JazzWax

Interview: Ronnell Bright (Part 5)

After rising to become the accompanist of Carmen McRae, Sarah Vaughan, Lena Horne and Nancy Wilson in the 1950s and early 1960s, pianist Ronnell Bright became a favorite of Johnny Hartman, Lou Rawls, Al Hibbler, Lorez Alexandria, Anita O'Day and other vocalists. Ronnell's songwriting stints with legends Johnny Mercer, Paul Francis Webster and Sammy Cahn in the mid-to-late-1960s encouraged him to branch out as a composer and lyricist. Ronnell's songs have been recorded by Stanley Turrentine, Blue Mitchell, Warren Vache, Freda Payne, Irene Reid and others.

Ronnell's achievements as a jazz pianist, accompanist and composer are extraordinary. But with enormous accomplishment comes deep disappointment, especially if you were part of the competitive West Coast popular music scene in the 1960s and 1970s.

Today in the fifth and final installment of my weeklong conversation with Ronnell, he talks candidly about golden opportunities that never materialized with Barbra Streisand and Doris Day, and why he ultimately decided to take Louis Armstrong's advice:

JazzWax: Based on your stories, it sounds like the West Coast music scene in the 1960s was a lot tougher than it seemed to average listeners.
Ronnell Bright: Look, the West Coast has always been a place that attracts large numbers of incredibly talented people. Back then, you didn't come to California to work a few days a week in the music business. It was a seven-day operation, especially as rock music ate into record company budgets. The stakes were higher. If you slowed up, someone else would get the gig. So you learned to take on  opportunities and pursue them whenever they came up, if only so you didn't later regret not doing so.

JW: For example?
RB: Sometime back in the early 1970s, my wife, Dianne, and I went to a restaurant in Los Angeles. Dianne noticed that Barbra Streisand and Jon Peters, who was her hairdresser at the time, were just a few tables away.

JW: What were they doing?
RB: Peters was saying something to her and it looked like Barbra was crying. Dianne said that we had to get Sea Mist to her. This is before I took it to Ella [see Part 4].

JW: How were you going to get Barbra to hear the song?
RB: Well there wasn't a piano in the place and we didn't have the music with us. Dianne [pictured with Ronnell] came up with an idea. She told me to keep them busy and said she would rush back to our place to get a cassette of the song.

JW: How were you supposed to keep them busy?
RB: I have no idea. That's what I told Dianne. She told me to do what I could before she raced out the door. Eventually the waitress came over to their table. Peters got up but Barbra looked out the window, I guess to hide her tears. Peters reached into his pocket for his wallet and paid. A minute or two went by and they got up to leave. I had no idea what to do. What could I say? I didn't have the music or anything.

JW: What happened next?
RB: Just as they neared the door with me behind them, Dianne came through. She walked right up to Barbra and said, “Miss Streisand, my husband there wrote a beautiful song that’s just right for you. I have a cassette and the music here.”

JW: What did Barbra say?
RB: Oh, man, Barbra wasn’t in the mood. She snapped at Dianne, “What’s this? What do you do—you write your own songs and hand them out and keep them with you all the time?” I was dumbstruck. But before Dianne could answer, Barbra said, “Give it here,” and she took the manila envelope Dianne had for her. Then Barbra and Jon Peters left and got their car.

JW: Dianne sounds pretty amazing.
RB: Oh, she is. She's my No. 1 fan. I said to myself at the time, if Barbra Streisand hears Sea Mist in her car, it has to get to her. She has such a beautiful voice, I figured the song had to touch her.

JW: Did Barbra tell you she was going to record it?
RB: A day or so later, we got the envelope back in the mail. Dianne had managed to put our return address on the outside while racing back to the restaurant. The envelope hadn’t even been opened. Someone had just written “Return to Sender” on the outside.

JW: That must have been tough to take.
RB: It was, it was. But look, in those years in California, when you took big risks, the payoff was either huge or you were disappointed for days or weeks. That's why you had to take those kinds of shots. You never knew what could happen.

JW: Sometimes breaks disappear due to misunderstandings.
RB: That's right. Someone you know says they're going to speak to so-and-so on your behalf. If the opportunity doesn't work out, it could have been because it wasn't put the right way.

JW: For example?
RB: Back in 1967, I got a call from Sid Feller, the arranger [pictured with Ray Charles]. We had worked together with Nancy Wilson. Sid asked if I was available to do a date with Doris Day. I said, sure, absolutely. I had always loved Doris Day’s voice. I thought, and still think, her tone and interpretations are so pure and lovely. She is truly exceptional.

JW: Was it a big date?
RB: Oh yes. When I got to the studio, there were a lot of West Coast heavyweights there: Barney Kessel, Irv Cottler and others. We did the recording over several days. When released, the record was called The Love Album. On the final day of recording, Sid came over and said Doris wanted to know if I could stick around afterward.

JW: What did you think?
RB: I thought I had messed up or something. All the guys were packing up to leave, and they kept looking back thinking I had done something wrong.

JW: What was the problem?
RB: Hang on, hang on. After everyone cleared out, Sid came back and said Doris wanted to meet me. I asked if I had done something wrong. Sid said, “No, no, it’s a good thing.” When I walked over with Sid, Marty Melcher, Doris' husband was there, not Doris. Marty [pictured with Doris] said that he and Doris were aware of my talents and that they enjoyed my recordings with Sarah and Nancy.

JW: What did he want?
RB: Marty says, “How would you like to write the theme song to Doris’ next picture?” I said, “You’ve got to be kidding.” Marty said, “No, seriously.” I said absolutely. I had just finished writing a song with Paul Francis Webster, who wrote The Shadow of Your Smile. I asked if they wanted me to call Paul. “No, no, Ronnell, we know Paul,” Marty said. “We want you to write the words and music yourself.”

JW: Did you take on the assignment?
RB: Oh yes. They delivered the script the next day. It was about the New York City blackout of 1966. It was called, Where Were You When the Lights Went Out? So I wrote and wrote and wrote the whole week. I figured that if Doris didn’t like one song, I could always show her another.

JW: So you scored the movie?
RB: About two days before I was to meet Doris at her office on Cannon Drive, Don Genson, her record producer, calls. He says, “Ronnell, I’m so sorry. Marty is unpredictable. He’s already made an agreement with someone else who’s going to do the score. We told him we already had someone to do the title song. But he complained that if he’s going to do the score, he also wanted to write the title song. So Marty made an agreement to let him do it.”

JW: What a lousy break. Who wound up writing the title song?
RB: That was the funny thing. When the movie came out in 1968, it didn’t have a title song.

JW: So they tied you up for weeks and that was it?
RB: No. Don Genson said, “Doris is very upset about this and wants to meet you at her office to make it up to you. She wants to do another project.” Man, my spirit was so down at that point. But I went anyway.

JW: What was Doris like?
RB: Doris was sweet, just like she is in the movies. You looked into her face saw that her eyes were soft and she smiled so easily. She was timid but pompous in a protective sort of way. She sat on a tall stool, and I sat at the piano playing. She said, “You know, Ronnell, how would you like to do an album with me—just the two of us?" I said I’d love to.

JW: Who else was in the room?
RB: Don Genson and her rehearsal pianist. Doris says, “I’ve got a book of sheet music from different Broadway shows. I'd like you to pick a selection of songs from these shows and arrange them in my keys." Doris is a beautiful singer, and I was honored. She said, “If you can come back in a week’s time, we’ll meet and try them out.”

JW: What did you think?
RB: I had just finished staying up night and day writing music for the movie job that was taken away. Now I had to do more homework. But that was fine. I arranged about half the music in her key by the time we met the next time.

JW: How did it go?
RB: Back at her office, her rehearsal pianist was there again. He was throwing me dirty looks the entire time. He didn’t appreciate my being there, and I could understand completely how he felt. And I felt bad for him. Doris and I worked for about an hour. Then I took a break in the hall. I felt awful and couldn't really concentrate with the guy hovering around me.

JW: Did Genson get the picture?
RB: When Don Genson came out, I said, “Don, I appreciate this opportunity. But why is her piano player here? He’s shooting me dirty looks and coming up to the piano and checking out my hands. I can’t work like that. I have to be free. Is there any way to tell Doris not to bring him next time? I want to check out her singing and phrasing on these songs. I also want to communicate with her musically. But this guy is making me nervous.”

JW: So Don took care of it with Doris?
RB: About 15 minutes later, Doris came out with a powder puff, took it out and started powdering her face. “Alright Ronnell, you played for Sarah and Carmen but you don’t want to play for me?” Just as I opened my mouth to explain, she turned and left with Don.

JW: What do you think happened?
RB: I have no idea what Genson said to her. He must have gone inside and said “Well, Ronnell's all steamed up and doesn’t want to play with you under these conditions” or something like that. Whatever he said must have hurt her feelings to produce that kind of reaction.

JW: Why didn't Doris ask you directly for an explanation?
RB: In those days, I think Doris was insulated by the people around her. Maybe there was an insecurity. I have no idea why she didn't jump in and find out the truth for herself.

JW: If you could tell Doris Day something right now, what would it be?
RB: I'd tell her what I didn't have a chance to say that day. To me, Doris was on the same level as Sarah, Carmen, Ella and Nancy. When she sang, she had the love coming right through her. I so enjoyed her singing, and it was a joy to play behind her on The Love Album. I think had we been able to record an album with just the two of us, it would still be considered a jazz and pop classic. But you know how things go—they often happen or don't happen for a reason. If she wanted to record an album with me today, I'd be only too glad to do it.

JW: How did you handle disappointments like that?
RB: Louis Armstrong once sat next to me on the piano bench. I said to Louis, “Do you have a line of advice for a young feller trying to come up in the business?” He said, “Just remember this, Fingers: Your health comes first.” That has always remained with me and has helped me shrug off many tough breaks.

JazzWax tracks: Here's a sampling of Ronnell's compositions recorded by a wide range of jazz artists:

Missing You was recorded by Sarah Vaughan twice—once on No Count Sarah (1958) and again on Close to You (1959). The latter album also includes Ronnell's I've Got to Talk to My Heart.

Carmen McRae recorded Sweet Pumpkin on Live at Century Plaza (1968), while Johnny Hartman recorded Ronnell's Don't Call It Love on I Just Dropped By to Say Hello (1963). Stanley Turrentine recorded And Satisfy on Rough 'n' Tumble (1966). Blue Mitchell recorded two of Ronnell's songs—Missing You on Out of the Blue (1959) and Sweet Pumpkin on Blue's Mood (1960). And Nancy Wilson recorded Ronnell's Funnier Than Funny on Gentle Is My Love (1965).

Interview: Ronnell Bright (Part 4)

As Sarah Vaughan's accompanist between 1958 and 1960 and in 1963, Ronnell Bright learned how to listen hard to singers and anticipate the rich musical support they needed to excel. By the time Ronnell left Sassy the first time in 1960, he was one of the most sought-after accompanists in the music business. When he left again in 1963, he became Nancy Wilson's accompanist and rehearsed her band.

After his years with Wilson in the late 1960s, Ronnell remained in Hollywood and became increasingly involved in playing and arranging for television. He even appeared as a pianist on sitcoms and movies (Sanford & Son, The Jeffersons, They Shoot Horses Don't They). He also continued to play on dozens of artists' albums, including Ella Fitzgerald's Misty Blue.

Throughout his West Coast period, Ronnell continued to compose, collaborating with Johnny Mercer and other leading songwriters. One day, in the early 1980s, he  even got up the courage to call Ella and pitch one of his songs, Sea Mist.

In Part 4 of our conversation, Ronnell talks about his work with Nancy Wilson and bandleader Ray Anthony [pictured] as well as a revealing encounter with Erroll Garner. He also candidly relates the events that followed his visit to Ella's house, illustrating the tough breaks that often follow triumphs in the music business:

JazzWax: How was Nancy Wilson to work with?
Ronnell Bright: Beautiful. They called her “Sweet Nancy” because she had such a sweet disposition. She was a lot of fun. Even tempered, and she never lost her cool. We first recorded The Nancy Wilson Show! in 1964. It was live date at the Coconut Grove in Los Angeles. At this point, I was becoming more and more a part of the Capitol Records scene in L.A.

