In August 1954, trombonist Urbie Green was offered a record date by Vanguard Records. Founded by Maynard and Seymour Solomon as a blues and folk label, Vanguard also recorded jazz, thanks to John Hammond, who had begun serving as the label's de facto jazz a&r man in 1953. Green's four-song session for the 10-inch Vanguard LP is positively remarkable.
How perfect was this ensemble? See for yourself: Ruby Braff (tp), Urbie Green (tb), Med Flory (as), Frank Wess (ts,fl), Sir Charles Thompson (p), Freddie Green (g), Aaron Bell (b) and Bobby Donaldson (d)
The connections between the musicians are interesting. Thompson and Freddie Green were bandmates of Urbie Green's in the earlier Buck Clayton Jam Session recordings; Urbie had just played on Med Flory's big band session for EmArcy in February 1954. Aaron Bell worked with Thompson. Urbie Green had subbed for Henry Coker at the last minute on Frank Wess' Commodore date five days earlier. And Ruby Braff had recorded with Green during a Mel Powell jam session at Carnegie Hall concert back in April. Wess and Freddie Green, of course, were Basieites.
What's interesting about the Vanguard LP is that each side featured just two tracks, with each track running six minutes. Most labels at the time had converted to the 10-inch 33 1/3-rpm format but used the disc to house a rash of three-minute singles. Hammond [pictured] at Vanguard was experimenting with a longer form, as were a number of his peers on the East and West coasts.
The four songs on the album are I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good, Lullaby of Birdland, Old Time Modern and Med's Tune. Every track is perfectly executed, with each instrumentalist adding a distinct flavor. You are able to hear Thompson's [pictured] extraordinary choices on the piano, as evidenced by his lush introduction and solos on I Got It Bad. The same goes for Med Flory.
Med delivers a sirloin alto solo on Lullaby of Birdland, followed by a swinging, delicate flight by Frank Wess on flute later on the track. Braff's muted horn is understated, but he offers plenty of punctuating jabs and rolls. Old Time Modern features a relaxed Chicago jazz attack, showcasing Wess and Green. Dig the Basie call and response toward the end.The more you hear from Green, Braff, Wess and Med on this album, the more you wish they had recorded extensively as a unit. [Photo, from left, of Freddie Green, Ruby Braff, Urbie Green, Med Flory and Frank Wess in 1954, by Bob Parent/Hulton Archive/Getty Images]
Med's Tune is a bop blues with a Basie attitude showcasing the horns. On this track, like the first, you get to hear Flory [pictured] in a New York mode, before he departed for the West Coast in 1956.
The Urbie Green Octet catches eight great jazz musicians just before they went their separate ways. Unfortunately for us, this is the only album they made together.
JazzWax tracks: Originally issued on Vanguard, the tracks turned up on the CD, Blues and Other Shades of Green (Jazzbeat, Spain). The original 10-inch LP is available at eBay, and the four tracks are likely available at download sites.
JazzWax clip: How great are these four tracks? Seriously great. Hear for yourself. Here'sLullaby of Birdland, with Med Flory's' soaring alto solo and Frank Wess' avian flute solo...
I will say from the outset that this post is an exercise in futility. But here goes: Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Irving Berlin Song Book is my favorite entry in Fitzgerald's eight-album songbook series recorded between 1956 and 1964. It's an absurd claim, I know, since each of her tribute albums are like different flavors in the most exquisite box of chocolates. Who's to argue that the caramel with nuts is better than the raspberry cream? [Photo by Don Hunstein, Sony Collectibles]
But the Berlin album remains my favorite. And here's why: arranger Paul Weston. If we argue that all of the composers and lyricists Fitzgerald covered were melodic and poetic geniuses, then much of a songbook album's success rested in the hands of the album's arranger.
My fondness for the Berlin album takes nothing away from the muscle of Buddy Bregman's Cole Porter, Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn's glamorous Duke Ellington, Billy May's tight-torqued Harold Arlen or Nelson Riddle's delicate George and Ira Gershwin, Jerome Kern and Johnny Mercer.
But Weston's arrangements are truly a cut above, and Fitzgerald is delightfully at ease. For me, Weston always conjures up black-and-white film images of driving through Connecticut in the late '40s or early '50s. You know, in one of those massive Buicks with the holes in the side.
