Joe Alterman's Blog

Tony Bennett at the Village Vanguard

2012-02-09T11:04:00.000-08:00

The following was originally published on JazzWax.com on February 6, 2012. It was published under the "Eyewitness" Section and is my experience about going to hear Barry Harris recently at the Village Vanguard.

"A week ago yesterday I went to see Barry Harris’s second set at New York’s Village Vanguard. He was appearing with bassist Ray Drummond and drummer Leroy Williams.

Whenever I go to the Vanguard, I like to show up early with hopes of getting a seat just behind the piano’s keyboard. The seat lets me see what the pianist is doing, which gives me quite an education. Fortunately, the table I wanted was open.

Shortly after I took my seat, and I looked around and noticed a “reserved” sign on a table in the center of the club to my right. But as people continued to file into the Vanguard, the table remained empty. I kept watching the door to see who might show up. Saxophonist Lee Konitz walked in, but he didn’t sit at that table.

At 10:55, the lights dimmed. I looked back at the door one last time. There was Tony Bennett standing in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs with a woman, who I later learned was his wife, and a few of their friends. They were waiting to be seated. But instead of sitting at the "reserved" table, Tony chose a booth on the other side of the room. As they made their way to their table, most people in the audience whispered but let him have his privacy.

Then Barry, Ray and Leroy took the stage, and the show began. The trio launched into Like Someone In Love, complete with Barry's signature block-chord style. It was reminiscent of Bud Powell’s version on Dexter Gordon's Our Man In Paris. At the end of the song, Barry said, "Everyone wants to feel like someone in love, but sometimes I just want to be happy."

Naturally, they launched into a brisk, hard-swinging version of I Want To Be Happy. On Harris' version of Embraceable You, his choir joined in. The 20 or so singers were seated like audience members on the "upper-deck" booths just off the stage and were a welcome surprise.

Toward the end of the hour and a half set, Barry picked up the microphone and began to tell a story. He said there was a special person in the audience who had been a close friend of his for years. He told of the first time the two played together, when this person had come by a club where he was playing and sat in. Barry said that each time they would meet—whether in New York or Japan—they would perform the same song.

During one of those chance meetings, Barry said, this person happened to be at the Village Vanguard to hear pianist Tommy Flanagan. Coincidentally, Barry was there, too. When Flanagan invited that person on stage, Flanagan asked what he wanted to do. The person yelled out into the audience, “Barry, what key did we do that song in?” “‘F,’ I yelled back,” Barry said, laughing.

Barry then took a deep breath and said, “I want you to know who is in the audience tonight. Ladies and gentleman, Tony Bennett.”

The place, of course, went nuts. When Bennett stood up to be acknowledged, he spent what seemed like a long moment thinking. Then he started to make his way up to the stage. When Bennett arrived at the mike, Barry yelled out, “Barry, what key is that song in?” They both laughed. However, before we could learn the name of the song they had performed regularly over the years, Bennett humbly said, “I liked what you guys did with Embraceable You. Could we do that one?” Barry launched into an elegant eight-bar introduction, during which Bennett said to the choir, “You’ll have to sing with me.”

Barry was the perfect accompanist for Bennett. The same goes for the choir, which sang long "oo's" behind Bennett and sounded like a string section. It was haunting, in a beautiful way. The choir and Bennett's voice all came in right at the same time and blended perfectly.
Bennett’s voice sounded so good and so strong that it was hard to believe that the 50th anniversary of his release of I Left My Heart In San Francisco was the next day.

As Bennett left the stage, Barry talked about how we had all just witnessed a very special moment. “It’s in the air now,” he said, adding, “I’m sure one of you caught it somehow. It’ll probably come out in Japan and we’ll never know about it.”

Then Barry grew serious again: “New York is a finishing school. You get your beginnings somewhere else, and then you come here. That man is a finisher. Tony Bennett is a national treasure.” Amid the roars, claps and hollers that followed, someone in the audience yelled out, “So are you Barry!” and the applause grew even louder.

As Bennett and his wife and friends made their way up the Vanguard stairs during Harris’ encore, I looked around. Everyone’s expression said the same thing: 'Did that really just happen?'"

Memorable Moments: Bobby Hutcherson

2012-02-07T22:34:00.000-08:00

As a volunteer at this year's NEA Jazz Masters Awards, I was fortunate enough to attend a rehearsal of Bobby Hutcherson, Jim Hall and Kenny Barron. As Hutcherson walked into the room (besides introducing himself to Jim Hall!), it was obvious that he was in much pain - he has emphysema and uses oxygen supply -. All that pain seemed to go away as soon as he touched his instrument. It was like magic, like medicine and it was quite inspiring to see not just how much love he has for the music, but how much love the music has for him.

As the rehearsal continued on, others who were at Jazz At Lincoln Center that day popped in the room to hear the music. One of those people was saxophonist Jeff Clayton.

At the end of that specific take on the tune, Clayton said hello to Hutcherson and asked how he was doing. Hutcherson responded in quite a joyful tone. "Well," he said. "I'm doing good!" Then he paused and said, "Life is good, isn't it?"

Clayton nodded, looked down at Hutcherson's oxygen machine and said, "Sometimes."

Hutcherson smiled, and through that that smile he spoke. "No," he said. "It's good."

Jimmy Rowles Meets Billie Holiday

2012-02-06T16:58:00.000-08:00

Below is an an excerpt from Michael Sheldon's excellent liner notes to the Jimmy Rowles' "Trio '77/'78" album. What follows is Rowles' description of one of his first encounters with Billie Holiday.

"I was at the Trouville about a week, and I had just met Billie," remembered Rowles. "We had just come from rehearsal, and I didn't know what to make of her, whether she came out here to fuck Lester Young, or what she did. One night I was sitting at the end of the bar and called her - 'Lady, can I buy you a taste?' So she sits down besides me, I bought her a gin and Coke. Can you imagine drinking that shit? I don't know what to talk to her about. So I think back to when I was listening to Andy Kirk's band...So I remembered a tenor player with Kirk, and for some funny reason I ask her about Dick Wilson. She put her drink down. 'Did I ever know Dick Wilson?' Now this is the first time I talked to her alone. 'I'm gonna tell you something. I was going with Freddie Green, and I was faithful to that motherfucker, but every time I saw Dick Wilson, I just had to take him out and fuck him.' The first time I'd heard anything come out from a chick like that. Crazy chick. She had me then. What can you do after that? You have to love her. Too much chick.'"

Memorable Quote: Roy Haynes

2012-02-05T22:45:00.000-08:00

"They're just not used to the ding-ding-da-ding."

- Roy Haynes, in conversation with a friend after a recent performance at Dizzy's Club Coca-Cola, on playing with The Allman Brothers Band.

Memorable Moments: Bill Cosby & Jimmy Heath

2012-02-04T22:38:00.000-08:00

"So grab ahold of those dentures and blow the candles out!"

- Bill Cosby to Jimmy Heath, on stage at the Blue Note this past October at Jimmy Heath's 85th Birthday Big Band Celebration.

Memorable Quote: Jimmy Heath

2012-02-03T12:23:00.000-08:00

"I woke up today and I looked in the paper and I wasn't in the obituary section. I'm good!"

- Jimmy Heath's response to my "How are you?", at this year's NEA Jazz Masters Awards.

Memorable Quote: Chick Corea

2011-11-16T23:57:00.000-08:00

"He wouldn't specifically tell me to do anything, but he'd hint at it," Chick said, referring to Miles Davis. "He'd turn to me at certain parts and say, 'I like that.'"

- Chick Corea, to Gary Bartz & all those listening in from outside the dressing room door (including me) at the Blue Note earlier tonight, referring to the time that Miles Davis took him (Chick) to see Ahmad Jamal in concert.

Memorable Quote: Kareem Abdul Jabbar

2011-11-16T23:55:00.000-08:00

"Chick was channeling some Red Garland tonight!"

- Basketball legend, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, excitedly walking into the dressing room at the Blue Note to greet Chick Corea earlier tonight.

Memorable Quotes: June - November, 2011

2011-11-13T20:33:00.000-08:00

"About the cell phone thing: maybe turn the volume off, but keep the vibrate on. Especially you musicians; I don't want you to miss that big break." -Chick Corea, earlier tonight, on stage at the Blue Note Jazz Club.

McCoy Tyner to the sound guy at the Blue Note, during soundcheck one day after Gary Bartz remarked that the piano stool was low, which reminded him of Erroll Garner: "Got any telephone books?"

"He [the composer] must've been in love [when he wrote that]. Well...I guess that'll help you write good songs." -McCoy Tyner, to me, on the song, "I'll Take Romance."

"Don't...No...No...The best exercise you can get for your hands is practice; strengthen your fingers, not your hands; scales do more for you than weights." -McCoy Tyner, to me, on weightlifting as a pianist.

"That's why music is better than sex: it lasts." -Benny Green, relaying to the audience at the Blue Note some wise words that Ray Brown once told him.

"If you're a musician, don't forget to listen to the birds." -Randy Weston, at an interview at a Manhattan Barnes & Noble.

"'cause when I love my baby but my baby don't love me you can only say that with the blues." -Randy Weston, on why Jimmy Rushing said that the Blues is the greatest music.

"If you blow it, you blow it. Nobody dies, and then you learn something." -Fred Hersch, at a recent masterclass at NYU.

"I didn't go to church on Sundays; I went to the Vanguard." -Dee Dee Bridgewater, to me, on her apprenticeship with the Thad Jones/Mel Lewis Big Band.

Ray Brown Tribute Band

2011-11-12T20:36:00.000-08:00

As an intern at the Blue Note Jazz Club, I recently had the honor of putting together the following video. It was such a thrill to interview some of my favorite musicians of all time - Dee Dee Bridgewater, Benny Green, Christian McBride, & Greg Hutchinson - on their mentor and a hero of mine, the legendary Ray Brown.

Hanging Out with Ron Carter

2011-06-06T22:19:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, I was treated to quite a thrill. Currently interning at the Blue Note Jazz Club, I was in the office today when Jim Hall and Ron Carter were there doing their soundcheck.

As the soundcheck ended and Ron began to head upstairs to the dressing room, I asked him if he'd like any help. He obliged and handed me his bass case. "Be careful," he said. "It's heavy." It was.

After we got into the dressing room and finally figured out how to turn the lights on, Ron, smiling, cracked a joke. "I like those," he said, referring to the complicated light switch. "But only one of 'em," he said, laughing.

It was obvious that Ron was in a very good mood and I could also tell that he was enjoying my company. I seized the moment, taking that opportunity to grab a video camera in hopes of asking Ron a question or two (for the Blue Note blog, one of my job responsibilities).

I found Ron downstairs just to the right of the stage. With camera in hand, I asked if I could ask him one question about the Blue Note, for the club's 30th Anniversary. "Of course," he said. "Let's go up to the dressing room for this."

We got up to his dressing room and sat down in the room's comfortable chairs. I turned the camera on and asked him my Blue Note related question. My one promised question quickly turned into two and then three. His answers were very telling of the care with which he holds all of the musicians with whom he plays. Here's what he said when I asked him if there was any particular Blue Note performance that particularly stands out to him:

"Well, you know, to answer that question kind of implies that the others weren't so important, so I'm not gonna do that. (laughter). They're going to come knock on my door and say, 'Why you!'...And I never answer that kind of question because I don't want anyone who is not mentioned in my commentary to feel that their job wasn't important to me, or that I didn't have a good time, or that I didn't learn any music, or that I'm not looking forward to working with them again. And each group I've worked with here, I've always had a good time, and I've always learned some music, and I've always had the chance to look forward to working with them some more, and hopefully I've gotten better in the meantime, so I don't want them to feel that they're not on my list."

It was obvious that I was listening to a very caring, thoughtful, and articulate man speak.

I mentioned to him that I'm a pianist; that I study with Don Friedman. He began asking me about Don; how he's doing, what he's been up to, etc. I felt us getting into a friendly conversation, so I turned the camera off and sat back.

As Ron began telling me about recording with Don and Joe Henderson, I was reminded of a really wild band - a totally unknown one - that Don was once a part of and had told me about. I told Ron, very excitedly, about the vocalist' Dick Haymes' group which included Don, Scott Lafaro, and Elvin Jones.

Upon hearing this, Ron was shocked. "What!", he exlaimed. "Wow, they must've washed Haymes away."

I told him what Don had told me; that on a gig they played at the Village Gate, the IRS came out to get Haymes; he owed a million dollars in taxes. Ron was certainly shocked. "One million dollars," he said. "In the sixties...Damn, in the '60's one-million dollars really was one-million dollars."

I mentioned that I hadn't realized that Dick Haymes' brother was Bob Haymes.

"Who's that?", asked Ron.

"He wrote 'That's All.'"

"Wow," said Ron. "I didn't realize that."

I told Ron that Haymes had also written one of my favorite songs, a song that isn't very well known, but a song that Blossom Dearie did amazingly, "They Say It's Spring."

As soon as I mentioned Blossom Dearie's name, Ron's face lit up. "I know that song," he said, smiling.

He began telling me how much he loved Blossom Dearie's piano playing. He said that he really admired the way she played chords; that she was really a master of voicings, and that she always played the perfect chord for each moment, always with the right note on top. He told me that he really had a lot that he had wanted to learn from her. "When I played with her, I knew the right bass notes and passing tones to play below her but I wanted to sit down at the piano with her and learn about the full chords from her." He said that the two always talked about getting together for this lesson of sorts, but for one reason or another, it never happened. "Regrettably," said Ron.

I told him how I love her repertoire; how she's really introduced me to so many beautiful songs that I never would have heard otherwise. He agreed. "She had a way with songs that were very rare that people didn't really know, but she would interpret them in a way that would make people want to know them, and she'd make them popular before they were popular...She was singing 'Peel Me A Grape' long before it was famous."

I smiled, saying how I also loved her arrangements; how she'd slow down songs - like "Tea For Two" and "Surrey With A Fringe On Top" - that were normally played fast. He smiled too, and during mid-laugh, began to sing - just a few bars - raising his voice to a high squeal, doing his best Blossom Dearie impersonation.

It was really a thrill to talk with Ron Carter about one of my all-time favorite musicians, Blossom Dearie. It was also extremely surprising and validating (in a way) to hear him speak of her piano mastery and his love for her music and her piano playing. Ron is always associated with Herbie Hancock, a pianist who is often considered the ultimate harmonic master, and it was very exciting to hear his excitement about the playing and music of Blossom Dearie.

One thing that really shocked me during our conversation was how comfortable Ron made me feel throughout, and how genuinely interested he seemed in what I had to say, too. Looking back on it, it really felt like nothing more than two huge jazz fans having a friendly conversation about the music we both love.

I told him how I recently played with Houston Person and how his sound just knocked me out; how, while on stage listening, I got the chills and I realized that I'd never really heard that sound on the saxophone before in real life; no one really plays like that anymore.

Ron understood, seemingly shocked at that reality. He began to reminisce on that specific tenor sound..."One of my first sessions was with Coleman Hawkins, Tommy Flanagan...and Eddie Locke or someone like that. I think it was called Hawk's Groove...or something like that." He said it quickly, casually, in passing, before asking the question that mattered most to him: "Do you ever listen to Don Byas?"

"Oh yes," I answered. We began to speak about the Town Hall duo recordings of Don Byas and Slam Steward. Ron loves those recordings. He then asked about Gene Ammons, and expressed to me his love for that sound, the sound of the "Texas Tenors," quickly mentioning Frank Wess as another player that he loved.

I told him that one of my favorite recordings is the Coleman Hawkins/Red Garland album. He smiled. I also expressed my love for his album with Red Garland. "Oh yeah," he said. And then, so cool and casually, said: " That was with Philly Joe, too."

Our conversation kept on for a while. Ron was really at ease and seemed to be enjoying our conversation. He seemed especially grateful when, later that day, I brought him a copy of a Blossom Dearie piano-only record that he hadn't heard before. I apologized for my bad handwriting. "It's not bad," he said, laughing. "Don't worry. I've seen much worse."

As I was leaving the room, Ron said to me: "It was great talking with you. That was a bit more than one question, but I was prepared for it. I really enjoyed it."

I've heard stories about Ron being a tough guy, a difficult interview, and I've also heard some near-horror stories about some people's approaching him. To me, I sat in awe as I fathomed how those stories could be possible. That day, I was in the presence of a real sweetheart, someone who loves to smile and laugh and share his experiences. More than anything though, I felt that I was in the presence of an extremely inspiring jazz fan, someone who gets just as excited about jazz and specific musicians as he did when he was only a kid; the only difference is that this enthusiastic fan just happens to be the great Ron Carter, too.

Here's a video of a portion of the interview:

Monty Alexander

2011-05-25T18:30:00.000-07:00

As I’ve mentioned in earlier blog posts, one of the more recent highlights of being a student at New York University has been a Friday afternoon interview series at a local Barnes & Noble between Dr. David Schroeder, NYU’s Director of Jazz Studies, and various jazz legends.

