Unfamiliar with pianist-singer Meredith d'Ambrosio? Wow, are you in for a treat. Meredith is one of my all-time favorites, as those who read my interview with her back in 2009 know. Meredith is one of the few jazz singers who can accompany herself on piano—and we're not talking cabaret stuff. Her phrasing on the piano is of Bill Evans quality, and her voice is soft, honest and soothing—instantly taking control of your heart. [Photo of Meredith d'Ambrosio in 2006 by Nich Anderson]
Meredith's new album By Myself (Sunnyside) is out today, and it's excellent. The album was recorded in New York over two days last June—nearly two years following the death of her husband, pianist Eddie "Haydn" Higgins. Meredith wasn't sure she was ever going to record again, but thanks to the persuasiveness of François Zalacain of Sunnyside Records, fans now have yet another recording. This time Meredith is alone at the piano and in voice.
In Part 1 of my two-part conversation with Meredith, 70, the painter-musician-singer talks about coping with her loss and moving forward with an album of Arthur Schwartz songs...
JazzWax: What have you been doing since Haydn’s passing? Meredith d'Ambrosio: I’ve been trying to get my brain in order. My producer at Sunnyside, Francois Zalacain, called right after Haydn died and asked if I would record an album. He said that people in France were driving him crazy and were asking for a solo album from me.
JW: What did you think? Md'A: He scared me, but I agreed to do it. But only after I finished a painting I was working on of my dog Gypsy. The painting appears inside the album cover.
JW: What did Francois want you to do? Md'A: At first he suggested I record obscure songs, the way I did on my first and second albums. Those albums were first heard in France, Britain and parts of Japan before they were released here in the U.S. They were very popular abroad.
JW: What did you say? Md'A: I said I’d think about it while I worked on my painting of Gypsy. When I was ready to turn my attention to the album around the end of 2010, I told Francois I wanted an album of Arthur Schwartz songs.
JW: How did you arrive at that decision? Md’A: Schwartz [pictured] wrote so many wonderful songs. When I first heard Bill Evans play his Haunted Heart back in 1961, I tried to learn the song. It’s very difficult. When I turned to the song for this new album, I had problems with it in my mind.
JW: Why? MdA: I thought the interlude section should have been the verse. Stuff like that. But I made a commitment to learn the song as Schwartz had written it rather than change things.
JW: Do the Schwartz titles feed into how you felt after the death of Haydn? Md'A: Yes. The entire album is a story that unfolds. Schwartz’s music is so sensitive—my kind of music. Very romantic and it fits me. The lyrics by his collaborators also suit me. When I told Francois what I wanted to do, he agreed.
JW: Did he realize what you had in mind, that it was going to be a pensive album? Md'A: Oh yes. I warned Francois that it was going to be a terribly romantic album. He said good, that a romantic album is exactly what he wanted. The French love romantic artists. They were first to love me and my music and had taken me under their wing, so to speak.
JW: Is the album a tribute to your husband or is it a soul soother for you? Md'A: Both. It was a release. Some songs are dedicated to Haydn and others are for other important things in my life, like my dog. One of the songs is dedicated to her—If There Is Someone Lovelier Than You. One of the reasons are the lines in the song by lyricist Howard Dietz: "My eyes have traveled everywhere; In hopes that I might find, a creature half so fair." Gypsy is very sensitive.
JW: When did you get Gypsy? Md'A: Haydn and I had ordered her from a breeder in Iowa. We fell in love with the mother’s face on the Internet. Every time I look at her now she takes my breath away.
JW: How did you take possession of Gypsy? Md'A: The owners wouldn’t fly her to us, so they drove for two days down to our home in Florida. But they arrived just after Haydn died. I felt that if he had just waited, Gypsy would have kept him alive longer.
JW: Why the name Gypsy? Md'A: Gypsy was the name of my favorite horse at camp when I was 12 years old. It was a graceful Golden Palomino. I thought the horse’s name would be appropriate for a puppy.
JW: Do the songs on your new album appear in any specific order? Md'A: Yes. If you look at the songs and the lyrics, you’ll see that they tell a story that unfolds. I dedicated Haunted Heart to Haydn. One of my favorite albums of his on Venus was named Haunted Heart. And Haydn played that song all the time. It was a special song for him. The lyrics do have something to do with his passing away. I put the song at the end because placing it first would be too obvious in terms of the connection. By Myself was obvious, too, but it's more appropriate and made for a good album title.
JW: Will you be touring? Md'A: I wasn’t planning to tour. I just want to paint. But I’m rethinking that. Francois has said, “Your audience needs you.” I was kind of surprised that I had agreed to do a tribute concert to Jonathan Schwartz in New York last July just after I recorded the album in June. I wound up doing what I told all my friends I wouldn’t do [laughs].
JW: Were you nervous? Md'A: Terribly. It was the first time I had played in front of an audience in a decade. The performance was in Rockefeller Park at the north end of Battery Park City in Lower Manhattan, on the West Side. It was done outside, in an intimate setting. The performance went well. [Photo of Meredith d'Ambrosio in 2006 by Nich Anderson]
JW: So if the Village Vanguard called, you’d hang up? Md'A: [Laughs] You think they would call?
JW: You never know. Md'A: Well, if they did, I suppose I would have to consider it.
JazzWax tracks: You'll find Meredith d'Ambrosio's By Myself at iTunes and Amazon here.
JazzWax note: All of Meredith's album covers feature images of her artworks... The liner notes to Meredith's new album By Myself were written by the ever-graceful Doug Ramsey, and they are superb... More on Meredith at her website.
JazzWax clip: Here's one of my favorite Meredith d'Ambrosio compositions and recordings—Love Is Not a Game (1990) and a perfect introduction to her playing and singing. Dig those piano voicings!...
And here's Meredith playing and singing her composition No One Knows (1994)...
Back in October 2010, I posted twice (here and here) about a little-known Art Blakey session recorded in May 1956 in New York for The Cool Voice of Rita Reys, a Dutch singer. On the album, Jazz Messengers Donald Byrd (tp), Hank Mobley (ts), Horace Silver (p), Doug Watkins (b) and Blakey (d) accompanied a singer, a rarity for the hard-bop group. Another one of these superb Blakey oddities is the soundtrack to Des Femmes Disparaissent.
These tracks were recorded in Paris in December 1958 during a week-long European road trip by the Jazz Messengers—Benny Golson (ts) [pictured], Lee Morgan (tp), Bobby Timmons (p), Jymie Merritt (b) and Blakey (d)—recorded incidental music for a French film.
Much of the music was written by Benny, with some of the rhythmic blues pieces credited to Blakey. The 18 brief, improvised sketches are largely fragments, though I like to think of them as Jazz Messengers potato chips.
What you have here is an interesting series of incidental music sequences by the Jazz Messengers at the height of the hard-bop band's creative power. The music was recorded after a particularly prolific period for the musicians on the date. Moanin', one of Blakey's finest albums, was recorded two months earlier in October. Blakey recorded Drums Around the Corner and Holiday for Skins in November while Benny recorded The Other Side of Benny Golson and Benny Golson and the Philadelphians in the months leading up to the trip.
