers have nothing but top—a top sound. You don't hear any bottom to it. The bass drum gives the band a lot of bottom. For instance, our bassist [with the Brubeck quartet], Gene Wright, if I don't play that bass drum in four, he'll look over and sort of nudge me. There've always been arguments between bass players and drummers, like who's going to lay down the time. But Gene wants to hear that bass drum. It should just blend together perfectly. He feels the bass drum is the basic pulse, and he can put the harmonic structure on it. Kids should learn how to play the bass drum!

Morello: I think what Diz was referring to was that a lot of the kids got hooked on this top-cymbal-hi-hit-left-hand when that was the thing, like the hi-hat was the anchor on 2 and 4. The pulse, of course, is always on 2 and 4, but we don’t have to play the high-hat on just 2 and 4; we can play it on 1 and 3 if we want.

Down Beat: Have any of you studied another instrument?

Morello: As far as my background is concerned, I played the violin when I was a child. Then I went into a little piano. I'm not a professional pianist or violinist, but I feel being a little familiar with these other instruments has helped me some. Just recently I've been trying my hand at writing. It's a lot of fun; I think it has helped me as far as playing for the group, being able to pick out things.

Down Beat: How much do you practice and how; do you practice on the pad or the set? If you practice on both, how much do you practice on each?

Morello: I hear this question about practice just about every night in the week. Put it this way: I don't practice as much as I used to or as much as I'd like to. A lot of my work, though, is done on the job. It's not practice—it's playing.

A young drummer should, as we said before, learn as much about the instrument as he can, but one just starting out should devote some time to pad practice; he can hear his mistakes more clearly and develop co-ordination. It requires a tremendous amount of co-ordination to play drums today.

Some teachers today think you should put the pupil on the drum set immediately and start him playing. Well, this is fine, but he'll just have to go back and correct his mistakes later. I'm from the school that says you should diversify your practice.

Certainly the first thing the young drummer should do is find himself a teacher who is familiar with the music business today and what's going on, who has a good knowledge of the instrument, and who can teach him control and technique on the pad. Then he can apply some of these things on the drums, because, after all, this is where he is going to be playing, not on the pad. A lot of teachers feel that pad practice will hurt you — you're not going to take your practice pad out on the job with you. True, but I think there's a happy medium; you can diversify the practice — devote an hour to the pad, an hour to the drums, as much time as you can spend.

Down Beat:What goes through your mind when you're playing either in the section or solo? And are drum solos really meaningless?

Morello: Meaningless? That's up to the individual who's listening. You could be telling the greatest story on earth, and if the person listening doesn't get anything from it, it's meaningless to him. I personally don't think they're meaningless because I enjoy playing them. I try to develop a musical form or theme and extend it.

As far as what goes through my mind, I couldn't say. I never thought about it.

Down Beat:There's been an increase in recent years of jazzmen playing in different time signatures 9 in 5/4, 7/4. Can a young drummer do himself a disservice by concentrating on these exotic times, to the neglect of 4/4?

Morello: Odd time signatures have been done for years in classical music; it's just that recently they've been applied to the jazz idiom. I don't see why 5/4 can't swing; I think it does. We've been fairly successful with them in our group. It won't hurt the young drummer to investigate these signatures. It'll give him larger scope. Naturally, he should learn to play 4/4, 3/4—and as far as that goes, 2/4. He should be able to play anything. Jazz shouldn't be limited to just 4/4. Everything develops.

A lot of drummers today, including myself, are trying to play cross-rhythms. I'm searching and trying to do different things rather than the things that have been done. And I know they can swine. We do it.

Down Beat:How ignorant are we of complex rhythms and how can a study of African and Indian rhythms help or hinder the young drummer?

Morello: I think he should also know what went on before him, how rhythm patterns developed. When he's ready to go into this, it's a necessity for him to do it; but half-knowledge is not good.

African and Indian rhythms, which are quite complex, can be incorporated into playing, if handled wisely. But I don't think a youngster just starting off should go into this; he should learn how to count four, the basic things first.

The following video from the BBC program “Jazz at Club 625” shows Joe in action in 1964 with the Dave Brubeck Quartet on Sounds of the Loop.

Joe Morello - An Interview with Les Tomkins

“Any good Jazz musician has developed from hard work and hard thought, a personal conception. When he improvises successfully on the stand or in the recording studio, it is only after much thought, practice and theory have gone into that conception, and it is that conception which makes him different from other Jazz musicians. Once he knows what he is doing, in other words, he can let himself go and find areas of music through improvisation that he didn’t know existed. Jazz improvisation, therefore, is based on a paradox – that a musician comes to a bandstand so well prepared that he can fly free through instinct and soul and sheer musical bravery into the musical unknown. It is a marriage of both sides of the brain ….”

- Eric Nisenson, Ascension: John Coltrane and His Quest [p. 53]

“I let myself go. I find as I go along, I feel like I’ve learned from many people, and yet I’m told that I’ve influenced other musicians. I hardly believe I’m as talented as some others. Someone with talent possesses a kind of facility and plays well as early as 16 or 17 much better than I could play at that age. I had to practice a lot and spend a lot of time searching and digging before I got anywhere. And because of that, I later became more aware of what I was doing, I wasn’t an imitation. I found myself with a synthesis of the playing of many musicians. From this something came out and I think it’s really mine.”

- Pianist Bill Evans, as told to Jean-Louis Ginibre

“The finger technique, practice method and of the drummer other drummer’s rave about- the Dave Brubeck quartet’s inimitable Joe Morello.”

- Les Tomkins, Jazz writer and critic

The following interview appeared in the January 1963 edition of Crescendo Magazine.

“The amazing Joe Morello beat out impressive patterns on his practice board to illustrate and embellish his statement to me on drumming in general and his unique contribution in particular.

“Yes, I’ve used the same [drum] set-up for I guess the last ten years - except that I added another cymbal about a year ago. They [Ludwig drum kit] hold up well under successive one-nighters and that silver colour is sort of a good luck thing.’

‘Sticks? I usually don’t change them around and added my own a while back. I couldn’t find one that had the action that I like so I fooled around and made some, had them turned for me and they became my model. And it’s not too bad, although they have been coming through kind of thin lately.’

Joe added ruefully - ‘The new Buddy Rich model is similar to mine - only a little heavier.

When I asked him how he tuned his drums he said that [trombonist, composer, and arranger Bill Russo had posed the same query to him a few nights earlier. ‘He liked the snare drum sound and wondered if I had any trouble turning them over here [At the time of this interview, Joe may still have been using cow hide heads on his drums and they would have been affected by England’s wet climate].’ I told him: “Not too much.”

‘There was one night on the tour when we arrived late and I didn’t have the chance to check the drums. The small tom-tom sounded like a tympani.

‘But usually when they arrive at the hall they get accustomed to the temperature inside. And so when I get there about fifteen minutes before the show, I tighten them up and tune them to my liking.

‘There’s not really a set way of doing it. The only thing I suggest on tuning is that I keep the snare drum head fairly tight and the batter head [bottom snare drum head] a little looser. A lot of people go around turning their drums a fifth and a fourth - b-flat on the bass drum and so on. I’ve never bothered doing that. I just tune them so that they sound good to me.

Inevitably, I brought up Joe’s seemingly-magical finger technique to find out how long it has been a part of his playing and how he set about perfecting it.

‘This finger control thing is something that started a long time ago in the French Conservatory. That was the first school to utilise this way of manipulating the sticks.

‘I never studied in France or anything but years ago in my hometown of Springfield, Massachusetts, I used to sit for hours trying to figure out how they could sustain this single beat with the left hand.

‘Before that it used to be all stiff wrist, much like a lot of the boys here in England are doing it. They are holding it stiff, which is not the way to do it.

‘I was just trying to figure, letting the stick rebound real loose - by itself. Of course the teacher I was with at the time said “No, you must never let the stick rebound.” ‘This was supposed to be wrong. There was a taboo on the thing.

‘Then Louie Bellson came through with the Tommy Dorsey band. He was playing this way. He got it from Murray Spivak in Hollywood, who used to teach it quite well. [Murray taught privately for many years in his clinic and was the drum master other drummers went to when they had problems with their playing]. Louie had a good understanding of it. So I talked to him and he gave me the basic principle of it, which opened a lot of doors for me.

‘I took it upon myself to analyze it and to develop it to suit my own personality in playing. That is to say I adopted it anatomically to fit what I can do with my hands. I do it a little differently from Louie - and I think everyone else does because it is sort of an individual thing.

‘Ever since that time, Louie and I have been getting together periodically to discuss this.

THE GREATEST

I’d like to mention another teacher here, who is dead now, but who in my opinion was the greatest drummer in the world - thought I can’t stand the term when applied to Jazz drumming. He was Billy Gladstone. He was a fantastic drummer. He had all these things going. He was the best exponent of it. [Billy Gladstone was a famed Broadway show drummer who often shared the percussion platform with Max Manne, the father of Jazz drummer Shelly Manne, with whom he became close friends].

‘He was a great influence as far as my hand development, technique and sound are concerned. He taught me a lot and helped me tremendously. Swinging drum solos weren’t “his cup of tea” - but for touch, technique and speed, he was the closest to a genius I’ve ever seen.

‘For the past four or five years, I’ve been in the process of writing a book about finger control. I’ll probably never finished it. Murray Spivak told me he’s been trying to write a book since 1951. It’s easier to demonstrate than put on paper.

‘The principle is relatively simple, although the application is a little more difficult. The stick is propelled with the finger instead of the wrist and arm. All you are doing is rebounding the stick with the first finger. But it has to be done with control. There must be no tension in the arm and hand, so as to get a loose handhold between the thumb and third finger.

‘The best way to practice it is to get a full turn of the left wrist, letting the stick bounce freely. As you close your first finger down, you’ll feel the pull. It’s a matter of sustaining that. It takes considerable practice over long periods.

‘I’ve been reasonably successful with it although for the last six months, I haven’t had time to devote to a practice schedule to keep it in shape.

‘The technical part of drumming is strictly physical. It requires a certain amount of training and exercise each day to maintain a decent technique.

The Tympani Grip

‘The tympani grip? [Matched-sticks grip]. There’s nothing wrong with doing it this way if you like it. This is a natural way of holding the stick For me - I feel very comfortable playing the orthodox way, especially when I’m behind the drum set. I have the high-hat cymbal on one side and everything and I feel cramped if I don’t do it this way. I’m used to this way, but I’m not opposed to the other way.

On rules and their flexibility - ‘There are several different stages in one’s development. The beginner should stick to the rules. You can’t break the rules unless you know them.

‘Once you know the rules, you can alter them to suit your personality. But when you are first going to a teacher and he says “Do it this way,” you should say: “But it’s easier this way.” It might be easier at that moment but in the long run you might be heading for an endless pit. There are certain basic rules anatomically for playing drums that should be adhered to. Eventually there will be individual characteristics that will sneak into your playing.

On teachers as opposed to books: ‘Printed matter is great - it has pictures and text, as far as that goes. But a teacher can demonstrate a thing for you. That’s the difference. All you have with a book is a visual notation of an idea - but you can’t hear it. Whereas a teacher is telling you and showing you at the same time, so you can hear how it should sound.

‘You may see something written down and do it as written, but you may not be executing it the way the author had in mind. The teacher can tell you this. Hands and wrists very a lot, so everybody has different problems. In the initial stages, a teacher can help you to solve them.

‘ It’s important to get a good teacher. There are very few people who have done anything worthwhile on drums who haven’t studied first including, Louie Bellson (who is a very schooled musician), Buddy Rich and Max Roach. A lot of Jazz drummers will try to create an image and say: “I never studied or practised.” But if you use your head this is a lot of nonsense. It’s like my saying: “I don’t eat for five weeks at a time.” You’d laugh at me.

Joe went on to speak on a more personal level. He explained his purpose in practicing: ‘I never practice hot licks. I practice for development. My practice board is like an exercise bar, like a boxer with a punching bag - strictly for developmental purposes.

‘Now when I’m playing - from practicing so much and studying - my hands will respond to whatever I want to do - within reason.

‘I don’t think I’ll ever reach my goal. I hear some things and I may never reach them. I would like to develop flawless technique which would allow me to play what I want to play anything that comes into my mind.’

He outlined his attitude about working in a rhythm section: ‘When I am playing Jazz drums, I try to complement all that is going on around me. If it is an exciting group, you let your feeling take over. If I feel that it requires accents with the left hand and with the bass drum - fine. If I feel that the mode of the music calls for straight rhythm, I’ll play just that. There are no set rules. Again, it’s individualism.

‘I don’t believe that a drummer show throw in a flurry of accents and bass drum kicks if they are meaningless. I don’t think this makes any sense.

Joe referred to the difficulty of writing Jazz feeling into an arrangement: ‘A drum part for a big band - or any group in the Jazz idiom - is written more as a cue sheet. You have all your cuts where the band stops. You might also have a two-bar pick up. And usually they will mark in just the brass figures in the band.

Interpretation

‘Now this is where interpretation comes in - and a teacher can take you over a lot of these hurdles if he knows anything about Jazz interpretation.

You take four eighth notes. They will be written one after another and the brass will phrase them in more of a 12/8 feeling. But if the arranger has to sit down and break each measure down into 12/8 time and put the triplets in, the measure would be eight inches long.

‘So this is something that a drummer has to get used to - learning how to see one thing and phrase it differently.

‘Reading is very important today. Drums have developed to such a degree that it’s no good anymore for a fellow to just pick up the sticks and beat out a hot drum solo. Today, the drummer adds tonal color to the band. He’s playing more with the band. He’s more of an integral part of it and he’s depended on more than he was years ago.

‘Years ago a drummer was just seen and in a lot of cases wasn’t heard and didn’t mean anything. When they hired the band they’d day: “I want seven musicians and a drummer.” Now the drummer has to be a musician, too.’”

Here’s more of Joe’s brilliant drumming in a 1961 video featuring the classic Dave Brubeck Quartet in a performance of Castilian Blues.

Joe Morello - In A Big Band Setting

“The music on this album represents Joe Morello at his peak, and shows off some sides of his playing that have been relatively undocumented. Here was a drummer who was equally at home with small combos and big bands; a drummer who could handle the most complex time signatures and who was equally adept at straight-ahead swing; a drummer who had as much technique as any drummer who has ever lived, but who always put the music first.”

- Rick Mattingly, insert notes to [Joe Morello RCA Bluebird- 9784- 2 RB]

By any standard of measurement and without the need for any hyperbole, Joe Morello was a phenomenal musician who happened to express his genius on drums. And despite the incomprehensible derision he endured from some members of the East Coast Jazz Establishment - “He didn’t swing.” [?!] - he was an exceptionally brilliant drummer who swung his backside off.

Anyone who has ever had anything to due with the instrument in a Jazz environment, simply understand this - Joe was incomparable.

While we are fortunate to have many recorded examples of his playing in small groups, especially those he made during a three years association with pianist Marian McPartland’s Trio [1953-1956] and those made as a member of the “classic” Dave Brubeck Quartet [1956-1968], sadly, there are too few recordings of his extraordinary drumming in a big band setting.

The following insert notes by Rick Mattingly to Joe Morello [RCA Bluebird- 9784- 2 RB] provides some explanations for this void.

“It was the early '60s, and the hottest jazz group going was the Dave Brubeck Quartet, who had achieved the rare distinction of having a number-one hit on the pop charts. The tune was called "Take Five," and its two main points of interest were the 5/4 time signature and the drum solo, played by Joe Morello. The record epitomized the "cool jazz" of the period, and Morello was the ideal drummer for that era. His style was firmly rooted in the swing and bebop traditions, but Joe was also a schooled performer who had studied with George Lawrence Stone of Boston and Billy Gladstone, snare drummer at Radio City Music Hall. Morello's polished technique, combined with the odd-meter time signatures favored by the Brubeck group, gave his playing an intellectual quality that fit right in on the college campuses where the Brubeck Quartet enjoyed much of their success. With his glasses and generally studious expression, Joe even looked somewhat like a college professor.

Among drummers, Morello was highly respected. When he first arrived in New York in the mid-'50s, his first order of business was to check out all of the local drummers. Stories are still told about how he would approach a drummer and ask about some little technical trick he had seen that drummer pull off. The other drummer, often with a patronizing air, would demonstrate his lick for Joe, who would then say, "I think I see what you're doing. Is this it?'— thereupon playing the drummer's lick back at him faster and cleaner.

When Morello began a three-year stint with Marian McPartland at New York's famed Hickory House in 1952, it gave all the other drummers in town the chance to check out Joe. Many still recall sitting with him at a back table between sets, where he would demonstrate his techniques by playing on a cocktail napkin. But while Morello quickly proved that he had all the chops of a Buddy Rich, he became noted for his restraint, only pulling off his pyrotechnics when it was musically appropriate to do so.

Morello joined Dave Brubeck in 1955, for what was to become a 12-year association. About the same time, he had offers from both Benny Goodman and

Tommy Dorsey, but he turned them down to go with Brubeck. "At the time," Joe says, "it looked to me as if big bands were on the way out. So it seemed to make more sense to go with Dave." It was a wise decision, as history has borne out. The Brubeck Quartet was the perfect setting for Morello to develop and display his unique approach, and during those years he repeatedly won the "best drummer" award in down beat,Metronome, and Playboy jazz polls.

During his tenure with Brubeck, Morello also became involved with the Dick Schory Percussion Pops Orchestra, with whom he recorded a couple of albums on RCA. After one of those sessions, Schory remarked to Morello, "It's about time you made your own record." The RCA executives agreed, and sessions were set up in June 1961.

"We took the title of the album, It's About Time [LPM-2486] from Schory's comment," Morello recalls. "Then we decided that we would only do songs that had the word 'time' in the title." Interestingly enough, despite the title of the album and the reputation Joe had for his expertise with unusual time signatures, there was very little of that type of playing on the record. "I wanted to do straight-ahead things on my album," Joe explains, "because I was doing so much of that other stuff with the Quartet. I wanted this album to be a whole different concept."

Because Morello was on the road so much with Brubeck, composer/arranger Manny Albam was enlisted to prepare the music and book the musicians. One player that Morello specifically requested, though, was saxophonist Phil Woods. "Phil and I grew up together in Springfield, Massachusetts," Joe says. "We played together as kids. He would be listening to Charlie Parker, I would be listening to Max Roach, and we would get together and try to imitate them. Phil and I always dreamed of having a group together, and although that never happened, we did make a few records together over the years. He's such a great player."

Another notable player on that album was Gary Burton, who was still a teenager at the time. "I met Gary through Hank Garland," Joe recalls. "I had worked with Hank at the Grand Ole Opry when I was 17. Then, after I was with Brubeck, I did a record with Hank, and he had this kid playing vibes. It was Gary, and that was his first album [Hank Garland, Jazz Winds from a New Direction, [Columbia LP 533]. When Gary came to New York, he stayed with me for a while, and then he stayed with Manny Albam after that. We did my album about a year after we had done Hank's record, and Gary had really improved a lot." Morello had also gotten Burton involved in Schory's Percussion Pops Orchestra, where they recorded together, and when Burton did his first solo a I bum for RCA [LPM 2420], New Vibe Man In Town, Morello was the drummer.

It's About Time did well enough that RCA invited Morello back to do a second album a year later. A few of the tunes on the first album had featured a brass section along with Phil Woods on sax, so this time it was decided to do a full-out big band record. Again, Manny Albam was enlisted to write the charts and hire the musicians, and again Phil Woods and Gary Burton were involved. But the album was never released. "RCA wanted me and Gary to have a group together," Joe remembers. "We had played on each other's albums, and RCA said that if we started a group together, they would really get behind it and publicize us. But I was too comfortable with Dave, so I wouldn't do it. And RCA couldn't see putting all this promotion behind my solo albums if I was still going to be doing all of that recording with Dave on Columbia. So they just didn't release the second album."

Those tapes remained in the RCA vaults for 27 years. But Morello had a copy, and he would occasionally play it for people. One person he played it for was Danny Gottlieb, a student of Joe's who has had a distinguished career of his own, working with such notables as Gary Burton, the Pat Metheny Group, John Mclaughlin, and the Gil Evans Orchestra, and who now has his own group, Elements. Gottlieb subsequently brought a copy of the tape to producer John Snyder,along with It’s About Time, and the results are contained herein [Joe Morello RCA Bluebird- 9784- 2 RB]

This collection kicks off with "Shortnin" Bread," from the unreleased big band album. "This was a little drum feature that we used to do with the Quartet," Joe recalls. "It always went over well, so I wanted to do it on my album." Morello's melodic approach to the drums is well represented here, as is his ability to kick a big band. "I think I could have been a good big band drummer if I'd had the chance to play with one for any length of time," Joe says. Judging by this, he certainly could have.

Next up is "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," featuring Morello's brush playing. Playing precise military-style figures with brushes is no mean accomplishment, and it is a good example of how Morello utilized his considerable technique in a subtle way. On the surface, Morello's drum breaks and rhythmic figures are rather basic ("l just played simple little things tha tfit with the band," he says), but when one considers the technical difficulties involved in achieving crisp articulation with brushes, one begins to appreciate Morello's degree of control.

Morello's control of fast tempos is evident on "Brother Jack," also from the unreleased big band sessions. "That's a pretty good tempo for a big band," Joe says. "Manny didn't want it to be that fast, but I wanted to take it up." Joe shows off his blazing single-stroke roll technique during the drum breaks in the middle, and ends the tune with a more thematic solo. Phil Woods is also featured on this tune.

"Every Time We Say Goodbye" is from It's About Time, and utilizes a brass section to enhance the core quintet. Morello concentrates on supporting the soloists, Woods, Burton, and Bob Brookmeyer.

Also from the first album, "Just in Time" is a quintet tune with spirited solos by Woods, Burton, and bassist Gene Cherico. "I had pretty good hands back then," Joe says of his four-bar breaks, which display his sense of phrasing, as well as his sense of humor.

"It's Easy" comes from the big band sessions, and Joe remembers it as the last thing that was recorded. "I didn't have a drum chart for this, and we only had time to do a couple of takes," Morello recalls. "When the first drum break came up, I didn't know what was going on," he laughs. Nevertheless, by the second break, Morello sounds as if he had been playing the tune for years. Colorful hi-hat work adds to the mood of this piece.

"Shimwa," is a piece that Morello wrote for the Brubeck Quartet. "We didn't play it that much, though," Joe says, "so I had Manny arrange it for the big band album. It's basically a showcase for the drums. I wanted an African-type motif, and I tried to get the effect of a couple of drummers playing." The effect is achieved by Morello's use of polyrhythms, and by his ability to set up an ostinato pattern with his left hand, leaving his right hand and bass drum free to play contrasting rhythms.

Another "time" tune, "Summertime" was arranged by Phil Woods, and features solos by Woods, Burton, and pianist John Bunch, who was no stranger to working with good drummers; he had recently been with Buddy Rich's band. Morello concentrates on straight-ahead, supportive playing here. "I didn't want to do too many drum solo things," Joe explains. "On a lot of albums by drummers, every tune has a drum solo, and let's face it, too many drum solos are boring. I wanted to be more musical."

"A Little Bit of Blues" is another big band chart by Manny Albam, and features distinctive solos by Hank Jones and Clark Terry. No technical fireworks from Morello here, just great feel.

"It's About Time" was the title tune from th first album, and is basically a setup for Morello's drum solo. All of the Morello trademarks are here: the speed, the polyrhythms, the left-hand ostinatos, the phrasing. Another feature of the tune is its changing time signature; it goes into 6/4 for Phil Woods' solo.

The quintet from the first album is featured on "Every Time "which displays the smoother side of Morello's brush playing. Joe has high praise for Burton's contribution to this piece. "Gary had really learned to phrase well," Joe comments. "When I first heard him, he was playing everything right on the beat, but by the time we recorded this, he was really adept at back-phrasing." Bunch and Cherico also have solo spots here, and Morello adds a melodic drum break.

Phil Woods wrote "MotherTime"for the first album,an uptempo 12-bartune

that features solos from Bunch, Cherico, Burton, and Woods, followed by fours between Morello and Woods. Joe's breaks include his use of space and his famous left-hand ostinato.

"Time After Time" is a ballad that features Phil Woods, backed by Morello's sensitive brush playing. Unlike a lot of drummers, Morello always disengaged his snares when playing brushes, which produced a drier, more defined sound, "Phil has such a nice feel in this tune," Morello comments, "especially during the double-time section."

Considering the tempo of "My Time Is Your Time," not to mention the large ensemble, most drummers probably would have used sticks. But Morello pulls out his brushes, driving the band with intensity rather than volume. Burton and Woods solo, and Morello takes several breaks in which he shows again that he can be as articulate with brushes as most drummers are with sticks.

This collection concludes with a Dave Brubeck composition, "Sounds of the Loop," from the unreleased big band album. During the ensemble section of the tune, Morello displays a more "open" style of big band drumming, only catching the major figures and concentrating more on keeping the time moving forward. The chart is primarily a vehicle for Morello's drum solo, and it is a definitive example of melodic, thematic drumming.

The music on this album represents Joe Morello at his peak, and shows off some sides of his playing that have been relatively undocumented. Here was a drummer who was equally at home with small combos and big bands; a drummer who could handle the most complex time signatures and who was equally adept at straight-ahead swing; a drummer who had as much technique as any drummer who has ever lived, but who always put the music first.

—RICK MATTINGLY

Joe Morello - "It's About Time"

“One thing about Dave Tough: he always was Dave Tough, just as Buddy Rich always was what he was. Tough realized we are what we are. The important thing is to be put into a musical situation where what you are can ‘happen.’ Tough found his place with Woody Herman.” [And Joe Morello found a place where he could ‘happen’ in the classic Dave Brubeck Quartet from 1956-1968].

- Mel Lewis, drummer and bandleader

“Joe Morello: One of my favorite drummers was Davey Tough. 'Cause he could keep a nice rhythm with a band and he kept good time. He didn't hardly do anything with his left hand. He was just straight ahead on the big cymbal, but he got it cookin' real good.

Sidney Catlett I used to listen to.

Scott K Fish: Did you ever get to meet those guys?

JM: Sid Catlett I met once. One time in New York.

J.C. Heard was another fine drummer. I don't know if you've ever heard of him.

And then Jo Jones, who is still a good friend of mine. He's still here. Old man Jo Jones. ‘Jonathan Jones to you.’ [Morello mimics Jo Jones’ raspy voice.] Boy, that guy taught me a lot, because I played opposite him for about six or seven weeks at the Embers. He was working with Tyree Glenn and Hank Jones. He use to play his bass drum open, see. He had a little 2O-inch bass drum, and a snare drum, cymbal, and a hi-hat cymbal. That's all he had. Oh, and he had one little floor torn. And he'd get up on the drums with brushes and he'd get that bass drum going. [JM taps drum stick on leather sofa cushion, imitating the sound Jo Jones' would get from this bass drum at the Embers].

SKF: When you say "open," you mean he had no felt strips at all?

JM: Not at all. [Keeps tapping stick on couch] and he'd get a sound just like that. A good sound.

I'd get up there and I'd play something and it would go BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM. And I'd say to him, "Jo, how do you do...?" And he wouldn't talk to me for the first two or three days. He just sort of flugged me off, you see.

But I sat down and I watched that f***in' bass drum, and I said, "I'm doing something wrong."'Cause he sounds tap, tap, tap, and when I hit it it goes BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. I couldn’t play it!

The only way you could play it, I found out, was by pressing the beater ball on the bass drum pedal into the head. He’d play up on his foot like that, but he’s been playing it like that for so long that he can control it, see. Jo was always playing toes down with his heals up!

I learned a lot about hi-hats from Jo, because Jo would always get a breathing sound from his hi-hats. We became good friends.”

- Scott K. Fish, Modern Drummer, 1979

In a previous posting entitled “Joe Morello In A Big Band Setting,” we highlighted Rick Mattingly’s insert notes to Joe Morello RCA Bluebird- 9784- 2 RB, a CD that essentially combined 7 previously unreleased big band sessions from 1961-62 with eight of the ten tracks that were issued featuring Joe Morello in a quintet setting on the RCA LP It’s About Time [RCA LPM-2486].

Since the original liner notes to It’s About Time were not included with the the CD reissue, the editorial staff thought it might be helpful and instructive to have these available online.

Joe’s quintet included his boyhood chum, Phil Woods, who also arranged some of the tunes along with Manny Albam [the arranger for all of the subsequently released big band charts], Gary Burton on vibes [these were some of Gary’s earliest recordings], John Bunch on piano and Gene Cherico on bass.

You will find two of the tracks from It’s About Time on the video tributes that conclude this portion of our ongoing feature on one of the most respected and revered Jazz drummers of all time.

ABOUT THIS ALBUM BY GEORGE AVAKIAN [Producer]

“Every limit in jazz and popular music has been stretched and broken with the passing years. Technical skills have been sharpened; musicians have turned what was once dazzling virtuosity into the professional norm. The frontiers of harmony are extended constantly—yesterday's radical dissonances are today's conventions.

"Times" have changed, too. The simple time-rhythms of the past are no longer enough for today's musicians. Improvised subdividing of the standard four-beat measure by the earlier jazzmen was a hint of what was to come. Many musicians today use 6/4, 3/4, 5/4, and far more complicated rhythms with the same freedom and skill with which variations on the customary 4/4 are tossed off. Drummers—notably, at first, Art Blakey and Max Roach—were the natural leaders of this development.

But it was a pianist Dave Brubeck who took over leadership in the extension of rhythmic horizons. As Dave's drummer, Joe Morello played a key role in winning a large public to what have remained a private enjoyment for under for musicians only. In this, his first album under his own direction, Joe clearly displays a number of the rhythmic devices for which he, as a member of the Brubeck Quartet, has become known. But - make no mistake - Joe’s first love is swinging and driving a band, whether small or large. So this album is indeed, “about time” - but the preoccupation with time never gets in the way of making swinging music.

Joe’s fantastic technique - probably the most overwhelming, ever - is never just for showing off. Throughout the record, he is heard as an integral member of the group; even his longest solo is actually an extension of what the band has been playing. That he is the member who provides most of the spark and drive for each performance is plainly evident at all times.

A basic small combo is heard throughout the album, with a brass ensemble added for four numbers (I Didn't Know What Time It Was, Every Time We Say Goodbye, Time on My Hands, and It's About Time). Manny Albam, arranger and conductor for these numbers, has integrated the combo so that there is frequently a concerto grosso quality to the sound of the ensemble.

Phil Woods, alto saxophonist throughout this set, is the arranger of five of the six remaining selections. Completing the album is a trio improvisation (Fatha Time) by pianist John Bunch, bassist Gene Cherico, and Joe.

Joe's approach, in assembling the musicians and asking Manny and Phil to write for them, was that the music must, at all times, swing. There was no attempt to use complex rhythms for their own sakes. The musicians, of course, had to be chosen with care. The principal soloists — Woods, Bunch, and vibraphonist Gary Burton — are strong "blowers." They are soloists of the type who dig in and go.

Woods, the best-known soloist, is one of the finest saxophonists of the post-bop era. He is a musician whose blazing musical temperament is perceptible even on ballads. Gary Burton is a teenage virtuoso who has bowled over seasoned musicians for the last two years and is just beginning to become known. He impressed Chet Atkins, RCA Victor's recording manager in Nashville (and one of the great guitarists of all time), so deeply that Chet promptly signed him. His first RCA Victor album will appear shortly. John Bunch, whose vigorous piano is sprinkled liberally throughout this album, is a youthful veteran of the Benny Goodman, Woody Herman and Maynard Ferguson bands, and has also played in the small combos of two of the country's most popular drummers, Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich.

As for more on Joe Morello — well, few people would be better qualified to tell you about him than Marian McPartland, with whose trio Joe sprang to fame—first with his fellow musicians, and then the jazz public.”

ABOUT JOE MORELLO BY MARIAN McPARTLAND

“Joe Morello is a drummer's drummer. As long as I have known him, which is close to ten years (when he first came to New York and sat in with me at the Hickory House in 1952), he has always been surrounded by drummers who came from all over to listen to him play, to talk to him, to work out or to study his amazing technique at close range. Joe joined my trio in 1953, and it was always interesting to me to see how much time he devoted to the study of the drums, even to practicing every spare minute between sets. He was absolutely fanatical about this, and at times there seemed to be a kind of controlled fury in his playing — sort of a fierceness which belies the appearance of this quiet, soft-spoken guy. Only when he plays does he reveal some of the inner conflicts and frustrations that have shaped and directed him in his restless drive for perfection.

Joe was a child prodigy on the violin, and can play piano quite well. He is a sentimental person who thinks deeply, who loves to daydream and to philosophize while listening to music—every kind of music. His musical tastes run all the way from Casals to Sinatra to Red River Valley. He is a complex person: on one hand, gentle, quiet and imaginative; then, in the next instant, a complete extrovert, doing impressions of his friends and laughing like a schoolboy; then again he becomes remote, moody, shut off from everybody in his own self-contained little world.

In the past few years Joe has traveled all over the world with the Dave Brubeck Quartet. He is now a seasoned performer, and shows the results and benefits of working with Dave. He has made a great reputation, and this is revealed in a different approach to his solos.

His musical ideas run along new lines; he uses his fantastic technique to better effect than ever, and he seems to have broadened his scope, not only in his playing but in various little intangible ways — in his increased confidence, in a certain gregariousness he never used to have. Yet, he is humble and at times almost disbelieving of his success. He has unquestionably made a great contribution to the Brubeck group, and I am sure that Dave would be among the first to agree that the success of tunes like Take Five, the Paul Desmond composition which put the Quartet on the nation's best-selling charts, is in some measure due to Joe's unique conception of unusual time signatures and his ability to play them interestingly.

The time is right for Joe, now one of the most illustrious sidemen in jazz, to record for the first time as a leader (although, of course, in public he is still the drummer of the Brubeck Quartet). For Joe, this has a very special meaning. It is not just an opportunity to perform with a hand-picked group of musicians, including his great friend Phil Woods as saxophonist and arranger. This album represents the fulfillment of a long-expressed desire which grew out of his first tentative experiments, as a boy, with a pair of brushes on the kitchen table in his home in Springfield, Massachusetts.

I believe that Joe was born to be a brilliant musician. This album will justify and renew the faith he has in himself, as well as the high praise and respect he has received from musicians all over the world. In discussing Joe recently, Buddy Rich called him "the best of the newer drummers; he has tremendous technique, and he is the only one to get a musical sound out of the drums."

The tunes and arrangements by Manny Albam and Phil Woods give him ample scope to express himself — whether with sticks on a hard-swinging, white-hot, uptempo tune such as Just in Time; or the delicate mimosa-leaf shading with brushes in Time After Time or Every Time We Say Goodbye.

In Joe Morello's playing you can hear the fire, the relentless drive, the gentleness, and the humor that is in him, and he has surrounded himself with some of the best musicians there are, to help him make this — his first album on his own — great.

Joe Morello - The Early Years

“Everyone associated with the clinics is happy. "For every one that he does, I could book ten," said Dick Schory of the Ludwig Drum Company, Morello's sponsor. "There has never been a drummer who can draw people like he does, and he can keep them on the edge of their seats for two hours. He's a very good extemporaneous speaker, and he's such a ham that I'm sure he'd rather do this than play the drums. He razzles and dazzles them with his playing, and he has this fantastic sense of humor — it's not dry-as-dust lecturing — he makes it interesting, and he believes in it."

He will relax the crowd at the start of the clinic by kiddingly referring to it as a "hospital for sick drummers — and I'm the sickest of them all." Or "I guess all you people must need help or you wouldn't be here." Last year in London, at the first clinic there, he greeted deafening applause with, "If I'm elected, I promise ... ." After a particularly sizzling display, which had everybody on his feet applauding, he shook his head morosely and muttered, "I must be getting old."

But since I've been with Dave [Brubeck’s Quartet], I've had a lot of acclaim, and I'm very grateful for it. Some manifestations of that acclaim have been like dreams come true—you've never dreamed the dreams I've dreamed and had them come true! If I never do more than I have done already, I'm proud and happy for what I've accomplished — God has been good to me.”

- Joe Morello, drummer extraordinaire

The following feature on Joe Morello by Jack Tracy from the September 7, 1955 edition of Down Beat magazine may be the first about him to appear in a major Jazz periodical. I am still researching, but I have yet to find one that is dated earlier.

It is followed by two essays about Joe by pianist Marian McPartland in whose trio Joe performed from 1953-1956.

“JOE MORELLO is a big, shy, bespectacled drummer with the fastest hands this side of Buddy Rich and a too-modest appraisal of his own abilities, which are considerable enough to have won him this year's New Star award in the Down Beat jazz critics' poll.

He has been a member of the Marian McPartland trio for about two years now, in addition to spurring a number of record dates with such men as Tal Farlow, Gil Melle, Lou Stein, and John Mehegan.

His deft touch with brushes, his fantastically capable left hand, and the originality of his solos have earned him plaudits galore from musicians and close observers, and it appears that from now on he will be garnering considerable fan interest as well.

BUT IF JOE'S father had had his way, Morello would now be a violinist. He played that instrument for several years but then quit and wanted to begin on drums when he was 17.

His father practically threatened disinheritance, but Joe went ahead, and Springfield, Mass., now can lay claim to a man who could become one of jazz' most celebrated tubmen.

JOE WORKED AROUND Springfield for awhile with local groups and inevitably was drawn to New York, where he worked some off -nights at Birdland, spent some time with guitarist Johnny Smith, subbed for Stan Levey in the Stan Kenton orchestra for a couple of weeks, then joined Marian.

"It was the greatest thing that could have happened to me," says Marian. "Joe is the perfect sideman. He can play anything in any tempo, isn't a bit temperamental, and is just gassing everybody who heard him these days.

"When I went on the Garry Moore show regularly last year, it was Garry who insisted that Joe come along, too, even though it was originally planned that I do a single."

PERHAPS THE MAN who is most impressed by the talents of Morello, and one who raves about him every chance he gets, is his McPartland sidekick, bassist Bill Crow.

"He's great to work beside," says Bill. "Practices all the time. He keeps working on the idea of making extended solos a continuous line, just as if they were compositions. And more often than not, they're now coming off.

"I think there's only one guy around who still really scares Joe," he adds. "That's Buddy Rich. If Buddy is anywhere around, Joe will go in and sit for hours just to watch his hands and feet."

MORELLO READILY admits to his admiration for Rich, saying simply, "Buddy Rich is my drummer.

"Sonny Igoe is a great one, too. But I don't mean that I want to play like them. I just admire them for what they can do. I want to do something different. I think anyone who is serious about his instrument wants to be an individualist."

For a guy who has been playing drums only 11 years, and professionally for little more than three, he already has made remarkable strides in that direction.

And if the number of times his name keeps popping up in musicians' conversation about drummers is any indication, he will not be long in reaching his goal.

—tracy”

The Fabulous Joe Morello

Marian McPartland

All in Good Time

“The French they are a funny race. And drummer Joe Morello, who is of French extraction, does nothing to confound the maxim. His Gallic characteristics, combined with his quiet New England upbringing, seem to be at the root of his personality—high-spirited, full of fun, yet serious and sensitive to a marked degree.

In Joe Morello there is a dreamer who is nonetheless a down-to-earth realist; someone who is reserved yet outspoken; shy much of the time, yet frequently uninhibited.

These are not just characteristics that set Joe apart as a man. They also help to set him apart as a jazz musician—one who leaves critics and fellow workers alike raving about his fantastic technical ability, his taste, his touch, and his ideas.

Joe was born, brought up, and went to school in Springfield, Massachusetts. His father, now retired, was a well-to-do painting contractor who had come to the United States from the south of France. Joe's mother, who died when he was seventeen, was French-Canadian.

A gentle, music-loving woman who taught him as a small boy the rudiments of piano playing, she encouraged and fostered his obvious love for music. She saw that many of the pleasures others find in life would be impossible for Joe: his extremely poor vision prevented him from participating in most of the games and sports other children enjoyed. Music, she seemed to feel, was the best compensation—and perhaps much more than mere compensation.

When Joe was seven, his parents bought him a violin, and he began to show a precocious talent for and interest in music. Moody and withdrawn, he disliked school and made few friends. One friendship he did form, however, was with a neighbor, Lucien Montmany, a man who, crippled and confined to his home much of the time, took a great interest in the boy. He would play piano for him by the hour, and encouraged him to pursue music.

"Bless his soul, he was such a wonderful guy," Morello said. "And he helped me so much. He gave me confidence in myself, and after I had started studying drums, he used to say to me, 'Joe, you've got to practice all you can now, because you won't have the time later on.’

"And you know, he was right."

But Joe did not become interested in the drums until he was about fifteen. Until that time, he remained preoccupied with piano and violin—which explains in part the musicality of his work and his extreme sensitivity to other instruments.

He had made a few cautious forays into the rhythmic field. But these efforts were largely confined to performing with a couple of spoons on the edge of the kitchen table, as accompaniment to phonograph records. It irritated his parents and his sister Claire considerably.

But at last, with money earned from an after-school job in a Springfield paint shop, he bought himself a snare drum, sticks, and brushes and later—with money gained from the diligent selling of Christmas cards, among other things—the rest of the set. He found a teacher, Joe Sefcick, and began sitting in around town.

It was about this time that Morello formed a close friendship with another man who was to emerge as an important name in jazz: guitarist Sal Salvador.

"It was sometime in 1946 that I met Joe," Salvador recalled recently. "I was playing one of my first jobs when he came into the club with his father. He must have been about seventeen. I remember his father tried to get him to sit in, but he hung back.

"But finally he did agree to sit in, and he had very good chops even then. It was Joe Raiche's band. He was pretty well the king around Springfield, but we had heard talk about Joe Morello. And so he and Joe Raiche played some fours, and everybody thought he was great. I really dug what he did with the fours, especially since he was only playing on the tom-tom, and I asked him about working a job with me. After that we kept calling each other for jobs which we never seemed to get.