He’s interviewed many musicians who I admire and can relate to in some way, but for the most part, the stories of those being interviewed are very different than my story, and they are life stories that, given the time and place of my birth, are absolutely impossible to have happened to me. While that is also so with the story of the great pianist Monty Alexander – who Dr. Schroeder interviewed this past Friday - there was something about his story, what initially drew him to the music, and what continues to inspire him today that struck a deep chord with me.

While many of the jazz greats that I’ve heard speak live often talk of how their lives changed drastically from the minute they heard John Coltrane (something I can’t relate to), Alexander said that one of his first powerful musical memories was the contagious smile and happiness he felt when listening to Nat King Cole sing.

There was something I could relate to.

He went on and on; speaking about pianists Erroll Garner and Nat Cole (noting how Nat is certainly one of the most underrated pianists of all time, as his influence on great pianists such as Ahmad Jamal is extremely evident, which is something I’ve been thinking about for a while now). However, more than anything he could’ve said about their musical technique, he spoke about the way in which they performed, and how it impressed him so. He said that Nat would sit at the piano and play, but he’d have his legs facing toward to the audience; really playing for them.

He spoke of the joy he felt when he listened to Erroll Garner, and Milt Buckner, and Eddie Heywood.

“Did he just say Eddie Heywood?!” I had to do a double take! One of my favorite pianists of all, Heywood was a truly beautiful player, a master of touch and taste, and also one of the great masters of playing melodies.

As Alexander went on to talk about what he loved about Heywood’s playing, (“His playing was perfectly economical,” he said.) I began to feel like I was listening to myself talk. I sat in awe listening to how the exact same musicians had affected each of us in the exact same way at the exact same time in our lives.

I loved how he would say often that the things he most loved about certain musicians was that they made him feel good, or that simply, they made him smile.

Often, musicians, when asked the same question, go on about one’s technical mastery of the instrument, or things very specific, musically, that they admire. To me, it’s always been about making me smile and feeling good on the inside. It was truly a thrill to hear this simple, truthful answer come from this master. In some ways, it made me feel that my ideas and thoughts, similar to his, were finally validated.

He went on to explain that he wasn't attracted to the dissonances created by the music of John Coltrane and Ornette Coleman and more free jazz (although he loved to listen to it and was in awe of it!...He just didn't want to play it). His musical goal has always been to honor the melody and play with and around the melody in the most beautiful way possible. Another sigh of relief.

It was very validating to hear Monty Alexander express my feelings towards music as his. To hear these things, things that have often made me feel more isolated than closer to my peers, was exciting to hear because it made me realize that, "Hey! There are people thinking like me!" Plus, he's been thinking this way since the 1950's and it's worked pretty well for him, too!

Besides this extremely validating and inspiring insight into the thought process of Monty Alexander, he, too, like his heroes Nat Cole, Louis Armstrong, and Erroll Garner, is a fantastic entertainer. The stories he told left the audience jaw-dropped in amazement.

He spoke of a gig one night, where he was playing solo piano, and there sitting in front of him at a table were Frank Sinatra and Miles Davis, deep in discussion.

He spoke of hanging out with Miles at his house. He said that Miles constantly listened to Sinatra, especially when learning a ballad. "Miles played Sinatra around the house," Alexander said. "I was there."

He spoke of Jimmy Smith and Richard "Groove" Holmes, and the hardships of lugging around big organs. He said that both organists bought old Hearst cars and drove to every gig with the organ in the back.

He also mentioned a conversation he had had with bassist Bob Cranshaw just after Cranshaw recorded the now legendary Lee Morgan tune, "The Sidewinder." He said that during the session Morgan was trying to get pianist Barry Harris to play the classic bluesy figure that makes up the melody, and Harris refused. "I won't play it," he said. "That's Rock N' Roll!"

It was a truly exciting and inspiring hour, and I feel honored to have been present.

Memorable Quote: Sonny Rollins

2011-05-24T23:51:00.001-07:00

"There's nothing to worry about. You have nothing to fear. If you can look the man in the mirror in the face, then everything's going to be OK. I'm not afraid of anything."

I wasn't at this show, but I read online that this is how Sonny Rollins ended his concert last week at the New Jersey Performing Arts Center.

Memorable Quote: Roy Haynes

2011-05-23T22:32:00.000-07:00

"We had one gig together and, after the first tune we played, Lester came up to me and said, 'You're swingin'. If you want the job, it's yours.'"

- Roy Haynes, this past Saturday evening at the Jazz Standard, on getting hired by Lester Young.

Memorable Quotes: Bill Clinton

2011-05-18T21:18:00.000-07:00

"People are happiest doing what they're good at."
"You should strive to achieve happiness every day, not just at the end of a journey."

- Former President Bill Clinton, at the 2011 NYU Commencement at Yankee Stadium.

Frank Wess

2011-05-17T13:44:00.001-07:00

This past Saturday, I had the pleasure of seeing a live interview with jazz legend Frank Wess. His statements and answers were very powerful, and I wanted to share a few of my favorites with you.

On learning the craft: "Good musical sound, good time, and to be able to play a melody. If you can do that, you can get away without having all the theory in the world."

"When you play all those fast notes...Who's going to be able to hum that when they get in bed?" - Wess' quick response to being asked what's missing in jazz today.

"It ain't got nothing to do with the chords." - Wess, on the importance of melody in his solos. He was asked specifically if, when learning a song, he practices playing through the chord changes.

Ahmad Jamal Interview

2011-05-10T11:13:00.001-07:00

This past Saturday, I had the honor and pleasure of interviewing the great Ahmad Jamal. Not only has he been one of the most influential jazz musicians of all time, but his music has been instrumental (no pun intended) in my development as a musician; in fact, it was his recording of "Like Someone In Love" that got me hooked on jazz. For years, I've had many questions that I've wished I could ask Mr. Jamal, and this past Saturday I was given that opportunity. He was extremely kind, honest, thoughtful, and giving in his answers. It was an absolute thrill to speak with one of my heroes, the great Ahmad Jamal, and I hope you enjoy reading the following bits from our conversation.

Joe Alterman: One of the things that I’ve always loved about your playing is your repertoire. I’m curious how you were originally introduced to the great standards.

Ahmad Jamal: My aunt, who was an educator in North Carolina, sent me many, many compositions via sheet music, and that’s how I gained the vast repertoire that you hear me indulge in. I was sent those things by her gracious efforts from 10 years old and on. So my Aunt Louise was the one responsible for me acquiring that vast repertoire of standards…It’s a combination of what she did and also working around one of the great cities for musicians, or people who were developing a career in music: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. So working with groups in Pittsburgh, and what she sent me, and the environment under which I grew up in. As you know I…well you don’t know (laughter), but I sold papers to Billy Strayhorn’s family when I was seven years old. So we [Pittsburgh] have Billy Strayhorn and Erroll Garner and Earl Hines and Roy Eldridge, Ray Brown, Art Blakey, and a pianist that you’ve probably never heard of, Dodo Momarosa. He was a great pianist…And Earl Wild, the great exponent of Liszt; a great interpreter of Franz Liszt…And Gene Kelly the tap dancer. The list goes on and on and on…George Benson, who was a much later personality that developed in Pittsburgh. But he’s a Pittsburgh personality, as well as Stanley Turrentine. It goes on and on and on.

JA: Mary Lou Williams too. Right?

AJ: Mary Lou came there when she was very, very young – a lot of people think she’s from Pittsburgh…but she came there when she was very, very young. I think she’s from Georgia, but she came to Pittsburgh when she was three or four years old. She went to the same high school I went to. And you can’t forget Billy Eckstine and Kenny Clarke…All those masters come from Pittsburgh.

JA: A couple months ago, Jimmy Heath came to NYU to give a class, and our teacher asked, “What was it like growing up in Philadelphia?” And he said, “I don’t want to talk about that. The great music town was Pittsburgh.”

AJ: (Lots of laughter) They had some great musicians too. That’s all the same; I kind of group them all as “Pennsylvanians.” Philadelphia had some wonderful artists, and Harrisburg produced one of the great bassists of all time, who I was just thinking about recently, Dr. Art Davis. Jimmy Smith is from Pennsylvania as well. So we have a grouping there. Philadelphia was a great area for music, but that’s all part of Pennsylvania. (laughter)

JA: There’s a bunch of tunes you played that are really rare, such as “Music, Music, Music”, tunes that you may have the only jazz version of. Were you purposely trying to pick out songs that weren’t played as frequently? Or did you just like those songs?

AJ: No, I just played songs that I liked. I just picked out songs that I favored; it wasn’t an attempt to do anything but use the repertoire and use the things that I had learned and heard in my growing-up years.

JA: Do you remember when you first heard “Poinciana”?

AJ: “Poinciana” was a part of the repertoire that Dr. Joseph Kennedy, Jr. had in our book. Joe Kennedy, the great violinist and educator - who is also from Pennsylvania. McDonald, which is also part of Pittsburgh…suburbia. But he had that in the repertoire when I formed “The Three Strings.” It was a spin-off from “The Four Strings;” I was the pianist in that, which was his group. I was introduced to “Poinciana” through his repertoire and what he wrote and what he selected as compositions that “The Four Strings” should perform. It was Joe Kennedy, myself, and Ray Crawford, the guitarist. Joe Kennedy was a master violinist.

JA: Do you learn the lyrics to the songs you play? Are lyrics important to you?

AJ: You have to…Well you don’t have to, but in order to re-interpret these things correctly or in a more informed-of manner, you should know the lyrics or know something about the lyrics. It gives you an idea about what the composer had in mind. Most of the songs that I perform I know the lyrics.

In fact, recently I’ve started writing lyrics to a lot of my things. I’m beginning to write lyrics to a composition that I wrote which is also going to Moscow, “Flight to Russia.” I think I’m going to send that to Igor Butman. I think Igor is one of the really popular musicians in Russia; I think he went to Berkeley too. James [Cammack] is well aware of Igor. I’m in the process of doing that as well.

So, lyrics are very essential. It’s like the famous story about Ben Webster, the great saxophonist. He’s playing a beautiful ballad…you’ve heard this story many times but I’m going to repeat it: Ben Webster was one of the great ballad players of all time, and he was playing this wonderful ballad and he suddenly stopped. And they said, “Ben, why in the world did you stop?” He said, “I forgot the lyrics.” You’ve heard that story before?

JA: Yes. I was reading an interview with Bill Evans and the interviewer asked him the same question and Evans said that he’s never learned any lyrics, he doesn’t care for them, and that the singer might as well be a horn player.

AJ: (Laughter). Well, different strokes for different folks. But, to me, lyrics are very essential. You know, you don’t have to, but I think you’re a more informed interpreter if you know the lyrics.

JA: Did you work consciously on your touch? You’ve got the “magic touch.”

AJ: Well, you know, that’s the interesting thing about Horowitz: he’s playing the same repertoire, but it’s his touch that makes the difference. If you listen to Horowitz or some of the great people who work in the European body of work, it’s the same repertoire. But, everything lies in the touch. Horowitz had a great touch.

JA: One of the other people I think of, in jazz, with a great touch is Hank Jones.

AJ: Hank Jones had a wonderful touch. So did Art Tatum. In fact, that should be a prerequisite for every music student: Tiny Grimes, Slam Stewart, and Art Tatum playing “Flying Home.” Whether you’re working in a European body of work or in American Classical repertoire, the prerequisite should be Art Tatum’s “Flying Home.”

That’s a unique thing about people in American Classical Music, which is a phrase I coined some time ago: you have to know the best of both worlds. I was playing Franz Liszt in competition when I was ten years old, but I was also playing Duke Ellington. So that’s a marvelous thing about the wonderful players that make up our genre. We have to be multi-dimensional. Dave Brubeck has to know Mozart. He has to know Duke Ellington, and it’s the same way with George Shearing; he can play the concertos but he can also write “Lullaby of Birdland.” So that’s the wonderful thing about people that are working in our field. They’re multi-dimensional; they’re not one-dimensional. That’s why I call them “American Classicists.” I think that “jazz” does not define properly what we do. I’m not paranoid about the term “jazz” but I don’t call myself a “jazz musician.” I call myself and my colleagues, the John Coltranes, and the Duke Ellingtons, “American Classicists.”

There are only two art forms that developed in the United States and that’s American Indian art and this thing we call jazz. I call it American Classical Music and that’s what it is. The little thoughts that we have here have been put here by way of these two developments: American Indian Art and American Classical Music, both of which are never promoted. You don’t see Duke Ellington every day on the television. You should, but you don’t. You don’t see Dave Brubeck every day on the television. You don’t see me and you don’t see George Shearing, but you should. You don’t see Louis Armstrong. But in Europe, you do. Not here, and that’s unfortunate.

JA: I’m wondering if you were purposely trying to innovate this music, which is what I often hear from different educators that the greats such as yourself did, or if you played what you loved and it just happened to be different.

AJ: Well, the fact is that all Pittsburghers are uniquely different. No one plays piano like Erroll Garner. No one plays bass like Ray Brown. No one plays piano like Earl Hines. No one plays drums like Art Blakey. No one plays saxophone like Stanley Turrentine. We all have ushered in a different era that’s just one of the unique phenomena of Pittsburgh. No one danced like Gene Kelly. No one interpreted Liszt quite like Earl Wild. Lorin Maazel, the conductor, is from Pittsburgh too. Andy Warhol is from Pittsburgh. It goes on and on. It’s very difficult for me to exhaust the list but all of us are different and unique so it’s just a phenomenon that all of us have a different approach. This is a thing that happened to me as a result of growing up there; I followed that same pattern.

JA: Were you close with Erroll Garner?

AJ: My mother and his mother were friends, but I didn’t meet Erroll until after because he was working in places I couldn’t go in was a kid. Erroll had the best jobs in Pittsburgh and I was too young to go where he was working. So I didn’t know Erroll until later. He came back to Westinghouse High School and played for us. I was amazed because it seemed as though he was playing on all the black keys and in all the multi-flat and multi-sharp keys. He was certainly a person who heard everything in all the keys…B Natural, G Flat, F Sharp; it didn’t make any difference.

He was quite a stride player, too. A lot of people don’t know that. So I didn’t know Erroll until later on; I met him after I left home.

JA: I know you’re obviously influenced by Garner and Nat Cole, but one of the things that people don’t talk about as much as they talk about your linear and melodic lines is your mastery of the block chord technique. Who influenced you in terms of block chords? Erroll Garner? George Shearing? Milt Buckner?

AJ: If you really want to do a study on the mastery of block chords you have to listen to Phineas Newborn. Even today, he’s certainly underrated…That’s another area that’s produced some fantastic musicians: Memphis. My former bassist, the late Jamil Nasser, is one of them. But Phineas is from Memphis and so is Harold Mabern, who’s doing a professorship at one of your schools now – William Patterson College I think.

The block chords is, to me, demonstrated more by people like Phineas than myself. But I didn’t learn anything from George Shearing; we’re peers. I mean I admired George, but my influences were Erroll and Nat and Art Tatum.

JA: In the ‘50’s and ‘60’s people like you, Erroll Garner, Ray Brown, Oscar Peterson, and Dave Brubeck were the most popular guys around; but a lot of times in the textbooks and classes in schools they don’t talk about those people as much; instead they focus on people like George Russell, Lennie Tristano, and Cecil Taylor. Does this surprise you at all?

AJ: I pay little attention to that. I’m so busy doing my own thing that I don’t reflect on what the people are crediting and giving other people in my field. It’s just a waste of time for me. You know? (Laughter)

JA: Are you a book lover? A movie lover?

AJ: I don’t do movies at all. I like non-fiction and if I read, it has to be non-fiction. I don’t like fiction; I like the real thing. And I have books that I read but most of them are philosophical. I’m going back to the discipline of reading; I used to gobble up books when I was a youngster. But I’m going back to it now. In fact, I was surprised at myself: I was waiting for my car to be serviced today and I was reading the editorials in the Wall Street Journal, and I was reading also about the focus on the new approach to music videos. It was very interesting. A lot of it has stuff to do with things that are not musical, as far as I’m concerned. A lot of stuff on MTV has nothing to do with music, but that’s what we’ve created here. We have a focus on non-musical things and a lack of focus on musical things. Music is supposed to sooth the savaged beast and in many instances we’re raising the savaged beast.

But my point is that I’m getting back to the discipline of reading, which I lost some years ago.

Most of the things I read are non-fiction and I don’t care for movies too much. The last movies I went to see was “The Bridges of Madison County” because my daughter said Clint Eastwood had two of my recordings in part of the soundtrack. I wanted to see that. That’s the first thing you hear, soundtrack-wise, are my recordings of “Music, Music, Music” and “Poinciana”.

JA: Does it bother you that there is so much music in the background these days? Like at the mall while you’re shopping, for example.

