By my count, pianist Bill Evans recorded Autumn in New Yorktwice. The one that most jazz fans are familiar with features Evans playing a rushed solo version in 1963, a recording that wasn't released until 1989, nine years after his death. Evans didn't care for these solo sessions, finding the results half-baked and below his standards. Orrin Keepnews and Milestone Records honored his wish and held off issuing them.
Of course, Evans was wrong. The Solo Sessions (Volumes 1 and 2) are superb and provide a stark glimpse into Evans' improvisational whimsy and exploration. The date's Autumn in New York (teamed with How About You) is no exception, though it's more like Autumn in a Gale.
The superior, more romantic Autumn in New York by Evans was recorded five years earlier in 1958. It's hidden on George Russell's New York, New York, tucked into the track East Side Medley. The band on the date watched in awe as Evans handled the beginning as a solo. Then the musicians joined in: Art Farmer, Doc Severinsen, Ernie Royal (tp) Bob Brookmeyer, Frank Rehak, Tom Mitchell (tb) Hal McKusick (as) John Coltrane (ts) Sol Schlinger (bar) Bill Evans (p) Barry Galbraith (g) Milt Hinton (b) Charlie Persip (d) Jon Hendricks (narrator) George Russell (arr,dir).
I'll have more on this vital session in the weeks ahead from the date's contractor. For now, here's Bill Evans' Autumn in New York, from 1958...
Saxophonist Hal McKusick [pictured] and I talk often by phone. During one of our recent chats, I asked him for some of his favorite musicians in the '40s and '50s who aren't well known today by many jazz fans. Here's Hal's list of little-known players he admired and his brief comments:
Angelo Tompros—"I knew him in Boyd Raeburn's band in '44. A gorgeous sound on tenor."
Ben Lary—"We were in Buddy Rich's band together in '48. An unbelievable sound, like Zoot Sims' and Al Cohn's."
Johnny Andrews—"We were in Claude Thornhill's band together in '49. He also had a beautiful, smooth sound on tenor."
Tony Fruscella—"We played together at Gene DiNovi's house out in Brooklyn in '52. Tony was a gifted lyrical player on the trumpet, along the lines of Art Farmer, Clark Terry and Miles Davis."
Jerry Hurwitz—"He was another pretty trumpeter who played out at DiNovi's house. But he left the business early. Years later, I got in a cab on my way to a recording session and there was Jerry, driving. Not everyone who was great made it in the business over time, for one reason or another."
It was a cold and rainy night—the kind made for staying in with a glass of rye and a bad book. Outside, cars drove by slow and sloppy. Inside, the pink neon sign from the bar across the alley kissed the wall over and over, steady and insistent. Then came the knock at my email box. I turned to open the message and wound up face to face with the Crime Jazz guys. "We love ya past lists, but we thought youze ought to know about a few more ob-skewer ones," they said. After shoving the suggestions into my chest, they left.
Regular readers may recall that I posted previous lists of albums that celebrated TV and movie detectives of the late '50s and early '60s here and here. Below, I offer up a third list, courtesy of JazzWax readers Joe Fay and James Cimarusti. I have them all, and can say they are indeed terrific and worth owning:
Richard Diamond—Pete Rugolo (1957)
This World, Then the Fireworks—Pete Rugolo (1997)
Checkmate—John Williams (1962)
The Interns—Leith Stevens (1962)
From Russia with Love—Si Zentner (1963)
JazzWax clip:Here's a taste of the Richard Diamond soundtrack...
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Enjoy!
Brian Wilson just set up a site devoted to the upcoming Nov. 1 release of Smile. In addition to audio featuring the piano tinkling of Heroes & Villains, there's a YouTube video of Good Vibrations. Go here.
Sonny Rollins on the other side of Charlie Parker was just one of Bret Primack's themes last week explored on his new daily Day by Day video blog:
Sonny Rollins radio. Tonight (Sunday), jazz musician Bill Kirchner will be spotlighting Sonny Rollins' Oleo during his Jazz From the Archives program. Bill will feature renditions of the jazz standard by Miles Davis, pianist Phineas Newborn, the all-star quartet of Lee Konitz, Brad Mehldau, Charlie Haden, Paul Motian and Rollins' own monumental (and seldom-heard) dissection from his 1962 album, Our Man in Jazz. When: 11 p.m. to midnight (EST). You can listen on your computer from anywhere in the world by going here.
Drum book. Talk about a drum book to end all drum books. Sticks 'n' Skins: A Photography Book About the World of Drumming (Fotos by Follett) weighs in at nine pounds and features images by Jules Follett and Lissa Wales. Both photographers spent years in the entertainment industry training their camera lenses on drummers. More than 500 drummers are featured alphabetically in color images across 552 pages, along with bios and appreciations. Quite an undertaking. You'll be hard-pressed to find favorites missing. Sticks 'n' Skins is available here. For more about the book and project, go here.
Art Blakey video. In 1989, German television celebrated Art Blakey's 70th birthday by broadcasting a performance by Blakey and guests. Joining the hardbopper—Terence Blanchard, Freddie Hubbard, Brian Lynch (tp) Curtis Fuller, Frank Lacy (tb) Donald Harrison, Jackie McLean (as) Benny Golson, Javon Jackson, Wayne Shorter (ts) Walter Davis Jr., Geoff Keezer (p) Essiet Okon Essiet, Buster Williams (b) Roy Haynes (d) and Michelle Hendricks (v). Here's the show, in its entirety, thanks to the keen eye of JazzWax reader Jimi from Greece. [Photo by Carlo Rondinelli]
Stax fund drive. The Soulsville Foundation is the heart of Stax's money-raising efforts and the nonprofit organization that keeps the Stax schools and Stax Museum in Memphis humming. Soulsville is now in the middle of a fund drive. So if you love Stax and the many musicians who gave you joy in the '60s and early '70s, give a few bucks here. I was down there in August. It's a great cause.
The music of Bill Kirchner. On Tuesday, New York's Manhattan School of Music Concert Jazz Band (plus string quartet) will perform Kirche Tönen: The Music of Bill Kirchner. The band and strings will be conducted by Justin DiCioccio. When: Tuesday, October 18 at 7:30 p.m. Where: Borden Auditorium at the Manhattan School of Music on West 122nd Street & Broadway (northwest corner). Tickets: $10 adults, $5 seniors and students. Box office: (917) 493-4428. Or go online here.
CD discoveries of the week. By now, the story of guitarist Pat Martino's near-death experience in 1980 is fairly well known. After suffering a brain aneurysm at age 36, he underwent surgery that saved his life but left him with amnesia. So after years spent becoming a monster player, he had to start all over again, learning to play and improvise. His latest album, Undeniable (High Note), is a stellar example of how perseverance and a big heart can conquer the toughest break. Martino is joined on this live hardbop date by saxophonist Eric Alexander, organist Tony Monaco and Jeff "Tain" Watts. Through the years, Martino has retained his spirited, high-energy attack, which is grown even groovier. All of the tracks except 'Round Midnight are originals, which gives this album a boss, '70s feel. Sample Lean Years, Double Play and Side Effect. You'll find this one at iTunes and here. More on Pat Martino here.
