From time to time, I spot a jazz photo that moves me so much I have to know what happened the moment the camera's shutter came down. As a fan of 1950s jazz photography, I have long admired the high-contrast black-and-white work of Bob Willoughby.
If you're unfamiliar with Bob [pictured], his stunning photos of jazz musicians between 1948 and 1954 are all classics. You'll find them at his site, Willoughbyphotos.com. Bob has published 18 books and has 9 projects pending, including Jazz, Body & Soul. You'll find a PDF of his vision for the book's design here, under "Unpublished Books."
When I reached out to Bob in France, he sent along the following e-mail in relation to the photo at the top of this post and those that follow from the same event:
"This was really something! It was 1951, and I had been listening in my darkroom to the late-night disk jockey, Hunter Hancock. He was advertising a jazz concert at the Olympic Auditorium (the local Los Angeles fight arena) starting at midnight! The idea of starting a concert that late was really so intriguing that I had to see what it was all about.
"As I walked in, the concert had already begun, and the hall was rocking on its foundations! I could see the audience on their feet screaming. You could taste the energy in that air. To this day I have never seen or heard anything to match it. It was my introduction to the amazing Big Jay McNeely.
"Big Jay stood in the middle of what normally would be the fight ring, playing his heart out, and the crowd was exploding around him. He created some sort of resonance with the audience. In some weird way, he seemed to be playing them!
"It was so mind boggling that I found myself scrambling for my cameras as I ran toward the fireworks, afraid I was going to miss it all. I needn't have worried. Big Jay was a marathon player.
"I was so caught up in the excitement, that I just climbed right up on the stage without thinking. Big Jay was strutting up and down playing chord after chord on his sax. Honking his way through 45 minutes of pulsating, explosive rhythm. He kneels, he sits, he lies flat on his back. He plays into the faces of orgasmic girls. He is away on some space flight. He perspires until his clothes are soaking, he takes off his wet jacket never missing a beat.
"The near hysterical crowd was screaming.
"Big Jay literally was a Pied Piper. I was told that at another concert in San Diego, he swept the entire audience out of the theater and took them for a tour around the block. Much to the dismay of the local police, who weren't too sure what might happen at this Olympic gig either. You could see them in the crowd, probably looking for drugs. But with Big Jay in orbit on stage, the crowd was already on a high.
"Most of the musicians' names are lost in time, but some of the singing that night was done by Smilin' Smokey Lynn. It was Big Jay, the man himself, who is best remembered for those wonderfully mad and crazy Los Angeles midnight concerts."
JazzWax tracks: If you want to hear what Bob heard in 1951, you'll find Big Jay McNeely at the Olympic Theater in Los Angeles on Classics: Big Jay McNeely 1951-52here.
JazzWax note: If you want to see the other photos in this series, type "PhotoStory" into the search engine in the upper right-hand corner of this page.
There's a scene early in Martin Scorsese's New York, New York (1977) when Robert De Niro walks into a large dance club in Times Square on V-E Day prowling for a date. In the background, a big band is playing Opus One. As the camera pans the massive room on a boom, closing in on the musicians and trombone-playing bandleader, you realize the orchestra is meant to be Tommy Dorsey's.
I obviously wasn't around back in 1945. But I get the chills every time I see that scene and hear Ralph Burns' arrangement for the movie. I have to assume that the club scene is about as close as you're going to get to experience what it must have been like to hear the Dorsey band live hammering its way through that swinger.
Opus One has that power. The song was written and arranged by Sy Oliver, who joined Tommy Dorsey's band in the summer of 1939. Melvin Oliver was nicknamed Sy because he had studied psychology. But since 1933 Oliver had played trumpet in Jimmie Lunceford's band. He also had been the band's hit-making arranger. But by 1939, shortly after Fletcher Henderson joined Benny Goodman's band as his lead arranger, Oliver decided it was time for a change.
