After my post last week on trumpeter Tony Fruscella, reader Don Frese wrote and asked if I knew about bassist Red Mitchell's vocalese rendition of Fruscella's recording of I'll Be Seeing You. That song originally appeared on Fruscella's Tony Fruscella album for Atlantic in April 1955. I wasn't aware of Mitchell's vocal, so I tracked it down and gave a listen. It blew my mind. Before I share with you how Mitchell came to record it and why it's so little known, let's listen to the two tracks:
Here's Tony Fruscella's trumpet interpretation of I'll Be Seeing You using the song's chord changes to create an entirely different melody. He was backed by Bill Triglia (p), Bill Anthony (b) and Junior Bradley (d). Jazz at its best...
And here's Red Mitchell's singing his lyrics on top of Fruscella's recording. It mysteriously was listed as "Bonus Track" on the CD version of Mitchell's Simple Isn't Easy, recorded in 1983 for the Sunnyside label...
Naturally, I had a bunch of questions about how this glorious recording came to be. So I reached out to François Zalacain (above), the founder of Sunnyside Records who produced the Mitchell album and recorded him singing along with the Fruscella instrumental. François is a jazz hero who for decades has made sure great music has been documented. He relocated to New York in 1980 as an IBM engineer. An ardent jazz fan who vacationed in the city just to visit the clubs, François decided to stay here and founded Sunnyside in 1982. The label's logo of a girl skipping rope was found on a rubber stamp in a Greenwich Village shop by a friend and represented the spirit of the music he recorded.
Here's what François told me about the Red Mitchell vocalese recording:
"In 1977 or '78, I was attending the Nice Jazz Festival in France. One night, I was with a friend, an American painter, and my wife, Christine, in the Roman amphitheater in the vast Jardins de Cimiez main concert area. At 11 p.m., bassist Red Mitchell was scheduled to play a set. [Photo above of Jardins de Cemiez in Nice, France, by Philippe Bertini]
"When Red came out, he was alone, without sidemen. After he played a set of songs on the piano, he went to the microphone, took out a cassette player from his pocket and put it close to his mouth. He pressed the play button, and as Tony Fruscella's trumpet began to play I'll Be Seeing You, Red sang along with words he had written to Tony's solo. The audience was blown away. So were we.
"A couple of years later in New York in 1983, I was at Bradley's, a club that used to be on University Place in Greenwich Village. Red was living in Sweden at the time and would come to New York each year for five weeks to play with different pianists. By then, I knew him well. [Photo above of Red Mitchell]
"When I had a chance to talk to him that night, I told him how wonderful his set was in Nice a few years earlier. I said I wanted to record an album of him singing original songs and to include his vocal of Tony's solo. Red said his tape of Tony playing wasn't so good. These were the days before downloads and getting friends to burn you something. So I had to go out and find a copy of the Fruscella vinyl album so he had something to sing along to. [Photo above of Red Mitchell at the piano]
"In my neighborhood at the time, at 42nd Street and 9th Avenue, I knew a guy who sold used records on the street. I found the Fruscella album there for $1, but when I brought it home and put it on, the vinyl's quality wasn't very good. So I called a friend in Paris who imported vinyl albums from Japan. I asked him if there was a Japanese pressing of the album. My friend said there was, and I ordered it from him. When the vinyl arrived, Red came into the studio and we recorded the instrumental track with Red overdubbing his vocal with the lyrics I had heard in Nice.
"Once I had the track, I wasn't certain I could put it out. I was still young in the record business. I called a friend in Los Angeles at Chappell Music, the music publishing company. I asked if I could release the track. My friend said, 'Send it to me.' So I made a copy and mailed it off. A week later, he called me back. He said, 'No way you can put that out. Those lyrics haven't been authorized by the Fruscella estate.'
"Red wasn’t thinking of making money off of the track and neither was I. There weren't going to be any royalties anyway, since they weren't published. In addition, many people record stuff like this all the time—adding words and vocals based on other musicians' improvised lines to songs. So I decided to include the track on Red's Simple Isn't Easy when I released it in 1989. I'd simply add the song at the end, calling it Bonus Track. It pops up suddenly at the end.
"Red told me that he and Tony were friends from their early days in New Jersey. Red was born in New York but lived in New Jersey and so did Tony. Red said Tony lived out there because he loved going into the woods to be with nature. One day he found a garden snake and kept it as a pet. That's how sensitive Tony was. When Tony died in 1969, Red said he wrote the lyric to keep for himself, as a personal tribute to his friend.
"A year after I released the album with the hidden track, I was at my office when an assistant to director Stanley Kubrick called from London. He said the he and Stanley had been driving recently through France at night when the Red's vocal on top of Tony's instrumental came on the radio. They couldn't get it in England, and Stanley wanted it very much. So I sent him the CD. Tony's playing and Red's words and voice on the track touches everyone who hears it, including you." [Photo of Stanley Kubrick courtesy of IMDB]
Red Mitchell died in 1992.
