Brazilian drummer Dom Um Romão is probably best known as the percussionist who replaced Airto Moreira in the fusion band Weather Report from 1972 to '74. In earlier years, Romão was a leading bossa nova percussionist. In my post last week on Astrud Gilberto, I included a clip that featured him. Watch here...
Dom Um Romão was born in Rio de Janeiro in 1925 and began playing in Rio ballrooms and cabarets in the 1940s before being hired by Rádio Tupi’s on-air orchestra. In the 1950s, he led the Copa Trio and appeared on Elizete Cardoso’s album Canção do Amor Demais, one of the first Brazilian bossa nova albums recorded in 1958. It featured the music of Antonio Carlos Jobim and the guitar of João Gilberto.
While playing in Sergio Mendes's group in Rio, Romão was discovered by Herbie Mann, who recorded with him on Herbie Mann With Sergio Mendes Bossa Nova Rio Group in 1962. He came to the U.S. in November 1962 to perform with Mendes at the famous Carnegie Hall bossa nova concert. Cannonball Adderley used him on his Cannonball's Bossa Nova album for Capitol the following month. After Romão returned to Brazil, he appeared on Eumir Deodato's Ideias album before recording his first album as a leader, Dom Um. Romão returned to the States in 1965 and recorded with Esther Philips in December '65.
His big break came in 1967, when Antonio Carlos Jobim brought him into his recording session with Frank Sinatra—Francis Albert Sinatra & Antonio Carlos Jobim (Reprise) in February. Next came Beach Samba with Astrud Gilberto, and a series of albums with Jobim, starting with Wave, featuring trombonist Urbie Green. In 1970, he recorded on A Bad Donato and soon became a fusion session percussionist. He recorded steadily as a leader in Brazil and as a sideman in the U.S. through the 1980s and '90s.
Romão's first album as a leader, Dom Um, was recorded in 1964 in Rio for the Phillips label. It featured a Brazilian studio big band. In the clip below, listen carefully to what Romão's is doing on percussion. He had a fascinating touch. Busy and intricate, but hushed and elegant.
Elliot Lawrence, one of the last surviving big band leaders of the late 1940s and early 1950s who employed many of the finest and most sophisticated New York jazz musicians who went went on to leadership careers in the LP era, died on July 2. He was 96.
In 1960, Elliot began composing, arranging and conducting for television, film and Broadway. His shows included How to Succeed in Busness Without Really Trying, which won him a Tony. He also conducted every Tony Awards telecast from 1965 (its first year on TV) to 2011 as well as other televised gala events.
I've long loved Elliot Lawrence's music. His big band recordings of the late 1940s and 1950s had superb post-war optimism and freshness, especially when playing Gerry Mulligan arrangements. His bands were always tight, well rehearsed and loaded with the best musicians. After my posts (here and here) on Elliot back in August 2016, singer Marlene VerPlanck emailed kudos and suggested I give Elliot a call. So I did. One thing led to the next and I did an old fashioned JazzWax interview with him.
With Elliot gone, Ray Anthony (above) is now among the few surviving big-band leaders with ties to the 1940s. Elliot spent the second half of the 1940s and the first half of the 1950s fronting sublime bands. His Elevation band of the late 1940s was romantic and hip, and his early '50s orchestras featured arrangements by Mulligan, Johnny Mandel, Al Cohn and Tiny Kahn. His albums for Fantasy, include Plays Gerry Mulligan Arrangements (1955), Swinging at the Steel Pier (1955) and Plays for Swinging Dancers (1957). All are gorgeous. He also recorded a number of great albums for Vik, including Four Brothers: Together Again.
So how did Elliot's band come to have so many Mulligan arrangements in his band book in the 1940s and '50s? I interviewed Elliot, in the fall of 2015 and spent time with him at his Central Park apartment going over the interview to be sure all was perfect. That was a fun afternoon, as you can imagine. It was as if we were going over a score. Here's the interview:
JazzWax: When were you born? Elliot Lawrence: I was born in Philadelphia on Valentine’s Day in 1925. My mother, Esther, wrote for the radio. My father, Stan Lee Broza, also worked in radio, but he should have been a wealthy man. He was one of the people who started WCAU in Philadelphia (above) and the CBS network but was bought out by Leon Levy and William Paley in the 1920s.
In the early days of radio, he broadcast on the air and sold ad time. He was a very personable guy who’d offer a retailer or business a mention on WCAU for $10 or $15. It was the early model of radio advertising. He eventually became the station’s program director. My mom was a amateur singer, but I’m not quite sure how my parents met.
When I was 10, my chore was to accompany my mother on the piano in our living room. As a result, I played the entire American Songbook by age 12. This came in handy whenever my parents threw a party. My job was to sit there all night until I was bleary-eyed accompanying the gang.
JW: Did you and your father share the same last name? EL: Our family name was Broza. My birth name was Elliot Lawrence Broza. But my father was so well known in Philadelphia as Stanley Broza that I didn’t want to use his last name. So I flipped my last and middle names and became Elliot Broza Lawrence.
JW: You took piano lessons starting at age 3? EL: Yes, until I came down with polio two years later in 1930, when I was 5. When I became afflicted, my parents took me to Atlantic City (above in 1930), where my grandparents lived and there was fresh air. The polio was in my fingers and neck, and doctors said I would never play piano again. My mother wasn’t going to hear of it. To build back my strength, she bought me rubber balls and had me squeeze them all the time so I’d get my hands back.
I’m not sure exactly how I came down with polio. I think back then, you just had to live in the center of Philadelphia to contract it. Polio hit epidemic levels there starting in 1930. I wasn’t scared because I didn’t know what was going on. My parents figured that since Atlantic City was 90 miles away, I’d be safer and have a chance of recovery. The move separated me from my younger brother, Stanley Broza Jr.
My first memory of the Depression was a man coming to see my grandfather in Atlantic City and saying, “Jacob, the banks are all closed. Do you have any cash?” My grandfather said he had a small stash in case the man needed it for food. So I must have still been there in 1931 and ‘32, when banks were failing.
