JazzWax

JazzWax List: 7 Tax Tunes

Today marks the start of The JazzWax List. This list will appear at random, and its theme will vary depending on the day, my mood and my interests. Mostly, the list will feature stuff I like and highly recommend. What the lists will have in common is music—jazz, soundtracks, soul, country, disco—you name it. I may stray occasionally, but not often. The point is to have some fun and to turn you on to things you may not be aware of or may have overlooked.

My first JazzWax List is perfect for adding and subtracting. Over the coming days, as you put the finishing touches on your 2009 tax returns (due a week from Thursday, by the way), here are 7 jazz songs that will keep you focused (all are available at iTunes):

1. Sam, You Can't Do That to Me—Lonnie Johnson
2. I Owe You—Henry "Red" Allen
3. Luxury Tax Blues—Eddie "Cleanhead" Vinson
4. Prayin' for Your Return—Percy Mayfield
5. Prepare Yourself—George Duke
6. Free Form—Donald Byrd
7. Going Back to Washington—Rubberlegs Williams

Interview: John Bunch (Part 2)

The late John Bunch is best remembered as an elegant trio pianist. But back in the late 1950s and into the 1960s and 1970s, John played fearlessly in some of the best big bands still touring and recording. The list includes one of the most revered band recordings of the late 1950s, Maynard Ferguson's A Message From Newport. That's his piano on there swinging away on intros and breaks. [Photo of John Bunch in 2003 by Hank O'Neal]

Last year when I interviewed John, I asked him whether he had heard himself recently on the Ferguson album or on Urbie Green's The Message (1959). John said, "No, but wow, now you've got me excited. I'll have to listen to them." So I made him copies. When I saw him at Small's in New York months later, we were talking between sets and he said to me softly, "I was pretty good on those, wasn't I?" And how.

In Part 2 of my two-part interview with John, the pianist talks about his big band recordings and the pianists who most influenced his style:

JazzWax: How did you wind up recording on A Message From Newport with Maynard Ferguson in 1958?
John Bunch: I don’t remember how I got that job. Mostly luck, I think. I sort of knew Hank Jones. Hank had played with Maynard at Birdland with the Dream Band. Hank helped me when I came to New York by getting me gigs. I had just come to town and was hanging out at musicians’ hangouts. He and I wound up playing later with Benny Goodman.

JW: Did you flinch when you saw the Message from Newport arrangements?
JB: Not really. Maynard had three really good arrangers in the band. Slide Hampton did the modern stuff. Don Sebesky [pictured] did the mid-tempo material. And Willie Maiden wrote the ballads. Maynard had it covered.

JW: Do you recall anything about the band?
JB: I remember how exciting it was when we went down to Newport, R.I., to the festival to perform. Miles, Ella, Duke—everybody was there digging it.

JW: You didn’t record another album with Ferguson.
JB: In those days he didn’t have that much work. We’d go to Buffalo or Boston and then Hartford over a weekend and that would be it. Then there were no gigs for 10 days or so. It wasn’t a full-time band. But the crowds loved him, and we played a lot at Birdland.

JW: What was Ferguson like?
JB: Maynard was good to me. He gave me more solos than a lot of bandleaders would have. Songs opened with me racing along on piano or there were open stretches in songs. Maynard was a brilliant musician. You had to look up to him. He not only was a high-note player but he could play with the trumpet section as well.

JW: How good was he?
JB: Very. One night, we were invited to his apartment on the Upper West Side to a party before going to work at Birdland, our regular gig. But when we got to the club, it turned out he had forgotten his mouthpiece back at his place.

JW: What happened?
JB: One of the guys threw him a mouthpiece and said, “Try this one.” Most trumpet players would be uptight about that. They’re sensitive about using only their own mouthpieces. But Maynard had no choice. He just popped it into his horn and played the exact same way.

JW: Do you recall Urbie Green’s The Message in 1959?
JB: Not vividly. I remember that studio work had died down a lot by then so Urbie was playing more jazz. Urbie was a great jazz player and he was able to read anything and play it with feeling the first time down. One take and the music was recorded perfectly. But the demand for that kind of recording work had slowed by the late 1950s. The music was changing.

JW: But if you were playing with studio guys, you’re a better sight-reader than you’re letting on.
JB: Oh, I caught up [laughs]. I had taken lessons from different teachers over the years.