As the late Peter Levinson wrote in Tommy Dorsey: Livin' in a Great Big Way:
"Oliver [pictured] met Dorsey in his hotel room in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn. While Dorsey was shaving, he asked Oliver, 'How much is it gonna cost me to get you to come with my band?' 'Five thousand a year more than Lunceford's paying me,' said Oliver smartly. Dorsey smiled and barked out, 'You've got a deal.' "
Dorsey desperately needed Oliver to put some pep into the band's book. Critics had dubbed Dorsey's most recent records lackluster, and the band was being challenged by several upstarts, including Artie Shaw's orchestra. Oliver's secret was how he kept an arrangement hopping by engaging the band's different sections. Levinson writes:
"The late arranger and composer Buddy Baker pointed out that Oliver could also write quite effectively in four-four time: 'It was the way he voiced things. Since he was a trumpet player, he wrote the brass in a register that he knew sounded good. He created that rocking feeling by having the various sections play rhythm while playing the melody. For example, he would have the trombones playing a pattern that really laid down a beat. Then he would have the saxophones going against that.' "
This was certainly the case on November 14, 1944, when Dorsey's 31-piece orchestra complete with strings recorded Sy Oliver's revamped arrangement of Opus One in Hollywood. Oliver had written the song years earlier for Dorsey, but the band had been playing rather bland versions of it. The band even appeared playing the infectious tune in two MGM feature films—Broadway Rhythm (1943) and Thrill of a Romance (1944).
But when the two-year American Federation of Musicians' recording ban ended in 1944, Oliver re-arranged the song for the band's return to RCA's studios. Most notably, he created more snap to the rhythm and opened two wide holes in the chart for clarinetist Buddy De Franco to solo.
When I spoke with Buddy on Monday, he reflected on the historic session:
"I didn’t like my solos on there. When the single came out, it became a hit, so going forward Tommy [Dorsey] insisted I play my two solos just the way I had on the record, note for note, over and over again. Sometimes five or six times a day.
"My solos on the record didn’t sit well with me, but they wound up hung around my neck. When I heard myself, I thought I could have done better—and I did on the other takes. But Tommy was the boss, so he got to choose the one he liked best. I would have picked another.
"In those days, you couldn’t cut up the recording to make a master from the many different takes. Tape hadn’t been invented yet for studio use. When you recorded, it went straight onto a master disc. So whatever you captured on a particular take was there, both the good and the bad, no matter how subtle.
"I remember we had to rehearse Opus One quite a bit before that session. Sy [Oliver] used to write in very difficult keys. The two clarinet solos I had to play were tough. If I recall, one was in G-flat concert and the other in D-concert. Sy liked to move the keys around a lot in a song, to keep it moving and to keep listeners hooked.
"The band liked Sy's chart for Opus One, but it didn’t move us as much as some of the other things he wrote. I think part of the problem was the band didn’t have a lot of time to rehearse it. Tommy was very strict about being exact, and a recording had to be clean. But we rehearsed for that session on edge—meaning one tune after the next, without much time in between. We had to move through the material quickly. There was a lot of pressure on those sessions, to be perfect early on."
Eventually, Buddy grew weary of the playing the same note-for-note solo on Opus One. During one performance in 1946, Buddy played a bop solo on the song, and Dorsey fired him. But Dorsey had to give him eight weeks' notice instead of he customary two weeks due to the shortage of musicians.
Dorsey, like many bandleaders, disliked bop. In addition to the music's complexity and lack of dance-appeal, bop shifted power to the individual soloist and away from the bandleader.
As for Buddy, he had already fallen in love with bop and after leaving Dorsey found work with Boyd Raeburn. Raeburn's band not only was one of the most experimental and iconoclastic orchestras of the mid-1940s but also would turn out to be an early hothouse for bop arrangers and players.
JazzWax tracks: Once Opus One became a hit, the song was recorded by many different bands of the period. It's particularly interesting to compare Tommy Dorsey's 1943 version from Broadway Rhythm with the November 1944 hit. You'll find the one from Broadway Rhythm on Hollywood's Best: The '40s at iTunes or Amazon. The version from November 1944 can be found on Tommy Dorsey: Greatest Hits.
To my ear, it's very difficult to hear what Buddy's issue was with his solo. Barring the slightly hurried pace and moments where he probably would have wanted to linger a fraction of a second longer, his clarinet work sounds spirited and sharp to me. If alternate takes still exist, I'd love to hear them.
Also, if you type Opus Number One into the search engine at iTunes, you'll find the Ralph Burns' arrangement for New York, New York as well as a hyperactive Harry James' performance of the song that was broadcast on D-Day.
JazzWax clip: The only Dorsey version I could find on YouTube was an abbreviated version from the early 1950s. Instead, here's a slower, slinky version arranged for Gene Krupa and Anita O'Day by Quincy Jones in 1956...
In January 1943, Gene Krupa's 17-year-old band boy did something stupid. After receiving his draft notice, he decided that as a going-away present, he'd buy Krupa [pictured] a few joints. When he arrived at the theater in San Francisco where the Krupa band was playing, he handed Krupa his gift. The drummer placed the joints in the pocket of his overcoat and had the band boy take the coat up to his hotel room.
