JazzWax

Interview: Creed Taylor (Part 6)

Between 1956 and 1961, Creed Taylor worked as a record producer at ABC-Paramount, a relatively new label at the time. But rather than function as just another executive, Creed was what we now call an "intra-preneur": A visionary self-starter who is given free reign inside a large company to take risks and produce results. Such types dot the landscape today at Apple, Google and other cutting-edge companies.

With the blessing of ABC-Paramount's upper management, Creed set about developing a new type of jazz record. Instead of mimicking Blue Note's hard bop style or Columbia's lacquered approach, Creed produced albums that remained true to jazz while appealing to audiences beyond the jazz elite. In the years that followed, Creed would build on this winning formula at Verve, A&M and CTI.

In the second installment of my conversation with Creed about his ABC-Paramount years, the legendary producer talks about the Oscar Pettiford Orchestra, Jackie Cain and Roy Kral, and how the award-winning Lambert, Hendricks & Ross' Sing a Song of Basie was recorded:

JazzWax: At ABC-Paramount in the late 1950s, you had a bird's eye of the record business. How was the industry changing?
Creed Taylor: Albums went from 10 inches to 12 inches after about 1956 and stereo was coming in. Even in the 12-inch LP era, radio was still the way to move jazz records. It took a while for TV to become a sales vehicle through variety shows. Rock ‘n’ roll, of course, was a different story. ABC-Paramount owned Dick Clark’s American Bandstand, and the show was key to moving teen pop records. Also, you had artists like Frankie Avalon who made movies. That was another arm for teen pop acts. I wasn’t involved in that.

JW: What about jazz?
CT: Jazz still sold primarily through radio shows, particularly black radio, which reached an influential record-buying audience and started what we now call "word of mouth." As a producer, I had to know the disc jockeys and the names of the record buyers. In some cases, they were one in the same. For example, the buyer for New York's Korvette’s department store [pictured] had his own radio show. So I got to know the people who worked for him and arranged a lot of in-store displays for my jazz albums.

JW: Did you get the sense then that rock was going to be trouble for jazz?
CT: I didn’t even think about it. I didn’t identify with rock and wasn’t interested in it. Maybe it seeped into my thinking when I started to ask myself what the crossover potential was of a jazz album or single I was releasing. The 45-rpm was important for jazz back then because of jukeboxes. Many people think of jukeboxes as record machines in soda shops and teen hangouts. They also played a big role in moving jazz records in bars and clubs and other places where jazz was played or where owners wanted to create a more sophisticated mood.

JW: The Oscar Pettiford Orchestra in Hi-Fi albums were superb. They must have been a thrill for you to produce.
CT: They were. Oscar and I were great friends. We talked music whenever we got together for dinner or drinks. When the idea for the albums came up, we’d talk about the musicians who were available. Oscar would say, what about so and so? And I’d say fine, but what about so and so? It was like putting together an all-star baseball team. Quincy Jones was there at the very beginning, too, and arranged some of the compositions, though he was uncredited.

JW: How did that unusual cover come about for the second one, with just the woman's legs showing?
CT: The cover was very clever. Members of the band were lined up, and in between them were a pair of female legs. But no top half. You did a double-take when you discovered the legs. She represented harpist Betty Glamann. I don’t know why Betty wasn’t in the picture. I suspect that’s why only the legs were shown.

JW: Who did the legs belong to?
CT: Fran Scott, Tony Scott’s wife. She designed my jazz covers at ABC-Paramount.

JW: Who’s on the cover?
CT: From the left, that’s Benny Golson, Dick Katz looking at Benny, Ray Copeland, Oscar Pettiford, Sahib Shihab, Jerome Richardson and Tony Scott with his back to the camera. Tony wasn't on the date, so Fran used him without his face showing. I don't know how Fran worked in only her legs, but the image certainly caught the attention of curious record buyers.

JW: How long had Fran worked with you at ABC?
CT: I brought Fran in, and she had an office right next to mine. Tony Scott had recorded for me at ABC when I put a jazz compilation together called Know Your Jazz in 1956. I first met Tony when he was playing with Claude Thornhill’s band back in 1949. Actually I jammed with the band when they played an after-hours club following a dance performance at Duke University. The experience was just amazing. That band had two French horns and woodwinds. It was tremendous fun to play trumpet with them. What many people overlook is that Tony Scott was an essential part of the Thornhill sound. I know that Gil [Evans] put him in that spot in the band. The sound of two French horns and Tony Scott's clarinet was unbelievable.

JW: You also brought Jackie Cain and Roy Kral to ABC.
CT: I first heard them on a transistor radio I carried around with me at Duke. There was a station in Durham that played jazz. I heard them sing I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles. Their singing blew me away, though I wasn't a fan of the tenor player [Charlie Ventura]. So when I got to ABC years later, I called Jackie and Roy, and they signed. We recorded The Glory of Love, Bits and Pieces and Free and Easy. Jackie’s intonation was beyond belief. She’d nail stuff on one take. Being husband and wife, they’d be totally rehearsed and do it all effortlessly. Jackie and Roy were like two peas in a pod, always happy, always smiling.

JW: Some of those albums were recorded on the West Coast. You flew back and forth?
CT: Well, sure. The West Coast recordings were done in the Capitol Tower. The whole atmosphere was different out there. It was relaxed in a different way. There wasn’t the same sense of humor that prevailed on the East Coast. There also wasn't a Charlie’s Tavern as a central hangout for all the players. Everyone drove to the dates, and there were more white players out there than black ones. It wasn’t my bag.

JW: Why do you think Jackie and Roy never reached a higher level of popularity?
CT: Probably because there was a high level of sophistication and cleverness with their music.

JW: How did Lambert, Hendricks & Ross’ Sing a Song of Basie come about in August 1957?
CT: Dave Lambert and Jon Hendricks came to me with the idea. I already knew Dave. I used to run into him in Greenwich Village. He made chimneys for people and was a carpenter when he wasn’t singing. Dave and Jon told me what they had in mind: a vocal album of Count Basie tunes. The two of them would be joined by other vocalists, and they'd all sing the different instrumental parts.

JW: What did you think?
CT: I loved the idea right away. Dave had already transcribed the Basie arrangements, and Jon wrote terrific lyrics for the songs. I thought the natural thing to do was to get the Basie rhythm section, man for man. So I made a few calls, and guitarist Freddie Greene [pictured], bassist Eddie Jones and drummer Sonny Payne were there for the date. Nat Pierce was on piano.

JW: Obviously something went wrong.
CT: The studio singers Dave brought to Beltone Studios at 4 West 31st St. didn’t swing. We started recording, and about a half hour into it, I knew the session was a bust.

JW: What happened?
CT: The singers were too rigid. I’m sure they were great at singing ad jingles, but this required phrasing and all the nuances that most studio singers don’t have.

JW: Did Basie’s rhythm section have problems with them?
CT: Right away. It was devastating. The singers were all pros but they didn’t have the feel and couldn't pick it up. With Basie, it’s a swinging thing, meaning you have to sing behind the beat, not on it. Eddie Jones, the bassist, tried to help the singers, saying, “Look, this is the way the band plays it. It’s got to be laid back.” But they never got it. So I had to stop the date.

JW: What happened next?
CT: When the singers cleared out, Dave offered up a solution. He asked whether he, Jon and Annie Ross could overdub all the parts. I said sure, let’s give it a try. Dave said Annie would sing all the trumpet parts, he'd do the trombones, and Jon would handle the saxes.

JW: So how did it work?
CT: First I recorded the Basie rhythm section with Dave, Jon and Annie providing a guide track, which was a straight reading. Once that was done, we had the swing down. Then they overdubbed the additional harmonized tracks wearing headphones and listening to the guide track.

JW: No problems?
CT: Actually we had a big technical one. I was recording at the studio with a great engineer named Irv Greenbaum, who loved jazz. We captured each track on a ¼-inch Ampex recorder, but the hiss was piling up like you wouldn’t believe. Each time you add a track to tape, hiss builds. When we got to the final master, we had some careful EQ-ing [equalizing] to do. In those days, the technical ability to manipulate tapes and get rid of small problems was non-existent. I sat there for days with Irv trying to fix the hiss. Finally we just rolled off 10 to 12k [kilohertz] from the sound, and the result was great.

