JazzWax

Leonard Feather Said It

"The story of the Shearing sound is interesting. I had encouraged George to come over from England in '46. He stayed about three months, did one record date for Savoy, and went back home. When I saw him in London in the summer of '47, he was playing accordion in some band. But that winter he returned and settled in a small apartment in Queens. Since I had helped produce his first records in London, I went to all the clubs on 52d St., telling them about these wonderful musicians who had come over.

"I managed to get him one night at the Hickory House. Finally, after George had been here for about six months, I persuaded Irving Alexander to book him at the Three Deuces. He received $65 a week. He had John Levy on bass at one point and J.C. Heard on drums. He had Oscar Pettiford for a time. Then he had a quartet with Eddie Shu playing the many instruments he played. For a while George was working just with a rhythm section. But he was a fixture at the Deuces. Then he got a job at the Clique, which became Birdland the following year. His quartet consisted of Buddy De Franco, John Levy and Denzil Best.

"I was still trying to get him on wax. Albert Marx, for whom I had made records on Musicraft, started Discovery Records. But after I sold Albert, it developed that Buddy was under contract to Capitol. During '45-'46 I had done a session with a combination I liked very much: vibraphone, guitar, piano, bass and drums. I used it on a Mary Lou Williams date and on a session with Slam Stewart, Red Norvo, Chuck Wayne, Morey Feld and Johnny Guarnieri. One of them was on Continental and one on Victor. In each case, I found the instrumentation very appealing.

[JazzWax note: The guitarist on the 1945 Stewart date for Continental actually was Bill De Arango; The Mary Lou Williams date in 1946 featured Marjorie Hyams (vibes) Mary Lou Williams (piano), Mary Osborne (guitar) June Rotenberg (bass) and Rose Gottesman (drums).]

"With Buddy off limits, I suggested that George get Chuck Wayne on guitar and Margie Hyams on vibes. George liked the idea, and the quintet was organized. I wrote most of the music—Life with Feather, Sorry Wrong Rumba and two others—because George wanted to save his own material for something important in the offing. He like the instrumentation so much that eventually it became the Shearing sound."

—Leonard Feather, as quoted in 52nd St.: The Street of Jazz by Arnold Shaw.

Miles Davis Said It

"Monk has really helped me. When I came to New York, he taught me chords and his tunes. A main influence he has been through the years has been has to do with giving musicians more freedom. They feel that if Monk can do what he does, they can.

"Monk has been using space for a long time. The thing that Monk must realize is that he can't get everybody to play his songs right. Coltrane, Milt Jackson and maybe Lucky Thompson are the only ones I know that can get that feeling out of his songs that he can. And he needs drummers like Denzil Best, [Art] Blakey, Shadow [Wilson], Roy Haynes, and Philly [Joe Jones]. I love the way Monk plays and writes, but I can't stand him behind me. He doesn't give you any support."

—Miles Davis in An Afternoon with Miles Davis (1958) by Nat Hentoff, from the book Jazz Panorama: From the Pages of The Jazz Review.

Interview: Teddy Charles in 1953

Back in the early 1950s, vibraphonist Teddy Charles was one swinging cat. Years ahead of his time, Teddy that year was experimenting with modal jazz and playing bop with some of the hippest musicians of the day. His leadership dates in 1951 and 1952 for Prestige Records include trio and quartet sessions with guitarist Jimmy Raney and drummer Ed Shaughnessy. In early 1953, Teddy relocated to the West Coast, where he produced and played on several cutting-edge records for Prestige. [Pictured, from left: Lawrence Marable, Frank Morgan, Teddy Charles, Dick Nivison, Wardell Gray and Sonny Clark in February 1953]

Listening to these records yesterday, I was struck by how fresh and exciting they still sound. Unlike Terry Gibbs, Milt Jackson, Eddie Costa, Red Norvo and Lionel Hampton—all staggeringly great vibraphonists of the period—Teddy tended to play the instrument like a piano, working four mallets to extract dry-ice chord structures. On solos, Teddy rarely relied on conventional triplets, shooting instead for a broader tonal result.

When Teddy was asked by Bob Weinstock of Prestige Records to relocate to the West Coast in 1953 and tap into the emerging talent there, Teddy jumped at the chance. Weinstock wasn't sure what would come of Teddy's trip, but he knew he needed someone with high energy who could be counted on to produce the right mix of musicians and compositions.

To learn more about this West Coast trip, which yielded enormously exciting music, I gave Teddy a buzz last night to chat. Here's what Teddy had to say about those months in California in 1953:

"Back then, musicians were either wigging or wailing. I mean they either were over-thinking the music or they let go and let it out. In the early 1950s, Bob Weinstock, who had started Prestige a few years earlier, in 1949, was learning the ropes. I was brought to Bob's attention by [critic and writer] Ira Gitler. Back then, Ira was producing records for Bob, and Ira and I were friends. We still are.

"One day in 1951 Bob gave me a call and asked me to record some sides. Bob didn’t know much about producing sessions and wanted me to lead a group, first a trio and then a quartet. The result was the New Directions dates, which were out there at the time. We played some standards and a lot of originals, which were sort of modal but more high-energy wailing.

"Bob was nice to me. He was a large guy and amusing. Phlegmatic, too. He was sort of slow in explaining what he wanted to say, but very funny just the same. He gave me a lot of opportunity at the label in the '50s.

"One day in late 1952 or early 1953, after I had recorded those New Directions dates, he asked if I wanted to move to the West Coast to be the A&R director out there. The West Coast was a completely new scene for East Coast labels. They didn't quite get what was happening there, but they knew they had to be in on it.

"The first thing Bob wanted me to do was record [tenor saxophonist] Wardell Gray, which I did. Wardell was the hot guy out there. He and I had played together in Benny Goodman's group in the late 19940s. Bob had wanted me to put together a couple of sessions and record standards. But I had other things in mind. I wanted to put different musicians in challenging musical situations to see what came of it.

"I moved to L.A. in the winter of 1953. I didn’t start composing for the dates until I got out there. Wardell and I were already close. Me, Wardell, Eddie Wasserman, Eddie Bert and Doug Mettome were close. We were the beboppers in Goodman's group and would have jam sessions whenever we went on break.

"Before I moved, I asked Red Norvo if he knew of anyone renting apartments. Red was friendly with film actress Anna May Wong and asked her to rent me a place. Anna May lived in a walled-in apartment compound. There was a piano in the apartment, and it was quiet, except for Anna May’s Siamese cats. I’d be hunched over the piano writing, and they’d spring on my back.

