JazzWax

David Amram on Lester Young

Last Thursday was Lester Young's centennial. It's hard to believe but Prez (short for President, Young's nickname) never made a bad record. From his earliest session with Basie in November 1936 to his final recordings just days before his death in March 1959, Young's tenor saxophone always had a silky, pleading sound that surfaced as a blues and swing swirl. His improvisational ideas were so consistently relaxed and soulful that an entire generation of reed players unashamedly tried to sound like him—until, that is, Sonny Rollins broke the mold in the early 1950s.

While on vacation last week, I received a lovely e-mail from legendary jazz French hornist, composer and arranger David Amram [pictured], who relayed to me a wonderful personal story about Young:

"I just went to a birthday celebration I will never forget.

"Maybe some in America have forgotten Lester Young, but people all over the world are still moved every time they hear the classic recordings of this giant. Prez was someone who helped change the face of jazz, and people still cherish the moments in their lives when they heard him. In spite of all the setbacks in his own life, everything Prez did celebrated beauty and lyricism.

"Last week, on Prez's 100th birthday, I was invited to a filming at the corner of 52nd St. and Sixth Avenue in New York. There used to be a plaque on the sidewalk there honoring Prez, Billie Holiday and all the other great musicians who graced us with their presence during the street's heyday. But the plaque has inexplicably been removed and was nowhere to be seen.

"Nevertheless, the memories are still there. As I drove into the city from our little farm in upstate New York, I flashed back to being a teenager and driving seven hours in my 1932 Plymouth from Washington, D.C. to New York to hear all the thrilling new music being created every night on 52nd Street. Now all the clubs are gone, and only old photos, a few films and many great recordings remain.

"But I was there to celebrate Prez and his 100th birthday, and I imagined that maybe he would show up in that great pork pie hat and tell us some of his endless stories of his latest adventures on that never-ending road he was on most of his life.

"I walked with all my instruments over to the fountain on the northwest corner of 52nd and Sixth Avenue where Henry Ferrini had asked me to meet him. Henry is making a documentary film about Lester. As I unpacked my instruments on the sidewalk, I was eyed by people who saw I was going to be filmed.

"When I told them why I was there, many told me they had never heard of Lester Young. 'Go home and check him out on the Internet,' I said. 'You'll be happy if you do. And if you get any of his recordings, you'll be surprised how often you listen to them.'

"A day earlier, Henry [pictured] asked if I could come into the city and relate any stories about this most beloved and influential musical pioneer. I told Henry during our phone conversation about Lester's wish in his last days to have a string quartet piece composed for him—with optional French horn and rhythm section.

"I told Henry I was to compose the piece for Lester and join him in the recording. Drummer Willie Jones had suggested to Prez that I write the music. I had played with Jones in 1955 when I first came to New York and we had worked together with Charles Mingus at the Bohemia. Jones was also a friend of Lester's and told Lester that I could write a string piece for him that would let him play freely. Lester knew I was a jazz French hornist who had played and recorded with Mingus, Oscar Pettiford and others. So Lester suggested to Willie that I add a French horn to the strings and play the instrument myself.

"When I told Henry about Lester's interest in doing this, he told me he already knew about it. 'How could you possibly know that?' I asked him.

" 'Because I have a copy of the tape where Lester mentions it during an interview he gave in Paris in February 1959,' Henry said on the phone. 'In the interview with French reporter Francois Postif, Lester said that he had a man to write for strings, and a French horn and rhythm.' Henry said he knew that if the person writing a string quartet was also was adding a French horn, it must be me. [Pictured: David, left, with Leonard Bernstein]

"It blew my mind to find out that this had been documented 50 years ago in one of Lester's last interviews. I didn't realize that anyone else knew about it, since only five weeks later, on March 15, 1959, Prez passed away.

"Henry told me that he also had a printed copy of the same interview, which appeared in Lewis Porter's bio of Lester Young, and that when I came to the city to be filmed he would show it to me. Henry also told me that the actual interview could be heard on YouTube, in Prez's own voice.

"As I stood on the corner of Sixth Avenue and 52nd Street, Henry took out a copy of Lewis Porter's excellent bio and showed me the printed words of Lester talking about this collaboration, which unfortunately never happened because he left us too soon.

"As I read the passage, I could hear Lester's unmistakable soft voice and realized I was standing not far from where many of us stood during a long-gone time, hearing Prez play during the glory days of 52nd street over 60 years ago!

"Now it was time to play something for Lester in the same place where all the jazz clubs had once stood side by side, creating a little village of musical delights like Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Back then on 52nd Street, you could walk and listen outside each club if you were too young to get in. Standing there on the sidewalk, you could hear all the groups and even meet the musicians and hang out with them when they took their breaks and went out on the same sidewalk I was standing on now, as they relaxed after playing their set, to get some air, have a smoke and rap with passersby and other musicians.

"I closed my eyes and played Happy Birthday, Amazing Grace, and some blues for Prez—as a thank you to honor this amazing musician.