JW: Did you know right away you had a hit?
CT: Oh, sure. Annie frightened me, she was so good. I was in awe of her. And the session wouldn’t have existed without Jon’s great lyrics. He was totally engrossed in the Basie sections and his words brought the whole thing together.

JW: How many Grammy’s did the album win?
CT: Two. One in 1958 for Best Jazz Performance by a Group and in 2000 when the album was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame.

JW: What did Basie think of the album?
CT: I don’t know. Basie was on another road all the time. He was such a self-made bandleader. I’m sure he heard it, but he never mentioned it to me. And I never asked.

Tomorrow, Creed talks about how he started Impulse records, the snag that led to the label's name, the strategy he used to instantly establish the new label's credibility and reputation, and why he let Gil Evans' plodding work style slide.

JazzWax tracks: The Oscar Pettiford Orchestra was a rehearsal band that got together to woodshed new ideas. The band recorded its first album, The Oscar Pettiford Orchestra in Hi-Fi, Vol. 1, in June 1956. The second album, the Oscar Pettiford Orchestra in Hi-Fi, Vol. 2, was recorded in September 1957. Both albums are among my favorites from the period. The sound remains new and fresh, and the arrangements had a major impact on the best big bands that followed, including those led by Quincy Jones and Ernie Wilkins.

Musicians on the 1956 session: Ernie Royal and Art Farmer (trumpets), Jimmy Cleveland (trombone), Julius Watkins and David Amram (French horns), Gigi Gryce (alto sax), Lucky Thompson (tenor sax), Jerome Richardson (tenor sax and flute), Danny Bank (baritone sax), Tommy Flanagan (piano), Oscar Pettiford (bass) and Osie Johnson (drums). Arrangements were credited to Gryce and Thompson.

Musicians on the 1957 session: Ray Copeland and Art Farmer (trumpets), with Kenny Dorham replacing Copeland on one track; Al Grey (trombone); Julius Watkins and David Amram (French horns); Gigi Gryce (alto sax); Benny Golson (tenor sax); Jerome Richardson (tenor sax and flute); Sahib Shihab (baritone sax); Dick Katz (piano); Betty Glamann (harp); Oscar Pettiford (bass and cello) and Gus Johnson (drums). Gryce and Golson were the arrangers. [Pictured: The orchestra in action at Birdland in 1957]

A CD with all of the sessions including a few live Birdland tracks is available here (ignore the "1959 and 1963" dates in the title; that's an error).

For those unfamiliar with Jackie Cain and Roy Kral, they were among the earliest husband-and-wife jazz vocal teams. Think Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme but with a much warmer approach and hipper repertoire. Much of the Jackie and Roy material for ABC-Paramount has been gathered on a couple of collections here and here.

Lambert, Hendricks & Ross' Sing a Song of Basie was originally released on ABC-Paramount and later released on Impulse, after Creed Taylor's departure. The album is available here.

For more on Creed Taylor or to buy CDs he produced during his lengthy career at multiple jazz labels, go here.

Interview: Creed Taylor (Part 5)

Last time Creed Taylor and I spoke in May (Parts 1-4), the legendary jazz producer talked about his early years growing up in Virginia, his arrival in New York in 1954 and his first job as a producer at Bethlehem Records. During his brief two-year tenure at the company, Creed won the respect of leading jazz musicians and turned a bleeding company into a premier label. While at Bethlehem, Creed produced critically acclaimed LPs by Chris Connor, Herbie Mann, Oscar Pettiford and many others.

This week, Creed picks up the story where he left off and reflects on his four years as jazz producer at ABC-Paramount. He also looks back on the multi-pronged strategy he used to launch Impulse Records in 1960. Over the next five days, Creed will share stories about working with Ray Charles; Lambert, Hendricks & Ross; Jackie Cain and Roy Kral; Gil Evans; Oliver Nelson; Bill Evans; and John Coltrane.

Today, in the first installment of my five-part series, Creed talks about the challenges he faced after joining ABC-Paramount in 1956, how he balanced jazz with the commercial trends of the day, the quirky success of the Creed Taylor Orchestra, and what he did to outrage anthropologist Margaret Mead:

JazzWax: When you joined ABC-Paramount Records in 1956, were you pressured to produce pop records?
Creed Taylor: No pressure at all. You have to remember, ABC-Paramount was a startup even though a major corporation owned it. The label began in 1955, a year before I arrived. I knew as much or more about the record business as everyone else who was there. Sam Clark was the label’s president and Larry Newton was in charge of sales. Both had been in the record distribution business and knew virtually nothing about producing.

JW: Who did you work for?
CT: I reported to Harry Levine, a vice president. Harry and I had a very close relationship. He had been the talent booker at the Paramount Theater in the 1940s and early 1950s, so he knew show business and liked music very much. Harry and I often talked after-hours about all the legends he knew. He told me Harry James [pictured] was a real egotistical pain and that being married to Betty Grable didn’t help. He also said Gene Krupa was one of the nicest guys you’d ever want to meet in spite of the gum-chewing, pot-smoking image the media had put on him. These talks with Harry helped ease me into the world of music superstars. Behind all the glitter, it turned out they had the same problems all of us have.

JW: Did you plan to record jazz when you arrived at ABC-Paramount?
CT: I definitely had an agenda to record jazz artists who had been with me at Bethlehem. Larry Newton was in charge of the pop side with artists like Paul Anka, Steve Lawrence, Eydie Gorme and all the little rock ‘n’ roll groups that appeared on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand [pictured in 1958], which ABC owned. I had no interest in that part of the operation nor did I have any responsibility for it.

JW: But you recorded more than just jazz, yes?
CT: Sure. I had a daily pattern of visiting record shops, particularly the one across the street from my office, to see what was selling and how we could take advantage of the trends. I didn’t arrive at ABC and tell them, “Hey, I‘m not producing anything but jazz records.” I kept jazz going along with other things that I thought had a place in the market and could sell well.

JW: How did you rationalize producing albums like More College Drinking Songs along with albums by Oscar Pettiford?
CT: I produced what I liked. While I was never a fan of barbershop quartets, I was familiar with that kind of music. Having graduated from Duke a few years earlier, I fully understood the appeal of drinking songs and the audience for the records. And they sold well.

JW: What was your first jazz album for ABC?
CT: Probably Kenny Dorham and the Jazz Prophets. We recorded the album in April 1956. Kenny was not unlike Chet Baker. His sound and flow of ideas were similar to Chet’s. And like Chet, Kenny was without any kind of showy pretensions or technical stunts. He was a real player. And he had a sound similar to Chet’s, even though he had a bit more edge and was more associated with Art Blakey and Blue Note's artists.

JW: What was your first big seller?
CT: Quincy Jones’ This Is How I Feel About Jazz. Look at the guys on that date. Every single musician was an amazing talent. The album did very well. Quincy and I were already close friends when he recorded the album. We were the same age and had the same musical taste and had hung out together at places like Charlie's Tavern since my Bethlehem days. He was a trumpet player and I was a trumpet player. We had an unspoken empathetic relationship.

JW: What was the Creed Taylor Orchestra? I've seen albums with odd-looking covers.
CT: [Laughs] It was a group of studio musicians that I put together originally for a special project. The purpose was to create a series of albums that used music and sound effects to tell a story. There were no lyrics or narration. They were sort of like soundtracks to stories. You had to use your imagination to think about what was going on. I used Kenyon Hopkins [pictured] as the arranger and conductor. He was a master of film and mood music. I couldn’t use his name at the time because he was under contract to Capitol Records.

JW: Give me an example of one of the recordings.
CT: We had albums called Shock Music, Panic: Son of Shock and Lonelyville. One track from Shock Music was called Gloomy Sunday. You’d hear an alto flute playing the song’s melody along with the sound of footsteps creaking on a dock. You’d hear water sloshing around and then the person getting into a boat, and oars being used to row out into the water. The person kept rowing. Suddenly there was a big splash. The guy went overboard, and you’d have to use your imagination to figure out what happened.

JW: So these were like audio comics?
CT: Exactly. Another one of these "sound pictures" from the Shock album was called High on a Windy Hill. This one featured an alto sax. It started with a guy walking through the forest and the sound of a strong wind. Then you hear silence, a tree starting to crack followed by a crash, with the guy quietly exhaling his last breath. He didn’t scream. It was cool.