According to Leslie Gourse's book, Art Blakey: Jazz Messenger (2002):
"Although American movies had not yet begun to employ jazz composers for soundtracks, French director Louis Malle had used Miles Davis to create the soundtrack for his Ascenseur Pour l'Échafaud in 1957. On December 18 and 19, 1958, Blakey recorded music for Édouard Molinaro's film Des Femmes Disparaissent (The Disappearing Women) with Benny Golson, Lee Morgan, Bobby Timmons and Jymie Merritt; he would record music for Roger Vadim's Les Liaisons Dangereuses, on July 28 and 29, 1959, using French saxophonist Barney Wilen in place of Golson."
Note that these are largely concepts recorded to add tension behind scenes in this black-and-white film. But there are tracks that run over four minutes in length. If you're a fan of Blakey and this lineup of Jazz Messengers, you'll find these chips rewarding.
JazzWax tracks: The least expensive way to get your hands on Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers' Des Femmes Disparaissent is via download. You'll find it on Jazz In Paris: Jazz & Cinema, Vol .2. The movie tracks are Nos. 5 through 22.
JazzWax clip: Here are the opening credits and the Jazz Messengers' music to Des Femmes Disparaissent...
Is jazz growing increasingly tedious? And if so, why? Often when I go out to hear music—as I did last week—I often find I'm disappointed and bored by what I hear. In many cases, there doesn't seem to be much advance planning on the part of the musicians, and engaging audiences no longer seems to be on the agenda. [Pictured: Blues in Green by Bill Matthews]
As I've argued in the past, part of the blame for jazz's slide away from cultural relevancy rests in large part with the universities, where many professors teach students not to worry about what audiences think and encourage them to "just do your own thing." I strongly doubt that there's a single course offered today that addresses strategies for winning over and holding onto audiences.
The other problem is the large number of graduating musicians who have been deluded into thinking that doing your own thing leads to a decent living and that jazz is somehow superior to all other music forms. I increasingly hear jazz musicians complaining about everything from record companies and club owners to an inability to find work, the low values of our culture, and even the validity of the word "jazz."
Much of their beefs and resentment, I suppose, stems from a general frustration over jazz's diminishing popularity and the sub-minimum wage now paid out for playing it. There's also a superiority complex that generally implies that seats are filled with saps and more commercial forms of music are worthless. For example...
Jazz shouldn't be viewed as a crusade—as some noble fight to convert the heathen masses. As much as I wish everyone listened to jazz and loved it the way I do, jazz is never going to be the nation's music. It is and always will be underground music played by exceptionally talented people and appreciated by a relatively small group of fans, many of whom have spent years listening to all jazz forms and have a full understanding of the language.
Jazz is a life you choose for yourself because you love playing it (or writing about it). If the form of jazz you play is that style known as "your own thing," don't be shocked when the audience for your music remains small or shrinks. I'm not advocating that musicians sell out or play corporate events (many do). I'm just asking that they think a little more about their audiences as listeners with eclectic tastes, not judgmental hipsters or low-culture dummies who need to be rehabilitated or transformed.
Despite what professors tell young musicians today, your "own thing" should be about loving your audiences and entertaining them with art, giving them a chance to stop thinking for an evening and feel their hearts. Noise isn't art. And as many jazz musicians are discovering, noise doesn't tend to pay well either.
Clare Fischer (1928-2012), one of the most eclectic and efficient pianist-arrangers whose body of work not only included 50 albums under his own name but who also worked as a sideman on dozens and arranged albums by pop, rock and Latin artists, died on January 26. He was 83.
Over the years, Fischer was able to move hearts and minds with arrangements that avoided commercial gimmickry typically found in movie scores. Rather, he became the ultimate fusion musician—distilling all forms into large, orchestral works that resonated with both jazz-wise audiences and those less familiar with the form. Fischer also recorded extensively on piano with dozens of jazz artists from 1946 on. Along the way he won two Grammy awards (one for a Latin album) and arranged for pop stars, including Prince's film After the Rain.
Among my favorite Fischer albums:
Cal Tjader—West Side Story(1960)
Bud Shank—Bossa Nova Jazz Samba(1962)
Bud Shank—Brasamba (1962)
Clare Fischer—First Time Out(1962)
Clare Fischer—Surging Ahead (1963)
The Hi-Los—Happen to Bossa Nova (1966)
Clare Fischer—America the Beautiful(2003)
Kris Bowers, live. Kris Bowers, winner of the 2011 Thelonious Monk Competition, will be performing in New York tonight (Saturday) at the Tribeca Performing Arts Center. General admission tickets are $25 each. Show time is 7 p.m. For more information, go here. Or call (212) 220-1460.
Sonny Rollins in D.C. Blogger Tom Reney with an interesting take on Sonny Rollins' Kennedy Center tribute in December—and why the tenor saxophonist seemed to so many viewers like a stranger in a room filled with strangers. Go here.
Roy Eldridge radio. On Monday, WKCR-FM in New York will feature its annual Roy Eldridge Birthday Broadcast, playing the music of Little Jazz through the years for 24 hours. Tune in on your computer from anywhere in the world by going here.
Johnny Winter. Last week I went down to catch blues guitarist Johnny Winter with Paul Nelson and the band at B.B. King's in Times Square. As always, Johnny played to capacity and knocked everyone out. No one kills on blues guitar like Johnny. See my earlier Wall Street Journal review of his latest album, Roots. A few weeks ago, Johnny was on David Letterman's Late Show, with that white ponytail tucked neatly up in his hat...
Jackie DeShannon. Singer-songwriter Jackie DeShannon has a fabulous new album out, When You Walk in the Room, which I wrote about for the Wall Street Journal. Last week Jackie told me she's going to be performing a mini-concert at the Grammy Museum in Los Angeles on Monday and answering audience questions. But I see now that the event is sold out. Not to worry. Sample the album here.
Howard Rumsey tribute. If you wake up in the Las Vegas area on Monday, saxophonist Gary Anderson tells me he's leading a tribute to bassist Howard Rumsey and West Coast jazz at the E-String in Henderson, Nev., on Monday at 7 p.m. Learn more here...
Lambert, Hendricks and Ross. The next time you're far from home and someone asks you to define jazz and why you love it so much, pull up a computer and show them this clip from 1961 (a big thanks to JazzWax reader John Cooper for sending it on down the line)...
Late-night jazz radio. Can't sleep? Too busy thinking about the days when hep jazz disc jockeys ruled the airwaves? Flip open your laptop. Jon Jackson hosts a show every Wednesday on KBGA.org from midnight to 4 a.m. (MST). (That's 2 to 6 a.m., EST).
