The Producer's Hat

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Autumn at Hamilton College brings a much-anticipated and welcomed event. World-class jazz on Friday night of Fallcoming weekend has been a tradition for 23 years. This event takes place in the acoustically friendly environment of the Fillius Events Barn. The list of jazz musicians who have taken part in this concert is impressive and includes Milt Hinton, Clark Terry, Bucky Pizzarelli and Kenny Davern.

In the early years of my job as Director of the Fillius Jazz Archive, I assisted Milt Fillius in producing this event. After his passing in 2002, the responsibility became mine. As with any event that involves performers and an audience, the devil can be in the details. The following are some of those individual logistics that need to be addressed: book the musicians (a year ahead of the event) and reserve the concert space; create posters and programs; book local travel and accommodations for the artists; organize for a pre-concert dinner for 20 guests; arrange for proper lighting and audio in the concert space; and collaborate with physical plant on the desired room set-up.

This particular year brought a new and exciting set of challenges to our fall jazz event. The recommendation from a respected jazz artist led us to book two outstanding pianists for a duo piano concert. Dick Hyman, at age 89, is still at the top of his game, and his game includes performing virtually any style of jazz and classical music. The only piano player I’m aware of who can match Mr. Hyman’s abilities is his co-performer for the evening, Rossano Sportiello, 47 years younger than Mr. Hyman but equally adept at playing with dazzling technique and consummate musicianship.

 Rossano Sportiello, Monk Rowe and Dick Hyman

Photo by John Herr

When the idea of a two piano performance was presented and accepted by both artists, Mr. Hyman said, “Well, we ought to record this.” This rang a bell with me. Never in the 23 years of this event had we done a recording with the ultimate goal of release on a jazz label in mind. Both Dick and Rossano record frequently for Arbors Records, and so the plan proceeded. This led to more logistics, some of which were new to me: locate and rent two top-of-the-line matching pianos, and arrange for a delivery by a piano moving company; secure an insurance rider and extra security for two nine-foot grands; assure availability of the piano tuner to tune both pianos twice, once before rehearsal and again before the concert; discuss logistics with the record label; locate and negotiate with a recording studio who had remote recording capabilities to capture the concert; and finally, process check requests for the entire weekend.

Unexpected details always arise. In this case, unwanted noise in the room was interfering with capturing clean audio. An aggressive foot tapping by one pianist was solved by locating a small rug. The steady hum of a ventilation fan also was polluting the audio, requiring a last minute call to physical plant. The concert on October 7 came off without a hitch, and first reviews of the audio that resulted were highly encouraging.

The next steps included digital review of audio, transfers to CD and cassettes (yes, cassettes!) for review by the artists, and collaboration with a graphic designer on the cover. In the hopper are composing liner notes, discussing song choices, collaborating on necessary audio edits, and arranging for the final mastering.

Stay tuned for part 2 when Dick Hyman and Rossano Sportiello Live at Hamilton is released on Arbors, anticipated in the spring of 2017.

Inside the Studios, Part II

The heyday for the recording studios, especially in New York, was from the early 50’s through the 60’s. Musicians who were adept on their instruments and who had excellent sight reading skills found work plentiful, and often enjoyed up to four discrete sessions in a single day. Many interviewees spoke of their work in the studios at this time. In this part, I thought it would be interesting to outline the qualities that put musicians on the first-call list for session gigs.

As echoed in our last blog by Tom McGrath, being on time was the first requirement for getting that call. Joe Wilder recalled some advice from his father, about how he should conduct himself as a musician:

Joe Wilder and Monk Rowe

JW:    I guess I got it mainly from my father, who was a musician. My father played with a lot of the bands in Philadelphia and he was a stickler for being on time. He used to pound that into my brothers and me. You know it’s better for you to come one hour early than to come one second late for something, and he would use as an example, there was a drummer that played with one of the bands he played with. And the guy was a good drummer. And he said, “you know the dance starts at 8:00 and we’re all there,” and he said, “and we’re all sitting on the bandstand ready to play and the drummer isn’t there. He comes at 8:15.” He said, “he knows it takes him at least 20 minutes to set up his drums.” He said, “now what sense does that make? What excuse is that?” And then he would say, “you know just because you’re black doesn’t mean you have to show up late.”

When musicians speak of another musician and say he/she has “good time,” everyone knows what is meant. Usually this refers to a bassist or drummer who keeps a steady beat and is able to play with feeling while avoiding speeding up or slowing down. Being a successful studio musician required a different “good time,” the ability to be punctual without exception.

Bassist Milt Hinton got in on the ground floor and was one of the first black musicians to be accepted in the studio scene. His wife, Mona, spoke about the work:

Mona Hinton

MH:    It didn’t make any difference whenever a contractor would call, it could be, he never said who it was for. He would call and say, “is Mr. Hinton free at 10:00 on Tuesday” or whatever it is, and I had an appointment book, and, “yes he’s free.” “Well have him at RCA Victor or Capitol or Columbia Studio at such and such a time. Now when he left home he didn’t know whether it was a rock ‘n roll, whether it was with Stravinsky, whether it was with Barbra Streisand, he didn’t know who it was for. Guy Lombardo, you know, it could be anybody.  And these were the people. He just went there, they put the music up there, and he had to be on time, not looking for a place to park or not adjusting your strings. When that conductor’s baton came down across his nose you were there to get that first note.  And so Milton believes in punctuality. But these are the things that got him started. And once they knew that he was qualified, he could read anything, play anything, and so he just started getting more work than he could handle. Milton made his first recording date in 1930. And he has worked with every group of musicians, every generation, from that day up to the present day.

