Phil Spector, a record producer, songwriter and co-founder of Philles Records whose "wall of sound" studio formula launched a new, influential approach to pop-rock orchestration in the early 1960s, died at the California Health Care Facility in Stockton on January 16 at age 81. He was 11 years into a 19-year prison sentence for killing actress-model Lana Clarkson in 2003 with a gun in his home just hours after meeting her at a club.
Known for his eccentricity, cruelty, egomania and, later, severe paranoia, Spector was part of a new generation of producers to emerge after the 1959-'60 Congressional payola hearings who geared R&B and rock for a younger and more innocent generation. His R&B and pop-rock songs were less sexually explicit than those in the 1950s and his vision for instrumentation was more dense and sophisticated than anything that preceded him. He referred to his signature layered sound as "little symphonies for the kiddies."
In the early 1960s, he produced and co-wrote songs for a range of unknown artists, including the Righteous Brothers, the Ronettes, the Crystals, the Dixie Cups, Bob B. Soxx & the Blue Jeans and Darlene Love. Many of the songs on his label became hits thanks to the anxious arrangements, rocketing some of these artists to stardom.
Born in the Bronx in 1939, Spector moved to Los Angeles with his mother in 1951, returned briefly to New York in 1960 before returning to L.A. Despite his passion for L.A., Spector's singles on Philles had a distinctive New York urban vibe. His so-called "wall of sound" approach behind singers used a staggering number of musicians in a small studio space, a formula that was rather ingenious.
While Motown, Stax, Fame, American Sound and other R&B studios used house bands on the records produced there, Spector brought in a cavalry of young Hollywood studio musicians who were shunned by an older and more traditional generation of session players. These musicians were encouraged to be creative and invent the mood Spector was seeking. Spector's studio musicians came to be known as the Wrecking Crew, many of whom recorded on pop-rock hits of the 1960s and '70s, including singles and albums by the Beach Boys, the Carpenters and, eventually, Frank Sinatra. By the late 1960s and early '70s, Spector was producing the Beatles, John Lennon and George Harrison.
Here are 10 of my favorite Phil Spector productions:
Here are the Righteous Brothers singing Cynthia Weill, Barry Mann and Spector's You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'...
And here's John Lennon and Yoko Ono's masterpiece, Imagine...
Bonus:Here are takes 38 and 39 of the backing track (the basic instrumental) to You've Lost That Lovin Feelin' with the Wrecking Crew. And yes, it's great to pull up the lyrics and sing along as the track backs you...
Charlie Parker (above) was born in Kansas City, Kan., in 1920. When he was 7, his family moved to Kansas City, Mo. In fifth grade, Parker began playing the saxophone in school after the city put in force a music-education program. As he progressed, his mother bought him an alto saxophone in a pawn shop for $40. At the time, vice thrived in Kansas City. Despite Prohibition, the city's mayor and bosses allowed virtually everything that was illegal elsewhere to be plentiful and available at the many bars and clubs lining the streets. Where there's vice there's music, and dozens of bands found work in the city's dance halls and touring, regionally. As a result, there was abundant work to go around for dance-band musicians. At 15, Parker joined The 10 Chords of Rhythm and he was on his way to becoming a revolutionary alto saxophonist and a co-founder of bebop and post-war jazz.
Here's a terrific documentary from Kansas City PBS called Bird—Not Out of Nowhere: Charlie Parker's Kansas City Legacy. By the way, on the film's opening song from 1947, that's pianist Duke Jordan's pensive intro to Out of Nowhere...
For some reason, today feels like we need some jazz-folk to remind us all what's most important—country, freedom, truth and respecting our differences. [Photo above by (c)Marc Myers].
Here are 10 jazz-folk clips:
Here's Brother John Sellers' Down By the Riverside in 1954, with Sir Charles Thompson (p), Freddie Green (g), Walter Page (b) and Jo Jones (d)...
Here's Kitty White singing Ten Thousand Miles in 1956...
Here's Fred Katz's Old Paint from Folk Songs for Far Out Folk in 1958, with Fred Katz (cello), John Towner Williams (p), Billy Bean (g), Mel Pollan (b) and Jerry Williams (d)...
Here's Bill Smith's Go Down Moses in 1959, from Folk Jazz, with Bill Smith (cl,arr) Jim Hall (g) Monty Budwig (b) Shelly Manne (d)...
Here's Johnny Griffin playing Hush-a-Bye from The Kerry Dancers and Other Swinging Folk in 1961, with Johnny Griffin (ts), Barry Harris (p), Ron Carter (b) and Ben Riley (d)...
Here's Harold Land playing Tom Dooley from Jazz Impressions of Folk Music in 1963, with Carmell Jones (tp), Harold Land (ts), John Houston (p), Jimmy Bond (b) and Mel Lee (d)...
Here's Paul Winter playing Waltzing Matilda in 1963, from Jazz Meets the Folk Song, with Dick Whitsell (tp), Paul Winter (sop,as), Jeremy Steig (fl), Jay Cameron (bar), Warren Bernhardt (p), Sam Brown (g), Cecil McBee (b), Freddie Waits (d) and Jose Cingo (perc)...
Here's Helen Merrill singing Motherless Child in 1966, from Helen Merrill Sings Folk, with Hozan Yamamoto (shakuhachi), recorded in Japan in 1966...
Here's Kenny Clarke playing Here the Good Wind Comes from Out of the Folk Bag in 1967, with the Kenny Clarke/Francy Boland Big Band...
And here's Stanley Turrentine and Shirley Scott playing Blowin' in the Wind in 1968 on Common Touch, with Stanley Turrentine (ts), Shirley Scott (org), Jimmy Ponder (g), Bob Cranshaw (el-b) and Idris Muhammad (d)...
Junior Mance, a pianist and early proponent of church-infused soul-jazz who played and recorded with nearly all of jazz's post-war greats before beginning a leadership career in 1959, died on January 16. He was 92. [Photo above of Junior Mance in 1965]
Junior's playing channeled both urban gospel and rural spirituals and hymns, resulting in a style that exuded introspective soul. Junior's brand of sensitive bop and jazz was honed under the tutelage of spectacular soloists and blues singers. Even as a trio leader in the '60s and beyond, his hallmark was a gentleness that was rare among pianists of his generation.
What jazz greats admired most about Junior was his fearless confidence and fast hands. Back then, jazz pianists had to do triple duty. They had to be able to play fast and strong. They had to be able to solo brilliantly. And they had to be able to accompany the band's leader with chord choices that were both inspiring and tasteful. Junior, at 18, could do it all.
In honor of Junior, here is my complete three-part interview combined from 2011:
JazzWax: How did you get your first name? Junior Mance: I really am a junior. My dad was named Julian and so was I. To differentiate, my family called me Junior. When I started working professionally at age 10, everyone used Junior as my nickname.
JW: Did you say at age 10? JM: Oh yes. I started fooling around on the piano when I was just 5. We had an old upright in the house in Evanston, Ill. It was there when we moved into our apartment. Before television, all homes had a piano. My father played it. I just picked things out at that age but I had a hunger for music.
JW: How did you start playing professionally? JM: A saxophonist who lived upstairs had a gig at a roadhouse. One night his piano player got sick and he couldn’t find anyone to fill in. He asked my dad if I could do the gig. My father said I could. Though I was 10 years old, the club owner was dumb about that stuff. In the late ‘30s, the clubs in Chicago never checked on a musician's age. Every club had the law in their pocket anyway.
JW: How did you do? JM: The gig went well. The audience was made up mostly of truckers taking a break from the road. No one paid much attention.
JW: What did your father do for a living? JM: He was a clothes presser. I have one younger sister.
JW: When did you fall in love with the piano? JM: I had heard records as a child but didn’t pay much attention to them. My father liked big bands. He could have been a professional musician. He taught me to play boogie-woogie and stride.
