Waxing & musings. As jazz fans, we live in amazing times. Whatever period you enjoy, most of what you want is available online someplace as a download. Or it's easy to order. No matter how obscure, a quick Google search usually unearths the album or tracks.
Back in the 1970s, you had to walk the streets looking for the LPs you wanted. Many times what you were seeking wasn't in print. Or it was out of stock. Or if it was in stock, there was a high risk there was a defect. The most common flaw was that an album would be "warped." Meaning that when you put the record on, there was a wave in the vinyl that caused the needle to ride up and down when the imperfection came around. If the needle didn't leave the surface, you had distortion. If it did, you had a skip.
One double album that I bought in 1973 that suffered from this problem was Sonny Stitt's I Cover the Waterfront, a compilation of the saxophonist's Argo/Cadet material. The cover was absolutely gorgeous. It featured a photo of what appeared to be a commercial fishing vessel slipping silently through the water as viewed from between two large rocks. What made the photo by P.B. Kaplan so appealing was that it was taken with a red filter (or a red wash was applied afterward). The album was blood red, with yellow type. Genius art direction by Neil Terk.
The problem with the double LP was that the first of the two records had a skip halfway into How High the Moon. No matter how many times I exchanged the warped version for a new one, the same skip would be in the exact same place. So within the LP hunt process was another hunt—for a flawless version. I must have exchanged the album 10 times. At which point the Sam Goody store was wiped out of copies.
When I finally was confronted with the choice of exchanging it for something else, I hesitated. Looking longingly at the double album on the counter and listening to the clerk's fingers drum impatiently, I decided to give up and keep it, flaw and all. I loved the cover too much.
Point being that today it's so easy to get perfect recordings of whatever we want without ever getting up from the computer. Some people look back nostalgically at those days of the Great Vinyl Hunt. Not me. LPs were fine then but they were painfully inconvenient, since you had to get up from your chair to turn them over or take them off. They also had to be cleaned delicately with a solution and filed carefully on a shelf so you could find it again later. I'm one of those listeners who happen to love today's digital technology. I can write and listen without worrying about tending to the medium. But as I hold my 36-year-old copy of I Cover the Waterfront, I'm reminded how much I miss big colorful album covers and large-size liner notes.
Paul Desmond. Doug Ramsey at Rifftides has a terrific post on alto saxophonist Paul Desmond's decision in 1974 to resume playing in a club setting. Doug includes a wonderful YouTube clip featuring a rare TV interview of Desmond on Canadian TV in 1976.
Desmond's body language speaks volumes about his discomfort with television. Unfortunately, the interviewer didn't sufficiently warm him up and went too personal too fast, causing Desmond to nearly close down. It's fascinating stuff, especially if you've never heard Desmond speak. Go here.
Bobby Shew. After my interview series last week with trumpeter Bobby Shew, he sent along the following email. What a nice guy!
"Thanks again. You can't believe how many people are emailing me about having read these installments. It looks as if my career is getting a re-start, thanks to you! I guess I'd better keep practicing!!"
Bobby also sent along the following clip featuring a whimsical perspective on today's use of the English language.
George Avakian. Wall Street Journal jazz writer Will Friedwald will conduct a conversation with legendary producer George Avakian [pictured] on Wednesday March 17th in New York. The event will take place at St. Peter's Church (619 Lexington Ave. at 54th St.) and start at 7:30 p.m. Admission is free.
CD discovery of the week. One of the most beautiful albums of 2008 that was largely overlooked by the media (including me) is Duets, featuring pianist Carlos Franzetti and bassist Eddie Gomez. The CD won the 2009 Latin Grammy for Best Instrumental Album. It should have won a Grammy as well.
Franzetti is a virtuoso player who was born in Argentina and moved to the U.S. in 1974, graduating from the Juilliard School of Music. His poetic, passionate sound on the keyboard is the perfect match placed up against the sympathetic, restless bass of Eddie Gomez, who, of course, spent years collaborating with pianist Bill Evans.
Dig what the duo does with the ballad If You Could See Me Now or the light bossa nova Pensativa. Or the lyricism they bring to Love Letter and Sometime Ago. Every note and chord voicing counts, and the music sounds intimate and up-close without ever losing its balance or joy.
Oddball album cover of the week. Smart album, dumb cover concept. This 1957 session was recorded for Roulette and featured Ray Copeland and Leon Merian (trumpets), Jimmy Cleveland and Jim Dahl (trombones), George Dorsey (alto sax, flute), Sahib Shihab (alto and baritone saxes), Aaron Sachs (clarinet and tenor sax), Pritchard Chessman (baritone sax), Hank Jones (piano) and/or Nat Pierce (piano), Clyde Lombardi (bass) and Specs Powell (drums). Hey, why use your imagination when an open moving van will do?
By the way, if you want this gem, I found it at iTunes with a different cover for $5.99.
And Guy Kopelowicz just wrote in from France to tell me that the cover photo was by Chuck Stewart and the arrangements are by trumpeter Ray Copeland.
Bobby Shew turns up on the tastiest recordings. A long-time jazz trumpeter and studio musician, Bobby has a warm, solid tone and gracefully hits all the right notes with understated clarity and confidence. In the 1970s and 1980s, Bobby recorded extensively with the bands of Toshiko Akiyoshi/Lew Tabackin and Louie Bellson. More recently he has recorded steadily with big bands in Los Angeles and has led many small-group recordings.
Bobby built his chops while playing first trumpet in Buddy Rich's
mid-1960s band. Though he was in the band just shy of two years, he became a favorite of Rich's, largely because of his all-out playing style and teddy-bear personality. When you speak with Bobby, you realize immediately that he's a strong, kind-hearted guy who loves jazz and fans who love the music. [Pictured: Shew, right, in a recoding studio with trumpeter Scott Wilson]
In Part 3 of my three-part interview series with Bobby on his Buddy Rich years, the trumpeter talks about the big band's most popular recordings and how he wound up leaving Rich:
JazzWax: Did the Buddy Rich band enjoy playing West Side Story Medley? Bobby Shew: Very much. That was an arrangement by Bill Reddie. He was hired to write it for Buddy.
JW: Who was Bill Reddie? BS: Bill led the house band at the Dunes Hotel in Las Vegas. Back then, all the big hotels had floorshows. Today, a floorshow seems passe compared to all the digital technology and larger-than-life stuff you see. But back then, a floorshow was an extravaganza. That's how the Vegas casino-hotels attracted guests, with homegrown entertainment. You'd have headliners, of course. But you'd also have these elaborate musical revues with dancers and orchestras. Reddie was the guy responsible for coming up with songs and skits and things for the Dunes. West Side Story Medley, with all its moving parts, was a natural for an arranger like Reddie.
JW: Was West Side Story Medley tricky for Rich, who didn't read music? BS: We rehearsed it with a different drummer while Buddy sat in the audience seats. It took us a few hours to put it together after rehearsing the different sections. After we had it down, Buddy jumped up and played it through without a single mistake. He had memorized the whole thing. The guy had the most natural instincts.
JW: What about Reddie's other charts? BS: After West Side Story Medley became popular, he brought in Channel One Suite and Machine. They were taken out of his Casino De Paris show at the Dunes. I know because I played both of them there when I sat in.
JW: What was the origin of Channel One Suite? BS: The Dunes show included a paper prop of a humongous TV screen. Showgirls came through the back of it. The channel on the prop was set to Channel 1. Bill just took that piece and brought it into Buddy's band. It was a great chart. JW: The same thing with Machine? BS: Yes. On the Casino De Paris stage, they had a machine set up. You know, The Octopus ride they used to have at amusement parks in the 1960s? It was black with all these mechanized tentacles and open cars attached. People would sit in the cars and get whizzed around when the tentacles started moving. Except in the revue, showgirls were in the cars. The song Bill wrote for this was called Machine.
JW: Reddie was a good writer? BS: A hell of a writer.
JW: Where did Basically Blues come from? BS: Phil Wilson wrote it for the NORAD band. After he got out of the Army, he sent it to Buddy.
JW: How did you wind up leaving Buddy's band? BS: Buddy fired me in 1968.
JW: What happened? BS: We were in San Diego doing a concert there. After the show, there were press people mingling on the other side of the curtain on stage. I got into an argument with Buddy and chewed him out. Now with Buddy, you could call him the worst names in the world when no one was around. But in this situation, the press had heard me.