"From then on we were inseparable, we saw each other all day, every day."

Salvador tells several amusing stories that illustrate how much Joe (and several of his friends) wanted to play.

"Teddy Cohen, Chuck Andrus, Hal Sera, Phil Woods, and Joe and I would all get together and play as often as we could," he said. "Saturday afternoons we used to go to Phil's house. One day it was so hot that we moved the piano out onto the porch. Joe moved his drums out there, too. The weight was too much. The porch tipped! Everyone panicked.

"But Joe was the first to recover. And he was the first one back indoors, with his drums set up to play.

"We were so anxious to play that we'd set up and start things going just anywhere we could. Once we drove out to a club called the Lighthouse. But it was closed when we got there, so we set up and started playing, right in front of the place.

"Pretty soon the cops came and chased us away. I guess we kids just didn't think about what the grownups had to go through with us in those days ..."

Morello and Salvador continued working together at an odd assortment of jobs, including a radio broadcast, dances, and square dances. "Anything we could get," Salvador said. Then Morello started going to Boston to study with a noted teacher named George Lawrence Stone.

"I think it was Mr. Stone who finally made him realize that sooner or later he would have a great future in jazz," Salvador said. "And, of course, he gave Joe this great rudimental background. In fact, Joe became New England rudimental champion one time.

"In 1951, he joined Whitey Bernard. Finally, after working on the road with him, he went to New York in 1952 and put in his union card. I had gone there and had been begging him to come for some time. But he would say, 'No, I'm not ready yet. There are too many good drummers there.’

"However, he finally made it, and as you know, the Hickory House was one of the first places that he and I came to, to hear your group."

From here on, Joe Morello's story becomes quite personal to me.

At the time, there was a constant swarm of musicians at the bar of the Hickory House, where I was working. Sal had often told me about this "fabulous" drummer from Springfield. But being so accustomed to hearing the word "fabulous" used to describe talent ranging from mediocre to just plain bad, I was slightly skeptical.

But one night Joe came in with Sal. Mousie Alexander, who was playing drums with me at the time, introduced us. Joe Morello, a quiet, soft-spoken young man about twenty-three, looked less like a drummer than a student of nuclear physics. Yet I was, after hearing so much about him, eager to hear him play.

We got up on the stand, Joe sat down at the drums and deftly adjusted the stool and the cymbals to his liking. And we started to play.

I really don't remember what the tune was, and it isn't too important. Because in a matter of seconds, everyone in the room realized that the guy with the diffident air was a phenomenal drummer. Everyone listened.

His precise blending of touch, taste, and an almost unbelievable technique were a joy to listen to. His technique was certainly as great (though differently applied) as that of Buddy Rich. And through it all, he played with a loose, easy feeling interspersed with subtle flashes of humor reminiscent of the late Sid Catlett.

That is the way Joe sounded then, and I will never forget it. Everyone knew that here was a discovery.

Word of his amazing ability spread like fire among the musicians, and soon he was inundated with offers of work. It was not long afterwards, following a short period with Stan Kenton's band and some dates with Johnny Smith's group, that Joe became a regular member of my group.

We opened at the Blue Note in Chicago in May 1953 and later returned to the Hickory House.

Every night it was the same thing: the place was crowded with drummers who had come to hear Joe.

He practiced unceasingly between sets, usually on a table top, with a folded napkin to deaden the sound and prevent the customers and the intermission pianist from getting annoyed. Sometimes the owner would walk over and say irascibly, "Stop that banging!"

But usually no one bothered him, and he gave his time generously to the drummers who came to talk with him. Soon he had some of them as pupils.

And wherever we played, it was the same. Young drummers appeared as if by magic, to listen to Joe and talk to him and to study. They arrived at all hours, in night clubs, at television studios, in hotels. We called them "the entourage." Several of them now are playing with top groups in various parts of the country.

During this period, Joe, bassist Bill Crow, and I started doing a lot of television, and recorded several LPs for Capitol. Nineteen-fifty-five was a good year for us. We received the Metronome small group award, and Joe won the Down Beat International Critics poll new star award. It was presented to him on the Steve Allen Show.

About that time, Joe and Bill were making so many freelance record dates that I told them I thought I should open an office and collect 10 per cent!

Some of Joe's best work was done on those sessions. At least, the best I have heard him play. There is a wonderful recording that he and Bill made with Victor Feldman and Hank Jones which, unfortunately, never has been released.

But there are other albums in which you can hear Joe at this period. One was an album done by Grand Award, with a group led by trombonist Bob Alexander. Chloe is easily the finest track. There's an interesting vocal and drum exchange with Jackie Cain and Roy Krai in a piece called Hook, Line and Snare in an album they did together. And he recorded some sides with my husband Jimmy and myself. This was more on the Dixieland kick, which points up Joe's extreme flexibility.

There are also some wonderful sides Joe made with Gil Melle, Sal Salvador, Sam Most, Lou Stein, John Mehegan, Tal Farlow, Helen Merrill (with Gil Evans' arrangements), and with Jimmy Raney and Phil Woods.

Alas, though for a time he turned down all offers, I was not to keep Joe with my group forever. And when I lost him as my drummer, my one consolation was that he was going to join a musician whom I respected very deeply: Dave Brubeck.

Joe joined the quartet in October 1956. Since then he has gone on growing.

Indeed, his playing has altered considerably, partly because of his fanatical desire for improvement and change, partly because the kind of playing Dave requires from a drummer is different from the techniques that Joe used with my group.

With me, Joe had concentrated more on speed, lightness of touch, and beautiful soft brush work. Dave, both a forceful personality and player, requires a background more in keeping with his far-reaching rhythmic expositions, and someone who can match him and even surpass him on out-of-time experimentation.

Today, Joe, though a complete individualist, hews closely to Dave's wishes as far as accompaniment is concerned. But he cannot help popping out with little drummistic comments, subtle or explosive, witty or snide — depending on his mood at the moment.

It is Dave's particular pleasure to go as far out as possible in his solos, and have the rhythm section carry him along. For this reason, the drummer must have a very highly developed sense of time and concentration to keep the tune moving nicely while these explorations are under way.

Bassist Gene Wright and Joe — "the section," as they refer to each other — do this most ably. Wright's admiration for Joe is unbounded.

"There's never been any tension at all from the day I joined the group," he said. "Joe makes my job very easy. We play together as one, and when a drummer and bass player think together, they can swing together. As a person, he's beautiful, and it comes out in his playing.

"There are no heights he cannot reach if he can always be himself and just play naturally. His potential is far beyond what people think he can do, and he'll achieve it some day."

Like any musician, Joe has detractors, those who can be heard muttering to the effect that he's a great technical drummer but doesn't really lay down a good beat — or, in more popular parlance, "He don't swing, man." But these detractors are remarkably few, and Brubeck is vehement in saying, "They're out of their minds!"

"Joe swings as much as anybody," Dave said, "and he has this tremendous rhythmic understanding. You should have heard him over in India with the drummers there. They just couldn't believe an American drummer could have that kind of mind, to grasp what they were doing. They said it would probably only take him a little while to absorb things it had taken them a lifetime to learn.

"As it is, Joe assimilates things quicker than any jazz musician I know, and he has the biggest ears. He was able to do many of the things the Indian drummers were doing, but they couldn't do what he does because they're just not technically equipped for it.

"How has his playing affected my group?

"I would say we have a better jazz group since Joe joined us. He really pushes you into a jazz feeling. And in his solos, when he gets inspired, he does fantastic things. Sometimes he gets so far out it's like someone walking on a high wire. Of course, he doesn't always make it, and then he'll say, "Oops!" But then he'll come right back and do it next time around. He is a genius on the drums."

Paul Desmond is just as forthright in his comments about Joe. "Joe can do anything anybody else can do, and he has his own individuality, too," Brubeck's altoist said. "Do we usually play well together? Yes, unless we're mad at each other! Naturally there are times, as in any group, when there might be a little difficulty of rapport if we are feeling bad. Playing incessantly, the way we do, night after night, it's almost impossible once in a while not to be bored with each other and with one's self. This is never true of Joe, especially on the fours."

I asked Paul how he felt about the rave notices that Joe has been getting since he joined the group.

"Well, Dave and I have been on the scene for about ten years now," he replied, "and it's only natural that somebody new, especially a drummer as good as Joe, would rate the attention of the critics. He definitely deserves all the praise he is getting. I think he's the world's best drummer, but it's his irrepressible good humor on and off the stand that I dig most of all."

Similar views were shared by a good many other persons, among them Joe's friend and long-time co-worker at the Hickory House, bassist Bill Crow, though he expresses it a little differently.

He always has amazingly precise control of his instrument at any volume, at any tempo, on any surface, live or dead. He's very sensitive to rhythmic and tonal subtleties and has a strong time sense around which he builds a very positive feeling for swing. Extraordinarily aware of the effect of touch on tone quality, he uses his ears and responds with imagination to the music he hears associates play.

With these assets, I nevertheless feel Joe isn't a finished jazz drummer, considering his potential. He can play any other kind of drum to perfection, but I don't think he's saying a quarter of what his talent and craftsmanship would inevitably produce if he were playing regularly with musicians who base their rhythmic conception on the blues tradition.

I know that Joe is attracted to this tradition, uses it as a focal point in his establishment of pulse, and feels happiest when he is playing with musicians who work out of this orientation. But he has never yet found a working situation where anyone else in the band knew more than he did about the subtleties of it . . .

He still has to find an environment that would demand response and growth on a deeper level. He needs to solve the problems presented by soloists like Ben Webster, Sonny Rollins, Harry Edison, or Al Cohn. He has to discover from his own experience how the innovations of Dave Tough, Sid Catlett, Kenny Clarke, or Max Roach can be applied to various musical situations. But primarily, he needs to play with Zoot Sims-type swingers who will reaffirm his feeling for loose, lively time.

Now that Joe's home base is San Francisco, he and his wife Ellie (they were married in 1954 while we were playing at the Hickory House) maintain an apartment in town. They have formed a close friendship with Ken and Joan Williams, owners of a San Francisco drum supply shop where Joe teaches every day he's not on the road and where he practices incessantly. The feeling his pupils have for him is nothing short of hero worship, and his opinions and views are digested word for word.

As Sam Ulano, a noted New York drum teacher puts it, "One of the great things Joe has done to influence the young drummers is to make them more practice conscious. He has encouraged them to see the challenge in practice and study, and I think it is important, too, that people should know how Joe has completely overcome the handicap of poor vision to the extent that few people are even aware of it. This disability has acted as a greater spur to him, already filled as he is with deep determination to perfect his art, and others with similar problems can take note and gain hope and encouragement from it."

A conversation with Joe, no matter on what subject, invariably comes back to a discussion of music in one form or another. Musicians for whom he has veneration and respect range from veteran drummers Gene Krupa and Jo Jones to pianists Hank Jones, Bill Evans, and John Bunch. Phil Woods is one of his favorite horn players, and he admires Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee, Anita O'Day, and Helen Merrill. His tastes in music run from plaintive gypsy violin music to the Brandenburg concertos.

Joe confesses to a dream for the future of having his own group. He would like to have his long-time friend, altoist Woods, in it.

But I'm not really ready for this yet. What I'd like to do right now is to develop greater facility, plus ideas, and improve my mind musically. To have basically good time—that's the first requisite, of course. Taste comes with experience. Then, too, you must have a good solid background to enable you to express yourself properly.

This is one of the things Mr. Stone did for me when I studied with him, and I owe him a great deal. He taught me how to use my hands. My idea of perfection would be good time, plus technique, plus musical ideas. Technique alone is a machine gun! But it sure brings the house down.

Years ago I was impressed by technique more than anything else. I think what made me go in for this so much when I was working with you, Marian, was that I was shocked by the lack of it in the New York drummers. I didn't realize at the time that a lot of them might be thinking more musically and developing along other lines. Now I listen for different things and I try to think of a musical form in my solos—a musical pattern. And when you know you're right, and it feels good to you— without sounding mystical or corny, sometimes things just come rolling out—building and building—a sort of expansion and contraction, you know? Now, take Buddy (Rich). If you want to use the term great, he's great. And Shelly (Manne)—I admire him very much and Louis Bellson, too.

Years ago Joe Raiche and I went to see Louis at Holyoke, and we invited him back to the house. I'd started experimenting with the finger system, but he really had it down, and as we sat at the kitchen table and talked, and he showed me some things. I sometimes think I played better in Springfield than I do now, though I've learned an awful lot from playing with Dave and Paul [Desmond], and Dave's such a good person to work for.

Being with this group is a marvelous experience for me. I'm grateful for the freedom Dave gives me, and he does give me plenty, both in concerts and on the albums. Working with him is interesting because he's very strong in what he believes in. But then so am I, and we both know this. So we respect each other's views, and we compromise—each of us gives a little. And as Dave said to you, we've found a point of mutual respect and understanding. We know we don't agree completely, and yet we can go on working together and enjoying it.

There's so much to be done — if you've got the mind and the imagination. That's what the drummer needs — the mind! And talent? You know what that is? It's 97% per cent work and 2 % per cent b.s.

I want to be as musical as I can — play the best I can for the group I'm with — and be myself. If I can do that, then I'll be happy.

Joe Morello: With A Light Touch

Marian McPartland

All in Good Time

“Joe Morello is a man of many natures. Restless, quiet, at times effervescent, at others the life of the party or completely aloof. Like the dark side of the moon, there is much about him that is unknown to most persons, perhaps even to himself. Yet he is also naive and funny. One moment, he will exclaim, with a schoolboy grin, "I feel like a sick sailor on the sea of life." Two minutes later, he will mutter moodily, "I should have been a monk." One could use a divining rod, sextant, sundial, geiger counter, and crystal ball to anticipate—and keep track of—the many verities of his nature.

To many young drummers, he is like a savior. Accordionist-organist-singer Joe Mooney calls him the well-dressed metronome. To his detractors he is merely a gifted drummer, an exceptional technician who can be hostile, even arrogant, at times. He has been called a prima donna, whose mood can change from animation to black despair without notice.

But people who know him well know, too, that he is also gentle, idealistic, and sensitive, a searcher for something he cannot name, who daydreams dreams, many of which already have come true.

"Do you know—I'm the only drummer who ever won the poll who doesn't have his own band?"

Morello says that with a big grin. Having made a clean sweep of most jazz popularity polls three years running — including Down Beat's Readers Poll—one would imagine he is delighted with the way things are going, especially since he has the salary and prestige of many a leader, with few of the responsibilities. Possibly the highest paid and certainly one of the most respected and admired drummers in the country, he can afford to smile.

"I've been lucky," he says. But anyone who knows Morello knows well that hours of practice, rigid discipline, and a continuing pursuit of perfection have had more to do with his current eminence than simple luck.

Further goals are pictured clearly in his mind's eye: "I can always see that straight line, and then I know I'm right."

Joe has been guided in this intuitive fashion many times, first perhaps when he decided to give up violin in favor of drums, overruling his father's original wish that he should become a painting contractor. Later, he decided to go to New York City ("I told my father I'd give myself six months to make good — if I didn't, I was going to go back to Springfield"). Later still, he joined my trio and while with it from 1953 to 1956 started to build the reputation he now enjoys. With growing confidence, he felt ready, in 1956, to join Dave Brubeck, with whose quartet he has established himself as a percussion virtuoso.

The publicity and acclaim he has received over the last nine years has been of inestimable value to him, for Joe, outstanding as he is, needs a showcase for his talents, and Dave has been more than generous. Dave has shared his spotlight with Joe and given him ample solo space. No leader could have been more considerate.

Though undoubtedly grateful, Joe has made full use of the spotlight, even to the extent of some artless scene-stealing— twirling the sticks, shooting his cuffs during a piano solo, delicate sleight of hand with the brushes, and other diversionary tactics.

However, Joe is probably the one drummer who has made it possible for Dave to do things with the group that he would have had difficulty accomplishing otherwise. Joe's technique, ideas, ability to play multiple rhythms and unusual time signatures, humor, and unflagging zest for playing is a combination of attributes few other drummers have. All these in addition to his ability to subjugate himself, when necessary, to Dave's wishes yet still maintain his own personality.

Joe is fascinating to watch play — he may have several rhythms going at one time, tossing them to and fro with the studied casualness of a juggler. Yet through it all, the inexorable beat of the bass drum (not loud—felt more than heard) holds everything together. He moves gracefully, with a minimum of fuss, but with a sparkling, diamond-sharp attack, reminiscent of the late Sid Catlett.

Sometimes a quick, impish grin comes over his face as he plays a humorous interpolation, and then he looks for all the world like a small boy throwing spitballs at his classmates. Though he seems withdrawn—remote at times—his movements are so expressive that when he breaks into a smile and glances around at Gene Wright, the group's bass player, one can sense his pleasure and can be a part of it.

Despite Joe's varying emotions and changing moods, there is one thing about him that never changes, except to grow stronger: his love of playing. This love is reflected in everything he does, his approach to life, to people, to himself.

As long as I have known Joe, he has had fine musical taste, technical control, and a light touch "delicate as a butterfly's wing," to quote Dave Garroway, and though he plays a great deal more forcefully with Brubeck than he did with my trio, still the lightness is there most of the time.

"Underplay if possible," he told me recently. "If you start off at full volume, you have nowhere to go. Be considerate of the other members of the group — drums can be obnoxious or they can be great."

Where Joe is concerned, it is invariably the latter. I have never heard him play badly.

Now that he is, in the eyes of many, the No. 1 drummer in the country, he could be the man to change the course of current drumming. In this era, when sheer volume appears to be the criterion for percussion excellence, when the artisan has apparently been replaced by the unschooled, Joe Morello stands out as something of a phenomenon. He is not an innovator, but he draws from the styles of drummers past and present whom he has observed and admired to produce a sound, a touch, a feeling that is essentially his own.

He has been criticized rather than praised by some of his peers, who tend to enjoy a barrage of sound, crudely produced, rather than the finesse, delicacy, and range of dynamics that Joe draws from drums. Nevertheless, it may be that he is, in the words of drum manufacturer Bill Ludwig, "an apostle — someone who can preach the word to all the kids coming up, show them how to play the drums properly, how to play cleanly, to direct their studies and their talents to the most musical approach to the drums possible."

In the last few years, he has had opportunity to talk with novice and would-be drummers and to show them some of his ideas.

They crowd around him after concerts. They dog his footsteps in hotels. They gather in dining rooms and coffee shops. Joe also gets three months a year off from the Brubeck group and travels the country to appear at drum clinics in schools, music stores, and auditoriums for the benefit of the local drummers, students, and teachers.

The clinic idea is not new, but Joe has brought a different dimension to it. From being a comparatively small operation, in which possibly a hundred persons would come to see a name drummer play a solo and perhaps give a short talk, clinics are now getting to be big business. When Joe appears at one, the hall is invariably jammed; if the room holds five hundred, another two hundred are turned away. Last year Joe pioneered the clinic idea in several European countries— England, Holland, Germany, and Denmark. More recently he has brought drum clinics to Puerto Rico. This year, he will give clinics in new territory—when the Brubeck quartet goes to Australia, New Zealand, and Japan.

Everyone associated with the clinics is happy. "For every one that he does, I could book ten," said Dick Schory of the Ludwig Drum Company, Morello's sponsor. "There has never been a drummer who can draw people like he does, and he can keep them on the edge of their seats for two hours. He's a very good extemporaneous speaker, and he's such a ham that I'm sure he'd rather do this than play the drums. He razzles and dazzles them with his playing, and he has this fantastic sense of humor — it's not dry-as-dust lecturing — he makes it interesting, and he believes in it."

He will relax the crowd at the start of the clinic by kiddingly referring to it as a "hospital for sick drummers—and I'm the sickest of them all." Or "I guess all you people must need help or you wouldn't be here." Last year in London, at the first clinic there, he greeted deafening applause with, "If I'm elected, I promise ... ." After a particularly sizzling display, which had everybody on his feet applauding, he shook his head morosely and muttered, "I must be getting old."

Joe usually divides the two-hour lecture into several parts— first describing his drum setup, what size the drums are and why he uses them. Once in a while, he will do impressions of well-known drummers with devilish accuracy. Sometimes he plays a short but hilarious solo, doing everything wrong, to expose areas in which a drummer could improve. He answers questions tirelessly and takes great pains to make sure that everyone has understood his meaning, going over a point several times if necessary.

I’d like to have him do these clinics all the time," Bill Ludwig said. "He's a natural teacher, and he's at his best with kids. Nothing is too much trouble — he loses himself in it. This is the answer to the uneducated drummers of today— show them what real study is.

"As far as actual talent is concerned, there hasn't been anyone quite like him — no one who has this devotion to the instrument. And he's such a gentleman.

"He has brought realism to the clinics; he's not just a performer who will pass the two hours giving a technical demonstration. This guy opens his heart and says, 'Here it is, use it, free.' I've seen clinicians who would spend two hours showing off their dexterity, but Joe does things that are useful to the students."

One can only guess at Joe's feelings about this acclaim. It surely has not changed his attitude toward his work. He has never let up. When at home, it's still practice, practice. He seems to derive comfort from this, almost as if the drums were a refuge where he feels secure and can gain reassurance.

The standing ovations, the adulation of laymen and musicians alike, contribute to his well-being. But his real satisfaction comes from the clinics. With every patient explanation of a point to a student, he gives something of himself, and the effects of it are more gratifying than the concert applause. He gives the best that is in him with a forthright and unequivocal stance.

Many people in music believe that Morello's major contribution to music is yet to come — certainly as a teacher and perhaps with his own group. Many possibilities are open to him. Currently, few musicians think of him solely as a jazz drummer; most look upon him as a drum artist, because much feeling still exists that he is not really a hard swinger. This may be a carping criticism, but it appears that his work with Brubeck seems to call for just about every kind of playing but "hard swinging." There are some good grooves, but the constantly changing, fluctuating rhythms of 5/4, 9/8, and so on (as well as those Dave imposes on the rhythm section in his solos) impede any steady swinging.

When Joe goes "moonlighting" and sits in with different groups (he recently played a set with Dizzy Gillespie and gassed everybody), he is almost like a racehorse that has been allowed to run free after being reined in; and on these occasions, he proves again that he can swing strongly when he is among hard cookers. Then his playing takes on a different quality. It becomes more uninhibited, more relaxed.

A chat with Joe, no matter how it starts, almost invariably ends as a discussion of music in one form or another. Sometimes he gets so wound up that it's more like a filibuster. Never one to hold back, he will animatedly discuss the modern drummer:

Those things they are playing today . . . Max Roach did that beautifully years ago

— Roy Haynes, too (in fact when Bob Carter and I were with you, Marian, we did that same thing—sort of conservatively). But when I see a guy take the butt end of the sticks . . . when I have to guess where the time is, I could cry. Who's going to play against that? Funny—some sixteen-year-olds are digging it! When I was sixteen, I listened to Krupa, Buddy Rich, Max [Roach], Jo Jones.

This whole thing apart, any drummer should be able to play time. These kids coming up ... they have a choice. Some of them may blow it, but some of them are going to come along and make everybody look like punks.

You know, Marian, you used to say my playing was too precise, but I really think I'm beginning to play more sloppy now. But I'm continually trying to get myself together and play something different, and one thing Dave has taught me — that's to try to create. I admire him harmonically, and you just can't dispute the fact that he plays with imagination. Oh, he's not always the easiest guy to play with, but he's so inventive. . . .

Years ago, I wanted to play like Max, but then I found out you've got to develop your own style . . .good or bad, it's me. But I can't play well all the time — I'm not that consistent. Like, I don't expect to be happy all the time either ... everyone's been disappointed. But since I've been with Dave, I've had a lot of acclaim, and I'm very grateful for it. Some manifestations of that acclaim have been like dreams come true—you've never dreamed the dreams I've dreamed and had them come true! If I never do more than I have done already, I'm proud and happy for what I've accomplished — God has been good to me.”

Joe Morello - The Later Years

“See, playing is an individual thing, and boy, I'll tell you, I respect anyone who can play. Anyone who has a reputation has earned it. I'm sure there are people who disagree with my playing, and there are some who think I'm the greatest thing that ever happened. That's what's so great about an art form. It would be awfully boring if everyone played the same. If everyone sounded like me, or like Elvin, or like Max Roach — what a drag. You would only have to own one record. It's individual. You can't like everybody. I certainly don't like every drummer I hear. I appreciate if someone has earned any kind of reputation, but I prefer certain people over others.”

- Joe Morello, drummer extraordinaire

"George Lawrence Stone used to say, ‘The secret to failure is to try to please everybody.’ You can't. I went through a period where I tried, and I used to get really upset. After a while, you realize that you can't please everyone. Another of Stone's little axioms was, "The secret to success is an unbeaten fool." I asked him what that meant, and he said, "It means you're too dumb to quit." [laughs] You'll be criticized and put down, but you keep coming back and trying again."

- Joe Morello, drummer extraordinaire

The editorial staff of JazzProfiles now concludes it’s series of presentation on drummer Joe Morello with a posting of this extensive interview that Rick Mattingly conducted with Joe for the November 1986 edition of Modern Drummer.

“I’ll never forget one night about three years ago when I went to Joe Morello's home to work on the text for his book Master Studies. We were going over the section dealing with ostinatos, and Joe was playing one of the exercises: 8th notes with an accent pattern.

"Once you get this happening with your right hand," he explained, "you can play whatever you want against it with your left" whereupon he began to play sevens with his left hand. I had been working with the ostinato section myself, and I was finding it a challenge to play anything with the left hand without losing the accent pattern in the right, so it was somewhat irritating to watch Morello playing sevens against the ostinato with no apparent strain.

And so I said — somewhat sarcastically, I must confess — "Yeah, and then you could play triplets on the bass drum." In all innocence Joe replied, "Sure, you could do that," and began tapping his right foot in triplets along with what his hands were doing. And then, as if to add insult to injury, he said, "Of course, when you do stuff like this, you should keep the hi-hat going," with which he proceeded to tap out 2 and 4 with his left foot.

I'm by no means the first person to have a run-in with Morello 's formidable technique. Jim Chapin likes to tell stories about Joe at the Hickory House in the '50s. It seems that he would approach various big-name drummers and ask them to demonstrate certain techniques. After observing what the person did, Joe would ask, "Is this it?" and play it back twice as fast. When confronted with this story, Morello admits that it happened but offers an explanation. "I know it sounds like I was being a wise guy, but actually I was just naive. I came to New York in awe of all these drummers I used to read about, and I assumed that they knew a lot of things that l didn 't. When they would show me things, I thought that they were just playing them slow so that I could see what they were doing. I gradually came to realize that some of those people really didn’t have a lot of technique."

Joe, however, was fascinated with technique, and to this day he has continued to study and develop it. But to dismiss Morello as a mere technician is to miss the point of his musicality. As his landmark recordings with the Dave Brubeck Quartet amply prove, Joe's technique is merely the vehicle that is used to carry his ideas. Perhaps Joe's mentor, the great George Lawrence Stone, expressed it best in a letter he wrote in 1959: “‘I consider him to be one of the finest and most talented executants I have ever heard. I am indeed proud of him. In addition to the more obvious attributes of speed and control, he has a most highly developed sense of rhythm and that feeling of (and for) jazz, without which all other endowments fail.

In other words, to put it crudely, he possesses that uncanny sense of 'putting the right sound in the right place at the right time.'"

Rick Mattingly: You have spent many years developing extraordinary technique, and people have asked you, "Where are you going to use this stuff?" What is your answer to that question?

Joe Morello: I suppose you don't really need it. My feeling is that the technique is only a means to an end. It opens your mind more, you can express yourself more, and you can play more intricate things. But just for technique alone—just to see how fast you can play — that doesn't make any sense. In other words, technique is only good if you can use it musically. It's also useful for solos, so you can have the freedom to play what's in your mind.

When you're playing on the drumset, you don't say, "I'm going to play page 12 in the such-and-such book." You just play from the top of your head, but you know that, if you're going to go for something, nine times out of ten it will come out. The players who have limited facility don't want to take chances because it won't happen. I can see it from teaching drummers who have been playing for a long time. We'll play fours together, and they'll struggle to get something simple out. I'll say, "Look, I know what you're trying to do, but you blew it because you don't know the instrument that well." The more control you have of the instrument, the more confidence you will get, and the more you will be able to express your ideas. That's basically it. Technique for just technique alone — forget it. If you can't use it musically — if you're just going to machine gun everyone to death—that's not it.

RM: Obviously you've spent more time than most really looking into the subtleties of technique. Do you remember what it was that got you so interested in exploring technique to the extent that you explored it?

JM: Originally, I wanted to be a classical drummer— classical snare drummer and timpanist and the whole thing. This was my whole bit. Before that, I played the violin from when I was five years old until I was about 11 or 12. Then I heard Heifetz, and after that, I wasn't happy with the way I played. But I always liked the drums, and I always could play those little corny things like any kid did with pots and pans. Then I studied with Joe Sefcik in Springfield—a vaudeville drummer. My father didn't want me to study drums at all. He got sick of paying for violin lessons, so he said, "If you do anything, you'll have to do it on your own.'' So I used to go down to the vaudeville theater every week, see the movie, sit right in the front, and I got all Sefcik's brush beats down. All that stuff came easy to me.

Meanwhile, I was listening to Gene Krupa. Sefcik told me about him, so I picked up on some of his things, caught him in person a few times, and I was impressed with that. I liked the big bands and that whole thing, so I started collecting records. I listened to Basic's band with Jo Jones, and then one day I heard Tommy Dorsey with Buddy Rich. There was this blaze of triplets and this driving kind of thing that just knocked me out. I had never even heard of Buddy Rich. I started listening to more of the Tommy Dorsey things and researching that.

That, I think, was an inspiration. I said, "That's really the way I want to play." I was only 15 or 16. So that was my main inspiration to see how far I could take it. I always felt that, if one person could achieve a facility like that, anybody could if he or she wanted to.

RM: I find it interesting that hearing people like Buddy Rich inspired you to go after technique. But when you searched it out, your teachers were not jazz drummers like Buddy Rich, but people like George Lawrence Stone and Billy Gladstone.

JM: That's right—exactly. I'm glad you brought that up. See, when I went to Stone, I thought it was kind of fun just to bang around on the drumset, but I never really took it that seriously. I wanted to do all the classical things with Stone. We were working on that, and then I wanted to go on timpani and xylophone. He said no. It was like the rude awakening. He said, "Joe, you don't see well enough. When you play timpani or mallets, the music is too far away. You also have to watch the guy with the stick. Look, Krupa studied with me. He's innovative. You've got that same thing. Why don't you try that route?'' It really kind of hurt my feelings, because I wanted to be up there with the tuxedo and the long tails playing very serious music.

RM: You could have joined the Modern Jazz Quartet.

JM: [laughs] Yeah, but I thought classical music was where it was at. So I went along with Stone's idea, and I started thinking along those lines. That was about the time that I heard Rich and Krupa; I’d listened to Krupa before then, but I figured I'd | never really be able to do that. I listened to Buddy 5 for his powerhouse kind of playing with the Dorsey band. Then I started listening to people like Sidney Catlett, J. C. Heard, and then, of course, Max Roach and Kenny Clarke. Max influenced me a lot, because he used the technique in a linear way, rather than strictly a speed kind of thing. He played little melodic phrases, and I try to incorporate that in my playing, whether it's obvious or not. I like to do little speed things at the end, but I've got to do the playing first. Roy Haynes, too, influenced me a lot. He's probably one of the most creative drummers I've ever heard. I think he's fantastic.

So these are basically my roots, and the things I started listening to and developing. I think I've taken a little bit here and a little bit there, and put it together in my own way like everyone does. When I was a kid, I used to do great imitations of solos like the ones Gene did. Then we had a group in Springfield in my formative years. It was Sal Salvadore, Phil Woods, Hal Sera on piano, and Chuck Andrus on bass. We would have jam sessions and imitate everybody. Phil would play all the Bird licks, and I would play all the Max Roach things. It was Sal and Phil who really pushed me to go to New York. I had a rough time when I first went there, but a couple of drummers like Mousey Alexander and Don Lamond were very encouraging to me.

RM: During the era you came up in, most of the technique-oriented drummers, like Rich and Krupa, were associated with big bands. Why did you choose to go the small-group route?

JM: When I came to New York City, basically big bands were on the way out. Before I went with Marian McPartland, I was playing with Johnny Smith's group and I got the call to do the Stan Kenton thing, because Stan Levey had to go back to Philadelphia for some operation—his appendix or whatever. So I went to speak with Stan, and he said, "You've got the job." I said, "You never heard me play." He said, “I’ve heard enough people talking about you. I know you can do it. Shelly [Manne] talked about you." So I went with the band for about three-and-a-half weeks. I enjoyed it. By the first three or four days, I had the whole book down. I loved it. I could really play out. That was a loud band.

Anyway, after that, Marian McPartland hired me, and I stayed with her for three years. Then Bellson came in to see me at the Hickory House. He was leaving Dorsey to go out with Pearl Bailey. He said, "Why don't you audition for the band? Tommy's been through about 50 drummers, and none of them cut it." They were playing bebop drums with a big band, which didn't make it. Dorsey wanted someone who could play the solid bass drum and all that. Of course, I grew up listening to that band; I knew most of his tunes. So I went down to the Cafe Rouge, sat in with the band, and Tommy liked it. "It was great. You've got the job.'' They

were doing summer replacement for the Jackie Gleason show. I told him that I had a little difficulty reading. He said, "Don't worry, as long as you can see me out front," which I could. But the manager was playing games, so that thing didn't go through because of the financial thing. The manager was really trying to do a number on me, but Tommy didn't know that.

Then the Goodman thing came up. I was still with Marian. Benny Goodman wanted to get a band together, and he was going to do a tour of Europe or something. So Hank Jones called me and said, "Why don't you audition with the band?" They were auditioning guys like Gus Johnson, who had just left Basie's band. I figured, "Man, if they don't like him, what are they going to think of me? " So I went down and played with Benny. It was a typical Benny Goodman rehearsal — just Hank Jones and I, with just a snare drum, a pair of brushes, and a cymbal. So in comes Benny with a little hat on and a clarinet. He didn't say a word — the usual. That's a whole book in itself talking about Benny. So he wanted me to go with the band, but he was rehearsing at 9:00 in the morning, and I was working at the Hickory House until 4:00 A.M. and wouldn't get home until 4:30. I made a few rehearsals, but we were playing these old charts, and I told Benny, "I don't think I sound good with this band." His answer was, "It's not you, kid. We can keep time. The band can't." So he'd stop and rehearse the saxes and trumpets without a rhythm section. Anyway, that didn't work out.

So then around that same time, I got a call from Brubeck. All at once everything was coming down — all these bands. He was working over at Birdland, and he wanted to talk to me. We met at the Park Sheraton Hotel. He started telling me that he wanted to make changes. He and Paul Desmond had been coming into the Hickory House and seeing me play. He liked my brushwork, so he offered me a situation. At first I said, "Well, I really don't know if I'd sound good with your group, because the drummer you have just stays in the background. The spotlight is on you and Paul, and the drummer and bass player hardly ever get mentioned. I never heard a four-bar break from the guy." That was Joe Dodge — a nice man. He said, "No, I'll give you all the freedom you want. I'll feature you in the group." This was around July. He said, "Can you join the group in October?" I said, "I guess so." He said, "When I get back, I'll send you a telegram, and then you send me a telegram of confirmation." So I did.

Meanwhile, at the end of August I got a call from the Tommy Dorsey office. The manager said, "Okay, come down and get your uniform. Tommy went through another 20 drummers. You've got the job." I said, "I'm going with Brubeck." He said, "You don't want to play Birdland all your life, do you? Look what we did for Buddy Rich. Look what we did for Louie Bellson." I said, "You didn't do anything for them. They just added to the band," which I think was true. It was typical manager talk.

So that's how I ended up with Dave Brubeck. When I first joined, we didn't rehearse. I flew out to Chicago and did a TV show. He sent me a couple of records. He said, "Memorize a few of these tunes." I had one of these little, tricky polyrhythmic things where they'd go into three, then four, then two and all that, which was very simple for me, because I used to do that in Springfield, Mass. He wanted to sign a contract after the first couple of dates. I said, "No. Why don't we wait? After the three-month tour, maybe we'll hate each other." [laughs] It worked out good, and I stayed for 12 l/2 years.

So that's how I got with the small group thing, because I would have loved to have played big bands. You could really hit the drums more and just lay it down with all the brass. I loved all that. I would have learned a lot, I’m sure. But I won't say that I got stuck with the small groups. On the contrary, I would say it was great, because Tommy died, and Benny Goodman just would go out periodically. If he got sick or had a hangnail, he would chuck the whole band, go back to his place in Connecticut, and go fishing or something. Here I was making very good money at the Hickory House for those days, and I was recording for different people during the day. I was happy as a lark. I didn't want to go on the road for 400 bucks a week. I was burning in town. I was already doing some teaching, if you can believe that. I think I was born with drummers coming up with the "I want to study with you" routine. I can never understand that, because I'm basically a performer, not a teacher, although some people think I am. It's nice to teach. It's rewarding to see kids start to bloom out and open their minds a little bit. So that's the long-winded story about how I ended up with the small groups.

They both have advantages. With the small group, naturally you have more freedom. With a big band, you're more locked into the chart, obviously. Every night you're going to play—not the same fill, but the same kicks are coming, where you lead the band in and so on. But with a small group, there's much more flexibility, because there's more of an interplay. A big band is more like driving a stagecoach, holding the horses together. Your time feeling has to be strong. The small group is much more interplay and it's looser. You can use your dynamics more. They both have their advantages, but I think that, if you know the drums well enough, you should be the drums well enough, you should be able to play both ways — both styles.

RM: Certainly, the Brubeck group gave you more opportunities than most bands—for one thing, the whole time-signature thing Brubeck was into.

JM: Yeah, he wrote a couple of little drum things. He treated me well. Of course, Paul Desmond didn't really appreciate it at the time. We opened up at the Blue Note after we did that TV show. We did a couple of one-nighters. I'll never forget it. I'd do a little drum solo, and the people would stand up and clap—the whole thing. The second night, after the drum solo, Paul stomped off the stage and went up to the dressing room. Dave broke the set, went up and said, "What's the matter?" Paul said, "Either he goes or I go." So Dave said, "He's not going. This is what I wanted." Paul and I talked about this while he was alive, so we hashed the whole thing out. It was no big deal, but at the time it was somewhat of a shock, because he was the star of the group. So all of a sudden, here's this kid with glasses getting standing ovations, and that was kind of hard for him to take. But he stayed right on

through, and we actually became very close friends. During the last seven or eight years of the group, we always hung out together, but at first it was hard for him to share the spotlight with someone else.

RM: You and Paul went to see the movie Psycho together, right?

JM: [laughs] That was funny. At the time, we had a bass player named Norman Bates. He had great intonation and played beautiful lines. Anyway, we were on the road somewhere, and Paul said, "Did you see the movie Psycho?" I said no. He had seen it in some other town, so he said, "I'm going to take you." I said, "I don't want to go see it. What's so . . . ?" He had this big smile. He said, "You've got to come." I said, "I don't really feel like it. I'll stay here and practice or relax." He said, "You've got to come see it." This guy dragged me to the movie. We got in and the theater was really quiet, except for Paul and I going, "Hah, hah, hah, hah, hah!" The people thought we were nuts. Norman Bates — and here Norman was in the group. So we got back, and I said, "Norman, have you seen Psycho?" We both got on his case. Norman Bates, man. I'll never forget that.

RM: Probably your most famous solo is from "Take Five," which you recorded with Brubeck. One of the things I like about that solo is that the rest of the band continues to play behind you, so that the solo sounds like part of the same tune. A lot of times, it seems that the tune stops, the drummer does a technique demonstration, and then the tune starts up again.

JM: When people use the word "technique," they usually mean "speed." But there was a solo that had very little speed involved. It was more space, and playing over the barline. It was conspicuous by being so different. And they kept the vamp going behind me. I do that a lot when I play; I'll have the bass player walk a line behind me, and I'll try to keep the tune in my mind and play around it.

I know what you mean about the tune stopping, the drummer playing something totally unrelated, and then they come back in. I don't like that too much. "Take Five" was a different thing. It was never intended to be a hit. It was just a throwaway. Paul wrote it for me because I wanted something in five, and we needed something to end the concerts with. Drum solos were good to end with because, like Paul said, "What are you going to do after a drum solo, shoot off a cannon?" So "Take Five" was just a little thing for me to do at the end, and suddenly it took off. We made a short version for a 45, and the thing sold eight million copies. People still ask for it whenever I play.

RM: After all this time, what's your perspective on the Brubeck years? What do you think you accomplished? Do you feel that the group earned a place in history?

JM: Oh there's no question. I think I joined it just at the time it was going to make it. A lot of people feel that I contributed to part of its success then, and I guess maybe I did to a degree. Now I listen to the little things we used to do and they sound so simple, but not too many people were doing that kind of thing back then. It had some real good moments, and of course, it took me around the world four times. It gave me that exposure. In those days, we played to between 3,000 and 5,000 people a night—100,000 a month maybe, which is good exposure — in the various concert halls and all the festivals and so on and so forth.