JW: Was the Rich vs. Roach recording in 1959 really the rivalry that Mercury Records made it out to be?
JB: No, not at all. Buddy was a strange guy with his temper and all that, but he always seemed to respect other drummers. Max and Buddy got along just fine. I remember when I was with Buddy in a small group, we worked opposite Max at Birdland. At the time of the Rich vs. Roach recording in 1959, Max didn’t have a piano player so that job fell to me for both Buddy and Max’s tracks. Both bands were set up in the studio pretty much the way they wanted to, which was a unusual because you were usually at the mercy of these sound guys.

JW: Benny Goodman loved your sense of time when you joined his band in 1960.
JB: Benny also was very good to me. I don’t know where all the horror stories about him come from. I didn’t see any of that. He was very considerate. When Benny asked me to join the band, I knew that all of these wonderful pianists had been with him, like Teddy Wilson and Mel Powell. I said to Benny, “ I have to tell you right now, I’m not a good sight-reader. If you want a classically trained player, then I might not be right for you.”

JW: What did he say?
JB: Benny kind of liked that. He liked my honesty. I’d always tell him the truth. Sometimes he didn't like that. But he appreciated that quality about me.

JW: Did you enjoy playing with Goodman?
JB: It was incredible. I had always loved his first band. It was the most exciting thing I had heard in the 1930s. It was a full band but sounded like a small combo. It had the tightness of a three or four piece group. That was amazing.

JW: Are you happy with your playing now?
JB: I’ve always envied guys with a lot of technique. I’m more of a natural player. If I had more technique, I would probably play like Art Tatum. And if I could play like Tatum, I wouldn’t be playing the way I do now [laughs]. I never could approach that level of playing. I just play the way I play.

JW: You make it sound like your style is born from limitation.
JB: I guess it does sound that way. My first inspirations were pianists who had a lighter touch. Like Count Basie and Teddy Wilson [pictured]. I was influenced by them. Hank Jones and Tommy Flanagan were influenced by them, too.

JW: Do you miss your big band days?
JB: Not much, no.

JW: Why not?
JB: The traveling and one-nighters could take it out of you. It was a tough life and certainly not for an older person. I always liked big bands, more so than most piano players. I just liked to hear them play. I’d even go to hear rehearsal bands at the musicians’ union in New York. Later on the bands rehearsing weren’t in the same class as the ones I had been in, but it was still a thrill. They were big bands. When you play in one, the feeling you get never leaves your system.

JazzWax clip: Here's a clip of Benny Goodman's small band on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1960 playing The World Is Waiting for the Sunrise. The band included Jack Sheldon (tpt), Urbie Green (tb), Jerry Dodgion (as), Flip Phillips (ts) Jimmy Wyble (gt), John Mosher (b) and John Markham (dm). In addition to stunning solos by Goodman and Red Norvo on vibes, that's John Bunch on piano keeping everyone on time...

Interview: John Bunch (Part 1)

John Bunch liked to be underestimated. The courtly and congenial pianist who died last week at age 88 enjoyed projecting an everyman image and often made a point of telling people that he didn't have much technical training. But what John did have was something that most jazz musicians spend a lifetime trying to acquire—perfect rhythm and enormous taste in chord phrasing. And for a jazz pianist, that's pretty much all you need. With just those two skills, John could swing a trio as hard as big bands led by Woody Herman, Maynard Ferguson and Benny Goodman. [Photo of John Bunch by Brian Young]

I interviewed John last year but sadly we were unable to complete our conversation for one reason or another. The following interview sat untranscribed in my computer—until yesterday. Unfortunately John and I didn't reconnect on the phone. I wish now, of course, that I had made a renewed effort to do so. On the other hand, if John's life was about simplicity, brevity and swing, then perhaps this two-part interview is plenty. My only regret is that John didn't have a chance to see it posted.

Here's Part 1 of my two-part conversation with the late grandmaster of modern swing piano:

JazzWax: How did you ever learn to keep such amazing time and play so tastefully?
John Bunch: You either get it early or you don't. My teacher in Indiana when I was 11 years old was a working jazz piano player. He’d holler at me, “Beat your foot, man! You can’t just sit there without putting some excitement into it” [laughs]. There might be some of my former teacher in my time-keeping.

JW: Was he a good teacher?
JB: Yes, very good. He was a superb tap dancer and used to try to teach me rhythm. Rhythm comes first, he used to say. If you don’t have it, all the technique in the world won’t mean a thing. My style might have come out of that experience. My teacher introduced me to tap dancing, which in the 1930s was very popular. Whenever there was a band playing, there was a tap dancer there, which is why so many musicians of that era had such good time. My teacher drilled into me that rhythm is very important.

JW: After World War II, what did you do?
JB: I moved back to the small town where I grew up in Indiana. I took small playing jobs, but I couldn’t get much work there. So I worked in a factory on the assembly line making governors for tractors.

