Photographer Roy DeCarava, whose black-and-white images of jazz musicians in the 1950s and 1960s seemed to go a step beyond those of his peers by capturing artists' authenticity, poetry and emotional commitment, died on Tuesday in Manhattan. He was 89. [Photo by Sherry Turner DeCarava]
DeCarava's images were always about the subliminal message, the perspective and the irony of everyday life for African Americans. Less interested in glossy me-too portraits of jazz artists, DeCarava was more fascinated by the jazz mood and finding that fleeting moment when feeling trumped thought. In this regard, his images were about the depth hidden within the truth. And his patience always paid off.
Perhaps my favorite quote of DeCarava's appeared, in part, in the New York Times obituary written by Randy Kennedy:
"DeCarava was drawn to his subjects, he once said, not only because of his love of the music but also because of the affinities he saw between jazz and photography, both of which depend on the understanding that 'in between that one-fifteenth of a second, there is a thickness.' "
Here are four of my favorite Roy DeCarava jazz photos:
Duke Ellington in 1967, by Roy DeCarava. This is clearly a portrait, but Duke's off-duty smile and twinkle in his left eye speak volumes about the pianist's mischievous side.
Billie Holiday and Hazel Scott at a party in 1957 by Roy DeCarava. A candid, this image expresses beautifully an artist-to-artist moment. What's particularly delightful is you never know whether they are talking in between songs or Holiday is singing while Scott is playing. The result is both confidential and intriguing, leaving you wishing you were there.
Dancers in 1956 by Roy DeCarava. We have no idea what type of music or song was playing when this image was taken. But the sculptured silhouettes tell us the music was hip, funky and exciting. Once again, mood conquers all here.
John Coltrane and Ben Webster in 1960 by Roy DeCarava. In one blurry moment, this photo speaks volumes. Despite their generational and stylistic differences, these tenor-sax giants were united by the same artistic and Civil Rights struggle. We don't know what they're celebrating, but the bond and emotional expression makes perfect sense.
JazzWax clip: In this clip, Mac McAllister put together a collection of Roy DeCarava images...
Many people think jazz went into a tailspin in the 1960s. In fact, out of commercial necessity, jazz hitched its wagon to many different music forms, from pop and soul to r&b and Latin. Each merger produced different genres. Soul-jazz resulted in organ-tenor sax combos like those recorded on Prestige. Funk-jazz was pioneered by Horace Silver and other Blue Note stars. Pop-jazz emerged with Wes Montgomery's Goin' Out of My Head on the Verve and A&M labels. Latin-jazz came in a range of forms—including jazz-funk records by Mongo Santamaria for Columbia and Atlantic. Many of those albums were arranged by Marty Sheller.
Before Tower of Power, Chicago, Blood Sweat and Tears and other pop groups that showcased grinding horn sections, Marty was writing charts for Santamaria that included chunky horn voicings and exciting rhythms. Two of his many arrangements for Mongo hit the Billboard Top Pop chart, and his work for dozens of other artists through the years has made him a Latin-jazz and jazz-soul icon. [Pictured above, from left: Unidentified, Mongo Santamaria, Marty Sheller, Steve Berrios and Julito Collazo in the early 1970s]
In Part 3 of my three-part interview with Marty, the trumpeter, arranger and composer talks about life on the road with percussionist Mongo Santamaria, his approach to arranging, working with three tenor sax jazz-soul giants, and the jazz project with strings that he's working on now:
JazzWax: What was so special about the boogaloo in the mid-1960s? Marty Sheller: When the Latin-funk beat caught on, New York had a group of musicians who were as knowledgeable about jazz as they were about Latin music. Many bands needed musicians who could play Latin and jazz-funk. Horace Silver's songs were very popular at clubs because they had energy and you could dance to them. They made you move. For example, pianist Rodgers Grant in Mongo's band played funk and jazz with equal capacity. He could vamp like Bobby Timmons on solos but then play chords behind the melody like Red Garland. Latin-jazz musicians had to be versatile.
JW: How long were you with Mongo? MS: I played with Mongo and arranged for him from the end of 1962 to the end of 1967. Then I stopped playing trumpet to devote all of my time to arranging for him and other bands. The demand for that Latin-funk sound increased significantly. Mongo encouraged guys in the band to write original material. After Pat Patrick left Mongo's band in 1964, Hubert Laws replaced him. Between me, Hubert, Bobby Capers and Rodgers, Mongo saw that he had guys who could compose and arrange. So he encouraged it.
JW: Did Santamaria speak English? MS: Oh yes, sure. But it was difficult to understand his English at first. After being with Mongo for a while, you learned the words he pronounced differently. On stage, Mongo was reluctant to speak on the microphone, so he'd often have me do the introductions. But he had an enormous presence on the bandstand and a winning smile. When Mongo spoke, audiences got the point instantly.
JW: Why is Santamaria important? MS: Mongo was one of a group of Cuban percussionists who came to the U.S. at a time when the mambo craze was happening. He brought the authentic feeling with him. But Mongo was one of those Cuban percussionists who really dug jazz. He wanted to create a different sound that was heavy on jazz but had an authentic Cuban feel. So Latin-jazz in the 1960s really starts with Mongo. And like James Brown, he influenced many rock bands in the late 1960 and early 1970s that added horns and played funky.
JW: In the 1960s, was working with Santamaria grueling? MS: Mongo was a pleasure. We both recognized each other’s respect for the music, and we both worked hard. The band toured nonstop and rehearsed often. Those were the days when a lot of Mongo’s gigs were at jazz clubs—six nights a week, four sets a night, five on the weekend. We’d spend a week or two at a club, take one day off to travel to the next place, rehearse in the afternoon and do it all again.
JW: How was the band as a result? MS: Really tight. A special thing happens in the rhythmic groove of a band that works that hard. Everyone knows exactly where the focus of a song is. You can get a great bunch of musicians together to record. If they’re really good, the recording is going to sound good. But put the musicians on the road for three or four weeks playing four sets a night, six nights a week, and they’re going to sound a lot better in the recording studio. That’s what happened. We had the same personnel for four years. The crowd’s reaction was always sensational. They were reacting to the energy, the passion, the jazz. That's what's interesting. Jazz never went away in the 60s nor did audience's excitement for it. Jazz just became part of other forms of music, and the result was energizing.
JW: Who picked the pop tunes for Mango to record? MS: At Columbia Records it was David Rubinson. At Atlantic it was Jerry Wexler. When Mongo signed with Atlantic in the early 1970s, Jerry wanted another Watermelon Man. So he put together two cassette tapes of his favorite Atlantic r&b songs. He told Mongo to pick any 10 songs for the album.
JW: But how did Santamaria play the tapes? MS: Jerry gave Mongo what looked like a large attaché case. When Mongo opened it, there were speakers that popped up and a cassette player deck inside. Jerry [pictured] said, “This is the new thing, Mongo. It’s a present for you.” Later, Mongo gave me the attaché and tapes and told me to pick the tracks and write the arrangements [laughs].
JW: Did Jerry find out? MS: Mongo mentioned to his manager what he had done. Word got back to Jerry, who said to Mongo, “I wanted you to have it.” So he bought Mongo another one. But we couldn’t come up with another Watermelon Man. The times had changed. It was the early 1970s, and people were into a whole different groove.
JW: How did you approach pop songs like Cloud 9 and Workin’ on a Groovy Thing? MS: Mongo would make suggestions, but then it was up to me. I was very familiar with all the r&b records of the day, but my feeling always came out of Mongo’s rhythm section. R&b has a strong rhythmic beat, so it wasn't hard to fit Mongo's congas and other Latin percussion in there. The key was to keep the horn parts punchy, to keep the flavor and energy.
JW: How would you describe your sound? MS: When I listen to an r&b tune, I listen first to the rhythmic groove. I have to establish that first. Then I’m listening for the turning points or hooks. Then I start placing other things on top of it. It’s almost as though I were approaching a song like a lead sheet—first the melody, then rhythmic groove and then the horn voicings to complement the melody. Remember, we were doing mostly instrumental versions of hits that had vocals. I would arrange so that nothing distracted from the melody. Figures I wrote let the rhythmic groove swing. I knew a song's melody cold, I'd arrange horn phrasings so they didn't get in the way of the melody. When it was a soloist's turn to play, I'd write background figures and riffs that would compliment him.
JW: You also arranged jazz sessions. How was Shirley Scott and the Soul Saxes in 1969? MS: Wow, we had Ernie Royal on trumpet and Hank Crawford, King Curtis and David "Fathead" Newman on saxes. Shirley was on the organ and Bernard Purdie was on the drums. Man, what a sound. I would have liked to have had more input on the material, though. The producer did the choosing, so my hands were tied. More Today Than Yesterday was strong, but the others could have been better picks. It was a pleasure working with those guys, though. No ego problems at all.
JW: Did you know the saxophonists personally? MS: Yes, and they all knew Mongo. One time King Curtis [pictured] had asked Mongo if he could do a couple of Mongo’s songs and borrow his horn section—Hubert, me and Bobby Capers—to record them. Mongo said sure. So we went into the studio. There was a song that Rodgers Grant wrote and arranged for Mongo. The sound checks went well. We played a few bars and it sounded good. So we said, “Let’s make a take.” When we were finished, it was a killer. We all knew it and we were all quiet as we waited for the guys in the booth to say something.
JW: What did the producer think? MS: Someone from the booth said, “OK fellas, let’s do one more.” King Curtis was stunned. He said, “Why? That was great!” The guy in the booth said, “Just to have one more.” King said, “What do you want us to do differently?” The guy said, “Nothing. I thought it was great. Just do it the same way again.” King said, “If you want to hear it again, play the tape.” And we went on to record the next tune [laughs].