JW: What did you say to Rich that got him so angry? BS: Something like, "Why don't you just play the drums and leave the music to us."
JW: What happened? BS: I didn't know the press people were there but Buddy did. After I said it, Buddy got this look on his face. Then he very quietly said, "You're through." In the past, when Buddy would fire me, there had always been screaming and then a call later asking me to stay. This time he almost whispered it calmly, and I felt what he said go straight through my chest. I knew I was done. There was no call later. So I left and that was it.
JW: You said earlier that the best compliment you had received from Buddy was after you left the band. What did he say? BS: After I was gone from the band, Buddy’s wife Marie, who was close with my wife and me in Vegas, would see us and tell Buddy later. She'd say, "Hey, I saw Bobby and Lisa Shew today.” Marie told me he'd go into this rage. One time, when the rant slowed up, Marie said she said to him, “Buddy, why do you hate Bobby so much?" Buddy said, “Because I haven’t been able to replace his ass” [laughs]. In the music business, that's a big compliment [laughs]. JW: What did you do immediately afterward leaving Rich's band? BS: I was with Ray Charles for a week and then Oliver Nelson's band subbing for Bobby Bryant. And it has been steady jazz and commercial work ever since.
JW: Was Rich competitive with everything and everyone? BS: Pretty much. Especially with Ping-Pong. I remember playing with him. I thought it was going to be an easy-going thing, to help him relax. As soon as we started playing, he was trying to drive that thing down my throat [laughs].
JazzWax tracks: Bobby has recorded many hip, tasteful albums. I'm just going to highlight my personal favorites. All are available at iTunes and Amazon:
Playing With Fire was recorded with trumpeter Tom Harrell in 1986. There's a beautiful vibe on here with smart harmonies. The same is true for Bobby Shew, Gary Foster and Friends Play the Music of Reed Kotler (2001). And Tribute to the Masters shows off Bobby's technique and ideas on signature songs of jazz greats. Tracks include Nica's Dream, Whisper Not and This I Dig of You.
But if I were choosing just three Bobby Shew albums, I'd say my favorites are Heavyweights with Carl Fontana (trombone), George Cables (piano), Bob Magnusson (bass) and Joe LaBarbera (drums) from 1995; Salsa Caliente (1998), which features Bobby's love of Latin-jazz; and Sunshine Express (1976) with Bud Shank as the leader, a beautiful CD that is now hard to find.
But if I were just grabbing one, I'd go with Cancaos do Amor (2007), one of the most beautiful trumpet bossa-nova albums you'll ever hear. Trust me, it's a must own. Go sample it at iTunes or Amazon, and hear for yourself.
JazzWax clip:Go here to listen to a track from Cancaos do Amor.
As big bands go, the orchestra Buddy Rich founded in 1966 holds a special place in the hearts of many jazz fans. The band had a quirky hipness and energy, mostly because Rich was early to dig the youth scene, Nehru jacket and all. The band was made up mostly of young musicians, and the book included arrangements of rock, pop and soul hits like Norwegian Wood, Hello I Love You, Up Tight and The Beat Goes On. During this period, Rich's band was an orchestral wolf in peacenik's clothing, and Bobby Shew was there, in the trumpet section. [Photo by Paul Slaughter]
After re-listening to Rich's Pacific Jazz albums, I find that nearly all of the material holds up much better than I had expected. Going back to hear the band's recordings is akin to watching Panic in Needle Park or The French Connection. You feel there's a cultural transition taking place, a general unease and grittiness that bear a hidden message. And if there is indeed a subcontext to Rich's music during these years, it's that older, established jazz artists weren't entirely comfortable being told what to do by a snot-nosed generation. Yet the young rock and soul musicians couldn't be ignored or dodged. They were making too much money. The trick, by Rich's estimation, was to swing the new culture, without giving up what was important. Fortunately he had one thing in common with them: a love of the big beat.
In Part 2 of my three-part interview with Bobby Shew, the trumpeter talks about how he kept up with Buddy Rich on the bandstand, Rich's favorite TV show, Rich's temper, and the day Rich demanded that Bobby join him in his office backstage:
JazzWax: How long were you in the Buddy Rich band? Bobby Shew: Twenty-one months. I recorded three albums with the band—Sammy Davis’ Sounds of ’66, Swingin' New Big Band in '66 and Big Swing Face in '67.
JW: Why was the band so popular at the height of the British rock invasion? BS: Because of Buddy. He was like one of those rock stars. His energy, his anger and his drive. Everyone related. He also was hugely popular among the stars. All these movie actors had known him over the years and looked up to him. There were nights when you’d look out at the audience from the bandstand and the entire front rows would be made up of famous musicians and celebrities.
JW: Could Buddy read music? BS: No. He’d always have a drummer there during rehearsals to read and play the parts initially on new arrangements. Buddy would just sit in the empty audience seats in the afternoon and listen to the band.
JW: Why? BS: He’d only have to listen to a chart once and he’d have it memorized. We'd run through it and he'd know exactly how it went, how many measures it ran and what he'd have to do to drive it.
JW: Were there any tough moments in those charts? BS: One song that stands out is Come Back to Me from the Sammy Davis Jr. album. Coming out at the end, there’s a little drum solo. But Buddy turned it around on us. His solo was off the wall and screwed us up on when to come back in.
JW: How so? BS: Instead of playing something recognizable, Buddy played an odd figure that left us with no clue as to when he needed us back in. Fortunately we worked it out and all turned out fine. But I learned a few valuable lessons: Never assume everything is always going to be cool. Pay absolute attention to the soloist. And not only feel the song with your foot tapping but also listen to what the drummer is playing and find the melody. Sing along with it.
JW: Was Buddy hard to follow? BS: He had a habit of rushing the beat, and he’d change the tempo. The only way to come in on time was to sing the song along with his playing so you were in sync with what he was doing. No matter what he was playing or how fast, you had to sing the song. Because that’s what he was doing. Today, it’s very difficult to figure out what modern players are doing because they don’t play eighth-note bop lines.
JW: Did Buddy know you were singing the song to yourself? BS: Buddy knew I could play the drums. He said he could hear that part of my background in my playing. Buddy loved to have me in the band. The greatest compliment I received from Buddy was after I left. Buddy and I used to argue and fight a lot while I was there.
JW: Why? BS: He used to deliver these lectures to the band after a set. He’d lace into us. Sometimes they’d be well-founded but he didn’t have to do it as harshly as he did. Sometimes I’d snap back.
JW: What did he say to you when you did? BS: He’d say, “Who do you think you are to argue with me?” Then he’d fire me [laughs]. An hour later he’d call and say, “You’re not really leaving are you?" I kept count. He fired me 22 times—and hired me 21.
JW: Buddy could run pretty hot. BS: He was under a lot of pressure. The IRS was always chasing him around. The only way he’d relax was to watch TV.
JW: What was his favorite show? BS:Combat!, with Vic Morrow [laughs]. I think he identified with the character.
JW: What’s your favorite solo with the Rich band? BS: My best-known solo is one that I didn’t like, on Bill Potts' arrangement of Big Swing Face, from the album of the same name. I was on lead trumpet and had to tear into a solo. I thought there was some amateurish stuff in my solo, but so many kids were listening to it and trying to transcribe it. So I guess it was better than I thought [laughs].
JW: Rich's band was pretty popular with young teens. BS: It was. I think they dug the rock beats and involved things we did on pop stuff of the day. It was the most fun band I've ever been on. Buddy came up with this band in the middle of the rock scene, and it was so popular, particularly on the West Coast. We sold out every place we played. When we played the Chez Club in Hollywood, they’d extend our stay for a month.
JW: Why do you think Rich had such a nasty side? BS: I think it goes back to when he was a kid star. His parents were in vaudeville, and they were jealous of him. They didn't like that he'd get all the applause. So he had a lot of stress as a kid. And he really had a thing going with his father. One time when we were rehearsing in Vegas, his father came around.
JW: Was that bad? BS: When his father showed up, Buddy was a different person. He became downright evil. He was spiteful, throwing chairs around and everything. Being around his father re-stimulated all that stuff from when he was growing up. Buddy always reacted to things from his past.
JW: And yet you say he also could be easy-going. BS: Buddy was a challenge to deal with, but I knew he was a softy underneath. And he knew I knew that. He was the nicest guy when we'd watch TV together.
