JazzWax

Jazz Studio Vols. 5 and 6

I'm away on business today. But before I take off, I urge you to check out the hour-long radio program David Brent Johnson put together recently. David, the history-minded host of WFIU-FM's weekly Night Lights  jazz show, featured an hour on Ralph Burns' Jazz Studio Vol. 5 (1955) and David Amram's Jazz Studio Vol. 6 (1957), which were recorded as part of six-album series for Decca.

David does a terrific job showcasing these albums. The Burns date, in particular, has a terrifically smart, modern West Coast sound. In both cases, Burns and Amram had free reign to score any way they wished for small ensembles. The original Jazz Studio series (volumes 1-6) is available on three separate CDs that combine two albums on each disc.

Go here to listen to David's show for free. Just click the big blue button, sit back and enjoy. Also dig David's radio voice—like silk. I'll have my weekly Wax Bits on Sunday, and I'll be back, full force, on Monday.

Chet Baker, La Voce

My favorite tracks of Chet Baker singing aren't in English. They're in Italian, and they were recorded in Rome in 1962 with the Ennio Morricone Orchestra.

Yes, that Ennio Morricone, the composer of music for The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, The Untouchables and more than 400 movies since 1959. But before Morricone expanded into metallic guitars, mournful harmonicas and tonal textures, he was a cinematic traditionalist, writing rich, decadent scores that made full use of string sections, brass instruments and the piano. The meeting of Ennio and Chet in 1962 was a sublime encounter and couldn't have come at a better time for both artists.

Today, many jazz fans aren't even aware these four Italian sides exist. For one, the records weren't released in the U.S. until recently. For another, when most listeners reach for Baker, they usually grab his work with Gerry Mulligan or his singing sessions with Russ Freeman. For me, these four tracks are in the same league.

In August 1960, Baker, already addicted to heroin, was arrested in Lucca, Italy, for forging Palfium prescriptions and for smuggling huge quantities of Jetrium into Italy from Germany. Both drugs were and are pain killers. Baker was convicted of drug smuggling and forgery, and sentenced to a year, seven months and ten days in a Lucca prison.

When Baker was released early, in December 1961, RCA Italiana put him together with  Ennio Morricone. In 1962, they recorded four of Chet's own composition that he wrote during his jail term. These tracks then were released in Italy on two extended play, 7-inch, 45 rpm records. RCA's goal was to capitalize on Baker's American movie-star looks and his new bad-boy, ribelle senza una causa reputation.

James Gavin, in his 2002 book, Deep in a Dream: The Long Night of Chet Baker, touches on this unique recording date:

"[Chet] didn't get everything he wanted. By now, Dino De Laurentiis had lost interest in making a film out of Baker's life. Despite the money he had earned from the producer, the trumpeter was furious and went on to call the incident, 'The Great Movie Hoax.' But he cashed in on his prison compositions when RCA Italiana paid him ten thousand dollars for a one-year record contract. The label hoped to capitalize on his notoriety by making him a pop star; to that end, he was asked to cut four vocal sides in Italian with an orchestra conducted by Ennio Morricone, the famed composer [who would go on to record numerous] 'spaghetti western' soundtracks. The songs came from Baker's red-leather songbook, with words added by Pino Maffei, founder of Musica Jazz magazine.

Swaddled in a blanket of strings and voices, Baker crooned of the sweetness of love and of endless nights without his beloved. He sounded more childlike than ever, his soft choirboy's high notes seeming to float from the purest heart."

Given Morricone's renown in Italy at the time and Baker's tragic  persona, you would think these sessions were originally recorded for  a movie soundtrack. So I checked to see what films  Morricone scored in 1962. Five films popped up—La Cuccagna, Diciottenni Al Sole, I Motorizzati, Before the Revolution and La Voglia Matta. What these titles mean in English doesn't matter, because virtually all of them are a variation on the same theme popular then—young love, fate and the downside of upward mobility. Baker's recordings with Morricone could have worked for any or all of them.

Film score or no film score, these four ballads by Baker are so impossibly pretty and decadent. They're like four Italian pastries with crunch and cream. But their beauty is a collaboration of three forces—Baker's wide open trumpet playing, his tourist's Italian vocals and Morricone's satiny Hollywood-ola scores.

Chetty's Lullaby, which Chet wrote for his son, opens with a rich bed of French horns and trombones, inhaling and exhaling as Baker's trumpet soars over strings. Then Baker sings in Italian—in the most fragile, delicate plaintive voice. He almost sounds as if he's consulting a map while asking for directions. And Morricone's orchestration is quivering and innocent.

On the flip side of Chetty's Lullaby was So Che Ti Perdero, which opens with shimmering strings, followed by piano, guitar, trombones and more strings. There's even a vocal choir singing in Italian behind Baker.

Motivo Su Raggio Di Luna has a minor feel—again with vocal choir, strings, French horns and trombones Baker is almost talking in Italian here, sotto voce. Halfway through the tune, the pace quickens and Baker sounds a lot like Miles on the Gil Evans dates.

Il Mio Domani is my favorite of the four tracks. It opens with a gaggle of horns performing a call and response with a celeste and drum brushes on cymbals (pure Morricone!). Then Baker's trumpet wanders over the top of violins. A piano enters, brass are added, followed by the celeste, cellos and violas. A vocal choir drifts in and the song builds to a crescendo with the brass, only to fall back suddenly, exposing the celeste yet again. Half-way through, the tempo doubles as Baker sings with the Italian choir and a piano slips into the background.

While these tracks may not be the greatest jazz performances ever recorded—or even Baker's best jazz moments—they are among the most beautiful and exotic works by Baker. If you're a Chet Baker fan, then you're a romantic. And if you're a romantic, then what more could you ask for than for Baker at his seductive best singing ballads in Italian. Not to mention playing an open trumpet on top of  Italian cinematic scores. I only wish Baker and Morricone had recorded an entire album.

Wax tracks: For years these four Chet Baker recordings  released on two 45 rpm records in Italy were highly prized until a 2003 reissue of Chet Is Back included them as bonus tracks. "Chet is back," of course, was a reference to his return to the jazz scene (after spending time in an Italian prison).

Much of Chet Is Back has been available for years as Chet Baker: The Italian Sessions. And not all Chet Is Back re-issue CDs carry the Morricone bonus tracks. Only the Bluebird release from 2003 includes them.

You can buy that CD here used (it's out of print already). Or you can just spend about $4 at iTunes downloading the four tracks from Chet Is Back. Personally, I never cared much for the rest of the album's tracks, so I would just grab the four discussed above.

I think you'll agree that they are the prettiest Chet Baker tracks ever recorded. All that's missing is a 1962 Ferrari 400 Superamerica Pininfarina Coupe and a wide open autostrada.

Wax video clips: If you want a visual and audio taste of Chet Baker's romantic Italian period, go here and dig him singing Arrivederci. It's from an Italian film Baker was in called Urlatori alla sbarra (1960), which was part of a genre known as musicarello—Italian musical comedies that included current stars singing their hits. Sort of the early 1960s equivalent of today's music videos.