Mind you, I'm not old enough to actually remember doing that, either in the front seat or back. What I mean are those images from Fred MacMurray and Cary Grant movies. In the Connecticut of my imagination, the state still looks like New England, men smoke pipes while raking, and women wear small hats to shop. Weston's charts have that early suburban sound.
Track after track on this Berlin album is brimming with adult sensibility. The marriage between Weston's pen and Fitzgerald's voice was a natural fit, probably because Weston wrote similarly for his wife, Jo Stafford, whose intonation shared many warm, maternal similarities with Fitzgerald's. Recorded in March 1958, the Berlin album was made in the same year as Stafford's finest, Swingin' Down Broadway, which also was arranged by Weston. Fortunately, there are many similarities in the albums' charts.
Weston's swingers and mid-tempo builders place an emphasis on trombones and reeds, and feature darn neat fills and tags. This is particularly true of Let Yourself Go and Puttin' on the Ritz. There's the tender ballad How About Me? with Weston's wandering piano and strings. Or Now It Can Be Told with guitarist Barney Kessel in the background with strings. Or I'm Putting All My Eggs in One Basket, which is a nifty Weston seducer. [Pictured: Irving Berlin]
My favorite track on the album would have to be the little known Berlin cutie Slumming on Park Avenue. Weston pulls out all his texture stops here, complete with a beautifully voiced reed soli.
And catch those Berlin lyric twists:
Le's go smelling, where they're dwelling
Sniffing everything the way they do
Let's go to it, they do it, why can't we do it too?
Let's go slumming, nose thumbing at Park Avenue
The band: Harry "Sweets" Edison, Don Fagerquist (tp) Julian Matlock (cl) Ted Nash, Babe Russin (ts) Chuck Gentry (bar) Gene Cipriano (woodwinds) Paul Smith (p) Barney Kessel (g) Jack Ryan (b) Alvin Stoller (d) Paul Weston (arr,cond).
It's no wonder Fitzgerald's Berlin album was nominated for an Album of the Year Grammy or that she won for Best Vocal Performance, Female. To me, this is the only album in the series in which the singer and the arranger are having an equal dialogue.
Much has of this symbiosis has to do with Fitzgerald's love for Stafford, and Stafford and Weston's love for her. For lack of a better way to put it, this album has the sound of returning home.
JazzWax tracks:Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Irving Berlin Song Book can be found at iTunes or here. Just be sure to download the 2000 remastered version.
JazzWax clip:Here's Ella Fitzgerald singing Irving Berlin's Puttin' on the Ritz with Paul Weston's arrangement...
And here's Fitzgerald and Jo Stafford singing together about love. I never tire of this clip. It's important to remember that Stafford and Fitzgerald were among the most popular vocalists in black and white markets. Two pros at the top of their game...
That's Harry James tuning up the fiddle, along with members of his 1943 orchestra. Upon enlargement, I could make out the string charts on the stand: Dancing in the Dark (left) and I Remember You. Clockwise from the upper left-hand corner is saxophonist Sam Marowitz, first violinist Sam Caplan, James and vocalist Helen Forrest, probably in Hollywood.
This image comes from Betty's collection of stills and snapshots, sent along by her friend Chris. Betty has donated all of her prints, including this one, to Rutgers University's Institute of Jazz Studies. But since she and Chris also are big JazzWax fans, they wanted you to see them, too.
Want to see the image large? Just click on it.
Want more JazzSnaps? Go to the right-hand column of JazzWaxand scroll down to "JazzSnaps" for links.
JazzWax clip: Here's Harry James in 1943 with Helen Forrest on Mister Five by Five...
You are about to see a video clip of an important jazz film that hasn't been viewed by the general public in about 50 years. It's at the bottom of this post. Most people aren't even aware that the film exists, and the clip was put up yesterday on YouTube by Raymond De Felitta [pictured], director ofTis Autumn: The Search for Jackie Paris, City Islandand other superb films.
The video clip is one of six parts from Music of the South, a rare documentary that Raymond's father, Frank De Felitta, filmed in 1956 in backwoods Alabama for CBS. It's narrated by CBS newsman Charles Collingwood.
CBS commissioned the film for its Odyssey series, which aired on Sunday afternoons starting in the '50s and continued into the '60s. Back in '56, Raymond's father was brought to the sharecropper's remote home by Frederic Ramsey Jr., co-author of jazz books such as Jazzmen (1939). Ramsey also made field recordings of blues singers and country musicians for Folkways records in the 40's and 50's.