JW: When did you first play with Gene Ammons JM: In 1947, when I was 18 years old. All through my teens I had worked in Chicago clubs. I just listened to records, mostly by boogie-woogie players. They were the big money-makers. This guy upstairs taught me things, too, though he only knew one set of changes for the blues [laughs].
JW: What did your mother think of you becoming a piano player? JM: She didn’t want me to be a musician. She wanted me to be a doctor and had me taking scientific subjects in high school. By the time I reached college age, she had already picked out the university that she wanted me to attend—Northwestern. I grew up in Evanston, so the college was nearby.
JW: What did you think? JM: I didn’t want to go there. It was too close to home. My mother finally gave in and said she’d let me go to college in Chicago, which was an hour’s ride on the elevated. She picked Roosevelt College. When I left for school on my first day, she said, “Be sure you sign up for the right pre-med classes.”
JW: Did you? JM: When I got to the main buildings, I looked around and saw a sign above one of the doorways. It said Roosevelt School of Music. I was drawn to it like a magnet and signed up for music classes. I didn’t think about what my mom had said earlier until I was on my way home.
JW: What did you think? JM: I thought, “What the hell did I just do?” [laughs] When I got home, my mother said, “Did you sign up for pre-med?” I said, “Yeah, mom, everything is done now.” Then I changed the subject quick. When my dad came home, I told him the truth about what I had done.
JW: What did he say? JM: He said, “I knew you were going to do that. Leave me out of it, though. This is between you and your mother.” He kept my secret until the day my grades arrived in the mail. My mother opened the letter. She said to me, “What does this mean?” I said, “Mom, I didn’t think I’d be a good doctor. If I had signed up, you would have seen the worst population decrease in history” [laughs].
JW: What did she say? JM: She looked at me with a straight face. Then she said, “Just wait until your father comes home.” He came home and, of course, eased everything along. I continued to attend the college’s music program. But I didn’t stay more than a year.
JW: Why not? JM: There was this professor from France, a classical teacher, and we didn’t get along. We had a language problem, and she hated jazz. At the time, jazz was forbidden in college. One day she caught me playing piano in one of the practice rooms and had me expelled for a week. The piano player Eddie Baker was enrolled there, too. He was caught doing the same thing and also was suspended.
JW: Had you been playing in clubs when you weren’t in class? JM: Oh yes. With Gene Ammons. So when I was suspended, Gene said, “Listen Junior, I’m going to New York. Can you go?” I said yes before I had asked my dad. When I asked him, my parents had a fight. My mother didn’t want me to go. So Gene came over to the house and promised to take good care of me. My mother finally let me go. This was in the late ‘40s. When we arrived in New York, all the clubs on 52nd Street were shut or closing down. Gene was supposed to work there with a quintet, but we had to return to Chicago soon after we arrived in New York. There wasn’t much work. I stayed with Gene and recorded my first records with him in 1947.
JW: How did you wind up leaving Ammons to work with Lester Young in 1949? JM: Lester came to Chicago to play some dance. But his piano player had missed the flight. Lester came by where Gene was playing after his own gig to say hi. It was a small joint on 48th and South Parkway called the Congo Lounge.
JW: What did Young do? JM: He stayed for a few sets and liked what he heard. Lester didn’t think I was permanent, so he had his manager ask if I was interested in joining him. I told Gene about the offer.
JW: Was Ammons annoyed? JM: Not at all. He was delighted. That same day Woody Herman had asked him to replace Stan Getz [laughs]. So it all worked out. I wasn’t intimidated by Lester. At that age, you take it where you can get it. You’re bold. My father taught me that if you’re going do something, really do it. So I did.
JW: When did you start with Young? JM: Not right away. Gene had to give the club two weeks’ notice. Gene and I made plans to regroup later on after we were finished with Lester and Woody.
JW: What was it like recording with Young for Savoy in 1949? JM: Lester never rehearsed. We always went into the studio cold. I was a little nervous about that, but I wasn’t going to show it. When you work with cats like that, you hide your feelings. When I was younger, I once made a mistake while playing something. I said, “Damn.” The guys told me never to say that. They said, “Play right through it.”
JW: In 1950, you backed Ammons and Sonny Stitt for Prestige. A tough pair of horns. JM: Jazz in those days was always competitive and supportive. We didn’t rehearse. What you heard on those records is what those guys came up with on the spot. We’d do the same thing on stage.
JW: In 1951, you were in the Army, yes? JM: After I was drafted, I immediately wanted to join an Army band. But when I was sent to Fort Knox, they wouldn’t let me in the band. To get in, they said, I had to play a marching instrument. I didn’t know how to play the sax, trumpet, trombone or any instrument you could march with in parades. They asked if I could play the glockenspiel. I said, “What’s that?” So they just put me in an infantry outfit.
JW: What happened? JM: I was slated to do 10 weeks of training and then be sent to Korea. After a few weeks, I was taught to walk guard duty from 4 p.m. through the night. I had to walk around the service club where the guys who finished playing in the marching band hung out. One night I was walking guard duty and heard this fantastic music coming from the club.
JW: What was it? JM: At first I thought I was hearing records. It was that good. Now back then, you’d walk two hours and rest one. When my hour of rest came, I ran from the guard shack to the club. When I walked in, there on the stage was a big band in civilian clothes. The band didn’t have to wear Army clothes when they played after training for the day. A big fat guy playing the alto was up on the stage leading the band. I realized that it was the horn I had heard while I walking outside. I looked at the guy. It wasn’t Sonny Stitt. And it wasn’t Charlie Parker.
JW: Who was it? JM: Cannonball Adderley [laughs]. I blurted out, “Hey, can I sit in with y’all?” The piano player instantly reached down and pulled me up on the bandstand and then disappeared. I guess he wanted a break. Well, there I am, the only guy in the building wearing a steel helmet, fatigues and combat boots. [Photo of Cannonball Adderley by Herman Leonard/CTSImages.com]
JW: Did Adderley approve of you sitting in? JM: Cannonball didn’t have a chance to answer. He just looked at me sitting at the piano and said, “What do you want to play.” I said, “Play what’s in your book.” One of Cannon’s eyebrows went up. He called out Splanky.
JW: How did you do? JM: I could read the music easily. I even took a two-chorus solo. When I neared the end of my solo, Cannonball was looking at me. Cannon motioned for me to continue, to extend the solo. I hadn’t even been near a piano for eight weeks.
JW: What did you do? JM: I just stretched out. When I rolled my eyes over to the brass and sax sections, they were smiling. So I kept on playing. Then I noticed they were snapping their fingers. So I really stretched out. “Yeah, baby, go ahead, go ahead,” they shouted. Cannonball was saying the same thing. Man, I was tired when my solo wound down. The band came in with last chorus.
JW: What did Adderley say when you were finished? JM: Cannonball came over and said, “That’s fantastic.” He asked me my name. I told him, “Junior Mance.” He said, “If you’re Junior Mance, what are you doing here?” Apparently he had heard about me. I looked him in the eye and said, “What are you doing here?”
JW: What did Adderley say? JM: There was a pause, and he just laughed. “Touché,” he said. He asked if I was joining the band. I told him I couldn’t because I couldn’t play a marching instrument.
JW: When did you see Adderley next? JM: The next morning. I was on a field that was watered down and muddy. Live machine-gun bullets were being shot at us for training. I was crawling through the mud on a course the length of football field. When I got to the end, this jeep roared up.
JW: Who was it? JM: Cannon. He ran over to the sergeant, a real red neck, and handed him a sheet of paper. The sergeant looked at the paper and handed it back to Cannon. The sergeant shouted over to me, “Mance, take off. They want to see you at headquarters.” As far as he was concerned, I was in trouble for something.