JW: Who was the audience for these records?
CT: Kids, mostly. I marketed them just before Halloween. They were like audio versions of those creepy horror comics popular at the time.

JW: How did they do?
CT: Quite well. They were in print for years, and some even made it to CD.

JW: Were they difficult to pull off?
CT: Sure. When we made them, there was no such thing as overdubbing. We had the best sound-effects guy in the business, Keene Crockett. He’d come in and put bed sheets and chains on a table and start creating audio pictures. We’d talk through the fundamental story line in advance. Then Ken Hopkins and Keene would write out the arrangements very carefully. Ken would conduct Keene to come in at certain points.

JW: Did you get pushback from parents?
CT: No. But I sent an advance copy of an album to Margaret Mead with a letter inviting her to write the liner notes. I said her words would be important because these were unusual albums that made a statement about the psyche of teens. She sent back a scathing letter asking how could I subject impressionable young people such harmful psychological episodes. In other words Miss Mead didn’t do the notes. [laughing]

JW: Weren't these albums at the opposite end of the taste spectrum from jazz?
CT: Not at all. They were just for a different audience. And most of the musicians on these dates were jazz players. On the two I just described, Jerome Richardson [pictured] played the flute while Phil Woods was on alto sax. Jazz was very much an undercurrent for the album series.

JW: It was a great branding move for you, too, yes? You had your name on the album cover.
CT: I suppose. I had always included my signature on all the albums I produced, even the 10-inch LPs at Bethlehem. It was a way of telling the buyer that the albums met a specific individual's standards. It showed I was personally taking responsibility for the result. It was an extra touch that distinguished these albums from the rest.

Tomorrow in Part 6, Creed talks about the Oscar Pettiford Big Band, Jackie and Roy, and the making of the double Grammy-winning Lambert Hendricks & Ross' Sing a Song of Basie, which put the vocalese group on the map and established Creed as a maverick producer with a golden touch.

JazzWax tracks: Kenny Dorham and the Jazz Prophets features Dorham on trumpet, J.R. Monterose on tenor sax, Dick Katz on piano, Sam Jones on bass and Arthur Edgehill on drums. The 1956 album is available at Amazon.

Quincy Jones' This Is How I Feel About Jazz was recorded in September 1956 and was an early prototype of the Quincy Jones Big Band of 1959 and 1960. The 1956 ensemble included Art Farmer on trumpet, Jimmy Cleveland on trombone, Herbie Mann on flute and tenor sax, Gene Quill on alto sax (Zoot Sims and Lucky Thompson played tenor sax on different tracks), Jack Nimitz on baritone sax, Milt Jackson on vibes, Hank Jones on piano, Charles Mingus on bass and Charlie Persip on drums. It's available at Amazon.

LPs of the Creed Taylor Orchestra (1958-1960) featuring jazz-influenced horror motifs are collectors' albums today going for over $100 each. Some are available on CD used from independent sellers. To get a taste of what these jazz dramas sounded like, go here and listen to Heartbeat from Shock Music (scroll down and click on the red link, "The Creed Taylor Orchestra, Heartbeat").

Interview: Buddy De Franco in 1958

Yesterday, I wrote about Cross Country Suite (1958), a Grammy-winning symphonic jazz-folk album that was composed by Nelson Riddle, orchestrated by Bill Jones and featured Buddy De Franco on clarinet. A love letter to the American landscape, the album features 11 tracks, each an impressionistic rendering of a different region of the country. Taken together, the album released under Buddy's name has a Rhapsody in Blue meets An American in Paris spirit. Through Riddle's pastoral mini-portraits (each tracks runs between 2 and 5 minutes), you tour the country when it was still dominated by nature rather than industry.

Curious about the jazz album's unusual theme, how it wound up being recorded, and why the LP never became more widely known, I called Buddy to chat:

JazzWax: How well did you know Nelson Riddle?
Buddy De Franco: Nelson and I were very close friends for years. We played together in Tommy Dorsey’s band. I was on clarinet and Nelson was on trombone. We even roomed for a time on the road. I really loved Nelson. He was a great person with a wonderful sense of humor. Our bond was music. He liked the way I played, and I admired his writing. And we were both big fans of Bill Finegan's writing.

JW: Was Nelson mild-mannered?
BDF: Nelson was a funny guy. His shirttail was always out and his tie askew. But he never lost his dignity, no matter what. His countenance was always dignified. He was as easygoing as his music.

JW: How did Cross Country Suite come about?
BDF: In the late 1950s, the rock business started to take hold, and all the jazz clubs, theaters and supper clubs that had bands folded. There was very little work for jazz players. Around this time I ran into Stan Kenton and bemoaned that times were rotten for jazz players and that we were anti-rock ‘n’ roll. I still am. I think the dumbing down of America started with rock ‘n’ roll.

JW: What did Stan say?
BDF: Stan said, “Listen, we’re doing music clinics at colleges all over the country, so contact your agent. Go to work underground at the universities, and we’ll keep this thing alive.” Stan was right. I started doing all these clinics at colleges and high schools. My first clinic was for Gene Hall [pictured] at North Texas State. Gene was the founding director of the jazz education program there, the first in the country. We did the clinic with Stan.

JW: Did Cross Country Suite come out of those clinics?
BDF: Not exactly but there's an indirect connection. At the time, I lived in California and got this bright idea for a large piece of music that I could use when I played at different college clinics throughout the country. So I called Nelson, who was working on a Nat King Cole album at the time. I called him and told him I was doing these clinics and that I’d love to have him compose something for me. I wanted a series of pieces that I could play that would be indigenous to the different regions where I'd be playing.

JW: What did Nelson say?
BDF: He loved the idea. A short time later he called me back and said, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it. It’s called Cross Country Suite.” He said we should record it. So I told Jack Lee, a friend of mine and a big music contractor. Jack said he would try to get the music recorded. He went to a couple of people, who in turn brought him to Dot Records. Jack talked Randy Wood, the head of Dot, into recording it. Dot specialized in a wide range of music, from country and folk to gospel and even polkas.

JW: Quite a commitment on Dot's part in 1958.
BDF: Huge. The music required a swing band plus an orchestra with strings.

JW: When you told Nelson about the date, what did he say?
BDF: He said, “Great. I’ve written it. I’ll see you at the session.” At the first date in June 1958, he brought in the score, and the copyist handed out the parts. They went up on the stands, and Nelson said, "Here we go." We read it down a couple of times and started recording. There were no rehearsals.

JW: The album was recorded over three days. Were there many retakes?
BDF: Look, there were 11 compositions. Most were pretty intricate. Very demanding. We had the best players there: guys who were really experienced doing studio work. Back then, you saw music for the first time when you arrived and then played it perfectly the first or second time. Not like today. The swing band had Don Fagerquist and Conrad Gozzo on trumpets, Milt Bernhart [pictured] and George Roberts on trombones, Vince De Rosa on French horn, Herb Geller on alto sax, Pete Jolly on piano, Billy Bean on guitar, Red Mitchell on bass and Bill Richmond on drums. Plus an orchestra. These guys were the best. I think we ran it down maybe twice to be sure the notes and interpretation were OK. Nelson may have made a few note changes. Then we did it, and we'd have a take. Logistically, it was a monumental task.

JW: Where did Nelson put you?
BDF: I didn’t like the idea of baffles isolating me in a corner of the studio. Fortunately Nelson and the engineer didn't either. So I was right in the middle of everything, standing in front of the musicians. It was incredibly exciting.

JW: Were your eyes closed to capture the music's moods?
BDF: [laughs] No, no I had to read the music. But more than half of it was improvised. My eyes were wide open.

JW: Were you thinking of the different regions of the country as you played the compositions?
BDF: Sure, in my brain and my being, Tall Timber, was tall timber to me. That’s what it meant. Smoky Mountain Country was that. Those compositions got into my soul.

JW: Who played the harmonica on The Mississippi?
BDF: George Fields. He was one of the few guys who could play that instrument and read music. He loved classical music and did a lot of studio work, especially on Westerns. That's his harmonica on Moon River in Breakfast at Tiffany's.

