JazzWax

Sunday Wax Bits

Message from Boston. My wife and I spent the better part of the past week in Boston, a city we adore. Whenever we need a break from New York, we make the 4 1/2-hour drive north with the enthusiasm of a pair of puppies. Anyone who has visited Boston knows that the town is quaint, quiet, perfectly preserved, charming and a throwback to another era.

I love walking miles in this city because the architecture makes me feel the same way jazz does. Stroll around Back Bay, and you come across scores of brownstones from the 1800s in all shapes and designs. Hike up Beacon Hill amid the rail-thin brick sidewalks and candle-warm street lamps, and you're in Federalist townhouse heaven. Eat in the Italian section in the North End, and you're back in Paul Revere's time. And if the architecture isn't enough, parks run throughout the city like a green ribbon. The emerald against chocolate browns of the stone buildings truly soothes the soul. It's a city that thankfully remains ferociously zoned to ensure that vast stretches remain historic and retain a human scale. [Photo of Beacon Hill: Michael W. Dunn]

Boston also is home to my favorite skyscraper: The John Hancock Tower, a plaza-less green-blue glass tower that rises straight up from the sidewalk in Copley Square, cutting a razor-sharp silhouette. The Henry Cobb-I.M. Pei masterpiece was set on an angle so that it looks different from every angle. At one precise location on Boylston Street, the Hancock's front face disappears altogether, creating an optical illusion. The building is pure Bill Evans on the eyes, gracefully simple with a poetic lyricism that makes you wonder why something so plain is so beautiful.

Best of all, Boston is home to one of the great used bookshops, Commonwealth Books at 134 Boylston Street. I spent an hour among the dusty shelves and unearthed the 1,358-page New Grove Dictionary of Jazz (1994), edited by Barry Kernfeld; Just Before Jazz (1989) by Thomas Riis on African-American theater music from 1890-1915; and Jazz Panorama (1962), a collection of fabulous essays from The Jazz Review edited by Martin Williams.

I also had a chance to stop by and see the historic Copley Square Hotel, where George Wein's Storyville used to occupy space on the ground floor. The hotel is under a top-to-bottom, $14-million renovation, so I had to peer through the dusty window on the Huntington Avenue side. There, where Lester Young, Charlie Parker and so many others played, stood a lone cement mixer. The hotel is expected to re-open sometime next year.

Without a doubt, Boston is the new Europe.

Danilo Perez. Panamanian jazz pianist Danilo Perez has teamed with legendary arranger Claus Ogerman for a fascinating new album called Across the Crystal Sea. The pairing of the two musicians makes for steamy contrasts. Perez's smoldering intensity and Ogerman's humid writing results in a passionate, moody album that grows on you each time you hear it. Perez's Latin-tinged jazz technique takes on different colors when backed by Ogerman's dramatic, scorched-wind writing for strings. Most of the album's compositions are Ogerman originals based on themes by Hugo Distler, Jean Sibelius and other classical composers.

Perez and Ogerman combined are the equivalent of a hot coal sitting on a block of dry ice. Compositions build with bolero intensity and are eased back down by Ogerman's caressing string, brass and woodwind figures. Cassandra Wilson sings two tracks, Lazy Afternoon and (All of a Sudden) My Heart Sings, in a confidential, lingering style reminiscent of the late Shirley Horn. Perez is joined by Christian McBride (bass), Lewis Nash (drums) and Luis Quintero (percussion).

Bix v. Pops. Last week there was an interesting intellectual fencing match going on over the merits and shortcomings of Bix Beiderbecke and Louis Armstrong at Rifftides, Doug Ramsey's blog. As always, Doug provided the voice of reason. I will toss in my two cents in a separate post, probably this week. For now, have a look at the back and forth here.

