JazzWax

Top 10 Replays (Vol. 3)

It's time once again for my top 10 "Replay" awards. At the end of each quarter, I give this honor to the albums I've played most over the past three months. None of the winning albums are new, and you may be familiar with some or even all of them. The winners simply are divine for one reason or another, and they remain stacked on my desk or top of mind in iTunes.

(To see my previous Replay lists, go to the search bar in the upper right-hand corner and type in "replays.")

And now for the winners, which do not appear in any particular order:

Russ Garcia—Wigville Band (Fresh Sound). This baby is a real gone. Recorded in 1955 and 1956, the two albums on this single CD are drop-dead great. The first album is an instrumental that swings with a sound unlike anything else recorded at the time. The second album on the CD features many of the same musicians behind vocalist Peggy Connelly, a virtual unknown today. I can't say enough about this CD, and most jazz heavyweights I've spoken to about it were unfamiliar with Russ' Wigville band or Connelly. This CD remains one of my favorite finds over the last three months.

Anita O'Day—Swings Rodgers and Hart (Verve). This recording from 1960 is well known, but it's packed with surprises every time I take it for a spin. The album remains on my desk because I love the clash between O'Day's wild, indy streak and Billy May's rigid bombastic arranging style. It always sounds like swinging Olive Oyl trying to make it across a six-lane highway. There was enormous tension on the O'Day-May dates for Verve, with O'Day carping about May's brass-heavy arrangements and May unhappy with O'Day's riffy studio style (you can hear the musical clash clearly on Falling in Love With Love). All the hissy stuff aside, this is one of O'Day's finest albums, with tracks swishing between string and band settings. Is there really a better Little Girl Blue? And dig the Paul Weston-like reed writing behind O'Day on I Could Write a Book. This CD would be worthwhile if the only song on it was O'Day's To Keep My Love Alive.

Bobby Hackett—Memorable & Mellow (Project 3). This rare CD combines two out-of-print easy-listening LPs: That Midnight Touch (1967) and A Time for Love (1968). Actually, check that. There's really no such thing as a Bobby Hackett easy-listening album. Everything Hackett played was sensible and on time. If you dig Hackett's trumpet wandering in and out of a full string section, this CD is the mother lode. Produced by fidelity freak Enoch Light, the sterling set's tunes range from You Only Live Twice and Emily to Laura, The Lamp Is Low and On the Street Where You Live. You get the picture. Lately I've been kicking off my writing day with this one, and the laid back feel is pure bliss.

Cannonball Adderley—Know What I Mean? (Riverside). This album never gets old. Each time I listen to it I hear something new. You really get two for one on this CD, since Cannonball's aggressive attack on alto is wonderfully tempered by pianist Bill Evans' tender chord changes and solos. Recorded in March 1961, Evans was three months shy of his career-changing live Vanguard sessions. To me, this one is really a concept album that builds to Evans' post-modern Know What I Mean, the album's final track. The import I own includes three alternate takes.

Richard Galliano—Solo (Dreyfus Jazz). As readers of this blog know, I'm a pushover for jazz accordion. It's probably because my artist parents lived in Paris during the 1950s and always had French accordion records playing around the house in New York when I was a kid. French-Italian squeeze-boxer Galliano has pure jazz sensibilities and has collaborated in the past with George Mraz, Ron Carter, Martial Solal, Chet Baker, Toots Thielemans and others. I often play this 2007 release when I have to work late. There's a nocturnal, after-hours club feel to Galliano's playing, and his technique is rich without overreaching.

Art Farmer—The Art Farmer Septet (Prestige). This pensive album combines two recording dates from 1953 and 1954 resulting in music that was years ahead of its time. If you didn't know when this one was recorded, you'd think based on the harmonic smarts that the year was 1958 or 1959. Classics here include Work of Art, Wildwood, Evening in Paris, Elephant Walk and a beautiful When Your Lover Is Gone.

Benny Golson—The Modern Touch (Riverside). In many respects, this album picks up where my previous Art Farmer pick left off. I haven't let go of it since posting my interview with Benny several weeks ago. Benny's tenor here is as soft as suede, sliding in and out of beautiful melody lines. Tough to go wrong with Kenny Dorham (trumpet), J.J. Johnson (trombone), Benny (tenor sax), Wynton Kelly (piano), Paul Chambers (bass) and Max Roach (drums). Dorham's trumpet punctuates while Johnson's trombone swings along with punch. I never tire of listening to this one. Benny's compositions are as pretty as can be.

Cal Tjader—Jazz Round Midnight (Verve). I'm not a big fan of compilations. Most are a messy mix of songs that don't play well together. I'm also a big believer in jazz producers, who in the best cases wisely programmed original albums, turning them into cohesive works of art. But this roundup of Tjader's work from the 1960s is beautifully sequenced and is an exception. If you're downloading the album, I'd recommend adding the tracks Get Out of My Way and Nica's Dream from Cal Tjader Plugs In.

Christian Jacob—Contradictions (WilderJazz). This 2006 album by pianist Jacob is both cerebral and graceful. The recording was a tribute to Michel Petrucciani. But while its heart is with the late pianist, Jacob employs strong shades of Bill Evans and loads of thoughtful Evans-like lyricism and bounce. Jacob was joined by Trey Henry on bass and Ray Brinker on drums. I started listening to this CD several weeks ago, and it hasn't seen a shelf yet. The opening track, Looking Up, will give you a feel for what Jacob is all about. Even Mice Dance also is lovely. There really isn't a bad track on the album.

Count Basie—Straight Ahead (Dot). If this album doesn't motivate you to get up and go, nothing will. Recorded in 1968, the nine compositions were arranged by Sammy Nestico, and it swings hard from the first notes. What I love most about it is the track order. The opening title tune is a slammer, followed by the medium-paced It's Oh So Nice, followed by the ballad Lonely Street featuring Marshal Royal on alto, which then leads to the medium-paced James Bond-like Fun Time, resulting in the barn-burner Magic Flea. The rest of the album follows suit. You also have Basie's great, late-period reed section of Marshal Royal, Bobby Plater, Eric Dixon, Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis and Charlie Fowlkes. This one always has my foot going the whole way though, and it's far and away my favorite 1960s Basie recording.

JazzWax Mindblowers (Vol. 3)

With two-thirds of the year gone, it's time once again for a look back at the last three months' worth of JazzWax interviews and the quotes from jazz legends that caught my ear. For your convenience, I routinely showcase what I believe were the most significant and revealing comments that emerged during my conversations with historic jazz movers and shakers. Think of it as a quarterly report. The result is a digest and reminder of the greatness of these individuals.

(To see my earlier two volumes, go to the search bar in the upper right-hand corner of this page and type in "Mindblowers." To read the full interviews, scroll down the right hand side to "JazzWax Interviews" and click on the artist.)

Without further ado, here's this quarter's roundup:

Roy Haynes on bass players: "All the bass players in the late 1940s and early 1950s were good. But after I played with Paul Chambers in the mid-1950s, it was a whole different feeling. There was so much warmth there. Bass playing is all about how you let your notes ring and how you cut certain notes short. The bass developed into a completely new feeling with Paul."

Roy Haynes on Charlie Parker and strings: "It was cool  [playing with strings on those live dates], you know [laughing]. I don't think that I'd want to do that all night, every night. And we didn't. In fact, there were times when he'd stretch out on the strings stuff with the rhythm section and hang loose rather than play the arrangements as written."

Roy Haynes on his drumming style v. Max Roach's: "I had and have a different type of cymbal beat, for one thing. Max's cymbal beat was more on the one: dah-dah dom, dah-dah dom, dah-dah dom. Mine is more dom dah-dah, dom dah-dah, dom dah-dah. That's as far as I'll go with that. [laughs] That's one of the things I'm sure Bird liked about me. Lester Young as well. I had a distinct cymbal beat. Beyond that, Max [pictured] was one of the greatest drummers ever.

Roy Haynes on Miles Davis: "I met my wife when I was working with Miles in Brooklyn. It was Miles' gig, and she had come to see him. The ladies loved Miles. I had some fans, too, but I wasn't nearly as popular as Miles. He had just left Charlie Parker then and I had just left Lester Young. We were the coolest of the cool."

Roy Haynes on Billie Holiday: "When we'd get off the set [at Storyville during her last live appearances there in 1959], she go and cry. It was sad. She told me she had cirrhosis of the liver, the same thing Lester Young had died from. But her voice sounded good that week. You'd never have known that just three months later she'd be gone."

Buddy DeFranco on the cover of Cross-Country Suite: "When I went to take pictures for the cover, I came in with a suit and tie. Somebody from Dot Records said that Randy [the head of the label] wanted me to wear a sweater and white bucks, like Pat Boone. So I went into wardrobe and got this dumpy red sweater and white bucks, and that was it."

Buddy DeFranco on his Gershwin album with Oscar Peterson in 1954: "We were going to take the concept out on the road [to play concert dates], but at the last minute they couldn't get anyone to put up the money to promote it."