In most cases, I’d get guys together and we’d run through the material I wrote. If it worked, we’d go into the studio. Or we’d have a date set, and we’d be in my apartment rehearsing. I also played quite a bit at the Lighthouse down at Hermosa Beach.

"When I got out on the West Coast, I didn’t want to do the West Coast cool jazz thing that was so popular then. Frankly I didn’t care for the West Coast style of playing. The music was too laid back and didn’t have the sound. Not enough urgency. Instead, I brought an East Coast sound I was experimenting with out there, and I used West Coast guys to play it.

"One session that never came off included Stan Getz [pictured], Chet Baker, Al Haig, me Curtis Counce and a drummer whose name I can't recall. As we rehearsed at my apartment, I realized the music wasn’t happening. It wasn’t that the musicians couldn’t play it. Stan could play anything, of course, and Al Haig was a terrific sight-reader. It just didn’t feel comfortable for them. The music wasn't happening and felt forced.

I remember there was one great piece by Hall Overton we rehearsed, but it never came off. The music was too far ahead of its time for those guys. Also, we didn't have much time. Stan had to go out on the road. Eventually I got Shorty Rogers, Jimmy Giuffre and Shelly Manne.

"I remember a group I put together included Stan, Shorty and Shelly, and we played the Wilshire Ebell Theater [pictured] in L.A. Dave Brubeck was opposite us. Dave's group [pictured] was playing that cool sound they became famous for and we were playing hot. Intense-hot. We blew them off the stage. It was a hard swinging group, and Shelly was sensational. He had a musicality that was above and beyond other drummers at the time.

"Two songs I wrote during this period, So Long Broadway and Paul's Cause with Wardell, were very popular. And Margo I recorded on the piano. It was one of Art Farmer’s favorite pieces of mine. Margo was a beautiful dancer I knew out there. The irises of her eyes weren’t round like most people’s. They were oval shaped, which made her look like a cat. I don’t think she ever knew I had written a song for her. The record came out after I got back to the East Coast.

"I returned to New York in late 1953. I was thinking of marrying someone I had met out there and was bringing her back to meet my parents. But she couldn’t take the New York scene and it became a nightmare. Some people who aren’t from New York are OK in the city when they’re thrown into all the action. Others can’t take it. She couldn't.

"Neither could Chet Baker. I remember Chet’s wife at the time called me when I was on the West Coast and said he was offered a gig at Birdland in New York. She wanted to know if he was ready. I was honest. I said musically he was but emotionally probably not. It turned out I was right. His New York trip was the beginning of the end for him on an emotional level. It was all too much for him, the drug scene and everything.

"When I got back to New York, we recorded another New Directions 10-inch album for Prestige, and I recorded for the label quite a bit throughout the 1950s.

"Looking back, I learned a lot on the West Coast. I learned about the scene and what was going on out there. I also was able to stretch, experimenting with the music and playing with a different breed of musician. Gerry Mulligan was good to me. He was playing at the Haig at the time. He spoke to someone there to let me and my groups follow him into the club. We played there one or two nights a week.

"It wasn’t easy for me to get gigs in L.A. I hadn't spent the required six months working off my union card yet. Red Norvo got me gigs with mambo bands and things like that, which let me earn and stay out of sight. Red was a great guy. He’s the one who showed me how to play with four mallets. Red was the master."

JazzWax tracks: Teddy's exciting months in California are captured on Collaboration West, Evolution and Teddy Charles and the West Coasters. You also can hear him on Stan Getz and the Lighthouse All-Stars, a May 1953 date Teddy says he put together and led, despite the album's title.

As you'll hear, there's an energy level to Teddy's playing during his West Coast period in 1953 that leaps out of the speakers. It's the sound of an artist in a hurry working extremely hard and creatively to leave a big impression fast.

JazzWax clip: Teddy was in Holland in November for two weeks playing concerts and club gigs. Here's part of a performance in Leiden, Holland, that just surfaced:

Frankie Laine: Jazz Spectacular

Anyone who dismisses Frankie Laine as a camp pop singer really don't know enough about him. Of course, Laine is best known for recording an exhausting string of cap-gun Western-themed songs in the 1950s. But before selling his jazz soul for pop fame and fortune, Laine was an emotional jazz balladeer and a solid swinger of standards. Known as Mr. Rhythm, Laine in the late 1940s could bring his voice down to a confidential hush or open it up with enormous power and passion. In May 1955, at the height of his pop fame, Laine returned to his roots and recorded Jazz Spectacular, which is easily his finest and most expressive album.

Laine recorded Jazz Spectacular over three afternoons in 1955 before his evening gigs at New York's Latin Quarter. He was backed on the jazz date by an all-star swing band led and arranged by trumpeter Buck Clayton. The result remains a perfect marriage of Clayton's brash trumpet and Laine's vivid vocal enthusiasm. I've owned the LP for years, having paid a fortune for it in the early 1980s. Yet most of the people I've told about the album (now on CD) either weren't aware of it or assumed the record wasn't worth the time given Laine's pop image and reputation.

Born in 1913, Frankie Laine (Frank LoVecchio) grew up on Chicago's north side and began singing in church at age 10. His large family often went to hear open-air opera in the park, where Laine was inspired to become a singer. But when the Depression hit, nightclubs closed and radio was too difficult to break into. So Laine took a job as a ballroom dance instructor at the Merry Garden Ballroom [pictured below].

Asked to sing a few songs one night, Laine went up on stage and sang Beside an Open Fireplace. When the song ended, Laine told interviewers years later, he had tears streaming down his cheeks from the sentimental song. But the crowd was silent. Nearsighted, Laine said he couldn't see the audience and just assumed he had bombed. By the time he nervously neared the end of the stage, the crowd went wild, and Laine was hired to sing on a regular basis.

As the Depression deepened, the ballroom switched over to a more profitable dance marathon format. Eventually, Laine became a dance marathon entertainer and contestant. When the ballroom's manager started dance marathons in Baltimore and Atlantic City, he took Laine along. Laine won marathons in Baltimore and Atlantic City, where in 1932 he set a record—145 days of dancing with short breaks for food and rest.

But Laine's popularity was short-lived. In 1935, he began traveling from city to city looking for work as a singer. By 1937, he took a job at a Stamford, CT, leather factory, where he worked for three years. He quit in 1940 and went to New York. After stopping in at a Sunday afternoon jam sessions at the Hickory House, Laine met fellow Chicagoan and clarinetist Joe Marsala [pictured], who let him sing with the orchestra. But Laine left little impression.