JazzWax tracks: Red Mitchell's Simple Isn't Easy CD with the hidden track included is out of print. The hidden recording is called Bonus Track, and you'll find the original CD here. You'll find a download of the album without the Bonus Trackhere.
Cecil "Big Jay" NcNeely, the father of the R&B tenor saxophone whose stamina and high-energy stage act in the late 1940s and 1950 included playing on his back and who set the tone for many rock 'n' roll and soul artists who followed, died on Sept. 16. He was 91.
Big Jay had several significant R&B hits in the late 1940s and '50s, including The Deacon's Hop (#1), Wild Wig and There's Something on Your Mind. But his output included a vast number of hypnotic jump-blues singles designed to drive live audiences and jukebox listeners wild. These records included Nervous, Man, Nervous; Big Jay Shuffle; Blow Blow Blow; Big Jay's Hop; Mule Milk; The Goof and The Deacon Rides Again.
I first interviewed Big Jay in 2009, and over the years, we spoke frequently by phone. Big Jay was particularly hurt that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame continued to ignore him for induction, despite his obviously significant contribution to the music's early development. In 2014, I wrote about Big Jay's beef with he Rock Hall for The Wall Street Journal (go here). Sadly, Big Jay continues to be excluded from induction. The last time I spoke with Big Jay at length was earlier this year, when I interviewed him for a book I'm writing on the history of the rock concert.
In tribute to Big Jay, I've combined all parts of my interview with him below, beginning with the original introduction:
Last Sunday, I wrote that Big Jay McNeely viewed himself in the late 1940s as a new breed of jazz musician. A reader posted a comment in response, chiding me for saying so. After scouring books on Big Jay, the reader wrote, he couldn't find any reference to the R&B musician's jazz roots or how he viewed his place in jazz history. The writer added that I had jumped to conclusions and took a parting shot at Big Jay. Now, I love books as much as anyone. But as a working journalist, I also love the phone. So yesterday I gave Big Jay a call to bring closure to the matter.
For those who may be unfamiliar with Big Jay McNeely, the saxophonist today is considered one of the early R&B stage stars and a forefather of 1950's rock 'n' roll. Known back then as king of the "honkers and screamers," McNeely typically entered concerts walking down the aisle while playing a blues riff. When he arrived on stage, McNeely could whip young integrated audiences into a frenzy by playing only a handful of notes. These powerful riffs eventually wound up played while laying trance-like on stage, much to the crowd's hysterical delight. Today, we look back at Big Jay and see an R&B pioneer. But at the time, Big Jay told me,he viewed himself as "a jazz musician who played for people who wanted to dance."
JazzWax: Was it tough growing up in Watts, Calif., during the Depression? Big Jay McNeely: No, no. We had plenty of food. My family grew our own vegetables. We had turkeys and chickens running around in the yard. My mother cooked for me, my brother Bob, and my father on a wood-burning stove. Each week, the iceman would come with a six-pound block of ice. It was like country living. [Pictured: Watts Tower]
JW: When did you decide to play the saxophone? BJM: When I was 16 years old, which was around 1943. My brother played the instrument and was an excellent musician. He could have gone with Cab [Calloway] or any of the big bands, but he was too young. When he was drafted during World War II, he left his saxophone home. I was working at the Firestone Rubber Co. at the time. I decided music would be a better bet for me.
JW: What did you do? BJM: I rode my bike each day to Alma Hightower’s house and took lessons for 25 cents. [Saxophonist and singer] Vi Redd was her great-neice. [Saxophonist] Sonny Criss and I took lessons from Mrs. Hightower at the same time. Then I took lessons with a gentleman who played first saxophone chair with the RKO Studio Orchestra. He was a great teacher and taught me all about full vibrato, so I could play with a big sound. He was a tremendous musician and could even play Dixieland. I studied harmony, ear training, composition—everything—with him.
JW: What happened when your brother, Robert, came home from World War II? BJM: We both studied voice with a guy who would eventually teach the Hi-Lo’s and the McGuire Sisters. My brother and I figured eventually we’d have to sing and that studying singing would help us with our blowing. Singing was the same principal as playing. You sing from the diaphragm with compact air pressure and the “e” sound.
JW: What’s the “e” sound? BJM: That's the sound you get like an opera singer. If you hum through a comb, you get an “e” sound. That’s what makes the sound so big. The principal is you have to have the proper approach. You have to use your whole body as a soundboard. My sax began to sound as smooth as a cello when I studied with him. Eventually my brother and I formed a band. My brother played baritone saxophone. Our band had Hampton Hawes and Sonny Criss, until Howard McGhee stole them both away in early 1947 [laughs]. [Photo of Hampton Hawes: (c)Ray Avery / CTSIMAGES.COM]
JW: How did you sound as a jazz musician at that point? BJM: I didn’t play with a real legit jazz sound. For that sound you’d use very little lip, what they called a nonpressure embouchure. Just enough pressure on the reed to make it vibrate. I took the same principles I learned in vocal lessons and applied it for a good, big soulful sound on the saxophone. That’s why when I play, people recognize it's me. People have criticized me for playing one note but they never criticized my sound [laughs].