JW: Why did you do that?
JB: A friend of mine worked there. He said, “Anyone can do this work, it pays good and it’s a steady job.” I told him that I didn’t know anything about making governors. He said: “Don’t worry about it. They'll teach you the first week. If you have the ability and can learn that first week, they’ll keep you on. If not they’ll let you go.”

JW: How did you do?
JB: They kept me on for a year. Then I got a job in the office of an insurance company. This was in Indianapolis. I could walk to work from where I was living, so it was convenient. At the time, I began studying to be an underwriter.

JW: What changed your mind?
JB: In 1947 I decided to go to college under the G.I. Bill. I thought it best to take advantage of that. So I started attending Indiana University. But they wouldn’t let me into the music school in those days. They were very anti-jazz then. Plus I couldn’t read well enough to qualify on piano.

JW: What did you do?
JB: I took speech and radio broadcasting. I thought if I could get into radio, I could get a job playing piano or something. I wound up graduating in 1951 with a degree in arts and sciences.

JW: What next?
JB: I moved to Florida and worked down there some. Things were bad for jazz there in those days. At that point I started thinking about going back into the service after I was offered my commission again. I was in my early 30s then.

JW: Did you worry about your future?
JB: A little. My wife at the time and I had been married for 10 years and decided to split up. I went back to Indianapolis. Jazz had taken over the city and was booming for both white and black players. I fit right into the scene, which gave me a lot of confidence.

JW: Was that part of the problem early on, confidence?
JB: I think so. But by the time I returned to Indianapolis, if you had talent, one thing led to another. They let you sit in a band, and if the leader liked you, the next thing you know you were taking someone’s job away. That’s what happens.

JW: Did you stay in Indianapolis?
JB: For a little bit. I played with all these wonderful musicians there. Then in the mid-1950s, I moved to Los Angeles and started playing with name guys.

JW: What was the turning point for you?
JB: My second trip to Indianapolis, when jazz took over. People came out to support it and mixed bands emerged. I was so impressed to see a mixed band. Then getting to play with great players, which I had never done before. I was thrilled, and the experience gave me more confidence.

JW: Your first recording was a live performance by Woody Herman’s band in 1957.
JB: I think Jimmy Rowles got me that job. I had known Jimmy a little in Los Angeles. Or it might have been Leroy Vinnegar. I had played with him in Indianapolis.

JW: Was Herman a hard rehearser?
JB: Not really. In fact, Woody wasn’t much for rehearsals. He left it up to the guys to get things right. I remember someone wrote an arrangement and set up a rehearsal with the band. Woody wasn’t even there.

Tomorrow, John talks about recording with Urbie Green, Maynard Ferguson and Benny Goodman, and cites his two biggest piano influences.

JazzWax clip: Here's John Bunch playing I've Got the World on a String from Tony's Tunes (Chiaroscuro)...

Sunday Wax Bits

Sonny Rollins. My liner notes for Sonny Rollins' newly remastered Way Out West (Concord) just arrived. I can't even begin to tell you how excited I am. It was a joy to pay tribute to Sonny and an honor to write about an album I've loved for years. Over my 25-year career, I've seen my byline in newspapers and magazines. I've appeared on The Today Show, CNN and other national TV news shows. But as a jazz fan, nothing prepares you for seeing your name next to the names of legends you admire most.

Way Out West is a brilliant album for all of the reasons I mention in my liner notes. But in 1957, it also was a cultural statement. On the album, the East's leading saxophone star met two of the West's busiest studio musicians. This summit came at a time when a faux coastal rivalry was being fanned by record companies and magazine editors. But Sonny's motive back then wasn't to one-up Shelly Manne and Ray Brown. He simply dug cowboy flicks and The Lone Ranger as a kid and saw an opportunity to pay tribute to the Western and live out an all-American fantasy. Manne and Brown happily were along for the ride.

Here's the opening paragraph from my liner notes:

"Sonny Rollins' early role models were cowboys of the  big screen. Stars of the 1930s Westerns like Buck Jones, Charles Starrett and Ken Maynard taught Sonny about fairness, justice and self-sufficiency. "Ken Maynard seemed to have been a real guy who was honest but hard-hitting," Sonny told me during a recent conversation. "He was a guy you couldn't fool around with more than once. Sonny paused—and then roared with laughter."

For the rest, you'll have to buy the CD or download the album at iTunes (you get the liner notes with downloads of new releases there). I don't make a dime off of sales, just the satisfaction of knowing that great music is newly appreciated and a lovable side of Sonny's personality has been detailed. Hats off to the reissue's producer Nick Phillips. The album sounds great.