Producer Creed Taylor on why his signature always graced the backs of albums: "It was a way of telling the buyer that the albums met a specific individual's standards. It showed I was personally taking responsibility for the result. It was an extra touch that distinguished these albums from the rest."

Creed Taylor on the mysterious female legs on the cover of the Oscar Pettiford Orchestra: "They belonged to Fran Scott, Tony Scott’s wife. She designed my jazz covers at ABC-Paramount. Fran's legs represented harpist Betty Glamann. I don’t know why Betty wasn’t in the picture. I suspect that’s why only the legs were shown."

Creed Taylor on Lambert Hendricks and Ross' Grammy-winning Sing a Song of Basie: "At first Dave Lambert wanted to use studio singers. But the singers didn’t swing. About a half-hour into the session I knew the session was a bust. The singers were too rigid. Dave offered up a solution. He asked whether he, Jon [Hendricks] and Annie Ross could overdub all the parts. I said sure, let’s give it a try. First I recorded the Basie rhythm section with Dave, Jon and Annie providing a guide track, which was a straight reading. Then they overdubbed the additional harmonized tracks wearing headphones and listening to the guide track."

Creed Taylor on the birth of Impulse Records: "I put through a trademark and copyright request for the Pulse name in New York State. But Pulse was taken. Some electronics company had it. As I was trying to figure out an alternative to Pulse in a meeting, I said, 'My impulse is to…wait, hold it a second...Impulse, that’s even better than Pulse!' The Impulse name cleared in New York."

Creed Taylor on La Nevada from Out of the Cool: "The track took forever. Gil and I drove out three different times to Rudy’s studio with the entire 15-piece band to try different arrangements of the song, and nothing would happen. Finally, Gil was sitting at the piano playing this repetitive figure that became the chart's theme. As the rhythm players vamped on the idea, Gil wrote chord changes on the inside of a book of matches. He went over to bass trombonist Tony Studd and whispered something in his ear. Then he pointed to the rest of the horn players for them to do something. It was made up along the way."

Creed Taylor on One Mint Julep: "When I heard One Mint Julep's break, I had an idea and had to come in [to the studio from the booth]. I went over to Ray [Charles] and whispered in his ear, 'On the break, try adding Just a little bit of so-da,' because a mint julep has soda in it. It felt natural, and we needed something there. But when tape rolled, at the break, Ray said instead, Just a little bit of soul, now. Which was fine with me. It certainly fit better than soda.”

Creed Taylor on Ray Charles' organ on Genius + Soul = Jazz: "Rudy [Van Gelder] did some adjusting on the inside so the keys had a more percussive effect than a normal one. It was a Hammond B3 doctored by Rudy. He had done this on organs before for other recording dates. The result was a more definite attack than a normal organ."

Creed Taylor on John Coltrane's Africa/Brass: I finished editing it with John after I arrived at Verve Records. We were in my office there talking about how it should sound and the things he wanted. Eric [Dolphy] had a different view, though. So there were two versions. One had more of the tribal sound effects on Africa. Eric thought it should be the other way around. He thought Coltrane had gone too far with the effects."

Storyville owner and Newport Jazz Festival founder George Wein on his only regret: "I wish I had made more records. I should have scraped together more money on my tours and recorded my sidemen. You could record very cheaply in those days. I could have made 100 albums. That was the only thing I would have done differently."

Bill Holman on Invention for Guitar and Trumpet: "It’s not one of my favorite pieces. It’s disjointed. Nothing ever gets said. It’s a hodge-podge of different things. But it filled the bill, and I think it was re-released more than any other chart I wrote for Stan Kenton."

Bill Holman on Bags, his second recorded arrangement for Kenton in 1953: "I was very happy with Bags, and the band liked playing it. They liked pretty much everything I did. It was a very good period. I still had innocence about my writing. I’ll never be able to recapture that feel. In the early 1950s, I didn’t have the technique yet to be a showoff. All that music came straight from the heart. As you get older, you get wiser and along the way you lose your innocence."

Bill Holman on his favorite trumpet player in Kenton's band: "For jazz, Conte Candoli. His overall approach to jazz from early on was very mature. He wasn’t the most original player, but he could get the right feeling in practically any situation."

Bill Holman on his favorite arrangement for Kenton: "For a long time it was What's New?, off the Contemporary Concepts album. I’m not so sure about that now. I like Stella by Starlight, with Charlie Mariano."

Bill Holman on leaving Kenton: "Almost overnight Stan had some kind of weird shift in his outlook, and he fired trumpeter Al Porcino and me [in 1956]. I don’t know why. He possibly felt the music was getting away from him. Al was a die-hard fan of swinging music, as was I. I think Stan thought that his original conception for the band was going out the window. That's just my idea of what happened."

Bill Holman on his arrangements for The Gerry Mulligan Songbook: My only complaint was that they added Freddie Green on guitar. I loved Freddie but the feeling I wanted when I wrote the arrangements was not a guitar thing. A guitar playing a steady four-four rhythm nails down the rhythm section a little bit too tightly. The sound worked well for [Count] Basie for years, but I had a different feel in my writing. It's really a sax soli album, and the guitar makes the group behind the saxes sound too rigid instead of the looser feel I wanted."

Benny Golson on his time with Tiny Grimes and his Rockin' Highlanders: "After our gigs, I had to walk on the bar to get off the bandstand. So in the beginning I'm stepping over drinks, and the women sitting at the bar are picking up my darn kilt. And I've got my boxer underwear on. After the first night, a friend said, 'No boxers, man, you have to wear a tight bathing suit.' ”

Benny Golson on Miles Davis' recording of Stablemates: "About a week after John [Coltrane] left for Miles, I saw him on Philadelphia's Columbia Ave. I asked him how it was going. 'It's going great,' he said, 'but Miles needs some music. Do you have any?' I gave John Stablemates and didn't think any more of it. About a month later, I ran into John again. He said, 'You know that tune you gave me? We recorded it.' I said, 'What? Miles recorded my tune?' John said, 'Yeah, he dug it.' Man, I couldn't believe it. Sure enough, when the album, Miles, came out, there was the Prestige label with the yellow field, black printing and Stablemates printed on there with my name underneath as composer."

Benny Golson on I Remember Clifford: A week after Clifford died, I was with Dizzy's band in Los Angeles. I decided to write a song to help people remember Clifford. I set about to write it, and the song took me the whole two weeks we were there."

Benny Golson on Dinah Washington: "I noticed the lights were dimmed and the music was playing softly. We had dinner and after sat on the couch. That's when things started to change. I knew I had to get out of there. I looked at my watch and said, 'Oh, dog-gone it. What a drag. I forgot I have to be at so and so. Dinah I'm late, please forgive me.' After that night, Dinah never called me Benny again. She called me Reverend. Every time. Wherever I was."

Benny Golson on learning to play the tenor sax with more force while with the Jazz Messengers: "One night, instead of playing a press roll for two bars before we came into the new chorus, Art Blakey started that press roll eight bars early. He was so loud I thought he had lost his senses. When he came down for the new chorus, every two or three beats he'd hit a loud crash. I said to myself, 'What is wrong with this guy?' I still didn't get it. Finally, he hollered over at me, 'Get up out of that hole!' I said to myself, 'Man, I guess I am in a hole. Nobody can hear me.' So I started playing harder and with more bite."

Benny Golson on Alfred Lion of Blue Note Records: "In 1958 or so, Alfred didn't want to record Art anymore. He said Art had been on so many different recordings with virtually every musician that he was overexposed. I said, 'Alfred, you're missing the point. Art's on all those recordings because he's that great.' I continued, 'We've got a new group, a new young trumpet player [Lee Morgan] and a new piano player [Bobby Timmons]. Come down to the Five Spot and hear us. You owe it to yourself. It's different.' Alfred said, 'I've been recording Hank Mobley a lot lately and I like him.' I said, 'Alfred, it's different.' So Alfred came to where we were playing. After he heard us, he came up to me and said, 'When do you want to record?' ”

Arranger Russ Garcia on Anita O'Day: "She walked into one of the first sessions we did together, and Bud Shank was warming up on the flute. She says to me, 'Who's that? I don't like his embouchure.' Bud Shank—can you imagine! I think she was showing off a new word she had just learned and was trying to act tough. Of course, she backed off as soon as she heard Bud play."

Russ Garcia on Ella Fitzgerald: "She was a wonderful singer. You know, she was so shy. We'd be at a jazz festival in Europe and before she'd go on she was in a complete panic. But the minute she'd get that mike in her hand and sing her first note, she'd be into her song and sing like an angel."

