My "interview" with Lester Young

In 1958 I was a staff producer/writer at WCAU Radio, a major Philadelphia station with an illustrious history that since has gone from CBS to NBC. At WCAU, which was celebrating its 35th anniversary back then, I caught the tail end of old-time radio, the kind that continued on TV for a while—with cameras added. They gave me two live audience shows: one aired every weekday at noon and had a dead giveaway title, "Hi Neighbor!", the other was the slightly more elaborate but equally horrendous "Surprise Party". I recently found a tape of the latter, which I may one day post a sample from, but it is hopelessly passé and my script was deliberately corny. The host was Ed Harvey, who at that time was quite a popular figure in Philly, and we featured a musical trio, two vocalists (male and female), a resonant announcer with perfect pronunciation, and a guest star, usually some Hollywood idol plugging a new movie. Our audience ate it up, they were mostly ladies with time on their hands, who came for the gratis entertainment and prizes. Each received a bag of sample products, and while that alone would have lured them there, I also had a more substantial carrot to dangle: a refrigerator, stove, or other major appliance. They gave me a budget for give-aways and I could spend it any way I wanted to. 

We had what we called the "regulars," women who never missed a show and raised a fuss if someone dared to occupying "their" seat. Frankly, I couldn't stand the regulars and I confess that there were times when I cheated them by rigging prizes. Each seat had a number with a corresponding ticket in a large bowl, so a drawing determined the week's winner. If I spotted new faces in the audience (tourists sometimes came to the station), I might call out their seat number instead of the one drawn. When the big prize was an all-expenses-paid New Year's Eve for two in Paris, I picked out a young couple to win it. I know it was dishonest and unfair to the regulars, but...

As you can imagine, doing these programs was thoroughly dissatisfying, so I managed to talk the Program Director into letting me also do a weekly one hour jazz show, "Accent on Jazz".  I wrote and produced it, our deep-throated announcer delivered it, and each week focused on a different artist or subject. Because the show was of a documentary nature, I began conducting interviews with visiting jazz people and extracting from them sound bites for the show. My own voice was not for the air, so the whole idea was to get my guests to say something quotable that could be used in a variety of contexts. 

I am offering this detail to explain why the "interview" with Lester Young is so painfully awkward and why I am asking really dumb questions to which I already knew the answers. Were it not for the extraordinary fact that Lester Young—a great player who truly took the tenor sax and the music itself in a new direction—only left behind two known recorded interviews, this tape would have remained unpublished. As it is, transcripts have appeared in books by Martin Williams, Stanley Dance, and Lewis Porter, and the tape is reproduced in a boxed Verve set (The Complete Lester Young Studio Sessions), all with my permission.

Lester Young had recently been hospitalized and he looked frail on August 24, 1958, when he came to the WCAU studios on Philadelphia's City Line. On February 6, 1959, he was in Paris, where he gave his second extant interview to Francis Postif. He recorded his final session during the first week of March, but took ill and returned to New York City. On March 15, 1959,  six and a half months after we sat down at WCAU, Lester died in his room at the Alvin, a hotel across the street from Birdland that had become his "home." 

1953 Jam Session continued...

Here, from the jam session I recorded when Lionel Hampton brought his band to Copenhagen on November 12, 1953, is a 24-minute version of Indiana. A few years back, I gave my friend Don Schlitten permission to use about ten minutes of this recordings for a Xanadu album called International Jam Sessions. That snippet marks the only publication of anything from these tape until I posted two selections here almost exactly 57 years later. Here is a link to that post, which contains Perdido (sorry for the missing opening solos) and All the Things You Are. Now, I end this particular glimpse of my past with the full version of Indiana. At the very end, you will hear me or someone else say, in Danish, that Lionel is going to play but that we must not record him. Lionel did perform—seated to the right of Jørgen Bengtson—an index finger version of   something I dubbed Anniversary Boogie. Many years later, I confessed to Hamp that I had kept the tape machine running, but under a closed lid. He was happy to hear that and asked me to give him a copy, which I did. The original tape rests somewhere in my closet and I will post it if I find it.

I wish to thank those of you who commented on these tapes in various online forums. They attracted close to 500 visitors in the first two days, which overwhelmed me. I hope Indiana prompts return visits and comments (you can use the comment option that ends this post, or the blog's guestbook). It would also be great if you could help me identify some of the solos.

