JazzWax

Bird and Candido: Repetition

Charlie Parker recorded 14 known versions of Repetition. The first, in December 1947, was the studio version for Clef Records. The rest were live performances captured between 1950 and 1954. Of the live versions, none is more exciting or as moving as the one recorded midnight at Carnegie Hall on November 15, 1952. On that date, Charlie Parker let a 32-year-old percussionist named Candido Camero play an extended solo, and Candido's commanding performance brought down the house and launched a Latin-jazz career.

Composed in 1947 by Neal Hefti for the compilation album The Jazz Scene, Repetition was radically different than anything else big bands were playing at the time. For the most part, bands in 1947 still favored swing or, if they were ambitious, bebop. But the younger musicians emerging from Juilliard and other music schools after the war were beginning to develop a new, more sophisticated approach to composition and scoring.

Rather than rely only on the blues or chord changes from Tin Pan Alley standards, these young theorists favored melodies built on modal scales. To the average ear, this music sounded cooler than swing or bebop—and it allowed for more space and less predictable note and chord choices.

In mid-1947, Gil Evans [pictured]—the foremost proponent of this new jazz style—along with Gerry Mulligan and Miles Davis began collaborating on a series of songs using the new jazz sound. Their cooler approach could already be heard in Evans' and Mulligan's arrangements for Claude Thornhill’s band and in Davis’ Milestones with Charlie Parker. (Their work would, of course, wind up as the basis for the now-famous "Birth of the Cool" nonette.) Other arrangers like Hefti took notice in 1947 and also began experimenting with modal compositions.

So when Hefti [pictured] was asked by producer Norman Granz to write two songs for The Jazz Scene—an album that was to be aimed at the wealthier, high-brow set—he scored modal-jazz originals that fused light Cuban rhythms already popularized by Dizzy Gillespie with a classically trained string section.

Hefti rehearsed his orchestra in late December 1947 at Carnegie Hall prior to recording the two songs. As the story goes, Charlie Parker wandered in after recording Bird, his own side for The Jazz Scene. Intrigued by what he heard, Parker asked Hefti if he could play a solo on the first number.

Thrilled, Hefti made room. But there was no time to rework the arrangement. A musician's union recording ban loomed just weeks away. So Hefti simply had the orchestra play the theme twice—once alone and the second time with Parker soloing. That's how Repetition got its name. The second song Hefti recorded was Rhumbacito.

Repetition, featuring Parker's solo, was a powerful record. But The Jazz Scene album when ready for release in late 1949 was expensive—$25 for the six 78 rpms, which in today's dollars would be about $215. So Granz hedged his bets. In November 1949, he recorded Parker on three discs playing standards backed by strings and woodwinds. When Charlie Parker With Strings was released, the album was a big success in jazz terms, and Just Friends became a juke-box hit.

With the success of Parker With Strings, Bird began appearing live with a smaller string section and an oboe to simulate the recordings. One of those appearances occurred at Carnegie Hall on November 14, 1952 at 8:30 pm and again on the 15th at midnight. What made this performance of Repetition different from the others is that Parker became entranced by Candido's dominant playing and gave the percussionist a minute-long solo, which in those days was an eternity.

I called the 86-year-old Candido earlier this week to learn a little more about what happened that night:

"I originally met Charlie Parker at the Downbeat club in New York on 54th St. and Eighth Ave. I was playing there with Billy Taylor for a year and half. Billy Taylor was the regular pianist at the club. Every week they'd change the main jazz group. So I was able to play with every one of them. That’s where I met Charlie Parker, when he came to play. He loved my playing.

At Carnegie Hall that night, Charlie Parker waited in the dressing room. He said, 'Dido, let me know when we go on.' Charlie used to call me 'Dido.' He was a very humble, beautiful person. When I went to get him, he was just sitting there quietly, ready to play. He didn't talk much in general.

Charlie conducted the strings. He loved doing that. I don’t read music. Not one note. Everything is from the heart, from my hands. I hear a song once, I know what to do.

When it came to Repetition, Charlie Parker announced that I'd be playing but in the middle of the song he  pointed at me to keep going longer. Then he just let me play and play. So I put everything into it. When I accompanied him and the strings in the beginning of the song, I played the bongo. But I switched to the conga for my big solo. I used the conga because I wanted to do something different and it was louder. I used one conga drum. There wasn't enough room.

A conga solo was unusual at the time. It was used mostly in the background, not as a solo instrument. Charlie Parker was very excited by the sound. And me, too! Charlie Parker was a beautiful person. And a genius. I have not heard that sound since then. After he passed away, that’s it. No more sound. He was a very happy guy."

JazzWax tracks: The five-minute 1952 version of Repetition featuring Candido's extended solo is at iTunes, hidden away on an album called Charlie Parker: Live Sessions. You've got to hear it to believe it. Once Candido is given the green light, you literally hear him seize the moment, fully aware that he had to both impress Parker and knock out the audience. By all measures, he did both—in just 60 seconds.

If you love Repetition as much as I do, you can put together a fascinating five-version download. You'll find the 1947 studio recording and a 1950 Carnegie Hall concert version on Charlie Parker With Strings. Then download the 1950 Apollo Theater and 1950 Birdland versions from Charlie Parker: New York Anthology. If you add Candido's version from Charlie Parker: Live Sessions, you'll have 5 of the 14 versions—enough to give you a thrill. For some reason, Repetition never gets tired or old.

JazzWax DVD: A fine film documentary on Candido Camero—Candido: Hands of Fire—by Ivan Acosta is available here.

Herbie Mann: Just Wailin'

Yesterday morning I had a strong craving for Herbie Mann. No, not the shirtless Herbie Mann with the flute over his shoulder or the Herbie Mann with the Panama hat in the beach chair or Our Mann Flute. I'm talking about the pre-1961 Mann, the hip Mann, the swinging Mann who made the jazz flute cool and played on some of the niftiest small- and large-group jazz sessions of the 1950s.

As you can see, just writing the name "Herbie Mann" conjures up images of  beatniks, van Dykes, bongos and aging hipsters in gray sweatshirts and Jack Purcells. But while he certainly is guilty of recording his share of bland fare in the 1960s and beyond, Mann's recordings in the 1950s for Savoy, Prestige, Coral, Bethlehem, EmArcy, Riverside and other labels featured inventive combinations of sidemen and straight-up playing.

One of my favorite Herbie Mann albums from this period is Just Wailin' (Prestige). Recorded on February 14 1958 (yep, 50 years ago this month), Mann was accompanied by Charlie Rouse on tenor sax, Kenny Burrell on guitar, Mal Waldron on piano, George Joyner on bass and Arthur Taylor on drums. It's a terrific session with strong individualists who together created a breezy, harmonic, bluesy album.

Mann's recording career dates back to April 1953, when he appeared on flute and tenor sax with accordionist Mat Mathews—a quintet that featured bassist Percy Heath and drummer Kenny Clarke. In September 1954, Mann recorded on Ralph Burns' Winter Sequence for MGM, an important date that exposed him to top-rank players such as Joe Wilder, Kai Winding, Billy Bauer and Oscar Pettiford.

Mann's first big break came a month later in October 1954, when he appeared with Mat Mathews and Mundell Lowe on Carmen McRae's initial record date for Bethlehem. Mann's clean, swinging playing on the McRae date led to work on Sarah Vaughan's most ambitious jazz album of the period for EmArcy Records that featured trumpeter Clifford Brown, tenor saxophonist Paul Quinichette and drummer Roy Haynes. Mann's modernist flute solos lightened the session and still stand out.

Mann's first leadership date was Flamingo (Bethlehem) in June 1955, and in September Ralph Burns used him again on his Jazz Studio Five album, which was part of an experimental Decca series that gave arrangers full control of their recording session.

