JazzWax

Interview: Orrin Keepnews (Part 4)

One evening in 1948, Orrin Keepnews was invited over to the home of Alfred Lion, the founder of Blue Note records. There, Lion introduced Orrin, a jazz journalist at the time, to Thelonious Monk and played him an advanced test pressing of Monk's first recording for the label. Orrin was astonished by Monk's genius and interviewed him for his Record Changer magazine. (In the photo above, that's Orrin, center, with Monk, right, in the 1950s.)

That early meeting between Orrin and Monk would prove to be crucial to the careers of both men. In 1955, after Orrin started Riverside Records and secured Reeves Recording Studios, he was looking for new jazz artists on the New York scene to record. And Monk wasn't happy at Prestige Records.

In Part 4 of my five-part interview, Orrin talks about how he and his parter Bill Grauer convinced Monk to switch from Prestige Records to Riverside, Monk's first recording for the label, and what Orrin says Monk taught him about life:

"By 1955, Grauer and I decided to move on to the modern jazz scene. We started to work with a few young artists and were looking for some way to gain attention. Then we heard that Prestige records, a competitor we wanted to pick a fight with, was more than willing to unload Monk (right). At the time, Monk was still generally regarded as a flake. He didn't sell records, and the label was concentrating on artists who were selling for them—like Miles Davis and the Modern Jazz Quartet.

Grauer and I set up a meeting with Thelonious, although I was convinced that he'd never remember his one past encounter with us. To my great surprise, Monk more than remembered that evening—telling us that my article had been the first piece about him to appear in a national magazine. He also indicated that he would be willing to take a chance on us.

The Prestige problem turned out to be ridiculously easy to solve. The label had somehow figured out that they had advanced him about $108 more than he was entitled to. A letter to Thelonious from the president of Prestige specified that. (I asked Monk to let me have the original letter, and it has been hanging, framed, on one wall of every office I have worked in ever since.)

Grauer and I gave Monk the cash, and he walked two blocks to where Prestige was located, paid them, returned to us and agreed on a contract with Riverside. I eventually produced 14 albums with Monk—undoubtedly the greatest artist I have ever known. The first album—which also was our very first new 12-inch LP—was Monk Plays Ellington. Our first goal was to create a larger audience for Monk by starting to record him without horns and concentrating on standard tunes. Our hope was that this would make things easier for the listener. He  had been very pleased by my comparing him to Ellington in my first Record Changer article, which helped us make that recording decision.

Over time, this man taught me a hell of a lot about life—and about being a producer. He taught me to have enormous respect for the music and for jazz artists—and to protect the integrity of creativity at all costs.

And Monk did it in the same way that I know he taught others, like Sonny Rollins and John Coltrane, who have expressed it in similar ways. Monk didn’t give lessons or lecture on the subject. Instead, he taught by the example of his own stubborn honesty. It took Monk many years to even begin to get the recognition that his talent deserved, and there were many times when he might have sped up the process by compromising or cutting creative corners. But he never seemed to consider any course other than following his own path. (That's Coltrane and Monk, pictured.)

You can't really explain in words what Monk's music is all about. I'm not a great believer in the ability to translate the meaning of jazz into written language. It is, after all, extremely rare and difficult to translate one form of expression into another successfully.

The value of great recordings is in what you hear in them—not what you read in a bunch of articulated sentences. That’s why I find it difficult to accept the 'wisdom' of most—though certainly not all—jazz critics. I guess the most important way to understand Monk's music is to listen to it carefully.

I also have a hard time evaluating music in terms of best or worst. I hate polls—I really don't care who is this year's fourth most popular tenor player. Each album by a significant player should stand on its own as a work of art."

Tomorrow, in the final installment of my five-part interview with Orrin, he reflects on two great Riverside sessions—Sonny Rollins' The Sound of Sonny and Bill Evans' 1961 Village Vanguard recordings—and his biggest career regret.

JazzWax tracks: Here's a listing of Monk's original Riverside Records releases produced by Orrin Keepnews...

• Monk Plays The Music Of Duke Ellington (1955)
• The Unique Thelonious (1956)
• Brilliant Corners (1956)
• Thelonious Monk - Thelonious Himself (1957)
• Thelonious Monk with John Coltrane (1957)
• Monk's Music (1957)
• Mulligan Meets Monk (1957)
• Thelonious in Action (1958)
• Misterioso (1958)
• Thelonious Monk Orchestra at Town Hall (1959)
• Five By Monk by Five (1959)
• Thelonious Alone in San Francisco (1959)
• Thelonious Monk Quartet Plus Two at the Blackhawk (1960)
• Two Hours With Thelonious (1961)

JazzWax video clips: For two fine examples of Monk playing Blue Monk in 1958, go here for a color clip from Jazz on a Summer's Day, and here for a TV appearance.

Interview: Orrin Keepnews (Part 3)

With the launch of Riverside Records in 1953, Orrin Keepnews soon found himself busy on two fronts.

At Riverside's inception, the label was a reissue operation—taking traditional jazz and blues singles recorded for Paramount and packaging them on 10-inch, 33 1/3 Riverside LPs. Thanks to John Hammond's pristine collection of Paramount 78rpms and his overwhelming generosity, Orrin had clean discs from which to make master copies onto tape. With these tapes, Orrin was able to transfer Paramount's singles onto wax masters for Riverside's 10-inch LP record production.

But within a year, Orrin was restless. The New York jazz scene was heating up, and Blue Note and Prestige—the two big jazz record labels at the time—were unable to capture all the emerging talent or keep all of their artists happy. Orrin sensed opportunity to record new artists, not just reissue old material.

In Part 3 of my five-part interview, Orrin reflects on meeting Thelonious Monk for the first time in 1948 and the big risk he took with Monk that later would lead to 14 stunning Riverside albums recorded by the pianist between 1955 and 1961:

"By 1955, the 12-inch LP was introduced and it very quickly became standard, which meant that there was substantially more room available for music. Each side of a 10-inch LP could contain only four 78-rpm singles—or approximately a maximum of 15 minutes of music. The new larger albums could hold up to six reissues on a side, and 20 minutes was considered a safe maximum for newly recorded material.

This expansion fit in rather neatly with the dramatic first results of our decision to get aggressive about being a modern jazz label. What I'm referring to is our signing of Thelonious Monk.

