JazzWax

Wax Bits

Willis Conover lives! David Brent Johnson's radio program last night on WFIU-FM was a fabulous tribute to Willis Conover—the world's most recognizable radio announcer who was never heard by most Americans.

For more than 40 years during the cold war, Conover was the jazz DJ for Voice of America. His hour-long broadcasts weren't political soapbox sessions. Instead, his chauvinism was for American jazz—and the music was beamed into Eastern Europe, the USSR and other countries around the world. But not in the U.S., which is why Conover's name wasn't well known here among audiences.

Conover spoke slowly...in a deep, knowing voice...so that millions of people abroad...could understand what he was saying. And his love for jazz was infectious, making the music and America sound tremendously exciting.

To hear David's show on Conover, click here and then click the big blue button.

Instant Groove: I had lunch in New York last week with saxophonist Daryl Lowery. Daryl and I went to high school together, and today he tours with rock legend Al Kooper and teaches at the Berklee College of Music in Boston. Daryl was in town to perform in a concert tied in to the upcoming Bob Dylan biopic, I'm Not There.

Daryl and I hadn't seen each other in quite some time, and it was good catching up. Daryl left with me his most recent CD—Instant Groove—a strong mix of up-tempo funk and soulful ballads. The group features a Hammond B3, which knocks me out.

Daryl always had a strong command of the alto and tenor  sax, and his original pieces on this CD feature punchy riffs, Latin-influenced horn work and steady solos. Go here to sample Daryl's CD.

YouTube update: Be sure to wander through the YouTube list in the right-hand column. I spent a little time last night "fishing" at the video site for great clips to add to the JazzWax list, and I landed a few beauts.

For those not in the know, you don't have to do anything more than click on the artist's name in the YouTube list. A screen will instantly emerge and show you the clip. Then just close the screen when the clip is over and you'll be right back at JazzWax.

Here's one of Stan Kenton's orchestra in 1945 performing Eager Beaver. Why a showgirl (Jean Ivory?) is dancing woodenly to the music is beyond me, but the band is on the money.

Cannonball Meets Farmer, 1958

It seems improbable, but trumpeter Art Farmer and alto saxophonist Cannonball Adderley recorded only once together in a small-group setting—during the summer of 1958. (They did appear together as members of an obscure Berlin big band date in 1966 headed by Friedrich Gulda, but the recording was never released.)

The Adderley-Farmer summit of 1958 was captured on an album called Alabama Concerto. Recorded for Riverside over three different days—July 28, July 31 and August 25, 1958—the album is unknown by many jazz listeners and certainly deserves a fresh listen by those who are familiar with it.

There are two probable reasons for its near-obscurity. For one, Alabama Concerto is listed under John Benson Brooks' name. Brooks, who composed all of the album's pieces and played piano on just one of the tracks, isn't exactly a household jazz name. For another, the album's title is deceiving, leaving the uninitiated with the impression that this is a classical album pushed through a jazz filter.

Not so. Alabama Concerto is one of the great jazz sleepers. It features wonderful and imaginative jazz interpretations of rural folk music composed by Brooks, who was a writing pal of Gil Evans and George Russell. The craftsmanship of the pieces and the arranging is top-notch.

Mind you, this is no strum and twang album—or an attempt by an ivory-tower composer to glorify barefoot living. It's pure jazz of the highest order. And what makes the album particularly special are the interactions between Adderley's and Farmer's horns.

Adderley's alto is as searing as Farmer's trumpet is pensive, and both giants play around each other beautifully. Which is what makes Brooks even more remarkable—he knew exactly which players to bring in to execute what he heard in his head.

And then there's guitarist Barry Galbraith, whose beautiful lines and chords behind Adderley and Farmer provide a soft platform. Milt Hinton's bass is full and woody without overpowering Adderley, Farmer or Galbraith. Keep in mind that there were no drums on the date and virtually no piano, so Hinton really had his work cut out for him.

There's even a back story. After doing a bit of discography research yesterday on Farmer and Adderley, I discovered that both musicians were recording Porgy & Bess separately for different labels while recording Alabama Concerto. The two Porgy dates were perfect tune-ups for the mood and spirit needed on Alabama Concerto.

On July 16 and 17 of 1958, Farmer was recording Porgy with Mundell Lowe and His Orchestra for Camden records. The group included Don Elliott, Tony Scott, Ben Webster, Lowe,  George Duvivier and Osie Johnson. Meanwhile, between July 29 and August 18, Cannonball was with Miles Davis recording Gil Evans' orchestrations for Porgy for Columbia.

When you listen to Alabama Concerto, you'll hear that Adderley and Farmer brought his own Porgy feel to the date. You'll also hear that Brooks' charts were heavily influenced by the writing of Gil Evans, making Alabama Concerto something of a Gil Evans Porgy in miniature—even though Porgy wasn't completed or released yet.

The tonal similarities are remarkable and only demonstrate how in-bred many of these modal arrangers were at the time. They workshopped together, swapped music theories and experimented with similar mindsets.

To quote from a blurb on the reissue of Alabama Concerto:

"Back in the early 1970s, a panel of British critics selected Alabama Concerto as one of the 200 essential jazz albums of the previous quarter-century. They were impressed by the eloquent variations on rural folk material...The passing years only reaffirm the unique excellence of this masterpiece."

If you enjoy Art Farmer and Cannonball Adderley, you'll love Alabama Concerto. The musical textures created by the two artists are splendid, and Brooks' original works are frolicsome, poetic and distinctly American. The album also plays well together with Miles' and Gil's Porgy & Bess—one heard right after the other.

JazzWax tracks: A number of different U.S. and import versions of Alabama Concerto are available here, including mp3 downloads for 99 cents each.

However, I recommend you buy the CD—or buy all of the downloads. You really can't appreciate this work unless you hear it from the first track to the last, in order. After all, it's a concerto.

JazzWax video clips: To hear Miles Davis play the Gil Evans arrangement of Summertime from Porgy & Bess, go here. Quincy Jones is conducting, and it was recorded at the Montreux Jazz Festival in July 1991, two months before Miles' death.

Just prior to recording Porgy & Bess and Alabama Concerto, Art Farmer was at the Newport Jazz Festival with Gerry Mulligan on July 6, 1958. Go here to see a clip of Farmer playing with Mulligan from Jazz on a Summer's Day.

To see Cannonball Adderley play Jessica's Day in March 1963, go here. It was recorded in Switzerland. Funny how the set designers wrapped the word "sextet" around the wall behind the musicians so that "sex" is all you see on camera. That's Yusef Lateef on tenor, Nat Adderley on cornet, Joe Zawinul on piano, Sam Jones on bass and Louis Hayes on drums.

Interview: Yolande Bavan (Part 3)

After winning a radio singing contest in 1956, Yolande Bavan left Sri Lanka for the first time at age 16 to tour with jazz pianist Graeme Bell. Then in 1957 the vocalist left Sri Lanka for good—this time on board a ship bound for England.

Over the next five years, Yolande sang in London and Paris clubs, where she befriended touring American jazz musicians. In November 1958, Billie Holiday virtually adopted Yolande during her stay in Paris, and the two spent time again during Billie's final trip to London in February 1959 for a TV appearance.

By 1960, Yolande was receiving more stage and TV acting roles than club engagements. But a fateful meeting at a friend's party in early spring 1962 would force Yolande to put her acting career on hold. Within a month's time, she would go from struggling London actress to a member of one of the world's most popular jazz vocalese groups.

In Part 3 of my interview with Yolande Bavan below, she talks about how she filled Annie Ross' shoes in a London revue and then replaced Ross two years later in Dave Lambert and Jon Hendricks' hot vocal group:

"After Billie Holiday left London in February 1959, I started to take on more acting roles. I was still singing, but acting parts were coming at me faster than club dates. Sometimes I was called upon to do both.

Throughout 1959, David Lee, the South African jazz pianist and composer, saw me sing at all these little London clubs with my pigtails. Toward the end of 1959, he gave me an address and told me to meet him there. So I went, and when I knocked on the door, an older gentleman opened it. I told the man I was there to meet David Lee.

We walked down to the basement and there was Julie Andrews, Tony Walton—a costume designer who would soon be her husband—David and John Cranko, the choreographer. It was Cranko's home.

David introduced me to everyone. Then he sat down at a piano and asked me to sing. I did a little improv number. I can't recall what it was. When I finished, John Cranko said it was nice to meet me, everyone said goodbye, and he showed me out.

The next day I asked David what was going on at the house. He said they were casting a revue called New Cranks. He was scoring the musical arrangements and John Cranko was doing the lyrics and choreography. Then David told me that I got the part if I wanted it and that I'd be appearing with Carole Shelly, Gillian Lynne, Bernie Cribbins, Billy Wilson and John Wade. These were all big names at the time.

