JazzWax

Top Mindblowers (Vol. 1)

The first three months of 2008 are gone. Just like that. Whisked away by our impatience for spring. When time flies, much is forgotten, which is why I've decided to introduce two features that will appear at the end of each quarter.

The first is a list of "Top 10  Mindblower" quotes that emerged during my interviews with jazz legends over the past three months. To qualify, quotes had to tell me something I didn't know before or sum up points poetically. This list appears below today. Tomorrow's list will feature my "Top 10 Replays"—CDs that aren't necessarily new but ones I played most often over the past three months and highly recommend.

So, without further ado, here are the Top 10 Mindblowers of the first quarter—in no particular order—with links to the original JazzWax posts:

Mindblower #1: "Bill Evans wrote Waltz for Debby for two Debbys—my daughter and Bill's niece. Both were named Debby. My Debby was 3 years old when Bill played in my trio with Red Mitchell in the early 1950s. He liked her very much." —Mundell Lowe

Mindblower #2: "Dave Brubeck's Time Out—with Take Five, Strange Meadowlark and Blue Rondo a la Turk—was recorded in July 1959 but not released until 1961. That was because the executives at Columbia hated the idea of an album of originals with strange time signatures. They were convinced it wouldn’t sell and wanted another collection of standards. So they held up the release. When it finally came out, Take Five quickly became the first million-selling jazz single." —Doug Ramsey

Mindblower #3: "Paul Desmond had an agreement with Dave Brubeck that, to avoid consumer confusion with the Dave Brubeck Quartet, Desmond wouldn't use pianists on his own records. Guitar was a logical substitute. So Jim Hall was brought in." —Doug Ramsey on why a piano wasn't used on the five Desmond-Hall albums.

Mindblower #4. "You know, I don’t know know why Dave Lambert wrote the vocal charts for the Charlie Parker and Voices session. I never understood why Gil [Evans] didn’t write them himself. My best guess is that Dave pitched Bird on writing for a vocal ensemble. Bird in turn must have spoken to Norman [Granz] on Dave's behalf, insisting that Dave be allowed to do the vocal writing. That’s the only way that could have happened. Gil and Norman’s hands had to have been tied to some extent. It was a risk, but an experiment that fell short." —Hal McKusick [pictured above], who played on the Charlie Parker with Voices recording session

Mindblower #5: "The best you can become is yourself." —Yusef Lateef

Mindblower #6: "The sound and phrasing of Dizzy Gillespie's band had a lot to do with Dizzy's physical movements and dance steps when he conducted it. Timing was everything. His body told you how he wanted an arrangement to sound...Dizzy told the band to hold a note longer by moving his elbow. If he moved it up, the band extended the note beyond four beats. When he snapped his elbow down, you knew it was time to move on." —Yusef Lateef

Mindblower #7: "It’s very hard to be an A&R man on a Sonny Rollins date." —Sonny Rollins

Mindblower #8: "Benny Goodman was the one who named my husband 'Chico.' But  Chico never liked the name. He preferred Arturo or simply Art." —Lupe O'Farrill, Chico's widow ("Sunday Wax Bits," March 23, 2008)

Mindblower #9: "When I record, I don’t think in terms of, 'Will I want to hear this again.' My view is, 'Did I play the best I could? Did I help these guys play better because I’m standing here?' If I get that feeling when my day’s over, I don’t have to review my work later to feel justified in being there." —Ron Carter

Mindblower #10: "I didn't want to wind up like Lester Young, drinking gin straight out of a cup and being helped around. I didn't want musicians playing a benefit for me." —Sonny Rollins, on kicking his drug habit in 1955 ("Sonny Rollins on Stage," March 28, 2008)

Sunday Wax Bits

Teddy Charles at the Vanguard. When Teddy Charles walked on stage at New York's Village Vanguard Thursday night, he didn't take off his cap. Dressed in a gray sports jacket and white polo shirt, Teddy went right to work warming up. He pulled four felt-tipped mallets out of a canvas bag and worked them softly over the vibraphone's keys. Then he held two mallets in each hand and gave them a run as well. Teddy has played with virtually every jazz legend, and his albums from the 1950s broke new ground by making the vibes an equal voice in bop, cool and third stream ensembles. He also produced an amazing string of albums for Prestige in the early 1950s.

Teddy's group at the Vanguard consisted of Chris Byars on tenor sax and flute, John Mosca on trombone, Sacha Perry on piano, Ari Roland on bass and Stephen Schatz on drums. The group played four tunes during the first set—Scrapple from the Apple, Walkin', What Is This Thing Called Love and Gigi Gryce's Sans Souci. On the last number, Chris' father James Byars, an oboist with the New York City Ballet Orchestra, joined the group. At first, the addition seemed like an unhip experiment about to go horribly wrong. But Chris on flute, James on oboe and Mosca on trombone offered a warm, breezy backdrop to Teddy's ice-cool vibes. Teddy's still going strong. His playing and ideas were a throwback to an age of jazz craftsmanship and risk-taking. Eventually Teddy did remove his cap. It gets hot under those Vanguard lights.

To read my three-part interview with Teddy from last November, click on Teddy's name under "JazzWax Interviews" in the right-hand column.

Karrin Allyson's Imagina. Last week a friend sent along Karrin Allyson's new bossa nova album, Imagina (Concord). To my delight, Karrin's approach here is both jazzy and authentically Brazilian. Not only does Karrin smartly sing many of the songs in Portuguese and English, but she also has done her homework. Unlike many jazz singers who take a shot at Brazilian love songs, Karrin clearly understands the genre and the level of passion required to deliver the words with credibility.

What's more, Karrin [pictured] has channeled the phrasing of many great Brazilian singers. For example, on one of my favorite tracks from the album, Medo de Amar (Surrender the Soul), Karrin captures the sound of the magnificent Maria Creuza, whose yearning and heartbreak are unmistakable. On Estrada Branca (This Happy Madness), you hear traces of Elis Regina.

To pull off a superb Brazilian album, a singer needs razor sharp intonation to navigate the complex melodies and a natural blase, resigned feel that lets the listener relax. Karrin executes both perfectly and brings a fresh playfulness and charm to these poetic Brazilian masterpieces. It doesn't hurt that the musicians on the date, the production quality and the arrangements—many by Karrin—are impeccable. Brava, Karrin! Imagina is available here and at iTunes.

