JazzWax

Interview: Creed Taylor (Part 18)

Throughout his six-decade career as a record producer, Creed Taylor has operated with bold strokes, subtleties and contrasts. The secret of his success has been to stick with jazz artists he likes best and create novel studio environments in which these artists can thrive and break new ground. [Photo of Creed Taylor and George Benson by Chuck Stewart]

Few producers have garnered the level of respect from jazz musicians that Creed has over the years. Virtually all of the artists who recorded for him at CTI back in the 1970s remain staunch loyalists. The same is true for legendary engineer Rudy Van Gelder, who told me a few months ago that working extensively with Creed changed his life. Many of these musicians have been quoted recently saying they'd love to work with him again. In fact, many are doing just that this summer on a CTI All Stars tour in Europe and Asia.

In Part 4 of my conversation with Creed about his CTI years, the legendary producer talks about Don Sebesky's Giant Box, how Grover Washington Jr. came to record Inner City Blues, Jim Hall's Concierto, the difference between George Benson and Wes Montgomery, and the tensions surrounding Nina Simone's Baltimore:

JazzWax: Is it fair to say that your approach at CTI was about juxtapositions? I'm thinking of Astrud Gilberto with Stanley Turrentine in 1971, for example.
Creed Taylor: I've always found creating softness and edge interesting. On the album you've just mentioned, I had always thought Astrud's gentle vocal approach against Stanley's big sound would be interesting to hear. The helpless damsel against the take-charge tenor is a very seductive sound. That was the idea from the start.

JW: In April and May of 1973, you produced Don Sebesky's Giant Box. That was a massive date with 57 musicians.
CT: It was really a tribute to Don [Sebesky] and all the artists who were under contract to CTI at the time. Don arranged it. It was meant to showcase quadraphonic fidelity [which had been introduced to the market in 1970]. We wanted to assemble the biggest possible orchestra and create an enormous sound to fill out the new four-speaker format.

JW: What did you think of quadraphonic sound?
CT: I loved it. I had four speakers set up in each corner of the room so they were acoustically perfect. Then I'd sit in the middle and listen. Wow, the sound was amazing. It never occurred to me that there would be a marketing problem. You needed four speakers and a special piece of equipment to play this stuff, and the result sounded great. The problem ultimately was that the extra gear was too expensive for most people, who I think were pretty happy with stereo.

JW: So Giant Box was a quad session?
CT: Yes. I figured what better way to embrace a new technology than to do it with Don as the arranger and with each one of the artists signed with CTI.

JW: How did you come up with the name of the album?
CT: It was a giant orchestra and the two LPs came in a box [laughs]. Seriously, most of my album titles resonate because they simply describe what's inside. And they're direct.

JW: How did Giant Box sell?
CT: The box didn’t fly as far as the world was concerned. The world wasn't ready for quadraphonic sound. Today, surround sound is standard with home theaters.

JW: In 1971, you produced Grover Washington Jr.'s Inner City Blues, one of the Kudu label's best-selling albums. Whose idea was it to use Washington?
CT: A sheriff in Memphis.

JW: How so?
CT: He arrested [alto saxophonist] Hank Crawford. It was supposed to be Hank’s record date. But Hank was caught with marijuana, that hideous, evil thing [laughs]. So they put him in the pokey. Someone called me at 1 p.m. to let me know. We were supposed to have started the date in New York at 10 a.m. Grover was in the sax section playing tenor. I went into the studio and told Grover that he had to play Hank's part. Grover said he had never recorded on alto and didn't own one. I rented one for him, and he played the date. As I was listening to Grover play in the booth, I knew immediately that he sounded great. Different than Hank, but great.

JW: How exactly?
CT: Grover's sound made the sax statements a less obvious thing. Everything was the same as it would have been with Hank, except Grover was Grover. Hank was a blues master alto player and Grover had a more lyrical, romantic thing going. He had a sound that worked in contrast to what we were doing. I think that made the date quite different.

JW: What did Crawford think of the album?
CT: I didn’t ask him. Are you kidding? [laughs]

JW: There’s so much Marvin Gaye in Grover's playing.
CT: Marvin became his best buddy in Detroit. Marvin loved what Grover had done with his songs.

JW: After a series of Kudu albums, Washington in 1974 recorded Mister Magic, which became a huge hit.
CT: The rhythm section on that date had just come from a Roberta Flack session on which she sang that song. Eric Gale had the tape from one of the rundowns. He said, "This isn't very good, but you might want to let the guys hear it to see if they can get something going with it." Without a note being written by anybody, they sat down with [pianist and arranger] Bob James and started on a groove. Two hours later it locked in. Bob really created that thing along with the rhythm section. Grover knew how to play in the spaces and where not to play. He knew how to play like a soul singer.

JW: On Jim Hall's Concierto in 1975, were you afraid there would be too many heavyweights there?
CT: No. I picked out the players and got [Don] Sebesky to write the charts. I had Jim, Chet Baker, Paul Desmond, Roland Hanna, Ron Carter and Steve Gadd on the date.

JW: You make it sound a little too easy.
CT: [Laughs] But it is. If you can't make a record with those guys, you had better hang it up.

JW: But you’re not sitting in the booth eating a sandwich, are you?
CT: No [laughing]. My job is to spot the flaws, push for the right feel and know when we had a master take. That's the one that moves me most.

JW: How was Chet?
CT: As always, he was fantastic. Chet and Paul hadn’t worked together before. But each one could stand on his own. They fit together like peas in a pod.

JW: What role did Jim play if it was his date?
CT: His role was to play Jim Hall. He and I talked about the song Concierto having a Jobim-legato feeling. We picked the other songs together. 

JW: Did you discuss the date with Jim in advance?
CT: That usually occurs. Then Don [Sebesky] and I talk about the feel we want, and he'd lay out the tracks [by recording them] on a Fender Rhodes [electric piano] so the guys knew what the arrangement was all about.

JW: Is there ever a peril when recording great artists that you can't hear anything bad? In other words, what are you listening for on Concierto?
CT: I don’t have that answer. It’s either good because it hits me, or we need to try another take. It’s a very abstract thing. How do you describe a good piece of footage in a movie when the actors are all great? It’s an impossible question to answer. It occurs at the moment.

JW: But many so-called alternate takes can sound as good as the originals, yes?
CT: Not to me. I’m listening for feeling. Is it rushed? Does it get into the slot? Sometimes I would call for another take because I thought the artists could deliver something even better. You have to know when you've reached that moment.

JW: When something feels perfect, where do you feel it?
CT: I can’t describe that feeling.

JW: Did you build George Benson's White Rabbit in 1971 on the model that had worked so well with Wes Montgomery?
CT: There was no Wes Montgomery model. There was Wes Montgomery. I would not refer to it as a model.

JW: Let me rephrase: I mean the mix of material: integrating originals with jazz interpretations of pop-rock standards?
CT: Wes played a mix of contemporary and jazz. Everything that came together was a Wes product or a product through Wes' filter. George was a different type of guitar player.

JW: How so?
CT: How is Stanley Turrentine different from Paul Desmond, or Chet Baker different from Freddie Hubbard?

JW: But you're illustrating with extremes, at opposite ends of the spectrum.
CT: Yes, but it’s the personality here. That’s what the noun "style" is all about. It's easy to recognize a Van Gogh. What makes a painting valuable isn't only the setting on the canvas but the painter's style, which no one else can copy. Then you frame that style and light it in a certain way and exhibit it. George  [pictured] was intense and so was Wes, but in different ways. Wes played distinctive octaves, which is why I asked him to play melodies in octaves.

JW: That's pretty subtle.
CT: Art is quite abstract, let’s face it.

JW: What was it like producing Nina Simone's Baltimore in 1978?
CT: A pleasure and a pain.

JW: Why?
CT: In this particular case, I flew over with the rhythm section to Brussels to record with Nina there. She was living in Paris at the time because whenever she'd open her door here, the IRS would come in and clean out everything she had.

JW: Where did you stay?
CT: We all stayed at the Brussels Hilton. Every day we took a 20-mile drive to the studio, which was in a converted barn in the countryside. And each day we crossed the Waterloo Bridge [laughs], so help me [laughs].

JW: When did things get tough?
CT: One day Nina’s check didn’t arrive on time in the U.S., and she attempted to throw the TV out the window of the hotel. Nina was a little mercurial.

JW: A CTI check?
CT: Yes.

JW: Did she actually pick up the TV?
CT: Oh yeah. She caused a little damage in the room, which I covered, of course. She was a manic-depressive, which wasn’t a rare thing. At one point during the recording sessions, Nina again became really difficult. So I took her for a walk in this terrace garden right outside the studio.

JW: What did you say?
CT: I said, “Hey Nina, you might not be feeling well but so far you’ve made me dislike what I do more than anything in the world, and what I do is record artists. I don’t like to record when you behave this way.”

JW: What happened?
CT: She came back into the studio and settled down.

JW: Wow, that must have been about as hot as you’ve ever gotten.
CT: I had to do that. I wasn't dealing with a normal situation.

JW: What does being difficult in the studio mean?
CT: She wasn’t cooperating with the guys. She didn't want one musician or another to play in a particular place. She was slowing things down for seemingly no reason.

JW: Ultimately, were you pleased with what was recorded?
CT: Oh yes. As far as I'm concerned, she’s untouchable as Nina Simone, the artist.

JW: When you had gone for a walk with Nina, were you ever afraid she would take a swing at you?
CT: Oh, no. Nothing like that. Nina knew how I felt about her. The beauty of Nina's voice is that you believe what she sang and that she was dead serious about it. That's the kind of person she was.