New Cranks was a scatological revue updating a popular 1955 show called Cranks that had been successful in London and New York. It was John Cranko's idea—hence the name "Cranks." The original Cranks starred Anthony Newley, Gordon Heath and Annie Ross—believe it or not. By the time of my audition, Annie, of course, was singing with Dave Lambert and Jon Hendricks.

New Cranks was kind of wacky. They wrote this hip stuff, and I had to act, sing and learn to dance. The show opened at the Lyric Hammersmith Theater in April 1960 and ran for about three or four months. I learned so much during that show. And I don’t think I ever said “hip,” “dig” and “flipped” more often in my life.

After New Cranks, my theater career really started to take off. In 1961 I was cast as Cleopatra in Caesar and Cleopatra and I did several BBC TV dramas—one with Sammy Davis, Jr. called Day of the Fox, in which I played his Indian wife. I was doing so much theater then that I pretty much gave up club singing.

Now, much has been written about me learning all of the Lambert, Hendricks & Ross songs and then cornering Dave Lambert and showing him I could sing their lyrics backward and forward. That's a great story—but it's all nonsense.

Here's how I came to join the group:

I had always been a big fan of Lambert, Hendricks & Ross. And I had followed Annie Ross in New Cranks, in the role she had created, so I was more than familiar with her.

At this time, I was very close to Max Jones, the Melody Maker jazz writer,  and his wife—whose sister Sandra and her husband Donnie threw lavish jazz parties at their home.

Naturally, they were very close friends with Lambert, Hendricks & Ross. One day, early in 1962, they took me to hear Count Basie and Lambert, Hendricks & Ross in London. Afterward, we went backstage and I finally got to meet Annie Ross for the first time. I said, 'Oh you’re Annie Ross. You did Cranks. I'm so thrilled to me you!' And Annie said, 'You’re Yolande and you did New Cranks. So thrilled to meet you!' After that we chit-chatted and then parted.

Two nights later, Sandra and Donnie threw a party. Many jazz musicians were there, including the entire Basie band. I remember there was a Dizzy Gillespie album on the record player—as background music. I was helping Sandra clear ash trays and serve drinks. Dizzy hit a high note at the end of one of the songs and, without thinking, I hit the same note.

A man whipped around and said, 'Who did that?'

I said, 'I did.'

He asked, 'Are you a singer?'

I said, 'No I’m an actress.'

'Can you really hit those high notes?' he asked.

'Yes,' I said.

He said, 'Are you sure you’re not a singer?'

I said, 'I sing a little but mostly act.'

The man was Dave Lambert. We spoke for a little, the party went on and everyone went their separate ways. A few days later I heard from Sandra and Donnie that Annie wasn’t going to travel back to America with Lambert and Hendricks. She was going to stay in London.

I thought nothing of it. A few weeks later, my phone rang at 3 am. The voice at the other end said, 'This is Jon Hendricks.' I kept saying, 'Who? Who?' He said, 'I’m calling from New York. We want you to come to New York.'

I said, 'To New York? To do what?'

'To sing. Annie Ross has left the group and we want you to come over,' he said.

'I can’t do that,' I told him.

He told me there was a plane ticket and working visa waiting for me at the American embassy. 'You leave on Wednesday,' he said.

I said, 'I can‘t come. I can‘t sing like that.'

'Joe Williams and Sarah Vaughan recommended you. And so did Dave Brubeck,' he said.

'They’re all crazy,' I said. 'I can’t come on Wednesday.' After a pause, I said what the heck. 'OK, I’ll come—on Saturday.'

Jon told me to get a hold of the group's albums and memorize their songs.

So they changed my  plane ticket, and I left for New York with one suitcase. I said to myself, 'I'll rehearse, they'll realize they've made a big mistake. I’ll see the Statue of Liberty and return home.'

Max Jones gave me their records and I started listening to them. I thought, how am I going to learn this? The albums were multitracked—meaning each of the singers had overdubbed different sets of vocals three times to create the sound of a big band. I tried to listen, to figure out how I was going to sing Annie's part. It was hard. I listened to the records for hours at a time and sang along with them.

My plane touched down in New York very early on the morning of May 5, 1962. When I got off the plane, Dave Lambert was there to meet me. He had been the one who had floated my name to Jon as a possible replacement for Annie after meeting me at that party. I suddenly realized they were hiring me based on a single high note.

Dave said we had to hurry to catch another plane. 'Oh, are we going to where the skyscrapers are?' I asked. 'No we’re going to upstate New York,' he said. 'There’s Manhattan, where the skyscrapers are, and there's upstate New York.'

So we got on a little plane and flew to Schenectady, New York. When we arrived, a car was waiting and took us to Union College. A concert was already in progress. Tom Paxton, the folk singer and guitarist, had already played in the first half and there was an intermission. I'd say there were about 2,000 to 3,000 students in the audience. When Dave and I got out of the car, we went backstage and met Jon.

I still had my PanAm bag over my shoulder and a plaid sari on. I wore saris because they were comfortable and were part of my culture. They also distinguished me, setting me apart, and attracted quite a bit of attention.

I asked Jon when we were going to rehearse. Jon said, 'Oh, the concert is already on.' Wonderful, I thought, I would sit in the audience and listen to them sing. Then the announcer said, 'Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Lambert, Hendricks & Ross.

The audience cheered, and I heard the band start to play the intro to One O'Clock Jump. Jon and Dave rushed me on stage, and suddenly, there I was. So I started to sing with them. Dave kept nudging me to sing an octave higher, like a trumpet. I couldn't do it. I was too tired. But at the end I hit the high note, and everyone was very excited.

In addition to One O'Clock Jump, I think we sang Little Pony, Four and It's Sand Man. Then we went to a hotel. The next day we played Rhode Island and then went into Manhattan. We still hadn't rehearsed.

In New York, they had booked me a hotel with a tiny kitchen on 47th St., off Broadway. It was small and dark and depressing. Not long afterward we did a midnight jazz concert at Carnegie Hall. It was a benefit for a drug rehabilitation program named after Billie Holiday. All I could think was If Billie were alive and could see me there, she would have flipped.

Many of the jazz musicians I had met in Paris and London were backstage—the Basie band, Art Blakey, Bobby Timmons and others. They said, 'What are you doing here? You're singing with Dave and Jon. Wow! We went on at about 1 am, and we were a big hit.

By then I had a record player and was listening to the records over and over again in my hotel room. Jon wrote all the new songs. He would take a popular jazz instrumental and write lyrics to them. Then he'd give me the words and the album of the original work. I'd have to listen to the instrumental and work in the words Jon wrote. He was a genius matching words to songs. Absolutely amazing.

Sometimes we wouldn’t have time to rehearse the songs. Jon would write the words, we'd run through them quickly, and then out on stage we'd go. I remember once in Chicago, Jon had just written the lyrics to Horace Silver's Come on Home. We had to sing the song at a  club that night without rehearsal.

I must have done a decent job because when we got off, Sarah Vaughan was there. She said to me, 'Little did I know when I saw you in Paris.' I said, 'Sarah, I heard you referred me to Dave and Jon. Why? You hadn't heard me sing that often.' Sarah said, 'You hung around us so much. And to hit those high notes the way you did, ahhh.' Sarah was so encouraging.

Then the group went to California, first to the Monterey Jazz Festival, where we performed a scaled back version of the The Real Ambassadors, a musical about race relations written by Dave Brubeck and his wife, Iola. The show never made it to the stage but was recorded by Louis Armstrong and Lambert, Hendricks & Ross in 1961.

The only time The Real Ambassadors was performed publicly was when we did it in 1962. When Dave Brubeck and I walked into the band room at the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco to rehearse, there was Louis Armstrong sitting on a chair with his wife, Lucille. Dave looked at me and said, 'Did we know about this?' 'No way,' I said.

When Louis saw me, he smiled and turned to Lucille and said, 'Hey Mama, I know that face.' I said, 'Louis, I met you in Australia when I was 17 years old, with Graeme Bell.' Louis said, 'Ahhh, Graeme Bell.' Louis and Trummy Young had played with Graeme's Dixieland group when they were touring Australia back in the mid-1950s. We rehearsed The Real Ambassadors with Louis, for a few hours. He knew the score cold.

After the performance at Monterey, we went back to New York and into Basin Street East three different times. At different points, Joe Williams, Stan Getz and Ahmad Jamal were on the bill. I remember Ahmad and Stan didn't get along.

Joe Williams was always great to me. In fact, everybody was extremely respectful of me. I think it was my sari. Even Charlie Mingus used to say in his gravely voice, 'No swearing around Bavan.' I think Dave and Jon put a warning out that anyone associated with drugs were not to speak to me or contact me. I think everyone felt protective of me, and it worked.