Oddball album covers of the week. Back in 1958 and '59, record-company art directors typically did one of two things to market female vocalists: They either dressed them in low-cut gowns and positioned them as glamorous and available—or they plopped them on hip furniture and hoped for the best. In the case of Julie London, they did both. Here are three singers sitting pretty:
On the phone, Arno Marsh sounds the way he plays. There's a smoothness to his voice, and the cadence of his words swings. Swinging, in general, is a lost art. Those who came up in the '40s and '50s have a real knack for it. When they start blowing, they slip right into the groove, with that two-four junkyard dog chasing after them. [Pictured: Arno Marsh in recent years, courtesy of Arno Marsh]
Swinging, of course, has nothing to do with reading. As Arno says, you feel it and want to play it, and your mouth and fingers do the rest. Guys from the big band era have that feel embedded in their souls, the way the rest of us automatically remember how to ride a bike. For Arno, swinging comes naturally. [Photo of Arno Marsh playing Stan Getz's 1954 Selmer Mark VI, courtesy of Randy Marsh]
In Part 2 of my two-part interview with Arno, the tenor saxophonist talks about Woody Herman, Stan Kenton and the hardships of the road in the early '50s...
JazzWax: What was Woody Herman like? Arno Marsh: Let me tell you something about Woody. Everyone who had worked in that band loved the man. Woody showed his musicians enormous respect. If he didn’t like you, you left pretty quickly. That happened to tenor saxophonist Phil Urso. He was a strange guy. I never got close to him. He got fired during a Hollywood broadcast. He did something goofy and was gone.
JW: Was the Third Herd band drug-free? AM: As far as I knew there were no drug users on that band. Woody had put up with that in the Four Brothers band and it lost quite a bit of money when he had to break it up. After the Four Brothers band, Woody wanted an orchestra that could connect with more fans. The Third Herd’s book was more danceable.
JW: You left Herman in 1953? AM: Yes. I went back to Grand Rapids. I was on the road so long it started to get to me. Frankly, I don’t know how all those bandleaders did it.
JW: Why was the road so hard? AM: You’re traveling 300 to 400 miles each day, sometimes through the night. Once in a while you get to stay in one location for a while, but that was rare. You’re checking in and out of hotels. [Photo of Woody Herman and Arno Marsh in 1952, courtesy of Arno Marsh]
JW: How did you do the wash? AM: Hotels had laundry service. You usually didn’t eat in the room. You ate in hotel coffee shops.
JW: How did the band travel in ’52 and ‘53? AM: By car. Woody leased a fleet of four cars. We didn’t follow each other. That was a recipe for trouble. Each driver knew the directions and drove independently of each other. [Photo of Arno Marsh and a photo-miffed Woody Herman in 1952, courtesy of Arno Marsh]
JW: What about the wardrobe and drums? AM: We carried our horns in the cars. But the band boy handled all the clothes and drums. He drove a small van. He traveled independently as well, often leaving ahead of us so he could get there first and set up. [Photo of Arno Marsh, left, and Bill Harris on solo trombone in 1956, courtesty of Arno Marsh]
JW: Where did you eat? AM: At truck stops. You have to remember that this was the days before air conditioning in cars. In warm weather, it could be very hot. And if the heat wasn’t working, cold in the winter. [Photo of Arno Marsh soloing with Woody Herman in 1956, courtesy of Arno Marsh]
JW: And if you were black? AM: Oh, it was much harder. I remember we did a concert tour with Dinah Washington and the Mills Brothers. When we got down South, they had to stay in black neighborhoods. I was driving a station wagon on that trip while the rest for the band was on the bus. I was driving the guitar player in the Mills Brothers. I stayed where Dinah and the Mills Brothers stayed. I can tell you it was demeaning for people as talented as they were. But the places we stayed were so friendly to me, and the food was so good. [Photo of Victor Feldman on vibes with Arno Marsh behind, right, in Woody Herman's 1956 road band, courtesy of Arno Marsh]
JW: When you went back home, what did you do? AM: I formed my own group. Norm Schnell on piano, Bob Tuller on bass, Dick Twelvetrees on drums and me on tenor. We worked at the Hotel Rowe in Grand Rapids. Then we went up north in the summer, since hotel management would shut the Rowe in the hot weather. [Photo of Woody Herman's Third Herd courtesy of Arno Marsh] JW: What did you do in the years that followed? AM: I played the Rowe for a couple of years. Then in December 1955, I went back with Woody. [Photo of Woody Herman's Third Herd, courtesy of Arno Marsh]
JW: Why? AM: I missed the big time. Woody kept that band together until 1956. Then he broke it up to go into the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas.
JW: What did you do? AM: I went to Chicago and transferred into the union there. While I was there, Stan Kenton was at the Blue Note. He needed a saxophonist because Lennie Niehaus was leaving. His wife had just had a baby. Tenor saxophonist Bill Perkins shifted to lead alto, and I played Bill’s tenor book. The other reeds were Billy Root on tenor and Pepper Adams on baritone.
JW: Big difference in the reed sections? AM: Oh yes. Woody was the kind of bandleader who would get up and start stomping and swinging right away. Kenton’s band was so heavily loaded it was like trying to pick up a house. The emphasis was always on volume rather than swing. This was 1956. I was with Kenton for only about 30 days. He broke up that band in Los Angeles.
JW: What was next for you? AM: I decided to transfer into the Los Angeles local. While I was there, I played in one of Maynard’s Dreambands [pictured]. The charts were by Al Cohn, Johnny Mandel and Willie Maiden. The reeds were Joe Maini on alto, Richie Kamuca and me on tenor, and Willie Maiden on baritone.
JW: What else did you do in L.A.? AM: I auditioned for Les Brown and got the gig. Billy Usselton was leaving to join Ray Anthony, who had landed a TV show. But then Usselton decided not to leave, and the Brown gig fell through for me.
JW: What happened next? AM: I joined Hank Penny in Las Vegas. Hank was a country humorist. The band behind him was a small jazz group. I spent two years with Penny in Vegas.
JW: How did you get the job? AM: Sue Thompson, Penny’s wife, sang with his band. She talked to the band’s bass player to introduce us.
JW: What was the town like back then? AM: Vegas in the late 50s was really different. It was just starting to surpass Reno’s population. There was so much work for a musician. If you could play, you didn’t stop working. I transferred into the Las Vegas union. [Pictured, from left: trombonist Trummy Young, radio personality Ted Phillips and Arno Marsh in 1957 outside radio station KOWL in Lake Tahoe, courtesy of Arno Marsh]
JW: You played with Charlie Ventura there? AM: That’s right. Charlie came into the Thunderbird Hotel and needed a tenor player. Ventura was a sweetheart. Al Cohn had written his book. They were all groovy charts. There were four reeds, two trombones, two trumpets, Charlie on tenor, and a trio. We were working opposite Jackie and Roy in ‘57.
JW: Did you stay out there? AM: I did. I worked the Reno-Lake Tahoe-Las Vegas circuit.
JW: Did you spend any time in New York? AM: Yes, when I was with Woody in ’52 and ‘53. One time we were working at the Band Box, which was next door to Birdland. During a break, we went up to the street for some air. A cab pulled up and Charlie Parker jumped out. But he couldn’t pay the driver. I remember he was playing Birdland that night with Art Taylor, George Duvivier and Bud Powell. [Photo by Bob Parent]
JW: What happened? AM: While the cab was idling, Parker ran down to the bar to get some money. But he came back empty-handed. They wouldn’t give him an advance. So I paid his fare.