Broke, Laine left New York for Chicago, eventually taking a job at Cleveland's Parker Appliance Co., a maker of hydraulic parts for airplanes during World War II. Laine asked to be transferred to the company's Los Angeles plant in 1943 and once there met disc jockey Al Jarvis [pictured]. The two became roommates, and Jarvis took Laine to perform at army hospitals in the area.

Laine quit his job at the war plant in 1946, and at age 34, he still had not been able to fulfill his dream of breaking into show business as a singer. Then one night that year, while singing for free at Billy Berg's club in Hollywood, songwriter Hoagy Carmichael stood up and demanded that the audience quiet down so he could hear Laine sing his song, Rockin' Chair. [Pictured: Billy Berg and Laine]

Carmichael put Laine in touch with Berle Adams [pictured], the co-founder and head of Mercury Records. Adams needed a B-side to a novelty single, The Pickle In The Middle With The Mustard On Top, recorded by comedian Artie Aurbach. Laine had a bit part on Aurbach's whimsical track, so Berle Adams asked Laine to stick around and record I May Be Wrong (But I Think You're Wonderful), which Adams had heard Laine sing at Billy Berg's. Laine was paid $25 for the record, and Laine's friend, Al Jarvis, played the side repeatedly on the air.

As record sales picked up, Adams quickly signed Laine to a Mercury recording contract. For his first single, Laine urged Adams to let him record a song he had heard a woman sing years earlier at a club in Cleveland. The obscure song was That's My Desire. Laine was backed by pianist Carl Fischer and his orchestra. Laine and Fischer would collaborate brilliantly on many of Laine's early Mercury hits, and they jointly composed the standard We'll Be Together Again. [Pictured: Fischer and Laine]

Laine was paid $50 for the record date, and for months the 78-rpm barely sold. Then sales began to climb rapidly, ultimately selling a staggering 2 million copies. Eventually Laine was turned over to Mercury's A&R director Mitch Miller, who said in later interviews that he had heard in Laine's voice "an everyman." To exploit this characteristic and latch onto the Wild West craze popular in the late 1940s, Miller had Laine record songs such as Mule Train, Cry of the Wild Goose, Swamp Girl and similar wagon-wheel fare with enormous success.

Laine's meteoric rise with these songs helped Miller [pictured] land an even bigger job in 1950 as head of A&R at Columbia Records. Miller immediately brought Laine over to the label, who was released from his Mercury contract by agreeing not to cover his own hits for five years. Miller immediately put Laine to work on other "boots and spurs" songs, starting with Jezebel, Granada and Moonlight Gambler. Thanks largely to Laine's pop success, Miller's power grew at Columbia, and his taste (or lack of it) wound up altering the landscape of American popular music.

Increasingly, Miller's formula seemed to include purging the jazz influences from the label's many premium vocalists and compelling them to record sexless novelty tunes that were less challenging to the ears of the label's increasingly suburban album-buying demographic.

Interestingly, Laine's earliest hits for Mercury between 1947 and 1950, sparked a new male vocal style popular with young listeners. With Frank Sinatra nearing the end of his romantic Columbia period and his image ill defined, Laine's big emotional delivery filled the vacuum. His booming and hyper-theatrical style kicked off a "crying" craze that was soon adapted by other pop singers in the early 1950s such as Johnnie Ray [pictured], Eddie Fisher and others.

It was during the heat of Laine's "whiskey and wilderness" period in 1955 that he switched hats and recorded Jazz Spectacular. The early 12-inch Columbia LP was the idea of Buck Clayton, who was friends with Laine and admired his voice. The album was recorded over three afternoons at Columbia's 30th Street Studios while Laine was appearing at New York's Latin Quarter. Charles Granata, author of the reissue's liner notes, interviewed Laine, who said:

"I was scheduled to be in New York to appear at the club. I told [producer] Irv [Townsend], 'I'll be working two shows a night so the only time we can record is in the afternoon.' And as soon as I came in, we started recording, and in three days we had an album. Before the session, Buck and I got together and began to discuss the tunes. Most of the arrangements were sketched out, and then the rest of the band just improvised and played what they wanted. We had no rehearsals before the session—we would just run through them once, and then do 'em. Buck wanted to create the feel of a jam session, but we had to have some structure to it."

Clayton arranged the 10 vocal tracks, and the band over the three-day period featured Clayton and Ray Copeland (trumpets) Urbie Green, J.J. Johnson, Kai Winding (trombones) Hilton Jefferson (alto sax) Budd Johnson and "Big Nick" Nicholas (tenor saxes) Dave McRae (baritone sax) Sir Charles Thompson (piano), Skeeter Best (guitar), Milt Hinton (bass) and Jo Jones (drums).

Jazz Spectacular remains an exciting document of what could happen when a jazz singer was let out of his pop cage for a few days to record the kind of music he loved best. Imagine what could have been if Mitch Miller had had the creative vision and smarts to pair Laine with a wide range of jazz artists, including Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington and Coleman Hawkins. And imagine if Laine had pushed harder to do so. Coming up hard was a blessing and a curse for the singer. While the long struggle gave his voice urgency and conviction, it also made him painfully aware that money and fame were top priorities. What a shame.

JazzWax tracks: Jazz Spectacular was remastered and reissued in 1999. It's available at iTunes as a download or on CD here. Another fabulous and even less-known Frankie Laine jazz album from the 1950 is Rockin' (1957). What makes this album so great are Paul Weston's arrangements.

Here's a taste of the remake of That's My Desire off Rockin'. Pay attention to the fabulous orchestration behind Laine, which almost sounds like a Paul Weston tune-up for Jo Stafford's Swingin' Down Broadway LP recorded a year later for Columbia:

Sunday Wax Bits

Kennedy Center. Emails poured in last week with comments both pro and con about my editorial taking the Kennedy Center to task for its institutional jazz phobia. In my column, I blasted the center for snubbing America's living jazz legends for the 12th straight year while handing out its prestigious Honors awards to not one but two members of the same British performance rock group.

Emails critical of my post tended to agree with my main point but went on to say that I was way too harsh on The Who and chastised me for rehashing Pete Townshend's [pictured] legal troubles in 2003, calling it a cheap shot.