In October 1955, Mann joined flutist Sam Most for a Bethlehem date, and then recorded a string of albums for the label through March 1956.

In June 1956, Mann recorded on Oscar Pettiford's Manhattan Jazz Septette, which put him in the company of jazz's top leaders and session men of the time—including arranger Manny Albam, trombonist Urbie Green, saxophonist Hal McKusick, pianist Eddie Costa, guitarist Barry Galbraith, bassist Oscar Pettiford and drummer Osie Johnson. In September he recorded on Erroll Garner's Misty session for Columbia arranged by Nat Pierce.

In the fall of 1956, Mann toured extensively in Sweden and the Netherlands. Upon his return to New York at year's end, Mann recorded a few albums with Mat Mathews, including Music for Suburban Living (Coral), with Joe Puma on guitar and Whitey Mitchell on bass. Mann's first "world music" album, Gone Native, was recorded in February 1957, which led immediately to Art Blakey's Orgy in Rhythm in March, featuring a range of Latin percussionists.

That same month, Mann recorded his first Prestige album, Flute Souffle, that included saxophonist Bobby Jasper and pianist Tommy Flanagan.

Mann's prolific output in 1957 helped establish the flute as jazz's new hot instrument, and its mischievous sound would quickly become associated with the Beat poets, writers and Greenwich Village cafes. Between March and September 1957, Mann recorded nearly 20 albums for Verve, Capitol, Riverside, Savoy and other labels.

Just Wailin' came in February 1958, after a brief recording break at end of 1957. Bringing together Mann, Rouse and Burrell [pictured] was a terrific idea that worked beautifully. You hear Rouse's strong tenor smoothed out on top by Mann's flute and enhanced on the bottom by Burrell's round-sound guitar. In addition, all of the album's tracks are blues of one sort or another, giving the record a concept-album feel. It also doesn't hurt that Mal Waldron [pictured below], George Joyner and Art Taylor are in the rhythm section.

The first two tunes—Waldron's Minor Groove and Blue Echo—are both minor-key blues. Burrell's Blue Dip also is a minor blues—but with a 2/4 feel. Mann's extended solo here—and on other tracks—remains refreshingly hip. He sounds and feels both cool, transparent and unconventional, working simply on novel ideas and using space to his advantage. There's something about Mann's playing on this date that always makes me want to hear more.

Waldron's Gospel Truth is a call-and-response blues taken at a slower, revival-meeting pace. Jumpin' With Symphony Sid, the album's only jazz standard, is interpreted as a puckish, uptempo blues. Mann takes the first solo and is followed by Burrell. Both efforts are trim and melodic. When Rouse [pictured] joins in, he injects a leathery texture that creates a terrific contrast.

Cal Massey's Trinidad closes out the album and is the date's most daring tune. Upbeat and bright, the song opens with a polyrhythmic Caribbean beat and then springs into a straight-ahead blues.

Like the album I featured yesterday (Presenting Red Mitchell), Just Wailin' captures musicians in transition. By February 1957, Waldron's eight-month period as Billie Holiday's accompanist was winding down in tandem with Billie's deteriorating health.  Four days after Just Wailin', Waldron recorded on Billie's Lady in Satin. Waldron was painfully aware of Billie's condition and was starting to branch out by February 1958.

Rouse, by contrast, was at the threshold of a great adventure: Later that year, in the fall, he would embark on a long, fruitful period accompanying Thelonious Monk. His confidence on Just Wailin' is already strong, and his ideas are whip-sharp.

As for Mann, after Just Wailin', he recorded Legrand Jazz in June 1958, which featured an all-star group including Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans, Barry Galbraith, Jerome Richardson and Phil Woods. From 1958 through 1961, Mann recorded on albums led by Chet Baker, Machito, Billy Taylor and others.

Then in April 1961, Mann's recorded Family of Mann for Atlantic Records, after which he pretty much went over to the other side. His post-1961 record titles included Do the Bossa Nova with Herbie Mann, Latin Fever, My Kinda Groove, A Mann & A Woman and Our Mann Flute.

Just Wailin' was the last pure Herbie Mann-led jazz album. Less than three years later, Mann would drift away from jazz and make albums that, in some cases, were little more than music to do dishes by.

JazzWax tracks: Just Wailin' isn't available at iTunes but it is available on CD here. By the way, if you're having trouble making out the artwork on the cover, it features two merry-go-round horses whinnying (or wailin').

Presenting Red Mitchell

I spent yesterday listening to Presenting Red Mitchell, a nifty, often-overlooked album recorded in March 1957 featuring an unusual quartet of  musicians. For the date, bassist Mitchell used his working group at the time—James Clay on flute and tenor sax, Lorraine Geller on piano and Billy Higgins on drums. Interestingly, each West Coast musician had a gentle touch at this point in time, and all played well together. But the future would be very different for each musician after this date was completed.

By the spring of 1957, Mitchell, 30, already was a seasoned pro. The bassist had begun his recording career nine years earlier with trumpeter Tony Fruscella in New York. In 1949, he joined Charlie Ventura's orchestra and jumped to Woody Herman's blockbuster Capitol Records band a few months later in 1950. Mitchell remained with Herman until 1952. When he departed, he recorded steadily as a sideman on sessions led by top-name players including Gerry Mulligan, Red Norvo, Russ Freeman, Chet Baker, Herb Geller, Stan Getz and Jimmy Raney. In the first half of 1954 Mitchell toured in Europe playing different concert dates with Billie Holiday, Sonny Clark, Jimmy Raney, Gerry Mulligan and Bob Brookmeyer.

Upon returning to the U.S. in mid-1954, the bassist relocated to Los Angeles. For the next three years, Mitchell recorded relentlessly with virtually every major player, including Tal Farlow [pictured], Chet Baker, Barney Kessel, Jimmy Rowles, Hampton Hawes, Jack Montrose, Bill Perkins, Marty Paich and many others.

In early 1957, Mitchell put together a group consisting of Clay, Geller and Higgins. They appeared together in February on a Stars of Jazz TV show for KABC in Los Angeles before going into the Contemporary Records studios in March to record Presenting Red Mitchell.

James Clay was a little-known tenor saxophonist in early 1957 but one of the first to completely embrace Sonny Rollins' advanced open playing style. Shortly after Presenting Red Mitchell, Clay was inducted into the army. When he was discharged, he recorded a couple of leadership albums for Riverside in 1960, a terrific Wes Montgomery album (Movin' Along) and three albums between 1963-1964 before disappearing from the recording scene until the mid-1970s. He staged a comeback in the 1980s and early 1990s, and died in 1994.

Lorraine Walsh was already an accomplished jazz pianist when she met alto saxophonist Herb Geller in 1950. After they married a year later, the couple moved to Los Angeles, where Herb began recording steadily. Lorraine recorded with many excellent musicians and bands in the mid-1950s, including Shorty Rogers, Miles Davis, Harry "Sweets" Edison and Maynard Ferguson. She also recorded several albums with her husband in 1954 and 1955. Sadly, Presenting Red Mitchell would be her last recording date. Soon after this session, Geller retired briefly to become a mom, played behind Kay Starr and appeared at the first Monterey Jazz Festival in September 1958. Then suddenly, in October 1958, she died of heart failure at age 29.

Presenting Red Mitchell was Billy Higgins' first date. He would, of course, go on to record extensively with Ornette Coleman, Don Cherry, Lee Morgan, Sonny Rollins and many other major jazz artists in the 1960s and beyond. Higgins died in 2001.

As for Red Mitchell, he moved to Sweden in 1968 where he continued to play and record with dozens of touring jazz greats. He returned to the U.S. in early 1992 and died later that year.

