Last year I served Thanksgiving dinner for song-minded readers. This year the JazzWax audience has expanded, so I was up early shopping and preparing a larger musical feast. Remember, no grabbing, no reaching across plates, and be sure to use the right fork. To all my JazzWax readers worldwide, Happy Thanksgiving. Dig in!
Roast Turkey Stomp—Benny Goodman Sextet (1939)
More Gravy—Willis Jackson (1963)
Sweet Potato Piper—Glenn Miller (1940)
String Beans—Joe Marsala's Chicagoans (1938)
Delirious Trimmings—Jerome Richardson (1958)
Custard Pie—Sonny Terry (1958)
Seconds Anyone?—Sal Nistico (1961)
Let's Agree to Disagree—Mamie Smith (1921)
Rhythm of the Dishes and Pans—Wingy Carpenter (1940)
Russ Garcia, an early West Coast jazz-classical theorist, composer, arranger and teacher whose trombone-centric big band scores in the 1950s could swing with pixie delight and jack-hammer power, died on Nov. 20. He was 95.
Just two weeks ago, Russ and his wife Gina "attended" two birthday tribute concerts on a laptop screen via Skype. The concerts were staged in Oakland, Calif., and New York by singer Shaynee Rainbolt in tribute of the arranger's birthday back in April. Russ had been scheduled to attend both concerts—but a collapsed vertebra compelled his doctor to advise against the trip. Which must have been tough for Russ, since his energy level, optimism and conducting hands were unaffected by the affliction.
Russ began as a trumpet player in the late 1930s and showed an early ability to arrange for bands. He gravitated toward arranging the way most children take apart gadgets to find out why they don't work. Unsure why his first arrangement for Me and My Shadow didn't sound as expected, he bought a stock arrangement and figured out the problem. The rest came easily, he said. [Pictured: Russ Garcia with Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald]
After World War II, Russ took at job as a teacher at the Westlake College of Music, a California school set up to instruct the growing number of musicians settling in the Los Angeles area who wanted to learn multiple instruments and arrange for movies, television and recording sessions. Russ taught a young Bill Holman among other aspiring musician-veterans who were eligible for a free education under the G.I. Bill.
His first credited arrangement was for Harry James in 1947—It's Awfully Lovely Out Tonight—when James carried a big band and full orchestra with strings, though the single went unissued. Russ also wrote for Buddy DeFranco's Orchestra in 1953 (Love Is for the Very Young and From Here to Eternity) and Bud Shank's quintet with strings in 1954. Russ embarked on a prolific pace in the 1950s, often being brought in to ghost-complete orchestrations for records and films that other arrangers could not finish in time.
Among Russ' most notable albums in the 1950s was Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong: Porgy & Bess, which some people called "Whipped Cream and Sandpaper," Russ said.
In the late '40s, Russ wrote one of the first "how to" books for arrangers interested in commercial band and movie scoring. Entitled The Professional Arranger-Composer, Russ wrote it by simply expanding on his instruction outline for his college classes and having his wife run off copies. It's still in print today.
In the '50s, Russ was one of the most highly regarded big band arrangers in Hollywood, which was already poulated by fast, brilliant writer-orchestrators competing for work in the pop and jazz markets. Russ' particular gift was giving trombone sections a voice. Instead of using them as an occasional blare, Russ scored trombones as a dominant choir, teasing out their natural appeal to the human ear. He recorded several albums with his four-trombone band, including several with vocalists.
Russ and his wife Gina became members of the Bahá'í faith in 1955, and in 1966 they sold all of their possessions to buy a boat and sail around the world as Bahá'í teachers. Eventually, Russ was invited to perform and conduct in New Zealand, where he and his wife bought a house and settled.
But the move may have cost him an Oscar statue. According to Russ, he had orchestrated Charlie Chaplin's Limelight in 1952. But when the film was awarded an Oscar for Best Score in 1972, Russ had already retreated to New Zealand from the Hollywood scene, and the statue was given to Larry Russell in error, Russ said. [Russ Garcia with Charlie Chaplin]
According to Russ, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences had goofed, mixing up Russell Garcia and Larry Russell. But there was little way to iron out the error. By 1972, Larry Russell had died and his family had accepted the statue on his behalf, seemingly unaware of Russell Garcia's claimed role. Despite repeated efforts by JazzWax and other blogs to convince the Academy to review the original score for Russell Garcia's orchestration stamp, nothing has been done to clear the air.
Sadly, Russ never received credit from the Academy for the film, and the Academy never conducted an official investigation or issued a public statement on the matter. Larry Russell's family contends that Larry Russell and not Russ was the film's orchestrator, leaving the entire matter in limbo. [Pictured: Charlie Chaplin after being awarded an Oscar]
For Russ, such matters weren't front-burner issues anyway. In fact, I brought up the matter during our interview after discovering a 1985 interview while researching him prior to our conversation. Russ said at the time that he was hesitant to rehash old matters but agreed to answer questions.
In the '60s, Russ shifted to science-fiction movie soundtracks that were more experimental than traditional jazz scores, leaving some purists to raise an eyebrow and overlook his earlier jazz contributions. More recently, Shaynee Rainbolt discovered his recordings and convinced Russ to collaborate with her on Charmed Life: Shaynee Rainbolt Sings Russell Garcia.
A concert was held in 2008 at New York's Highline Ballroom, featuring Shaynee and Russ' charts for his trombone band, with Russ there to conduct. Upon meeting Russ after the concert, I had a few minutes with him. What seemed to matter most to Russ as we spoke was that I had enjoyed the arrangements.
When I told him I did but was distracted, Russ seemed taken aback momentarily. Then I told him I couldn't decide which was more fascinating—the orchestrations or his remarkable style of conducting, which was a throwback to the studios of the '50s. That's when I saw the famous twinkle in Russ' eye, the twinkle that always betrayed how he really felt about jazz, swing and big bands.
I'm going to miss those emails from "Uncle Russ."
JazzWax tracks: Russ Garcia arranged and conducted many superb albums in the '50s, many of which are available on CD. Here are my favorites:
The George Gershwin Songbook (1954)—Buddy DeFranco with Oscar Peterson
Wigville (1955)—featuring Pete Candoli, Conte Candoli (tp) Bob Enevoldsen (v-tb) Russ Cheever, Charlie Mariano (as) Bill Holman (ts) Jimmy Giuffre (bar) Marty Paich (p) Max Bennett (b) Stan Levey (d) Russ Garcia (arr,cond)
I'll Never Forget What's Her Name (1955)—featuring Maynard Ferguson (v-tb) Herbie Harper, Tommy Pederson, Frank Rosolino (tb) Dick Houlgate (bar) Marty Paich (p) Red Mitchell (b) Stan Levey (d) Russ Garcia (arr,cond)
That Old Black Magic (1956)—with vocalist Peggy Connelly
Songs for Any Taste (1956)—with Mel Torme
Listen to the Music of Russ Garcia (1956)
Los Angeles River (1956)
Here's to My Lady (1957)—Bobby Troup
About the Blues (1957)—Julie London
Porgy & Bess (1957)—Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong
Here's trumpeter Don Fagerquist with a pretty treatment of The Boy Next Door from I'll Never Forget What's Her Name (1955), which is on the Los Angeles River CD...
And here are the Axidentals with Russ conducting his arrangement of his own I Live a Charmed Life, a song that was one of Russ' favorites...
After tenor saxophonist Dick Hafer left Woody Herman's band in 1955, he spent eight years recording top-shelf albums as a sideman on other musicians' dates. From 1964 on, Dick played in the orchestras of Broadway musicals and television shows. What's interesting about his 1956-63 period is that all of the albums are terrific. Not a dud among them. What's more, the breadth of his work during this period ranged from big bands and Dixieland to small-group swing and the music of Charles Mingus.
In Part 3 of my three-part interview with Dick, he talks about his recording sessions during this vital period, including two albums with Mingus...