By early 1965, I decided I had had enough. The constant touring was wearing me down. I was also amazed that jazz just wasn't as respected in America as it was in other parts of the world. I would have to wrap my sari in the kitchen of clubs with bacon fat sizzling. It was awful some of the places we played. I couldn't believe jazz musicians were treated like second-class citizens. Besides, I missed my acting.

So I gave notice. After I left the group, I stayed in New York and started auditioning for roles and spent the years that followed focusing on my TV and stage career.

Jazz has always been great to me. I adored the jazz musicians I met in London and Paris, but the person I probably respected most was Dave Lambert. He was kind, and he wasn't malicious—verbally or otherwise. He didn't have that kind of energy.

I was so devastated when he died in October 1966. Dave had gone up to a Connecticut theater to pick up his girlfriend, who was an actress. He was returning to New York on the Connecticut turnpike at 1 am when he saw this guy on the side of the road with a white handkerchief trying to flag down help. Dave pulled over and had his girlfriend use the handkerchief to warn off traffic. But a truck sideswiped Dave and the guy as they were changing his tire, killing them both.

Dave was always helping people, and jazz musicians loved him. Even Miles Davis was crazy about Dave. I remember when we were in Philadelphia in 1963. Miles was playing around the corner. I begged Dave to take me to see him. The moment Miles saw Dave, his face lit up and he put his arms around him and sent us a bottle of champagne.

My career with Lambert and Hendricks was brief—just over three years. Those were exciting times for me, even though rock and bossa nova were starting to change popular music, pushing jazz to the side. But during those years, in the very early 1960s, before everything changed and jazz was still important, I like to think that I made a contribution.

Indeed she did. Not only did Yolande enable Dave Lambert and Jon Hendricks to fulfill their dates and financial obligations when Annie Ross dropped out suddenly in 1962, she also let listeners know that jazz had worldwide appeal.

Through her saris, exotic looks and graceful demeanor, Yolande showed listeners that jazz was special outside the U.S., that other cultures understood its message of creative freedom and individualism, and that the women who sang it did not have to dress like showgirls.

Ultimately, Yolande was the real jazz ambassador.

JazzWax note: When I spoke with Yolande on Tuesday, I confessed that I did not own two of the group's three albums. Since they were out of print and hard to find, I said, I was only familiar with them when played for me by friends.

Yolande then insisted I come by her apartment and burn copies and borrow a DVD of the group from 1963.

So yesterday I stopped by for a dark cup of Sri Lankan tea. Yolande is as graceful and as charming today as she looked and sounded on records back in the early 1960s. And her voice remains lyrical and soothing.

While my laptop burned the Lambert, Hendricks & Bavan discs, we listened to a range of vocalists via iTunes—from Billie and Carmen to Frank and Jo. I watched Yolande as the music swept over her, and from time to time she sang along in places. It was a special visit.

JazzWax tracks: In addition to recording with Lambert and Hendricks, Yolande recorded a fascinating rock/fusion album with Peter Ivers in 1969. Her voice on this album was at its peak as she navigated very difficult and cutting-edge vocal parts. The psychedelic album, Knight of the Blue Communion, was just re-mastered and re-issued, and it can be found here. Unfortunately it's not at iTunes, but you can sample it at Amazon.

JazzWax video clips: Once again, to see Yolande Bavan singing in 1963 with Dave Lambert and Jon Hendricks, click here.

Interview: Yolande Bavan (Part 2)

Yolande Bavan joined Dave Lambert and Jon Hendricks in May 1962 after "illness" forced Annie Ross to quit the high-energy singing group during a European tour. The reason for Ross' departure was never made clear and varies depending on the book you read.

Regardless, Ross had been an essential member of the swinging group. Her silky voice was savvy and shrewd, and her image was flirty and high-fashion, all of which played well at clubs and on album covers.

When Ross was sidelined, Lambert and Hendricks were cast adrift—with enormous financial obligations to satisfy a long list of live engagements. They had to find a suitable replacement for Ross, someone who not only could sing the complex vocal parts but also would be visually special.

Ultimately, Lambert and Hendricks chose Yolande Bavan, and the group—as Lambert, Hendricks & Bavan—toured extensively between May 1962 and early 1965, recording three live albums for RCA.

How did Yolande Bavan become so well known so quickly among American jazz musicians and how did she become a fixture on the London jazz scene in so short a period of time?

In Part 1 of my interview with Yolande, she spoke about her early years in her native Sri Lanka (then called Ceylon); her interest in jazz; her first singing break; her tour of Australia, Japan and Korea at age 16; and her decision to sail for London at age 19 in 1957 to take her career to the next level.

In Part 2 below, she talks about her good fortune in London, her eight days in late 1958 with Billie Holiday in Paris, and how she limited Billie's drinking during a London TV appearance in early 1959:

"Before I left Sri Lanka for London in 1957, pianist Graeme Bell wrote to Humphrey Lyttelton, the Dixieland trumpeter, recommending me. When I arrived in London, I called Humphrey. We met, and he introduced me to Lyn Dutton, his agent and manager. Dutton got me singing dates in the London clubs, including at Humphrey’s own club.

At the time I loved Bud Powell and was mad about Miles Davis, so I was always hanging around at the more progressive jazz clubs, where I saw Art Blakey, Count Basie, Dave Brubeck, and so many others.

On weekends, I'd travel to Paris to visit my closest friend, Marpessa Dawn. Marpessa was a wonderful actress. She had just finished filming Black Orpheus, which, when it came out in 1959, introduced Bossa Nova music to the world. Marpessa wasn’t really from Brazil. She was part Filipino, part African-American and part Native-American—and she was from Pittsburgh. She was absolutely gorgeous.

On one of those trips to Paris in November 1958, Marpessa said we should go eat at Gaby and Haynes, a soul food restaurant where all the American jazz musicians ate. So we went. That night, at the table across the way, was Billie Holiday, her pianist Mal Waldron, and clarinetist Mezz Mezzrow. They were appearing at the Mars Club.

Billie was looking at me for a long time—I was wearing a sari—and finally sent Mal over to our table. 'Miss Holiday would like you to come over and join her.' I was in awe and so shy then. I told him, 'No, no, I can’t, I can’t, I really can’t.'

Mal laughed and went back to Billie’s table. He must have told her I was painfully shy. Because as Billie was leaving, she passed my table and said to me, 'If I had a daughter, I’d like her to be just like you.'

The next night I was singing at the Blue Note Cafe with a trio led by the guitarist Jimmy Gourley. When I looked across the room, there was Billie sitting at the bar. She knew everyone there, and everyone knew her. When I came off the stage, she waved for me to come over. In that voice of hers, she said, 'Hi. You’d better start really singing. Be here tomorrow at the club at 2 pm. I’m going to teach you a few songs.'

So the next day I was at the club. It was just me, Billie and Mal. Billie taught me Solitude and Don’t Explain. She would have me sing and then she would correct me. She urged me to make my singing more resonant. 'Always tell the truth,' she said. Since I was just 19 at the time, I reached for the pain of my parents’ divorce to get at the emotion I needed.

Billie and I just goofed around that day—compared to what would follow. While she was in Paris, Billie wanted me to spend the days with her. So I did.

I enjoyed being with her so much. She was like a mother to me. She’d tell me to come by her hotel—The Crystal—and we’d just sit around and relax. She’d read Superman comic books, we’d talk, she’d sleep.

Billie was strict with me and practically adopted me during that period. 'You’re going to come to America some day,' she said, 'and I’ll buy you 28 flavors of ice cream. We have a place called Howard Johnson's.' I was young and had never heard of 28 flavors of ice cream or Howard Johnson's. It sounded so exciting.

Billie also was very protective. 'If I ever hear that you’ve smoked pot or anything like that, I’ll come and slap you upside your head,' she said. I had no idea why people took drugs. I was so naïve—not because I was naïve. Drugs just wasn’t in my realm or experience.

Also, Billie's stories of her hard life affected me and made me realize that drugs could easily lead to similar hard experiences that I didn’t want. Billie told me terrible stories of abuse at the hands of her husband at the time—Louis McKay. She also told me things she did to him that weren't very nice either.

When she said he had kicked her chihuahua into an empty fireplace, that was the last straw. I just said to her, 'My god, this man is a monster.' She said, 'Yes he is, babe, yes he is.'

During those days in November, Billie was paranoid—and for good reason. People had been trying to plant things on her to arrest her for drug use. She’d tell me, 'If you see a stranger coming in the direction of my room, just walk away as if you don’t know me.' Billie also would go into the bathroom for long periods. At the time, I had no idea why she was in there for so long.

Toward the end of Billie's stay, she made me my first American Thanksgiving dinner with turkey and everything. I don’t know how she got a turkey in Paris but she did. One thing she made that I didn’t like much was sweat potatoes with marshmallows. Billie loved it.

