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Changing The Tune: The Kansas City Women's Jazz Festival, 1978-1985

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


"Thank goodness for people like Carol Comer and Dianne Gregg who did their part to lift our culture by supporting and sharing with the world powerful music by powerful musicians who happened to be women. And thank goodness for people like Carolyn Glenn Brewer, who wrote so beautifully about them, reminding us that important things come from individuals with bold ideas and a lot of determination."
- Maria Schneider, Grammy Award-winning composer and big band leader

"Thanks to Brewer for helping to erase the stigma women musicians experience by exposing this inspiring organization and its contributions to women in music in this well-documented account."
- Ellen Johnson, vocalist, producer and author of Jazz Child: A Portrait of Sheila Jordan

"In telling the story of the Kansas City Women's Jazz Festival and the women who made it possible, Ms. Brewer has written a glorious new chapter in jazz history. These jazz women are no longer ‘Anonymous.'"
- Chuck Haddix, author of Kansas City Jazz: From Ragtime to Bebop - History and Bird: The Life and Music of Charlie Parker

"It is a privilege to know the talented Carol Comer, Dianne Gregg, and Carolyn Glenn Brewer and to sing the praises of this outstanding book."
Mike Metheny, trumpet/flugelhorn soloist and author of Old Friends Are The Best Friends

"A wonderfully detailed book that captures the essence and inner workings of the WJF while also providing much more than a glimpse into the Kansas City jazz scene during those years."
- Steve Cardenas, guitarist

"Compiling oral histories documented with facts, Brewer has breathed life into a story that connects gender issues from 40 years ago to the present, immersing the reader in a rich story-telling experience."
- Lee Hill Kavanaugh, alumnus bass trombonist for DIVA and award-winning journalist for the Kansas City Star

"This gifted writer draws the reader in like she was chatting over coffee and shares the incomparable, unique stories of seven years of the Women's Jazz Festival in swingin' Kansas City."
- Mary Jo Papich, co-founder of the Jazz Education Network

In his much loved portrayal of Jesse Stone, a continuing TV series about a police chief in the small Massachusetts town of Paradise, actor Tom Selleck’s  is constantly throwing off little witticisms like: “The information is out there; all you gotta do is let it in.”


I thought of that expression when the nice folks at The University of North Texas sent me a preview copy of Carolyn Glenn Brewer’s  Changing The Tune: The Kansas City Women's Jazz Festival, 1978-1985.

Who knew?

But after reading Ms. Brewer’s fully-researched and well-written narrative on the subject, it would appear that those Jazz fans who attended the Kansas City Women's Jazz Festival, 1978-1985 and those musicians who performed in it, certainly knew, and for eight years, they all had a ball.

By way of introduction, CAROLYN GLENN BREWER is a longtime music educator who has written for Jam Magazine and published two books on the 1957 tornado in Ruskin Heights, Missouri. She has played clarinet in bands, chamber groups, and orchestras throughout the Kansas City area. She lives in Kansas City.

Ms. Brewer talks about how this book came about in the following excerpt from it introductory Acknowledgements:

“IN 2010 WHILE I WAS INTERVIEWING Carol Comer for a local jazz magazine about another Kansas City jazz festival, the Women's Jazz Festival inevitably came up. Carol's enthusiasm for the subject hadn't dimmed. She suggested I write an article about WJF, so I did. But I could no more contain this vast subject in a few pages than reduce Mahler's Seventh to a few measures. Work on the book began even before I had finished the article.

Carol and Dianne Gregg couldn't have been more generous. They gave me access to the "world headquarters" archive where through tapes, photos, festival programs, and news clippings the individual festivals spoke for themselves. But always it was during conversations with Carol and Dianne that WJF came to life. Over shared meals and relaxed evenings in their magical backyard their stories became the heart of this story. These two remarkable women not only created an event that changed the course of jazz, but their persistence in promoting jazz connects those events of nearly forty years ago to today's jazz world. They also have proven to be exceptional dog sitters.

Social historians dream about sources like Mike Ning. Not only was he instrumental in the success of WJF as a piano player, artist, and board member, he kept all papers pertaining to the festival. When he handed me a large box full of board meeting minutes and reviews, I knew I had hit the jackpot.

At the top of the list of friends who encouraged me to write this book, [pianist] Paul Smith takes first chair. His lists of musician emails, photos, and recordings gave me the boost I needed at times when

And the following media release which accompanied the preview copy of the book offers this context for a broader appreciation of what the publication of this book represents:

“Carolyn Glenn Brewer explores the history of women in jazz through the lens of the Kansas City jazz festival in her new book, Changing the Tune: The Kansas City Women's Jazz Festival, 1978-1985.

“Even though the potential passage of the Equal Rights Amendment had cracked glass ceilings across the country, in 1978 jazz remained a boys' club. Two Kansas City women, Carol Comer and Dianne Gregg, challenged that inequitable standard. With the support of jazz luminaries Marian McPartland and Leonard Feather, inaugural performances by Betty Carter, Mary Lou Williams, an unprecedented All-Star band of women, Toshiko Akiyoshi's band, plus dozens of Kansas City musicians and volunteers, a casual conversation between two friends evolved into the annual Kansas City Women's Jazz Festival (WJF).

But with success came controversy. Anxious to satisfy fans of all jazz styles, WJF alienated some purists. The inclusion of male sidemen brought on protests. The egos of established, seasoned players unexpectedly clashed with those of newcomers. Undaunted, Comer, Gregg, and WJF's ensemble of supporters continued the cause for eight years. They fought for equality not with speeches but with swing, without protest signs but with bebop.

For the first book about this groundbreaking festival, Carolyn Glenn Brewer interviewed dozens of people and dove deeply into the archives. This book is an important testament to the ability of two friends to emphatically prove jazz genderless, thereby changing the course of jazz history.”

The project seemed overwhelming. He never lost patience when I'd ask him again to tell me about the time he played with Anita O'Day or Dianne Reeves. At gigs, parties, even funerals, he always asked how the book was coming, and if there was anything he could do to help.

My brother—and I'm happy to say my oldest friend—David Glenn, provided insight, valuable editing input, contacts, personal stories, and reminders of the importance of this story.

The staff of The State Historical Society of Missouri Research Center-Kansas City couldn't have been more helpful. Always friendly, even when I handed them yet another stack of photocopy requests from the three cartons of WJF memorabilia, they encouraged me to take as much room as I needed and to not feel rushed.

To all those I interviewed I give special thanks, first because they all furthered the advancement of women in jazz and secondly for sharing their memories and candidly setting the tone of the time.

I'd also like to add a nod of appreciation and respect for authors Linda Dahl and Sally Placksin whose groundbreaking books on women in jazz were invaluable resources, and to Judy Chaikin for her outstanding movie, Girls in the Band. Seeing these brave women on screen personalized their experience and underlined the importance of their stories. …”

And here with the beginning paragraphs from Ms. Brewer’s First Chapter appropriately entitled Crazy Little Women is how the Kansas City Women’s Jazz festival began:

“THE IDEA CAME TO THEM while driving home from the 1977 Wichita Jazz Festival. It was a boring, flat, dark drive with plenty of time for conversation. They rehashed what they had seen and heard that day, but kept coming back to the same point. After twelve hours of jazz, they had heard only one woman performer.

"Sarah Vaughan was terrific," singer/pianist/songwriter Carol Comer remembers, "but she wasn't enough. Dianne and I lamented the fact that women players were mostly passed over, not just in Wichita, but everywhere."

Dianne Gregg hosted a radio show called Women in Jazz, as well as two other jazz shows on the Kansas City National Public Radio station, KCUR. Every week she talked to women jazz musicians who were deserving of more exposure. Both women were well aware of the fact that all jazz musicians struggled to be heard, as they were aware that, even in this era of debate over the Equal Rights Amendment, women musicians continued to have more to prove.

Dianne and Carol had gone to the Wichita Jazz Festival as members of the press. Carol was covering the festival for Down Beat and Dianne for KCUR. As much as they enjoyed the bands, they were there to work, and that creative thought process was still flowing when Carol said, "I have a really radical idea—why don't we have a women's jazz festival?"

They both had a good laugh over the improbability of that happening, but by the time they paid their Kansas Turnpike toll, the idea had taken hold. Why not? There was no shortage of talent, and how hard could it be to organize a concert? Between them they had plenty of contacts and gumption enough to pursue those they didn't know. They hadn't heard of anyone putting together a jazz festival that focused on women, but that wasn't a good enough reason not to do it. Kansas City was the perfect location: right in the middle of the country and known for its jazz heritage.

By the time Carol dropped Dianne off at her apartment in mid-town Kansas City, they were laughing about the fact that an hour before they had thought the idea was radical. "It isn't a radical idea. It's a great idea," Dianne remembers saying. "So we said, 'Let's do it.'" They'd sleep on it and check in with each other the next day. The two women had plenty to think about.”

Jazz musicians are very brave. It’s not easy to play this stuff and you fail at it more times than you succeed. You need help from colleagues who explain things to you and share their secrets to help you better express your own style.  And you need people who believe in you and support you by giving you a place to play.  All too often in the long history of the music such venues have been unsavory, to say the least.

But every so often a George Wein comes along and invites you to a party - aka - the Newport Jazz Festival; or Jimmy Lyons does the same in Monterey, CA; or Dick Gibson throws an actual Jazz Party in Colorado.

The sun is shining [hopefully] and fans and musicians are mingling and sharing appreciations while a group of brave Jazz musicians are on stage preparing to do what Jazz musician, author and teacher, Ted Gioia, describes in the following quotation from The Imperfect Art: Reflections on Jazz and Modern Culture:

"If improvisation is the essential element in jazz, it may also be the most problematic. Perhaps the only way of appreciating its peculiarity is by imagining what twentieth-century art would be like if other art forms placed an equal emphasis on improvisation. Imagine T.S. Eliot giving nightly poetry readings at which, rather than reciting set pieces, he was expected to create impromptu poems — different ones each night, sometimes recited at a fast clip; imagine giving Hitchcock or Fellini a handheld camera and asking them to film something — anything — at that very moment, without the benefits of script, crew, editing, or scoring; imagine Matisse or Dali giving nightly exhibitions of their skills — exhibitions at which paying audiences would watch them fill up canvas after canvas with paint, often with only two or three minutes devoted to each 'masterpiece.'

These examples strike us as odd, perhaps even ridiculous, yet conditions such as these are precisely those under which the jazz musician operates night after night, year after year."

Jazz musicians need “such conditions;” they need places to play with atmospheres that are salubrious, audiences that are attentive and considerate and impresarios that provide organized events for them to try once again to succeed.

Carol Comer and Dianne Gregg provided all of these things and took it one step further: they did it with an emphasis on Women in Jazz. Not an easy thing to accomplish in the socio-cultural milieu that was America in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s.

Carol Glenn Brewer provides the details of their bravery in Changing the Tune: The Kansas City Women's Jazz Festival, 1978-1985.

You can order your copy through the University of North Texas press by going here.




FelliniJazz [CamJazz 5002]

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


Jazz musicians are constantly looking for sources for inspiration. The Blues, folk songs, Tin Pan Alley; after all, you gotta improvise on something.

The Beboppers used songs from the Great American Songbook and altered them with new melodies; original compositions which, over time, became the Jazz Standards was another vehicle as were Greek Modes.

For awhile in the 1950’s and 1960’s, Broadway shows were all the rage as the basis for Jazz improvisation.

Movie themes and the mood music employed during movies to accent emotions and actions in films were another constant source for Jazz expression.

Italian Jazz pianist, composer and band leader Enrico Pieranunzi, not surprisingly, has often turned to two giants of Italian Movie Music for thematic points-of-departures: Ennio Morricone and Nino Rota.

Nino Rota wrote the scores to many of Federico Fellini’s notable movies and in 2003, Enrico put together an incredibly talented quintet made up of Kenny Wheeler on trumpet, Chris Potter on soprano and tenor saxophones, Charlie Haden on bass and Paul Motian od drums for exquisite renderings of seven of Rota’s themes for Fellini films.

He even went so far as to make Fellini and Jazz into one word - FelliniJazz [CamJazz 5002] - and it instantly became one of my favorite recordings.

Pianist Enrico Pieranunzi employed a stream of consciousness dialogue which is very analogous to Jazz improvisation as the framework for these insert notes to his recording.

Fellini, il Jazz e Roma [Fellini, Jazz and Rome] - Enrico Pieranunzi

“I am listening to the recording of "La Dolce Vita" and ...hmm, let's see ... who's that playing? ... oh yeah... it's that amazing, ironic, irreverent "sideways" drummer - Paul Motian ... Paul Motian?... isn't he the one who, along with Bill Evans and Scott La Faro radically changed the history of the jazz trio between the late 50s and early 60s? ... and who later went on to make incredible recordings with Paul Bley and Keith Jarrett?... and then discovered and made famous Bill Frisell and a lot of other talented jazz musicians?

... and who's that on trumpet playing the theme for "Amarcord" with a sound so full of melancholy and yearning like the dizzy clown of the Medrano Circus, who could it be? ... oh yeah, it's Kenny Wheeler, that great Canadian soloist/composer, now a naturalized British citizen, with so many beautiful recordings under his belt... but how can this be? ... Motian and Wheeler together?... ... and the bass player?... that powerful and inexorable timing would seem to be none other than Charlie Haden ... but there must be some kind of mistake... Haden playing the theme of "I Vitelloni"?

... this must be some kind of a joke... but then,of course, if it isn't him it's got to be somebody who's learned to imitate him perfectly ...but no! it IS him, only Haden could do a solo like that... and yet it's strange... Haden and Wheeler have never recorded together and so ... no, no it's him alright, no doubt about it: this is the great Haden of the "Liberation Music Orchestra" who also made historic recordings with Omette Coleman ... so, this CD is really something special, and something that has also never happened before ... what's more Motian and Haden haven't recorded together in such a long time, at least 75 years ... so what is this CD anyway? ...I must be dreaming ... wait a minute...

... who's that on the saxophone, that seductive voice so sweetly playing, no, acting out, the theme from "La Strada"? ... strange, though ... it's so modern, but every once in awhile I seem to hear traces ol great tenors of the past like Coleman Hawkins, Don Byas... and especially... there must be a new one among them ... maybe that talented young Chris Potter that everyone is talking about ... he'sa guy who. in the midst of a whole slew of

new sax players who seem mass-produced, is able to say some very personal things, a really strong personality ... he's only 31 and already capable of telling some truly deep stories with that sax of his... and so what does he have to do with the music from Fellini's films? ...let me see ... well, of course ... yes, it's him alright... At this point I don't Know what to say ... I don't get it... a combo with the likes of Paul Motian, Charlie Haden, Kenny Wheeler, Chris Potter ... how is this possible? ... a group like this could only exist in the imagination of some audacious producer or... right, in a dream.

Ok. Ok, alright, I'll stop there. I was just having a little fun improvising ...
But I guarantee you that when I re-listened to the selections on FELLINI Jazz everything seemed surreal and it was really tike slipping into a kind of dream; or, if you like, into a film that Fellini would gladly have made. Because a dream it was -or a film, if you prefer - the concept and realization of this CD. I don't think anyone could even have imagined a more variegated and stellar group of

musicians than this to pay homage to the genius of this great Master of Cinema: Haden, Motian, Wheeler, Potter... coordinated (and only so-to-speak. naturally, given the immense jazz personality of each of these musicians) by the author of these lines, who also had the very pleasant task of doing the arrangements for the musical themes of some of Fellini's most famous films.

Fellini and jazz then. The unfettered imagination of some of the most extraordinary artists in the history of this music, here to invent anew, and in a completely original way, the soundtracks of the films of "a many-faceted artist with unlimited and inexhaustible imagination". Fellini's cinema: which restored to this art form its original sense of movement, and the representation of that which is visible and that which is not: and jazz improvisation in the most pregnant sense of the term: the "interior movement" of the musicians who continuously create new acoustic images in order to grasp and express that ever-shifting, mysterious "invisible human" inside them ... So then, Fellini and jazz, but also "Fellini, Jazz and Rome"... and tor various reasons. To begin with because, by a strange and marvelous twist of fate, it so happens that the writer of these notes - a native, in fact, of Home and yet every day more and more captive to her charms - has found himself mixing his own sounds with those of the above-mentioned living legends...

And, then, precisely lor the fact that the city of Rome - a city that Fellini loved and deeply understood, to the point of dedicating an entire, highly celebrated film to her alone - has provided the backdrop to this very special recording... "

Last but not least" because the irony of the... dream (and everybody knows that dreams, in their apparent inscrutability have a very rigorous logic) has seen to it that the Rome studio in which FELLINI Jazz was recorded happened to be located very nearby that same Via Veneto that Fellini had elevated, with his "La Dolce Vita", to a veritable universal icon.

Enrico Pieranunzi May 2003 (translated by Darragh Henegan)

Enrico Pieranunzi Fellini Jazz by Ira Gitler

“In the period following World War II there was a renaissance in the film industry of Italy. Roberto Rossellini’s Roma, citta - aperta (1945) and Paisa (1946) – known respectively, in the United States as Open City and Paisan– heralded the arrival of Italian neo-realism and were artistic and commercial successes on both sides of the Atlantic.

Federico Fellini, then in his mid-20’s, served as a screenwriter on the first of the two films and as an assistant director on the second. In the 1950’s he blossomed as his own as a director.  I remember well the impact I Vitelloni had on me (and my friends) when I first saw it. I had been attending foreign films in my pre-teen years and was not intimidated by reading the subtitles. (This was far better than the later alternative of dubbing. I unequivocally boycotted all dubbed foreign films.) Although I was looking at images and simultaneously reading titles I was also hearing the actors. Even if, for the most part, I didn’t understand the language, the very sound of it and the expressiveness of the actors voices added to the total experience. The, of course, there was the universal language – music.

As I continued to view Fellini’s films I came to know the memorable themes which complemented the cinematic necromancy of the director and learn the name of his chief musical collaborator, Nino Rota.

While in the midst of writing these notes I happen to come across a documentary about Fellini on the Sundance television channel. In it there is a section devoted to the relationship between Fellini and Rota: the ambiguous requests to Rota (“Give me a happy song but make it sad” and so forth); and Fellini calling Rota “a magician … the melodies are already out there in the air and he finds them. He’s like those people who find water with a stick.

In one scene Rota is seated at the piano. Fellini has told him that he needs music for a new film. Rota begins playing a melody, expansively, its bittersweet nostalgia sweeping up and down the keyboard. “That’s it,” he says to Rota, and there he has the theme song [to the film] Amarcord.

Enrico Pieranunzi considers this project “one of the most exciting and challenging in my musical life, both for the musicians involved and for the music I was asked to arrange.” First of all, Pieranunzi pointed chose Chris Potter, Kenny Wheeler, Charlie Haden and Paul Motian. He and producer Ermano Basso agreed, as Enrico explains it, that “these musicians were the best actors for such a difficult musical, film. “I tried to conceive these arrangements by relating them to the specific peculiarities of the players … when I heard them in the studio it was a dream coming true.  “

Pieranunzi draws an analogy between how jazz musicians play and a director such as Fellini shaped his films. “There is in common the tendency to always look beyond, for what is under such things,” he says, “a constant, tireless effort to express the mysterious, hidden areas of ourselves that have their roots in the subconscious, human reality.”

You will notice that all the movies from which the music derives (save Amarcord and La Citta` Delle Donne/City  of Women, both of the 1970s), are from the 1950s. These are Pieranunzi’s favorites. “I think that these movies bear a perfect balance between realism and the introspection of the characters: realism and imagination.”

“These movies remind me a lot of my childhood. Atmosphere – moods that these movies show are still inside me. Incidentally,” he continues, “I was three years old when I Vitelloni was made and at that point I had already been well-nourished with a lot of Charlie Parker, Django and Lennie Tristano whose music my father used to play on his 78s.”

It would be a hollow experience for me to attempt to describe the feeling that … [Pieranunzi and his colleagues] bring to these recordings, whether playing themes or improvising on them. I must, however, stress how everyone immersed themselves in the music, sonically and ‘wig-wise.’

As I implied earlier, after experiencing Fellini’s films not only the images but the music remained in my head; now these themes and the brilliant interpretations resonate in a new way as I sit in the darkened theater/illuminated screen of my mind.”  – Ira Gitler 2004

The following video montage features Wheeler, Potter, Pieranunzi, Haden and Motian on the theme Nino Rota developed for Fellini’s IVitellino.


Andy Kirk And His Twelve Clouds of Joy

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© -Steven Cerra. Copyright protected; all rights reserved.



For some time now, the editorial staff at JazzProfiles has envisioned brief features on some of the big bands of The Swing Era that have fallen out of view, so to speak. Of course, in the broadest sense, all of the big bands of The Swing Era are relatively obscure today as both the bands themselves and the generation that favored and nurtured this style of Jazz have moved on into history.


During the heyday of the Big Bands, two of the less recognized but highly respected outfits were the Andy Kirk and the Jimmie Lunceford bands.


Andy Kirk (1898-1992) took over Terrence Holder's Dark Clouds of Joy in 1929 and turned the band into a successful touring and recording unit, very largely dependent on the magnificent writing and arranging of Mary Lou Williams.


Though he was often out front for photo opportunities, Andy Kirk ran the Clouds of Joy strictly from the back row. The limelight was usually left to singer June Richmond or vocalist/conductor Pha Terrell; the best of the arrangements were done by Mary Lou Williams, who left the band in 1942; as a bass saxophonist, Kirk wasn't called on to take a solo. All the same, he turned the Clouds of Joy into one of the most inventive swing bands. His disposition was sunny and practical and he was a competent organizer (who in later life ran a Harlem hotel, the legendary Theresa, and organized a Musicians' Union local in New York City).


As Gunther Schuller points out in the following excerpts from his definitive opus The Swing Era: The Development of Jazz, 1930-1945:


ANDY KIRK


“It is fascinating to contemplate the role that geography and chance encounters have played in the history of jazz. Although often giving the impression that "it all happens in New York"—even Basie and his Kansas City cohorts had to go there to really "make it"—it is useful to remind ourselves that 1) there was a Kansas City, under a wide-open Prendergast political regime, spawning crucial developments in jazz, including the contributions of one Charlie Parker; 2) that further north in Bismarck, North Dakota, another young man, Charlie Christian, was revolutionizing the guitar, with shock waves of after-effects that, for better or worse, can be felt unto this day in all popular music, even rock; 3) that practically every town in America had a German music teacher and that these provided musical training to the likes of Scott Joplin, Benny Goodman, and Earl Hines, and countless others; 4) that Tatum, Claude Hopkins, Oscar Peterson first studied the classical literature with classical piano teachers; 5) that John Lewis as a teenager in Albuquerque, New Mexico, already heard and knew one of his major influences, Lester Young—not in New York; 6) that it was on the road with the Earl Hines band that Gillespie and Parker first began listening to each other in earnest.


The criss-crossing of bands over the length and breadth of this nation over the decades, with the chance encounters between musicians, has been a factor of virtually incalculable importance in the development of jazz. The long hard tours, the endless one-nighters, though at times painful in actuality, have also played a crucial fertilizing role in the growth of this music. A study of whose paths crossed—and when—would in itself make a very instructive survey of jazz history.


Consider, for example, the fact that Jimmie Lunceford and Andy Kirk both, somewhat by chance, went to Denver, Colorado, to study with Wilberforce Whiteman, Paul's father, and under that remarkable teacher's tutelage both became skillful performers on a host of instruments (brass and woodwinds); further that both played and acquired a certain disciplined professionalism with George Morrison's orchestra in Denver; that the one, Kirk, ended up in 1926 in Terrence Holder's Texas-based band, the other, Lunceford, in Mary Lou Burleigh's band in Memphis, and that she, old enough to appreciate as a teenager in her native Pittsburgh the work of a certain pianist named Earl Hines, soon joined her husband John Williams in Terrence Holder's band, thus becoming with her husband one of the charter members of what in a few years was to be known as Andy Kirk and His Twelve Clouds of Joy. Thus the lives and talents of the elder Whiteman, three major orchestra leaders, two most remarkable jazz pianists, and one very special woman arranger-composer all intertwine in a scheme of geography and chance.


The parallel between Kirk and Lunceford goes farther in that both gradually gave up their playing roles, turning to leading their orchestras; and both had in their service at least one major creative personality, Mary Lou Williams and Sy Oliver, respectively, who early on set the basic style of their band. Kirk, a modest man, had in 1929 reluctantly taken over the leadership of Holder's Black Clouds of Joy band, while continuing to play tuba and bass saxophone. (Holder was one of the popular early trumpet stars of the Southwest but, apparently because of domestic troubles, abandoned his orchestra in 1928.) Our skein of coincidences continues when, after Kirk had taken over the leadership of the Clouds, George Lee, another important Kansas City bandleader, happened to hear Kirk in Tulsa and recommended him for a long-term engagement at the Pla-Mor Ballroom in Kansas City, affording the band some welcome financial stability. In turn, the young Jack Kapp, recording director for the Brunswick label, happened to hear Kirk and asked him to hold a rehearsal in preparation for a recording date. Here again fate interceded in that the regular Kirk pianist, Marion Jackson, failed to show up at the rehearsal. Mary Lou Williams was asked at the last minute to substitute for Jackson. And so Mary Lou Williams became a permanent fixture of the Kirk organization—indeed one of its two stars; the other, in the late thirties, being the remarkable tenor saxophonist Dick Wilson.


The Kirk orchestra's recording history began in late 1929 with two sides cut in Kansas City on the Vocalian label (under the name of John Williams and His Memphis Stompers). …


Mary Lou Williams left Andy Kirk in 1942 and was replaced by a pianist of formidable talents named Kenneth Kersey. In mid-1942 he provided Kirk with a substantial hit, Boogie Woogie Cocktail, which I recall hearing consistently on jukeboxes as late as 1944. Kersey was quite a find. Whereas Mary Lou Williams had taken boogie-woogie, with its murky and somber primitive visions, and given it a more cheerful lacy legato touch, Kersey took the same idiom, tightened its variation structure, energized its rhythms, stylized it and turned it into both a pianistic tour de force and an excellent dance number. It was boogie-woogie cleaned up a bit, efficient, and quite perfect—a miniature boogie-woogie concerto.


As with other orchestras, so too with Kirk, the young up-and-coming modernists were beginning to infiltrate his big band in the early-middle forties. One of these was the first-rate trumpeter Howard McGhee, whose McGhee Special, featuring him in a long extended trumpet solo, was also a successful best seller. McGhee is another one of those fine players who has been forgotten in recent years. Admittedly, he didn't have the staying power of a Gillespie or a Hawkins or a Hines, and his frequent enforced absences through the years certainly signify an erratic career. But in his early days McGhee was a leading transition figure in the incoming bop movement.


When McGhee joined Kirk he was just twenty-four and had played with only one other major orchestra, Lionel Hampton's, for a brief spell. It is to Kirk's credit that he recognized McGhee's talent and allowed him to be featured not merely in a brief solo, but in a major recording debut as soloist-composer-arranger. …”


And George T. Simon, who covered the Big Bands for Metronome Magazine during their Swing Era's heyday, wrote this caring tribute to Andy Kirk in the 4th edition of his seminal The Big Bands:


“HE WAS a gentle man, a kind man, a happy man, an intelligent man and a talented man. He was Andy Kirk, who led one of the better swing bands, one that at times threatened to achieve greatness but which never quite reached the pinnacle it seemed to be constantly approaching.


Called "Andy Kirk and His Clouds of Joy," it was a band composed of good musicians, a band that for several years played outstanding arrangements, but a band that could be wonderful one minute, mediocre the next, wonderful again, only fair for a while and then suddenly wonderful once more.


Perhaps Andy was too lenient. Perhaps had he driven his men harder, they might have played better more often. But such an approach might also have destroyed the warm and relaxed rhythmic feeling that pervaded so much of the band's music.


The first time I heard the band in person, early in 1937 in Harlem's Savoy Ballroom, I was greatly impressed by its simple swinging riffs both in ensemble passages and as backgrounds for soloists, of whom the most impressive was a girl, Mary Lou Williams. One of the most brilliant jazz pianists of all time, serious-looking, with long hair, a shy smile and surprisingly attractive buck teeth, she played in an Earl Hines manner, her solos mirroring phrases that the full band played in its arrangements — arrangements which she herself had written. There was also a good tenor saxist, Dick Wilson, a fine trombonist, Ted Donnelly, whom I always considered to be one of the most underrated of all musicians, and a steady, heady drummer, Ben Thigpen, whose son, Ed, years later, was to drum in the Oscar Peterson Trio.


The band had arrived in New York about the same time that Count Basic's had, but with much less ballyhoo. Organized in 1929 in Oklahoma, it had, like the Count's, established itself in Kansas City. It began to blossom there after 1933, when Mary Lou became a regular member. Married to Johnny Williams, a saxist with Kirk, she had occasionally sat in with the band and seemed so eager to play at all times that Andy nicknamed her "The Pest." Then, one day in 1933, the regular pianist showed up for a recording date reportedly in no condition to play. In desperation, Andy called for Mary Lou, and from then on "The Pest" remained seated on Kirk's piano bench until the middle of 1942, when she finally decided to seek a career as a solo performer.


Some of the band's greatest recordings featured Mary Lou, sides like "Froggy Bottom,""Walkin' and Swingin',""Cloudy," which it recorded three different times, and "The Lady Who Swings the Band," which was a much more accurate identification tag for Mary Lou than "The Pest." She also wrote one of the most popular instrumentals of the period, "Roll 'Em," a boogie-woogie type of opus, which Benny Goodman's band parlayed into a hit.


Kirk also featured a singer named Pha (pronounced "Fay") Terrell, who sang the vocal on the band's most commercial record, "Until the Real Thing Comes Along." Pha was a rather unctuous singer (some of us used to call him Pha "Terrible"), but he knew how to sell a song. Less commercial but much more musical was another Kirk vocalist, Lunceford alumnus Henry Wells, who also played trombone and arranged, and who, for me, was one of the truly outstanding band singers of all time. (His "I'll Get By" and "Why Can't We Do It Again?" were especially outstanding.) His was a very smooth, musical style, and what he may have lacked in showmanship, he more than made up for in his phrasing. Barry Ulanov, with whom I didn't always hear ear-to-ear on singers, described Wells in the November, 1941, Metronome as "a remarkable, indeed a unique singer, quite unlike any other in popular music. He sings softly, gets a crooning tone, but Henry doesn't croon. He sings with all his voice, he's always got the control for the subtle dynamics of truly rich singing. . . . He is an expressive singer with a lovely voice, a smart musical head . . . who's absolutely untouched in the business." I agreed completely.


Kirk varied his fare between ballads and jazz. The latter department was strengthened considerably both musically and commercially in 1939 by the addition of guitarist Floyd Smith, whose sensuous, insinuating version of "Floyd's Guitar Blues" became one of the band's most attractive assets. Andy also brought June Richmond into the band at about the same time, and the vivacious, carefree, ever-rhythmic singer added much aural and visual color.


The band was especially impressive in theaters. Here it would run through its well-prepared routines in truly professional fashion, with Kirk, who paced his programs exceedingly well, presiding over the festivities like a father immensely proud of his brood—happy, somewhat reserved, but definitely in charge at all times.


Musicians enjoyed playing for Kirk, and it was no wonder that some of the younger, better stars worked for him even though the pay could never have been very high. When Mary Lou left in 1942, Kenny Kersey took her place. Don Byas and later Al Sears came in to fill Dick Wilson's tenor chair, while several future trumpet stars, Hal (Shorty) Baker, Howard McGhee and Fats Navarro, all played in the Kirk brass section.


Andy was generous in the way he featured his men. Perhaps he was a bit too generous, a bit too lenient, believing, as he must have, that the best music comes from relaxed musicians. The potential for one of the great bands remained with the group throughout the years, and yet Kirk never quite realized that potential, perhaps because he could never quite create the musical militancy that in one form or another drove the most successful bands to the top.


When big bands started to fade from the scene, Andy went with them. But, unlike many other leaders, he found various other things to do. One of the most respected men in his community, he managed Harlem's Hotel Theresa for many years, settled into real estate for a while, then became a pillar of New York's musicians local. Throughout it all, he remained the same gentle and kind man whom we all admired so much.


Who said "Nice guys finish last"?”


The following video offers a sampling of the Andy Kirk Big Band’s “beat” as June Richmond swings out with Cuban Boogie Woogie. Mary Lou Williams is also featured on piano.

Peter Bernstein - Jazz Guitarist [From The Archives]

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


The recent arrival of guitarist Peter Bernstein's latest recording Let Loose [Smoke session - recorded in 2016 with Gerald Clayton on piano, Doug Weiss on bass and Bill Stewart on drums] brought to mind this earlier feature on Peter which the editorial staff at JazzProfiles thought it would be fun to revisit. 


In our humble opinion, Peter is a throwback to a time when melodic guitarists held a prominent place in Jazz.


“Ciao Stefano!
Yes, the gig [in Rome, September, 2009] with Peter was fantastic and we really had a great time. He's a swingin' mother!
Great harmonic and melodic ideas and a real nice cat...no ego at all, just commitment to the music. We need more guys like that.”
– Jazz pianist, Dado Moroni


“Peter Bernstein is the most impressive young guitarist I've heard. He plays the best of all of them, for swing, logic, feeling and taste. Pete has paid attention to the past as well as to the future. … he is just so intense and white hot all the time. I love it. I’m really glad that he’s there and that he’s moving ahead in his own way.”
 –Jim Hall

“[About his clean, unembellished tone] … Bernstein recalled: ‘the guys that I loved had a touch on the instrument …. I just wanted to deal with the music and develop a relationship with the instrument that came from my hands.’”
– Eric Fine, Jazz Times April/2009



Growing up in a large, extended Italian-American family, the guitar seemed to be everywhere. The sound of guitar during those childhood years was literally "music to my ears." To some extent, it was almost impossible for me to separate the sound of one from the other.

And yet, when I first turned to Jazz, it seemed to be a rare instrument.

I once asked Joe Pass, the late master Jazz guitarist, why there were so few Jazz guitarists compared to those who practiced the art on other instruments.
His succinctly put answer was: “Because it’s a bitch of an instrument to play let alone play Jazz on.”

Given this early fascination and later musical involvement with the guitar, I am always very receptive to “new faces” on the instrument and I’m always especially pleased to discover a new Jazz guitarist whose music “speaks to me.”


Imagine my delight, then, when I first encountered Peter Bernstein playing on Hammond B-3 organist Melvin Rhyne’s initial disc for the Holland-based, Criss Cross label entitled The Legend [Criss 1059 CD].




Like so many of the fine recordings by Gerry Teekens, the Dutch producer and owner of the Criss Cross label, I was led to them by my interest in the playing of drummer Kenny Washington [who has appeared on no less than 44 recordings for Criss Cross, a number only exceeded by his usual running mate, bassist Peter Washington – no relation].



As mentioned previously in other profiles, for reasons both personal and professional, I was not very involved with Jazz for most of the decade of the 1980’s. As a result, I didn’t come across Kenny’s playing until I heard him on tenor saxophonist Ralph Moore’s 1989 Landmark recording, Images [LCD 1520-2].

It was “love-at-first-hearing” and I began to seek out recordings on which Kenny appeared which obviously led me to the Criss Cross label, among others.

There are many ironies with my first encounter with guitarist Peter Bernstein not the least of which is that I first experienced his playing on an album with a Hammond B-3 organist and with a drummer who plays in a manner very reminiscent of Philly Joe Jones and Jimmy Cobb – an approach to Jazz drumming that I prefer, immensely.

To digress for a moment, before he skyrocketed to fame with his Verve LPs of the mid-to-late 1960’s, guitarist Wes Montgomery made three, seminal Jazz trio recordings for the much smaller Riverside label in 1959 and then later in 1963 with none-other than Hammond B-3 organist Melvin Rhyne [who appears on all of them] and Jimmy Cobb [who appears on one of them].



Ever since I first heard Hammond B-3 organist Jimmy Smith’s Blue Note recordings, I have always had a fondness for organ-guitar-drums trios and the three LPs that Wes made for Riverside using this format have always been among my favorites.

From 1959-1963, when he was not working with The Mastersounds [a group that included brothers Buddy on vibes/piano and Monk on bass], Wes Montgomery worked with Melvin Rhyne in a trio that included Paul Parker or George Brown on drums [they are also the drummers on the other two Riverside LPs and both also display a Philly Jo Jones inspired style of drumming].

When Artist and Repertoire man and record producer Creed Taylor signed Wes to Verve Records and a whole new world of commercial music and larger orchestras, Melvin, who, like Wes, was originally from Indianapolis, eventually resettled in Milwaukee, Wisconsin where he essentially remained until rediscovered as “The Legend” on his first of what was to become a dozen recordings for Criss Cross.

Although Gerry has had some notable Jazz artists record for Criss Cross, among them, Pepper Adams, Chet Baker and Jimmy Raney, for the past 20+ years,  Teekens’ stock-in-trade has been to make bi-annual visits to New York in the spring and late fall of each year to record up-and-coming young Jazz musicians, especially those who are highly regarded by their peers.


In this context, the 1991 recording of the “legendary” Melvin Rhyne may have been somewhat of an anomaly from Gerry’s preferred approach but not when one realizes that he had had the benefit of an audition the day before when he had recorded the Rhyne-Bernstein-Washington rhythm section as part of trumpeter Brian Lynch’s At The Main Event Criss Cross CD [1070, which also includes Ralph Moore on tenor saxophone]. The Lynch album gets its name from a club in Milwaukee where Lynch first heard and played with organist Rhyne.


Peter Bernstein found himself on the At The Main Event Lynch date according to Lora Rosner’s insert notes because:

“A few weeks before his record date Lynch heard guitarist Peter Bernstein at the Village Gate and was so taken with his playing that he asked him to be on the date as well. Bernstein predictably gains the respect of every great musician he works with; Jimmy Cobb first asked Peter to work with him in April '89 when he was all of 21 and the guitarist recently led his own quartet featuring Cobb for a standing-room-only week at the Village Gate. Lou Donaldson thought he was listening to a Grant Green record the first time he heard Peter play, subsequently featured him on his CD, Play the Right Thing (Fantasy)….  Criss Cross producer Gerry Teekens was so pleased with the results of Lynch's date that he asked Rhyne to do an impromptu trio recording the next day and Mel was quite happy to have Bernstein and young veteran Kenny Washington under him again in the studio.”

Also from her inserts notes, I find myself to be in total agreement with Lora’s description of Peter Bernstein’s playing when she writes that he:

… incorporates the best qualities of Wes Montgomery and Grant Green. He's an expressive soloist whose horn-inspired lines draw much of their power, beauty and effectiveness from his soulful time.” [Emphasis Mine]

I would go on to add that for an instrument that Joe Pass described as “a bitch to play,” in the all the years that I have been listening to him, I have never, ever heard Peter Bernstein make a mistake!

A walk through Peter Bernstein’s discography will insure a musical “visit” with some of the best musicians on the current Jazz scene.  Here’s a partial list of who he has performed and/or recorded with:


Trumpeters: Joe Magnarelli, Ryan Kisor, Jim Rotondi, Nicholas Payton, Brian Lynch

Trombonists: Steve Davis, Wycliffe Gordon

Alto Saxophonists: Jon Gordon, Lou Donaldson, Jesse Davis, Michael Hashim

Tenor Saxophonists: Eric Alexander, Walt Weiskopf, Joshua Redman, Grant Stewart, Ralph Bowen, Michael Karn, Ralph Lalama, Tad Shull

Keyboardists: Larry Goldings, Geoff Keezer, Mike LeDonne, Dr. Lonnie Smith, Melvin Rhyne, Sam Yahel

When sampling the music from the above [incomplete] list, the amount of excellent Jazz that Peter has contributed on these recordings over the past 20 years is staggering to consider in terms of the depth and breadth of its scope.

Peter Bernstein was born in New York City on September 3, 1967. He probably got his first break while attending the New School in NYC when he first met, and later studied with, guitarist Jim Hall, whose own spare and always swinging style was no doubt a big influence on Peter. Peter also studied with guitarists Ted Dunbar and Gene Bertoncini.

You know when Peter is soloing because your foot starts bouncing up and down involuntarily. He is a “cooker” who selects single notes and phrases and emphasizes them just long enough to create an intense feeling of forward motion in his solos.

This ability to “sustain” notes primarily through the manner in which he spaces them also creates a singing quality to his playing.

The resonance he achieves on the guitar just jumps out at you and it’s almost impossible to repress a smile when listening to Peter as his playing is so pleasing and engrossing.

The sound that comes out of his instrument is so beautiful that one is tempted to describe it as the definitive sound of an amplified, Jazz guitar.


All of these stylistic ingredients are on display in Peter’s solo on Billie’s Bounce, the first tune on Mel’s Spell another of Melvin Rhyne’s Criss Cross CD’s [Criss 1118 CD] featuring the trio with Peter and Kenny Washington.

In his insert notes to this 1995 disc, Jazz DJ and writer, Sid Gribetz declares:

“Peter Bernstein has emerged as one of the finest guitar players of his generation and he’s always in demand. He’s assimilated Wes and Grant Green and all styles in between, and he plays clean crisp lines with a distinctive attack and complimentary sound to fit the situation. It must be daring for a guitarist to play in a trio with Wes’s organist, but Peter overcomes any comparisons and adds his personal voice to the proceedings.”

As was the case with The Trick Bag on The Legend, Mel’s Spell also includes Wes Montgomery compositions from the original Riverside LP’s in the form of Fried Pies and Like Yea and Melvin, Peter and Kenny absolutely nail them with inspired playing.


Peter recorded his first as a leader for Criss Cross in 1992. Entitled Somethin’s Burnin’  [Criss 1079 CD] it included Jimmy Cobb on drums, the then relatively unknown Brad Mehldau on piano and bassist John Webber. The group had been working around NYC as Cobb’s Mob for a few years.

Mark Gardner commented in his insert notes to Somethin’s Burnin’:

“… Bernstein has honed a beautiful sound and his technical ability enables him to play exactly what he hears. His rhythmic suppleness and clarity of thought, good blues feeling and ability to pattern solos of melodic grace will be immediately evident on a first playing of this …CD. It is an unusually brilliant debut, filled with felicities and solo statements that will endure.”

Dating back to 1989 and before his work on Criss Cross, Peter’s formative years were marked by a special working relationship with keyboardist Larry Goldings and drummer Bill Stewart, one that occasionally continues to this day.


In his insert notes to Peter’s 1997 Earth Tones Criss Cross CD [Criss 1151 CD], Damon Smith explains the evolution of how Peter came together with Larry and Bill as part of the larger experience of growing up as a Jazz musician in New York City.