Peter Wolf is truly an underrated rocker. Best known as the J. Geils Band's vocalist between 1967 and 1983, Wolf became a solo artist after the group broke up, reuniting briefly with the band in 1999. His most recent album, Midnight Souvenirs (Verve), was released last year and did quite well with the critics and polls. I only recently discovered the CD and was quite taken by the high quality of the songwriting and vocal passion. It's country-rock wrapped in a smart acoustic package, allowing Wolf's voice and lyrics to stand out. All of the tracks were written by Wolf, many with Will Jennings. If Bob Dylan could carry a tune, you'd have Peter Wolf. Even if you're a jazz-only JazzWax reader, sample a few tracks for kicks. I think you'll be surprised. You'll find this one at iTunes or here. More on the Bronx-born Peter Wolf here.
Paul Nelson is a hardcore blues-rock session guitarist. He's currently touring with guitarist Johnny Winter, a gig that demands serious chops and heavy lifting for any sideman. Johnny can easily do a 90-minute set of nonstop blues, requiring his band to bring its A-game to every venue. Back in 2001, Paul recorded Look (BWB) a fascinating blues-fusion album that combines his wailing guitar with funky beats and soaring moods. You'll find this one here. More on Paul Nelson here.
Oddball album cover of the week. The Command label was part of a shift in the '60s toward improved fidelity to better meet the capability of higher-quality stereo systems. The point of the label was to provide more information in the records' grooves and greater dimension to the sound. Much of its fare was space-age pop, what we now call "lounge." So I suppose it's only fitting that gracing this cover are a pair of Stepford Wives, who either are hypnotically entranced or just bored out of their minds.
Rhoda Scott is easily the finest Hammond B3 organist around today. Name unfamiliar to you? That's probably because Rhoda moved to Paris in 1968 and has lived there ever since. Over the past 43 years, Rhoda has become a jazz celebrity on the European jazz concert and club circuit. Over here, not so much. Nevertheless, organ buffs revere her albums, many of which were recorded in Paris and have a terrific relaxed feel.
As you probably can tell, Rhoda is my favorite active organist. So when I saw a CD cross my desk several weeks ago by vocalist David Linx—Rock My Boat (Naive)—with Rhoda Scott and drummer Andre Ceccarelli listed, I decided to reach out to her. My timing was perfect. Rhoda had just returned to the U.S. to begin studies in a Rutgers University's masters program. Though she has a masters degree from the Manhattan School of Music, she wanted to pursue additional jazz education. She loves reading and studying.
Yesterday, we had a wonderful phone conversation. Here, in a rare in-depth interview, Rhoda, 73, talks about growing up in New Jersey, the start of her recording career in the early '60s, why she moved to Paris, falling in love and marrying there, the European jazz organ scene, and why she has returned to the States to hit the books:
JazzWax: Where did you grow up? Rhoda Scott: I was born in Dorothy, N.J. My family lived there for five or six years. My father was a minister with the African Methodist Episcopal Church and was sent around the state to different churches. Whenever he got the call to move, we’d pack up. As a result, I attended five different grammar schools and three different high schools.
JW: Tough when you’re a kid. RS: Yes, but such abrupt change renders you flexible to different environments. But you’re right, it was a challenge losing friends all the time. There were seven children in my family—four girls and three boys. I was the oldest girl, but I had a brother who was older than me. Every time we got to a new town, we liked to see who would get to the top of the social scene first. We knew we didn’t have much time before moving again.
JW: What did your mother do? RS: She played piano in my father’s church. But she died young—at age 38. I was little when she died. As a result, we all grew up like weeds [laughs]. My dad was a great father. His aim was to keep all seven of us together, a promise he had made to my mother.
JW: How was he able to cover the family’s costs as a minister? RS: He was a minister on the weekends, which provided us with housing. During the week he had to work. He had a job as a janitor at DuPont in Deepwater, N.J. He loved DuPont. He used to keep us wide-eyed with descriptions of what he had seen and what the company was doing.
JW: Did your father commute? RS: Depending on where we were stationed, he would either sleep down by his job or come home on the weekends. We didn’t need to be supervised. We were good kids, and the oldest looked out for the youngest. Dad was married briefly, but I think we were all too much for his new wife to handle. My dad played piano and encouraged me to become a musician. He was supportive of me, no matter what I wanted to play.
JW: How did you wind up playing the organ? RS: I started on the piano tickling the keys at home or in church. When I was very young, my mother would play piano while holding me on her lap. Family legend has it that when we’d come home from church, I’d reach up to the keys and play the same things my mother had played in church.
JW: And the organ? RS: I discovered the organ around age 7. It was in our church and available to me. I used to walk up and down the organ’s pedalboards to see what those notes sounded like.
JW: Did you have a teacher? RS: No, I picked up the organ on my own. I was in the church playing the organ day and night, figuring out what all the stops did. Gaining access to the church was easy. We lived in the parsonage next door, and I could play the church organ for as long as I wished.
JW: Did you listen to records? RS: We didn’t have any records. We had the radio. I’d listen to soap operas and black stations that played R&B, like Ray Charles. When I was a kid, I could play all the soap opera themes. The reason I can’t dance today is that I’d always play the latest radio hits at dances for friends. I never got up from the bench [laughs].
JW: When did you start playing professionally? RS: Around 1955. A guy in my church choir asked me to fill in for the piano player in his band. I told him that I didn’t know how to play that kind of music. He said it didn’t matter, he just needed someone.
JW: What happened? RS: I went on the gig. They played blues, a lot of standards and Broadway tunes. It turned out I knew all of the songs in their book from listening to the radio, so I had no problem. I stayed with the band until 1960.
JW: What was the group’s name? RS: Originally, we were Lee Smith’s Satellites, which he soon changed to Lee Smith’s Hi-Larks. It was quartet. After the name change, he added singer Larry O'Neill.
JW: How did you wind up on the Hammond organ? RS: On the first night, there was a piano. I told him I played organ. So he bought a small organ with a speaker. He was no fool. Since I played bass with my feet on the pedals, Smith didn’t need to hire a bass player.
JW: How did you wind up fronting your own group? RS: Lee Smith played gigs only on the weekends. During the week, he worked at Campbell’s Soup in Camden, N.J., which was far. Club owners began suggesting I start my own thing. So I did, with Larry, and we began at the Hat Box Club in Elizabeth, N.J. When I went out on my own, we recorded Hey, Hey, Hey.
JW: How quickly did you catch on in local clubs? RS: Pretty fast. Two well-known and well-respected musicians joined me: saxophonist and flutist Joe Thomas and drummer Bill Elliott. When we played in Newark, we had huge success. Ozzie Cadena, who was at Tru-Sound Records, asked us to record. We did Hey, Hey, Hey in 1962 and Live at the Key Club in 1963 for him. We thought we were the biggest group going.
JW: What kind of music were you playing? RS: We were copying a lot of things that were popular then. Also, R&B funk. Every member of the trio had to bring in a tune. Joe Thomas was and is a fantastic arranger. He brought in a lot of big band things. Some he wrote himself. We played almost the entire Basie book then, like Shiny Stockings.