Clearly this is the sound RCA had hoped to achieve and recreate with Ennio Morricone. But by 1962, Chet's 1950s good looks were giving way to age, and a new, younger sound was emerging from England's working class neighborhoods. Within a year, this sound would snap the rug out from under jazz's youthful popularity in Europe and, ultimately, in the U.S.

In 1962, Chet would have about a year before his laconic romanticism was shoved aside by a hard driving beat and much longer hair. But in 1960 Rome, Arrivederci still touched the heart with its autumnal pace and nostalgic pleading.

Bud Powell, January 1947

If pianist Bud Powell has a sweet spot, it's his January 10, 1947 trio session for Roost Records—his first date as a leader.

Mind you, I adore Bud's work as a bop sideman during the 1940s and his Verve trio dates starting in 1949. Both periods are spectacular for  different reasons. But for me, his January 1947 recordings are still a notch higher. Not only is Bud at his creative peak but there's a delicateness and enthusiasm to his playing that's unmatched. On the Roost date, Bud actually seems to be listening to himself play—and enjoying what he hears.

After recording the eight tracks for Roost in January 1947, Bud was back in the studio in May with the Charlie Parker All Stars (Donna Lee, Chasin' the Bird, Cheryl and Buzzy). But as the year wore on, Bud suffered terribly from headaches, a painful condition that began after a brutal 1945 police beating in Philadelphia.

By November 1947, Bud  was admitted to the first of several medical institutions and underwent shock therapy, remaining hospitalized for nearly a year. Some say Bud was never the same when he emerged, but that may be a bit of a dramatic overstatement.

Yet there is a certain something that exists in those January 1947 recordings that I feel is missing on previous and subsequent dates. A human quality, perhaps, or just pure joy. It's an ingredient that's hard to nail down, even after numerous listens.

Not content to bop his way through the eight song selections scheduled to be waxed that day, Bud chose instead to showcase his wide range of piano skills—almost as if he knew he might not get another shot for some time. Of course, the presence of Max Roach on drums and Curly Russell on bass provided Bud with all the rhythm he needed to experiment and have fun doing so.

Bud opens the January 1947 Roost session with I'll Remember April, which appears to foreshadow the hard bop movement that would be pioneered years later by Max Roach, Clifford Brown and Bud's brother, Richie. (Clearly Max didn't forget what he heard that day while playing behind Bud.)

Next is Indiana, which starts with a fascinating configuration of minor chords that quickly springs major and flies bop through to the end. Dig Max on the brushes and Curly ripping at the bass. Tremendous energy.

On Somebody Loves Me, we hear Bud shift to his lock chords technique, and he mixes in plenty of bop melody lines. Again, Curly Russell's bass work is something to hear.

I Should Care is even more cocktail-lounge lush than Somebody Loves Me. Taken at medium ballad tempo, this song is a rich mix of pastel chords and bop ideas, with impossible fills and playful trills. Bud takes the song off in a number of interesting directions but never once loses track of what makes the tune so pretty to begin with. This song has everything—a 'Round About Midnight feel with chord runs that are soft and astonishing.

Next comes the frantic Bud's Bubble, a pure bop show-off piece, followed by Thelonious Monk's Off Minor, which kicks off with a very un-Monk-like theatrical fanfare. You would never guess from the opening that the song Bud is about to play is Monk's. You get the sense that this is something of an inside joke—Bud musically telling Monk to lighten up.

In fact, Bud's opening tags on nearly every song he ever played are gems in and of themselves.

Nice Work If You Can Get It is taken at a brisk tempo, with Max employing fabulous brush work. After running with the melody, Bud turns the song inside out with bop interpretations.

The show-stopper, for me, is the closer— Everything Happens to Me—an almost tongue-in cheek tribute to composer-pianist Matt Dennis, who wrote the song and played it beautifully in super clubs. Dennis was famous for developing a lush, lounge jazz style. Bud honors Dennis but adds his own bop stamp.

When Bud left the hospital in late 1948, he was recorded live in a jam session at the Royal Roost in December. Then in January 1949, he signed with Norman Granz's  Norgran Records  (the predecessor to Verve) and began a long period of recording for the label through 1956.

The Norgran/Verve dates certainly have their own special, dark-and-stormy quality. But I don't believe they ever quite recaptured Bud's flare and graceful exuberance of January 1947.

Wax tracks: Bud Powell's complete Roost date is on Bud Powell: The Complete 1946-1949 Roost/BlueNote/Verve/Swing Masters. The CD, a remastered import, can be found here and is a must.

You also can find the eight tracks at iTunes— under an odd release from the Copyright Group called Bud's Bubble.

Wax clip: While I could not find any archival film of Bud in early 1947, go here to see Bud in Paris in 1959. Try to listen to Bud's left and right hand separately. It's as if two different pianists were playing together—and competing against each other.

Interview: David Amram (Part 2)

David Amram has composed and recorded music of virtually every  genre—and on almost every instrument. He was part of the orchestral jazz movement of the mid-1950s, the neo-beat  movement of the late 1950s and an active participant in virtually every other social and music trend that followed—from Indian classical in the mid-1960s to the current folk revival.

But David also was an important figure at a time when jazz was changing. During the 1950s, jazz began to be shaped by a new set of external cultural and political forces ranging from African primitivism and the American civil rights movement to the impressionistic scores of Aaron Copland's and John Cage's chance music.

But back in the early 1950s, fresh out of the Oberlin Conservatory of Music and just months after a mind-opening encounter with Dizzy Gillespie in his Washington, DC, basement apartment (see Part 1), David found himself discussing classical music, soup and Cherokee with another jazz legend:

"In 1952 I was invited by Jo Mattee, the wife of Joe Timer, to see Charlie Parker Quintet in concert at the Howard Theater. Joe Timer was a Washington, DC, drummer who started a terrific big band a year earlier that was simply called The Orchestra. The band was able to get Al Cohn, Johnny Mandel, Gerry Mulligan, Bill Potts and others to write arrangements. 

The Charlie Parker concert was spectacular— incredible charts played by incredible musicians and Parker soloing the entire time. After the concert, Jo Mattee invited me to go backstage to meet Parker. I couldn't wait.

When I met Bird, he asked what I did. I told him I was a musician and part-time gym teacher. He fixated on the teacher part, and we talked about his kids and school. He asked if I liked classical music, which, of course, I did. So we spoke about all his favorite classical composers and works.

When he packed up, he asked me for a lift. We got into my 1932 car, but instead of winding up where he was going, we hung out in my basement apartment for hours. We talked and listened to music and I made him dinner—borscht and sour cream and dumplings. He loved everything and ate it all. I remember Bird looked like a farmer that night. He was heavyset, with suspenders. Very friendly and warm.

What struck me was how Parker could think contrapuntally—on so many different levels at the same time. He could talk, listen intently to music and think about something else simultaneously. He was deep into his own world, but he was aware of everything around him. He was one of those people who was into being creative every second of every day, no matter what.

