JazzWax

Duke Ellington and Louis Bellson

I spent Saturday morning at the art studio of my dear friend Nelson Diaz. Nelson is a great painter who always is hard at work on abstract canvases inspired by mathematical formulas, religious imagery and French philosophy. In a word, Nelson is intense. If you want a sense of his work, think Leonardo meets Francis Bacon and you get the picture. Breathtaking, and seeing his new work in progress today was no exception. Spectacular. To see Nelson's work, go here.

Like me and you, Nelson loves jazz passionately, and whenever I visit, we listen to rare LPs for a few hours while catching up and looking at his work. It's a magical combination, jazz and fine art, especially when you have the privilege of enjoying it in the artist's work space.

We wound up swapping LPs. I surprised him with a pristine copy of Duke Ellington's And His Mother Called Him Bill. Nelson reached into his library and handed me Louis Bellson's Thunderbird. Both are no longer in print on CD, though you can get them used from sellers on the web.

I'm not a huge Ellington fan. I find that a good portion of his music after 1950 was heavily steered by eager-beaver record producers (mostly on Columbia) reaching for concepts that today sound somewhat forced. As a result, too many of those recordings seem pseudo melancholy, painfully thematic or just theatrically bombastic.

With one great exception: And His Mother Called Him Bill. This is a masterpiece that belongs in every jazz collection. It's  in my Top 10 of all time. Each track folds into the next, and the showcasing of Ellington's sidemen is unrivaled.

While much has been written this year about the Beatles' concept album, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (1967), too little has been written in tribute to perhaps the greatest jazz concept album of all time--And His Mother Called Him Bill--which ironically was recorded the exact same year, 40 years ago this summer.

If you know nothing about jazz or have never heard a jazz album before, this one is the perfect starter. In some ways it's unfair to call this an Ellington album, since composer Billy Strayhorn wrote all of these precious tunes, dying three months before the album was recorded. Hence the album's title.

Prepare to listen to this one over and over to fully appreciate its sensuality and impact. Rediscovering it today on Nelson's terrific sound system was a joy--and made me realize that despite having listened to this recording 50 times or more, I still have not fully absorbed its message and design. I will be listening to it again throughout the coming week. I hope you will too. Fortunately it's available at iTunes.

The second LP we listened to was Louis Bellson's Thunderbird. If you can find it, pay whatever the seller wants. The album is that good. Recorded in 1966 on the Impulse label, it features Carl Fontana on trombone, Harry "Sweets" Edison on trumpet, Jim Cook on tenor sax, Jim Mulidore on baritone, Arnold Teich on piano, Ed Scarazzo on bass and Bellson on drums. This is a West Coast studio band, and each track was handed by a different arranger, including Thad Jones and Neal Hefti. The voicings are incredible.

Bellson is a spectacular big band drummer who has played with everyone (the list is too long to go into here). His sound on the skins is taut and similar to Gene Krupa's, but that's somewhat unfair. More to the point, Bellson is simply superb (as was Krupa), and this album shows off his clear, swinging technique.

Bellson is still out there doing his thing. He remains perhaps one of the last remaining greats from the big band era and should be celebrated more so than he is. Fame and longevity are unfair. So is the media.

Wax clips: For a look at Louis Bellson--and two other great big band drummers, Lionel Hampton and the fabulous Don Lamond--take a look at this clip.

To appreciate how great Strayhorn was, catch him here playing his own composition, Take the A Train, with the Ellington band. I'm not sure why the band seems so exhausted on camera, but hey, it's a blue world.

Count Basie

I spent last evening listening again to a remastered CD of Count Basie's April in Paris. The Basie band of 1955-56 still sounds like musical equivalent of a big ol' Cadillac from the same period. The band is huge, chrome-y, smooth and solid.

I've always known that Frank Foster and Frank Wess (tenor saxes) were way out front on the album, pulling the entire band's sound. You can hear them clearly above everyone else, and their paired styles produced sensational results.

But listening to the album again carefully through a DAC 1 digital converter--which extracts much more information from a CD and displays it through your speakers--I realized for the first time how critical Charlie Fowlkes on baritone sax was to the band's overall sound.