AJ Not as long as it’s good music. I can’t stand the commercials. Without the mute button, I could never tolerate television because some of the commercials are just horrible. I don’t know what these manufacturers are thinking of because you can sell a product, to me, much more effectively with music that soothes and is not irritable and not nerve-wracking, as opposed to what they have now. I don’t know why they chose to do the negative instead of the positive on these commercials.

JA: I’ve been fortunate enough to be in contact with Houston Person, and one of the things he talks about is that it’s an enormous responsibility to have people come out at night and spend their hard-earned money on him. He wants to play good music of course, but he wants to relax the people in the audience; he doesn’t want to make them nervous with the music, and he feels a great responsibility to do this, especially after the people worked so hard for their money that they’re spending on him. Do you agree?

AJ: I have two words: He’s right.

JA: I find it interesting that you’re one of the few great pianists that didn’t come up as, or wasn’t documented as, a sideman, backing horn players for example. It seems that you’ve always been known as a leader. Did you ever do more sideman work and how did you make it as a leader?

AJ: Your question is a very interesting one and it has to do with my longevity in the field. I started playing at three years old, which is very, very young. That’s what I say when people ask, “How did you choose music?” I say, when you are that young, you don’t make conscious decisions, Joe. Music chose me; I didn’t choose it, and I was working as a sidemen at ten years old. I worked with groups around Pittsburgh for many years. I worked on the road with a song and dance team. So I had a history of being a sideman. I worked with George Hudson’s orchestra; he made me leave my happy home in 1948. I left at 17 years old and worked all over the country with him. Out of that band came Clark Terry and the great writer Ernie Wilkins. He was a great orchestrator, and I think he passed [away] in Europe, in Copenhagen. I was a sideman for many, many, many years…When I was young; that was part of my growing-up years…I was an old man by the time I was 18 (laughter). I went from young to old very quick and what made me old was when I started my group in 1951. That was the end of any sideman issues; I had to keep my men working, and I’ve had that responsibility now for over five decades, Joe: being a leader. But I was a sideman for many, many years in and around Pittsburgh and all over the United States with a group called the Cardwells. When I left that group, Ray Bryant, the great pianist, became their person in the pianists’ chair. And I worked with George Hudson all over; that was my first time at the Apollo Theater actually. We were touring with stars like Dinah Washington at that time so I was a sideman for many years. I became a leader at a very young age; I was 21 years old, so that’s quite a span of time.

JA: I know Miles Davis loved you. Did you two ever talk about playing together?

AJ:No, because he was leading and I was leading. That never happened; there was some attempt to get Miles and Cannonball and myself on record together, but that never reached fruition.

JA: I love the video of you and your trio playing “Darn That Dream”.

AJ:Oh yes. With Israel Crosby and Vernell Fourier as my guys, the masters that helped make my career what it is.

JA: In that video, I see Hank Jones standing over your shoulder, and Ben Webster.

AJ: That’s correct. Ben Webster, who I spoke of, is there. Jo Jones – Papa Jo that is – and some of the other greats were there: George Duvivier and Buck Clayton…That’s a classic. That video’s a classic.

JA: That must have been nerve-wracking. Did you used to get nervous?

AJ: I don’t remember what I got (Laughter). I know it was a very interesting experience, and it’s still being shown all over the world, especially now with the Internet.

JA: Do you teach?

AJ: I taught for a brief period of time in Chicago, my second home. But, you know, teaching is something you must dedicate your life to in order to give that student his or her due. So, I haven’t taught in a long, long time. I spent a period of time doing that in Chicago. I had this hit record, or what they call a hit record for instrumentalists. We don’t have hit records, but I had one and Dave Brubeck had one with “Take Five” and Herbie Hancock had a few and Chuck Mangione and Miles, but very few instrumentalists had hits. Singers get the hits but I did have one, and that took me away from teaching and I never went back to it (laughter). I was performing, and that’s what I’ve been devoting my life to. And now I’ve been devoting my life to resetting and reshaping my career, doing what I love so much, and that’s composing. I’m trying to get away from the sense of urgency that the cell-phone and the computer and all the activities have thrust upon us, and I’ve been trying to do the things I really love to do, which is playing in my favorite venue: my home.

Memorable Quote: Frank Wess

2011-05-05T21:38:00.000-07:00

"Now I'm going to play a song that was a favorite of Hank's. We used to play it a lot together. In fact, I went to the hospice and played it for him on the day he died." - jazz legend Frank Wess, referring to Hank Jones' love of the song "The Very Thought of You," in a very touching tribute to the great pianist earlier tonight at the Tribeca Performing Arts Center.

Jim Hall

2011-05-01T12:19:00.000-07:00

One of the more exciting goings-on since coming to NYU has been a recently established Friday afternoon interview series at a local Barnes & Noble Book Store between the NYU Director of Jazz Studies, Dave Schroeder, and many different jazz legends. Among those interviews that I've been fortunate enough to see have been, among others, Roy Haynes, Lee Konitz, Jimmy Heath, Bill Charlap, Joe Lovano, Dave Liebman, Maria Schneider, and most recently, guitarist Jim Hall.

Hall is a bonafide jazz legend and he is, arguably, the most influential jazz guitarist of all-time. However, listening to Hall speak and watching his totally unassuming demeanor, he seems almost completely unaware of this, or at least surprised to hear to this. It was awe-inspiring and totally humbling to see someone who has played with Ben Webster, Stan Getz, Bill Evans, Wayne Shorter, Sonny Rollins, Hank Jones, and just about every other jazz great, repeat more than once, "I had no idea what I was going to talk about on my way here [to the interview]." (In fact, there was even a point in the interview when, seemingly baffled by the turnout and the care with which the thoughtful questions were asked, Hall remarked, "I'm just honored to be here talking to you all.")

To me, Hall has always been the "Hank Jones of guitar"; a master of elegance, touch, subtlety and taste, but watching and listening to Hall that day, he reminded me more of how I remember Hank Jones, the person.

When asked what he practices these days, Hall said, "Man, I'm still learning how to tune the guitar correctly." This reminded me of a time when I was backstage after a Hank Jones concert and a famous classical pianist came backstage to greet Hank. As soon as someone made the introduction, telling Hank who this man was, Hank said only, "Oh - a real pianist!"

This self-depreciating humor and honesty is extremely refreshing and inspiring. To see an absolute legend in ones' field so humbled, unassuming, and almost seemingly unaware of just how good he is, is just amazing. Seeing something like this reminds me of a Herbie Hancock quote I once read: "Being a musician is what I do, but it's not who I am." It's just refreshing to see this same idea come across in a legend of the stature of a Jim Hall or a Hank Jones. It reminds me that, more than anything, they are human, just like the rest of us, and this, to me, is inspiring.

Jim Hall, now 80 years old, is quite the comedian, too! When asked to speak about his childhood, he stated, "Well...I was born at an early age..." Then, when asked to elaborate on his childhood, he poked fun at his age saying, "Beethoven was a real pain in my ass."

Hall has really seen and been through it all and it was amazing to listen to him speak on many different subjects including Lester Young, Freddie Green, and Ella Fitzgerald.

He spoke about Lester Young when recounting the filming of "The Sound of Jazz," a 1957 CBS TV segment produced by Nat Hentoff and Whitney Balliet, among others. He said that after the filming was finished, he left the building and saw Young across the street, walking with his son. He said that he approached Lester and thanked him, telling him how much his music has meant to him. I wish Hall could retell it here; the way he told it was very touching. It was emotional and full of imagery, and, imagining Lester Young walking down the street, - at least by the way Hall told it- reminded me of all the romanticism in jazz that I have grown up believing in and hoping for for so long.

He recounted his first meeting with Freddie Green, the great guitarist with the Count Basie Band. Hall said that the first time he met Green, he walked up to him and asked, "Would you mind if I took a look at your guitar?" Green responded quickly. "Yes," he said. "I would."

It was obvious that Hall is in awe of Ella Fitzgerald. "I used to tune up to her," he said.

When it came time for audience questions, I couldn't resist asking Hall about his love of B.B. King. I've read many times that Hall loves King's guitar playing, and despite possessing much more actual technique on the instrument than King does, I've heard that King is one of Hall's favorite guitarists, and I asked him what he loved so much about his playing. "I'd rather listen to B.B. King play two notes than most guitarists play all night," he said. "He plays so succinctly...each note is perfect for the situation."

Someone asked what guitarists Hall listens to today. He spoke for a minute before saying, "I don't listen to Les Paul anymore. But then again, he doesn't listen to me either."

Hall recounted his days with Sonny Rollins, saying that they were the most helpful for his musical development. He also spoke with a bit of regret, saying that once Don Cherry joined the group and the band headed in a more free-jazz direction, Hall's playing didn't fit the group and Sonny basically fired him. Hall said that he wishes he could have another chance at that band, that he thought he'd do a lot better today.

Hall also said, "The driver on the way up here was playing 'The Bridge' in the car." After a short pause, he added, "I sounded pretty good on that!"

It was really a thrill to be in the presence of Jim Hall, a true music legend. However, there is something special about being around Hall -as there was with Hank Jones- that is greater than music. Jim Hall is a great human being, a nice person, and a humble genius who seems to have really figured out what life is all about, and that, maybe even more than the music, is what gravitates us all towards him and other people of such stature and makes me feel so lucky to have spent a little time with him, even if it was only an hour.

Memorable Quote: Lee Konitz

2011-04-27T10:16:00.001-07:00

"They used to write that I played flat...Are you kidding me?...I could tell that they weren't listening...I play sharp!" -Lee Konitz, a few weeks ago at Dizzy's Club Coca-Cola, on some jazz writers.

10/13/1962: Sonny Rollins' Letter to Coleman Hawkins

2011-04-26T19:05:00.001-07:00

I wanted to share with you all this fascinating letter I recently came across. Written on October 13, 1962, it is a letter of gratitude from Sonny Rollins to his idol Coleman Hawkins.

"My Dear Mr. Hawkins,
Your recent performance at the 'Village Gate' was magnificent!! Quite aside from the fact that you have maintained a position of dominance and leadership in the highly competitive field of 'Jazz' for the time that you have, there remains the more significant fact that such tested and tried musical achievement denotes and is subsidiary to personal character and integrity of being.

There have been many young men of high potential and have demonstrated ability who have unfortunately not been 'MEN' in their personal and off stage practices and who soon found themselves devoid of the ability to create music. Perhaps these chaps were unable to understand why their musical powers left them so suddenly. Or perhaps they knew what actions were constructive as opposed to destructive but were too weak and not men enough to command the course of their lives. But certain it is that character, knowledge and virtue are superior to 'music' as such. And that 'success' is relative to the evolution of those qualities within us all. That is has been positive and lasting for you Coleman is to the honor and credit of us, your colleagues, as well as to your own credit. For you have 'lit the flame' of aspiration within so many of us and you have epitomized the superiority of 'excellence of endeavor' and you stand today as a clear living picture and example for us to learn from.

It has always been a task to explain in words these things which in nature are the most profound and meaningful. Now you have shown me why I thought so much of you for so long. Godspeed in your travels may i be fortunate enough to hear you play the tenor saxophone again in person.

Yours truly,
Sonny Rollins"

Memorable Meetings: Justin Bieber

2011-04-18T20:45:00.001-07:00

A few years ago, I had a summer job playing piano at a restaurant in Atlanta called "The Tasting Room." One night, a bunch of teenagers came in; there were whispers among the staff that it was hip-hop producer Dallas Austin's son and his friends. One of the waitresses who was friends with them pointed out the youngest one of the bunch, a blond haired 13 or 14 year old kid, and told me that he had recently been signed to Def-Jam Records; that he was a great singer and a "YouTube sensation."

I found that hard to believe considering how young he looked, and I continued to play. A few minutes later, I noticed that that kid was standing behind me watching me play. I didn't really think anything of it, especially at the end of the song when he began to ask me questions; they were all very typical questions of a young person who, for example, had just begun to play the piano.

However, I was immediately struck by his sensitivity. He was very shy and seemed extremely hesitant to say anything about his own music; in fact, I felt that he seemed a little un-confident and even a bit nervous. I remember thinking, however, that those qualities worked in favor of his sincerity, with which he seemed filled. I could tell that he was extremely interested in learning about music; he seemed to also be was very enthusiastic and excited about being at the beginning of his musical journey.

I mentioned nothing of the rumors I'd heard and asked more about him. He told me that he played a little piano ("Just a little," he laughed, pointing at my hands.) and that he also wrote a few songs. He asked if I wanted to hear one. "Of course," I said, always the over-enthusiastic one.

As soon as he began to sing, I realized that my decision to let him play might have been a bad one, and actually by mid-song I began to panic, thinking that it might cost me my job. It's not the he was bad, because he wasn't; however, he wasn't sensitive to the environment (a small restaurant), and he began banging loudly on the piano (with a beginner's touch) and literally belting the song as loud as he could.

Everything about it was very amateur to me; his piano playing was way too loud to complement his singing and it was obvious to me that he couldn't hear the music well enough yet to know when, or how, to be sensitive in his playing or singing. It was obvious too that he couldn't quite reach some of the notes in his singing that he was aiming for. However, I remember thinking to myself that the song was extremely catchy and was very impressed with him that he had wrote it; I remember thinking to myself that "this song could actually be a hit." (I don't remember which one it was; however, there were a lot of "Baby"'s in the lyrics.)

Although he was Justin Bieber, he wasn't famous then, and I saw him as I would see most 12/13 year-old pianist/singers: beginners. However, I do remember thinking to myself that he did have a lot of charisma, and that after a few years of practicing more, he would be great.

He finished the song and asked me a few questions about it. (I can't quite remember what they were, but I remember showing him something to do with chord voicings.) Then he asked if I'd play something else. I did, and I'll never forget his look of astonishment when I finished. He sort of blushed, and said "Now, I'm embarrassed to have played before you." We laughed and he said something like, "Wow. You can play real music," which, in retrospect, is very interesting to think about when considering where he is now.

I told him that he will too, one day, and was very confident in saying that when I did. I recognized that this kid really did have a lot of potential and charisma, and after really getting it together musically, he'd be a complete package.

I didn't see him again until about 4 months later. My Dad had been bugging me about some kid he'd just read about in the New York Times; he had saved the article for me to read. Finally, I picked it up and was shocked at who I saw: that kid.

To me, the immediate success of Justin Bieber represents all that's wrong with the music business today. Here was a kid who was obviously talented and had great potential -and was recognized for that at a very young age-, but had he been given time (more than 4 months) to really develop as a musician (instead of being capitalized on immediately) he could have really been something phenomenal. Even though he was just a random kid in the restaurant that day, anyone could've seen that he had real potential. It's a shame that he was rushed into stardom the way he was, because he was, honestly, only at the way beginning of his musical journey. I can only hope that all the money and fame hasn't taken away his sincere, child-like excitement about the musical journey that lay ahead of him, and that his ego hasn't blown up and tricked himself into thinking the journey's finished.

Memorable Meetings: Diana Krall

2011-04-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, a friend and I waited outside of Diana Krall's dressing room door after a concert of hers in hopes of taking a picture with her.

She finally came out, surrounded by a large, fast-walking entourage of (what seemed to be) her staff.

When they passed us, I yelled out, "Mrs. Krall, Is there any way to take a quick picture with you?"

One of the members of her party gave my friend and I a very dirty look and yelled, "No pictures!"

Upon hearing this, Mrs. Krall immediately stopped, forcing the entourage to stop with her. She gave that man a very dirty look, shook her head at him, and then turned to my friend and I and smiled. "I would love to take a picture with you," she said.

I felt that, at that moment, Mrs. Krall felt connected to us, remembering what it was like for her, not so long ago, to approach her own musical heroes - ones who may not have been so kind to her as she had been to us.

For her to stop, scold her staff, and so kindly take a photo with my friend and I was an extremely heart warming experience. It will always serve as a reminder to never forget or forsake from where it is you come.

Memorable Quote: Bill Clinton

2011-04-12T20:35:00.001-07:00

"I'm here representing the past 120 years of musicians who just weren't quite good enough to play here." - Former President Bill Clinton, also a saxophone player, earlier tonight at Carnegie Hall's 120th Anniversary James Taylor Concert.

He continued by saying that he used to walk by Carnegie Hall when he was younger, thinking to himself, "If only I were a little bit better..."

Memorable Meetings: Harold Mabern

2011-04-07T14:15:00.001-07:00

After reading pianist George Colligan's excellent blog post on the kindness and generosity of the legendary pianist Harold Mabern (A Short Story About Harold Mabern), I was reminded of an encounter I had with him a few years ago at a Herbie Hancock concert at Carnegie Hall.

It was after the show and I was standing outside of the hall next to the dressing room door where Herbie would eventually exit to get in the waiting car. There were a whole lot of fans doing the same, wanting to meet Herbie and the rest of the band too. Standing there, I noticed a man who looked very familiar. I knew it was Harold Mabern, but it took me a minute to believe it; I figured such a legend would certainly be backstage with Herbie instead of waiting outside of the dressing room with all of us fans.