Musically, at times, it was very rewarding, and other times, it was a bit tense, because Dave is not the easiest guy to play with. His time sense is not that strong. Dave was noted for taking a classical approach to jazz. He was always trying to merge the classical aspect and jazz. He'd get off on either these ultra-Chopinistic things or real pounding heavy chords. Dave could swing real good if there was nobody around and you were just sitting down and playing a tune. You'd get a nice feel, but as soon as the curtain would go up, he'd get extremely nervous. He'd have a tendency to really beat his foot a lot and he'd accelerate and accelerate. It was very hard. A lot of drummers couldn't play with him. He'd speed up and they'd speed up. It was the same with the bass player, because Norman would follow Dave rather than the drummer. At times when I first joined, I thought it was me. The thing would start, and by the time we got to the end of the tune, it was a lot faster. So I let it go the first time. The second time, I let it go again, but the third time, I leaned in on the cymbal and just kept the bass drum going. Finally, during the break, I said, "Hey man, something's wrong here. You better watch." I felt like I was all by myself. When [bassist] Gene Wright came on the band, that was a good move because Gene listened with me. We just locked in. If Dave started going somewhere, he’d have to come back, because he'd be out there by himself. The other rhythm sections would go with him, which is not the answer. Not that it has to be metronomic, but you don't take a medium tempo and end up twice as fast. However, I'd rather see somebody rush than slow down. At least that shows life. When you start slowing down, it's death.

It had some good moments. All in all it was great. We played the White House a couple of times. We played for the Shah of Iraq. In fact, they had a coup a week after, and they found the king hanging on a post. I like to think it wasn't our music that caused it.

RM: It was while you were with Brubeck that you "tricked" Billy Gladstone into teaching you. Do you want to tell that story?

JM: Sure. See when I was working with Marian's group in New York, I'd caught Gladstone once or twice at Radio City Music Hall. I liked the sound, and the way the drums came out was so beautiful. He was a magnificent drummer — a genius. So then he left Radio City and was living in Newark on 7th Street. I was living in Newark at the time on Grove Street. Boy, I contacted him right away, and at first, he didn't want to teach. Finally, he said, "Come on over." So I took a couple of lessons with him. Then I went out of town, came back, and took a couple more lessons with him. I must have taken maybe 10 or 12 lessons with him. I really tried to observe everything he taught me. I really hung onto every word.

Then I left and went to California with Dave. San Francisco was our home base. We'd go out for three months, come back, spend four or five weeks there, and work the Blackhawk a couple of nights a week. So I came back from this tour of the Pacific Northwest and My Fair Lady was in town. I knew that Billy went out with the road show of My Fair Lady with the original cast — Rex Harrison and all those people — so I ran down to the opera house but the guy wouldn't let me in backstage. I felt like a real groupie. "I want to see . . . .""No, you can't come in, kid." So I waited. Finally, Billy came out. "What are you doing?"—blah, blah, blah. I walked him back to his hotel, and he said, "I'll get you into the pit. You can come down and sit right next to me."

So the next night I sat this far from him and watched him do the whole show. After the show, I invited him up to my place for coffee. I said, "I really want to study with you. I'll pay you a hundred dollars a week. I really want to learn that technique." He said, "Why do you want to learn it?" And I said, "Because of the sound that you're getting." The control — he could play single strokes as fast as anybody I've ever seen. It was like a blur. It looked effortless. I said, "I want that kind of control, because I can use it." He kept saying, "What you do is fine. You

don't need to study with me." So I had a little practice pad on a stand. I picked up the sticks and started playing real stiffly. He said, "No, no. That's not it." He grabbed the sticks and started to demonstrate his stroke. Then he looked up, and I was just breaking up. He said, "You really want it bad."

So every night, he'd come up and work with me, and we'd talk. He said I was one of the few people who understood his technique. I must have studied with him every night, and the guy wouldn't ever take a cent for it. He said, "No, I just want you to have it."

RM: Can you describe the key things you got from Gladstone? What was his technique about?

JM: It's difficult to describe in words. Billy never wrote a drum book because he said that it was easier to demonstrate than to talk about. It was a highly individualized style. His whole thing was relaxation, and that the sticks do half of the work for you. It's hard to explain. I could say that it involves touch—how to get a sound out of a drum. The thing I wanted from him was the touch, the sound, the relaxation, and the motion. Everything was natural body movement.

I'll tell you what the first lesson was like. He picked up the stick, and his hand was in a totally natural position. In other words, when your hand is relaxed, your thumb isn't squeezing against your first finger, and your wrist isn't at some funny angle. Billy didn't really go into all of this, but I had gotten the same thing from [George Lawrence] Stone. The stick just rests in the hand in a very natural, relaxed position. So Billy's first lesson consisted of making a stroke with the right hand.

RM: Here's a guy with phenomenal technique, and I suppose that you could play pretty well, too, at this point. Yet instead of showing you a bunch of hot licks, he just wanted to hear one note with a good tone.

JM: Yep. He demonstrated a slow, relaxed, flowing kind of movement, and you could hear the wood ring when he struck the pad. That was the first lesson — getting the ring of the wood. The average person chokes the stick, and that comes through on the drum.

I had such luck with Larry Stone and Billy, because they were real good teachers — not only good teachers, but they could play, you know. They weren't jazz drummers; they didn't profess to be. But Billy had technique that wouldn't quit. There's one thing that I show the kids when they think they have something together. I'll say, "Play a four-stroke-ruff paradiddle for me." It was in the old Krupa book years ago, and Billy could play that thing at 120 [beats per minute as set to a metronome]. That seems impossible; how are you going to get four notes in there at that one point? But he did. At first I just thought that he was buzzing the stick, but he played it for me on two different surfaces. One time I was working on that just to challenge myself — not that I'd ever use it. I had that up to 115, I guess. He had all kinds of facilities. That's basically it. When I do my teaching now, I try to pass on these old techniques.

Again, you can have all the technique in the world, and if you don't use it musically, it doesn't make sense. You should learn as much as you can about the instrument, and then go out and play at every opportunity. Even if it's in a polka band, you can make a polka swing. It's all music. That's what I really mean about technique being one thing, but you have to be able to use it. That's what makes someone like Buddy so phenomenal. He has the facility, and still he can play with taste. He can play with a trio if he wants to. I think he prefers to play big band; that's where his forte is. But he can play as soft as you want. There's a guy who's got the facility to do his little solo things. No one can do his things the way he does, but that's him. That's his personality.

Also, find the best teacher that you can, and be sure that the teacher can do what you want to learn. There are so many teachers out there who are unqualified. Just going through a million books will not help you. The objective of a good teacher is to bring out the creativity of the pupil. Some teachers insist that a student play a certain style. Let the students be themselves, and develop their talent.

There are so many people teaching out there who have never played. How can you show somebody something if you can't do it? To me, there's nothing worse than "armchair" jazz drummers who haven't played a gig in 40 years, have 70 students, and are professing something that they have no idea about. They've never been on the road, never been in a recording studio, and never been part of a genuine musical situation. There are so many jive teacher out there.

And this thing about going through 75 books — I think it's a shame that some teachers put students through that. I've had students who have studied with other teachers, have come in with 40 or 50 books, and couldn't play one of them accurately. They had no idea about keeping time, no idea about phrasing . . .

This is a shame. I hate to imagine how many people out there are going through this kind of thing. I just want to tell people to beware of those kinds of teachers. If you want to play, go to someone who can do it.

RM: A few minutes ago, you said that you consider yourself a player and not a teacher. I think there are an awful lot of people who do consider you a teacher. What's your philosophy about teaching? What do you want to give students? What should they be coming to you for, and what shouldn't they be coming to you for?

JM: Well I think a teacher, if you're going to use the term, should give them knowledge of the instrument. Once they have that, they can use it the way they want to use it. My training was basically classical snare drum technique, but I used it the way I wanted to. So I try to show people how to develop a facility on the instrument. Some of them want to learn how to play jazz, and I have some expertise in that, so I can show them some things. But if they want to learn rock, I tell them to go to a rock drummer. When Danny Gottlieb was in high school, he was playing some Thad Jones/Mel Lewis charts in the school jazz band, and he wanted to know how to approach that. So I sent him to Mel.

There's only so much you can show someone in a studio. I can't be a band. I can intellectualize on how to swing, and I can talk about it until I'm blue in the face, but you've got to hear it and you've got to experience it. That's why I constantly say to all the students, "Get some records. Listen to the type of music that you like to play." But basically, I don't think you should go into a big, deep-thinking trip. If you can teach kids how to play, open their minds up to music .... First teach them how to hit the drum. You can show them the basic rudiments. I think they are very important. You don't have to teach all rudiments. There's more to it than just rudiments. "Rudiment" means nothing but "fundamental." There are only three basic rudiments: a single-stroke roll, a double-stroke roll, and a flam. A paradiddle is nothing but two singles and a double. So basically, it's to show them how to play, introduce them to various styles of music, play the different styles, listen to records, and learn to analyze what style their playing is. I think that's really all that a teacher could do.

RM: After that, the student has to show some initiative. For example, when you studied with Stone, you would take the exercises that he gave you and, after learning to play them as written, you would then take them further.

JM: Right. When I was studying with him, I'd be doing the first three pages of Stick Control, for example, and after I learned to play the sticking patterns, I'd start throwing in accents in various places.

RM: So you were developing your creativity at the same time as you were first learning technique.

JM: Yeah, because it was boring to just do the same thing. I would always check these things with him to make sure I wasn't doing something wrong, but he always seemed to like what I did. I tell my students, "Be free with these things. Create your own things." The exercises in Master Studies are not the end of the book.

RM: Right. Throughout the book, you give hints as to how the exercises can be used in different ways, and you keep encouraging the readers to use their own creativity and imaginations.

JM: That's what I really want to get across. I've got a couple of students who are beautiful ''basement players." One guy has incredible technique, but the kid won't go out of his house to play. Great chops, but I can't get him to go out and sit in, or even hear music.

RM: But on a more positive note, I heard Danny Gottlieb with the Pat Metheny Group for about two years before I found out that he was your student, so there's someone who certainly developed his own creativity. Even now, when I listen to him play, I don't especially hear Joe Morello in there.

JM: Now, that is a beautiful remark. Danny studied with me when he was in high school, then he went away to Miami, and then he came back and studied with me again. After all the time Danny has spent with me, he has a pretty good concept of my methods. So it's really a compliment to me that he doesn't sound anything like me. I never said to Danny, "Play it this way." Oh sure, I showed him a few moves on the drums here and there, but I always left how he used the stuff up to him. "Play you, man; don't play me."

RM: Are there any common problems that students seem to have—common misconceptions?

JM: What I see a lot in the younger players who are coming up is that they're more interested — especially the rock kids — in big drumkits, and they miss the idea of keeping time. That's one thing I stress all the time — always keeping the tempo steady. That's what it's all about. They seem to be interested in the flash part of it, but not the musical part of it. That's the hardest thing to get over. They're fascinated with all the little nuances and cymbal techniques and all that, but lack keeping time.

Another thing is that I get a lot of students who have studied with other teachers, and they come in very, very tight. This one particular approach that's being taught is this very tense fulcrum — squeezing the sticks and developing this muscle between the thumb and first finger. Drummers who have studied this for three or four years are so tight that they're almost crippled. One guy had developed tendinitis and had to have an operation on his left hand. That doesn't make any sense. So that's another problem.

RM: Back when you were with Brubeck, when you had time off, you used to do a lot of clinic tours. I know that a lot of drummers from England have mentioned you in interviews. One of their earliest memories was going to a Joe Morello clinic.

JM: That's interesting. We played over there with Dave — sometimes twice a year. There were a lot of drum fans around there. I used to let them all in the dressing room. I really feel that, if the people like what I do that much, I owe them some time. I can't chase people away if they're sincere. But the clinics for the Ludwig people — years ago, Bill Ludwig, Jr., asked me "Do you want to do a drum clinic?" I said in my joking way, "What's a drum clinic? A hospital for sick drummers? What the hell does that mean?" Anyway, it got so that I was their top clinician for a while. I think I did more clinics for them than all their clinicians put together for a long time. I'm not doing as many now as I used to, because they're using rock 'n' roll drummers now and I can't blame them. That's what's selling the drums.

I've done a lot of clinics where someone will say, "Can you show me how Elvin Jones plays?'' And I'll say, "Do I look like Elvin Jones? I can imitate his style, but I can't play like him any more than he can play like me."

See, playing is an individual thing, and boy, I'll tell you, I respect anyone who can play. Anyone who has a reputation has earned it. I'm sure there are people who disagree with my playing, and there are some who think I'm the greatest thing that ever happened. That's what's so great about an art form. It would be awfully boring if everyone played the same. If everyone sounded like me, or like Elvin, or like Max Roach — what a drag. You would only have to own one record. It's individual. You can't like everybody. I certainly don't like every drummer I hear. I appreciate if someone has earned any kind of reputation, but I prefer certain people over others.

RM: I would go so far as to say that one of our basic rights is to like or dislike whomever we want, no matter what anyone else thinks.

JM: Of course, man. People go around saying, "This cat can't play like . . . ." Back when I used to travel around, every town had a Joe Morello — someone who could play my style better than I could. There were people who could play just like Max or like Buddy. That's a drag. Buddy has enough clones around.

RM: And I know for a fact that Buddy has absolutely no respect for his imitators. On the contrary, he recently praised Mel Lewis by saying that Mel doesn't sound like anyone else.

JM: Yeah, and I respect that. I enjoy hearing Mel do what he does. But then again, wouldn't it be a drag if everyone played like Mel? Elvin doesn't sound like anyone else. Elvin's got that primitive thing. That's his personality, and God bless him. Philly Joe was another great drummer, and he didn't sound like Max or Elvin. Roy Haynes never got the recognition he deserved, but he has his own thing.

RM: Are there any younger drummers that appeal to you?

JM: Sure. Carl Palmer is good. Neil Peart seems to know what he's doing. Bruford is a good player. Peter Erskine is an excellent drummer. I think Simon Phillips does a magnificent job on his bass drums. Of course, for every Simon Phillips there are 500 others.

RM: Wasn't that always true? Weren't there hundreds of drummers playing bebop besides Max, Philly Joe, Kenny Clarke, and those guys?

JM: Yeah, but the thing about those hundreds of drummers was that they were imitators. Max created his own thing. Roy created his own thing. They took things from other drummers, but they used those things to create their own styles. I've taken from Gene Krupa, Jo Jones, Buddy, and Max, but I don't play like any one of them. So the point is that you can't like everybody, but you have to respect what they do.

I've heard people say, "Well, this cat doesn't swing," or "This drummer swings more than that one." Again, I think "swing" and "feel" are individual things. There is not just one way to swing. Shelly Manne had a beautiful feel. That comes from inside. Max has swing; Roy has it; Buddy has his own way. It's a feeling from inside that you project through the drums.

I don't have the end-all and know-all of the drums. For me, it's ever unfolding. There's a lot out there that I don't know, but I'm trying to do the best I can. The main thing is to be original. Stone used to say, ‘The secret to failure is to try to please everybody.’ You can't. I went through a period where I tried, and I used to get really upset. After a while, you realize that you can't please everyone. Another of Stone's little axioms was, "The secret to success is an unbeaten fool." I asked him what that meant, and he said, "It means you're too dumb to quit." [laughs] You'll be criticized and put down, but you keep coming back and trying again.

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The Blue Angel Crowd by Dave Frishberg

August 22, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: "One Man's Road" by Clare Fischer

≪ Previous: Joe Morello - A Career Overview

The following piece by pianist and composer Dave Frishberg is another example that Gene Lees published to support his premise that Jazz musicians, on average, are a highly articulate group. Here’s how he explained that premise in the February 1985 edition of the Jazzletter from which the Frishberg article that is also drawn.

Below Dave’s essay you’ll find John S. Wilson’s 1991 New York Times review of James Gavin’s first book INTIMATE NIGHTS The Golden Age of New York Cabaret which just happens to be a history of the boîte which has been defined thusly: “a funky boîte on Paris's Left Bank that offers hot jazz to a self-consciously cool crowd.”

“A few weeks ago I spoke on the phone with composer Johnny Mandel, whose catalogue includes Emily, The Shadow of Your Smile, A Time for Love, and a dozen other familiar songs with meat on their bones. He and I have a song together, You Are There."Do you realize," I asked him, "that there are now eight recordings of You Are There. Idon't think I've seen a penny on it, have you?" He laughed and said, no, he probably hadn't. Then he asked me who had recorded it. I began to list from memory: "Let's see. Blossom Dearie, Irene Krai, Sue Raney, myself. . ."

"Well no wonder," Mandel interrupted. "You're talking about the Blue Angel crowd."

The Blue Angel crowd. Perfect. The song freaks.

I hadn't thought about the Blue Angel for so long. Back in the late 1950s, when I had just arrived in New York City and begun to work as a pianist, there were maybe a dozen of those chic little East Side supper clubs — "boites," I guess they're called — that featured singers or singing pianists with the emphasis on esoteric repertoire.

There was Le Ruban Bleu, the Apartment, the Living Room, L'Intrigue, and, of course, the Blue Angel. There was Bobby Short, Bobby Cole, Blossom Dearie, Felicia Sanders, Charles DeForest, Charlie Cochran, Mabel Mercer, and a bunch of other names I remember but you probably wouldn't.

You could sit at the bar until four in the morning and hear songs you never dreamed existed. I heard Fly Me to-the Moon for the first time in one of those clubs. Likewise Lucky to Be Me, My Gentleman Friend, Too Late Now— a whole encyclopedia of words and music that would stick to my ribs, and remain a most valuable part of my musical consciousness for the rest of my life. I first heard Blossom Dearie when she and Annie Ross were doing an act together at Julius Monk's Downstairs. The first time I heard Bob Dorough perform was at a grim little place called the Dickens Room on Lexington Avenue at 39th Street.

It was around then that I began to accompany singers, and my own repertoire began to bloom. I started to notice who was writing the good melodies and designing the stylish structures, how the good lyric writers made it happen, who were the harmonic heavyweights. I found out about Leonard Bernstein and Alan Jay Lerner. When I discovered Frank Loesser, it was like finding a gold mine. I began to get hung up on this three-minute art form.

Looking back on it now, I can see there was a certain cultishness about what I am now pleased to call the Blue Angel crowd. Generally speaking, I'd say they were singers who preferred very simple unobtrusive accompaniments, and chose not to dress up the songs with elaborate or tricky arrangements. The song was the thing. They took pride in their personal arcane repertoires.

And the customers were part of the Blue Angel crowd too. Song freaks just like the singers, they were often pretty hip. Much too polite to request a song by title. "Gershwin tonight?" they would smile. Gershwin was like a steak dinner to them, Irving Berlin like a nice bowl of chicken soup. Nourishment.

But the music business was changing fast. The day of the professional songwriter was drawing to a close, as recording entrepreneurs worked hand in hand with independent radio broadcasters to market disposable songs that became quickly obsolete. Folk musicians, young amateur performers, and rhythm and blues artists could supply the small record labels and local radio stations with all the material they needed. There was suddenly more music than any of us really wanted to hear. I remember from a college economics course the principle called Gresham's Law, which I think states that when cheap currency is permitted to flood the marketplace, it drives the good currency out. I think Gresham's law was operating — and operates still — in our musical marketplace. But, in fairness, I should tell you that I got a D in that economics course.

I guess the most illustrious survivors of that stubbornly artistic Blue Angel bunch are Bobby Short and Blossom Dearie. Bob Dorough and I have been around long enough to qualify as bona fide survivors, but I would say our activities were centered elsewhere — Dorough's as a writer/producer in the recording studios, mine as a pianist in the jazz clubs.

But among the current crop of song freaks — today's Blue Angel crowd, if you will — Dorough and I will eagerly claim charter membership. Who else have we got here? There's Susannah McCorkle, Jackie Cain and Roy Kral, Carole Sloane, Carol Fredette, Richard Rodney Bennett, Shirley Horn, Sue Raney, Mike Palter and Lynn Jackson . . . and all the others who act as curators for the repertoire.

This is not to ignore Carmen McRae, Sarah Vaughan, Peggy Lee, and the Chairman of the Board. But these are stars, don't you see, a different group entirely.

However, this is to ignore Linda Ronstadt, Toni Tenille, Willie Nelson, and anybody else who thinks all you got to do is sing Don't Blame Me and you're a connoisseur. This is the Blue Angel, baby. You got to show me some I.D. . . .

One thing's certain. There are fewer and fewer places for the B.A. crowd to do their stuff. That fact made the demise of Stephen's After All in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, all the more melancholy. I don't think I'm stretching it when I say there are probably not more than half a dozen places, and Stephen's was one, in the Western Hemisphere that do a first-class job of presenting vintage American pop music. (I still don't know what to call it. Cabaret? Too limited a term. Quality pop music? Myopic, not to mention arrogant. Classic pop? Too confusing.)

Well, anyhow, I can't complain. I'm hearing my songs played on the radio with increasing frequency. Public radio mainly. Even some of those "cult" recordings of You Are There. Because even though the Blue Angel, Stephen's After All, Nancy Steele's L'Intrigue, Trudy Heller's Versailles, even though they've all closed shop, the old Blue Angel crowd has found a home. It turns out to be public radio. I'll bet that's where eighty-five percent of my airplay is taking place.

If Blossom, Dorough and I had any doubts that we had an audience on public radio, they were dispelled by the astonishing turnout at our concerts in Raleigh, sponsored by the Spectator and WUNC. It was quite a reception we received. I'm still sailing on it. Like the old saying, I guess we're world famous in Raleigh-Durham.

And the old Blue Angel's still open for business."— DF

When a Cellar Was the Place to Be

By John S. Wilson; Published: The New York Times. September 22, 1991

INTIMATE NIGHTS The Golden Age of New York Cabaret. By James Gavin. Illustrated. 406 pp. New York: Grove Weidenfeld.

“Dorothy Loudon, the singer and comedienne who frequently appeared at the Blue Angel between 1955 and 1962 (and later starred on Broadway in "Annie"), recently performed at a "Salute to Cabaret" as part of the New York International Festival of the Arts. "My roots are in cabaret," she said at the time. "But in those days, we didn't call it cabaret. It was saloons -- or dumps actually."

More than 50 years earlier, Helen Morgan, a star on Broadway who also sang in speakeasies during Prohibition and in the earliest post-repeal nightclubs, had declared: "I want to finish with nightclubs. I hate the smoky tiny places."

The back rooms of speakeasies provided a tacky, ramshackle heritage for the intimate rooms that are the subject of "Intimate Nights: The Golden Age of New York Cabaret," James Gavin's survey of their 60-year history in New York. His sources are the people who were involved in the clubs and in the performances -- club owners, directors, skit writers, songwriters, singers, comedians, musicians. They recall, often with burning hindsight, numerous disasters and an occasional triumph.

Herbert Jacoby, a tall, darkly ominous presence who had been the press agent for a small club in Paris in the early 1930's, brought a slightly Continental touch to the fledgling world of Manhattan's small clubs when he opened Le Ruban Bleu on East 56th Street in 1937. Regulars remember that he started shows promptly at 11 P.M. by introducing the performers "in funereal tones."

Julius Monk, a willowy Carolinian who spoke in an unintelligible mixture of Southern and British accents that Mr. Gavin describes as "oatmeal diction," managed the room. When Jacoby left in 1943 to found another club, the Blue Angel, Mr. Monk took over Le Ruban Bleu, assuming the duties of master of ceremonies, which he performed with unintelligible elegance.

Herbert Jacoby and Julius Monk, pioneer entrepreneurs of the New York cabaret scene, float through Mr. Gavin's book, providing a variety of narrative threads. When Jacoby started the Blue Angel, he needed $5,000 to get it going. He got the money from Max Gordon, who had been running the Village Vanguard in Greenwich Village for nine years (the Vanguard was a cabaret, using comedians, singers and jazz groups, until 1957, when Gordon made it the esteemed jazz room that it remains).

Although their personalities and tastes were at opposite extremes, Jacoby and Gordon remained partners in the Angel for 20 years and even opened a second, short-lived club, Le Directoire. Jacoby had a "deserved reputation as a snob," Mr. Gavin writes, while Gordon was a gentle, caring man who had "won admiration as the most honest, level-headed boss an act could have."

The two men fought constantly; Jacoby privately "called the Village Vanguard a sewer, sneering that Gordon had as much taste as a Vanguard hamburger." But their differing tastes made the two clubs successful: Gordon brought Harry Belafonte, Pearl Bailey and Eartha Kitt to the Vanguard (and subsequently to the Blue Angel) while Jacoby chose Kaye Ballard, Barbara Cook and Bobby Short for the Angel.

Julius Monk was fired from Le Ruban Bleu in 1956, 18 months before the club closed. He wound up in a relatively menial position at a San Francisco club, where Murray Grand, a pianist, singer and songwriter, found him when Mr. Grand was suddenly pushed into the role of manager of a fading New York club with a San Francisco name, the Purple Onion. Instead of the usual custom of putting acts on individually, Mr. Grand wanted to use them as elements in a revue, and he asked Mr. Monk to help.

Mr. Grand renamed the club the Downstairs (because it was located in a cellar, at 51st Street and Sixth Avenue). When he proposed his idea of a revue to the club's owner, Irving Haber, an accountant who owned three other clubs, and told him that Julius Monk was coming east to work on it, he found that Haber did not know what a revue was and had never heard of Julius Monk. Nonetheless, Haber gave them two weeks to put on a show.

While Mr. Monk got some friends to help tidy up the dilapidated club, Mr. Grand put together a show called "Four Below" with skits and songs by Michael Brown, the team of Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidt ("The Fantasticks" was still in their future), and others.

On opening night, March 4, 1956, Mr. Grand was shocked to find that the sign outside proclaimed "Julius Monk's Downstairs Presents Four Below." Mr. Grand was not mentioned in the program, not even as the writer of his own songs. But "Four Below," which Mr. Gavin identifies as "the first legitimate cafe revue in New York City," became the hit of the season and started a series of Monk revues that set the tone for New York cabaret for a decade.

In his first book, Mr. Gavin discusses rooms such as Spivy's, Cafe Society, One Fifth Avenue, Tony's (with Mabel Mercer) and the Bon Soir (with Barbra Streisand); performers such as Bart Howard, who was the accompanist and master of ceremonies at the Blue Angel before his song "Fly Me to the Moon" became famous; comics such as Mort Sahl, Nichols and May, Phyllis Diller, Carol Burnett and, later, Lenny Bruce; and, still later, venues such as the Ballroom, first in SoHo and then in Chelsea.

A steady deluge of cheating, backbiting, recriminations and desperation accompanied the progress of the intimate clubs through the years. Although it sometimes seems like much ado about nothing, the details are vividly reported in "Intimate Nights" by some of the participants -- in whose memories the incidents are apparently etched in acid.”

John S. Wilson frequently writes about jazz and cabaret for The New York Times.

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"One Man's Road" by Clare Fischer

August 23, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: "Mel Lewis: The View from the Back of the Band" - The Chris Smith Biography

≪ Previous: The Blue Angel Crowd by Dave Frishberg

One of the most pleasant associations I ever had during my time playing Jazz back when the World was young was formed during an afternoon I spent in the company of Clare Fischer at his home in the lovely Laurel Canyon area of Los Angeles.

My close friend and bassist Harvey Newmark telephoned to ask if I could make a rehearsal with Clare at his home.

Clare was forming a new trio as bassist Gary Peacock had just left for New York and drummer Gene Stone had gone on the road with a vocal group.

Clare was a cordial host and we spent the afternoon making music with occasional breaks to brew coffee. Clare ground his own coffee beans, used a Chemex glass coffee pot and paper filters and produced some of the most delicious coffee I had ever tasted.

The music he made was “delicious," too, and over the years, I followed Clare’s career closely and heard him perform in person on a number of occasions.

I found Clare to be one of the most articulate and erudite persons I ever met, in or out of the Jazz world.

The following piece by Clare is another of the examples that Gene Lees offered in support of his premise that Jazz musicians, on average, are a highly articulate group. Here’s how he explained this argument in the February 1985 edition of the Jazzletter from which the Fischer article is also drawn.

By Clare Fischer

“When I read the Jazzletter, I am constantly amazed that I find myself so stimulated. I envy the forum you have created, whether for getting something off your chest or for fine humor. I laugh, sometimes so strongly I'm sorely conscious of doing it by myself. I cry, thankful that I am by myself. I get angry over some inequity you are dealing with. Never have I responded so often to so much from a single source.

You touch on many areas that seem to strike similar experiences in my own life. Language seems to be my undoing. I have, as you have, had interesting experiences in foreign languages. I see such parallels between music and language. But that which is so important to me doesn't seem to mean much to anyone else. And so I know what it is to be a minority in this world.

In whatever area of endeavor — physics, medicine, music, you name it — less than ten percent of the people have real insight and capability. Though the remaining ninety percent are stamped, licensed, approved, given degrees and other approbations by the State, you will search long and hard to find a really good doctor, a really insightful professor, a good musician. Most of them are going through the motions, teachers who have nothing to teach contriving to give the illusion of teaching and firmly convinced that they are doing so. The ninety percent are of course the democratic majority and, as such, make up the membership of the American Medical Association, the American Bar Association, and N.A.J.E. In this democracy where everyone is equal, few people perceive how unequal we are.

Ears, for example. Most people do not have accurate or perceptive hearing. Each person evaluates what he hears convinced he has the total.

Language goes through its degeneration in a variety of ways, but one of the most common is through not hearing accurately. In old English, those words which we now spell with wh were spelled hw, and even though some scribes transposed this to wh, we continued to pronounce the aspirated h before the w, thus being able to differentiate whale (hwale) from wail, why from Y, what from watt, and where from ware. One of the funniest examples of this deterioration occurs in an Angie Dickenson toothpaste commercial. She does not pronounce the h in "whitest", and since she pronounces intervocallic t like d, "whitest" comes out "widest". Who wants wide teeth? And who wants to save the wails?

The same thing happens with harmonies. People hear to a degree commensurate with their level of understanding. Many are incapable of transcribing solos or arrangements from records because they fit what they hear through what they understand.

The worst ramification is the effect the unperceptive ninety percent have on the insightful ten percent — the American Medical Association fighting off innovative ideas and procedures from the minority; the following of musical styles in vogue by the many and the squelching of the individuals in music. The majority go through the motions, convinced they are playing music. And that is a description of this year's [1985]Grammy awards!

When I was a young musician, having first listened to Meade Lux Lewis, Fatha Hines, Nat Cole, Art Tatum, and Bud Powell, I paid attention to pianists. Subsequently I found more interest in the horn players and composers - Hawkins, the Duke, Johnny Hodges, Ben Webster among them. They were mostly sax players, and alto sax players at that. I followed Diz and Bird most devotedly and vividly remember the marvelous unfolding of the bop period. But I soon tired of that unperceptive majority who were aping Parker.

I had a strong black influence in my early years, and worked at the age of fifteen at a Crispus Attucks American Legion Hall with an all-black band. I wore what we called drapes during that period, the only time in my life that I was clothes conscious. I was ostracized by my high school class because of my "mixing". I only knew that this music was alive in a way that contrasted sharply with so much "white" music. I listened only peripherally to the Dorseys and Glenn Miller, being more interested in Ellington, Basie, Henderson and — out of Chicago - King Kolax.

When I went on to college, I roomed with students from Latin America, especially a Puerto Rican by the name of Roberto Fortier. This, the late 1940s, was the heyday of the mambo, and could he dance! I was besieged by Tito Puente, Machito, Tito Rodriguez and many others. I listened, but did not myself attempt to play this music.

It was about this time that I heard Lee Konitz for the first time and, developing now along more sophisticated lines myself, I embraced his work as a devotee. I mean everything he touched brought response of the strongest kind. I transcribed his solos by the dozen. I copied them on vellum so that I could give them to others. This is the one player who influenced me most.

I never cared for Lennie Tristano. He seemed too stiff and tight-assed for me. Lee was loose, with a melodic angularity and harmonic originality. Then what happened? Lee was the talented ten percent pressured by the democratic majority. "He played a lot of notes, but he didn't swing." He did not receive the acclaim he deserved because the ninety percent said Bird, Bird and nothing but the Bird. He didn't sound like Bird. He didn't play like Bird. He was an absolutely original voice.

The era of black political awareness was dawning, and although jazz had been one of the first areas where black-white equality was practiced, now a strong exclusionary attitude set in among many black jazz musicians. Some of it was conscious, some of it was unconscious, as in a wonderful quote from Gerald Wilson in a college listening course: "This was one of the better non-black bands."

To be a white jazz musician in certain circles at that time, one had to carry a passport with visa. Lee Konitz, the sensitive Jewish kid, began chasing after his "black soul", as he was quoted in Down Beat. The result? He has changed radically from what he was originally. He lost his genius and is now indistinguishable from any number of saxophone players. He uses a plastic reed, is capable of squawking, and at times can play extremely out of tune.

Jazz was and is a street music, but as each generation has played it different elements have entered it at different levels: greater instrumental technique, more sophisticated harmonies, more complicated rhythmic structures and those who react against them - - starting with the bop-Dixie conflict and growing, ever growing, until each part has split off from the main stem to the point where there is no main stem. The latest thing seems to be fusion, which many see as a development of jazz but which I contend is a development of rock and roll.

With all this divergence, and knowing that there is no one jazz that is universal, one tries to maintain that element necessary to function totally -- self-confidence. To some it comes early, existing in youthful naivete. To others, like me, it comes late.

I started out to be a classical composer and got sidetracked into jazz. I have been as influenced by Bach, Bartok, Berg, Prokofiev, Shostakovich, Stravinsky, Dutilleux, Schoenberg, as I have by Ellington, Bud Powell et al. When I play the blues I fuse Meade Lux Lewis' old chord changes with Duke Ellington colors voiced via Stravinsky. I feel I am more influenced as a pianist by what I have explored or developed as a writer, and more influenced by composers than pianists.

When I came to Los Angeles in 1958 I spent much time in East L.A. finding out what Latin music was made of. I had known instinctively that what I heard jazz musicians play for Latin was ersatz. During this period I met and played with Cal Tjader. I wrote several albums for him. Then raising a family took over my life, and I became heavily involved with studio music. For about ten years I did that almost exclusively. When I did play in public the press usually said, "Studio musician fronts jazz group." And all the while I thought I was a jazz musician who played in the studios. Finally, about eight years ago, after a hiatus in Latin jazz of fifteen years, Cal asked me to record and play again with his group. At this time in my life, my late forties, I started with my own group, Salsa Picante, and with my vocal group 2 + 2.

Suddenly everything in my life coalesced — my interest in the Latin culture, my self-confidence, and above all, feeling good about what I was doing.

Unless the instrument is a beauty, I do not play the piano now. I prefer electric pianos, digital pianos, and organ, because the sound sources are so exciting. Plus, with amplification, you don't have to beat your arthritic knuckles to the bone fighting drummers whose dynamic sensibilities are of the Mack truck variety.

Every player has to find those aspects of his own work that are unique in order to believe in himself. When you at last know you are good but do not manifest conceit in talking about it, it seems to me that maturity sets in. I have ample technique, but there are those whose chops leave me in the dust. There are those who play faster and swing harder than I do. But I know my strengths: harmonic voicings and harmony in general, sensitive and innovative melodic turns, with my own sense of rhythmic phrasing.

I'm in virgin territory, blazing my own trails. After years of being influenced by others and developing my own voice out of all of it, I now at fifty-six find myself influencing others. And that's scarey. Here I am, not completely established myself and others are utilizing my stuff before everyone knows where it comes from!

-CF”

The following video features “early” Clare on Things Ain’t What They Used To Be with Ralph Pena on bass and Larry Bunker on drums.

↧

"Mel Lewis: The View from the Back of the Band" - The Chris Smith Biography

August 24, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: Vic Dickenson - A Melodic Trombonist

≪ Previous: "One Man's Road" by Clare Fischer

“Mel showed me at that time, what a drummer is capable of doing as far as being integrated as an inescapable component of the arrangement as a whole. Not just something stuck in there at the last minute. You don't replace Mel Lewis, you just hope to get somebody who's like him — maybe.”

- Don Sebesky, trombonist, composer-arranger

“Well, it boils down to the fact that Mel played music on the drums. He absorbed what everyone in the band was doing and found things to play that complimented it. His time was so relaxed that sometimes he got in trouble for it. I remember one time; while we were playing with Terry Gibbs, hearing Al Porcino pounding his heel on the floor and saying, "Let's go Mel!" Because Mel was so easy that sometimes he would drag a little bit. But, to me it was a perfect solution to big band drumming.”

- Bill Holman, tenor saxophonist, big band leader, composer, arranger

“Mel never stopped speaking up for what he believed in and he always stayed true to his belief that jazz music should be swinging and innovative. Due in part to his unapologetic honesty his career wasn't filled with the fame and fortune that other drummers achieved. Yet Mel stayed true to himself and developed artistically throughout his entire life, in turn leaving the world with a recorded legacy that is priceless.” [p. 105]

- Chris Smith, professional drummer, educator author of Mel Lewis: The View from the Back of the Band

"My whole approach to playing is reaction. I don't listen to myself play. I'm too busy listening to everything going on around me. All my body is doing is reacting to that. I augment, compliment, round out. I can make anybody sound good. I have my own style, but I play uniquely with everyone that I play with ... Sometimes I'm forcing things, making things happen another way, but I'm still reacting to everything I hear. The composition I'm creating as I play in a big band is also because of what I'm hearing ... Everything depends on your ears. If I'm busy listening to me, then I'm not hearing the rest of the band. When the band is playing as an ensemble, I'm part of that ensemble."

— Mel Lewis, clinic in Hilversum, Netherlands 1985

Early in his career, some Jazz critics dismissed Mel Lewis as a drummer with “no chops” [little technique] who played behind the beat. But as Chris Smith points out in his masterfully comprehensive biography of Mel is that - “What makes the critics' under-appreciation of Mel so incorrect is what most every musician and many listeners know: that while a band can play poorly with a great drummer, no band can be great without one.”

When you finish reading Chris’ Mel Lewis: The View from the Back of the Band - The Life and Music of Mel Lewis [Denton, TX: University of North Texas Press, 2014], there will be no doubt in your mind - nor should there be - that Mel Lewis was one of the greatest Jazz drummers who ever lived [1929-1990].

He ranks right up there with Baby Dodds, Zutty Singleton, Gene Krupa, Chick Webb, Buddy Rich, Davy Tough, Sid Catlett, Kenny Clarke, Max Roach, Shelly Manne, Louie Bellson, Joe Morello, Philly Joe Jones, Elvin Jones, Tony Williams, Jack DeJohnette and any other “signature drummer” in the history of the music. [“Signature drummer” was Buddy Rich’s term for a drummer whose style was instantly recognizable and distinctive from other drummers].

As Gerry Mulligan once put it: “There’s still not a drummer who achieved what Mel Lewis did. And I’m not sure how to describe it.”

Maybe one answer is in the following remark that Mel made to Burt Korall the author of Drummin’ Men: The Heartbeat of Jazz - The Bebop Years:

“I found that to really make money you had to give up music. So I gave up money.”

For forty years, Mel Lewis made music in a widely diverse range of settings that included trios, small groups and big bands.

And what a collection of big bands: Tex Beneke, Boyd Raeburn, Alvino Ray, Ray Anthony, Stan Kenton, the Terry Gibbs Dream Band, Gerald Wilson, Gerry Mulligan’s Concert Jazz Band, the Thad Jones Mel Lewis Big Band and Mel Lewis and The Jazz Orchestra plus the many performances with various iterations of the WDR big band in Germany during the 1980s.

But Gerry’s point is well-taken, Mel’s footprint on Jazz is so huge - how do you describe it?

Until Chris Smith biography of Mel came along, Mel’s career was almost impossible to recount let alone describe. After reading it one is tempted to ask: Is there anyone that Mel didn’t play during a career that spanned approximately four decades from approximately 1950 to 1990?

Each time I started to prepare and outline for how I wanted to approach reviewing Chris Smith’s engaging biography of Mel Lewis, I’d read a little further in my notes to each chapter which then prompted me to rethink and rewrite the whole feature!

Chris’ book is much more than a mere biography of Mel, it imparts soooo much knowledge and information about the broader Jazz World in the second half of the 20th century and Mel’s role in creating of lot of it that it could easily have been entitled Drum Wisdom and Jazz Revelations: The Life and Times of Mel Lewis [1929 - 1990].

Perhaps the easiest way to begin is with Mel Lewis’ own description of who he is and what he does: “Hi, my name is Mel Lewis and I play drums and cymbals.”

Or as it it specifically stated in Chris’ biography:

“You can say I am an old man, the kids can say "Oh what does he know he is from the old school." Man, I am not from the old school! I am a musician , and I play drums and cymbals. I use cymbals that are real cymbals. It’s like driving a good car as opposed to a piece of junk, you know ... But man, once you really know how to play a drum, meaning you can play it, you know what it sounds like, and you can sit and create music on that drum, then you’ve achieved something. I don't mean play songs where you sit there playing backbeats and play a fill here and you do this there. I mean where you can actually make music on an instrument, then you'll know exactly what I am talking about.” [p. 105]

The significance of this remark is that while many drummers are apologists because of the bad rap they get for not being like other musicians [not being melody and harmony “sensitive”], Mel was proud of his instrument and the way he played it.

Never one to downplay his own abilities, Mel took things a step further when he remarked:

"I am a unique drummer. I have a style that nobody else has. I make music happen. I make bands do things that no other band can do. Any time I've played, any band I've played in, that band has become mine. Now, I didn't do it on purpose... it just happened.” [p. 74]

What becomes apparent as you read through the 23 chapters of Chris’ biography is that Mel Lewis put a lot of thought into his approach to drumming, something you might not assume, because Mel was not a flashy or “technique drummer.

Here are some quotations that reflect how deeply Mel thought about his drumming:

"My whole approach to playing is reaction. I don't listen to myself play. I'm too busy listening to everything going on around me. All my body is doing is reacting to that. I augment, compliment, round out. I can make anybody sound good. I have my own style, but I play uniquely with everyone that I play with ... Sometimes I'm forcing things, making things happen another way, but I'm still reacting to everything I hear. The composition I'm creating as I play in a big band is also because of what I'm hearing ... Everything depends on your ears. If I'm busy listening to me, then I'm not hearing the rest of the band. When the band is playing as an ensemble, I'm part of that ensemble."—Mel Lewis, clinic in Hilversum, Netherlands 1985

Strangely, in print interviews Mel often downplayed the influence Tiny had on his drumming. However, in an interview with Will Moyle, Mel clearly stated, "Tiny played so musically, he was a big influence on my playing. That great sound out of his bass drum and his constant motion. He used what we call 'Rub-a-Dub' feel, which I use too. That is what really makes a band move ahead and play inspired, it's that 'Rub-a-Dub'."