Russ Garcia on Ella and Louis Armstrong during the recording of Porgy and Bess: "Louis annoyed Ella a little bit during that session. When she was singing a beautiful passage, he'd come in with his growling. [laughs] She'd shoot him a sharp look and go on. It would throw her for a second. But it came off beautifully. Some people call that album "Whipped Cream and Sandpaper." [laughs]

Russ Garcia on the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences' mistake in awarding the wrong arranger an Oscar in 1972:  Q: Did you arrange the score to Charlie Chaplin's Limelight? A. Yes. I worked with Charlie Chaplin on it. He played the movie's theme when I was over his house with one finger on the piano. Then I scored the theme and composed and arranged the film's incidental music. I also was in the engineer’s booth when it was recorded. Q. Are you upset that the Academy awarded the Oscar in 1972 to someone else in error? A. Me? [laughs] Of course not. I know that I arranged the score for the film. And so do those who were there and those who have spoken to those who know. At my age, 92, I'm more focused on moving forward.

Sunday Wax Bits

Russ Garcia. I went out to hear music last Tuesday night, which I rarely do these days. As those of you know who email me and get an instant reply, I've been glued to my desk with work. But how often do you get to see legendary composer and arranger Russ Garcia? And after my interview with Russ last week, I just had to hear how his trombone charts for singer Shaynee Rainbolt sounded, not to mention watch him conduct his own compositions. It was a great evening at New York's Highline Ballroom. [Photo from left, Shaynee, Russ and his wife Gina]

First of all, you'd never know Russ is 92 years old. He had more energy than most people in the room, and if he hadn't run out of arrangements, the two-hour, no-intermission show that Shaynee and Russ put on would have continued until he was the last one standing. Shaynee's new album is Charmed Life: Shaynee Rainbolt Sings Russell Garcia (With Russell Garcia and his Four Trombone Band). The instrumentation was a reprise of Russ' highly successful trombone choir that he used to great swinging effect behind singers in the 1950s.

The beauty at the Highline was that Russ conducted his own music and arrangements up on stage. To watch him in action was to be transported back to another time, when studio arrangers and conductors had full command of orchestras and the respect of the very best musicians. What was most remarkable was watching Russ' hands. They fluttered gracefully like doves to signal the trombones or drums. He also had an interesting way of positioning himself so he could conduct while watching Shaynee and the drummer with his right shoulder pivoted toward the trombones. Conducting while watching the singer is a neat technique. All in all, it was like being back in time at a Hollywood recording session. The performances and polish were on the money. Everyone was perfectly rehearsed.

When I met Russ backstage afterward, he looked at me with a Santa Claus twinkle in his eye and said, "A lot of fun, right?" Big time.

Connie Haines. Lost in the shuffle of Wall Street's maybe meltdown last week and the pending presidential debate was Connie Haines' obituary. She was 87. The petite, "kid sister" singer with Tommy Dorsey was best known for her pairings with Frank Sinatra between 1940 and 1942. War-anxious audiences seemed to like her best when she was tussling with Sinatra on songs like Oh Look at Me Now, Let's Get Away from It All and Snootie Little Cutie. But Haines was more than a coy novelty singer, as evidenced by her pre-Dorsey work with Harry James and later with Bob Crosby. If you want to hear Haines pure and simple with Dorsey, sans Sinatra, download Will You Still Be Mine here for 99 cents. It's a peachy Axel Stordahl arrangement. Haines sure could bend a note and sell a song.

Mundell Lowe. I caught up with Mundell Lowe Friday afternoon. It was great to hear the legendary guitarist's voice, which is as warm and lilting as a spring breeze. Though Mundell moved to the West Coast in the mid-1960s, you can still hear willowy traces of Mississippi. The guitarist told me he had just won the San Diego Music Awards' Lifetime Achievement Award. And for those in Southern California on October 26, he mentioned he's performing with British guitarist Martin Taylor at Dizzy's in San Diego. I interviewed Mundell back in January. [Photo Jeff Wiant]

Kind of Blue. As you might imagine, I received quite a few emails from readers about my controversial post on Miles Davis' classic Kind of Blue. A surprising number of the emails voiced secret agreement while others insisted I was missing the point. And that's why the web is a beautiful thing. It's democratic and big enough for one and all.

Famed photographer, jazz producer and author Hank O'Neal (the forthcoming Ghosts of Harlem) sent along the following:

"I think Kind of Blue is really a fine recording, a classic. But as you point out, there are indeed a bunch of others from the same period that are equally exceptional. In fact, at the time, I preferred the two LP releases that Miles had recorded with Gil Evans before Kind of Blue [Miles Ahead and Porgy & Bess].

I think people who have written about Kind of Blue in the past and the arts in general tend to try and elevate or equate what they do to what the people they are writing about do. In other words, a critic will look at a classic Berenice Abbott photograph and try and read all sorts of things into it. I worked with Berenice for 19 years. There was no mystery. What she did wasn't a mystery. She saw something she thought would make a good photograph and that was it. It wasn't a mysterious process, it was just doing it well. Ansel Adams had a window of a few minutes to take Moonrise Over Hernandez, New Mexico. It is his iconic image. There is no mystery. He was driving down the road, saw the scene unfolding, rushed to set up his camera and managed to take it. That's all. No mystery.

The same is true with Kind of Blue, so perhaps there has been too much over-analysis of the album over time.   

I also find it interesting that there were recording difficulties. I've been at many sessions at Columbia's 30th Street Studios, one of the best recording studios in the city at the time. But you're quite right. In listening back to the album, the bass is a bit muddy and the balance of the horns relative to the drums is none too good, although it is better in some places than others.

I also enjoyed the things you wrote in this month's Jazziz about Oscar Pettiford's Bohemia After Dark and its connection to So What. And some of the tracks on Kind of Blue could have just as easily have fit on other LPs in 1958 or 1959. But all in all, I think these five pieces worked well together."

Jazz critic and author Larry Kart (Jazz in Search of Itself) offered these pearls:

"About your intriguing Kind of Blue post, I'd say that as a listener at the time who was knocked out in particular by Milestones and who probably still prefers that album and other recordings by the sextet that were in that galvanic groove, I don't think one can discount the remarkable impact that Kind of Blue had at that time—musically and in terms of collective sensibility—on both players and listeners. One felt that a new door or new doors had opened, and even if the vistas revealed were going to be rather "same-y" and/or too dreamlike for their (and your) own good, there they unavoidably and seductively were. In fact, "seductively" may be the gist of it."

Comments and another album suggestion from reader Carl Woideck:

"Without weighing in on Kind of Blue v. the Miles Davis Sextet's May 1958 session (which for years I've thought was vastly underrated, more so when Love for Sale was finally added and released), I want to point out that on Kind of Blue, only So What and Flamenco Sketches are modally organized.  (The album certainly did inspire musicians to explore modal concepts.) Also, I don't think that modality ("modal riffs") can explain the emotional ("icy," "gloomy") part of your totally valid reaction. As for 1959, don't forget Mingus Ah Um. Clearly, 1959 was a great year for jazz.

From reader Don Frese:

"I must disagree with you about Kind of Blue, not that your qualms with the album are incorrect. I think it is a very great recording because it captured some of the most imaginative and memorable melodic improvisation of all time. Fifty years after the recording, I find myself humming pieces of solos for no discernible reason except that they are part of my living tissue.  And I can (although I fumble the 16th notes,) scat sing the entire record as it is playing.  Yes, the mood is cool and restrained, but in this regard, it reminds me of the very best Debussy or Ravel song cycles or chamber pieces."

From reader Michael J. West:

"Marc, you ask, 'Let's be fair: Is Kind of Blue really more important or enduring than John Coltrane's Giant Steps or the Dave Brubeck Quartet's Time Out? Both were recorded in 1959.' I happen to love Kind of Blue very much, but what surprises me is the critical album from 1959 you didn't mention. I've argued and will continue to argue that the most all-around significant recording of 1959 is The Shape of Jazz to Come by Ornette Coleman. No doubt, 1959 was a banner year, with a glut of major albums. But none so thoroughly called into question the very foundation of jazz theory and practice—and certainly none inspired as much discussion or as many passionate opinions as Ornette's. Kind of Blue is both experimental and accessible, which gives it its reputation. But if you want to talk about a truly monumental record, and one that's an immediate contemporary of Kind of Blue at that, well, there's my suggestion."

James Moody. In response to my post on the hidden James Moody album at iTunes that features the tenor saxophonist's glorious output from Sweden in 1949 and 1951, reader Jeff Rzepiela sent the following along:

"Thank you for bringing these tracks to people's attention. They are some of Moody's best work from his early days. For musicians that read your blog, I have transcribed a number of Moody's solos from these recording dates. The transcriptions are available for study on my website."

