Back before electric guitarists were down on their knees
in stadiums playing competing rock solos, tough tenors roamed the planet. And in the 1950s and early 1960s, tenor saxophonists were plenty tough and competitive. Most came out of the r&b experience of the late 1940s and early 1950s. Hot r&b bands of the day included ones led by Lionel Hampton, Bull Moose Jackson, Tiny Grimes and Earl Bostic. The list of tough tenors starts with Coleman Hawkins and includes Gene Ammons,
Jimmy Forrest, Buddy Tate, Johnny Griffin, Willis "Gator" Jackson, Stanley Turrentine, Illinois Jacquet and Hank Crawford. Two of the toughest, bossiest and gruffest, however, were Arnett Cobb and Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis. Both were blues soaked through and through, and both were as aggressive and as lethal creatively as rattle snakes.
Cobb and Davis were placed alone in the recording studio together
only once, on Blow Arnett, Blow for Prestige in January 1959 (re-issued in 1970 as Go Power!). Though they also appeared together on Very Saxy (also Prestige) in April 1959, they were teamed with tenor titans Coleman Hawkins and Buddy Tate.
But on Blow Arnett, Blow, it's just Cobb and Davis going at it
full tilt in a tenor cage match. What's also special about this date are the sidemen—a tough tenor's dream team. On organ was "Wild Bill" Davis [pictured], one of the most exciting and swinging Hammond players of his generation. Rounding out the rhythm section was George Duvivier on bass and Arthur Edgehill on drums, veterans of many organ sessions.
The entire album is a groovy feast
that lets you feel the competitive heat between these two rival players. It's so ferocious that you can't help but imagine these two as country lawyers vehemently arguing a court case before judge "Wild Bill" Davis. Of particular note is Dutch Kitchen Bounce, a Cobb original with a Robbins' Nest feel. Here "Lockjaw" Davis manages to outfox Cobb. But on the album's high point, The Eely One, a squirmy medium-tempo blues that features an Everyday I Have the
Blues riff, Cobb roars back. The rest of the album is mind-blowing: When I Grow Too Old to Dream is a loping standard, Go Power by George Duvivier delivers on its promise, Go Red Go by Cobb is the album's cooker and "Wild Bill" Davis' The Fluke is a mid-tempo romp. This may have been just another recording session at Rudy Van Gelder's studio, but for these two, it was show-off time, and the result is sensational.
If you dig the tenor sax-organ trio sound, this one exceeds all expectations. Prestige released many albums of this genre during the period, often following a successful formulaic model. But this one stands out as among the very best with musicians who took such summits seriously.
So who won the tenor bout? "Lockjaw" Davis is certainly strong and commanding, constantly trying to outfox Cobb or force him to cough up a cliche phrase. But Cobb is big and all-out, straight down the line and completely on top of his game. I'd have to give it to Cobb, on points.
JazzWax tracks: For some reason, Blow Arnett, Blow is not
available as a download. But you can still find it on CD. Sample the tracks here.
JazzWax clips:Here's Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis and Arnett Cobb with Buddy Tate and Coleman Hawkins on Lester Leaps In from Very Saxy. The order of tenor solos is Davis, Tate, Hawkins and Cobb...
Though not a single jazz musician is pictured on the cover of
the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, John Lennon and Paul McCartney, in collusion with producer George Martin, made strong use of the saxophone and British jazz players in their later works. Used mostly for texture or novelty effect, saxes in Beatles' works were typically masked slightly by overdubbed effects or arranged to sound like plastic instruments.
Here are five of my favorite sax passages on Fab Four albums:
All You Need Is Love—This horn-heavy anthem featured Rex Morris
and
Don Honeywill on tenor saxes, with the pair playing the scored unison tag of In the Mood toward the end.
Savoy Truffle—Baritone saxophonist Harry Klein (he played with Stan Kenton in Europe in the mid-1950s) anchored a six-man section that featured Art Ellefson, Danny Moss and Derek
Collins on tenor saxes with Ronnie Ross and Bernard George on baritone saxes.
Honey Pie—A jazz-age jape, this tune featured saxophonists Harry Klein, Dennis Walton,
Ronald Chamberlain, Jim Chest and Rex Morris arranged to mimic a 1920s English sweet band.
Good Morning, Good Morning—Yes, there's actually a
spirited saxophone sextet stitched into this track from Sgt. Pepper's. The wax-papery sax orchestration was handled by producer George Martin.
Got to Get You Into My Life—Tenor saxophonists Peter Coe and Alan
Branscombe were used on this classic from Revolver. The sax parts were orchestrated by George
Martin.
If you're a careful reader of West Coast jazz-album liner notes,
you've likely come across Joe Maini's name. The alto saxophonist is rather obscure today, but back in the 1950s and early 1960s, he was one of Los Angeles' busiest and most distinctive studio musicians, sitting next to Charlie Parker in Gene Roland's Band That Never Was and recording with Clifford Brown, Shelly Manne, Kenny Drew, Zoot Sims and many others. Maini also appeared on dozens of major
small-group and big-band recordings throughout the decade, including the I Want to Live soundtrack, Terry Gibbs' Dream Band, and the Ray Anthony and Bill Holman big bands.
But Maini also personified the bipolar world of Southern California's music scene at the time, hurling himself into a high-risk lifestyle but remaining deeply passionate about jazz. "Joe was beyond great—he could play anything I wrote, with incredible soul and energy," Johnny Mandel told me at dinner recently.
Two weeks ago, Tina Maini [pictured], Joe's daughter,
emailed me inquiring about a photo I had used of her dad in an earlier post. We struck up an e-friendship, and I asked Tina if she would be willing to write about her dad's life and the tragic events of his death. Tina agreed. Here, in Tina's words, are her reflections of her father:
"I was six years old when my father Joe Maini died in Los Angeles. For years, hurtful rumors about the tragic accident that ended his life on May 7, 1964 circulated and grew larger
and more outrageous with every telling. Eventually, stories about Russian roulette, murder and other false allegations began to be treated as fact, making my father seem disturbed, irrational or worse. [Pictured, from left: Zoot Sims, Joe Maini and Bill Holman]
"Over time, those rumors managed to diminish and overshadow my father's reputation as an outstanding
musician. They also minimized his contribution to West Coast jazz. My father deserves better, which is why I agreed to share the story of his death here. [Pictured: Joe Maini seated next to Charlie Parker in Gene Roland's Band That Never Was]
"As the daughter of Joe Maini, I have been blessed over the
years with lots of jazz family—including Med and Joanie Flory, Bobby and Jerrie McKenzie, Paul Horn, Kenny Drew, Jack Sheldon, Charlie Kennedy, Henry Mancini and Johnny Mandel. And of course there was comedian Lenny Bruce [pictured], my dad's very best friend.
"The list goes on an on, and each of these friends were special
characters in their own right. My father’s love for his wife Sandra, my mother, was legendary in jazz circles. He also was a great, loving father—or as much of a father as he could be given his occupation and hours. [Pictured, from left: Sandra and Joe Maini with son Giuseppe]
"The late 1950s was a crazy time on the West Coast. Every
musician seemed to be high, drunk or loose most of the time—except when it came to playing and recording. Despite my father’s drug habit, he never missed a gig or recording session.