"Through the surrounding din of the trucks grinding their gears, car horns honking, subways rumbling and people rapping as they walked by—all of which served as a New York rush hour rhythm section and back-up band—I had a moment where I felt something of Lester's presence out there in that spirit world. Just like you sometimes feel Mozart looking over your shoulder on the rare occasions that you are doing his music justice. [Photo by Herman Leonard, (c)Herman Leonard Photography LLC]

"I told Henry that the next 100 years would be even better for Prez—and for all of us. Now a whole new younger generation can bypass decades of bad taste and neglect by a music industry that is being replaced by access to the Internet. Online, you can see and hear masters of all the sincere forms of music built to last, and relate the musical masters from Lester's place of birth in Mississippi and study how he incorporated all this into his life's journey in the work he created. And that discovering Lester was a gateway to seeing and hearing all the other artists he influenced and continues to influence.

"It is really important that this film is being made. Henry is a unique filmmaker. He spent years creating the documentary Lowell Blues, the best film ever made about writer Jack Kerouac, and one of my favorite films of all time, with a great score by Lee Konitz.

"Henry Ferrini  also plays the sax, and he made a beautiful documentary film about poet Charles Olson, which also is a gem. I am honored to be in the Lester Young tribute film. And I know it will be memorable, no matter how long it takes Henry to finish the project and get it released.

"I think as I approach the big eight-oh [on November 17, 2010] that part of my gig in life is to honor all those who I was lucky enough to know but no longer are here. There are so many wonderful people who have been dismissed or forgotten by our culture.

"Henry's film will help to remind people how proud we should all be to have had someone like Prez to enrich our lives."

—David Amram

JazzWax clip: Here's the February 1959 clip of Lester Young being interviewed in Paris, in which he refers to David's pending string and French horn composition...

Sunday Wax Bits

Waxing & musings. Last Monday my wife and I drove our  daughter back up to college. The next day we ate our way across New England. Six states in four days, 1,000 miles in all, five fill-ups at gas stations, and three to five miles of walking each day. The weather was perfect throughout, but the food is what remains most memorable.

My wife and I are hopeless food junkies. Typically, we do our homework in advance of trips out of town, often plotting routes based on favorite dishes and recommended ones. This year our drive took us east across New York State to Vermont, over the Green Mountains and then north to Sunapee Lake in New Hampshire. There, our dear friends Lisa and David cooked us a terrific meal of grilled local steaks, corn, zucchini, tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella, finished with local warm cherry pie. Lisa is an artist and David is a filmmaker, and they own a glorious country house that was built by David's grandfather early in the last century. The house has been fully restored, and our throwback visit included a late-day motorboat ride on what must be the cleanest large lake in New England. Their home is just feet from the shore, so the sound of lapping water and whispering white pines made for a sound sleep.

The next day we departed for two days in Boston. Then it was south to the coastlines of Rhode Island and Connecticut. Rather than bore you with too much nitty-gritty, here's where we ate last week should you ever find yourself roaming the roads in search of a bite:

Roscoe Diner (Roscoe, N.Y.). If you love a diner breakfast (I   do), this one has no equal. The Roscoe Diner is up along the Delaware River on Route 17. What makes breakfast here special are the sausages and home fries. The sausages are freshly made and perky with a peppery finish, while the home fries are cut large and have a wonderful, rich potato taste.

Blue Benn Diner (Bennington, VT.). Located at the foot of Vermont's Green Mountains, this place serves superb fresh raspberry and blackberry pancakes. You have to ask for fresh Vermont maple syrup, which is extra. We also tried a few spoonfuls of the regional Indian Pudding, an odd mash of baked custard with milk, butter, molasses, eggs, spices, and cornmeal. It comes with a scoop of ice cream.

Regina's Pizzeria (11 1/2 Thatcher St., Boston). In the late 1970s, when I was in college, I ate a small pie here every Friday afternoon alone at the bar, when the historic North End pizzeria was still largely undiscovered. I then made the mistake of taking a friend, which turned my solo time into a weekly party as more and more friends made the trek. I'm gratified to report that nothing has changed about the food in 30 years. I even managed to get my old seat at the bar this time. The tomato-sauce pizza beats anything I've had in New York or elsewhere. It's perfection.

Neptune Oyster (63 Salem St., Boston). This place is a relative newcomer to the neighborhood and is located about three blocks from Regina's. The fried clams (big belly mollusks) are sublime, with the crunchy breading boldly standing up to repeated lemon-wedge drenchings. The specially ordered mayo-less Lobster Roll was cold and juicy.

Modern Pastry (257 Hanover, St., Boston). The Modern still turns out the best cannollis ever.  Not too creamy, not too chunky. Also fantastic here are the freshly made torrone. This isn't the rock-hard stuff you find at most places. Its spongy-soft nougat that's dense-packed with almonds. Add an iced cappuccino and you'll find yourself with an ear-to-ear smile.

Turner Fisheries (10 Huntington Ave., Boston). Most people swear by Legal Seafood's New England clam chowder in Boston. I find it a bit thick, cream-wise. I much prefer the aromatic clam chowder at Turner, which is more perfectly balanced and loaded with chopped clams and diced potatoes. Turner is located in the Westin Hotel in Copley Square, and the soup can be ordered as room service if you're staying there.

Bar 10 (10 Huntington Ave., Boston). The best salad in town can be found here. It's called the Fattoush, a Mediterranean mix of mint, arugula lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes, feta cheese, chopped red onion and toasted pita bread crouton. It, too, is in the hotel and can be ordered as room service.