JW: What were the Band Busters? EL: When I recovered and returned to Philadelphia in the early 1930s, my father and mother had a well-known children’s radio show called the Horn & Hardart Children’s Hour. It became so popular that Horn & Hardart expanded it to New York in the 1940s and then to TV. Talented children would perform. It was like the Major Bowes Amateur Hour, but for kids. [Pictured above, the Band Busters, from left, Al Alberts, Buddy De Franco, Leonard De Franco and Roxy Lee (Rocco Liuzzi) on WCAU's The Children's Hour]
My mother would audition the kids—some of whom went on to become famous entertainers, like singer Kitty Kallen and the Nicholas Brothers dancers. When my parents finished their Saturday rehearsal, I’d eat dinner with them at a Chinese restaurant on Chestnut St. in Philadelphia that featured a big band for dancing. When I was 10, I used to get up in front of the band and conduct. It was the start of a conductor’s ego (laughs).
Two years later, I started a small rehearsal group in my home. We played stock arrangements. Buddy De Franco and his older brother Leonard were in the band. Leonard played bass and guitar. They came from South Philadelphia. Most of the kids couldn’t really play. I played a horrible saxophone and clarinet, but I sat next to Buddy, who was 14 or 15. He could play better than anyone else. After Buddy left the band, I brought on a bunch of talented kids from his neighborhood who were poor and talented. That was the start of the Band Busters.
On Sundays, after my parents’ radio program, some of the kids who were on the show would come out to our house in Merion, Penn., about 15 miles from Philadelphia, and my mother would feed them. We started using stock arrangements in those days, and I started to write.
JW: How did you know how to write and arrange? EL: My mom was smart. She started me on piano early then found a man named Hoppock who taught at the Settlement Music School in South Philadelphia. By the time I was 12, we moved to Devon Pa. about an hour and a half from Philadelphia. I’d take the train in for my weekly lessons. Hoppock taught me harmony and then advanced harmony, followed by counterpoint and advanced counterpoint. He was a great teacher. My lessons gave me a huge foundation for arranging and everything else. After I graduated high school at 16 and entered the University of Pennsylvania, Hoppock was teaching there. Since I had gone through all of his lessons already, I had a big advantage in college.
JW: How did you manage to enter the University of Pennsylvania at 16? EL: I did very well in high school. Back then, in 1941, you could graduate at 16, probably so kids could take a job earlier and help support their families. Remember, college wasn’t a goal for most kids then, since families couldn’t afford it. My high school was divided into kids who wanted to go to college and those who didn’t. There were only a few of us in the former category out of hundreds of kids. [Photo above of Elliot Lawrence c. 1955]
When I was a senior in high school, I was good at math. With the war coming, the head of the school thought I should go to engineering school at Villanova to avoid being called up too early by the draft. But my cousin Larry Mallis's advice made more sense. He said I should audition for the University of Pennsylvania’s music school.
So I went and played piano for the professors—things like Brahms' Sonata for Piano in F Major, which people told me after was a terrible choice. It turned out that one of the professors in the music department there thought he was Brahms. Truly (laughs). Nevertheless, the university gave me a scholarship.
JW: While you’re in college in the early 1940s, the band business is starting to quiet down. What did you do? EL: I was very lucky. While I was at Penn during World War II, the draft plucked many men from local bands and there weren’t enough civilians to fill out the seats of orchestras. The same was true at college, since many college-age men were in the service. The head of the Penn band at the time was Adolph Vogel, who had come to Philadelphia with the rights to all the famous French composers like Ravel and Debussy. The European composers were relatively new then and copyrights remained in force for 75 years after their death.
One day Vogel came to me and said he was giving up trying to hold a band together given the draft. He said, “Elliot, if you want to put a band together, go right ahead.” Penn had ROTC students from all branches of the armed services. All the guys wanted to go to football games on Saturdays. So I went around and talked to all the men in ROTC and put together a band. They couldn’t wear the Penn band uniform so they wore their military uniforms instead. They were great. For the Penn-Army game, I wrote a jazz arrangement of all the Penn fight songs—like Fight On, Pennsylvania and The Red and the Blue. The game was sold out. I led the band through the goalpost and we stopped to play an arrangement. Both major newspapers in the city had a photo of us the next day.
Leon Levy, who had bought out my father’s CBS shares and now owned WCAU, called me in and said, “Elliot, when you graduate, I want you to take over the house band at the station.” Those were the days when most radio stations employed live orchestras. You didn’t play records on the air yet. So when I graduated from Penn in 1944, my asthma made me 4F with the draft and I took over WCAU’s band.
JW: Was the band any good? EL: I made it good (laughs). Johnny Warrington (above) had the band there first and was retiring. Before I took over, he said to me, “There’s this young guy who’s been dying to write for me. I think you two might get along.”
JW: Who was it? EL: It was Gerry Mulligan (above). He had quit West Philadelphia Catholic High School for Boys. A year later, in 1945, I formed my first band while still at WCAU and we played gigs all around the Philadelphia area. Gerry came on my band and wrote arrangements. He wanted to be jazz tenor saxophonist in the band, but we didn’t think he played well enough. That didn't stop him. Gerry always hung around and hoped that Frank Lewis, the jazz tenor player, would break a leg or something.
Gerry was on the outs with his family, so he’d come home with me, and my mother would feed him dinner. At other times, we’d hang out together in a little office I had at WCAU. That’s when he started writing for my band and when Red Rodney came along. Red was 15 or 16 when he came on my band in '45. We played jobs around Philadelphia.
JW: How were you discovered? EL: Back then, CBS used to fill half-hour slots with broadcasts of name bands from ballrooms and clubs like the Café Rouge and the Meadowbrook. By this time, my father was program director at WCAU. At the beginning of the war, late-night slots were open at the remote clubs. A lot of hotels had closed. CBS asked my father if we could fill in and play the late-night spots, which was a national broadcast slot.
In March 1945, George Simon heard the band on the broadcast and gave us a big write-up in Metronome magazine. Mannie Sachs, Columbia’s head of recording, read the review, heard the band and recorded us in May 1946. Then we went on the road. That’s how I started my road band.