"Of course, his passion for jazz wasn’t always in sync with family time. My father missed my birth, for instance, sending my godfather
Lenny Bruce in his place so he could finish his out-of-town gig. Lenny even gave me my name. My parents were expecting a boy, and my mom was at a loss for a girl’s name. My mother told me that Lenny said, "I knew this great chick named Tina!" So my mother went with Tina.
"There was always a gathering or a jam session going on at our house in West Hollywood when I was young, and my father was
infamous for being the life of every party. Sadly, drugs were a major part of his downtime and certainly contributed to his judgment at the time of his death. Believe me, I know just how deeply into the drug scene he was. But drugs, most assuredly, had nothing to do with why my father was special as a musician or why he was loved and admired by so many. [Pictured: Joe and Sandra Maini]
"In the spring of 1964, my mom was trying to get clean from her own drug habit. She also was struggling to raise my brother
Giuseppe and me. To create space, she and dad would separate off and on, which was hard on us. The pace and intensity of the music scene was difficult for both of them, and their temporary breaks often were mutually agreed upon, for everyone's sake. [Pictured: Joe Maini at home]
"But being apart was difficult on my parents. The week of my father’s death was one of those tough times, and I’m told my
parents' most recent separation had him feeling a bit down. Consequently, rumors circulated after his death that he had committed suicide—despite the fact that he was in a great mood and joking around when the gun he held in his hand went off.
"Let me set the record straight. Here are the facts concerning the night my father died, according to my mother, my dad's brother and alto saxophonist Ray Graziano, who was there:
"In 1964, Ray Graziano was one of my father’s many acquaintances. At the time, Ray’s girlfriend Daphne lived with
him, and my father was hanging out at their place after gigs to relax and party before heading home. One night Daphne thought she saw a prowler at the window. So my father and Ray borrowed a gun so Daphne could protect herself when she was home alone.
"My father was an outrageous prankster and went to great lengths to pull off a joke. Friends called him Joe 'Mainiac' for good reason. I remember my father once told me to
play dead and brought me to my mom, who freaked out. Other times, my dad went way out of his way to make us laugh. One time he used a large pipe wrench to pretend he was tightening his nose. [Pictured: Charlie Barnet conducting while Joe Maini listens]
"When my father and Ray arrived back at Ray's place with the gun, my father started playing around with it, telling jokes and clicking the trigger, imitating a cowboy.
"A few days later, late at night and after a gig, my father went
back to Ray's house to get high. In the interim, Ray had purchased bullets and loaded them into the gun. Nobody knows why my father wasn't told about the gun being loaded, but when people are getting high and it's late at night...
"My father picked up the pistol and started telling a joke. He waved the gun around, and it went off accidentally. The bullet cut just under his ear and across the back of his neck through his spine. If that bullet had been just a millimeter off, he would have lived.
"Ray and Daphne rushed my father to the hospital, and he died soon after. I remember being at the hospital when Grandma
Maini, Joe’s grieving mom, screamed, "Murderer, murderer!" at my mother while I held my little brother crying in my arms. It was really rough. A short time later, my father’s parents reached out to us, apologized and were wonderful grandparents to my brother and me. [Pictured; Joe Maini and his brother Pat shortly before Joe's death]
"I also remember my father’s open-casket funeral and the horn they buried with him, one of Charlie Parker’s, I was told. From what I’ve heard, everyone in the jazz world on the West Coast was there that day. Soon after my father’s funeral, his musician friends held a 12-hour
memorial concert at Shelly's Manne-Hole. Everyone contributed generous amounts of cash, which was placed into a trust fund for my brother and me. The money helped us enormously when we turned 18, and we are so grateful for that. [Pictured, from left: Unknown, Percy Heath, Joe Maini and Dizzy Gillespie]
"I have no idea what happened to Ray Graziano or Daphne in the years that followed. As for my mother, she kept us isolated from the gossip and media. She moved us to an out-of-the-way city on the East Coast. To make ends meet, my mother worked at all kinds of jobs, from construction and decorating to teaching art to young children.
"I lived with my mom off and on most of my adult life, and we had an intensely close relationship. She passed away 20 years ago, still in love with my dad and somewhat broken-hearted.
"Since my father’s death, I have worked as a jazz vocalist and musician. My brother, my son and daughter as well as my
grandchildren all have the talent and the music in them. My brother Giuseppe has become a painter and blues-harp player in New Hampshire. In so many good ways, he is just like his father. My son played sax like a natural and now is a sculptor in New York. My daughter has recorded in Europe. [Pictured: Tina Maini and brother Giuseppe]
"But after all these years, my family still has to endure the awful rumors about my father's death 46 years ago last week. Just recently,
a new CD compilation surfaced from Spain called Joe Maini: Small Group Recordings. It comes with a sticker on the wrapping that reads, 'The jazz world was shocked in May 1964 when the newspapers announced saxophonist Joe Maini's death apparently as a consequence of playing Russian roulette at the age of 34.'
"That’s not the legacy my father wanted to leave behind. Rumors may sell CDs, but they still hurt family members many
years later. I hope that by writing about my father’s death here, I can put an end to the untruths about what happened that night. My brother and I truly loved my father and miss him dearly." [Pictured: Tina Maini and her brother Giuseppe]
JazzWax tracks: Joe Maini is on a range of top recordings
from the 1950s. The best collection of these sessions is Joe Maini: The Small Group Recordings (Lonehill),the set that Tina Maini complained about above for its bad-taste promotional sticker. You'll find the four-CD set here.
Maini also recorded with Clifford Brown on Clifford Brown All Stars (EmArcy), on the soundtrack recording of Johnny Mandel's I Want to Live and on many of Terry Gibbs' albums from the late 1950s, including More Vibes on Velvet, Terry Gibbs Big Band, Launching a New Band, One More Time, Dream Band, Flying Home, The Sundown Sessions,Swing Is Here!,Main Stem and The Big Cat.
Maini can also be found in the reed sections of Bill Holman's Great Big Band (1960) and
on Anita O'Day's Incomparable! (also arranged by Bill), O'Day's Travelin' Light (arranged by Johnny Mandel), Gerald Wilson's Moment of Truth and David Allyn's In the Blue of Evening, arranged by Johnny Mandel.
Yesterday, the international Jazz Journalists Association held a
party to announce the winners of its annual awards in 45 categories. JazzWax was nominated in two of them, and I was honored to be among such esteemed colleagues:
The Helen
Dance-Robert Palmer Award for Review and Feature
Writing (print and/or online)...
Winner: Nate Chinen
Nominees:
David Adler
Gary Giddins
Marc Myers
Doug Ramsey
Ben Ratliff
Congratulations to Doug, who founded Rifftides before the word "blog" existed, and to Nate, whose byline can be found in JazzTimes and The New York Times.