JW: Did you get to know Parker? AM: I was rooming with baritone saxophonist Sam Staff in Woody’s band. Sam played baritone. We roomed at the Hotel Knickerbocker, which was on 45th St. just east of Broadway. Sam knew Parker, and sometimes Parker would come up, and they’d play chess. Parker was a real nice guy.
JW: Was that the first time you met Parker? AM: Actually no. One time, when I was with one of those territory bands back in 1946 or '47, we played in Kansas City. After our show was over, a bunch of the guys went to this old movie theater on 18th and Vine, which had become a club.
JW: Why? AM: They had what were called Blue Monday Sessions. These were jam sessions that would start late Sunday night and last until daybreak on Monday. Well, we’re playing one of those, and in comes this guy with an alto saxophone. He got up and played in front of us and floored everyone. It was Parker. He was in K.C. visiting his mother.
JW: Who was your biggest influence? AM: Chu Berry, Ben Webster and Coleman Hawkins. Sonny Rollins. And Wardell Gray and Stan Getz. I loved Getz and marveled at his playing. His ability, facility and knowledge and concept were amazing. [Photo of San Getz and fan Roy Mathers]
JW: What was the turning point in Las Vegas for jazz musicians? AM: I think the long musicians’ strike in 1989. After it was settled, the hotels didn’t want us anymore. There’s very little work there now for older musicians. I live about 25 miles out of town. I play once a week or so with a couple of bands that features young musicians and us older guys. It keeps our chops in shape.
If you were a superb musician back in the 1940s and lived in a city or moved to one, you were likely going to find yourself auditioning for a name band pretty quickly. But for every great musician who wound up in a major orchestra, there were hundreds of others who remained in their smaller home towns and earned a decent living playing in territory bands. Tenor saxophonist Arno Marsh was one of those regional musicians—until he ran into Urbie Green in 1951. [Pictured, from left: Trumpeter Don Fagerquist, Arno Marsh and tenor saxophonist Georgie Auld at Capitol Records in Hollywood in 1958, courtesy of Arno Marsh]
Unlike many of the tenor saxophonists who worshiped Lester Young and adapted his cooler, linear sound, Arno favored Chu Berry [pictured], Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins and Sonny Rollins—saxophonists with more bite. In the '50s, Marsh played in Woody Herman's Third Herd, with stints in the '56 orchestras of Stan Kenton and Maynard Ferguson before settling in Las Vegas.
In Part 1 of my two-part conversation with Arno, 83, the tenor saxophonist talks about growing up in the Midwest, and his early career on local bands that toured neighboring states.
JazzWax: What did your father do in Grand Rapids? Arno Marsh: My dad played banjo, before the guitar became popular. Then he was a professional guitarist. He also copied music for the Grand Rapids Symphony. And in his spare time he was a painter and mechanical draftsman. Later in life he built a lake resort in Northern Michigan.
JW: Your dad was quite something. AM: He was. My mother was a piano player and flutist. But back in the early days when they met, she played piano in silent movies. Unfortunately my mom became ill early.
JW: What happened? AM: Schizophrenia. She was in and out of institutions when I was young. As a result, I hardly knew her. I only saw her maybe three or four times in my life.
JW: Who raised you? AM: My grandparents. My dad, my brother and I lived all with them in their house. At least we had the influence of one female.
JW: Is your brother older or younger than you? AM: My brother Jim is a year younger. He joined the Army when he was 18 years old and spent his career in the military. He wasn’t musically inclined.
JW: How did you become interested in music? AM: I loved music from the time I was a child. I always was more interested in listening to Louis Armstrong than Guy Lombardo. And there was always music in the house. My father often had jam sessions there, and he played jazz—or whatever they played in the 1930s.
JW: Did you listen to records? AM: Not records, just the family radio. I’d listen to whatever came on. When I was 10 years old, the doctor diagnosed me as being asthmatic. He told my dad he should get me blowing an instrument.
JW: What did your dad do? AM: He brought home a trumpet, but I didn’t like it. So he brought home an alto sax. That was better, and I took some private lessons. In high school I played in the marching and concert bands. Pianist Clare Fischer was there, too. He organized our school’s first dance band.
JW: What was your first professional job? AM: In1946, I left high school to go out on the road in a sleeper bus doing one nighters with the Walter Marty Orchestra, a territory band. Marty played alto sax.
JW: Did your high school pals join you? AM: Yes, eventually, I got a whole bunch of guys from Grand Rapids on the band. Clare and his trumpeter-brother Dirk, trumpeter Bill Velten, drummer Mike Balish, tenor saxophonist Morey Velten. There were six of us. Eventually we all went with John Paul Jones, another territory band out of Salina, Kan. We used stock arrangements. I wasn’t with the band very long—maybe into 1947. Jones broke it up, and all of us went home to Grand Rapids.
JW: How did you wind up on the tenor sax? AM: I worked with a band called the Duke Ambassadors, a band started by Sonny Burke in the '30s at Duke University. When I was on the band, it was fronted by drummer Sammy Fletcher. He came in to do a summer job in Michigan and he needed a tenor saxophonist. I worked with the band during the summers of 1947 and '48. [Pictured: The Duke Ambassadors in 1937]
JW: What did you do after playing with the Duke Ambassadors? AM: I went with Joe Saunders. He was a piano player. I did some time on the road playing one-nighters. By 1949, I went with pianist Lee Lockwood in St. Joseph, Mich., at the Whitcomb Hotel [pictured]. It was strictly dinner music and dancing. I did that for a year, until 1950.
JW: What did you do next? AM: I went back to Grand Rapids again. There weren’t many gigs. Back home, guys would meet, shake hands and play stock arrangements. I worked a lot at the Crispus Attucks American Legion Hall with small groups. Then I did after-hours clubs at the Lamar Hotel. It was just a quartet fronted by Harold “Popeye” Booker, a piano player. Dick Twelvetrees was the drummer and Pete Glover was on bass and me on tenor and alto. We played strictly jazz. [Pictured: Eastown Theater in Grand Rapids, Mich.]
JW: How did you get discovered by Woody Herman? AM: Woody’s band came through Muskegon, Mich,, and played at the Fruitport Pavilion. I already knew Urbie Green.
JW: When did you meet Green? AM: When Urbie [pictured] was with Gene Krupa’s band in 1948. He had asked me to sit in with some of the guys in the band when they closed down the joint where they were playing. My chops were up, and I had made an impression. I was working with the Duke Ambassadors in Michigan, playing a ballroom in Grand Haven, when they came through. We were off that day, so I had a chance to meet Don Fagerquist and Al Porcino. Urbie was a nice guy.
JW: How did your audition go with Herman? AM: It went great. Soon after the audition I received a telegram offering me a chair in the band. They were in Detroit at that point. But I had an interesting situation.
JW: What? AM: In one hand I had Woody’s wire asking me to join the band. In the other I had a draft notice just as the Korean War was heating up.
JW: What happened? AM: I took the physical but flunked. I had a history of being an asthmatic.