JW: Did that include meeting your boyhood hero?
RB: Nat? Nancy knew how much I loved Nat King Cole as a kid. So she went up to him out in Los Angeles and said, "Nat, my pianist is over there and would love to meet you." Nat came right up to me and put his face in mine and said, “Hi, Ronnell, I'm Nat Cole.” Just like that. I just shrunk. This is just before he got sick. He said he knew me from Sarah's records. For years, he was to me the epitome of class and artistry. I was speechless.

JW: When did you find the time to write songs?
RB: Sometimes on airplanes or while waiting in a line. I'd write the words first, like a story. Then I'd add the melody and chords. I've written about 120 songs.

JW: You wrote Tender Loving Care, the title of an album you recorded with Nancy, with Johnny Mercer.
RB: I wrote the melody and Johnny [pictured] wrote the lyrics. Nancy loved my song so much she asked Johnny to write the words. She first sent him a cassette tape of me playing, and he loved the song. When he finished writing the lyrics, he called me on the phone. He said, "You know, Ronnell, when I finish the lyrics to songs, I always call the composer first and read them to him." After he read them, he asked me, "Is it alright? If anything is out of sync or cumbersome, you let me know." I told them they were perfect and it was such an honor.

JW: Did you and Johnny Mercer collaborate on any other songs?
RB: Yes, four in total. When I played Comet in the Sky for him at his house, he asked me to add notes in places so his lyrics would work.

JW: What kind of person was Johnny Mercer?
RB: All I know is my experience with him. He was a stand-up person. I remember attending a big gala event with my sister, Lois, in the 1960s. It was like an awards dinner. When I arrived with Lois, they announced us over the speaker system, like royalty or something, and said we'd be at table No. 39. Johnny jumped up from across the room and waved my sister and me over and said we would be joining him, at table No. 1 with his wife Ginger and daughter Mandy. He made room for us. Then he introduced me to Paul Francis Webster, who had just written Shadow of Your Smile. I wrote a song with Paul as well.

JW: Did Johnny ever give you advice?
RB: Well, we met for lunch about three weeks after the gala, and he asked me what I wanted to do ultimately. I told him I wanted to write for the movies. He said, "Well, I don't know. I don't think the time is right." I have no idea what he meant by that comment, but it sure was disheartening.

JW: What did you do after Nancy Wilson.
RB: I played with Ray Anthony [pictured] in 1970. Quincy Jones had recommended me because Ray needed a player and writer/arranger. We were at the Miami Hilton for about three months. Milt Hinton was at the Fontainebleau Hotel, and I'd go by to hear him, and he'd come over to the Hilton. We talked about everything, including bass players.

JW: Who were Milt Hinton's favorites?
RB: He liked Richard Davis, Red Callender and George Duvivier very much. All of those guys came through Miami, and I had a chance to work with all of them.

JW: Who was your favorite bassist?
RB: Ray Brown [pictured], because of those walking bass lines. When I play a single [solo], which I often did in the 1980s at New York's Essex House, I'd walk my left hand thinking of Ray Brown. I'd just turn my left hand loose and it knew what to do.

JW: Speaking of left hands, did you ever meet Erroll Garner?
RB: Oh sure. Erroll came by my house in California. He was playing at Donte's. We sat at my piano and he played and we talked about his approach. I said, “Erroll, how did you get your style?” He said, “Well, Ronnell, when I came along, pianists were all playing stride. Like Teddy [Wilson], Fatha Hines and Art [Tatum]. I never could do that with my left hand. But I could do it in one spot, in the same octave range. A lot of folks didn’t know I was left-handed. My right hand was weakest. I’d always have to play catch up with my right hand, which dragged a little bit.” That’s how Erroll’s style was born.

JW: Erroll must have been frightening to play with.
RB: He was. I talked to two bassists who backed him: Red Callender and Eddie Calhoun. They said you never knew what Erroll was going to do. He had no relationship to keys. He didn’t read music. He’d just play. They said sometimes they’d play Misty in B or F-sharp. The next night the song might be in E or A. Whatever Erroll heard at the moment. There were no difficult keys for Erroll. That's why Erroll always started songs by playing solo or vamping. It gave the bass player time to figure out the key.”

JW: What did Erroll think of you and your playing?
RB: He liked me. I didn’t realize that he had known me from my days in Chicago. He said, “I remember you at the Blue Note, with a trio. I wondered at the time why you were there. I thought you should be in New York.” That was nice to hear.

JW: Did you ever play with Ella?
RB: Yes, on a Country album called Misty Blue. I remember getting the call to play, and when I showed up, my fingers were all set for a swinging session. Instead, it was Ella on a Country date! At the time, they were trying to follow Ray Charles' model by mixing up her repertoire.

JW: Did Ella ever record your songs?
RB: Almost.

JW: Almost? What happened?
RB: Back in 1981, when my wife, Dianne, and I were living in California, on the beach. I called up Ella and told her that I had written a song called Sea Mist and that I thought it would be perfect for her. I told her I wanted to play it for her with hopes she might like it.

JW: What did she say?
RB: Ella said come on over. She gave me her address in Beverly Hills, and I drove out there. Her home [pictured] was stately and in the Spanish Mission style. When I arrived, she led me into a small room with a console piano. She asked if she could get me anything to eat or drink. I told her no thanks, that I couldn’t stay long and that I just wanted to play Sea Mist for her. And that if she didn’t like it, that would be OK, too. “You’re going to sing it, too, aren’t you Ronnell?” So I did.

JW: What did she think?
RB: Before I could finish the song, Ella was on the phone with Norman Granz [pictured] asking him to come over. She said, “Ronnell Bright is over here and he's playing it now.” A half hour later Norman was there, and I was playing and singing the song again. She and Norman spoke on the side. Then Ella asked if I could come back the next day. “I want Nelson Riddle to come over to hear it.”

JW: Wow, did he show?
RB: Oh yes. The next day I played Sea Mist for Ella, Norman and Nelson Riddle. Before I played, Ella told Nelson [pictured below] that Norman had raved about it and that it reminded him of a certain hit song from the 1930s. So I played and sang it again. At the end, Nelson asked Ella, “How do you want to do this?” Ella says, “I want to do it with the big stuff, you know, with violins, cellos, harp, everything.” So Nelson said OK, and he asked me to come with him to his office on Sunset Strip that day.

JW: What happened when you got there?
RB: I sat at the piano and played some of the substitution chords I was using that allowed me to go in different directions. Nelson [pictured] said Ella was going to Europe for two weeks and that he was going to score it for her during that time. A few days later, my phone at home rang and my wife told me Nelson Riddle was on the phone. I said, “Nelson Riddle? What?” I picked up the phone and Nelson said, “Ronnell? I just wanted to tell you that I just finished the arrangement of Sea Mist. It’s a beautiful arrangement. Thank you for letting me write a decent piece of music for a change. I’ve been writing such crap lately. The score is already at Ella’s house. When she comes back from Europe, she’ll find it on her piano."

JW: What did you say?
RB: I said, "Wow, thank you very, very much." He said, “See ya.” Dianne and I celebrated with champagne on the beach. We couldn't believe it.

JW: Did Ella record it?
RB: Hang on. Two months go by. One day I’m at the musician’s union office in L.A. and I run into Al Aarons, the trumpet player who was with Basie [pictured]. We were there picking up checks for studio gigs we had done. Al told  me he was on his way to do a recording session with Ella. I said really, what is it? He said it’s a Norman Granz-Nelson Riddle date. I said, “Oh man, I’m supposed to have a song on there. Ella didn’t call me, though.” Al said, “Hey, if you have a song on there, come ride with me.”

JW: Was it the right session?
RB: Oh, yes. When I walked onto the sound stage at the Universal lot, they were already rehearsing. Marshal Royal was there, Jimmy Rowles, Bob Cooper, Joe Pass, Shelly Manne and a full string section. I went into the booth and sat down next to a friend. I looked back at the controls and saw Norman [pictured]. I waved, but he dropped his head. There I am, anticipating Sea Mist. So I’m waiting for it to come up but it never does. On a break, Ella came into the booth and asked if she could talk to me outside for a minute.

JW: What did she say?
RB: We went outside, and she said, “You know, Ronnell, we’re not going to be able to do your song.” She said that Oscar would be so mad at her if she recorded it. Oscar? I thought to myself. What does Oscar Peterson [pictured] have to do with this? He has his own claim to fame. Maybe he wanted her to record something he wrote and she didn’t and that this would ruffle him. I don't know.

JW: Did she let it go at that?
RB: No, that was more of the set up. She continued that they were all ready to record the song but at the last minute, Norman decided he didn’t want any original material on the album, only standards people knew, to be sure the record sold. Ella said he substituted The Best Is Yet to Come because she hadn’t recorded it yet.

JW: What a blow that must have been.
RB: Tell me about it. When that album came out, I saw that the song they put in became the album title. I just sat there and just looked at the album. I was so sad.

JW: Hey, that score must be kicking around somewhere.
RB: Now hold on a minute. I’m not finished. So several years go by and I’m playing at the Essex House [pictured] in New York and living on 56th St., on the 31st floor. During the years Ella and I had kept in touch, exchanging Christmas cards and such. One day I get a call from Nelson Riddle’s road manager. He says he’s in town and that Ella asked him to call me. He asks if I can meet him in the lobby of his hotel on Sixth Avenue.

JW: Ella wanted to record it?
RB: Hang on. So I went over, we met, and he handed me the Nelson Riddle score to Sea Mist. He said Ella always felt terrible about what had happened and wanted me to have it as a gift. It had Nelson Riddle’s name on it and Ella’s name.

JW: You're an arranger. When you look at how the parts are written, how does it sound in your head.
RB: It’s plush, man. It's Nelson Riddle plush.

JW: Did you ever hire an orchestra to hear how it sounds?
RB: The closest I ever came was having the University of Kansas orchestra play the brass part. I was doing a concert there. But I have never heard the strings and orchestra parts together. One day, hopefully, one day.

Tomorrow, Ronnell shares other music business experiences in California with Barbra Streisand and Doris Day.

JazzWax tracks: Ella Fitzgerald recorded Misty Blue for Capitol Records in December 1967. A Country-themed date arranged and conducted by Sid Feller, the orchestra included a band, strings and choir. The CD is out of print, but copies are available at Amazon from independent sellers. To hear a sample of the title track, go here.

Ronnell's song, Tender Loving Care, can be found on a Nancy Wilson import CD that combines From Broadway with Love (1965) and Tender Loving Care (1966). Ronnell plays on both albums. I personally find these albums to be among Nancy Wilson's best. The edge in her voice is softened and her delivery is superb, backed by lush strings and orchestra.

Sea Mist, the song that almost was recorded by Ella Fitzgerald, is available on an out of print Bill Watrous CD called Trombone Summit: Smooth Talk (1990), on which Ronnell plays piano.

But you can also find Sea Mist on a 1996 Buddy Collette CD called Jazz for Thousand Oaks.

Interview: Ronnell Bright (Part 3)

Ronnell Bright has composed the music and lyrics to more than 100 songs. Some were co-written with Johnny Mercer, Paul Francis Webster and Sammy Cahn. About a half dozen were recorded by a wide range of jazz artists and vocalists. Ronnell also is a singer and an arranger. Yet Ronnell is probably best known as Sarah Vaughan's accompanist between 1958 and 1960 and again in 1963. During this period, Ronnell and Sarah recorded No Count Sarah, After Hours at the London House, Vaughan and Violins, Dreamy and other live and studio albums.

In Part 3 of my interview, Ronnell reflects on how he met Sassy, their close working relationship, why Sarah stumbled over the word "Parthenon" on After Hours at the London House, how Sarah reacted when he told her he was leaving to join Nancy Wilson, and what accompanying Sarah or any other greater song interpreter requires of a pianist:

JazzWax: Did you and producer John Hammond get along well?
Ronnell Bright: Yes. After the Rolf Kuhn recording and my trio date in late 1957, John encouraged Willard Alexander to come hear me play. At the time, Willard booked all the major bands and jazz artists. After Willard heard me, he signed me right away. One of the first jobs Willard booked my trio into was the Boom Boom Room at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami [pictured]. We played there for a week.