Most jazz listeners find digital downloads convenient. But how these downloads are promoted at
e-stores leaves much to be desired. The drag is you simply never know when new recordings you've been looking for have been added to the bins of e-retailers. So from time to time, I go into iTunes and Amazon with a hook and net to see what I can find that's new and undiscovered or simply overlooked. Here are five that I found recently that you might want to sample. They can be found at iTunes, Amazon and other online music vendors:
Lou Donaldson—The Ultimate Jazz Archive 31. Donaldson's first leadership dates for Blue Note are hidden away at iTunes
on one album under the mysterious title The Ultimate Jazz Archive 31. On this download, Donaldson fronts a quartet, quintet and sextet between 1952 and 1954. The groups run through original blues and standards like Things We Did Last Summer and If I Love Again. The sound quality of this compilation is very good.
Doug Carn—Infant Eyes (1971). One of the Black Jazz label's finest recordings, Infant Eyes features keyboardist Doug Carn with Jean Carn, his wife at the time. Tracks include Jean Carn joyously singing Wayne Shorter's Infant Eyes, Bobby Hutcherson's Little B's Poem, John Coltrane's Acknowledgment and Welcome, and other jazz totems from the 1960s.
Paul Chambers—Bass on Top (1957). Chambers recorded only three leadership albums for
Blue Note, and this one was a standout. The album united Hank Jones, Kenny Burrell, Chambers and Art Taylor. Chambers' punchy bass is pronounced throughout, tempered by Burrell's wandering guitar, Jones' tasteful comping and Taylor's expedient brushwork.
Zoot Sims/Bob Brookmeyer—Tonite's Music Today (1956). This session for Storyville features
Sims and Bob backed by Hank Jones, Wyatt Ruther and Gus Johnson. Sims and Bob are perfectly matched here and at the top of their game. Their unified sound is gorgeous on uptempo tracks as well as on ballads.
Jack Brownlow—Suddenly It's Bruno (1998). Unfamiliar with this pianist? You're in for a treat. Brownlow, Jeff Johnson
and Jason Vontver tastefully take on rich standards such as Detour Ahead, I Fall in Love Too Easily and Suddenly It's Spring. Rifftides' Doug Ramsey turned me onto Brownlow a couple of years ago. This is a beautiful album by a pianist who is under most listeners' radar.
JazzWax note:
For links to the other 12 volumes in this series, scroll down the
right-hand column of JazzWax
to "Hidden Downloads."
Danny Bank (1922-2010), a revered baritone
saxophonist who anchored the reed sections of many leading big bands of the 1940s and 1950s, and appeared on more recording sessions than Gerry Mulligan, died on June 5 in Queens, N.Y. He was 88.
Danny was one of my first interviews after starting JazzWax in August 2007. Intrigued by seeing his name on so many of my favorite albums, I decided to track him down for an interview.
I found him in the Oakland Gardens of Queens, N.Y. On the phone, Danny immediately sensed someone who was a big fan and gave me as much time as I needed and was happy to talk whenever I called. Though his sight was failing and he was housebound in a wheelchair, Danny's mind and memory were razor sharp.
Over the course of several interviews on different subjects (see the right-hand column under "JazzWax Interviews"), Danny painted a picture of the jazz studio scene in New York as a
tough, industrious environment where musicians always had to be on their game for fear that another musician might be called instead to fill the seat. Danny's ambition and survivalist instincts led him to master not only the baritone saxophone but also the flute, the bass clarinet, the clarinet, alto flute, piccolo and virtually all reeds, saxes and woodwinds.
On the baritone, Danny could get an enormous sound out of the instrument, often forcing studio engineers to run sound checks on him before recording began. What made
Danny doubly astonishing as a heavy hitter in the jazz studio world was his disability. Stricken with polio as a child, Danny wore metal braces on his legs. Despite the discomfort and restrictive nature of the cumbersome support, Danny was never late to a recording session nor did he make excuses. He was an impeccable musician who was highly regarded by record producers and his studio peers.
"Danny was amazing," recalls alto saxophonist Hal McKusick [pictured], who played with Danny on many recording sessions. "Early on, before he hired an assistant, I always wondered how Danny managed to carry so many heavy instruments to dates with that kind of disability. I carried a fair number of instruments myself, and they were cumbersome for me. One day I asked Danny, and he told me he did extensive upper-body exercise with weights to stay in shape."
Danny was always at ease emotionally and happy to lend support, which is probably why he was such a revered teacher.
Whenever I spoke with Danny, I sensed I was in the company of someone who knew his business inside and out. Never boastful and always understated and humble, Danny was firm and supremely sure of himself.
"I remember Danny and I were on a recording session playing a tricky Gil Evans arrangement," says Hal. "I was playing flute, and my part called for a high B trilling to a C. I turned to Danny before we started and said, 'Man, how am I going to get to the C after hitting that B?' Danny said, 'Just play the high B and wiggle your finger. So I did, and there was the C [laughing]."
Here's Danny, from my first interview, on how he came to be on so many recording sessions:
"I was working so often back then I'd get called to play on several
recording dates a day. They'd hire me because I was a strong reader. I
saved them overtime.
They didn’t have to deal with extra costs because I didn’t make
mistakes. I also was close friends with one of the busiest copyists in
New York at the time. The copyist was the guy who wrote the sheet music
for each player from the arranger's score. Whenever there was a big date
coming up, he would tip me off."
Danny didn't have a computer, so after each interview was posted at JazzWax, I'd print out a color copy and mail it to him.
Then the next time I'd call, Danny would spend the first few minutes talking about how much he had enjoyed reading the post and how thrilled he was that someone remembered him and his contribution. Danny knew how good he was. He just never bothered to say so.
As a tribute, here's Charlie Parker with a big band playing Night
and Day. Parker personally picked Danny for this session (see post here). Listen to Danny's walrus-sized notes on the baritone at 2:44 and 2:45 into the clip...
David Amram. Following my posted interview with David Amram on
Bobby Jaspar last week here, David sent along the following gracious note...
"Thank you for the fine interview about Bobby
Jaspar, and also getting what I said right (and correcting two
dates I gave you that were wrong and fact-checking two dates that I
told you I wasn't sure of).
"In an age of misinformation and
disinformation, you
are doing a great service to this amazing music we
call jazz by documenting so many fine artists, including those like Bobby
Jaspar, who left us way too soon.
"And thanks for spending the time to
present it in a way that is a pleasure to read and not wasting a word
while doing so. Keep doing your fine work.
"Also a big
shout-out for the outstanding artwork. Straight
ahead...no chaser!!!"
Hank O'Neal on disco. Photographer, blogger and record
producer Hank O'Neal sent along the following note in response to my disco post on Friday:
"Interesting post, and I agree with you about the jazz-disco connection. Part of the LP that I co-produced for Astrud Gilberto in 1977 called That Girl From Ipanema included disco tracks recorded in Philadelphia. Vibraphonist Vince Montana arranged four of the charts, and we mixed those tracks at Sigma, which was the hot disco studio at the time.
"For the album, we used four bands and four arrangers—Vince [pictured], Don Sebesky, Ben Aronov and Al Gorgini.