JazzWax: What did you do after you left Woody Herman in 1955? Dick Hafer: I did a lot of freelance recording sessions. I recorded with Ruby Braff, Herbie Mann, Nat Pierce, Hal McKusick, Don Stratton and others. I also recorded again with Charlie Barnet and Woody.
JW: How did you patch things up with Herman after your falling out over your cold? DH: Ralph Burns was writing a lot of stuff for Broadway and I was playing in the pit orchestras. On a break, I told Ralph what Woody had said to me. Ralph told me that it was actually a compliment. He said, “Woody really liked you. He was mad that you left. He was trying to get you to stay.”
JW: In 1957 you recorded with Bobby Hackett, yes? DH: Funny, I met Bobby when I was playing in Washington, D.C., with Woody and Louis Armstrong and Trummy Young. That’s where I had a cold and had to leave. [Saxophonist] Spencer Sinatra took my place.
JW: How did you meet Hackett? DH: Bobby came up to me and asked if he could sit in with Woody’s band for a few numbers. I asked Woody and he said, “Sure.” What was he going to say—it was Bobby Hackett? [laughs]. Bobby doubled up with one of the horns and read the charts perfectly. Then two years later in 1957, Bobby called me to join his band for a series of dates. The one at the Voyager Room of the Henry Hudson Hotel in New York was recorded.
JW: Hackett’s style of jazz must have been a bit of a change for you. DH: It was. I had never played a lot of that New Orleans stuff. Bobby called for Struttin’ with Some Barbecue. I said, “Bobby, I really don’t know that tune.” Bobby said, “Don’t worry, Dick, you’ll hear it. Just don’t get in my way” [laughs]. Actually I took Ernie Caceres’ place. He had some drinking problems and Bobby had to let him go. His part was for the baritone sax. Bobby offered to have the parts transposed to tenor but I said, “Nah, I’ll buy a baritone sax and play them.” That’s why you hear me on baritone on the recording.
JW: How about Herbie Mann? DH: I was on Salute to the Flute in ‘57, which I was just listening to earlier. Herbie had good taste.
JW: In March 1958, you were on Hal McKusick’s Cross Section Saxes. DH: That was a great reed section: Hal and Frankie Socolow on altos, me on tenor, and Jay Cameron on baritone. The lines we played on Ernie Wilkins’ arrangement of Now’s the Time were fabulous—a real tight harmony and before Supersax did that kind of thing. That was a great album. We had a great sound on there.
JW: The rhythm section wasn’t too shabby either. DF: [Laughs]. Yeah, Bill Evans, Paul Chambers and Connie Kay. I remember when Paul rolled that bass in. He was like walking on air. He was so loose. He had a long brown raincoat on and looked very, very, very cool.
JW: How well did you know Bill Evans? DH: Pretty well. We played on Cross Section Saxes, of course. When I was playing with Mingus in ’63 at the Vanguard for a month, Bill was working opposite us as a solo. Every time we got through, I’d sit and listen to Bill play. He was so good.
JW: Did you ever spend time talking to Evans? DH: Not extensively. When I was playing on How to Succeed in Business (Without Really Trying) in 1961, I stopped into a coffee shop on 46th St. across from the theater. When I came out with my coffee and doughnut, I ran into him. He had been rehearsing upstairs. I hadn’t seen Bill in some time. Bill asked what I was doing. I told him playing in a Broadway show. He said, “Why are you wasting your time on that for?” I told him I had two kids to support. He was a very nice guy and very sharp. But he loved heroin. He’s the only guy I knew who actually loved it. He was really hooked.
JW: You recorded twice with Charles Mingus in ‘63—on The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady and Mingus, Mingus, Mingus, Mingus, Mingus. DH: Bob Hammer, the pianist and arranger, had written some charts for Woody so we became friendly. In the early ‘60s, he started writing for Mingus. I was working with Peggy Lee at Basin Street East at the time. Bob called and asked me if I could join Mingus at the Village Vanguard. I said, “Sure,” and took the gig.
JW: What happened when you got there? DH: There wasn’t much music to read down. We were basically practicing on the bandstand, especially during Sunday afternoon matinees there.
JW: Did the audience catch on? DH: One day, a woman in a mink coat was sitting in the front row. She said, “I declare, I thought you people were prepared. You’re just rehearsing.” Mingus didn’t hear her clearly and asked, “What did you say?” She said, “I thought you were prepared but you’re just practicing.” Mingus said, “Lady what do you do when you get ready for love? Foreplay. That’s what we’re doing up here.”
JW: What did the woman say? DH: She was so shocked she got up and left [laughs].
JW: How did Mingus treat you? DH: Great. He just said, “Dick, I don’t want too much Stan Getz in my band. You guys stole everything from Lester Young.” I said gently, “No we didn’t” and let it go. I didn’t want to argue with him. I had heard that he had hit Jimmy Knepper the previous October [1962] and broke his tooth and wrecked him on the trombone.
JW: Was Mingus’ freer approach to jazz tough for you? DH: Not at all. Every time we played Black Saint, it was different. There was a lot of improvising. Mingus’ band was one of the early free-jazz bands, and I just felt it. The band was on the cutting edge. Miles Davis came in to hear us. So did Maynard Ferguson.
JW: No issues with Mingus? DH: Actually the opposite. I was supposed to get paid $150 a week but Mingus gave me $175. When I told him he had overpaid me, Mingus said, “No man, you’re my studio cat—you play all the instruments. You need more money.”
JW: Eric Dolphy was on the band. What was he like? DH: He was very cold. He wasn’t very talkative and played pretty wild. But he knew what he was doing. He was a great player.
JW: You played with Herman in the early ‘60s. DH: Yeah. Sal Nistico [pictured] nicknamed me the “Golden Tone.” I had worked with Sal once before, so I knew how good he was. I told Woody, “Don’t put me on the band. This kid [Sal] is hot. He should do it.” Woody put him on.
JW: Did you ever address Herman directly on what Ralph Burns told you? DH: Yes. When he was alone, I said, “Woody, you told me to get lost after years of playing with you.” Woody said, “Well, I was mad. But Ralph told me about how you felt. I’m sorry.” And that was it.
JW: Your only leadership date is Prez Impressions, from 1994, for Fresh Sound. DH: Actually, I did another one first—In a Sentimental Mood for Progressive in 1991.
JW: Why did you play so often on Broadway shows and on TV from the 1960s onward? DH: I had to build some pension money. The band business was glamorous but it was financially dangerous. The money you were paid wasn’t that good to begin with. What’s more, it didn’t really add up in your union pension. After 10 years of my life on the road in the late ‘40s and ‘50s, I had nothing to show for it. I needed to build my pension at that point. If you didn’t do that, you could really be in trouble later. Poor Nat Pierce, when he died, his small pension was paying him only $50 a month. He was practically destitute.
A special JazzWax thanksto trumpeter Al Stewart. Also, special thanks to Dick Hafer for sharing his photos.
JazzWax tracks: I know what you're thinking: If I'm going to make the kind of claim I did up top, I had better back it up. Well, here goes...
Nat Pierce—And the Herdsmen Featuring Dick Collins (1954)
Dick Collins—Horn of Plenty (1954)
Dick Stratton—Modern Jazz With Dixieland Roots (1956)
Larry Sonn—It's Sonn Again (1956)
Ruby Braff—Salute to Bunny in Hi-Fi (1957)
Herbie Mann—Salute to the Flute (1957)
Nat Pierce—Big Band at the Savoy Ballroom (1957)
Urbie Green—Jimmy McHugh in Hi-Fi (1958)
Charlie Barnet—Cherokee (1958)
Nat Pierce—The Ballad of Jazz Street (1961)
Charles Mingus—The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady (1963)
Charles Mingus—Mingus, Mingus, Mingus, Mingus, Mingus (1963)
Now, are you ready for a real treat? I found Nat Pierce's Big Band at the Savoy Ballroom and Ballad of Jazz Street at iTunes. Same goes for the Don Stratton album.
