JazzWax

Sunday Wax Bits

2009-07-12T06:19:31-04:00

Waxing & musings: Was jazz meant to be played in arenas? Sitting in Central Park with my wife yesterday, I couldn't help but wonder what role the arena and amplification may have played in acoustic jazz's decline in the 1970s. On most Saturdays during the summer, Central Park hosts free outdoor concerts at an arena called SummerStage. Though my wife and I were seated on a bench at 72d St. near Fifth Ave.—a quarter-mile from the throng—we still could hear the muffled pounding and hard vocal. The crowd was responding to Calle 13, a five-time Latin Grammy Award and Grammy Award-winning Puerto Rican hip hop and alternative-reggaeton duo.

While Calle 13 is hardly jazz, the pumped-up sound of the arena made me wonder whether jazz was suited to such places. Arenas date back to the Romans, who added gladiators and chariots, and filled them with the populace. Romans didn't have much to do back then, and the idle masses needed to be distracted and kept busy. Arenas of any size still bring out the screamer and stomper in most people, as we demand greater thrills and excitement from the main event.

Certainly, jazz concerts and festivals have for decades featured music performed in large venues. And legends like Sonny Rollins know how to work a large stage. But if jazz is played in too spacious a setting, let alone an arena, is it still jazz? Modern jazz of the late 1940s and 1950s flowered in nightclubs, where the music became an intimate, expressive art form. You could reach out and almost touch the musicians or catch a drink with them between sets at the bar. And musicians thrived on audience reactions to their music.

When the 1970s rolled around and sports arenas opened their doors to rock bands, jazz took the cue and amped up. The piano, guitar and bass all went electric in a bid to maximize hefty sound systems and appeal to young rock-minded listeners. But when this happened, did jazz become something else? Can jazz retain its true personality when musicians must communicate in an excessively large setting and listeners expect the spectacular? Or does jazz lose its artistic edge, charisma and humility as soon as it leaves the intimate confines of small clubs?

I'm not sure, but I tend to think so. With or without lions.

Music tip. Reader Ted Steinberg sent along an e-mail raving about eMusic.com, a site that charges you a flat fee each month and then lets you download what you want based on credits. For example, Ted says he found the Big Jay McNeely Classics album I mentioned on Friday for just $3—or 14 cents a track. If you're a downloader, sounds like it's worth checking out.

Terry Teachout. I've seen the movie Chinatown 49 times. Back in the summer of '74, just before college, I worked as an usher in a movie theater and watched it while walking around with a red painted flashlight and on my breaks. On several occasions that summer, during the 10 a.m. show, I had the entire theater to myself. What I always waited for during the film was Jerry Goldsmith's soundtrack to come in and out, and Uan Rasey's soaring trumpet. If you love this film as much as I do, you have to catch Terry Teachout's "Sightings" column in the weekend version of The Wall Street Journal. Or go here. "The future, Mr. Gittes, the future!"

All-Bill radio. On his Jazz From the Archives radio show tonight, jazz musician and writer Bill Kirchner will feature the music of artists with whom he has played over the years. He will feature one track each by David Allyn [pictured], Andy Bey, Jackie Cain, Ann Hampton Callaway, Chris Connor, Ethel Ennis, Jim Ferguson, Carol Fredette, Anita Gravine, Sheila Jordan, Anita O'Day, Daryl Sherman, and Ronnie Wells. You can listen to the show live tonight (Sunday) at 11 p.m. (EDT) here.

Jerry Shriver. USA Today music and jazz writer Jerry Shriver had an interesting article in the newspaper on June 29th. In his piece, he looked at 1959 and wrote about about the major recordings of that year and addressed the big question—why was 1959 such a watershed year. You'll find his article here.

Andrea Bartelucci, the Italian jazz flutist, sent me an e-mail last week to tell me about his latest album, Flirty Gerty. It's available only in Russia, but you can listen to tracks from this and other albums for free at his MySpace page here. An amazing world out there, again brought down to size by e-mail and the Web.

CD Discovery of the Week. In 1952, trombonist Bill Harris played a series of engagements at Birdland leading a range of different groups. The gigs were broadcast over the air and recorded. Bill Harris: Live at Birdland, 1952 (from 2001) features most of those 1952 dates, as well as a couple from the mid-1940s.

Harris had a powerful crying style on the trombone that was at once aggressive and laid back. He easily shifted between playing warm legato lines on ballads to tiger-like staccato attacks on bebop tunes. As a transitional player, Harris could easily handle the hopping demands of swing and the blistering pace of bop. Harris spent much of his career off and on with Woody Herman's great bands between 1944 and 1959, and he led many small groups in between. Harris is a favorite of many jazz trombonists, including Bob Brookmeyer.

What makes this set of live dates particularly fascinating is Harris' ability to play tender, romantic solos and fierce up-beat executions. Particularly wonderful is a 1946 arrangement by Ralph Burns of Everything Happens to Me. The chart opens with a series of cascading runs by Ted Wheeler on flute; John LaPorta and Salvatore DeLegge on clarinets; and Mickey Folus on bass-clarinet. Other great moments include tracks with Horace Silver on piano.

Bill Harris: Live at Birdland, 1952 can be found here on CD.

Oddball album cover of the week: This 1954 album for Norgran paired Buddy De Franco with pianist Sonny Clark, and it's excellent. As for the cover, you can just hear the art department complaining: "Accounting says we only have $20 to spend on the cover. What can we possibly do with $20?" Apparently they found the solution in the secretarial pool and at Woolworth's.

PhotoStory4: Big Jay McNeely

2009-07-10T08:04:38-04:00

From time to time, I spot a jazz photo that moves me so much I have to know what happened the moment the camera's shutter came down. As a fan of 1950s jazz photography, I have long admired the high-contrast black-and-white work of Bob Willoughby.

If you're unfamiliar with Bob [pictured], his stunning photos of jazz musicians between 1948 and 1954 are all classics. You'll find them at his site, Willoughbyphotos.com. Bob has published 18 books and has 9 projects pending, including Jazz, Body & Soul. You'll find a PDF of his vision for the book's design here, under "Unpublished Books."

When I reached out to Bob in France, he sent along the following e-mail in relation to the photo at the top of this post and those that follow from the same event:

"This was really something! It was 1951, and I had been listening in my darkroom to the late-night disk jockey, Hunter Hancock. He was advertising a jazz concert at the Olympic Auditorium (the local Los Angeles fight arena) starting at midnight! The idea of starting a concert that late was really so intriguing that I had to see what it was all about.

"As I walked in, the concert had already begun, and the hall was rocking on its foundations! I could see the audience on their feet screaming. You could taste the energy in that air. To this day I have never seen or heard anything to match it. It was my introduction to the amazing Big Jay McNeely.

"Big Jay stood in the middle of what normally would be the fight ring, playing his heart out, and the crowd was exploding around him. He created some sort of resonance with the audience. In some weird way, he seemed to be playing them!

"It was so mind boggling that I found myself scrambling for my cameras as I ran toward the fireworks, afraid I was going to miss it all. I needn't have worried. Big Jay was a marathon player.

"I was so caught up in the excitement, that I just climbed right up on the stage without thinking. Big Jay was strutting up and down playing chord after chord on his sax. Honking his way through 45 minutes of pulsating, explosive rhythm. He kneels, he sits, he lies flat on his back. He plays into the faces of orgasmic girls. He is away on some space flight. He perspires until his clothes are soaking, he takes off his wet jacket never missing a beat.

"The near hysterical crowd was screaming.

