Jazz is music that lets outsiders feel inside. No other form of music creates this sensation for the average listener, the belief that there's more to the music than just its sound and pleasure. With jazz, there are personalities, dramas, hidden messages, life stories and a poetic component that you either get or struggle to get. [Photos by Burt Glinn]
Classical, rock, soul and rap don't really have this extra dimension. For a range of reasons, they are meant to be consumed like soup. When the bowl is empty, the listener isn't expected to linger and ask questions. With jazz, the act of consumption is involved because jazz listeners tend to be more curious. We want to know how the soup was made, what were the ingredients, who made the soup, who in the past made the same recipe and whose soup was best.
The definition of hip is just that—membership in an inner circle of similarly knowing people. No other form of music carries with it this intangible concept of hipness and cool, that being knowledgeable somehow makes you at one with the art. But are even the hippest jazz listeners ever really inside? Probably not. To be completely inside, you'd have to play jazz for a living, and work has a funny way of excoriating art's romance and perceived charm.
Inside or out, it doesn't really matter. With jazz, it's the feeling of being inside that's rewarding. By seeing or talking to jazz musicians or listening and reading liner notes, one feels connected to something momentous, something with a tradition that dates back at least 100 years. Jazz and its story are accessible and play out on a human scale. We see ourselves reflected in the music, in the creative expressions and the freedom to improvise. And when that happens, we're inside, we're hip and connected to others who see and feel the same things.
Will Friedwald. If you're in the New York area on Tuesday, November 2, drop by the Nesuhi Ertegun Jazz Hall of Fame at Jazz at Lincoln Center at 7 p.m. Jazz writer and author Will Friedwald will be discussing his latest book, A Biographical Guide to the Great Jazz and Pop Singers (Pantheon). He also will be playing video clips of some of his favorite singers. The book will be available for sale at the event—or it can be found here.
Ray Charles. In support of Rare Genius: The Undiscovered Masters (Concord), the new Ray Charles CD featuring never-before released recordings, filmmaker Bret Primack produced this mini-doc...
Horace Silver. Steve Cerra at Jazz Profiles has a terrific post on Horace Silver and an arrangement that Mike Abene, Bill Kirchner and Andy Boehmke wrote for Cookin' at the Continental. The post includes a clip of the arrangement.
Billy Taylor, Stanley Turrentine and Gary Burton. Here's a clip of these three giants in 1997...
Stan Getz. You rarely get to hear the voices of jazz musicians. Bev Getz, Stan Getz's daughter, posted a radio interview with the tenor saxophonist in Sweden in 1951. Just click on the image of Getz to start the recording here.
Don Patterson. Today, from 2-7 p.m. (EDT), on-air jazz maven Jumpin' Sid Gribetz presents a special five-hour radio broadcast celebrating the career of organist Don Patterson. Tune into WKCR in New York from anywhere in the world on your computer by going here.
CD discovery of the week. Fans of CTI Records will be happy to learn that California Concert has been reissued by Sony. The album with the Pete Turner image of a red setting sun on the cover was the label's first live LP featuring all-star musicians assembled by producer Creed Taylor. The jazz-pop fusion holds up well thanks to the artists assembled: Freddie Hubbard (tp) Hubert Laws (fl) Hank Crawford (as) Stanley Turrentine (ts) Johnny "Hammond" Smith (el-p,org) George Benson (g) Ron Carter (b) Billy Cobham (d) and Airto Moreira (perc).
The two-CD California Concert (Sony Masterworks) is available at iTunes or here.
Oddball album cover of the week. In 1957, alto saxophonist John Jenkins landed a Regent recording date and brought together some friends—Donald Byrd, Curtis Fuller, Tommy Flanagan, Doug Watkins and Art Taylor. The album was called Jazz Eyes. Then the cover was handed off to the art director for a creative solution. I'm not sure which of the model's eyes says "jazz." Perhaps it's the vulnerable one on our left. Or maybe the experienced one with the arched brow on our right? Nice to know that back in the late 50's, one could have "jazz eyes." Hopefully her ears worked as well.
"In August 1955, we began rehearsing the Five Trombones charts during the day. Those songs were very difficult for us. We were not used to doing the charts as they were written, and we weren't free to change these. Some of his chords were written so our notes fit in among the notes played by the trombones. The chords in many cases were not the ones we would have chosen. Don [Barbour] let it bug him so much that he got uptight one afternoon, tossed a glass against the wall and stomped out. We weren't sure we'd be able to talk Don into going ahead with the album...