JW: You also arranged George Benson’s Tell It Like It Is in 1969. MS: Creed Taylor or George had heard my arrangement for Cloud 9 that I had written for Mongo’s Stone Soul album earlier that year 1969. Sonny Fortune had played on it as did drummer Bernard Purdie. They called me and wanted me to arrange a song on George’s album. Creed didn’t know me but when he saw I was into jazz, he wanted me to do the entire album. George doesn’t read music but has great ears. We’d record the band first and he’d overdub his parts. That was the first time he sang on a record.
JW: What’s coming next from Marty Sheller? MS: Trumpeter Joe Magnarelli and I love Clifford Brown's album Clifford Brown and Strings, and "Mags" is going to record an album of beautiful standards with strings that I'll be arranging. He has a beautiful sound and a hip harmonic concept, so I'm really looking forward to this project. Clifford's album was also a favorite of Woody Shaw's, and Woody had me arrange We’ll Be Together Again in 1980 in that style, with strings. For Mags, I've completed When Your Lover Has Gone and My Old Flame. Next up is The Duke, which will have a Latin rhythmic groove. [Pictured: Marty Sheller, left, and Joe Magnarelli]
JW: So how did you learn to arrange? MS: Trial and error. I was very lucky in the sense that I was always around good musicians. What helped a great deal is that over my career, most of the things I’ve arranged have been recorded. Which means I was able to hear them back. A lot of arrangers never hear what they wrote because the arrangements were never recorded. What also helped is I’ve always had a desire to learn. I still do. To this day I’m never embarrassed to ask someone, “Show me what you just played.”
JazzWax tracks: Many of Mongo Santamaria's records on Columbia and Atlantic featuring the pen of Marty Sheller are hard to come by. Most have not been released on CD and are available only on used LPs. Another classic that has not been issued on CD in the U.S. is Dawn (Vaya Records) from 1977, which Marty produced. The album won a Grammy Award.
You can get a taste of Marty's touch on Feelin' Alright (1969) for Atlantic, particularly On Broadway and By the Time I Get to Phoenix. It's a download at iTunes and Amazon. You also can hear Marty's sound, which preceded Tower of Power's, on I Can't Get Next to You from the same album.
Marty also swings Latin on an arrangement of What a Difference a Day Made for the Count Basie Orchestra in 1996, with Tito Puente and vocalist India as guest artists. The track is available as a download at iTunes and Amazon off of Jazzin': Count Basie Orchestra.
In 2007, Marty released Why Deny (PVR), a brassy album in the Mongo Santamaria tradition. You can download it at iTunes or Amazon. Or the album is here on CD.
JazzWax clip: Here's Marty's hit arrangement of Mongo Santamaria's version of the Temptations' Cloud 9...
Three forces transformed Latin music in the fall of 1962. First, the grittier, slinky funk of Horace Silver, Bobby Timmons and Art Blakey had a big impact on artists, shifting Latin music away from popular Cuban dances. Second, waves of Puerto Rican immigrants to New York in the 1950s had created a new youth market for rhythms emerging from the city's Hispanic neighborhoods, particularly East Harlem. Third, hit radio and teen dance crazes like the Twist (1960) and Mashed Potato (1962) were putting pressure on Latin bands to capitalize on these pop trends. Into this swirl of creative energy stepped Marty Sheller.
A jazz trumpeter, Marty found himself increasingly playing in Latin bands by the early 1960s. The trumpet was an integral part of Latin music's personality (and still is). If you played trumpet with a jazz feel back then and could sight-read music, the odds were good that you were finding gigs in Latin bands playing clubs and dances in New York on Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights with an occasional weeknight gig as well. By the fall of 1962, Marty was playing in the newly formed band of percussionist Mongo Santamaria. Marty was in the right place at the right time.
In Part 2of my three-part interview with Marty, the masterful Latin-jazz trumpeter, composer and arranger talks about how Santamaria's hit Watermelon Man evolved, the song's importance in music history, and how he wound up with the signature trumpet solo on the hit record:
JazzWax: For those who don't know, who was Mongo Santamaria? Marty Sheller: Mongo [pictured] was born in Cuba and came to New York in 1950. He played congas in the bands of several major Latin bandleaders in the 1950s, including Perez Prado, Tito Puente, Cal Tjader and others. Mongo also is the composer of Afro Blue, which John Coltrane recorded several times in the early 1960s. In the early 1960s and beyond, Mongo's band created a new sound that added a strong Latin-jazz feel to pop songs.
JW: In the fall of 1962, what's happening with Santamaria? MS: In the late 1950s, Mongo left Tito Puente’s band and was working on the West Coast with vibraphonist Cal Tjader and percussionist Willie Bobo. Mongo started to get a lot of recognition with Tjader, whose group was small and offered Mongo more opportunities to solo. The experience also gave Mongo confidence to start his own band in early 1960.
JW: How did you wind up joining Santamaria’s band in 1962? MS: When Mongo left Tjader’s band, he formed a Charanga band with violins and flute. But when he relocated to New York, he wanted a more jazz-oriented group. So he put together a band with bassist Victor Venegas. They got trumpeter Paul Serrano from Chicago, Brazilian pianist Joao Donato [pictured] and Pat Patrick on saxes and flute.
JW: Wow, Joao Donato? MS: Yes, I know. He was terrific. But Donato left in 1962, and Chick Corea became the band's pianist. Around the fall of 1962, Mongo had a new Latin trumpet player who was very good. But by this point, Mongo's new music was geared to jazz trumpet solos. So Mongo wanted another trumpeter who could play both jazz and Latin, because the band was still getting a lot of Latin dance gigs.
JW: How did you hear about the trumpet opening? MS: I knew Victor Venegas [pictured] and Al Abreu, who had played sax in the band. They recommended me to Mongo. But Pat Patrick recommended a friend of his, Manny Duran. So Mongo called a rehearsal in the Bronx, and Manny and I came to audition. Manny and I knew each other. He was a beautiful cat. I also knew Mongo, though not well. We had met while I was playing with Pete Terrace’s band. We went on at a gig following Mongo's band, and Pete introduced me. [Photo of Victor Venegas: CreativeMusicPhotography]
JW: How did you do at the audition? MS: Manny and I played. After, Victor called me with the bad news. Mongo had asked the guys in the band who they thought would be best. Victor said most of the guys thought I would be a better fit. But Manny was a good friend of Pat’s, so Manny was hired.
JW: How did Duran work out? MS: Not so good. The band went on the road and when they got to Ohio, they were at a club for a week and the bandstand wasn’t well lit. Manny was reading the music, and he couldn’t really see the parts. So there were little mistakes here and there. Mongo heard them and took it to mean that Manny wasn’t up to the job, which, of course, wasn’t the case. Manny was a really good musician.
JW: What happened? MS: After the gig, Mongo decided that when the band returned to New York, he wasn’t going to continue using Manny. He asked Victor to call me. When Victor called me mid-week, he said the band was going to return on Friday and start rehearsing on Monday. He said that the band was going to play a few gigs that weekend. Chick Corea had already given Mongo notice and had left. Rodgers Grant [pictured] was hired but was to start at the Monday rehearsal.
JW: Which left Santamaria without a pianist for the weekend gig. MS: Right.
JW: What did Santamaria do? MS: When they returned to New York, Mongo was at disc jockey Symphony Sid’s office with Donald Byrd. Donald heard that Mongo needed a piano player and said, “If you’re really hung up, I know a young cat who reads well.”
JW: Who was it? MS: Herbie Hancock [laughs].
JW: So Hancock was the pianist for that weekend gig with Mongo? MS: Right. During the course of the weekend, Herbie [pictured] told Mongo that he had recorded a song in May called Watermelon Man and that one of the rhythms Mongo had played would fit in with his song. I don't think Herbie's Blue Note album Takin' Off with Watermelon Man was out yet. Or if it was, Mongo hadn't heard it. Herbie vamped a bit on the piano to show Mongo how the song went, and Mongo liked it. Mongo asked him to write out the music for the band, including parts for a trumpet, alto sax and tenor sax. He asked him to bring the parts down to the rehearsal. When I walked in on Monday, my part was on the stand.
JW: Who was in the front line? MS: Me, Pat Patrick on alto sax and Bobby Capers on tenor sax. Herbie had just written out the chord changes and the melody and harmony lines. The bass player played what he and Herbie had discussed. The only thing that we changed in the front line was that instead of hitting the first note, we slid up to it, almost like sirens.
JW: But Herbie wasn’t the pianist. MS: That's right. Rodgers Grant was there. But Herbie stayed to listen as we ran through it. Then he split.
JW: How did it go? MS: We rehearsed that whole week. Then we did a gig at a Brooklyn spot called the Blue Coronet Club. We played Watermelon Man among lots of other things. The crowd’s reaction to Watermelon Man was amazing. The next week we worked at same club for a week. The crowds kept growing each night, and they were asking for Watermelon Man over and over again. They couldn't get enough of it [Pictured: Marty Sheller, second from right, in Santamaria's band in 1963; click to enlarge]
JW: How did Orrin Keepnews get involved? MS: Mongo was signed to Riverside Records at the time. Our popularity at the club was getting so strong, Mongo’s manager, Pete Long, called Orrin [pictured], who was head of A&R at Riverside. He said, "You have to come and hear the crowd’s reaction to this song." The only day Orrin could make it was Thanksgiving night of 1962. But he came, and he heard it. He was taken aback. Orrin said we had to record it. So a date was set for December 17th, a Monday.
JW: Why the Battle label and not Riverside? MS: Orrin said the Riverside label was strictly for jazz. He didn’t think Watermelon Man was appropriate for the label, since it was a pop song. So he came up with a subsidiary called Battle Records. He said that we needed a B-side. So saxophonist Bobby Capers came up with Don’t Bother Me No More. Funny thing is Watermelon Man probably turned out to be one of Orrin's biggest financial hits [laughs].
JW: How did your famous trumpet solo come to be? MS: When we went into the studio to record Watermelon Man, there was supposed to be a trumpet solo, a tenor solo, a piano solo, the melody and then out. We were approaching the song the way Herbie had recorded it with Freddie Hubbard and Dexter Gordon. But when we recorded it that way, the song ran seven minutes.