Sonny Rollins at Carnegie Hall. I have received many emails from readers expressing disappointment about Sonny Rollins' decision not to release a recording of his concert last fall at Carnegie Hall. The concert was a 50-year anniversary tribute to  Sonny's original Carnegie Hall debut, when he played three songs—Moritat, Sonnymoon for Two and Some Enchanted Evening.

While readers of this blog seem to be coming to grips with Sonny's decision not to release the album over what he believes is sub-par playing, many continue to ask why the original 1957 recording hasn't been issued.

According to Sonny's representatives, a recording exists from the Library of Congress—the same recording that produced the Thelonious Monk Quartet with John Coltrane at Carnegie Hall CD (Blue Note). Monk and Coltrane appeared at the same concert. Sonny owns the rights to his recording, and it cannot be released without his permission. Sonny only agreed to release it as a companion to the 2007 recording. But since last year's concert isn't being released, Sonny has decided not to release the 1957 recording either. At least for now, though there has been talk of individual tracks being issued for sale as downloads or packaged as part of the new double CD of live material coming later this year. When I know more, you'll be the first to hear about it in this space.

Miles Davis in Paris. Back in November 2007, I wrote here about  "The Rarest Miles," two CDs that I believe represent the best recordings of the first Miles Davis Quintet.

Recorded at the Paris Olympia Theater in March 1960, these discs have always been hard to find and often sell for upward of $50 each. They are spectacular because you hear John Coltrane pulling away from the group musically, leaving Miles somewhat baffled creatively as the audience roars with each tenor sax solo.

Last week, reader David Langner sent along some great news. The recordings are available on one CD from England at Amazon/UK here for what appears to be around $20, if I've done my sterling-to-dollars conversion correctly. Or here for less from third-part vendors.

Roberto Magris. The Italian jazz pianist has a lovely CD out called Il Bello del Jazz here. For a sense of Roberto's rich style, dig his recording of Marian McParland's In the Days of Our Love and other tracks  here.

Cannonball Adderley. Video documentarian Bret Primack sent along a link to the TV show The Subject Is Jazz, which in this installment focused on bop and featured Cannonball Adderley. Go here to watch all 26 minutes of this amazing show.

Bret also emailed a link to his latest video podcast for the CD The Cannonball Adderley Sextet in New York, which has just been remastered by Concord as part of its Keepnews Collection. Go here to see the clip.

I'm proud to say that Orrin Keepnews, in his updated liner notes for the CD, used with my permission a quote from my interview with David Amram last fall.

If you love Latin-jazz, check out The Latin Jazz Corner, a hugely informative and indispensable site written and edited by Chip Boaz, a San Francisco-based bass player. I have not seen another blog on Latin-jazz that's this thorough and authoritative.

Bill Evans. Jan Stevens of the BillEvansWebpages wrote last week to let me know that a recent National Public Radio Jazz Profiles on Bill Evans hosted by Nancy Wilson was among the best radio retrospectives on the pianist he's ever heard. That's quite an endorsement from the e-keeper of the Bill Evans flame. You can download the Bill Evans broadcast for free here—along with a host of NPR Jazz Profiles shows on other jazz artists.

Patti Bown. Doug Ramsey, critic and writer extraordinaire, posted an insightful and moving tribute to the late Patti Bown at Rifftides last week. Bown, who died earlier in the month, was little known to many jazz listeners, save for her recordings on piano with Quincy Jones' big band between 1959 and 1961. As always, Doug paints the full portrait in his complete tribute.

Emily Remler. WFIU's Night Lights host David Brent Johnson recently featured a half-hour program on Emily Remler, the petite jazz guitarist with the big Wes Montgomery sound. Remler died of heart failure at age 32 in 1990 following years of heroin addiction. I remember seeing Remler perform at New York's West End in the mid-1980s and interviewing her in between sets. I recall a painfully shy and passionate musician who was antsy but totally committed to her guitar. Wow, could she play. One of my favorite Remler albums is East to Wes, which can be found at iTunes. To hear David's show, go here and click the big blue "Listen Now" button.

Buddy Rich goes ballistic. Many of you probably have already heard this taped recording of Buddy Rich chewing out his band on the bus for playing "clams"—jazz talk for out-of-key notes. Makes you realize just how good you had to be to play in Buddy's band—and how thick your skin had to be to stay on. Also amazing is how Buddy's ticker survived such tirades.

Sonny Rollins at CUNY

Sonny Rollins has really large hands. When I met him backstage Wednesday night after he appeared on stage with author and interviewer Gary Giddins at New York's CUNY Graduate Center, we shook hands, and I was instantly struck by how enveloped my own hand was in his. His hand felt callused around the edges but soft and fleshy on the palm and interior. Now I know how Sonny has been physically able to cover so much ground so fearlessly on his horn. Every button is within easy reach of those long fingers.

Sonny was dressed in a flowing charcoal button shirt over comfortable black slacks and black canvas shoes. The dark attire made his silver beard and hair seem almost metallic. He also wore his signature amber sunglasses that shield his eyes but still let you see them looking at you. Sunglasses for jazz musicians who guard their privacy but don't want to seem rude or uncaring to fans.

Rather than get into a big long writeup here about Gary's [pictured] interview (many of Sonny's responses were already covered here in my four-part interview back in February), I thought I'd simply  share my notes with you:

News of the night: Sonny is working with Carl Smith, a collector in Connecticut who has amassed a collection of more than 300 bootleg recordings of Sonny's live performances, on a two-CD set from those recordings. The release date isn't set yet.

On the Carnegie Hall concert: As I reported back in February, Sonny has decided not to release the CD of his Carnegie Hall concert from last fall. (If you're a regular reader of this blog, you read it here first.) When Gary asked Sonny about his decision, Sonny repeated what he told me—that he didn't like how he sounded. Many in the audience groaned and seemed to be hearing the news for the first time. Sonny shushed the audience and said, "I'm not dead. There'll be plenty more. And better."

Earliest inspiration: Alto saxophonist Louis Jordan.

His first tenor sax: Sonny's mother took him to Manny's Music on 48th St. and 7th in New York when he was 13 years old and bought it for him.

How he first heard Charlie Parker: On a Savoy 78 rpm record that featured Don Byas' How High the Moon on one side and Parker's Ko-Ko on the other.

Thoughts on what he heard: "From an insider's viewpoint, it wasn't that different from what Coleman Hawkins [pictured] was already playing. The difference was the drumming. After Billy Eckstine's big band came through New York [with Art Blakey on drums], the feel of the drumming was different, and many drummers picked up on that."

