A couple of weeks ago, I posted on Red Garland's sole recording session with Oliver Nelson in March 1961. The trumpeter on the date was Richard Williams, who many readers admired but knew little about. Curiously, Williams recorded only one leadership date—for Nat Hentoff's short-lived Candid label. It's called New Horn in Town and featured Leo Wright on alto sax and flute, Richard Wyands on piano, Reggie Workman on bass and Bobby Thomas on drums.
New Horn in Town was recorded in November 1960 and gave Williams a chance to stand out, an opportunity he parlayed into a fine recording. Williams was born in Galveston, Texas, and began recording with Charles Mingus in 1959 on Mingus Dynasty. He appeared next on Carmen McRae's spectacular Something to Swing About Session in 1959 that featured an Ernie Wilkins-led big band. The band's trumpet section included Art Farmer, Jimmy Maxwell and Ernie Royal.
Williams recorded on small-group dates next with John Handy (In the Vernacular for Roulette in 1959) and a Gigi Gryce Quintet session in early 1960 before recording on an Ernie Wilkins big band date for Everest in 1960. Next came another small-group recording with Slide Hampton (Sister Salvation for Atlantic).
The year 1960 remained ferociously busy for Williams on the recording front. There were more dates with Gryce, Wilkins, Handy, Hampton and Mingus as well as sessions with Ruth Brown, Leo Wright, Oliver Nelson, Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis, Yusef Lateef and Randy Weston.
Then came New Horn in Town. Williams had hard-bop chops and blew in a low-key blistering fashion, akin to a pocket Freddie Hubbard. His improvisational lines were mature in 1960, though he tended to pull a bit unsure in tight places.
Among the best tracks on New Horn in Town are Richard Wyands' Ferris Wheel and Williams' own Raucous Notes, Blues in a Quandry and Renita's Bounce—all of which have a sweet-and-sour Horace Silver Quintet flavor. The standards here—I Can Dream Can't I?, I Remember Clifford and Over the Rainbow—also receive Williams' low-flame blowtorch technique.
Pay particularly close attention to drummer Thomas, who is tasteful at every turn, as well as Wright on flute. And Wyands shines as an accompanist, particularly on ballads such as Over the Rainbow.
Williams went on to record frequently in the '60s and '70s as a sideman and as a Broadway pit trumpeter, dying in 1985. Why he recorded only one leadership date remains a mystery. The answer may be that he was simply more comfortable in a supporting role than having the pressure of writing material, assembling groups and working out arrangements.
JazzWax tracks: You'll find Richard Williams' New Horn
in Town as a download at Amazon here.
JazzWax clip: Here's Richard Williams playing Raucous Notes from New Horn in Town...
On June 25, 1976, three months before Bill Evans recordedTogether Again, his second album with Tony Bennett, the pianist appeared at the Newport Jazz Festival in New York with Bennett. In fact, the event at Carnegie Hall was billed as An Evening with Tony Bennett and featured two sets—one with the Bill Evans Trio and a second with Evans and a massive orchestra accompanying Bennett.
Evans, who died 32 years ago this past Saturday, kicked-off the evening by backing Bennett alone on My Foolish Heart. Then the Bill Evans Trio performed a set alone followed by Evans and the orchestra playing behind Bennett as he sang about a dozen standards. Evans reportedly seemed out of place in the second half, lost among the strings, reeds and pop vocals.
According to Peter Pettinger, author of Bill Evans: How My Heart Sings, the vocal set ticked-off someone in the orchestra seats, "who stood up shouting, 'This is supposed to be a jazz festival. Bring back Bill Evans!' "
That passage in Pettinger's book always puzzled me. How could a sober fan do something like that at Carnegie Hall? After listening to the Bill Evans Trio's set—now available for the first time as a download at Concert Vault, a site that
specializes in unreleased concert recordings—I understand why. Evans made it virtually impossible for Bennett or anyone else to win back the audience.
To my ears, this recording is among
Evans' finest live performances and his best in a year when his studio albums
for Fantasy were spotty (Quintessence and Crosscurrents).
Evans' trio at the time featured bassist Eddie Gomez and drummer Eliot Zigmund, who joined the trio after Marty Morell's departure in February 1975. Introduced by Bennett, the Bill Evans Trio launched into six songs—Sugar Plum, Up With the Lark, Twelve Tone Tune, Someday My Prince Will Come, Minha and In Your Own Sweet Way. All are sterling renditions.
What makes this Evans concert special is the firm grasp the pianist had on the material and the taut and rolling way in which his improvised passages spool out. There's powerful exuberance and rigorous attacks, but Evans never overplays or rambles. The improvisational lines here have a daredevil feel but avoid becoming rushed or plodding. They are, in a word, sublime.
For example, Twelve Tone Tune here may be one of his finest ever—diving into the complex original with the excited abandon of a bowler who can't seem to roll anything but strikes. Evans' chord voicings are spectacular and his energy level surges, pushing his sidemen to keep up.
Someday My Prince Will Come opens beautifully and Evans remains fatherly throughout, performing as if reading Snow White to a child. The Disney waltz rises and falls with ease, and Evans is ever-mindful of the song's delicate joy and playfulness.
The ballad Minha is thoughtful and passionate, and Evans avoids the mistake he typically made on songs like this—thrashing about like a motorist trying to bang his way out of a parking space by slamming the vehicles in front and back. Here, his rendition is reaching and sobbing rather than testy and bullying.
Dave Brubeck's In Your Own Sweet Way is last, and like all the others it features an introduction so beautiful and dramatic it will break your heart.
In June 1976, Evans put on a show so perfect and moving that he made it impossible for Tony Bennett—or anyone else—to follow him. Wave after wave of lyrical chord voicings and gutsy improvisation thrilled the audience several times over. As you'll hear, a masterpiece by any measure. If only we had a second set.
JazzWax tracks: You'll find Bill Evans Trio: Newport Jazz Festival, June 25, 1976—1st Set at Wolfgang's Vault
here. Sample tracks. The fidelity is superb, and the download is just $5.
Leave yourself time, though. Once you start nosing around Concert Vault, you'll find dozens of recordings you will want to sample and download.
JazzWax note: Nenette Evans, Bill Evans' widow, just wrote
a lovely and revealing post for Rob Rijneke's Bill Evans, Jazz Pianist fan site in the Netherlands. You'll find her post here (click on "news/search" in the right-hand column and then on "Nenette Evans: Essays, Reflections and Interviews").
Bob Dylan's new album is out. I haven't heard it yet but expect to soon. The cover, however, looks oddly familiar...
Phil Spector. Very few music industry insiders who were
around in the '60s have a good word for producer Phil Spector (now incarcerated in California for second-degree murder). The line is he was a recording wizard but a nasty piece of work. And those in the know would know. Nevertheless, everyone generally agrees that his contribution has been important. Where would pop-rock be without the edge of the Ronettes, the Righteous Brothers, the Crystals and Ike and Tina Turner?
And yet Spector's notoriously abrasive personality is what insiders remember most, a critique that is often lost on the average listener who never met or worked with him. That's about to change.
Bret Primack, one of the sharpest YouTube hunters I know when it comes to finding poignant historic music videos, sent along this clip of Spector on the Merv Griffin Show in 1965. All I'll say to you is, brace yourself...