JW: But he was aware of his dark side, yes? BS: Oh, sure. I remember one time he gave a horrific lecture to the band backstage. Then he turned to me and said, “You, Shew, in my office right now.” His office was the dressing room. The guys in the band looked at each other, like, “Why is Buddy picking on Bobby? He didn’t do anything.” When we got inside, he shouted at me to close the door. When I did, he turned to me, softened up and said, “How was I?” I said, “Man, Buddy, why do you do stuff like that?” [laughs]
JW: What did he say? BS: He said, “I like to keep them on their toes.” I said, “You don’t have to treat them like that.” But it was fun for him. He liked when people were afraid of him. Keep in mind, he was smiling when he told me that in his dressing room. He truly believed that nice guys finish last. Underneath it all, Buddy was nervous and insecure. Whenever there’s tremendous arrogance, you’re looking at the superficial side of insecurity. [Pictured: Buddy Rich with Dizzy Gillespie; to see why they're laughing, click the image and read the card]
JW: Yet you had a great time on the band. BS: Hey, absolutely. Rich's band put me on the map. Leonard Feather once did a write-up of the band while we were in L.A. When I read his review, he said that I was a “whiplash of a lead trumpet player.” Now that's cool.
Tomorrow, Bobby talks about the unusual origins of the arrangements for West Side Story Medley, Channel One Suite and Machine; and how he came to leave the Buddy Rich band in 1968.
JazzWax tracks: Two of the three albums that Bobby recorded while in Buddy Rich's band are available as downloads. You'll find Swingin' New Band (1966) and Big Swing Face (1967) at iTunes or at Amazon here and here, respectively. Both were recorded live at the Chez Club in Hollywood. The Sounds of '66 with Sammy Davis Jr. and Buddy Rich is available on CD here.
JazzWax clip: Here's Bobby Shew in London on the BBC in the 1980s playing flugelhorn...
In the spring of 1966, Timothy Leary praised the virtues of LSD, an H-bomb was lost at sea in Europe and Gemini 9's two-man crew began the first of its 47 orbits of Earth. And if these events weren't spacey enough, Buddy Rich, at age 48, decided to start a big band. Not a trendy rock or folk band but a hard-driving jazz orchestra with a swing beat and overheated soloists. One musician who was with the band from the start was Las Vegas studio trumpeter Bobby Shew.
The band that Rich formed in 1966 played gigs and recorded with different musicians until 1987, achieving cult status along the way. Even back in the 1970s, I recall the shock and awe among teenage jazz fans who cranked up the volume when West Side Story Medley or Channel One Suite came on, forcing everyone in the room to shut up when time came for Rich's extended solos.
In Part 1 of my three-part interview with Bobby Shew, 68, the big band studio trumpeter talks about coming up through the big bands at the tail end of the era and how he wound up in Rich's Las Vegas rehearsal band:
JazWax: Where did you grow up? Bobby Shew: In Albuquerque, NM. I originally wanted to be an architect. I discovered Frank Lloyd Wright [pictured] at age 10. While most kids were reading junk, I was buying house plans [laughs]. I think my passion for architecture started because I grew up in a horrible old house without heating.
JW: When did you turn to music? BS: I started playing guitar at age 8—unsuccessfully, I might add. When I switched schools in the fifth grade, a teacher came around and asked if anyone wanted to play in the band. I came home and talked my parents into letting me join. My stepfather had a Montgomery Ward trumpet in the closet and let me use it. So I joined. Funny thing is the trumpet was really easy for me. My stepfather taught me how to read music and form an embouchure. I thought everyone learned to play that easily.
JW: Were you listening to jazz at the time? BS: No, not in 1952. In school the band just played marches, Old McDonald Had a Farm and things like that. We didn't have a phonograph. When I was 12 years old, one of my neighbors, a senior in high school who played the trombone, asked me to play on a dance band. I said, "I’d love to but I don't know how to dance" [laughs]. He said, “No, no, the band plays for dances.” That's how naive I was.
JW: How did you do? BS: I could read the music instantly the first night we played. My stepfather had done a good job preparing me.
JW: What did you do in college? BS: I studied architecture. But after two years, I realized I wasn’t going to be the next Frank Lloyd Wright. While I was in college I played in Stan Kenton's summer clinics in 1959 and 1960. That's where I met bandleader Sam Donahue [pictured]. When I left college in 1960, I was drafted by the Army.
JW: What did you do in the Army? BS: I was sent to play in the North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD) band at the Ent Air Force Base in Colorado Springs. All I did all day was hang out in a pizza shop and play in the band. The NORAD band had the cream of the Army's musicians, like Phil Wilson and Paul Fontaine. We were on the road for 230 days a year playing concerts. NORAD was new and we were sort of doing its public relations. Then in 1964, we were sent to play at the New York World's Fair.
JW: When did you get your first big break? BS: While I was at the World’s Fair in the NORAD band. One day, after we played a daytime concert, my commanding officer said to me, “What are you doing tonight?" I asked why. He said, "Sam Donahue is leading Tommy Dorsey’s band and he’s looking for a trumpet player.”
JW: How could you do this if you were in the Army? BS: I was at the end of my term. My commanding officer said, "Go over and see if you can audition. If you get in, you can play with them. I’ll find a way to get you out." So I went into Manhattan, to the old Americana Hotel on 7th Ave., and listened to the band rehearse. Sam remembered me from the Kenton clinics and had me sit in. I read down a few things and played a few solos. He liked what he heard and said I was in. I went back to base and my commanding officer made good on his promise. I had just a little time left in the service anyway.
JW: What happened after you were discharged? BS: I went right into the Tommy Dorsey band. Tommy had died in 1956, of course, but his orchestra was still going strong, led by Sam Donahue. We had the Pied Pipers, Frank Sinatra Jr. and Jeannie Thomas.
JW: Who was in the trumpet section? BS: Charlie Shavers [pictured]. I roomed with him for a month. He was a great guy. Charlie had narcolepsy and used to fall asleep in the middle of a solo sometimes. Someone had to keep an eye on him when his wife wasn’t around. He and I shared a two-bedroom apartment. He cooked for me.
JW: What was his best dish? BS: Gumbo with red beans and rice. I still remember it. He always wanted to take a bath, not a shower. He’d fill the tub up with scalding water, grab a bottle of vodka, light a cigar and climb in. Man, I couldn’t even stick my foot in that water. Because of his condition, I had to pull up a chair and watch him bathe, to make sure he didn’t fall asleep.
JW: Who else was in the band? BS: Trumpeters Everett Longstreth and Bobby Findley, and tenor saxophonist Al Almeida. Then trumpeter Bill Chase called me. He was playing in Woody Herman’s band. Phil Wilson from NORAD was in the band, too. Phil had suggested me. So I left Dorsey for Woody. Funny, I had no intention of becoming a musician. I had been planning to go back to school. But one thing led to another.
JW: How did you wind up in Buddy Rich’s band in 1966? BS: Buddy had formed a band in the spring in Las Vegas. I was living there at the time playing shows. I had met my wife the day I got out of the Dorsey band in Vegas. She was a dancer there. I also had a place in New York, so I was back and forth between the two cities for a while. I was a pretty well known trumpeter around Vegas.
JW: What happened? BS: Steve Perlow was Buddy's band manager. He asked me to join. I played the jazz chair during rehearsals. The jazz chair is the second trumpet and gets to play the solos. The band didn’t play any gigs at first. It just rehearsed. [Photo by Herman Leonard/CTSImages.com]
JW: Did all go well at the rehearsal? BS: Yes, except Buddy didn’t like the lead trumpet player. After three tunes, Buddy was grumbling, and Perlow said to him, “Why don’t we try Bobby on the lead chair.” Buddy growled at me in that Marine Corps voice of his to move over a chair. The problem was I wasn’t really a lead player. The lead has to set the section’s pace and play the section high notes in arrangements. I had a little experience playing the lead part, but I never held the chair full time.
JW: What did the band play? BS: The first chart they called when I moved over was Step Right Up arranged by Oliver Nelson. The trumpet part only went up to a high F, so it wasn’t too bad. I got comfortable pretty quick.