"We came back to Los Angeles, and on August 17 went in to record. We stood in a three-sided isolation booth so our microphone would not pick up the trombones across the room. The first night we started recording Love Is Just Around the Corner. Arranger Pete Rugolo [pictured] decided to warm up the musicians first.
"He purposefully counted it off way too fast. These trombone players had all played Rugolo charts before, and they knew each other well. George Roberts [pictured], Harry Betts, Tommy Pederson, Frank Rosolino and Milt Bernhart started to play that trombone chorus, but at Pete's fast tempo it just became a shambles. They didn't even make two bars. Pete counted it off extra fast again, with the same disastrous result.
"Finally, he said, 'Okay, let's try it real slow.' Then he counted it off with the tempo where it belonged, and they got it. Pete told them he'd actually wanted the slower tempo all along. Everybody had a good laugh, and the ice was broken. The rest of the band included Claude Williamson on piano, Barney Kessel, guitar, Shelly Manne, drums, and Joe Mondragon, bass...
"We probably sang better on the Five Trombones album than on any other because we had rehearsed and rehearsed. We knew every note. Four Freshmen and Five Trombones became the most successful album we ever made, but it also was the most difficult to complete."
—Ross Barbour, founding member of the Four Freshmen, in his memoir Now You Know: The Story of the Four Freshmen.
Music and technology have always behaved like two escapees from a Georgia chain gang. Battles were routine, but the shackled pair eventually came to their senses and realized that they weren't going to get far unless they learn to compromise and accommodate each other. Since the 1920s, American music has changed repeatedly with the development of the radio, records, phonograph, jukebox, car radio, television, portable record player, 8-track tape, the Walkman, the CD player, iTunes and the download. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, one music machine that dramatically influenced the sound of music and urban culture was the boombox.
I owned one of these oversized cassette player-radios. It was a handsome silver Aiwa—but I didn't transport it on my shoulder. I purchased it to make cassette recordings that I could then play on my Walkman. The box produced decent sound, so it was perfect for tape mixes at parties in the early 1980s. When the antenna broke a bunch of years ago resulting in poor radio reception, I tossed it. With the release of the new book The Boombox Project: The Machines, the Music, and the Urban Underground, I'm a little sorry I did, though I'd have no real use for it today.
The lavish book, by Lyle Owerko [pictured], a filmmaker and photographer, is a trip back in time for anyone familiar with these sonic Samsonites. Originally created for consumers who wanted a powerful, portable rec room away from home, the boombox constantly found and created new markets. Roller-skaters used them to provide a disco soundtrack while dancing in place in parks. Teens who lived at home in cramped apartments dragged them around as a badge of independence. And breakdancers used them to blast big-beat mixes while spinning and flipping on polished surfaces. This fabulous hardback features page after page of photos of boxes and recollections of the cassette culture by a range of contributors.
The boombox was the oversized child of the transistor radio. But unlike the palm-sized radio that was most often enjoyed through a single flesh-toned earpiece, the boombox was meant to be heard—and to annoy.
With its headlight-sized speakers and power-booster for the bass, the bookbox spawned a new type of music consumer—an egocentric and self-centered audiophile who believed that his or her music was more important than your sanity or personal space. Today, the boombox's relatives are the head-pounding car audio system, the iPod cranked all the way up, and the cell-phone communicator who is compelled to talk loudly in public spaces.
The boombox, for better or worse, was part of music technology's evolution—bigger, louder and made in countries where its makers could hold down costs. But unlike the personal and portable gear that preceded it, the boombox always was about pride, power and pinning everyone else to the wall.
The Boombox Project celebrates the esthetic of personal music technology with just the right display of images, content and smart analysis. Thank goodness, though, the book can be seen and not heard.
JazzWax note:The Boombox Project: The Machines, the Music, and the Urban Underground (Abrams Image) by Lyle Owerko with a forward by Spike Lee can be found here.
Viewing photos of pianist Bill Evans in the 1970s is like watching a mighty oak turn color in the autumn. Little by little the bursts of yellow, red and orange start to fade, and the majestic tree's leaves drop off, leaving bare branches bracing for winter. In this image of Bill Evans from May 1980, photographer Brian McMillen captured the pianist just four months before his death.