We had actually met Monk a good seven years earlier—right after Grauer took over ownership of The Record Changer magazine and I became its managing editor.  Early in 1948, Alfred Lion, the founder of Blue Note Records (left), who just made his first records with Monk, decided to make use of the two kids who had published an editorial in their first issue declaring that The Record Changer would no longer be doggedly traditional but would begin paying attention to the new music of bebop.

So Alfred invited us to his home in Greenwich Village to meet Thelonious, listen to test pressings from that first session, and hopefully get us to write about Monk. It was the first time I had met the pianist or even heard his music. I was entirely impressed.

It probably helped that the drummer on Monk’s first Blue Note date was Art Blakey, who was always a great combination with Thelonious and supplied a firm, aggressive beat that made the whole thing more accessible for me.

Immediately, with an approach that I later referred to as 'the arrogance of ignorance,' I dragged Monk off into a corner of Alfred’s huge living room and proceeded to interview him. I should have known that he was a major eccentric, and that he was quite likely to be entirely uncooperative. But somehow it worked. He talked quite freely, and I wrote a long feature article about just how good and interesting and original I felt he was.

And then I had absolutely no contact with him for about seven years."

Tomorrow, in Part 4, Orrin talks about how he convinced Monk to abandon Prestige in 1955 to record for Riverside, what Monk taught him about life and why Orrin abhors polls.

JazzWax pages: If you love the quirky, cool art that appeared on the covers of Record Changer magazine between 1945 and 1950, they have been reproduced in a book, The Cat on a Hot Thin Groove: The Complete Collection of 78rpm Artwork from the Legendary Record Changer Magazine. You can find the book here.

JazzWax tracks: Thelonious Monk's 1948 recordings for Alfred Lion's Blue Note records can be found here and here—or on a variety of CDs that combine the two. They also are available at iTunes. I'm partial to the Blue Note remasters with the original covers.

Interview: Orrin Keepnews (Part 2)

Orrin Keepnews founded Riverside Records with Bill Grauer in the early 1950s. But when Grauer died of a heart attack in 1963, Orrin (right) couldn't save the label from bankruptcy a year later. In 1966, Orrin mounted a comeback, starting the Milestone label, which he sold to Fantasy Records in 1972, becoming its director of jazz A&R. Orrin left Fantasy in 1980, launched Landmark Records in 1985, selling it to Muse Records in 1993. In 2004, Concord Records purchased the Fantasy catalog—which included Riverside. Today Orrin is working with Concord on select remasters known as the "Keepnews Collection" and updating his original liner notes.

From the start, Orrin has been a prolific writer of album liner notes. But unlike most jazz writers, Orrin was behind the controls when the albums were recorded and knew the artists on both a personal and professional basis. In 1988 Orrin won two Grammys—Best Historical Album and Best Album Notes—for Thelonious Monk: The Complete Riverside Recordings, which remains a top seller.

In Part 2 of my interview with Orrin, he talks about the crucial role John Hammond played in helping launch Riverside as a reissue label, the trick Orrin used to reduce the pops and snaps of the Paramount recordings, where pianist Randy Weston was discovered, and the deal that gave Riverside access to the Reeves Sound Studios:

"By 1953, Bill Grauer and I owned the rights to reissue the traditional jazz and blues catalog of Paramount records. But we didn't have any masters. Then an unexpected savior entered the picture—John Hammond, who was well into his long career as both a producer and talent scout. Hammond’s list of talent discoveries began with Billie Holiday, Count Basie and his brother-in-law Benny Goodman. Later, of course, he would also introduce Bob Dylan, Aretha Franklin and Bruce Springsteen.

Hammond was also a member of a wealthy American family. One afternoon John invited Grauer and me to his Sutton Place apartment for the purpose of lending us vast quantities of Paramount 78rpms in perfect condition—Rainey, Oliver, Dodds, Blind Lemon and others. I don't remember exactly how many records Hammond gave us that day, but I do know we had to borrow a good-sized suitcase to carry them away.

Hammond was simply being helpful. He felt that what we were attempting to do would be good for jazz. When we asked how he had come to own all these recordings, he told us that as a teenage jazz fan, when these records were first being made, he had a standing order at the manufacturing plant. He’d receive three copies of each new Paramount release. Why three? The answer was simple: One to play, one to give away to whomever he chose, and one to keep unplayed for whatever future use might turn up. So John Hammond literally put us in business. We had all of his discs transferred to tape and returned the records to him as quickly as possible. It’s a favor I'll never forget!

One benefit of magnetic tape being such a new medium was that many recording engineers were what I guess you could call “ambidextrous.” They had learned the art of tape-recording while still retaining their skills with old-fashioned wax and metal masters. The biggest remaining problem was noise reduction. There were a great many pops and clicks and crackles on the original records to begin with, and even minimal playing quickly made the sound worse. I have often pointed out over the years that the initial form of noise removal was quite literal: two close-together cuts on a quarter-inch tape with an industrial razor blade, carefully rejoined with adhesive editing tape.

So that’s what we did, and the results were much less than uniform or perfect. But we were helped by the limitations of early recording—there had been very little extreme highs or lows recorded in the early days. So there was some, but not really all that much, loss through compression when the final edited tape was copied and mastered on wax.

But we didn't remain content for very long with just reissuing Paramount's records. We had already come into contact with working jazz musicians in various ways. Grauer knew pianist Dick Hyman (right) through the Columbia University radio station. Through Hyman we met various NBC radio studio musicians—including Mundell Lowe, a young guitarist who in a couple of years would bring Bill Evans to our attention.

And at a New England summer resort called Music Inn, Grauer heard a young piano player named Randy Weston, who was mainly employed there as the assistant chef. Properly impressed by Randy—who remains an important part of the current jazz and World Music scene—we did our first live recording with him. The date was a duo with bassist Sam Gill—and something of a compromise. We felt we couldn’t afford more than a solo album, and Randy had wanted a 'normal' trio date. Gill went on to spend many years with the Denver Symphony.

The record was made one afternoon in April of 1954, at a long-vanished mid-Manhattan recording studio that I don't really remember. I do clearly recall, however, that the recording engineer they provided—a very capable young man named Tom Dowd—soon went on to become a major figure in the development of Atlantic Records.