What an anchor! Fowlkes' rock solid baritone on the album's title track is thick and spry--punching out the bottom notes cleanly and crisply

For those who know the album well, here is Basie talking about the title track's recording in Albert Murray's Good Morning Blues: The Autobiography of Count Basie:

"During the two day session on which we made Everday I Have the Blues, we also did that band's first best-selling instrumental. In fact, I don't think we have ever had an instrumental that became so popular so quick and has remained such a big crowd pleaser as Wild Bill Davis's arrangement of April in Paris.

Actually Wild Bill, who had his group in Birdland [one of the most popular New York jazz clubs of the 50s] while we were in there that summer [1955] was supposed to be in on that date. But  something happened to the little truck he used to haul his organ around in, and lucky for us he didn't make it. He was supposed to play it with us as we had been doing it together at Birdland.

Now I'm not saying that I actually fixed his old wagon so that he couldn't get there. But it sure turned out to be a big break for us, so, as I told him, I'm glad it happened. Because we went right on and made April in Paris anyway, with the band using exactly the same arrangement he played on the organ with us as a special feature down in Birdland.

It was a big break for us because the band got a big hit. But if he had been there, it would have been mainly him. Because Wild Bill played it with a sound on that organ that was just unbelievable. The sound he got on that one instrument was as wide as a whole room, any room."

Instead, Charlie Fowlkes' baritone was the band's bottom end. Fowlkes really is underappreciated as a player and key element to the Basie sound, probably because he was overshadowed by Basie's great tenor men over the years.

Wax track: While April in Paris (both the track and the entire album) are classic, an even stronger example of Basie's magic--featuring the exact same band--was recorded live two years later in July 1957 at the Newport Jazz Festival. The track, One O'Clock Jump, features breathtaking solos by Lester Young, Illinois Jacquet and Roy Eldridge.

For my money, One O'Clock Jump better showcases Basie's swing style and energy level during this period, and the fact that it's live rather than in a studio adds an extra level of excitement.

This summer is the 50th anniversary of that recording, and the track can be found on the newly remastered and reissued Count Basie at Newport. The entire CD is hugely worthwhile. Or download the cut for a buck at iTunes. And while you're at it, download two other tracks from the same CD--Swingin' at Newport and Polka Dots and Moonbeams. You won't be sorry. This is the real deal--and what you would have heard if you had wandered into Birdland in the late 1950s. Amazing.

Wax clip: One O'Clock Jump had been Basie's theme song for years--until April in Paris became a bigger hit and replaced it. For a One O'Clock Jump  comparison, take a look this clip by a different Basie band, with solos by Buddy DeFranco, Clark Terry and the great Wardell Gray (probably 1951). If your foot aint tappin', you aint breathin'. That's why they call it swing!

Songs of the Jet

Stress is unavoidable when you travel by plane these days. Even if you have no problem being airborne, traffic to the airport and long delays at the terminal and on the runway can send  anxiety levels soaring.

Anticipating the challenge of traveling back and forth to Boston yesterday, I tried an experiment. My goal was to find a music mix that would transport my mind back to the mid-1960s, when airports and the skies were much less crowded and flying, like color TV, was a futuristic experience.

I figured that if my mind thought it was being pampered on a 1960s Boeing 707, it would ignore the pushing and shoving and lines and late departures.

I'm happy tor report it worked. When the high-strung woman with acne on her neck angrily pushed ahead of me at the ticket counter in Boston to get on an earlier flight, I wasn't even bothered. I even helped her check her heavy bag with the counter person. When a guy loudly chewed out his assistant on his cell phone, I just phased him out. Little by little, my mind gave up caring about transit nuisances and nudniks—as if closing the lid on a human garbage pail.

In fact, thanks to the tranquilizing mix on my iPod, I found that nothing much mattered at all en route to my client's office—or when heading home at day's end. It was 1966 in there, baby. In my transported mind, the plane's seats were bright orange, everyone was  served champaign in crystal glasses, and every passenger was civil and had a broad smile.

So, the next time you plan on traveling by plane, I highly recommend burning or downloading the following CDs—in the order listed. If you're like me, the mix will make your trip more than relaxing:

The Composer of Desafinado, Plays

Antonio Carlos Jobim: Wave

Sylvia Telles: It Might As Well Be Spring

Francis Albert Sinatra & Antonio Carlos Jobim

Getz Au Go Go   

Wax note: By the way, on that second CD (Wave), that's Urbie Green on trombone. Man, Urbie had some tone, didn't he? More on Urbie down the road. I only wish Wave were remastered—or at least available as a Japanese import. Claus Ogerman's arrangements on this album deserve better.