JW: Did you listen to jazz musicians in the mid-1940s? BJM: Oh yes, of course. Charlie Parker, Lester Young, Lucky Thompson, Sonny Stitt, Gene Ammons, Illinois Jacquet, Don Byas—all of them. When Charlie Parker came out to L.A. in the mid-1940s, my mother washed his clothes. We ran [hung out] with him.
JW: Why didn’t you become a jazz musician? BJM: I started out playing jazz but I didn’t have a perfect ear, like Sonny Criss did. Guys like Sonny could pick up their horn and play anything. They heard things once and they could go off on it. Also, back then, there were so many players you had to be different on your horn to stand out. Eventually it was a money issue. Many of these jazz guys looked sharp. They were earning. I was wearing hand-me-downs. That made me realize early on that I had to do something different to make money. [Pictured: Big Jay, left, and his brother Robert in 1955 or 1956]
JW: What did you do? BJM: In 1947, I began playing at the Barrelhouse Club owned by drummer Johnny Otis. It was right down the street from my home. There was a lot of blues energy there. I was thinking of going to New York, to the Apollo Theater. But a guy I knew spelled out how things would go for me. He said I’d be a big hit for sure and would earn solid money. But he also warned me that there would be all kinds of guys who would pad me [advance loans] and steal my money. He said I’d wind up owing the government all kinds of money but I wouldn’t have it because all the guys who took a cut wouldn’t leave me with enough. That made sense, so I decided to stay in L.A.
JW: How did you come to record? BJM: At the end of 1948 [right after the second musicians' union recording ban], Ralph Bass, an A&Rr guy at Savoy, asked me if I wanted to do a record. I said yeah. He told me to put a tune together. A kid I knew in Watts had a record shop. He gave me a record by Glenn Miller that opened with a drummer playing the sock cymbal. I can't remember the name of the song. But I built a blues off of it called Deacon’s Hop, which became a big hit [Deacon's Hop hit #1 on the R&B chart in early 1949].
JW: Your real name is Cecil. How did you wind up with your nickname? BJM: Ralph, the A&R guy from Savoy records, came up with it. I was getting ready to record Deacon’s Hop. We were taking a cab out to my house and were talking. He said "Cecil" was kind of a square name and that I needed a stronger one if I wanted to be big. He asked me what my friends called me. I told him, “James.” He said great, “Let’s call you Big Jay.” So it stuck.
JW: While you were playing R&B during the late 1940s, did you consider yourself a jazz musician? BJM: I always thought of myself as a jazz musician who was playing for people who wanted to dance. Before I even recorded Deacon’s Hop I worked on Central Avenue in Los Angeles at all the jazz clubs. I knew Teddy Edwards, Wardell Gray, Miles Davis, Eddie Heywood, Ben Webster, Lucky Thompson—all those cats. I wanted to become a jazz musician, but when I recorded Deacon’s Hop in 1948, it became so big they wouldn’t let me record anything else but more of it. That’s around the time I started playing a more soulful thing.
JW: So jazz was always on your mind? BJM: Sure. I was trying to play jazz before Deacon's Hop but I just didn’t have the ear. You can train yourself to have an ear. But unless it comes natural when you’re young, it’s much harder as you get older. If you had studied, you could imitate and pick up on whatever you heard. Bird [Charlie Parker] could play the chord changes to everything. But by me not having a perfect ear, I had to work harder to develop what I played. When I started developing my own sound and adding power, it was a whole different thing. It was the complete opposite from what I had been doing.
JW: Did jazz artists dig you? BJM: Hamp [Hawes], Bird, Miles, Sonny [Criss]—they all loved what I did. Dizzy, too. I played Birdland in New York in the early 1950s and opened for jazz artists. They’d put me on first, before Milt Jackson, Ben Webster, Erroll Garner, all of them. I was always the opener. I guess to get the people who were there excited.
JW: When did the theatrical part of your act begin? BJM: In about 1950, in Clarksville, Tenn. It was a real small town, so small you didn’t need an address on an envelope, just the name of the person living there. When we played Clarksville for the first time, the audience didn’t respond. They just sat there. I couldn't understand that. The music usually got people going. So on the next set I did something different. I got down on my knees to play. Then I laid down on the stage and played from there.
JW: What happened? BJM: People went crazy. After the concert, I said to myself, “I’m going to try this again." So I did it in Texas. And again, everyone went crazy. Back in L.A., I did it, too. The kids went nuts. They loved that I was on my back blowing like that, and my energy fired up theirs.
JW: Most of the kids already knew your hit Deacon's Hop. Who helped you break in that song? BJM: Hunter Hancock [pictured], the Los Angeles r&b DJ. He broke it in. He was the only DJ in town who played black music. The kids who listened to the station were mostly white and Spanish kids. Those were the ones who dug me the most. They were the ones I was playing for mostly.