Presenting Red Mitchell is solid from start to finish. It's a pretty on the ear and contains many subtle surprises. Among the highlights are Clay's flute playing on Red Mitchell's Rainy Night and Geller's long-fingered graceful lines and chords on one of Mitchell's finest originals, I Thought of You.

Clay showcases his Rollins-inspired technique on Miles Davis' Out of the Blue, Clifford Brown's Sandu and the standard Cheek to Cheek. Clay also plays a gorgeous flute on Rollins' Paul's Pal. Mitchell's playing, as always, is studio sharp and straightforward. Higgins is fabulous, and it's clear from his confident and dynamic playing on this, his initial studio date, that he's going places.

This album is by no means a jazz classic. It's simply a pretty piece of work that captures four excellent musicians at a critical moment in their careers.

JazzWax tracks: Presenting Red Mitchell is available here. The CD hasn't been remastered yet, but the sound is perfectly fine.

Lorraine Geller's recording, Lorraine Geller at the Piano, is available here as a Japanese import. She also can be heard on a compilation CD with Herb Geller that includes the album, The Gellers, here. She also is featured with Maynard Ferguson's dynamic big band of 1955 on this compilation here.

James Clay's work prior to the Red Mitchell date with drummer Lawrence Marable as well as four tracks from Presenting Red Mitchell and one from the KABC-TV date are available on a Fresh Sounds release here.

All three tracks recorded by the Red Mitchell Quartet at KABC-TV in Los Angeles can be found on Memorial, a super rare Lorraine Geller CD here from Fresh Sounds. The CD also includes Lorraine Geller at the Piano and four tracks with Herb Geller.

Sonny Clark: Leapin' and Lopin'

Everyone who digs jazz piano is crazy about Sonny Clark. The pianist combined a swinging hard-bop style with delicate phrasing, resulting in a seductive keyboard touch that was envied and unrivaled. Bill Evans' admiration for Clark was so pronounced that he named a song for him—N.Y.C.'s No Lark, an anagram of Sonny Clark's name.

Clark's last album as a leader was Leapin' and Lopin' (1961), and it remains one of my favorites. After Leapin' and Lopin', Clark would continue recording as a sideman for Grant Green, Ike Quebec, Jackie McLean and Dexter Gordon throughout 1962 until his death following a heroin overdose in January 1963.

Leapin' and Lopin' was recorded in November 1961 and features Tommy Turrentine on trumpet, Charlie Rouse [pictured] on tenor sax, Butch Warren on bass and Billy Higgins on drums. Tenor saxophonist Ike Quebec is heard on one track—the ballad Deep in a Dream. More on a possible reason why in a minute.

Leapin' and Lopin' is essential because it provides us with all of Clark's brilliant piano styles in one place—his pensive ballad work, hard bop swinging, soulful funk and Latin-tinged blues. The album's horn players—Rouse and Turrentine—couldn't have been more perfectly matched to Clark's catalyzing sound.

What makes Clark so appealing to the ear are his chord structures and soft, engaging lines. He never lingers in one area of the keyboard, and his chord clusters are always about beauty and tasteful percussion. Best of all, when accompanying players, Clark didn't just lay down a thick bed of chords. Instead, he soloed behind them with chords, egging on the soloist's effort and adding texture to their statements. Clark is never dull, and on Leapin' and Lopin' there's an especially hushed effortless to his playing that is remarkable and memorable.

The album opens with Something Special, a hard bop line in a minor key written by Clark. We hear Clark move cat-like on the keyboard, with Rouse showing off his smoky chops. Turrentine [pictured] follows, sounding very much like Kenny Dorham—hitting every note cleanly and without overbearing force. And Clark's bluesy solo is sharp and inspired.

The ballad Deep in a Dream opens with a fabulous intro by Clark, who then delivers the standard's main theme. Quebec [pictured] solos with a breathy Lester Young approach, and Clark's solo is equally soft. For me, the standard could have been taken a peck faster, but the dirge tempo certainly grows on you. By the end of the tune, Clark and Quebec seem to be dueling for most seductive sound, and Clark by my count was ahead. But in the final measures, Ike pulls off quite a trick—slurring his last note and out-smoothing Clark. But Clark rises to meet the challenge with a descending configuration followed by a glossy ascending arpeggio. Perfection!

Melody for C is the most spirited track on the album. The modal line is bright and frisky, setting up Rouse, who roars through his solo with a gritty, controlled tone. According to Rouse's discography, the saxophonist recorded half of Further Definitions (Impulse) earlier that same day (November 13, 1961) with Benny Carter, Phil Woods, Coleman Hawkins and Jo Jones. What a tune-up session! No wonder Rouse's lines are so fluid on Leapin' and Lopin'. His crowded schedule on this particular day may help explain why Quebec played on just one tune. Or perhaps Quebec was supposed to be the tenor on the Clark date but took ill and Rouse was called in. Who knows?

Clark's solo on Melody for C is perfect, and his percussive accompaniment includes his signature style of hitting a chord and employing a glissando—running his thumb down the keys. His playing here is gorgeous—the musical equivalent of suede. At certain points Clark is so serene he sounds as if he's playing the piano with brushes. This is easily one of my all-time favorite Clark solos.

Bassist Butch Warren contributed Eric Walks, a hard bop flag-waver with Tadd Dameron touches. The tune switches between major and minor keys, and showcases Turrentine, whose playing was considerably softer than Lee Morgan's, Donald Byrd's or Freddie Hubbard's. I find that Turrentine and Rouse were especially suited to Clark's playing because they sound like keyboard players themselves, hitting every note with clean, staccato distinction.

Voodoo is a tune with a minor-key gospel funk line that opens in march time but dissolves into a walking hard-bop tempo following Warren's snare roll. Listen as Clark offers a light, funky Bobby Timmons approach here.

Turrentine wrote the album's closer, Midnight Mambo. The Latin-tinged song with a Calypso feel also is in a minor key and features Clark jabbing chords behind Rouse's solo. Clark must have been quite a change, stylistically, for Rouse, who spent the prior four years touring and recording with Thelonious Monk. Unfortunately, Rouse recorded only twice with Clark—on this album and on trumpter Louis Smith's Smithville. Rouse resumed playing and touring steadily with Monk shortly after this date.

To quote from Ira Gitler's 1961 liner notes:

"Sonny Clark is fortunately far from fashionably funky, and is more personal a pianist than ever before. Bud Powell was his main influence and, if his general area of keyboard approach is to be considered, still is. However, Clark, whose past Blue Note recordings show that  he was never as close to Bud Powell as, say, Walter Bishop or Kenny Drew once were, is now more solidly his own man when it comes down to specifics. Furthermore, he has not lost that quality which Art Farmer referred to on the back liner of Cool Struttin': 'Some people sound like they're trying to swing. Sonny just flows along naturally.'"

And how. What makes Leapin' and Lopin' special for me is Sonny's maturity and the inclusion of Rouse and Turrentine, who aren't overpowering. The pair brightly complement Clark's natural flow.

JazzWax tracks: Leapin' and Lopin' is available on CD and at iTunes, but I must warn you that the sound is inferior. For some baffling reason, Leapin' and Lopin' has not yet been remastered as part of the Rudy Van Gelder series.

To fully appreciate Sonny Clark's chord choices and solos, I recommend springing for the import. The extra expense is worth it. My Japanese import seems to be unavailable now at the usual online CD shops. But i did notice Japanese imports of the album available at eBay. Simply type "Leapin' and Lopin'" into the eBay search engine and you'll see the "buy now" offerings.

Bill Evans' gentle N.Y.C.'s No Lark is available on Conversations With Myself. The album won Evans a Grammy Award in 1964 for "Best Instrumental Jazz Performance—Soloist or Small Group." Given the fact that the album features Evans overdubbing his own lines, it seems Verve had both solo and small group territory pretty well covered.

Roots of 'Round Midnight?