JW: What happened? MS: Mongo's manager Pete Long said to us, "Forget about those snakes.” Snakes was the word used to mean when a jazz player runs scales for improvisation. Pete added, “You’ve got to cut it down to three minutes. No tenor solo, no piano solo. Just a trumpet solo. And Marty, don’t play no snakes. Play funky.”
JW: What did you think? MS: At the time, there was a popular record of I Know (You Don't Love Me No More), recorded by Barbara George [pictured], recorded a year earlier. On it, Melvin Lastie played a funky cornet solo that ended with ba-bah-banh, ba-bah-bahhh—going down on the first and up on the second. I loved that little lick, so kidding around I played Melvin’s phrase the other way around and said to Pete, “Like that?” he said, “Yes, that’s it. Play it just like that.” So that’s how my solo wound up on the record and why I played that funky line.
JW: Your solo helped launch the boogaloo beat in the 1960s, which influenced jazz and soul. MS: Whenever people praise my solo, I always give Melvin Lastie credit for his solo. I knew several musicians from New Orleans, including Idris Muhammad. We all lived in the same building on 82nd St. and Broadway. Somehow word got back to Melvin in New Orleans that I had given him credit for my solo. Well, one day Melvin came to New York to play with King Curtis. We met through Idris.
JW: How was the meeting? MS: Melvin was a sweetheart of a guy. He [pictured] was so glad to meet me, and I was so glad to meet him. He said, “Man, I heard about you. That's really great that you mention my name and give me credit.” I said, "Hey listen, that’s the truth. That’s where I got it from, from your beautiful solo.”
JW: On your solo, you let a lot of space in but there's still enormous energy and power behind the notes. MS: [Laughs] I’ve always been very concerned about doing what’s appropriate when playing in a Latin band. I've heard jazz trumpeters playing whatever they wanted in Latin settings, and that just doesn't really fit in. I’ve always been mindful to respect the authentic Latin way.
JW: How many takes did you do of Watermelon Man? MS: Just two.
JW: Whose female voice can be heard laughing mischievously on the track? MS: That's La Lupe [Lupe Victoria Yoli, known as the Queen of Latin soul]. La Lupe sang with Mongo's band for a hot minute after arriving in New York from Miami and then went on to Tito Puente's band and then to a big solo career.
JW: What did Herbie Hancock say when he heard Santamaria's single of Watermelon Man? MS: I didn’t hear, but I know that when he got his royalty check he bought a car [laughs]. Plus Donald Byrd gave him some critical advice. Donald told him, "Keep the publishing rights. Publishing is key.” So as a result, every recording of that song earned him income as the composer and publisher. And a lot of people recorded it at the time and still do.
JW: When did you realize Watermelon Man was hot? MS: It came out in January 1963. By February it was climbing up the charts. By March it was No. 1 in New York and No. 10 in Billboard's Top Pop singles chart. It was a real surprise. It's funny, it wasn't the type of song Mongo would play. But we seasoned it up. After Watermelon Man, I arranged many pop songs for Mongo, and he had great success with that sound. He had hits with Yeh-Yeh!, El Pussy Cat, Cloud Nine and Feeling Alright. I arranged the last two, and all made it onto the Billboard chart.
Tomorrow, Marty talks about the 1960s and beyond, how he approached arranging pop songs for Mongo Santamaria, and what he's working on now.
JazzWax clips: To hear how one trumpet solo influenced another, let's listen to Melvin Lastie's cornet solo on Barbara George's I Know (1961) and Marty's solo on Mongo Santamaria's Watermelon Man (1962).
The name Marty Sheller may not ring a bell. But anyone hip to Latin-jazz is aware of his enormous contribution to the music. First, that's Marty's trumpet solo on Mongo Santamaria's 1962 hit recording of Watermelon Man. The single helped launch the boogaloo, a dance beat that merged Puerto Rican and Cuban rhythms with jazz and funk. The boogaloo not only influenced Lee Morgan and Art Blakey in the 1960s but also James Brown, who incorporated the funky rhythm and horns into his riffs. Second, Marty played trumpet in Mongo Santamaria's band from 1962 to 1967, arranging and composing for many of Santamaria's big albums for Columbia Records and beyond. Marty also helped Mongo win a Grammy Award by producing Dawn in 1977.
Interestingly, Marty isn't Cuban or Puerto Rican. Nor does he speak or understand Spanish. Like many white, non-Latino jazz musicians and arrangers in the 1950s and 1960s, he found greater opportunities as a musician in the Latin idiom than in jazz. The story of how Mongo Santamaria came to record Herbie Hancock's Watermelon Man and how Marty's solo became emblematic of a sound typifies Latin-jazz's shift in the 1960s as rock and soul soared in popularity and Latin-jazz adapted.
In Part 1 of my three part interview with Marty, 69, the trumpeter, arranger and composer of more than 80 BMI-registered songs talks about being exposed to jazz and Latin music in the late 1950s, struggling in college to balance his love of jazz and Latin music with his parents' wishes, and why he finally chose Latin music over law and sociology:
JazzWax: You grew up in Newark, N.J., and now live in a town hundreds of miles away in another state called Newark. Ironic, no? Marty Sheller: [Laughs]. Yes. But they aren’t pronounced the same. Newark, N.J., is pronounced “New-irk.” Where I live, the town is pronounced “New-ark.” It took me a while to pronounce it correctly.
JW: What was it like growing up in Newark, N.J., in the 1950s? MS: I had a great childhood. Music was everywhere—on street corners, on the radio, in theaters. And all kinds of music. My high school band teacher John Coppock inspired me and encouraged me to play the trumpet. [Photo of Newark, N.J., children in the 1950s by Julius Spohn]
JW: Were you listening to jazz? MS: Yes. Most of my friends listened to West Coast jazz in early 1950s. It was easier to understand. Saxophonist Buddy Terry was in my high school band and gave me Miles Davis' Blue 'n' Boogie on an extended 45-rpm. At the time, the record went right over my head. It just didn’t catch me. I was too busy listening to West Coast guys, like Maynard Ferguson, Stan Kenton, Chet Baker and Shorty Rogers.
JW: Did you circle back to Miles? MS: Yes. I graduated high school early in January 1957 and was accepted at Columbia University. But I wasn’t due to start until September. During that period, I worked in the garden shop at a Sears store in Newark. The store was in the parking lot to keep the soil and water from messing up the store. They let me run the small shop. One day I asked my boss if it was OK to bring a radio. He said, “Sure.” Back then, disc jockey Al "Jazzbo" Collins [pictured] had an afternoon radio show. That's when I started hearing Miles Davis again, and this time I really connected with him.
JW: So that record Blue 'n' Boogie made more sense? MS: Absolutely. I went back and listened to it and I understood everything going on there. I couldn’t believe my ears and I couldn’t believe what I had missed several years earlier. One day a friend said, “Let’s go into New York and listen to live jazz." So we convinced our parents to let us go. We went to the Café Bohemia. Up on the marquee it said, “Battle of the Drums.”
JW: Who was playing? MS: The Max Roach Quintet versus the Art Blakey Quintet [laughs]. Not bad, right? We went inside and caught the last number by the Max Roach Quintet. Up on the stage was Kenny Dorham and Sonny Rollins [pictured] playing Valse Hot. I sat down and said to myself, “Man, this is something else.” This music was a New York thing rather than a West Coast groove.
JW: Did you get to hear Blakey? MS: Yes, his group with Jackie McLean and Bill Hardman came on next. Man, when they call that music hard bop, that’s exactly what it was. It was ferocious. I was knocked out. After the show, Art Blakey sat on the edge of the Cafe Bohemia's high stage with his legs dangling and gave his “support jazz by going to clubs” speech. Outside, I wrote down the names of all the musicians on the bill. I had to get their records. That experience completely turned me around.
JW: What’s your background? MS: I’m Jewish.
JW: But you have the Latin feel. MS: Many Jews and Italians became Latin players and arrangers in the late 1950s and early 1960s. We loved the music and had the passion for it. At the time, there were more Latin gigs than jazz gigs, and if you wanted to earn, you had to have the fire for both.
JW: Do you speak Spanish? MS: Not at all. I understand some but not enough to follow a conversation clearly.
JW: Did you study music when you entered Columbia University as a freshman that fall? MS: No. I studied liberal arts. My parents wanted me to be a lawyer. But I didn’t know what I was interested in. During my freshman year, I met Myron Schwartzman [pictured today], who is now an author, English professor at Baruch College and a dear friend. Back then he was a jazz pianist. At Columbia, he heard me listening to an Art Blakey record in the dorm and knocked on the door and introduced himself. We became friends. At the end of freshman year, we decided to get a gig for the summer up in the Catskill Mountains north of New York.
JW: Just like that? MS: Myron said he had met a sax player, who told him he had a friend who was a drummer with a gig up there. He said the group needed a piano player and a trumpet player, which meant us [laughs]. The saxophonist turned out to be Bobby Porcelli [laughs], which is how we met. Bobby, of course, is a monster jazz player and composer, and one of the few musicians who has played with the big three Latin bandleaders—Machito, Tito Rodriguez and Tito Puente. Bobby was the lead alto player in their bands as well as a featured soloist.
JW: How did the job work out? MS: We went up and played the gig that summer. We were all just living in a small room, just getting into the music. Whoever woke up first put on a Coltrane album with Red Garland. Bobby [Porcelli, pictured] would write out the music from the records with Jackie McLean and Donald Byrd, and we’d play the arrangements all day long in our little room.
JW: But not at night. MS: No, not at night. The guests were an older Jewish crowd. We played jazz during the day. At night they wanted easy-going pop things and standards they knew. By 11 p.m. the older crowd was gone. When they left, we asked the boss if we could go up and play jazz. We lived just under the casino’s stage. He said, “Sure.” So we had an opportunity to play together on a stage, like a group.