JazzWax clip: Here's Ruby Braff's tribute to Bunny Berigan with Dick's swinging tenor sax solo 1:34 into Did I Remember. The band: Ruby Braff (tp) Benny Morton (tb) Pee Wee Russell (cl) Dick Hafer (ts) Nat Pierce (p) Steve Jordan (g) Walter Page (b) Buzzy Drootin (d)...
When you speak with tenor saxophonist Dick Hafer, you notice that his voice is as cool and easy-going as his horn. It's a gentle voice, a voice that has a mellifluous sound that makes you want to keep him talking just to hear it. Because his voice puts you at ease. Like many tenor saxophonists who came up in the late 40s, Dick was deeply influenced by Lester Young's linear, swinging style. Which made Dick an ideal section player, especially as bands began to emphasize reed sections. In the early '50s, that band was Woody Herman's. [Photo at top, from left, Dick Hafer, Woody Herman and Dick Collins in the early '50s]
In Part 2 of my three-part interview with Dick,he talks about Woody Herman's Third Herd...
JazzWax: Picking up where we left off, what did you do after you left Claude Thornhill in 1950? Dick Hafer: I went back with Charlie Barnet briefly. But there were a lot of junkies in the band. Charlie grew disgusted and broke it up.
JW: What did you do? DH: I went home to Reading, Penn. But in July 1951, arranger Ralph Burns [pictured] called and asked if I wanted to join Woody Herman. I said, “Yes, sure.” Ralph told me to fly out to Kansas City, where I’d join the band on the road. It was the first time I had flown on a four-engine plane.
JW: What did you do when you arrived? DH: I checked into the Muehlebach Hotel, where the band was staying. I didn’t know anyone in Woody’s band. I knew trumpeters Doug Mettome and Don Fagerquist but only by reputation. When I checked in, I called Woody’s room. It was about 11 a.m. He said, “Oh yeah, Dick Hafer. We’re rehearsing this afternoon with Bird.” “Bird?” I said. “Yeah, I want you to come over and listen to Charlie Parker. He’s playing with us tonight. You won’t have to play.” So I drove out to the big auditorium there where the band was rehearsing.
JW: How was Parker? DH: Bird knew the whole book. At one point he said he wanted to play Early Autumn, but Woody said, “It’s not really a good piece for you. It’s too slow.” Kind of a crazy thing to say, since Bird could play anything. After the rehearsal, we went back to the hotel and had dinner. Then I saw tenor saxophonist Jack DuLong. Jack said he was leaving the band, that he got an earlier flight home. He said, “You’re going to have to play tonight.” [Pictured, from left: Arno Marsh, Dick Hafer, Bill Perkins, Sam Staff and Woody Herman in 1952]
JW: What happened? DH: When I showed up with my horn that night, Woody asked, “Where’s DuLong?” I told him what Jack had told me, and Woody put me on the band right there.
JW: So you… DH: Right, I sight-read the book with Bird sitting right next to me. After playing with Barnet, I wasn’t afraid of anything.
JW: Based on the recording of Four Brothers, there was always talk that Bird was high. Was he? DH: No way. He was home in Kansas City visiting his mother, and whenever he was home he never got high. Bird simply didn’t know the changes to Four Brothers. He was standing in front of the band without music soloing. After the bridge, he stumbled on the notes. Same on the second chorus. But by the third, he had it down. Listen to what he did with How High the Moon and Lemon Drop. Amazing.
JW: What did you do after the concert? DH: We went to a club, and Mettome, one of the great trumpeters of all time, and Bird jammed. The two had known each other for some time. A funny story—two years later, I was in New York across from the Alvin Hotel near Birdland. My wife Betty and I were walking down 7th Ave. in the afternoon when I spotted Bird walking toward us. I said to my wife, “Here comes Bird. He won’t know me.” [Pictured, from left: Arno Marsh, Dick Hafer, Bill Perkins and Sam Staff, with Woody Herman in front in 1952]
JW: What happened? DH: Bird walked right up to me and gave me a hug and said, “Dick, how you doing?” He had remembered me from that one night in Kansas City.
JW: What happened when Carl Fontana joined Herman’s band in late 1951 and Urbie Green left? DH: We were at the Roosevelt Hotel in New York. The band was good, and Urbie’s [pictured] playing was the best thing about it. But Urbie’s first wife Darlein was having a baby then, so he decided to give notice to be with her and his family. He recommended Carl, who I didn’t know. No one did.
JW: How did you learn of the change? DH: I got to the gig early one day in late ’51 and went to the back of the dressing room. A guy was standing there in a shabby overcoat. I said, “Can I help you?” He said, “I’m Carl Fontana, I’m going to take Urbie Green’s place.” I said, “Oh really.” Later, Carl told me I had made him feel like two cents [laughs].
JW: What did you do? DH: I went across the street to the bar and told Doug [Mettome] and Don [Fagerquist]. They were surprised, too. Later, when Woody auditioned Carl [pictured], he called for Woodchopper’s Ball. He always auditioned new players with that tune. Carl stood up to play, and what came out of his trombone was incredible. Right there, the Third Herd was born. He sobered everyone up. The rest of the band got serious. Then Urbie came back in mid-’52 and the two of them were in the band. It was amazing.
JW: How was tenor saxophonist Bill Perkins? DH: Bill [pictured] was a really fine player and a wonderful man. He was always practicing. He was into Lester Young really heavy. He was always looking to buy different horns. One time he picked up a silver tenor and spent the afternoon painting it gold so Woody wouldn’t put him down. He liked to play an old Conn like Prez [Lester Young] did.
JW: How about alto saxophonist Sam Marowitz? DH: I loved him. I worked with Sam when I left Woody in ‘55 and settled in New York. Sam was playing lead alto with Elliot Lawrence at the time. The band business by that time had hit a low. Elliot had these odd playing jobs and Sam was contracting for them. Sam hired me.
JW: Why did you leave Herman? DH: When tenor saxophonist Jerry Coker left the band, they got Richie Kamuca, who had left Stan Kenton. On our first date with Kamuca, we played Apple Honey and Woody pointed to him to solo. From that day on, I didn’t get to play many solos anymore. So I gave Woody a month’s notice. I told him that when we reached New York, I was going to leave the band. [Pictured in reed section, from left: Dick Hafer, Jerry Coker and Jack Nimitz]
JW: Did you? DH: About a week before we got to New York, Woody asked me to stay a couple of extra weeks. He said the band was going to do a jazz concert in Washington, D.C., with Louis Armstrong and Bobby Hackett [pictured]. I said, “OK, I’ll stay.” This was June ’55. But I caught a really bad cold and couldn’t really enjoy playing.
JW: What did you do? DH: I went into the dressing room. I told Woody I had to go home to recover, that he didn’t have to pay me for the three days we had played the theater. He said, “Get lost.” I was really hurt. I had been in there for four years. I vowed never to talk to him again. And for the longest time I didn’t.
A special JazzWax thanks to trumpeter Al Stewart. Also, special thanks to Dick Hafer for sharing his photos.
JazzWax tracks: Charlie Parker's Kansas City appearance with Woody Herman's band in July 1951 can be found on Woody Herman with Charlie Parker and Tito Puente. The reason I recommend this one (even though the Puente tracks were recorded later for Everest) is that you get all of the Kansas City play list. Others are more limited.
JazzWax clip: Here's Four Brothers with Charlie Parker and Woody Herman in July 1951. The reed section: Charlie Parker (as) Dick Hafer, Bill Perkins, Kenny Pinson (ts) Sam Staff (bar)...
Starting in the late 1940s, Dick Hafer (pronounced HAY-fer) was one of the finest big-band tenor saxophonists and soloists. Dick's sound rested somewhere between Lester Young's smooth linear delivery and Wardell Gray's eely bop attack. [Pictured: Dick Hafer in Woody Herman's 1952 band]
As a result, Dick wound up in the sax sections of some of the finest bands of the period—Charlie Barnet, Woody Herman, Nat Pierce, Larry Sonn, Jimmy Dorsey, Urbie Green and Benny Goodman. On small group sessions, Dick was featured on recordings led by Ruby Braff, Herbie Mann, Bobby Hackett and Hal McKusick among others. And then there was Charles Mingus in the early '60s.