Jazz sightings. I caught a bit of TV last week and saw an ad for Notorious, a Ralph Lauren women's fragrance. Along with the usual black-and-white female fantasy stuff was Miles Davis playing Maids of Cadiz, from the Miles Ahead album orchestrated by Gil Evans. The scent certainly seems much more appealing with Miles and Gil. You can see and hear the ad  here ... High atop my it's-so-bad-it's-good list is Ed Wood's Plan 9 From Outer Space (1959). I caught about a half-hour of it yesterday. What I love are the hack scenes of flying saucers roaring over Hollywood. As the metallic discs buzz overhead, Ed Wood seems to have used stock footage of several nightclub marquees. They fly by, but we get a glimpse of Frances Faye's name and of June Christy's at the Crescendo. Another featured Eartha Kitt's. Ya gotta love Ed Wood.

Henry Mancini. Reader Greg Lee sent along a link to a fabulous National Public Radio podcast of Marian McPartland's Piano Jazz. Her guest on this show was Henry Mancini. The session, as you can imagine, is lovely. Go here to listen to it for free.

Dinah and Brook. Greg also let me know that Rainy Night in Georgia, a Brook Benton hit in 1970, was first recorded by the song's composer, country singer Tony Joe White. While White's version lacks Brook's windshield-wiper sadness, it's quite good. You'll find it as a download at iTunes and Amazon.

Latin Jazz. Don Frese reports that Fania has begun reissuing all of Tito Puente's Tico 78-rpms from 1949 to 1955. Volume 1 is at iTunes and Amazon (the samples sound terrific) while Volume 2 thus far is only at Amazon.

"Kind of Blue": Hip or Hype?

Depending on your viewpoint, Miles Davis' Kind of Blue either is the most significant jazz album ever recorded—or one of the most over-hyped. Opinions on the 1959 classic vary, with tempers often flaring over who played the biggest role in the LP's artistic development and the album's meaning and message. I personally never cared much for Kind of Blue and carefully explain why in this month's cover story in Jazziz magazine. But I am overjoyed to see that Sony BMG is re-issuing the album on Tuesday as part of its Kind of Blue: 50th Anniversary Edition set. What makes this box so compelling is that Sony has wisely combined it with earlier recordings by the same sextet that I've long felt were superior.

My beef with Kind of Blue in general is that it's a relatively sterile work that dwells obsessively on icy modal riffs. These extended riffs offer plenty of cool and posturing but for me they've always come up short on heart and beauty. This isn't to say that the album should never have seen the light of day or that it isn't an essential recording for any jazz collection. It's certainly an artistic snapshot of an increasingly polarizing time in jazz and social politics. And most everything Miles Davis recorded has enormous aesthetic value.

My point here simply is that Kind of Blue may not be quite as monumental a work as we're repeatedly told it is, and that its significance has been somewhat inflated over time for a variety of reasons. For one, the compositions aren't as purely original to Miles as believed (we can thank bassist Oscar Pettiford for So What's theme and Bill Evans for two or more of the gloomier pieces). For another, the album's totemic stature owes quite a bit to Columbia's brilliant marketers of 1960, including the strategic use of the Columbia Record Club. Along the way, the label's promotional efforts even managed to win over a generation of rock musicians and convince rock record producers that it was far easier to fill albums with extended, repetitive solos than to expect more original work from their artists under contract.

Let's be fair: Is Kind of Blue really more important or enduring than John Coltrane's Giant Steps or the Dave Brubeck Quartet's Time Out? Both were recorded in 1959. The difference is that Kind of Blue had Columbia's marketing juggernaut behind it following Miles' success with Porgy and Bess. For all we know, Kind of Blue's marketers may have been behind Columbia's decision to delay Time Out's release until 1961. Personally, I never bought that story about Columbia's president worrying about how all the group's different time signatures would play with consumers.

Here's the intro to my article in Jazziz:

"On the afternoon of Monday, March 2, 1959, Miles Davis met his working band at Columbia Records' 30th Street Studio in New York City and handed out sheet music. After running down the modal sketches, Davis and the group set about recording three songs, adding two more later, on April 22. The result was Kind of Blue, an album that is now widely considered to be the greatest jazz recording of all time. Rolling Stone magazine ranked it No. 12 on its 500 Greatest Albums of All Time list—right after Elvis' The Sun Sessions and two notches ahead of the Beatles Abbey Road. Rockers like the Doors' Ray Manzarek have hailed the album as a major influence, and Kind of Blue has sold millions of copies worldwide, making it one of the record industry's best-selling jazz albums.

But is Kind of Blue really as original or as influential as many jazz critics have claimed? Compositions said to have been written solely by Davis for the session actually were adaptations and collaborations. The sonic quality of the album is frustratingly sub-par. And it's even debatable whether Kind of Blue is this sextet's best work.

How then did Kind of Blue rise to become jazz's Mona Lisa—an unassailable icon symbolizing an entire art form? The album's early marketing efforts by Columbia certainly played a pivotal role. So did rock's embrace and the jazz industry's need for an album—any album—to serve as an intellectual jetty against rock's relentless incursions."

That gives you the gist. I also note that the Miles Davis Sextet's recordings of May 1958 for me remain far more interesting. Which is why I was gratified to see that Sony's plush Kind of Blue: 50th Anniversary Edition box has included the recordings from this date: On Green Dolphin Street, Fran-Dance, Stella by Starlight, Love for Sale and an alternate take of Fran Dance.

These May 1958 tracks originally were released on the second side of Jazz Track, an LP that foolishly paired these works with Miles' original soundtrack work for the French film Ascenseur Pour L'Echafaud. The problem is that most jazz fans already owned the original Ascenseur LP and passed on Jazz Track. As a result, the material was largely overlooked and forgotten until it turned up in 1974 on the LP Basic Miles and then on a poorly remastered CD Miles Davis '58 Sessions in 1991. The tracks, of course, appeared in 1999 remastered with Kind of Blue on Sony's Complete Columbia Recordings of Miles Davis and John Coltrane.

To understand the point I'm making about the difference between the two Sextet sessions, simply listen to So What followed by On Green Dolphin Street. To me, On Green Dolphin Street (along with the other tracks from the date) are modern yet retain a sensuality that So What and the rest of Kind of Blue lack. The 1958 tracks inhale and exhale, and each artist exhibits a special beauty. Also, the tension that exists doesn't snap completely free from the listener. Listen to Cannonball Adderley's and Bill Evans' solos on On Green Dolphin Street. By contrast, the compositions on Kind of Blue have always struck me as kind of bleak.

Kind of Blue may be considered by many to be jazz's greatest recording and an unassailable work. To me, the album isn't nearly the work of perfection that many rave about. The Miles Davis Sextet recorded its best and most tender work in May 1958. Dig the two dates and compare for yourself.

James Moody in Sweden

As you can see from the headline above, James Moody is the tenor saxophonist I cryptically referred to at the end of yesterday's post.  So which superb album is hanging around in the iTunes Store virtually unknown because the folks who tend to business there haven't a clue?

I'll tell you in a second. First a little back story:

Moody began his career in Dizzy Gillespie's ferocious big band of 1946, remaining in the sax section of the orchestra until 1948. Late that year, drug problems caused Moody's mom to write her uncle in Paris asking if he could put up Moody and provide a change of scene for the 23-year-old. The uncle agreed, and Moody went off to Paris, where he played and recorded for a good part of the spring and summer of 1949. [Photo of Dizzy Gillespie in 1948: Herman Leonard]

In September 1949, Moody left for Stockholm, and in October recorded 21 sides for Sweden's Metronome Records. The sessions included Moody's most famous record, I'm In the Mood for Love, which he recorded twice on October 12, once on tenor and again on alto. The alto version became the big hit, solidifying his position on the instrument.

By December 1949, Moody was in Switzerland, and then he was in Paris for much of 1950. He returned to Sweden in January 1951, where he recorded 12 additional sides for Metronome, eventually returning to the States in the fall of 1951.

The album that's languishing at the iTunes Store? It's a fabulous compilation of Moody's October 1949 and January 1951 Swedish dates for Metronome, including the two rare tracks he recorded there with strings. The name of this great phantom set is James Moody: Body and Soul. It features a relatively recent photo of Moody on the cover, and that's it. No mention of the material, where it was recorded or when. Shoppers are left to figure it out for themselves. Or not.