CD discoveries of the week. One of the best organ trio albums I've heard in a while is by drummer Jordan Young's Cymbal Melodies (Posi-Tone). Too many albums of this sort are overly moody or too candy pop. This one
is just right—upbeat, groovy and melodic. And there are superb tracks here: By the Time I Get to Phoenix, Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head, Lee Morgan's Free Wheelin' and Grant Green's Grantstand as well as originals and other standards. Backing Young are Brian Charette on organ, Avi Rothbard on guitar and Joe Sucato on saxophone. Shades of the Mighty Burner, organist Charles Earland.
Composer, arranger and pianist Ezra Weiss did something interesting. He assembled the Rob Scheps Big Band to record an album of his own music (except for the standard It's You Or No One). On Weiss' Our Path to This Moment (Roark),
we hear his majestic music and arrangements played fluently by pros. This is jazz orchestral music of the highest order—with the essence of Ellington and jazz scores for movies like Jerry Goldsmith's Chinatown and David Amram's Manchurian Candidate. A cliche-free concept album with sophisticated zeal.
Here's the personnel along with tracks on which they appear: Ezra Weiss [pictured above]: piano (3, 4, 6); Greg Gisbert: trumpet (1, 2, 7); Rob Scheps: tenor saxophone, soprano saxophone; Gary Harris: saxophones; David Valdez: alto saxophone; Scott Hall: tenor saxophone; Robert Crowell: baritone saxophone; Rich Cooper: trumpet; Paul Mazzio: trumpet; Greg Garrett: trumpet; Conte Bennett: trumpet; Stan Bock: trombone; Tom Hill: trombone; Joan Moak: trombone; Jattik Clark: tuba; Ramsey Embick: piano (1, 2, 5, 7); Tim Gilson: bass; Ward Griffiths: drums; Chaz Mortimer: percussion (3, 7). [Photo by Vanished Twin]
Oddball album cover of the week. Teen albums at the dawn of rock and roll were all the rage. They even swept up some unlikely jazz, country and pop artists...
After an hour spent chatting in the cozy sitting room of Sir George Martin’s summer home several weeks ago, it was time for me to make the two-hour drive back to London. I said farewell to Lady Judith, Sir George’s wife, and Sir George and I walked out to my car on the gravel drive.
As I looked around for the last time, there seemed to be an unusually casual feel to those trimming his hedges and tending shrubs and lawn. They were locals I’m sure who have always protected the Martins’ privacy and are grateful for the work he offers them around his property.
Before I departed, a few photos. As Adam, Sir George’s manager, grew comfortable with the lens, Sir George and I vainly removed our glasses. And as we waited for Adam to adjust, I realized our heads were just a foot apart and at the same height. In the quiet interim, Sir George turned and looked me squarely in the eyes. What an electrifying feeling, I thought, as I forced myself to retain his gaze and look deeply into his.
At first I was somewhat surprised by just how royal blue his eyes are. Like precious stones. But more importantly, as we stood for about 15 seconds locked in a truth search, I saw tenderness and a warm thanks. The pride and awareness of accomplishment were still there, but also in that gaze was a poetic vulnerability and pleasure that his singular contibution was being recognized.
In Part 4 of my interview for the Wall Street Journal, Sir George talked about the recording of Let It Be, producing the Goldfinger theme, and his loss of hearing...
Marc Myers: How would you have produced Let It Be differently than what we hear now? Sir George Martin: Well I had produced the original [laughs]. Let It Be is a big sword in my side. By then, John had gone off to New York and didn’t seem to like anybody at that point. He was going through a very moody phase. He was sloughing everyone off—Paul, George, Ringo, me and [their music publisher] Dick James [of Northern Songs Ltd.] in particular.
MM: Where did things start to go bad with the album? GM: From the start. John came to me and said, “I want to make this clear: we don’t want any of your production crap on this.” I said, “What do you mean by that?” He said, “No overdubbing. We do it live. We do it for real. We’re a good band. No additions of other instruments. None of your orchestrations. We’re a band. We’re a good band. We can do it.”
MM: That’s pretty blunt. GM: It was. John laid down these strictures. He said, “Moreover, we’re not going to edit. All of our masters will be finished works in the studio.” This meant no splicing if there were mistakes or sound problems. If that happened, we’d have to do complete re-takes.
MM: How did that work out? GM: In the studio, we started to record. I’d say, “Paul— that was very good but can we do another one? There’s a bit of a glitch on the bass.” So they’d do another one. “How was that?” John would say. I said, “Well, John, you probably heard it. You made a mistake in your thing.” He’d say, “OK, let’s do another one.” [Pictured above: John Lennon and Paul McCartney during the Let It Be sessions]
MM: How many takes? GM: On some tracks, upward of 50 takes. We were going through take after take trying to get the song right, raw—without any artifice. Ordinarily we would have spliced-out the mistake and splice in the fix. Not this time.
MM: Was this frustrating? GM: The process was driving me up the wall. And it was driving them up the wall. When we were finished, what we had in the can was a mess. They walked out. I had with me by this time [engineer] Geoff Emerick, whom they had shoved into the wilderness. They didn’t like what he did. I guess they would have liked to have pushed me into the wilderness as well but they didn’t dare.
MM: What happened next? GM: We recorded all over the place—Twickenham Studios and some at Abbey Road. I was getting more and more tired of it all. Then the Beatles brought in Glyn Johns, a very good engineer and producer. He was the one who kept the session together and made careful notes. At the end of it, we put together an album—warts and all, just as John had insisted—and gave it to EMI. But it was never released, thank god. It was shoved to one side.
MM: What happened next? GM: Paul came to me and said the Beatles wanted to go into the studio again to make another album. I said I didn’t think I wanted to do it. I had been bruised enough, thanks. Paul said, “No, we really would like you to do what you used to do.” I said, “Without John?” Paul said, “No, I’ve spoken to John and he’d be very happy. So we went back into the studio and made Abbey Road. John was as sweet as pie, and it was a good record—doing what they used to do.
MM: After Abbey Road, how did Let It Be wind up released? GM: I heard later that John and George had taken the tapes from EMI and given them to [producer] Phil Spector, who then did all the things that John wouldn’t let me do. It was baffling.
MM: What did you think of how the Long and Winding Road turned out? GM: I wouldn’t have orchestrated it that way, but that sounds like sour grapes. And I think it is. Because it’s a very good track. Paul actually is more bitter about how it turned out than me because it was his song. I was very disappointed with the entire affair, and even today, talking about it is painful.
MM: What surprised you most about how Paul and John wrote songs? GM: What’s the question, Marc? [Sir George became a bit testy here, under the impression that I was still asking about Let It Be]
MM: How did Paul and John work together on songs? GM: [Brightening] They worked together early on. But as they matured, that changed. They were kids, really. Paul and George were 19, with Paul turning 20 first. Gradually they made their own lives, deciding how things should go. Generally speaking, they were creating separate works.
MM: I love your orchestral albums of Beatles songs. GM: [Laughs] I was never very proud of them. The Hollywood Strings had already done something like that. I don’t know, they weren’t really my taste.
MM: Were they commercial adventures to raise money for your studio, AIR? GM: Yes, of course. I’m glad you like them. You’ve made me feel much better. On the other hand, it shows you’ve got appalling taste [laughs].
MM: Is your hearing loss a result of listening too carefully and closely to loud music? GM: No. It’s because I wasn’t listening carefully enough to the music. If I had been listening carefully, the music wouldn’t have been played for so long and wouldn’t have been so damned damaging to my ears. I didn’t know.
MM: What do you mean? GM: I mean in the 1930s, everyone smoked cigarettes. No one said to them, “Hold on, put that out because you’re going to kill yourself. You’ll get cancer of the lung.” Nobody said that. And people were still smoking over the decades that followed, until there was awareness.