JW: Who sang those boastful lyrics on Longhorn?
BDF: [Laughs] That song was a great takeoff on Texas, wasn't it? Do you remember the song Deep in the Heart of Texas? That's what the vocal parts were based on. The singers were me, Jack Lee, Nelson, the copyist and another guy whose name I can't recall. We overdubbed them. It was Nelson’s idea. He called me up and said, "Let’s go back in and do this crazy idea I have." We met, they ran the music down through the speakers and we overdubbed the lyrics that Nelson had written out.

JW: That song and the vocal really drive home the album's folk roots.
BDF: Exactly—and it was comic relief.

JW: This was a different sort of album for you.
BDF: Yes, but it was great. A great experience. I was happy to do it since I was so close to Nelson. He was very well known as an arranger but not as well known as a composer. I already knew he was a great composer, and this was a chance to show that off. It was a kick. It was interesting to get into the music and discuss the first and second take and make a few minor adjustments. To work that closely with Nelson was a joy.

JW: What did Randy Wood, Dot Records' owner, think?
BDF: He didn’t like the end result [laughing]. He was really a Country & Western kind of guy. He was originally from Tennessee, and his commercial pop music taste and experience were limited to Pat Boone [pictured]. Boone was his biggest artist and a gigantic star.

JW: So how did the “square” photo of you on the cover come about?
BDF: [Laughs] When I went to take pictures for the cover, I came in with a suit and tie. Somebody from Dot said that Randy wanted me to wear a sweater and white bucks, like Pat Boone. So I went into wardrobe and got this dumpy red sweater and white bucks, and that was it.

JW: Did you ever play the suite at clinics?
BDF: Ironically, no. At the time, the cost of playing it with an orchestra and swing band was prohibitively expensive. And the schools weren’t doing that much symphonic jazz. They focused more on swing. We performed it once, in the summer of 1958 [August 29], at the Hollywood Bowl, but it wasn't recorded. Nat King Cole was there.

JW: Was Billy Bean, the guitarist on the recording, a pseudonym?
BDF: No, no. Billy was from Philadelphia. He was one of the very best studio guitarists in the business. I had called Barney Kessel to do the date but he couldn't make it but told me Billy was in town. I called Billy immediately, and he did it.

JW: Over the years, have people asked you about the album, which had become relatively obscure?
BDF: Yes. Many people consider it one of their favorite albums of mine, especially musicians.

JW: Why wasn't it more widely known?
BDF: That's a story and a half. Jack Lee ran with this thing. We recorded it, and when we heard the playback, we knew we had something good. But no one knew how to promote it. No one knew which bin to put it in at record stores. Was it a symphony? Jazz? Folk? So it was shuffled around. It was everywhere and nowhere. We didn’t have the kind of money needed back then to really promote something like that. We couldn’t find anyone outside the music business who was willing to put dollars against TV and all that.

JW: What did you do?
BDF: Jack Lee and I got a hold of the actor Jose Ferrer. He agreed to be the host if we did a TV show. The plan was we'd go from one university to another around the country playing the different compositions, and Jose would be the series host. Then Jack got a friend of someone at the ad agency Young & Rubicam, who in turn got to someone at American Airlines. The airline was introducing a 707 jet and got an idea to put a 45rpm of the album in the seats of all the planes, which would have meant about 4,000 seats. You know, where all the magazines go behind the seats.

JW: So Jose was on board and you had a client in place for a large cross-promotion that tied into a "see America" travel theme?
BDF: Right. We just needed to nail down TV. Since Jose was married to Rosemary Clooney at the time, she agreed to do some of the walk-ons for the TV segments. Rosemary then called Bing Crosby, who agreed to do the first show.

JW: Wow, you were on a roll.
BDF: Oh yeah, we were really sailing. Then we got a gigantic meeting at Columbia Pictures about this thing. When we arrived at the offices, there was a group of seven or eight CBS executives around the table. Jose was there, Rosemary was there, Jack Lee was there, I was there and Nelson was there. We were taking them through the whole thing. And as we're talking, I'm thinking, man, this thing is really becoming monumental.

JW: Sounded like a sure thing. What happened?
BDF: Well, it's funny. As soon as you convince yourself that something is huge, life takes a turn. About halfway through the pitch, one of the executives got up and said, "Ahhh, I don’t get it," and he walked out. Then all of the other executives walked out. So there we were, me, Rosemary [pictured], Jose, Jack Lee and Nelson staring at each other with that "What just happened?" look on our faces. So we left. The next day I called the secretary for one of the executives. She said, "Who is this?" and "Can you spell your name for me?" Just like that, the idea was over. They wouldn't take my call. Everything went down the tubes.

JW: If the show had been approved, how would it have worked?
BDF: In all fairness, we didn’t have too much of an idea. We thought that for each of the 11 shows, there would be landscape footage of the area around the college campus where we were holding a clinic, with the orchestra playing music from Cross Country Suite appropriate for the region. I thought it was a good idea, except it never happened. This was a time when rock 'n' roll was really taking off, and maybe our idea was a little square.

JW: That kind of thing must have happened all the time in Hollywood and the music business.
BDF: Oh sure. The same thing happened in 1954 with my Gershwin album with Oscar Peterson and a band and strings for Verve. We were going to take the concept out on the road but at the last minute they couldn't get anyone to put up the money to promote it.

JW: Barney Kessel was pretty instrumental in the rock scene back then. Did you and other musicians feel he was undermining jazz?
BDF: Oh, no, no. The guys who played rock dates did it to survive. We realized that. You can’t go against a power like that type of music. It was too popular. I never went into the rock thing because I didn’t like it and, honestly, I had no idea what to do with the clarinet on rock 'n' roll records.

JW: What do you think of Cross Country Suite in relation to all of your other albums?
BDF: It stands out as a favorite and one of my best.

JazzWax tracks: Cross Country Suite has been remastered and reissued by the Nelson Riddle estate. It can be found here. Click on the "1 new & used" link, where you'll be able to order the album directly from Nelson Riddle Music, which has hundreds of copies in stock.

Buddy De Franco and Oscar Peterson Play George Gershwin (Verve) features Buddy and the Oscar Peterson Trio with a band and strings arranged by Russ Garcia. It's a gorgeous album, especially I Was Doing Alright. Long out of print, the album or individual tracks are available as a download at iTunes or Amazon.

Nelson Riddle: Cross Country Suite

Nelson Riddle is best remembered as the arranger who helped re-invent Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra and many other great Capitol recording artists of the 1950s. Riddle's genius rested with his ability to construct intricate instrumental textures and mount them delicately atop a swinging big-band beat. To establish a song's mood, Riddle was not above pairing, say, a bass clarinet and baritone saxophone with a Hammond B-3 organ and flute. The result of this and countless other instrumental collages was pure ear candy. To this day Riddle's charts sound so simple, yet even the most knowing listeners often find they are hard-pressed to decipher exactly what instruments were used. They're like giant magic tricks, and it's no wonder the best singers of the 1950s and beyond adored his sweet-and-power touch.

In addition to being a much in-demand Hollywood studio, TV and movie arranger, Riddle also was a composer. One of his finest albums in this capacity was Cross Country Suite, which won a Grammy in 1959 for Best Original Instrumental Composition. Recorded with 36 musicians over three days in the summer of 1958, the album features 11 tracks, each one a different impressionistic portrait of America. According to the University of Arizona, the orchestrations were by Bill Jones, one of three ghostwriters Nelson used to help meet project deadlines. What makes the album particularly special is that it showcased the cool, knowing clarinet of Buddy DeFranco.

In retrospect, Cross Country Suite is Riddle's love letter to America. The music is pastoral and panoramic, and the recording may well be one of the first symphonic folk-jazz albums, akin to Ferde Grofe's Grand Canyon Suite and Aaron Copland's Rodeo and Billy the Kid. With Buddy soloing, the album becomes the musical equivalent of a Thomas Hart Benton mural.

Long out of print, Cross Country Suite recently was re-issued on CD by the Nelson Riddle estate and released by Universal Music. Each track runs between two and five minutes and was meant to capture the feel of the region it's named after. Taken together, the suite is a flurry of "Wish You Were Here" postcards, a sentimental soundtrack that brings America's wide-shouldered beauty to life. Each time you listen to this album, you feel as if you are gently crossing the country in the basket of a hot-air balloon—with Buddy pointing out the sites on his clarinet.