Wax clip: Since we're deep into Brazil today, take a look at this clip of the stunning Elis Regina singing Aguas de Marco (The Waters of March). Listen how powdery soft she gets at the end. Just beautiful.

Have a good flight!

Charlie Parker's Ego

I'm off to Boston on business today. While I'm gone, take a look at this clip of Coleman Hawkins ("Hawk") and Charlie Parker ("Bird").

This is perhaps one of the greatest YouTube jazz clips ever posted—for several important reasons. First, there isn't much film in existence of Bird playing. Maybe three different clips—total. Second, this clip is the only one that showcases the rivalry that existed between these two jazz giants.

By the time this clip was filmed in October 1950, Hawk and Bird were established legends. Hawk was a superstar, proving himself over and over again in groups and bands as an electrifying tenor saxophonist with an endless stream of ideas. The only other players in his league were Chu Berry, Lester Young and Ben Webster.

Bird was the modernist, the pioneer who by 1950 was already known as an extraordinary composer and soloist. He also was the initiator and developer of bebop. He had no peers.

As you'll see in this clip, Hawk's solo is rich, sandy and bluesy while Bird's also is bluesy but much more crisp and assertive.

But I warn you, you'll have to watch this clip about six times to fully appreciate what's going on. Hawk is so intimidated that he won't even look at Bird, and Bird looks throws Hawk a sideways glance that seems to say, "Go ahead, old man, play your dusty blues. Then I'll really show you what's going down."

At one point, Bird rolls his eyes off camera, as though he's saying, "Dig Hawk's ancient riffs." As Hawk winds down, Bird jumps in at the tail end, cutting into Hawk's solo by two notes. Bird then fires off a sharp blues that's truly amazing. Hawk seems truly stunned by Bird's technique, and at one point even looks sheepishly into the camera for a split second. You may have to watch the clip a couple of times to catch this.

When all is said and done, though, Hawk's solo is so soulful that even Bird has to pay attention and nod in appreciation. Bird's cocky side is something to see. This clip gives you a rare glimpse at two men who dominated their jazz styles at a time when one style was coming into vogue and the other was becoming passe.

By the way, that's Hank Jones on piano, with Buddy Rich (drums) and Ray Brown (bass) off camera.

If you watch this a half dozen times, and listen to it carefully, you will see and hear the very difference between two great styles of jazz—swing (Hawk) and bebop (Bird)—at a moment in time that one was overthrowing the other. And these guys were the straws that stirred the drinks.

Wax tracks: I'm leaving you with two must-have CDs. The first is a collection featuring Lennie Tristano and Bird playing together (The Complete Recordings of Charlie Parker and Lennie Tristano). Lennie may have been a modal geek, but man could he bop, and Bird loved him.

One of my favorite Coleman Hawkins albums isn't from his swing period, although I love those dearly. It's Desafinado, which came out in September 1962— six months before Stan Getz's seminal Getz/Gilberto LP.

If you go to iTunes, download the entire Desafinado CD. You won't be disappointed. As you'll hear, Hawk got the whole samba thing way before everyone else.

Sal Mosca, Part 2

I received a number of e-mails yesterday in response to my post on the late Sal Mosca. The most touching was from Stephen Mosca, Sals' son. Stephen writes:

"You know, the Tristano school had as part of its philosophy this idea that commercial success, however it came, was corrosive and was to be avoided.  This, in turn, led Sal to actively avoid any form of promotion for many years.  Greatness was its own reward, but not someone else's idea of greatness, just that which you alone attempted to attain from yourself and for yourself, and, perhaps, for the music itself.

In later years, after his initial illness and having come to some sort of peace with himself, he came to want, or at least allow, himself to be shared with others somewhat more openly.  I began to promote him gently, though he was still wary of it, about 10 years ago.  And I am glad that I did. 

Thank you for speaking about these greats and doing so with such care."

More Benny Carter

For more notes and video clips on Benny Carter, take a look at Doug Ramsey's Rifftides jazz blog. Doug is the author of several books on jazz, including Take Five: The Public and Private Lives of Paul Desmond, a comprehensive biography of the great alto saxophonist. If you love Desmond's sound, the book's a must.

Sal Mosca

By the late 1940s, something strange was happening to the jazz piano. Long considered merely a saloon refugee or big-band timekeeper, the piano began to emerge during this period as an instrument that could inspire fellow musicians playing together in a group and break new jazz ground. And Sal Mosca—who died on July 28 at age 80—was there.