JW: How did you and Mulligan get along? EL: For the next 50 years, we had a love-hate relationship. There was a lot of friction. Early on, I had bought all of his arrangements. I paid him $50 per chart. If he wrote an original and arranged it, I’d pay him $150. Naturally, I signed up the publishing so they would remain with my band.
Over the years, Gerry wanted them all back. I said, “Gerry, this was the deal: I bought them from you. I didn’t steal them.” That was one of the things that created bad blood between us. He and Red Rodney left my band in 1946 to go with Gene Krupa. Gerry re-sold many of the arrangements I had bought to various bands. That was OK, since I didn’t lose control of what my band played. Gerry was trying to live. But I’d go through a lot telling him what he could and couldn’t do.
JW: How did you come to record Elevation? EL: The deal with Columbia was that if I recorded these dumb things they wanted in '49, they would give me a chance to record one of the originals Gerry had written and arranged that I wanted to record. That was the only reason I got Elevation out on record.
The trouble with being with Columbia in the early days and later on was that the A&R men wanted a pop sound. I was too young to be a bandleader. You needed more guts to stand up to the executives. Columbia put Mitchell Ayres in charge of A&R for my recordings. He wanted to sell records and his taste was Mickey Mouse. At my first recording session in ‘46, I had Mitch Miller on my band playing oboe and English horn. He was one of the best players ever on those instruments. Later, when I was paired with him at Columbia, I thought he’d have great taste. But it was for novelty songs, and we were given a lot of crappy material. I guess he did that with everyone.
Phil Urso was in my 1949 band and was one of the great natural players. He was a kid when he joined my band and couldn’t read a note. But it didn’t matter. We’d go through my whole book of arrangements and he’d have the tenor sax part memorized. The guys used to call him the Neanderthal Man. He had enormous musical talent and was a sweetheart of a guy, but he didn’t know much of anything else.
JW: Did tensions with Mulligan grow? EL: In the 1950s, he had a girlfriend whose father was a fine composer—Buddy DeSylva of DeSylva, Henderson and Brown. Gerry came by with an attorney and he wanted all of his arrangements back. I said no, I’m sorry. I paid for them and here’s the contract. Gerry wasn’t happy. Then he was on terrible drugs. One day in 1950 or ’51, Gerry called all his friends to meet him in front of the Paramount Hotel in New York. When I got there, Gerry was wearing a long robe and a skullcap pushing a baby carriage with his baritone sax in it. He was with Gale Madden, his new wife. He told everyone that they were walking to California. I think they got as far as the George Washington Bridge. That was a surrealistic scene. [See last item on Mulligan-Madden marriage above, from March 1951 Down Beat]
He must have eventually figured out it would be easier to travel by car, since they wound up hitchhiking out there, and the rest is history. He started his famous pianoless quartet at The Haig in Los Angeles in 1952. Between 1965 and ’74, Gerry was with Sandy Dennis. I couldn’t have him over to my place because she lived with 32 cats and I was terribly allergic. In the very early 1960s, Gerry called and asked if he and Judy Holliday (both pictured above), his girlfriend at the time, could come over to my apartment on Central Park West to play me some songs he had been writing with her. That was one of the greatest afternoons. Gerry played the piano and Judy sang. It was just fantastic. They played about five or six different songs. Imagine her singing to you. It was great.
Gerry later wanted me to help him launch a Broadway show. He said, “Here are the songs—now how do I raise the money?” I said I’d love to help. He finally got the money they needed and Happy Birthday was set in 1974 with a few of the songs. Unfortunately, the show never made it past a workshop production at the University of Alabama. I have no idea why. [Photo above of Elliot Lawrence in the 1960s after his pants were torn on a mic stand. Taking notes for the band while they were being repaired]
After that, Gerry and I were on good terms again. In 1982, I was doing a TV show called Night of 100 Stars. The producer asked me to write an eight-minute jazz arrangement. So I did and called various musicians I knew to play it as a group. I called Gerry and he said yes. By this time, he was completely off drugs and he was with Countess Franca Rota Borghini Baldovinetti, a freelance photographer and the best thing that ever happened to Gerry. He did the show and it was great.
In the mid-1990s, my phone rang at 3 a.m. My wife answered it, nudged me and said, “It’s Gerry.” By then, Gerry had liver cancer and his wife had tried everything to get him cured. She even took him to South America to seek care. I got on the phone, and Gerry said, “Elliot, I just wanted to tell you one thing. The happiest time in my life was when I was 17 with you and we were working together on your band.” [Photo above of Elliot Lawrence conducting a Broadway band during a soundtrack recording session, c. 1960s]
JW: You gave up your band in 1956, yes? EL: That's right. When I did, Down Beat wrote a small item about it. I was appearing at the Cafe Rouge then. Stan Kenton (above) had flown in to beg me not to give up the band business. I told him I couldn't afford it anymore. I just remember him talking and me not having any words to answer him. That's how persuasive he was. But I had to give it up.
JW: Was Claude Thornhill a big inspiration of yours? EL: I loved Claude’s band. He was an inspiration. But not nearly as much as many people said. My influence was classical music, given my formal background. I wanted to put an oboe, English horn, bassoon and French horn together in a band. The most exciting big band I ever heard was Woody Herman’s Second Herd. When that band came to Philadelphia, I stood in front of the bandstand the whole night. [Photo above of Elliot Lawrence from 1946]
JW: What are we seeing in those home movies on YouTube of your road band in 1950? EL: People never talk about life on the road. Some of the bandleaders loved it. I found it almost impossible. As a piano player, you don’t take along your own instrument with you. You’re at the mercy of one bad keyboard after the next. Pianist Teddy Napoleon (above), who was with Gene Krupa’s band, went to a job out of town and couldn’t stand the piano. It was the last straw. He found a saw and removed all the strings the night before he left.
JW: Whose idea was it for you to record a full album of Gerry Mulligan’s arrangements in 1955? EL: Sol Zaentz of Fantasy called us because we didn't have a recording contract with a label. He asked if I wanted to record for Fantasy. Those were the arrangements I had bought from Gerry. At the time, he needed money so he offered to write a few new ones for me. I said yes and I bought them from him. The album helped him raise some cash.
