Celebrate the real Prez!

Today, Americans celebrate "President's Day". It was originally implemented in 1880, as a remembrance of numero uno, George Washington, who was a good President in many respects, but he owned slaves, so let's not get too carried away with him. Eventually, many wanted to include Abraham Lincoln, who also was a good President and did George one better: he worked to free the slaves—in many ways, that is still a work in progress.

Many states had different ideas and Washington's birthday celebration morphed into a variety of presidential tributes. America's mindset being what it is, the business community stretched out its hand and—lo and behold—the ever-so-easily-persuadable Congress saw that it was green! In fact, it held tons of little slips, each one with an engraved likeness of a past president (I think they might have left George out). Lump them all together, they suggested. It's not about presidents, anyway, but here is a wonderful opportunity to give Americans a day off so they can buy stuff they really don't need—hey, it might even make them feel patriotic to dip into their pockets and slim down their wallets. 

Congress and the rest of the mob on the Hill found that irresistible, so we were given another national day of over-the-budget consumption. No exchange of gifts required for this one—just an excuse to self-gratify.

I choose to celebrate Lester Young, a Prez whose face was never seen on a coin or bill, but whose music just keeps on giving. Lester leapt in on August 27, 1909, and made a premature departure on March 15, 1959. There is no particular day on which to enjoy the rewards of his creativity, but this day is as good as any to remind us of a treasure that Washington overlooked. Lester was also overlooked in other ways—there are, for example only two extant audio interviews with him. One is mine and—as you will read—I posted it here only because of its rarity.

Sam Wooding, Part I - Early 1900s

You may not be familiar with Sam Wooding or his music, but he was an important part of jazz history, as you will realize if you listen to his recollections. This is the first of a five-part interview Sam and I did for the Smithsonian during April of 1975. Here, he talks about his childhood, growing up in Philadelphia and spending time in Atlantic City, where many pioneers of black American music worked at the beginning of the 20th century.

As his account continues, you will hear Sam talk about Harlem, which became his stepping stone to a whole new world: Europe. In fact, Sam Wooding spent many  years working in other countries, which is why his name is not as familiar to American jazz followers as it ought to have been.

Eubie Blake (here with his partner, Noble Sissle, 

was an early influence on Sam.

Born June 17, 1895, Sam was approaching his 80th birthday when we sat down in my living room to make these tapes. As you will probably notice, he was very relaxed, for we had become friends a few years earlier, so he and his wife were no strangers to my apartment. This was also not the first time we had come together for an interview. A few years earlier, we did a rather unusual one-hour TV special wherein we conversed casually over a meal on a Trenton studio set that was a remarkable recreation of Sam's actual Harlem apartment. Striving for authenticity (and unable to comfortably fit a crew and three full-sized TV cameras into the actual apartment, our set decorators worked from photos and borrowed objects. We even had a glimpse of the kitchen, from which Rae Harrison (Sam's trusty companion and, later, wife) popped back and forth, serving her fried chicken (actually ordered from Chicken Delight).

I never had a copy of that show on tape, but I hope that one exists, somewhere, because Sam and Rae were marvelous.

Studio recreation of Sam Wooding's Morningside Ave, apartment.

Here is the first hour and a half of the interview. Part II will be posted Tuesday morning, February 21.

The 2012 Grammy Awards Show

When Pierre Cossette passed away, I saw his departure as a glimmer of hope for the annual Grammy Awards show, because his production work was, frankly, horrid. They gave the job to his son, John, and—if possible—the production numbers got worse. Now the son has died and I am not sure how much input he had on Sunday night's show, but it was quite possibly the worst I have seen.

In all fairness to those responsible for this year's disaster, there is less and less to work with each year. The Crickets met their death in a plane crash 53 years ago, and that tragic day has become known in pop history as "the day the music died." Catchy, but not true. In fact, the music thrived in the Sixties and into the Seventies, but then something happened, but it wasn't a plane crash—it was a takeover of the recording industry by accountants and attorneys, who loved the bottom line more than they did the music. Yes, if they could find the right beat, their fingers and feet tried to fall in with it, but most of them had tin ears. Since Whitney Houston's sudden death last Saturday, the media has gone to town doing their usual thing. I couldn't tell you how many times I heard that Clive Davis "discovered" Whitney—one of those talking heads even credited him with also finding Janis Joplin—the implication being that Clive has an uncanny ear for what the public wants. The truth is that he relies on the ears of others. When I was producing records at Columbia, I used to observe him at company events at which newly signed artists performed. He always had his eyes on the black people around him, taking from them his clapping cues.

I bring this up because Clive's little game is innocent and humorous, but there is a very serious thing going on in the recording business as a whole: it is contributing to the death of America's popular music as we know it. We have a serious problem when NARAS, the organization that is the embodiment of current American music, the arbiter of taste, literally promotes mediocrity and leaves out of its equation genres that not only laid the foundation for everything we hear, but without which their industry organization could not have grown to its present multi-million dollar state.