Warne Marsh. Want to see tenor saxophonist Warne Marsh 's unusual embouchure (use of facial muscles and lips on the mouthpiece when playing the saxophone)? Below, Marsh plays with Lee Konitz on a clip from the 1958 TV show, The Subject Is Jazz, that videographer Bret Primack posted:

Bill Evans. In support of Concord Records' re-issue of The Bill Evans Trio: Sunday at the Village Vanguard, Bret Primack has posted at YouTube his video interview with producer Orrin Keepnews on that historic session:

Anita O'Day. No sooner had I bought my friend Helene a copy of the DVD Anita O'Day: Live in Tokyo than she sent it to me to have a look. I have the CD from Anita's 1963 TV performance, but after seeing clips recently from the Japanese show in the documentary, Anita O'Day: Life of a Jazz Singer, I was dying to have a look.

The DVD is absolutely fabulous and features Anita at her peak. The camera is right where you want it to be—in Anita's face. You see every move—her mouth shaping lyrics, exposing upper and lower teeth while smiling, bending the notes, eyes lost in the song, hips ahead of the beat, and her white-gloved arms and hands punctuating points like a Vogue model. Grab this DVD; you won't be sorry. It's available at Amazon here. For now, here's a clip:

In the Mood. Last week I received an email from jazz writer and disk jockey Sid Gribetz commenting on my Guess That Jazz Tune post. Sid, who hosts radio shows on WKCR-FM in New York, added a few insights on the origins of In the Mood:

"The original song actually was Tar Paper Stomp, by Wingy Manone [pictured], first recorded for the Champion label on Aug 28, 1930.

Composer Joe Garland picked up the riff and made it a "new song" [called In the Mood] for bandleader Edgar Hayes. As your other correspondent noted, Artie Shaw then picked it up, had the song in his book for a while, although he never commercially recorded it.

The key thing to be noted: What made the Miller record such a popular seller then, and an enduring hit to this day, is the brilliant arrangement by Eddie Durham [pictured], who is the quiet unassuming genius and unsung hero of so many aspects of popular music (from Moten Swing and Basie, to the amplification of the electric guitar, to his arrangements for Jimmie Lunceford, Glenn Miller, et al) who must be given some notice and due."

You can hear Wingy Manone's Tar Paper Stomp here.

Bo Diddley Said It

"You cannot say what people are gonna like or not gonna like. You have to stick it out there and find out! If they taste it and they like the way it tastes, you can bet they'll eat some of it."

—Early rock 'n' roll pioneer Bo Diddley in Living Legend, a biography by George White

Jerry Wexler Said it

"One Friday the editor got us to together and said, 'Listen, let's change this from Race Records.' A lot of people were beginning to find it inappropriate. 'Come back with some ideas on Tuesday.' There were four guys on the staff. One guy said this and one guy said that, and I said, 'Rhythm and blues,' and they said: 'Oh, that sounds pretty good. Let's do that.' In the next issue, that section came out as Rhythm and Blues instead of Race."

—Record producer Jerry Wexler, in an interview in 2007 with the website PopEntertainment.com on his years as a writer at Billboard magazine

Count Basie Said It

"We've got great musicians today, but they don't play any music to get those feet going out there! It's impossible to explain, but something happens between an audience and a band, a kind of electricity. It's one to one, you and me, and that's the way it goes down. That's the reason the big band era happened. Later on it died because it got too strange and many of the groups refused to play dances. It had nothing to do with rock 'n' roll, rhythm and blues, punk rock or the Beatles. When you get up on that stand, you've got to have the right tempo and the right music to tear up the world!"

—Count Basie, as told to Stanley Dance in 1979, in The World of Count Basie

Miles Davis Said It

"One night we were playing at the Village Vanguard, and the owner, Max Gordon, wanted me to play behind a singer. So I told him I didn't play behind no girl singer. But I told him to ask Herbie [Hancock], and if Herbie wanted to do it then it was okay with me. So Herbie, Tony and Ron played behind her and the people loved her. I didn't play and neither did Wayne. I asked Max who she was, you know, what was her name. So Max said, 'Her name is Barbra Streisand and she's going to be a real big star.' So every time I see her today somewhere I say, 'Goddamn,' and just shake my head."