JW: You recorded a couple of great albums with singer Ann Gilbert. EL: I loved Ann. I met her in the late 1940s, when she sang for me. By the mid-1950s, I was doing work for songwriter Frank Loesser’s Frank Music Corp. Before a Broadway show, they’d make a demo album of the songs. I did a lot of those. Producer Stuart Ostrow was my connection. He had married Ann and wanted me to back her on two albums. Eventually, Ann retired and became a church singer in Houston.
JW: What was Frank Loesser like? EL: Frank (above) was terrific. In 1960, I was conducting the Broadway production of Bye Bye Birdie. Frank asked me to take on his upcoming show, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, opening in 1961. So I quit Birdie, but then they postponed How to Succeed in Business. I found myself without a job. When I told Frank, he said, “You’re going to work for me on a full-time basis.” I’d sit in his office at the piano all day and write down what he played and whistled for me. Then he’d take a nap. I couldn’t leave because his nap room was right in front of the door. But I learned a lot from Frank, particularly about copyrights.
I loved being around Frank. Conducting the band on How to Succeed in Business was one of the best experiences of my life. I’d see Frank, Abe Burrows and Bob Fosse all the time. When the show went on the road, we had some hysterical late night meetings. Those guys were so funny together. The fourth guy was producer Cy Feuer. The theater was a wonderful place back then.
JW: What was Tiny Kahn like? EL: I first met Tiny in 1951 when I decided to leave the road and conduct my band locally, only on the weekends. I was playing New York’s Paramount Theatre then and heard that bandleader Ray Bloch had too much work on CBS-TV in New York. The station wanted me to put together a small combo to play between 6 and 9 a.m. I used Tiny on drums, Mary Osborne on guitar, Andy Fitzgerald on reeds and me on piano. The deal was Tiny would write an arrangement for each of the five mornings. He was paid $50 for each chart. He also was paid for playing the job. One day Tiny came to me and said, “You know, Elliot, this is the first steady job I’ve had in my life.” It was hard for him to get to the studio by 6, but he did. [Photo above, from left, Al Cohn, Elliot Lawrence, Tiny Kahn and Johnny Mandel]
The songs he arranged would come from the American songbook—a different song each day. During the morning show, he’d play drums and vibes. I was on that job for two years. It was the Jack Sterling Show. Tiny had the job for a year. Then he got married and soon died. Tiny was one of the great arrangers. Johnny Mandel and Al Cohn, who arranged for me, had introduced me to him. He was a loveable giant. Tiny was different than all the other arrangers who worked for me Tiny was the only one who was unschooled musically. He was completely intuitive. He'd hear it in his head and write. Tiny swung from the first bar, He was like a jazz Mozart.
JW: How did you meet Johnny Mandel? EL: When I put together my last road band in 1950, trombonist Ollie Wilson and saxophonist Al Cohn brought Johnny around. If I made a list of all the arrangers I knew, Johnny was the most schooled. He was what I'd call a sublime writer. His arrangements were very special. He took longer to hand something in than Tiny or Al, but when he did, it was like a work of art. He arranged one of our great ballads, A Foggy Day. It was sublime. When he came on the band briefly in 1951, he was a trombonist but wanted to play bass trumpet.
JW: What about Swinging at the Steel Pier? It’s live, but you don’t really hear a crowd. EL: You don’t hear crowd noise because there wasn't one (laughs). The only time we could get the booking was after Labor Day, when there weren’t that many people around vacationing in Atlantic City. The only people dancing there weren’t interested in jazz. We were just doing it for the live album.
JW: Whose idea was Trombone Scene in 1956? EL: That album was my idea. I told producer Bob Rolontz at Vik records about my idea for an album of top trombonists on the East Coast playing together, and he loved it. Several months later, in 1957, I spoke with Bob about reuniting Woody Herman’s reed section on Four Brothers: Together Again. He loved the idea. Al Cohn and I started to talk about it. We knew that baritone saxophonist Serge Chaloff wasn’t in great health. But we decided to do it with him anyway.
RCA had a great downtown studio at Webster Hall. The problem was the studio was on the second floor and there wasn’t an elevator. The guys lifted Serge out of his wheelchair and carried him up the stairs. He wife brought up his baritone sax. But he had a great spirit about it. Serge died five months later. You’ll notice that only half the tracks were with Serge. The other half we had to use Charlie O’Kane on baritone sax.
JW: Why was Happy Over Hoagy with Zoot Sims and Al Cohn on Vik in 1958 released only recently? EL: I made the album for Vik, and then RCA decided to shutter the label in late 1958. They held onto the reels. Someone must have pulled them later on. By the way, Bill Elton wasn’t the only arranger. Al Cohn did many of the charts.
JW: Music for Trapping in 1958 had quite a cover. EL: My family never let me live that one down. Some guy asked if I would do a couple of mood records. I had no idea they planned to do a cover with women’s heads stuffed and mounted on the wall like deer. I hated it.
JW: How did Big Band Sound come about? EL: Al Cohn wrote those arrangements. The album was done for Sesac, the third major music performing-rights company after ASCAP and BMI. They came to me and asked if I’d record 12 of Sesac’s songs for an album. I agreed, and they sent me a list of questionable stuff. Al and I picked a bunch. Then he used the original titles but came up with completely different melodies that would swing. By the way, the photo of me on the cover of Big Band Sound was taken at Sands Point on Long Island Sound, where we had a primary residence. We walked to the beach to do the shoot.
JW: Which arrangers who worked for you over the years were your favorites? EL: I’d have to say Gerry Mulligan, Eddie Sauter (above), Johnny Mandel, Tiny Kahn, Nelson Riddle, Billy Byers, Peter Matz, Torrie Zito Ralph Burns and Al Cohn.
JW: What was Eddie Sauter like as an arranger? EL: Eddie was a close friend and a great orchestrator. His charts were very difficult to play but well worth it. You’d get a chart and it wouldn’t sound good the first time through. But by the fifth time, it would sound terrific. Eddie, like everyone else on my list, wrote arrangements that sounded natural. That’s for me.