JW: Then what was tough about the first chair? BS: As section leader, you have to have the right feel since everyone else in the section is taking your cue. Fortunately I grew up playing drums as well as guitar and trumpet. So I had a good feel for Buddy.
JW: What happened after the tune? BS: Buddy liked what I did and said, “You’re the lead player.” I protested, saying, “Buddy, wait, I don’t have lead chops.” Buddy barked, “Don’t be a crybaby. Go home and get the lead chops" [laughs].
JW: What did you think? BS: Part of me was scared. But the other part said to do as Buddy suggested. When I got home, I pulled out this Gardinelli mouthpiece I had bought years earlier for $8. It had a smaller opening, which kept the air velocity up, which is what you need to hit the higher notes. It worked like a charm.
Tomorrow, Bobby talks about playing in Buddy Rich's band, the albums they recorded, the roots of Rich's grouchiness, where West Side Story Medley and Channel One Suite originated, and how he came to leave the band after 21 months.
JazzWax tracks: One of Bobby Shew's prettiest albums as a leader is Metropole Orchestra. Arranged by Lex Jasper and conducted by Rob Pronk, the 1988 recording features Bobby soloing and soaring through standards backed by this super-sized Netherlands orchestra with strings. It's absolutely gorgeous. You'll find it as a CD or download here.
JazzWax clip:Here's a taste of Bobby Shew with the Metropole Orchestra...
Soon after English pop star Cilla Black and Burt Bacharach recordedAlfie in London in late 1965, the single was released by Parlophone in Britain in January 1966. Paramount's English marketers intended for the single to stir up interest for the movie prior to the film's release in London in March. But Black's single exceeded expectations, inching up the U.K. charts for three months, topping out at No. 9 shortly before the film opened at month's end. The contrast between Black's impassioned crescendos and girlish innocence on the song's softer moments attracted listeners young and old who had no idea about the film's saucy subject or theme. [Photo of Cilla Black by Lewis Morley]
But as Paramount geared up for the film's U.S. release in August 1966, its plans to include Black's song in the film hit a snag: Alfie director Lewis Gilbert didn't care for it and felt the Bacharach-David hit trivialized the film's artistic edge and undermined Sonny Rollins' sophisticated jazz score and playing. Gilbert, a jazz fan, didn't understand why the film even needed a pop theme when it had Sonny's Alfie's Theme.
Gilbert's view mattered little to United Artists, the company tasked with marketing the film and distributing it to theaters in the U.S. UA knew only too well from its recent experience distributing three James Bond films and two Beatles movies that a pop theme with radio support would translate into an enormously lucrative bonus. UA also knew that such a tie-in could be doubly valuable if that pop tune were released on one of its record labels.
So UA turned to its Imperial Records subsidiary, which had Cher under contract. Cher in 1966 was already a red-hot property. With her singing partner Sonny, the duo had had six charted hits in 1965 and would have four in 1966. As a solo act, Cher was atop the Billboard pop chart in early 1966 with Bang, Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down), which reached No. 2.
So UA decided to have Cher's singing partner Sonny Bono write an arrangement for Alfie, which he penned with an ersatz "wall of sound" backdrop. Unfortunately, Alfie was more demanding than the talk-sing hits Cher had previously recorded, and the result was a detached, pitchy version that paled by comparison to Black's tour de force.
UA knew it couldn't simply add Cher's version to the movie without upending Sonny Rollins' score and incurring Lewis' wrath. So it compromised by placing it at the tail end, when the credits came up. To create buzz, Cher's version was released a month before the film's U.S. release (it only reached No. 32 on Billboard's pop chart.
Meanwhile, Cilla Black's manager Brian Epstein was furious that UA had robbed his singer of her shot at the American market. Capitol Records in the U.S. tried to make good by releasing Black's version in the States just before the movie premiered in New York in August. But Black's version only managed to reach No. 95 on Billboard's pop chart. Sadly, Black would never have another U.S. hit. [Pictured: Cilla Black, Pattie Boyd and George Harrison at the Alfie premiere in London]
But Cilla Black's misfortune was also a timing issue. American radio by August 1966 was saturated with Alfie renditions. In fact, by the time Alfie opened in New York, seven versions of the song had already been released as singles by Black, Cher, Tony Martin, Jack Jones, Joanie Sommers, Carmen McRae and Billy Vaughan. Interestingly, Jerry Butler recorded one in June 1966, before Cher's version, but it wasn't released until a year later.
Black also was up against two blonde British pop stars, Petula Clark [pictured] and Dusty Springfield. In 1966, Clark had five hits on the Billboard pop chart while Springfield had two. With the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Dave Clark Five and other British Invasion groups dominating the charts, not to mention a sea of American girl groups like The Supremes, there was little room left for Black or any other British female pop singer to gain traction.
And yet, there were still two more hit versions of Alfie to come. In 1967, Dionne Warwick recorded the song, which according to Burt Bacharach: Song by Song by Serene Dominic, was a fluke:
"When Dionne's Here Where There Is Love album came up one song short, Scepter A&R man Steve Tyrell suggested they record the song, with Bacharach varying the arrangement slightly."
Warwick's approach was softer than other pop renditions and she was reported to have recorded the single in one take. Warwick's version peaked at No. 15. Even her sister and recording artist Dee Dee Warwick recorded a version.
Perhaps the most unusual of the Alfie hits was Stevie Wonder's instrumental on harmonica, recorded as Eivets Rednow, the singer's name spelled backward. How did the single do? In 1968, it peaked at No. 66 after six weeks on the Billboard pop chart.
As for Sonny Rollins, Alfie was just another recording session in a life-long search for the meaning of art and his own creative development. When I interviewed Sonny in 2008, his response reflected a healthy detachment from the commercial bumper-cars aspect of the events:
JW: Alfie is a fantastic recording. How did it
come about? SR: You like it? I'm so glad. I was
playing at Ronnie
Scott's club in London in early 1965 [right]. I was playing with three
other English jazz musicians, and the movie was being made there at the
time. While I was at the club, I was asked by the director Lewis Gilbert to write sketches [incidental
music] for the film. We recorded the sketches for the movie with a
small group. For the soundtrack, Oliver [Nelson] arranged a beautiful
score for 11 pieces based on my sketches. Oliver fleshed out what I
wrote. He was a beautiful arranger.
Sonny also learned a valuable lesson. According to Ashley Kahn's superb book, The House That Trane Built: The Story of Impulse Records, Sonny looked back on Alfie philosophically:
"I enjoyed writing and playing the score for Alfie very much. However, if I were offered another opportunity such as this, I would only do it if the film highlighted the music rather than the story itself."
JazzWax clips:Here's Cher's version of Alfie, which was added to the end of the film for its U.S. release...
If the arrival of the Beatles in February 1964 marked a turning point in jazz's commercial viability, then the recording of Alfie by Cilla Black in 1965 was the sound of the door slamming shut. Written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David for the U.S. release of the English film starring Michael Caine, the song went on to become a big hit for Black [pictured], Cher and Dionne Warwick. Despite Bacharach and David's initial trepidation about writing the song, Alfie today remains the most significant single penned by the duo, and Bacharach has said it's his own personal favorite.
But Alfie also marked a change in the weather for jazz. The pop song not only eclipsed Sonny Rollins' instrumental soundtrack for the movie, it also greased the wheels of jazz's declining appeal among youthful masses. From Alfie forward, the traditional American Songbook began to age rapidly and lose its hold over listeners. As Bacharach and David turned out a seemingly endless string of catchy, contemporary hits, a melodic coup was underway. For the first time since the 1920s, Tin Pan Alley standards sounded stale, clunky and somewhat meaningless compared with Bacharach's fresh, modern harmonies and David's lyrical vulnerability.
Delivered routinely by husky-voiced soul-gospel singer Dionne Warwick [pictured], the newly introduced Bacharach-David standards sounded so hip that they defied jazz interpretation. Jazz artists certainly covered Bacharach-David tunes, and some with success. But in 1966, jazz artists were unfortunately tied inextricably to an older generation of standards, and most artists were unable to execute the new ones with conviction or credibility. Within a short period of time, jazz artists found themselves weighed down by the older, dowdy material and appeared unsure how to proceed. The answer for some in the late 1960s was to create new jazz standards, some of which had lasting power while most did not.