I was 17 at the time and wasn't too familiar with Mabern, but I did know a few of the recordings I'd heard of him with Wes Montgomery and Lee Morgan. I introduced myself to him, saying that I was a pianist and that the recordings I had heard of him had been very inspiring. He thanked me and he began to start up a conversation, which surprised me; I never figured that a legend like that would be the one continuing the conversation.

He began to speak to me very excitedly about how much he had enjoyed and been inspired by the show. He said that after a show like that he knew what'd be in store for him when he got home. "I'll be practicing all night," he said.

He reminded me of myself and other young musician friends of mine; speaking so fast and excitedly about how pumped up that concert made him, how he hoped that one day he could do the things that Herbie had done that night.

After a few minutes, he said that he'd really wanted to say hello to his friend Herbie, but that he had to get home to practice. He told me that when I did get to meet Herbie to please send say hello for him.

It was so exciting to see such an accomplished musician, a true legend, not only waiting outside like a fan to express his gratitude to Herbie Hancock, but to also see someone like that so inspired and excited to go home and practice, that after a while, he couldn't wait any longer; he had to get home and practice.

It was very inspiring to see the forever-student side of a true jazz legend. I can only hope to go through life with such continued excitement for my passions. My encounter with the great Harold Mabern has and will continue to give me hope and inspiration that I can.

Memorable Moments: Gerald Wilson

2011-04-05T22:26:00.000-07:00

At the 2011 NEA Jazz Masters Awards & Ceremony Panel Discussion with the then soon-to-be named Jazz Masters, a lady in the audience -during the audience Q&A- rambles on and on for five or so minutes about how people today are quickly forgetting or have already forgotten the great music and musicians of the past, and finally, in an almost-fury, yells out, "I mean how many of you know who Jimmie Lunceford is?"

Sitting a few rows in front of her is the great Gerald Wilson, one of Lunceford's former trumpeters and arrangers (he joined Lunceford in 1939!), and, amongst a room full of raised hands, Wilson smiles and raises his too.

Memorable Meetings: Michel Legrand

2011-04-03T20:01:00.001-07:00

I recently saw the great Michel Legrand perform at the Blue Note. After the show, he was greeting fans and well-wishers in his dressing room. I waited in a short line before it was my turn to say hello.

I introduced myself to him as a pianist, wanting to say next that he has been a long-time inspiration to me. However, before I could tell him what a inspiration he has been -in fact, as soon as I said that I was a pianist-, Legrand stopped me mid-sentence and said, "Let me see your hands." I laid them out in front of him, spreading my fingers wide. He grabbed my hands, looked at them, and was quiet for about five or six seconds, obviously in deep thought.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Okay," he said, nodding his head. "You have good hands for the piano."

Dr. Billy Taylor (1921-2010)

2011-03-19T13:37:00.000-07:00

One thing that’s always stuck out in my head about Dr. Billy Taylor was how he pronounced Erroll Garner’s last name. “Gah-nuh,” or “Gahr-nuh,” he’d say. Not “Gar-ner”, like we say today. His pronunciation made the last name sound almost royal and Dr. Taylor, being the first jazz legend I ever spent a good amount of time with, made me feel –with just that simple and honest name pronunciation – welcomed into his world and into a bygone era of jazz greatness.

I was very fortunate to have spent a bit of time with Dr. Taylor at Jazz In July, a summer program that he founded at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst. I went for one summer and there, was treated with a two-hour group piano lesson from Dr. Taylor each morning for two full weeks.

Dr. Taylor was just a thrill to be around. I remember the first day of the program, when the entire faculty performed; I introduced myself to him at the end of the concert. I was very young at the time, fully obsessed with jazz, but not very good at playing it. I couldn’t resist, in that introduction, asking him about Ed Thigpen (my favorite drummer at the time). He was so kind and I remember being taken aback by how long he spent telling me about Thigpen and how much he enjoyed playing with him. “Mingus stole him from me though,” he said, laughing.

The group lessons were a thrill. They were difficult too; it was the very first time I’ve played for one of my heroes, and it was extremely nerve-racking for me to play for him. But he was very encouraging, and helpful too. He showed me things that no book could. I remember playing “Misty” one day. After I finished, Dr. Taylor sat down at the piano and showed me a few ideas, things that Erroll Garner had showed him directly. He told me that he spent many late nights with Erroll in the late 1940’s, playing piano duets late into the night after each had finished their gigs on 52nd Street.

Dr. Taylor would always stay after class and was always eager to talk with us. I remember one day in specific; we must have stayed for an hour and a half past the end of class. Dr. Taylor told us the wildest stories I’d ever heard. He told us about one specific gig with Sonny Rollins where Sonny was late. Billy’s trio began to play and, all of the sudden, in the middle of the tune, Sonny made his way down the stairs of the club, blowing his horn powerfully, mid song.

He told us about his days at Atlantic Records in the early 1960’s. He said that, for a while, they were looking for a “new sound” and they thought that he, Dr. Taylor, mght help them find it. Every day he’d go to the Atlantic Records office and play some new music they’d give him. Every day they’d say, “No, that’s not it.” Then, one day, he came in to work and they said, “Mr. Taylor (I remember him saying “I wasn’t a Doctor then.”), we’re sorry, but we’ve found the sound we’re looking for.”

“Oh yeah?” He asked. “What’s that?”

“A young, blind pianist named Ray Charles.”

Dr. Taylor then looked at us, laughed, and said “I remember saying to them, ‘A blind pianist? That’ll never last.’”

One day, I worked up the nerve to show Dr. Taylor a stride piece I was working on, “Lulu’s Back In Town.” I really couldn’t play stride very well back then, but I wanted to see what Dr. Taylor would say. After playing it, he showed me a few different ways of playing stride on that particular piece. Then he told me about the time he got shown up by the great Jelly Roll Morton!

He said it was in Washington, D.C. and it was during the period that Billy was really known as a great, young, modern pianist. He had been ignorant of Jelly Roll Morton but decided to go down to listen to him play at a club. Apparently, Jelly Roll got word that some young “hotshots” were in the house, and he approached their table. He looked at Dr. Taylor and his friends and said, “I bet you can’t play this,” and then walked backed to the piano and played something. “He was right,” Dr. Taylor said, laughing. “I couldn’t play it.”

After my time at the summer program I only had a few more run-ins with Dr. Taylor, but each time, he remembered me and asked me very specific questions about what I was studying on the piano.

It always made me feel like a million bucks because whenever I’d see him, we’d be among the jazz royalty, and he’d talk to me for ten or fifteen minutes, genuinely interested in my studies. I remember seeing him at the 2010 NEA Jazz Masters Awards, where I was volunteering. I greeted him right when he got off the elevator. Standing next to me was Roy Haynes, Jimmy Heath, James Moody, and Gerald Wilson. Before saying hello to them, he engaged me in conversation for five minutes or so, asking me what I was working on the piano.

That day, part of my duties as a volunteer was to bring Dr. Taylor to his car. I walked him to the hotel lobby and, as it turns out, his driver was close to an hour late. So for almost an hour, we sat and talked. He told me fantastic stories about Monk, Art Tatum, Oscar Peterson, Dave McKenna, Willie “The Lion” Smith and many others (Our entire conversation is listed in my post below, from January 2010, about the 2010 NEA Jazz Master Awards.). It was a very special hour for me, and also the last time I’d see Dr. Taylor.

Sitting at his memorial service this past January was especially poignant. The church where the service was being held was packed, and watching the people’s faces and listening to their conversations I realized that I was sitting with many hundreds of people who had similar stories of Dr. Taylor’s kindness and making them too feel like “a million bucks.” At the beginning of the service the preacher announced: “One of the things that I’ve never had the opportunity to do in the Riverside Church…and especially in remembering someone as great as Billy Taylor, was to ask everyone to stand to their feet and give this man the kind of ovation that he truly deserves.” I got the chills. No one deserved that ovation more than Dr. Taylor did.

Every time I learn something on the piano, I ask myself if what I learned is something I'd be proud to show Dr. Taylor. To me, everything about Dr. Taylor was tops. Dr. Taylor was an extremely kind person and he will continue to inspire me for the rest of my life.

Memorable Quote: Maria Schneider

2011-03-16T12:51:00.001-07:00

"Playing music is the lifelong pursuit of figuring out who you are." -Maria Schneider, at an interview at Barnes and Noble on Manhattan's Upper East Side.

Memorable Quote: Gary Burton

2011-03-16T12:49:00.000-07:00

"I could tell that he was really playing, not just imitating someone really playing." -Gary Burton, at a masterclass at NYU, on guitarist Julian Lage.

Memorable Moments: Joe Lovano

2011-02-25T15:20:00.000-08:00

Saxophonist Joe Lovano, at an interview at Barnes and Noble today on Manhattan's Upper East Side, after being asked about how long he warms up each day to get his fingers moving and his mind "in the zone":

"I live this music all of the time so I really don't know what you're talking about."

NEA Jazz Masters 2011: Behind The Scenes

2011-02-20T15:05:00.001-08:00

I volunteered once again at this year’s National Endowment for the Arts Jazz Masters Awards & Ceremony, and, as excited as I was to write about it, it’s taken me quite a long time to do so; the inspiration just hadn’t yet struck me in quite the right way. Yet.
But this past Tuesday, while skimming across different jazz sites, I came across this article: NEA Jazz Master Award To Disappear Under New Federal Budget Plan
For some reason, as I processed this shocking and devastating information, what passed through my mind was quick flashes of pictures, people, and smiles –all NEA Jazz Masters- from both the 2010 & 2011 NEA Awards & Ceremonies. I saw James Moody hugging Gerald Wilson, laughing hysterically as they reminisced about their days in Dizzy Gillespie’s band together. I saw Ahmad Jamal laughing with Phil Woods. I saw, just over my right shoulder, one night at Dizzy’s Club Coca-Cola (the night before the 2011 Awards Ceremony), the biggest smile I’ve ever seen – on Gerald Wilson’s face – as he listened to, and danced in his seat, to the music on stage. I saw, in the same frame, Jimmy Heath, yelling something to Wilson, waving his hands in the air, smiling, dancing, and then, when the piano player on stage took a slight stride piano break, everyone yell “Oh!,” and then Heath yell, “Some James P. in the house!”

I saw, above all, a family; a community of smiles among people so happy to see each other, all who have given their lives to this music, all who have contributed so much to this music, all who rarely get to see each other all in one place during the year – except at the NEA Jazz Masters Awards & Ceremony.

Amidst all of these extremely happy moments, another memory flashed before my eyes. I saw the serious, solemn, grateful and almost shocked look on Yusef Lateef’s face, just moments before he walked out on the Jazz At Lincoln Center stage to receive his 2010 NEA Jazz Master Awards. It gave me the chills. He was finally being given what he deserved, proper acknowledgement in America which was long overdue. This wasn’t just an award; this was so much more than that. This National Endowment for the Arts award represented the acceptance of these special people and their very special music into America, finally. (Watching these Jazz Masters just before being given the award reminded me of what Moody once told me about his own career. “I felt totally worthless for my whole life until I went over to Europe, where they treated us like we deserved to be treated…” To me, this award seemed to represent an end to that attitude.)

Reading the announcement via the NPR article brought me back to day one of this year’s Awards, and I replayed the whole day in my head, realizing in disbelief that such a wonderful bringing together of these people may never happen again.

I replayed my first memory of the day: Greeting the jazz masters as they arrived at Jazz At Lincoln Center for a panel discussion. I said hello to jazz great Gerald Wilson as he got off the elevator. “Hey!”, he yelled, and approached me with his hand out. He couldn’t get his gloves off in time for our handshake and said to me, “Pardon my glove.” I remember being taken aback by this statement; I’ve never heard something so kind like that before, and via that one statement, I felt welcomed into a long bygone era.

The two-day event this year was another wonderful experience. There were a few moments that I’ll never forget, that I’d like to share with you.

I remember, on the first day, going to get lunch in a backstage room at Lincoln Center, just before the dress rehearsal for the following evenings’ concert was to take place. I walked into the room and, sitting at the table was Cedar Walton, Kenny Barron, and Ellis Marsalis. A few minutes later, Benny Golson walked in. Everyone said hello and hugged each other, but when Golson got to Marsalis, he introduced himself. Marsalis replied, “Nice to meet you.” They both couldn’t remember if they had met before; if they had met before, they said, it had been quite a long time ago.

Later that night, the NEA had a sort of party at the 2nd set at Dizzy’s Club that night. Many of the jazz masters came out with their families and had a great time hanging with one another and eating some food. The band that night was saxophonist Walter Blanding’s group –which was great!- and, it seemed to me that many of the songs were progressive/modern type melodies over very conventional, traditional, almost Dixieland type chord progressions. Seated next to me was Gerald Wilson, master composer, arranger, theorist; basically THE man in terms of knowing tunes, chord progressions, and reharmonizations. I tapped Mr. Wilson on the shoulder and asked him if the tune being played was the Cole Porter song, “It’s Delovely.” He smiled. It was, he said, and seemed a bit excited at the mention of that tune. For the rest of the set Mr. Wilson and I had an amazing time throwing song suggestions at one another. He’d tap me when a tune would excite him, and I’d do the same. At one point, he asked me if I knew the tune called “I May Be Wrong.” “I don’t,” I said. He thought for a second and then laughed: “That was the theme song for the Apollo Theater in the early ‘40’s. I guess you wouldn’t know that one.” It was a thrill suggesting different tunes to him. “Oh!”, he’d say, then close his eyes, place his hands on the table as if he were playing the piano, and then he’d hit a few chords. After a few seconds of doing so, he’d confirm the tune for me and then tell me four or five other tunes it also reminded him of.

At the end of the set he asked me what I played. I told him piano, and then he said, “I know you play something because I can tell you’ve got ears.” That meant a whole lot to me. He asked me if I loved it. ‘I do,” I said. Then he looked and me and said something I’ll never forget. “Stay with it. Jazz music will keep you honest.”

He meant, of course, and went on to explain, that it’s impossible to really play anything but yourself if you’re really playing the music. “You never meet any jazz musicians who are murderers, do you?” he asked.

A few friends came over and Mr. Wilson began to tell us some wild stories from his past. He told us that Roy Eldridge could play better trumpet (and higher notes on the instrument) than Louis Armstrong could, and he also told us about his crazy days being Redd Foxx’s musical director. He told us about the many times Duke Ellington would call him, in the middle of the night, and ask him to arrange a piece by the following afternoon. He said that he’d stay up all night writing the piece and that his wife would copy the parts (by hand) for the rest of the band. He said that Duke did play Gerald Wilson original songs, but that Wilson felt especially honored when Duke would call him to arrange some of Duke’s famous songs.

Mr. Wilson then turned his attention to the show we just saw. The band had played a version of the famous waltz “My Favorite Things” that was very similar to the Coltrane version. “You know,” he said. “People always say that Fats Waller wrote the first jazz waltz [he was referring to “Jitterbug Waltz”], but I wrote the first swinging jazz waltz. It was a blues based off of a classical piece [he named the classical piece but I’ve regrettably forgotten it].” I remember being in awe thinking to myself that I am having a conversation with someone who was actually once in competition with Fats Waller!

After we left Dizzy’s Club and helped those Jazz Masters who needed help to the elevators, I had a very sad moment with the great record producer George Avarkian, who is now extremely frail. His wife had misplaced her cell phone and I helped Mr. Avakian take a seat – he was using a walker and was having trouble sitting down -. He thanked me for the help and then asked me to sit down beside him. After asking me about what I did and so forth, I asked him if he was looking forward to tomorrow -the luncheon, the picture with all the masters, and the concert. “Yes,” he said. He wasn’t feeling too well but “I can’t miss being in that picture. That picture is history.” And then after taking a deep breath, he said, “I think I’m going to be history pretty soon too.”

The following day was the big day. Highlights included sitting next to Jimmy Heath backstage. Mr. Heath was clowning around, telling jokes, and cracking everyone up. There was the threat of snow storm later that night and when the speeches kept going and going, Mr. Heath whispered to me, “They better get the show on the road before Frosty the Snowman comes out to take a peak.” He was laughing, dancing when there was music, listening intently, and poking fun at the speeches made on stage. (When someone onstage said, “Jazz is a uniquely American voice,” Heath said, “No kidding!”) He then pulled out his new digital camera, which he was having trouble figuring out, and took a bunch of pictures of everyone.