When Billie left for the States, I returned to London. BBC executives who had seen me sing on a variety show asked me to audition for a play. The play was set in Morocco, and I played a girl dressed as a boy who came to France to kill everyone. I think it was called Dr. Kabul.

That Christmas I heard from Billie. She called to talk and said she had no money. She sounded like she was in bad shape. So I tucked 10 quid—about $20—into a holiday card and sent it to her apartment on West 84th St. in New York. Years later someone had found the card in her apartment and showed it to me. I nearly broke down in tears.

In February 1959, Billie came to London to do a BBC TV show called Chelsea at 9. By then I was close friends with a lot of the London jazz community. I was singing in a much more modern, hip style and hanging out with Ronnie Scott and Tubby Hayes. I also knew Max Jones, the jazz writer for Melody Maker and a good friend of Billie’s.

When Billie arrived in London, she called me from the airport and said, 'Where the hell are you?' I knew she was coming to London but I didn’t’ know she was going to call me from the airport or that she expected me to be there.

The next day Billie was doing the TV show. So Max picked me up at 7 am. and then we picked up Billie. We were at the BBC TV studio from 9 in the morning to 9 at night for rehearsals and the airing. I was with her backstage the entire time. It was a bit difficult. She had been having a hard time in America. There was no work because she didn’t have a cabaret license and she had no money.

And she wasn’t well. She was getting thinner, more drawn and sadder. I spent the day with Billie in the dressing room, just watching over her. She couldn’t do any drugs. That would have been difficult. But she was drinking vodka and orange juice. I knew I had to stop her from going too far.

I knew Billie wouldn’t drink unless there was ice. So while she rehearsed, I melted the ice under the hot water tap. When she returned, I told her there was no more ice. She’d get cross with me. 

She was very paranoid at the time, and she would become terribly fearful if I left the dressing room for a second. If I wanted to leave to get a coffee or something, she’d  say 'Can’t they bring it here.' I just wanted to get out of there for a little bit to breathe. Whenever I would go to the bathroom Billie would follow and stand there.

I think she was aware of how scared she was becoming and felt I was the only one she could trust. If Max Jones had stayed with her backstage all day, she would have done the same thing with him.

When the TV show was over, we went to Humphrey Lyttelton’s club. There were photographers all over the place, and they took this picture of us together that became famous. Billie was wearing a gorgeous dress and looking at me with such love and admiration. When I look at that photo today, it breaks my heart. It was February 1959. Billie would die a short time later—in July.

Looking back at all of those events now, I see Billie as a mother figure. But in many ways I was really the mother. I had to take care of her and follow her around. At the time I didn’t fully appreciate who she was. Now of course, it’s all clear to me. Whatever Billie was, she was always loving and kind."

In Part 3 of my interview tomorrow, Yolande talks for the first time about the events leading up to her joining Lambert and Hendricks. Most of what's already been written is wrong, she says. She also talks about the trio's grueling tour schedule, and how she managed to memorize so many of the group's tricky songs so quickly.

JazzWax video clips To see Billie Holiday perform on TV in London in February 1959 during the BBC's Chelsea at 9 show (Yolande Bavan was in her dressing room—melting ice), go here.

If you missed the clip I posted yesterday of Yolande Bavan singing in 1963 with Dave Lambert and Jon Hendricks, click here to see it. Pay particular attention to Yolande's hands as she sings her solo on Horace Silver's Come On Home.

JazzWax pix: To see the picture of Yolande and Billie together taken right after the Chelsea at 9 TV show, click here. Notice that Billie is wearing the same dress she wore earlier on TV.

JazzWax note: If you want to hear one of Mal Waldron's last albums before his death in 2002, go here to Michael McCaw's blog. Waldron was Billie's pianist during the last two years of her life. Scroll down until you reach the MediaMaster tool that lets you listen to the album for free.

Interview: Yolande Bavan (Part 1)

Sorting through my records the other day, I came across an LP that I had forgotten about but have always adored Lambert, Hendricks & Bavan: Recorded Live at Basin St. East (RCA). It was recorded at the New York club on September 6, 1962,

Staring at the cover—which features Dave Lambert and Jon Hendricks flanking an exotic and elegant Yolande Bavan—I wondered whether Bavan was still on the scene. I also grew curious about how she came to replace Annie Ross in the hottest jazz vocalese group of its day and why the group recorded only 3 albums in 12 months before disintegrating.

A few phone calls later, there she was—as graceful and as charming as she appears on album covers and in video clips.  Yesterday, we had a chance to chat about her big break, her mother-daughter relationship with Billie Holiday, and her fortuitous encounter with Dave Lambert in London.

Back in 1962, when the vocal group Lambert, Hendricks and Ross was on tour at the height of its popularity, Annie Ross took ill and needed to drop out of the trio. Ross' departure left the group in a bind.

Record producer George Avakian recalls what happened next in the liner notes from Basin Street East:

"[Dave and Jon] met Yolande while she was in London and found that she was a fan of the group's and had learned several of their intricate arrangements just for fun. When a serious illness incapacitated Annie Ross a week or two later toward the end of their European tour, Dave and Jon returned to the States without her. After starting their U.S. engagement, they decided they had to take a chance on Yolande. She arrived just in time for a concert at Union College in Schenectady, New York."

To me, what made Yolande Bavan's voice so precious during her brief time in the group was her Sri Lankan-tinged English and her rich range—from husky, knowing alto to door-squeak soprano. She eagerly took risks with her voice, and those vocal acrobatics always seemed to pay off. Often clad in a sari, her very presence added an exotic maturity to the fast-singing jazz group—not to take anything away from the sublime Annie Ross.

In Part 1 of my multipart interview with Yolande, she talks about her start, her big break in Sri Lanka, and the day she set sail for England:

"I was born in Colombo, on the West Coast of Sri Lanka. My mother was a concert pianist and my father owned a foreign car dealership. My parents divorced when I was nine years old, and my mother re-married a tea planter soon afterward. I spent my early years growing up on a tea plantation, which actually was very nice.

When my parents were together, I was studying to be a concert pianist. After they divorced, I stopped playing. Divorce wasn't as accepted in Sri Lanka as it was in the West, and their split was very hard on me, emotionally.

I began listening to jazz when I was about 14 years old. There was no jazz in Sri Lanka, and what I learned I learned through records. Actually the first time I heard jazz was while listening to the radio with my father. I visited him frequently after he and my mother split up. I used to have to listen to the radio for school—which is how Sri Lankan students heard many of their lectures on Aldous Huxley and other great writers and well-know figures.

So on the night of one of my school assignments, my father was twiddling the radio knob trying to find the station when he came across a jazz program. My father stopped to listen, but I told him to change the station because I needed to do my homework. I learned later that it was airing on Radio Tangier, and the announcer was Willis Conover broadcasting to American soldiers stationed abroad.

Each night, after his first encounter with jazz on the radio, my father would try to find that jazz station. When he finally did, he and I would listen, and he'd make the most astute observations. For example, he'd hear Sarah Vaughan sing and say, 'That sounds like a choir of angels in her voice.' Or when he'd hear Charlie Parker, he'd say, 'That man is in pain.' My father gave me a feeling for the music.

My father's passion for jazz grew quickly. He was friends with three other men who loved jazz, too. One was a drummer, the other was an Australian radio announcer and the third was a jazz writer—who today lives in New Jersey.

Back then, whenever a big ship came into Colombo from America, my father's three friends would stand by the docks and become friendly with the African-Americans working on the boats. Then whenever the ships returned, the workers would bring records and sell them to my father's friends. They'd bring them back to my father's house and the four of them would drink beer shandies and listen to Sarah Vaughan, George Shearing, Miles Davis and so many others.

Though I had given up the piano, I continued to sing in the school choir. One day a few of my classmates urged me to enter an amateur-hour radio show that the Australian Broadcasting Company had set up. My friends taught me a Doris Day song, I May Be Wrong (But I Think You're Wonderful). I went to the contest, sang the song and won the competition. The prize was a little bimonthly radio show called Swing Time, and I sang with a piano, bass, drums and guitar.

After a few shows, one of the guys in the band insisted that I travel outside Sri Lanka to gain exposure. So he sponsored me to go to Australia. I was 16 years old at the time. I wasn't scared traveling on my own. When you're young, you're not scared of anything. I wish I had that much courage now.

When I arrived in Melbourne, Australia, in 1956, I stayed with Sri Lancan friends. A short time later one of my friends took me to a gathering at the home of Graeme Bell, the leading jazz pianist in Australia at the time. He was playing with a quintet at the party, and my friend urged me to sing something. Graeme was eager to hear me, too. At the time I thought I could sing better than anyone else in the world, even though I was probably dreadful. So I sang St. Louis Blues.

Graeme felt there was something in me and asked me to join his group as the vocalist. I was staggered—Graeme was so well known. We then played around Australia and traveled to Japan and Korea. I saw my first snow there. Graeme's group played Dixieland jazz and then backed me on jazz standards like Stormy Weather and St. Louis Blues.