The story of Alfie begins in 1965, when Bacharach [pictured] and David were asked by Paramount executive Ed Wolpin to write a theme song for the U.S. release of the film about a Cockney scoundrel. Sonny Rollins was due to record a jaunty theme in January 1966 as well as incidental music for the film. But Wolpin felt the release needed a vocal radio hit, which didn't exist in Rollins' planned instrumental pieces.
Bacharach and David almost passed on Wolpin's initial request, fearing they'd have trouble writing a convincing song about a man with a silly name. But after Bacharach saw a rough cut of the film in California, he persuaded David that they should give the song a shot.
English pop singer Cilla Black was chosen to record the result. Bacharach liked the shrill urgency of Black's pop voice, and her accent would add authenticity to the lyrics and film's London setting. Said Bacharach in Stage and Screen:
"There weren't too many white singers around who could convey the
emotion that I felt in many of the songs I wrote, but that changed with
people like Cilla Black."
Bacharch also fancied Black following her dramatic 1964 cover of his Anyone Who Had a Heart. Black's rendition had mirrored Dionne Warwick's hit and sparked a trans-Atlantic feud between the singers. When Bacharach expressed interest in Black for Alfie, the singer decided to play hard to get. She feared all of this was over her head.
Here's Black in her memoir, What's It All About (2003):
"When Burt Bacharach first wrote to me from New York to tell me that he and Hal David, inspired by the film Alfie, had written another song especially for me, I was very excited... Because I didn't really want to record the song, but didn't want to say an outright 'no,' I thought I'd be really difficult for a change and start putting up barriers.
"So first of all I said I'd only do it if Burt Bacharach himself did the arrangement, never thinking for one moment that he would. Unfortunately, the reply came back from America that he'd be happy to. So then I said I would only do it if Burt came over to London for the recording session. 'Yes,' came the reply.
"Next I said that as well as the arrangements and coming over, he had to play on the session. To my astonishment it was agreed that Burt would do all three. So by this time, coward that I was, I really couldn't back out."
The recording session at London's Abbey Road studio was set for the fall of 1965. A 48-piece orchestra plus Black's three back-up singers were assembled. The producer was George Martin, probably because Black and the Beatles shared the same manager, Brian Epstein. Martin had also produced her earlier Bacharach hit. Bacharach not only arranged and played piano on the date, he also conducted. [Pictured: Burt Bacharach, George Martin and Cilla Black]
And perhaps as payback for Black's petulant demands, Bacharach nearly shredded her voice with successive takes. Black recalls 18, but other sources indicate there were more—some with false starts, some with Black's voice wavering or coming in at the wrong moment. But there also were some seemingly perfect takes, prompting Martin to come onto the studio speaker from the engineer's booth: "Burt, what exactly are you looking for?" Replied Bacharach: "That little bit of magic." At which point Martin said: "I think we had that on take four."
It's unclear how many perfect takes were in the can. What is clear from footage that was surreptitiously filmed during the session, Black was exhausted while delivering what would become the master take. Yet she still delivered a glass-shattering rendition that remains to my ear the most potent, caring and convincing of the thousands recorded since.
Tomorrow, in Part 2, the story continues: Why after Black's single was released another U.S. singer was brought in to record the single, why this new single was placed in the film distributed in the U.S., and what Sonny Rollins thought of it all.
JazzWax clip:Here's the famed footage from the Alfie session in 1965. That's Burt Bacharach conducting and playing piano. No sound was recorded, so someone has kindly matched the original single (albeit scratchy) against the film perfectly. (I have seen the longer version of this footage; it shows George Martin asking Bacharach what he was aiming for with the multiple takes and shows Black erring on one of the takes)...
Book news. For some time, I've felt like the proverbial husband enduring an in-law's grilling about the arrival of grandkids. Repeatedly over the past year, readers have sent along loving emails asking, "So? When can we expect a book?"
Well, I'm pleased to announce that I've signed with the University of California Press for a book on jazz history between 1942 and 1972. The manuscript is due in September, a crushingly tight deadline for a 120,000-word book, but I assure you I'm hard at work.
UCAL Press, as the imprint is fondly known, is the country's finest university press. UCAL published Nat Hentoff's At the Jazz Band Ball (June 2010), Horace Silver's Let's Get to the Nitty Gritty, Clora Bryant's Central Avenue Sounds: Jazz in Los Angeles and Scott DeVeaux's The Birth of Bebop, easily the finest book on the subject.
I'll keep you posted. Two chapters are completed. I'm now hard at work on Chapter 3.
Jamil Nasser (1932-2010), a firm, confident bassist whose thick, strident style was a favorite of jazz pianists Red Garland, Randy Weston, Ahmad Jamal and Al Haig, died on February 13th. He was 77.
Nasser can be heard on John Coltrane's Interplay, Phineas Newborn's While My Lady Sleeps, Herbie Mann's Just Wailin' and Lester Young in Paris as well as many other small-group recordings.
Nasser changed his name from George Joyner in the late 1950s following his conversion to Islam. In interviews, Nasser had said that his playing style evolved as a result of his period with Lester Young and Jo Jones in the late 1950s. Nasser was responsible for helping an ill Young return to the U.S. from France just before the saxophonist's death in 1959. For a fine obit of Nasser, go to All About Jazz here.
Here's a clip of Nasser (Joyner) with Lou Donaldson...
Jake Hanna (1932-2010), a powerful big band drummer who could drive the most aggressive bands of the late 1950s and early 1960s with unassuming grace, died February 12th in Los Angeles. He was 78.
Hanna caught the big bands at the tail end of their popularity, adding a controlled flare to bands with complex, hard-driving arrangements. He's the drummer on Maynard Ferguson's Message From Newport (1958), perhaps the trumpeter's most dynamic release for Roulette Records. Hanna also recorded intermittently with Woody Herman in the early 1960s and toured with the band. Hanna's cool heat landed him in the West Coast studios and Merv Griffin's TV orchestra in the 1960s and as a member of Supersax in the 1970s.
Here's a clip of Hanna sent along by reader Peter Sokolowski...
Art Van Damme (1920-2010), an unassuming accordionist whose swinging sensibility and breathy feel on the windy instrument was recorded extensively, died on February 15th in California. He was 89.
Van Damme's many recordings in the 1950s and 1960s for the Capitol and Columbia labels were big jazz sellers. Many of these recordings became the cornerstone of the "lounge" movement of the 1990s, which revived commercial easy-swing recordings of earlier decades. These albums originally were marketed as soundtracks for fireplace makeout sessions, mixed-drink consumption, and dreaming about larger homes, cars and paychecks. Cocktail Capers and Martini Time are just two LPs by Van Damme from this period.
For a more complete obit, go here to Accordion Weekly News.
Jimmy Giuffre. Paul Tatara, former film critic for CNN.com and now movie essayist for TCM, has launched a new blog that touches on film, jazz and the arts. His piece on Jimmy Giuffre is here. Dig that snapshot of Giuffre!
Newport '60. Want to hear Gerry Mulligan, Lambert Hendricks and Ross, Dave Brubeck, Ahmad Jamal, Dizzy Gillespie and others in 1960 at the Newport Jazz Festival? Have a listen at Wolfgang's Vault here.
Videoclip search. Tired of rummaging around YouTube or DailyMotion trying to find great video clips of favorite artists? Jazz on the Tube is a handy search engine that brings up links to clips after you enter artists' names. Give it a try here.
CD discoveries of the week. I dig Ian Carey. He's a trumpeter with a clean, clear sound who understands that there are listeners at the other end of recordings. On his new album, Contextualizin',you hear Ian's tender sound on the horn and his passion for harmony. Deep down, Ian's a romantic traditionalist, and his reverence for velvet simplicity and heart-touching tones is evident. When the music on this album hits your ear, you want to hear more. It's a strange sensation.
All of the songs on the CD except one (Just Friends) were composed by Ian, and all clearly were were carefully thought through to maximize warmth and gentle urgency. Fortunately, Ian's quintet is of the same mind—Evan Francis (alto sax and flute), Adam Shulman (piano and Fender Rhodes), Fred Randolph (bass) and Jon Arkin (drums).
Sample Tom/Tom or the Ian's ballad Leap Year. Or hear how he wisely turns Just Friends inside out without ever once playing the standard's melody line. I can't take stop playing this CD. Ian's site is here.
You'll find Ian Carey's Contextualizin' (Kabocha) at iTunes or here.