Thelonious Monk's jazz anthem 'Round Midnight and the pop standard These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You) seem to have something in common. To be sure, they are completely different songs musically—'Round Midnight is in a minor key and These Foolish Things is in a major key, and their chord changes are different. But when you slow These Foolish Things to a crawl, the similarities in feel and how both progress are remarkably similar. It's my belief after a bit of research that one may have influenced the other.

Thelonious Monk's 'Round Midnight, of course, is the most recorded, best-loved and most easily identified jazz standard. These Foolish Things continues to be one of America's best-known pop standards. I had never even remotely equated the two songs until this weekend, when I found myself listening intently to Charlie Parker: The Washington Concerts for a writing project.

On that CD, Bird plays These Foolish Things, backed by a big band. Joe Timer's arrangement is taken slightly slower than the standard's usual mid-tempo pace. As I listened to Bird's take, I realized that the chart sounded eerily similar to Dizzy Gillespie's 'Round About Midnight from the 1948 Salle de Pleyel concert. Could it be? So I played Dizzy's version, and the feel and mood were very close. Then I played Bird's These Foolish Things again, this time humming 'Round Midnight over the top. It was a rough fit, but a fit just the same. Puzzling.

That's when it hit me: Could Monk have been consciously or subconsciously influenced by These Foolish Things when he wrote his ingenious jazz classic?

So I did a little digging. According to Thomas Fitterling in Thelonious Monk: His Life and Music, a version of 'Round Midnight was likely written by Monk as early as 1936, under the title Grand Finale. In 1944, bandleader Cootie Williams wanted to record and publish the song. So he offered Monk a $300 advance. As part of the deal, Cootie asked for partial composing credit, which Monk handed over. Cootie [left] recorded the song in 1944 and used it as his theme. Monk recorded 'Round Midnight for the first time in 1947, for Blue Note.

So, 'Round Midnight, or some draft of it, dates back to 1936. Interestingly,These Foolish Things also was written in 1936, by Holt Marvell and Jack Strachey for an English revue. Given that Monk likely wrote a version of 'Round Midnight in 1936 and that These Foolish Things dates back to the same year, Monk would need to have heard the song if he was truly influenced by it.

I pulled out Joel Whitburn's Pop Memories (1890-1954): The History of American Popular Music. Five recordings of These Foolish Things were released in 1936. All were commercial hits. The two best-selling sides that year were Benny Goodman's (which hit No. 1) and Teddy Wilson's [pictured] with Billie Holiday (it reached No. 5).

If we assume that Monk heard the pop hit, and if we take a leap of faith that he was directly or indirectly influenced by its catchy melody, which version most likely got into his head and under his skin? After listening to three of the most popular 1936 recordings, I'll put my money on Teddy Wilson's version for Columbia. If you listen to Teddy's [pictured] playing in the song's first run-though, before Billie starts to sing, you'll hear that his stride style here is a little choppy—there are notes that drop in ahead of the beat and before it. It's certainly not a stretch to imagine that Wilson's playing on this side seeped into Monk's early writing and influenced his playing style.

But just because I hear things in my head doesn't mean they exist in reality. So I called Orrin Keepnews, the legendary record producer who worked closely with Monk in the 1950s at Riverside Records. Orrin [pictured with Monk] said he never heard the two songs compared and that he didn't have a clue about the connection:

"It never struck me that way. But I have never been very good in general at what for some people is an art. It will sometimes take me forever, particularly with a standard original, to realize that one song is based on the changes of another. When a new version takes on a life of its own—even if you made the connection originally—you stop making it. To me, the two songs don't have a connection. But that doesn't mean a thing. You need to talk to someone with a knowledge of chord structure."

So I buzzed Hal McKusick:

"The two songs are very different," Hal said. "One is in a minor key and the other is in a major key. The bridges couldn't be more different. Both do resolve in E-flat major. But none of this technical stuff says anything about one song influencing the creation of another. You never know what songs trigger others. Only the artist knows for sure. And in most cases not even the artist is fully aware of what influences him."

And that's where we'll leave it for now. It's my guess that Monk, like all pianists of the time, was influenced by Teddy Wilson's playing. It's also likely that Monk heard and enjoyed Wilson's hit recording of These Foolish Things.

While 'Round Midnight is not based on These Foolish Things' chord changes and Monk never discussed the hit's influence on his brilliant work, to my ear there are similarities—the way both ascend as they progress, their clip-clop tempos, and how both melodies have a yearning feel. These two songs are by no means twins. But to me, they do sound a bit like distant cousins.

And finally, an excerpt from Gerald Early's essay in Jazz: A History of America's Music (2000):

"Thelonious Monk delighted in unconventional rhythms, but his most significant contribution to the new music would be harmonic. Born in North Carolina but raised on New York's West Side, he was just 23 years old in 1940 but had already written several of  venturesome tunes, filled with unusual chords and voicings, that would become staples of postwar jazz—'Round Midnight, Epistrophy, Ruby My Dear and Well You Needn't. Monk's music was thoroughly grounded in all that had gone before."

JazzWax tracks: To follow the 'Round Midnight-These Foolish Things trail, listen first to Charlie Parker's These Foolish Things from The Washington Concerts and compare the feel to Dizzy Gillespie's 1948 'Round About Midnight.

Then listen to Teddy Wilson's version of These Foolish Things on Columbia with Billie Holiday from 1936. Pay particular attention to Wilson's piano playing and how it might have influenced Monk's style and phrasing.

Next, listen to Bill Doggett's straightforward arrangement of 'Round About Midnight in 1944 for Cootie Williams. (If you don't own Cootie's version, you can hear a sample here.) Then dig Monk play 'Round Midnight (1947) on Thelonious Monk: Genius of Modern Music (Blue Note).

Finally, for sport, listen to Monk's two recordings of These Foolish Things—the first on Thelonious Monk (Prestige/1952) and the second on Solo Monk (Columbia/1964).

JazzWax video clips: Go here to see Monk perform 'Round Midnight. His performance never ceases to astonish. Next go here and listen to Benny Goodman's 1936 version. Fascinating to hear the two together.

Sunday Wax Bits

Teo Macero (1925-2008). With the sad news this week that legendary Columbia Records producer Teo Macero [right, with Miles Davis] died, I pulled out three of my favorite Teo-directed albums—Dave Brubeck's Time Out, Miles Davis' In a Silent Way and Thelonious Monk's Monk, which includes the tribute tune Teo. If you're a fan of the Teo-produced Bitches Brew, go here to see an excellent video-doc podcast by Bret Primack.

Gene Kelly. I had dinner on Thursday with Raymond De Felitta,  director of the masterful documentary Tis Autumn: The Search for Jackie Paris. Raymond told me that the DVD will be available for sale this summer. I'll keep you posted as its release nears.

In addition to being a superb director and screenplay writer (his films include Cafe Society, Two Family House and The Thing About My Folks), Raymond blogs regularly on classic films and Hollywood musicals. Last week Raymond wrote about the musical It's Always Fair Weather (1955). In the post, Raymond includes a fabulous video clip of Gene Kelly singing I Like Myself and tap dancing through "city streets" in roller skates. It has to be Kelly's most ambitious—and most leg-threatening—on-screen dance number. Go here to read Raymond's blog, and scroll down to see this uplifting clip.

Bill Evans. As many readers of this blog know by now, Jan Stevens and I have been conducting a long-running email discussion about Bill Evans and the parameters of his prime period. From time to time, our chats surface here.

I'm of the belief that Bill's most concentrated poetic period runs from December 1959 (Portrait in Jazz) to February 1965 (Bill Evans: Paris 1965). Jan, host of the always essential Bill Evans Webpages, feels this is too restrictive. 