A short time later, San Francisco narcotics agents showed up at the theater with a search warrant. Coming up empty, they headed next for Krupa's hotel room. Krupa managed to call the band boy in his room, telling him to flush the joints down the toilet. But the band boy pocketed them. When the detectives arrived, they searched the band boy's pockets and threatened him with arrest unless he agreed to testify that Krupa had sent him on a pot run. The band boy agreed, and Krupa was arrested [pictured] and released a short time later until his trial.
In court in May, Krupa entered a guilty plea on possession and drew a 90-day sentence. He pled not guilty to contributing to the delinquency of a minor but was convicted on that charge as well. After some haggling, the judge sentenced the famed drummer to 90 days in the county jail. Krupa would remain behind bars for 84 days.
During Krupa's incarceration, trumpeter Roy Eldridge [pictured] ran the band. But as great as "Little Jazz" was, he didn't have Krupa's star power. Before long, the band broke up for lack of bookings. When Krupa was released in the fall, Benny Goodman hired him, and soon Krupa was back playing and leading bands.
Like many bands in early 1943, Krupa's was a patchwork of seasoned musicians and fresh-faced players. World War II and the draft had swept away large numbers of musicians, and Krupa's band was no exception. By the time clarinetist Buddy De Franco joined Krupa's band in late 1942, he had already won a national Tommy Dorsey Swing contest at age 14 and had appeared on the Saturday Night Swing Club, sharing the spotlight with Gene Krupa.
Discovered by Johnny "Scat" Davis, Buddy [pictured] began touring with the vocalist and trumpeter in 1939. Pianist Dodo Marmarosa joined Scat Davis in 1941, and soon Buddy and Marmarosa left to join Krupa's band. But after Krupa was jailed in mid-1943, Buddy and Marmarosa's future looked bleak. Their big break with a national band was fizzling with the headliner locked up.
Over the summer, the Krupa-less band performed in Philadelphia. After one of the engagements, Buddy and Marmarosa headed for the subway to ride back to their hotel. The decision nearly cost them their lives.
I spoke to Buddy on Monday:
"Dodo [pictured] and I played in about five different bands over the years. Scat Davis was the first and Krupa's was the second. After Krupa went to jail, the band played in Philadelphia. Following the gig, Dodo and I went to take the subway, since we were a couple of stations from our hotel. We were wearing our band uniforms, which were baggy, with high-waisted pants and had wide lapels.
"Across the platform on the other side were five sailors. They spotted us and thought we were Zoot Suiters because of our band uniforms. Just weeks earlier, at the end of May, there had been riots in L.A. between servicemen and kids in Zoot Suits. If you wore a Zoot Suit, you were considered a wise guy and fair game. [Photo of a Zoot Suit model in 1942 by Marie Hansen for Life]
"The next thing we knew the sailors came across the tracks, hopping the third rail, catching us by surprise. When they came up onto the platform, one guy said, 'Take those Zoot Suits off.'
"We tried to tell them we were in Gene Krupa's band. But before we could explain, they started to let us have it. Dodo got the worst of it. I got a fractured nose and ribs. Dodo got hit so hard he hit his head on the cement and was knocked unconscious.
"Fortunately trumpeter Joe Triscari and Roy Eldridge were walking on the platform just after the sailors took off. They along with some lady helped get us to the hospital. Dodo was in a coma for a day. When he got out of the hospital, Krupa's band was over and we joined Charlie Barnet's [pictured] band.
"Dodo was always a little off but he seemed different after that beating. The head injury didn't affect his playing, but I think it created psychological problems for him. And eventually I think it caught up with his playing, too. He held up well for a while. That was an awful night."
Buddy, Marmarosa and Krupa would all join Tommy Dorsey's band in 1944 and record together as part of the Gene Krupa Trio, a breakout group within the Dorsey orchestra. By August 1944, Krupa had started his own band. Buddy remained with Dorsey. And Marmarosa was with Artie Shaw's band, where he'd stay for more than a year, playing in both the orchestra and as a member of the famed 1945 Gramercy Five.
JazzWax tracks: To hear what Krupa's band sounded like in February 1943, with Buddy and Marmarosa, shortly after Krupa's arrest, listen to Gene Krupa and His Orchestra: 1939-43 Broadcasts Live! (Jazz Hour). You'll find the album as a download at iTunes or at Amazon here. You want the tracks listed as being recorded in the Panther Room of Chicago's Hotel Herman.