Each band was made up of about 14 musicians plus strings and percussion. Musicians on the date included George Young, Urbie Green, Jimmy Knepper, Ron Carter, Phil Bodner, Bernie Glow, Chet Baker, Gene Bertoncini, Jack Wilkins and Victor Paz,
"In short, all the jazz studio heavies at the time were there, and all the Montana songs were disco oriented."
Slim Gaillard. Today, Sid Gribetz of WKCR-NY presents a
five-hour radio broadcast celebrating singer-songwriter and pianist-guitarist Slim Gaillard from 2 to 7 p.m. (EDT). You can tune in anywhere in the world on your computer by going here.
Blog-o-rama. Blogger Doug Payne at Sound Insights has a fine appraisal post of Marvin Gaye's jazz influences here... Ed Leimbacher at I Witness turns his attention to reggae, particularly one-drop rhythm of the 1970s here.
CD discoveries of the week. One of the more exciting new big-band albums I've heard this year is Jack Cortner's
Sound Check. In the Rob McConnell tradition, Sound Check is clean and lyrical, with an emphasis on band section playing. Best of all, the CD features the crisp trumpet and warm flugelhorn of Marvin Stamm. The album features standards and a few Cortner originals.
Speak Low is taken uptempo, with a soft bossa beat, while Herbie Hancock's Cantaloupe Island has a big, brassy funk
snap. Included in the reed section is Jerry Dodgion [pictured], who has been recording since 1954. In the trombones is Tony Studd, whose first recording was the Incredible Kai Winding Trombones, the third album released on the Impulse label in 1960. Jay Berliner on guitar has been around for some time as well, recording with Charles Mingus in 1963.
This is a smart big band album, and Cortner had the good sense to seek out some seasoned hands to ensure the session had the old time religion.
You'll find Sound Check (Jazzed Media) at iTunes or here.
John Goldsby's big warm bass is always a welcome sound. On his new album, The Innkeeper's Gun, John takes an
experimental approach, with music coming very close to free jazz. Mentored by Red Mitchell, John is originally from Kentucky but now lives in Germany. On this album, he's joined by alto saxophonist Jacob Duncan and drummer Jason Tiemann.
Kicking off the album is Lady Gaga's Paparazzi, which in the hands of this trio sounds more like late Charles Mingus than Stefani Germanotta. John's More Than Something also heads off in interesting directions.
You'll find John Goldsby's Innkeeper's Gun (Bass Lion) at iTunes and here.
Oddball album cover of the week. Positioned as an adult-
contemporary album, this 1958 LP for ABC Paramount featured Auld playing a moody tenor. Given the fact that Auld was more naturally a hard-driving swinger, one wonders whether these blue, bar "babies" are sax-relaxed or actually blasé on rosé.
Disco shares much in common with jazz. For one, the 1970s
dance genre employed many jazz musicians, leaning heavily on drums, horns, vibes, strings and the craft of arrangers. For another, disco was built almost exclusively on the excitement of records. But instead of using radio and jukeboxes to generate buzz, the way jazz did in the 1950s, disco was a club phenomenon. Disco records became hits when they drew a roar from the club crowds, who in turn would spread the word at house parties and in
college dorms. The 12-inch 45-rpm single mix, a disco invention, was all about knocking out listeners with an extended play and converting dancers into next-day record-store buyers. Of course, both jazz and disco were heavily dependent on the drama and creative skills of the disc jockey. [Photo at top by Toby Old]
Disco didn't start in Philadelphia. That honor belongs to the underground gay and black clubs of Fort Lauderdale, Miami, New York and Los Angeles in 1973. But disco certainly was
leveraged and perfected there in 1974 once the city's strong soul hit-makers merged their earthy genre with the hypnotic hustle beat. Philadelphia clubs like International Astrodisc and Exodus helped promote records by hometown favorites like The Three Degrees, TSOP, the O'Jays, Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes, Blue Magic and others.
Like jazz (or any form of music), there's good and bad disco. Most disc jockeys today who reach back into the disco vaults to freshen up recordings fail miserably. Their big mistake
is either choosing badly or taking what were exciting works and corrupting the music's infrastructure with the addition of drawn out and sterile techno-beats and dubs. These misguided DJs and studio wizards are digitally proficient, but they lack the passion, taste and care needed to polish any disco gem. For example, just listen to the lackluster mess called Motown Remixed.
Which is why I was blown away last week when I heard the
new double CD Get Down With the Philly Sound, presented by Dimitri From Paris. Dimitri is Dimitris Yerasimos, a French DJ and remix wonder who was born in Turkey in 1963. What sets Dimitri apart from his peers is a tireless passion for the music, a scholar's knowledge of
its history and a keen sense of what makes this material exhilarating. His choice of tracks exhibits maturity, and what he does with (or to) the songs gracefully teases out each one's delicate emotional gimmick. He's like the pastry chef who doesn't have to destroy the original pleasures of the mille-feuille to update it. Among Dimitri's successful past mixes are A Night at the Playboy Mansion and My Salsoul.
Get Down With the Philly Sound features two CDs—one with the original disco tracks and the
other with the same tracks remixed. What's remarkable here is that Dimitri has made each one work, resulting in versions that are actually better than the originals. Each track was a smart choice and each remix is handled with respect. The results are more colorful renditions that pulsate with a new vibrant urgency.
For example, dig Harold Melvin's The Love I Lost. You won't believe what Dimitri did to this dance-floor staple. I've always
believed the original version, which ran 6:23, felt a little short. Dimitri works wonders here by teasing out Teddy Pendergrass' vocal and colorizing the song's hustle beat, resulting in a new mix that clocks in at over 11 minutes. Dimitri does the same with the other tracks, including Harold Melvin's Bad Luck, Teddy Pendergrass' The More I Get the More I Need, The Jacksons' Living Together, and the Trammps The Night the Lights Went Out, a disco tribute to the New York City blackout of 1977. The only small change I would have made is sequencing Bad Luck right after The Love I Lost, but this is hardly an issue since you can do this yourself once imported into iTunes.
If you dig Philadelphia soul and disco, this album is a must. It's
my favorite disco discovery since Curtis Mayfield Remixed,Diana Ross & the Supremes Remixes and Cerrone by Jamie Lewis. In fact, Get Down With the Philly Sound tops them all. I just hope Dimitri gets around to revitalizing Tavaras' Watchin' the Woman's Movement, Crown Heights Affair's Dreaming a Dream, David Ruffin's Walk Away From
Love, the Trammps' Can We Come Together, Double Exposure's Ten Percent, Archie Bell's I Could Have Danced All Night, The Ritchie Family's Brazil, Jakki's Sun Sun Sun, Suzy Q's Get On Up and Do It Again, Candi Staton's Victim, and Cerone's Love in C Minor (without the drawn-out female commentary in the intro, please).
I don't know Dimitri and have never spoken with him. I just dig good disco and disco mixes where the sonic qualities are leveraged carefully. Bravo, Dimitri!
JazzWax tracks: Dimitri From Paris' Get Down with the Philly
Sound is available as a CD here. It's not available yet at iTunes in the U.S. but I'm told it will be soon.
JazzWax clips: Here'sPart 1 of a video-documentary supporting the album's release...