Bird came over again soon afterward. He was playing at the Howard Theater for a week. During this period, I had been rehearsing with a group that included flute, bassoon, me on French horn, and a rhythm section. We had transcribed Bird’s songs—Cool Blues, Now’s the Time and Ornithology. Two of the guys in my group played in the symphony.

When Bird came over, we played his songs for him, and he loved it. Bird was a one-man encyclopedia of music. He was also interested in many other types of music. He started asking the bassoon player to run all of his favorite classical pieces. It was as if the bassoon player was at an audition!

On another night, he came over with the cream of Washington's hip underground and hangers on. But Parker distinguished between people who were groveling over him and his mythical status and people who loved him as a person and human being. He lived in the world of being human—what you see is what you get. He felt strongly that life and art must be as closely connected as possible. It's a philosophy that I've tried to live by ever since.

I wasn’t into the cool scene then, even though so many people were. I was just hugely passionate about what I was doing. I may have made an excuse for not being cool, or maybe Bird just sensed that I didn't feel with it. To console me, Bird said something I’ll never forget. He said, 'David, the hippest thing is to be square.'

I asked how he could play some of those songs he played. He took out his alto and showed me. He said he'd play through a tune straight and then play triads—the first three notes of a chord. He'd embellish by playing either a major, minor, augmented or diminished triad. I asked him about the basis of Cherokee. He showed me the chord pattern. It was based on that simple formula, with perfect execution, of course, and that sound.

With Bird, just one note and you knew who was playing—like one note from the great violinist Jascha Heifetz. So many musicians today overlook the importance of developing a singular, incredible sound. When Bird played, each note was so clear and distinct no mater how complicated the melody or how fast the tempo.

What I got from Parker is that when playing jazz, you don't have to give up melody and harmony and counterpoint and a beginning and an end. After Parker left my apartment, I realized that some day I wanted to reach a level where I could understand and deal with all the different things that happened that night. I'm still working on it."

In November, when David Amram returns from tour, I'll pick up his 1950s jazz story—including recording dates with Julius Watkins, Charles Mingus, Oscar Pettiford and Kenny Dorham.

Wax tracks: In 1952 and 1953, Charlie Parker played in Washington, DC, with Joe Timer's The Orchestra. Some of those later dates were recorded and are now available on CD. The album is called Charlie Parker: The Washington Concerts and it's truly exceptional. The remastered CD can be found here.

Not only is the band terrific, but the arrangements are clearly years ahead of their time, which is likely why Bird bothered to make the trip to Philadelphia and play with the band. That and the fact that in 1952, Parker was recording regularly for Verve in big band and strings settings. Bird may have accepted numerous dates with The Orchestra as tune ups or simply because he was becoming increasingly comfortable fronting a big band.

For those who want to hear more of Joe Timer and The Orchestra, go here for a Japanese import, Willis Conover's House of Sounds Presents The Orchestra (1953).

Wax clips: While you may have seen this clip of Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie before, it's worth seeing again. The TV appearance is from 1952, right around the time Bird was in Washington, DC, playing with Joe Timer and The Orchestra.

Interview: David Amram (Part 1)

When you first meet David Amram, you’re instantly struck by two things: How young he looks and how much energy the guy has for someone who’s 77 years old. In fact, he's so intense that at first you think he's confused. Until it becomes clear that this is how a highly creative, determined person functions—like a bull trying to fight its way free from conformity.

David is a prolific composer of jazz, orchestral, folk opera and rock music. At any given moment he is working on a dozen projects at once. He travels relentlessly to perform—one night in London, the next with Willie Nelson, then out to the West Coast for a week, and so on.

David's enthusiasm is impossible to suppress or harness. Talking with him is like trying to keep up with a moving train. You either run like the devil, reach out, grab and haul yourself up onto onto David's energy level or you get left behind—and miss out. David doesn't slow down.

I met David in early September at a New York Times event called On the Road at 50: A Celebration of Jack Kerouac. The auditorium was packed that night, with only a few seats remaining.  As I sat down, I noticed that the guy in the sports jacket and tie to my left was wearing about 25 necklaces adorned  with small metal instruments and other assorted charms. Given the event, I realized he could only be one person—David Amram. So I introduced myself and we hit it off.

At first glance, David looks like a hipster uprooted from 1958 and deposited accidentally in 2007. Everything about him—from his philosophy on life and his approach to music to the way he talks—has a retro, beat feel to it. But once you get to know him, you realize he’s hardly a relic. In truth, you sense David is living about 10 years ahead of everyone else, someplace in the future where everyone plays an instrument and communicates in eighth notes. It's a happy place.

David has composed more than 100 orchestral and chamber music works and two operas. He’s written for Broadway shows and for film, most notably Splendor in The Grass and The Manchurian Candidate, which I think may be one of the most inventive and haunting film scores ever composed. He also wrote the music for and appeared in the 1959 Robert Frank documentary, Pull My Daisy, which was narrated by novelist Jack Kerouac and stars Allen Ginsburg, Gregory Corso, Larry Rivers, Peter Orlovsky and other beat artists and poets.

If all of this wasn’t enough, David also is the author of two books, Vibrations, an autobiography I read over the weekend, and Offbeat: Collaborating With Kerouac, a memoir.

David plays the piano, flute and a range of folk instruments. He was a "world musician" before the world knew it had a music. And he worked with Leonard Bernstein, conducted Duke Ellington’s orchestra, and was The New York Philharmonics first composer-in-residence in 1966.

David is now working with author Frank McCourt on a new interpretation of Missa Manhattan as well as on a symphony commissioned by the Guthrie Foundation called Symphonic Variations on a Song by Woody Guthrie.

But back in the 1950s, David was a pioneer of the jazz French horn. He appeared on several key jazz albums, notably The Oscar Pettiford Big Band 1956-1957 and Kenny Dorham’s Blue Spring. David also played and recorded with many other jazz artists, including Charles Mingus and Max Roach.

After that Kerouac panel discussion back in September, David and I went out for drinks. I had a decaf coffee while he ate, drank tea with milk, answered cellphone calls and picked up our conversation where he left off without missing  a beat. That night, we agreed to talk more on the phone, and last Friday was our first chat:

“I was born in Philadelphia in 1930 but grew up on farm in Feasterville, PA. My father was a lawyer and a farmer. My mother translated French into English. When I was 11, we moved to Washington, DC. after my father got a job with the government.

From 1942 to 1952, we lived in what was then called a “checkerboard” neighborhood, where blacks and whites lived on different blocks. My parents loved music, and I heard music all day, seven days a week, at home and in the area.

My interest in jazz  started when I was 10 years old. In 1940, my uncle, a merchant seaman, took me to see Duke Ellington’s orchestra at the Earle Theater in Philadelphia. I still recall every second of that concert. I remember the excitement of the music but I also remember how Duke acknowledged each musician in the band and made everyone a star. Wow, I thought, that guy is so great and so gracious.