JW: You really knew how to work up a crowd. BJM: My manager was Chuck Landers. He lived in Hollywood and was the business partner of [concert promoter] Gene Norman. He knew that gig [performing] cold. He got me with the talent agency, G.A.C. He said I had to be more stage. Before Chuck, I used to throw my suit coat on the stage to play and then picked it up after. He said that was no good, that I had to have someone else do that. I had to look and sound like the boss, like my name. Chuck then went out and got a guy in Hollywood for me who specialized in staging.
JW: What did the guy do? BJM: He was used to staging other kinds of acts. So he came and watched me for a whole week. He taught me how to segue from one number to another—whether I had to play five minutes or an hour. He taught me how to keep the energy going from the stage, how to present myself to get the most excitement going and to program people.
JW: What does that mean? BJM: Reading the crowd and playing accordingly. When I’d open, I used to come down the aisle while playing. That tore the place up because if you were in the audience you didn't expect it. It also told people that I was one of them. But you have to watch people close when you do this. There are some people on the aisle wearing expensive suits, and you have to play one way when you get near them. Or if you see kids, you have to let go of other types of notes. I'd stop and play differently for different people I'd see along aisle. That’s how I got audience participation. And that’s the greatest thing. [Pictured: Big Jay working the audience at New York's Birdland in 1952]
JW: Alto saxophonist Earl Bostic came up around the same time, but he came out of the big bands. What did you think of him? BJM: Earl was great. He could take any song and make a hit out of it. But he wasn’t a performer. My thing was more visual. One time Earl followed me into Minneapolis. But after I cleared out, everyone was waiting for Earl to be like me, theatric and all. But he wasn’t [laughs].
JW: What did it feel like to have that kind of power over teens in the early 1950s? BJM: It felt incredible. One time it got out of control, and I got locked up.
JW: Where? BJM: In San Diego. I didn’t have a wireless microphone for my sax. So I walked up the aisle playing but then kept going straight out the door onto the sidewalk with everyone following me. I was outside the club blowing my horn the way I was inside. A cop saw this and called the station house. More cops came and arrested me. They had some law that said you couldn’t play outside like that.
JW: Was your exit something new? BJM: Nah. I had done that at Birdland in Seattle and the Band Box. But it wasn’t allowed in San Diego. The funny thing was the band inside on the stage was waiting for me to come back into the club. But I was in jail. So someone in the band came running down and bailed me out so I could finish the set [laughs]. The kids went nuts.
JW: When you were playing, you thought of yourself as a jazz musician. But it wasn't like jazz, was it? BJM: I played jazz, but I was an entertainer. Even when we played what was called r&b, the music was sophisticated. We changed keys and did things that were very progressive. It was all very soulful stuff.
JW: Give me an example. BJM: Every time I'd go to the bridge, I'd get a lift out of the audience. So I’d use the guitar player like an organ. I’d have certain voices and a sound when I’d go to the subdominant chord or the tonic. The voicing had to be just right. Same with the voicing by the piano player. I always thought progressive.
JW: What did the jazz guys dig most about you? BJM: The soulful thing. One time I worked with Sonny Stitt on the same bill. He loved my energy and sound. Other jazz guys respected me because they knew I was a real musician. I wasn't just honking on the horn, like some critics said. And these guys loved power. They all wanted to blow. But what made me different that these cats could hear was the soulful thing. It was from my heart. The younger jazz guys coming up at the time who didn’t know better said I was just playing one note. Hey, it’s an art to play one note [laughs]. Especially if you can get an audience going with it.
JW: You had your biggest hit with There’s Something on Your Mind, with Little Sonny Warner on vocal in 1959. BJM: We first recorded There's Something on Your Mind in Seattle, in 1957, in a guy’s basement. I didn’t have enough money to get it out. A year later I bought the record and took it to Hollywood. Still nothing. Then I put it out in San Francisco in '59. A DJ there named Rockin' Lucky played it on his midnight show on KSAN. He’s the only one who had the single. After that, everything went nuts.
JW: Looking back, do you think r&b and rock ‘n’ roll hurt jazz? BJM: I don’t think so. Everyone’s got their own thing that they like. R&b and rock captured a lot of people at a time in the early 1950s when jazz wasn’t that dominant. The truth is black musicians weren’t making money playing jazz.
JW: What do you mean? BJM: It wasn’t until white musicians started to play with Jazz at the Philharmonic and other things like it that money started to roll in. The kids loved what I did. They’d follow me up to my house. But I don’t think what I was doing messed up jazz. Jazz had its thing. It’s just that its audience was smaller. The kids liked r&b and rock more.