On an early recording date with Bud Powell [recorded with Bud Powell's Modernists in August 1949 featuring Fats Navarro, Bud, Tommy Potter and Roy Haynes]: "I wasn't intimidated. I knew I wasn't as good as everyone else there. But Bud wanted me there, which gave me confidence. I had felt it was my destiny to play. But at one point I made a mistake with the music and Bud shot me that stare. I didn't make that mistake again."

On Thelonious Monk [with whom Sonny first recorded in November 1953 on Thelonious Monk Quintet]: "One of the most honest people I've ever known in my life. He was completely ethical, and different from the view many people had of him, as a crazy guy. Monk liked me and gave me a chance to play with him."

On Lexington, Kentucky [the location of a federal rehab facility where he spent part of 1955 kicking a drug habit]: "If you were in the arts, this is where you went to get well if you took drugs. I was there for 4 1/2 months to wean myself off drugs. It wasn't like jail—it was more like a hospital, or what today you'd call the Betty Ford Clinic. After I got out, it was hard to stay clear of drugs. I really struggled to avoid friends offering me stuff. But at some point, I realized I didn't want to wind up like Lester Young, drinking gin straight out of a cup and being helped around. I didn't want musicians playing a benefit for me."

On Clifford Brown: "Unassuming and self-effacing."

On hearing himself play. As Gary played for Sonny and the audience the first few minutes of Sonny playing on There's No Business Like Show Business from the album Worktime (1955) via his iPod, Sonny looked down at his lap and took out a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. He then began mopping his brow and beard. At the end, after the audience applauded, Sonny said the experience was excruciating. Some audience members laughed nervously, thinking the remark was a joke. Sonny said, "I don't know what you're laughing about. It was excruciating, for me." When Gary asked why, Sonny said, "When I listen back, I hear things I don't like." Then he astonished the audience with this line: "I can do much, much better. And I will." No one laughed.

Tenor Madness: Gary asked Sonny how John Coltrane, a virtual unknown in May 1956, wound up on Sonny's recording, Tenor Madness: "Back then, there was much more fellowship with jazz musicians. Someone said at the time, 'Why don't you have Coltrane on the date?' I said sure. That's how how young musicians got on dates. That's how I first got on dates. Actually, I first met Coltrane in the late 40s with Miles when we played with [drummer] Kenny Clarke."

The Bridge: Gary asked Sonny why he retired in 1959 to practice on New York's Williamsburg Bridge: "I was with Elvin Jones playing at a club in 1959 and was very disappointed with my playing. I knew it wasn't where it should have been. Yet the audience kept telling me how great I was. I didn't go along with them praising me. I knew there was a disconnect. So took two years off and practiced every day on the Williamsburg Bridge, and I had the time of my life up there. My confidence level in my playing just wasn't there when I took that break. When I came back, my playing felt different. While I had already heard the avant-garde players—Ornette Coleman, Don Cherry and so on—I wasn't consciously trying to emulate them on The Bridge [the album that Sonny recorded in January 1962 following the break]."

On studio recording v. concerts: "Studio recording is a little bit restrictive. When technology made it possible to overdub, it allowed you to do everything perfectly. I tend to feel more at ease with myself in live situations. Playing live is great because I can forget everything, which is where I need to be to improvise. I like to let the music play me."

On movie soundtracks [after being asked about his music for the 1966 film Alfie]: "I think film should accompany music, not the other way around. The movie The Letter with Bette Davis is a great example. The film wouldn't have been nearly as good without that music." [The original score for The Letter was by Max Steiner and was nominated for an Academy Award in 1940 but lost out to Pinocchio.]

Favorite Fats Waller record as a child: I'm Going to Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter.

Strangest moment of the night: An edgy questioner challenged Gary and Sonny to define what constitutes a jazz genius and why one artist from the 1950s is considered a genius and another isn't.  "There was so much genius all around back then," the questioner insisted. Then the questioner repeatedly said that trumpeter Jonah Jones was a genius. Gary gave in on the what-is-a-genius part, but the Jonah Jones issue remained unresolved by Gary or Sonny. At which point the questioner, to drive home the point he was making, stated again that Jonah Jones was a genius. Then he left the microphone.

JazzWax tracks: You can hear Fats Waller's 1935 recording of I'm Going to Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter on virtually any Fats compilation. One of the best, however, is Honeysuckle Rose found here.

Don Byas' influential Savoy release of How High the Moon from November 1945, backed by Benny Harris on trumpet, Jimmy Jones on piano, John Levy on bass and Fred Radcliffe on drums, can be found on a superb Don Byas compilation, Savoy Jam Party: The Savoy Sessions. You can download the album or the track at iTunes. You'll hear a great deal of Sonny in this Byas recording.

Charlie Parker's recording of Ko-Ko is a revolutionary potboiler that Bird recorded on his first session as a leader in November 1945 using the chord changes to Cherokee. It's available on The Complete Savoy and Dial Masters at iTunes.

As for the Jonah Jones imbroglio, I agree that the term genius is overused and meaningless. But when the word is pulled out of one's holster, it's typically employed to define a jazz artist whose abilities and expression transcended those of his or her peers and were consistently at that high level for a good part of the individual's career. Jones was a beautiful player as is evidenced on The Jonah Jones Story at iTunes or Jonah Jones: J.J. Space (Fresh Sound) here. As for the consistency thing, go sample Serenata from 1962, which can be found on Ultra-Lounge, Vol. 6: Rhapsodesia, at iTunes. Warning: sample before you buy.

Interview: Ron Carter (Part 4)

After spending the 1960s playing upright bass in the decade's most musically advanced jazz ensembles, Ron Carter found himself in even greater demand in the 1970s. But jazz tastes were changing. The creeping domination of rock and soul over the music business was sucking the commercial air out of traditional jazz. Clubs faced dwindling audiences and many closed or started booking rock acts. Most record labels transferred or fired in-house jazz champions, leaving jazz divisions woefully under-financed or shuttered. To continue earning a living, many jazz artists embraced fusion, a rock-jazz mix. But fusion wasn't the only path to paying the bills—or sole jazz hybrid.

Sensing that a large percentage of jazz listeners were left cold by fusion's icy music-school sophistication and psychedelic tone, producer Creed Taylor [pictured] started recording, packaging and marketing a warmer jazz-soul hybrid through his CTI Records label. Buyers of CTI albums would be presented not only with a lusher, more relaxed jazz sound but also with high-gloss album covers adorned with stunning full-color visuals by photographer Pete Turner. Given his classical training and close professional relationship with Taylor, Ron recorded regularly for CTI in the 1970s.