John Bunch (1921-2010), who became jazz giant later in life than most musicians of his generation but fast became one of the most graceful time-keepers in both big-band and small-group settings, died March 30th in New York of melanoma. He was 88.

John's success secret was simplicity and humility. What John lacked in schooled technique he more than made up for in impeccable swing and tasteful harmony. Hugely influenced by the spare perfection of Count Basie and Teddy Wilson, John was gentle and modest, leaning toward self-deprecating.

But when seated at the keyboard, he was firmly in control, weaving elegantly through a range of styles, including block chords, without ever playing heavy. If you had the pleasure of sitting inches from John's hands while he played, you had the sense that the keyboard was made of marshmallow, as his hands seemed to bounce lightly off the notes.

John told me between sets at Small's last year that he liked to play the piano like a  guitarist, strumming the notes lightly rather than bullying them. When I saw John last, he shook off the arthritis in his right hand and whisked through standards, coaxing out their lyrical beauty with delicate voicings and a relentless left hand. His playing was so patient and seductive that in recent years he attracted a regular band of female jazz listeners.

Perhaps the high point for me the last night I saw John was Henry Mancini's Mr. Lucky, a song that in some ways personified his professional career. Yet when I urged him afterward to record a Mancini tribute album, he resisted. "I'm not sure how much more of Henry's work has the kind of spring I need to fit my style."

Tomorrow, I will feature an interview I conducted with John early last year.

Herb Ellis (1921-2010), a guitarist and composer whose years of rhythm-keeping with Oscar Peterson and Ray Brown probably qualify him as a drummer as well, died March 28th in Los Angeles of Alzheimer's disease. He was 88. 

Among Ellis' best leadership recordings are Ellis in Wonderland (1955) and Softly, But With Feeling (1961), on which he plays Detour Ahead, a song that he, Lou Carter and Johnny Frigo are credited with co-writing.

Doug Ramsey earlier in the week wrote a superb tribute of Ellis here.

Terry Teachout. This has nothing to do with jazz but everything to do with smarts. Knowing Terry as well as I do, he is an incredibly fast, voracious reader. Last week Terry, the arts essayist and Wall Street Journal theater critic, posted at his blog the 10 books that most influenced his view of the world. To see his list, go here.

DVD discovery of the week. Naxos of America continues to issue  spectacular DVDs in its Masters of American Music Series. Two of the latest four are particularly noteworthy: Count Basie: Swingin' the Blues and Sarah Vaughan: The Divine One. I saw the Sarah Vaughan documentary on PBS some years ago, and it was a joy to see it again here in crisp digital form. If you think Sarah is some singer, wait until you see her in action through the years on this DVD.

The Count Basie DVD is new to me, and you're reminded how important and critical an artist he was just moments into this documentary. Every major big band arranger and artist in the post-war period cites Basie as a central influence. When asked at one point how he'd like to be remembered, Basie said, "As a nice guy." Hear, hear.

The other two DVDs in this series that were issued a few days ago are The World According to John Coltrane and Bluesland: A Portrait in American Music.

You'll find the Basie DVD here and the Vaughan DVD here.

CD discoveries of the week. Trumpeter Claudio Roditi has released a tasty new bossa nova CD called Simpatico featuring all original compositions. The CD kicks off with the commanding Spring Samba and changes moods on each track. Dig Roditi's playing against the string writing on Slow Fire. Or his playful bossa nova How Intensitive. And Alberto and Daisy is pure sunshine. Roditi remains one of today's unsung trumpeters and practitioners of sensual samba jazz. See what I mean by sampling Simpatico at iTunes or here.

Dig Bill Evans and introspective jazz piano? Italian pianist Luciano Troja's At Home with Zindars is for you. Luciano self-produced this CD, which comes with a 40-page booklet on the 16 tracks and composer Earl Zindars, who died in 2005. Zindars wrote several important jazz works that were adopted by Evans, including Mother of Earl and How My Heart Sings. Luciano's solo work is touching and deeply moving, especially as you listen and read about his passion for Zindars. While you likely know the two songs mentioned above, you might not be familiar with Zindars' other works, many of which are interpreted here. You'll find At Home With Zindars and samples here.

Biophilia by the Vinson Valega Group has a smart, late hardbop feel. Drummer Valega keeps things moving with change-up patterns and six original compositions. While the sextet pulls toward free and modal jazz at times, it's merely a ruse. Within a few measures, songs return to structure and pointed harmonies. A Moment of Silence is a good example of this split personality. Each tune shimmers with a different energy, and pianist Matthew Fries is a standout. Go sample November Spring. You'll find Biophilia at iTunes or here.