If you have followed the Grammy path in the past few decades, you may have noticed how certain genres of music have slowly been phased out. One could usually expect to hear at least one jazz performance and/or a classical one during the awards show, but that was soon reduced to a brief mention and a clip from an off-the-air Grammy handout. Now, even that has ceased. This year's ceremony made no mention of classical music, jazz, Latino music, blues or folk—these vital forms have simply been pushed off the radar to make room for something that will produce screams from young people in the gallery. It's not as if time limitation comes into play, for there were several instances of hip hop performers giving more than one performance, and the three and a half hour show featured several segments that would not have passed muster on American Idol.

Apropos that talent contest show, the best performance of this Grammy evening was given by one of its former winners, Jennifer Hudson, who—following the obligatory parade of the past year's casualties, sang "I Will Always Love You," the Dolly Parton song that seems to overshadow everything else she sang. I always found Ms. Houston's rendition to be annoying—Ms. Hudson's delivery was better. By the way, a few jazz performers were included in the list of departed artists, among them, Ray Bryant, George Shearing, Joe Morello and Frank Foster, but no mention of Pete Rugolo, Paul Motian or Bob Brookmeyer (to mention three losses from a very long 2011 list).

I won't go into too many details regarding the evening, suffice it to say that the Muses must have been out of town. With a few exceptions, terrible songs were screamed from dimly lit sets by people who tried to hide their lack of talent behind over-amplified guitars. Dance steps often seemed to have been taken right from a beginner's manual, and costumes—when they were used—looked like they came from a cheap Halloween rental place or, in the case of Chris Brown's "ensemble," grandma's bed and windows.

Rapper turned actor, LL Cool J, performed well as the evening's host, but an unseen lady had the task of identifying presenters and giving advance notice. For example, she made several mentions of an upcoming "amazing production number that everybody will be talking about tomorrow." I saw nothing that might fit that description, but she may have had in mind a truly awful, embarrassing bit of hokum featuring one Nicki Minaj as the subject of an exorcism. As she did her best to remind us of Michael Jackson's Thriller look, she was led by a Carrdinal—or some such creature of the church—past a motley group of B-picture monks singing "Come All Ye Faithful" to what looked like Arian Nation nuts from central casting. It was in the poorest of taste and way beyond the cringe that I later felt when tweeter complaints forced a last-minute "tribute" to Don Cornelius, the man who took us on so many great Soul Train rides. Producers had left Cornelius out when they compiled their list of departures, so they awkwardly squeezed in a detached mention of him as LL bridged to the next "production" piece: an encore performance by Foo Fighters in a dark tent crowded with light-stick wavers and some sort of half-electronic, ill-conceived mouse. Another segment that was not ready for prime time.

On the more positive side, Tony Bennet was there to sing a duet with Carrie Underwood, which he did well, sounding more youthful that Paul McCartney. Taylor Swift was good, as was the English singer, Adele, who won six Grammys but failed to convince me why she should have. Actually, I am not so sure that she herself knew, "This is ridiculous," she remarked as she clasped number five, and when she won another—for Record of the Year— she muttered, "I know it's not really a top record." As I hear her, Adele is not a great singer, but she is good one, writes decent songs (a rarity these days), and has a nice personality and refreshing candor. Also on the plus side was a reunion of aged-but-able Beach Boys with Good Vibrations. They were aided by a young group that appears to emulate them, but they really weren't needed.

Glenn Campbell was honored by some of the evening's Country & Western nominees, and he himself took the lead on "Rhinestone Cowboy." He did well, all things considered, but I wish they had not announced that he is suffering from Alzheimers. I know the family has made it public and that he is currently on a "farewell" tour, but bringing it up as he was about to perform struck me as just a bit morbid.

Steve Jobs and Rudy van Gelder received a so-called "Trustees Award" Grammy, which occasionally goes to people who they feel have done something worth honoring, yet falls outside of any of the established categories. One of my own Grammys is such a trophy, but don't ask me why they awarded it to me. I should mention that I did not renew my NARAS membership when—many years ago—I discovered how much manipulation went into the selection process.

So, there you have my impression of Sunday night's show—did it call for party hats or dunce caps? Mostly the latter, I would say, and they would not look out of place on the people who call the shots on these shows, especially the current NARAS President, Neil Portnow, who bears much of the blame for the Academy's focus on cash rather than culture. I hope you will add your own comment below.


Please click on "comments" if you feel like sharing your opinion of the show, or the Grammys, in general.

Bud Freeman Quartet 1962

Teschemacher (glasses), Jimmy and
Dick McPartland, Bud and his brother,
the actor Arny Freeman, in Chicago,1923.