Buddy, Krupa and Marmarosa recorded three tracks as the Gene Krupa Trio in 1944. Two of the three—Liza and Hodge-Podge—are available on Gene Krupa: V-Disc as downloads at iTunes or at Amazon here. Or you'll find them on Gene Krupa and His Orchestra: 1941-1945 (Classics) here.
For clarinetist Buddy De Franco, the years between 1949 and 1952 were experimental and disappointing. After spending the 1940s in Tommy Dorsey's band, Buddy decided in 1949 to try his hand at leading an orchestra. But his move came at a time when music tastes were shifting rapidly. Big bands no longer had the same power they once did to excite the imaginations of dancers or listeners. There were exceptions, of course, like Stan Kenton and Woody Herman. But these were really concert bands built on power and high-energy sidemen. The sound Buddy sought was more patient and intimate. "I wanted to give swing an update and pull it gently into the bop era," the legendary clarinetist told me yesterday.
Between 1949 and 1952, Buddy tried big bands with all-star players, as well as a Shearing-esque sextet and a bop quintet. But while these recordings never caught on with the listening public at the time, the sound Buddy was seeking is documented and remains fabulous today. Many of Buddy's leadership dates during this three-year period are on a fabulous CD from Hep Records called Buddy De Franco and His Orchestras: 1949-1952 Studio Performances.
The earliest tracks from April 1949 feature a jaw-dropping band: Bernie Glow, Paul Cohen, Jimmy Pupa and Jack Eagle (trumpets); Ollie Wilson, Earl Swope [pictured] and Bart Varsalona (trombones); Buddy De Franco (clarinet); Lee Konitz and Frank Socolow (alto saxes) Al Cohn and Jerry Sanfino (tenor saxes); Serge Chaloff (baritone sax); Gene Di Novi (piano); Tal Farlow (guitar); Oscar Pettiford (bass) and Irv Kluger (drums). The arrangers were George Russell, Manny Albam and Gerald Valentine. Of the three tracks recorded (there was a fourth that went unissued), Albam's reed-rich This Time the Dream's on Me is the standout, shifting effortlessly between bop, swing and cool while showcasing Buddy's warm clarinet. There's even a terrific solo by trumpeter Bernie Glow.
But these records didn't sell well, and by August, Buddy was back in the studio with a sextet modeled on his earlier collaborations with George Shearing. Joining Buddy was Teddy Charles (vibes) [pictured], Harvey Leonard (piano), Jimmy Raney (guitar), Bob Carter (bass) and Max Roach (drums). These are absolutely lovely sessions, with Buddy sounding almost like an accordion when playing with the group and displaying stinging bop chops on solos.
But this small-group attempt also fell flat financially. As Buddy told me yesterday, "Anyone who dug this sound could have picked up Shearing instead." Buddy disbanded the group and spent much of 1950 in a sextet and octet led by Count Basie.
In February 1951, Buddy formed another big band, this time with 15 pieces. Its book featured more restless up-tempo bop arrangements, like the one Buddy wrote for Out of Nowhere. This band was looser and freer in feel, and we hear Buddy focusing on the middle register of the clarinet.
His March 1951 band was a few members larger and more bop driven, especially on King Phillip Stomp. The band featured Bernie Glow, Don Joseph, Dickie Mills and Dale Pierce (trumpets); Frank "Ace" Lane, Al Robertson and Fred Zito (trombones); Buddy De Franco (clarinet); Angelo Cicalese and Gene Quill [pictured] (alto saxes); Buddy Arnold and Eddie Wasserman (tenor saxes); Danny Bank (baritone sax); Teddy Charles (vibes); Teddy Corabi (piano); Bill Anthony (bass) and Frank DeVito (drums).
In July 1951, Buddy [pictured] changed the mix and toughened up the sound with Ed Badgley, Bernie Glow, Mike Shane and Charlie Walp (trumpets); Al Robertson, Chauncey Welsch and Fred Zito (trombones); Buddy De Franco (clarinet); Leonard Sinisgalli and Gene Quill (alto saxes); Buddy Arnold and Ben Lary (tenor saxes); Vince Ferraro (baritone sax); Teddy Corabi (piano); Buddy Jones (bass) and Billy Rule (drums), with Tiny Kahn writing the charts.
In October 1951, Buddy continued with a 14-piece big band, adding the Dave Lambert Singers. But the formula still wasn't moving records. So in February and March 1952, Buddy tried a bop Gramercy Five of sorts, featuring Kenny Drew (piano) [pictured], Jimmy Raney (guitar), Teddy Kotick (bass) and Art Taylor (drums). But by then, the clarinet was flagging in popularity as a lead jazz instrument, replaced by the hipper alto and tenor saxophones and trumpet.