JW: So you joined Herman’s band? AM: Yes, I joined Woody in December of 1951. We went out on the road for a few days to Oklahoma. On my first gig, I had to sight-read the band’s book.
JW: Whose chair did you fill? AM: I replaced Kenny Pinson, who returned to Detroit. The reed section was me, Dick Hafer and Bill Perkins on tenors, with Sam Staff on baritone and Woody, of course, on alto. Nat Pierce was on piano, Sonny Igoe on drums, Chubby Jackson on bass, Urbie Green, his brother Jack and Carl Fontana on trombones, and Doug Mettome and Don Fagerquist at different points. [Photo, from left: Woody Herman, Arno Marsh, Dick Hafer, Bill Perkins and Sam Staff, courtesy of Arno Marsh]
JW: What do you remember of Fagerquist? AM: His nickname was Dugan. When Chubby Jackson left the band, Red Kelly came in. He gave Don that name, and I have no idea what it signified.
JW: What other changes took place? AM: Sonny Igoe was replaced by Art Mardigan. We started making noise with that band in 1952. We got into San Francisco and Ralph Gleason [pictured] wrote a column in the San Francisco Chronicle that named us "The Third Herd." Woody’s bands hadn’t been named before that.
JW: What did you think of Fagerquist? AM: I enjoyed Don’s playing. He was such a tremendous jazz player. He was a funny guy.
JW: What did you think of Doug Mettome? AM: He was a fantastic trumpet player. One of the biggest, fattest sounds I ever heard coming out of a horn. When I first joined the band, both Doug Mettome and Don Fagerquist were in there, if you can believe it. Don and Doug together were unbelievable. Don, of course, played jazz trumpet, and Doug played lead.
JW: And Chubby Jackson? AM: Chubby was a very funny guy. He had been in Woody's 1945 "Goosey Gander" band. When I joined in '51, we had some uniforms made. The jacket was one color and the pants another. Chubby had his made in reverse colors. That's the kind of humor he had.
JazzWax tracks: Arno Marsh can be heard on Woody Herman recordings in 1952 and '53, as well as in 1956. One of the finest examples of Arno Marsh with the Woody Herman band is Woody Herman and His Orchestra: 1956. It's at Amazon as a download. Arno has a particularly fine solo on These Foolish Things.
JazzWax tracks: Here's Arno Marsh in Woody Herman's band in 1956 on Nat Pierce's arrangement of Horace Silver's Opus de Funk from the album mentioned above. The soloist is Richie Kamuca...
Randy Brooks played trumpet like Harry James. Lots of pep and power with plenty of bent notes. Brooks recorded with Hal Kemp in the late 1930s, Claude Thornhill in '42 and Les Brown in '43 and '44. In 1945, Brooks formed a band that included tenor saxophonist Stan Getz and Getz's vocalist wife Beverly Byrne. The band recorded until 1947, the year of one of Brooks' biggest hits, Tenderly. But swing was his thing at a time when fans were going for bop.
By the end of the decade, according to Wikipedia, Brooks married bandleader Ina Ray Hutton and moved to Los Angeles, where he suffered a stroke and was unable to continue as a musician. He died of smoke inhalation in a fire at his Springvale, Maine, home in 1967.
These snapshots come from Betty's fabulous collection of photos, sent along by her friend Chris. The middle image is likely from February 1946, when the Brooks band went into the Adams Theater in Newark, N.J. The other two seem as though they were taken later in the year, when the weather was warmer.
Betty [pictured with Brooks above] has donated all of her prints, including these, to Rutgers University's Institute of Jazz Studies. But since she and Chris also are big JazzWax readers, they wanted you to see them, too.
More JazzSnaps: Go to the right-hand column of JazzWax and scroll down to "JazzSnaps" for links.
JazzWax clip: Here's Randy Brooks' Tenderly from 1947...
Before Sam Cooke, before Clyde McPhatter, before Ray Charles and before Earl Coleman there was Al Hibbler. Blind from birth, Hibbler began his recording career in 1942 with Jay McShann's band, when Charlie Parker was in the reed section. Then in 1943, he joined Duke Ellington, a tenure that lasted until 1950. A dispute with Ellington over compensation led to Hibbler's departure and the start of a successful solo recording career that lasted until the end of the decade. Today, Hibbler remains one of the greats—not just for what he did with his voice but also for what he didn't do. [Pictured at top: Al Hibbler in 1951]
Over the years, music writers have struggled to characterize Hibbler's unusual vocal style. Many scribes have quibbled over whether Hibbler was a jazz singer or a pop crooner—or a bridge between pop and R&B. I'd argue that all of these labels miss the mark. In truth, Hibbler is the first pure soul singer—if we define soul as the relaxed, heart-felt adaptation of songs flavored by intimacy and seduction. Contemporary Billy Eckstine tended to deliver songs comparatively straight. Herb Jeffries, too.
What made Hibbler special, in both the 78-rpm era and the LP era that followed, was how he served up song lyrics. Unencumbered by what he saw when performing or recording, Hibbler was able to kick back and relate songs in a natural style that varied from tongue-in-cheek conversational to polished bel canto.
Rather than use his baritone voice to sing songs earnestly or romantically, Hibbler often added humor and a fey touch that were enormously engaging. His interpretive style assumed listeners already knew the lyrics to these songs, allowing him to feel comfortable dropping in a syncopated stutter between lyrics or using feigned sweetness when delivering words.
For example, Hibbler could come off of a full-tilt belt to pronounce the word "you" as "yew" or "so" as "sew"—a faux English accent employed in jest to reconnect with average listeners following an exhibition of his powerful technique. Such personalized insertions became a trademark for Hibbler, and listeners eagerly awaited them.
In this regard songs were like a yo-yo in his hands. You knew there was going to be enormous dexterity when Hibbler took on a song. But you also assumed there would be a vocal "walking the dog" or two. In addition to his basso delivery, Hibbler's voice flickered with a full vibrato, and he enjoyed adding an "uh-uh" between lyrics—either to give a song a street informality or to fill the space creatively.
In the late 1950s and into the '60s, Hibbler became active in the civil rights movement and was arrested twice at protests. His last recording was in 1984 (New Jersey Jazz Festival). Hibbler died in 2001 at age 85.
In many respects, you can't fully understand Ray Charles or any other soul vocalist who followed without first listening at length to Al Hibbler and how he phrased songs and made them soulfully his own.
JazzWax tracks: All of Al Hibbler's discography is choice. But here are a handful of starter suggestions:
JazzWax clip: Here's one of Al Hibbler's biggest hits, After the Lights Go Down Low. Dig how he moves behind and ahead of the beat. And catch the phrasing and soulful conversational style...
Here's Al Hibbler with saxophonist Rahsaan Roland Kirk on Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me, recorded in March 1972. This also is a spectacular outing for pianist Hank Jones...
John Levy, a jazz bassist and original member of the Stuff Smith Trio and George Shearing Quintet whose deal-making skills, insider's knowledge and warm personality enabled him to become one of jazz and pop's first successful black personal manager, died on January 20. He was 99.