When I met Duke years later, I asked about his habit of introducing himself to everyone who worked in clubs where he was playing. He said he learned a long time ago there was a practical side to good manners. When his band was out on the road in the early 1930s, conditions were terrible, and sometimes the band wouldn’t get paid. Duke learned that if he made friends with the kitchen staff right off the bat, at least he knew they’d eat.

In high school, I was a trumpet player and played jazz. But I wore braces so I had to switch to the French horn, which had a smaller mouthpiece and allowed my mouth to fit into it. A girl I liked also played the French horn, so I figured playing the instrument would let me sit next to her, which I did.

I loved the French horn’s sound immediately and realized that by sitting in that part of the orchestra, I could hear the full sound better. That was great because I already wanted to compose.

In the mid-to-late 1940s, the French horn was an exotic jazz instrument. Julius Watkins played it. So did Junior Collins, who played it on the Birth of the Cool session in 1949. When I went off to Oberlin College in 1948, I stuck with the French horn and studied orchestral composition.

After college I moved back to Washington and rented a basement apartment on 16th St between S and T streets. To make ends meet, I took a part-time job as a gym teacher at a French-speaking private school. I also spent a lot of time with local jazz and classical musicians, who often stayed over at my place.

One day in 1951, Dizzy Gillespie played a date in Baltimore, and the bass player in his band told him he could crash at my place with the four guys in his group. Dizzy came by with four people, but I don’t think they were even in the band. Dizzy never had an A list and a B list of people. He just did his thing and brought along anyone who was around.

I remember we were up late that night talking and drinking and having a great time. The next morning I had to be up early to teach gym at school. Dizzy got up when I did and said that before I took off, he and I should play something—Dizzy on the piano and me on the French horn. I said, "Great."

Dizzy sat down at my piano and asked “What should we play?” I said, "I don’t know—the blues?" He said “What key?" I realized then that Dizzy was making me feel as comfortable as possible. He did this with everyone who played with him, and that was a valuable lesson I learned and used throughout my life.

So we played the blues in F, but the chords Dizzy used that morning were astounding. He was playing accompanying harmonies of 12-bar blues using chord changes that were so different and voiced in such an amazing way. His playing put me in a place where I had to listen carefully, in amazement, and find my way.

So there I was, playing the blues in F on French horn with Dizzy on piano. I think about that moment every day. I don’t think it was a memorable experience for Dizzy, but he always remembered it when we got together in later years.

Dizzy opened a musical door for me that morning, and he taught me how to treat musicians in your band. Make them feel comfortable, secure and appreciated, and they'll play at their highest level. As I got to know Dizzy more and more over time, I realized  he was as generous a person as he was a magnificent innovator, and that being both was not only possible but essential."

Tomorrow, I'll have Part 2 of my interview with David about the early 1950s and what he learned from Charlie Parker, who fell by his apartment several times in 1952.

Wax tracks: One of David Amram's most fascinating works is the score for the Manchurian Candidate (1962). While the music for the 2004 remake is by Rachel Portman, the first eight tracks of the CD are from the original score. As Frank Sinatra said at the time, "David Amram has done a magnificent job; the score is exactly what I wanted for the film."

Amram told me that the score's masters had been lost for years but when the film was remade in 2004, Tina Sinatra found a master in her vault and loaned it to the studio for the film and CD.

The 2004 soundtrack with eight Amram tracks can be found here. But if you want to spring for the rare, out of print CD from 1997 with the complete Amram score, it's about $40 and can be found here. You also can sample tracks from the score there.

Wax Bits

Hal McKusick followup—Thank you all for the wonderful e-mails sent over the past few days in reaction to the posts last week on Hal's long and distinguished career. Among the many touching notes I received was this one from Hal's son, Jim:

Hello Marc,
This is an incredible series on my Dad! Where I live, I run into many people who ask if I am related to Hal McKusick, I have seen his record collection among the parents of my friends and I am even updated on his activities by some of the people who know he is my Dad and follow his music. I will print this out and keep it to share with family and friends as well as pass this website onto them.
Thanks.
Jim McKusick

It's notes like these—and the ones sent by all of you worldwide—that keep a blog focused and on track.

Trane connection—Saxophonist and guitarist Allen Lowe had an interesting observation:

"If you want to hear the origins of the melody for John Coltrane's Giant Steps, listen to the opening phrase of his recording of On a Misty Night (from Mating Call). Just a theory, but it sure sounds the same."

Sure does. I never put the two together but Allen's definitely onto something.

Seventies spirit—Ian Carey, who plays trumpet and flugelhorn, sent along a CD he recorded in 2005. It has a rich, introspective 1970s feel—especially with Adam Shulman on the Fender Rhodes piano.

Carey, a San Francisco artist who knows his jazz history, plays a warm horn with a Freddie Hubbard feel and is backed by Evan Francis (saxophones), Shulman (electric piano), Fred Randolph (bass) and Jon Arkin (drums). Many of the compositions and arrangements are by Carey, and the CD includes tight interpretations of Wayne Shorter's ESP and Herbie Nichols' The Spinning Song. You can hear CD samples here and check out Carey here.

Next week—The start of an interview with David Amram, with a focus on his early years and basement jam sessions in Washington, DC, with Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie.

Interview: Hal McKusick (Part 5)

I spent the past week tracing the long and vibrant career of saxophonist Hal McKusick, whose enormous body of work as a leader and sideman speaks volumes about his place in jazz history. During Hal's nearly 70-year career in jazz, he has had a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Much of his good fortune has been the result of hard work, superior talent, a unique sound, unrestrained generosity, and a relentless devotion to the art form.

There's probably a French word for Hal's personality. I know one doesn't exist in English, because I have to push together a bunch of words to capture it. In short, Hal is tough and distinctly aware of how good he is and what he has accomplished. But he's also genuinely humble, soothing, funny and highly aware of other people and their needs—especially if you dig jazz. Yet he isn't overly sensitive or sentimental. He just loves jazz and the joy it brings, pure and simple. You won't find him staring at his own musical reflection or dwelling on his long shadow. He's just a nice guy who knows who he is. And that's what makes Hal so interesting—Hal is an accessible giant.

Over the course of the past five days, Hal was more than generous with his time and candid about his own life and the people he knew. He also was extremely grateful to hear from everyone who sent their regards and was happy to hear that so many readers of this blog had discovered or rediscovered his recordings. When I told him about the emails, Hal's reaction was classic: "Really? Wow, isn't that something. Man, that's beautiful."

For this final installment, Hal reflects on some of the many jazz greats he has known and played with over the years:

Barry Galbraith—"He was one of the most gifted human beings that walked on this earth. Gifted, quiet and never stopped playing. He would play three sessions a day. We did a lot of film and TV commercial dates tougher. If I had a date, I’d always call him first. If Barry couldn’t make it, I’d call Chuck Wayne. And he'd do the same for me. I used to go out to his apartment in Hollis, Queens. He'd call me up and tell me to come over. When I'd get there we'd just play for hours. It was beautiful. I had a knack of laying out melodies in ways he liked and we'd build on them. I’d always go home from Barry's place feeling good. Barry died in 1983. I miss him greatly."