The Trio: Live at Charlie O's is an unusual album. At first blush, you're not certain what you have in your hands. But from the album's first track, Put Your Little Foot Right Out, you realize instantly that you're listening to seasoned pros. And in fact, you are. "The Trio" is made up of veteran West Coast studio musicians, all of whom have major league resumes. Drummer Peter Erskine was with Stan Kenton in the 1970s. Bassist Chuck Berghofer was with Shelly Manne in the late 1950s and 1960s. And pianist Terry Trotter was with Les Brown in the late 1950s and 1960s.
As a result, Live at Charlie O's features confident, vivid statements and spot-on improvisation. Not to mention superb taste. Tracks include Afternoon in Paris, Blood Count and Lament, and solos never exceed their stay or back-pedal to fill space. In fact, The Trio's Lament is one of the prettiest versions of J.J. Johnson's standard that I've heard in some time.
You'll find The Trio: Live at Charlie O's (Fuzzy Music) here.
Oddball album cover of the week. Back in 1958, when this LP was recorded in Los Angeles, the future was viewed as a plucky place of ease and mirth. In the imagined future, jazz musicians would be able to soar freely to heights of weightlessness, even with the heaviest of instruments. And they wouldn't need to bear the burden of oxygen-filled bubble helmets. Amazingly, record company photographers would be able to do all of these things, too.
Bassist John Levy spent the first half of his career as a jazz musician. Then, in 1951, he changed jobs and became a personal manager of jazz musicians. He had long yearned to be on the business side, and the surging popularity of the George Shearing Quintet gave him the opportunity. At first John represented only Shearing and the quintet. But by 1958, John had branched out and his client list included pianist Ahmad Jamal and singer Dakota Staton. [Photo of John Levy by Leroy Hamilton]
In the years that followed, John's reputation and judgment resonated with more jazz artists. Dozens of clients signed on, including Cannonball Adderley, Lou Donaldson, Johnny Hartman, Shirley Horn, Freddie Hubbard, Ramsey Lewis, Abbey Lincoln, Herbie Mann, Wes Montgomery, Billy Taylor, Stanley Turrentine, Sarah Vaughan, Joe Williams, Nancy Wilson [pictured] and other jazz and pop stars.
In Part 5 of my interview series with John, the bassist and personal manager talks about starting his management agency, his afternoon playing with Duke Ellington, the singer with whom he had a falling out, and his personal secrets of longevity.
JazzWax: You started your own management company in 1951? John Levy: Yes. I was playing bass with the George Shearing Quintet and acting as the group’s road manager. But as the group got more and more popular, the gigs and management duties expanded. It all got to be too much.
JW: What did you tell George? JL: I said, "I can’t be playing and taking care of business and being on the road and on the phone to agents about future bookings and so on." There weren’t any computers and cell phones back then [laughs]. You traveled a long way to a town and went right on the phone until the job.
JW: What did George say? JL: Well, first we tried to find other people to do the managerial thing other
than myself so I could continue playing. We tried George’s wife, but she wasn’t really capable as the quintet became more in demand. She realized that. I tried to teach her what to do, but she didn’t have any idea what was going on. I told George that I had to get off the road and manage us full-time. [Pictured: John Levy and George Shearing in the early 1950s]
JW: Did he agree? JL: In 1951, George finally said, “Why don’t you just take it over." I said, “OK.” That's when we started John Levy Enterprises. JW: Who took over on bass? JL: Al McKibbon [pictured]. My first choice was George Duvivier, but he was working with Lena Horne and didn’t want to make the change. There were so many great bass players around then, and Al was great.
JW: After all these years, what’s the most exciting thing you ever saw in jazz? JL: [Pause] The first time I saw and heard Duke Ellington's orchestra live. It was in Chicago in the 1930s. I was blown away. I couldn’t believe I had heard those harmonic things, the rhythms and the solos. But there was something else.
JW: What? JL: Later, when I saw the Ellington band in the 1940s, I couldn't believe that everybody in that band would sit around talking to each other the whole time they weren’t playing. It was the oddest thing.
JW: What do you mean? JL: When Duke would go from one song to another, he’d vamp solo on the piano for a while to set it up. The band members would all be talking casually to each other. Then at some point, they'd automatically know precisely when to pick up their instruments and start playing. To this day that amazes me. [Photo of Duke Ellington at the Hurricane Club in 1943 by Gordon Parks]
JW: Where was the signal to play? JL: Duke opened up every song from the piano. He’d fiddle around and things. But somewhere hidden in all that fiddling was a cue for the band to start. There was some note or something that made them realize it was time. Even when I sat in with the band I never could catch what the cue was.
JW: When did you sit in with the band? JL: In 1945, when I was in New York. During our time off with Stuff Smith, pianist Jimmy Jones and I used to go up to this radio show in the afternoons to watch Duke’s band play on the radio. We’d just go in and sit in the audience. Back then, Duke had two bass players who'd play at the same time—Junior Raglin and Al Lucas.
JW: What happened? JL: Duke vamped on the piano on a song but the two basses up on the stage remained on their sides. Al and Junior hadn’t come back from their break. Duke looked at me while he was playing and mouthed words for me to pick up one of the basses. So I did. The music was on the stand and I started to play. But when I reached the end of the music on the sheet, I turned to Sonny Greer [pictured], the drummer, and whispered, “The music ran out, there’s nothing left. What do we do?” Sonny said, “Just keep on playing.” JW: Did the band come in? JL: Just as Sonny said that, one by one the different sections of the band started to play. Then Junior came up on the stage and picked up the other bass. Then Al came for his bass that I was playing. I managed to play the intro and about a chorus of the song. That was an amazing experience. JW: Did Ellington know you? JL: Oh, yes. I knew Duke on a personal level. He had come to my house in Chicago several times for dinner because the woman he eventually married was like my sister. I knew Duke on another level. JW: You had quite an ear to run a bass line with Ellington without music. JL: It’s funny, I used to sit next to Leonard Feather [pictured] at the Playboy Jazz Festival in California. He was there to write something about someone. While the person he was writing about was playing, Leonard leaned over to tell me what he thought. I had a different take and told him why. Then when his article came out, I would see some of my view in there [laughs]. Leonard was a great guy. I saw him often when he moved out to California.
JW: Feather picked a good seat didn’t he? JL: Oh yes [laughs]
JW: As a business owner, what’s the secret of getting people to give you what you want? JL: Know the person you’re dealing with.
JW: What do you mean? JL: You need to know the other person’s aims first and not automatically start pushing for what you want. When you know what that other person wants, you can structure what you want around it. Then you'll usually wind up with a deal. As for managing talent, you need to know a musician’s ambitions, where the musician can go and how far you can take them. These are things you have to think about first, before you make decisions, not later. [Pictured: John Levy and Shirley Horn, circa 1963]
JW: Once you know a musician's goals, what's next? JL: Knowing how much you can do to help them reach their goals.
JW: So you don't set goals for them? JL: I've never set goals for anyone I represented.
JW: Why not? JL: My role was to do everything I could for them with my knowledge, my connections, my feeling about music and what I hear in my head. But all of this has to work with their own ambitions and abilities, not my view of them.
JW: But didn't you always want talent to go all the way? JL: All the way is different for each individual. Most of a manager’s time is spent putting people together who want the same things. Quincy Jones has an incredible ability to do this, even among people who don’t like each other [laughs]. You have to get to know the person you’re representing. Once you do, you build trust with the person. Trust comes when people realize you don’t have any personal things going on, like looking out for yourself. You have to look out for them first, and then for you. But up to a point, of course. [Photo of John Levy with Quincy Jones in 2007 by Devra Hall Levy]
JW: How so? JL: You always get to a point with the people you manage where they think they know it all. They second guess things because they're not objective. Then you and those people part ways. I was fortunate that when I parted with most people, I maintained good relationships. Except one. [Photo of John Levy with Sonny Rollins in 2008 by Devra Hall Levy]
JW: Who? JL: Dakota Staton, but that was because of her husband, who insisted he knew best. He didn't, and his involvement messed up her career.
JW: You’ll be 98 years old in April. What’s the secret of a long life? JL: Clean living, no hate, no animosity, no trying to keep up with the Joneses and plenty of laughter. I’m 5 foot 11 inches tall and have never been over 160 pounds in my life. I keep my weight down, and I don’t indulge in anything to any great extent. And I have the greatest wife in the world. [Photo of John Levy by Leroy Hamilton]
JW: Never drank, even back in the 1940s? JL: Years ago, during the 52d Street days with Stuff [Smith] and them, you almost had to drink [laughs]. But I never overdid it.