JW: What was playing the Fontainebleau like?
RB: Oh, beautiful. It was quite thrilling. Frank Sinatra was upstairs. The audiences were great. And stars dropped by to hear us play every night. But back at that time, blacks couldn’t stay on the same side of the beach as whites. We could work in the hotel, but when we got through we had to take a cab over the bridge to the Sir John Hotel. Basie’s band had to stay there, too. Same with Sammy Davis, Jr. and Lena Horne.

JW: When did you meet Sarah Vaughan?
RB: Around this time in 1957, Willard booked my trio into Storyville in Boston. Working opposite me was Sarah with Jimmy Jones on piano, Richard Davis on bass and Roy Haynes on drums. Sarah was a good friend of Carmen McRae’s and she knew of me. When I went into Storyville, I used Ray Crawford on guitar and a bass player whose name I can't recall. During the gig, Ray leaned over and said, “Hey, man, Sarah is sitting at a table right behind you checking you out.” I didn’t really pay much attention to what Ray said. We played opposite her for about a week.

JW: How did you become her accompanist?
RB: At the end of 1957, Jimmy Jones decided he was going to stay in New York and become a composer and arranger rather than continue to tour with Sarah. He had been with her for 10 years and wanted a change. So George Treadwell, Sarah's husband and manager at the time, called me. I went down to see him at his office in the Brill Building. He said Sarah was deciding between me and Wynton Kelly [pictured] and that it was down to money. I said it would be honor to play for Sarah and whatever she thought would be fair was fine with me. The next thing I knew, I got a call telling me to join her in Washington, D.C. Our first record date in January 1958 was for a few songs used on No Count Sarah. I played piano behind Sarah with Count Basie's band instead of Basie. I don’t know why Basie wasn’t on that date. I suppose I was there because I was Sarah's accompanist, and Basie honored me in that role by letting me play.

JW: You and Sarah were in Chicago in March 1958?
RB: Yes. We were playing Mister Kelly's. Late one night, around 2 am, after the third set, we rushed over from Mister Kelly's to the London House. We were going over there to record a live album for Mercury. If I recall, the same person owned both clubs. That was an amazing night. Everyone I knew was there: bassist Johnnie Pate, pianist Dick Katz, the guys who wrote Detour Ahead—guitarist Herb Ellis and bassist John Frigo. The place was packed. I think the session was the first time a record company recorded a live jazz date cold.

JW: Wasn't there any rehearsal?
RB: Not only were there no rehearsals, there were no charts. There was no time. Sarah went out and bought piano sheet music for each musician and passed it out on stage, at 2 am, just before we started recording. We had to transpose the sheet music to her keys. Everyone had to scuffle.

JW: How did four members of the Basie band wind up on the date?
RB: That's right—Frank Wess, Thad Jones, Wendell Culley and Henry Coker were there, along with me, Richard Davis and Roy Haynes. I believe Basie's band was in Chicago that week recording for Roulette.

JW: What happened on Thanks for the Memory? Sarah trips over the word "Parthenon," and she stops the song—twice.
RB: Sarah had sheet music for the song, like everyone else, and was reading the word "Parthenon," which was hyphenated. She was unfamiliar with the word or what the Parthenon was. So she couldn’t figure out where the emphasis was supposed to go. She stopped cold and calmly worked it out. That was Sarah, recording session or no recording session. No one on stage was prepared for that, as you can hear from the record. It was a live recording, and Sarah doing that was a little scary. But this is what made the session so exciting.

JW: Did you think she was going to abandon the song after the second stumble on the same word?
RB: I had no idea. I was about to say “Parth-ah-non” out loud to help her, but I caught myself, remembering we were recording live. So I stayed quiet. Sarah worked her way through it and kept the moment alive. That's what makes the recording so fresh today, the imperfection and the human quality of trying to fix a mistake. After the session, at around 4 am, we all went out to breakfast and had a blast.

JW: I always found it remarkable that you start Thanks for the Memory with subtle differences each time.
RB: You had to, or Sarah would hear you trying to do what you already did, which to her would be lazy. Sarah rarely did anything the same way twice. She came up through the ranks with Charlie Parker. It was a badge of honor to do things differently each time. There was no other way.

JW: Was it tough to anticipate what Sarah was going to do with a song?
RB: Sometimes. Sarah would change keys in the middle of a song. She’d go somewhere else, and we’d have to find her. She taught all of her sidemen ear training. You had seconds to figure out what she was going to do. It became intuitive. But once we were comfortable with her, we'd do the same thing to her. She’d sing in one key and we’d change keys so she’d have to find us. She liked the challenge.

JW: You were with Sarah for about two years.
RB: That's right. After the London House recording, we left for Europe, starting with performances at the Brussels World’s Fair [pictured]. Then we toured all over for about four months and recorded Vaughan and Violins in Paris in July 1958.

JW: Was Sarah all business?
RB: Yes, when it came to the music. But before and after a performance, she loved to have fun. And she was a mischief-maker, to throw you off your game. She’d hide our shoes just before the trio had to go out on stage. So we'd be out there with just our socks on. But we gave it back. She had this pink satin gown that she liked to wear night after night. We were tired of seeing it, so we buried it outside in a box.

JW: Did she know?
RB: She probably figured it out. She came out of her dressing room asking, “Where’s my gown? Who has my gown?” We never told her. Sarah was one of the guys, and she knew that fooling around was part of what made the music special. John Collins, Nat Cole's guitarist after Oscar Moore left, said that he was on a band bus with Sarah in the 1950s and fell asleep. When he woke up in the dead of night, Sarah was driving the bus. That's the kind of woman she was. Sarah called me her “backbone” and was very protective of me and all her musicians.

JW: While you were in Paris, you recorded an unusual trio date with Richard Davis on bass and Art Morgan on drums. It's unusual because instead of lush treatments, you're playing is heavy and bop-influenced. How did that come about?
RB: In late spring 1958, I went to the Mars Club. There were a few pianists there, including Hazel Scott, playing solo. So we had a jam session. Afterward, a guy approached me about recording for Polydor. I used Richard Davis and Art Morgan, an English drummer who was playing in town with Ted Heath's orchestra. I know what you mean, it was a different sound for me. I felt free and wanted to record faster, springy pieces I had written. After the tour, when we returned to the U.S. later in 1958, we played clubs and concerts with Sarah. Then we recorded the rest of No Count Sarah and another Mercury session arranged by Belford Hendricks.

JW: You left Sarah in 1960. Why?
RB: I needed to make more money. Roland Hanna replaced me on piano. I started another trio with Peck Morrison and Denzil Best, and we played mostly at the Cafe Bohemia and Birdland in New York. After my work with Sarah, I was very much in demand as an accompanist, so I found a lot of work with Lena Horne [pictured] and other singers. One time I was with Al Hibbler [pictured], somewhere in the mid-West. He had a nice car but he'd have to get his accompanist to drive, of course, because he was blind. I remember it was just the two of us, sometime in 1960. We drove to Indiana or Michigan. It was a one-nighter. We drove there, and he got in an argument with management because the owner didn’t want to give him his money immediately. It was a banquet or something. So Al went back to get paid and I went with him. He knocked on the door. There were two rough guys in there. Al asked again for his money. As soon as they start making excuses, Al starts swinging. I said, "No, no, Al, no, no man." Al didn't care. He starts screaming, "I want my money now." Well, he got paid, like always, in dollar bills, so he'd know exactly how much he had.

JW: You returned to Sarah in 1963. Why?
RB: Sarah wrote me from Sweden telling me that the city had reminded her how much fun we had in 1958 and asked if I'd accompany her again. Kirk Stuart, her pianist, was going to leave upon their return. When she got back, she came over to my house and talked to me about returning. The timing was good, since a show Lena Horne and her conductor and husband Lenny Hayton had put together was disbanding. So I went back with Sarah for a few months. Sarah recorded a few of my songs—Missing You and I've Got to Talk to My Heart.

JW: You left Sarah again in 1964 for good, this time for Nancy Wilson.
RB: Again, it was a money issue. Nancy Wilson's manager, John Levy, asked me to accompany Nancy and rehearse the band. I had a wife and family to support, and John was offering me twice the money Sarah was paying me. More important, I was going to get paid whether we worked or not, which was key then.

JW: How did Sarah take the news?
RB: I called Sarah on the phone and said that I got an offer I can't turn down. She said, "What do you mean?" I told her the financial terms I was being offered and said, "Sarah, look, there's no one I'd rather play for but you. You're the boss. But the offer is too good." So Sarah asks, "Who is it?" I said, "It's a young girl, Nancy Wilson." There was the big pause. Then Sarah quietly said, "Alright, Ronnell" and slammed the phone down so hard I could imagine pieces of it flying everywhere on her end. Bob James replaced me on piano with Sarah.

JW: Is it hard to be an accompanist?
RB: It’s tricky. If you’re an accompanist, you’re listening to find ways to enhance what the singer is trying to do. You're listening to the words. You're listening to hear when the singer breathes and the singer's phrasing. You learn when to fill in, to lead them to the next phrase if you sense what's coming up. Or you may need to get out of the way. It’s a delicate, delicate operation that takes place seconds before notes come out.

JW: Who taught you the most as an accompanist?
RB: Sarah. She taught me how to stay out of singer’s way and how to build before a singer opens up and emerges into something else. Playing behind a singer is strategic. I never had much piano music with people like Sarah and Carmen. I had the chord changes and that was about it. They were so busy phrasing or coming in when they wanted to come in. That forced you get into their heads and made you listen to what they were doing. The first thing you learn playing as an accompanist is how to listen. When you do, you’re taking that trip with them.

JW: How could you anticipate where Sarah was going on a song?
RB: Sarah had a way of telling you when she didn’t want you to fill in. She would tighten up the lyrics. For example, she’d sing: “The evening breeze, caress the treeeees, tenderlyThe shore was kissed…” No gap between the first and second line. She’d go right into the second line without a break. Now normally you would fill right in with notes after that first line, because that’s where most singers catch a breath. But Sarah might want to go on without that break to build toward something else she wantd to draw out. So she'd close the gap, which told you what to do. You’d have to be on your toes so you could anticipate what she was trying to tell you.

JW: That doesn't leave you much time to think.
RB: Tell me about it. Your mind is racing. You have to get there fast. You’re scuffling but you learn. Sarah always listened carefully to what I was playing or what the bass and drums were playing. You can hear on the records how she picked up on what we were doing, and how we did the same thing based on her phrasing.

JW: Was this true only of Sarah?
RB: No. Carmen [pictured] did that, too. She had that level of confidence and skill. It’s like Miles Davis. Most of those people, when they get out there on that stage and they’re really into the moment, they’re not involved with anything that’s set. The fun of the game is spontaneity. It’s like walking on eggs, and the accompanist has to be very sensitive to this. It’s a fun game.

JW: Don't all singers listen to their trios and interact with them on some level?
RB: Oh, no. Most singers feel like they’re doing the whole thing. They feel like when they hire you, they’re the musicians and that you’re just working for them. They try to tie you up a little bit and direct you in your approach to accompanying them. But when they do that on the job, they don’t do anything but frustrate the people they play with. It stops you from opening up and stops you from enhancing what they’re trying to do.

Tomorrow, in Part 4, Ronnell talks about his work with Ella Fitzgerald and relates a heartbreaking story with several twists of fate.

JazzWax tracks: The album that Count Basie recorded in Chicago for Roulette on March 4, 1958 was Chairman of the Board. Which is why four members of Basie's band were available to appear with Sarah Vaughan on After Hours at the London House on March 7.

I've written about After Hours at the London House several times. In my estimation, it remains one of the greatest jazz vocal albums ever recorded. If you don't own it, the remastered recording is available at iTunes and Amazon. The album is intimate and as close as you will get to going back in time to 1958 and experiencing jazz live.