"Big Jay literally was a Pied Piper. I was told that at another concert in San Diego, he swept the entire audience out of the theater and took them for a tour around the block. Much to the dismay of the local police, who weren't too sure what might happen at this Olympic gig either. You could see them in the crowd, probably looking for drugs. But with Big Jay in orbit on stage, the crowd was already on a high.

"Most of the musicians' names are lost in time, but some of the singing that night was done by Smilin' Smokey Lynn. It was Big Jay, the man himself, who is best remembered for those wonderfully mad and crazy Los Angeles midnight concerts."

JazzWax tracks: If you want to hear what Bob heard in 1951, you'll find Big Jay McNeely at the Olympic Theater in Los Angeles on Classics: Big Jay McNeely 1951-52 here.

JazzWax note: If you want to see the other photos in this series, type "PhotoStory" into the search engine in the upper right-hand corner of this page.

Interview: Buddy De Franco, Opus 1

2009-07-09T07:55:42-04:00

There's a scene early in Martin Scorsese's New York, New York (1977) when Robert De Niro walks into a large dance club in Times Square on V-E Day prowling for a date. In the background, a big band is playing Opus One. As the camera pans the massive room on a boom, closing in on the musicians and trombone-playing bandleader, you realize the orchestra is meant to be Tommy Dorsey's.

I obviously wasn't around back in 1945. But I get the chills every time I see that scene and hear Ralph Burns' arrangement for the movie. I have to assume that the club scene is about as close as you're going to get to experience what it must have been like to hear the Dorsey band live hammering its way through that swinger.

Opus One has that power. The song was written and arranged by Sy Oliver, who joined Tommy Dorsey's band in the summer of 1939. Melvin Oliver was nicknamed Sy because he had studied psychology. But since 1933 Oliver had played trumpet in Jimmie Lunceford's band. He also had been the band's hit-making arranger. But by 1939, shortly after Fletcher Henderson joined Benny Goodman's band as his lead arranger, Oliver decided it was time for a change.

As the late Peter Levinson wrote in Tommy Dorsey: Livin' in a Great Big Way:

"Oliver [pictured] met Dorsey in his hotel room in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn. While Dorsey was shaving, he asked Oliver, 'How much is it gonna cost me to get you to come with my band?' 'Five thousand a year more than Lunceford's paying me,' said Oliver smartly. Dorsey smiled and barked out, 'You've got a deal.' "

Dorsey desperately needed Oliver to put some pep into the band's book. Critics had dubbed Dorsey's most recent records lackluster, and the band was being challenged by several upstarts, including Artie Shaw's orchestra. Oliver's secret was how he kept an arrangement hopping by engaging the band's different sections. Levinson writes:

"The late arranger and composer Buddy Baker pointed out that Oliver could also write quite effectively in four-four time: 'It was the way he voiced things. Since he was a trumpet player, he wrote the brass in a register that he knew sounded good. He created that rocking feeling by having the various sections play rhythm while playing the melody. For example, he would have the trombones playing a pattern that really laid down a beat. Then he would have the saxophones going against that.' "

This was certainly the case on November 14, 1944, when Dorsey's 31-piece orchestra complete with strings recorded Sy Oliver's revamped arrangement of Opus One in Hollywood. Oliver had written the song years earlier for Dorsey, but the band had been playing rather bland versions of it. The band even appeared playing the infectious tune in two MGM feature films—Broadway Rhythm (1943) and Thrill of a Romance (1944).

But when the two-year American Federation of Musicians' recording ban ended in 1944, Oliver re-arranged the song for the band's return to RCA's studios. Most notably, he created more snap to the rhythm and opened two wide holes in the chart for clarinetist Buddy De Franco to solo.

When I spoke with Buddy on Monday, he reflected on the historic session:

"I didn’t like my solos on there. When the single came out, it became a hit, so going forward Tommy [Dorsey] insisted I play my two solos just the way I had on the record, note for note, over and over again. Sometimes five or six times a day.

"My solos on the record didn’t sit well with me, but they wound up hung around my neck. When I heard myself, I thought I could have done better—and I did on the other takes. But Tommy was the boss, so he got to choose the one he liked best. I would have picked another.

"In those days, you couldn’t cut up the recording to make a master from the many different takes. Tape hadn’t been invented yet for studio use. When you recorded, it went straight onto a master disc. So whatever you captured on a particular take was there, both the good and the bad, no matter how subtle.

"I remember we had to rehearse Opus One quite a bit before that session. Sy [Oliver] used to write in very difficult keys. The two clarinet solos I had to play were tough. If I recall, one was in G-flat concert and the other in D-concert. Sy liked to move the keys around a lot in a song, to keep it moving and to keep listeners hooked.

"The band liked Sy's chart for Opus One, but it didn’t move us as much as some of the other things he wrote. I think part of the problem was the band didn’t have a lot of time to rehearse it. Tommy was very strict about being exact, and a recording had to be clean. But we rehearsed for that session on edge—meaning one tune after the next, without much time in between. We had to move through the material quickly. There was a lot of pressure on those sessions, to be perfect early on."

Eventually, Buddy grew weary of the playing the same note-for-note solo on Opus One. During one performance in 1946, Buddy played a bop solo on the song, and Dorsey fired him. But Dorsey had to give him eight weeks' notice instead of he customary two weeks due to the shortage of musicians.

Dorsey, like many bandleaders, disliked bop. In addition to the music's complexity and lack of dance-appeal, bop shifted power to the individual soloist and away from the bandleader.

As for Buddy, he had already fallen in love with bop and after leaving Dorsey found work with Boyd Raeburn. Raeburn's band not only was one of the most experimental and iconoclastic orchestras of the mid-1940s but also would turn out to be an early hothouse for bop arrangers and players.

JazzWax tracks: Once Opus One became a hit, the song was recorded by many different bands of the period. It's particularly interesting to compare Tommy Dorsey's 1943 version from Broadway Rhythm with the November 1944 hit. You'll find the one from Broadway Rhythm on Hollywood's Best: The '40s at iTunes or Amazon. The version from November 1944 can be found on Tommy Dorsey: Greatest Hits.

To my ear, it's very difficult to hear what Buddy's issue was with his solo. Barring the slightly hurried pace and moments where he probably would have wanted to linger a fraction of a second longer, his clarinet work sounds spirited and sharp to me. If alternate takes still exist, I'd love to hear them.

Also, if you type Opus Number One into the search engine at iTunes, you'll find the Ralph Burns' arrangement for New York, New York as well as a hyperactive Harry James' performance of the song that was broadcast on D-Day.

JazzWax clip: The only Dorsey version I could find on YouTube was an abbreviated version from the early 1950s. Instead, here's a slower, slinky version arranged for Gene Krupa and Anita O'Day by Quincy Jones in 1956...

Interview: Buddy De Franco, '43

2009-07-08T08:21:58-04:00

In January 1943, Gene Krupa's 17-year-old band boy did something stupid. After receiving his draft notice, he decided that as a going-away present, he'd buy Krupa [pictured] a few joints. When he arrived at the theater in San Francisco where the Krupa band was playing, he handed Krupa his gift. The drummer placed the joints in the pocket of his overcoat and had the band boy take the coat up to his hotel room.

A short time later, San Francisco narcotics agents showed up at the theater with a search warrant. Coming up empty, they headed next for Krupa's hotel room. Krupa managed to call the band boy in his room, telling him to flush the joints down the toilet. But the band boy pocketed them. When the detectives arrived, they searched the band boy's pockets and threatened him with arrest unless he agreed to testify that Krupa had sent him on a pot run. The band boy agreed, and Krupa was arrested [pictured] and released a short time later until his trial.