JW: What did you do at the end of the summer when you went back to school sophomore year? MS: That was hard. I came back and was convinced that music is what I wanted to do. There were jam sessions all over the city, so we made all of those. I was deep into music at this point. Soon I met trombonist Barry Rogers [pictured], who played in Hugo Dickens band. Bobby soon joined the band and recommended me. Hugo Dickens used to play in black social clubs all over the city on Friday and Saturday nights.
JW: How were your grades at Columbia? MS: Way down. My interest in music was too strong. When I had to choose a major, I wanted to pick music. But my father wouldn’t let me. My parents were afraid of what music would do to me in terms of drugs and so on. But I had guilt, since my father was paying, and I had to respect that. I picked a major I thought would be easy—sociology—which would let me focus on music. But at the end of junior year, it was obvious I was wasting my father’s money and my time.
JW: What did you do? MS: In 1960, I took a leave of absence from Columbia. It lasted a year. When I returned to school in September 1961, I had spent a year living on my own playing music every day and night, which was my dream life. I made it only until midterms that fall. I told my father I had to drop out, that I couldn't take it any more, that it was a waste of time and his money. So I dropped out. Everyone told me, “You only have a half year to go to get your degree.” But I was too involved in the music and didn’t want to continue.
JW: Do you wish you had finished? MS: Not at all. It was a waste of time and I would have missed out on what happened to me during that period.
JW: What did you do when you left? MS: I started gigging with Latin bands. Some of the musicians I met through Hugo Dickens' band brought me in. One was a drummer named Lenny Seed. Lenny told me he knew someone who needed a timbales player and a trumpeter for a summer gig—which was us. Lenny and I didn’t get hired, but I got a gig in a small Latin band playing at a hotel in the Catskills over the summer of 1962.
JW: Was playing Latin rhythms difficult? MS: Not really. My first instrument when I was a kid was the drums. I was very good, so I took to the unusual rhythms quickly. I had a good sense of time and tempo.
JW: How did you keep getting Latin gigs? MS: The musicians' union in New York back then was in the same building as the Roseland Ballroom, where Latin music was often featured. During the day, union musicians would hang out in the ballroom. Latin musicians hung out on the right side, jazz musicians on the left. I hung out with the jazz musicians, because I knew most of them. At the time, all the Latin bands used two or more trumpet players, so trumpeters would go first and always be in short supply for gigs on the weekends.
JW: How did you hear about those? MS: Word would filter over to the jazz side that a trumpeter was needed who could read music and play Latin. So I picked up gigs that way and wound up meeting two guys who were instrumental to my career: drummer Frankie Malabe and pianist Louie Ramirez.
JW: What did Malabe teach you? MS: Frank realized that I had time and rhythm, and he was a jazz lover. We’d listen to jazz at each other’s apartments. I used to go up to his place in the Bronx and he would set up his chair in front of me so we were facing each other. He would put on Latin records and play on my knee what he’d play on the drums to show me how the tempos went. He'd say, "Here’s how it fits in with the clave." I just took to it right away. He’d start off with the basic stuff that I could understand. Then he’d play other records with more complicated rhythms. I’d listen and say, "Wow, man, where’s the 'one?' ” [laughs].
Tomorrow, Marty talks about his big break with Mongo Santamaria, why Herbie Hancock brought Watermelon Man to Santamaria, what Orrin Keepnews said when he heard the group play it, how the song was recorded in 1962, and how Marty wound up with the only solo on the hit single.
JazzWax clip: Here's Marty's composition and arrangement of Pirana, with Mongo Santamaria on congas, Bob Quaranta on piano, Bobby Sanabria on drums, and others...
By the mid-1960s, Latin-jazz was in rapid transition. Americans' appetite for Cuban dance music had cooled as tensions between Fidel Castro and the United States heated up in the early 1960s. At the same time, new forms of Latin music were emerging from the Puerto Rican neighborhoods of New York's Spanish Harlem and South Bronx. Largely influenced by the surging popularity of soul and funk, this new Latin music featured chunkier beats and new instrument configurations. The sound would eventually become known as salsa in the early 1970s. An early pioneer of this music was pianist Eddie Palmieri [pictured], who introduced a new lyrical and rhythmic tension to Latin jazz.
Palmieri was a piano prodigy who began his recording career in 1961 after forming Conjunto La Perfecta ("The Perfect Group"). La Perfecta specialized mostly in the Charanga dance rhythm, which featured a piercing flute. But Palmieri replaced the traditional trumpets found in most Latin bands at the time with wailing trombones, and La Perfecta becoming known as "the band with the crazy roaring elephants." Palmieri also favored arranging melodies around hypnotic riffs that served as the basis for his percussive keyboard technique. Palmieri's fifth album with La Perfecta was Azucar Pa' Ti (Sugar for You). Recorded in 1965, the album was perhaps the finest expression by this group to date, featuring sophisticated boleros (ballads) and energetic son (up-tempo songs with near-shouting vocals first popularized by Benny More in the 1950s).
What makes Azucar Pa' Ti so fascinating is its varied mix of songs, fresh beats, exciting arrangements and timing. When this album was released in 1965, Latin-funk had become the rage, sparked in 1963 by Ray Barretto's [pictured] El Watusi and Mongo Santamaria's Watermelon Man. This Latin-funk (eventually coined "the boogaloo") would, of course, play a major role in the development of jazz-soul fusion on the Blue Note label when Lee Morgan's boogaloo hit, The Sidewinder, entered Billboard's Top Pop chart in 1964. But rather than swing pop, Palmieri resisted the trend to Latin-funk and instead created a glossier sound complete with a wide range of riffs and contagious beats.
Surprisingly, Azucar Pa' Ti opens slow with a bolero (ballad)—Solo Pensar En Ti ("Thinking Only of You"). The sultry composition with Ismael "Pat" Quintana [pictured] on vocal is haunting and sensual, with Barry Rogers' trombone and Palmieri's piano playing off each other in hushed conversation. Azucar is a mambo, and Los Cueros Me Llaman and Oyelo Que Te Conviene are up-tempo guaguanco tracks and emblematic of Palmieri's new sound. Lots of action up top with a steady washing-machine riff at the base.
Other highlights on the album include Cuidate Compay ("Take Care, Friend"), a Charanga-chachacha and one of the album's catchiest tunes. Tema Del Apollo ("The Apollo Theme") is a funky cha-cha-cha that grinds, catching the early feel of the boogaloo. Palmieri composed it in honor of the Apollo Theater fans. Trombonist Rogers [pictured] and timbalero Manny Oquendo with Palmieri's piano turn out a potent track.
Azucar Pa 'Ti is a historic Latin-jazz recording for several reasons. The album broke new rhythmic and vocal ground while retaining the music's sensual past. The album also marks the first recording of Palmieri playing his trademark montuno (repeated syncopated vamp) with one hand while soloing with the other. Most of all, Azucar Pa 'Ti launched a form of music that trombonist Willie Colon and singer Hector Lavoe [pictured, left and right] would leverage two years later to develop what is now known as arena salsa in the 1970s.
JazzWax tracks: Eddie Palmieri's Azucar Pa' Ti is a mid-1960s Latin-jazz classic and has recently been given a beautiful remastering. The album is available at iTunes and Amazon as a download. Or it's here on CD.
JazzWax clip: Here's Eddie Palmieri and his group La Perfecta II (featuring Karen Joseph on flute) at the 2004 North Sea Jazz Festival playingCuidate Compay, originally recorded on the 1965 album above...
Waxing & musings. Is taste subjective? In response to my thoughts last Sunday on jazz's declining taste level and how jazz musicians might improve their choices by studying the art and craft of earlier generations, I received a few e-mails from readers insisting that taste is subjective.
Actually, it's not.
Yes, everyone has an opinion, and one person's rave is another person's nightmare. But taste isn't about a point of view. Like grace, taste isn't a variable. You don't have a little taste. One has it or one doesn't, and there are no incremental shades of taste. Taste doesn't arrive randomly, nor is it acquired accidentally or without thought. Developing taste requires a conscious effort to do so and often takes years to incorporate, depending on how much work one puts into it. Once achieved, tasteful choices tend to come naturally, like a reflex. What's more, having great taste in one thing or another doesn't automatically carry over to everything else. Each requires a conscious desire to learn and adapt. [Pictured: Teddy Wilson]
In essence, taste in jazz is the editing of choices into an artistically creative and smart result. If taste were indeed subjective, our best critics would be equal to our worst. The fact is, taste in jazz (whether playing or appreciating) has everything to do with listening to and appreciating those who have it, and understanding their choices. Then you self-edit your own choices accordingly. [Pictured: Red Garland]
Ultimately, taste is an apprenticeship. Expose yourself to those with taste, and it will rub off, provided you understand what it is and you actively work to let taste govern your sensibilities and projections. Opinions are subjective. Taste just is.
Yolande Bavan. So I'm at Zabar's last week on Broadway and 80th Street (for those not in the know, Zabar's is a popular New York food emporium). As I headed up to pay, I arrived at the checkout counter at the exact same time as a woman who looked familiar. I politely offered her a chance to go first and then realized I knew her. It was Yolande Bavan, of Lambert, Hendricks & Bavan. It was a joy catching up with Yolande, whom I interviewed back in November 2007. Just goes to show that jazz legends are all around us, even at Zabar's! Here's Yolande with Dave Lambert and Jon Hendricks singing Melba's Blues on Ralph Gleason's Jazz Casual TV interview show in the early 1960s...
Duke Ellington. Film director Raymond De Felitta sent along an e-mail last week. He's hard at work on several movie projects, and his City Island with Andy Garcia opened in Rio a month or so ago and was just screened in Ghent. Raymond sent along the following clip of Duke playing his Perfume Suite, with the note: "Couldn't think of anyone I'd rather share it with"...
Clifford Brown. Symphony Sid Gribetz, heir to the bebop airwaves, alerts me that WKCR-NY will present its annual Clifford Brown Birthday Broadcast on Friday October 30. It will be a 24-hour Brown-a-thon, and you can listen here.