The film print is a bit dark because it has been around for some time. We're fortunate to even have this film, since Frank De Felitta grabbed it and others he made just as CBS was tossing out large amounts of archival material many years ago. Mr. DeFelitta went on to be a director, novelist and screenwriter. [Pictured, from left: Dick Cavett with Raymond De Felitta]
Raymond will be posting additional parts of this film (as well as others his father made) at his blog, Movies 'til Dawn.
So, without further delay, here's a segment of Music of the South (for part 1, visit Raymond's blog here)...
Elizabeth Taylor (1932-2011). In the 1950s, Elizabeth Taylor was a raven-haired beauty in a decade of blonde bombshells. Despite her perfect features, Taylor's fans sensed she was one of them. Perhaps it was how she managed her eyes, dipping her lids in humility every so often. Her vulnerability allowed the average movie-goer to feel the roles she played while her tormented bad luck with husbands off screen elicited sympathy. Above all, Taylor also had a girlish sense of humor, as this clips shows...
Martin Trumpet. Filmmaker Randy Cole sent along a link to his latest video—Painting Jazz: The Martin Committee Trumpet. The clip looks at the horn model that was favored by nearly all jazz greats...
Greenwich Village. Director Raymond De Felitta sent along this clip of Rickie Lee Jones singing Bob Dylan's Subterranean Homesick Blues. Most important, dig the footage and stills of New York's Greenwich Village in the early '60s...
Classic TV, movies and baseball. Otto Bruno, the writer and radio host, writes two fabulous blogs. The first features essays on movies and television and the other is on baseball. I took a look and didn't leave until a half hour later. The first blog is here, the second is here. Just make sure you leave yourself some time.
Charlie Parker. Radio legend Phil Schaap informs me that his daily Birdflight program, which has aired daily on WKCR in New York for several decades, is available as podcasts online. This is great news, since so much great radio has been lost over the years. Gratifying to know that Phil's Birdflight soliloquys and frame-by-frame analysis of Parker's playing and history is available for free with a click, 24 hours a day. Makes for great background while you work or swing online. Go here.
CD discoveries of the week. This one's going to knock you out. Pianist Noah Haidu's Slipstream has a mid-'60s hardbop feel, and it comes together perfectly, track after track. All of the compositions except one by Cole Porter are Haidu's. Hats off to Jeremy Pelt on trumpet and Jon Irabagon on alto sax. A fabulously tight front line. I urge you to sample Where We Are Right Now and Break Tune, which gives you a chance to hear Haidu's strength and majesty on piano in a trio setting. You'll find Slipstream (Posi-Tone) at iTunes or here.
Live albums are rarely this pretty. Pianist Kenny Werner on Balloons (Half Note) was joined at New York's Blue Note by trumpeter Randy Brecker, saxophonist David Sanchez, bassist John Patitucci and drummer Antonio Sanchez. With such heavy hitters, it's no wonder that this is a tightly wound and moody hardbop heavy-breather. Dig Diena or the title track, which actually does sound like balloons. You'll find this one at iTunes or here.
Oddball album cover of the week. As far as I can tell, the Palm Garden Orchestra was an early easy-listening ensemble that specialized in what used to be known as mood music. Here, on what appears to be a mid-50s Halo release, the orchestra takes on material for kicking back and letting your mind go. Which is fine. But can these ice queens really hear the strains of these strings in the middle of nowhere? And who relaxes on their axis in sub-freezing weather? A pair of stiffs.
Two weeks ago I wrote an advance review of Take a Look: Aretha Franklin Complete on Columbia for the Wall Street Journall (here). It's an 11-CD box plus one DVD from Sony/Legacy that covers Franklin's entire 1960-65 output for the Columbia label. The mega box tells two stories concurrently. One details the singer's development as a singer who combined the American Songbook with the thump of the Holy Bible. The other story is about a label that at the time didn't have a clue about how to produce the woman who would become the greatest hit-maker of her generation.
Both stories are equally fascinating. Franklin's material for Columbia ranges from "what were they thinking" to "out of the park." And all of it is remarkable. Signed by John Hammond in 1960 after Franklin's preacher-father brought her to New York to audition for the legendary a&r man, Franklin for some reason was mostly assigned to dowdy arrangers who were fast being eclipsed by a new generation of orchestrators.