In court in May, Krupa entered a guilty plea on possession and drew a 90-day sentence. He pled not guilty to contributing to the delinquency of a minor but was convicted on that charge as well. After some haggling, the judge sentenced the famed drummer to 90 days in the county jail. Krupa would remain behind bars for 84 days.

During Krupa's incarceration, trumpeter Roy Eldridge [pictured] ran the band. But as great as "Little Jazz" was, he didn't have Krupa's star power. Before long, the band broke up for lack of bookings. When Krupa was released in the fall, Benny Goodman hired him, and soon Krupa was back playing and leading bands.

Like many bands in early 1943, Krupa's was a patchwork of seasoned musicians and fresh-faced players. World War II and the draft had swept away large numbers of musicians, and Krupa's band was no exception. By the time clarinetist Buddy De Franco joined Krupa's band in late 1942, he had already won a national Tommy Dorsey Swing contest at age 14 and had appeared on the Saturday Night Swing Club, sharing the spotlight with Gene Krupa.

Discovered by Johnny "Scat" Davis, Buddy [pictured] began touring with the vocalist and trumpeter in 1939. Pianist Dodo Marmarosa joined Scat Davis in 1941, and soon Buddy and Marmarosa left to join Krupa's band. But after Krupa was jailed in mid-1943, Buddy and Marmarosa's future looked bleak. Their big break with a national band was fizzling with the headliner locked up.

Over the summer, the Krupa-less band performed in Philadelphia. After one of the engagements, Buddy and Marmarosa headed for the subway to ride back to their hotel. The decision nearly cost them their lives.

I spoke to Buddy on Monday:

"Dodo [pictured] and I played in about five different bands over the years. Scat Davis was the first and Krupa's was the second. After Krupa went to jail, the band played in Philadelphia. Following the gig, Dodo and I went to take the subway, since we were a couple of stations from our hotel. We were wearing our band uniforms, which were baggy, with high-waisted pants and had wide lapels.

"Across the platform on the other side were five sailors. They spotted us and thought we were Zoot Suiters because of our band uniforms. Just weeks earlier, at the end of May, there had been riots in L.A. between servicemen and kids in Zoot Suits. If you wore a Zoot Suit, you were considered a wise guy and fair game. [Photo of a Zoot Suit model in 1942 by Marie Hansen for Life]

"The next thing we knew the sailors came across the tracks, hopping the third rail, catching us by surprise. When they came up onto the platform, one guy said, 'Take those Zoot Suits off.'

"We tried to tell them we were in Gene Krupa's band. But before we could explain, they started to let us have it. Dodo got the worst of it. I got a fractured nose and ribs. Dodo got hit so hard he hit his head on the cement and was knocked unconscious.

"Fortunately trumpeter Joe Triscari and Roy Eldridge were walking on the platform just after the sailors took off. They along with some lady helped get us to the hospital. Dodo was in a coma for a day. When he got out of the hospital, Krupa's band was over and we joined Charlie Barnet's [pictured] band.

"Dodo was always a little off but he seemed different after that beating. The head injury didn't affect his playing, but I think it created psychological problems for him. And eventually I think it caught up with his playing, too. He held up well for a while. That was an awful night."

Buddy, Marmarosa and Krupa would all join Tommy Dorsey's band in 1944 and record together as part of the Gene Krupa Trio, a breakout group within the Dorsey orchestra. By August 1944, Krupa had started his own band. Buddy remained with Dorsey. And Marmarosa was with Artie Shaw's band, where he'd stay for more than a year, playing in both the orchestra and as a member of the famed 1945 Gramercy Five.

JazzWax tracks: To hear what Krupa's band sounded like in February 1943, with Buddy and Marmarosa, shortly after Krupa's arrest, listen to Gene Krupa and His Orchestra: 1939-43 Broadcasts Live! (Jazz Hour). You'll find the album as a download at iTunes or at Amazon here. You want the tracks listed as being recorded in the Panther Room of Chicago's Hotel Herman.

Buddy, Krupa and Marmarosa recorded three tracks as the Gene Krupa Trio in 1944. Two of the three—Liza and Hodge-Podge—are available on Gene Krupa: V-Disc as downloads at iTunes or at Amazon here. Or you'll find them on Gene Krupa and His Orchestra: 1941-1945 (Classics) here.

Interview: Buddy De Franco, '49-'52

2009-07-07T08:15:35-04:00

For clarinetist Buddy De Franco, the years between 1949 and 1952 were experimental and disappointing. After spending the 1940s in Tommy Dorsey's band, Buddy decided in 1949 to try his hand at leading an orchestra. But his move came at a time when music tastes were shifting rapidly. Big bands no longer had the same power they once did to excite the imaginations of dancers or listeners. There were exceptions, of course, like Stan Kenton and Woody Herman. But these were really concert bands built on power and high-energy sidemen. The sound Buddy sought was more patient and intimate. "I wanted to give swing an update and pull it gently into the bop era," the legendary clarinetist told me yesterday.

Between 1949 and 1952, Buddy tried big bands with all-star players, as well as a Shearing-esque sextet and a bop quintet. But while these recordings never caught on with the listening public at the time, the sound Buddy was seeking is documented and remains fabulous today. Many of Buddy's leadership dates during this three-year period are on a fabulous CD from Hep Records called Buddy De Franco and His Orchestras: 1949-1952 Studio Performances.

The earliest tracks from April 1949 feature a jaw-dropping band: Bernie Glow, Paul Cohen, Jimmy Pupa and Jack Eagle (trumpets); Ollie Wilson, Earl Swope [pictured] and Bart Varsalona (trombones); Buddy De Franco (clarinet); Lee Konitz and Frank Socolow (alto saxes) Al Cohn and Jerry Sanfino (tenor saxes); Serge Chaloff (baritone sax); Gene Di Novi (piano); Tal Farlow (guitar); Oscar Pettiford (bass) and Irv Kluger (drums). The arrangers were George Russell, Manny Albam and Gerald Valentine. Of the three tracks recorded (there was a fourth that went unissued), Albam's reed-rich This Time the Dream's on Me is the standout, shifting effortlessly between bop, swing and cool while showcasing Buddy's warm clarinet. There's even a terrific solo by trumpeter Bernie Glow.

But these records didn't sell well, and by August, Buddy was back in the studio with a sextet modeled on his earlier collaborations with George Shearing. Joining Buddy was Teddy Charles (vibes) [pictured], Harvey Leonard (piano), Jimmy Raney (guitar), Bob Carter (bass) and Max Roach (drums). These are absolutely lovely sessions, with Buddy sounding almost like an accordion when playing with the group and displaying stinging bop chops on solos.

But this small-group attempt also fell flat financially. As Buddy told me yesterday, "Anyone who dug this sound could have picked up Shearing instead." Buddy disbanded the group and spent much of 1950 in a sextet and octet led by Count Basie.

In February 1951, Buddy formed another big band, this time with 15 pieces. Its book featured more restless up-tempo bop arrangements, like the one Buddy wrote for Out of Nowhere. This band was looser and freer in feel, and we hear Buddy focusing on the middle register of the clarinet.

His March 1951 band was a few members larger and more bop driven, especially on King Phillip Stomp. The band featured Bernie Glow, Don Joseph, Dickie Mills and Dale Pierce (trumpets); Frank "Ace" Lane, Al Robertson and Fred Zito (trombones); Buddy De Franco (clarinet); Angelo Cicalese and Gene Quill [pictured] (alto saxes); Buddy Arnold and Eddie Wasserman (tenor saxes); Danny Bank (baritone sax); Teddy Charles (vibes); Teddy Corabi (piano); Bill Anthony (bass) and Frank DeVito (drums).