Bud Freeman, the dapper dan of the original Chicagoans, always had about him an air of sophistication. At various times in his life he had wanted to be a professional golfer, a tap dancer, drummer, and even a Shakespearian actor. He looked the part for all of these professions. It is said that Lester Young admired Bud's playing, which should surprise few people—Bud's inspiration was Frank Teschemacher, the enigmatic alumnus of the fabled Austin High School Gang. I don't recall why I decided to do a session under Bud's leadership, except that his extraordinary solo on a 1933 recording, The Eel, by Eddie Condon's band was still glued to the walls of my mind. Bud recorded it again under his own name in 1939. A couple of weeks after this quartet session, I asked Bud to come back for an Elmer Snowden date that put him up front with Roy Eldridge—I will post some of that here, later.

This was not a working group, although pianist Dave Frishberg had been gigging regularly with Bud for awhile. This turned out to be Dave's first commercial recording session—he moved on, as you probably know, to compose and record a slew of wonderfully witty songs like Blizzard of Lies, My Attorney Bernie, and Peel Me a Grape.

Meet You in San Juan, Bud Freeman's own composition, gives all four players a spotlight opportunity, which is something Haggart and Lamont were no strangers to. Bassist Bob Haggart was a founding member of Bob Crosby's highly successful 1935 band (remember Big Noise from Winnetka?) and drummer Don Lamont's eventful career took him way beyond being a driving force in Woody Herman's memorable "Four Brothers" band.

Bud Freeman and Duke Ellington in 1939

Cliff Jackson's Crazy Rhythm

Here's another keyboard romp by Cliff Jackson. He was a stride pianist and first-class guy who had lived and participated in decades of extraordinary jazz development, making many recordings under someone else's leadership, including Dizzy Gillespie's. He and his devoted wife, the wonderful Maxine Sullivan, owned a house in the Bronx where Cliff would spend hours in his basement lab, experimenting with chemistry while she sometimes played a trombone. Not your average couple! 

This is a track from the first of two sessions we did for my own company. This one kicked off the December 30, 1961 date. We had planned a single date, but the piano's baseboard broke, so we ended up doing a second session the following month.

If you wish to know more about the stride piano style that Cliff represented, may I suggest that you visit pianist Mike Lipskin's site. This link will take you directly to his page on Harlem Stride Piano.

Ruby Smith: A cab ride to Columbus

Tired of their cat and mouse game, Bessie decided to appease her husband, Jack Gee, by making him the producer of her touring show. She knew that Jack wasn't fit for the job, but felt that her brother, Clarence, would guide him. Impressed by her box office success, T.O.B.A bigwig Sam Reevin gave Jack a $3,000 budget for Bessie's next show. Getting Jack involved in her business was supposed to cement the ever-widening cracks in their relationship, but it did just the opposite.

Jack threw together as cheap a production as possible for Bessie and decided to use the remainder of the money for personal gain—not to enrich himself financially, but to win the heart of Gertrude Saunders, a singer of striking looks and impressive past accomplishments. Ms. Saunders had starred successfully in the title role of Irvin C. Miller’s Red Hot Mama show during the 1926 season, and headed the cast of various subsequent editions, but her most successful shows had been Liza and the 1921 Sissle and Blake hit, Shuffle Along (which included Josephine Baker in the chorus line). The latter production would probably have secured Ms. Saunders’ stage future, but she made a fateful decision and allowed herself to be lured away from the original cast by an offer that never materialized. Gertrude Saunders’ bad move opened the door for the ultimate black beauty of the day, Florence Mills, who took over the role and was such a hit that she became the toast of Broadway. Ms. Mills career was cut short in November,1927, when she died at the age of 35, but the bright spotlight Gertrude Saunders so foolishly relinquished was never restored to her.

It is not known when Jack’s relationship with Ms. Saunders began, but Ruby thought it had gone on for some time before Jack produced her show, and that it accounted for some of his “hunting” trips. Gertrude Saunders was the antithesis of Bessie Smith, their personalities and looks contrasted sharply: Gertrude’s complexion was light, her hair long and soft, her disposition gentle. She was also slim and quite a bit younger than Bessie—a typical “Miller beauty.” The artistic gap that separated the two was equally wide: Gertrude Saunders relied more on her looks than on her voice, which had about it an unfortunate Florence Foster Jenkins quality and a range that could have made her the Yma Sumac of her day. 

“She was the opposite of Bessie,” said Ruby, making no secret of her disdain. “She had light skin and long curly hair and a gorgeous figure, and she knew it. In fact, she thought her shit didn’t stink." 

Jack strikes a Benny pose, Gertie mesmerizes.

In a 1971 interview, I asked Ms. Saunders if she had known that Bessie’s money went to back her show. “No,” she replied, emphatically, “but Jack could very well have put the money in my show without telling Bessie. Naturally he wouldn’t tell me if it was her money, he’d want to act like a big shot.” Which, of course, was exactly what he was doing. 