And here's Dimitri's reverential remix of Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes' The Love I Lost, a glossy and soulful updating of a classic that celebrates vocalist Teddy Pendergrass. Crank up your system. The whole second CD is like this...
What makes Bobby Jaspar so appealing to the ear is his
ability to swing softly. Jaspar on sax or flute had a West Coast sound before the sound existed. In some respects, he was simply delivering a European interpretation of Lester Young's phrasing. Then again, this wasn't so far afield from what the European-trained West Coast musicians wound up doing in the early 1950s—combining formal training with Young's sound and swing. It's just that Jaspar may have arrived in that place first given his European background and love for Young's records.
When Jaspar came to New York in the mid-1950s, he quickly
gained recognition among the city's jazz musicians and record producers. Within months he began to record on more and more dates for Savoy, Columbia, Prestige, Atlantic, Riverside and other labels—primarily as a sideman but also as a leader.
In Part 2 of my two-part interview
with David Amram, the French hornist and composer-arranger who knew Jaspar well in Paris and in New York, talks about Jaspar's view of jazz, his impressions of New York, and how he fit into the American jazz scene:
JazzWax: Did Bobby Jaspar love jazz because he enjoyed the music or the idea of America? David Amram: Both. Bobby embraced jazz, American life and
a lot of other experiences in a way that was never patronizing or slumming. His love for jazz was pure. Bobby never felt that jazz was somehow beneath him and his ability or that playing jazz was a noble thing to do. There was no shading or nuance with Bobby. He immersed himself in jazz because he realized he could make a small contribution to the art form.
JW: Were you at his wedding in Paris to singer Blossom Dearie? DA: No, but their marriage was a perfect union. Blossom was a fantastic individualist. She was
original and came to the music because she loved it so much. She had avoided career counselors her whole life. She established her own voice and her way of singing. When people came to hear Blossom, they were coming to hear her signature style.
JW: Was visiting Bobby and Blossom at their apartment fun? DA: When you went to their place, it was a double university. Bobby would tell me all about his
adventures in philosophy and talk about things like European culture and French band music. Then he’d insist I listen to a Thelonious Monk tune. Blossom would then ask me to check out a song she had discovered. She’d come in with both arms filled with sheet music.
JW: Dearie reportedly was a notorious collector of offbeat songs. DA: Blossom probably had the biggest collection of American popular songs of anyone I’ve ever known. Most of
that music she had memorized. Bobby enjoyed that about her because he was always hearing new songs to play. And Bobby was always showing Blossom different things musically from a more advanced jazz vocabulary that he had figured out.
JW: Was Jaspar focused on the technical side of jazz? DA: Not at all. Bobby wasn’t a person who played mechanically. He knew the vocabulary of jazz—but he also knew
that jazz was at its heart a spiritual statement. The same was true of Blossom. When Bobby and Blossom were together, they cared so much for each other. Blossom had a fantastic sense of humor, so they spent a lot of time laughing.
JW: Did you see Jaspar when he came to New York in 1956? DA: Oh sure. It was so great to see him. When he
came to New York, he looked at the place and said, “Oh, God.” He was overwhelmed by the asphalt jungle. But after he was here for a time, he realized that the musicians he had worshiped were struggling to survive just like he was. That baffled him.
JW: Did the reality of New York dash Jaspar's romantic image of the city and how life would be for a jazz musician here? DA: No. But to a certain extent, all musicians in New York found it hard to accept that artists who were so
fantastic could perform while an audience in the club would be talking and not paying full attention. The callous lack of appreciation, wonderment and respect was baffling, especially to someone from Europe. Musicians are trying to say something to audiences through their instruments. Back then, when audiences talked, musicians felt the way you do when the person you're talking to starts a conversation with someone else. There's frustration, as though what you're saying isn't important. Back then, musicians had to work harder to listen through the noise to hear the other musicians playing on the stage.
JW: What kept Jaspar from becoming better known? DA: There were dozens of great artists back then who weren’t
well known and are completely forgotten today. I think with Bobby, it was just the luck of the draw. You have to remember that most people, even those who were recognized, weren’t successful by today’s standards.
JW: Was jazz a struggle for Jaspar? DA: The biggest struggle we all shared was paying our rent. The concept of having a career, as they call it today, was almost nonexistent then, particularly in jazz circles. I still don't have a career. I hope that someday my music will have a career.
JW: In today's world, not viewing what one does for a living as a career is a hard concept. DA: That’s the orientation we came out of. As a jazz musician, if you were lucky, you got to play with Dizzy Gillespie or Lionel Hampton or Oscar Pettiford, as I
did, and maybe you wound up with an eight-bar solo on a recording with them. Most musicians didn’t have that shot. Let's face it, by the mid-1950s, jazz was not the way to go if you wanted a career in music. There was television, movies, pop and Broadway, which were much more lucrative than playing in clubs. Musicians who played jazz did so against the advice of everyone who told us to do other things for a fulfilling living.
JW: Jaspar’s death was so sudden in 1963, at age 37. DA: Bobby had had a heart operation. I think he had a heart valve replaced. But like in many of those situations, there were deeper complications. We figured he was such a strong cat.
JW: Was Blossom Dearie devastated? DA: She was, completely. But she was so strong that she just continued on. If she didn’t have the music, she
would have perished. Blossom loved Bobby very much, and she had a wonderful rapport with him. She had experienced happiness with Bobby so she had something to treasure. Blossom would always talk about Bobby after he passed, stopping every so often to say, “Well, you know Bobby.”
JW: Sounds very positive. DA: She was. I think Blossom realized that some people never have five minutes of happiness let alone
10 years. Blossom was unsinkable, graceful and overcame so many odds. She was a petite woman, with a petite voice singing songs no one wanted to do and getting better and better over time without ever becoming bitter or negative or selling out. She just loved the music.
JW: What’s one line Bobby said to you that still resonates? DA: I remember I was down in Greenwich Village in 1959 or so with guitarist Attila Zoller, and Bobby joined us. We were
comparing the jazz scene in Europe with New York's and how compact and tight-knit the scene was here. We were saying how wild it was that we could see and casually hang out with the jazz musicians we worshiped. Bobby at one point said, “In New York, you’re just another cat.” That still echoes in my head.
JW: Why? DA: Because Bobby’s revelation was that in New York, regardless of who you were and how big you became, you were still just one of many monsters. New York was crowded with enormous jazz talent.
JW: Quite a different era. DA: It was. In jazz then, the whole essence of the music was that we were all part of the music, creating it, moving it forward. Scarcely
anybody was selfish. Nobody snubbed anyone else. It just wasn't done. That positive outlook to Bobby was considered so democratic and American. He said, "It's worth being in New York just to be just another cat."
JW: Was there a sense of sadness or frustration in that phrase? DA: No, no, not at all. What Bobby meant was that to be just another cat meant to reach a higher level as an artist. The music, not individuals, was No. 1 in America, which
was the antithesis of Europe’s notion of top dog and status and the class system. To be another cat here meant to be part of a special group committed to art. Attila, who was from Hungary, appreciated that concept, too. All the musicians who Bobby and Attila admired and had met had appreciated them for what they were and what they could play, not where they came from or who their families were.