Oddball album cover of the week. Poor Charlie Barnet. The guy who made Cherokee a smash hit with Billy May's arrangement in 1939 is reduced to a carpet-sitter on some beach near Los Angeles. The album was recorded at the La Paz Hotel in Palm Springs, CA, in 1959. I have no idea how this Capitol release sounds or why it was released. But here it is.

Interview: Frank D'Rone (Part 3)

Not all singers who came up in the 1950s became Tony Bennett or Sarah Vaughan. Some were popular only in their local towns. Some lacked talent or didn't have enough charisma. Some fell in with lousy record labels or the wrong crowd. Some were short on persistence or endurance. Others just gave up and went into another line of work. And then there were those highly gifted singers with enormous taste who came very, very close to becoming a household name but wound up victims of shifting tastes. Frank D'Rone was one of those vocalists. [Pictured from left: Woody Herman, Frank D'Rone and record promoter Dick LaPalm]

In Frank's case, the times changed a little bit too quickly in the mid-1960s. His enormous talent as a swinging jazz singer and guitarist were being overtaken by pop groups and teen idols. As the decade wore on, fewer and fewer record labels had room on their rosters for optimistic vocalists, especially as the American Songbook gave way to transistor radios and angry rebellion. Yet though sheer passion, determination and an adoring Chicago audience, Frank managed to survive and today is one of the last pure club singers of his generation still standing. He also happens to be a very sweet, kind guy. [Pictured: Frank D'Rone, June Christy and Ray Charles]

In Part 3 of my interview with Frank, the vocalist talks about the climate of the 1960s, working in Las Vegas, befriending Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack, singing with Buddy Rich, and spending quality time with Nat King Cole at the entertainer's home:

JazzWax: Did the jazz-pop business grow tougher in the 1960s?
Frank D'Rone: Yes, it was harder to be a pop singer in the 1950s tradition. Everything had changed. Radio stations still played my singles, like Joey, Joey, Joey. But there was much more competition from younger artists. We’d go to a radio station to promote my records but now we’d have to wait in line to see if the DJ would play it.

JW: Did the times wear you down?
FD’R: I kind of was frustrated. But I said to myself, "What am I going to do?” You can’t bug the record company guys. If you do, it can backfire on you. Plus, the music really started changing. I had to rationalize the changes or I would have gone nuts. I still played clubs and headlined. I did the Copacabana in New York and The Living Room. But you sensed the climate was working against you as an artist and that things were never going back to the way they were. That was scary for jazz singers.

JW: You knew Frank Sinatra, didn’t you?
FD’R: I met Frank in 1966. I was working the Fremont Hotel in Las Vegas. Frank was at The Sands. His opening act was comedian Pat Henry, who was a friend of mine. One day Pat told me he was bringing Sinatra over to hear me.

JW: Did he come through?
FD’R: Yes. Frank came in and brought about 40 people with him. As an entertainer, I can’t even describe what it’s like to see Frank come in to see you with that many people. You can't believe it. After the show, I went over to thank Frank for coming and spoke to him for a while. Frank said he enjoyed my singing. He said, “Next year you’ll be up at The Sands in the lounge.”

JW: Were you?
FD’R: Yes, he kept his word. He was hanging out with the Rat Pack then and would bring them all down after their shows to see me in the lounge. It was fun hanging out with them. I was the only one not in the Rat Pack allowed in their dressing room.

JW: What went on in there?
FD’R: Just entertainers relaxing. You’d have a drink and make small talk to unwind. Back there, I’d look around and say to myself, “This is fantastic. I’m talking with Dean Martin and Joey Bishop.” It was incredible stuff. Very friendly, lots of jokes. Dean was especially kind to me. But I always remembered that I was a guest.

JW: Did you ever get a shot in front of a big band in Las Vegas?
FD’R: One day, The Sands pulled Frank's tab at the casino. Frank got bugged and quit. He walked outside and drove over to Caesars and performed there. I had to sub for him in the main room at The Sands for two nights until they could get a headliner in.

JW: Which band was behind you?
FD’R: Buddy Rich. He played my book of songs. Buddy and I got to be friendly in a minute. As soon as he heard me sing, he said, “I don’t let too many singers sing with my band. Just you, Mel [Torme] and Frank.” It was a ball singing with Buddy. If we were performing in the same town, he’d always come to see me.