JW: What happened next? JM: I jumped in Cannon’s jeep. But when I started to ask Cannon what was going on, he said, “Shhh, let’s get out of earshot first.” When we were a distance away in the jeep, he said, “Listen carefully. These orders are phony. I want you to play for our band commander. We’re going to the barracks now to audition.” When we got there, I played, and the guys were yelling me on. The commander didn’t know anything except marches.
JW: What did he say? JM: He stuck his fingers in his belt and looked at everyone there. He said, “Well you must be good. What is your other instrument?” I told him the truth. He let me play with the band at night, but I couldn’t stay with the rest of the guys in their barracks because I wasn't part of the marching group.
JW: Did your status change? JM: One day I noticed that the guys in the band were all depressed. They said, “We just lost our drummer.” He also was the company clerk. The clerk is the guy who sits in an office and does clerical work. Not only that, the guy was a strong player. He apparently had orders to go to Germany.
JW: What did you think? JM: I thought, how was I going to get that company clerk job. I needed it to stay on the base. Cannon said to get the job I had to know how to type. I said I knew how, from high school. A light bulb went off over Cannon’s head. He said, “For real?” I said, “I’m as serious as a heart attack.” Cannon told the commanding officer, and I became the company clerk and played piano in the band. Typing saved my life. Cannon saved my life.
JW: Saved your life? JM: One day I happened to be walking on the base. The company that I had been attached to that was taking training was sent into battle in Korea two weeks later. Of the 200 men deployed, all were wiped out except for a handful. They got caught in an ambush.
JW: Did you see any of the guys who survived? JM: Yeah. I was walking on the base when a guy yelled out my name. It was one of the guys from the company. He was in a wheel chair with no legs. He said, “Man, they knew we were coming. They shot us down like fish in a barrel”. From that day on, Cannon and I were best friends for life.
JW: I forgot to ask—you said you first began playing with Lester Young in Chicago in 1949 because his pianist missed a flight. Who was the pianist? JM: Bud Powell [laughs]. I didn’t know it until drummer Roy Haynes told me afterward. I’m glad Roy waited [laughs].
JW: When you were discharged from the Army in 1953, you became the house pianist at the Bee Hive in Chicago for some months. JM: Yes, the day I left the Army I worked there with bassist Israel Crosby and drummer Buddy Smith. Charlie Parker also was there that night. I had met him socially in New York when I went there originally with Gene Ammons in 1947.
JW: Did he play? JM: Sure. Up on the stand we just winged it. He’d say, “Do you know such and such a song?” I’d say, “Yeah, we know it.” I knew all of his songs and all of the standards he liked to play. I grew up with a bunch of talented guys in Chicago. We knew all those tunes. It was a nice four weeks with Bird.
JW: Did Parker demand specific keys on songs? JM: Not at all. He could play in all of them. He’d just say, “Make it easy on yourself.” He was so laid back, it was like playing with someone local. The club booked all of us for four weeks after that first night. But it wasn’t the first time I had played with Bird.
JW: Really? JM: When I played the Congo Lounge in Chicago with Gene Ammons in 1947, Bird dropped by and sat in. Whenever he’d come to town, he’d drop by. Same thing with Sonny Stitt and Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis. We worked together a lot, and I picked up on a lot of things.
JW: Like what? JM: Like the way they approached the music. There are so many things that aren’t written in the books. Chord changes, voicings, different playing styles for different musicians—things like that. I was very fortunate to play for two years with people like that.
JW: What did Parker say to you after the four weeks? JM: He said, “Junior, why don’t you come to New York?” I told him, “I’m trying, I’m trying.” I had to save up and line up gigs. When I finally got there several months later, I ran into Parker on Broadway. He was coming out of the Turf on 50th St. Without missing a beat, he said, “Hey Junior. I see you finally made it.” The guy had a mind like a trap.
JW: In 1954 you recorded with Dinah Washington and began touring with her. JM: Yes, we made some singles in ’54 along with the LPs After Hours with Miss D in New York and Dinah Jams in Los Angeles. Clifford Brown, Max Roach, Clark Terry and other great guys were on that date. In ’56 we made Dinah Washington in the Land of Hi-Fi with Cannonball Adderley. During that time I toured with her as well.
JW: How did you wind up on After Hours with Miss D in 1954? JM: She called me herself. She was from Chicago originally and had heard me play when she was back there. Wynton Kelly, her pianist, had been drafted.
JW: How did she ask you? JM: She asked me during the day to come to make the record that night. I went in. Lockjaw, Clark Terry, Rick Henderson and other great guys were there. It was a small group. One of the first tunes we did was A Foggy Day. She really nailed it. After the session, she walked over to the piano and said, “Junior, what are you doing now?” I told her I had been working at the Bee Hive. She said, “Well you wouldn’t be interested in working with me would you?” I told her I would. She said, “Well, if you’re ready, I’m ready, too.” That’s how I came to work with her. She needed an accompanist with Wynton away.
JW: Who else had been sitting in with her in ‘54? JM: Andrew Hill, but he didn’t last a week.
JW: How well did you know Kelly? JM: When I finally went to New York in ‘53, Wynton was one of the first people I met. He was so nice. He threw gigs my way. I followed him in Dizzy Gillespie’s band in the late ‘50s.
JW: What was it like working with Washington? JM: Like accompanying an instrument. She could play the piano and had spent time in Lionel Hampton’s band, so she was a highly seasoned musician. She understood the piano and how she wanted it to sound behind her.
JW: What was your biggest job accompanying her? JM: Listening. Over the years, I’ve worked with a lot of vocalists. I’ve always used a formula that pianist Jimmy Jones taught me. Jimmy had written some elaborate arrangements for Dinah. At the time, I wasn’t a great reader. Jimmy came over and told me how to handle these things.
JW: What did he say? JM: He said, “Look, when you’re working with a singer, imagine a portrait painting hanging in the museum. The singer is the subject of that portrait. What does the portrait need? A good frame. That’s you.”
JW: That works for anyone leading a band, doesn’t it? JM: Absolutely. Whoever you’re playing with, the soloist is the subject of that painting. I’m not supposed to be getting in their way. My job is to be supportive, to signal what’s coming and to provide a background that makes them feel comfortable so they can do their thing and sound great.
JW: Was Washington tough to deal with? JM: We never had it out. Even when I left to join Cannonball Adderley in 1956, she was cool. She just went out and hired Cannonball’s entire big band just to get me for Land of Hi-Fi [laughs]. All I did was listen carefully to what Dinah was doing and where she was going on songs. And I guess she was listening to me, too.
JW: Was Dinah tough on others? JM: Not really. She wanted things her way and she usually got her way. It was a joy just to be around her. We used to go to after hours clubs a lot. She always liked to take her piano player along, in case she wanted to sing.
JW: Was it fun going out to clubs with her? JM: Fantastic. I never had to spend any money. She’d go to the best joints. They were so classy, and everyone knew her and respected her. She was like Art Tatum. People in the club would all be quietly saying, “The Queen's here" or "The Queen just walked in.”
JW: No dust-ups? JM: Oh, there would always be some jerk in one of those clubs who thought he knew everything and wanted to sit in with her. She’d allow it, but she’d make fast work of those guys. They’d sound so bad when she got through with them that they’d throw themselves off the stand [laughs]. Then I’d sit down and play with her. I never really saw her get mad, though. She always had top people working with her so there was no need for that.
JW: How did the jam session come about on the West Coast in ‘54? JM: We were out there to record for EmArcy at Capitol Studios on Melrose Ave. She wanted to do something different so she had her manager or Mercury rent side-by-side two studios and put them together. Then she invited about 50 of her friends. They had to be jazz fans. She had it catered with food and wine. She wanted a live feel, an audience so the jam session would be credible. You perform differently when a lot of people are watching and tape is rolling. It's like an added challenge.
