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"Fans Get Lucky" [Thompson]- by Ron Hart

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


Here’s another of our promised blog features on Downbeat’s 2017 gifts-of-the-season recommendations.

“Tenor saxophonist Lucky Thompson (1924-2005) worked in some of the most famous jazz orchestras of the 1940s and early '50s, playing in big bands led by such swing icons as Billy Eckstine, Lionel Hampton and Count Basie. He was one of the first African Americans in Boyd Raeburn's legendary orchestra. Thompson often found himself on the bandstand situated in proximity to such future giants as Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Art Blakey, Charles Mingus, Leo Parker and many more. According to jazz critics of the time, Thompson was in the same league as these extraordinary gentlemen, garnering comparisons to modern jazz pioneers such as Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins and Lester Young in the pages of publications like DownBeat and Esquire.

But the intriguing thing about Thompson was that he clearly didn't suffer fools gladly. His quickness to call out club owners or music industry executives who did him wrong earned him a reputation for being difficult, costing him gigs both at clubs and in the studio.

Tired of petty politics, Thompson relocated to Paris in 1956, where he would spend the remainder of the decade honing his craft in the small-band format with some of the hottest players in French jazz. He frequently collaborated with pianist Martial Solal, and he worked with a rotating combo consisting of such young Parisian lions as guitarist Jean-Pierre Sasson, bassist Benoit Quersin and drummer Gerard "Dave" Pochonet. He also shared the bandstand with fellow American expats, like trumpeter Emmett Berry, drummer Kenny Clarke and pianist Sammy Price.

Recorded in mono, the four-disc set Complete Parisian Small Group Sessions 1956-1959 - Fresh Sound Records; www.freshsoundrecords.com - documents Thompson's transition from a blacklisted freelance musician in the States to one of the most respected and in-demand leaders on the Parisian scene. His work in the quartet and quintet formats allowed him to explore the feather-light intimacies of melody, rhythm and texture, expressing himself in a way that would have been difficult, if not impossible, in a big band.

For fans who prefer to hear Thompson in the throes of a large ensemble, there's a companion disc, Lucky Thompson In Paris 1956 (Fresh Sound Records), which shines a light on the saxophonist's All Star Orchestra Sessions. On the first of these sessions, Thompson joined the 10-piece Modern Jazz Group to play five compositions written by pianist Henri Renaud (including "Meet Quincy Jones") and arranged to highlight the newly arrived saxophonist. For the remaining three sessions, Thompson and Pochonet co-led medium-sized all-star groups that played originals like Sasson's "Portrait Of Django" and Thompson's "Still Waters," as well as an arrangement of Count Basie and Neal Hefti's "Bluebeard Blues."

The pleasures of hearing this unsung tenor master overcome the dogma of his homeland and reinvent his legacy as a leader makes these reissues a revelation, especially if you are a fan of the embryonic stage of modern jazz.

Moreover, Thompson's life story illustrates a vitally important lesson: If you are true to yourself and to your beliefs, despite the forces of oppression in your vicinity, you might find another place in this world where behavior once perceived as difficult is considered dynamic.”

—Ron Hart




"Jean-Pierre- Leloir's Photos Convey Admiration" - Bill Meyer

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


Here’s the last of our promised blog features on Downbeat’s 2017 gifts-of-the-season recommendations.

“Photographer Jean-Pierre Leloir (1931-2010) got his first camera from a U.S. soldier the day that Paris was liberated from Nazi occupation. That act had profound consequences for the rest of Leloir's life. He would go on to make photography his profession, first publishing his work in Jazz Hot magazine in 1951. Some of Leloir's best-known images are of French singers, such as his celebrated portrait of Georges Brassens, Leo Ferre and Jacques Brel smoking and chatting around a table.

He also captured images of rock stars, but he held jazz musicians in high esteem throughout his life. In a moment of sweet irony, when the French government made him Chevalier de L'Ordre Des Arts et des Lettres in 2010, it similarly recognized bassist Ron Carter, one of his photographic subjects, in the same ceremony.

Two jazz enthusiasts in Spain have compiled Jazz Images (Elemental Music Records; available from Amazon), a 168-page coffee-table book of Leloir's color and black-and-white photos. Gerardo Canellas runs jazz clubs in Palma de Mallorca, Spain, and Buenos Aires, Argentina; Jordi Soley has collected, sold and distributed jazz records since 1980. Canellas and Soley's objective when choosing images for the book was to favor photographs of spontaneous moments that took place offstage. The result is a collection that nicely balances iconic images with intimate ones.

Among the artists depicted are Duke Ellington, Dizzy Gillespie, Dexter Gordon, Herbie Hancock, Charles Lloyd, Nina Simon, Thelonious Monk and Sarah Vaughan. Most of the book is devoted to photos, but there is also a preface by Ashley Kahn and brief essays by three musicians whom Leloir photographed — Quincy Jones, Michel Legrand and Martial Solal.

In his essay, Quincy Jones celebrates the power of photography to preserve and recall history. He writes, "We need to get back to our roots and remember where we came from. I am so happy to see Leloir's work published, because behind each image is a story — one that needs to be told and appreciated."

One photo of Count Basie sitting at a makeshift desk says volumes about the transience and hard work of a bandleader's life. A double image of Donald Byrd reading a newspaper on a bench with a neon-lit club behind him captures the tenuousness of a life spent creating after dark.


In his piece, Martial Solal articulates the mixture of competence and respect that enabled the photographer to gain his subjects' trust: "During that period, Leloir was one of the very few photographers interested in the musicians, and he was certainly the only one who knew us by name. His manners and behavior always seemed very professional, highly precise and meticulous, and it was apparent that he loved what he was doing and admired his chosen models."

This admiration is powerfully conveyed in Leloir's photos of John Coltrane. Some depict the smartly attired saxophonist gazing to one side, dignified and pondering. Another from the same session captures him looking intently at his horn's mouthpiece. Another sequence finds the notoriously workaholic Coltrane rehearsing in his hotel room. And in one rare image the saxophonist gives a wide-open grin, showing the teeth that never made it into official portraits. No matter how many Coltrane albums you own, you're bound to come away from that photo feeling like you've learned something new about him. Now that's art.”

—Bill Meyer

Jo Stafford/ Jo + Jazz

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



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

Jo Stafford, died on July 16, 2008, aged 90. She not only had one of the most pure, wide-ranging voices in American popular song - adored by wartime servicemen, who dubbed her “GI Jo” - but also the ability to parody appalling, off-key vocalizing under the guises of Darlene Edwards and Cinderella G Stump.

She first came to notice as one of the Pied Pipers group which backed Frank Sinatra on his early recordings with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra in the late 1930s, and she made a decisive retirement in the early 1960s.

Her wartime fame might suggest an American Vera
Lynn, but admirers thought her possessed of greater range, wit and subtlety.

It was a style neither cool nor jazz, but nor was it bland; and if not exactly seething, she was certainly not merely the girl-next-door in her approach. She could always surprise.

Jo Elizabeth Stafford was born on
November 12 1917 at Coalinga, a one-horse town between San Francisco and Los Angeles, to which her father Grover Cleveland Stafford had brought the family from Gainesboro, Tennessee, in the hope of making a fortune from oil.

He managed only to find a series of mediocre jobs which were scarcely to see them through the Depression.

Among them was one at Miss Hall’s School, a private finishing-school for girls.

Jo always remembered his being allowed to bring home the school phonograph on Christmas and hear a disc of the old song Whispering Hope.

Her mother, Anne, had been an adroit performer on the five-string banjo, and the folk music of
Tennessee was to remain an influence on Jo’s voice and some of her later repertoire.

Meanwhile, at school, she spent five years in classical training, with the notion that she might become an opera singer, but she realized that it would require even more time than that, and there was a living to be earned in the meantime.

She was the third of four sisters, two of them, Pauline and Christine, being 14 and 11 years older than her. With them, she formed a singing group, such sibling ensembles being typical of the time.


The pretty Stafford Sisters were in demand. They appeared on local radio and, five nights a week, put in an hour on the folkie show The Crockett Family of
Kentucky.

By contrast, they provided the voices of madrigal singers in the 1937 Astaire-
Rogers picture A Damsel in Distress. Jo sang back-up for Alice Faye, and there was a distinct turning point in 1938 when Twentieth-Century Fox was making the film Alexander’s Ragtime Band. Various vocal groups were drafted in and were left to hang around much of the time.

Among them were two groups, The Four Esquires and (also all-male) a trio, The Rhythm Kings. With Jo, they became the eight-piece Pied Pipers.

As chance would also have it, two of The King Sisters, Yvonne and Alyce, each had a boyfriend who worked for Tommy Dorsey and were visiting LA.

These were Paul Weston and Axel Stordahl. When the Pied Pipers arrived at the party given for Weston and Stordahl, they made straight for the refrigerator and ate all the food, even the ketchup: so poor were they that they had eaten little for days.

Also typical of the time was that they thought nothing of piling into an automobile and driving across the continent to
New York when it was clear that Dorsey would audition them for his radio show.

They performed on several shows, but were then turfed-out when the English sponsor chanced to visit and was affronted by their casual attitude towards lyrics, which he thought would endanger his product.

The group subsisted for six months in the city, then realized that the game was up and headed back to the West Coast, where the men had to take other jobs.

Just when Jo got home from collecting her first welfare check, there was a message to call
Chicago and reverse the charges. It was Dorsey again. He could not accommodate eight singers, but wanted a quartet.

The Pied Pipers left for
Chicago in December 1939, just as Weston was leaving the orchestra to work with DinahShore and Sinatra was arriving from Harry James’s band.

Dorsey was a volatile character - everybody was sacked or resigned at some time, usually for a few hours - and his orchestra was sometimes played down by critics as a routine outfit; which was to be blind to its great charm and the way in which it was adapted to the various permutations of vocalists. The young Sinatra, for one, recognized this and - whatever the bitterness of his falling out with a mercenary
Dorsey - would always testify as much.

The first song on which the Pied Pipers appeared with him was the No 1 hit I’ll Never Smile Again. Perhaps the best-known of the songs upon which the Pied Pipers performed was Oh Look At Me Now, which also featured another Dorsey vocalist, Connie Haines. (Sinatra later re-recorded it at a slower pace, and Jo Stafford, too, revisited it in the 1950s, with male background singers.)

Whatever his other shortcomings, such as a volatile friendship with drummer Buddy Rich, Sinatra was devoted to the music. As Jo Stafford recalled, “most solo singers usually don’t fit too well into a group, but Frank never stopped working at it and, of course, as you know, he blended beautifully with us”.


She herself had an eye for a song and, self-deprecatingly, asked Dorsey whether she might have a solo with Little Man With A Candy Cigar. He not only agreed, but brought her forward on other, better songs such as Embraceable You.

The orchestra featured in a few forgettable movies, and by March 1942, Sinatra had gone solo. A few months later, the songwriter Johnny Mercer was able to fulfill his ambition of starting a record company, Capitol, on the West Coast.

Mercer was keen to get Jo Stafford, and she hungered for a return to
California. The label also featured Peggy Lee and Margaret Whiting; as songs came up, the company decided which singer was best suited to them. “It was all completely music oriented,” she recalled, “a lot of fun.”

During the decade, Jo had 38 songs in the Top Twenty, among them The Trolley Song and My Darling, My Darling - and was held in particular esteem by servicemen for whom, like Sinatra, she made numerous recordings on the V-Discs distributed only within the armed forces.

Her first No 1, in the middle of 1947, was, however, not under her own name. She had been walking across the Capitol studio when she heard the musician Country Washburn, who was working on a parody of Perry Como’s hit Temptation.

The singer had not turned up, so, there and then, Jo Stafford volunteered to sing: with her voice speeded up, the result was Tim-tayshun and the alias of Cinderella G Stump, to which the label would not at first allow her to own up. Moreover, she had done it for fun; and for scale: she refused royalties, to her agent’s dismay.

She made various radio series, and, while doing so, realized that she did not care to live in
New York. She returned to California, whence she continued to broadcast The Chesterfield Supper Club.

As well as Broadway standards, she was always keen to give time to
America’s folk heritage. She recorded albums of these songs, with strings, and also duets of devotional songs with Gordon McRae, such as the 19th-century Whispering Hope, which reached No 4 in 1949.

She made regular appearances on the Voice of America radio station (and was as much a voice during the Korean war as she had been in the Second).


When Paul Weston left for Columbia Records in the early 1950s, she followed him, and they were married in 1952, at which time she became a Catholic.

She developed theme LPs, and continued to have such hits as You Belong To Me which, though recorded only to fill up time at the end of a session, sold two million copies. Other hits were an adaptation of an old blues as Make Love To Me!, Weston’s Shrimps Boats, a version of Hank Williams’s Jambalaya, and All The Things You Are.

Columbia’s director Mitch Miller was notorious for novelty notions, most gruesomely pairing Frank Sinatra with a dog on Mama Will Bark. Jo Stafford got off relatively lightly with eight hits with Frankie Laine (among them, In the Cool, Cool of the Evening and Hey, Good Lookin’) and one with Liberace (Indiscretion). She had a show on the label’s television affiliate, CBS.

She had sold 25 million discs for the label, but with the advent of Elvis Presley in 1956, the music market changed. She now concentrated on albums, her range suggested by Jo + Jazz, Swingin’ Down Broadway, Ballad of the Blues, some discs of religious music, and a collection of Scottish tunes. At the same time, another guise presented itself.

At a
Columbia sales-convention in Florida, Weston played the piano in parody of a particularly atrocious supper-club performer, just as the session-musicians used to do if there were any time left over at the end of recordings.

The audience, including Dean Martin’s wife, Jeanne, was delighted. Jo Stafford was persuaded to produce several cringe-worthy collections with her husband, just off-key enough to be plausible, under the names Jonathan and Darlene Edwards. They acquired a cult following.

Weston then fell out with
Columbia, and the pair returned to Capitol. The summer of 1961 was spent in England, where they made a dozen shows for ATV.

By now they had two children and, little by little, Jo Stafford withdrew from the industry.

She made albums on various labels, and some more devotional sides with Gordon McRae, but would not make any night-club appearances.

She gave much time to charities for handicapped children and singers, and said that she no longer sang “for the same reason that Lana Turner is not posing in bathing-suits any more”. She resisted approaches by the Californian label
Concord.

Jo Stafford had made over 600 recordings, and she and Paul were able to claim the masters of those from
Columbia and issue them on their own Corinthian label.

Not that she was completely finished, record-wise: she not only recorded a duet of Whispering Hope with her daughter but returned to the microphone as Darlene Edwards, in 1979, for devastating takes on Helen Reddy’s I Am Woman and - bizarrely - The Bee Gees’ Stayin’ Alive. She made one last appearance in 1982 - on the same bill as Sinatra.

She had always replied to servicemen who wrote to her, and was an authority on the war. Weston died in 1996; Jo Stafford is survived by her children, Tim, a guitarist and record producer, and Amy, a singer.

The following video tribute to Jo features her performing Johnny Mandel’s arrangement of You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To with solo by Jimmy Rowles [piano], Ben Webster [tenor sax] and Conte Candoli [trumpet].



Albert Murray - "Stomping The Blues" - 40th Anniversary Edition

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


"Murray is possessed of the poet's language, the novelist's sensibility, the essayist's clarity, the jazzman's imagination, the gospel singer's depth of feeling."
—The New Yorker


"Beautifully illustrated with vivid period photos, LP covers, and broadsides of black jazz icons, Stomping the Blues represents the zenith of Murray's writing on the subject."
— Rolling Stone


"One fine lyrical history of the music. Murray demonstrates the central role of blues/jazz in American culture, telling us about the nature of our past, present and future: which of course is exactly what the blues is."
—San Francisco Review of Books


"A flamboyant, insightful examination and evocation of the sources, styles, and mythologies of blues music."
—Newsweek


Jonathan Haidt is a NYU professor of social psychology who specializes in morality and moral emotions.


On November 15th he delivered the 2017 Wriston Lecture to the Manhattan Institute under the title -  “The Age of Outrage: What It’s Doing to Our Universities and Our Country.”


Professor Haidt began his lecture by observing:


“Today’s identity politics . . . teaches the exact opposite of what we think a liberal arts education should be. When I was at Yale in the 1980s, I was given so many tools for understanding the world.


By the time I graduated, I could think about things as a utilitarian or as a Kantian, as a Freudian or a behaviorist, as a computer scientist or as a humanist. I was given many lenses to apply to any given question or problem.


But what do we do now? Many students are given just one lens—power. Here’s your lens, kid. Look at everything through this lens. Everything is about power. Every situation is analyzed in terms of the bad people acting to preserve their power and privilege over the good people.


This is not an education. This is induction into a cult. It’s a fundamentalist religion. It’s a paranoid worldview that separates people from each other and sends them down the road to alienation, anxiety and intellectual impotence.”


In recent years, Jazz, too, has been afflicted by the Cult of the Single Lens which preaches that Jazz was created by Black musicians and appropriated by White musicians. Some go as far as saying that Jazz as a Black Art was stolen by White impersonators.


Those who hold this viewpoint have promulgated a distorted version of the facts that was shaped by ideas that were ideological before they were musical.


But to many scholars, it is beyond dispute that white musicians have been an integral force in jazz from its earliest days. Above all, they maintain that the idea of Jazz as an exclusively black cultural preserve does not stand up to close scrutiny.


Such matters have been loudly argued, even fought over, and doubtless will continue to be hot subjects for some time to come.


More relevant is the question of the music: Does any evidence support the idea of identifiable "black" and "white" styles? Did it ever?


As Richard Sudhalter points out in his seminal Lost Chords: White Musicians and Their Contribution to Jazz, 1915-1945:


“In the early years of Jazz’s evolution, particularly in the 1920s and '30s, there were differences. They came about chiefly because musicians of different races were separated in their day-to-day and professional lives. And it was separately that black and white musicians grappled with the same problems of rhythm, harmony, melodic construction, interaction.


Some of his more extreme views may make Amiri Baraka (a.k.a. Leroi Jones) an unlikely source of valuable insight into such matters. Yet he seems right on target when he remarks, in Blues People: Negro Music in White America:


“Jazz as played by white musicians was not the same as that played by black musicians, nor was there any reason for it to be. The music of the white jazz musicians did not issue from the same cultural circumstances.”


In the context of the early years, the distinction is important. Differences in upbringing, environment, and musical training left white jazzmen (especially those who had little personal contact with black culture and its traditions) more likely to intellectualize, emphasizing matters of harmony and structure.


Performances by black ensembles, above all those of the South and Southwest, possessed, in general, a degree of rhythmic freedom, personal interaction, and often a blues feeling and melodic vocabulary rarely found in music by corresponding white bands. Again, Baraka gets it right:


“The white musicians understood the blues first as music, but seldom as an attitude, since the attitude, or world-view, the white musician was responsible to was necessarily quite a different one.”


But, along with other scholars who follow this line of reasoning, he fails to account for those many major black Jazzmen who feel, and display, little or no affinity for the blues and its "attitude." The exceptions they present, in their very numbers, are a counterargument, which cannot be explained, as Baraka tries to do, only as a matter of "Negroes trying to pretend that they had issued from [white] culture."


More likely, it seems, is an interpretation suggesting that mastery of what came to be called Jazz was not a matter of racial or genetic affinity (always a dangerous hypothesis) but of choice.”


As has been widely demonstrated in Richard Sudhalter’s Lost Chords: White Musicians and Their Contribution to Jazz, 1915-1945, Jazzmen of the pre-World War II decades, black and white, paid careful attention to each other's work, and that the degree to which such mutuality affected individuals varied immensely.


As he states: “Beginning in the 1920’s, individual musicians and ensembles made choices based on what they liked, even admired, incorporating the results in their emergent solo styles. Choice, above all, quickly became the determinant of what and how a man played, how he constructed and developed a solo, addressed the beat. In this context, as noted earlier, certain traits — tendencies and attitudes — can be identified as "white" and "black" contributions to the mix.”


One such “choice” or to revert back to Professor Haidt’s use of the term “lens”is the use of The Blues as a basis for a musician’s approach to Jazz.
[“I was given many lenses to apply to any given question or problem.”]


And since it was first published in 1977, there has been no better description of how Jazzmen who chose The Blues as a lens through which to solve the problems of rhythm, harmony, melodic construction, and interaction needed to play Jazz at the highest levels than Albert Murray’s Stomping The Blues.


If you missed its original publication, the University of Minnesota Press is currently offering a 40th anniversary paperback edition with a new introduction by Murray-scholar, Paul Devlin.


The following from a University of Minnesota media release is very accurate concerning the tone and tenor of Murray’s landmark study of the blues and its relationship to Jazz:


In this classic work of American music writing, renowned critic Albert Murray argues beautifully and authoritatively that "the blues as such are synonymous with low spirits. Not only is its express purpose to make people feel good, which is to say in high spirits, but in the process of doing so it is actually expected to generate a disposition that is both elegantly playful and heroic in its nonchalance."


In Stomping the Blues Murray explores its history, influences, development, and meaning as only he can. More than two hundred vintage photographs capture the ambiance Murray evokes in lyrical prose. Only the sounds are missing from this lyrical, sensual tribute to the blues.”


To carry Professor Haidt’s lens analogy one step further, a reading of Albert Murray’s Stomping the Blueswill certainly provide the reader with some clearer views to understand these assertions from Amiri Baraka (a.k.a. Leroi Jones) in Blues People: Negro Music in White America:


“Jazz as played by white musicians was not the same as that played by black musicians, nor was there any reason for it to be. The music of the white jazz musicians did not issue from the same cultural circumstances.”


“The white musicians understood the blues first as music, but seldom as an attitude, since the attitude, or world-view, the white musician was responsible to was necessarily quite a different one.”


It’s one thing to say The Blues, but it’s quite another to understand what is meant by it.


Since it publication 40 years ago, Stomping the Blues has been influential in a number of ways as is detailed in Paul Devlin’s new introduction to the 40th anniversary edition.


Perhaps one of the most helpful insights about what Mr. Murray means by The Blues is contained in the opening paragraph of Mr. Devlin’s Introduction:


"’For Paul, Some fundamentals.’ That is how Albert Murray inscribed my copy of Stomping the Blues. Here is one of his most fundamental points: "You don't stomp the blues like this [pounds fist on table] — you stomp the blues like this [snaps with panache on the afterbeat]." Murray used this example all the time in interviews and on panels in order to illustrate that the blues is "stomped" with elegance, not force; with technique, not power; with joie de vivre, not rage.”


Mr. Devlin’s Introduction also contains many other perceptive and penetrating observations about the book that will help the reader gain a fuller appreciation of its significance. For example, Mr. Murray tells us that:


“Blues music has always been good-time music; its function has been the exorcism of despair."


Mr. Devlin parallel’s this with the work of Andre Malraux when he explains:


“To an extent, this is an application of Andre’ Malraux's argument about the workings of the artistic process: that art, primarily, is a response to art, as explained in his book The Voices of Silence (1953), a monumental, profound, and idiosyncratic analysis of the visual arts that Murray studied for decades, and a work not unlike Stomping the Blues in several ways: poetic, written by a learned critic, yet not shackled by the conventions developed or expected by academic or journalistic critics of the form in question, slow and methodical to start, and difficult to put down once it starts swinging.


Another point Murray considered fundamental was his reorientation of how blues relates to jazz: as a matter of the level of orchestration. Indeed, he argues that the process by which pop tunes and show tunes are recomposed as jazz tunes is "precisely" the process by which the folk blues was extended, elaborated, and refined into jazz. Stomping the Blues is fundamental to his vision of existence and a lens through which to view other aspects of culture. …  It expounds a vision of and for life …  Stomping the Blues endures year after year, enthralling readers new and old while provoking debate.”


In a brief synopsis, Mr. Devlin also details the storied, earlier publication history of Stomping the Blues:


Stomping the Blues was published by McGraw-Hill in November 1976 and was celebrated with a midday "Kansas City Jam Session" in the publisher's landmark headquarters in midtown Manhattan, featuring jazz giants Mary Lou Williams, Budd Johnson, Buck Clayton, Eddie Durham, Oliver Jackson, Bill Pemberton, and Doc Cheatham. What an auspicious beginning: an artist saluted by artists he salutes. Stomping the Blues went on to win ASCAP's Deems Taylor Award for music criticism in 1977. A British edition was published in 1978, and subsequent American editions in 1982, 1989, and 2000. In 2016 it was included in the Library of America's edition of Murray's essays and memoirs ….”


Mr. Devlin offers a broader context as well in which to appreciate the influence and effect of Stomping the Blues as its relates to other of Mr. Murray’s writings, all of which have been published by the University of Minnesota Press, when he notes that:


This edition is a result of a collaboration that began in mid-2009 when I pitched what became Rifftide: The Life and Opinions of Papa Jo Jones as told to Albert Murray, to the University of Minnesota Press [2011]. Since then, working with Murray's literary executor, Lewis P. Jones in, Minnesota has published Murray Talks Music; Albert Murray on Blues and Jazz (2016), a collection of Murray's previously uncollected or unpublished interviews and writings on music (edited by me), and a new edition of Good Morning Blues; The Autobiography of Count Basie as told to Albert Murray (2016), the fourth American edition. Murray Talks Music is a valuable companion to Stomping the Blues. These four books together tell an edifying story about American music and culture in the twentieth century: jazz and the blues as thought and lived; jazz and the blues in theory and practice. Stomping the Blues is the masterpiece that led to the other three….”


In the third and final section of his Introduction, Mr. Devlin offers these comments about the reception and influence of Stomping The Blues:


Stomping the Blues was reviewed extensively. Some of the smartest and most perceptive reviews include those by Gary Giddins in New York, John Edgar Wideman in The American Poetry Review, Robert Fleming in Freedomways, Bob Blumenthal in The Boston Phoenix, Stanley Dance in Jazz Journal, and Greil Marcus in Rolling Stone. ...


Many reviewers understood and appreciated what Murray was trying to do. A few years later Nelson George argued in the Village Voice in 1982 that it should be brought back into print and it soon was. George notes, perceptively, ‘the marvel of Stomping is that Murray manages to be both analytically detached and emotionally involved—criticism's most difficult parlay.’


By the early 1980s, and perhaps beginning with the review of the British edition in the Times Literary Supplement in 1978, a certain number of white jazz critics had started misinterpreting and exaggerating the caption on page 197, in which Murray refers to white jazz musicians as being part of the "third line." Third line does not mean third rate, as several critics have claimed or implied: it simply refers to a physical position in the old New Orleans parades, which Murray then used as a metaphor for closeness to idiomatic sources. ….


Stomping the Blues was probably the first work to articulate the connection between jazz, the blues, and locomotive onomatopoeia (or at least the first to do so cogently and comprehensively). Duke Ellington had been orchestrating stylized locomotives since the 1920s and Murray had been talking with Ellington about this since at least 1951 ….


Stomping the Blues had a marked influence on the development of Jazz at Lincoln Center, which Murray cofounded (see Murray Talks Music). The Preface to the Da Capo Press edition in 2000 frames the book in terms of that influence; it is the only previous dition to have an introductory essay. The Preface was written by Rob Gibson, a performing arts executive who was the first director of Jazz at Lincoln Center in 1991, and in 2000 was its executive producer and director….As of 2000, he writes that Stomping the Blues is a ‘preeminent source’ for people working in the jazz world and that Jazz at Lincoln Center has been able to embody ‘the many ideas that define this treatise.’


Aside from its place in the intellectual foundation of Jazz at Lincoln Center, Stomping the Blues has become a standard text in history of jazz courses, is a foundational text of the discipline of jazz studies, and has been quoted, cited, and discussed in dozens of books and academic articles….


But the reason to read Stomping the Blues today is not necessarily for its influence on Jazz at Lincoln Center, or on jazz studies as a discipline, or because the blues is central to the life of a random person on the street, or can elucidate a crucial response to modernity, but because following the movement of Murray's thought is a valuable experience in itself.  Yet the content of Stomping the Blues is accurate and can be the cornerstone of
an education in twentieth-century music. …”


Mr. Devlin sums up his Introduction with the following exhortation:


“So, if you're buying this book to replace a tattered copy from a history of jazz course, or if you are completing a Murray collection, or if you are discovering Murray for the first time, may it be your discovery of the year, and may rediscoveries be like new discoveries. Happy stomping.”


Paul Devlin
Long Island, New York
April 2017


I would also urge you to read Stomping the Blues because it will afford you with, from the perspective of Professor Haidt, another “ … tool for understanding the world,” -the Jazz World, that is.


Buddy DeFranco and Dave McKenna: Two for the Recording Studio

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

Along with the trumpet, the clarinet was the preeminent instrument of the Swing Era when some of the era's most popular bands were led by the likes of Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw and Woody Herman.

While the trumpet persisted as a featured instrument in the smaller combos that brought Bebop and Modern Jazz to the forefront in the years following the end of the Second World War, the clarinet seemed to recede into Jazz History.

The exceptional playing of Buddy DeFranco brought the devilishly-difficult-to-play clarinet into the world of Bebop and beyond with a degree of skill rarely rivaled by other modern, Jazz instrumentalists.

Each and every time I return to Buddy DeFranco's music, I shake my head in amazement at his superb technique and consistently innovative improvisation. 

Although rarely recognized as such, Buddy's achievements rival those of Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie, the two principal originators of Bebop. His skill and ideas never fail to impress me, whatever the setting.



“Nobody has seriously challenged DeFranco's status as the greatest post-swing clarinetist, although the instrument's desertion by reed players has tended to disenfranchise its few exponents (and Tony Scott might have a say in the argument too). DeFranco's incredibly smooth phrasing and seemingly effortless command are unfailingly impressive on all his records. But the challenge of translating this virtuosity into a relevant post-bop environment hasn't been easy, and he has relatively few records to account for literally decades of fine work….”

Dave McKenna hulks over the keyboard…. He is one of the most dominant mainstream players on the scene, with an immense reach and an extraordinary two-handed style which distributes theme statements across the width of the piano.

McKenna is that rare phenomenon, a pianist who actually sounds better on his own. Though he is sensitive and responsive in group playing … he has quite enough to say on his own account not to need anyone else to hold his jacket.”
- Richard Cook and Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.

In the 100+ years that Jazz has been in existence, it has been expressed in any number of instrumental combinations: combos, trios, quartets, quintets, sextets, octets, tentets and big bands.

It almost seems that as the popularity, and with it, the fortunes of the music, waned, the smaller the groupings became.

The big bands of the Swing Era were replaced by combos after WW II and these would soon be reduced to piano-bass-drum trios. Sometimes locally-based trios served as pick-up rhythm sections for horn players who traveled the Jazz club circuit of major cities as guest soloists. It was cheaper for them to get booked into local clubs this way.  Star alto/tenor saxophonist Sonny Stitt made his living this way for many years.

Throughout its history, Jazz has had a long association with night clubs many of whose owners were looking to pedal booze with the music serving as a convenient backdrop.

Jazz nightspots like The Lighthouse and Shelly’s Manne Hole in southern California, The Blackhawk in San Francisco, the Jazz Showcase in Chicago and Birdland and The Village Vanguard, all of which featured the music as well as sold libations, have become few and far between since their heyday from 1945-65.

Not that these smoke-filled rooms were ever the best environment for the music let alone the musicians, but at least they gave Jazz fans venues in which to hear the music performed on a regular basis.

Duos have always been around the Jazz scene, but they were generally formed by a pianist or a guitarist backed by a bass player, in other words, an instrument to carry the melody while the other played rhythm to keep the swinging sense of metronomic time which is a key feature of Jazz.


This low-key approach was generally favored by some of the smaller rooms that offered Jazz and was usually easy on the wallet of the club’s owner. Adding horns and drums to such an environment would overpower the patrons.

Not surprisingly, with the passing of time and the diminishing of its fans base, Jazz solo piano gigs also became ensconced in some clubs. Occasionally, a guitarist, or a trumpet player with a mute or even a saxophonist who could keep the volume down might drop by to sit-in with these solo pianists.

For many years, one of the best pianists in Jazz was a frequent performer as a solo pianist in clubs in the greater Boston area with occasional swings down to Newport, R.I. and to Florida for “the season.”

His name was Dave McKenna [1930-2008] and he always maintained that, “[ … because of his fondness for staying close to the melody], I’m not really a bona fide jazz guy”. Instead, he claimed, “I’m just a saloon piano player.” Regulars at the Boston’s Copley Plaza Bar (now the Oak Room), where Dave often performed, rebuffed this modest remark by tellingMcKenna that he was ‘just a saloon player’ like Billie Holiday was ‘just a saloon singer.’” 

Thanks to the late Carl Jefferson’s patronage, many lesser known, but not necessarily less-skillful, solo pianists would have their work showcased on his Concord Records Maybeck Recital Hall [Berkeley, CA] series which was issued in the 1980s and 1990s.

Concord also put out recordings with some of these pianists represented on the Maybeck series paired with woodwind and reed players such as Alan Broadbent and Gary Foster, Kenny Werner and Chris Potter, and my favorite, Dave McKenna and Buddy DeFranco.

Richard Cook and Brian Morton of The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed. had this to say about the DeFranco-McKenna collaboration:

Concord threw a line to players of DeFranco's sensibilities. The one to get … is the magisterial encounter with Dave McKenna, still as fiercely full-blooded as ever at the keyboard, and musician enough to have DeFranco working at his top level. 'Poor Butterfly', 'The Song Is You' and 'Invitation' are worth the admission price, and there are seven others.”

Here’s what Dr. Herb Wong had to say about the DeFranco-McKenna Jazz alliance in his insert notes to Dave McKenna and Buddy deFranco: You Must Believe in Swing [Concord CCD-4756-2].


© -Dr. Herb Wong, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“Though rare up until some 25 years ago, duos now occupy a pivotal niche in jazz. Their interest stretches beyond mere curiosity; two-instrument bands face the challenge of creating musical moments germane to their special environment which neither solo musicians nor conventional small combos can furnish.

Most duos highlight the beauty of musicians of similar styles and schools of thought playing with a preferred consonant sound. On the surface, therefore, the pairing of Dave McKenna and Buddy DeFranco might seem unlikely. "At first thought, Dave and Buddy may not be a perfect fit, since they come from somewhat different directions," recalls Dr. Dave Seiler, Director of the University of New Hampshire Jazz Band. "But we watched them rehearse - the way they communicated was incredible!"

The background trail leading to this unusual pairing is of interest. Born in the vision of one Joe Stellmach, a devout fan and good friend of both McKenna and DeFranco, this recording was inspired by the spectacular match-ups of DeFranco with super piano icons Art Tatum and Oscar Peterson back in the 1950s. The prospect of DeFranco's thorough mastery of the instrument (with his modern harmonic vocabulary and improvisational skills) brought together with the extraordinary pianism of McKenna (one of the most triumphant post-Tatum pianists) was Stellmach's dream.

"I was inspired to bring Dave and Buddy together - specifically Dave as the third prodigious jazz pianist to be coupled with Buddy," said Stellmach, who was the catalyst in gaining the enthusiasm of Concord Jazz to make this recording. Less than a week after the teaming was agreed to, a debut concert was organized by local piano great Tom Gallant and the aformentioned Dr. Seiler for October 9, 1996 at Portsmouth, New Hampshire as part of the Harry W. Jones, Jr. Jazz Concert. Prior to this venue, McKenna and DeFranco hadn't really played together other than brief jams at parties. A week later, they were in New York recording this CD.

DeFranco's esteem for McKenna is markedly illustrated by this anecdote: "Two summer ago in New England, a friend of Dave's asked me if I'd like to go hear him play solo in a hotel by the coast. I had a plane to catch later on, so I decided to catch one set and then fly home. I wound up listening to the entire three sets."

McKenna is an anomaly in the world of jazz pianists; his two-handed style is so rhythmically powerful that he's essentially self-sufficient. Ace trombonist Carl Fontana, who has played with McKenna many times, simply said, "Daveisa band. You don't really need one when he's around!" Pianist Dick Hyman agrees, "He's his own rhythm section. The left hand plays a 4/4 bass line, the right hand plays the melody, and there's that occasional 'strum' in between - like three hands." Check his right hand off-beat single notes, and unpredictable spaces promoting accents that create ear-tugging reactions. Reminiscent of Tatum, McKenna's arpeggios at times seem like they're 50 feet long.

"Dave plays a different way - an orchestral way," DeFranco elaborates. "Of course, Errol Garner and Oscar Peterson had it too, but Dave has a bass line going on all the time. He has the orchestral melodic part, and those exciting chord progressions, but somewhere he sneaks in what might be 'brass figures,' and it's fascinating to wonder how he gets them in. He inserts these figures while everything else is going on."

McKenna explains it quite simply: "I like to play a long line - like a horn player's single notes, which also equate to single notes on a bass. Well, sometimes I'll pause - take a breather in that line, and on occasion just throw in a chord or two." His predilection for single note lines suggests that he has listened a great deal more to horn players than he has to pianists.

Buddy DeFranco is the titan of the modern jazz clarinet who had taken his instrument to the peak of mastery decades ago and has maintained this preeminence internationally since the forties. He has pushed his digital precision to its technical boundaries, and early on merged his blazing, flawless execution with the vital force of Charlie Parker's harmonic approach. With his devastating speed and gorgeous, fluid tone, he improvises with emotional candor and blows nuclear ideas that explode with surprising hues and shapes.

An accomplished clarinetist himself, Seiler says simply "Buddy is a clarinet player's clarinet player."…

Speaking about DeFranco, McKenna said firmly, "It was a real pleasure working with him. Man, he's got it all! In a duo you have to be busy all the time. It's one of the hardest things to do, but with a great horn player like Buddy - that's something else! I really enjoy his musicality."

In a duo, each musician is truly half of what happens. It's a matter of the freedom to express and letting things happen with complete confidence — a process which shows the music is worthy of risk. There's an enchanting aura about the numeral "two". This duo reflects that mystifying magnificence. There is something pristine about combining a piano note and a clarinet note. Dave McKenna and Buddy DeFranco share in tandem a striking set of properties of integrity and musical character only mature creative players experience. Their sophisticated knowledge and simpatico are self-evident.

DeFranco said it well: "If it doesn't swing, it isn't happening!"

You can savor the duo delight that is Dave McKenna and Buddy DeFranco in the following video tribute which features their performance of Tadd Dameron’s If You Could See Me Now. 


Shelly's Manne Hole [From The Archives]

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


Shelly's Manne Hole opened almost 60 years ago and closed the doors at its original site on Caheunga Blvd. in Hollywood, CA a little less than 50 years ago.

In the intervening half century plus, the world of Jazz that the club's opening represented [and did it's best to maintain] has changed and, for all intents and purposes, that world will probably never come again.

Given all the good things that the twelve years of the Manne Hole's existence did for Jazz musicians and for fans of the music, an amazing story in an of itself, equally astonishing was how drummer Shelly Manne was able to keep his own quintet going and sustain his chock-a-bloc schedule in the motion picture, television and recording studios while owning and operating the club. 

Shelly's studio work is a parallel story. I doubt that anything close to the volume of recordings dates he was involved with exists for any working musician today.

Documentation of many periods of Jazz history is spotty at best.

So those Jazz fans who have an interest in revisiting the details about the Manne Hole's existence and sampling the and discography of Shelly's quite remarkable tenure in the studios and on the West Coast Jazz scene are indebted to Jack Brand and Bill Korst for researching and sharing the following information about all three in their book Shelly Manne: Sounds of The Different Drummer. 

At the time of their first posting as three, separate blog features in August, 2008, it was still possible to order copies of the book directly from Jack's "Percussion Express" website.

Unfortunately, although the website for the Jack Brand Drum Studio references the book, it does not appear as though copies are still available for direct purchase from the publisher.

While the work was in print, Jack graciously granted JazzProfiles the privilege of posting a number of its chapters on the blog including the one on the Manne Hole and the editorial staff thought it would take this opportunity to reprise the 3-part feature as a continuing part of its efforts to "put it all in one place" for purposes of the blog archive.

You can locate a seven [7] video playlist of Shelly Manne and His Men at the conclusion of this feature.






If you ever had the chance to hear him play over any length of time, you would more than likely agree with Jack Brand’s assessment that Shelly Manne was … “the most musical drummer who ever lived.


© -Jack Brand and Bill Korst, copyright protected; all rights reserved. Used with permission.

By the late fifties, many of the L.A. jazz clubs had gone out of business. The Haig, Zardi's, Billy Berg's, The Peacock - all had closed their doors. These were the clubs, along with the Lighthouse (that was still going), where what they called "West Coast jazz" had become so popular. Groups like Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker and the Shorty Rogers and the Giants had grown from local club date groups to internationally known stars. Shelly had always had owning a jazz club in mind. He simply wanted a place to play jazz in an environment that was friendly to the musicians, had a good piano, and nobody would tell you what to play or how to play it!

During 1959, Shelly had mentioned to Dave Stuart of Contemporary Records that he was seriously interested in opening a jazz club. While Shelly had talked about this for years, no one took him very seriously because they knew he was unbelievably busy in the studios. But after his successful stint at the Blackhawk, he told Stuart he was determined. After all, here was the most popular drummer in the country who occasionally played in jazz clubs across the nation, and played drums in the best known (even if it was a fictional place) jazz club ever "Mother's" on the Peter Gunn show. Now Shelly wanted to play in his own place. A manager would have to be found, someone who knew how to run the business end of the night club business. Rudy Onderwyzer, a sometime traditional jazz trombonist and manager of The Unicorn (a Los Angeles coffeehouse), was called and the gentlemen met at Ah Fong's Chinese restaurant on the Sunset Strip. By the end of the meeting, Shelly knew he had the right man for the job. Now a location had to be found; Rudy and Shelly and everyone else excited about the idea started looking. Flip was not too pleased with the prospect of having her husband gone even more hours than he already was. They spent as much time as possible enjoying their show horses and between the studio work, the concerts, and the recordings, a new venture would steal away the precious hours. Nevertheless, Shelly was on a mission and she knew him well enough that once his mind was made up, there was no looking back, and she was supportive.