MM: And in the studio? GM: Well, in the ‘60s, nobody said to us, “Don’t listen to loud music for too long because if you do you’ll go deaf.” I guess I found out too late. The fact is it isn’t just loud music that takes away your ears.
MM: How so? GM: You can be by an airplane when it takes off and it’s not going to damage your hearing. You might have a bit of ringing, but you won’t really damage it. The damage is caused by loud sounds, multiplied by duration of those loud sounds.
MM: So people today who walk around all the time wearing white headphones are in trouble. GM: They are. I tell young people that if you’re in a loud environment, like a disco or a very loud concert, after every hour, take 10 minutes and go outside and walk around. It doesn’t matter what songs you’re missing, you’re saving your ears. Let them repair. I never did that.
MM: How long were you in the studio each day? GM: I was listening to quite loud sounds for 14 hours at a stretch, day-after-day. The other thing people don’t realize is the damage is not always apparent very quickly. One day it first sneaks up you.
MM: When did you first become aware of your hearing loss? GM: In the ‘70s, I started to realize I couldn’t hear the top range the way I used to. It hit me when I was in my own studio and was doing some paperwork in the control room. One of the engineers came in to adjust the levels of the tape machine. To do that, you run a tape of tones through the machine, record them and adjust the playback heads.
MM: What happened? GM: He was doing this, and I looked up and saw all the needles going to the right. But I wasn’t hearing anything. Visually I can see it was loud but I couldn’t hear that. I said, “Bill, what’s that frequency you have going through there?” He said, “It’s 12 kHz.” I said, “Oh shit.” I knew I no longer could hear 12 kHz and never would again.
MM: You produced Shirley Bassey [pictured] singing Goldfinger, with John Barry’s orchestration. In the intro, are there just two trombones? GM: It’s trumpets and trombones. One of the trumpets reaches a semitone higher than the other, which produces that extreme sound.
MM: The vocal attack you got out of Shirley Bassey remains incredible, especially how she holds the last note. GM: I’ve had plenty of attacks from Shirley Bassey [laughs]. Before we did Goldfinger, we did I Who Have Nothing, which also was dramatic. She still is something. The days of those kinds of singers are gone.
MM: On John McLaughlin’s Apocalypse, what's the George Martin touch? GM: That’s probably the most difficult project I’ve worked on in my career—but also the most rewarding. I loved every second of it. The music was so intricate, but fantastic, too. The track that started the second side—Smile of the Beyond—was performed by John’s keyboard player, Gayle Moran, who today is Mrs. Chick Corea.
MM: How many takes? GM: About three. Gayle wanted to go and do more. But I said, “That’s the best thing you’ve ever done, let’s leave it like that.” It’s one of the most beautiful songs I’ve produced. John’s writing is so exceptional. I was standing on tiptoe in my producer’s shoes. For John, a 5/4 beat is like having honey for breakfast. 13/16 is more like it. He’s got some of the most complicated cross-rhythms. So when it came to editing, I had to physically do the editing myself, because it required knowing exactly which note to go through.
MM: If I said that George Martin helped rock grow up and become timeless, how would you change that? GM: If I did, I didn’t intend to. Because rock should never grow up. Rock is the domain of young people. Rock can improve and it can get better. But it’s vital that rock stays young. [A pause as Sir George looks off at the countryside.] You won’t find me making any more rock and roll records.
JazzWax tracks: John McLaughlin's Apocalypse is easily
the finest of his Mahavishnu Orchestra recordings. You'll find it here.
In addition to all of the British groups and artists mentioned here in the past four days, Sir George also produced Paul and Linda McCartney's Live and Let Die, Jeff Beck (Blow by Blow), albums by America, Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Cheap Trick (All Shook Up), The Who (Tommy: Original Cast Recording), Elton John's Candle in the Wind 1997 and many more.
JazzWax DVD:Produced by George Martin (Eagle Rock),
a DVD and Blu-Ray of a BBC documentary with additional material, is being released today in the U.S. You'll find it here.
If you're in New York, the documenary will be showing at Lincoln Center next week onSeptember 19 at 8:15 p.m. and on Septemeber 22 at 8:30 as part of the International Festival of Films on Art.
JazzWax clips: Here's the George Martin Orchestra playing This Boy. The easy-listening orchestra was set up in the mid-1960s by Sir George to generate revenue to help support AIR, his recording studio...
Here's John Barry's arrangement of the Goldfinger theme, produced by Sir George Martin and sung by Dame Shirley Bassey. Dig the final held note by Dame Shirley...
Here's Sir George Martin in his kitchen offering up his recipe for making the perfect gin martini. This is from the new BBC documentary. You'll also get to hear that great cellolike voice...
Wait, there's more!
In today's Wall Street Journal, I have two articles in the "Friday Journal" section. One is my interview with Neil Tennant of the Pet Shop Boys on Elysium, their new album (go here). It's adult pop at its best from the duo who brought you West End Girls in 1986, at the height of the Brit-pop invasion.
My other article for the Wall Street Journal today features an interview with fiddler-singer Amanda Shires and singer Caitlin Rose. Both sing tracks on Lowe Country: A Tribute to Nick Lowe (go here). If you're unfamiliar with Nick Lowe, you're in for a treat. The Brit-pop songwriter/balladeer has a strong country streak, and on this album country artists return the love.
Sir George and I spent a little over an hour in the gazebo on the lawn behind his summer house. Afterward we retired to his home's charming sitting room to enjoy tea and cookies that his wife, Lady Judith, served. Interestingly, many of his awards were sitting haphazardly on a shelf. Which makes perfect sense. What Sir George has seen and heard and the magnitude of his contributions to world culture transcends metal and wood, as prestigious as the awards are.
Sitting together on a sofa, Sir George opened his MacBook Pro so I could hear part of a work called The Mission Chorales that he had written using the Sibelius music-composition program while in the hospital a few years back. "I can't hear the music coming through the speakers but I can hear it in my head while writing it," he said. Sir George handed me the score, which I was able to read from my high school dance-band years. He hit the play button and out came a beautiful baroque hymn.
The music and voices were all computerized. "So much for worrying about musicians showing up on time," I quipped playfully. Sir George laughed. "Yes, but there's no replacement for real musicians. The human quality is so essential to music and you miss it when it's not there."
In Part 3 of my conversation with Sir George Martin for the Wall Street Journal, the esteemed producer talked about making Sgt. Pepper, Magical Mystery Tour and the White Album...
Marc Myers: What provoked you to start overdubbing extensively on Sgt. Pepper? New technology? Sir George Martin: EMI was always slow to adopt new technology. As a result, we made Sgt. Pepper on four tracks. What I would do is fill up two tracks of the stereo with the backing instruments—bass, guitars and drums. Then I would overdub a voice on the third track. On the fourth, I might overdub another voice. And then—oh, damn it, I’ve used up my four tracks [laughs].
MM: So what did you do? GM: I mixed down the four tracks to two tracks and would start again. But you can’t do that too often. The most I’ve ever done is three tapes to tapes, because each time you do that, the sound quality gets worse by the square of the times you’ve done it. So, for example, if you do three transfers, you are nine times worse off from the original sound.
MM: Did the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds in 1966 raise the stakes? GM:Pet Sounds was a great record. We all loved it. What was so good about it was the way the Beach Boys sang, the way their voices moved, and the contrapuntal quality of Brian’s writing. So I don’t know about raising the stakes, because Brian has since said to me, “When we heard what you’d done, we tried to do better.” So it had been a question of competition between the two bands, which I didn’t realize at the time.