JW: Which explains the applause. JM: That applause wasn’t scripted. It was for real. They couldn't help themselves. Man, you had Clifford Brown, Maynard Ferguson, Clark Terry, Harold Land, Herb Geller, Richie Powell, Keeter Betts, George Morrow and Max Roach [laughs]. What a group of musicians—from any coast.
JW: Was it a pure jam session? JM: Yes, there were no rehearsals. In some places Maynard and Clifford did something where the trumpets sounded like they were reading a chart. At the end of I Get a Kick Out of You, for example.
JW: They weren’t? JM: Clifford and Maynard had gotten together minutes before we started and decided to do a thing with harmony when Dinah did something else toward the end. It was just a twist to close out the tune.
JW: Looking back, what do you think of Jam Session? JM: It was one of the greatest moments of my career. Everyone was cooking. It was really a party.
JW: In 1956, you became a member of Cannonball Adderley’s first organized worked band—his first civilian band, that is. JM: [Laughs] Yes, I spent two years with Cannon after the Army. I loved that band—Cannon on alto sax, his brother Nat on trumpet and cornet, me on piano, Sam Jones on bass and Jimmy Cobb on drums. In college Cannon had signed up for the ROTC with his sights set on the Navy. The deal was that when he graduated, he would have to serve at sea. He had a four-year obligation waiting at the end of school. Toward the end of college, he decided to enlist in the Army instead for three years. When I asked what the difference was, Cannon said, “One year” [laughs]. That’s how Cannon thought.
JW: You recorded with bassist Wilbur Ware on dates with Johnny Griffin. What was Ware like? JM: Wilbur was a genius. He grew up in Chicago around the same time as Johnny and me. Wilbur had a lot of personal problems, though. He got involved with drugs early. He came to New York after Johnny and I did. When he got there, he was trying to kick his habit. He went through a lot of trouble and turmoil. Which is a shame. He was the nicest cat in the world. He amazed everyone.
JW: Did you avoid the drug scene? JM: Completely. I never got involved with that. I had looked at enough of these guys from Chicago who messed up. They were only fooling themselves. Lester Young smoked pot, but he wasn’t outrageous with it.
JW: Did you try it? JM: I smoked a joint on one record date early on and played worse than I ever did. I never was in my right mind. I never touched it again.
JW: Was Charlie Parker difficult in this regard? JM: So much about Bird was exaggerated over the years. He never enticed anyone to use drugs. But users and pushers were constantly on him.
JW: How so? JM: When we were working at the Bee Hive in '53, two guys came by the club. They were worshipers of Bird’s. After a set Bird and I were in the dressing room talking. These two guys came in, and the first thing they did was take out their works—needle, spoon, everything. Bird said, “Hey, hey, hey, what are you guys doing?”
JW: What did they say? JM: They said, “We have enough for you, Bird, don’t worry. We want to get high and play like you.” Man, Bird read them the riot act. Bird said, “I can’t help myself now. I’m trying to quit.” He spoke to them like a preacher: “You’re not doing anything but ruining yourselves. Look, don’t do as I do. Do as I say.” When he was done letting them have it, they seemed so small.
JW: What did the two guys do? JM: Nothing. They just wrapped up the drugs and split.
JW: What happened to them? JM: They both died less than a year later. Bird never looked kindly on people who did drugs. He never suggested I use, and I never saw him use on the job. [Pause] Then again I guess he might have been already high.
JW: Playing with so many alto saxophonists, were they all influenced by Charlie Parker? JM: Sonny Stitt on alto had a different sound than Bird. Cannon sounded like Bird, but he didn’t play the same stuff Bird did. Stitt worshiped Bird. Dizzy used to say that when Sonny was playing in his band, there were times Sonny would be on fire. He said, “In my mind, it was Charlie Parker playing next to me until I opened my eyes.” Both Sonny Rollins and Sonny Stitt had pictures of Parker in their sax cases.
JW: How did you get the job with Dizzy Gillespie’s band in 1958? JM: I followed Wynton Kelly in that band. Wynton called me to ask if I could sub for him. Before I took the job, I saw Dizzy on Broadway near the Turf. Dizzy said, “How’s Cannonball’s band doing?” I said, “It just broke up.” Dizzy said, “Oh yeah?” Dizzy’s next words were, “Rehearsal at 2 p.m. at my house next week” [laughs].
JW: Did you show up? JM: Oh yeah. I was there along with Les Spann, Sam Jones and Lex Humphries. That was a great quintet.
JW: Speaking of Gillespie, you were the piano player when Gillespie and Louis Armstrong made a rare appearance together on NBC in January 1959. JM: That’s right: Umbrella Man. During rehearsal, I had recalled that James Moody in Dizzy’s big band in the mid-‘50s used to sing out off-key on purpose. So I did it because I thought that would fit. Dizzy was surprised and gave me a puzzled look. He dug it and said, “Now you’re the straight man. Leave that in on the show. That’s your line now.” It gave him a chance to look at me like I was nuts, but it was classic Dizzy. He loved cutting up, acting silly, and then lifting that trumpet up and wiping away everyone’s smile with his amazing ability.
JW: Were Gillespie and Armstrong still feuding at the time? JM: [Laughs] They never were. It was all exaggerated. They loved each other. Before the TV appearance, they were hanging out backstage. They were doing comedy routines back there that continued onto the set. When Dizzy turns to Louis and sings about his parasol, Louis says, “Your parasol is juicy, boy” wiping his face as though Dizzy had accidentally spit on him. [Roaring laughter]. That’s how they were together.
JW: How can you be sure that Gillespie and Armstrong really got along well? JM: I lived in their neighborhood in Queens. They were always hanging out together. Dizzy lived a street over from Louis in Corona. They may not have talked about music all the time, but they loved getting together.
JW: In April 1959, you recorded your first trio album, Junior. JM: We had just finished doing one of Dizzy’s dates when I looked over and saw Dizzy and Norman Granz off to the side talking. They kept looking at me. I wondered, “Did I screw up or something?” All of sudden Norman walked over and said, “How would you like to do your own record date?”
JW: What did you say? JM: I stammered and said, “Yeah.” I had been working in Dizzy's group with bassist Sam Jones. Norman said, “Would you mind using Ray Brown?” I stammered again, “Yeah, I guess so.” Later I was fixing to apologize to Sam but when I did, Sam said, “What—are you kidding? When you can play with Ray, you don’t ask questions.”
JW: Did you enjoy recording that session? JM: Yes, the whole sound was beautiful. Lex was just 22 years old, and Dizzy loved him. But they had their moments. I remember Lex and Dizzy were arguing about something that wasn't important. Lex was glaring, but Dizzy didn’t lose his cool. Dizzy could see something was wrong. He called Lex’s family later. Lex had had slight mental problems before.
JW: Was Dizzy a good chess player? JM: First rate. The first time I went to Europe with him, he played all the time. Even back here on tour. Once when we were playing in San Francisco, a couple of Dizzy’s friends who had been in San Quentin for minor offenses came by where we were staying. Dizzy had three or four chessboards set up to play multiple people at once.
JW: What happened? JM: Dizzy was talking with his two friends while he was beating us. Then these guys asked if they could play, so Dizzy said fine. Dizzy just managed to beat one of them while the other played Dizzy to a draw. After they left, this cat who was there told both of us: “Never play someone who has done time. All they do all day is play chess and learn from each other.”
JW: Dizzy was an aggressive player? JM: Absolutely. He was aggressive with everything related to chess. One day we were walking down the street in Pittsburgh. We passed this firehouse where firemen were sitting outside playing chess. Dizzy went over to watch their moves. Each time they made a bad move, Dizzy made a face. One of the firemen recognized him and asked, “Do you play?” Dizzy said he did. So the fireman asked Dizzy to sit down.