On Friday, to further prove his point, Jan sent along an e-mail with an audio clip attached—and easily won the latest round. Attached was Evans' Reflections in D from Evans' New Conversations (1978). Despite my continued belief that much of Bill's post-1965 recordings are marred by angry, rushed and agitated executions, Reflections in D in all fairness clearly demonstrates Bill's beauty just two years before his tragic death. Chalk one up for Jan!

Sonny Stitt. My daughter IM'd me Friday night asking about Paul Desmond's Bossa Antigua album. She's a deejay at college with terrific, eclectic taste. I suggested she check out my favorite track on the album, The Night Has a Thousand Eyes. Then, as I rummaged through YouTube for a link to the Bobby Vee hit so she could compare, I stumbled across this gem from Sonny Stitt.

Jazz goes Disney. In response to my musings last weekend on jazz's puzzling abandonment of melody-rich Disney and Broadway tunes, WFIU's David Brent Johnson alerted me that he had re-posted a show he had recorded in 2006—Jazz Goes Disney. To hear David's terrific half-hour radio podcast devoted to jazz interpretations of Disney melodies (including Sun Ra's Elephants on Parade), go here and click the big blue "Listen Now" button. As always, David's show is a delight.

Bill Evans expert Jan Stevens also dropped a line to share this insight:

"The great commercial success of Shelly Manne's My Fair Lady (1956) caused many jazz producers to try their luck in a similar vein with other artists and other shows. In 1962, Verve Records rushed an advance copy to Bill Evans of the score to the yet-to-open Broadway show Mr. President. The label hoped to capitalize on a what was thought to be a new Irving Berlin hit show.

Bill said he worked on the music almost 24 hours straight. But word was that the show was a bomb. Sure enough Mr. President got lousy reviews, was a commercial failure for Berlin, and the project was scrapped. (Evans did manage to 'save' two tunes from it for the Empathy album he did for Verve in 1962 with Shelly Manne."

Sam Goody. In a recent post on Machito's Kenya, I reflected on a blissful summer in the early 1970s working at the main Sam Goody record store in New York as a clerk with the legendary Keynote producer and retiree Harry Lim. Reader Don Frese subsequently wrote to say he remembered an equally knowledgeable English staffer there as well.

In response, reader and pianist George Ziskind wrote in to say that the Englishman in question was Jeff Atterton (whose name I should have recalled, since he worked in the store at the same time I did). George noted that Jeff now lives up in Riverdale, New York.

Interview: Sonny Rollins (Part 4)

Throughout the seven decades Sonny Rollins has been recording and performing, his playing has always contained a certain poetic urgency. From his work in the early 1950s with Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk to his most recent album, Sonny, Please, Sonny has worked tirelessly to create art that grabs listeners and awakens their aesthetic sensibility.

I love Sonny's art because it's simultaneously strong and delicate—no matter the decade. When Sonny plays, you initially hear a robust, commanding sound. But as you listen to what he's saying musically, you hear a warming infusion that beckons and makes his art accessible. As Sonny told me earlier this week, he is never happy unless his playing moves listeners. And like any great artist, Sonny is the ultimate judge of whether that mission has been accomplished—not audience applause or CD sales.

Today, in Part 4 of our conversation, Sonny talks about the challenges of performing live, why he decided not to release a CD of his 2007 Carnegie Hall concert, and why it's tough to be a producer on a Sonny Rollins recording session:

JazzWax: Is performing terrifying?
Sonny Rollins: Well, I don’t know about terrifying…

JW: Does an artist ever get over the anxiety of being emotionally naked in front of judgmental strangers?
SR: [Laughs] Well, no, I suppose not. But I wouldn’t go so far as to say “terrifying.” The fact that you’re doing what you’re doing on stage—the way you just described it, "naked in front of people"—that edgy quality is always there. I don’t care how long you’ve been playing. You have to face that feeling every time. So yeah, a certain tension is always there when you go out on the stage, before you start. But I’m loathe to call it terrifying. That might be a little overstated.

JW: What would you call it?
SR: There’s always the excitement of going out on stage. That’s part of it, and that’s probably what makes performing special. The anxiety gives it a lot of extra juices, and when those juices flow, that’s all part of the creative process and result.

JW: When you were at Carnegie Hall last year, what did you think of the recording? Is it coming out?
SR: No, it’s not coming out. I didn’t like the recording after I heard it, so I’m not going to put that out.

JW: Was it the sound of the recording or the playing?
SR: I didn’t really feel that I was playing up to a level that I wanted, as a 50th anniversary recording. So I didn’t think it was ready to be put out, you know. I’ll be putting out other records.

JW: What are you working on now?
SR: I hope to record a studio or live album and release it by the end of this year.

JW: Do you know what material you'll be recording?
SR: No, of course not. I'm just starting to think about things. It will probably be with my band. [Sonny's web site this week announced that a DVD of a 2006 French concert will be released soon.]

JW: It must be great to have that kind of control over your art.
SR: I know, it is. But it hasn’t been easy to get to this point. In my case, it’s been a little bit easier because I’ve been signed to various record companies over the years. To sign me, each has had to sort of give me my head. Because what I do is so singular, and they really had to go by what I said. It’s very hard to be an A&R man on a Sonny Rollins date.

JW: So the people who have been A&R men on your dates, like Orrin Keepnews...
SR: ...George Avakian, Bob Thiele...

JW: They understood soon enough to sit back and let Sonny Rollins do his thing?
SR:  More or less, yeah. I would say that would be proper to say that.

JW: In 1981 you recorded with the Rolling Stones, on the album Tattoo You. Did they appreciate your playing?
SR: I have no idea. I know the record was very successful. It's a funny story. I heard myself on the album by accident. I was shopping near my home. They play a lot of music over the sound system in the shopping malls, you know. I was walking through there and heard this record with a sax player. It caught my ear and I wondered who was playing, it sounded so familiar. All of a sudden I realized—that’s me! It was a song from that record.

JW: Do people recognize you and come up to you in stores?
SR: Occasionally. I try to be pretty low-key. I’ve had a lot of publicity in local papers. So a lot of people got to see me and know what I look like.

JW: Do kids come up to you?
SR: No, mostly adults.

JW: What gives you the most satisfaction today?
SR: I hope I've been able to pass along a tradition. It's nice to know that I’ve been successful to some degree. But if I couldn’t give anything to people, I wouldn’t just enjoy playing for myself. Giving something and having someone get joy from my work is the creative circle coming around to completion.

JazzWax tracks: Sonny's most recent CD is Sonny, Please, a combination of original works and standards recorded at the end of 2005 and beginning of 2006. The title track is a soulful exploration with touches of free form playing. The airy Noel Coward waltz, Someday I'll Find You is next, followed by a funky original, Nishi. Sonny digs in on the ballad Stairway to the Stars and offers up a rollicking medium-tempo line on Remembering Tommy. Serenade is a Italian love song taken in waltz time, and the album closes with another original, Park Place Parade, which has a joyous Caribbean beat and flavor.

Rather than go into too much depth on Sonny's many recordings, let me just provide you with 10 of my favorite Sonny Rollins tracks (all are in print as CDs and available at iTunes)...

• More Than You Know (from Moving Out/1954)
• Paradox (Worktime/1955)
• Paul's Pal (Tenor Madness/1956)
• Reflections (Sonny Rollins Vol. 2/1957)
• What Is There to Say (The Sound of Sonny/1957)
• Namely You (Newk's Time/1957)
• I'm an Old Cowhand (Way Out West/1957)
• Night in Tunisia (night take, A Night at the Village Vanguard/1957)
• If Ever I Would Leave You (What's New?/1962)
• He's Younger Than You (Alfie/1966)

You also may want to dig John Coltrane's Like Sonny, from Coltrane Jazz (1959), a beautiful valentine Coltrane wrote for Sonny that plays off one of Sonny's trademark trilling phrases.