The piano began to stand out as a solo jazz instrument in the late 1930s, when recordings by Fats Waller, Art Tatum and Earl "Fatha" Hines  and others captivated wide national audiences. But these pianists were first and foremost old school stride masters—meaning their technique was so robust, entertaining and seemingly effortless that record-buyers listened in near disbelief. These artists weren't musicians; they were magicians.

But with the rise of bebop in the mid-1940s, a new wave of pianists emerged—players who could push the tempo forward when playing behind musicians but then create highly individualistic and stylistic statements when soloing.Among this new breed were Erroll Garner, Bud Powell, Al Haig, John Lewis, Duke Jordan and Thelonious Monk. All brought  a bluesy, anxious introspection to the instrument and their playing.

As the 1940s wore on and the initial secrets of bop's difficult technique became demystified and popularized by a growing number of musicians, a new style of piano playing emerged. This style was less earthy and instinctive, and much more practiced and rehearsed—yielding an almost academic, nerdy approach to the instrument. Hours and hours of practice and music theory took precedance over what you could pull off on the fly.

At the forefront of this new school of piano playing was Lennie Tristano. Unlike the players before him who relied on blues and texture, Tristano was about technical intensity and the blending of modern classical influences. Instead of changing the melodies of standards to create new songs, as many  bop pioneers did, Tristano used modal scales—often on top of standards—a relatively new concept that was born in music conservatories. To the lay ear, the music sounded almost like swing played backward.

Like Tatum, Tristano was blind, which made his piano and composition accomplishments that much more amazing.

Which brings us to Sal Mosca. Mosca was one of Tristano's most ardent disciples in the late 1940s and eventually wound up playing piano on record dates Tristano couldn't make or didn't want.

Perhaps Mosca's most important dates—and probably his most significant contribution to jazz—was playing on seminal recording made between 1949 and 1951. These recording sessions helped revolutionize the role and direction of the piano and paved the way for Dave Brubeck, Bill Evans, Herbie Nichols and nearly every other pianist-as-leader who pushed beyond the bop formula.

The recordings I'm referring to are found today on Subconscious-Lee and Conception. The first showcased the stunning techniques of Lee Konitz (alto) and Warne Marsh (tenor). The second featured Konitz, Miles Davis and Stan Getz. Mosca appears on piano on several tracks, which were as radical in 1949, 1950 and 1951 as the action paintings of Jackson Pollack (One: Number 31, for example) and Le Corbusier's design for the UN Building in New York. All came about at the same time. All were simple, direct and highly provocative.

I've always wondered why Tristano wasn't the pianist on those Mosca dates. He did play on some of the Subconscious-Lee  tracks but not on the bulk. Perhaps Tristano was ill on those days. Or had another recording date. Or as a celebrated poll winner, he was too big a star at that point to be backing anyone. Or he wanted to give his most faithful student a shot; amazingly, these were Mosca's first recording dates.

Whatever the reason, Mosca was there. His soft, gentle modal comping is like a whisper from another era, a point in time when the country was shaking off its pre-war sensibilities and embracing a new international style. Suddenly, abstraction and transparency had merit.

Wax tracks: Both Subconscious-Lee and Conception are still available as CDs and are available as downloads at iTunes. Both are essential albums—but they are sophisticated and require attentive listening.

I've found that a great way to understand this music in its historic context is to listen to it while looking through books of modern art and urban architecture from 1949-1951. I don't know why, but the music takes on a different dimension that way, and it's fun to take in a wide range of creative artistic forces that evolved at the exact same time.

If you merely want to download tracks from these albums where Mosca can be heard, I recommend Fishin' Around from Subconsious-Lee and Ezz-Thetic from Conception.

Mosca may not be a household name, but his comping on both tracks remains fascinating. And these tracks and albums are a great way to be introduced—or re-introduced—to Lee Konitz, who was and still is one of the greats.

Hear more Mosca at the Sal Mosca web site. Click on "Sal Ripped" for mp3's of Mosca's playing.

I'll be spending the entire day listening to Subconscious-Lee and Conception. It's refreshing to hear both CDs.

Benny Carter

Benny Carter was born in New York on August 8, 1907—which makes this week his centennial. It's also the perfect time to reflect on how great this guy was.