Not long after that session, we made a long-term deal for a studio that was of great value to us. Through Hyman and others, Grauer had become aware of Reeves Sound Studios in the East 40s. It was a big room—although easily brought down by screens and baffles to the small-group size we basically needed. The studio was used primarily for radio jingles and other advertising agency work. That meant it was rarely in use after daytime working hours. They agreed to give us almost unlimited time for a very low annual flat fee, provided our recording was basically done at night. It was a real meeting of needs.

That low studio rate, and the quite reasonable union scale rates in that far-off deflationary period, made it possible for us to do a lot of recording with very little cash, which was a pretty essential factor in the early growth of Riverside."

Tomorrow, in Part 3 of my five-part interview with Orrin, he talks about his first encounter with Thelonious Monk and the risk he took during that meeting that would lead to an incredible series of albums for Riverside.

JazzWax pages: In 1961, Orrin Keepnews and Bill Grauer published a book of jazz photos called A Pictorial History of Jazz. Photos ranged from New Orleans honky tonks to contemporary jazz artists of the time. It can be found used, through online sellers.

JazzWax tracks: You can find Randy Weston's 1954 and 1955 recordings for Riverside here, on the CD, Randy Weston: Solo, Duo & Trio.

Interview: Orrin Keepnews (Part 1)

Orrin Keepnews is responsible for producing many of the most innovative and dynamic jazz albums of the 1950s and early 1960s. As co-founder of Riverside Records and the label's artistic conscience, Orrin forged close working relationships with jazz's brightest minds of the day, encouraging and capturing their most brilliant moments.

The classic albums Orrin produced for Riverside some 50 years ago remain taut and exciting. These nonpareils include Monk's Music, Monk's Brilliant Corners,  Bill Evans' 1961 Village Vanguard sessions, Sonny Rollins' The Sound of Sonny and Freedom Suite, The Incredible Jazz Guitar of Wes Montgomery, The Cannonball Adderley Quintet in San Francisco, and so many more.

What you hear on each of these records—in addition to jazz at its creative best—is Orrin's impeccable judgment and musical ear. Orrin knew art, understood the jazz musician's temperament, and had the good sense to stimulate rather than stifle.

If you ask Orrin to tell you how he did it, he'll take you straight to the woodshed. "I don't answer questions like that," he said during our first phone chat. "You can't explain in words how things like this were done."

But at the end of my interview and the editing phase (Orrin and I went back and forth a few times with the content), I realized that I had gone through the same creative process with him as  Monk, Rollins, Evans, Kenny Dorham, Art Blakey, Wes Montgomery and so many others. And it felt really good.

In Part 1 of my five-part interview, Orrin talks about how he got started in the record business, the origin of Riverside's name,  and how the label initially came to produce reissues of traditional jazz and blues:

"At the beginning of 1953, when Bill Grauer and I started Riverside Records, we were too damn dumb to be scared. As long-time fans and record collectors, we did know a good deal about traditional jazz. And we had been running a quite well-regarded jazz magazine called The Record Changer. We also thought we knew something about the jazz record business, but we were wrong about that. At least we were lucky enough to start the label in a relatively easy way—as a re-issue operation.

The name "Riverside" came to us as a sort of desperate gesture. Grauer and I and our wives had spent a full evening unsuccessfully trying to come up with something as relevant and as catchy as the labels we intended to compete against—Blue Note and Prestige. In frustration, we turned to the telephone book. In those days, telephone exchanges were still identified by names rather than numbers. We decided that there was an excellent choice staring us in the face. Our record company would be sharing the Manhattan office space of our magazine on LaSalle Street—just south of Harlem and north of Columbia College. The area was quite close to Riverside Drive and dominated by Riverside Church, so naturally the local telephone exchange was "Riverside."

The main reason we felt we knew the record business is that we had already begun producing jazz reissues on the side for RCA Victor. Our magazine had made a lot of noise breaking the news that RCA's custom-pressing division had been manufacturing records for a well-known jazz bootlegging company. That company had the rather blatant name "Jolly Roger," which historically had been the flag flown by pirate ships.This led RCA to believe that we wanted to lease and reissue jazz recordings from them. We really hadn't been thinking that way, but when they suggested it, Grauer and I thought it was a great idea!

We named our label "Riverside" and decided not to be completely dependent on RCA for material, which turned out to be a very wise precaution. Soon afterward, RCA changed its corporate mind. Instead of turning the records over to us, they decided to ask us to work for them as independent producers, putting together albums they would reissue on their new Label X subsidiary.

But by this time, Grauer had already turned to a Chicago jazz collector he knew, John Steiner, who owned the rights to Paramount records, a legendary Chicago-based label that had recorded some of the most important classic jazz and blues artists of the 1920s, including Ma Rainey, Ida Cox, Blind Lemon Jefferson, King Oliver's Creole Jazz Band while Louis Armstrong was a member, and a number of sides by Johnny Dodds, Muggsy Spanier and Jelly Roll Morton.

Grauer set up a low-royalty sweetheart deal with Steiner that gave us the right to re-release Paramount material in the new 33 1/3 long-playing album format. So we decided to launch our own label without having the RCA material. In effect, there would be two legitimate classic-jazz reissue programs in existence, and we would be producing both of them—some for RCA's Label X and others on our own Riverside imprint. But our Paramount-on-Riverside ambitions faced one basic problem—source material. In a perfect world, we would have turned to the metal masters used to manufacture the original 78 rpm records and have them transferred to magnetic tape—the new, quickly emerging universal medium.

But there did not appear to be any original Paramount metal masters in existence! The label had originally been owned by the Wisconsin Chair Company, whose primary interest had been in manufacturing the bulky furniture that held the phonographs playing its shellac records. According to legend, a fire at the company had destroyed the entire stock of metal master recordings. At any rate, Steiner had no metal for us, and we assumed we'd have to begin a long battle to locate, buy, rent, beg or borrow usable shellac Paramount discs."

Tomorrow, in Part 2 of my interview with Orrin Keepnews, he talks about John Hammond's role in helping get Riverside Records started, the discovery of pianist Randy Weston, and the deal that made Reeves Sound Studios available to Riverside Records.

JazzWax pages: Orrin began his career as a jazz writer and journalist. After co-founding Riverside, he wrote the liner notes for many of the recordings he produced. In 1989, he published The View from Within: Jazz Writings, 1948-87, a fabulous book capturing his jazz essays and observations. The writing is brisk and filled with insights about the artists he interviewed and recorded, including up-close portraits of Thelonious Monk. It's out of print, but you can find used copies easily online.