“I don’t know how he thought he could get away with it,” said Ruby, “but he wasn’t never too bright and he didn’t know anything about show business. He should have known that you can’t keep something like that a secret, not with all them blabbermouths around. His show only lasted about five or six months, then it folded up. He couldn't get enough bookings. And,” she added acerbically, “his star wasn’t strong enough to hold it up.” After a short run in New York, Bessie’s own show, Steamboat Days, hit the road again—back to Detroit’s Koppin Theater, then on to the Globe in Cleveland, and, on March 11, a week at the Roosevelt in Cincinnati. That's where we pick up on Ruby's recollection.

And here is Ruby performing live over New York radio station WNYC, February 19, 1949. Her accompanists are trumpeter Gus Aiken, pianist Lannie Scott, Ellington veteran Wellman Braud on bass, and drummer Freddie Moore, who made his recording debut with King Oliver. Ruby complained to me that John Hammond insisted on her singing in Bessie's style, ignoring the fact that Bessie had moved herself into the Swing Era. Determined not to be regarded as a 1920s relic, she renders a couple of songs from Bessie's early repertoire and ends with a "modern" number—she had it all figured out. 

Howard McGhee 1961

As far as recording activity is concerned, 1961 was a productive year for me. Trips to New Orleans and Chicago resulted in several Riverside albums (the "Living Legends" series) and I produced a number of Prestige albums at Rudy Van Gelder's New Jersey studio. In New York, there were sessions with Meade Lux Lewis, Ida Cox and Elmer Snowden, and I ventured out on my own with a one-man production company that yielded four albums, but no income. Had I made money on this, I would have been long gone by now, but the music is still there and possibly to be found on the Fontana or Black Lion labels, but only if you rummage deep enough.

I started that venture with a Howard McGhee date. He was rehabilitating himself at the time and had been off the scene for far too long, but—as you will hear on the sample that now is but a click away, Howard still had it going. He was beginning to get work, and was with Duke Ellington at the time when I contacted him, but great as that looks on a resume, it was possible to play with Duke and never have the spotlight hit you. Many promoters were wary of hiring serious drug addicts, even if they were recovering, and Howard sometimes found himself regarded as a great player gone good, a sideman with name recognition. He liked my suggestion that we should change that image, so my solo walk was off to a good start. Howard knew exactly what he wanted to do and who he wanted involved, so he got together a stellar group. I will, from time to time, post selections from this and other of my own sessions, because I know that these recordings—although actually issued—are not easy to find. Unfortunately, I could not afford a studio whose sound was commensurate with these performances, but Stea-Phillips—located off the lobby of the Wellington Hotel on Seventh Avenue—did a decent job. Here is Howard's own composition, "Sharp Edge," which he had originally titled "Mag-San."  Let me know what you think. 

For a larger view of this post's heading, please click on it.

Cliff Jackson strides

If you wish to know more about the stride piano style that Cliff represented, may I suggest that you visit pianist Mike Lipskin's site. This link will take you directly to his page on Harlem Stride Piano.

Humph and Neva '53

The first time I heard of Neva Raphaello was March 16, 1953, when I recorded a night at the Lyttelton Club on my new B&O tape machine. I only had about five years of experience listening to jazz, but I knew instantly that this was not a singer whose career I would follow. I still haven't figured out why the Dutch Swing College Band recorded with her or, for that matter, what she was doing with Humph at 100 Oxford Street—she simply was not in their league. That said, here is Neva with the intermission group, Mike McKenzie's trio (he was a decent pianist) in a performance made listenable by Humph's participation. 

Another moment of Humph at 100 Oxford St.

Here is another selection from March 16, 1953, the night I brought my tape recorder to 100 Oxford Street. As usual, Mack's Restaurant had put its tables aside, morphed into The Lyttelton Club, and opened its doors to an enthusiastic crowd of young people who moved not so rhythmically to the music. Farewell Blues, the evening's last performance, became a little jam session when Archie Sempel—from Freddy Randall's band—mounted the bandstand, clarinet in hand. Unfortunately, I was late starting the tape and it ran out before the number was brought to an end, but it's a wonder that any part of this tape is playable almost 60 years later. The balance is not good—Johnny Parker's piano is distant and Bruce Turner is obviously standing closest to my single, stationary microphone.

The tape does capture the atmosphere of this popular club at a time when trad was all the rage in some of Europe's capitals. There is more tape from Lyttelton's hiding in my closet, possibly on unmarked reels. I have Neva Raphaello singing—though not so well—with Mike McKenzie's trio and Humph sitting in, but there should be more with the band and I will share anything when and if I find it. In the meantime, you can ease into Farewell Blues: 

 

Here are links to other recordings from that evening: Shake It and Break It, Chicago Buzz.