—Miles Davis in The Autobiography with Quincy Troupe.

Dinah Washington: Evil Gal Blues

There's a terrific BBC documentary of Dinah Washington called Evil Gal Blues making the rounds in the U.K. From what I can tell, it was released in August 2007 and aired on TV as recently as last month in Scotland. I checked with Jazz on Film and discovered that the 60-minute documentary was directed by Jill Nicholls (whose other works include The Allen Toussaint Touch and Tammy Wynette: 'Til I Can Make It on My Own).

I don't know about you, but I find it terribly frustrating that brilliant documentaries about critical American jazz artists are roaming the planet everywhere but here. It's tragic that they're not available at Netflix or at iTunes as a downloadable podcast. Oh, you'll find plenty of episodes of The Munsters at iTunes but no Evil Gal Blues.

How do I know about Evil Gal Blues? I stumbled across four parts of it at YouTube last week. I've posted Part 1 below (there are four parts total). You'll have to click on each part to continue with the series. Unfortunately, Part 4 doesn't complete the documentary and cuts off after about nine minutes and will leave you hanging. (I want to apologize in advance, since you're going to be as crestfallen as I was when the clip ended.) If I hear any more about the status of this documentary—either from readers in Britain or the director—I'll let you know.

The high point for me comes 8 minutes and 12 seconds into Part 4. There you'll see a terrific clip of Dinah singing Make Someone Happy at a club in 1963 with a murmuring Hammond B3 organ behind her. It was recorded months before her death. The Queen, right up till the end.

For now, enjoy what we have (when Part 1 is over, roll your cursor over the little images that appear until you come to Part 2)...

Sunday Wax Bits

Peggy Lee and Ella Fitzgerald. Last night I found time to watch Pete Kelly's Blues on DVD. The 1955 film directed by Jack Webb is a bit clunky and cliche by today's standards, but at least someone had the good sense and taste to cast Peggy Lee and Ella Fitzgerald in the same movie. For some reason Peggy received a Best Supporting Actress Oscar nomination for her performance as a mobster's alcoholic chanteuse. She's hardly on-screen, the camera is two miles from her face (Webb directed), and she's woefully underused on two partial vocals. (Jo Van Fleet won the Supporting Actress Oscar that year for East of Eden.)

The real reason to see this movie is Ella. She plays a knowing roadhouse blues singer, sings two songs beautifully lit, and she runs away with the film. I've admittedly never been much of an Ella fan, always finding her song choices a little glib and her delivery too glossy and lacking in emotional commitment. But after watching her here, I realize she was really too good in the mid-1950s to dismiss that cavalierly.

Like Sonny. In July 2007, video documentarian Bret Primack posted a terrific clip on the influence Sonny Rollins and John Coltrane had on jazz and each other. Bret interviewed Sonny, Jimmy Heath and Paul Jeffrey on-camera about how the tenor titans interacted with each other and the mutual admiration they shared for each other. As always with Bret's work, a fascinating look inside the lives of two jazz legends:

Hank O'Neal. I was happy to hear last week that Hank's book, The Ghosts of Harlem, will be published early next year in the U.S. by the University of Vanderbilt Press. His portraits and conversations with jazz legends from Harlem's golden age was started in the mid-1980s and first published in France by Filipacchi in 1997. [Photo: Esther Bubley]

Over lunch, Hank (who also co-founded Chiaroscuro Records) mentioned that the U.S. version will include new portraits and a new interview (with Billy Taylor) along with an introduction by Harlem Congressman Charles Rangel. [Pictured: the French edition]

Here's a clip of Hank in 2003 discussing his work on exhibit at New York's Weill Gallery:

Terry Teachout sent along an email last week applauding my series on Moonlight in Vermont, offering up his own rave rendition. The Wall Street Journal theater critic and Louis Armstrong biographer favors Betty Carter's version with the Ray Bryant Trio. I had not heard this one before, but after giving it a whirl, it's indeed leafy, snowy, frosty and just plain glorious. Not to mention Bryant's tender touch. And dig Carter's final notes! If you're unfamiliar with her 1955 interpretation, have a listen and a gander:

Will Friedwald, the New York Sun jazz critic and noted author, sent along an email remarking on a range of recent JazzWax posts. In response to my essay on Grant Green and Sonny Clark, Will recommended Green's Matador (1964), featuring pianist McCoy Tyner. "My Favorite Things is a nice variation on the Tyner-Coltrane classic," Will says. Here, here!