Really? The Who is a perfectly good rock band. Without argument, founders Roger Daltrey and Townshend deserve to be in any rock and roll museum or hall of fame. My point is that they are inappropriate choices for America's highest cultural honor or the TV coverage and accolades that comes with it. To be polite, their canon is way too insignificant, their impact on music is moderate, and most people cannot even recall many of the tracks on their "ultimate" greatest hits album. (Honestly, do you remember Sister Disco? Me neither, but it's on there.)

As for Townshend, yes, the kiddie porn charges were cleared. But the fact remains that he used his credit card to enter what can only be described as a repulsive website and subsequently was placed on a sex offenders' list. Hardly entrapment. Expensive lawyering aside, the facts of the case stand on their own and are available to anyone with access to Google. Great guitarist. Reprehensible choice of downtime activities.

But we digress. The fact remains that the Kennedy Center has once again done America and American culture a grave disservice by ignoring jazz. In 2025, the world will still be marveling at the music created, recorded and performed by Sonny Rollins, Benny Golson, Dave Brubeck and Hank Jones, to name four (there are plenty more). The Who, I'm afraid, will be largely forgotten as a generation of fans begins to have trouble remembering where it put its keys.

Genius Jazz Moments. Following my post on Genius Jazz Moments, many comments from readers included personal favorites as well as general observations.

From reader Don Sadler:

"Your opening statement in Part 2 of Genius Jazz Moments is exactly why I love this music. It's these creative moments in jazz that keeps me coming back for more, especially on the live sets. As a teen in the 1960s, my favorite club was the Lighthouse near Los Angeles. The club was small but the talent was big, and the club produced many wonderful moments that I will never forget. Today I live in eastern Washington State where there are no jazz clubs.

"However, I am very lucky to live close to the University of Idaho which hosts the Lionel Hampton Jazz Festival each year in February. For the last 20 years or so Hamp would bring his big band and lots of old friends, and spend four days sharing their music with students and the locals.

"Hamp's friends would spend the days giving clinics and the nights giving concerts. I would sit listening, eagerly waiting for those 'genius moments' to happen. I love your blog. Thanks for all your time and effort."

Happy birthday Jazz.com! Ted Gioia's Jazz.com celebrated its first birthday last week. As part of the e-festivities, Ted put together a magnificent list of Top 50 jazz albums of 2008. You'll find the list here.

Dexter Gordon. The Jazz Video Guy Bret Primack sent along a link to a terrific clip of Dexter Gordon performing in Copenhagen in 1971. Have a look:

Pharoah Sanders. My post on Pharoah Sanders' Welcome to Love and puzzlement over the album's  multiple CD issues (neither one of which is complete) drew this email and recommendations from reader John Herr:

"I can't explain why Welcome to Love was issued twice, first on Timeless 358 in Europe in 1991 and then on Evidence in the U.S. five years later. It probably has something to do with copyrights or the saxophonist's contract with a new label.

"I can tell you there were at least two more releases by Sanders playing in his late '80s, early '90s lyrical vein: A Prayer Before Dawn and the two-fer Crescent With Love, the latter covering some of the material recording by John Coltrane on Crescent."

Tony Bennett. My favorite period of Tony Bennett's singing career is a 10-year stretch from 1962 (At Carnegie Hall) to 1972 (The Good Things in Life). During this period, Tony began building a bridge between jazz and Broadway, pop and rock that he continues to expand to this day.

I'm particularly fond of how Tony took popular radio tunes of the 1960s and gave them a wandering street-singer interpretation. When you hear Tony at first on songs like Something or Little Green Apples or Make It Easy on Yourself, you initially balk, since your ear naturally clings to the original version.

But there's something about the way Tony comes knocking on your door with a song that causes you to quickly drop your resistance and let his rendition in. When Tony sings songs like Eleanor Rigby and Come Saturday Morning, you hear he's paying tribute to the original while sliding the song slowly but surely over to his side of the playing board, making it his own.

Over the weekend I viewed the Bruce Ricker-directed, Clint Eastwood-produced Tony Bennett: The Music Never Ends. I first saw it in passing last year on TV, when the documentary originally aired. On Friday I had a chance to watch it in full.

That early period with Tony swinging jazz in front of Count Basie's band and crooning pop with a full orchestra knocks me out. Tony had the chops, but his persona was built on charm and kindness rather than towel-snapping and swagger. During Tony's hungry years, that sharp "New Yawk" accent was softened by caring eyes and a harlequin smile. He was a neighborhood guy who knew how to watch his back but also was happy to hold doors for old ladies.

When I first met Tony at a small party for percussionist Candido Camero a couple of years ago, he was as charming and accessible in person as you'd imagine. Tony doesn't forget his friends, and that was evident that afternoon as Tony made his way into the downtown recording studio and took pictures with everyone there.

While the Tony of today has mellowed, those caring, polite eyes remain the same on the video. In the 1960s, Tony was determined to succeed, and he had the talent, cool and charisma to do so. In the 1970s, changing music tastes yanked the rug out from under popular singers, and Tony faced his share of rough times. Even then, Tony's crescent face always asked "please," making it tough for audiences to tune him out.

To appreciate Tony in his prime, here's a clip of two great singers in the mid-1960s swinging through songs named for American cities:

Chevy Chase's Xmas. Jazz photographer Hank O'Neal hosts Christmas Music: The Jazz Feeling, an hour-long syndicated NPR radio show with jazz pianist and comedian Chevy Chase on three dates: Saturday, December 20th at 10 pm; Sunday December 21st at 7 pm, and Christmas Eve at 7 pm. You can catch the show via the web on those dates here, at the site of NPR radio station WVIA.

Pharoah Sanders: Welcome to Love

As an ice-cold rain fell yesterday in New York, I reached for Welcome to Love, a 1990 album by Pharoah Sanders that I hadn't heard in a few years. The Sphinx-like tenor saxophonist is best known for his spiritual and avant-garde jazz recordings of the 1960s and 1970s, most notably Karma, which includes the dazzling 32-minute-plus The Creator Has a Master Plan. But the album I pulled loose features a slightly different Sanders. On Welcome to Love, the saxophonist plays straight-up jazz, and the result is a gorgeous collection of ballads.

Many jazz fans are unaware that Sanders has enormous depth in traditional jazz and that he's a superior executor of jazz standards on both tenor and soprano saxophones. There are shades of late-period John Coltrane [pictured] in Sanders' tone, to be sure. But Sanders also has a delicate, sensitive touch that Coltrane lacked or lost during his tumultuous Impulse years.