Starting in the early 1950s, John managed George Shearing not just as an agent but a personal confidant. By later in the decade, John's client roster included Nat and Cannonball Adderley, Dakota Staton, Ramsey Lewis, Herbie Hancock, Roberta Flack and Nancy Wilson [pictured]. John signed Wilson to Capitol in 1959, a recording relationship that would last 20 years, and he continued to represent Nancy with his wife Devra Hall Levy until Nancy's retirement last year.
John also represented Wes Montgomery and was instrumental in bringing the guitarist together with producer Creed Taylor when Riverside went under. Creed signed Montgomery to Verve in 1964 and then A&M in 1966, two labels where they made a series of important jazz-pop albums that changed the direction of jazz. [Photo by Chuck Stewart]
My conversations with John were always treats. Not only was John's memory impeccable, he was able to shed light on jazz events and personalities from a humanist standpoint. Here's a sample from my multipart interview with him in February 2010:
JazzWax: Do you remember your Candy session with tenor saxophonist Don Byas? John Levy: Oh sure. It was November 1945, for Savoy. Don was a beautiful guy. He was great to work with and play with. Don was the youngest of that group of tenor players—Coleman Hawkins, Ben Webster, Lucky Thompson and Don. They all played with that really big beautiful sound. Don left for Europe on tour with Don Redman in 1946 and decided to stay there.
JW: Why? JL: Don had marital problems. His wife was suing him and it was the only way he could escape her. Don [pictured] also was starting to have a hard time on 52nd Street. There were only so many slots for gigs, and a number of the spots on the Street were closing up or changing the kinds of acts they featured.
JW: That Candy session for Savoy was held the same day as Charlie Parker’s famed Ko-Ko record date. JL: That’s right. We recorded in the afternoon, right after Bird, Diz, Max, Miles, Sadik [Hakim] and Curly [Russell] were done. Usually sessions took place during the day not at night, when you played your gigs. It was Parker’s first record date as a leader. I got to Savoy’s studio early and saw some of that session. Miles was scuffling with Ko-Ko, which was based on Cherokee’s chord changes, so it was real fast.
JW: What happened? JL: Miles couldn’t cut it. As I recall, he was having lip problems. His range and what they were trying to do at that time was just too much. Sadik had trouble, too, on the piano. So Dizzy had to play the piano intro and then switch to the trumpet. Originally, Savoy issued Ko-Ko on the flip side of my recording with Don Byas of How High the Moon.
Born in New Orleans, John was raised by his grandmother, who taught him "how to treat people, how to take care of yourself, how to cook, how to keep your house clean, how to keep your relationship with your family strong, and how everyone should treat each other," John told me. [Pictured: John Levy's graduation photo]
From his earliest days on the jazz scene in Chicago and then New York, John always had an innate feel for swinging improvisation and business:
"I was probably just more organized than most musicians and had my priorities in order. I came to both of those things accidentally. When I was young, I had no idea how to be a personal manager or manage talent or anything like that. But as a bassist, I had to listen intently to the musicians I played with, which created a more heightened sense of intuition and sharper instincts."
John also understood the value of positive promotion—how to stand out without doing so at the expense of others. For example, John played a white bass. [Pictured, from left: Stuff Smith, Jimmy Jones and John Levy at New York's Onyx Club on 52nd St. in 1944]
"The first bass I bought was at the Wurlitzer music store in Chicago in the early 1940s. I went there by myself. There were basses all lined up. I went down the line and played each one. When I came to this white one, I didn’t care much that it was white. It was made of plywood and I liked the sound and depth [pause]. And it was affordable [laughs]. People made comments in the beginning. But then it just got to be, 'John Levy plays a white bass.' Wurlitzer sold a lot of them after that [laughs]. I had that bass through my whole career practically." [Pictured, from left: John Levy, trumpeter John Letman, drummer Wallace Bishop and pianist Phil Moore in the Phil Moore Four in 1945]
John came to the attention of George Shearing in late 1948 after he was recommended by Jimmy Jones, with whom he had played in the Stuff Smith Trio and Don Byas Quintet. The first recording with the original quintet was made in January 1949. But by the spring of 1951, playing and managing the quintet's business in the days before cellphones and email became too much for John. He formed John Levy Enterprises, with Shearing as his first and only client. He was replaced in the group by Al McKibbon. [Pictured: The original George Shearing Quintet, from left, John Levy, George Shearing, Margie Hyams, Chuck Wayne and Denzil Best]
The move was both risky for Shearing and dangerous for John given Shearing's national fame and the fact that John was black and would have to negotiate with white-owned clubs and record labels. But John made the transition smoothly, relying on shrewd business strategies to avoid racial trouble. It helped at first that John had a Jewish-sounding last name and, since most of his long-distance conversations were done by phone, the only issues remaining were cutting deals that left both parties feeling satisfied. [Pictured: John Levy and George Shearing]
If there's one comment by John that rings in my head, it's this one after Shearing died in February 2011:
"Many people told George that he’d do better if all of his musicians were white. He didn’t know what they were talking about. He’d get pissed and say, 'I don’t know what color they are. All I know is that they play what I like to hear, and I love their intonation.'
"[In 1949 and 1950], we’d play some clubs where blacks couldn’t even get in. But the white audiences loved the music we played. Funny, I think the fact that he was blind made them blind, too. They unconsciously put themselves in his position—caring only about the music, not who was playing."
I'm going to miss John. He loved JazzWax's mission and always encouraged me to keep on going, no matter what. Thanks to John's wife Devra, who would always make John available to me whenever I needed insights into past jazz events and personalities. I'll miss John deeply. A big hug for Devra.
JazzWax tracks: John Levy can be heard with Stuff Smith on The Stuff Smith Trio: 1943 (Progressive) or Stuff Smith: 1939-1944 (Classics France). One of John's finest bass solos in this group is on Look at Me.
JazzWax note: All photos courtesy of Devra Hall Levy.
JazzWax pages: John wrote two memoirs with his wife Devra Hall Levy—Men, Women and Girl Singers (2000) and Strollin' (2008), a collection of photographs by John taken over the years. Both books can be purchased here. You can hear radio interviews and clips of John's playing with Erroll Garner, Stuff Smith and George Shearing here.
JazzWax clips: Here's John Levy in the George Shearing Quintet in 1950 playing Conception. The band here is Joe Roland (vibes), Chuck Wayne (guitar), Denzil Best (drums) and John on bass. Focus on John and Best playing together. These two together could swing anything...
Here's John with the Stuff Smith Trio in September 1944 playing Skip It, with Smith on violin, Jimmy Jones on piano and John on bass. Dig John's meaty notes...
And here's John with Don Byas on one of the finest versions of Candy in November 1945, with Benny Harris (tp), Don Byas (ts), Jimmy Jones (p), John Levy (b) and Fred Radcliffe (d)...
Johnny Otis, an R&B renaissance man and visionary whose passion for the blues, the back beat and racial equality helped ignite a West Coast music style in the late-1940s that made rock and roll possible in the 1950s and beyond, died January 17. He was 90.