CD discoveries of the week. Speaking of taste, bassist Iris Ornig'sNew Ground has a gorgeous feel. It's powdery soft and loaded with gentle energy and cat-like exuberance. Ornig has a spiritual sensibility, and her pulse-like bass drives home shrewd originals and cagey harmonies. Solid work by trumpeter Yoshiro Okazaki, pianist Danny Grissett, guitarist Daisuke Abe and drummer Tony Jefferson. Ornig's many originals here (The Very Same Sensation, New Ground and others) are all seductive standouts. The album is at iTunes or here.
Trumpeter Jason Parker opens his first CD No More, No Lesswith Bashert, a vibrant original waltz. It's straight up from there. Other smart choices include Duke Pearson's Idle Moments and Sam Rivers' Beatrice. As with Iris Ornig, Parker applies just the right amount of intensity, leaving plenty of room for beauty. And as Parker demonstrates, jazz is first about listening, then planning and finally improvising. The Jason Parker Quartet features trumpeter Parker, pianist Josh Rawlings, bassist Evan Flory-Barnes and drummer DiVonne Lewis. Tenor saxophonist Cynthia Mullis joins the group on three tracks. The album is at iTunes or here.
Oddball album cover of the week. From what I can tell, "Sound Flights into Jazz" was a series of Armed Forces promo albums made in the late 1950s for airing by radio stations on Air Force Reserve bases. I'm not sure whether the recordings on these discs by leading jazz artists were originals or simply culled from already issued LPs. Either way, it's great to know that the military saw the value in the music, and that the guys piloting those Starfighters, Thunderchiefs and Blackbirds in the late 1950s were digging the strains of Joe Newman and Chris Connor before taxiing down runways and flightdecks. One would like to believe, based on the cover photo, that they were listening to the recordings in-flight.
True confession: I probably listen to David Allyn's A Sure Thing (World Pacific) from 1957 at least once every two weeks. The album features soaring charts by Johnny Mandel, and it's among the most perfect male vocal packages ever recorded. That's a pretty big statement, but you won't find much pushback from those who own it or know it. David's vocals on the record are crushed velvet valentines that never feel sticky or forced. On each track, David delivers an intimate, sincere interpretation with just the right level of passion, romanticism and storytelling.
David began singing professionally with Jack Teagarden's orchestra in 1940, and he worked with many different bands and groups throughout the decade. But David was poorly managed, and his recording opportunities dwindled in the early 1950s. Arrested for forging drug prescriptions in 1955, David was in prison until 1957. Upon release, David recorded several stunning albums and continued to record into the early 1990s. When you speak with David today, what you hear is the same firm tenderness present on his recordings. There's a courtly grace in David's voice, a sincerity and sensitivity from another place and time. [Pictured: David Allyn, left, with Tony Curtis, at a Los Angeles recording session for This is My Lucky Day, a mid-1960s album for Everest Records]
In Part 2 of my two-part interview with David, the legendary vocalist talks about Boyd Raeburn, his growing dependence on drugs, imprisonment, kicking the habit while serving time, emerging to record albums with Johnny Mandel and Bill Holman, and what Frank Sinatra did for him that Sinatra didn't do for anyone else...
JazzWax: You sang with Boyd Raeburn's band in 1945 and 1946. What was Raeburn like? David Allyn: If it was about jazz, Boyd would pick up on it. He was loyal to jazz. He had Dizzy [Gillespie], Oscar Pettiford, Lucky Thompson and other great jazz guys in his orchestra.
JW: When you were singing with Raeburn, was it hard to focus with arrangements that had instruments coming and going? DA: No. I found it easy. [Arranger] George [Handy, pictured] would tell me what to do, and I’d do it. Sometimes he’d take the band up a half step to change the key, and I’d do that, too. George shook his head in disbelief at everything I did. I approached singing like a musician. I just found where I was supposed to be and was there. I mostly stuck with the melody, but sometimes George’s influence would excite me to do something or tack on a certain phrase. George’s writing sometimes was so soulful and inspiring. I couldn't help it.
JW: Were you always sensitive? DA: Yes.
JW: Where did that come from? DA: My mother and dad. They were sensitive musicians.
JW: Why did you leave Raeburn in late 1946? DA: Boyd’s band broke up, and I did some records with Ike Carpenter for about five minutes [laughs]. I also recorded in 1949 with pianist Paul Smith [pictured] and then Johnny Richards.
JW: How did you deal with the drug scene? DA: Not very well. I started to get strung out on Boyd's band. The band came back East and then went West again and stayed in California. My drug use got worse out there. Those were horrible years.
JW: How did one get into that scene? DA: It was easy. Bird was the kingpin. He was on junk and everyone knew that. Everyone followed Bird.
JW: Did drugs improve what you were doing as a vocalist? DA: The power of concentration on junk is phenomenal. You can block everything else out. As an artist, your concentration is more intense. But it literally destroys you. In 1955, I finally got busted for forging drug prescriptions.
JW: What was addiction like? DA: You can’t do anything without it. You get sick if you don’t get the drugs in you. You start yawning, You get cramps. Your nose starts to run. There are all kinds of physical signs that your body needs the drugs. You're basically killing yourself.
JW: Did you think you sounded better on drugs? DA: I never liked the way I sang on drugs. But there were some things that I liked and some things that I didn’t like.
JW: What didn’t you like? DA: The concept you use on a song, how you're approaching it. That’s what changes.
JW: What did you like? DA: There was no one else doing the same thing I was. The drugs made me feel original. But in truth, that was an illusion.
JW: When were you sent to prison? DA: In 1955. I did 23 months at Dannemora Prison in upstate New York [pictured]. It was the worst prison in the world.
JW: Where did you kick the habit? DA: At the Tombs [New York's House of Detention] shortly after I was convicted. Then I was sent up to Sing Sing in Ossining, N.Y., before being transferred father north to Dannemora. It took a year for my body to clear up. One day you stand up against the wall, put your shoulders back and say, “Oh, this is the way it’s supposed to be.”
JW: In the Tombs [pictured], did you panic that you weren’t going to be able to get drugs to relieve your pain? DA: Yes. I had this thing with my hands. I’d lay on the floor and bang my hands against the concrete. It was as though my sickness was escaping through my hands.
JW: Were you able to sing in prison? DA: A little, but mostly in my mind.
JW: What do you mean? DA: I used to lie on my cot, cross my arms on my chest, and imagine going on stage and singing. I’d do a whole show that way, and when I was done, I’d be sweating bullets, just like I did when I came off stage, from the exertion I put into it.
JW: When you were released, were you a different person? DA: Yes. I was much more aware of what was good for David Allyn and what was bad. My concept of rehabilitation was that you can’t do anything to hurt yourself. You have to like yourself. In other words, you can’t do anything against yourself as a human being.
JW: Things were different before? DA: Before I had no self-respect and spent way too much time hurting myself. After this experience, I realized that being a human being can be a destructive force. That’s what addiction is. You get a hold of yourself, and you want to destroy yourself.
JW: You recorded in November 1957, soon after your release. DA: I was paroled to my sister in California. About a month after I got out, we went over to Dick Bock's house in Los Angeles for dinner. Dick was the owner of World Pacific Records. Johnny Mandel was there. Johnny and I had been in Boyd Raeburn’s band together. At Dick's house, John and I got together with a piano, and I sang. [Photo of Richard Bock by Ray Avery/CTSImages]
JW: What did Bock think? DA: Dick went nuts. He said, “My god, he sounds better than he used to.” Johnny said, “and on some new songs, too” [laughs].
JW: Had you been singing before getting together with Mandel? DA: I hadn’t been singing at all up to that point with anyone. I had a little pump organ, a chaplain’s field organ, and I used it to accompany myself after I got out of the joint. My sister had bought it for me for about $200.
JW: What happened next at Bock's house? DA: Dick had the idea to do an album in tribute to Jerome Kern. Johnny [pictured] and I spent weeks choosing offbeat Kern tunes and arranging. I went over to Johnny's house every day, and we shut everything out and just worked on it. At his house, Johnny would work out things on the piano and say to me, “How do you like this?”
JW: How did it go? DA: We worked perfectly together. Boy, I’ll tell ya. We worked for weeks, nonstop. Johnny still calls me to talk about that record. For the session, Johnny brought in pianist Jimmy Rowles. But for one date [November 26, 1957], Johnny couldn’t get Jimmy so he hired pianist John Williams.
JW: Which track? DA:In Love in Vain. Johnny [pictured] said, “Let’s start cold. No piano, no introduction, nothing.” John Williams played in octaves, two in his left hand and two in his right. I didn't like that. It was too simple. I said, “Come on, don’t palm it out like that." So John Williams did it the way you hear it on the album, and it sounded much better.
JW: Your next album was Yours Sincerely, in 1958. DA: That was arranged by Bill Holman. One time, the bass trumpet player was off key. I said to Bill, "The bass trumpet is flat.” Bill said, “Oh man, don’t tell him.” I said, “What do you mean don’t tell him.” I said to the guy, “Hey, push it in man, you’re flat” [laughs]. The guy did it.
JW: How did you adjust to California? DA: Fine. I was in El Segundo, CA, one time doing yard work. I had on Levis and a T-shirt. I got out of my car to go into a store. Suddenly I heard a live band. So I turned and followed the sound to an outdoor concert. Local musicians were playing, and I saw some of the guys I knew. Toward the end of the concert, a woman came out and sang. She had a marvelous voice, like a bell. At the end, the guys were all coming off the stage. I said to the woman, “Oh, Miss, your voice is so beautiful and wonderful.”
JW: What did she say? DA: She said, “Thanks.” I told her I was a singer, too. She asked my name, and when I told her, she said, “Oh my goodness, of course. I’m married to Paul Smith, the pianist.” I had worked with Paul in the late 1940s and early 1950s. Soon after Paul and his wife invited me over to their house for dinner. His wife taught singing and told me, “The first thing I play for students is your recording of The Folks That Live on the Hill. I tell my students, 'That’s what we’re shooting for.' ” What a great thing to tell me. I was so flattered. [Pictured: David Allyn with Sammy Davis Jr.]