As for the Rolling Stones' Tattoo You, Sonny appears on Slave, Waiting on a Friend and Neighbours. As you'll hear, Sonny's solos are captivating and add a new dimension to the rock band's gritty blues.

Interview: Sonny Rollins (Part 3)

Up until the mid-1950s, tenor saxophonists sounded like Lester Young, whose tender, blues-infused solos and laid-back style captured the heart. But by 1956, a younger, generation of horn players began taking the instrument in different directions.

Leading the two breakaway movements were Sonny Rollins and John Coltrane—both of whom built their solos on modal scales rather than traditional blues and bop-era motifs. Helping to influence their experimental approach was the emergence of a new record format—the 12-inch LP—which allowed for more music and longer, more sophisticated solos.

On an artistic level, Sonny was more of a horizontalist—roaming wide in his solos, working the top and bottom of his horn, and pausing to let space have a say. Coltrane's approach, by contrast, was more vertical, compressing creative expression in high-intensity silos dense-packed with ideas. On a professional level, the two giants had enormous respect for each other—yet each was distinctly aware of where his turf ended and the other's began. Both transformed the tenor sax, and their influence continues to be felt today.

Yesterday, in the second part of our conversation, Sonny  spoke about the creative process and Coltrane, his reluctance now to listen to jazz recordings, and what's required of any musician to become a serious artist.

Today, in Part 3, Sonny talks about his Caribbean roots, his solitary lifestyle, his two-year period practicing on New York's Williamsburg Bridge, and what he hopes listeners hear in his music:

JazzWax: Your best-known standards—St. Thomas, Doxy, Oleo and even Airegin—all have a Caribbean feel. True?
Sonny Rollins: I guess so. I never looked at it that way, and it wasn't intended, but I guess so in some cases. As you know, I have Caribbean roots. A Caribbean feel has more joy and a dancey thing going. The Caribbean has enormous color and life—from the birds and sky to the water and flora and fauna. My late wife, Lucille, and I used to vacation in the Caribbean every year. We'd go to various islands until we found a couple we enjoyed more than others. But since I'm alone, I haven't been there. I haven't taken any vacations, as a matter of fact.

JW: You and your wife were married for 48 years. You miss her terribly, don't you?
SR: Yes, I do. Lucille [pictured with Sonny] was a very beautiful person. We were married a long time, so it's hard for me to relate to other people, you know? There’s a guy who lives around the corner from me who's older than I am. He was married a long time, and his wife was sick a long time. His wife passed away not long after mine did in 2004. I heard the other day that, hey, this guy got married again. People are different. But In my case I'm finding it hard to replace her because I'm just a different type of a person.   

JW: Why did you quit performing in 1959 to practice on the Williamsburg Bridge?
SR: One reason was to avoid disturbing a woman next door who was expecting a baby. But the main reason was to find a place where I could grow without worrying about anyone hearing me. Soon after I started going onto the bridge, I realized that it was an idyllic spot for me to re-discover myself as a musician. There were boats below with their horns. There were birds. It felt great to be up there under the stars.

JW: Did anyone see you?
SR: I found a spot away from the view of cars and subway trains. It was quite a remarkable period in my life. I went up there just to practice, and it turned into an album [The Bridge] and lore. I was there for about two years, in summer and winter, practicing up to 14 hours a day. That period ended after I appeared at [New York's] Jazz Gallery in 1961 to perform what I had been developing.

JW: Do you often become frustrated with your own playing?
SR: Oh yes. That’s why I’ve taken several sabbaticals from performing and recording. I have a certain ideal when I play, and this ideal has changed over the years. I've taken breaks because I've been frustrated with a performance or I just wanted to go in the woodshed and experiment. I always become frustrated when I’m not reaching what I hear for myself.

JW: Do you think listeners hear what you hear?
SR: Listeners may hear one thing, and I’m humbled to be able to reach them and touch them. But I hear things differently. Just because I'm able to touch people with my music doesn’t mean that what I’m looking for in my music has been met. What I’m looking for perhaps is unattainable. I know that. But I certainly have a right to try to achieve it. It’s my duty to achieve it. I don’t feel I’ve done enough in music to simply rest on my laurels. I have my own ideas about that. If you don’t mind, that’s how I feel about myself.

JW: What do you hope a listener is thinking when listening to you?
SR: Before I tell you, let me say that I feel tremendously privileged to have succeeded in this profession. I love what I do, and I think it’s an honor to be able to play in a field that has included people like Louis Armstrong, Fats Waller [pictured]—all of these guys who I thought were such tremendous people putting out all of this positive music. It was all that I could ever dream—to be involved in this.

JW: Fats Waller?
SR:  My passion for this music goes back to hearing Fats Waller’s records in my home when I was a tiny baby. To be involved in this music is tremendous for me. But to get back to your question—for anyone who listens to me, I hope they get something positive out of what I play. I hope it gives them an extra spring in their step. The world is such a negative place. The ups and downs of life are such that I hope my music lightens their load.

JW: But your goal certainly isn't to provide people with tranquil music.
SR: Of course not. I never compromise in my art, in my music. I do what I do, and if it makes someone else's life better, then I'm happy. I’ve been told, “Gee Sonny, when I listen to your records, it helps me get up and go in the morning.” When people tell me that, I’m humbled beyond words. That’s what I hope. I hope I can make life seem a little sunnier for listeners, on my terms. I hope there’s also a deeper meaning to what I play. I just hope that my music helps people get through the struggles of everyday life.

Tomorrow, in the final part of my conversation with Sonny, he talks about the anxiety of performing, his decision not to release the Carnegie Hall CD, and what he does plan to record and release this year.

JazzWax tracks: In February 1962, after a two-year hiatus from performing—a period during which he practiced incessantly on the Williamsburg Bridge—Sonny returned to the studio and recorded The Bridge, with Jim Hall on guitar, Bob Cranshaw on bass and Harry Saunders on drums. The Bridge is a fascinating recording and marks another turning point in Sonny's artistic development. Not only is his sound edgier and more soulful than in the past, but his improvisation is looser, faster and much more experimental. At the time, Sonny took a lot of heat from fellow musicians for hiring Jim Hall, a white guitarist perceived to be (albeit incorrectly) too mainstream for the avant-garde Rollins.

Sonny and Hall also recorded together on What's New? (April and May 1962) and on The Standard Sonny Rollins (June 1964). In between these dates, Sonny recorded Sonny Meets Hawk!, with Coleman Hawkins. After  Alfie in 1966, Sonny recorded mostly on tour up until 1968, when he took another self-discovery sabbatical that lasted until 1972.

JazzWax video clips: To compare Sonny's sound before and after The Bridge, go here for a superb 1959 performance and here to see Sonny with Jim Hall performing The Bridge. A big transformation in style.

Next go here for a 1968 performance, recorded just before Sonny's second hiatus. His style has changed yet again. And dig how Sonny works his way into the jazz standard Four. Whew!

Interview: Sonny Rollins (Part 2)

What sets Sonny Rollins' playing apart from other modern jazz tenor saxophonists is his enormous level of self-confidence, his respect for space, and his unrestrained love of music, melody and life. If you listen carefully to Sonny's solos, you'll also hear a wry sense of humor that flowers beautifully when combined with the intensity and ambition of his creative risk-taking.

Yesterday, in the first installment of my four-part conversation with America's greatest living jazz musician, Sonny reflected on the 1950s, his distinct sound, and his life-long passion for practicing.