JW: What did Frank think of you subbing for him?
FD’R: He loved it. He also started to hire me for Caesars in the lounge. He’d love to come hear me after his shows. He liked when I came backstage to hang out with him before he went on. It would be just the two of us having a drink.

JW: Ever ask for advice?
FD’R: One time I said to him, “Do you have any suggestions to pass along?”

JW: What did he say?
FD’R: He said, “Yeah, just turn the piano around” [laughs]. That was his way of telling me there was nothing wrong with what I was doing.

JW: Did you turn the piano around?
FD’R: We did, and Frank got a kick out of that [laughs].

JW: Did you and Nat Cole remain friends?
FD’R: Yes. When my mother was ill in Providence in 1962 and Nat was working near by, he came over to her house and spent an hour with her talking. She was a big fan of his. I never forgot that. Another time when I was singing in L.A., he invited me over to his house. Just as I arrived his wife Maria was taking the kids out. So it was just Nat and me that afternoon. [Photo of Nat Cole by Herman Leonard/CTSImages.com]

JW: What did you two do?
FD’R: We went out to his guesthouse in the back. He had all this stuff in it—a great stereo, all these albums,  his gold records framed and a huge Steinway. He made us vodka martinis, which he loved, and we just sat and talked. Suddenly, he got up and went over the piano and started singing and playing, telling me the backgrounds to the songs he recorded. [Pictured: Nat Cole's house in Los Angeles]

JW: For example?
FD'R: He said the demo of Mona Lisa that he had been given originally was done uptempo and bouncy. He played the piano and sang the way the demo sounded. Then he slowed it way down to show me how he had made it a love song. As he's telling me this, I’m saying to myself, “No one’s ever going to believe me.” Nat was the sweetest guy. He loved my guitar playing.

JW: Did you appear on TV?
FD’R: Quite a bit. I did The Dean Martin Show in the late 1960s. After the show, I went up to Dean to thank him. He just looked at me and said, “Hey my man, if you didn’t deserve it, you wouldn’t be here. You deserve every bit of it.” Then he took me into the office with his producer at the time, Greg Garrison, and we had a toast together. He was so charismatic in person. It was electrifying. I also did The Tonight Show quite a few times.

JW: You sang on TV with Sarah Vaughan, yes?
FD’R: Yes. Woody Herman’s band was behind her. It was a local TV show in Chicago. We sang Lady Be Good together. We scatted and looked at each other lovingly. I love Sarah's voice. She’s my favorite singer, male or female. [Pictured: Frank D'Rone with Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show]

JW: You also toured with Liza.
FD’R: Yes, in 1982. She was great. She was so  considerate. Backstage before shows, whenever her voice wasn’t just right, she’d call me from down the hall and we'd work through some things to place her voice. We have enormous respect for each other.

JW: Ever have any regrets about not being a bigger name?
FD’R: Not really. Sometimes I wonder “what if.” But I always wind up realizing that I’m actually happy I didn’t become a big star. I did it the way I wanted. I never got into drugs. I never got into booze. I’ve had a happy, wonderful life. [Pause] I didn’t become a big star or anything, but I’ve had a star’s career.

JazzWax tracks: Frank's last album for Mercury was In Person, recorded live at San Francisco's Hungry I club in 1962. In 1968 he recorded Brand New Morning for Cadet with big band arrangements by Johnny Pate. The album has a wonderful, fresh late-'60s pop feel. Many of the tracks, like Up, Up and Away, Mandy Is Two and Bluesette are spot on. I wish he had had the opportunity to record a dozen of albums like this one.

In the decades that followed, Frank has continued to issue CDs of his live appearances in Atlantic City and Chicago. In 2007, he released Falling in Love With Love: Live in Chicago. The CD includes a note from Tony Bennett: "When you listen to D'Rone, you are listening to the real thing."

You can buy all of Frank's CDs at his site here (enter the site and click on the "store" tab). Many of the rare Mercury LPs have been doubled up on one CD. And if you're in Chicago, Frank will be appearing at the Green Mill on April 23d and 24th.

Interview: Frank D'Rone (Part 2)

Back the 1950s, jazz duos, trios and quartets toured all over the country. There was plenty of work to go around. Thousands of small clubs and bars favored live jazz and pop, which attracted patrons, kept them there longer buying drinks. The goal for an artist was to land an extended stay at a club in a major city and wind up discovered by critics and radio and TV personalities. Ultimately, you were angling for a record deal, which could lead to national recognition. Frank D'Rone was one of those touring singer-guitarists in search of the magic club and opportunity. [Photo: Tony Bennett and Frank D'Rone in the early 1960s]

For the first seven years of Frank's career, he played and sang in a quartet, trio and duo throughout the Midwest. But eventually, the tedium and strain of the road, and his own ambition, motivated Frank to call Dick Marx, a well-known pianist on the Chicago scene, to ask for a break. Marx understood immediately and invited Frank to join him and bassist Johnny Frigo [pictured] in Chicago at Mister Kelly's. Then Frank was booked as a single act into Dante's Inferno. That was Frank's shot.