As much as Columbia and its a&r men tried to squeeze Franklin into a Tin Pan Alley casing, she kept tearing her way out, belting gospel renditions of old and new standards such as Skylark,People and Only the Lonely.
The high point of the set for me is the album Laughing On the Outside (1963), arranged and produced by Robert Mersey. It's an entire LP of standards taken at the pace of your pulse with strings. What you have is Franklin in slow motion—the orchestra held at bay while she delivers one songbook classic after the next in that inimitable voice.
The other high point is A Bit of Soul (1965), produced by Clyde Otis with arrangements by Belford C. Hendricks. The album was never released but includes the stunning Only the One You Love and One Step Ahead. In these two songs, Franklin becomes Aretha. But it would take Jerry Wexler at Atlantic to finally figure out the secret soul recipe after Franklin left Columbia in 1965.
This is a box for Franklin fans who also happen to love Ella Fitzgerald, Carmen McRae and Nancy Wilson—probably her closest pop-soul rival at Capitol during this period. The remastering of the material on this set is superb, and the colorful booklet and notes by Daphne A. Brooks of Princeton University are heart-felt and informative.
JazzWax tracks:Take a Look: Aretha Franklin Complete on Columbia is available here. All of the discs in the set appear in miniature LP sleeves. Sony/Legacy did this with two Brubeck boxes recently. It adds so much feel and heft to a collection like this. Also, the box cover is held shut by a magnetic strip, a nice touch. A fabulously produced set.
JazzWax clip:Here's a rare clip of Aretha Franklin singing One Step Ahead. To me, this was the first soul-ballad breakout for Franklin that would establish her sound. Columbia didn't quite know what it had, and the single didn't do very well. But Jerry Wexler at Atlantic knew exactly how to leverage the magic.
And here'sOnly the One You Love. Clearly Aretha was ready for her soul-gospel closeup...
Hey, marketers at Coca-Cola, Geico, Pepsi-Cola and any other company trying to reach 70 million baby boomers. Here's a golden opportunity: Denny Tedesco, director of The Wrecking Crew, a new documentary about the Hollywood studio musicians who recorded thousands of hit singles in the '60s and early '70s, needs to cover the licensing fees for songs used in his film. Then the DVD can be released.
Here's the opportunity: In trade, you can probably negotiate an ad at the front of the documentary, signage on the DVD box and lots of other branding placements related to the film. You'll have to take it all up with him. The best part is the DVD is all ready to go. It just needs to clear the licensing hurdle (there's a trailer at the bottom of this post to give you a sense of how good this thing is).
I've watched the film and it's the best piece of documentary work I've seen in some time. The film was made with pure love. These were the musicians who created a generation's soundtrack. They recorded on the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds, Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Water, the Mamas and the Papas' If You Can Believe Your Eyes and so many other albums and singles.
The Wrecking Crew documentary is that good, and it's not fair that something like licensing is holding up something this creative and interesting. One or more corporations will surely realize what they have here and will sign an exclusive. Those that didn't act fast will be kicking themselves.
As I wrote yesterday, the Wrecking Crew was made up of an ad hoc group of about 30 Hollywood studio musicians. These elite instrumentalists included Hal Blaine, Glen Campbell, Leon Russell, Plas Johnson, Earl Palmer and others. Whatever you think of pop-rock of the '60s, one thing is clear: the Wrecking Crew helped make those songs hits.
How so? Think about all the records you've passed up over the years because they didn't snap. I'm not talking about poor engineering or poor placement of mikes and recording. I mean poor playing, lackluster drums or dull guitars and bass. I know that I gravitated toward singles that really bounced. That's what that music was all about, which is why these musicians were called in to play on them.
Phil Spector, Brian Wilson, Lou Adler and so many of the record company people on the West Coast scene during this period were great music visionaries who were obsessed with a big, catchy sound.
Now their story has been captured in The Wrecking Crew. But it's stuck in a licensing pen.
Mind you, I'm not making a dime off of this movie. I just dig great stuff and I hope that some company out there sees the opportunity and that this film will make it out into the marketplace. It's a touching look at the director's father (Tommy Tedesco) and all of the major Wrecking Crew members who have been anonymous for decades. The film both informs and chokes you up.
JazzWax note: If you want to get in touch with the folks behind The Wrecking Crew documentary, go here.