Interview: Creed Taylor (Part 17)

The rise of stereo fidelity in the late 1960s and introduction of affordable stereo equipment in the early 1970s created an enormous market for the stereo LP. Clunky record changer consoles were out and individual components were in. If you bought a decent turntable, a tone-arm cartridge, stereo receiver and pair of speakers, stereo records sounded realistic and exciting. To exceed the hi-fi demands of new audiophiles, producer Creed Taylor set the bar high for artists and production at CTI Records. [Photo of Creed Taylor and Stanley Turrentine by Chuck Stewart]

With concert rock drawing massive crowds in the early 1970s following Woodstock, and Detroit and Philadelphia soul gaining ground in urban markets, Creed realized that jazz had to re-invent itself if the genre was to compete. The hard bop formulas of the late 1950s and 1960s had been exhausted, and record buyers wanted a bigger, wider sound with electronic instruments and plenty of rhythmic intensity.

In part 3 of my conversation with Creed on his CTI years, the legendary producer talks about his production technique, Stanley Turrentine, Hubert Laws, Elvis Presley's studio band, and why Paul McCartney gave Creed Let It Be before it was issued:

JazzWax: When you were in the booth producing albums at CTI, what were you doing exactly?
Creed Taylor: I was standing, with my left ear next to this huge speaker. And today I wish I hadn’t been doing that. Rudy [van Gelder] had it cranked up, and I loved the sound because the energy coming into booth from the studio was magic. It was the best way to hear if the music being played was happening—or if there was a problem. There was a lot to listen to and evaluate during those sessions.

JW: Did the practice affect your hearing?
CT: Oh, sure. It knocked off some of my hearing. I’m probably 10,000 cycles in the left ear today.

JW: Wow, how close were you?
CT: Too close [laughs]. As I'm standing there, my eyes were never closed, and nobody in the booth was permitted to talk. I was listening for every bit of texture.

JW: Do you listen that carefully to music when you put on a recording at home?
CT: All the time. Listening to jazz is about depth and dimension. It's not something to throw on as background music. I can’t tolerate people who want to listen to jazz and then once the music goes on they start talking. When that happens I leave.

JW: When you were listening in the booth, what would cause you to think a take wasn't happening?
CT: It could be any number of things. A song may not be swinging, or it may lack that emotional feeling. Or the tempo might need to be faster or slower to get an emotional reaction. Or the strings might a have little intonation problem, which occurs mostly in the back row. Or some of the woodwinds might be sharp. All kinds of things are going on, and you have to listen hard for them. But ultimately, it’s the feeling of the music that’s the decision maker. How does the track make me feel.

JW: The number of musicians on CTI recordings suddenly grew in the early 1970s.
CT: Not suddenly. Gradually. The thing developed. For example, I wanted the strings to be an important element you listened to—not just padding. Strings had a purpose, whether the jazz critics liked them or not. When things got a little more complex, the strings had to be perfect and in tune.

JW: How did you ensure that?
CT: I had David Nadien in the first chair. David was the section's de facto straw boss. He knew the politics of strings, which went beyond the musicality. Don [Sebesky] was my quality-control guy in the studio. So was David. He contracted every single string player himself. He knew that there was a great deal of political back-scratching going on with string players. If you weren't careful, you could wind up with a mediocre player. For me, every single string player had to be selected carefully. David did that.

JW: Hubert Laws' Crying Song was one of your earliest CTI albums, recorded in mid-1969. You re-issued it in 1970 as gatefold, with a stunning Pete Turner cover. Why?
CT: Once I had officially set up my company in early 1970, I wanted to bring  uniformity to the look of our covers, making full use of Pete Turner's color photography. The blue image with the horse grazing the snowy Montana field knocked me out. But the photo's subject, the horse, is on the back.

JW: Why?
CT: Because it conveys the loneliness of the title. Also, I wanted CTI covers to be as engaging as possible. Pete's images were beautiful, so rich in color. They begged to fill every square inch of real estate on the covers—front and back. And whether the album was seen from the front or back at stores, people would know immediately it was a CTI release. I also knew that in buyers' homes, CTI albums would have the same effect as coffee table books. People would want to hold them, open them and stare at the images. The horse on the back made you turn the album over and over.

JW: Why did you record part of Crying Song in Memphis?
CT: I wanted to use the house rhythm section at American Recording Studios. It was a soulful section that had backed Elvis Presley, as odd as that might seem. Elvis had a real soulful thing going.

JW: How did you get them for a jazz date?
CT: I knew them already. I just called the studio and asked if I could use the house band. I knew it was going to work because I liked how the band sounded behind Elvis and many other r&b hits. I knew what we were walking into. Then Stanley Turrentine couldn’t make it.

JW: Stanley Turrentine? You mean Hubert Laws.
CT: No, it was supposed to be Stanley Turrentine’s date. On the day we were to record in Memphis, I got a call at 10 am in my hotel. The session was to start at 1 p.m. It was Stanley, saying his lawyers wouldn't let him come down to Memphis because his contract hadn’t been signed yet. [Photo of Stanley Turrentine by Francis Wolff]

JW: Did you flip out—I mean as much as Creed Taylor flips out?
CT: [Laughs] I don’t know. Stuff happens all the time. As the cliché goes, you roll with the punches.

JW: So what did you do?
CT: I called Hubert in New York and asked if he’d like to come down. I told him that Stanley couldn’t make it and that I had Elvis' rhythm section ready to go.

JW: What happened?
CT: Hubert [pictured] arrived the next day and we went for a walk along the Mississippi River before the session, stopping for some Memphis barbeque. Then we went back into the studio and recorded with these guys, without music. The sound they created brought Southern soul together with jazz.

JW: Who picked the material?
CT: I picked most of the songs. A couple came from the house band there.

JW: Part of the album was recorded at Rudy van Gelder's studio in New Jersey, yes?
CT: Yes, we came back up and recorded more at Rudy’s. We didn’t finish everything down there, and I thought we might need some arranging aspects, particularly on Let It Be.

JW: Why?
CT: Because of the nature of the song. And also, there was a sound I wanted that I could only get at Rudy's.

JW: But while the song Let It Be was recorded in January 1969, it wasn't released as a single until March 1970, followed by the album in May. How did you get a hold of the song in mid-1969?
CT: CTI and George Martin shared the same U.S. attorney at the time. I had given the attorney a copy of Wes Montgomery’s A Day in the Life in 1967 and he took it back to Paul McCartney. The Beatles flipped out about it. They liked it so much that Paul in 1969 sent me a run through tape of what he had done on Let It Be.

JW: Just like that?
CT: Yes, just like that—with the understanding that I could record the song with any jazz artist I wished.

JW: So you heard the original demo, and CTI was the first to record it commercially?
CT: Yes, what Paul sent was a rough voice line with him playing piano. I‘d heard the song many times growing up in Virginia. It wasn’t called Let It Be, of course. It was a Presbyterian hymn that was very close. We came back to Rudy’s so I could use Hubert on the alto flute and get the sound I had in my head. The alto flute was the perfect register for that kind of soulful, Southern church sound.

JW: How was Hubert on the date?
CT: Great. Hubert is unshakable. He's creatively cooperative and has the highest level of musicianship. It didn't matter what I threw at him. He made it all sound great.

Tomorrow, Creed talks about the making of Don Sebesky's Giant Box, Grover Washington Jr.'s Inner City Blues and Mister Magic, Jim Hall's Concierto, George Benson's White Rabbit and Nina Simone's Baltimore.

Interview: Creed Taylor (Part 16)

Throughout his six-decade career, Creed Taylor's oversized signature has appeared on the backs of LPs that he has produced. At ABC Paramount, Impulse and Verve, Creed's John Hancock was a personal stamp of approval and a guarantee of the album's contents. Record companies liked the signature because it added a human touch and had cachet. It also sent a message to the record buyer—that a faceless company didn't produce the album, a master craftsman named Creed Taylor did. [Photo by Chuck Stewart]

So by the time Creed moved to Verve in 1961, his name had become an established brand. After Getz/Gilberto and Bill Evans' Conversations with Myself won Grammys, the Creed Taylor signature also stood for hit-maker. Offered an opportunity to join A&M Records in 1966, Creed viewed the job as a chance to further leverage his vision and name. His A&M contract called for the creation of CTI Records, placing him in charge of a boutique jazz label within the larger corporate entity. So when Creed left A&M records in 1969, he took CTI Records with him.

In Part 2 of my conversation with Creed about CTI Records, the legendary producer talks about his vision for the label, the CTI sound, Freddie Hubbard's Red Clay, the purpose of Kudu Records, Antonio Carlos Jobim's Stone Flower and Deodato's Prelude:

JazzWax: From the start, was CTI Records aimed at young adults?
Creed Taylor: Not specifically. The albums were for  sophisticated jazz listeners of all ages who were tired of the same old formulas being used by the well known jazz labels.

JW: What was CTI's formula?
CT: There was no formula. I simply wanted to create a structured musical environment in which highly creative artists like Freddie Hubbard could have the freedom to invent and improvise. CTI was always about "what if" and "let’s try it." 

JW: Before you left A&M, did you write out your vision for CTI?
CT: No. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I didn’t have to write it down [laughs].