[Mel was often credited with bringing a small group style of drumming into a big band setting]. “Now I am with a dance band again [Alvino Ray], but the funny bit is that bebop had completely taken me over by this time; I was really a bop drummer. And the small group thing was really coming into my head now, this way of playing. But I wasn't thinking about it that way, I didn't even realize what I was doing. I wasn't saying, "oh, I'm gonna play small group drums in a big band."

“Good drummers were a rarity and that's all there was to it. There's no ego problem involved, it's just there weren't many good drummers. There still aren't.”

“[During] his time with Kenton, Mel's softer dynamics and bebop-influenced style of big band drumming were a major influence on the band's sound. … After only a handful of times playing the [Kenton band’s] complex arrangements, he was beyond reading the chart and had already interpreted the music in his own style. Even at the young age of twenty-six, Mel had the ability to quickly memorize music and play in a way that uniquely suited each arrangement … .Mel’s light touch, bebop comping, and ability to support the ensemble without overplaying, began setting a new standard of big band drumming.” [Chris Smith]

“It is worth noting that the sound of Mel's drums and cymbals on Art Pepper + Eleven: Modern Jazz Classics [arrangements by Marty Paich] is an excellent representation of his "typical sound" at the time. Mel's "sound" was a combination of many aspects, two of which were his use of calfskin drumheads and tuning his drums medium-low in pitch, even when playing in a small group. His drum sound on Modern Jazz Classics is a prime example of the warm tone he pulled out of the calfskin heads and how the sound of his drums blended into the ensemble, yet were tuned high enough to cut through when needed. Another important aspect of Mel's "sound" heard on the album is his use of low-pitched cymbals and the master touch in which he played them. … Mel was physically relaxed when he played, creating so much intensity while making the whole process look effortless.” [Chris Smith]

“Buddy [Rich] knew the melody so well he would play the melodies along with the band. That is where I disagreed with him. He forced the music to be played like a drummer, where my bit is I play it like the band is playing. That's where him and I are opposites in big band playing. But behind it, we have the same talent for hearing. This is what he liked about me and what I liked about him. In other words, what we liked about each other was the things neither one of us could do, the respect for each other’s signature.”

“His cymbal colors and textures created a continually shifting sonic backdrop, and in typical Mel fashion, when it was time to swing his cymbal beat wrapped a comforting blanket of sound around the whole band. His bass drum and toms were used as both melodic voices and low register textures. Most importantly his drumming demonstrated that orchestration and patience were as powerful musical tools as chops and speed. … Mel often pushed intensity to new heights by moving from his main ride cymbal to his Chinese cymbal. At the point where other drummers may have added volume or overplayed, Mel elevated the music by changing his cymbal sound and intensifying the texture.” [Chris Smith]

"Playing from hand to hand and constantly moving the cymbal pattern, gets the feeling of straight ahead motion without getting into a rigid situation. The only thing that really has to keep going and stay rigid is the hi-hat. But you never think about your hi-hat, it just goes. But you keep moving your hands with different patterns while listening to the soloist and reacting to what they play."—Mel Lewis, clinic in Hilversum, Netherlands, 1985

"I think drummers should create their own fills based on what they are hearing instead of the old standard fill before a dotted quarter... Drummers can create their own fills based on the music itself, based on what will follow or what proceeded.” —Mel Lewis, Modern Drummer, February 1985-

"When playing figures with the ensemble, duplicate its effects: loud or soft, long or short. For short sound, strike the center of the snare drum; snap the hi-hats shut tightly) press the stick into the head of a torn) make a cross-stick shot. For a long sound, strike a cymbal; hit the bass drum) instantly snapping the beater back) snap the hi-hats in an open position and let them ring. Strike a torn and let the note sustain. Strike the off-center area of the snare drum (a semi-long sound). Never, unless it is called for, play a figure with just one sound (every note sounding alike). Each note has a different texture and requires varying treatment... Always sing the figure, either aloud or to yourself. This applies when studying the figure (before playing it) and at the moment of execution. And sing with the feeling and articulation of the horn. Then duplicate this feeling on the drum set. In this way you will get a better blend between the drums and the horns."—Mel Lewis, International Musician, 1961

What also becomes apparent through a close reading of Chris Smith’s Mel Lewis: The View from the Back of the Band is how much other musicians appreciated Mel’s approach to drumming.

“The thing that was so amazing about Mel was that he heard everything that was going on in the band. Mel would give it up for the band. In other words, he felt that he was not only a part of the rhythm section, but that he was a part of each section of the band. And depending on which section had the lead, whether it was a sax soli, a trombone soli, or the trumpets were leading the ensemble through the out chorus, Mel knew every part. Inside of what he did, as far as the overall sound of the drums, he would also accentuate things that other drummers would never hear. He would do it so subtly that you felt it more than you heard it. He was just so unique in his ability to be a total part of the orchestration ... He never got in the way, and Mel never made the drums a prominent instrument in the band. His sound was always something that the band sat on top of, and he was the most supportive drummer that I have ever heard. For me, I have never heard anyone be so giving musically, as part of a big band. I don’t think he ever thought of himself as a drummer, I think he probably thought of himself as just a band member. But as it ended up, he was the band!” - Marvin Stamm, trumpet player

“The Concert Jazz Band was my first chance to really get to know Mel and get to play music with him on a steady basis. I thought it was a hot rhythm section! I liked the sounds that he got out of his cymbals and I liked the general steam that he was able to turn on. You know it s funny, one time he told me, ‘I don't like to play what the brass section is playing, they got enough accent in their playing and they can do that on their own. If I play everything that they play they get lazy. We need to get them more up on the time. I like to play what the saxophone players are playing.’ And I thought that was a very interesting insight into his conception of playing.” - Bill Crow, bassist

“When Mel Lewis was with the Terry Gibbs band, he did some of the best drumming I ever heard with that band. I'm not that free with compliments, but the band was so hot. It was the most perfect way of playing drums with that band. Mel's a marvelous drummer and totally individualistic. He doesn't sound like anybody else. That's the best thing you can say about anybody, and I said it.” - Buddy Rich, drummer and band leade

“Through the years I played various gigs with Mel, everything from big band, to piano trio at Jazz clubs, to wedding gigs. He was always so relaxed when he played it looked like he was up there reading the paper! Mel's absolute first priority, no matter what, was the feel of the music. He knew that if it didn't feel good, neither the band nor the audience would like it. It didn't matter what you wanted to do harmonically, melodically, formally or any of that—if the music didn't start from a place of good feel, forget it! Trust your body, trust your instincts and let the music flow—it will be ok.” Peter Malinverni, pianist

“Mel really knew how to hear what was right for the music. Like most good musicians, he had the ability to adapt to a situation and play what was appropriate in a very natural way. He really knew how to orchestrate. What I also loved so much about Mel was his ability to "shade" the time of the music. He knew when to get up on it, and he knew when to get back on it, depending on what was happening with the band. He knew how to "dig in the stirrups," or "pull back the reins," you know. He had an amazing ability to know how and when to do that. A real gift — Adam Nussbaum, drummer

”Mel was capable of contributing many things to an album, and he did it in ways that only he could do. His musical approach to drumming never forced people to play a certain way. He allowed people to play the way they play, and then he made his musical contribution while that was happening. —Jerry Dodgion, alto saxophonist

“He really embodied the idea of being a team player, rather than drawing attention to himself. He tried to keep the small group feeling in the big band, and I think that he proved that great music could be made without making bold technical statements. I also think that he showed that it's really possible to play a wide range of music well over the course of a career. Even though he may have been "pigeon holed" as a certain type of player, he found a way to bring life to all kinds of musical situations.” —John Riley, drummer

“Mel's wasn't an incredibly technical drummer, he kind of rumbled back there, but he could just explode with energy when the music called for it. He was the only drummer that I have ever played with that told me he had a specific cymbal for my sound. That really blew me away! He said, "Yeah I have a cymbal for George, I had a cymbal for Richard, and I have a cymbal for you."
Mel and I once recorded these play-along albums for Ramon Ricker. After recording the whole day it was suggested that since everyone had settled in we go back and rerecord the very first song. The recording engineer said, "Should I playback the tempo of the first take?" And Mel said, "No I got it."
So we recorded the song again and when we finished we listened back. The new version ended up being one second different than the original take! The song was six or seven minutes in length and the two recordings were done at least six hours apart. Everybody that was in the control booth kind of fell silent and looked at each other and said, "Wow that’s incredible!" Mel had a very unique internal clock; that was one of his gifts.” — Rufus Reid, bassist

“Mel played to make everybody else in the band sound as good as possible. He did this by thinking of their phrasing and thinking like a horn player. He was totally unselfish; he always played what the band needed.” — Jeff Hamilton, drummer

“Mel played very musical. All the drummers that have played with my band, after Mel left and the records came out, they sort of played the same licks that Mel played because it was almost like someone had written them out, they fit the music perfect! He was so musical.” - Terry Gibbs, vibraphonist and band leader

“When Mel died, it was one of the biggest losses the music ever had. People all over the world suffered. And they'll never recover. We were sitting in Cologne, a key producer and I. We said, "Mel," and were silent for five minutes because there's no replacement. All of the bands, big and small, amateur and professional, that he made sound good have to feel a terrible, terrible loss. There will never be another like him. Mel was one of the greatest drummers of all. I'd stake my life on that.” - Bob Brookmeyer, valve trombonist, band leader, composer-arranger.

There are two other main themes that Chris Smith stresses over the course of the 23 chapters that make up Mel Lewis: The View from the Back of the Band are Mel’s development as a band leader which dated back to his time on Stan Kenton’s band when he observed: “‘Stan Kenton treated his musicians like gentlemen; and he knew how to draw the best out of you. He never told anybody how to play. And I thought that was very important,’ recalled Mel. The lessons Mel learned from Kenton deeply influenced the way he treated fellow musicians when he became a bandleader.”

The other primary theme that Chris Smith underscores in his biography was Mel’s efforts to help young drummers: “Much like the love he showed for the members of his band, Mel also extended his friendship, advice, and equipment to the young jazz drummers whom he thought showed promise. Drummer Adam Nussbaum recalled his relationship with Mel:

“I really got to know Mel when I was playing with John Scofield and Michael Moore at a club "Palssons" on West 72nd street in New York City; that was not too far from where Mel lived. He showed up to the gig and saw me playing with these cats. He kind of knew about me because I was playing with some of the guys in his band like Dennis Irwin, Dick Oatts, Joe Lovano, Jim McNeely, we were all buddies. At the time I had a set of walnut finish Gretsch drums, was using old K's, and had calfskin heads on my snare and bass drum. I guess he may have seen me as a younger version of himself; I also had red hair and was Jewish. After we said hello to each other, 1 said, "Hey Mel why don’t you come up and play a little bit." So Mel sat in and played a couple tunes with Scofield.

After the gig was done Mel said to me, "What are you doing tomorrow? I want you to come to my house tomorrow around noon, you free?" So 1 went over the next day, I ring the bell, and Mel said, "Wait for me in the lobby." So I waited for him in the lobby, and then we went down to the basement, to his storage place. When we got down there he took out a snare drum and floor torn. He said, "Here man, I want you to have these." I said, "What?" He goes, "Yeah man, these match your Gretsch drums | perfectly, they stole the rest from me and I am using Slingerland now, so you should have them." Just real matter of fact, it was just so sweet of him I

Mel didn't have a son, so I think he saw a bunch of us guys in New York—of the younger generation (Kenny Washington, Danny Gottlieb, Joey Baron, Peter Erskine, and others) whom he felt had some talent—kind of like his family. He was very supportive and encouraging to us, like a father. I would have to say that he is one of my musical fathers. We'd go out to eat, we'd go to his apartment and he would sit in his big chair and play recordings that he played on. I'd bring up things that I played on. We'd listen and we'd talk. We spent time just hanging out; not necessarily talking about drums per say just talking about music and life. He watched out for the guys that he cared about. If Mel cared about you and liked you, he really took to you.”

The book concludes with over 50 pages of drum transcriptions and annotated listening guides for examples of Mel on records, a timeline of the drum equipment that Mel played on over the course of his career and a selected discography.

One couldn’t ask for a better retrospective of Mel’s career and assessment of its significance in the history of Jazz than the one that Chris Smith has researched, compiled and written for Mel Lewis: The View from the Back of the Band -The Life and Music of Mel Lewis.

Mel was so deserving of the respect that Chris’ biography puts forth in his definitive study and we are fortunate to have Chris’ outstanding treatment of this singular musician. Along with Helene LaFaro Fernandez’s biography of her brother Scott LaFaro and Michael Sparke’s biography of Stan Kenton, it assumes its honored place in the University of North Texas Lives of Musicians series.

You can locate order information about the book via this link.

↧

Vic Dickenson - A Melodic Trombonist

August 25, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: Stoop Summit - The Story Behind The Iconic 'A Great Day in Harlem' Photograph

≪ Previous: "Mel Lewis: The View from the Back of the Band" - The Chris Smith Biography

A recent feature on trombonist J.C. Higginbotham brought to mind Vic Dickenson, Dickie Wells, and Trummy Young.

You don’t hear their names mentioned very much in Jazz circles, although I would suspect that Trummy gets a nod or two occasionally because of his long association with Louis Armstrong, but all three were individual stylists who made their mark on the instrument and the music.

As part of its continuing effort to remember those Jazz musicians who shaped the music during the early years of its creation, the editorial staff at JazzProfiles searched out sources and developed the following profile of Vic Dickenson from Stanley Dance’s articles about Vic that he wrote for Melody Maker [1954] and Down Beat [1964] magazines and as part of the insert notes for Vic’s recordings on the Vanguard label. We’ve also included some material by Michael Shera and Sinclair Traill who reviewed Vic’s Fontana and Vanguard recordings for the Jazz Journal.

What never ceases to amaze me when I research one of these back-in-the-day stories is how much local work was available for musicians outside of the major cities. Of course, one of the reasons for this was if you wanted to hear music then you had to “make it” and not just reproduce it in some sort of technical fashion. The radio and records were making their presence felt but music was still something that you went to hear played by real, live musicians. It was a means to socialize not a form of solitary musing and a way to close out the world with ear buds plugged into an Mp3 player or downloading digitalized music from The Cloud.

According to Leonard Feather's syndicated column, when Vic Dickenson flew out to Monterey, Calif., for the jazz festival there in September 1964, he received a "standing ovation from the youthful audience" for his "tongue-in-horn trombone ... on Basin Street Blues" A short time before, Down Beat's International Jazz Critics Poll, in which some 52 critics participated, showed Dickenson sharing third place in the trombone section with Lawrence Brown.

This is remarkable at a time when a jazz musician's popularity depends a great deal upon successful phonograph records. There isn't a single album under Dickenson's name in the Schwann catalog, and he has done relatively little recording of any kind in the last few years. During that period he has seldom played in any of the major jazz venues, but he has not been inactive. With pianist Red Richards he has been a mainstay of a sextet called the Saints and Sinners, which plays regularly to a loyal and devoted following in cities like Pittsburgh, Pa.; Columbus, Ohio; and Toronto, Ontario.

There were quite a few persons at the Pittsburgh Jazz Festival early last summer who hurried eagerly down the hill on the festival's last night and into the Riverboat Lounge of the Pitt-Sheraton Hotel, where this group was appearing. With Dickenson in the front line were two other veterans, clarinetist Buster Bailey and trumpeter Herman Autrey. The rhythm section was completed by bassist Danny Mastri and drummer Jackie Williams.

The Saints and Sinners play some Dixieland when they work in that room, but what they were playing about 1 a.m. that particular Sunday was a long-lost Benny Carter song called Blues in My Heart, and they were playing it with feeling and imagination in a neat head arrangement, with backgrounds to each other's solos, as though they were a team.

They have a lot of numbers like that, including a Lonesome Road that rocks at a singularly appropriate medium tempo, and they play them in a way that suggests the Eddie Heywood and John Kirby groups of a few years ago, except that it is more down and more punchy. In their version of Bourbon Street Parade, there's a very effective background figure that Dickenson said came out of Alexander's Ragtime Band.

"I contribute a little," he added modestly. "We all get together, and I give a few ideas."

He is not a little unusual today in his love and knowledge of melodies and in a mind that inclines to original tempos and treatment for them.

"He knows about a million numbers," his friend trombonist Dickie Wells once said, "and he always likes to play melodies."

"That's partly true," Dickenson said. "I like to play the melody, and I want it still to be heard, but I like to rephrase it and bring out something fresh in it, as though I were talking or singing to someone. I don't want to play it as written, because there's usually something square in it. Now, Johnny Hodges, he plays melody; but he makes such beautiful melody because he plays it his own way. He's one of the best soloists I know. You've got to feel it, and Johnny does. He's the greatest alto, I think. Sidney Bechet had a lot of what Johnny has, but it wasn't as smooth and tender. He played with more drive and was rougher."

Dickenson was born 58 years ago in Xenia, Ohio, in a musical milieu. There was an organ in the house, but he never, he noted with sadness, heard his mother play it. His father played a little violin—"folk music, you might call it," he recalled—and his own first instrument was harmonica. "I could play things like There's No Place Like Home" he said, "but I couldn't play them well."

His brother was supposed to be taking trombone lessons but failed to give much time to the horn, which lay about the house, neglected. The time came when the principal at young Vic's school decided to form a band and asked all the children who had instruments to bring them. Vic told him he had a trombone at home but didn't know anything about it. "Bring it on in anyhow," said the principal, who formerly had been a trombone player.

He showed the youngster positions by the solfeggio method and left him to find where they were in every key by himself.

"I had been something of a singer when I was a kid, and that was the way the singing teacher had taught us, so it wasn't too hard to understand," he said. "But it takes time to learn trombone. It's the brass horn most like the violin, and it's a matter of position rather than valve. You just have to learn to feel it, so you won't play this note too flat or too sharp. I used to copy records at first, and I loved Mamie Smith's Jazz Hounds, but then I got tired of hearing the trombone and wanted to play like the other instruments. The singing and the words meant nothing to me; it was the horns and the melodies that I heard. The trombone's part was too limited, and I learned what everybody played on the records, the saxes and clarinets, too."

Dickenson's father was a plastering contractor, and his two sons were learning the trade in Columbus when Vic met with a serious accident. "I had a heavy hod full of mortar on my shoulder, and a rung of a ladder broke," he explained. "I was bent back double and never could lift anything heavy after that, so I had to quit hard, physical work."

Vic and his brother, Carter, who played clarinet and alto, joined Roy Brown's band in Columbus. A cousin, also a plasterer, was playing piano in it, but only in F-sharp. "And I could play very good in F-sharp," Vic said. This was his first professional band, and after that, he and his brother were in another local group, the Night Owls. Work and money were not plentiful around Columbus, however, and eventually Carter joined a band from Cleveland while Vic went off to another led by Don Phillips in Madison, Wis.

"I was up there until I was fired because I couldn't read," he recalled. " Play the C scale,' the leader said one day. I didn't know the C scale from any other, because I was playing from do-re-mi-fa, but I could pick up the horn and play anything I heard on it. It was just like singing to me. I was fired without being given any notice or transportation back, and that made me mad. I had to play piano and sing to make enough money to leave.

"After that experience, I learned to read and to arrange by myself, from books and by asking questions. That would be about 1926.

"I found that to play melody on a trombone, you had to transpose pieces to a brighter key than the one they were originally written in. I'd heard Claude Jones with the Synco Septet by this time—he was with McKinney's Cotton Pickers later—and been very impressed. He didn't play the instrument like a trombone. He played all over it. Then I heard Jimmy Harrison with Fletcher Henderson's band, which was popular around that time—1926-'29. I also used to buy all the Gennett records by Ladd's Black Aces, and I liked the way Miff Mole played melody, rather than the old way that sounded like a dying cow in a thunderstorm.

"The trombone was late developing as compared with the other horns. Jimmy Harrison and Jack Teagarden both sounded like Louis Armstrong, and they influenced me because they were playing the way I had wanted to play before I heard them."

While he was still studying, Dickenson went to Kentucky for a period and then to Cincinnati, where he took J.C. Higginbotham's place with Helvey's Troubadours.

Then he went back to Madison and a band that contained trumpeter Reunald Jones and some of the musicians he had previously worked with, but this time they were fronted by Leonard Gay.

On his return to Columbus in 1929, he joined Speed Webb's band for a little over a year.

"It was a very good band," he said. "Webb had Roy Eldridge, who used to come down from Detroit with his brother, and Teddy Wilson and his brother. Teddy was crazy about [pianist] Earl Hines and was playing beautifully even then. Seven guys arranged in that band, including Teddy's brother Gus, and every week we had seven new arrangements. Of course, we played everything in the way of dance music in those days — waltzes, pop songs, everything. I did some arranging, but I didn't bother with it much because I found it held me up in my playing. I'd be thinking about the other horns and get mixed up. I wouldn't want to get into it now unless I stopped playing. I imagine that was how it was with Sy Oliver. It's not the same for a piano player, because he's got everything there. Playing a horn is a different thing.

"Sy Oliver was in Zack Whyte's band, which Roy Eldridge and I joined in Cincinnati. Several guys left Speed Webb because there was no work. Zack was playing walk-athons. That was what they were called, but people just danced, for hours and hours and hours. It was like pole-sitting, to see how long they could do it. We'd play for a time, and then another band would take over.

"After we'd been to the Savoy in New York, we went out on a five-band tour with Bennie Moten, Blanche Calloway, Andy Kirk, and Chick Webb. We played all around, and the tour broke up in Cincinnati. The guys weren't making so much, but the ballrooms used to be jammed, and the promoters made money. That was how the Kansas City guys came to know about me. When Bennie Moten's band was splitting up, they sent for me. So I went out there and played with Thamon Hayes for a while. Harlan Leonard was in that band, and later he took it over. I left after a few months but went back the following year."

This time they had a booker and went down the Missouri on a boat, up the Mississippi and on to Peoria, Illinois. From there they went to Chicago, where a lot of negotiating went on but not much happened, Dickenson said. Eventually he got a wire from Blanche Calloway and joined her band. Her brother Cab was famous then, and besides Blanche there was a Ruth Calloway and several other Calloways trying to cash in on the name. "But so far as I know," Dickenson said, "Blanche was the only other one to have a good band, with people like Ben Webster in it."

On records, she did a lot of singing, but in person the band played plenty of dance music. Dickenson stayed with her from 1933 to 1936 and then joined Claude Hopkins. After a year with Benny Carter in 1939, the trombonist joined the flourishing Count Basie Band.

"All the musicians knew me," he remembered, "but it wasn't until I was with Basie that the writers and people seemed to become aware of me. Dickie Wells and Dan Minor were in the section with me. Being with Basie was a big help to me. Dickie and I played the jazz solos, and we had many a nice drink together. There were two or three numbers on which we both used to solo.

"When I left Basie in 1941, I worked with Sidney Bechet. He and I got on fine together, personally and musically. He had a style of his own, and you had to

know it. He just didn't like trumpet players. He said they got in his way."

The next job was with trumpeter Frankie Newton, and Dickenson was with the band at Cafe Society in New York City when Newton's contract ran out. Pianist Eddie Heywood's trio was hired and after about one night of the trio, the boss called to see if Dickenson wanted to come down and play with Heywood. The trombone was the first horn Heywood had. After playing the downtown cafe, they went to California and then came back and played the Cafe Society Uptown as well as 52nd St. By this time the Heywood group was a sextet, with trumpet and alto saxophone added to Dickenson's trombone in the front line.

"I got very sick when I was out on the coast again in 1947," Dickenson said. "I had a lot of trouble with an abscessed ulcer, and I had to hang around a long while and have a second operation. In the meantime, I formed my own band, and it was pretty nice, though the fellows in it were not well known."

When he returned east, Dickenson "played around Boston for a long, long time—about eight years." He went into the Savoy there with clarinetist Edmond Hall and stayed on as a kind of house trombonist until the manager opened his own club downtown. Dickenson took over there with his friend Buster Bailey and stayed on to play first with Jimmy and Marian McPartland and then with Bobby Hackett. After working in New York with Hackett, he went back to Boston and George Wein's Mahogany Hall. Pianist-promoter Wein's appreciation of the trombonist's talent subsequently led to Dickenson's appearances at Newport and in Belgium, Germany, and Japan.

In 1957 Dickenson returned to New York and once more took J.C. Higginbotham's chair, this time with Red Allen and Buster Bailey at the Metropole.

With Red Richards, the story comes up to date. "I'd known Red since the early '30s, when we both lived in Harlem," Dickenson said. "He would go out and play piano as a single, but he and I used to sit down and talk about getting a group together, and the Saints and Sinners really began about 1960. Since then, that has been the main thing."

Today, Dickenson, a musician of considerable and varied experience, still has a number of unresolved ambitions.

"I always wanted to record with my brother, Carter," he said, "but he died earlier this year. He played alto and clarinet very well, and he was due to retire from the mail service in 1964, and then I thought it would be easy to get him to come and make a record with me, if only someone would have backed me.

"I would like to make an album that was really my own, one where I picked the men. Every time I've made a record, someone else has picked for me. I'd like seven or eight pieces, and if I chose them, I would get real co-operation. I have some beautiful numbers of my own, too, that I want to record, but I want my own date—and royalties. I never have had any royalties on any records. When I was in Japan and Australia, people were always asking where they could get my records.

Sometimes I wonder whether companies wait until musicians die before they reissue records, so that they won't have to pay royalties. "One of my numbers was recorded in 1956—What Have You Done with the Key to My Heart?—but it was issued in Europe only. It was a good album, made with Budd Johnson (one of the greatest), Andre Persiany, and Taft Jordan. Some of my numbers like that could use a good singer. You know who I would like to record with— the Mills Brothers! As I said, I always have liked melodies."

↧

Stoop Summit - The Story Behind The Iconic 'A Great Day in Harlem' Photograph

August 26, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: Rudy Van Gelder 1924-2016: A Signature Sound [From the Archives]

≪ Previous: Vic Dickenson - A Melodic Trombonist

“There were musicians from several eras of jazz. That picture depicted what a robust scene it was for jazz musicians in New York.”

— Sonny Rollins

“Certain things end up being bigger than the original intention. The photograph has become part of our cultural fabric.”

— Jonathan Kane

“Every time I think about those artists, what they had to go through…it’s great music.”

— Noella Cotto

“A Great Day in Harlem” dives into the story behind the picture in detail, incorporating the priceless, joy-infused Super-8 footage that Mona Hinton, Milt’s wife, shot during the session. It shows the musicians milling about, greeting each other, telling stories, laughing — doing just about everything but paying attention to the photographer across the street, who implored them to come into formation through a megaphone improvised from a rolled-up newspaper.

More than three decades later, director Jean Bach sought out many of the then-surviving musicians to interview them about the picture, including Dizzy Gillespie, Art Blakey and Marian McPartland. “Living in New York, you saw everybody,” trumpeter Art Farmer says in the film. “Anyone there, you were liable to run into any of them any day.”

- Jonathan Kane HISTORY IN THE MAKING The January 1959 issue of Esquire in which Art Kane’s photo originally appeared.

The following article by Sarah Goodyear about Artie Kane’s iconic “Great Day in Harlem” Esquire magazine cover photograph appeared in the Friday, August 12, 2016 NY Daily News under the banner of -

Stoop Summit: How a Harlem brownstone was immortalized when the living legends of jazz assembled there for an iconic photograph.

“The year was 1999, and Noella Cotto was just looking for a place in Harlem to call her own. When she finally found the perfect place — a brownstone, in decent shape, at 17 E. 126th Street — she had no idea that the building had played a historic supporting role in American pop culture when, in 1958, 57 of the coolest cats in jazz assembled there to have their picture taken for a special issue of Esquire magazine. Cotto, who worked as a postal cop at the time, was unaware that the famous photo, titled “Harlem 1958,” was ubiquitous around the neighborhood, or that a generation of folks who’d grown up in the so-called Cultural Capital of Black America had seen the image so often, hanging in barber shops and bodegas, that they’d long since forgotten about it themselves. Nor did she realize that the photo had gotten another close-up only five years earlier in an Oscar-nominated documentary, “A Great Day in Harlem.”

The whole audacious idea was conceived by a man who none of the musicians knew, 33-year-old Art Kane, who had made a name for himself as a magazine art director but whose passion was photography. This was his first professional shooting assignment and, with it, he ended up making history almost by accident.

“He became aware that Esquire was planning a big issue on jazz,” says Jonathan Kane, Art’s son, a musician and photographer who also manages his late father’s photographic legacy (Art Kane died in 1995). “He cooked up the idea of doing a big portrait (with) all these musicians. Art pitched his crazy idea, and they said, Do it.” There was no question about where he would shoot. “Harlem was where the jazz scene came into being and coalesced,” Kane says. “It had to be in Harlem. And he wanted a place that reflected everyday life rather than a club. This could be a street where anybody could live.”

After scouting for a typical building on a typical block, Kane chose 126th St. between Fifth and Madison Aves. He wanted one that was convenient to the subway and what was then the New York Central Railroad (now Metro North), which had a station at 125th and Park. He put out the call for musicians through agents, record labels, union halls, clubs — pretty much any channel he could think of.

One of the musicians answering the call was Sonny Rollins, the brilliant tenor saxophonist who was 27 years old when the picture was shot and already among the period’s most acclaimed jazz artists. Rollins, who says he started playing music when he was 7 or 8 years old, had grown up in central Harlem, surrounded by the ferment of jazz. “All of the black musicians lived in Harlem, it was the only place you could live,” he says. “Harlem was the place. All my idols, like Fats Waller, all these people performed around where I went to school, at P.S. 89, at 135th Street and Lenox Avenue. So it was quite a community.”

When he heard about the photo shoot, he knew he had to be there. “I didn’t hesitate,” says Rollins, who is now 85 and, along with Benny Golson, one of only two surviving musicians in the photo. “Something like that had never been done, and the guys were just eager to do it. I certainly was eager to do it. They were all my compadres. It was great fun.”

They had fun even though the start time, in jazz terms, was brutal. Because he wanted to utilize the best light on the north side of the street, avoiding any shadows, Kane asked people to arrive by 10 a.m. — a tall order for artists who typically worked until 4 in the morning. In the 1994 documentary about the photograph, Steve Frankfurt, who was assisting Kane that day, put that early call time in perspective: “Somebody said they didn’t realize there were two 10 o’clocks in the same day.”

The nighthawks showed up anyway, dressed to the nines and ready for action. They came by subway and commuter train. They came by taxi and on foot. Among the greats who made the gig that morning were Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, Gene Krupa, Mary Lou Williams, Roy Eldridge, Milt Hinton and Lester Young. It was a crazy scene, made even more beautiful by the row of neighborhood kids who sat in a row along the curb alongside a jovial Count Basie. “There were musicians from several eras of jazz,” Rollins says. “I think that picture depicted what a robust scene it was for jazz musicians in New York.”

By the time Noela Cotto started searching for a home in Harlem, the neighborhood was perceived as pretty sketchy, and she encountered a variety of obstacles. People told her it wasn’t safe, an assertion she dismissed. They told her she wouldn’t be able to get a construction loan to fix up one of the many buildings that had fallen into disrepair; that was harder to argue with. She thought about buying a co-op, yet despite her steady job, she encountered problems when she talked to a real-estate agent about purchasing one at a new building just a short distance from where she lives now. “The lady was racist,” says Cotto, who is Puerto Rican. “ ‘You probably don’t qualify,’ she told me. That woman did everything she could to keep me from seeing a place.”

That was just as well, as it turns out. Cotto ended up getting a tip from a different agent that the building at 17 E. 126th Street was available. It was in fair shape after a developer’s rudimentary renovation, and she was able to swing the price. (Cotto suspects the previous owner was also unaware of its heritage, or he certainly would have charged more.) Today, the building is probably worth six times what she paid for it. “You’re going to pay a million for a shell now,” Cotto says. “Everything is being taken up. I consider myself pretty fortunate.”

Cotto, now 67, has settled nicely into the house. She has three steady tenants, including her former partner on the postal beat, and she says the group feels like family: “We all look out for each other.”

Being a big jazz fan, Cotto could really appreciate the significance when she found out, not long after she closed the deal, that she was obtaining a piece of history. She made a point of listening to the music of every single person in the picture. She bought an original copy of the Esquire jazz issue on eBay. “Every time I think about those artists — what they had to go through,” she says. “It’s great music.”

“An aesthetic, a tradition, and an audience: these are the prerequisites for a Golden Age,” wrote John Clellon Holmes in an essay that accompanies the photograph in Esquire, “and jazz has achieved them now.” The world represented by those 57 men and women — a world of late-night clubs, of gents in suits and hats and ladies in gloves, of martinis and Lucky Strikes — was already vanishing in the rear-view mirror of popular culture. Harlem was changing, too, emptying out and deteriorating. But change has always been part of the place.

Back in 1958, the city was still a place where aspiring musicians could live on the cheap, sometimes in boarding houses with other rising talents. Scoville Brown, a saxophonist and clarinetist, reminisces in the film about living in a place like that, run by a guy named Pop Collins. “It was a notorious home for musicians where you could come, eat and sleep for a reasonable sum,” Brown says. “I think his dinners were 35 cents apiece, and they were outta sight.” The rooms, he says, went for about $8 or $9 a week.

These days, a one-bedroom apartment at 62 E. 126th, just a block from the spot where Art Kane wrangled all those genius jazz artists, goes for $1,900 a month. And in this rapidly gentrifying neighborhood, that’s a deal.

East Harlem — the area east of Fifth Avenue and north of 96th Street — is being touted in news stories and on real-estate blogs as one of the last “affordable” parts of Manhattan. Affordable, that is, if you’ve got plenty of money to spend. Earlier this year, the median price of a condo in Harlem was $640,000. That may be considerably less than the figure of $910,000 in Manhattan overall, but it’s still a lot of scratch.

An increase of 30% in home prices since 2010 means that ordinary working people are increasingly unlikely to afford property in Harlem. The same goes for artists in any medium — unless they’re celebrities like Neil Patrick Harris, who three years ago paid $3.6 million for a townhouse on Fifth Avenue between 125th and 126th, just around the corner from the jazz house. (He and his husband then renovated it at an unknown cost.)

Fewer than half the people living in Harlem now are black, the first time that’s been true since the 1930s, when the Harlem Renaissance was in full swing and Langston Hughes lived one block up on 127th Street. Cotto says she welcomes the increasing racial diversity. The area was Italian and Irish once, she points out, before Latino and African-American people moved in, and it has never stopped shifting. She made a note of it recently when she was walking down 125th Street, where a Bed Bath & Beyond opened recently and a Whole Foods is under construction. “From Lenox to the end of the block, I counted 20 white people. It’s mixing up nicely. The Barrio used to be Puerto Rican,” she says, referring to the part of the neighborhood sometimes known as Spanish Harlem. “Now, it’s mostly Mexican. Everything is changing.” Still, she adds, “I do wish we had more Chinese- and pizza places.”

Cotto also enjoys the regular flow of tourists and jazz fans, from as far away as Japan, who come to see the place where the musical innovators stood. She has taken pains to keep the stairs exactly as they were in the original photograph. Some, like the group Women in Jazz, come to recreate the image that Art Kane engineered all those years ago. “I’ve met some really nice people,” she says.

Now for the best part, if you click on the following link it will take you to the Great Day in Harlem photograph as it appeared in the NY Daily News feature. Once there, if you click on any of the musicians in the photo, a box will open with an audio sample of that musician’s music.

http://interactive.nydailynews.com/2016/08/story-behind-great-day-in-harlem-photo/#shape18

↧

Rudy Van Gelder 1924-2016: A Signature Sound [From the Archives]

August 27, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: "How Rudy Van Gelder Shaped the Sound of Jazz As We Know It"

≪ Previous: Stoop Summit - The Story Behind The Iconic 'A Great Day in Harlem' Photograph

[Rudy van Gelder died on August 25, 2016. He was 91 years old. The Jazz World owes him an enormous debt of gratitude not only for what he did in preserving so much recorded Jazz, but also because of the absolutely first-rate way in which he did it. The editorial staff at JazzProfiles is re-posting this earlier feature as an homage to him. It’s our very small way of repaying the debt.]

I never thought much about the quality of the sound on the Blue Note LPs that I purchased in the 1950s and 60s. I didn't need to.

Blue Note’s sound quality was something that one could take for granted because the now, legendary Rudy van Gelder was the commanding force behind it and, as you’ll come to understand after reading the following interview, he obviously gave it a great deal of thought.

The sound on Blue Note’s albums had a “presence” that wrapped the listener in an audio environment which was dynamic and vibrant.

The sound came forward; it reached out; it enveloped.

Rudy made the sound seem as though it was emanating from musicians who were performing it in one’s living room.

In a way, this is more than an analogy because Rudy’s initial recording studio was the living room in his parents’ home in Hackensack, NJ before he built his own studio in near-by Englewoods Cliffs, NJ.

Rudy doesn’t talk much about himself or his views on the subject of sound engineering.

Fortunately, James Rozzi was able to interview him at length and publish Rudy’s responses to his questions in the November 1995 edition of the now defunct Audio Magazine.

The editorial staff at JazzProfiles thought this rare glimpse of Rudy van Gelder discussing himself and his technical approach to sound recording would make an interesting feature for its readers.

It is hard to imagine let alone conceive of what The World of Jazz would have been like if Rudy Van Gelder hadn’t been around.

“Dr. Rudy Van Gelder’s formal education was in optometry, but his heart and the majority of his professional years have been devoted full-time to the recording industry.

Ask any Jazz buff about Rudy, and they’ll name him as the recording engineer responsible for all those classic Blue Note and Prestige Records, among almost countless others.

This interview, one of the very few that Rudy has granted in his 40 plus years in the business, was conducted in his Englewood Cliffs, NJ studio, a gorgeous facility just across the George Washington Bridge from Manhattan. I thank him for sharing his history and his views.

It’s a given in the Jazz world that you have set the standards for Jazz recordings for the past 40 years. In an ever-changing industry, how do you continue to maintain consistent quality in your recordings?

I prefer to do my own masters, my own editing. By ‘my own,’ I mean, I want it to be done here. It’s not that I influence what it is. It’s just that I need to be involved in the whole process – up to and including the finished product – in order to give my clients what they expect of me, which is the reason why they are coming here. They agree upon that before we can do anything.

This is really the only major stipulation I have, that I do the process. It’s not because it is expensive, because the expense is minimal. I purposely keep it that way because I don’t want the money to be a part of their decision.

The point is that I’d like to have at least some measure of control over the finished sound before it’s sent for replication to the plant.

This is contrary to the way most studios work.

The business, at least from my point of view, has really become fragmented – more like the movie industry. There are engineers who do Jazz recording who don’t own the studio and don’t have anything to do with the maintenance, ownership or operation of the studio.

They just go to a studio as a freelance engineer and use the facility for their own clients. Obviously, this is not the situation here. I own the studio, I run the studio and I maintain it. It’s my responsibility, I’m here everyday, not somebody else. It reflects me.

Being involved in the complete digital post-production is highly unusual for any studio. Would you please explain it?

Once we have gotten to the point of recording and mixing the two-track tape that has all of the tunes the client wants for the CD, the next step is to get together with the producer or the musician, whoever is in charge of the project – and sequence it.

We have to put the tunes in the order that they will appear in on the CD, get all the timings in between the songs precise, and takes all the noises out.

As for the medium for that, the most common medium is DAT [digital audio tape]. Now most people – including musicians and producers, except for those who work here – believe that this is a master tape. That format was not designed to be and is incapable of being a master.

There are other elements required for CD replication that cannot be incorporated into a DAT.

There is just no room on a DAT for the information which tells your CD player to go to track one when you put a CD in and press "play." The information that makes this possible has to be incorporated on the CD. The DAT must be transferred to another medium that incorporates this information. This studio uses a CD-R. Prior to the CD-R, 1630 was the de facto standard. I consider that now obsolete. Most recording studios do not get involved in this process.

If most recording studios don't get involved in digital post-production, then how is it commonly done?

The very fact that most recording studios don't care to do it has created the existence of what are called mastering houses. They don't have studios. They don't even have a microphone. They just put the numbers on there and then transfer from one medium to another.

Why are you so concerned with accomplishing this process yourself? Isn't the equipment expensive?

Yes, it's very expensive, very difficult to acquire and maintain. The problem is that there can be processing at this stage, quite extensive processing.

Intentionally changing the sound from that of the DAT?

Intentionally changing the sound! Changing the loudness to softness, the highs to lows. Yes, it's a very elaborate procedure; it is a part of the recording process that most people don't even know exists.

Who is responsible for making the decision to alter the sound at this late a stage in the recording process?

Whoever is following the course of the project, usually whoever is paying for it or their representative. I'm now defining why I insist on doing everything myself. And you can extend this into the reissue process too. Reissuing is nothing but post-production. The people who were originally involved in the recording are no longer there, or they no longer own it. These mastering decisions on reissues are being made by someone else, someone affiliated with the company who now owns the material.

What are your feelings on issuing alternate takes?

Now, to me that's just a sad event which has befallen the record industry. The rejected outtakes have been renamed "alternate takes" for marketing reasons. It's a disservice to the artist. It's a disservice to the music. It's also rampant throughout the land, and I'm just telling you how I feel about it. I would recommend to all musicians: Don't let the outtakes get out of your hands. Of course, that may be easier said than done.

You must be disappointed by much of what has been released as alternate takes.