Farrell Sanders was born in 1940 in Little Rock, Ark., and started on the clarinet before switching to the tenor sax in high school. He began playing professionally in the San Francisco Bay area, and moved to New York in 1962, just as the spiritual jazz movement initiated by Yusef Lateef in the mid-1950s began merging with free jazz. Nicknamed Pharoah by keyboardist Sun Ra (complete with the transposed "o" and "a"), Sanders recorded more than 10 studio and live albums with John Coltrane over two years, starting with Ascension in 1965.

In the 1970s and 1980s, Sanders continued to pioneer spiritual jazz, weaving in dance themes of the time. But by the 1990s, with CDs gaining in popularity, hard bop came back into vogue as long out-of-print LPs from the 1950s were reissued en masse in the new format. Sanders found his spiritual style less in demand, and work opportunities slowed.

Known for his snowy white Egyptian-style beard, Sanders spent this period recording in New York, touring in Europe, and playing in the San Francisco Bay area. Today, Sanders continues to perform and record in his introspective spiritual style, which once again has become popular among listeners, especially younger ones. Sanders is appearing this week in New York at Iridium.

Welcome to Love is one of Sanders' finest albums from his re-thinking period. Recorded in Yerres, France, in 1990, the album is comprised of 10 tracks, seven of them standards, and all are taken at ballad tempo. In many ways, the album is a tribute to Coltrane's Ballads album of 1961. Here, you can feel Sanders' enormous self-reflection and homesickness. Sanders blows thoughtful, moody lines on each ballad, including Say It (Over and Over Again), Polka Dots and Moonbeams and Nancy With the Laughing Face.

The last track recorded on this session, Moonlight in Vermont, is perhaps the most interesting ballad choice. Here, Sanders delivers a beautiful rendition that's full of love and passion for this melody-rich song. You'd think Sanders taking on this classic might result in performance overkill, or perhaps he'd miss the mark. Not a chance. Instead, Sanders offers a deliberate interpretation, juxtaposing the feel of Africa with the song's Hallmark-card, New England imagery.

Coltrane never recorded Moonlight in Vermont, but through Sanders you get to hear how Coltrane might have approached the ballad. Most important, dig Sanders' wind-down and final phrases at the tail end. The soft, free jazz tags that he adds conjures up images of geese scattering from a frozen field.

Sanders' long-time pianist William Henderson [pictured] complements the saxophonist perfectly throughout with a wide, rolling style that channels McCoy Tyner. This keyboard tribute is particularly evident on The Nearness of You. [Photo by Lisa Haskins]

Welcome to Love is an ideal introduction to Sanders and a stepping-stone to the saxophonist's more inventive, spiritual pieces. If you're more familiar with Sanders' spiritual avant-garde works and not aware of this one, you'll be plenty surprised. Either way, you'll certainly appreciate Sanders' fabulous sound.

JazzWax tracks: Pharoah Sanders' Welcome to Love was issued twice. I'm not sure why, or why the song tracks on each are slightly different. There are pros and cons to each. For example, the one that's at iTunes does not include Moonlight in Vermont. The earlier CD (pictured at left) is available at Amazon here and includes Moonlight in Vermont. But it's missing several of the tracks at iTunes. My suggestion is to sample a few tracks at iTunes. If you like it, buy the CD at left from an independent seller for about $8. Then download the missing tracks off the iTunes version.

JazzWax video clip: For a taste of Sanders, here he is playing Thembi with alto saxophonist David Sanborn on Sanborn's short-lived TV show in the mid-1980s:

10 Jazz Genius Moments (Pt. 2)

What makes a jazz recording great? Some insist it's the mix of musicians on the date. Others say it's the arranger or the energy level or the producer's standards and demands. All of these factors are important, to be sure. But to me, what truly makes a recording exceptional are only one or two moments of brilliance. These slivers of excellence catch our ear, touch us deeply and win our admiration. They cause a tipping point in the part of the brain that evaluates art and make us to fall in love with what we're hearing. These glittering flecks of fine art can turn up in the first few measures of a song, the sound of an artist's horn or during a solo passage.

Yesterday I featured 10 such "moments of genius"—isolated parts of recordings that feature incredible levels of creative invention. Today, I'm showcasing a second set of 10, again in no particular order. All are available as downloads or CDs:

Bill Evans' block-chord passage 2:08 into How Deep Is the Ocean. His touch throughout is cat-like, but when Evans shifts gears and starts to swing with dense, chunky chords after relying mostly on light lines, the contrast is pure delight. From Explorations (1961).

Gil Evans' fast swirling reed and woodwind intro to Charlie Parker's If I Love Again. Evans' smart arrangement for this failed record date sounds pixie light and easy-going. Actually, what sounds so appealing actually was quite tricky, according to reed player Hal McKusick, who was there. The introduction, for me, remains a daring and daunting bit of writing. From Charlie Parker: Big Band (1953).

Benny Golson's sound on the tenor sax following Tommy Flanagan's solo on Baubles, Bangles and Beads. As far as I'm concerned, Benny remains one of America's greatest living saxophonists. Even if you exclude his Jazztet recordings, which produced exciting works of art, his Prestige period in the late 1950s is breathtaking. When you hear Benny's oily tenor emerge after Flanagan's solo, you can't believe how beautiful he's playing. From Benny Golson: Gettin' With It (1959).

Urbie Green's tone on trombone at the start of Look to the Sky. Was there ever a trombone that sounded this patient, warm and embracing? This is music that sounds like the setting sun, thanks largely to Green's relaxing lines. From Antonio Carlos Jobim's Wave (1967).

Quincy Jones' first eight arranged measures for Pleasingly Plump. The teasing, breathless ascending line resolves in a seductive walking melody line that places a crisp flute on top. A modern swing beauty that frolics and struts. Originally on I Dig Dancers (1960), it's now available as part of Mosaic Records' box The Quincy Jones ABC/Mercury Big Band Jazz Sessions.

Larry Young's organ solo and the cymbal "conversation" that drummer Elvin Jones has with the organ on Paris Eyes. Sam Rivers on tenor and guitarist Grant Green both are tremendous here. But it's Young's energy and chord choices along with his bass pedal work and Jones' interchange that sends me. From Into Something (1964).

Wes Montgomery's chord choices that begin 3:45 into Gone With the Wind. After running octave lines on this standard, Montgomery suddenly shifts into rhythmic chords and uses them to swing the melody. From The Incredible Jazz Guitar of Wes Montgomery (1960).