Will also pointed out that while he favors Frank Sinatra's Moonlight in Vermont from the Come Fly With Me album, he has a soft spot for the cut-down sextet adaptation of the Billy May arrangement Sinatra performed during his 1961-62 World Tour:

"I like the small group versions, dozens of them, much better than the full orchestral one. They're much more intimate and personal, and Sinatra's word-painting is at it's all time greatest here. He really makes the lyrics come alive like no one else—even topping himself on the studio version."

Will also recollected the first time he heard Moonlight in Vermont:

"It was at a concert by Sarah Vaughan (in her native Newark, circa 1983). She was kidding around when her pianist played the intro and she said, 'I know the first word of this song, pennies—you can't sing a song unless you know the first word!' I remember it well because I had never heard the song before and knew it wasn't going to be Pennies from Heaven!

Regarding my post on the documentary, Anita O'Day: The Life of a Jazz Singer, in which Will appears several times on-screen with shrewd O'Day insights and analysis:

"Glad you liked the Anita movie. I met Anita many times, but she was a hard gal to love. I used to think of her as "The Norma Desmond of Bebop."

What a solid line!

In the Mood. Following my two-part post last week on original recordings of jazz standards ("Guess That Jazz Tune"), I received the following email from JazzWax reader James Wardrop:

"Are you aware there is an Artie Shaw side to the story? According to the liner notes on Hindsight's Artie Shaw and His Orchestra 1938, Vol. 2, writer Patricia Willard refers to the six-minute air check version on the album this way: 'This is the complete music brought to Artie by composer Joe Garland—far more interesting than the accelerated excerpt which was a hit for Glenn Miller. Shaw recorded this several times at differing tempos.' In Shaw's words: '[Our version] had a more sophisticated, torrid Black beat. It's post-Fletcher Henderson...kind of Jimmie Lunceford-Chick Webby.' "

Charlie Parker and Lester Young. Mark your calendar: This week, New York radio station WKCR will be airing its annual end-of-summer birthday celebration of Charlie Parker and Lester Young. The 72-hour live marathon broadcast will run from August 27 to August 29. The music of Bird and Prez will air as always around the clock, so you can dig the founding fathers of swing and bebop anytime during this three-day period here. If you're new to the yearly show, catch it. Hosts Phil Schaap, Sid Gribetz and others are sure to have stacks of rarities and new ways of looking at the music.

The Girl From Ipanema (Part 3)

On Wednesday I wrote about the creative origins of The Girl From Ipanema and provided a current photo of the woman who inspired the song. Yesterday I shared my 12 favorite versions of the classic. Today, I have five more favorites plus a video clip of Red Norvo and Don Lamond. And to finish off the series, I will offer my picks for the three worst versions of the song as recorded by known artists (I'm leaving out wedding bands, karaoke efforts and cruise ship vocalists).

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's start with my remaining five picks (the numbers pick up from yesterday's 12):

13. James Galway—Tango del Fuego (1999). One of my favorite instruments on any version of The Girl From Ipanema is the flute. Its soft timbre sounds like the breeze and conjures up images of the wind chopping gently at blue water and sailboats sliding around. If you, too, are a flute-a-holic, how about five or more flutes? That's what you get here. I can't tell whether there truly is a gaggle of flutists or the great Galway overdubbed all of the parts. The result is delicious, with an inventive arrangement that's a hybrid of salsa and bossa nova. You'll find this soaring, six-minute rendition at iTunes.