JW: You collaborated again with Johnny Mandel in 1966, on In the Blue of Evening. DA: Johnny's wild to work with. You should see him in the studio. Wow. He’s Johnny Mandel. He’d call out notes for the string section to play or pick out exactly which musician had played a wrong note. What an ear.
JW: Give me an example of Mandel at work. DA: We were getting toward the end of the 1966 session and were about to record And Now Goodbye, the last track. Johnny said to me, “David, I only wrote the beginning and the end. There’s nothing in between.” I said, "What do you want to do?" Johnny said, “You know that part we worked out for you to sing? Go and give it to Vince DeRosa. He'll play that behind you.” Vince was playing one of the three French horns in the orchestra. Jimmy Rowles played the celeste.
JW: Did Mandel add anything? DA: Johnny said, “In the meantime, I’ll give the front line [of strings] some footballs," which are whole notes. So I went back and sang the part for Vince [pictured], who took it down. Johnny wrote the footballs. And we put it together that way. We finished the song in two takes.
JW: Did you and Frank Sinatra meet? DA: Yes, many times. We also stayed in touch by mail. We first met in
Chicago, when he was with Tommy Dorsey in 1940 or 1941 and I was with
Jack [Teagarden]. I said, "You're great," and he said, "No, you're
great." Frank was a greater supporter of mine and helped me out whenever he could.
JW: For example? DA: Frank got me work in Las Vegas and told me that if I ever needed something to let him know. But I
never bothered him. Except one time, in the mid-1980s. I was leading a
band in New York and was short about 10 charts. I had no time to get them written. So I
called Irving Weiss, who was known as "Sarge." He had been
a song-plugger at the Brill Building and was Frank's musical coordinator. He also was taking care of Frank's
music.
JW: What happened? DA: I called and said, "Sarge, I started a band and need some charts. Please tell Frank that I'd like to borrow a few."
JW: What did Weiss say? DA: He said, "Oh David, Frank never gives them out, not even to Frank
Jr." I said, "Please just do me a favor. Tell Frank it's David Allyn."
JW: What happened? DA: A few minutes later Frank called. He told me no problem, to put
together a list of what I wanted and Dorothy Uhlmann, his secretary, would send them
over. When they arrived, I used them straight out of the envelope for a
few days. Then word got around that I had them.
JW: Was that a problem? DA: Well, Dorothy called me and said a lot of different people were calling the office asking to borrow charts, saying that I had gotten them. She asked if there was anything I could do to get his name off of the arrangements.
JW: What did you say? DA: I didn't know what to do. I told Dorothy I didn't want to ruin them. Frank called, and I said sincerely, "Frank, they're obviously your charts. Everyone with an ear knows that. I can take your name off with Clorox or something, but I'll ruin them, and everyone will still know they're yours."
JW: What did Sinatra say? DA: He just laughed and said, "Yeah, I know what you mean. Just keep singing David. You’re the best." What a great guy.
JW: When you look back on your career, what would you have done different? DA: No. I'd do it all exactly the same.
JW: Which are your favorite David Allyn albums? DA: Probably the albums with Johnny [Mandel], the A Sure Thing and In the Blue of Evening.
JW: What is it about David Allyn that’s so essential? DA: The sensitivity, the understanding for the lyric. I went into those lines wholeheartedly, like I was living the lyric myself.
JazzWax tracks: Sadly, David Allyn's finest recording, A Sure Thing (renamed Sings Jerome Kern), is not available as a download or CD. It is available on LP, and copies surface occasionally on eBay for around $20. The same is true for David's other great recording with Johnny Mandel, In the Blue of Evening. As for This Is My Lucky Day, a session arranged by Bob Florence in the mid-1960s, that's available only on a Japanese CD here (with David's last name misspelled). David recorded several other albums over the years, including a duet date with pianist Barry Harris in the 1970s for Xanadu Records. But it's rather uneven and not a favorite of David's.
Now for the good news. Someone has posted three tracks from A Sure Thing on YouTube: A Sure Thing, The Way You Look Tonight and the definitive The Folks That Live on the Hill. Here's A Sure Thing (for the others, type in David Allyn + Jerome Kern in YouTube's search engine)...
JazzWax pages: David's autobiography, There Ain't No Such Word As Can't (2005), is available here.
David Allyn is a singer's singer. All jazz vocalists with a heart have a tender spot for David's warm, passionate baritone. Leading arrangers and jazz musicians from the 1940s and 1950s, including Johnny Mandel, Hal McKusick, Joe Wilder and others who came up during this era, also love David's voice and intonation. Before Chet Baker, before Johnny Hartman and before Jackie Paris, David pioneered the sensitive male ballad, and his confessional phrasing remains remarkable today. [Photo: David Allyn, left, with Jack Teagarden at the 1959 Playboy Jazz Festival]
David began his singing career with Jack Teagarden in 1940, at the same time Frank Sinatra started with another famed trombonist, Tommy Dorsey. Drafted at the start of World War II and wounded in North Africa in 1943, David was sent home to recuperate. Once restored, David joined Boyd Raeburn's [pictured] band in 1945. By the late 1940s he was recording as a solo artist backed by Ike Carpenter, Paul Smith and Johnny Richards. But drug problems in the mid-1950s led to a two-year prison term. When he was released, David recorded several stunning albums with arrangers Johnny Mandel and Bill Holman. He also performed in the early 1960s with Count Basie and worked the Playboy Club circuit in the early 1960s. In the 1970s, David recorded a duet album with Barry Harris. Today David lives in retirement.
In Part 1 of my two-part interview with David, 90, the legendary vocalist talks about his first singing break, Jack Teagarden's driving habits, the psychological impact of his World War II injury, squabbles with Johnny Bothwell in the Boyd Raeburn band, and hitting pianist Dodo Marmarosa:
JazzWax: You grew up in Connecticut, yes? David Allyn: Yes. I was born Albert DeLella and grew up in Hartford. By the late 1930s, I was singing on shows at the four radio stations in the Hartford area at the time. I wanted to become a vocalist. Bing Crosby [pictured] was a big influence.
JW: Did you start singing in high school? DA: No, I started singing at my house, with my mom. I started to get serious about singing when I was 18 or 19 years old. I had a vocal coach and sang with a guy who had an eight-piece band. I paid $2 per lesson, and he paid me $2 per appearance. It was a wash [laughs].
JW: What was your first big break? DA: Around 1939, I had a friend who owned a corner drugstore. His brother was Harry Goldfield, a famous trumpet player with Paul Whiteman [pictured]. Harry would come home from time to time on vacation. One time when he did, my friend urged him to listen to me singing on the radio. When Harry heard me, he said to his brother, “Jack [Teagarden] is looking for a singer. Maybe Jack would be interested in him.” My friend told me what Harry had said.
JW: What did you do? DA: One night when Jack was playing with his band in Springfield, Mass., a friend drove me up. I mentioned Harry’s name to Jack. Jack said, “Oh, sure. Would you like to sing a tune?” I got up and sang Time on My Hands and The Very Thought of You.
JW: How did you go over? DA: I brought down the house. Jack came up to me after and said, “We’re starting a gig next month at the Sea Girt Inn [pictured] in Sea Girt, N.J. I’d like you to join the band. I can’t pay you much but I’ll pay you what I can.” I was so excited.
JW: Did you join right away? DA: Yes. Jack was pretty happy and announced to the dancers that night that "Albert DeLella was going to join the band" [laughs]. Soon after, I started getting hate mail.
JW: Why? DA: Mussolini had been giving the Ethiopians hell, and Italian-Americans were the subject of a lot of animosity. One of the guys in the band said to me, “What about changing your name to something more American, like David Allyn." That sounded good to me.
JW: What was Jack Teagarden like? DA: Jack [pictured] was a beautiful man. He just loved everything around him and did everything with love and understanding. He got grouchy once in a while, but not much. You could always stand it.
JW: What did Jack think of you? DA: Jack loved me. I was the young kid on the band and rode in his ’39 Chrysler. I sat in the back with trombonist Jose Gutierrez. Jack always used to drive the wrong way. When we’d pull out, we’d pass cars with band members going the other way. We’d tell Jack he was going the wrong way, but Jack would say, “No, no, we’re going right. They’re going wrong” [laughs].
JW: Was Jack a good driver? DA: There was something off with his logic. One time in Miami, at dawn, he came to a stop light and instead of going through it when the light turned green, he backed up and drove across a lawn to make the turn. When he came up with a way of doing something, he stuck with it no matter what.
JW: What did Teagarden teach you as a singer? DA: How to cry. He had a cry in his voice that was impeccable. He was so passionate. He made me think much harder about what I was doing and the lyrics I was singing.
JW: This is 1940, when Frank Sinatra was also singing with a trombonist. Did you learn breath control from Teagarden? DA: No, from my dad. My dad was a French horn player. He used to practice and play with long tones. He’d tell me to put my hand on his diaphragm and hold it there. He’d demonstrate the long breath that he had. I built my diaphragm around that. I’d practice by holding long notes.
JW: Who stood out in the Teagarden band? DA: Clarinetist Danny Polo and Jack were the main attractions.
JW: Did Teagarden tolerate quirks in others? DA: [Laughs] No and yes. Jack [pictured] tended to be completely wrong about things. My thing was I’d leave things behind when we left engagements. One time I left my scarf in the dressing room of a ballroom. As we pulled away in Jack’s car, I said, “Jack, Jack, I forgot my scarf.” I needed it to keep my throat warm. Jack said, “You’re fired!” He’d fake fire me at least once a month for forgetting things [laughs]. He’d always say, “I’m going to drive you back to Hartford.” But he never did.