Mona alluded to Milt’s versatility, and his attitude that any music placed in front of him was worth playing well. Pianist Dick Hyman shared a similar opinion about doing what was necessary to serve the music, regardless of one’s personal taste.

Dick Hyman and Monk Rowe

MR:    What kind of people did you play behind?

DH:    Ivory Joe Hunter, Ruth Brown, Lavern Baker, The Coasters, The Drifters. I remember that terrible record “White Christmas” that was so popular.

MR:    Did you play on that?

DH:    I did. But we did all that stuff. And if you asked me what we thought of it, we always — we said to each other can you imagine, in 20 years, this was in 1955 or so, in 20 years people will be saying to each other, “listen darling, they’re playing our song.” And you know that’s exactly what happened. All of that funny music that we laughed at became classic in rock. And go figure it out.

MR:    Well musicians who’ve never done studio work may not realize that you don’t have to like everything you play on in a studio. It’s not possible.

DH:    No, no. What you have to like is being able to play it well.

MR:    Correctly, yeah.

DH:    And you do your best no matter what it is.

Dick Hyman wore multiple hats in the studio: pianist, organist, orchestrator, percussionist on occasion, and general get-the-job-done guy.

MR:    So if you listened to the Oldies station —

DH:    I do.

MR:    Are you likely to hear yourself?

DH:    Very much.

MR:    Can you tell me a couple of spots that I might hear?

DH:    Yeah. Johnny Mathis, there’s one — there’s a famous Mathis record that begins with a piano figure. “Chances Are.”

MR:    “Chances Are.” Yes. That’s you?

DH:    That’s one. Yeah. And then there’s another one that I whistled on for Johnny Mathis. And there’s another Bob Allen song.

MR:    “Wonderful Wonderful.”

DH:    Right.

MR:    That’s you whistling is that right?

DH:    That was one of my — well you know I had made my own — I have to admit — hit record of “Moritat,” which then became known as “Theme from the Three Penny Opera” and then finally became known as “Mac the Knife” in 1955 for MGM as the Dick Hyman Trio. And I whistled on it as well as playing an instrument called the harpsichord piano. So it became known around town that I was willing and I was capable of whistling. Willing to undertake it and capable of doing it without running out of breath. So I found myself being called to be a whistler on dates and I promptly joined AFTRA, that is the singers union, because their scale was higher than the musician’s union, and on a good day I might collect both scales on a single session. So I’m the whistler on that and I’m the whistler on something with Marion Marlowe , something called “The Man in the Raincoat,” one of those spooky third-man theme type recordings.

MR:    Was it a lip whistle or was it a teeth whistle?

DH:    No, no, no. The teeth whistling we left to Bob Haggart.

Studio musicians rarely saw the music in advance that was to be recorded. In the studio, time is money, and even the smallest mistake could require another take. Contractors soon learned which musicians had the chops, the punctuality, the versatility and the correct attitude. Drummer Bob Rosengarden shuttled between an NBC staff position (including membership in the “Tonight Show” band), recording dates, and the Music Director position for “The Dick Cavett Show.”

MR:    I was going to ask you when you showed up for a day at work at NBC, did you know what was in store for you that day?

Bob Rosengarden

BR:    I had no idea and couldn’t have cared less. I mean I just showed up. I always came from, in those days, because there weren’t that many good musicians, new guys who could play. I always prided myself and it’s not false modesty or anything, that I liked only two kinds of music — good music and bad music. So I didn’t mind having to play a polka, it didn’t really bother me, I can do it well, and I had a classical, musical background. So I found myself again slipping and sliding, right back into the NBC Symphony. Because I was one of the new boys. And there was a conductor there at that time by the name of Arturo Toscanini. Dumb luck.

MR:    But you were ready.

BR:    Oh, yes. I mean you sure as hell better be ready. And the old man couldn’t see too far away, you know you had to be right there. So he would look over and he’d make some gesture. And hopefully I’d figure out what it was he wanted me to do or not do. And [Johnny] Carson adopted us. I mean he loved Doc [Severinsen]. I still every once in a while hear from John. And again, slipping and sliding we were doing record sessions all the time, you know, every day. And we all saw each other every day in recording. We used to do three record dates a day, and a television show, every day. Seven days a week. It was a wild and wonderful time.

In our next blog we’ll take a look at some remarkable studio moments ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous.

Musical Time Travel

I’ve stated before that my performing repertoire and listening habits can hardly be considered current or up to date. My role as Jazz Archive Director at Hamilton has strengthened my enjoyment of jazz music and personalities from the past — the swing era and the soloists from the 30’s and 40’s. My “songs for gigs” list reflects this obsession and my “current tunes” are now mostly from the 50’s and 60’s.

My passion for this music was reinforced and well-satisfied during the last three weekends. The annual Fallcoming concert at Hamilton for the last five years has featured a group led by pianist Dick Hyman. This year’s members included guitarist Bucky Pizzarelli, trumpeter Randy Sandke, drummer Jackie Williams, and bassist Jay Leonhart. Jazz fans will raise their eyebrows at such an impressive cast of characters.