JW: Did Basie ever hear you? RS: Yes. In Newark we used to play during intermission at dances. At one of them, Count Basie was the headliner, and he heard us.
JW: What did he say? RS: He asked me if we would come and play his lounge in Harlem. It was very impressive. Clark Monroe was the emcee. We’d play six sets a night. I met everyone there. Even Basie would turn up sometimes at the end of the night and listen to us. I also met Johnny Griffin and Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis. At one point, they wanted me to record with them.
JW: What did you say? RS: I know this sounds crazy, but I wanted to finish my studies. So I stopped playing in the group. I enrolled at the Manhattan School of Music and played as a single act so I could finance my studies. I don't know why I turned down Griff and Lockjaw. Maybe there was something about me that didn't want to succeed [laughs].
JW: Was education always important in your house growing up? RS: My father was so bent on our schooling. All of my bothers and sisters were accomplished—three have doctorate degrees. Education was really something for us kids, more than succeeding in playing an instrument.
JW: In 1967 you moved to France. Why? RS: I went to study with Nadia Boulanger, who had taught Quincy Jones, Philip Glass and many other musicians. The head of my department at the Manhattan School of Music suggested it.
JW: What was Boulanger like? RS: She was a bit rigid and formal. We came from such different backgrounds. To me, she was like from another planet. Boulanger [pictured] was heavily into classical music and couldn’t understand where I was coming from. But it was wonderful to know her and gain her insights into music. She talked about the artist's approach to music, that each note should be played with passion, as though it was the opening to a grand symphony. Her approach was very important to me. But I soon realized I couldn’t fit comfortably into her world. Classical music just wasn’t for me.
JW: Did you return to the U.S. after your studies in Paris? RS: Yes, in September 1967. But I was so impressed with France and the culture there, I told myself that I had to go back. So in February 1968, I returned to Paris. That July I met a Frenchman, actor-singer Raoul Saint-Yves, and we fell in love. We soon married, and he became my manager. The moment was right and the place was right. We adopted two children who were born in Haiti.
JW: You recorded quite a bit for the French Barclay records. RS: My husband was a big friend of Eddie Barclay, the label’s owner. Eddie let me have total control over my records. I could record when I wanted and what I wanted. I also began playing all over Europe.
JW: How did you wind up recording with the Thad Jones/Mel Lewis Big Band? RS: When Mel Lewis came to Paris, he visited the Bilboquet Club, where I was playing. He sat in and loved the experience so much that he said we should make a record together with the band and that Thad would do the arrangements.
JW: What did you think? RS: I brushed it off. I said, “No way, I’m not going back to New York to do it.” But my husband thought it was a terrific idea and we rolled forward.
JW: Are you still married to your husband today? RS: Unfortunately, my husband Raoul passed away a little over two years ago. We loved each other very much.
JW: I'm so sorry. Let me ask you, why do you think European audiences love the Hammond organ so much? RS: They take the organ very seriously there. The organ comes from the church, so they respect it. In the U.S., the organ is most associated with the black church and gospel. So its audience is instantly narrower. Back in the '60s and '70s, even black clubs didn’t want an organ combo. It felt too old fashioned. Maybe today it’s more accepted in the States. But when I was coming up, you really were forced into the "Chitlin' Circuit" box. Everything had to be funky. I think only Lou Bennett and I were able to earn a living as straight jazz Hammond B3 players—without having to switch to the piano and "keyboards," as many organists in the U.S. had to do to earn a living.
JW: What's the appeal of the organ? RS: It replaced the big band, since it could mimic all of the instruments at once. In fact, the musicians’ union said organists had to be paid double because that person was handling the bass player’s role as well.
JW: How are you perceived in Europe today? RS: It’s hard to say from my perspective. I guess in some countries I’m perceived as a little star. In other countries, like Hungary, I’m a bigger star. I was one of the few jazz musicians who played there when it was still behind the Iron Curtain. I remember after a concert there spending three hours signing records. They were so happy.
JW: How about in France? RS: I’ve had a really good career there and in Belgium and the Netherlands. In each country there’s a nursery of great organists coming up all the time. The tradition gets passed from generation to generation.
JW: Who are your personal organ heroes? RS: Jimmy Smith—he’s the man. And Richard “Groove” Holmes. He took me under his wing in the early 60s and showed me the basic things I needed to do. Then he kicked me into clubs to play live. And Wild Bill Davis, who really is the father of the modern jazz organ.
JW: Who are you listening to now? RS: Fats Waller. I love listening to him play organ. All organists listen to other organists. You have to. As a result, there’s a constant stream of knowledge that’s passed between us. As instrumentalists, we’re more attached to each other.
JW: And now you’re returning to college? RS: I love education. I love studying. I just started at Rutgers a month ago, I'm working toward a Masters of Arts in Jazz History and Research. It’s the only program of its kind in the world. Now that I’m a widow, I want to go back to school, to interact with people and to study. I’ll be returning to France on breaks to perform there and in Hungary, Russia, the Netherlands and Belgium. I don’t want to gig too much while I’m here in school. My studies are too important.
JW: Will you be performing before returning to Europe in late December? RS: Yes. An "Organ Jam" in Newark on December 3 (go here).
JW: Tell me about appearing on vocalist David Linx’s new album, Rock My Boat. RS: I met David in Belgium at a jazz festival. We did something together and it worked out. He’s an extraordinary singer. He was so excited about what we did that he insisted we record. David produced the CD and got me to record things that were a little different from what I’m accustomed to. But he kept it so everything worked in harmony with my style. It’s basically David singing with me and Andre Ceccarelli on drums. David also reached out to other great musicians to guest on the CD.
JW: A good fit? RS: Yes, we all blended together well. It was recorded outside of Paris. The studio had a Hammond B3, but I brought my own to record. I have a vintage B3 that I converted to solid state so I don’t have to worry about the tubes. I also have a string bass stop on it, which is unusual. I play it on the pedalboard with my left foot.
JW: Still playing barefoot? RS: Always.
JazzWax tracks: Rhoda Scott has recorded about 30 albums. All are fabulous. Here's my own personal list of favorites:
Take a Ladder (1968)
Live at the Olympia (1971)
In New York with Thad Jones/Mel Lewis Big Band (1976)
Rhoda Scott and Kenny Clarke (1977)
Rhoda's most recent album, Beyond the Sea (2010), is a killer. Sample the title track, Green Dolphin Street and Falling in Love. You'll find it here. From C to Shining C was released in 2009. Sample Hit the Road Jackhere.
David Linx's album Rock My Boat can be sampled here and downloaded on Monday, Octoberr 17.
JazzWax note: Again, information about "Organ Jam" in Newark, N.J., on December 3 can be found here.
JazzWax clips: Here are my favorite clips featuring Rhoda Scott:
This one is with German Hammond monster Barbara Dennerlein...