JazzWax Clips:Here's the trailer to The Wrecking Crew documentary...
Here's Carol Kaye, the only female Wrecking Crew member, on Slick Cat...
Here's a behind-the scenes recording of the Beach Boys' Sloop John B. with Hal Blaine and the Wrecking Crew...
And here's Leslie Gore from the T.A.M.I Show in 1964 with Hal Blaine and the Wrecking Crew playing behind her...
Last week I was on assignment for the Wall Street Journal in Palm Desert, Calif. I was there to interview drummer Hal Blaine, who is probably America's greatest living rock and pop musician (you can read my article in today's edition here). If you're like me and grew up in the '60s listening to the radio, then you know Hal well—even if you don't know his name. More in a moment.
Remember the scandal that broke in 1967 about the Monkees not playing the instruments on their hit records—like Last Train to Clarksville, Daydream Believer and I'm a Believer? If not, let me fill you in: Back then, a magazine outed the Monkees, a cuddly clone of the Beatles, by claiming they were a front group of actor-singers, many of whom couldn't read music and that studio musicians did all the heavy lifting.
Well, it turns out the Monkees were just the tip of the vinyl iceberg. Except for the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and a few other groups, most rock bands of the early and mid-1960s didn't play on their own records. Which groups? Try the Beach Boys, the Mamas and the Papas, the Byrds, Jay and the Americans, Gary Lewis and the Playboys and dozens of others.
Who did? Hal Blaine and a tight-knit ad hoc group of about 30 highly skilled Hollywood studio musicians known as the Wrecking Crew. They could read anything put down in front of them and could nail the song the first time through, bringing enormous snap to the results. For years I've been fascinated by this little-known secret hit-making machine.
How big a deal is Hal? He recorded on 39 No. 1 hits on Billboard's Hot 100. Which hits? Here are just a handful: Can't Help Falling in Love, He's a Rebel, Surf City, I Get Around, Everybody Loves Somebody, Help Me, Rhonda, Mr Tambourine Man, I Got You Babe, My Love, These Boots Are Made for Walkin', Monday Monday, Strangers in the Night, Cracklin' Rosie and The Way We Were.
Hal also was the drummer on six hits to win the Grammy for Record of the Year for six years in a row. A staggering stat. Which six? A Taste of Honey, Strangers in the Night, Up, Up and Away, Mrs. Robinson, Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In and Bridge Over Troubled Water. Hal also was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2000.
Like Detroit's Funk Brothers who backed up virtually all of the Motown groups, the Wrecking Crew did the same in Los Angeles. The difference, of course, is that everyone knew the Funk Brothers, and the artists they played behind were singers. The Wrecking Crew, by contrast, was a phantom band of killer musicians, and their vast contribution wasn't disclosed on albums until recently on CD re-issues.
As Hal told me, teens wanted to believe that the cool-looking bands on their album covers were the sole creators, the record companies didn't want to spoil a good thing, and the Wrecking Crew didn't want to bite the hand that fed them.
Who was in the Wrecking Crew? Some of the most most creative studio rock musicians in Los Angeles at the time. The list includes Glen Campbell [pictured], Leon Russell, Tommy Tedesco, Carol Kaye, Plas Johnson and many others. As good as the music parts were back then, they were lead sheets—just notes on a page with chord changes. The Wrecking Crew was brought in to give songs enormous lift and make them snap.
Back in 1961, Southern California was exploding with pop-rock energy. Kids who were born in the late 40s were coming of age and driving cars with radios. Radio stations, meanwhile, were multiplying and many played a rock format. As a result, record companies were under enormous pressure to crank out rock singles and albums that featured the singles.
But there was a problem. While there were catchy pop-rock songs pouring out of New York's "Teen Pan Alley," and singing groups were plentiful, most of the acts signed by record companies were garage bands. "Producers realized quickly that many of these kids didn't have the chops to produce records teens would buy," Blaine told me. "After the first few sessions we were on, my phone didn't stop ringing."
How did the Wrecking Crew get its name? Here's what Hal told me:
"I got a call from Disney Studios one day in 1961 for a rock and roll job. Since 1957 I had played with the Raiders, who backed Tommy Sands, a teen idol at the time. [Pictured: Hal Blaine and Tommy Sands, right]
"When I arrived at the movie lot with a few of the musicians I knew, the conductor was just dismissing a large group of older studio musicians. They all wore blue blazers and ties. They were very proper. We had showed up in jeans and polo shirts, very casual and laid back.