In this final installment of our conversation, Ron comments on his dates for CTI Records, the criticism Taylor has received over the years for commercializing jazz during this period, and when he finds the time to listen to recordings of jazz masters:

JazzWax: Was there a rivalry among bass players in the  1960s?
Ron Carter: No, not at all. We were just all sharing the same problem—how to go from point A to point B. And we all complained about the pianos at clubs being out of tune.

JW: Which club had the best piano?
RC: None of them. They were all mediocre, man.

JW: Did you like Antonio Carlos Jobim as a person? You recorded on Wave (1967), Stone Flower (1970) and Tide (1970).
RC: He was a lovely man. He was a guy who wasn’t affected by his success. What impressed me most of all: I was a stranger to him. He had never met me before. And he probably had not have even heard the records I made. But after I got to the studio, he gave me a lead sheet. I asked what should I do with it. He said play what you play and we can have a good time. And that’s what I proceeded to do.

JW: Did you enjoy making Wave, which truly is a landmark album?
RC: Great record, man. Urbie Green had a fantastic sound, man. He voices his chords just right, and he listens to the rhythm section. It’s so easy to play with someone like Urbie.

JW: Produced for A&M records in 1967 when Creed Taylor was there, Wave was an early model for CTI. Was recording for CTI starting in 1969 fun? It must have been the opposite of your musical experience with Miles.
RC: I’ve always been fortunate to play good music, so it really wasn’t the opposite of anything. At CTI, you got to see enough of the same players every week. So you knew what their quirks were and what their idiosyncrasies were.

JW: How far in advance did musicians prepare for those sessions?
RC: Most people don’t realize that we often just looked at a lead sheet and made an arrangement out of it. That was a challenge. To make it sound like we were all there at the same time, musically, and that we had all thought out what we were playing pretty far in advance. That was seldom the case, if ever. The challenge was to make it sound polished—but not so much that we sounded like the same set of sidemen put together for specific projects. There were enough great players on all those sessions to make it feel like a working band. That’s what impressed me.

JW: The CTI charts weren’t carefully worked out?
RC: Not by us. Maybe Creed [Taylor] and the bandleader and arrangers did. The rhythm section would go in and see the charts for the first time.

JW: Do you think Creed went too far? Did he make jazz too commercial?
RC: Not at all. The music was beautiful and the packaging is what people desired from the records. They are the most outstanding photographs on LP covers of all time. Pete Turner [pictured] did them. They were outstanding pieces of art. People saw the covers before they heard the music. That encouraged them to hear what was inside—and to keep those records out rather than putting them away. I don’t know how people define commercial packaging. I kind of let that stuff go and don’t worry about it, man. [photo by Doug Kuntz]

JW: What albums on which you’re playing bass are your favorites?
RC: [Laughing] I’m still looking for them.

JW: You must put a record of yours on once in a while and say, “Wow, that’s some pretty remarkable stuff.”
RC: When I do, I always say I missed that note or I wish I could try that again. You have to understand, when I make a disc, I don’t think in terms of, “Will I want to hear this again.” My view is, “Did I play the best I could? Did I help these guys play better because I’m standing here?” If I get that feeling when my day’s over, I don’t have to review my work later to feel justified in being there.

JW: Why is it so hard to hear yourself play on an album?
RC: It’s difficult because I hear things—I may hear a note that’s a little sharp or flat. So many factors go into a recording. Depending on your focus and how complete it is, you are going to be concerned with your intonation, the notes, where you were on the bass, how the instrument sounded, what you could have played differently. I think any artist who’s self-critical and who’s intent on playing better the next time around hears defects that most people don’t call defects, and they disturb him or her—I’m speaking for the music community broadly. I don’t’ get bent out of shape. But when I hear the defects, I wish I had the opportunity to fix them in some kind of way.

JW: Who are you listening now for inspiration or enjoyment?
RC: Enjoyment is a better word. Right now I have on my turntable the Brandenburg Concertos, 1 through 6. Waiting to be played are the Goldberg Variations with Glenn Gould, and But Beautiful, an album I did with Nancy Wilson, Hank Jones, Gene Bertoncini and Grady Tate in 1969. Also, I recently recorded a hip-hop type record about a year ago that was recently sent to me. I haven’t heard it yet but I’m looking forward to hearing how it sounds.

JW: Do you still listen to Oscar Pettiford and the old timers?
RC: When I have a moment. I have them on my computer, so when I’m paying my bills or trying to figure stuff out like how awful the day went [laughing], I’ll listen to all those guys who played without technical advantages—like Pettiford [pictured], George Duvivier, Milt Hinton, Joe Benjamin and Ike Isaacs. All those guys played so great without the technological advantages we have now. Today we have better strings, better recording facilities and better stereo equipment.

JazzWax tracks: In many ways, Creed Taylor's test kitchen for CTI's jazz-soul-pop albums of the 1970s were the successful Wes Montgomery pop-jazz albums he produced at A&M Records in the 1960s. Taylor also tore a page out of Alfred Lion and Francis Wolff's playbook by using a core set of top musicians on multiple dates at CTI and treating album covers as works of art.

By featuring marquee jazz players backed by symphony-sized ensembles and recording a careful mix of pop and soul hits, jazz standards and originals, Taylor succeeded in attracting sophisticated listeners. Adding high gloss covers and magazine-quality photography, the albums were complete audio-visual packages. Ron had recorded regularly for Taylor in the 1960s, so Ron was a natural choice when the number of recording sessions ramped up.

Ron's first date for CTI was on flutist Hubert Laws' Crying Song, recorded in September 1969. Dozens of sessions for the label followed. Perhaps my favorite CTI dates featuring Ron are Grover Washington Jr.'s Inner City Blues, George Benson's White Rabbit (1971) and Body Talk (1973), Eumir Deodato's Prelude (1972), Milt Jackson's Sunflower (1972) and Jim Hall's Concierto (1975).

Because CTI albums are records you love to hate—and hate to love—I'm sure I'll receive e-mails from readers listing their favorites. In fact, enough years have passed that it's probably a good time now to revisit the catalog to hear whether many of these albums are as bad as critics have claimed over the years or much better than we thought.