George's (Galilee, R.I.). This place has been around since 1948 and serves two regional gems: stuffies and clam cakes. A stuffy is a quahog clamshell loaded with chopped clams, breading, crumbled sausage,  celery, paprika and hot sauce. A clam cake is a fist-sized deep-fried dough ball loaded with chopped clams and black pepper. George's is located a short walk from the Block Island ferry.

Del's (Galilee, R.I.). Del's serves up an  addictive slushy lemonade that can be found at stands throughout the country. There's no better palate-cleanser than a Del's after a round or two at George's.

Frank Pepe's Pizzeria (Fairfield, CT.). The main draw at Frank Pepe's is the white clam pie. The pizzeria was founded in 1925 in New Haven and has recently expanded to Fairfield and other locations. This pizza consists of freshly shucked little neck clams, chopped garlic, olive oil and a spray of grated Romano cheese. If you adore clams, the taste is beyond belief. It's gratifying to know Frank Pepe will soon be opening a restaurant in Yonkers, NY—a fast 30 minutes from Manhattan.

Tessa Souter. If you're a singer, vocalist Tessa Souter offers personal travel tips at her blog. Among the categories covered for jazz warblers include smart ways to pack, take care of your voice and eat on the go. To read Tessa's must-read, go here.

CD discovery of the week. John Hollenbeck Large Ensemble: Eternal Interlude isn't your run-of-the-mill big band album. Rather than produce a CD with cliche swing charts, drummer and composer Hollenbeck has created a fascinating tonal collage. His expansive group features a fascinating jigsaw puzzle of instruments, including a contra-alto clarinet and whistlers. Hollenbeck's arrangements here are as restless as they are novel.

The scope of the recording is ambitious, and Hollenbeck's avant-garde compositions are exciting and cinematic, ranging from the car-chase-like opener Foreign One to the soft and beguiling The Cloud. Hollenbeck's career has been one sterling accomplishment after the next, including studies in the 1990s with Bob Brookmeyer, a Grammy nomination for his 2006 album A Blessing, and a Guggenheim Fellowship in 2007.

While Eternal Interlude isn't the kind of jazz I typically listen to, I love the excitement that Hollenbeck generates, applying one theme over the next. This is risk-taking music that's truly original and exciting.

You can learn more about Hollenbeck here. Eternal Interlude can be found as a download at iTunes and Amazon. Or on CD at online retailers.

Oddball album cover of the week. This 1962 big band album for by Little Jimmy Scott featured arrangements by Marty Paich and Gerald Wilson. Ray Charles produced and played piano on the recording, which probably explains why a Charles' album is visible on the floor under the model's limp left hand. What's odd is the position of her head and arms. It looks as though Scott just strangled her and then can't comprehend why she won't respond to his questions.

PhotoStory8: Sammy Davis Jr.

Photos of Sammy Davis Jr. in action have always grabbed me. The energy, the enthusiasm and the wham. Always the wham. Davis continues to be highly underrated as a jazz and pop singer, probably because he sadly recorded so much junk. But Davis' gems are priceless. Which is why Herb Snitzer's photo of Davis here knocks me out. When I asked Herb what was going on when he took this image, here's what he told me:

"Back in late 1959 I was the photo editor of Metronome   magazine. The editor and I decided the magazine should do a story on Sammy Davis, Jr. We felt that Sammy, in addition to being a pop singer, was deep down a jazz vocalist.

"We decided to photograph Sammy during a New York recording session in January 1960 with Sy Oliver's Orchestra, which for the most part was Count Basie's band without Basie. Sy conducted, and it was Sammy's last Decca session. On the date, Eric Dolphy was quietly sitting in with the sax section. He had replaced Frank Wess for some reason.

"I was excited to meet Sammy, having known of him for years. When we met, I was taken aback by how slight he was and how small in stature. Sammy was immediately gracious and forthcoming. He told me he was a camera buff and that he didn't mind being photographed.

"We talked for a while about cameras and film. Sammy was an amateur photographer and was curious about my Nikon SP rangefinder—my basic camera for many years. Sammy's easy-going attitude and interest in photography helped me relax. 

"When it was time to go to work, Sammy was confident and got down to business immediately. He had come into the studio in a sharp suit but took off his jacket when it was time to record.

"I made a number of images of Sammy that day but settled on the one above. I shot through the glass and into the isolation booth while he was singing No Greater Love. You can make out on the song's title reversed on the music sheet.

"I remember it was a fun afternoon. I'm not sure whether we ever ran a story or the image was ever published by the magazine. It was so many years ago. But I do recall Sammy being charming, funny and highly professional in his approach. Sadly, I never had an opportunity to see Sammy again. Precious moments that day in January 1960 to say the least."

Photo by Herb Snitzer. ©Herb Snitzer/all rights reserved. Photo used here with the artist's permission.

Herb tells me that a limited number of silver gelatin, museum finish prints of the Sammy Davis Jr. image are available for $1,000 each, plus $40 shipping/handling. For questions, please contact Herb directly at Herbsnitzer@aol.com.