Eddie Costa—"What an unbelievable pianist, not to mention vibraphonist. Eddie's on my album Triple Exposure from 1957. What a player. Wow. And what a shame he died so young. In July 1962, Eddie got into his Volkswagen Bug convertible and drove down Riverside Drive in New York. He must have been driving too fast because when he tried to hook onto the West Side Highway at 72d Street, his front left wheel caught the curb and the car flipped over. He must have died instantly. What a terrible tragedy."

Manny Albam—"He's probably one of the most underrated and unrecognized arrangers in jazz. He wrote for everyone, and his charts were delights. Every one of them.  Some of his best works are on my Complete Quartet recordings. Manny loved writing for a small group. Manny, George Handy and Jimmy Giuffre were tops."

Bill Evans—"Bill was always interesting and funny, and his music was always rich. Bill was very soft-spoken. it was always about the music with him—and with all of us, really. That's all we talked about. We did much of our communicating through the music. Bill was clean when he went into Miles' group. I was very surprised when he went Miles' way and got hooked on junk. After that his complexion was never great. I remember in the mid-1950s, Bill and I used to play with Paul Motian in Paul's brownstone apartment near Central Park West. I have a great photo of Bill sitting on a piano bench,  cross-legged, listening to me play. Milt Hinton is peering over. Bill wanted to hear what I was playing during one of our rehearsals because he had a line on the piano that went against it."

John Coltrane—"I only knew Trane from the New York, New York session in 1958 for George Russell. The reed section was Trane on tenor, I was on alto and Sol Schlinger was on baritone. Coltrane was an excellent reader and was very serious and very quiet. I find that most people who have something going on don't have a big horn to blow personally."

Dizzy Gillespie—"Playing with Dizzy was a thrill. I played with him in Boyd Raeburn's band in 1944. I also played with his big band at Birdland in the early 1950s. Dizzy's second alto would get sick and call me and say, "Dizzy said he likes you. Will you cover for me?" When I came to that date, I couldn’t wait to play. I could site-read anything. The only problem is I'd turn a page and the whole corner of the chart would be torn off with six or seven bars missing. That was because the musicians who read the band's charts would memorize the arrangement and then, if they met someone on the stand and needed to get in touch, they tear off the corner and jot down their phone number. So when I was reading the chart at Birdland and saw the bars were missing, I just leaned over with my horn—like I was looking at the other side of my chart—and read the first alto's part and harmonize. At the end of the number, Dizzy said in that slow, cool voice of his, 'McKusick can read around corners.' "

Art Farmer—"Art played in my Quintet. I heard Art play in the mid-1950s and his tone knocked me out. He had a big velvet sound. It was like a flugelhorn, but on trumpet. I think someone recommended Art to me. As soon as I heard Art, I said that's a sound I like to hear. He could read and transpose everything. Like Coltrane, he was very soft-spoken. Art practiced like crazy and was way into the music. He was completely smooth, quiet, a great dresser and his playing was impeccable. We never did a lot of takes with the Quintet. Maybe one or two, that's it. These guys were on top of the music. Everyone was thinking music, music, music. If you were bummed out, it didn’t matter. The music took you up. I recall I once had Art come out to Long Island in the 1990s to play as a guest soloist. When it was time for him to go on, he wasn't anywhere to be found. I went looking for him and found him way back behind the curtains sitting there, quietly. I said to him, softly, 'Hey, Art, we’re looking for you.' He looked up and said calmly, 'Great, I’m ready.' Nothing ever rattled him. He was very laid back and very much into his sound."

Dinah Washington—"I played with Dinah on The Swingin' Miss D in 1956. I remember she was heavier than she should have been but she was very happy because she had just gotten married. I know she had a reputation for being difficult, but not with that band. Are you kidding? You had Joe Wilder, Ernie Royal, Charlie Shavers and Clark Terry on trumpets, Jimmy Cleveland and Urbie Green on trombones, Tony Ortega and I were on altos, Lucky Thompson and Jerome Richardson on tenors, Danny Bank on baritone, and Barry Galbraith, Don Elliott and Milt Hinton were on there. And Quincy Jones was the arranger and conductor. The whole session went very neatly and clean. Man, what a date!"

Lucky Thompson—"Lucky and I had already worked together in Boyd's band, and Boyd had featured him a lot. He was like most good artists—straight ahead serious about his playing."

Quincy Jones—"Quincy was always a joy to work with. Back in the mid-1950s, he found a voicing that he liked very much. He'd always have the first flute play the same line of music as the first trumpet, but an octave higher. Recorded properly, it was a very pleasant sound."

JazzWax track: To hear Quincy Jones' voicing with Hal McKusick on flute, take a listen to Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye and But Not for Me from Dinah Washington's The Swingin' Miss D. It's available at iTunes or here. This entire album is beautifully framed by Quincy Jones' writing.

Barry Galbraith on guitar is easy to hear as well. He lays out positively beautiful lines, proving he was as much of a monster in bands as he was in quartets. A perfect mid-50s studio session with some of the best guys in the business reading down the charts and the Queen of the Blues letting loose on ballads and swingers.

JazzWax clip: Here's a clip featuring Art Farmer (and Gerry Mulligan) blowing on Moonlight in Vermont from 1959. Go here.

JazzWax addendum: A special word of thanks to Doug Ramsey, whose blog entry on Hal McKusick back in August (here) was the inspiration for this series (as are all of Doug's blog entries). Also, a thanks to Bob Rusch of Cadence Magazine (here), who pointed me in the right direction.

Interview: Hal McKusick (Part 4)

The demise of the big bands is often blamed on a declining post-war economy and shifting musical tastes. But there was a third factor—live television. Starting in the early 1950s, the new, rapidly emerging medium needed an ever-growing number of top-notch musicians and arrangers—leaving big bands with fewer musicians to hire and hold on a steady basis.

Coupled with this trend was the rise of the 33 1/3 LP. Larger records meant more artists and more music were needed by a growing number of record lables, and many were open to taking greater risks with the jazz styles they recorded.

Hal McKusick [pictured above, center] in 1955 was perfectly suited to capitalize on both trends. By the time he left Elliot Lawrence's big band early that year, he had become one of the best connected sight readers in jazz. Years of seasoning had prepared him as a musician and leader, and he was grooved for live television's grueling demands. After 16 years of steady band work, Hal had developed a pure tone, a sharp eye, and an unrivaled ear for beauty.

Hal picks up the story from our conversation earlier this week:

"By 1955, Elliot Lawrence was writing more and more for Broadway shows and televising, and his band was touring less and less. Meanwhile, I was becoming stretched thin, and my daily schedule was jammed.

I remember once when Elliot's orchestra was in Pennsylvania, I played with the band that night, got up early the next day, caught a small plane to New York, played a record date, took a cab to a TV session, finished at around 3 pm, raced to LaGuardia, and flew back to Pennsylvania in time to play with Elliot's band that night. It all was getting to be too much.