In Part 2 of my three-part interview with Frank, the singer-guitarist talks about going solo, the subtle magazine ad that raised his visibility, Nat King Cole's visit to the club, a record contract with Mercury, recording two albums for the label with leading jazz stars, and George Shearing's favorite song:

JazzWax: Did you start to gain recognition after going into Dante's Inferno in Chicago in the late 1950s?
Frank D'Rone: Little by little. I was doing a single there, singing and playing guitar. One night a guy came in named Marty Faye [pictured], who had a local TV talk show. He was the brother of singer Frances Faye. He liked me and asked me to come on his show to play and sing two or three tunes every Tuesday and Thursday. He said he couldn’t pay me but he’d plug me.

JW: Did you take the job?
FD’R: A plug was as good as cash as far as I was concerned [laughs]. Within my first few appearances  on Marty Faye's TV show, Dante’s Inferno went from no business to you couldn’t get into the place. The line snaked around the block. We were packed every night, and I began to get good reviews. The club started to be “the” place. All of sudden people all over the country were stopping in.

JW: Did the owner ever advertise?
FD’R: He did. And he did something interesting. He simply placed an ad in Playboy magazine the size of a matchbook. It said something like “Frank D’Rone Is at Dante's.” Playboy was based in Chicago, and soon Hugh Hefner started coming in with an entourage. Then Ella Fitzgerald came to see me. Tony Bennett, too.

JW: Big stars.
FD’R: Huge. Then one night, the door opened and in walked Nat King Cole with Dick LaPalm, who at the time was promoting his records. We had a little spinet piano off to the side that was out of tune because no one played it. I was on a stool playing and singing. Nat was working at the Chez Paris in Chicago.

JW: Did you dig Cole?
FD’R: I was always a Nat Cole fanatic. Well, after a few numbers, Nat got up and sat right next to me at the piano. I was wigging. I couldn’t believe it. I was singing and Nat Cole was playing. I kept going straight ahead. I just took off the guitar and I sang while Nat played. After the set, we sat and talked. I was at Dante's for 14 months.

JW: How did Mercury discover you?
FD’R: Art Talmadge, Mercury’s pop A&R guy, put me with producer Jack Tracy at the label. My first album was Frank D’Rone Sings in 1957. Nat Cole wrote the liner notes.

JW: Who was on that album? Discographies draw a blank.
FD’R: I came up with all of the song choices. The label turned to Bill Russo for the charts. But when we recorded Bill’s arrangements in Chicago, the Mercury executives felt the charts were too hip and out there.

JW: What was the issue?
FD’R: There was too much of the Kenton sound behind me for Mercury’s taste and vision.

JW: What did Mercury do?
FD’R: They had many of the tracks re-arranged by Dick Marx, and Jack Tracy re-recorded them in Chicago with studio musicians such as Johnny Frigo and saxophonist Kenny Soderbloom.

JW: Who handled the West Coast A&R?
FD’R: Pete Rugolo. He brought together a group that included Bud Shank [pictured], Barney Kessel, Jimmy Rowles, Red Mitchell and Shelly Manne. The results were breezier, small-group arrangements that were less busy behind me. But Mercury kept a number of Russo’s tracks on there as well. I like them both.

JW: What came next?
FD’R: I recorded a pop instrumental band record on guitar behind trumpeter and arranger Carl Stevens. The album was called Skin and Bones for Mercury.

JW: Word started to pick up on you?
FD’R: Yes. I returned to Dante’s in Chicago and word got out all over the country.  One night, Enrico Banducci, owner of San Francisco’s Hungry I,  flew in to see me and caught two sets. He hired me on the spot. There was no contract. He told me how much and that it would be for four weeks. Dante's let me go. So I flew out to the West Coast, and for the next month I was the opening act for everyone—Jonathan Winters, Phyllis Diller, the Smothers Brothers, Mike Nichols and Elaine May, Mort Sahl and others. Four weeks turned into six months [laughs].