"The conductor turned to us and started talking as though we were 12 years old. He said, 'Thank you for coming. We need some of your rock and roll music for our movie. We have parts written out for all of you. We work off a click track here to be sure the music will fit the length of a scene. But don't worry, we'll take it nice and slow at first so you all can learn your parts and get used to the track.'
"There were instruments all set up for us and parts on stands with about 100 measures. After we took our places, the woman who was running the click track hit the button, but she accidentally forgot to dial it back. The machine started clicking off time at the intended pace. We played the entire thing through perfectly the first time.
"When we finished, the conductor was blown away. He said, 'How, how did you guys do that?' Tommy [Tedesco] [pictured], our guitarist and a first-rate cut-up, stood up and said innocently: 'Well, sir, we practice a lot in our spare time.' Goodness that was so funny. The truth is we were all cocky perfectionists.
"After the Disney date, my phone didn't stop ringing. I was getting calls constantly from the different record studios in need of a rock sound for records or movies. About a month after that Disney date, I was in a restaurant having lunch and someone told me they overheard one of the older, blue-blazer studio musicians remark about us to another one: 'Man, these guys are going to wreck the music business.'
"Very quickly I got so busy that I had to hire an answering service to field all the calls. To make life easy, when the service would call for another rock job, I'd simply say, 'Round up the Wrecking Crew.' The name stuck."
What did the L.A. jazz musicians think?
"Many of them played on rock dates, but it's largely undocumented. Saxophone Plas Johnson [pictured] and drummer Earl Palmer were regulars in the Wrecking Crew. Red Callender played bass on dates. Drummer Frankie Capp, too. At first, most of the jazz drummers brushed me off, saying, 'I'll never play that garbage.' Once we started earning, they started to call and ask if they could drop by the studio and watch to see what was going on."
"Yes, along with the Wrecking Crew. After the show, the Rolling Stones came back to my house in the Hollywood Hills. We jumped into my Cadillac Coupe de Ville. I lived on Castilian Drive in a house that had been Lee J. Cobb's home. That's how well I was doing.
"As we drove off, there were about 10,000 kids in cars chasing us. As we got near my house, I hit a device under my dashboard that automatically opened my garage. It was a General Motors item. This is before garage door openers became popular.
"We drove straight in and I closed the door behind us right away. All the kids drove past the house and kept going. The Stones drummer Charlie Watts asked how the door opened like that. At first I put him on, telling him that my house knew my car and that the garage opened when I drove nearby.
"Then I showed him the device. For the first five minutes, we all sat in the car as the Stones opened and closed the garage with the switch."
And Elvis Presley?
"I played on just about all of his movie albums, starting with Blue Hawaii in '61, as well as his comeback special in 1968. The thing with Elvis was he was so catered to. He'd say, 'Wow, I'm thirsty,' and seven people with Cokes knock over the instruments in the studio to be the one to hand him the soda. [Pictured: Elvis Presley and Hal Blaine, left, on A Little Less Conversation]
"I remember one time Elvis was running down a song written by these two kids. They were in the back of the studio against the wall. We ran down the song, with Elvis singing off the sheet music. The kids' faces were just beaming. If Elvis decided to record it, they'd be all set. About three-quarters of the way through, Elvis tossed the song, saying, 'I don't want to do it.' Those kids were crushed and melted on the wall. It was so sad to see."
Tomorrow, a closer look at the Wrecking Crew and a completed documentary that's struggling to be distributed.
JazzWax notes: For a full list of Hal's 39 No. 1 hits, go here. For his complete discography, go here.
JazzWax clips:Here's Hal Blaine on Phil Spector...
Here's the Beach Boys' Wouldn't It Be Nice from Pet Sounds, with Hal Blaine on drums...
Don't think of Duke Ellington as a bandleader. Instead, consider him in the same light as other great entrepreneurs like Bill Gates (Microsoft), Steve Jobs (Apple), Larry Page and Sergey Brin (Google), and Mark Zuckerberg (Facebook).