MM: Was Phil Spector’s production style an influence? GM: I listened to everything—Brian [Wilson] in particular. I thought Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound was a fake. All he was doing was using lots and lots of instruments—two and three pianos and a lot of strings and brass and so on. He didn’t write the orchestrations. So there was no particular magic to what he was doing except that it was successful.
MM: Before you produced Sgt. Pepper, did you or the Beatles hear what Brian Wilson had been doing on the Smile tapes? GM: No, we didn’t hear them during Sgt. Pepper.
MM: But both the Beatles and the Beach Boys were on Capitol. Is it really that inconceivable? GM: For one, we were in England and they were in L.A. Second, nobody at EMI would ever have thought of acting as a go-between. The EMI people were dead from the neck up. You can print that, too [laughs].
MM: What’s your most inventive overdub on Sgt. Pepper? GM: I think that would be A Day in the Life, even though the overdub wasn’t my idea. It was Paul’s. The song remains a wonderful work. Every time I hear John sing the song, it stirs me. The curious thing is that John had written the first part but couldn’t think of what to do with the second half. He said to Paul, “I’m short. I haven’t got a middle. Do you have anything I can use?” Paul said, “Not really. I just have this: ‘Woke up, got out of bed…” and so on. John said, “That’ll do, that’ll do.”
MM: But the two songs couldn’t have been more different. GM: That’s right. Paul’s part was completely alien to John’s part—“I heard the news today, oh boy.” It had nothing to do with Paul’s part at all. Paul rightly said based on how much they had and needed: “We’re separated by 24 bars. Can we do something with that?” So we recorded it that way—the two sections joined by a big 24-bar hole in the middle. We just had the piano playing in the middle with [road manager and friend] Mal Evans counting off the bars. If you listen carefully, you can hear his voice in there saying, “13, 14, 15” and so on.
MM: What did you imagine would be ideal for the 24-bar passage? GM: I thought it probably needed a long guitar solo, or that Paul and John might ask me to write something. It was Paul who said, “Why don’t we get the orchestra to do a bit of a musical orgasm, from the lowest notes to the highest highs.”
MM: What did you think? GM: I thought it was a great idea but, of course, it had to be organized. You can’t just go up to an orchestra and say, “There are 24 bars here boys, you start on the bottom note and finish on top.” You can’t do that. So I wrote the score. It started out with the heavy stuff [sings] and then I wrote in the lowest note on each instrument at the start of the 24 bars and finished on an E–major chord at the highest end of each instrument.
MM: How did the orchestra know how to proceed in between the low and high notes? GM: At every bar line, I made a little mark approximating where they should be, so they had markers on the way up. This allowed the strings to slide up quite slowly. All of the musicians had to pace themselves. After I put the music in front of them, I explained what we were trying to do. I said, “Now listen gentlemen, we’re going to go from A to Z in 24 bars. I want you to make your own way up there. I don’t want you to listen to the guy next to you. Make your own journey, and if you’re playing the same note as the chap next to you, you’re wrong.” That was it. We did it, and it was pretty effective. Not effective enough though.
MM: Why not? GM: It needed to be bigger. Bigger in sound, bigger in feeling. We had the space in Abbey Road’s Studio One, so we did two more overdubs with all that sound going on. After that it sounded pretty good.
MM: Compare Sgt. Pepper with Magical Mystery Tour. Which do you like better? GM:Sgt. Pepper, without a doubt. Magical Mystery Tour was rubbish [laughs at his own audacity]. It wasn’t really rubbish, of course, but it wasn’t a complete studio album, as Sgt. Pepper had been.
MM: Fine, but why do you think it’s so inferior, as a package? GM: Well, name me a great concept song on there.
MM: Strawberry Fields? Penny Lane? GM: They weren’t on there. They were singles that were added.
MM:Blue Jay Way? GM:Blue Jay Way—OK, pretty good.
MM:Fool on the Hill? GM:Fool on the Hill—not bad. Not really great though. It was a bit of a meander. Lovely song and I enjoy it still, but not a great song.
MM: Why not? GM: Because it’s not Strawberry Fields or Penny Lane. Those songs were written about John's and Paul’s childhoods. Strawberry Fields was written first. I thought it was the best song I had ever heard in my life. And then Paul comes along with Penny Lane—his song about Liverpool. That was brilliant, too. Fantastic. Strawberry Fields in particular had this otherworldly character.
MM: You put them back-to-back on the same single. Good move? GM: The worst bloody thing I ever did in my life. It split them. It split the success of two great songs. It was the first time in 11 singles that we had failed to reach No. 1. In England, the record dealers who tended their charts were divided. Some put Strawberry Fields on there and some preferred Penny Lane. So the single split the difference and kept both songs from reaching the top. That was the stupidest thing I ever did.
MM: Why did you do it? GM: Because [Beatles manager] Brian Epstein [pictured above] had come to me saying he was worried about the Beatles slipping down the charts. He thought they were going down. He thought this was the end of their hit-making good fortune. He said, “I want you to give me a really good single.” I said I couldn’t give you any better than this one because it’s fantastic. It turned out to be too much of a good thing. But I’m curious: Why do you like Magical Mystery Tour so much?
MM: In America it was released as the follow-up to Sgt. Pepper. The pictures in the album booklet didn’t make much sense to teens. We weren’t aware at the time it was a movie soundtrack. We just thought it was an album with weird photos. And a great album at that. GM: Ah, that makes perfect sense. In the U.K., Magical Mystery Tour was a special double album with two, three-track extended-play singles. Yours was a single album, of course. In Britain, Beatles issues were on Parlophone and in American they were on Capitol. We had no control over what went out into the market in America.
MM: Why were there fewer tracks on American Beatles releases early on? GM: Tracks were eliminated by Capitol because they didn’t want to pay the additional copyrights. You had 11 songs per album in the States, we had 14. In England, the copyright was on the album and divided among the songs. In America, the copyright was on each song. So by trimming our albums, Capitol always had three leftover songs for the next record in America. They’d collect them and then release another album.
MM: What was the result on your end, as a big-picture producer? GM: It threw us all off kilter. I was very cross about that. These LPs in the UK were complete works as we envisioned them, and Capitol was snapping off songs and creating new albums with extra songs that weren’t conceived as complete packages or organized by us. I wasn’t happy with Capitol anyway.
MM: Why not? GM: Early on they had turned me down so many times when I sent along Beatles singles in '63. Capitol was purchased by EMI in 1955, and the man who was responsible for English imports at Capitol was Dave Dexter. Every song I sent, we’d get the same reply from him. When I sent Please Please Me, he said, “No George. Not suitable for our market. Sorry.” Next I sent From Me to You. “Sorry, George. It just isn’t right.” I sent him She Loves You. “George, you just don’t understand. America is different from England. Don’t you understand that? This won’t sell in America.”
MM: A little frustrating? GM: I got so bloody angry. I finally went to my boss at EMI, Len Wood, and said, “Look, I know we’re not allowed to have our records on any label in the States except Capitol. But I’m so sick to the teeth. I want you to agree with me that we can offer these to another label.”
MM: What did Wood say? GM: He agreed. The American labels were Vee-Jay and Swan. But they had their own financial and promotion problems, so their Beatles releases didn’t make much of an impact. Finally, Capitol came on board with I Want to Hold Your Hand in December ’63. They couldn’t possibly have refused that. Then, of course, they turned 180 degrees and said, “These are our boys. They’re wonderful guys, they’re wonderful songs. We’re very proud to have…the Beatles!”