JW: You were pretty driven. DA: My father used to have a phrase that always stuck with me: “There ain’t no such word as can’t.” I liked the double-play there: There’s no such word, it's a contraction, and if you don’t believe in the word's meaning, you won’t buy into it.
JW: You left Teagarden at the start of 1942. DA: Yes, I went into the army. I was drafted soon after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. We were at the Hotel Sherman in Chicago when war was declared. My sister sent me a letter from the government instructing me to go to the nearest draft board to get inducted. So I did. After training, we went over to Europe on the Queen Mary as one of the first load of troops. I was in the 1st Infantry, the Big Red One. We were stationed in Kibworth, north of London. Then we were sent to North Africa, as the shock troops for the 16th Infantry.
JW: Did you see heavy action. DA: Yes. That was a tough campaign. We didn’t encounter German tanks in North Africa until later. But we were up against seasoned troops from the start. When we landed in North Africa, we were fighting Vichy French troops led by German officers. The Germans told them they had to fight for four days straight or their relatives back home would be put in concentration camps. So the French fought like mad the entire time. I was wounded at the end of March 1943.
JW: What happened? DA: We got the shit beat out of us by Rommel in a place called Kasserine Pass, a two-mile gap in the mountains in Tunisia. I was wounded at the Battle of El Guettar in Tunisia. They sent me back home. I wasn’t any good after that injury. [1st Infantry dug in at El Guettar, Tunisia, March 21, 1943; click to enlarge]
JW: The Kasserine Pass and El Guettar battles were brutal. DA: North Africa was horrible. The heat was bad. We were green troops, and the tension was unbearable. Even though we were the Big Red One, that didn’t help. Rommel knew that, and when he opened up on us, he let us have everything he had.
JW: That experience must have been especially horrible for a sensitive guy like you. DA: Well, I tried to hold myself together the best I could.
JW: When you were home, how long did it take to recuperate? DA: I’m still recuperating.
JW: But by 1945, you must have been well enough to join Boyd Raeburn’s band. DA: Well, I could get on the bandstand and sing. But socially I was nothing. I couldn’t stand people because of the war. [Pictured: David Allyn in Boyd Raeburn's band]
JW: How did you wind up joining Raeburn’s band? DA: One day I was standing in front of Charlie’s Tavern in New York with Frank Socolow, the tenor saxophonist. He said that the singer Don Darcy had just gotten fired on Boyd’s band. Frank said I’d be perfect as his replacement. I went down to where Boyd's band was playing and got up and sang Laura.
JW: What did Raeburn think? DA: I knocked Boyd out. This was at the New Yorker Hotel. He hired me on the spot, and then the band went out to California.
JW: You were in the band with arranger and pianist George Handy, saxophonist Hal McKusick, and trombonist and arranger Johnny Mandel. DA: Yes. They were so great. George was a wild man. There were always issues with George and Boyd. Johnny Bothwell [pictured], who played alto saxophone, liked to play a little sharp, which tended to throw off the band and drive George nuts. At one point it got so bad that trumpeter Tommy Allison kicked the band’s entire book of arrangements up in the air in frustration [laughs].
JW: What happened after he did that? DA: The band held an intonation meeting in Boyd’s hotel suite. Tommy Allison screamed at Bothwell, “You know where I get my A? From the singer.” Boyd used to play a tune called I Promise You. There was a part in the song where I would have to sing an A. Whenever I did that, Tommy played softly behind me. Tommy was letting Bothwell have it for always being sharp. He was saying, “If you listened to David, you’d be in key.” But Bothwell had too much ego for that. Hal [McKusick] had a great sound, even then. And Johnny [Mandel] was arranging terrific stuff [Pictured: Boyd Raeburn]
JW: Dodo Marmarosa was in Boyd's band, too. DA: Dodo [pictured] was crazy. We had a big fight. I had had a nose job, and during a dance, he kept pointing at my nose. He’d look at the dancers and then at me and point to his nose and laugh. I told him to cut it out. But he didn’t. Boyd finally came over to me and said, “David, I know you’re going to hit him. Just please wait until after the broadcast.”
JW: Did you wind up popping him? DA: Yes, sure. That’s what he needed because he never bothered me again.
Tomorrow, David talks about his years in prison and recording his landmark albums with Johnny Mandel and Bill Holman.
JazzWax tracks: David Allyn's vocals with Jack Teagarden (1940-41) and Boyd Raeburn (1945-46) are extraordinary. While David's voice isn't quite as modern as Frank Sinatra's was in 1941, there's a lush compassion in his phrasing that Sinatra adapted in the mid-1940s during his more romantic Columbia years. Sinatra would become a supporter of Allyn's in the late 1950s and 1960s, helping him land singing jobs in Las Vegas and remarking that "No one sings like David Allyn."
David's 1940-41 vocals with Jack Teagarden's orchestra can be downloaded from several different albums. David's Here's My Heart and It All Comes Back to Me Now can be downloaded from Jack Teagarden: Casey Joneshere. David singing You're All That Matters to Me, These Things You Left Me and Made Up My Mind with Marianne Dunn is on Jack Teagarden: Off to the Raceshere. A Star Told a Story is on Jack Teagarden: Sugar here.
David with Boyd Raeburn in the mid-1940s can be found on Boyd Raeburn: Jewells at iTunes. David's vocal tracks are Forgetful, I Only Have Eyes for You, Blue Echoes and When Love Comes. If you want to hear where Chet Baker's phrasing on his 1957 recording of Forgetful came from, listen to David's version from 12 years earlier.
It Never Entered My Mind, Wait Till You See Her and It Can't Be Long from the same album weren't recorded with Raeburn. They actually are from 1949 with Johnny Richards' orchestra.
JazzWax pages: David's autobiography, There Ain't No Such Word As Can't (2005), is available here.
A few weeks ago I received a text message from my wife. As she was nearing Barnes & Noble on Broadway on New York's Upper West Side, she heard the sound of a jazz flute. Wriggling through the small crowd gathered around the musician, my wife was surprised to see a young girl swinging away. My wife's text message was simple: "Get out and see this kid before she heads home. Ron Carter and his trio played on her CD." Curious, off I went. When I arrived outside the bookstore, there was 14-year-old Rachel Rodgers playing Charlie Parker's Anthropology. Her sound was, indeed, remarkably seasoned. [Picture: Rachel Rodgers at Avatar Studios in New York]
But wait, before I continue this post I think it's only fair that you be able to hear what I heard that day...
See what I mean? After I introduced myself to Rachel, I met her father Jonathan. Like any great dad, he was out there with her keeping an eye on things. Jonathan told me that Rachel pays for her own musical education and buys her own instruments with what she earns from gigs and CD sales. Impressed with her determination and swing, I asked if I could call and interview her. Rachel was game:
JazzWax: What do you enjoy most about the flute? Rachel Rodgers: I like the sound. It sounds so sweet. It makes me feels great. While I’m playing, I’m mostly thinking about what I’m hearing. Then at some point I just play and let my feelings out.
JW: Who taught you how to listen to jazz? RR: My dad is a big jazz fan and played jazz a lot when I was a baby. He played so much of it when I was little that I got used to it. I really liked the sound and wanted to find out how jazz was played. My dad also plays the drums, so I think his love of playing jazz rubbed off on me, too. [Pictured: Rachel, with her father Jonathan on drums, in Nashville]
JW: Did you have a good first teacher? RR: Yes. In 5th grade, my teacher in school, Mr. Arbiter, exposed me to jazz playing. Now I have three music teachers. For jazz flute, my teacher is Ali Ryerson. Amy Kilroy teaches me classical. I also play piano, and my piano teacher is Cary Brown.
JW: Is jazz exciting? RR: Definitely. When I listen to jazz, I feel really energetic. I also get ideas. The other day, I had to transcribe on the piano the first part of Miles Davis’ So What. He’s the best soloist ever. [Pictured: Rachel with flutist Hubert Laws]
JW: Why? RR: He has so many ideas and a great feeling. You can tell he really loved what he was doing. He’s very thoughtful with his ideas. You can hear that he thought really hard about his solos.
JW: How did you get such a mature feel on the flute at such a young age? RR: I’ve been studying for five years and listening a lot. Playing with energy isn’t that hard for me. I have really good endurance. Once I start I don’t stop. I stay focused. I love what I’m doing, and my friends support my music.
JW: Do friends ever ask you why you work so hard at it? RR: A few have asked me why I practice so much. I just tell them I’m into my thing, like they’re into theirs. Then they understand.
JW: How did you get Ron Carter and his working group to play on your CD? RR: It’s a funny story. My dad is in the advertising business. He had done a couple of ads with Mr. Carter playing the music in the background. My dad called Mr. Carter and asked him. First my dad sent him a demo of me playing. Mr. Carter listened and then said he’d love to. I couldn’t believe it. [Pictured, from left: Payton Crossley, Ron Carter, Rachel, Stephen Scott and flutist John Ragusa]
JW: Were you nervous? RR: Not at all. Mr. Carter inspired my playing. His music pours through his heart. He didn’t treat me like a 13-year old, either. He treated me like any other musician. When I asked if he wanted to take solos, he said he just really enjoyed playing behind me.
JW: What’s the meaning of your first album’s title, Summer After 7? RR: It means two different things. First I recorded it over the summer after 7th grade. It’s also the kind of music you’d listen to during the summer. [Pictured: Rachel with flutist Sir James Galway]
JW: Why does the flute sound like summer? RR: It’s the sweet sound, the sound of the outdoors. Butterflies, heat, fun—it's nice to listen to the flute in the summer.
JW: What’s next for Rachel Rodgers? RR: I hope to record my second album next summer, after ninth grade
JW: Who would be your dream star artist? RR: Esperanza Spalding [pictured]. I love how she plays. She is such an inspiring, thoughtful and creative player. Not to mention an awesome songwriter. And I don't know anyone else who can play the upright bass and sing at the same time. Or at least that well. It would be such an honor to record with her. Share a little girl power! Girls are a big part of the future of jazz.