Brian shares the story behnd the photo:
"When Bill played the Bach Dancing & Dynamite Society, a jazz club in Half Moon Bay, Ca., in May 1980, I was the house photographer. I was documenting the jazz artists who appeared there during the club's Sunday afternoon performances and at the Keystone Korner club in North Beach.
"I often shuttled musicians appearing at the Keystone to radio station KJAZ for interviews. Many times the same musician would play the Bach's Sunday afternoon gig as well.
"The Bach was and is a small, two-story wooden beach house. Bill was a Baldwin artist, and his contract stipulated that a nine-foot Baldwin grand had to be provided for all gigs, including this one. The Bach's concert space was on the second floor, and there was no elevator.
"When the rented Baldwin arrived a day or so before my photo was taken, I helped the movers and Pete Douglas, the club's owner, carry the beast up the 16 or so steps. We also had to put it up on the stage, which, thankfully, was only six inches high.
"It has been written, and so it seemed, that Bill knew he was in the last months of his life. His face was gaunt, and his frame was thin and frail. But he was blessed with a ready sense of humor, which I am sure kept him going.
"When he arrived on the Sunday afternoon my image was taken, he was accompanied by Laurie Verchomin, his lady friend, and possibly his manager Helen Keane and producer Orrin Keepnews.
"Bill’s trio consisted of Marc Johnson on bass and Joe LaBarbera on drums. He loved playing with them, as he would often remark in conversations. I remember one time Bill was talking about Marc as we left radio station KJAZ. He inadvertently referred to him as “Scott.” He stopped himself and said, 'Wow, I have never done that before.'
"The best perk of being house photographer was that I picked my seat. I also had access to the musicians offstage and during sound checks. This photo looks as though Bill was right in front of me because he was. This is the kind of photo I like to get if I can.
"On September 15, 1980, a week after Bill had played at the Keystone Korner, I was listening to disc jockey Dick Conte [pictured] on the radio when he gently broke the news of Bill's death to listeners. He followed the announcement with a recording of Bill playing Peace Piece.
"For me, it was like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Everything stopped. The world as we knew it had changed. I realized there are no immortals. I matured. I still think about Bill all the time and his music is never far away."
In 1966, at the height of the British Invasion, jazz was fast splintering between spiritual, free form and jazz-pop. Jazz budgets at most record labels were being slashed while producers were being pushed to find young folk and rock talent. Two holdouts on the recording scene from the 1950s were producer Sonny Lester and arranger Manny Albam. When Lester started his Solid State label in 1966, the first album he recorded was Albam's Brass on Fire. The emphasis at Solid State was on fidelity, and this album was geared to showcase the sonic range of a big band with an emphasis on the trumpet and trombone sections. [Pictured: Manny Albam in 1966]
The band featured Danny Stiles, John Frosk, Ernie Royal and Joe Newman (trumpets); Wayne Andre and Eddie Bert (trombones); Bob Brookmeyer (valve trombone); Tony Studd (bass trombone); Jimmy Buffington, Earl Chapin, Howard Howard and Al Richman (French horns); Barry Galbraith (guitar); Richard Davis (bass); Mel Lewis (drums); Ted Sommer (bongo), with Jimmy Maxwell and Thad Jones replacing Ernie Royal and Joe Newman on a few tracks. [All photos from the session by Lionel Izquierdo]
As you can see, the reed section was dropped and replaced by French horns. The result was interesting writing by Albam, who scored the band to focus on meshing brass textures rather showcasing high notes and speed. So I Get a Kick Out of You is taken in waltz time with trumpets going one way, trombones another and French horns tying them together. Just One of Those Things is taken at a walking tempo. The writing here is so interesting that Just One of Those Things' melody line doesn't become apparent for some time.
According to the original album liner notes:
"Solid State is a long-time dream of veteran producer and artists and repertoire man Sonny Lester, who has been turning out a continuing series of hit albums over the past decade. Lester's associates in developing Solid State and in creating the finished product are Phil Ramone, the Audio Director, and Manny Albam, the Musical Director... [Pictured: From left, Phil Ramone and Sonny Lester]
"Brass on Fire by Manny Albam showcases naked brass. Absolutely nothing is presented to detract from the exciting sound of these instruments. There are no woodwinds. There is no piano. Brass on Fire magically blends the brass and rhythm sections and, in a few rare instances, bongos."