While touring Europe with Sarah in the spring of 1958, Ronnell recorded a trio album in Paris in June. It's available on Jazz aux Champs Elysees. The Gitanes CD combines Ronnell's eight tracks with an album by pianist Art Simmons recorded two years earlier. The CD is available at Amazon. Or just download Ronnell's tracks at iTunes (the final eight starting with Sail 'em). What's fascinating about this album is that Ronnell took a break from creating lush fills and instead plays a robust piano, showing off his bop and gospel chops.

Vaughan and Violins with Ronnell on piano was recorded in Paris in July 1958. The orchestra was under the direction of Quincy Jones, who lived in Paris at the time. This session includes fabulous recordings of Misty and I'm Lost. It's available at Amazon.

No Count Sarah, recorded in January and December 1958, features Ronnell on piano with the Count Basie Orchestra. The album's high point, for me, is an unbeatable rendition of Moonlight in Vermont. If you don't want to invest in this CD, you can download just Moonlight in Vermont from Sarah Vaughan's Golden Hits at iTunes. I guarantee you'll play this track over and over again, and marvel at its sheer beauty.

Ronnell with the Jimmy Jones Orchestra, one of the only times these two brilliant Chicago accompanists worked together with Sarah Vaughan, can be found on Dreamy, recorded in April 1960. 

One of the great albums Ronnell made after leaving Sarah the first time is The Hawk Relaxes, with Coleman Hawkins, Kenny Burrell, Ron Carter and Andrew Cyrille. The 1961 recording recently was remastered by Concord as part of the Rudy Van Gelder series. Ronnell told me that Hawk didn't prepare charts for the date and that the songs were all done using head arrangements.

Ronnell's first album with Nancy Wilson was The Nancy Wilson Show!, recorded in June 1964. Nancy and Ronnell also recorded Tender Loving Care in 1966 (the title tune was written by Ronnell). They also recorded Nancy: Naturally! in July 1966, and Nancy recorded Ronnell's Alone With My Thoughts of You on The Sound of Nancy Wilson, recorded in 1968.

Ronnell won a Grammy in 1973 for his contribution to the album, Supersax Plays Bird.

JazzWax video: To see Sarah and Ronnell in action in 1958, buy the DVD Jazz Icons:  Sarah Vaughan Live in '58 and '64. 

Interview: Ronnell Bright (Part 2)

After locating Ronnell Bright several weeks ago, one of my supreme joys has been our frequent phone calls. The famed jazz pianist, singer, songwriter and accompanist has a speaking voice that's as caramel-rich and upbeat as his playing. Ronnell clearly is a kind, loving guy who takes great interest in others, a trait that served him well as a favorite of Sarah Vaughan, Carmen McRae, Nancy Wilson and dozens of other jazz singers.

Best of all, our recent phone calls usually end with Ronnell putting the phone down and playing piano for me. His technique has never been better, and his chord changes take your breath away. The fact that he isn't being recorded today seems like a terrible shame to me.

Yesterday, in Part 1 of our conversation, Ronnell reflected on his classical piano training, his gigs in the navy with the Adderley brothers [pictured] and Eric Dolphy, and his early work with the Johnnie Pate Trio at Chicago's Streamliner club.

Today, in Part 2, Ronnell talks about his early-1950s gigs with Carmen McRae in Chicago, his move to New York, his first recording for Ozzie Cadena and Savoy Records on a Frank Wess date, and the deal he struck with producer John Hammond to get his newly formed trio recorded.

JazzWax: What happened after your first recording in 1955 as pianist with the Johnnie Pate Trio?
Ronnell Bright: We became the house trio at several Chicago clubs. We worked The Streamliner on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, and on Monday and Tuesday nights we worked the London House [pictured, today, as a bakery]. We had the hot spots. Johnnie was an excellent musician and gave me a great sense of jazz. He taught me how to accompany and how to play.

JW: How did you wind up accompanying Carmen McRae so early?
RB: By early 1955, The Streamliner club had become so popular that the owner started hiring out-of-town singers. One of them was Carmen McRae. By then, I was able to do some polished things on the piano to back up a singer. I had the technique, thanks to my classical training. When Carmen came in, she was singing all the pretty stuff. She was very sweet then, like a debutante. At the end of her run, she gave me a picture with an inscription that read, "To Ronnell, Thanks for playing for me. You’re a marvelous pianist.” The next time she came through Chicago, we played the Blue Note [pictured], an even bigger club. The Blue Note was like Birdland. Everyone worked there, from Oscar Peterson to George Shearing.

JW: Yet you decided to leave Chicago in 1956 for New York?
RB: New York was where all the major music was happening. I had to make the move if I wanted to break out on my own. When I first arrived in New York, I contacted bassist Richard Davis [pictured]. He and his wife had just gotten an apartment. I asked Richard if he had a spare room, until I was able to find a place. Richard and his wife put me up for two weeks. This was July 1956.

JW: Where did you find work?
RB: Right after I moved in, I was walking near Birdland on Broadway and 52nd St. and bumped into Benny Powell. If you were looking for work back then, you hung out there hoping to get picked up for a gig. I had met Benny originally in Chicago, when Count Basie’s band played the Blue Note. In fact I met everyone while working there—Stan Kenton, Zoot Sims, Oscar Peterson, Conte Candoli and so many others.

JW: What happened when you ran into Benny?
RB: It was about 11 am when I met him. He said, “Man, Hank Jones was supposed to do a date with us for Savoy and he can’t make it. I thought I’d find someone down here. It's supposed to be at 2 pm. Do you want to make this date?" I said, "Sure!" Benny got on the phone and hooked it up for me. When we got to the date at Rudy Van Gelder's house in New Jersey, I met producer Ozzie Cadena. Eddie Jones was on bass and Kenny Clarke was on drums. Frank Wess [pictured] was walking around with pencil and paper putting together the arrangements for four trombones—Benny, Jimmy Cleveland, Henry Coker and Bill Hughes. Freddie Green was also there on guitar. Frank played flute. [The Savoy album was Trombones: Featuring Frank Wess, Flute.]

JW: That was a big break for you.
RB: I met some fast company that day. After the session, Ozzie [pictured] came over and said, “You’re brand new huh? I’d like to record you. Can you get it together in two weeks?” I said, “Well sure, of course. What kind of instrumentation do you want?” Ozzie said, "Whatever you want. Just get it together." So I put together a trio.

JW: Who did you get?
RB: I cold-called Kenny Burrell and Leonard Gaskin. I didn’t know them but I knew they were among the busiest session musicians in town. So I got with Kenny [pictured]. We had lunch, and I told him what I was going to do. He said he'd do it. Then I called Leonard, who also agreed to play the date. The result was Bright’s Spot, which we recorded for Savoy in the fall of 1956.

JW: What did you learn from the date?
RB: The session made me realize I needed to form my own trio for gigs and recordings. Kenny and Leonard were studio guys and did this as a one-time favor. I needed my own thing. So I went by The Embers and ran into Bill Clark, who was playing drums with George Shearing. George was going out on the road, and Bill said he didn't want to travel. So I asked Bill if he wanted to form a trio. He said yes. I also had heard that Joe Benjamin [pictured], Sarah Vaughan’s bassist, was leaving her. I asked Joe about joining, and he agreed, too.

JW: So now you had your own trio.
RB: We rehearsed for a time. Then I contacted John Hammond [pictured] and told him I had a trio. I asked if he wanted to come hear us rehearse at Nola’s Studios. When John came by, he was with Rolf Kuhn, a German clarinetist. Rolf was like Benny Goodman, as fast as greased lightning. While we were playing for John, I could see Rolf was checking me out. When we finished, John said he was going to record Kuhn and needed a trio behind him. But I told John I really wanted to record with my trio. John said if I recorded behind Kuhn for him, he would do something for me later. So I talked it over with the guys.

JW: What did they say?
RB: The guys weren't crazy about it. Like me, they wanted their own thing. So I didn’t give John an answer right away. We soon got a gig at The Embers and I told John we were there. He came by and brought Kuhn again. After our set, John said he really wanted to record the four of us on his Vanguard label. So we did the Kuhn date in November 1956. It was very technical stuff, but I was able to pull it off. The album was Streamline: The Rolf Kuhn Quartet. When it was released, it was a pretty big success.

JW: What about your trio date?
RB: I still wanted my trio to record. But Rolf [pictured] and the quartet caught on for a while thanks to the album, and we went into the Blue Note in Chicago. Bassist Johnnie Pate saw me there and ribbed me: “I thought you were going to get your own thing?” he said. I said, “I know, I know.” Johnnie was just kidding. He was happy for me. But he and I both knew what I ultimately wanted to do.

JW: Did John Hammond come through on his promise?
RB: Oh, yes. When I got back to New York, he recorded me in March 1957 with Joe Benjamin on bass and Bill Clark on drums. The recording was Bright Flight. After that record, my trio was established, and we played regularly in New York. From then on, musicians and singers started to take notice of me, as did Willard Alexander, the famous band booker.

Tomorrow, Ronnell talks exclusively about his years with Sarah Vaughan starting in 1958, the critical After Hours at the London House date, and what goes through a pianist's head when playing behind a singer like Sassy, who was famous for going off in any given direction at any time on a song.

Interview: Ronnell Bright (Part 1)

It took me several months and about six phone calls to track down jazz pianist Ronnell Bright. Starting in the 1950s, Ronnell was one of the most sought-after piano accompanists in jazz. No other pianist could match his sensitivity or taste in chords behind a singer, except perhaps for Jimmy Jones. Over the years, Ronnell backed Sarah Vaughan, Carmen McRae, Nancy Wilson, Doris Day and nearly any other singer who comes to mind. His strong skills as a songwriter and composer led to collaborations with Johnny Mercer, Paul Francis Webster, Sammy Cahn and others. Among the dozens of jazz artists who have recorded his songs are Horace Silver, Stanley Turrentine, Dexter Gordon and Johnny Hartman.

I first fell in love with Ronnell's impeccable touch back in the 1970s, when I heard Sarah Vaughan sing Thanks for the Memory on a vinyl recording of After Hours at the London House. What always struck me about that song, in addition to Sassy's shock-proof cool after twice flubbing the lyrics, was how Ronnell managed to gently start the tune three different ways, using lush chords and fabulous runs. His opening chords for Detour Ahead on the same album still knock me out.

For the past 10 years or so, Ronnell has lived in relative obscurity. I didn't even think he was still around when I started to research him and left messages for people who knew him. So imagine my surprise when three weeks ago I answered my ringing cellphone and the voice at the other end said, "Marc? This is Ronnell Bright." I nearly fell off my chair. There on the phone was my hero of that famous Sarah Vaughan session and so many others.

When I asked Ronnell whether the people in his town knew who he was, he laughed. "They know I play piano well, but that's about it." Over the course of several phone interviews, Ronnell, 77, talked about how he got his start, playing and touring with Sarah in the late 1950s, subbing for Count Basie on No Count Sarah, his encounters with Erroll Garner, Nat King Cole, Louis Armstrong and others, and playing with Nancy Wilson. We even talked about a few sessions that almost took place with Ella, Barbra and Doris but never came to pass due to twists of fate.

In Part 1 of my five-part interview, Ronnell talks about growing up in Chicago and how he got his start. Yep, it's Ronnell Bright Week at JazzWax, and when we're through, you're going to love Ronnell just as much as I do:

JazzWax: Where did you grow up?
Ronnell Bright: I was born in 1930 and grew up in the Chicago. My family was very supportive, and I went to a good school We lived on the South Side of Chicago, the Woodlawn area, which was a nice part of town. My father was a preacher, a straight-up guy and real nice. My mother was a former schoolteacher. I had three sisters and a brother. I was the baby in the family, and we had a beautiful time. We were a very musical family.