JW: What did Jaspar think about his plight here? DA: Bobby said, "I'm more appreciated in New York than in Europe, where I was better known. But the
musicians I played with didn’t understand what I was trying to do. Here, they do."
JW: That an interesting concept, the value of peer appreciation versus audience visibility. DA: Bobby somehow found his niche in New York, but he didn’t live long enough to celebrate that with more opportunities and employment. He was the kind of person who was happy just to be in it for the music. That's a lost concept today.
JazzWax tracks: Bobby Jaspar's early recordings in New York
were with J.J. Johnson and Hank Jones. The J.J. Johnson recordings are on the Complete J.J. Johnson Columbia Small Group Sessions (Mosaic), which is now out of print. The Hank Jones recordings are on the Hank Jones Trio Plus the Flute of Bobby Jaspar (1956) for Savoy, also out of print.
I'm happy to say that one of Jaspar's finest recordings from this period is back in circulation. Clarinescapade, a 1956 recording for Columbia, is now a Fresh Sound release here. This is a gorgeous album featuring Jaspar on tenor saxophone, flute, clarinet and alto flute. His playing and taste appeals to the ear instantly.
Jaspar gems from 1957 include The
J.J. Johnson Quintet: Complete Recordings (Fresh Sound) here, Bags and Flutes with Milt Jackson here and Tenor and Flute with Idrees Sulieman and George Wallington here.
In 1958, Jaspar recorded two particularly terrific albums: Guitar and the Wind with guitarist Barry
Galbraith here (doubled on a CD with a superb Oscar Pettiford recording), and The Bobby Jaspar Quartet in Paris here.
In 1960, Jaspar is on flute on vibraphonist Johnny Rae's Opus de Jazz Vol. 2 here.
On January 2, 1962, Jaspar
recorded Chet Is Back, which featured him on tenor saxophone and flute along side Chet Baker. That January, Jaspar also recorded with John Lewis on A Milanese Story, a movie soundtrack here.
As for Jaspar's wife, Blossom
Dearie, the pair recorded together just twice. The first time was in Paris in 1956 on Blossom Dearie Plays. Originally recorded on the French Barclay label, the album is out of print. They recorded again in 1959 for Verve on My Gentleman Friend, which can be found here.
Bobby Jaspar is all but forgotten today. Back in the late 1950s,
the Belgian tenor saxophonist recorded with Hank Jones, Tommy Flanagan, Eddie Costa, J.J. Johnson, Herbie Mann and many other notable New York jazz artists of the period. Married to singer Blossom Dearie, Jaspar's best-known recordings are probably Interplay for Two Trumpets and Two Tenors (1957), for which he was teamed with John Coltrane, and Chet Is Back (1962), recorded with Chet Baker after the trumpeter's release from an Italian prison.
And then Jaspar died. In 1963, at age 37, the saxophonist and flutist suffered a fatal heart attack just as he was gaining recognition.
Back in the early 1950s, before Jaspar came to the U.S.,
French hornist and composer-arranger David Amram [pictured] knew Jaspar well in Paris and recorded with him there in 1955. David's sessions with Jaspar remain crafty, exuberant and difficult to find.
Yesterday I spoke with David about Jaspar for a finer sense of who the saxophonist was as a thinker, a person and a musician:
JazzWax: If I played a Bobby Jaspar record for you today and didn't tell you who was playing, would you be able to identify him? David Amram: If I heard Bobby playing, I would know
it was him. Like Django Reinhardt, Bobby was one of the first jazz musicians who came from a totally European background and created his own jazz language and taste.
JW: How would you describe Jaspar’s sound? DA: He had a European classical approach to the saxophone. Ever since the Belgian Adolphe Sax invented the
instrument [in 1841], French and Belgian musicians have taken the saxophone very seriously. In Belgium, where Bobby was from, and in France, the saxophone was always considered a solo instrument. Jacques Ibert’s Concertino da camera [1934] is a serious work for the alto saxophone, not a novelty number. Georges Bizet's L'Arlesienne was written in 1872 and features a saxophone solo. Many other French classical composers wrote for the instrument as well.
JW: So Jaspar came out of that tradition? DA: Yes. But France and Belgium also had a special sensibility about jazz, too. Their cultural passion comes
from the same place as their love for dance, singing and rhythmic music. Europeans have always been able to get in touch with their souls and put art out there in a personal and sometimes unorthodox way. Bobby came to jazz emotionally.
JW: There certainly has always been a deep respect for American jazz in French culture. DA: When I was in Paris in 1954 and 1955, Sidney Bechet and Albert Nicholas were fixtures. They were older people who were keeping the jazz of the 1920s and 1930s alive. The French were used to hearing and appreciating complex music. When Kenny Dorham went over to France with Charlie Parker in 1949 for the
Paris Jazz Festival, Bird was still viewed as a far-out player in the U.S. Yet he was universally embraced there because the French people could hear and appreciate what he was doing. [Pictured: Charlie Parker and Sidney Bechet en route to the Paris Jazz Festival in 1949]
JW: When did you first meet Jaspar? DA: I met him toward the end of 1954, when I was in Paris.
JW: Who introduced you? DA: Saxophonist Jay Cameron. I met Bobby at a jam session in someone’s apartment. Alexander Calder’s
daughter was with me, as I recall. Bobby and I hit it off right away. He said, “Come on man, I want to show you something.” We went out and he took me to streets named after Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker. I couldn't believe that the city's civic institutions were digging these guys, not just jazz fans. I also was amazed that streets were named after Americans who weren’t movie stars.
JW: Jaspar clearly comes out of the Lester Young tradition—a lighter, more horizontal blowing style. DA: Absolutely. Nearly every tenor saxophonist was influenced by Prez then. But Bobby took it in a different direction, melodically. It's distinctly European, with France and Belgium as his points of reference.
JW: Did Jaspar dig you playing jazz on the French horn? DA: Amazingly enough, most of the French musicians
liked hearing the horn. They thought it was fun and were excited that some young optimistic kid from the U.S. was playing with them all night on a classical instrument and trying to learn to speak French. I think they related to my joie de vivre [laughs]. [Pictured: David Amram playing the French horn]
JW: And the fact that you were without pretension and down to earth? DA: I think so. I was never trying to be a cool, hip type of person. That appealed to a lot of European musicians who had assumed that’s how all jazz artists
were. I was eager and excited, and they were, too. Jazz in general for Europeans was a liberating force from the horrible, negative period they had just lived through during the war. They saw jazz as a triumph for freedom and a throwback to the 19th century, especially in Paris, which has a strong social, communal tradition that's evident in their cafe culture.
JW: Jaspar was already a big deal over there when you met him, yes? DA: He was definitely appreciated. But remember, in 1955 even the so-called big deals could barely get by. That was as true in Paris as it was in America.
JW: You made quite a few recordings together for French labels. DA: The first one was actually my date, but Swing had
Bobby sign as the leader so they didn’t have to pay him for another date they wanted him to do. They bundled the two together. I didn't care. I was just overjoyed to be there playing and recording with him.