Interview: Ron Carter (Part 3)

Years of classical music training at Detroit's Cass Technical High School and the Eastman School of Music put bassist Ron Carter on track for a life of symphony work. But after moving to New York to study at the Manhattan School of Music in the late-1950s, Ron found his talents were in huge demand by jazz artists recording increasingly complex music. A torrent  of gigs and record dates with Yusef Lateef, Don Ellis, Jaki Byard, Eric Dolphy and other leading jazz musicians starting in 1960 brought Ron to the attention of Miles Davis, who selected him for his second quintet in 1963.

Today, in Part 3 of our conversation, Ron talks about his years with the Miles Davis Quintet, the artistic importance of Wayne Shorter and his only regret while playing with Miles:

JazzWax: What impact did Miles have on you as an artist?
RC: Miles made me feel that every night he came to play—whatever shape he was in. In pain, late, scuffling. Wherever he was coming from outside the club, when he got to the bandstand I always thought he was playing the best he could at that moment.

JW: How did that affect you?
RC: That was important for me to see. Here was this giant who was going through his physical difficulties, going through his emotional transitions but none of it overcame the fact that he had to play the music with us and play the best he could every night. I feel the same way with my bands now.

JW: How did Miles affect your approach?
RC: It wasn’t Miles himself. It was the music. No one musician can affect four others no matter how well he plays, provided  the other four are equally talented, and I believe we were. Miles simply provided us with a platform on which to experiment. We understood that, given his width and breadth of music. And he found a place where we were enjoying that interaction.

JW: What do you think made that group so special?
RC: I never go there. That’s for historians. Being in the sound, you don’t analyze the speakers. You just enjoy what’s going on. You just hope that historians will be honest enough, and put their biases aside about Miles’ later years, or what they feel about me personally, or Herbie’s success. I hope historians will put all that aside and look at the group as a literal scientific experiment and analyze it on that basis.

JW: Was it exciting for you?
RC: Absolutely. Playing with those guys was always exciting.

JW: Why?
RC: They brought something to the music you can’t find anywhere else.

JW: What exactly in nonmusical terms?
RC: To do that makes it sound easy so let’s not go there. When you explain jazz to a stranger you make it sound like anybody can do it and understand the precepts and concepts. Really, that’s not the case. As soon as people believe they can do it, you feel insulted that they missed the point. So I try not to let them put me in that zone.

JW: Do you re-listen to your Miles Davis Quintet albums?
RC: Only when students ask me what’s going on with them. I avoid them for the most part because I hear choices that I could have made that I wasn’t able to make because I didn’t know what to do with the choices at the time. Now I see the choices more clearly, and I rue the fact that I missed them.

JW: Anything you’d do differently if done again?
RC: I think if I missed anything in those days, Marc, it was the fact that the bass was not amplified. If the bass had been amplified, I could have had more of an impact because I would have been more audible. We were playing in these big 2,000-seat halls with an M-mike and no monitors. I had no real chance to affect the band as much as I could have because we were not sonically equal.

JW: Yet you’re so present on the recordings.
RC: I wish it had been the same way live. But again, I don’t’ feel bent out of shape because the technology wasn’t available to me. I can live with that. The fact is that the guys in the band could hear me enough that I could have an impact. I just wished it had been a much broader reach of sound from the bass to the audiences to 25 or 55 rows back from where we were standing.

JW: Did all that acoustic work with the Quintet make you a stronger player?
RC: No

JW: How important is Wayne Shorter?
RC: He brought a width and breadth of compositions to the band that we hadn’t played before. It made me feel that I could take a little more risk than I could take with someone else. That’s not to speak of George Coleman pejoratively at all. It’s just that Wayne plays different and in a way that let me try things that were different from the norm than someone else.

JW: Wayne Shorter’s album Speak no Evil is incredible and your work on there is exceptional.
RC: I haven’t heard it in a long time so you’re one up on me.

JW: Was working with Wayne separately from the Miles Davis Quintet a different feel?
RC: No, Wayne is Wayne. Wayne is going to play Wayne wherever he is—it doesn’t’ matter if he’s at my house, or a gymnasium or Shea Stadium. He plays Wayne. That’s why he’s consistently great and comfortable with his point of view. Wayne’s compositions for Miles and for Wayne weren’t very different.

Tomorrow, in the final part of our conversation, Ron talks about his work after 1970 with Antonio Carlos Jobim, his sessions for CTI Records and when he listens to Oscar Pettiford and other bass masters.

JazzWax tracks: Ron's first album with Miles Davis was Seven Steps to Heaven, recorded in April 1963 with George Coleman on alto sax, Victor Feldman on piano and Frank Butler on drums. Ron then spent then next year touring and recording live with Miles and various combinations of the quintet that included Coleman or Sam Rivers on tenor, Herbie Hancock on piano and Tony Williams on drums.

After Ron recorded with Wayne Shorter on Speak No Evil in December 1964, the classic second quintet was in place—Miles, Shorter, Hancock, Carter and Williams. Their first studio date, E.S.P., was recorded in January 1965. Ron's other studio dates with this quintet were Miles Smiles in October 1966, Sorcerer in May 1967, Nefertiti in June 1967, Miles in the Sky in January 1968 (with  guitarist George Benson added on a track), and Filles de Kilimanjaro,  recorded in June 1968 with Chick Corea on piano. Ron plays bass on Miles' Big Fun from November 1969, which included a larger ensemble.

If you listen carefully to Ron's bass work on these Miles Davis albums, you'll hear that his playing is inventive, groundbreaking, flexible, supportive and fiercely independent. If all he recorded during his amazing career were these albums, Ron would qualify for being jazz's most significant force on bass in the 1960s.

But during this period—between April 1963 and January 1970—Ron also recorded with artists on an astonishing number of classics. These essential recordings include Herbie Hancock's Empyrean Isles, Maiden Voyage, Blow-Up and Speak Like a Child; Wayne Shorter's The Soothsayer, The All-Seeing Eye and Schizophrenia; Bobby Hutcherson's Components; Joe Henderson's Mode for Joe and The Kicker; Wes Montgomery's Tequila, A Day in the Life and Down Here on the Ground; Stan Getz's Voices; Lee Morgan's Standards, Sonic Boom and The Procrastinator; McCoy Tyner's The Real McCoy; Paul Desmond's From the Hot Afternoon and Bridge Over Troubled Water; and Freddie Hubbard's Red Clay.