“Peter Bernstein received an in valuable music education simply growing up in New York City. It provided him the opportunity to listen to musicians on a regular basis who are inspiring and motivating him today.  In addition to its formal classroom, New York also offered Peter the opportunity to study with teachers who recognized and encouraged his talent. From Attila Zoller in high school and gene Bertoncini at the Eastman Summer Jazz Workshop, to Ted Dunbar at Rutgers University and Jin Hall at the New School, each instructor uniquely influenced Pete’s playing and career.
….


Another byproduct of living in New York was that Peter was able to work with young musicians of the highest caliber – two of whom were Bill Stewart and Larry Goldings. He has been working with them as a trio since the summer of 1989.  Peter had just returned from spending a year in Paris and Larry Goldings, whom he had met in 1984, when both were attending the Eastman Jazz Workshop, was working at a club called Augie’s on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Pete and Larry became the regular Thursday night band at the club using various drummers. Eventually, Pete called Bill Stewart whom he had known when both were studying at William Paterson College in New Jersey and the last piece of the puzzle was in place.


Thursday nights at Augie’s became immensely popular. The trio’s reputation grew rapidly and was a factor that led to their recording … [a series of records together].”

… Pete’s playing is not often mistaken for other guitarists.  He has a focused musical concept that features a pure tone and singing phrases Horn players have been prominent influences on his singular style. He chooses notes carefully, making each one count in constructing intelligent interesting solos.” [Emphasis mine].

As Eric Fine explains in his April/2009 JazzTimes interview with and article on Peter:

“Bernstein looks beyond the guitar for inspiration, a penchant he attributes in part to studying with guitarist Ted Dunbar in 1985. ‘He was the one who told me [to] learn about harmony [by hanging out] with piano players and arrangers,’ Bernstein said. ‘And if you want to learn about phrasing, hang out with horn players and good singers. And if you want to learn about rhythm, hang out with drummers and bass players. Don’t be a guitar player who hangs around other guitar players.”


The Bernstein-Goldings-Stewart trio issued a number of recordings under Larry’s name. Among these is their wonderful bossa nova CD entitled Caminhos Cruzados [Novus 63184-2] which has tenor saxophonist Joshua Redman as a guest artist on some tracks.

Peter’s solo on the Jobim tune that gives the album its name is one of the most beautiful guitar solos I’ve ever heard in over a half century of listening to recorded Jazz. It brings forth so many moody dimensions that it wraps the listener in an evocative hush.

There is so much good music on this CD that I guarantee that you will have a difficult time removing it from your CD player.


By the time trio made Moonbird in 1999 [Palmetto records PM 2045], it’s issuance caused Bob Blumenthal to reflect in his insert notes that:

“With a decade of playing together under their belts, Larry Goldings, Peter Bernstein  and Bill Stewart must form one of the most long-lived organ trios in Jazz history. Each member has amassed an imposing individual resume during this period, yet their collective work has signified something more – a reaffirmation, not of the organ trio as a unit capable of satisfying a temporary fashion for things, but as an instrumentation as perfectly balanced in its way as the threesome of piano, bass and drums or, in another realm, the string quartet. ….

A lot could be said about the individual performances. In addition to … [Goldings’] cliché-free work, there are numerous signs of why Bernstein and Stewart are also considered the most important voices to emerge on their respective instruments in the past decade. Still, the overriding impression that the music leaves involves group interaction. … These musicians have played together enough and listened to each other enough to have found their own way, and it shows. They have made the organ/guitar/drums unit not just relevant for the 90’s, but for what comes next.”

In addition Somethin’s Burnin’  [Criss 1079 CD] and Earth Tones Criss Cross CD [Criss 1151 CD], Peter has three additional discs of Criss Cross and a review of each of them will serve to close Part 1 of this JazzProfiles visit with Peter and his music, as well as, introduce us to some of the other artists with whom he frequently plays. Peter’s work as a “sideman” with other artists from the group enumerated above will become the basis of Part 2 of this feature.


Signs of Life [Criss 1095] was recorded at the end of 1994 and finds Peter in the company of three outstanding Jazz musicians representative of the current crop of excellent players on today’s scene: pianist Brad Mehldau, bassist Christian McBride and drummer Gregory Hutchinson.

As Neil Tesser alludes in his insert notes to the disc, the Jazz world almost lost Peter before it had him.  Put another way, not too many guitarists growing up in the 1970s made the leap from Jimi Hendrik, B.B. King and Jazz-Rock guitarists such as John Abercrombie and Pat Metheny back to a respectful incorporation of the Jazz guitar lineage as provided by Charlie Christian, Jim Hall, Wes Montgomery, Kenny Burrell and Grant Green.


Tesser goes on to explain:

“You hear this respect most immediately in his lustrous, spherical tone, and in his remarkably pointed technique.  Bernstein isn’t ‘fancy’ in his technique: he doesn’t try to overwhelm with the sheer multitude of notes. His playing has a hard-won quality about it, communicating the idea that each note should count – that few (if any) of them should simply fill up space.

In his own words, ‘Technique molds itself around what you play; it eventually catches up to where you are. The most important thing is the sound, the voice you project.’ ….

But with all these roots, how does one avoid simply reliving the past? Peter Bernstein manages to make the tradition he upholds sound fresh and true; how does he wriggle out of the neo-classic trap?

‘I try to add something from my own personality …. I’m just trying to establish a personal voice, and the tradition is a vehicle for the way I work now. But everything is drawing on a tradition. People ask why no one’s trying to blaze trails and do new things. Although I do see [some of that] happening as well, but it’s not the style that makes it hip.  It’s the creativity.’”


In Tesser’s insert notes, Peter had this to say when commenting on his use of bassist Christian McBride on the date:

“He just has everything covered … choice of notes, sound, time, musicality – he’s really like an old master before his time. I wanted to be sure that he and I did a duet [My Ideal] , to try to bring out a more intimate side of my own playing.”


Peter’s next recording under his own name for Criss Cross was the 1996 release of Brain Dance [Criss 1130 CD]]. The CD was a point of departure for Peter and, as such, one that we will return to in the second part of the piece, because this disc involves Peter working with horns in the front line – in this case, Eric Alexander on tenor saxophone and Steve Davis on trombone.

Typically in the presence of horns, one might expect the guitar to assume a rhythm section role much like the accompaniment provided by the piano, or to take a turn as a feature soloist. But this was Peter’s session and as its leader, he had other ideas. As Sid Gribetz explains in his liner notes:

“‘… when I do have an opportunity to do my own record, I want to do my own tunes.’ This album therefore, includes four fine original pieces by Bernstein, as well as four jazz standards.

Bernstein also wrote these [original] pieces for horns, with his guitar instead of trumpet for the lead voice, and one reed, and one brass, the trombone ‘to fatten up the sound of the ensemble and make the chords sound bigger than they are.’ Bernstein also notes that ‘my guitar style is not to play many notes, so each note must mean something, just like the approach the trombone must make.”

Peter offers a very lyrical interpretation of Fredrick Hollander’s standard You Leave Me Breathless, a tune I first heard pianist Eddie Higgins play with his quintet on his debut album for VeeJay Records. I gather from Gribetz’s notes that Peter had brought the tune along with the intention of recording it with the horns. Choosing instead to do it as a trio version, he renders a lovely interpretation of this beautiful melody.


For Heart’s Content,  Peter’s next leader date for Criss Cross [Criss 1233 CD], he used Larry Grenader on bass along with two of his oldest musical mates, Bill Stewart on drums and Brad Mehldau on piano.  Brad also did the insert notes for the recording. In them, he provides some unique perspectives on Peter and his music – ones that only another musician could make.


For example, Brad points out:

The hardest thing to express is how someone’s music moves you. With Pete, I always immediately get drawn into the sound he gets from his instrument. He’s emoting with each note he plays. He has this crying tone on his guitar. His notes sustain and ring out, like they don’t want to disappear. It’s a fat tone at the same time, earthy and satisfying. That voice he has on his instrument compels me to listen.

The emotions Pete conveys are wonderfully mixed. One thing he specializes in is communicating an underlying melancholy that tugs at you steadily, at the same time expressing something more in the forefront that’s vital and urgent, not down in the dumps at all.

Brad’s loving and admiring insert notes contain so many instructive comments about why Peter’s playing is so distinctive, that we thought we would quote from them liberally as a way of concluding this first part of the JazzProfiles feature on Peter.

Frankly, after you read more of his writing, I’m sure that you will agree that given its quality, Brad could have a second career as a Jazz reviewer if he ever decides to retire from playing piano.

“I met Peter Bernstein soon after I arrived in New York City in 1988. Many people would have different ideas about what might constitute a 'New York' sound, if anything. I would call it more of an ethos that Pete came to personify for me, one that I still associate with my favorite players who reside in New York. That ethos doesn't form one specific style of playing; it's more like a collection of deeply felt sentiments about jazz music that form the basis for a broad range of possible styles.

Those musical sentiments would include the importance of melody at all times in whatever you're expressing, which means playing phrases that have a shape to them and not just running licks. That in turn implies a healthy distrust of arbitrariness in general. It you're going to play a tune, you don't fudge on learning the melody. Pete was the first musician I met who would make periodic pilgrimages to the New York Public Library to get the original sheet music for, say, an Irving Berlin tune.

That was one of many valuable lessons that I got from Pete early on. If you go to the original source to learn a tune, your arrangement of it will speak authentically as your own take on that song, instead of being your version of Miles Davis' version, for example. I think that's why whenever I hear Pete play a standard, it never sounds arbitrary. He always seems to create a definitive version of a tune, one that intersects gracefully between an unapologetic affection for the original song, and his own personal musical choices for his arrangement. They include the way he phrases the melody, his improvisation, and a host of other factors that make you smile as a listener and say, "That's Pete." Dedicated to You on this record is a perfect example. Listen to how he lovingly treats the melody - it sounds like this is his own song.


The first time I heard Peter Bernstein was at a jam session, playing on a medium slow blues. With me in the audience were several musical peers, including Larry Goldings. Larry was just starting to play the organ in addition to piano, and eventually would form the heaviest, most original organ trio jazz has seen in the last two decades, with Pete on guitar and Bill Stewart, who joins Pete on this record, on drums. ....

The blues had been going on for almost half an hour and everyone's interest had peaked after about 4 minutes. Solo after solo ensued, full of well-intentioned but vapid testifying and shrieking from horn players and scat-singers. Just when it was getting painful, Pete began to solo. He basically annihilated everything that had preceded him and left all of us just shaking our heads in awe. We were emotionally reduced to jelly; he brought tears to our eyes. I left that day shaken.

What was it in his playing? To start with, there was a gravity to what he was doing emotionally that just drew me in - 'Dude, this is serious.' But it wasn't just serious for the sake of being serious. His playing was informed by what I can only describe as a profound love for music, in this case specifically the blues, which is so prevalent in Pete's music. It was like he had discovered something beautiful, and he wanted urgently to share it with all of us. A serious love that urgently needs to be shared with other people - it all translates into something that you might call the humanity in Pete's music. I felt like he was telling me something about myself that day, and I always feel that way when I hear him.

Pete's reading on this record of Strayhorn's masterpiece, Blood Count, is a case in point. In a solo guitar setting, he gives it to us stripped down. The naked desolation of the tune speaks all the more clearly. But Pete doesn't push the point. He never veers into sentimentality. and allows the pathos to speak for itself by giving us a reading that's devoid of affectation. Many other musicians would be tempted to milk this song much more. The melody, with its exotic chord tones and glissandos, and the fragrant Strayhorn harmony that underpins it, almost cry out for an overtly expressive, theatrical reading. That's why this tune is so difficult to play - if you give into that temptation it can easily become sentimental. Pete's approach is to let the sentiment in the tune speak for itself - it's already there, it doesn't need to be magnified. He coaxes the emotion out of the tune instead of loudly stating it. The effect on me as a listener is that I get more from it, not less. This version of 'Blood Count' has a wonderful twofold quality, It has what I usually associate with the song - a raw feeling of mortality, like someone hanging on. But Pete gives you a bittersweet kind of recompense: If you're just hanging on in this music, then as you slip away, losing your grasp, you're finally able to see how beautiful everything really is.


I've come to believe that the sort of 'maturity' that Pete displays on 'Blood Count' is the kind of musical attribute that's more innate than acquired. It's a question of temperament. You start with that temperament already. It can be developed and refined, but if you don't have it to begin with, it can't really be learned. Pete's no slouch, and he has a real thirst for new musical discoveries. Over the years I've seen how he assimilates them into his own playing and writing like early on in our friendship when he got really deep into Billie Holiday, or a few years back when he turned me onto the music of Donny Hathaway. Nevertheless, there are certain qualities central to his music that he had from the gate. That was one of the things that always struck me and other musicians who were playing with Pete early on in our own development. Here we were absorbing all these influences at once, sounding like a different musician depending on what context we were playing in. But Pete, from the first time I heard him at least in 1988, already had his own identity - he sounded like Peter Bernstein in whatever situation he was in. That just blew us away.

One important quality of Pete's is his rhythmic authority. A good example on this record is his own Simple as That. This is the kind of tempo that inspires the cliché, 'separates the men from the boys,' It's a medium-slow groove, and Pete can wax in this vein like nobody's business. In the opening melody, and then in his solo later, his lines are relaxed and poised all at once. Pete's feel on this sort of tempo has always been devastatingly good - he sits a little behind the beat and gets you into this slow-burn state. That quiet authority of his, though, comes from the consistency in his line: He never gets away from his ideas, he never rushes inadvertently, and nothing is ever the slightest bit unclear in what he's communicating. When I'm playing behind him on a tune like this, his mixture of relaxed swing and total clarity has the effect of pulling me into his musical statement completely. I've only had that experience playing with a few other musicians. It's what they mean when they say someone has a 'big beat.'

That quality of Pete's is probably both innate and absorbed. He always had this incredible sense of pacing in his playing, a sort of patience rhythmically. But I definitely remember checking out who he was checking out and seeing what kinds of players in jazz pointed the way for him. He has his guitar heroes for sure, but more often than not, I've noticed how horn players influence Pete. So, that relaxed kind of rhythmic authority might be informed by tenor players that I know he loves - the built-in backbeat of Gene Ammons, the behind-the-beat long eighth-note lines of Dexter Gordon, or the strong, swinging logic of Sonny Rollins' phrases.

That brings up another thing about Pete that sets him apart for me: I've always thought of him less as a guitarist and more as a musician. His swing feel – that 'big beat' that he has - is something you associate more with a horn player than a guitar player. But it goes further than feel. Particularly in his writing, he's more concerned with purely musical matters, and less with guitar stuff. Incidentally, Pete is a competent piano player. It's kind of uncanny. Even when he plays the piano, not on his own axe, he still has a harmonic concept that's completely specific to him and no one else, like in the way he voices chords, or the progressions he comes up with when he's just noodling. I've noticed that Pete often begins writing a tune of his own by getting an initial idea at the piano - a progression or a little voice leading figure - and then moves over to the guitar to continue writing.


Heart's Content, the title track of the record, is a beauty. It's got some quintessential Peter Bernstein things going on. Check out the simplicity and economy of the melody. Except on the brief bridge and the coda, the melody always stays wonderfully in one minor scale, outlining a specific shape and building off of it. While the chords under it are moving and shifting a fair amount, the melody is a constant; the bluesy melancholy it gives off acts as a binder for all the harmonic activity. A lot of Pete's tunes operate on this principle of placing a largely diatonic, simple melody over some advanced, often dense chords that move a fair amount. The effect on the listener is a great kind of give and take. You get pushed along with the movement of the harmony, responding to the flux, but at the same time are emotionally anchored by the melody. And Pete is never very far away from that melody in his solo statement.

Two predecessors for that sort of jazz compositional approach might come to mind, mainly Thelonious Monk and Wayne Shorter. I know that Pete has absorbed their music a lot. There's something more about Pete that he has in common with those two jazz composers. His tunes are stitched together so well, there's so much compositional logic to them, that you can't just willy-nilly superimpose your own vocabulary when it comes time to solo. You have to address the tune in some way in your improvisations; it sort of compels you to do so. If you simply paste your own licks onto one of Pete's tunes, you run the risk of sounding strangely irrelevant, like an unwanted dinner guest. ….

I remember Pete telling me what one of his teachers, the late great pianist Jaki Byard, shared with him about playing jazz: "You can't lie." I suspect what Jaki Byard meant is that even if you try to lie as a player, you'll wind up telling the truth to anyone who has ears enough to hear it - that you're up there on the bandstand, just trying to lie, and you're not fooling anyone in the long run.

Peter Bernstein has a rare honesty about him as a musician. Quite simply, that quality comes naturally to him, because he has nothing to lose by being honest. The music that he offers the listener is always something that he's carried within himself first, and then loved into being. It's a beautiful world unto itself, and Heart's Content is a good place to either continue enjoying that world, or discover it for the first time.

Brad Mehldau, March 2003”

... to be continued in Part 2



“The jazz guitarist, among the most sought after in the New York area, has a feather-light touch, an encyclopedic knowledge of chords and the ability to play standards like he's inventing them on the spot.”
---The Los Angeles Daily News

“…, Bernstein remains unique among his peers. He plays only one guitar (and owns but two archtops); he eschews effects pedals and other sonic equipment; he aligns himself with a jazz guitar tradition rooted in the 1950s and 1960s.”  
– Eric Fine, Jazz Times April/2009

“His style is not one of flash, but one of substance. He eschews blazing speed and overwhelming notes in favor of clean, nuanced runs. Whether playing solo or with [trumpeter John] Swana or [tenor saxophonist Grant] Stewart, Pete’s distinctive sound drove the band this night.” 
- Edward Zucker from a review of Peter’s March 31, 2006 appearance at Chris Jazz Café in PhiladelphiaPA [Emphasis mine].

© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

As we begin the second part of this JazzProfiles feature of Jazz guitarist Peter Bernstein, the editorial staff would like to clarify its position on Grant Green, Kenny Burrell and Wes Montgomery as major influences on his playing.

While Grant, Kenny and Wes are all wonderful guitarists who have no doubt been major influences – Grant, most notably, on the guitar tone that Peter has adopted – we think that he has moved well-beyond these influences to establish his own “voice.”  And without trying to set up any kind of competition in the matter, it is our opinion that technically and creatively, Peter has become even more of a definitive guitarist than some of his influences.

Put another way, Peter Bernstein has made himself into one heck of a Jazz guitarist and one would do well to seek out and listen to the recordings that he appears on and to listen to him on his own terms.  The man can flat-out play.

The initial piece on Peter was focused on trying to provide an in-depth analysis on him and his music, the second part of the feature will place more emphasis on the scope of his work in the form of a partial discography of recordings beyond those he has made under his own name or those he made as part of Larry Goldings’ and Melvin Rhyne’s trios.

Where to begin, then, with Peter’s recordings as a sideman?  There are so many good ones to choose from.  It seems like everyone wants Peter on their date, which is even more of a compliment when realizes that you don’t have to use a guitar, especially not on a front-line.

Also noteworthy is the fact that while many guitarists seem to clash with pianists in small group settings, Peter has made a point of becoming extremely compatible with them.

Take for example his work with pianist, composer, arranger Mike LeDonne whose credentials include stints with vibist Milt Jackson, tenor saxophonist Johnny Griffin Sonny Rollins and Benny Golson, and eight albums under his own name with respected independent labels Criss Cross and Double Time.


As Sid Gribetz explains in the insert notes to Mike’s Criss Cross CD Waltz for an Urbanite [Criss 1111 CD]:

“LeDonne was looking for something different in this recording, and he chose the guitar-vibes combination, by itself a refreshing variation in today’s climate. At first glance, this grouping may bring to mind the George Shearing [quintet] classics, but LeDonne’s presentation avoids that staid and ethereal sound. Instead, without horns, LeDonne achieves a contemporary and swinging groove, informed by the Milt Jackson conception, warm and soulful to the core.”

While Gribitz may be correct in his assertion that the combination of vibes-guitar-piano as used by Mike in his arrangements for this album doesn’t sound at all like the classic George Shearing Quintet which, by the way, I never found to be “… staid and ethereal,” there is a marked resemblance to the album that George did with The Montgomery Brothers for Riverside Records in that each of the front-line instruments is allowed a distinctive voice instead of being blended into a block chord sound as  was so often the case with George’s classic quintet.


Whether it be the three beautifully constructed choruses that he takes on the opener entitled Scratchin’, a LeDonne original that appears to be based on the changes to Just in Time, the four soulful choruses he plays on F.S.R., Ray Brown’s blues tribute to Sonny Rollins, or the knuckle-busting lines he spins out on Lucky Thompson’s Monsoon which is taken at a blistering speed [but not so fast that Peter couldn’t sneak in a reference to Indian Summer in his solo], this CD is an example of the quintessential Peter Bernstein at his sideman-best.  

Spending time listening to his work on this recording will provide all the explanation one would ever need as to why Peter Bernstein is held is such high regard by his peers and why they all, sooner or later, use him on their recordings.

But lest we move on too soon, we are not done with LeDonne [sorry for the bad pun] as far as Peter is concerned.

For it seems that in addition to working in Larry Goldings’ organ trio along with Bill Stewart on drums every Tuesday night at Augie’s, Peter has also been doing the same in Mike LeDonne’s quartet on Thursday night at Smoke, when the former changed its name to the latter.

Although primarily known as a pianist, composer, arranger, it seems that Mike had fooled around with the Hammond B-3 organ since he was a teen-ager. But it wasn’t until the year 2000 that Mike began playing it in earnest once again.

For as the story goes, it was in that year that Smoke presented a tribute to the memory of Charles Earland, one of the pioneering Jazz organists.  Dr. Lonnie Smith hosted the show and, at the urging of trumpeter Jim Rotondi, Mike sat in and absolutely blew everybody away with his playing on Jay McShann’s Blowing the Blues Away [with this many bad puns, I guess it’s time to stop apologizing for them!].


The owners of Smoke are big fans of the Hammond B-3 organ and given the response to the Earland Memorial Concert, they decided to bring in a Hammond and institute a Tuesday night feature with it.

Mike was supposed to do a five-week stint and then turn the bandstand over to another organist.  However, the audience response to his performance was so overwhelmingly positive that Mike’s held the gig ever since.

Perhaps the fact that Mike brought in Eric Alexander on tenor saxophone, Joe Farnsworth on drums and the ever-capable Peter Bernstein on guitar had something to do with the overall and continuing popularity of the group.

You can sample their marvelous cohesion and musical excitement on two CD’s the group made for Savant: Smokin’ Out Loud [SCD 2055] and On Fire: Live at Smoke [SCD 2080].


Concerning working with Peter, Mike commented: “he’s a crisp, swinging guitarist who always plays what’s right and puts it in the right pocket. He reaches for different ideas within the traditional language.”

Tenor saxophonist, Eric Alexander, one of Peter’s band mates at the Smoke gig with Mike LeDonne, has had a long working relationship with Peter. On his early records Eric was described as “a player who stands four-square in the tradition of big Chicago tenors. This is old-fashioned tenor playing: fat, bruising, wide bodied, but limber enough to handle bebop tempos and inner complexities, even if  he prefers a more seasoned tradition.  His laggardly way with the beat makes one think of Dexter Gordon.” [Richard Cook & Brain Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.].

Earlier in his career, Eric worked quite often with Hammond B-3 organist Charles Earland and because the organist also used guitar and drums, Eric developed a real affinity for this musical setting.


Eric and Peter’s initial work together dates back to two Criss Cross albums that were issued as The Tenor Triangle and the Melvin Rhyne Trio:  The first of these was Tell it like it is [Criss 1089 CD]  and on it Peter offers a terrific original composition entitled Minor Changes which he describes as “a minor blues with some other chords in it.” As for the date itself, Peter commented: “I like to arrange whenever I get the chance. It’s a learning experience to find out what works and what doesn’t.”


The second of these The Tenor Triangle and the Melvin Rhyne Trio for Criss Cross is Aztec Blues [Criss 1143 CD]. On it, Eric and Peter are once again joined by tenor saxophonist Ralph Lalama and Tad Shull along with a rhythm section of Mel Rhyne and Peter and Kenny Washington. Although the focus on both of these recordings is obviously on the three tenor saxophonists, it is difficult to disagree with Sid Gribetz when he states in his insert notes:

“Peter Bernstein is a great young guitarist … [who] plays crisp clear lines with maturity and swing …. Peter’s solos are an added treat on this date.”


As an extension of their worked together on the tenor triangle recordings, Eric Alexander asked Peter to join him on Full Range his second album for Criss Cross [Criss 1098 CD] along with Philadelphia-based trumpeter John Swana, and a rhythm section of Kenny Barron [p], Peter Washington [b], Carl Allen [d].  Eric describes  Peter’s “clean, true sound, as a no-nonsense approach.  I mean, you can tell that he really cares about the purse sound of the guitar. He doesn’t use gimmicks and effects to create a sound. Pete just plays pure jazz guitar.”

My favorite track on this recording is Number 3, an original composition by Eric that he describes as being like “… Sonny Rollins’ Doxy but with a shuffle beat.”  Eric takes a terrific solo on this 16-bar blues as does John Swana, but as Bob Bernotas describes in the insert notes:

“When Peter Bernstein enters, everything shifts into an easy, finger-poppin’ groove. ‘In a lot of ways, he’s a perfect foil for John and myself,’ Eric observes, ‘because Peter’s such a melodic player, and his solos are sparse and so well thought out. So here’s really the perfect link to have in there.’”


Ralph Lalama, another of Pete’s tenor triangle band mates, asked him to play on his Circle Line Criss Cross recording [Criss 1132 CD], an album that garner a 4.5 stars review in Down Beat magazine. Ralph and Pete form the front-line on the album in a manner reminiscent tenor saxophonist Sonny Rollins and guitarist Jim Hall of the famous The Bridge RCA LP of the early 1960s.

When listening to his work on this recording, reviewer Ted Panken’s phrase – “Peter Bernstein elegantly paves the way…” – comes to mind quite often: whether it’s the unison phrasing with Ralph on the opening title track, the gorgeous chords that he feeds Ralph on his solo tour de force, My Ideal, or the way he voices the changes and “comps” behind Ralph that gives the every-saxophone-player-has-to-attempt-a-version-of-Coltrane’s Giant Steps a fresh sound [not to mention the sparkling chord-inflected solo that Pete takes on the tune].

Although players like Eric Alexander and Ralph Lalama are strongly with the tradition of a blues-based tenor saxophone sound, both acknowledge a little of the post-1962 John Coltrane approach in their playing. Judging from the many records that we have reviewed that fit this format, Peter blends in very nicely with tenor players with this orientation.

However, he also works very well with those tenor saxophonist who play in a more heavily harmonic-based Coltrane style; players such as Walt Weiskopf and Ralph Bowen.


Having been the leader on 10 albums for the label, tenor saxophonist Walt Weiskopf has obviously had a long-standing relationship with Criss Cross Records. So when its owner-producer suggested making a recording [A World Away [Criss 1100 CD] with the organ-guitar drums trio of Larry Goldings, Peter Bernstein and Bill Stewart, Walt commented:

“The concept was Gerry Teekens’ idea so I can’t take credit for that. But I love this instrumental combination …, so I pretty much loved the idea when Gerry suggested it.

They’ve been playing together for more than five years [as of this writing, closer to 20], and they work so well together that it was a very natural thing for us to do this record in this configuration. … Peter, Bill and Larry are the kinds of guts I really enjoy playing with, they’re major league players in anyone’s book. …

[While] I like the bluesy kind of format, but as a listener will quickly realize, I’m into a more progressive thing.”

“Progressive” may be an understatement for a tenor saxophonist who has author a book entitled Intervalic Improvisation [published by Jamey Aebersold], but the point it raises as it relates to Peter is that his guitar work is equally at home in what Bret Primack refers to as Weiskopf’s “… harmonically challenging improvisational structures.”

Walt took the opportunity to record eight of his original compositions on this album, and on one of them, Immortal Soul, Primack commented that “… Peter Bernstein’s solo in particular embraces the passionate lyricism that weaves a seductive trail through the composition’s swirling cadence.”


Broadly speaking, Primack’s description of Peter’s playing is a reaffirmation of the following statement by Pete’s friend and Hammond B-3 organist Sam Yahel:

“Peter is one of the greatest musicians out there. His lines have a beautiful depth and lyricism. The way he gets inside a tune’s harmony is unique. When Peter plays a melody, you listen more than you might under other circumstances.” [Emphasis mine]

Peter would continue his work with tenor saxophonists, organ-based rhythm sections and Criss Cross on Ralph Bowen’s second album for the label – Soul Proprietor [Criss 1216 CD]. Like Weiskopf, Bowen is out of the Coltrane mold but he also pays a major debt of influence to Michael Brecker.


For the date, Ralph selected trumpeter John Swana to work along with Peter, organist Sam Yahel and drummer Brian Blade. In his insert notes to the recording Ted Panken noted:

“Bowen uses Bernstein as a third horn voice at several points …. They’re old friends from Rutgers [University] … but had never worked together. ‘Peter’s sense of time and phrasing are great,’ Bowen says, ‘and I like his comping. But one thing that really strikes me is the way he arpeggiates extended vertical structures in an eight-note type of line to make them feel linear in essence.”


And just so that we run the gambit of major influences on today’s young tenor saxophonists, Peter recently completed work on the album Shadow of Your Smile [Birds XQDJ 1001] with Grant Stewart, whose style if very reflection of the sound of Sonny Rollins with a dash of Dexter Gordon thrown in for good measure.

Along with Peter, Grant, who has to be considered one of the best and brightest young tenor saxophonists around today, is joined by a rhythm section of Tardo Hammer [p], Peter Washington [b] and Lewis Nash [d].

And because of this traditional piano, bass and drums rhythm section, Peter’s role on the album is to become a second front-line voice to Grant’s tenor, a role he assumes with his usual accuracy and precision.  There’s nothing sloppy about his work on this outing that features six standards and two of Grant’s original compositions.

The only disappointing thing about this recording is that it is on a rather obscure Japanese label that has very limited distribution.

Lest we think that Peter has forsaken the “brass section,” and although he has made a bevy of them, let’s take a look at his work on three in particular, keeping in mind that a more complete listing of them can be found earlier in Part 1 of this piece.

While in no particular order, a good starting point might be Peter’s work with trumpeter Ryan Kisor with whom he has made two CDs for the Criss Cross label: Battle Cry [Criss 1145] and Awakening [Criss 1239].


In his review of the latter for www.allmusic.com, Matt Collar has this to say about Awakening:

“On his first album of all original material, Ryan Kisor delivers and atmospheric mix of organ-based post-bop. … Throughout the album, Kisor displays a knack for unpredictable, intellectual improvisation. He draws you in with warm, storytelling phrases …. Urging him on are the expansive organ sounds of Sam Yahel and the sensitively funky guitar work of Peter Bernstein.”


Peter is back with his buddy Sam Yahel on trombonist Wycliffe Gordon’s Dig This!!  [Criss 1238 CD] about which C. Andrew Hovan declared in his www.allaboutjazz.com review:

“Dig This!! kicks in with an even stronger soul-jazz formula that gets its energy from Criss Cross regulars organist Sam Yahel and guitarist Peter Bernstein. Back on hand are Seamus Blake [tenor saxophone] and Bill Stewart [drums] to make this one of the best organ combo records of recent vintage.”


And also from www.allaboutjazz.com is this review of Peter’s work on trumpeter Joe Magnarelli’s Hoop Dreams Criss Cross Recording [Criss 1280 CD]:

“Hoop Dreams, Magnarelli’s fourth date as a leader for Criss Cross … is an excellently executed, emotionally engaging recording. He makes the most of a band of like-minded peers by placing them in quintet, quartet, trio and duo configurations. Along with the lucid melodically fertile improvisations of Magnarelli, the varying formats offer an impression of continuous change with pianist Gary Versace and guitarist Peter Bernstein as a constant, unifying force.

A snail’s pace magnifies every detail of Magnarelli and Bernstein’s rendition of Ask Me Now. Assisted by the guitarist’s incisive comping, Magnarelli integrates subtle variations of Thelonious Monk’s melody and brief soaring lines. Left to his own devices for sixteen bars, Bernstein’s chords and single note passages include an assortment of textures as he gradually returns to the theme.”


And while we are on the subject of Monk, this might be a good time to return to albums that he has issued under his own name and talk about Peter’s work on his latest CD,  Monk [Xanadu/The Orchard], which was not available to the editorial staff at JazzProfiles at the time Part 1 of this piece was being developed.

Eric Fine notes in his April 2009 JazzTimes article on Peter:

“In devoting an entire album to Thelonious Monk’s repertoire, Peter Bernstein joins the small number of guitar players who have accepted such a challenge. Bernstein, however, hardly considers the release to be a definitive work. Achieving such a benchmark, he said, would require a lifetime of concentration on the composer’s music. …

Instead of focusing on the recording, his seventh as a leader, Bernstein spends the bulk of the interview discussing Monk’s compositions.

[According to Peter] it’s very sophisticated music and also very rooted and it has great strength in its simplicity. When I got into it, I found that certain voicings did lay on the guitar because of the spacing. It’s really not the sound of the piano … it’s the sound of Monk plaing the piano.’

Even so, Bernstein struggled at times to translate the music to the guitar because of the instrument’s technical limitations.

‘I’ve always been frustrated as a guitar player harmonically,’ he said, ‘because you can’t play all the notes like a piano player can. The range is smaller, and it’s harder to play closer voicings on the guitar because you have to stretch between strings.”


In the same article, Greg Scholl, president and chief executive of Xanadu/The Orchard and the album’s producer commented:

“I’ve heard other guitarists play Monk and really stress the oddness and the angularity and to a degree I like what Peter did because its very counter to how most people would approach the [repertoire].”

George Kantzer in his review for www.allaboutjazz.com offered these thoughts about Peter’s accomplishments on this album:

“How and by whom a piece of music is presented profoundly influences how it's heard. This would seem to be a truism, but it is one often contradicted. Case in point: a band begins playing a Duke Ellington standard and there's recognition and approval from the audience, the "I like Duke" effect. When this happens with a singer beginning "Satin Doll" the irony is lost. Ellington disliked those Johnny Mercer lyrics so much he rarely presented a vocal version of the piece himself. Which bring us to Thelonious Monk.

He never employed or recorded with a guitarist (save early bootlegged jam sessions with Charlie Christian and a big band with Howard Roberts) and his piano playing and arranging can hardly be called guitar-like. Hearing guitar play Monk's music is like hearing an orchestral version of a Wagner opera aria; it reveals a wholly different aspect of the music. While Monk's own versions put emphasis on the disjointed angularity and idiosyncrasies of the music, guitar interpretations bring out their lyrical, melodious side. Howard Alden is good at this, but until this CD, the only other guitarist with a knack for bringing out that side of Monk who devoted a whole album to it was Joshua Breakstone. Peter Bernstein's trio approach can be encapsulated in the title of the opening track: "Let's Cool One."

Like Ben Riley's Monk Legacy Band, which also employs a guitar (and no piano), this trio brings out the strong melodicism inherent in Monk's music. And Bernstein is a graceful guitarist who polishes the rough pianistic edges Monk gouged into his tunes, as can be heard on his solo version of "Monk's Mood." The trio pieces remain largely true to the tempos, an important part of Monk's conception, but bassist Doug Weiss and especially drummer Bill Stewart rile up the surface just enough to save these interpretations from being obsequiously polite.”

And finally this summary from the All About Jazz website publicity for Peter’s Monk:

“Thelonious Monk’s music presents a challenge for any jazz musician, but the going can be especially rough on guitarists. The songs are often physically scaled for the piano: those sharp intervals and tangled clusters don’t fall as naturally on a fretboard. So Peter Bernstein faces a basic hurdle with “Monk” (Xanadu/The Orchard), his vigorous new album. To his credit, the translation goes almost unnoticed. What sticks out instead is his soulful affinity to the material and the dapper chatter of his partners, Doug Weiss on bass and Bill Stewart on drums. On much of the album the trio delivers on a promise of buoyancy, swinging as hard as the music demands. Elsewhere, on ballads like “Monk’s Mood” and “Reflections,” Mr. Bernstein plays alone, exploring a host of harmonic micro-variations. And any listener still awarding degree-of-difficulty points can look to “Work” and “Brilliant Corners,” which arrive in sequence, like a couple of speed bumps.”


Also unavailable to JazzProfiles editorial staff as it developed Part 1 of this feature on Peter was his DVD – Peter Bernstein Trio: Live at Smoke [Mel Bay records 2005].  A copy has since manifested itself so let’s close Part 2 of this feature on Peter with Tom Greenland’s appraisal of the film:

Peter Bernstein is the ultimate guitar anti-hero. Without the usual prestidigitation and pyrotechnics of his ilk, without an incessant impulse to chart new stylistic frontiers, Bernstein is nevertheless a guitarist’s guitarist and a musician’s musician. On his first DVD release, Peter Bernstein Trio: Live at Smoke, he makes a convincing case that less can be more, that old can be new.

Bernstein's trio, featuring Larry Goldings on organ and Bill Stewart on drums, has been playing together since the late '80s, back when Smoke was Augie’s. In the ensuing years, these old jam-mates have developed a close camaraderie, honing a collective sound of subliminal subtlety, like an old married couple finishing each other’s sentences. In this edited "set" of medium tempo standards and originals, the trio establishes a relaxed, unhurried pace.

Bernstein is impeccable throughout, exhibiting a natural blues sensibility, a gift for melody, a beautiful touch, and a mature, no-note-before-its-time restraint. His renderings of Spring is Here and I Should Care are gorgeous, and his solo on Bobblehead, a gravy-train boogaloo, is a model of well-crafted succinctness. Bernstein and Goldings work particularly well together, the guitarist’s mid-rangy chords complementing the organist’s left-hand bass and high-range chordal colorings. Unfortunately, a DVD doesn’t duplicate the dynamic range of a Hammond B3, or the bodily impact of Leslie speakers at full tremolo, but Paul Stache’s in-house recording is excellent, with clear separation of the instruments.

The real set-stealer here, however, is Bill Stewart. A ticking time-bomb of polyrhythmic possibilities, the drummer seems to be watching himself play, reacting with surprise and amusement, as if the music is bubbling up from somewhere inside and his body is hanging on for the ride. Stewart’s solos on Jive Coffee (a 5/4 jazz "waltz"), on Bobblehead, and especially on Golding’s Acrobat, are spontaneous and charismatic combustions, eliciting enthusiastic response from the Smoke crowd.

On Live at Smoke, Bernstein and Co. demonstrate the effectiveness of understatement, the power of group chemistry, and the agelessness of good time, tone, and taste.

Personnel: Peter Bernstein: guitar; Larry Goldings: organ; Bill Stewart: drums. 
Track Listing: Dragonfly; Jive Coffee; Spring is Here; Putting on the Ritz; Bobblehead; I Should Care; The Acrobat; Night Mist Blues. Total time: 89 minutes.”

To paraphrase Art Blakey, drummer and ambassador of Jazz: If you love Jazz guitar and the music of Peter Bernstein isn’t in your life, you are missing out on one of the best things about living.


The Kennedy Dream - Oliver Nelson [From the Archives]

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© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.



"In February of 1967, Oliver Nelson recognized Kennedy’s contributions and assembled a big band to play music in his honor, with taped segments of his speeches as preludes. The result is a heartfelt yet eerie combination, perhaps a bit off-putting, but absolutely relevant decades later. The music is reflective of the changing times as identified by Nelson, ranging from commercial movie score-type music, to soulful or straight-ahead jazz, bop, and the modern big-band sound that the leader, composer, and orchestrator owned... it's a stark reminder of how one man can positively influence the human condition aside from politics and corporate greed, and how another can change his world musically.”
- Michael G. Nastos, allmusic.com

Recorded on February 16 and 17 in Capitol Studios, the eight tracks that were subsequently issued on Impulse! Records as The Kennedy Dream [AS-9144] “contain only a modicum of big band Jazz,” according to Kenny Berger, “since part of the album is written for a string-and woodwind based studio orchestra. In addition, seven of the eight tracks begin with recorded excerpts from Kennedy’s best known speeches.”

Of the eight movements, Berger goes on to say in his insert notes to Oliver Nelson: The Argo, Verve and Impulse Big Band Studio Sessions [Mosaic MD6-233]:

LET THE WORD GO FORTH begins with a somber introduction which segues into an ear-catching sequential figure in 7/8 meter. This figure is derived from another example in Oliver’s Book Patterns for Saxophone (...), and is based on a series of altered pentatonic scales that descend in whole steps. Next comes a dramatic-sounding theme in 9/4, stated by the low brass, followed by the full ensemble. Clarinets restate the 7/8 theme, which builds in tension till a return of the 9/4 theme. Nelson's imaginative use of the tuba here is noteworthy, as is Don Butterfield's flawless execution.

A GENUINE PEACE begins as a straight waltz stated by Phil Bodner on oboe. The low brass then take over, and the rhythmic feel begins to take on a martial quality, especially when the drums begin a rhythmic pattern that feels like a cross between a march and a waltz. This section segues into a jazz waltz with unison brass stating a theme that bears a strong resemblance to GREENSLEEVES. Two English horns take over the theme and the mood darkens as the intervallic tension between the melody and the bass line increases.

The melody of THE RIGHTS OF ALL is stated by Bodner on English horn followed by the album's first jazz solo, by Phil Woods on alto saxophone.

THE ARTISTS' RIGHTFUL PLACE is actually PATTERNS FOR ORCHESTRA wisely reorchestrated so that only the saxes play the wide skips in the melody, which hung the trumpet section out to dry on PATTERNS.

DAY IN DALLAS begins with a sense of foreboding, segues into a conventionally tuneful ballad, and then takes on a dirge-like atmosphere. This last section is a good illustration of the ways in which Nelson's compositional skills allowed him to make use of harmonic devices outside the realm of conventional jazz harmony. The increase in disquiet as the piece develops is achieved with subtlety, though carefully controlled increases in intervallic tension [intervals in pitch usually expressed in semitones].”


In his review of The Kennedy Dream for wwwallmusic.com, Michael G. Nastos offered the following views of the suite and its significance.

When the late President John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963, the world lost not only a prominent politician, but one who truly championed the arts and civil rights. In February of 1967, Oliver Nelson recognized Kennedy’s contributions and assembled a big band to play music in his honor, with taped segments of his speeches as preludes.

The result is a heartfelt yet eerie combination, perhaps a bit off-putting, but absolutely relevant decades later. The music is reflective of the changing times as identified by Nelson, ranging from commercial movie score-type music, to soulful or straight-ahead jazz, bop, and the modern big-band sound that the leader, composer, and orchestrator owned. Kennedy's most famous speech about fellow Americans, asking what they can do for their country, is folded into the last track "John Kennedy Memory Waltz" with a string quartet and the regret-tinged alto sax of Phil Woods.