So here's what I'm going to do: With help from Tom Lord's Jazz Discography,  I've listed basic information below about each of the album's 24 tracks. Only a few were released in the U.S. on Prestige Records. Once you download the "iTunes Plus" album, you can rearrange the tracks so they're in chronological order. Enjoy! Here's how the tunes stock up on the album and a bit of information about each one:

1. Out of Nowhere—James Moody's on tenor sax; James Moody and His Swedish Crowns; October 7, 1949.

2. Am I Blue—alto sax; James Moody's Boptet; January 23, 1951.

3. Good Bait—tenor sax; James Moody's Sextet; October 12, 1949.

4. Two Fathers (also known as Two Feathers)—tenor sax; James Moody/Lars Gullin; January 24, 1951.

5. I'm in the Mood for Love—alto sax; James Moody Quintet; October 12, 1949.

6. Body and Soul—alto sax; James Moody and His Swedish Crowns; October 12, 1949.

7. Lester Leaps In—same as above.

8. Love Walked In—tenor sax; James Moody Sextet; January 24, 1951.

9. The Man I Love—alto sax; James Moody Boptet; January 23, 1951.

10. Embraceable You—same as above.

11. Blue and Moody—tenor sax; James Moody and His Cool Cats; October 18, 1949.

12. Again—alto sax; James Moody Boptet; January 23, 1951.

13. Cherokee—tenor sax; James Moody With Strings; January 25, 1951.

14. Moody's Got Rhythm (also known as Andrew Got Married)—tenor sax; James Moody Sextet; January 24, 1951.

15. These Foolish Things—tenor sax; James Moody and His Swedish Crowns; October 7, 1949.

16. I'll Get By—alto sax; James Moody's Boptet; January 23, 1951.

17. Pennies from Heaven—tenor sax; James Moody With Strings; January 25, 1951.

18. Dexterious—tenor sax; James Moody's Sextet; October 12, 1949.

19. How Deep Is the Ocean?—alto sax; James Moody Boptet; January 23, 1951.

20. Hey Jim (also known as Moody's Bounce)—tenor sax; James Moody/Lars Gullin; January 24, 1951.

21. Flight of the Bopple Bee—tenor sax; James Moody Quartet; October 12, 1949.

22. Indiana—tenor sax; James Moody's Sextet; October 12, 1949.

23. Over the Rainbow—tenor sax; James Moody and His Cool Cats; October 18, 1949.

24. I'm in the Mood for Groovin' (also known as I'm in the Mood for Love, with Moody on tenor sax); October 12, 1949 (recorded earlier in the session than famous alto sax version).

Hidden Jazz Downloads (Vol. 5)

iTunes, Amazon and other pay-as-you go download sites remain dense jungles for most jazz shoppers. As I remarked in my Open Letter to iTunes and Amazon back in August, these sites make it next to impossible for jazz fans to browse for old releases and reissues the way they want to. Newly added albums are just flipped into artists' folders, so unless you look at every single jazz artist each time you shop, you'd be hard-pressed to know what's new from the decades you prefer most.

From time to time, I take out my flashlight and boots, and shimmy through the ducts at the iTunes Store in search of superb albums that aren't well known. Then I report back to you. (If you wish to access the other volumes in this series, simply go to the search bar in the upper right-hand corner of this page and type in "Hidden Jazz Downloads.")

Here are five terrific recordings that I discovered at iTunes over the past couple of days that I think you'll enjoy:

James P. Johnson—Snowy Morning Blues (Decca). Johnson is the father of the stride jazz piano, which combined the Midwestern rags of Scott Joplin and urban jazz, blues and popular song. Johnson never repeated passages without altering them, and his relaxed approach to stride became the basis of swing. So it's easy to understand why Johnson had such a big influence on Fats Waller, Teddy Wilson, Count Basie and Art Tatum. A contemporary of Jelly Roll Morton's, Johnson began publishing the first of his some 200 songs in 1917. He backed blues singers in New York in the 1920s, and composed classical orchestral pieces in the 1930s. In the 1940s, he was a legend and performed in clubs. He also recorded for Decca Records. His sides for the label in the mid-1940s are captured on this album, which includes Carolina Shout, a 1918 composition that inspired Duke Ellington and other young jazz musicians of the early 1920s.

Al Cohn, Zoot Sims, John Coltrane and Hank Mobley—Tenor Conclave (Prestige). It's hard to believe this album even exists, but it does. Recorded in 1956, the date brought four tenor giants together, each with a different approach on the instrument. Here you have Al Cohn and Zoot Sims' Prez-meets-Woody Herman feel up against Hank Mobley's hard bop and John Coltrane's game-changing intensity. Only four long tracks were recorded, and the result was Two Brothers meets the Young Turks. The rhythm section featured Red Garland on piano, Paul Chambers on bass and Art Taylor on drums. It's a freewheeling blowing session with four different textures.

Mary Lou Williams—Presents Black Christ of the Andes (Smithsonian Folkways). This 1963 recording is an unusual album in that it fuses a lush mixed-voice choir with Williams' lyrical jazz piano style. After a 1954 performance in Paris, Williams retired from the jazz world for a few years to meditate and pray daily. From 1957 on, she imbued her playing with a deep spiritual message. This concept album was her first work of spiritual jazz, and it's remarkable on several levels. You have hymnal masterpieces such as St. Martin de Porres and jazz standards such as It Ain't Necessarily So. And then you also have originals such as Miss. D. D., the album's highlight. This fascinating tune was named for heiress Doris Duke, who helped launch the Newport Jazz Festival.

J.R. Monterose—J.R. Monterose (Blue Note). This 1956 recording was the tenor saxophonist's first date as a leader and an early hard-bop model that Blue Note would use repeatedly with other artists. Monterose's initial recording dates a year earlier were with modal vibraphonist Teddy Charles and bop trombonist Eddie Bert. After playing in Teddy Charles' famed Tentet in January 1956, Monterose recorded with the Charles Mingus Jazz Workshop before joining Kenny Dorham's Jazz Prophets. This album of originals is notable for Monterose's assertive, bluesy tenor style and Horace Silver's especially percussive piano attack.

Herbie Mann—Do the Bossa Nova (Atlantic). Mann is often written off as an overly commercial artist whose adventures in the pop and World music genres all but erased his accomplishments in jazz. But just before Mann drifted over the line, he recorded a series of Bossa Nova albums in 1962 that became the basis for much of the Brazilian-jazz that followed. This album is a compilation of Mann's 1962 recordings, many of which were done with Antonio Carlos Jobim and Joao Gilberto in Brazil. Regardless of what you think of Mann or how musically thin he became in the years ahead, his flute playing here in '62 swings, and he truly gets the Bossa Nova rhythm and feel.

Tomorrow, I'll feature a super-rare download compilation by a superb tenor saxophone legend. Most people probably aren't even aware this collection exists, since iTunes stupidly packaged it as a bland, run-of-the-mill release. It's anything but.

Dinah Washington v. Brook Benton

In February 1959, Dinah Washington recorded one of the biggest jazz-pop crossover hits by a female jazz vocalist to date. Backed by shimmering strings, a small choir and a rhythm section, Dinah leaned into the studio microphone and sang What a Difference a Day Makes for Mercury Records.

Produced by Clyde Otis, the easy-listening, bluesy ballad was meant to be just another moody jazz vocal track. But in 1959, with Elvis Presley in the army and a vacuum in the rock world created by the sudden death of Buddy Holly in February, pop began to make a mini comeback with young audiences. Within weeks of its release in the spring, the height of prom season, What a Difference a Day Makes entered Billboard's Hot 100 chart in May and soared to #8. The song would remain on the chart for 20 weeks and transform Dinah almost overnight from a jazz-blues singer to a jukebox pop star.

But the song's success also inflated Dinah's diva side. After laboring for years under enormous pressure, cranking out jazz and blues hits, Dinah by early 1959 had still not achieved as much recognition or pay as Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald and other better-known jazz singers. With What a Difference a Day Makes, Dinah viewed her 1959 hit as belated confirmation of her ability to kill in the pop market and become a bankable mainstream star.

Brook Benton was another hot property at Mercury Records in early 1959. The smooth-voiced r&b baritone had recently recorded It's Just a Matter of Time, which entered the Hot 100 chart in January and rocketed to No. 3. Benton followed the single with Endlessly, which hit the chart in April and climbed to No. 12. Both songs were written by Benton and Clyde Otis.

Benton's magic touch gave Otis an idea. He called Dinah and told her he wanted to pair the two of them for a single. For producer Otis, the single had a shot at becoming a hit on virtually every chart. But Dinah was suspect. She was a star now, a singer who had paid her dues since the mid-1940s. If she was going to be lined up with another singer on a recording date, she didn't understand why someone of her stature should have to work with a relatively green Benton.

Dinah also didn't see how exactly the union could help her career. After all, Benton's reputation could only be elevated by his association with Dinah. By contrast, how could her link to him make her any more popular than she already was? Clyde Otis' response to Dinah was that Benton's masculine, relaxed sound would give her a sexier image and further extend her appeal with younger audiences who listened less and less to jazz and pure blues.

When Dinah entered Mercury's studio in late 1959, she was apprehensive and concerned about being out-gunned by Benton. Benton, who had the looks, voice and hits behind him, arrived as a go-getter who had the world by the tail. Dinah thought Benton was out of her league. Benton felt she was a bit over the hill. Unfortunately for Benton, he was a little too cavalier, either because he was nervous appearing with Dinah or woefully unprepared.

When the red light went on, the orchestra's strings played a skippy downbeat and intro to Baby (You Got What It Takes), with the guitar, bass and drums coming in with a rock boogie beat. Benton took the first chorus, with Dinah following. But instead of playing it straight, Benton started to showboat, ad-libbing soulful "Oh, yeahs" around Dinah's vocal. You can hear the tension build until finally, at 2:03 into the song, Benton made a fatal mistake. He got carried away and accidentally sang the first words of Dinah's part. At that moment, they vocally collided, with both singing the word "because."