JW: Did you have a sense of what you wanted to achieve?
CT: Here’s what I did not want to do: I didn’t want to produce jam sessions. I wanted to capture what I felt when I first heard Stan Getz playing his solo on Woody Herman's Early Autumn. That solo always made me melt. Or when I first heard Jackie [Cain] and Roy [Kral] singing with Charlie Ventura in the late 1940s. I knew immediately when I heard them that I was a Jackie and Roy fan—and that I wasn't a fan of Charlie Ventura [laughs]. What I was responding to back then was great sounding music. I wanted to do the same at CTI, only do so on a much bigger scale. Over time I think we change intellectually but not emotionally. What pleases us always pleases us. I simply had a sound in mind that I wanted to capture.

JW: What was this sound?
CT: There was a kind of triplex consideration. CTI was going to deliver music that was confident and smart, like Stan Getz. It was going to be beautifully orchestrated, like Gil Evans' arrangements for Claude Thornhill's band. And finally I had a concept for a sound. Whether that sound was going to come through the arranger or the soloist would depend on the album. Eventually, Don Sebesky [pictured] captured that sound, and he became CTI's dominant arranger.

JW: Yet the first CTI albums you recorded in 1969 when you left A&M weren't jazz LPs, were they?
CT: That's right. The first CTI date was an album with folk singer Kathy McCord.

JW: Why her?
CT: Because I was a Chris Connor fan. I thought Kathy had a nice smokey sound. I liked her voice. One of the next albums I produced was by a group called Flow, which featured guitarist Don Felder, who soon afterward joined the Eagles. I liked Don's sound.  

JW: CTI's folk-rock phase was brief. In 1970 you produced Freddie Hubbard's classic Red Clay, which kicked off jazz-fusion.
CT: Freddie was into a different scene than Miles Davis at that time. Miles for the most part in the late 1960s was trying to thumb his nose at the phony rock idiom. What Freddie and Herbie Hancock were doing was real enthusiastic, improvised jazz with no sociological or political motives or overtones.

JW: But let me ask you—Red Clay has a lot of extended solo work and wide-open playing. Wasn't this exactly what you were opposed to?
CT: Red Clay was different. It was electrifying all the way through. It had an explosive quality. So if it took an extra 5 or 10 minutes for more explosions, I was all for it. Red Clay captured some very emotional music. As a producer, if something’s happening, you don’t cut it off and say to the musicians, "Whoa folks, no one’s going to understand what you’re playing." As a producer, I always prefer to go with the flow and feeling. That was one of those kinds of dates.

JW: Did you and Hubbard discuss Red Clay before the session?
CT: No. That’s what jazz is all about. It’s a surprise. I had never heard Red Clay before. But I had heard Freddie Hubbard throughout the 1960s and loved what he had been doing. Freddie was on Oliver Nelson's Blues and the Abstract Truth, which I had produced in 1961 after founding Impulse Records. 

JW: Were you concerned that Red Clay didn't have a memorable hook?
CT: Red Clay had a large hook. If it took 18 minutes to  show what that hook was all about, so be it [laughs]. The day of the 45-rpm single was over by this point. There were new rules. Great music required room to stretch. Freddie needed the space to do all of the improvising he wanted. He was absolutely free to do as he pleased.

JW: It seems your formula at CTI was to have fixed orchestral parameters in place but then allow artists enormous flexibility to move around in the zone.
CT: Great music is about flexibility. Music's latitude is greater than anyone can imagine so you have to be prepared for it. You have to allow the art to come up to the top.

JW: On Antonio Carlos Jobim's Stone Flower in 1970, what were you listening for? Or did you just let Jobim do what he wanted?
CT: I just let him do his thing. Strings were added later.

JW: Later? Why?
CT: When you've got a sensitive, subtle thing like Jobim  and the bossa nova idiom, there’s a lot of rhythmic detail that has to be heard by the producer while people are playing and recording. A large string section is a foreign element to handle at the same time.

JW: Jobim knew the strings would come later?
CT: Yes, that was the pattern.

JW: In 1971 you created Kudu Records, a CTI subsidiary. Why?
CT: To create a record line for play on black radio. I wanted to produce a completely different type of music for a specific audience.

JW: Wasn't CTI designed to do that?
CT: It was. But I wanted a label that specifically featured music that was soulful and emotionally interesting, and not necessarily dominated by improvisation. Kudu was sort of an instrumental r&b label. The rhythmic content was the driving sound. For instance, [saxophonist] Stanley Turrentine could have been a Kudu artist, but he was more stylized and sophisticated, so he fit better at CTI. If you took James Brown's backup group without James Brown, you'd have a Kudu recording. Kudu focused on repeated riffs and rhythmic sounds.

JW: What was the business strategy?
CT: To introduce Kudu on late-night radio. If the music connected with listeners, I knew that the late-night deejay would tell the drive-time guy in the morning that he was getting a strong reaction from his audience. The late night guy would urge the morning guy to use it. Those were two different audiences in the same market. That's how word of mouth would start when radio mattered. Radio guys at the time knew that Kudu stood for a specific sound. It was jazz, soul and r&b all wrapped up in one package.

JW: What does "Kudu" mean?
CT: It’s a species of antelope. I just happened to come across the word. It sounded to me like "voodoo," which has a certain energy to it. I also liked the colors of the Jamaican flag, which I used for the Kudu label. The colors had an earthy, festive groove.

JW: Deodato's Prelude, released in 1973, was CTI's first huge hit.
CT: Prelude hit No. 3 on Billboard's album chart, and Also Sprach Zarathustra, the single from the album, reached No. 3 on the Billboard pop chart that year. Sales skyrocketed, and we were on our way with CTI.

JW: How did the concept for the song come about?
CT: In 1968, when the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey came out. I saw it and was transfixed by the scene toward the end, where the character eating at a table knocks the wine glass onto the floor. That scene was so bizarre. I heard the movie's theme song and realized it hadn’t been done except as a classical piece.

JW: What happened next?
CT: I asked [Eumir] Deodato if he could do something with the 2001 theme. Deodato had arranged albums for me at A&M. The result was this intense samba, quasi-bossa rhythm. It wasn’t so much the arrangement but the energy he put into the rhythm track to get the basic theme down that gave it the impetus or appeal after the melody was put on top. The build was terrific.

JW: Did you ever feel Deodato's 2001 was too long?
CT: No. Never. Because it had a life of its own.

JW: Is that a criterion for you as a producer? if a studio performance has a life of its own, leave it alone?
CT: I would think so, yeah [laughs].

JW: How does that differ from a 10-minute drum solo? Doesn't that have a life of its own?
CT: Uhhh, whose drum solo? And on what song? [laughs]. It all depends.

Tomorrow, Creed talks about his left ear, the growing size of CTI orchestras, the recording of Hubert Laws' Crying Song with Elvis Presley's backup group, and how Creed wound up with Paul McCartney's rundown of Let It Be before the Beatles song was released.

Interview: Creed Taylor (Part 15)

In my previous series of conversations with Creed Taylor (Parts 1-14), the legendary jazz record producer spoke candidly about his work in the 1950s and 1960s at Bethlehem, ABC Paramount, Impulse, Verve and A&M. At each label, Creed transformed jazz and jazz LP packaging. He also made contemporary stars of jazz artists ranging from Stan Getz to Wes Montgomery. But despite his many award-winning accomplishments at these labels, Creed's most ambitious years were yet to come. [Photo by Chuck Stewart]

In 1969, three years after joining A&M Records, Creed worked out a deal with the label that freed him from his contract and allowed him to start his own company with his already established CTI label. Over the next nine years, Creed would blaze a completely new jazz trail and set new standards for album production and packaging.

But this CTI revolution was not without controversy. Some jazz fans questioned whether Creed had gone too far, producing great-looking LP jackets that held bland jazz versions of pop and soul hits. Others staunchly loved the jazz sound Creed created using a working studio band of top musicians and higher standards of fidelity.

Eventually, CTI imploded, a victim of overexpansion, flawed distribution decisions and an economic downturn that forced the company into bankruptcy. But between 1969 and 1978, Creed paved the way for what's now known as jazz-soul, revolutionized LP packaging with photographer Pete Turner, and created a more sophisticated and upscale image for jazz and jazz artists. Creed also produced significant jazz albums for new and established artists using massive orchestras at a time when jazz budgets were being slashed at major labels.

In Part 1 of my five-part interview series with Creed on his CTI years, the producer reflects on his last days at A&M Records, his vision for a stand-alone CTI label, and the factors that led to his break with A&M:

JazzWax: Before we talk about your CTI years, I hear you've assembled a CTI band for an eight-week concert tour this summer, yes?
Creed Taylor: Yes, I'm producing a series of performances by the CTI All Stars. We're going to play about eight European and Asian jazz festivals. The group is made up of Randy Brecker, Hubert Laws, [saxophonist] Bill Evans, Russell Malone, Niels Lan Doky, Mark Egan, Jeff Tain Watts, Airto, Flora Purim and Jamie Cullum. Our first concert is at the Montreux Jazz Festival on July 7th.

JW: Are you excited?
CT: Oh sure. CTI did a lot of festivals back in the 1970s, at the Hollywood Bowl and other places. Everyone in those concert bands was a CTI recording artist, and whoever had the next album coming out was the primary soloist.

JW: Are the CTI All Stars going to perform in the U.S.?
CT: If we make enough noise in Europe, Japan and Korea, we probably will. We went abroad because there are more significant jazz festivals there. The festival culture and audiences are different. It's very exciting. All of my creative juices are flowing.