MM: Was the White Album overkill? GM: At the time I thought so. But in retrospect, I was wrong. Back in ’68, I didn’t want to release a double album. I wanted to make a really wonderful single album. But the boys had been abroad in India with the Maharishi. While they were there, they wrote lots of songs for themselves, and they came back wanting to record all of them at once. There were over 30 of them.
MM: What did you say? GM: I pleaded with them, asking them to be sensible about these, to take the best ones for an album. But they wanted them out. So we recorded them all and made the White Album. In retrospect, the White Album has been a great success. So they obviously knew better than I did.
JazzWax tracks: All of the Beatles U.K. releases have
been remastered and issued on individual CD releases. In 2004 and 2006, Capitol issued two box sets of all of the U.S. releases up through Rubber Soul, including mono and stereo tracks. You'll find these boxes here and here.
In addition, EMI has just released a fully restored Yellow Submarine on DVD and Blu-Ray (here) and will release on October 9 Magical Mystery Tour on DVD and Blu-Ray.
JazzWax DVD:Produced by George Martin (Eagle Rock),
a DVD and Blu-Ray of a BBC documentary with additional material, is being released today in the U.S. You'll find it here.
After I arrived at Sir George Martin's summer home several weeks ago for my Wall Street Journal interview, the Beatles producer and I chatted briefly outside about my drive. Then he suggested we converse in a low-roofed gazebo atop a slow-rising hill behind his home. As we walked up the lawn, Sir George told me he had to rely on two hearing aids and lip-reading to converse. I asked if he could hear music. He shook his head. “I have it all in my head, of course, but I can’t hear the range of notes anymore. It’s frustrating.”
Sir George blamed his predicament on years spent in recording studios with music blaring for up to 14 hours a day. Which, of course, terrified me. What about all the kids who are walking around with white headphones for hours at a time? “I’m afraid it’s going to happen to them as well as they age unless they give their ears a chance to repair,” he said.
Up at the gazebo, we sat near each other on the green padded bench seat that wrapped around the big round wooden table. The acoustics were remarkably hushed considering we were outside and a corps of landscapers were snipping and trimming foliage around his property. Sir George wanted the proximity to be able to hear me and see my lips.
After I started my two digital recorders, Sir George leaned down and playfully said, “Hello, hello, testing, testing,” as though taking a reading on his studio mikes.
In Part 2 of our conversation, Sir George spoke about the Beatles and his contribution to their early hits (he still holds Billboard's record for No. 1 pop hits—23 in all)...
Marc Myers: What exactly did a producer like yourself do, for those who haven't a clue? Sir George Martin: A producer's role is still a mystery to most music-listeners, isn't it? Put simply, my job was to make sure recordings were artistically exceptional and commercially appealing, maximizing the qualities of artists and songs.
MM: In preparation for our conversation, I carefully re-listened to all of the Beatles tracks and noticed a pattern: All of the singles kick off with a catchy hook. Was that your idea? GM: Yes, mine. And theirs. The very first time we recorded Can’t Buy Me Love, I thought it was a great song but Paul wanted to start the record with the verse [sings the verse]. I said to Paul, “Why don’t we start with the tagline at the corners?” So I designed for him the “Can’t buy me love” intro that starts the song.
MM: That’s the Sir George fingerprint on hits, isn’t it? The catchy hooks. GM: I always believed that a good song had to catch the ear. People bought records in those days based on radio disc jockeys, and you had to grab the listener’s attention right away. If you could hook them, you had them. I wanted to grab the teenage girl’s imagination right out of the gate.
MM: Did the Beatles understand that early on? GM: Yes, for the most part. I think John would have objected to what I just said. He would have said, “This guy Martin is getting too popular. For God’s sake, he didn’t write the damn things.”
MM: The goal was velocity and impact—the shortest possible number of seconds to captivate the potential consumer. GM: That’s right. When I first met the Beatles in 1962, I didn’t think much of their songs at all. But they learned so quickly how to write a hit. They were like plants in a hot house. They grew incredibly fast.
MM: After a take, what would you do to determine if it was the master, the one to release? GM: Not by standing next to the monitor speaker, that’s for sure. It’s really in the music, isn’t it? You can actually judge a performance and the way an artist delivers the lyric, the way they sing their harmonies.
MM: That’s all? GM: In the early days, we didn’t do much multitracking. The Beatles were virtually doing live performances. Very soon they realized that they could probably improve their performances if they allowed themselves to overdub. And, of course, we did that.
MM: So you would be doing what exactly to get a quality take? GM: I would be listening to get the best out of an artist. And that would happen with the Beatles quite quickly. Sometimes they would go over the top and try to do better and start getting worse. When an artist had gone too far, you knew darn well you were getting inferior results. You could tell the difference.
MM: Like with Alfie, for example? You produced the session in '66, Burt Bacharach conducted and played, and Cilla Black, one of your EMI artists, sang. And sang—upward of 30 takes. GM: Yes. Burt wanted to go on and do more—beyond the many takes we had already done. I spoke over the studio phone to him. I said, “Burt, what exactly are you looking for?” He said, “I’m looking for that little bit of magic, George.” I said, “Well Burt, I think you got that little bit of magic three takes ago. Come have a listen.”
MM: Was Cilla grateful for that playback in the booth? GM: Poor Cilla. She was almost wrecked at that point. She had already gone over the top. Burt eventually chose the one I had played back for him. Later, Cilla said to me, “I’ve never been more grateful to any man in my life than to you at that time.” I’m sure Burt would have kept on going. [Pictured above: Burt Bacharach, Sir George Martin and Cilla Black at the Alfie session in Studio One at Abbey Road in the fall of 1965]
MM: Were you on the Beatles’ first flight to the U.S. in February 1964? GM: Not on the first occasion. Don’t forget, I was still working for EMI in 1964 and they weren’t happy to send a member of their staff abroad for seemingly no reason at all.
MM: Most people are unaware that in ’65 you left EMI to start your own company—Associated Independent Recording (AIR). Were you scared? GM: No, I wasn’t. Mind you, I didn’t want to leave EMI. I liked working at Abbey Road Studios. But fear wasn’t an issue by the time I left. [Pictured above: Sir George Martin and John Lennon at Air Studios]
MM: Why did you leave? GM: I wasn’t being paid enough. I was generating a fortune for EMI and was being paid a ridiculously low salary. I knew I was worth much more. I knew AIR would make it because we were good.
MM: Did EMI make you an offer to try and keep you? GM: No, they didn’t. Well actually, that’s not quite true. The head of EMI, Len Wood, did make me an offer but it was absurd. And it showed what a rotten mathematician he was [laughs].
MM: What was the offer? GM: He said he was going to give me a raise, which was marginal, and an 11,000-pound bonus for the previous year. But during our discussion he accidentally revealed how much I was worth. He said that EMI had earned 2.2 million pounds on the records I had made, which made the 11,000-pound bonus a bad joke. That convinced me that it was time to leave.
MM: The Beatles’ Yesterday is the start of your rock-classical studio experiments, yes? You had already used strings on Gerry and the Pacemakers’ You’ll Never Walk Alone in July '63, but Yesterday was different. GM: It was. We certainly had never done anything like it before—and no one else had either. When you listen to Yesterday, you can hear the classical value. Of course, I had heard the song quite often before we had recorded it. When we went to Paris in 1964, Paul would go to the piano [in his hotel room] and start playing it. He called it Scrambled Eggs in those days.