JW: Why? BJM: To play jazz, you had to have gone to school to learn to play it with all those chord changes. Cultured people liked that. Then along comes a working person who doesn’t know nothing about that. He just wants to hear music that makes him feel good. He wants what he likes to be basic and exciting. People who like jazz are hip and want to see how fast musicians can play and dig their technique. Other people didn’t want to think that much. They just wanted excitement. [Pictured: Big Jay's band in 1958]
JW: But plenty of kids liked jazz. BJM: Oh sure. And jazz was creative. You couldn't believe what you were hearing when guys like Bird or Wardell [Gray] played it. But it didn’t have the impact on lots of people. You could dance to r&b and relate to it on a simple level. People in the audiences felt they were a part of you and what you were doing. With jazz you have to analyze what the guys are playing.
JW: Did the growing car culture play a role? BJM: What do you mean?
JW: As more kids started to drive and could afford used cars in the early 50s, there seemed to be an emphasis on speed, excitement and a break from parents. BJM: Oh sure. And what I played sounded great coming through a car radio [laughs].
JW: You really were one of the originators of rock ‘n’ roll, weren’t you? BJM: [Pause] Yes. I was the first to be called a “honker and screamer.” But with a good sound. Some play stuff like I did but their sound was terrible. If I hadn’t had a chance to study with a teacher who stressed volume and power, I never would have had that sound. And if that audience in Clarksville had reacted a bit more the first time, I probably never would have had to go down on the floor of the stage to get them going [laughs].
JW: Yet you haven’t been inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Why not? BJM: I don't know. I guess the people who make those decisions don't realize I'm still around.
JazzWax clips:Here'sThe Deacon's Hop and Artie's Jump on Savoy in 1948... Here'sNervous, Man, Nervous...
In The Wall Street Journal this week, my "Anatomy of a Song" column was on Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation" (go here). The song is a feminist push-back against the male-dominated record industry in 1981 that found Joan unmarketable because she was a female hard rocker rather than a seducer. For the interview, I drove out to the house of her manager and producer, Kenny Laguna, on Long Island to interview both Joan and Kenny. What I love about Joan is her raw rocker feminism. As Joan says, "Tell me I can't do something and I'm gonna be doing it."
And here'sLove Is All Around, the Mary Tyler Moore Show theme...
A terrific documentary about Joan's career, Bad Reputation, hits theaters Sept. 28. I've seen it. I loved it...
Also in the WSJ this week is my review of Joni Mitchell: Both Sides Now—The Isle of Wight Festival 1970, a dramatic DVD and Blue-ray documentary of Joni's appearance in front of 700,000 people. Joni performs 11 songs, but the video is more than concert footage. We get an up-close look at the rising tension through audience footage and interviews and why the audience was so ticked off. And as my bio at the end of the review announces, I'm hard at work on my next book—a history of the rock concert for Grove. The DVD and Blue-ray video can be found here.
Here's Joni at the Isle of Wight in 1970 singing Big Yellow Taxi...
And finally, for my "House Call" column in the Mansion section of the WSJ, I interviewed celebrity chef and restaurateur Jean-Georges Vongerichten (go here) on growing up in Strasbourg, France and the 16th birthday dinner that changed his life. [Photo above of Jean-Georges Vongerichten in his Manhattan home on the Hudson River by Chris Sorensen for The Wall Street Journal]
SiriusXM. This coming Thursday, I'll be joining Nik Carter and Lori Majewski on "Feedback" from 9 to 10 a.m. on SiriusXM's Volume channel (Ch. 106) to talk about Joan Jett and my "Anatomy of a Song" column on Bad Reputation. It should be a ton of fun.
The End of a Love Affair. I'm sticking with the top-10 versions of this standard that I listed in my earlier post. But during the week, two readers submitted renditions that would make my next favorite five:
Reader Rick Rinner sent along a version by One for All, a jazz sextet formed in 1997 that includes Eric Alexander (ts), Jim Rotondi (trumpet), Steve Davis (trombone), David Hazeltine (piano), John Webber (bass) and Joe Farnsworth (drums). Here it is...
And Sid Gribetz had high praise for Bob Dorough's version. As Sid wrote: "When my old friend Bob Dorough would talk about this song from the bandstand or in brief private conversation, he would mention Edward Redding’s name in a mysterious fashion, as if he had some special insight or personal relationship that he was about to reveal. Bob’s version is one of my favorites, a live recording on a European bootleg album called Songs Of Love. He conveys incisively why one smokes a little too much and goes at a maddening pace."
Here's Bob Dorough singing The End of a Love Affair, with Art Farmer (flhrn), Bill Takas (b) and Al Levitt (d) in Barcelona, Spain, in 1987. Interestingly, Dorough includes the song's introduction...
The Red Door. Following my post on Two Jims and Zoot last week, the ever-poetic Arlene Corwin in Sweden sent along an mp3 of her playing piano and singing Zoot Walked In. As Arlene noted, it was inspired by my post...