In July 1951, Buddy [pictured] changed the mix and toughened up the sound with Ed Badgley, Bernie Glow, Mike Shane and Charlie Walp (trumpets); Al Robertson, Chauncey Welsch and Fred Zito (trombones); Buddy De Franco (clarinet); Leonard Sinisgalli and Gene Quill (alto saxes); Buddy Arnold and Ben Lary (tenor saxes); Vince Ferraro (baritone sax); Teddy Corabi (piano); Buddy Jones (bass) and Billy Rule (drums), with Tiny Kahn writing the charts.

In October 1951, Buddy continued with a 14-piece big band, adding the Dave Lambert Singers. But the formula still wasn't moving records. So in February and March 1952, Buddy tried a bop Gramercy Five of sorts, featuring Kenny Drew (piano) [pictured], Jimmy Raney (guitar), Teddy Kotick (bass) and Art Taylor (drums). But by then, the clarinet was flagging in popularity as a lead jazz instrument, replaced by the hipper alto and tenor saxophones and trumpet.

I spoke with Buddy yesterday about this commercially frustrating but musically rewarding three-year period:

"My 1949 band was a great idea but it didn’t attract too much attention. This was a time when the big bands were folding. It was a miscalculation commercially on my part.

"When Shearing and I parted months earlier, he signed with Capitol and I went with MGM. MGM didn’t want the big band stuff. They said, 'You had better get in the studio with a small group, a la Shearing.' We came up with the arrangements for those tracks on the session. Musicians were pretty good back then [laughs].

"In 1951 I started another band. We got a fair amount of play with Out of Nowhere. I was sure we had a hit. The record was on many of the jukeboxes where we toured. But when the financial tallies were done and brought to my attention, we had what was called a turntable hit. Everyone loved to hear it but very few people bought it.

"When you’re on the road with a band, it’s hard to keep tabs on what’s going on. We heard Out of Nowhere and saw it everyplace. The big band era was beginning to diminish, and popular music was gravitating toward rockabilly, rock 'n' roll, jump-boogie and that stuff.

"I never should have put those bands together. It had nothing to do with the music, which I think still holds up. It cost me a lot of money but went nowhere in terms of the big picture. I should have listened to [agent] Willard Alexander. He told me, 'Big bands are folding. Let me get you a small group, and we’ll make money.'

Instead, I tried what I wanted to do. I liked the idea of leading a big band. I was enamored of Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw and wanted to give what they did a shot. When I look back, it’s a period of my life that included a lot of work, heartbreak and struggle. Those sessions just weren’t moneymakers."

Profitable or not, Buddy's playing on these sessions is remarkable. His articulation is clean and pure, whether zigzagging up from the lower register or swirling around the instrument's upper notes. Buddy between 1949 and 1952 could swing and bop—which is why he was so revered by musicians and listeners alike. He's clearly his own man here, and the mood and feel of these tracks is all Buddy—upbeat, smart and sincere.

JazzWax tracks: Buddy De Franco and His Orchestras; 1949-1952 Studio Performances (Hep) is available as a download at iTunes and Amazon. Or it's available here on CD.

For the remainder of 1952 and half of 1953, Buddy was backed by strong trios that included Kenny Drew and Sonny Clark (piano), Curly Russell, Gene Wright and Milt Hinton (bass) and Art Blakey (drums). These MGM, Clef and Norgran sessions are not included on this CD.

JazzWax clip: Here's a recording of Buddy and his April 1949 band with Manny Albam's Gil Evans-influenced arrangement of This Time the Dream's on Me. Dig Albam's pretty reed writing, particularly how the chart moves from a Nightmare fanfare opening to a cooler complexity with bop flourishes. And catch Bernie Glow's rising first-chair trumpet solo...

Ray Charles: Country & Western

2009-07-06T08:10:40-04:00

I don't really think of Ray Charles' Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music, Vols. 1 and 2 as country albums. Like everything Charles took on, the music he recorded in 1962 was more about his take on an established genre than an attempt to mimic it. But in some ways, Modern Sounds isn't really an interpretive album either. When put in perspective with the racially charged times in 1961 and 1962, Modern Sounds becomes a civil rights statement—a calming message from one Southerner to all Southerners. The gambit could have backfired badly given what was going on in the South at the time. Modern Sounds didn't backfire, of course. Instead, the two volumes became landmark releases that shrewdly bridged the racial cultural divide, proving that music is about talent and passion, not the color of an artist's skin.

Charles was no stranger to country and western music. Growing up in Florida, Charles listened regularly to the Grand Ole Opry radio broadcasts and had many of the country classics firmly in his head. As a blind adolescent, Charles saw little difference between country and the blues. Both genres were built on personal stories of hard luck, drinking, obsessions, adultery, heartbreak, missed opportunities and young love. And like the blues, country required enormous emotion and conviction to be credible.

But back in the late 1950s and early 1960s, country music was code for white, and blues meant black. The fact that Charles, a major African-American gospel r&b artist, even wanted to record a country album raised commercial and racial red flags. Initially, ABC-Paramount wasn't keen on Charles' idea for a country project, fearing that his core r&b audience would view him as a sell-out and that country audiences might view his interpretations as disrespectful.

Charles insisted, having wanted to record a country album since his last years at Atlantic Records. ABC-Paramount relented, and the first album rolled forward, with producer Sid Feller [pictured with Ray Charles] hauling in hundreds of songs on tape from country music publishers. Said Feller, in Bill Dahl's liner notes to the newly issued CD that unites both volumes:

"I weeded it out to about 40 tapes. I edited them all onto one tape and sent it to [Charles]. And from that, he picked the 12 for the first album. And then a lot of them were left over. He did them on the second album."

Listening to Modern Sounds today, you hear Ray getting his twang on but not abandoning his soulful feel for the songs' stories. Said Charles in Brother Ray: Ray Charles' Own Story with David Ritz:

"I was only interested in two things: being true to myself and being true to the music. I wasn't trying to be the first black country singer. I only wanted to take country songs and sing them my way, not the country way. I wasn't aware of any bold act on my part or any big breakthrough."

And yet I Can't Stop Loving You, Born to Lose, Take These Chains, You Are My Sunshine, Busted and You Don't Know Me all became hits, which according to Charles gave him a larger white audience than a black one. Meanwhile, I Can't Stop Loving You quickly became a hit with black audiences.

But Charles' decision in 1962 to record a country album had other motivations. Keenly aware of events unfolding in the segregationist South, Charles yearned to make a subtle statement—one that he could issue musically and personally. By choosing country, Charles was demonstrating that there was no black and white, only feelings and song. By calling the album Modern Sounds, Charles was bypassing the Old South and reaching out to the hearts of Southern listeners. As Charles told Ritz:

"By the time I was 30 or 32 [1960 or 1962], I had acquired the habit of listening to the news every morning on the radio and watching it every night on TV. I kept up. But I didn't need no radio or television to tell me what was happening down South. I was right there, baby. That was still fertile territory for my music, and I got to feel those crazy vibrations firsthand, in the flesh."

Modern Sounds didn't halt the South's harsh treatment of blacks. But the album certainly must be considered another milestone in the Civil Rights Movement. It was a public expression by a leading musician about the audacity and absurdity of segregation. The album showed rural white audiences that a black artist could take their revered songs and treat them just as skillfully and emotionally as the white artists who made them famous.