Indiana - Part 1
Indiana - Part 2

A 1953 jam session emerges from the closet

As I post this, Veterans/Armistice Day, November 11, 2010 is coming to a close. Exactly fifty-seven years ago, I was backstage at KB Hallen, in Copenhagen with a new friend, the amiable Baron Timme Rosenkranz. On stage was the Lionel Hampton orchestra, a big band about which there had been much advance buzz, it being said that some of the young sidemen were extraordinary. Earlier that day, Timme called and invited me to go with him to a post-concert wedding anniversary party scheduled to begin around midnight at the Richmond Hotel. Lionel and Gladys had been married for 17 years and she had called for a celebration. "She will probably serve hot dogs and beer," said Timme, half jokingly and knowing what a penny-pincher she was. 

The Hamptons. He made the money, she called the shots.

The buzz regarding the band turned out to be correct, but not so Timme's prediction. The party was actually a nice one, complete with a huge decorative ice arrangement and an enormous cake that was brought into the room dramatically, although not with as much fanfare as Gladys herself. Oddly enough, Timme and I were the only outsiders present, but, as far as I was concerned, that just made it more special. When I think back, I still wonder how I so quickly went from being the shy guy seated in the dark back corner at jazz lectures to running around with the esteemed "Baron of bounce" at Lionel Hampton's party.

I should have been in seventh heaven, but I was unable to really enjoy myself, because I knew that a large group of Tuborg and Carlsberg-guzzling jazz fans were assembled in a hall not so far away, anxiously anticipating the promised delivery of jazz stars for an all-night session.

Timme Rosenkranz

You see, I had gone out on a limb earlier in the day when Timme called about the party. I thought this would be a great opportunity for a jam session (musicians still had them in those days), so I asked him if he thought some of Hamp's musicians might conceivably agree to come to the Storyville Club that night. Timme said something about musicians always looking for a good time, and offered to herd them down there. "There," was the Storyville Club, but not at its regular location—we gambled and rented Forsvarsbrødrenes Hus (Copenhagen headquarter for the Danish military veteran's association) for the night. This was a hall larger than our usual one, and it was but a short cab ride from the Richmond Hotel, so I whipped up some flyers and spread the word to spread the word. Now, as we were a couple of hours into November 12th and the anniversary cake dwindled down to the last crumbs, it was time to get busy and round up Hamp's sidemen. I ran behind Timme, reminding him of our mission, but his mind was on the musicians and what was left of the liquid refreshments.

As I've said before, the naked soon learn how to spin new threads, so, when  GIadys' romp was finally fizzling out, I mustered up enough courage to corner Hamp and extract from him a promise that some members of the band would come with me to the club. The musicians were tired of looking at each other and, as word spread about a jam session with free booze and plenty of Danish girls, I saw instrument cases and overcoats being grabbed. Now Timme got into the act and soon we were off in three Volkswagen bus cabs. At the last minute, Hamp slid into the seat next to me and said that he wanted to come along, but that he wouldn't stay long.

Clifford Brown

I guess many back and forth phone calls were made by Storyville members that day, because the place was packed when we arrived. I had already set up my B&O recorder, next to the upright piano, and placed the microphone on the small stage. Hamp was greeted with loud cheers and he ended up staying for two or three hours. In fact, he also performed. When he saw my tape machine, he told me that it was okay to record "the cats," but that I had to switch the machine off when he played. When he surprised us all by seating himself at the upright, I merely closed the lid of the recorder. Twenty years later, when I told him of my deception, Hamp grinned and said he would love a copy of the tape. I made him a dub, but a fire in his apartment crudely reduced it to a lump of mylar.

I don't recall everybody who else came along, but I wrote down the names of Gigi Gryce, Clifford Brown, Anthony Ortega, Jimmy Cleveland, Quincy Jones, and Clittord Scott. Of the Danish musicians I recall trumpeter Jørgen Ryg participated, his playing later improved measurably, but he had great success as a standup comic and film actor. Baritone saxophonist Max Brüel also played, as did Erik Moseholm, a fine bassist, and pianist Jørgen Bengtson. The drummers (you hear them both on Indiana) didn't quite have it down, but one of them was considerably better than the other.

The session continued after the tape ran out, until about 7 a.m. With only one microphone, a crude, unscientific setup, and a large room filled with jubilant beer drinkers, it's a miracle anything was recorded at all, and an even greater miracle that the tape didn't get lost during my nomadic days.