JW: Any arrangrs you wished you had worked with? EL: Yes, Billy May (above) and Gil Evans. Billy May was the only arranger Frank Sinatra feared. Sinatra would come in and Billy’s arrangements would be put up and they’d play them through. With some arrangers, Sinatra might say to move the saxes or add strings. He’d never do that with Billy. Billy would have talked back.
JazzWax clips:Here's Elliot Lawrence's band playing Gerry Mulligan's arrangement of Elevation from 1949...
Here's one of my favorite home movies of the 1950 Elliot Lawrence road band...
Here's the entire Elliot Lawrence Plays Gerry Mulligan Arrangements in 1955. Dig Mulligan's knockout pen and Elliot's band. Here's the band: Dick Sherman, Bernie Glow, Al Derisi and Stan Fishelson (tp), Eddie Bert, Ollie Wilson and Paul Selden (tb), Fred Schmidt (fhr), Sam Marowitz and Hal McKusick (as), Al Cohn and Eddie Wasserman (ts), Charlie O'Kane (bar), Elliot Lawrence (p), Russ Saunders (b) and Don Lamond (d)...
Busy schedule at The Wall Street Journal this week. Three pieces in all. First, my "Anatomy of a Song" column featuring a rare interview with Jackson Browne on his 1972 hit, Doctor My Eyes (go here). Jackson started writing the song around the time he was struggling with an eye infection. But the eye trouble quickly became a metaphor for lost innocence in the song's words. Jackson is important for many reason, particularly for developing the Southern California country-rock sound that was quickly picked up and leveraged by the Eagles and for pioneering a new singer-songwriter movement. [Photo above of Jackson Browne courtesy of Facebook]
Jackson's new album, Downhill From Everywhere, can be found here.
Here's Jackson performing Doctor My Eyes in 1972...
Next, my "House Call" column with blues legend Bobby Rush for the Mansion section (go here). Bobby talked about how his father's harmonica playing and a song about a dog outrunning a train started him on his blues career. His new memoir, I Ain't Studdin' Ya, can be found here.
As I wrote in the last paragraph of my piece: "Nyro’s songs and live performances still sound fresh and urgent. Like Joan Baez and Nina Simone, her voice rings with early feminist courage and artistic independence. Along the way, she inspired pop and rock to reach new levels of intimacy."
Here's Nyro singing her song Stoned Soul Picnic. Listen how complex her pop music was in 1968 and how remarkably vibrant and inventive the lyrics remain...
SiriusXM. I'll be on SiriusXM's Feedback (channel 106) with co-hosts Nik Carter and Lori Majewski twice in the coming two weeks. On Thursday, July 22, at 8 a.m. (ET), I'll be on for the hour talking about Jackson Browne, So-Cal rock and spinning a Hot 10. Then on Tuesday July 27, I'll be on at 9 a.m. (ET) for the hour talking about Laura Nyro and the female singer-songwriter movement. Tune in!
Astrud Gilberto. After my two posts on Astrud Gilberto (here and here), I heard from author and photographer Hank O'Neal [Photo above of Astrud Gilberto by Hank O'Neal and courtesy of Hank O'Neal]:
Hi Marc. Nice post. Just a point of information regarding your post on Astrud in Japan and the possibility she was singing in Japanese using a sheet of phonetic lyrics. Astrud's father was German and his profession was a linguist. She told me he spoke seven languages and he taught in Brazil. Astrud was obviously fluent in Portuguese and English. I was with her on tour in Spanish- and German-speaking countries where she seemed to get along just fine. In Japan, I recall her saying things to the audiences in Japanese. She probably inherited some of her father's linguistic ability. Hope all is well.
And from Guy Vespoint...
Hi, Marc. I just wanted to thank you for posting all those Astrud Gilberto clips in one place for me to enjoy. I’ve been a fan of hers since I was a kid (I’m now 60), when an aunt gave me "A Certain Smile, A Certain Sadness." I was able to see Gilberto live for the first time in the mid-1980’s at the Vine Street Bar & Grill in Los Angeles. A friend who went with me knew how much I liked her and insisted I go backstage after. So I did.
When we met, I told her that as a kid, I assumed “The Girl From Ipanema” was a sad song, because in my juvenile way of thinking, I thought she was blind (e.g. “When she passes he smiles / but she doesn’t see”). This amused her to such an extent that she translated my tale to her companions who grinned. Astrud offered an autograph and added “The girl from Ipanema is not blind!” Thanks again for your posts. I read them daily.
Lester Koenig. Most jazz fans know that Lester Koenig was the founder of Contemporary Records in Los Angeles. But prior to his recording career, he was a screenwriter, producer and director William Wyler's second in command for nine years. Lester's son, John, and I recently were talking about his dad. I asked John to write a bit about his dad in Hollywood [photo above of Lester Koenig, second from right, on the set of Roman Holiday courtesy of John Koenig]:
I grew up in and around the jazz record business. My father was the founder of the jazz label, Contemporary Records, and as a teenager, I worked at the record company over many summers. When I graduated from UCLA, where I majored in music composition, I worked for my father full-time for two years at his insistence, during which time I learned everything about how to run an independent jazz record company. What I really wanted to do, though, was play the cello.
I had been practicing for six hours or more each day. I was extremely lucky. I wound up studying with Terry King, an assistant to the incomparable cello virtuoso, Gregor Piatigorsky, in his master class at USC's Institute of Special Musical Studies, where his musical partner, Jascha Heifetz, also taught. Terry took me to play for Piatigorsky, who took an interest in me and invited me to be in the class. My father realized I couldn't be held back, that I was going to pursue the cello, not take over his business.
Fast forward, a little more than two years, to the fall of 1977. Piatigorsky had died the previous year, and somehow I found myself in the cello section of the Swedish Radio Symphony in Stockholm, one of Europe's finest orchestras. During my time with the orchestra, we had a succession of prominent guest conductors. Among my most favorite was Carlo Maria Giulini. That fall, we had three weeks of concerts with him.
As Giulini came on the stage for our first rehearsal, he happened to walk by me and I surprised him by greeting him in Italian. During my early childhood, before achieving renown as a jazz record producer, my father was a writer-producer in the motion picture industry. He'd been director Willy Wyler's second-in-command for all of Willy's pictures, starting in 1943 with the World War II documentary, "The Memphis Belle," which my father wrote.