Yes, when I hear some of this stuff, I'm reminded of all the problems I had, particularly on these outtakes. It's like reliving all of the difficulties of my life again. So I don't take a lot of pleasure in that because I know I can do a lot better now, and all that does is reinforce my uneasiness. Of course, when it was a recording problem, the music was usually still so good that it was worth it to me. And the fact that it's still being heard— in many cases being heard better than ever before—is an incredible experience. And it's clean, with no noise. I don't like to complain too much.

I feel that way very often myself, the way you described, being able to hear the music better than ever. I'm not a person who locks into the sound as closely as I do the music. The music is all-important to me, but sometimes I become distracted by how bad the sound is. It seems that a big problem in translating those old recordings onto CD is the sound of the bass. It becomes very boomy.

Well, you can't blame that entirely on the people who are doing the mastering. That particular quality is inherent in the recording techniques of the time—the way bass players played, the way they sounded, the way their instruments sounded. They don't sound like that now. The music has changed the way the artists play. Now everything has got to be loud. A loud .drummer today is a lot louder than a loud drummer of 30 or even 20 years ago. It's all relative. But as far as that certain quality you're talking about, some of it is very good, by the way. There were some excellent bass recordings made at that time because the bass player and I got together on what we were trying to do.

Considering the reverence given to the historical Blue Note recordings and the fact that they were accomplished direct to two-track, do you get many requests nowadays to record direct to two-track?

Usually they say, "I want to go direct to two-track like the old days." And I say, "Sure, I'll do that." I can still do it, or we can record to the 24-track digital machine. As far as the musicians are concerned, regarding their performance out in the studio, that's transparent to them. There's no difference in the setup. I sort of think two-track while I'm recording and actually run a two-track recording of the session, which very often serves as the finished mix.

But this is the real world now. The musicians will listen to the playback, and the bass player will say, "Gee, I played two bad notes going into the bridge of the out-melody. Can you fix that, Rudy?" Now, it used to be that when a client asked for a two-track session, I would never run a multi-track backup. They didn't want to get involved in it, for money reasons. They didn't want to spend the money for the tape or didn't want to have to mix it after the session. I went along with that for a long time. But the bass player would still come in, hoping to fix wrong notes, and I'd sit there like a fool and say, ‘Well, I can't do anything about it. The producer didn't want to spend the money for multi-tracking.’

So I decided I wasn't going to do that anymore. I think of it as a two-track date— we're talking about a small acoustic jazz band now, not any kind of heavy production thing—and I run a multi-track backup. Then when the bass player asks to fix a couple of notes, I look at the producer or whoever is paying for the session, and that becomes his decision, not mine. He now has to answer the bass player.

So the final product may consist of both multi-track and two-track recordings?

That happens. Right. And my life is a lot happier. And the producers have come around a little bit too.

How did you first become affiliated with Alfred Lion of Blue Note Records?

There was a saxophone player and arranger by the name of Gil Melle. He had a little band and a concept of writing, and I recorded him. This was before I met Alfred. I recorded it in my Hackensack studio in my parents’ home. So somehow—and I was not a party to it—he sold that to Alfred to be released on Blue Note. And Alfred wanted to make another one. So he took that recording to the place he was going. It happened to be in New York at the WOR recording studios. He played it for the engineer, who Alfred had been using up until that time, and the engineer said, "I can't get that sound. I can't record that here. You'd better go to whoever did it." Remember, I wasn't there; this is how it was related to me. And that's what brought Alfred to me. He came to me, and he was there forever.

Those Blue Note records, they're just so beautiful....

Masterpieces.

Did Alfred and you work at producing those jazz masterpieces? Did he have you splice solos?

Yes, he did. He was tough to work for compared to anyone else. He knew what he wanted. He knew what that album should sound like before he even came into the studio. He made it tough for me. It was definitely headache time and never easy. On the other hand, I knew it was important, and he had a quality that gave me confidence in him. The whole burden of creating for him—what he had in mind—that was mine. And he knew how to extract the maximum effort from the musicians and from me too. He was a master at that. I think one of the reasons our relationship lasted so long was because he listened to what other people were doing parallel to our product. I don't believe he ever heard anything that was better than what we were doing. I have no doubt that if he had heard someone doing it better than what I was doing, he would have gone there. But he never did, and that made it possible for me to build this studio. I knew he was always there.

Once you developed that sound, you knew exactly what to do initially. When the musicians walked in, you knew right where everything should be regarding microphone placement and all of that. And you went from there. From that point, it was just minor alterations according to that session.

That's very well put, and do you know why that was? Because Alfred used to come here often. He used to bring the same people out in various combinations. They all knew what I was like. Everybody would come in and know exactly where their stand was, where they would play. It was home. There were no strangers. They knew the results of what they were going to do. There was never any question about it, so they could focus on the music.

Then when Bob Weinstock of Prestige Records started with you, there was that whole crowd of musicians, sometime crossing over personnel.

Well, Weinstock would very often follow Alfred around, but with a different kind of project in mind. And you know, when I experimented, I would experiment on Bob Weinstock's projects. Bob didn't think much of sound; he still doesn't. He doesn't care. So if I got a new microphone and I wanted to try it on a saxophone player, I would never try it on Alfred's date. Weinstock didn't give a damn, and if it worked out, great. Alfred would benefit from that.

I've always thought of the Prestige dates as a more accurate indication of what was happening in the clubs. Although I know that after a Blue Note session wound down, the musicians could go out into the clubs and play original tunes, with Prestige it was mostly standards. That's what they went out and jammed on. And that deserves documentation as well.

Absolutely. I agree with that, and I’ve said so, though not as well as you did. I wouldn't want the world to be without them. There are people who say that the difference between Blue Note and Prestige is rehearsal. That's just glib. That's bullshit. That's not even a fair way to put it. It resulted in a lot of my favorite recordings. You know, those Miles [Davis] Prestige things ... they can't hurt those things. It's really one of the most gratifying things I've done, the fact that people can hear those. It's really good.

When you were in the control booth listening to the sessions, were you ever aware that those sides would end up as classics?

Well, you can't see into the future. I had no way of knowing that. But I knew every session was important, particularly the Blue Note stuff. The Blue Note sessions seemed more important at the time because the procedure was more demanding. But in retrospect, the Prestige recordings of Miles Davis, the Red Garland with Philly Joe Jones, the Jackie McLean and Art Taylor, the early Coltrane—sessions like that—turned out to be equally if not more important. I always felt the activity we were engaged in was more significant than the politics of the time, to the extent that everything else that was happening was unimportant. And I still feel that way. I treat every session ... every session is important to me.

Have you done any classical or pop?

There was a long period of time parallel to those years when I was working for Vox, a classical company. I would get tapes from all over Europe and master those tapes for release in this country. I did that for 10 years or more. So I had three things going: Blue Note, Prestige, and Vox. Each of them was very active. And I did some classical recordings: Classical artists, solo piano recordings, a couple of quartets.

How about pop?

A lot of that popular stuff came with Creed Taylor later in the '70s. He was oriented more toward trying to commercialize jazz music. You're familiar with his CTI label? That's another world altogether. That's when we started to be conscious of the charts. I love the sound of strings, particularly the way Creed Taylor handled them with Don Sebesky. And I love an exciting brass sound too. Creed is a genius as far as combining these things that we're talking about. I'm not at all isolated in the world of a five-piece be-bop band. As a matter of fact, sonically, this other thing is more rewarding.

What are your feelings on digital versus analog?

The linear storage of digital information is idealized. It can be perfect. It can never be perfect in analog because you cannot reproduce the varying voltages through the different translations from one medium to another. You go from sound to a microphone to a stylus cutting a groove. Then you have to play that back from another stylus wiggling in a groove, and then translate it back to voltage.

The biggest distorter is the LP itself. I've made thousands of LP masters. I used to make 17 a day, with two lathes going simultaneously, and I'm glad to see the LP go. As far as I'm concerned, good riddance. It was a constant battle to try to make that music sound the way it should. It was never any good. And if people don't like what they hear in digital, they should blame the engineer who did it. Blame the mastering house. Blame the mixing engineer. That's why some digital recordings sound terrible, and I'm not denying that they do, but don't blame the medium.

A lot of people argue that digital is a colder, sterile sound. Where do you think that comes from?

Where does it come from? The engineers. You've noticed they've attributed the sound to the medium. They say digital is cold, so they've given it an attribute, but linear digital has no attributes. It's just a medium for storage. It's what you do with it. A lot of this has to do with the writing in consumer magazines. They've got to talk about something.

What should be discussed is the way CDs are being marketed as 20-bit CDs, but there is no such thing as a 20-bit CD. Every CD sold to the public is a 16-bit CD. You can record 20-bit and it is better than 16-bit, but it has to be reduced to 16-bit before you can get it onto the CD. History is repeating itself.

It reminds me of when they marketed mono recordings as "re-mastered in stereo." All they did was put the highs on one side, put the lows on the other, and add a lot of reverb to make it believable. Then they'd sell it as a stereo record.

Do you feel today’s jazz musicians stack up to the players of the 1950s and '60s, Blue Note's heyday?

Well, there are a lot of great kids around. You know, technically they're great. I feel they're suffering from a disadvantage of not being able to play in the kind of environment that existed then. You don't want me to make a broad statement saying, "Gee whiz, it was better 20 years ago than it is now." First of all, I don't believe that. I don't even think of it that way.

Do you see yourself as a technician and an artist?

Absolutely. When you mention the technical end, the first thing I think of is making sure all the tools are working right. The artistic part is what you do with them. The artistic part involves everything in this place. There's nothing here that isn't here for an artistic reason. That applies to the studio. The whole environment is created to be artistic. It's my studio and it's been this way for a long, long time, and people like it. It's even mellowed through the years, and people are aware of that. Musicians are sensitive to that. Someone came in here only yesterday and said: ‘If the walls could only repeat what has happened here ….’”

↧

"How Rudy Van Gelder Shaped the Sound of Jazz As We Know It"

August 28, 2016, 2:14 pm

≫ Next: [My Vince Guaraldi] "Lighthouse Memories"

≪ Previous: Rudy Van Gelder 1924-2016: A Signature Sound [From the Archives]

The Following by Nate Chinen is excerpted from the August 26, 2016 New York Times.

“When a musical hero of towering influence dies, the urge is to go straight to the tape: recordings, footage, a captured moment that stands in for the unwieldy fullness of a life.

This commemorative twitch — wearily familiar in our year of losses, from David Bowie to Prince to, just last week, the vibraphonist Bobby Hutcherson— is especially well suited to the memory of Rudy Van Gelder, whose legend was shaped within the confines of his recording studio. Mr. Van Gelder, who died on Thursday at 91, was the most revered recording engineer in jazz — the man behind the curtain on thousands of albums and the chief architect of the storied “Blue Note sound.” He shaped the way we hear the music and the way we want it to be heard.

So it’s natural, now, to look for some trace of Mr. Van Gelder in the brilliant recordings he made, either at his first home studio in Hackensack, N.J., or at his second, in nearby Englewood Cliffs. It’s natural, and it’s also maddening, because so much of what he did was intangible. You hear it, you feel it, but his signature was etched in invisible ink. What is it, exactly, that you’re listening for? Naturalism? Warmth? The sound of a room?

“Some musicians sounded more real on your recordings than they would in a club,” the pianist and writer Ben Sidran ventured in 1985 in a rare interview with Mr. Van Gelder, who seemed to agree. He replied, “A great photographer will really create his image, and not just capture a particular situation.””

And this quotation from the introduction to Ben Sidran’s December, 1985 interview with Rudy will be followed by the full interview that will appear as a blog posting later in the week.

Rudy is a legend in the recording world, not only because of the thousands of classic jazz sessions he's captured on tape, particularly the early Blue Note records, but also because he's a man who, many fans believe, helped invent the sound of contemporary jazz. His recordings from the early '50s still sound modem today. Rudy is not unaware of his position in the jazz pantheon, and actively guards his "secrets."

He will not talk about the kinds of microphones he uses or where he places them, or anything even vaguely related to the technical process of recording music. For many of today's young jazz musicians, walking into his studio is a bit like arriving at the inner chamber of the great pyramid (where the mysteries of the past have unfolded); for many older musicians, it's like coming home.”

To be continued:

Rudy van Gelder [1924-2016] R.I.P.

↧

[My Vince Guaraldi] "Lighthouse Memories"

August 29, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: Little Johnny Rivero - "Music In Me"

≪ Previous: "How Rudy Van Gelder Shaped the Sound of Jazz As We Know It"

Before the growth and development of Jazz programs on most of the major college and university campuses, the advent of concert quality Jazz club venues with two shows a night, the evolution of an international Jazz festival scene and the development of residential Jazz orchestras funded by huge endowments, a jazz musician earned a living by going on the road and playing night clubs in a circuit of cities usually within a day's driving time of each other.

It was a tough way to make a buck to support a family and it took a dedicated and brave soul to succeed at dealing with such a grind year-after-year.

Four or five sets a night in smoke-filled rooms, poor food, dangerous travel conditions, unattentive audiences; confronted with such adverse working conditions, it’s not surprising that many notable Jazz musicians passed away before their Biblically allotted “threescore and ten.”

Occasionally, a Jazz musician would “get lucky” and be able to maintain a career playing in a city of his choice with an infrequnt junket to a nearby festival or to a two week club engagement not too-far-away-from home.

One such “success story” was pianist and composer Vince Guaraldi who, for about twenty years between the mid-1950’s until his death in 1976 at the age of 47, was able to generate a successful 20 year career primarily in the limited confines of the San Francisco Bay area. With San Francisco clubs like the Blackhawk downtown at the corner of Turk and Hyde, the Trident in across-the-bay Sausalito and the hungry i in North Beach, annual appearances at the Monterey Jazz Festival about 100 miles southwest of San Francisco and his record label - Fantasy - across another bay in nearby Berkeley, CA, Vince luckily had it all literally in his own backyard.

Vince was luckier still in that just about every detail of that career has been chronicled by Derrick Bang, the author of a comprehensive biography entitled Vince Guaraldi at the Piano [Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland, 2012].

After sending him a blog link to my review of his book, Derrick and I became Internet friends. During one of our correspondences, I mentioned that I had met Vince during his brief stay as a member of Howard Rumsey’s Lighthouse All-Stars and Derrick arranged a telephone interview so that I could share my memories of Vince directly with him.

The result of our phone visit was a lovely remembrance of Vince which Derrick composed and entitled “Lighthouse Memories.” He posted it to his www.impressionsofvince.blogspot.com on April 25, 2015 and has graciously allowed me to re-post it on my site. Information about Derrick’s Vince bio, Guaraldi’s discography and a host of interesting articles and interviews about Vincenzo’s career - sorry, had to slip a little Italian into the mix - including how his association with the Charles Schultz Peanuts TV specials came about is all carefully annotated in Derrick’s book.

******

“Jazz historian Steven A. Cerra began a correspondence with me last summer, while conducting background research for what eventually emerged as an extremely complimentary review of my book about Guaraldi, which Steve published on his blog in late August.

During the course of our e-mails and phone calls, however, it became obvious that I had to return the favor. The result, obtained during a lengthy interview, is one of the most vivid anecdotes of the late 1950s and early ’60s Southern California jazz scene — with an essential Guaraldi element — that it has been my privilege to hear.

(Sadly, although this narrative includes some wonderful vintage photos that Steve shot back in the day, he didn't get any of Guaraldi.)

What follows comes almost verbatim from Steve, with very little editing or “prep” on my part. His memory is sharp, and his youthful adventures clearly left an indelible impression.

******

As a teenager growing up in Southern California, Steve was in the right place, and at the right time, to indulge his passion for jazz via regular visits to Hermosa Beach’s iconic Lighthouse, home of the Lighthouse All-Stars.

Nor was Steve an average patron. Although still a high school student during the late 1950s, he already was a well-established drummer in the local jazz scene.

“I had been working clubs for at least a year,” he recalls. “But the club owners and managers knew how old I was, so, during the breaks, they’d force me to leave. I’d have to go outside, often in a back alley, for a smoke. My playing might have been mature enough for the environment, but age-wise, they didn’t want the cops busting the place because of an underage kid lingering at the bar.”

Steve believes he started hanging around The Lighthouse in 1959, drawn both by the nearby beach and the venue’s celebrated All-Stars.

“The Sunday afternoon jam sessions ran from 2 or 2:30 in the afternoon, to 2 a.m. the next morning. It was chicks and beer and jazz, and I was going on 17.

“What was not to love?”

Although able to hold his own on a stage, Steve nonetheless was aware of his limitations.

“I’d been self-taught up until then. When that’s the case, even when you have a feeling for the music, you hit certain walls and limitations. When you sit down with people who are legitimately trained, you can’t help noticing their speed and power. I had the feeling, but I didn’t have any technique to broaden it, and give it depth.”

Wanting to improve his work, and with the bold impetuousness of youth, Steve saw no reason to seek assistance elsewhere. He therefore focused on Stan Levey, who at the time was the drummer for the All-Stars.

“I always idolized Stan; I really liked his style of playing. And I thought, well, maybe I could talk him into giving me drum lessons. But he was a big, rough, gruff guy, and very hard to approach. As it happens, he also was self-taught, and I later learned that people like me badgered him constantly, for lessons.

“Trouble was, Stan couldn’t ‘speak drums.’ He couldn’t tell you the difference between a flamadiddle and a paradiddle, or a five-stroke roll and a seven-stroke roll; he didn’t know any of that stuff. So being gruff was his way of pushing us away, without revealing his limitations.”

“But I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I chased him all over the club for weeks, and he finally pushed me in Victor Feldman’s direction, saying that he knew all the rudiments. Victor was playing conga and percussion then; he’d pretty much given up what he called ‘sit-down drums.’ But he was starving. He was in Hollywood; I was in Burbank; he said fine, let’s give it a try.”

That’s how Feldman became Steve’s first drum teacher.

(Feldman also played vibes and piano, his instruments of choice on his Fantasy album Latinsville, some of which was recorded in 1959.)

Several months passed, during which Steve realized that he had caught the Lighthouse All-Stars during a transitional period.

“People had been there for awhile; it was time to move on. Stan thought he had overstayed his welcome, and was leading the rebellion; Frank Rosolino had been there for awhile, and also was ready to make a break for it.

“So, I walked in one Sunday afternoon, and the regular All-Stars weren’t there! Victor was playing drums, and Howard Rumsey was on bass, and Vince Guaraldi was playing piano.”

[This matches Guaraldi’s known timeline; he left his final stint with Woody Herman in late August 1959, and began working with the All-Stars on the last day of that month.]

“Conte Candoli was there, and it might have been Bud Shank on sax. That was the beginning of the change that ultimately led to Nick Martinis replacing Stan. Art Pepper worked the front line with Conte for awhile, but Art was constantly getting busted.

“I also noticed that the bandstand had been rearranged. The piano was off to the right, but it was turned forward; Vince was looking out toward the audience. Victor used to have it turned the other way, because he’d get up from the piano bench and turn around to play vibes, which faced toward the audience. But the vibes were gone, and the front of the piano was turned to where the vibes had been, and there was Vince. Howard and Victor were to his right, in the center of the stage; Howard was stage-forward, between Vince and Victor. The two horn players, as you stared straight ahead from the audience, were on the left-hand side of the stage.

“Now, you have to picture this: The stage was elevated, and — depending on what angle you had — you’d be looking up toward the front of the piano. Vince was so short, that if the music rack was up, you wouldn’t even see him.

“When you walked into the club, via the main entrance, the bar was to your left, along the wall. You’d see the piano, but unless you continued to walk toward the center of the stage, it would look like the piano was playing itself!”

Steve found the change disconcerting, to say the least.

“First of all, I was fascinated by the fact that my teacher was up there, playing drums ... which he rarely did, unless he was giving me a lesson. I figured he must’ve been sitting in for somebody who hadn’t shown up.

“And I had an idea of who Vince was, from his earlier association with Cal Tjader, but I wasn’t that familiar with his music.”

It quickly became apparent that Guaraldi, as the new kid on the block, was floundering ... and doing his best to avoid going under for the third time.

“Howard liked to be organized,” Steve continues, “and he had this incredibly big book of arrangements, which had evolved over a 10-year period. They were wonderful arrangements, and very intricate; contributions had been made by people like Bill Holman, Shorty Rogers and Jimmy Giuffre. It was a West Coast jazz treasure chest of charts.

“But Vince didn’t read well, and I could see that Victor was talking to him, and showing him things, like ‘stop time’ at the bridge ... stuff Vince was supposed to catch. Victor was aware of Vince’s limitations, because they’d played together with Woody Herman. Well, Howard was standing in front of this process, and he was steaming. In fairness, I think he may have been steamed in general, because of the personnel transition; on top of that, here was this guy, filling in for Victor, who didn’t know the charts, with Victor having to coach him through the arrangements.

“It felt really, really uncomfortable. Through no fault of his own, Vince had arrived at the right place ... but at the wrong time.”

“I just stood and watched. At the break, Vince followed Victor off the stage. The musicians had a table toward the back of the club, right in front of the entrance to the kitchen. Victor saw me, and motioned me to join them as they headed toward the back of the club, toward their table. He introduced me to Vince, who looked at me and said, ‘Oh, you’ve also got small hands.’ I quipped it away by saying something like, ‘Yes, but I use longer drumsticks.’ That made him smile, and it was the first time I’d seen him smile, since I arrived.

“It wound up being an ice-breaker for Vince, and we all sat down and relaxed. I smoked Pall Mall cigarettes in those days; it was a good cigarette for drummers, because sometimes when you finished a tune, there’d actually be a little cigarette left at the end. Vince bummed a cigarette from me, and we chatted.

“I listened while Victor gave Vince a tutorial, a post-mortem, about the set they had just finished. I don’t think there was any piano unison voicing in any of those charts; the trumpet and sax played the line. So, it was more a question of Vince having to know the changes, having to go into a 6/8 Latin feel at the bridge: that sort of thing. But Vince was having trouble, until Victor said, ‘Hey, man; just count it in two.’

“Right away, I saw the look of recognition on Vince’s face. Instead of 1-2-3-4-5-6/1-2-3-4-5-6, it just became one ... two ... one ... two, like a marching band feeling. Victor made it easier for Vince to settle into the music ... because, remember, it was a huge book of charts. This wasn’t exactly Vince’s forté, so he had a tiger by the tail.

“Howard was a stickler for opening the afternoon concert with arranged music. Customers were paying good money, and he didn’t want people to think of it as a ‘blowing session.’ There was a method to his madness; Howard made that gig a real success for a long, long time. He knew what worked, and he wasn’t going to depart from that. So, before things opened up, and other people could come onto the stand, he wanted to deliver a couple of sets that showed this was an organized group, with people who were professional, and knew what they were doing.

“To that end, Howard required the guys to wear suits, as a means to further legitimize the music. Vince was wearing a suit like everybody else; he also had his mustache, and black horn-rimmed glasses — which I also wore — as was the fashion at that time.

“Anyway, on this day, there was one more set to go, before the dinner break. The stage would ‘go dark’ from about 5:30 to 7:30, so the musicians could relax and get something to eat. The final set before the dinner break would be the jam session. Teddy Edwards happened to be at the club, and he called for ‘All the Things You Are” [a Jerome Kern/Oscar Hammerstein II tune, written for the musical Very Warm for May]. Victor motioned to me to come onto the stand. Howard knew who I was, and he knew I wouldn’t embarrass anybody.

“So I got up there, and I played about 15 minutes of ‘All the Things You Are’ with Vince on piano, and Howard on bass. The best part of it was that Vince relaxed. All of a sudden, the ‘real’ Vince Guaraldi showed up: the one that we now know and love. He was comfortable; he got grooves going; he was kickin’ the horns in the ass with his comps; he was riffing; we were catching things together.

“Even Howard loosened up, and started to giggle.

“Creating grooves was what Vince did well. He was one of the best ‘groove pianists’ I ever heard in my life. It worked so well because it was rhythmic and simple, and he wouldn’t let it go until he had wrung every drop out of it. When he finally was satisfied with the first little figure, he’d come up with another one, bluesy and funky, and the same thing would happen all over again. You were just lifted off your feet.

“And that was my experience with Vince, musically, the very first time I met him.”

Steve never again shared the stage with Guaraldi. But as the weeks passed, it became obvious that Dr. Funk was gaining confidence.

“I caught Vince with the group a few times after that first day. He soon settled in. I think it was partly because they brought Bob Cooper back [on sax and oboe], to take over for the erratic Art Pepper. Coop was one of the sweetest guys on the planet, and he definitely made a difference.

“Vince went from somebody who struggled to fit in, to becoming a comfortable part of the band. The first few times I saw him, he hardly opened his mouth; he was trying to get his bearings, and the music was very demanding, complicated stuff. You could be in the wrong bar, with the wrong change, in the blink of an eye.

“He struggled for awhile, but to his credit, he turned it around, and made it happen. That’s not easy for a guy who isn’t oriented that way. Vince preferred to play Vince’s music. Being somebody’s piano player in a quintet, and laying down changes; that’s not where he wanted to be.”

Which raised the obvious question. What, I asked Steve, was ‘Vince’s music’?

“I always thought of him as the West Coast Red Garland. I can’t think of Vince without thinking of 12-bar blues. I also hear a tremendous tie to Count Basie’s music. Basie used the rhythm section; if you listen to the early Basie band — with Freddie Green on guitar, Walter Page on bass, and Papa Jo Jones on drums — Basie ‘floated’ over them, and that’s the way Vince played. He always had to get it to the point where it could be simple, rhythmic and bluesy; then you were in his wheelhouse. That was his core.

“He liked little ‘gliss notes.’ Drummers would call them flams; it was like one finger falling off a key. It was Vince’s way of compensating on the keyboard, because he didn’t have big chops. But he always knew where the pocket was, and when he got in it, he took everybody with him. Then, suddenly, it was like a bunch of kids in a schoolyard, finding a clubhouse together, where everybody would gather and have a good time.

“Whenever Vince got to that point in the music, you always had a good time.

“It’s interesting, looking back on it. I met a Vince who was in the right place, but didn’t feel that he was. But he got comfortable, and he changed the feeling of the band dramatically, from the piano bench. The band took on the sort of rhythmic grooviness that I mentioned earlier, in part because Victor was a more percussive, pushy kind of player.

“And once Vince truly relaxed, you’d see that he was a very laconic, droll kind of guy, who could suddenly say something, and just bust you up. He was a real master of the unexpected gibe: a lot of fun to be around.”

Rumsey relaxed as well, once Guaraldi had established himself as an integral part of the “new” All-Stars. This shift became obvious once Rumsey made his new pianist part of the on-stage banter.

Although the Lighthouse All-Stars had released a series of albums on the Contemporary label between 1953 and ’57, Rumsey inexplicably stopped the studio work for five years; as a result, Guaraldi never recorded with the band during his eight-month stay. He was back in Northern California by the middle of April 1960.

But Guaraldi did record one album with what could be considered an offshoot of the Lighthouse All-Stars: 1960’s Little Band, Big Jazz, which was released in mid-1960. The combo was dubbed the Conte Candoli All Stars, and it featured Candoli (trumpet), Buddy Collette (tenor sax), Leroy Vinnegar (bass) and Stan Levey (drums), along with Guaraldi on piano.

And Lighthouse patrons got plenty of exposure to some of that music.

“The band often played some of the tunes that wound up on that Crown LP,” Steve confirms, resuming his story. “I don’t know who wrote those charts, but they were in Howard’s book; they were a regular part of the repertoire. Crown wasn’t a very respected label at the time — it was a budget label — and Howard often made fun of it, when he talked about it on stage. He’d say stuff like, ‘The guys have an album coming out, on the Square Records label.’

“Vince would laugh along with the joke, and you could see that, finally, he was truly comfortable.”

But then, just as suddenly, Guaraldi was gone. Steve dropped by the Lighthouse for one of his usual visits, in the early spring of 1960, and Dr. Funk simply wasn’t there any more. He had returned to San Francisco.

As it happened, though, Steve’s path crossed Guaraldi’s one final time.

“I met him again, very briefly, when I was up in San Francisco in 1962. I went by the Blackhawk for the Sunday afternoon jam, and I played with Lonnie Hewitt that day. I had been playing for awhile, and I was off the bandstand, between sets, when Vince came into the club.

“I remember this, because he came right up to me, tapped me on the shoulder, and asked if I still smoked Pall Malls. It was right around the time that he released ‘Cast Your Fate to the Wind,’ and you’d never have known what was about to happen. At that moment, Vince was still the same.

“And that was the last time I saw him, either in a casual way, or at a gig.”

Roughly a year later, once it became obvious that “Fate” had turned Guaraldi into a star, Steve was delighted ... and he remains so, to this day.

“I couldn’t have been happier for him. And, you know, that’s the really interesting thing about Vince: the number of successes he was destined to enjoy. That’s not often the case, with a jazz guy. He had incredible staying power, and incredible persistence, and he also had a lot of musical talent.

“At the core, though, he was always a swinger. And that’s how I like to remember him.””

Posted by Derrick Bang

↧

Little Johnny Rivero - "Music In Me"

August 30, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: Rudy van Gelder - The Ben Sidran Interview - Part 1

≪ Previous: [My Vince Guaraldi] "Lighthouse Memories"

“With one foot rooted in his native Puerto Rico and the other firmly planted New York City's "El Barrio," it is only fitting that Little Johnny Rivero's second effort as a leader titled, Music in Me, delivers its Latin Jazz groove with underpinnings of traditional Afro-Cuban percussion and rhythms.

From the relentless, driving bata voicing in Alambique, to the haunting background chants that color, Africa My Land, to the staccato horn runs peppered throughout the title track, "Music in Me" delivers a unified theme of Latin Jazz, improvisation, and color.

"Ever since I was a young boy, I listened to a wide range of music," says Rivero, "including Tito Puente, Machito, Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers, Tony Bennett, all of which my father had in his record collection. Also, there were always rumba jams. Inside of me is a Latin Jazz Rumba."

Music in Me features trumpeter Brian Lynch, alto saxophonist Louis Fouché, pianist Zaccai Curtis and bass player Luques Curtis. Special guests include trombonist Conrad Herwig, trumpeter Jonathan Powell, violinist Alfredo de la Fé, percussionists Anthony Carrillo and Luisito Quintero, vocalists Manny Mieles and Edwin Ramos and Giovanni Almonte (spoken word).”

- Jim Eigo, Jazz Promo Services, Press Release

Every Jazz drummer is a Latin Jazz drummer at heart. I mean what’s not to like with lots of stuff to bang, crash, strike, scratch, smack, slap, tap and whack using a variety of complementary and/or contrasting rhythms – a drummer’s delight, es verdad?

When I was first learning to play drums as a young man in Southern California in the late 1950’s, I was fortunate to play in a series of rehearsal bands. These were usually led by aspiring or, in some cases, established composer-arrangers who wanted an available vehicle in which to hear their “charts” [musician-speak for arrangements].

One of these aggregations was headed-up by a Hispanic trombonist from East Los Angeles who one day brought along to a rehearsal a transcription of Johnny Richards’ arrangement of Los Suertos de los Tontos [“Fortune of Fools”] that he had taken note-for-note from the Stan Kenton recording – Cuban Fire! [Capitol CDP 7 96260 2]. Where there is a will there’s a way?

He also brought with him two of his friends who were adept Latin percussion players.

That was it for me; I was hooked then, and have been ever since, on the power, the majesty and the excitement of Latin Jazz. What a wild ride!

While playing the 6/8 triplet figure on the bell of the cymbal that forms the underlying beat of the Los Suertos de los Tontos, I was pushed into a state of total elation by the incessant driving beat of the Latin percussionists who alternated between bongos and conga drums, timbales, cow bells, clave and various types of shakers throughout the 4 minutes or so of the tune.

Prior to that time, I had heard small group versions of Latin Jazz as played by quintets led by pianist George Shearing and vibist Cal Tjader, respectively.

But that had not prepared me for what happens with this music once trumpets, trombones and saxophones are added to the mix.

Seeing that my enthusiasm for the music was almost palpable, the Latin percussionists invited me to come by and listen to the ten-piece group that they performed with on a regular basis at a club called Virginia’s in the Macarthur Park region of Los Angeles.

Needless to say, I drove down to the club that evening and was an almost constant presence there for about 6 months during which they taught me everything about the right way to play what they referred to as “Afro-Cuban rhythms.”

Dancing to the rumba and the mambo were very popular in the 1950s and most major cities had night clubs that catered to this clientele featuring music by what today would be called salsa bands.

During the early days of my Latin Jazz musical quest, I’d come home from Virginia’s most nights with my head reeling from listening to the punctuating brass instruments [the drums were set on a riser just below the trumpets and trombones] and my hands would be bleeding until I had built up the necessary callous for playing the conga drums.

I didn’t care; I was a young man in what I thought then was “Drummer’s Heaven.”

In this environment, I soon learned, however, that playing Latin Jazz or Afro-Cuban rhythms was a lot more involved than hitting, banging, slapping, crashing or whacking everything in sight.

There were conventions or rhythmic rules and these had to be unwaveringly adhered to or else the back of my hands would be bleeding, too, from the whaps they received from the timbales sticks [actually small, wooden dowels which are not tipped like regular drum sticks] of my unyielding teachers.

“Hey, man, play it right; you’re screwing the rest of us up!”

For while it may sound like a lot of clap trap to the uninformed ear, the Latin rhythm section is actually a well-oiled machine with everything in its place.

When done correctly, the rhythms, counter-rhythms and accents played in combination by the conga and bongo drums, timbales and a variety of hand-held percussion instruments create a fluid, rippling foundation over which the melody glides.

While jazz rhythms are swung, most Latin jazz tunes have a straight eighth note feel. Latin jazz rarely employs a backbeat, using a form of the clave instead.

Most jazz rhythms emphasize beats two and four. Latin jazz tunes rely more on various clave rhythms, again depending on regional style.

Since the underlying “feel” of Latin or Afro-Cuban Jazz relates to the clave, perhaps a word at this point as to its meaning, role and its relationship with the instruments, compositions and arrangements

Clave in its original form is a Spanish word and its musical usage was developed in the western part of Cuba, particularly the cities of Matanzas and Havana. However, the origins of the rhythm can be traced to Africa, particularly the West African music of modern-day Ghana and Nigeria. There are also rhythms resembling the clave found in parts of the Middle East.

There are three types of clave, and without going into a lot of detail, the most common type of clave rhythm in Latin Jazz is the son clave, named after the Cuban musical style of the same name.

The choice of the form of the clave rhythm is guided by the melody, which in turn directs all other instruments and arrangements.

As far as the type of clave rhythm used, generally son clave is used with dance styles while rumba and afro are associated with folkloric rhythms.

To re-emphasize a point before moving on, while allowing for some embellishment, these clave rhythmic patterns must be strictly adhered to by the percussionists in the playing of Latin Jazz to keep the music controlled and grounded, while at the same time, flowing.

To the uninitiated, Latin Jazz rhythm sections might sound more like controlled chaos, but when it all comes together properly it is a thing of beauty, especially as one’s ear becomes more informed.

What I look for in a Latin Jazz group is its adherence to the authenticity of these rhythmic conventions as a platform for a music that is played with passionate intensity and melodic intrigue.

In a word - EXCITEMENT!

Imagine my delight, then, when a copy of conguero Little Johnny Rivero’s latest CD - MUSIC IN ME - made an appearance at the editorial offices of JazzProfiles.

It hasn’t been off the CD changer since its arrival because the recording is alive with all the good qualities of Latin Jazz - accurate representations of its rhythmic styles, intriguing melodies, some with dips and turns that bring back memories of Horace Silver and Elmo Hope, all played by a group of first-rate soloists.

A long-time associate of the Latin Jazz master, Eddie Palmieri, Little Johnny Rivero has assembled a masterful group of musicians who are steeped in the ethos of Latin Jazz and the band just sparkles on the nine tracks that make up this recording.

Here’s what Stephan Nigohosian had to say aboutLittle Johnny Rivero’s backgroundin this excerpt from the insert notes to the recording.

“Having performed on nearly 100 recordings to date, Little Johnny's credits include such notable artists as La Sonora Poncefia, Eddie Palmieri, Bebo Valdes, Charlie Palmieri, Dr. Lonnie Smith, Paquito D'Rivera, Brian Lynch, and Conrad Herwig. He has collaborated with such world-renowned percussionists as Changuito, Giovanni Hidalgo, Carlos "Patato" Valdes and Angel "Cachete" Maldonado as well as legendary drummers Joe Chambers and Ralph Peterson Jr.”

And here are Little Johnny Rivero’s comments about the nine tracks that make up Music in Me:

Mr. LP: This song is dedicated to [L.P. Founder] Martin Cohen, who has been a dear friend, father figure and an inspiration throughout my life. Without him, I would not be the musician or person that I am today. He IS "Mr. LP". Conrad Herwig's trombone solo takes this song to the next level.

Music In Me: Ever since I was a young boy, I listened to a wide range of music, including Tito Rodriguez, Tito Puente, Machito, Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers, Tony Bennett...all of which my father had in his record collection. Across the street, there were always rumba jams; hence the name "Music In Me". Inside of me is a Latin Jazz Rumba.

Let's Do It Again: I first played this song with Zaccai and Luques Curtis at my friend Martin Cohen's house several years ago. When I told Zaccai how much I liked the tune, he literally said, "Let's do it again!" Zaccai's piano solo conveys the spontaneity of this particular take and Ludwig Afonso does a great job of closing the song with his amazing virtuosity.

Little Giants: This is what I describe as a Latin Jazz Mambo. It's a fast, energetic tune, featuring a killer solo on bongos by Anthony Carillo and Jonathan Powell on trumpet, adding movement and passion to the song. The song's title was inspired by Andy Guzman [the song's arranger], who once told me, "You're not little, Johnny...you're a GIANT!"

Palmieri, Much Respect: Eddie Palmieri is a genius. Learning from him was an experience that helped shape me, to become the musician that I am today. He respects all musicians and expects the most from us, which we are pleased to deliver. This song is a smooth cha-cha-cha that makes me think of being on a smooth trip with Eddie. I play timbales on this song, and, coincidentally, Eddie played timbales at a young age before he played piano.

Africa My Land: To me, all drumming has its origins in Africa. As a percussionist, I felt compelled to pay tribute to these roots, so I played a variety of percussion on the track, including udu drums and talking drums. The chants by Manny Mieles' and myself are meant to convey the heart and soul of Africa. Giovanni Almonte contributes his poetry to the song,elevating the emphasis on the debt our music is owed to the motherland.

Bombazul: This tune features the original barril de bombas. Once you hear this song, you'll feel like you're looking at the simple beauty of a clear, blue sky. Louis Fouche's sax adds just the right amount of color to the feel of this tune.

Afro-Rykan Thoughts: This track brings in the funkl I wanted something different and this is it. You don't usually hear percussion solos in this type of music, but it works really well here. We had a blast recording it, it has a jam band vibe to it. When Brian Lynch and Louis Fouche play their solos, they take it to the moon!

Alambique: In Isla Verde, San Juan, Puerto Rico, there's a beach called Alambique, where all of the rumberos would hang out and jam back in the 80's. That beach holds a special place in my heart; and the movement of this tune reminds me of the sun, sand and camaraderie we all had. Luisito Quintero and Alfredo de la Fe take amazing solos on this song.

The following videos will give you “the flavor” of what’s on offer in Music In Me. The first features images related to Little Johnny Rivero and to the Puerto Rican barrel drum and is set to Bombazul.

And Johnny talks so eloquently about the relationship of Africa to his music and his drumming that the second video is set to images of the artwork of the late Nigerian artist Ben Enwonwu [1921-1994] and features the music from theAfro-Rykan Thoughtstrack.

If you dig Latin Jazz, then Music in Me is the music in you.

CD RELEASE @ SOUNDS OF BRAZIL, NEW YORK CITY, SEPTEMBER 29, 2016

Visit: www.truthrevolutionrecords.com

Pre- Order: www.trrstore.bandcamp.com

www.sobs.com

National Press Campaign

Jim Eigo Jazz Promo Services

Ph: 845-986-1677 / jim@jazzpromoservices.com

www.jazzpromoservices.com

"Specializing in Media Campaigns for the music community, artists, labels, venues and events.”

↧

Rudy van Gelder - The Ben Sidran Interview - Part 1

August 31, 2016, 4:00 am

≫ Next: Rudy van Gelder - The Ben Sidran Interview - Part 2

≪ Previous: Little Johnny Rivero - "Music In Me"

The source for Ben’s interview with the legendary recording engineer, Rudy van gelder, is Talking Jazz: 43 Jazz Conversions which are drawn from interviews that took place from 1984-1990 on Ben’s National Public Radio series entitled Sidran on Record.

In addition to the original book form, which is still in print, these talks are also available in a Kindle Edition from Amazon and in an expanded audio CD edition which is made up of the actual radio broadcasts.

Rudy Van Gelder

(December, 1985)

“Recording engineer Rudy Van Gelder never gives interviews. He agreed to talk with me only after I assured him that if he didn't like the way it went, he could keep the tape. Perhaps because he's spent his entire life on the other side of the microphone, he knows all too well the historical importance of pushing the record button. Rudy is a legend in the recording world, not only because of the thousands of classic jazz sessions he's captured on tape, particularly the early Blue Note records, but also because he's a man who, many fans believe, helped invent the sound of contemporary jazz. His recordings from the early '50s still sound modem today. Rudy is not unaware of his position in the jazz pantheon, and actively guards his "secrets." He will not talk about the kinds of microphones he uses or where he places them, or anything even vaguely related to the technical process of recording music. For many of today's young jazz musicians, walking into his studio is a bit like arriving at the inner chamber of the great pyramid (where the mysteries of the past have unfolded); for many older musicians, it's like coming home.”

Ben: We're talking in the control room of your recording studio here in Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey. I've done interviews from all over, hotel rooms, musicians' apartments, backstage dressing rooms and, of course, recording studios. But I think this is the first one I've done from the control room of the studio.