Be prepared for chaotic sounds with good and bad intertwined, and please let me know what you think of these recordings and my posting of them.

The above text is a fleshed-out version of my original post, which was made in August of 2009, when I started this blog. At that time, I did not know how to include audio or video files, so I have relegated that one to the deep recesses of my archives.

Addendum: Timme Rosenkrantz was truly an unforgettable person to those of us who had the good fortune of knowing him. He was a witty, delightfully eccentric Baron (the real thing) who often wrote of his addiction to jazz and those who performed it. Timme's writing has now been  translated into English and lovingly assembled by Fradley Garner. The book, Harlem Jazz Adventures, is due out by the end of 2011 and you can keep up to date on it by going to The Jazz Baron. 

Here is Perdido:

Here is All the Things You Are: 

Here is a link to more.

Jimmy Heath 1972 - interview and music

Notwithstanding the sync problem—which persists, but is being worked on—I decided to post the remainder of the Jazz Set show featuring the Jimmy Heath All-stars. It begins with a brief interview in which Jimmy expresses his aversion to playing jazz in taverns—the TV set replicated such a place—and with the term itself. Reflecting a prevalent attitude of the times (1960s and '70s)  he preferred to call it "Afro-American music." Like so many other era-generated notions, this, too, did pass and we are all instinctively able to distinguish between fornication and great music. 

Jimmy with Dave Brubeck, Jimmy Heath and Mel Tormé, at BMI event,

flanked by Jean Banks and Burt Korall. (Photo by Gary Gershoff)

Of course, not everyone recognized great music when they heard it. Twelve years earlier, I made a living (though barely) spinning jazz records seven days a week on WHAT-FM in Philadelphia. My taste being eclectic, I played jazz of every kind throughout the week, but I devoted Sunday afternoons to my 78 rpm collection, so you know that it was a sometimes scratchy trek back in time. Philadelphia jazz listeners seemed open to a wide range of styles: older listeners enjoyed the nostalgia as well as the music, and the younger set appreciated hearing where their favorite sounds came from. There was, however, this one guy who didn't like what he heard, so he called me regularly on Sundays to complain. Why, he wondered, did I play all this "Uncle Tom" music? In one of our discussions, he pointed out that he was black and that this "Mickey Mouse" music—as he also called it—was "the kind of thing we are trying to get away from."

Jimmy Heath with his brothers Percy and Albert.

In the early 1960s, calls to radio stations were still off the air, so it was just Bill and I, arguing privately.  It would have been interesting had other listeners been able to join in. I have later come to understand why some black Americans wanted to distance themselves from the past, but—with European soil still clinging to the bottom of my shoes—I could not imagine how anyone, especially a professed jazz fan, might regard the Armstrong Hot Fives, Bechet's magical soprano rides, Morton's amazing Red Hot Peppers, or Ellington's extraordinary sound paintings as anything other than stunning examples of creativity. Bill was not to be swayed, but I took comfort in the fact that his were the only complaints.

Percy and Jimmy (photo by Dorothy Tanous)

About four years later, I had moved to New York City and was working at  WNEW when our music librarian was giving a new comedian a tour of the station. He was promoting his first album and we all had to meet him. "Chris Albertson!," he exclaimed after our introduction. "Are you the guy who used to play all that Uncle Tom music on WHAT?"

I have had very mixed feelings about Bill Cosby since that day.



I hope you remember to click on images for the Viagra™ effect, forgive me for the sync problem, enjoy this retro glimpse of Jimmy Heath, and leave a comment.
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The Death of Bessie Smith

Early recounting of jazz history is a weave of truth and conjectures. The music's pioneer chroniclers were unquestionably dedicated to the subject, but they often skipped the tedious task of conducting research, and simply perpetuated whatever sounded interesting to them. One reason for their cavalier approach may well have been the abundance of first-hand accounts available to them. Short of sitting down with Buddy Bolden, there were few stones that couldn't be upturned. Also, bear in mind that one couldn't stick a recording machine into one's pocket, and few writers had mastered shorthand (I only met one, Whitney Balliett). All this to point out that the field was fertile ground for myths.