Sol Schlinger is a modest big-band legend. At first he was surprised I had tracked him down. Then he didn't quite understand why I or anyone else would care about his career. When it finally dawned on him that he must be worthy given my enthusiasm, he said, "Gosh, if I knew then I was going to be interviewed by you today, I would have kept a journal." That's the Schlinger touch. Other touches include saying, "Goodbye, babe" when getting off the phone and using the word groovy as naturally as the words "and" and "the." [Photo at top of Sol Schlinger to the left of Frank Sinatra's hand, courtesy of Sol Schlinger]
Sol is on many, many great recordings, including albums led by Bob Brookmeyer, Herbie Mann, Chuck Wayne, Elliot Lawrence, Teddy Charles, Art Farmer, Gary McFarland, Mundell Lowe, Chris Connor, Michel Legrand and dozens of others.
In Part 3 of my conversation with Sol, the baritone saxophonist talks about Al Cohn, Billy Byers, Gene Quill, Benny Goodman and Tony Bennett:
JazzWax: You recorded with Sauter-Finegan, yes? Sol Schlinger: Yes. The music at the time in the early ‘50s was fresh and exciting. I did their first record date [New Directions in Music, 1952]. The music was very pop but almost classical. The guys in the band could swing, even though the music wasn’t meant to swing. It was a writer’s band, like Claude Thornhill’s orchestra.
JW: Tell me about the East Coast sax section. SS: It was Hal McKusick, Gene Quill, Zoot Sims, Al Cohn and me. Sometimes Phil Woods and other sharp players would be hired.
JW: How did it come together? SS: Jack Lewis was RCA’s A&R man in California in the early ‘50s when Manny Sachs, who was in charge of recording for RCA, told Jack that he wanted the label to start a jazz line with a stable of guys. Sachs told Jack to go to the East Coast to see what he could put together. Jack would wind up starting the Jazz Workshop series for RCA.
JW: What did Jack do? SS: In L.A., he went over to see Shorty Rogers. Shorty was originally from the Bronx. He asked him, “Who should I see in New York to put together guys for a band?” Shorty said, “See Al Cohn. He’ll know.” On the first album Jack put together, Al recommended me. It was Hal McKusick and Gene Quill on altos, Al Cohn on tenor and me on baritone. But I still don’t know how I got in there. When I had some jazz solos, I closed my eyes and prayed. I wasn’t a jazz player. But it worked. After a while of working steadily with Al, he wrote Solsville for me in 1956.
JW: What was it like playing with those guys? SS: As close to bliss as you can imagine. You had five guys, each different than the other—but we played well together. Everyone’s personality was different, too. Hal had been in all the bands, and Gene played like a truck driver. He’d punch you, and it would hurt. [Photo of Phil Woods by Sol Schlinger]
JW: How did other sections respond to the reeds’ spirit? SS: We always changed the whole vibe in the studio. During mike checks, the brass would play its parts and the sax section would smile in admiration. When we did our check, the brass would be smiling. There was a warmth that comes only if you have the right combination of sounds and guys.
JW: Which album is the best example of this? SS: Without a doubt, The Jazz Soul of Porgy & Bess [1959]. Bill Potts arranged, contracted the band and conducted. It remains one of the great sessions for this ensemble. Every guy in the band was a giant—and the result of everyone together was terrific. There’s one spot where Zoot’s part called for a low C held for four bars in slow tempo. Now how can anyone hold that note for that long? [Photo of Gene Quill, with Manny Albam in the background, by Sol Schlinger]
JW: You recorded often with trombonist-arranger Billy Byers. What did you think? SS: I liked him. He was a real swinger. He came from well-off parents. One time when I was with Jimmy Dorsey, we played Catalina Island off the coast of California. The only way to get out there was on a boat. When we pulled in, who do we see but Billy Byers. He said his folks had a boat. [Photo of Billy Byers by Sol Schlinger]
JW: How were his charts? SS: Great. Billy did a lot of ghostwriting for Quincy Jones. Quincy had so many gigs that he had to have ghostwriters. Billy didn’t say much about it. He said he just wanted the money. He said that working that way gave him a chance to try out what he heard in his head without having to hire guys to play it. We used to be together, and the ghostwriting thing would come up.
JW: How did he say the ghosting worked? SS: Quincy would write a scratch arrangement and then farm it out to Billy. Al Cohn did a lot of that kind of work, too. Billy’s horn was very good. He wasn’t Urbie Green, but playing wasn’t really his big thing, though he had a lot of solos. For Billy, writing was where it was at.
JW: What was it like playing with Benny Goodman? SS: The charts were swingable, the band was great but Benny was so uptight—you never knew whether he was just dumb or doing nasty stuff on purpose.
JW: What do you mean? SS: One time I was with the band for a run at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel and I gave him the ray. Billy Byers had an album to do that night and called me in. I wanted to take off early to make the session. Of course, I couldn’t because Benny’s manager wouldn’t let me. At some point toward the end of the show, Mousie Alexander was playing the drum solo to Sing Sing Sing, the last number.
JW: What happened? SS: Benny came over in the middle of Mousie’s solo. I guess the band manager had told him I wanted to split to make Billy’s date. While Mousie was playing his solo, Benny asked me, “What happened to the old pepper, Sol?” He meant my spunk. I thought what he was doing given that we were still playing was obnoxious. I said, “Gee Benny, I don’t know. I think it turned into salt.” Benny said, “If you don’t like it, you can get out of here.”
JW: What happened next? SS: Benny told me to get off the bandstand while the band was still playing. I told him I’d wait until after the show. Later, after I packed up, I got a phone call in the band room. The manager was on the phone and wanted me to come up to Benny’s room. I told him I couldn’t. The next day I left. I had had enough. Even still, Benny always called me first to play other gigs.
JW: What was the deal with him? SS: The thing with Benny was that if he thought you looked up to him, he’d look down on you.
JW: Pretty brassy on your part. SS: I thought I was a calm, naive kind of guy. And there I was fighting the establishment. I just didn’t like being insulted. I never considered myself and still don’t think of myself as a jazz player. Did I play jazz? Yes. Did I work as a jazz player? No.
JW: What do you remember about Benny Goodman’s 40th anniversary concert at Carnegie Hall in 1978? SS: Benny held three days of rehearsals at a Midtown hotel in New York. On the first day, John Bunch was playing piano. On the second day, Jimmy Rowles was playing. On the night of the concert, Mary Lou Williams was at the piano. Strange. But you just knew that Benny was being Benny.
JW: Speaking of Carnegie Hall, what was it like playing with Tony Bennett there in June 1962? SS: I did many concerts with Tony in New York. To work with Tony was to experience the joy of music. He respected everyone, and he was happy about the whole darn thing. At every recording session, he’d have a table set up with food and drinks for after the date. It was a party. Tony was out to groove the musicians.
JW: How far back do you go with him? SS: The late ‘40s. I can remember way back at Charlie’s Tavern, he used to come by and talk to everyone. At the time, he used the name Joe Bari. He’d go from table to table to get with the guys. At that point, he was just a singer from Queens. After he made it, he showed his appreciation. He came up through the ranks of many of the jazz musicians.
JW: And the Carnegie Hall concert? SS: All I remember is that my wife Shirley was seated on the stage that night. They used to put chairs on the stage when the hall was sold out. When that album came out, I’d always tease her that she did an album at Carnegie Hall with Tony.