I spoke with Buddy yesterday about this commercially frustrating but musically rewarding three-year period:
"My 1949 band was a great idea but it didn’t attract too much attention. This was a time when the big bands were folding. It was a miscalculation commercially on my part.
"When Shearing and I parted months earlier, he signed with Capitol and I went with MGM. MGM didn’t want the big band stuff. They said, 'You had better get in the studio with a small group, a la Shearing.' We came up with the arrangements for those tracks on the session. Musicians were pretty good back then [laughs].
"In 1951 I started another band. We got a fair amount of play with Out of Nowhere. I was sure we had a hit. The record was on many of the jukeboxes where we toured. But when the financial tallies were done and brought to my attention, we had what was called a turntable hit. Everyone loved to hear it but very few people bought it.
"When you’re on the road with a band, it’s hard to keep tabs on what’s going on. We heard Out of Nowhere and saw it everyplace. The big band era was beginning to diminish, and popular music was gravitating toward rockabilly, rock 'n' roll, jump-boogie and that stuff.
"I never should have put those bands together. It had nothing to do with the music, which I think still holds up. It cost me a lot of money but went nowhere in terms of the big picture. I should have listened to [agent] Willard Alexander. He told me, 'Big bands are folding. Let me get you a small group, and we’ll make money.'
Instead, I tried what I wanted to do. I liked the idea of leading a big band. I was enamored of Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw and wanted to give what they did a shot. When I look back, it’s a period of my life that included a lot of work, heartbreak and struggle. Those sessions just weren’t moneymakers."
Profitable or not, Buddy's playing on these sessions is remarkable. His articulation is clean and pure, whether zigzagging up from the lower register or swirling around the instrument's upper notes. Buddy between 1949 and 1952 could swing and bop—which is why he was so revered by musicians and listeners alike. He's clearly his own man here, and the mood and feel of these tracks is all Buddy—upbeat, smart and sincere.
JazzWax tracks:Buddy De Franco and His Orchestras; 1949-1952 Studio Performances (Hep) is available as a download at iTunes and Amazon. Or it's available here on CD.
For the remainder of 1952 and half of 1953, Buddy was backed by strong trios that included Kenny Drew and Sonny Clark (piano), Curly Russell, Gene Wright and Milt Hinton (bass) and Art Blakey (drums). These MGM, Clef and Norgran sessions are not included on this CD.
JazzWax clip: Here's a recording of Buddy and his April 1949 band with Manny Albam's Gil Evans-influenced arrangement of This Time the Dream's on Me. Dig Albam's pretty reed writing, particularly how the chart moves from a Nightmare fanfare opening to a cooler complexity with bop flourishes. And catch Bernie Glow's rising first-chair trumpet solo...
While hanging out with Harry Sepulveda last week, I had to interrupt him mid-sentence. Pointing to the speakers high up on the walls of his Latin-jazz record store, I said, "Hold it, who's this playing?" "Ahhh, Papa, you dig?" Harry said. "It's Chembo Corniel. A monster." I wasn't aware of Chembo [pictured], who plays conga and percussion. But as the CD played on, I had to agree with Harry. Chembo Corniel (pronounced CORN-yell) is one seriously soulful conga player and percussionist. On his new album, Things I Wanted to Do, Chembo, 55, is backed by his tightly arranged working band, Grupo Chaworo: Ivan Renta on tenor and soprano sax, Elio Villafranca on piano and Fender Rhodes, Carol DeRosa on acoustic bass, and Vince Cherico on drums.
First a word about Harry Sepulveda [pictured]. For those unfamiliar with Harry, he's one of the most knowledgeable Latin-jazz experts in New York. Harry is owner of Record Mart [pictured below], a veritable institution in the Times Square subway station that's jammed to the ceiling with magnificent hard-to-find Latin-jazz LPs and CDs. And Harry can fill you in on whatever you want to know about any album you pull from the racks.
For those who may have moved out of New York some years ago, Harry's store used to be down a flight of stairs in the Times Square station, just above where the BMT trains pull in [pictured]. After the entire station was modernized a few years ago, Record Mart was back—but this time on the main level facing the Times Square Shuttle platforms. Harry's store is a joy trap, since strolling in virtually ensures walking out a little poorer but much richer musically.