All true. And for those who are too young too remember (me included), solid-state stereo equipment such as amplifiers and integrated receivers were built entirely from solid materials rather than vacuum tubes. Since solid-state equipment did not have moving parts and could not be disrupted with a bump, buffs argued, the fidelity was consistently better.
Regardless of the technology hocus-pocus, this album features smart writing and inventive use of French horns, punctuated by insistent trumpets and commiserating trombones. While not quite as swinging or as rich as Albam's Steve's Songs (1958), Brass on Fire will be a delight for those who appreciate arranging, especially given what Albam does with three different horn sections.
JazzWax tracks:Brass on Fire was not released on CD, but much of the album can be found on the Manny Albam CD Sketches of Jazz Music from the Book of Life, which can be downloaded. Tracks 11-18 are from the original album (from the song My Heart Stood Still through Jada).
The first half of the CD is Albam's Soul of the City, a superb recording with an even larger orchestra that includes strings. The band featured Freddie Hubbard, J.J. Johnson, Phil Woods and Hank Jones. It's also a Solid State release.
You'll find Manny Albam's Sketches of Jazz Music From the Book of Life here.
JazzWax clip:Here's Manny Albam's That Old Black Magic from Brass on Fire. Dig the trumpets swinging in and out of the bleating trombones and roaring French horns...
Most people know Tammi Terrell as the Motown vocalist who recorded symbiotic duets with Marvin Gaye in 1967. Gaye and Terrell first recorded together in February of that year, when they made You’ve Got What It Takes and Oh How I’d Miss You. They recorded again in March, cutting Your Precious Love and If I Could Build My Whole World Around You. Then in April, the pair recorded several more tracks that wound up as album filler. Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing was recorded in August and September 1967.
Then on October 14, 1967, while performing with Gaye at Hampden-Sydney College in Virginia, Terrell collapsed on stage into Gaye's arms. Rushed to the hospital, Terrell was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. Eight operations would follow. While undergoing treatment, Terrell recorded You're All I Need to Get By, and both Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing and You're All I Need to Get By became hits in 1968. Terrell died in 1970 at age 24, leaving Gaye emotionally devastated.
Lesser known is Terrell's solo career, which preceded her Gaye duets. From 1960 to 1966, Terrell recorded for Scepter, Checker and Motown. Now, Hip-O Select has issued a revealing two-CD set, Tammi Terrell: Come On and See Me—the Complete Solo Collection. The CDs feature 50 tracks with Terrell as lead singer in a range of r&b settings.
The singer's evolution is quite fascinating. She starts her recording career as a girl group siren with a Martha Reeves delivery (I Wancha' to Be Sure in '62), maturing as the years pass, particularly in the hands of Berry Gordy.
Born Thomasina Montgomery in Philadelphia in 1945, "Tommie" grew up in a well-off family but faced enormous strife and hardship. Her mother suffered from clinical depression and had to be hospitalized repeatedly. Tommie showed enormous promise at an early age, appearing on a local children's TV show as the sole black singer belting out American Songbook standards. But in 1956, the 11-year-old was raped and beaten by three boys on her way home from a rehearsal. Despite these painful events, Tommie pursued her musical development and ambition.
Discovered at age 14, Tommie was signed to Scepter Records in New York in 1960—before Dionne Warwick. Tommie's first name was changed to the more feminine Tammy and she recorded as Tammy Montgomery. After meeting James Brown in 1962, Terrell wound up in an abusive relationship with the singer, and the union ended in 1963. In 1964, she signed with the Checker label, recording four tracks, again as Tammy Montgomery.
The following year, Montgomery joined singer Jerry Butler's touring musical revue. In Detroit, she was discovered again, this time by Motown's Berry Gordy, who signed her in 1965. He also changed her name to Tammi Terrell.
Terrell's voice during her solo period was flexible and adaptable. From single to single, she could sound like Ronnie Spector (Voice of Experience), Dionne Warwick (I Cried) or Diana Ross (If You Don't Think). Simply by modulating her intonation, Terrell could execute a ballad in a low register or take her voice up into a girlie range. What you hear is a singer trying to iron out her identity while likely being asked to sound like one hit singer after the next.
This collection's first CD features Terrell's Scepter, Checker and Motown output as a solo singer. The second CD is devoted to Motown rarities and a live performance at Detroit's Roostertail in 1966. Included here is her half of Ain't No Mountain High Enough, before it was dubbed with Gaye's part in the studio. The track gives you a look behind the process.