JazzWax tracks: A collection of Paramount's blues recordings can be found at iTunes, under Future Blues: A Celebration of Paramount Records. You also can find many of Riverside's traditional jazz and blues reissues on CDs under the artists' names or on LPs up for auction and sale at eBay.

Sunday Wax Bits

Coming next week: A rare interview with maverick record producer Orrin Keepnews. Orrin talks about the founding of Riverside Records; working with Thelonious Monk, Sonny Rollins and Bill Evans; and his role in producing many of the greatest jazz albums ever recorded.

Speaking of Bill Evans: I don't know where you are today, but in New York  the weather is a mess. Icy rain on top of a night of snow. Which is perfect for listening to pianist Bill Evans in 1962.

Fortunately, our friend and jazz radio host David Brent Johnson has put together a comprehensive show on Evans during this critical year following the death of his bassist, Scott LaFaro.

Once again, David has done a fabulous job of weaving together a smart on-air narrative with select recordings. His show tells you all you need to know about the pianist in 1962—a difficult but artistically significant year.

To hear David's archived WFIU-FM show, After the Vanguard: The Return of Bill Evans, make yourself another cappuccino, go here and click on the big blue button labeled "Listen Now." Then sit back and enjoy!

Blog of the Year! I was bowled over when I read on Friday that Michael McCaw named JazzWax one of his "Blogs of the Year."

For those unfamiliar with Like Rain Whispers Mist, Michael blogs regularly on jazz, with an emphasis on contemporary artists. One of the joys of Michael's blog—in addition to his consistently relaxed, passionate prose—is how freshly he packages his views. What's more, he often features a cool device in the middle of his essays so you can listen for free to the albums he writes about. Because Michael is up on jazz recordings by artists you may not be aware of, hearing what you're reading about at his blog is an extra treat.

Thank you, Michael. I'm flattered.

Interview: Dan Morgenstern (Part 2)

Since 1958, Dan Morgenstern has written extensively about virtually every major jazz artist and their recordings. His album liner notes are legendary— diligently imparting details about musicians and their art in a writing style that's both inviting and informative.

Few can match Dan's deft ability to educate and entertain. I think it's fair to say that his album liner notes rise to the same level of creative intensity and delight as the artists he's writing about. There's nothing quite like listening to, say, The Complete EmArcy Recordings of Clifford Brown, while reading and thinking about what Dan is relating in the notes. You always know more when Dan is guiding you through the music.

The trick, Dan says, is blending the right mix of biographical information with overlooked details about the music you're listening to. In effect, Dan specializes in storytelling, which is all but a lost art in any form of writing today.

Considering Dan's prolific output, it's hard to know how he gets so much done, since his day job is director of the Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers University. In addition to winning seven Grammys for album liner notes—including one this year for a Fats Waller box—Dan was named a 2007 Jazz Master by the National Endowment for the Arts. If you write about jazz, Dan is an inspiration.

In this second installment of my two-part interview with Dan, he talks about the rise of drugs in jazz—and the factors that allowed rock to replace jazz as America's most popular music. Dan also recommends seven essential jazz CDs—and names three jazz artists who he says deserve greater recognition:

JazzWax: Dan, why did so many jazz artists turn to drugs in the 1940s and 1950s? Was it fear of improvising in front of live, critical audiences?
Dan Morgenstern: That anxiety played a role, but there were many other factors. Drugs in jazz probably started during World War II, with the easy accessibility of morphine. Before World War II, there was little drug availability or drug use among jazz musicians. There was plenty of pot smoking and drinking, since many musicians during prohibition played in speakeasies. Playing jazz is very strenuous and challenging, and booze and pot were there to take the edge off.

JW: What role did World War II play?
DM: Hard-core drug use started after guys who had become addicted to morphine came out of the service. Maybe they had received a shot of morphine for pain or illness and got used to it. If you were in the war, there were always ways to get more morphine from medics to ease such problems. As these servicemen were discharged, they returned to society. It takes only one or two people to get anything started.

Charlie Parker was the one who got the drug scene started in jazz, and his talent and drug use affected a lot of younger players who admired him. They thought using drugs would help them play better, even though Parker discouraged other musicians from using drugs. Drug use also was a social thing for musicians at the time. It had to do with the feeling of being an outsider, of not being accepted by the public, and being in an insular, closed community of musicians.

JW: But there were reasons for drug use other than trying to be like Bird, yes?
DM: Other musicians used drugs so that when they played in a club situation, they could distance themselves from the tension of performing and close themselves off from mainstream audiences. Everyone who started taking drugs thought they could deal with it. No one took drugs thinking they would ever get hooked. But most of them did, and many died too soon.

JW: You were the editor of Metronome, Jazz and Down Beat magazines in the 1960s when rock took hold. How did that happen?
DM: Jazz was already facing problems by the time rock really started to win over large numbers of young listeners starting in 1964. There was a time in this country when jazz was part of the popular music mainstream. It was played by big bands, and people danced to it. People who weren’t really jazz fans consumed the music and enjoyed it. In addition, great American composers wrote terrific songs for shows that were easily adapted by jazz bands.

JW: What changed?
DM: During and after World War II, jazz became more complex—and more demanding for the listener. Audiences began to shrink. Even within the jazz-listening fan base, there was a deep split between the 'moldy figs,' who loved swing, and the radical bepoppers. The rivalry between these two camps became quite intense, and the battle turned off many people unnecessarily and made them less open minded to the new jazz.

JW: How did jazz lose its young fans?
DM: Jazz musicians stopped playing for dancers, and they lost gigs—and an even larger slice of their audience. By the early 1950s, R&B, followed by rock in the early 1960s, started capturing more young listeners who wanted music to dance to and no longer identified with jazz. Also, a racist attitude toward jazz was emerging that didn’t exist before. By 1964, jazz was already weakened by internal and external changes, and it didn’t take much for rock to become more popular, especially with teens.

JW: How were jazz magazines affected?
DM: In 1967, when I took over as editor of Down Beat, the magazine was being reshaped by these changes. Curiously, the pressures we faced at the magazine didn’t come from our jazz readership. Circulation was flat but it wasn’t declining. Instead, it was the advertiser base that was changing. As rock records became hot sellers, record companies devoted fewer ad dollars to their jazz labels. We became more dependent on ads from the makers of instruments and accessories.

