Bill Watrous, 1939-2018

From the left: Wendell Brunious, Dennis Mackrel, Jerome Richardson, Keter Betts, Monk Rowe, Bill Watrous, Rick Montalbano

Readers may have noticed my absence from writing this blog. All my spare time has been spent preparing uploads for the Fillius Jazz YouTube channel, where complete interviews have been posted for more than half of our oral history sessions. The death of Bill Watrous, however, has returned me to the blog. My interview with Bill, viewable here, was comprehensive and congenial, but there is more backstory to be shared about my association with him.

In the spring of 1999, in true cosmic fashion, Bill’s promo kit arrived unexpectedly on my desk just as I was seeking a trombone player to participate on my upcoming recording of “Jazz Life.” This album of original compositions would eventually include myself plus six members, three of whom are now deceased: bassist Keter Betts, saxophonist Jerome Richardson, and now trombonist Bill Watrous. Rounding out the ensemble were Rick Montalbano, Dennis Mackrel and Wendell Brunious. Before I started the archive project I had always assumed that artists of the stature of Bill Watrous would be unavailable to me. However, every artist I contacted happily agreed to the engagement. I learned along the way that jazz musicians always have dates in their calendars to fill, and a gig is a gig. Bill proved to be full of positive energy as well as the consummate musician. He entertained the group with his personal cache of jazz stories, while treating the music as if he was in an L.A. recording studio. One of my favorite moments on the recording is during the improvisation section of BeyondCategory at the 2:34 mark where Bill seamlessly extends Wendell’s last improvised phrase, then launches into his own striking solo. As trumpeter Joe Wilder said of improvisation, you always want to make a smooth transition, as perfectly exemplified in this moment.

Our paths crossed again at jazz conventions, and over the years we exchanged phone calls where our lengthy conversations extended beyond music and into the ups and downs of everyday life. Oddly enough, Bill’s wife Maryanne occasionally referred to Bill as “Monk.”

Bill’s passing caught me off-guard. He always struck me as younger than his years, probably due to his distinctive Price Valiant haircut, penchant for jean jackets, and his poignant observations on current events. Adios Mr. Watrous, and thank you for our friendship.

Clark Terry, 1920-2015

Clark Terry and Monk Rowe, October 1996

Jazz trumpeter and educator Clark Terry passed away on Saturday February 21, at the age of 94. I had been prepared for this news knowing that this jazz legend had been in ill health for many years, and having just viewed the touching documentary Keep On Keepin’ On.

I think of Clark as a member of the second generation of jazz musicians. He was born in St. Louis in 1920, three years after the first jazz recording by the Original Dixieland Jazz Band. His mentors and teachers were of the first generation, and the music of Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton, and Duke Ellington all played a formative role in Clark’s development. While his music education came predominantly from outside the classroom, one of Clark’s contributions was to help move that knowledge into an educational setting. But even in the codified world of academia, he was able to impart the importance of learning the music by ear, feel, and intuition. Clark would just as soon expound on the beauty of the three blue notes as he would on the whole step/half step scales that might be applied to a specific ii-V-I chord progression.

I am one of the fortunate ones who spent time with Clark through my position at Hamilton College. He received an honorary degree from Hamilton in 1995, and performed numerous times at our annual Fallcoming jazz event. One memory that will remain is an evening gig in our on-campus pub [pictured above]. I was joined by Bob Cesari, a fellow saxophonist, and we were consistently amazed and amused by Clark’s ability to conjure up the absolutely perfect background riff to insert behind soloists. This may seem like an expected ancillary skill for a jazz musician, but I assure you it is not. You won’t find it in textbooks, and most academically-trained jazz musicians do not learn the technique. It comes from learning on the job, balancing theory with spontaneity, and, in Clark’s case, a wry sense of humor.

In 1999 I released a CD of compositions dedicated to artists that I had met through the jazz archive oral history project. The tune I wrote for Clark Terry was named “Beyond Category,” a phrase I borrowed from the Duke Ellington legacy. Duke used the term to describe Clark, a musician who could rise above definitions and provide exactly what was needed at any time. The flugelhorn of Wendell Brunious came about as close as you can get to capturing Clark’s unique sound.

Joe Wilder, 1922-2014

Joe Wilder, in 1998

I first met Joe Wilder at the Sarasota Jazz Festival on April 12, 1996. We had corresponded back and forth about an interview for the Fillius Jazz Archive, but his time during this festival was fully occupied with playing with a number of ensembles. When we finally met, he apologized for the logistical back and forth, and insisted on taking my photograph, even though it was the first time we met. I remember after that first meeting reflecting on what a gentle man he was, but also one who had his priorities well in order.

Joe passed away yesterday, May 9, 2014, at the age of 92. While I celebrate his important life and career, I can’t help but be melancholy about the loss of one of the finest people I’ve ever met. Joe taught by example. His playing, his everyday demeanor and his sense of humor were a model to young musicians. While not a household name, he was held in the highest regard by his fellow artists.

In our second interview, in 1998, I asked Joe about his work ethic:

MR:    I’m wondering, where did you get this work ethic? Was it something from your family?

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.” And they had an expression that they used to use, they would say you go to work and you come on time, and then there’s another time that they call “CP time” — colored people’s time — CPT was a thing they used to use. The blacks used it in reference to the other people that came late you see? And they would say well there is such a thing as the correct time and CPT. So this was a real put down, so you didn’t want to get involved with that. But that’s basically where I got it from, my father. And the other idea, the deportment of the guys on the job and things like that. He felt that they had an obligation to come on time, perform properly, to dress properly and conduct themselves in a way that people wouldn’t have any problems with them.

MR:    I’ve never heard that expression.

JW:    Yeah, it’s an old expression. A lot of the Latino musicians have an expression that’s similar too. The Latino musicians, one fellow was a friend of mine and he was one of the first Latin musicians to play in the Broadway theaters. And we were doing Laureli with Carol Channing. And a couple of times he showed up, the show hits at 2:00, and at 2:30 he came in and he couldn’t walk through the band, he had a crawl because of the way we were all set up, he had to crawl through the orchestra to get to his seat. And he was so accustomed to showing up late when he’d play a Latin dance some place in some hall, if he got there a half hour late, as long as you got there it was okay. So they had to explain to him that this is not a Latin dance hall, it was a Broadway theater.

As a trumpet player, Joe did it all: big bands, Broadway, studio dates, jazz recordings and symphonic work. He also became a marvelous photographer. Always a practical man, he once turned down an offer from Duke Ellington because he was supporting a family and making a better salary elsewhere.

Ed Berger, a dear friend of Joe’s and former Associate Director of the Rutgers Institute of Jazz Studies, just completed a marvelous book entitled Softly, With Feeling — Joe Wilder and the Breaking of Barriers in American Music. It is published by Temple University Press and was recently released in late April of this year. It’s a marvelous read, relating the fascinating life story of Joe Wilder, while also shining the spotlight on the segregation and eventual integration of one of the major facets of the music business. Joe Wilder, Milt Hinton, and a handful of other African American musicians were in the forefront of this movement to level the playing field in the Broadway pit bands and studio orchestras.

Of the lessons I learned from Joe, the most important was the idea that it is possible to be gracious and a gentleman while refusing to be intimidated or exploited. I felt inspired simply by standing next to him.

Joe Wilder and Monk Rowe

My 1999 release Jazz Life included the song Portrait in the Wild, which I composed as a tribute to Joe. Wendell Brunious, with his luscious tone on the flugelhorn, captured the desired feeling for the piece. I wrote of Joe in this blog in an entry from January of 2009 entitled A Statesman of the Highest Order.