Rudy: By the way, I'm, I'm on the wrong side of this microphone. This is very strange for me. I just feel very uncomfortable. I'd rather be on the opposite side. This is the first time I've ever done anything like this, so it's a very strange feeling.

Ben: When did you discover that you wanted to be on the "other side" of the microphone? Was there a particular moment when you realized you wanted to be a recording engineer?

Rudy: A particular moment? No, not really. But I remember certain times, yes, that I felt that's what I wanted to do. You know, for a long time I was in another profession.

Ben: You were an optometrist?

Rudy: That's right. That's right. And during the time I was in school studying, occasionally we would visit radio stations, or places other than the environment that I was studying, and I really felt that I wanted to be in that other situation. I really strongly felt that. Maybe because it was in Philadelphia. Maybe something about Philadelphia that makes you feel you're in the wrong place. [Laughs.]

Ben: As it says on W.C. Fields' tombstone, "I'd rather be here than in Philadelphia," right? But it's hard for us to realize, in these days when every twelve- or thirteen-year-old child has more technology strapped on their body than the whole city of Philadelphia had back in the '40s, but records, up through the '50s, were recorded in radio studios. They didn't have recording studios as we do today.

Rudy: That's right. There was actually no record industry as such. It was an off-shoot, from an engineering standpoint, of the radio stations. And the engineers usually worked with companies who were associated in some way with radio. There were a few exceptions to that, but there was no record industry as an independent industry, the way it is today. No, it was totally different. The equipment was different, everything was different.

Ben: And, initially, you were a hobbyist?

Rudy: Yes, that's right. I was a radio ham originally. Also an amateur musician, of course, and those two things sort of came together, and that's how it happened.

Ben: That's probably a real important point, the fact that you weren't coming just from a musical side, or the ham radio side, but you brought the two together.

Rudy: It was, yes, yes. It was. I always felt it was a strange combination, just a strange combination of ways to look at music. On the technical side, at that time, you had to build all your own equipment. There was nothing available that you could go out and buy. So, you had to build amplifiers, recording consoles. There was no manufacturer of consoles. That thing didn't exist. You had to make your own. See, the big companies were doing that, but they had their own staff of engineering people and maintenance people who would do that. That's why there was only two or three companies doing it. And not for sale.

Ben: RCA or...

Rudy: That's right. You'd see a conglomeration of knobs and meters and you'd know that was put together by RCA engineers.

Ben: Did you go into those studios when you were very young?

Rudy: Yeah. Occasionally I'd visit, yeah. Even I'd visit a session now and then.

Ben: Did you have a sense that there was another way to do it, when you went in there? I mean, was there a feeling that maybe there was a more musical way to do it?

Rudy: Not at that time. I would now. But not then. But at that time, it was a curiosity as to how they were doing what they were doing. And that's why I would seek out those people and places.

Ben: And, when you were in Philadelphia, were you out recording your musician friends, as a hobby?

Rudy: Oh, absolutely. Like we'd have sessions over the house. People would come and…

Ben: What would you record them on?

Rudy: Disc. You know, a little 10-inch, 12-inch turntable, 78 rpm, then 33, with a big transcription turntable. That was before the days of tape. And it was direct to disc. Definitely.

Ben: And, you were building your own amplifiers at that point?

Rudy: Yes, that's what I meant before. In order to do that, you had to build everything yourself. That's right.

Ben: And you practiced as an optometrist?

Rudy: Um hm. Thirteen years I did that. It was in another town near here, Hackensack. About five minutes, ten minutes from here...

Ben: This was in the '40s?

Rudy: Very late, very late '40s. Yes. Late '40s. '48, '49, '50. Of course during that time, I was recording as a hobby in my parents home. And I was doing both. I was practicing the optometry, and then in my spare time, recording. Actually it was during that period that I was doing all those early Blue Note things, and Prestige, the Modern Jazz Quartet and Miles. And all those people were coming over, and I was recording them. But at the same time, I had the practice going. 'Course then, the whole time thing reversed, after I spent more time doing the recording than I did the other.

Ben: Recording them in your house?

Rudy: In my parent's house. Yes. Right.

Ben: In your parent's house. I'm sure thousands of people out there, who hold those old Blue Note records in their hands and turn them over, are struck, as I was, by the photos. You'll see a picture of Horace Silver at the piano, and there's this lamp behind him. And then on another album, you'll see a picture of Bud Powell at the piano, and the same lamp is behind him. And there's Monk. And the same lamp. Wait a minute, What's going on here? This same lamp. And you really get a sense that it was all being recorded in somebody's living room.

Rudy: It was. That's right. Of course, the house was built, they built that, It was my father and mother, my parents, built that at the time, as their home. But, they were aware of my interest in the sound, and we had a little control room built right off the living room. This little glass window, overlooking the living room, with a small control room. And it's nice...

Ben: And there was a place in the living room where you'd always put the drum kit, and ...

Rudy: Most of it. Yeah. There was nothing rigid about it. But I remember this one place where I sent Kenny Clarke. Kenny Clarke would always go in that corner. We used to call it "Klook's Corner." That's where he would always set up the drums.

Ben: There's a song called "Klook's Corner."

Rudy: That's right. That's how it came about. Right.

Ben: Because he liked it there.

Rudy: That's right. We got a good sound. It was a good size room, actually. Not huge, but acoustically it sounded nice. Had a nice-sounding room.

Ben: Did you design the room to be a recording studio?

Rudy: No, not then. No. It was, that was within the context of the house. It was a one-floor house. But it was a nice high ceiling in the living room, and had little hallways and little nooks and crannies going off. It was really nice. Nice place to record. I made some good records there.

Ben: You made some wonderful records there. Did you practice optometry in the building as well, or were you coming back...

Rudy: No, No. Never. I had an office, a separate office.

Ben: So you'd come back after a day of...

Rudy:... of doing whatever I was doing and do a session. That's right. Or on Wednesday, when I had off, I would record for Prestige or Savoy, or Blue Note, during the day.

Ben: So fairly early on, you were going four and five days a week for Blue Note Records.

Rudy: Yes. It got busy very quickly.

Ben: When I talk to musicians who were involved in these early recordings, Horace Silver, for example, they say to me, "Well, if you want to know about the Blue Note sound, you've got to talk to Rudy Van Gelder. He'll tell you about the Blue Note sound." But I know from talking to you in the past, you'll tell me that I should talk to Alfred Lyon. That as the owner of the company and the producer of those sessions, what he did was as important as what you were doing.

Rudy: Oh, absolutely. I mean, I think you can't separate. If you're talking about the Blue Note sound, you can't separate what I did from what he did. He was really the motivation for creating that, the opportunity to make that kind of a record. Yes. Not only that, he was the first to do it also.

Ben: Is there some way you can tell me why your Blue Note records didn't sound like anybody else's records? Why did your records sound different?

Rudy: Well, it's not easy to really describe it in words. I have complicated feelings about it. First of all, I really don't wanna be too specific, because I'm still at this. You know, I'm still doing it. And I had certain ideas. But really, it's a question of Alfred presenting me with a problem, and my solution to the problem.

Ben: How was the problem presented?

To be continued in Part 2.

↧

Rudy van Gelder - The Ben Sidran Interview - Part 2

September 1, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: Dave Stryker - Eight Track II

≪ Previous: Rudy van Gelder - The Ben Sidran Interview - Part 1

“Ben:. And these days, we're talking about ways of removing each individual from the live process.

Rudy: That's exactly right. It's almost as if you wanted to think of a way to inhibit creativity in jazz music, in a studio, if you wanted to think of a process to inhibit creativity, I would come up with a multi-track machine. A 24-track recorder that you could overdub on.”

Ben: Once you're into that, then you're into the whole concept of earphones, and you're into the concept of doing it again, and you're into the concept of doing it later. "Fixing it in the mix."

Rudy: It's inseparable. It's a machine of mass destruction. [Laughs.] Artistically.

This second and concluding portion of Ben Sidran’s interview with Rudy van Gelder picks up from the point when Ben asks Rudy the question - “Is there some way you can tell me why your Blue Note records didn't sound like anybody else's records? Why did your records sound different?”

Rudy commented: Well, it's not easy to really describe it in words. I have complicated feelings about it. First of all, I really don't wanna be too specific, because I'm still at this. You know, I'm still doing it. And I had certain ideas. But really, it's a question of Alfred presenting me with a problem, and my solution to the problem.

Ben asked: How was the problem presented?

Rudy: The problem, well, that was... you really should have been there, And really, the problem was presented to me by him walking in the door with these musicians, some of whom you mentioned, some of whom I've mentioned. And both of us having an image of what the finished product should sound like. He was unique at that time in that he had an idea; he pre-visualized or pre-oralized his records. He knew what he wanted before he came to the studio. He had a good idea what a record should sound like, what he wanted it to sound like. He would then bring these musicians in, and I considered it was my job to make these people sound the way he thought they should sound. Now I wanna say, that's within the framework of the musicians themselves, too. Really, it's the way the musicians themselves felt that they wanted to sound. That's where it really begins. It's not with Alfred, it's not with any other producer.

We're talking about jazz, now. Not the multi-track, overdub, layered kind of situation that you would find today. I'm not talking about that situation. I'm talking about jazz, where it's an expression of a musician's personality and his own sound, and he's recognizable and he's unique, and you can identify him as just as easily as I can recognize your voice or your face when I see you. Alfred had a way of presenting the situation, Here they are, this is the way they sound as individuals, this is the way, And he said, "Now you go ahead, and you do what you have to do to make that thing sound the way we want it to sound." And that's how he would present the problem.

Ben: Now this is interesting because it implies your job was to capture what was there, except it was more than that. Because you invented some sounds, some musicians sounded more "real" on your recordings than they would, say, in a club. It wasn't just captured.

Rudy: Right. I never considered that the goal any more than a good photographer really captures a moment. That's not really it. A great photographer will really create his image, and not just capture a particular situation. There are some people who would disagree with that, but that's the way I feel anyway.

That reminds me of something that happened just the other day. I'm in the process of recording Jimmy Raney, a wonderful guitar player. He came into the control room yesterday and he said, "Rudy," he says, "I really like this studio." He says, "Most of the places I go into, it sounds great in the room, and when it comes into the control room, you're disappointed. Something's wrong. You didn't get my sound." He says, "When I'm here, it always sounds better than it sounds in the room."

Ben: I think some musicians don't know what they sound like until they hear themselves on tape.

Rudy: That's right. I believe that, and there's nothing really bad about that. I mean, it's understandable, a trumpet player who's playing his horn, he's three feet from where the bell is and twenty feet from where the sound is really created. You know, he doesn't know how he sounds, unless he's sitting in the audience listening to another trumpet player...

Ben: He still doesn't know how he sounds.

Rudy: No, that's right. All he knows is how he sounds on the recording. And that's usually, to his own mind, it's usually different from what he thinks he should sound like. You know, someone who's not a professional, they'll come in and record the way their voice sounds, and then they'll say, "Oh, that doesn't sound like me." It's very common, because people listen from the inside, they don't hear themselves from the outside. Of course, experienced professionals, they know how to compensate for that. But to them, it's always a slight distortion of the way they think they should sound.

Ben: So you have a musician who's playing his instrument, who has an idea of how he wants to sound, then you have yourself, an engineer, who knows how it does sound, and how it could sound, and you have to find some common purpose.

Rudy: That's right. And then, all the tools of my trade, that's what I use in order to do that. And it's really also a question of personalities. Sometimes you have to, depending on the personality of the musician, you have to know how they react to your version of what they sound like. That's kind of a subtle distinction, but, you know.,.

Ben: It would seem to me that you have to be careful about making somebody sound larger than life, when you put it on a record, because you make it permanent in a way.

Rudy: I don't accept that larger-than-life description. I know what you mean, but I just don't like the implication of "larger in life." It implies a really exaggerated perspective, and a distortion of the musician's sound. And that's really not what I try to do.

Ben: I guess what I'm saying is, there are live recordings, where you go to a club, set up some mikes, do a live recording, capture the moment. And then there are studio recordings, and you seem to me, historically, to have been one of the key people in establishing what a studio sound could be.

Rudy: In so far as jazz is concerned, yes. But what about the records I made in the clubs? Aren't they kind of unique too? What about the Birdland recordings with Art Blakey? What about Coltrane at the Vanguard?

Those are location recordings. So why divide my efforts into studio and remote? Why not combine them?

Ben: Well, because, if you do that, then it's not a question of needing a specific room. I mean, we attribute this room we're in as being kind of a magic space. Even more so, the room that you were in, the house that your parents built...

Rudy: Why more so? ...

Ben: Well, perhaps it's because the early days have a kind of romantic aura about them, and the sound of that room was part of it.

Rudy: Well, it's the musicians and their personalities, who they were and how they played, that made it, not where it was. If they were here, you'd have the same feeling about this place.

Ben: Let's talk for a minute about the feeling that those musicians brought with them when they came into the room. Is your memory specific in terms of what the feeling was then, doing those sessions, night after night?

Rudy: It's not a specific feeling, it's more of a general feeling. I don't have any specific feelings. But I have a recollection that what we were doing was important at the time. We knew we were making good records. The music was important. It was important to the producers that I worked for at the time, and it was important to me. And I felt that it was more important than the politics of the day, or anything else that was going on. What we were doing really had a significance, that it would have a lasting significance. I really had that impression at the time. I've heard stories about, you know, people making records or doing whatever musicians do when they perform, and, you know, people'd say, "Well that was great," and then, you know, in some perspective from a later date, it's looked back upon. And then hearing them say, "Well, I just, I don't even remember what I did." You know. But I really must say that in general, not specifically, I really felt that we were doing something that really counted.

Ben: Let me try a specific recording session and see if there's a recollection you might have of it. How about John Coltrane's Blue Train session? I don't remember the date exactly of that session...

Rudy: You know, somewhere in my files in the back, I probably have a paid bill which gives you the date and everything if you want to know, It's the only way I can track that down ...

Ben: No, it's not necessary. I'm just curious about what you remember about the session. The players were Lee Morgan, Curtis Fuller, Kenny Drew, Paul Chambers, Philly Joe Jones, John Coltrane. Do you have any recollections of that particular recording date?

Rudy: No, I can't say that I do. No. To me it was not that different from the other ones that I was doing for Alfred at the time. Of course, the musicians, as individuals, I have specific recollections of them. But not on that particular session, no.

Ben: Do you have specific recollections of working, for example, with John Coltrane, or on recording his sound, capturing his sound?

Rudy: Our relationship was over a long period of time. I recorded him when he first came on the scene. And this was in Hackensack. I think that we had recorded some albums for Prestige. And I remember when he first came to town, and I remember how he played, and I remember exactly where he stood in the Hackensack studio. And I remember he didn't have a car at the time. He always wanted a car. He'd just started making enough money to have a car, but he didn't have a driver's license, so he bought the car, and someone else would drive him around. I remember that. That's when he first came.

And then, as time went on, he went with another company, and he had experience with them. And then when the time came for him to depart that company, he knew how he had sounded on that label, and he felt that he wanted me to record him from then on. So then, thereafter, he was back. But during that time I had gone from Hackensack to here, so all those ABC Impulse records were done here. And this is where John wanted to record. And he used to call me and say he'd want to come in, say, Wednesday night at 7:30. And he'd show up with his trio or quartet, or whatever it was, and they would get the music together here. And sometimes the producer wouldn't even be here. It would just be between John and myself. And I would run the master tape and a tape for him to take home. And he wouldn't even do a whole album at one time. He'd do like one tune. He'd teach 'em the figure, whatever it was, and they'd play that for an hour and a half, say between seven and nine o'clock. Then he'd go home, and then that would happen again in another two weeks. And then it would happen often enough that he'd have enough for an album, and that would be the album. And it was really nice. We got along great. And there were no technical discussions. I don't get along with people who talk about db's and highs and lows and equalization, and all that stuff. I never had success with a record producer who would talk to me on those terms. It always gets in the way of the music.

Ben: The process you just described strikes me as being very musical. You know, coming in with the group, working it out at the same time you're capturing it and setting up your microphones.

Rudy: It's to an almost irreducible minimum of interference of technology that way. The only way it could possibly be better is if the musicians could do it themselves. And they can't----

Ben: Why can't they? …

Rudy: Because it's a conflict in personalities. What you have to be and have to know to do what I do interferes with your musical process.

Ben: But so many musicians today are setting up studios in their homes. And, especially with technology, with the synthesizers and drum machines, they're not even using microphones. They're plugging directly into tape recorders or digital devices ...

Rudy: You don't need a studio for that. You can do it in somebody's office.

Ben: Exactly.

Rudy: I'm not putting that down. I mean, that's another world from what we've been talking about, you know. There's nothing wrong with what you're saying. That's okay. But we're talking about music as an expression of a person's personality.

Ben: Let's talk just a little bit longer about the magic of the Hackensack studio. I'm curious about the atmosphere of the place. For example, I'm wondering if, because the studio was in your parents' home, and because jazz musicians have such a reputation for being night people, if there weren't some conflicts between your parents' life and the studio?

Rudy: There were some minor conflicts, yes. I mean, in that way, of course, they were very kind to time. They allowed me to do it. They also considered what I was doing important. That was an essential part of that, Because if they didn't, I couldn't have done it. So, understanding that, they allowed me to do what I felt had to be done, without interfering too much in their lives. But when things really got busy, towards the end of the '50s, in 1959, I really had a very strong motivation to get outta there. And I felt that I could do a lot of things that I couldn't do there. I mean, it was a much larger room, designed acoustically the way I felt it should be.

And, oh sure, it was a whole new world that opened up, of different types of sessions, different times of doing it. Remember that, before this place was built, certain types of sessions I had to do as a location recording, as a remote. We had to go into New York. We did a lot of good records there too. There was a place in the city, a big hall, where we did the Jimmy Smith, Stanley Turrentine things. Very nice. Kenny Burrell, lot of good records made in New York as a remote. Of course when I came here, I didn't have to do that anymore. That became just part of the studio operation. It was a great relief to get out of Hackensack.

Ben: Yeah. How did that Hackensack experience affect you, spending that time in your own home, with all these great players?

Rudy: Why, I think it's contributed to my enjoyment of making records today. It's the foundation of what I'm doing now. Everything that happened then was the foundation upon which I built what we're doing now.

Ben: What do you listen to from those days?

Rudy: The Red Garland, Philly Joe things for Prestige. I don't even remember the names of the records, but I just remember that beautiful sound that Red Garland had on the piano. Miles. All those beautiful ballads that Miles did. Can't escape that. He can't escape it either. I remember he always used to come in with a beautiful ballad, every session he did. That was one of the things that was his specialty. He'd have this ballad. You'd never forget that. That was just fantastic. "Surrey With The Fringe On Top." Things like that.

Ben: When you hear that, do you think to yourself, "We got that right."

Rudy: Right. Of course. There's hardly any way I could do that better. That's one of the reasons I'm so enthusiastic about digital now. I really feel that digital is an ideal way to preserve that. It's an ideal storage medium for what I'm doing. But that held up pretty well. Those tapes, even though they're, how many years old now? But, if you want to keep it, keeping it digitally is the right way to do it.

Ben: Those records you mentioned were made several decades ago. Has your philosophy of recording changed drastically?

Rudy: No. It hasn't changed at all. I feel the same way about what I'm trying to do now as I did then. The only thing that's changed is if I were to gage the success of what I do, what percentage have I reached, I would have to say maybe, 85 or 90 percent. At that time, back in the Hackensack days, I was back to maybe 30 or 40 percent of what I felt I could do. I mean, referring to things like the equipment. Maintenance. When you started the session and you plugged in a microphone, whether it worked or not. There's a much higher chance of it working now. Whether the tape machine was doing what everyone thought that it should be. Things are more reliable now than they were then. That gives me a chance to concentrate on the things I should concentrate on.

Ben: Well, specifically, what comes to mind, is that Blue Trane record we talked about was done direct to two track...

Rudy: Right...

Ben: You got your mix when you recorded it.

Rudy: That's right. No one knew any better. No one knew better.

Ben: Some people say they still don't know better.

Rudy: I'll buy that. Well, wait. One thing you did forget. It was mono. I must say that. We weren't dealing with more than just the one track.

Ben: Okay. But the process of recording was integral with the process of playing. If somebody was the soloist and you wanted to hear a little more of a piano solo, then the engineer would give you a little more of the piano, right then.

Rudy: Oh, that's right, that's right. It had to be done. There was no other way to do it. That's right. It was an event.

Ben: It was an event. I think everybody was aware of that.

Rudy: That's right. Today, each one of those things is a step in the process.

Ben: So the music is being manufactured now, not captured.

Rudy: Right. If you choose to do it like that. Yes.

Ben: What was your feeling when the multi-track recording first came along?

Rudy: Well, in the beginning, I really resisted it. For a long, long time...

Ben: Really?

Rudy: Yeah. Of course multi-track didn't happen at once. It evolved, track by track. First one track, then two track, then three track, then four track. Then eight track, then sixteen track, and with maybe twelve in between. And all the variations in between. That's right. So it really was an evolvement, not a breakthrough. That's why I don't consider it a breakthrough. It wasn't really, it was an evolution. Track by track. And the more tracks you had, the more tracks you used. And the more you used, the less you had to "do it right," from the beginning. And that's the way this record industry is built.

Ben: What was exciting to you when multi-track came along?

Rudy: Well, I looked at it in a different way. It was my philosophy at the time, "Well, this thing is really great." I mean, if you assume that the more microphones you use, the more flexible your recording technique is going to be, then nothing is good enough but 24 tracks. Let's assume that. I thought, "This is terrific. Now I'm gonna have a second chance at this." If I make it, I don't have to be great on each date. I can relax, I can just make sure everything goes right. And then we're gonna mix it later, and I'll have a second chance at everything. If I miss an entrance of a solo, or something like that, I'm going to be able to fix it later.

But it didn't work out like that. Because musicians were just as aware of this as I was. And it ended up that they used it for different purposes. They wanted to overdub. And therefore, once you got into an overdub situation, they had to have earphones. And everyone had to hear what was on the tape. And a generation of musicians developed that relied on that, and expected to be able to use that as a way to make records.

Ben: Earphones. You didn't use earphones in Hackensack?

Rudy: That's right...

Ben: People just set up the room and played?

Rudy: Yeah. They played, they arranged themselves in such a way that they could hear each other the best they could. And if a drummer was playing very loud, everybody else knew. So they would do something about it. I mean, there were other problems, but I gave you that as an example.

Ben: That's an interesting point. The use of earphones was a radical departure.

Rudy: Absolutely. Do you know that when they come in and do a session today, it takes me practically no time to set up and get a nice sound, but it takes twice as much time just to get the earphones set?

Ben: Everybody wants a different mix. Everybody wants to hear less bass, more bass. More drums.

Rudy: Right, that's right. Each musician has his own feeling about what he wants to hear. Now that didn't exist in the time period you're discussing.

Ben: So the event nature of what you were all doing back then had to do with the fact that people were having to make live adjustments in order to get the music down.

Rudy: Absolutely...

Ben:. And these days, we're talking about ways of removing each individual from the live process.

Ben: Once you're into that, then you're into the whole concept of earphones, and you're into the concept of doing it again, and you're into the concept of doing it later. "Fixing it in the mix."

Rudy: It's inseparable. It's a machine of mass destruction. [Laughs.] Artistically.

Ben: Well, it's kind of a snake swallowing its tail. A circular problem. Because today, from the creative side, there are a lot of great young players, a lot of brilliant technical players. But we don't have so many stylists as we used to have. People don't sound as distinctive as they used to. Do you think that's part of the same technical problem?

Rudy: I don't know if you can blame the machines for that, entirely. There are other factors. But, maybe you can, if you really dig into this, if you want to. If a young musician feels that that's the way he has to record, he's really in this thing alone.

I mean, what we've been saying is that, in order to make a presentable record, a jazz record, everybody has to play together. And they have to play together at one time. Once you eliminate that necessity, then you describe a situation where you don't have to play together, and the musician doesn't have to listen to other musicians. He can just do his own thing and you can fix it later. Or if the piano's too loud behind the saxophone solo, they'll fix it later. But if you can't do it later, then while the saxophone player's playing, or while the piano player is playing, or the two musicians are playing with each other, they have to listen to each other. They have to. Otherwise it's not good. It's gonna sound rotten. So maybe it is related.

Ben: And maybe when people listen to each other, they start to develop a distinctive way of doing things. And maybe that's part of where style comes from.

These days, I know you're doing a lot of direct-to-two-track digital recording. Live mixing, rather than fixing it later, much like you used to do back in the '50s. Seems like we've gone a long way to get back to where we started. Is there some irony in that for you?

Rudy: I don't think irony is the right word. To me, it's made working a pleasure. I really enjoy doing what I'm doing now. It's like starting all over again and being excited about things. Little things, like being able to play back a great sound to the group right after they have played it. And they can hear it right then, not worrying about how it's gonna to be later. Everybody knows it's good, before they go home.

Ben: That's the way it used to be.

Rudy: Right. Sure, it's excitement. It's put excitement back. I guess you could call that an irony, but it's given me a new way of looking at recording.”

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Dave Stryker - Eight Track II

September 2, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: Jive for Five: The Bill Holman - Mel Lewis Quintet

≪ Previous: Rudy van Gelder - The Ben Sidran Interview - Part 2

The editorial staff at JazzProfiles has always been a big fan of guitarist Dave Stryker. In many ways, we see him as the epitome of the working Jazz musician, one who is constantly reinventing himself to keep his music interesting.

Over the span of his career, he has keep this interest factor up through a high level of creativity expressed with different instrumentation in his working groups and by using different themes from which he selects new music to arrange and improvise on.

Lately, the instrumentation has consisted of a quartet made up of Dave’s guitar, either Stefon Harris’ or Steve Nelson’s vibes, Jared Gold’s Hammond B-3 organ and McClenty Hunter’s drums.

As to a theme, lately, Dave continues to pursue Jazz interpretations of music from the eight track cassette era from the mid-1960’s to the late 1970’s.

His latest CD releases today - September 2, 2016 - and we thought we’d help celebrate the occasion by posting to these pages the following excerpts from Bill Milkowski insert notes to Eight Track II.

The recording is available through CD Baby, Amazon and iTunes or by visiting Dave at his website: www.davestryker.com.

“A bevy of artists from Wes Montgomery and George Benson to Freddie Hubbard, Buddy Rich and Count Basie have had their way with Beatles tunes and other pop fare. But Stryker put his own personal spin on Eight Track and now continues that successful formula on Eight Track II, his 27th recording as a leader.

"A lot of people like hearing these tunes that they grew up with,” says the guitarist, who remembers playing some of these 70s staples on the 8-track console in his '69 GMC van with shag carpeting back in his youthful days in Omaha, Nebraska. "It brings people in and they'll go with you when they hear a tune that they recognize. But the challenge, always, is to find that I can do my thing to, improvise and play as creatively and musically as I would on any jazz standard. And I enjoy the challenge."

Four years after moving from Omaha to New York in 1980, Stryker began playing on the organ circuit with bluesy Hammond B-3 organ master Jack McDuff, who had seen such great guitarists as George Benson, Pat Martino, Grant Green and Billy Rogers pass through the ranks of his band. So dealing in that earthy B-3 format on Eight Track and Eight Track II is like returning home for Stryker, But 30 years later, the guitarist's six-string expression has deepened while his blues and bop chops remain razor sharp.

I'm very grateful that I had the opportunity to play with masters like McDuff and Stanley Turrentine, guys who played that style and just had it in their blood, There's nothing like being able to guys like that. Now I try to play my own way and I stretch things a little bit. It’s still in the pocket but I feel like I’m trying to have my own take on things with this new group."

Returning from Eight Track are Stryker's right-hand man Gold on B-3 and

the exciting young Hunter on drums. Special guest this time out is vibraphonist Nelson, a longtime member of Dave Holland's quintet and big band who has also played and recorded with such giants as Jackie McLean, Kenny Barron, Johnny Griffin, George Shearing and Mulgrew Miller. "Steve is a cat and a very soulful player," says Stryker. "I really like what he did on this album,"

The intrepid quartet kicks off Eight Track II with the Isley Brothers3 anti-war protest song "Harvest for the World," which they handle as a vibrant shuffle with some hip re-harmonizations. Stryker's warm-toned flow of notes is mirrored by Nelson's glistening vibes on the catchy head. The guitarist takes his time building an impressive solo, which is brimming with double-timed flurries and blues-soaked lines.

Their take on Marvin Gaye's anthemic What's Going On title track of his 1971 song cycle addressing drug abuse, poverty and the Vietnam War - themes that still resonate with relevancy today - opens with a delicate balladic intro featuring vibes and guitar in unison, As they fall into the familiar theme, rendered here in 6/8, Stryker 'sings' the melody through his axe before developing that motif through the course of his probing solo. Nelson explores in introspective fashion on his vibes solo and Gold pushes the envelope on his own dextrous solo as Stryker comps pianistically behind him. The band to a 4/4 for the last minute of the piece, giving the listener a little jolt

Another Gaye staple, 1972's Trouble Man, is given an earthy shuffle-swing treatment. Nelson channels his inner Bobby Hutcherson on his envelope-pushing solo here while Stryker remains firmly rooted in a blues 'n hard bop bag, summoning up some Wes-like octaves along the way.

A mellow rendition of John Barry's evocative Midnight Cowboy, the Grammy-winning instrumental theme from the 1989 movie of the same name, features nice octaves work and extrapolation by Stryker. Nelson's luminous solo is underscored by McClenty's supple brushwork and Gold's luxurious B-3 cushion.

Stretching the rules a bit, Stryker next leaps out of the 70s and into the early '80s for a killer uptempo swing version of Prince's 1984 hit, When Doves Cry. Fueled by McClenty's rapid-fire ride cymbal work and Gold's unerring walking Stryker's cooking here, while both Nelson and Gold bring some heat of their own with incendiary solos. Hunter adds an exhilarating drum solo to put an exclamation point on this burner.

A gentle reading of Stevie Wonder's Send One Your Love showcases Stryker's lyrical side while the quartet digs into The Temptations'Can't Get Next to You with visceral intensity, spurred on by Hunter's muscular backbeat "That's what I love about McClenty," says Stryker. "He can swing but he's got a serious too, and he can slam!" Gold delivers the kind of solo here that harkens back to the golden days of the organ lounges. “I played with McDuff, I got to play with Jimmy Smith and Dr. Lonnie Smith, and they were all masters,” says Stryker,"but of the new generation, Jared is my man. His harmony is heavy. His lines are not the typical thing you hear from organ players. I think he's special,"

Their rendition of The Zombie's Time of the Season is handled as a cool shuffle swing number with the guitar-vibes combo and Gold's hip, syncopated basslines percolating underneath. Stryker lets it rip in his solo here and is followed by Gold and Nelson, who each turn in dazzling solos.The three exchange eights with Hunter at the tag in classic bop fashion.

A driving rendition of Stevie Wonder's Signed Seal Delivered features one of Stryker's most inspired solos on the record. From that dynamic number, they slide into the alluring James Ingram ballad One Hundred Ways, handled with relaxed soulfulness by the crew.

They close with a tough shuffle-swing rendition of Cream's Sunshine of Your Love that sounds like something Stryker might have played with McDuff up at Dude's Lounge in Harlem back in the day. Everyone gets a taste on this foot-stomping finale. "I have a long history with that song," says the guitarist, "I actually played it as a solo guitar piece in my 6th grade talent show!"

These nostalgic 70s anthems are deeply ingrained in Stryker's consciousness. And the earthy feel of the organ quartet sound is imbedded deep in his bones after 30 years of playing on the scene. He successfully, joyfully combined the two on Eight Track II.”

Bill Milkowski is a regular contributor to Down Beat and Jazziz magazines. He is also the author of JACO: The Extraordinary and Tragic Life of Jaco Pastorius and the co-author of Here and Now: The Autobiography of Pat Martino.

Here’s an audio-only version of Sunshine of Your Love the will give you a taste of what’s on offer in Dave’s Eight Track II.

↧

Jive for Five: The Bill Holman - Mel Lewis Quintet

September 3, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: The Passionate Conviction: An Interview with Jimmy Giuffre by Lorin Stephens

≪ Previous: Dave Stryker - Eight Track II

Andex Records was one of those boutique labels that popped up now and then to produce a few Jazz recordings by up and coming Jazz artists. In many cases, these “start-up’s” gave newly formed groups their first public exposure [and sometimes their last as in many cases both the groups and the labels were “here-today, and gone-tomorrow”].

Andex was one of the various labels used to issue recordings produced and owned by Rex Productions which was owned and operated by the Siamas Brothers, John and Alex.

They started the label in 1957 working with producers Bumps Blackwell and Bob Keane and were fortunate enough to have a hit right out of the gate with vocalist Sam Cooke’s You Send Me. For more details on the label/s go here.

Based in Los Angeles, CA, Andex produced a half dozen recordings by musicians local to the area including Bill Holman, Mel Lewis, Art Pepper, Conte Candoli, Jimmy Rowles, Dempsey Wright and John Graas. All of these LP has been subsequently released as CD’s by V.S.O.P. Records.

Given the many big band accomplishments that both drummer Mel Lewis and tenor saxophonist, composer- arranger Bill Holman would have over their long and distinguished careers, I would imagine that few Jazz fans even remember the short-lived quintet they formed together in 1957.

Frankly, had it not been for their Amdex Jive for Five LP [Andex S3005; V.S.O.P. #19 CD] I would have missed the group, as well.

Bill and Mel were on the Kenton band together in the 1950’s and John Tynan, who was for many years the West Coast editor of Down Beat magazine picks up the story from there in the following liner notes that he wrote for the LP.

“Let jazzdom's professional Doubting Thomases take note: Hard-swinging, funky playing is not the exclusive property of musicians based in New York, Detroit and Chicago.

As a reference point we have the besmogged City of the Angels, stomping ground for such latter-day Gabriels as tenor men Harold Land, Teddy Edwards, Walter Benton: for bassists Leroy Vinnegar, Scott La Faro. Wilfred Middlebrooks; for altoists Herb Geller, Joe Maini, Ornette Coleman.

To this West Coast Dynamo Club must unqualifiedly be added Willis "Bill" Holman and Mel Lewis. Not only is Holman a saxophonist of force and intelligence—he's a pretty funky composer-arranger too. Lewis, a voluntary emigre from Buffalo, New York, is a deep-grooving drummer whose deity is Time.

Thrown together originally in the maelstrom of the Stan Kenton orchestra of the early '50's, the saxman and the drummer have long yearned for the freedom to relax and stretch in a small jazz group tailored to their concurrent musical ideas.

"I wanted a group and so did Bill," Lewis explains. "We realized that in working together, we stood a better chance of making it than if each took off by himself. With both of us sharing the headaches, we figured it would be much easier. And it is."

After six months, the partnership is a success. Not only is Holman (31) a wailer on either tenor or baritone sax; a brighter blessing is his remarkable talent for writing jazz for bands big or small. Moreover, Holman is growing as a serious composer. An earlier long work for small jazz group, Quartet has been recorded by Shelly Marine and His Men. In this album a further example of his extended writing for small ensemble is the title number, Jive for Five.

29-year-old Lewis is the rhythmic power plant of the quintet. According to partner Holman, "Mel is becoming quite at home in a small group. For one thing, he feels much more at ease in long solos. There's more continuity in his playing. While he catches a lot of figures played by the horns just as he would in a big band, there's a different feeling involved, too. The hard swing remains, but in the small group he's thinking in more musical terms. He's becoming more a part of the front line than a percussion section."

Although the third Kenton alumnus in the quintet, trumpeter Lee Katzman, has "... worked with more bands than I can remember," he is only lately gaining widespread recognition as a first-rate jazz soloist. A Chicagoan by birth, Katzman, now 30, joined the Kenton band in January 1956. He left in the spring of this year [1958], ". . . just in time not to go on the road."

"This album is the happiest I've ever made," Lee enthuses. "That piano player. . . And the music! It's got an awfully good feeling. It's really a pleasure to play with Bill because we have the same feeling for time."

"Walkin" Willie" Middlebrooks has been plucking plaudits on the West Coast with his impressive bass playing. A come-lately westerner, the 25-year-old Chattanoogan settled in Los Angeles in 1955 after coasting with the band of altoist Tab Smith with whom he had worked before entering the Army in spring of 1953. Of the album he comments, "Everybody played so good, but Jimmy Rowles really gassed me."

Jimmy Rowles, 40. has been gassing musicians and fans since he got his start in jazz with the great Ben Webster in the late 30's. Rowles' work with the greatest big bands parallelled their heyday in the '40's. Famed for his repertoire of thousands of tunes, Jimmy suggested the quintet record both Liza and the magnolia scented Mah Lindy Lou. 502 Blues Theme is Rowles' composition and arrangement.

Both Holman and Lewis believe their group is different, a fact immediately evident to the ear.

"Basically," says Bili, "the difference lies in the conception. In the past most so-called 'West Coast' recordings groups were pickup bands, put together for the date and then forgotten. Most musicians engaged in these sessions felt it was better to concentrate on the writing, there being little opportunity to put soul in the blowing." Hence, contends Holman (himself a native Southern Californian), the resultant music, distinct in character, came to be labeled "West Coast Jazz."

The composer is quick to point out, however, that even during this spate of pickup band recording, there were jazz groups on the West Coast who, by virtue of steadily working together, developed a unified conception and sound, permitting the soloists to step out and wail. The Holman-Lewis Quintet is the latest example of such combo unity.

Remarking that"... the sound of trumpet and tenor is one of my favorite sounds," Holman admits this instrumentation" ... is a little harder to sell to the "fringe jazz people." These listeners as a general rule tend to favor the unusual and exotic in instrumentation." He smiles. "Sorry, but we can't give 'em that. We feel we might as well say what we want the way we want."

In sum, then, Bill and Mel conceived and are employing the quintet as a cohesive unit playing unified compositions, yet with plenty of room left the soloists for free, extended jazz blowing. …

Soon to be released on Andex is a big band set of his compositions [In A Jazz Orbit Andex 3004; V.S.O.P. 25] which promises to outdo any previous Holman big band effort. It goes without saying that the gentleman in charge of rhythmic propulsion (big band department) is brisk jazzman Mel Lewis.”

—Notes by John Tynan

The following video contains a sample of the music on offer in Jive for Five with Bill Holman’s arrangement of Out of This World which we've set to slides of cover art from old and new science fiction magazines.

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The Passionate Conviction: An Interview with Jimmy Giuffre by Lorin Stephens

September 5, 2016, 7:00 am

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Candid self-assessment was as much a characteristic of Jimmy Giuffre’s personality as was the constantly innovative approach he took to making Jazz.

Francis Davis explained it this way:

“Given a long history of animosity between musicians and those who write about music (or merely write about it, as some musicians would say), I hope that Jimmy Giuffre won’t take my suggestion that he would have made an excellent jazz critic the wrong way.

I simply mean that during his most prolific period as a recording artist, beginning with the release of his first 10” LP for Capitol in 1954, Giuffre in interviews and liner notes provided his listeners with a running commentary on his motives and methods, revealing in the process a great deal of knowledge of such other disciplines as philosophy and psychoanalysis.

Reading Giuffre on Giuffre, a critic might despair, because this is one of the rare instances in which a performer has already been as fair and impartial a judge of his own successes and failures as anyone could hope to be.

(Especially for an artist as committed to public trial and error as Giuffre was during the period in which he recorded most frequently. There is also a sense in which a new piece of music can be heard as a critique of the work that came before it – yet another way in which Giuffre beat after-the-fact commentators like myself to the punch).

Best of all, despite seeming to rebuke the jazz rank-in-file of the 1950s for their conformist tendencies, Giuffre never lapsed into what I call the existential fallacy, that leap of hubris by which an artist (or for that matter, any individual) presumes that his new direction is one that everybody should follow.

In one of his earliest pronouncement – a Down Beat [November 30, 1955] article published under his byline in 1955, in which he explained his decision to limit the bass and drums on his controversial new album Tangents in Jazz [Capitol T-634] – he was careful to point out in his lead that he wasn’t trying to “preach a sermon” in order to bring the rest of Jazz into line. “It’s just one way,” he reiterated at the end, “and every man must go his own way.”

- Francis Davis, [Jimmy Giuffre - The Complete Capitol and Atlantic Recordings Mosaic Records, MD6-176].

And Lorin Stephens further explored Jimmy’s proclivities toward truth and honesty in the following interview from THE JAZZ REVIEW VOLUME 3 NUMBER 2 FEBRUARY 1960.

This interview is intended as a beginning in exploring the impact of hipness on jazz. Jimmy Giuffre is regarded by many as one of the major composers in modern jazz, but his position has been controversial. His admirers feel that his music has great validity. Even his strongest detractors, who consider his work of peripheral concern, are struck with his deep sincerity. It is fitting to explore this question with him, particularly because of his recent marked interest (along with hip legions) in the music of Thelonious Monk and Sonny Rollins. The interview was graciously granted in November 1959. I believe that a reader cannot help but be moved by Jimmy Giuffre's willingness to expose himself honestly in the interest of furthering understanding of jazz and the jazz artist.

Why do jazz players change styles in an almost wholesale fashion with the arrival of a Parker, a Monk or a Rollins?

The thing that's hard for a non-performer to understand is how things keep changing inside. A listener often analyzes changes as being arbitrary, but they're not. In other words he thinks that when you play a certain phrase, you've planned it out and played it, when actually a big percentage of the music comes out almost like a stone rolling down a hill, especially in improvisation. And it depends on the rhythm section, the acoustics, your frame of mind, your reed (if you play a reed instrument), and your lip. Also on your maturity at the time, and your experience—all these things. And if one little thing is out of line, you're distracted from being most natural, perhaps. For instance, a stiff reed if you're playing a reed instrument (you're always torn between reeds; you never have a perfect one).