There's also a revealing medley of What a Difference a Day Makes, Runnin' Out of Fools, Tell Me the Truth and Baby Love. These were recorded originally by Dinah Washington, Aretha Franklin, Nancy Wilson and Diana Ross, respectively.
This set is a solid tribute to an almost forgotten singer who was poised to become a big solo star in her own right. It's also a dynamic slice of music history as heard through the voice of a struggling artist who finally makes it—only to see everything vanish with horrific speed. The liner notes by Daphne Brooks, professor of English and African-American Studies at Princeton, make this set a treasure.
JazzWax tracks:Tammi Terrell: Come On and See Me, the Complete Solo Collection is available at iTunes or here and here.
JazzWax clip: Here's Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell in 1967. On all of their duets, you had the sense that their love was real and that the words were more than just lyrics. Dig the electric chemistry between Gaye and Terrell, dubbed here or otherwise...
For those who love listening to jazz recordings of the '40s and '50s, it's easy to forget a simple fact: The jazz life back then was hard and physically exhausting. Artists who came up in those decades toured under harsh conditions and then had to perform brilliantly night after night, no matter how tired or how ill they felt. Complex music had to be memorized in some cases and played in top form in hot or drafty rooms choked with second-hand smoke. The pay wasn't great, loneliness and boredom were common, and few saw much daylight, let alone their families. Jazz was manual labor. [Photo of Art Farmer by Enid Farber]
I mention all of this because we never should forget the hard conditions under which the jazz we love was created. Today, we complain when it rains a few days in a row, when customer service doesn't answer on the first ring, when we have to wait for a restaurant table or when traffic slows.
The next time you think you have it rough, consider what the people who recorded the music we love had to endure—and still managed to produce dazzlingly improvised works night after night. Jazz was (and is) as much a physical task as it is a creative challenge. Hands hurt, lips are sore and muscles ache. [Photo: Hot Lips Page]
When I interview jazz legends and hear what they had to endure and the stamina required, I realize why so many of them have a wonderful sense of humor. You had to laugh if you wanted to survive. Misfortune and bad breaks had to be shrugged off. Otherwise you wouldn't have lasted long. There were no weenie jazz musicians in the '40s and '50s.
Arthur Penn.City Island director Raymond De Felitta posted a touching, personal essay on the late film director Arthur Penn last week at his blog Movies 'Til Dawn. Here's one of the great movie intros to Penn's Mickey One (1965), featuring the saxophone of Stan Getz and arrangements by Eddie Sauter:
CD discovery of the week. Trombonist Carl Fontana began his recording career in Woody Herman's Third Herd in 1952. He moved on to Stan Kenton's band in 1955, starting with the leader's Contemporary Concepts album with Bill Holman arrangements. By the late 1950s, Fontana was on record dates led by Kai Winding and Bill Holman.
Since Fontana was often in band settings in the 50's, you rarely had a chance to hear him and his warm sound other than as part of a trombone section. Now you can, on the newly issued single CD entitled Carl Fontana: The Fifties.
There are four sessions on this CD: A live radio recording with Fontana and the Vido Musso Quintet in 1958; a session in Paris in 1956 with a unit from the Stan Kenton band directed by Fontana; a Jimmy Cook big band date in Las Vegas in 1960 (the two tracks are Polka Dots and Moonbeams arranged by Bill Holman, and Soon scored by Bob Enevoldsen); and two tracks featuring Fontana with extended solos in the Kenton band in 1956.
Among my favorites is Intermission Riff with Fontana and Musso going at it, and the Cook and Kenton big band tracks with superb Bill Holman charts.
You can sample and buy Carl Fontana: The Fifties (Uptown) here.
Oddball album cover of the week. Leo Diamond was a harmonica virtuoso who played in novelty combos in the '40s and then signed with RCA in the mid-'50s for a series of LPs. Based on the YouTube clips posted from this album (warning: spare yourself), it seems the LP was a crash dummy for the label's development of stereo. Great to see that the art director found a model who could breathe under water.