Anyhow, he promised, time would be set aside for the many horse shows they enjoyed - The Indio near Palm Springs in February, Santa Barbara in the spring, Del Mar [north of San Diego] in the summer, and the Cow Palace [San Francisco] in November. They were training the horses themselves, competing with the big show barns, yet winning their share of prizes. There were the three- and five-gaited saddle-bred for Flip. and a standard-bred road horse for Shelly. Shelly recorded a lot of commercials for Jon and Faith Hubley, wonderfully innovative artists. One day Jon came up with a logo design for the Marine Stable - the "Dancing M," the letter "M” with feet on it. Flip comments, "The big barns had dozens of trunks, coolers, etc., with their logos - so Shelly got a little watering can, painted it, and we used to put it out for laughs." In between the jazz recordings and the movies and the jingles and the jazz gigs and the horse shows, Shelly Marine was going around with Rudy looking for a jazz club location!

In the meantime, Shelly signed for a spring 1960 JATP tour in Europe. This tour would feature Ella Fitzgerald, Roy Eldridge, Paul Smith, Gus Johnson, Jim Hall, Jimmy Giuffre, and in a move to include the so-called "West Coasts” scene, Shelly Manne and His Men. As Flip and Shelly prepared for the trip, their first trip abroad, a new tux was needed and while Shelly worked until the last minute, he barely scheduled in the fittings but never tried it on. Flip tells us the story - "On opening night in Berlin. he showered, put on his shirt and tie, then tried get into his pants. They were about a size 2! He kept trying to get into them, unwilling to face the fact that it wouldn't work. He had to play the concert as the only one in a suit. The next day we had to go find a ready-made tux. It was heavy wool, like a suit of armor, and Shelly sweated way across Europe. It was great to hear Ella every night, and she was very sweet to me - no Prima Donna act - a great lady." While in England. the Men recorded what would be called West Coast Jazz in England. Shelly couldn't stand the term, hated it more each time he heard it and it annoyed the hell out of him. It would haunt him the rest of his life.

After the European tour, an arrangement made between Orrin Keepnews and Bill Grauer of Riverside Records and Les Koenig of Contemporary Records that two albums one for each label - would be recorded with Thelonious Monk and Shelly as co-leaders. This strange arrangement came about when Grauer, who had been in Europe when the two musicians were there, casually asked Monk about such a project and he evidently agreed, but it was to be an ill-fated arrangement. The recording took place at the Blackhawk in San Francisco, a two-day session that was soon aborted. As the session got under way and a musical decision was necessary, Manne always referred to Monk’s opinion. Shelly was like that when working "for" someone - always eager to please. Orrin thought that Shelly was too respectful. Also, Keepnews could imagine what was going on in Monk's mind. "If I'm the top man, how come we share the billing?" The first day's session (April 28, 1960) resulted in an "acceptable version of a new as yet untitled Monk tune", and a rather rambling "Just You, Just Me." The next day, they started to work on "Round Midnight," and Shelly could see it wasn't going to work. He took Keepnews aside, told him he simply wanted out and flew back to Los Angeles, refusing to be reimbursed for the plane fare. He had been extremely saddened by the experience and the failure of the session.

Back in L.A.
, there were more sound tracks to be recorded. Films like Hell to Eternity, High Time, Pepe, Moment to Moment, The Great Impostor, and others. Andre Previn, his wife Dory, and Shelly collaborated to compose the title song for the film Tall Story, and Shelly scored the movie The Young Sinner. The Proper Time was finally released, and the young composer John Williams was orchestrating for a television series called Checkmate. "Checkmate, Inc.," was a private eye firm that had characters played by actors Sebastian Cabot, Doug McClure, and Tony George. Williams, after playing for Mancini, was now making his own name as a composer and Shelly Manne would do his drum work. The series ran for two seasons.


Singer Ruth Price had come out to Los Angeles in 1960 with Red Clyde after she had sung with Dizzy's band. Shelly and his group were working at a place called JazzCity and she was invited to sing. "Shelly hired me to work there after I sat in. After work he would drive me home and on the way we would look at coffee house-type places." By mid-summer, the location for Shelly's jazz club was found. The Men had played a club on North Cahuenga Boulevard called the International, which later became The Lamp, which then evolved into a gay bar called The Macabre. It had potential; it was located in what was then called "Mid-Movietown" on Cahuenga between Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards. He stopped there with Ruth to show her. She liked it and the location was now available. Rudy and Shelly agreed and a lease was signed. They decided they wanted a very funky atmosphere - it would be cheap to furnish and would look and feel like a real jazz club. Most of the furnishings came from a place called Scavenger's Paradise. They found distressed timbers of odd sizes which were as hard as a rock and they were covered with lots of varnish. The summer was spent "decorating," Rudy doing most of the work, getting the small kitchen ready for the limited menu they would offer, and planning the advertising for the place they would call Shelly's Manne-Hole. Rudy would take 35% of the profits and soon was calling himself - as one of the partners - Mr. Hole. "Shelly wanted to control his environment," recalls Onderwyzer. "In other clubs the music was a step-child, in the Manne-Hole, it was everything." On the darkened walls they hung old photographs, newspaper clippings, murals, Shelly's Contemporary album covers and in the back of the room, a lighted drum head with Shelly's picture on it. Underneath the legend read "Founder and Owner, 1960 A.D." Ruth Price thought there was too much "stuff" on the wall. The furnishings were "early Goodwill." old hanging lights and funky wooden tables and chairs. Until they were able to get a beer and wine license, they would open just as a restaurant, "a good little restaurant," as Shelly called it, with a Swiss chef. Shelly took Bob Cooper in to see the place, and after seeing the cobwebs coming off the ceiling, Coop said, "Boy, you've got a lot of work to do in here." Shelly said "What’d-ya-mean? This place has soul!”


Jazz recording dates were slowing down; so were club dates for jazz players everywhere (the Manne-Hole was about to take care of that problem), but film work was keeping the 40-year-old drummer busy. Orchestral recording sessions included things with Johnny Green, Elmer Bernstein, Jerry Fielding, Axel Stordahl, Nelson Riddle, Billy May, Oliver Nelson, and Mancini. In August, singer Jo Stafford included Shelly and his old friend from the Street [52nd in New York], Ben Webster, on a Columbia album [Jo + Jazz; Columbia CL 1561, CS 8361]. On the last days of September, the Poll Winners were at it again. This time the album was Exploring the Scene [Contemporary M3581, S 7581]. In the next week, Shelly became part of the “Marty Paich Orchestra” and backed Helen Humes in an ambitious album for Contemporary. [Songs I Like to Sing; Contemporary M3582, S7582, OJCCD 171].

At lunchtime over at Universal, as Bob Bain recalls, it was "Hot soup at the Manne-Hole!" - and everybody would drive ten minutes on the freeway down to the club and eat lunch. Shelly's infectious personality had won him so many friends, that it was only natural that they would give the little restaurant a try. Shelly was like a kid with a new toy. He was giving it everything had; he wanted it to be a success. So did his friends, but with the great humor that abounded among the musicians, they couldn't help but put him on a bit. When the place had just opened, guitarist Jack Marshall came in, sat down and opened his guitar case, took out a table cloth d silverware. Just then a waiter from the Brown Derby, in formal red jacket, walked in with a lunch on a silver tray. Not to be outdone, Shelly “accidentally" knocked over the table. Bain recalls another hilarious incident - "Jack used have all these phony flies and spiders, and he enlisted the help of fellow-guitarist Bill Pittman - a very straightforward nice guy. Jack and I were sitting on the other side of the restaurant, away from Pittman because Shelly would have caught on to us right away. Bill very audibly called Shelly over and told him there was a fly his soup. Shelly was so upset, I told Jack we should tell him, but Jack said, 'No, no, this is too good!' Shelly was in the kitchen, rattling pans and going all over the place. Finally he came back and Bill Pittman and all of us were breaking up. He was mad at us for a week. He loved that place."

As if he wasn't busy enough, Shelly lectured local colleges, conducted seminars and clinics, and taught at the new college music building at Northridge on the ValleyState campus [CaliforniaStateUniversity
, Northridge]. In August, Northridge held a two-week High School Music Institute that found Henry Mancini, Stan Kenton, and Shelly donating their time. This was not an unusual thing for Shelly. He would help anyone who asked him, not only with schools, but individuals as well. Flip recalls, "One time were out in the barn and a fellow showed up that Shelly hardly knew. He said his wife was having a very difficult pregnancy and he was broke and she had to go to the hospital. Shelly knew he was a junkie, so he made the check out the hospital. The man never attempted to pay it back: I don't even remember his name. During the 20 years we lived out here, Shelly got to be the father-figure and 'Salvation Army' to Local 47.” When he knew of a young drummer in need help, he would make sure he had some equipment on which to play. While he was so busy with so many things, he always had time to care.

By November the Manne-Holehad its beer and wine license. The plan was to have the Men play the weekends, Friday through Sunday, and other local groups would fill the weeknight schedule. The musicians were more than happy to work "off-nights" playing jazz, even if it was for "light bread.""We'll always feature a vocalist with my band on weekends," promised Shelly, knowing that this would enhance the entertainment factor for the audience. Helen Humes would be the first in a series of talented singers that appeared with the Men. Opening night was planned and it was to be called "The Les Koenig Invitational Opening Party" The Men would consist of Shelly, Freeman, Kamuca, Gordon and a young bass player by the name of Chuck Berghofer. Monty Budwig would not be a regular because he had relocated to San Francisco. Berghofer recalls getting the call from Shelly. "I was sitting at home and the phone rings and it was Shelly Marine! He said 'I'm opening this new club and I need a bass player."' The 22-year-old bassist had worked with Skinnay Ennis' band and then for about a year with Bobby Troup, and for a time with Herb Ellis. Now he was getting a call from a living jazz legend. He was to meet Shelly at the club for an audition. "I was so nervous on the way to the club that I had to stop three or four times to go to the john. So I went down to rehearse in the afternoon and we got half-way through the first tune and Shelly turned and said 'Yeah, you'll do."' The pay would be $16.50 a night.


November 4th was opening night and Jack Sheldon played instead of Joe Gordon who was in jail. Bob Bain and Jack Marshall strolled among the tables playing their guitars and singing. Shelly made sure everybody who was anybody was invited. The little store-wide club was packed with a who's who of the L.A. scene. As the visitors entered the club, they made an abrupt left and there, right in front of their the small stage on the left wall, with the Men wailing away. Across the room towards the back was a service bar just big enough to serve the room. The ambience of the room was warm and inviting - a small space with a high ceiling and great acoustics. The carpeted bandstand was a little over a foot off the floor and the quintet comfortably fit in front of a velvet curtain that backed the stage. Shelly made sure that piano was the very best they could find, a great black instrument of which Shelly said, "It was built in 1888, the Year of the Blizzard, and I got it from a little old lady in Pasadena. She says it's a one owner and she never played anything faster than Moonlight Sonata on it!" It would always be in tune. This night was Berghofer's very first job with the band.

"Meanwhile, back at the ranch," the Mannes were expanding their ventures and adventures into Flip's first love, the horses. The Manne den, always full of awards for Shelly, now included a wall filled with ribbons, some of them blue, and gold and silver trophies awarded by the horse show circuit. The former Rockette told a reporter that she gets "more nervous at a horse show than I ever did on the RadioCityMusic Hallstage."“The Dancing M" was becoming well known in the equestrian circles of California. From the very first pleasure horses they received as a gift at their first small house to their present growing stable, they loved the animals. They had purchased an old show mare (Saddlebred) early-on, but she went lame almost immediately. The Mannes bred her three times and got three winners! Flip says, "It was most unusual and sheer luck." They were all five-gaited Saddlebreds. After Shelly decided to show, they bought “Panama Limited", a Walking Horse. He won the Reserve Amateur Championship with him at the CowPalace. "Walking Horse people did terrible things to their animals, so when it came time to sell the horse, we sold it at a loss as a pleasure horse," recalls Flip. That's when Shelly bought "Scataway", who "taught" his drummer-owner how to drive.

In late November, Shelly did an album of music from West Side Story with Cal Tjader and the Clare Fisher Orchestra, and a few weeks later recorded with Johnny Mandel, backing Mel Torme in a musical tribute to Duke Ellington and Count Basie. The Manne-Hole hadn't been open two months, but by Christmas it had become the talk of the town. The Los Angeles gossip and music columns gave it plenty of press, and Shelly talked it up everywhere he went. The name of the place always invited humor and trumpeter Manny Klein couldn't help himself. He told everybody that he was going into the shell business, had rented the store next door to Shelly's club and was going to call his new store “Manny's Shell-Hole." In the club Shelly was booking a variety of groups for the Monday through Thursday calendar. Phineas Newborn, Teddy Edwards, Paul Horn, Jimmy Giuffre, Frank Rosolino, Conti Candoli, Jack Sheldon, Terry Gibbs, Dexter Gordon, Barney Kessel and others brought their own groups in. "It was a fantastic thing," remembers Bob Bain, "you could go there any night and hear great jazz." Rudy painted a ladder going up the wall to the ceiling, where a painted manhole cover had its lettering reversed. Contemporary engineer Howard Holzer made sure the sound system was perfect. The Manne Hole was serving lunches and dinners and selling beer and wine, but it was tough to make it on just that. The door charge was kept to a minimum so that anybody could afford to hear jazz, but one problem that Rudy saw right away, was that everybody was a friend of Shelly's. That got to be a problem because everybody expected to get in free. The jazz club business has always been a tough business, but it was even tougher for Rudy because of all of Shelly's friends.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy was inaugurated 35th President in January, the Civil War had started a hundred years before, and by the spring, the Soviet Union had a man in space, orbiting the world. Jimmy Dean sang "Big Bad John," and the serious crooners with the "funeral home vibratos" were singing "I Believe in You," from How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying. The pop scene had Ricky Nelson singing his own song, "I'm a Travelin' Man," Connie Francis moaning "Where the Boys Are," and others singing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight - Wimoweh," "Michael Row the Boat Ashore," and "Hey, Look Me Over." The Academy Award nominee and eventual winner for the best song was "MoonRiver
", words by Johnny Mercer, music by Henry Mancini and drums by Shelly Marine. He would play again at the Academy Awards Presentation - he almost always did if Johnny Green, or Elmer Bernstein, or Mancini conducted. Shelly would play on other films that year - West Side Story, Flower Drum Song, King of Kings (timpani), and others. David Raksin used Shelly on Too Late Blues, which was a John Cassavetes film. Raksin recalls the project: "We were recording at night at the Paramount sound stage because we couldn't get the stage that day The high brass had come in from New York and the studio had taken them out to dinner and then didn't know what the hell to do with them after that, so they brought them down to see what we were doing. We were doing a take and Shelly was playing his 'Rim Shot Heard Around the World' drum solo, then we trooped into the control room and they were all listening and saying 'Wonderful, wonderful.' Shelly was standing over there and I said, 'We will take another take,' They all said 'What's wrong with you?” and I said 'That isn't vintage Shelly.' He smiled at me as if to say: ‘I was wondering if you would be intelligent enough to recognize that.’ We trooped out to make another take and Cassavetes stayed in the booth and for some reason Benny Carter did too and one of the executives said ‘Gee, that Guy (Shelly) really seems to know what he’s doing and John Cassavetes said, “Yeah, but he’s Jewish!” and Benny Carter said ‘That isn’t all, he’s also colored!” In February [1961], the Men went on the road playing clubs back East and in the Midwest, where in Milwaukee, the Sentinel and the Journal raved about their concert.


Henry Mancini used Shelly on Breakfast at Tiffany’s (including "MoonRiver") and Bachelor in Paradise. Shelly played the Mahalia Jackson TV special, recorded an album for Mancini called Mr. Lucky Goes Latin [RCA Victor LPM/SP2360], even though the TV show of the same name had been canceled (Shelly did the soundtracks for that, too). Shelly once again acted on screen in an episode of Adventures in Paradise, the series that starred a lean Gardner McKay, who portrayed a lucky Adam Troy who leisurely sailed the South Pacific aboard his yacht, the Tiki. The episode was called "Wild Mangoes," and Shelly, Kamuca, and Candoli played "hip" musicians stranded on Bora Bora after being fired from an ocean liner gig (probably played too hip). Their "wives" chartered the Tiki to rescue them and they all lived happily ever after. Before the middle of 1961, Shelly had recorded albums with Sammy Davis, Jr., Joannie Summers, Mel Torme, trumpeter Howard McGhee, and the Johnny Williams Orchestra. In the spring, enough material was recorded for two albums, "live" from the Manne-Hole. A two record set featured the Men, and a one record album recorded during the same three days featured Helen Humes. Conte Candoli had replaced Joe Gordon who had died tragically in a fire. (Joe never actually played with The Men at the Manne-Hole. He was in jail when it opened, and then the chair was "taken.") The night Joe died, he was visiting the club and Rudy drove him home. The instrumental double album recorded "Live" at the Manne-Hole March 3rd, 4th, and 5th, 1961, is now available in two separate CD albums from Contemporary [C3593-94, S7593-94, OJCCD 714-715].

In the fall Shelly recorded an album of themes with Alfred Newman, a prolific Hollywood film composer, and did a session with Martin Denny's "island"- sounding group, complete with bird calls. Caesar Giovonni arranged a large orchestra and used Shelly to record Exciting Sounds, billed as The Clebanoff Strings and Percussion. The percussionists on the date were Shelly, Milt Holland, Hugh Anderson, Larry Bunker, Mike Pacheco, Johnny Ray, Johnny Cyr, and Irv Cottler. A battery of first call Hollywood percussion players. On October 4th, the Monterey Jazz Festival drew 10,000 devotees of modern jazz, and they were rewarded with the sounds of Max Roach, the Modern Jazz Quartet, the Jimmy Giuffre Three, Sonny Rollins, Diz, Leroy Vinnegar's group, the Mastersounds, Brew Moore, and The Men. The press called Shelly's group the highlight of the day. On October 23rd, the "Poll Winners," Brown, Kessel, and Manne, gave an afternoon concert at The Pilgrimage in Hollywood. The Men and Ruth Price appeared on Strictly Informal, a television show on KTLA, and on October 24th, the Men recorded Checkmate [Contemporary C3599, S7599, OJCCD 1083-2], music suggested by the television show of the same name. In November Shorty Roger
s used Shelly, Emil Richards on vibes, and an all-star group to record The Fourth Dimension in Sound for the Warner Brothers label [Warner Bros. BS 1443]. The same month. Shelly did a Pacific jazz album starring Bud Shank [Barefoot Adventure [PJ/ST 35].


By now the Manne-Hole was sending out bright orange calendars to a vast mailing list across the country Pat Willard was handling the publicity for the club, and it added to the warm friendly concept and the inviting feeling of the whole operation. The band was cooking and Shelly was very happy that he had created a plce for jazz musicians to play in a time when there were fewer and fewer places to play modern jazz. He was happy with his playing, too. "I feel much freer in the Manne-Hole than I have ever felt in a club before. Working here has been one of those gigs where you literally can't wait to get there and start playing. And the band has gotten freer and more exciting, partly I think as a result of the room." Rudy, who liked traditional jazz, said, "Just by working at Shelly's I got a whole education in modern jazz." The Men, most of them now doing film and/or recording dates, were happy to be able to play in a club where the music was the only important thing. Chuck Berghofer was getting an education not only from working with Shelly, but having the opportunity to play with Russ Freeman was fantastic. He was learning new chord changes and new rhythmic concepts. "The only time Shelly ever said anything to me, was one time he just looked over and said, 'Wait for me."' Berghofer was young and energetic and the rings were high on the fingerboard and he was just slightly ahead of the drummer who had the perfect time.

Russ Freeman remembers playing with Shelly at the Manne-Hole - "Shelly was having a real good time. When Shelly was at his best, which was most of the time - nobody's is at his best all the time - he was my favorite drummer. He was the most empathetic of all drummers I had worked with." They were experiencing that very special musical bond, the same feeling they had when they recorded The Two[issued as “The Three” and “ The Two” OJCCD 172-2] seven or so years earlier. Shelly would direct the band with audibles, telling the bass player to lay out, playing duos with just drums and piano, or drums and Conte's trumpet, or sax and drums. Variations were tried and discarded or called up a month later. The band was tight, yet flexible enough to change course in mid-stream. Shelly would play the whole range of dynamics - wailing like crazy and then suddenly, instantly, he would take the volume down to a whisper. He had the ability to be roaring on the ride cymbal at a very fast tempo, then switch to brushes without losing the intensity The interplay between Freeman and Marine was something to behold. Things magically happened, it was musical telepathy "We never even talked about that - this is just where we were. We never sat down and said 'You know what you did there, or what I did there, let's try to re-create that.' That never, ever happened. It was just spontaneous. That's what was terrific about playing with Shelly, because he listened very closely to everything everybody was doing, which, of course, is the ideal thing to do in a group. That's one of the hard things in playing jazz, to not only play well and be creative, but be able to do it while listening to everybody else in the group at the same time - and incorporate it all so that it becomes one. He was terrific at that, he listened to everything, trying to be creative but not ignoring what the other guy was doing. Shelly was not as loud as some of the bebop drummers; he wasn't a basher, though there are some terrific bashers. He was very sensitive; to him the drums were a musical instrument. I used to put him on about the drums 'not being a musical instrument'." 




It didn't take Rudy long to realize that though the club had become an instant success, the meager admission they were charging at the door on Friday and Saturdays wasn't going to be enough. It had started out at just $1 on Friday and Saturdays with weeknights and Sundays no admission charge. While they sold pizza and cheese-sticks, beer and wine for 50 cents (if the wine had a cork it cost more!), they found that the average customer was only spending an average of $1 after they got in the door. They would have to sell hard booze to make it. Shelly was putting in every spare moment at the club to make sure everything was working right. When he wasn't there, some of the musicians would play short sets and take long breaks. He had to crack down on that, and he made sure that loud patrons were gently advised that this was a jazz performance room and that loud talking was not permitted. He was not timid about this and occasionally had to introduce himself as the owner and suggested that perhaps this was not the place for non-listening people. After working all day in the studios, he would go home for supper, lie down for a few hours, then drive back to the Manne-Hole for most of the evening. Flip was far from thrilled with the arrangement, but this was Shelly's dream come true, a gathering place for musicians to play jazz in a club where the owner understood the music.

The place was "pure serendipity" according, to Rudy. The layout of the club was small enough to be intimate, even cramped like a jazz joint should be. The jazz disc jockeys were pushing the club and would be there most nights too. Jumpin' J. Rich never could seem to get the name right - he would say "Get down to Shelly Manne's Hole." Sam, Tony, and Major were the main hired help. Sam would work the door on week-ends and got to see the celebrities. It was a who's who of the Hollywood scene. Don Rickles would come in and tell everyone that when Shelly and Rudy got together they flipped a coin and Rudy won, he got the door! Woody Herman brought his big band in to the little club on Cahuenga. So did Gerald Wilson and Don Ellis. The club was not only making jazz happen. it was causing a renaissance of jazz clubs around L.A. By the early 60s the club list was long. The Town Hill, the Zebra Lounge, Mr. Konton's, the Purple Onion, the Summit
, It Club, Paradise West, The Troubadour, and The Lighthouse were all offering jazz. But the Manne-Hole was consistent, like Shelly. Once a policy was set, Manne and Onderwyzer stayed with it. Shelly was footing the bills, making it possible to build the business. Saxophonist Gary Foster had stayed on the Coast after Stan Kenton suggested he give the scene a try, and Foster recalls that "the Manne-Hole was great for a guy with no money. They offered a bottomless cup of coffee for 60 cents."


Shelly wanted his old friend Ben Webster to play the club. Shelly asked him and mentioned that "we usually pay scale." Webster said, "I don’t play for scale!" But they worked it out and Ben played the club. Rudy recalls - "He would drink about a bottle-and-a-half of port and we would carry him to the cab. it never affected his playing. The next day he would be right as rain." Jackie Cain remembers working a jazz concert with the tenor saxophonist. "He would be backstage, sound asleep, holding his jug in a paper sack, and someone would go back and wake him up to tell him he was on, and he would come out and blow like crazy" The legendary jazz player was truly formidable in every respect.

The racial make-up of the Manne-Hole audiences depended on the featured groups. Harold Land, Teddy Edwards and Buddy Collette drew predominantly black audiences. This, of course, was not in the plans and wasn't even considered by Shelly, who only thought of the music and the musicians, and the respect it and they deserved. What kind of crowds was only important in their number, not any other consideration. The biggest problem was money and how to make sure the club was kept going. Musicians wanting to play were plentiful, money generation was the tough part.

Universal International was producing as many as sixteen hours of television programming each week and Shelly was doing most of that work. Eight a.m. calls were common and triple sessions too. The 41-year-old jazz drummer, studio musician, club owner, husband, and horseman was keeping an unbelievable schedule. If he wasn't at Universal in the daytime hours, he was at some other film studio, or recording studio, or he could be found lecturing at a college, or planning a television appearance for his group, or just promoting jazz wherever possible. Often he would do an evening studio call in between UI and the Manne-Hole. He teamed up with Jack Marshall for several recording sessions, not to mention the Mancini calls, not to mention the Michel LeGrande calls, or the Elmer Bernstein sessions, or any number of other composer's call.

In January of 1962, Ray Brown and Michel LeGrande joined Shelly for a week-long stand at the Manne-Hole. This would be the first of many appearances by the film composer-cum jazz player. While LeGrande was hardly a hard driving jazz pianist, he was a smash hit among the Hollywood
crowd and he would appear at the club many times. Thursday nights were called "Freaky Fridays" and featured groups headed by Jack Sheldon. One night Peggy Lee was sitting quietly enjoying the sounds and Sheldon carried the mike to her and she sang in her usual fantastic way. The club was so popular, yet the receipts were not completely covering all the expenses. Shelly called it a success because it wasn't taking too much of his own personal income to keep it afloat.


In the late winter and early spring of 1962, Shelly recorded with Eddie Jones, Hank Jones, and Coleman Hawkins for Impulse Records [2 3 4 Impulse A(S) 20, GRP 11492] while in New York City. The Men performed at a benefit at the Capitol Theatre in Yakima, Washington. Ruth Price traveled with the group and during a week's stand in Seattle, she recalls – “Shelly rented a station wagon and picked us up to go to the gig. I always had dogs and during this time it was 'Alfie,' a little Dachshund. One night I couldn't find the dog, so Shelly sent the guys in the band to different floors to look for the dog. I was in the lobby and all of a sudden the elevator doors open and there's the dog - by itself!" One can only wonder who was responsible for that.”


Ruth Price was learning much from working with Shelly. "One time, he took me aside on a break and said, 'When you're not making it, you're trying too hard. Relax and sing what you know how to sing. It's OK to copy yourself.”

There were lighter moments, of course, like the time she remembers Shelly coming in to the club in a new 'drip-dry' suit. He had gotten in the shower with it to see if it worked! She remembers, "Richie Kamuca and I just stood there while Conte and Shelly discussed the suit.'"

In March Shelly recorded with the Candoli brothers for Warner Brothers Records. On the 5th of April, he received a letter from Twentieth Century Fox's John Erman that Shelly "was a natural in Wild Mangoes (acting) and that he had enjoyed his visit to the Manne-Hole". Leonard Feather mentioned in his column that Andre Previn had been sitting in at the Manne-Hole in preparation for an upcoming album. In June there was a Neal Hefti album to record, and a TV appearance with the Men on Jazz Scene USA
, a show that was alternately hosted by Oscar Brown, Jr. and Bobby Troup. The movie and television work was keeping Shelly more than awake during the day. Two Weeks in Another Town, Walk On the Wildside, Mr. Hobbs Takes A Vacation, and Mutiny On the Bounty were some of the films he did. Mancini used Shelly on two films in 1962, Hatari and Experiment in Terror. Manne joined percussionists Milt Holland and Larry Bunker for an album called The Brilliant Soul for Pianos and Percussion, for Cesar Giovanni. By August he was in the studios recording with the great Bill Evans. The pianist wrote Shelly after the session - "Just a note to tell you that I picked up a test pressing of one side of the date we did, and I had such warm feelings listening to it and remembering the pleasure of that night with you and Monty, that I wanted to tell you about it. Gee, you sound ,wonderful." He closed the one-page letter with, “I just wanted you to know I think you're a playin' fool! "


Occasionally the Manne-Hole would experiment by bringing other types of music to its jazz audiences. Pianist Jimmy Rowles remembers he and his wife dropping down to see Shelly and there was a Flamenco act booked for intermissions. Shelly sat down front next to Jimmy and watched the thin, agile fingers with the long nails do magic with the guitar. Shelly leaned over and whispered in Jimmy's ear, "How'd you like it guy to tickle your balls?" In a while a piece plywood was placed onstage and a Flamenco dancer came out to perform. It didn't take Shelly long to whisper to Jimmy, "How'd you like that guy to kick you in the ass?" The humor of Manne extended from the subtle to the raunchy and Jimmy was often involved when the two were doing studio dates for Mancini or others. He would "steal" cigarettes and Rowles' Dunhill lighter, go to the drum set and light up. When red recording light would come on, he would ,throw the cigarettes to Jimmy just as the downbeat came down. The next time it would be the lighter. Gary Foster recalls Mancini studio sessions when some big name singer would come in - a Streisand or Andrews or somebody of that musical stature - and Shelly would crack-up the studio players by standing up and saying loudly, "Hank - in that measure - number 138, do you want me to play a 'boom-ditty-boom' or a 'do odeley boop'?" Anything to be funny and to crack the pressure of the moment. As often as not, several musicians in the studio would have difficulty (from laughing) playing when the light came on. Not Shelly; the red light meant business.

In September, the Men returned to the Blackhawk in San Francisco for a weekend stand. Shelly liked to take the group out when his schedule permitted. It gave him a time away from the hectic pace of the studio and an opportunity to meet new fans. He was very approachable, liked people, and it was a time away from the 12 hour days of studio playing and jazz club operations. But those times were limited. He had to make a living and the studio work offered him the cash to keep the Manne-Hole going. He did dates with Mahalia Jackson, Joni James, a Mel Torme radio transcription (later issued on LP and CD) with Shorty's Giants, a big band date with Rogers, and an album with Nancy Wilson.

After the Blackhawk date, he went into the studios at Capitol for a session with his friend from the Kenton days, Laurindo Almeida. The guitarist had become as busy as Shelly in the studios, and their paths crossed often. Whenever he had a record date under his own name, he used Shelly, if he was available. By this time, the bossa nova had become the big thing and Laurindo was scheduled for a Capitol session. Almeida had been playing samba jazz, as it was called by Brazilians, as early as 1952. Other jazz players had been experimenting with the music throughout the fifties. Cannonball Adderley had put together groups for tours in South America, and Sergio Mendez had taken it to Mexico in 1958. The music originated around Rioand with the Stan Getz/Astrud Gilberto album hitting the charts, it had finally reached the ears of fans in the United States. Now Laurindo used the expert Latin-playing ability of Shelly - "Shhhelly," as the soft dialect of the Brazilian pronounced it. On the same record date, they did an interview cut of Shelly for radio promotional use, Shelly being the eloquent spokesman that he was. 

In November, Shelly recorded with the Jack Sheldon Quartet on Capitol, a session stretched out over four days. In December the Men appeared at UCLA with Marni Nixon and Ruta Lee, and before Christmas, Shelly recorded a Contemporary album called My Son, The Jazz Drummer, [Contemporary S7609] a tongue-in-cheek, play-on-words jazz version of old Jewish favorites  Though the jazz recording sessions were slowing down, an indication of the nationwide sad state jazz was in during the early 60s, live jazz was fairly good on the Coast, and the film work was keeping the players quite busy. By now the drum sections included Joe Porcaro and Emil Richards, two stellar percussion performers who joined the ranks of Milt Holland and Larry Bunker, and other legends. They would spend much of their careers sharing the percussion section with Shelly, enjoying his talents and humor. In the pop recording business, Hal Blaine was working day and night, drumming for the likes of Elvis Presley, the Beach Boys, Sam Cooke, and Roy Orbison. Now the recording studio sound engineers were changing the drum sound. The producers would come in, say they wanted the drums to sound just like they did on So-and So's album, and more often than not, it was Blaine's drumming. This was really bugging the jazz drummers because it had always been important that they get a "live" sound out of their kits. Contemporary had always given Shelly the sound he wanted, but when he went into the commercial world of recording, he was finding that they would muffle his drums, or that they would ask him to play on the studio set. The individual's sound was unimportant to them. Blaine would often use a huge kit with several tom toms and cymbals. Shelly, never missing an opportunity to put somebody on, stenciled on his trap case something like - "Shelly Manne, Kit # C-9601." This era was only the beginning of a changing world for the recording drummer. In the meantime, Shelly continued his varied work with everything from a movie theme album with Alfred Newman to Billy Rose's Jumbo. The new year of 1963 would see some big changes at the Manne-Hole.



Part 2: The Manne-Hole 



"[In 1963] Shelly decided he wanted to bring in headline acts. Nobody in town was bringing in the likes of Stan Getz, Miles Davis or Oscar Peterson or other big jazz names from back east. Rudy and Shelly discussed the economic ramifications of such endeavors, and as if by magic - the store next door, to the north, was now available. The drummer/owner and his manager/partner bumped heads trying to project the cost of not only enlarging the club, but the bigger operational costs of more help, more advertising, and more expensive music. The lease was signed, the expansion was made, at a cost of over $10,000. They had figured that knocking out a wall and continuing the funky decor wouldn't cost more than three or four thousand dollars - it was not a pleasant surprise. Shelly continued to pour money into the now famous big-time jazz club. The first act was John Coltrane who was, by now, a living jazz legend. His stint with Miles in the fifties and his current musical groups had furthered the magic he performed and Shelly was excited to contract him for the new opening. The club wasn't quire completely renovated, but they prepared for opening night anyway. Rudy painted the news on the front of the club - but the artist was obviously not yet a pure Coltrane fan - it stated, "OPENING TONIGHT-JOHN COLTRAIN."

The night came and the crowds were lined up around the corner, about a block-long crowd waiting to get in. The only problem was that the saxophonist would not be there. He had wired that he had an abscessed tooth and would arrive a day late. Shelly pasted the telegram message on the door in hopes that it would ease the pain of the disappointed fans. "Trane" played the next night to a packed house and it was the first time the club had ever charged a cover for a mid-week night. The word spread throughout the jazz world that the Manne-Hole was now booking more expensive acts.

In January, English drummer Vic Lewis assembled a West Coast band to record His Master’s Voice and used Shelly as a percussionist, a job he was beginning to do more and more of. In February, Laurindo did another Bossa Nova album for Capitol using Manne and during this same time-frame - Jimmy Rowles, Max Bennett, and Shelly recorded some things for Capitol that were never issued. He recorded a Dixieland album with Clancy Hayes, an album with "Joe Graves and The Diggers," a Herb Ellis-Stuff Smith album that included Shelly's fellow-ex-Hermanite, Lou Levy on piano and Al McKibbon on bass. McKibbon had worked with such names as Nat Cole, George Shearing, Monk, Milt Jackson, and Carmen McRae. He remembered Shelly subbing for Big Sid on the Street, wearing his "sailor suit." He remembered Shelly's first idol, Jo Jones, tell some other aspiring drummer, "Play the full set of drums knucklehead!" According to Al, "Shelly had that Eastern feeling" - something that had obviously escaped the jazz critics who continued their East Coast-West Coast comments. "Shelly and I had a kindred love of horses." When working together for the first time in a while, Shelly told the bass player, "I've got to remember how to play with you." The drummer was so into the way other players played, particularly rhythm players, that he wanted to complement the feeling, to capture the true "give-and-take" of jazz. To enhance and make beautiful the act of playing improvisational music. He was that way with everything he played.

The Manne-Hole celebrated its "longevity" with a party on the thousand-and-first night of the club's existence. The mailers were sent out, inviting the staunch fans, and close friends Bob Bain and Jack Marshall, who had serenaded the fans on the original club's opening, were somehow over-looked. "Shelly agonized over that for months," remembers Flip. Nevertheless, on the 1,001 Nights Party, Jack Marshall emceed the evenings fare that included a cake rolled in containing a bikini-clad lovely stashed in a cardboard cake. Rudy said it was the first time he ever saw Shelly speechless!


In April Shelly took his group up to The Jazz Workshop in San Francisco for a six-day visit. By mid-summer, he played a New York Philharmonic two-day date with Previn and Red Mitchell. Another bossa nova album with Laurindo at Capitol, an Earl Bostic session in August and he signed for a Hawaiian jazz date at the Waikiki Shell for September 7th, that would include Al McKibbon. It would give Flip and Shelly an opportunity to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary and they went to the islands by boat. By the 13th, the Men were in full force at the Manne-Hole, and Helen Merrill was the singer. She had been working with t group every weekend in August, and was no the featured regular at the club. The Manne-Hole improved its chances for success with the acquisition of its full liquor license. Bob Cooper recalled visiting the club shortly after they began to serve hard booze - "I sat down with Bob Troup and ordered a scotch and soda and Troup turned and said, 'You mean I've been sitting drinking this damn wine for three hours and they serve booze?"' Now the place could “kind of” afford more frequent visits by the big names but as Rudy quips "Unfortunately, we never had any heavy drinkers in the audiences." But there were few serious problems with the fans either. Rudy and Shelly and the staff ran a tight ship when it came to audience behavior. Now that the eastern acts knew that Shelly was seriously looking and booking, they came to him. While he realized that every group has its price he would always be up-front with his limits and almost always, an agreeable price would be met. The groups knew that he was honorable and could trust him. So many club dates ended in hassles with the money or the owner - not a the Manne-Hole.

Shelly worked the Monterey Festival in September and spent most of the remainder of '63 doing studio work by day and hosting or playing the Manne-Hole. He wasn't at the club every night, he enjoyed being home, but he would often drive down to hear the visiting groups. Occasionally, the Men played out of town. For a time the band was booked by MCA and they were always after him to go out on the road. One time the Men were asked to play Las Vegas, but when Shelly was told that the hotel would require Kamuca to go through the kitchen entrance, Richie being of Mexican descent, Shelly was shocked and refused the contract. There were strange currents moving in the social layers of American society. On November 22nd, the President of the United States was assassinated in Dallas, Texas. Shelly and Flip were in St. Louis at a horse auction having lunch when they heard the news. Flip remembers that the auction people didn't want to put it on the loudspeakers, afraid it would interrupt the auction!

In December Andre Previn put together a session with Ray Brown, Herb Ellis and Shelly [4 To Go! – Columbia CL2018,CS8818, CBS-Sony-20AP1435]. Brown was now a regular on the coast after years of performing with Oscar Peterson. The famous bassist soon had as much work as he could handle and he and Shelly would share rhythm section chores on countless sessions and gigs. The Browns, Ray and his wife Cecelia, alternated between their house and the Manne's for Thanksgiving fare and became close friends, personally and musically. Christmas was spent either with Sandy and Ron DeCrescent or, sometimes, the Mannes stayed at home and invited people for dinner who had nowhere to go.


In early 1964, Shelly did two Capitol dates, a three-day session in January with pianist Junior Mance [Get Ready, Set, Jump!” – Capitol T/ST2092] and another three-day session in February with pianist/vocalist Blossom Dearie [May I Come In? – Capitol T/ST2092; CDP 7243 4 95449 2 5]].


By March he was in Tokyo for a three week concert tour with three other jazz drumming legends Philly Joe Jones, Roy Haynes, and Max Roach. Here were four drummers (they called the tour Four Drummers) who literally were the most important innovators and pioneers in modern jazz drumming. All had taken part in the bebop era. Haynes was for years one of the most underrated drummers (by critics) in jazz. Part of the reason for this situation is that he had been in the group backing Sarah Vaughn for many years and this had gained him little attention outside of New York. His style has personified hipness and taste in the post bop eras and has, at last, received the acclaim due him. His playing has often been described as listening to popcorn pop. Surprising snare drum and bass drum "pops" are put in places other drummers rarely use. Philadelphia Joe Jones was called that to avoid confusion with Jo Jones of Basie fame, and had, since the Miles Davis Quintet - now known by Miles fans as the "First Quintet" - received the attention of thousands of jazz fans as one of the most influential drummers in the jazz of the fifties and early sixties. His brush work was beautiful and his time feel forceful and lifting. While sometimes he had a tendency to play loud, his overall playing was outstanding. Max Roach, the pioneer bebop drummer, while five years younger than Shelly, had been active on the Street while Shelly was in the service and was considered by many to be the heir-apparent of bop drummers after Kenny Clarke. The two crossed paths hundreds of times and Shelly considered him a friend. Interestingly, Max's playing has alternately been called technically superb and technically repetitious. Shelly perfectly analyzed his and Max's different concepts of soloing in an interview with radio jazz show host Sleepy Stein. "Max plays melodically from the rhythms that he plays. I play rhythms from thinking melodically" If one listens closely to the structures of each drummer's solos, this becomes immediately apparent. Roach often uses compressed, tightly structured groups of triplets and sixteenth notes, developing seemingly complex rhythm patterns by using the entire four-piece drum kit. The bass drum often keeps steady time throughout his solos during this period of his playing, enabling him to play polyrhythmic patterns by cross-sticking the tom-tom figures. Unlike technical whizzes like Buddy Rich, Shelly and Max seldom stayed on the snare drum for any length of time. The tour included trumpeter Howard McGhee, Charlie Mariano on alto, his wife Toshiko on piano, and Leroy Vinnegar on bass.