The 35th President's oratorios on human rights act as prelude to the soft clarion horns, 7/8 beat, flutes, and vibes, giving way to the modal and serene passages of "Let the Word Go Forth," or the cinematic, military beat, harpsichord-shaded, plucked-guitar-and-streaming-oboe-accented "The Rights of All," which is also reflective of the immortal spiritual song "Wade in the Water." Where "Tolerance" has a similar verbal tone, the mood is much more ethereal between the flutes, oboe, and strings, while the two-minute etude for the first lady and widow,

"Jacqueline," is in a loping stride, reflective of how much longer it always took her to get dressed and organized. "A Genuine Peace" is an anthem for all time in a soul-jazz mode that parallels Aaron Copeland's Americana moods, while "Day in Dallas" is the expectant, ominous, foreboding calm before the chaos. Nelson's straight-ahead jazz exercise is "The Artists' Rightful Place," a spoken word tonic for musical troops in a bop framework that has the horn section jumping for joy.

As always, Nelson surrounds himself with the very best musicians like Woods and Phil Bodner in the reed section, tuba player Don Butterfiled, bassist George Duvivier, pianist Hank Jones, and all produced by Bob Thiele.

Now reissued on CD some 40 years later, it's a stark reminder of how one man can positively influence the human condition aside from politics and corporate greed, and how another can change his world musically.



On August 26, 2009, Douglas Payne published this review of The Kennedy Dream on his Sound Insights blog.

“At a time when most of what used to be called “record companies,” are slashing budgets, cutting staff or going out of business altogether, Universal Music has been doing a superb job reissuing their huge treasure trove of jazz on CD. Through its Originals program, dozens of nearly forgotten jazz gems from the old Verve, Impulse, A&M, Philips, MGM, Mercury and Limelight catalogs are finding their way back onto the nearly 30-year old CD format.

The other majors (WEA, Sony, EMI) are either (thankfully) licensing albums out to boutique reissue labels like Water, Wounded Bird, Collector’s Choice and Collectables or making the music available for download only. Universal Music’s Original series is catering its great wealth of music to what has become an appreciative, though small and shrinking, market base that still likes to have and hold music with great cover art, musical credits and, in some cases, liner notes (which CDs tend to make almost impossible to read).

To get an idea of just how obscure some of these Originals releases are, take the Oliver Nelson (1932-75) album The Kennedy Dream: A Musical Tribute To John Fitzgerald Kennedy, originally released in 1967 by the Impulse Records label. Even in 1967, hardly anyone knew the record existed. These days, Oliver Nelson’s name barely registers. Sadly, he does not get the recognition he so richly deserves outside of the required nod to “Stolen Moments,” Blues and the Abstract Truth, the brilliant 1961 album “Stolen Moments” appeared on, and – often snidely – a handful of Jimmy Smith’s Verve albums.

The release of Oliver Nelson’s The Kennedy Dream is, indeed, cause for celebration. It is a masterful work that ranks high among the composer’s very best work. This tribute is probably one of the most personal, deeply felt pieces he was ever asked to do outside ofAfro/American Sketches (Prestige, 1961) or Black Brown and Beautiful (Flying Dutchman, 1969). And the sincerity of his conviction shines through, producing an impassioned tribute to an inspired leader who inspired much hope for a brighter future and a better world.

The Kennedy Dream is a semi-orchestral suite in which seven of the eight compositions are launched by brief, yet memorable sections of John Kennedy’s speeches about equality and positive change. The recording was made over two days in February 1967, with a small, uncredited cast of New York’s finest session men, including Snooky Young on trumpet, Jerome Richardson and Jerry Dodgion on reeds, Phil Woods on alto sax (and solos), Phil Bodner on English horn, Danny Bank on bass clarinet, Don Butterfield on tuba, Hank Jones on piano and harpsichord, George Duvivier on bass and Grady Tate on drums.

Despite the stirring of Kennedy’s words and the rush of the occasional solo, one’s attention and admiration is drawn throughout to Nelson’s beautiful melodies, constructed with evocative passages and very personable turns of phrase. His writing for strings, for which he never got his proper due, is remarkable; filled with a purposeful passion and a rare and poetic restraint.

Each of the suite’s eight pieces have a chapter-like quality in what could be considered a musical novella – not quite the magnum opus it might have been under different circumstances (thanks to producer Bob Thiele, Nelson was probably lucky to get this record made at all) but certainly more reflective and insightful than a mere song could have ever conveyed. Still, the album’s highlights include “Let The Word Go Forth” (based on Example 45 from Nelson’s instruction Book Patterns For Saxophone), “The Artist’s Rightful Place,” known elsewhere as “Patterns For Orchestra” and, most notably, the outstanding “The Rights of All,” featuring a pizzicato strings rhythm and a gripping Phil Woods solo.

Released on CD* in what would have been Kennedy’s 82nd year – and during the first year into the term of a president who presents as much hope for positive change as Kennedy once did - The Kennedy Dream is a remarkable work from a period when orchestral jazz was not all that uncommon. It is as much a musical tribute to the presidential legacy of John Fitzgerald Kennedy as it is a documented tribute to the beautiful musical legacy of Oliver Edward Nelson.

* The Kennedy Dream was included on the 6-CD Mosaic boxset, Oliver Nelson: The Argo, Verve and Impulse Big Band Studio Sessions issued in February 2006.”

While it is heartbreaking to recall the events of that fateful day in Dallas, TX, we couldn’t let the 50th anniversary of what took place there on November 22, 1963 go unacknowledged without turning once again to Jazz to ease our solace.

So with the help of the crackerjack graphics team at CerraJazz LTD and the production facilities at StudioCerra, the editorial staff at JazzProfiles developed this video tribute to both John Fitzgerald Kennedy and Oliver Edward Nelson which features The Artist’s Rightful Place track from The Kennedy Dream.

"Dexter Gordon: Both Sides of Midnight" - Stretching Out and Saying Something

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


Stretch out. To improvise for an extended period, sufficiently long to allow a thorough working out of the possibilities offered by a theme. The term implies an unexpectedly lengthy, inventive, even self-indulgent solo in a context in which a short improvisation would be normal, and presumably derives from the consequent "stretching out" or extension of the piece as a whole. A renowned example of such a solo is Paul Gonsalves's 27-chorus improvisation on Duke Ellington's Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue at the Newport Jazz Festival in 1956 [the recording of which was issued on the album Ellington at Newport Columbia CL934.”
- Barry Kernfeld, ed., The New Grove Dictionary of Jazz


“When a musician successfully reaches a discerning audience, moves its members to applaud or shout praises, raises the energy to dramatic proportions, and leaves a sonorous memory that lingers long after, he or she has moved beyond technical competence, beyond the chord changes, and into the realm of "saying something." Since Saying something—or "sayin' something," as it's usually pronounced—requires soloists who can play, accompanists who can respond, and audiences who can hear within the context of the richly textured aural legacy of jazz ..., this verbal aesthetic image underscores the collaborative and communicative quality of improvisation.”
- Ingrid Monson, Saying Something: Jazz Improvisation and Interaction


“Stretching out” by playing multiple, improvised choruses became more of a feature of Jazz with the advent of the long-playing record in the 1950’s, but musicians like John Coltrane certainly expanded it to new levels in the 1960, especially in the context of “live” performances.


And to mix metaphors even further, “stretching out” takes the concept of “telling a story,” in some cases, to the point of writing a novel - or, at least, a novella - when some solos run over 45 minutes and can exceed an hour.


But take it from me as a former drummer who had to sit back there keeping time while these sonic odysseys were undertaken, soloists who can take extended solos while keeping it interesting to the point of “saying something,” are few and far between.  Running scales up-and-down a soprano saxophone for 30 minutes is not - saying something - it’s practicing.


If you want to listen a quintessential correlation between “stretching out” and “saying something,” them by all means get yourself a copy of the recently released Dexter Gordon Quartet Both Sides of Midnight and sit back and hear how it’s done on the four exquisite tracks that form this recording.
Both Sides of Midnight  - Black Lion Essential Reissue Series BLP 60103/Orgm-1062  - features iconic tenor saxophonist Dexter Gordon with Kenny Drew on piano, Nils Henning Orsted Pederson on bass and Albert “Tootie” Heath on drums on music that was recorded at the Montmartre Jazzhuis, Copenhagen, on July 20, 1967.


This music is from a time in Dexter’s career when he was back on the scene and had just culminated working on a series of six very successful LP’s for Alfred Lion and Francis Wolff at Blue Note Records. Some of the music that appeared on these albums was from 1963 and 1964 recording sessions that took place in Paris [one of which included Drew and Orsted Pederson with Arthur Taylor on drums] as Dexter began to explore the European Jazz scene with an eye toward making it his permanent home later in that decade.


With the advent of the Beatles and the English rock groups plus the US-based, psychedelic rock bands, all of which captured the musical interests of younger listening audiences in the US [while, at the same time, the Free Jazz movement was turning off older, more established Jazz audiences], many Jazz musicians, as Mike Zwerin, the longtime International Herald Tribune Jazz columnist maintained, “moved to Europe to live,” Dexter among them.


Alun Morgan, the noted Jazz author and critic, who over the course of his long and distinguished career, contributed the liner notes to over 2,500 recordings, the following from Both Sides of Midnight among them:


“I am constantly surprised-although experience should have taught me otherwise-by the number of American jazz musicians who chose to live in Europe. A soloist previously known from his work on records turns up for a booking at Ronnie Scott's. Where did he come from. New York City? Very often the answer is no. lie has been living on the Continent for some time. When Blue Mole recorded Hank Mobley in Paris in the summer of 1969 five of the six men on the date - Mobley. Dizzy Reece. Philly Joe Jones. Slide Hampton and pianist Vince Benedetti - happened to be in France although they are better known for their American ties.


Since 1962 Dexter Gordon has been one of the most commanding and familiar figures in the jazz clubs and jazz festivals of London, Paris. Copenhagen. Stockholm. Lugano. Molde and anywhere else where jazz is appreciated. His attachment to Europe and Copenhagen-more so than any other city-is clearly defined. By coincidence he shares the same birthdate. February 27th with another great American tenor saxophonist once domiciled in Copenhagen, the late Ben Webster. (Ben was born in 1909. Dexter in 1923.) Both Gordon and Webster played many times at the Montmartre Jazzhuis and each chose to be accompanied by Kenny Drew and Niels-Henning Orsted Pederson. Al Heath, brother of bass player Percy and saxophonist Jimmy, was not always available. In terms of European residency Al was the newcomer at the time of the Dexter Gordon Montmartre sessions. He left America in the summer of 1965 and elected to return home in October. 1968. ("I miss the scene" he said when he left. "I have lost all my fearss about the U.S. and I can understand the whole situation a little better now.")


Pianist Kenny Drew, who's playing on this and so many other European-recorded albums, is so essential to the group, was born in New York City in 1928. He left America in June, 1960 with the cast of the play The Connection. It was ostensibly, for a mere six weeks work but Drew knew when he left that he would not return to America. True to his beliefs he has lived and worked in Europe ever since, at first in Paris but latterly in Denmark where he married the daughter of the Danish band leader Leo Mathisen. The fourth member of the quartet is a European. Bass player Nils- Henning Orsted Pederson was bom in Denmark in 1946 and was offered a job in the Count Basie band at the age of 17. Only a complication involving a work permit for one so young prevented him from taking up the offer. Dexter rates him very highly; indeed he thinks he is the best bass player in Europe.



This disc is the first in a series emanating from a highly productive engagement at the Montmartre Jazzhuis. Alan Bates arranged to record the quartet as it played a series of sets at the club. The four musicians gelled into a remarkably cohesive and consistently empathetic unit First out of the bag was "Devilette," akin to the throbbing, modal style of composition associated with Miles Davis's Kind Of Blue album. In this case it is a nine written by bassist Ben Tucker, a jazzman well known on the West Coast and a veteran of many recording sessions. Gordon likes to lace his sets , with ballads, sometimes throwing in a tear-jerker such as "Heartaches" but in this instance he turns in a beautiful and sensitive "For All We Know," making full use of that incredibly huge tone which has become so much an identifying part of his style.


Two of the tunes were written by Sonny Rollins, a tenor saxophonist who has an unabashed admiration for Dexter's own playing. "Doxy," first recorded at a Miles Davis session on which Rollins played tenor, is a contemporary treatment of what is often referred to as the "JaDa" sequence for the two tunes share the same structure and chord progression.


The lengthy "Sonnymoon For Two" is the first and last resort for the jazzman for it is a basic twelve-bar blues. Dexter is at his finest when he is allowed to stretch out on a number such as this. I remember talking to drummer Stan Levey about one of his record dates at which he was the leader; Dexter, Conte Candoli and Frank Rosolino comprised the front-line and during the course of the session Gordon told Levey he had a time which might be suitable for recording purposes. "How long is it?" asked Stan. Dexter said, "Oh, about this length", holding his hands some three feet apart. That tune turned out to be "Stanley The Steamer," a long but totally relaxed blues which was the highspot of that particular album.


Similarly "Sonnymoon For Two" is a seemingly endless, timeless examination of the blues. After two theme choruses Dexter plunges into no less than twenty-eight inspired and spontaneously improvised choruses, maintaining an incredibly high level of performance. Kenny Drew, who's playing adds so much to the success of the entire LP, embarks on some twenty choruses of his own (and note his two-fisted "stride" approach around chorus sixteen!). When Dexter returns after the bass solo he plays one chorus then indulges in a favourite whim, that of introducing a quotation into his solo. In this case his second chorus after the piano and bass interludes is prefaced with "You Won't Be Satisfied Until You Break My Heart," a mid "forties song forgotten by most who heard it at the time.”


The CD is available from Amazon, MusicDirect.com or from www.ORGMUSIC.com.


The following video is from the August 5, 1967 appearance by Dexter, Kenny, Nils Henning and “Tootie” at the Montmartre Jazzhuis, Copenhagen.


Mr. Satch and Mr. Cros - Will Friedwald on Jazz Singing

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© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.



Mention Jazz singing in the context of books on the subject and the name “Will Friedwald” immediately springs up, no doubt because many Jazz fans consider him to be the ranking authority on the subject.


Whether it's Bessie, Bailey or Billie; Teagarden, Turner or Torme; Will is the “go to” guy for information on all aspects of Jazz Singing - not to mention - his definitive writings on Frank Sinatra.


If you think about it, it’s kind of tragic that the two men largely responsible for much of the vocal direction in American Popular Music in the 20th century are largely forgotten these days.


With Louis Armstrong and Bing Crosby in mind, I went to Will's seminal Jazz Singing: America’s Great Voices From Bessie Smith to Bebop and Beyond, and found these thoughts by him on the significance of Pops and Der Bingle.


“Louis Armstrong and Bing Crosby, the two most important figures in jazz-derived popular singing, both went to their graves without the world knowing when they were born. Only in a 1988 Village Voice article did Gary Giddins, author of Satchmo (New York: Dolphin, Doubleday, 1989), the finest study of Armstrong yet, reveal that the date of Armstrong's birth was August 4, 1901, and only in the eighties did Ken Twiss, president of the Bing Crosby Historical Society, prove beyond all doubt that Crosby was born on May 3, 1903 (baptismal certificates held the answer in both instances).


We know also that both came from poor families— Armstrong's hardly a family at all. In the late forties, when Crosby was seen as the ultimate American everyman, the writers of his broadcasts and his press releases tried to create a middle-class background for him. Ironically, this was the one stratum to which he had never belonged. Raised at near-poverty level in Tacoma, Washington, he became one of the wealthiest men in show business before he was forty. Crosby's father, when he worked, held down a job in a brewery and was barely able to support his wife, seven children (of which Bing—originally Harry—was the fourth), and the various other relatives who lived with them. Crosby later admitted that while his father succeeded in feeding and sheltering them all, the children had to work for everything else, including clothes, shoes, and school-books. Armstrong's upbringing was even bleaker. He was raised in the most squalid, desolate area of New Orleans—it would make a contemporary black ghetto seem like Shangri-la by comparison—by a mother who was barely around. His father wasn't there at all.


Both men became attracted to music and entertainment early on and each grew up determined to make it his career. In New Orleans' Negro red light district, where Armstrong was born and raised and where diversions of every sort were the principal trade, even danger (to use Armstrong's metaphor) "was dancing all around you then.""Little Louis" sang in a vocal quartet in his early teens; no casual affair this, since there was money to be made by poor boys on the Storyville streets and almost no place else. Armstrong's group faced much competition and had to rehearse and make an informal study of harmony and part-singing. "He could sing real well, too," remembered Peter Davis, bandleader in the Colored Waif's Home where the teen-aged Armstrong learned to play cornet, "even though his voice was coarse."


From the beginning, Armstrong's interest in singing and songs equaled his enthusiasm for the cornet and instrumental jazz, the music he more than anyone else would turn into a international art form. Shortly after leaving the orphanage, in fact, Armstrong composed what would later become the popular standard "I Wish I Could Shimmy like My Sister Kate." Still, for the next dozen or so years of his life, singing took a backseat to the trumpet.


His rise to the top of the New Orleans music scene, though not overnight, occurred quickly, and over the next few years he played with virtually all the major bands in the city, including Fate Marable's riverboat groups and Kid Ory's. In 1922, Armstrong's mentor, King Oliver, invited him to work with his Creole Jazz Band in Chicago, and after playing and recording with Oliver for over a year, Armstrong moved into what, thanks largely to him, would become the most important early-jazz big band, Fletcher Henderson's Orchestra. Armstrong had recorded dozens of discs as a sideman with Oliver, Henderson, Clarence Williams, and a dozen or so blues singers (including the greatest, Bessie Smith) by the time he began his most important series of records in 1925. Collectively known as the Hot Fives, a term that refers to all the small-group sessions under Armstrong's leadership between 1925 and 1928, these are by general consensus the most influential of Armstrong's accomplishments and quite likely the most significant body of work in all jazz.


Here he changes the face of jazz on every conceivable level: Rhythmically, he establishes the soon-to-be standard 4/4 "swing" tempo; structurally, he solidifies use of the theme-solos-theme format; conceptually, he defines the idea of jazz itself with the soloist at the center, from playing short, simple "breaks" of slight melodic embellishments to fully improvised chord-based solos of a whole chorus or longer. And in the strategy he describes as progressing from the melody to routine-ing the melody to routine-ing the routine, he sets down the basic model as well as the vocabulary most, if not all, jazz soloists would use from then on. Even before 1928, Armstrong's achievements begin to elevate from a purely musical plane to a social one, as he launches the shifts in the music that would enable it to become both a high-brow art form and an international pop entertainment. To use Lester Bowie's phrase, Louis Armstrong created "jazz as we know it."

How to top an act like that? For Armstrong, the logical next step after reinventing jazz was to reinvent popular music in his own image—to apply his discoveries as a jazz musician to mass-market pop. To speak diagrammatically, from 1929 onward Armstrong works just as hard at expanding outwardly as a performer as he had at growing upwardly from 1925 to 1928, the years of the Hot Fives. The opinion of some of his critics to the contrary, this expansion did nothing to lessen the internal content of Armstrong's art; it altered his music only in terms of its outward manifestations in three specific areas: On records especially, Armstrong now works almost exclusively with big dance bands as opposed to Hot Fives and Sevens; he concentrates more on popular songs instead of original compositions and material out of the jazz tradition; and he gives equal time to singing.


To be sure, Armstrong had sung quite a bit on his earlier small-band records, his vocals on these coming off more like a direct extension of his horn work than the other way around (as was actually the case). On "Hotter Than That" (1927) and "West End Blues" (1928), for example, Armstrong experiments with transposing the functions of the voice and the trumpet: He trades call-and-response phrases with another musician, but sings back his answers where you expect him to play them.


Armstrong also sings a trumpet-style obbligato behind Lillie Delk Christian, the main vocalist on "Too Busy" (1928). Many Hot Five sides also contain stop-time breaks sung instead of played, but the most revealing glimpses into the future occur on Armstrong's longer scat choruses. As we have seen, Cliff Edwards had been the first to apply scat to pop singing, and he had done as much as it was possible to do with the technique in the pre-Armstrong world. Armstrong not only brought scatting into his universe, he devised new contexts for it. "Heebie Jeebies" (1926), the most celebrated of his vocal improvisations, transliterated patterns Armstrong had conceived for instrumental music very directly into vocal terms, starting with lyrics, then modulating into scat phrases, and returning to the words at the conclusion, which all lends credence to the trumped-up tale of the record's scat sequence not being deliberate (as rehashed by Armstrong and Crosby in the broadcast excerpt at the beginning of this chapter). No one could make such a claim with Armstrong's two equally remarkable 1928 scat vocals, "Basin Street Blues" and "Squeeze Me"; so in place of an extra musical explanation, Armstrong "excuses" his scat episodes by having two other members of the band hum in harmony behind him—as if to somehow normalize them. In doing so, Armstrong unearths the folk origins of each tune, investigating what they might have sounded like before W. C, Handy and Clarence Williams codified them into song form.


Other indications of things to come can be found on his more or less conventional vocal refrains. There's the monumental sense of humor that produced the comic duet of Mr. and Mrs. Lil Armstrong (then also his pianist) on "That's When I'll Come Back to You," and the mastery of the blues in spirit and form on "I'm Not Rough" {both 1927), which contains the single most powerful blues ever sung by a man (or anyone besides Bessie Smith) in this period, authenticated by the presence of blues guitarist Lonnie Johnson, here serving as guest accompanist.


By 1929, Armstrong had all the elements necessary to become a great singer. The next move in the evolution of jazz-influenced popular singing would then be a matter of integration. Fortunately (as Armstrong once later said of cornetist Bix Beiderbecke), Bing Crosby happened to be "working on the same thing."


The story of Crosby giving up law school to play drums and sing in a jazz band ("I'd rather sing than eat," he reportedly told his disappointed parents) and the one about his trip from his native Washington to find big-time showbiz in Los Angeles in a beat-up old jalopy, are as much a part of the mythology of popular music as the tale of little Louis Armstrong firing a gun and winding up in the orphanage is to that of jazz.


A few months after Armstrong cut "Heebie Jeebies" in 1926, Paul Whiteman, who had been one of the first popular bandleaders to show an interest in jazz and, as we have seen, in vocalists, hired Crosby and his partner, Al Rinker, as the industry's first full-time recording band singers. The mere act of signing on someone who did nothing but sing seemed strange enough in those days, but the choice of Crosby proved to be nothing less than radical. Crosby did not fit into either of the two molds that had been established for non-classical singers by this point. He was not a noisy Jolson clone like Billy Murray or Irving Kaufman. Nor did he act like the equally affected zombies of the early post-microphone period, like Ruth Etting, Whispering Jack Smith, and Gene Austin, who overdid the understatements to such a degree that they were even farther away from jazz than the belters had been. Even his voice, a steadily deepening baritone with a husky rasp and an occasional trill, sounded as far removed from the popular tenors and falsettos of the time as Armstrong's vocal gravel pit.


The pop music world must have wondered what Whiteman saw in Crosby. My guess is that Whiteman realized that Crosby had the potential ability to accomplish one of the basic functions of an artist, one that was particularly germane to what Whiteman himself aspired to: to recognize what was valid in contemporary popular music, to preserve the best parts of it, and to integrate them all into a cohesive whole by filtering them through his own personality. Integration, in fact, represents the single most important element of Crosby's accomplishments. In this sense, integration means more than a union of African and American elements; it means art as a whole being, as a series of connections, of making seemingly disparate forms fit together in new ways. And in the traditional sense, integration signifies the single most crucial element of American music, the very basis of its existence.


In Crosby's earliest recordings, made with the Whiteman orchestra, Crosby puts together the various ingredients as if they were pieces in a jigsaw puzzle; but in each case, what Crosby adds of his own is equally important. The classic blues singers, especially the phonetically correct but no less blue Ethel Waters (who, in turn, would learn a thing from both Armstrong and Crosby), had already adapted blues feeling to the harmonic practices of Western music, but not, as Crosby did, to the American pop song. Jolson and Marion Harris provided a model for energetic charisma and the concept of black imitation, but Crosby would firstly remove all traces of the minstrel show, fitting and Austin and the other early microphone singers demonstrated how the new electric recording technique could be used, but left it to Crosby to prove that subtlety didn't have to mean somnambulance.


Edwards had demonstrated the relevance of scatting to pop singing but never really developed it as Crosby and Armstrong would, simultaneously taking the technique forward into the new world of post-Armstrong rhythm. Most importantly, Crosby absorbed the new instrumental soloists, especially Armstrong and, to a lesser extent, Beiderbecke: their approach to melodic organization, their use of rhythm, and their concept and vocabulary of improvisation.


Crosby's greatest accomplishment—the result of all this alchemy—was the application of jazz to the music of Tin Pan Alley. The significance of "hot" music to ballads, in particular, had been a nut that no one had been able to crack, especially vocally. Certainly Crosby's assimilation of Armstrong's rhythmic advances gave him a major jump on the competition. On White-man's records of "I'm Afraid of You" (1928, Victor) and "T'aint So, Honey, T'aint So" (1928, Columbia), he introduces the device of holding notes at the end of phrases as a means of playing with the time. On "Make Believe" (1928, Victor), Crosby goes even farther, leaving his colleagues in the orchestra behind. To reduce the risk of the elephantine Whiteman entourage getting in his way, the strings and the horns lay out while Crosby takes his chorus with just the rhythm section. And not even all of them: The piano, banjo, and drums keep fairly quiet while Crosby performs what amounts to a duet with the band's New Orleanian string bassist, Steve Brown.  While the piano, banjo, drums, and Whiteman's other bass (tuba actually) churn out dated oom-pah chunks, Crosby and Brown genuinely swing and at times they even ease into surprisingly modern 4/4 time. (Brown later described this time signature as one of the cornerstone elements of "modern" jazz.)


The success of the other half of Crosby's achievement, his use of lower pitches, can't be explained in strictly musical terms. The twenties were great years for "naturalism," but their idea of natural differed drastically from any that has come since—and Crosby represents the line of demarcation. He was the one who came up with the kind of "natural" that worked: the warm B-flat baritone with a little hair on it, the perfect balance between conversational and purely musical singing, the personality and the character. Crosby was the first singer to truly glorify and exalt the American popular melody, and his deep, perfectly intone resonance gave American music the wherewithal at last to compete with (and, in my ears at least, surpass) opera and the European art-song tradition. It became the sound that defined generation after generation of pop singing, largely because of its jazz origins: The single most identifiable characteristic of Crosby's style, in fact, was as a jazz device, namely, the use of trills and what classical music crit Henry Pleasants describes as mordants or satellite notes, which serve as grace notes* or syncopes employed to break up the time.


This takes us ahead of our story but not by all that much. Once Crosby had conquered the new rhythm, all the other elements began to fall into place; after 1929, both he and Armstrong could finally perform jazz-ballads that meet all the requirements of both sides of the hyphen. While Crosby's earliest solo outings (outside dance-band refrains and vocal groups), such as "Till We Meet" (1929, Columbia), reveal a not-surprising apprehension about how he's going to fill all two hundred seconds by himself, his later vocal refrains, like "Oh! Miss Hannah,""Waiting at the End of the Road" (both with Whiteman [both 1929, Columbia]), and "It Must Be True" (with Gus Arnheim's Coconut Grove Orchestra [1930, Victor]) show considerable progress and characteristic confidence.


Simultaneously, Armstrong's 1929 recordings, especially "I Ain't Got Nobody" and "I Can't Give You Anything but Love" (Okeh), show that interpreting lyrics is gradually becoming as important to him as scarring, though at this early stage his vocals still serve as mere interludes between more crucial trumpet solos. Armstrong's 1930 "I'm Confessin'" (Okeh), selected by Gary Giddins as the Armstrong record that most strongly reflects Crosby's reciprocated influence, represents a milestone of the latest stages of the new art's development Armstrong gives out with as many Bing-ish trills and extended line-ending notes as he does his own devices, like roars, repeated phrases, and personal interjections, playing off the guitar accompaniment in the same manner that Crosby had done with his guitarist, Eddie Lang. (Armstrong's November 1931 "Star Dust" includes a line of "boo-boo-boo"-ing inspired by Crosby's May 1931 record of "Just One More Chance.")


The early thirties saw the Crosby and Armstrong styles at their most convergent, although their individual personalities were strong enough to pull them away before too long. Nevertheless, they would retain enough of their mutually developed bag of tricks to make their later performances together high points of both careers. More importantly, now that they had put all the pieces together, no man could tear them asunder, and hundreds and hundreds of singers, arrangers, and songwriters would use the vocabulary developed by Armstrong and Crosby in the late twenties and early thirties. The spread of the new language was hastened by the rising popularity of each man in two of the only cases in Western history where an artist's fame and fortune came to equal his talent. They were so perfectly a part of their time and culture. By the mid-1930s all of the problems had been solved. …”

Blumenthal on Thelonious

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


“He dealt in phrases with odd shapes, placed into odd niches on the bar line, stressed in odd places. Melodically, he created tight, stark nuggets that served as seeds for complete musical statements once cultivated through his surprising use of modulation and accent. Monk's strong, aggressive touch produced tones of hornlike boldness on the piano, and his rhythmic patience highlighted the rich overtones this attack produced.


When he worked with horns, this tonal character carried over to the rough-edged ensembles he preferred to bebop's characteristic unison lines. And there was Monk's dense and pungent harmonic palette, which Andre Hodeir likened to an acid bath when applied to popular material. These various techniques functioned so integrally as to seem inseparable.


These attributes of Monk’s music, so familiar to us now and more central to the ongoing evolution of Jazz with each passing day, took an uncommonly long time for the public to grasp.”
- Bob Blumenthal, Jazz writer, columnist and critic


During the many years that he wrote about Jazz for TheBoston Globe, CD Review, The Atlantic Monthly, Downbeat and numerous other publications, Grammy-Award winning author, columnist and critic Bob Blumenthal became one of my most consistent teachers about all-things-Jazz


For his long affiliation with it and studied application of it, Bob knows the music.


Equally important is his ability to communicate this knowledge and awareness in a writing style that is clear, cogent and concise.


Bob’s a mensch and a mentor.


My first awareness of Thelonious Monk’s music was based on the LPs he recorded for Orrin Keepnews at Riverside Records from approximately 1955-1960. The significance of these recordings was that they helped make the Jazz public of that period aware of Monk’s genius, such that Thelonious career was set on a path that would lead to fame and fortune.


The Riverside albums were a renaissance of sorts for Monk who, although he was one of the originators of modern Jazz along with Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, and Kenny Clarke and others from the Minton's Playhouse days of the early 1940’s, had largely become a forgotten man by the end of that decade.


In 1994, Blue Note Records issued a boxed set of the music that Thelonious had recorded for the label under his own name and as sideman on a 1957 date with Sonny Rollins as the leader. The set also includes the five tracks that were recorded by John Coltrane's wife Naima at the Five Spot in NYC during Coltrane's tenure with Monk's quartet in 1958.


This reissued set provided a sort of missing link in my quest to appreciate the early years of Monk’s music.


And if that wasn’t enough, wouldn’t you know that the insert notes to the four CD’s that make up Thelonious Monk: The Complete Blue Note Recordings [CDP 7243 8 30363 2 5] were written by none other than … you guessed it … Bob Blumenthal.


Bob has kindly granted the editorial staff at JazzProfiles permission to use the introductory portion of his Blue Note annotations on these pages.


© -  Bob Blumenthal, copyright protected, all rights reserved; used with the author’s permission.


“Thelonious Sphere Monk inherited his striking name, yet it is doubtful that the collective energy of all the slogan-makers could have devised a more appropriate appellation. Never has a moniker so perfectly reflected someone's music. "Thelonious" announces imposing complexity and originality with roots in tradition, "Monk" signals abrupt angularity, and the rhythmic impact of the two in juxtaposition is indelible and unique. The rich internal detail was frequently lost on others in the past, who tended to fashion the first name as "Thelonius," mirroring the confusion that surrounded Monk's music (fortunately, misunderstandings of both types have diminished over time). Most revealing of all, though, is "Sphere," with its intimations of rounded, three-dimensional completeness, of a self-contained planet pursuing its own course in the musical universe.


That sense of fullness, together with Monk's brilliant use of sound, silence, dissonance, rhythmic surprise and melodic cogency, marked the music in this collection from its initial appearance as something exceptional. For many, musicians as well as listeners, it was also somewhat undecipherable when first released on a series of 78 rpm records taken from the six sessions that form the bulk of this collection. At the time, Monk was considered the jazz world's primary enigma, the farthest out of the far out. He was said to be one of the fountainheads of bebop, its "high priest"; yet his music did not sound like bebop. The breathless, arpeggio-driven virtuosity of bop that was already becoming cliche when Monk recorded his first sessions as a leader was replaced in his music by a concept of space that was poetic. He dealt in phrases with odd shapes, placed into odd niches on the bar line, stressed in odd places. Melodically, he created tight, stark nuggets that served as seeds for complete musical statements once cultivated through his surprising use of modulation and accent. Monk's strong, aggressive touch produced tones of hornlike boldness on the piano, and his rhythmic patience highlighted the rich overtones this attack produced. When he worked with horns, this tonal character carried over to the rough-edged ensembles he preferred to bebop's characteristic unison lines. And there was Monk's dense and pungent harmonic palette, which Andre Hodeir likened to an acid bath when applied to popular material. These various techniques functioned so integrally as to seem inseparable.


These attributes of Monk’s music, so familiar to us now and more central to the ongoing evolution of Jazz with each passing day, took an uncommonly long time for the public to grasp The uniqueness of his music was reinforced by the eccentricities of his personality. He may have been the "genius of modern music," as Blue Note proclaimed when it first reissued some of the enclosed performances on 10-inch IPs in the early '50s; but to many he was a mad genius, given to wearing odd hats and sunglasses and with what his wife Nellie once described as a "marvelous sense of withdrawal." When he cut his first session as a leader in October 1947, he was five days past his 30th birthday, a point at which too many of the music's innovators had exhausted both their creative and biological spans. By the time of his sixth and final Blue Note date as a leader in 1952, he was nearly 35 and, thanks to public indifference and his willingness to take a drug possession rap for a friend, seemingly even further from the acclaim that would put him on the cover of Time Magazine little more than a decade later and elevate him still further in the years following his death in 1982.


Of course, Monk was nothing if not patient. At the time of his first Blue Note session, he had been a key figure in the emergence of the modern style for years; yet all he had to show for his efforts on record were four titles cut in 1944 with Coleman Hawkins and some samples of the already legendary jam sessions at Minton's taped at the club and issued under Charlie Christian's name. As a composer he fared better, with Hawkins, Cootie Williams, Dizzy Gillespie, Kenny Clarke and Bud Powell already having introduced several of his most famous compositions. The three sessions he led for Blue Note in a span of 38 days in 1947, which included 10 of his compositions, might be viewed as one of the greatest bursts of creative energy in history if Monk had not been waiting to unleash this brilliant music for a decade. On record at least, he began fully formed and more than ready.


Monk was born on October 10, 1917 in Rocky Mount, North Carolina and was named after his father. (His son, the drummer T. S. Monk, is actually Monk III.) His family moved to New York City in 1923, occupying a house on West 63rd Street in the San Juan Hill neighborhood that would remain Monk's home for much of his life. His musical career began typically enough for an African-American youth of the time: piano lessons at 11, rent parties and amateur contests three years later, and regular work in church, where he accompanied his mother. Despite excelling in math and science at Stuyvesant High School, Monk dropped out in 1934 to accompany an evangelist on a tour that ultimately took him to the Midwest. Mary Lou Williams, one of his earliest champions, heard him at the time and later reported that he displayed a fluid swing piano technique, with touches of Teddy Wilson.


Back in New York by 1936, Monk studied briefly at Juilliard and began taking the diverse gigs that are a young musician's lot. He also quickly immersed himself in the Harlem after-hours scene, landing a job in the house rhythm section at Minton's Playhouse in 1940. This was the period during which young musicians began developing a more technically advanced approach that went beyond the conventions of swing music, in clubs like Minton's and Monroe's Uptown House. At Minton's, Monk and his rhythm section mate Kenny Clarke jammed with such sympathetic contemporaries as Charlie Christian, Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker.

The pianist also began introducing his compositions to the sessions, and encouraged a second generation of even younger players, especially his protege Bud Powell. These efforts continued when Monk moved with Clarke to Kelly's Stables in 1942.


Gillespie and others have verified that Monk participated actively in the give-and-take of these sessions, and the music that evolved from this period expressed, especially in its harmonic approach, certain aspects of Monk's thinking. The rapid tempos and arpeggiated melodies generally identified with bebop are far removed from Monk's aesthetic, however, and he quickly distanced himself from the center of bop activity. Although he did some work with Lucky Millinder, Coleman Hawkins and both the early combo and big band of Dizzy Gillespie, much of his time in the remainder of the '40s was spent organizing his own groups, often with young players like the teenaged Sonny Rollins. A few jobs cropped up, but his bands spent much of their time rehearsing in Monk's kitchen (where he kept his piano), even after he began recording for Blue Note.


The notoriety of his accompanists was less important to Monk than their ability to learn his music correctly. He had little tolerance for complaints about his music's difficulty - he famously told Sahib Shihab at one of the Blue Note sessions, "You a musician? You got a union card? Then play it!" - his insistence on writing little down and forcing players to use their ears only heightened the challenge. Most responded surprisingly well, whether they turned out to be giants like Art Blakey and Milt Jackson, or obscure journeymen who would be totally forgotten if not for their role in the documentation of Monk's music.


Saxophonist Ike Quebec, a Blue Note leader and adviser to label owners Alfred Lion arid Francis Wolff, was


instrumental in bringing Monk to their attention when they expressed interest in documenting modern jazz. His input is most obvious on Monk's initial session, recorded on October 15, 1947, where Quebec takes composer credit on two of the four titles and where his 17-year-old cousin Danny Quebec West is the alto saxophonist. The other saxophonist, tenor man Billy Smith, is similarly unknown, while the remaining sidemen proved to have greater longevity. Trumpeter Idrees Sulieman, born Leonard Graham in 1923, worked in various big bands and combos before moving to Europe in 1961 and is still playing in 1994. Bassist Gene Ramey (1913-84) was a colleague of Charlie Parker's in the Jay McShann orchestra and became one of the most widely recorded players of the period. Art Blakey (1919-90), soon to be identified as Monk's perfect drummer, would begin his own career as a leader for Blue Note before the year was out. …”


At this point, Bob begins a session-by-session analysis of the tunes and musicians that make up the music on the four Blue Note CD’s and concluded his essay with the following observations about the importance of Monk’s music on Blue Note in the evolution of Monk’s own career and to the development of modern Jazz in the 1950s and beyond.


“Some might consider the lengthier tracks with Rollins and Coltrane extraneous additions to what otherwise would be a perfectly acceptable set of "complete" Blue Note Monk. Given that Monk's music grew and expanded, though, sounding ever more clearly in the ears of musicians and listeners, these later performances strike me as essential complements to the groundbreaking sessions of 1947-52.


They take us into the future, where Monk becomes more and more central to jazz of the late 20th century and where, in the years following the issuance of this collection, he will no doubt assume his rightful place as one of the greatest contributors to American culture.”


- Bob Blumenthal




The Four Freshmen: A Vocal Quartet with Quarter Tones

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


In retrospect, it’s amazing to consider having ever taken The Four Freshmen for granted.

Yet for many years, that’s exactly what I did.

I mean, as a Jazz vocal group, they were still right up there with The Pied Pipers, The Hi-Lo’s, and Mel Torme’s Mel-tones, but I was spoiled back in the days when The Four Freshman made their first, recorded appearances in the early 1950s.

Good vocal Jazz was everywhere, so one had a tendency in those days to expect marvelous music from a newly arrived group on the scene.

But somehow, The Four Freshmen demanded a closer listening and I kept going back and back and doing just that – listening more closely to the point when it finally dawned on me that something very special was going on in their music.

But what?

Why were The Four Freshmen above-the-line; why did I eventually come to view them as virtually being in a class by themselves?

The reasons for their uniqueness is in The Four Freshmen’s use of quarter tones and the manner in which they “voice” their chords as explained in the following excerpt from the insert notes to The Complete Capitol Four Freshmen Fifties Session, a nine-disc set issued by Michael Cuscuna and his team at Mosaic Records[MD9-203].

At least I had enough of a discriminating sense to jump on a copy of this set when it first appeared. It was issued in a limited edition of 3,500 and my copy is numbered “0079.”

The Mosaic set notes were prepared by Ross Barbour, one of the Freshmen’s founding members. In them, Ross not only describes what gave the group its distinctive sound, but also how the group got its start with the Stan Kenton Orchestra, an association that would continue for almost three decades, and ultimately came to be recorded by Capitol Records.

Ross’s annotations and remembrances are followed with an article by William H. Smith that also touches on the roots of the group and the reasons why The Four Freshmen successfully carry on to this day.


© -  Ross Barbour/Mosaic Records, copyright protected; all rights reserved.



“Bob Flanigan and Don and Ross Barbour are cousins. Our mothers were sisters. My brother Don and I are from Columbus, Indiana. Bob Flanigan is from Greencastle, Indiana.

When we were just grade-schoolers, we would go to our mothers' family reunions and at noon the Fodreas would all stand and sing the Doxology before we ate. (Praise God from whom all blessings flow, etc.) In mother's family, there were 10 girls and two boys. They all sang in quartets, choirs and choruses. They sang harmony so right it made the rafters ring. It took our breath away.

The way they sang those notes made a different sound from playing those notes on a keyboard. I never understood why they were so different until I read an article in an old Barbershopper's newsletter. The harmonizer of September 1954, Paul Vandervoort of Hey wood, Illinois, wrote the article, and he got his information from The Outline of Knowledge Encyclopedia, and an article entitled "Sound Physics."

It seems that in about 1700, the musical scale was quite complicated. An octave had 20 or more notes in it. Between F and G, for instance, there was F sharp, G double flat and G flat. That was called the "perfect diatonic scale."

Johann Sebastian Bach came along and changed all this. He formed what is known as the "tempered scale" by choos­ing 12 of the 20-plus notes, and having his piano tuned that way. It was a lot simpler, but the beautiful quarter tones were left out. People's ears could still hear them and harmony singers knew how to use them to make what are called over­tones, but they were just not on a keyboard anymore.

Bob, Don and I were hearing those overtones or harmonics as kids, and we became addicted to them. We couldn't get enough. I sang in quartets in high school and in college, and I sang with the Four Freshmen for 29 years. I never got enough. I have been a Freshmen fan since I retired undefeated in 1977, and I still need to hear overtones.

In our early Four Freshmen days, we rehearsed without instruments. If a chord we sang couldn't stand up and say its name (I'm a D-ninth or I'm an F-seventh), we would change it until it did.

We used bass and guitar for our background, but they never played the exact notes we were singing. Our harmony could happen almost unfettered by the demand of a key­board — demand that would channel us back into Bach's 12 half-steps per octave.

If my note was a major seventh, I could sing it on top of the note — sing it sharp, you might say, so it and the tonic note became a little less than a half-step apart. That's what makes it buzz in your ear.

If we wanted a dominant seventh to ring, we'd sing it on the bottom of the pitch — especially if the voice leading was going down through that dominant seventh.