"I remember when my Dad brought the album home," said Rosemary Acerra, Nelson Riddle's daughter, when I spoke to her yesterday afternoon. "I knew he was working on it when I was 8 years old, and I started to listen to the album intently when I was 10, I became infatuated with his compositions and what they made me think of and the pictures they painted. This album was my Dad's concept of what this country looked and felt like, musically. I've always loved listening to it."

The album's opener, Tall Timber, sounds mighty, with French horns and trombones sawing away to tease out the impressions of a redwood forest. Smoky Mountain Country sounds like the rolling green hills and cabins of the rural South. The Rockies is explosive and captures the scale and magnitude of the peaks. The Great Lakes takes a jaunty approach, capturing the mood of a flatter landscape and a more distant horizon.

The Great Plains makes you think of golden wheat rustling in the wind, while Gulf Coast is three parts Bourbon Street, one part blues. On The Mississippi, you feel the slow chug of a riverboat, and a harmonica is added for a laid-back, Huck Finn flavor. Down East delivers a folksy, two-step riff, and El Camino Real offers a Latin touch. Metropolis is pure New York City, with the xylophone conjuring up images of people coming up out of a subway and skyscrapers with setbacks.

Finally, Longhorn is a tribute to Texas and Texans. As a bonus, there's a male chorus driving home the point with a vocal line dance. In unison, the voices chant: "We're much bigger than... stronger than... handsomer than... richer than... smarter than... braver than... any-one (clap-clap-clap)." It's pure Texas, big, tall and boastful.

All of these compositions provide Buddy DeFranco [pictured] with a massive continental canvas on which to create his own impressions. His clarinet is relaxed, swaying and always digging deep to create just the right regional touch. He moves in and out of Riddle's orchestrations and brings the entire suite together. There's bop, swing and everything else in between.

I've found that one of the most enjoyable ways to listen to this CD is with your eyes closed. You wind up seeing exactly what Nelson, Bill Jones and Buddy had in mind.

So who came up with the idea for Cross Country Suite? How was it recorded? Who sang those Longhorn vocals? Who played harmonica? And why was Buddy photographed on the album's cover wearing white bucks?

Tomorrow, I will feature an interview with the great Buddy DeFranco on the making of this symphonic jazz-folk classic—and why it just missed being promoted on every American Airlines 707 in 1959.

JazzWax tracks: Cross Country Suite has been remastered and reissued by the Nelson Riddle estate. It can be found here. Be sure to click on the "1 new & used" link, where you'll be able to order the album directly from Nelson Riddle Music. Rosemary Acerra tells me she has plenty of copies in stock, despite Amazon's claim that only one remains.

A special thanks to New York Sun jazz critic and author Will Friedwald, who brought this album to my attention and put me in touch with Rosemary. It was gratifying to finally tell her how much Nelson Riddle's work means to me and so many JazzWax readers.

Interview: Roy Haynes (Part 2)

Roy Haynes is the only living member of an elite group of drummers in the 1940s who altered the direction of jazz. In addition to Max Roach, Art Blakey and Kenny Clarke, Roy transformed the instrument's role from a tempo taskmaster to a dazzling conversationalist with an equal seat at the creative table. By inventively using the bass drum, snare and cymbals, Roy could prod, motivate and bait singers and soloists, all of whom relied on his intensity and rhythmic commentary to take greater melodic risks.

Roy's touch subtly teased out tonality while mischievously planting ideas. A perfect illustration is Sonny Rollins' The Sound of Sonny. Focus only on what Roy is doing with his sticks and brushes throughout. You'll hear dozens of different beats, taps, shoves, fake outs and sprayed patterns, all designed to keep the creative pot on a low boil. Listening to Roy on this one album, you'd think Sonny was playing with a tap dancer rather than a drummer. And that's why horn players, pianists and singers throughout the 1950s and beyond favored Roy. He wasn't static.

In Part 2 of my two-part conversation with Roy, the legendary percussive artist talks about bass players, Charlie Parker, violins, Max Roach, Miles Davis, fast cars, sharp clothes, meeting the woman who would become his wife, Thelonious Monk, and Billie Holiday:

JazzWax: From a drummer's standpoint, which bass player kept the best time in the 1940s? Tommy Potter?
Roy Haynes: It's not for me to say who was the best in the 40s. I don't know. I'll tell you one thing, Paul Chambers [pictured] was the best for me, in the 40s, 50s or whenever. I loved that guy. I loved that feeling he created. With Paul, the feeling was always there. I loved his warmth and how he could let certain notes ring short or long. He had so much warmth and imagination.

JW: But there were so many great bassists back in the 40's—Potter, Curly Russell, Oscar Pettiford, Ray Brown.
RH: Yeah, yeah, they were all good, too. But after I played with Paul in the mid-1950s, it was a whole different feeling. There was so much warmth there. Bass playing is all about how you let your notes ring and how you cut certain notes short. The bass developed into a completely new feeling with Paul. Back in the 1940s Tommy Potter was great, and Curly Russell was known to be a nice guy and a business guy who was always on time. He was very popular in those days. But the feeling with Paul Chambers, wow. I don't like to start naming a lot of different names or to say who has this or has that. A lot of people like to do that but it's not really my thing.

JW: The bass player is pretty important to the drummer, yes? He keeps time, and you play off of that?
RH: Definitely, definitely. He's critical to what I'm doing. I like to be around bass players who can feel what you're doing and play off of it. I'm a different type of drummer as well for the bass player and for everyone else. I'm constantly moving and shifting.

JW: Did you like playing with Charlie Parker?
RH: The first time I heard him on a record I knew he was different. The record was Hootie Blues, with Jay McShann and Walter Brown singing. You knew right away that Bird was unusual, that his approach was completely different than anything else you had heard. And that sound, it was so confident. [Photo of Jimmy Knepper, Roy and Charlie Parker]

JW: You played on many of the live performances of Bird with strings. Did you dig that format?
RH: I love melodies, and a lot of the tunes Charlie Parker played with the strings were melodic. The strings format sometimes could be a little stiff. But he was trying to reach that audience, I think, and it seemed to work.

JW: But did you like playing with the strings?
RH: It was cool, you know [laughing]. I don't think that I'd want to do that all night, every night. And we didn't. In fact, there were times when he'd stretch out on the strings stuff with the rhythm section and hang loose rather than play the arrangements as written.

JW: What was the big difference between you and Max Roach [pictured] behind Bird?
RH: I had and have a different type of cymbal beat, for one thing. Max's cymbal beat was more on the one: dah-dah dom, dah-dah dom, dah-dah dom. Mine is more dom dah-dah, dom dah-dah, dom dah-dah. That's as far as I'll go with that. [laughs] That's one of the things I'm sure Bird liked about me. Lester Young as well. I had a distinct cymbal beat. Beyond that, Max was one of the greatest drummers ever.

JW: Was Miles Davis naturally cool or did he have to work at it?
RH: [laughing] He was naturally cool. We were both into fast automobiles and sharp clothes. We both were mentioned in a 1960 Esquire article on style and clothes. We were both in our 30s back then, so we had a lot in common that way. In fact, 10 years earlier, in the summer of 1950, we both bought convertible automobiles the exact same week. It wasn't planned.

JW: What make?
RH: I had a 1950 Oldsmobile 98 [model pictured]. Miles had a Dodge convertible, but it was a fast Dodge. I think he called it the Blue Devil. Mine was light gray.

JW: What was Miles like to be around?
RH: Miles would always come by my gigs someplace with women and say to them [imitating Miles' raspy voice]: "Yeah, me and Roy, we used to smash up our cars. We were the sharpest mothers on 52d St." His exact words. There was a lot in common there. It was an exciting period, man. In fact, I met my wife when I was working with Miles in Brooklyn. It was Miles' gig, and she had come to see him. The ladies loved Miles. I had some fans, too, but I wasn't nearly as popular as Miles. He had just left Charlie Parker then and I had just left Lester Young. We were the coolest of the cool.

JW: Listening to Bud Powell, it sounds like he was always trying to throw off the drummer. True?
RH: Not really. Bud [pictured] could outfox anyone, another player. But not me or any drummer he played with. The drummer was going to make him sound good. It was beautiful playing behind him. Cause he had so much rhythm. All you had to do is accompany him.