To put Charles' Modern Sounds in perspective, one must reflect on the events swirling around Charles in mid-1961, when he began advocating for the country project. In May, "Freedom Riders" were bused in from the North to test the desegregation of Southern bus stations. Riders were beaten by mobs in Birmingham and Montgomery, Ala., as well as other parts of the South. The Freedom Rides continued during the summer, with at least 1,000 people participating throughout the region.

Two months after Modern Sounds was released in April 1962, the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals ordered James Meredith [pictured] admitted to the University of Mississippi. Just after Volume 2 was being recorded in early September, the state's governor blocked Meredith from registering, forcing President Kennedy to send 400 federal marshals to the state university and to federalize the Mississippi National Guard.

A mob of more than 2,000 people attacked the marshals, who were reinforced by the National Guard. On October 1st, U.S. army troops arrived from Memphis to restore order. That day, Meredith finally was registered by the university.

As these battles raged on, singles from the Modern Sounds albums climbed the Billboard Top Pop charts one after the next, with I Can't Stop Loving You reaching #1 in the summer 1962. The result was a straw vote by record buyers nationwide that foreshadowed what would come two years later—The Civil Rights Act of 1964.

Today, Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music, Vols. 1 and 2 remain Charles' most sophisticated and daring recordings for reasons that embrace and transcend art.

JazzWax tracks: Ray Charles: Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music Volumes 1 & 2 has just been released by Concord Records. You'll find the album as an iTunes and Amazon download, or as a CD here.

JazzWax clip: Bret Primack recently directed and produced a video podcast clip in support of Concord's release of Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music, Vols. 1 & 2...

Sunday Wax Bits

2009-07-05T06:36:30-04:00

Waxing & musings. Amid the Michael Jackson media circus last week, Fayette Pinkney died at age 61. An original member of The Three Degrees, Pinkney's voice helped define the female satin-soul sound identified with Philadelphia in the early 1970s. As Philadelphia's answer to Detroit's Supremes, The Three Degrees' first big hit was TSOP (The Sound of Philadelphia) in early 1974. It reached #1 on Billboard's Top Pop chart and became the theme of TV's Soul Train. TSOP was followed months later by the more important When Will I See You Again, which hit #2. [Pictured: The Three Degrees in the mid-1960s. From left, Fayette Pinkney, Sheila Ferguson and Valerie Holiday]

When Will I See You Again—along with the Hughes Corporation's Rock the Boat, Barry White's Can't Get Enough of Your Love and George McCrae's Rock Your Baby—were among the earliest in 1974 to employ a soft shuffling beat that would quickly become known as the hustle. The chunky, Latin-flavored tempo emphasized the two and three beats and was popularized in the clubs of Miami and studios of Philadelphia in 1974, emerging as "disco" the following year.

Here's a clip of The Three Degrees in 1974 singing When Will I See You Again. Fayette Pinkney is on the left...

Speaking of Michael Jackson... When I spoke with legendary arranger and composer Johnny Mandel on Friday, I asked him about his string chart for Michael Jackson's She's Out of My Life, from the late singer's Off the Wall album in 1979:

"Oh yeah, I remember that. Quincy [Jones] was great. He didn't do any of the writing then. He had the genius to bring in arrangers who could get the job done. I just took the track and listened for what I thought was missing. That's how I always arranged for strings and still do. I don't know how to write for strings so I just add what I feel is missing. I know this sounds strange, but I don't plan it out. I know what I want the strings to play in the spaces on a song, and then I just write it in."

Bill Evans. Among the many e-mails and comments that arrived in response to my post late last week on Bill Evans' early and late periods, I received the following from Laurie Verchomin, who lived with Evans in 1979 and 1980. Her book on Evans is due later this year:

"Bill often recorded himself in 1979 and 1980. He had this huge JVC cassette boombox that he carried with him everywhere. After a night at the club, he would come home and listen to his new trio, which he claimed was his most inspired to date.

"Bill also mentioned to me that listening to himself play was something he had never done before this trio. In fact, although he had a huge bookshelf full of his LPs, he never listened to any of them. What we did listen to a lot was Warren Bernhardt's Floating album [1978], a solo thing that inspired Bill to move into the idea of a solo career. In the car we listened often to Earth Wind and Fire's I Am album [1979]."

Cameron Crowe was taken to the woodshed by director Raymond De Felitta (Tis Autumn: The Search for Jackie Paris and the soon to be released City Island) at his blog, Movies Til Dawn. Raymond's beef with Crowe [pictured] is Crowe's unashamed distaste for jazz. Writes Raymond:

"Every one of his movies has some 'bad jazz' joke in it. I don't really care if you don't like jazz, but if you're a self-proclaimed music 'expert'—and have taken over the franchise on Billy Wilder as well—you ought to stop bragging about your loathing of America's greatest indigenous art form."

Album Discovery of the Week. If you dig romantic soul of the 1970s, you'll love Will Downing's latest CD—Classique. On the singer's 19th album, he revives the feel and passion of soul's golden decade with covers of three sophisticated soul standards—Baby, I'm For Real, written by Marvin Gaye in 1969 for The Originals; Barry White's 1973 hit, I'm Gonna Love You Just A Little More Baby; and David Ruffin's 1976 solo Statue of a Fool, which was itself a cover of a 1969 Jack Greene country hit.

On Downing's first record in 1988, Will Downing, the baritone sang an up-tempo dance rendition of John Coltrane's A Love Supreme. His All the Man You Need CD was nominated for a Grammy in 2000. Since 2006, Downing has been suffering from a muscle disorder called polymyositis that has left him unable to walk and confined to a wheel chair.

You'll find Will Downing's Classique as a download at iTunes and Amazon or as a CD here.

Oddball Album Cover of the Week. Recorded in New York in August 1961 and January 1962, the album included pianist Duke Pearson, Thomas Howard (bass) and Lex Humphries (drums) plus Bob Cranshaw (bass) and Walter Perkins (drums). It was released originally as Bags' Groove on Black Lion. Then the Japanese label Jazz Line re-issued the album in the 1970s as Angel Eyes with this fascinating cover.

Bill Evans: Early v. Late

2009-07-02T08:29:43-04:00

Like the Hatfields and McCoys, fans of pianist Bill Evans' early and late periods love to square off. Musket muzzles emerge through the pickets on both sides whenever a writer or critic voices disappointment with Evans' recordings after 1970. For reasons that escape me, many of those who enjoy Evans' late period seem to take this criticism of Evans personally or are somehow unable to discern between the different artistic phases in the pianist's career. As with any artist, Evans produced works of enormous grace and power as well as less interesting, inferior works. Art over a lifetime has different values, even when produced by a genius.

The latest volley of shots rang out when Jazz.com editor Ted Gioia posted at length about the reissue of Turn Out the Stars: The Final Vanguard Recordings, June 1980, referring to the Evans performances as "jittery and aloof." I added remarks two Sundays ago that were simpatico with Ted's position, suggesting that Evans' artistic temperament on these CDs was cranky and frustrated.

Apparently, them's fightin' words. Jazz musician, writer and friend Bill Kirchner scurried into his coveralls and came out of the Late Evans barn swinging his pitchfork in protest. Bill argued at Jazz.com that Evans' late period is misunderstood and that "it's time to lighten up a bit about Bill Evans." Bill Kirchner's arguments were well articulated, and his sentiments were echoed by several others in the comments zone at Jazz.com in support of Evans' late period.

So now I guess it's my turn.