For Fallcoming Jazz ‘13 we tried something different than the normal organized jam session format. A number of years ago, a Dick Hyman CD entitled “From the Age of Swing” came to my attention. I fell in love with the creative arrangements for a four-piece rhythm section and four horns, consisting of alto and baritone saxes, trumpet and trombone. Mr. Hyman’s charts captured the feel of the early big band era, and his imaginative writing was a joy to hear and play. The quintet was augmented by Syracuse trombonist Greg McCrea, Hamilton student Deanna Nappi on baritone sax, and myself on alto sax. Here’s a YouTube link of the first tune we played on this concert.

We played the Hyman charts on September 27, and I found myself immersed in musical heaven. Randy on trumpet faithfully reproduced the approach and sound of Joe Wilder, the trumpeter on the original recording. The rhythm section provided an indescribable bed of swing, demonstrating the power of organized simplicity, and it wouldn’t have happened without the 4/4 chordal strumming of Bucky Pizzarelli, who also was on the 1999 recording. Guitarists describe this as “Freddie Green,” the style of strumming that Mr. Green provided for the Count Basie Orchestra for nearly 50 years.

Here’s a description of that style from Bucky, taken from his 2003 interview:

Bucky Pizzarelli

MR:    Is there some distinguishing thing about what Freddie Green did that’s possible to verbalize?

BP:    It’s very hard to describe what he did but he played a 4/4 beat with an accent on two and four, and he just kept chunking away. And if you study the music of Count Basie, the rhythm section never played figures with the band. When they played eighth-quarter-eighth, you know, they just kept chunking away through the whole thing. And it works better that way. The minute everybody’s doing the same thing it doesn’t work. It’s like a drummer hitting figures with the brass section. It’s terrible.

Jay Leonhart, Bucky’s rhythm section-mate at Fallcoming, described the specifics that make it work:

Jay Leonhart

JL:    I’ve heard Bucky, and who else, James Chirillo … the two of them, they’ll take the third and the seventh, right in the middle of the strings, right in that nice middle range around middle C, which on the piano would be — and they’ll just sit and play the third and the seventh. It’s either a minor third or a major seventh. Or maybe a sixth if they want to get adventurous. And they can just sit there and play like that. And the only notes coming out of the guitar are the relevant ones. And they’re not doubling the third, like making Bach turn over in his grave ... It’s so defined and clear. And as a result their chops are good because they’re not making a lot of moves and they’re not trying to play six notes with every … they can concentrate on the time, and they do. And that’s the way Bucky plays. Yet he’s a grand soloist when he plays songs by himself, he can really play the guitar. He’s not just a two, three and seven guy. He can really play the guitar.

This steady pulse allows everyone in the band to play less, and we know less equals more. It was a memorable moment, transporting me back to the time when this style was the popular music of the day. Mr. Hyman skillfully led the 8-piece ensemble, which had only engaged in a run through of the charts. As an added bonus, Deanna, one of my students, acquitted herself with great skill on the baritone saxophone. The biggest difference from actually performing this music during its original lifespan was the setting. If we had been performing in 1937 in a dance hall, the success of the band would have been determined by the number of dancers on the dance floor. This music has now been elevated to an art form worthy of a seated audience in a concert hall setting.

The next weekend I traveled to SUNY Fredonia, for another round of nostalgia. The annual Fredonia Jazz Ensemble reunion concert took place on Friday evening. In similar fashion, an all-too-brief rehearsal preceded a concert by members of the original members of the Fredonia Jazz Ensemble from the classes of the 1970’s. This weekend is always a mix of music and camaraderie, reconnecting with musicians from those brief college years who shared a love for big band music. At the time, we took pride in the fact that we were operating outside the conventions of the music program. In the mid-70’s jazz had not been embraced by the majority of music schools, and the jazz ensemble was a student-directed affair. Our repertoire this night consisted of familiar big band fare, but from the bands that thrived after the swing era. Material from Buddy Rich, Stan Kenton and the Thad Jones-Mel Lewis bands provided plenty of challenge. Most of us playing that night had harbored fantasies of getting a call to join one of these groups and abruptly leaving our studies in avid response.

As an incentive for my own writing, I always compose a new work for this weekend, and I can be confident that it will be played well and with great spirit. My new piece, “Angelica,” was received a good deal of praise, making it worth the time and effort.

The last step on my time travel took me back even further. I got a call to play a dinner dance entitled “A 1920’s Jazz Gala.” While my musical tastes have traveled backwards, the 1920’s was pushing it even for me. A fair amount of research was required for this Great Gatsby-era gig. It was an authentic recreation of a 1920’s speakeasy with period clothing encouraged for all attendees; a non-alcohol event in the spirit of prohibition. This time the songs included tunes you would find in dusty sheet music archives: “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” “The Charleston,” and “3 O’clock in the Morning.” My current quartet rose to the occasion. The drummer brought vintage drums and the required whistles, woodblocks and cowbells that were so much a part of this upbeat small-band jazz. I was happy to see a number of college and high school students among the attendees, illustrating the fact that some eras carry a magical aura all their own. Here’s a photo of our group from this nostalgic evening.

(L-R) Monk Rowe, Tom McGrath,
John Hutson, and Sean Peters

The three consecutive weekends provided a welcomed musical challenge and a personal sentimental journey.

Good Vibes

Peter Appleyard, 1929-2013

Last October’s Fallcoming jazz concert at Hamilton College consisted of an all-star line-up of Dick Hyman, Bucky Pizzarelli, Jackie Williams, Nicky Parrott, Randy Sandke, and vibraphonist Peter Appleyard. As organizer of the concert I was especially pleased to be able to bring Peter back together with Bucky and Dick, two musicians with which he had enjoyed musical associations throughout his career. Peter passed away on July 17 at his home near Toronto at the age of 84.