A major third should be sung brightly on top of the pitch, and a minor third should hang on the bottom.

We were singing those notes not because they were writ­ten and the piano said the pitch was "there." We sang them because they harmonized. They made overtones in our ears.

And we didn't discover some great breakthrough in har­mony. Good barbershop singers do it all the time; in fact singers have been doing it since at least the year 1700.


It may be that we were the first modern vocal group the world noticed who put the emphasis on harmony and over­tones, but we won't be the last. Other groups are bound to succeed in doing it because there is something in people's ears that needs harmony. That thing can make your hair stand up when a chord rings. It can make you shout right out loud!

That article about "Sound Physics" goes on to say that Handel, the great composer, "could not stand to hear music played in the tempered scale." He had an organ built that would play all the notes in the perfect diatonic scale. Boy! That would be a bear to play!

In 1947, Hal Kratzsch was 22, Bob 21, Don 20 and I was 18. We were all freshmen at ArthurJordanConservatory in Indianapolis. We'd all sung in vocal groups before and singing harmony parts came naturally to us.

Bob had been a member of a Greencastle vocal group that had a radio show in Indianapolis for a while. He went into the service out of high school, and played trombone through his army time in Germany, except when the dance band needed a bass player. He learned to play bass on the job. After the service he enrolled in A.J.C. in 1947.

Don played guitar through high school and a couple of years in Arabia with the Air Force. I had graduated from high school in the spring of 1947. Don and I came to college together that fall.

Hal, who was from Warsaw, Indiana, played trumpet in high school and in the Navy in the South Pacific. He came from the service to IndianaUniversity for a year before trans­fering to A.J.C.

Hal and I met in theory class. He had the idea of putting together a quartet. At that time, we thought a modern vocal group needed a girl to sing lead, so Hal, Don and I rehearsed with a girl named Marilyn for almost a month, before we found out that Marilyn's mom wouldn't let her go sing with three guys in late-night places.

When we got Bob in the group, our sound really started to take shape. Bob's lead voice has influenced generations... strong and clear.

Hal knew from instinct how to sing the bottom part, and he did it his way. He seldom sang the tonic, and often sang the ninth or passing tones through the chords. His pitch was so secure, we could stand our chords up on his note.

Don had such a wide range. We needed his upper regis­ter in his second part, and he came through with it so well and so strong. I was a natural baritone or third voice. It was more natural for me to sing harmonies than to sing melodies. It was up to us to fill in — to color — that large area between Bob and Hal.

With voices like these we could make rainbows of color chords, so we did. In the beginning we chose our own notes — made up our own individual parts, but we didn't do it straight through a song. On Poinciana, we would agree to sing "oh" in unison. Then "poin" was a chord to solve. After we had that one, then we went for "ci" and the notes had to flow from "poin" to "ci", then on to "ana." Okay, let's try it from the top. Are there any chords we can make stronger? Let's try making two chords out of "ci"— when I do this, you do that. Maybe a whole hour goes by and you haven't tried all the ideas. But you should keep trying because the next idea may just make all of you jump and shout.

We were trying to sound like Stan Kenton's vocal group, The Pastels. There were five of them and four of us, but that didn't stop us. Mel Torme had a five-part group with Artie Shaw's band called The Mel Tones. We tried to copy them, too. The way it turned out, we invented a sound by trying to get a five-part sound with four voices. (Other elements to our sound came about serendipitously. At a show in El Paso on December 8, 1951, Don broke a high E string on his guitar, and he didn't have a spare. Well, the show had go on, so Don replaced it with a third string and tuned it an octave lower. From that day on, Don's guitar didn't sound like other guitars. It was great for our sound. The lower string added a density to the range where we sang.)

We went on the road Sept. 20, 1948, working lounges (most of them dingy dives) around the Midwest for a year and a half, honing our music and our stage presentation.

In February 1950, we were working the Pla Bowl Lounge in Calumet City, Illinois. We'd work until 2:30 or 3:00 a.m. and then we would go to jam sessions. The 19th was a Sunday night — the end of our week. Mondays were off. We went to the High Note in Chicago for a session that began about 4:00 a.m. Monday. The place was full of the right people — Marian McPartland, Roy Kral and Jackie Cain, Jeri Southern, and one of our favorites, Mary Ann McCall. She was on stage singing with the Max Miller Trio. It was a song we knew so we got up there, too, and sang "dooooo" with her. It must have sounded pretty good because at the end of the song, Mary Ann said on the microphone, "Hey, Woody, we're ready to go." A guy at the bar stood up and said something back to her. We caught our breath. It was Woody Herman!

In the next few minutes, he and Mary Ann explained how Woody was going to put together a new band in a few months; he would call it "The Band That Plays the Music You Want to Dance To," or some such title. He wanted us four to play in the band, and sing as a quartet a half dozen tunes a night.

We loved the Herman Herds and the way Mary Ann sang. Oh! It seemed that life couldn't get any better. Just one month later, Stan Kenton had us reaching for the moon (our own record contract) and believing it was possible.


Stan heard us in the Esquire Lounge in Dayton, Ohio, on Tuesday, March 21. He was on tour with the Innovations Orchestra and some disc jockey friends brought Stan to hear us after his show. He must have understood that we didn't usually tremble and sound short of breath when we sang. He knew we were overwhelmed by his presence. It could be that our worshipping his every move triggered some of his devotion to our quartet.

He could tell we didn't know what we were doing. I heard him say in an interview one time that we were doing things by ear that were way beyond our musical education, but we were making sounds he liked to hear.

That night he planned for us to go to New York and meet him and Pete Rugolo. He would see that we made some good audition tapes for Capitol's executives to hear. He would talk those executives into signing us to our own contract, and we would begin making records. Stan made it happen just that way.

He'd later say, "You guys have gotta succeed, you can't fail. You're part of my ego!" Let me pause here in the story to explain that Stan had his managers handle our career. They found us work, and helped us choose uniforms. We received mail at Stan's 941 N. LaCienega address for two or three years, and we couldn't get him to take a penny for it. He didn't even want us to give him Christmas presents. The prestige he added to this quartet by just saying, "Stan Kenton likes the Four Freshmen," was priceless. The help­ful care he gave us year after year kept good things coming our way. I have said it before and it always sounds like I am bragging, but Stan treated us like we were his own kids. We were part of his ego.

On April 10, we left Green Bay on the 7:10 train to Chicago. We caught the 2:40 p.m. train to New York and tried to sleep that night, but we were too keyed up. None of us slept. Our dreams were coming true before our very eyes.

My diary says: "Tried to sing in the dining caboose, almost got thrown in the caboose, Yippee Ky-0-Ky-A."

We arrived in New York at 10:30 a.m. on April 11, full of youthful steam. We slept for an hour and a half at the Dixie Hotel before we went to Pete Rugolo's dressing room at the Paramount Theater. He was conducting the orchestra for Billy Eckstine.

We waited in the dressing room while Pete did the show. We could hear the show from there. Does life get better than this? When Pete came back, we sang a couple of tunes for him. Pete was pleased but surprised we sang for him since that's what we were to do the next day in the studio. Later that night, we went to BopCity to hear Lionel Hampton and the George Shearing group with Denzil Best.

The next evening (Wednesday April 12), we ate at the Automat and went to Pete's dressing room again, where we met up with Stan Kenton and his manager, Bob Allison, who gave us $65. This was travel money and we thought, at the time, it was from Capitol records. Now we know that Capitol didn't pay groups to go to New York to record audition tapes. That money must have come from Stan himself, just to make sure that the cost of the trip didn't leave us broke.

We were in good hands, and we were on our way!”
  
© -  William H. Smith/The Wall Street Journal, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

Four Freshman: A Vocal Group at the Top of Its Class

By WILLIAM H. SMITH
August 20, 2008
The Wall Street Journal

“Widely known for basketball, the Indy 500, and a plethora of covered bridges, Indiana also proudly claims The Four Freshmen as its own. The legendary vocal/instrumental group will celebrate its 60th anniversary at a reunion, sponsored by The Four Freshmen Society, of band members past and present -- there have been 23 lineups to date -- at the Sheraton Indianapolis City Centre, Aug. 21 to 23. Commemorative concerts continue to air across the country during PBS fund-raising drives, and a highlight of 2008 will be the Freshmen's Oct. 25 performance before Russian fans at the prestigious Great Hall of the Moscow Performing Arts Center.

Although not the first successful vocal group, The Four Freshmen was, without question, the most innovative. Inspired by Artie Shaw's Mel-Tones with Mel Torme, as well as by The Pastels, a five-voice group with Stan Kenton, the Freshmen soon developed their own unique style of harmony -- singing a five-part sound with four voices and playing instruments as well. Every vocal group that followed -- except for those that sang with no or minimal chord structure -- was influenced by the Freshmen, including The Lettermen, Manhattan Transfer, Take Six, the Beatles and the Beach Boys. (At The Four Freshmen's Jan. 14 performance at Palm Desert, Calif.'s McCallum Theatre, I sat in the audience next to the Beach Boys' Brian Wilson -- one of the Freshmen's most enthusiastic fans, who listened to their records as a teenager and wanted to emulate their unique sound in his arrangements.)

The close harmony of this unique quartet had its genesis at ButlerUniversity's JordanConservatory in Indianapolis, when Hal Kratzch, along with Don Barbour and his brother Ross, formed "Hal's Harmonizers." In an interview at his home in Simi Valley, Calif., Ross Barbour recalled that "we tried a few lead singers, but it was only after our cousin Bob Flanigan, with his strong high voice, joined the group that we started getting that Freshmen sound." The four went on the road in 1948 as The Toppers, but the name was soon changed to The Four Freshmen. (Both Ross Barbour and Bob Flanigan, the only survivors of that quartet, received honorary doctorates at Butler this May.)


Stan Kenton heard the Freshmen in March 1950 at the Esquire Lounge in Dayton, Ohio, and gave them their first big break by introducing the group to his own recording label, Capitol Records. The Freshmen had developed their trademark sound by structuring chords much like the trombone section of Kenton's own band, and Mr. Barbour maintains that the success of one of their biggest-selling albums, "Four Freshmen and Five Trombones," can in a large way be attributed to Pete Rugolo, the arranger the quartet and Kenton shared.

The Four Freshmen's signature tune is "It's a Blue World Without You," released in 1952, a song that continues to send chills up and down the spines of audiences as soon as the first a capella chords resound. But the Freshmen gained their first national exposure when they appeared on CBS's "Steve Allen Show" on Christmas Day in 1950, and their popularity lasted not only through the decade that later gave birth to rock 'n' roll but into the mid-1960s -- the era of Bob Dylan and the Beatles -- and beyond. Despite this generational change, the Freshmen continued playing universities around the country and, according to Mr. Barbour, "the multitude of college kids remained loyal fans."

Over their 60 years of performing throughout the U.S. and abroad, the Freshmen have recorded some 45 albums and 70 singles, and have received numerous honors, including six Grammy Awards. Down Beat magazine awarded the quartet the Best Jazz Vocal group honor in 1953 and again, 57 years later, in 2000, an example of the quartet's timeless appeal. The present lineup placed No. 1 in this same category in the 2007 JazzTimes Readers Poll.

"The Four Freshmen have endured for the simple reason that they are top in their class," said Charles Osgood, anchor of "CBS Sunday Morning," when a profile of the group aired in August 1994. Steven Cornelius of the Toledo Blade put it this way in April 2005: "There is no Dorian Gray youth potion at work, just a healthy retirement system." When a member leaves, he is replaced with an equally talented musician.

The present lineup of this multifaceted, ultra-talented quartet of vocalists and instrumentalists now comprises Vince Johnson, baritone, playing bass and guitar; Bob Ferreira, bass voice, playing drums; Brian Eichenberger, lead voice, playing guitar and bass; and Curtis Calderon, singing second part, and playing trumpet and flugelhorn. Although the other three Freshmen joke about it, Mr. Johnson accompanies his bass with some of the best whistling since Bing Crosby.

Bob Flanigan -- introducing the current quartet on their recent DVD, "The Four Freshmen Live From Las Vegas" -- vows that "this group is the best Four Freshmen of all time." On the DVD, Mr. Flanigan, reflecting on his 44 years with the Freshmen, remembers all the "Bad roads . . . Bad food . . . Good and Bad Hotels . . . and millions of air-miles in DC3s to 747s."

Long live The Four Freshmen. May they never graduate!

Mr. Smith writes about jazz and the big-band era for the Journal

For tour dates and venues, go to www.fourfreshmen.com.”



Jazz Impressions of Dave Brubeck

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© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


Dave Brubeck had an immensely successful career as a Jazz musician, but it was never a certain thing.

He was based in San Francisco so he wasn’t a part of the West Coast Cool and the LA studios scene. And while he respected what was going down on the East Coast with Bird and Diz, he couldn’t play that way even if we wanted to. It just wasn’t his thing.

There was no blueprint to follow, he just made it up as he went along, thanks mainly to he and his wife Iola’s persistence, the huge musical talent that Dave and his close colleague Paul Desmond would ultimately bring to bear on their musical endeavors and his insistence on playing his own style of music which would reach its ultimate expression in the huge amount of original music that Brubeck wrote over his lengthy career.

The Brubecks were raising a young family and they couldn’t afford to fail. Dave’s music was all they had to fall back on, and despite his success as the years went along, he never got over the insecurity of making it.

When the Brubecks journeyed from their home in Connecticut to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary at the Claremont Country Club in Oakland, CA, they did it as part of a scheduled trip to Japan. They had gigs lined up in all the big cities on Japan’s main island of Honshu! They were in their seventies!!”

In many ways, Dave Brubeck is really a living example of the fictional Horatio Alger character who makes his way in the world through pluck and luck [aka “The American Dream”].

Dave’s initial base in northern California was not particularly propitious. His quartet became a fixture at San Francisco’s Blackhawk, with an occasional gig at the hungry i and other North Beach and Bay area clubs, but the work paid scale and was regularly irregular, to say the least.

He did have a recording contract with Fantasy Records, a label along with the Weiss Brothers that Dave helped bring into existence, but the label had limited, local distribution which did not provide the group with national recognition.

Other than those based in the greater San Francisco Bay area, those Jazz critics who did hear the group were scathing in their reviews of its music.

Ultimately, the saving grace for Dave Brubeck and his music turned out to be a selecting the right venues to perform it in and by chosing interesting compositional themes to form the basis for many of his recordings.

Thematic venues, both at home and abroad, would hold the initial key to Dave’s success. Appearances at Colleges -Festivals -European Tours; this was the stuff that cemented the success of Dave’s quartet

Had it not been for Iola’s idea to book the group as a college concert attraction, one wonders what the fate of the DBQ might have been?

And Dave’s success on college campuses brought him to the attention of George Avakian who signed him to a contract with Columbia Records [Sony Music Group] which helped his quartet achieve both national and international acclaim.

Not surprisingly then, a theme that predominated many of Dave’s earliest recordings was in performance recordings at college and junior college venues such as Oberlin, OH, College of the Pacific, CA, Fullerton, CA JC and Long Beach,CA JC, respectively, Jazz Festivals including those at Newport, RI and Monterey, CA and Jazz clubs including Storyville in Boston, MA and Basin Street in New York City.

Once ensconced at Columbia,  George Avakian’s supportive patronage [and later, Teo Macero’s] allowed Dave’s imagination to run wild and new compositional themes now took the form of albums based on the music from Walt Disney’s animated films, a Composers series with standards by Cole Porter and Matt Dennis, music closely associated with the American South, the newly arrived bossa nova melodies, and the scores from notable Broadway shows such as “West Side Story.”

Dave had always been intrigued with unusual time signatures and while at Columbia this interest would be manifested in thematic recordings such as Time Out, Time Further Out, and Time Changes [which included “Elementals,” Dave’s extended orchestral composition, the first of many as these elaborate orchestral pieces which were to become another device in Dave’s lexicon of themes].

Because of Columbia’s extensive distribution abroad, Dave’s music now found considerable acceptance internationally and this resulted in what were to become many of my favorite recordings in the vast Brubeckian discography. Included here are the many “Jazz Impressions of” LP’s which included those drawn from the Brubeck Quartet’s trips to Europe, Eurasia and Japan [there is also a Jazz Impressions of the U.S.A. and a Jazz Impressions of New York just to keep things geographically ecumenical].

In the following liner notes to The Dave Brubeck Quartet: Jazz Impressions of Eurasia [Columbia/Legacy CK 48531], Dave explains how this theme developed into an album of six original compositions:

“In early February 1958, the Quartet and I boarded a Pan American Clipper for London. Our tour, which began in England, took us through the countries of Northern Europe, behind the Iron Curtain into Poland, through the Middle East (Turkey, Iran and Iraq) and on into India, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Ceylon. When we returned to New York in the middle of May, we had traveled thousands of miles, had performed over 80 concerts in 14 different countries, and had collected a traveler's treasure of curios (see cover) and impressions (hear record) of Europe and Asia.

These sketches of Eurasia have been developed from random musical phrases I jotted down in my notebook as we chugged across the fields of Europe, or skimmed across the deserts of Asia, or walked in the winding alleyways of on ancient bazaar. I did not approach the writing of this album with the exactness of a musicologist. Instead, as the title indicates, I tried to create an impression of a particular locale by using some of the elements of their folk music within the jazz idiom.

The heart of any musical work, jazz or classical, is not the theme itself, but the treatment and development of that theme. And the heart and developmental section of these jazz pieces are the improvised choruses. Therefore, the challenge in composing these sketches was not in the selection of a theme characteristic of a locale, but in writing a piece with chord progressions that would lead the improviser into an exploration of the musical idiom I was trying to capture. At the same time, the piece must fulfill the requirements of a good jazz tune—that is, the chord progressions must flow so naturally that the soloist is free to create. Many melodies, which could have been developed into compositions if our music were completely written, have been discarded, because in these jazz impressions of Eurasia the improvisations by the soloists are comparable to the developmental section of a composed work.

How does one go about writing such themes? One way is to listen to the voices of the people. The music of a people is often a reflection of their language. I experimented with the words "thank you" as spoken in several languages, since that was the one phrase that I used most as performer and traveler.

It is evident that once the pieces for Jazz Impressions of Eurasia were composed, that the creation of the album was as much the work of Paul Desmond, Joe Morello and Joe Benjamin as it was mine. In these jazz impressions they have proved themselves to be not only great jazz musicians, but improvisers with unique imagination and adaptability.”

When Jazz Impressions of Eurasia came out as a CD in 1991, Jazz author, critic and Jazz Journalists Association President, Howard Mandel visited with Dave and the result was the following interview which Howie has graciously allowed us to reprint on these pages.

© -  Howard Mandel, copyright protected, all rights reserved; used with the author’s permission.


1991 REVISIT WITH DAVE

“Dave Brubeck has some stories to tell about going where no other jazz artists had dared yet to tread.

At the beginning of 1958, Brubeck was the most popular progressive instrumentalist in America—so influential he'd established an oeuvre of meters far from the beaten 4/4 path, so confident he'd successfully challenged segregation by featuring his black bassist during an extensive tour of the American South. Brubeck was a hit on college campuses, drawing large crowds and substantial performance fees. Yet he leapt at the chance to take his wife, two children and quartet on a strenuous 120-day tour of "Eurasia" at the behest of the U.S. State Department, financed by the Eisenhower Fund.

From England to Copenhagen, into Germany and Poland, through Turkey into the remote Middle East, India and Pakistan, the then 38-year-old pianist led alto saxophonist Paul Desmond, drummer Joe Morello and bassist Eugene Wright on a mission officially meant to charm the Old World's cultures with thoroughly modern music. But the Brubeck Quartet's tour proved equally effective in bringing "foreign" influences into jazz—a music which, though a product of the American 20th century, will never be outdated and recognizes no geographic boundaries.

"The experiences were just fantastic—sometimes very frightening, but great," says Dave Brubeck, today on icon as eminent as the American Eagle — which he resembles in the glint of his piercing eyes, the deep cut of His strong features, and the full flow of his white crown. After decades of international travel and dozens of recording sessions, Brubeck's memory remains sharp — he recalls the exotic names and places, strange customs and arduous travails of the 1958 tour in detail.  "It is one of my favorite tours," he announces, "and this is the album that came out of it!"

Brubeck wrote the six tunes on Jazz Impressions Of Eurasia (plus "Blue Rondo A La Turk," an enduring theme unveiled on his subsequent Columbia album Time Out) while traveling, and recorded them almost immediately upon the band's return. The tour was repeatedly extended as the State Department continued to find odd spots for the Quartet to perform, but its end was necessitated by on iron-clad concert contract with Texas A&M and bassist Wright’s agreement to join Carmen McRae (so that Joe Benjamin replaced him in realizing Brubeck's musical journal of the road). By going into the studio so soon after the trip, Dave's impressions were captured in all their immediacy. And as is the desired case when vivid ideas are preserved by getting them down before their freshness fades, the spirit of the journey lives in the music — as though caught in amber — after 33 years time.

"'Nomad' was about the nomadic Turkish people," Brubeck recalls. "We were in Kabul, a city the dogs come into at night from the outlying districts, so you're not very safe on the streets. The dogs come in packs and they're out for whatever they can hunt or find. But the nomads ride through, and they string drums on either side of their camels as a signal of their arrival and to scare off the dogs. I heard them, and that's 'Nomad.'"

And here is the famous Dave Brubeck Quartet, on original, distinctive, interpretive ensemble. First there's Joe Morello's inspired tom-tom motif, sketching the scene in league with Joe Benjamin's nightshade bass. Then the glory of Paul Desmond's alto — a focused beam of moonlight glinting off the caravan's trappings. And finally, Brubeck's deft block chords forming a rhythmically assured accompaniment, framing the experience through a lens of delighted discovery.

"Brandenburg Gate" is somewhat more restrained in its exuberance, but partakes of similar enthusiasm for its sources: the baroqued legacy of Bach (in the clock-like regularity of its circle-of-fifths modulations through harmonic minors), the "imitative" antiphony of Brubeck's phrase; following Desmond's to suggest a fugue, the cantus firmus provided by Morello's subtle brush work and Benjamin's graceful walk — and the blue notes and gentle swing that color the air jazz.

The story behind "Brandenburg Gate" is too good to ignore. "This was before the Berlin Wall was built," Brubeck says. "The State Department thought the best way for us to go to Poland was through Eost Germany, but it was against the law for an American to go into East Germany. A German lady named Madame Gunderlock, a very ancient promoter everybody seemed to know, was one of the few people who could go into East Germany through the Brandenburg Gate. So they asked me to get into the trunk of her car.

"I refused," he laughs while retelling the tale. "Americans were going to jail for lesser things than that, and disappearing for six months to years. I said, I’ll get in the back seat. If they question me I'll tell them why I'm going, and hope I can explain it. I was going to meet somebody from Poland who had papers that would get me through East Germany to Poland. So Madame Gunderlock drove me to what looked like a police station: a huge room, cement floors, wooden benches, and nobody in there. I sat in there for hours, alone.

"After a long time a man came in, walked over and sat next to me, but didn't say a word. I thought, 'What does this mean?' Finally he said, 'Are you Mr. Koolu?' I said, 'No, my name is Brubeck.' He said, 'No, you Mr. Koolu.' I said 'No' and he got out a Polish newspaper. There's a picture of me, captioned 'Mizter Kulu'— Mr. Cool Jazz! Well, he had our papers. I had to return and get the band and two of my children and my wife on the west side back through Brandenburg Gate, with no one to help us in a country where everything was hard to do anyway, and I couldn't speak the language, and I remember almost getting on the wrong train track to the wrong place..."

But he wrote the right song. When Brubeck returned to West Berlin years later to play the first concert East Berliners were allowed to attend there and began "Brandenburg Gate," the entire audience in the 10,000 seat Sports Palace stood up. His work, like the Gate itself, had become a symbol of unity regarding The Wall.

Brubeck's relationship with his listeners throughout the Eurasian tour was mutually empathic. For one thing, he often based themes on one phrase that, when attempted in a native tongue, always endears travelers to their hosts: "Thank you." His theme for Turkey's Bosphorus Straits, "The Golden Horn," comes from the rhythm of "choktahsa-keraderam" and features Desmond's Sephardic wail after a piano introduction developed from a dissonant cluster against Morello's tattoo. The Turkish "thanks" is a tongue-twister, and Brubeck is not noted for a Bud Powell-like right hand, yet his fingers negotiate the close turns of the moral line with aplomb.

The Polish "Thank You," ("Dziekuje," pronounced something like "chenkuye") reflects the mixture of sorrow and hope with which Brubeck encountered the deterioration of one of his homelands (he claims German, Polish-Russian, English, and maybe Native American ancestry).

"When we got to Poland we traveled in a bus where the floorboards were out and you saw the road down through your feet — that's how beat up everything was, the country had been destroyed so thoroughly, terribly. We'd done 11 concerts in Poland when I visited the Chopin museum one day; we took a train to the next city to play that night. On the train I wrote 'Dziekuje.'

"I wanted to play it as a thanks to the great Polish audience. There was no time to rehearse it because we went right from the train to the concert hall. I just hummed it to the guys, and wrote out the basic chord changes, but we never actually sat down and rehearsed it. It was very Chopinesque, because I'd been so impressed seeing the cast of Chopin's hands and his piano in the museum. So I told the interpreter that I wanted to call it 'Dziekuje'. We performed it after the interpreter told the audience what it was. When we finished, there was an absolute, interminable silence in the hall, which was one of the most frightening moments of my life. And then suddenly, cheers from everybody — the place exploded with applause. For some reason it was like the concert had become a church or a tribute or something. I hadn't planned it that way."

"Marble Arch," near which free-style debaters gather in London's Hyde Park, brims with the insouciant curiosity of a tourist on a double-decker bus. Joe Benjamin's solo and Desmond's stop-time passages, Morello's dapper brush dance and Brubeck's concluding ascending chords summon the image of four such tourists trading anecdotes about their visits over ale at a pub.

"Calcutta Blues," perhaps this album's most deeply felt track, can't help but change a listener's mood. "Millions sleep in the street every night," Brubeck remembers. "There were three plagues going on in Calcutta, and the taxis were used for ambulances and hearses. You don't forget those kinds of things. Nothing can change you more than seeing the misery of this world, and the great good we could do." The only thing that comes close is attending to the expression of those who've witnessed such situations and relate the truth.

Dave Brubeck has many more travel stories — of recording an impromptu collaboration with Indian musicians while electric current fluctuated, resulting in tape distortion; of bejeweled, tropically-treated pianos being hoisted by 20 bearers through the streets for bis performance; of being shot at by shepherds while flying through the Khyber Pass; of being rich with useless zlotys upon leaving Poland; of leaving Baghdad hours before his hotel was attacked during a spasm of violence. Not did his adventures end in 1958. Eugene Wright returned to the group to perform in Moscow for Presidents Reagan and Gorbachev during the 1989 summit meeting. Brubeck had been detained because his papers were filled out too well. He'd been threatened with on-stage assassination

Yet the pianist prevails. He goes to Europe for five or six weeks every year. He's toured Australia nine times, Japan five times, "and on the way, you play places like Singapore, Hong Kong, maybe Jakarta."

"I think that's what keeps us going, the wonderful vitality that comes from performing. You get so much back from the audience," Dave Brubeck enthuses. "I've gone out there sick, and at the end of the concert come off feeling just great."

One needn't wonder how his audience felt. To know, simply listen to Jazz Impressions Of Eurasia.”                                     

-Howard Mandel

Doug Ramsey on Gene Lees

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


Pavilion in the Rain

“On warm summer nights, in that epoch between the wars and before air conditioning, the doors and wide wooden shutters would be open, and the music would drift out of the pavilion over the converging crowds of excited young people, through the parking lot glistening with cars, through the trees, and over the lake-or the river, or the sea. Sometimes Japanese lanterns hung in the trees, like moons caught in the branches, and sometimes little boys too hung there, observing the general excitement and sharing the sense of an event. And the visit of one of the big bands was indeed an event.

The sound of the saxophones, a sweet and often insipid yellow when only four of them were used, turned to a woody umber when, later, the baritone was added. The sound of three trombones in harmony had a regal grandeur. Four trumpets could sound like flame, yet in ballads could be damped by harmon mutes to a citric distant loneliness. Collectively, these elements made up the sound of a big band.

It is one that will not go away. The recordings made then are constantly reissued and purchased in great quantities. Time-Life re-creates in stereo the arrangements of that vanished era, while the Reader's Digest and the Book of the Month Club continue to reissue many of the originals. Throughout the United States and Canada, college and high school students gather themselves into that basic formation—now expanded to five trumpets, four trombones, five saxes doubling woodwinds, piano, bass, drums, and maybe guitar and French horns too-to make their own music in that style. By some estimates there are as many as 30,000 of these bands. The sound has gone around the world, and you will hear it on variety shows of Moscow television—a little clumsy, to be sure, but informed with earnest intention.

Why? Why does this sound haunt our culture?”
- Gene Lees

Although their primary purpose was to serve as the Foreword to the 1998 re-publication of Gene Lees’ Singers and the Song, Doug Ramsey’s introductory remarks also served another purpose, that of giving us considerable insight into Gene Lees himself and his significance to Jazz.

As the page header for this blog states, it is as much about Jazz writers as it is about Jazz and Jazz musicians and occasionally the editorial staff at JazzProfiles likes to turn its attention to essays about those scribes and critics whose descriptive and analytical skills do so much to enhance our appreciation of the music.

For fifty years [Gene died in 2010] as the editor of Downbeat, contributor to music magazines, writer of liner and insert notes author of many books about all aspects of Jazz and its makers and editor of the Jazzletter, no one has ever rated higher in the pantheon of Jazz authors than Gene Lees.

Singers and the Song explores an art that originated in a time when to say "good popular music" was not to utter an oxymoron. It is one of two books that are indispensable to a deep appreciation of the vocal music that America has contributed to the world's fund of lasting cultural achievements.

In American Popular Song, published in 1972, Alec Wilder used his formidable learning, analytical ability, wit, and strong opinions to treat his subject with a seriousness it had never before received. At once scholarly and entertaining, Wilder scrutinized the work of songwriters from Jerome Kern to Frank Loesser. He discussed more than 900 songs and provided annotated analyses of 384 of them. Erudite and acerbic, a wonderful songwriter himself, Wilder imposed a minimum level of acceptable quality. He explained his criteria with clarity and elegance, lashed the best writers for mediocrity, and praised brilliance in genius and journeymen alike. His book, it is safe to say, is on the shelf of every songwriter, singer, and critic who reveres the popular song tradition.

Next to it, or nearby, is almost certain to be Gene Lees'Singers and the Song, first published in 1987, now polished and expanded into an even more valuable volume. Wilder achieved insight through his composer's formal knowledge and craftsman's sense as one of the last great songwriters of the classic period that ended in the mid-1950s. Lees brings to his consideration of popular song a creator's involvement, a performing artist's knowledge of what works, and a journalist's clear-eyed powers of observation.

Gene Lees the singer has performed and recorded with some of the best jazz artists of our time. He has a compendious knowledge of singing and songwriting, among a staggering variety of other subjects. He is a perpetual student with an omnivorous need to know why and how people do what they do. He wrote an unorthodox rhyming dictionary patterned after not English but French rhyming dictionaries. An important lyricist, he fashioned English words for several of the songs of Antonio Carlos Jobim. This Happy Madness is one of the finest sets of lyrics to grace a Jobim song in any language. Lees' words to Corcovado are a part of the cultural atmosphere of the second half of the century. His work has been recorded by Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Peggy Lee, Ella Fitzgerald, Shirley Horn, Sarah Vaughan, Carmen McRae, Nancy Wilson, Joe Williams, and indeed just about every important singer of recent decades.

Most writing about jazz and popular music, as sophisticated readers recognize with a wince, is done by fans who have become writers. Most are cheerleaders, press agents without portfolio who leave in their printed wakes evaluations and pronouncements supported by raw opinion and nerve endings. Some go to the trouble of learning about the music beyond personalities and trends. The best of them transcend their star worship and their proclivities to promotion and advocacy.

A few gain critical skills and faculties that allow them to produce work helpful to listeners who want a better understanding of the music. The late Willis Conover, titan of the Voice of America, often described himself as a "professional fan" and was the best of that breed, but he transformed himself into a superb writer about jazz and a respected critic, although he would have shrunk in horror from that denomination.

Gene Lees brings to jazz writing the skills of a trained and experienced journalist. He was born in Hamilton, Ontario, and grew up forty miles from there in St. Catharines on the Lake Ontario shore, near where Canada and the United States share Niagara Falls. He and trumpeter Kenny Wheeler were high school friends. His first job at a newspaper was on the Hamilton Spectator, covering city hall, school-board meetings, ribbon cuttings, political speeches, crime and fires and accidents. At the Toronto Telegram, he reported on the courts. He was beaten into the shape of a newspaperman by tough editors who demanded accuracy and clear storytelling. At the Montreal Star, he covered labor, then became an assistant city editor and a correspondent in Europe. The Louisville Times lured him to Kentucky and made him music and drama editor. He thought he should have a better understanding of what he was writing about, joined a drama group, and resumed the formal study of music, a pursuit he continues today. Awarded a John Ogden Reid Fellowship of $5000, a substantial windfall for a newspaperman in 1958, he returned to Europe and spent a year studying music, film, and drama festivals and arts funding.

Lees had long been captivated by jazz and insisted, in his writing for the Times, in treating it with the same respect that he applied to his writings about classical music. In his youth, the big bands were years away from foundering. He absorbed their music and was permanently affected by the bands, their musicians, and the culture that swirled around them.

Throughout Singers and the Song, he melds with his thoroughgoing research the sense of wonder and pleasure that grew in the boy listening to good bands that stopped near St. Catharines and played by the lake.

The beginning of the second piece in this book, the remarkable Pavilion in the Rain, is a masterpiece of writing that is evocative without succumbing to sentiment. The first two paragraphs capture a time and a thousand places that shared a cultural mood. Pavilion in the Rain goes on to defy the conventional thought about why an era passed. It makes a case so sound that the reader wonders why it took thirty years to emerge. It is Lees at the top of his game, which is illumination.

When in 1959 the opportunity came for Lees to become editor of Down Beat, he was mature in journalism and music. He brought to Down Beat a professionalism in coverage, editing, and style that elevated it significantly above its decades as a fan magazine. In his own writing, he honed his ability to find the center of a performance, a trend, a style, a person, as in his 1962 article about Brazilian musicians who found themselves culturally stranded and bewildered in New York during the first wave of the bossa nova phenomenon. It was one of the best things ever to appear in Down Beat, and Lees wonderfully expands its essence in Urn Abraco No Tom, his essay on Jobim.

Lees founded his Jazzletter in 1981. He has written, edited, and published it with the rigor of an old-fashioned managing editor who enforces high standards of accuracy, clarity, and fairness - he once threw out one of his own pieces at press time on grounds of lack of objectivity - and with the passion of an editorial page editor who cares about his community. Lees' community may seem to be that of jazz musicians, but the 1500 or so subscribers to the Jazzletter include a sophisticated mix of players, composers, arrangers, prominent writers about the arts, and a fair percentage of listeners who are physicians, lawyers, computer professionals, airline pilots, professors, and actors. Like all good editors, he knows his readers and the community they comprise. He knows that his community is part of the world, and he knows how the two interact.

When he devotes an issue to a topic that seems apart from music and subscribers complain, he refunds their money and sends them on their way. That happened when a few readers grumbled about his examination of U.S. health care reform and the Canadian health system. Lees thought that musicians and jazz listeners would be concerned about one of the most pressing economic and social issues of the 1990s. They were; his mail responding to the essay was heavy and largely positive. The letters he printed reflected a wide and intelligent range of thought about a troubling societal problem.

When writing about music and musicians, Lees is not reluctant to move out of the tight little categories on which so many jazz devotees insist. The pieces on Julius La Rosa and Edith Piaf may have seemed out of context to some Jazzletter readers, but they illuminate (there's that essential word again) the condition of the artist, indeed the human condition. I showed the La Rosa story to a friend of mine who is an anesthesiologist. He is from a close Italian family that gave him support and encouragement, a family quite unlike La Rosa's. Reading the piece, he recognized his life and his family, and the difference, and wept.

In the foreword to the first edition of Singers and the Song, Grover Sales wrote that only I.F. Stone's Weekly compared to Gene Lees'Jazzletter. Izzy Stone's meticulously researched hell-raising is gone. Lees comes from the tradition that produced Stone. He applies its values to a division of the arts that gets little of the loving, stern, journalistic attention it needs. The Jazzletter has been his demanding taskmaster for nearly two decades. From time to time he tells his readers that he is thinking about giving it up. Let us hope that they continue to dissuade him, because the Jazzletter is the source of books like Singers and the Song.”
— Doug Ramsey

Doug Ramsey has a distinguished history as a newspaper reporter in Seattle and television reporter and anchorman in San Francisco, New Orleans, and New York City. He has been writing about music for forty years. He is the author of Jazz Matters: Reflections on the Music and Some of Its Makers and Take Five: The Public and Privates Lives of Paul Desmond.

You can visit him at his blog by going here.

Remembering Eddie Costa [1930-1962] [From the Archives]

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


In 1962, the promising career of pianist Eddie Costa was cut short by a fatal car crash on the West Side Highway in New York City.

Jazz fans who knew his playing from the halcyon days of modern Jazz from 1945 to 1965 still talk about him, perhaps because of his singular style of playing piano which the noted Jazz critic and author Leonard Feather once described as “ … hard-driving, percussive and marked by an unusual octave-unison approach.”

Today’s Jazz fans who have discovered him in retrospect often express a keen interest in his work, perhaps because of the very uncommon way his piano improvisations are voiced and phrased. It is almost sounds as though Eddie attacks the piano while playing it.

Chris Sheridan, in his insert notes to the CD reissue of Eddie’s first LP, The Eddie Costa Vinnie Burke Trio [Jubilee LP-1025; Fresh Sound FS-129], further elaborates on Eddie’s distinctive manner: “Get Happy is a sharply-edged example of Costa’s predilection for driving inventions played almost below middle C; elsewhere the phrasing is stubbier, like necklaces of recast thematic fragments.”

Chris goes on to say that “Eddie’s style was in fact intriguing for its happy combination of swing-based rhythmic figures with a more ‘modern’ harmonic sense.”

Leonard Feather described Eddie style this way: “a modern approach to ‘barrelhouse piano in which Eddie Costa once more demonstrates the evocative power of the piano’s rumbling lower register.” [paraphrase, sleeve notes to Jazz Mission to Moscow Colpix CP-433]

Jazz author and columnist Burt Korall offered this impression of Eddie’s style in his insert notes to The Eddie Costa Quartet/Guys and Dolls Like Vibes [Coral CRL 57230; Universal Victor Japan MVCJ-19004]:

“An unassuming, quiet, even diffident person, it comes as somewhat of a surprise that there is an aggressive, apparently inexhaustible spilling forth of ideas whenever he plays. Rhythmic thrust nourishes melodic content as he creates long, striking lines that speak well for the organization of his resources, and his ability to remain integrated and flow inventively when soloing at length.”

The editorial staff at JazzProfiles thought it might be fun to revisit Eddie and his music by examining what has been written about him in the Jazz press, magazines and sleeves notes from his all-too-few recordings in order to post a profile of him on these pages.

Jazz critic and writer Bill Simon observed that “Eddie Costa is the first Jazz musician to win an important poll on two different instruments. The young, still relatively unknown Jazzman was voted New Star on both piano and vibes in the 1957 World’s Critics Poll, conducted by Down Beat. Eddie was born in 1930, joined violinist Joe Venuti at 18, spent two years in Service, and came to the critics’ attention when he clubbed with Tal Farlow in New York. He’s an unusually articulate Jazz voice, eminently resourceful, and he swings hard. Eddie is one of the new Jazz giants.” [insert notes to The Eddie Costa Trio With Rolf Kuhn and Dick Johnson, Mat Mathers and Don Elliot at Newport [Verve MGV-8237].

Also in 1957, and following on the heels of Bill Simon’s words of praise, was this introductory paragraph by Joe Quinn in the liner notes to The Eddie Costa/5 [Mode LP-118], one of the few recordings that Eddie made as a leader:

“The word ‘phenomenon’ as outlined in the dictionary, pertains to an exceptional person, thing or occurrence, and is frequently used in a banal attempt to give class and distinction to an otherwise colorless performer. Generally, the music trade is apathetic to such in accurate semantics, but once in a while they solemnly nod in agreement that some newcomer is fully deserving of such accolades. Eddie Costa, who recently captured the Down Beat International Jazz Critics poll on both vibes and piano, fits this select category.”

In his 1972 JazzJournal essay commemorating the10th anniversary of Eddie’s death, Don Nelson offers a perspective on Eddie significance with this quotation from the Jazz author, Stanley Dance:

“Stanley Dance has compared Eddie Costa to Bix Beiderbecke, Bunny Berigan, Dave Tough and Django Reinhardt in being one of the most talented of white musicians., viz: —
'They each had a genius, a flame, an in-born talent, and that kind of dedication which made them impatient of the ordinary way of living , .. Eddie Costa ought to be remembered as an original jazz musician who died before he was 32, much too soon'.”

In the 1992 insert notes to the V.S.O.P. CD version of the Mode LP, The Eddie Costa/5 [VSOP#7] James Rossi wrote:

EDDIE COSTA/5

“The preparation of these liner notes for one of Eddie Costa's few sessions as a leader consisted of research into old magazine articles and various reference books. As expected, not an abundance of printed material was to be found.Eddie Costa was just beginning to embark on a fruitful career as a multi-instrumentalist when his car careened off New York's West Side Highway on July 26, 1962, killing him at the age of 31. It was a loss felt by many, evidenced by the fact that the greatest wealth of information today concerning Costa comes from a steadfast group of individuals who continue to vehemently support him.

It seem that everyone with a cognizance of jazz dating from the mid-1950s through the early 1960s has attached him or herself to Eddie Costa's music. His truly individual approach to melody filled a void in his listeners which allowed them the luxury of experiencing certain emotions, whether poetic or rambunctious, that no other artist was capable of eliciting.

"Individual" is an oft misused, consistently overused word, however, 100% justifiable when describing Costa's relationship with jazz. Born in the rural coal mining town of Atlas, Pennsylvania, Costa's early musical background developed from his brother Bill's tutelage on piano, followed by lessons from a talented local woman of German extraction. First exposure to jazz came in the form of recordings by Jimmy Lunceford, Benny Goodman. Teddy Wilson, and Art Tatum.
Bill Costa was responsible for Eddie's first professional job in the band of guitarist Frank Victor, with whom Eddie stayed two years playing organ and vibes. When Victor received a call to join violinist Joe Venuti in Chicago, the eighteen year-old Costa was included on the engagement.