The last picture my father worked on for Willy was "Roman Holiday," starring Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. My family lived in Rome for around a year, from 1952 to '53, during the preparation for and production of the film. I became bilingual because for a good deal of the time, I was left in the care of two Italian maids. So in '77, when I greeted Maestro Giulini in Italian that day just before our rehearsal, I think he was surprised to encounter a musician in Stockholm who sounded Roman. Indeed, he asked me if I was Italian.
After Dad worked on "Roman Holiday," he was blacklisted. In the early '50s, the creative community in Hollywood was mired in political tumult. Paranoia and suspicion were rampant in the industry. When my father refused to name people he knew in the Communist Party, he was finished in the film industry. The powers-that-be were so fired up with right-wing hysteria that the studio removed my father's credit and excised all other evidence of him from the picture. My father founded Contemporary Records, and another career began.
Aside from a few photos of my father on the set and on location with Willy, Greg and Audrey and, more recently, references to my father's work on Willy's movies in a few books by Wyler biographers, the only evidence that we were ever there is my Roman accent when I speak Italian.
Louis Armstrong.Last week, I heard from Giancarlo Mattioni in Italy, who hipped me to a super article by Ricky Riccardi, director of research collections for the Louis Armstrong House Museum in Queens, N.Y. Ricky wrote about discovering the last tape Armstrong recorded at home before his death in 1971. To read the article, go here.
Greasy Tracks, a weekly radio show hosted by Chris Cowles on WRTC-FM in Hartford, Ct., recently featured a special on Alligator Records, in celebration of its 50th anniversary. To listen to Chris's full show, go here.
Jimmy Rushing radio. This Sunday, Sid Gribetz will present a five-hour radio broadcast celebrating the career of vocalist Jimmy Rushing from 2 to 7 p.m. (ET) on WKCR-FM radio in New York. To listen from anywhere in the world, go here.
Michael Weiss.Last week, I posted on guitarist Nathen Page and included a recollection from pianist Michael Weiss, who played with Page on The Other Page. If you're in New York next Saturday, you're in luck. Michael will be playing with his trio (bassist Paul Sikivie and drummer Pete Van) at Mezzrow. For more information, go here.
Pianist Joe Alterman has a new album coming, the Upside of Down. You can pre-order here. For now, here's Joe and his trio playing the title track live...
We started thisweek with my post on Astrud Gilberto's last three Verve albums. Let's end with video of the Brazilian singer in action from 1965 to 1983. As you will soon see, you really can't have too much Astrud Gilberto:
Here's Gilberto in Italy in 1967 singing or (lip-syncing) Samba de Verão in Italian...
Here's Gilberto in 1972 singing (or lip-syncing) Goodbye Sadness...
Here's Gilberto in 1972 singing the Love Story theme...
Here's Gilberto at the North Sea Jazz Festival in the Netherlands in 1982 singing a touching rendition of Dindi...
And here's Gilberto in 1983 in Ireland, with guitarist Emily Remler, drummer Duduka Da Fonseca (hi Duduka!) and others, singing The Girl From Ipanema...
Bonus:Here's 18 minutes of Gilberto in October 1965 on NCRV-TV in the Netherlands with Pim Jacobs (p), Ruud Brink (ts), Wim Overgaauw (g) and Dom Um Romão (d)...
Guitarist Nathen Page was at home in the modal jazz idiom of the 1970s and '80s. Though not especially well known by jazz fans due to his retreat to Florida in the 1970s and his limited-distribution releases on his Hugo Music label, Page was a remarkable player with a soulful, jagged feel. He straddled multiple genres, from the metallic sound found in rock to a warmer jazz style. [Photo above of Nathen Page]
Born in West Virginia in 1937, Page was self-taught and early on listened only to country music on the family radio. As a result, he was drawn to his mother's piano at age 8. After she had to leave the piano behind during one of the family's moves, Page's brother bought him a cheap guitar with cowboys and Native Americans painted on the instrument. His jazz exposure wouldn't come until later, when he was in the U.S. Army in the late 1950s.
Discharged at the dawn of the '60s, Page moved to Washington, D.C., where he he worked in a gas station and played in pop bands. In 1965, he joined organist Jimmy Smith and recorded on Smith's album The Boss, for Verve, in 1968. In the '70s, he played with a sizable number of top-name jazz artists, including Sonny Rollins, Rene McLean, Herbie Mann, Charles Tolliver and Roberta Flack. He recorded two albums with Doug Carn on the Black Jazz label and with Carn on Ovation.
Page was a fiery player, using a plastic thumb pick and groomed index-finger nail to peck at the strings. He formed his first quartet in 1974, and in '77 he launched Hugo Music. Two years later, he moved south to the Orlando, Fla., area to be a decent sized fish in a small jazz pond. In 1999, he moved to Bradenton, just north of Sarasota, from Altamonte Springs in central Florida. Page died at age 65 in 2003.
Now let me illustrate why Page was special:
Here's Page's solo on Invitation from his album Plays Pretty for the People...
Here's the full Invitation, with Charles Covington (p), Nathen Page (el-g), Steve Novosel (b) and Mike Smith (d) in 1979...
Here's Page with Charles Tolliver on Compassion from Tolliver's New Tolliver in 1977, with Charles Tolliver (tp), Nathen Page (g), Steve Novosel (b) and Alvin Queen (d)...
Here's Page with Jimmy Smith on Fingers from The Boss in 1968, with Jimmy Smith (org), Nathen Page (g) and Donald Bailey (d)...
And here's Page with Smith and Charles Crosby (d) in Denmark in June 1969 playing Ode to Billie Joe, Sonnymoon for Two, Days of Wine and Roses, Got My Mojo Workin' and Satin Doll...
And here's Afternoon in Africa, which pays tribute to Horace Silver's Ecaroh and John Lewis's Afternoon in Paris. The track appears on the super-rare and superb The Other Page, recorded in 1991. The album featured Michael Weiss (p), Nathen Page (g,el-p), David Williams (b) and Ben Riley (d). Michael Weiss recalls that the group recorded at Jimmy Madison’s home studio on Manhattan's Upper West Side. "We played a gig at Birdland in December 1991, probably after the CD was released. Too bad we didn’t work more after that. Nathen was a very nice guy, and it was an easy, smooth record date"...