JW: And the years that followed? SS: Every time I went to work with Tony, it wasn’t work. It was a groove, and this groove was spread around the whole band. It was impossible to have any negative feelings. A bunch of years ago he was down in Florida performing near where I live now. I knew the drummer so I asked him if I could come back and say hi to Tony after. The drummer said sure.
JW: What happened? SS: I waited backstage with other people who were waiting to see him. The first thing he did after coming out of the dressing room was to come over and give me a bear hug. It made me feel so good to be a musician.
JW: Last question: Was it hard to play the baritone sax? SS: Hard? Not for me. There was a spell when the musical establishment made a distinction between the late Danny Bank [pictured] and me. I have the most respect for that man. Before you even get to his superb musicianship, he wore leg braces as a result of polio, he traveled on the road in bands and often had to stand up. He never once complained or said, “You guys have it easy.”
JW: What was the difference between you two? SS: He was a studied musician. I didn’t study. He practiced various horns, but the baritone was his instrument. The tenor was my first instrument. It’s higher in tonality so I liked to play the baritone lighter. A lot of baritone players liked to honk on the bottom. I never did that. It wasn’t part of my playing. [Photo of Sol Schlinger playing the tenor sax with Perez Prado, left, courtesy of Sol Schlinger]
JW: What did it feel like playing baritone in those great bands? SS: It felt so good to play and hear what was coming out. It was like driving a great car. Your foot is on the gas so you know you’re moving it forward. But you’re still in awe of the engine.
JazzWax tracks: Solsville featuring Sol Schlinger can be found on Al Cohn's The Sax Section (1956) here. The band featured Sam Marowitz, Gene Quill (as) Al Cohn, Eddie Wasserman (ts) Sol Schlinger (bar) John Williams (p) Milt Hinton (b) Osie Johnson (d).
Bill Potts' The Jazz Soul of Porgy & Bess (1959) can be found here. The band: Art Farmer, Harry "Sweets" Edison, Bernie Glow, Marky Markowitz, Charlie Shavers (tp) Bob Brookmeyer (v-tb) Frank Rehak, Jimmy Cleveland, Earl Swope, Rod Levitt (tb) Gene Quill, Phil Woods (as) Zoot Sims, Al Cohn (ts) Sol Schlinger (bar) Bill Evans (p) Herbie Powell (g) George Duvivier (b) Charlie Persip (d) Bill Potts (arr,cond)
JazzWax clip:Here's Sol Schlinger with Benny Goodman and Harry James in 1958, on King Porter Stomp. Sol is all the way to the left in the reed section but all the way to the right in the flipped saxophone closeups...
Here'sIt Ain't Necessarily So from The Jazz Soul of Porgy & Bess with a terrific solo by Sol Schlinger at 2:33 in...
In the 1950s, the two baritone saxophonists who were most often called for studio sessions on the East Coast were Sol Schlinger and the late Danny Bank. Though Bank was a studied musician and tended to play forcefully in the lower register, Sol was a spirited swinger and sharp reader who favored playing a little lighter. Both were section players, meaning they were hired because their particular sounds would mesh beautifully with the rest of the assembled section. [Photo, from left, of Buddy Rich, unidentified, Sol Schlinger, Tommy Dorsey and saxophonist Babe Fresk, front, in the late 1940s, courtesy of Sol Schlinger]
What's more, Sol, like Bank, was an insider, in that he played so often with bands and in studios that he was a keen observer of leader personalities. Better players had to be part-time shrinks just to keep their jobs. There were plenty of great players during the '40s and '50s, but to stay employed for extended periods, you had to be musically gifted and able to read the moods and quirks of those who employed you, just to stay out of trouble. [Photo by Herb Snitzer]
In Part 2 of my three-part interview with Sol, the baritone saxophonist talks about his early professional years and his stints with Henry Jerome, Shep Fields, Tommy Dorsey and Jimmy Dorsey:
JazzWax: How old were you when you started playing professionally? Sol Schlinger: I was 16 ½ years old. I played fourth tenor with Henry Jerome & His Stepping Tones in 1941. Sid Cooper, who played the third alto chair, was the straw boss and band arranger. Irv Butler played the hot jazz parts. Jerome ran a sweet band at the time. [Photo of Sol Schlinger, center, in high school in the late '30s, courtesy of Sol Schlinger]
JW: The Pelham Heath Inn was a pretty steady gig? SS: Yes. But my chair was behind a pole. When Butler left, Jerome hired another tenor—Leonard Garment, a Brooklyn guy who went on to become a big Washington, D.C., lawyer in the Nixon White House. He was already playing like Prez [Lester Young]. I said to Jerome, “Wait a minute, I’ve been here longer. I should have that seat.” Jerome gave it to me, and I moved away from the pole. I guess you could say I won a case against Leonard Garment [laughs].
JW: What happened when World War II arrived? SS: I was 4F-ed three times because of flat feet. During the war I toured with Shep Fields, including a trip to Europe to play for the troops. After the war in Europe ended, I got a fourth call to go down to the draft board. When I arrived, there were two guys there with lots of my papers. I told them that I had been there several times and that flat feet had kept me out. I was happy to serve if needed. One of the guys told me to take my papers to a specific colonel, who carefully screened people who had been marked 4F in the past.
JW: What happened? SS: I went to him with my papers He looked at them and asked what I did. I told him I was a musician. He asked what I played. I told him the saxophone. He asked if I was a professional working musician. I said yes, that I was playing with Shep Fields. He asked how long, and I told him. He looked up. “I was in Le Havre when you guys were there. I was billeted with you.” He took my papers, bamped it with a stamp and said, “Go back to the guys who saw you when you came in.”
JW: What did they say? SS: When I got back there, they looked at my papers with puzzled faces. They couldn’t understand what had happened.
JW: What was Shep Fields like? SS: He was very commercial. His Rippling Rhythm sound was hot. This was before Lawrence Welk. Fields had come up with this idea for a saxophone band, which is what I was in. But he never quite made it. In one of the write-ups the band received, someone commented, “The leader looks out of place, like a dentist.”
JW: What did you think? SS: Fields was a nice guy. We played in New York a lot on weekends. I became the band’s contractor. All this time guys were getting drafted. The war was still on in Japan.
JW: Who helped you get to the next stage in the band world? SS: Saxophonist Hymie Schertzer. Hymie was much older than I was. When he heard me play, he said, “How did you get that feeling? You’re playing like we play.” I wasn’t a bebopper. I played what I had heard and what my ears had told me to play. He started talking me up.
JW: When did you take up the baritone? SS: In 1948. After I went out on the road with Charlie Barnet’s band, I returned to New York and heard that Buddy Rich’s band was at Birdland and needed a baritone. So I borrowed one and sat in with the band next to Jimmy Giuffre [pictured]. He was a lovely, quiet guy. I said to him, “Jimmy, I haven’t played Buddy’s book. If there’s anything you want to tell me, I’d appreciate it.” Jimmy said, “Yeah. Shut up and play” [laughs]. After that gig, Buddy put me in the band. There were all good players and swinging charts in the book.