JW: Who did you listen to as a kid?
RB: Coleman Hawkins and Chu Berry with Fletcher Henderson’s Orchestra. My sister, Della Bright, was a singer in a vocal trio called the Rhythm Debs. They sang with Fletcher [pictured] whenever he came to Chicago. Fletcher used to come over to our house and chart out the vocal arrangements and rehearse the trio on our piano. I was four years old, but they let me sit there because I was very quiet.

JW: Did you understand what was going on?
RB: Oh, my yes. The playing and singing were so great. That’s when I got the bug to be a musician and go into show business. Another guy who used to come to the house all the time was David Young, a saxophone player. And my older sister married a saxophonist. I heard so much saxophone in the house that I wanted to play tenor.

JW: But you wound up a pianist.
RB: That was not my choice. It was my parents’ decision. We had an old upright and before I could see the keys I’d reach up and try to play notes. My parents started me on piano lessons when I was five years old. At first I didn’t like practicing, but later on I took to it. My teacher, Jeanne Fletcher, taught me classical—Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin and all of that. I had to practice at least an hour a day before I was allowed to go out to play.

JW: Audiences didn’t scare you?
RB: I was the kid who played classical music at all of the high school events. My memory was very good, and playing came naturally to me. When I was 8, I was called a child prodigy. I’d give recitals at theaters downtown, and teachers would bring their favorite students to hear me play. I always got nice mentions in the newspapers, and playing was a natural part of my background.

JW: Did you go to music school after graduation?
RB: I went for a year to a junior college and then decided to go my own way. In 1948, I enlisted in the navy and played in the band on our aircraft carrier, which toured the Caribbean. On board was singer Julius LaRosa [pictured]. We used to have music programs on board, what they used to call "smokers." I’d play piano and Julius sang. We became great friends. In 1949, I left the navy but had to remain in the reserves for four years. Just after I was discharged, I heard that Arthur Godfrey came aboard the carrier and discovered Julius.

JW: What happened after you left the navy?
RB: Actually, that period was short-lived. When the Korean War broke out in 1950, I was called back into the navy. They sent me to Washington, D.C., where they were going to ship me out. While I was there, I walked into the Navy School of Music based at the U.S. Naval Receiving Station, Anacostia Annex, as it was known then. Musicians were trained there for performances at the White House, Treasure Island in San Francisco, and other military facilities. I told them I was a pianist, but I wasn't immediately accepted because I was only in for a year. I asked if my orders could be changed to be a musician. So they auditioned me.

JW: How did you do?
RB: My classics were up to par. But then they asked me to play How High the Moon. I couldn’t because I wasn’t a jazz musician. I liked Nat King Cole—his smoothness, subtleness and creativity. But I was trained to be a classical pianist. They liked me and said they’d take me into the school if within six months I learned 25 popular songs and all the chord changes. It was the first time they had someone who was a proficient classical player but unfamiliar with the popular stuff.

JW: How did you pick up jazz so quickly?
RB: A few jazz musicians who were in school there helped break me in.

JW: Who were the musicians?
RB: Julian Adderley [pictured], his brother Nat, and Eric Dolphy. The army had sent their people to the Navy Music School, too. We were all together at that school for three months. Fake books had just started coming out, so I did a lot of playing and listening to get used to jazz. I think the first jazz song I played was I’m an Old Cowhand. Julian and I were in the barracks one day and he said his group needed a piano player for a gig that night. I said I didn’t know chord changes. But he said it didn’t matter, they needed a piano player. So it was me, Julian, Nat and Eric playing a gig in Washington, DC.

JW: But you didn't know how to play jazz. What happened?
RN: When we got there, Julian called for Blue Room. I said, "Blue Room? What is that, the blues?” They  teased me about that for years. Once they started playing the song, though, my ear figured out the chord changes. I’m not saying what I played was correct, but I worked it out. I played two or three jobs with them. Washington, DC, back then was still the South. On breaks, we had to go sit in the kitchen because they didn’t allow blacks to mingle with the audience then.

JW: So Cannonball, Nat and Dolphy got you started?
RB: Yes! What a group, right? Next I worked a gig with trumpeter Duke Garrette, who also was attending the Navy Music School. He had been with Lionel Hampton, and working with him let me learn some jazz songs. I had the technique. I just didn’t know how to weave and interweave chords. Swinging seemed to come natural to me, probably because of my love for Nat King Cole. One thing led to another, and the navy sent me to Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay [pictured] to perform in an 18-piece orchestra. There were good players in that band. On the weekends, I’d go into San Francisco with some of the guys and play officers’ parties, too. This was 1952-53.

JW: What did you do when you were discharged?
RB: I returned to Chicago and played piano as a solo. At this time, bassist Johnnie Pate was working with pianist Don Shirley as a duo. They were working at club called The Streamliner. Someone had heard Johnnie and Don, and tried to hire them to play The Embers in New York. Don went but Johnnie didn’t because he had a family. Johnnie recommended bassist Richard Davis instead. So Johnnie kept the job at The Streamliner. When I heard Johnnie needed a pianist, I contacted him and told him I was interested. He invited me over his house. I played piano for him but clearly didn’t have the mentality for jazz. Yet he liked my enthusiasm and was very patient with me. He showed me how to get through chord changes and worked with me on substitute chords and key changes. He hired drummer Charles Walton, and we worked The Streamliner for about a year. We also recorded in Chicago in 1955 as the Johnnie Pate Trio for Talisman Records. That was my first recording date, and the trio gave me a taste for how exciting jazz could be.

Tomorrow, Ronnell talks about moving to New York in 1956, his first recording session for Savoy, his first Savoy date as a leader for producer Ozzie Cadena, the bassist and drummer he chose for his first trio, and an agreement with John Hammond to back up clarinetist Rolf Kuhn on a record in exchange for getting his own trio recorded.

JazzWax tracks: Unfortunately the Johnnie Pate Trio's recordings for Talisman Records are not available on CD. Fresh Sounds issued an LP some time back, but the recordings have not yet be digitally mastered.

JazzWax clips: If you want to see and hear why so many vocalists, big bands and jazz soloists wanted pianist Ronnell Bright behind them, go here and dig Ronnell's extended solo with the Harry "Sweets" Edison Orchestra in 1989. Watch the effect his tasteful, swinging solo has on the band's seasoned pros. The smiles spreading on their faces says it all.

Phil Urso (1925-2008)

Phil Urso, a tenor saxophonist with honey-dipped phrasing who played with top jazz musicians on both coasts in the 1950s, including Miles Davis and Chet Baker, died on April 7th after a long illness. He was 83.

On Wednesday, I spoke with Phil's brother Joe, who remembered an easy-going player consumed by music and jazz at an early age and was heavily influenced by tenor giants Chu Berry and Sonny Rollins. But first, some background:

Born in Jersey City, N.J. in 1925, Phil started on the clarinet at age 13. After the family moved to Denver in the mid-1930s, Phil joined the navy during World War II and was sent to the Pacific. When a Japanese dive-bomber crashed onto the deck of his aircraft carrier near Saipan in 1943, Phil was hurled into the ocean, managing to avoid burning fuel and wreckage. After recuperating from trauma in California, Phil resumed his passion for jazz, and in 1948 recorded his first 78-rpm sides with Bob Karch, Tom O'Neil and Howie Mann.

Between 1947 and 1951, Phil played tenor in the bands of Elliot Lawrence and Woody Herman [pictured]. In February 1952, he recorded four significant sides with trumpeter Tony Fruscella, Herb Geller, Gene Allen, Bill Triglia, Red Mitchell and Howie Mann. The records, recorded in New York, featured Phil's advanced harmonic writing skills and a smooth, assertive playing style that would soon sway the phrasing of West Coast tenor saxophonists.

Phil led his first date for Savoy Records in April 1953, recording The Philosophy of Urso with Walter Bishop Jr., Clyde Lombardi and Howie Mann. Recording sessions with Kai Winding followed, along with a key Debut Records date with Oscar Pettiford on cello and Charles Mingus on bass. In late 1953 and early 1954, he played and toured with Miles Davis.

His association with Miles led to an off-and-on association with Chet Baker that started in 1954 and lasted nearly 16 years. During that period, Phil recorded as a member of Baker's quintet and big band as well as other Baker-led ensembles. Phil recorded Playboys (now known as Picture of Heath) with Baker, Art Pepper, Carl Perkins, Curtis Counce and Lawrence Marable. It was a session that demonstrated how effortlessly he was able to out-harmonize two of the West Coast's leading cool jazz ensemble artists.

In 1956, Phil appeared on the Tonight Show with Baker, Francy Boland, Scott LaFaro and Lawrence Marable. The group played two tunes, C.T.A. and Phil's Extra Mild. 

From the mid-1960s onward, Phil played mostly in the Denver area, recording only occasionally and usually captured live in a club setting. Then in 2002, Phil returned to the studio for the first time in 16 years to record Salute to Chet Baker, a stunning date with trumpeter Carl Saunders. It would be his last session. 

Despite rapidly declining health over the past few months while residing at the home of his daughter, Stephanie, Phil's memory remained intact. When I spoke to him about six weeks ago, Phil was clearly ill, but his spirits climbed quickly as we talked about his 1952 Tony Fruscella date. Within seconds, Phil clicked off every player on the recording and talked about his Mulligan-inspired composition, P.U. Stomp. "I wrote great harmonies for the arrangements on that one," he said before fatigue forced him to say goodbye.

This week, I called Joe Urso, Phil's 78-year-old brother. Joe idolized his brother and reminisced about Phil's career, pausing from time to time to gain his composure:

"Phil was a studious guy. The music got to him early on and stayed with him his entire life.

During World War II, he drove the commanding officer around on an aircraft carrier and played clarinet in the ship's band. In my swimming pool, when I lived in Florida, Phil showed me what he had to do to stay alive after being thrown overboard after that Japanese plane smashed into the ship. He said after he hit the water, there were flames everywhere on the surface from the fuel. He showed me in the pool how he went under and hoped that when he came up he wouldn't emerge in the middle of burning oil. I think his whole life flashed before him that day.

He was hospitalized with shock in Napa California. When my mother and first cousin visited him in the hospital, he couldn't even recognize them. When he came back home afterward, I didn't feel as close to him as when we were kids. That experience in the water stayed with him for a long, long time.

Phil joined Elliot Lawrence in 1949. Gerry Mulligan joined the band soon after, and the two of them became so close that some of the guys in the band were jealous. Gerry taught my brother how to play the piano and arrange. The drummer was Howie Mann, a family friend. Most people don't know that they had a quintet within the Elliot Lawrence band. It was Gerry, Phil and the rhythm section—with Bob Karch on piano. It's a shame they never recorded.

Phil joined Woody's band in 1951. Woody had a habit of playing old-fashioned tunes with a small group to give the larger band a rest. One day at the Hollywood Palladium, Woody was playing one of those corny tunes, and my brother started imitating an ape behind him. Woody heard the audience start to laugh. When Woody whipped around, he caught my brother. After the show, Woody went right up to my brother. Phil thought he was going to get canned for sure. Woody says, "The next time I play that song, I want you to do it again—and keep doing it until I tell you to stop. The audience seems to like it."

My brother and Conte Candoli [pictured] were tight. Phil loved Conte's playing more than any other trumpet player. They were both in Woody's band. In late 1953 and early 1954, Phil was with Miles Davis for six months. They started out at Birdland. By the way, Phil said Miles hated Symphony Sid, the radio disc jockey and a fixture at Birdland—couldn't stand him. Any way, the group went to Philadelphia and then out on the road. J.J. Johnson and Milt Jackson joined the group at different points. It was a sextet. My brother said the group got a great response. He roomed with Miles on the road. One time Miles came out of the shower and said, "Phil, what do you think about me being black?" My brother was taken aback, he was such a gentle guy. He said, "Aw, Miles, that stuff doesn't matter to me. All I know is you're the greatest trumpeter that ever lived." But that, of course, was tongue in cheek. Phil loved Conte most of all and told me so.

Miles liked my brother because he was easy to get along with and because he had a black sound on his horn. It was like Sonny's [Rollins]. Also, my brother's harmonies were unbeatable. Chet loved him, too. Chet couldn't harmonize with him so he played songs straight, preferring to have Phil harmonize behind him. 