One day in early 1955, I met with Creed Taylor at Bethlehem Records. Creed said he wanted me to record an album and asked if I had any ideas. I told him about my piano-less quartet. We had been rehearsing on the side. I played alto and clarinet, Barry Galbraith was on guitar, Milt Hinton was on bass and Osie Johnson was on drums. Manny Albam was writing the charts. Creed loved the idea, and we recorded East Coast Jazz/Volume 8.

Not long afterward I walked into a drugstore in Greenwich Village. There, behind the counter working was George Russell. I asked him what he was doing there. George had written Cubano Be Cubano Bop for Dizzy [Gillespie], which was one of the first combinations of Afro-Cuban rhythms and jazz in 1947. He also had written Ezz-Thetic in 1951 for Lee [Konitz]. Both arrangements were huge.

George told me he had a wife to support and that nothing was happening for him in the music business. Then he said he had hit upon something called the Lydian Theory. He asked if I wanted to hear it. I agreed, so I met him at his apartment nearby the next day.

When I got there, George sat down at his upright piano and showed me that if you played in the key of C, it could have an F sharp instead of an F major, and so on. We went through all his altered modal scales. I dug what he was doing, and he asked if I wanted lessons. I told Barry [Galbraith, pictured] and the two of us took three or four lessons until we got it.

I asked if George if he wanted to write a couple of songs for my quartet. He said sure. So he wrote Lydian Lullaby and The Day John Brown Was Hanged. When I ran into Jack Lewis, who was RCA's A&R guy at the time, I told him about George. Jack asked me if I was sure I wanted to get involved with George, who hadn't really recorded anything significant in some time. I told Jack that George's material was fresh and that he had a good thing going.

I told Jack to come out and hear the group. When he did, he was blown away. Soon afterward we recorded The Jazz Workshop for RCA in March 1956, and then RCA signed George. It's funny, our chance meeting at that drugstore put George back in the music business.

In November 1956, my quartet recorded live at the Brooklyn Academy for an album called Jazz at the Academy. We were opposite Dave Brubeck. Gil Evans was writing one of the charts for us. But by the time we were on stage rehearsing, he was still up in the balcony furiously trying to finish the arrangement. I remember it was a tricky one, in 6/4 time. When we wrapped the rehearsal, Gil was still writing. He couldn't finish it in time. So Sonny Lester, the album's producer, had to tell him no dice. Sonny never paid Gil for the chart, but there were no hard feelings. Man, I wish I had that chart today.

In early 1957, I recorded Cornucopia for Coral Records, the first of the Quintet sessions with Art Farmer, Eddie Costa, Milt Hinton and Gus Johnson. That year I also recorded  the Brandeis Jazz Festival album with the Gunther Schuller-George Russell Orchestra. Art Farmer, Jimmy Knepper, John LaPorta and Bill Evans were on that date, too. On a re-listen today, I don't think much of it holds up. It sounds a little too heavy and self-absorbed.

In December 1957 I put together a different group and recorded one of my favorite albums, Triple Exposure. Billy Byers was on trombone, Eddie Costa on piano, Paul Chambers on bass and Charlie Persip on drum. I played clarinet, alto and tenor sax.

I'm Glad There Is You on there is one of the prettiest songs. We took it at a medium tempo, and I told Paul to play in 2/4 time, to really walk it. I played the clarinet. Paul played so pretty, I still remember the line he ran [Hal sings Chambers' bass line, note for note].

In 1958, I recorded Cross Section: Saxes. Frank Socolow and I were on a lto, Dick Hafer on tenor, Jay Cameron on baritone with Bill Evans, Paul Chambers and Connie Kay in the rhythm section. I had just left Coral Records for Decca and was working with a four-sax group at the time. The sounds was really great. George Handy, George Russell and Jimmy Giuffre wrote the charts. After Cross Section: Saxes, Bill and Paul joined Miles a month later in May.

Later that year I joined the CBS Studio Orchestra. But I still recorded as a sideman. In November I did George Russell's New York, New York album. You can't believe the guys on there—Art Farmer, Ernie Royal and Joe Wilder were on trumpets; Frank Rehak and Bobby Brookmeyer on trombones; me, Phil Woods, Al Cohn, John Coltrane and Gene Allen on saxes; plus Bill Evans, Barry Galbraith, George Duvivier and Max Roach, and Jon Hendricks narrated. It was an experimental album, but in retrospect, I'm not sure it still works.

In May 1959 I recorded with Lee Konitz and Jimmy Giuffre on Lee Konitz Meets Jimmy Giuffre, which featured Lee, me, Warne Marsh, Jimmy, Bill Evans and others. In 1960 I recorded again with George Russell on Jazz in the Space Age, which also sounds way too out there today.

From that point on I worked heavily and steadily for CBS until 1972. When I started at CBS there were 80 musicians on staff. By 1972, when the orchestra was disbanded, there were just 12. Hank Jones, Chuck Wayne and many other top jazz musicians were there, too.

Since then I have been playing locally with a terrific nine-piece group. We play mostly private functions. I also get tremendous satisfaction teaching music and writing arrangements at a local private school. It's fascinating to see these kids grow musically.

When I think back to the 1950s, one of the funniest moments for me was walking down Broadway with Dizzy. I had played in Dizzy's big band at Birdland in the early 1950s, and we had played together in Boyd Raeburn's band back in 1944.

I can't recall why we were walking together that day, but Dizzy had just come back from a tour in Greece and he was telling me about it. As we walked along, people on the street kept giving him the up and down. I just figured it was Dizzy. He was such a hero to everyone. Then I realized they were looking at what he was wearing. He had on shoes that turned up at the ends with bells on the tips. Combined with his goatee, bebop beret, sunglasses and huge meerschaum pipe, he was some sight!

But that's what jazz was about back then. The music was everywhere. If you were tops on your horn, as Dizzy was, you could dress and act any way you wished, and everyone would dig your scene."

Tomorrow I will feature the final installment of my five-part interview with Hal McKusick. Hal reflects on the key musicians he played with over the years, including Barry Galbraith, Bill Evans and others.

JazzWax tracks: Prior to today's blog, the CDs and tracks I have recommended have featured Hal in other jazz artists' bands. Now I have a chance to focus on his recordings as a leader in the 1950s. I think you'll agree that they are among the best and most inventive alto sax dates of the period.

Hal's Live at the Academy, The Jazz Workshop, East Coast Jazz/8 and In a 20th Century Drawing Room all can be found on one CD—Hal McKusick Quartet: The Complete Barry Galbraith, Milt Hinton and Osie Johnson Recordings. This double CD can be found here.

If you are not familiar with these dates, I think this CD will completely revolutionize your thinking about reed playing during the 1950s. Hal's tone and the range of the arrangements are astonishingly beautiful. I have been listening to this CD all week—which at this point amounts to about 30 plays. I have not yet tired of hearing it or Hal's playing and ideas.