JW: What happened? JM: Dizzy beat the fireman and came back the next day and wiped them all out [laughs].
JW: You also played and recorded with Coleman Hawkins, yes? JM: The first time I played with Hawk was in Chicago in May 1954. He was in town to record for Parrot Records, a label run by a disc jockey named Al Benson. When he played the Bee Hive, he needed a piano player so I was called for the gig. Hawk and I did eight weeks there together. Man, he knew more tunes. I learned more songs playing with him than with anyone else. I’d ask him what key he wanted to play a song in, and Hawk would say, “Wherever you want to put it. Just play the intro and I’ll figure out where we’re at.” When you’ve been playing as long as that guy, things come automatically.
JW: With the rise of free jazz in the early ‘60s, did you and other traditionalists freeze out guys like Ornette Coleman? JM: No, no, not at all. I was on a record date with Benny Carter in New York in 1965 for a film. The movie date was for A Man Called Adam, with Sammy Davis, Jr. When we finished recording, Benny said, “I’m going to stay in town. I want to see Ornette.”
JW: Did you go with him? JM: Yes, we went down to the Five Spot and took a table in the corner. I sat with Benny for a while and then went over to the bar to hang out with some of the guys.
JW: What happened? JM: A writer came up to Benny on one of Ornette’s breaks and said, “Hey, Benny, what are you doing here?” Benny said, “Look man, I want to know what’s going on. It doesn’t mean I’m trying to play like this. I just like to hear new things.” That was a lesson that stuck with me. I began listening to everybody, too.
JW: How long did you and Benny remain at the club? JM: Through all three sets.
JazzWax note: Junior's albums as a leader are many. Here are some of my favorites:
Sammy Nestico, whose swing-happy compositions and arrangements for Count Basie's orchestra in the 1960s and '70s gave the band fresh relevance and enabled Nestico to fulfill a lifelong ambition, died January 17. He was 96.
Nestico started young, in the early 1940s, in the orchestra of Pittsburgh's ABC affiliate radio station before joining Charlie Barnet's band mid-decade. By honoring the wish of his worried mother, Nestico returned to the local radio station and enrolled in college, missing out on the album revolution of the 1950s, when he could have written for dozens of bands. It was a decision he would come to regret. When he began arranging for Basie in 1967, he followed in the footsteps of Neal Hefti, Ernie Wilkins, Nat Pierce and Frank Foster, creating catchy melodies and a swinging call-and-response architecture that kept listeners' feet tapping and the band yearning for more.
Sammy was always great to talk to on the phone about arranging or Basie. He was relentlessly upbeat and considered himself the luckiest man alive. In the early '70s, I remember playing Sammy's arrangements in the high-school orchestra. As a sideline business, Sammy had created educational packages with scores, parts and an acetate recording of the swing songs he wrote and arranged so you could hear what they should sound like. I interviewed Sammy in 2010. [Photo above of Count Basie and Sammy Nestico]
In honor of Sammy, here's the entire multipart interview combined...
JazzWax: How was it growing up in Pittsburgh in the 1930s? Sammy Nestico: It was hard. But everyone on our street was just like us, so we never felt we were poor. During the Depression, my dad worked for the railroad in the yards moving switches back and forth and repairing locomotives. There was money coming in, but he and my mom didn’t get along. They separated several times, but each time they’d get back together they had to split up again. The third time he left, we moved next to my grandma, and my whole life was happier.
JW: Why? SN: There was no more strife. When we moved, peace came. I was 10 and became the man of the house. I was the oldest, with a younger brother and sister. When I was a kid, I wanted to be in a big band. After listening to the radio day and night, I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. The great swing bands of 1938 and 1939 were just coming in, and I was listening to shows being broadcast from Frank Dailey’s Meadowbrook in New Jersey and from other unbelievable places. It was just wonderful. Trombonist Tommy Dorsey was my favorite because I was a trombonist in school. I can still name all the musicians in his band then.
JW: Did you listen to records? SN: Yes. I had a $5 record player that I had received second hand. I wanted to buy records but we didn’t have any money. My mom gave me 10 cents a day for food, which meant that after two five-day weeks, I’d have a dollar. I saved my dollar by not eating for two weeks. I was hungry but doing without was worth it.
JW: How many records could you buy for $1? SN: [Laughs] I would go to this little store that sold used jukebox records and buy seven of them for $1. They were all scratchy, but I didn’t care. I played them on that little record player. I still remember Charlie Barnet’s Night and Day and Tommy Dorsey’s Song of India with Marie on the flip side. When I finally played with Tommy later in the 1940s, I told him that he had given me lessons [laughs]. I had studied his records to learn what positions he used on the trombone to make his different notes sound so clean.
JW: How could you afford a trombone in school? SN: I started playing a school instrument in the 8th grade. By the 10th grade I was working in local nightclubs. I came to it naturally and loved playing so much. I bought a trombone on one of those store lay-away plans with a $24 down-payment from my two weeks on the job. I told my mom she wouldn’t have to worry about making the payments, that I would handle them. But I didn’t keep at it, with school and everything, so she paid the rest, little by little.
JW: When did you start working professionally full time? SN: In 1941, at age 17, I was in the orchestra employed by WCAE, the ABC radio affiliate in Pittsburgh. People would come in to plug their songs. If the band’s leader liked the tune, he’d give me the piano sheet to arrange. I wasn’t the main arranger, but little by little I was writing things for him. It was a simple little band at the time.
JW: How did you learn to arrange? SN: I just listened to and analyzed every record I bought. There was no book then telling you how to write pop records. I learned from my hits and my misses. I wrote some awful things and told myself, “I won’t do that again.” I had no formal training at all.
JW: Did you always enjoy swing? SN: Yes, from the start. I learned a lot about swing by listening hard to those Sy Oliver arrangements for Tommy Dorsey.
JW: Hold on. You’re making it all sound a little too easy. SN: It wasn’t easy [laughs]. In my first arrangement for the radio band, I wrote all of the parts in the bass clef [laughs]. Even the drummer knew something was wrong. So I took the arrangement back home. The next week when I returned, my arrangement sounded better—but something was still wrong. I had forgotten to transpose the saxophone parts. So I had to work on it again. Little by little, I got things right. I would listen to my favorite records and try to imitate my heroes. The radio station was a great lab for me.
JW: When you put a record on, what exactly were you listening to? SN: I’d tune in to the background. Back in those days, arrangers painted a picture. There would always be something in there that was fascinating, and I’d try to imitate it. I didn’t even have score paper nor did I know how to write for different parts. I’d just fill papers with notes. I taught myself the piano, learned the staves and started voicing. Little by little you listen, you learn, you imitate and eventually the result becomes you. Eventually I became Sammy.
JW: Your first big-band experience was playing with Charlie Barnet in 1946? SN: Yes, what a great band. Six trumpets and four trombones and six reeds including Barnet. It was an integrated band, too. There were three black musicians in the band and two writing for the band, in addition to Billy May. Trombonist Porky Cohen was my roommate, and I was thrilled, like I was in heaven. Charlie Barnet was terrific. He was a playboy and a millionaire who just played music for the joy of it. He was easygoing. If there was anything that had to be done that wasn’t easy, he’d give it to the band manager to do.
JW: Who did you play with after playing on Barnet’s band? SN: I returned to WCAE in Pittsburgh. But that was a mistake. I should have gone with Barnet to California in the fall of 1946. But my mother kept saying, “You should be a teacher.” So I listened to her and enrolled at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh and earned a music education degree. My girlfriend at the time had said, “Let’s go to California.” But I didn’t listen, and I always regretted that decision.
JW: Why? SN: If I had gone, I would have been writing for dozens of bands throughout the 1950s. Many of the guys left the Barnet band when it arrived in Hollywood and got an early start out there. But I never held my decision against my mom. She pushed me to stay in education, out of love. But it was a bad decision, career-wise.