JazzWax quote: I'll let Miles have the last word on Ron during this period, from Quincy Troupe's Miles: The Autobiography (1989):

"When we were up on the bandstand I always stood next to Ron because I wanted to hear what he was playing. Before, I used to always stand next to the drummer, but now I didn't worry about what Tony was playing because you could hear everything he was playing; same thing with Herbie. But back then they didn't have amplifiers and so it was hard sometimes to hear Ron. Also I stood next to him to give him my support.

"Every night Herbie, Tony and Ron would sit around back in their hotel rooms talking about what they had played until this morning came. Every night they would come back and play something different. And every night I would have to react.

"The music we did together changed every fucking night; if you heard it yesterday, it was different tonight. Man, it was something how the shit changed from night to night after a while. Even we didn't know where it was all going to. But we did know it was going somewhere else and that it was probably going to be hip, and that was enough to keep everyone excited while it lasted."

Interview: Ron Carter (Part 2)

Following a rigorous music education at Cass Technical High School in Detroit and the Eastman School of Music in Rochester, N.Y. in the mid-1950s, Ron Carter set his sights on graduate studies in New York. Trained as a classical musician, the bassist had already begun playing jazz gigs, and the pace picked up significantly soon after his arrival in the city. [photo by Judy Kirtley]

Today, in Part 2 of our conversation, Ron talks about his move to New York, his early recordings in 1960 with Ernie Wilkins and Yusef Lateef, the Out There session with Eric Dolphy, and the Miles Davis Quintet (1963-1968):

JazzWax: Why did you go on to study at the Manhattan School of Music?
Ron Carter: They had auditions for their masters program. I knew the school was in New York, where I wanted to be. I didn’t know much about Juilliard at the time. I thought it was kind of an upper class classical school. I knew from the Manhattan School of Music’s brochure that its format was less rigid. Continuing with my education at the school seemed to be the best choice if I was going to come to New York and try to earn a living playing jazz bass.

JW: Did you face similar hurdles at the Manhattan School of Music that you did at Eastman?
RC: The Manhattan School of Music was different, but at first, I was concerned. I had to take the school’s music theory exam because Eastman and the Manhattan School of Music used different symbols and a different language to recognize different chords and progressions. After the test, they put me in Music Theory 1, which was a sock in the head. But I said to myself, "Wait a minute—if this is the only way I can get to go to this school, maybe I need to learn another language." I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to me was, what does it take to get this done.

JW: How was the experience?
RC: It turned out beautifully. I made some lovely people there, I made some great friends, the faculty was warm and appreciative of my talent. I played the first chair in the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra, which gave me an outside endorsement of the talent level I had achieved.

JW: You had a great love of classical music…
RC: Still do.

JW: This love dated back to your early teens?
RC: Again, I’m not sure if schools during that era thought that African-Americans could cut the classical orchestra circuit. There weren’t a lot of them playing in orchestras at the time, there weren’t many of them going into classic conservatories. My concern today is that the schools are turning out kids, both black and white, to play in orchestras but there are no jobs for them. Those guys who already have chairs aren’t retiring. They have great pension plans, vacations, health plans, and so on. Where are the kids going to go? You all can’t form your own orchestra. This is an important concern of mine.

JW: How did you come to classical music?
RC: We played it in school. In classical orchestras, classical string quartets, clarinet quintets. That’s the kind of music I played in those years. I wasn’t the only one. Many kids my age had same passion for classical. Cass Tech was a great program. A classical training gave me a bigger palette on which to work and more experienced people around me to learn the music better.

JW: One of your first jazz recordings was The Big New Band of the 60’s—Ernie Wilkins [pictured below] and his orchestra in April 1960. All the musicians on that date were giants.
RC: Oh, wow, somebody just sent me that album. I hadn't heard it before. That was a great record. I look back at that date and I’m quite surprised, given the status of all those players around me, that they decided that this person who was new to New York basically could have an impact on this recording. I can’t remember the feeling of the date or who brought me in. But looking at the personnel I remain stunned that they considered me capable enough to contribute to the music of the band.

JW: You also recorded Three Faces of Yusef Lateef in May 1960. What did you learn from Yusef?
RC: Oh yes—Hugh Lawson on piano, Herman Wright, Lex Humphries on drums and Yusef [pictured] on tenor and oboe. I had already heard these guys from afar at nightclubs in New York. Playing with Yusef made me realize just how big his sound was. I also learned how intense he was about the music. And everyone followed that level of intensity. Yusef had a way of getting everyone up to that level.

JW: Was it liberating to play on Eric Dolphy’s album Out There in August 1960?
RC: I was already playing music like that with Don Ellis and Jaki Byard. I was already familiar with the avant-garde scene. Eric’s record wasn’t my first encounter. I wasn’t stunned by it.

JW: But you came out of a classical background, where playing music requires certain rigidity. How did you make the switch to a form that was so free?
RC: Ask the creator. I have no answer to that other than it’s out of my hands, so to speak.

JW: You were with the Miles Davis Quintet steadily from April 1963 to June 1968—an incredible period of turmoil in this country. You saw America change through the music.
RC: We weren’t living in vacuum but I don’t know what impact society had on us individually. I think the guys in the group were fortunate to have been picked by a person [Miles] who was able to see individuals who could take the music where he wanted to go. I can remember when JFK got assassinated, when the Birmingham church was bombed—I remember all those things. But saying that events back then had an impact on how the music sounded would be kind of a stretch for the other four guys.

JW: What about for you?
RC: I never try use the bandstand for a political platform. I’m pretty verbal, and if you ask me a question I’m happy to tell you off the bandstand. I’m not sure I agree that you can listen to a band and interpret their motives during the fact and certainly after the fact. People can analyze all they want to, but I’m not sure I buy that concept that music is an international language. I’m not there yet. For me, I like to think I’m able to separate the politics of life from the ongoing conflict from the bandstand. By conflict, I mean we all have ways to hear a tune. We have to decide whose view is most relevant and whose view is going to take us someplace else. So did external events affect my music at that time? I like to think, broadly, no. But realistically we live in a society where we play what we feel. Broadly speaking, again, I’m sure it had an impact. But I don’t think JFK’s assassination made me play the blues any more seriously.

Tomorrow, Ron talks about his years with the Miles Davis Quintet, his one regret, why he rarely listens to his own music, and Wayne Shorter's influence on jazz.

JazzWax tracks: Ron's first jazz recording was Stompin' at the Savoy in March 1957 for Verve Records with Phil Woods, Kenny Burrell and Grady Tate. You can find it on a CD called Jazz-Club: Bass.