By now the foreign tours were quite popular with the musicians as well as the fans. The Japanese and the Europeans held the jazz players in high esteem and the concerts were always successful. It was refreshing for the jazz artists since the struggle to keep jazz alive in the 60s was becoming more and more difficult. In May, Shelly played the jazz festival at Arizona State University at Tempe, and upon his return to Hollywood, taped an ABC-TV Hollywood Palace that featured Caterina Valente. The program included Louie Bellson, Philly Joe and Irv Cottler and was aired on the 23rd of the month. That day Shelly was in San Francisco appearing on the bill with the Men, George Shearing, Anita O'Day and the Hampton Hawes Trio. In June the Men opened at the Club Shoji in San Diego. Or. this short trip south, the front line of the band had changed. Charlie Kennedy had replaced Kamuca and Don Sleet replaced Candoli. A month later, the group recorded - along with a big band - one of Shelly's favorite albums.

John Williams had, by now, become a most respected composer. He had always given Shelly much credit in encouraging him to write for films. The two talked about doing My Fair Lady as a jazz vehicle for the Men, within a big band, and doing the music as a true uninterrupted musical. Irene Kral was selected to sing the lead in this unique version of George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion, that had been adapted to the stage some eight years earlier. The male lead was none other than trumpeter Jack Sheldon, whose unique voice would later be heard in a variety of television work. His sense of humor literally smacks of "put-on" in this tour de force that segues from one tune to another - artfully and dramatically enhanced by the pure jazz writings of Williams. It is sad that the critics of the day were not always kind with this work, for the album - originally cut for Capitol and later reissued on the Talltree label - is now hard to find. It was called 
My Fair Lady, The Un-original Cast.

John Williams recalls his friendship with Shelly - "My first recollection of Shelly was when he was a very tall, lean youngster just out of the Coast Guard and I saw him and heard him playing drums with the Stan Kenton Orchestra at a theater in New York. He was instantly recognizable as a kind of star of the drum world. He came to maturity musically just at that kind of cross-over between the swing era into the bebop period. His playing at that particular moment was quite different in its approach. It had hard swing, but it also had elements that presaged and predicted the post-swing era of drumming that became so popular. He's remembered in those days as a kind of 'clean-cut kid', something very wholesome about him. His enthusiastic embrace of every kind of music and all subjects related to music and art was something that was contagious to people around him. He stuck out as a player and as a personality even early on." On his playing - "He is noteworthy for his originality, and I would say one of the aspects of his playing that was so unique, was his sense of color. So many drummers just banged away and kept time. Shelly, I remember, used to play four or five minute solos on just cymbals... different pitched cymbals long before electronic experts made pieces out of gong vibrations, Shelly was already experimenting with just the beautiful impressionistic effects that he used on cymbals in night club and recording performances. It's just one aspect of his playing that's so coloristic and so subtle... so different than the mainstream of drummers in his day.

He was constantly growing, listening to classical music and very interested in all kinds of sound sources - from African instruments to every kind of primitive thing that could be gotten from around the world that made a musical sound. He collected these things and used them. He was a leader of his colleagues, keeping his fellow musicians working - a losing proposition for him financially - he could have made much more money recording in the studios at night - but he insisted on having this what was then jazz Mecca in L.A. because his colleagues needed a place to play and Shelly seemed to be the only one around with the gumption and enthusiasm and almost, from a business point of view, 'careless joy' that it took to go through all the grief of operating a jazz club." The friendship between the two grew from working the Peter Gunn and Checkmate television series. "The My Fair Lady album was done in a kind of concerto grosso format, that is to say it featured Shelly's small group backed up by a large band. I wrote the arrangements for both Shelly's group and the large band. it was a great experience to work with Shelly and all the great jazz performers that he featured in his group and that we were able to hire for the band."


Shelly recorded Mancini's Pink Panther album, did a Latin tinged big band recording with Glen Gray's Casa Loma Orchestra, More Four Freshmen and Five Trombones for Capitol, and a George Shearing album featuring the quintet and "Four Woodwinds" (and a very young Gary Burton on vibes). Caesar Giovonni arranged a large orchestra to record Exciting Sounds, billed as the Clebanoff Strings and Percussion. At the Manne-Hole Stan Getz made his first appearance to sellout crowds. Also featured at the Manne-Hole was Roberto Miranda, "The World's Fastest Dishwasher." Miranda, a fledgling bass player, went to work early every night, put his bass in a small store-room behind and a little above the band stand, tuned-up, then went into the kitchen and washed dishes - as fast as he could - so that he could sneak back and literally play (unheard) with the best jazz players in the world. Miranda recalls -"As soon as Shelly learned of this, he would feature me as a soloist during intermissions. He would get on the microphone and say 'Now we'd like to feature our dishwasher on solo bass.' Shelly was a fine gentleman, always supportive. One time when I cut my hand on some glass, Shelly asked Rudy -'Can he still play?"' The Men played the Blackhawk again in September and appeared on the bill with Frank Sinatra (subbing for Nat Cole), Count Basie, Vicki Carr, Tony Bennett, Dianne Carroll, and Jimmie Rodgers on December 11th at the Dedication of The Pavilion of The Music Center in Los Angeles.

By the mid-Sixties, Shelly had signed with the makers of UniRoyal Tires to do a series of commercials using only the sounds of percussion. The creative juices flowed in this kind of challenge, and the famous "CAT'S PAW" commercials were the result. The TV viewer would see these stark black and white commercials and remember them for their originality As the car screeched to brake on a rain-slicked highway, the animated figure of a cat and its surefooted paw came suddenly into existence and "saved the day" Shelly would study the story boards and sketch out the sounds he wanted in each frame. By now he had collected a variety of percussion instruments that included the boobams and a "waterphone" he had picked up in San Francisco that looked like a hubcap on stilts with varying lengths of steel rods reaching towards the floor. He built wooden cabinets in the garage at home so he could store the scores of crude tom-toms, scapers, scratchers, rattles, and other "instruments" he found interesting.


One afternoon Shelly stopped by the Pro Drum Shop. This was Bob Yeager's pride and joy, a drum shop that served the Hollywood session drummers as well as the amateur. Here the studio percussionist could order anything he or she needed, have anything repaired, and sometimes just hang out. As often as not, the man behind the counter was Chuck Molanari, and one afternoon Shelly stopped by for a visit. The "john" was just to the side and kind of behind the counter and the famous drummer walked in to relieve himself, keeping the door slightly opened as he talked to Chuck. Over in the cymbal section was a young local who always wanted to know when the next Zildjian Cymbal shipment would be in - a real cymbal "nut." A new shipment had arrived and there he was playing on this cymbal and that one, finally playing on a new "ride" cymbal. Shelly peeked around the doorway and signaled to Chuck that he liked that sound and to save it for him if the young man didn't buy it. Later that evening, the young drummer stopped by the Manne-Hole to hear Shelly play and during an intermission asked Shelly about his new ride cymbal; he thought the sound was terrific. Shelly smiled and said, "That's the one you rejected today!"


By the beginning of 1965, Stan Kenton arrived at yet another era in his glorious musical life. He now embarked on furthering his long mission of the development of the "jazz orchestra" by assembling a 26-piece orchestra that would be called The Neophonic Orchestra. The idea had been pushed on to an interested Kenton by a team of Hollywood promoters who were nuts about jazz. The idea was to promote a series of four concerts in the first year. The music and the musicians would be snatched from the closeted jazz talents of the scores of studio players who supposedly hungered to play serious jazz. Like almost all Kenton dreams, it happened - and Shelly got the call. The list of contributing composers reads like a who's who of contemporary jazz - Rugolo, Paich, Gillespie, Riddle, Rogers, Nelson, Shearing, on and on. The first concert was set in the new Pavilion and Shelly put on his tux and played the opening concert on January 4th. The orchestra was well received, the music was a mix of the classics and jazz, "Third Stream" some called it. Kenton was in his glory. This was the Innovations all over again, only better. We can only imagine how he felt, standing in front of a dream orchestra and, once again, seeing Shelly Manne do his magic.


In February of 1965, Shelly and John Williams collaborated on another album for Capitol. It was the same format as the My Fair Lady album recorded some six months previously This album was all Gershwin, and appropriately enough called, Manne, That's Gershwin [Capitol T/ST2313]. These two albums were treasured by Shelly. After all, here was one of the most capable composers and arrangers writing for Shelly's own big band sessions, the only big band recordings under his own name. For years to come, when he mentioned his My Fair Lady album in an interview, the host almost always thought he was referring to the Previn collaboration - the "hit." Within a few short years, the two big band albums would become collector's items. In this musical format, the listener truly has the opportunity to hear the real Shelly Manne - capable of kicking the daylights out of a big band, the ability to play complex orchestrations that take the listener from a small jazz group sound and feel - to a swinging big band passage - to a symphonic orchestral passage - all the while adding to the music in his own remarkable way. Here is the Shelly Manne that the studio musicians and the composers and the contractors knew. The man who could do anything and make it better than even the composer could have thought possible. He redefined the word taste. Some say his picture should be next to the word in the dictionary.


The Manne-Hole presented Ravi Shankar on Sunday January 24th and agreed there would be no smoking and no selling of booze. The renowned sitarist from India became the 'in' musician of the period. All over the country grown men walked into their local clothier and purchased "Nehru shirts." The flower children were arriving on the scene. Transcendental meditation classes were offered in the local Unitarian church or other places where "religion" wasn't threatened.

The "door" problem at the Manne-Hole continued to perplex Shelly and Rudy. The hundreds of musician friends of Shelly's simply expected free admission. Percussionist Emil Richards recalls, "As they walked in they would say – “I’m a friend of Shelly's,' and not expect to have to pay - or Shelly would be on the door and would let everybody in free. That had to stop. so they put a kid on the door who didn't know anybody - didn't know a musician from beans - so I'm trying to get in with Mel Lewis one night and the guy said $3, or whatever the cover was, and Mel said ,'Do you know who I am?' and the kid says 'I don't know who you are, and I don’t give a shit who you are - $3.' So Mel runs around the back and I said: No, c'mon, I heard from Shelly that this was a problem.' So we go to the back anyway and here was the guy waiting there for Mel and wouldn't let him in! "


The Neophonic Orchestra played their second and third concerts on February 1st and March 1st, both at the Pavilion. On the 19th of March, a fourth concert was played, again at the Pavilion. The plan to take the orchestra to other cities had been scrubbed; it would cost too much money and be too hard to get musicians to leave town. This was the same problem Kenton experienced with the Innovations Orchestra some fourteen years earlier. There were great musicians available in Los Angeles, they were ready to play jazz, but it was difficult to get them to leave town. Shelly would see the same musicians in the studios, during the day, performing every kind of music imaginable. Not all the movies made were exactly "Academy Award" material. Shelly played on such epics as Taffy and the Jungle Hunters. And record dates could be a little strange as well. Diz Greer, a kind of poet/narrator, used Shelly while describing night life around L.A. among other things. But for the most part, the work Shelly was doing were big time, challenging projects. George Dunning D used him on The Big Valley, and Lalo Schifrin G, used him on most everything he did, including Mission Impossible. Organist Rieber Hovde used Shelly and old friend Leroy Vinnegar for his album on the Repeat label.

In May, Shelly returned to Arizona State University to participate in their jazz festival and conduct a clinic. He was always frustrated with college players not playing good time. He tried to explain that everybody in the band needed to develop good time and explained that everybody can learn to keep time. Not everybody can swing - that's from the heart, but there could be no excuse for bad time. The music cannot happen without the time happening! When he found good players at the clinics he conducted, he was elated. By the mid-sixties, many of the traveling bands were discovering that there was a wealth of work to be had by conducting clinics at the college level. It would be a few years before they would all learn how to take advantage of that. The one who blazed that trail was none other than Stanley Newcomb Kenton.

On the 31st of July, Dick and Barbara Nash hosted the annual musicians' Christmas Party at their home. The party moved from year to year and among the participants were the Bob Bains, Jack and Eve Marshall, Milt Raskin, Gene and Fran Cipriano, and Johnny and Barbara Williams. The group would sing hip Christmas carols written by Al Burt and others and the party became an annual event for many years. One year, screenwriter Jeff Alexander wrote a carol so ribald that nobody could sing the “scatology.”


By the autumn of 1965, Frank Strozier had replaced Kamuca in Shelly's group. Richie was busying himself with other work. Shelly would book a quartet gig from time to time without Conte, using sax, drums, piano and bass. In September, the Shelly Manne Quartet (Budwig, Freeman, Strozier, and Shelly) opened at the Trident in Sausalito, closing on the 19th. The next day, Shelly taped an TV episode called This Proud Land. In October, the Men traveled back north to San Francisco and performed Manne–That’s Gershwin with the Rudy Salvini Orchestra at San Francisco University. Two weeks later, on November 15th, Conte, Russ, Monty and Frank Strozier played the Fifth Anniversary of the Manne-Hole. Now, on the sign just inside the club's door was the coming attraction board. Painted on the bottom was "Daryl B. Mordecombe." And there was more to come. Shelly insisted on including groups that were great musically, but not necessarily crowd-pleasers. Jimmy Giuffre's group was a little too cerebral - Art Farmer and Jim Hall had a marvelous group, but the people didn't take to them, other than a small contingency. Rudy didn't understand Shelly's desire to include bands that didn't sell. After all, it was tough enough to make a profit as it was, but Shelly was interested in the music - and he would make sure the payroll was met. These years were much leaner for jazz recordings, even for Shelly. The number of jazz albums produced had fallen since the avant-garde bands had become the thing. A good percentage of the audience had abandoned jazz they didn't understand - and rock had captured the young.

By year's end, Shelly had worked on Von Ryan’s Express, Dr Zhivago, The Great Race with Hank Mancini, Our Man Flint, and others. Fans of The Big Valley didn't know it, but they were listening to the percussive talents of Shelly Manne - and when that fantastic brushwork is heard (even today on re-runs), on the Wild, Wild, West, it is Shelly. On the 16th of December, the Men performed at the Little Theatre at L.A. Valley College in Van Nuys.


As 1966 arrived, Shelly was doing at least 20 or 30 film soundtracks a year, not to mention the weekly television shows. Universal Studios was keeping hundreds of musicians busy every week. Sandy DeCrescent had been the assistant to Bobby Helfer, but now, after Helfer's suicide, was establishing her own independent office as musical contractor for the studios. She not only booked Shelly for Universal, but handled calls for nearly every studio in town, big and small. She had come to expect the unexpected in Shelly's humor, but one episode was truly bizarre. There was a small room where the musicians took their "10 minutes out of the hour" break that the union contract entitled them to. Here the musicians would smoke, drink coffee, or grab a snack. The coffee urn was situated so the spigot was about crotch-high on Shelly (belly-high for most people), and the opportunity to do a "visual" was just too good to pass up for the drummer. He would position himself so that from the back it looked like he was urinating he would go through the motions of seemingly "taking it out," and then the onlookers standing in back of him would watch as he held the cup low and a stream of black coffee would fill the cup. He was doing this one day, much to her surprise, as Sandy's mother passed through the room.

Ivan Tors was producing a new television series called Daktari, a spin-off from a movie made the previous year called Clarence, The Cross-eyed Lion. This new show would feature the lion, as well as a group of other animals and actors who "lived" somewhere in the jungle and spent each waking hour fixing-up or finding lost animals. The vet was called "Daktari," the chimp was called "Judy" and Shelly Manne had been selected to write the music and conduct it for the screen. Shelly assembled the musicians he knew could do the job and among them were percussionist Emil Richards and guitarist Bob Bain. On the first day of recording, the first day of Shelly’s conducting career, the musicians planned their chance to do to Shelly what he was always doing to them. Emil passed the word through the orchestra, "Nobody play a note!" Shelly stepped up to the podium, the red light went on. he brought down the downbeat and nothing happened - nobody played. Shelly fell out. He said, "Thanks a lot, my friends, my buddies.” After a good laugh, the music began and Shelly’s compositions became the best part of the series. Every sound imaginable was used for the "jungle" effects. Drummer John Guerin remembers Shelly walking in one day with a pitchfork he had brought from his horse barn. He had the ability to know just what sound to use for the moment. Emil and Shelly sang the title song in unison, Daktari!

The Neophonic played another concert at the Pavilion on February 7th, this time featuring Shelly's band and the Don Ellis "Hindustani jazz Sextet." Writers for the concert were Frank Comstock, Bobby Troup, Bob Enevoldsen, Duane Tatro, and Dave Grusin. Ray Brown, Kessel and Shelly worked on a Jimmy Stewart movie and Shelly started working on the Mission Impossible television series. Don Specht was using him on nearly every commercial he did. "It was useless to write a drum part for Shelly, because he knew just the right thing to do, always." A small album called An Afternoon With Don Specht was recorded on Soundtrax and it displays the versatile writing skills of Specht - and the versatile playing skills of Shelly - a good example of the various styles the studio musician was asked to play. Very few recordings are evident in this period of Shelly's career, yet he was incredibly busy Most of his recording work was being done on the sound stages of the major film studios. He did record with the Men for Atlantic, a Manne-Hole session [Boss Sounds!, Atlantic LP/SD1469; Koch Jazz KOC CD-8539-2]. He did a session with Ella Fitzgerald on Verve and shared drumming duties with Grady Tate on an Oliver Nelson album recorded in New York. Grady played with the small group, Shelly with the big band.


The Men and Ruth Price traveled to Seattle for 10 days at The Penthouse, just one of many short hops the group made. The local paper noted that the Men and Ruth provided "high quality jazz." The article also included Shelly's comments about working on Daktari. "It's going to be real ethnic - drums, bells, rattles and my chanting." At home base, the Manne-Hole was really concentrating on bringing in as many big names as they could afford. Stan Getz did a knock-out business, so did Cannonball, and Shelly was thrilled to finally have Monk play the club. Rudy remembers the occasion --one night, at the end of the last set, the room wouldn't let him go - standing ovation kind of thing. Monk finally came back, sat down on the stage by himself and played 'I Love You.' It was one of the most beautiful moments in the history of the club." Thelonious had, by this time, apologized to Shelly for the aborted recording session that had happened some six years before. In October, in New York, Shelly and bassist Eddie Gomez did a trio album with Bill Evans called, A Simple Matter of Conviction [CD 837-757-2].


Two weeks later, the Poll Winners - Brown, Kessel and Manne - played the Pilgrimage Theatre in Los Angeles. The forty-six-year-old drummer was now listening to the younger players. Everybody was talking about Tony Williams' drumming and Elvin Jones was beginning to really get some recognition. Shelly stated that it was impossible not to be influenced by these great players, but that "you must do your own thing." The studio scene was beginning to change and the generic sound was getting to him. "You used to go into a studio, and the room, the microphones, the booth, the board, and the baffles were put there to service the music and the musicians. Now, sometimes, it's the absolute opposite. It looks like the musicians are there to service the microphones." He continued to be concerned, not just for himself but for the music scene in general, that the individual's sound was being taken away. "They shouldn't change the way we play or the way we tune our instruments to get our individualistic sounds. They should record the music as it lays. I know that nowadays, technology has the upper hand, particularly when they record a drum-set with ten mic's and it looks like you're doing an address on world peace. I'd rather have a drum-set recorded with two overheads, and maybe a bass drum mic. Some of the best records I’ve made were done with ribbon mic’s – the old RCA 44’s and 47’s – and not the condenser mic’s. They gace the drums the best, most natural sound, and they didn’t sound electric. It’s a warm sound. You know. It’s the air space between your ears and the instrument that makes the sound. I don’t care what the advertisements say; you can’t stuff a mic down inside a bass drum and get that same natural sound.”


Part 3




By early 1967, the list of artists that had played the Manne-Hole read like a Who's Who of jazz. The bandstand at the Manne-Hole had to be expanded for the big bands Shelly brought in. The bands of Kenton, Herman and Gerald Wilson were among them. Shelly continued to insist that the help not hustle the patrons for drinks. He would use the quintet opposite some of the headliners on weekends - imagine seeing visiting name artists and Shelly's band all in the same night. But the piano playing of Russ Freeman was about to depart from the long association with the club, the group, and Shelly. He had watched the club grow from its inception. He could recall that when the room was expanded and the bandstand moved to the back wall that - "We could never get the acoustics and the 'feel' back there like it was when it was on the side. For years we tried all kinds of stuff - hanging things behind, a canopy over - just was never able to grab that sound. The feel of the original bandstand was great. Every night was terrific playing there." He could also remember some of the players from the east putting Shelly's playing down. "They did not know what they were talking about, I guarantee you. They only heard the surface things - things that were different from the things they were used to hearing without realizing what it felt like to play with him. Playing with Shelly was a unique experience."


By the mid-sixties, jazz had changed so much that Freeman was losing interest. "It got so ridiculous that one time at the Manne-Hole a horn player would be at the front door of the club, another would be in the band room in the back, the drummer was on the stage and the piano player was hitting the keyboards with his fists. They were all playing at the same time, not listening to each other at all. People were sitting in the audience thinking this was just terrific. I thought wait a minute! This is too bizarre for me. I just didn't like the direction jazz was taking." Between that and the opportunity to make money in the show business end of music, Russ left the band. He took a job playing for Mitzi Gaynor's night club act that paid him ,'more money than I ever thought existed in the world." He worked with Gaynor for the next three years, then moved on to the Rowan and  Martin's Laugh-In show.The Men and the Airmen of Note recorded a live performance (with Shelly as guest artist) at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium, Howard Roberts used Shelly on an album for Capitol, and Nancy Wilson recorded with arrangements by Billy May and Oliver Nelson and drumming by Shelly Manne. The new Men - Candoli, Strozier, bassist Monty Budwig and pianist Mike Wofford, cut an album for Atlantic called Jazz Gunn [Atlantic LP/SD 1487]. Wofford was about to prove himself a most capable and sensitive keyboardist. Back from San Francisco, Monty replaced Chuck Berghofer, who had broken into the recording studio scene, making "These Boots Are Made For Walkin"' by Nancy Sinatra, among other hits. In March, 1967, Shelly played the Academy Awards Show under the baton of Johnny Green and a week later was in the studios working on a commercial for Shell Oil. He did the album, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying for Universal Artists, and he and Ray Brown played on the Andre Previn-Leontyne Price album called Right As Rain. At the end of April, the new Men played the Jazz Workshop in San Francisco for five days. Early summer saw more session dates for the Men on the Atlantic and Concord labels. In August there was a Tommy Vig big band session and by September, the musical drummer began work on the story boards and cues for an animation feature called The Box.


Shelly was becoming very upset about critics trying to merge jazz with rock and other forms of current pop music. He told Leonard Feather - "Too many people are trying too hard to give the impression that there are no more boundary lines between jazz and pop, or between any one kind of music and another." He continued - If the public thinks pop and jazz are the same, creativity will be smothered." Manne was always trying to keep the art form creative. He booked acts in the Manne-Hole that didn't exactly fit his views of what jazz was, but he invited freedom within the art form. After all, he booked in Archie Schepp when he knew that the musician was known to karate-chop the piano as part of his repertoire. Rudy remembers it well: "We had a double-bill with Archie and pianist Dave McKay. We had the Steinway set up and I told Archie we would really appreciate it if you didn't fool with the piano. We even rented a beautiful upright so he could use that instead. During the evening, Schepp sat down at the piano, tries it out by playing nice and easy That night he chopped the Steinway" But this was not what Shelly was talking about. He could see the movement - the cross-over playing – from rock into jazz and vice versa. But even this was not what bothered him; not even the on-stage antics of Schepp. It was the public's misinterpretation of what jazz is, what rock is, what blues is. Even the Playboy poll was about to lump their famous Jazz Poll into what they would call the Playboy Jazz & Pop Poll. "This means that a great musician like Tony Williams, Miles Davis' drummer, must now compete with Ringo Starr, who has millions of fans," Shelly commented.

Shelly booked Miles into the Manne-Hole and it was an absolute success. It was the most expensive group the club had ever booked and though Miles was infamous in his habit of fluffing off people and club owners, Shelly had nothing but great things to say about the famous jazz star. "A lot of people put Miles down, and he does have his faults, but at the Manne-Hole he really took care of business." There were people swarming all over the little club, the musician's room was always full of friends and fans, but he would always watch the time and played full sets. "One time, when the crowd outside was huge, he even split the last set and played an extra one." The problem the Manne-Hole management had was that, too often, they would call to re-book a group a year later, and the cost had gone out-of-sight.

The famous little club on North Cahuenga was booking Sonny Rollins, Cal Tjader, Gil Evans' big band, Sergio Mendes, and Roberta Flack. Shelly was beginning to experiment with electronics. Mike Wofford added a Fender-Rhodes, as were other jazz keyboardists of the day Wofford had first worked the Manne-Hole in 1961 with Shorty Rogers' band on Tuesday nights recalls how great Shelly was: "Shelly would come in to hear us and, characteristic of his concern and warmth, would really listen to me, the young, green piano player from San Diego. He was truly gracious to a kid new and still learning. His encouragement meant a great deal to me at that time in my life. More than anything else, I took away from being around Shelly the feeling that jazz is a grand form of art and that excellence in its performance is indeed a great responsibility of the musician. Shelly, almost more than any other player I've worked with, genuinely revered the jazz medium."


When Archie Schepp made his debut performance at the Manne-Hole, Mike Wofford witnessed one set when, after a solo of "shrieks, squawks, and various multi-note barrages for about forty minutes," one patron stood up in the back of the room and yelled, "We can stand it as long as you can!" Wofford also remembers when Thelonious played the club for the first time, "It was getting late opening night with everyone there but Monk. As the hour grew later and no leader, Rudy called Thelonious' hotel. The hotel operator connected Rudy with Monk's room and 'T' answered. Rudy asked, 'Thelonious, do you know what time it is? Monk said 'Yeah man, you're hanging me up!"' When Les McCann performed during one of many engagements at the club, one of his rituals was to, at some time during the night, wait for a lull in the action, walk into the ladies' room, and after disappearing for a moment would boom his voice audible all over the club - saying, "DO YOU MEAN TO SIT THERE AND TELL ME..." Such were the scenes in and around the business of operating Shelly's Manne-Hole.

"Shelly and Flip had a long-standing tradition of inviting the entire visiting group, whoever might be working at the club, to dinner at their home on the first night off," recalls Wofford. It was an opportunity that allowed the young pianist to meet, among others, the great Bill Evans. At other times, other artists and their significant others who were frequent guests at the Marine ranch included Zoot and Louise Sims, the Previns, the Spechts, the Browns, the DeCrescents, the Bunkers, on and on. Flip kept a diary of their likes and dislikes - entries would read: "No pork, loves ice cream" or "ate everything!"

The ever-growing guest list read like a Who's Who of jazz! Eddie Gomez, Gary McFarland, Gabor Zabo, Jim Hall, Milt Jackso Connie Kay, Barney Kessel, Gerald Wiggins, "Sweets," Al and Flo Cohn, Bola Sete, Roy Haynes and his band, Jimmy Cobb, and hundreds of others. In addition to the business of the Manne-Hole, Shelly was working on The Box an animated short subject that he completed in October. It would win an Oscar at the next Academy Awards presentation. This was, like the "Tiger Paw" commercial, an all-percussion soundtrack. But here was an animated work of art - a wordless story about a box, enhanced by the inventive mind of Manne.


The late months of 1967 found the Men and Jimmy Witherspoon at the Pilgrimage Jazz Festival. Shelly played a benefit in Santa Monica with Duke Ellington, Tony Bennett, Oliver Nelson and a number of name jazz artists, then took the Men to San Francisco for a week. By the end of November, he recorded a Daktari soundtrack album for Atlantic. His schedule in the film studios was almost exhausting, yet the energy went on and on and so did the humor. Emil Richards recalls one session when the orchestra was about to break for lunch and the conductor suddenly remembered that a drum roll was needed for one spot in the film. "Everybody stay where you are - we need a drum roll, Shelly" The red light went on and unknown to anyone, Shelly had loosened his trousers. As 75 or 80 musicians trying to remain silent for the take looked on, Shelly started the roll and his pants slowly fell to his ankles revealing polka dot underwear. If he wasn't doing visual humor, he would try other things. When the conductor would stop the orchestra to instruct the cellists about a part, he got their attention by saying "Celli." Immediately, from the percussion department would come a high squeaky voice saying, "Yes?"

As the political year of 1968 came into being, many of the Hollywood music movers an, shakers were getting behind Eugene McCarthy When the Mannes hit the horse shows with their anti-Vietnam War "Out of Asia or Out of Office" bumper stickers, they surprised their fellow horse enthusiasts. Flip remembers that - "You could have shot a cannon off at a horse show and not hit a liberal. They didn't quite know what to make of us." Flip and Marilyn Feldman, Victor's wife, were quite active in the anti-war movement and "got the boys to play all kinds of rallies." They formed the Music for McCarthy Committee, a group that included names like John and Barbara Williams, the Bunkers, the Grusins, Bobby Helfer, Quincy Jones and others. Not only were the politics liberal in the Manne household, so was the new group Shelly was rehearsing. Along with Wofford on keyboards, he used John Gross on tenor, Gary Barone on trumpet and Albert Stinson on bass. The new group was unlike anything Shelly had tried. He had been at the forefront of the so-called "West Coast" cool sound of the mid-fifties, now a decade later he was moving into a new era for him, the band, and the Manne-Hole. At first the change was gradual. The influences of Miles and Tony Williams and Herbie Hancock had been felt everywhere. The music was freer, though aggressive. The structure of the arrangements were less restrictive, the role of the drummer changing from timekeeper to colorist - something Shelly had been doing in jazz for decades. The group worked out more extensive charts, using the Manne-Hole as their laboratory. By early summer, the group was playing concerts performing works by Steve Bohannon, Jimmy Rowles, Charles Tolliver and Clare Fischer. In the recording studios, Shelly was working with Michel LeGrand with Nancy Wilson and with Frank Zappa. Zappa was doing an album called Lumpy Gravy and wanted the kind of drumming he knew Shelly could do so well. Zappa had the reputation of having contempt for anything within the realm of normality. When Shelly went to the recording date, he was pleasantly surprised at Zappa's musicianship.


Over on the film studio lots, Shelly was doing Oliver, Romeo and Juliet, Ice Station Zebra, Rosemary’s Baby, and scores of scores. Michele LeGrand, Ray Brown, and Shelly recorded At Shelly’s Manne-Hole for Verve in April. LeGrand would become a regular in the club's itinerary for the next few years. His song writing for the movies was now well established, and he was a very good piano player. The patrons loved him. Shelly worked with him on the soundtrack of The Thomas Crown Affair and LeGrand was added to the list of composers who made Shelly their first-call drummer. By mid-summer, Shelly was set to teach the Introduction to Jazz Class on Wednesday evenings at Valley State. "The idea intrigued me," he said.

Bill Burrid's Animal World (Wild Kingdom) was ready for music and Don Specht was called by the sponsor for the title music. The writer immediately talked to Shelly, especially since he was doing the "Daktari" music. "He was a natural for this, so I told him, 'Get your cartage service to send everything you've got, all the toys, boobams, finger cymbals, the whole thing,' so he said 'great.' I told him that the session was set for 7 p.m. at Radio Recorders and, 'it'll be just the two of us and we'll multi-track.' He asked if I had written anything out and I simply told him I'd figure it out when we get there. That particular studio was where Lawrence Welk pre-recorded his shows and they had a beautiful twelve-foot harpsichord, double register harpsichord, probably only used to play 'Bubbles In the Wine.' So I sat down, the producer was there, Bill Burrid was there, and I just came up with this thing and Shelly said, 'Just let me put one track with you for a tempo guide.' We faked the whole thing, Shelly had me play scratchers or something. To give you an insight into the character of Shelly being thoughtful and generous in addition to that super-wit, he said, 'You can leave my name off the ASCAP filing.' I said: 'What are you talking about? He said, 'You're going to put this into ASCAP, aren't you?’ I told him that the advertising agencies wouldn't allow me to register anything for commercials. Shelly gently informed me that ‘this was a TV theme for God's sake - I get residuals from Daktari all the time.' So I did and thirty years later I still get checks. Shelly was nobody’s fool.” Specht usually wrote commercials, things like a Rice-a-Roni spot, so this was a new venture for him. “I never wrote for Shelly. He would listen through the first run-through and by the time we were ready to ‘take,’ he had it changed. He had the greatest musical ear in that he could adapt to whatever the instrumentation or the style. He hated to play rock ‘n roll, but he’d do it. We would sometimes have Victor Feldman, Larry Bunker or John Guerin, or all three and Shelly would just take charge and make it happen.”

By 1969, Shelly and a non-electric version of his Men had appeared with Henri Temianka's Southern California Chamber Symphony at a concert at the University of California in Los Angeles. The drummer and the conductor came up with a "go for Baroque" concept of mixing jazz and Bach. UCLA’s Royce Hall had to turn away concert-going hopefuls; it was a sell-out smash. The new group weaved jazz magic. The orchestra performed three of the Brandenburg concerti, and Shelly and the group improvised around the orchestral interpretations. The reviews were mixed, but the crowd loved it. The idea of superimposing jazz over the orchestra and making it work was a tribute to the mindset of the musicians involved, both in the orchestra and the jazz group. "Manne put on a dazzling display of brushwork behind the chamber soloists" - "goosed by the humorous fireworks of Manne" - "Manne and his Men offered beautiful playing." These were the comments made by the critics who recognized the similarity between the conductor and the drummer; both were never content to stay on one level - "never flirting with stagnation." Two weeks after the concert, Shelly received a letter from Ray Bradbury, President of the Chamber Symphony Society, thanking him for the "kind contribution in response to our request for help at this time." Whether it was a junkie calling in the middle-of-the-night for help, or a lofty organization in need, Shelly was there to help, offering his time and talents.


On June 19th, the Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences "roasted" Stan Kenton. Shelly showed his home movies of the 1948 Kenton bus tour and performed his own brand of humor throughout the festivities. The group, consisting of many ex-Kenton sidemen, presented the tall bandleader with pieces of plumbing from a Kansas City dressing room, a rural mail box from the Midwest, then performed "Intermission Riff" and "Unison Riff" for their old boss. Shelly, mischievous as always, led and "mis-led" the band.

The first Lake Tahoe Music Festival was scheduled for August and it would include Temianka and the chamber orchestra, Marian Anderson narrating Copland's "A Lincoln Portrait," and Shelly and the band repeating their "Bach Transmogrified" program. There was a new jazz festival series set for the Pilgrimage Theater September through November that would include the music of Stan Kenton and Shelly Manne. Photographer Fred Seligo took his seal from his film rolls that read REMOVE THIS BAND COMPLETELY and pasted it on the Manne-Hole bandstand while his friend Cannonball Adderley played the club. In addition to working on films like They Shoot Horses, Don't They? and Topaz and The Wild Bunch and Marlowe and Hello Dolly and Sweet Charity and MacKenna’s Gold, Shelly was writing the music score for Young Billy Young, that was to star Robert Mitchum and Angie Dickinson. The western-type movie benefited from the unusual musical background, and while Mitchum sings the opening title song, the music gets better and better as the movie progresses. By August Shelly had incorporated under the name "Manne-Kind." All his business would be transacted under this name henceforth. He had been sued over a minor car accident by a woman (who eventually wound up in jail), and this would protect him from further annoyance and grief.

By autumn, Shelly had finished work on Gaily,Gaily for Hank Mancini. For John Barry, he did Midnight Cowboy. For Sid Ramin, he did Stiletto. For Lawrence Rosenthal, he did Rashoman. Just as Daktari ended, Jambo started. This was a Saturday morning series of animal films and stories that kept actor Marshall Thompson and his chimp friend Judy working for a couple of years after their old series ended; it kept Shelly working, too. Jazz recordings were still down nationwide as well as on the West Coast.


Shelly did a Sonny Criss album for Prestige with Hamp Hawes and Monty Budwig and the alto saxophonist I’ll Catch the Sun, Prestige LP 7628]. Down at the ManneHole, in early November, Eurofilms began shooting Hawes, Coop, and Ray Brown for a 30-minute film presenting jazz as producer Jack Lewerke thought it should be, in a club setting. Knowing what his European market wanted - jazz! - he also felt that "we owe it to posterity to put some of the great musicians on film or tape." He pointed out that "there's not an inch of film of Charlie Parker anywhere." (There actually was some footage shot of Parker.) While Shelly was venturing into new horizons with his "electronic" Men, he easily and casually returned to the more classic "modern jazz" of the 50s for this, the first in a series, that Eurofilms filmed in the United States. It was quite clear that the European market was more sophisticated in its musical tastes. For sometime, jazz musicians had either completely moved to England, Sweden, Italy France, or Denmark, or spent a good part of their year there. This had been going on since the mid-fifities - Kenny Clarke, Johnny Griffin, Don Byas, Ben Webster; Coleman Hawkins and Benny Carter had spent at least a couple of years in Europe back in the mid-to-late 1930s. One of the benefits was the lack of racial discrimination, or very little of it, but mostly it was because of the acceptance and popularity of the music.


On December 11th and 12th, Shelly took his new group into the Contemporary Studios and recorded Outside [Contemporary S7624]. This album included Juney Booth on bass, Pete Robinson on piano, and Barone and Gross in the front line. This was the first album fans had been able to buy of the new group, the new Men. Some of the older fans couldn't quite get into the music, but Shelly - ever hungry for the new - had gradually changed his music into the realm of the avant-garde. Wofford continued to be a marvelously musical attribute to Shelly and would be for some time to come. Shelly enjoyed working with Mike and the feeling was more than just mutual. Wofford continued to marvel at the human side of his leader. "Shelly's generosity towards other musicians down on their luck was, I think, pretty well known. I personally saw him quietly and unobtrusively offer aid in various ways not the least in outright cash - to fellow jazz musicians on hard times or, in the case of young people, simply struggling to get started. I never had to ask for anything, fortunately, but if I had it would have been there, no questions asked. As a band leader who, I know, had to go into his own pocket to keep a group working, and as a friend, Shelly’s generosity was nonpareil."

1970 would see the 50-year-old drumming legend on the cover of the International Musician along with a number of other jazz stars, including Don Ellis. Ellis was making a name for himself as the California writer whose big band specialized in playing "odd" time signatures. Shelly stated that some of the time signatures looked more like hat sizes - 12/8-9/8-7/4. He also quipped that the only thing Don Ellis plays in 4/4 is "Take Five!"

Down at the Manne-Hole Elvin Jones and his bassist entered into such a loud argument – that eventually got physical - that one of the male flower children heard the ruckus out front and running to the musician's room, cried - "Elvin, Jimmy, remember Trane! A love supreme... a love supreme!" As Mike Wofford recalls, "the fight continued." On a spring evening, Oliver Nelson formed a jazz quartet with Ray Brown, Shelly, and Larry Nash, and performed] with the Los Angeles Philharmonic under the baton of Zubin Mehta.


Before Shelly took his band to Europe for a series of festivals, he recorded an album for June Christy called The Last Album. His next jazz recording would be in England at Ronnie Scott's famous jazz club. This was at the end of the jazz tour that included Italy. The ex-Ted Heath saxophonist had opened a club in the heart of England's entertainment section and booked American jazz stars whenever possible. By this time, Shelly had added John Morrell on guitar and the band had become even more "electric." Shelly had been playing "funk" on soundtracks in the studios and by now this form had made its way into his charts. The tour had shown overseas fans that the famous drummer had not stood still in his approach to playing jazz. "Our three concerts in Italy reaffirmed my faith in everything I've been doing," Shelly commented. He found it necessary to keep expanding musically "You don't need to change forcibly, just evolve naturally"

There was an aspiring young Los Angeles drummer from the Watts area who became yet another aspirant of Shelly Marine. Ndugu [Leon] Chancler tells his story - "Shelly Marine represented a dream for me that he himself aided making a reality. Being not only a great studio musician, but a great jazz musician as well, Shelly was the kind of musician I wanted to be - versatile, contemporary, and very humane. From going to the Marme-Hole and seeing Shelly and the Men, he and I became friends - first, as the man that gave an encouraging helping hand, to giving me a place to play and develop my talents under his watchful eye. It was only apropos that my first gig upon graduation from high school was at the Manne-Hole with Gerald Wilson's Big Band. From that point on, the Manne-Hole was home and Shelly one of my musical guardians." Shelly spread the word about Ndugu's playing and with his endorsement, Ndugu started to accompany acts like Thelonious Monk, Joe Henderson, Eddie Harris, Harold Land-Bobby Hutcherson, Donald Byrd and James Moody, among others. "It was Shelly and Herbie Hancock that lobbied to Freddie Hubbard to listen to me at the club, which resulted in me being hired." Later Hubbard and Shelly and Walter Bishop, Jr. told Miles Davis about the youngster. "It was through Shelly that I was introduced to some of the greatest names in jazz at a very young age." By helping others, Shelly was instinctively passing on a jazz tradition that he had first experienced from the likes of Hawkins and Webster when he himself roamed 52nd Street.


The big records of the year were being made by the likes of Tiny Tim, Jose Feliciano, Glen Campbell, and a wild mixture of other kinds of music. "Acid Rock" was now what was supposed to be happening and Shelly was ever optimistic that jazz would survive in spite of the fact that many young people could hear nothing on the radio but eighth note rock 'n roll. He told Martin Bronstein of the Montreal Star that he felt the kids would eventually get tired of hearing the "same banal music; the same changes, everybody trying to sing the same. And they'll come to jazz. I don't think it's gonna die." At home, teaching at Valley College, he reallocated the money the kid were supposed to spend on books and brought in live jazz musicians. He felt that hearing it was better than reading about it. Before the year was out, he recorded Barney Kessel's Autumn Leaves album with Jimmy Rowles, Ray Brown, and Teddy Edwards.