JW: What was the result?
DM: Advertisers put pressure on us to feature more rock coverage in our pages. We had no choice but to make changes. After all, a magazine pays its bills with advertisers’ dollars, not subscription checks. But when we tried to cover rock seriously, our jazz readers threatened to cancel. So we tried to find people who could write about rock intelligently. And we covered bands like Blood Sweat and Tears and Chicago that were influenced by jazz. Eventually readers came around.

JW: Which jazz albums still move you most today?
DM: I listen to a lot of contemporary recordings as well as reissues. One of the most exciting new albums I’ve heard is Kids: Duets Live at Dizzy’s Club Coca-Cola, with Hank Jones and Joe Lovano. It’s incredible music.

But what I keep coming back to when I reach for a CD is the music I grew up with in the 1930s and 1940s. These recordings are musts for anyone's collection:

Billie Holiday and Lester Young: A Musical Romance (Sony) features the best of the beautiful Columbia recordings these two made together.

The Tatum Group Masterpiece (Pablo) are fantastic. They capture Art Tatum with Ben Webster, Roy Eldridge and many other superb musicians. You can buy the recordings as individual CDs—or as a box, The Complete Pablo Group Masterpieces. The box is out of print but is probably available used online.

Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald together are extraordinary. The best of their Verve recordings are available on a single CD—The Best of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong (Polygram). Or you can buy The Complete Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong (Polygram) on a three-CD set. The sessions combine the most beautiful American songs with the most beautiful treatments. And Louis is so great on there.

The Duke Ellington band of 1940-1942—also known as the Blanton-Webster band—is timeless and immortal. It’s on a four-CD set, Never No Lament: The Blanton-Webster Band (RCA).

Count Basie’s recordings with Lester Young still swing. This material includes Basie’s output for the Decca and Columbia labels. You’ll find these recordings on Count Basie: Complete Original American Decca Recordings (Definitive Classics) and Count Basie: The Complete 1936-1941 Columbia Recordings (Definitive Spain).

And finally, Charlie Parker's Savoy and Dial recordings are fantastic. All of these sessions have been combined on several different boxes, including Charlie Parker: The Complete Savoy & Dial Master Takes (Savoy).

JW: What three jazz musicians have been overlooked and are worthy of greater listener attention?
DM: I’d have to say clarinetist Pee Wee Russell, pianist Jimmy Rowles, and Tony Fruscella, a wonderfully fluid trumpet player who had terrible trouble with narcotics. He left the jazz scene in the 1960s and died young in 1969. Fruscella’s recordings with Stan Getz in 1955 and his Atlantic album, Tony Fruscella, are excellent. They are available separately—or together on the box, Tony Fruscella: The Complete Works (Jazz Factory).

Interview: Dan Morgenstern (Part 1)

News flash: A two-CD set featuring 24 never-before released Louis Armstrong recordings from 1937 are coming from Music Masters early next year.

Dan Morgenstern, director of the Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers University, told me the news on Wednesday when we spoke for a two-part interview that starts today, below.

Even better news—Dan is writing the album's liner notes.

For those unfamiliar with Dan, he humbly describes himself as a "jazz advocate." In truth, he's one of the nation's most respected jazz historians and authors as well as an archivist, editor and educator who has been active in jazz since 1958. As director of Rutgers' Institute of Jazz Studies, he is responsible for the world's largest collection of jazz-related materials. In addition to being jazz's man of letters, the 78-year-old Morgenstern is a genuinely nice guy with an unbridled passion for the joy jazz brings.

Dan has written and contributed to dozens of jazz books—including Living With Jazz and Jazz People—and has won seven Grammys for his album liner notes. He is the former editor of Metronome, Jazz and Down Beat magazines, and a 2007 National Endowment for the Arts Jazz Master (Phil Woods, Frank Wess, Toshiko Akiyoshi, Curtis Fuller, Ramsey Lewis and Jimmy Scott were the other 2007 Jazz Masters named).

In Part 1 of my two-part interview with Dan, we spoke about the soon-to-arrive Louis Armstrong collection, what it takes to write liner notes, a couple of dicey moments with jazz musicians over the years, and why critics must remain objective:

JazzWax: Dan, you’ve won seven Grammys for your album liner notes. What are you working on now?

Dan Morgenstern: I’m writing the liner notes for a double CD of Louis Armstrong recordings from a 1937 NBC radio show. It’s a very exciting set. Many of the 24 tracks on the first CD have never been released before in any format—not even as bootlegs. The second CD features home recordings from Louis’ private tapes,  including some music and conversation. The set is due early next year from Music Masters and will feature great big-band material. Some of the songs in the set were never recorded by Armstrong—not before 1937 or after.

JW: Where were these recordings hiding?
DM: They were in Armstrong’s own personal collection in the Louis Armstrong Archives at Queens College. The masters were Louis' private recordings of a weekly radio show he hosted in the spring of 1937.

The recordings were taken off the air and cut onto 12-inch acetate discs. For three months in 1937, Armstrong was the temporary replacement for singer Rudy Vallee, who was on holiday in Britain. Louis subbing for Rudy Vallee isn’t as surprising as you’d think. Vallee was a big fan of Louis’ and even wrote the introduction to Louis’ first autobiography in 1936, Swing That Music.

In 1937, Vallee had a longstanding weekly radio show on the NBC radio network that was sponsored by Fleischmann’s Yeast. When Louis took over the show it was called Harlem and featured Louis and his band, a comedy team and changing cast of musical guests. These recordings represent the first time a black artist was host of a nationally sponsored radio show. The sound quality is excellent thanks to a fine restoration job by Doug Pomeroy. What has been eliminated for this CD set is the show banter. You just hear Louis and his band.

JW: How do you approach writing liner notes?
DM: As a writer, the most important challenge I face is to say something that will enhance the listeners’ enjoyment of the music. The key is the right mix of biographical and musical information and what’s taking place on the recordings. For the biographical section, I like to write about what the artist was doing at the time the recordings were made. As for the performances, I always try to write about things that the listener might not immediately notice.

JW: Is it still a thrill to see your notes on an album?
DM: Oh, yes. One of my great pleasures as a writer in general is for someone to tell me that something I wrote—a book, an article, liner notes—exposed them to a specific artist or jazz in general. These days, I usually hear this from people of a certain age [laughs].