Ira Sabin (1928-2018), a drummer whose passion for vinyl and print first led him to open a jazz record store in Washington, D.C., in 1962 before starting a jazz newsletter that eventually became Jazz Times magazine, died September 12. He was 90. Matt Schudel of The Washington Post wrote a thorough and touching obituary today here. My deepest condolences to Glenn Sabin, Ira's son, and the entire Sabin family. Glenn wrote a loving piece about his dad at his blog here. [Photo above of Ira Sabin with Sarah Vaughan c. 1967, courtesy of Glenn Sabin]
Kenny Dorham. Bret Primack sent along a worthy and spirited re-evaluation of trumpeter Kenny Dorham by Kahron Spearman in the Austin Chroniclehere
Machito's Kenya is one of my favorite Latin-jazz albums. If you're unfamiliar with the recording, here's my earlier post from 2008. If you're in New York later this month, the Juilliard Jazz Orchestra is performing the album from first track to last plus other selections on Tuesday, September 25, at the Peter Jay Sharp Theater at 155 W 65th St. Jose Madera will be the guest conductor, with guest percussionists Johnny Rodriguez and George Delgado. For more information and tickets, go here.
Jazz legend interviews. Joe Lang informs me that the video interviews for the NAMM Oral History Project are available online here.
For example, here's one with the great arranger Manny Albam (above).
What the heck.Here are the Chi-Lites on Soul Train in 1972 singing Oh Girl.
Oddball album cover of the week.
Looks like the art director called for raisins and almonds (one of the tracks), but at the photo studio, no one could find a store open that late for the nuts. So someone went off to a nearby movie theater and bought a box of candy-coated Jordan almonds.
Before James Brown launched his revolutionary approach to funk in June 1965 with Papa's Got a Brand New Bag, he sang and recorded superb gospel interpretations of songbook classics. His love for standards would continue into the early '70s. Here are seven:
Tony Fruscella is among the least known trumpeters of the cool jazz movement. His dry tone sits somewhere on a sliding scale between Miles Davis and Chet Baker, with touches of Art Farmer. Yet Fruscella's sound was distinct. With Fruscella, there were no piercing or bent notes or a fleshy romanticism. His improvised lines were highly melodic but his tone was introspective and dry, like fine sand. When you listen to him, you hear a horn expressing nocturnal introspection free of flash or showmanship. It's understated, sensitive and pure, with his lines more like a sketch than a fully rendered illustration.
Fruscella recorded from 1948 to 1955, at which point drug and alcohol abuse caught up with him and undermined his sound and marriage to singer Morgana King. They were married from 1947 to 1956. How and why Fruscella succumbed to addiction is unknown. One can only assume there was an element of self-medication for some sort of mental illness or anxiety, or a foolish me-too experimentation that was rampant among many young jazz musicians at the time who were in awe of Charlie Parker and eager to remain subterranean artists understood only by other artists.
As bassist Bill Crow noted in his superb book, From Birdland to Broadway, Fruscella's sound was singularly engaging in small groups and intimate in clubs but didn't stand out in a big band, limiting Fruscella's New York employment options in the 1950s. In addition, Fruscella was routinely losing jobs by mouthing off to club owners or cracking wise to audience members.
Little is known about Fruscella's career after 1955. Addiction likely led to borrowing money and failing to pay it back, ruptured friendships, a dwindling reputation, a lack of work, low income and living in short bursts in the apartments of the few acquaintances who still believed in him. To survive the 1960s, you needed powerful relationships in many different areas of the music business. You also needed to be dependable, you needed to be a sharp sight-reader and you needed to be up for extensive touring, especially in Europe. Fruscella never seemed to have it sufficiently together to see tomorrow nor did he bother to protect himself against the perils of harder times.
There were two more Fruscella recordings, one in November 1959 at age 32 and one in August 1969 at 42 just before his death. The former was a live date with Phil Woods at Ridgewood High School in New Jersey. The second was a one-song duo recording of Lover Man with guitarist Bill Keck just 11 days before his death.
Tony Fruscella died in August 1969 at age 42.
JazzWax tracks: To acquaint yourself with Fruscella, I recommend working backward. Start with his last album called Tony Fruscella for Atlantic in 1955 here. Then move on to The 1954 Unissued Atlantic Session (Fresh Sound) here. His first recordings in 1948 are on an album called Debut, which appears on a download Tony Fruscella: Essential Jazz Mastershere, along with tracks from several other albums.
JazzWax clips: Here's Muy from Fruscella's Atlantic album in 1955...
Here'sMinor Blues with saxophonist Brew Moore in 1954...
Here's Phil Urso's P.U. Stomp with Tony Fruscella (tp), Herb Geller (as), Phil Urso (ts), Gene Allen (bs), Bill Triglia (p), Red Mitchell (b) and Howie Mann (d) in 1952...
JazzWax note: For a robust bio of Tony Fruscella by John Dunton, go here.