Booking Peter for our Fallcoming concert was one more opportunity for me to learn about the music business. As I now know, engaging a Canadian musician involves cross-country trade and work regulations. Peter had to pay a fee of over $600 simply to cross the border to play the gig. Apparently our countries’ are attempting to protect jobs, including gigs for musicians. I knew Peter would not be transporting his own vibraphone and I was curious if he had ever told the border security personnel that he was only visiting friends in the US. He related a story of a violinist who tried the same thing. Upon seeing the violin in the musician’s car, they inspected every bit of his luggage, found his contract, and fined him more than he could ever have possibly made on the engagement. This story resonated throughout Canada as a warning to others who might try a similar evasion of the required tax. So Peter paid the “toll,” — or rather, we added it to his fee.

It was my privilege to conduct an interview with him before the concert last October. Like the majority of musicians from his generation, his entrance into the music profession was based both on serendipity and being prepared when opportunities arose.

Peter was born in Grimsby, England and was a teenager during World War II. Like most vibraphonists, he started on the drums, and talked about what could be called his first break in the music business:

PA:    I left school when I was 13, public school, and in those days in Britain you had to pay for a child’s secondary education, high school. But my parents were victims of the recession and didn’t have much money. They couldn’t afford to do that. And so they applied me for an apprenticeship for a compass adjuster and nautical instrument-maker. We would take a ship out into the River Humber, which was about three miles wide, and we’d take a bearing, and say that was true north, and adjust accordingly to bring it truthfully into line, true north. I was doing that for about two years, and on one occasion I had to go and pick up some Admiralty Charts — not music charts — Admiralty Charts for the British Navy. They used to have corvettes and this type of vessel, to circumvent the British minefields, to get out into the North Sea. Well this 30-minute errand used to be an hour’s adventure for me, because on the way to the Admiralty there’s a record shop. And I always used to stop in there and audition some records, which you could do in those days. You could take three or four records and go and listen to them and come back and say “I’d like to have this one” you know, so-and-so. So this day, here I am in this record shop listening to probably a Benny Goodman Sextet record, and I was tapping away with some drum sticks. Meantime the Royal Navy is waiting to go to sea, and the Admiral is saying “where the hell are those charts, we’re losing the tide.” And anyway this door opens and this fellow with a big moustache, and it was an ex-REF type as a matter of fact, and he says “say, old chap, do you play the drums?” I said, “yeah.” “Well,” he said, “our drummer got caught in bed with another woman last night by his wife, and she promptly took the fire axe off the wall and chopped up his drums.” I say he was pretty lucky. “And if you’d like to come down to the Palace Theater on Saturday morning and audition for ‘Felix Mendelsohn’s Hawaiian Serenaders,’” (it was an Alvino Ray type band, you know) “come down.” So I went down with my drum set, because I was playing drums then. And I got the job. As a compass adjuster’s apprentice I was earning 7 schillings and 6 pence a week, which in those days was like, oh maybe, it was like one dollar. Mr. Mendelsohn offered me 17 pounds a week. So guess what I did? It was rather a difficult decision because I was in love with a beautiful girl and it meant leaving her, and I thought oh, shall I do this? I thought about it and I spoke to my parents of course, and they said, “well you should try it and see how it works.” Those were the days when vaudeville theatres had big bands as their attraction. Ours was the number one band in Britain. We were the first band on British television.

It’s interesting to learn that the big bands played a role in England in providing work for musicians, much like they did during the swing era in the United States. The size of the band and their versatility in backing up various acts provided fertile ground for young musicians.

Peter found his way to the vibraphone in an equally interesting story.

PA:    Actually I’ll tell you this very brief story about the vibraphone and how I got attached to it. During the war I used to go out and entertain the troops at various stations. I played several USO’s over there at the time. I remember once I went in and there was a brand new set of Slingerland drums with big cymbals. I couldn’t believe it. I thought jeez, I’ve really got to get to America. Anyway, this night we were playing this very large aerodrome. And this guy came up, and I was playing drums in this accordion band, and this guy came up with a little tiny vibraphone and he starts to tap with one hand and he had a flatbed guitar and he’d put an electric motor in it with plectrums on a wheel, hitting one string going brrrrrr, and he’d slide his steel up and down there and he’s play arpeggiated chords with the vibraphone. So anyway, I went up to him after and I said, “Mr. Blakey, that’s quite an instrument.” I said, “now can I try it?” He said, “yeah, sure, go ahead.” So there was a cute girl standing there and she said, “you sound good on that.” I thought aha, I should be playing this. Anyway, I said, “would you sell them to me?” And he said, “no I can’t do that.” I said, “well all right, if you ever want to sell it let me know.” So the war ended and a knock came at my door, Mr. Blakey. He said, “you still want to buy the vibraphone?” I said, “yeah.” He said, “15 pounds.” Now I was still working as a compass adjuster’s assistant. So 15 pounds was a king’s ransom. I knew a guitarist who played in a big band with me and I asked him to loan me the money. I borrowed the money and I bought it. My father was furious. You didn’t do that in those days, you know, don’t buy anything on time. If you can’t afford it don’t buy it. So I bought it. About 15 years ago we went back and I went to look this man up, Mr. Blakey, he was still alive. He said, “I’m going to tell you something now I couldn’t tell you before.” He said, “do you remember when we played those aerodromes, I never came home with you?” I said, “Mr. Blakey, it was 60 years ago, but now that you mention it” — because we used to go on bikes. “No, you didn’t as a matter of fact.” He said, “well I’ll tell you, I am telling you now, I was a British spy. And the vibraphone was a cover for me to get on the aerodrome without being suspected by a possible German spy or sympathizers with Germany, on the airport.” I mean you couldn’t say anything to him, there were sounds everywhere, it would “be like dad, keep mum.” And I said, “what did you do.” Well he said, “after the concert they put me in a single engine aircraft with a pilot and fly me behind the German lines in France,” he says, “just prior to the invasion.” And they’d shut the engine off about a mile before a predetermined field, and the Maquis would guide us down with flashlights, and we’d glide in and I’d exchange information with the Maquis, the French resistance, pertaining to what I’d seen, what are the Germans doing” blah blah blah. I said, “Mr. Blakey, how many times did you do that?” “Well” he said, “at least twelve times.” And you know if you get caught it’s fatal, you get shot — spying.