JW: So you became an educator? SN: Yes. In 1950, I taught high school for a year but I didn’t like it. I loved the kids, but the administrators drove me nuts. They were a drag. I hated academia because of the administrators.
JW: Then what did you do? SN: By then, the swing era was all but finished and the rock era was starting with Bill Haley. I re-enlisted and became staff arranger for the Air Force Band in Washington, D.C. for 15 years. During this time, I became the leader of the Airmen of Note, the top Air Force jazz outfit. When my period of service was through with the Air Force, I enlisted with the U.S. Marine Band and led that orchestra.
JW: You seem to have enjoyed leading these bands. SN: Oh very much so. But it was tricky. Most of the musicians were great but occasionally you had guys who didn't swing immediately or didn't have the passion. One time I said to the band, "When the trumpet is playing a beautiful solo, can we have a little more support from the trombones?” One of the guys in the band cracked, “If you wanted more support, you should have written it in.” I said, “If I’d written in all the things you’re supposed to do in that bar, there’d be no room for notes.” I grabbed my ears and said, “You see these? These are what you’re supposed to be using. Your two ears—that’s called musicianship.”
JW: Were you a good educator? SN: I think so. I was always about the feel and the execution. When I taught at the University of Georgia, I’d always tell my students, “Don’t go on to the next page after you play something. Go back and analyze the music until you understand how it works.” I never had lessons in my classes. We'd rehearse tirelessly until they got it.
JW: How did you finally wind up in California arranging? SN: In late 1960s, I had heard about this tenor sax player with Woody Herman named Sal Nistico. But that's a whole other story.
JW: Sal Nistico? SN: I knew I had been born Sammy Nestico. But when I had looked at my dad’s Navy bible, I saw that his last name was spelled "Nistico." Through my relatives, I found out that Sal and I were related. We’re cousins. So I called him up. He was playing with Count Basie at the time.
JW: What did you say? SN: I said, “The next time you and the band come to Washington, D.C., come by and see me." I was leading the U.S. Marine Band there at the time. Not long after our conversation, the Basie band came to town, and Sal called and came over. When he saw what I had been writing, he said, “You ought to write for Basie.” I laughed and said, “I’m not good enough for him.” Sal said, “Yes you are. Why don’t you come out to the job and meet Basie.”
JW: Did you go? SN: Of course. But instead of Sal introducing me to the Chief, he had trombonist Grover Mitchell do it. Grover was from Pittsburgh, my home town. When I met Basie, he asked me to write a couple of arrangements. I had already written The Queen Bee and Quincy and the Count. The second one wasn’t fully formed yet, but The Queen Bee was real nice. I gave that to him and a couple of others. After about three months, Grover called me after the job they had played someplace and said, “The Chief likes your charts. Write some more.” So I wrote more and more, and we finally had enough for an album.
JW: What was your first album with Count Basie? SN:Basie Straight Ahead. Between my meeting with Basie and the call to do the album, I had finally decided to move out to California. I figured if I didn't do it, I'd really regret it. Two months after I arrived, I was conducting Basie's band at the recording session on Vine Street in Los Angeles. I couldn't believe it.
JW: How did you come to play piano on That Warm Feeling on the album? SN: There was an organ in the studio. Basie plays organ. Fats Waller had taught him. On the session, he saw it and said to me, “I’ll play the organ, you play the piano.”
JW: Were you nervous? SN: Oh yeah. I’m a terrible pianist and trying to play like Basie was like paving the Grand Canyon with asphalt [laughs]. I don’t think I impressed anyone playing that piano because for the next nine albums, nobody ever asked me to play piano again [roars with laughter]. I was scared to death. I was nervous.
JW: How did the next series of Basie albums work? SN: Many of the albums we did after Straight Ahead for Pablo Records were never as good. It wasn’t the music. It was that Norman Granz [pictured] was producing Basie at the time and never cared how the music went. The early ones we did for other labels were set up well. But when Norman [Granz] got a hold of him, the high standards Norman had in the past just weren’t there.
JW: Why is that? SN: I think Norman just disliked big bands. He kept telling Basie to start a combo and to hell with the band. Basie wouldn’t hear of it. Norman also would keep first takes on almost everything, even if there were mistakes. A song would end and from the engineer’s booth he’d call for the next tune. As for how he set up the band in the studio, he’d have the chairs arranged like it was a job, with different sections facing the same direction on risers. Today, when we record an album, each section is circled around different microphones. Norman just didn’t seem to care.
JW: How did you like working with Basie? SN: I always felt that my entire career was pointed toward arranging for him. It was the greatest thrill of my life. Knowing him and knowing the band and being with the band was sensational.
JW: Did you get the Basie sound right off that bat? SN: Almost. At first, my voicings were a little off. Pianist and arranger Nat Pierce, who had Basie's sound down cold, came to me and said, “On this or that tune, you need Basie chords. You have to try to get closer.” Nat was a great writer and a nice friend. I kept thinking about what Nat had said as I wrote for the band. The other quote that hit me was when Grover Mitchell came to me and said that Basie had said to him, “You know, too many guys are trying to write like Basie. They should write it like them and we’ll swing it like Basie” [laughs]. So I did.
JW: Did your personality come through? SN: I think so. I remember my brother saying, “It’s Count Basie, but I can hear you in there, Sammy.” That’s the whole idea. That’s what you were shooting for with the Chief. To make the listener happy and to make the musicians happy but not lose your identity.
JW: Your arrangements have a particular attitude, a special swagger. SN: I always like to make an ensemble sound bigger by prepping it with a piano solo. I like to have a sparse piano in there to set up the big band.
JW: You love building to a crescendo, don’t you? SN: You bet. And dynamics—soft, loud, lots of contrasts.
JW: What was it like to conduct the Basie band? SN: At first I was intimidated. On that first recording, Basie Straight Ahead, Marshal Royal, "Lockjaw" Davis, Bobby Plater and other giants were there. But after we started, it was just a matter of communication and everything eased up. There’s no band in the world that played like that.
JW: Like how? SN: The dynamics. The band played too soft and too loud. Which is just the way I like it [laughs]. That's what made the band sound conversational and exciting. I'd mention to the band what I'd want to do with dynamics in one place or another in the arrangement, and they'd mark up their parts. Then Basie would sing the feeling for them so they'd get it. The beauty of Basie is he'd let me do my thing, and he was always supportive. When we started Straight Ahead, I tried to do too much with the conducting. After the first run-down on the first song, I realized that all I had to do is give a downbeat and come in every once in a while. The band was a quick study, and I never imposed myself.
JW: Did Basie ever talk to you? SN: Not really. But he told a couple of people that he liked me. He wasn’t the kind of guy who ever built anyone up. But he was the sweetest man on the whole planet. He was a big teddy bear. He must have liked what I did. We did 10 albums together and we won four Grammys.
JW: Yet you’re not fully recognized for that accomplishment. SN: Can I tell you something? I composed the songs, I arranged them and I conducted the band on those sessions. No one even said, “Thanks, Sammy” [laughs]. But it makes no difference. The guys were just great. All gentlemen. Wonderful people. And I was thrilled to be a part of that band.
JW: In some ways, you were Son of Hefti. SN: [Laughs] Basie identified with that sound. Neal Hefti was my idol. I wanted to do what he did, come up with great tunes and arrange them simply for power, melody and swing.
JW: While you were in California, you were arranging and orchestrating for everyone. You orchestrated songs on two Sinatra albums. SN: Yes, I did a lot with Don Costa in those days. He’d write a small sketch, two lines or so. Then I’d voice it for 18 musicians. I orchestrated Mrs. Robinson on My Way and five tunes on L.A. Is My Lady.