Dinah opened up with both barrels. As the song winds down, we hear Dinah taunt, "You're back in my spot again, honey." Hoping to go with the flow, Benton replies cockily, "I like that spot." Over the remaining 40 seconds, you hear Benton push back and Dinah going all out. As the song starts to fade, Dinah lectures Benton: "Don't say it again" and "One more time, Brook."

It's unclear how many takes were made of Baby. We do know that the B-side, I Do, a slow-dance ballad, was recorded next and went off without a hitch. Fairly tame, its wedding-day theme worked beautifully for both singers and was sure to fuel rumors that Dinah and Benton were an item.

According to Nadine Cohodas, in Queen: The Life and Music of Dinah Washington, here's what happened next:

"[Clyde] Otis and the engineers didn't interrupt, and when the session was over, they decided that the take [of Baby] with the flub was the one to release. This bit of inside business would lend the record cachet, as though each listener had been privy to the session.

Publicly, Benton laughed off Dinah's snappishness. "She could be difficult," he said, but insisted they got along "very well in the studio...The goof wasn't intentional," he went on. "We were playing around really, you know, testing as we went along. Frankly, some of the time we didn't even know they were taping. We were like having a dry run."

Whether the sniping was real or not, the flawed song was released in January 1960. The single was an immediate success, reaching No. 5 on Billboard's Hot 100 chart. For chart purposes, Mercury had to change the song's name to Baby, since United Artists had just released a record by Marv Johnson called You Got What It Takes, a completely different song.

By Easter of 1960, Dinah and Benton were booked into the Brooklyn Paramount Theater for a 10-day show. They clicked so well that many observers thought they might be having an affair.

Convinced that the Dinah-Benton pairing was a gold mine, producer Otis decided to record them together for an entire album of duets. But when the duo got together in the studio in early 1960, the competitive friction off-mike surfaced almost immediately. On the first tune, A Rockin' Good Way (to Mess Around and Fall in Love), Dinah was again caught on tape hammering Benton for making mistakes. According to Queen, Otis remembered the session this way:

"[Dinah] had no respect for him, no respect for him personally. She kept saying, 'You're a dumb so and so'...and he didn't like having her chastise him. According to Shelby Singleton, another Mercury executive, Dinah told Benton she was 'tired of making you a star' and didn't want to make any more records with him."

Otis halted the session after they recorded the B-side and sent Dinah home. He had Benton then record the remaining tracks they had planned to do together.

While you hear the carping on the track, I believe it was staged to recapture the hit-making bickering of the first single. Aside from Benton's ad-libbing, which had to have been pre-arranged, there really isn't much error or misfire and little reason for Dinah to be upset. My guess is that Otis called for Dinah to complain toward the fade out, and Dinah viewed this as a cheap, gimmicky trick for someone of her stature and that she walked as a result of Otis, not Benton.

In early May, Mercury released A Rockin' Good Way backed by the I Do-like ballad I Believe, the only single from the planned duet LP. A Rockin' Good Way actually was a cover of a Priscilla Bowman hit and had a pecking rock beat similar to Baby (You've Got What I Takes).

Listen carefully to A Rockin' Good Way and you'll hear Dinah's real or staged temper emerge. The song starts out harmoniously enough, with Benton's rich voice and Dinah all kisses. On the fade out, the "space" issue resurfaces, though you have to listen carefully for the so-called combative exchange. As the song's volume starts to drop, here's what transpires:

Brook: "You dig the rock?

Dinah: "I said..."

Benton: "Cool"

Dinah: "... Stay out of my spot."

Benton: "Oh yeah, oh yeah. I like the spot, though, you know."

Dinah: "Alright. You got it, man."

That last line, to me, is an odd one, and likely was aimed at producer Otis, not Benton. You have to crank up the volume to hear it, and the line leads me to believe the jousting was encouraged by the producer rather than a natural course of events in the studio. In addition, photos from the session show Dinah and Benton friendly and professional.

After the song hit, Mercury released a more traditional solo album by Dinah called Unforgettable to mixed reviews. But Dinah's new image and success as a jazz crooner, pop-rock vocalist and early rock star was already established. Unfortunately, Dinah and Benton would never record again. Dinah died in December 1963. As for Benton, he recorded a string of unforgettable r&b songs. Finally in 1970, he had a hit with Rainy Night in Georgia, which reached No. 4. Benton died in 1988.

The pairing of Dinah and Benton was a stroke of genius, but unfortunately the club-weary, turf-conscious Dinah and the go-getter Benton were too hot to handle. Interestingly, upon a re-listen of all four tracks, it's the ballad I Believe that winds up being their most effective duet, leaving us to wonder what might have resulted had they finished Clyde Otis' album.

You're also left wondering whether outtakes and captured conversation from the session survive. They would surely shed additional light on whether the tensions on the date were real or staged.

JazzWax tracks: You can find all four tracks that Dinah Washington and Brook Benton recorded on The Two of Us. It's at iTunes. Listen to I Believe and imagine an entire album built on this approach. Wow. And while I know this is completely off-topic, you may also want to download Benton's Rainy Night in Georgia. The song remains one of the great soul classics of the 1970s and in some ways Benton's last laugh.

If you want to hear A Rockin' Good Way, go here. You decide whether or not the pair's parting friction is manufactured. And to see Benton perform Rainy Night in Georgia from 1982, go here.

Oscar Peterson: The Clef Trios

Pianist Oscar Peterson has always been something of an enigma. Some listeners categorize him as a commercial overachiever whose flawless technique and perfectionism rendered him ponderous and dull. Others believe him to be Art Tatum's heir who produced a spectacular catalog of lyrical masterpieces. I tend to believe that neither view is quite accurate and that Peterson must be evaluated differently than most jazz artists to arrive at a proper assessment.

Like most jazz greats who had prolific recording careers, Peterson can't be sized up in one or two sweeping sentences. What I mean here is that you really can't say broadly that you like Peterson or you don't like him. I believe you have to refer to specific periods in the pianist's career. You have to break his recording time line into manageable and meaningful parts and then analyze them individually. The same is true, of course, for Lester Young [pictured], Billie Holiday and Miles Davis. These artists had periods of explosive growth during which they explored new ways to interpret songs based on what they had learned and where they wanted to go. During some of these periods we find them pushing into new territory and in others they seem to be creatively stalled.

What this means is that you can't dismiss Peterson simply because you don't care for his post-1960 period. To be sure, during those years he adapted a cookie-cutter approach to his playing and interpretations. His formula was to open with a solo ballad variation, follow with a snappy medium tempo run-though of the song's theme, and escalate to wild improvisation with centipede-like arpeggios and thumb runs along the keyboard. Certainly his record producers are partly to blame for the robotic approach.

The sameness that set in after 1960 also is likely a result of Peterson's marathon playing-and-recording schedule as a soloist and sideman starting in the mid-1950s. It's easy to overlook how the relentless pace of Granz's songbook sausage factory could sap a good part of Peterson's original creative spirit and joy. Or at least it sure sounded that way on Peterson's post-1960 recordings.

Which brings me back to my original premise. If you look at Peterson's career carefully, you will see that his truly golden era ran from 1945 to 1953, and that this period divides neatly into four distinct recording chapters: the Canadian years (1945-1949, Victor), the Carnegie Hall concerts (1949 and 1953), the duo dates (1950-1951, Clef), and his trio recordings (1951-1953, Clef/Mercury).

During this eight-year period, Peterson developed a technique that blended swing and bop, took impossible risks on the keyboard, and applied a tough tenderness to songs that teased out every bit of beauty. He fully grasped the melodic poetry of what he was playing and set the bar much higher for all trio pianists who followed. Surely Erroll Garner's first recording of Misty for Mercury Records (Peterson's label) is a direct response to the popularity Peterson was enjoying with a lush jazz approach.

The proof is in the playing. Mosaic Records has just released a set that captures Peterson at the high point of his career: The Complete Clef/Mercury Studio Recordings of the Oscar Peterson Trio (1951-1953). (You'll find it here.) This set truly is one fabulous box of ear candy. Each track offers a surprise, and you come away with a refreshed appreciation of Peterson the player and improvisational architect. Many of the sides appeared on Mercury, since Norman Granz had a partnership with the label at the time.