MR:    And the vibes were his cover, huh?

MR:   That’s a really great story. How big were the vibes? Two octaves?

PA:    Two octaves. Yes.

MR:   And you would ride your bike home from the gig?

PA:    And my father made a wooden trailer for me, to put the drums in. And then when I bought the vibes, now we used to have — we used to deliver groceries and they had a basket, and they had a little box on the front. And I started out playing waltzes on them, with the big band.

Peter’s early career led him on a circuitous route, from England, to the Bahamas, with a brief stop in New York City and then on to Canada. He settled in Toronto and enjoyed a long career that included jazz gigs, studio recordings, and acting as music director for radio and television shows. Along the way he had fruitful musical associations with the aforementioned Dick Hyman, Bucky Pizzarelli, and clarinetist Benny Goodman. His own favorite memory involves “Mr. Blue Eyes” [Frank Sinatra], and once again his presence on stage came about from stars aligning in a most unexpected fashion.

PA:    Whilst I was with Benny, in New York, Mr. Sinatra was going to have a show for two weeks at the Eros Theater with Ella Fitzgerald and the Basie Band, and a huge string section. And I went down to buy tickets and I couldn’t get any, they were sold out. So I went over to Manny’s Music Shop and I ran into Irv Cottler. [He was] a very good drummer, he was with Frank all those great years. And he said, “Peter, how are you?” I said, “Fine, Irv, how are you?” He said, “we were talking about you last night.” I said, “who, me?” He said, “Bill Miller,” pianist, “and Frank and me.” I said, “what are you talking about me for?” He said, “well Frank wants to use vibes at the Eros, and Bill Miller said, “‘well why don’t we get Peter Appleyard?’” So Frank said, “Peter Appleyard?” He said, “yeah, he works with Benny.” He said, “if he works with Benny, get him.” I got the job without an audition. On the second day [Frank] came up to me and he said, “Peter, I owe you an apology.” I said, “what for?” He said, “there’s not enough here [for you] to play, but sweetheart if you feel like playing behind me or Ella do it.” At the end of the run he gives a party like it wouldn’t quit on stage with him, the most beautiful wine and Italian food. He gave me a sterling silver jewelry box, engraved, “Peter, thanks F.S.” He was a great guy. Generous, generous man. And people have asked me “if you wanted to re-live two weeks of your life, or a week in music, which week will you choose?” And I think it would be those two weeks with him. I used to sit on the stage, Monk — they’d do “The Lady is a Tramp” to finish, you know, he and Ella with the Basie band. You’re Basie, and I’m this close to you. And there’s reams of music, and Basie’s looking going clink, you know. Frank goes “I get too hungry” and Basie goes bonk bonk, bonk bonk. All this music. So finally one night Frank sang “I get too hungry/for dinner at eight.” And Basie goes [scats a complicated piano run] and Sinatra turns around and said, “Bill [Basie], be careful, you might get a hernia.” But oh, he was so great. And out of all the people I’ve  ever spoken to — and I’ve played for and met the Queen Mother twice — no one gave me the sensation that I experienced with Frank Sinatra.

Peter was a man who could function as an accompanist, and knew his role in any ensemble. At the same time he had the flair of a showman and could wow the audience with his flashy mallet technique.

It’s the rare concert that comes off without a glitch and moment of intense anxiety. In this case it was the college vibraphones that provided the angst. Even though I had checked out the instrument, my limited knowledge was not sufficient. When Mr. Appleyard went to play the vibes at sound check, it was discovered that something was awry. I can’t tell you what it was except that it had to do with the tension on the bars, and it was fortunate that my bandmate and dear friend, drummer Tom McGrath, was on hand to fashion a repair with a bungee cord that he used to keep one of his drum sets tightly closed. Thank you, Tom.

Fallcoming Jazz '12 (L-R) Bucky Pizzarelli,
Randy Sandke, Monk Rowe, Peter Appleyard

The concert was a huge success and I got to play a couple of tunes standing next to Peter, thus racking up one more entry into my list of memorable associations.

A CD worth pursuing is Peter’s The Lost 1974 Sessions, an all-star line-up recorded back in 1974 and released in 2012. It recently saw the light of day thanks to Peter’s efforts.