Given Carter's creative longevity, I always assumed he was going to live forever. Among the giants of jazz, Carter was probably the most gifted (and that's saying something). He made the complex art seem impossibly easy, which impressed listeners and often frustrated peers. Benny died at age 95 in 2003. Fortunately, he left behind an ocean liner's worth of music.

Most significant jazz artists produced about 5 to 10 years of creative genius—20 years at best. Carter had nearly 80 years of sheer brilliance, starting in the late 1920s and lasting through to the final years of his life. All jazz musicians were in awe of Carter. You had no choice. Which is why jazz insiders called him "King Carter."

Today, Carter is not as well known as Charlie Parker, John Coltrane or Miles Davis—probably because was less interested in reinventing the art form and more focused on perfecting all that he already knew.

Carter is a jazz giant because he could do it all. He was a virtuoso. Throughout his career, Carter was a top band arranger, band leader, composer, songwriter, lyricist, trumpet player, clarinetist, piano player, trombonist and alto saxophonist. Mind you, he didn't just dabble. He was an acknowledged master of everything he touched.

So where does Carter stand in the jazz chain of command? Let's put it this way: If you pull Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington off the list, Carter would probably be there at the top. And no one who knows this music well would give you a hard time if you said so. Not even those who play it.

As the sound of jazz changed dramatically in the late 1930s, the-mid 1940s, the early 1950s and again in the early 1960s, Carter's sound was consistent and unmistakable. Carter had this ability to play hot and sweet simultaneously—a sound influenced primarily by Frankie Trumbauer, Bix Biderbeck's recording sidekick and one of the leading saxophonists of the 1920s and 30s.

To me, Carter's alto sax always sounds like someone dressed up in tails, slightly tipsy, sneaking gracefully back into an apartment after hours on the town. His solos peck at notes up and down a song's melody before sliding seamless along a string of impossible improvisation. His attack was almost trumpet-like but never too staccato or saccharin.

Carter is essential because the entire history of jazz—its movements, its styles, its tones, its cockiness—are captured in his instrument. You can hear the entire span in his alto solos.

Carter is not a household name, like Ellington, Count Basie or Benny Goodman. In a sense, it's probably because he was too great, if that's possible. There was simply too much great music in Carter, too many extraordinary skills and too many amazing talents for any audience to absorb. He was bestowed with a lion's share of musical gifts that in all fairness probably should have been divided among 10 other artists. Instead, they wound up with him.

Carter was always a band leader. He had a strong, unflinching personality essential for holding the respect of slippery club owners, grubby mobsters, drunks, racists and distracted sidemen. But it wasn't just Carter's talents that held your attention. Carter was physically tough, and he used that skill perfectly, too. As Miles Davis told Quincy Troupe in his autobiography, "Benny Carter would drop anyone he thought was disrespecting him in a minute."

If you're still unsure what all the fuss is about regarding Benny Carter, consider this: It took three authors and 1,360 pages to capture the significance of Carter and his impact on jazz in a two-volume biography that came out in 1982 and today remains the definitive work (with online updates since then, of course).

I will write on Carter again soon. There's so much to say about him. But rather than go on and on, I think you'll come to your own conclusions once you've had a chance to listen to a few choice Carter recordings.

Wax tracks: Carter's discography is massive. I could list 50 or more of my favorites on CDs and out-of-print LPs.

Instead, I want to share with you just six tracks that I think will give you a sampling of his touch and taste.

First and foremost is, Further Definitions (Impulse, 1961). You should own the entire CD (which at iTunes also includes the 1966 album Additions to Further Definitions). It's a jazz essential.

But if you want a taste first, download Blue Star at iTunes for 99 cents. Sit down, close the door and listen to the Blue Star five or six times. Dig the arrangement—from its clarion call to its build and crest. And dig that reedy tag at the end. That's the sound of Benny Carter in a nutshell—his playing, his arrangement and the giants who played with him on that date. Hot and sweet and on the money.

To hear Benny's superb trumpet playing in the 30s, download Dinah at iTunes. It can be found on Coleman Hawkins' Centennial collection (Hawk was the leader on that 1939 date).

The next two aren't milestones but they are personal favorites: Key Largo (download at iTunes from New Jazz Sounds: The Benny Carter Urbane Sessions) and Gone With the Wind (on Cosmopolite: The Oscar Peterson Verve Sessions). You'll find that Carter's notes are exactly the ones your ear wanted to hear.