JW: In 1967, two years before you left A&M Records, you produced Wave with Antonio Carlos Jobim, which foreshadowed the CTI look and sound.
CT: Yes, Wave actually was one of my first CTI recordings when CTI was a subsidiary of A&M. I had heard parts of the song a year earlier, in Rio de Janeiro.

JW: Did Jobim play it for you there?
CT: Yes. I had been invited down to Rio by the government. I was to be the guest of honor at a luncheon. Brazil grew a lot of coffee but it didn't start exporting it until after the Verve bossa nova records I produced with Stan Getz took off. Actually, Brazil had invited down a large number of American stars in different cultural and business areas. On the plane down was Natalie Wood, Robert Wagner, Quincy Jones, Sammy Cahn, and Kim Hunter, one of my favorite Hitchcock actresses—blond, really quiet and pretty. I had a long talk with her on the flight. Everyone was going to the same event. [Photo of Quincy Jones and Creed Taylor by Chuck Stewart]

JW: Sounds like there was more than coffee at stake.
CT: There was. With the bossa nova craze in full throttle, Brazil saw a commercial and cultural opportunity to overcome its Carmen Miranda image. MGM back in the 1940s and early 1950s had put bananas on Miranda's hat, and rather than focus on music as a vital part of Brazilian culture, Miranda's image and Brazil by extension became a punch line.

JW: So there was a music component to the trip, too, yes?
CT: Yes. After The Girl from Ipanema hit, Brazil wanted to remind everyone that the samba and bossa nova were from Brazil, not any other Latin American country. I think the government hoped that those who came down would carry that message back.

JW: You already knew Jobim, of course, from your earlier recordings.
CT: Yes, sure. We first met in New York in the very early 1960s. When I went by to see him in Rio in 1966, he played an incomplete version of Wave for me on the piano. I loved it. I liked Jobim very much. He was full of enthusiasm, and an early proponent of the whole green thing we see today. Our culture should have been more receptive to Jobim’s feelings about the forest and flowers and the ocean. When I heard the song and its name, I thought to myself, "There he goes again, like a kid, a composer, animated like a wave." We agreed when the song was finished that we'd record it together.

JW: When you joined A&M in 1966, setting up CTI was part of your original deal, yes?
CT: That's right.

JW: When did you decide to leave?
CT: In late 1968. Herb Alpert was a really nice guy. He was a stylistic trumpet player, and his Tijuana Brass made A&M a huge success. But he also liked jazz a little too much, perhaps. He made suggestions to me about arrangements. It was a subtle thing, and I saw conflict in artistic direction looming.

JW: How so?
CT: If you get too connected with another person in your own area of artistic achievement, you risk falling for that person's suggestions. One day I woke up and it hit me. I realized that I had to leave A&M. I thought I should be listening carefully to other aesthetics.

JW: Herb loved jazz?
CT: Herb loved Paul Desmond, Wes Montgomery [pictured] and other artists that I was producing. But I  could sense through his suggestions that he had a different creative vision for them. And I started to feel myself becoming obligated to incorporate his suggestions. His recommendations were taking my sensibilities in the wrong direction. I knew I had to set up a record company on my own to accomplish what I had in mind.

JW: How was the parting?
CT: Completely amicable.

JW: Did you need a new office?
CT: I already had my own office separate from A&M's offices, and I didn't change my location at Rockefeller Center. Early on, the deal was that A&M would handle the distribution and everything else. After an album package was complete, I would just send it over to them, and they took it from there. I wasn't involved in the marketing in the beginning, but I did a lot of radio promotion.

JW: Were you scared going out on your own?
CT: No.

JW: Why not?
CT: No one was doing what I was doing, so I didn't have any real competition to worry about. And A&M was handling all the back-end work.

JW: In the late 1960s, what did you sense was changing in the music industry and jazz marketplace? What opportunity did you see?
CT: I saw that there was room for jazz that didn't  completely ignore other successful types of music of the time that had merit. I liked what Blue Note Records had been doing in this space earlier in the 1960s. Lee Morgan's Sidewinder, for example, made a lot of noise. So did Jimmy Smith's Back at the Chicken Shack. Blue Note had placed one foot in r&b and one foot in improvised contemporary jazz.

JW: Did you like what Blue Note was doing?
CT: Yes, I did. However, it wasn't the direction in which I was interested in going. I thought the label was restricting its reach by having long improvised solos on albums. I had similar ideas about mixing jazz, soul and r&b—but without the imposition of elongated passages. These would be where the bass had maybe two choruses and drums would then do a trade. It’s hard to verbalize what I knew and what I wanted to do that no one else was doing.

JW: But if you were summing it up?
CT: Look, I felt there were great music themes out there that weren't being packaged in a way that large audiences would connect with them.

JW: At CTI, you clearly were shooting for sophistication.
How did you know that the market was ready for what you had to offer?
CT: My many years in the record business had resulted in a close relationship with the independent distributors as a group. They were almost like a fraternity. As long as you didn't cross into their territory, you were part of this club. I got to know them, and we had a direct line of communication.

JW: What were they telling you about the marketplace?
CT: I sensed I could record Freddie Hubbard on Red Clay, for example, and make a really attractive package out of it. Back then, these guys were businessmen but they also were interested in music. Even though A&M was handling the distribution at first, I knew the distribution guys well and could tell them what I had planned and who was going to appear on an album. Then I would say, "By the way, I’m going into the studio with Freddie [Hubbard] or Stanley [Turrentine] and the results are going to be very interesting." These guys would give me a sense of how they thought my concepts would sell or what I had to do to improve sales.

JW: What did you learn about consumers?
CT: Through the distributors I discovered that taste levels among buyers were shifting. With the rise of FM stereo radio in the late 1960s, the album began to gain on the single 45-rpm. FM stations needed to fill more time, since they had less ads at first. As albums became more popular, LP covers became more important. Younger people began to respond more to highly artistic, engaging covers.

JW: But covers were becoming more than just a place to put an artist's picture, yes?
CT: Absolutely. By the late 1960s and early 1970s, you
held covers, you left them out, face up or standing against speakers. They were meant to be seen. They were a personal statement. My goal with [photographer] Pete Turner was to create a mood for the covers. I wanted the images to symbolize the feeling and energy of the music inside.

JW: Yet your CTI covers by Pete were never literal images of the album titles.
CT: That's right. Jazz is about giving listeners space to reach their own conclusions. CTI cover art was always strong but subliminal in its depictions.

JW: Record covers were always important. When did they start to play an even bigger role, especially with the type of photography you were using and the wet, glossy surfaces?
CT: Right after I left A&M. I knew the guy managing the
distributor that sold directly to Korvettes in New York. The flagship store was on 5th Ave. [pictured]. Today, the store's name doesn't mean much to most people, since they went out of business years ago. But back in the 1960s and 1970s, the department store had a huge record department. The stronger the covers, the stronger the sales. Pete Turner's images were so rich and beautiful that I wanted them to take up the entire cover.

JW: What was the reaction?
CT: Eventually the distributor told me that customers weren't coming in to ask what’s new in jazz but what’s new on CTI. So our covers played a big role in the popularity of the albums. Or at last getting people to buy them for the first time. Distributors helped me realize that we headed in the right direciton.

JW: But there was plenty of competition for the consumer's dollar.
CT: Yes but not that much in my jazz category. By 1970, rock had overwhelmed most other genres. Many other jazz albums from this period looked shabby and sounded slapped together. My strategy was to invest heavily on the talent, sound quality and look of the records. By 1974, Billboard named CTI the label of the year, and we were the No. 1 jazz label in the world.

Tomorrow, Creed talks about producing his first CTI albums after leaving A&M Records, including LPs by folk singer Kathy McCord, folk-rock group Flow (with Eagles guitarist Don Felder), Freddie Hubbard's Red Clay and Deodato's Prelude.

Note 1: This is technically Part 15 in a series of conversations with Creed Taylor. For the earlier parts...

• Parts 1-4 (Bethlehem Years)—go here
• Parts 5-9 (ABC Paramount/Impulse Years)—go here
• Parts 10-14 (Verve/A&M Years)—go here

Remember, to access the next part in a series, simply click on the link at the top of each page.

Note 2: For my interview series with CTI cover photographer Pete Turner, go here.

Denny Zeitlin: Columbia Sessions

Up until now, listening to pianist Denny Zeitlin has been for me like wandering around inside a giant acrylic crystal. No transparent surface in there travels in a straight line, so it's easy to slip off the wall and onto your back, unsure if you're looking up or down. For many years I avoided Zeitlin's recordings, either because the commitment needed to find cohesion was too great or because I just assumed that much of what I heard from one album to the next was just variations on the same giant helix. [Pictured: Cecil McBee, Zeitlin and Freddie Waits in 1964]

Then a few months ago, Mosaic Records issued Denny Zeitlin: The Columbia Studio Trio Sessions, which were recorded in the early 1960s. Before giving the three-CD set a listen, I asked a friend about the importance of the recordings, not having ever owned them. "There aren't many jazz albums where you can hear the heart and brain playing duets," he said. Now, after weeks listening to the Mosaic set upward of two dozen times, I'm pleased to say that this work is as magnificent as it is fascinating.

For those unfamiliar with Zeitlin's early 1960s work, be aware that it doesn't fit neatly in any one category. There are influences here and there, but ultimately these influences are more like sprinkles than streaks. If I were constructing an algebraic formula to give you a sense of the style, it probably would go something like this: (Bill Evans x George Russell + Don Friedman) x Andrew Hill. But even this silly equation is unfair, for Zeitlin in the early 1960s truly created his own genre, which is blazingly apparent on this Mosaic set.