In January of 1971 Shelly took his young band north to the El Matador on San Francisco's Broadway for five nights. He told the Oakland Tribune that he felt a jazz musician must get out on the road now and then, to "rejuvenate" an to have the ego stimulated. "You have to know at first hand that people do care about what you're doing, and are listening and trying to understand." In March, in Los Angeles, the American Civil Liberties Union presented a "Salute to Shelly Manne" in the Windjammer Room of the Marina Del Rey Hotel. Shelly and Buddy Collette had played ACLU events for years. The fund-raiser included a performance by Shelly's group and the drummer was praised by many visiting musicians. Cal Tjader, Vic Feldman, Willie Bobo, Gabor Szabo, Ray Brown, "Cannonball" Adderley, and a young tenor sensation by the name of John Klemmer sat in. By August, Klemmer would send a letter to Shelly thanking him for playing on his very first album for Impulse. "Now I know for myself, at first hand experience, why Shelly Manne is one of the best jazz drummers on the scene. I knew it before, but now I really know it!!" He went on to thank Shelly for his superb musicianship. Klemmer had, the previous year, appeared with his group at the Manne-Hole during the club's 10th anniversary week. Monk was supposed to play that week, but had been taken ill.

In the studios, Shelly was recording with everybody from Mancini to Mrs. Miller. Miller was a year-in-year-out everynight member of the Tonight Show audience, and who was such a character that she had been singled-out by every host since Steve Allen. Now there had been gathered an all-star band that included Benny Carter, "Sweets" Edison, Bud Shank, Shelly and others to record her singing tunes with such risqué titles as "I Had To Go and Lose It At The Astor," and "The Weekend of A Private Secretary" On more serious musical sessions, Shelly did albums with Joe Williams, Sarah Vaughan (with Michele LeGrand), and a Mancini album for Victor. By the fall, arrangements were made for a trip to Brazil. "I have the pleasure of informing you that under the Honorary Presidency, the President of the Republic of Brazil, and His Excellency the Minister of Foreign Relations, and under the auspices of the Secretariat of Tourism, the VI INTERNATIONAL SONG FESTIVAL will be held in the city of Rio de Janeiro from September 23 to October 4, 1971 where there will be approximately 40 countries participating in the contest," wrote the Consulate General of Brazil. "On behalf of Dr. Augusto J. Marzagao, the Festival's Director, who will be personally greeting you in Rio de Janeiro and looking after your welfare, I have the pleasure of inviting you to attend the festival as a guest of honor." Flip remembers the whole trip was very strange. "The political thing was a little frightening down there at that time and we weren't sure about going. Shelly called Jane Fonda to ask about the scene there, and we finally decided to go." An L.A. booker put the thing together, with Shelly supposed to play behind a singer by the name of Chi Coltrane. Nobody knew who she was, but Shelly assumed she was somehow connected to the now deceased tenor sax legend.

After a series of conflicts, airline ticket mix-ups and the likes, the Mannes finally reached Rio. Shelly rehearsed with the singer who turned out to be a white vocalist who had no connection with John Coltrane or real jazz for that matter. "Shelly was supposed to do a radio show with her, but they had Shelly standing, waiting outside in a hallway," recalls Flip. "A guy came out, did a couple of doubletakes and asked why Shelly Manne was kept waiting in the hall. The other people asked who he was, and the guy said 'Are you kidding?"' From then on Shelly was treated like royalty. In fact, they had him open the festival, sitting high on the stage in a white suit, a spot light on him as the curtain opened on the huge stage. "The crowd noise was incredible," remembers Flip. The Mannes stayed for a week or so, and visited with many of the Brazilian musicians. The drummers of Brazil, like Cuba, are among the best in the world. One day Shelly went out of the hotel and came upon a drummer who had been waiting for him, and who cried out, "I never thought I would get to meet you." It was on this trip that Shelly became fascinated with the berimbau, a Brazilian instrument that resembles an archer's bow and is struck or plucked or bowed, usually while the player holds a small shaker.

Throughout the United States, the Vietnam war protests continued. President Nixon had vowed to get the troops home and everyone was getting impatient. The country had experienced the Chicago riots of the '68 Democratic Convention, forever changing the mood of the country, and now in 1971, was beginning to experience "Nehru" suits, long hair with sideburns, and Three Dog Night singing "Joy to the World." Russ Freeman was going full tilt with Rowan and Martin's "Laugh-In." Even Nixon had made a cameo appearance, saying "Sock it to me!" Kids across the country were saying "You bet your bippy," and "Look that up in your Funk & Wagnall's." Mod Squad, Flip Wilson’s show, The Brady Bunch, The Odd Couple, were hits, and Shelly was busy playing drums on such shows as McMillan & Wife, McCloud, and Columbo, all part of the NBC Mystery Movie series. He was also doing Banacek, Cool Million, and Madigan. Shelly and Flip and the band went to France and England with George Wein's concert tour.

At the Manne-Hole, Roland Kirk was into breaking chairs on the bandstand as part of his act. Shelly could only stand so many chairs being broken and commented that there was nothing in the contract that said he had to refurbish the club as part of the agreement. More and more of the bands coming to the club were electronic. Shelly was in the midst of it all with his "electric" band playing in his favorite place, his own club. He often called the decor "Mid-20th Century funk." Outside the club it was getting kind of funky too. Mike Wofford was watching the street change. "You always knew this area was eccentric, now it's just sick." Shelly's lawyer, noticing the abundance of transvestites on the street, commented "the best-looking girls are guys!"

Shelly never missed a Los Angeles Kings hockey game. He was a season ticket-holder and, if he was in town, simply didn't take any playing assignment when they were playing. By now he and Vic Feldman suited-up and worked out with the UCLA hockey team. "Shelly was elated when L.A. got a hockey team," recalls Flip. "He had loved hockey as a kid - played roller skate street-hockey and rooted for the New York Americans." The Mannes celebrated their wedding anniversary with Bob and Judy Bain. Bob was now playing guitar with the Tonight Show Orchestra. Another guitar player that worked with Shelly in the studios was Tommy Tedesco. Their studio banter often consisted of putting each other on. Tommy would say, "Oh, you're the famous Shelly Manne, the big-time studio player." One time they were coming off an elevator together and a huge wrestler came up and said, "Didn't you used to be Shelly Manne?"

Shelly's humor is always at the forefront of his friend's recollections. Tedesco was working on a picture call with J.J. Johnson directing, Ironsides, or "something like that," and the story centers around a musical instrument called an “ud" (pronounced ood). "They wanted me to play ud, I don't play ud, but I do everything in my power to get away with anything. So I brought the ud, but I didn't play it, I just sat it there so they would see it there. I had a nylon string guitar next to me that I tuned down a fourth, then whenever the music came up, I'd play on the nylon. Shelly was behind me and says, 'Tom, what'ya doin?' I'd say, 'Shelly, cool it.' And he'd say, 'Is that the ud?' And I'd say 'sh, sh, sh!' Forever after that, every time Shelly saw me he'd say, 'How's the ud comin', how's the ud comin', how's the ud comin'!"'


The new group was keeping Shelly on the cutting edge of modern jazz. His young band was keeping him young. "I'm too interested in music, too involved with my band and too excited by what these young musicians are playing to allow myself to get dated or old-fashioned." The veteran drummer was now beginning to quite naturally assume the role of "elder jazz statesman" even though his music was as modern as anyone in jazz. The band went into the studios in 1972 and did their Mannekind album on the Mainstream label. The opening statement called "Birth," played on a talking drum, would fit well into a movie scene depicting a primal birth, followed by "Scavanger," a rhythmic excursion into a mixture of Latin/Rock/Jazz that soon melts into "Seance." The sextet is joined by percussionist Brian Moffat, who plays a list of whistles, sirens, shakers, sheets of tin, that would rival anything in Emil Richards' percussion closet. Shelly, in addition to the basic drum set (by now a Camco cum Drum Workshop), uses the berimbau, the waterphone, the Cuica, Super Balls on cymbal, and the Dahka de Bellos. Some of the tunes are bossa nova-tinged, but always with a funky kind of overlay. The front line at times takes on a more traditional bop voicing, but not for long. The predominate feature of the band is the excitement of Shelly's drumming. The band easily moves in and out of time signatures and while older fans were surprised at Shelly playing “headache” jazz (too intellectual, too electric), there can be no question of the musical contribution this band made in its brief existence.

In May, Don Specht and his wife joined the Mannes for a wonderful trip to Europe for the Cannes Film Festival showing of The Trial of The Catonsville Nine for which Shelly had composed the music. This film was produced by Gregory Peck. On a side trip to Vienna, rding in the car with the Spechts, Shelly saw a beautiful castle and spontaneously yelled, “strike that set!.”

Back in the U.S.A. Artie Kane used Shelly and Ray Brown on two organ albums for RCA. Shelly did movie tracks that included Escape From The Planet of The ApesDoctor’s Wives, and Le Mans. The studio scene was still very good for the now fifty-one-year-old drummer, but down on Cahuenga there was trouble brewing at the Manne-Hole. Above the club was Wally Heider's recording studio that specialized in recording rock groups. Heider was a huge big band fan and had recorded some wonderful location albums including Sinatra and Basie At The Sands. Above the Manne-Hole the studio "recording" red light was never off. Nearly 24 hours a day, they cranked out record after record. By now, Heider had built the reputation as the number one engineer in the rock field and had purchased the building. He and Shelly and Rudy had a "gentlemen's agreement" about the club renewing its lease. "There were steel supports in the building that ran from the club right up to Heider's studio and his new echo chamber directly above the bandstand," recalls Rudy.

Eventually Heider sold to Filmways who also bought the building. One night the Birds were recording and one of the guys came down to the club and said, "We can hear you almost to Sunset Boulevard! " Something had to give. The club tried to book only accoustic bands, but there were hardly any left. Even Les McCann had gone over to Fender Rhodes. Monk played the club in February, bringing his son to play drums; Bill Evans followed, but there continued to be hassles. It was impossible, at least impractical, to try and soundproof the room and anyway the neighborhood was really deteriorating.


"The club simply lost its lease," explained Shelly to his fans. The last ad in the paper read, "We're closing tonight. Fall by and help us bid farewell." It was September 3, 1972 and the closing act was the Milt Jackson-Ray Brown Quintet. It had been 12 years for the bearded manager and the jazz drummer owner. Shelly was already talking about finding a new location, but he was tired. He had poured dollar after dollar into the club, never making any money, always losing a little bit in the end. One year they actually netted just under $2,000. Other years were not as good. Flip comments - "People who came only when somebody like Miles was there and there was a line outside waiting to get in, thought the place was a gold-mine. These groups paid for all the times without the big names. Everyone but me remembers the club with great affection. I remember one Saturday night when a big name was there, and an old friend, an arranger, who never came near the place ordinarily, called and wanted to make a reservation for a large party The policy was not to take reservations because it was such a hassle with people waiting to get in. But because he was a friend, they kept a table and he was late. The table sat empty and then he had to be let in past all the people waiting. At the end of the night he had a fit because there was a cover charge on the bill. He thought he shouldn't have to pay it because he was a friend of Shelly's." So went the problems of operating a club, and so went the club, at least for awhile.


Rudy would look upon the experience as one of learning. Learning about jazz and musicians and fans. "I'm glad I experienced Joe Maini, but he didn't follow the rules, He was anti-establishment, Peck's bad boy" While playing Russian Roulette, Maini had shot himself in the head. It was Shelly who was called. "One early morning when Shelly had only been in bed a couple of hours, the service called," remembers Flip. "In those days, the girls on the phone service knew everyone and were like friends. I answered the phone and said Shelly was sleeping but they said it was important." It was about Joe, whom they had taken to the emergency hospital. "Shelly went down immediately and sat with Joe all day. He called a doctor to find out about operating to remove the bullet or moving him. The situation was hopeless. Shelly came home very depressed. He said, 'Joe was all alone. just lying there with that little hole in his head."' Rudy would recall Richie Kamuca as a marvelous player who was very embittered, Monty as loving life - a lot of fun and a nice guy, Berghofer as quiet and reserved and a good player. He had seen marvelous musicians in the groups Shelly led: Candoli, Freeman, Kennedy, Mariano, Strozier, Holman, Gordon, Williamson, Wofford. and many others. He had witnessed Monk, Miles. Diz. They had even hung a banner that said "Diz for President" and held ceremonies for the cause. Learning that the Lighthouse was available but not wanting to relocate all the way down there, Shelly gave the club's license to Rudy, who took it to Hermosa Beach.


Shelly busied himself with the challenge of writing the music for the Center Theater Group's presentation of Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part I. The production ran from October 26th through December 10th at the Mark Taper Forum. Victor Buono played Falstaff and Richard Chamberlain did the voice of King Richard The Second as Shelly moved and mixed the music of the Renaissance, the Elizabethan, and the 20th Century eras. Film projects that used Shelly's drumming included The Cowboys, The Candidate, Portnoy’s Complaint, and Lady Sings The Blues. A party for Stan Kenton was recorded with Med Flory Shelly, "Sweets" Edison, Frank Rosolino, and Mort Sahl participating in various routines and stories about the road. Though the club was closed and jazz recording sessions were infrequent, Shelly maintained a busy schedule with jazz concerts, lectures, film work and occasional club dates with groups of all sizes. He was still I working with the sextet, but that was about to end. just the physical aspect of hauling around all that equipment was getting old. Soon the truck was sold and Shelly returned to acoustic jazz. Mancini called him to do Oklahoma Crude and Hangin' Out, two albums for RCA: he did The Kings Mill Suite for Specht, and did a two-album -ragtime" thing for the Southland Stingers.

In late 1972 a fund raiser had been held for the "McGovern for President" campaign at a restaurant called Tetou's in Century City, one of a chain of three posh eateries in the Los Angeles area. After hearing the music of Shelly, the owners had commented, "Gee that was great, we'd like to have music in the place more often.” By 1973 a new Tetou's had opened on Wilshire Boulevard and Shelly struck a verbal arrangement with the owners whereby the restaurant would turn its premises into a new "Manne-Hole" in the evening hours. Shelly turned to long-time friend and, by then, ex-wife of Larry Bunker, Lee Wilder. "Shelly called me one day and said, 'I'm reopening the club and I'd like you to manage it for me."' Wilder was quite taken aback and said, "Gee that's very flattering Shelly, but I don't really know how to do that!" Shelly said, "I need somebody that I can trust, and you'll learn.""I was just flattered as hell and told him 'Let's give it a try' He was right, within a few weeks 1 felt like I had been doing it all my life." The room was very posh, Tetou's during the day, the Manne-Hole at night. Opening night October 12, 1973, starred Carmen McCrae and Julian "Cannonball" Adderley, a double-bill. Mayor Bradley was there to give Shelly a proclamation, along with many of the city councilmen. The club got great press right from the beginning. Camera crews from ABC and NBC were there to record the event. Telegrams from all over the world arrived to wish the drummer well. Wires from Pat Williams, Vic and Marilyn Feldman, drummer Les DeMerle, Millie and Stan Manne, Toshiko and Lew Tabakin, and one from the "D & M Booking Agency". This telegram jokingly offered the new club the following message. HAVE BOOK FABULOUS ACT FOR MANNEHOLE WELSH MINER WHO PLAYS BIRD SOLOS ON COAL SHOVEL WIFE PLAYS BONGOS WITH TWO PIECES OF ANTHRACITE NOW OFF TO BULGARIA TO BOOK TEAM OF SLAB LOG ROLLERS WHO TAP DANCE FLYING DOWN TO RIO WHILE STANDING ON FORTY FOOT PINE TREES GREAT SUCCESS ON YOUR OPENING NIGHT DO YOU NEED AN ETHIOPIAN BLUES SINGER AVAILABLE FOR SHORT MONEY.

The business arrangement was that the jazz operation got the door receipts and a percentage of the bar. Lee had nothing to do with the food operations or waitresses or bartenders. Carmen McCrae was kept for the next week's bill; then i came Jackie & Roy, the Bill Evans Trio, and the Roger Kellaway Cello Quartet to round out the November billing. Only national acts were now being booked by Shelly, who stated that he would not be playing at the club regularly, but thought he might appear with Michel Legrand who would appear with a trio in December. Shelly ended up sitting in with Legrand, who used Joe Pass and Ray Brown, rather than officially working the club. "He never really played (worked) in the new club," recalls Wilder. Shelly said, "All I'm interested in is to have a place where I can hear good music, give the musicians work under good conditions, and realize a small salary for myself that will free me to devote more time to my own band." Comedian Redd Foxx came down to the club to work with Lalo Schifrin, working four nights for nothing just to be a part of the scene.

Shelly and Louie Bellson and Willie Bobo and Paul Humphreys did a drum feature for the Phillips label. On piano was Mike Wofford - on bass, a new player that Shelly would see a lot of over the next ten years, Chuck Domanico. Over at Donte's they gave a benefit for Jack Marshall, guitarist and long-time friend of Shelly's who had died of a heart attack. Shelly played drums behind all the guitar players who came to celebrate the life of their friend. In the Manne-Hole there were money problems. Though the club's name was world-famous and musicians and fans visiting L.A. put a visit to Shelly's as a must on their list, the new club's life would be brief. There was not a responsible accounting for the money, everything was rather loose within the restaurant accounting department and Shelly was getting frustrated. Lee Wilder had been most helpful, the club's business was good in spite of the ongoing "energy crisis," but accurate statements from Tetou's were not forthcoming. Not only that, but Shelly wasn't sure the place was going to stay in business; they wouldn't commit to him more than one month at a time. Stan Getz was booked and Shelly had to go out of town, worried that Lee Wilder wouldn't be able to handle the temperamental jazz star. (Zoot Sims, when asked about Stan Getz, once commented – “Yeah, he’s a nice bunch of guys). “I’d always wonder about me,” comments Wilder, “because I’m one of the few people who could get along with Stan beautifully.”

Shelly left town and Wilder was left to handle the club … and Getz. "He was fine," recalls Wilder, "but there I was one night where he didn't want to play the last set and there being quite a few people in the in place and so on, and these people had just come in, driving down from somewhere. Getz said: 'I'm not making enough money to play the last set.' So I just played on his ego and said 'Stan, these people are such fans of yours and they've driven in all the way down from Alaska to see you. At least could play a short set, they love you so much' - he played a full set." It would be the last act to play the Manne-Hole.

Shelly suddenly terminated the "agreement" and pulled his sound system, piano, and other equipment out of the club. The years of hassling over money, trying to keep jazz healthy and heard, years of providing a place for musicians to work, were over. "It got so I couldn't afford to play in my own club. I was too busy trying to pay the bills." Lee Wilder says it best: "Shelly just wasn't having any fun." In spite of the thousands of good memories, he was closing the story of Shelly's Manne-Hole, one of the most famous jazz clubs that ever existed. He'd had enough.




Mundell Lowe - “Our Waltz”

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

 “Improvisers intimidated by the unhurried ballad’s unavoidable requirement to think often address the problem by doubling the established tempo and falling back on a familiar pattern of notes. Mundell Lowe, a deep thinker and consummate guitarist, uses no such trick because he doesn’t need to. He observes the melodies of these cherished songs, sometimes embellishing them a bit, sometimes using their harmonies as touchstones for lovely melodies of his own. It is an album of mood music for the mind as well as the spirit.”
- Orrin Keepnews

  
Mundell Lowe has been a part of my Jazz Life almost from its beginnings as I was fortunate to acquire two of his earliest recordings for Riverside Records just after they were issued in 1955/56.

Orrin Keepnews, the owner, operator of that label, was also fortunate in terms of his association with Mundell because due to Mundell's southern "roots," Lowe introduced him to pianist Bill Evans who was then a student at Southeast Louisiana State College [Mundell is from Laurel, MS, about a two drive northeast of SELSC].

Mundell passed away yesterday, December 2, 2017 in San Diego, CA at the age 95. The editorial staff at JazzProfiles wanted to remember him on these pages with a retrospective of the highlights of Mundell’s career by Gene Lees, some excerpts from Orrin's insert notes to Mundell's two Riverside albums and with a video montage with Mundell's beautiful rendition of David Rose's Our Waltz serving as its soundtrack.

© -Gene Lees, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“Guitarist Mundell Lowe has performed in a notable variety of styles and idioms. From 1936, when he was fourteen, until 1940, he played traditional New Orleans jazz in that city, at a time when many of its founding figures were still around. Then he went to Nashville and played what was then known as hillbilly music, later refined to country and western, per­forming on Grand Ol' Opry radio broad­casts. He went with the Jan Savitt band in 1942, then into the U.S. Army. On being discharged in 1945, he joined the Ray McKinley band and stayed for two years. Somewhere along the way, he—like Herb Ellis and just about every other guitarist in jazz — came under the influence of Charlie Christian, and then in the period of bop evolution, of Jimmy Raney.

Mundy, as he is known to friends, then played in small groups led by Mary Lou Williams, Red Norvo, and Ellis Larkins while studying composition with Hall Overton, working on staff at NBC, and even doing some off-Broadway acting. He formed a quartet that included Red Mitch­ell on bass, and while working with Mitch­ell in New Orleans discovered and hired a pianist from New Jersey who was then a student at Southeastern Louisiana Uni­versity— Bill Evans. Mundy Lowe was Bill's first champion in the business.

Mundy was a member of the Sauter-Finegan Orchestra in 1952 and '53, and in 1952 began working with Benny Good­man. He played with Goodman intermit­tently until 1984.

In 1965 Mundy moved to Los Angeles, where he worked mostly as a film and tel­evision composer. In 1983 he became music director of the Monterey Jazz Fes­tival. All the while he continued to per­form in his polished, thoughtful, unassuming style, touring from time to time with Benny Carter. He also toured with his gifted wife, singer Betty Bennett. He speaks pretty much as he plays, softly and with a sound of the South.”



Guitar Moods [Riverside RLP 208/Original Jazz Classic OJCCD- 1957-2]

"In these days of apparently countless quantities of jazz albums, variety would seem to be the watchword. The end-product of more than a few recording sessions appears merely to be a rather casual cross-section of the work of a particular group or artist; as if to say "here is a sampling of just about all the types and tempos we have to offer." Not that this is necessarily a poor way to go about things: much good music (as well as some bad and a great deal of indifferent) has been produced by this kind ot approach. Nevertheless, it does serve to point up just how rare it now is for a jazz musician to be so daring as to attempt an LP entirely devoted to a single specific theme, or to building and maintaining a single mood—that, in short, has unity.

It is precisely this sort of rarity that Mundell Lowe has created here. The strongly enthusiastic critical reactions to his work customarily lay stress on the warm, flowing lines of his guitar. This eventually and inevitably has encouraged Mundell to proceed with a project that has long been close to his heart: an album exclusively concerned with the sort of tune that listeners used to call (and musicians still call) "ballads'—songs that demand a slow tempo and delicate, sensitive handling, and that are capable of rewarding the proper treatment by conjuring up a soft and warm glow.

This is music with a deep romantic tinge, but it is never in any danger of slipping over the line into banality or saccharine sweetness. For it remains thoroughly in the jazz idiom. Backed by firm, sure rhythm, and making rich use in his arrangements of the unusual colorings offered by such nonstandard instruments as bass clarinet, flute, and oboe, Lowe emphasizes the beauty and pathos that are among the basic features of jazz.

The repertoire he has selected here is an important part of the picture. From the haunting tenderness of Kurt Weill's "Speak Low" (and it took a little willpower to avoid turning that title into a pun and making it the title of the album!), through the work of such superior artists as Alec Wilder and Harold Arlen to Gordon Jenkins's mournful "Goodbye" (inevitably the closing number), these are melodies of sufficient depth and structure to lend themselves with great effectiveness to the web of intricate and subtle improvisation that Mundell spins. . . .

This album marks another large step in Lowe's progress toward recognition as an outstanding figure among the top-ranking modern jazz guitarists. He commands—as any artist of real stature must—a distinctive, highly personal style. While quick to admit his admiration for several other ma|ot guitarists of today—men like Tal Farlow, Jimmy Raney, Johnny Smith—he is clearly not exactly like any of them. One influence, of course, he does share with just about all current performers of this instrument. For all owe a very substantial debt to Charlie Christian, who must be given credit not only for the prevalence of the electric guitar in jazz today."


The Mundell Lower Quartet [Riverside RLP-204/Original Jazz Classic OJCCD 1773-2]


"On this LP a talented quartet led by guitarist MUNDELL LOWE creates some highly interesting, inventive, often intricate and always melodic jazz. Their music is exciting — because of the swinging drive on most numbers, and the fascinating and thoughtful interplay between instruments on all of them. It's also extremely pleasant, easy-listening jazz — because these men just couldn't play jagged or unrelaxed music, and because Lowe is a particularly fine hand at the clean and beautiful sounds the guitar is so capable of.

These days, quite a few musicians — such as Tal Farlow, Jimmy Raney, Johnny Smith, Barney Kessel — are putting the electric guitar to most impressive and varied use. And Mundell Lowe, as this album should clearly indicate, is rapidly staking out a claim to recognition as a very top-ranking member of this distinguished company.

His approach is very much his own. "I admire men like Farlow and Raney and Smith, but I don't want to play exactly like any of them.") For one thing, his sound is somewhat mellower than most guitarists, avoiding both shrillness in the upper register and that booming effect that can so easily crop up in the low tones on an amplified instrument. This certainly does not keep him from swinging crisply and vividly on up-tempo numbers, nor from achieving the full richness of a ballad. Also, although Lowe is the featured performer here, he does not attempt to stand out alone and unaided. The quartet's unique sound gains much of its effectiveness from being so thoroughly integrated."


Joe Pass: “Passalaqua - The Poet of the Guitar”

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


“His approach was characterized by great melodic facility, harmonic sophistication and a natural, easy command of swing, and the music he made was both invigoratingly inventive and thoroughly accessible. Like Charlie Parker and other great melodists in Jazz, JoePasshad the singular gift of improvising lines of natural, singing clarity and firm inner logic.”

- Pete Welding

Back when the World was young, I worked for a residential treatment center that specialized in offering care to adult, psychiatric schizophrenic patients.

At the time, residential treatment centers and day treatment centers were fairly new for patients with this diagnosis.

They were designed as an alternative to hospitalization as there was a developing clinical view in those days that such admissions, besides being very costly, did little to help in providing the long term care patients with this diagnosis required.

To a certain extent, the new clinical perspective embraced the notion that stabilizing schizophrenic patients in order to protect them for doing injury to themselves or to others might involve hospitalizations, but helping them to function is less restrictive settings after such inpatient stays might ultimately prove more helpful and healthy for all concerned.

The “do’s” and “don’ts” of residential treatment centers were just becoming highly regulated by the states that licensed them.

Sadly, in addition to the many other challenges they face, along the way, many adult, psychiatric schizophrenic patients develop alcohol and drug abuse as a secondary diagnosis.

Interestingly, many of the “clients” in our residential treatment center responded well to art and music sessions offered in a milieu environment [broadly speaking, one which allows the clients to mingle with each other rather than to be in isolation].

Since I had a “background as a musician,” in addition to my administrative work, I was honored with the role of leading the weekly music therapy session which largely consisted of having guest musicians perform at the center or in playing recordings.

For whatever reasons, perhaps appropriately subconscious, I was really smitten with guitarist Joe Pass during the period of my involvement with the residential treatment center and frequently played his records [CDs were still fairly new at the time].


One day, one of the clients picked up the LP jacket sleeve and read aloud Joe’s given name: “Joseph Anthony Jacobi Passalaqua.”

He turned to me and in a moment of extreme clarity that such clients sometimes have, said: “Passalaqua – The Poet of the Guitar.”

Obviously, I’ve never forgotten that remark. And I’ve also never forgotten that residential treatment center and its many clients. My years there were in many ways and for many reasons, one of the high points in my life.

Residential treatment centers, alcohol and drug rehabilitation and music had all had an earlier involvement in my life, but not in any formal sense.

By way of background, although we barely understood any of its inner workings, let alone how it connected to the “outside world,” I was part of a group of young musicians who were among the earliest supporters of a place called Synanon.

Founded in Santa Monica, CA in 1958 by Chuck Dederich, Synanon was a residential treatment center that existed for the expressed purpose of helping drug and alcohol addicted musicians and other artists.

Synanon was located in an old brick building situated a few yards from the beach and the ocean on the Pacific Coast Highway [California Route 1]

We would drive to it along Santa Monica Blvd. [no freeways, yet] bringing bags of used clothes, groceries and a few schimolies to donate to the musicians and artists in residence at Synanon. Sometimes we’d participate in jam sessions while we were visiting.

One of Synanon’s most famous “graduates” was none other than Jazz guitarist JoePass who was just concluding his residence there during my initial visits.

Like so many of his contemporaries from the Jazz world of the 1940s and 50s, Joe had gotten lost in the “world” of heroin addiction.

Fortunately, for all Jazz fans, Joe found his way again, and a big “Thank You” is owed to Chuck Dederich and the folks at Synanon for “saving my life” and to Richard Bock of Pacific Jazz records for help in re-launching Joe’s career.

Dick recorded Joe in a number of different contexts and had a role in Joe’s introduction to Gerald Wilson’s big band. Kudos to Gerald as well for featuring Joe as not too many big bands have a guitarist as one of its primary soloists.

Dick Bock’s first association with Joe dated back to the Pacific Jazz recording – The Sounds of Synanon [PJ-48. He recruited John Tynan to write the following liner notes for the album.  At the time, John was the west coast editor of Down Beat magazine.



© -  John Tynan, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

SOUNDS OF SYNANON

“There are times in the ironic drama of Life when happiness and fulfillment bloom out of misery and despair. The modern jazz Sounds Of Synanon were born in the deepest misery and degradation and in the most hopeless despair, for the seeds of the music were planted in seven individuals whose lives had been blighted by drug addiction. Arnold Ross ... Joe Pass ... Greg Dykes ... Dave Allan ...Ronnie Clark . . . Bill Crawford ... Candy Latson ... These are the seven who had forgotten how to hope; who existed from fix to fix; whose pursuit of heroin may be traced through jails and penitentiaries, sanitariums and hospitals and suicide attempts, to a final day in each of their lives when, like drifting flotsam, they were cast against the sanctuary of Synanon House.

Synanon exists to save lives by keeping the drug addicts who live there away from the narcotics that enslaved them. And what is Synanon? It is people getting well. Inside the forbidding red brick old armory at 1351 Ocean Front, Santa Monica, Calif., the miracle of rehabilitation is a 24-hour phenomenon. Between midnight and dawn or at bustling noon a sick addict may appear at the reception desk, seeking help.

"No dope fiend wants to get well; he wants to want to get well," is a hard-boiled saying at- Synanon House: But-the residents there share an aggregate knowledge of dope addiction so practical in its intimacy that no new member's fantasies are ever swallowed as facts. The foundation's residents are humanists; they are not sentimentalists. And if they live to save lives and battle the monster of addiction, they are determined to fight with utmost efficiency, unencumbered by the baggage of a do-gooder attitude that puts more value on intentions than on results achieved. Synanon is for work, not dreams.

Fulcrum and inspirer of the work at Synanon House since September 1958 when the foundation was established, Charles E. "Chuck" Dederich is still at the helm of the organization. (The opening track in this album, “C.E.D.” is dedicated to him,) In the first article on Synanon to appear in a national publication, this reporter wrote in Down Beat magazine in January 1961, "An educated and eloquent man, Dederich, at 47, bears t he physical scars o f his own long sickness - alcoholism. He hasn't had a drink in five years and now runs the foundation with an understanding, strength, and a determination that is contagious."

A professional statistician, Dederich for many years held top positions in advertising, merchandising and public relations. For the last 10 years, before I quit drinking,' he said dryly, I was a promoter-in the negative sense of the word."

Walker Winslow, author of The Meninnger Story and If A Man Be Bad and an authority on mental health problems, has had ample opportunity to study Dederich and his techniques. "'Dederich,’ Winslow said, 'is an intuitive psychologist. He's one of the best I've encountered, and I think any good psychiatrist would agree with that. He has taken the rationalizing mechanisms of the addict and the alcoholic and has neutralized them. Then, too, he has a remarkably positive personality. By expressing himself firmly to these people, by holding them in line firmly, he's expressing a real concern for them. His approach is probably the only way of reaching them and holding them, and his firmness really discourages the phonies who wander in.’

"Winslow considers Dederich's refusal to compromise as crucial. I've seen opportunities here', he said, 'where a compromise would have gained a few dollars for the foundation in the case of a member earning money and bringing it in regularly. But if this person were damaging the organization, even slightly, Dederich wouldn't hesitate to throw him out.’

Since the appearance of this writer's report in Down Beat, Synanon has benefited by the attention thus drawn to it. John Tranchitella, president of Los Angeles Local 47, American Federation of Musicians, organized and staged a benefit concert in cooperation with Down Beat in April 1961, from which funds were raised to keep the foundation going. Through sympathetic and influential political contacts, a bill was passed into law in the California state legislature that placed Synanon under the jurisdiction of the state Board of Medical Examiners, thus gaining recognition of Synanon by the state as a legal place for the rehabilitation of narcotic addicts. Television cameras have probed the corridors of Synanon House; TIME and LIFE magazines, respectively, have printed a favorable article and photo essay on the organization, thus bringing the Synanon message into the homes of America.


Donations have poured into the tax exempt foundation from businessmen and a wide variety of sympathizers, and there are now several Synanon houses established in the Santa Monica area. On the other side of the coin, however, there remains the implacable opposition of the city of Santa Monica, whose civic fathers have long sought to evict the Synanon residents. The foundation was convicted in a Santa Monica court of a technical violation of a housing ordinance and Chuck Dederich served a brief term in the city jail as a result of this.

Still, Synanon carries on, A new house-presumably outside the Santa Monica city limits-is being sought. This is no easy task, for although addicts come and go through its doors-some with a slim chance for life, others to return to the needle of death-the number of permanent residents is steadily increasing.

But the work goes on. An important manifestation of Synanon's work may be heard in these Sounds Of Synanon. There are but a small number of addicted musicians in residence there but the jazz group they have created is a constant morale builder. Consistent with the group consciousness of the residents, there is no leader as such. As a matter of policy and mutual agreement the musicians work together, This is not to say that talent and experience do not prevail in matters musical. And pianist Arnold Ross is the recognized dean in this respect.

"Like all addicts who come to Synanon for help. Arnold Ross was desperate." this reporter wrote in Down Beat. "His first visit ... was in May, 1959. He described the events leading to his arrival.

"I'd tried to kill myself,’ he said matter of factly, ‘and landed in CountyGeneral hospital. They found needle marks on me, and I was booked for 'misdemeanor-marks. When my case came up, my lawyer told me the only way I could avoid the county jail was to commit myself to Camarillo for treatment. So I did. Then, when I got out, I went with (a) club group. I was back on dope fast. I quit the group and tried to kick again by myself, but I couldn't make it. So I came to Synanon.'"Heeding a variety of rationalizations, he didn't remain this first time. But last July 7 (1960), Ross returned and stayed.

"Pianist Ross enjoyed a rising reputation in the late 1930s and '40s with a variety of bands, including the late Glenn Miller's army orchestra and Harry James (1944-47). In 1950, Ross says, while on a tour of Europe as accompanist to a name singer, he started his first serious heroin habit.

"When we got back,' he continued, I kicked.  But soon I'd started another. After that, there was no turning back. Today, at 40, Ross has turned back. Or, to state it more accurately, he has taken a new turning. He has taken and accepted the Synanon way.


JoePass (Passalaqua), one of the most exciting talents on jazz guitar to emerge in recent years, is a native of New Brunswick, N. J., born January 13, 1929. He began formal study of guitar at age 9, sticking with these lessons, he says, about a year. By then, he was gigging around his hometown. He had several small groups in Johnstown, Pa., before leaving on a tour with the Tony Pastor band. This was of short duration; he had to leave the band and return to school. He chronicles the balance of his life as follows: Left school and got a Local 802 card. I gigged around Long Island, Brooklyn, and started goofin'-pot, pills, junk. Traveled around the country with different tours. Then I was drafted into the Marine Corps. I was in a year. Meantime I'd been in and out of hospitals and seeing doctors and so on. In the Corps,

I played cymbals in the band, worked in a small group at N.C.O. and officers' clubs. Then I got busted. I moved to Las Vegas and worked the hotels there. Busted again. After that i spent three years and eight months at the U.S. Public Health Service Hospital at Fort Worth, Texas. Then I went back to Vegas. I recorded with Dick Contino on Capitol and with several other commercial groups. Meanwhile, I was in and out of jails for narcotics violations. I came to Synanon from San Diego after a final 'marks beef.'" At the time this album was recorded, JoePass had been at Synanon 15 months.

Trumpeter David Allan was reared, and attended high school, in Chicago where he was born April 1, 1928 into a musical family. His father, he says, was a songwriter and song-and-dance man in vaudeville. At age 12 he was playing in a jazz band with his two cousins. He spent 1946 and '47 with army bands in the U.S. and in the Philippines. Following an honorable discharge from the army, Allan settled in Southern California where he formed a jazz group with pianist Don Friedman, tenorist Lin Halliday, bassist Don Payne and drummer Gary Frommer. During this period he played regularly with Chet Baker, Ornette Coleman, Joe Maini and Russ Freeman. Allan attended WhittierCollege, Whittier, Calif., and, he says, was one semester short of securing his bachelor's degree in economics "when addiction caused me to leave college." Before coming to Synanon, he was committed to the U. S. Public Health Service Hospital at Lexington, Ky.

Greg Dykes, trombonist and trumpeter, who plays baritone horn in this album, was born in Los Angeles, January 20, 1931. This is his story: "My father was a music teacher and I started playing trumpet at around 10. Through school I played music as a hobby. After high school, I played two years in army bands. While in hospital in Fort Worth. I changed to baritone horn and valve trombone. I worked in local (Los Angeles) big bands, but have done very little work in jazz. In 1958,1 became associated with Art Pepper who helped me a great deal. Now I feel that I am just scratching the surface; I'm starting to write music, too. As is the case with my life in Synanon, my life in music is just beginning." Ronald Clifford (Ronnie) Clark is another native Angeleno, born September 19, 1935. He attended high school with trumpeter Don Cherry and drummer Billy Higgins and began playing alto sax. Then he stopped playing, he says, until 1959, when, while living with schoolmates Cherry and Higgins, he started on string bass. At the time of this recording, Clarkhad been at Synanon 11 months.


Bill Crawford, a member of Synanon's board of directors and the band's drummer, was born in Seattle, Wash., February 3, 1929. He began musical studies at five years and pursued the study of harmony and clarinet for two years at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston. While at the conservatory, Crawford says, he smoked marijuana for the first time. "I never returned to school after that, he recalls. "I spent the next 10 years smoking weed, shooting dope, going to jam sessions in Los Angeles and San Francisco, in and out of jail and working at various jobs-including four years repairing cash registers with the National Cash Register Co." Crawford arrived at Synanon in October, 1959. At the time of the recording he had been studying drums for one year under volunteer teachers Eddie Atwood and Bill Douglass, well known Hollywood musicians who donated their professional services to Synanon.

Conga drummer, Candy Latson, born in Houston, Texas, April 21, 1936, relates: I've had no musical experience. But I'm a great admirer of Candido and I'd like to become a good conga drummer. I started playing just one year ago at Synanon when I just happened to see an old conga sitting in the corner. I started tapping and have been tapping what I feel ever since. I would like to learn to play the conga drum very much. All I do know is to play what I feel. But I have a lot more to say, because I feel a lot more. Latson, at the time of the recording, had been at Synanon 21 months. …

In the last analysis, this album would not have been made possible without a combination of generosity and unselfishness on the part of individuals and business concerns that helped the musicians of Synanon in ways tangible and otherwise: Hollywood's Professional Drum Shop and Drum City; the aforementioned drum teachers and bass teacher Ted Hammond; Don Randall of the Fender Sales Co.: who donated a guitar and accessories; Gaines and Stein Music Co.; Pedrini Music Co.; Remo, Inc.; Reggie Olds, of the F. E. Olds Co., who donated a horn to the band; and Los Angeles disc jockey Frank Evans, of KRHM-FM, “one of our biggest supporters,” in the words of board member, Bill Crawford.

After so many words, it remains evident that mere words cannot begin to tell the story of the men who make these Sounds of Synanon. Let their music tell it instead.

- John Tynan”

Joe's signature LP was the tribute he did to Django Reinhardt - "For Django." 50 years later, guitarist Frank Potenza assembled all of the original players who accompanied Joe on that CD - John Pisano, Jim Hughart and Colin Bailey - for his tribute CD - "For Joe." The following video montage is set to "Catch Me" from Frank's disc and features some wonderful "8's" between Frank and Colin after Frank's chrouses.


Lambert Hendricks Ross – Everybody’s LHR

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


It never ceased to amaze me then - and it continues to amaze me now - how many people, who know very little, if nothing, about Jazz are familiar with the vocal group -  Lambert Hendricks Ross.

Either they or their college roommate had one of LHR’s albums, or their parents had all of the albums or they just memorized some of the vocalese lyrics that Jon Hendricks wrote for the group so that they could sound hip and cool to their friends.

The latter skill is particularly remarkable when you consider that Jon wrote these hip lyrics to accompany the actual Jazz solos that were played on certain classic Jazz recordings and did not base them on the melodies of these songs.

In essence, people who couldn’t put two notes together were able to sing some of the hippest Jazz solos ever recorded thanks to their admiration for Jon’s skills with vocalese, which considering the level of humor, wit and sage philosophy that he brought to the form, he practically re-invented.

The group was only together for a few years and recorded relatively few albums, but when you consider the vocal talent on display and the brilliant lyrics which were applied to some of the most memorable solos ever recorded, there is nothing else like LHR in the history of Jazz.

And while I was familiar with Dave Lambert and Annie Ross as individual vocalists I knew virtually nothing about Jon Hendricks or how LHR came into existence, that is, until the September 1959 edition of Down beat magazine arrived in my mailbox and I found this article by Gene Lees.

It features Jon’s history of the LHR using the too-hip-for-the-room style that he employs in his rhyming vocalese lyrics.