Recently someone came up to me and said, 'When I was in college I read your Down Beat review of Dexter Gordon’s The Panther and it opened a lifelong involvement in jazz.' That was gratifying to me. Disc jockeys also tell me that they find my liner notes useful because the notes tell them who's soloing on tracks, if a song is slow or fast, and other details helpful in programming.

JW: What about research?
DM: I often do quite a bit of research on the artist and the moment in time when the recordings were made. I have an advantage, in that I’m here at the Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers University, where reference materials are at my fingertips. If I’m doing the liner notes for an album of a contemporary musician, then I want to interview the artist and/or people who know the artist well.

JW: Did you ever write a review or interview that angered a jazz musician?
DM: Actually, I’ve been kind of lucky in that regard. I’ve always tried to be careful not to misrepresent what musicians say for the sake of a catchy headline. Back in the 1950s and 1960s, that was difficult, since magazines were trying to stand out and anything controversial made for good copy.

When I spoke with jazz musicians back then, invariably something would be said during the interview that was an aside or said in a certain context. If I had taken those comments out of context and put them in print to boost a magazine’s visibility, it would have annoyed or frustrated the artist, which is unfair.

JW: No one ever became angry?
DM: There were only two instances. The first occurred in the 1960s, after I reviewed the Newport Jazz Festival and noted that Elvin Jones’ drumming was too loud. The next time I saw Elvin, he cornered me. He was big and could look fierce with those funny teeth that made him look like a dragon. After he expressed his displeasure, I told him that he indeed sounded loud and that maybe he wasn’t aware that the people doing the sound put too much juice on the drums and that I probably should have worded it that way. Elvin understood. Afterward we were the best of friends again. I’ve found that artists don’t bear grudges when you explain to them why you were critical.

JW: What was the second instance?
DM: It occurred in May 1965, when George Russell returned to New York between stays in Europe. We talked about what was going on in contemporary jazz here and abroad. George was a serious composer who had developed his own concept of Lydian tonality and was an intellectual about the concept of freedom in jazz. During the interview, he expressed certain reservations about the new free-form jazz. After his comments appeared in Down Beat, some avant-garde  jazz musicians must have hit on him, complaining that it was hard enough to attract audiences without those kind of remarks.

JW: Why, what happened?
DM: To appear politically correct, George accused me in a letter to the Down Beat editor of misquoting him, which wasn’t true. I was pretty upset about it, and my editor, Don DeMichael, backed me up when  printing George's letter. It's all water under the bridge  now.

JW: Did you ever worry that becoming too close with jazz musicians could compromise your objectivity?
DM: You have to be very careful not to let the bonds between you and musicians cloud what you’re saying. If you’re a writer, your responsibility always is to the reader or listener. If you shortchange your audience, you’ll lose your credibility. I tried to avoid such conflicts by simply not writing about bad performances unless I had to. At that point, I’d always frame my remarks by saying that the artist didn’t have a particularly good night rather than completely trashing him.

JW: Isn't that pulling your punches?
DM: Not at all. It's being honest. As a writer, you always want to remain a certain distance from the artist so your objectivity isn't clouded. Or you need to be frank upfront with the reader by saying from the outset, 'This is someone I know well.' Again, how the reader perceives you and your agenda means everything to your integrity and reputation.

Tomorrow, in Part 2, Dan Morgenstern talks about the rise of drugs in jazz after World War II, the factors that allowed rock to overtake jazz's popularity with younger listeners, the CDs he reaches for first when he has down time—and three underappreciated jazz musicians who require a fresh listen.

JazzWax list: Dan Morgenstern won Grammys for the following albums:

• 2007—If You Got to Ask, You Ain't Got It! (Fats Waller)
• 1995—Louis Armstrong: Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man 1923-1934
• 1991—Brownie: The Complete EmArcy Recordings of Clifford Brown
• 1982—Erroll Garner: Master of the Keyboard
• 1977—The Changing Face of Harlem: The Savoy Sessions (various artists)
• 1975—The Hawk Flies (Coleman Hawkins)
• 1974—God Is In the House (Art Tatum)

JazzWax video clip: To see a fabulous video biography of Dan Morgenstern prepared by the National Endowment for the Arts, go here, scroll to the yellow "watch video" link and click on it.

Teddy Wilson in Denmark

I don't know what it is about Teddy Wilson's piano playing, but the guy always makes me feel great. No matter the recording, his stride style never sounds plodding or frantic. It's robust—but steady, like a mildly excited heartbeat. And his technique, especially on standards, manages to be both quaint and hip.

Even in the late 1960s and early 1970s—when Wilson's stated goal was to make money playing anywhere and for anyone—he never sounded like he was selling out. In a 1971 interview with Les Tompkins, Wilson was blunt about his mission:

"My working scene today is just taking whatever bookings come up; I don’t turn anything down. I’m for sale; I’ll play with a hundred pieces or do a solo job. Bobby Hackett and I work with a quartet sometimes.

Within reasonable limits, a professional player should keep busy at music, even if it’s a commercial job that you don’t like. Fortunately, I am able to do a majority of pleasurable jobs, but I have done commercial jingles and stuff for radio and TV. They pay well and, since I have lots of responsibilities, children to support, I need to make money. If it’s enough money, I’ll play the North Pole."

In December 1968, Wilson wasn't at the top of the world but he was in rare form. He was in Copenhagen, ostensibly to record an album at Danish jazz producer Timme Rosenkrantz's nightclub. Arriving a week early, Wilson was able to squeeze in a Danish Radio performance with Niels-Henning Orsted Pedersen on bass and Bjarne Rostvold  on drums and a recording date for the Swedish Metronome label with the same impeccable  sidemen.

The Danish radio and Metronome dates are captured on a remastered CD from 2004 called The Noble Art of Teddy Wilson. (The album should not be confused with Noble Art of Teddy Wilson, a CD that was released in 2002 on the ASV Living Era label and features completely different material.)

Every track on the 2004 CD is Wilson at his very best. All 24 selections are standards ranging from Shiny Stockings and Imagination to Serenata and Autumn in New York. And each is a masterpiece in treatment and an exercise in how to perform a standard so that knowing audiences are delighted. Only Erroll Garner had that same ability on the piano, to make the familiar sound brand new. (Talk about grace, that's Garner, Mary Lou Williams and Wilson photographed in New York in 1958.)

In 1968, Wilson was a long way off from his final days. He died in 1986. On this recording in Denmark, you can hear Wilson channel the 1930s, the 1940s and the 1950s on every tune. Teddy's hands only got better and wiser with age.