MM: What did McCartney think about the work in progress? GM: He was wired. He knew it was great. He said he had dreamed the tune and asked me if there was anything else like it. You know, you can write something you think is original but it actually can be something you’ve heard before that’s resting in your subconscious.
MM: What did you say? GM: I said I had never heard the melody. I said, “Take it. Don’t worry about it. Finish it.” Paul came up with the title Yesterday. I reminded him there was a song called Yesterdays. He said, “I don’t know it and no one else does.” When we came to recording it, Paul asked me, “How should we handle it?” I said, “You go down to the studio with your acoustic guitar and we’ll record you. I’ll think about it.”
MM: What happened next? GM: We did one or two takes, and Paul came out and said, “What do you think?” I said, “It does need something, but I can’t see Ringo banging away on it. And frankly, I don’t think we need anything really much. Maybe strings.”
MM: What was McCartney's reaction? GM: Paul made a grimace and said, “Hmmm, I don’t want Mantovani, thank you.” I said, “It doesn’t have to be like that—we can be more clinical. We can use a baroque string quartet.” Paul didn’t know what I was talking about. I said, “It’s a classical form—two violins, a viola and cello.”
MM: How agreeable was McCartney to the idea? GM: He said OK. So I wrote an arrangement. It was simple, really. He liked it very much. When Eleanor Rigby came along a year later, Paul said, “I’d like to use strings for this,” which was a tremendous departure from what it was originally.
MM: What do the strings add? GM: Drama and tension. They raise the song to a different place in the heart, don’t you think? My approach was greatly influenced by Bernard Herrmann and his film
score for Psycho. He had a way of making violins
sound fierce. That inspired me to have the strings play short notes
forcefully, giving the song a nice punch. If you listen to the two, you’ll hear the connection.
MM: After Rubber Soul, your rock-classical imagination began to widen, framing the Beatles with a growing level of symphonic intensity. What happened? GM: I don’t know [laughs]. The Beatles and I were of a like mind. We always wanted to try something new. The Beatles in particular were constantly coming to me saying, “What can you give us? What instruments do you know about that we could use? What recording ideas can you give us?” Their inquisitiveness pushed us into new territory. They lapped up new ideas. They were very curious people and wanted to look beyond what everyone else could do.
MM: John too? GM: Especially John.
MM: You played on quite a few Beatles songs. What’s your favorite George Martin solo? GM: Probably my piano solo on In My Life, from Rubber Soul. Because it was unusual. I was playing a "wind-up" piano.
MM: How did you invent that? GM: Expediency, old chap [laughs]. I found that on In My Life, I couldn’t play the piano at the speed it needed to be played, the way I’d written the part. I wasn’t that good a pianist, but if you had had a really good pianist, he could do it. I couldn’t get all the notes in. One night I was by myself and played the notes at half speed but an octave lower on the piano, recording at 15 inches per second. When I ran the tape back at 30 inches per second, the notes were at the right speed and in the correct octave.
MM: Did the piano still sound like a piano? GM: Not exactly. As you’re doubling up the speed, you’re also shortening the decay of each note. The piano’s sound has a resonance. By doubling the speed, you are cutting that resonance in half. That's why it sounds like a harpsichord.
JazzWax clips: Once Sir George had success with the Beatles in the 1963, Beatles manager Brian Epstein began bringing in a parade of Liverpudlian talent for him to produce. The list included Gerry and the Pacemakers, Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas, and Cilla Black.
I'm a big Cilla Black fan. To the American ear, she's an acquired taste, since her approach tends to be slightly over the top. But once you've made the adjustment, she sounds like English springtime. There's a girlish exuberance about her and a passion that made almost every song she took on shine. [Pictured above: Cilla Black and Brian Epstein]
The best set of Cilla Black material is Completely Cilla:
1964-1973, a six-CD box from EMI in the UK. It features mostly material produced by Sir George. You'll find the box here.
JazzWax DVD:Produced by George Martin (Eagle Rock),
a DVD and Blu-Ray of a BBC documentary with additional material, is being released today in the U.S. You'll find it here.
JazzWax clips: Here's Bernard Herrmann's Psycho theme—Sir George's influence for his string writing on the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby...
Here's In My Life from Rubber Soul. Listen for Sir George's "wind-up" piano solo, which sounds like a harpsichord...
Wait, there's more!
If you're in New York, be sure to pick up a copy of today's Wall Street Journal (or go here). In the "Greater New York" section, you'll find my profile of Joshua White of the Joshua Light Show, which appeared behind every act that played the Fillmore East from 1968 to 1971. Josh's light show is appearing at New York University's Skirball Center for five nights starting on Thursday behind a range of avant-garde musicians. [Pictured above: The Joshua Light Show's very first performance in December 1967, behind Frank Zappa in Mineola, N.Y.]
A few weeks ago, I rented a car in London and drove two hours west to visit Sir George Martin at his summer home for a Wall Street Journal profile. (The interview appears in today’s paper, or go here.) Directions took me through horse country, along narrow roads with dense hedgerows, but I managed to arrive at his home right on time, despite the demands of driving on the other side of the road.
When I pulled up the small hill and through the gate to Sir George’s property, I traveled a bit along a ginger-colored gravel driveway before arriving at his 260-year-old home, which he has owned since the 1970s. Almost immediately after I closed the car door, Sir George and his wife, Lady Judith, emerged from the house to greet me.
Sir George was dressed in khakis and an open baby-blue dress shirt. There I was, standing face to face with the man who had produced the Beatles, Cilla Black, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas, Jeff Beck, John McLaughlin, the Who, America and so many others. At roughly six-feet tall, Sir George and I were the same height, looking at each other eye to eye.
Sir George extended his hand and offered a warm hello and a sunny smile. What I noticed instantly about Sir George, in addition to his deep blue eyes, is his voice. It sounds like a cello and is at once commanding and understanding. It’s the sound of someone teaching you to sail or pitch a tent. There’s enormous experience and confidence in his voice, but there’s also optimism, whimsy and a deep, melodic quality that encourages you to dig deep for your best game and raise it a few notches just for good measure.
In Part 1 of my Wall Street Journal conversation with Sir George, the fabled producer talks about growing up outside of London, joining the Navy's aviation unit in World War II, attending music school after the war, and the big break that placed him in charge of EMI’s Parlophone label in 1955...
Marc Myers: Did your flair for the dramatic come from watching dogfights between Nazi and RAF planes while living in Bromley as a teen during World War II? Sir George Martin: Partly. There was something else. When I was a teenager in 1941, there was a film called Dangerous Moonlight, which starred Anton Walbrook. In the film, he plays a concert pianist. There was a special piece written for the film by Richard Addinsell called The Warsaw Concerto. I don’t think the film was shown in America at the time, but it was enormously popular here. At the age of 15, I learned to play this composition pretty well just by listening to it.
MM: Just by giving it a listen? GM: Yes. It was released on record. I also entered a talent competition and won first prize, which gave me some money and cheered-up my parents enormously. They thought their 15-year-old son had been wasting his time. The Warsaw Concerto was a poor man’s version of Rachmaninoff, whose piano concertos I also learned to love.
MM: Pretty dramatic stuff. GM: I’m not a drama queen. I don’t throw tizzy fits. I think the music that Rachmaninoff wrote was dramatic and very emotional and touched the heartstrings. But so did Ravel, Debussy and [Gabriel] Fauré. They are my favorite composers. I love the French for their fluidity. Their music just seems to flow, and their command of the orchestra is so magical.