JW: How did you deal with the famous pressure out there with that kind of workload? SN: The first year I was out here it was hard. You get more and more jobs, and you don’t have time to complete them all. They don’t give you time. They want everything tomorrow morning. So you stay up late and have the copyist pick up the work at 2 a.m. You don’t sit there and look at the moon or think of some girl laying over the piano. You write your first idea and you go with it. It’s usually your best idea anyway.
JW: That can be hard week after week. SN: As an arranger in L.A., you’re either feeling boredom or panic. You never get used to it, but you can work within that framework. I just sit down and work. I work with a piano. I’ve always worked with a piano.
JW: Who paid you the greatest compliment? SN: Let me think [pause]. There were two. The first was from the British arranger Robert Farnon. Everyone considered him the greatest. He arranged two albums for Pia Zadora in the mid-1980s, and she recorded them in London. Then they asked him to do another with her. Robert said, “Gee, my schedule is too busy. But I’ll tell you, when you go back to the States, there’s a guy named Sammy Nestico. You should hire him.” When I heard that, I felt so good. I didn’t even think he ever heard of me. That was the greatest compliment.
JW: Who gave you the other big compliment? SN: Jerry Gray, Glenn Miller’s arranger. He called to tell me that my published chart of String of Pearls was his favorite arrangement of the song. And he was the one who wrote the original. It was only published, never recorded.
JW: Where do you do much of your composing and arranging today? SN: I write melodies in my car or in the shower off the top of my head.
JW: How do you remember them? SN: I sing the melodies and remember the intervals. When I reach a piano, I write them down. After I put the original motif down, I’ll dress it up or edit the result and work with it. I keep tuning it up until I get what I want [pause]. Then I say I got lucky [laughs].
JW: With so much music to write, does Sammy walk around all day snapping and swinging? SN: [Roars with laughter] I don’t know about that. I sing to myself quite a bit. It has been a great life. Hey, I’m still going strong.
JazzWax notes: Here are Sammy's 10 albums for Count Basie (asterisks denote a Grammy Award)...
Straight Ahead (Dot/1968) Standing Ovation (Dot/1969) Have a Nice Day (Daybreak/1971) Bing 'n Basie (Daybreak/1972) Basie Big Band (Pablo/1975) Fun Time (Pablo/1975) Prime Time (Pablo/1977)* On the Road (Pablo/1979)* Warm Breeze (Pablo/1981)* 88 Basie Street (Pablo/1983)*
In The Wall Street Journal this week, I interviewed actress Mary Steenburgen for my "House Call" column in the Mansion section (go here). Mary still owns her childhood home—she and her sister can't bear to sell it. Largely because her parents were so loving, especially her mom, whom she describes as a fairy. Her smile, Mary says, was captivating and her voice was soft and kind. [Image above courtesy of YouTube]
Here's Mary on Craig Ferguson in 2017 and 2013. And yes, Mary is this charming, fast and funny...
If you missed me last week on SiriusXM's Feedback, co-hosted by Nik and Lori, you can hear me talk about Burt Bacharach, Dionne Warwick and Walk On By here...
Greetings from Madrid. Last week, Carolina in Spain sent along the photo above from Madrid. The city received about a foot and a half of snow the night of January 8. The next morning, a couple of trees came down under the weight. Bet you thought Madrid was always warm and sunny.
The Rosemary Clooney Show.Last week, Jordi Pujol sent along a fab clip of trumpeter Pete Candoli on Rosemary Clooney's TV variety show in 1956, with singer Jeri Southern at the piano. The sync seems to be a little off, unless Pete is syncing to his own solo recorded earlier. Go here...
It's only fair that Jeri Southern get a chance. Here she is singing I Hadn't Anyone But You...
And here's Clooney, singing Goodnight (Wherever You Are)...
David Amram sent along the photo above taken recently of him performing at Le Festival international de jazz de Québec in Quebec City, where the concert celebrated Jack Kerouac's French-Canadian roots and his love of all music.
Here's David in 2008 performing his beautiful theme to the 1961 film Splendor in the Grass...
Stanley Cowell. Following the pianist's death in December, a tribute went up online with a complete discography and videography. To translate the text into English, look at the very bottom, in the lower left-hand corner and click on your language using the drop-down. A special thanks to Mathieu Perez in Paris for passing this along. Go here.
Pianist Ramsey Lewis announced last week a year-long concert series, Saturday Salon, on the site StageIt. He says he will perform his greatest jazz hits and covers of songs by the Beatles and Frank Sinatra. The concerts will be held on the last Saturday of each month this year, and each set will feature a hour-long performance at 1:00 p.m. (CT). Tickets are $20 per show and season passes are available for purchase until January 30th for $200 each. A portion of all proceeds will go to benefit the Jazz Foundation of America. Go here.
CD you should know about:
Russell Ferrante Trio—Inflexion(Blue Canoe). Pianist Russell Ferrante, a founding member of the Yellowjackets, just released this dazzling jazz trio album that features interplay between him, Michael Valerio (bass) and Steve Schaeffer (drums). Swinging originals, Yellowjackets songs and Monk, all with a classical overlay and beautiful touch. Go here.
And finally, with a heavy heart, a fond farewell to the late Gerry Marsden, frontman for Gerry & the Pacemakers and a product of the Liverpool beat and Brian Epstein's vision [photo above courtesy of the Museum of Liverpool]...
On December 12 and 29, 1952, tenor saxophonist Stan Getz took his working quintet into a studio in New York to record two 10-inch LPs for Norman Granz's Clef Records. They would be named Stan Getz Plays and The Artistry of Stan Getz. On piano was Duke Jordan, with Jimmy Raney on guitar, Bill Crow on bass and Frank Isola on drums.
On the 12th, the quintet recorded Stella By Starlight, Time on My Hands, 'Tis Autumn, The Way You Look Tonight, Lover Come Back to Me, Body and Soul, Stars Fell on Alabama and You Turned the Tables on Me. On the 29th, they recorded Thanks for the Memory, How Deep Is the Ocean, Gigi Gryce's Hymn of the Orient and These Foolish Things. In 1955, Granz combined the 10-inch tracks on a 12-inch album called Stan Getz Plays, using the same cover as the 10-inch album. It featured a black-and-white photo by Phil Stern of Getz and one of his sons giving him a kiss.
The sessions are notable for the the especially beautiful way Getz played throughout and for Jordan's captivating and inventive piano openings. But the recordings also featured the cool-toned, swinging guitar of Jimmy Raney, the heartbeat bass of Bill Crow and cushion-y drums of Frank Isola. Jordan's intros remain suspenseful, so much so that for me they're now part these songs.
For example, Jordan's ascending, halting chords on Stella by Starlight, his skippy, bop intro on Time on My Hands, the descending chords on The Way You Look Tonight, the lavish figures that open Body and Soul, the unusual Street of Dreams-like opener on Stars Fell on Alabama, and the intro that seemed better-suited for Thanks for the Memory but is used here on These Foolish Things (Raney opened Thanks for the Memory). [Photo above of Stan Getz by (c)Paul Hoeffler/CTSImages]
All of Jordan's intros set up Getz neatly, creating bop drama before Getz slides in with his suede-soft sound. These Clef tracks are among my favorite Getz recordings, and Jordan, Raney, Bill and Isola are fundamental to Getz's gentle tone. As Bill Crow noted yesterday at my FaceBook page, "When I was with Stan Getz, Duke was our pianist for a couple of months. I loved his playing." [Photo above of Duke Jordan in the late 1940s]
JazzWax tracks: You'll find Stan Getz Playshere and here.
Or at Spotify.
JazzWax clip:Here are all the tracks, starting with a seductive Stella By Starlight...