© -  Gene Lees, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“EDITORS NOTE – In the wee small hours of a morning at Newport this year [1959], I told Jon Hendricks that DownBeat would like to do a story on the LHR group. "Why not let me write it?" Jon said. I hedged and hesitated for a moment (perhaps Jon will remember it) and then began running some of his remarkable LHR lyrics over in my mind. "OK," I said.

We kicked the idea around a bit, notably backstage at Chicago's Regal The­ater, and I learned that Jon was thinking of doing the article in rhyme, no less. I shook my head a bit, reassured myself that his tremendous taste and talent would not fail, even in the unfamiliar task of writing an article, swallowed hard and said: "Wild."

Jon telephoned from time to time as he worked on the article. I began to get nerv­ous. Deadline was approaching, and I had already scheduled the cover photo to go with the article. "You have to promise me you won't change a thing," Jon said. That made me more nervous.

When the piece at last arrived—right on deadline—I scanned it, still nervously at first, then less nervously, and finally, jubi­lantly. It was—and is—one of the strangest articles I've ever read. As promised, it rhymed. Not unexpectedly, it sounded like an LHR lyric without the music. It also had in places the delightful flavor of an Ogden Nash poem. And finally, I guessed that some astute reader would look at its last line and think of James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake.

Jon didn't say this in the article, but he has done a lot of thinking about the possi­bilities of true jazz opera. The article tends to validate his theory that it can—and should—be done.

Lambert, Hendricks and Ross is one of the most remarkable groups in jazz today. With their vocals on famous instru­mental numbers, they have broken up audiences at every jazz festival they have played this summer—and they have played most of them, with more yet to come, including Monterey. Where their jazz-vocals experiment will lead is something no one, including Jon, pretends to be able to predict with certainty. All that anyone knows for sure is that their popularity is huge and growing, that they deserve it and that the end is not in sight.

In the meantime, here is Jon Hen­dricks' story on LHR. As Dave Lambert said to me, explaining why when he worked on construction he liked to use jackhammers, "I dug it." I hope you will, too. —Ed.”

© -  Jon Hendricks, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“As to dates, times, names and places,

My accuracy ain't apt to be too outstand­ing. Data's too demanding. I haven't the faintest idea on what date Dave Lambert's birthday occurs, and experience with women and the subject of age gives me bet­ter sense than to ask Annie Ross hers, so, on biographical data I won't be too factual. However, on matters of the heart and soul I hope to be very actual, 'cause if you're gonna know how Dave Lambert, Annie Ross and I have such a collective ball while singing our individual parts, you'll have to know that it comes from what we fondly recall, and what is in our hearts.

Some people say our name is a clumsy name for a singing group to be stuck with. They compare it to Merrill, Lynch, Pierce, Fenner and Smith, an overstatement, by far. Actually we call ourselves Lambert, Hendricks and Ross for no other reason than that's who we are! And so that your understanding of our name will gain even more clearance, if you dig what I mean, our name describes the order of our appearance on the scene.

Dave Lambert, ex-everything under the sun and musical truth-seeker, came home from high school in New England one day, heard a Count Basie record on an out­side downtown radio-shop-loudspeaker on the way, and the amazement that there could be such a feelin' never left him after that. When I engaged Dave to do the vocal adaptation of Jimmy Giuffre's "Four Broth­ers" arrangement, he bent my ear about doing a lyricised Basie album in nothin' flat! While we were rehearsing "Four Brothers," or listening to what each other was sayin', Dave made sure some Basie records were playin'. He'd play the old things most, the "good ol' ones" we both grew up listening to, and again we heard the marvel of them all. In this era of "conservatories," we heard the old Basie band full of natural musicians from their heart play more jazz than any­body we've ever heard, no matter how smart. And nary one of 'em knew what the inside of a music school looked like. They just played and had a ball.


Finally I got Dave's subtle message (as subtle as a ton of coal on the head) and stopped listening casually and got t' writ­ing lyrics instead. I soon had words to "Down for the Count" and "Blues Back­stage" and Dave adapted Frank Foster's arrangements for voices, then we started making choices of recording company A&R men. (Means "artist and repertory" and they're to blame if the recording out­put sounds a bit gory. Their judgment of a “hit” often depends on how much a new tune sounds like the last “hit.” They often are unable to see any future in a tune because of a single-minded preoccupation with a past hit!)

Creed Taylor of ABC-Paramount is a rarity among his kind. He has his own taste and uses his own mind. I’m happy to state.

During the time we were working on Sing A Song of Basie for Creed, I lived and wrote in Greenwich Village, which I had always thought of in an artistic way, but which I found retaining only an artistic façade, masking pseudo-intellectual morbidness ‘midst moral decay.  It may be a good place to stay up late in, but its new, thrill-seeking Freud-spouting population has rendered it no longer a desirable place to create in. (Don’t blame DownBeat, this is my personal contention—just a little something I thought I'd mention.)

For our first date, Dave contracted 12 experienced singers he had known and used before as the Dave Lambert Singers, some of whom worked on such programs as The Perry Como Show and Your Hit Parade, and who had reputations some­thing fierce. We also had the Basie rhythm section, Freddy Greene, Sonny Payne and Eddie Jones, with Nat Pierce.

It was during this first date that the spiritual quality that is in all jazz, and prominently so in Basie, made itself mani­fest; that spiritual quality we—and Ray Charles—got in church, and got so West Coast cool we left in the lurch and got back to for 30 pieces of Horace Silver, after a long, cold search.

Those singers had music and lyrics, but that spiritual quality was missing at the very first test, even though they tried their best. Eddie Jones saw and heard and laid his fiddle gently down and walked amongst them and talked to them and spread the word, and Sonny Payne and Nat Pierce did, too. Freddie sat placidly by and regarded it all with an ever-patient eye and didn't move to get his message through, just sat calm, like he usually do. What Eddie Jones told those singers about "layin' back, but not slowin' down" was beautifully true, but when all the gentle urging was done there was no concealing that those well-trained singers still couldn't sing Basie with that spiritual feeling— except one—a silent, beautiful red-haired girl Dave had introduced me to several days before at Bob Bach's house in Wash­ington Mews, a name I remembered from then-current theatrical news as starring in an imported-from-London Broadway review called Cranks. But I remembered more; five years or so earlier than then—a Prestige record given me by Teacho Wilt­shire, who recorded "Four Brothers" vocal­ly first, a record of a vocal version of Wardell Gray's "Twisted," excellent lyric by Annie Ross—better than good—boss!


Yes, Annie Ross has that feeling, that feeling you can't learn in no school, that feel­ing that the men in the old Basie band had from birth and got together in nightclubs and tent shows. And don't get the idea schools, to them, are unknown, 'cause those men started a few schools of their own! Pick a tenor player at random and, no matter what he says, chances are, at one time or another he studied under Pres. And make no bones about it—Jo Jones invented the sock cymbal, and don't ever doubt about it.

Philly Joe know.

And every trumpet player ever plays through a "bucket" mute oughta know that Buck Clayton's real nickname ain't Buck—it's "Bucket!" (Ain't that cute.)

At any rate, the first Sing a Song of Basie was scrapped and, thanks to Creed Taylor, we got another chance—but what to do? Dave Lambert knew. Dave has a tal­ent for putting very large possibilities into a very few words. "Annie feels it," he said. "Let's you, me 'n Annie do it." Coming from anyone else I'd have thought such an idea was for the birds, because of the hard work entailed, but I soon saw the beauty of Dave's suggestion, especially if we all three really wailed.

From the time we started out, Annie knew what she was about. She did every­thing with ease and a naturalness found only in great artists, I guess. Annie Ross is more than just a singer, to say the least. She is an artiste. Every night, on "Avenue C," she stands up there between Dave and me and hits that last note, F above high C, as though it were any note—and it might as well be! I remember when Dave asked her if she could make that note and she said, "No, never," so Dave said he'd change it, winked at me and left it like it was, and Annie sings it like she's been singing it forever.

So we did Sing a Song of Basie alone, Dave, Annie, the Basie rhythm section with Nat Pierce, and me, and the rest is known. When people would congratulate us on our artistic success, it got to be an un­funny joke, cause Dave and I stayed broke. Annie was straight. She was singing on the Patrice Munsel Show, which is like a per­manent record date. Then, one day at Dave's house, I saw the strangest sight I've ever seen: Sing a Song of Basie showed up in DownBeat as number thirteen! So Dave and I decided to see if we could get some gigs—just local. We envisioned nothing on a grand scale for an act so unusually vocal. Annie was in Europe then, sendin' mes­sages that everything was dandy, so 'til Annie got back we worked with Flo Handy, wife of George Handy and singer of great skill, and the Great South Bay Jazz Festival put us on last year's bill.

Later, the MJQ's manager, Monte Kay, set us up an audition with Willard Alexan­der one day. Willard got so excited he made us wonder what we had! We weren't all that sure it was good, but when you knock somebody out like Willard Alexander, you know it ain't all bad. Annie came back from Europe and joined Dave and me, and Willard signed us immediately.

As to how Basie feels about us, that'll be easy to understand, 'cause he invited us to do an album with his band, yet! (Sing Along with Basie, on Roulette.) Our cur­rent album, to be specific, is The Swingers on Dick Bock's World Pacific, with Zoot Sims, Russ Freeman and Basie's steady three men, Eddie Jones, Sonny Payne and Freddie Greene, the finest rhythm section anybody's ever seen.

We've just been honored by being asked to sign with Columbia Records, under the aegis of Mr. Irving Townsend. "Moanin'," by the pianist with Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers, Bobby Timmons, and "Cloudburst," a Sam-the-Man Taylor saxophone solo, are about ready for single release, and there's an album of Ellingtonia in the works, so who knows where it will cease?


My brother, Jim Hendricks, manages to manage us—an unmanageable task, and as for how we feel about what's happened to us—need you ask? How far Lambert, Hendricks and Ross will go is something I don't pretend to know, but, since I write a lot of the words we sing, I can tell you what message I'll bring: that opera houses dedi­cated to European musical culture are not the American norm. Jazz is America's cul­tural art form. To say that our opera hous­es are the Chicago, the San Francisco and the Metropolitan just doesn't follow. Amer­ica's real opera houses—as one day, pray, the American people may realize—are the Howard Theater in Washington, D.C., the Regal Theater in Chicago and Harlem's Apollo. And our divas are not singers of the kind of music Europe has, but Billie, and Ella, and Sarah, and they sing jazz!

We are honored anew every time a jazz musician compliments us, because we know they know what it's all about, but to have three great jazz musicians accompany us is something about which to shout. We have the Ike Isaacs Trio—Gildo Mahones, piano; Kahlil Madi, drums; and Ike on bass—and we hope to take them with us every place.

As for me—I'm the ninth child and the seventh son of Rev. and Mrs. A.B. Hen­dricks. I have eleven brothers and three sis­ters, all reared in the African Episcopal Church around Toledo, Ohio. All other data can be found in my bio. My musical educa­tion consisted of singing Negro spirituals and hymns with my mother in church, singing in bars and grills for whatever people threw me, which, praise be, was never out, singing in nightclubs at thirteen (they used to bill me as "The Sepia Bobby Breen!"), accompanied for one magical spell by a local pianist whose family were our neighbors, whom we knew well—Art Tatum, who started on the violin, but sat down to the piano and never got up again. I was fortunate enough to have learned to lis­ten to him early and I'm glad I paid heed, 'cause I never did learn how to read.

When Bird came through Toledo one night with Max, Tommy Potter (now with "Sweets"), Kenny Dorham and Al Haig to play a dance, I got a long-awaited, unex­pected chance to scat a few choruses, after which, while Kenny Dorham blew, I start­ed to split, but Bird motioned me to Kenny's chair next to him and said, with that warm smile, "Sit awhile." I ended up scatting the whole set, and before they left, Bird said, "Look me up when you get to New York. Don't forget."

It was two years later when I got to New York. Bird was playing at the Apollo Bar uptown, and I got up there fast as any­one can. And when I walked past the band­stand, Bird waved at me and spoke my name and thrilled me to kingdom come when he said, "Wanna' sing some?" and two years passed away as though it had been only one day! Roy Haynes was playing drums and I was a drummer (who had just put his drums in pawn), but when I heard Roy with Bird I said to myself, "That's it for my drumming. Them days is gone!"

I knew nothing about the New York scene except what I'd seen or heard, so I decided to judge everybody by "who stood up with Bird," or, if they didn't ever share the same bandstand, how did they stand with the man. Dave Lambert did "Old Folks" and "In the Still of the Night" with Bird, vocal arrangements by Dave, musical arrangements by Gil Evans, among the more beautiful things I've ever heard. Annie Ross sang with Bird a few times. The fact I'm trying not to keep it hid is that, at one time or another, all three of us did. It's a coincidence with a spiritual qual­ity I can't name, but Dave Lambert, Annie Ross and I came together naturally, just at the time when jazz began to receive wide public acclaim.

As a writer of words, this gives me a great responsibility, especially to American youth: Tell the truth! Interpret the compo­sitions and jazz composers, writing today, not three hundred years passed away. And the composers are numerous, most everybody playing, and all I have to do is tell the people what they’re saying.”

If your not familiar with Lambert Hendricks Ross, you’ll find the music on the following video tribute to them to be a real treat. If you already a fan, then you may enjoy reacquainting yourself with some old friends. The music of LHR is one of Jazz’s great gifts to the world. 




Theodore "Fats" Navarro: 1923-1950 - A Career Retrospective

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


“Fats was a spectacular musician because, in a time when cats arrived on the scene with nothing, he came on with everything: he could read, he could play high and hold anybody's first trumpet chair, he could play those singing, melodic solos with a big beautiful sound nobody could believe at the time, and he could fly in fast tempos with staccato, biting notes and execute whatever he wanted, with apparently no strain, everything clear. And every note meant something. You know there are those kinds of guys who just play a lot of notes, some good, some bad. Fats wasn't one of those: he made his music be about each note having a place and a reason. And he had so much warmth, so much feeling. That's why I say he had everything.”
- Roy Haynes, drummer and bandleader


Fats Navarro was dead before the LP era began, officially as a result of latent tuberculosis, although the disease was abetted by heroin addiction, the real cause of his decline. His recorded legacy came entirely from the days of 78 rpm releases, and from a variety of preserved broadcasts which make up around a third of the surviving recordings on which he is heard. Even from that limited source, however, there has emerged a general consensus among musicians, critics and listeners that the trumpeter stood alongside Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis as the most significant performer on that instrument in early bebop.


Born Theodore Navarro of mixed black, Chinese and Cuban descent in Key West, Florida, on 24 September 1923, he played both piano and tenor saxophone as a youth but by the age of seventeen he was already touring in dance bands as a trumpeter. One such band dropped him off in Ohio in 1941, where he studied briefly before hooking up with the respected Indianapolis-based territory band led by Snookum Russell. In 1943, he joined Andy Kirk's nationally-known outfit, where he partnered Howard McGhee in the trumpet section, but his big breakthrough to prominence came in 1945, when singer Billy Eckstine brought him into his historically crucial bebop-inspired big band as principal trumpet, replacing Dizzy Gillespie, who left to form his own unit.


Dizzy took Eckstine along to hear Navarro (who was variously known as Fats, Fat Boy or Fat Girl, from his high voice and effeminate manner as well as his girth) play with Kirk's band, and it didn't take long for the singer to make up his mind. As he recalled later for Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff's oral history of jazz, Hear Me Talkin to Ya, he “...  went with Dizzy to the club where the band were playing, and the only thing Fats had to blow (because Howard McGhee was the featured trumpet player) was behind a chorus number. But he was wailing behind this number, and I said to myself, 'This is good enough; this'll fit.'


So I got Fats to come by and talk it over, and about two weeks after that he took Dizzy's chair, and take it from me, he came right in. Fats came in the band, and great as Diz is - and I'll never say anything other than that he is one of the finest things that ever happened to a brass instrument - Fats played his book and you would hardly know that Diz had left the band. 'Fat Girl' played Dizzy's solos, not note-for-note, but his ideas on Dizzy's parts, and the feeling was the same and there was just as much swing.”


He joined the band in January 1945, and remained with Eckstine until the autumn of 1946, when the punishing touring schedule proved too much for his already failing health. In addition, he was chafing against the restrictions of the big-band format, which he felt allowed him insufficient opportunity to develop musically. The remainder of his all-too-brief career - he died on 7 July 1950 - was spent as a freelance musician, and was given over to working with a variety of small bop groups in New York, mostly at the behest of other leaders. In that time, he left a legacy of around 150 recorded sides (including airshots) of remarkably consistent quality, a curtailed body of work which is nonetheless one of the most significant in jazz. His future employers would include swing-era giants like Coleman Hawkins and Benny Goodman, and such leaders of the bebop movement as Charlie Parker, Bud Powell, Kenny Clarke and Dexter Gordon and other important figures like Illinois Jacquet and Eddie 'Lockjaw' Davis. He cut an important co-led session with Howard McGhee in 1948, but his most significant partnership was the one he forged with pianist and arranger Tadd Dameron.


The earliest of his post-Eckstine small-group sessions came under the leadership of drummer Kenny Clarke, in a band which also featured a second trumpeter, the very youthful Kinny Dorham (later known as Kenny). Clarke had been the drummer most associated with the initial development of the bebop style, and if
Max Roach and Art Blakey were to make even more important contributions, both would acknowledge Clarke's lead in the evolution of the form. The band cut two sessions, the first on 5 September 1946, as Kenny Clarke and His 52nd Street Boys, and the other as The Be Bop Boys the following day.


Gil Fuller, best known for his work with the Dizzy Gillespie big band, was included as arranger on both sessions, working with nine and eight-piece bands respectively, and his influence is clearly apparent in the well-groomed charts. The solo honours go to Navarro and pianist Bud Powell, and both are heard at greater length than usual on the second set of four tunes, recorded at double length for release over two sides of a 78 rpm disc.


Unfortunately, the original acetates have never been found, which means the re-mastered versions now available also have to preserve the fade in the middle, made to accommodate the change of side. 'Fat Boy' is dominated by a lengthy saxophone chase, but its nickname-sake gets in a spicy solo before the scramble begins. He is heard to even better advantage on 'Everything's Cool' and 'Webb City', where he and the pianist are allocated more generous space. These two could usually fire each other's playing, although it was often achieved in adversarial fashion in a relationship which had its dark side, as Leonard Feather's famous account in the sleeve note for The Fabulous Fats Navarro (Blue Note) will confirm.


“I remember one night during a jam session I was running at the Three Deuces on 52nd Street for which I had booked both Fats and Bud Powell, the tension between the two was aggravated as Bud chided Fats between sets. At the beginning of the next set Fats reached the bursting point. While the audience looked on in silent, terrified tension, he lifted his horn and tried to bring the full weight of it crashing down on Bud's hands. He missed, thank God, but the strength in the blow was enough to buckle the horn against the piano; Fats had to borrow a trumpet to play the set.”


That doesn't sound like the Fats described by Dizzy: 'He was sweet. He was like a little baby. Very nice.' Or by Tadd Dameron: 'He was pretty quiet, soulful, sensitive. He never found himself, really. He was always searching. I don't know what he was looking for - he had it!' The incident is testimony, perhaps, to how difficult and provocative a partner Powell could be, but Feather ends the story by pointing out that the incident bailed to affect the close friendship and mutual admiration between Bud and Fats'.


Even in these early recordings, it is possible to hear how mature a stylist he had become by the mid-1940s. In an interview with Barry Ulanov for Metronome in 1947 he claimed to be uncomfortable with describing his music as bebop, a term he disliked, but set out both his artistic creed and affiliation: 'It's just modern music. It needs to be explained right. What they call bebop is really a series of chord progressions. None of us play this bebop the way we want to, yet. I'd like to just play a perfect melody of my own, all the chord progressions right, the melody original and fresh - my own.' Interestingly, his definition foregrounds melody and harmony rather than rhythm, and that is clearly reflected in his playing. Although he spiced up his work with a sprinkling of accents borrowed from the examples of Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie, in general he takes something of a conservative approach to rhythmic accentuation, flowing easily and smoothly along the beat at any tempo.


Navarro was back in the studios again before the end of 1946 but the eight sides he cut with Eddie 'Lockjaw' Davis and His Beboppers in December are less impressive overall. At this stage, Davis was a hard-blowing, stereotypical middle-rank tenorman steeped in the honking Harlem jump-band tradition, and his riff-based compositions (all eight titles are credited to him, most of them built on the 'I Got Rhythm' changes) are functional rather than memorable. A solid rhythm section led by pianist Al Haig helps the sessions swing in meaty fashion, but their continuing musical interest lies in Navarro's contributions. Those are every bit as cogent and well-focused as his work elsewhere, both in the ensembles (employing both a cup-mute and the open horn) and when featured as a soloist - 'Stealin' Trash' and 'Red Pepper' offer typically sure-footed examples.


Coleman Hawkins made a very different tenor partner that same month. The saxophonist was intrigued by the new generation of beboppers, and Fats is heard on two selections from a session which also featured J.J. Johnson, Milt Jackson, and a rhythm section of Hank Jones, Curly Russell and Max Roach. The diverse musical influences meet in a half-way house between swing and bop, territory in which the trumpeter is entirely at home. He is heard in crisp, idiomatic fettle in the ensemble on “I Mean You', and takes a brief, punchy solo on 'Bean and the Boys'.


In January of 1947 he cut a rare session under his own name for Savoy, as Fats Navarro and His Thin Men. It marked the beginning of what was to be the most fruitful of his musical partnerships, with pianist and arranger Tadd Dameron. The band also featured Leo Parker on baritone saxophone rather than the standard alto or tenor, providing a conspicuous contrast of styles as well as sonority in the front line. Gene Ramey on bass and Denzil Best on drums completed the quintet which cut four tunes in the session.


If Navarro profited from the association with Tadd Dameron, so did the pianist. Dameron was born in Cleveland on 21 February 1917 (he died in 1965), and had cut his teeth on writing arrangements for a number of big bands - Dizzy Gillespie would give the premiere of his large-scale composition 'Soulphony' at Carnegie Hall the following year. Navarro was Dameron's most productive collaborator in a rather stop-start career fragmented not only by the struggle to maintain a band for any sustained period of musical development, but also by a spell in prison for drug offences from 1958.


Dameron is not a virtuoso soloist in the Powell manner. He played what is sometimes dismissively described as 'arranger's piano', concentrating his attentions on developing the harmonic form and structure of the composition. He was always primarily concerned with arranging and, increasingly, composition. Fontainebleau recorded for Prestige in 1956 may be the peak of his achievement, and one of the most successful through-composed jazz works ever written. In another 1947 interview with Barry Ulanov, also for Metronome, Dameron stressed his preoccupation with a beautiful sound  - 'There's enough ugliness in the world. I'm interested in beauty' - and the importance of personal expression, both of which he found in profusion in Navarro's playing. These qualities - always allied with a surely developed sense of overall form and attention to harmonic structure - are what lifts the whole session out of the casual blowing ethos of much of the earlier small-group material featuring the trumpeter. It was a more refined approach that was much to his liking, given his own palpable concern with the clear articulation of form within his solos. He played with a sweetness and richness of tone unmatched by any of the other bop trumpeters, and was less reliant than Gillespie and his imitators on sheer speed or dramatic flourishes of sustained high-register playing, although entirely capable of brilliantly effective use of either in building and releasing tension within a solo.



Navarro's burnished tone and his liking for carefully shaped melodic lines perhaps owe something to his admiration for swing-era players like his third cousin, Charlie Shavers, or Freddie Webster, who was also an acknowledged influence on the early development of Miles Davis. It came allied to a technical mastery of the horn which allowed him to cope with the furious tempos of bebop without ever losing his sense of poised equilibrium. His lyrical sensibility found a fine foil in Dameron, as is already clear even at this early stage.


Fats follows Parker in the solo rotation on all four tracks, and produces something engagingly different on each occasion. On ‘Fat Girl', he switches from muted horn in the introduction and ensemble chorus to deliver a delightfully relaxed, gracefully executed solo on open horn. His fleet, sharp-edged contribution to the Indiana'-based 'Ice Freezes Red’ is outdone for speed by his flying but fully controlled whirl through 'Goin' to Minton’s’ and 'Eb-Pob' allows him to show off his high-note chops at a more moderate tempo in a solo which follows a beautifully sculpted line of mounting tension, mid-way climax and gradual release. Dameron guides and prompts under all of the horn action, in what is the beginning of a beautiful (if often troubled) friendship, and takes a proficient but unambitious chorus on 'Eb-Pob', a blues with an added bridge and a title which is an anagram of bebop.


Navarro may have been an amiable, sensitive guy, but he developed the junkie's sly cunning as well. Dameron recalls a sequence of resignations from the band, followed by a return at a slightly higher salary each time as the trumpeter played on the leader's high regard for his work and his prowess scared off potential replacements. In Jazz Masters of the 40s, Ira Gitler reports Dameron's recollection that “I used to try to get other fellows to play with me, and they'd say, ‘Oh, is Fats in the band? Oh, no!’ It got to the point where I had to pay him so much money that I told him he should go out on his own. I said, "Once you start making this kind of money, you need to be a leader yourself." But he didn't want to quit. He didn't have security because of his habits.' Eventually, and inevitably, given that Dameron was never either notably overburdened with work or pulling down top dollar, Navarro priced himself out of the band altogether.


The trumpeter cut a second session under his own name for Savoy later in 1947, this time with Charlie Rouse on tenor saxophone and a Dameron-led rhythm trio with Nelson Boyd (bass) and Art Blakey (drums). The session, recorded on 5 December, yielded a fine example of his style at a more deliberate tempo and gentler mood in 'Nostalgia', built on the chord progression of the standard 'Out Of Nowhere'. (Oddly, the trumpeter's studio legacy includes no ballads, although his style seems well suited to that form.)


Fats plays sweetly lyrical solos on both takes, using a muted horn; the construction of both solos is very similar, suggesting that his melodic conception for any given tune was firmly fixed in his mind when he came to commit his thoughts to the recording process. That view is partially borne out by other alternate takes, both from this session and elsewhere, in that while they reveal an acute attention to telling shifts of detail, they do not possess the kind of radical take-to-take revisions evident in Charlie Parker's legendary alternates. That consistency has led some to wonder whether the trumpeter may actually have pre-planned his improvisations before going into the studio. It seems more likely, however, that they simply indicate a firm grasp of what he wanted to produce on any given melody and progression, and perhaps provide further evidence of his concern with finding the right form and structure for the specific context in which he was playing.


Sandwiched in between his own Savoy sessions, Navarro recorded two others in 1947 in which Dameron led the band, the first for Blue Note on 26 September, and the second for Savoy on 28 October. The Blue Note recording featured the core of the band which played on Navarro's subsequent December date for Savoy discussed above, with Ernie Henry added on alto saxophone and Shadow Wilson in for Blakey in the drum seat, and will be considered shortly, along with the subsequent Blue Note sessions of 1948-49. Dameron's writing on tunes like ‘A Bebop Carol' (based on 'Mean to Me') and the amiable stroll of 'The Tadd Walk' for the Savoy session is typically sophisticated, while the trumpeter is in fine form in his contributions to the set, which also featured vocalist Kay Penton on two tunes.


Shortly after this session, Navarro cut a date under the leadership of tenor saxophonist Dexter Gordon, also for Savoy, with another Dameron-led rhythm section featuring Nelson Boyd (bass) and Art Madigan (drums). Navarro is heard on three of the four tunes they laid down and makes notable solo contributions to 'Dextrose', where his tone and sinuous line is characteristically lovely, and 'Index', where he opens his solo with a breath-catching extended, unbroken phrase which is a model of controlled technique and creativity.

An intriguing broadcast from this period brings the trumpeter together with Charlie Parker and Lennie Tristano, in unusual circumstances. Barry Ulanov had organised a battle of the bands, split along traditional versus modernist lines, for a radio shoot-out in September 1947. Listeners were asked to vote and the victorious modernists invited to return to the studios on 8 November. The original line-up had featured Dizzy Gillespie, but for the celebration broadcast Navarro was in the trumpet chair (with his regular partner in the Dameron band, Allen Eager, on tenor saxophone). His feature, 'Fats Flats', based on his own 'Barry's Bop', based in turn on 'What Is This Thing Called Love?', is a beautifully poised piece of bop trumpet work of the kind we would by now expect from him, and he makes an equally dazzling contribution to 'KoKo'. The date has been issued on Spotlite, under the title 'Anthropology, and provides a fascinating comparison of styles when compared with Gillespie's contribution to the original session, preserved on the Lullaby in Rhythm album from the same label, worth hearing in any case for the explosive playing of Navarro and Parker, and the additional interest of Tristano's presence. The album is filled out with three poorly recorded cuts from the Dameron band, with the trumpeter marked absent.



While their work for Savoy is very fine, the Navarro - Dameron combination arguably achieved their greatest studio performances in the music they recorded for Blue Note. The September 1947 session already mentioned was followed by another on 13 September 1948, and a third on 18 January 1949. They have been collected as The Fabulous Fats Navarro in two volumes on both LP and CD, and subsequently made available in an indispensable two-CD set, The Complete Blue Note and Capitol Recordings of Fats Navarro and Tadd Dameron, which also includes Dameron's recordings of 21 April 1949 with Miles Davis, and important Navarro material with Howard McGhee and Bud Powell, as well as a version of 'Stealing Apples' cut with Benny Goodman.


In addition to these classic studio takes, a valuable series of live broadcasts from the Royal Roost in 1948 has been preserved on both LP and CD in a Milestone album as Fats Navarro featured with The Tadd Dameron Band. The material includes Dameron classics like 'Good Bait', 'Dameronia', “Tadd Walk’ and 'Our Delight', as well as Navarro's own 'Eb-Pob', Charlie Parker's 'Anthropology' and Gershwin's 'Lady Be Good'. It is particularly valuable in preserving Navarro's thoughts on the relaxed, strolling theme of what is probably Dameron's best known bop tune, 'Good Bait'. It is heard in two quite distinctive takes on this set, but was not included in any of their studio sessions together. The trumpeter features on about three-quarters of the material on the album, and while the music-making (and the recorded sound) is not quite as finely focused as in the studio recordings, it has the benefit of on-stage spontaneity and longer playing time, and anyone interested in either musician should seek it out alongside the Blue Note material. In his sleeve note for the album, Stanley Crouch quotes drummer Roy Haynes's succinct appraisal of Navarro's qualities, which seems worth reiterating here.


“Fats was a spectacular musician because, in a time when cats arrived on the scene with nothing, he came on with everything: he could read, he could play high and hold anybody's first trumpet chair, he could play those singing, melodic solos with a big beautiful sound nobody could believe at the time, and he could fly in fast tempos with staccato, biting notes and execute whatever he wanted, with apparently no strain, everything clear. And every note meant something. You know there are those kinds of guys who just play a lot of notes, some good, some bad. Fats wasn't one of those: he made his music be about each note having a place and a reason. And he had so much warmth, so much feeling. That's why I say he had everything.”


Navarro never found a sweeter context to display those manifold qualities than the Dameron band, and the pianist found a soloist who could provide both the beauty and the grasp of form he needed, and do so at the highest level of creative improvisation.


The four tunes cut at the session of 26 September 1947 all have an alternate take. In the case of 'The Chase', the marked improvement in Charlie Rouse's tenor solo alone would demand the choice of the master take for release, even if everyone else were not also in slightly sharper form. Navarro turns in two strong, beautifully judged solo performances, each of which confirms his complete command of both horn and music at a fast tempo, as well as emphasising his signature tone, the fat, immaculately poised trumpet sound justly described by fellow trumpeter Joe Newman as 'one of those big butter sounds'.


Dameron had a good ear for a memorable, catchy theme, and his compositions provided plenty of scope for his soloists to develop their conceptions. In 'The Squirrel', a blues said to have been inspired by the pianist watching a squirrel in Central Park one day, the originally released take captures the ebullient spirit of the piece more fully than the slightly under-characterised alternate, and the ensemble choruses are more developed. Navarro builds his solo with a precise concern for tension and release, and a hint of the New Orleans trumpet tradition in his rolling phrases and skittering glances off the high notes at each of its peaks. The opulent 'Our Delight' is one of Dameron's best-known tunes, and both takes here find Navarro playing with a very clear conception of precisely what he wanted to say.

The trumpeter nails each of his solos conclusively, with only minor embellishments in the melody from take to take, and both are gems of lucid construction and creative phrasing. The session's final tune, 'Dameronia', with its Monk-ish echo of 'Well, You Needn't' in the theme, is another of the pianist's best. In the alternate take, Navarro uses the final note of the saxophone solo as a launch pad to roar in with a dramatic descending opening phrase, and builds a robust, muscular solo statement from it. He thinks better of that approach in the released take, opening in very different fashion, then turning in what is arguably his most functional, least memorable solo of the session.


The combination's next Blue Note session took place just under a year later, on 13 September 1948, shortly after the band began their residence at the Royal Roost. Only the leader and Navarro remain from the first recording. Allen Eager, a Dameron regular, and Wardell Gray shared tenor duties, with Curly Russell on bass and Kenny Clarke behind the drums. Cuban percussionist Chino Pozo (a cousin of the better-known Chano Pozo) contributed conga drum on two takes of 'Jabhero,’ and Kenny Hagood laid down a smooth vocal on a single take of “I Think I'll Go Away'. Dameron's chord progressions are always fascinating, and Navarro is in great form on all three of the purely instrumental tracks. They possess all the virtues we have already heard in his two previous recordings with the pianist, but, perhaps more overtly than in any of the other studio sessions, the different takes reveal him thinking hard about the detail of his performances. In the alternate takes of 'Jabhero' and 'Lady Bird', for example, he tries out double-time passages which are not included in the two released takes, while on 'Symphonette', a swinging riff tune, he interpolates some hard and fast rapid-note bop phraseology into the released take, but smooths them out considerably on the alternate.


The Dameron - Navarro studio sessions for both Savoy and Blue Note represent an important continuum in the development of bebop, as well as in the respective careers of both players. Their final visit to the studio was a Capitol session with a ten-piece band on 18 January 1949, which might have been historic (it preceded the first of the so-called 'Birth of the Cool' sessions by a couple of days), but did not yield fully satisfactory results on the two tracks in which the trumpeter is featured. There is plenty to enjoy on both 'Sid's Delight' and 'Casbah' nonetheless, but it marked the end of the Dameron - Navarro association. By the time the pianist returned to the studio to finish the session in April, he had Miles Davis in the trumpet chair.


Navarro's next studio venture remains an intriguing one. It re-united Fats with his old section-mate from the Andy Kirk band, Howard McGhee, a fine bop trumpeter from Oklahoma who cut his teeth in the big bands of Charlie Barnet and Kirk, then gigged with Coleman Hawkins before forming his own small band in Los Angeles in 1945. The Blue Note session took place on 11 October 1948, and featured the two trumpeters with Ernie Henry (alto sax), Milt Jackson (piano), Curly Russell (bass) and Kenny Clarke (drums). Jackson also played what became his main instrument, vibes, on two takes of Navarro's 'Boperation' (the second of which was not issued until its appearance on the Complete disc), while McGhee switched to piano.


In the sleeve notes for the various releases of The Fabulous Fats Navarro the order of the trumpet soloists is wrongly identified. In ‘The Skunk', a raunchy blues, Navarro follows Henry, while McGhee follows Jackson, and in the celebrated 'Double Talk', it is Navarro who leads the solos and trading exchanges each time. It is odd that both Leonard Feather and (at least according to Feather's sleeve note) Alfred Lion should be similarly mistaken in identifying two players with, as this fine session makes clear, such distinctive styles.


Stylistic identification can be a treacherous business, though, as Dizzy, Fats and Miles Davis demonstrated on another famous session earlier that year. The Metronome All-Stars recording on 3 January 1948 featured all three trumpet stars on 'Overtime', which Dizzy later described in his autobiography in these terms: 'I know each one of them sounded like me because we played on a record together, the three of us, and I didn't know which one was playing when I listened ... I didn't know which one of us played what solo because the three of us sounded so much alike.' Davis, in a remark quoted by Jack Chambers in Milestones I, concurs, but adds the caveat that when he and Fats played together 'We'd sound alike, but when we played separately, we didn't sound alike'. Certainly, the short solos on 'Overtime' do not reveal anything of the considerable individuality of the three players.McGhee's Eldridge-inspired approach, however, is definitely distinct from Navarro's.


In the Blue Note session, they push each other in constructive fashion, and nowhere more so than on 'Double Talk', another extended piece intended to occupy two sides of a 78 rpm release, but with the side-fades erased. The faster alternate take is the more uninhibited of the two, but the trumpet-playing from both men is scintillating on each version, with the closing sequences of sixteen, then eight, then four-bar traded choruses providing some particularly compelling responses.


Fats was back in the studio on 29 November 1948, this time at the behest of Ross Russell's Dial label, for a session accompanying the smooth vocal stylist Earl Coleman, a baritone in the popular sweet-toned style of the period. The band also featured Don Lanphere's tenor saxophone, and Max Roach on drums. The trumpeter is heard in restrained but tasty solo spots on 'Guilty' and 'Yardbird Suite', and provides a pretty if dimly-recorded obbligato (the word literally means 'necessary', and refers in music to an independent instrumental part which complements the principal melody, as distinct from an accompaniment) to Coleman's vocal lines on 'A Stranger In Town' and 'As Time Goes By'. He is caught in more characteristic manner, however, on two sizzling instrumental takes of Denzil Best's fiery 'Move' laid down by the quintet. (Guitarist Al Casey, who expanded the group to a sextet for the vocal items, sat these out.) You can practically hear their joy in being able to flex their muscles after the sweet stuff and they dig in hard on both takes, with Navarro in fleet, exuberant form, and the subtle differences he introduces in each take again gives the lie to any suspicions of preparation.


The other genuinely significant session in Navarro's discography is the one he cut with Bud Powell's Modernists for Blue Note on 8 August 1949, in a band which also featured the 18-year-old Sonny Rollins on tenor, Tommy Potter on bass, and drummer Roy Haynes. The four quintet cuts - the pianist's own 'Bouncing With Bud', 'Wail' and 'Dance of the Infidels', plus Monk's '52nd Street Theme' - laid down that day are classics, with Powell hitting sustained peaks of creativity he could not quite carry off into the two slightly routine trio cuts which completed the session, and Navarro soaring in characteristic fashion. It is almost possible to feel the crackling electric tension running between these two, especially on the charged master takes, and while Rollins acquits himself well, he is not yet the focus of attention he would soon become. The session is something of a template for the classic Blue Note horns-plus-rhythm style of the succeeding decade, as bebop transmuted into the less fluid, less frenzied derivation which would be labelled hard bop. Navarro would not survive to make a contribution to that development.


[References include Ira Gitler, Jazz Masters of the 40s, Carl Woideck’s insert notes to The Complete Blue Note and Capitol Recordings of Fats Novarro and Tadd Dameron [Blue Note CDP 72438 33373 2 3], Kenny Mathieson, Giants Steps: Bebop and the Creators of Modern Jazz, 1945-1965, Barry Kernfeld, The New Grove Dictionary of Jazz, Leonard Feather insert notes to The Fabulous Fats Navarro [Blue Note CDP 7 815322] and Richard Cook and Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.]



Jimmy Rowles: Sprinkling Jazz

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


“Long acknowledged as the favorite accompanist of every singer for whom he played, Rowles is an artist of consummate harmonic imagination.”
- Leonard Feather

“Jimmy Rowles is a pianist of refreshingly consistent taste and swinging invention ….”
- Nat Hentoff

“A few things about Rowles stood out from the start. He didn’t sound like anyone else; he knew more tunes than Sigmund Spaeth [a musicologist who traced the sources and origins of popular songs to their folk and classical roots] ; and he was, on occasion, droll in the way that only a grizzled hipster can be…. His own two chorus solo is of a sort no one else would attempt – a coherent montage of hammered single notes, offhanded dissonances, wandering arpeggios, abrupt bass walks, trebly rambles.”
- Gary Giddins

"Most of what I'm trying to say [about the importance of the melody] is nicely illustrated in a story about the great, unique pianist Jimmy Rowles, who knew as much about songs and harmony as anybody who ever lived. 

He was playing a piano-bass duet gig for a while and one night his regular bassist sent in a sub, who decided to try and impress the master with his knowledge of harmony by hitting him with a whole slew of super-hip bass notes and chord substitutions, playing everything but the kitchen sink. 

After a couple of tunes worth of this, and working on his second double vodka, Rowles turned to this Einstein of the bass with a glare and rasped 'I'm aware of the possibilities … let’s just play the f---ing song the way it goes and make some music, OK?'"
- Bassist Steve Wallace

The Carriage House was located at 3000 West Olive Avenue in BurbankCalifornia. This was the name of the restaurant and bar before pianist Bill Chadney bought it in the mid-1970’s and named it after himself – Chadney’s.

It was located just beyond the tip of a triangle formed by the intersection of Parish Place, Alameda and Olive Avenues.

Across Alameda Avenue and just slightly southwest of this man-made traffic nightmare are NBC’s television studios which were re-located to this site [3000 West Alameda] from their original location as part of NBC’s RadioCity at the corner of Sunset & Vine in Hollywood, CA.


When these studios first came into existence around 1955, the network used them to create “live” programming for the West Coast [allowing for the time difference between Eastern and Pacific Daylight Time]. In 1962, they became NBC’s “ColorCity” [i.e.: color television studios] and ultimately the “home” for The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, The NBC Nightly News with Tom Brokaw, and the many television specials of comedian, Bob Hope.

It’s amazing to reflect on the fact that I saw these [now massive] facilities come into and [soon to] go out of existence during my lifetime.

One of my closest friends in high school [who’s Dad worked there as an electrician] and I would ride our bikes to NBC and literally walk around back of the buildings and into it sound stages: no security guards, no locked doors, no alarm systems.