14. Percy Faith—Latin Themes for Young Lovers (1965). Hey, back off! Yes, this is strictly a chilled martini version. But remember, Percy Faith is the same guy who recorded Theme From a Summer Place. And how many times have you caught yourself humming along to that one? Here, the song we love receives the same plush treatment—with flutes, muted trumpets and a million strings. Plus there's a flute soli, all taken at a brisk bossa pace. This is 2:33 of pure bliss, and you'll find it at iTunes under Faith's 16 Most Requested Songs. And based on my discovery at YouTube, there seems to be another freak for the Faith version among us:

15. Marty Napoleon—Louis Armstrong and His All Stars (1968). This track was recorded during a BBC TV show and features only pianist Napoleon, bassist Buddy Catlett and drummer Danny Barcelona. The trio was backing Pops, trombonist Tyree Glenn and clarinetist Joe Muranyi, who took a blowing break. You'll find this track on the Louis Armstrong: Hello Dolly CD at iTunes or Amazon.

16. John Holt—1,000 Volts of Holt (1974). Reggae legend Holt recorded the song two different ways on this 1974 classic album. One version was with lavish strings and another was a pure Reggae mix. Download them both. Each is fabulous and brings a Caribbean feel to the song. Or just buy the entire album. If you're unfamiliar with Holt, he was a master of recording Reggae covers of established pop hits, and this CD is terrific. A remastered version is at iTunes and Amazon.

17. Houston Person and Teddy Edwards—Horn to Horn (1994). I tend to shy away from tenor saxophone workouts on this song simply because Stan Getz owns it. However, this version is an exception. Tenor legends Person and Edwards team up for a jazz workout on the song, joined here by Richard Wyands on electric piano, Peter Washington on bass and Kenny Washington on drums. That's Person coming out of your left speaker, with Edwards on the right. You'll find this 7-minute track at iTunes on Jazz for a Day at the Beach.

18. Red Norvo (1974). Go here to see a clip of Red, who's joined by Barney Kessel on guitar, Larry Ridley on bass and (yep) Don Lamond on drums.

Three horrific versions. Finally, it's time for my picks for the three most barbaric treatments of this lilting song. Let's start at the top:

My award for the No.1 abominable rendition goes to...Mrs. Miller. To be honest, her version (1966) is so bad it's almost a war crime. Go to iTunes and hear for yourself. For those unfamiliar with this 1960s cult figure and talk-show denizen, go here, if you must. The poor dear was an anti-rock novelty that went a bit too far.
Weighing in at No. 2, I'm afraid, is Maynard Ferguson, whose take on this gentle gem sounds like concrete slabs being dropped onto metal garbage cans. Poor Maynard  (or his vengeful arranger) was oblivious to the delicate touch needed here. In all fairness, of course, Maynard in 2005 was at the tail end of a great career.

And finally the No. 3 worst version of The Girl From Ipanema, sadly, goes to Cher, whose strangely disinterested vocal makes it painfully clear that she couldn't care less about Ipanema, walking like a samba, or the bossa nova. La-di-da-di-dee.

The Girl From Ipanema (Part 2)

The beauty of The Girl From Ipanema is that there are no bad versions of the song. Actually, let me rephrase: You have to work really hard to mess it up. And while there are hundreds of good versions, great ones are harder to find. For the rendition to be exceptional, the artist needs to capture the song's romantic side and its youthful energy. A little sad, but mostly resigned and upbeat at the same time. Sort of swinging sigh.

Unlike most great standards, The Girl From Ipanema doesn't demand that its story be told well. To ace this song, an artist's phrasing just needs to get the melody to canter ever so slightly but not trot. The song needs patience and just a little kick, that's it.