My brother was very congenial. He was never a loner but he wasn't a follower. If he liked someone he'd go out of his way to say hello. He didn't fight. He lived in his own head with the music. Recently he told me he had a hard time falling asleep because the music was playing continually in his head. Sometimes it was the same tune, but always his stuff. When you spend your life in music like Phil did, the music gets so far inside your head that you can't kick songs out. One song that played over and over in his head, he said, was a song he wrote called Extra Mild. Art Pepper's wife claims Art wrote it, but that's bull.

Phil [pictured] said Tony Fruscella was a sensational trumpet player. Phil said that Herbie Steward came up with the title for his song, P.U. Stomp. I asked my brother if Herbie meant that as a joke, like, "You stink?" My brother said, no, it was just his initials. I was always very protective of Phil.

Phil liked Tony very much but Tony was an extreme user. When my mother sent me to New York with Phil, my job was to keep her informed. I was supposed to be the tattletale, and I let Phil know it so he stayed in line. If the offense was light, I'd never tell.

At the Paramount Theater in 1947, we were upstairs. I put down two telephone books on the chair so I'd seem taller than I was. But every time another musician would come in, Phil would introduce me as his "little brother." I hated that. They'd smoke grass and drink up there, but that was a light infraction so I'd never tell.

Chet Baker took advantage of my brother. In the early 1960s they played at the Banker's Club across the Hudson River in West New York, N.J. It had a big round vault door in the wall. I went out there with a buddy to hear Phil play. When I got there, Chet was playing but my brother wasn't. My friend noticed Phil sitting at the end of the bar. I got up and went over to Phil and asked him, "Why aren't you playing?" He told me not to make a scene. I said, "What do you mean? I brought my friend over here to see you. What's the matter?"

Phil says, "Chet needed some money. He got $50 for my horn." I grew furious and said I was going to level Chet. Phil said to forget about it. Chet had sold Phil's horn, he couldn't play and there he is siding with Chet! My friend came over and told me not to let it bother me. Then Chet came over. I asked him why he had done that. My brother leaned up to my ear and told me not to get too close. "Chet's like a cat, Joe, he's fast." My buddy had to hold me back. Chet didn't say a word. I told Phil that if that happened again, I would tell momma and that would be it. [photo by Jean-Pierre Leloir]

Now you got me crying. Hold on [pause].

When Phil played with Art and Chet on Playboys, you know what they did? They let my brother solo first so they could build their solos off of what he played. If you listen to Chet and Art on that record, they were playing what my brother played before them.

Gerry Mulligan also took advantage of Phil. I remember being in the bedroom listening in on the other phone when Phil called Gerry up in the 1960s. The line rings and Gerry answers. Phil says hi, and Gerry says, "Yeah, Phil, what do you want?" Yeah, Phil, what do you want? Screw you. Is that any way to treat Phil Urso when he calls?

This is where me and Phil differed. That stuff just went right over his head. I'd say, "Can't you hear that the guy didn't want to talk to you? You can't let people use you like that." Phil would just tell me I was over-reacting or that I heard things wrong. Phil was a beautiful guy. I loved him very much. We used to talk three days a week about everything, as recently as a couple of weeks ago. I miss him.

JazzWax tracks: Phil's recordings with Elliot Lawrence are out of print and most of his Woody Herman recordings are on an out-of-print Mosaic Records box, The Complete Capitol Recordings of Woody Herman available here used from independent sellers.

Phil's recordings with Tony Fruscella, including the fabulous P.U. Stomp with brilliant Mulligan-inspired harmonies, can be found on Tony's Blues here or Tony Fruscella: The Complete Works here.

Phil's December 1953 recordings with Oscar Pettiford and Charles Mingus can be found on The New Oscar Pettiford Sextet here.

One of Phil's best recordings with Chet Baker is Picture of Heath, which is available here or at iTunes.

But for my money, Phil's 2002 recording, Salute to Chet Baker, is one of his best, primarily because you get so much of him. Joining Phil was trumpeter Carl Saunders. Two musicians have never been better matched.

Salute to Chet Baker is available at iTunes for $9.99 or at Amazon here. Do yourself a favor and download one of the brightest lights of the tenor saxophone, a guy who was so deeply involved with the music that he never played a bad note or line. I've been listening to it relentlessly all week.

Dig Phil's blowing on Halema, for example. You can hear Chu and Sonny coming right through his horn. There isn't a bad tune on the album, and all of his ideas are strong and beautiful. It's five stars all the way. Phil, we all miss you.

Pete Turner: Album Covers (Part 2)

No matter how you felt in the 1970s about the jazz released by CTI Records, you certainly were mesmerized by Pete Turner's cover photos. Each cover offered a sensual explosion of wet, loud color and impossibly detailed images of nature and primitive life in Africa and South America.

The covers were so stunning that they often seemed too good to be album covers, leaving you a little dumbstruck about what to do with them. File them with your other records? Leave them out so friends and dates could see them? Slip them into plastic? One guy I knew stood them up on his shelf like family photos. The covers were designed to provoke an emotional reaction, and they often wound up making you feel like a wealthy art collector who also happened to like music.

In Part 2 of my conversation with Pete, the photographer talks about his breakthrough covers for A&M and CTI Records; the images used for Eumir Deodato's Prelude, Stanley Turrentine's Sugar and Kenny Burrell's God Bless the Child; and his three favorite album covers:

JazzWax: A Day in the Life for Wes Montgomery is an odd cover, isn’t it?
Pete Turner: Yes it is. It showed an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, with Wes on the back in a smaller image. It represents a day in the life. The mood we were shooting for is what someone feels when waking up in the morning, looking at the ashtray and saying, “This isn’t going to work.” It’s symbolic, with the lipstick on the cigarette butts.

JW: Was there any push back on the ashtray cover?
PT: No way, man. After that album came out you’d drive down Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood and look at Tower Records when they used to have all those album covers up against the wall. These albums would be popped up real big. They also stood out in the bins. That’s what I wanted to achieve.

JW: Shortly after Creed Taylor founded CTI Records in the late 1960s, he began using high-gloss covers. Was this possible due to some new technology?
PT: Actually the albums were laminated. Creed wanted those albums to be first class. He didn’t want to skimp on packaging. He realized early on that packaging was the way to go. Frankly, we could still be doing those covers if it hadn’t been for CDs. [laughing]. As soon as CDs came in, they killed the visual part of the music experience.

JW: Did they send you on photo shoots for CTI or were all the cover photos coming out of your library?
PT: Again, it’s not “they.” It was Creed. We think corporately today but back then Creed controlled it all. When you don’t do group think, you get more creative work. For one album called Soul Flutes, which featured four flutes, I couldn’t think of anything in my library that would work. I said to Creed, “What about shooting a beautiful pair of lips? Not the kind you see in Vogue. Let’s get an black model with great lips and we’ll paint them so they have a really different look.” Creed said, "I love it." So yes, I did shoot some of them.

JW: What was Creed like to work with back then?
PT: Quiet and very unassertive. He knew exactly what he wanted, and if he didn’t like something he’d let you know. But that was rare. We were always on the same page. I just liked the guy. He was straight up, and we got along fine. Ultimately, we both got what we wanted. [Creed Taylor pictured with Wes Montgomery]

JW: You and Creed took an approach with CTI that was somewhat counterintuitive—that the cover could be as artistic or even more so than the music inside.
PT: What blew me away then and still does is that listeners used to take the albums and open them up where their turntable was. They’d listen to the sounds and look at the pictures. I had a whole audience back then. It’s a shame people can’t enjoy album art any more.

JW: What’s the image on Eumir Deodato’s green Prelude album from 1972?
PT: In 1959 I had photographed a shadow at Africa’s Zimbabwe Ruins, which date back to the dawn of time. That image was already in my library.

JW: What’s happening on the cover of Stanley Turrentine’s Sugar?
PT: Back in the 1960s I had done a series for Look magazine called “Black Is Beautiful." The image on the cover of Sugar is an outtake from that shoot, of a mother licking a baby’s foot. Some people think it’s a sexual thing, but it’s not.

JW: Which are your three favorite album covers?
PT: I’d have to say Wave, Road Song and Jobim’s Stone Flower. Antonio was a great guy. We got along really well. I once asked him to pose nude and he said no problem. I wanted an embryonic figure. So he posed in a fetus position and I shot him straight down from my balcony.

JW: Was the image ever used?
PT: No. it has never been seen. I didn’t like how it turned out.

JW: Do you have all the CTI albums with your covers?
PT: Most of them. I think there are a little over 100.

JW: How many were used for your book, The Color of Jazz?
PW: A good percentage. Ashley Kahn wrote the introduction and the content inside, Quincy Jones wrote the foreword and Creed wrote the afterward. It’s not talked about, but every image for the book was rescanned. So these are pristine images, and the reproduction is pretty darn good.

JW: Where did you come up with the idea for the book’s cover? It’s an eyeball on glazed canned peaches.
PT: That was Creed’s idea. It’s the cover of Joe Farrell’s Canned Funk album. Creed suggested I use the cover cropped because it grabs you. Creed still has those great natural, commercial, artistic instincts.

JW: Did you get all the album covers that you wanted into the book?
PT: Oh yes. I had total control.

JW: When I went through the book, I was blown away by the stories behind each image. I wanted the book to be four times larger—the Complete Pete Turner Covers.
PT: You don’t know half the hassle that publishers put me through. I had this thing turned down a few times. Publishers are afraid of their shadows today. It’s the disposable world we live in. All they’re interested in is the next title.

JW: Is there a sequel coming?
PT: No. I’m toying with an idea of doing a smaller, paperback version so people can afford it better. But we’ll have to see.

JW: Give me a break—it’s only $29 at Amazon.
PT: I know. It’s a lot of work to produce a book at a high level, and you don’t make a dime.

JW: CTI Records had and still has a bit of a stigma attached to them. Some old school listeners feel that the label marginalized jazz.
PT: Who says that?

JW: People who think CTI Records were too slickly produced.   
PT: Granted, Creed had a roster of musicians he used regularly. But he gave those artists a glorious opportunity to make wonderful music.

JW: Do people ever come up to you and say they like the album covers but don't like the music?
PT: Never. I never heard a negative word about them. The kinds of comments I get are like your comments or “How did you ever get that image or color?”

JW: By any measure, your work is stunning and in many ways influenced a generation of advertising and magazine art directors in the 1980s.
PT: It all started with Creed. We had that meeting when I was a kid in the army and he loved my work. That’s the thing about Creed. He worked with the artists he liked and formed teams that produced highly creative work. Success in the arts is always built on great teams.

JW: Were any of your covers an accident?
PT: During the Vietnam war a helicopter took me to a volcano in Hawaii so I could photograph it for a client. After the helicopter dropped me off, I looked up at the insect-like machine hovering against the desolation and photographed it. We later used the image for Kenny Burrell’s God Bless the Child. People have always thought it was taken in Vietnam. It was shot in Hawaii.

JW: Do you enjoy looking at your album covers?
PT: Yes, very much. They give me great pleasure. But I don’t connect them with the music inside. That’s because I didn’t hear the music when we were creating the covers. Creed knew what the records sounded like, but the albums were never ready for me to hear. So I don’t link the two.

JW: Do you ever look at one of your covers now and have second thoughts about the image used?
PT: A few, but for the most part I worked closely with an art director and made sure things were right from the start.

JW: It’s rare that an artist can look at his work and enjoy it.
PT: I love looking at my covers, probably because I’ve forgotten the pain that went into taking the photos [laughing].

JazzWax pages and prints: As I mentioned yesterday, Pete Turner's book, The Color of Jazz, features vivid color reproductions of his jazz album covers as well as the story behind each photograph and how, where and when each was taken. The book is available online at Amazon here for $29.

Pete also sells limited edition prints of his album covers and other images for between $3,600 and $5,000. You can learn more about these images at Pete's website here or through the Fahey/Klein Gallery in Los Angeles here.