You must go through different stages. I've been playing the clarinet since I was nine and I'm thirty-eight now— so that's twenty-nine years of playing the clarinet! I started on the E flat clarinet, and it took a lot of blowing; a little bitty thing—but it took a lot of blowing. And I don't know if the mouthpiece was right or not. I wns just a baby. But you have to start with something, so you just start blowing in this tube and years later you might start to think about whether you have the right mouthpiece, and then years after that you find out the choice you made when you were fifteen was wrong, and so you just keep going with these mechanical things. You have certain ideas in your mind that shadow your choice of reed, your choice of instrument, your choice of mouthpiece—and the choice of musicians you play with.

In high school we got a dance band together and played dances. And I started into an area of sound; I was interested in getting a beautiful sound from the saxophone, and I was complimented on my sound. In college I went further with this. We played a lot. We had this eight room house in college, and I lived with Gene Roland, the arranger and trumpet and valve trombone player, Herb Ellis the guitarist, Harry Babison the bass player, and Tommy Reeves the trumpet player and arranger. We had big bands, we had a small band and we jammed a lot. We learned a lot—we listened to a lot of records then. I liked Sam Donahue; he got a beautiful mellow sound when he was with Gene Krupa. And we got a sax section that used no vibrato; we got a perfect blend. And the sound thing was very dominant in my thinking, and it continued on that way—sound superseding anything else.

Then I went into the Army and played with a quintet, xylophone, snare drum, electric guitar, bass, and I played tenor. (I didn't start improvising on the clarinet actually, until about six years ago or so.) This little group played for the different mess halls at lunch hour and it was a groovy little group—light and straight, but still the sound predominated.

After jobs with Boyd Raeburn and Jimmy Dorsey, I came back to Los Angeles and I started studying. (I don't mean to make this a history—I'm trying to work it into the thinking inside about the instrument.) I went to U.S.C. to get a master's degree, having changed my major from teaching music in public schools to composition. Well, there were so many prerequisites at U.S.C. that it threw me back quite a bit. After a semester of that, I decided it wasn't the answer. I had heard about Dr. Wesley La Viollette and his approach. Before this, my concept had been totally vertical. I had in my mind a chart of voicings, for instance if I used five saxes and there was C-7th and G was in the lead, I could spell you out immediately, the ideal voicing vertically, right down the saxes; I knew just how to space them. This was a crazy sound if you could just play it by itself. You didn't consider where it came from or where it was going, you just thought vertically each note, and this was pretty standardized for dance band writing, and a lot of writing is still done that way. There's nothing actually wrong with it: there probably is no right or wrong. I will say this about it. it can be done by anyone; it is mathematical, and difficult to do creatively. I had no awareness of counterpoint. In my work it didn't occur to me for a very good reason. At college I had only one semester of counterpoint because the degree plan which I followed was to prepare a man to stand up in front of high school or junior high students, and you had to know a little bit about everything—how to play a trumpet, bass fiddle and all those things. They didn't have time to go into the depth of counterpoint. So that's all I got. I had studied harmony with my clarinet teacher when I was about fifteen and in college I got harmony, but my thinking was all derived from listening to records; Basie and Benny Goodman.

In college we had a pretty radical attitude, I'll admit that. We wore long hair, zoot suits and we pretty much thought we knew what things should be. A pianist friend, Bill Campbell, said to me. "Well, it doesn't matter what the voicing is, how many parts, it's how each one of them leads." It didn't strike me; I didn't understand what he was talking about. Years later Scott Seeley, who was studying with Dr. La Viollette. gave me a similar answer when I asked him a question about his writing—his writing sounded strange. I asked him. "How do you voice your brass?" He replied that he did not voice, he just wrote each part separately. I just sort of shook my head; I didn't understand. At that time, believe it or not, I had a college education and I'd been writing music for ten years and playing for fifteen years, and I just didn't know the counterpoint approach to music.

Then later on when I went to Los Angeles, I met Frank Patchen. We played together down at the Lighthouse and he'd been studying with Dr. La Viollette. They both told me this was the answer. So I started studying with him, and it turned out to be one of the most important things I've ever done in my life. His influence personally and musically has been profound on me. Studying with him began to shadow my jazz thinking. For instance, when you write counterpoint, you write a duet for a clarinet and trumpet. That's all there is to it, there's no rhythm section, a complete composition for these two instruments. If you happen to use a drum with them, you write a complete composition for clarinet, a trumpet and drum. If you happen to write for a piano too, you do the same thing. There isn't a function for any one of the instruments as there is in conventional jazz; in jazz there's a fairly set part for drums. They more or less have been called upon to keep time. Now I've come through several different outlooks on this thing. I started studying in '46 when I first came out here. At that time I didn't conceive the possibility of using counterpoint in jazz. I was studying it to become a 'composer', but found out that a 'composer' includes jazz composing. Anything that can be used any place can be used in jazz. I remember one time Barney Kessel talking to me about that. I told him I was writing fugues and canons and counterpoint inventions, and he said, "Why do you want to study writing fugues?" He wasn't negative, he just didn't understand it, didn't see the point of it. It took me about five years studying with La Viollette to shake off all the prisons I had locked myself in—the vertical prisons. This is my own opinion; there are many harmonists in the world who will take exception to what I'm saying. I felt as though I were in a prison, whether it was vertical or not I don't know, but I have that conviction in my own mind.

After about five years of studying with La Viollette I began to be able to write counterpoint in jazz—with the jazz feeling. Before, all the study was what you might call straight music; it didn't have too much syncopation, and it didn't have too much of me in it. I was writing lines of music, straight, learning how to write lines together, and to be able to put myself into each one of those lines is another thing that came later, but it took me five years to start it. After I got to writing jazz, I began to think of each man's role in the music and it just began to be inconceivable that a certain man had to sit back and play time all the while, and that another guy had to play quarter notes all night. I just didn't understand the point of it. A man is in music all these years, then why should he just have to play one portion? Why couldn't he just express himself along with the other musicians? Right away, I put this to work in the music and began writing things where the rhythm section didn't play in a conventional manner. The first one I can remember was the fugue I wrote for Shelly Manne. And also, I went overboard and wrote in the so-called atonal approach. But we got it across, and I wrote another piece for his second album.

Then I did my first album for Capitol. I incorporated the rhythm section in different ways. I remember I took out the top cymbal in the drums and had him just play the sock cymbals, the two and the four, and the bass walked. Then there were other compositions where I used no rhythm whatsoever. Then, I made a point in the next album, in Tangents in Jazz, of not having a pulsating rhythm section, I mean no definite beating out of time, any place in this album. The idea was valid and is valid. The point I'm trying to make is that I began thinking, as a result of studying composition, of the individual in the music—of each one of the musicians rather than in toto. And I began thinking of what you might call 'interesting ideas', counterpoint, and using the rhythm section in different ways, different forms and different kinds of tone — all these things that weren't conventional in jazz. And so, these things became the object of my attention. But all this time my mind in playing had still required this sound, this subtle, soft, mellow, deep sound.

Why was sound so important to you?

Perhaps it comes from my childhood. It was sort of like not wanting to go out unless I was dressed properly. I couldn't release this music inside of me unless it sounded perfect—that was the first consideration—to have a beautiful sound quality. I've run into hundreds of people who felt exactly the same way, Bill Perkins was one of them. He had the same kind of thing gnawing at him. The sound had to be beautiful and smooth. And I've known so many people like this. Lester Young, he had this smoothness. He said he idolized Frankie Trumbauer who had this kind of sound too. In other words, it dominated me—that had to be fixed up before anything else could happen. It went to such a point with me that when I got the clarinet going, this was number one. There was nothing else considered about it at all—sound was it. The ideas in the whole thing were secondary to sound.

But why so important?

Well, it goes with my personality, I'm sure. I won't accept the thing that I am an introverted personality, which some have tried to make me out. I have gone through periods, and I won't say I have shaken that off completely, but I have gone through periods where I was quiet; I like the pastoral—the country; I like Debussy and Delius—I like peaceful moods. This all came into the trio sound as I've discovered now. I don't know why I wanted it to be pretty. I can't figure it out except that I just didn't want to look ugly, didn't want to offend anybody. I've always been afraid of offending someone, and I don't argue with people for that reason—I mean I'm not a vehement person, nor forceful—and I'm not too frank for that reason; maybe I should be, but I avoid those things because I don't like them.

If this is natural for you, doesn't current hipness force you and others like you into unnatural strictures?

All I can say is for myself .. . it traces like a snail what began to happen to me. Well, I don't know what effect comments have had. I'm sure they must have had some. For instance, one time I played a performance that seemed to be very successful and a critic said it was successful, but that my playing clarinet was like mowing a lawn with an electric razor. When it was announced that I was going to be a clarinet teacher at the School of Jazz another critic passed the remark, "Who will teach the upper register?" Then another time a critic said he liked the way I played, but that he wouldn't vote for me because I didn't play the whole instrument. I don't know if these things had some effect on me. Then, another area—I couldn't go out and play with sticks and drums. The only way I could play the clarinet was the way I was playing it—very quietly. They had to play with brushes and practically no piano. That's one of the ways we got to playing some of the unaccompanied stuff, and counterpoint with two horns and all those things we played with Shorty's group. I found that to be the only way I could hear the sound of my instrument; my ears got so sensitive that I went through a period where I just wanted to play the instrument by itself and hear the sound. To have a drummer playing a cymbal next to me was grating. I couldn't hear myself, and I began to wonder what was going on. I wanted to hear clearly—something in me just demanded this clarity. So I brought the drums down or took them out a lot of times, and I worked for a blend of the instruments so that I could hear hear everything that went on in the group. This is one concept of the thing. But we sometimes change our concept—if we're not afraid to. I've changed my concept, and that doesn't make a lot of things that I did invalid. This business of the rhythm section using the drums and the bass constantly—I finally realized why this is and why it has to be perhaps. The improvisor, as he is improvising, if he is too naked as I was with my group, he's out there and he has to think of too many things. It's thrown right in front of his face so quickly. Getting a sound on his instrument and thinking of ideas, that's just taken for granted in all situations. But not just being free to think up ideas: I had to cover certain functions. I had to make something happen, to provide form, composition, and this was a very good thing, but not as a constant diet.

What then has made you change your concepts?

I went down to hear Thelonious Monk. I heard an element in his music that I didn't seem to have in my music. I don't mean ideas, style or anything like that, but it was a certain way of stating things with conviction so that he spoke clearly and surely, and he played this idea without any restraint—he played it immediately, right in front of you. I didn't know exactly what it was that was hitting me, there were many things in his music that aren't in my music, but there was one that was hitting me and that was it. Then I also noticed it in Sonny Rollins' music. I had not liked Sonny Rollins too much because of his sound. I couldn't bring myself to listen to the music because I didn't like the sound on his earlier records, but now I heard this same kind of statement. It was definite, with conviction behind it. It sounded as though he was sure of himself, and there was not any holding back, and he was ready to go ahead and say this right now. He didn't have to qualify it; he could stand behind it. I got interested in this point. And it wasn't a new idea at all—it is something inspired musicians have been doing for years, but I was gradually becoming aware of it. I heard some folk songs by Cisco Houston who accompanies himself on the guitar. He sang with this same thing, and as I look back on it, I see that he did that too.

There was another event which was very important. I was riding along in the car listening to the radio one day and I heard a violin playing Bach—all by itself—and I stopped and I listened. It was Nathan Milstein, but I came in on the middle of it, unbiased, I didn't know who it was or anything. I knew though, that he played it with this same conviction, this definite sureness. There's another thing that enters in there besides this. This conviction originates with this person. It comes out "This is my way of saying this." Milstein didn't improvise, and it didn't have anything to do with improvisation. It was like the way Marlon Brando says something in his acting. He takes a written line, and says it his way, puts his stamp on it. He doesn't change the words, and Milstein didn't change that Bach, he played it just like the thing was marked but he put his kind of vitality underneath, his kind of spark. And this is what Monk and Rollins do. But I saw there is a level of playing music, whether it's jazz or classical, where it all comes together. It's just music, and it's spontaneous sounding—it sounds like the player—it' s his personality with such a stamp that it reaches the listener immediately . . . "this man knows exactly what he is talking about—he's not afraid to say it, and he said it." That's the way Art Tatum was. It is something, that, whether you like what he said or not, you know he says these things, and that's what he believes.

And this began to be interesting. I was tired of being soft, as valid as softness is. (And a funny thing is that you can have this definiteness and still be soft—it isn't a matter of volume). So I got interested in this thing and started to work on it. Back to the reed, then. I found that I couldn't get these ideas out immediately with the set-up I had. It just wouldn't come out. I was hung up with sound. I wanted it to sound right, and in order for it to sound right it had to come out slower, not quite so quickly. Well, I knew that if I got a soft reed it would come right out. But then I also knew that I would get a thin, weak sound. But, I forced myself to try it. I had tried it before, actually, down through the years every once in awhile I'd try getting a softer reed because I knew I could play faster with it, but I could never bring myself to stick with it because of the sound. Well this time something happened, either in my experience, my success, my maturity or something, I reached the point where I'm not afraid to sound ugly for a little bit. And that is what had to happen, I had to soften that reed up so that the music would come out right now. But it sounded sort of thin and I lost some of the quality of the sound, but it didn't bother me this time. All these things had been inside of me, but I didn't let them come out because of the sound. Once I started doing this, then I discovered a lot of things. I discovered how full of fear I was before—I was holding back a lot of things because I was afraid of sounding ugly—so I was cringing and tightening up my brow and pinching my eyes and hunching my shoulders. I was afraid of hitting certain notes because they would be too brassy. That didn't keep what I was playing from being valid, but I held some things in me back. But I got the thing going, and once I got it going, I noticed these fears, this cringing, leaving. Then I put a stopper on it, I made myself practice in front of the mirror and watching carefully to remain calm, unafraid, while I played, and I made myself play anything that would come in my mind. I worked on this thing, and threw out all that other stuff; and finally got up enough nerve to throw the rock off the cliff and just play anything I wanted to play when I wanted to play it. It was a revelation. I began thawing a year ago, and recently I finally got up enough nerve to where I felt I could really handle a blowing album by myself as a soloist. It may seem funny, with so many years of experience behind me, I hadn't made one. But the other albums were well-planned in composition and all the different elements for a planned listening experience. In a blowing album, one man is up front there and has to have something to say and he's got to be sure of what he's going to say. And I wanted to make sure before that happened that I felt that I could do it. I went into the studio last July with Red Mitchell, Lawrence Marable and Jimmy Rowles and there was no planning. The only thing planned was that I wrote three tunes, just the melodies and I thought of three standards to play. (I didn't even write any music, I taught the originals to the men by ear, which is not a new idea. First time I know of it, Monk came to a record date with Art Blakey and he had all the arrangements locked up in a brief case, and he wouldn't show them to anyone. He made them learn them which has a good point to it.) But, having to do this blowing album was necessity mothering invention. A lot happened to me as a result of that—just doing that album at this particular time with the frame of mind I had of shaking off these sound prisons, and having to do it on record. It worked to shoot me out over the cliff.

Red Mitchell says it's the best he's ever heard you play. What effect did playing with Ornette Coleman at the School of Jazz have on you?

I had heard a lot about him, but then I heard him play. He was doing the same thing that I was after, in his own way. The wonderful thing about this point is that it has nothing to do with the ideas or the musical content, it has to do with the statement—and when somebody gets to this point where he can be this free and this sure in his statement, then its just a matter of his speaking. It's not competition with anyone else. You could take two men who played this way, and they could be playing completely different ideas, but they would both be projecting the maximum in immediacy and quality. So, I found that this was what Ornette was doing. He was doing a lot of other things too, but this appealed to me more than anything. Even if he said hardly anything at all, the way he said it would have come across, because he speaks directly. He has thrown out the bugaboos about being afraid of what he's going to sound like. That's what it is, it's a matter of being unafraid to stand up and be yourself—right there in public—and it's very difficult to do, but I've got on the trail of it now. Ornette's gone further with it, because he's thrown out the preoccupation with trying to fit in musically with any given situation. That's what I'd like to do. It means like almost playing flow of consciousness, playing without any regard to channeling what you're doing into a given tradition of any kind. And that means in sound, in tone, key, and all the different ways. In other words, you're so free that you're out in space, and you do what occurs to you at that instant without thinking it over. I'm not saying this is the answer to everybody's problems, but I can see a wonderful release in it for me. Ornette and I had a jam session with George Russell on the piano and some students, and Connie Kay and Percy Heath. We just cut the strings, jumped out of the airplane, and a lot of wild things happened. We didn't know what it would sound like, but it was a release anyway. But the point I'm trying to get at is that it's a matter of really not being afraid to do anything—I don't care how different from whatever else has been done. It's not just doing something because it's different, it's doing something because it occurs to you right now.

Does scale orientation (as opposed to chromatic harmonization) free the improvisor?

The first time I heard about that kind of thing was with George Russell. He's got a complete system, an analysis of music that places everything in scales. In all of his music, he can break it down as to what scale it is. As for myself. I don't know if I can really say, that clearly, what I'm doing when I improvise. I'm not sure I've ever been able to think about anything when I play. (Of course, playing I Got Rhythm when I come to the bridge I know it's E 7th. If anybody can avoid thinking about that, they'd be pretty, miraculous. It's E 7th—and it's like written on the wall.) But there are different things. For instance, the first eight bars of I Got Rhythm can be thought about as just being in B flat. There are all kinds of changes in there, perhaps, according to who you play with. But you can just think in B flat for the whole thing. I think more in keys than in scale—it might be the same thing the others, Miles and Bill Evans, are thinking about.

But does scale orientation further free or is it just a different set of rules?

I think it is another kind of limitation perhaps. But actually it doesn't matter if it's a limitation or not, all that matters is that something comes out that somebody can enjoy. They say that certain people analyze themselves way past where they are. I've heard this about Hindemith, that he's very analytical, but his music comes out. There's the musical experience; what does it matter how much he or anybody else talks about it? If it's there, it's there, and if you get something from it, you get something from it. As I say, I don't have a way of thinking about playing, I just play. And when I start trying to follow a route—harmonically or scales or anything like that—it limits me, as you say. Of course, I'm just one person, and I work in a way that's most natural for me.

Is freedom what the scale-orientation improvisors are after?

Yes. But I'll tell you what they're concerned with more than that. This scale approach requires a certain kind of composition that can be approached in a certain way arid they're more interested in playing that kind of a piece, and that's the way I am too. The piece must have longer harmony—pedal-point harmony. You stretch out on the same chord for a while instead of changing every two beats or every four beats.

Then pedal-point orientation does free the improvisor?

Yes. This kind of a piece lends itself much better to freedom than a musical comedy type of piece. Because of having to adjust to the vertical requirements, it's distracting—it's abrupt. That's why I suppose I've written contrapuntally, I can't see adjusting vertically all the time. There's going to be harmony there. This is the technique Dr. La Violette taught me a long time ago. I remember the words. 'Stretch the harmonies out, and the music will flow more smoothly.' How do you stretch the harmonies out? Well, the way you do when you write counterpoint, you don't think of the harmony vertically, but in the back you put the harmony of pedals. To explain; a pedal-point is having a certain note in tenure for several bars. A figure pedal is when you have the same figure over and over. Actually there are many kinds of pedals: it denotes a sameness over several bars. It can be one note, one chord or one figure. A sound that becomes permanent in the background—as in a painting where you would have a white background. If you stretch this pattern out over a period of time then the improvisor can just let himself go free, he can play so many things against a pedal point. He can play any note of the scale against a pedal note and it's correct and it moves on and on. This is one of the basic things in counterpoint. This is what they are discovering frees them in improvisation. Ornette, from the way I understand it, is attempting to circumvent the whole thing. In fact he and I did it this night we had this session. The rhythm section played the blues—we weren't even playing the same tempo they were. We were playing any tempo—we weren't playing any chords, any tunes, any key. We were playing anything that came in our minds. And you can plainly ask, "Well, what bearing does that have on the rhythm section playing the blues?" All I can say is that if we did it by ourselves, we wouldn't have had the way to do it. They provide a background; just like a background for a painted rose. You see that rose, and the background becomes a color. The blues is a pedal type tune you can stretch out; there are so few changes and the changes are not abrupt.

But do most musicians who pattern their ways of playing after, say Sonny Rollins do so to achieve freedom or to serve the hip ritual?

I'm fortunate to have waited until this time to look in on this thing—because if I didn't have my experience behind me, I might have done this same kind of thing—I might have done this superficially. But superficially you can't emulate you only imitate."

↧

Sarah Vaughan Live at Rosy's

September 6, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: Eric Dolphy at the Five Spot Revisited

≪ Previous: The Passionate Conviction: An Interview with Jimmy Giuffre by Lorin Stephens

The editorial staff at JazzProfiles thought it would be fun turn its attention to reviews of recently released recordings with a particular emphasis on what George Klabin, Executive Producer, Zev Feldman, Producer, Heidi T. Kalison, who heads up Sales & Marketing and the rest of the fine team at Resonance Records were up to.

We chose to emphasize Resonance for the simple reason that the stuff they are putting out is simply “gawjus” [gorgeous] - from every perspective.

What they issue and the way they issue it is recorded music that Jazz fans every where dream about, but rarely get.

Resonance produces recordings of great music by artists from the Golden Age of Modern Jazz, much of it newly discovered and/or never released previously, set to the highest audio standard possible with an accompanying insert booklet that’s loaded with photographs and informative writings by renowned and revered Jazz authors and critics.

Bill Evans, Wes Montgomery, Stan Getz, Tommy Flanagan, Jaki Byard, John Coltrane, Shirley Horn, Larry Young, Charles Lloyd, Dado Moroni, Freddie Hubbard, and Gene Harris, not to mention a host of artists who are very active on the current Jazz scene [a topic for a future blog feature].

As a specific case in point, here’s the press release for a marvelous two-disc set that Sarah Vaughan and “her” trio - Carl Schroeder, piano; Walter Booker, bass; Jimmy Cobb, drums - recorded in performance at Rosy’s Jazz Club in New Orleans on May 31, 1978.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

Los Angeles, CA, March 2nd , 2016

Resonance Records is Proud to Present

SARAH VAUGHAN– LIVE AT ROSY’S

Recorded Live at New Orleans's Iconic '70s Music Venue

Rosy's Jazz Club on May 31, 1978

Previously Unreleased Deluxe 2-CD Set Available March 25, 2016

Offers Nearly 90 Minutes of Music Originally Recorded For

The National Public Radio (NPR) Program Jazz Alive!

Includes 36-Page Book of Liner Notes with Essays by Producer Zev Feldman, Journalists

James Gavin and Will Friedwald, Sarah Vaughan's Music Director/Pianist Carl Schroeder, and Rosy's Impresario, Rosalie Wilson, Plus Interviews with Legendary Drummer Jimmy Cobb and

Sarah Vaughan's Colleague and Friend, Vocalist Helen Merrill

THE U.S. POSTAL SERVICE TO ISSUE SARAH VAUGHAN

COMMEMORATIVE FOREVER STAMP

https://photos-2.dropbox.com/t/2/AAC8cf55-SfHDr6g0ju-jbbyo72muBp9BqIf828mtGmRcQ/12/34057487/jpeg/32x32/3/1455660000/0/2/SaraVaughan_LiveAtRosys_Cover.jpg/EK2S6xkY9cMLIAEgAigB/vDMoyPKUYtqjAf1YPs24b_QsoRfzHCtRJ0jaP1Ek26A?size_mode=3&size=1280x960

Los Angeles, CA. - Resonance Records with the cooperation of National Public Radio (NPR) is proud to announce the release of Sarah Vaughan – Live At Rosy's, New Orleans on March 25th, 2016th. The deluxe 2-CD set is comprised exclusively of newly discovered recordings by “Sassy” capturing the legendary jazz singer's live performance at Rosy's Jazz Club on May 31, 1978.

EPKhttp://youtu.be/2Omk4PrSfds

Just after the release of the album, The U.S. Postal Service will honor Sarah Vaughan’s legacy, by issuing a “Commemorative Forever Stamp”. The ceremony will take place at the Sarah Vaughan Concert Hall at Newark Symphony Hall, 1020 Broad Street, Newark, N.J., @ 11:00am,March 29th, 2016th.

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Confirmed participants include: Tony Bennett, Rhonda Hamilton, Host of WBGO Radio’s Midday Jazz, Mayor Ras Baraka, Mayor of Newark, Dr. Gloria White, Pastor of Mount Zion Baptist Church, Ronald Stroman, Deputy Postmaster General and Melba Moore, Grammy Award winning Jazz Vocalist and Tony Award Winning Actress & Singer.

Confirmed Performances to include: Mount Zion Baptist Church Choir, Carrie Jackson (A Tribute to Sarah Vaughan, Newark’s Own), NJPAC Jazz for Teen Ensemble (educational program), Jazzmeia Horn, Winner 2013 Sarah Vaughan Jazz Vocalist Competition and Melba Moore.

In February 2011, Resonance producer Zev Feldman connected with Tim Owens, the former producer of NPR's weekly syndicated radio program, Jazz Alive! Owens mentioned to Feldman that he had Sarah Vaughan tapes of her stellar live 1978 concert performances at Rosy’s. Having performed together hundreds of times with Sassy around the world, her rhythm section — or as she referred to them, "my trio"— of pianist Carl Schroeder, bassist Walter Booker and legendary drummer Jimmy Cobb was an extremely cohesive unit by the time they got to Rosy's in May of 1978. As the recordings in this set demonstrate, they were hand-in-glove with each other and with the great Sarah Vaughan.

Over the course of nearly four years, Feldman took on the role of Indiana Jones in tracking down all of the appropriate parties to ensure that this release would be fully endorsed and cleared by the Sarah Vaughan estate, plus by Walter Booker’s widow Bertha Hope, as well as the living band members Carl Schroeder and Jimmy Cobb and NPR Music in Washington, D.C. Reflecting on the importance of this release in his introductory essay from the liner notes, Feldman notes: “My goal was to tell the whole story of this magical engagement that fortunately has been preserved for future generations to enjoy. These recordings celebrate the genius that was Sarah Vaughan. I hope we’ll all take the time to revisit the legacy of this historic and pivotal figure in the history of jazz. These recordings demonstrate for us why she was much more than just a singer; she was a true artist.”

Sarah Vaughan, along with Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald, was a member of a triumvirate – one of the three greatest female jazz singers in jazz history. She first attracted attention at 18 years of age in 1942, when she appeared at the Apollo Theater's amateur night, first as a pianist accompanying another singer and then a few weeks later in her own right as a singer, when she won the contest. During her weeklong Apollo engagement, which was one of the prizes she earned for her victory, Billy Eckstine, who was then the featured singer with the Earl Hines big band, spotted her. Eckstine recommended her to Hines, who asked her to join his band. Other members of the Hines band were Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker; it was widely regarded as one of the early breeding grounds for bebop. The musical ferment of that grouping of musical geniuses had an enormous influence on Vaughan.

Vaughan had an exceptionally broad vocal range; it extended from a coloratura soprano down to a low alto — some might even say she sometimes made her way into the baritone range. Her tone was rich and lush. Vocalist Helen Merrill told Zev Feldman in his interview with her conducted for this release: “When Sarah sang, she might just as well have been a trumpet player playing. Her musical ability, her jazz phrasing . . . it was perfect.” She was a musicians' singer, yet despite her extraordinary gifts, she was down to earth; she was always accepted by the musicians whom she worked with as one of them — “she was like one of the fellas,” says Jimmy Cobb.

When these live recordings at Rosy's Jazz Club were made in May of 1978, Sarah Vaughan was at her artistic peak (at age 54). That year, a kind of renaissance year for her, set her on a meteoric course during which she would win an Emmy and a Grammy and tour the world several times. Each time she released an album, Johnny Carson and Merv Griffin showcased her proudly on TV. For all the grand orchestras that backed her, Sarah Vaughan seemed happiest with her trio; they gave her the space to spread her wings and explore. I get ideas from all three of them while I'm singing," she said. "We have a ball together, all of us, and wherever I go to work, they're going with me." In 1978, Vaughan and her band — pianist Carl Schroeder, bassist Walter Booker, and drummer Jimmy Cobb — performed at Rosy's Jazz Club in New Orleans.

The founder/owner of Rosy’s, Rosalie Wilson, describes her impetus for opening a jazz club in New Orleans in the 1970s: “I was puzzled as to why one seldom experienced these musicians in club settings. Roland Kirk explained this phenomenon during an interview…citing the continued reticence of many black artists to play clubs or smaller venues in the South for reasons of safety, treatment by club owners and the general negative conditions. I knew he was being truthful and I found this to be perverse, given the fact that New Orleans had long been anointed the birthplace of jazz. This angered me and provided the cause this rebel had long been seeking: to create a music club or venue in which the safety, respect and needs of the musicians were the first priority. One in which a “zero tolerance” policy would exist regarding any form of prejudice.”

James Gavin writes in his essay “Romance, Family & Heartbreak: The Divine One” within the liner notes of the package: “By the time of Vaughan's performances at Rosy's captured in this set, her dark-chocolate voice had more than survived 36 years of professional singing; her art had only grown in splendor. She took dusky plunges and glided up to fluty soprano highs; she colored the three octaves in between with a wealth of textures, from gravel to velvet. Vaughan controlled her famous vibrato like a concert violinist; she could make it swagger, pulse, or vanish entirely.”

Behind the vocal riches was a boundless musical mind. "As soon as I hear an arrangement I get ideas," she said, "kind of like blowing a horn." So many came to her that Vaughan was like a child let loose in a candy store. "She had tremendous harmonic conception," says Carl Schroeder. "Most singers have none." Her breath control enabled her to skitter tirelessly over daredevil bebop changes and to sing ballads at a luxurious crawl. All this came naturally to her. "I don't know what I'm doin'!" she said. "I just get onstage and sing. I don't think about how I'm going to do it—it's too complicated."

Journalist and critic Will Friedwald takes us through Live at Rosy’s track-by-track: Gershwin, as always, is a major staple of Vaughan's repertoire, from her classic Gershwin double songbook in 1957 to her epic symphonic jazz concerts (and album) of 25 years later. "The Man I Love" was the Divine One's signature ballad. As with Fitzgerald, there were some songs and some lyrics that meant to more to her than others, and this song always occupied an extra special place in her heart. You'll often hear Vaughan take a serious ballad and completely jazz it up (as she does with "April" here), but when she does this particular song, you can tell she's only thinking about the man she loves.

In 1978, "Send in the Clowns" was gradually evolving into her climactic, show-stopping number. The Sondheim song kept getting longer and longer, growing bigger and bigger as well as slower and slower, and being pushed farther and farther back in the program. Still, it would be hard to say that Vaughan ever sang it better than she did in New Orleans: She absolutely nails it, and makes it clear why, of all the songs and shows that Sondheim has written over almost 60 years, this is easily his most beloved piece of music.

When the request comes through for “A-Tisket, A-Tasket” which was, famously, her colleague Ella Fitzgerald’s first and biggest hit, Vaughan says, with mock exasperation, “Well, I’ll be damned!” Clearly, it was one thing for Vaughan to make a joke about being mistaken for another singer (earlier she had joked that she was Carmen McRae), and quite another for someone in the crowd to confuse her with Ella Fitzgerald. Yet not to be outdone, she takes it a step further, “[he] thinks I’m Lena Horne, huh?”— thereby compounding the joke by dropping the name of yet a third iconic African-American vocal headliner. “Then I’ll tell you who I am when I finish,” she declares, “We got to do this,” and then flies into a whole chorus of the 1938 song.

Resonance Records – a multi-GRAMMY® Award winning label (most recently for John Coltrane’s Offering: Live at Temple University for "Best Album Notes") – prides itself in creating beautifully designed, informative packaging to accompany previously unreleased recordings by the jazz icons who grace Resonance's catalog. Such is the case with Sarah Vaughan – Live At Rosy's.Released as a deluxe 2-CD set on March 25, 2016, this release includes nearly 90 minutes of musicfrom National Public Radio's series then dedicated to showcasing live jazz performances by elite jazz stars, Jazz Alive!, some of which has never been previously broadcast, along with a36-page book, and is presented in a 6-panel digi-pak beautifully designed by Burton Yount.

Elaborate album books replete with rare photos, and newly commissioned essays and interviews have become a trademark of Resonance Records’ historic releases. 2015’s Wes Montgomery –In the Beginningincluded a 56-page book, and 2016’s Larry Young – In Paris: The ORTF Recordings and Thad Jones/Mel Lewis Orchestra – All My Yesterdays: The Debut 1966 Recordings at The Village Vanguard come in at 68 and 92 pages respectively.

TheLive at Rosy's book will also serve as new reference material for Sarah Vaughan fans providinghistoric essays, interviews and memoirs by producer Zev Feldman, author and journalist James Gavin (author of iconic biographies of Peggy Lee, Chet Baker and Lena Horne, among others), journalist, author, critic and expert on jazz and popular singers Will Friedwald (Jazz Singing: America's Great Voices from Bessie Smith to Bebop and Beyond; Sinatra! and many others; jazz critic regularly featured in The Wall Street Journal), Sarah Vaughan's music director and pianist, Carl Schroeder, Rosy's Jazz Club impresario, Rosalie Wilson and interviewees, the legendary drummer Jimmy Cobb (Miles Davis Kind of Blue) and Sarah Vaughan's esteemed colleague and early Emarcy Records stablemate, Helen Merrill.The album book also features a collection of rare photos by Herman Leonard, Ray Avery, Chuck Stewart, Riccardo Schwamenthal and Tom Copi, as well as ephemera from Rosy's Jazz Club at the time these recordings were made.

Resonance Records continues to bring archival recordings to light. Headquartered in Beverly Hills, CA, Resonance Records is a division of Rising Jazz Stars, Inc. a California 501(c) (3) non-profit corporation created to discover the next jazz stars and advance the cause of jazz. Current Resonance Artists include Richard Galliano, Polly Gibbons, Tamir Hendelman, Christian Howes and Donald Vega. www.ResonanceRecords.org

Pre-order on iTunes and receive 4 tracks instantly: "I'll Remember April,""I Fall In Love Too Easily,""The Man I Love," and "If You Went Away."

https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/live-at-rosys/id1088122832

For more information please contact:

Doreen D'Agostino

DOREEN D’AGOSTINO MEDIA

917.916.2626

doreen@doreendagostinomedia.com

www.doreendagostinomedia.com

↧

Eric Dolphy at the Five Spot Revisited

September 7, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: Bassist Andrew Simpkins Remembers Sarah Vaughan

≪ Previous: Sarah Vaughan Live at Rosy's

“The music of Eric Dolphy and Booker Little (the latter died of uremia in October of 1961 at the age of twenty-three, only several months after the engagement at the Five Spot which this series of albums documents) is representative of the new energy, the new dynamism, in jazz.

Revolutionary movements, such as the one which is now taking place in Jazz, are the result of independent artists who, having found themselves constructed within the conventional order of the time, are coming to similar conclusion about the nature and the possibilities of a new order. In Jazz, as Martin Williams has pointed out, this would seem to happen every twenty years or so. inevitably the new order will become the new convention and it will then be necessary for a new movement to begin so that surprise may be rediscovered and the art revitalized.

Unfortunately change is resisted because it frequently requires a painful revaluation of what reality is. The innovator must deal not only with the hostility of the threatened establishment and the unwillingness of the audience to abandon its preconceptions of what music is supposed to sound tike, of what a painting must look like, of what literature can, and cannot, say, but also with that part of himself that would also resist liberation from the conventional, the sanctioned and the safe, that would paralyze him at the moment at which he arrives at his originality.

Dolphy and Little were coping with these counter forces at the time these albums were recorded. These forces resulted in ambivalences which were compounded in Little's case because he was not quite free of his conservatory background — not free in the sense that he was not yet completely able to make use of it without becoming restricted by it, because so much of what he had learned in the conservatory was antithetical to what he saw music could also be. For Dolphy, who had come East from Los Angeles with Chico Hamilton some three years before, there was, it would seem, still the problem of adapting to the fierce competitiveness of New York scene where so much is always happening, alt at once — the problem, under the uniquely difficult New York circumstances of getting his thing together."

The ambivalences are also made evident, to an extent, by the members of the rhythm section who with the exception of Eddie Blackwell who worked with Ornette Coleman, illustrate both the point of Dolphy's and Little's departure and (by their presence) the necessity to control and make tentative that departure. Dolphy and Little were couched in an orthodoxy by the rhythm section. Pianist Mai Waldron (whom critic Joe Goldberg accurately referred to, as a "stabilizing influence") and bassist Richard Davis, are exciting, exploratory and often brilliant musicians and these remarks are not intended to derogate them, but only to say that they were not taking their music to those areas where Dolphy, Little and Blackwell were taking theirs.

Still, as the musk in this album wilt witness, Dolphy and Little were surmounting both the outwardly imposed obstacles and those that are developed within.”

- Robert Levin, LP liner notes

When now fabled recording engineer, Rudy van Gelder, took his portable equipment down to the Five Spot in New York on July 16, 1961, he captured seven tunes by an extraordinary quintet led by two young lions – flute, alto saxophone and bass clarinet player, Eric Dolphy and trumpeter Booker Little.

Within three years after these recordings were made, both men would be dead. Indeed, Booker Little would be gone less than three months later. Only three years later, on July 29, 1964, Eric Dolphy joined Booker Little in death, and Jazz sustained another tragic loss. As time passes, the absence of such innovators only serves to enhance the significance of recordings such as these.

What survives in these seven tracks is a confluence of the many styles of modern Jazz of the preceding fifteen years – Parker-Gillespie to Mingus to Coleman-Cherry – as enshrined by two young musicians who loved it all, wanted to reflect it all in their playing and make their own contributions to it.

While the critics of the time raged in debate about the merits of “free Jazz,” Dolphy and Little just embraced it along with everything else that had gone before it and tried to make it their own.

They were joined for the two-week gig by Mal Waldron on piano, Richard Davis on bass and Eddie Blackwell on drums [who, Michael Cuscuna has commented, “…is definitely a candidate for the title of most neglected drummer in jazz history”].

This would be the only time that this group would play in public together. Joe Goldberg observed in his liner notes to the first LP volume [Prestige/New Jazz 8260]: “In format, it was a standard quintet of the kind that the bop era had made traditional – saxophone, trumpet and three rhythm – but the music hinted at developments that were going far beyond that concept.”

One of the unique things about Eric Dolphy’s music was his use of the bass clarinet, but most particularly, the way he played it.

As Michael Ullman explains in his essay “The Clarinet in Jazz” [Bill Kirchner, ed., The Oxford Companion to Jazz, pp. 594-95]:

“The bass clarinet had been used in jazz before, by Harry Carey in the Ellington band, for instance. In 1964 Buddy DeFranco recorded Blues Bag on bass clarinet. In the fifties and sixties, Eric Dolphy made it one of his specialties. … Dolphy extended it into the mainstream with his angular, post-bop phrasing, his odd choice of notes, [and] his habit of entering a solo from an unexpected place harmonically. He was fluent without ever seeming smooth. He featured the bass clarinet on a repeatedly recorded tour-de-force solo version of ‘God Bless the Child,’ on which he alternates a swirling arpeggiated patterns with fragments of Billie Holiday’s melody. The angularity broke away from Parker; it also seem to fit the bass clarinet.”

In their review of these recordings in the Sixth Edition of The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, authors Richard Cook and Brian Morton also emphasize Dolphy’s bass clarinet playing on God Bless the Child and go on the offer additional insights about the music on these recordings:

“Interesting how often Dolphy albums are defined by unaccompanied performances, and the Five Spot dates include a first recorded outing for ‘God Bless the Child,’ which was to become Dolphy’s bass clarinet feature, a sinuous, untranscribable harmonic exercise that leaves the source material miles behind. … Dolphy takes the initiative, roughening the texture of [Waldron’s] ‘Fire Waltz’ and suggesting a more joyous take on Waldron’s typically dark writing. Little contributes ‘Aggression,” ‘Booker’s Waltz’ and the splendid ‘Bee Vamp,’ a tough, off-centre theme that was to fall rather uncomfortably under the horn-player’s fingers.

Paul Berliner, in the section on the “Collective Aspects of Improvisation: Arranging Pieces” [Thinking in Jazz, pp. 300-301] offers these insights about the group’s rendition of Like Someone in Love:

“In Eric Dolphy’s and Booker Little’s distinctive version, after a brief introduction, Little’s trumpet, Dolphy’s flute and Richard’s Davis’ bowed bass interpret the piece allusively, without accompaniment. The improvise a tightly woven polyphony that proceeds through the piece with an elastic sense of rhythm at almost dirge-like tempo. At the head’s conclusion, Davis switches to an active pizzicato style, joining the rhythm section to provide solo accompaniments that alternate between medium tempo and double-time. After the solos, Little and Dolphy resume their reflective discourse on the melody, accompanied by the rhythm section’s steady beat. Then, the entire ensemble, with Davis again on bowed bass, creates a free-rhythmic section that culminates the performance.”

To call the music on these recordings “Free Jazz” is a misnomer. The rhythm section places in a very straight-ahead manner on all of the tracks and Dolphy and Little based their solos on strict musical conventions. At times, the phrasing employed by the horn players during their solos can be a bit experimental and searching, but by and large, these are young ears who are curious and interested about the prospects of taking the music in a new direction. They are trying to expand the music by exploring some new boundaries. They are definitely not interested participating in the frenzied rush to musical self-destruction that would characterize much of the “Free Jazz” movement yet to come in the decade of the 1960s and beyond.

Robert Levin offered this advice about Eric Dolphy and his approach to Jazz:

“… if you can open yourself to this music you will find that it can take you to corners of the mind and the emotions where the substances of truth and beauty are waiting to be revealed and experienced.”

These Five-Spot in-performance recordings will take you there.