PhotoStory 7: Med Flory

Today's Med Flory's birthday. Med is a Los Angeles-based saxophonist whose recordings in the 1950s are legendary for their power and swinging out-choruses. After recently interviewing Med here, I received an e-mail from Indianapolis photographer Mark Sheldon, a regular contributor to Down Beat, who sent along a few photos of Med. I loved them so much I asked Mark to provide the story behind the images:

"These photographs of Med Flory were made in May 2008 at the inaugural Med Flory Jazz and Blues Festival, a two-day event held the past two years in Med's hometown of Logansport, Indiana.

"Logansport is a small town located about an hour north of Indianapolis, and the town was proud to pay tribute to one of its own. While Med had left Logansport for New York (and ultimately Los Angeles) in 1951, it was as though he had never left. It was a blast for me to see Med mingling with family members, schoolmates, old friends—many of whom he may not have seen in decades. 

"Anyone who knows or has seen Med perform knows how serious he is about his music, but he loves to have a good time, too.

"This night was no different as he was frequently bantering with the crowd between tunes, telling jokes, throwing out a few one liners and leading them in a nice version of Back Home Again in Indiana. He remembered every word and clearly was having a ton of fun, as was everyone in attendance.

"Med is terrific to photograph, and the light falling on Med on this particular night was from the side of the stage and very dramatic, which was nice. Med's bandmates were first-call musicians including Tim Horner on drums, Stan Hillis on alto, Bill Moring on bass and the great Steve Allee on piano. Stan and Steve are from Indianapolis. Bill and Tim live in New Jersey.

"I was taking photos from behind the stage with Canon digital equipment (no flash) to make a photo of the audience while Allee was soloing. Med must have heard something that Allee played that he liked, because he spun around on his chair with a big smile on his face. That's when I squeezed the shutter to capture the photos here. All of the photos were taken in color. I used Adobe Lightroom to create the black-and-white images.

"At 81 years old, Med was still tearing it up on the alto, playing many great, extended solos throughout the night and giving the younger guys a run for their money!"

All photos by Mark Sheldon. ©Mark Sheldon/all rights reserved. Photos used here with the artist's permission. To reach Mark Sheldon by e-mail: msheldonf32@earthlink.net

"Jimmy Forrest, Basie and Me"

Los Angeles composer and arranger Roy Phillippe and I have been exchanging e-mails on a range of topics. Recently we were on a Neal Hefti tear, particularly Hefti's movie soundtracks. Following my recent post on tenor saxophonist Jimmy Forrest [pictured in the 1950s with trumpeter Harry "Sweets" Edison], Roy passed along this story:

"In 1976, Harry 'Sweets' Edison had a regular Sunday night gig at The Baked Potato, a jazz club owned by pianist Don Randi in North Hollywood, CA. I used to go see the group often. Sweets had a great band consisting of Dolo Coker (piano); Larry Gales (bass), who had recently left Thelonious Monk; Earl Palmer (drums); and Jimmy Forrest (tenor sax).

"It wasn't uncommon for other jazz greats like Sahib Shihab [pictured] to sit in. Redd Foxx stopped by once in a while for a short set of hilarious jokes. It was always a great show, especially with Jimmy Forrest there. Jimmy was a full-bodied player with a deep, rich tone. His solo feature was a ballad he wrote called Bag Of Dreams. He put everything he had into a very emotional performance and was always drained by the time the song ended.

"Despite Jimmy's powerful, confident presence on stage, he actually was a solitary, shy person. During breaks Jimmy would find a quiet spot in the club and sit by himself, having a cigarette. After hearing the band a few times, I approached Jimmy and told him how much I enjoyed his playing. Despite being withdrawn, Jimmy couldn't have been nicer or more humble in response.

"Several months later, in the fall, bassist Chubby Jackson  [pictured] presented various big bands at his club in North Hollywood called Filthy McNasty's. On one of those nights, Sweets assembled a big band to perform there, and Jimmy was on hand as lead tenor. During the show, I noticed that several players were featured on solos but not Jimmy.

"During a break, I approached Jimmy. When I asked him why he wasn't featured, he said no one had written one for him. Stunned, I offered to write a big band chart for his Bag of Dreams, and Jimmy lit up. He liked the idea and told me he was leaving Sweets' group in a few weeks to tour with Count Basie's orchestra and wanted to take the arrangement with him so Basie could audition the band playing it. I told Jimmy that getting it done in time wouldn't be a problem. I took down his address.

"At this point in my career I was working as a copyist and editor at Stan Kenton's Creative World publications. I also was Louie Bellson's copyist, and I occasionally worked at Universal and Paramount. Basie's band had always been my favorite, and after I finished talking to Jimmy, I quickly realized that if my chart worked out, I would join the ranks of Bobby Plater, Neal Hefti, Johnny Mandel, Quincy Jones, Sammy Nestico and so many others who have written Basie arrangements.

"The next day, I called pianist Dolo Coker and asked for a copy of his Bag of Dreams chord chart—the chord changes written out on manuscript paper. Then I set to work on the chart using the piano. I knew that the chart's purpose was to feature Jimmy [pictured]. So I built the arrangement around his live solo performances. I utilized a three-note pattern in the intro that he was used to. It's heard at various points in the chart.

"I started out with a six-line complete sketch in the piano key. In the case of a sketch, the saxes, for example, are written on the grand staff, like a piano part, then later orchestrated onto score paper where each instrument has it's own line.