Stan Getz's first 16 bars on Horace Silver's Split Kick. This was the tenor saxophonist's first recording session with Silver, whom he discovered weeks earlier at the Sundown Club in Hartford, CT. Getz plays way up high on the tenor's register, making his instrument sound almost like an alto. Yet his tone is as soft as a bunny's forehead. From Stan Getz: Early Spring (1950).

Artie Shaw's opening string arrangement for These Foolish Things. The ascending, swirling build is sensational, setting up Shaw's cool-blue clarinet. And the heartbeat tempo chosen by Shaw is perfect. From Artie Shaw: Self Portrait (1953).

Thelonious Monk's percussive notes on Reflections. Monk recorded this lesser-known composition several times. All are great, and the one that appeals to you most will likely depend on the tempo you prefer. Personally, I enjoy Reflections as a solo performance taken as slow as possible. On this particular rendition, the notes that Monk chooses to hit hardest stand out. The punctuation makes this version sound like someone falling up a flight of stairs. From Alone in San Francisco (1959).

10 Jazz Genius Moments (Pt. 1)

There are jazz albums I can't live without. There are jazz tracks I adore. And then there are mere moments in jazz recordings that blow me away. Some of these thrilling phrases and passages were planned out ahead of time by recording artists or arrangers. Others were improvised and turned out brilliantly. In either case, these subtle touches are the reasons why particular songs stand out for me and hit their target.

In Part 1 of my two-parter on "Moments of Genius" in jazz recordings, here are 10 you may or may not know or have overlooked. They're in no particular order, and all can be found as downloads at iTunes or Amazon:

Roy Haynes' drum figure that opens Charlie Parker's I Get a Kick Out of You. Roy delivers this figure on the master take just before Parker comes in on alto sax to state the melody. Roy's drumming throughout is crisp and inventive, as always. But the way he sets up Bird's entrance is fabulous. From Charlie Parker Plays Cole Porter (1954) or Charlie Parker: The Cole Porter Songbook.

Jimmy Carroll's final bars on his arrangement for Charlie Parker's Everything Happens to Me. Here, Carroll had the string section bow a single note while the piano and harp play the exact same "Big Ben" line on top of each other. A wonderful musical sigh. From Charlie Parker With Strings (1949)

Don Bagley's meaty bass solo on Bags, a Bill Holman arrangement for Stan Kenton's orchestra. The entire track is a winner, but Bagley's powerful solo backed by different instrumental configurations is terrific. One of Bill's personal early favorites for Kenton. From Kenton Showcase (1953).

Sonny Rollins' unaccompanied solo run on the opening to You Do Something to Me. A terrific straight reading with improvisational touches that hesitates, then swings forward, and virtually sings the melody line before Jim Hall, Bob Cranshaw and Harry Saunders join in. From The Bridge (1962).

Horace Silver's first eight measures of Lonely Woman. This is one of Silver's finest trio compositions. The way he sets up the feeling of imposed isolation is as touching as it is artful. From Song For My Father (1964).

Jelly Roll Morton's vocal on I Thought I Heard Buddy Bolden Say. While Morton's piano playing is incomparable on any track, including this one, his "whiskey, neat" vocal here gets me every time. "Get him a good broom to sweep with, take him away." From Jelly Roll Morton: Last Sessions, The Complete General Recordings (1938).

Erroll Garner's piano intro to Talk of the Town. Garner's descending attack sounds like someone hurtling down a flight of stairs two at a time. After the intro, Garner springs into a rollicking block-chord rendition of this standard. From Body and Soul (1951).

Chris Connor's very first word sung on About the Blues. Listen how Chris hits three notes on one word, going from "Ah" up to "bow" downshifting subtly to "ou" before using the "t" as a springboard to add "...the blues." From the Ralph Burns-arranged He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not (1956).

Johnny Williams' monster harpsichord attack on the intro to Swing Lightly. Funky, jazzy, swinging and hugely impressive delivery on such a delicate, normally well-mannered instrument. From Henry Mancini's Combo! (1960).

Dexter Gordon's first chorus on Broadway. Gordon's urgency here sounds like the No. 2 subway train rushing into the Times Square station as viewed from the first car. From Our Man in Paris (1963).

Why the Kennedy Center Hates Jazz

It seems the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts has made another honest mistake. I say "honest," because I assume the folks down in Washington, D.C., who head up the Kennedy Center are well educated and cultured. How else can one explain the decision by an organization of this national standing to repeatedly ignore jazz and jazz musicians when handing out its most prestigious annual award?

Upon opening the newspaper over the weekend, I was dismayed to read that once again, not one jazz artist was among the six individuals who were awarded the Kennedy Center's Honors for lifetime achievement in the performing arts. Instead, ribbons and medals adorned the necks of Barbra Streisand, Morgan Freeman, George Jones, Twyla Tharp, Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey.

Even more appalling than the absence of, say, Sonny Rollins, Benny Golson, Hank Jones or Dave Brubeck, were the names of some of those actually being celebrated. Two of the six honorees were British hard rockers whose greatest contribution to performance art included destroying instruments on stage, a rock opera trashing the disabled, and songs honoring acid trips. What's more, one of the two British honorees was arrested in 2003 on child pornography charges, which were later dropped though his name was added to a list of sex offenders.

Here's part of the Associated Press story from 2003:

"Rock guitarist Pete Townshend, co-founder of The Who, was cleared Wednesday of possessing pornographic images of children but still was placed on a national register of sex offenders.

"That registration was part of a formal police caution Townshend received for accessing a Web site containing images of child abuse.

"Townshend was arrested in January on suspicion of making and possessing indecent images of children. The arrest was part of Operation Ore, an FBI-led crackdown on Internet child pornography.

"After a four-month investigation, London's Metropolitan Police said Wednesday the rocker 'was not in possession of any downloaded child abuse images' but had accessed a site containing such images in 1999.

"The musician acknowledged using his credit card to enter a Web site advertising child pornography but said he was doing research for his autobiography."

Whatever. Look, like every 1970s teen, I grew up with The Who's Baba O'Riley blasting away on FM car radios. I even own the group's CDs, and there's certainly something to be said for their synth-driven influence on rock as well as their energy and craft. All that notwithstanding, it's a cultural outrage to award Daltrey and Townshend this country's most esteemed cultural award over jazz artists who truly deserve it.