What I love most about these CDs is that each disc is like being taken on a different journey through a dense, magical forest. Rather than tug away from Zeitlin's hand or have a tantrum over structure, it's far more fun to get lost with him, emerging in glades or by streams or at heights where there's a breathtaking view. There's a rational enthusiasm and artistic risk-taking here that's intoxicating.

Zeitlin began medical school at Johns Hopkins in 1960. Already a strong pianist, he played locally with saxophonist Gary Bartz, whose father owned a Baltimore jazz club. Fortunately for Zeitlin, his dorm had a 7-foot Steinway grand, enabling him to practice in between studies.

In 1963, Zeitlin accepted a 10-week psychiatry fellowship at New York's Columbia University. Zeitlin quickly befriended composer George Russell, a relationship that changed his musical outlook, and saxophonist Paul Winter, who introduced him to Columbia Records' producer John Hammond. After hearing Zeitlin play, Hammond signed him to a record deal, teaming Zeitlin with Jeremy Steig on Flute Fever.

In February 1964, Zeitlin recorded Cathexis, his first leadership date, with Cecil McBee on bass and Freddie Waits on drums. The word cathexis is from the Greek and means a concentration of emotional energy on a person, object or idea, which perfectly defines Zeitlin's approach. The album is comprised of a restless quilting of originals and standards that constantly surge and seduce. So Soon, Nica's Dream and 'Round Midnight, for example, bristle with rush-hour chord densities and scrambling melodies that capture the songs' frames and spirit rather than an exact likeness.

Unlike many modal artists of the period who relied on pounding percussive bass-clef attacks, Zeitlin prefers to hang out high in the treble zone. His fidgety, headlong technique holds you fast. The high point on this first disc is Blue Phoenix, Parts 1, 2 and 3. The chord structures and moods created are wonderful.

Writes Zeitlin in his liner notes for the new Mosaic box:

"I remember bringing the finished LP over to Bill Evans' apartment for his critique. I felt emboldened to call him, since he had mentioned my 'great' playing on Flute Fever in a Down Beat Blindfold Test. He loved the trio album, and encouraged me to 'keep doing my own thing.' In this early phase of my recording career, the encouragement of people like Billy Taylor, George Russell and Bill Evans was tremendously inspiring." 

But after Cathexis was released, touring was out, since Zeitlin had to move to the West Coast for his internship at San Francisco General Hospital. Soon after relocating, he began gigging with bassist Charlie Haden and drummer Jerry Granelli. The trio recorded Carnival for Columbia in October 1964 in Los Angeles. The album has a slightly more sensitive sound than Cathexis, with Zeitlin surging and reflecting. Standards like The Boy Next Door and All the Things You Are become Zeitlinized, as they're taken apart and reassembled with almost cinematic drama.

Zeitgeist was the third studio album. Part of the date was recorded in April 1966 with the same musicians from Carnival. The balance was recorded almost a year later, with Joe Halpin on bass and Oliver Johnson on drums. The studio recording was interrupted by a series of gigs and a live album (Shining Hour) as well as Zeitlin's ever-demanding and ongoing medical residency.

Zeitgeist is perhaps the most Evansian of the three Columbia albums. You can hear the influence of Bill Evans most distinctly on Put Your Little Right Foot Out and Here's that Rainy Day. But since Zeitlin was first to record the latter song in 1967 (Evans took it on as a solo piece in 1968), you wonder how much of an influence Zeitlin had on Evans at this point. Also interesting is Zeitlin's beard, a look Evans would assume years later.

There are revelations on these Columbia dates. During my intensive listening sessions, it dawned on me that the pianist was less interested in a song's melody and much more focused on exposing its personality. This really is quite extraordinary. Most pianists of the period, including Evans, took a standard and deconstructed the melody, drawing on harmonies, swing and chord changes to express improvisation. Or like Andrew Hill, they chose to make a fabulously percussive and deeply political statement.

Zeitlin, by contrast, treats each song like a patient—probing and evaluating the traits that make the composition tick. Eventually he fully exposes its natural behavior. On these Columbia sessions, Zeitlin either consciously or unconsciously put songs on the couch. What you hear are a song's disorders, pleasure principals and rage. Through Zeitlin, we learn that a song's id is a beautiful thing.

JazzWax tracks: Denny Zeitlin: The Columbia Studio Trio Sessions is a three-disc set available as part of the Mosaic Select series. You'll find it here. The set is extraordinary both for Zeitlin's musicianship and technique, and for the powerful influence he had on so many pianists who followed in the 1960s and 1970s.

Interview: Buddy De Franco + Tatum

On February 6, 1956, Art Tatum and Buddy DeFranco recorded together in Los Angeles with Red Callender on bass and Bill Douglass on drums. The session was for Norman Granz's Verve Records, one of several American Songbook sessions Granz had set up teaming Tatum with jazz greats of the period.

The Tatum-De Franco date is significant for several reasons: To the best of my knowledge, it marked the first time the pianist had recorded with a clarinet in a duo format. It also was the first time that Tatum and Buddy played together. Sadly, the summit would also be the last time these two frantically busy jazz giants would merge. Tatum would die in November.

I've always been extremely fond of this recording. If you're unfamiliar with the album, the eight tracks and three alternates might seem at first like an attempt to reproduce the Benny Goodman-Teddy Wilson sound. Not so. Buddy's clarinet is more brooding and relaxed, determined to reach reverentially into Tatum's zone. Tatum, for his part, isn't interested in laying back or accompanying anyone. He's up, down, around and in back of every line played by Buddy.

The more you listen to the tracks, the more information you hear. These two aren't just playing a clutch of standards. There's a duel going on—but not between egos. Tatum throughout playfully puts the clarinet through a series of wrestling holds. Buddy, for his part, allows himself to be caught on occasion, only to slip free and come back with holds of his own. There's a cat and mouse quality here that never disappoints, no matter how many times you play the album. Yesterday I listened to the session 13 times in a row, and I still haven't tired of it.

Fascinated to know more about the record date, I called Buddy recently, and we spent a lovely half hour chatting:

JazzWax: Do you remember the Art Tatum session?
Buddy De Franco: Oh sure. That was quite an experience. From the time I was a young boy, my father had brought home 78-rpm recordings of Tatum. The first time I had heard them, I was amazed. From that point on, I was an Art Tatum fan. I consider him a genius. In the jazz era, Art Tatum and Charlie Parker would be my only two picks on the genius level. All the other good players were highly talented and great and all that. But Bird and Tatum were at the genius level.

JW: Whose idea was the Tatum-De Franco session?
BDF: Norman Granz [pictured]. He was doing a series of Tatum sessions with well-known jazz players. When he called me and told me what he wanted to do, it absolutely floored me. I went through a combination of fright, intimidation, thrill, elation—you name it. All those categories of emotion. Tatum was naturally intimidating, because of his facility and his brain and the way it worked.

JW: What impressed you most?
BDF: How Art weaved in and out of chord progressions and keys. It was amazing. The other thing about the date was that Art chose keys that were different from the ones the songs were written in originally. That was a tricky thing. On top of that, I had kind of pretty bad cold.

JW: Let me get this straight: You were anxious, Tatum changed the keys on songs he sprang on you at the session, and you were under the weather? 
BDF: Yes, I was so ill on that date I had to sit down in a chair for practically the entire session.

JW: Did you ever consider postponing?
BDF: No. I realized immediately that putting off the date was impossible given Art’s schedule and mine. If f I didn’t do the date then, I’d probably never get do it. The probability of bringing us together again would be slim.

JW: Did you find playing with Tatum distracting?
BDF: Yes, absolutely. In fact, that was one of the things I had to guard against and focus on. I had to work harder to avoid being distracted by what Art was doing on the piano. With Art, every two beats in a measure was a different chord progression or fantastic arpeggio. It was incredible to follow him. It was like trying to catch a train [laughs].

JW: How did you block out the amazing things Tatum was doing?
BDF: That was a matter of survival. I just had to do it or else. I was stubborn enough not to fail.

JW: Who chose the songs?
BDF: Art chose most of them. I chose a couple.

JW: Did you know the songs he chose in advance?
BDF: No. It was impromptu.

JW: Who brought in bassist Red Callender and Bill Douglass on drums?
BDF: Art had worked before with Red in Los Angeles. I'm not sure about Bill. Norman probably brought him in. He was a popular West Coast session drummer at the time.

JW: Did you and Art make small talk at the start of the session?
BDF: We had a brief chat. We both knew that we had to get down to business immediately.

JW: How did he feel about you?
BDF: Art was very gracious. He said it was a real pleasure to be working with me. That made me feel fantastic. He was familiar with my records. I had already read several times in print glowing quotes by Art about my playing.

JW: Did you discuss the approach to the songs before you started?
BDF: Yes, I had some input on the tempo. Some of the tunes he wanted to do at a faster or slower tempo than I did. I don’t recall which ones they were exactly.

JW: Which songs did you want to do?
BDF: If I recall, Memories of You and Once in a While.

JW: As you’re playing with Art, did you get the feeling he was not just playing but challenging and provoking you?
BDF: Oh yes. Art loved that game. At the time, he went at me with both barrels [laughs]. It wasn’t a nasty thing. It was a game. An enjoyable game. It also allowed us to get into the music thoroughly.

JW: Was it tricky anticipating what Tatum would do next?
BDF: I wouldn’t let any time elapse without knowing where he was exactly in a song and what he was doing. You had to listen to everything. Otherwise you were at risk of losing your place. 