And finally, a track that unfortunately isn't available at iTunes but is a joy: The One I Love on singer Jo Stafford's CD, Big Band Sound. Benny wrote the chart, and it's sensational, as is Jo.

And if you find you adore Key Largo and want to hear the lyrics Carter wrote, listen to sultry Carmen Bradford sing them on Benny Carter Songbook. Carter's on the date as well—and at his best.

For more about Carter, click onto the Benny Carter site. The link is in the "Jazz Sites" column on the right.

Happy birthday, Benny!

Chico O'Farrill, Part II

My posting yesterday on Chico O'Farrill attracted a fabulous response from Ivan Acosta, president of Latin Jazz USA, a film and concert production company in New York. Each year, Acosta's organization presents the "Chico O'Farrill Lifetime Achievement Award" to a musician who has helped bridge the gap between Latin and jazz music. Past recipients have included Dizzy Gillespie, Astrid Gilberto and Ray Baretto.

Here are Ivan's remarks:

"Excellent essay on Maestro Chico O'Farrill. Chico was indeed a prolific arranger and an inspiration to generations of jazz and Latin artists. He also was a gentle, kind man who always made time to help new artists find their way. We spent many hours talking about his career and his music.

Your readers may be interested to know that last year, the corner of West End Avenue and 88th St., near Chico's apartment, was named "Chico O'Farrill Way." As for recordings of his orchestrations, two of my favorites are Afro-Cuban Jazz Suite (1950/Verve), ”featuring Machito, Charlie Parker, Flip Phillips and Harry "Sweets" Edison; €”and Dizzy Gillespie y Machito: Afro-Cuban Jazz Moods (1975/OJC).

By any measure, O'Farrill's contribution to jazz is extraordinary. Sadly, jazz books and documentaries that explore the roots of jazz too often focus solely on the significance of New Orleans, Chicago and Kansas City but neglect Havana and the Afro-Cuban movement of the late1940s. Hopefully, future jazz historians will take a fresh look. You've certainly started the ball rolling!"

I couldn't agree more with Ivan's remarks. O'Farrill's Afro-Cuban Jazz Suite can be downloaded at iTunes from the same Verve collection mentioned yesterday. Or view it for free with O'Farrill conducting by going here.

And Afro-Cuban Jazz Moods, which is new to me and took me aback when I listened to it this morning, also is at iTunes. (Note to Concord Music Group: Perhaps it's time to remaster this one. It's a beaut!)

More wax picks: I just remembered that Chico O'Farrill arranged and conducted the horns on one of David Bowie's best CDs of the 90s, Black Tie, White Noise (1993). If you want to hear why Bowie selected O'Farrill, spend $1.29 and download Looking for Lester, which has been remastered. O'Farrill's horn arrangement is again way ahead of the curve—and in the rock idiom!

Chico O’Farrill

Chico O’Farrill was and still is probably one of the best-kept secrets in jazz. Ask hard-core jazz fans if they’re familiar with O’Farrill and most will draw a blank.

That’s because O’Farrill worked much of his career behind the scenes, in relative obscurity. A brilliant composer and arranger, O’Farrill led and recorded with his own bands but earned the bulk of his living ghostwriting arrangements for Benny Goodman, Stan Kenton, Count Basie and many other headline bands and jazz ensembles.

O’Farrill was the guy you called when you needed a fast chart that matched your band’s unique sound. O’Farrill also was popular with big-name bandleaders and producers because as a journeyman ghostwriter, he could jump in at a moment’s notice, write charts overnight, and in most cases you didn’t have to credit him on the album.

Don't be shocked. This practice is quite common today in publishing. When a celebrity or politician is signed to write a book, publishers call on ghostwriters to work with the author or in some cases write the book under the “author’s” name. In some cases the ghostwriter is mentioned on the jacket; in other cases not. It’s a straight work-for-hire deal.

In this regard, O’Farrill was an outsider’s insider. Every great jazz musician knew and respected him—but he was largely unknown by the mass record-buying public. Born in Havana, Cuba, in 1921, O’Farrill was the son of an Irish father and a Cuban mother of German descent. A wild kid in his youth, O’Farrill was sent by his father to a U.S. military school in Georgia, where he listened relentlessly to jazz and big bands on the radio. Soon, he took up the trumpet, and by the late 1940s, O'Farrill's matchless ear and fast arranger’s pen started landing him jobs.