Few Blue Note artists seem to have been squeezed the way Grant Green was. Ten of the albums he recorded in the 1960s entered the label's Bermuda Triangle, emerging years later when Blue Note was under new management and the archives were being mined. It's hard to know how Green's career might have been different if all of these albums had reached the marketplace. [Photo above of Grant Green by Francis Wolff (c)Mosaic Images]
One of Green's intended albums that didn't see the light of day for some time was Matador. Recorded in May 1964, the album featured a spectacular quartet— Grant Green (g), McCoy Tyner (p), Bob Cranshaw (b) and Elvin Jones (d). At the time, Tyner and Jones were part of the John Coltrane Quartet and Cranshaw was a prolific sideman. By Matador's recording session five months into the year, Cranshaw had already played on recording sessions for eight albums. Matador didn't come out until 1979.
The album's tracks were Green's Matador, My Favorite Things, Green's Green Jeans and Duke Pearson's Bedouin. Burt Bacharach's Wives and Lovers was recorded during Green's Solid session in June '64 and added as a bonus track on Matador in the CD era. [Photo above of Elvin Jones, by Lee Tanner, courtesy of Gretsch drums]
Listening to the album now, one can hear possible reasons for the album being held. First, there were just four tracks recorded rather than Blue Note's preferred five or six. Second, on My Favorite Things, Green repeats the same phrase so often you are left wondering whether the recording is stuck or skipping. This happened again on Bedouin. Green was seemingly unsure what to do next. [Photo above of Bob Cranshaw by Francis Wolff (c)Mosaic Images]
Meanwhile, Tyner unleashes a staggering solo on each song, building richly toward a crescendo. Given his miraculous solos, one could argue it was Tyner's session with Green as a sideman. [Photo above of McCoy Tyner by Francis Wolff (c)Mosaic Images]
As Bill Kirchner noted in an email sent just after my post went up:
Hi there. It’s a pretty obvious problem. Green was a blues-and-bebop guitarist who was uncomfortable with modal music. Anytime Tyner tried to gently ease him out of the basic mode (either E minor or E major), Green froze. Tyner on the other hand knew all the tricks of modal playing—moving with ease in and out of the basic tonalities. You’ll note that Green does better on "Wives and Lovers"—the same waltz tempo as "My Favorite Things" but with chord changes rather than modes.
Despite his modal struggles, hearing Green's picking and Tyner's stormy attack in a quartet setting is a wonderful thing. Add Jones's bottom-heavy drums and Cranshaw's darting bass and you have thrilling energy and exciting risk-taking. While Green struggled to improvise in places, Tyner more than made up for the wheel-spinning with his hypnotic, percussive piano.
In 1969, Verve released the label's last three albums by singer Astrud Gilberto before she moved on to CTI. The first two issued were I Haven't Got Anything Better to Do and September 17, 1969. Al Gorgoni arranged the former and all of the latter except for Let's Have The Morning After (Instead of the Night Before), which was arranged by Michael Leonard. The two albums were recorded in New York—the former in February and the latter in September and November. Both albums are sensual, and the song choices are offbeat and fabulous. They take a few listens to hear the beauty, since they are slightly unusual for Gilberto. [Photo above of Astrud Gilberto]
In between these two albums, Gilberto was in Tokyo and recorded one of her least-known albums—Gilberto Golden in Japan. Released only in Japan, Gilberto sang all 12 tracks in Japanese backed by an orchestra arranged and conducted by Sadao Watanabe. The songs are Street Samba; I Love Old Love; You, I and Love; White Waves; Love and Grief; Cupid's Song; The Girl From Ipanema; Mas Que Nada; La Chanson D'Orphee; A Man and a Woman; Live for Life and The Shadow of Your Smile.
Whether or not you understand Japanese, the music is beautiful and enveloping. Gilberto's Japanese sounds great, even though she was likely reading from phonetic lyric sheets. Her vocals have a delicate, powdery softness and kitten-like quality here, while the arrangements are strong but not overpowering. Among the highlights are White Waves, Street Samba, The Girl From Ipanema, Mas Que Nada, A Man and a Woman, Live for Life and The Shadow of Your Smile.
Unfortunately the album's liner notes are all in Japanese. And no, this album wasn't the first time Gilberto recorded in a language other than Portuguese or English. In 1968 she recorded Canta in Italiano (Verve), which included a few tracks from A Certain Smile with Walter Wanderley but sung in Italian.
JazzWax tracks: You'll find Gilberto Golden Japanese Albumhere.
JazzWax clips:Here's the complete Gilberto Golden Japanese Album...
Last week, after my post on Bobby Hutcherson's Oblique, featuring Albert Stinson on bass, Bill Kirchner reminded me of Chico Hamilton's A Different Journey, featuring a superb Hamilton-led quintet that included Stinson. Recorded for Reprise in January 1963 in San Francisco, the quintet was comprised of George Bohanon (tb), Charles Lloyd (fl,ts,as), Gabor Szabo (g), Albert Stinson (b) and Chico Hamilton (d). [Photo above of Chico Hamilton]
By early 1963, Chico had completed his pioneering chamber-jazz experiments and shifted to hard bop and jazz inspired by the music and saxophone of John Coltrane. On this album, Charles Lloyd wrote all six tracks—Sun Yen Yen, the ballad Voice in the Night, A Different Journey, The Vulture, One Sheridan Square and Island Blues. One Sheridan Square was the name of an off-Broadway theater in Greenwich Village. Between 1938 and 1948, it was home to the jazz club Café Society. The space was occupied by the theater starting in 1960.