Two months later, Eddie rejoined his brother Bill in New York for a steady gig at the Hickory House, playing pop and standards, with a little ja// thrown in for good measure. In the October 31, 1957 issue of DOWNBEAT. Eddie Costa confided to Leonard Feather his feelings about jazz during this early period: "I enjoyed it without fully understanding it and never thought about being a jazz musician. Whether St. Louis won the pennant was more important to me than anything that happened in music." Again Bill Costa proved invaluable to Eddie's musical growth with on-the-job training in the use of harmonic variations to color standard chord changes.

It wasn't until Eddie was drafted in January of 1951 and sent to Japan (and later Korea), with the 40th Division band that he heard his first Bud Powell record. Taken at face value, this may not seem strange. But considering that Powell was already one of the most revered and well-known pianists, idolized by every musician who was fascinated by the bop idiom, it bring! into perspective the manner in which Costa was going about the business of learning jazz at his own pace and in his own manner.

In early 1953, Costa was back in New York, settling into an important job with guitarist Sal Salvador, that produced his first recorded sides on the KENTON PRESENTS series. The fact that he was equally proficient on piano and vibraphone led to an abundance of studio work (it often annoyed Costa that his fellow studio players were shocked that a jazz musician could read so well) and freelancing with Tal Farlow, Kai Winding, Woody Herman, Johnny Smith, the Bob Brookmeyer-Clark Terry Quintet, and with his own trio of bassist Vinnie Burke and drummer Nick Stabulas. At this time Jubilee recorded Costa’s trio and released two records, one with the addition of tenor Mike Cuozzo. Eddie Costa also recorded as a sideman on several important sessions of the day, playing vibes with Bill Evans on "Guys and Dolls Like Vibes" for Coral, and on "Jazz Mission To Moscow" for Colpix, and piano on "The House of Blue Lights" for Dot.

Eddie Costa has never mentioned in interviews who influenced his style. Many musicians were undoubtedly involved, but it is probable that Costa himself never consciously realized who was responsible for the many facets that are in evidence in his unusual approach. By the time of the Leonard Feather DOWNBEAT article and the recording date of the session on this album, Eddie Costa did not even have a record player in his New York apartment.

Mode's recording of the Eddie Costa Quintet, while exhibiting a true group effort, (if this all-star quintet had only had the opportunity to develop into a stable working group!) is indicative of the ceaseless imagination of Eddie Costa. Twisting lines of original melodic beauty, harmonically expansive, with meticulously placed accents that epitomize the evolving bop style were pan of Eddie Costa\s vocabulary. Dramatic use of the middle and lower range of the piano was the Costa trademark. His near refusal to cover the keyboard's upper two octaves shows his eccentricity, possibly a result of his extensive work on the narrower ranged vibraphone.


Writer Barry Ulanov summarized in the August 22, 1957 issue of DOWNBEAT: "[Eddie Costa] is a musician all by himself, a thorough individual, a meditative pianist with a splendidly deliberate style of his own.' One of Costa's unwavering fans relates some thirty-five years later, "You're destined to spend lots of time in used record stores or pouring over record auction lists. Good luck, Costa is worth it."

V.S.O.P’s release of Eddie Costa Quintet will surely prompt the reissue of the remainder of Costa's glorious recorded legacy, inspiring a new generation of listeners who will be touched by his endearing style.”
- JAMES ROZZI, 1992                       V.S.O.P#7CD

In the August 27, 1957 edition of Down Beat, the highly regarded Jazz writer and critic Barry Ulanov wrote of Eddie:

“This is a remarkable time for pianists, no doubt about it. Not since the dear, not so dead days of swing, have there been so many of quality around at once, alive and kicking. And never, in my memory or historical records at least, have there been so many fresh keyboard thinkers around at once, creating new patterns in jazz and developing them.

Particularly remarkable then among a remarkable lot of musicians is the pianist Eddie Costa. He has to be to stand out in such company.

But stand out he does—for me, anyway. And not just because he has the vitality or the intensity, the bravura technique or ready supply of ideas which, singly or as a whole, typify the best of the pianists of this jazz era. No, it's something more he has, on top of these skills, besides these attributes, which I find so absorbing to the ear, so provocative to the mind, and not at all easy to spell out. …

Jazzmen always have been distinguished for their unselfish desire to play with the best, rarely concerned about how much less than the best he might sound playing alongside best.

The "best" are stimulating musicians to blow with, dedicated to the advancement of themselves and their music; ….

It s in his unassuming manner—almost a diffident one—at the piano, in the lack of fuss which attends his playing, solo or in the background: no extravagant gesture, no rolling, writhing, or other means of calling attention to himself. And his music never depends on the obvious crowd-pleasing crowd-teasing devices: no brave, bold display of dynamics, no conspicuous conservatory consumption, although, clearly, he knows his instrument very well.

Costa is a quiet musician, a restrained one, though not a notably icy one of the cool school.

He put his lines together with a deliberateness which demands the listener's attention. One must follow step by step along his thinking way if one wants to hear what goes on in the mind and feelings of this remarkably resourceful musician. That deliberateness, that quiet attention of Eddie's to the music at hand, is what makes him such a pleasant colleague for other musicians ….

His two hands work out striking different patterns now, delicately contrasting textures and accents and volumes. The next step, the logical the inevitable one, will be different measures of time against each other 7/8 or 5/8 against 4/4, or whatever combination makes sense to Edi after sufficient meditation on the meter.
It's not easy to spell out this technique of Costa's, but two of the words I used do add up to something like a summation of his special achievements -  "meditative" and "deliberate."…

Eddie Costa is a musician who is thoroughly individual, a meditative pianist with a splendidly deliberate style of his own.”

A couple of months later in the October 31, 1957 edition of Down Beat, Leonard Feather wrote in article entitled Two Poll Winners: They’re Both Eddie Costa, Who’s Much Surprised By It:”

“It came as something of a shock to Edwin James Costa to learn, three months ago, that the voters in the Down Beat Jazz Critics' poll had elected him this year's new star both on piano and vibes. It was the first time anybody had won simultaneously in two categories.

What made it seem all the more remarkable to Costa himself was that the critics had not had much of a chance to hear him.

"I didn't think anybody had listened to me to that extent," he says, "I haven't made as many records as a lot of other guys. I have no agent, I'm not signed with any booking office, and I don't have a publicity man. I was very surprised, in fact, when I was invited to play at the Newport Jazz festival [1957]."


Sadly, only five years later, Don Nelsen filed this Elergy for Eddie in the September 13, 1962 issue of Down Beat.

“On July 28, a Saturday morning, at  2:45,   pianist-vibist   Eddie Costa was killed when his car overturned on New York’s West Side Highway. He was 31 years old.

Born in Adas, Pa., Costa studied piano but taught himself the vibraharp. His first professional job was with violinist Joe Venuti when he was 18. There followed many jobs with such as Sal Salvador, Tal Farlow, Kaii Winding. Don IElliott, and Woody Herman. His talents extended to nearly every kind of musical expression.

His listeners, however, could have no doubt that he was first and most a jazz musician.

Seldom was one man so well loved. The tears on musicians' faces during the buriall attested to that. The tears also were for the loss of an immense talent.
Following is a touching reminiscence of Costa hy his friend, writer Don Nelsen. If was written shortly after Costa's funeraL

I first realized there was something different about Eddie Costa one night about six years ago. He was playing with Tal Farlow and Vinnie Burke at the Composer, a fine trio room now extinct. I had reviewed the group very favorably a couple of times before, but now I was walking in after putting them down. It seemed to me that, on this particular gig, inspiration was licking. Their music had sounded diffident, as though they really didn't feel like playing.

I entered ill at case, expecting a blast, Prior to that time—and since—my re-
ird tor such critical insolence had been a contemptuous sneer, a sarcastic thank-you, or a threatened punch in the nose. So when I greeted Ed,  I mumbled some self-conscious foolishness about how I had lo call them as I heard them, etc., etc. He laughed and said:

‘Man, you have to write what you have to write, and I have to play what I have to play.’

Immediately, we sat down over a couple of drinks and proceeded to tear apart my review and his playing. There was no animosity. He just wanted to find out what my judgment had been based on, what qualifications I had to make it. His questions were sharp and to the point. I did not resent them. How could I when a man faced me honestly and simply asked why I had said what I had say?

After that, we began seeing each other outside of the clubs because we had things to talk about. We met from time to time and then more frequently to discuss music, sports, his family and mine, his doubts and fears and mine.

Eddie was a fierce sportsmen. He held a season ticket to the New York Giants football game and followed the sports pages constantly. When he could not be at a game, he saw it on television. He was not only a spectator. Softball, football, golf, stickball, bowling saloon shuffleboard - he was always ready to play. And he’d be out to skin you alive every time. He was an eager ball tosser and exchanger of sports notes with the 10-year-old boy next door. When he had some time off, which wasn’t often in the last year or two, he was out in his back yard in Queens throwing the ball around with his 2-year-old son, Robbie.  Once, when my 14-year-old son, Bob, and I dropped over on a Saturday morning with a football, the three of us dashed into the street in front of Eddie’s home.

‘Let’s tire your old man out,’ he yelled to Bob.

‘It won’t be hard,’ Bob yelled back.

And it wasn’t. I pooped out long before they did, but I tried to keep up appearances lest they both find me out. I was the first to quit.

There were wrangles, too, about baseball. Baseball, I once told him, is a bore. All you ever have is two guys playing and the other 16 just standing around or in the dugout.

‘What’re you talkin’ about?’ he asked. He pronounced ‘talkin’’ not ‘tawkin,’ like a native New Yorker, but ‘tockin,’ probably like the rest of his hometown in Atlas, PA.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘when I guy knows the game, the batting averages and the players, and what they can and cannot do, every game is interesting. You can judge what a player is doing against what he should be doing and shouldn’t. And what about the unexpected? There’s a thousand possibilities in each game.’

A couple of days after his death, Ed’s wife, Jeanne, suggested that a fund be established to sponsor a Little League team in his honor, or to buy season passes to football or baseball games for youngsters. It’s a great idea. Ed’s love for sports and children were inextricably combined.

Music, of course, was the force that made him live. I think at time he felt it even more important than his wife and children and, because he had a great love for both, felt very guilty about not spending more time with them or showing his love more.

These were tough times. After an initial flush of success, culminated by the only double new-star victory in Down Beat history (piano and vibes: 1957), he worked only now and then in clubs. He became somewhat embittered.

‘It looks,’ he said, ‘like a new-star award is a kiss of death.’

For the next couple of years, Eddie gigged on with his own trio, a fine but unappreciated group featuring drummer Paul Motian and  bassist Henry Grimes, and as a sideman with groups, Woody Herman's and Gigi Gryce’s among them. During this period he began to gel calls for studio and transcription work, More and more they came as his reputation as a vibraharpist got around.

Eddie's ability to read vibes parts became legend in the studios, where in the last two years his talents were in tremendous demand He used to laugh over this and say, ‘I’ve been reading piano scores since I was 5, To read just one line like this is nothing.’
It might have meant nothing to Ed, but not many musicians could make the changes he could with little or no preparation. One studio musician observed at the funeral parlor that Eddie could come into a date cold and read off the toughest things with ease.

‘Some of the other guys can make it pretty good on reading." he said. "but when it comes to something modern, they drop their sticks. Not Eddie.’

All during the last year. Ed worked extremely hard. He wasn’t at home much. Sometimes he'd work in the studios most of the day and night, getting but a few hours sleep. The price was an ulcer, but he kept on. Occasionally, alter a night date of his. we'd meet at the Hall Note club. Many of those times he was pretty whipped, and I'd tell him to stop pushing so much. '’Besides, you don't even dig the commercial work that much.’

‘Look,’ he'd say, "I've got Jeanne and four kids to support and a house to pay off. I can't quit now."

What he said was true, but it tore at him nonetheless. Ed passionately believed an artist should develop his talent to the full, and he certainly wasn't doing it in the studios.

Yet there uere signs in recent months that he was beginning to realize his great potential. His playing was getting better and better, more than fulfilling the promise of early years. He joined the Bob Brookmeyer-Clark Terry Quintet, and during his first gigs with them at the Half Note and Village Vanguard he really regained confidence in himself as a Jazz musician. Playing in clubs again with guys he respected, and who respected him, brought him out of the artistic doldrums and his critical reception at the First International Jazz Festival in Washington in June was perhaps more enthusiastic than that accorded any other artists.

One thing that has always bugged Ed was to have people think of him primarily as a vibes player rather than as a pianist. He knew he was good on vibes but considered it extremely limited in relation to the piano. The latter was his instrument. It had been ever since his older brother, Bill, another fine musician who Ed idolized, taught him to play when he was barely out of rompers. He believed that he could create infinitely more on piano, and his recent work bears that out.

His playing on the recent released Jazz Mission to Moscow, with some of the Benny Goodman Russian-tour band, is an outstanding example. It so impressed Jack Lewis and his superiors at Colpix Records that a week before the fatal July 28, Lewis asked Ed to do a date with a big band, the tunes to be chosen by Ed, the arrangements to be written by Al Cohn and Manny Albam.

Ed was reluctant at first. He had made too many sessions where the guys in charge told him was they wanted. Lewis offered him a free hand, and Ed, at the urging of Lewis and three of his fellow musicians - Moe Wechsler, Sol Grubin and Bernie Leighton - agreed.

He and Lewis were to get together to pick out the tunes right after Ed and Jeanne returned from a week in Bermuda. It was to be the honeymoon that they never had. What a damned ending.

In the last three months, we discussed a magazine article on the music business itself, on those agents, managers, club owners, artists and repertoire men, and other warm-hearted functionaries whose love for musicians and good music somehow never got in the way of the money. Ed had a lot to say. Because he made it at the studios, he could afford to step on some big toes. He didn’t have to depend on clubs or Jazz records for a living, and he could speak freely.

All that’s gone, along with the slight shrug of the right shoulder as he walked to the bandstand; the carelessly crossed legs as he played; the snort that traveled down through his nose whenever he took off his glasses. All gone, with a talent that could have ripened into greatness, gone with such sudden finality that one wonders whether justice does not consist of one huge universal laugh .

I suppose I will reread these lines in a month or two and tell myself what a sentimental slosh they are.

I don’t care.”



Storytelling Ability - "Thinking in Jazz"

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© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


I have yet to find a better book at explaining what goes into making Jazz than Paul Berliner’s Thinking in Jazz: The Infinite Art of Improvisation.

Perhaps one of the reasons this is so is the author’s exhaustive reliance on Jazz musicians to describe what’s involved in the process of improvisation and then to synthesize and categorize some generalizations from these annotations.

There’s nothing like knowing what you are talking about based on experience.

Storytelling Ability

“Once again employing the metaphor of storytelling, the jazz community praises such attributes as the suspenseful development of ideas and the dramatic shaping of sound. These represent values related to those described earlier: the artist's ability to tell personal stories and to convey emotion through music.

Trumpeter Thad Jones likens the experience of listening to Roy Eldridge's solos to "being caught up in a thrilling mystery novel that you can't put down." Eldridge himself found a comparable model for performance in the playing of Louis Armstrong, who "built his solos like a book—first, an introduction, then chapters, each one coming out of the one before and building to a climax." Similarly, for Dizzy Gillespie, "superior organization"is what makes a great solo: "This leads into that, this leads into that."

When great artists explore ideas with the force of conviction, they mesmerize the audience by moving toward goals with such determination and logic that their direction seems inevitable, their final creations compelling.

Among the "hippest thing[s]" Wynton Marsalis's father showed him was a Coltrane solo in which the whole solo formed a beautiful melodic curve, "and the key points in the phrases he was playing all went in a line."

Greg Langdon compares the gradual acquisition of dramatic precision and skill in executing ideas to the experience of an aspiring baseball player who initially must learn "to meet the ball with the bat" but ultimately strives to learn "how to place the ball."

In musical terms, the first challenge is to "make the changes" by correctly negotiating the structure of a piece and complementing the logic of its underlying progression. Failed improvisations, whether of melodists or drummers tend to be "disconnected demonstrations of technique removed from the pieces form. After a minute, you wouldn't know where a guy was in the solo" I (drummer Art Taylor). One distraught pupil described his frustration at "getting stuck" within particular key centers, "playing up and down" their related scales but unable to figure out how "to get out of" the tonality of one and into that of another. Only after analyzing vocabulary phrases whose movements described key changes and absorbing their general characteristics could he begin to invent new patterns that met the minimal requirements of logical harmonic practice, improvising through progressions with steady streams of harmonically correct pitches.

The second challenge, akin to "placing the ball," is to achieve the expressive treatment of pitches by "breaking up" their streams into interesting ideas "thematically and rhythmically."

An additional aspect of a musical story's logic is the motivic development of material. The insistent intrusion of physical reflexes sometimes complicates this objective. One student remembers, for example, the laughter of players at his improvisatory slip when, at the conclusion of a solo, he inadvertently departed from the bebop figure he had been developing by playing a cadential Dixieland figure. Directives of the verbalized or singing mind that suggest a rigid use of vocabulary can also be a problem. Very early, [trumpeter] John McNeil discovered that "if you try to force something that you've learned into your solos, say a phrase that is real hip, it will sound really contrived, like it doesn't have anything to do with what you just played before it." To avoid the artificial ring of musical non sequiturs, Miles Davis cautions soloists to develop the ideas that enter their imaginations as they improvise rather than being overly dependent on preplanned patterns: "Play what you hear, not what you know," he advises.

While negotiating the practical challenges inherent in thematic maneuvers, improvisers consider various aesthetic issues. One thing [bassist] Chuck Israels notices in a player is "whether he hangs onto a motive long enough to follow his investigation of it, or whether he is just rambling from one thing to another." Naive notions about the search for new ideas sometimes obscure such considerations for novices and lead them to strive for radically different patterns from phrase to phrase. When this tendency deprived my early solos of coherence,

[Alto saxophonist] Ken Mclntyre taught me about melodic sequences. His direction subjected me, for the first time, to the discipline of using discrete melodic ideas as a solo's conceptual basis. Also, I was unaware of how effective subtle embellishments and slight variations on particular musical models could be in transforming them. Thus, I continued being concerned about sounding repetitious.
As I was absorbing Mclntyre's teaching, however, I realized that I had begun to create solos that were not static but unified and distinct. Not long afterward, at a jam session, a young musician familiar with my considerable limitations as an improviser expressed astonishment, "I never heard you sound so together. I'm
not sure what it was, but your solo sounded like something you might even hear on a record."

Too strong a reliance on repetitive devices can, nevertheless, render solos too predictable, bogging down a story. "You need repetition as a basic part of musical form, but what you want is both repetition and development," Israels says. "It's a matter of how much change you want and when you want the change in a solo. Artists are always juggling such things, either instinctively or analytically." In [alto saxophonist] Lee Konitz's view, contemporary learning practices that "overemphasize" sequences cause improvisers to err on the side of repetition, "sounding like they're playing out of exercise books. Two-five-one patterns are essential material certainly, but by itself, it doesn't lead to an organic kind of playing. It's a contrivance."

Similarly, after once composing a solo for students, [pianist] Barry Harris reconsidered its opening phrases, in which the second imitated the first in a different key. "No, let's change that," he remarked, as a prelude to performing a variation on the transposed phrase. "Sequences should not be so obvious." There are times, however, when mature soloists abandon their reservations about repetition in order to create specific dramatic effects. They may perform a short phrase continuously for several measures to create momentum and suspense within a solo, heightening the listener's expectation for change.

Whereas some features of a musical story's logic derive from the motivic relationships of successive phrases and from their complementary relationships to chords, other features derive from the general flow of successfully improvised lines, lines with a continuity of rhythmic feeling and "smoothness" in their contours. They convey an ongoing sense of melodic coherence produced by the adjoinment of especially complementary shapes. In contrast, the early efforts of youngsters to improvise produce characteristically "jagged" lines. They "still sound young" to the experienced artist. In the beginning, "I didn't have the incredible flow of ideas that the players I admired did. You mature into that," [pianist] Tommy Flanagan remarks.

Eventually, learners increase their control over the precise shaping of melodies, "rounding off their edges." In part, this entails figuring out how to extend vocabulary patterns effectively. "If you're putting two phrases together when the chords change, one thing has to flow into the other,"[tenor saxophonist] Harold Ousley says. [Trombonist] Curtis Fuller gratefully acknowledges Barry Harris's crucial role in teaching him and his young friends how to achieve this essential quality in their playing, "how to flow ... the hardest thing to learn." Ultimately, learners distinguish aesthetically pleasing possibilities for expanding melodic shapes that convey a sense of forward motion and momentum, rejecting other possibilities that by comparison would be awkward or illogical — "a fragmented series of things, a bunch of isolated fragments," as [trumpeter] Lonnie Hillyer puts it. Hillyer sometimes keeps "one simple thing" in mind with a solo, "playing it from beginning to end as one complete thing."

Jazz is "real linear music in terms of the way it goes forward," [drummer] Akira Tana says. "You're developing linearly whether you play a saxophone or the drums. Iunderstand more about this conceptually than I did three or four years ago." In the beginning. Tana could "embellish phrases rhythmically, but had no control over where they would end up." Similarly, a young trumpeter routinely "began his solos well, but they always seemed to fall apart very quickly." He could conceive interesting patterns before he began playing, but quickly lost their thread in performance.

Some artists compare the efforts of young soloists to those of children learning to speak. Although periodically producing actual words, correct word groupings, and even credible short sentences within stretches of garbled sound, they cannot yet consistently convey meaning."

Even for experienced jazz artists, control over such features remains a variable of improvisations. Tommy Flanagan "can't say when it became easy because it's still not easy. Sometimes, you still have days when you just don't feel right, like there's some kind of congestion, and the flow isn't there. You're just not playing clearly."

In evaluating the stories that improvisers tell, musicians also consider the overall range of compositional materials in use and their imaginative treatment. "In a good solo, there should be variety in rhythm, melody, form, texture, color, development, contrast and balance, and so on,"

[Pianist] Fred Hersch maintains. "Either that, or one aspect should be worked at so intensely that it transcends the need for all the others." Artists are vulnerable in the latter case, however, when they fall short of their goals. The musician quoted earlier criticizing a bass player for "finding all the common tones" in his solos and "driving them into the ground" adds: "I do it too, sometimes. I run out of steam, sometimes. Okay? I can play the sharp nine on a dominant chord and just sit there playing that and the flatted third degree of a blues for a chorus or two. But I don't do it forever, and at least I look for some rhythmic invention."

Concerned with comparable pitfalls, Barry Harris constantly critiques student solos when their emphasis on particular elements causes the neglect of others. At times, he reminds them to "break up the running of scales" with varied intervals, chords, and arpeggios. "Different intervals are what's pretty!" When student inventions lack harmonic nuance, Harris playfully exhorts them: "Remember to use your diminishes and your augmenteds." Harris, as often, emphasizes rhythmic variety: "Don't forget different rhythms. Rhythm is what's pretty!"

From moment to moment, changes as basic as those produced by introducing sustained pitches and rests within a solo's busier rhythmic activity can provide welcome contrast. Alterations as subtle as periodic repetitions of pitches within a scalar pattern can also be very effective, standing out from neighboring musical shapes. The same principle of variety is likewise found in broader gestures.

A case in point is the style of Booker Little, whose solos characteristically include high sustained vocal cries, short interjections of phrases with speechlike cadences and rhythms, long, rapid passages mixing complex scalar and chordal elements, and melodies with simple singable qualities often treated as sequences.

There are limitless aspects of performance to satisfy the music's insatiable demand for variety, and improvisers are open to them all. Carmen Lundy's accompanist offered invaluable advice about dynamics, reminding her that singing in a "whisper" could be as effective as "screaming to get your message across." Wynton Marsalis recalls, "A cat once came up to me after a solo, and said, 'Well, man, play low.' I said, 'Damn, that's valid. I really don't play enough in the lower register.'" Such feedback keeps improvisation’s infinite considerations before musicians, enhancing the dramatic qualities of their stories.

With criticism received or overheard, learners gradually become more discriminating themselves in their evaluations of players, able to distinguish those individuals whose handling of the language of jazz is sophisticated and varied, replete with clever turns of phrase. "When Tommy Flanagan plays, every note of his is saying something," Fred Hersch remarks. "He doesn't throw a note away. He has his own little language, and you listen for the subtleties in his playing as you would listen to the subtleties in a Mozart piece. Like the way Tommy might make a change of voicing here, a little change of quality, the way a melodic line will kind of halt at a certain moment and turn back on itself, the way he'll extend a little motive. Anybody who has a sense of musicality will hear what he's doing. He's just communicating."

A related concern is the pacing of ideas over an improvisation's larger course. "Does the solo's feeling sustain, mount, diminish, and change from chorus to chorus and within a chorus?" Chuck Israels asks. Reflecting a similar understanding, [guitarist] Emily Remler usually "does the old climb-up-and-come-down action—build and release, tension and resolve. That's a great thing," she asserts. In part, the acquisition of the ability to create increasingly sophisticated and longer musical patterns facilitates this process, thinking "in terms of whole choruses instead of two-bar and four-bar phrases," she continues. "Building the tension over a whole chorus and ending on the 'one' of the next chorus for the release are very typical things to do, but it takes a certain sense of maturity."

Mature soloists constantly balance such factors as predictability and surprise, repetition and variation, continuity and change, displaying the discipline to make choices among different possibilities and to work with them methodically throughout a performance. In one instance, Miles Davis confines one chorus of his solo on "Blues by Five" to the trumpet's middle register, featuring a short, repeated offbeat rhythmic figure and varying the timbres and inflec-

I lions of its restricted pitches. In another chorus, he shifts the emphasis from rhythm and timbre to melody, improvising longer, artfully shaped phrases and climbing slightly higher in range. In yet another, he provides contrast and excitement by leading his melody with an arpeggiated leap into the instrument's high register, gradually descending with intricate chromatic movements (ex. 8.25d). Improvisers also create climactic events in solos by gradually increasing the rhythmic density of their creations.

Before cultivating the mental rigor to handle varied musical elements within a solo successfully, measuring their application, young musicians meet frequent criticism for "trying to play everything they know all the time on every tune." [Trumpeter] Tommy Turrentine refers to "cats who jump out there like it's the last tune they'll ever play. They blow their load even before they're out of the second chorus. That's pitiful." Similarly, Barry Harris criticizes a young player for failing to allow his ideas to develop "organically," instead "forcing" the conclusions of solos with "screaming," contrived intensity. "Endings must come naturally," Harris insists. "You're supposed to let it happen, not just to make it happen like that."

Ultimately, just as jazz musicians differ in their abilities to imbue musical patterns with the subtleties of wit and emotion, they differ in their abilities to control and develop their ideas overall. Some are simply better storytellers than others, Carrying listeners with them through each stage, their solos begin with patterns having the character of "real beginnings," build to a climax, perhaps through a series of peaks, and close with patterns having the character of formal endings."

"Timeless masterpieces," exemplary solos are regarded as works of art equal to the compositions that serve as their vehicles (trumpeter Art Farmer). Some solos even surpass them. Barry Harris praises the young Miles Davis for "improvising his own song over the song he was playing," that is, for "playing beautifully, lyrically, not just playing lines." Similarly, many improvisers strive to create solos that, whether in theory or practice, lend themselves to repeated listening and performance. "You can create new melodies in your solo that can become the melody of a new song," [bassist] Buster Williams says. "I want my playing to have that kind of cohesiveness, that connection, that kind of syntax."

As described earlier, compositions sometimes actually do evolve from the player's own improvisation of solos, and occasionally instrumentalists adopt another player's recorded solo as the basis for a composition. Finally, the vocalese composer's creation of lyrics for improvisations reinforces the narrative features of invention, giving literal translation to the metaphor of storytelling for improvisation, showcasing the dramatic musical content of outstanding solos.”

To be continued ….

Terry Gibbs' Big Band - "Vamp 'Till Ready" by John Tynan

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© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.




“The Gibbs bands combined the high-energy swing of Lionel Hampton with the sophistication of the Thad Jones/Mel Lewis outfits (Mel Lewis straddled the drum stool during Gibbs's most productive period).”
-Richard Cook and Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.


As a working musician based in Los Angeles, CA during the heyday of the East Coast Jazz versus West Coast Jazz marketing nonsense which was aided and abetted by Jazz critics and record companies on both coasts, I can honestly say that I never felt deprived living 3,000 miles away from The Jazz Capital of the World [aka New York; aka Birdland].


In terms of the number of Jazz clubs, Hollywood was not the equal of New York, but it had its share. And, although, you had to access them by freeways without the benefit of subways, car rides to the Beach Cities [Santa Monica, Long Beach and Hermosa Beach] and to the San Fernando and San Gabriel Valleys brought forth contact with a plethora of neighborhood bars and bistros that featured Jazz played by both nationally recognized groups and homegrown talent.


Musicians such as guitarist Joe Pass, tenor sax and flutist Charles Lloyd, pianist Keith Jarrett, bassists Charles Mingus and Herbie Lewis and drummer Billy Higgins first came to prominence on the Left Coast [aka Los Angeles].


Los Angeles also had its “exclusives,” groups that didn’t tour and could only be heard at local venues. In many cases, this was because the musicians that made up these small combos and big bands were also heavily engaged in movie and television work or in providing the music for TV commercials and radio jingles and they couldn’t afford to be away from such lucrative employment for long periods of time.


Howard Rumsey’s Lighthouse All-Stars, which over the years featured many notable Jazz musicians including Shorty Rogers, Jimmy Giuffre, Bud Shank, Frank Rosolino, and Victor Feldman, could only be heard at the Hermosa Beach club from which it drew its name.


And the big bands led by vibraphonist Terry Gibbs, Gerald Wilson and trumpeter Don Ellis were for the most part populated by studio musicians who simply couldn’t afford to go on the road.


I felt particularly blessed to be able to take in large amounts of what came to be known as the Terry Gibbs Dream Band. All three of the Hollywood venues that the band played at were a short drive from my home so I was in constant “residence” at this “big band university” for almost two years.


The following piece by John Tynan was written in December, 1962 which sadly was around the time that drummer Mel Lewis left for New York to join Gerry Mulligan’s Concert Jazz Band. Bassist Buddy Clarke and trumpeter Conte Candoli would join him.


Sadly, too, the clubs on Sunset Blvd. referenced in the article began to close in 1963 and were all but gone by May, 1964 when lead alto saxophonist Joe Maini accidentally shot himself.


Terry moved on to other things and especially following Joe’s death, the band was but a memory.


Following John’s article you’ll find a video of the band playing Al Cohn’s composition The Big Cat with solos by Terry on vibes, Joe Maini on alto sax and Conte Candoli on trumpet.




“CAN RECORDINGS alone make a successful band? Almost any self-styled sage in the music business will assure you that this is virtually impossible because a band, in order to be a going concern, i.e., a consistently paying business, must work on the road, must hit the one-nighter grind most of the year in order to get the public exposure that can build a national reputation.


The sages may be right, and certainly the success on records of such leaders as Hank Mancini has nothing to do with a permanent Mancini orchestra of the one-nighter variety. But in a more limited way the Terry Gibbs big band is a recording success, too, and so far as the vibist is concerned, his albums keep the spirit of the band alive.


Spirit is the key word here. It has to do with the roaring jazz produced by Gibbs and 16 others when they assemble on a bandstand for an occasional club engagement or concert.


It is certain that jazz spirit, captured in the Gibbs albums, thundered out of the grooves so dynamically it compelled the voters in Down Beat's 10th annual International Jazz Critics Poll to elect the band to first place in the new-star category this year. What is remarkable is that the majority of the critics who voted for Gibbs' band did so without ever hearing the band in person. All they had to go on were three LP albums — Launching a New Band, Swing Is Here, and The Exciting Terry Gibbs Big Band. The few critics who did hear the band in person dug it on its own stomping ground, Hollywood, or perhaps at the 1961 Monterey Jazz Festival.


Pickings are lean in Hollywood for a big band. Thus has it been, of course, since the early 1950s. As has been pointed out on many occasions in the past, a big band cannot expect to remain on the West Coast and make it. This is particularly true of a big jazz band. So the miracle of the Gibbs band's endurance is only partially touched by economic considerations; the real secret is wrapped up in the words spirit and loyalty — the general jazz spirit of the musicians and their loyalty to the idea of this big band.


In the beginning there was a seemingly prosaic domestic decision: Terry Gibbs and his wife, Donna, decided to settle down in California. He bought a suburban home with swimming pool in the San Fernando Valley and from time to time sallied forth with his quartet for engagements in the East.


It had been Gibbs' practice, under his recording contract, to record one big-band album a year. These sessions were made with studio musicians, and the arrangements generally were the first-class work of such as Al Cohn and Manny Albam. It was a nice musical arrangement for Gibbs; he could record and work night-club and concert jobs with his quartet, commanding top money, and then, for kicks, he could cut loose and indulge his real love for big-band jazz.
If the quartet led to the big studio band on record, it led also to the formation of the presently existing aggregation. Gibbs recently recalled the origin.


"A movie columnist friend of mine, named Eve Starr," he said, with his staccato, machine gun delivery, "called me one day in 1959. She told me about this club in Hollywood. Place called the Seville. She said the place was dying and the owner wanted to change the policy. He really didn't know whether he wanted jazz; he wanted anything that would bring customers into the joint. Eve suggested I go talk to him. His name was Harry Schiller."


Gibbs talked to Schiller and signed a contract to work the Seville with the quartet. At this time he was preparing his annual big-band album. He already had a dozen arrangements and planned to cut the LP in Hollywood with a top-notch personnel.

There was the problem of rehearsal. Musicians union rules prohibit unpaid rehearsals for recordings but permit a band to rehearse for a night-club job.


"I made Schiller a proposition," Gibbs said. "I asked him if he'd let me take the big band into the club Tuesday night only for the same amount of money as the quartet was getting. Schiller said it was okay with him if the quartet did business. If the quartet brought in some customers, he said, he didn't care if I brought in a band of apes on Tuesday. So we were set."


The rehearsals began, and it was immediately evident that, in the Hollywood musicians, Gibbs had a group unlike any of his previous studio big bands.
The weekend prior to the band's Tuesday one-nighter, Gibbs did a guest appearance on the Sunday night Steve Allen Show. Allen gave him a hefty plug.


During the next two days an unprecedented telephone campaign added word-of-mouth publicity to the debut. The forthcoming event—for it had indeed become an event— was literally the musical talk of the town.


The band's opening was a sensation. In the jammed Seville, scattered through the audience, was a remarkable celebrity turnout. Among those who attended were Fred MacMurray and June Haver, Johnny Mercer, Stuart Whitman, Ella Fitzgerald, Steve Allen, Dinah Shore, and Louis Prima. The turnout of musicians was unparalleled.


By the end of the evening it was a foregone conclusion that the band would play the following Tuesday too. In a week, those who had not heard the word in time for the debut were ready to come and dig. The second Tuesday was as successful as the first. And so, for nine consecutive Tuesdays the new Terry Gibbs big band made West Coast jazz history.


The fact that the band began that first set with the knowledge that there were only 11 more numbers in the book didn't matter to Gibbs and his men.


"We just kept an arrangement going for 10 or 20 minutes," Gibbs grinned. "With long solos and different backgrounds made up by the guys in the sections, it was no problem."


By the second week, Gibbs recalled, other arrangers, such as Bill Holman and Med Flory, had contributed arrangements to help expand what probably was the smallest big-band book in jazz history.


In retrospect, Gibbs noted the band could perhaps have continued indefinitely at the Seville on Tuesdays had he not received an offer to take it into the now-defunct Cloister on the Sunset Strip for three weeks. He accepted the offer and the owners' proviso that the band must not play any other Los Angeles location on the night off.

The Cloister engagement was a mistake. For one thing, the room was too small. For another, the customers, who largely came to hear singer Andy Williams and laugh with comedian Frank Gorshin, who shared the bill with the Gibbs band, were not prepared for the shock of hearing the band at full throttle. From Gibbs' point of view, the engagement was less than successful.


By now, Gibbs was obsessed with a desire to keep his band working and exposed to a growing following. Morale in the band was possibly unprecedented.

'The guys made a rule," Gibbs said. "Nobody takes off for another job. If a guy did, he was out of the band. And this they did for $15 a night!"


It wasn't long before Gibbs found a new home for the band. This was a club also on Sunset Blvd., called the Sundown, where the band began working Mondays and Tuesdays every week. Soon after, Sunday nights were added.


With time out for a fortnight at the Dunes Hotel in Las Vegas, Nev., the Gibbs band remained based at the Sundown for 18 months. Las Vegas was as far east as it ever traveled. For that engagement, Gibbs said, the band was paid $5,000 a week; by the time all the expenses had been settled, he wound up with $111 at the close of the job. "But," Gibbs added, "it was worth it. We had Jimmy Witherspoon with us at the Dunes, making it even more of a ball."


While Gibbs concentrated on building the band, his bank account took a heavy beating.


"I had to give up so much work with the quartet," he explained, ''that I figured it was costing me $1,000 a month to keep the band going. In all, I had to give up about $20,000 in work with the quartet. During the previous years, when tax time came around, I always had to come up with additional money for Internal Revenue. The one year I had the band working steady, I got back a check for $1,100 from the government.


"But I've been in this business 31 years, and I've never been so happy losing money in my life."


ALTHOUGH THE BAND presently is without a home or any reasonable facsimile of steady work, Gibbs refuses to abandon his idee fixe. He has almost 100 arrangements in his library at present, and the albums will shout on. The latest, Explosion, on Mercury, will be released shortly.


Meanwhile, the "guys in the band"—Gibbs refuses to use the term "sidemen"—are standing by in Hollywood, most of them busy with studio work, while the vibist tours with the quartet in the East.


"I must work with my little group," he insisted. "I love working with the quartet. Eventually, I want to have a quartet within the big band but not made up of some of the guys in the band. A separate group.


''And I'm looking for a singer. Probably a girl singer. And I don't know yet what I'd like her to sound like—but I'll know when I hear her.


"I'm going to see what I can do with the big band in the East. Then, if I see something promising, I'm going to call Mel Lewis and the rest of the guys. Of course, it depends on the money I have to work with, so it's very hard to predict what'll happen."


Gibbs'"guys in the band" constitute a unique group in that they are, to a man, musicians skilled in the most exacting studio work, and most derive their livelihoods therefrom, yet they retain a genuine jazz freshness both as individuals and as a unit.


"It's a fun band," Gibbs said. "For example, during our first few tunes of the evening, when the place isn't crowded, the guys applaud one another when they play solos. It's like a ball club. When a player hits a home run, he gets a pat on the back. It's that way in the band."


Mel Lewis, the time-keeping cornerstone of the Gibbs band, made the following flat statement: "This is the greatest swing band I ever played in."


"It saved my life, musically," the drummer continued, "and the same goes for the rest of the guys."


"Who was hiring big bands to work in L.A. clubs," Lewis asked rhetorically, "before we went into the Seville? Since then, several big bands have worked clubs in L.A., but we were the only band that did any business in a club. We started the big-band era in Los Angeles."


Gibbs outlined the most important ingredients in a musically successful big jazz band.


"A drummer!" he explained. "A good drummer to hold the band together. All the great bands had great drummers —Basie had Jo Jones; Tommy Dorsey had Buddy Rich; Woody had Dave Tough.


"And then a good lead trumpet player. These are the guys who sort of run the band. They lay the time down for the band.


"We have a very great brass section. Four of the trumpets play lead—Ray Triscari, Al Porcino, Frank Huggins, and Stu Williamson. And Conte Candoli, along with Dizzy Gillespie, is the best big-band jazz trumpet player.


"Three of the trombones play lead. Frank Rosolino, Vern Friley, and Bob Edmondson keep everything going."


Of the lead alto man, Joe Maini, Gibbs cannot sing enough praises: "Point to Joe — for anything — and he can do it beautifully. Jazz or lead, doesn't matter."


Rounding out the sax section are tenor men Bill Perkins and Richie Kamuca; Charlie Kennedy, second and jazz alto saxophone, and Jack Nimitz, baritone saxophone.


In the rhythm section are pianist Pat Moran, for several years leader of her own quartet; bassist Buddy Clark, who with drummer Lewis toured with the Gerry Mulligan big band during the last two years; and Lewis, who, according to Gibbs, "holds any band together."


Whenever it's necessary to substitute because of illness or other Acts of God, Lou Levy generally gets the call for the piano chair; Frank Capp or Larry Bunker on drums (and the Bunker-Gibbs vibes duets on occasion have been memorable); Johnny Audino, Jack Sheldon, or Ray Linn in the trumpet section; and Bill Holman, Teddy Edwards, or Bud Shank in the saxophones.
Why, in Gibbs' opinion, did the jazz critics vote for a band that is (a) non-full-time and (b) whose appeal outside Los Angeles-Hollywood lies wholly within the grooves of long-play records?


"On the strength of those records, I would think," he said. Then he added, "If they liked the band on the albums, they would like it 20 times better if they heard it in person."


Source
Down Beat
November 8,  1962

The following Playlist features four selections by this once-in-a-lifetime band.

The Modern Jazz Quartet - "No Sun In Venice" [From the Archives]

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

It didn’t last very long, but it was fun while it did.

Movies and TV series with Jazz scores written and performed by prominent composers, arrangers and Jazz combos were all the rage for a while.

Johnny Mandel’s score to the movie I Want to Live, Miles Davis’ themes and improvised sketches for  Ascenseur Pour L'Echafaud (Lift To The Scaffold, and one that has always been among my favorites, pianist John Lewis’ original film score to No Sun in Venice which he performs with his colleagues on The Modern Jazz Quartet No Sun in Venice LP/CD [Atlantic 1284-2].

A recent listening of this recording prompted me to do a bit of research about the group and how John Lewis cameto write and record the film score in 1957.


I must admit that the cover painting by J.M.W. Turner [1775-1851], one of a series of famous Venetian oils he created about la serenissima, may have had a great influence on my purchase of this recording as I had never heard the music of the Modern Jazz Quartet [MJQ], nor had I seen the movie.

Thus began my enamorment with one of the most unique groups in the history of Jazz.

Gary Giddins provided this background on the formation of the MJQ in these excerpts from his masterful Visions of Jazz: The First Century:

Modern Jazz Quartet [The First  Forty Years]

“‘In creating, the only hard thing is to begin,’ wrote James Russell Lowell [Poet, Harvard Professor, Editor of The Atlantic Monthly]. For the Modern Jazz Quartet, the world's most venerable chamber group in or out of jazz, the beginning was a three-year trial. Few people in the early '50s would have entertained the idea that a small jazz band could flourish over four decades, bridging generations and styles. Big bands had proved durable in part because, like symphony orchestras, they could withstand changes in personnel, and because they counted on dancers to sustain their appeal. No jazz chamber group had ever lasted more than a few seasons.