The CD, Hal McKusick: Now's the Time (1957-58), can be found here and includes most of Cross Section: Saxes as well as tracks from Hal's other Decca albums.

Another album that should not be missed is Triple Exposure. It can be found here. This album features some of Hal's finest playing—on alto, tenor and clarinet. Each track is a gem.

What will surprise you about all of these CDs is Hal's velvet-slipper sound. If you are unfamiliar with Barry Galbraith, whose guitar truly set the standard for everyone who followed, you're in for a double treat. More on Galbraith in a future post.

If you're interested in George Russell's New York, New York or Jazz in the Space Age, both are available at iTunes. The Brandeis Jazz Festival (1957) CD is actually under Bill Evans and can be found here.

JazzWax clips: I managed to track down a clip on the web of Hal McKusick from June 2007. To see Hal playing tenor on My One and Only Love, go here. Dig the muscles in Hal's face! He's blowing solo, on the high end of the horn, and halfway through you realize that's all you need with a guy like Hal. His tone is that seductive.

Interview: Hal McKusick (Part 3)

Hal McKusick met tenor saxophonist Al Cohn for the first time in 1944. They were both in the reed section of Boyd Raeburn’s band, which featured jazz musicians and arrangers who were years ahead of their time. Dizzy Gillespie, Bennie Harris and Oscar Pettiford were there. So was Johnny Mandel, George Handy and Johnny Richards. Everyone in the band went on to have amazing jazz careers, including Hal and Al.

Hal left Raeburn in 1944 (but rejoined the band for a period in 1945). Cohn left a short time after Hal and he went on to play a range of top bands. Hal and Al [pictured] would cross paths often during the 1940s, working steadily together again in Elliot Lawrence's band in the early 1950s as well as with the CBS Studio Orchestra in the 1960s and beyond.

Cohn is known for his swinging, smooth sound on the tenor. Heavily influenced by Lester Young, Cohn played with virtually everyone in jazz in the 1940s and was widely regarded as one of the best tenor sax session readers. He not only could solo effortlessly but also could churn out arrangements that were a delight to the ear and a joy to play from a musician's standpoint.

After leaving Raeburn, Cohn played in the bands of Alvino Rey and Buddy, Rich. He then was a member of the Woody Herman "Four Brothers" band, where he wrote spectacular charts including The Goof and I. He then joined Artie Shaw's powerful bebop band for a short period in 1949 before a serious eye problem took him out of action for a few years.

Cohn returned to the jazz scene in 1952, to Elliot Lawrence's band, and freelanced extensively as an arranger. He also recorded regularly with tenor saxophonist Zoot Sims throughout the 1950s. Cohn continued to play and arrange until his death in 1988.

Hal was fond of Cohn, and he quit Raeburn's band as a result of how Raeburn was treating Cohn. Hal adored Cohn's playing, arranging ability and off-beat sense of humor:

“Al was quiet, funny, serious and funny. Like the rest of us who were trying to play pretty, Al was a devoted Lester Young fan. In fact, he got Prez before anyone did, even before Stan Getz and Zoot Sims.

Al always had a joke. If he wasn’t trying to tell a funny story on the bandstand, he was pulling gags. One time he made me believe he had drooled all over a mouthpiece I had loaned him. You have to understand, sax players don't like sharing mouthpieces. But he asked so I let him have it. The next thing I know, he has drool coming down his chin. I flipped. But Al hadn’t really done that to my mouthpiece. He just lit me up, which is what made it funny.

Al and I worked in Elliot Lawrence’s band in the early 1950s. Al was the most unbelievable arranger. He could write anything and it would swing. He was tireless. He would play all day and write all night. I used to copy for Al. Working with him taught me so much about arranging and copying, which helped when I was copying for Johnny Mandel and Gil Evans.

We’d go all night at Al's apartment in Brooklyn. You can’t believe what a thrill it was to write an arrangement, copy the band parts from the score, bring them into rehearsal the next day and hear great musicians play it perfectly on virtually the first run-through. That's what kept you motivated—knowing what you were hearing in your head would be heard by many soon after you finished writing it up.

When Al had eye surgery, I visited him in the hospital. His eye problem was probably the result of strain, junk, drinking and stress from road. I remember seeing him right after the anesthesia wore off. I brought him a Groucho Marx book. I was going to read it to him because he loved Groucho and all those one-liners. But when I came into the room, Al’s sitting in bed making a list.

I said, 'Al, what are you doing?' He said that with one of his eyes out of commission, he had to change the titles of a lot of songs. I said, 'What are you talking about?' He read off his list: I Only Have Eye for You, Them There Eye and about a dozen other songs with the word 'eye' instead of 'eyes.' That was Al."

Tomorrow, Part 4 will focus on Hal's hugely productive recording period between 1955 and 1958, his favorite recordings from the period and the chance meeting in a Greenwich Village shop that put George Russell back on the jazz scene.

JazzWax tracks: My four favorite Al Cohn albums include The Al Cohn Quintet (go here) Al Cohn/Zoot Sims Sextet: From A to Z (go here), Gerry Mulligan: Songbook (go here)  and The Brothers (go here).

JazzWax clips: For a glimpse of Al Cohn in Woody Herman's 1948 band, go here. He's in the sax section and the first to stand up and solo a few notes. That's Stan Getz and Shorty Rogers down front, and Zoot Sims and Serge Chaloff in the reed pen.

Interview: Hal McKusick (Part 2)

The last straw for alto saxophonist Hal McKusick and pianist/composer/arranger George Handy came in late 1944, when bandleader Boyd Raeburn took away yet another one of Al Cohn's sax solos and gave it to rising star and alto saxophonist Johnny Bothwell. So Hal and Handy packed up their gear and left the band in Boston.

By this time, Hal had developed a pure alto sound that was as relaxed and laid back as Charlie Parker's sound was edgy and frantic. Having started in music early, Hal had been playing professionally since age 15. By late 1944, he had become a masterful sight-reader. In just two short years, he was a veteran of five major bands—Don Bestor, Les Brown, Dean Hudson, Woody Herman and Boyd Raeburn.

Hal's Raeburn period was especially fortuitous, since he wound up playing with many budding jazz giants of the day, including Oscar Pettiford, Dizzy Gillespie, Bennie Harris, Serge Chaloff [pictured], Al Cohn and Trummy Young. With his band chops and reputation firmly established in late 1944, Hal was ready for a change.

Here's more from my phone interview with the 83-year-old Hal:

"The day George Handy and I left Boyd in Boston, we flew into New York’s LaGuardia airport and were taking a cab to his home in Brooklyn. In the cab, George was going on and on about how great the West Coast was. He had already been at Paramount Pictures but had gotten bored and came back to New York to write arrangements for the Herbie Fields band and for Boyd.

As we’re driving on Eastern Parkway, George said we should go to California. I said great. So he leans forward  in the cab and tells the driver to turn around. We went back to LaGuardia and flew out to Los Angeles that afternoon.