What really struck me was watching Mr. Heath when the NEA launched into the memorial part of the program where they honored the Jazz Masters who had passed away this past year. Those included Abbey Lincon, Hank Jones, Dr. Billy Taylor, and James Moody. I know that Mr. Heath was close with them, especially with Moody. As the memorial video said each Masters’ name, I watched Mr. Heath shake his head very sadly. With all these losses, Mr. Heath has surely had a sad year; his son also passed away earlier in the year too. Looking at his demeanor as the memorial was being introduced, I really realized what a remarkable person Jimmy Heath is. Here he lost his son and best friend in the same year, and he’s still here, so happy to be here, and telling his jokes and making everyone excited and happy too; he’s got such a positive and optimistic energy about him. Here’s someone who’s really grateful to be alive, I remember thinking. His musical is legendary, but Mr. Heath and his attitude are truly remarkable. It was very inspiring to see something like that.

After the show, I approached Ahmad Jamal – who I’d been helping get from place to place all day. “Hey man” he said. I said, “Mr. Jamal, I’ve got to tell you. I’ve been working here all day and had to act all professional, but now that it’s over I’ve got to tell you. You’re my hero. I’m a pianist and, for me, you’re ‘the guy.’”

It really meant a whole lot to me to be able to express my gratitude to Mr. Jamal, a man whose music I admire so much, and I think it meant something him. He got a big smile on his face and said, “That means a lot. That makes me feel that I’m still in the game.”

“Mr. Jamal,” I said. “You are the game!”

It was really a thrill to be around such humble people. These people are so much more than amazing musicians; they are truly remarkable people who radiate such kindness, warmth and knowledge when you are around them. It’s such an honor to be able to spend a little bit of time with them.

And for them, they rarely get to see one another. And when they do, it’s probably rarely in this type of environment. They’ve been paying their dues all their lives and now, not only are they being recognized as the Bachs and Beethovens of America, but they are also all together and can celebrate with one another.

It is a huge shame that this event and honor is being taken away because, not only is it a necessary and long overdue honor to bestow upon these deserving people, but the awards' being removed represents the idea that maybe America never really did catch up to the greatness of jazz and it’s creators like we had finally been led to believe. It brings me back to Mr. Moody’s statement and makes me wonder.

Interested In Your Thoughts

2011-01-22T14:08:00.000-08:00

Recently rereading the interview with pianist Chick Corea in the June 2010 issue of Downbeat Magazine, I came across what may be my favorite interview question I've ever read. I wish that more interviewees would be asked this question, or asked to react to it's preceeding statement. While that is obviously impossible, I figure I'd ask it here, in hopes of hear from you - whoever that may be. Here is the question, asked by Downbeat's Marius Nordal.

"During your 1950s early roots period, Oscar Peterson, Ray Brown, Erroll Garner, Ahmad Jamal and Dave Brubeck won polls and critical acclaim, filled stadiums and generally seemed to "own" the piano or piano trio scene at the time. Recently I was astonished to see that some of the most prominent and influential college jazz history texts today have literally excised most of those names and replaced them with George Russell, Lennie Tristano and Cecil Taylor. That would seem similiar to banishing Elvis, Chuck Berry or the Beatles from pop music texts.
Do you think univiersities, to some extent, might be erasing the common street history of jazz and replacing it with an alternative, academic, fantasy universe?"

Favorite Quotes

2010-12-14T23:32:00.000-08:00

‎"Just recently one of my friends passed away and I went out to the cemetery. On my way back the undertaker asked me how old I was. I told him and he said 'There ain't no sense in you going home!'"-Milt Hinton

"You may have holes in your shoes, but don't let the people out front know it. Shine the tops." -Earl Hines

"Wagner's music is better than it sounds." -Mark Twain

"I was unfashionable before anyone knew who I was." -Paul Desmond

"I have won several prizes as the world's slowest alto player, as well as a special award in 1961 for quietness." -Paul Desmond

"Nostalgia ain't what it used to be" -Stan Kenton

"In 1939 I met Mona - that's my bride-./ And nothing's been the same ever since./ We fell in love, she blew my mind./ Took the money/...Then she went shopping...and I've been broke ever since." -Milt Hinton

James Moody (1925-2010)

2010-12-09T21:18:00.000-08:00

One of my heroes, jazz legend James Moody passed away earlier today. Besides being one of the warmest and kindest people I've ever met, he was also one of the wisest.

I wanted to share with you what he said to me when, as an intern at the Blue Note Jazz Club, I had the chance to interview Moody for a video we were making. We asked him if there was a moment in his life when he knew that he wanted to be a jazz musician.

"No," he said. "I was born that way. I always wanted to be a musician as far as I know. And, when I was coming up there weren’t that many [records]…there was one record like every six months or year. Now, there’s a record every five minutes or something, you know…

"My thing is listening to other musicians and trying to be better than I am tomorrow than I am today. And I would like to advise the younger musicians to stay with what they’re doing, to have good teachers, study, and don’t be in competition with anyone else except yourself. Because -like my goal in life is to play better tomorrow than I did today- if you put yourself in competition with everyone else, you’ll be in for trouble. Because I don’t care who you are, where you are, there’s always someone that’s a little more enlightened than you are. Always. And maybe not one, two, or three, but many…Just try to enlighten yourself. Don’t be [saying], ‘Well I want to be the top man,’ you know. Because you might be for a second, but there’s always someone climbing behind you.
Like Satchel Paige; you remember him? He said that he never did look back because you never know what’s gaining on you. So…

"And," in that classic Moody Donald Duck voice..."Pwatice, pwactice, pwactice!"

The last time I saw Moody was this past January, at the National Endowment For The Arts Jazz Masters Award Ceremony, where I was helping out.

Moody was talking with me and some friends when the legendary Gerald Wilson came over to join the conversation. After a minute of Moody and Wilson reminiscing, Moody asked us how old we all were. Then he asked me.
“21,” I said.
Then he looked at Gerald Wilson. “How old are you?”
“92,” Wilson replied.
Then Moody looked me in the eyes and said, “Boy, you may be 21 today but you’ll be 92 tomorrow. Make it count.”

I will never forget that moment for the rest of my life.

I've thought about it many times since and many, many times today since hearing of his passing. I was playing a gig earlier this afternoon when a friend called "I'm In The Mood For Love," Moody's signature song. It was the second tune in our set, a set which started promptly at 4PM. Therefore, we must have been into our second tune, "I'm In The Mood For Love," no later than 4:05. We played "I'm In The Mood For Love" for at least five minutes.

A few hours later, I came home and found out about Moody's death through an online article. The article said that he died at 1:07PM, west coast time. It took me a minute to put two and two together, but when I did, a chill ran up my spine...because, after all, 1:07 on the west coast is 4:07 on the east coast...We must have been mid-song.

To one of my favorite people, the ever-inspiring James Moody - you certainly made it count!

(A well-wisher on Moody's facebook page wrote something tonight that really struck me. He, working at the Blue Note many years ago, confessed to having smoked weed with Dizzy Gillespie on the roof of the club. While on the roof, the man asked Dizzy how much he missed his friend Charlie Parker. Dizzy responded simply that he'll miss his friend Moody even more. A video of the two has been posted on Moody's website. The caption above it says: "Moody and Dizzy - Together Again!")

Unforgettable Moment: Sonny Rollins & Ravi Coltrane

2010-11-21T22:21:00.000-08:00

It was just after Sonny Rollins' fantastic 80th Birthday concert at New York City's Beacon Theater. I somehow found myself at the after party, which was being held in the concert halls' adjoining hotel - just a few floors up. The party was quite a scene itself -Sonny cut cake for everyone!

A friend and I were talking with Ravi Coltrane when, after a little while, it was our turn to say hey to Sonny and take a picture with him. After our picture was taken, my camera was used for Ravi's pictures with Sonny. After the pictures were finished being taken and the photographer handed me back my camera, I noticed that Ravi, in mid-conversation with Sonny, took off his glasses. As he did this, I noticed a surprised, almost shocked, expression come over Sonny's face.

After a couple of seconds passed, I heard Sonny say to Ravi, "Wow. You know, with your glasses off...I never realized how much you look like your father."

Memorable Meetings: Jim Hall

2010-11-21T19:22:00.001-08:00

I was crossing 5th avenue at 12th street the other day when I noticed an old man walking his dog very slowly, hunched over quite a bit. As I got closer, I noticed that that man was jazz guitar great Jim Hall.

He was stopped for a moment, so I walked over and said hey. We ended up talking for quite a while and were having a nice conversation (he introduced my to his dog, Django), joking around a bit. He asked me if I'd like to see something funny.

We were standing very near to the New School University's Jazz Building and we saw a student with a bass coming towards us.

Jim looked at me and said, "I've had spine troubles recently - people don't really recognize me anymore."

He laughed, went up to the bass player and asked, "Excuse me - Is that a walking bass?"

The kid gave him a dirty look and continued on his way. Jim looked at me and we both started laughing. Through his laughter, he said, "I always do that. I think it's pretty funny. They just think I'm the dirty old man now, haha."

He was such a pleasant guy and it was such a joy to spend a few moments with him, one of my heroes.

Memorable Meetings: Paul Bley

2010-11-21T19:17:00.000-08:00

I recently went to the Blue Note to hear jazz legends Paul Bley & Charlie Haden play duo. Walking out of the club's bathroom about ten minutes before the show, I saw Bley walking from his dressing room to the bathroom. He was walking very slowly and looked a bit frail, so I helped him to the bathroom, holding the door for him on his way in. We spoke briefly. Here's a little snippet of our conversation - the following bit being my first words to him.

Me, to Paul Bley: "You're one of my favorite musicians in the world."

Paul Bley, to me: "So there's some people you still haven't told me about?"

"Complete Recordings" - Tyree Glenn/Hank Jones

2010-09-25T18:49:00.000-07:00

(Originally published on AllAboutJazz.com on 9/25/2010)

In the history of jazz, few pianists have been as prolific as the recently deceased Hank Jones. His tasteful and subtle playing is documented on literally thousands of recordings. Many of them are today known as jazz classics—benchmarks to the greatness of this music—and Jones' playing and support on all of them were crucial in creating those historic, beautiful and legendary legacies.
For whatever reason, many of Jones' recordings have long been either forgotten, out of print, or very hard to find. One such recording, a rare gem, is the Hank Jones and Tyree Glenn Quintet/Sextet's Complete Recordings. The two- disc set—which features, among others, Jones, Tyree Glenn, Mary Osborne, Shorty Baker, Milt Hinton and Jo Jones—is a testament to groove, swing, melody, musicality—and doing all of it together, as a group.

Many of the set's thirty-five tracks barely pass the two-minute mark, often ending just after the melody is stated. While it surely would have been nice to hear these musicians play for a bit on these songs, the statement of only the melody is the ultimate statement. These guys don't need to solo to express who they are; it's possible to tell exactly who everybody is simply by listening to their version of, and their interaction with, the melody.

This recording is special for many reasons. It is a reminder of how exciting many simple ideas can be. For example, on "Mack The Knife," Jones is silent until the solos begin. The anticipation he creates when he not playing is quite possibly more exciting than anything that could have been played. His eventual entry, with a quick peck of the harmony, makes clear how fun this music can be, as does each accent on the bass drum, each song Glenn quotes, and each time the band re-enters after a break.

Jones was the perfect accompanist. While many horn players have, over the years, replaced piano with guitar (among other reasons, the guitar is a less harmonically imposing instrument) or removed harmony instruments altogether, Jones plays just enough to accent the rhythm—moving the song forward and, above all, letting the soloists move in any harmonic direction they choose without getting in the way.

Trombonist Glenn is reminiscent of Harry "Sweets" Edison. Each line really swings, possesses such direction, and is only made up of the necessary. The silence only adds to the swing; often Jo Jones' bass drum accents seem to finish Glenn's lines, adding to the humor of the music.

At a time when a disc of playing standards is often looked down upon—dismissed as a simple jam session, it is important to have recordings like this. These discs are a reminder of how hard it is to truly play tunes musically, to really swing continuously as a group—and of the subtlety and humor that makes up the jazz language—this is music that deserves to be heard.

"Jasmine" - Keith Jarrett/Charlie Haden

2010-09-11T18:47:00.000-07:00

(Originally published on AllAboutJazz.com on 9/11/2010)

Keith Jarrett, like Sonny Rollins, is quite hard to pin down. Like the iconic saxophonist, for many years now, the equally legendary pianist has been leaning towards the songs of his youth, and even earlier. Compared with their song choices of, say, twenty years ago, it would seem that these players have become more conservative over the years; that is, however, simply not true. Again, like Rollins, Jarrett's improvisations have evolved through the years, with an even greater searching and explorative quality. Quite uniquely, these master musicians use these older tunes as vehicles for their explorations; with these older songs as their guides, these artists continue to move themselves forward.
Jarrett's Jasmine, a duo outing with bassist Charlie Haden, is a wonderful—and simply beautiful—example. The session consists of mostly ballads. All beautiful melodies, the tunes themselves are timeless; the playing, very relaxed, yet deadly serious—extremely emotional, yet utterly focused.

Jarrett writes in the liner notes: "Call your wife or lover in late at night and sit down and listen. These are great love songs played by players who are trying, mostly, to keep that message intact." While many have dismissed these note as an excuse for selling out, the specific mindfulness with which Jarrett and Haden admit to playing only adds another layer of deep focus to the music.

The music speaks for itself; more than anything, it is the song itself that is made memorable by the duo's playing. At a time when recorded music almost always highlights the musician's ability, it is wonderfully refreshing to hear an album where the musicians' abilities are obvious, but are not the only focus. The focus of the album is the songs and melodies themselves, and the playing is serving the songs, rather than the other way around.

Jarrett's improvisations rarely ever go faster than 8th notes, but that yearning, explorative quality is still there—more than ever, almost. His tone, lines and melodies are searching—better described, perhaps, as yearning.

There have been many wonderful duo recordings over the years— Jimmy Rowles/Ray Brown, Hank Jones/Red Mitchell, the many Bill Evans duo sessions, and others from Charlie Haden. The quiet subtlety of such sessions has made each of them musical treasures, and Jasmine is sure to become a classic in the field of duo recordings.

There's something about it, however, that feels just a bit more special. For the casual music fan, a lover wanting to set a night's mood; for the serious musician, looking to find deep, new music; and for the music fan that says, "they just don't make albums like they used to," finally, they do. Jasmine encompasses all that music is about. For all those mentioned, this album is for you.

Unforgettable Moment: Meeting Oscar Peterson

2010-08-19T00:13:00.000-07:00

I'll never forget the night I met Oscar Peterson. I was 17 years old; a high-school senior. A few weeks prior, I had talked my Dad into flying up to New York to see Oscar Peterson perform at Birdland, for what turned out to be his last New York performance.

We got tickets to both sets, and we got the good seats, right up front; my eyes lay maybe a foot from where Oscar's fingers touched the keys. Well...maybe it was a bit further, but that's what it felt like to me.

I had heard that Oscar's playing was only a shadow of what it used to be, but I didn't care. I just wanted to be in his presence. I just wanted to see him in person, and hear, in person, the sound of his fingers blanketing the keys.

I watched the curtain in anticipation for what seemed like forever - to be honest, it probably was; I made sure that my Dad and I got to Birdland about three hours before the show -. When he finally appeared, I was amazed, to say the least.

An interesting side-note is that when I was first getting into jazz, when I was 14 and 15, I had been listening a lot to Oscar Peterson, hadn't learned much jazz history yet, and, like many of my jazz heroes that I had been listening to and researching, I just figured he was dead. Maybe my believing that he was dead only added to his legend, in my book. Therefore, I remember the feeling that overcame me that night at Birdland, as Oscar walked toward the piano. To me, he was not only my favorite pianist, but a historical legend - and he was alive! And I was in his company. I felt so lucky.

His set was beautiful.

Sure, he couldn't play his fast runs like he used to (but who cared! We were listening to Oscar Peterson!), and sure, he repeated certain phrases again and again...It was interesting to look in eyes as he repeated a phrase. I could see in them a deep pain and frustration. I could see in them two different things: 1) a repeated phrase was often his reaching for something else - he could hear it all in his head, but his fingers wouldn't carry his thoughts, and 2) a repeated phase was also sometimes a reluctant give-in, like he was giving into, and sadly accepting his piano capabilities at that point. His eyes really said it all, and it was interesting to watch his face as a phrase was repeated. To me, I was overcome with joy at watching my hero but, watching him at these moments, it was extremely sad and often painful.

Even so, what he lacked in technique, he made up for with soft, delicate, and heart-felt emotion. The ballads were beautiful, and his touch was so soft, so smooth, so wonderful, and it was at those moments - the ballads - that I knew that Oscar was making the piano sound how he'd like it to.

When the first set ended and most of the house had cleared out, I asked the manager of the club if I could speak with Oscar, for he was my hero. "Of course," the man said. "Oscar's backstage and he wants to meet anyone who wants to meet him."

"How nice!", I remember thinking. The man led me backstage. There were about three people in line in front of me, one being Ron Carter. I remember the nervous anticipation I felt as I watched Oscar so humbly accept compliments. Even in his wheelchair he looked like a giant. I remember staring at his huge hands, knowing full well who elses' hands those had shaken. After Oscar took pictures with a few fans and spoke with Ron Carter, it was my turn.