Today, in Part 2, Sonny talks about what goes through his mind when he plays, why he has given up listening to recordings of other jazz legends, and what it takes to become a significant jazz artist:

JazzWax: Which musician from your past are you thinking about most when you play?
Sonny Rollins: Well, that’s pretty hard to say because I’m an equal opportunity borrower. I like all of these guys. I mean I take stuff from all of them. So many musicians—Coleman Hawkins, Lester Young, Ben Webster, Charlie Parker and others—have contributed so much. Only now, since Coltrane [pictured] and I are no longer contemporaries, am I able to listen to him and adapt some of his ideas. This wasn't possible back in the late 1950s and 1960s. As you know, there were two schools back then—Sonny and Coltrane. That’s a result of the fans, so both schools had to remain separate. Now I'm able to use some of Coltrane's ideas in my own music.

JW: Do you listen to recordings of other jazz artists?
SR: I don’t listen to records or CDs today. I’ve found it too difficult to listen to any form of recorded music over the last 20 years or so. The exception would be, of course, if I’m at a festival or listening to others play. But in my home, I can’t. I don’t know why. Someone said it’s because I don’t want any more information in my head. Or that I don’t want to unconsciously take anything from anyone else. Both are probably accurate. You have to understand, I already have these artists in my head. If you said to me, “Coleman Hawkins” [pictured], I’ve absorbed enough of his music to automatically be able to drink from the spring of music he left here.

JW: When you put your horn in your mouth to play, what's going through your mind?
SR: When I was a boy practicing the alto sax in my bedroom or in the closet or someplace else in my house, I would sort of do what I do now, which is go into a stream-of-consciousness state [pictured: Sonny at age 15]. This is what I do today when I’m soloing in a concert setting. I go into this neutral mental state. To create, my mind has to be blank. I may think of a few things at the beginning to get started. But when I really get into a solo, my mind is completely blank. You can’t think and play at the same time. It comes too fast.

JW: What comes too fast?
SR: Ideas moving from my mind to my mouth and hands. I’ve tried in the past to think about ideas while practicing with my current band. I might have been at home when an idea came to me and thought, “Gee that would fit real well when I’m improvising on this or that particular song.” But when I take that idea on the stand and try to do it, I can’t. It’s too slow. By the time I think about doing it, the actual moment has passed, and it would sound contrived if I tried. 

JW: Thinking about structured ideas actually can trip up the natural creative process?
SR: I think so.

JW: Is it difficult not to think about anything when playing?
SR: As an artist, ideas have to be absorbed on such a subconscious level that you’re not really thinking about them. Anything less is a problem. Any kind of a conscious level of thinking to direct what I’m playing in one way or another, or to do this or do that, completely destroys the purity of the whole endeavor, you know?

JW: But you need to think in advance about the basics—the songs, the key and so on, yes?
SR: Of course. But when you create, when you improvise, there has to be a free flow from your subconscious to your expression. You can't think logically at this point.

JW: Is this part of what's needed to become a great jazz musician?
SR: Well, I’m a little uncomfortable with you calling me great.

JW: Let me put it this way—what it takes to become an artist?
SR: OK, that works. To be an artist, you need a certain amount of natural gift. That’s No. 1. You have to be gifted. Because I know a lot of people I grew up with, all the guys I grew up with—we all wanted to be jazz musicians. Everyone did. That was the cool life. But we all couldn’t do it. Everybody didn’t have certain musical gifts. I had more of a gift, so I could pursue it. So that's one—you have to have the talent and gift for being creative.

JW: What else?
SR: You also have to love what you’re doing. I really love music. When I listened to my idols, I was in another world. Music transported me from this material world to a more spiritual place. If you truly love what you're doing, then you just need a certain amount of industriousness. You have to study and practice and go through some times like that. If you put all of these things together, becoming an artist is possible.

JW: You also have to work with incredibly talented people, yes?
SR: Well, yes, sure. If you have enough talent and you’re committed, working with people who are superior to you always, will improve your playing.

JW: Was "Newk" a nickname you liked?
SR: When you receive a nickname, it’s something of an honor. It shows that your peers have an affection for you. So, yes I liked it. Miles, I think, came up with the name in the early 1950s, because he thought I looked like Don Newcombe [one of the first African-American baseball pitchers who played for the Brooklyn Dodgers, pictured].

JW: Alfie is a fantastic recording. How did it come about?
SR: You like it? I'm so glad. I was playing at Ronnie Scott's club in London in early 1965 [right]. I was playing with three other English jazz musicians, and the movie was being made there at the time. While I was at the club, I was asked by director Lewis Gilbert to write sketches [incidental music] for the film. We recorded the sketches for the movie with a small group. For the soundtrack, Oliver [Nelson] arranged a beautiful score for 11 pieces based on my sketches. Oliver fleshed out what I wrote. He was a beautiful arranger. 

Tomorrow, Sonny talks about the joys and anxieties of performing, what he hopes listeners hear in his playing, and the CD he plans to release this year instead of his 2007 Carnegie Hall performance, which didn't please him.

JazzWax tracks. Between November 1953 and October 1954, Sonny recorded five breathtaking albums—The Thelonious Monk Quintet, Art Farmer's New Jazz Stars (also known as Early Art), Bags Groove with Miles Davis, Movin' Out and the Sonny Rollins Quartet. Each is essential, especially Early Art—with the tracks Soft Shoe, Confab in Tempo and I'll Take Romance. 

Between November 1955 and June 1956, Sonny recorded steadily with Clifford Brown and Max Roach, squeezing in a leadership date (Worktime) and a critical session with fellow tenor giant John Coltrane (Tenor Madness).

Then in late June 1956, Sonny recorded Saxophone Colossus, which firmly established him as a maverick and creator of a new sound. Between October 1956 and March 1958, Sonny recorded a string of stunning albums, each of which is a masterpiece—Rollins Plays for Bird, Tour de Force, Sonny Rollins Vol. 1, the piano-less Way Out West, Sonny Rollins Vol. 2, The Sound of Sonny, Newk's Time, A Night at the Village Vanguard and Freedom Suite.

One of Sonny's most underrated and frequently overlooked albums is Alfie (1966). For reasons that have little to do with the actual music, the album routinely is categorized as some sort of commercial excursion by Sonny rather than the explicit gem and work of art it remains.

The album's opener, Alfie's Theme, is a brash, soulful melody line that serves, in retrospect, as a mature counterpoint to the child-like Swinging London rock scene exemplified at the time by the Beatles, Rolling Stones and Yardbirds. Sonny's ballad, He's Younger Than You Are, is positively gripping. And On Impulse, Sonny's medium-tempo waltz, is deep and reflective.

If you own this album, pull it out and give it a listen. If not, download or buy it. The writing is terrific, and Sonny's ideas and execution are exciting. Listen to On Impulse several times and you will start to hear experimental shades in Sonny's  playing that didn't exist previously.

Sonny's playing on Alfie represents a shift in his phrasing and attack. His playing on the album is more studied than his 1950s work for Prestige, Blue Note and Riverside, and it's softer and more wide open than his taut work on The Bridge (1962) from a few years earlier. Alfie features a sound that Sonny would expand and build upon in the years that would follow.

JazzWax history. Sonny's score for Alfie was used in both the UK and American film releases. But for the U.S. version, Paramount Pictures also wanted a pop tune with words. So Burt Bacharach and Hal David were brought in to write a theme song. Cher recorded it, and her version is the one you hear playing over the film credits at the end.

Beatles' discovery Cilla Black recorded Alfie  as a single in 1966, but it wasn't until Dionne Warwick's version topped out at #15 in April 1967 that the song become a massive hit. [Pictured, Cilla Black, Patti Boyd and George Harrison at Alfie's London premier in 1966.]

One final note: Bacharach and David won the 1967 Oscar for "Best Music, Original Score," while Sonny Rollins was merely nominated for a "Best Original Score" Grammy. The Grammy winner in that category was Maurice Jarre for Dr. Zhivago.