Let me re-state my position: Bill Evans between 1961 and 1966 was at his poetic peak, offering up tender, perfectly constructed versions of original compositions, jazz standards and pop tunes. His smoldering intensity, fine sense of space, and hypnotic swing remain breathtaking on these recordings. If we're narrowing his recording high point, I'd have to say it's Explorations (1961) and How My Heart Sings (1962), which neatly sandwich the still-stunning Live at the Village Vanguard sessions recorded in June 1961. Other examples of Evans' genius between 1962 and 1966 include the Solo Sessions (1963), Trio '64, Trio '65, Paris 1965 and At Town Hall Vol. 1 (1966). It's hard to imagine anyone taking issue with this, but ya never know down here in Tug Fork.

Prior to 1961, the Evans fruit is a bit green. New Jazz Conceptions (1956), Everybody Digs Bill Evans (1958) and, to some extent, Portrait in Jazz (1959) are a tad stiff and tentative. Strong albums to be sure, but not nearly as ripe or as cohesive as Evans' heart-gripping recordings between 1961 and 1962. Evans' change had nothing to do with bassist Scott LaFaro or the position of the moon. Evans simply had fully matured as an artist by 1961 and was more comfortable with what he wanted to say and how he was going to say it. In effect, he had become Bill Evans.

The years after 1966 and up to 1973 are somewhat spotty. Evans' recordings range from the brilliance of Further Conversations with Myself (1967), Montreux II (1970) and Live in Paris (1972) to the rather mundane Intermodulation (1966), the hectic What's New (1969) and vastly overrated The Bill Evans Album (1971). (Yes, I know the album won two Grammy Awards in 1972; Godspell won one, too, that year.)

Between 1973 and 1980, Evans' playing grew increasingly dark, rushed and manically repetitive. Perhaps the first of these maddeningly joyless albums was The Tokyo Concert (1973), on which Evans chainsaws through every tune he takes on. Then there was the thoroughly unnecessary Symbiosis (1974) with Claus Ogerman; the unfocused Intuition (1974); the frantic But Beautiful with Stan Getz (1974); the morose I Will Say Goodbye (1977); the unlistenable Crosscurrents (1977); the puzzling Getting Sentimental (1978) with Philly Joe Jones crashing and bashing his cymbals throughout; the mawkish Affinity (1978) with Toots Thielemans; and the lumbering Turn Out the Stars (1980), where Evans finally sounds bored by his own playing. On this last box, he's artistically impatient, comfortable with repetition and moderately agitated, often captured pounding away with a cement-heavy left hand. This isn't to say that there aren't bright moments on this set. There are. But evaluated as a work, there's precious little of interest here.

Note to the Late-ites: I was there at the Vanguard, on Friday June 6, 1980, sitting right behind Evans during the first set. I don't recall feeling at the time that Evans sounded dull or harried. Having seen Evans several times in the 1970s, it was impossible to feel anything but shock and awe when you heard him perform. But upon listening to the recordings years later, a critical ear hears things that the eyes missed.

Of course, there were a few bright spots between 1973 and 1980: the relaxed Half Moon Bay (1973), the vivid Blue in Green (1974), the misty You Must Believe in Spring (1977), and the firm Paris Concert (1979), which Jan Stevens of the Bill Evans Web Pages convinced me to reconsider during our last Bill Evans early/late slug fest.

So let's be honest. There's really no comparison between Bill Evans of the early and mid-1960s and the late 1970s. As much as the Late-ites would love to argue that the late period offered up a different Bill Evans, a more mature Bill Evans and a more intense Bill Evans, what we have is a rather brooding Bill Evans in search of something he never found. Saying so really shouldn't be that big a deal, since the evidence is there for the listening. Evans between 1961 and 1966 is remarkable—and the fact that any jazz artist was remarkable for five years is astonishing.

As for the Turn Out the Stars box, I'm grateful it was brought to market originally and I'm glad it is available again. I think everything recorded by great jazz artists should always be available for anyone who wants to hear it. The blood-red box set is beautifully packaged and produced. But after a re-listen, much of the music remains tedious. Bill's message here is simply too thick and rushed. For jazz to ring my bell, there has to be power, pacing and excitement blended with passion and miracles. Evans knew this only too well in the early and mid-1960s, when he enjoyed listening to himself play. After 1973, playing piano became a job.

OK, I'm done. Just give me a chance to scamper back to the Early Evans barn before squeezing off rounds.

JazzWax tracks: I've often been asked for my favorite Bill Evans recordings. And I've often begged off, saying that to fully understand and know the artist, you have to explore all of his works and find the places that connect with your soul.

But given the context of this post, here are my 10 favorite Bill Evans albums that touch me most, in chronological order:

Explorations (1961)
Sunday at the Village Vanguard (1961)
Waltz For Debby (1961)
How My Heart Sings (1962)
The Solo Sessions, Vols. 1 and 2 (1963)
At Shelly's Manne-Hole (1963)
Trio '64
Trio '65
Live in Paris 1965
Bill Evans at Town Hall Vol. 1 (1966)

JazzWax note: Special thanks to the Bill Evans tribute site in the Netherlands for use of the photo at the top of this post.

Chembo Corniel: Wanting and Doing

2009-07-01T07:33:23-04:00

While hanging out with Harry Sepulveda last week, I had to interrupt him mid-sentence. Pointing to the speakers high up on the walls of his Latin-jazz record store, I said, "Hold it, who's this playing?" "Ahhh, Papa, you dig?" Harry said. "It's Chembo Corniel. A monster." I wasn't aware of Chembo [pictured], who plays conga and percussion. But as the CD played on, I had to agree with Harry. Chembo Corniel (pronounced CORN-yell) is one seriously soulful conga player and percussionist. On his new album, Things I Wanted to Do, Chembo, 55, is backed by his tightly arranged working band, Grupo Chaworo: Ivan Renta on tenor and soprano sax, Elio Villafranca on piano and Fender Rhodes, Carol DeRosa on acoustic bass, and Vince Cherico on drums.

First a word about Harry Sepulveda [pictured]. For those unfamiliar with Harry, he's one of the most knowledgeable Latin-jazz experts in New York. Harry is owner of Record Mart [pictured below], a veritable institution in the Times Square subway station that's jammed to the ceiling with magnificent hard-to-find Latin-jazz LPs and CDs. And Harry can fill you in on whatever you want to know about any album you pull from the racks.

For those who may have moved out of New York some years ago, Harry's store used to be down a flight of stairs in the Times Square station, just above where the BMT trains pull in [pictured]. After the entire station was modernized a few years ago, Record Mart was back—but this time on the main level facing the Times Square Shuttle platforms. Harry's store is a joy trap, since strolling in virtually ensures walking out a little poorer but much richer musically.

Chembo's new album, his third with the current quintet, is so warm and eclectic that you can't help but love it. In addition to Chembo's fleshy, firm conga playing, there are a number of superstar performers here. Saxophonist Ivan Renta has a big, strong sound that wraps around you and squeezes. And Elio Villafranca on acoustic and electric piano brings enormous Latin flavor to each song. For good measure, there are 16 "invited guests" on the album's different tracks, including the spectacular David Oquendo on guitar, Ludovic Beier on accordion, Jimmy Bosch on trombone, and Dave Samuels on vibes.

This is wonderful work from top to bottom, and I can't remember a newly released Latin-jazz album I've enjoyed this much. It's energetic but heavily romantic and furtively old-fashioned. Deliciously Latin, the album's groove is deeply jazz-rooted. What stands out is Chembo's taste as a leader. Each track is put together neatly. "I know, I know," Harry said excitedly, when I mentioned it. "That's because Chembo manages every single detail. He's a control freak!"