JW: What about you recording on her album? RR: I'd love to do a great bass, vocal and flute track on her next CD. No group—just bass, vocal and flute. That would be cool. Ms. Spalding really is outstanding.
JW: Is the bass the most important instrument in a group for a lead flute player? RR: Bass players are important, but not more than other players. But the bass is the pulse of the band, so you're listening to the bass. But when you play with someone great like Ron Carter, the bass becomes the heartbeat of the band. If you know what I mean.
JW: What’s the secret of getting kids your age interested in playing jazz? RR: Listening is important, of course. And your parents need to encourage you. But most important is taking lessons from a jazz teacher at a young age. Classical is essential for the basics, but if you enjoy jazz you need to add a teacher who will show you how to play it.
JazzWax tracks: Rachel Rodgers' Summer After 7 is available as a download at iTunes and other online retailers. Or it's on CD here. On the album, Rachel plays four jazz songs (including one original) backed by Ron Carter's trio. Flutist John Ragusa appears with Rachel on Herbie Hancock's Maiden Voyage. On the remaining four tracks, Rachel is accompanied by a range of musicians, including vocalist Lynne Robyn. The album ends with Rachel playing a slow rag called Miz Tuttle Shuffle. And as you'll hear, her keyboard work is as impressive as her flute playing.
Up until 1952, Jimmy Heath's instrument was the alto saxophone. A fast study, Jimmy sounded almost identical to Charlie Parker, earning him the nickname "Little Bird." But the novelty of mimicking Parker soon wore thin, especially as the tenor saxophone emerged in the early 1950s as the more popular reed instrument. So Jimmy made the switch, and in 1953 began recording a series of important sessions with Miles Davis, Clifford Brown and Kenny Dorham. By late 1953, Jimmy was fast on his way to becoming one of the best-known saxophonists of the period. [Photo of Jimmy Heath in July 2009 by Paul Slaughter]
Then everything came crashing down. In 1954, Jimmy was arrested and convicted for drug possession and spent 4 1/2 years in prison. While serving time, Jimmy continued to play and compose. But by the time he was released in 1959, Jimmy had missed out on what's arguably the most important period in modern jazz history. Today, Jimmy looks back and views those years as just another chapter in his life, albeit an unfair one.
In Part 2 of my two-part interview with Jimmy, the legendary tenor saxophonist talks about Miles Davis and the niche he carved out, playing the baritone saxophone on two recordings, his admiration for trumpeter Kenny Dorham, his incarceration, and how Chet Baker wound up recording an album in 1956 that featured Jimmy's jailhouse compositions:
JazzWax: When you recorded with Miles Davis in 1953, you switched to tenor saxophone. Why? Jimmy Heath: I had switched to tenor a little earlier. I did that to get my own thing. I wanted to be Jimmy Heath, not Bird [Charlie Parker]. The tenor was the way to get an identity. It also was an economic move. The tenor was the fourth instrument hired around Philadelphia after a rhythm section. They wouldn't hire no alto in the early 1950s. They wouldn’t hire a trumpet either. And [laughing] they sure wouldn’t hire no trombone. If it wasn’t the guitar, it was a tenor as the fourth instrument. When I switched, work picked up for gigs.
JW: What was Miles Davis like back then? JH: Miles said the only reason he didn’t play like Dizzy is because he couldn’t. Miles wanted to play like Dizzy, but he found his own niche.
JW: What was that niche? JH: Ballads. Miles loved Freddie Webster, who had played with Jimmie Lunceford. Freddie was a guy with a beautiful sound. Miles knew him. Freddie didn’t make but a few recordings in the 1940s, and all were historic for trumpet players. Freddie got a sound curve that Miles wanted to get. Nobody wants to be just like someone else. But they’re inspired by their predecessors, and they learn what they did. Then they come up in a matter of time with their own sound. Nobody can play sax like Coltrane, Sonny Rollins or Hank Mobley. But eventually you get your own sound. Clifford Brown loved Fats Navarro, and Lee Morgan loved Clifford Brown. But each had his own thing. It’s a continuum. Miles was very talented in organizing groups and stylistically moving forward.
JW: Did you enjoy listening to Davis when you played with him? JH: Oh yeah. But when I was with him, he was missing notes and stuff, but you know, we all had to crawl before we could walk.
JW: Missing notes or leaving notes out? JH: No, it actually was missing notes. Miles played with such a good feeling that no one cared about the missing notes. He showed that it’s about the feeling, not about perfection. [Photo of Miles Davis: Herman Leonard Photography LLC]
JW: Is it hard not to get caught up on perfection? JH: You have to learn to let things go. When you practice and try to get everything in there perfectly, you wind up kind of stiff.
JW: You played baritone sax with J.J. Johnson and Clifford Brown in 1953, on Turnpike and Sketch One. JH: [Laughs] I played a couple of tracks on baritone. They were John Lewis’ compositions, and he asked me to do that.
JW: What did you think? JH: Eh [pause, followed by laughter]. I just got the horn and tried it, you know.
JW: What did you think of the baritone? Too big? JH: Oh yeah. I didn’t even want to carry it around. I could just about carry this tenor [laughs]. I had already played with Clifford [pictured] around Philly before this record date and before he went with Max and made his rep. He always was a Fats Navarro follower, and I had heard Fats. But you knew immediately Clifford was exceptional.
JW: What made Brown exceptional? JH: His facility. And his mind. And his ideas, and his sound.
JW: You also recorded with Kenny Dorham in late 1953. JH: Kenny was a romantic composer of the bebop generation. He and Tadd Dameron wrote the most beautiful melodies. Most people aren’t aware that Kenny was a guy who could play the tenor sax, piano and the trumpet—and compose and sing.
JW: Why isn’t Dorham better known and celebrated? JH: Again, it gets back to the system of No. 1. Fats didn’t get the same as Miles. If you’re not No. 1, people don’t think there’s much value, and you’re forgotten. It’s a crazy world.
JW: Dorham was kind of low-key, yes? JH: No. What do you mean, “low key?”
JW: Reserved? JH: Not really. Miles was no gregarious guy, either. Kenny Dorham [pictured] was great. He was one of my favorite guys to play with. I liked his whole musical knowledge. He was a person I would want to be considered. He was a person who could write, play, orchestrate and do all of the phases of music.
JW: You were shaped by trumpet players, weren’t you? JH: Nooo. It's just that the trumpet and tenor sax was the instrumental combination of the period. I also played with Lee Morgan, Freddie Hubbard, Blue Mitchell, Art Farmer and so many others.
JW: When you practice, what do you do? JH: Practice [laughs]. As a creative musician, when you practice, you are trying to find your own way of improvising and your own sound. You’re not reading anything. To be able to improvise is another kind of technique that needs a lot of work. Sometimes you take standards and improvise on them. Or you take sequences and work on them. You want to be able to play all over the instrument. You want to play everything you know in every key so that you’re fluent and articulate in what you’re doing when you stand up and create music on the spot. Improvisation is a life’s work.
JW: How does a musician's sound change over time? JH: Well, physical problems emerge sometimes due to your teeth or body, sometimes for the worse mostly. But if you keep practicing, you can overcome the aging issues.
JW: How long will you practice today? JH: An hour. Not as long as Trane but I don’t play as much stuff [laughs].
JW: Is there a jazz artist you wished you had played with? JH: Yeah, Duke Ellington. We met when [tenor saxophonist] Paul Gonsalves was in the band. But I never had the opportunity.
JW: Your arrest for drug possession in 1954 must have been horrible. JH: Oh yeah, it was. But you try to adjust to prison life and try to create as much as you can there. While I was there, I was still writing tunes. I wrote Picture of Heath and For Miles and Miles in prison. I got them out to Chet Baker by passing them to my brother Tootie. He gave them to Jimmy Bond, who was Chet’s bass player on gigs at the time. Jimmy gave them to Chet, and Chet and Art Pepper made an album [Playboys] that included mostly my songs.
JW: Was your sentence unfair? JH: Sure there’s an unfairness to it. There’s an unfairness when you’re an addict and you sell something to somebody to support your habit. You’re not trying to get rich as a dope pusher. You’re an addict peddler. You’re selling drugs so you can get more. There should be a difference in that when it came to a sentence. But they didn’t care if you were creative or not. A lot of people had longer sentences than I did. I was in prison for 4 1/2 years. I think Gene Ammons and Frank Morgan were in for longer.
JW: Do you look back and resent that? JH: What can you do? I can’t go back and change it. I had to restart my career, like the computer. When I came home, I had to restart. It was hard trying to catch up. You can’t catch up to the 4 1/2 years that are gone. Just missed. But you have to try.
JazzWax tracks: Jimmy Heath with the Miles Davis All Stars in 1953 can be found on Miles Davis Vol. 2 (Blue Note) as a download at iTunes. Jimmy with the J.J. Johnson Sextet featuring Clifford Brown, John Lewis, Percy Heath and Kenny Clarke can be found on the Eminent Jay Jay Johnson Vol. 1 (Blue Note) as a download at iTunes and Amazon or here on CD. Jimmy plays alto and tenor saxophones on Kenny Dorham Quintet (Debut), featuring Dorham on trumpet, Walter Bishop Jr. on piano, Percy Heath on bass and Kenny Clarke on drums. The album is available as an iTunes and Amazon download or on CD here.
Chet Baker and Art Pepper's Playboys, featuring compositions by Jimmy Heath, has been reissued with a more politically correct title and cover image as Picture of Heath (Pacific Jazz). The sextet included Baker (trumpet), Pepper (alto sax), Phil Urso (tenor sax), Carl Perkins (piano), Curtis Counce (bass) and Lawrence Marable (drums). It's available as a download or on CD here.
JazzWax pages: Jimmy's autobiography, I Walked with Giants (Temple University Press) will be published January 28, 2010.
Marc Myers writes frequently on music and the arts for the Wall Street Journal. He is author of "Why Jazz Happened" (University of California Press). In 2012, JazzWax was named the Jazz Journalists Association's "Blog of the Year."