Advice from the Masters

Practical experience is something you gather along the way, and is certainly the case for working musicians in the jazz world. I love the bits of useful wisdom that have been shared in our interview sessions, sometimes as a result of a specific question, other times simply in passing. You can review my blog entry of 1/14/10 entitled “New Year’s Advice” where I gathered what I thought would be a good way to incorporate some New Year’s resolutions. Here are some examples of experience speaking from some of our more recent interview sessions, which are also poignant:

From baritone saxophonist Gary Smulyan, on the issue of creating a personal sound:

MR: I could tell that sound, in the general sense of the word, seems to be very important to you. Because when someone asked you about the biggest difference between playing alto and moving to baritone [the answer] was all about the sound.

GS: Well to me in music, general sound is first. Sound comes before anything. I mean if you listen to all the great musicians in this music, they all have individual sounds. That’s the first thing that you hear that grabs you, right? If you listen to, just the tenor saxophone, right? John Coltrane, Johnny Griffin, Gene Ammons, Joe Lovano, Joshua Redman, Chris Potter, Don Byas, Frank Wess, and the list goes on and on, Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins, Georgie Auld, they all play the tenor saxophone but they all have — Al Cohn, Zoot Sims — I could go on all day — Tina Brooks, Hank Mobley. You know they play one note and you know who they are immediately. And to me that’s like the defining thing about being a musician, and for me the most important thing is your sound. And I’ve given a lot of thought and a lot of practice to try to really develop a sound that’s personal and unique to me, because that’s the first thing that people hear. I mean you could be a great technician but if you don’t have a good sound no one’s going to want to hear you and you’re not going to be able to get past your sound. And it’s really the identifying characteristic of who you are as a musician. And your sound is not in the instrument, the sound is not — in my case — it’s not in the saxophone, it’s not in the reed, it’s not in the mouthpiece and it’s not in the ligature. The sound is something that you carry within your very being. And that’s what comes out. So take someone like Sonny Rollins, right? I think that if you gave Sonny Rollins 50 different tenor saxes, 50 different reeds and 50 different ligatures, he’s going to sound like Sonny Rollins, with some variation because maybe the instruments aren’t comfortable. Maybe his comfort level behind the instrument isn’t the same. But essentially what’s going to come out is Sonny Rollins. Because his sound is not in the instrument. And I tell that to my students. I say don’t look for the magic instrument, because there’s no magic instrument.

MR: Right.

GS: Or the magic mouthpiece. Or the magic reed. It doesn’t exist. Find what it is that’s comfortable, and then practice.

MR: Something that basically works, and then you’ve got to put your —

GS: You have to put your — it’s up to the musician to breathe the life into the music and breathe his life, your breath and your life force into that instrument.

MR: How does jazz pedagogy help or hinder that process?

GS: Well you know I think that there is not as much emphasis placed on that because I think musicians are more concerned with learning harmony and how to play changes and learning tunes, and you know, that’s a tricky question. But it should be all part of the same thing. I mean your sound, and developing a sound, is — that should be number one in jazz pedagogy, as far as I’m concerned.

If you’ve heard Gary Smulyan’s aggressive attack on the baritone, you know that he practices what he preaches.

Keyboardist Warren Bernhardt was preparing a Rachmaninoff rhapsody for performance at the time of this interview, and had a brief message about practicing and memorization:

WB: For any students watching this, don’t practice more than ten minutes [at a time]. Get up and walk around. Do something else and come back and practice ten minutes. And then, something I have to do, when you’re memorizing something, move the instrument. Because you’re starting to memorize the room you’re in, and you go on the concert stage and you can’t remember a God damn thing. I just thought of this as being helpful. If you just move a centimeter it changes everything. Memory works in weird ways. You want it to work when you come into a hall on a strange instrument.

I’m pleased to say that I’ve had a number of students who’ve gone on to make a living in the music world. One of the most notable is saxophonist Sam Kininger. Sam is well known for his years spent with the bands Soulive and Lettuce, and is one of the finest practitioners of what we will call “funk jam” saxophone. Sam addressed the often-asked question about breaking into the business:

MR: Well if you had any advice for guys who might be in college, those people who want to be where you are, what would you say to them?

SK: Yeah. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Get out as much as possible. Get out of the practice room, get out and play. Get over the hump of whatever, if you have stage fright or whatever, just try and find those situations and jump in. Like a lot of these what they call jam bands and jam festivals, go to festivals. Because a lot of it is open for people to sit in as well. A lot of these bands will see someone with a saxophone and will be like “come on” and you pretty much have opportunities to get out there and kind of explore and experiment with that scene you know. That would be my best advice, just to get out there and jump into it. That’s what I did.

I could also add a bit of advice that was evidenced in Sam’s musicianship. He was one of the rare saxophonists who could handle the most challenging of the classical saxophone repertoire. In fact, he became quite a master of that before he even approached jazz, debunking the myth that playing “straight” will hurt your spontaneity.

My most recent interview was with Eastman School of Music professor and composer Dave Rivello. Dave is a prolific writer of big band music, and his comments regarding writing for soloists and guiding them in original compositions were very thoughtful.

MR: When you write a chart, to me I always run into this bit about okay, I’ve done an intro, done the melody, whether or not it has a bridge, and then you get to that point, what am I going to do now? And I think Maria Schneider, she said this to me and I believe it came from Bob Brookmeyer. He said “wait as long as you can before giving in to a soloist.”

DR: Yeah.

MR: Does that sound like something he would say?