He's also a major player. Over the years, Chembo has performed with Bobby Sanabria and Ascension, Tito Puente, Hilton Ruiz, and Chucho Valdes. Intrigued, I gave Chembo a call:

"This album is filled with things I've always wanted to do, but until this CD, I didn't have the time. So I made the time. Each song has a different coloration because I used varied instrumentation on each track. One song has vibes, another accordion. No two are alike.

"I was born in the Chelsea section of Manhattan but grew up in Red Hook, Brooklyn. I learned to play as a young boy in the streets and parks. I played in my first professional band at age 14. The leader of the group had to pick me up and drop me off at home. When he first asked my mother if I could play with the band, she told him he had to have me home by 11 p.m. The guy was a little taken aback. He said, 'Lady, we start at midnight' [laughs].

"After some convincing, my mother gave in. I was a kid and had to wait outside between sets at social clubs. I took my first lesson with Tommy Lopez Sr., a percussionist with Eddie Palmieri. Tommy took me under his wing and showed me how to play for real. I also studied with 'Little' Ray Ramero—who had played with La Sensacional Guerria de Federico Pagani in the early 1940s, Miguelito Valdes, Tito Rodriguez [pictured] and everyone else you can think of. Soon I started studying at the Harbor Conservatory for the Performing Arts in East Harlem. Harbor offers low-income musicians lessons at inexpensive prices. When I took courses there, I paid $5 a lesson. After that I studied at the La Escuela Nacional de Arte in Havana, Cuba, with Chucho Valdés. I went there in 1997, 1999 and 2003.

"I play the tumbadoras, the largest-size conga. It's technically a conga, but I don't really like the name 'conga.' A conga to me is too commercial, like a 'conga line.' I prefer to say I play the tumbadoras. There's an authenticity to that. I like it better."

Things I Wanted to Do opens with a Chembo original, Buena Gente, an up-tempo composition rich with Latin texture and strong saxophone work by Renta.

Tenia Que Ser Asi is a spectacular ballad written by Bobby Collazo that's reminiscent of the jazz standard I Want to Talk About You. Renta on tenor sax is backed here by a cleverly arranged string section. The Sultan was written for Chembo by legendary Latin-jazz trumpeter and arranger Marty Sheller [pictured]. "Marty was so kind to do this for me," Chembo said. "He calls me The Sultan."

On Swing Street, the quintet is joined by Ludovic Beier on accordion, adding a European feel to Hector Martignon's Latin arrangement. Fantasma is a gorgeous ballad featuring Renta on soprano saxophone. Chembo's skins here are a knockout.

Actually, Chembo's first name is Wilson. How did he get the nickname Chembo? "When I was growing up in Red Hook, I played a lot of basketball," Chembo says. "Back then, Wilt Chamberlain was the hot player. I'm just 5' 4", so when I'd drive around the other players and get the ball in, everyone would shout, 'Chembo!'—which was short for Chamberlain."

And the meaning of "Chaworo," the name of Chembo's group? "Those are the bells that are attached to the Bata ceremonial drum that urge the saints to come down and dance with us," Chembo says.

I can't wait to pay Harry another visit.

JazzWax tracks: Chembo Corniel's Things I Wanted to Do can be sampled and purchased here on CD. Or check in with Harry at the Record Mart by sending him an e-mail: recordmartnyc@gmail.com.

Note: Chembo will be performing with his group, Grupo Chaworo, at New York's Creole Restaurant on July 10th and 11th to celebrate the launch of his CD. Creole Restaurant is at 2167 Third Ave., on the corner of 118th Street.

JazzWax Mindblowers (Vol. 6)

2009-06-30T08:06:53-04:00

Long-time readers of this site know that at the end of each quarter I gather the best quotes from interviews I conducted over the last three months and place them in a single post. I call this feature "JazzWax Mindblowers," because the quotes I choose contain revelations or shed light on a period of music or recording session. I do this in case you missed the interviews and to ensure that all of the best quotes are in one place for your future reference. (To see the other posts in this series, simply go to the search engine in the upper right-hand corner of this page and type in "Mindblowers.")

Here are my favorite quotes from interviews that were posted over the past three months:

Pianist Billy Taylor on asking questions: "I always deeply regretted not having talked to Fats Waller [when I had the chance as a kid]. From that day forward I promised myself that if I ever got that close to someone I admired, I was going to bend his ear like he’s never had it bent before. Later, if I was in shouting distance of someone I wanted to know, I'd remember the Fats incident and would become a pest, asking dozens of questions. The art of asking questions and listening to the answers is highly underrated."

Billy Taylor on Coleman Hawkins: "Hawk was the first to put bop into shape. When Hawk played it, bebop was no longer just something the crazy younger guys were doing. He demonstrated it, and people began to realize there's more to the new music than they thought."

Billy Taylor on Don Byas: "Don was head and shoulders above everyone else. Don was playing bebop and pre-bop. What I mean by pre-bop is he was playing things that led up to bebop. They were long phrases and new ways of using harmonies so that they sounded like the dominant melody. This stuff hadn't been done yet until Don starting playing them."

Billy Taylor on avoiding alcohol and drugs: "The night I bought my first drink, Jo Jones spotted me at the bar. I didn't see him, though. He told me this later. Anyway, the next night I had a drink or two and then began my set. While I was playing, I looked up and saw Jo sitting there glaring at me. He had Art Tatum on one side and Teddy Wilson on the other. I knew right away what his point was. I never took another drink after that night."

Billy Taylor on Art Tatum: "Art Tatum had an odd way of doing things. He’d improvise before completing the melody. For instance, he’d take a song like Body and Soul and play the first eight bars. Then he'd play the second eight using a harmony line rather than the rest of the song's melody. It's difficult to do, and he did it for fun. Many stride pianists did that. They did it to put each other on."

Billy Taylor on Miles Davis: "There were a lot of guys who could keep up with Bird better than Miles Davis, like Fat Girl [Fats Navarro] and Clifford Brown. Fats drove Miles up the wall. It was years before Miles got to a place where he could stop trying to be Dizzy and focus on his own thing—playing in the middle register. ... Miles came on like he had a sour personality, but it was really a cover up for an inferiority complex, I guess."

Billy Taylor on the origin of I Wish I Knew How It Felt to Be Free, his best-known composition: "I said [to my daughter], 'Kim, [spirituals are] part of your heritage. You can’t be singing a spiritual like that. You have to have more feeling.' I sat down at the piano and said, 'The spiritual is so much a part of our tradition that I can sit here and make one up on the spot. This is the feeling you need to have.' I made up a little ditty. Then I asked if she understood. She said, 'Yes, Daddy,' and went back to playing with her dolls. After she went back to her room, I got to thinking, 'Hey, this isn’t a bad little tune.' So I wrote it down."

Clarinetist Buddy DeFranco on playing with Art Tatum: "I was so ill [with a cold] on that record date with Art Tatum that I had to sit down in a chair for practically the entire session."

Saxophonist Dave Pell on photographing the cover of the first Gerry Mulligan Quartet LP: "I told the guys to lay on the floor with their heads together. ... I told them I was going to shoot down on them from a ladder. They were saying stuff like, "Man, this is a hip album. Why are we doing this corny thing for?"... Then I climbed up on the ladder and shot down. Just before I squeezed the shutter, Mulligan was yelling, “Come on, Dave! For Christ's sake. We can’t spend all day here.” ... You see a great cover shot. I see four cranky guys who wanted to get out of there [laughs]."