The initial structures looked like two, corrugated aluminum airplane hangers situated in the middle of a cow pasture. They didn’t even have signs on them. It has since become an immense complex replete with not one, but two, landing pads for helicopters.



As Jazz author, Gary Giddins, describes in one of the introductory quotations that serve as a lead-in to this piece, Jimmy’s solos are often … “a coherent montage of hammered single notes, offhanded dissonances, wandering arpeggios, abrupt bass walks, trebly rambles.”

Gary goes on to observe: “Rowles is not an aggressive or showy player; he leaves lots of space, uses dynamics sparingly, and swings softly and at an even gait. What makes him remarkable is his ear for detail (the fills that make his accompaniment so stylish are no less disarming when he uses them to decorate his own solos), his depth of feeling (he could play a melody straight and make it sound like an improvisation), and his harmonic ingenuity (he rarely attacks a chord head-on, preferring dense substitutions or oblique angles). His repertory is immense and arcane ….” [Visions of Jazz, excerpted from pages 535-536].


To paraphrase, Doug Ramsey: “Jimmy Rowles is as uninhibited, witty, and earthy a pianist as he is a storyteller. [His] music is complex, fascinating, often hilarious. Nobody knows as many obscure tunes as Jimmy.”

Here’s another take on Jimmy and the qualities he expressed through his music from vocalist and pianist, Diana Krall, who studied with him for a number of years:

“Jimmy Rowles was not flashy, but he was incredibly complex harmonically in his knowledge, which extended from popular music in general to Debussy and Ravel in particular.

The way he played and sang was very, very subtle, and the beauty of the music came through in the way he played and sang songs like Poor Butterfly, Nature Boy, or How Deep Is the Ocean. Those things sunk in while I was there, but I'm still processing that, and coming to terms with his whole artistry.

But the other thing he taught me was not to take myself too seriously, even though I took the music itself very seriously." [As told to Gene Lees, JazzLetter, Vol. 18, No.. 5, May 1999].

You got mesmerized listening to Jimmy. In his solos, he sometimes juxtaposed a variety of piano styles from ragtime and stride to the most sophisticated, modern piano chord substitutions. All of this complexity was interspersed in such a way that Jimmy constantly kept the listener guessing as to what was coming next.

You began to listened to Jimmy play piano out of fascination and a fair amount of amusement, but when you’d finished listening to him play, you shook your head in admiration at the totality of his musical expression.

Jimmy used space and pace in a very controlled manner; you could almost hear him thinking about what not to include in his solos!

Although he performed mainly as an accompanist to Jazz vocalists and in trio, duo and solo settings for most of his career, one of Jimmy’s earliest recordings under his own name was with a septet for which he and Bill Holman did the arrangements.


The recording – Weather in a Jazz Vane: The Jimmy Rowles Septet – has always been one of my favorites. Originally issued in 1958 as an Andex LP [S3007], it is also available in a digital format as VSOP #48.

On it, Jimmy is joined by Lee Katzman on trumpet, Bob Enevoldsen on valve trombone, Her Geller on also sax, Bill Holman on tenor and baritone sax and a rhythm section made up of Monty Budwig on bass and Mel Lewis on drums.

Aside from the superbly arranged and performed tunes which all have, not surprisingly, weather related titles [e.g.: The Breeze and I, Heat Wave and Some Other Spring, the album offers the additional treat of the following liner notes as written by the late drummer and club owner, Shelly Manne.

“Musicians have a way of using words in a sense totally different from their everyday usage. One of these words is "Beautiful".

Where most people use the word to describe an outward appearance that is pleasing to the eye, the musician uses it to describe the inner person.

I know of no person who deserves this description more than JIMMY ROWLES.

Musicians, familiar with his playing, have long hailed him as one of the great jazz pianists and are often dis­turbed by the lack of recognition given him. Anyone who hears him, considers his playing beautiful in any sense of the word.

Jimmy is quiet with a quick wit and large sense of humor. These things are in his playing. He is honest and unaffected. These qualities are also evident in his playing.

He is a master of understatement and every time he plays something it has meaning. His taste is uncanny and with all his subtleness he swings hard through his perfect sense of time and his intensity; and of course one very important thing: he loves to play.

There is a sort of hidden code among some rhythm section players on record dates, where the band is so spread out that we can't feel the time or hear each other too well, to follow Jimmy's foot and it will straighten everything out.

He is a walking music library. He knows more old tunes (standards and jazz originals) and more new tunes (standards and jazz originals) than any other musician I've ever known.

All the qualities of Jimmy's playing are carried over into his writing. He is wonderfully original whether he is writing arrangements on standards or compositions of his own, for large orchestras or small groups.

Jimmy was born in Spokane, Wash.August 19, 1918. He started playing piano during his freshman year at GonzagaCollege.

He first became interested in jazz piano when he heard Teddy Wilson on a Benny Goodman trio record. He was so impressed that he bought as many B.G. records with Teddy on them as he could find. Needless to say Teddy was his first influence.

Jimmy says that although he loves the feel of the rhythm section, over the past years he has been more influ­enced by horn men than piano men.

In 1938, after Mr. Wilson lit the fire, Jimmy made a trip to nearby Seattle to hear Duke Ellington's band. Jimmy says "especially to hear Ben Webster." He not only got to hear him, but they became close friends, a friendship that is just as strong today. Ben encouraged and gave Jimmy confidence. I know what this meant for Jimmy because a few years later Ben did the same for me.

Jimmy went back home from Seattle with a picture of Ben under his arm. He displayed it in a place of honor in "the front room of the house."

When Jimmy finally left the Northwest in 1940 he was undecided whether to go to New York or Los Angeles. He chose L.A. because it was closer and "at least I wouldn't freeze to death down there."

After a period of unemployment and just listening to what was happening jazz-wise, he joined a group headed by Slim Gaillard and Slam Stewart, known to the public at that time as "Slim & Slam." From that group he joined the small band of Lee & Lester Young. It was during this time around 1942 that I first heard Jimmy play.

All the talk among jazz musicians then was about this new piano player with Prez. Jim spent about nine months with this group.

After that he joined Benny Goodman's band, then Woody Herman. From Woody's band he went into the army. After his discharge from the service he rejoined Woody until the band broke up.


It was then that he decided to stay in L.A. and freelance, doing studio work and record dates. Jimmy was in great demand as a vocal accompanist, working with such singers as Evelyn Knight, Betty Hutton, Billie Holiday and Peggy Lee, for whom he still does a lot of work. He has also done some vocal coaching.

Jimmy started writing while he was in the army but went through a period, when he rejoined Woody, of not writing at all. Says Jimmy, "Woody's arrangement's were so good I was afraid to submit any of my work for fear it wouldn't be liked." I'm sure that if Jimmy hadn't been so modest a great many of his charts would be remembered in the list of the "Herd's" classics. Of course now, even though he is still modest, Jimmy does a good deal of writing, not only for jazz dates but vocal backgrounds and T.V. shows as well.

Duke Ellington was Jim's major inspiration in writing. He also likes the work of Gil Evans and Bill Holman with whom he shared arranging honors on this album.
I mentioned earlier Jimmy's vast repertoire of tunes old and new. On this album he chose a few beauties dat­ing back quite a ways. "Throwin" Stones At The Sun,""Too Hot For Words", and 'Some Other Spring."

This album was built around Jimmy's piano playing. His arrangements of "Throwin’ Stones", "When The Sun Comes Out", "The Breeze and I", and "Some Other Spring" emphasize his originality, especially on "The Breeze and I" where the form is unusual. Also obvious is his penchant for just writing and playing what is need­ed to make good, sound, musical sense. The scores are uncluttered, with much clarity and plenty of room for improvisation.

His humor comes to the fore on "Too Hot For Words" (note the ending). I believe this is Jimmy's first recorded vocal effort. It was spontaneous. No vocal was planned but at the date Jim decided to lean in towards the piano mike and sing. It knocked everyone out so much that they set up a separate mike and recorded his voice for posterity

I'm not going to try to analyze the playing and writing on this album. I'm doing the notes because 1 liked what I heard. The band swings freely, plays the charts with understanding, and the soloists play some outstand­ing jazz.

Bill Holman, who is responsible for this album, is an acknowledged great in jazz writing and on this record his scores go hand in hand with Jimmy's musicianship.

As for Jimmy Rowles I feel he can do no wrong.
It’s always fair weather when Jim's around.

Shelly Manne, June 5, 1959




Dave McKenna [1930-2008] - The Ted Panken Interview

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


“Dave McKenna was simply one of the legends of the jazz piano. He, of course, would probably have disagreed. "I don't know if I qualify as a bona-fide jazz guy," he said. "I play saloon piano. I like to stay close to the melody." His humility and laid-back personal style seemed a contrast to the vibrant vitality of his masterful piano style. His range is truly extraordinary. One minute he is caressing a lovely ballad, the next he is thundering and rumbling through a high-powered rendition of I Found a New Baby.”


The best I can describe it, Dave McKenna plays like he has three hands.  Where most pianists tend to devote their left hand entirely to chords or bass lines, using the right exclusively for melodies, McKenna seems to split each hand in half.  The bottom two fingers of his left hand dance through bass lines Ray Brown would be happy to conceive, the top two fingers on the right hand explore variations on the theme of the tune, both thumbs and second fingers play chords in between, and the middle fingers jump in wherever they’re most needed.”
  • Robert Doerschuk, distinguished piano critic
A Jazz buddy recently sent me the following message:

“McKenna. … Before he is forgotten, a small piece on a true individualist would honor his legacy. Nobody mentions Dave McKenna anymore. Ya, I know you have a long list, but he should be on it. …”

So I dug around. I played a hunch hoping to find an interview with him in Len Lyons’ wonderful The Great Jazz Pianists, but no such luck.

And the more I dug, the more I got the feeling that it was going to be pretty difficult to locate an interview with a man who doesn’t like to talk about himself, doesn’t consider himself to be anything special in the way of a Jazz pianist and hates compliments.

But then I remembered the series of recordings that Dave made for Concord Records in the 1980/90s and trenching back through the insert notes for these I somehow managed to find the following interview that Dave gave to Ted Panken in 1999.

Miracles do happen!

© -Ted Panken, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“Dave McKenna was one the great originals.

McKenna, a basically self-taught pianist out of Woonsocket, Rhode Island, went on the road at 17 and never looked back.

In 1999, I had an opportunity to interview McKenna for the publicity bio for a trio recording on Concord with clarinet legend Buddy DeFranco and guitarist Joe Cohn called Do Nothing Til You Hear From Us, following a duo from three years before entitled It Might As Well Be Swing. Throughout both dates, the masters played with unfettered effervescence, impeccable craft and a fiery edge that would be the envy of musicians young enough to be their grandchildren.

Their felicitous chemistry wouldn’t make sense if you looked at their careers superficially.  DeFranco is supposed to be a cold, cerebral player locked into the tropes of jazz modernism, while McKenna was the contemporary embodiment of old-style, two-handed pianism — the ultimate “saloon piano player.”  But they shared a profound common denominator.  Both came up in the top-shelf dance bands that incubated so many personal improvisers during the decade spanning World War Two and the Korean War when bebop entered common jazz parlance.
McKenna emerged from a strong regional New England jazz culture that produced such generational contemporaries as—among others—Phil Woods, Sal Salvador, and Joe Morello, Horace Silver, Gigi Gryce and Paul Motian. As he stated below, Nat Cole was his pianistic model, and he developed a rollicking-yet-subtle orchestral approach that he applied to every tune. The distinguished piano critic Robert Doerschuk described his unique style as follows in the liner notes to another of McKenna’s numerous Concord recitals, entitled Easy Street. “The best I can describe it, Dave McKenna plays like he has three hands.  Where most pianists tend to devote their left hand entirely to chords or bass lines, using the right exclusively for melodies, McKenna seems to split each hand in half.  The bottom two fingers of his left hand dance through bass lines Ray Brown would be happy to conceive, the top two fingers on the right hand explore variations on the theme of the tune, both thumbs and second fingers play chords in between, and the middle fingers jump in wherever they’re most needed.”
McKenna was tremendously consistent; almost any of his more than three dozen recordings are worth looking for.
Dave McKenna (Ted Panken) – (1-27-99):
TP:It said in the 1960 Encyclopedia of Jazz that both your parents were musicians.  Is that right?
McKENNA:  Yes.  Well, my father was just a part-time musician.  He played the snare drum in military type concert bands, like small towns used to have.  He played very well, and he was a good snare drummer.  He played a little dance music.  That’s where he met my mother.  And my mother was a good classical violinist and a good piano player.
TP:Did she give you your first musical education?
McKENNA:  No, she didn’t.  She didn’t think she was a good enough teacher.  But I used to hear her play.  She played classical; she didn’t play jazz on the violin.  But at home I heard her  play the standards of the late 1930s and 1940s, like “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes,” “Stormy Weather,” and she played them very good, all the nice changes, nothing elaborate.  Plus I heard radio jingles, the early jingles, and I went to the piano and picked out tunes.  My mother sent me to the nuns at parochial school.  They were nice old ladies, but I hated the study of music.  I really did.
TP:You liked playing and not studying.
McKENNA:  Yeah, right.  Later I took a few lessons from a guy in Boston, Sandy Sandiford.  But he more or less left me alone.  He gave me a few assignments that I played, to work out some variations on this or that.  He wanted me to play scales, too, but I didn’t.  He saw that right away and he laughed, and he said, “Well, you’re not going to do it,” which was obvious.  But he said, “You’re playing very nicely and continue to do what you do.”  The lessons were kind of casual.  I’d stop them if I felt bad or I had a cold or something.  But I’d go up there, take a train to Boston.
TP:Did your technique and piano conception develop organically?
McKENNA:  Yeah, I think so.  Just playing at home.  My early gigs were three-piece bands, piano, saxophone and drums.  I think I did my first one at 12 or 13.   It’s a French-Canadian town, and there were a lot of wedding jobs.  The first few were non-union.  They even had bands for pre-wedding showers.  French-Canadians were very big for that.
So I worked that way, and then I joined the union.  When I joined the union I had to play with a band that played Polish polkas half the night.  I didn’t stay very long with it.  So I worked around home, and then Boots Mussulli came back from Stan Kenton’s band around 1947.
TP:I assume you were listening to jazz pianists and digging them.
McKENNA:  No, not so much.  First of all, I liked songs, and I think I had a very brief time with liking the cowboy singers, Gene Autry and people like that.  Then I heard a Bing Crosby record.  I liked him okay, but he did a couple of things with a Dixieland band, either Bob Crosby or John Scott Trotter, and I liked that. Around that time, I got interested in Harry James’ band, and then Benny Goodman’s band — and I was hooked from then on.  I used to try to play like Benny rather than Teddy, although I had the utmost respect for Teddy.  (Nat Cole has been my favorite piano player for years; I loved his trio when I heard it. ) But most of that time I listened more to horn players.  Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw.  Also  Count Basie’s band, but I didn’t even know who those guys were at first, like Lester and Count himself. I love Basie.  Duke Ellington was an early favorite, too.  And later on, Bobby Hackett was one of my favorites.  By that time I was listening to Bird and Diz, too.  So I always listened to horn players more than piano players.
TP:You mentioned in another one of these liner notes that you were inspired by trumpet players, like Dizzy Gillespie  — that you played a little trumpet as well.
McKENNA:  Yeah, although not particularly with Diz.  Some of the swing trumpet players.  I loved Cootie and Rex Stewart, I loved Billy Butterfield and I loved Bobby Hackett.  Buck Clayton, oh, he knocked me out.  And then Dizzy, too.  Dizzy and Bird and Miles, early Miles — I liked all that.  But even when I was listening to Bird, I loved Johnny Hodges; he was one of my favorites.  I loved Duke’s band.  I loved even Duke’s piano playing.
TP:Why do you say “even Duke’s piano playing”?
McKENNA:  Because most people give him short shrift on that.  They  don’t pay enough attention to him.  I love Count Basie’s piano playing, too.  But as far as all the other piano players, I respect them very much and I like them a lot, but they weren’t the ones that inspired me the most.  It was horn players most of the time.
TP:It sounds like  in developing your style, you just were playing music by your mind’s ear.
McKENNA:   Right, absolutely.
TP:Were you very involved in bebop?
McKENNA:  When I was 19 or so, I went with Charlie Ventura.  I loved those guys.  I loved Bird and I loved Diz, but  I also loved the players who were on that band. Boots was a fine player, to — he went back on the road with Charlie and played baritone, whereas he was an alto player with Stan Kenton.  But Conte Candoli was on the band; I loved his playing.  Bennie Green, the trombone player.  He was wonderful.
TP:You recorded one of his pieces on an Epic date, called “Expense Account.”
McKENNA:  Yeah, that was Bennie’s tune.
TP:Let’s  get  back to your chronology, though.
McKENNA:  I worked with Boots, and he went back and got me with Charlie Ventura.  That was the small band.  It was the one originally that Roy Kral and Jackie Cain were with.  Boots asked me if I wanted to come on that, but maybe I was too scared or something — I was  18 or 19.  So another piano player went out for a while, then I went out. I named those guys already.  Charlie was the leader, Conte Candoli, Bennie Green, Boots Mussulli. Betty Bennett was the singer.  She later married Andre Previn.  Fine singer.  But no guy singer.  Red Mitchell was the bass player, and Ed Shaughnessy played drums.  Red left, Kenny O’Brien came back on.  Red left to join Woody.  Woody broke up that Second Herd and took a small band to Cuba with Milt Jackson, Bill Harris and Red Mitchell.
Then Charlie broke up that band.  I went home for a couple of months.  Then Red Mitchell called me.  He said, “Woody’s reorganizing a big band.  You want to come on?”  So I did.  Then I stayed in Woody’s band until I was drafted in the Korean War.  I spent almost two years as a cook mostly in the Army, and never got in a band.  I got out in something like September, and Boots was back home.  I worked a little with Boots Mussulli again around Worcester and Milford, where he was from. Then Charlie called again, and I went back to that quartet with Charlie, with Sonny Igoe and Bob Carter on bass and me on piano, then later we added Mary Ann McCall.  Then we did a few interesting gigs.  We were on a Stan Kenton Festival of Jazz which predated all those Newport jazz things.  It was in 1955 or so, and it had Stan’s band and the Shorty Rogers-Shelly Manne All Stars with Jimmy Giuffre and Pete Jolly and Curtis Counce, the Art Tatum was on it.  We rode the buses.  And Johnny Smith, who had a big hit, “Moonlight In Vermont,” on all the jazz stations…
TP:So you got to meet Tatum.
McKENNA:  Oh yeah.  I rode the bus with him. He was a beautiful guy.
TP:Say a few words about him.
McKENNA:  Well, he was just astounding. But his orientation, it was like hearing Franz Liszt or Rachmaninoff play.   I mean, he could swing like a son of a gun.  If you hear about eight bars of that “Elegy,” he played stride better than Fats maybe.  But he got impatient with that, and he was back to those tremendous classical runs and arpeggios.  It was beautiful.  But he made you sweat when you listened to him.  And he had a nice trio, although he was probably fettered by a trio.  He had Slam Stewart, a marvelous bass player, and Everett Barksdale on guitar.  So I think I only heard him play one solo.
TP:You’ve said that you also feel fettered by a trio.
McKENNA:  Yeah, but not because I have any technique.  I like to play rubato, change tempos, change keys, and I’d have to rehearse with a bass and drums to get that going.  So I don’t like the piano format, no.  But I love working with a band, a little band either four pieces, or five.  I love a full rhythm section, too.  I love a guitar.  Then I can just plink-plank-pluck, you know.
TP:Would you say your style was pretty fully formed by the time you went in the Army?
McKENNA:  Well, yeah, but I got more pianistic later.  When I played alone then, I played just a single line in the right hand and a single line in the left, and a few chords here and there.  Not when I played a ballad, but…
TP:You play like an orchestra now.
McKENNA:  I didn’t consciously become a solo piano player using a bass line.  I just used it to fill up what I heard on records.  That’s the way I played at home.
TP:Well, you were very distinctive among pianists who came up when you did because of the way you used the left hand.
McKENNA:  I don’t know about that.  And I’m sick of doing that, to tell you the truth — I mean, the bass line.  I’m very sloppy with stride; I came to it later in life. My favorite way to play solo is sort of rolling the chords, like four to the beat, sort of strumming them like a guitar.  Can’t do it too fast, though.  So I much prefer that to the single-note line.  You have to use a little more exertion for that.
TP:So you were influenced by rhythm guitar players also?
McKENNA:  Yeah.  I think I was.  I loved Count Basie and Freddie Green’s rhythm.  Then later on,  I got to do a couple of record dates in New York with Barry Galbraith, who was the number-one studio rhythm guitar player.  He was in that famous Claude Thornhill rhythm section which they called “the sophisticated Count Basie.”  They swung in a gentler manner, but they swung, though.  It was Billy Exiner on drums, Claude, Joe Shulman on bass and Barry on guitar.  Those guys are all long gone now, of course.
After Korea, Charlie called again with that quartet.  I was with Charlie about three or four different times.  After that, Gene Krupa called, and I worked with his quartet for a while, and I went back with Gene at different times.  I had a short time with Stan Getz, very enjoyable.  But I got a little sick, had to go home for a while, and then I worked with  Zoot Sims and Al Cohn.  Then Gene Krupa again and Charlie again.
But in 1958 I joined Bobby Hackett, and I had a long association with Bobby.   I would leave and go back.  It was on and off until Bobby died around 1978 or ’77, whatever.  Then I worked in Eddie Condon’s in New York City for a while.
TP:You lived in New York for a while.
McKENNA:  Yes, I did, from 1960 to about ’66, something like that.  I worked at Eddie Condon’s first with Peanuts Hucko’s band, then it was Yank Lawson’s band.  The first band didn’t have a bass.  It was Peanuts, Cutty Cutshall, and Buck Clayton.  Oh, I loved Buck!  Then Buck left, and Nick Travis came on for a bit, and then Yank Lawson came on.  When Peanuts left, Yank became the leader.  Cutty was there all the time.  I worked with different drummers, but we had a bass player.  It was a tough job, but those guys were good players.  And I started to retrogress.  I started to get more interested in the older traditional jazz.  I still played basically the way I did, but I changed my outlook.  Even with Hackett, I started to play… I started using the minor 7th in front all the time.  I started to become a little more old-fashioned, and I think a little too much so that way. [LAUGHS] I’m sort of a mainstream player.  A guy like Bill Evans, who I admire tremendously, was my age, but he went on to pioneer a new piano style.  Maybe in the very early ’50s we played more or less alike… Maybe.  I’m not sure of that.  Maybe I was always a little bit more old-fashioned.
TP:At least from that trio record, it sounds like your time is more in the older piano players, and Bill Evans has more of a Bud Powell type of left hand.
McKENNA:  I suppose so.
TP:There’s a quote I read where he said he didn’t get records by piano players except the records he collected of you.
McKENNA:  I think I did see that.  There’s a another quote a long time ago in DownBeat that I’m kind of proud of.  It was a thing about Andre Previn, and toward the end of the interview he said, “What young piano players do you like?”  He said, “Well, I’m not certain how young they are, but I love Bill Evans and Dave McKenna,” something like that.
Then of course, in those days, with Zoot and Al… I had to take a gig with Gene Krupa, went back with Gene for a couple of weeks because it paid more money.  DownBeat had a “Caught In The Act” which said it was Zoot Sims and Al Cohn, with maybe Knobby Totah on bass, Ray Mosca on drums, “and Bill Evans, subbing for Dave McKenna.” [LAUGHS] I said, “Whoa, man, I wish I could clip that out.”  Bill Evans subbing for Dave McKenna.
TP:You must know 10,000 tunes.
McKENNA:  Oh, no, man!  Nobody does. In fact, there are guys that know more.  Hank Jones, Jimmy Rowles when he was living, Tommy Flanagan, they know many more tunes than I do.  They know the Bebop tunes, too, and I stopped learning them.  The Bebop tunes I knew go back to “Scrapple From the Apple” and “Yardbird Suite” and “Groovin’ High,” Dizzy’s early things, “Dizzy Atmosphere,” and then maybe up to “The Preacher,” Horace Silver and all that — then I stopped listening to it.  I didn’t stop liking it.  I just got into tunes and all that shit.
TP:Are you a vocals man?  Do you know the lyrics to all the tunes?
McKENNA:  No.  I mean, I know a few verses and I like them, but Jimmy Rowles had me beat a mile. Well, there are piano players around, more like cocktail piano players; they know more tunes and more verses than I do.  I play them if I know them.
TP:And when you’re improvising on them, are you thinking about lyrics?
McKENNA:  I never used to.  And you know, for a long while I didn’t even know who wrote what tune.  I mean, I knew the obvious, like Hoagy Carmichael wrote “Stardust” and I knew Cole Porter wrote “Night and Day,” and I knew George Gershwin wrote “I Got Rhythm” and “Embraceable You.”  But later on a friend of mine who was a brilliant musician, an arranger who gave it up for… He said, “Do you realize how many tunes Harry Warren wrote?” and he told me what he wrote — and he got to be my favorite songwriter for a while.  He’s in that class of Rodgers & Hart and Gershwin and Porter, great Pop tunes.  He wrote some rinky-tinky tunes; I even like them.  But “The More I See You,” “I Wish I Knew”…
TP:Talk about playing a duo and playing a trio and playing a solo, and the different ways you approach them.
McKENNA:  I have no analytical approach.  I just go in and do the best I can.  But  it’s tough  playing solo, and  even tougher playing with a duo.  You’re playing every minute.  At least the horn player gets to rest while you play a solo.
TP:Duos and trios have been part of your working life for 40-50 years?
McKENNA:  Well, no, not the duos and things.  I did a couple of trio records with Scott Hamilton and Jake Hanna, and I did a few duo records with my old pal Dick Johnson, including one for Concord…
TP:Well, when did you start being primarily a solo or duo pianist?
McKENNA:  I made my first solo album in 1955, when I was 25, but I didn’t do much solo work in New York at all. I took solo gigs on the Cape during the summers in the early ’60s, and then when I moved back to the Cape after Condon’s I started playing solo extensively. I had done solo gigs and  solo records, but that’s when I started to make a living at it more or less.  I got into it in the ’70s, and it became most of my living — and still is, I guess.  But I’d like to change that. I’m having a little trouble with my hands now and I’d like to play in a little band, but can I make a living?  But I don’t think I’ll be able to make much of a living playing solo either, because my technique isn’t that good, and I’m slowing up and having trouble.  But my hands are feeling a little better in the last couple of weeks, so we’ll see.  I’m starting to play a little more at home on the piano and stuff.
TP:One aspect of your technique, from what I read in one of these liner notes, the writer said you break up your hands into two parts, like you use the outer two fingers…
McKENNA:  That’s all technical.  I don’t even know what I’m doing.
TP:So it’s all intuitive for you.  It’s the way you learned.
McKENNA:  Yes.  I am a by-ear piano player — no question.  I had a little classical training. As I said, I had one other teacher, Sandy Sandiford, who was a black guy in Boston who was  a very nice jazz piano player, but he also wrote for singers up there.  I heard about him through another lady piano player in Woonsocket and I went there.  He said, “listen to this and listen that.”  He tried to make me play scales, but I wouldn’t do it.  Then I had a classical teacher very briefly in Woonsocket, a guy who just died lately, who was a classical piano player who got into church music or something.  He tried to give me Chopin.  But he said, “Dave, what’s the use?  You don’t practice.”  I said, “Yeah, you’re right.”  He said, “Just continue what you’re doing.”
I read music to a certain extent, but not well.  So when I was in New York I couldn’t have made a good living as a studio piano player, because I wasn’t a good reader.  So that answers that question.
In the ’80s I was almost exclusively a solo piano player.  I had one long gig during that time at the Copley Plaza in Boston, for most of the decade; I worked there about nine months of the year.
TP:Did you spend a lot of time in Boston when you were a kid?
McKENNA:  No.  That’s the funny part of it.  My mother is from Boston, and I grew up less than 40 miles away.  But when it came time to leave, I spend much more time in New York.  It wasn’t until later years I got to Boston.
TP:So talking to you about the Boston scene in the ’40s and ’50s is kind of pointless.
McKENNA:  Yes, it is.  I was aware of it.  I used to go when I was between gigs.  When I’d leave Charlie or Gene, I’d go up and hear the guys.  They had that Jazz Workshop at the Stables and all; I’d go up and I met Herb Pomeroy, Charlie Mariano, and all the guys. But in those days I spent much more time on the road and in New York City.
TP:But it seems you always knew you were going to be a musician.
McKENNA:  Well, the thing is, I drifted.  I thought maybe I’d go to college.  But there was no money to send me, and my marks weren’t that good in high school.  So rather than a job in a factory in Woonsocket, which was a mill town, and right after World War II most of them went south… What else was there for me?  I should have gone into the Post Office like my father; I would have had a pension now.  I’m not kidding either.  But I just drifted into it.  That’s the way it was.  And I figured you don’t have to get up early in the morning, which was the way it used to be, more or less.
TP:Well, you’d go to bed early in the morning.
McKENNA:  Yeah, right.  No more of that.  And sometimes you do have to get up ridiculously early in the morning when you’re on the road — to catch a plane.  But I never intended to be a professional musician.  I never did.
TP:It just happened.
McKENNA:  Yes, I just drifted into it.”

Milt Hinton and The "New York Rhythm Section"

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


The following anecdote is drawn from Milt’s collection of stories and photographs as contained in Playing the Changes, which also contains a CD of Milt telling stories and playing music.

David G. Berger and Holly Maxson assisted with this wonderful collection of Milt Hinton’s life in stories and in photographs.

Published by the Vanderbilt University Press, it’s a compendium that leaves a wonderful series of memories of a life well-lived.

“I'm convinced I got a lot of studio work because many producers and arrangers recognized that the rhythm section was the backbone of the music being done at the time. They also came to understand that there was a small group of rhythm section players who could easily adapt to different artists and really complement a performance. Eventually. Hank Tones, Barry Galbraith. Osie Johnson, and I got identified as part of the select group. And for a couple of years we worked together almost every day. We even got to be known as the New York rhythm section. It wasn't an official title, just an informal name people in the business gave us. And, of course, it wasn't an exclusive thing either. We all worked in plenty of other rhythm sections too.

Hank was always in demand because he's an unbelievable piano player. Back in those days he'd done a lot of records with Ella, and that seemed to make him even more popular, especially with female vocalists.


I guess they figured if Ella sounded so beautiful, how could they go wrong using her accompanist.Hank's a good-looking, dark-complected guy who's always seemed to be concerned about his appearance. In all the years I've known him. I only saw him without a coat and tie once. That was when a couple of us played a party at Shoobe's house and it was so hot. Shoobe ordered him to take off his jacket.

Barry had been with Claude Thornhill's band. He was a very knowledgeable musician who was a great reader and could also write very well. He was a warm, small town-type guy — average height and weight, short hair, rugged but good-looking. He dressed like a woodsman. No matter how cold it got. he'd never wear an overcoat, just a plaid shirt with an open collar. He had a great sense of humor, but like a lot of guys who smoke too much, his laugh always turned into a cough.

Osie was a burly, dark-complected man. He was very outgoing, affable, and had one of the most resonant voices I've ever heard. In fact, I was there when a funny incident involving his voice helped get him started in the studios.

Osie had come into New York with Earl Hines's hand and run into Jo Jones, who invited him to a record session. I guess Jo wanted him to see how things worked and meet some of the studio regulars. We were doing a small date for a singing group called the Billy Williams Quartet. In those days they had a regular spot on one of the weekly TV shows and also a couple of good-selling records.

I don't remember what tune we were running down, but I can still see Osie sitting up on a high stool next to Jo with a big grin across his face, watching and listening to everything. After a while, we started to record, but before we could finish the tune, the guys in the booth cut us off. We tried another take, but the same thing happened. Finally, after seven or eight more attempts, we made it through to the end. But while the last note was resonating, and the recorders were still rolling. Osie boomed out, "Oh, yeah."

Everyone in the room aimed toward him and for a second or two there was dead silence. Then someone said to Osie. "Man, in here you don't move 'til the red light goes out and the—"

But Billy Williams interrupted, "That's great, leave it in."


About a minute later, the playback started and when everyone heard Osie at the end. they flipped. In fact, they liked it so much they gave him a withholding slip and paid him for the date.

It didn't take long before people learned about Osie's true talents. He was a great drummer who could also arrange, sing, and play just about any kind of music. As it turned out, Jo Jones eventually lost studio work to Osie, who was a superb reader and didn't have as many personal quirks.

The four of us worked well together in all kinds of situations, and this had as much to do with our personalities as our musical talents. None of us was arrogant. In fact, we were exactly the opposite, congenial and accommodating. Whenever we walked on a date we were really concerned about the featured artist. We wanted that person to he satisfied and we'd go to great lengths to accomplish it. If the music wasn't good and needed something extra, we'd fix it. right on the spot.

It even got to the point where some arrangers would hand us chords for a tune and expect immediate results. They'd say something like. "Your part is loose, have fun with it," which meant we should do a quick head arrangement without holding up the session. Sometimes our contributions really helped make a hit. For example, the four of us did Bobby Darin's record of "Mack the Knife." Osie or Hank had the idea of going up half steps, and as far as I'm concerned, that's what made this version a smash.

Of course, we never got arrangement credits on anything we did. Back in those days, it was rare for sidemen to get credits on an album, especially in the pop music field. But we got our forty-one dollars a session. And the fact that we knew how much we'd contributed seemed to give us enough satisfaction."

Ella and Henry - Fitzgerald and Pleasants,That Is!

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


"I never knew how good our songs were," Ira Gershwin once said to George T. Simon, "until I heard Ella Fitzgerald sing them."


“And then there is Ella, about whom critics have surprisingly little to say, …. Her situation is not unlike that of Art Tatum — there's no way to ignore the technical and musical genius of these two, or their immense and joyous fecundity, even if you prefer your art less Olympian.”
- Henry Pleasants, The Great American Popular Singers


“She's tops! I just love her. She's Mama!”
- Jon Hendricks, Jazz vocalist


If you’ve ever wondered what made Ella Fitzgerald’s singing so singularly outstanding, you will wonder no longer after reading these excerpts about her style from Henry Pleasants, The Great American Popular Singers (1974).


“Gerald Moore, the English accompanist, tells about the time Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, following a matinee recital Moore and the German Lieder singer had given together in Washington, D.C., rushed to the National Airport and took the first plane to New York in order to hear Duke Ellington and Ella Fitzgerald at Carnegie Hall.


"Ella and the Duke together!" Fischer-Dieskau exclaimed to Moore. "One just doesn't know when there might be a chance to hear that again!"


The story is illustrative of the unique position that both Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington occupy in the musical history of our century. More than any other artists working in the Afro-American idiom, they have caught the attention and excited the admiration of that other world of European classical, or serious, music.


Ella's achievement, in purely musical terms, is the more remarkable of the two, if only because she has never ventured into the no-man's-land of semi-classical or third-stream music separating the two idioms. Duke Ellington is a familiar figure on the stage at symphony concerts, as both pianist and composer, in his jazz-flavored symphonic suites. Ella has ranged widely between the ill-defined areas known as "jazz" and "popular," but not into classical, although she has sung the songs of the great American songwriters—Arlen, Gershwin, Porter, Rodgers, for example—with symphony orchestras. Many classical singers, however, like Fischer-Dieskau, are among her most appreciative admirers.


Unchallenged preeminence in her own field has had something to do with it, along with consistent performance throughout a career that has already extended over nearly forty years. Although she has never been, in her private life, a maker of headlines, her honors have been so many that word of them has filtered through to many who never saw a copy of Billboard or Down Beat and never will.


To enumerate those honors would be tedious. Suffice it to say, citing the entry under her name in Leonard Feather's New Encyclopedia of Jazz, that, between 1953 and 1960 alone, she was placed first in Metronome, Down Beat, and Playboy polls in either the "jazz singer" or "popular singer" categories, or both, no fewer than twenty-four times. She had been a poll winner long before that — she won the Esquire Gold Award in 1946 — and she is heading the polls in both categories to this day.


With Frank Sinatra and Peggy Lee, she shares the distinction of having achieved a nearly universal popularity and esteem without sacrificing those aspects of her vocal and musical art that so endear her to fellow professionals and to the most fastidious of critics and lay listeners. Not even Frank and Peggy are admired so unanimously. The refinements of their art often fall on unappreciative or hostile ears. But with Ella, the exclamation "She's the greatest!" runs like a refrain through everything one reads or hears about her. One is as likely to hear it from an opera singer as from Bing Crosby ("Man, woman and child, Ella Fitzgerald is the greatest!").


Of what does her greatness consist? What does she have that other excellent singers do not have? The virtues are both obvious and conspicuous, and there is general agreement about them. She has a lovely voice, one of the warmest and most radiant in its natural range that I have heard in a lifetime of listening to singers in every category. She has an impeccable and ultimately sophisticated rhythmic sense, and flawless intonation. Her harmonic sensibility is extraordinary. She is endlessly inventive. Her melodic deviations and embellishments are as varied as they are invariably appropriate. And she is versatile, moving easily from up-tempo scatting on such songs as "Flying Home,""How High the Moon?" and "Lady Be Good" to the simplest ballad gently intoned over a cushion of strings.


One could attribute any one, or even several, of these talents and attainments to other singers. Ella has them all. She has them in greater degree. She knows better than any other singer how to use them. What distinguishes her most decisively from her singing contemporaries, however, is less tangible. It has to do with style and taste. Listening to her — and I have heard her in person more often than any other singer under discussion in these pages—I sometimes find myself thinking that it is not so much what she does, or even the way she does it, as what she does not do. What she does not do, putting it as simply as possible, is anything wrong. There is simply nothing in her performance to which one would want to take exception. What she sings has that suggestion of inevitability that is always a hallmark of great art. Everything seems to be just right. One would not want it any other way. Nor can one, for the moment, imagine it any other way.


For all the recognition and adulation that has come her way, however, Ella Fitzgerald remains, I think, an imperfectly understood singer, especially as concerns her vocalism. The general assumption seems to be that it is perfect. That she has sung in public for so many years—and still, when on tour, may do two sixty-minute sets six or seven nights a week—with so little evidence of vocal wear and tear would seem to support that assumption. Her vocalism is, in fact, as I hear it, less than perfect. "Ingenious" and "resourceful" would be more appropriate adjectives.


She has, as many great singers in every category have had, limitations of both endowment and technique. But, also like other great singers, she has devised ways of her own to disguise them, to get around them, or even to turn them into apparent assets. Ella's vocal problems have been concentrated in that area of the range already identified in the case of earlier singers as the "passage." She has never solved them. She has survived them and surmounted them.



She commands, in public performance and on record, an extraordinary range of two octaves and a sixth, from the low D or D-flat to the high B-flat and possibly higher. This is a greater range, especially at the bottom, than is required or expected of most opera singers. But there is a catch to it. Opera singers, as they approach the "passage," depress the larynx and open the throat — somewhat as in yawning — and, focusing the tone in the head, soar on upward. The best of them master the knack of preserving, as they enter the upper register, the natural color and timbre of the normal middle register, bringing to the upper notes a far greater weight of voice than Ella Fitzgerald does. Even the floated pianissimo head tones of, say, a Montserrat Caballe should not be confused with the tones that Ella produces at the upper extremes of her range.


Ella does not depress the larynx, or "cover," as she reaches the "passage." She either eases off, conceding in weight of breath and muscular control what a recalcitrant vocal apparatus will not accommodate, or she brazens through it, accepting the all too evident muscular strain. From this she is released as she emerged upward into a free-floating falsetto. She does not, in other words, so much pass from one register into another as from one voice into another. As Roberta Flack has noted perceptively: "Ella doesn't shift gears. She goes from lower to higher register, the same all the way through."


The strain audible when Ella is singing in the "passage" contributes to a sense of extraordinary altitude when she continues upward. In this she reminds me of some opera tenors who appear to be in trouble — and often are — in their "passage" (at about F, F-sharp, and G) and achieve the greater impression of physical conquest when they go on up to an easy, sovereign B-flat. The listener experiences anxiety, tension, suspense, relief, and amazement. It is not good singing by the canons of bel canto, which reckon any evidence of strain deplorable. But it is exciting, and in the performance of a dramatic or athletic aria, effective.


Both this sense of strain in that critical area of Ella's voice, and the striking contrast of the free sound above the "passage" may help to explain why so many accounts of her singing refer to notes "incredibly high." Sometimes they are. The high A-flat, A, and B-flat, even in falsetto, must be regarded as exceptional in a singer who also descends to the low D. But more often than not they sound higher than they are. Time and again, while checking out Ella's range on records, 1 have heard what 1 took to be a high G or A-flat, only to go to the piano and find that it was no higher than an E or an F. What is so deceptive about her voice above the "passage" is that the sound is high, with a thin, girlish quality conspicuously different from the rich, viola-like splendor of her middle range. It is not so much the contrast with the pitches that have gone before as the contrast with the sound that has gone before.


In purely vocal-technical terms, then, what distinguishes Ella from her operatic sisters is her use of falsetto; what distinguishes her from most of her popular-singer sisters is her mastery of it. One may hear examples of its undisciplined use in public performance and on records today in the singing of many women, especially in the folk-music field. With most of them the tone tends to become thin, tenuous, quavery, and erratic in intonation as they venture beyond their natural range. They have not mastered falsetto. Ella has. So has Sarah Vaughan. So has Ella and Sarah's admirable virtuoso English counterpart, Cleo Laine.