I was lead to the empty seat right next to him and I sat down. I was so nervous that I didn't know what to say. I'm not even sure if I said "Hello" before exclaiming, "You're my hero."

He was just as nice as he could be. We shook hands and I told him that I was a young pianist, that he was my favorite, that I'd flown up from Atlanta just to see him. Upon hearing this he asked, in an almost painful manner - yet totally serious, which made me feel very sad for him: "Aw, you flew all the way up here just for that?" - noting that he was not happy with his performance. I told him that it had been a truly wonderful performance. It felt a little strange speaking these words of encouragement to my hero. He thanked me -even though he was his harshest critic and my words may have only comforted him a little bit, if at all-. His honesty about his performance taught me a lot; it really showed me what it means to be humble.

This was one of my first encounters with a jazz legend; one of the others being a few months earlier at a Keith Jarrett concert when Jarrett yelled at an audience member for coughing and yelled an exaggerated "thanks" to a loving fan as he hurried into his car from the backstage door of the concert hall. As I sat with Oscar, realizing full well all the amazing things he done in his lifetime, yet still so down-to-earth, friendly, honest, and grateful to his fans, I felt a sense of relief - knowing that this humility and honesty was still possible even for the greatest of men.

We took a picture and he signed an autograph for me. Then he put out his hand, shook mine, and looked me dead in the eye. "I want to wish you the best of luck with whatever you do in your future." I'll never forget that - he said it with such sincerity.

I will treasure those few moments for the rest of my life and am forever grateful that I got to look Oscar Peterson in the eye and tell him that he is my hero.

6/4-5/2010: My Preservation Hall Experience

2010-07-28T17:37:00.000-07:00

I’ll never forget the first time I got chills inside Preservation Hall. It was the first night of my two nights’ run there. My Dad and I arrived at the Hall about an hour before the doors opened. When we arrived at the Hall, there was already a long line of people waiting to get inside. The gate was still locked shut, and as we peered through the cracks in the gate, the Hall looked empty; maybe we were too early. But finally a man came to the gate. He opened it for us and welcomed us to New Orleans and to the Hall. After entering the Hall’s gates, we took a quick left and entered the Hall itself. He was a very friendly guy, very casual, and looked almost surprised when, after asking if he could get me anything, I asked – obviously nervous and very cautious – if I could warm up on the holy Preservation Hall piano. “Of course,” he said, smiling.

Sitting down at the piano bench brought me back to myself, yet I couldn’t help barely touching the keys of the piano when I first warmed up; I felt like I was in some sort of holy room and I didn’t want to mess anything up.

The man had walked out back to finish getting ready for the night, and my Dad had left the Hall itself to look around outside and see the Hall’s grounds. There I was; alone in Preservation Hall. I looked around. Behind me was the famous Preservation Hall Jazz Band drum set. In front of the set sat a group of rocking chairs. I wondered who’d sat on those. I looked all around me; at the church-like benches, at the walls – showing so much authentic wear and tear. I looked at the benches, the pillows on the ground, the empty seats, the walls; I could hear the sounds of last night, yesterday, yesteryear in my head. I saw the people – the musicians, the crowds – dancing, clapping, and above all, smiling. I knew that a lot of joy and history had gone down in this room, and as I sat there, alone at the holy piano, I could feel its’ echo vibrate all through me. That’s when I got the chills.

An older man, dressed in a sharp looking suit came in a few minutes later; the first of the band members had arrived. He opened up his instrument case and pulled out a tenor saxophone. He played a few notes before placing it on one of the rocking chairs. He graciously welcomed me to Hall and told me he looked forward to hearing my playing.

The great trumpeter Leroy Jones was playing that night. (I played solo piano in between each set of Leroy Jones’ group on Friday and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band on Saturday.). Listening to him and his group was a joy; I’d never heard such pure music that swung so hard at such a low volume. “Serious stuff,” I remember saying to myself. I noticed that after each set the musicians would retire to the garden right behind the Hall. I noticed too that during my first set, one of Jones’ band members stayed behind and listened to me play. He must’ve enjoyed it, because by the group’s next set break and my next set, a couple more members stayed and listened to me. By my last set, Jones’ group had taken over a row of side chairs, listening intently to my soft, quiet stride, throwing me “Yeah, you right”’s after each tune.

There were many moments during that weekend that I remember thinking to myself, “I’ll never forget this moment.” The next night, the Preservation Hall Jazz Band called me on stage to sit in with them for the last few tunes of the night. As we ended the night with a wild version of “St. Louis Blues,” and I looked out into the audience and saw people dancing, clapping, hollering, smiling, I got the chills again.

These people weren’t the same people I’m used to seeing over and over again at New York City jazz clubs. These people weren’t musicians. These people were regular people, really swinging to jazz music, a music that had been declared dead more times than once.

I’d watch the people as they took their seats. It was easy to spot a newcomer to jazz; a youngster who had been dragged there by his parents, a curious person, or a person who was there simply because they had to go there (How could you visit New Orleans and not go to Preservation Hall?) I’d watch these people, and I’d watch them as the music overtook them for the first time. First I’d see the smile. Then I’d watch the foot-tap. I’d see the first time that their shoulder would move, up and down, to the rhythm of the song. I’d watch shy looking children start clapping and yelling loudly as they sat next to their parents who were doing the same. It was almost as if they couldn’t help it – that the music had really entered them, had filled their insides with joy. “And they said this jazz is dead,” I thought to myself; “How could it be?”

I once had a talk with McCoy Tyner. He asked me if I love playing the piano. “I do,” I told him.

He smiled, looked me dead in the eye, and said to me, “Well never give it up. It’s a life force.”

I never realized how true that was until I watched these people. Jazz music is a feeling that is different from all others; in this sense, it’s impossible for it to die. I thought to myself how no matter what is bothering me, no matter where I am in the world, I can sit down at the piano and feel at home on its bench. I remember a quote by the great Nat Hentoff of how Ben Webster’s ballads were once his cure for illness, and I realized how jazz, more than any therapy or medicine I’d ever been prescribed, has cured me most.

Jazz certainly is a life force. If you’re one of the doubters, obituary-writers, or simply don’t believe me, I suggest you go to Preservation Hall where you can see it, hear it, and feel it for yourself.

NEA Jazz Masters 2010: Behind The Scenes

2010-01-19T06:28:00.000-08:00

This past Tuesday, January 12, I had the unique opportunity in taking part in the 2010 National Endowment of the Arts (NEA) Jazz Masters Presentation Ceremony.

The ceremony was a day filled with festivities (a banquet in the morning and a concert in the evening), and my part was that of a volunteer. Apparently the NEA contacted NYU to find some students who might want to help out with the day's events.

I arrived with only a slight idea of what was to come; that is, I knew who was on the guest list, I knew who I'd probably say hello to, but I had no clue how long I'd speak to the guests, how much actual contact we would have, or who would actually show up.

The lunch banquet took place at 12PM. I arrived at 11AM and was given the job of greeting everyone who arrived off of the elevators and pointing them in the right direction. Every jazz master would walk off the elevator; that meant that I would greet all of them.

The banquet took place on the third floor. I can't describe how exciting it was to watch the arrows on the elevator rise from floor 1 to floor 3, watch the doors slowly open, and eventually be revealed to me who it was on the inside.

I was greeted by some truly charming and gracious individuals. I recognized nearly everyone, but didn't want to make them feel that way. I greeted them with a smile and a "welcome," sometimes an "I'm Joe."

"How you doin'? I'm Ramsey Lewis," one man said.

Another, "I'm Annie. Nice to meet you." (Annie Ross, a 2010 NEA Jazz Master).

Dr. Billy Taylor and I had a nice conversation as I greeted him and reminded him of some lessons I took with him at his summer jazz clinic, Jazz In July, a few years back. It was quite an honor that he seemed so interested in what I was up to, who I was studying with and what I was studying, even as people like Candido and James Moody were walking by.

I watched and greeted Yusef Lateef, Kenny Barron, Jimmy Heath, Nat Hentoff, Cedar Walton, George Avakian, Billy Taylor, Randy Weston, Candido, Joe Wilder, Gerald Wilson, the ultra-hip Roy Haynes, Dan Morgenstern, almost anyone you could think of.

James Moody greeted me with a hug and a kiss on each cheek (apparently a sign that he really knows you and likes you, so that was very special).

I watched as these giants greeted each other, so happy to see one another. For some it had been a very long time.

I watched as these giants became humans too. I'd show them to the restroom ("I need to see Mr. Pickle," Jimmy Heath said.) I saw some of them struggle to take off their coats, struggle to walk, use the bathroom more than three times during the meal...I saw them have conversations, take seating assignments, listen to speeches, look for their jackets, walk around looking for someone to talk to...

As the bruncheon neared it’s end, I was greeted quite enthusiastically by Cedar Walton, with who, just a few weeks prior, I had had a nice conversation in the Village Vanguard bathroom. Having just come from the library where I had been studying, I had my book-bag on. After we had talked for about ten minutes, one of the Vanguard’s employers came in the bathroom looking for Cedar. Immediately seeing my book bag, he yelled something to Cedar about us being up to no good (he must’ve thought we were doing drugs). Cedar told him to get out; that we were just talking.

As people started to exit, I helped two of my heroes to their town cars: Nat Hentoff and Billy Taylor.

During a restroom visit I introduced myself to Nat and reminded him of whom I was (he had recently listened to my album, loved it, and might want to write about my upcoming Preservation Hall performance - but we had not met, since then, in person). He seemed excited to see me and was very thankful for my helping him to his car. On the way down he spoke to me about going to see "the most happy sounding musician he's ever heard" at Preservation Hall long ago. His enthusiasm for the music is really inspiring.

When I asked him if it was nice to see everyone today he said, "It's really like a family reunion."

He reiterated what he has told me before: to write everything down. He’s interested in reading what a young musician like myself would make of playing in such a historic venue like Preservation Hall. (He previously mentioned that he might want to write a piece about me writing a piece on it).

As Mr. Hentoff got in his car I asked him if I’d see him at the show that night. “No,” he said. “I’ve got to work.”

Next was Dr. Taylor. Ever since our first run-in that morning, we really formed a bit of a rapport, greeting each other with loud "Hey's" and big smiles every time we'd run in to each other.

As my friend and I walked Dr. Taylor to his car, I asked him if he still participated in Jazz In July.

"No," he said. He had been having some issues with the program and thought there was some things that needed to be worked out involving the process with which things were run. Either way, I took that as an opportunity to really develop a conversation with him.

I told him that I really learned a lot from the program. It was the first time I had realized how hard playing duo piano could be. He agreed and I told him that I love his duo piano stuff, especially the videos on his website.

He seemed to really be enjoying the conversation and went on to tell me how much he enjoyed playing duo with people like Ramsey Lewis and Tommy Flanagan.

"Dick Hyman," I suggested too. I had recently been watching some of their duo videos.

"Oh yes," he said.

As we waited for his car to pull up, I mentioned something about his amazing three-piano video that featured him, Duke Ellington, and Willie "The Lion" Smith.

"That really was one of the highlights of my life," he said. "I mean they really just laid it down for me. I mean listen, they didn't really even solo you know. They were just mostly playing chords and letting me solo. It was really such a thrill."

I mentioned how I thought the introduction was hilarious, when Duke Ellington pretends to forget Billy's name.

"Oh yes," Billy said, laughing. He told me the story of how that came to be: Basically Billy brought Duke on this show, kind of a strange show, and when Duke arrived he couldn't believe that Billy had persuaded him to coming to such a show. So, in a sort of funny retaliation, Duke acted like he forgot Billy's name in the introduction to the piece.

Dr. Taylor's car was lost or something and hadn't yet come. We walked back inside as the wind was almost unbearable outside.

"You know who I've really been listening a lot to lately?" I asked.

"Who?"

"Dave McKenna."

Dr. Taylor's face lit up. "Oh yes, Dave had it all. And he was one of the most melodic players..."

I asked if he'd read the new Thelonious Monk biography, knowing full well that Dr. Taylor was all over that book.

"Yes," he said. "I'm in it."

"Oh I know, I've been reading all about you." We laughed. Hoping that he'd tell me personally one of the coolest stories in it, I told him I'd just finished the part about where he played at James P. Johnson's house. Easily my favorite story I’d read thus far in the book, I hoped Billy would tell it to me.

Lucky me. He did. And what a version he told! Whereas in the book, I could only imagine the feelings of shock and embarrassment Billy must’ve felt when he realized what he’d been conned into, in person, I could see Billy’s enthusiasm, his shock, and the humor with which he looks back on it all now. To paraphrase the story, Billy had been playing piano in a restaurant soon after arriving in New York. A family friend introduced him to a man who said he loved Billy’s playing and offered to take him to a friend’s house who, the man told Billy, loved piano jazz and would certainly love Billy’s playing. The man took Billy to a man’s house in Harlem. There were about fifty people in the room and the man introduced Billy to the room as a pianist. “Oh playing something for us,” they yelled. “So I got up there and started playing all my Teddy Wilson shit, trying to show off, you know,” Billy put it to me. “I got through about 8 bars before a man tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘That’s nice. Let me try.’” To put it lightly, the man proceeded to build on what Billy played, but just knocked him out. That man was Willie “The Lion” Smith, and before long Billy realized that everyone there was a pianist, and everyone there was a famous pianist whose playing he knew; he just didn’t know their faces because he hadn’t seen picture of them before! In fact, he had been taken to James P. Johnson’s house!

Billy said that they just knocked him around and tore him up. “They had such unbelievable left hands. I couldn’t play like that, and neither could Monk, and that’s how we bonded and got so close.”

“There’s only a few recorded instances of such – you can hear it on some of his versions of ‘Round Midnight’”- but for the most part it wasn’t recorded,” Dr. Taylor said. “But Monk could really play like Tatum. He really had all the technique and he could really play like Art.”

He told me about learning from Art Tatum. One of Tatum’s protégés – Oscar Peterson being one of the others – he told me about sitting down at the piano with Tatum. Tatum showed him a pattern or a piece and Billy went home and learned it, copying it note for note. When he went back to Tatum and showed it to him, Tatum simply said, "Man, I've already heard that. I played that. Now do something with it."

A few minutes later Billy’s car arrived and he was whisked away into the car. I got the feeling he could’ve gone on and on, and how I wish he did!

(It reminded me of the days of Jazz In July, when sometimes he’d tell us stories for an hour or so after class ended. Once such story: Billy had recently started working with Atlantic Records, who were, at the time, looking for some sort of new sound. Every day Billy would come in and they’d give him some music and he’d play it, and they’d say, “No, that’s not it.” This went on for a while until one day when he walked in and they told him that they’d found the sound they were looking for. When Billy asked who it was, they said it was a blind pianist named Ray Charles.)

“See ya tonight!,” he said as he got in his car.

After the brunch ended, us volunteers were given a little break. We were told to meet back at the Sheraton Hotel at 5PM where we would help the Jazz Masters board the bus to Lincoln Center around 5:30.

When we walked into the hotel lobby, it seemed that every jazz master was already there, just sitting around and hanging out. The bus ended up being about an hour late, which worked out great for me, because it really gave me a chance to really talk with some of my heroes.

As I walked to the bathroom, I saw Mr. Moody sitting down with his wife and I yelled out, “Mr. Moody!” He quickly got up and started conversation with my friends and I.

“You been practicin’ he asked?”

“I have, Mr. Moody.”

“Good.” He said. “It seems that the more you practice, the more you realize you don’t know. You know what I mean?”
He said, “As a matter of fact, my wife called Hank Jones the other day and he didn’t answer. He called back a little while later and apologized for missing her call; he had been practicing, he said. Now Hank’s 93 and if he’s still working on getting better, that’s really saying something.”
And then in his classic Moody tone (which can only be described as pure Donald Duck) he said, “Pwactice, pwactice, pwactice..”

Getting to know Mr. Moody a bit this past year through the Blue Note internship I’ve realized that many of the things he says may sound funny at first – you may even laugh at them-, but when you take a second and really think about what he just said, you realize just how deep what he said truly is.

“Beware of those people who call a television set an air conditioner.” We laughed. He stopped us. “No, seriously,” he said. “Think about it.” We all stopped and thought, and then Moody explained: “People can give labels to anything, but always try to find the truth.”

He then gave me another thing to think about. “Think about this,” he said. “Imagine that every time you play your instrument for the rest of your life you can only play ‘Happy Birthday’. Now that song is not happening, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“But I guarantee you, that if you only play ‘Happy Birthday To You’ for the rest of your life you are gonna find some good shit on it.”

I asked him if it was nice to see everyone today. “Oh yes,” he said. “But man, I mean it's kinda depressing too. I mean look at Candido, right there. He used to have these big, bulging muscles, and he was a real tough guy. It's sad watching him, and a lot of these guys. It makes me want to go home and bend over and lift some weights. I don't want to get like that."