Producer Creed Taylor on Warner Bros.' offer to handle distribution for CTI: "I told them that CTI was going to handle its own distribution. A Warner Bros. executive said that if CTI didn’t do a deal, the label was going to pick off CTI’s artists one by one and sign them to Warner Bros."

Creed Taylor on the growing importance of LP covers: "By the late 1960s and early 1970s, you held covers, you left them out, face up or standing against speakers. They were meant to be seen. They were a personal statement. My goal with [photographer] Pete Turner was to create a mood for the covers. I wanted the images to symbolize the feeling and energy of the music inside."

Creed Taylor on the CTI sound: "There was a kind of triplex consideration. CTI was going to deliver music that was confident and smart, like Stan Getz. It was going to be beautifully orchestrated, like Gil Evans' arrangements for Claude Thornhill's band. And finally I had a concept for a sound. Whether that sound was going to come through the arranger or the soloist would depend on the album. Eventually, Don Sebesky captured that sound, and he became CTI's dominant arranger."

Creed Taylor on his technique in the studio booth: "I stood with my left ear next to this huge speaker. And today I wish I hadn’t been doing that. Rudy [van Gelder] had it cranked up, and I loved the sound because the energy coming into booth from the studio was magic. It was the best way to hear if the music being played was happening—or if there was a problem. There was a lot to listen to and evaluate during those sessions. ... [Doing that I'm sure] knocked off some of my hearing. I’m probably 10,000 cycles in the left ear today."

Creed Taylor on how Hubert Laws came to record Let It Be on Crying Song before the Beatles tune was released: "CTI and George Martin shared the same U.S. attorney at the time. I had given the attorney a copy of Wes Montgomery’s A Day in the Life in 1967 and he took it back to Paul McCartney. The Beatles flipped out about it. They liked it so much that Paul in 1969 sent me a run through tape of what he had done on Let It Be."

Photographer Hank O'Neal on Berenice Abbott: "She taught me patience. As a photographer, you have to wait for what you want. She told me that for Changing New York, 1935-1938, she had planned the photographs for weeks just to be in the right position at the right time of day with the right light. Photography, she taught me, is about long periods of waiting and moments of action."

Ghosts of Harlem author Hank O'Neal on Harlem of the 1920s and 1930s: "Harlem was a place where [if you were a musician] you stayed, where you made a home. There was no need for these guys to go downtown. Everything was right there uptown. It was a place unto itself."

Jackie Cain on meeting Roy Kral, and the first song she sang with him on piano: "It was Happiness Is a Thing Called Joe. It was a song that Frances Wayne had sung with Woody Herman. I sang it as Roy played, and he was taken by the fact that I not only knew the song but that I sang it in the same key in which Frances recorded it. Actually, I didn’t know what key she or I sang it in [laughs]. I still don’t."

Jackie Cain on starting to sing vocalese with Roy Kral: "We had heard Davey Lambert and Buddy Stewart's records with Gene Krupa’s band, and Charlie Ventura had come out of Krupa’s band. One night, after listening to What's This? I said, 'Hey Roy, why don’t we try to do something like that, only our own thing? You could write something.' So we gave it a shot."

Jackie Cain on the origin of Euphoria: "There were no words, just our voices singing like instruments, which is what vocalese is, really. Charlie [Ventura] had asked Roy [Kral] for an arrangement of 'S Wonderful, as an instrumental for the band. As Roy wrote it, he came up with this bop riff. We took the riff and turned it into Euphoria, which is based on 'S Wonderful's chord changes. We just lengthened the riff and put something in there that was distinctly ours."

Jackie Cain on Charlie Ventura's ability to hold a grudge: [After Roy and I were profiled in a newspaper instead of Charlie], he wouldn't talk to us. When we were singing at the Blue Note in Chicago, if I got too much audience attention on my solo number, Charlie wouldn’t let me do another during the next set. This went on for the entire time Roy and I were with the band. I never understood his reaction. We were part of his band. We couldn't control what the newspaper was going to report. And whatever happened good for us was good for him, too. I think he was just terribly sensitive. And jealous, I guess."

Bob Brookmeyer on composing: "Composing is the hardest thing I don’t know how to do [laughs]. Frankly, I usually just want to get the damn thing done because there’s something else to write after that. It’s satisfying to finish a piece of music."

Bob Brookmeyer: "[For Ray Charles' Genius album], Ralph Burns, the credited arranger, wrote one chart for the album and got so drunk for some reason he couldn’t finish the job. ... I arranged Just for a Thrill and You Won’t Let Me Go.... For Genius Hits the Road, Al Cohn arranged Georgia on My Mind and a bunch of others. I arranged Moonlight in Vermont, Basin Street Blues, Mississippi Mud, Chattanooga Choo Choo, Deep in the Heart of Texas, Alabamy Bound and New York’s My Home."

Bob Brookmeyer: "[The Ivory Hunters with Bill Evans] was supposed to be a quartet date, or at least I thought it was. I showed up at the studio with my horn. But when I walked into the studio, I saw two pianos pushing together, facing each other. [The producer] had heard Bill and me do a four-hand thing at an earlier United Artists record date and wanted to try it out for the record. ... So for Bill and me, it was just two friends who got dumped into a crazy idea. We looked at each other and said, 'Hey, why not?' ”

Bob Brookmeyer: "[When I rejoined Stan Getz in Los Angeles], Stan and I began playing after work with Gerry and Chet. Just the four of us. Both Gerry and Stanley said it was the best band they had ever played in. But nothing came of it. Stan and Gerry couldn’t decide who would be the leader."

Valve-trombonist Bob Brookmeyer on the slide trombone: "Who likes the slide trombone?"

Bob Brookmeyer on choosing the valve-trombone: The stories about me starting to play valve-trombone cold with Claude Thornhill’s band are wrong. ... The truth is I started playing the instrument when I was 13. I didn’t want to play slide trombone, so I found some old baritone horn in the band room and learned to play the valves. Then friends gave me an old Czechoslovakian valve-trombone. I learned to play the instrument by watching trumpet players."

Nat Hentoff on Jo Jones: "[Drummer] Jo Jones was a missionary about the music, like Art Blakey later. Jo figured it was his job to keep jazz writing and the music itself free of imperfections. He didn’t like people who were on junk, for example. He knew I was beginning to write seriously about jazz. So he sat me down one night at the Savoy in Boston and gave me a lecture. He said, 'You gotta be careful about what you do. Know what you're doing and get to really know the musicians, because that’s what the music is all about.' His comments were invaluable."

Nat Hentoff on interviewing Duke Ellington by phone: "When Duke and I had met face-to-face [to talk] in the past, he had always been 'on.' He was an entertainer and a huge personality, so that was to be expected. But over the phone, there was a transformation. Without having to be 'on,' Duke was very serious and open."

Nat Hentoff on being fired from his job at Down Beat.
"Everything was going well. By 1957 we had offices in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles. But we did not have any blacks on staff in any capacity. And much of what we were writing about originated with these folks. One day we needed a receptionist or someone who did more than that. A woman came in. She was very bright, and I hired her. She was black. The boss in Chicago, the owner, was furious."

Nat Hentoff on the musician whose words continue to echo most in his head: "I guess Charles Mingus. I learned so much from him—not only about the music. What I remember most from Mingus is him saying, 'The problem in our society isn’t race. There is a race problem, for sure, but the real problem is that most of us get so caught up in the rhythms of work—work we don't like to do—we lose who we are."

Nat Hentoff on how he wants his jazz writing to be remembered: "[Laughs] Probably something like this: 'You could hear the voices of the musicians in just about everything he wrote.' "