JW: What’s one of your earliest memories of Stan Getz? SS: When we were both studying with Bill Sheiner up in the Bronx, Bill put us in his sax band. At the time, Bill was writing arrangements for Maria Kramer, who managed the Lincoln Hotel. One day Sheiner and the band were auditioning our material for Kramer at Nola’s rehearsal studio. After everyone got in their chairs, I saw Kramer on the far side. She asked Sheiner to start. We played Night and Day, which featured a solo by Sheiner.
JW: What did Kramer think? SS: Halfway through, she says, “Hold it a moment. Can you do it again with that boy in front?” That boy was Stanley. She could hear how special he was and wanted him to front the band.
JW: Did the band get the gig? SS: No [laughs]. But Kramer knew Stanley was a winner. Sheiner’s problem, like Shep’s, was an issue of body language. Both were large in the belly and didn’t quite look like the bigger-name bandleaders.
JW: Was Getz a nice guy back then? SS: Not particularly. We were playing the Starlight Ballroom one night. On a break I was standing with him. Three women walked by. Stan watches and says to me, “Those chicks are trying to make it with me.” They never had even looked at him.
JW: Strange. SS: Stranger still. Years later, I was in California, and Stan was living there. He asked me to come up to his house in the Hollywood Hills at a specific time. When I arrived, I rang the bell. A little kid came out and said, “Shhh, my daddy’s sleeping.” So I had to wait. After a while, Stan walked out in a white bathing suit, like in the movies, and starts rudely ordering his wife around. He had ego issues. It was a stupid afternoon.
JW: What was Tommy Dorsey like when you played with him in the late ‘40s? SS: Tommy was as uptight as his playing. His intonation was always a little sharper than where you’d think he’d be, and he ran the band like it was like the Marine Corps. His time was on top of the beat. Jimmy's band played behind the beat and on the flat side. It was good training. During downtime with the band, saxophonist Doc Clifford, Jimmy Dorsey’s straw boss, asked if I would fill in on Jimmy’s band. [Photo of Sol Schlinger, far left, in Tommy Dorsey's band, circa 1950, courtesy of Sol Schlinger]
JW: What did you say? SS: I said, "Sure, where should we meet?” He said, at Grand Central Station. When I arrived to catch our train with the band, Jimmy’s wife and mother were there to see him off. That always struck me as odd.
JW: How was the train ride? SS: We boarded and tossed our stuff into our bunks in the sleeper and met in the dining car. We ordered drinks and talked about the band. Jimmy gave me the rundown on everyone. Meanwhile he got wacked out. Doc had to carry him to his sleeper. The next day we arrived in Chicago. Getting off the train, we were walking toward the front of the station when a woman came toward us. It looked she was coming straight to Jimmy. But she went by him. “Lost another one,” Jimmy said. He was a lonely guy who viewed himself as constantly missing a break.
JW: He sounds like a sad guy. SS: He was. When we were breaking down the band, I went to talk to him. Jimmy was sitting in a chair by himself. I said, “If anyone wants to know who the real musician is, Jimmy, you are.” He looked up at me and said, “Get out of here kid.” He lived his entire life in brother’s shadow. With Tommy, he liked to get you. When a dance gig started, there were four or five tunes he might call first. He would keep you on your toes. With Jimmy, you had to keep him on his toes.
JW: But Tommy Dorsey was no picnic, right? SS: When we toured, I drove with drummer Louie Bellson [pictured], bassist Red Wootten and trumpeter Charlie Shavers. Tommy traveled in a converted bus called the Silver Bullet. It was always parked right outside the gig. At one stop, we drove up in the car. Out I came with these guys, and Tommy saw us. The next thing I knew, the band manager came up to me and said, “Gee Sol, I don’t get it, but Tommy told me to give you the axe.”
JW: Why? SS: The manager said, “Everything has been fine, but I think I know what it is. He doesn’t think you’re enjoying the music. He doesn’t see you tapping your foot.” I said, “I am—inside my shoe.” He said, “Look, do me a favor, come early, come up on the stand and look over charts. Tommy will like that.” So I did that a few times and wound up with the band another year and a half.
JW: What do you think triggered Dorsey’s move? SS: Tommy had made a dumb connection. When he saw me get out of the car with those heavyweights, he asked himself, “What is this young guy doing with my stars?” He thought I was conniving or something. Tommy could be paranoid when he wasn’t in control.
JW: What about the people he liked? SS: Same treatment. For example, Tommy loved Charlie Shavers [pictured]. But every chance he got, Tommy would put him down. Tommy would take uppers and downers. Charlie liked whiskey. They were two different types. Everyone knew that Charlie had narcolepsy and fell out but always woke up for his solo. But one time he didn’t wake up. When we finished the song, Tommy told him to get off the bandstand.
JW: What happened? SS: Charlie took his horn and took the long walk to the band room. He told me later that once he got there he said to himself, “What the heck am I listening to that for?” So he walked back out and sat in his chair, and nothing else happened for the evening. Tommy was just a control freak. Tommy obsessed over how long it took to get from one place to another and how fast he could do it. But if anything was confusing or out of his control, he had to get rid of it.
JazzWax tracks: To hear Sol Schlinger with Tommy Dorsey in 1950, download I Get a Kick Out of You, Piccallily Dilly and Comin' Through the Rye from the album Tommy Dorsey and His Orchestra: The Post-War Erahere. These are staggeringly great and difficult arrangements by Bill Finegan played by a top-notch band.
JazzWax note: For my interviews with Danny Bank, go here, here, here and here.
Mention the "East Coast sax section" to fans of '50s jazz, and you'll be talking about one of the most in-demand and prolific studio saxophone units of the era. It was comprised of Hal McKusick and Gene Quill on alto saxophones, Zoot Sims and Al Cohn on tenor saxophones, and Sol Schlinger on baritone saxophone. Often times, Phil Woods and Sam Marowitz subbed for McKusick, or Eddie Wasserman might be in for Sims. [Photo of Sol Schlinger in New York recording singer Carmen McRae's Something to Swing About in November 1959. Photo by trumpeter Al Stewart. ]
One reason for the high demand of these reed players was their collective sound. The altos often had a nippy, urgent tone on top; the tenors had a mellow, Lester Young-like sound in the middle; and Sol was the maple-smooth, swinging anchor. And they all were killer readers. Much of their recording work was for RCA and included sessions led by Al Cohn, Quincy Jones, George Williams, Manny Albam, Urbie Green and others. [Photo of Zoot Sims, left, and Al Cohn by Sol Schlinger]
In Part 1 of my rare multipart interview wtih Sol Schlinger, 85, the baritone saxophonist talks about growing up in the Bronx and taking saxophone lessons there...
JazzWax: Where did you grow up? Sol Schlinger: In the East Bronx. Other guys I knew up there while growing up were Stan Getz, Bernie Glow and Lenny Hambro.
JW: What did your parents do? SS: My dad was an entrepreneur. He wasn’t very successful, though. He booked concerts in Europe, and his partners stole from him. My mom was a grade-A cook. She earned the money for the family. I have a brother, Izzy, who’s a year and a half older than me.
JW: What was your first instrument? SS: Tenor sax. Every summer my family rented a small hotel in the Catskill Mountains a few hours north of New York. There was always a band playing there, and I couldn’t stop listening and watching them. One summer, my Pop asked if I wanted to learn to play music. I said, “Yes.” He said he would tell the bandleader to give me lessons.