JW: Did Charlie Parker like doing that Cole Porter date in 1954? He seemed to resist it. You played with him on most of the album's tracks in March of that year.
RH: It's hard to say whether he dug it or not. It could have been Norman Granz's idea.

JW: How did Sarah Vaughan come up with her signature introduction of you—saying your first name while you added a fill before she said your last name?
RH: She started introducing us on this tune she'd scat, which ended up being Shulie-A-Bop. We'd do that every night in the clubs. It just developed into that scene like it did. I can go all over the world, and someone will come up to me and say, "Roy...dat-dat-dat...Haynes." A lot of people remember that. It lived on.

JW: Did you have to listen hard to Sarah to figure out where she was going on a song?
RH: Usually I knew where she was going. But if she was scatting, naturally, that's ad-libbing, and I'd have to figure it out. But when you're with somebody for that length of time, five years, it all becomes second nature. I'm into lyrics. I love lyrics. Sarah Vaughan was the Charlie Parker of the vocalists during the 1950s. It was great. With Sarah, that was the first time I had gone to Europe, Africa, the West Indies and a lot of places in this country.

JW: Was she tough to work for?
RH: No, she was beautiful to work for. Most artists have a pretty good sense of humor, at least those who play this type of music.

JW: Your playing on Cutie, on Sonny Rollins' The Sound of Sonny, is a pure example of you listening and carrying on a conversation with a date's leader and soloist.
RH: Wow, I don't remember that one.

JW: Here, listen [playing the track].
RH: Oh, yeah. OK, Cutie. Is that what it's called? I wish Sonny had played that at Carnegie Hall last fall. I heard he didn't want to release the album.

JW: He apparently didn't like how it sounded.
RH: That's fine. Look he hears what he hears. It's a feeling, you know. I would hope that he'd release it someday.

JW: Your brush work on Cutie is a trip.
RH: I don't play brushes often anymore. I did use them on one of my gigs recently with my quartet. There was a drummer there who later wanted me to show him some things. You know, brushes are not too popular now. Everything is about power. I think I'm going to start playing more brushes because a lot of other drummers don't play them.

JW: Monk's greatest live recordings, in my opinion, were made with you at New York's Five Spot in 1958. You were having some "conversation" with him on those recordings.
RH: We were there for about 18 weeks, three sets a night by the time Monk would show up. Sometimes he wouldn't turn up until there was no telling what time. That was a very exciting period. That was one of my first gigs after leaving Sarah. I had young children then, so it was nice to play the gig, hang out a little bit and then go home.

JW: Did you and Monk work out in advance what you'd play?
RH: Monk didn't talk that much. He would hire you for what you do. At least in my case that was the situation. We were in the Five Spot more than once, you know. He didn't call me for the dates. He had Nica [de Koenigswarter], the Baroness, call me. He was close with her.

JW: Was Monk hard to play with?
RH: There was a lot that was tricky about playing with Monk. It's a musical language where there's really no lyrics. It's something you feel and you're hearing. It's like an ongoing conversation. Like you mentioned before, you really had to listen to this guy. Cause he could play the strangest tempos, and they could be very in-between tempos on some of those compositions. You know. It was a lot. You really had to listen to his arrangements and the way he would play them. On his solos, you'd really have to listen good in there. You'd have to concentrate on what you were doing as well.

JW: Tenor saxophonist Johnny Griffin also was with you. Did his playing get in the way while you were trying to listen to Monk?
RH: Not really. Sometimes John would play just the melody of a Monk song. Then when he'd play his solo, it was different. At that point, he's leading his own thing and you're behind him at that point, listening to what he's doing and playing off him.

JW: Billie Holiday's last club recording was April 1959 at George Wein's Storyville club in Boston. You were on drums. Do you remember the gig? Was Billie ill?
RH: Of course. [singing in a deep voice, from Gigi] "€I remember it well." I didn't see Billie in bad shape. I thought she was cool. We were playing there for a week. She was cool. I remember the club was crowded every night. A lot of my friends came in. My wife was there for the whole weekend. She wanted to tape it, but I said, "No, Billie isn't going to allow that." Looking back, Billie probably wouldn't have been aware of it. All in all, it was a beautiful week.

JW: Was it different playing behind Billie compared to Sarah?
RH: Billie was from an older school than Sarah but I loved that. I just played some nice soft brushes behind her. I do remember that when she'd get off the set, she go and cry. It was sad. She told me she had cirrhosis of the liver, the same thing Lester Young had died from. But her voice sounded good that week. You'd never have known that just three months later she'd be gone.

JazzWax tracks: Roy Haynes played on dozens of critical studio dates and live recordings in the 1950s. Here's a sampling:

Roy and Paul Chambers recorded together on Introducing Nat Adderley (1955); We Three (1958) with pianist Phineas Newborn Jr.; The Great Kai and Jay (1960) with Bill Evans; and Blues and the Abstract Truth (1961).

Roy's albums with Sarah Vaughan include Sarah Vaughan (1954), In the Land of Hi-Fi (1955), Swingin' Easy (1957); At Mr. Kelly's (1957) and After Hours at the London House (1958).

Charlie Parker Plays Cole Porter (1954) features Roy on four tracks. The best one is I Get a Kick Out of You. You can find all seven takes of this song at iTunes by typing in "Charlie Parker + Cole Porter" into the search bar. It's a fascinating study of Bird on one of his last studio dates.

The Sound of Sonny remains one of Sonny Rollins' best albums and a brilliant showcase for Roy. The Five Spot recordings were originally released on two Riverside albums called Misterioso and Thelonious in Action. Both are available as downloads. Also available as a download at Amazon is At The Five Spot, a Milestone two-fer from the 1970s that combined the masters.

Billie Holiday's last club performance at Storyville in April 1959 is out of print. But I found most of the tracks on Billie Holiday: Rare Live Performances 1934-1959. They can be downloaded here. The tracks you want are Nos. 15-19 on disc #5.

And A Life in Time: The Roy Haynes Story, a remastered retrospective of Roy's entire career, featuring two CDs and a bonus DVD, is available at iTunes and here.

Interview: Roy Haynes (Part 1)

When I first met and spoke with drummer Roy Haynes a few weeks ago, I was thunderstruck by how fit and youthful he is. For someone who has played and recorded with nearly every major jazz artist of the post-war era, Roy's physique and outlook are downright Twilight Zone. He looks strong, sounds impossibly young and has enormous energy, making me wonder how this groundbreaking time-keeper could possibly be 83 years old.

Between 1945 and 1960 alone, Roy played with Lester Young, Charlie Parker, Sarah Vaughan, Bud Powell, Stan Getz, Wardell Gray, Miles Davis, Lennie Tristano, Thelonious Monk, Sonny Rollins, Art Farmer, Billie Holiday, Kenny Burrell, Phineas Newborn Jr. and many others. Roy not only is one of the strongest drummers in modern jazz history, he's also one of the art form's most sensitive players. From his taut bass and snare drum figures on Bouncin' With Bud to his playful tags behind Vaughan and brush taunts on Sonny Rollins' Cutie, Roy is aggressive and intuitive. And he's done it all—tastefully driving swing, bop, cool, Third Stream, spiritual, free jazz and fusion artists. [Photo above of Charlie Parker with Roy Haynes on drums in 1953 by Bob Parent/Getty Images]

In Part 1 of my two-part conversation with Roy, the legendary drummer talks about how he got his start, his big break with Luis Russell's band in 1945, Lester Young's novel nickname for his bass drum, and mastering the fine art of listening:

JazzWax: Is it tough being Roy Haynes?
Roy Haynes: [laughing] By the time I wake up every day, there’s so much I have to do and get done. Recently it has been crazy. Houses, automobiles, my god, there’s never a dull moment. And still be a drummer. I didn’t even realize I was going to be living this long and playing and having great-grandchildren.

JW: How do you stay so young? Is it a diet and workout thing?
RH: No, no, there’s no secret. I work out mentally. I always watch what I eat. And I have a 10-speed bike that I haven’t had time to ride as much as I’d like. I don’t’ eat pork. I don’t know if that has anything to do with it.