In Part 1 of my three-part interview with Dick, 84, the velvety tenor saxophonist talks about growing up with Gerry Mulligan, auditioning for Elliot Lawrence and playing with Charlie Barnet's '49 bop band...
JazzWax: Where did you grow up? Dick Hafer: Just outside of Reading, Penn., in a town called Wyomissing.
JW: What did you parents do? DH: My father was a foreman in a local knitting mill that made silk stockings. He had 200 guys under him. My mother was a homemaker, and my brother Don was a trumpeter who wound up playing with Tex Beneke and Ray McKinley. [Pictured: Berkshire Knitting Mills in Reading, Penn.]
JW: Did your father approve of your interest in music? DH: At first he didn’t want me to bother. He wanted me to work where he did, because it offered stability. One summer he got me a job at one of the other mills. They put me to work cleaning windows. After two weeks I quit.
JW: Why? DH: I couldn’t stand the horrible noise of those machines running. That’s when I decided I was going to become a professional musician. I had started playing the clarinet when I was 9 years old and I played it until I was 13. Then my teacher brought a tenor sax to my lesson. I realized I could play it before I even took my first lesson. I always could improvise fairly easily from a young age. [Pictured: Interior of Berkshire Knitting Mills in the '30s]
JW: Did you play locally? DH: At first I had my own band, doubling on clarinet and sax. I also played in a dance band in high school in 1942. We used to play sweater dances—that’s what they used to call them. The girls—“bobby soxers”—wore tight sweaters. I eventually formed a working band with guys from the high school band.
JW: Were there other major musicians living nearby? DH: Gerry Mulligan. He lived in Reading. His father was a troubleshooter for the government. During the war, he went around to factories to make sure they were up to snuff on production. Gerry was going to a Catholic school. When he started challenging the nuns with questions like, “Prove to me there’s a God,” they threw him out. He was 16. So he started writing arrangements.
JW: How did you know him? DH: We used to play sessions at the local union hall every Sunday afternoon. He knew all the hip tunes that were on the radio and could arrange them by ear in a flash. He was a great guy, a born genius. When a local band rejected his charts, Gerry took them to Philadelphia and Elliot Lawrence wound up playing them on the radio [laughs]. [Pictured: A teenage Gerry Mulligan]
JW: How did you get out of Wyomissing? DH: Through Gerry. Gerry and I were friends. Gerry was already writing for Gene Krupa. He would come home with charts he had written and try them out on our band. One summer he took me to New York. This was before he joined Elliot Lawrence [pictured] in 1945. Gerry told me he was writing for Ike Carpenter and asked me to come with him and audition. Since it was summer, I was out of school. We just got on a train and went.
JW: How did you do? DH: I tried out and got the job. But my parents said I couldn’t go out on the road. Gerry said, “Tell them to get lost. I walked out on my parents a long time ago.” But I couldn’t do that to them. Gerry didn’t talk to me for a while as a result. Eventually we got back together.
JW: What did you do after high school? DH: I played gigs and studied with a clarinet teacher. He asked me what I wanted to do. I told him I wanted to go into the band field. He said that was certainly better than studying to be a band director, like him. So I began playing locally.
JW: Did you audition for Elliot Lawrence? DH: Yes. A trumpet player I knew, Walt Stuart, had married a local girl, a singer named June Kay. Walt got me an audition up in New York in ‘47. After the Lawrence band played the last set, I sat in and read the music, which was no problem for me. Elliot liked what he heard and told me to stick around for a jam session. He said he wanted me to stretch out.
JW: Did you impress him? DH: A little too much [laughs]. I was playing a lot of Charlie Parker’s riffs at the time. When Elliot asked me what I wanted to play, I said Donna Lee, which was brand new at the time. Elliot said, “Donna Lee?” I told him it had the same chord changes as (Back Home Again in) Indiana. So we started, but Elliot couldn’t keep up. He finally said, “Let’s play something else.” I said, How about C-Jam Blues?”
JW: What happened? DH: The guys in the band started laughing. I basically had called for a simple blues in the key of C—the most basic music you could play. So I had inadvertently humiliated him. As a result, I didn’t get the job. I also auditioned for Sam Donahue’s band around this time, but the drummer didn’t like bebop. Sam was a great tenor saxophonist. He could play the upper register of his horn so smoothly, which was very difficult. Only Ted Nash with Les Brown at the time could do that. Long story short, saxophonist Phil Urso got the job. [Photo of Sam Donahue in 1946 by William P. Gottlieb]
JW: Must have been pretty frustrating. DH: It was. I was about to give up music. I went back home and played a New Year’s Eve dance at the end of ’48 at the Abe Lincoln Hotel in Reading. It was the best hotel in town. As fate would have it, alto saxophonist Vinnie Dean had checked in and just finished up for the night with Charlie Barnet [pictured] at the Rajah Theater. He heard the band as he walked through the lobby and came into the room to listen. I was the local hot shot there.
JW: What happened? DH: On a break, Vinnie came up to me and said , “I’m Vinnie Dean. I’m playing lead alto with Barnet. Do you want to try out?” By then I was down on bands and tryouts but, hey, it was Barnet. I said, “Yeah, if it’s on the level.” He said, “Come by the theater, and you’ll sit in between shows.” At the time, saxophonist Dave Matthews was leading the band and arranging. They called me the next day, and I went on the band. Barnet carried five trumpets—I had never heard a band that big. The first day, we rehearsed. Charlie [pictured] said, “We’re recording tomorrow. Dave’s going to do his arrangement of Portrait of Edward Kennedy Ellington. He’ll record that and then we’ll fit you in.” [Pictured: Dick Hafer, far left, with Charlie Barnet]
JW: What happened? DH: On the session, Charlie said, “Get your horn. You’re going to play my solos.” Gil Fuller’s Afro-Cuban bop arrangement of O’Henry was first. That was my first recorded solo with the band.
JW: The ’49 Barnet band was quite something, wasn’t it? DH: I think it was the greatest band I ever played in. The trumpet section was Rolf Ericson, Maynard Ferguson, John Howell, Lammar Wright and Doc Severinsen. The band was ridiculously together. The camaraderie was unbelievable. A great bunch of guys. Only thing wrong was that we didn’t get recorded properly. Capitol didn’t know how to capture the band’s sound.
JW: The band had a pretty fabulous lineup of arrangers. DH: Oh yes. Manny [Albam], Pete [Rugolo], Gil Fuller, Dave Matthews and Johnny Richards. And Bobby Sherwood.
JW: Barnet treated you well, didn’t he? DH: Yes, he did. I did three years with his band. He featured me when we went into Bop City. I had the solos originally written for Dave Matthews. Barnet would announce to the audience, “Dick Hafer is going to play something, She’s Funny That Way, with variations.” I used to ride with Barnet in his Cadillac. I was a Yankee fan and so was Barnet, and he liked that. Charlie loved women. Every time he showed up he had someone else on his arm. He was married 11 times.
JW: So who won the Battle of the Bands on July 30, 1949—Barnet or Woody Herman? DH: Barnet, hands down. We had Tiny Kahn on drums. He joined the band in Atlantic City after Cliff Leeman couldn’t get with the bop charts. Tiny had offered to join Woody Herman’s band, but Woody didn’t like the way he played, if you can believe it [laughs]. Tiny coming onto Barnet’s band ignited us even more.
JW: How did that battle come about? DH: We traveled across country doing one-nighters—all the way to the Rendezvous Ballroom in Balboa, Calif., and then stayed there for six weeks. They booked the two bands. Woody had his Second Herd at the time. The bands were set up on the same stage but on different sides. When one band played, the other was off the stage. Trumpeter Al Porcino was with Woody at the time. After the battle, Al came up to Tiny and said, “Hey, can you get me on the band?” The consensus was that Barnet’s band had won it.