If you're unfamiliar with Frank O'Hara, you're in for a treat. O'Hara was part of the New York School of poetry that emerged in the 1950s. What made this school singular is how its poets used words. Rather than stick rigidly to traditional form and meter, they expressed themselves freely and often journalistically. They also prized how words sounded smashed together and adored the feeling of abstraction. What's more, the school's poets came together informally with painters, dancers, jazz musicians and photographers of the day to share ideas and new creative concepts. One big emotional stew. Talk about birth of the cool. [Photo of Frank O'Hara in 1958 by Harry Redl]
The late 1950s was a special time in New York. Cutting-edge artists seemed to understand implicitly that painters, musicians, singers, writers, poets, photographers and dancers were important thinkers and that all were cut from the same creative cloth. Naturally, there was a great deal of cross-arts socializing and sharing of ideas about culture and aesthetic perspective.
O'Hara reportedly was a charming chap (back when you could feed yourself by selling poetry to magazines!) and was pals with Willem de Kooning, Larry Rivers and many other painters. He also was an avid jazz fan. O'Hara, sadly, died after a freak accident at age 40 on New York's Fire Island in the summer of 1966, when a beach vehicle hit him. For more on the New York School of poets, go here. [Pictured: Frank O'Hara with fellow New York poet John Ashbery]
Here's one of my favorite O'Hara poems, dedicated to singer Billie Holiday. Don't fuss over the poem's meaning or why lines break where they do or why there isn't punctuation. That's not important. Just absorb the mood that O'Hara creates, the sound of the words in your head and the feeling he puts across:
The Day Lady Died
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday three days after Bastille day, yes it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner and I don’t know the people who will feed me
I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun and have a hamburger and a malted and buy an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets in Ghana are doing these days I go on to the bank and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard) doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine after practically going to sleep with quandariness
and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it
and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT while she whispered a song along the keyboard to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing
—Frank O'Hara
JazzWax clip:Here's poet Frank O'Hara in 1966 shortly before his death reading his Having a Coke With You. Listen to it a few times to absorb the imagery...
In 1960, when drummer Philly Joe Jones was asked by jazz writer and critic Ralph J. Gleason for the name of his favorite drummer, Jones answered "Louis Hayes." Just 21 years old at the time, Louis had just ended a three-year stay with the Horace Silver Quintet to join the Cannonball Adderley Quintet. The parting was amicable, and the reason for the change, Silver said in his autobiography, was money. Silver paid all of his sidemen the same amount, and if one received more, others would soon be asking for the same.
Louis' albums and performances with Silver not only gave the drummer greater visibility but also put him in the upper echelon of the jazz world. Louis also had enormous influence over other drummers at the time, many of whom began de-emphasizing the thud of the bass drum in favor of the conversational cymbals, high-hat and snare. Louis' support was by no means light. His solos were carefully constructed.
In Part 3 of my three-part interview with Louis on his Horace Silver Quintet years, the drummer talks about his emergence as a major force on the drums, his approach on the instrument and working with Silver:
JazzWax: No one ever told you that you were doing a great job in the Horace Silver Quintet? Louis Hayes: People were coming to me and saying these different things. When you’re accepted by your peers, people like Miles Davis and John Coltrane, you know you’re doing just fine. If the phone rings for work, that says it all [laughs]. Back then, you were measured by how often you got work and by the friends you were associating with. If certain people wanted you around, you were on a special level.
JW: What made hard bop stand out? LH: To a point, the drummers. Drummers like Philly Joe Jones, Roy Brooks, Art Taylor and Art Blakey. That’s who I was around at the time. I never sat down and tried to analyze it. For me, the beat just came out of my body. I was aware of r&b and learned to play it in Detroit but I didn’t play in r&b bands. I loved jazz too much. Motown Records obviously didn’t start until years later, but the elements were all being formed in Detroit when I was coming up in the early 1950s. In the thick of things, I learned how to play back beats and shuffles and Latin rhythms and mixed them into jazz. That's the hard bop sound.
JW: Who taught you the r&b beats? LH: Clarence Stamp, my cousin. All of those rhythmic patterns were new at the time. I learned them as a kid. By the time I left Detroit, I knew how to play them with brushes, mallets, sticks—everything. When Horace wrote Senor Blues, I didn’t think about how I was going to come up with a way to play that. It was just something that happened based on my experiences and by my responding naturally to how the tune went.
JW: Did Silver ever write out a drum part for you? LH: No, he didn’t have to. But I knew how to read music. My cousin had taught me. Everyone else in the group would have a part at first, though. I came up with the drum parts on my own.
JW: What did other musicians say when they heard your drum figures? LH: Musicians would come up to me and ask, “Did Horace write that out? How did you put that together?” I’d tell them, “Of course not.” When this is your art, you just know what, when and how. It becomes a way of speaking.