JW: What happened? SS: The bandleader asked what instrument I wanted to play. I went for the sax. I liked the neck strap, of all things. The guy who played the sax in the band agreed to give me lessons but he told the bandleader, “He can’t use my mouthpiece.”
JW: So what did you do? SS: The guy took a piece of shirt cardboard and drew rings for the sax’s notes. I took lessons on the cardboard and never touched an instrument that summer. At the end of the season, my father saw how dedicated I was, even though I hadn’t played a note yet.
JW: What did your dad do? SS: Back in the Bronx, he took me to a pawnshop. In broken English, he told the guy behind the counter, “Do you have a sax for my son?” The guy went upstairs and returned with a case.
JW: How was the horn? SS: When the guy opened the case, it smelled like the case hadn’t been opened for about 100 years. Inside was an instrument, a mouthpiece and a reed. I just knew the fingering for a C scale, since that’s all we went over on the shirt cardboard. I put the horn in my mouth and made a honking noise. The pawnshop cat said, “That boy is talented. One day he’ll be in Carnegie Hall.” Well, years later I was at Carnegie Hall with Benny Goodman [laughs].
JW: What kind of sax was it? SS: A C-melody horn—which isn’t a tenor or alto. In fact, the instrument wasn’t being used in bands anymore.
JW: Did you take lessons? SS: Yes, with Bill Sheiner [pictured]. I heard of him through a neighborhood guy. Sheiner taught in the Bronx on 174th St., in a studio behind the Bronx Musical Mart on Southern Boulevard. Sheiner taught for $1 a lesson. Stanley [Getz] was his star pupil. Bill had this theory about the need to have a close mouthpiece. He had equipment to close the facing, so the reed and the mouthpiece itself were close together. That became known as the Sheiner sound. If you had a band and employed a Sheiner reed section, you had a great sound.
JW: What made the sound special? SS: How many vibrations you got. A close mouthpiece would allow you to better control the sound and make it more mellow. If I hadn’t studied with Sheiner, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. That’s where I got my start.
JW: Did you bring your C-melody sax? SS: Yes. But as soon as I took it out, Sheiner said, “You have a C-melody. That’s no good. I’ll sell you a tenor for $75.” I then studied with Sheiner for about four months. Through gigs, I eventually paid off the cost of the horn. Many of those early gigs were at the Chester Palace on 177th St. and Tremont Ave. in the Bronx.
JW: How did your studies work at Sheiner’s? SS: He had a saxophone octet—four altos, two tenors, a baritone and a bass. Once a week he’d have rehearsals. Stanley [Getz] had already progressed and was out on the road with Jack Teagarden’s band. In Sheiner’s studio, there was a bulletin board. Guys would send Sheiner postcards from the road. One day Bernie Glow sent a card. He was out with Dick Himber. Bernie’s card said, “Bill, we’re coming to New York soon. We’ll need a sax player. I’ll let you know when we’re coming. Please send someone up.”
JW: What happened? SS: Sheiner sent me. I was 16 at the time. The audition was at the Essex House on Central Park South. I had never been in a fancy place like that. I got up to the room and rang the doorbell. A voice told me to come in. When I walked in, Himber was sitting in a chair looking out the window. When he wheels around and sees me, at age 16, he says, “God, what is this war doing to me?” [laughs].
JW: What happened next? SS: Himber asked me to take out my horn and play him some songs. So I played Night and Day and some others. He liked what he heard and said, “I’ll tell you what. Do you belong to the [musicians’] union? No? I’ll get you in. Come out and sit in the empty band chair and learn the book. I’ll pay your expenses.”
JW: When did you start? SS: I didn’t. The job didn’t sound so good.
JW: Why not? SS: Himber was just going to pay my expenses. I knew that on the road, musicians got $125 a gig, and $75 in town. Paying my expenses didn’t sound fair. But I left there happy as a lark.
JW: Come on—you walked out on your first job? SS: I was probably a little scared, too. But I also had friends in bands, and I knew the going rate. It was for the best considering how things turned out.
JW: What was your first paying job? SS: When I was in high school, I heard that Henry Jerome needed a tenor player. So I went to audition at the Pelham Heath Inn, which was where Eastchester Road met Pelham Parkway South in Pelham, N.Y. After I auditioned, Jerome said, “You start.” Once I started playing with the band, I just stopped going to school. My parents didn’t mind. They knew I loved music and it was the only way I was going to earn a decent living.
JW: Why? SS: The Pelham Heath Inn was close to my high school in the Bronx. I kept thinking a teacher was going to come in and see me and have me arrested.
JazzWax tracks: One album that shows off Sol Schlinger's swinging deep sound is Manny Albam's Jazz Workshop from December 1955. It features Joe Newman, Nick Travis (tp), Bob Brookmeyer, Billy Byers (tb) Al Cohn (cl,as,ts) Sol Schlinger (bar) Milt Hinton (b) Osie Johnson (d) Manny Albam (arr,cond), with Hal McKusick subbing for Cohn on one of the sessions. He has a fine solo on Black Bottom. You'll find this one here.
A special JazzWax thanks to trumpeter Al Stewart (see my interview with Al here).
JazzWax clip:Here's Jon Hendricks narrating the start of George Russell's masterpiece, Manhattan, from 1958. The band featured Hal McKusick on alto and Sol Schlinger on baritone. Between them sat John Coltrane, who has a superb solo 7:25 in and at 10:30...
For whatever reason, drummer Chico Hamilton isn't taken seriously enough today by jazz listeners. Nor is he celebrated nearly as often as he should be. My guess is that much has to do with his West Coast jazz lineage and that jazz heads don't view him in the same league as hardbop drivers or fusion bangers. Or perhaps it's because controversy was never his style and he didn't fit the classic image of the jazz drummer. Or maybe his role in Sweet Smell of Success made him too cool and above it all. I'll tell you this: Hamilton is one fabulous, tasteful skinsmith, which is fully evident on his new CD Revelation(Joyous Shout)
Chico turned 90 on September 21, but like Roy Haynes (86), I'm not sure Chico the musician ever really aged beyond 40. To give you a sense of his determination and drive, there are 22 tracks on this CD, and he exhibits virtually every rhythmic trick up his sleeve. There are tracks with brushes, tracks with sticks, a strip-time blues, samba, bossa nova, songs with poly-rhythmic figures—you name it, it's here.
Throughout, Chico is backed by Euphoria, his long-time touring band featuring Nick Demopoulos on guitar, Paul Ramsey on bass, Evan Schwam on flute, tenor and soprano saxes, Mayu Saeki on flutes, and Jeremy Carlstedt on percussion. The group, with its airy muscle and World feel, is perfectly suited to Chico's feathery, firm touch. Even a funky original like P&E exhibits drumming grace and a feline softness.
Even Stompin' at the Savoy is treated to an unorthodox approach. It opens with an unexpected pony-ride clip-clop conga beat before the song slides into a velvety, Honeydripper march-time beat. Track after track make the point that Chico isn't about brute force but instead prefers to get your foot moving through seductive persuasion.