JW: What was Jaspar like, emotionally? DA: He was always passionate about the music. I remember we played a concert for school children in Paris that Bobby had organized. The French kids were great. They came out of the French anarchy tradition, with everyone demanding to be an individualist. That was so joyous to see, especially for a cantankerous person like me.
JW: What were the kids doing? DA: They were shouting and screaming and enjoying themselves. Bobby started by trying to talk about the
history of jazz. But the kids wouldn’t quit. So Bobby started cursing in front of the students. Then he took the mouthpiece off his saxophone and started squeaking it into the mike, followed by more curses.
JW: What happened? DA: All the students jumped up and cheered. That’s what they were waiting for, for Bobby to cross over and be like them. Then they quieted down, and we played our music.
JW: What made Bobby special as a musician? DA: He had a beautiful sound that was his own. When he played the flute, he was terrific. Not so much as
a virtuoso but his phrasing and sound were distinct. The way he played, the music went right to your heart. It’s like a voice that makes you feel something when the person talks. That person's voice is different from the one at the railroad station that yells the schedule over a speaker. Bobby delivered more information in his sound than most players and you knew instantly that the sound was personal and spiritual.
JW: Why does that happen? DA: That’s one of the mysteries of music. Someone can play that way and you’re captivated by the feeling and sound. I believe that everyone has that ability in them, but one of the hardest things is finding that quality and maintaining it. But this requires complete devotion to the music and submitting yourself to the art without hesitation.
JW: What was Bobby like to talk to? DA: Bobby was an introspective, quiet person. He was always searching. I remember one time at his apartment in Paris he showed me a picture of him in Tahiti. He had spent a year there in the late 1940s or early 1950s.
JW: What was he doing there? DA: He said he had wanted to go to Tahiti on a quest for something that could help him find himself. Today, everyone seems to be doing this. Back then, it was a radical concept. He
didn’t have a gig in Tahiti, and the place wasn’t a big tourist spot when he went. Gauguin had painted there, but that was about it. If Tahiti had been expensive, he wouldn't have been able to afford it. He just needed to detach with his horn, like Sonny Rollins did later on the Williamsburg Bridge in New York. JW: What did you think of the photograph? DA: I was amazed that a musician would suddenly abandon everything to do that. In the picture, he was on the beach, just sitting all by himself.
JW: What was Jaspar like to talk to? DA: Bobby had wonderful eyes that talked. You looked in his eyes and you knew you were in the presence of
someone that you wanted to know. And the more you talked to him, the more you realized you already knew him and that he knew you. He was like a ship—10% of Bobby was showing above the water, and below the surface was the other 90% that you couldn't see.
JW: Was the sound of his voice engaging? DA: Yes, he had a wonderful voice. He had a certain way of speaking that made you feel comfortable. When
he spoke to you, it was always in a personal, understated way. Bobby was this brilliant, sophisticated European who also had a love for the down-home spiritual beauty of jazz and put that on the same level as his European background. That's how he made the connection. His voice conveyed this.
Tomorrow, David talks about Jaspar's marriage to Blossom Dearie, Jaspar's move to New York in 1956, and what Jaspar said one day in Greenwich Village that David remembers most.
JazzWax tracks: A serious record label should consider a comprehensive box set of Jaspar's recordings from the early 1950s. His work is too good and too precious to be overlooked or forgotten.
Bobby Jaspar's early recordings in France
can be found on expensive imports: New Sound From Belgium (1953) here and Bobby Jaspar's New Jazz (1954) here. New Sound From Belgium and the Henri Renaud Quintet Plays Gigi Gryce (1953) are together here.
Jaspar's recordings in France with David Amram (Racontre a Paris,
Gone with the Winds and Bobby Jaspar Featuring David Amram) are gorgeous albums, with Jaspar's cool tenor up against David's pleading French horn. It's a perfect match. Sadly, the Vogue CD that rounded up the dates is out of print. Some of this material can be found on David Amram: Jazz Portraithere.
If you are a Bobby Jaspar fan, as I am, or you become one after hearing his recordings, keep an eye on the Comments section of this post. I'm sure readers worldwide will offer a range of affordable ways to access many of his early French sides.
In the 1950s, Dick Collins was one of those rare trumpeters with a gorgeous round sound and smart, simple ideas. Both qualities made him ideally suited for the big bands of Woody Herman and Les Brown—orchestras in the 1950s that focused as much on style and sensitivity as on power and swing. Dick could effortlessly roll up a scale to create drama, linger ruefully on a note before tagging a few others on his triplet descent. The melodies Dick invented on solos were so lush and sublime that you'd think they were written out or rehearsed. They weren't. [Photo of Dick Collins in Woody Herman's band courtesy of Capitol Records]
Some of Dick's best-recorded band work came while he was in Woody Herman's orchestra from 1954 to 1956. Writer Doug Ramsey, in his
superb liner notes for Mosaic's Complete Capitol Recordings of Woody Herman box (now out of print), quoted arranger Ralph Burns: "Dick was one of those musicians who never got the praise he should have. He was wonderful." Wrote critic Ralph J. Gleason about Dick in December 1955: "Collins' solos are his best recorded work to date."
In Part 2 of my two-part interview with Dick, the sensitive and ever-hip trumpeter talks about the bands of Woody Herman and Les Brown and why he left the music business in 1962:
JazzWax: How did you come to join Woody Herman’s “Third Herd” band in late 1953? Dick Collins: The band came to San Francisco and went into a club for a week. I went to listen a few times,
and someone mentioned my name to Woody. So Woody asked me to sit in. The jazz trumpeter got off the stage and I took his seat. I think it was Stu Williamson. I started to play, and Woody loved what he heard. He likened me to Bix Beiderbecke. To keep me, Woody had to let Stu go.
JW: What was Herman like on the bandstand? DC: Woody was very quiet and never made any comments. He’d give you a look, either a good one or
a “what are you doing?” look. Woody was intellectually sharp. He was up on everything and had a great memory. For instance, Les Brown had a big chart, like a folded menu, with a numbered list of all the tunes in his book. He’d use the chart to select songs for each set. Woody didn’t have such a chart. He had it all in his head.
JW: Who did you room with? DC: Trumpeter John Howell. I learned a lot from him about playing trumpet in a section. Certain things you learn by sitting next to a guy in a band. Not talking but by listening and locking into what the lead player is doing. I was the jazz trumpet. The first chair in Woody’s band was John or Al Porcino.
JW: What’s special about the lead trumpet? DC: When you have four trumpets playing, they all have to move
around on a sheet of music like one instrument. In the trumpet section of a good band, you learn how to play intuitively. You learn how to make the same mistake the lead trumpeter makes. That’s how close the horns have to be and how hard they have to be listening to the lead player.
JW: Was trumpeter Burt Collins a relation? DC: Not at all. We just happened to have the same last name. Woody used to drive him nuts. Woody would fool around by announcing, “That was Burt Collins, Dick Collins’ Jewish brother.” That was Woody. It really burned Burt to be compared to anyone.