JW: When were you first exposed to a symphony orchestra? GM: When I was 16, the BBC Symphony Orchestra came to my school and gave a concert, and I had a chance to see Sir Adrian Boult [pictured above] conduct. I had never heard a symphony before, had never seen one. The war was still on. When I sat and listened to these musicians—80 of them playing their different instruments—I was enraptured by them.
MM: Why? GM: I couldn’t believe that the sounds I was hearing were coming from people drawing bows across strings and blowing through little reeds or into brass mouthpieces. It was something I thought was wonderful and, I thought, gosh, that’s an amazing sound. I wondered if I could ever write music like that. [Pictured above: The BBC Symphony Orchestra in 1941 in Bedford, England]
MM: When did you start playing professionally? GM: I was never taught music. When I was 15 or 16. I led my own dance band. I did what Paul [McCartney] and John [Lennon] did many years later—I played in a group. But the music we played was Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey. It was music of the day, which we found easy to play.
MM: Did it pay well? GM: It earned us a few bob on the side and it was just a happy pastime. But my parents warned me not to give up my day job. They never intended for me to make music a career. They were frightened that I would try to do this. They believed that the life of a musician was a hard one. And they were right, by the way. The life of a musician is a hard one and they were quite right to be worried about me.
MM: So clearly you listened to them. GM: [Laughs] Like most young people, I ignored their advice. You see, the war was on and I didn’t want to join the Army. I knew that on the dot of the day that I turned 18, I would end up there. To avoid that, when I was 17, I walked into a Naval recruiting office not far from our home and joined the Fleet Air Arm, which was Britain's naval aviation unit.
MM: What did your parents say? GM: When I went home and told my mother, she broke down in tears. She said, “My god, you’re going to get killed.” I said, “Mother, I’m not going to get killed, I promise you I won’t.” Well, I kept my promise. During the time I was in the Navy, I corresponded with a wonderful pianist, Sydney Harrison, who was a professor of music at the Guildhall School of Music in London. I had met him through another pianist. Sydney urged me to take up music as a career.
MM: Did you contact him after the war? GM: Yes. He said, “You have so much talent in this direction. You must do this.” I said, “But I’ve not been taught. I’m 21 now. I can’t do it now.” He said, “Why not?” I said, “Don’t you think I’m too old to learn?” He said, “Of course not. I’ll arrange an audition for you with the principal of the Guildhall [pictured above]. If he thinks as much as I do of your compositions and your musicianship, you’ll be able to pay your way with a military grant.”
MM: After your studies at Guildhall ended in 1950, what did you do? GM: I went for an interview at EMI and was hired as Oscar Preuss' assistant. Oscar headed Parlophone, EMI’s smallest label at the time. Then in 1955, Oscar reached the terrible age of 65 and had to retire. At the dinner honoring Oscar, the chairman of EMI announced, “We’ve decided that the future head of Parlophone will be George Martin.” I was in shock. No one had asked or told me.
MM: For the next seven years you produced jazz combos, classical and comedians—most notably Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers. GM: They were a means of an end. Peter Sellers had this wonderful mimicry. He could do almost any voice. He did the most wonderful impersonations of Laurence Olivier and Alec Guinness. You couldn’t tell the difference. One of my favorites with Peter was a film we did with him dressed as King Richard III reciting the lyrics to A Hard Day’s Night in Olivier's voice.
MM: If a hit is a martini, describe the recipe for a Sir George hit? GM: Well, you need plenty of ice, first of all [laughs]. I relied a lot on my gut instinct and always chose to work with people whose work I enjoyed and with whom I enjoyed working. I don’t think I ever worked with an artist with whom I didn’t get on well—and if I didn’t get on well, I’d get rid of them very quickly. This manner of work often led to friendships.
MM: Who was the oddest of the comedians? GM: I suppose Spike [Milligan]. He was slightly mad, let’s face it, but he had a brilliant, alternative mind. He would never look at anything straight on.
MM: For example? GM: Just before he died, Spike rang me here at my summer home. But I wasn’t here—I was in London. John, my assistant at the time, answered the phone. “Hello?” he said. Spike said, “Hello. I’d like to speak with George Martin, please.” John said, “Who’s speaking please?” And Spike said, “Why, you are.” That was typical of Spike [laughs].
MM: Was your own sense of humor shaped by producing comedians' recordings? GM: I’ve never been without humor. It’s like a comfortable set of clothes. We were a happy family growing up and a funny family, too. My son [and producer] Giles and I are very much like each other. You need humor in the studio to lighten things up. If you can make people laugh, you’ve got them in the palm of your hand. They love you for it, particularly if they’re nervous. [Pictured above: Giles Martin and Sir George Martin]
JazzWax clips: Back when Britain's coins were larger and music halls were a primary source of entertainment after World War II, BBC radio aired a comedy program called The Goon Show. It ran from 1951 to 1960 and featured Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers and Harry Secombe. The trio also made recordings, which were produced by Sir George. You'll find some of them here and here. [Pictured above, clockwise from the top: Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe and Spike Milligan in a Goon Show promotional photo]
Sir George also made recordings with Sellers that made gentle sport of the Lennon and McCartney's lyrics. EMI Comedy: Peter Sellers features a few of these ingenious recordings. You'll find it here.
JazzWax DVD:Produced by George Martin (Eagle Rock),
a DVD and Blu-Ray of a BBC documentary with additional material, is being released today in the U.S. You'll find it here.
In the fall of 1951, Norman Granz staged his 11th national tour of Jazz at the Philharmonic. By then, he had started his Clef label, and musicians on this concert series were Ella Fitzgerald, Oscar Peterson, Lester Young, Hank Jones, Ray Brown, Gene Krupa, Flip Phillips, Illinois Jacquet, Bill Harris and Roy Eldridge.
JazzWax reader and photographer John Herr sent along his mint copy of the program. Here are all 24 pages, in order. Click on an image to enlarge. I've also started a list in the right-hand column so you can access this series easily in the future...
Dick LaPalm sent along the above photo. That's Dick on the left and Nat King Cole on the right in Chicago. Dick was Cole's record promoter and close friend throughout his career at Capitol, up until Cole's death in 1965. For those unaware, a record promoter was needed to get new records aired by as many radio stations as possible and for making sure that local stores were stocked with copies so listeners could buy what they heard. Dick and Cole's clearly was a fine partnership and friendship.
Red Garland and Oliver Nelson. Last week I posted on the only five tracks that were recorded by Red Garland and Oliver Nelson in March 1961. Why these tracks were never released and why these two artists never recorded again was thought to be a mystery. On Friday, long-time Prestige producer and radio host Bob Porter sent along an email...
"Red signed with Jazzland following the March 1961 Prestige session. He only recorded for Prestige on
one other occasion—October 9, 1962. As for Oliver, he was working with Joe Newman at about that time, but he was moving away from
being a soloist to being a writer.
"The recording session for his first big band LP (Afro-American Sketches) began in September 1961, and he also arranged strings for Etta Jones in July 1961.
"The Soul Burnin'
album wasn’t issued until 1963. As you noted, there was a ton of Red Garland in the
can. By the time I arrived at Prestige in 1968, there was
still a ton left. On my watch, Red Garland Revisited, The P.C. Blues and It’s A Blue World were issued. More came out during the Fantasy era.