JW: Did Silver like to rehearse the quintet? LH: Horace rehearsed more than Cannonball Adderley did after I joined his quintet in 1959. Horace rehearsed often so the group was always compatible. Some of the things we played the first time were a little difficult and odd. Like The Outlaw on Further Explorations in 1958.
JW: No sheet music? LH: Not at all. I learned the music in my head. I knew how the tune went, every inch of it. Only then can you create. I have the ability to listen and know instinctively what to play. I’ve had drummers ask me, “How did you play The Outlaw?” See, to me, it was just a thing. I had a format in my head and had worked it out. You have to know songs cold so you can make something out of them and do things that aren’t there.
JW: When you were in Silver's group, who in the quintet did you listen to most while you were playing for inspiration? LH: I listened to everyone. But at certain times, someone might play something that grabbed my attention and I’d decide to go a different way from what I was thinking. When you play the drums, you can adapt to each soloist’s personality. I didn’t really try to accompany anyone. They have to follow me. You have two choices on any tune. You can accompany whoever is soloing or you can take charge and have them feed off of what you’re doing.
JW: But Silver’s percussive left hand had to be somewhat inspirational, no? LH: Oh, yes, sure. Horace to me was such a unique pianist. His direction, the way he accompanied and the way he soloed. When you are fortunate to have the ability to sound different than most people, that is a real gift. Horace sounded different than most pianists. Listening to the way he constructed his solos and accompanied someone was so special. He played a major role in the way I played. I was listening mostly to his rhythmic patterns more than the melody. Those patterns were strong and made it comfortable for me to play a certain way and find my voice.
JW: How did those patterns make you comfortable? LH: Horace played in a way that was so busy, with so much time and rhythm and bounce going on. That helped me get stronger as a drummer, to raise my game and to take more creative risks. But there were no empty spaces. You had to be on the go and thinking the entire time. His playing was about excitement and that made the group stronger and more powerful.
JW: What about the horns? LH: Horace wrote them tight. There were no head charts. Horace wrote interludes and had whole compositions written out for the horns. When Horace wrote something, you knew immediately it was his. He had that tight snap and harmonies that hooked you.
JW: Did Art Blakey ever comment on your playing? LH: Not to me directly. I know that he felt very good about me, though, and liked what I was doing. And he always wished me the best. I know his playing had an effect on mine. Each drummer who plays well has something that’s unique. Art [pictured] could give arrangements a personal rhythmic touch better than anyone. You could put on a record of his and there would be no mistaking who was playing the drums. He put his stamp on everything he played.
JW: Did his overall style influence you? LH: I never felt like trying to play like anyone else. That was too hard. But I did like little things that I heard by Art but also Buddy Rich, Gene Krupa and others. Gene once gave me a cymbal as a gift.
JW: No kidding? LH: Seriously. When you’re in the company of these people, they look and watch and listen to you. Everyone wants to know what everyone else is doing. When you’re accepted by the best, it’s an amazing thing. The Horace Silver Quintet could hold its own with any group. Knowing that made me very comfortable.
JazzWax tracks: Louis Hayes first album as a leader was Louis Hayes Featuring Yusef Lateef and Nat Adderley (1960) for Vee-Jay Records. Rounding out the quintet were Barry Harris on piano and Sam Jones on bass. The hard bop ensemble recorded originals by Yusef, Cannonball Adderley, Barry Harris and Nat Adderley. This is a terrific album. Louis unleashes a range of terse, commanding and inventive figures but never overplays. You'll find this album at iTunes and here.
JazzWax clip:Here's all you need to know about Louis Hayes. This is from a European tour by the Cannonball Adderley Quintet in 1963...
The more you listen to recordings by the Horace Silver Quintet in the 1950s, the more you realize that the group had two drummers: Silver's funky, rhythmic left hand on piano and Louis Hayes' sticks. As they played together, Silver and Hayes tended to feed off each other. Both kept time, but each tried to throw the other off with a double-time beat here, a cymbal shot there. Silver and Hayes together established an incredible groove, offering up a surging beat that was never static or dull. And the combined feel was the envy of many leaders at the time, including Miles Davis.
Unlike most drummers of the period, Louis didn't have a heavy hand. Instead, he focused on creating an unpredictable spray of patterns that often came as a surprise to those in the group. And that was the point. The magic of the Horace Silver Quintet rested in its harmonic riffs, tightly arranged horns and unpredictable and exotic beat-keeping.