JW: What did Woody think of that battle? DH: Funny, a few years later I was with Woody’s band. We were hanging out in his dressing room one night when I said, “Hey Woody [pictured], remember the Battle of the Bands? I think Barnet’s band blew you into the ocean.” He said, “Well, maybe.” Barnet’s band had more exuberance than Woody’s did at the time. We had a looser feel.
JW: And yet Barnet broke up the band at the end of ‘49. DH: All bands were starting to skid then. Their popularity was waning. Charlie carried 17 guys in that band. He was wealthy. His father had left him a $250,000 annuity that came due in ’49. He decided to have some kicks. So he kept the band going for about 10 months, winding up at the Apollo Theater in New York. [Pictured: Charlie Barnet in 1946, by William P. Gottlieb]
JW: Pretty tight. DH: We called ourselves the Cherokee Raiders. When we rode the bus, we carried cap guns. Once we played a date in Wyoming. Cowboys came to the club on horseback. It was wild. On the bus out there, we would shoot the cap guns out the window, like in the movies when people rode the trains. The driver pulled over and started yelling at us to knock it off. The other tenor player, Kurt Bloom, did the payroll. He told the driver to shut up and drive the bus, that if the guys wanted to shoot off the guns, they could. Then he shot the cap gun at the driver. The driver shut up and drove.
JW: You were with Claude Thornhill briefly after Barnet, yes? DH: Yes. I had gotten a call to play in Artie Shaw’s late ’49 band but I had already told Claude I would join and had to keep that obligation. I would have liked to have played in that Shaw band, which some consider one of his best. But everything worked out because Shaw didn’t keep that band long. Zoot Sims took the chair I was asked to fill. Thornhill’s band in early 1950 wasn’t very successful. Someone had suggested he put together a society-style band, but the new charts he got in from arrangers weren’t very good. Claude [pictured] would play the melody forever anyway.
A special JazzWax thanksto trumpeter Al Stewart. Also, a special thanks to Dick Hafer for sharing photos of himself in bands.
JazzWax tracks: Barnet's Capitol bop band was terrific: Rolf Ericson, Doc Severinsen (tp) Ray Wetzel (tp,vcl) Maynard Ferguson, John Howell (tp) Obie Massingill, Dick Kenney, Ken Larson (tb) Ken Martlock (b-tb) Charlie Barnet (sax,ldr) Vinnie Dean, Ruben Leon (as) Dick Hafer, Kurt Bloom (ts) Manny Albam (bar,arr) Claude Williamson (p) Eddie Safranski (b) Tiny Kahn (d) Carlos Vidal (cga). You'll find many of the band's tracks on Charlie Barnet: Big Band Sessions at Amazon.
The Battle of the Bands—a shoot out between Woody Herman and Charlie Barnet in 1949—is available on Battle Royal at Amazon. The battle was moderated by Stan Kenton. If you want to hear what Claude Thornhill's band sounded like with Dick Hafer in it briefly in 1950, go here and click on Embraceable You.
JazzWax clip: Here's Dick Hafer with Ruby Braff and His Men: Salute to Bunny in Hi-Fi (RCA) in March 1957. The band features Ruby Braff (tp) Benny Morton (tb) Pee Wee Russell (cl) Dick Hafer (ts) Nat Pierce (p) Steve Jordan (g) Walter Page (b) Buzzy Drootin (d). Dick's solo starts at 1:34...
Don't recognize the name? Jordi Pujol is the owner of Spain's Fresh Sound label. Since the 1980s, Fresh Sound has specialized in releasing American jazz albums from the 1950s that U.S. labels have all but ignored, overlooked or forgotten. In this regard, Fresh Sound has performed a heroic task, rescuing jazz's greatest decade from the dumb clutches of record conglomerates that have all but written off the music. You see, with the advent of the digital age in the 1990s, many American record companies shifted priorities, treating their rich jazz catalogs like junk unworthy of remastering or re-issuing. The big names saw the light of day again but not the lesser lights. Enter Jordi Pujol and Fresh Sound. [Photo of Jordi Pujol by Eric Garault]
Fresh Sound, which is based in Spain, has been able to accomplish this noble task thanks largely to smart deal-making with artists and favorable European copyright laws. These laws state that recorded music dating back 50 years or more is in the public domain. This means European companies are allowed to issue the music that American labels have written off without the burden of paying hefty copyright fees. In the process, many American consumers have developed a flawed impression about Fresh Sound—that it's somehow in the bootlegging business or that it's skirting laws.
So I simply reached out to Jordi Pujol, who agreed to answer the big questions that jazz fans have on their minds. Jordi not only happily answered all of my questions without hesitation, he also provided me with lots of great photos of him and American jazz legends whom he has befriended over the years. Hopefully his answers will clear up the misconceptions and shed light on a business few fans know about:
JazzWax: Does Fresh Sound owe jazz artists or their families royalties on the albums it issues? Jordi Pujol: First of all, if you are talking about public domain recordings—music that was recorded more than 50 years ago—such recordings do not require such payments under European union copyright laws. These laws are different than yours in the U.S. But if we’re talking about recordings that were provided to Fresh Sound by artists or their families, that’s a different matter. Over the years, I’ve purchased many tapes from jazz musicians, and I’ve also been in touch with musicians’ widows for recordings. In every case, I’ve reached an agreement with them and paid them whatever was required for their permission to release the material on Fresh Sound. [Pictured at top: Bebo Valdez and Jordi Pujol; bottom: Bill Holman and Jordi Pujol]
JW: What about mechanical royalties paid to composers? JP: We pay mechanical royalties for each song on our CDs to the Spanish Society of Composers (SGAE)—which is similar to your ASCAP or BMI, and is required by law here. Of course, the process under which such payments are accounted for and distributed is a function of SGAE, not Fresh Sound. Under Spanish law, to release recordings legally, you need to pay mechanical royalties to SGAE for composers, even if the recording itself is in the public domain. Currently, composers still have 70 years of posthumous copyright protection. [Pictured: Jordi Pujol and Frank Strazzeri]
JW: What is the source of Fresh Sound’s releases? JP: At Fresh Sound, we have a large warehouse of reel-to-reel tapes that we bought from many different record labels in the 1980s, when the LP was still the dominant format. Back then, some well-known labels and quite a few American companies traveled to Midem, the big annual recording-industry trade show in Cannes, France, to sell or license all kind of tapes in their vaults. Ironically, the first entities that came to Europe to sell what you in the U.S. call “bootlegs” actually were American companies. This occurred long before any label in Europe started to issue recordings that are in the public domain.
JW: How could they do this? JP: I assume these recordings were not protected under the U.S. copyright law, so these American companies could deal them at Midem. You should know that we never bought them. But it was common practice back then. With the rise of the CD in the 1990s, new European labels began to capitalize on the public domain laws here, which is perfectly legal.
JW: What triggered the shift? JP: Before 1995, the copyright laws in Europe varied and weren’t standardized. So, for example, until that year, Spanish law protected sound recordings for 40 years after their release date, based on a law from 1987. Prior to 1987, sound recordings were protected only for 25 years. Before 1995, only France and England had a 50-year protection term. Other countries like Germany, Denmark, the Netherlands and much of Europe had protection terms that went from 15 to 25 years. [Pictured from left: Bill Perkins, Jordi Pujol and Bob Cooper]
JW: And in Italy? JP: In Italy, live recordings were not protected at all. That’s why many live concerts were released on LP or CD back then. They were called bootlegs in the U.S., but they were not illegal in Italy. There simply were no laws there regulating live recordings in that country then.