"Red recorded with Paul Chambers and Art Taylor in a trio setting and with Ray
Barretto as a quartet (the best-selling sound), as a soloist and with
horns. If anything, he was recorded too often. But Bob Weinstock and
Esmond Edwards both dug him."
Terry Teachout. New England Public Radio jazz blogger and radio host Tom Reney interviewed author, Wall Street Journal critic and dramatist Terry Teachout on his new hit play, Satchmo at the Waldorf, which examines Louis Armstrong's complex relationship with manager Joe Glaser. Tom also interviewed John Douglas Thompson, who plays both Armstrong and Glaser. [Pictured above: Terry Teachout, left, and John Douglas Thompson]
Satchmo at the Waldorf will be performed at the Long Wharf Theater in New Haven, Conn., from October 3 to November 4. For more information on the play, go here.
West Coast jazz. The Los Angeles Jazz Institute is presenting quite a big band spectacular. The reunion bands of Woody Herman, Buddy Rich, Louie Bellson, Don Ellis, Bill Watrous, Stan Kenton, Thad Jones-Mel Lewis and many more (if that's possible) will be appearing. The 18 concerts will feature band legends and more recent cats filling the chairs. The festival runs from October 10 to 14. For more information, go here.
Who is Michael Pedicin? The saxophonist is quite extraordinary. I reviewed his most recent CD, Live @ the Loft, several Sundays ago. Bret Primack caught up with Michael in Studio City, Calif., last month...
Chick Webb. I recently viewed Chick Webb: The Savoy King, a new documentary directed by Jeff Kauffman. In a word, it's fantastic. Informative, fast-paced and analytic, the documentary gives you a first-hand feel for why Webb was special and the legacy he left behind. It will be shown at the New York Film Festival on October 3. For more information about the documentary, go here. For an interview with Jeff, go here.
Benny Golson. When I interviewed Benny Golson, most recently for the Wall Street Journal, we talked about Blues March, which Benny wrote for Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers in 1958. On paper, a march was the kiss of death for a hard bop quintet. But Benny had slinky, funky black college marching bands in mind when he wrote it. Benny urged Blakey to let the Messengers play Blues March, but Blakey was resistant. He thought it would lay there like a log.
Finally, Blakey relented at a New York club, and the song's 2/4 beat soon had everyone up and dancing. Here'sBlues March, as Benny imagined it, played by a big band. This clip was taped while the Messengers were in Japan in 1961...
John Graas. I've posted on French hornist John Graas several times, most recently here. Susan Graas McKeever, Graas' niece, recently sent along this clip. Dig the personnel at YouTube...
Marianne Trudel. French-Canadian jazz pianist Marianne Trudel and her trio are profiled by independent filmmaker Randy Cole...
CD discoveries of the week: On Hot House (Concord), Chick Corea and Gary Burton play straight-up jazz, with a competitive twist. Recording mates since 1972, here
they play together like musical otters—tearing here and there in perfect unison while at other times provoking and driving each other into tight corners. It's just Gary and Chick on this album, which lets you hear their interchanges clearly. There are lush extended solo intros by Chick and swinging melodic runs by Gary—free of rhythm section distractions. Sample Chega de Saudade, Time Remembered and Strange Meadowlark. Conversations between a pair of aces.
With the arrival of Unreleased Art Pepper Vol. VII: Sankei Hall—Osaka, Japan, November 18, 1980 (Widow's Taste), a new double-CD set, I couldn't help but wonder whether we were nearing the bottom of the Pepper
barrel. In recent years, Pepper's widow Laurie Pepper has released a steady flow of the alto saxophonist's recordings from the '80s. But as soon as I heard the first musical track, I was instantly reminded why Pepper remains so singularly important. The tone, command and innate sense of direction on solos are unrivaled. Interestingly, on many tracks, Pepper unites surfy West Coast jazz and the harder, freer jazz he embraced after being released from prison in the '60s. He's joined by pianist George Cables, bassist Tony Dumas and drummer Carl Burnett. Sample Straight Life, Winter Moon and Donna Lee. Bop for the people.
Whether he's playing or arranging, Alan Broadbent has great taste. On Live at Giannelli Square Vol. 2 (Chilly Bin), Broadbent, bassist Putter Smith and drummer Kendall Kay are captured live in Los Angeles. What makes this album special, in addition to its terrific fidelity, is how much keyboard real estate
Broadbent covers without ever pounding or attacking wildly. He's gentle as a lamp and lets out yards of impeccable improvisational runs effortlessly. And then there's his touch, which truly is unmatched. Sample Conception—and if you still haven't downloaded the album after hearing him play, try Wandering Road or Three for All. Perfection, delivered on the fly.
In the '70s, the Brecker Brothers planted one foot in funk and another in fusion and let 'er rip. As the electric guitar continued to dominate all other instruments, Randy and Michael Brecker kept the trumpet and sax vital by making the horns exciting. Six
studio albums and two live dates have now been remastered and issued in an eight-CD box: The Brecker Bros.: The Complete Arista Albums Collection (Sony). There were disco treatments (Don't Stop the Music), adult contemporary (Detente), bluesy electronica (Straphangin') and fusion (Back to Back). But the album that will likely be dearest to fans' hearts is their first—a tight weave of funk riffs, driving beats and red hot horn-reed configurations, with David Sanborn joining on alto. Time-traveling music.
Something From Nothing: The Art of Rap is a rap documentary that premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in June. In the documentary, Ice-T (early rapper who now plays Fin on Law &
Order: Special Victims Unit) explores the music's history with interviews and analysis. And naturally there's a soundtrack album. The Art of Rap (Legacy) provides a survey of powerful rap tracks dating back to the early '80s. Rhyming boasts atop intricate samples and electronic programs. It's easy to dismiss this music as the end of culture, but that would be a mistake. Sample Eric B. & Rakim's Follow the Leader, Mantronix's King of the Beats or MC Lyte's Cold Rock a Party. Tongue-twister tapestries with a thump 'n' bump.
Let's face it, the Brits invented hard rock several times over. If Deep Purple pioneered arena rock, then Judas Priest all but spawned the form we now call heavy metal.
The band began in 1969 and was soon delivering saw-bending sounds using two lead guitars, crashing drums and a chugging locomotive sound that had long-haired audience heads nodding in unison. One of the band's best albums was Screaming for Vengeance, released in July 1982, just before the Brit-pop invasion. Legacy has just remastered and reissued the alloy masterpiece, throwing in a DVD. A raw steel suspension bridge between punk and prog-rock.
Oddball album cover of the week: The cover of this album by stage
actress and comedian Nancy Walker clearly was a play on Cole Porter's I Hate Men. Nevertheless, it's a pretty ghoulish cover execution. In addition to hating men, it appears poor Walker also hated boys based on the plastic tyke's decapitation to her right. (A JazzWax thanks to John Cooper.)
Reggae's development in Jamaica has much in common with the rise of post-war jazz, and it parallels the surge of R&B in the U.S. Under British rule until 1962, Jamaicans in the '50s were increasingly conscious of American music when large sound systems and turntables became a staple of social gatherings.
In the years before Jamaica's famed record studios were in place, neighborhood yard-party disc jockeys relied on laborer-friends to bring singles home from the States after they finished working on American farms during harvest season. Musicians eventually recorded covers of these songs after Jamaica's independence, and you can hear the influence of prolific American R&B artists such as Fats Domino and Louis Jordan in early ska beats.
That's enough to get you started. Now go make some coffee (or popcorn, if you're reading this in the evening). Here's a three-part BBC documentary on reggae's glorious history...
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."