"When I finished the score, I mailed it to Jimmy, hoping it was good enough. About a month later I received a letter from Jimmy. Basie really liked the chart, he said, and the band was playing it every night. He also asked me if I would be interested in arranging his most famous piece, Night Train, which was a big hit in 1952. Of course I agreed. Later, he wrote to say that Basie liked that one, too. I wasn't paid for either arrangement, but it didn't matter. Arranging for Jimmy and Basie was an honor.

"The next time the Basie band was in Los Angeles in 1977, Jimmy and I went for breakfast at the Players Diner across from the musicians' union building in Hollywood.  By chance, Basie was having breakfast there, too, alone in a booth. Jimmy introduced me as the arranger of Bag of Dreams and Night Train. Basie stopped eating and we spoke but he was as economical with his words as he was with his notes. He shook my hand and said, "Write more." [Pictured: Roy Phillippe]

"A year later Bag of Dreams was recorded on the album, Count Basie Big Band: Montreux '77. It was the first time I  had heard Basie and Jimmy play it. But to my huge disappointment, not a single arranger was given credit on the album. Nevertheless, I was very pleased that the band recorded it. Night Train was never recorded for an album but it does appear in the documentary, Last Of The Blue Devils. Toward the end of the film, Basie talks about Jimmy, and then the camera cuts away to concert footage of the band playing Night Train with close ups of Jimmy.

"I lost track of Jimmy after he left the Basie band and was saddened when I heard of his passing on August 26, 1980—exactly 29 years ago today. I'll never forget the great opportunity he gave me."  —Roy Phillippe

Boyd Raeburn: Summer 1945

The photo below is of the famed Boyd Raeburn band of mid-1945 (to enlarge, click once on the image). Raeburn's band during this period was an orchestra in transition. For one, pianist Harry Biss had broken a goblet in his hand and had to return to New York. To fill the position, saxophonist Hal McKusick (center of the reed section in the photo) convinced Raeburn to take back the mercurial and ingenious George Handy. Raeburn agreed, and Handy's charts wound up revolutionizing the band's sound, giving it a more intensive, experimental quality.

When I came across the photo above, it didn't have a caption identifying the bandmembers. So I turned to Hal McKusick [pictured] for help:

"It was taken in July or August 1945 at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco, where all the new sounds of the Raeburn band began. Here are the musicians I can identify:

Front row, from left: Singers David Allyn and Barbara Cox; Lenny Green, unclear, and me  (alto saxes); Frank Socolow (tenor sax); Hy Mandel (baritone sax) and Boyd Raeburn (standing).

Middle row, from left: Jack Carman, Johnny Mandel and unclear (trombones).

Back row: Joe Berisce (bass); Irv Kluger (drums); Alan Jeffreys, unclear, Dale Pierce and Tommy Allison (trumpets).

Not shown: George Handy (piano).

PhotoStory 6: Dizzy Gillespie

One of my favorite photos of Dizzy Gillespie is this one by Paul Slaughter. I love it because Dizzy has an expression not often seen in other images of the trumpet great. It's a before-the-gig look, and through his face you feel all of his creative energy and physical exhaustion. Paul picks up the story behind the image:

"I first met Dizzy Gillespie in 1970, at the home of Arthur and Joyce Dahl, in Pebble Beach, CA. The Dahls were great supporters of the arts. Arthur, especially, encouraged me in my budding career as a young photographer. I was in the Pebble Beach area to photograph the 13th Annual Monterey Jazz Festival. In the Festival program Dizzy was called “The Roving Ambassador,” and indeed he was. Dizzy would walk on stage unannounced, at any time, to jam with the other jazz musicians performing. [Pictured: Photographer Paul Slaughter and Gillespie in Los Angeles in 1985]

"The audience loved Dizzy. His remarkable ability to combine showmanship with superb trumpet playing is one terrific memory. Few jazz artists had such grace and ability. Over the years I was fortunate to photograph Dizzy at concerts, clubs and jazz festivals in the U.S. and Europe. I had an opportunity to hang out with him and his friends, such as Carmen McRae, Billy Eckstine, James Moody, and many other jazz stars. I also was able to see Dizzy in a range of moods.

"My familiarity with Diz and our comfort level together gave me entrée to photograph him backstage as well as onstage. When Dizzy saw an old friend, he'd make a high-pitched cooing sound that came out in one long breath as "ooooh." Sometimes I would call him at his home in New Jersey just to hear that coo.

"In March 1975 Dizzy was performing at Howard Rumsey's Concerts by the Sea in Redondo Beach, CA. Before the first set, Dizzy and I were backstage talking in his dressing room, which Howard referred to as the "band room." Dizzy was sitting on a sofa and holding his horn.

"Dizzy loved his cigars. Just as he was about to light one up, I asked him to hold the pose. He did. And voilá! I was able to capture the unique moment in time. I used a Nikon F2 camera with a wide-angle lens. My film was classic Tri-X 400 with no flash. Tri-X has been a favorite film of photojournalists since it was introduced in 35mm in 1954. The film works well in low light situations. Some still use it, but most photographers have, of course, gone digital. 

"Despite how he looks in the image, Diz was in a great mood that night. The photo was used in his autobiography, To Be Or Not To Bop, but the publisher forgot to give me credit. Dizzy did autograph my copy of the book."

Photos by Paul Slaughter. ©Paul Slaughter/all rights reserved. Photos used here with the artist's permission.