JW: You were featured on Nat Pierce and the Herdsmen for Fantasy in 1954. DC: Actually, that was my session but Nat took over the
whole thing. It was my date. He just arranged it. But somewhere along the way he became the leader instead of just the piano player. He just made himself the leader, New York style [laughs]. I just let it happen. Nat never said anything and neither did I. JW: You toured with Herman in Scandinavia in April of 1954. DC: That was beautiful, man. I didn’t’ take my wife on
that trip. It was too grueling. We were gone for a month playing all the time. Ralph Burns was with us. He was fantastic. What a writer. Ralph was a very quiet guy and never said much of anything. We went through Europe like a thunderstorm. Those days were wild. The war was over and fans went nuts when we showed up. They couldn’t believe what we were playing. We were fresh and knew it, so we let it all go. We didn’t hold anything back. [Photo of Ralph Burns and Woody Herman by Popsie Randolph]
JW: Was Herman an active leader on the bandstand? DC: Only when he turned around and lowered his hand in the air, which meant to bring it down. We’d
hawk him while we played, listening for every nuance. We had memorized the book. He’d call a tune by name, and we’d know it by heart. All he had to do is yell, “Brothers” and we knew to play Four Brothers.
JW: How was the drug situation in that band compared to Herman’s Second Herd in 1947? DC: Everyone was clean. A little alcohol and some pot but nothing serious. One of the trumpeters got on a kick once in a while. I’d have to nudge him with my kneecap to keep him from slumping over. Then when it was his turn to play, I’d shout his name, he’d wake up and nail the part right away. It was amazing.
JW: Did you ask Woody about that 1947 band and the rampant drug use? DC: Yes. One time when we were getting drunk, Woody said, “They’d throw beer cans at me. They
were ruthless bastards. I couldn’t control them.” He knew they were all using but said he couldn’t do anything about it. The whole reed section was that way. Woody told me, “All I could do is call a tune.” Woody said he once called the band together and said, “Whatever you do, do it on your own time, not on the stand.” Of course, guys showed up stoned out anyway. JW: You were on Tjader Plays Mambo, a strong session that emphasized the trumpets and Tjader's vibes. DC: Cal [pictured] was insane. What a marvelous guy and player. He was originally a tap dancer as a kid. We
roomed together in San Francisco with my older brother Bob. Cal and I played together with Brubeck.
JW: Do you remember your recordings of Horn of Plenty and King Richard the Swing Hearted for RCA in 1954? DC: Not much. It’s so long ago.
JW: You knew Al Cohn, who was on both albums. DC: Al and I got along real well. One night he came up to my hotel room. I had no booze or pot. Al didn’t ask for anything. He just sat down and wrote a chart on the bed. We talked and he wrote while we talked. JW: Which song was it? DC:The Long Night—on Horn of Plenty. He had
nothing to drink, not even a Coca-Cola. He just wrote and talked. It was amazing to watch him work. JW: Who introduced you to Cohn? DC: Trumpeter Al Porcino. I remember the three of us were standing together. Al Cohn turned to me and said, “That’s Cohn, without an ‘e’ ” [laughs]. That’s pure Al. I mean, who would even bother to say that? Al, that’s who. Al would just sit down and blow. He was amazing.
JW: How did you come to join Les Brown in 1957? DC: Butch Stone, the baritone saxophonist on Les' band and the band’s manager, came up to me while I
was with Woody. He said, “Dick, I’m with Les Brown. Any time you leave Woody or want a change, we want you on the band. We’ll get rid of the guy we have to make room for you.”
JW: Who did you replace? DC: Bobby Styles. JW: Did you know Don Fagerquist? DC: Oh sure. Don and I played together on record dates. I was so sick when I heard he had died. He was such a lovely guy.
JW: Before you’d solo, did you think first about what you were going to do or where you wanted to wind up? DC: No. Once I tried to work that out in advance but screwed up. From then on, I just started playing when it was time for my solo. I felt the way I felt and it came out when I started to play. JW: How did Les Brown's band differ from Herman's in the 1950s? DC: Les had more of a society band. But he had some good jazz players and would let us blow. He always
played for country clubs out west and things like that, never for joints or clubs. His charts also were stricter and totally different from the kinds of things Al Cohn would write and arrange. Al had a looseness and natural feel. A lot of things with Les were not natural.
JW: For example? DC: As a trumpet player, Les wanted you to play staccato all night long. If you didn’t, you’d hear him bark, “Short! Short!” He always wanted the trumpets to be crisp, which wasn't necessarily a natural or warm feel. The guys would come off the stand mimicking Les by saying to each other, “Short! Short!”
JW: Why did you cut back and stop recording in 1962? DC: The business was slowing down. I said to myself, “Someday you’re not going to be 30 anymore. You’re going to be 65 and then 70, and everything will have changed. What will you be doing?” The answer, invariably, was, “Nothing.” I had no real skills other than playing the horn. I only had an undergraduate degree. JW: What did you do? DC: I decided to get a masters degree in library science. I went back to school and became a librarian
in the pubic library system in Los Angeles. I worked there for 15 years and today I’m living on that pension. I don’t have to worry about a Saturday night, as some older musicians do.
JW: Did the people who worked with you at the library know who you were? DC: No. I kept those worlds separate. I was still playing locally at night. I’d work
during the day at the library and play at Disneyland at night in Anaheim for a week or a month. I joined the local union in Orange County so I could do that. JW: Did you enjoy being a librarian? DC: I loved it. Too many people look down on the job but it’s as honorable an occupation as any other. Eventually I was hired by Cal Tech to help the university create a special library for earthquake engineering. I had to read all the books to determine which ones we should have on the shelves. I jumped right in and had a ball.
JW: Do you have any regrets? DC: Just one. I wish I didn’t drink so much early on.
JW: How did you manage to play so beautifully? DC: Thank you. Maybe because I liked to memorize
song lyrics before blowing on the melody. My dad raised me that way. A new piece of sheet music would come in and we’d start learning the lyrics and melody at the exact same time.
JW: How would you describe your own sound? DC: Lyrical, or at least I hope so [laughs].
JazzWax tracks: Dick Collins with Woody Herman's Third Herd can be found on The
Complete Capitol Recordings of Woody Herman, one of Mosaic's finest boxes. Sadly, it's now out of print but I see a set is going for $149 at Amazon. Dick not only brings enormous flavor to the band's trumpet section but also squeezes off stellar solos on Sleepy Serenade, I'll Never Be the Same, Trouble in Mind, 9:20 Special and others.
Some of these recordings are on a two-CD set called Woody Herman and His Orchestra: 1956here.
Dick's period with Les Brown spans from 1957 to 1962. Among his finest recordings with the band are on Les Brown's Jazz Song Book and Swing Song Book (both albums are on one CD here) and Les Brown: Lerner and Loewe Bandbook here.
A JazzWax thanks to Han Schulte of the Netherlands for the red Woody Herman Third Herd brochure cover at the top of this post and interior page with a photo and bio of Dick Collins.
Marc Myers writes frequently on music and the arts for the Wall Street Journal. He is author of "Why Jazz Happened" (University of California Press). In 2012, JazzWax was named the Jazz Journalists Association's "Blog of the Year."