Pete Turner: Album Covers (Part 1)

When bassist Ron Carter and I spoke a few weeks ago about his work for CTI Records in the 1970s, we both remarked how stunning the covers were. "That's Pete Turner," Ron said. "Give him a call." So I did. Like all great jazz album photographers, Pete is as much a part of the music's evolution and the jazz culture as the musicians themselves. [photo of Pete in his studio by George Jardine]

Starting in the mid-1960s, Pete and producer Creed Taylor revolutionized jazz album cover art, ultimately altering the direction of advertising and magazine design. Instead of featuring jazz artists on graphically designed album covers, Creed and Pete went for full-blown, color-saturated photos of African and South American wildlife, geometric shapes, shadows and other images that purposefully created contrasts and worked against the grain of the albums' titles. In other words, the covers made you stare and think.

In Part 1 of my two-part conversation with Pete, the 73-year-old photographer talks about how he started in the business, his long-time professional relationship with Creed Taylor, and his turning-point album covers—Stan Getz's Focus, Antonio Carlos Jobim's Wave and Wes Montgomery's Road Song. We also talked about his new book, The Color of Jazz:

JazzWax: How did you get started in photography?
Pete Turner: I’ve always loved cameras and taking pictures. Even in grade school I had a small camera. In high school, in Rochester, New York, I was the photographer for everything, including the yearbook and newspaper. After graduation, I attended the Rochester Institute of Technology, which had a big photography department. It was near Kodak’s headquarters, so the company was always providing the school with the latest cutting-edge film, which at the time was color. I was a top student because I loved photography and had so much fun doing it. That’s where my career started. But as soon as I graduated in 1956, I was drafted into the army.

JW: Where were you stationed?
PT: Wait till you hear this. After basic training, they asked me what I was trained to do. I said I was a photographer. So they sent me to Indianapolis to the Army Finance Center Photo Studio. There was no war on so I was asked to photograph a general. He called me into his office and said, “Son, you don’t belong here. You belong at the Army Pictorial Center, the Second Signal Combat Team.” That sounded great, so I asked him, “Where’s that?” He said, “That’s in New York City.” The center turned out to be in Astoria, Queens, which is now the Kaufman Astoria Studios where they make movies [pictured].

JW: What was it like?
PT: Heaven on earth. They had a brand new lab, and they needed a guy to run it who knew color photography, which I did from school at RIT. I had a sergeant from Hawaii who said if I let him take credit for my work, he’d let me do anything I wanted. So here I am, fresh out of college, I knew everything about color photography and I’m running this $1 million photo lab. It was an official army barracks, with 100 guys in a room on bunk beds. But in the morning, I’d go down to my lab and work and be happy.

JW: How long were you there?
PT: I worked there for a year and half. On weekends I’d go into the city or anywhere I wanted to and photograph whatever I thought was interesting. They called it “on the job training.” During the week, if I wasn’t in the lab, they’d send me off on assignments, like photographing rockets down in Florida. I was living a dream. And learning. And photographing constantly.

JW: What happened when you were discharged?
PT: When I got out of the service, I moved into Manhattan and got a job with a company called the Freelance Photographers Guild. They soon got me an incredible assignment for Airstream, the trailer company, to photograph a group of people traveling overland from Cape Town, South Africa, to Cairo in their silver vehicles, something that had never been done before. National Geographic provided me with all of the color film. On this trip, big oil tanker trucks followed us because there weren’t any gas stations. We had 43 trailers creeping up Africa—and pre-independent Africa at the time. That was a big deal.

JW: When did you return to New York?
PT: About seven months later. By then, I had put together an amazing portfolio, since I had shot so many photographs in Africa. When I returned, I’d go up to Holiday, Esquire, Sports Illustrated and other magazines to show them a tray of my slides in hopes of getting assignments. I was just 26 years old, and they couldn’t believe my portfolio. Color was brand new, and my portfolio was all color. So I was considered hot.

JW: When did you get a call from record producer Creed Taylor?
PT: I didn’t. On the weekends, when I was in the army, I used to go into Manhattan. I’d take photographs for my portfolio and then go to record stores and look through the bins. I thought record covers were pretty interesting. Each time I’d run through the albums I’d see head shot after head shot on the covers. But every so often, an album cover would stand out. When I’d turn the album over to see what was going on, the album had Creed Taylor’s name on the back [pictured above]. I said to myself, “Gee I’d love to meet this guy. But he’d probably never want to meet me.” So on a lark, I called him up at ABC Paramount in late 1958 or early 1959. In those days, you could still get powerful people on the phone. We spoke, and I made an appointment to see him. When Creed and I met, I showed him my portfolio, and he liked what he saw. I had been working on weekends on a theme, “The Mood of New York at Dawn.” They were photos of quiet New York, in the snow and things like that. The photo series was for my portfolio.

JW: What did Creed say?
PT: Creed said he was doing an album called The Sound of New York and that one of the photos in my portfolio would be great for the cover. It’s the image of a traffic light against the Empire Sate Building. The image is so quiet. Creed loved the contrast. He loved using images that clashed with the theme of albums or provoked thought.

JW: Did you move with Creed to Impulse Records?
PT: Yes.  I shot Count Basie, two John Coltrane albums, Oliver Nelson’s The Blues and the Abstract Truth and many others for Creed there. Coltrane was very quiet and a nice guy. I photographed him at his house. His wife was there, too.

JW: Which jazz artist stands out most in your mind?
PT: Probably Wes Montgomery. In 1968 he sat for me at my smaller studio on 33d St. for about an hour and never complained. The photo shoot was for the back of Road Song. He left my studio, and then a short time later he died. I couldn’t believe it. The album was recorded in May 1968, we did the shoot in late May or June, and he died in June. I couldn’t believe it [pause]. I was young, and death wasn’t around me. He was really too young to go.

JW: Where was your larger studio in the 1960s?
PT: At Carnegie Hall. I think there are still apartments in there. I was on the 9th floor, on the 57th St. side. I had great space.

JW: How did you ever get that studio?
PT: I had to pay a lot of key money. But it was worth it. The musicians loved coming to Carnegie Hall to be photographed. But that had nothing to do with why I had that space. The studio had great northern light, and photo studios that size were hard to come by.

JW: What was the first big turning point in your cover art career?
PT: The first jazz album that pushed the “head shot” trend in another direction was the cover I photographed for Stan Getz’s Focus album in 1961. It was a transitional cover. I photographed Stan at one of his rehearsal sessions. I put a bright light behind his profile while he had his sax in his mouth. The light blurred him in silhouette and produced a great mood.

JW: But it was still a head shot. When did your cover themes become more iconic?
PT: When Creed became the jazz arm of A&M records in 1967, he thought we should get away from doing any sort of head shot on the covers. He thought too many covers looked alike. In 1967, he told me he wanted to produce a gatefold album you could open up and  put it on your tabletop to see a bigger picture.

JW: Which album was it?
PT: During a meeting Creed said he was finishing an album with Antonio Carlos Jobim called Wave. I had no idea what the music sounded like, which was the case almost all the time. They’d always be recording or mixing the album when the cover was being created. For Wave, Creed asked me to bring in images that I thought would work. But he added, “I don’t want a Japanese wave. I want something different.” So when I got home, I went into my files and pulled a shot from my library of the red giraffe.

JW: When did you take that photo?
PT: In 1964, during a photo shoot in Africa for Esso. The oil company wanted to become associated with Africa and didn’t know how to pull it off. In a meeting at Rockefeller Center, I came up with an idea to photograph an Esso fuel tanker and animal herds running along side of it.

JW: How did the executives react to that idea?
PT: They were excited. The head guy had an office so big I could hardly see him at the other end. All I remember is him saying, “Well, we hear you’re really good.” The next thing I know I had first class tickets to Africa. I got this great big tanker and snuck it into this area and started driving around with the animals. After I got the shots for Esso, I stayed on to isolate and photograph some giraffes for my portfolio. That’s where I made the shot that’s on the Wave cover.

JW: How’d you capture the red and purple colors?
PT: That’s a whole optical thing using special filters and machinery. Actually, the album with the green cover was a mistake. They switched the plates by mistake. But I kind of like that one, too.

JW: Did Creed go for the red giraffe right away?
PT: Yes. I brought the giraffe and other images in a slide tray. As soon as the giraffe came up, Creed said, “That’s it.” So I photographed Jobim in silhouette and we put him small on the back cover with the giraffe wraparound. The rest is history. That broke the cover routine of always having the artist on the front cover. Wave established a model that we used in many of the albums that followed.

JW: So they’d tell you the album title and you’d find a photo in your library?
PT: There was no “they.” There was Creed. And an art director that I suggested to Creed.

JW: You must have had some photo library.
PT: I think I did. I’m an artist, I mean I guess I am, you know. All through my career I’ve photographed pictures for myself. If I had an assignment to shoot an oil truck in Africa—which was my idea anyway—I also was going to photograph other things for fun. You do the same thing with your blog. You don’t’ get compensation for it. You do it for fun. So we’re on the same path.

JW: So the lesson is whatever you doing for fun, archive it and someday someone will want it and you’ll have it?
PT: I hear that. [laughing]

Tomorrow, in Part 2, Pete talks about his famous ashtray photo for A Day in the Life of Wes Montgomery, Creed Taylor and CTI Records, Deodato's Prelude, Stanley Turrentine's Sugar, and the dramatic album cover that was a complete accident.

JazzWax pages and prints: Pete Turner's book, The Color of Jazz, features crisp color reproductions of his jazz album covers as well as the story behind each photograph and how, where and when each was taken. The book is available online at Amazon here for $29.

Pete also sells limited edition prints of his album covers and other images for between $3,600 and $5,000. You can learn more about these images at Pete's website here or through the Fahey/Klein Gallery in Los Angeles here.

Dan Morgenstern at the Institute

I took five trains to see Dan Morgenstern on Friday. As everyone reading this blog knows, Dan is director of the Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers University. He also is winner of six Grammy Awards for Best Album Liner Notes and author of numerous essential jazz books and essays. [photo by Jim Cummins, NYT]

Dan also is a great guy. He and I had planned an afternoon together for some time, and Friday was the big day. So I boarded the #1 subway, transferred at Times Square for the R, connected to the PATH train, took it to Journal Square in Jersey City, transferred for the Newark train and then caught the Newark Light Rail for two stops.

Fortunately Dan had provided me with step-by-step directions, right down to a warning about making sure I had my 65-cent Newark Light Rail ticket validated ("If they check your ticket on the train and it hasn't been stamped by one of those machines on the wall, you'll owe a $100 fine," he warned).

Clearly, without Dan's meticulous guidance, I surely would have wound up in Ohio somewhere. When I arrived on the fourth floor of Rutgers' John Cotton Dana Library, there it was—the largest and most comprehensive library and archive of jazz and jazz-related material in the world. For someone like me who lives and breathes this music, the Institute is the research equivalent of Cooperstown.

For the next four hours, Dan gave me a personal tour of the stacks. We went aisle by aisle, section by section, looking at shelf after shelf of complete collections of jazz magazines from around the world, file cabinets of clippings arranged by artist, and 6,000 rare books dating back to the 1920s. Dan and I swapped information about different artists and looked over fabulous jazz periodicals, rare books and discography volumes. Dan is passionate about the Institute and all it has to offer, and his joy was evident. He guided me through the Benny Carter [pictured] exhibit, complete with Carter's passports, alto saxophones and trumpets, sheet music and other artifacts.

After touring the public space, Dan took out his keys and we went into what can only be described as a humidor for jazz albums. A massive, temperature-controlled, chilled environment held metal racks of 12-inch LPs, 10-inch LPs, 78-rpm discs and pizza-pie sized radio transcription discs. Just the smell of old records gets me worked up, and there were rare records and CDs as far as the eye could see.

Dan showed me the transcriptions and tapes from The Jazz Oral History Project of the National Endowment for the Arts, which was transferred to Rutgers in 1979 and features interviews with 120 jazz legends, all of them now deceased. He also showed me instruments that were donated by the estates of jazz greats, including Lester Young's tenor saxophone [pictured] and one of Miles Davis' green trumpets [pictured]. "Do researchers come to the Institute and never leave?" I asked in jest. "Actually, you're not too far off," Dan said. "People do tend to stay until the very last minute. Some would move in if they could." If you love jazz and research, the place grows on you fast.