Sample Ten Minutes to Twelve or Don't Go Away, two more Chico originals. Here, too, you get a feel for Chico's rustling restlessness. It's the way trees sound at night when you hear a wind slide through the branches with a near-constant but lilting force. Or dig Every Time I Smile, a ballad on which Chico sings. My favorite is Dilemma, which offers another strutting, shuffle beat topped by flutes, projecting film-noir intrigue.
Remember, Chico was an original member of Gerry Mulligan's pianoless quartet, the one that played the Haig in Los Angeles in '52 and changed jazz. Then Chico led some of the most exciting West Coast chamber-jazz groups of the 50s with Buddy Collette, Eric Dolphy and Jim Hall. This was followed by decades of evolving styles that remained fixed in jazz but integrated new hip dance and fusion styles emerging both in the U.S. and abroad.
If you love listening to the drums rather than being buried by them, Chico at age 90 will give you an earful.
JazzWax tracks: You'll find Chico Hamilton's Revelation at iTunes and here.
JazzWax note: For my multipart interview with Chico Hamilton, go here.
JazzWax clip: How far back does Chico Hamilton go? Far enough that he was the drummer on this Lester Young recording from August 1946...
Last week's JazzWax interview series with Tad Hershorn, Norman Granz's biographer, resulted in many posted comments and emails. Quite a few readers commented on Granz's gruff manner and arrogant style. Most came down hard on Granz, calling him "arrogant," "a typical Type-A jerk" and "an asshole."
Time out. Most people who invent or build new things on a grand scale share Granz's characteristics. This is largely true of people who built the railroads, architects who design radically new structures and even musicians who have pioneered new forms of music. These people view the world as their canvas, and they don't let anything or anyone get in the way of their personal vision, which usually has in mind the betterment of society and greater life enjoyment for large numbers of people.
Granz is in this same league. He did more for jazz in the '40s and '50s than any other single individual. That may be a sweeping statement but it's pretty much true. In the early '40s, the music industry was controlled by three major record labels—RCA, Columbia and Decca. Even after the American Federation of Musicians' recording ban of 1942-44, when hundreds of independent labels emerged, small-group jazz was considered regional folk music you would encounter only while traveling on business to New York, New Orleans, Chicago, Kansas City or Los Angeles. [Pictured: New York's RCA Building going up in 1933]
Radio was a big deal throughout the '40s, but what you heard most often on the national networks was swing and sweet bands, pop vocalists, and classical music. Jazz—most notably bebop—was largely an exotic, late-night offering, and held to regions where the record-playing radio stations were based. When the broadcast power of independent radio stations was permitted to be boosted in the late '40s, you could get a taste of the club scene from home hundreds of miles away. This is where jazz's small-group nocturnal mystique was born. [Pictured: New York's 52nd Street, by William P. Gottlieb]
Not until Norman Granz's Jazz at the Philharmonic in the late '40s do we see the promotion of jazz on a national scale as an art of extraordinary quality and ability. In Granz's hands, jazz became a high-culture contender and music of the highest imaginative order played by gifted artists who were worthy of review by the most sophisticated critics.
By staging concerts throughout the country with the best swing and bebop jazz musicians on the national scene, and by linking up with Mercury to record and distribute his Clef records, Granz gave listeners everywhere a serious alternative to other forms of music. By having jazz stars record American Songbook standards, he also could compete with pop. Granz's goals of making jazz appealing to a national audience continued into the '50s.
We don't view Steve Jobs, Google's founders or movie directors as arrogant, Type-A jerks or worse. Likewise, we shouldn't view Granz this way either. Those descriptions are too small and petty for people like this. Most people who create and build great things aren't nice guys or gals. They tend to see others as tools or obstacles to be plowed over. You're either with them or against them. But if you've ever had an opportunity to interact with people like this, you'd likely find yourself a bigger and better person afterward—even if you've briefly been made to feel small.
Uan Rasey. JazzWax reader Gordon Sapsed reminded me last week of another sterling solo by late trumpeter Uan Rasey. It appears on the soundtrack of Two for the Seesaw (1962). The music was by Andre Previn, Jackie Cain sings the theme on the album, and the musicians included Rasey, Ronnie Lang (alto sax) and Dick Nash (trombone). Here's a taste. Man, no one had a more determined and poetic actor's walk than Robert Mitchum...
Ella Fitzgerald. Here's Ella in London in 1965, from JazzWax reader Peter Sokolowski. As Peter points out, it's a Nelson Riddle arrangement originally written for singer Matt Monro, and the band here is conducted by Johnny Spense...
Jam Session. Peter Sokolowski sent this one along as well. Here's Norman Granz introducing a slam-bang Jazz at the Philharmonic session on TV in 1956...
Thelonious Monk radio. On Monday, WKCR will present its annual Thelonious Monk Birthday Broadcast, playing the pianist's music for 24 hours. You can access the day-long show on your computer from anywhere in the world by going here.
Bob Mintzer. Bret Primack of the new Day by Dayvideo blog catches up with tenor saxophonist Bob Mintzer...
Bill Evans in '78. JazzWax reader Pete Michaels passed along a link to a download of Bill Evans at Carnegie Hall in June 1978. Go here.
1608 North Cahuenga Boulevard.Jazz.FM91 CEO Ross Porter emailed me this image from Los Angeles. His email simply said, "All that's left..."
CD discoveries of the week. Mike LeDonne's name always comes up in superlative terms whenever I have conversations with seasoned jazz musicians. His new album, Keep the Faith (JazzDepot) features LeDonne on the Hammond organ, with his working group of Eric Alexander (tenor sax), Peter Bernstein (guitar) and Joe Farnsworth (drums). The tough-stuff lineup results in a hard-driving date akin to those cranked out by Charles Earland in the '70s. The track choices are interesting: There are hip originals along with the O'Jays The Backstabbers, Michael Jackson's The Way You Make Me Feel, Donny Hathaway's Someday We'll All Be Free and Horace Silver's little known scorcher Sweet Sweetie Dee. LeDonne cooks with grease throughout, as does the rest of the group. You'll find this one at iTunes or here
If singer Janis Joplin could also play a mean rock-blues guitar, you'd have Carolyn Wonderland. On Peace Meal (Bismeaux), the Texas singer-guitarist exhibits a complete and rambunctious knowledge of the blues. There's an unvarnished, hollerin' joy in Wonderland's singing and playing that makes you want to chow down a brisket sandwich and onion rings while driving on the highway. It's the music of '70s pickup trucks, hunting dogs and porch sittin'. Dig What Good Can Drinkin' Do, St. Marks and Dust My Broom. You'll find this one at iTunes or here. More on Carolyn Wonderland here.
Oddball album cover of the week: Bernie Wayne on this cover looks as though his mother insisted on going with him to the recording session: "Bernie, enough with the loud sex music. Play that song your father loves." Perhaps in frustration Wayne ripped loose the piano keyboard in the lower right-hand photo. In truth, Wayne wrote the beauty contest theme There She Is, Miss America as well as the Chock Full O' Nuts ad song, Blue Velvet, Laughing on the Outside and others in the '60s. Thanks Jim Eigo for sending along.
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."