Forty years ago, when I began work on my Bessie Smith biography, I was determined to bust as many of these myths as I could. Bessie was no singing wallflower or paragon of virtue, but neither was she scandalous by the day's show business standards. Hedonism went with the territory, and she led an active and sometimes outrageous life at home as well as on the road. If Bessie's off-stage adventures seemed a tad wilder than most, it was perhaps because her commanding presence demanded attention and few things she did escaped notice. Still, some writers used their Imagination and came up with such fantasies as her being kidnapped and dumped at Ma Rainey's feet, kicking and screaming her way out of a potato sack, or volunteering as a maid for her bed-ridden record producer, Frank Walker, or forced by Depression economy to take a job as a speakeasy hostess and selling chewing gum and candy in theater aisles. None of this was true, but it made good copy—never mind that even light research would have turned up better stories of exploits that actually did take place. 

One Bessie Smith myth was bigger than all the others combined: the story of how she bled to death, the victim of a Southern hospital's racist policy. Initial press reports did not hint of any such occurrence, but there were street whispers, and when they reached John Hammond's ears, he saw in  them an opportune irony that could both serve his leftist agenda and sell records. That the tale was riddled with holes did not seem to deter anyone from perpetuating it, not even John, who regarded himself as a member of the press. Had he simply picked up the phone and made a call or two, he could have written a piece that set the record straight, but he chose instead to give the rumor legitimacy in a piece written for the November 1937 issue of Down Beat.

This is when the myth grew legs that would keep it going for three decades, inspire a young Edward Albee to base upon it a one act play, The Death of Bessie Smith, and make Bessie almost as known for the alleged way in which she died as she was for her remarkable artistry.

Richard Morgan and Bessie pose in front of her old Packard in 1937

While John Hammond and others ignored the aforementioned holes in this story, some were justifiably skeptical. They included folklorist John Lomax, who in 1941 wrote a letter of inquiry to Walter Chandler, the Mayor of Memphis. In his response, the mayor correctly pointed out that the accident had not occurred in his city, as alleged by Hammond, but added that the country "is infested by Negro communists who seek to poison their own people against their best friends." If Lomax harbored further doubts about the story's veracity, he does not seem to have done anything about it. However, in 1957, Down Beat's George Hoefer, a jazz journalist of unusual integrity, made an attempt to get at the truth, but his findings were largely ignored—the myth refused to die, even after evidence to the contrary was published.

When I informed John Hammond that Bessie was, in fact, never refused admittance to a white hospital, and played for him the account attached to this post, he appeared to be embarrassed and did not give me an argument. I was therefore surprised to find in his 1977 autobiography, John Hammond on Record, a contrived story of how he was told "a long and convincing story" by "a man who was in a position to know the truth." He added that "there were two other people there nodding agreement as he told it to me." Why had John not told me this when he knew that I was researching Bessie's death? Because, he explained in his book, the man asked not to be quoted.  Yes, pigs do fly.


Flo Kennedy, the late attorney, was a good friend of mine, but she stopped speaking to me after the publication of Bessie. A couple of years later, she broke her silence and explained: "I know you wrote the truth about Bessie's death, but you should have left it alone."

Dr. Hugh Smith in the 1960s

It was George Hoefer's 1957 article that sent me on the trail of Dr. Hugh Smith. I knew only that he had been an intern at the Campbell Clinic in Memphis at the time of Bessie's accident and that he had in some way attended to her.  "I don't know how far back your personnel records go," I said when I called the clinic in 1971, "but I am trying to locate Dr. Hugh Smith, who was an intern in 1937." The lady on the other end of the phone asked me if I wished to be connected to Dr. Smith. He was still there and had long been the head of the clinic. Sometimes, one call can make a very big difference. Dr. Smith told me that he was tired of reading all these stories about how Bessie bled to death, so he would not give me an interview. However, he recommended that I read the liner notes on Columbia's latest reissue, because that was as close as he had seen anyone get to the facts. When I told him that I wrote the notes, he said that he would be happy to answer my questions and suggested that I mail them to him. He would send me a tape with the answers.


Here is that recording, made public for the first time. It contains more than an account of the accident scene, for Dr. Smith gives a great deal of information regarding the location, terrain, and what the South was like in 1937. Running time is about 42 minutes, but I hope you listen to the entire tape. It even has a surprise ending about which I will say no more.
Dr. Smith on Bessie's accident
http://www.mediafire.com/file/6jd0bnl9wuscj1v/2-01_Bessie%27s_accident.mp3

Click on image to enlarge

Bessie's casket leaves the church in Philadelphia for a slow tour through her neighborhood, stopping

briefly at the Standard Theater before heading for Mount Lawn Cemetery in nearby Sharon Hill.

http://2-01%20bessies%20accident.mp3/