JW: What changed in Europe? JP: In October 1995, all European Union countries agreed to adopt the same period of protection for sound recordings, 50 years, starting that same year. So, for example, in Spain, before 1995, recordings had had 40 years of protection. But with the addition of 10 years based on the new law, 1955 was not public domain until 2006. [Pictured: Jordi Pujol with Buddy Collette]
JW: So issuing these recordings isn't bootlegging? JP: People in the U.S. who think that most European labels are issuing bootlegs are misinformed. Here’s a translation of Article 119 of the Spanish copyright law: “The duration of the rights given to the producers of a sound recording will be 50 years, counting from January 1st of the year after it was recorded.” So if and when copyright protection is extended to 70 years, that means that from the year the law enters into effect—let’s say in 2012—all recordings from 1962 with a legitimate copyright claim will be protected until the year 2033. [Pictured: Marty Paich and Jordi Pujol]
JW: If adopted, will the new 70-year European copyright law affect Fresh Sound? JP: It’s too soon to say how much the extension of an additional 20 years of protection will affect European labels like mine. Obviously it will be a handicap for most labels here. Jazz fans should also be concerned about this coming change. [Pictured: Pete Rugolo and Jordi Pujol]
JW: Why? JP: Because it will limit what can be issued under the public domain laws. For example, I regularly receive hundreds of emails from jazz collectors asking me to reissue specific albums that are out of print in the U.S. and locked away in record company vaults. Often, the recordings they request are not yet in the public domain. Under past laws, many of those albums were just a few years away from qualifying. But that’s going to change. Any hope of our releasing choice recordings from the '60s and beyond, for example, will vanish with the new law if that recording is copyrighted. [Pictured: Jordi Pujol and Roy Harte]
JW: Why? JP: In virtually every case, the American labels that own the masters will not be interested in reissuing them, and we cannot either until they are in the public domain in Europe.
JW: Does Fresh Sound use LPs as a source? JP: Yes, of course, when we need to. We always use clean or mint LPs, as well 45-rpms and 78-rpms if need be. We also use the most advanced technology to restore and improve the sound of these old recordings, in most cases improving on the original sound. [Pictured: Supersax. From left, Lanny Morgan, Jay Migliori, Jordi Pujol, Med Flory, Ray Reed and Jack Nimitz]
JW: Does Fresh Sound pay to license source material? JP: Yes, we pay when it’s required. For example we have worked with RCA for many years and have always paid for the material we use. But if it’s a recording that has already gone into the public domain here, we are not required to do so. Some labels, however, don’t invest anything in restoration technology, using CDs that are already in the market to produce their own. That way they can sell their products much cheaper. I can say that every master in the Fresh Sound catalog for the last 15 years has been sent to a studio to be newly mastered before heading to the pressing plant. [Pictured: Shorty Rogers and Jordi Pujol]
JW: Is Fresh Sound affiliated with Lone Hill? JP: Not at all. Fresh Sound is my label, and it’s based in Barcelona, Spain. It’s not affiliated with any other jazz label. Many people believe that all labels coming from Andorra or Spain are related to Fresh Sound. This is simply not true.
JW: When did your love for jazz begin? JP: I began listening to swing bands at home when I was a child. My father had records by Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey and Artie Shaw as well as by Duke Ellington and Count Basie. My father loved Johnny Hodges and Coleman Hawkins. Back then, being a jazz collector or jazz fan wasn’t easy. It was hard to find jazz albums in record shops here. Every LP was like a trophy. [Pictured: Jordi Pujol at home in Barcelona, Spain]
JW: When did you buy your first jazz album? JP: When I was 14 years old. It was Hank Mobley’s A Caddy for Daddy. Soon I started my own collection, apart from my father’s records. I knew all my LPs by heart. I loved trumpet players. I played trumpet too, but I never studied. I learned everything by ear. Fats Navarro and Clifford Brown were my favorites, and Lee Morgan was my hero. Later I became attracted to West Coast jazz as well. I was especially interested in the work of arrangers Bill Holman, Marty Paich, Shorty Rogers, Jimmy Giuffre and many others. Today I still enjoy jazz from the 50s and 60s.
JW: Fresh Sound also records new albums, yes? JP: Absolutely. Over the years, Fresh Sound has recorded over 70 albums with legendary jazzmen. In the last 15 years many of those albums have been produced by my friend Dick Bank in Los Angeles. I feel very fortunate to have shared the passion of reissuing old recordings and releasing new ones, especially by new artists, on Fresh Sound’s New Talent label. All in all, producing these albums has been an exciting experience for me. As most buyers can tell, it’s a labor of love. I think the consumer recognizes and appreciates this.
JazzWax note: All personal photos courtesy of Jordi Pujol.
Jazz-rock fusion isn't easy music. For one, there isn't much space for your ear to catch its breath. For another, unless you were in your teens in the late '60s and early '70s, the music will likely sound like noise. But for those who heard this music with peers just as their sensibilities were being formed and think back to this period with fondness, fusion has a robust, explosive feel that was in sync with its time. At the forefront of this movement was Chick Corea.
Chick Corea's Return to Forever band was founded in 1972 and actually had two different phases in the beginning. On Return to Forever and Light as a Feather in 1972, Chick created a decompressed, mellow sound that was spiritual and introspective, infused with Brazilian influences. But starting in 1973, the band shifted hard toward psychedelic rock, with Hymn of the Seventh Galaxy, Where Have I Known You Before and No Mystery. The emphasis was on technique, energy and power—all with a cosmic overwash.
In Part 3 of my three-part interview with Chick, the pianist, who is appearing at New York's Blue Note for virtually the entire month of November, talks about the early days of jazz-rock fusion:
JazzWax: Your first Return to Forever band in 1972 had a gentle, neo-Brazilian vibe. Why? Chick Corea: I wouldn’t say gentle. Some of it was pretty exciting, like Captain Marvel. But I’ll agree that it was mellow music. I was coming off of 2½ years of playing with Miles Davis and Wayne Shorter and Jack DeJohnette and Dave Holland, where the music was highly experimental, wild and edgy. It was a blast. But that experience took me into new interests, along with Dave.
JW: How so? CC: With our band Circle in 1970, we took the experimental concept even further. In that group—Anthony Braxton, Dave, Barry Altschul and me—we played whole concerts where the music was improvised from beginning to end. There was no song form—we did away with it. We went into space where we made up the music as we went along. That was incredibly invigorating and fun.
JW: What happened with the group? CC: After a while, I felt I was missing the connection I got from audiences when I offered them something more lyrical. I wanted to play things that were lyrical. That’s what led me put Return to Forever together in 1972 for the music I had written.
JW: What caused the shift in Return to Forever to a much more dynamic and bombastic sound, starting with Hymn of the Seventh Galaxy? CC: It was a quickly evolving thing with me and Stanley [Clarke]. The band had personnel changes that were needed. When we hooked up with drummer Lenny White, we played a week at the Keystone Korner in San Francisco in 1972. We did that just to try out the trio, and the trio took on a kind of fire. I was playing just a Fender Rhodes, and Stanley played amplified upright bass.
JW: But along the way in 1973, the music became much more ferocious. CC: That was because of Lenny’s playing. Lenny’s a different kind of drummer than Airto. We also had the idea to find an electric guitarist. When I heard what John McLaughlin did with the electric guitar, I thought, “Man, I’d like to write for that sound.” So we went out to find an electric guitarist. The result was hiring Billy Connors, who played some lyrical guitar on that first record, Hymn of the Seventh Galaxy.
JW: Where did you find Connors? CC: We found him that week we played in San Francisco. One of our intentions was to audition guitarists, but only a couple of them came by to the Keystone Korner while we were there. Billy was the one we liked, so we hired him. As a side note, when we were recently in San Francisco on tour, Stanley, Lenny and I went by 750 Vallejo Street where the Keystone Korner stood. We asked some people what remembrances they had of the club.
JW: Why? CC: We were making a little documentary. Not many people remembered the club. A cop walked by who looked the age, and I asked him. There was a police station right next to the old club. The cop said he sort of remembered it.
JW: What was driving you in '73 to create much more dynamic music? CC: Stanley [pictured] and I were just following what we had begun to do, which was to write. The first piece I wrote for what I call the "Grand Sound" was Hymn of the Seventh Galaxy, the opening piece for that record. We all remember the first rundown of that song at our first rehearsal.