Otis' contribution to American music and his ability to unite teens of all races around the radio dial, jukebox and portable phonograph in the late 1940s and early 1950s cannot be overstated. As a musician, bandleader, singer, DJ, TV show host, music producer, fine-arts painter, columnist and author, Otis single-handedly leveraged the blues of Count Basie and Lionel Hampton into small-group combos at the very moment that independent radio and vinyl 45-rpm records began to flourish throughout the country in the early 50s.
By shrewdly mashing nearly all forms of music found largely in the Los Angeles black community—including bebop, stride piano, electric blues, strip-time percussion, cool blues and jump boogie—Otis helped give rise to a form that became known as rhythm & blues. What made Otis particularly special is that he managed to be an advocate without processing the music for white audiences—or selling out the black artists who played and recorded it. [Photo: L.A. Times/UCLA Collection]
The period during which Otis absorbed and distilled these music forms found him virtually everywhere at once in Los Angeles. As a drummer, Otis can be heard on Stan Kenton's Opus a Dollar Three Eighty (1944), Illinois Jacquet's Flying Home (1945) and Lester Young's Jammin' With Lester (1946).
Otis also played piano and vibes (guitar photos were merely publicity stills), and he had little trouble finding and holding onto talent. With the rise of Hollywood as a recording center, hundreds of new labels opened offices seeking to tap into the concentration of undiscovered blues artists who had migrated from the South to the West Coast during the war in search of factory jobs.
By 1949, the surging popularity of bebop among jazz musicians and its treatment as performance art rather than dance music left a gaping opportunity for musicians willing to play and record R&B. The demand for such music only surged with the growing number of young people driving cars equipped with radios, particularly in Los Angeles.
Born John Alexander Veliotes in Vallejo in Northern California in December 1921, Otis was white and of Greek ancestry. A product of a racially mixed neighborhood, Otis was keenly aware of ethnic bias, having grown up in California's nativist climate of the 1920s. He's quoted on the topic of racism in George Lipsitz's superb 2010 biography, Midnight at the Barrelhouse: The Johnny Otis Story:
"When I was around 13, I was told very diplomatically at school by a counselor that I should associate more with whites. After that, I left and never came back to school. I never felt white."
Otis first encountered the blues when he heard records played by a next-door neighbor. When Sandy Moore, his neighbor, held parties, Otis was often outside listening. Deeply inspired by drummer Jo Jones, Otis devoured drum books until he was able to play in bands. But his last name was baffling to local black audiences and black club owners. So he changed it from Johnny Veliotes to Johnny Otis.
Otis arrived in Los Angeles in 1943 as the drummer in Harlan Leonard's band. When the orchestra's engagement at the Club Alabam [pictured in 1946] on Central Avenue ended, Otis formed his own bands that included Paul Quinichette, Art Farmer, Curtis Counce, Henry Coker and other jazz and blues musicians. He also discovered Big Jay McNeely, one of R&B's first star saxophonists.
Saxophonist Hal McKusick [pictured] met Otis in 1945, after Hal and pianist-arranger George Handy flew to Los Angeles from New York to find work. They had just quit Boyd Raeburn's band in Boston over the shabby treatment of saxophonist Al Cohn. On the West Coast, Handy began arranging for Artie Shaw, and Hal found work playing casuals (parties) and in jazz gigs, including three months in Otis' orchestra at the Club Alabam:
"Johnny led a great band. Other than Johnny, I was the only white guy in the orchestra. We all lived at the same boarding house in Watts, a short distance from Club Alabam. Women would cook up great food for us before we walked to work—six nights a week.
"We did these incredible shows on Sundays. There were Hollywood sets on each side of the stage, with curving staircases coming down on each side. Female models would walk down during shows singing. It was wild. While I was there, we played behind Lena Horne, Betty Roché and other singers. [Photo: Patrons at Club Alabam, circa 1945]
"The band was heavily into Basie and really cooked. I don't know who was writing the arrangements, but the charts could really swing. Everyone in the band was way into the music. Johnny would be back there on the drums, playing like Papa Jo Jones. It was thrilling.
"Three months into the job I got a phone call at the club from Johnny Mandel. He managed to track me down there. At the time, Johnny was in Boyd Raeburn's [pictured] band, which I had left months earlier with George Handy. Johnny said the band had just reached San Francisco from the East Coast. and that Boyd needed a saxophonist to take Johnny Bothwell's place. Johnny had just left the band. So I spoke with Boyd, who agreed to pay me what I wanted. But I told him I had to call him back. [Photo of Boyd Raeburn by William P. Gottlieb]
"When I got off the phone, I went to see Johnny [Otis]. I told him I had this offer from Boyd to rejoin his band. I also told Johnny how happy I was playing in his band. Johnny said, 'Look, take my advice: go do it.' He said Boyd's band was exciting and going places. That's how hip Johnny was. He knew then that Boyd's band was on the cutting edge and doing experimental things with a lot of terrific musicians. I'll never forget what Johnny said. He said, 'If you don't like it there, you always have a chair here in my band.'
"Which is pretty amazing, considering Johnny was only about three years older than I was at the time. The maturity was amazing for someone in his twenties. Johnny was completely comfortable and knew he could find new talent in a second. Johnny was energetic, highly interested in music and tuned into the needs of the guys in the band. He commanded respect, and he got it.
"When I close my eyes and think back, I remember that Johnny had a big smile and was instantly your best friend. I would have worked in his band for nothing if he needed me. He was a terrific friend with great advice, and I had a lot of fun playing with him—and learning from him."
By the late '40s, though, Otis had shelved the Basie fetish and had begun to develop a new form of dance music. And as his brand of horn-centric, big-beat R&B caught on, he never became an exploiter of talent or a music thief. Instead of manipulating the new music's rise, he preferred his role an an insider, first as a musician and then as an a&r man with a gift for knowing which instruments to use, which riffs to deploy and which beats would add sexual tension and excitement.
Most of all, Otis viewed the music as an invisible battering ram that could topple segregation, particularly among teens. What has been largely forgotten today is that R&B and early rock and roll were forms adapted by many young radio listeners and record buyers who were baffled by segregation and sought to change institutions' unjust treatment of blacks, Latinos and other racial minorities.
"Otis did not follow the usual pattern that guided relations between stars and featured acts," writes Lipsitz in his Johnny Otis biography. "Instead of just paying wages to Little Esther and Jackie Kelso to be part of his operation, he made them partners in the business. He did not think of his own talents as a singer and musician as all that special. He viewed himself as a good listener, mentor, arranger and promoter in a community brimming with talent."
After leading the house band at the Club Alabam, he eventually opened his own club called the Barrelhouse in Watts. In the early '50s, Otis produced "Big Mama" Thornton's Hound Dog (1952) and Etta James' [pictured] Roll With Me Henry (1955). His cult-like status in Los Angeles as an R&B rainmaker made him a role model for newcomers to the record industry, including composer Jerry Leiber and producer Phil Spector. As R&B turned into rock and roll, many who were inspired by Otis began to mine black music forms and musicians for crossover potential as well as seek strategies that could make white artists seem more soulful.