When the MJQ first convened, American music was in one of its many transitional phases. The public's taste changed with frightening alacrity. A decade earlier, the country was jitterbugging to swing. After the war, bop ruled jazz, while big bands struggled for survival and pop songs grew increasingly bland. In 1952, there was talk of a cool school in jazz, while younger listeners were drawn to rhythm and blues. A couple of years down the road, there would be hard bop, soul, and rock and roll. Then the deluge: third stream, free jazz, neo-romanticism, acid rock, new music, fusion, neoclassicism, disco, original instruments, hip hop, grunge, and more.

Yet through it all, the Modern Jazz Quartet persisted and prospered. We do well to remember that the fortieth anniversary of the MJQ in 1992 was only the seventy-fifth anniversary of jazz on records, if we honor as genesis the sensationally successful 1917 Victor release of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band's "Livery Stable Blues” b/w "Dixie Jazz Band One-Step.” Thirty-five years later, on December 22, 1952, John Lewis, Milt Jackson, Percy Heath, and Kenny Clarke met at a Manhattan recording studio leased by Prestige Records and recorded two standards ("All the Things You Are" and "Rose of the Rio Grande") and two Lewis originals with exotic names: "La Ronde," which had its origins in a piece recorded by the Dizzy Gillespie orchestra, and "Vendome," which prefigured the merging of jazz and fugal counterpoint that became an abiding trademark of the MJQ. The records were widely noted, but less widely embraced. With Lewis spending most of his time working toward a master's degree at the Manhattan School of Music, the first session was — notwithstanding a gig in an obscure Greenwich Village bistro called the Chantilly — an isolated foray.

The world was a different place that chilly day. At the very moment the quartet cut those records, President-elect Eisenhower was at the Commodore Hotel a few blocks away, meeting with a group of Negro clergymen to whom he expressed "amazement" that discrimination was widely practiced; he promised to appoint a commission to study the matter, adding that he was determined to abide by the law even if every Negro in America voted against him. Also in the news: the Soviets accused the U.S. of murdering eighty-two North Korean and Chinese POWs; allied fighter-bombers strafed Korean supply depots; more than seven hundred protesters staged a rally for the Rosenbergs at Sing Sing; Sugar Ray Robinson announced his retirement from the ring. The New York Times''s music pages noted a concert by George Szell and Guiomar Novaes and two debuts by Stravinsky, but, as was customary, expended not a word on jazz or popular music, and devoted twice the space to radio listings as to television.

In jazz, 1952 is best remembered for the formation of the MJQ, but it was also the year Count Basie (a profound influence on Lewis) returned to big band music after leading an octet for two years; Gerry Mulligan started his pathbreaking quartet; and Eddie Sauter fused with Bill Finegan. Norman Granz took Jazz at the Philharmonic to Europe, where Dizzy Gillespie's sextet was also on tour. Fletcher Henderson died, and trombonist George Lewis was born. Clifford Brown went on the road with an r & b band, while John Coltrane played section tenor for Earl Bostic and Cecil Taylor matriculated at the New England Conservatory. Louis Armstrong had two hit records, "Kiss of Fire" and a remake of "Sleepy Time Down South"; George Shearing introduced his "Lullaby of Birdland"; Thelonious Monk recorded with a trio for the first time in five years. Charlie Parker didn't record in a studio, but he kept busy, performing "Hot House" with Gillespie on TV, leading his strings at the Rockland Palace and Carnegie Hall, and working Birdland with four musicians who, one month later, would make their recorded debut as the Modern Jazz Quartet.”

[Connie Kay replaced Clarke in 1954 and remained in the drum chair with the MJQ until his death in 1994.]

In reviewing the MJQ’s recordings from 1955-onward that have been released as CD’s on Prestige, Atlantic and Pablo Records, some of the qualities that make the Modern Jazz Quartet’s music unique are described in Richard Cook and Brian Morton’s The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.:

“Frequently dismissed - as unexciting, pretentious, bland, Europeanized, pat - the MJQ remained hugely popular for much of the last 30 years, filling halls and consistently outselling most other jazz acts. The enigma lies in that epithet 'Modern' for, inasmuch as the MJQ shifted more product than anyone else, they were also radicals (or maybe that American hybrid, radical-conservatives) who have done more than most barnstorming revolutionaries to change the nature and form of jazz performance, to free it from its changes-based theme-and-solos cliches. Leader/composer John Lewis has a firm grounding in European classical music, particularly the Baroque, and was a leading light in both Third Stream music and the Birth Of The Cool sessions with Gerry Mulligan and Miles Davis. From the outset he attempted to infuse jazz performance with a consciousness of form, using elements of through-composition, counterpoint, melodic variation and, above all, fugue to multiply the trajectories of improvisation. And just as people still, even now, like stories with a beginning, middle and end, people have liked the well-made quality of MJQ performances which, on their night, don't lack for old-fashioned excitement.

The fact that they had been Dizzy's rhythm section led people to question the group's viability as an independent performing unit. The early recordings more than resolve that doubt. Lewis has never been an exciting performer (in contrast to Jackson, who is one of the great soloists in jazz), but his brilliant grasp of structure is evident from the beginning. Of the classic MJQ pieces -'One Bass Hit', 'The Golden Striker', 'Bags' Groove' - none characterizes the group more completely than Lewis's 'Django', first recorded in the session of December 1954.

The Prestige [The Artistry of the Modern Jazz Quartet]is a useful CD history of the early days of the band, but it's probably better to hear the constituent sessions in their entirety. Some of the material on the original two-disc vinyl format has been removed to make way for a Sonny Rollins/MJQ set ('No Moe', 'The Stopper', 'In A Sentimental Mood', 'Almost Like Being In Love'), which is a pity, for this material was long available elsewhere.

Connie Kay slipped into the band without a ripple; sadly, his ill-health and death were the only circumstances in the next 40 years of activity necessitating a personnel change. His cooler approach, less overwhelming than Clarke's could be, was ideal, and he sounds right from the word 'go'. His debut was on the fine Concorde, which sees Lewis trying to blend jazz improvisation with European counterpoint. It combines some superb fugal writing with a swing that would have sounded brighter if recording quality had been better. Though the integration is by no means always complete, it's more appealing in its very roughness than the slick Bach-chat that turns up on some of the Atlantics.

The label didn't quite know what to do with the MJQ, but the Erteguns [Ahmet and Neshui, brothers who emigrated to the USA from Turkey] were always alert to the demographics and, to be fair, they knew good music when they heard it. One of the problems the group had in this, arguably their most consistent phase creatively, was that everything appeared to need conceptual packaging, even when the music suggested no such thing. Chance associations, like the celebrated version of Ornette's 'Lonely Woman', were doubtless encouraged by the fact that they shared a label, and this was all to the good; there are, though, signs that in later years, as rock began to swallow up a bigger and bigger market share, the group began to suffer from the inappropriate packaging. Though home-grown compositions reappear throughout the band's history (there's a particularly good 'Django' on Pyramid), there are also constant references to standard repertoire as well and some of these are among the group's greatest achievements.

By the same inverted snobbery that demands standards rather than 'pretentious classical rubbish', it's long been a useful cop-out to profess admiration only for those MJQ albums featuring right-on guests. The earlier Silver collaboration isn't as well known as a justly famous encounter with Sonny Rollins at Music Inn, reprising their encounters of 1951, 1952 and 1953, which were really the saxophonist's gigs. Restored in a fresh mastering, it's clear how much Sonny was an interloper on an already skilled, tight unit. Most of the record is by the MJQ alone, including one of their delicious standard medleys and a brilliant reading of Lewis's 'Midsommer'. The two (live) tracks which Rollins appears on aren't entirely satisfactory, since he cannot make much impression on 'Bags' Groove', already a Jackson staple, and sounds merely discursive on 'A Night In Tunisia'. Overall, this set very much belongs to the MJQ.

Lewis's first exploration of characters from the commedia dell’arte came in Fontessa, an appropriately chill and stately record that can seem a little enigmatic, even off-putting. He develops these interests considerably in the simply titled Comedy, which largely consists of dulcet character-sketches with unexpected twists and quietly violent dissonances. The themes of commedia are remarkably appropriate to a group who have always presented themselves in sharply etched silhouette, playing a music that is deceptively smooth and untroubled but which harbours considerable jazz feeling and, as on both Fontessa and Comedy, considerable disruption to conventional harmonic progression.

Given Lewis's interests and accomplishments as an orchestrator, there have been surprisingly few jazz-group-with-orchestra experiments. More typical, perhaps, than the 1987 Three Windows is what Lewis does on Lonely Woman. One of the very finest of the group's albums, this opens with a breathtaking arrangement of Ornette Coleman's haunting dirge and then proceeds with small-group performances of three works - 'Animal Dance', 'Lamb, Leopard' and 'Fugato' - which were originally conceived for orchestral performance. Remarkably, Lewis's small-group arrangements still manage to give an impression of symphonic voicings.

Kay's ill-health finally overcame him in December 1994 and the following February, the MJQ issued in his memory a concert from 1960, recorded in what was then Yugoslavia, a relatively innocuous destination on the international tour. Whatever its historical resonance, it inspired (as John Lewis discovered when he auditioned these old tapes) one of the truly great MJQ performances, certainly one of the very best available to us on disc. It knocks into a cocked hat even the new edition of the so-called Last Concert. Jackson's playing is almost transcendentally wonderful on 'Bags' Groove' and 'I Remember Clifford', and the conception of Lewis's opening commedia sequence could hardly be clearer or more satisfying. Dedicated To Connie is a very special record and has always been our favourite of the bunch, ….”

Gary Kramer provides this explanation of the turn-of-events that brought about the occasion of John Lewis’ film score for No Sun in Venice in his insert notes to The Modern Jazz Quartet No Sun in Venice LP/CD [Atlantic 1284-2].


“In December 1956 the globe-trotting Modern Jazz Quartet found itself in Paris. Among the enthusiastic Parisians who flocked to St. Germain-des-Pres to hear the group was Raoul Levy, producer of the film And God Created Woman and other international cinema hits. Levy did not come over to the Left Bank merely to spend a pleasant evening digging jazz sounds, but to make John Lewis a business proposition. He was about to produce Sait-On Jamais, a film to star Francoise Arnoul, and wanted to know whether John would be free to write the background music and whether it would be possible to use The Modern Jazz Quartet to make the soundtrack.

John consented to write the score and worked on it assiduously during his scanty leisure hours while he and the Quartet were touring the United States in the first months of 1957. Despite the fact that some of the music was written in Los Angeles, some in Chicago, some of it in New York, the score has structural unity and a high degree of internal organization. It was John Lewis' first film score and represented a special challenge. As he put it, "Jazz is often thought to be limited in expression. It is used for 'incidental music' or when a situation in a drama or film calls for jazz, but rarely in a more universal way apart from an explicit jazz context. Here it has to be able to run the whole gamut of emotions and carry the story from beginning to end."”

Sait-On Jamais (a literal translation of which is One Never Knows) was released in the United States in 1957 as No Sun In Venice by Kinglsey International Pictures.

As I write this feature almost fifty years later, I still have not seen the movie. I noticed that it is now available on DVD, but at $60 bucks, I think I’ll pass.

However, in the intervening half century, I have listened to John Lewis’s score to the film many times and I highly recommend it to you.

The following video contains lots of the renown artist JMW Turner's iconic images of Venice as set to the Cortege track from John Lewis score to One Never Knows.

Connie Kay's use of triangles, finger cymbals, tambourines, open high hats and mallets on cymbals to create gong-like effects almost adds a forbidden sense of joy to this dirge.


Mel Rhyne: 1937-2013 - R.I.P.[From The Archives]

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“Rhyne immediately sounds different from the prevailing Jimmy Smith school of organ players. Instead of swirling, bluesy chords, he favors sharp, almost staccato figures and lyrical single-note runs that often don’t go quite where expected. … He has a way of voicing a line that makes you think of the old compliment about ‘making the organ speak ….’”
- Richard Cook & Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.

“Mel Rhyne is certainly among the best Jazz organists. He has fluent ideas, good time, and a clean, light touch. In his hands, the controversial instrument never becomes overbearing or cloying.”
Dan Morgenstern, Director, Institute for Jazz Studies, Rutgers University

"Melvin's very unique because he's got his own thing. He really doesn't play typical organ. The organ just happens to be his instrument but he doesn't use it in the common way. Like any jazz player, he plays his lines, which are really subtle and personal. It's not like he's pulling out all the stops and doing the organ thing. He's unique, like a Hank Jones of the organ, a really subtle player."
- Guitarist, Peter Bernstein

"Melvin's got great time. I noticed that the first time I played with him, that his time does not move. Not only that, his choice of bass notes is always right. In fact, just his choice of notes period, the way he constructs his lines. There's nobody around playing organ like that. He's playing just as good as he did or better than on those classic Wes Montgomery sides. It's a pleasure to play with him because his time is so steady, which is something that doesn't happen all the time and that can be very hard on the drummer. But let me tell you, it's a gas to play with Melvin Rhyne."
- Drummer, Kenny Washington

© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

And making music in the context of Hammond B-3 Organ Jazz trios is also “a gas” as I can attest from personal experience.

After playing drums professionally for about 12 years, I went into a different line of work, married and began raising a family.

I did keep a set of drums around and played the odd gig now and again, which is how I happened on to an organ-trio gig that began in the Spring in 1970.

It’s easy to remember the year as April and May of 1970 witnessed the titanic seven game professional basketball battle between the New York Knicks, who were co-led by center Willis Reed and guard Walt Frazier, and the Los Angeles Lakers, co-led by center Wilt Chamberlain and guard Jerry West.

The Knicks won the best-of-seven series in seven games, much to the disappointment of Lakers fans who, at the time, were looking for the team’s first NBA title since it had moved to Los Angeles from Minneapolis a decade earlier.

The venue for the gig was an upstairs room [some referred to it an “attic”] at Woody and Eddy’s, a well-established restaurant and bar that was located at the corner of San Gabriel Blvd. and Huntington Avenue in San Marino, CA [think “the Beverly Hills” of the San Gabriel Valley; northeast of Los Angeles].  

For whatever reasons [probably increased patronage = selling more booze], the owners of Woody and Eddy’s had decided to turn the upstairs room into a Sunday afternoon Jazz club. The gig lasted from , ending just-in-time [good name for a song] for the evening supper crowd.


The call for the job came from an old high school buddy who played what musicians sometime refers to as  “arranger’s piano.” The fact that he was [and still is] primarily an arranger may have something to do with this “choice” of styles.

“Arranger’s piano” usually consists of soloing with chords instead of playing hornlike phrases with the right hand and accompanying chords or intervals with the left.

When my pal called me for the gig, he mentioned the name of a tenor saxophonist/vocalist who would be joining us, the length of the gig and the “bread” involved [money].

When I asked him who would be playing bass he said somewhat evasively: “You’ll see.”

Upon showing up early at Woody and Eddy’s in order to set-up my drums, I suddenly understood “who” the bass player was going to be when there before me was a gleaming Hammond B-3 organ with its bass keyboard foot pedals.

From the first downbeat, we jelled as a trio and the huge sound coming from the Hammond helped to envelope everyone in an atmosphere of musical merriment [the early afternoon glasses of Chardonnay may have also had something to do with the salubrious effect brought on by the music].

Almost instinctively, and perhaps in no small measure due to the presence of the Hammond, our repertoire became -  The Blues.

Also somewhat curative, my arranger- piano friend’s keyboard limitations were more than offset by the Hammond’s suitability to chords and chording.

Using the “stops” [devices that alter the sound texture] on the Hammond and locked hands [playing the same phrase in both hands at the same time], he pounded out explosive chords while the sax player sang “Goin to Kansas City” and I laid down heavy backbeats with rim shots on the snare drum.

My Slingerland Radio King snare drum really got a workout on this gig and I got extra “pop” out of it by using [very large] 1A drum sticks that had been recommended by Ron Jefferson [a drummer who had worked with organist Richard “Groove” Holmes; he was also pianist Les McCann’s regular drummer].

Luckily, too, I had remembered to bring along my 20” K-Zildjan ride cymbal and its harmonic overtones blended in perfectly with the sound of the Hammond, the tenor sax and the blues-drenched atmosphere of the music.



The most fun was watching my buddy dance his feet on the organ foot pedals which produced driving bass lines that soon had the upper floor walls of the club figuratively “breathing in and out” with their pulsations.

It was one of the best times I had ever had on a gig from every standpoint.

But it appeared that it was all going to end all-too-soon when the tenor player called in during the week to share the news that he and his wife had just celebrated the birth of their first child.

While we were delighted for he and his wife, the bad news was that he was no longer going to make the Sunday job at Woody and Eddy’s.

At this juncture, however, serendipity intervened with the result that a good gig was about to become a great one.

For obvious reasons, I had been listening to the three, superb organ-trio albums that the late guitarist Wes Montgomery made for Riverside Records before that label was besieged by financial woes and Wes made the jump to Verve Records and subsequent fame and fortune.

While listening to these sides, it dawned on me that since my earliest days in music, one of my closest friends was a guitarist who had recently gotten back into town after going on the road with Buddy Rich’s “new” big band.

To make a long story short, I telephoned him, he said that he’d love to make the gig and after we played our first song together, we knew something special was happening.


The Management at Woody and Eddy’s did as well and extended our time at the upstairs room through the Summer of 1970.  They even supplied and staffed the bar in the attic room so that the patrons didn’t have to [dangerously] go up and down the stairs to replenish their tankards [there was an elevator, but for some reason, no one ever took it as it negotiated the one flight slower than a hospital lift].

To top it all off, the guitarist taught us all of Wes’ original compositions from the Riverside albums.

I got to play on Fried Pies, Jingles and The Trick Bag, the latter becoming a solo vehicle for me until some of the early dinning patrons in the below restaurant complained to the owners about “the racket coming from upstairs.”

The organist on these, three classic organ-guitar trio LPs that Wes made for Riverside was Mel Rhyne.

Unlike my arranger-piano friend, Mel played the organ like a piano, foregoing the instrument’s theatrical effects in favor of a legato style of phrasing his solos. One thing they did have in common was a love for the instrument’s foot pedal keyboard, although Mel employs it in a more understated fashion.

After Mel made the Riverside LPs with Wes, he retired to the relative obscurity of the Jazz scene in his native Indianapolis and later moved to MilwaukeeWI where he had a prosperous career and where he was rediscovered in the 1990s by Gerry Teekens at Criss Cross Records.

All you need to know about the “disappearance” and reappearance of Mel is contained in the following insert notes by Lora Rosner from Mel Rhyne’s first Criss Cross CD which is appropriately named Melvin Rhyne: The Legend [Criss Cross Jazz 1059].

You can locate more about Mel’s Criss Cross Recordings by going here.

More of Mel with Peter Bernstein and Kenny Washington can be found at the conclusion of Lara’s notes in a video tribute to Jazz guitarist Peter Bernstein which uses as its audio track Billie’s Bounce from Melvin Rhyne’s Mel’s Spell Criss Cross CD [1118].

© -Lara Rosner/Criss Cross Records, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

"Legend" is derived from the Latin verb "legere", meaning "to collect, gather or read" and the word has come to mean "things to be read or collections of stories about notable figures"; legends are both such people and the lore that surrounds them. When a musician makes a historic contribution or is part of a historically significant group, an undying interest in the personality and the documents he has left behind, combined with a lack of current information will often engender tales of his recent activities and past achievements which are created to satisfy and feed the public's curiosity and hunger for such news. While Mel Rhyne is too modest to feel comfortable being called a legend (Teekens' title), the legend of his whereabouts and his slim recorded output from 30 years ago are now happily supplemented and brought up-to-date with fresh recordings by this brilliant, original voice on the organ and master of his instrument at the peak of his powers.

Mel Rhyne (born 10/12/36) is best known as the lyrical, inventive, understated organist and longtime associate of Wes Montgomery who complemented the guitarist so beautifully on four of his Riverside LPs, including his first and last for the label: Wes Montgomery Trio; Boss Guitar; Portrait for Wes; Guitar on the Go. Wes' Riverside recordings document the period of his first maturity and the core of his purest, most inspired, small group playing (10-9-63). Wes and Rhyne both played with great imagination and a certain disregard for convention; they also shared great respect for one another. Wes loved his "piano player's touch." Mel has a good left hand from learning boogie woogie from his father as a child, which made playing basslines easier when he began playing organ in the mid-50's in order to get more work as a sideman.

One of the first jobs he did on organ was with Roland Kirk, another highly original, maverick performer grounded in the roots of jazz and the blues. While he later became a fan of the John Coltrane Quartet with McCoy Tyner, a devotee of Red Garland and a student of great organists like Milt Buckner, Jimmy Smith, Wild Bill Davis and Jackie Davis, his earliest musical education was based on listening to Nat Cole, Art Tatum, Oscar Peterson and Erroll Garner records.
People interested in jazz history know that Chicago had DuSable H.S., Detroit had Case and Sam Brown taught at Jefferson High in south Los Angeles. Russell Brown was the open-minded band director and free spirit at Crispus Attucks, the only high school in Indianapolis' black neighborhood, who encouraged the jazz activity and featured the talents of many famous Indianapolites: J.J. Johnson; Slide Hampton; Leroy Vinnegar; Larry Ridley; Buddy Montgomery; Mel Rhyne; Freddie Hubbard; Virgil Jones; Ray Appleton - to name a few. Many young musicians took night school classes at the city's numerous clubs and after-hours joints such as the Turf Bar, the Hub-Bub, the 19th Hole, the 440 Club and of course the Ebony Missile Room where Wes Montgomery often held forth, drawing young talent and music lovers to him like a magnet.

From 1959-64 Rhyne played and toured with the guitarist except when Wes had the chance to work with his brothers as part of the Mastersounds. The difficulty of transporting an organ contributed to the group's demise but the final deathblow came when Riverside went into receivership and Creed Taylor, Wes' new manager, led him off into a world of large orchestras and more commercial music where Rhyne would have felt superfluous and out-of-place.


In 1969 Rhyne moved to Madison, Wise, to work with guitarist John Shacklett and his brother Ron Rhyne on drums and also appeared on Buddy Montgomery's This Rather than That (Impulse). Early in his career, Mel had backed great acts like T-Bone Walker, B.B. King, the Four Tops, Aretha Franklin and Arthur Prysock, but after working with Wes he only wanted to play jazz. Buddy Montgomery persuaded him to move to Milwaukee in 1973, a town with enough jazz activity at the time to keep him working and stimulated. Last year Herb Ellis asked him to play the B-3 on Roll Call (Justice) and a few months ago Milwaukee native, trumpeter Brian Lynch who has known Mel since 1974, asked the organist to appear on his third CD for Criss Cross.

A few weeks before his record date Lynch heard guitarist Peter Bernstein at the Village Gate and was so taken with his playing that he asked him to be on the date as well. Bernstein predictably gains the respect of every great musician he works with; Jimmy Cobb first asked Peter to work with him in April '89 when he was all of 21 and the guitarist recently led his own quartet featuring Cobb for a standing-room-only week at the Village Gate. Lou Donaldson thought he was listening to a Grant Green record the first time he heard Peter play, subsequently featured him on his CD, Play the Right Thing (Fantasy). Peter's playing incorporates the best qualities of Wes Montgomery and Grant Green. He's an expressive soloist whose horn-inspired lines draw much of their power, beauty and effectiveness from his soulful time.

Criss Cross producer Gerry Teekens was so pleased with the results of Lynch's date that he asked Rhyne to do an impromptu trio recording the next day and Mel was quite happy to have Bernstein and young veteran Kenny Washington with him again in the studio. Although Organ-izing (Jazzland) was issued under Rhyne's name in order to capitalize on the organ fad of the time, the LP (1960) was a thrown-together session of four blues featuring horns, organ, piano and bass which limited his role as an organist; he had no idea he was the leader of the date. It seems hard to believe but The Legend is Melvin Rhyne's first recording as a leader; the world has waited long enough and so has Rhyne. His stunningly original ideas, impeccable taste and time, humor and unique sound make this CD special from its opening moments.

After so many years of imposed silence Rhyne bursts onto CD with a performance of Eddie "Lockjaw" DavisLicks A-Plenty which conveys his youthful exuberance and enthusiasm and sheer delight in making music. While the title is an apt description of the head, a good name for the solos (especially Rhyne's) might be "Expect the Unexpected." The rhythmic shapes of his lines are irregular and unusual and have an arresting vocal quality. He plays with his audience setting up riffs which he deconstructs with subtle amendments, sly timing or the big sound of surprise when he pulls out a few more stops during a shout chorus. A drummer of Kenny Washington's caliber is needed to keep up with the organist's utterances. Bernstein can't help but respond to Rhyne and his solo reflects some of Mel's rhythmic originality. In his discreet comping Pete defers to Mel the way Mel deferred to Wes. The atmospheric Serenata is played much more slowly than usual and shows off Bernstein's beautiful sound and feeling for melody. He learned the tune in the studio without music. Mel told me that he thought Peter did a marvelous job; he was particularly happy with the trio's pleasing contrast of sound.

Dig the relaxed feeling and great solos on Savoy which is surely one of the highlights of the session. Mel digs in with a strong, dense sound and makes a blistering statement on The Trick Bag. Bernstein is an extension of Rhyne's lyricism and taste on a soulful Old Folks (gorgeous intro). Next Time You See Me was a 1958 hit for Frankie Lymon and many singers have done it since. Rhyne phrases the melody the way a vocalist would. True to his bebop roots and his own inner voice, Rhyne reinterprets Groovin' High at a brisk pace. Contributions from guests Brian Lynch and Don Braden brought the session to a close.

Melvin hopes to record again in the near future which will no doubt be eagerly anticipated. He is very happy with everyone's efforts and the music on The Legend. I'm sure all you listeners will agree with me -- it's been worth the wait!

Thanks are due to Ted Dunbar and Prof. David Baker for their invaluable insights on the Indianapolis scene. Enjoy!

Lora Rosner Jackson Heights, NY March 1992”

Mel Rhyne passed away on March 5, 2013. 

Peter Bernstein with Mel and Kenny on Billie’s Bounce.


Dexter Gordon - "Take the 'A' Train"

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


Earlier this year, the editorial staff at JazzProfiles posted reviews of two newly released recordings by the late, iconic tenor saxophonist Dexter Gordon in Europe in the late 1960’s: [1] Fried Bananas [Gearbox GB 1535]and [2] Dexter Gordon: Both Sides of Midnight [Black Lion Records BLP 60103; ORGM-1062].


The distinguishing features of both these recordings was that they were recorded in performance in Europe, with European-based rhythm sections [that included some American expatriates], and all showcased Dex and the group stretching out over extended improvisations.


If this wasn’t a surfeit of riches, along comes a third recording by Dexter with these same distinguishing features in the form of ORG Music Group’s LP reissue of the Black Lion LP - Dexter Gordon: Take the ‘A’ Train [ Black Lion LP 60133; ORGM-2085].


In our commentary about  Dexter Gordon: Both Sides of Midnight we drew the distinction between “stretching out” [taking extended choruses] and “saying something” [playing a long solo that engages a listener’s attention because of the manner in which it is structured and its storytelling qualities].


Besides the technical mastery of the instrument that allows for the easy flow of ideas, why are Dexter Gordon’s extended solos so good?


The answer to that question lies in the late, great bassist, bandleader and composer Charles Mingus assertion that “You have to improvise on something.”


And in terms of that “something,” master Jazz musicians like Charles and Dexter Gordon knew that the better the melodic and harmonic basis for the improvisation the easier it was to take extended solos over them.


Interestingly, two of the tunes on Dexter Gordon: Take the ‘A’ Train are included with the 100 Jazz Standards in the eminent Jazz scholar Ted Gioia’s book The Jazz Standards A Guide to the Repertoire because not only are all Jazz musicians expected to know the melody and the chord changes to these tunes, they are also melodies that musicians find intriguing in the sense that they facilitate their ability to say something in the form of expressive and meaningful solos. They can play all day on the melody and chords of these tunes.


And that exactly what Dex, Kenny and NHOP do on But Not For Me and Take the A Train. Ted explains why this is so in the following excerpts from his definitive book


But Not for Me
Composed by George Gershwin, with lyrics by Ira Gershwin


“One of George Gershwin's most beloved standards, "But Not for Me" seems to find a new crossover audience every decade. Film makers love it—not only did the original Broadway musical (Gershwin's Girl Crazy from 1930) inspire three movie adaptations, but "But Not for Me" has regularly appeared in later hit films, including Woody Allen's Manhattan (1979), Rob Reiner's When Harry Met Sally (1989), and Mike Newell's Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994). The song even inspired its own movie, Walter Lang's But Not for Me (1959), which was one of Clark Gable's final efforts.


The song gained some traction with jazz players during the 1940's—Harry James even enjoyed a modest hit with his 1941 recording, which featured vocalist Helen Forrest — but Gershwin's composition was better suited for the cool jazz stars of the 1950's. Chet Baker may have lacked Ella's technique and range, but his 1954 recording of "But Not for Me" ranks among his finest moments in the studio, both for its quintessentially cool vocal and his lyrical trumpet solo. Four months later, Miles Davis recorded the song for his Bags' Groove album, and his two released takes find him playing it initially in a medium tempo similar to Baker's approach, while the second take is faster, and a better setting for his front-line bandmate Sonny Rollins. Ahmad Jamal delivered an appealingly understated piano performance on his live recording from the Pershing from 1958, which was one of the best-selling jazz albums of the period. The Modern Jazz Quartet and Kenny Burrell offered similarly subdued interpretations around this same time.


Most later jazz renditions of "But Not for Me" have kept to the cool ethos. But Coltrane offered a dissenting view with his 1960 recording from his My Favorite Things album. He incorporates his "Giant Steps" chord substitution scheme into the Gershwin piece, and the result is a case study in the advanced harmonic concepts of the time, worthy of inclusion in the curriculum of any jazz educational institution.


Dexter Gordon dispenses with the Coltrane chord changes but achieves a similar energy level on his 1967 recording in Copenhagen, an intense 15-minute outing on "But Not for Me"— including nine full tenor choruses that persuasively demonstrate why this saxophonist was such a formidable combatant at a jam session.”


Take the A Train
Composed by Billy Strayhorn  


Strayhorn had been working on the piece as early as 1939, but was hesitant about presenting it to Ellington because he feared that it sounded like the type of song that Fletcher Henderson, an Ellington rival, might use. … Ellington's decision to adopt the song as his new theme was validated by its immense success. His February 1941 recording stayed on the chart for seven weeks, and soon the tune was picked up by other bandleaders. ...


The hook in the melody stems from its willingness to land emphatically on the flat fifth — the most modern and unstable of the blue notes — in the opening phrase. The effect is jarring but in an uplifting way, and demonstrates that what most Tin Pan Alley composers might have dismissed as excessive dissonance could, in the context of the Ellington band, serve as the most memorable moment in a hit song. …


"Take the A Train" remains a favorite among musicians and fans, and has become so well known that many outside the jazz arena—from Charlie Watts of the Rolling Stones to the rock-pop band Chicago—have tried it on for size. Like other Ellington-Strayhorn standards, "Take the A Train" is often interpreted with reverent fidelity as a period piece, yet some have managed successful reconfigurations. Clifford Brown and Max Roach mounted a hot hard bop takeover of the tune in 1955, and even do a better job than the Duke at mimicking the sound of an actual train. Among the various solo piano versions, Michel Petrucciani's riveting boogie-woogie arrangement rises far above the usual cliches of that idiom, while Sun Ra's live performance in Italy from 1977 manages somehow to respect the original spirit of the composition while gradually layering on various avant-garde elements, eventually ending with a pedal-to-the-metal explosion that threatens to derail the proceedings. But no tour of "Take the A Train" is complete if it doesn't include composer Billy Strayhorn's own performance, captured in an elegant arrangement with strings from 1961.”


Mark Gardner, a frequent contributor to JazzJournal and other Jazz periodical as well as a significant contributor to Barry Kernfeld, ed., The New Grove Dictionary of Jazz, wrote the liner notes to  Dexter Gordon: Take the ‘A’ Train [ Black Lion LP 60133; ORGM-2085] and they provide some wonderful atmospheric detail as to what was going down with Dexter at the time these tracks were recorded.


“The upstairs room of a Birmingham suburban public house was the unlikely setting for my first encounter with Dexter Gordon. That was in the autumn of 1962 when the tenor saxophonist was freshly-arrived in Europe and ready to embark on one of the most productive and happy periods of his career. Clutching a glass of the local brew with no great relish, Dexter chatted affably between sets.


I remember we discussed Wardell Gray at some length, and Dexter smiled fondly as he recalled their intermittent association. He also reported having recently made some recordings with Sonny Clark which he felt were better than his earlier comeback albums.


On the stand, the six foot, five inch figure, sharply togged in houndstooth jacket, charcoal grey slacks and button-down shirt, galvanized that audience with some of the most potent playing any of us had heard. Dexter made a lot of lifetime fans that night.


Five years later, I caught up with Dexter again during a brief weekend gig he made in Manchester, at the behest of the Garside Brothers. Once again on those evenings, his work was electrifying, as Peter Clayton will confirm, since we both sat together spellbound by the power and majesty of Gordon's improvisations.


Just a few months earlier, Dex had been captured on several peak playing nights at his favorite Jazzhus Montmartre club in a series of sets recorded under the supervision of Alan Bates for Black Lion. The resultant performances were of outstanding quality.


They caught Dexter in expansive, relaxed mood in front of an appreciative audience. The Black Lions are undoubtedly among his finest European recordings. This was recognized when a brace of albums from the "Montmartre Collection" were released in the early  1970's and it was comforting to know there were more of that calibre where those came from!


In this new compilation, some 15 years later, here are some of the "more" from those exciting sessions in the Copenhagen venue which was Preacher Gordon's pulpit.


His companions were men with whom Long Tall Dexter felt secure. He had worked with pianist Kenny Drew in California during the mid-1950's, and they had later recorded together for Blue Note in New York and Paris. Close friends as well as being longstanding musical associates, their partnership flourished anew on the Continent.


Niels Henning 0rsted Pedersen was only 20 at the time of these dates, but Gordon regarded him as the best bass player in Europe, an opinion he probably still holds to this day. Actually, Niels Henning long ago became an international favorite, super soloist and a rock in any rhythm section he graces. The big Dane has more than confirmed Dexter's excellent judgement.


As for Al "Tootie" Heath, drummer and youngest of the richly talented Heath brothers, his propulsive work suited Gordon and meshed perfectly with the accompaniment of Drew and NH0P So in this quartet


A measure of the group's ease and unity of purpose is the fact that practically every performance is an extended workout, but as Dexter and Drew unfurl chorus after chorus of inspired and dramatic improvisation who notices the march of time!


As the recording begins, the leader cuts a surging swath through But Not For Me territory. The leader's style, evolved through such carefully selected influences as Lester Young, Charlie Parker, Don Byas and Ben Webster, also reveals that he closely listened to younger men like John Coltrane and Sonny Rollins. These ingredients were intelligently absorbed in a wholly personal framework. Tonally and rhythmically he is completely his own man, a proud, individualistic voice. But Not For Me contains archetypal Dexter with brilliant contributions from Drew and NH0P in deep examination of Gershwin's excellent progression. The long coda includes a number of throwaway quotations from Three Blind Mice and My Kind Of Love among others.


The other scorching item in this particular selection is an express version of Take The 'A' Train, a Duke Ellington chestnut well roasted by the saxophonist who maintains a musical outpouring that is positively majestic for nine incredible choruses. This is an object lesson in how to build a solo. Drew, whose clever paraphrase of Duke's own intro sets the scene, lays out for the opening brace by Dexter, but returns to prompt and probe. Gordon greets the pianist's resumption with a lick from "And The Angels Sing."


"Take The 'A' Train" is an essential piece of Dexteriana, a brilliant example of his colossal talent and artistic discipline. Listen to this solo 50 times and it will still surprise and satisfy.


Since the time of these recordings, Dexter Gordon has continued to flourish, making his mark as a sensitive actor in the movie Hound Midnight and recording prolifically. He re-settled in the USA during the 1970's and for the first time was signed by a major label.


However, I firmly believe that he performed at his peak in the 1960's and it is now clear that these Black Lion sessions are among his best works - full of vibrant energy and creative consistency.


I find it difficult to believe that the lean, lanky, youthful looking man I first met all those years ago is now a veteran in his 67th year. But with eyes closed and "Take


The 'A' Train" playing -  the years roll back as I'm once again in that smoke-filled pub lounge, and Dexter, knees shaking, and fingers flying is educating us all over again. And it was exactly the same, I'm sure, at the Montmartre as the hip Danes worshiped at the master's feet. We are privy to that experience on this invaluable set.”


Dexter Gordon: Take the ‘A’ Train is available in streaming, audio CD and vinyl formats from Amazon and other online retailers and it is also available through iTunes.

Stan Kenton: New Concepts of Artistry in Rhythm - Parts 1 and 2 [From the Archives]

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“There can be little doubt Stan Kenton saw himself as a musical visionary—a questing, exploratory spirit—and it's a tribute to his strength of purpose no less than his charisma that he was able to impose his vision on, and carry with him so many others on his quest.

Then too, despite whatever one might think of his music, particularly as it has held up in light of all that has transpired in jazz since he first appeared on the scene, it's clear that he succeeded in his major goals. It is partially as a result of his efforts that jazz is now accorded respect as a serious music, perhaps America's major contribution to world music; that the locus of the music has shifted from the nightclub to the concert hall and festival stage; that the synthesis with European concert music he envisioned has been enabled to take place in the work of others who followed in his wake; and that the music has had its horizons widened through various of the concepts he pioneered and set in motion. That he enriched the vocabulary of jazz and changed the character of the jazz orchestra are undeniable; one simply has to listen to those that came into being after him to have this confirmed. …

If he was nothing else, Kenton surely was a catalyst who drew to himself large numbers of gifted artists and, through his example, inspired them to give of their best.”
- Pete Welding

© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

This is where I came into Stan Kenton “World,” although at the time I had no idea that it was the New Concepts of Artistry in Rhythm era or that there were such periodizations of Stan’s music.

Having heard many of the earlier hits by the band -Concerto to End All Concertos, Collaboration, and Intermission Riff – to name a few, I was certainly ready for more when I encountered Stan’s Contemporary Concepts [Capitol, 1955] and Back to Balboa [Capitol, 1957] albums.

These were the Kenton albums that introduced me to Sam Noto’s beautiful sound in the “Jazz” trumpet chair and the power and precision of the lead trumpet work of Al Porcino and Ed Leddy.

The trademark, vibrato-less Kenton trombone sound was, by now, well-developed and in the capable hands of the likes of Bob Fitzpatrick, Kent Larson and Kenny Shroyer.

Richie Kamuca and particularly Bill Perkins took Lester Young’s hollow sound to new levels on tenor sax while Charlie Mariano’s poignant wail and Lennie Niehaus’ beautifully constructed long lines on alto saxophone made my heart sing and leap, respectively.

These were the albums that introduced me to the slash and bash style of Mel Lewis’ big band drumming; has any big band drum ever played better fills or dropped more well-placed bombs?

But the music on these albums and on the other recordings that were a part of the New Concepts of Artistry in Rhythm period [roughly 1952-1958/59] was different than the 78s I had listen to from the 1940s in that it was arranged more linearly and the sound from these arrangements flowed more smoothly to the ear.

All of the usual Kenton “fireworks” – the screaming, high register trumpets, the huge, fat trombone sound anchored by two bass ‘bones, the big cymbal splashes – were still all there, but now you could pop your fingers and tap your foot to the charts on Contemporary Concepts and Back to Balboa in a way that was more characteristic of the big bands led by Woody Herman and Count Basie.


As I came to later understand, the reasons for this change in the sound of the Kenton band had everything to do with the arrangers that Stan chose to work with at this time: people like Gerry Mulligan, Bill Holman and Marty Paich. To some extent Bill Russo, Gene Roland and Johnny Richards also belong to this group although they along with Stan and Pete Rugolo would continue to contribute the band’s more customary, orchestral arrangements.

Stan’s music began to move; it acquired more of a metronomic “feel” to it. The arrangements by Mulligan, Holman and Paich had a lighter sound with more of a middle texture that brought the saxophone section more prominently into the band’s arrangements.

To my ears, Bill Russo’s compositions and arrangements represented a transitional style between the Concert Kenton [what Will Friedwald refers to as “… Kenton’s obsession with artmusik”] and the less grandiose looser feel particularly of the Contemporary Concepts album which would largely be made up of the arrangements of Bill Holman [with a tip-of-the-hat to Gerry Mulligan and Marty Paich].

Pete Welding in his insert notes to the CD reissue of New Concepts of Artistry in Rhythm offers these thoughts on Kenton’s music at this time:

“To place things in perspective, this particular edition of the Kenton orchestra followed on the heels of the ambitious 40-piece "Innovations In Modern Music" concert ensemble Stan had mounted in early 1950 after a year's sabbatical during which he had completely rethought his musical philosophy. He viewed the larger orchestra, …, as the best means of re­establishing his primacy in vanguard musical thinking. A corollary aim was that by playing only concert engagements, the band's previous ties with dance music would be clearly and finally severed and Kenton would be freed to concentrate on the "serious" concert music he wished to pursue to the exclusion of all else.

While he might have been successful in putting dance music behind him, Kenton soon found the "Innovations" orchestra to be a mixed blessing. He persevered with it on and off for much of the ensuing two years but ultimately the formidable logistics and financial burdens involved in maintaining such a large ensemble proved much too daunting even for him, and the orchestra was disbanded after only two moderately successful concert tours were concluded and a third, of Europe, was canceled.

A return to the "Progressive Jazz" format led ultimately to the group and approach heard here and an abandonment of the grandiose designs of the "Innovations" orchestra in favor of the lighter textures, greater rhythmic resilience and more conventional—but far more deeply creative and ultimately more satisfying —orchestral approaches followed with such happy distinction by Mulligan, Holman and Russo. Their writing for the band clearly showed that when approached with imagination, wit and resourceful creativity such as they possessed, and a solid, informed knowledge of the conventions of big band jazz, which they also had, the music was anything but moribund or played-out but could course with a plenitude of freshness, invention, vitality and bristling contemporaneity. Certainly these charts do, sounding just as spirited and invigorating today as when they created such a furor of excitement on their release 36 years ago.”


Given the preponderant number of arrangements that Bill Russo and Bill Holman wrote for the band during the New Concepts of Artistry in Rhythm era, not surprisingly, Mosaic Records elected to label the boxed set it issued of this music as simply Stan Kenton: The Holman and Russo Charts[MD4-136].

Michael Cuscuna of Mosaic has graciously granted copyright permission to JazzProfiles in order that it might reproduce this portion of Will Friedwald’s insert notes to the set.

In order to keep this piece from getting a bit too unwieldy, we have divided Mosiac and Will’s notes into a Part 1 focus on Bill Russo while covering their thoughts on Bill Holman in a following Part 2. Please keep in mind that the influences on the writing of both Russo and Holman were not strictly chronological.