Somehow the topic turned to race relations. Moody told us about many of the hard times he’d been through. He said he did a tour down south once where he was on the bandstand and the dance floor was divided in half. He said he would never hurt an American or America, but he doesn’t pride himself on the flag. America’s hurt him. He didn’t get treated with respect until he went to Europe, where he lived for three years, in Paris. He said that he has learned to take each person as an individual, not as a part of a group. He did say that racism still exists. Even though it’s much subtler that it used to be, he said it still hurts. He said that he often goes out with his wife (who is white) and often, the waiter or waitress will bring the meals’ check straight to her, or ask if the two are together, or ask, “separate checks?”

Right about then Gerald Wilson came over and the two embraced. It seemed like they hadn’t seen each other in a while and they began reminiscing, including my friends and I in the stories.

Moody started cracking up. He looked at my friends and I and said, “Man. Dizzy used to mess with me. He used to do this to me (Moody sat down and ran his fingers slowly up his legs - imitating Dizzy, who would run his fingers slowly up Moody’s legs), and ask me, ‘Moody. You nervous?’ I’d push him off and say, ‘Diz, get off of me!’ Then I’d try to get him back and do the same to him. I’d say, ‘Diz, you nervous?’ And he’d quickly say ‘No!’, and spread his legs wide open.” Moody and Wilson were cracking up.

Moody then stood back up. He asked my friends how old they were and then he asked me.
“21,” I said.
Then he looked at Gerald Wilson. “How old are you?”
“92,” Wilson replied.
Then Moody looked me in the eyes and said, “Boy, you may be 21 today but you’ll be 92 tomorrow. Make it count.”

We talked for a few more minutes before being called over by our boss for the afternoon. We helped him for a minute before joining in conversation with Jimmy Heath.

Jimmy was telling a story about having recently gone out to dinner with Randy Weston and Kareem Abdul-Jabaar. Now both Weston and Abdul Jabaar are both at least close to seven feet, while Jimmy may be somewhere close to 5. He said, “Someone asked to take a picture of us. Now listen,” he said. “I'm standing next to Kareem Abdul-Jabaar and Randy Weston, right in the middle of them. It's like I'm standing next to the twin towers. And I’m like, damn, I thought they tore those down already."

I asked him about my teacher Don Friedman, with whom I knew he played. He said he had a funny Don Friedman story. "I'll never forget we were on one of those cruises and Don starts playing "How Deep Is The Ocean," (Jimmy starts cracking up) and I'm Iike, "Don, we're in the middle of the ocean and I can barely swim. I don't want to know how deep it is from out here.”

As we began to slowly make our way to the busses I watched as Moody, Gerald Wilson, and Jimmy Heath reunited with Roy Haynes. Roy approached Moody from behind, grabbed his shoulders and started singing into his ears, first very quietly and then louder and louder, the word’s to Moody’s hit, “Moody’s Mood For Love.” “Where I go where I go where I go now,” he started singing. Before long they all joined in and eventually ended in full-fledged laughter.

We started walking to the bus when I noticed 93-year-old Yusef Lateef walking with one or two horns on his back and a suitcase on the ground that he was also carrying. I asked if he’d like some help. He laughed, thanked me, and said, “I’m okay as long as my wheels don’t break.

We helped the jazz masters board the bus, and then, with a few extra seats in the back, my friends and I hopped in. Jimmy Heath and James Moody greeted us loudly. Moody pounded my fist as I walked back. I sat right behind Randy Weston and right by Roy Haynes. It was most definitely the coolest bus ride in my life.

When we got to Lincoln Center we helped the artists get up to the “Jazz” level, the fifth floor. Myself, a few of the volunteers, Randy Weston, and Gerald Wilson’s beautiful granddaughters got off at that wrong floor. We were lost for about ten minutes before someone showed us the way. We walked in to the room where all the Jazz Masters (2010 and previous years) who were in attendance that evening were being photographed all together. What a joy it was to watch this. I’ve seen pictures like this before, but there’s nothing like being there, realizing that they’re all just clowning around. Frank Foster kept making funny faces and everyone was yelling things at one another. It was quite a scene.
After a thirty or so minute dinner where I shared a few words with Kenny Barron, we went backstage to where we’d watch the show. We opened the backstage doors and were greeted by a loud trumpet blowing fast scales – obviously warming up – in a room where the sound of the room made the trumpet echo beautifully. The sound was unmistakable. Wynton Marsalis.

His whole band was warming up. They were all walking down this large hall blowing their instruments. They were laughing and joking with one another.

We made our way backstage and Wynton came up to us, starting some conversation, asking us our names and such, and made a few jokes here and there. As the concert was about to start, the MC for the evening told Wynton to get on stage. Wynton said jokingly “Fuck you. I don’t want to go on.” The M.C. told him to go on stage; the show was being broadcast on the radio. Wynton kept saying “Fuck you man. Not now.” They were joking around and before long the M.C. basically grabbed Wynton and told him to go on stage. It was a funny bit.

The actual show was very long. I think it ran nearly four hours. For each honoree a video was shown, an introduction speech was given by a previously named Jazz Master, then the honoree spoke, and then he or she performed a piece. While it was very long and did bore many in audience after a while, it was proved to be fascinating to me, sitting backstage.

What really proved to be fascinating were the things that the audience didn’t get to see, the things that only I and a select few could see from backstage. I looked into Cedar Walton’s eyes as a video was being shown about him in front of the entire audience at Lincoln Center. I wondered if he was contemplating just how far he’d come; if he was pondering the significance of this moment. I watched as Kenny Barron prepared to go on stage and receive his award. I watched as Annie Ross prepared her makeup and took deep breaths before taking stage.

It was interesting to me to look into the faces of these newly named jazz masters just before they took the stage, as their own heroes were speaking about them, honoring them. It was interesting to watch, say Kenny Barron’s facial expression as James Moody spoke so highly about him in front of the entire audience. “I’ve never heard Kenny make a mistake,” Moody said. It was amazing to me how straight they kept their faces, never smiling at the accolades that were being spoken about them, only laughing at the funny stories told about them (Mr. Moody talked about rooming with Mr. Barron during a stint with Dizzy Gillespie and said, “I remember he used to wake up every morning in his underwear and make a big peanut butter and jelly sandwich and then eat a banana.” After a long pause, Moody said something like, “I don’t know why I told y’all that.”). It was fascinating to watch these artists collect their thoughts. It was hard to tell if Cedar Walton was focused on or even paying attention his accolades, the video, the speech before-hand; he looked utterly serious and focused, yet I couldn’t tell at all what was on his mind.

One of the most poignant moments of the show, for me, took place just before Yusef Lateef walked on stage to receive his award.

Each honoree was led to the stage door about a minute before they were supposed to walk onstage, accept the award, give a speech, and perform.

Mr. Luteef, 93 years old, an extremely mysterious man, walked to the stage door very slowly. Then he stopped and stood very still, arms crossed, eyes closed, face down.

While it is impossible for me to know what he was truly thinking of that moment, something hit me hard.

They always say that right before you die your life flashes before your eyes. I got this strange feeling that, Lateef was reflecting over his entire life at that exact moment, not dying at all, but feeling some sort of strange relief. He seemed to be inside his mind replaying how he had gotten from A to B and from B to Z.

It seemed that, just possibly, he was thinking that, somehow, everything he had fought for all his life had arrived; everything he had worked for throughout his entire existence had been building to that one moment. Finally, he was being honored by the United States Government for a music that he - and countless others who hadn’t the chance to receive the proper recognition- spent his whole life fighting to legitimize (especially in the United States, the land of jazz’s creation!). I watched him stand there, overwhelmed with emotions, knowing full well where this man must have been and knowing too where he had arrived, and also very thankful that he, and especially he (an often underappreciated and under-recognized, yet more than deserving jazz master) specifically received this award before it was too late.

Whether or not that’s how it actually happened to him, that’s how it hit me, and it was a really powerful emotional experience.

The show ended eventually and we were led out to a reception where everyone mingled. A good friend of mine introduced me to Marc O’Connor, the fabulous violinist, and we had a wonderful conversation. What a truly wonderful guy he is. Throughout the day, it hit me hard that these giants are just people, and O’Connor was really exemplar of that. When I asked him how last week’s Blue Note gig went after telling him I would’ve been there (being the Blue Note intern) had I not been home for break, he said, “We missed you.”

The reception eventually ended and we made our way down the elevators where many of the Jazz Masters boarded the bus to take them back to the Sheraton.

A friend of mine was on the elevator with Jimmy Heath, who apparently had something to say about the no-shows. "Ornette Coleman didn't show up. George Coleman didn't show up. Heck, even Coleman Hawkins didn't show up."

I had been on the elevator before that one. Standing behind me was Cecil Taylor. Not really a fan of his music, but in the presence of such an icon, I knew I had to say something.

When the time seemed right, just as we were about to exit the Lincoln Center doors onto Columbus Circle, I approached him. “Mr. Taylor,” I said. “I don’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to tell you that I’m a pianist and that your music has been very inspiring over the years.”

In response (or I should say, in lack-of response), Mr. Taylor just looked at me, dead serious, right in the eyes for about ten seconds. Finally he broke the silence by asking in a deep and heavy, yet totally fake, British accent, “What is your name, Sir?”

As strange as it was, I realized walking home that night that, after getting to know Taylor’s music, that is exactly how I’d expect Cecil Taylor to react.

The case was the same with nearly everyone I met:
Yusef Lateef, even in conversation, seemed mysterious and even a bit protective. You could never tell what he was really thinking, but you could always tell that he was thinking. And James Moody is extremely happy and he quickly draws you into the conversation, which can turn from absolutely hilarious to very deep, emotional, and even dark at times, in a matter of seconds.

It’s true what Charlie Parker said about one’s music being the sum total of one’s experiences. Being behind the scenes at the NEA Jazz Masters Awards day really showed me that this is absolutely true.

It was an honor to spend the day with my heroes and to watch them receive the deserved recognition that they’ve been denied for way too long.

Konitz/Mehldau/Haden/Motian: 12/10/09 @ Birdland

2009-12-14T22:52:00.000-08:00

I often find myself on long online music hunts, searching for a perfect song, a perfect album, a perfect feel, or a perfect touch. Sometimes, hoping for all of the above, I often give up, unable to find exactly what I'm looking for. Other times - much less often than what happens above -, I find exactly what I'm looking for: an album, a song, an artist, or a collaboration so perfect and so mesmerizing that (and the only word I can truly think of to describe the feeling is) I am left hypnotized, so awestruck by what I have found, so happy that I have found it and that it exists.

Recent findings have included Red Garland's solo piano recordings, Garland's recording of "You Better Go Now," on Rojo, John Pizzarelli's, "I Wouldn't Trade You," Gene Kelly and George Gershwins original recording of "I've Got A Crush On You" (from the film "An American in Paris), and Ahmad Jamal's, "We Live In Two Different Worlds."

Maybe you see where I'm going.

The avant-garde infrequently sparks my interest.

Often, in jazz these days, to me at least, it seems that so much emphasis is made on innovation - each album is reviewed on how innovative it is, how much it has shaken everything- Siimply playing nicely on a good tune isn't so relevant, and certainly not important.

I am told often to remember that the great, innovative musicians were out there to innovate. They were purposely playing to innovate the music, to bring it forward.

A teacher of mine told me that he often goes out to the store in search of these newer, innovative, modern recordings - those that he reads in the reviews - but almost always ends up leaving the record store with another Jackie McLean album in hand because, above all, he could never cook to the new stuff.

It took me a long time to come to terms with what I truly believe: those who innovated didn't play with the intention of innovating; they played what was in their hearts. It just so happened, that in that process, they innovated.

However, when the avant-garde, or the atypical does spark my interest, it truly speaks to me very deeply, as it did the other night at Birdland.

A truly exciting lineup, I had no idea what to expect. Would Mehldau overpower the rest of the group? Would Motian's drumming get in the way of everyone else? Would Lee Konitz swing and would his tone shine? - Or would he go the "modern way", wowing the audience with his virtuostic and totally shocking, modern phrasings?

Or would it be spectacular?

I was wrong on all accounts to my first set of questions.

The show was truly spectacular. Unusual, unrehearsed, hypnotizing, and great.

Each tune was begun by one of the musicians -usually Brad or Lee. After a statement or two of the melody, the rest of the band would join in.

One of the most memorable parts of the show took place during Brad's introduction to "Falling In Love With Love." After a couple of verses, Motian joined in on drums. Just as they leaned on the dominant chord at the end of the tune - hinting to the rest of the band to come in, and making the audience feel that that was where it was going - Brad quickly realized that the band wasn't coming. He did a short cadence and the song ended, with a quick, funny ending (it was obvious that Brad was good at covering things up). Charlie mouthed to Lee, "What song was that?" Lee approached the microphone: "I almost knew that one," before asking Brad the name of the tune, unashamed, in front of the whole crowd.

The nature of the shows - totally unrehearsed and most probably un-discussed beforehand - made for all the better. The beginning of each song left everyone in the audience (and on the bandstand) in suspense. What would happen next? It was all too exciting; I couldn't look away. I couldn't close my ears.

Lee's beautiful tone always shone through - hinting equally at the tender Johnny Hodges, Paul Desmond, and Ben Webster as well as the searing, harking, yearning, cantor-like tone of Ornette Coleman.

In a conversation with friends before the show, it was decided that only Joe Lovano could make the group more powerful, more perfect.

And despite all of this, I felt a strong yearning to hear Ornette Coleman throughout the whole show - someone I rarely yearn to hear. It was during this show that I realized just how beautiful his screaching and yelling saxophone truly is.

The set list for that night, 12/10, 2nd set was:

1. All The Things You Are
2. Falling In Love With Love (a Mehldau/Motian duet)
3. Lover Man
4. Oleo
5. If I Should Lose You
6. Law Years (a Haden/Motian duet)
7. I Fall In Love Too Easily
8. The Way You Look Tonight

I usually pride myself on being some sort of traditionalist: I learn the lyrics to the songs and I try to portray those lyrics in the songs. I've never understood the extremely speedy versions of "The Way You Look Tonight." I never understood the point of taking a song (especially a beautiful standard) "out," until now.

One thing that I usually take away from "out" performances:
-The artist is faking it; as Bird said, "If you didn't live it, it won't come out of your horn." I often feel that the guy taking it "out" is not believable; he is playing someone he's not.

This show was both in and out, yet what truly made it great is that it succeeded in being both at the same time.

The interweaving, artful lines truly developed and made so famous by Konitz, Marsh, Tristano and Co. were complemented by everyone - Konitz certainly included -; with emotion - tenderness; not anger (a common emotion used in "free playing").

This balance of intellect and emotion, simultaneous tonality and atonality made this show certainly one of the most brilliant - and enjoyable - I've ever seen.

The shows were rumored to be recorded for future ECM release. Let's hope the rumors were true.

Don Friedman

2009-12-14T12:09:00.000-08:00

Don Friedman has been my piano teacher for the past three years at NYU. He truly is someone that I look up to - not only musically, but very much personally. He seems truly happy, truly fulfilled, something I long for some day.

Don and I have spent many hours discussing the musicians he's known and played with. He was Scott Lafaro's roommate; flipping through my "Real Book" one day, we came across the tune, "Gloria's Step."

"Oh yeah," Don said. "He wrote that at my apartment."

Among the many crazy stories Don has told me, one conversation truly stuck out.

Our conversation began discussing Charles Mingus. Don told me about the time he played opposite Mingus at The Five Spot, which he said was on St. Mark’s Place between 3rd and 2nd avenues. He said that Mingus’ group was known to be the “out” group. However, Don’s group turned out to be playing more “out” than Mingus’. During Don’s set, Mingus walked over to Don and said, “What are you trying to do? You’re making it look like I play Rock N’ Roll!”

Don then said that he invited a guest trumpeter on the stage –a man who had long, flowing blonde hair. The man played “out” trumpet, and Mingus looked at Don and said, “Who do you think he is? Jesus Christ?”

Reminiscing about the Five Spot, he told me about its’ owners, two Italian brothers who knew nothing about Jazz. They booked Monk and Johnny Griffin (or someone like that) when they first opened and the place was packed. That’s when it started.

Don asked me if I knew that Ornette Coleman’s first NYC gig was at The Five Spot. Being a historically important gig that I have read much about, I said I knew. Don then revealed some crazy news: Don was actually playing opposite Ornette on that gig (solo piano). He said that many famous people –including Leonard Bernstein- came out to see Ornette.

Don told me he used to play with Ornette back in California – Don, Ornette, Don Cherry, and Billy Higgins. Also, a saxophone player with whom Don compared Sonny Rollins named John Handy.