JW: Was Tatum testing you, seeing if you could handle one thing or another?
BDF: Throughout the whole session. Sometimes he would put his left hand on his lap and play just with his right hand while looking at me and grinning, as if to say, “How about this?”

JW: What is Art doing technically that’s most challenging?
BDF: The chord progressions. He had a way of using great musical devices. They were so accurate that they didn’t sound like devices. His progressions sounded like they absolutely flowed. They were very normal to him. It was difficult to catch onto that—his way of playing progressions through the song.

JW: How so?
BDF: Art had two or three sets of chords for the same tune. His fingering might be different, or he’d use completely different, alternate chords.

JW: For example?
BDF: For instance he’d have four or five different ways of  playing a C-7 chord. Both of us, and Nelson Riddle and Tommy Gumina, an accordion player I worked with, were involved in polychordal devices when playing jazz. For instance, if we had a C-7 chord for any basic thing we were playing, you would have your choice of five different alternate triads superimposed on that one chord. So you could weave in an out of those triads. Tatum had that down. It was absolutely amazing how he did it and how natural he sounded. It was complete and natural.

JW: Did Granz play back the recording after each take?
BDF: Yes. And a couple of times we weren’t satisfied with a playback, which is why we did many of the tunes twice. 

JW: Did you ever have any self-doubt?
BDF: Not so much. Art was so accurate with what he did. If you had the musicianship to go along with that and followed him, you could almost anticipate what he was going to do, That intensity made it an interesting way to play.

JW: Would Tatum tell you during the date that he was digging what you were doing?
BDF: Oh yeah. He’d comment on how something was good, something else was terrific and how great we played together.

JW: Much of the match has to do with the enormous coloration and beauty of your sounds together.
BDF: Oh absolutely. We had to live the song. In fact, technique is just part of it. Your approach is part of it. But the depth of the song that you’re playing is key. You have to understand the song that you’re playing. No matter how much jazz you’ve played, you never want to destroy the effect of a melody. That’s what Bird [Charlie Parker] and Tatum did. They followed the contours of the melody when playing jazz as opposed to playing a bunch of licks in certain keys.

JW: Was there a point with Tatum that day where his playing became overly complicated to your ear?
BDF: When Art played, almost every tune was complicated [laughs]. To work with Art, there had to be input. The dynamic had to be a coercive thing. You had to be in there with him to pull it off. That didn’t take long to do. I had been so familiar with his playing that it was a natural feeling.

JW: At the end, did you two chat?
BDF: We talked for a while, about the tunes, about which takes we wanted. Naturally I wanted takes where I played better than the other take [laughs].

JW: The date was the first time you had played together. Was there talk about recording together again?
BDF: We both wanted to do it again. We also wanted to play together more. We didn’t have a chance though. That was the only time that we got together or had the time to do so.

JW: Do you regret that?
BDF: Yes, I always did. But circumstances are such that you don’t get the chance.

JW: Thinking back, what kind of guy was he?
BDF: Art was a lot of fun. He laughed a lot. I remember he drank more beer on that date than I could imagine. Once in a while he took a shot of gin. But the effects never showed. There was no sign of faltering or being drunk.

JW: Was he encouraging?
BDF: Yes. When we started, he wanted the sound to gel, he wanted it to work. I think he knew that I understood him. I think he was pleasantly surprised how much I knew about him and his playing. I told him how I had listened to him as a kid. But most of all, I told him how much I admired him through my clarinet. That's what you hear on the record.

JazzWax tracks: The Art Tatum/Buddy De Franco Quartet is available as a download at iTunes as part of the Tatum Group Masterpieces series (Vol. 7). Or the album is available on CD here.

JazzWax clip: If you want a taste of just how sublime this session is on all counts, dig A Foggy Day, which perfectly illustrates the synergy between Tatum and Buddy as well as the magnificent game of musical tag these two undertook in 1956. Be sure to dig that fractured intro by Tatum...

"I Kissed Frank Sinatra"

Want to host your own radio show? Nancy Barell does. She's an online disc jockey. Heard exclusively on the web, Nancy's 7-hour jazz and pop show, Spotlight on Sinatra, repeats 24 hours a day. She uses Live365.com, one of a growing number of sites that lets your inner deejay run wild. Though Nancy has been hosting her show since 2005 as a lark, her love of radio, pop and jazz began in earnest in 1976, when she met Frank Sinatra. It's a cute story that I'll share with you in a moment. [Pictured: Frank and Nancy Barell in 1976]

First, a little more about this web radio stuff. Nancy produces her radio show for about $100 a year. That’s net—after she shells out for radio web time and takes in a $6 monthly fee from web listeners who don't want to hear the site's ads. If her show sounds a tad homey (I heard a cat meowing recently during a broadcast), that's probably because she records the show at home on a Mac using software provided by Live365.com.

Nancy plays a Sinatra medley once an hour—adhering to a rule that dates back to the payola days. She also plays lots of pop and jazz. A recent set included Diana Krall, Renee Rosnes, John Coltrane, Dexter Gordon and Shelly Manne. What all tracks have in common is the American Songbook.

Nancy says her show takes about 16 hours to assemble, and she changes it every 8 to 10 days. Sets are pegged to themes—such as a 30-minute segment of songs by Tadd Dameron or Rodgers and Hart. But deep down she's a Sinatraphile.

Here's Nancy's Sinatra story:

"Back in March 1976, when I was 26 years old, I entered a contest sponsored by WNEW-AM in New York. For those who don’t live in New York and aren’t of a certain age, WNEW was a radio station that played only the records of the big bands and pop vocalists. The disc jockeys were all big-name personalities who had been in the music business since the 1950s and had become close pals with vocalists like Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Rosemary Clooney, Tony Bennett and others.

"The contest the station held was called 'Violets for Your Furs.' It was a lottery, and the winner would be chosen at random from postcard submissions. I loved and still love what’s known as the American Songbook. I was introduced to the music of Tin Pan Alley standards and pop vocalists when I was about 8 years old. My Aunt Jenny worked in the music business and brought me albums by Sinatra, Doris Day, Jo Stafford and others. Jazz I discovered on my own over the next two years while listening to the radio late a night.

"When I first heard about the contest, I went nuts. I just had to win. After the contest was announced, there were several weeks until the drawing of the winner. At the time, I traveled quite a bit on business nationwide. So I decided to send in seven postcards from each city in my travels, mailing 105 cards in all.

"Deep down I felt I was going to win. On the day in mid-March when the station planned to announce the winner on the air, I went into work more dressed up than usual. If I won, I thought, the station might ask me to come to the studio right away. I wanted to be prepared. I also brought a tape recorder to capture the phone conversation I was sure to have with the morning disc jockey and a transistor radio to listen to the show.

"At 10 am, my office phone rang. When I answered it, the caller asked for me and said he was William B. Williams [pictured], the WNEW deejay. I couldn’t believe it. At first I was so excited that I thought it was a gag. But when I finally calmed down, he put the call on over the air and said my postcard had been randomly chosen from a total of 8,000 cards. I taped the call by placing the little microphone over the phone's handset, but unfortunately the tape has since disintegrated.

"I wasn’t invited to the studio—but I did win big. I was to receive a fur coat of my choosing, with a dollar limit, of course. I chose mink. I was told I had won a bouquet of violets (for my fur). And that Frank Sinatra was going to present them to me when I saw him in concert three weeks later! What's more, a car was going to be sent to pick up me and my husband John. We’d then travel with WNEW’s Williams to the Westchester Premier Theater in Tarrytown, N.Y., where we’d have dinner and see the concert.

"I couldn't believe it. After I hung up the phone, I was distracted all day and for many days. Leading up to the night of the concert, I couldn’t eat. I was so excited that I lost 12 pounds and fit into a size 4. Of course I bought a new dress to go with the mink. I still have the dress, which is a little tight today.

"When the big day arrived, a teal blue stretch limo pulled up at my apartment in Manhattan. My husband and I joined Williams, and the three of us drove about 45 minutes to the theater. After dinner, we went to our seats in the center of the fifth row. The band was a 40-piece orchestra conducted by Bill Miller. I remember that Al Viola was on guitar, Gene Cherico on bass, Irv Cottler on drums and Charlie Turner on trumpet. Bill Miller conducted and Ray Cohen played piano.

"After the warm-up act, Sinatra came out. At one point during the 70-minute show, Sinatra sang Nancy With the Laughing Face. Of the 12 Sinatra concerts I had attended since 1971, he never once sang this song. I couldn’t help but think he was singing the song just for me.

"After the concert, my husband and I were escorted backstage by Williams and introduced to Sinatra [both pictured]. I was so nervous that I think my voice was three octaves higher than usual. When I was introduced, I said hello, lamely adding, “My name is Nancy and I Iove you.”

"As I recall, Sinatra was about the height I thought he’d be, maybe a little taller. He was extremely charming though not flirtatious. I distinctly remember his eyes. They were so blue. We made small talk, he joked around, and I kissed him on the cheek three times over the course of the 30 minutes we were with him. But I always asked first.

"Sinatra asked me how I won the contest. I told him about the 105 postcards. He laughed, adding, “You don’t take any chances. You ought to be my broker.” We talked for about eight minutes as more people filled the dressing room. I made a tape of our conversation but it, too, has disintegrated.

"I asked him if he enjoyed finding new composers' music to sing. He said yes. At the time he was singing If, a song written by David Gates and recorded by Bread. He had already recorded Joe Raposo’s You Will Be My Music, There Used to Be Ballpark Here and Noah—all on his 1973 album Ol’ Blue Eyes Is Back.