© -Mosaic Records and Will Friedwald. Used with permission, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“Most of us who've come along since the '50s read our first objective and usuable appraisal of Kenton in Feather's original Encyclopedia of Jazz, which described his music as operating on three levels. On the bottom level there are low­brow pieces designed to attract the general public. The middle level contains the Kenton band's straight jazz pieces, written by men who also established reputations as major jazz orchestrators before (Gerry Mulligan), during (Shorty Rogers) and after (Bill Holman) their tenures with Kenton - of these, only Pete Rugolo did virtually all of his most significant work as an instrumental jazz orchestrator during his Kenton period (Rugolo's best work as a consistently-inspired arranger for the great vocalists came later).

In Kenton's own point of view, moving up the ladder landed one on the third and highest rung, that of his most deliberate and, in John S. Wilson's term - "arty art" music - composi­tions that both challenged one's ears in terms of tonality one's watches in terms of length, the most famous and infamous being Bob Graettinger's City of Glass. Even the title was imposing enough to scare the hell out of you.
Most of what we read about Kenton tells us that the man himself only really loved his music at that third, highest-browed level, but he produced so much good pop, jazz and dance music that it must have held a strong attraction for him.
With the possible exception of the years when Pete Rugolo served as the band's musical director, the music written for Kenton by Bill Holman and Bill Russo, represents the best that Kenton ever recorded from every possible angle - the three levels of low, high and middle brow as well as the distinction between Kenton's rules and the exceptions to same. They're also Kenton's best ravioli - delectably tasty combinations of the band's familiar starchy pasta sound but containing real meat in the middle!

It's generally oversimplified that Russo wrote mainly serious works and Holman was responsible for the band's swingers; Russo also did "lighter vein" pieces like Bill Blues and Holman also came up with the pompously-titled Theme and Variations (both also arranged standards and vocal features for the band). However, the two Bills do exemplify the two approaches towards appreciating Kenton: Russo wrote music that, to use a fittingly Wagnerian term, represents the ne-plus-ultra of Kenton; Holman took Kenton to the limits of un-Kenton.


Wagner's extra-musical angles - leaving aside the radical misinterpretation of the composer's intentions through a racial point of view by certain 20th-century political regimes -parallel Kenton's in that "Artistry in Rhythm" represents the ultimate expression of the American jazz-pop aesthetic in terms of an Anglo-Saxon patriarchal point of view. There's a further theoretical similarity with many a heavy metal rock band of the '70s and '80s, British or otherwise, which use Nordic icons as part of their visual presentations (stage props and album cover art); not in the sound, since Kenton, even at his worst, always at least made music, but in the complete absence of black or ethnic elements.

Performers from the American east, from Benny Goodman to Frank Sinatra or even Kenton's own Vido Musso, brought their Jewish or Italian backgrounds to this Afro-American music no less than the black players of Southern ancestry brought their own collective heritage. The kind of Kenton sound that Bill Russo brought to its highest point, "Kenton-Kenton" suggests not an Aryan arrogance but pride - posing that this is no less the stuff of music for both the head and the feet than the music created by the descendants of those who arrived on American shores after 1700.

The second Bill Russo piece to be recorded by Kenton, Halls of Brass, serves as a striking an example of pure "high Kenton" as any in the band's history. An amazingly together piece to come from a 22-year-old (neither Kenton nor Rugolo created anything comparable until their '30s), we can forgive its young composer his attempts to rocket in so many directions at once since his four years with Kenton would give him a remarkable opportunity to adjust his focus. But far more than Kenton's later direct assault on The Ring and Tannheuser et al, Halls of Brass constitutes a far more successful attempt to bring Wagner and Germanic-period Stravinsky into Kentonian terms. And that's mainly because it has such a strong under­current of teutonic masculinity - a symphony whose primary color is testosterone, it might well be called Balls of Brass.

… Russo's works for the band are thoroughly Kentonian right down to their 'bones (pun), as they continued the Kenton trombone tradition. Of the 40 or so pieces of Russo's (who stayed in the trombone section until 1953) recorded by the band, virtually all use the instrument extensively, in solos and sections. Solitare (Milt Bernhardt), Ennui (Harry Belts), Frank Speaking, I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues and I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good (all Frank Rosolino), Over the Rainbow (Bob Burgess), A Theme of Four Values and Thisbe (both Bob Fitzpatrick) and the unrecorded Kenton arrangement of Aesthete on Clark Street are all trombone features, whereas by contrast he only penned perhaps one or two specialty features apiece for any of the other horns.

On both features for trombones and other instruments, and other multi-solo pieces too, Russo digs juxtaposing the soloist with birds of a feather - the way in Portrait of a Count, hot trumpeter Conte Candoli is accompanied by a section of blaringly open horns, like Fred Astaire in top hat in TOP HAT surrounded by a chorus line of slender, light-footed dancing men in top hats. And on the solo features as well as other kinds of pieces, besides getting more than one tempo going, he often starts several melodies rolling at once, sometimes in a carefully-controlled cacophonic chaos, sometimes in a simple setting of one theme atop another - and, to return to the space opera ideal, he's especially into the "twinkling stars" sort of backdrop, prominent in Halls of BrassI Got It Bad and especially Edgon Heath, which plays with notions of fore­ground and background.


The features for instrumental stars, as written by both Russo and Holman (especially in the "St-St-Starry" master­pieces Stella by Starlight and Stairway to the Stars) come out of the Kenton vocabulary as recently defined by Rugolo, Shorty Rogers and the leader. 'They were slow and kind of fast in the middle," said Holman, "going back to the things Shorty had done like Art Pepper and Maynard Ferguson, you can use a beautiful song, and let the guy get hot in the middle and finish up the same way." Their slow-fast-slow set-up grows out of Jimmy Dorsey's earlier and more light-hearted three-tempo pop pieces like Tangerine, and, more directly, Dizzy Gillespie's multi-tempo Lover Come Back to Me.

"Stan was right about one thing," Holman added. "On ballads, it was better to feature a solo horn rather than trying to make the whole band sound warm on a ballad melody. It's much better to let a soloist do it because he can put so much more into it than a section playing a written out thing. So, we extended that to some of the hot pieces too, just to give a focus for the chart, to build it around one guy." Whether Russo's solo-spotlight features modulate from dirge to flagwaver or just from slow to stately, in a way that must have really turned Kenton on, they tend to get serious just at the point when another arranger would get sentimental.

Many of the Russo-Kenton concerti affect their speed changes dramatically, sometimes using an a capella pause as the point of tempo modulation, which becomes even more appropriate in the Latinate pieces, as the Latin-jazz orchestra enjoys a healthy tradition of pausing (or in the annals of Perez Prado, pausing and then grunting, though the Kenton-Russo trombones grunt with far greater grating grunginess than even the most road weary of human voices). 23 Degrees North – 82 Degrees West, that cacophonies cackling of the coordinates of Cuba for lascivious lovers of Latin latitudes, represents Russo's masterpiece of poly-everything, being polyrhythmic and poly­phonic;, contrasting different time signatures, different sections, different melodies on top of each, both at once and after more of those band-stopping rests.


Writing in Time Magazine in July, 1953, Kenton com­mented … 'The orchestra as it stands today is the greatest we've had in the twelve years of its existence. With the addition of men like Lee Konitz, Bill Holman, Frank Rosolino and Stan Levey, the band seems to have more drive than ever before - plus the fact that it's 'swinging.' (…) Even Whitney Balliett, the most articulate of anti-Kentonites, conceded in 1953 that the orchestra, ‘reveal(s) a much clearer jazz feeling than ever before.’


The new band used many of Kenton's '40s arrangers at first, including Johnny Richards, Shorty Rogers, Bob Graettinger and the leader, but as it got deeper into its own touring schedule, Kenton, ever anxious to break new ground, relied more and more on Russo. By this time, the aforemen­tioned established arrangers mainly wrote for Kenton as for a certain, very specialized kind of art kick while workaday studio gigs paid their Bel Air mortgages, but Russo, who remained in the trombone section, grew closer to both the man and the band as his own talents blossomed, and became the first to develop a new, post-Innovations style for the Kenton Orchestra.

In fact, both Russo's "low" and "high" brow pieces brought Kenton closer to what he had striven for with Innovations than he was ever able to do with the really big band. Johnny Richards may have landed the plum chore of explaining to the fans that this new group was in the best Kenton tradition in his Prologue [This is an Orchestra], a latter day equivalent of Benny Goodman's Ooh,Boom wherein B.G. showed he still had a great band (including Lester Young) despite the recent departure of Gene Krupa. But Russo dominated this particular Kenton era, writing virtually all four of Kenton's first original LPs, which included two collections of standards and the first Kenton collection to spotlight a name other than his own – The Music of Bill Russo. Russo also wrote almost all of the album which titled this entire period of the band's development, New Concepts, with the following phrase in much smaller letters near the bottom of the front cover, ‘Of Artistry In Rhythm.’

In his highly-concentrated Kenton career, Russo delved so deep into the essence of Kentonia that he was bound to dig clear through to China. To explain, let's go three degrees backwards and two degrees to the left: Kenton maintained his uniqueness by never going 100% into the mode of any era; only Woody Herman trusted his audiences enough to com­pletely go native with every worthwhile new trend. Whether Kenton played bop or semi-classical pieces they always sounded like Kenton first and whatever other style they happened to be in second.

And that includes the "cool" movement, of which, quite literally, every major writer and player had been part of the Orchestra at some time (and, as Russo pointed out, "'colo­nized' Los Angeles because that was Stan's home base when they worked for him"). They had comparatively little effect on the Kenton sound, mainly because he filtered those cool and contrapuntal ideas through his intrinsic heaviness. Even Shorty 'Twinkletoes" Rogers - with Gerry Mulligan the major "cool" arranger - sounds comparatively heavy in his Kenton pieces. Only Russo, in pieces like Fascinatin’ Rhythm, gives the weighty Kenton aggregation the true bottomless bounce of "cool" at its best, without removing any of the elements that let you know in two shakes of a monkey's tail exactly whose band you're listening to. Said Russo, "a Kenton band is almost instinctively recognizable because of its distinctive sound, personality and flair for the unusual."


On some of his settings of standard ballads as well, Russo finds in the Kenton sound something no other arranger had ever been able to bring out: lightness and elegance - a discovery as potent as Bill Holman's demonstration that the Kenton sound, in and of itself, could swing. Gerry Mulligan, briefly a Kenton arranger but for a long time one of his most astute commentators, has often expressed his preference for Claude Thornhill's great band (especially in the years after the war and before the second ban, when Gil Evans wrote the bulk of its arrangements), explaining that Thornhill's impres­sionistic tone-poem-like tableaux contained more beauty than Kenton's muscle-heavy machinations.

However, Russo, in these 1953 homages to the greater glories of Tin Pan Alley, brings a Thornhillian gentleness (most directly on There’s a Small Hotel) to the Kenton pallette, again, without taking away anything from what the boss expected. This Sophisticated Lady, for instance, even betrays lipstick traces of authentic femininity - the trumpet is muted rather than blaring through your brains - even if said lady does insist on running her jungle-red fingernails across the chalkboard of your heart, whereas You and the Night and the Music deftly shows that Astaire might have made a better dancing partner for this band than Tex Ritter. April in Paris, in Kenton style, threatens to become "December in Dresden," but its comparative featheriness and muted trumpet part point to the slightly later hit Basic version. How High the Moon retreats to its pre-jazz ballad tempo, with the characteristic blasting very nearly shooting higher than said satellite.

Having finished the two ten-inch albums of his re-thinkings of standards, Russo's final four "mood" pieces for Kenton, A Theme of Four Values, Dusk, Edgon Heath and Thisbe, show that the composer had completed a remarkable evolution since his initial works for the Innovations band only four years earlier. These are the kind of pieces that must have thoroughly thrilled and frustrated Kenton at the same time. Just as Kenton felt that Pete Rugolo captured what he wanted in 1945 better than he could, in 1954 Bill Russo is using every element of the Kenton sound - the Chopinesque piano, the brass demolition crew, the wild fluctuations in volume and dynamics - in a way that Kenton never really trusted himself to.

Russo creates truly serious and very heavy compositions that are not at all pretentious (because it achieves everything it sets out to do). Contrastingly, Kenton, especially after the commercial success of peanut vendor and the creep, only trusted his own abilities in terms of jukebox-oriented singles. In sponsoring and then conducting the more "serious" works of Graettinger and Russo (and, to another extent, the full swing pieces of Holman) Kenton must have been getting his thrills vicariously.

The key was to explore elements in keeping with the Kenton character yet which previous arrangers had not yet fully exploited. Ultimately, Russo prefers to polythematically play two riffs against each other at once, while Bill Holman would rather take one irresistible riff and bounce it along until it gradually leads into solos and subsequent phrases; the various melodies generally come one at a time, not simultaneously.”



To be continued in … New Concepts of Artistry in Rhythm – Part 1

© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.



If he was nothing else, Kenton surely was a catalyst who drew to himself large numbers of gifted artists and, through his example, inspired them to give of their best.”
- Pete Welding

As I mentioned in Part 1 of the profile on the New Concepts Kenton orchestras, this is “where I came in,” so to speak; this was my in-depth involvement with Stan Kenton’s music.

Thanks to Kenton’s willingness to allow lead trumpeter Al Porcino and drummer Mel Lewis to set the direction of the band during the mid-1950’s, and because of a host of arrangements by the likes of Gerry Mulligan, Bill Holman, Marty Paich and Lennie Niehaus, the Kenton band that I first heard of the Contemporary Concepts [1955] and Back to Balboa [1957] LPs was a swinging aggregation.

Michael Sparke, in his marvelous Stan Kenton: This is an Orchestra!, explains the origins of this version the Kenton Orchestra:

“... the real catalyst who changed the band's music forever was Gerry Mulligan. … Limelight, Swing House, Walking Shoes, and Young Blood may not have been archetypal Kenton, but from a jazz point of view Mulligan's charts were without peer. …

"Mulligan's charts were a lot of fun to play," commented Lennie Niehaus, "because we had a lot more freedom to do what we wanted. By thinning out the lines and making them less cluttered, Gerry softened the sound of the band. It was like Bach, contrapuntal, and the moving parts would weave in and out of each other, so that lightened up the sound, and helped the band to swing in a different manner. We have Gerry Mulligan to thank for that. He led the way for Holman and myself, and maybe a few other arrangers. The guys in the band thought it was great, but Stan needed a lot of convincing."…

Immediate beneficiary of the Mulligan influence was Bill Holman. "My first arrangements the band played were Deep Purple and Star Eyes both for the dance library. But I loved Gerry Mulligan's charts so much, the next thing I wrote sounded just like what Gerry had been writ­ing, so Stan never used that one at all. But I was playing all of Gerry's arrangements—or at least, the ones Stan was using. So I really got to pay attention to what made up a great writer's charts.

"But Mulligan was not interested in becoming a Kenton arranger. He just wrote his kind of music for Stan, and there was no compromising. In my case, I wanted to write for Stan Kenton, so I spent many months just trying to figure out how I was going to do it. And when I did start writing for the band, it was not quite like Gerry, but there was a whole lot of influ­ence there. Stan made it plain from the start he didn't want any Count Basie-type swing charts, and I knew I didn't want to write Progressive Jazz, so I had to find some kind of middle way that would keep us both happy; and eventually I did. And it was heavier, more massive than the things that Gerry wrote, but that's because of who I was working for."

According to Noel Wedder, "Holman and Stan carried on a 'love-hate' relationship for years. Of all his arrangers, Stan was closest to Bill, which didn't stop them from quarrelling. Their arguments over scores were legendary. But Stan saw Holman as the son he'd always wanted. Charming. Self-effacing. Determined. Stubborn. A take-no-prisoners attitude. But above all, extremely talented." With the last comment at least, the musicians agreed to a man.

"When it comes to writing," said Bill Trujillo, "Holman's got a way of simplifying things. He'll write one unison line, and a counterpoint. When you play Bill's charts you feel happy. They just hit you right. They swing. The way he does things is different from any other arranger, like a big band playing as a small group.”


Opined Bill Perkins: "I would say Bill Holman's music was the best-liked by the band. The secret? Taste and voice-leading. Bill Holman wrote the book on voice-leading for big bands.” And Phil Gilbert: ''I think Bill Holman is the greatest composer/ arranger alive or dead, just listen to the prolific body of work he has done. He has written masterpieces for his own band, countless singers, and the likes of Terry Gibbs and Stan Kenton. It is a thrill to play his music. If you ask anyone, in any section of the orchestra, how they like their part, the answer is 'Perfect!' No bor­ing parts, ever!" [pp. 97-98]

For more on what makes the Bill Holman “sound” so distinctive in the Kenton Orchestra, here are Will Friedwald views from the insert notes that he prepared for the Stan Kenton: The Complete Capitol Recordings of the Holman and Russo Charts [Mosaic MD4-136].

© -Mosaic Records and Will Friedwald. Used with permission, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“Holman's earliest pieces, most famously invention for GUITAR AND TRUMPET, use the baroque, counterpoint-heavy style then in vogue as a result of the popularity of the various BIRTH of the cool and Kenton arrangers (not to mention Tristano). "I realize now that counterpoint was my whole shtick then," says Holman, "that was the whole west coast jazz thing. People would say 'we got a record date - let's call an arranger and have him write some contrapuntal charts.' That was a weird period, with everybody writing these Bach-kind of fugues, full of eighth notes flying all over the place. If something sells a couple dozen more, the record guys will think that's gotta be the answer."

Bill Holman's work shows that he quickly established that his forte was in bringing out the simpler, more strictly swinging essence of Kentonian cool. Even by the time of theme and variations, despite the title, Holman had become more frugal than fugal, he had honed his style down to a point where it wasn't a million themes and variations happening all at once (which only Russo could bring about coherently) but in succession - easy to follow yet which never talk down to the listener. Holman's charts provide the perfect get off points for both dancers and soloists, while at the same time remain true to the essence of what Kenton wanted to do with his band.

The band remained stable after Russo, in turn, left the trombone section to write for it full time, despite occasional periods of down-time generally at the ends of years and fall tours, as in both the late autumn of '53 and '54. When Kenton re-grouped in January '55, however, the new orchestra was different enough from what had come before to suggest yet another new - or rather semi-new - era. The '52 - '54 music, dominated by Russo, became known by the new concepts album; the '55 - '56 Kenton sound, guided largely by Holman, was best represented by an album sought after even by those who wouldn't normally take Kenton records as a gift -contemporary concepts. In retrospect, these two pinnacles of the band's existence are best thought of as the Concepts I and Concepts II bands.


Importantly, Holman's Kenton experience coincided with that of the jazz giant soon to become one of Holman's biggest boosters and Kenton's sharpest critics, Gerry Mulligan. "I don't think Gerry was ever too happy about the way in which we performed his music," said Kenton. YOUNGBLOOD from NEW CONCEPTS, LIMELIGHT from CONTEMPORARY CONCEPTS, SWING HOUSE from THE KENTON ERA and Geru's big band adaptation of his small group marvel WALKIN’ SHOES, being their most famous joint efforts.

"Mulligan is quite an individualist and I guess I am also, and as much respect as we have for each other, if I had let the orchestra play Mulligan's music just exactly the way he wanted it played, it wouldn't have had a Kenton sound to it at all," Kenton continued, "Gerry isn't as bitter about it as he was at one time, but there was a time when he, Gerry, declared I never would perform his music any way that he wanted it performed. You know, even his big band sounded like a small group, they played like a small group; whereas I think that a big band should sound like a big band, and it should have strength as well as the soft things. So, the relationship between Gerry and I was never really too happy. Today I think we're over that and Gerry and I are quite good friends." Said Lee Konitz, "I was surprised that Gerry and Stan even ever started working together, not that they didn't continue for very long."

Holman probably benefited more from this aborted relationship - which was supposed to begin with a full ten charts - than either Mulligan or Kenton. "I got a big boost from Gerry Mulligan," he said. "Stan didn't really like (his charts), but he played 'em. Playing those things in the band was a real eye-opener, because Gerry was working on the same thing that I was - the contrapuntal lines and not so much of the concerted ensemble, breaking the band down into smaller groups and unison lines and things like that. Playing those charts of Gerry's was heaven, and it gave me a good start on things that I wanted to do with the band." Holman perhaps gained from the experience by negative example; Kenton played Mulligan's music to a certain degree because the critics and public had already substantiated their validity. For Holman to do what he wanted with Kenton's orchestra, he had to respect the leader's wishes a little more - as the four R's of Kenton arranging, Rugolo, Roland, Richards and Russo, had - and come up with a happy compromise that would reflect the best tastes of both men.


"I really got started writing for Kenton at the end of '52, the guys in the band had shown a lot of enthusiasm for my stuff, and that helped Stan make his peace with it - here was something different," Holman said, "So he kept encouraging me and I kept writing, all through the summer and fall of '53 when we went to Europe (followed by a stay at Bird land and the start of the 1953-early '54 "Festival of Modern American Jazz" package tour with Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker and Erroll Garner)." However, Kenton and Holman "had kind of a disagreement" and Holman did not return after the Christmas '53 layoff.

'Then, a few months later they were out on the coast, but I heard they were recording all these things I had done [includ­ing the miraculous Konitz-Holman session, which Holman does not remember attending]. And I really thought that was extraordinary because I thought after I had left the band that would be it. I went down to the recording. I was pleased that Stan didn't harbor a grudge after all the horrible things 1 had said to him!" When Kenton did his second "festival" tour, he re-recruited Holman. "He got the band together in late summer of'54 and I went on that trip. In the middle of that trip he sent me to New York to work on a couple of things, including STELLA BY STARLIGHT and I’ve Got You Under My Skin. So by that time our animosities had cooled out."

Holman's earlier works for Kenton continue the contrapun­tal concept, and also extend the idea of featuring instruments not accustomed to taking a starring role in the jazz and big band sphere (the unrecorded FRIVOLOUS SAL uses the guitar considerably more adventurously than the original INVENTION FOR GUITAR TRUMPET, where Salvador primarily plays a written fugal line). bags, a feature for bass that harkens back to the Ellington-Blanton band masterpieces and Kenton's own contemporaneous CONCERTO FOR DOGHOUSE  with Howard Rumsey, but, expanding on Dizzy Gillespie's ONE... and TWO... BASS HIT(s), features the bassist throughout and not just in the head statements.

After the epochful fall '53 European tour, a landmark event for American music as much for Kenton himself, and then the no-less-earth-shattering 1953 "Festival" tour which, instead of the usual star vocalists offered in these package shows (Nat Cole and Sarah Vaughan had topped the bill in the previous year's edition), teamed the Kenton band with Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie, Holman and Konitz had both left the band. Therefore, when an all-Holman-Konitz-Kenton date went down on March 1, 1954, no one was more surprised than Holman, who learned about it long after the fact (he still doesn't remember ever writing this chart on LOVERMAN), and Konitz, and possibly, Kenton.


Listening to the four tracks from that session on this set, they fit so perfectly well together like four mini-masterpieces (they could almost be an Ellington suite for bebop alto) that it's tough to believe they were both conceived and originally released much more haphazardly. The two standards, LOVERMAN and MY FUNNY VALENTINE had originally been loosely sketched out by Holman for Charlie Parker to play (explaining why two "Lovermen" exist in the Kenton library as Konitz features) in front of the Kenton band in that fall '53 tour (Dizzy Gillespie having used his own orchestral charts; Bird also played his recorded arrangement of night AND DAY by Joe Lippman with Kenton on that tour). According to Konitz, Kenton had originally planned to record these charts with Bird, but, knowing Norman Granz's disdain for letting his contract artists appear on other labels and for big band music in general, Parker could not appear; they were unofficially but fortunately recorded in live performances, and have since been issued on private Kenton collector's labels (a third, CHEROKEE, was recorded in '55 with altoist Charlie Mariano in the Bird's nest).

'The only reason (for that date) was that they planned on doing it with Bird," Konitz recalled. "Stan called me one day (several months after leaving the band) and asked me to come on as a soloist. I said 'Gee, I'd be delighted,' and asked who else would be on the date. He said, 'Charlie Parker,' and I said, 'What?' I couldn't believe it!" Said Konitz, 'There was a bit of a story during the tour with Bird and Diz, that Dizzy was nudging Bird because I was supposedly mopping the floor with him. I met Max Roach one day on Central Park West and alluded to that and he said that it was a fact: The word is out that you're cutting Bird.' I mean, God damn! The reason, of course, was that I was in a familiar environment, I had been in that band for 15 months or so, and Bird had just stepped in and wasn't that comfortable, obviously. Plus, he was juicing. But then, I remember Dizzy telling me later, after he told Bird, This young ofay is cutting you, you better get with it.' Then Dizzy, said, 'I'm sorry I said anything because the next night / was the one who had to follow Bird!'"

Along with the two Parker features, Kenton also seized the opportunity to commit to tape two Holman masterworks written directly for Konitz, a standard variant, of all things (as the title implies, based on all the things you ark) and an original variously titled in lighter vein or dn a lighter vein. Thus, for possibly the only time in the four-decade Kenton chronicle, an entire date went to a single arranger and a single soloist, anticipating even Ellington's featuring Paul Gonsalves session of 1962. The Ellington-Gonsalves album/session befell a similar fate in that no trace of it saw the light until the late '80s, while the Konitz/Holman session has only been heard scattershot on a variety of Capitol (American and English) and Creative World singles, EPs & LPs, with no two of the tracks ever being on the same release - perhaps it just sounded too vehemently unKentonian while he was alive -until now.


Despite Kenton's passion for blaring brass and drummers that aspired to cauldrons as much as kettles, and despite Konitz's contention that, "Playing a saxophone in a big brass band is not enviable, you're almost just padding for the trumpets (In my next lifetime I'll be a drummer)!", the alto saxes were always the soloists to pay attention to in the Kenton band. And that goes from the beginning, when Art Pepper and George Wiedler made a hot and sweet counterpart to Basic's tough-and-tender tenor team of Hershal Evans and Lester Young, through Bud Shank, Charlie Mariano, Gabe Baltazar (who owed as much to earlier swing altos like Willie Smith as to Bird), Herb Geller, Harry Klee, Dick Meldonian, Lennie Niehaus, noted ornithologist Davey Schildkraut, Boots Mussulli, Herbie Steward, Ronnie Lang.

But, without fear of contradiction, the greatest alto saxist and therefore the greatest soloist in the band's history was Lee Konitz. To justify his edge over Pepper, let me cop out of an apples-vs-oranges decision by explaining that Pepper was younger and years away from his peak in his Kenton years, where Konitz had already spent years with other bands large (Thornhill) and small (Miles Davis), not to mention industrial strength woodshedding with Lennie Tristano. 'The Tristano guys put me down for going with Kenton," Konitz said, "but they were the first to copy my solos." From the outset, Konitz wails sensationally enough to more than justify this extrava­gant claim - he's not only all over his horn, he's all over the band and all over the arrangement, a ceaseless dynamo of great ideas conceived and expressed brilliantly.

But Holman charges that as late as that session (even on the next day's recorded offerings, which included no less than five more Holman classics), "the band didn't really have a very solid swing concept, because Stan was always yelling for straight eighths and I was always writing swing time. Poor Buddy (Childers, Kenton's lead trumpeter for many years), who was responsible for the phrasing, tried to satisfy us both with a middle ground, it just came out sounding weird."   Mel Lewis concurred, "I don't think (drummer) Stan Levey enjoyed playing with Buddy, or Childers with Levey. And then Kenton's concept of straight eighths is a little difficult for a drummer, especially a bebop drummer. You've got to change it and you've got to be tricky."


When Kenton again re-organized after the Christmas '54 lay-off, the band that took to the road in January '55 was the remarkable "Concepts II" edition. In 1937 Kenton had experience with straight-ahead swing, playing in hotel band­leader Gus Arnheim's refurbished group. Earlier editions of the Kenton orchestra itself, before Kenton and Rugolo developed the original concept of Artistry in Rhythm, also sounded more like your average white swing band.

But while some are born swinging and some achieve swing, Kenton had swing thrust upon him. Never before or after the Concepts bands - II even more than I - would Kenton swing so willingly, so deliberately and with so much of his heart. To reverse that idea, the Kenton orchestras always had swing in their hearts, meaning that the soloists could and did. But what distinguishes an orchestra with swinging soloists from a truly swinging orchestra is how it handles its solo players, whether it encourages or impedes them, and what it puts around them. In pondering the Shakespearian question, to swing or not to swing, the responsibility falls on two key men, the lead trumpeter has to pull the band exactly the right way from the front, and the drummer has to push the band just so from behind.

But, with Concepts II, Kenton not only put the right men in those crucial chairs, he encouraged them to do as they pleased. "I was sure this was to be Stan's best band ever, and, in fact, one of the greatest bands ever, since Bill Holman had written a whole new and wonderful book," wrote Al Porcino, "With sidemen like Mariano, Perkins, Niehaus, Fontana, Noto, Max Bennett and Mel, it was certainly one of my most enjoyable times working for Stan." Said Holman, "In '55, Stan had given Porcino carte blanche, and they also had Mel Lewis. So, they had the conception down, and I was so knocked out, because it was the first chance I had to really hear the charts played like a jazz band!"

Perhaps what makes them work is that they're not just like a jazz band but they still have enough of what makes us love the old Kenton carbohydrate sound; while any number of arrangers could write a great swinging chart, it was damn near impossible to make Kenton's concepts swing in and of themselves, as Holman did. STELLA BY STARLIGHT is perhaps the most glorious of all flights of soul by that young Bird of Boston, Charlie Mariano. It's one of those classic Kenton three-tempo jobs that Russo had already brought to perfec­tion, and Holman's backing for the first chorus (which he discusses elsewhere) utilizes advance technical trickery worthy of the text books. But just when Holman, Mariano and Victor Young's melody have lulled you into romantic; reverie, out comes the mighty Melvin slapping you out of it in a vigorous trade of fours with master Mariano, as the ensemble launches into a series of typically brilliant Holman melodic variations (even when the written tune does sneak through, it's never one of the more easily identifiable passages).


The fast and slow parts, far from simply destroying the other's momentum, accentuate each other by virtue of their proximity. And Holman does no worse with mono-rhythmic pieces like YESTERDAYS, which spots Bill Perkins (one of the few players who made a reputation with the bands of both Kenton and Herman) in a dreamy yet intense Kern-el of Kentonia crammed with bittersweet reminiscence, and a forerunner of the long-awaited Holman-Art Pepper ballad epic WINTER MOON. On the way-up CHEROKEE, another ace altoist, Lennie Niehaus, gets an early chance to show off the admiration and understanding for Charlie Parker which would eventually land him the commission to score Clint Eastwood's mm) flick.

WHAT’S NEW, I’VE GOT YOU UNDER MY SKIN and STOMPIN’ AT THE SAVOY, which, along with Mulligan's LIMELIGHT rounded out the original twelve-inch contemporary concepts, represent the pinnacle of Holman's arch-melody works, wherein the arranger transforms both original melody and chords into a new tune with just enough of the original to hang on to, very much the way Lester Young or Stan Getz (especially in his essential old BLACK MAGIC variations) would "read" a melody in a first chorus.

SKIN sports six soloists (one inter-solo interlude dropping into a contrapuntal episode), none more keenly felt than Mel Ijewis, who uses the Kenton style as an excuse for reconciling bebop bomb-dropping with traditional big band push. what's NEW disperses more round-harmony melodic fragments as it answers its own nominal question, with Perkins rambulating in the alto-tenor range, and the sections making the usual range rounds from outerspace to underground, dissolving in a Russian movie-type fade out, but still swinging! SAVOY, with its ten-bar recomposition of the original eight, proffers a basic-line so irresistible that had it too been devised in 1934, just as many bands would have added it to their books.

But this too shall pass. It was just too un-Kentonian to last. As Konitz observed regarding the Mulligan-Kenton relationship, the miracle is that it ever happened at all, no matter how brief. This was a man who couldn't bring himself to say the word "Zoot" on stage and insisted on referring to his 1953 tenor star as "Jack Sims" (leaving many fans, who had been following Zoot's rising star since Benny Goodman's 1943 band, to wonder who he might be talking about). A man who wouldn't play what might have been Holman's most danceable original, BOOP BOOP  BE DOOP because the title was also beyond the realm of things he wanted to pronounce into a microphone going out to thousands of innovative conceptualist fans (Holman told Carol Easton "he wanted to call it 'Artistry in Cosmic Radiation' or something). On a recently-issued live version of hoop, Kenton disassociates himself from the title by clarifying, in his intro, that 'The orchestra has chosen this one." (Undoubtedly true. "Towards the end of any given night, Stan sometimes asked, 'what do you guys wanna play,"' remembered Sal Salvador, "And we'd always say, one of those Gerry Mulligan or Bill Holman charts.")


'The consensus was that the band was getting out of his control and going too far the sidemen's way, so he just decided to call it a halt and think about it," said Holman, adding, "He still had jazzy charts in the band after that, especially when Dee Barton was there." After Kenton's most visible summer ever - in which the band did a TV series, MUSIC '55, that did not make it beyond summer replacement status in the same season that Lawrence Welk became the hottest thing on the picture tube - Porcino said goodbye for the last time, in December. He sensed the handwriting before it had even gotten as far as the wall, and was "tired," he said, "and disappointed that Stan did not follow through with swing."

Mel Lewis stayed on through the February '56 HI-FI album, and long enough to enjoy working with Curtis Counce, and an April '56 European tour, but by that time it was no longer the same band. When Mariano split before the trip to become half of the frontline of Shelly Manne and his Men, Kenton, once again in the mood for instrumental experimentation as opposed to playing it straight-ahead, replaced him with two French horn players. However, still determined to forever thwart expectations, when the band returned, Kenton made one of his unflakiest and hardest-hitting of all records, CUBAN FIRE, penned by longtime associate Johnny Richards and spotlighting one of the greatest tenor players ever featured in Kenton's or almost anyone else's band, Lucky Thompson (I wonder if he was tempted to add a shofar section - including tenor and bass shofars - and follow CUBAN FIRE with JEWISH LIGHTING).

And still, after carrying the French horns and a brass bass (tuba to you and me) for a season or so, Kenton was in the mood to swing again by '57 and for the rest of the decade, when he got around to recording a hitherto un-studio'ed Holman swinger ROYAL BLUE. The '58 band, boasting the Mel Lewis-inspired Jerry MacKenzie on drums as well as old hands Lennie Niehaus and Richie Kamuca, shows here it need not never defer to the '55 band in the flagwaver depart­ment. But after this, the last Concepts item to make it into the studio, Kenton only contacted Holman for a few in-character indulgences: the mellophonium band and two undistinguished singers that he seemed determined to elevate to the status of O'Day, Christy and Connor, namely Ann Richards and Jean Turner.

Of the recorded instrumentals Holman provided for the 1961 band stairway to the stars comes off as a worthy sequel to STELLA BY STARLIGHT in its intense alto soulfully striding a rethought melody (opening a capella - or sans rhythm anyway), and several tempo changes, with the underdog Gabe Baltazar emerging a worthy heir to the mantle of Mariano and Konitz. MALAGUENA, a case study of mellophonium momentum and classic Kentonism, includes just about everything the leader dug, being Latin-American, semi-classical and encompassing swooping trombones, roaring altos, tons of tumultuous tempi and percussive effects that sound more like the neibelungen pounding out the rheingold than caballeros contemplating the quantity of coffee in Brazil. Further Holman appearances in the Creative World, with the Neophonic Orchestra (which also reunited Kenton with Bill Russo) and MALAGA, the much later follow-up to MALAGUENA, amount to mere postscripts to their relationship.

Despite Holman and Russo's works for the band, which all belong clearly to the realm of successful art music that will last forever, no less now than when Kenton was alive does admitting to liking his music constitute a guilty pleasure. It's like being a vegetarian with a secret craving for fried chicken. Sure the stuff was pretentious, and even at its best had a starchy taste that you had to get used to. But was it worth it? I don't think there's any doubt in anybody's mind.

It was the best of bands, it was the worst of bands. It was the pure tommy-rot of pretension, it was the soul of soaring unselfconsciousness. It was the very stuff of swing, it was a egomaniac's demented dream of pompousness. It was as light as Basie and as heavy as Beethoven. It was indulgent and ecstatic, funereal and joyful. It was, in short, a band like no other.

This, God damn it, was an orchestra.
Thus spake Kenton.

—Will Friedwald”

The Advent of Jackie McLean: The Blue Note Years [From the Archives]

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© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“He patented a sound that was compounded equally of bebop and the new, free style. Raw and urgent, no one else sounds quite like him.”
- Richard Cook and Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.

“McLean's mix of plangency and something inscrutable is very striking.”
- Richard Morton, Jazz writer and critic


“...there aren't more than a handful of jazzmen ... who sound as passionately involved in their music.”
- Michael James, liner notes to Jackie McLean: Capuchin Swing


In a recent posting on the Texas Tenor Sound, I quoted the late Cannonball Adderley description of a key aspects of this blues-drenched, wide-open style of playing as a sound that had a “moan within a tone.”

Cannonball’s tonal characterization reminded me of the plaintive wail that I always associated with Jackie McLean’s alto saxophone sound, especially when I first encounter McLean's on the recordings he made for the Blue Note label in the 1950s and 1960s.


Richard Morton and Brian Cook in their Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD 6th Ed. offered this explanation of Jackie’s uniqueness:


“He patented a sound that was compounded equally of bebop and the new, free style. Raw and urgent, no one else sounds quite like him.”


Like Messrs Morton and Cook,  I always thought that Jackie was “straining at the boundaries of the blues” as though he was always poised between “innovation and conservatism:” “an orthodox bebopper who was deeply influenced by the free Jazz movement.”


His playing could range between “complex, tricky and thoroughly engaging” to “diffident and defensive.”


Impassioned, fiery, full of brio, the sound of Jackie McLean during his Blue Note years was, to my ears, the personification of what was referred to at the time as “East Coast Jazz.”


The editorial staff at JazzProfiles thought it might be fun to recount some of the highlights of Jackie tenure with Blue Note on these pages with some selected excerpts from Richard Cook's history of Blue Note Records.



© -  Richard Cook, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“Of all the new signings, the most important individual was Jackie McLean, an alto saxophonist from - a local man at last! - New York, who had been on the city's scene since the beginning of the fifties. McLean had had a difficult few years. Despite several high-profile stints with other leaders - including Miles Davis, Art Blakey and Charles Mingus - McLean had made no real headway as a leader himself. His records for Prestige were mostly spotty, unconvincing affairs (he later rounded on the company, comparing working for them to 'being under the Nazi regime and not knowing it'),5 and trouble with the police over his use of narcotics had led to the dreaded loss of his cabaret card, the same problem which had afflicted Monk's progress. Yet, in 1959, he signed up with Lion and also began working with the cooperative Living Theatre, a freewheeling stage group which staged various 'events' from poetry to performance art, culminating in the production of a play by Jack Gelber, The Connection, which dramatised aspects of the jazzman's life.


McLean's first Blue Note as leader was New Soil (BLP 4013), made on 2 May 1959 (material from an earlier session was subsequently released out of sequence).
Although pitched as a typical hard-bop quintet session (with Donald Byrd, Walter Davis, Paul Chambers and Pete LaRoca), the music might have puzzled the unwary. McLean brought two pieces to the date, 'Hip Strut' and 'Minor Apprehension' (often better remembered as 'Minor March', which was the title used by Miles Davis in his recording of the tune). 'Apprehension' is a useful word to describe the music. Although 'Hip Strut's structure eventually breaks out into a walking blues, its most striking motif is the suspension on a single, tolling chord, over which the soloists sound ominously trapped. In this one, McLean suggests the patient, rather effortful manner of one of his acknowledged influences, Dexter Gordon, but in the following 'Minor Apprehension' he sounds like the godson of Charlie Parker, tearing through the changes with the scalded desperation of the bebopper locked in a harmonic maze. The rest of the record, dependent on several Walter Davis tunes, is less impressive, but McLean's mix of plangency and something inscrutable is very striking.


Not always, though, particularly likeable. McLean is a player whose music has often aroused admiration over warmth. The sense that he is always playing slightly out of tune lends an insistent sourness to the tonality of his music, and it is the recurring problem within a diverse and often fascinating discography for the label. His fellow alto saxophonist Lee Konitz, who has also been accused of playing sharp, remembers a session with himself, McLean, Dexter Gordon and Ben Webster: 'After the session I shook Jackie's hand, thinking how nice it was to play with him, and then it occurred to me I was thanking him for playing sharp!'6


Swing Swang Swingin' (BLP 4024) gave McLean the limelight as the sole horn, with Walter Bishop, Jimmy Garrison and Art Taylor behind him. This session tends to restore the emphasis on McLean's bebop origins, with big, powerful improvisations such as those on 'Stablemates' and let's Face The Music And Dance' - a standard which very few jazz players have chosen to cover - suggesting that he still had a lot of juice to squeeze out of his bop sensibilities. But McLean began to change, in part, perhaps, because of his experiences with the Living Theatre, and his Blue Note albums would come to document a personality with a high degree of artistic curiosity. …


Jackie McLean might have shared a similar fate [to that of pianist Sonny Clarke who died from complications of heroin addiction], but his stint with the Living Theatre had stabilised his professional life and he eventually overcame his addiction. McLean's Blue Notes are a sometimes problematical lot and the string of dates he made for the label in the sixties continue an intriguing if often difficult sequence. Capuchin Swing, made on 16 April 1960, is a sometimes rowdy affair which shows up how awkward it could be to accommodate McLean even within a group of his own leadership. His solos on 'Francisco' (named for Frank Wolff) and 'Condition Blue' make a glaring contrast to those of his bandmates. The tension in McLean's records from this period lies in a sometimes aggravating contrast between himself and his fellow horn players in particular. Michael James is quoted on the sleeve note to Capuchin Swing to the effect that 'there aren't more than a handful of jazzmen ... who sound as passionately involved in their music', but McLean's passion often seems to have more to do with being outside, rather than being involved. Mclean himself later said: 'A lot of my performances have been very emotional because I wasn't putting any work into it.'Bluesnik, recorded the following January, has some of the same intensity, though apparently under more control: in what is actually a rather dull programme of blues pieces (the title track must have taken all of five minutes to 'compose'), the saxophonist's fast, biting solos shred the skilful and comparatively genial playing of Freddie Hubbard.


A Fickle Sonance, recorded the following October, assembled the same band which would record Leapin' And Lopin', with McLean in for Charlie Rouse. It is, again, the trouble-making McLean who makes all the difference: where Clark's session would be elegant and composed, this one seems taut and angular. 'Five Will Get You Ten', once credited to Clark but now thought to be an otherwise unclaimed Monk tune, and the chilling title piece, where the alto leaps and twists against a modal backdrop, are strange, rootless settings for playing which can seem by turns anguished, stark and sneering. McLean's next record, Let Freedom Ring, would make a more explicit pact with matters removed from his bebop history. ...