JW: Are fellow musicians shocked?
RH: [laughs] I recently played with bassist Stanley Clarke [pictured] in Manhattan. We hadn’t seen each other in some time. He was holding a private sound-check on the afternoon before our performance. Nobody else was supposed to come in. But I had to go check the drums they had for me. I had to bogart my way in. Stanley saw me there from afar and later told me I blew his mind. He said I looked like I was 30. He said I had on this tank top on and these muscles. [laughing]

JW: What was it like growing up in Boston in the 1930s?
RH: It was beautiful. The house we lived in, my father bought it when I was about 2 years old. Boston [pictured in 1940] was heavily Irish at the time. We had an Irish family on one side of our home, French-Canadians on the other and a synagogue in front of our house. It was great growing up with all different kinds of kids. My brother, who’s 81, always talks about how much fun it was growing up there. My parents were wonderful people. They were from Barbados.

JW: How did you come to the drums?
RH: The drums were always with me, ever since I can remember, man. I always wanted to be a drummer. My brother had drumsticks around the house, and those were the first sticks I picked up. The feeling and beat were always there, as long as I can remember.

JW: Did your parents encourage you?
RH: My father would come see me wherever I played. He even traveled to New York. My mother never came. She was a very religious woman. But one time when I was playing at a small club in the Roxbury section of Boston, I saw her standing at the door smiling and laughing while I played. That felt beautiful.

JW: What did your dad do for a living?
RH: He worked for Standard Oil. When the depression came, that screwed him up financially. Fortunately we had that house he had bought so we had a place to live.

JW: One of your first big gigs was in 1945 with Luis Russell, a legendary New Orleans pianist and bandleader.
RH: That’s right. Luis Russell [pictured] had played with King Oliver. He was a great pianist and musician. He used to front Louis Armstrong’s band, and Louis used Russell’s band back in the 1930s. But by 1945, Russell was fronting a swing band. He had heard about me from saxophonist Charlie Holmes. Charlie was in a band I had played with in New London, CT, during the war. Back then, there was a naval base there, and anytime soldiers and sailors are together, there's always music, women and dancing. When Luis heard about me from Charlie, he sent a special delivery letter to Boston Local 535. There were two musicians union locals in Boston then—Local 9 and Local 535. I don’t have to tell you which was which. I was pretty popular during that period so the Local knew that I was playing drums for the summer on Martha’s Vineyard off the coast of Massachusetts. Luis Russell believed in me even before he heard me, and that gave me enormous confidence.

JW: Some of your earliest dates with Russell were at the Savoy Ballroom in New York. What was that place like in the mid-1940s?
RH: Oh man, that was my first gig in New York. The energy level was great there. People were always dancing. They called the Savoy the “Home of Happy Feet.” The building had two floors. The ballroom was on the second floor, and you could feel that surface bounce. There were a lot of happy girls there. They had one night a week where ladies got in free, I think on Thursdays. And there were always two bands there on two bandstands, side by side.

JW: What made Luis Russell's band so special for you?
RH: Well, we played the Savoy, which of course was exciting. But even more incredible for me was that I was playing behind an 18-piece big band. You learn a lot keeping time for a big band people are dancing to, especially one that had to be on top of its game at the Savoy. I found out after I got back to Boston that I had changed the sound of that band after playing with them for more than a year. Luis didn’t tell me. Musicians had told my brother.

JW: In late 1947, you started a long run with Lester Young.
RH: Yes, I was with him for two years. He was a very humorous guy. He had his own way of talking. It was like a foreign language and unless you understood it, what he said would make little sense to you. You had to pick up on his special way of putting things to know what he meant. Sometimes you wouldn’t even know what the hell he was talking about. Thelonious Monk sort of reminded me of Lester. They both had their own way of talking.

JW: And both radically changed jazz at the time.
RH: Back then, there were people playing jazz who were so original, even more so than everyone else who played it, you know. They developed different ways of communicating in the different parts of the ghettos we lived in and hung out in. There were a lot of exceptional people and musicians in the neighborhoods who never got credit. You've never heard of them and they're all but forgotten. Lester Young was one of those special people you did hear about. But you had to have a little imagination about a lot of things to get where he was coming from.

JW: For example?
RH: I told this story to Miles back in the 1940s, and he got a kick out of it. During the period when I first came to New York, the standard size of a bass drum was 26 inches. So when I joined Lester Young in 1947, I still had that size bass drum. But it was stolen the day before or on the same day we were supposed to go to California by way of Chicago. So when I got to Chicago, Max Roach [pictured] was there. He told me there was a guy in town from Ludwig drums. Max said he'd introduce me to him. So I met the guy, and went to the factory, which was on the north side of Chicago. Joe Harris, a drummer from Pittsburgh, went with me that day. The drum I got that day was one of the first smaller, 20-inch bass drums.

JW: Was there something wrong with it?
RH: No, not at all. It was just smaller and had a slightly tighter sound. When I got the bass drum back to the Hotel Pershing [pictured below], where I was staying in Chicago, Lester took a look at it and without missing a beat nicknamed it "Princess Wee-Wee." Everything Lester Young named had a female connection, like Lady Day for Billie Holiday. He had that kind of fast mind. "Princess" was a name of affection for him. "Wee-Wee" was small, you know? It was quick. The man had a special kind of genius but you had to understand his way of thinking to get him and appreciate his way of thinking. Miles [Davis] and Max [Roach] came by the hotel before we left. They were in town the same day with Charlie Parker, who had just gotten fired for something at some club. When I told them the name Prez had come up with for the drum, they laughed because the name was so perfect.

JW: As a jazz drummer, you've always been one of the most careful listeners. What are you listening for?
RH: How do you know I’m a listener?

JW: When I listen to you play, I can hear you listening intensively behind Prez, Bird, Monk, Sonny. And I can hear you responding, sometimes feeding musicians the lines they pick up on. I also can hear you anticipating the figures they're going to play.
RH: What instrument do you play?

JW: A little piano. Mostly I do a lot of listening to recordings.
RH: You must, because that’s a hell of a statement, unless you read that someplace.

JW: No, no. It's just that I can hear your sensitivity and the conversation you're striking up on the spot with the musicians you're recording with.
RH: That’s very true. I do do a lot of listening. I recently heard a Mary Lou Williams recording on the radio from 1970 with me on drums. It was a live recording. As I listened to it recently, I could feel myself listening to what she was doing, trying to catch up with her on drums, listening to see what direction she was going in. It was the first time I had ever heard what you're talking about. Joe Fields produced it. He was supposed to send me some more money. You can put that in there. [laughing]

JW: On a Roy Haynes recording, there's the beat you're keeping and then there's that extra dimension of how you're listening and responding. True?
RH: Yes, and that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that expressed as such.

Tomorrow, Roy talks about playing with Charlie Parker in the late 1940s and early 1950s, the big difference between his and Max Roach's drum style, a passion for cars that he shared with Miles Davis, and what it was like to play behind Sarah Vaughan, Sonny Rollins and Billie Holiday.

JazzWax tracks: The bulk of Roy Haynes' earliest recordings with Luis Russell can be found on Luis Russell: 1945-46 (Classics). You can sample it here. The album is out of print at Amazon, but you can find it at other sites. The band at the time featured George Scott, John Swan, Bernard Flood and Emery Thompson (trumpets); Nathaniel Allen, Luther Brown and Thomas Brown (trombones); Samuel Lee and Clarence Grimes (alto saxes) Esmond Samuels and Troy Stowe (tenor saxes); Howard Robertson (baritone sax); John Motley (piano); Ernest Lee Williams (guitar); Leslie Bartlett (bass); and Roy (drums), with Russell conducting.

Roy's Six Bips and a Bop recordings with bop vocal pioneer Babs Gonzales in August 1947, featuring Tony Scott on clarinet and Bobby Tucker on piano, are on Babs Gonzales: 1947-49 (Classics) here.

Roy's first recordings with Lester Young and Sarah Vaughan in November 1947 can be found on One Night Stand: The Town Hall Concert here. It can be downloaded at Amazon or purchased as a CD. Roy's live sessions with Lester Young at the Royal Roost in 1949 are on Lester Leaps Again here.

Roy's June 1949 studio session with Lester Young for Savoy is on Lester Young: The Complete Savoy Recordings at iTunes and Amazon. The session included Crazy Over J-Z, Ding Dong, Blues 'n' Bells and June Bug.