JW: What happened? CC: The hair stood up on my arm. It was so exciting and it worked so great and everyone was so enthusiastic about it. It really set a new direction, and it developed from there. The venues we were playing were bigger and the audiences picked up on the vibe. There was a synergy going on between what we were creating and how audiences were digging it. That kind of grew.
JW: What happened the day of that rehearsal? CC: First of all, Lenny wasn’t able to make it. Though he did play on the trio I had for a while, he still had some commitments to the group Azteca in San Francisco. So I went back and got my friend [Steve] Gadd [pictured] to play. Steve was there at that rehearsal along with Billy Connors. We also put in a percussionist, Mingo Lewis, who we also found in San Francisco. He played conga and bongos.
JW: Where was the rehearsal held? CC: At a loft I was renting downtown in New York. When we took the chart out, Steve just kind of ate it up. Gadd is like the ultimate professional musician as well as an incredible creative master at his instrument. He took a hold of it right away. It took me and Stanley and Billy a little longer to learn the notes. But when we started to get it together, like after a couple of runs, we started to put it into tempo and got rid of the sheet music. That’s when the thing took fire. [Pictured, from left: Stanley Clarke, Lenny White, Chick Corea and Bill Connors]
JW: What happened? CC: Well, when we got rid of the music, we played the tune from beginning to end with energy, and that just blew me away. It blew everybody away. We knew we had something new.
JazzWax tracks: Say what you will about this period of jazz, but Chick Corea's albums remain radical expressions that caught the ear of listeners who were looking for sophisticated music. Many of these listeners had the jazz albums of John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Larry Coryell and John McLaughlin sitting by their turntables next to LPs by Jimi Hendrix, Yes, and Emerson, Lake and Palmer.
These early jazz-rock fusion albums by Chick remain bold experiments that embraced rock but never renounced jazz's instrumental fervor or its improvisational roots:
When acoustic jazz began to fall on hard times in the 1970s and early 1980s, many fans blamed Chick Corea. After years spent pioneering a successful form of psychedelic jazz-rock fusion with his group Return to Forever, Chick became a lightning rod of sorts for complaints and dismay. Disgruntled jazz fans blamed Chick as well as Weather Report, John McLaughlin's Mahavishnu Orchestra, Larry Coryell's Eleventh House, Steps and other fusion bands for severely damaging acoustic jazz's influence and stealing away a generation of listeners. Interestingly, much of that resentment lingers today. [Pictured at top: Return to Forever in 2008; clockwise from left: Chick Corea, Lenny White, Al Di Meola and Stanley Clarke]
The truth, of course, is a bit different. Jazz fell on hard times because a younger generation of listeners found the mass allure of rock and soul more exciting and in sync with their self-image and drive. To be fair, jazz had grown increasingly difficult to understand for the average listener and seemed reserved for those with in-depth musical knowledge and a more spiritual esthetic. Volume, stagecraft, lighting and the electric guitar all were standard fare by the early '70s, and acoustic jazz simply couldn't compete on a large scale.
This three-part interview gives Chick a chance to air his side of the story, allowing us to learn how jazz-fusion emerged in several waves in the late '60s and early '70s and to have a finer appreciation of a form of jazz that you may have overlooked, dismissed or never had a chance to appreciate.
Here's Part 2 of my conversation with Chick, who is appearing at New York's Blue Note with a range of jazz artists through Nov. 27.
JazzWax: Is part of jazz-fusion's surge a desire by musicians to relate to younger audiences using electric instruments and volume? Chick Corea: Yeah, that’s part of it. My opinion, generally, is that all music lacks value and humanity and feeling and depth when it’s devoid of an audience. I mean, if you think of me sitting in my room playing music just for myself, I mean there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s a great activity. But in terms of music as a culture and a society, you have to take changes in audiences into account.
JW: Is that what you did with your form of jazz-fusion? CC: I’ve found that musicians always want to communicate. You don’t want to not communicate, right? You want to get something across. But you can’t just do what interests only you. My own personal tastes in music would turn everyone off. It would probably turn you off. So back then, I differentiated my own personal tastes in music from my attempt to bring my love of music to audiences that were looking for a new relationship with it, a new sound.
JW: Is stage excitement and lights part of the movement as well? CC: I don’t know. I have seen performances by musicians on a single acoustic instrument that made audiences rock. I’ve seen Bobby McFerrin go out with nothing but his voice and excite an audience. I really think the mechanics of a stage or an instrument—whether it’s electric or not—is far less important than the artist and what he’s doing and his intention and how he delivers things, you know? There tends to be an agreement that pop and rock share certain things, like a beat and an excitement and so forth. It’s like an agreed-upon thing. But for me and the musicians I’ve worked with, I’ve always worked outside that box.
JW: Was hard rock influencing you in the early '70s? CC: A little bit. But the first rock group that really got to me was John McLaughlin’s Mahavishnu Orchestra [laughs]. I considered that a rock group when I heard them in 1973, there was that audience, and it definitely wasn't a Village Vanguard audience. There were long-haired kids with that vibe lighting matches in support of what was going on. To me that was rock 'n' roll, but on jazz's level of intensity.
JW: Anyone else influence you? CC: Stevie Wonder. His music I really loved, and it reached me on a lot of different levels, not just as pop or soul. His music had a deep message for me from an artist standpoint, and the writing was beautiful. The spiritual side was amazing. Stevie is really a musician beyond category. I also listened to Joni Mitchell in the late '60s. I thought she was a really creative lady in the way she made her music. She was delicate with the form of her music. Her music didn’t have a lot of force in it, but it had a great groove and a great message.
JW: Did you thrive on large audiences? CC: I got a kick out of every kind of audience, not just large ones. For instance, my last tour earlier this year with Return to Forever IV—with Stanley Clarke, Lenny White, Jean-Luc Ponty and Frank Gambale—we put a set together that went through a lot of different tones but mostly was pretty forceful on the rhythm end. We ended up almost every night with Stanley’s School Days, from 1976, which got people on their feet rocking real hard. It was just a lot of fun.
JW: How does that compare with an acoustic group? CC: When I played the Blue Note earlier this year with Paul Motian and Eddie Gomez for two weeks, the audience was sitting and listening intently. They were enthusiastic and clapped really nicely, but it was a different vibe, but I enjoyed that as well. The two are different.
JW: Do you think you were influencing rock in the early '70s? CC: Probably. Rock didn’t exist in a vacuum and neither did jazz. Good musicians listen to a range of styles, for enjoyment and to find new ideas. I think we rubbed off on rock as their game improved. Musicians put on other artists' records and either they heard something special or they didn't. They didn’t choose what they put on based on what section of the store it was purchased in.
JW: So musicians of your generation back then didn’t see themselves as distinctly jazz or rock? CC: No. Musicians generally felt they were part of a group, a club. We were all people who are trying to save the planet, and it's the same way today. Musicians are open and there has always been an exchange program between rock and jazz, as quietly as it’s kept. That’s the way musicians actually operate. We listen to each other a lot, and we did that a great deal back then. [Pictured: Return to Forever in the mid-'70s; from left: Al Di Meola, Lenny White, Stanley Clarke and Chick Corea]
JazzWax tracks: A solid remastered compilation of Return to Forever's music in the '70s is The Anthology (Concord), which was released in 2008. You'll find it here.
To hear where Chick Corea was coming from just before forming Return to Forever in late 1972, give these albums a listen, featuring Chick as a sideman:
Merry Go Round—Elvin Jones (1971)
Captain Marvel—Stan Getz (1972)
Free—Airto (1972)
On the Corner—Miles Davis (1972)
Crystal Silence—Gary Burton (1972)
Children of Forever—Stanley Clarke (1972)
JazzWax clips: Here's Chick Corea and Gary Burton on Crystal Silence...