His first major session was Ernie Wilkins: The Big New Band of the 60's, a strong outing recorded in March and April 1960. The Wilkins arrangements remain strong and are so skillfully written that the band sounds three times larger than it is. Given who was on the date, it's no wonder: Clark Terry, Richard Williams, Charlie Shavers on trumpets; Henderson Chambers on trombone; Earle Warren on alto sax; Zoot Sims, Seldon Powell and Yusef Lateef on tenor sax; Eddie Costa on vibes; Walter Bishop, Jr. on piano; Kenny Burrell on guitar; Ron on bass; and Charlie Persip on drums.

This recording appears on Ernie Wilkins: The Everest Years, which combines The Big New Band of the 60's with Here Comes the Swingin' Mr. Wilkins. The CD can be downloaded at iTunes or purchased here. It's one of my favorite big band albums from the period. Listen as Ron, just 23, keeps huge time for some of the best jazz players of the day.

After a record date with Charlie Persip in April (Charles Persip and the Jazz Statesmen) that included Freddie Hubbard, Art Blakey and Philly Joe Jones, Ron recorded Three Faces of Yusef Lateef in May, a powerfully spiritual album for Riverside. Next came Howard McGhee's Dusty Blue in June and Eric Dolphy's Out There in August.

Ron's 1961 album Where? for Prestige with Eric Dolphy, Mal Waldron, George Duvivier and Charlie Persip is being released by Concord Records as part of its Rudy Van Gelder remaster series on April 1. The CD will be available here.

From that date forward until his first date as a member of the Miles Davis Quintet in April 1963, Ron recorded almost monthly with virtually every jazz great of the period, including Johnny Griffin, Kenny Dorham, Milt Jackson, Wes Montgomery, Benny Golson, Gil Evans, Bobby Timmons, Bill Evans and Cannonball Adderley.

Interview: Ron Carter (Part 1)

The history of the acoustic jazz bass starts in the hands of hard-charging 1930s swingers like Jimmy Blanton, John Kirby, Moses Allen and Walter Page. The band bassists were followed in the 1940s by boppers Oscar Pettiford, Curley Russell, Tommy Potter and Nelson Boyd. Next were the cooler, more "cerebral" 1950s bassists Ray Brown, Charles Mingus, Percy Heath, Paul Chambers, Milt Hinton, George Morrow, Doug Watkins and Scott LaFaro. Then in the early 1960s, Ron Carter transformed the upright instrument from metronome to equal creative partner.

Ron's discography is astonishing. Some estimates put his number of recording sessions at 3,500, though Ron playfully questions that number. Ron's range is equally impressive. He has been the rhythmic rock behind leading avant-garde artists such as Jaki Byard, Don Ellis, Eric Dolphy, Miles Davis and Wayne Shorter, and set the stage for the fusion bassists who followed. But Ron also has played on three Antonio Carlos Jobim albums, a majority of the polished CTI Records of the 1970s, and even albums by hip-hop artists.

Ron, 71, graciously made time in his busy schedule to chat with me about his formative years, his work with the Miles Davis Quintet between 1963 and 1968, and his many albums for CTI. In Part 1 today, Ron talks about growing up in Michigan, his love of classical music, and the challenges he faced during his early musical training:

JazzWax: I've read that you have appeared on 3,500 albums—many of them jazz classics. It may be easier for us to talk about the six albums you didn't record on.
Ron Carter: [Laughing] Six? I think it’s more like four. Seriously, though, I’m not so sure about 3,500 albums. Journalists like to blow that number up. It’s probably more like 2,007.

JW: Your range is amazing—from Eric Dolphy’s Out There to Astrud Gilberto’s Misty Roses.
RC: Wow, most people don’t know about that Gilberto record [Beach Samba (1967)]. That was a great date. There was a rumor that her boyfriend or husband at the time was working for the CIA, and a lot of the guys on the session were afraid that the CIA was monitoring them.

JW: What was it like growing up in Ferndale, Michigan, in the late 1940s, and why did your family move to Detroit when you were 12 years old?
RC: My father found a job as a bus driver in Detroit and the only way he could get the job was by moving to Detroit [pictured in the late 1940s]. It wasn’t a big move, though. There’s a street that separates the two cities. We were living in heart of Ferndale, two blocks from my high school. I had finished my first year of school in Ferndale and already had my entrance audition at Cass Technical High School. So I didn’t get too bent out of shape with the move.

JW: How was Cass Tech?
RC: Great. At Cass Tech, you could major in anything. You could major in music, mechanics, home economics, design or anything you wanted to. It was one of the earliest schools where you had to audition to get in. A lot of great musicians were there, and many continued in music. It was an environment that made growing essential if you wanted to stay in the school. I auditioned on the cello.

JW: Why did you pick the cello?
RC: The music teacher at Cass Tech had brought all these instruments out to the school in her car and said they were available to us to start a little orchestra and to take lessons. She said we should choose the instrument that would suit us as best as we could play it. She played the cello and I loved the sound of it. So I chose the cello.

JW: After Cass Tech, you enrolled at the Eastman School of Music. What was the most important lesson you learned there?
RC: Don’t let discouragement become your focus. At Eastman [pictured], I felt I wasn’t getting the kind of interest I should have been getting. I thought there were opportunities that should have been presented to me that weren’t because I was an African–American. Sometimes they’d put notices up on the board for auditions for major orchestras. It seemed to be common knowledge around the school that the openings were available and that auditions were taking place. But somehow no one got around to telling me to look at the bulletin board or that there was something there that I might be interested in.

JW: Were you good enough?
RC: At the time I was the best undergraduate student player in the school. I felt that given my unstated status, I should have been at least informed so I could decide whether or not I wanted to audition for different orchestras. I felt that because I wasn’t kept in that loop, it wasn’t the fair thing to do to me. I think if I had not maintained that focus, I wouldn’t have gotten out of that school in one piece.

JW: How did you change your feelings of resentment?
RC: It wasn’t resentment. I just couldn’t understand why fair wasn’t fair. I had followed all the rules. I practiced diligently. I got good grades. When the school formed the Eastman Philharmonia—a student-pro orchestra featuring the cream of the crop at the school—there were six or seven other bassists to choose from. They decided I would be first chair on bass. That certainly counted for something. I didn’t just take a chair and sit down. There was a process, and whatever that process was, it was decided that I would be first chair with the cream of the crop. I thought that would have been enough to get me in the loop. At the time, I thought everyone knew about the major opportunities but me, and I didn’t think that was OK.