The 1970 album Roy mentioned is A Grand Night for Swinging, featuring Mary Lou Williams on piano, Ronnie Boykins on bass and Roy on drums. It was recorded at the Statler Hotel in Buffalo, N.Y. It's available here.

And A Life in Time: The Roy Haynes Story, a remastered retrospective of Roy's entire career, featuring two CDs and a bonus DVD, is available at iTunes and here.

5 Funky Downloads for the BBQ

As you prepare to fire up the grill, lay down the ribs and get your fingers sticky this long weekend, you'll need music that rocks the soul and keeps the groove funky. Ribs don't cook themselves, and corn needs to hear about it before growing tender and sweet. The following five downloads (at iTunes) blend perfectly with smoke, pig and icy long-necks—and will keep your tongs snapping (see you on Sunday!):

Stanley Turrentine—Hustlin' (Blue Note). Recorded in 1964 with Turrentine on tenor, Shirley Scott (organ), Kenny Burrell (guitar), Bob Cranshaw (bass) and Otis "Candy" Finch (drums), this album locks into a groove and doesn't let go. Turrentine and Scott have a good thing going here, from Love Letters to Goin' Home. This is a good album to put on just as the coals start to get hot.

Jack McDuff—The Honeydripper (Prestige). Few could work the Hammond B3 like Brother Jack McDuff. In addition to an aggressive attack on the keys, McDuff could work the pedals into a frenzy. This album, recorded in 1961, featured Jimmy Forrest (tenor sax), Grant Green (guitar) and Ben Dixon (drums). Forrest is one of the most overlooked tough tenors from the late 1950s and early 1960s, and McDuff's playing here gets your feet tapping, no matter the tempo. Just remember to turn the London broil.

Grant Green—For the Funk of It (Blue Note). If you're unfamiliar with the funky side of Grant Green, this is the one to download. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, Blue Note began producing Green the way Verve had packaged Wes Montgomery. But instead of having Green record pop standards of the day, the label moved Green toward soul and funk. The results were poppin' riffs and grooves that set the standard for Charles Earland and other jazz artists who were leveraging the boogaloo. This album is a superb remastered compilation of Green's late period. Watch the corn!

Shirley Scott—Soul Song (Atlantic). This was organist Scott's and then-husband Stanley Turrentine's last recording together before their divorce. Each track on this 1968 album has a different funky feel. Even Bob Dylan's Blowin' in the Wind is all soul, with Scott walking the pedals and Turrentine's tenor sax wailing. Husband and wife were joined by Roland Martinez (electric bass) and Bernard "Pretty" Purdie (drums). Best of all, you get six tracks for $4.99. Pile the ribs on the platter and toss the salad.

Ham Hocks and Cornbread Vol. B (JSP Records). If you're still wondering why jazz grew less popular in the 1950s, this album will resolve some of that mystery. It's a superb r&b and jump-boogie collection of singles from the late 1940s and early 1950s that will set your picnic table jumping. Jazz moved away from dance music during this period, and the music on this album rushed in. And in many cases, the singles on this album featured leading jazz musicians making a few extra bucks! You get 29 tracks for $9.99 on this album, which seems to be the best in the four-album series, though the others include killer tracks, too. Included here are Tiny Bradshaw's Walk That Mess and King Carl Davis' Sure Like to Run featuring Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis. All of the tracks are big on horns, blues and jump rhythms. Into the pool!

The Hi-Lo's: And All That Jazz

The late 1940s and early 1950s were liberating years for harmonic vocal groups. The rise of the suburbs and collapse of the big bands pushed singing groups to go out on their own. Some groups like the Ravens, the Orioles, the Platters and others influenced by the Mills Brothers and Ink Spots took a gospel-based r&b approach and wound up swaying a generation of doo-wop and soul artists. Other groups like the Four Freshmen and the Encores modeled themselves after the Modernaires, Six Hits and a Miss, and the Mel-Tones. They straddled jazz and pop, eventually influencing the Beach Boys, the Four Seasons and other rock groups. Among the hippest of the latter set were the Hi-Lo's. (Prepare yourself for a big surprise below).

Formed in 1953, the Hi-Lo's featured four West Coast-based background singers, two of whom were members of Billy May's Encores. The Hi-Lo's' name was said to have come from members' varying heights and vocal ranges. In 1954, the group was discovered by bandleader Jerry Fielding, who helped land them a recording contract. By May 1954, the Hi-Lo's had their only charted single, My Baby Just Cares for Me, which reached No. 29. In the mid-1950s, Judy Garland took the group on tour.

The Hi-Lo's would record 26 albums, mostly for the Columbia, Reprise and Kapp labels. In the pre-Elvis years, when crew cuts and a non-sexual, conservative look were the norm for pop entertainers, the quartet was marketed as a more rambunctious alternative to the staid Four Freshmen. But by 1963, music tastes changed and the college-obsessed group disbanded, but not before recording a popular Hertz ad ("Hertz puts youuuuu in the driver's seat"). In 1967 two of the four members, Gene Puerling and Don Shelton, formed the Singers Unlimited.

What made the Hi-Lo's so appealing in the 1950s was their high-energy attack and seemingly effortless way in which they handled perilous vocal arrangements. They weren't as well produced as the Four Freshmen, who recorded for Capitol. Song choices and band arrangements for the Hi-Lo's could be spotty and flat, leaving both pop and jazz listeners less than satisfied. You always got the feeling the group had more potential than the people and material surrounding them. But the Hi-Lo's remained more swingy and vocally daring than the predictable Four Freshmen. The Hi-Lo's were hyperactive and eager to please, which boosted their appeal.

One of their albums, The Hi-Lo's and All That Jazz, has long been out of print and is currently going for about $20 used at Amazon. Recorded on June 30, 1958 (it just celebrated its 50th anniversary), the album has long been hailed by critics for its jazzy warmth and vocal tension.

Earlier this week, while roaming the web, I came across a Hi-Lo's tribute site that lets you listen to the album for free. What's more, the site offers other listening treats. I'll provide the link in a moment.

One reason And All That Jazz sounds so good is that the album was arranged and conducted by Marty Paich [pictured below] using his famed Dek-Tette. As a result, the instrumental support was smarter and cooler than the bland arrangements normally scored for the group's recording sessions by Frank Comstock. The Paich Dek-Tette also gave the vocal group a huge jazz lift: Frank Beach and Jack Sheldon (trumpets), Bob Enevoldsen (trombone), Vince DeRosa (French horn), John Kitzmiller (tuba), Herb Geller (alto sax), Bill Perkins (tenor sax), Bud Shank (baritone sax), Clare Fischer (piano), Joe Mondragon (bass), Mel Lewis (drums) and Alvin Stoller (bongo).

For a fun comparison, listen to And All That Jazz followed by The Four Freshmen and Five Trombones, which can be downloaded here. Both albums are solid swingers.

And now for the link. You'll find And All That Jazz under this site's "downloads" section here (click on the "mp3s" folder and then the "next" set of listings on the bottom right). Enjoy!

JazzWax video clips: The Hi-Lo's were especially popular on television in the 1950s, appearing on a range of celebrity variety shows. Here are the Hi-Lo's on The Rosemary Clooney Show with singer-composer Matt Dennis [pictured] singing one of Dennis' songs, Relax. Try to ignore Dennis' knee-high socks, strange smoking jacket worn to a volleyball game, and all the corn. Focus instead on the swinging way in which the Hi-Lo's bat the song around.

Think the Hi-Lo's were square? Dig this 1959 clip of the group with Frank Sinatra [pictured] singing I'll Never Smile Again. Watch Sinatra give it up, and dig that left eyebrow rise at 2:09 into the song. And dig the harmonic wind-down. What a shame the quartet never recorded an album with Sinatra. Makes you wonder how they would have affected the Chairman's swinging style.

And finally, here's the group's uncredited vocal on a Hertz ad from the early 1960s, back when gas was 31.9 cents a gallon, beaches were clear of plastic debris, and a summer road-trip in a convertible without air conditioning was perfectly enjoyable. Be sure to dig New Orleans' Bourbon St. and the highway with zero traffic!

Still want more clips of the Hi-Lo's and other vocal groups? Try this site. Be sure to check out the Ink Spots' The Gypsy.