We began talking about Ornette and his crazy interviews, how it's hard to understand almost anything he says. Don told me that Ornette is totally “out.” However, he isn’t crazy. He is a very nice guy who can hold a normal conversation. "He isn’t crazy," Don said..."like Monk,"

Don told me that he is a good friend with Eddie Henderson, a trumpeter who is also a psychologist. When Eddie was a student resident, Monk’s wife had Monk committed to the same hospital in which Eddie worked. Knowing that he was a jazz musician and black, Henderson was assigned to work with Monk. Not remembering specific stories, Don told me that Eddie told him that Monk said some crazy, scary things. He said that Monk was a schizophrenic, and while he had times when he seemed nice and happy, he was crazy.

Elaborating on his point, Don said that he played opposite Monk’s group for a week or so at the old Jazz Gallery, which was one or two blocks up from the Five Spot, between 2nd and 3rd avenues as well (With the success of the Five Spot, the brothers opened this new club). He said that the musicians had a lot of interaction. There was the usual backstage talk with one another, the “usual bullshit” (to quote Don). However, he said that Monk never spoke a word. Never. He said that Monk would walk around with his battery-powered fan (it was a summer gig). He’d place it next to the piano and leave it on while he played. When he would finish soloing (and Charlie Rouse would start), he’d stand up, grab the fan, go behind the wing of the grand piano and dance. After the gig, he’d go outside, lean on his car, and let the fan blow in his face.

Hank Jones

2009-12-14T11:59:00.000-08:00

Hank Jones is truly my pianistic idol. While I have many other pianist role models, it is Hank Jones whose playing is absolutely perfect to me. It seems that everything he plays is perfectly placed, a perfect balance of logic and emotion, and his touch is, as McCoy Tyner told me, "magical."

The following was the first encounter I had with Mr. Jones, backstage at the Iridium. While we have had a few other encounters - more personal, yet often very strange - since, this was the first, and it was quite a thrill. The following took place, and on March 11, 2009, after Hank played at the Iridium and I wandered backstage.

Hank was standing there laughing and talking with people, and I got in line. The guy behind me approached and began a lengthy conversation with him; one with which I joined. The first thing I heard was Hank talk about the Basie band. “He had four great arrangers for that band,” he said. “It’s usually hard enough to get one.”

Hank began talking about his first day walking in to record for a certain recording label. On his first day, he said, both Nat Cole and George Shearing were in the studio. He said he knew Nat for a long time, and he also talked about how great of a piano player George Shearing was. Hank said that an interviewer once asked George if he had been blind all of his life and George replied, “Not yet.”

The man Hank was talking to said that he heard that George said he would pick out the women on his album covers by himself (he’s blind). They laughed.

The two then had a lengthy discussion about the clarinet greats of jazz. Hank said that he used to joke with Benny Goodman; whenever Benny would get in a bad mood or something on stage, Hank would reach for his hat (as if he were leaving), and Benny would shape up. Hank was especially complimentary about Woody Herman, who he said was a fine clarinet player. He called Benny Goodman a genius, and a pretty good player. He repeated player over and over, until we understood what he was talking about. He then said, “He was a fine clarinet player,” just to throw off the women (his wife?) he was with, jokingly. He said that one time they went down south (Florida I think) and the place they were playing (a big hotel) spelled Gene Bertocini’s name, Dean Bertotini (close to it). He said Benny looked at it, shrugged his shoulders, said “Okay,” and turned back around.

Hank talked about his love for Vladimir Horowitz; how he had a very unique playing style. Hank said that it was rare for a classical pianist to sound that unique. "There must be thousands of great classical pianists," Hank said. "But when you hear Horowitz playing Chopin, it’s like you’re hearing it for the first time."

Hank then told a story about a man who came into a club once, introduced himself as “Rigor-mortus” and asked if he could sit in. He said the man then ate three bowls of shrimp and destroyed all the instruments, except the piano. Hank didn’t blame him for destroying the bassoon. He then said, “Here’s something to think about though: That man ate three big bowls of shrimp. That’s a lot of shrimp. He must’ve loved shrimp... and hated the bassoon. And after hearing so-and-so play it, I understand. That guy was awful.” He laughed.

When the man told Hank that Oscar Peterson loved Hank’s playing, Hank replied, “He’s always been a little hard of hearing.”

The man then left and Hank came directly over at me. I told him how much of an impact he has had on me and my playing and I told him he was my idol. I told him that I studied with Don Friedman, and he got all excited. He asked if that was at the New School. I said it was at NYU, and when I mentioned NYU, he got very excited and reached out to shake my friends hand. I told him my friend was a bass player and Hank said, “We got a rhythm section,” and then, pointing to the guy he had just been talking to, “and a clarinet player.” I told him how much I loved his recording of “I Cover The Waterfront,” to which he replied, “I’ll get it down one of these days.” I asked if I could take a picture with him. He graciously accepted and, being the nice guy that he is, spent a few minutes trying to figure out which angle would be best for lighting.

Standing there, I asked Hank about Teddy Wilson. He went on and on about how Teddy was one of his first influences, how much he loves the Benny Goodman Trio recordings, with just Teddy, Benny, and Gene Krupa on drums. He said Teddy had such a strong left hand that you didn’t even miss a bass player. “No offense,” he said to my bass player friend.

Hank then added, “But after I heard Art Tatum, I said, ‘Move over Teddy.’” He laughed. I told Hank that I loved Teddy for his elegance. I said that I feel that every note Teddy plays and every note Hank plays are perfect; that every time I listen to them I say to myself, “That’s the exact right thing to play there.” Hank was flattered, and he said to me, “Well, I’ve been playing a long time. I’ve learned not to mess up as much. I still hit wrong notes and mess up, just not as much.” He paused then said, “Erroll Garner once told me, ‘It took me twenty years to figure out what to leave out.’ That really got me thinking.” He then added, “Damn. Erroll Garner must’ve sure been playing a lot of piano before he realized that then, if what we got is him leaving out.” He laughed. My friend then asked Hank who some of his influences were. He said Teddy and Fats Waller. He said that there was such joy in his playing, in every note. He said that Fats was one of the only pianists like that. I then suggested Erroll Garner. “Oh yes,” Hank said. “Erroll Garner sure was another.” Then, back to Fats, Hank said, he sang too. “Well,” he added. “He said he sang.” He laughed.

Then Hank looked at me and said, “You know when Fats used to say, ‘One never knows, do one?’; you know what he was talking about?” “No,” I said. Hank began thinking out loud. “What do they call those things today?...Those fairies...” He couldn’t remember, so he said to me, “What do they call fairies today?” Not wanting to say “gays" and be wrong, I said I didn’t know. Hank then said, “Oh yes. The gays. That’s what he meant when he said, and in a very mischievous voice Hank repeated, "One never knows, do one?" He then paused. "Do one," Hank laughed. "Ha. Shoulda been ‘does one.’ Oh Fats.” And then he laughed.

We began talking about Oscar Peterson, and I asked him if he ever saw a documentary that featured Oscar Peterson and Andre Previn talking and playing together. No he hadn’t. And then he said, “Andre Previn! I got a bone to pick with him. I lent him my piano cushion a few years back so he could have a cushion and I never got it back. But he’s conducting symphonies now, so I’ll probably never get it.”

It was the first of many encounters with Mr. Jones, and quite a thrilling one, to say the least.

McCoy Tyner

2009-12-14T11:43:00.000-08:00

This past year, I have had the unique opportunity of interning at the world famous Blue Note Jazz Club. Besides being a jazz club, the club also houses a record label -Half Note Records- and a management firm. One of the clients of the management firm is the great McCoy Tyner.

He came in one night as a special guest of tap dancer Savion Glover. As I sat downstairs watching Savion tear it up during his soundcheck, McCoy's manager approached my boss and I. He asked for a favor.

"McCoy's sitting in the dressing room all alone. Would you mind keeping him company for a little while?"

Not at all!

We walked into the dressing room and my boss quickly introduced me to McCoy as a fellow pianist. My boss told him that I was trying to get lessons with the great Hank Jones, at which McCoy said, "You know what it is about Hank? He's got the magic touch."

"Oh Elvin loved Hank," McCoy said. "He really looked up to him.

We spoke for a while about many different things: McCoy, not knowing Joe Lovano's recent injury (he broke both arms), expressed deep sympathy when we told him (my boss didn't know the full story, so I had to tell it to him).

"Joe is one of the sweetest guys I know," McCoy said.

McCoy went on to talk about his time in Europe. He spoke of living just outside of London, getting involved with a woman, but having to leave London before it got too late. ("You know what I mean," he said, snickering.)

McCoy's producer entered the room and we left.

I was about to take off for the day and saw McCoy sitting at one of the Blue Note's tables. I went up to him and told it was an honor and a pleasure to meet him.

I asked him if he knew a teacher of mine from Atlanta, Gary Motley, to which McCoy responded: "It sounds familiar, but man, I meet so many people I just have a hard time remembering. A lot of people think that's a drag, but I don't. I really don't. I enjoy meeting people. I've realized that every person is unique and different and really has something unique to offer."

Then he looked at me and said, "You're a pianist, right?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well keep with it. Never give up. It's a life force."

With that we parted. I told him that his music has truly been an inspiration, and I thanked him sincerely.

A few weeks later, McCoy came back. This time it was his show.

As he finished up his soundcheck, McCoy and his manager got their coats to go to dinner. They left, and I went back upstairs to work. As the day winded down and I left the Blue Note, I was walking down the street and peered into a Japanese restaurant where I saw McCoy and his manager eating.

I honestly hadn't planned on eating there, but as I was hungry, about to get dinner anyway, I couldn't pass up the opportunity. I went inside and placed an order. I said hi to McCoy and his manager Adam and asked if they didn't mind my sitting with them while I waited for my order.

"Of course not," they said.

I sat down, and somehow brought up the subject of my new album. I told Adam -McCoy's manager- that I meant to give him a copy of the CD and pulled one out to give him and his intern. "Well you gotta give one to the piano man now," Adam said.

McCoy laughed ("Yeah," he said) and I handed him one. He put it in his briefcase and looked at me, and very sincerely said, "I want to wish you the best of luck with your CD."

I told him that if he gets a chance to listen I really hope he enjoys.

Out of nowhere I decided to bring something up with McCoy and his manager. I looked at McCoy and said, "I didn't realize, until I got this CD out, how much B.S. is out there in this business." McCoy nodded. I told him, "I got an email from JazzIz Magazine. They said they wanted to feature me in the magazine. However, I did a bit more research and realized that the person who contacted me was actually in charge of advertisements for JazzIz, and sure they were willing to feature me - if I was willing to shell over $1500 bucks."

McCoy seemed a little outraged. He said, "That's ridiculous."

I expressed the difficulties I was having with these sorts of things. I told him I'd been receiving a few emails like that and it's hard to differentiate the B.S. from a truly good opportunity.

McCoy said, "Man, you gotta get someone to take care of all that stuff for you like I do. It's hard man."

As my food came and not wanting to impose any longer I got up and thanked McCoy again. He wished me best of luck on the CD and what seemed like a truly sincere congratulations. He looked me in the eye and said something I will never forget:

"I've gotten a lot of bad reviews in my day. What you need to remember is that you're gonna get some bad reviews eventually, but don't let it get to you, because really the people who write about jazz only write about it cause they wish they could play it, but they can't - and you can-, so you've always got one up on them. Always remember that."

I thanked him sincerely and told him that his music has been a true inspiration all my life.

As I walked away, I heard McCoy turn to his manager and say, "I like that kid."

Freddy Cole

2009-12-14T11:37:00.000-08:00

This past summer I went through the process of recording my first album. The whole process took place while I was home, in Atlanta. While I had the music in mind for quite some time, I usually spent my mornings at Starbucks, writing out arrangements for tunes.

One of these mornings, I, quite a procrastinator myself, started browsing the web. When procrastinating - or just on my usual internet browse- I look at sites of favorite musicians of mine. I read Marc Myers' JazzWax blog each day, and I usually find myself on Sonny Rollins' website before long. This particular day, I came across a long time musical idol of mine's website: Mr. Freddy Cole.

I have known for a long time that he is an Atlanta resident, and once even tried contacting him for a piano lesson while in high school. I tried contacting through his site; this means I went through his management, and he most certainly didn't even receive my letter.

As I browsed his page on this particular morning a thought crossed my mind: What if I could get Freddy Cole to sing on my album? After all, he lives in Atlanta.

I seemed at a dead end when I came across the same contact page as I did many years ago, and I almost gave up. But...maybe it was the coffee kicking in, or maybe it was just guts, but I had an idea.

I called 411, and asked for Mr. Freddy Cole's residence.I was immediately connected.

The phone rang, and someone said hello on the other end.

"Is Mr. Cole there?", I asked.

"Speaking." He said.

Part of me was in shock that I had actually connected with him. The other part of me was in shock at how cool it felt saying the words "Mr. Cole."

I introduced myself as a young pianist originally from Atlanta, now in New York for school. I asked him if he'd be willing to accompany me on my upcoming project. He was very nice about it, but basically shut it down right away.

However, for some reason he kept up the conversation.

"What tunes were you thinking about?" He asked.

"'Teach Me Tonight' and 'I Cover The Waterfront'," I said.

"Oh I love those tunes," he said.

He asked a bit more about me.

"Oh. You played at the Blue Note?" He sounded impressed. "Wow," he said.

He knew my piano teacher, Don Friedman well, and suddenly his whole tone changed.

"You did a good thing getting out of Atlanta," he said. "It's a great place to live, but there ain't no good music here."

I tried to change his mind, telling him of a recent group I saw at Blind Willies: Scott Glazer's Mojo Dojo, "But still," he said. "There's nothing like New York."

He asked me a bit more about my project, and we had a nice conversation about music in Atlanta, in New York, and so on.

Then he asked, "So what are you doing?"

"Nothing," I said. "Just getting ready to head back up to school."

"No," he answered. "I meant tonight."

Totally taken aback, I answered, "Nothing."

"You want to go listen to some music and we'll talk?"

"Definately." Shocked I was.

We met at an Atlanta establishment/tourist favorite called "Dante's Down The Hatch" at around 10:30 that night. He walked in and generously approached my Dad and I, sat down, and started conversation. Before long, he was engrossed in the song being sung on stage.

It was deep, he said. He'd never heard it, and asked if I did. I did. It was Elton John's, "Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word." When the singer came off the stage he complimented her on it, noting how "heavy" the lyrics were, and what a beautiful song it was. "Maybe I'll do something with it one day," he said. The vocalist said, "You could have it ready tomorrow," to which he responded, "I like to sit with a song for a while before I make something of it."

The vocalist went back on stage and opened with a tune called "Here's To Life," truly one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard. Freddy was so happy to hear it. He looked at me, sang the lyrics in my ear in a whisper that made it sound like he was speaking the words to me; that the lyrics, oh so poignant and meaningful, were the greatest piece of wisdom he could bestow upon me. However, it wasn't just that he was teaching me something through the lyrics. It seemed that he himself was taking something from this song that he must have heard a thousand times; however, somehow it sounded new this time.

He sang, in that hushed tone, that breathy, speach-like voice, the entire song. With each phrase he'd take a deep breath - not because he needed one, but because the words he was speaking provided him such relief, such peace.

I spoke to him about my frustrations of music school. How everyone was so in to the "modern" thing and how things felt to me devoid of emotion - excluding anger- , but real, tender emotion: the Ben Webster kind of emotion.
"Yeah," he said. "Everyone's got all the chops, but everyone sounds the same."

He got me up on the bandstand to play. During an embellishment on the melody of "Polka Dots And Moonbeams," (I think it was a Paul Desmond quote) he smiled at me.

He turned to my father and said, "He's got my repertoire down."

The pianist then welcomed Freddy to the stage. Freddy looked at me and said, "I don't want to go up," but, being the gentleman that he is, he walked on stage and launched in to two beautiful pieces: "Because of You," and "Blame It On My Youth."

Mr. Cole was as friendly as could be. He couldn't make my record date, but he sure taught me a lot that night - not just about being a musician, but about how to carry myself, how to be a gentleman.

"People often criticized me as a cocktail pianist," he said. "But I always had more gigs than them. You gotta be ready to play anything if you're going to be a real musician."

After the CD came out, I sent it to him and we spoke on the phone. The first thing he asked was, "How's your father?"

In response to the CD he said, "You'll do just fine. Just follow your heart. People may criticize you some day, just as they have me, but don't lose your way. You'll do good."

A true gentleman, I'll never forget that memorable night I spent with Mr. Cole.

Introduction

2009-12-14T11:34:00.000-08:00

Looking back on this past year or so, I realized that a lot has gone on. A lot of interesting stuff has gone on: Things that take more than a 182 word Twitter post to describe. Anyways, I have long thought, why not write this down?
So that's all I'm doing. I've been fortunate enough to meet some unique and well known personalities, and take part in some truly one-of-a-kind experiences. In an effort to have them in writing - so that I never forget them - I want to share them with you. Hope you enjoy the rambles.