The "girlish" sound of the female falsetto may offer a clue to its cultivation by Ella Fitzgerald, and to some fundamental characteristics of her vocal art. It is, for her, a compatible sound, happily attuned to her nature and to the circumstances of her career. She entered professional life while still a girl. Her first hit record, "A-Tisket A-Tasket," was the song of a little girl who had lost her yellow basket. The girl of the song must have been a congenial object of identification for a young singer, born in Newport News, Virginia, who spent her childhood first in an orphanage, later with an aunt in Yonkers, New York, who drifted as a young dancer into Harlem clubs, and who fell into a singing career in an amateur contest at the Harlem Opera House when she was too scared to dance.


"It was a dare from some girlfriends," she recalls today. "They bet me I wouldn't go on. I got up there and got cold feet. I was going to dance. The man said since I was up there I had better do something. So I tried to sing like Connee Boswell — 'The Object of My Affection.'"


According to all the jazz lexicons, Ella was born on April 25, 1918, and entered that Harlem Opera House competition, which she won, in 1934, when she would have been sixteen. She became vocalist with the Chick Webb band the following year, was adopted by the Webb family and, following Chick's death in 1939, carried on as leader of the band until 1942. She would then have been all of twenty-four, with ten years of professional experience behind her.


According to Norman Granz, who has been her manager throughout the greater part of her career, she was younger than that. Granz says that she was born in 1920 and had to represent herself as older, when she first turned up in Harlem, to evade the child-labor laws. She was adopted by the Webbs because a parental consent was a legal prerequisite for employment.


It should hardly be surprising, then, that her voice, when she began with the Chick Webb band, and as it can be heard now on her early records, was that of a little girl. She was only fourteen. She was a precocious little girl, to be sure, and probably matured early, as other black entertainers did—Ethel Waters and Billie Holiday, for example—who grew up in the tough clubs and dance halls of Harlem while other girls were still in secondary school. What mattered with Ella, however, and affected her subsequent career, was that the little girl could also sound like a young woman — and was irresistible.


The sound worked, and so did the little girl. Ella has never entirely discarded either the girl or the sound. She was, and has remained, a shy, retiring, rather insecure person. To this day when, as a woman of matronly appearance and generous proportions, she addresses an audience, it is always in a tone of voice, and with a manner of speech, suggesting the delighted surprise, and the humility, too, of a child performer whose efforts have been applauded beyond her reasonable expectations.


Nor has Ella ever forsaken her roots in jazz. George T. Simon, in The Big Bands, remembers watching her at the Savoy Ballroom in Harlem when she was with Chick Webb:


“When she wasn't singing, she would usually stand at the side of the band, and, as the various sections blew their ensemble phrases, she'd be up there singing along with all of them, often gesturing with her hands as though she were leading the band.”


The fruits of such early enthusiasm and practice may be heard today in Ella's appearances with the bands of Count Basie and Duke Ellington, when one or more instrumental soloists step forward to join her in a round of "taking fours," with Ella's voice assuming the character and color of a variety of instruments as she plunges exuberantly into chorus after chorus of syllabic improvisation (scatting).


Ella owes at least some of her virtuosity in this type of display, or at least the opportunity to develop and exploit it, to Norman Granz and her many years' association with his Jazz at the Philharmonic tours. Benny Green, the English jazz critic, thus describes the importance of this association to the shaping of Ella Fitzgerald's art and career:


“When Ella first began appearing as a vocal guest on what were, after all, the primarily instrumental jazz recitals of Norman Granz, it might have seemed at the time like imaginative commercial programming and nothing more. In fact, as time was to prove, it turned out to be the most memorable manager-artist partnership of the post-war years, one which quite dramatically changed the shape and direction of Ella's career. Granz used Ella, not as a vocal cherry stuck on top of an iced cake of jazz, but as an artist integrated thoroughly into the jam session context of the performance. When given a jazz background, Ella was able to exhibit much more freely her gifts as an instrumental-type improvisor.”


Elsewhere, reviewing an appearance by Ella with the Basic band in London in 1971, Green has described as vividly and succinctly as possible the phenomenon of Ella working in an instrumental jazz context:


“The effect on Ella is to galvanize her into activity so violent that the more subtle nuances of the song readings are swept away in a riot of vocal improvisation which, because it casts lyrics to the winds, is the diametric opposite of her other, lullaby, self. And while it is true that for a singer to mistake herself for a trumpet is a disastrous course of action, it has to be admitted that Ella's way with a chord sequence, her ability to coin her own melodic phrases, her sense of time, the speed with which her ear perceives harmonic changes, turn her Basie concerts into tightrope exhibitions of the most dazzling kind.”


It was her activity with Jazz at the Philharmonic that exposed and exploited the singular duality of Ella Fitzgerald's musical personality. Between 1942, when her career as a bandleader came to an end, and 1946, when she joined Granz, she had marked time, so to speak, as an admired but hardly sensational singer of popular songs. With Jazz at the Philharmonic, she was back with jazz.


The timing was right. Bop had arrived, and Ella was with it, incorporating into her vocal improvisations the adventurous harmonic deviations and melodic flights of Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker. Indeed, according to Barry Ulanov, in his A History of Jazz in America, the very term "bop," or "bebop," can be traced to Ella's interpolation of a syllabic invention, "rebop," at the close of her recording of "'T'ain't What You Do, It's the Way That You Do It" in 1939.


She has cultivated and treasured this duality ever since, and wisely so. Singers who have adhered more or less exclusively to an instrumental style of singing, using the voice, as jazz terminology has it, "like a horn," have won the admiration and homage of jazz musicians and jazz critics, but they have failed to win the enduring and financially rewarding affections of a wider public. Others have stuck to ballads and won the public but failed to achieve the artistic prestige associated with recognition as a jazz singer. Ella, more than any other singer, has had it both ways.


Norman Granz, again, has had a lot to do with it. When Ella's recording contract with Decca expired in 1955, she signed with Granz's Verve label and inaugurated, in that same year, a series of Song Book albums, each devoted to a single songwriter, that took her over a span of twelve years through an enormous repertoire of fine songs, some of them unfamiliar, by Harold Arlen, Irving Berlin, Duke Ellington, George Gershwin, Johnny Mercer, Cole Porter, and Richard Rodgers.


These were the first albums to give star billing to individual songwriters, and they served the double purpose of acknowledging and demonstrating the genius of American composers while providing Ella with popular material worthy of her vocal art. "I never knew how good our songs were," Ira Gershwin once said to George T. Simon, "until I heard Ella Fitzgerald sing them."


As a jazz singer Ella has been pretty much in a class by herself, and that in a period rejoicing in many excellent ones, notably Billie Holiday, Peggy Lee, Carmen McRae, Anita O'Day, Jo Stafford, Kay Starr, and Sarah Vaughan, not to overlook, in England, Cleo Laine. I am using the term "jazz singer" here in the sense that jazz musicians use it, referring to a singer who works—or can work—in a jazz musician's instrumental style, improvising as a jazz musician improvises. Ella was, of course, building on the techniques first perfected, if not originated, by Louis Armstrong, tailoring and extending his devices according to the new conventions of bop.


There is a good deal of Armstrong in Ella's ballads, too, although none of his idiosyncrasies and eccentricities. What she shared with Louis in a popular ballad was a certain detachment—in her case a kind of classic serenity, or, as Benny Green puts it, a "lullaby" quality—that has rendered her, in the opinion of some of us, less moving than admirable and delightful. In terms of tone quality, variety, and richness of vocal color, enunciation, phrasing, rhythm, melodic invention, and embellishment, her singing has always been immaculate and impeccable, unequaled, let alone surpassed, by any other singer. But in exposing the heart of a lyric she must take second place, in my assessment, at least, to Frank Sinatra, Billie Holiday, Peggy Lee, and Ethel Waters.


This may well be because she has never been one for exposing her own heart in public. She shares with an audience her pleasures, not her troubles. She has not been an autobiographical singer, as Billie and Frank were, nor a character - projecting actress, as Ethel Waters and Peggy Lee have been, which may be why her phrasing, despite exemplary enunciation, has always tended to be more instrumental than oral, less given to the rubato devices of singers more closely attuned to the lyrical characteristics of speech.


What she has offered her listeners has been her love of melody, her joy in singing, her delight in public performance and her accomplishments, the latter born of talent and ripened by experience, hard work, and relentless self-discipline. Like Louis, she has always seemed to be having a ball. For the listener, when she has finished, the ball is over. It has been a joyous, exhilarating, memorable, but hardly an emotional, experience.


Also, like Louis, she has addressed herself primarily to a white rather than a black public, not because she has in any sense denied her own people, but rather because, in a country where blacks make up only between ten and twenty percent of the population, white musical tastes and predilections are dominant. They must be accommodated by any black artist aspiring to national and international recognition and acceptance. In more recent years, younger whites have tended to favor a blacker music. A B. B. King has been able to achieve national celebrity where a Bessie Smith, fifty years earlier, could not. When Ella was a girl, what the white majority liked was white music enriched by the more elemental and more inventive musicality of black singers and black instrumentalists.


Ella's singing, aside from the characteristic rhythmic physical participation, the finger-popping and hip-swinging, and the obviously congenial scat-ting, has never been specifically or conspicuously black. It represents rather the happy blend of black and white which had been working its way into the conventions of American popular singing since the turn of the century, and which can be traced in the careers of Al Jolson, Sophie Tucker, Ethel Waters, Mildred Bailey, and Bing Crosby.


When Ella was a girl, black singers — those in organized show business, at any rate — were modeling themselves on the white singing stars of the time, and many white singers were modeling themselves on the charmingly imperfect imitation. It is significant that Ella's first model was Connee Boswell. A comparison of the records they both made in the late 1930s shows again how perceptive an ear Ella had from the first. But it is just as significant that Connee Boswell belonged to a generation of jazz-oriented white singers— others were Mildred Bailey and Lee Wiley—who had been listening to Bessie Smith and, above all, to Ethel Waters.


Again like Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald has achieved that rarest of distinctions: the love and admiration of singers, instrumentalists, critics, and the great lay public. But while she may be for the jazzman a musicians' musician, and for the lay public the First Lady of Song, she has always been more than anything else a singers' singer. John Hendricks, of Lambert, Hendricks and Ross fame, has put it well, responding to an Ella Fitzgerald record on a Jazz Journal blindfold test:
Well, of course, she's my favorite — she's tops! I just love her. She's Mama! I try and sing my ballads like she does. I was working in a hotel in Chicago, and Johnny Mathis came in to hear me. I had just finished singing a new ballad I was doing at the time, and he came up to me and said, "Jon, you sure love your old Fitzgerald, don't you?"


"Yes," I replied, "and don't you, too?"


"We all do!" he said.


And that's it. Everyone who sings just loves little old Fitzgerald!”



Jeru's Journey by Sanford Josephson - Four Appreciations

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


Jazz author Sanford Josephson “stopped by” the editorial offices of JazzProfiles recently and left off four reviews of his recent book Jeru’s Journey: The Life and Music of Gerry Mulligan. It’s a recent volume in the Hal Leonard Jazz Biography Series and you can locate more about the series and order information about the book by visiting the publisher’s website.


“Sandy” Josephson serves on the Board of the New jersey Jazz Society, is a contributing editor to Jersey Jazz Magazine, and serves as a curator of Jazz concerts and as a producer of Jazz festivals. Currently residing in West Orange, New Jersey, Sandy is also the author of Jazz Notes: Interviews Across Generations.


We thought it might be fun to represent these different points of view as part of one feature offering four appreciation of Sandy’s effort on behalf of one of the giants of Jazz in the second half of the 20th century - Gerry Mulligan.


Jersey Jazz Magazine, January 2016



BOOK REVIEW



JERU’S JOURNEY: The Life & Music of Gerry Mulligan
By Sanford Josephson


Hal Leonard Books, Milwaukee
214 Pages, 2015, $19.99


By Joe Lang


When thinking about the true geniuses who have graced the jazz scene, Gerry Mulligan is certainly among them.  In Jeru’s Journey: The Life & Music of Gerry Mulligan, Sanford Josephson has produced a biography that gives a comprehensive picture of the unique person who was Gerry Mulligan, and does so in an interesting and highly readable way.


Josephson has made extensive use of quotations from the many interviews that he conducted with people who knew and/or were influenced by Mulligan; from Jeru: In the Words of Gerry Mulligan, an oral autobiography compiled with the assistance of Ken Poston, the Director of the Los Angeles Jazz Institute; from Jerome Klinkowitz’s Listen: Gerry Mulligan – An Aural Narrative in Jazz; and from a variety of other cited sources.  He has provided a nicely flowing connective narrative that places these quotations in their proper chronological order and context.   


Mulligan was a multi-faceted talent.  He is regarded as one of the finest and most creative baritone saxophone players in jazz history.  His prowess as an arranger for big bands was evidenced in his contributions of the books for such leaders as Gene Krupa, Claude Thornhill, Elliott Lawrence and Stan Kenton, and most memorably for his own Concert Jazz Band.  Going hand in glove with his arranging was his marvelous composing facility, creating some of the most admired and played jazz standards.  He also was an outstanding leader of both small groups and big bands.


Perhaps Mulligan’s most outstanding trait was his role as an innovator.  


* His big band writing was truly original, as he was in the forefront of the transition from the swing tradition to incorporating the emerging sounds of newly developing jazz forms into a big band setting.  


* His significant contributions to the legendary Birth of the Cool, sessions recorded under the ostensible leadership of Miles Davis, were a strong element in the emergence of what was dubbed the cool school of jazz.   


* His decision to form his first pianoless quartet was not planned, but was the result of being booked into a Los Angeles jazz club, the Haig, where there was no piano.  Once he chose to proceed, he quickly embraced the possibilities afforded by the combination of two horns playing contrapuntally, bass and drums.  When he formed his Concert Jazz Band, he again went the pianoless route, and the larger ensemble incorporated much of the feeling of his quartet.  


* His Age of Steam album was perhaps the most successful incorporating of an electronic keyboard and Fender bass into an essentially mainstream jazz context.
      
Josephson addresses all facets of the professional and personal sides of Mulligan.  He deals frankly with Mulligan’s problems with drug abuse at one stage of his career.  Mulligan’s difficult relationship with Chet Baker is fully explored.  He discusses Mulligan’s romantic involvement with the actress Judy Holliday, and how that relationship led to Mulligan’s appearances in a few films where he showed a natural flair for acting.  During the years that he spent as a member of Dave Brubeck’s group in the late 1960s he was exposed to playing with a symphony orchestra, and that sparked a continuing interest in developing material that he could employ in such a setting.


The quotations chosen by Josephson, especially those from Mulligan’s recorded autobiography, provide interesting perspectives on all facets of Gerry Mulligan, both personally and professionally.  One fact that emerges consistently is the keen intelligence that he possessed.  He was able to, at every stage of his career, understand what musical paths to follow in order to advance his artistry while doing so in a manner that was accessible to his listeners.  This career lasted from his teenage years in the early 1940s when he wrote his first arrangements for a local big band in Philadelphia until November 1995 when he performed on a jazz cruise just months before his death from cancer on January 20, 1996, a period of over fifty years of musical excellence.


Josephson brings all of this together in an appropriate manner, with the last few chapters of the book summarizing his career and influence.  He includes extensive quotes from Mulligan’s peers about his artistry and commitment to the music that was at the center of his life.


With Jeru’s Journey, Josephson has presented a well-rounded depiction of a true jazz giant, one that is hard to put down once your reading commences.


ARSC Journal (Association for Recorded Sound Collections)


Jeru’s Journey: The Life & Music of Gerry Mulligan. By Sanford Josephson. Milwaukee,
WI: Hal Leonard Books, 2015. 214pp. (softcover). Sources, Discography, Index.
ISBN 978-1-4803-6024-2


Gerry Mulligan (1927-1996) is a towering figure in the history of jazz. In a career lasting
six decades, he has left his mark as an influential baritone saxophonist, composer, arranger, and bandleader. His relevance and importance in jazz history is cemented by his
work with Miles Davis and the Birth of the Cool, his piano-less quartet with trumpeter
Chet Baker, and his Concert Jazz Band, all within the realm of Cool Jazz during the
1950s. However, Mulligan would go on to live until 1996, developing as an arranger and
composer, maintaining a high profile as an active performer, and leaving behind a large
body of excellent work that is obscure and more often ignored. Sanford Josephson’s new
book, Jeru’s Journey, fills in the empty gaps of Mulligan’s career and does an excellent
job at presenting a complete picture of Mulligan’s life and career without emphasizing
any particular period.


Josephson is a journalist who has written extensively about jazz musicians in publications
ranging from the New York Daily News to American Way. In his 2009 book, Jazz
Notes: Interviews Across the Generations, he collects interviews he conducted with a number of leading jazz artists, including Dizzy Gillespie, Count Basie, George Shearing, Dave Brubeck, and Gerry Mulligan. He rounds off this material by speaking with contemporary musicians with connections to these legends. This is the formula followed in Jeru’s Journey (Jeru is Mulligan’s nickname), as Josephson bases his book on material from Mulligan’s recorded autobiography Jeru: In the Words of Gerry Mulligan by Mulligan and Ken Poston, and quotes from Jerome Klinkowitz’s Listen: Gerry Mulligan. Josephson then complements these with more than forty interviews with those who knew Mulligan, who played with him, and who are influenced by him. Finally, he also used material from articles, reviews, and excerpts from different publications, from doctoral dissertations to magazine articles to books. Josephson’s research methods are thorough and this book is essentially a compilation of quotes from and about Mulligan and his work.


Every part of Mulligan’s career is outlined, from his formative years moving around
from town to town to his last years in Darien, Connecticut. He began his career as an arranger and sometimes baritone saxophonist for bands as obscure as Tommy Tucker and
Elliot Lawrence and as legendary as Gene Krupa, Claude Thornhill, and Stan Kenton.
He met fellow arranger Gil Evans through his work with Thornhill which led to his involvement with the Birth of the Cool sessions. Josephson points out that Mulligan’s role in the famous nonet is often played down in favor of the presence and contribution of Gil Evans and Miles Davis, despite having arranged half of the material and being the only participant to continue working with the nonet’s music, either recording the material or through the arrangements of in his own Tentette from the early 1950s. Josephson makes a compelling argument for Mulligan’s achievements with numerous quotes of other musicians and critics who think the same.


Mulligan’s work in the 1950s is well documented: the formation of his piano-less
quartet with Chet Baker (later replaced by Bob Brookmeyer then Art Farmer) made
Mulligan a star and his name in the jazz world solidified. In the late 1950s, Mulligan
formed his Concert Jazz Band (which was also piano-less) as “part of a general
movement to do more obvious things with counterpoint.” With arrangements by Bob
Brookmeyer, Al Cohn, Johnny Carisi, and Bill Holman, the band recorded five albums
for Verve and disbanded by 1964. Although it was a short-lived band, its influence and
legacy are still felt, as it set the stage for the Thad Jones-Mel Lewis Big Band.
The rise of rock in the 1960s limited work and exposure for jazz musicians and so
Mulligan stopped recording regularly in 1965. His material afterwards is not as famous
and is often obscured in summaries of Gerry Mulligan. He began a brief association
with Dave Brubeck that gave Mulligan a break from leading a band and resulted in one
studio recording and two live recordings. 1971’s The Age of Steam is a radical departure
from Mulligan’s earlier works and a personal turning point. This record features a fifteen-
piece band including electric bass and electric piano and includes Roger Kellaway,
Harry “Sweets” Edison, Chuck Domanico, Bud Shank, and a young Tom Scott. 1980’s
Walk on the Water won a Grammy for Best Jazz Instrumental Performance and features
a rejuvenated Concert Jazz Band with Tom Harrell and Harold Danko among others.


Of particular interest amongst Mulligan’s lesser-known works are his classical compositions and performances with symphony orchestras that constituted a major part of his work in the last twenty years of his life. He was enticed by the idea of combining jazz and classical music through his time with Brubeck. Highlights of this period include a 1977 performance by the CBS Symphony Orchestra with Mulligan as guest soloist on Celebration, a symphonic work by Candian composer Harry Freedman and commissioned by the Canadian Broadcasting Company in honor of Mulligan’s fiftieth birthday. Later, after a chance meeting with famed conductor Zubin Mehta, Mulligan was invited to perform Ravel’s Bolero with the New York Philharmonic at Lincoln Center’s Avery Fisher Hall in May 1982. Afterwards Mulligan began work on an extended symphonic piece, Entente for Saxophone and Orchestra, completed in 1984 with performances in Italy, England, and the US.


In addition to his quartet work, Mulligan would continue to make appearances with
several other classical orchestras including the Stockholm Philharmonic, the Philadelphia
Orchestra, and the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Mulligan’s stature as a great jazz composer
who successfully crossed over into classical is well documented here and begs for this music to be heard and performed again. In 1999, three years after Muligan’s death, the Library of Congress opened an exhibition entitled “The Gerry Mulligan Collection,” featuring photographs, manuscripts, scores, and Mulligan’s gold-plated saxophone.


In addition to discussing Mulligan’s life and career, there are also a few chapters
featuring quotes from Mulligan’s sidemen that offer a different perspective of Gerry Mulligan as well as one on Mulligan’s legacy on the baritone saxophone. There is some discussion on Mulligan’s personal relationships, especially with Judy Holliday and Franca Rota, but the focus of the book is on Mulligan’s music.


Jeru’s Journey is an important addition to the history of jazz and especially towards
the scholarship of Gerry Mulligan. The book is a fairly easy read with twenty-one chapters (none longer than fourteen pages), and sixteen pages of pictures that highlight his entire life, including scans of programs featuring his compositions from his late career. While the format does get predictable, many of the interviews give a well-rounded view of Mulligan’s work. It would have been nice to directly read Josephson’s opinion on certain matters, however his reverence and respect for Mulligan’s music comes through clearly. What Josephson has done has been essentially to compile a complete picture of Mulligan’s life and career, and this is what makes Jeru’s Journey an important addition towards representing Mulligan in a broader light. Hopefully other scholars will take notice and acknowledge his other, equally important accomplishments.


Reviewed by Fumi Tomita


New Saxophone Publications
David Dempsey


Sanford Josephson. Jeru’s Journey: The Life & Music of Gerry Mulligan (Hal
Leonard Jazz Biography Series, $19.99) Recommended for: All musicians
interested in this American musical giant, both for his playing and for his
composing and arranging.


In the pantheon of jazz, Gerry Mulligan represents not one, but two major
voices. He is not only one of the inarguably historic voices on the baritone
saxophone, but he is also a major arranger who wrote for some of the major big
bands and his own recordings, not to mention the game-changing 1949 Birth of
the Cool recording which is often credited only to Gil Evans but also featured
Mulligan’s arranging voice.


Author, producer and interviewer Sanford Josephson is also the writer of
the book Jazz Notes: Interviews Across the Generations, focusing on words from
some of the senior mentors and voices of jazz. In that way, Josephson’s adept
interview style is perfect for the format of this book, which relies heavily on
interview contributions from dozens of the great musicians who knew, worked
and collaborated with Mulligan, as well as extensive secondary quotes from
Mulligan himself. Each of the chapter titles are actually a quote from Mulligan –
evidence of the interview-based motifs.


This book is laid out in classic chronological style, but the extensive
contributions from other musicians, and Josephson’s gift for weaving them in and
out of his own elegant narrative sets this book apart. Mulligan’s many
contributions not only to jazz but to the broader scope of American music are
chronicled, along with his personal life story. A positive element in this area is
Josephson’s discussions of Mulligan’s battles with addiction – stating the facts
plainly, but without any overplaying of these literary scenes. When a biographer
puts music ahead of melodrama, concentrating on their subject’s art instead of
making a sensationalist play for extra book sales, it’s a sign of that writer’s
dedication and integrity.


Some of the highlights of the book include “Out of the Basement and…Into
a Rehearsal Hall,” the account of the aforementioned Birth of the Cool scenario
and recording sessions, conceived by a collective in Gil Evans’ West 55th St.
Manhattan apartment that included Mulligan, Evans, Miles Davis, John Lewis and
others – a remarkable group in many ways, particularly because it brought their
many interracial musical influences to the forefront.
In other chapters, “We Couldn’t Believe How Good the Band Was,” the
description of Mulligan’s 1960 Concert Jazz Band that almost bubbles with joy,
with band member bassist Bill Crow’s description of the amazing nightly interplay
with the virtuosic Clark Terry that turned every Mulligan arrangement into a
small-group adventure, with open-ended blowing sections and improvised
accompaniments. Mulligan’s years with Dave Brubeck are also described in
detail, with Mulligan’s interplay with bandleader Brubeck and the always witty
Paul Desmond. The Desmond partnership resulted in an under-recognized
masterpiece of an album, Two of a Mind with just the two saxophonists, bass and
drums.


As the book progresses into later years, increasing numbers of Mulligan’s
sidemen are interviewed in detail, including many who have gone on (not unlike
the sidemen of Mulligan’s associate Miles Davis) to become
major jazz figures themselves. Pianists Bill Charlap, Harold Danko and Bill
Mays, bassists Ron Carter, Bill Crow and Brubeck alumnus Jack Six, and
drummers Rich DeRosa and Ron Vincent all make vivid contributions. All of
these fellow musicians not only paint a clear picture of Mulligan as a person and
musician, but also of what it was like to be on the road, traveling and performing
on a nightly basis with someone of Mulligan’s demanding personality. Crow’s
and Charlap’s are particularly are particularly well-spoken and fascinating.


One of the final chapters is all Mulligan’s. In “Kings of the Baritone Sax,”
Gerry describes a number of the great musicians who he knew, including “the
king,” baritonist Harry Carney (Mulligan says Duke Ellington always introduced
him as ‘the world’s second greatest baritone saxophonist,’ a title he took
proudly), Charles Mingus, Thelonious Monk, Bud Powell, Dizzy Gillespie and
Charlie Parker (he credits Bird’s encouragement of his playing as a great early
motivator), Woody Herman, Antonio Carlos Jobim and composer Alec Wilder.


The book concludes with a Mulligan discography, and an impressive list of
interviews that gives insight into the depth of this book. This book, and
Josephson’s obvious hard work and deep passion, are all deserved by someone
of Mulligan’s depth and importance.


This book’s Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/JerusJourney/
This book’s webpage on Hal Leonard.com:
http://www.halleonard.com/product/viewproduct.action?itemid=122921&
Purchase this book via Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Jerus-Journey-Mulligan-Leonard-
Biography/dp/1480360244/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1448744939&sr=8-
1&keywords=jeru%27s+journey

The New York City Jazz Record, October 2016
Jeru’s Journey: The Life & Music of Gerry Mulligan
Sanford Josephson (Hal Leonard)
by Ken Dryden
Gerry Mulligan’s career spanned over five decades, yet it is only now, a decade after his death, that a serious biography of the master has appeared. What Sanford Josephson manages to accomplish in a mere 180 pages is remarkable, creating a detailed portrait of the perennial poll-winning baritone saxophonist, noteworthy bandleader, composer and arranger, who also added something special to every band of which he was a part.
Josephson skillfully blends excerpts from Mulligan’s oral autobiography Jeru: In the Words of Gerry Mulligan and the video documentary Listen: Gerry Mulligan, along with the author’s own interviews with the artist and musicians who either played with or were influenced by him. If that isn’t enough, Josephson does a masterful job incorporating excerpts of reviews, articles and liner notes into his text, creating a fast-paced yet thorough history of Mulligan’s many contributions.
While Josephson explores some of the rocky points in Mulligan’s personal life, he does so without descending into tabloid territory. Mulligan changed the role of the baritone saxophone, making it a viable, melodic solo voice, ignoring the supposed limits of its lower range. Recognized for his ability to create memorable impromptu arrangements, Mulligan was also a living jazz historian, blending as well with musicians of earlier styles as those of his generation. Those who have not yet investigated his vast discography will gain a greater appreciation for his work from Josephson’s analysis of his recordings. Josephson also recognizes Mulligan’s compulsion to add background harmonies behind others’ solos to flesh out a song while his gift of creating impromptu counterpoint with Dave Brubeck, Bob Brookmeyer, Art Farmer and others. While most of the focus is correctly on the saxophonist’s work as a leader, Mulligan was very proud of his recordings with Brubeck, with whom he served as a “special guest” for several years.
Josephson’s biography of Gerry Mulligan sets a high standard for all jazz journalists.






Pianist Eddie Higgins From Two Perpsectives

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

It recently came to the attention of the editorial staff at JazzProfiles that a friend of these pages is a huge Eddie Higgins fan. So we though we'd combine two, previous features on Eddie as a way of saluting his many contributions to modern Jazz in the second half of the 20th century and sharing more information about him with his fans.


You have to be very brave to earn a living as a Jazz musician as the late pianist Eddie Higgins explains in the following piece which appeared in the February 1985 Jazzletter edited by Gene Lees.

The business itself is intimidating and so are some of the monster musicians you come up against from time-to-time who make you wish you had turned to selling used cars or women’s shoes to earn a living.

Some monster musicians remain aloof, but others reach out and become inspiring teachers.

Such was the case when Eddie Higgins had an encounter one night with the magnificent Oscar Peterson at the London House in Chicago, IL.



"Or Opposite Oscar Peterson?
by Eddie Higgins

During one of the many times in the late 1950s and '60s I worked opposite Oscar Peterson at the London House in Chicago (fourteen times in twelve years, 'to be exact), he and Ray Brown and Ed Thigpen were having a particularly hot night. Even when one or another of them wasn't "on", the trio was awesome — in my opinion the greatest piano trio in the history of jazz. And on this occasion, they were all on, and the total effect was just devastating.

After they had finished their third encore to a five-minute standing, whistling, screaming, stomping ovation and left the bandstand, it was my unenviable task to follow them with my trio. I was proud of Richard Evans and Marshall Thompson, and we had developed a good reputation of our own among the various groups with whom we shared the bandstand in those halcyon days. But there wasn't anyone who could have followed Oscar Peterson that night. I mean, there was, I swear, smoke and steam coming out of the piano when the set ended.

Well, I did what I was being paid to do, but with that sinking feeling you get when you're down two sets to love, the score in the third set is two-five, and you're looking across the net at John McEnroe.

After a lackluster set of forty minutes, which seemed like three hours, we left the stand to polite applause, and I started to look for a hole to climb into. Oscar had been sitting with friends in Booth 16 — remember? — and as I attempted to sneak past him into the bar, he reached out and grabbed my arm.

"I want to talk to you," he said in a grim tone of voice.

I followed him out into the lobby of the building, which of course was deserted at that time of night. He backed me up against the wall and started poking a forefinger into my chest. It still hurts when I think about it.

"What the hell was that set all about?" he said.

I started a feeble justification but he cut me off. "Bullshit! If you couldn't play, you wouldn't be here. If I ever hear you play another dumb-ass set like that, I'm going to come up there personally and break your arm! You not only embarrassed Richard and Marshall, you embarrassed me in front of my friends, just when I had been telling them how proud I am of you, and how great you play.

"I know we're having a good night, but there are plenty of nights when you guys put the heat on us, and if you don't believe me, ask Ray and Ed. We walk in the door, and you're smoking up there, and we look at each other and say, ‘Oh oh, no coasting on the first set tonight!' So just remember one thing, Mr. Higgins, when you go up there to play, don't compare yourself to me or anyone else. You play your music your way, and play it the best you have in you, every set, every night. That's called professionalism." And he turned and walked back into the club without a further word.

I've never forgotten that night for two reasons. It was excellent advice from someone I admired and respected tremendously. And it showed that he cared about me deeply.

I'm still making a living playing the piano, and, believe it or not, playing jazz for the most part. It's more of a struggle now, after thirty-five years, than it was at the beginning, but I attribute that to two factors mostly.

One, I insist on living where I want to — Miami in the winter and Cape Cod in the summer — instead of where I should live in order to further my career, New York City. Two, the thirty-year dominance of rock, country, disco, Top Forty, and other forms of musical primitivism (I don't care who does it; it's still musical primitivism) has just about dried up the venues for the kind of music I play, with the exception of a few remaining holdouts in the big cities. For example, in all of South Florida, with a population of close to seven million people, there are three jazz clubs at present — two in Miami and one in Fort Lauderdale. So I've had to start traveling a little: traditional jazz festivals, at which I dust of my Dixieland repertoire and my stride and boogie-woogie chops; Chicago, which is still a place I can work just about any time I want; and infrequent trips abroad. I try to fill in the gaps with "casuals" (L.A. jargon), "the outside" (Miami jargon), "jobbing" (Chicago jargon), "general business" (Boston jargon), and whatever they call it in New York.

It's a tough way to make a living, but as Med Flory said in that same issue of the Jazzletter with your piece on Oscar, you're never completely happy doing anything else. So you just do it.

Drop a line if you have the time, and if you don't, I understand completely. Your friend always,


Eddie”


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


“Eddie Higgins is a very soulful cat who knows where it's at; lives there and stays there and constantly plays there!”
- Jon Hendricks

I know this might sound incredulous in today’s music file sharing world where a couple of clicks on an internet site can bring anyone into contact with the music of any recorded Jazz artist. The fact that  many of today’s Jazz recordings are self-produced and can be bought directly from the musician located anywhere in the world via a website only serves to further expedite the process.

But it was a totally different world a little more than half century ago and obtaining recordings by musicians who recorded for specialized Jazz labels was a bit like the Quest for the Holy Grail and seeking the hiding place of the Ark of the Covenant all rolled into one.

As the fifties progressed, it became clear that while jazz had largely lost its popular support - hardly any records by recognizable jazz artists made the Billboard album or single charts in the period covering 1955-60 - it had built up a committed, hip audience of both blacks and whites in the urban areas that were still nurturing the music.

The club culture of 52nd Street may have declined since its pinnacle of the first bebop era, but New York City was still full of places which had a jazz booking policy, from young venerables such as Birdland and the Village Vanguard to mayfly cellars and bars that lasted a while before switching policy or changing hands.

Just as significant were the many other cities - Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, Boston, San Francisco, Los Angeles -  which could boast similar, if less populous, local circuits. While urban real estate was still cheap and low-rent accommodation plentiful, there remained the margins which could almost comfortably support the jazz musician and his or her working life.

It was also a time, in American culture, of a new Bohemia. The beat poets, writers, film and theater people, artists and just a general gaggle of people who liked to hang out were temperamentally attuned to the idea of jazz, even if not always the substance or actuality of it. Most of the hard-bop musicians plied their trade in hard-core circumstances: their daily work was what it was. Unlike the situation on the West Coast, where a climate of session work had built up for many of the local Jazzmen, playing on pop records or for TV and film music, the idea of being a 'session musician' hadn't so far emerged in the hard-bop life.

Yet any sense that this was some kind of balmy period with plentiful work and agreeable conditions should be quickly set aside. The pull of New York began to hurt local scenes, as the most talented musicians in the end left for the principal jazz city. Clubland was still substantially in the grip of gangsters. And just as so many musicians a decade earlier had found themselves with remorseless narcotics habits, so heroin still exacted a considerable price among young musicians. Many Jazz musicians were acknowledged heroin addicts. Instead of the squalor which came to be associated with hard-drug dependence, the ugly reality of heroin chic sucked in many in this new Bohemia, jazz musicians making up a plentiful proportion of their number.

For all that, it was an intensely creative moment in jazz, perhaps even more so than the original bebop era, because the language had been established and was available for anyone to speak, if they had the will to do so, and a new record industry was rushing to grow up around it. Where bebop had once seemed almost outrageous, to some of the more settled swing-era musicians, hard bop was now familiar. The neurotic climate of bebop had been traded for a more studied intensity.

As the LP format became standardized, the music, now available in a medium which approximated the length of a typical club set, was documented in a way that sought a new audience. Followers of the music began to build collections - without necessarily becoming mere 'collectors'. If microgrooves encouraged a more leisurely, contemplative approach to jazz listening - no more rushing to change the record after three minutes - they also helped to educate tastes, and develop serious appreciation.

All of which might suggest an atrophying or at least a gentrification of this new jazz mainstream. But there were too many individuals, too many singular and identifiable voices at work in hard bop to allow anyone even to imagine that the movement could go stale or turn grey. For many listeners (although not all critics, of which more later), each fresh record spelled out an exciting new development. The further away one was from the local scene the more compelling it seemed.

Because I lived in Los Angeles, I had ready access to Jazz record labels such as Pacific Jazz and Contemporary, but Blue Note, Riverside and Prestige were much harder to find and therefore prized. This was also the case with Chicago based Jazz labels such as Argo, Veejay and Emarcy.

Luckily, a friend of the family was an AM radio DJ whose program focused on popular music - Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Nat "King" Cole, Rosemary Clooney, Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme, Sammy Davis, Jr. and the various vocal “sisters” and “brothers” groups - so he basically lined up the Jazz LP’s along his living room wall and periodically allowed me to “... pick out what you want; I can’t use this stuff on my program.”

And that’s how I met Chicago-based pianist Eddie Higgins.


He was seated at a grand piano, looking through the open top and staring right at me on the cover of a Vee Jay LP simply entitled Eddie Higgins [Vee Jay SR 3017], so the least I could do was take it home and give it a listen - right?

Recorded in Chicago in 1960, the album featured four tracks by Eddie’s trio with Richard Evans [trio]/Jim Atlas [quintet]on bass and Marshall Thompson on drums, and three tracks on which the trio is joined by Paul Serrano on trumpet and Frank Foster on tenor sax.

As Jon Hendricks of the renown vocal group Lambert Hendricks and Ross states at the end of his liner notes to the LP:

“So, since Eddie Higgins can't get out of Chicago right yet so people can hear and see, the next best thing is that he's got his own LP, and this has been taken care of by Vee-Jay. Hooray!”

Hooray, indeed, because Eddie Higgins [Vee Jay SR 3017] introduced me to an imaginative and interesting pianist whose career I have since followed on record for almost 50 years until Eddie’s passing in 2009.

Eddie was born in Cambridge, MA in 1932, the home of Harvard University but moved to Chicago to attend Northwestern University [in nearby Evanston, IL] because they had “... a better school of music than Harvard’s, which was almost non-existent. I began playing at local clubs to earn some money and one thing led to another and I wound-up leading the resident trio at the London House [famed Jazz club] from 1957-1969.”

Eddie’s style of playing is unpretentious, straight-ahead and always swinging. It is based on a repertoire drawn primarily from the Great American Songbook with a smattering of Jazz Standards and a few originals thrown in to add spice and color to what can only be described as “the perfect set” on each of his recordings.

While listening to Eddie’s latest CD, it’s as though I am visiting him in a Jazz club and he is allowing me to call my favorite tunes for his trio to perform while I sit back a sip a glass of my favorite red plunk.

Eddie improvisations are generally close to the melody, sometimes blues inflected, and generally feature him playing on the full range of the piano.

After growing weary of Chicago’s long, cold winters, Eddie moved to Fort Lauderdale, FL where he co-lead a trio with Ira Sullivan [tenor sax and trumpet] that played at clubs, Jazz festivals in the US, Europe and Japan and on Jazz cruises.

In 1988, Eddie married vocalist Meredith D’Ambrosio and worked frequently as her accompanist. They made a number of recordings together for Sunnyside.


Over the years, Eddie’s fans have been treated to a series of excellent trio recordings on Venus Records produced by Tetsuo Hara and Todd Barkan. Many of these are highlighted in the video tribute that closes this feature.

All of Eddie’s Venus albums are highly recommended both for his consistently outstanding performances and for their unsurpassed sound quality.

Who knew that a chance encounter with Eddie’s first LP on Vee Jay with lead to a half century of listening some of the best piano trio on record?

Jon Hendricks’ way with words is always a joy to encounter whatever the context and here are the original liner notes from Eddie Higgins [Vee Jay SR 3017].

“Ever since first coming to Chicago I've been very favourably impressed by Eddie Higgins and the worthwhile piano he plays. I've mentioned to him several times that perhaps he ought to hit the road; that his appearance before audiences outside Chicago had been too long delayed, but he quickly assured me that he was working seven nights a week - quite often enough, especially when conditions on the road were best described as 'tough'.

Eddie doesn't work seven nights a week on the same gig. Not at all. In fact, he works in so many different places you'd think he'd snap his wig, but he says it's a boll. He'll work two nights as relief pianist with his trio in a jazz house, then two nights in a plush establishment featuring acts with a more 'commercial' name, but the music he plays is always the same.

I remember going to hear Eddie at the London House, a Chicago restaurant featuring fine food and idle chatter, and being so thrilled to hear him play Horace Silver's "Nica's Dream," Benny Golson's "Whisper Not" and "I Remember Clifford", and Gigi Gryce's "Social Call" amid the jingling of silverware and other clatter. And although only our party was listening and applauding, Eddie and the Trio swung right on, like it didn't really matter, which boils right down to the fact that Eddie Higgins is a very soulful cat who knows where it's at; lives there and stays there and constantly plays there!

Eddie's bassist on the Quintet tunes and on "HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?", Jim Atlas, is a mild-mannered, bespectacled chap of quiet demeanour whose execution could hardly be cleaner, who listens intently to what the other instruments are saying, and whose deep respect for Paul Chambers is evident in his playing.

Richard Evans, who joined the trio in between record dates, has worked with Lionel Hampton, Maynard Ferguson and other greats. Richard is a dedicated bassist with great harmonic sense, and when he solos he gives his all, as you can hear from his work on "SATIN DOLL".

Drummer Marshall Thompson is another ex-hoofer who got tired of standin' up dancin' and decided to sit down while dancin', thus joining Jo Jones, Ed Locke, and Buddy Rich, to name some, who were dancers all before they sat down and started dancin' on the drum; so, rhythmically, Marshall's beat is steady because he stays ready.

Joining the trio on "YOU LEAVE ME BREATHLESS", "FOOT'S BAG," and "ZARAC, THE EVIL ONE", are Frank Foster, tenor saxophone, and Paul Serrano, trumpet, and they have a ball before they're done. Frank Foster needs no introduction because of his work with the Basie crew, but Paul Serrano, a Chicagoan, may be new to some of you. Paul is a calm, quiet man who says what he has to say with his horn on the bandstand. He's the kind of musician that the public finally hears then wants to know what he's been doing all these years! The answer is he's been doin' the best he could - playin' good.