The 126 tracks on the Mosaic box are largely about standards, but the collection includes plenty of blues and some originals. There also are tracks that positioned Peterson as Nat King Cole, both as a player and a singer. Peterson's round, honey-dipped voice sounded remarkably close to Nat's, and the trio was positioned to fill a void left when Nat decided to disband his own trio to become a solo pop act. At first your ear rejects Peterson's voice as a cheap imitation, but eventually you recognize the difference and start to enjoy Peterson's vocal approach. [Photo: Esther Bubley Archive]

From the 1951 period, we have Peterson's It's Easy to Remember, with block chords and playful interchanges with bassist Ray Brown and guitarist Barney Kessel. There's also I Can't Get Started, which is perhaps one of the finest jazz trio renditions of this tune. And the 13-minute Tea for Two definitively proves that Peterson had no real rival on the piano scene. Tatum and Garner were different players of another age. By 1952 Peterson was delivering perfectly executed renditions of songs like Isn't This a Lovely Day and I Was Doin' Alright. The 1953 dates include the rollicking Pompton Turnpike, The Things We Did Last Summer and Without a Song. Peterson here is on top of his game and your soul rushes to greet each of them after the first few notes are played. Whatever standards you favor are likely on this expansive set and are executed with impeccable grace and daring. 

What you hear on this box's seven remastered CDs is vintage Peterson. The more you listen, the more you realize that Peterson wasn't Art Tatum's heir. He was a pianist who skillfully finished what Bud Powell had started on his lush January 1947 session for Roost Records. In the process, Peterson checked George Shearing's stampeding popularity. As you'll hear, Peterson managed to take Bud's approach to new levels and replicated the largeness of the Shearing quintet with just a trio. On tracks that include Barney Kessel, you also will hear the guitarist inventing a twangy blues sound that soon would be emulated by country artists recording for Sam Phillips' Sun Records.

The Mosaic box's liner notes by John McDonough are thorough and revealing, and the photos courtesy of Hank O'Neal and Chiaroscuro Records and the Esther Bubley Archive are intimate and personal. According to Mosaic, Hank acquired the photographs of the Peterson Trio back in 1952, and the rare images have never before been published.

As you listen to this set, you instantly realize that if Peterson had recorded only these dates, his mark would have been significant. This box represents Peterson at his artistic best, after his style was established and before he struck a Faustian bargain with Norman Granz [pictured] in the mid-1950s to became Verve's house pianist and one of jazz's great workaholics.

JazzWax tracks: Fortunately, there are quality recordings documenting each chapter in Peterson's early golden period:

Chapter 1: Peterson's Victor period in Canada (1945-1949) can be found on a double-CD set from Proper called Oscar Peterson: Genesis. You'll find it here for under $10.

Chapter 2: Peterson's four Carnegie Hall appearances (1949-1953) still stun and can be found on Portrait of a Legend: Oscar Peterson Historic Carnegie Hall Concerts. It includes the famed September 1949 "debut" concert, for which Peterson had to sit in the audience and feign being a spectator until he was announced by a mock-surprised Norman Granz. The charade allowed the Canadian-born Peterson to come down to New York and perform without trouble from immigration. You'll find the CD here for about $20.

Chapter 3: The duo recordings of Peterson and bassist Ray Brown (1950-1951) are incomparable and sadly out of print. You can find them on The Duo: The Historic Early Studio Sessions of Oscar Peterson and Ray Brown here used from sellers starting at $40. I'm sure I'll hear from readers who have a more affordable way to obtain these, and when I do I'll pass along their advice.

Chapter 4: The Oscar Peterson Trio sessions (and quartets with Barney Kessel) are on Mosaic Records' The Complete Clef/Mercury Studio Recordings of the Oscar Peterson Trio (1951-1953) for $119. The box is well worth the price given the scope, hours of pleasure and crisp warm sound of the remastering. You'll find it here.

Sunday Wax Bits

Settling a Film Score. I received quite a few emails on Friday and Saturday in response to my interview with arranger and composer Russ Garcia on his score for Charlie Chaplin's Limelight. Many readers were appalled to read that the 1972 Oscar for best dramatic score was given posthumously in error to Larry Russell, an arranger who had nothing to do with the film. Nearly all of the emails ended with the same line: "I hope the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences does the right thing and gives Russ his Oscar." [Pictured: Russ and his wife, Gina]

I couldn't agree more.

During my interview, Russ was too modest to make a big stink about the 35-year old error. Apparently, when the Academy was verifying the nominees in 1972 before handing out awards in 1973, not enough double-checking was done to ensure that the deserving arranger of Limelight was recognized. In all fairness to the Academy, the mistake was likely an innocent case of name confusion (Larry Russell v. Russell Garcia).

The Academy is an honorable and venerable institution. Everyone enjoys watching the televised ceremony each spring, from the red carpet and glamour to the stars and envelopes. Like the Super Bowl, the event has become part of our culture as the movie industry has grown in size and influence over the past 30 years.

But an institution is honorable only if it is magnanimous when it errs, not just when it celebrates itself. Otherwise a great institution becomes petty and seems to lack self-confidence. Not to mention the damage the institution does to its own image and brand. This is a time for character, not correctness. Fresh research should be undertaken by the Academy to verify claims made innocently by Russ Garcia, and if proven accurate, a belated award should be given.

Admitting an obvious and innocent mistake and rectifying the situation by awarding Russ an Oscar surely would not hurt the Academy's good name or image. Whatever occurred (or didn't occur) happened more than 30 years ago and taints the reputation of no one. Stuff happens.

And no one is suggesting that the Academy dash over to Larry Russell's house and rip the statue off his family's mantel. What's done is done. But surely Russ Garcia [pictured], the person who actually worked hard and long on the Limelight arrangement, deserves some official recognition.

At 92 years old, Russ is too humble to make a fuss.

Richard Sudhalter (1938-2008). I learned of Richard's passing on Friday from JazzWax reader Albert Haim. Richard had apparently been suffering from pneumonia for several weeks and died Thursday night. Dick was a mighty jazz musician and scholar. He also was a jazz translator, meaning he was able to plumb the depths of research and emerge with a simple tale loaded with detail, enabling readers to understand and appreciate the subjects he wrote about.

Two of my favorite Sudhalter books are Bix, Man and Legend and Stardust Melody: The Life and Music of Hoagy Carmichael. I know his book Lost Chords: White Musicians and Their Contribution to Jazz 1915-1945 created much controversy when it was published in 1999. As readers know, I don't tend to look at music in those terms (it's all jazz to me). But whether you love the premise or hate it, Dick's book was rich with detail, and few could argue with its fluidity and research.

The best way I know to pay tribute to Dick is to quote from his book on Bix (whose own death in August 1931 also occurred on a Thursday night following a bout with pneumonia). Here's Dick's use of Louis Armstrong's quote in Bix:

"[After hearing Bix in late 1927] I had to go backstage and say hello. And that's something I don't usually do. You know, some people don't act the same—oh I don't know...maybe it's nervous tension or something...but not Bix. He received me with opened arms. I told that I was playing over at the Sunset Club out on the South Side. When he finished work that night he came directly to the place and stayed till the customers left. Then we locked all the doors and had ourselves a nice little jam session...Bix and his friends and my gang. Hmmm...I've never heard such good music since. Bix had a way of expressing himself—his music would want to make you go right up to the bandstand, shake his hand and make yourself known."

The same could be said for Dick's writing and playing. He's already missed by all those who strive to tell the story of jazz, in words and song. For more on Dick and his invaluable contributions to jazz and joy, Terry Teachout and Doug Ramsey offer loving tributes.

Bill Holman and Ira Gitler. Last Sunday I shared an email from legendary arranger Bill Holman that covered a bunch of topics. Bill's comments on Chubby's Blues caught the sharp eye of jazz critic and author Ira Gitler [pictured]:

"Hey Marc, great stuff on Benny Golson (Part 5). However, in your Holman segment, [Bill's mention of] Chubby's Blues puzzles me. Is Bill thinking of Tiny's Blues, first recorded by Serge Chaloff (with Red Rodney and Earl Swope) for Savoy under the title Gabardine and Serge? Chubby first recorded Tiny's Blues with his big band for Columbia.

Incidentally the shout chorus to this arrangement was written by Al Cohn, and that became part of the Tiny's Blues chart, although Al is not formally credited.

Kahn & Cohn—sounds like a deli or a haberdasher's. Which reminds me that Jimmy Raney appeared on Al Cohn's Mr. Music (RCA, 1954) as Sir Osbert Haberdasher. Jack Lewis, who produced the album, was zany with his pseudonyms for covering up artists under contract to other labels. My favorite was one he concocted for Thad Jones—Steel Cheops."

So I asked Bill about Ira's observation regarding Tiny's Blues:

"Marc, Yep, Ira's right. Tiny's Blues it is. Growing old is wonderful."

Bill Evans. Jan Stevens of The Bill Evans Web Pages here reviews Symbiosis (1974), the third and final album Evans recorded with arranger Claus Ogerman. Also at Jan's site is a vivid recollection of Bill's final hours in September 1980 by Laurie Verchomin, Bill's girlfriend at the time. The exclusive is from Laurie's forthcoming memoir, Time Remembered. Her moving eyewitness account will leave you stunned.