Pianist Chick Corea has had about 20 different jazz careers. Which is why New York's Blue Note is turning over the club to Chick and his music for nearly the entire month of November. The unprecedented move not only comes in celebration of Chick's 70th birthday but also his 50 years of playing and influencing jazz and its direction. Starting tonight, Chick will lead 10 different bands over 27 days, featuring 30 different musicians and covering virtually all facets of his music. (For more information, go here and here.) [Photo at top by Martin Philbey]
Chick began recording in 1962 in the boogaloo bands of Willie Bobo and Mongo Santamaria. Then he recorded in the soul-Latin band of Montego Joe in 1964, followed by a hard bop ensemble led by Blue Mitchell in 1965 and Cal Tjader's Latin-swing group of 1966. Chick's first album as a leader was Tones for Joan's Bones in 1966, a breakout hard-bop date with a modal feel. Now He Sings, Now He Sobs followed in 1968 offering a more refined experimental sound. Over the years, there were many sideman dates. Then came Miles Davis' electric bands, Chick's free-form period, and his seminal Return to Forever jazz-fusion bands of the early 1970s.
While Chick has led quite a few other exciting bands and trios since Jimmy Carter was president, it's jazz-rock fusion that I chose to focus on for this interview. I find the period fascinating and transitional, especially since Chick was on the cutting edge of the movement that challenged traditional acoustic jazz and continues to divide jazz fans today.
Here's Part 1 of my multipart conversation with one of jazz-fusion's founding fathers:
Jazzwax: Was one of your earliest paid gigs really with Cab Calloway? Chick Corea: Well, I made some money playing dances and stuff when I was in high school. But playing a gig with Cab was the first time I worked outside of my father’s circle. My father played trumpet, and I’d go on gigs with him.
JW: How did the gig with Calloway work out? CC: When I was a junior in high school—I guess I was 15 or 16 years old—I was called to do a gig with Cab's band for a week at Boston’s Mayfair Hotel. That was my first real stepping-out. I was stunned. All of a sudden I had to wear a tuxedo and it was like a big show with lights on the stage. It was kind of scary, you know? He had a dance line of ladies who were only dressed a little bit. They seemed huge to me. They were daunting.
JW: What was Calloway like? CC: Cab was cool. He was fun. After a little while I got into the swing of it and started really loving being out on my own like that. As for the entertainment value of it all, I was just thrilled to be there. I didn’t notice anything particular in terms of the show’s bigness. One of the interesting sidelights to that gig was that I became aware of an incredible pianist who I listened to every night.
JW: Who? CC: Well, my gig with Cab ran every night for a week. In between shows, I went into the hotel lounge and sat near the piano. The guy playing was Herman Chittison, who played in the style of Art Tatum. He was amazing. I sat there gawking at him for the whole week. [Photo of Herman Chittison by William P. Gottlieb]
JW: Much has been written about Bob Dylan going electric in 1965 and the uproar. Miles Davis did the same thing with jazz and so did you, generating similar hostility. How do you feel about those years looking back? CC: The sound of jazz began to change during the time I was in Miles’ band. Before joining Miles, I had been pretty much a purist in my tastes. I loved Miles and John Coltrane and all the musicians who surrounded them. But I didn’t look much further into rock or pop. I listened to a little bit of classical music, but that was it for me. When Miles began to experiment, I became aware of rock bands and the energy and the different type of communication they had with audiences during a show.
JW: What did you notice specifically? CC: I’d see young people at rock concerts standing to listen rather than sitting politely. It was a different vibe and more my generation. It got me interested in communicating that way. People were standing because they were emotionally caught up in what they were hearing. I related to that.
JW: Were volume, lights and stagecraft part of rock's appeal and the audience's mood? CC: I think so. I find that audiences tend to have to agree about what mood they’re going to be in based on the venue. Like when you go to the Village Vanguard, for example, audiences tend to be real quiet. They drink quiet, they whisper and there’s not a whole lot of loud applause. Just a little, because you don’t want to bother anyone. It’s that kind of vibe. In other clubs, the vibe might be just a little wilder.
JW: The same was true in the late '60s? CC: Absolutely. If you went to the Palladium or the Fillmore in New York, they were rock venues so audiences there knew that the vibe was different. It was noisier, more explosive and a younger scene.
JW: Was Miles Davis trying to appeal to a younger audience? CC: He sensed early that something big was shifting in the culture. Miles didn't want to give up his form of jazz expression but he wanted to communicate with that new crowd, to a younger, more emotional audience. So the sound and the rhythm of his music changed. The band I was in with Miles starting in '68 was pretty wild. It was transitional in the fusion movement, and we were doing all kinds of stuff.
JW: From your perspective, what was electric jazz-fusion? CC: A lot of different things. That's a mechanical term—electric… jazz… fusion. Fusion was evolving through the years. In my own little keyboard area in the early '70s, I was mixing instruments more and more. I’d mix the acoustic piano with the Fender Rhodes or an electric rig. In 1993, I assembled a contemporary version of my Elektric Band from 1986. We took a long “Paint the World” tour. It was an attempt to take the louder, rockier electric sound but keep a jazzier sound with the Fender Rhodes and so forth. That’s what that band was all about.
JW: When does jazz-fusion arrive exactly? CC: Oh, the history of it. That’s your job, man [laughs]. It’s tough to say. When I talk to bassist Stanley Clarke and drummer Lenny White, they’re about 10 years younger than I am, so they had a different experience. For instance, Stanley was into rhythm and blues and deep into James Brown and Sly and the Family Stone before I became aware of them. So the arrival is tricky to nail down to any single date in time.
JW: Let me rephrase: When did you realize jazz was changing? CC: When I was in Miles’ band. I became aware that jazz was changing and that this thing called fusion and jazz-rock was emerging. When I recorded on Miles Davis’ Filles de Kilimanjaro in June 1968, I used the electric piano and Ron Carter was on electric bass. So there was a taste of that then. We also used electric piano and electric bass on In a Silent Way in February 1969. But that was just the beginning.
JW: Was Tony Williams a major influence? CC: Absolutely. When I joined Miles in ‘68, Tony was still in the band and remained there until the spring of ’69. When Tony left along with guitarist John McLaughlin, the first time I saw them after that was with Tony’s Lifetime trio—with John and Larry Young on organ. I saw them perform down at the Vanguard, and they blew me away. That group did a lot to change the sound of jazz.
JW: How so? CC: It’s the first time the rock sound was fully integrated into jazz. There were no horns, just Tony’s driving drums, John’s rock guitar and Larry’s hot organ. In fact, the first time I saw Lifetime I had to put plugs in my ears. It was the loudest thing I had ever heard, but I loved it. What they were doing was kind of early for jazz-rock fusion. Tony’s Emergency [in May 1969] with Lifetime was ahead of Miles at the time. But even though we didn't record Bitches Brew until three months later, Miles was setting the pace. In the face of all the critics and the jazz purists, he was changing the form of his music by adapting and integrating what he heard and saw.
JazzWax tracks: Chick Corea's Tones for Joan's Bones can be found here. His Now He Sings, Now He Sobs can be found here as a download. Here are more of my favorite pre-fusion Chick Corea albums, as leader and sideman:
Roar of the Greasepaint—Herbie Mann (1965)
Total Eclipse—Bobby Hutcherson (1968)
In a Silent Way—Miles Davis (1969)
Complete 'Is' Session—Chick Corea (1969)
To Hear Is to See—Eric Kloss (1969)
Bitches Brew—Miles Davis (1969)
Super Nova—Wayne Shorter( 1969)
Consciousness—Eric Kloss (1970)
Courage—Joe Farrell (1970)
Circle: Paris Concert—Chick Corea (1971)
Outback—Joe Farrell (1971)
JazzWax clip:Here's Chick Corea playing Matrix from Now He Sings, Now He Sobs (1968)...
And here's Chick Corea with Blue Mitchell in 1964 on Chick's Tune...
About
Marc Myers writes regularly for The Wall Street Journal and is author of "Anatomy of 55 More Songs," "Anatomy of a Song," "Rock Concert: An Oral History" and "Why Jazz Happened." Founded in 2007, JazzWax has won three Jazz Journalists Association awards.