Yesterday, I posted on pianist Duke Jordan's first trio leadership session, in 1954. Today, I want to share one of his finest albums, Flight to Jordan, his first and only Blue Note release. The album is solid for several reasons: the group is tight and in the groove; all of the tracks, except I Should Care, were originals by Jordan; and the distinct instrumental personality of each individual member came together to create a gorgeous sound. [Photo above of Duke Jordan by Francis Wolff (c) Mosaic Images]
Recorded in August 1960 at Rudy Van Gelder's new studio in Englewood Cliffs, N.J., the quintet featured Dizzy Reece (tp), Stanley Turrentine (ts), Duke Jordan (p), Reggie Workman (b) and Art Taylor (d). This was a classic Blue Note hard-bop session. The Jamaican-born Reece plays beautifully here, with a sly warmth and crying tone while Turrentine steers through the melody with his big, dry, bluesy horn. I love Workman's pronounced, moody bass and Taylor's sharp and hissing drums. For his part, Jordan unfurls beautifully crafted chords, and his solos on songs such as Split Quick are exceptional and flawless.
Rather surprising that this group wasn't asked to record a few more albums for producer Alfred Lion. Jordan certainly had plenty of original material to offer up. Perhaps with Horace Silver, Hank Mobley and Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, Blue Note's quintet quota was more than met and another hard bop group didn't make much sense. Or more than likely, each member had other playing and recording obligations. [Photo above of Stanley Turrentine by Francis Wolff (c) Mosaic Images]
Whoever brought these musicians together had tremendous foresight. Somehow, that person knew they would work fabulously together as a team and that solos would be juicy and distinct. At the recording's center is Jordan's creative pulse and sophisticated attack. [Photo above of Dizzy Reece by Francis Wolff (c) Mosaic Images]
JazzWax tracks: You'll find Duke Jordan's Flight to Jordanhere.
Or at Spotify.
JazzWax clips: The full album is here in tracks...
Pianist Duke Jordan has always been exceptional. At age 25, in 1947, he began playing and recording with the Charlie Parker Quintet, which included Miles Davis (tp), Tommy Potter (b) and Max Roach (d). As a bebop pianist, Jordan's genius was his ability to operate on three levels at once. He kept superb time on the keyboard, on ballads or hell-raisers; he had a terrific sense of space, pausing momentarily in places to let the sound settle in the ear; and he had a soulful depth and grace that was lush and sophisticated. As a result, Jordan recorded many solid albums.
Today, let's look at his first recording session as a leader in January 1954. Recording since 1945, starting with alto saxophonist Floyd "Horsecollar" Williams, Jordan quickly became an in-demand bop pianist in New York. The following year he was with trumpeter Roy Eldridge and then tenor saxophonist Allen Eager before teaming with Parker on his East Coast Dial sessions. Jordan recorded with Stan Getz in 1949 with an all-star bop octet. Then came tenor saxophonists Gene Ammons and Sonny Stitt during their run on the Prestige label in 1950.
Jordan also was in the superb Stan Getz Quintet in 1952 with Jimmy Raney (g), Bill Crow (b) and Frank Isola (d), and the Getz Quartet, when Getz used Jordan, Bill and Kenny Clarke (d). By 1953, Jordan was recording with trombonist Eddie Bert on Bert's album, Kaleidoscope, with Sal Salvador (g) Clyde Lombardi (b) Mel Zelnick (d). So by the time he recorded as the leader of his own trio in 1954, Jordan had played with one championship team after the next.
The album, Duke Jordan Trio, was recorded in New York for Vogue producer Henri Renaud, who at the time was in the city recording American jazz artists for the French label. The trio consisted of Duke Jordan (p), Gene Ramey (b) and Lee Abrams (d). The 11 songs recorded were three spectacular Jordan originals—Minor Encamp (which would become a jazz standard known as Jordu), Scotch Blues and the wonderful Wait and See. Then came a series of standards with alternate takes—Embraceable You, Darn That Dream, They Can't Take That Away From Me, Just One of Those Things and Parker's Confirmation, the latter played with Jordanian intricacy that virtually reinvented the song.
If you're looking for an entry point for Duke Jordan, this is a good place to start. From here you can work backward and dig the Parker, Ammons and Sttit, and Getz sessions. As for moving forward, we'll do just that over the coming days.
Duke Jordan died in 2006 at age 84 in Copenhagen, where he'd been living since 1978.
When Bob Shad started Mainstream Records in 1964, his mission was to record what he liked. Freed from the confines of Mercury and EmArcy in the 1950s, Shad created a catalog at Mainstream that was highly diverse, from Johnny Mandel's Harper soundtrack to Big Brother & the Holding Company's first album. One of the artists he felt obliged to record was singer Alice Clark.
Not much is known about Clark or how she came to the attention of Shad in 1971. My guess is that arranger-conductor Ernie Wilkins had something to do with that discovery. Up until then, she had only recorded a few singles. Clark clearly was a church-rooted soul-gospel belter, and the songs chosen for the 1972 album, Alice Clark, were obscure but brilliantly written and shrewdly orchestrated. Someone had enormous taste in the choices.
Clark grew up in Brooklyn's Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood and recorded only briefly in New York between 1968 and 1971 for a Jubilee subsidiary. According to Dean Rudland's liner notes for Alice Clark: The Complete Studio Recordings 1968-1972 (BGP Records), Clark wasn't in a good place. Billy Vera, who wrote and produced her first recordings, said "I got the impression her life wasn't that great. She... had kids and belonged to a religious order that forbade either bathing or washing hair, I don't recall exactly which..."
This rare soul album is tasteful in every way. The known personnel includes Joe Newman and Sonny Cohn (tp), Charlie Fowlkes (bs), Paul Griffin (Fender Rhodes, p), Ernie Hayes (org), Cornell Dupree and Earl T. Dunbar (g), Gordon Edwards (b), Bernard Purdie (d), Alice Clark (vcl), Ernie Wilkins (arr/cond) and Bob Shad (prod). [Gatefold photo above of Ernie Wilkins]
The songs are Jimmy Webb's I Keep It Hid, John Bromley and Petula Clark's Looking at Life, Leonard Caston's Don't Wonder Why, John Kander and Fred Ebb's Maybe This Time (From the Motion Picture "Cabaret"), Juanita Fleming's Never Did I Stop Loving You, Bobby Hebb's Charms of the Arms of Love and Don't You Care, Leon Carr's It Takes Too Long to Learn to Live Alone, Bobby Hebb's Hard Hard Promises and Earl DeRouren's Hey Girl.
While Clark's recordings resonated with the Northern Soul movement in the U.K., the album fell flat in the U.S. While Shad knew plenty about producing a great album, the market had changed by the early 1970s. Black FM radio needed album singles that stood out during "drive time" programming, and this album's songs weren't hook-driven. It was too sublime, too poetic. Given the power of Clark's voice, it's surprising she didn't come to the attention of Creed Taylor after this album came out. She would have been perfect on Creed's CTI subsidiary, Kudu.
Clark left the music business after her eponymous album fizzled, likely because she had left everything on the table. She must have believed that if the music on this album didn't connect with the market, nothing she recorded ever would. In the hands of a more commercially minded soul producer, she might have fared better. As we listen now, the music Shad recorded was extraordinary—a soul masterpiece, a gospel game-changer and an emotional document that arrives just as soul was becoming more romantic and insistent.
Clark returned to raising her family. She died of cancer in 2004, at age 57.
JazzWax tracks: You'll find Alice Clark as a download here, as a CD here, on her complete studio recordings on vinyl here and in a CD compilation of her recordings here.
You'll also find the album at Spotify.
JazzWax clips:Here'sNever Did I Stop Loving You...
Marc Myers writes regularly for The Wall Street Journal and is author of "Anatomy of a Song" (Grove) and "Why Jazz Happened." Founded in 2007, JazzWax is a three-time winner of the Jazz Journalists Association's best blog award.