"I tried to keep my cool. As my husband snapped photos, Sinatra smiled and laughed most of the time. He  autographed the sheet music for Nancy With the Laughing Face that I brought with me. He also autographed a card that said, "Violets for Your Furs, for You." I have these mementos framed along with the many photos taken by a professional photographer the radio station sent along.

"As my time with Sinatra wound down, I did something I had wrestled with for days before the concert. I presented him with the sheet music to Dream Waltz, a song I had written years earlier. Sinatra graciously took the music but didn’t look at it as he handed it off to an assistant.

"Then it was time to leave. My husband and I were driven back to our apartment. But since we had the limo at our disposal for the night, we picked up two close friends who had a key to the old Playboy Club at 5 East 59th St. When we arrived, we went to the head of a long line of people waiting to get in simply because of that impressive limo. We got home around 3 am.

"A few days later an envelope arrived. When I opened it, there was my sheet music with a note from Sinatra thanking me for giving it to him. The note apologized, saying that my song wasn’t quite appropriate for him. I wasn’t too disappointed. The song was a beautiful waltz, but the lyrics were really more ideal for a woman to sing.

"What thrilled me, though, was the thought that Sinatra may have sung my song once. Or maybe just a few bars. Even if he never even hummed it at all, I like to think that he did. And that thought alone remains a thrill.

JazzWax tracks: For fans of New York's WNEW-AM, there's a site that details the station's history. WNEW wasn't just about pop. The station played jazz, and jazz artists listened to the station regularly when they were in town. In fact, Stan Getz, Bill Evans, Ron Carter and Elvin Jones recorded Larry Green's theme for the station in May 1964. Their 2:50 jingle was likely recorded to boost WNEW's airplay of Getz's bossa nova albums. You'll find the song on the CD release of Stan Getz & Bill Evans.

David Amram on Blossom Dearie

In 1955, jazz French hornist and composer David Amram was in Paris playing and recording with saxophonist Bobby Jaspar. Jaspar was married to singer Blossom Dearie at the time. When Dearie died in February, I e-mailed David for his recollections. But for some reason David's response never arrived.

While catching up with David the other day, I asked if he had ever received my note. He said he did and that he had replied immediately. Puzzled, David went into his computer system and found the glitch. His comments had become snagged on a technological reef. Once freed up, his Dearie deliberations hit my e-mail in-box. Here are David's warm comments, released and reloaded:

"Blossom was not only an outstanding performer with a unique style all her own, she also was a veritable encyclopedia of American popular music, and she was always anxious to share songs with all of us.

"We first met in 1955 in Paris when she was with Bobby Jaspar, with whom I played. I saw them almost every day. Their apartment was filled with sheet music, of songs from the 1920s through the latest music written by friends. She had a repertoire of hundreds of tunes and was always learning new ones, including ones she never sang but played for friends. And she would show you songs she thought might be good for you to play.

" 'Hey man, listen to these chord changes and how the lyrics are constructed,' she would say, like a pixie-ish professor, in that unmistakable high tiny voice that made you always pay extra attention.

"Even though she was so easygoing and sweet to everyone, she was really serious about what she did, and she was a real perfectionist. She never criticized others. She just tuned out all trash and concentrated on what her perfect instincts told her was important.

"One night, back in the States in 1957 at [filmmaker] Jean Bach's place in Greenwich Village, there was a party and reception that Jean gave for pianist Andre Previn. But when Andre got tied up and couldn't make it until after midnight, Blossom and Annie Ross sang duets together for almost two hours until Andre arrived, and those songs were fantastic.

"In a room full of people who had come to see him, Andre joined us and asked Blossom and Annie [pictured] to continue, as we listened to them for another hour.  Blossom and Annie lit up the room. Blossom spent her whole life lighting up rooms, singing and playing the music she loved. She always made it clear that she loved doing it.

"And she always found the time to share a smile as she greeted every musician (male or female) with a 'Hey, man,' even at 2 a.m. when she was playing in a place with an out-of-tune piano, poor sound system and no audience except for the few musicians who came in after work just to hear her.

"She never complained because she knew how good she was, and she always created her own Carnegie Hall wherever she went. She was beloved by several generations of musicians as well as other singers. She had a loyal audience in the U.S. and Europe who could never get enough of her special gifts, as well as her warmth and far out sense of humor.

"We will all miss her."

JazzWax clip: Here's Dearie singing I'm Hip, with lyrics by Dave Frishberg and music by Bob Dorough. Dig that Dearie flash of ire as a amateur photographer tries to take her picture. And dig her even-tempered struggle with the mike. Neither disrupts her peach-perfect performance. And thanks to David Amram's recollections, the Frishberg lyric, "I even call my girlfriend, 'man' " has new meaning...

Interview: Bret Primack (Part 2)

For years, Bret Primack has been pioneering a relatively new web format known as the jazz video podcast. For those who don't know what this term means, video podcasts are short clips that can be viewed on the web at any time. Whether print people like it or not, in the coming years video will play an increasingly important role in relaying the stories of jazz legends. That's because video is the fastest way to transport information and absorb it. But like any medium, video's success will ultimately depend on the questions asked and how material is edited and packaged. Bret is miles down the road on both scores. [Photo of Christian McBride, Roy Haynes, Bret and Sonny Rollins at Carnegie Hall in 2007 by John Abbott]

Over the past 30 years, Bret has grown close with Sonny Rollins, Joe Lovano, Billy Taylor and other jazz artists, working to document their stories on video and make those clips available on the web. Bret's interviews in 2007 with Orrin Keepnews for Concord Records are prime examples of the medium's rich potential. His upcoming series on Ray Charles should be equally potent.

In Part 2 of my interview with the self-styled "Jazz Video Guy," Bret talks about his professional and personal relationship with Sonny Rollins as well as his upcoming Ray Charles video series:

JazzWax: How did you become involved with Sonny Rollins?
Bret Primack: In 1978 I wrote a profile of Sonny for Down Beat. As part of the article, I took the train up to his house in New York to interview him. His wife Lucille picked me up at the station. I had idolized Sonny for years and knew he wasn’t comfortable with interviews. When we pulled up at the house, Sonny was standing at the top of the stairs. He looked 10 feet tall.

JW: Were you nervous?
BP: No. When we began, he wasn’t very forthcoming in his answers. But I knew from all of the interviewing I had done that when you ask a question, resist jumping in with questions or comments. Remain quiet, and your subject will likely come up with elaboration.

JW: Did that work with Sonny?
BP: When I’d ask Sonny a question, he’d give me a short answer and then just sit there, without saying anything. At first, I thought the interview wasn’t going well. Then I realized that Sonny was thinking. When enough time had passed, he’d talk with greater detail and say something fantastic.

JW: What did you do after the interview?
BP: Sonny, Lucille [pictured] and I had lunch in his kitchen. Then he took me out to a large shed about 50 feet away from his home where he practices. He has since built another one. The original was about 20 feet by 20 feet, with high ceilings, skylights, stacks of LPs, posters from Japan, an old phonograph and basic furniture. It clearly was a place to work, not relax. There was an unbelievable vibe in there. You felt the energy as soon as you walked in. We sat and hung out for a couple of hours. Sonny and I had known each other through pianist Walter Bishop, Jr., but spending time together really cemented the relationship.

JW: Years later you developed Sonny’s website and now host it.
BP: In 2006, Sonny’s nephew, trombonist Clifton Anderson, and Terri Hinte, Sonny’s publicist, called me. They suggested it was time for Sonny to have a web presence for global fans. Clifton also recognized the value of documenting Sonny’s legacy on video.

JW: Did you work directly with Sonny on the site?
BP: No, I worked with Clifton

JW: Does Sonny own a computer?
BP:  No. I fax him the guest book entries once a week. If there are site changes, I send them to him. He sees the videos from time to time. I remember showing him my Like Sonny video, which featured Sonny’s impressions of John Coltrane. When it was over, Sonny got teary and said, “Now you’re getting to me.”

JW: How has Sonny responded to the website and his YouTube presence?
BP: Sonny is both amused and amazed by the response. The truth is, he has no idea how he's touched so many lives. The site allows his audience to interact with him, and their faxed heartfelt messages are very moving. He usually says to me, "Who knew?"

JW: What is it about Sonny that most people don’t know?
BP: Sonny is a great musician but he’s also a great friend. He’s hugely loyal and is someone you can talk to about personal things. He’s a father figure for me, an elder if you will. With Sonny, there’s no judgment. His thinking process is involved in everything he says and does. [Pictured: Bret and Sonny looking at a video podcast on an iPhone]

JW: Did you ever confide in Sonny?
BP: When I first came up with the idea to produce video podcasts for record companies, I encountered push back. Executives said, “Why do we need this? Does it have value? Why should we spend the money?” I talked to Sonny about what I was facing. He said, “The truth will always get through. If you do the right thing and believe in it, eventually people will hear it.” He was right.

JW: What’s your favorite e-mail from a viewer of your Sonny Rollins videos?
BP: Someone recently sent me an e-mail that said, “When I watch these videos, I feel like I’m in Sonny Rollins’ living room.” That makes me realize how deeply these videos touch people and how intimate the experience is for them.

JW: How did you come up with the name, the Jazz Video Guy?
BP: Two years ago, Damani, my 9-year-old grandson, was watching my jazz videos on YouTube. At some point it dawned on him that that I was the person putting them up there. He said, “Hey, you’re the jazz video guy.” The name clicked.