In my head, I was already moving on musically, listening to modern jazz and getting more be-boppy. When Graeme and I ended our tour in Japan, he decided to stay an extra six weeks and got me on all the big TV shows there with him. In Japan, I met and played with  pianist Toshiko Akiyoshi and saxophonist Sadao Watanabe. They had a quartet, and I would sing with them.

Graeme and I returned to Australia after Japan. Four month later I returned to Sri Lanka. I had been away for about a year and a half and was happy to be home. I missed my family, but I had changed. I wanted to perform in Sri Lanka but there was no jazz platform there. No one understood what I was singing. They were all into pop music.

So at age 18, I decided I wanted to travel to London. My mother arranged with an aunt of mine for me to stay with her friend there. In 1957, I sailed by myself on a ship that crossed through the Suez Canal and up through the Mediterranean, arriving in England about two weeks later. That's where everything began for me."

Tomorrow, in Part 2, Yolande Bavan talks about her close relationship with Billie Holiday in 1958 and 1959, what Billie taught her about singing, Billie's Thanksgiving meal, and the trick Yolande used to keep Billie from drinking during a BBC broadcast in February 1959.

In Part 3, I will cover Yolande's big break with Dave Lambert and Jon Hendricks and the group's year in the limelight. There may even be a Part 4 on Yolande's encounters with Sarah Vaughan, Carmen McRae and many other jazz greats.

Wax tracks: Lambert Hendricks & Bavan: Recorded Live at Basin Street East is a smart album. I often listen to it several times in one sitting, and I always wish the album ran longer.

Of the three albums the group recorded, I find this one to be its best outing, primarily because the material selected suited the group perfectly and the vocal arrangements were swinging and breezy without trying too hard to be hip.

Unfortunately, the CD from the 1990s is out of print. A mint copy of the RCA LP is currently going for $50 on eBay, but it can be purchased for much less at used-vinyl sites. Just type the album's name into Google.

The group's other two albums for RCA—Havin' a Ball at the Village Gate and At Newport '63—also are out of print but can be found on CD from used sellers here.

A CD featuring the audio tracks from a TV show in the 1960s hosted by San Francisco jazz critic Ralph J. Gleason can be found here. If you want a DVD of the TV show, it's here.

But if you own a turntable, I recommend buying a reasonably priced copy of the Basin Street East LP. From start to finish, it's what neat music sounded like just before Bob Dylan and the British Invasion yanked the plug on hip jazz vocalese.

That night in September 1962, a special excitement was captured along with Yolande Bavan's ambitious vocals and confident flair. Sadly, that excitement would last only through to the beginning of 1965.

JazzWax video clip: I could find only one clip of Lambert, Hendricks and Bavan—but it's a beaut from 1963. To see Yolande Bavan and the group sing Horace Silver's Come On Home, click here.

Bill Evans: Before the Storm

Sometime in 1956 or 1957, pianist Bill Evans traveled up from New York to vibraphonist Don Elliott's music/recording studio and home in Weston, Connecticut, for a few hours of playing. Was Evans invited up for dinner? Did he need a place to stay?  A few days of relaxation?

The purpose of the trip isn't known nor is the exact date (though I will take an educated guess below).

What is known is that Elliott recorded their duets and Evans' solo works, and the result of the pair's private woodshedding was released in 2001 on a remastered CD, Tenderly: An Informal Session.

The recording is significant for many reasons. As you listen to Evans and Elliott swap comments on the CD, you start to realize that this was probably more than a mere get-together. Based on what you can hear of Evans' remarks and Elliott's replies while playing, Evans seems to be conducting a master class—helping Don loosen up and push his improvising skills and "jazz feel" into new territory. The result for Elliott was something of a Music Minus One session—with Bill Evans live in the studio!

At different points, we hear Evans shout out friendly advice. For instance, at the end of Tenderly—which is played as a waltz—Evans says, "All of a sudden it comes to you, Don [laughter]. Because I've been messing with it for a while." They are words of encouragement to a somewhat dejected Elliott.

On I'll Take Romance, another waltz, Elliott starts out soloing stiffly. Then he shouts out to Evans, "Can I think in  4?" Evans shouts back, "You got to feel in 3." Elliott then has a breakthrough and Bill says, "Yeah."

At the end of a blues, Evans compliments Elliott: "That was fun, man. You were good. I like to flow three like that, with no four going but you know where you're at. That's crazy. If everybody could do that, if the bass was playing the same way, why not?"

If you're a careful student of Bill Evans, you know that he was most at home in waltz time, which makes his commentary here that much more interesting and revealing. Rather than merely just favoring 3/4 time, he clearly was developing a theory about running a swinging waltz feel behind any 4/4 signature. Fascinating.

Though the CD offers no specific date for the session other than to say it was recorded in "1956-1957," I'm guessing after a bit of discography mining that it was held very early in July 1957—just before Evans and Elliott would play together on July 6 at the Newport Jazz Festival as the Don Elliott Quartet.

More evidence to support this July date surfaces toward the end of Everything Happens to Me, when Evans starts to fool around with modal scales similar to those he used less than a month earlier on the  Brandeis Jazz Festival recording session with George Russell and Gunther Schuller.

My best guess is that Evans was staying at Don's place over July 4th before the two headed up to Newport, R.I., to play at the festival on July 6, a Saturday back in 1957.

Another fair guess is that it was recorded around Christmas 1957. On the CD, Evans plays I'll Know as a solo. The song, from Guys and Dolls (1955), could have been a tuneup for his Guys and Dolls Like Vibes date of January 15, 1958, when he split the arrangements with the session's leader, vibraphonist Eddie Costa. Less than a month later, on February 10, Evans would record again with Don Elliott on The Mello Sound of Don Elliott.

I'd still put my money on the July date, since it makes more sense that Evans would be up in Connecticut helping Elliott improve his game before the Newport Jazz Festival appearance rather than braving the cold to tune up with a vibes player before his Eddie Costa date.

On the CD, Evans and Elliott play together on four tracks—Tenderly, I'll Take Romance, Laura and a blues. All of these duets are splendid examples of Evans as a teacher, and they serve as a behind-the-scenes snapshot of Evans' development as a leader.

Then, either because Don grew frustrated with his own limitations or because he became fascinated by Evans' playing, he decided to record Evans playing solo. (Elliott was an amateur recording enthusiast and had set up one of the first multitrack studios in Weston and New York City.)

Evan's plays alone on I'll Know, Like Someone in Love (listen how, at one point, Evans stops to change keys), Love Letters, Thou Swell, Everything Happens to Me, Stella By Starlight and Funkallero.

Evans also plays one of the most interesting solo versions of Sonny Rollins' Airegin. In fact, Airegin is probably the most gripping track on the CD as Evans works out chord structures and counter melody lines.

Another reason why this album is so special is that in addition to being a relaxed vibes-piano date, Evans' piano playing is remarkably strong—with great use of pedal tones and chord changes.

The date captures Evans with all the "goods," right on the brink of great success and just before the tragic self-inflicted drug battles that would follow. Evans would join the Miles Davis Sextet in May 1958 and grow increasingly serious and somber as his drug problem intensified.

But on this bright and breezy (circa) 1957 recording with Don Elliott, Evans was still demon-free—exhibiting optimism, offering encouragement and playfully experimenting with time and chord changes. Which is what makes this CD a must-have for anyone who adores Bill Evans.

JazzWax tracks: Tenderly: An Informal Session is best described as a connoisseur's pick, since it's a private recording rather than a professionally produced, polished album.

While it's an ideal buy if you are interested in Bill Evans—I adore this album—note that this is a practice session, which means in some cases songs aren't complete, and there's no logic to why one song follows another, except that Evans and Elliott chose them.

With that said, you may want to download a track for a buck to sample the album (Tenderly, for example, or I'll Take Romance). To download individual mp3 tracks—or to buy the CD—click here.

To me, this album still remains the best document we have thus far of Bill Evans as confident jazz innocent on the verge of fame and misfortune.

JazzWax video clips: While the CD, Tenderly: An Informal Session may create the impression that Don Elliott was a fledgling player, he actually was quite seasoned by 1957.

Click here to see a clip of Elliott playing vibes  on Conception with the George Shearing Quintet in 1951. In addition to Shearing and Elliott, that's Chuck Wayne on guitar, Denzil Best on drums and John Levy on bass.

Elliott played many instruments, including the mellophone. Click here to see a fabulous 1954 clip of Don, Lee Konitz, Warne Marsh, Mundell Lowe, Billy Taylor, Eddie Safranski and Ed Thigpen playing Denzil Best's composition, Move.

And if you want to learn more about Tenderly: An Informal Session and pianist Bill Evans, click here for Jan Stevens' review of the CD at BillEvansWebPages.com.