Sunday Wax Bits

Waxing & musings. During last week's interview with Laurie Verchomin [pictured], Bill Evans' lover during the last 18 months of his life, I received dozens of e-mails, most praising Laurie's courage and willingness to share her memories—as raw and as tender as they were. But some e-mail writers knocked Laurie for not trying to get Evans off his cocaine habit or get him into rehab. The sentiments in these e-mails were understandable. I had much the same feeling—initially.

But after talking at length with Laurie, you realize that there really are only two ways to deal with people who are determined to destroy themselves: You can kill yourself trying to stop them or you can do your best to keep the person from self-destructing too soon. The hope always is that they will have an epiphany and turn themselves around. Unless the individual is willing to change, there's really very little you can do if you want to keep your sanity and heath.

It's easy to blame Laurie for not doing more to save Evans. But this assumes Evans wanted to be saved, which he did not. In truth, Laurie kept Evans going through much of 1980 and as a result is largely responsible for much of his enormous and important output between June and September of that year—recordings we may never had heard had Evans died many months earlier.

Late last week I asked Laurie whether she still thinks of Evans:

"I dream a lot about Bill. Several months ago in a dream, I was asking him something really important to me and he turned to me and said, 'Finish the goddamn book already.' The other night I dreamed about Bill's music. It was so deep and eternal. I really had a strong desire to create something that deep and eternal. When I told my son Niko about the dream in the morning, he responded with this line: 'You are that eternal—you created me and Evan and Tara. But writing can also be eternal, so I guess you are doing pretty good in the eternal category.' "

Yes, it's about the music. But jazz is also about the individuals who made the music, warts and all. That's what makes the music special. Fortunately we have Laurie's account to help explain the jagged turmoil so evident in Bill Evans' final months.

Charles Peterson. Michael Steinman, who writes the very fine Jazz Lives blog, posted a fabulous essay on jazz photographer Charles Peterson last week. Go here.

Separated at birth. Last week Wall Street Journal jazz writer Will Friedwald passed along a link to a fun two-part series by Oakland Examiner jazz writer Brian McCoy who showcases how famous jazz album covers have been mirrored by contemporary artists. In some cases the copies are acts of flattery. In other cases (like the one pictured here), they're complete lifts. Go here and here.

Bird and Prez on the air. New York's WKCR presents its annual end-of-summer around-the-clock festival celebrating the music of Lester Young and Charlie Parker. The festival runs from Thursday to Saturday (August 27-29). You can tune in worldwide here.

CD discovery of the week. For fans of the funky electric bass, Freddie Washington dominates. Currently touring with Steely Dan, Washington brings a hip groove to everything he plays. His current album, In the Moment, was released in June and has a terrific 1970s soul-jazz instrumental sound. Unlike many electric bassists of the past 20 years, Washington plays the instrument like a guitar, soloing with enormous clarity and impact. As a fan of 1970s and 1980s soul, I couldn't resist this one. Each track has an infectious groove.

You'll find In the Moment as a download at iTunes and at Amazon here.

Oddball album cover of the week. Nearly all jazz organists in the 1970s were saddled with notoriously risque covers featuring semi-nude black female models. This one for Jack McDuff's Sophisticated Funk (1976) is actually tame by comparison, but it's out there just the same. Makes you wonder what became of the "creative" designer who decided to turn a then-modern push-button lock into a chastity belt to illustrate the album's title. Very sophisticated.

Interview: Laurie Verchomin (Pt. 5)

Today Laurie Verchomin resides in a small coastal village in British Columbia with her daughter Tara (12) and partner Brad. She also has two sons, Evan (22) and Niko (25). But back in 1979 and 1980, Laurie was pianist Bill Evans' lover. During their short 18 months together, Laurie learned about herself and the gritty underside of the jazz world—artists' obsession with music, the stress of marathon road trips, the nagging fatigue, the daily wait for nighttime, the self-absorption, multiple club sets, adoring fans who won't stop talking, and musicians with well-concealed drug and alcohol addictions. [Pictured top: Laurie Verchomin in front of a painting by Motoko; above: photo taken from Laurie's terrace in July]

Bill Evans' death on September 15, 1980 came as a shock to me, as it did to everyone who enjoyed his music. I remember attending Evans' memorial service later that month in New York at St. Peter's Church [pictured] in the base of the Citicorp Center. What I remember most was Bill Zavatsky reading his poem To the Pianist Bill Evans. Nothing that I heard on the radio that day or heard performed at the memorial sounded very good. It was as if my audio taste buds had gone numb.

In Part 5, Laurie talks about the events that occurred on the day Evans died and recalls a story that sheds light on the pianist's view of himself:

JazzWax: Tell me what happened the day Bill died.
Laurie Verchomin: It was September 15, 1980, a Monday. Joe LaBarbera, Bill’s drummer, was staying at our place in Fort Lee, N.J. Joe lived in Woodstock, N.Y., but he often stayed over when the trio had a gig. At around 10:30 a.m., we got into Bill’s maroon 1976 four-door Monte Carlo. Bill was too weak to drive. He had been in bed for quite a few days. He barely could rise out of bed to get into the car. [Photo of Joe LaBarbera by Tom Marcello]

JW: Where were you going?
LV: We were going to a new methadone clinic on the Upper East Side. Fort Lee, where we lived, is right across the George Washington Bridge from Manhattan, so the drive was to last about 20 minutes. Bill had been on methadone since he was 42 years old—in addition to the cocaine he had been consuming.