JazzWax pages: John's
two memoirs written with his wife Devra Hall Levy—Men, Women and
Girl Singers (2000) and Strollin' (2008), a collection of
photographs by John taken over the years of jazz celebrities—can be
purchased here.
In May 1947, Billie Holiday was arrested in New York for drug possession. After her conviction, she was sentenced to a year and a day at a West Virginia prison. She served 10 months. Upon her release in early March 1948, Holiday returned to the New York area. Upon her arrival, Holiday learned that her manager had arranged for her to sing at Carnegie Hall in just a few weeks. Holiday protested, saying she hadn't sung a note while incarcerated. But she had little choice. Work meant income, and a concert of this magnitude was ideal for instantly rehabilitating her artistic reputation. So rehearsals were set up in New Jersey, and in the weeks leading up to the concert, Holiday worked diligently with bassist John Levy, pianist Bobby Tucker and drummer Denzil Best.
The March 1948 Carnegie Hall event came to be known as the Billie Holiday Comeback Concert. It was a success and led to a new deal with Decca Records. John Levy also found himself with a higher profile and greater freelance opportunities in New York. That is, until George Shearing sat down in front of him at the Clique Club. John was subbing for Buddy Rich's bassist, and Shearing was looking for one for a new trio. Not long afterward, Shearing asked John to join his group, which would include clarinetist Buddy De Franco.
In Part 4 of my five-part interview series with John, the bassist talks about Billie Holiday's comeback, Buddy Rich's integrity and the origins of the George Shearing Quintet:
JazzWax: What do you recall of Billie Holiday’s concert at Carnegie Hall in March 1948? John Levy: I remember having my usual butterflies before we went on. But as soon as we hit the stage, that was it. I knew what I had to do. We had our act down. We all had rehearsed at [pianist] Bobby Tucker’s house in New Jersey in the weeks before the concert. We did nothing but rehearse with Billie over that period. [Pictured: Billie Holiday at Carnegie Hall in March 1948 with John Levy on bass]
JW: How was Holiday after her time in prison? JL: She was her old self pretty quick. She was intimate and cozy during those rehearsals. She did whatever she was told to do. I think she was terrified of the idea of the concert after her time in jail. But Bobby laid it down, and that was it. She just followed his lead. The musicians rehearsed first to get our notes together. Then Billie came in and sang. We went over all of the songs, over and over, until we had it down and she was comfortable. She knew this concert was important. [Pictured: Bobby Tucker and Billie Holiday in 1948]
JW: Why? JL: Billie had just gotten out of jail and singing was the only way she could earn money. When she got out, she was living with Bobby Tucker and his wife and his parents in their home in Morristown, N.J. So she was always there for rehearsals. Bobby had called me and Denzil [Best]. Bobby said he also was going to get guitarist Remo Palmieri.
JW: How did you know Tucker? JL: We had worked together at the Three Deuces with [tenor saxophonist] Lucky Thompson. Billie still didn’t have her cabaret card when she got out. You needed that card to work in New York clubs. But she could sing in a concert without it. We had just a couple of weeks to get it together.
JW: Did Joe Glaser set up the concert? JL: No, a guy who used to work for Joe did. His name was Ed Fishman. The truth is Joe Glaser’s wife was angry at Joe and knew that Billie’s contract with Joe was up. To get back at Joe, she told Ed, who no longer worked for Joe. Ed convinced Billie to let him represent her.
JW: What do you remember most about the event? JL: That Carnegie Hall was packed. I had to carry my bass over my head just to get on stage through the extra seats they had set up on the stage. The show was based on Billie’s repertoire but she was still so nervous. She cut herself attaching one of those gardenias to her hair before the concert.
JW: Which song do you remember most? JL:My Man. There’s such a feeling in that one. When Billie sang My Man, like most of the things she sang, you felt like she was really telling that story, that it was her real life. That’s why she was such a great stylist.
JW: Great singer up close? JL: Great storyteller. She didn’t have the voice of Sarah Vaughan or Ella Fitzgerald. No, she didn’t have that. What she did have was the exact feeling of a song. You could feel the lyrics and the story with Billie. The story she sang was always so real. When she sang it was like she was telling you things from her life, not remembering words to songs a songwriter wrote. Amazing. I learned a lot about the stories of songs from Ben Webster. He once told me, “I can’t improvise on the melody without knowing the lyrics first.” [Photo of Billie Holiday in 1949 by Herman Leonard/CTSImages.com]
JW: How did you wind up with George Shearing starting in 1948? JL: Well, here again comes Jimmy Jones. Jimmy and I lived across the street from each other in Brooklyn. Jimmy was working with Sarah Vaughan at the Clique Club in New York at the time. He was working with Sarah opposite Buddy Rich’s big band. One day, Buddy Rich’s bass player left.
JW: What happened? JL: Jimmy recommended me to Buddy’s manager, to fill in for a couple of weeks until the guy returned. Buddy said, “Sure,” so I came in and played with his band. Every night during this period, George used to be escorted to a seat right beside the bandstand. George was blind, you know, but he had razor sharp ears and enjoyed being in front of the bass player, to hear the swinging thing.
JW: Did Shearing like what he heard? JL: Evidently, I was a big difference over the bass player who had left. Buddy Rich also could hear and feel the difference. But when Buddy made me an offer, I turned him down. The kind of money he was talking about wasn’t good enough for how hard you had to work trying to play over him in that band [laughs].
JW: How did you get along with Buddy? JL: Fine. The only problem I had was with his manager, who tried to skim a percentage off my money. When he withheld, I said, “Hold on, hold on, no way.” Buddy overheard what was happening and said to the guy, “Don’t take anything out of his money. Don’t withhold anything. Give him what he’s owed.” I thought that was pretty hip [laughs].
JW: So what happened with George? JL: George had heard me at the Clique Club and liked what I was doing. Soon afterward his bass player had to leave. The guy’s mother was sick or something. George knew Jimmy Jones, who was playing with Sarah. George liked me and asked Jimmy about me. He said, “What do you think of the guy who was playing with Buddy?”
JW: What did Jimmy say? JL: Jimmy told George to bring me in. George agreed and called me. I went down and rehearsed with George at the Clique Club. This must have been late 1948.
JW: Just a few months before the quintet was formed? JL: Yes. But at the time it was just a trio—George, me and Denzil Best. Then Buddy De Franco joined us, making it a quartet. The sound was fantastic, and we played at the Clique Club. Then George and Buddy had to part ways.
JW: Why? JL: Buddy was being offered a deal by Capitol Records and George was given a deal by MGM. But that smooth, cool sound that Buddy and George had created remained in George’s mind. [Critic/producer] Leonard Feather suggested George use vibes and guitar, to reproduce that unison sound. Leonard suggested Marjorie Hyams on vibes and Chuck Wayne on guitar.
JW: So that’s how the George Shearing Quintet came about? JL: That’s right. The vibes and guitar took the place of the clarinet, sound-wise. The quintet rehearsed and then started recording in January 1949.
JW: How did your bass playing differ in that quintet? JL: George broke up songs so everyone was playing notes to the same chords, but in octaves. So I'd play my notes on the bottom like a melody line. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear that my bass lines are almost like a tune.
JW: You played bass in the George Shearing Quintet until 1951? JL: Yes. By then, my road manager duties for the group were taking up too much time. We needed to make a change in the spring of 1951. It was impossible for me to take care of business and play.
Tomorrow, John talks about taking over management duties for George Shearing, playing a measure and a half with the Duke Ellington Orchestra and his personal secrets of a long, happy life.
JazzWax tracks: There is no known radio transcription of Billie Holiday's March 1948 comeback concert at Carnegie Hall. The concert occurred in the middle of a second union ban prohibiting commercial recordings. However, John did record with Holiday in December 1948 along with Bobby Tucker, Denzil Best and Mundell Lowe. These tracks for Decca Records are Weep No More, Girls Were Made to Take Care of Boys, I Loves You Porgy and My Man. They can be found on The Complete Commodore & Decca Mastershere.