Ellington came up with a great new idea in the early '20s and ran his band and brand like a wildly successful business for six decades. In the process, he set high standards for jazz and changed the way the music sounded. Through the years, he remained the most sophisticated, regal and celebrated jazz musician and pianist of his day. Calling him a great bandleader or a jazz musician par excellence sort of sells him short. The music on a new essential box set from Mosaic(The Complete 1932-1940 Brunswick, Columbia and Master Recordings of Duke Ellington and His Famous Orchestra) will tell you why.
To be a successful bandleader in the '20s, '30s or '40s required lasting power. You had to be both a gifted musician and an entrepreneur with a big dream—complete with all of the talents that this type of person requires to triumph repeatedly. Even with all of this in place, you could still fail—by losing your best musicians to other bands, not connecting with your audience or writing and choosing lackluster material.
All successful entrepreneurs stick to their guns when they have a visionary idea, tinker to attract the largest possible audience without sacrificing quality, create systems of production to ensure consistency, identify and attract the very best talent, and employ masterful psychological magic to hold onto talent and encourage them to flower and soar.
Ellington had all of this in place and wowed audiences—even though he faced a hurdle that many top bandleaders did not. Ellington was black—at a time when racism, segregation and lynchings weren't just an obstacle but state-sponsored oppression. The odds against success for Ellington were staggering—even with all of his musical gifts. Yet he managed to produce beautiful, graceful music that not only appealed to blacks but also resonated with whites in all regions of the country.
Now, I have to ask you to forget about Take the A Train, the famed Blanton-Webster band and Ellington at Newport. All powerful stuff, but I'm not concerned with those events for this post. Even before all of these musical accomplishments, Ellington was a star. Until now, many of the early, pre-1940 recordings were unavailable or in pieces on inferior sounding CDs and LPs. Now they're all together with alternate takes—and the remastering is nothing short of a miracle.
The box starts with Moon Over Dixie in February 1932 and ends with Sophisticated Lady in February 1940. Over the eight-year period, the 11 discs in this set shed light on a period of Ellington's music that has largely been forgotten or overlooked. Many people assume that big band jazz started with Benny Goodman in 1935 and quickly morphed into dance music that other bands picked up on. Actually, many black bands of the late '20s and early '30s were highly advanced and already playing jazz for dancing, Ellington among them.
The Ellington of yore provides a look at how his music and piano evolved during the pre-swing Depression—one of the hardest times in American music history. Swing was possible in the mid-30s only because coast to coast radio networks were in place and phonographs and records were of higher sonic quality than in the past. Ellington, in this regard, was ahead of the curve. Way ahead, as is evidenced here. [Duke Ellington and Irving Mills]
The Ellington story, of course, starts in about 1924, when the pianist began recording with other bands. Then in 1926, Ellington met Irving Mills, a jazz music publisher who founded Mills Dance Orchestras Inc. Mills first came upon Ellington and his band at New York's Club Kentucky. Here's a telling passage from Steven Lasker's liner notes for the Mosaic box:
"'We were playing the St. Louis Blues,' Ellington recalled, adding that Mills asked what it was. 'When I told him, he said it sure sounded nothing like it. So maybe that gave him ideas. He talked to me about making records. Naturally, I agreed, and we got together four originals.' That session, Ellington's first for a major label, was held November 1926."
From 1926 to 1930, Ellington made 100 discs but recorded very little in 1931. That year, the record industry was falling apart, largely because the consumers market lacked discretionary income. The Brunswick label changed hands that year and in early 1932 it signed Duke Ellington as well as Cab Calloway and Baron Lee's Blue Rhythm Boys—all of whom were represented by Mills.
Ellington's deal called for 24 new sides a year. At this point, magazine writers of the period began to note that Ellington's music had a particular sound that was a result of Ellington's writing and arranging, and the musicians he hired.
Throughout the 1930s, Ellington and his band prospered, largely due to the singular content he created and the rise of radio units that broadcast him and his band live. His appearance in movies and shorts also helped. Rather than merely record popular songs, as many bands were doing, Ellington penned originals that were so heartfelt and melodically poetic that 15 of them written in the Depression became jazz standards.
What's most surprising about the Mosaic box is how modern and fresh much of Ellington's material sounds today. There are few rinky-dink recordings or throwaways. Almost everything sounds as though Ellington had been putting everything he had into his sound and recordings. And the results were exciting. For example, It Don't Mean a Thing from 1932 features dramatic orchestral riffs behind alto saxophonist Johnny Hodges.