Two Jims and Zoot is a spectacular album from 1964 that began as guitarist Jimmy Raney's idea. According to the liner notes, he had wanted to record an album with two guitars for some time. When guitarist Jim Hall became available, the pair added tenor saxophonist Zoot Sims, bassist Steve Swallow and drummer Osie Johnson. On the album, the quintet takes on A Primera Vez (First Time) by Alcebíades Barcelos, Armando Marçal. The quintet opens the song swinging, with Sims taking the first fabulous solo. Next comes an extraordinary solo by Raney, followed by Hall's jagged attack. If you don't already have this album, it's a must own. Here'sA Primera Vez...
Organist Ron Feuer recorded just one jazz leadership album—Vital Organ, in 1959. It also was his first jazz album. The recording for Bob Keane's Del-Fi label featured Frank Rosolino (tb), Bill Perkins (ts), Ron Feuer (org), Paul Moer (p), Jimmy Bond (b) and Frank Butler and Billy Higgins (d). Feuer was just 20 at the time and displayed a confident technique and swirling soul.
The songs are Too Close for Comfort, Smile, September Song (on which Feuer plays piano and organ), Heather on the Hill, Lullaby in Rhythm, I'll Remember April, I Love All of You, Robin's Next, The Best Think for Me Is You and Why Don't You Do Right. At some point, the album was renamed Hammond'Cheese—a play on ham and cheese. [And yes, that's a typo on the cover—should have read Billy Higgins on drums, not Wiggins; it's correct on the back]
Oddly, the original album cover did not feature Feuer's name. It simply said Vital Organ: Murder at the Keyboard. On the back, a line said, "It Only Hurts When You Listen." The first line of the liner notes cleared up the mystery: Actually' we've just been kidding to attract your attention." I'm sure Feuer loved that.
Feuer went on to become a first-call pianist, keyboardist, organist, composer, arranger and producer. He spent many years in Las Vegas where he became the keyboardist for many house bands and acts. While in Vegas, he played live performances and appeared on the recordings of hundreds of performing artists, including Diana Ross, Elvis Presley and Gladys Knight. He also teamed with James Moody, Frank Rosolino, Randy Brecker, Miroslav Vitous, Ernie Watts and Abraham Laboriel.
What set Feuer's organ apart is his enormous attack and whirlwind feel. Every song is a gutsy adventure, which excites the ear.
JazzWax tracks: Sadly, Ron Feuer's Vital Organ and Hammond'Cheese are both out of print and never seemed to have made it into the digital era.
JazzWax clip: Here's Ron Feuer's Why Don't You Do Right...
Here's what we know: The End of a Love Affair was composed by Edward "E.C./Bud" Redding and published in 1950. That's it. There's virtually nothing about Redding's career online or the purpose of the song. So I rolled up my sleeves and discovered that it was likely written for a New York cabaret or musical revue and most likely introduced by singer Mabel Mercer. [Photo of Edward Redding above in 1950]
In Julius Monk's book, Baker's Dozen (1964), the author's bio says Monk "founded the first repertory group in Provincetown summer stock and then went on to found the Downstairs Room in New York, followed by Upstairs at the Downstairs and the Plaza 9 Club at New York's Plaza Hotel." Inside, he refers to Redding: "Thanks to days of rehearsals, $700 and superhuman achievements from composer-pianists E.C. Redding and Bud McCreery, we opened Stock in Trade on July 10 for a highly successful seven-week season."
I also discovered that Redding died in New York in 1984 at age 68 and that "he composed for Julie Wilson, Jane Morgan, Martha Wright, Jane Pickens, Herb Shriner and others." All spent time as cabaret and musical revue singers. So more than likely, The End of a Love Affair originally was written for one of these revues or for a specific cabaret singer appearing at places like New York's Maisonette or the Blue Angel, where it was then heard by a major recording artist shopping for new material.
As JazzWax reader Peter Levin notes: "According to Arnold Shaw in his book, The Street that Never Slept: 52nd Street (1971), Redding was introduced to Mabel Mercer at Tony’s Club in 1949. She introduced the song (something her New York Times obit confirms) and continued to perform it for the rest of her career."
The song was first recorded by Mabel Mercer in November 1951 for Atlantic Records and appeared on her 10-inch album Songs by Mabel Mercer Vol. 1, with liner notes by Alec Wilder.
Here are my 10 favorite versions:
Here's Helen Merrill with strings in 1955 (pre-dating Billie Holiday by three years), backed by pianist Hank Jones, guitarist Barry Galbraith, bassist Milt Hinton and drummer Sol Gubin, with strings arranged by Richard Hayman...
Here are the Jazz Messengers in 1956, featuring trumpeter Donald Byrd, tenor saxophonist Hank Mobley, pianist Horace Silver, bassist Doug Watkins and drummer Art Blakey...
Here's pianist George Wallington in 1957, with bassist Teddy Kotick and drummer Nick Stabulas...
Here's Dexter Gordon in 1961, from Dexter Calling, with pianist Kenny Drew, bassist Paul Chambers and drummer Philly Joe Jones...
Here's pianist Walter Norris, guitarist Billy Bean and bassist Hal Gaylor in 1961, from The Trio...
Here's Julie London in 1963 from Love on the Rocks...