The last pure jazz artist to win a Kennedy Center Honors award was Benny Carter in 1996. (Quincy Jones in 2001 doesn't really count, since he straddles so many forms of music). Hence, it has been 12 years since jazz was truly honored, complete with a taped stage tribute that's aired on national television over the holidays.

So how are honorees selected? Each year the Kennedy Center's national artists committee and past honorees present recommendations for proposed honorees to the center's board of trustees.

No matter how you cut it, the oversight is appalling. Does the Kennedy Center fear that jazz artists will somehow embarrass the institution? Do jazz musicians not qualify because their record sales aren't high enough? Or is it simply that jazz musicians haven't been clever enough to muster beltway muscle to lobby committee members on their behalf? It's very nice that the Kennedy Center holds tributes to jazz artists from time to time and invites jazz legends to play on its modern stage. The bigger question is why jazz artists aren't taken seriously and honored with the same pomp as the six who appeared in newspapers over the weekend.

The mistaken belief that jazz somehow is an angry art form played by cynical, mercurial outcasts is a stereotype that continues to linger—even though the two British musicians honored days ago made careers out of that very behavior. Jazz is a humble, improvisational art that best represents freedom and remains this country's greatest music export and asset. Throughout the 1950s, jazz and jazz musicians were repeatedly asked by the State Department to represent American art, values and democracy abroad. Jazz musicians gladly filled this role and succeeded beyond expectations. To this day, you can't go to Europe, Asia or Latin America without hearing stories from older fans about the day Louis Armstrong or Dave Brubeck came to town to perform.

Daltrey and Townshend may merit being in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (The Who was inducted in 1990), but they are hardly more significant to the performing arts than a long list of living jazz greats. Didn't Sonny Rollins record enough great music? Didn't Benny Golson [pictured] write enough jazz standards? And didn't Hank Jones play on enough critical record dates? Hasn't jazz done enough to make America proud at home and abroad, and hasn't it contributed mightily to the country's image?

Clearly performing brilliant music decade after decade right off the top of your head isn't genius enough. After a presidential campaign in which "pork," "influence peddling" and "business as usual" were excoriated, handing out awards the old fashioned way seems out of touch. I suppose it's jazz's own fault. What jazz artists need to do is collectively hire a firm of Washington lobbyists to wine and dine the Kennedy Center powers.

Ultimately, the Kennedy Center should be ashamed of itself. The good news is that President-elect Barack Obama over the weekend said that he would make the First Family's home the "people's house" and open it up for science seminars, kids groups and music—specifically classical and jazz. It also was encouraging a few weeks ago to hear Quincy Jones on the radio saying that he had spoken to President-elect Obama about giving jazz a bigger voice, and that the soon-to-be Commander in Chief had agreed with him. [Pictured: Willie "the Lion" Smith and Duke Ellington at the White House in 1969]

So why are the likes of Sonny Rollins, Benny Golson and Hank Jones and so many others worthy of this prize passed over annually for much dimmer artistic lights? Perhaps the answer rests in text on the Kennedy Center's own site:

"The Honors gala is the Kennedy Center's most important annual fund-raising event, supporting its performing arts, education, and outreach programs."

I suppose destroying instruments and celebrating negativity for more than 40 years is conveniently dismissed when the recipients have sold 100 million records. Especially if there's a good shot they may be future donors.

Interview: Danny Bank on BG

Danny Bank is one of the most recorded baritone saxophonists in jazz history. According to Tom Lord's Jazz Discography, Danny has recorded on 416 sessions (studio and live dates). To give you an idea of how large a number that is, consider this: Gerry Mulligan recorded on 376, Count Basie's baritone saxophonist Charlie Fowlkes recorded on 370, Pepper Adams on 267, Cecil Payne on 187 and Serge Chaloff on 113. Harry Carney tops Danny and everyone else on the instrument at 1,058 sessions.

In his day, Danny was one of the most in-demand studio musicians and can be found on many of the best big band dates of the 1940s and jazz sessions of the 1950s and beyond. He recorded on the Charles Mingus Octet session of 1953, the Art Farmer Septet date of 1954 and with Clifford Brown and singer Helen Merrill in that same year. He also was in Gil Evans' orchestra that accompanied Miles Davis on Miles Ahead (+19), Sketches of Spain and Porgy and Bess. These examples are just a drop in the studio-session bucket for Danny.

Now 86 years old, Danny began his professional career with Charlie Barnet in 1944 and joined Freddie Slack's orchestra that same year before being hired by Benny Goodman in the winter of 1945. On Friday, after my two posts last week on the King of Swing, I spoke with Danny about his year and a half with Goodman in the mid-1940s:

JazzWax: When did you join Benny Goodman’s band?
Danny Bank: In early 1945. All five of us in the sax section were hired on the exact same day. Al Epstein, the tenor saxophonist, and I were subbing at the time for guys in the reed section of Woody Herman’s band who had gone home on vacation. It was Woody’s Second Herd, and the band was just starting to blow. It turns out that Benny was there in the audience during my Woody performance. Popsie, Goodman's band boy at the time, was there with him. Popsie also was Benny’s valet. Before the curtain would go up, Popsie would check Benny’s fly to be sure it was up, brush his hair and get him ready for the show. Things like that.

JW: What happened during the Woody Herman gig?
DB: Popsie knew a lot of us from Brooklyn. He told Benny during the concert, “Hey, I know those guys.” Benny told him to get a sax section together and he’d listen to it the next day. So all five members of the section that Popsie got together were hired the next day, on the spot. I think Benny was putting together a new big band after being off and playing with smaller groups for a while in '44. I played baritone, Al Epstein and Stan Kosow were on tenors, and Bill Shine and Aaron Sachs played altos.

JW: After you were hired, what happened next?
DB: We recorded some tracks with vocalists [in February] and then broke in the band playing around New York. By that time, the band was sounding really good. We recorded Love Walked In, Gotta Be This or That, Clarinade and others [in March].

JW: How did Benny rehearse the band?
BG: Benny liked to rehearse a lot. Not while we were on the road but in New York. He’d call rehearsals for very early in the morning, 7 am usually, and hold them on Carnegie Hall's stage. He liked the way the band sounded there. He had had success there in 1938, of course, and the acoustics were fantastic.

JW: What did Benny think of your playing?
DB: He liked me, though he had trouble hearing low notes. His brother played the bass and another brother, of course, played trumpet. Benny once told me that he had trouble making out low notes. He said to me,  “My brother’s a bass player but he ain’t a very good one. I’ll tell you how he sounds when he plays: Thud, thud, thud [pause]. Thud, thud, thud.”