Or listen to Blue Tune from the same year. The modernity of this arrangement is positively electrifying. It could have been recorded by Claude Thornhill many years later, which makes you realize how taken Thornhill was by Depression-era Ellington.
And then there's Jazz Cocktail, with a machine gun chart that emulates the sound of ice and liquor being slammed around in a metal shaker. You'd hardly know it was September 1932. Slippery Horn from May 1932 has an upbeat, freaky feel with th emphasis on the first and second beats. Merry-Go-Round from 1935 also has the feel of whirling velocity.
As the years progressed, the Ellington band dug in. Yearning for Love in July 1936 is a mid-tempo ballad with a solo by Lawrence Brown on trombone. Scattin' at the Kit Kat from December 1936 has a finger waving kick.
There also are major works. Original versions of There's a Lull in My Life, Serenade to Sweden, In a Sentimental Mood, Solitude, Mood Indigo and several different versions of Sophisticated Lady are here—including my favorite Lady from 1940 featuring Harry Carney [pictured] on baritone sax, Johnny Hodges on alto sax and Lawrence Brown on trombone.
This Sophisticated Lady is Ellington's last recording on the Mosaic set and it's a winner. Again, if I told you this was Thornhill in the mid-40s, you'd believe it. Dig that crazy reed rundown at the end! A week after this session, Ellington's contract with Columbia expired and he signed a two-year contract with RCA on the same day.
So, how impressive is Ellington between 1932 and 1940? Put it this way: If Ellington in 1940 had hung up his top hat and tails to become a cab driver, never to recorded again, you'd still know his name. Now that's saying something.
JazzWax tracks:The Complete 1932-1940 Brunswick, Columbia and Master Recordings of Duke Ellington and his Famous Orchestra (Mosaic) can be found here. There are 11 discs in all plus extensive liner notes by Steve Lasker.
The remastering of the material is remarkable. While there is some unavoidable hiss in some places, the solos and instrumental details have been freed and now stand tall. For the first time, you can truly hear the sweet, growly sound of the reeds, the sorrow of the trombones and the punch of the trumpets. Best of all, Duke's intentions with section interactions are now distinct.
JazzWax clips:Here's Duke Ellington and his Orchestra in 1934 playing Ebony Rhapsody. This song isn't part of the Mosaic set, but this clip will give you a fine sense of Ellington's sound, fame and skill in the early '30s. One does wonder, though, what transpires with that machine gun...
Once upon a time there were grownups in the music business. They were around to insist that artists meet standards and to step in when they went too far. Artists, by definition, don't have limits. Many also don't have taste or restraint, nor do they care about such things. Which is why there were record producers some years ago. They were there to set standards and draw the line. [Pictured: One of the great grownups, Atlantic's Ahmet Ertegun]
So it was somewhat distressing last week to read in The New York Times that three of the Top 10 hits on the pop music chart have choruses that drop the F-bomb. These songs are here, here and here (I'm a big believer in actually listening to what you don't like first before trashing it). [Pictured: Pink]
What's unfortunate is that the songs themselves are quite good, as contemporary pop goes. They're passionate, catchy and soulful. Sadly, someone decided that adding the F-word would be a sign of brassy emotion and a badge of creative honor. The adults clearly weren't around—and haven't been for some time.
Which begs the question: Does our culture really need to drop this low to be creative and engaging? Mind you, I'm not a prude. But I do trade in sentences, and words to me are important. There are so many of them, giving us plenty of choices when expressing ourselves. When we make an effort to think, at least.
This problem is more widespread than a lack of supervision in the music industry. When I'm on line at the airport or an eatery, I often hear young adults using four-letter words casually and loudly, as though applying them publicly is perfectly acceptable. Not to me. No one likes to wear, smell or eat garbage. I have the same reaction to hearing foul language used for emphasis in everyday conversaion.
I'm not sure where rudeness began in rock. My own personal theory is that rudeness and music began with the Beatles' first press conference at Kennedy Airport in February 1964, when nearly all questions were answered with flip, snotty remarks. Before then, rock and rollers were actually quite polite. Or perhaps it all begins with the last line of West Side Story's Officer Krupke.
Four-letter words in conversation and song offend me—not because I'm uptight but because they are senseless and bereft of creative thinking. They also are lazy and have little meaning or flavor. Adults on lines and in the music business used to know better.
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."