Wax Bits

Notes and tones: Yesterday, while strolling in SoHo with my wife, my Blackberry buzzed alerting me to two lovely emails—one from Hal McKusick and the other from David Amram in London. Their notes were so much fun I thought I'd share them with you here.

This one is from Hal...

"Marc—Hi. I just clicked on the "Terry Gibbs" link in your YouTube collection down the right-hand column. As you can see, Terry was something else in Buddy Rich's 1949 band. By the way, that's me on lead alto—right behind Buddy in the middle. And that's Ben Lary on lead tenor.

Back in the 1940s, whenever Buddy's band would go into the Hollywood Palladium for an extended run, we'd also shoot a film at a nearby studio. It was a paying gig on top of the Palladium job, but we had to get up at 5 am and shoot all day. There would be a singer, a dancer, a comedian and several band numbers. The clip you see is the result of one of those all-day band sessions.

Nice work on your part digging it up.—Hal"

And this one is from David...

"Marc—Hi. I am here in Jolly Aulde England, and after hosting recent U.S.A bilingual concerts in English and Spanish (which included audience participation in Swahili, Lakota, Arabic, Hebrew and Mandarin), I am getting the chance to "brush up my Shakespeare," (to paraphrase the lyrics to the song) during my mini-marathon of events here. The variety of speech styles here is staggering.

Back in the 1960s, Miles Davis, while touring England, was invited to an upscale dinner party given in his honor.  He sat quietly during the entire evening, not saying a word.

Finally, as dessert was being served, the hostess said. 'Miles, we are so delighted that you could join us for dinner. How do you like being back in London again, where you are so adored by the public?'

"I don't dig it" said Miles.

'And why is that Miles?' asked the hostess.

'Because the people talk funny,' said Miles.

Forty years later, he would have felt even more that way. The variety of accents here in London, now includes new styles of English, created by people from almost every country in the world, which now have been added to the more than 40 distinct regional English accents within London itself. Waking down the streets or listening while having a drink in a pub, is like hearing some great crazy patchwork quilt of sounds.

I am told that the 40 traditional accents within London (often derived from various parts of England over the past century)  are even difficult to understand by some Londoners themselves. but that the English treasure these different ways of speaking the language,

I hosted a screening of Kerouac's silent documentary film, Pull My Daisy last night for the Society of British Filmmakers. They roared with laughter at Kerouac's spontaneous narration, where he made up the voices of all the different characters, and told me that they appreciated the variety of musical styles which I used when composing the score, combining  jazz and  Elizabethan style chamber music, The latter more traditional classical style was used for some of the scenes where a bishop and his wife are trying to have a serious conversation with a bunch of hyperactive nutcases played in the film by poets Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, painters Larry Rivers and Alice Neal, and myself in the role of Mezz McGilluddy, the deranged French hornist.

While the members of the Society of British Filmmakers also liked photographer Robert Frank's camera work, the were not impressed by the non-performances of the cast (since none of us were actors, which we proved by our non-performances).

It was a great way to open the London International Poetry and Song Festival, of which I am the headliner (which means being a guest artist with almost every musical group as well as spontaneously accompanying a series of poets, playwrights and rappers as well as giving a concert each night myself).

So, I don't have time to get into trouble!!

See you when I get back.—David"

Billie and the two Irenes: David Brent Johnson, host of WFIU-FM's Night Lights program, aired a fascinating show recently. Here's a blurb and a link to hear it...

"In 1939 and 1940 Billie Holiday recorded a handful of poignant songs co-written by a good friend of hers, Irene Wilson (later known as Irene Kitchings).

Wilson was grieving over the breakup of her marriage to pianist Teddy Wilson, and Some Other Spring, in particular, was said to have been inspired by her loss. In the mid-1940s Billie Holiday recorded two more songs that many jazz sources credit to Irene Wilson/Kitchings as well: Good Morning Heartache and No Good Man.

The songs were listed as being co-written by “Irene Higginbotham,” who had also written This Will Make You Laugh, recorded by the Nat King Cole Trio in 1941. Irene Higginbotham, according to these jazz sources, was the same woman who had written Some Other Spring, Ghost of Yesterday, and two other songs recorded by Billie Holiday for Columbia (including I’m Pulling Through, which Diana Krall covered on her 2004 CD The Girl in the Other Room). Were they truly the same person?"

The answer is revealed by going here, clicking on the big blue button and listening to David's show.

JazzWax archives: All of the entries that have appeared at JazzWax in the past are archived and available to you.

To access a post dating back to August, simply scroll until you see "Archives" in the right-hand column. Then click on the month when the post appeared and scroll until you find what you're looking for. Or read what you missed.

If you run into trouble, shoot me an e-mail. My address appears automatically when you click on the link at the top of the page on the right.

Louis Meets Leon, May 1970

One of my favorite, off-beat Louis Armstrong tracks sounds like a club remix released only recently. Recorded in May 1970, this track sounds so far ahead of its time that you'd think it was on one of those "reloaded" albums popular now—where studio wizards (or butchers) take a jazz artist's old master recording and add backbeats and samples to make it appetizing to the club crowd.

Many jazz critics and even some Armstrong experts aren't fond of the album on which this track appears. Though I must say that the CD—Louis Armstrong and His Friends—isn't really as bad as all that.

The song I'm referring to is The Creator Has a Master Plan (Peace), which was written by Pharoah Sanders and Leon Thomas in 1968. The spiritual, African-influenced song features Louis singing, chanting, scatting, riffing and laughing—with a Leon Thomas' vocal mixed in. There are two alternate takes on the album—one showcasing Louis singing the song alone while the other features Thomas mixed in again.

What makes this track (and the album, for that matter) particularly interesting is that it was one of Louis' last studio dates before his death in July 1971. Arranged by Oliver Nelson, The Creator Has a Master Plan (Peace) was a highly unusual choice for an album that included such sticky pop fare as Give Peace a Chance and Everybody's Talkin' (yep, that one, by Harry Nilsson).

The Creator Has a Master Plan originally appeared on a Pharoah Sanders album recorded in February 1969 called Karma. The song took up an entire side, running for just over 32 minutes. The song appeared again on Thomas' Spirits Known and Unknown recorded in October 1969, and on a live session from November 1970 called Leon Thomas In Berlin with a band backed by Oliver Nelson.

What makes all of these recordings of The Creator special—particularly the Spirits version—is the optimistic African mood of the piece, the bright clarity of Thomas' voice, and Thomas' pygmy-inspired yodeling, which he used brilliantly for authenticity and texture.

So why were so many takes needed on the Louis Armstrong date—one with Louis alone and two with Louis and Thomas? And did the two really record as a duet?

The mystery was resolved in the updated liner notes by Carlos Kase from the 2002 reissue of Louis Armstrong and His Friends:

"At the original recording session, Louis Armstrong was the only featured vocalist on [The Creator], though Leon Thomas was probably in the studio. At some point producer Bob Thiele and/or Armstrong decided that the vocal performance on both versions was not satisfactory. The original LP version substituted Leon Thomas' performance for Armstrong's in the second verse and eliminated the first verse entirely.

The first bonus mix [on the 2002 CD] is the original recording in its entirety, featuring Armstrong as the only vocalist on the track. This mix thus preserves this take of the song as it occurred live in the studio. It includes both verses as sung by Armstrong, and his entire ad-libbed 'outro,' which was faded-out much earlier on the LP release.

The second mix is a composite of the original unedited version of Louis Armstrong's performance and Leon Thomas' overdub. It is a hybrid of the other two presentations included here."

On Louis Armstrong and His Friends, the pairing of Louis and Leon is wonderful—combining America's best known apolitical jazz artist and showman in the twilight of his career with the African-influenced newcomer delivering a very political and spiritual message.

Each of the three tracks has a unique personality. As you'll hear, Louis doesn't fully get the song's intent or depth. But he puts his own spin on The Creator, and that's what makes it fun to hear. Oliver Nelson's arrangement for strings, bass, percussion and flute is absolutely perfect. (And listen for Louis' sung remark toward the end of an alternate take that "chops is flying all over the studio.") Too much.

Best of all, the song's pure message of peace, harmony and a higher force (recorded a year before Marvin Gaye's What's Going On album) is as poignant today as it was back in 1970 when Louis and Leon recorded The Creator—or 1968, when it was written.

Wax tracks: I'm mildly fond of Louis Armstrong and His Friends—it's gentle and light, and Louis brings a special, laid back (almost stoned) feel to some very mainstream pop songs. But admittedly, this album is not for everyone, especially hard-core Pops fans who favor his recordings from the 1930s 1940s and 1950s.

However, The Creator Has a Master Plan (Peace) is a different story. Armstrong's gravely joy (and marijuana-fueled upbeat spirit) is infectious, especially mixed with Thomas' glossy earnestness. This song is a hidden gem and a must-have.