O’Farrill’s reputation grew rapidly as the better bands demanded more exciting, complex and exotic arrangements. Unlike the big bands of the 1930s and 40s—which were rigidly managed and marketed to crank out bland mainstream hits—the bands of the late 1940s and 1950s were dominated by spectacular musicians and gifted improvisers heavily influenced by bebop—the intricate jazz style of the time that demanded a strong technique. Audiences also were becoming more sophisticated, demanding from bands ever-tougher sounding songs that lasted longer and showcased a band’s power, prowess and ability to swing.

O’Farrill was always more comfortable behind the scenes than on stage, and his workload only increased in the early 1950s with television’s rise and the emergence of the 33 1/3 LP, a format that required bands to record more music and gave them more room for longer arrangements.

Along with Neal Hefti, Ralph Burns, Buddy Bregman, Ernie Wilkins and a handful of other gifted arrangers, O’Farrill was one of the most sought-after and prolific composer/arrangers of his day when he wasn’t recording his own albums.

But perhaps what distinguished O’Farrill from virtually everyone else in his league was his ability to write straight bebop band arrangements as well as authentic Afro-Cuban charts, which fused jazz with complex Latin rhythms and new instruments such as the conga and bongo. Perhaps O’Farrill’s best known work in this genre was his Afro-Cuban Jazz Suite.

Yesterday I spent the day writing (not unusual) but found myself listening to only one CD (highly unusual)—Cuban Blues: The Chico O’Farrell Sessions (Verve). The dates were recorded between 1951 and 1954. Though the entire collection is a knockout, I kept coming back to three swinging bebop tracks— “Dance One,” “Bright One” and “Last One.”

These smart cuts were recorded August 6, 1951 by “Chico O’Farrill and His Orchestra”—a studio pickup band O’Farrill assembled with a breathtaking personnel. The band included Roy Eldridge and Al Porcino on trumpet, the great Eddie Bert and Bill Harris on trombone, Flip Philips on tenor sax, Ralph Burns on piano, Billy Bauer on guitar, Ray Brown on bass and Jo Jones on drums.

The rhythm section alone is enough to make neck hairs stand on end. Many of these jazz giants were available because in August of 1951, they all were in New York recording separately for Norman Granz’s Clef record label ( which later became Verve).

I hadn’t listened to this double CD in some time, and when I re-discovered these tracks yesterday, I was floored. Man, the arrangements are nothing short of remarkable, and the band’s blend of talents and distinct sound can be compared only to the bebop bands of Artie Shaw and Harry James (late 40s), and Woody Herman’s bands from 1951. The writing is that good.

Here’s more information on these tracks from an interview Ben Young conducted with O’Farrill for the CD’s liner notes:

Ben Young: “In this next batch, the titles are “Dance One,” “Bright One” and “Last One.” Is that because you never got around to putting titles on them?”

Chico O’Farrill: “No, I titled them that way intentionally. Norman Granz [the producer] once in a while would ask me to write just straight-ahead American music, and that’s what I would do for the titles. He knew I had written for Benny Goodman, that I could write for a jazz band also, and he like the way I wrote. So he would tell me, “Chico, let’s do a jazz date or mambo date,” but he would point out to me what he was hoping for. I’ll tell you one thing, I have never worked with a producer who was more amenable, who let you do whatever you wanted. You know what Norman used to say to me? ‘Chico, you do what you want. You fall on your ass, I’ll pay for it.’”

BY: “Were your colleagues aware of these records when they came out? Were people paying attention to the records?”

C O’F: “Well, mostly musicians. These are what you call musicians’ recordings. Musician were aware of them; the great masses, the great public, I don’t know whether they were aware of them or not.”

Chico O’Farrill died on June 27, 2001. His wife, Lupe, still lives in their apartment on West End Avenue. His son, Arturo, leads the amazing Chico O'Farrill Afro-Cuban Jazz Band, which performs many of his father’s arrangements. If you’re in New York, catch them at the many clubs where the band performs.

Wax pick: I highly recommend the double CD, Cuban Blues: The Chico O’Farrell Sessions (Verve), which combines his bop and Latin arrangements and bands. It’s still available at Amazon or as a download at iTunes.

At the very least, download the three tracks I mentioned above at iTunes for 99 cents each. Hear what O’Farrill recorded in 1951. Dig Papa Jo Jones driving the kit on “Last One.” That’s big band jazz at the start of the 50s, baby!