The trio tunes, "AB'S BLUES", "FALLING IN LOVE WITH LOVE", and "SATIN DOLL", and one Quintet side, "YOU LEAVE ME BREATHLESS", are familiar tunes and have been heard, but about one trio side, "BLUES FOR BIG SCOTIA", and two Quintet sides, "FOOT'S BAG" and "ZARAC, THE EVIL ONE", it might be best to say a word.

"BLUES FOR BIG SCOTIA" is on Oscar Peterson original that Eddie heard Oscar, Ray Brown, and Ed Thigpen play. You'd never figure out who "Big Scotia" is, so I'd better tell you that it's Oscar's nickname for Ray's wife.

"FOOT'S BAG" is an Eddie Higgins composition, "Foot" being Eddie's wife. When you know that she is of Greek descent and that the tune is written in modes, common in Greek music, you'll know by the title just what is meant. You might say it is Eddie's musical reference to "Foot's" musical preference.


"ZARAC, THE EVIL ONE" is not a fiend with diabolical power, but the name an ex-drummer of Eddie's gave to the red light gleaming atop the Sheraton tower! That It couldn't be anyone really evil is made very clear, because the tune - composed by Eddie - is very beautiful to the ear, You have my word that "Zarac" is the most beautiful evil cat I ever heard!

So, since Eddie Higgins can't get out of Chicago right yet so people can hear and see, the next best thing Is that he's got his own LP, and this has been taken core of by Vee-Jay. Hooray!”

JON HENDRICKS [of Lambert, Hendricks & Ross)

The following video features the quintet’s version of Eddie’s original, Zarac, The Evil One.



Serge Chaloff - 1923-1957: A Brief Remembrance by Rik van den Bergh and “The Reeds”

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

“[Blue Serge – Dial LP 1012] …gave a vivid idea of the extent to which … [Chaloff] had absorbed Bird’s [Charlie Parker’s]… modern conception, and adapted it to the baritone saxophone ….
By this time [1947], Serge’s style was fully developed. He could get around on the horn at any tempo, played changes with incredible agility both of mind and of fingers, and generally was equipped to astonish anyone who thought the baritone was too cumbersome to be worth developing to this point.”
- Leonard Feather, Jazz critic/writer

“… [Chaloff] was an agile improviser who could suddenly transform a sleepy sounding phrase with a single overblown note.
At least the classic Blue Serge [Capitol 94505 – 1956] is still around … and … shows that Chaloff still had plenty of good ideas about what could be done with a bebopper’s basic materials.”
- Richard Cook & Brian Morton, Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.

“Serge Chaloff showed the deepest allegiance to bop among the [Woody] Herman saxophonists [of the 2nd Herman Herd, 1947-49] and earned praise for his skill in adapting many of Charlie Parker’s innovations to the baritone. … his work with Herman, as well as his various recordings in smaller combos, reveal an expressive, technically accomplished instrumentalist.”
- Ted Gioia, Jazz writer and historian

I'm in a baritone saxophone "bag" these days [does anyone use this term anymore?]. For the uninitiated, "bag" is bebop slang for a person's area of interest or expertise.

When it comes to bebop and baritone saxophone no one left a bigger footprint on the music than Serge Chaloff [1923-1957] and its nice to see him memorialized by Rik van den Bergh. Rik and his form the basis for this feature. 
As alto saxophonist Phil Woods observed: “A lot of people have died for this music.”

The “this music” that Phil’s referring to is the Bebop style of Jazz that came into vogue around the time when the Second World War was ending in 1945.

While their were many musicians who contributed to Bebop’s development, the movement became closely associated with alto saxophonist Charlie [“Bird”] Parker whose personal excesses were as great as his musical achievements.

In addition to being influenced by his music, sadly, many of Bird’s admirers became heroin addicts, too, and either died as a result or were sent away to federal prisons for long internments.


One of these youthful followers was Serge Chaloff who not only adapted Bird’s alto saxophone style to the baritone saxophone, but was almost the same age as Bird when he died from health problems that were no doubt worsened by his lengthy heroin addiction.

Thirty-three years of age is much too young for anyone to die.

In his insert notes to The Complete Serge Chaloff Sessions [Mosaic MD4-147], Vladimir Simosko reflectively states:

“Unfortunately, ill health cut short a career already fallen into obscurity by the time of his death in 1957. Chaloff had provided the usual ingredients for fulfilling the stereotype "legendary tragic hero" role romantically assigned to several prominent jazzmen whose lives traced similar patterns across North American culture in the 20th Century — the "creative genius, frustrated by society, debauches to extremes and dies young" syndrome that was brought to the public's awareness by Bix Beiderbecke and carried to further extremes, with racist overtones, by Charlie Parker. However, as with many others also fitting that mold (some of whom didn't even debauch), Chaloff remained relatively obscure, his work recognized, treasured and collected primarily by knowledge­able jazz lovers.”

In the following excerpt from his piece in The Baltimore Sun entitled Fairy Tales and Hero Worship Richard Sudhalter places “the legendary tragic hero” view of Serge Chaloff in a different context. Perhaps as you read these thoughts, you might substitute “Serge” for “Bix.”

“One of my favorite sentences in the current literature on jazz was written by an old friend, British trumpeter-historian Digby Fairweather. It's about Bix Beiderbecke.

Bix, says Digby in Jazz: The Rough Guide (Penguin, 754 pages, $24.95), "was a man of enormous talent but meager character or self-discipline, and his creative despair, induced by technical inadequacy and lack of vision, made him take refuge in alcohol."

As a judgment it's a bit severe; but it works, stripping layers of exaggeration and wishful thinking from one of the most over-idealized musicians in our jazz century. Leon Beiderbecke, player of cornet and piano, dead at 28 in 1931, was a brilliant musician, an innovator, much admired; but he was also, as Fairweather reminds us, an autodidact, confined by his shortcomings. He wanted to play "serious" music, yet was a poor sight-reader and short on technique. Though he longed to compose, he knew little about harmonic theory, save what his ears told him.


And, rather than assess himself, redefine his goals, then actively seek the training needed to realize them, Beiderbecke drank himself into the nonjudgmental consolation of an early grave.

In viewing his subject this way, Fairweather is — among writers on jazz, at least — something of a contrarian. Even in our age of demystification, deconstruct ion, debunking, and disclosive debasement, too many jazz chroniclers still cling to a starry, fairy­tale approach not far from hero-worship. In its most extreme forms it idealizes, canonizes, seems most fascinated with, irresponsible and self-destructive behavior. …

I think Digby Fairweather had it just right: Bix Beiderbecke was prodigiously gifted, but betrayed those gifts through failure (or unwillingness) to realize that they conferred neither privilege nor license, but responsibility. His early death, as those of Young, Parker, Pepper, Powell, Baker, Billie Holiday, Lee Morgan, Albert Ayler, and so many others, was not martyrdom. It was simple waste.”

As noted previously, fortunately for those Jazz fans who appreciate Serge’s music, Charlie Lourie and Michael Cuscuna gathered all of the recordings that he made in his all-too-brief lifetime and reissued these as The Complete Serge Chaloff Sessions [Mosaic MD4-147]. This limited edition set has long since been out-of-print.


There the matter rested until a group of Dutch Jazz musicians under the leadership of baritone saxophonist Rik van den Bergh entered a recording studio in Holland in June, 2007 and re-created a number of Serge’s compositions on Reserge: A Tribute to the Great Baritone Saxophonist Serge Chaloff which is still available on the Maxanter label [MAX 75373].

Detailed background information about why and how this a recording came about is included in these excerpts from Jaap Ludeke’s insert notes:

"Just because your parents are successful musicians does not always mean that you will be as talented. But barito­ne-sax player/composer Serge Chaloff did succeed, to some extent. His father Julius, of Russian descent, was a composer and played piano with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. His mother Margaret Stedman Chaloff had British parents. She taught piano at the New England Conservatory in Boston, Mass. Among her pupils were at various times: Toshiko Akiyoshi, Dick Twardzik, George Shearing and Herbie Hancock. When I spoke to Toshiko Akiyoshi about this period she told me: "Serge was very helpful to me, in my early days in Boston. I think he was a bit skeptical, at first, until he heard me play and noticed my bebop sensibility. I have fond memories of him, and of our performing together at the Newport Festival in 1956."

When little Serge was between the ages of six and twelve years old his mother taught him the piano. After that, he immediately picked up the baritone saxophone. Harry Carney was his favorite, but he could not chase after him for lessons while Carney toured throughout the USA. So Serge took his education into his own hands. In the late forties, things were looking good for Chaloff: he was a member of the famous 'Four Brothers' sax section of the Woody Herman Band (1947-1949]. Unfortunately, the percentage of drug addicts in that band was high and Chaloff became one of them. In the same period he fell in love with Charlie Parker's innovative bebop style. Both as a leader and a sideman, Chaloff made several interesting recordings for jazz labels like Savoy, Storyville and Capitol. Blue Serge on the latter label is generally thought to be his best record.

Like Chaloff, Gerry Mulligan was a fan of Carney, and from about 1953 on Mulligan started winning all the polls instead of Chaloff. It was similar to the relationship of Zoot Sims and Stan Getz: Zoot complained that people always talked about Getz. In 1954 Serge kicked his drug habit, but two years later his bad health led to paralysis of his legs. A tumor did the rest. I am happy to report that Dutch baritone player Rik van den Bergh and his group The Reeds have come up with the idea to bring Serge Chaloff's challenging music back to life. And that exactly fifty years after Serge died.

- Jaap Ludeke [is a contributor to Down Beat and jazzFlits.nl He has a radio program called Ludeke Straight Ahead at the Dutch Concertzender/Radio 6].”


THE MUSICIANS:

The Serge Chaloff  project has resulted in a great new band: The Reeds. This band is no less than a dream team: five of the finest Dutch saxophone players in one section, playing with one of the most swinging rhythm sections in Holland. They are all members of The Jazz Orchestra of the Concertgebouw and/or The Rotterdam Jazz Orchestra, and they are not only great section players but also top soloists.

•  Rik van den Bergh (baritone saxophone] is one of the few Dutch saxophonists exclusively focusing on the baritone. For a number of years he was active with his baritone/Hammond-organ quartet Swingmatism. At the moment he is a member of The Rotterdam Jazz Orchestra and of the Young Sinatra’s.
•  Marco Kegel (alto saxophone) is lead alto in The Rotterdam Jazz Orchestra. In 2003 he recorded the CD Jonquil with Lee Konitz and the Gustav Klimt String Quartet.
•  Jan Smit (alto saxophone] is a member of the Young Sinatra’s and a sought-after reed player in Holland.
•  Simon Rigter (tenor saxophone] is in The Rotterdam Jazz Orchestra. He teaches at the conservatories of Rotterdam and Zwolle and plays in quite a number of bands. He recorded and played with greats like Curtis Fuller, Slide Hampton and George Coleman.
•  Sjoerd Dijkhuizen (tenor saxophone] plays in many different groups. He is a member of The Jazz Orchestra of the Concertgebouw and leads his own quartet with his brother Gijs on drums.
•  Erik Doelman (piano] has his own quartet with the rhythm section of The Reeds and Simon Rigter on tenor. In 2006 he recorded the CD The Erik Doelman 7tet Plays Cole Porter.
•  Frans van Geest (bass) played with about every major jazz artist in the world. He is the backbone and founder of The Jazz Orchestra of the Concertgebouw.
•  Gijs Dijkhuizen (drums) is in great demand in the Dutch jazz scene. Together with Frans van Geest he is a member of the Peter Beets Trio.

Here’s a video tribute to Serge which has as its soundtrack an original composition from the Rik van den Berg Reserge tribute CD which was written by tenor saxophonist Simon Rigter entitled Brothers. The solo order is Sjoerd Dijkhuizen, Jan Smit, Rik van den Bergh, Marco Kegel and Simon.



Carmen McRae – A Grande Dame of Jazz

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


“There's always a tigerish feel to her best vocals - no woman has ever sung in the Jazz idiom with quite such beguiling surliness as McRae.”
- Richard Cook and Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.

“Carmen McRae is the true grande dame of jazz. Like so many of the best women Jazz singers, including her friends Shirley Horn and the late Sarah Vaughan, Carmen is an accomplished pianist. This means she not only has a feeling for harmony, she has true knowledge of it. Carmen always knows exactly what she is doing.

The term ‘Jazz singer’ is a dubious one, and Sarah Vaughan objected to it. It means many things to many people, including merely a style that entails a cer­tain indefinable jazz feeling. If it means anything specific, it surely denotes some­one who can improvise with the voice. In a well-made song, the intervals of the music bear a significant relationship to the natural inflections of the words, and to alter the melody compromises the mean­ing and diminishes the dramatic effect of the song as a whole. Unfortunately, that is exactly what all too many ‘Jazz singers’ do. Carmen is a spectacular exception. When she changes the melodic intervals, she somehow, mysteriously, deepens the song, increasing the impact of the words.”
- Gene Lees, Jazz writer and critic

“No singer since [Billie] Holidayhad been more adept at singing behind the beat than McRae, or more skilled at shifting from an intimate conversational delivery to hard-edged reconfigurations of melody and lyric.”
- Ted Gioia, A History of Jazz

“No singer was more stubbornly verbal than Carmen McRae, who inflected words as though she were giving them a tongue-lashing. McRae was famously outspoken and her songs had a similarly tart ap­peal. You didn't necessarily turn to her for profane insight into the song­writer's art, but you occasionally got it anyway. This is especially true of the numerous [Billie]Holidaytunes she covered.

If Holidaymade the word ‘love’ shimmer with unrequited longing, McRae cast it in caustic languor. Consider her 1965 live recording of "No More": Holidaysang the line, ‘you ain't gonna bother me no more no how,’ as if trying to key up her resolve; McRae phrased those words as if she had a gun in her purse.
- Gary Giddins, Visions of Jazz [paragraphing modified]

There was noting quite like hearing Carmen McRae sing, especially in-person.

To my ears, she was the epitome of a song stylist, but watching her style a song was a captivating and beguiling experience. I told her once that she was my “witchy woman,” to which she laughingly replied: “Be careful, or I’ll put a spell on you.”

Of course, she knew. She already had.

And it wasn’t only me. Carmen had a way of enchanting anyone who ever caught her in performance.

The reason was simple. She loved singing Jazz and she was good at it. She knew it, the musicians who backed her knew it and we knew it.  And if you were in her presence while she doing her thing, you knew that you were in for the thrill of your life.

What Carmen served up during her performances was akin to a musical feast: phrasing lyrics with meaning and understanding; picking tempos that were always just right; scatting – just enough – while employing the cleverest of harmonies; and just when you thought that you didn’t have room for dessert, she’d offered up a stomping version of “I Cried for You” or “Three Little Words” and leave you screaming for more.


I always sensed a great sadness in Carmen, too. The weightiness and gravity with which she handled certain ballads bespoke of a life with its share of disappointments.

She was nobody’s fool, but few of us go through life without some emotional bumps and bruises and it appeared to me that Carmen had had her share of these, including some personal relationships that didn’t work out.

It was easy to catch the sense of this if you listened closely to her banter between tunes or observed her knowing facial or lyrical expressions when she sang romantic ballads.

Carmen brought the Jazz musician’s life to her music,  a life which was never an easy one, even during the best of times.

I loved seeing her work at a club whether it was at Sugar Hill in San Francisco, or P.J.’s  on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood or at Donte’s Jazz Club in North Hollywood, CA.

Can you imagine a rhythm section made up of JoePass on guitar, Jimmy Rowles on piano, Chuck Domanico on bass and Chuck Flores on drums backing Carmen at an intimate Jazz club located only a 10-minute drive from my home?

Welcome to my world in 1972 when Carmen worked a week at Donte’s.

The room was loaded with musicians during her appearance and Carmen was always gracious about visiting with as many of them as possible during the breaks between sets.


With her signature – “Hey baby, what’s happening?” – she come up to your table and there would be hugs and giggles all around.

She was a queen who deserved to be an empress. Those of us who understood this treated her royally and gave her the respect that she merited.

In return, she bestowed upon us a treasure chest filled with rendition after rendition of great vocal Jazz.

Thankfully, much of her gift has been saved on recordings.

While I’m grateful for the recorded legacy of her music, there was nothing quite like watching her weave her special charms into a song while sitting three feet away from her in a Jazz club.

When you were around Carmen, "baby," it was always “happening.”

We put together the following video tribute to her with the help of the ace graphics team at CerraJazz LTD.  It features Carmen singing Let There Be Love accompanied by Norman Simmons on piano, Victor Sproles on bass and Stu Martin on drums.

Jazz and JFK by Steven Harris - Part 1

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


Steven D. Harris is the author of The Kenton Kronicles: A Biography of Modern America’s Man of Music, Stan Kenton. New and Used Hardcover and Paperback version are still available via online sellers such as Amazon, AbeBooks or at www.stan-kenton.com.

In celebration of John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s birth centennial, Steven penned a 10,000 word essay on the late President of the United States and his relationship to Jazz and has kindly consented to allow JazzProfiles to publish it on these pages in five, consecutive parts.

Just a word in passing, you may come across some technical glitches involving spacing, et al and we ask you to accommodate them as they are the result of formatting using two, different platforms.

Jazz  and JFK – in celebration of the 2017 Kennedy birth centennial:
An intriguing five–part feature on the President's relation to the music, the artists and their heartfelt reflections––then and now.


By STEVEN D. HARRIS © 2013, 2017.

“It seems almost spooky that September Song was John F. Kennedy's favorite tune, yet it is confirmed as true. The 1938 ballad was the creation of Kurt Weill and Maxwell Anderson––a story song with a bittersweet theme of a man in mid–age who contemplates his own mortality. Jack himself, we know, would never reach––as Sinatra so eloquently sang it––the September of his years, but was fated a count of 46. The man who captured the American imagination would be a source of imitation––from intellect and etiquette, to fashion, looks and class. (Gerry Mulligan seemed to emulate the man in a style sense, according to one critic. The month that Jeru’s Concert Band debuted in September 1960, he was seen sporting “a bop version of a Senator Jack Kennedy haircut.”)

For folks over 60, chances are you still recall your exact whereabouts the afternoon of Nov. 22, 1963, when the unfolding events in Dallas took precedence over every possible news story across the globe. Of the more than 190 million people in America, 75 million had heard the reports within a half–hour. That was at 1PM CST, the time JFK's life would cease. What follows in this timely centennial report (the data was originally compiled for the 50th anniversary of the President’s passing in November 2013, updated here) is a varying degree of components that tie the JFK era with a gathering of jazz encounters, some that occurred before he secured high office. It covers more than 50 musicians and singers, taken from historical accounts at the key time, to current reflections which the writer collected at the semi centennial of his death. It also covers recorded jazz memorials to JFK.

HIGHER HOPES


Entertainment was the main force that played throughout the two main Kennedy inaugural bashes––part of a six-ceremony gala that the President and First Lady were scheduled to attend, January 19th & 20th, 1961. In the musical mix was pop, folk, symphony, opera, religious music and a healthy dose of jazz. The first night's pre–inaugural party was produced and hosted by Francis Sinatra (who had performed the Star–Spangled Banner for Jack at the 1960 Democratic National Convention in July). The black–tie affair of Jan.19 offered a diverse cast from stage and screen. From their hotels, Sinatra arranged to pick up his all–star entourage in school buses to make the short trip to the capital’s National Guard Armory. Frank later called his mass production “the most exciting assignment of my life.”

In the jazz arena were singers Ella Fitzgerald and Nat Cole. That connubial couple, Louis Prima and Keely Smith, were also rostered. So too was conductor Leonard Bernstein (premiering new music for the occasion) and the Basie band. The Count wrote in his assisted autobiography Good Morning Blues: “I can vouch for what was happening at the Armory: It was leaping, very definitely.” Bill also confirmed how his wife Katie “had been very active in the Kennedy campaign, so she probably would have been part of the big victory celebration even if the band had not been invited to play."

This gargantuan event, as Kennedy would relay in the customary sign-off thank you’s, caused two current Broadway shows to shut down for the night. After the swearing–in ceremonies.come morning, the new president re–tuxed and headed to the Statler–Hilton Hotel, where another D.C. ball awaited him. Nelson Riddle’s orchestra and the Woody Herman Herd alternated for dancers, playing continuously for some 8,000 privileged invitees. Al Hirt entertained that evening as well with his jovial New Orleans sound. In the years ahead, he would evoke the night again and again, telling how Kennedy went out of his way to shake hundreds of unfamiliar hands, in order to reach the stage and thank the trumpeter personally.

WHERE THEY WERE THAT DAY (NOV. 22)


Al Hirt was watching TV at home in 1963 when a bulletin flashed in. "I drove down to my club," he later wrote in his memoirs, "which at that time of the day was empty...with remains from the previous night's revelry. I locked myself in, picked up my horn and played the blues...[It] seemed to allow me some release for the strong emotions I felt. After a time, I secured a black wreath, put it on my nightclub door and remained closed for business until after his funeral." (Note: Technically, Dan's Pier 600 belonged to Hirt's business manager. It closed in 1964 to reopen at year’s end under a new name and ownership: the Al Hirt club.)

Vince Guaraldi's trio was scheduled to play at the University of Pittsburgh, PA. Upon landing at the airport, the group was greeted by security agents and sent home. For singer Tony Bennett, the distress caused a reverse reaction to his long–term memory. Decades later, he struggled to pinpoint exactly where he was: "It affected me that much to where I couldn't remember what I was doing...it just felt like the Declaration of Independence had ended."John Clayton, the superlative bassist, writer and bandleader, was just eleven when the news from Dallas resonated thru his 6th grade hall that day. He remembered how the whole school went home early, adding, "I also saw the flag at half mast, maybe a first for noticing that."

Clayton's elder of the big bass, Howard Rumsey, was into his 14th year running the Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach––a casual jazz spot already of legend, where sand and sandals were part of the decor. Though his memories had faded (Howard was 96 when we spoke), he did offer some insight. I inquired as to whether or not he shut down the club temporarily, as so many establishments did nationwide. "We did not close that week," he verified, "but I put a substitute group in there and took a week off, so that I could follow the [news updates] and burial––and to see how the nation was going to conduct itself. The question came to everybody: Who's going to take Kennedy's place, because he was so popular. That's what was on everybody's mind.” Howard answered affirmingly when I asked if he was a Kennedy fan himself, not expecting his quirky reply. “Yes,” Rumsey confirmed, “because he was the kind of guy that took his wife with him everywhere."

Gerald Wilson, who was 95 at the time of our interview, was also fuzzy on the details he encountered that week of national mourning. What he did recall was that "I was in Dallas after that time, a few years later. I was invited to conduct an orchestra there… A friend of mine showed me the spot where all of this happened." I asked Gerald how he perceived the era in retrospect. "Kennedy,” he offered, “had proved to be a man that was certainly going to do good things for the country. Things looked like they would be better if he was the president. I think he was a man that people in America liked. JFK, good guy." Gerald was more precise in pinpointing the facts five years later, when another Kennedy brother was felled in the same senseless manner––an event that affected him possibly even more in 1968. He elaborated on RFK this way: “I know where I was the night that happened. I was playing and conducting music for Eartha Kitt at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. I had written this music for her, but I didn't even stay to the end of the engagement. I got on a plane to come back home."

Singer Joe Williams and his wife (who, coincidentally, was born on Nov. 22 *) were headed for New York’s Idyllwild Airport that day to pick up his back–up group, the Junior Mance Trio. They would all be performing that night in Detroit. When the early bulletins came on the car radio––this was before the President's death was confirmed––his wife's first inclination was to turn back. "Nobody's going to open a club now," she reasoned. Joe stopped to call the club owner and find out his plans. The owner took a chance, deciding to stay open. Joe sang his usual three sets on opening night to a mostly Canadian crowd, who had crossed over from Windsor, Ontario. By the third night, however, locals were showing up in droves––all seeking relief from the excruciating events. The social trauma of Nov. 22, as Joe later capped it, would "take the luster off" his wife's birthday forever.

[*Also born Nov. 22: pianist-singer-composer Hoagy Carmichael (1899–1981), reed player Ernie Caceres (1911–71), trombonist Jimmy Knepper (1927–2003) and pianist Craig Hundley (b. 1954), among other jazz personalities.]

SWINGING FOR MR. PRESIDENT

When Dave Brubeck and Tony Bennett were assigned for a joint effort in late August, 1962, the result was a White House “jazz first,” albeit off grounds. The one-hour set had been prepared as a Rose Garden lawn concert for local college interns. However, to accommodate the crowd, it was moved to the Sylvan Theatre of the Ellipse––a round field more commonly known as the President's Park South, just across from the White House. A superb recording from that day found its way to CD in May, 2013, released as Brubeck/Bennett: The White House Sessions–live 1962. Historic photos accompany the music and liner text. Hearing the tape 50 years later, Bennett was overjoyed: "I couldn't believe how spontaneous it all felt...like it was so well rehearsed." The two artists alternate in sets, starting with Dave’s Quartet. Tony then crafts out a half–dozen tunes with the Ralph Sharon Trio. For the too–brief finale, the Brubeck trio (Paul Desmond lays out) backs Bennett for eleven off the cuff minutes.

Due to its geographical spot (being outside the House gates), the Brubeck/Bennett date is more often passed up historically for its role as the first jazz happening by the White House. That designation belongs to a program arranged 12 weeks later: the more frequently cited event of Nov. 19––the first time jazz resonated inside the Executive Mansion, with a 90–minute program in the East Room. The Jazz Sextet of alto saxophonist Paul Winter (billed with a 19–year old classical pianist from Korea) played for a polite audience of ten–to–nineteen year–olds, all children of diplomats and government officials from various embassies in Washington. Paul remembered the young crowd as "warm and unpretentious." This was the fifth in a music series introduced and sponsored by Jacqueline Kennedy herself, called Concerts For Young People, By Young People. JFK had intended to take part, but was swamped with no less than eight meetings that day.

Jackie seemed genuinely excited, even if the group border lined on a hard bop style beyond her ears. "Simply wonderful," she expressed to Paul, adding, "There has never been anything like it here before." She gave the group "her cool blessing," UPI reported the next day. Another newspaper would headline “Jackie digs jazz!" in bold lettering. Shortly afterwards, in a half–hour ABC–TV special on the bossa nova craze, it was noted that Little Boat was Jackie’s favorite tune. She was even curious to know the origins of the coolly syncopated trend from Brazil. Jackie was so enthralled with the new sounds––and particularly Paul's latest release, Jazz Meets the Bossa Nova––that she said she'd been playing it "non–stop for two weeks." Record sales jumped when The Billboard reported how the First Lady "flipped" over it. The tape of this White House performance was finally released upon its golden anniversary in November, 2012. The 2CD set, with more previously unissued material from ‘63, is named after the group's theme song, Count Me In.

Paul Winter, just 23, had recently returned with his group from an extended cultural exchange tour of Latin America. The period covered February thru mid–July and, before it culminated, Paul wrote to the President on the progress and results. Jack expressed to one of his staffers that he found it all "very interesting." Paul explained: "The success of that tour brought the sextet to Jackie's attention." Paul always felt that because his group was equally integrated (three white members, the other three black), it secured his royal op at the White House. The week after JFK's burial, on Dec. 5, Paul entered the Columbia recording studios for his last of six albums with his seasoned sextet. (Added percussion was used on a few of the twelve titles, making it a septet). The results were titled Jazz Meets the Folk Song. It is hardly a coincidence that the 1963 album includes the folk favorite, We Shall Overcome. Paul included it as a jazz benediction. The distraught players would disband within days.

Of the quotes from more than 40 personalities covered herein, Mundell Lowe, who died on December 2, 2017 at the age of 95, deserves the anecdotal prize for his personal account––one that has never been documented at any time before. From 1953 on, JFK had a home away from home in New York. While in the area, Jack would stay at Manhattan's ***Carlyle Hotel on 5th Avenue, where he had an assigned penthouse duplex on the 34th floor. "All the big stars used to stay there," Mundell noted. Through the guitarist's personal chronicle, he produced this previously unknown tidbit for jazz history. He told the writer:

"Milt Hinton, the bass player, called me and said the President was in town and that he liked jazz. 'I want you, me, Tony Scott and Don Elliott to go up and play for him,' he said. There was some kind of little party going on upstairs in his private presidential suite. I'm not sure of the date, but 1961 sounds accurate. We decided it was best not to use a drummer, since we thought it should be quieter. Tony played clarinet [rather than sax] and Don played the vibes. We all arrived in this little room up there...and there was a rocking chair right in front of the bandstand.

"Pretty soon,” Mundell continues, “Kennedy came in and sat down with a guy on each side of him, so that nobody could disturb him. I don't remember if they were the FBI or the Secret Service, but they were plain clothes men protecting Kennedy. He sat there right in front of us for quite a while, listening. The President smiled and patted his foot and had a great time. He stayed there in that rocking chair facing us––and the guys would not let anybody get near him."

I asked Mundell to elaborate on the circumstances of November '63, when he joined in the nation's sorrow: "I think it was the same hour the news broke...I was in New York, leaving NBC studios, when I ran into Milt Hinton on the street––and he was in tears. I asked him what was wrong. He said: 'They just killed the only hope we ever had.' We [then] went down to a bar called Jim & Andy's and had a drink."

[***The jazz encounter at the Cafe Carlyle may have occurred when JFK was still a "president–elect." The writer researched into it to find that Kennedy spent at least three nights there between Jan. 4–18, 1961, just prior to his Jan. 20 inauguration. If this is the case, as Mundell notes, it was possibly FBI men rather than the Secret Service assigned to protect him.]

If the statement voiced by Miles Davis sounds like hyperbole, it was at least a fashionable take on his stance. "I like the Kennedy brothers," he told a reporter in 1962. "They're swinging people." In February, 1964, when the trumpeter appeared with his quintet at Philharmonic Hall in New York (for an NAACP benefit), he told England's Melody Maker that the concert was in memory of JFK. Some six months later, Miles would throw a party at his home for Robert Kennedy, who had announced his bid to run for senator of New York. Strangely, Miles admitted in his aided 1989 autobiography, he had no recollection of meeting his honored political guest. "People say he was there,” Miles guessed, “but if he was I don't remember..."

Miles' horn mentor––a fatherly force to the totality of jazz brotherhood––was Louis Armstrong. He had, in a satirical way, first paid homage to the Kennedys on record while participating in Dave and Iola Brubeck’s The Real Ambassadors––a monumental jazz release from 1961. The track Cultural Exchange (about the State Department’s so–called “discovery of jazz”) has Louis uttering the phrase: "If the world goes wacky, we'll get John to send out Jackie!" A generic voice booms: "You mean Jackie Robinson?" to which Armstrong chimes, "No man, I mean the First Lady!"

Satchmo was a silent but dutiful flag–waver, the evidence of which rang out in parts of his repertoire. Following the JFK funeral, Louis reconvened a tour with his All–Stars. December 1 found the sextet performing in Massachusetts, where Jack Kennedy had served so long as a Boston politician. Louis had a set list of traditional closers, but felt obliged on this night––with no oral prelude––to play a different tune, unaccompanied. As his trumpet echoed the strains of God Bless America, the audience was fixed silently still, tied in unity. With only his horn and a single chorus, Louis was exemplified in his short elegant prose, telling his people––all people––that, through sacrifice, we can still hope. In his finish, he simply said to the tearing crowd: "That was for President Kennedy. Goodnight." 
(Jazz and JFK to be continued in Part 2)

Jazz & JFK by Steven Harris - Part 2

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


Steven D. Harris is the author of The Kenton Kronicles: A Biography of Modern America’s Man of Music, Stan Kenton. New and Used Hardcover and Paperback version are still available via online sellers such as Amazon, AbeBooks or at www.stan-kenton.com.

In celebration of John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s birth centennial, Steven penned a 10,000 word essay on the late President of the United States and his relationship to Jazz and has kindly consented to allow JazzProfiles to publish it on these pages in five, consecutive parts.

Just a word in passing, you may come across some technical glitches involving spacing, et al and we ask you to accommodate them as they are the result of formatting using two, different platforms.

Jazz & JFK – in celebration of the 2017 Kennedy birth centennial:

An intriguing five–part feature on the President's relation to the

music, the artists and their heartfelt reflections––then and now.

By STEVEN D. HARRIS © 2013, 2017.


Hampton Hawes, keyboardist and composer, was a flourishing favorite on the West Coast jazz scene (and deservedly so) throughout much of the 1950s. But alas and early on, he followed the mentality and drug path that so many of his colleagues surveyed, craving more than the music that should have been sufficient. If you have to ask How High the Moon, to be sure he was already there: the pianist was hooked on heroin before turning 21.
On the very night he was toasting to his 30th birthday in late 1958, Hawes would be arrested. Days later, while awaiting sentence, he cut an album of spirituals. It was called, perhaps not ironically, The Sermon (note that Hamp’s dad was a minister). The narcotics habit that caught up with him would result in a 10–year term in federal prison. He began “hard time” in April, 1959. In June, his sentence was extended by one year for contempt of court. Hawes was sent to a Fort Worth prison hospital the next month, where he lived out the duration. He wasn't set to be freed until 1970, but was eligible for release at the start of '66.

Enter John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Hawes was watching TV from his cell when the new president took oath that morning of Washington chill in 1961. The convict found himself over excited, assuring other inmates that Kennedy's "the right cat." He found the inaugural speech so full of promise that he made a decision right off. In his co–authored Raise Up Off Me (published in 1974), Hamp elaborates in detail about his desperate course. He would write the top man personally, requesting a presidential pardon.

The next day, Hamp shared his plan to a prison official, who couldn't help but be amused. His biggest obstacle, for the time being, was that no attorney would take him on (for well over a year). When the year–end holidays arrived in ‘62, Hawes had reason to rejoice: In the mail was his waiting request––an Application for Executive Clemency. The process was exasperating and tedious: a pile of pages to start off with, which reeked of indistinguishable legalities. To remotely comprehend it all, he helped himself to the prison library.

With all his myriad functions as Commander–in–Chief, it was highly improbable that Kennedy would ever have responded to Hawes' cause, yet that's exactly what he did. In fact, of the 42 prisoners pardoned by JFK, Hamp was second to last. The sparkling interpreter of jazz, with enough ability at rhetoric, had literally engineered his own release, all based on talent and musical status. The pardon was signed August 14, 1963. An added irony is that the touted piano man had been incarcerated in Texas, only 35 minutes away from where the JFK tragedy would unfold three months ahead.

His career resumed, Hawes entered the recording studio once again in early 1964. The album for Contemporary (label of his last nine sessions) was made Feb. 17, Its title track a testimony to a life once embraced, lost and restored: the film song Green Leaves of Summer.

WHERE THEY WERE, NOV. 22 (CON’T)

Playing aside, vibes master Terry Gibbs, now 93, is a keen story–teller known for his lucid recall of events past in his eight–decade career. Hence, I predicted that he could easily tell of his whereabouts on the day when the world came to grasp the unfathomable heartbreak of Nov. 22, 1963. "We were at the London House," Terry confirmed, "probably one of the most exclusive restaurant–clubs in Chicago. I had Walter Bishop Jr. on piano, John Dense on drums and Louis McIntosh, a bass player. We were there two weeks. A whole lot of things happened before we opened. Alice [McLeod], who was working with me for a whole year [as pianist and in vibraphone duets with Terry], came to me the week before. She had to leave to join John Coltrane, because they were going to get married. I introduced her to John, so that was a big thing for me.

"The day after I opened [was when] Kennedy got it––and [the management] made us come into work. We went to the job, wondering if they would tell us to go home, but they didn't––they made us play. I thought they were crazy. I played ballads all night...and probably everything in a minor key…I couldn't play anything that was in [up] tempo. In fact, I just couldn't play. We didn't know what to do. I mean, if it was one of those jobs that wasn't that important to me, I never would have showed up. But I never thought I could [get hired to] play that club...because the only musicians who did were people like Erroll Garner, Oscar Peterson and George Shearing––it was a piano room. So when Joe Glaser [the booking agent] got me into the room, I was thrilled. That's why I remember all of this.

“We played until we were told we could go home; I think we ended early. I never said a word [no tune announcements, etc.]. The audience was sparse, but they did have a crowd because people still went out to dinner. I'm surprised the audience didn't say: 'We don't want music.' I don't think they really cared. I know one thing: that whenever I played, I didn't remember it afterwards or really thought about what I was playing. Just trying to play one song, forget about the rest, was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Jazz musicians are lucky, because when you have trouble, you can go to the job and think [only] about the music. Things got better [for the duration of the run]; you can only grieve over a shock like that for so long."

Bill Basie had already appeared twice in the films of ardent fan Jerry Lewis, the first being Cinderfella (1960), followed by The Errand Boy (1961). His band appears on camera in the first; in the latter it functions as an audio backdrop for the comic's pantomime. Basie was due to take part in still another Lewis production in '63––Sex and the Single Girl. The cameras were set to roll for another day's shoot on Nov. 22 with the Count's swinging collective in place. Jet magazine reported that when the horrific news spread, Basie was "so shook up" that he rushed off the movie set in tears. The bandleader cancelled his next three shows. Surely, the President was been on his mind, due to an untimely slated date: the Count was to partake in a jam session on a nationwide TV special five days later, as part of a JFK gala on Nov. 27. Instead, the President’s burial had already taken place.

During the 40–minute ride to Dallas that had the President waving to crowds from an unprotected limo––that was from 11:50 AM to 12:30PM when the world changed in a few crackles––Woody Herman was on his way to a New York recording studio to make an album––his third of five for the Phillips label. The session was arranged for 2PM, Eastern Standard Time, one hour ahead of Texas. By start time, everyone involved had already heard the reports. Woody's latest Herd, a half–hour after the unbearable fact, was trying their utmost to make a satisfactory take on A Taste of Honey (a 1960 Broadway pop tune, arranged by lead trumpeter Bill Chase).

It was at that point when Gene Lees (the jazz editor–columnist and sometimes lyricist) arrived in the control booth. "I went up to the session," he said, "numb like the whole nation. Woody did a take...but no one felt like going on––and he called the session.” That take indeed appears on the album, simply titled Woody Herman: 1964. Lees wrote: “Its dark mood of mourning [is] a testament to the way jazz can almost instantaneously reflect public events––and express the emotions they engender." Irony seems to sit among the balance of titles; attempted the next day was Bill Holman's supercharged arrangement of After You've Gone.

On evenings, the Swingin’ Herd was enchanting crowds at the nearby Metropole (a jazz spot partly recalled for its space issues: the entire band was obligated to stand, sardine file, behind the club bar.) Trombonist Phil Wilson, a long–standing jazz educator on staff at the Berklee College of Music, was there the night of Kennedy's end. He told the writer in 2013: "The band did set up, [but] we played only briefly––one or two [numbers] to no audience. There was almost none, if any, and it was decided we close; the whole place was a ghost town. Broadway was surreal at 10 PM––no lights, no people."


Nat Cole, who had sung for President Eisenhower (and would for his grand–successor, LBJ), had become a strong ally for Kennedy after the two met at a 1958 dinner in support of Jack's re–election to the Senate. The President himself was part of an infinite fan base that the singer maintained. (If one account is true, the adulterous president would court at least one of his conquests with the aid of Nat’s music. 19 year–old Mimi Alford, a college sophomore, was a White House staffer when her year-long affair with JFK took place. Exactly fifty years later, in 2012, she divulged in her book how the President would cue up Nat on the resident’s stereo turntable, singling out the quaint ballad Autumn Leaves.) Once JFK placed his bid in for the big office in 1960, he encouraged Nat to volunteer his services in supporting the new candidate. The following phone–in telegram survives. It originates from Wisconsin (charged to Robert Kennedy's hotel room there) and was addressed to Nat Cole at his L.A. home. Writes Jack:

“I certainly appreciate your willingness to help me in the campaign...I would have liked to have had you with me on my visits around the state, but I understand that our schedules preclude us [sic] being here together...I would hope that in one of the primaries that is to follow...you would be willing to assist me. I am most grateful to you.

Best Regards, John F. Kennedy.”

Pete Barbutti
, 83, is one of the few ingenious comics to create a complete routine based on the jazz lingua. Nat Cole was so fascinated by his originality that he hired Pete as his opening act for much of the 1963–64 season. The two were inseparable at this period and roomed together on tour. When this writer interviewed the comedian in 2007, he spoke warmly of their kinship. JFK was recalled in two separate accounts. "I was in Nat's room in Washington, DC at the Mayflower Hotel; we were there working the Carter–Barron Theatre. The phone rings and Nat is saying, 'Yeah, sure Jack. Yeah, I can come over after the show.' He's talkin' to Jack Kennedy. Nat asked me, 'Do you want to go over?' I told him no; I wouldn't know what to say or what to do. So he went over and had dinner with Jack and Jackie." The time frame of Barbutti's account can be pinpointed to mid–August, 1963, when Nat visited the White House. He and the President almost assuredly discussed race relations. Three interrelated concerns come to mind: JFK's new legislation bill on civil rights, the crisis in the South and the forthcoming march on Washington, to take place August 28.

Barbutti segued to that specific November day that lay ahead. "We were in Omaha, Nebraska, working a theatre there when I got a call...I was still asleep and Sparky, who was Nat's valet, woke me up. He said, 'Did you see the news? Jack Kennedy was just assassinated.' Walter Cronkite had just announced it. We couldn't believe it. Nat called me and he was crying. [Natalie Cole, thirteen at the time, said it was the only time she saw her father break down.] Nat told us to 'Pack up; we're gettin' out of here.' The [theatre] owner had the audacity to say, 'Come on, Nat––it's not that big a deal. We can still do the show.' Of course, he went right back to L.A. and went home. There were only three [dates] left in the tour and we cancelled them all.” (Jazz & JFK to be continued in Part 3.)
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