JW: How did Benny recognize your ability?
DB: Early on Harry Carney and Duke Ellington [pictured] came to hear the band. Carney was Duke’s baritone player and my hero from the time I was 13. I’d go hear him in Duke’s band all the time when I was a kid. If there were four shows in one day, I’d go with four sandwiches and stay for the entire time. So that day, after we played, Harry and Duke came over. Right in front of me Benny asks Harry, “What do you think of the baritone player?” Harry says, “Yeah, he sounds like an organ.” That was a great compliment for me because Benny loved Carney and so did I.

JW: What did Carney mean by sounding like an organ?
DB: He was referring to the low notes in relation to the rest of the band. As a baritone player, your sound has to be big but also cooperate with a lot of different instruments, like the bass fiddle and bass trombone. It has to have that texture, like an organ.

JW: What about Artie Shaw? Did Benny feud with him?
DB: Not that I saw. But I know they were rivals. Artie [pictured] and Benny worked together early in their careers for NBC in radio. They both played alto and clarinet. Artie played lead, first sax. Benny played third. By luck, Benny made it big first. A short time after he made it, Artie said to himself, “Gee whiz, if he can make it like that, I can too.” So Artie went out and got a band and had all those hits in 1938 and 1939.

JW: Was Benny a tough boss?
DB: A lot of the guys were intimidated by him. Don’t forget, the way he set the band up, I was furthest from him in the reed section. So I was at the other end of the band. I was always in that position in Benny’s band, on the outside in front of the trombones. That's how he set us up. So I was out of Benny’s reach, so to speak. But I watched him out of the corner of my eye all the time. You had to watch him. He was a conductor without a baton. He controlled the band’s downbeats and the volume with the smallest movements. [Photo of Goodman conducting by Wallace Kirkland for Life, 1945]

JW: Who also passed through the sax section while you were there?
DB: Stan Getz. He replaced Stan Kosow, who didn’t want to travel on the road any more. Stan Getz sounded great right off the bat. He got along with Benny pretty good but he didn’t last long. When we got to the West Coast on one of our tours, Stan left to marry Beverly Byrne, a girl vocalist.

JW: Who was your best friend in Benny’s band?
DB: Al Epstein. He sat next to me on the stand. I remember while we were playing the Paramount in New York, he got a case of hemorrhoids. On the Paramount stage, we sat on three-legged stools so we wouldn't take up much room. To ease the pain, Epstein went out and bought one of those inflatable pillows that look like a doughnut.

JW: Did it help?
DB: I guess, until Benny came by and saw it. He reached in his pocket, took out a pin and punctured the pillow. When Epstein came back to sit down, he saw that it was flat. He realized that Benny had punctured it, so he bought a repair kit and patched it up. On the next show, Benny saw the balloon was re-inflated. So he took out the pin and punctured it again. After a while, that little pillow was full of patches. I couldn’t help laughing. Epstein wouldn’t let him up. He’d just keep repairing it and Benny kept puncturing it. Al had a great sense of humor. We were from the same block in Brooklyn.

JW: How did Gerry Sanfino join the band on alto sax?
DB: We were playing in Columbus, Ohio. Benny called for a short rehearsal before the first show to break in Gerry. Poor Sanfino didn’t know what was coming. When he sat down, he saw there was no music. Benny told him to play Star Dust, that he would play the introduction and that Sanfino would play the chorus with the band. Well we hadn’t memorized the changes to the arrangement so we botched it up, with everyone was playing wrong notes. Sanfino didn’t know what to do. So he just closed his eyes to block out the noise and played the chorus dead on, and he sounded great. He was hired.

JW: What was Benny like overall while you were with the band?
DB: He was a pain. In those days he hired and fired as soon as he had a great band. He was obsessed with trying to recreate his original band with Harry James and Ziggy Elman. So he’d fire and hire someone else, always tinkering, always trying to improve the band to his liking.

JW: How did Benny fire people?
DB: [Laughs] Well, if we were on the road you’d get two weeks’ notice and carfare home.

JW: But how did he do it?
DB: Pretty coolly. He’d just say, “I’m going to replace this chair or that chair.”

JW: What would trigger a firing?
DB: Sometimes a musician's sound would be off. Other times it was just a quirk or personality thing. We were playing at a club on 44th Street and Fifth Avenue in New York once. Benny was trying to decide what number the band should play next but couldn’t make up his mind right away. In those few seconds, my friend Al Epstein said, “71, The Count,” which was the song that was number 71 in our book. He did it sort of like he was predicting what Benny would say. And just as Al said it, it was like a miracle. Benny said “71, The Count.” [Photo: Wallace Kirkland, Life, 1945]

JW: What did Benny do?
DB: When Al said it, Benny must have heard the echo of Al’s voice and misunderstood. When he looked over at Al and gave him that stare, I could tell there was going to be trouble. I leaned over to Al and said, “Listen, you better pack your bag, I think you’re gonna get out of here.” Sure enough, Al got fired.

JW: Did Benny think Al was making fun of him?
DB: Who knows. He just decided to replace him. As we headed west, he kept replacing people. I saw about 45 saxophonists go through that band.

JW: Did Benny fire mostly for odd reasons or was he not hearing what he wanted to hear?
DB: He was always trying to build a better mousetrap.

JW: You survived a long time.
DB: I was with Benny for about a year and half. Finally, he did come over to me and told me, “Try to change your way of playing.”

JW: How did he want you to play?
DB: I have no idea. But it made me angry, because that was after I was with the band for all that time. I gave him two weeks’ notice right off the bat.

JW: What did he say?
DB: Nothing. But I heard from Alice Hammond, his wife. She pleaded with me to stay, saying that Benny felt bad about it.

JW: Was she that involved in the band?
DB: Yes, to an extent. She was [Columbia producer] John Hammond’s sister.

JW: When she asked you to stay, why didn't you change your mind?
DB: I had already talked to Charlie Barnet [pictured] and was committed to going back with his band.

JW: Over the years, did you play again with Benny?
DB: Oh, sure, many times. I was with him on and off for about 50 years. We talked just before he died in 1986. It was an experience working with Benny.

JW: How so?
DB: Everyone will tell you the same thing. It was like working with Arturo Toscanini. Benny was a leader, a conductor. You had to keep your eyes on him the whole time. You grew and became better for it.