A sampling of which is on hand in the following video.

The tune is Mal Waldron’s Fire Waltz.

↧

Bassist Andrew Simpkins Remembers Sarah Vaughan

September 8, 2016, 7:00 am

≫ Next: Bill Evans - LIVE AT TOP OF THE GATE

≪ Previous: Eric Dolphy at the Five Spot Revisited

“What I am about to do really can't be done at all, and that is to do justice to Sarah Vaughan in words. Her art is so remarkable, so unique that it, sui generis, is self-fulfilling and speaks best on its own musical artistic terms. It is—like the work of no other singer—self-justifying and needs neither my nor anyone else's defense or approval.

To say what I am about to say in her very presence seems to me even more preposterous, and I will certainly have to watch my superlatives, as it will be an enormous temptation to trot them all out tonight. And yet, despite these disclaimers, I nonetheless plunge ahead toward this awesome task, like a moth drawn to the flame, because I want to participate in this particular long overdue celebration of a great American singer and share with you, if my meager verbal abilities do not fail me, the admiration I have for this remarkable artist and the wonders and mysteries of her music.

No rational person will often find him or herself in a situation of being able to say that something or somebody is the best. One quickly learns in life that in a richly competitive world—particularly one as subject to subjective evaluation as the world of the arts—it is dangerous, even stupid, to say that something is without equal and, of course, having said it, one is almost always immediately challenged. Any evaluation — except perhaps in certain sciences where facts are truly incontrovertible — any evaluation is bound to be relative rather than absolute, is bound to be conditioned by taste, by social and educational backgrounds, by a host of formative and conditioning factors. And yet, although I know all that, I still am tempted to say and will now dare to say that Sarah Vaughan is quite simply the greatest vocal artist of our century…."

- Gunther Schuller’s tribute to Sarah Vaughan which preceded a Vaughan concert at the Smithsonian Museum in 1980.

Too much of a good thing?

Never when it comes to Sarah Vaughan.

I had heard her on records, but nothing prepares you for the astounding brilliance that comes across when you hear her in person.

In Sarah’s case, “astounding brilliance” is not hyperbole; if anything, it is an understatement!

In the summer of 1962, I was working a piano-bass-drums trio gig in the North Beach area of San Francisco, just down the street from Sugar Hill where Sarah was appearing with her trio [the Jazz Workshop was also nearby].

On my first break, after the first set of the first night on the gig, I headed down the street to checkout what was happening at the Jazz Workshop when I past the entrance of Sugar Hill and heard Sarah doing her thing.

I explained to the person collecting the cover charge at the door that I was a musician working up the street and asked if I could step inside for a minute to hear Sarah.

It was the most generous off-handed “gift” that anyone ever gave me as I found myself utterly dumbfounded by being in the presence of Sarah Vaughan.

She was just sensational in every way. What she did with her voice in a pure, acoustic setting was spell-binding.

There’s a reason why all you have to say is “Sassy,” because to try to “say” anything else descriptively about Sarah’s music borders on the ineffable, especially when her music is “in performance” [I prefer that expression to “live”].

Needless to say, I caught her every chance I had while she was at Sugar Hill and took every opportunity thereafter to catch her “in performance.”

I thought the following remembrance of Sarah by bassist Andrew Simpkins would make a nice sequel to our recent posting about the recent release on Resonance Records of a CD capturing Sarah’s 1978 performance at Rosy’s Jazz Club in New Orleans, LA.

It appeared as a published interview conducted by Gene Lees in the November, 1997 edition of his Jazzletter.

“Richmond, Indiana, present population about 38,000, lies barely west of the Kentucky border and 68 miles due east of Indianapolis. Indianapolis was a hotbed of jazz, the birthplace of Freddie Hubbard, J.J. Johnson, the Montgomery Brothers, and a good many more, some of them known only regionally but excellent nonetheless. Wes Montgomery never wanted to leave Indianapolis, and ultimately went home.

Richmond is on a main east-west highway. It was Highway 40 in the days before the Eisenhower presidency, but now it is Interstate 70. No matter: as it passes through town, it is inevitably called Main Street. Richmond was early in its history heavily populated by anti-slavery Quakers, and continued its sentiments right into Copperhead days. Copperhead was the name applied to southern sympathizers in Indiana, formerly a Union state during the Civil War.

Andy Simpkins, one of the truly great bass players, whether or not he turns up in the various magazine polls, was born in Richmond on April 29, 1932. His father therefore was born within short memory distance of slavery itself. A black Chicago cop who was working on his degree in sociology taught me an important , principle: that a black man in any given job is likely to be more intelligent than a white man in the same job, for had he been white he would by now have risen higher in the system. This may not be a universal verity, but I have found the principle to be sufficiently consistent that I trust it. Andy's father illustrates the point. He was a janitor; that's what the society in his time would allow him to be. His private existence was another matter.

"My father did a lot of things in his life," Andy said. "In his younger years he played saxophone and clarinet a little bit. He worked for many years on the janitorial staff of the school system of Richmond. His real life — all through the years he worked for them — was growing plants. He grew vegetables and beautiful flowers and sold them to people in the area. He was a wonderful horticulturist. He had greenhouses, and his plants were famous.

"My father was an only child, I'm an only child, and I have one son, Mark, who is in radio in Denver, Colorado." Andy laughed. "The Simpkins family line runs thin!"

Andy combines formidable facility with a deep sound, beautiful chosen notes, long tones, and time that hits a deep groove. Those are some of the reasons he spent ten years with Sarah Vaughan.

In spite of occasional clashes, she adored him, and she did not suffer fools gladly or second-rate musicianship at all. Andy also worked for her arch-rival and close friend Carmen McRae, and mere survival with either of those ladies, let alone both of them, is perhaps the ultimate accolade for a jazz musician. They were prime bitches to work for. I merely wrote for Sass; I never had to work for her. I just loved her, and so did Andy. He remembers mostly the good times, and it was inevitable that we would talk about her.

Andy first came to prominence with a trio called the Three Sounds, whose pianist was Gene Harris. The drummer was Bill Dowdy. They made more than twenty albums for Blue Note. Andy toured for a long time with George Shearing, worked with Joe Williams, and recorded with Clare Fischer, Stephane Grappelli, Dave Mackay, and Monty Alexander.

He never forgets the role of his parents. For, as in the cases of most of the best musicians I have known, strong parental support and encouragement were critical elements in his development.

"My mother was a natural musician," Andy said. "She never had a lesson. She played piano by ear, and she had the most incredible ear. She played in our church for forty years, all the hymns and all the songs. She used to hear things. When my Mom would hear something playing on the radio she'd hum along, not the melody, like most people, but the inside harmony. I'd hear her humming those inside parts of the chords, any song she heard. It was incredible. I think that's where most of my musical talent comes from.

"But my Dad was really instrumental in seeing that I studied music and learned the theory, and to read, all the things you really need beside just your ear — although a lot of people have made it just on the ear. He saw I had a great ear and he started giving me lessons at an early age. And he made a lot of sacrifices to do that. To this day I think of my Dad making all kinds of sacrifices, doing extra jobs, picking up trash that he could sell for metal, just working so hard to make sure I had lessons, to see that I could study.

"Clarinet was my original instrument for a couple of years, and then I started studying piano. I had a great piano teacher, Norman Brown. Along with teaching me legitimate piano studies, and exercises, he also taught me about chord progressions and harmony. And that was very unusual at that time. Every week at my lesson, he would bring me a popular tune of the day, written out with the chords. So all the time I was studying with him, I was learning chords. And you know what else he did? He was a wonderful legitimate, classical player, but he also played for silent movies.

"I was fortunate: my mother and father lived long enough to see that I was successful. They were alive through the time I was with George Shearing. I was with George from '68 to '76. And before that the Three Sounds. We accompanied all sorts of people, and my Mom and Dad were in on that. Any time I was close enough that I could pick them up and take them, they would go to my gigs. Even when I was much younger, playing my jobs, my Mom sometimes would even nod out and go to sleep, but she would be there! She wanted to be there.

"I started out playing with a nice little local band in Richmond, a kind of combination of rhythm and blues and jazz. We used to play around Richmond and Muncie and a lot of little towns around there. When the band first started, we didn't have a bass player. I was playing piano. With the ear I had, I always heard bass lines, and I was playing the bass notes on the piano. A few months after we were together, a bass player joined us, from Muncie.

"I had listened to the bass before that. I had listened to the big bands. I was already hooked on jazz music. But I wasn't taken with the bass. There were all the great bass players working with those bands at that time. I guess it was the sound they got. It was the way bass was played at that time. They got kind of a short sound. The sound wasn't long and resonant.

"And this player joined the little band that we had. His name was Manuel Parker. He had this old Epiphone bass, it was American-made but it had a wonderful sound. He got this long, resonant sound that I'd never heard. I said, Wow! He could walk, and had that great groove, and this wonderful big fat resonant sound along with it. I was awestruck.

"We used to rehearse at my house a couple of times a week. I was probably eighteen, nineteen. He lived in Muncie, which was forty miles away from Richmond. Say we'd rehearse Tuesday and Thursday. So on Tuesday, he used to leave the bass at my house. I just started getting his bass out and playing with records. I knew the tunes. I'd tune the bass up, because the turntable ran a little fast. I heard all those lines. And I got hooked. No technique, I didn't know the fingering or any of that. But I heard the notes and I found them on the bass. And from that point on, that was it. I guess the other instruments were the route to the bass. This is where I was supposed to be, because it felt so totally natural.

"I was competent on the other instruments. I read well. In fact, when I went into the service I auditioned on clarinet and got into the band. I played them okay. People said I was a fairly good player. But I felt about the bass: this is the instrument that's been waiting for me.

"I was drafted into the Army in '53. Went through eight weeks of basic training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. I auditioned. The orders came down: I didn't make it. I had to take another eight weeks of basic. After the second eight weeks, I was accepted in the band. At that time, they had just started to desegregate the bands. But at the beginning, they were still segregated. After a few short months, I was transferred up to Indianapolis, to Fort Harrison — sixty miles from my home town! I played clarinet in the concert and marching band, bass in the big swing jazz band that we had within the band, and piano in a couple of small combos. That's when I really got around to studying.

"In the band there was a legit bass player, a wonderful classical player. He started to just teach me, on his own -legitimate, correct technique. I could read the bass clef, of course, from playing piano. He started teaching me correct classical fingering and approach to the instrument.

"I spent two years in the army, in the band the whole time, and fortunately was in Indianapolis. At the time, Indianapolis was swinging. It was live. J.J. Johnson might have left by then, but the Montgomery Brothers were there. I think Wes was still there. This was '53. I was going into town at night and hanging out, and not getting much sleep. I was playing at night with a lot of guys. [Drummer] Benny Barth was still there. I played a lot with Benny Barth. Al Plank was there. This town was rockin'. I went to one gig that went till midnight, and then I'd play an after-hours thing that went till three, then had to get up at six.

"And in the daytime, I played in the army band. I was submerged in music. I was really blessed. I didn't have to go and shoot at anybody and get shot. A lot of my friends in basic training went to Korea. Most of them didn't make it back. The 'police action', as they called it. I was in Indiana through 1955. I was discharged in '55.

"After the Army, I joined a little rhythm and blues band. The leader was from Chicago. His name was Jimmy Binkley. In the band that I played with back in Richmond, we had a sax player who called himself Lonnie 'The Sound' Walker. He was one of these rockin' tenor players. I sort of grew up around him. That's where we got the name for the Three Sounds. When we first formed, we were four: Gene Harris, Bill Dowdy on drums, myself, and Lonnie Walker. We called ourselves the Four Sounds. We went on from 1956 to '58. He left and we had a couple of different saxophone players. We went on as a trio and recorded our first record for Blue Note as the Three Sounds.

"The review in Down Beat ripped us asunder. It was by John Tynan. Here we are, our very first record, kids, fledglings, all optimistic excitement, and he tore us apart."

That review appeared in the April 16, 1959, issue of Down Beat, the second to have my name on the masthead as editor. Tynan — John A. Tynan to the readers, Jack or Jake Tynan to all of us who worked with him — presented the subject as the transcript of a court case in which a prosecutor says, "Here we have, beyond doubt, one of the worst jazz albums in years. The performances speak for themselves — horrible taste, trite arrangements, out-of-tune bass, an unbelievable cymbal, ideas so banal as to be almost funny."

The judge says, "Why was it ever released, then? Who would buy such a record as this?"

It must have been devastating to the members of that trio. Tynan became, and remains, one of my best friends. He left Down Beat to write news for the ABC television station in Los Angeles, a post at which he worked until his retirement. He lives now in Palm Desert, California. I called him, to see if he could lay his hands on that moldering review. He thought that he might, if he looked long enough. Nor could Andy readily provide a copy of it. So I undertook a little archaeology of my own and found it.

"In later years, on reflection," Andy said, "I thought there was some validity to what he said, but at that time he could have given us a little bit of a break. I guess that's not the way it is, if you're gonna be out there in the world. But at the time, we were really hurt. We went to see him. We were all over two hundred pounds, big strapping country boys. I guess we just looked at him real hard. I don't know what we had in mind."

Apparently nothing more violent than glowering. The Down Beat west coast office at that time was on Sunset Boulevard at Gower. Tynan remembers their visit only vaguely. Reconstructing the events, I found myself chuckling over the incident, all the more because just over four months later — in the September 3, 1959, issue of the magazine — the group received a glowing four-star review.

Andy said, "The three of us lived in Cleveland at first. Coming from a little town, I thought, Cleveland! I was really in the big town, after Richmond, Indiana. We went to Cleveland because Gene had an aunt there, and we could stay with her. There was an old club called the Tijuana, which I guess in the '40s was a big-time show club. It had been closed. It was just up the street from Gene's aunt's house. They were getting ready to reopen. They wanted fresh new talent. So we went and auditioned for the guy. They didn't even have a piano on the stage. The stage was surrounded by the bar, one of those deals. The piano was in the corner. The three of us got the piano and lifted it on the stage to do this audition. And we got the gig. We started out at $55 a week. We stayed two years and ended up getting $60. We got people coming in there.

"We met a guy who had a recording studio in his basement. He would record us when we rehearsed. Our idols at the time were Oscar Peterson, Ahmad Jamal, Max Roach, Horace Silver, Art Blakey, and all the people from that era. We had all their things down. We knew their charts!

"There was a jazz club downtown in Cleveland. We used to go there on Sundays, our night off, and hear all our idols. Gene was a very aggressive guy. He'd ask them if we could sit in. And they'd let us do it! We'd sit in with the horn players, and play their charts. It was very tolerant on their part. But we had those charts down.

"And by our doing that, the word began to filter back to New York about us.

"We had that gig at the Tijuana for a couple of years, and then finally it ended. Bill Dowdy says, 'My sister lives in Washington, D.C. Let's go to Washington. We can stay with her.' Bill and Gene are both from Benton Harbor, Michigan. They played together as kids long before I met either of them. They were in high school together. Bill's now in Battle Creek, Michigan. He's teaching there, privately and in one of the schools and he produces concerts. We're all still in touch. Gene lives in Boise, Idaho. I talk to Bill more than I do Gene.

"So we went to Washington. We got a lot of help from a guy who was a union representative. He took us around. He told us about one place that had been closed and was going to open again. It was called the Spotlight. We auditioned. The manager liked us, and we played there a month or so. Then we played in a restaurant in Washington for about nine months.

"A good friend of the manager of the place was Mercer Ellington. He came to listen and was just taken aback by us. Mercer was really the one who actually discovered us. A club in New York needed another group. Stuff Smith was playing there. They wanted a young group, new faces, to play opposite him. Mercer talked to them and they hired us.

"We'd been in Washington about a year when we went to New York. As I said, the word had filtered back from Cleveland about us — to Blue Note Records, Alfred Lion and Frank Wolff. They were wonderful people. They came to hear us at this club and loved us right away and signed us. At the same time, Jack Whittemore from the Shaw booking agency, little Jack, came in too. He was a wonderful man. Golly moses."

There was a radiance in his voice when Andy mentioned Jack Whittemore. One hears much, and much of it derisive, about the businessmen of jazz, particularly agents. But Jack was loved. He was kind, good, honorable, funny, feisty, tiny, stocky and argumentative. I used to call him the Mighty Atom. Once, in Brooklyn, he got into an argument and then a fist-fight with the owner of a jazz club, over the issue of the acts Jack had been booking in there. The bartender separated them and told them to cool off. Jack asked the owner if business was really that bad. He said it was. "Then why don't you come to work for me?" Jack said, and that's how Charlie Graziano became Jack's second in command and one of his best friends. Jack was like that.

Jack had been an agent for GAC and MCA before becoming president of the Shaw agency, which in the 1960s was the primary jazz booking agency; later he went on his own, and the acts he booked included Miles Davis, Bill Evans, Art Blakey and the Jazz

Messengers, Sonny Stitt, Stan Getz, McCoy Tyner, Phil Woods, Horace Silver, and many more. When Jack died at sixty-eight in 1982, the professional jazz community was devastated. There was no one to replace him, and no one has turned up since to fill his shoes. After his death, all the musicians he booked paid Jack's estate the commissions they owed him, with a single exception — and everyone in the business knew it — Stan Getz.

This precis of Jack's career will explain the warmth in Andy's voice on mention of his name. Jack could make a career; Horace Silver credits Jack with establishing his.

"Jack came to hear us," Andy said. "He liked us, and he signed us with Shaw. From that point, we started to record for Blue Note. We did quite a few albums for Blue Note.

"And a funny thing happened. The Down Beat review was so scathing that I think it made people curious. They started buying our albums and got us off the ground. I really believe that. How could anything be that bad? People said, I've gotta hear this! I believe that to this day.

"We started recording in '58. I stayed with the Three Sounds until '66. At that point, we'd made twenty albums or so together. In the meantime, we did some records for other companies — Limelight, which was a subsidiary of Mercury. Jack Tracy was our producer. I saw Jack recently! We did one with Nat Adderley for Orrin Keepnews at Riverside. It was a wonderful record, called Branching Out. We recorded some for Verve, too."

"That was one hell of a trio," said bassist John Heard. Born in 1938, John was twenty when that trio began to record; Andy was by then twenty-six, and that much difference in age is a lot at that time in one's life. "When they'd come to play Pittsburgh," John said, "I used to stand around outside the club and listen to them. I used to follow Andy around. He didn't know. I don't think he knows it now. Andy is a Monster."

"Bill Dowdy left the Three Sounds before I did," Andy said. "Bill was good at business matters. He was very orderly. He used to take care of books and that kind of thing for us. He and Gene had a big falling out. And they'd been friends since school days. Bill left in '65. I left about a year later, only because I wanted to play some other music with other people. I wanted to branch out musically. I came to Los Angeles. There were all these great players, and I wanted to work with them and expand musically. For a couple of years I was in L.A. freelancing.

"Somebody told George Shearing about me and he needed a bass player. I went to his house and auditioned for him, just the two of us. He pulled out a couple of charts and I read them. He said, 'I always had heard that you didn't read. I don't know where this came from, but you read fine.'"

"Well you know, Andy," I said, "that may seem like a small detail now, this is the kind of rumor that can seriously impede someone's career. I'd always heard that Chet Baker couldn't read, and Gerry Mulligan told me that was nonsense. He said Chet could read, but his ear was so good he didn't have to. He could learn anything instantly."

"I know, I know," Andy said. "Well I read for George, and joined him in 1968. I replaced Bob Whitlock. Charlie Shoemake was the vibes player, Dave Koontz was the guitarist, Bill Goodwin was the drummer. Bill left soon after. There were different guys through the years. Stix Hooper played with us for about a year. Harvey Mason played drums with us, Vernel Fournier for just about a minute. I was with George for eight years.

"I knew a lot of songs, but I credit George: I learned a lot of songs from George Shearing, kind of remote things. I'll tell you another song I credit for teaching me a lot of songs, remote songs, and that's Jimmy Rowles. Rowles! Listen! Those two guys, along with my piano teacher, are responsible for a lot of things that I know.

"I left George in '76. I was still living in L.A. Back to freelancing and studio calls and gigs and casuals. I was married to my first wife, Katherine, in 1960. She passed away in '92. She had lung cancer. She smoked, she smoked. My wife Sandy quit smoking a couple of years ago.

"After Shearing I was doing film calls and studios and this and that. Then I got a call in '79 from Sarah Vaughan's then husband, Waymon Reed. Trumpet player. He was her music director. Sarah was looking for a bass player, and I'd been recommended. I auditioned for Sarah, and she loved me. I spent ten years with her. Until 1989.

"It was a great relationship. She could be weird," he said, laughing. "As everyone who worked for her knows. Especially players."

"Well my relationship with her was a little different," I said. "I dealt with her as a songwriter. And as an old friend."

I recounted to Andy the details of an event in which our trails almost crossed. I had written an album for Sarah, based on poems of peace by the present Pope. The producer was the well-known Italian entrepreneur Gigi Campi, who among other achievements had founded and funded and managed the remarkable Clarke-Boland Big Band, jointly led by drummer Kenny Clarke and the Belgian arranger and composer Francy Boland. Sass wanted to use her own rhythm section, but Gigi Campi insisted on organizing his own for the project, which involved a large orchestra, recorded in Germany. He hired two bassists, Jimmy Woode and Chris Lawrence, and the drummer was Edmund Thigpen. Nothing wrong with that rhythm section, but facing some difficult musical material, Sass no doubt would have felt more secure with her own, which included, besides Andy, the pianist George Gaffney, whose background includes periods as music director for Peggy Lee and Ben Vereen, among others.

"The Sass lady!" Andy said. "That album you wrote for her, it was aside from the kind of thing she usually did. And how well, how unbelievably, she learned and did it. Difficult music. Good heavens. That was '84? Did you see her being more disagreeable than usual?"

"Not particularly." I said. "She was too scared of that material, and I was the only one who could teach it to her. She could be crusty, though. She pulled it on other people there, but not on me. Although, I'll tell you, she could be demanding, even of me."

I told him the story. After she had sung the material in a triumphant concert in Dusseldorf, and it had been recorded, I flew home to California. But Sass, hearing the tapes, was unhappy with some of the tracks and wanted to overdub the vocals. This was to be done in a studio in Cologne. And she insisted that I return to Germany to be with her. So, after two or three days at home, I flew back to Germany, and held her hand in the studio — and since she was listening to the orchestra in headphones and I couldn't hear it, I heard that incredible voice of hers totally unadorned.

"Well after that," Andy said, "we did an Italian tour. She wanted to have an audience with the Pope."

"That started when we were in Germany," I said. "Everywhere she and I went the press asked us if we had met the Pope. And eventually she got a bee in her bonnet that she wanted to meet him. Curiously enough, I met him — met? a handshake — in Columbia, South Carolina, during his American visit. There was a huge rally and I sang some of that material in the concert. But she wanted to meet him even by the time we finished recording."

"Well she did," Andy said. "The promoter we were with in Italy got her an audience with the Pope. That's no small matter. This guy was a heavyweight, named Corriaggi.""Who was her pianist during that period?" I asked. "There were a lot of people, but for the longest period it was George Gaffney. He's wonderful. A great arranger too.

"As great as she was, she sometimes had trouble relating to real life. She had some strange ideas about normal, everyday living. She seemed to attract wrong guys. There were guys out there going for who she was and what she had and the prestige of being involved with her."

"I met some of those guys," I said. "I believe that she was very insecure."

"Oh sure," Andy said. "I had a couple of run-ins with her, as anyone would who was with her for a long period. About the silliest things. For instance, we were traveling. I was using a flight case for the bass. She bought one; I was using that. They're always big, and they weigh a lot, but they have to be to protect the instrument. And sometimes they don't even work. That amazes me. On a couple of instances, I've opened it up after a flight and the bass was in shambles inside the trunk.

"So I decided to have one custom-made. When I did that, she turned left. Suddenly she didn't want to pay the oversize charges when you fly. They'd been paying it right along. It's not my expense. The promoter pays for it. It's like the tickets. She went really out on me about that! And the one I'd had made was lighter than hers.

"But the things that really made me mad — and she made everyone mad who worked for her, and they loved her at the same time - - seemed to melt away when she opened her mouth. Sometimes you'd want to stomp her into the ground. And then she'd start singing, and none of it mattered. I've talked to I don't know how many guys about this.

"After about "five or six years with her, and the damage to the instrument, even in the trunk, I got gun-shy about it. I started — and this is tricky to do with a stringed instrument — to have them write it into the contract that the producer had to provide a bass. Sometimes you win, and a lot of times you lose. A lot.

"The best way to find a decent instrument in an area is to get in touch with a symphony player or a jazz player, or somebody who does both, who might want to rent one of his instruments. The chances were better that way that you could find something good. Otherwise you'd have to go to a store.

"With all that mind, I came out better than I would have thought, most of the time.

"But one time I had an instrument that was the worst I ever had. It would not stay in tune. You'd play a few notes, and it would start slipping and go flat. We had this one tune we did together, just she and I, East of the Sun. Just bass and voice. It was in five flats. We're doing it and this bass is slipping, it was going all over the place. And she went where it went! I'm going nuts. And she just heard it, and found wherever it was. At the end of the tune, the piano always played a Count Basie ending. Plank, plank, plank. George Gaffney was with us at the time. Of course, it was 'way somewhere else from where we were.

"But her ears! It was the darnedest thing I ever heard in my life, man. She was right with me. We were together, but we weren't in the key. I'd heard her do amazing things up till then, but I said, 'Lord, have mercy, what is this! She constantly amazed me, but that incident took the cake."

I said, "Sahib Shihab told me once that Big Nick Nicholas said you should listen to her if only for the way she used vibrato. And she had a weird ability to hit a note in tune and then seem to penetrate even more into the heart of the pitch. It was the strangest thing."

"Yeah!" Andy said. "It was, Wow! If I can play a ballad at all, interpret a ballad, I would have to credit that to her. I'd play one sometimes on a set, and I told her that, and she loved it. I recorded My Foolish Heart on one of my albums.

"When I was working with Gerald Wiggins — I worked with him quite a lot — he heard it. We worked at a place called Maple Drive in Beverly Hills, and a place called Linda's — and he would insist that I play it every night. I'd say, 'Oh Wig, I don't want to.' He'd say, 'Shut up and play it.' I was still with Sarah at the time.

"I got it on record, and I wanted her to hear it. As I said, I'd learned how to approach a ballad melodically from her. Just through osmosis. I played the record for her. I was nervous. And she said, 'Andy, that is gorgeous.'

"That was not long before she passed.

"After she got sick, during that last year, we did a tour. This would be around '88, to Italy. This promoter, Corriaggi, who was Frank Sinatra's promoter over there, booked us, and the tour was great. I knew her moods. She was totally evil that whole tour, and it was the best tour we ever did. The weight that this guy carried! We didn't even go through customs. It was a car tour, surface. There were two cars, Rolls-Royces, a car for her and a car for us. He used to take us to these great places to eat. They'd be closed, but they'd stay open especially for us. The greatest food, the best treatment. Whatever she wanted, and the same with the band. And she was totally evil all the time. I know she could be weird, but this was . . . But now I think back and I believe she was getting ill, even then. Her breath was getting shorter. We'd be walking through an airport, and she'd have to stop, panting, and rest. So I think it was coming on her at that time, and we didn't know what it was.

"She could be totally exasperating. Looking back, however, I have to think very hard about the things that made me angry with her. I seem to remember all the fun things and the laughs and the great times. Which says to me that those other things weren't that important.

"She was really hurt when I left. But, again, I just wanted to move further on and do other things. But she didn't travel that long after that anyway. We used to do a thing where we'd end up on two notes, in harmony. She'd jump on me and say, 'I want to sing that note, the bass note."

I mentioned the times when it was said that she had a four-octave range and she would huff, "The day I've got four octaves, I'm calling the newspapers."

Andy laughed. "She always used to deny that, but I think she did. She certainly had three. That's a definite.

"Those were incredible years. I was ten years with her. I left in '89. She died a year or so later. Sarah really spoiled me for singers. I had to pull myself together and say, 'This is not right. There are other people who can sing, you know.' I found myself unconsciously comparing.

"When it comes to scatting, Ella did it well. Sarah did it well. Carmen did it well. But in my estimation, the queen of scatting is Betty Carter. She does it as an instrumentalist does. Most people need to not scat, I'm gonna tell you."

"I don't like scat singing most of the time," I said.

"I don't either," Andy said.

"If any singer was ever qualified to do it, it was my hero, Nat Cole. And he didn't do it. He just sang the song. The best scatting I've heard comes not from singers but from instrumentalists, Dizzy, Clark Terry, Frank Rosolino."

"And don't forget the trombone player, Richard Boone!" Andy said. "But I really feel most people need to leave it alone. What I like about Betty is the sounds don't vary. She oo's and ah's for different notes and registers."

I said, "The schools are teaching scat to young singers, and I wish they wouldn't."

"Yeah," Andy said. "How about knowing a song as written? At least before you start scatting. Some people don't even know the song. Please! There are a lot of singers that I like, and I used to run them by Sass. Julius La Rosa, for one. I said, 'I think he's great.' She said, ‘Yeah!' People who can really sing. First of all, I can understand the lyrics, and that takes me a long way. And they can sing in tune. And in time. I always thought Julius La Rosa was wonderful. And I think Steve Lawrence sings great too. I always liked Gloria Lynn.

"I'd like to ask you a little about the bass, and about your own playing. Your said you didn't really like some of the old style of bass players."

"The notes were on the money," Andy said. "But the sound wasn't there."

"They used to use full-hand grips instead of fingering the instrument."

"And that's why the sound wasn't happening," Andy said. "You're using the balls of your fingers to mash the strings all the way down to the fingerboard."

"Don Thompson and I were talking a year or two ago about individual tone on an instrument. And he said he thought it was almost impossible not to have a personal individual tone, for physical reasons."

"Certainly," Andy said. "Don's right. That's the thing about stringed instruments. The pressure. What part of your finger you're playing on when you press the strings down. And so far as pizzicato is concerned, the part of your picking finger that you play with. The tip, or the longer part of the finger? These things are crucial. They make the difference. That's why I feel as I do about the instrument. You can take five bass players and have them play the same bass, and they'll sound different."

I told him that once I had watched Ray Brown instructing a student. Ray took the boy's instrument, a cheap Kay student-model bass. And he produced from it the same sound he did from his own instrument. I asked, "Where do you think the business of long sustained tones began?"

"In my memory, Blanton got that," Andy said. "This guy! And I guess all the guys at that time played without amplification. He stands out as far as being big in his sound, playing with a full band, with no help but just his strength."

I said, "Then came Mingus, Ray Brown, Red Mitchell, Scott LaFaro. No instrument evolved as much as the bass after about 1945."

"That's probably true. Red Mitchell is a definite influence in my playing. Of course, he did that cello tuning, fifth tuning. The range is wider. I've got a lot of younger heroes, like Stanley Clarke. Age doesn't matter. A real large hero of mine is Niels Pedersen. Oh, I mean! He seems to cover the whole spectrum of great sound, a strong walking time sound, great facility. A lot of cats have facility, but he plays and phrases like a horn or pianist would, and has the facility to back it up, and harmonically he's always on the money. And tempos don't matter."

"How is that long sound produced?"

"It has to do with a lot of things. Part of it is the instrument itself. But those earlier guys had good instruments too. Foreign instruments, which so many of the great ones are. Mine's German. It's about 150 years old. It's a kid compared to some that I know about. German, French, Italian. Those old craftsmen.

"It has to do also with the way the instrument is set up, as far as the way the sound post inside of the instrument is set. It has to do with the height of the bridge. A higher bridge produces a bigger sound, but it's more difficult to play. Mine is not high, but it's not super-low. Some guys have the strings down so close to the fingerboard that you've got to really play light or you'll start getting slapping."

"Of course," I said, "the amplification has been so improved."

"Yes, we do have that. But I still like to have gigs turn up now and then where you can play acoustic. They're getting rare any more. I've been playing Fridays and Saturdays at a hotel in Santa Monica called Shutters, with an outstanding pianist named John Hammond. He worked for Carmen."

"That says it."

"We played together with Carmen at the old Donte's. He's a marvelous players. I keep the amp really low, just a touch."

And that brought us back, inevitably, to Sarah. "The Sarah stories go on and on," Andy said with a quiet and affectionate chuckle. So I told him another one.

Some years ago, Roger Kellaway wrote and produced an album — an outstanding album, but little noticed — for Carmen McRae. I had heard the tapes, the rough mixes. And one day I was over at Sarah's house. She lived in Hidden Hills, a gated community just off the 101 freeway a little west of Woodland Hills, California. She had just done some of my songs. I said to her, "You've been recording a number of my songs. Thank you."

"Hmm," she said with a certain sniffy hauter, "I thought you'd never mention it."

She made us drinks, and after a while she said, "How's that album Carmen did with Roger?"

"Very nice," I said. "Beautiful charts, beautiful recording."

She had just risen to her feet to refill our glasses. "No," she said, "I mean, how's Carmen singing on it?"

"Sharp," I said.

She continued across her sunny living room toward the bar, monarchical in manner, though she was not very tall, her words trailing loftily over her shoulder: "Shit. I didn't know anybody but me knew that Carmen sings sharp."

Andy roared with laughter.

"Oh that Sass," he said wonderingly. And warmly.”

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Bill Evans - LIVE AT TOP OF THE GATE

September 9, 2016, 7:00 am

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The editorial staff at JazzProfiles continues its features on recently released recordings by George Klabin and the fine team at Resonance Records, although in the case of Bill Evans Live at Art D’Lugoff’s Top of the Gate,“recent” is a relative term as you will no doubt note as you read the following Press Release.

Try as we might, we could not improve on the explanation of how, what when, why the recording came about and its significance as described in the press release that accompanied the preview copy of the music and the video that closes this piece. So we thought it best to bring both of them to you “as is.”

The availability of more music from pianist Bill Evans is always an event, one that is made especially so when Resonance Records applies its magical talents to producing it.

RESONANCE RECORDS TO ISSUE UNRELEASED LIVE PERFORMANCES BY LEGENDARY PIANIST BILL EVANS

LIVE AT ART D'LUGOFF'S TOP OF THE GATE –

AVAILABLE JUNE 12, 2012

HISTORIC PERFORMANCES CAPTURED BY LABEL PRESIDENT

GEORGE KLABIN MORE THAN 40 YEARS AGO

With Live at Art D'Lugoff's Top of the Gate, Resonance Records offers listeners a table at the front of the stage for a stellar performance by one of jazz's greatest trios. It's October 23, 1968 in Greenwich Village, and legendary pianist Bill Evans is joined by bassist Eddie Gomez and drummer Marty Morell for two top-notch sets, represented here in their entirety. Aired only once, on Columbia University radio station WKCR-FM, this concert hasn't been heard for more than forty years and has never been released in any form.

"This gives people a good idea of what it must have been like to be in the room at the time and experience the music," says producer Zev Feldman. "We've done everything short of building a time machine."

The credit for the recording's remarkable clarity and intimacy rests entirely with George Klabin, then a 22-year-old recording engineer granted unprecedented access to the date by Evans' longtime manager, Helen Keane. Jazz fans can be forgiven for being skeptical after countless long-lost jazz recordings have hit the market only to sound as if they were transmitted over the telephone via a bad connection on a stormy night. Klabin, however, conscientiously positioned separate microphones on each member of the trio, yielding a pristine mix that's the next best thing to being there. This is, quite possibly, the best-engineered and most gorgeous-sounding live recording ever made of Evans.

"Being able to hear jazz up close, as I did in clubs, I was dismayed by what I heard on live recordings," Klabin recalls. "The sound was so often muddy and distant and not satisfying. I wanted to capture the intimacy."

The benefits of Klabin's approach can be heard from the first notes of Evans' delicate introduction to "Emily," which ring out with a hushed brilliance while the gentle murmur of diners can be heard unobtrusively in the background. "This release celebrates the memory of Bill Evans," Feldman says, "but it also celebrates the memory of Art D'Lugoff, who was a visionary and obviously one of New York's greatest music impresarios, and the Village Gate as well, which sadly is no longer with us either."

D'Lugoff opened the Village Gate in 1958, followed by the upstairs club, Top of The Gate, a few years later. The Greenwich Village establishments thrived for the next three-and-a-half decades, hosting not only the era's most influential figures in jazz but rising stars in folk music, world music, blues, and comedy, as well as off-Broadway shows. Just to give some idea of how central the Gate was: at the same time that Evans, Gomez and Morell were treating the audience upstairs to the music you're listening to now, patrons downstairs were thrilling to the sounds of Thelonious Monk or Charles Lloyd, whose quartets were sharing the stage that week.

Despite that monumental double-bill, however, the evidence we now have proves that it would have been difficult to top the show being put on by the Evans trio. At this time, Gomez was two years into what would become an eleven-year stint in the trio, while Morell had joined the group literally the same week the show was documented. The trio had quickly found its footing, however, playing at the height of their powers individually and collectively. For proof, look no further than the extended drum/bass interaction on the second disc's "Autumn Leaves."

Throughout the two sets, Evans showcases his gift for interpreting standards, playing only one original ("Turn Out the Stars") over the seventeen tracks. "My Funny Valentine" moves effortlessly from tenderness to passion, while "Gone With the Wind" erupts at a breakneck pace and "Here's That Rainy Day" concludes the evening with heart-breaking emotion.

Students of Evans' music will be delighted to see that three pieces ("Emily,""Yesterdays," and "'Round Midnight") are represented in both the first and second sets, offering a rare opportunity to compare the soloists' diverging takes on the same tunes in a single evening. Also, as Feldman points out in his notes, several of the selections possess historic significance: both "My Funny Valentine" and "Here's That Rainy Day" (and possibly "Mother of Earl") mark Evans' first documented trio performances of those songs, while "Here's That Rainy Day" may be the first time Evans recorded that piece period.

In addition to offering this vital concert for the first time, Feldman and Klabin have labored to surround the music with important context, assembling a package rich with photographs, information and reminiscences. Both Gomez and Morell offer heartfelt reflections of their time with Evans, while Klabin explains his methods in enlightening detail and Raphael D'Lugoff looks back at growing up in his father's legendary venue. A younger Raphael can be seen in a family photo alongside his father and sister Sharon, one of several historical documents included in the package, which also features memorabilia from the club and the actual contract for the week signed by Evans. D'Lugoff also provided a picture of the bustling street scene outside the Gate from the 1960s.

The liner notes also include an essay by pioneering jazz critic Nat Hentoff, an appreciation by the great vibist Gary Burton. These notes are lined with iconic photographs by Jan Persson, Raymond Ross, Herb Snitzer, Fred Seligo, and Tom Copi, whose striking cover image is graced by the original logo from the Top of the Gate sign.

The album will be available in a 2-CD deluxe digi-pack with a 28-page booklet. Additionally, a limited first-edition pressing of 3,000 hand-numbered 3-LP 180 Gram vinyl box sets will be made available, pressed by Record Technology Incorporated (R.T.I.), including a 4-panel booklet featuring the same content as the CD booklet. This edition was pressed at 45 RPM for optimum sound and mastered by Bernie Grundman. The entire package will also be downloadable with an e-booklet (where available) for those who choose to purchase the album digitally.

Resonance Records has chosen to participate and show support as an independent label for Record Store Day (April 21) by exclusively releasing a limited edition pressing of 1500 units of a 4 track "Selections From Top of The Gate," 10" record, pressed by Rainbo on cobalt blue-colored vinyl at 33 1/3 RPM.

Live at Art D'Lugoff's Top of the Gate follows Resonance's release earlier this year of Echoes of Indiana Avenue, a landmark collection of previously unreleased recordings of guitar master Wes Montgomery. Together, the two collections cement the label's place at the forefront of both new and archival jazz. "Our mission is both exposing deserving living talent and preserving the great jazz of the past," Klabin says. "We look to capture moments that are seminal or important in the career of the musician and in the history of modern jazz, so this is a perfect example."

For Feldman, the opportunity to work on not only a Bill Evans release but a recording from this particular era has been a dream come true. The producers' introduction to Evans' music came courtesy of the pianist’s work with this particular group, featuring Gomez and Morell. "This is something very personal for me because it was one of the first groups of Bill's that I had a love for," Feldman says. "I'm just so grateful to George that he took the initiative to document these performances, and it's just incredible that it's been tucked away for all these years and has stood the test of time."

Klabin recalls that October night 40-odd years ago as "one of the best experiences of my life. This was one of the best Bill Evans trios playing during a period, on a night, where Bill Evans was at his best."

Bill Evans · Live at Art D'Lugoff's Top of the Gate

(recorded October 23, 1968)

Resonance Records HCD - 2012 · Release Date: June 12, 2012

Bill Evans - piano

Eddie Gomez - bass

Marty Morell - drums

TRACK LIST:

Disc One - Set 1

1. Emily (Mandel & Mercer)

2. Witchcraft (C. Coleman)

3. Yesterdays (J. Kern)

4. Round Midnight (T. Monk)

5. My Funny Valentine (Rogers & Hart)

6. California Here I Come (De Sylva, Jolson & Myers)

7. Gone With The Wind (Magidson & Wrubel)

8. Alfie (B. Bacharach)

9. Turn Out The Stars (B. Evans)

Disc Two - Set 2

1. Yesterdays (J. Kern)

2. Emily (Mandel & Mercer)

3. In A Sentimental Mood (D. Ellington)

4. Round Midnight (T. Monk)

5. Autumn Leaves (J. Kosma)

6. Someday My Prince Will Come (Churchill & Morey)

7. Mother Of Earl (E. Zindar)

8. Here's That Rainy Day (Burke & Van Heusen)

For further information on this and other Resonance Records releases, visit: ResonanceRecords.org

Resonance Records is a program of the Rising Jazz Stars Foundation,

a 501(c)(3) non-profit corporation.

For media information, please contact:

323-556-0500

Or email:

info@resonancerecords.org

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