JW: How did you keep this from overwhelming you?
RC: I thought I played well, and I didn’t care what they thought. I mean, of course, I cared, and it did matter. But I wasn’t going to let their view of my talent and my viability as a fulltime classical player affect me and my thoughts about what I could do on the instrument and what the instrument offered.

JW: But how did you change your thinking?
RC: I was comfortable with my view of myself, and I was making a few jazz gigs so I wasn’t actually starving. I just felt that their way of looking at me was their view, not mine. I have students who come in for lessons now, and the books they use have numbers under the notes. This is the editor’s view on the best way to play different passages. I tell my students to cross out the editor’s numbers and to find their own path through the passages. Now my students will learn to be confident in their view of the approach and their choices, not someone else's. Back then I simply told myself that the school had its view of my ability, but it was their view, not mine. So I was OK with that,.

Tomorrow, in Part 2, Ron talks about his move to New York, his recording sessions with Ernie Wilkins, Yusef Lateef and Eric Dolphy, and the impact of the 1960s on the Miles Davis Quintet.

JazzWax tracks: Ron has played with classical orchestras around the world and recorded several classical albums, including one featuring his own transcriptions and arrangements of Bach chorales and cantatas. His classical albums include Ron Carter Plays Bach here,  Afro-Classic here. Brandenburg Concerto here, the Classical Jazz Quartet Play Rachmaninov here, Mouth Music here and Meets Bach here.

Sunday Wax Bits

Ron Carter. Starting tomorrow, Ron Carter joins me at JazzWax for a weeklong interview series. The legendary jazz bassist talks about his early years in Detroit, his love of classical music, the dynamics of the Miles Davis Quintet, his years at CTI Records, and why the musicians who played on Astrud Gilberto's 1967 Beach Samba album were skittish.

Lupe O'Farrill. On Friday night I found myself at a marvelous party hosted by Lupe O'Farrill. Lovely Lupe is wife of the late Chico O'Farrill, one of the greatest jazz and Latin-jazz arrangers, composers and big-band leaders who died in 2001. About 30 of Lupe's friends were there—film directors, painters, writers, producers and neighbors. Lupe prepared four fabulous dishes along with a home-made mole sauce that brought tears to everyone's eyes.

Lupe lives in one of those grand pre-war buildings on New York's Upper West Side, and her apartment has an endless number of rooms. Each wall is covered with a lifetime of oil paintings, illustrations, framed articles about Chico, letters and photographs signed by jazz legends ranging from Stan Kenton and Dizzy Gillespie to Art Farmer and Count Basie. All of them knew Chico and at one point and another turned to him for his arranging skills.

Chico not only arranged and composed under his own name but also was a ghostwriter—meaning he scored for other jazz arrangers and bandleaders who were credited with the work. This was a common practice back in the 1950s and 1960s. When high-profile arrangers found themselves long on work but short on time, they often subcontracted the arrangements to writers who could emulate their style and sound. Chico picked up the slack for Basie, Kenton, Quincy Jones, Ernie Wilkins and so many others. For Count Basie alone, Chico is credited as the arranger of eight of the bandleader's albums in the 1960s, including Evergreens, which to my ear is one of Basie's best from the decade.

Lupe told me that Benny Goodman was the one who named O'Farrill "Chico," and that Chico never liked the name but preferred Arturo or simply Art. But like everything, Lupe said, once you're stuck with a nickname in the music business, you embrace it.

At one point during the party I wandered into Lupe's living room, which is decorated with classic late-1950s and early-1960s furnishings. A dynamite CD of Chico's was playing—powered by a vintage McIntosh receiver from the late 1960s. The music coming out of the large speakers hanging from the walls featured Chico's band and crisp arrangements, probably recorded in Mexico in the mid-1950s.

So I sat down on a sofa in the empty room (everyone else was talking in the other rooms). For the next half hour I listened uninterrupted to the great pen of Chico O'Farrill. I had to pinch myself. Here I was, sitting in the same room where Chico and Lupe had entertained so many jazz legends, listening to a CD of Chico's finest period on Chico's own stereo. Man, what an honor!

The CD I was listening to? Chico O'Farrill: Y Su Orquestra, an import featuring spectacular cha-cha-chas. When I say spectacular, I mean the scores are unbelievably complex with impeccable precision and musicianship that's out of this world. It's infectious stuff, those cha-cha-chas. Buy the CD immediately if you can find it.

Before I left, Lupe pressed into my hands two CDs of Chico's classical compositions. I had no idea Chico had written classical pieces, but I shouldn't be surprised given his range. I can't wait to listen to the albums this week. Thank you again, Lupe.

In memoriam. Afro-Cuban jazz legend Israel "Cachao" Lopez died at a Miami hospital early Saturday morning. The bassist, composer and arranger was 89. Cachao (pronounced "Cah-chow") is probably best known for blending nuevo ritmo—or new sound—with the traditional Cuban danzon during the 1930s. This new, hybrid rhythm eventually led to the mambo, which Cachao helped popularize in the U.S. in the early 1950s. Cachao also is credited in 1957 with holding the first descargas, or jam sessions featuring Cuban musicians. These improvisational get-togethers eventually changed the direction and sound of Afro-Cuban music. [Pictured from left: Ivan Acosta of Latin Jazz USA, the late Cachao, and legendary percussionist Candido Camero in 2007.]

Blog bonanza. If you haven't visited Jazz.com lately, go dig "The Coolest Jazz Web Links." You'll find the link boxed on the home page. CJWL is updated daily and features Ted's favorite blog posts. To access Ted's picks, you just click on the images. Way cool—and a major time-saver for busy jazz fans.

Clips of the week: Jan Stevens of the BillEvansWebpages sent along a link to a fascinating audio interview conducted with John Coltrane in 1959. Go here. Hearing Coltrane's speaking voice and his views on his emerging sound and art is fascinating, to say the least.

Master video-documentarian Bret Primack sent along a link to his latest podcast featuring producer Orrin Keepnews reflecting on Bill Evans. The podcast supports the Concord Records' Keepnews Collection release of Bill Evans' Portrait in Jazz, which sounds unbelievable. A world of difference over the miserable 1987 effort that had been the only disc choice for years. Go here to see the clip.

Last week Doug Ramsey of Rifftides posted a terrific roundup of arrangers and their recordings from the 1930s. To read Doug's post, go here. Doug writes that bebop is next.