JW: What are you working on now?
BP: A video podcast series for Concord Records on the label's re-issue of seven classic Ray Charles albums. Instead of interviewing one person, as I did last time with Orrin Keepnews, I’m interviewing many of the artists who were involved with the different albums. The podcasts will be rolling out later this year. [Photo of Ray Charles in 1966 by Bill Ray for Life]

JW: So what’s your mission?
BP: To tell the stories of jazz musicians so that the artists behind the music become humanized. I want old and new fans to see where jazz comes from. In the process, hopefully I’m helping to preserve the legacy of jazz through video. Long after traditional print is gone, people will watch these videos and learn something about the music and how specific recordings were made.

JW: Do you think video is fully appreciated yet?
BP:  No, but it's making inroads. Velocity is everything today when it comes to information and communication. Video is the fastest medium for communication, and we're really at the dawn of the short-form age. It’s truly an exciting time for video and jazz history.

JazzWax clip: Sonny Rollins is very soft-spoken, humble and almost shy. So when you can hear him in a relaxed interview setting answering questions, it's a treat. Here, Bret asked Sonny in 2006 how he sustains his intensity when playing...

Interview: Bret Primack (Part 1)

Who is the Jazz Video Guy? You know, the guy whose photo sits like a postage stamp next to many of the best jazz videos on YouTube. Perhaps you've heard his voice off-camera asking questions of Sonny Rollins, Joe Lovano, Orrin Keepnews and other jazz legends in video podcasts. Or maybe you've been to his video blog. But who exactly is the person behind the photo and voice? Where did he come from? And what does he want?

Bret Primack, it turns out, has had quite a past.

In Part 1 of my two-part interview with the self-styled Jazz Video Guy, Bret talks about his early love of jazz and film, being influenced by Francis Ford Coppola, studying with Martin Scorsese at NYU's Film School in the late 1960s, and why he chose to open each Orrin Keepnews video podcast for Concord Records with the legendary producer barking: "You do whatever you want. You're running that end of the show, sir. I'm just here to respond":

JazzWax: You currently live in Arizona. Where are you from originally?
Bret Primack: West Hartford, CT. My first exposure to jazz was through two movies: The Glenn Miller Story and The Five Pennies, with Danny Kaye and Louis Armstrong. The joy that Louis brought to the music and how he played in that film overwhelmed me. So much so that at age 9 I started to play trumpet and continued on the horn through high school.

JW: When did you start making films?
BP: When I was 17 years old. The first was about a young guy dealing with female rejection. I used friends as the actors, and the film ran three minutes. Not long afterward, Francis Ford Coppola [pictured] came to Hartford to screen Is Paris Burning?—which he wrote with Gore Vidal. Coppola was so dynamic and exciting that I wrote him a letter about the film and what I wanted to do. He wrote me back a letter of encouragement. I still have that letter.

JW: Did you make any other films in high school?
BP: When I was a senior I made a film for Class Night, our annual talent show that gently mocked the teachers. That was June 1967, the week the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s was released. I used A Day in the Life as the soundtrack. When the school administration asked for a pre-event screening, they were horrified by the song’s lyrics. They told me to remove the music.

JW: Did you remove it?
BP: No. I locked myself in the projection booth and screened the film just as it was. The next day I was suspended. I always had a problem with authority [laughs].

JW: Where did you go to college?
BP: New York University Film School. As fate would have it, Martin Scorsese [pictured] was my teacher. My final project in 1971 was a 10-minute black-and-white film called Rough Ride. It was a neo-realism film shot inside a taxi featuring the eccentric passengers a New York City cab driver picks up in one night.

JW: What did Scorsese think?
BP: He loved it. He had just edited Woodstock, and Warner Brothers had given him money to start work on Mean Streets. He left NYU in 1971, just before I graduated.

JW: Deep down, do you think Rough Ride was an inspiration for Paul Schrader’s screenplay for Scorsese’s Taxi Driver in 1976?
BP: I have no idea. There are similarities, of course. But who knows?

JW: What did you do after college?
BP: I went to work for small company making industrial films and drove a cab. Making independent films was hard in New York then. It was very expensive, and the city’s economy wasn’t in great shape. During this period I met Richard Dubin [pictured], a trumpeter who also was driving a cab. He wound up working with a TV talk-show host and let me hang out on the set and attend some parties. That’s how I met jazz pianist Walter Bishop Jr. I decided to write a profile of Bishop for Down Beat. The magazine published the article in March 1977, which inspired me to write more about jazz, my first love. In 1978 I became the magazine’s East Coast editor.

JW: When did you start to combine jazz and computers?  
BP: In the mid-1990s. But I had been computer savvy since 1984, when I first bought an Apple IIe for word  processing. I soon discovered it had a modem and a bulletin board system (BBS), an early version of the Internet. The BBS let you leave messages for other computer users and engage in public discussions. In 1995, I wrote an article about the Internet for JazzTimes. Larry Rosen, the head of GRP Records at the time, read it and called, inviting me to work on the first large-scale jazz website called Jazz Central Station.

JW: When did video start to play a role in what you were doing?
BP: In 1999, GMN, a London-based company, hired me to tape live audio and video at the North Sea Jazz Festival and at Birdland in New York. The results were then streamed at their website. But this was still the 56K-modem era, so everything was sluggish. The idea, unfortunately, was ahead of the technology.

JW: Were you interviewing jazz musicians on camera on the side?
BP: Yes. Throughout the 1990s I would take my camera along to clubs or ask musicians if I could tape them in their hotel rooms. During this period I taped interviews with Maynard Ferguson [pictured], Joe Henderson, Michael Brecker and others.

JW: What was the big turning point for you?
BP: In 2004, Telarc Records asked me to interview saxophonists Dave Liebman, Michael Brecker and Joe  Lovano [pictured]. Telarc did the editing, and the result was horrible. I knew I could do better. At this point, the price of video cameras and editing equipment for the computer had come down. So I invested in both. At the time, I was producing Joe Lovano’s website, so we decided to start documenting his work on video.

JW: What is Planet Bret?
BP: In 2001, I moved to Arizona and started producing websites. I was in Arizona by myself at the time and needed a name for my company. I came up with Planet Bret from the feeling I had there. It was like living on another planet.

JW: When did you start producing video podcasts for Concord Records?
BP: In 2006, Joe Vella, an audio podcaster, subcontracted a video project for Concord Records’ release of Fearless Leader, the label’s first box of John Coltrane’s Prestige recordings. Joe gave me an audio interview he did with Coltrane biographer Lewis Porter. I used it along with rare photos, music and my narration to produce a video that’s still popular on YouTube.

JW: What happened next?
BP: I heard that Concord was planning to release reissues of classic Riverside albums with updated liner notes by producer Orrin Keepnews, I thought a series of podcasts would be ideal. My vision was to create mini interviews with Orrin to support each CD’s release.

JW: Did you pitch it?
BP: I flew to California to meet with Dave Henson, Concord’s new-media marketing manager, and the idea was a go.

JW: Did you know Orrin?
BP: Yes. I had known him for years. In 1997, when I started BirdLives.com, an early jazz blog, Orrin would e-mail me corrections.

JW: Was he on board with what you wanted to do for the series?
BP: Orrin initially said no. He said he was writing an autobiography and didn’t want what he was writing to appear somewhere else first. He didn’t know much about the Internet at the time. So it took me about six months of phone calls to get him to agree.

JW: I find it interesting that each clip opens with Keepnews becoming annoyed at you. That took courage on your part.
BP: As a film school grad, I always look for the truth when I pick up a camera. I knew that Orrin’s edginess was a big part of his personality. I also knew that including those moments would create drama, even though they were aimed at me [laughs]. I felt that featuring one of his outbursts at the outset would give the viewer an unfiltered, up-close look at this legend’s personality and set the stage for the series.

JW: How did you run the taping of Orrin?
BP: We did them over two days—in two, four-hour interview sessions. Once we got started, Orrin rolled right along. Then I spent two days on each album, editing the tape down and packaging the images and narrative to create a mini story for each CD release. There were 19 podcasts in all.

JW: Orrin seemed to be very cooperative.
BP: He was. As someone who has interviewed more than 300 artists, I know that most people need about 10 minutes to relax in front of the camera. His gruffness was a defensive maneuver on his part. Once we got past his reluctance to engage, Orrin was a really nice guy. And he’s so dedicated to the music and the artists who made the music that he refused to compromise the music in any way. Those classic recordings are like his children.

JW: Did Orrin see the results?
BP: Yes. 

JW: What was his reaction?
BP: As you know, Orrin isn’t one to heap praise. I think he said, “Oh, now I see I what you were trying to do.” I don’t think he originally conceptualized how they would turn out.

JW: The Keepnews podcasts have demonstrated that CD promotions can also be documentary art.
BP: I think the series set new standards and helped record companies realize that what these podcasts do is sell their catalogs indefinitely. This is the important distinction. They go up at YouTube and people keep watching them and are constantly reminded about the albums. The information is timeless.

JW: How often are the Keepnews podcasts viewed?
BP: So far there have been about 600,000 views. That’s 10,000 views a week. The most popular episodes are the ones on Bill Evans, Cannonball Adderley and Wes Montgomery.

Tomorrow, in Part 2, Bret talks about Sonny Rollins, how he became close to the tenor saxophonist, spending time with Sonny in his backyard rehearsal shed, building Sonny's website, documenting his concerts, and the video that made Sonny tear up.