You can download the master and two alternate takes of The Creator at iTunes for about $3. Again, it can be found on Louis Armstrong and His Friends.

If you discover that you enjoy the tune as much as I do—the bass line is hypnotic and the song meaningful—type in the song's name at iTunes and up will come a bunch of versions.

If you want to own Pharoah Sanders' Karma, you can buy it here. Leon Thomas' Spirits Known and Unknown can be found here. And Leon Thomas In Berlin is here—though I favor the first two much more than the live date.

Wax videoclip: To hear a version that someone in the YouTube universe created by mixing the Leon Thomas Spirits version with the Louis Armstrong version, go here.

To hear the complete Spirits version of The Creator by Leon Thomas, go here.

I don't know how you will ultimately feel about the song, but I think the quote from a fan of the clip posted at YouTube says it all: "Sooooo Doooope!!"

Interview: David Amram (Part 3)

Don't start scrolling frantically for Parts 1 and 2 of my interview with David Amram. The first two parts appeared back on October 15 and 16 (click on the October 2007 archive link in the right-hand column below to catch up).

Because David is constantly on the road performing, my conversations with him about his early years and his jazz work in the 1950s have had to take place on the go, sandwiched between his hyperactive touring and composing schedule.

David is a hip hybrid. He plays jazz piano, French horn, penny whistle, assorted drums and virtually every other instrument that fits in your mouth or hands.

At age 76 (he turns 77 on November 17), David is accomplished and renown in three musical genres—jazz, world and classical. His musical contributions have been significant, winning the respect and admiration of top players and composers all three fields.

And David has done it all without ever selling out, which is  remarkable. He's a free, creative spirit (there aren't many of those left), and his outlook on life is driven by kindness and caring rather than cool and posturing, which is rare for someone of his stature.

David's jazz career alone seems impossible—lessons from Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker in his basement apartment in Washington, DC, a chance encounter with Lionel Hampton in Paris that led to a key recording session, gigs with Charles Mingus at the Cafe Bohemia in 1955, and recordings with Oscar Pettiford's big band in 1957 and Kenny Dorham in 1959.

David was a boy-wonder, writing his first movie score at age 26 and penning the soundtrack to Splendor in the Grass (1961) and The Manchurian Candidate (1962). As a close friend of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Robert Frank, Gregory Corso, Larry Rivers and William S. Buroughs in the late 1950s, David probably was the only member of the beat pack to be praised by Frank Sinatra.

Which only takes us up to 1962. Detailing David's career between 1963 and 2007 would take too long—and much of it has been delightfully covered in his book, Vibrations, which was first published in 1968 and re-issued in 2001.

Instead, I chose to focus on his jazz years up through the Manchurian Candidate, which to me remains one of the most interesting jazz soundtracks ever composed.

In Part 3 of my interview below, David talks about his induction into the Army, why he lived in Paris for a year, how Dizzy Gillespie influenced his decision to return to New York, why Charles Mingus shoved an elbow into his ribs, and the testy standoff with a record company art director who wanted his group to wear white powdered wigs for an album cover:

"In August 1952 I was inducted into the Army and spent two years stationed in Germany. When I was discharged in August 1954, I decided to live in Frankfurt. I had been playing jazz French horn in the service, and  the critic Leonard Feather had mentioned me in one of his jazz columns. I was already known there.

In Frankfurt, I went full tilt—composing symphonic and chamber music, trying to write a book and playing jazz French horn, which at the time was considered to be impossible. After four months, there was zero interest in anything I was composing. So I decided to move to Paris.

From the moment I arrived in Paris, I was blown away. Even in 1955, the city was still celebrating the end of World War II. Parisians were crazy about American painters and jazz musicians. I think their love for jazz comes from a deep appreciation for  sophistication, creativity and spontaneity. The French also love their language, which is poetic, philosophic, complex and musical—just like jazz.

I found plenty of work immediately playing with French jazz musicians in the clubs. In March 1955, I was playing at a club when vibraphonist Lionel Hampton came in to listen. He soon wound up on stage jamming with us.  Afterward, he asked me if I wanted to record with him, Nat Adderley, Benny Bailey and a bunch of terrific French musicians that included pianist Rene Urtreger. I said I’d be honored.

The session was held on March 19 for the Barclay label, and it was thrilling. It was my first recording session, and all of the tunes that day were done in one or two takes. There was no music. We just went in and played.

After that date, I recorded throughout the spring with many different French jazz musicians. The Belgian saxophonist Bobby Jaspar was on most of those dates with me and was starting to attract attention. In May Bobby and I recorded with the Christian Chevalier Orchestra for Columbia. By June, Bobby and I started a quintet with Maurice Vander on piano, Eddie de Haas on bass and Jacques David on drums. We recorded an album in July for the Swing label, the first under my name and Bobby's.

I loved every minute of my time in Paris. The city and its culture were liberating for me—and for all artists. The only thing that mattered there was creativity and individuality. But when Dizzy Gillespie came over for a concert that summer, I started thinking about returning to New York.

I hadn’t seen Dizzy since 1951—when he stayed at my basement apartment in Washington, D.C. It was so nice to see him. We talked, we ate, we joked—and Parisians recognized him wherever we went. They loved Dizzy so much in Paris that they named a street after him—Rue Gillespie. 

Dizzy told me how much he loved Paris and how great it was that jazz and individualists were respected. He loved how the French questioned everything and appreciated life and people based on what each individual had to offer. It wasn’t about race, money, good looks, politics or fame. It was just about spirit.

Despite our shared love for Paris, Dizzy said, I still should consider returning to New York. He told me about all of the terrific things that were happening in jazz there. He said that if I returned I’d be in the middle of this tremendous energy and sea of creativity. The writers Terry Southern and George Plimpton, both of whom lived in Paris, also had been urging me to return given my musical direction.

So in September 1955, I decided to head home. Fortunately I had the good fortune to run into some students who said that if I played in a band on their ship, I probably could sail for free. So I signed on to play and hitched a ride to New York.

As soon as the ship docked, I went straight to a friend’s apartment and walked around Greenwich Village. I also went down to Cafe Bohemia and saw George Wallington and Jackie McLean.

When I was in the Army, Leonard Feather had seen me play in Germany and said in a column that there was a kid in the service who was doing great things on the French horn. At the time, he had urged me to give him a call when I returned to New York.

So I did. When I called, Leonard said he was having a party at his apartment on the Upper West Side and that I should come up. When I walked into his place, Osie Johnson, Billie Holiday, Dick Hyman and so many other incredible jazz artists were there. Man, I was in heaven. Leonard said he was going to go downtown to hear Bud Powell and Charles Mingus and asked if I want to go with him. So off we went.

After the gig, Mingus came over to Leonard’s table to say hi. Leonard introduced me and told Mingus I played French horn and that I was someone he should know. Mingus gave me that long, hard stare. Then he asked if I would go out on the road with him and his group for $125 a week.

I was staggered. I suppose if I had said yes, Mingus probably would have withdrawn the offer. But I said no, that I couldn't do it because I was in New York on the GI Bill studying music composition. Mingus grunted that I could learn more with him than I could in school. He told me to come to his apartment early the following week.

When I showed up, I played with him and saxophonist George Barrow. Afterward, Mingus asked me to play with them at the Cafe Bohemia the following week. When I joined them, I fit right in. Mingus loved experimental stuff.

During the period I played with him, George Barrow left and Jackie McLean came in. I couldn't believe I was playing with the same guy I had seen play just a few weeks earlier after returning from Europe. Mal Waldron was on piano, and Mingus used a series of drummers. He would fire two to three drummers a night—and they’d all be in the audience the next day listening to what Mingus and the new drummer would be doing.

I don’t know why Mingus had it in for drummers. He heard things his way. When you look at the scores he wrote, he had a whole symphonic vision of how everybody should play. He would sing your part in rehearsals, and that was it. But instead of hearing a 12-bar blues or 32-bar tune, you'd hear compositions he imagined. When you came to play, you not only were supposed to remember what he sang but also make stuff up on the spot. If things didn't sound right, the drummer was usually the first victim.

Mingus and I got along great during these Cafe Bohemia dates—with one exception. On a date during the second week, I got carried away and soloed for a third chorus. Suddenly I felt a hard elbow crunch into my ribs and a growling voice: “Only two choruses with me.” That elbow hurt but it was a valuable lesson—figure out what you want to say and do it in tight period of time.

Mingus and I remained friends over the years. I loved playing with him. One of the problems in our society is that we consider people who are spiritual and have psychic powers to be nuts or not very serious. Mingus had these qualities, as do most great jazz musicians. As a result, I don't think he or his music have ever been fully understood or appreciated.