JW: How did his methadone use begin?
LV: He started methadone treatment after he was busted in the early 1970s at the airport in New York.

JW: What happened?
LV: He was heading out on a tour to Russia with a suitcase filled with heroin. He was arrested going through security at Kennedy Airport. The police put him in jail, but he was there for only one night. His first wife Ellaine, who also was a junkie, had some connections with politicians and got him off the hook. In exchange, they put both Bill and Ellaine on the methadone program.

JW: So you and Joe LaBarbera were taking him to a new clinic?
LV: Yes. The old one was cutting back his dosage for some reason. Joe was driving, I was in the passenger seat and Bill was in the back.

JW: What happened next?
LV: We were near Central Park when Bill started to expurgate [cough up] blood. The sight of the blood was a shock to him and to us. But he coolly started to direct Joe on how to get to Mount Sinai Hospital’s emergency room in the 90s on Fifth Ave. It was so strange. Bill was bleeding but calmly directing us through traffic, telling Joe how to go.

JW: When you arrived, what condition was Evans in?
LV: When we pulled up at the hospital, Bill was slumped in the rear seat, almost lying down. We got him up and walked him into the emergency room. When they saw his condition, they let us bring him into one of the patient rooms in the back. 

JW: Did he say anything to you?
LV: As he lay down, his last words to me were, “I think I’m going to drown.” He had a burst vein in his body, and it was filling his lungs with blood. 

JW: This was around noon?
LV: Yes. As I sat in the waiting room, I wondered whether Bill was doing the rope trick again. I thought, “Can someone lose that much blood and come back?" I was in there for about a half hour, wondering whether he was dead or alive. Then a doctor came out to tell me Bill was dead. 

JW: How did you feel?
LV: I felt that finally he had been released and that his suffering was over. It was the end of his journey. He had finally made it to the place he was trying to reach for so long.

JW: That day must have been horrible for you.
LV: It was a very shocking experience to have Bill leave. Once he was gone, I realized, “Now I have to live my life again and recreate it, and reintegrate this experience.” The biggest gift was to witness his death and see it at a young age. It was a positive experience for me on a spiritual level.

JW: That sounds terrible.
LV: You’re looking at it from a physical level. If you consider it spiritually, it was the end of a journey I chose to take with him. When we met, it was as though it was the beginning of a song. When Bill died, it was like a big orchestral crescendo. I remember the clouds in the sky that day, the bright red color of his blood—the entire day was like a Michelangelo painting.

JW: What happened afterward?
LV: The reality of Bill's death set in. It was very shocking for everyone. I wanted to have a celebration, with music. No one was getting that. But then nobody was as inside of the experience as I was.

JW: When you look back, how does your experience with Evans seem?
LV: Bill is with me every day. He’s helping me finish my book, like he said he would. He’s encouraging me to take my time with it and make it the way I want to do it. Once I’ve finished the book and my dialogue with him, that will be another shift in my consciousness. When this project is finished, I may have a different relationship with him.

JW: How do you think you’re different as a result of your experience with Evans?
LV: He did penetrate me with his philosophy and his consciousness. He altered my life in a way that allowed me to grow as a person and discover a lot of things I probably wouldn’t have discovered.

JW: Was he always lost in his own world—or was he conscious of others?
LV: He always was fully present. He wasn’t a chit-chatter. He was fine if he was having a discussion with some weight. But he didn’t have to say anything for people to be with him. When a person is fully present, conversation is superficial. Bill was a very private person but open to those who had the ability to listen to him. I was one of those people. [Photo by Jaap van de Klomp]

JW: What is one misconception about Bill you want to clear up?
LV: People always think that Bill was really humble. And he was. But he also knew exactly how extraordinary he was.

JW: Give me an example.
LV: One time we were on 14th Street in New York waiting for a cab. I was dressed up, wearing a ¾-length pleated skirt and suit jacket. We were on the curb when a group of kids drove by in a car and threw eggs at us. It wasn’t even Halloween. It was just New York in the late 1970s [laughs]. Well, the eggs bounced off of him onto the street but the ones that hit me broke and splattered all over my jacket. I was so dismayed. Bill noted the irony and quietly said in jest, “Just goes to show our places in the universe.”

Photo of Laurie (top of page) and the view from Laurie's home courtesy of Laurie Verchomin. Laurie is working on a book about her relationship and experiences with Bill Evans. For more, visit Laurie's site here.

For a more detailed description by Laurie of the day Evans died, visit Jan Stevens' Bill Evans Web Pages here.

JazzWax tracks: What are Laurie's favorite Bill Evans albums? 

"I am very fond of Symbiosis. But it's hard to say. You Must Believe in Spring came out during my first winter alone without Bill. He sent me home from that first visit to New York with a stack of albums to listen to. They are all love letters."

JazzWax clip: A little over a month prior to Evans' death, he was in Norway with his trio. This is remarkable footage on many levels, especially for the brilliance of Marc Johnson's bass solo. Also note the bloated condition of Evans' hands...