JazzWax tracks: I'm delighted to report that The Noble Art of Teddy Wilson is available as a crisp-sounding remastered download at iTunes for $10. Given that there are 24 tracks, that works out to less than 50 cents a pop! Just be sure to download the $9.99 version. For some reason there's an $11.99 version on Wilson's first iTunes screen and a $9.99 version on the second. Both appear to feature  identical playlists.

JazzWax video clip: For a taste of Teddy in 1966, go here and see Wilson with Bob Cranshaw on bass and Louie Bellson on drums. Despite the date listed in the write up under the clip, the footage is from the trio's "Royal Festival Hall" concert in London on November 26, 1966. Listen as Wilson brazenly double-times I've Got the World on a String toward the end before transitioning to Love—a great song pairing if there ever was one.

Jackie Paris: 'Tis Autumn

I remember seeing Jackie Paris sing and play guitar in the early 1980s at the West End, a New York jazz club and restaurant near Columbia University that closed some years ago.

It wasn't a great night for Jackie. Most of the dozen or so people there didn't seem to know who he was—and those who did were probably expecting the same guy who belted out Skylark back in the early 1950s. Applause was sporadic.

Paris was into a more subtle, hushed bag by then. Which at the time made me wonder how such a hip 52d St. singer with high-octane optimism on LPs could wind up tamped down in a pitcher-beer joint. Hey, for every Bill Evans, Dinah Washington and Sonny Rollins there were hundreds of amazingly talented jazz artists who almost made it but never did.

Some fabulous jazz artists remained in obscurity because they succumbed to drugs and couldn't honor professional commitments. Or were too angry and rubbed powerful people the wrong way. Or simply didn't have the stamina required to reach their full promise.

And then there was Jackie Paris, perhaps jazz's biggest near-miss. A jazz singer unlike any other in the late 1940s, Paris' voice had a wide-open honesty and hip tenderness that captured the hearts of Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Charles Mingus and so many other jazz stars and audiences back then.

What they recognized in Paris' voice was an unrestrained emotional commitment that was unheard of at the time in male singers. Not until the early 1960s—when Paul Anka, Bobby Vee, Frankie Avalon and other young pop singers were tapped to win the hearts of teenage girls—do you hear a pleading boyish voice marketed aggressively by record companies. Back in the mid-1950s, that sound was still ahead of its time.

Chet Baker came close during this period—when he sang in tune, that is. But compared to Paris, Baker often sounded half asleep or mawkish. Where Paris had comet-like energy and a passion for lyrics, Baker had a passive-aggressive sound that seemed to wallow in style rather than substance.

Unfortunately for Paris, a series of missteps and misfortunes in the 1950s—some predictable and some random—kept him from building on his early success or reaching the level of commercial visibility that should have accompanied his vast talents.

Unable to establish himself before the rise of the teen idol in 1960 and the British invasion of 1964, Paris failed to become a legend soon enough. He was too hip by half and didn't record sufficiently to establish his name or sustain his reputation into the arid decades that would follow.

In all fairness, no male jazz singer survived the early 1960s. Dinah Washington, Sarah Vaughan, Carmen McRae, Peggy Lee and other female vocalists retooled and remained popular. But if you were a male jazz singer, you were finished unless you started swinging. There was no market for aging male sincerity.

For years, only the hippest jazz listeners knew who Paris was and the qualities that made him so popular with the "in" crowd. Now everyone can learn all about Paris' tortured, life-long struggle with fame thanks to 'Tis Autumn: The Search for Jackie Paris, a heartbreaking new documentary directed by award-winning filmmaker Raymond De Felitta.

Like any good documentary, 'Tis Autumn is obsessive. Despite a few minor flaws, the film is a haunting chronicle of unfulfilled promise and how the drive to succeed as a jazz artist—or any artist, for that matter—can clean your clock.

De Felitta's quest to discover why Paris fell short remains a shadowy mystery—was it the mob, a poor choice of management, an overly inflated ego, a hair-trigger temper or simply a voice that wasn't marketable? We'll never know, which only adds to the Paris mystique.

But that isn't really the point of the film, and De Felitta gets this early. About halfway through, the search for answers ends and a new storyline emerges that is even more harrowing than the first. Ultimately, 'Tis Autumn offers up a first-hand look of how illusive success is for many great artists, and how the same ego needed to propel you to the top also can turn on you.

In many ways, this is a documentary about the pain of coping with non-success and unfulfilled dreams. The difference for Jackie Paris, who died in 2004, is that he should have been bigger than he was. That's not debatable. You can hear the quality of his art in his voice. His failure to achieve what should have been his was part misfortune and part personality issues that plague any creative soul torn between art and commerce.

De Felitta's search for answers in this film brought many in the audience at Cinema Village to tears. Interestingly, I don't think that sadness was reserved exclusively for Paris—who by the end of his life seemed to accept his fate. Instead, I think everyone there in the theater knew a Jackie Paris, a should-have-been who couldn't manage to overcome life's dirty tricks.

I plan on seeing 'Tis Autumn again—not because Jackie Paris was more special than dozens of other artists. I just feel it's important to be reminded of what committed jazz artists had to endure to make a difference—and how frustrating it must be to have a creative message go unrecognized.

JazzWax tracks: There's a fine sampling of Jackie Paris' work at iTunes. Skylark, a 1953 album for Brunswick, is there. So is Songs by Paris (Wing) from 1955. Both are fabulous.

The songs Portrait, Paris In Blue and Make Believe that Paris recorded with Charles Mingus for Debut Records in 1952 also are available at iTunes.

If you want to move on to LPs and CDs, Advance Guard of the '40s, an EmArcy LP, includes a rare 1949 recording of Paris singing 'Round Midnight—the first vocal version of Thelonious Monk's standard. The album pops up on eBay from time to time.

The Song Is Paris (Impulse) from 1962 is one of Paris' best albums. The arrangements are by Bobby Scott and the date features top session musicians from the period, including guitarist Barry Galbraith, alto saxophonist Hal McKusick, and tenor saxophonist Romeo Penque. It's available on CD only as a Japanese import.

The Jackie Paris Sound (East-West) from 1957 also features leading jazz musicians, including pianist Hank Jones. It's available on CD only as a Japanese import.

For more information on Paris, including a discography, go here. For more on Raymond De Felitta, go here.