Jackie McLean had become as much a Blue Note regular as Hank Mobley (by the end of his tenure with the original company, he had played on nearly fifty sessions), but he was one hard-bopper who had begun to question his own ground. For the sleeve of his 1962 Let Freedom Ring album, McLean asked to write his own notes: Jazz is going through a big change, and the listener or the fan, or what have you, should listen with an open mind. They should use a mental telescope to bring into view the explorers who have taken one step beyond, explorers such as Monk, Coltrane, Mingus, Cecil Taylor, Kenny Dorham, Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis, Ornette and, of course, Duke Ellington.'


McLean doesn't choose to be very specific about how he feels his own music is changing, other than expressing a general dissatisfaction with chord-based improvising, but earlier in the essay he does say: 'Ornette Coleman has made me stop and think. He has stood up under much criticism, yet he never gives up his cause, freedom of expression. The search is on.'


What was this search? Perhaps McLean himself was not so sure, since most of Let Freedom Ring is a frequently awkward truce between his bebop roots and the new freedoms which Coleman had been putting on display in his music. But Coleman, too, had a debt to Charlie Parker and to blues playing. Why does
McLean sound, in comparison, to be struggling with his 'freedom'? It may be that he is, in effect, trying too hard. Listening to Coleman's music of the same period, one is constantly taken aback by how unselfconscious the playing is, as if the musicians in Coleman's famous quartet were free-at-last. McLean takes a much sterner route: if his earlier records sounded intense, this one is practically boiling. He seems unsure as to how best to use his tone, whether it should be flattened or made even sharper than normal, and there is both overblowing in the high register and a deliberate emphasis on oboe-like low notes. His three originals are open-ended and exploratory, but the one ballad, Bud Powell's Til Keep Loving You', is a distinct contrast, with the saxophonist playing it in a way which sounds in this setting weirdly direct and unadorned. Although the pianist, Walter Davis, was a near contemporary of McLean's, the other players were young men: bassist Herbie Lewis and drummer Billy Higgins.


McLean's decision was not so much a conversion as a progression. Many of his generation had been scathing about Coleman's new music, while at the same time being uneasily aware that the Texan saxophonist was on to something. No experienced musician who heard the music of Coleman's first Atlantic recordings of 1959 could have been under the impression that the guiding hand was some kind of charlatan, even if they didn't agree with his methods or his way of expressing himself. At this distance, it seems odd that Coleman's music could even have excited so much controversy: not only does it sound light, folksy and songful, its accessibility follows a clear path down from bebop roots (a point best expressed in Coleman's first two recordings for Contemporary, with 'conventional' West Coast rhythm sections. The music there gives drummer Shelly Manne no rhythmical problems at all, but the two bassists involved, Percy Heath and Red Mitchell, both later remembered asking the leader about harmonic points which Ornette more or less waved aside).


In 1963, McLean built on the work of Let Freedom Ring by forming a new and regular band, with players who could accommodate what he saw as his new direction. Three of them were individuals who would have their own Blue Note engagements soon enough: vibraphonist Bobby Hutcherson, trombonist Grachan Moncur and drummer Tony Williams. All three featured alongside McLean on his next released session, One Step Beyond (although three other sessions which took place in between were shelved by Lion at the time). What is awkward about One Step Beyond - and the subsequent Destination ... Out! - is that McLean is the one who sounds like the backward player. Just as Miles Davis found himself initially perplexed by Williams (who joined the Davis band in 1964), so did McLean struggle with the language of his younger sidemen. …”


To give you an opportunity to listen Jackie’s playing from The Blue Note years, the following video tribute features him on Walter Davis Jr.’s Greasy from McLean’s New Soil LP with Donald Byrd on trumpet, Walter on piano, Paul Chambers on bass and Pete La Roca on drums.



IRAKERE

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© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

For obvious reasons, drummers [even ex-drummers] love Latin or Afro-Cuban Jazz.

I mean, c’mon, Latin rhythm sections never run out of things to hit, bang, slap, crash or whack – 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 along 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 tune, 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 happen with this music once trumpets, trombones and saxophones were 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 MacarthurPark 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 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 from playing the conga drums.

I didn’t care; I was a young man in what I thought then was “Drummer’s Heaven.”

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.

By way of background and very briefly, there are three types of clave.

The most common type of clave rhythm in Latin Jazz is the son clave, named after the Cuban musical style of the same name. Below is an example of the son clave rhythm in Western musical notation.


Because there are three notes in the first measure and two in the second, the above is said to be in the 3:2 direction or forward clave. The 2:3 clave is the same but with the measures reversed [i.e.: reversed clave].

Another type of clave is the rumba clave which can also be played in either the 3:2 or 2:3 direction, although the 3:2 is more common.  Here is an example of its notation:


There is a third clave, often called the 6/8 clave or sometimes referred to as the Afro Feelclave because it is an adaptation of a well-documented West African [some claim Sub-Saharan] 12/8 timeline.  It is a cowbell pattern and is played in the older more folkloric forms of Cuban music, but it has also been adapted into Latin Jazz.

Below are the three major forms of clave, all written in a 3:2 position:


The choice of the direction of the clave rhythm is guided by the melody, which in turn directs all other instruments and arrangements.

In many contemporary compositions such as those recorded by Mongo Santamaria or the aforementioned Shearing & Tjader groups, the arrangements make use of both directions of the clave in different sections of the tunes.

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.
The first time I heard the Cuban Jazz group IRAKERE’s music, I was absolutely overwhelmed by how well all of these rhythmic conventions were honored thus providing a platform for a music rich in passionate intensity and melodic intrigue.

"IRAKERE"is the Yoruba word for “vegetation.” And “Yoruba” refers to an ethno-linguistic group native to West Africa, but the dialect is also spoken in some parts of Cuba. I have no idea as to the idiomatic hip meaning of IRAKERE, but I certainly hope to find out one day what arcane symbolism may lurk behind the name of the band.

This blending of Cuban folkloric elements with indigenous Cuban and West African rhythms perhaps indicates that the 1950’s term of Afro-Cuban Jazz may be a more appropriate appellation for many forms of Latin Jazz today.

However, the influx into the United States during the last quartet of the 20th century of large populations from Puerto Rico, parts of the Spanish Caribbean and Mexico, that is to say, immigrants of ethno Hispanic origin, may be responsible for the adoption and current prevalence of the more generic term – Latin Jazz.

For all intents and purposes, we will use the terms Afro-Cuban and Latin Jazz interchangeably.

As is often the case in life, my musical encounter with IRAKERE happened quite by accident. 

For as long as I can remember, I was always a avid listener of Southern California DJ Chuck Niles’ FM Jazz radio program. And although he moved around to various stations and time periods over the years until his death in 2004, I always searched out Chuck’s programs because I learned so much from them.
Chuck had great reverence for what he termed “straight-ahead Jazz,” in whatever form and from whatever period.  Whether it be the bebop the cool sounds or hard bop, as long as you could snap your fingers to it, Chuck loved it. Chuck was such a devotee of straight-ahead Jazz that composer-arranger Bob Florence nicknamed him “Bebop Charlie” and pianist, composer and band-leader Horace Silver called him “The Hippest Cat in Hollywood.”

Another aspect of the music that he particularly loved was Jazz saxophone. He was a great admirer of Sonny Rollins, Jackie Mclean Gerry Mulligan and most especially of Phil Woods [like Chuck, a native of Springfield, MA], to name just a few practitioners of this art.  Thanks to Chuck, I first heard the brilliant British tenor saxophonist Tubby Hayes on one of his programs and have had a life-long interest in his music ever since.

Chuck was always bringing new music and new musicians to my attention and so it is no surprise that it was during one of his FM radio broadcasts that I had my first sampling of the Latin Jazz music of the Cuban group IRAKERE in the late 1970’s.
In talking with Chuck about the group many years later, not surprisingly, he mentioned that what first drew him to IRAKERE’s music was the alto saxophone playing of Paquito D’Rivera [who like the group’s trumpeter Arturo Sandoval, later immigrated to the USA, and each have since become star players in their own right].

Chuck also explained that it was around this time that his fascination with Latin Jazz really took off.  Chuck would later embrace his Latin DJ radio colleague, Jose Riso, who not only taught him a great deal about Latin Jazz, but also greatly improved his pronunciation of Spanish names.

Thanks to a thaw in the seemingly always-strained relationship between the governments of Cuba and the United States, IRAKERE was allowed to appear at the Newport Jazz Festival in the summer of 1978 where the group really broke-it-up.  This appearance was followed shortly thereafter by another crowd-pleasing performance at the Montreux Jazz Festival in Switzerland.

One result of these smashing performances was a recording contract with Columbia Records which released both IRAKERE [JC 35655]and IRAKERE 2 [JC 36107]in 1979.

It was music by the group from these recordings that I had heard on Chuck Niles’ radio program and which really impressed me.

Unfortunately, for a variety of business and political reasons, Columbia dropped IRAKERE from the label, and although other labels did issue records by the group, they did so in a desultory manner and through limited channels of distribution.

To compound matters, the defections of Paquito D’Rivera and Arturo Sandoval to the United States in the early 1980’s along with a resumption of the strained relationship between the Cuban & US governments following the mass exodus of the Mariel boatlift in 1980, meant that IRAKERE was not be able to return to the United States again until 1996.

Fortunately, in the meantime, the advent of the computer disc helped keep available the music of various iterations of the group over the years ensuing years since it erupted on the world scene with the two 1978 performances by the original group.
As underscored in the following writings, the heart and soul of IRAKERE is the much revered Jesús Dionisio “Chucho” Valdés, son of the legendary pianist Bebo Valdés, and in his own right a pianist whose technical skills rival those of Art Tatum and whose composing and arranging abilities are formidable in the extreme.

From any number of perspectives, “Chucho” Valdés is an artistic genius.
The music of IRAKERE is not for the faint-of-heart.  Much of it is effervescent and loud. And there are some aspects of the group’s music that may not appeal to Jazz purists such as the use of electronic keyboards, bass and guitar. And the occasional use of Rock-inflected rhythms may raised the dreaded specter of “Fusion” for some.

However, if Afro Cuban Jazz is music that you find pleasure in, then it doesn’t get any better than IRAKERE: the soloists are scintillating, the extended unison phrases that Valdés constructs for the horns are some of the best you’ve ever heard since Charlie Parker & Dizzy Gillespie last played together, the ballads and romantic dance tunes are lushly arranged and caringly played and the Spanish words fuego [fire] and caliente [hot] barely come close to describing the pulsating power generated by the group’s Latin rhythm section.

The ranking expert on IRAKERE is Leonardo Acosta, a Cuban musicologist who is an authority of the history of Jazz in Cuba in general. Luis Tamargo and Robin A. Vasquez are also knowledgeable on both subjects.

After some brief “opening remarks” by  John Storm Roberts as taken from the insert notes to IRAKERE’s first Columbia album, we will turn to these authors for more insightful and expert information on the group including some of their select discography.
Hopefully, too, the music about IRAKERE and these writings about it will go a long way toward redressing the lack of awareness that the music of Cuba and the musicians of Cuba have had on the development of Jazz, then and now.

For some of the younger readers of JazzProfiles, please keep in mind that the world was a different place when IRAKERE first came on the scene in the 1970s with the paranoia of the Cold Warstill very prevalent.  As a result, the ability to actually know what was going on in some Communist or, as they were often referred to, “Iron Curtain” countries was still a very difficult proposition – at best.


IRAKERE

© -John Storm Roberts, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“For years now the buzz has been on, in the places where New York’s Latin musicians hang out: ‘Wait ‘till Cuba erupts.’ Rumors of Afro-Cuban drums ensembles teamed with synthesizers, of rock guitars among the charanga groups’ flutes and fiddles. Some hard evidence too – a test pressing bought in Martinique, a dubbing from a shortwave broadcast picked up in Miami. More recently, as the curtain slowly begins to lift and people traveled back and forth, rumors gave way to a name: IRAKERE. Probably, the hottest, and deepest, and most creative band on the Cuban scene today.

So, you may ask, what?

So, that means a major part of the U.S. music scene is likely to be turned on its ear. Not only the hot, creative Latin music that has come to be called “salsa,” but its great hybrid, Latin-jazz, and – through them – the rhythm-and-blues and funk and disco styles that have been so totally revolutionized by the Latin tinge over the past near-decade.

“Latin” music has been the single most important outside influence on American popular music over the last 100 years.  Almost every decade since World War One has seen styles from Cuba, Mexico, Brazil or elsewhere sweep the United States: the tuen-of-the-century habanera; the teens-and-twenties Argentinean tango; the 1930’s rumba; the 1940’s conga and samba; the 1950’s mambo and chachacha; the 1960’s bossa nova. These were not marginal fads, but mass movements. Out of 163 popular melodies given more than one million performances since 1940, 23 – almost one in seven – were Latin in origin or inspiration, most of them Cuban.  Only half as many jazz, blues and soul numbers combined, and around 19 country [&western] songs, have made the same list.

For 60 years, in fact, ‘Latin’ music has been a fundamental part of every aspect of U.S. popular music history.  And without minimizing the significant of Brazil and Mexico, the most important influence by far has been Cuban.

And that’s only the U.S. Not only do the Latin shadings tint the international pop scene from Paris to Athens to Tokyo, but an entire modern urban African music, with variants from Lagos to Mombassa, owns much of its existence to two roots – African and Cuban. And the prime exponent of contemporary Cuban music is IRAKERE.”
© -Leonardo Acosta, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“Around 1972, some of the members of the Cuban Modern Music Orchestra decided to form their own group, and by 1973 it had been organized into what is now known as IRAKERE.  When these musicians, all impeccable soloists, left the best orchestra in the country, they had but one purpose in mind: to put all their efforts into what could be called ‘experimenting,’ joining a trend begun by others who were trying to renovate popular music.

Chucho Valdés [piano] and Paquito D’Rivera [alto sax & clarinet], both composers and arrangers, were, from the beginning, the main inspirers of IRAKERE. Oscar Valdés would be in charge of giving a different personality to the percussion section, adding to it his knowledge of ancesteral songs in African language, one of the most important and least known forms of music of the Afro-Cuban musical heritage. Other members of the group also come from Cuban Modern Music Orchestra: Emilio Morales [guitar], Carlos del Puerto [bass], Enrique Pla’ [drums] and Arturo Sandoval and Jorge Varona [trumpets]. and Arturo Sandoval and Jorge Varona. Later additions were Carlos Averhoff tenor & baritone sax] Jorge Alfonso and Armando Cuervo [percussion] to complete the group as it is today
IRAKERE has two advantages over all the other groups who have a similar musical approach: the virtuosity of its soloists, who are excellent improvisers, and then, the cohesion which comes after playing together for many years. Chucho, Paquito and Carlos Emilio have been associated almost since the beginning of their professional careers: first in the Havana Musical Theatre Orchestra and later on in a group that was led by Chucho, which had as a vocalist Amado Borcela (Guapacha’), who has since died, and with whom they made a number of records for EGREM, earning quite a lot of popularity in the sixties. Later on they formed different quartets and quintets (with Pla’, Oscar and sometimes with Sandoval or Varona) to play at sporadic concerts and festivals in Cuba and abroad. Their most outstanding performance outside of Cuba was during the 1970 Polish Jazz Festival, where the Cubans were heard and praised for the first time by renowned jazz artists like Dave Brubeck and Gerry Mulligan.

But let us leave IRAKERE's past history and come to present times. After having become the most brilliant and solid group within the new stream in Cuban music, they met, during the [one and only] Jazz Cruise's stay in Havana in 1977, [such luminaries as] Stan Getz, who had come to Cuba often during the fifties, and Dizzy Gillespie, who strangely had never visited the country of his collaborator, Chano Pozo. The interest and enthusiasm that IRAKERE stirred up among the members of the Cruise  - including musicians, jazz critics and producers - was like a preview of what would happen during the group's tour through the United States and Switzerland during June/July, 1978, and outstanding performances at the Newport and Montreux Jazz Festivals.

The press reviews that appeared in The New York Times, and San Francisco Examiner and Billboard, were very enthusiastic about IRAKERE, but a few questions arose that showed that there was some confusion. Is it really jazz that IRAKERE plays? Has it anything to do with ‘salsa’? Can the group be classified as ‘Latin-jazz-rock'’ or as '’Latin-fusion’' or '’salsa-fusion’?

The truth is that although the majority of the IRAKERE musicians have played jazz for many years, they have more experience and more solid roots in Cuban music. And the presence of Cuba in IRAKERE is not only in its percussion, it is also in its way of playing: in the phrasing, in the attack and sense of rhythm of the soloists, as well as in whole passages.
Our novelist, Alejo Carpentier, who is also a renowned authority on music, has said that Cuban popular music is "the only music that can be compared with 'Jazz in the 20th century.’ Is it not strange that these two musical forms have been compared so frequently? Their affinity comes from before the existence of jazz as such. We know all about the history of the beginnings of jazz, but we don’t always associate it with the ending of slavery in Cuba, between 1880 and 1889, and the massive immigration of black Cubans, free but jobless, to places like New Orleans. Neither is it unusual that along with French and English names, one finds among the first jazz musicians names that show their Spanish roots (Lorenzo Tio, Luis Tio, Manuel Perez, Willy Marrero, Paul Dominguez), nor that Jelly Roll Morton, when asked about where jazz came from, included Cuba among its places of origin.

More well known are the international influences of the habanera and the rumba, until we come to the 1940s and 1950s, the Cubop era. During this period, the impact caused by the meeting between Chano Pozo and Dizzy Gillespie can be added to the influences of Machito, Perez Prado, Mario Bauzá, Mongo Santamaria, Chico O'Farrill and many others. The "fusion'' between elements of jazz and Cuban music has a long history having nothing to do with the more recent merging of jazz and rock, which sometimes adds certain so-called ''Latin'' elements which are in reality, Afro Cuban or Afro-Caribbean. As far as salsa is concerned, it is 99 percent Cuban music of the '40s and '50s. This is why if IRAKERE are jazz musicians, they are so in a very substantially Cuban way.

If Chucho Valdés was familiar with the piano styles of Horace Silver or Bill Evans more than ten years ago, he also knew the peculiarities of the son, the contradanza and the danzón. At times we here reminiscences of Art Tatum in some passages, yet the other side of Chucho's style is given by his mastery of Cubanclassical piano: Cervantes and Samuell in the19th century and Lecuona in the 20th, and in a
more popular vein, Antonio Maria Romeu. Going down this road, who knows if, with the coming of IRAKERE onto the musical scene, we are getting to the roots and to the redevelopment, with a newer viewpoint, of practically inexhaustible materials.
Chucho's compositions, as well as those of other members of the group, reflect a receptiveness; to what is going on internationally, including free jazz and the so-called European musical vanguard. They put these to work as a form of personal expression, underlined by the knowledgeable use of rhythms that have African origins and which are mixed and renovated with great originality. One of the
contributions has been to incorporate, into a musical context that once only accepted Congo and Dahomeyan elements, the intricate and vigorous Yoruba and Carabali rhythms which have been well known in Cuba but which had not been "integrated'' into the mainstream of our music. Another characteristic of these compositions are the frequent changes in time and atmosphere, a typical element in Yoruba music.
 ‘Missa Negro’ ("Black Mass"), is perhaps the best example of this, although it can also be heard in ‘Ilya,’''Aguanile’’ and others.

As to the individual contribution by each soloist, we must let them speak for themselves. You can't deny Paquito D'Rivera and Arturo Sandoval owe a lot to Parker and Gillespie, but can there be a more logical debt?
In Paquito's explosive sense of humor, the fierce intensity of Arturo, and Chucho's controlled lyricism, we find very personal facets in their playing. Like IRAKERE, there are many other young Cuban musicians who also play jazz in a style deeply rooted in Afro-Caribbean music and who at the same time have definite personal styles. IRAKERE is an outstanding example within a real musical ‘explosion.’ Which is saying a lot.”

IRAKERE 2

© -Leonardo Acosta, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“The impact the IRAKERE group caused in the United in 1978 among jazz musicians, critics and fans was an outstanding event in the history of jazz and its relationship to Cuban musk and musicians since the forties, when Chano Pozo appeared on the jazz scene and people started to talk about ‘Cubop.’ The mingling of influences between Cuban music and jazz are, of course, older and deeper, and the examples we've mentioned are only two peaks, two culminating moments in the intense interaction and cultural borrowings that has taken place among these two Afro-American musical forms.
Although Chano Pozo, Machito, Mario Mario Bauzá, Mongo Santamaria, Perez Prado and other Cuban musicians have bad a definite influence on what is  known as ‘Latin Jazz,’ they, themselves, are not strictly jazz musicians but only followers and developers of Afro-Caribbean music. IRAKERE, being both expert jazz and Afro-Caribbean musicians, stands out as an exception. It's not only because Chucho Valdés has been influenced by Art Tatum, Horace Silver and Bill Evans; or that Paquito D’Rivera has listened to Charlie Parker, Jackie McLean or Phil Woods; or Arturo Sandoval to Dizzy Gillespie, Maynard Ferguson or Clifford Brown. Reality is more complex. For instance, in the United States it is not known that since the twenties there has been a continuing jazz tradition in Cuba, and the first jazz experiences the members of IRAKERE had were during jam sessions where they heard older Cuban musicians take off in pure jazz style. Different articles and reviews have talked about the presence of Cuban-born musicians during the beginnings of jazz, but it was not until the twenties, when thanks to the growth of radio, and especially of the recording industry, that the interchange of ideas and sounds between Cuba, the States and other countries of the hemisphere like Argentina, Mexico and Brazil, became more intense. During those years a new rhythm was sweeping all over the island and especially in Havana: it was the son, which has played a role in Cuban popular music similar to that played by the blues in North American music, acting at different moments as catalyzer and revitalizer of different styles and trends but keeping the original form.
Around 1925, the first jazz groups came to Cuba. According to musicians interviewed by jazz critic Horacio Hernández, the first jazz group organized in Cuba was a sextet directed by violinist Jimmy Holmes, and included two saxophones, banjo, drums and percussion. A year later more groups were formed, made up entirely of Cuban musicians, like the Teddy Hernández quartet (violin, sax, piano and drums), and by the end of the decade one could hear in Cuba excellent jazz musicians like Alberto Jiménez Rebollar (drums), Cecilio Curbelo (piano), Alberto Socarras (flute), JesusJesús Pia (violin), Rene’ Oliva (trumpet), Amado Valdes (alto sax), Armando Romeo (tenor sax) and Mario Bauzá, a clarinetist, who later became well-known in the States as a trumpet player for the Chick Webb, Cab Calloway, and Machito orchestras.

The thirties were the golden years of the big bands, d it wasn’t long before they began to appear in Cuba. By 1933 saxophonist and arranger Armando Romeu had organized his first jazz band. Thirty-four years later, in 1967, Romeu would be the first director of the Orquesta Cubana de Musica Moderna, which had eight of the eleven members of IRAKERE. Although practically unknown outside of Cuba, Romeu enjoyed a long career as a musician and his name appears in Leonard Feather's The Encyclopedia of Jazz. During the thirties a very important development took place, and that was the "Cubanizing" of the jazz band. In other words, the using of a jazz band to play Cuban dance rhythms like the son, the guaracha the rumba and the danzón.

Among the better orchestras of the time, we can find that of alto saxophonist German Lebatard, Rene Touzet's, the Bellamar Orchestra, the Casino de la Playa Orchestra, the band led by guitarist Isidro Perez, the Palau Brothers Band, and the Riverside Orchestra. All of these organizations opened the way for what was to come in the late forties:Dámaso Pérez Prado and his explosive combination of the jazz band and the rhythmic elements used in the danzón, especially those innovations used by the arranger Orestes López. The “Cubanizing” of the big jazz band continued into the fifties, culminating in the orchestra of singer Benny Moré which introduced the spirit and the roots of son montuno, a rural form that had sprung up in the eastern end of the island fifty years earlier.

[Montuno = mountain; the phrase son montumo probably referring to that form of son clave that originated in the mountanous Oriente province in eastern Cuba]
If the first Cuban arrangers and instrumentalists were influenced by musicians like Fletcher Henderson, Duke Ellington, Earl Hines, Louis Armstrong, Johnny Hodges, Sonny Greer and Coleman Hawkins, the ‘bop revolution’ caused an even greater rapprochement between our music and jazz when men like Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Max Reach, Kenny Clarke, Art Blakey, and many others, would listen to ‘Latin’ rhythms with as much interest as the Cubans were beginning to have for the melodic and harmonic innovations of hop. By 1947 names like Rafael Hernández (bass), Fausto Garcia (drums), Isidro Pérez (guitar), and especially Arturo "Chico" O'Farrill (trumpet), were becoming prominent. O'Farrill later on began arranging for Armando Romeo and won international recognition as an arranger for Benny Goodman, Dizzy Gillespie, Stan Kenton, Count Basie, and for his own band. Also outstanding were tenor saxophonist Gustavo Mas, who later played with Woody Herman (a solo of his can be heard in ‘Gus Is The Boss’), and Jose Silva (Chombo), another tenor sax who cut a few sides with Cal Tjader. Among the best Cuban jazz pianists we find the very versatile Mario Romeo and Frank Emilio, who like nobody else has combined Shearing and Peterson along with Cuban piano styles.

In Cuba, like elsewhere, jazz enthusiasts have always been few but faithful. Towards the end of the fifties, a group of musicians and fans organized the Club Cubano de Jazz, a non-profit association that lasted into the sixties. Thanks to the Club, a number of musicians traveled to Cuba, among them Zoot Sims, Philly Joe Jones, Kenny Drew, Vinnie Tanno, Mundell Lowe, Bill Barron, Harold McNair, Eddie Shu, Tom Montgomery, Fred Crane, and others, all of them playing alongside of Cuban musicians. Stan Getz, Buddy Rich, Milt Jackson, Conte Candoli, Shelly Manne, Sarah Vaughan and her trio (Jimmy Jones, Richard Davis and Roy Haynes) also visited Havana, increasing the interchange of ideas and musical experiences.

Many Cuban musicians tried their for the first time during concerts sponsored by the Club Cubano de Jazz. Among the first to stand out was Carlos Emilio Morales, IRAKERE’s guitarist, while Paquito D'Rivera wouldn't miss a session even though he was a small boy. During the sixties, Carlos Emilio got together with a young pianist, Chucho Valdes, and other older musicians to play at concerts. Later on, Chucho, Paquito and Carlos Emilio found themselves together in the orchestra of the Teatro Musical de la Habana which had just been created. During those years Jorge Varona began to be noted as a jazz trumpeter and Oscar Valdes as a percussionist. They all later on became founders of the Orquesta Cubana de Musica Moderns (1967), which had as directors Armando Romeu, the late Rafael Somavilla and finally Paquito. From this new encounter the idea of creating a new group sprung up, and IRAKERE was formed including some of the youngest and most brilliant musicians of the orchestra, like Arturo Sandoval and Enrique Pla’.


After their success in Cuba, Europe and the 1978 Newport Jazz Festival, IRAKERE showed they had something new to say in a style as deeply rooted in Cuban traditional music as in straight jazz, in spite of their experiences in electronics, a thing that has frustrated many top ranking jazz musicians. If IRAKERE has been able to overcome electronics creatively, this is due mainly to the freshness with which they approach their material and to the integration they have achieved fusing elements of different Afro-American musical traditions.
Before IRAKERE, popular Cuban music used mainly the tumbadora and the bongo’ as percussion instruments, filling in with others like the clave, the timbales or pailas [‘Paila criolla’ is the term given to a shallow single-headed drum with metal casing, invented in Cuba] and the güiro.


Beside these, IRAKERE also uses instruments of Afro-Cuban religious and social rituals like theBatá drums or the chekere which not only implies a new sound but also a totally new way of conceiving the relationships between the intricate poly-rhythmic passages, the horns ensemble work, the phrasing of the improvisations and the actual dynamics of each piece.
Rhythms in 6/8 time assert themselves over the more classical 4/4 time used in jazz and a great part of Cuban popular music, which also often uses a 2/4 time. In numbers like ‘Baila Mi Ritmo’ and ‘Anung Anunga’ the percussion section is particularly evident, serving as a frame for Oscar Valdes' vocal pyrotechnics. ‘Per Romper El Coco’ keeps more within the fifties tradition. In the


[Although the following insert notes by Luis Tamargo cover some of the same background provided by Leonardo Acosta, they are included in this feature because they cover the information about the group’s origins more succinctly and because they also contain some original thoughts and observations about IRAKERE’s music and its musicians.]

MISA NEGRA

© -Luis Tamargo, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


“Most North American jazz aficionados didn't know anything about Cuba's jazz community until 1977, when the first U.S. tourist ship since 1961 steamed its way toward Havana. The port of departure was historically significant: New Orleans, the birthplace of jazz, where Jelly Roll Morton assimilated the tango habanero which he described as "Spanish tinge".

The comrades in Havana wanted the New York Yankees, but they got the greatest North American export instead. The tourist ship carried a significant load of jazz musicians, such as Dizzy Gillespie, Stan Getz, Earl "Fatha" Hines, and David Amram, in addition to various critics and producers. After all, Jazz has been doing ambassadorial duty (what Getz called ‘the jazz as diplomacy routine’) since the State Department sent Gillespie to Europe in the late 40's.
After checking out a Cuban group called IRAKERE at the Havana Libre (a hotel known in the pre-Castro era as - the Havana Hilton), U.S. critic Arnold Jay Smith described the band as ‘more musically exciting than any of the groups from which they have garnered their ideas.’ The 1977 seaborne jazz junket demonstrated to many U.S. jazz players that music in Cuba had remained as energetic and sparkling as in the pre-Castro years. Upon his return to the U.S., Gillespie announced that some inspiring Cuban musicians could out-blow even the most accomplished North American beboppers.

The curiosity and excitement generated by the jazz cruise was only a brief preview of what occurred when IRAKERE visited the U.S. in the summer of 1978, blowing the house down as a last minute addition to the Newport jazz Festival, after CBS and EGREM wrapped up one of the most complex contract negotiations in the history of the record business. Nevertheless, the promoters made a decision which turned out to be a major mistake: IRAKERE toured the U.S. with Stephen Stills because some greedy CBS executives believed that booking the Cubans as a rock group would add to their commercial appeal, particularly among the teeny hoppers.

It was the first time in nearly 20 years that a North American record company had signed a Cuban band, and CBS celebrated the occasion by investing $ 250,000 in a 3-day festival known as ‘Havana Jam,’ a gathering of prominent U.S. musicians (Weather Report, Dexter Gordon, Stan Getz, Hubert Laws, Bobby Hutcherson, Tony Williams, Willie Bobo, etc) and their Cuban counterparts. This 1979 exchange of musical ideology was conducted at the Teatro Carlos Marx (known in the Batista years as Teatro Chaplin), a 5000-seat theatre which looked unpleasantly like a North American department store, with Marx's signature spilled across the facade of the building in 10-foot high neon letters. Impressed with IRAKERE's performance at the ‘Havana Jam,’ Newsweek's Tony Schwartz referred to the band as ‘easily the most inventive of the Cuban groups.’

Coincidentally, while attending the "Havana jam", Fania Records' Jerry Massucci realized that his "salsa" empire was bound to collapse sooner or later, as he related to a Rolling Stone reporter that the Fania musicians had tried to copy the new sounds coming out of the island, without much success. The days of the New York imitators were numbered: When the Fania All Stars ("Latins from Manhattan", as Dexter Gordon called them) played at the Carlos Marx Theatre, the Cubans walked out in droves.
After winning the Latin Grammy Awards in 1979 and 1980 and recording two albums for CBS, IRAKERE's yanqui honeymoon was suddenly over. U.S.-Cuban relations went sour again, and IRAKERE was no longer able to record in the U.S. The band was then taped by Japanese engineers at Havana and Tokyo, and the resulting two albums were issued in the U.S. by Milestone in 1982 and 1983, without the promotional fanfare that accompanied the previous CBS releases.

The history of IRAKERE began, however, seven years before the ‘Havana Jam,’ when some of the members of the Orquesta Cubana de Musica Moderna, the best big band in the island, decided to form their own band. Chucho Valdés and Paquito D'Rivera were, from the beginning, the main firebrand of IRAKERE, although other original members of the group also came from the Orquesta Cubana de Musica Moderna. These flawless soloists realized that big band was not the best vehicle to renovate popular music, and decided to form an instrumental structure which could be adjustable to change.

IRAKERE had something refreshing to express in a style as profoundly rooted in Cuban music as in North American bebop. Thanks to IRAKERE, many U.S. jazz aficionados realized that Cuban musicians are neither out of touch with what's happening abroad nor easily slam-banged into Latin pigeonholes a la Desi Arnaz. IRAKERE's sound ranges seamlessly between acoustic and electronic music, combining incredible technique and wide conceptual enlightenment with ferocious groove tendencies. Despite the absence of the group's most improvising catalysts (Paquito D'Rivera and Arturo Sandoval, possibly the most important musical defectors of our times), IRAKERE remained on the cutting edge of Cuban jazz during the 80's, while maintaining its reputation as one of the most eclectic bands of the 20th Century, capable of moving spontaneously from traditional son to jabbing bebop to modern electronic riffing to elegant danzón to authentic Lucumi chants to Mozart and Beethoven, sometimes in the course of a single number.

The vigor of IRAKERE lies within each individual performer, and there are no weak loops in the band's musical chain. However, it is as a team, playing Chucho's volatile, changeable compositions that IRAKERE really stands out. The abovementioned facts can be appreciated in the CD "Black Mass", consisting mainly of original compositions which reflect Chucho's receptiveness to what's going on internationally, as well as his interest in renovating Cuban musical traditions. The title track, one of Chucho's most important compositions, is characterized by constant changes in time and atmosphere, a typical notion of Yoruba-derived music. Before IRAKERE, popular Cuban music utilized only the island's basic percussion instruments (tumbadora, bongos, pailas, güiro, etc). Besides these, IRAKERE incorporated instruments of Afro-Cuban rites, like the Batá drums and the chequere’. According to Cuban musicologist Leonardo Acosta, this percussive development "not only implies a new sound, but also a totally new way of conceiving the relationships between the intricate polyrhythmic passages, the phrasing of the improvisations and the actual dynamics of each piece". As illustrated in "Misa Negra", Jorge Alfonso (El Nino) was largely responsible for implementing the incorporation of complex and energetic Yoruba and Carabali rhythms into a musical context that once only responded to Congo and Dahomeyan elements. By the way, "Misa Negra" is probably the last recording that captured El Nino's powerful and innovative drumming which had a significant influence in the development of a new breed of U.S.-based Latin percussionists ("Mafiengulto"Hidalgo, Daniel Ponce, Luis Conte, etc). The four movements of "Misa Negra" properly describe the musical expressions of a Lucumi ceremony, as it is still practiced in Cuba: Prayer, approximation, arrival/development, and farewell.
On the other hand, the Brazilian flavor of "Samba para Enrique" is obviously dedicated to the ferocious Enrique Pla, a combination of Tony Williams and Billy Cobham who has maintained an unmistakable Cuban fire in his trap drumming. The other original composition, Chucho's "Concierto para metales", highlights the band's most amazing asset: IRAKERE's brass section, led by Coltrane-inspired Carlos Averhoff, ranks among the best in the world, and there is a mysterious agreement between the brass and percussion sections that allows them to spontaneously counterpoint each other. The last selection, Dave Brubeck's "The Duke", demonstrates how Duke Ellington's tremendous resources in thematic and orchestral invention have influenced the musical ideology of ChuchoValdes, leader and chief composer/arranger/conceptualist of IRAKERE. It Is public knowledge, by the way, that Ellington provided an occasional Cuban undertow to 1930's jazz through his early experiments with Puerto Rican trombonist Juan Tizol.

Last but not least, this recording clearly shows why the Cuban novelist and musicologist Alejo Carpentier stated once that Cuban popular music is "the only music that can be compared to jazz in the 20th century". It would be naive to assume that Cuba, the undisputed Mecca of Latin American music, is anything less than a hotbed of musical activity. And it's nice to know that we no longer have to endure a 3-day boat cruise to verify that Cuban jazz is alive and well, despite the geopolitical circumstances. This can be verified now through the Messidor catalog, which includes valuable recordings of the most prominent jazz artists from the Pearl of the Antilles.”

LUIS TAMARGO California, 1991


THE BEST OF IRAKERE [Columbia/Legacy CK 57719]

Although neither of the original 1979 Columbia LP’s - IRAKERE [JC 35655]and IRAKERE 2 [JC 36107] – have been released on compact disc in their entirety, we conclude this JazzProfiles feature on IRAKERE with Robin A. Vasquez’s insert notes from a CD compilation that does contain 10 of the original 13 tracks.

© -Robin A. Vasquez, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“Audiences fortunate enough to experience a live IRAKERE performance when the group exploded out of Cuba in the late 1970s witnessed the group's rapid ascension to the exalted realm of the musically extraordinary. During the all-too-brief period when they were still performing as a unit, IRAKERE earned its rightful place alongside American jazz geniuses Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Thelonious Monk, Rahsaan Roland Kirk, and other innovators and expanders of progressive musical horizons who heard something a little different and devoted their talent to the search for it.

IRAKERE pushed the jazz frontier deeper into the African heart of Cuba. Instead of using Cuban percussion patterns to enhance jazz compositions, they made their country's traditional music an equal partner or featured player in their work.
The members, Carlos del Puerto (bass), Carlos Emilio Morales (electric guitar), Jorge "El Nino" Alfonso (congas), Enrique Pla’ (drums), Oscar Valdés (vocals and percussion), Armando Cuervo (also on vocals and percussion), Jorge Varona (trumpet and flugelhorn), Arturo Sandoval (trumpet, flugelhorn, valve trombone and vocals), Paquito D'Rivera (soprano/baritone/alto sax), Carlos Averhoff (soprano/tenor sox, piccolo and flute), and Jesus Chucho Valdés (arranger, composer and all keyboards), were all formally trained, student of jazz, and world (lass soloists, (as Arturo Sandoval and Paquito D'Rivera, woodwind magicians, continue to demonstrate). Their contribution to the evolution of jazz as a gracious musical form that can accommodate and celebrate all cultures is rooted in the group's deliberate intent to cross-pollinate jazz instrumentation with traditional Cuban/African inspired music that weaved Batá drums (two sided Afro-Cuban drums associated with rituals instead of conga drums and timbales) and chekeres into their arrangements.

From a percussion perspective, it's still very polyrhythmic, but the layers often have an earthy, spiritual aura to them and the group's dense musical background allows them to leave few musical stones unturned.
The vibrant "Gira Gira" showcases the interplay between drum set, congas, and chekere using a Congo rhythm with Chucho on Fender Rhodes, the keyboard instrument of choice for Herbie Hancock and other progressive jazz musicians during that period. There's a smooth segue into a bass guitar and bass drum driven disco downbeat, a steady cadence that pauses for a sorrowful flute phrase bathed in distortion to give it almost a rock sound and a bluesy guitar riff. The song is lively and complex but also political With its message about workers whose suffering in obeying the commands of the foreman or overseer echoes the pain of their slave ancestors. In that context, the drum/bass beat embodies the sound of a long march, the forced footsteps of workers being led into an endless day of pain, toil, and indignity, the flute and guitar solos sound like a lament, a momentary, solitary wail
in the wilderness.

It's got a good beat and you can dance to it, but the full power in this modern day ode to mistreated workers lies in its connection to a historical necessity to hide or take refuge inside the music of one's homeland.
American slave owners prohibited the use of African dialects among their slaves, often punishing them severely for practicing traditional musical rituals honoring births, deaths, marriages, etc. Drumming in particular was deemed as subversive with its potential for communicating in yet another language the slave owner did not understand, but where the drumming, (often achieved with spoons, wooden boxes, beating on porch rails or anything handy) was allowed to follow, particularly in Cuba, it become the heartbeat, the pulse, the unifying force of a strong willed people who set their music free in a hostile land even while they lived in bondage.

Having imported their own musical heritage through dance and the voice of stringed instruments (the forerunners of today's guitar), Spanish slave masters in Cuba were more tolerant of the African passion for drumming. (Their influence was enduring-there's a Spanish high-society danzón feel to "Ciento Años De Juventud" included in this collection, but it starts with a Fats Domino/Jerry Lee Lewis kind of piano tinkling.) Under the guise of celebrating sacred Catholic rites, slaves in Cuba were able to preserve their Yoruba language and music and honor its African deities, or orishas. Music became the Cuban slaves' weapon of resistance and a barrier against complete assimilation, eventually infiltrating the fabric of village life all over the island.

It was the merging of what was available at the time to a musical people: the intricate patterns of Spanish stringed instruments and the propulsive, rhythmic, multi-layered drum/dance/voice triad of African celebratory or religious music, that formed the foundation for Afro-Cuban jazz.

Though separated by language and geography (and ultimately politics), there have always been jazz musicians in Cuba who played as well as anyone anywhere and admirers on both sides of the water. Years before the embargo, Swing Era big band leaders borrowed heavily from Cuban musicians who migrated to New York. American audiences easily accepted contemporary Afro-Cuban dances, La Rhumba, La Cha Cha Cha, La Congo, and El Mambo, embracing Desi Arnaz as a musician more readily than as the husband of its beloved Lucy.
Through their collaborations (depending on who you talk to), Dizzy Gillespie, Chano Pozo, Charlie Parker, Stan Kenton, Machito, and Mario Bauzá are credited with contributing a hybrid strain to that genre, and naming their offspring Cu-Bop. They left the ground fertile for a new Afro/Cuban/American musical discovery.

But until IRAKERE's successful experiments with blending both traditional jazz and traditionally Cuban elements and the political maneuvering that one assumes had to take place allowing the group to bring it off the island during the Cuban embargo-they were the first Castro-era group to record and tour abroad – the merge was incomplete.

The group's finesse in calling all historical and musical forces into play (along with theinspiración style of improvisational singing) gave them a potent arsenal from which to create. No song is without several well conceived and interestingly placed influences, particularly the three movements of the 17-plus-minutes-long "Misa Negra (The Black Mass)" which stretches across a galaxy of sound using chimes, cymbals, bird whistles, a haunting background vocal melody, call and response singing. Almost a suite but definitely a masterpiece of composing and arranging, "Misa Negra" establishes a cosmic aura, featuring Chucho's brilliant keyboard strategy, and breakneck arranging for the brass section. Tempo and mood change along the way.

Introduced by cowbell, the song "Ilya" demonstrates the power of call and response not only between the primary vocalist and background vocalists but among the singers and drummers. Pushed by a 6/8 rhythm into a religious/Yoruba direction, the chorus (or coro) inspires the singer in a kind of intense conversation with each "speaker" responding to the passion of the others. (Sandoval shines in this selection named after one of the bata drums.)

Unless the planets align themselves again to produce a reunion of these exemplary musicians, fans of their music can only experience IRAKERE through old records, IRAKERE, IRAKERE 2, the Havana Jam LPs, etc. But the advances in recording technology since the group disbanded present old fans and new audiences with the chance to hear them on CD which provides this music with the sound quality it so richly deserves.”




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