With that said, here are my top-12 versions, in order, plus lots of clips:

1. Stan Getz/Astrud Gilberto—Getz/Gilberto (1963). No matter how many times you hear the hit version, you realize it's still the winner, hands down. The song moves catlike, inhaling and exhaling, and Gilberto's innocent voice saturates the melody and lyric beautifully. You surely own this one and know it backward and forward. So rather than offer the usual clip, here's a different version, from the 1964 movie Get Yourself a College Girl:

2. Nat King Cole—L-O-V-E (1964). This was the singer's last LP before his death in February 1965. The bossa nova track just proves that no matter what Nat chose to record, he could turn it into ear candy. You'd think Nat's broad, pop approach would be too glossy a fit for this song. Or at least not appear this high up on my list. Hear for yourself. And dig Nat capture The Girl's swishing beach bag in his phrasing. So cool and smart. The trumpet solo belongs to Bobby Bryant:

3. Walter Wanderley—Rain Forest (1966). I've always been a sucker for Wanderley's firm, popcorn organ attack. What's more, Wanderley was Brazilian and knew how far out he could take a bossa nova song while retaining its melodic beauty and spring. Wanderley brought a new pace and a different level of excitement to this song that was quickly imitated by countless artists. Someone merged Wanderley's version with a sequence from a James Bond film. A rather odd juxtaposition, but at least you'll get to hear the version:

4. Frank Sinatra—Francis Albert Sinatra & Antonio Carlos Jobim (1967). Sinatra at his tender, caressing best. Toss in Claus Ogerman's arrangements and Bud Shank's flute, and you have the vocal version of a cloud ride. In the clip below, dig Frank and Tom sitting around singing about what The Girl didn't see:

5. Sammy Davis Jr.—Our Shining Our (1964). Hey, what can I say? I love this one because it's pure Sammy—with the jutting chin, cupped microphone and ad-libs ("chi-kong, chi-kong, chi-kong" and "She ain't lookin' at me"). Plus dig Count Basie's band swing this one right over the moon. Don't be surprised if you find yourself doing a Sammy impression while singing along:

6. Antonio Carlos Jobim—The Composer of Desafinado Plays (1963). I'm also a sucker for carefully arranged instrumental versions of this tune. Claus Ogerman's arrangement here is brisk and sliced beautifully thin. It's the sound of being aboard a 1960s passenger jet flying down to Rio. You can hear this version at YouTube here.

7. Astrud Gilberto—That Girl From Ipanema (1977). At the height of the disco era, vibraphonist and producer Vince Montana did what many thought was sacrilegious: He arranged a strings-and-horns, Salsoul Orchestra-like disco base for an updated Astrud Gilberto vocal. Musicians on the date included Victor Paz (trumpet) and Urbie Green (trombone). To me, there's something about Astrud and the hustle that sounds so right and ultracool. And you're in luck: Some guy from Transylvania plays the whole extended, 12-inch version on YouTube:

8. Lisa Ono and Joao Donato—Lisa is a Japanese bossa nova singer who was born in Brazil, moved to Tokyo when she was 10, and splits her time living in both countries. And with pianist Donato on board, this version is a winner. I'm not sure when this track was recorded (probably in the 1990s), but it's available at iTunes and Amazon on a CD called Entertaining Made Simple: Baubles, Brazil & Bossa Nova. Or you can just dig the sound on YouTube:

9. Antonio Carlos Jobim—Tide (1970). Here, arranger Eumir Deodato takes a shot at the classic using a dramatic score and full orchestra that featured top jazz and Brazilian musicians. You'll find it at iTunes or Amazon.

10. Sergio Mendes—The Beat of Brazil (1967). By 1967, the bossa nova was at its florid peak, and American folk-rock scene was getting edgier, shifting to San Francisco. As a result, many bossa nova artists started to toughen up a bit. Mendes' treatment here combines horns and piano for a funky, hard bossa interpretation.

11. Bobby Hackett—Live at the Roosevelt Grill (1970). Even though this is a live date (and you want to brain the idiots who are talking while Bobby's playing), Hackett delivers a swell rendition, wandering around on that mellow, ripe horn of his. Bobby got it. Then again, Bobby got everything he played. That's Dave McKenna on piano. You'll find this at iTunes and Amazon.