JazzWax video clip: To see the trailer for 'Tis Autumn: The Search for Jackie Paris, go here.

To see Jackie Paris sing 'Tis Autumn from the film, go here.

Clifford Brown: 1953

Trumpeter Clifford Brown is best remembered for the groundbreaking hard-bop albums he made with Max Roach for EmArcy Records starting in August 1954 and ending with his tragic death in June 1956.

Often overlooked, however, are the recordings Brown made as a sideman during the summer and fall of 1953. Like the EmArcy dates, these sessions are dynamic and cutting-edge—but for very different reasons.

Over the course of nine days—between June 11 and October 15, 1953—Brown recorded with different bands under the direction or influence of Tadd Dameron, Gigi Gryce and Quincy Jones (the photo on the right is of Brown and Gryce in Paris in 1953).

At the time, all three jazz musicians—Dameron, Gryce and Jones—were pioneering a new sophisticated harmonic sound influenced by Miles Davis' "Birth of the Cool" recordings. But their version of cool was much tougher than the laid-back, West Coast interpretation being advanced by Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker.

The East Coast leveraging of cool was more melodically complex and musically urgent than the Hollywood approach, which relied on contrapuntal minimalism. All you have to do is listen to Gigi Gryce's staggeringly pretty Keeping Up With Jonesy from 1953 to hear the sizable changes taking place. In Brown's hands, East Coast cool would become hard bop within a year.

In the summer of 1953, Brownie was at the right place at the right time after extensive healing following a horrible college auto accident in 1950. The crash left Brown with two broken legs, and he was in a full-body cast for months while undergoing skin and bone grafts. Released in May 1951, Brown spent the next year trying to regain his trumpet playing skills.

In 1953 Brown joined Tadd Dameron's group, which featured  Idrees Sulieman on trumpet, Herb Mullins on trombone, Gigi Gryce on alto saxophone, Benny Golson on tenor, Oscar Estelle on baritone,  Dameron on piano, Percy Heath on bass and Philly Joe Jones on drums. The band recorded four beautiful Dameron originals for Prestige on June 11—Philly J.J., Choose Now, Dial B for Beauty and Theme of No Repeat.

Later that summer, Quincy Jones, who was playing trumpet in Lionel Hampton's band, slipped away with Art Farmer and other musicians in New Jersey to jam with members of Dameron's group. After the session, he convinced Hampton to hire Brown, Gryce and Golson away from Dameron, which Hampton did.

In a 1961 interview by Barbara Gardener for Down Beat magazine, Art Farmer recalled the summer of 1953:

" '[Clifford Brown] was in Atlantic City with Tadd Dameron and I was in Wildwood, N.J., with Hamp. One night Quincy Jones, Jimmy Cleveland, and some of the fellows from Hamp's band drove over to Atlantic City after work.

We ended up having a session at the Club Harlem which lasted until 9 or 10 in the morning. No one played but the rhythm section and I guess almost all the trumpet players in that area. There were at least six of us, and Brownie was really pushing. You can't imagine what an experience that was.'

This was only the beginning of the Farmer vs. Brown relationship. Farmer remembers the fall of '53 wryly: 'Brownie, along with Benny Golson, came into Hamp's band. Hamp goes for battles, so this was his chance for a never-ending trumpet battle between Brownie and me. Although I felt that Brownie was the better player, I couldn't just be content to let him make a foil of me.'

Then Farmer added, with steely eye and a brief, reluctant smile, 'So I think there were some very interesting nights. In fact, every night was very interesting.' "

In the fall of 1953, Brown—now a member of Hampton's band—left for a tour of Europe and North Africa. Before they left, Hampton reminded the band of his rule against making records on the side. The practice was common among musicians in big bands who wanted to earn extra cash and a name for themselves during their down time. The problem for band leaders, of course, was the risk of losing their biggest stars if the sideline records became hits.

Despite Hampton's firm directive, Brown, Jones, Farmer, Gryce, trombonist Jimmy Cleveland and alto saxophonist Anthony Ortega slipped out of hotels in Stockholm and Paris to record with local jazz musicians. The recordings turned up on European labels—Metronome and Vogue—and the new sound made them all instant stars.

According to a 2002 obituary of Lionel Hampton in The Independent of London:

"[Hampton's] 1953 band came to Europe, and it included the young trumpeter Clifford Brown, by then a jazz phenomenon, although Hampton seemed not to notice. Under the iron fist of Gladys Hampton, the musicians were instructed that they were not allowed to record unless under Lionel's leadership. A guard was placed in the lobby of their Paris hotel to prevent any recalcitrant sidemen from escaping.

In the middle of one night, Clifford Brown and Quincy Jones left by a rear bedroom window and went to a studio where Brown cut a batch of recordings which were to change the face of jazz trumpet playing. Presumably they also supplemented the measly number of dollars which had escaped from Gladys's fist as salary."

What's amazing about all of these 1953 sessions is that you can hear clearly the contributions and influences of each artist.

You can hear the emergence of Brown's confident trumpet style as well as the fluttering runs that would become a hallmark of his sound. You can hear Quincy Jones' early wide-body arranging skills. You can hear Gigi Gryce's bold, sensual songwriting and arranging style in Minority, Salute to the Band Box, Strictly Romantic, Quick Step and many others. And you can hear Tadd's catchy songs and powdery charts that would reach full flower three years later on the album Fontainebleau.

And Brown is in the thick of all these talents—his jazz sensibilities and soul being marinated by some of the most innovative young composers and arrangers of the day.

I like to think of these sessions as Birth of the Hard Bop—Brown's, Dameron's, Gryce's and Jones' response to Miles Davis' Birth of the Cool.

JazzWax tracks: All of the dates mentioned above can be found here, on Clifford Brown: Complete Metronome & Vogue Master Takes (Definitive Classics).

If you want the masters and alternate takes from the Paris sessions, they are available here, here and here on Clifford Brown: Complete Paris Sessions, Vols. 1, 2 and 3.

I recommend the Definitive Classics two-CD set, since you'll get all of Brown's dates during this critical 1953 period.

Each song is a gem and way ahead of its time, especially when you consider that in the summer of 1953 Charlie Parker was recording sides that would eventually fill out the Verve album Now's the Time. Hardly a bad album by Bird but not nearly as ahead of the curve as these Clifford Brown sides.

A significant change was occurring in jazz in 1953. Fortunately the shift was captured on these Clifford Brown sessions.