Benny Golson. People often ask how many hours I spend interviewing jazz artists, writing up interviews and blogging at JazzWax. I never answer directly, since the time I devote to the site is irrelevant. What's more important is celebrating jazz legends and capturing their stories first-hand. And whatever time I devote to preserving the stories of jazz is instantly forgotten the moment I receive a gracious note of thanks. Like the one I received from Benny yesterday:

"Marc, In all of my career I've never before been involved in any interview ever like yours. It's absolutely unbelievable! Where in the world did you get all those photographs? Fabulous! I've received a few calls about your interview. I can't believe what you've done."

I don't write these posts to extract such remarks. I write about the artists I love most, period. But it sure is rewarding to receive such heart-felt thanks.

More Benny Golson. Reader Carl Woideck at the University of Oregon's School of Music and Dance and a big Benny Golson fan sent along the following recommendation:

"I just finished your interview with Golson—well done! I particularly love Benny's album Free. I think it's very underrated. His solo on Sock Cha Cha is amazing!  And great compositions."

Bret Primack. Last week videographer Bret Primack sent me a series of links to videoclips from the historic 1958 TV show The Subject is Jazz. Click on the following individual links to see clips of Mundell Lowe, Ed Thigpen, Doc Severinsen, Jimmy Cleveland, Tony Scott and Billy Taylor [pictured].

Sonny Rollins. Bret also sent along a clip of footage he shot to support Sonny's upcoming CD release of Road Shows, Vol. 1. You can see it here.

Hank Mobley and John Coltrane. Today, disc jockey extraordinaire Sid Gribetz presents a five-hour special radio broadcast reviewing the career of tenor saxophonist Hank Mobley [pictured]. You can tune in today from anywhere in the world at WCKR.org starting at 2 PM (New York City time).

Then on Tuesday, September 23d, WKCR will be playing the music of saxophonist John Coltrane around the clock for 24 hours in celebration of his birthday. Again, you can tune in from anywhere in the world via the web. If you're in New York, WKCR is at 89.9 on the FM radio dial.

Art Blakey. In response to my post on Art Blakey's Africaine, which I feel is among the Jazz Messengers' best recordings, reader Gary L. Gray managed to track down this rare recording as a download here.

The Case of the Misplaced Oscar

After interviewing legendary composer and arranger Russ Garcia by phone last week, I happened upon the photo you see on the right. It was taken in 1952. The more I looked at the image, the more the older gentleman to Russ' right looked familiar. I thought to myself, "It couldn't be, could it?" So I typed "Russell Garcia + Charlie Chaplin" into Google. Up came an interview from 1985, in which Russ was quoted as saying that he was the one who had written the arrangement for Chaplin's Limelight (1952).

Stunned that this topic never came up in my series of conversations with Russ, I clicked over to the Internet Movie Database, the granddaddy of film websites, and called up Limelight. There I found Russ' name along with someone named Larry Russell listed as "uncredited" music arrangers. I also noticed that Limelight won an Oscar in 1972 for best original dramatic score.

So I went over to the site of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. There, I discovered that three Oscar statues for Limelight's score were awarded to Chaplin, Raymond Rasch (the credited arranger) and Larry Russell. Russ Garcia was not among the recipients.

How odd, I thought. Could the Academy have goofed? Why wasn't Russ included? What could have happened? Was there some confusion, given that  Russ' first name (Russell) and Larry's last name were identical? So I called Bruce Davis [pictured], executive director of the Academy. When I relayed what I learned to a member of his staff, I was told to call the next day for a comment. But on Wednesday, when I phoned back, I was told that Mr. Davis "would not have a comment but looked forward to reading my post."

So I called Russ [pictured] for his side of the story. Russ was resistant at first, preferring to let sleeping Oscars lie. It's not in his gentle nature to rehash the past. But with a little coaxing, he told me about his work on Limelight, collaborating with Chaplin, his orchestration for the 65-piece studio symphony, how the Academy might have understandably erred when the 1972 Oscars were handed out, and why Russ has resisted talking about it until now:

JazzWax: Did you arrange Limelight?
Russ Garcia: Yes. I worked with Charlie Chaplin on it. He played the movie's theme when I was over his house with one finger on the piano. Then I scored the theme and composed and arranged the film's incidental music. I also was in the engineer’s booth when it was recorded. [Photo above by Sonja van Kerkhoff]

JW: Why weren’t you credited originally as the score’s sole arranger?
RG: That credit went to Charlie. It was his film. I worked anonymously on hundreds of movies that I never got credit for. You have to understand, that's how it worked. And probably still does. In the case of Limelight, Charlie was the creative force on all aspects of this film, from directing, writing and acting to the music. While he composed the film's theme, he obviously didn't know how to arrange for a symphony-sized orchestra. Neither did Ray Rasch, Charlie’s piano player, an arranger and a friend of mine.

JW: Who was Larry Russell?
RG: He was a composer and movie arranger, and a good one. He also was a nice guy.

JW: What role did he play on Limelight?
RG: None, I’m afraid. He had nothing to do with the picture. 

JW: Who recommended you for the job?
RG: I was working in the Hollywood studios at the time and knew Ray [Rasch]. So Ray must have told Charlie about me. At the time, I was already known for being able to write for large-size orchestras and do so fairly quickly. Chaplin had already worked through the theme with Ray when I was first called over to his house.

JW: What was Charlie like?
RG: He was wonderful, a real talent. At one point, Ray told me Charlie had said to him, "Ray, why don't you score this film? I've written all the melodies, why don't you score it?" Ray agreed but he didn’t know how to do it for such a symphony. So he called me in to work on it. I orchestrated the score, which is what you hear when you watch the movie. 

JW: You also mentioned composing the incidental or background music.
RG: I had to do a lot of composing based on Chaplin's single theme. When I first went over to his house [pictured], Chaplin played the theme on the piano and I had to write it down. There was no written music.

JW: Was it improvised on the spot?
RG: Oh, no. Charlie clearly had thought it out in advance. From there I had to build music for an entire movie, and time the music so it was in sync with what was up on the screen.

JW: Was Chaplin funny?
RG: Funny? He wasn’t dressed like a tramp or clowning when we were working together. [laughs] But he was a gentleman. He had the music he wanted planned in his head. The guy was a genius. He could do it all—the ballet steps, the choreography, every camera angle, the script, and the musical theme. Charlie was a perfectionist. He knew what he wanted, and he’d get it, too.

JW: Did you conduct the orchestra?
RG: No. Charlie had a conductor named Keith Williams.

JW: Did you score the film while it was in production or upon completion?
RG: I believe I had to wait until it was done. Remember, they used to shoot every scene in those days with a long shot, medium shot and close up. The film's editor then would edit the film from these shots. So from the scoring perspective, you don’t know how long scenes are going to be until they're pieced together.

JW: Who has the score now?
RG: I don't know. I suspect the studio archive or Chaplin’s estate.

JW: Is your name on the score?
RG: It might have been. I had score pads with my name embossed on them. Or I could have been using score pads that Chaplin’s studio gave me. Given that the Academy didn't know who wrote the score when they researched it, probably not.

JW: How do you think this mix-up occurred?
RG: From what I understand, the Academy wanted to give Chaplin an Oscar to recognize his work on the film while he was still alive.

[Editor's note: Limelight's score was nominated for an Oscar 20 years after it was completed because the film wasn't released in the U.S. until 1972. In 1953, after the movie's London premier, the Justice Department began investigating Chaplin's "subversive tendencies," and pressure was placed on U.S. theaters not to show it. The investigation caused Chaplin to relocate to Switzerland. He died in 1977.]

JW: How do you think they went about doing that?
RG: From what I understand, when the Academy asked Chaplin, "Who arranged the music?," he told them Ray Rasch. When they went to Ray’s widow and asked who else arranged the score, she said, "Someone named Russell.” The only person who came to their minds was Larry Russell, who also was a film arranger. But Larry, too, had passed away, and when they asked his widow if he had scored it, she said yes, he must have. So Oscars were given to Larry and Ray posthumously along with Charlie. Actually, I'm not that comfortable talking about this because I don't want to make trouble for anyone or spoil anyone’s fond thoughts or memories.

JW: Understood, but setting the record straight is important. What happened after the Oscar was awarded?
RG: The next day my phone in New Zealand rang off the hook. Keith Williams, the conductor of the Limelight score, called to apologize. So did Larry Russell’s son. I'm not sure why everyone was sorry after the award was given. Maybe they didn't realize my role until those who were actually there started talking. I don't know. I'm sure it didn't help that I lived so far away.

JW: Did you ever call the Academy to make a fuss?
RG: Goodness, no. I’m a Baha'i. It’s part of my faith never to be the source of grief to anyone. I didn't want Larry's widow or family or anyone to feel bad. I still don't. I've won plenty of awards. I just forgot about it.

JW: Are you upset by what happened?
RG: Me? [laughs] Of course not. I know that I arranged the score for the film. And so do those who were there and those who have spoken to those who know. At my age, 92, I'm more focused on moving forward.