When I finished playing with Mingus in early 1956, I was living on the Lower East Side and playing in jam sessions at loft parties. People would rent raw space for a party, and jazz musicians would show up and play there.

In the summer of 1956, I wrote my first movie score for a documentary by Hal Freeman called Echo of an Era. It was about New York's Third Avenue elevated subway, which was demolished that year. I was going to play the eight-bar piano solo I had written but there was this young pianist I met who had never made a record who was terrific. I thought it would be great to have him play what I wrote. His name was Cecil Taylor. It was his first time in a recording studio. We'd laugh about that date every time we'd meet over the years.

During this time I was playing piano in small clubs with a bass player and drums. One night a guy named Mel Rose came up to me and said he had never heard anyone play piano like that before. I said, "That’s because I’m not a piano player. Actually, I'm a French horn player."

Rose was with some small label and said he wanted to record me. Like with Mingus, I think if I had said sure right off the bat, he probably would have walked away. But I said no, not to play games but because I had too many other commitments.

But Rose kept calling me. I told him I had a group with a wonderful sax player and that he should come hear us. The guy said he didn’t really like the saxophone, that there were so many saxophonists around and that the French horn wasn’t really a jazz instrument.

Finally Rose came down to my Lower East Side apartment and hiked up the six flights to hear our quartet play. He liked what he heard but realized it wasn't for him. He said he had a friend, Harold Webman, who was an A&R guy at Decca Records and might want to record us.

I called Hal and we clicked right away. Decca was recording a lot of new music on the East and West coasts as part of a series called Jazz Studio. The date's leader was free to write and record whatever he wanted without interference from a producer.

I played French horn and piano, George Barrow was on tenor sax, Arthur Phipps was on bass and Al Harewood was on drums. We recorded the album in January 1957. I think the album was played regularly on a radio station in Harlem, and over the years it has become an underground hit.

If you look carefully at the original record cover, you’ll see what looks like four white rags hanging on the gear. In fact, they were white powered wigs that the art director wanted us to wear. At the time, a lot of records had half-nude women on the cover and other stuff to make the jazz musicians look like clowns.

We refused to put them on. I told the art director that we all respected Mozart and all of the other classical musicians who were servants in the European court system and only wore them because they had to. I told the guy that we were servants of a higher power—music. If Mozart were here, I said, he wouldn’t put on the wig either.

I was only 26 years old, so I still had a lot of moxie. The art director said fine, we didn't have to wear them. So the wigs remained on the side, next to the dopey candles he had there, too. The wigs and the candles turned up on the cover, but no one quite understood what they were or why they were there.

Today, I still want to record music that will stay around and be a reflection of the best of what I am able to do, not what I’m told I’m supposed to do by people who don’t have a clue about what is art and what is truthfulness."

Amen. Part 4 of my interview with David will appear next week, when we talk about Oscar Pettiford's radical big band of 1957, Kenny Dorham's Blue Spring of 1959, the 1961 date with Harold Land, and how David came to compose Splendor in the Grass and The Manchurian Candidate.

Wax tracks: David Amram's dates with Lionel Hampton in Paris are on Jazz in Paris: Lionel Hampton & His French New Sound. Volumes 1 and 2 can be found here and here.

David and Bobby Jaspar's Paris dates together can be found on Bobby Jaspar, Featuring David Amram, an import on the French BMG/Vogue label. You can find it here.

David's Jazz Studio album can be found in two different versions. You can buy Jazz Studio Vols. 5 and 6 (Vol. 5 is a compelling Ralph Burns date) on one CD here.

Or you can buy the CD with the original Decca LP cover here (to see the unworn white wigs, click on the photo). The CD features the original date plus other recordings the group made together.

Wax videoclips: While I could not find a clip of Echo of an Era, the 1956 documentary for which David wrote his first film score, he told me that someone mentioned to him that the film runs continuously at the New York Transit Museum as part of a permanent exhibition. For museum information, go here.

For a clip of Charles Mingus in early 1955 backing Hazel Scott, a wonderful pianist, click here.

Frank Wess: Commodore Sessions

Virtually everything recorded by tenor saxophonist Frank Wess is worth hearing—and that's saying something. Best known for his rock-solid playing along side Frank Foster in Count Basie's band from 1953 to 1964, Wess' solos always sound tough and tender, which is what makes them so compelling.

Wess also was among the first musicians to turn the flute into a swinging jazz instrument, and his writing for the Basie band and small groups were carefully crafted and hugely energetic.

After playing in the bands of Billy Eckstine (1946), Eddie Heywood (1946), Lucky Millinder (1947) and Bull Moose Jackson (1948-49), Wess studied the flute intensively with two classical music teachers. During this period he also played tenor on a handful of recordings backing other artists before joining Count Basie's band in August 1953.

Throughout the 1950s, Wess helped drive and shape the Basie band as a player and arranger. When Basie wasn't touring or recording, Wess recorded frequently as a leader and sideman in small groups. While Wess could swing with confidence on top of a band chart, he also could modify his style in small groups without compromising the yearning and poetry of his sound.

Perhaps the best of his non-Basie dates of the 1950s were made for Commodore Records in 1954. They were his first record dates as a leader, and the tracks show off Wess' proficiency on both tenor and flute. You also can hear his ambition to make a name for himself in the perfection of every number.

The first of his leadership dates for Commodore was recorded on May 8, 1954. Appearing as the Frank Wess Quintet, the group included Wess on tenor and flute, Henry Coker on trombone, Jimmy Jones on piano, Oscar Pettiford on bass and Osie Johnson on drums. For some reason Benny Powell replaced Coker on a three of the seven tracks recorded that day.

The next Wess-led Commodore session was recorded on August 12. This time Wess fronted the Frank Wess Sextet, featuring Wess on tenor and flute, Joe Wilder on trumpet, Henry Coker on trombone and the same rhythm section as the May date, with Urbie Green subbing for Coker on four tracks.

What makes these Commodore sessions so special are Wess'  song writing skills, the compact arrangements and his blowing. All of the charts are tightly executed, which is a testament to Wess' insistence on intensive rehearsals prior to recording. A look at the matrix numbers show that most of the tracks were nailed in the first and second takes, with an occasional third, and the alternates are as good as the masters.

What's more, Wess' flute playing on these dates demonstrate that the orchestral instrument could swing if played with the right feel and authority. Writes Stanley Dance in The World of Count Basie (1980): "There can be no doubt that the [flute's] acceptance and popularity were very much due to [Wess'] presentation as a flute soloist in the Basie band."

Count Basie dates Frank Wess' first flute solo in the band to late December 1953. Said Basie in Good Morning Blues (1985):

"Frank was an excellent flute player, but he had been with us for a little while before I found that out. Don Redman hipped me to him. We were uptown playing a gig somewhere, and Don came by and asked me how Frank was doing, and he said, 'Has he played anything on the flute for you yet?' And I said, 'Well I didn't know about that.' And Don said, 'Why don't you try him?'

So one day at the Savoy we were doing a jam and I told Frank, 'Why don't you take a couple of choruses on your flute? Did you bring your flute?'

And he looked surprised. 'Do you really want me to?'

'Yeah,' I said. 'Take a couple and see what happens.'

So he went out there and played and broke it up, and as soon as I hear him, that was when I realized that we had a new thing to go back down into Birdland with [on New Year's Eve]. So that's how the flute thing started, because it seemed to me that it excited just about everybody that came down here...Frank Wess is the man who really brought the flute into the jazz scene beginning right down there in Birdland."

Wess recorded many albums throughout the 1950s for a wide range of labels. All are superb. But to me, the Commodore sessions remain standout examples of Wess' prowess as a composer, arranger, leader, tenor player and flutist.

Wax tracks: Long available only as an Atlantic LP and then part of a Commodore CD box from Mosaic Records, Frank Wess' Commodore sessions (including work in 1954 under the leadership of Thad Jones) are available on Fresh Sounds as Frank Wess: The Commodore Recordings. The CD can be found here.

What's remarkable about these dates is that the music Wess recorded sounds two or three years ahead of its time. The date was 1954, but if you were blindfolded and asked to guess the year in which they were recorded, you'd probably say 1956 or 1957.

In addition to Wess' rich playing on ballads and peppery attacks on up-tempo numbers, pianist Jimmy Jones throws off stardust, providing Wess with a perfectly lovely background. The contrast between Jones' twinkling ideas and Wess' sharp lines make for an exciting combination.

Re-listening to the recordings (I own the LP), I couldn't help but notice that Wess' approach on both tenor and flute sounds more like that of a singer than an instrumentalist. Fascinating stuff.

Wax videoclip: After being discharged from the Army in 1945, Frank Wess' first recording date was with Billy Eckstine's band in 1946. Fortunately the Eckstine band of 1946 made a film called Rhythm in a Riff. Frank Wess not only is on the date but he solos brilliantly. Click here to watch the clip.