Here's Lorez Alexandria in 1963 from For Singers Only, backed by pianist John Young, guitarist George Eskridge, bassist Jimmy Garrison and drummer Philip Thomas...
Here's Sahib Shihab on flute in Germany in 1968 from Seeds, backed by Francy Boland on piano, Jimmy Woode on bass, Kenny Clarke on drums and Fats Sadi on bongos, with an arrangement by Boland...
Here's Tony Bennett in London in 1972 backed by the Robert Farnon Orchestra...
And here's Billie Holiday in 1958 from Lady in Satin, the finest recording of the song, arranged by Ray Ellis...
Bonus:Here's Mabel Mercer's cabaret rendition recorded in 1951...
In The Wall Street Journal this week, I interviewed historical and suspense novelist Ken Follett for my "House Call" column in the Mansion section (go here). Ken talked about growing up in a Puritan household in Wales and then London where his parents eschewed pleasure. Which meant no TV, no radio, no records and no going to the movies. As a result, Ken grew up reading adventure novels—until his parents finally bought a cabinet with a built-in radio and turntable. It enabled him to listen to the Beatles in 1963. Ken's latest historical novel is A Column of Fire, which takes place in the 1500s and is about Queen Elizabeth I and how she set up the first English secret service to warn her of assassination plots. You'll find it here. [Photo above of Ken Follett in his home office in Stevenage, England, by Dylan Thomas for The Wall Street Journal]
I found Ken utterly charming. He was delightful, funny and acerbic. Hear for yourself...
Love trombones? Kurt Kolstad sent along this clip by the Dutch group New Trombone Collective playing Bones From Brazil, featuring 21 horns. Solos are by Jiggs Whigham, Mark Nightingale, Bart Van Lier and Nils Wogram...
Barcelona jazz.Here's another one from Kurt, this time it's the Alba Armengou Sant Andreu Jazz Band playing and singing Triste, under the direction of bassist Joan Chamorro...
Buster Keaton. In the 1920s, jazz began spreading into American popular culture with the advent of radio, better sounding records and lower priced phonographs. But jazz—syncopated music based on the blues and marked by wild improvisation—didn't exist solely in music. Its spirited wound up in comic film, as well. The humor and ups and downs of everyday life, often in the extreme, was a theme in most comedies then. While Charlie Chaplin receives much of the attention today when we think of silent comedies, Buster Keaton was a much better action comic and director. Here's a fast documentary on Keaton's genius called the Art of the Gag...
Randy Weston's funeral service will be held in New York on Monday, September 10, from 3 to 4 p.m. (viewing), with a service from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m. at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine at 1047 Amsterdam Ave. For more information, call the cathedral at (212) 316-7540.
Here's Randy Weston with baritone saxophonist Cecil Payne playing I Can't Get Started...
Marlene VerPlanck, a singer and dear friend, died in January. A celebration and memorial for her will be held in New Jersey on Sunday, September 23, at 2 p.m. at the Shea Center for Performing Arts at William Paterson University, 300 Pompton Road in Wayne, N.J. Among the performers will be vocalists Sandy Stewart, Annette Warren, Daryl Sherman, Ronny Whyte and Ben Cassara; pianists Mike Renzi, Bill Charlap, Tedd Firth, Tomoko Ohno and Russ Kassoff; bassists Jay Leonhart and Boots Maleson, drummers Ron Vincent and Victor Lesczak; and trumpeter Warren Vaché.
Tickets are $20, and can be purchased on-line here and in-person or by phone (973-720-2371) from the box office at the Shea Center for Performing Arts. All proceeds from the concert will be donated to the Marlene and J. Billy VerPlanck Endowed Scholarship Fund.
Here's Marlene in September 1978 singing I Remember You...
What the heck: What would the end of summer be like without Tavares. Here'sDon't Take Away the Music in 1976...
And here's Tavares in 1967 when they were still known as Chubby and the Turnpikes, with Antone "Chubby" Tavares on lead vocal...
Oddball album cover of the week.
An odd cover, since you'd think it was from the mid-1950s. Given that The Girl From Ipanema is on here, it has to be from 1964, at the earliest. Cocktail hour? The skyline is lightless, which tells us it's around 3 a.m. And The Topless Dancers of Corfu by Dick Hyman? Dick!
Vibraphonist Teddy Charles was one cool cat. Every time I called him back in the late 2000s, his lingo was straight out of the hipster's manual. And it all came naturally to Teddy, since he lived the jazz life. In addition to being a swinging vibist, he was a superb record producer.
In April 1957, Teddy produced, arranged and recorded Coolin' for Prestige with a group he called the Prestige All-Stars. Along with Teddy on vibes were trumpeter Idrees Sulieman, alto saxophonist John Jenkins, pianist Mal Waldron, bassist Addison Farmer and drummer Jerry Segal. Here's the Prestige All-Stars playing Idrees Sulieman's catchy but complex The Eagle Flies. The feel captures Teddy's personality perfectly...
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.