The originals by Lloyd are exceptional and avoid mirroring Coltrane, which would have been a drag. Instead, Lloyd's personality is distinct with Coltrane flavoring and expression. And like all albums by exceptional groups, there's plenty to say about each musician's contribution. Bonhanon was a trombonist with a strong, fleshy hard-bop tone; Lloyd was especially lyrical in '63 with a Coltrane expression on all three instruments featured on the date; Gabor Szabo's edgy feel on guitar adds a terrific steely attack and swing (check out his solo on The Vulture), Stinson had a conversational style on bass with solos on several songs, including One Sheridan Square; and Hamilton's persistent, sensitive snare stands out throughout. [Photo above of Charles Lloyd in 1963]
A Different Journey was the followup to Passin' Thru, which was recorded in September 1962 for Impulse and featured the same quintet, with all tracks written by Charles Lloyd. The difference is that the quintet on the earlier album hadn't yet begun to weave in the Coltrane feel.
Chico Hamilton died in 2013.
To read my 2009 interview with Chico Hamilton, start here. Links to the interviews subsequent parts can be found above the red date on top.
JazzWax tracks: You'll find A Different Journey (Reprise) here.
In The Wall Street Journal this week, I interviewed the sensational and well-read Minnie Driver for my "House Call" column in the Mansion section (go here). The British actress talked about feeling uprooted as a child in England—her parents were never married and then separated—and the event that cleared the way for her to embrace the stage in middle school. And how she wound up with the name Minnie. Minnie will appear in the new season of Amazon's Modern Love starting August 13. [Photo above of Minnie Driver in Modern Love, courtesy of Amazon Studios]
Here's the ever-fast Minnie holding her own and giving some back on my favorite late night show (now gone), the Late Show with Craig Ferguson...
Walter Wanderley. Last week, Steve Taylor found a radio interview with Brazilian organist Walter Wanderley conducted in San Francisco in 1967 by a chirpy Binny Lum, who surely must have been modeled on Dame Edna. The language difference limits his answers, but Wanderley's wife, Isaurinha Garcia, who was more fluent in English, helped out. So interesting that an organist so closely associated with explosive joy and beautiful melodies should be so subdued and monotone in conversation. We also learn that he began playing the bossa nova on the organ in 1959 at São Paulo's Michel club. So I did a little digging.
The club was on Rua Major Sertório and run by Jimmy Christie. Based on the club's ads at the time, it was a highly popular night spot that hosted many touring American jazz and pop artists in the late 1950s and onward. [Photo above of singer Billy Eckstine and Jimmy Christie at Michel in December 1959]
That's probably where Tony first saw Wanderley perform. [Photo above of Tony Bennett in São Paulo in 2012, painting in a park. To listen to the radio interview, go here.
Jimmy Smith. After my post last week on Jimmy Smith's belated Confirmation album, I heard from bassist Chuck Israels:
Hi Marc, I’d be remiss if I didn’t call attention to drummer Donald Bailey, Jimmy's working drummer. I could wax poetic—at length—about the qualities of his playing, but I’ll just point out that he provided relentless power and uplifting swing (he always did) with beautiful sound and a perfect amount of conversational rhythmic interplay. He was just as good as Art Blakey but never got the attention I think he deserved. And he could do all this at a whisper as well as at the thunderous level an organ group required. He’s an unsung hero of mine, and he was as lovely a guy as he was a great drummer.
I also heard from Kim Paris at the FM Radio Archive...
Marc, I enjoyed your article on Jimmy Smith's "Confirmation," released in 1979. Your readers may be interested in his live audio performance at the 1981 Chicago Jazz Festival. This recording was donated to FM Radio Archive by Mark Rabin, who has contributed many others from his collection. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Go here.
Hampton Hawes. After my post on Hampton Hawes's Bird Song and the lack of clarity over the personnel, I had a chance to catch up with John Koenig, son of Lester Koenig, the album's original producer:
Hi Marc. The long and short of it, as far as I know, is that these were outtakes. For whatever reason, my father never wanted to put them out. I'm guessing that Ralph Kaffel at Fantasy had Ed Michel put "Bird Song" together. The sessions would have happened when I was a small child, so I have no memory of them. I don't remember Hamp ever playing with Paul Chambers, but clearly, he might have. Hamp did record with Chuck Thompson on his early Contemporary albums (they recorded at the L.A. Police Academy gymnasium), so it's entirely possible that Chuck could have played on some of these recordings. And, of course, Hamp played often and recorded with Red Mitchell. Hamp did record with Scott LaFaro (and Frank Butler) on "For Real," so there's precedent there. Otherwise, that's all I know.
Fishink. If you love children's book illustrations, check out the U.K.'s Fishink blog. It's delightful and hosted by Craig, a ceramist, textile designer and illustrator and photographer. Craig recently posted about a sale he was holding for his ceramics. Email him at the link in the site's upper right-hand corner for information. You'll find Craig's ceramics for sale here.
Lenny Hambro. Last week, Jim Eigo of Jazz Promo Services sent along a fab clip featuring the Lenny Hambro Quintet in 1987. Go here...
Paul Quinichette. On Sunday (July 11), Sid Gribetz will hold a five-hour radio broadcast on WKCR-FM honoring the career of tenor saxophonist Paul Quinichette, from 2 to 7 p.m. (ET). Listen from anywhere in the world by going here.
Today, a real treat, but I'm going to let Danilo Morandi in Switzerland, tell the tale:
Marc, you certainly nailed it yesterday with your comment on Earl Hines. He was quite competitive when playing with other jazz stars. He liked to show off and impress, and it didn't always go well. In 1976, I saw him on tour with alto saxophonist Benny Carter in 1976. One sensed something was off. There wasn't much friendliness on stage, and the playing was labored and not fun.
After the intermission, we kept waiting for the band to return. Then the concert's organizer finally came on stage to explain that Benny's alto had a mechanical problem and hopefully would be resolved soon. So we waited some more, and the concert resumed. The Swiss tour operator, a friend of mine, told us afterward that the alto was indeed in working order, but that Benny was so tired of Earl showing off that he refused to come back on stage.
I recently found a remarkable video from the same tour. It was filmed in Barcelona. Benny is playing a lovely coda to "Misty" when Hines hits three loud definitive chords, on a lousy piano. Benny walks away from the microphone, shaking his head dejectedly. A rare sight on stage.
Here's the concert. If you want to go directly to the incident described above, skip to 16:00...
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.