Chembo's new album, his third with the current quintet, is so warm and eclectic that you can't help but love it. In addition to Chembo's fleshy, firm conga playing, there are a number of superstar performers here. Saxophonist Ivan Renta has a big, strong sound that wraps around you and squeezes. And Elio Villafranca on acoustic and electric piano brings enormous Latin flavor to each song. For good measure, there are 16 "invited guests" on the album's different tracks, including the spectacular David Oquendo on guitar, Ludovic Beier on accordion, Jimmy Bosch on trombone, and Dave Samuels on vibes.
This is wonderful work from top to bottom, and I can't remember a newly released Latin-jazz album I've enjoyed this much. It's energetic but heavily romantic and furtively old-fashioned. Deliciously Latin, the album's groove is deeply jazz-rooted. What stands out is Chembo's taste as a leader. Each track is put together neatly. "I know, I know," Harry said excitedly, when I mentioned it. "That's because Chembo manages every single detail. He's a control freak!"
He's also a major player. Over the years, Chembo has performed with Bobby Sanabria and Ascension, Tito Puente, Hilton Ruiz, and Chucho Valdes. Intrigued, I gave Chembo a call:
"This album is filled with things I've always wanted to do, but until this CD, I didn't have the time. So I made the time. Each song has a different coloration because I used varied instrumentation on each track. One song has vibes, another accordion. No two are alike.
"I was born in the Chelsea section of Manhattan but grew up in Red Hook, Brooklyn. I learned to play as a young boy in the streets and parks. I played in my first professional band at age 14. The leader of the group had to pick me up and drop me off at home. When he first asked my mother if I could play with the band, she told him he had to have me home by 11 p.m. The guy was a little taken aback. He said, 'Lady, we start at midnight' [laughs].
"After some convincing, my mother gave in. I was a kid and had to wait outside between sets at social clubs. I took my first lesson with Tommy Lopez Sr., a percussionist with Eddie Palmieri. Tommy took me under his wing and showed me how to play for real. I also studied with 'Little' Ray Ramero—who had played with La Sensacional Guerria de Federico Pagani in the early 1940s, Miguelito Valdes, Tito Rodriguez [pictured] and everyone else you can think of. Soon I started studying at the Harbor Conservatory for the Performing Arts in East Harlem. Harbor offers low-income musicians lessons at inexpensive prices. When I took courses there, I paid $5 a lesson. After that I studied at the La Escuela Nacional de Arte in Havana, Cuba, with Chucho Valdés. I went there in 1997, 1999 and 2003.
"I play the tumbadoras, the largest-size conga. It's technically a conga, but I don't really like the name 'conga.' A conga to me is too commercial, like a 'conga line.' I prefer to say I play the tumbadoras. There's an authenticity to that. I like it better."
Things I Wanted to Do opens with a Chembo original, Buena Gente, an up-tempo composition rich with Latin texture and strong saxophone work by Renta.
Tenia Que Ser Asi is a spectacular ballad written by Bobby Collazo that's reminiscent of the jazz standard I Want to Talk About You. Renta on tenor sax is backed here by a cleverly arranged string section. The Sultan was written for Chembo by legendary Latin-jazz trumpeter and arranger Marty Sheller [pictured]. "Marty was so kind to do this for me," Chembo said. "He calls me The Sultan."
On Swing Street, the quintet is joined by Ludovic Beier on accordion, adding a European feel to Hector Martignon's Latin arrangement. Fantasma is a gorgeous ballad featuring Renta on soprano saxophone. Chembo's skins here are a knockout.
Actually, Chembo's first name is Wilson. How did he get the nickname Chembo? "When I was growing up in Red Hook, I played a lot of basketball," Chembo says. "Back then, Wilt Chamberlain was the hot player. I'm just 5' 4", so when I'd drive around the other players and get the ball in, everyone would shout, 'Chembo!'—which was short for Chamberlain."
And the meaning of "Chaworo," the name of Chembo's group? "Those are the bells that are attached to the Bata ceremonial drum that urge the saints to come down and dance with us," Chembo says.
I can't wait to pay Harry another visit.
JazzWax tracks: Chembo Corniel's Things I Wanted to Do can be sampled and purchased hereon CD. Or check in with Harry at the Record Mart by sending him an e-mail: recordmartnyc@gmail.com.
Marc Myers writes regularly for The Wall Street Journal and is author of "Rock Concert: An Oral History" (Grove), "Anatomy of a Song" (Grove) and "Why Jazz Happened." Founded in 2007, JazzWax has won three Jazz Journalists Association awards