There is no complete George Shearing Quintet (1949-1953) box. The closest you'll come is the set From Battersea to Broadway (Proper), which includes a majority of the quintet material with John Levy from 1949 to 1951. You'll find this box here.
JazzWax pages: John's two memoirs written with his wife Devra Hall Levy—Men, Women and Girl Singers (2000) and Strollin' (2008), a collection of photographs by John taken over the years of jazz celebrities—can be purchased here.
JazzWax clips:Here's one of Billie Holiday's oddest recordings, for Decca in 1948: Girls Were Made to Take Care of Boys, with a vocal choir and John's strong bass ringing through. Even on pop fare like this, with its Pied Pipers-esque vocal group as a backdrop, Billie makes the song her own. Dig that signature run-down at the end...
And here's John and his white bass with the George Shearing Quintet playing Denzil Best's Move. This clip makes you realize how essential John's bass was to Shearing's beat and swinging time...
When John Levy arrived in New York in 1944, the bassist couldn't believe his good fortune. As a member of the Stuff Smith Trio, John and his white bass stood out and there was plenty of work. The union-enforced recording ban had just ended, and many small labels were surfacing to capture small-group jazz. While playing the Onyx Club for 10 weeks, John quickly fit in with the many different musicians performing in clubs along 52nd Street. During this transition period from swing to bebop, the block between Fifth and Sixth avenues featured acts from both jazz camps, and sidemen often had to adapt to a range of experimental musicians and styles. [Pictured from left: Denzil Best, Al Casey and John Levy at the Pied Piper Club in 1947]
Over the next three years, John recorded with a wide range of player-leaders, including violinist Smith, Charlie Ventura, Erroll Garner, Phil Moore, Don Byas, Trummy Young, Billy Taylor, Rex Stewart and Lennie Tristano.
In Part 3 of my five-part series with John, the bassist talks about Charlie Parker, Thelonious Monk, Don Byas, Erroll Garner and Lennie Tristano:
JazzWax: Who introduced you to bebop? John Levy: I heard a little of it in Chicago. I had seen Charlie Parker [pictured] there in 1941 when he came through with Jay McShann's band. But in New York, the style didn’t appeal to me right away. I didn’t really get involved in it until later. Most of the people I was with in the mid-1940s were still mainstream swing players. As far as the bass was concerned, bebop was more of a harmonic thing for soloists rather than a rhythmic thing.
JW: How so? JL: No matter what anyone played, the bass still had to keep time and run the bottom line. Everything on up comes from that bottom line. I wasn’t getting thrown by bebop, since you still had the basic chord structure to work from.
JW: What was it about bebop that didn’t appeal to you? JL: Harmonically, I just didn’t get a lot of it, especially in terms of ballads and how musicians twisted up the things I really liked. Now, I wasn’t one of those who put bebop down. If that’s what you had to play to make a living, it was fine with me. Bebop just wasn't my thing then. But I knew all of those bebop musicians and was friendly with them. Miles Davis and I were very close. I also liked Thelonious Monk [pictured], but I never got personally friendly with him. [Photo of Thelonious Monk by Herman Leonard/CTSImages.com]
JW: Why not? JL: I never understood what he was talking about. He wasn’t a relater. Meaning he didn't relate to people on a friendly basis. In my mind, Monk was in a completely different world. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated and understood what he did and what he was doing. I dug him, and played his material. I just didn’t get where he was coming from in his way.
JW: You recorded with Erroll Garner on some of the pianist's earliest sides as a leader. JL: Yes. In September 1945. I had a falling out with [Savoy Records owner] Herman Lubinsky over that date [laughs].
JW: What happened? JL: Herman [pictured] called a session at Savoy while the elevator men in the city were on strike. I didn’t know this until I got to the office building. When I got to the address, I called Herman from the pay phone in the street. Herman agreed to pay me an extra $50 to get the instrument upstairs and back down, which was a union rule.
JW: What did you do? JL: I hauled my bass up 30 flights of stairs. When I got there, we recorded four sides with drummer George DeHart. We did Somebody Loves Me, Laura, Indiana and Star Dust. Then Herman tried to stiff me on the $50. Eventually he paid me, but we had a falling out over it. Later, Erroll [pictured] told me that just before I had called, Erroll had tried to get Herman to put off the date because of the strike. Herman had said no and asked Erroll if he could record without the bass. Erroll told him no.
JW: What was it like recording with Erroll compared with playing with Erroll on a gig? JL: On a gig, Erroll would start vamping on an intro, giving the bassist a chance to figure out the key and sometimes even the song [laughs]. In the studio, we talked through the intros, interludes and endings he was going to play. There was a little more planning, but not too much [laughs].
JW: Did you know Dizzy Gillespie? JL: Yes, sure. I was very friendly with Dizzy. He liked to be in charge—in a good way. He was a teacher and an organizer. He took time to explain and show other musicians what he was doing with his music. He was a great help to a lot of the younger musicians coming up at that time, especially Miles.
JW: Do you remember the Candy session with tenor saxophonist Don Byas? JL: Oh sure. It was November 1945, for Savoy. Don was a beautiful guy. He was great to work with and play with. Don was the youngest of that group of tenor players—Coleman Hawkins, Ben Webster, Lucky Thompson and Don. They all played with that really big beautiful sound. Don left for Europe on tour with Don Redman in 1946 and decided to stay there.
JW: Why? JL: Don had marital problems. His wife was suing him and it was the only way he could escape her. Don [pictured] also was starting to have a hard time on 52nd Street. There were only so many slots for gigs, and a number of the spots on the Street were closing up or changing the kinds of acts they featured.
JW: That Candy session for Savoy was held the same day as Charlie Parker’s famed Ko-Ko record date. JL: That’s right. We recorded in the afternoon, right after Bird, Diz, Max, Miles, Sadik [Hakim] and Curly were done. Usually sessions took place during the day not at night, when you played your gigs. It was Parker’s first record date as a leader. I got to Savoy’s studio early and saw some of that session. Miles was scuffling with Ko-Ko, which was based on Cherokee’s chord changes, so it was real fast.
JW: What happened? JL: Miles couldn’t cut it. As I recall, he was having lip problems. His range and what they were trying to do at that time was just too much. Sadik had trouble, too, on the piano. So Dizzy had to play the piano intro and then switch to the trumpet. Originally, Savoy issued Ko-Ko on the flip side of my recording with Don Byas of How High the Moon.
JW: In October 1947, you recorded four tracks with pianist Lennie Tristano and guitarist Billy Bauer. Tough stuff? JL: I fit in with Lennie [pictured] just fine. He was considered so far out at the time that everyone asked me, “How did you play with that guy?” Well, it was easy. I knew what the chord changes were. What happens on top is irrelevant to a bassist. My job is to keep time and own the bottom. The series of notes I’d play to accompany whatever was happening on top would be my own melody. While I was creating these lines, I was always listening to what was happening on top, no matter how far out. As a bass player, you need to be two different people at once, a listener and a thinker.
JW: So playing the bass requires two identities operating simultaneously? JL: Absolutely. You’re playing what you have to play but you’re also listening intently to what the soloists are doing on top, to play off what they're doing. That’s what I got the most compliments on over the years. For listening and interpreting what I was hearing.
Tomorrow, John talks about Billie Holiday's 1948 comeback concert at Carnegie Hall, how he became an original member of the George Shearing Quintet in 1949, starting John Levy Enterprises in 1951, and who took over for him when he left the group.
JazzWax tracks: John Levy and Erroll Garner are together on the first four tracks of Erroll Garner: The Complete Savoy Master Takes at iTunes or here. John's tracks with Don Byas can be found on Don Byas: Savoy Jam Party at iTunes or on CD here. John's four tracks with the Lennie Tristano Trio are Supersonic, On a Planet, Celestia and Air Pocket. They can be found as a download on the French Classics' release Lennie Tristano: 1946-47here.
JazzWax pages: John's two memoirs written with his wife Devra Hall Levy—Men, Women and Girl Singers (2000) and Strollin' (2008), a collection of photographs by John taken over the years of jazz celebrities—can be purchased here.
JazzWax clip:Here's Erroll Garner, John Levy and George DeHart playing Somebody Loves Me, from September 1945...
Marc Myers writes on music for the Wall Street Journal. His book, "Why Jazz Happened," will be published by the University of California Press in December 2012.