Dan had questions about my master's thesis on the American Federation of Musicians strike of 1942-1944. Dan said virtually nothing scholarly had been written about the labor action that halted commercial recording and asked if I would be willing to provide the Institute with a copy for its archives. By all means, I said. We also exchanged stories about our early days working in New York City record stores.

Dan recalled his months at the Colony Music Store in the late 1950s, when it was located a bit north of its current location on Broadway. Dan recalled working with a salesman who could sell anyone anything. "Not in a bad way," Dan said. "He just knew everyone's tastes and could recommend albums that customers had to have. Wealthy South Americans would come in to spend a few hundred dollars and leave with a thousand dollars' worth of records."

One customer Dan recalled with a smile was Erroll Garner, who was the only non-employee allowed behind the counter to pick what he wanted, unassisted. "He'd favor Percy Faith, Andre Kostelanetz and other mood music recordings," Dan said. "Since Erroll couldn't read music, he always wanted clear, correct renditions of pop songs so he could hear how they were supposed to sound before interpreting them himself." Dan also fondly recalled working late nights as tipsy couples danced through the doors from the Palladium up the block looking for records of Latin artists they had just heard.

Fud Livingston was another frequent store customer, Dan said. The 1920s clarinetist, who played on many Bix Beiderbecke recording and wrote I'm Through With Love, was a heavy drinker and close to being homeless by the late 1950s. "It was so sad," Dan said. "He'd come in and go to the massive yellow book that listed all the songs and who recorded them. He'd open the book's pages to I'm Through With Love and say to anyone who'd listen, 'Here's the song I wrote and all the people who recorded it.' "

Dan and I then moved on to roughly 10 green metal file cabinets that had belonged to someone who recently died and had donated them to the Institute. Each cabinet was brimming with jazz magazine and newspaper clippings. "Someone will go through these soon to determine which of the materials we need to fill holes in our own clipping files."

Perhaps the biggest mind-blower of the day were boxes of 30 or more aluminum film cans. Here were the donated reels from the Francis Paudras estate, with some of the tins marked "Bud." Paudras had a close, three-year relationship with Bud Powell when the pianist lived in Paris and often filmed him with a hand-held camera. The cans were waiting patiently for review as soon as a grant came in to pay for an archivist to run the reels and digitally catalog the material on each one of them.

If you're a fabulously wealthy jazz fan and want to do a world of good, call the Institute to make a donation. If you want to learn more about the Institute, go here.

All I can say is thank goodness for Dan, Ed Berger (head of research services), Vincent Pelote (head of technical services and sound archivist), Tad Hershorn (an archivist who is completing a book on producer Norman Granz), Annie Kuebler (an archivist who recently organized a Mary Lou Williams collection) and John Clement (collection specialist).

Finally, if you're ever out Newark way, it's worth a visit to the Institute. But you should know in advance that the Institute offers no sleepover accommodations in the stacks.

Bud Shank: Bossa Nova (Part 3)

Bud Shank didn't invent the bossa nova. Nor did he record the first bossa nova jazz album. But according to Antonio Carlos Jobim, Bud's two Laurindo Almeida Quartet albums of 1953 and 1954 and his West Coast Jazz albums were a huge influence on the Brazilian music scene of the late 1950s. Searching for a way to cool off the Brazilian samba, musicians in Rio adapted the laid back California sound and borrowed some of the music theory invented by by West Coast Jazz artists, resulting in the bossa nova. In effect, if samba was Brazil's bop, bossa nova was the country's "cool" jazz movement. [photo of Bud, above, by Hans S. Sirks]

In the final entry of our three-part conversation on the jazz forces that converged to shape the bossa nova, Bud talks about his unplanned trip to Rio in 1965, his visit to Jobim's apartment and his current project with pianist Joao Donato:

JazzWax: When did you first travel to Brazil?
Bud Shank: In 1965 I was invited down to Buenos Aires, Argentina, to play some concerts. It was January or the beginning of February. I didn’t know anything about Brazil's Carnival at the time. I had heard about it from musicians while I was staying in Argentina. So when my flight home to Los Angeles stopped over in Rio, I decided to get off and reroute my ticket.

JW: How long were you there?
BS: I stayed in Rio for 10 days—the whole week of Carnival.  After I had made those records with Clare Fischer in 1962 [Bossa Nova Samba and Brasamba], this visit was my first opportunity to find the musical secret of the music, which by that time, of course, had become huge worldwide. In Rio I met Jobim, Luiz Bonfa, Sergio Mendes and a trombonist named Edson Maciel.

JW: Where did you meet Jobim?
BS: I went to his apartment when I was in Rio in 1965. It was during Carnival, and Jobim and other musicians were hanging out at his apartment. Luiz Bonfa [pictured] was there, too.

JW: How did you find your way to Jobim’s apartment?
BS: Edson Maciel, the trombone player I was hanging out with, took me there. Edson was a jazz musician and also very nuts, which was fine. He was my guide during Carnival.

JW: What did the group in Jobim’s apartment sound like?
BS: It was beautiful. They mostly played. They sang a little too. They had two guitars, and one guy with a key chain in his hand going ca-ching-ca ching and another guy scraping a paper matchbook on his pants going sh-shh-sh-shh. I had my horn but I didn’t want to disturb what I was hearing and they didn’t ask me to, so that was fine [laughing]. Hey, why play when you can listen? Just two guitars, a matchbook on pants and a keychain makes the wildest sound you ever heard in your life.

JW: It sounds like you were taken aback by the beauty.
BS: I was thrilled by what I was hearing. I had just come up from the streets where the true samba was still going on, with the whistle and the big drum and the trombone. The trombone is a big part of the samba. I don’t know how that ever happened but it did.

JW: What did you and Jobim talk about?
BS: A lot of things. Jobim told me that he and the other musicians had listened to my records with Laurindo Almeida in the early 1950s along with other West Coast albums I was on. He said those records helped them figure out what direction to go in. He said the records gave them something to work on. At the time they didn’t know they were heading toward bossa nova. The word hadn’t been invented yet. In fact, nobody even knows what it means today. It’s just a term someone made up and they don’t even know who it was. So they listened to our albums and then they added their playing, rhythm and new songs they were writing.

JW: How did that make you feel?
BS: It felt great to hear that they were listening to my music. It was very flattering. I did meet a terrific piano player down there, too, named Tenorio.

JW: You also met Sergio Mendes.
BS: I found Sergio myself. He was working right behind the hotel I was staying in. I didn’t know any of these guys. I just walked in and said hi, and they knew who I was. I was amazed. About six months after I returned to the U.S., Sergio came up with his group, we worked together at Shelly’s Manne-Hole and then recorded Brazil ’65.

JW: Do you think Stan Getz heard your Brazilian albums from the 50s?
BS: I doubt it. I’m sure he didn’t. Stan was Stan. He didn’t listen to much of anyone else [laughing]. What he did was perfect, with Charlie Byrd. Charlie was the one who brought the music and songs back when he was down there on a State Department tour, and Stan adapted it.

JW: Do you like bossa nova?
BS: What I like are various situations in which jazz music can be played. I was into much more than Brazilian music during this period. I got into Filipino music, Indian music and classical music as well as Brazilian. Today I suppose my 1960s work would be known as World Music. The record company I was with at the time—Pacific Jazz—and its owner, Dick Bock, knew I had this curiosity and passion for experimentation. So Dick started creating situations for me, like putting me together with new international artists. I recorded Koto and Flute with Kimeo Eto [pictured] in 1960. A koto is a Japanese string instrument. Eto was blind and could not speak one word of English. He wanted to record this unusual but serious material, which is why they needed a jazz musician who could play classical. The legit guys were too straight up and down, and Eto wanted flexibility. The music he handed me was double-sided. On one side were Japanese characters. On the other was music written in the European style, which helped a great deal.

JW: You played on the first Frank Sinatra-Jobim album, recorded in January 1967, with Claus Ogerman arrangements.
BS: That's right. If I recall, we used four flutes and strings. Sinatra was fine on that session. He yielded to Jobim when necessary.

JW: Was Sinatra tough?
BS: Nah. When Sinatra recorded, he knew exactly what he wanted—but that didn’t stop him from telling the guys in the band. But he always did it in a nice way. I remember on my first or second tour with him in Japan, I was supposed to play an improvised solo on clarinet. But I decided to play it on the tenor sax instead. The first time I did that, he turned around after the song with his “What the hell was that?” look. But he liked what he heard and wanted it in each time. I believe on that Jobim date, Sinatra was right in the studio with us, not in a booth. He liked to be right in with the band.

JW: Do you still travel to Brazil?
BS: Oh, yes. I love it down in Rio. I was there last October and recorded a DVD with pianist Joao Donato [pictured, in the 1960s]. He and I first recorded several times together. He may come up to L.A. at end of May. The guys who are filming a documentary on me shot footage of us down there, and now they want Donato to come up to L.A. and for us to play in club so they can get more on tape.

JW: Tough to escape the past?
BS: I suppose I’ll always be linked to Brazilian music. Hey, it’s beautiful stuff.

JazzWax tracks: Bud Shank recorded  Brazilian themed albums throughout the 1960s. his albums with Joao Donato include Bud Shank and His Brazilian Friends (1965), The Astrud Gilberto Album (1965), Brazil! Brazil! Brazil! (1966) and A Bad Donato (1970). Bud also recorded Plays Cool, Quiet Bossa Nova (1966) with Laurindo Almeida as well as Francis Albert Sinatra and Antonio Carlos Jobim (1967). In 1981, he recorded with Charlie Byrd on Brazilville.

More recently Bud recorded Uma Tarde com Bud Shank e Joao Donato. In addition, a DVD documentary of Bud's life, Against the Tide, is available. Both can be found at Bud Shank's website here.

JazzWax thanks: James A Harrod was kind enough to provide images of several album covers used above from his personal archive, as well as the black-and-white images by Woody Woodward of Donato (above) and Clare Fischer  and Bud (below).

JazzWax appraisal: Bud's 1962 albums with Clare Fischer [pictured below] are stunning works. When I heard them for the first time this week, I was taken aback. While Stan Getz's bossa nova album from 1962—Jazz Samba—is an indisputable classic, he plays the tenor saxophone high on the horn's register and is teamed with acoustic guitar. Which is great. But Bud's alto saxophone seems to have a more natural, comfortable feel for the tissue-soft, rhythmic music, and he's teamed with Fischer's piano, giving the music a different sound. Bud soars through each song while retaining the West Coast integrity of his phrasing and sensibility. His flute playing on these albums is equally delicate and seductive. His albums with Joao Donato are equally breezy and brilliant.

Bud Shank: Bossa Nova Years (Fresh Sound) is the double-CD to buy, if you spot it. It is a sampling of nearly all Bud's bossa nova albums from the 1960s. When Bud and I talked about these recordings yesterday, he said he, too, had heard them only this week for the first time. "I have made so many recordings, I can't keep track," he said, laughing. "When I hear myself play on these Brazilian sessions, I can hear myself intentionally holding back because the music was so soft." Bud holding back on blowing? Wow. You'd never know it listening to him here.

As I mentioned yesterday, the Fresh Sound CD is out of print and scarce. If you can't find it, look for re-issues of Bossa Nova Jazz Samba, Brasamba and any bossa album recorded by Bud.

But wait—I just dug through my bossa CD collection and discovered that Best of Sergio Mendes and Brasil '65 is actually the Brazil '65 album Bud mentions in his interview above. The Mendes album is available at iTunes. While Bud isn't playing on this album nearly as much as he should have been, dig his accompanying alto on So Nice, One Note Samba and Let Me, and his flute playing on Donato's Aquarius.

Even if you think you've heard it all, bossa-wise, I guarantee you're in for a big, big surprise with any of Bud's Brazilian-themed albums.