Why didn't Al Cohn leave Boyd's band at the same time? Al moved quietly. He loved playing in that band, and he just swallowed the fact that Boyd was taking his solos away. But he left soon afterward.

When George and I arrived in Los Angeles, George started writing arrangements almost immediately for Artie Shaw [pictured]. We moved into a hotel and were there for about a month before finding our own apartments.

For the next few months I played club dates and put together a band with Stan Getz. I rejoined Boyd's band for a period in 1945 but late in the year, I quit to join Alvino Rey [pictured], a steel guitarist with a double-brass big band. Rey was an electronics genius. He hooked up this device that fit on the throat of his girl singer. She would go behind the bandstand and  mouth words that would come out of his steel guitar.

I was on the road with Rey for six months and then quit his band. I wanted to get back to Hollywood. From 1946 to 1948, I played what they used to call “casuals.” These were pickup gigs. Jazz musicians would hang out on Vine Street and get together to work in nearby clubs. I jammed at the Key Club with virtually everyone who was out there at the time. Chet Baker [pictured] was out there, too. He was maybe 16 years old and could play even then. In the 1970s when I played in New York, I saw him sitting in the back and asked him to come up and play or sing. He just said softly, "No, no, I'm OK, I'm OK." He was a very gentle guy.

During this period in Hollywood I played regularly with Johnny Otis [pictured], a white drummer who had long hair and looked like Tarzan. He was hard driving and went on to become one of the most prominent guys in rhythm and blues. At the time we were the only two white guys in this band that played regularly at the Club Alabam on Central Avenue. There would be a fashion show on Sundays, and Lena Horne would sing with us. I had to join both the black and white unions.

By 1948 I was tiring of the Hollywood scene and wanted to get back to New York. So I joined Buddy Rich’s [pictured] band at the Palladium in Hollywood. He was going out on tour and finishing up in New York. Dizzy Gillespie's band was hot then, and Buddy wanted a bop arranger.

I knew Jimmy Giuffre [pictured]could write those types of charts backward and forward. But when I asked Jimmy to come on, he turned me down. This was before he joined Woody Herman and became huge. He said he was working at J.C. Penney and was hoping to earn $5,000 a year within five years. It sounds funny now, considering it's Jimmy, but he and his family were just eking out a living then.

By the time Buddy's band had reached northern California, we were desperate. So I called Jimmy again. I said he could write Buddy's entire book if he wanted to. I told him I'd even stay up all night with him copying his charts for the band. He finally gave in and told me to wire him money. He joined us in the Northwest. Warne Marsh [pictured] was in that band, too, playing alto parts on his tenor.

We went across Canada doing one-nighters and came back into the U.S. through Niagara Falls and then down into New York City. We went into the Clique Club on 52d Street and Broadway. A year later the club was renamed Birdland.

In mid-1948, Lee Konitz gave notice in the Claude Thornhill [pictured] band. He was going to play in Miles Davis' Birth of the Cool band. After he left, Claude replaced him with a few different alto saxophonists. Then I got an audition with Claude in late 1948. So I went to Nola Studios across from Carnegie Hall and brought my horn. Claude didn’t ask me to audition with the band. He sat down at the piano and played, and I blew with him. When we were done, he asked if I could leave on Friday. That's how I started with Claude.

Claude's charts could be both complex and soft. I remember one night we were playing this number called the Easy Living Medley. It was slow and went on forever, with Easy Living and other tunes built in. Billy Exner was the band's drummer, and he used to play with his eyes closed. Billy used the brushes on this tune, and when we came to the end of it on this night, Billy was still playing the brushes. He had fallen half asleep.

So Claude puts his finger to his lips so we wouldn't wake Billy. Claude called another tune with the same beat, and we just started playing again in time with Billy's brushes. Then Claude kicked up the tempo and volume, and Billy woke up with a jolt and started swinging without missing a beat. It was so funny.

Claude was a highly intelligent guy but very quiet. He kept his emotions to himself. You never knew if he felt good or bad. One time when were touring just across the border in Mexico, the band was staying at this beautiful hotel. Just as I got out of my clothes and climbed into bed after playing with the band, I heard pebbles hit my window. I went to the glass and saw Claude down in the courtyard near the fountain.

Claude was beckoning for me to come down. He was used his hands to say I should bring my horn. When I got downstairs, Claude took me to this bar he had found where there was a rinky-dink piano. Claude sat down, and we played until 3 or 4 am. I don't think the people in there cared one way or the other. Claude was like that. He loved to play. It didn’t matter where or at what hour.

Claude had this tenor saxophonist named Johnny Andrews who was an amazing musician. He could play like Bird, but on tenor. Now Claude was very disciplined. He wouldn’t’ stand for guys on junk. I was always clean, my entire life. I smoked cigarettes and that was dumb enough. But so many guys went on junk and somehow were able to play. I never understood how that was possible.

At any rate, Andrews wasn’t using but he had a bad reputation—bad enough that Claude was worried. So late one night, in the middle of Iowa, I’m driving one of the new cars Claude had bought for the band. Andrews was in the back seat asleep. All of a sudden, headlights came up behind me and started blinking. It was Claude’s Chrysler. I recognized the grille. So I pulled over.

Claude got out of his car and walked around to the passenger side and tapped on the window, pointing at my keys. So I turned off the ignition and gave them to him. Claude opened the trunk, took out Andrews' things. Then he tapped on the passenger side where Andrews was sleeping. Andrews got out of the car, in the middle of nowhere. And that was the last I saw of him. I think he eventually left the music business and became a repairman someplace. Claude was like that.

Eventually the work stopped for Claude's band. When we returned to New York in 1950, Johnny Mandel and Al Cohn, who had been with me in Boyd’s band, asked me to join Elliot Lawrence’s band. So I left Claude and was with Lawrence for five years before gong out on my own to record.

Elliot had one of the most underrated bands of the early 1950s. The guys that passed through there were amazing—Bernie Glow, Eddie Bert, Charlie O’Kane, Ernie Royal, Urbie Green, Fred Zito, Billy Byers, Zoot Sims and Don Lamond. The charts were written by Mandel, Cohn and Tiny Kahn. Sensational stuff.

Elliot's band was a turning point for me in many ways."

Tomorrow I'll have Part 3 of my interview with Hal McKusick, with a focus on tenor saxophonist and longtime bandmate Al Cohn. 

JazzWax tracks: Hal's period with Thornhill is captured on Claude Thornhill: 1949-53 Performances and can be found here. Hal's years with Elliot Lawrence are well documented on two stunning CDs that are musts for anyone who loves big bands. They are Elliot Lawrence Plays Gerry Mulligan Arrangements, which you can find here, and The Elliot Lawrence Big Band Swings Cohn and Kahn, which is here.

JazzWax videoclips: There isn't much of Claude Thornhill's on YouTube, except an oddity here called Count Me In from before Hal's time.

And here's the Elliot Lawrence band in a still shot from April 1949, with a recording of the band playing Gerry Mulligan's Elevation in the background.This photo and recording are from just before Hal joined the band but they will give you a sense of Lawrence's sound.