JW: What next?
FD’R: I became so popular at the Hungry I that record promoter Dick LaPalm came up with a brilliant idea to have Mercury record me with Billy May [pictured, left] writing the arrangements. The concept behind After the Ball was a guy going to a ball. All the songs would be tied into that idea. Dick came up with all the tunes, and I recorded in Los Angeles, around 1961. There was no rehearsing. We went into a studio on Sunset Boulevard owned by Bill Putnam and did the album in three days. It was a full orchestra with strings—35 musicians. The ink was still wet on the charts when they arrived [laughs]. [Pictured: Nat King Cole with engineer Bill Putnam]

JW: Do you remember who was in the orchestra?
FD’R: Jimmy Rowles [pictured], Phil Woods, Bud Shank, Irv Cottler, Conrad Gozzo, Herbie Mann and others. The beautiful part was I was placed right in the middle of the band. They just put a baffle around me to avoid sound leakage. We did two or three takes per tune. After the first song, the whole orchestra applauded just to let me know that I was spot on. It felt great.

JW: Was Billy May there conducting?
FD’R: No.

JW: Who was leading?
FD’R: Benny Carter. He was so nice. After each day's work, he told me how much he enjoyed working with me on the album. He was such a gentleman. [Photo of Benny Carter by Herb Snitzer]

JW: Yet the record wasn’t well marketed by Mercury, was it?
FD’R: I don’t think so. They dropped the ball. Teen pop was coming in. I never complained. I figured they were doing it right. Obviously they weren’t. 

JW: You recorded Try a Little Tenderness for Mercury next, with a band, strings and choir.
FD’R: Yes. That album was arranged by Belford Hendricks, who had arranged Dinah Washington's hit in 1959, What a Difference a Day Makes.

JW: Did you perform with jazz guys during this period?
FD’R: Yes. I first sang with Oscar Peterson and George Shearing when they were in Chicago for the first Playboy Jazz Festival in 1959. Whenever George was in town, he’d ask me to sing with him. When I was in San Francisco at the Hungry I, George was playing at Fack's II. After my gig, I’d go listen to him and join him on the last set. He loved the way I sang Sophisticated Lady. I could sing anything I wanted during the set but I had to sing Sophisticated Lady first.

JW: Did you have fun with it?
FD’R: The song's original key was in A-flat. One time we were in Vegas. I was at the Sands and George was at the Tropicana. I went to catch his late show, and we were about to do Sophisticated Lady when he asked me, “What key?” Well I knew he was up to something because we always did it in A-flat. Kidding around, I said G-flat, one of the toughest keys. Plus the song is tough enough to begin with. Well, George played it in G-flat as easily as if he were at home in bed playing it [laughs]. What a musician.

Tomorrow, Frank talks about subbing for Frank Sinatra in Las Vegas, hanging out backstage with the Rat Pack, what Buddy Rich told him about his singing, spending an afternoon at Nat King Cole's house listening to records, and Dean Martin's supportive comment.

JazzWax tracks: Frank D'Rone Sings and Try a Little Tenderness (Mercury) are both out of print. But you can buy them at Frank's site here (enter the site and click on the "store" tab). In addition, there are tremendous flute and alto solos by Bud Shank on Frank D'Rone Sings. If you dig After the Ball, these two CDs are musts. Frank will be appearing at the Green Mill in Chicago on April 23d and 24th. 

JazzWax discography: If you own Frank D'Rone Sings, you know that nothing is known about who is playing on the session and who arranged it. According to Frank, three hands were involved:

In Chicago Bill Russo wrote charts for a large orchestra. Dick Marx wrote for a sextet that included Johnny Frigo (bass), Kenny Soderbloom (saxes) and Paul Severson (trombone).

But some of the Russo charts were overwhelming. So a Los Angeles group was used to re-do the Russo tracks with a fresher, linear sound using head arrangements (no written music). The West Coast date featured Bud Shank (saxes, flute), Barney Kessel (guitar), Jimmy Rowles (piano), Red Mitchell (bass) and Shelly Manne (drums):

Here are the tracks, who arranged them and where they were recorded:

1. Love and the Weather—Dick Marx (Chicago)
2. Yesterdays—Bill Russo (Chicago)
3. I Could Write a Book—Dick Marx (Chicago)
4. Everything Happens to Me—head chart (Los Angeles)
5. My Foolish Heart—Bill Russo (Chicago)
6. Fascinating Rhythm—Dick Marx (Chicago)
7. The Moon Is Blue—head chart (Los Angeles)
8. Sophisticated Lady—Bill Russo (Los Angeles)
9. Joey, Joey, Joey—Dick Marx (Chicago)
10. Spring Is Here—head chart (Los Angeles)
11. The Way You Look Tonight—head chart (Los Angeles)