Barry Miles Trio - 1972

These performances are from my TV show, The Jazz Set, taped in 1972. It was one of the first shows I did and the only one where the guest  was not my choice. Barry Miles was a good musician who received very early recognition (notice his age on the poster above), but he was on my new show because a New Jersey politician had "suggested" it to station management. I should mention that the shows originated in Trenton at New Jersey Television and only 13 were picked up for network airing by PBS—this was not one of them.

Barry Miles in later years.

Please don't interpret this as a put-down of Barry Miles, who delivered fine performances, I just resented the fact that I and my co-producer/director, Peter Anderson, were given no say in the choice. Barry made eleven albums under his own name before moving into other areas of the music business (see details here).

This audio includes my interview with Barry, and three selections by the trio: Joni Mitchell's "Woodstock," "Frenchie," a tune on which he performs an odd vocal form that I don't think caught on, and "White Heat," the title tune from his 1971 album. The tape ends rather abruptly, so I did a quick fadeout. The bassist is Gene Perla, the drummer is Barry's brother, Terry Silverlight. 

Jeremy Steig Quartet 1972

I wish I had video of all the episodes in The Jazz Set series of half-hour shows director Peter Anderson and I did for New Jersey Television and PBS in 1972. I have already posted most of what I have on this blog, but some of my own favorites are missing. Recently, I came across an audio tape that had landed in a box at the Royal Library, Copenhagen. I am indebted to Mona Granager of Storyville Records for locating this box and having the label's engineer make the digital transfer. What we have is The Jazz Set from April 24, 1972, when my guest was flutist Jeremy Steig. He brought with him a stellar working group comprising bassists Eddie Gomez and Gene Perla, and

Eddie Gomez, Don Alias, Gene Perla.

percussionist Don Alias. I hope you agree that some good things came out of that combination. Two of the three numbers are identified, but I don't recall the title of the last one—if you know it, please share it with us.


Jeremy impressed me from the very beginning. A somewhat withdrawn young man, his style was just the opposite. Oh, he could be quite lyrical, but when a robust approach was called for, he became a powerhouse and those notes flew out of his flute as were it an AK-47. 

This PR glossy was stamped
"Historic." It made me feel a
bit older than old.

Jeremy's fondness for kids often brought him back to school, and especially, kindergarten. Children ought to be introduced to jazz at an early age, he felt, and it was difficult for them to relate to improvisation, so he had the great idea of taking tunes they all knew, playing them straight at first, then improvising on them. He said it was amazing to see the faces of little kids when they detected a familiar tune in new dress.

Jeremy, the son of New Yorker magazine cartoonist William Steig, died in May, 20016, at the age of 73. He and his wife lived in Japan.  Here's a Wikipedia link that will tell you more.

Here is my interview with Jeremy, and his Quartet's performance on The Jazz Set.

The box of tapes that turned up in Copenhagen contained more sounds that I will be sharing with you here in the future.

Buddy Bolden: First-hand Impressions

Jelly Roll Morton turned a tune called "Funky Butt" into "I Thought I Heard Buddy Bolden Say," and he was among many who actually did hear Mr. Bolden and lived to talk about it when the "moldy Fygs" of decades past started digging up whatever jazz information they could find. They were funny guys, these early collectors, obsessed as such people tend to be, but in a humorous sort of fashion. Some jazz veterans (still relatively young in those days), had their own fun with the collectors, feeding them an assortment of tales, some of which have yet to be debunked.

New Orleans banjo player Danny Barker made up a story that had jazz writer-historian Rudi Blesh wasting days scouring a Long Island town for the garage in which Barker said King Oliver made some mysterious recordings. 

Myths about pioneers—real and imagined—abounded, but no character was more intriguing than the cornet-playing barber whose horn could be heard from one end of New Orleans to the other, until he blew his mind right into an asylum. His name was Charles Joseph Bolden, known as "Buddy," and no more mysterious figure could be found in all of jazz. He may not have been a barber, but he was definitely a mental patient, and if he is not the only true "legendary" figure in jazz, he is certainly the one most qualified for that hackneyed title.

Many years ago, when Sammy Davis, Jr. hosted his own TV show, he introduced his guest, Sarah Vaughan, as "The legendary..." As if to underscore how misused the tag had become, Ms. Vaughan exclaimed, "Thank you, Sammy!," as she walked in to take her seat. "You know, every morning when I wake up, I look at myself in the mirror and shout, 'I'm a legend! I'm a legend!"

These days, referring to someone as legendary is a polite way of saying that they have been around for years. Ironically, Buddy Bolden's life was relatively short, but he was on the jazz scene before anyone knew what to call the music, and he blew his horn with such force that those who claimed to have heard him perform recalled the sheer volume of his playing more vividly than the music itself. Although jazz recordings had been around for fourteen years in 1931, when Bolden died at age 54, he never appeared on one. Diagnosed as having dementia, he spent his last 23 years as a mental patient. Yes, there's the old rumor of the "lost" Bolden cylinder, but I doubt if anyone ever took that tale seriously. A legend is, of course, a tale, especially one told far and wide, and with either missing or conflicting details. In jazz, Bix Beiderbecke left an aura of qualifying blurriness, but, unlike Bolden, he made many recordings and left tangible footprints. Bolden's legacy comprises the stories, a misty face in a group photo, and equally fading recollections. It is possible that more people thought they heard Bolden than actually did, but, even though the clear across town story is among the exaggerations, some had to have listened. One being Peter Bocage, who was in his mid seventies in 1961, when I recorded his band for the Riverside label and taped a brief interview.

I assume that today's racial attitude is considerably better in New Orleans than it was a half century ago. Back then, I could not share a taxi with guitarist Emanuel Sayles nor eat at bassist McNeal Breaux's restaurant (the back door solved that problem), and there are no longer separate Musicians Union locals for black performers. It was remarkable to find such racism existing by law in 1961, but it was only eight years ago that Hurricane Katrina blew off a mask of mardi gras harmony and reveal the extent to which the city discriminated against non-whites, 

Some have observed that a more covert, but no less hateful form of discrimination was practiced by black people of light complexion—some of whom were "passing," as the saying went. "When I want to pass," the late Moms Mabley used to say, "I carry under my arm a copy of El Diario." 

We get an inkling of this racially-based class distinction when Peter Bocage, a man of light hue, speaks of Buddy Bolden. For more about Mr. Bocage, I suggest that you go to Wikipedia.

The interview took place during a break at the Société des Jeunes Amis hall, where we recorded the sessions, so there were musicians milling about, causing Bocage to lower his voice at one point. Since I haven't the equipment to digitize the original tape, I have taken this excerpt from a weekly radio show that I conducted over the WQXR network in 1961, so you will hear my introduction.

When I relayed Bocage's views on modern jazz to Dizzy Gillespie, he rather liked hearing his music described as "eccentric."

Bocage, McNeal Breaux, photographer Ralston Crawford, and Benjamin Turner. Insert shows Bocage around 1910. (photo by Chris Albertson)

Here is "Bouncing Around," as played by Peter Bocage and His Creole Serenaders that day. Bocage is heard on trumpet, along with Homer Eugene, trombone, Louis Cottrell, clarinet, Benjamin Turner, piano, Sidney Pfluger, electric guitar, McNeal Breaux, bass, and Alfred Williams, drums. The recording engineer was Dave Jones.

COMING UP: The next scheduled post will comprise recordings made by me at a 1964 Jackie Robinson lawn party. Performances by Mercer Ellington and Duke's alumni orchestra, the the Dave Brubeck Quartet.