DR: That’s a Brookmeyer thing for sure. Yeah. When nothing else can happen, that’s when the first solo should happen. So you should do everything you can until then. Yeah, that’s from Brookmeyer for sure.

MR: So what are those things that you should be trying to do before you go there?

DR: What I think about is continuing to develop whatever material is going on before I turn it over to a soloist. And so whether that’s a melodic idea or if then oh well I did this so it was kind of a straightforward thing so maybe I’ll do some kind of a counterpoint that’s an inversion or a retrograde inversion of what the main material was. You know I just play around with — until it feels right to release my thing to a soloist. And what I’ve begun doing in the last few years, which also comes from Brookmeyer, is I also then when I finally do have a solo, I give them guidelines of where I at least want them to start. So whether that’s pitches or rhythmic ideas or I write a melody and then say continue similarly from here, so that they stay in my piece. Because the problem that Bob has addressed in print and lectures and everything is that you turn it over to the soloist and they play what they’ve been working on in the practice room and it has nothing to do with what happened up to that point. So I try to guide that a little bit and I also try, with my own band at least, where I have control over the members of the band, to make sure that they understand that you’re part of my piece. You know Brookmeyer said it best when he said “a solo is a compositional continuance.” Those are his words, not mine. But I’ll take them, and I use them.

MR: That’s a nice phrase.

DR: So making sure that they understand and stay in your piece. So that’s what I try to do. And there’s also, by the way that you create or construct backgrounds behind that soloist also is a way of making sure they stay in your piece. If you just give them open solo and it just goes on forever, they’re going to play what they played in the practice room. But if once in a while I’m giving them something motifically or whatever from the piece, they’re going to have to deal with that and stay in the piece.

MR: Do they chaff at that?

DR: They might when I haven’t heard, but so far nobody’s complained.

In the last year or so my steady gigs in Utica have settled into two or three clubs that are so close that I can literally leave my house fifteen minutes before I start. I joke that if I get one too many red lights I could be late. The convenience is not lost on me. In talking to working musicians, I sometimes have wondered what it would be like to play gigs in the midst of a large city. Bassist/vocalist Nicki Parrott suggests that organization is a vital part of working in that atmosphere:

MR: Sometimes I envision you and drummers especially playing a club date in New York and logistically I would think that’s probably a pain sometimes. Like parking your car.

NP: You can say that. I don’t know how many gigs I’ve done in midtown where you really have to call someone. “I need help.” Sometimes I have to take a PA, particularly if they want me to sing and play the whole night. So you’ve got a PA, an acoustic bass and an amplifier and the gig is upstairs at the Crown Plaza on 42^nd Street. How do you do this? Except put your hazards on, panic, get help, get your stuff inside, make sure someone is watching it, go and park. It’s a nightmare. But you find a way. You really have to be organized, you know what I mean? I mean the more organization and the more time you give yourself the better off you will be. And you have to go and do your own research. Sometimes the best parking will be a comp and you can print out a coupon to get cheaper parking somewhere. And you have to know do the streets go this way on that street? You really have to know midtown Manhattan to survive it. Yeah it’s rough. That’s the hardest part. To me it’s not the playing and singing and smiling on those gigs, you know, the corporate gigs. All it is is turn up, play, sing and smile and that doing what the gig requires you know, you’re back in the music. But the other stuff, wow. That’s a challenge.

We can jump back in the timeline for our next piece of advice from Dick Hyman. In the very first interview I conducted for the jazz archive, in the spring of 1995, Dick was talking about his extensive studio work, and the variety of music that he was required to play, and the attitude necessary:

MR: What kind of people did you play behind?

DH: Ivory Joe Hunter; Ruth Brown, whom I’m working with now; Laverne Baker; The Coasters; The Drifters. I remember that terrible record “White Christmas” that was so popular.

MR: Did you play on that?

DH: I did. But we did all that stuff. And if you asked me what we thought of it, we always said to each other can you imagine in twenty years — this was in 1955 or so — in twenty years people will be saying to each other, “listen darling, they’re playing our song.” And you know that’s exactly what happened. All of that funny music that we laughed at became classic in rock. And go figure it out.

MR: Well people, even musicians who’ve never done studio work, may not realize that you don’t have to like everything you play on in a studio. It’s not possible.

DH: No, no. What you have to like is being able to play it well.

MR: Correctly, yeah.

DH: And you do your best no matter what it is.

The issues young musicians have about their art and their future are legitimate and important, but often, despite the best advice from the finest musicians, their questions are only answered through experience. Sometimes the most valuable advice is so simple that it isn’t even articulated. I’d like to thank pianist Rick Montalbano for offering this sage piece of wisdom:

RM: My only advice is don’t ever leave your wallet in the dressing room when you go on stage.

The Right Notes

In the last blog entry the subject of “wrong notes” was addressed by quotes from players from what is best described as the hard bop school. This post-bop style places them squarely in the modern jazz era and helps us understand their comments and opinions more clearly.

An annual duty of mine at Hamilton College deals with an earlier style of jazz. Once a year at Fallcoming we host a group of hand-picked musicians who perform an evening concert of traditional and mainstream jazz. This year our group proved wildly successful. It was comprised of a sextet covering several generations, but one that was able to perform as if they were a seasoned road band. The sextet was: Bucky Pizzarelli (guitar), Nicki Parrott (bass), Evan Christopher (clarinet), Randy Sandke (trumpet), Jackie Williams (drums) and leader Dick Hyman (piano).

Thanks to John Herr for providing the excellent photographs of the Fallcoming event.