Interview: Laurie Verchomin (Pt. 4)

Fans of Bill Evans tend to idolize the pianist, creating in their   minds a larger-than-life figure who simmered with quiet sensitivity and restless energy. Others who knew him see Evans as a cloistered prisoner of his own making, a powerful artist with an irreversible weakness for self-destructive behavior. In this regard, Evans is viewed as a tragic figure—a meek poet-introvert held hostage by suicidal traits that surely must have been undiagnosed depression. In truth, Evans remains both portraits at once. But what may come as a shock to many fans is how average Evans was during his downtime. As Laurie Verchomin [pictured] indicates, this choice may have been Evans' bid for normalcy and a respite from the emotional gravel pit that was his professional life.

In Part 4 of my five-part series of interviews with Laurie, who was Evans' lover during the last 18 months of his life, she talks about Evans' work habits at home, his prodigious use of cocaine, taking piano lessons from Evans, and Evans' fondness for the normalcy he found at racetracks:

JazzWax: Given everything Bill was going through, did he remain focused on his music?
Laurie Verchomin: Bill engaged with music every single waking moment of each day. He took all of his resources and put them into being creative. That was his highest priority, to keep creating. He put everything he had into music. Most people can’t even consider what it’s like to put everything into something to a point where there’s nothing left for yourself.

JW: Did Evans listen to his own music?
LV: Bill was into listening to whatever he was producing at the time. He was doing a lot of composing. He had a beautiful Chickering and Sons baby grand piano in the living room. His first wife Ellaine gave it to him. He would get up in the middle of the night and play really softly because we were in an apartment building. At the piano, he would be in a state of ecstasy. Every time he sat down, he would be working on different themes.

JW: Was there a lot of reworking?
LV: No. Bill would just start playing and things would come out. It was like watching a potter at his wheel. He’d start to shape what he was playing, and soon it was formed. When it came to music, nothing was tortuous for him.

JW: Did he consume cocaine before composing?
LV: Bill was always on drugs. That was just part of who he was. He never got up because he never went to sleep the entire time I knew him. He’d lay down resting. He’d nod out. But he was never really asleep. You have no idea how much cocaine he was doing.

JW: How much?
LV: A couple of ounces a week.

JW: Is that a lot?
LV: Most people back in the late '70s then said they had a gram for the weekend. Think about how many grams are in an ounce—28 . That’s where he spent all his money.

JW: Did that bother you, that the money he earned wasn’t spent on romantic things with you, like dinners out?
LV: [Laughs] Sometimes we’d go out to dinner. You have to understand, I didn’t really have those expectations.

JW: Did you ever tell him to stop taking the cocaine?
LV: Why would I tell him what to do? He was having his life, and I was just there to witness it. I was just enjoying his company. He wasn't questioning me about the things I was doing. When you’re a young person and carrying all the conditioning of your parents, you feel so guilty about everything you do. I felt guilty I wasn’t a famous musician like he was. But I wasn’t going to attempt the impossible. I had to come to the realization early on that for me to survive in that relationship, I had to just enjoy the short time I likely had with him and be in the moment.

JW: Did Bill give you piano lessons?
LV: We had a few lessons. It was interesting. He showed me how to play a blues line and how to play a blues scale. Then he made it really clear that there was no real point in continuing.

JW: That sounds cruel, no?
LV: Not really. Bill knew I wasn’t going to become a serious piano player. That’s how he was with music. It was only for those who threw themselves into it completely. So continuing beyond a point didn't make much sense.

JW: What did Evans do during his downtime that would come as a surprise to most people?
LV: He owned a racehorse with Jack Rollins, the producer of Woody Allen’s films.

JW: What was the horse’s name?
LV: Annie Hall. It was a trotter—one of those harness-racing horses that pull a two-wheeled cart.

JW: That seems so strange.
LV: Most people aren’t aware of how much of a regular guy Bill was. He liked to go to the racetrack. He liked to bet on the horses.

JW: Was it a gambling thing?
LV: Not really. He just liked it there because no one knew who he was. He’d have a Pepsi and I’d have a club sandwich. He had regular friends there who didn’t know who he was. Everyone got to wear their polyester outfits [laughs]. Bill really valued his own time and his privacy. He had such a strong focus on the creative process that the only way he could decompress was to be in an absurdly non-creative environment, like the track. He was just like the guy next door. And he was kind and good to everyone he met.

JW: So Bill was pretty average socially.
LV: Bill developed a pattern early on. From age 14 to 28, he just focused on music, not girlfriends or having a family. Then he started doing heroin. Once he started, he could focus on music even deeper. He didn’t need a social life. He kind of streamlined his life around music and never left that zone. There were just a few people who got into his inner world. That was as much of an intimate relationship he would have with others. He had his first wife for 11 years and his second wife for 5 years. Family life was too much for him. He had to make a big space to be alone.

Tomorrow, in the final segment of my interview series, Laurie recalls the chilling events that led up to Evans' death on Monday, September 15, 1980.

Photo of Laurie (top of page) courtesy of Laurie Verchimon. Laurie is working on a book about her relationship and experiences with Bill Evans. For more, visit Laurie's site here.

JazzWax clip: While this clip isn't from the time period I'm focusing on—it's from 1975—you have to see Evans and John Lewis playing a duet on Billie's Bounce across from Marian McPartland and Patrice Rushen...