In Etta James (1938-2012), who died on January 20, Otis found a young R&B firecracker who had all the command and conviction of Dinah Washington. Otis heard the bossy, insistent, sensual sound of James' voice and knew instantly that her voice combined with tart lyrics and a big beat would draw fans, and she did, quickly becoming a rock and soul pioneer.
Otis eventually started his own record label in the '50s (Dig), and in April 1958 recorded his biggest hit, Willie and the Hand Jive. His smooth, executive-hipster stage and TV persona conveyed excitement and street smarts—a cool quality that was widely admired but never duplicated with any authenticity.
Despite his love for the scene, Otis never became a clownish promoter like so many white rock-and-roll record and radio industry types in the '50s. Instead, he wore his passion on his sleeve and was always considered an honorable R&B broker, probably because he was one of the form's originators rather than an outsider scheming to capitalize on someone else's ideas. Otis continued recording, performing and appearing at music festivals into the 2000s, always a booster for rhythm, beats and the blues. Though Johnny Otis and Etta James are gone, their spirits and determination to unite all young people with music remains one of America's great cultural crusades.
Unknown to many people is that Otis also was a superb painter with a social-humorist's eye. Many of his works are featured in the book Colors and Chords: The Art of Johnny Otis (Pomegranate). [Pictured: Man's Head, handpainted drypoint, by Johnny Otis, 1988]
A special JazzWax thanks to Terry Gould, Otis' manager and a trusted member of Otis' family. He hosts Johnny Otis' site, JohnnyOtisWorld.com.
JazzWax notes: For those who may not have made the connection (me included), multi-instrumentalist Shuggie Otis is Johnny Otis' son. Back in 2001, Shuggie released Inspiration information (Luaka Bop), a highly imaginative and re-interpretive funk-soul album originally recorded in 1974.
JazzWax tracks: There are dozens of CDs featuring music by Johnny Otis or produced by him. A good start are these (click on the links to access them at Amazon)...
JazzWax clips: Here's Johnny Otis with Illinois Jacquet in 1945 playing Flying Home. Dig his taunting Jo Jones style on the drums...
Here's Johnny Otis with Lester Young on It's Only a Paper Moon. Dig Otis' distinctly Los Angeles drum style, with shades of R&B already creeping through...
If you were to guess what pianist Geri Allen is like to talk to on the phone based solely on her music, you might say, "stormy," "short on patience" and "booming." Actually, the opposite is true on all counts. Geri is gentle, patient and embracing. In conversation, you hear the lyrical voice of a kind, caring person—which may seem in stark contrast with the powerful, energetic and domineering artist you hear on disc. [Photo by Alan Jackman]
Geri will be performing in New York on Saturday night at 92YTribeca, located at 200 Hudson St. in Manhattan. She's on the same bill as Jason Moran & The Bandwagon. Tickets ($25) are still available. For information and ticket purchases, go here. Or call 212-601-1000.
In Part 3 of my conversation with Geri, the pianist and associate professor at the University of Michigan talks about how she prepares for a gig, why she doesn't like listening to her recordings and what she'll be playing on Saturday night...
JazzWax: Do you practice? Geri Allen: Yes, usually very late at night and into the morning hours. I mostly work to prepare the foundational aspects of my compositions. I do this so I understand the structure and the inner workings of the music. As I practice, I am striving to feel free, and that feeling only comes after a certain amount of foundational study.
JW: Is practicing a chore? GA: Never. When I became a jazz musician, I knew it was for life. I learned quickly that with each new breakthrough, a whole new world of challenges would emerge. So a dedication to life and to art exist in simpatico.
JW: Do you ever sit at the piano and apply your approach to the music heard on the radio as a teen in the '70s? GA: Yes. I find that songs by Motown composers are a great inspiration. Their classic compositions form an exciting platform for improvisation. Stevie Wonder and Smokey Robinson are two favorite composers, particularly Smokey's Tears of a Clown .
JW: You seem to be most animated when the tempo picks up. Is it thrilling to hear yourself on recordings? GA: Actually, I don’t like listening to myself. It’s very difficult, and I tend to avoid doing so unless I am in the throes of working on a new project. The problem is I hear things I wished I had done differently and want to do them over.
JW: When was the last time you and your mentor and trumpeter Marcus Belgrave played together? GA: In October of 2011. He was brilliant as always. I am so grateful to him for his innovative, speed-of-light artistry and his willingness to slow down so others can commune with him. [Photo by Scott Soderberg]
JW: What did you think of The Mosaic Project? GA: Terri Lyne Carrington [pictured] is a visionary, a master drummer and one of the most important musicians of our time. Our gig last week at the Village Vanguard with bassist Esperanza Spalding was one of the absolute highlights of my musical journey so far. On The Mosaic Project, Terri brought together an extraordinary group of brilliant musicians to share a moment in time, when people are listening for a sound. Embracing that moment with all of the women on the recording was thrilling.
JW: I know you eschew labels, but does the term "jazz-feelings" somewhat categorize the new jazz sound? GA: Let's talk about that sometime. I'd like to know more about your perspective on that particular choice.
JW: Your most recent album was A Child Is Born, released last year in advance of the holidays. GA: Yes, Motema Music liked the idea of me playing solo piano backed by four voices and vintage keyboards, including a concert celeste. My father, Mount V. Allen Jr., liked the music on the CD very much and gave it to many of his friends. That meant the world to me.
JW: Are you playing in New York in the coming weeks? GA:Yes, I am looking forward to collaborating with filmmaker and photographer Carrie Mae Weems in preparation for Celebrate Brooklyn on June 15. It will be an evening filled with wonderful visual experiences accompanied by my Timeline group—including tap dancer Maurice Chestnut, bassist Kenny Davis and drummer Kassa Overall. Joining us will be Howard University's Afro-Blue Jazz chorus, which appeared on NBC's The Sing-Off last season. Pianist-composer Patrice Rushen, whom you saw in The Mosaic Project video posted yesterday, and Afro-electronica artist Val Jeanty, also will join us along with Esperanza Spalding and Terri Lyne Carrington. [Photo by Andrea Canter]
JW: Are you excited about performing this Saturday night at 92YTribeca? GA: I am. Rachel Chanoff [pictured], 92YTribeca's film curator and the artistic director of Celebrate Brooklyn has created an amazing collaborative opportunity for both Carrie Mae Weems and myself to work together again. We collaborated on on my solo piano recording Flying Toward The Sound in 2010. It is thrilling to continue doing this type of creative work with Carrie. I am also thrilled to be sharing the stage with Jason Moran this Saturday night.
JW: What will you be playing on Saturday at 92YTribeca? GA: [Laughs] If I told you, it would take some of the mystery out of it. Let's just say that I’ll be playing music that will be sharing the space with Carrie Mae Weem's beautiful images.
JazzWax clip: Geri Allen's performance of The Dark Prince in 2007 will give you a fine sense of how exciting she sounds live. Dig the groove she spins up. Without a doubt, Geri is one of the most important pianists on the scene today...
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."