I'm not sure why one song that appeared at the end of a movie as a commercial afterthought qualified in 1967 as a "Best Music, Original Score" Oscar entry. And I'm not sure why Sonny's bold score for Alfie was ignored. Certainly the Academy of Motion Pictures should consider a special award for Sonny's original Alfie score and the influence he has had on movie scores in general.

JazzWax tracks. To appreciate the swan-like grace of Sonny Rollins' Alfie's Theme, go here to see a clip of the movie with the music playing in the background. Go here  to see Sonny playing Alfie's Theme during a 1973 concert.

Interview: Sonny Rollins (Part 1)

After careful consideration, Sonny Rollins has decided not to release a CD of his Carnegie Hall concert last fall. A highly critical judge of his own work, Sonny told me last week that he wasn't completely satisfied with his performance commemorating his famed 1957 Carnegie Hall appearance.

The news certainly will disappoint  many Sonny Rollins' devotees, who believe everything the tenor saxophonist plays is high art and holds truths worth hearing. But as Sonny said with great humility during our conversation, he hears things in his own work that many people miss or politely overlook.

Sonny, 77, isn't a perfectionist. He just sets giant standards for his art, and he doesn't let his creative side off the hook easily. What you notice first when speaking with Sonny is how similar his voice is to the sound of his horn. His voice has a deep, rich, muscular tone with a faint New York accent that resonates like a bell. The more you listen to Sonny, the more you realize he  articulates the way he improvises. You ask a question, and Sonny thinks on the go, circling a topic, turning it in his thoughts as he tests out what he wants to say. Then he drives his point home solidly, often finishing with a compact summarization.

In Part 1 of my week-long conversation with America's greatest living jazz artist, Sonny Rollins reflects on his 1950s recordings, his distinct sound, and the meditative effect practicing has on his temperament:

JazzWax: You started as a pianist. Do you still play?
Sonny Rollins: Well, I wouldn’t call it playing. I can pick out a couple of notes that I use in my musical work. But I’m not a piano player by any stretch of the imagination.

JW: Do you compose on the tenor or the piano?
SR: I compose on both.

JW: Which musician was hardest on you when you were coming up—pushing you to play better?
SR: That’s an interesting question. I never really had someone who filled that role. I was always a very conscientious player. I practiced incessantly. And I never met anyone who discerned in me any lack of sincerity and had to push me, or anything like that.

JW: When you hear people constantly praise your great late-1950s period, does that drive you nuts?
SR: I know that I had a very successful record—Saxophone Colossus—which was made in 1956. And I guess I became well known to a larger audience at that time as a result of it. A lot of people who talk constantly about that period probably think my career began then. Of course my recording career began many years earlier, in 1949.

JW: Why do you think fans hang onto that late-1950s period?
SR: Music is a very subjective thing. I don’t know what people see in certain things and what they don’t see in others. It’s difficult even to comment on my own work. I’m an eclectic type of artist. People will like one album and they won’t like something else. I don’t know what people like and don’t like. I just have to follow my own muse, so to speak. I just try to keep doing what I try to do. How people react to my playing is a complete mystery to me.

JW: When you recorded those albums in the late 1950s, did you sense immediately that something special was happening?
SR: Well, not particularly. There was a lot of music going on in the 50s at that time. I might have been young enough to not worry about anything and had a certain confidence in myself. At the time I didn’t really think that anything I was doing was earth shattering. As time has gone on, I might have felt that some of those records were OK. I had some great musicians that were alive in the 50s that were playing with me. I’m sure I liked some of that stuff. Subsequently, I’ve realized that regardless of what I like about them, the work is far from the best I should be able to do. I’m still on the trail, so to speak. So no, I don’t think I realized that anything I recorded in the 50s was going to last for posterity.

JW: Did you feel back then that too many tenors sounded alike? Were you striving for a new sound?
SR: I don’t think I was trying to consciously create a new sound. I had been a follower of all of the great players. I was a student of Coleman Hawkins, Lester Young, Ben Webster, Don Byas [pictured right]—all of the people who were prominent at the time. What came out was just Sonny Rollins. You have to realize that it’s very hard to completely copy somebody else. I didn’t try to copy others. I just tried to learn from them. Everybody has their own fingerprint, and that fingerprint is going to emerge eventually, especially if you get to become a recording musician. You’re going to hear your own independent sound. It just so happened I was playing a lot and people got a chance to hear Sonny Rollins and what that independent fingerprint was.

JW: It must have been exciting to have your own sound.
SR: Well, actually, I never really looked at it that way. Of course, I always realized I was held in certain esteem, because there’s always the competitive aspect of playing music, especially in the jazz world. People are always comparing me with Coltrane [pictured], or they compare Lester Young and Coleman Hawkins, Dexter Gordon and Gene Ammons, Charlie Parker and Johnny…—whenever two people have made some contribution, there’s always the inevitable comparison. So I realized back then that I had reached a certain level of proficiency and acceptability. But you know, that was such a far back time in my development. I had such a long way to go.

JW: You really thought you had a long way to go?
SR: Well maybe…I put it that way now, perhaps…I articulated that more with words later on, after the 1950s. But at the time, the way I would have articulated it was through relentless practicing. I was always practicing and trying to learn on top of the music. So that’s how I expressed it at that time. Later on, I could articulate it with words by saying I had a long way to go. At that time I might not have thought it out in that particular manner. But I think it amounted to the same thing, really.

JW: How many hours did you practice back then?
SR: It depends. During some periods I practiced maybe 14 hours a day. In other situations, when I wasn’t able to practice that long because of conditions and where I was at, I practiced as long as I could. Even as a little boy, I’d practice in my room on an alto sax, so much so that my mother had to call me to eat dinner. A friend of mine spoke to my sister a few years ago and he told me that she recalled how much I used to practice. I always practiced. It was sort of second nature. I never viewed practicing as a chore. I always saw it as a necessity to improve.

Now, of course, I can’t practice as much. But I recently thought, boy, if I ever had to stop practicing I’d have to search to find something to replace it. Because it fills up so many gaps in my life—being able to play and practice.

JW: What do you mean by "gaps" in your life?
SR: Not being able to practice would result in large blocks of empty time. Practicing and playing centers my mind mentally. When I went to India [in the late 1960s], I studied yoga. One day I told my teacher that I had trouble sitting still in one position. My teacher said, "You know Sonny, you don’t have to meditate that way. When you play your horn, that’s a form of meditation." I was glad to hear that. I mean, it made sense. But sometimes you have to go a long way around to find a simple truth. Playing fills this need for me, as a human being. Just being able to play satisfies so many things for me that are essential for life. Physical, mental, everything.

Tomorrow, in Part 2, Sonny talks about why he no longer listens to jazz records or CDs at home, what's on his mind when he's playing, and what it takes for a jazz musician to become a great artist. (The fabulous black-and-white photo at the top of this interview is by Steve Maruta.)

JazzWax tracks. Sonny Rollins' first recordings were with bebop vocalist Babs Gonzales in January 1949. They can be found here. In April 1949, Sonny recorded with J.J. Johnson and His Beboppers (go here ), and in August 1949 he recorded with Bud Powell's Modernists, featuring Bud on piano, Fats Navarro on trumpet, Tommy Potter on bass and Roy Haynes on drums (go here).

Sonny's period with Miles Davis in 1951 includes the albums Miles Davis with Horns (Prestige), Miles Davis: The Complete Birdland Recordings (Definitive) and, of course, Dig (Prestige).

Sonny's first date as a leader—Sonny Rollins and the Modern Jazz Quartet—was recorded in December 1951 and featured Kenny Drew, Percy Heath and Art Blakey. Interestingly, the recording was made a full year before Milt Jackson, John Lewis, Percy Heath and Kenny Clarke would form the Modern Jazz Quartet and record MJQ.

JazzWax video clips. For a wide range of fabulous Sonny Rollins video clips and podcasts, go here.