In Part 2 of my three-part interview, Louis talks about joining the Horace Silver Quintet in 1956 and his interactions with the composer-pianist:
JazzWax: When did you come to New York? Louis Hayes: I had always wanted to be in New York. It was a dream. But I was too young in the early 1950s to just pick up and say, “I’m moving to New York.” In 1956, bassist Doug Watkins [pictured], who had moved to New York and was with Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, returned to Detroit for some reason. We played together at a club in Detroit one night, and he encouraged me to make the move. Soon after Doug returned to New York, the original Messengers broke up. Horace left, taking Doug with him, and Doug recommended me and trombonist Curtis Fuller. I moved to New York in 1956.
JW: Where did you live when you arrived in New York? LH: At first I lived at the Hotel Alvin on 52d St. near Broadway. Horace put me up there. Then I lived on 85th St. between West End Ave. and Riverside Drive. Then Curtis and I moved to 101st St. between West End and Riverside.
JW: How did you Silver bring you into his quintet? LH: While I was still living at home in Detroit, the phone rang. When I answered it, the voice at the other end said, “This is Horace Silver.” I thought it was a buddy of mine playing a joke. Horace had to convince me it was really him [laughs]. When I finally realized it was really Horace, he asked me if I wanted to join his quintet. Of course, I did. But it wasn’t a done deal. He wanted me to come to New York to see how I’d work out with the group.
JW: What did you do when you hung up? LH: I told my mother and father. My father wasn’t too aware of those guys. He was the kind of person who was leery of me leaving home to live so far away.
JW: And your mother? LH: She was different. She was straight ahead. She said, “Louis can handle it.” So I planned to leave for New York. That’s when my father bought me a new set of drums. When I got off the train in New York, Horace was there to meet me. I had my drums, and he grabbed a few things and took me to the Hotel Alvin, which overlooked Birdland. [Photo by William Claxton]
JW: How did you learn Silver's songs? LH: Horace gave me these different records to listen to, including the one Horace and the Jazz Messengers had recorded for Columbia. There were certain tunes that he wanted me to hear. What wasn’t on record he played for me up at his apartment in the 70s, on the Upper West Side. He was a composition writer, meaning there were no vamp sections—everything was written out. Horace was a gentleman and a nice guy. I was very comfortable with him.
JW: Did he give you direction? LH: Horace never told me what to play or how to play it. He never said anything like that. He’d play things for me on his baby grand, and I’d listen and pick it up. Also, we always played gigs and rehearsed at Nola’s Studio in New York before recording anything, so I knew the songs cold by the time they appeared on recordings. I always got warm with Horace’s music first.
JW: How old were you when you joined the group? LH: I was 19. I wasn’t too concerned about fitting in, though. I wasn’t nervous.
JW: Why not? LH: When I came up in Detroit, it was a place where musicians’ level of playing was high. I had already been around people who had played very well. New York definitely was a step up. For sure, there were major players in New York. But in Detroit, Yusef Lateef's [pictured] group was pretty tight. When guys came from New York to Detroit to jam, they’d have to deal with those guys—Yusef, Paul Chambers, and so on.
JW: But 19 is still pretty young. LH: Oh, sure. I still had room to grow in New York but I wasn't green. There’s hardly anyone who came to New York and could play on a high level right away. It’s a process. But that’s true of anything. If you decide to be a lawyer, you have to do it for a while and be around people who can do it better than you to you grow. Eventually, your mind grows and you develop.
JW: Did you and Silver discuss the music or your playing? LH: No. We never really discussed things. You know inside right away if something is working or not. You really don’t have to be told by anyone that things are working. The gigs just kept coming so I knew I was alright. Things weren’t always perfect. There were times when I played with a more comfortable feel than at other times.
JazzWax tracks: Louis Hayes recorded six albums with the Horace Silver Quintet: 6 Pieces of Silver, The Stylings of Silver, Further Explorations, Finger Poppin', Live at Newport '58 and Blowin' the Blues Away. All have been remastered and are available at iTunes and other online retailers.
JazzWax clip:Here's Louis Hayes on Mellow D from the Horace Silver Quintet's Finger Poppin'. Again, train your ears on the drums and listen hard to what Louis is doing here. Silver's left hand assumes the role of the bass drum, with Louis adding high-hat and cymbal figures in the most unexpected places...
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."