12. Oscar Peterson—We Get Requests (1964). The Big O brings a bit of blues to the bossa nova and is joined by Ray Brown on bass and Ed Thigpen on drums. There's no image here for this clip, but at least you can hear it:

The Girl From Ipanema (Part 1)

One of the most seductive bossa nova songs ever written and certainly the most popular is The Girl From Ipanema. Over the years, much myth has surrounded the song's origins, especially about how the song was written by Antonio Carlos Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes. One thing is certain—the tall and tan and young and lovely girl who served as the songwriters' inspiration is still living in Brazil (she's now 62 and happily married). More on her in a minute.

Composed in the winter of 1962 by Jobim (music) and de Moraes (who wrote the Portuguese lyrics), Garota de Ipanema was first commercially recorded by Brazilian singer Pery Ribeiro on his 1962 album Pery E' Todo Bossa [pictured]. The album's record label was Odeon, where Jobim was musical director. Soon afterward Norman Gimbel wrote the English lyrics and Jobim traveled to the U.S. with Joao Gilberto to appear at Carnegie Hall with Stan Getz.

In March 1963, the group recorded The Girl From Ipanema with Gilberto's wife Astrud on vocals. The song appeared on the album Getz/Gilberto and became an instant hit as a single, climbing to No. 5 on the Billboard Top Pop chart and No. 1 on the Adult Contemporary chart (Getz's take on Bob Dylan's Blowin' in the Wind was on the flip side).

In the years since The Girl From Ipanema reached the top of the charts and was recorded by hundreds of pop and jazz artists worldwide, a legend emerged about where the song was written and under what circumstances. This legend seems to have been created to satisfy Ipanema tourists and bossa nova fans. Most of the romantic stories involve Jobim and de Moraes writing side by side in a bar after watching the same girl go by day after day.

The truth is a little different. According to Ruy Castro's Bossa Nova: The Story of the Brazilian Music That Seduced the World:

"Jobim and Vinícius did not write Garôta de Ipanema in the Veloso bar [pictured today], which was on the street that used to be known as Rua Montenegro. Jobim composed the melody meticulously on the piano at his new home in Rua Barro da Torre...Vinícius, in turn, had written the lyrics in Petrópolis, near Rio, as he had done with Chega de Saudade six years earlier, and it took him just as much work. To begin with, it wasn't originally called Garota da Ipanema, but Menina que passa (The Girl Who Passes By), and the entire first verse was different.

As for the famous girl, Jobim and Vinícius did in fact see her pass by as they sat in the Veloso bar, during the winter of 1962—not just once, but several times, and not always on her way to the beach but also on her way to school, to the dressmaker, and even to the dentist.

Mostly because Heloísa Eneida Menezes Paes Pinto, better known as Helô, who was eighteen years of age, five feet, eight inches tall, with green eyes and long, flowing black hair, lived in Rua Montenegro and was already the object of much admiration among patrons of the Veloso, where she would frequently stop to buy cigarettes for her mother—and leave to a cacophony of wolf-whistles."

So what became of Helo? Scott Vogel of The Washington Post back in January wrote a lovely piece on her, now Heloisa Pinheiro [pictured], after being invited by her husband to visit her dress shop in Sao Paulo. Helo told Vogel that when she first heard the song on the radio in 1962, she was already aware of the rumors that the song was written for her:

"But it's not for me," she recalled telling herself. "I didn't believe it. I [thought] it was so beautiful, so beautiful that it's not for me."

Without an official announcement, girls all over Rio started claiming they were the girl of Ipanema Beach fame. So de Moraes finally announced there was only one girl from Ipanema and that it was Helo. Soon afterward photographers from all over the world flocked to the flat she shared with her mom, who kept her from traveling to the U.S. for fear she'd wind up on drugs, corrupted or both.

When Vogel asked Helo if she liked being the Girl from Ipanema, she said:

"When I die—this is good for you to put in your article—I think I am eternity because the history exists and you can't wipe it out."

And how. You can read Vogel's article about his visit with The Girl from Ipanema here.

Tomorrow, a list of my 10 favorite recordings of the song and some other bits of Ipanema information.