Above, Dick Hyman and this writer after the concert.

I know for a fact that the last time these six artists performed as a band was one year ago during Fallcoming 2009. They were so well received that we invited them back as a unit. This group of musicians can function as a working ensemble because they know the repertoire that Dick Hyman is likely to call, a mix of standards from the golden era of songwriting (the 30’s and 40’s), and jazz classics that predate those decades, what we can call New Orleans/Dixieland music.

These musicians would address the question of wrong notes from a different viewpoint. There is much less of the “anything works” approach. The musicians create improvisation in a well-defined playing field where wrong notes sound less like hip choices and more like mistakes. Nonetheless, their playing is highly inventive, and arguably harder. Their note choices may be more constrained by the theory behind the music, but if you had heard this concert you’d have been astounded by the inventiveness of the improvised melodies and rhythms.

A big part of the success of this event has to be attributed to Mr. Hyman, who has had an amazing career as a pianist, composer, arranger, film scorer, and concert organizer. Aside from my admiration for his playing, I am jealous of his experiences throughout his career, including the years of steady work in New York City’s studios. His day-to-day schedule included everything from jazz to semi-classical music. He also was called upon to provide incidental music for soap operas and game shows, and he played keyboards on many pop hits during the emergence of Rock & Roll.

I asked Dick Hyman about this time in his life during his first interview, in March of 1995:

MR: What kind of people did you play behind?

DH: Ivory Joe Hunter, Ruth Brown, whom I’m working with now, Laverne Baker, The Coasters, The Drifters. I remember that terrible record “White Christmas” that was so popular.

MR: Did you play on that?

DH: I did. But we did all that stuff. And if you asked me what we thought of it, we always —we said to each other can you imagine we said to each other, in twenty years, this was in 1955 or so, in twenty years people will be saying to each other, “listen darling, they’re playing our song.” And you know that’s exactly what happened. All of that funny music that we laughed at became classic in Rock. And go figure it out.

MR: Well people, even musicians who’ve never done studio work, may not realize that you don’t have to like everything you play on in a studio. It’s not possible.

DH: No, no. What you have to like is being able to play it well.

That last statement ought to be written inside the instrument cases of young musicians. Dick was also called upon to do things which he might never have anticipated. He played mallet percussion, he whistled on a number of hit records, and was one of the first musicians to employ the Moog synthesizer.

Mr. Hyman is a pianist who seemingly can play anything that he can think of, in any style. He once recorded an LP with twelve different versions of the song “A Child is Born” as if played by twelve different and contrasting piano players. It’s interesting to watch him spin out his melodic and improvised phrases. His facial expression may not change at all, but the thought process behind his creations is magical.

I asked him about that thought process in our second interview, from March of 2001.

MR: I had a question also about trying to define hard things — and that is the concept of what you choose to play when you’re improvising.

DH: Oh. You mean what piece or what ideas?

MR: No. Where does improvising come from?

DH: It comes from your background and from the ideas of whomever you may be playing with, and also your technical capability. The ideas of — I’ve used this analogy before — the ideas are rather like a kaleidoscope which you shake up so that it produces different images each time but they’re made up of the same colored jewels and bits of paper. They are liable to be the same ideas in a different form every time you shake it up unless you keep adding to the kaleidoscope and put in different jewels, different colored pieces of paper, and then when you shake it up the next time it’s going to be a bit different. But there is very little, I think, of improvisation that hasn’t been thought of before or that you haven’t somehow used. The point is to keep replenishing the supply and keep on mixing it up differently. And a way that you can — certainly the tool that you use is just technique. If I’m in good shape technically I will try things that I wouldn’t otherwise. If I’m not in shape technically I won’t try to do certain things, I’ll stay where it’s safe and I know that I’ve been before. But if I feel very loose and in good shape and I’ve played a lot then I really can stretch out and try things that maybe I’ve heard other people do and see if I can get my version of, try things, just let the fingers go where they may, and pose certain problems for myself and see how I can get out of them, and just sometimes there are, too, moments where you don’t quite know where an idea comes from. Those are precious and they’re rare. If you’re lucky you’re recording them or you can write them down and they become compositions. But you watch for those. Sometimes you can chase them. If you have to compose something on a deadline of course, you really go out and you try to grab the muse and bring her back. Sometimes you can be successful. Some people use drugs and liquor to get to that stage. I’m not sure that works. I do think that, in my case, in the first part of the day might be the most creative part, and that possibly is because I’ve been thinking about the things through the night that I want to get to the next day.

It was a thrill to watch Dick Hyman in action as well as hear him. At times on this jazz concert he would employ the Basie technique, a simple raise of the eyebrow or the point of a finger indicating where the music should be sent. On a number of occasions he got up from the piano and walked over to the horn players while the drummer or bassist was soloing, had a slight word with them about something he wanted them to do, then walked back to the piano to hear the results.

I was invited to sit in on a tune at this latest Fallcoming event, and I wished I had the adjectives to describe the feeling. Let's just say being surrounded by that assemblage of talent makes it much easier to find the right notes.

Dick Hyman has recently put all of his skills into a huge project entitled Dick Hyman: A Century of Jazz Piano released on the Arbors jazz label in 2009. This is a serious collection of piano music performed by Dick Hyman, spanning the era from pre-Ragtime all the way to free improvisation. It includes five CD’s and a DVD, and Dick is currently working on an accompanying method book. It is well worth checking out.