Frank Wess, 1922-2013

Frank Wess, at Hamilton College in 2007

If you’re a jazz fan, especially of big band jazz, I know you’ve heard Frank Wess. If you’re not a big band fan I’m pretty sure you’ve heard him anyway. In the 2000 movie “Space Cowboys,” the astronaut played by Tommy Lee Jones saves the day and guides the Russian nuclear-tipped missiles out of earth’s orbit and to the moon, saving much of humanity. In the final scene the camera pans over the lunar landscape, ending in a close-up of our hero astronaut’s final resting place. Cue the music: Freddie Green’s rhythm guitar, a couple of piano notes from Basie, “Fly Me to the Moon” sung by Frank Sinatra, and backed up by Frank Wess’ classy flute.

Frank Wess passed away on October 30 at the age of 91, adding to the ever-growing list of Basie alums that have now left us. Frank played a major role in what was dubbed the “New Testament Band” that Basie formed after a brief hiatus in the early 50’s. Wess was part of a consistent saxophone section and stayed with the band for eleven years. Among his section mates were Marshall Royal, the straw boss, on lead alto; tenors Frank Foster, Billy Mitchell or Eric Dixon; and Charlie Fowlkes holding down the baritone chair. Frank was the last surviving member of this reed royalty.

He appeared at Hamilton College on three different occasions for our Fallcoming jazz weekends. I was mystified why he was carrying this long, slim case to the gig when I saw him, why he would need a pool cue? When I asked him about it he said, “oh that’s for my flute. This way I don’t have to keep taking it apart and putting it together.” Frank was not the first jazz flautist, but was among the most influential, and provided arrangers such as Quincy Jones and Neal Hefti with a distinctive sound to use in their charts for the Basie band. Frank spoke about his use of the flute to complement his alto and tenor sax, during our interview from May, 1995:

Frank Wess, in 1995

MR:    What led you to pick up [the flute] as a jazz horn?

FW:    That started years ago when I was in high school. My teacher, Henry L. Grant, who was also Duke Ellington’s teacher and Billy Taylor — Dr. Billy Taylor and I studied with him — and he was the orchestra teacher. And he gave me a flute to take home. So I took it home and after fooling with it a while I realized that I couldn’t do it without a teacher. And at the time, I couldn’t afford a teacher and there wasn’t one available that I knew of. So I said I’ll just let it rest until I can get to it. So at that time there was a fellow named William Culver, who was in the Chic Webb orchestra. And he played with a group within the orchestra called the Little Chicks. And that inspired me to want to play the flute. Because he was the first that I know of to do it. And he recorded a lot with Benny Carter and the musicians that were recording at that time. So when I got a chance to study it under the GI bill I got a chance to go back to school and studied flute, so I did. And Basie evidently was looking for a tenor player, so he kept calling and calling. He called for a couple of years and I told him I was doing something, and I couldn’t leave right then. So he just kept calling. Periodically he would call. And in the meantime I got a degree, a bachelor’s degree in flute, and we got together and I joined Basie. Well the thing was at the time what made me go with him because actually I had quit the road five years before I joined Basie. You know I’d given up on the road because I first left home in 1939. So he said, “well Frank, I think I can give you more exposure than you’ve had.” So that’s what made me join him. I said maybe that is what I need. So I went with him. Well Billy Eckstine had told him about me. Then when I got in the band, Don Redman had asked him, “have you ever heard him play flute?” He said “no.” Said “you ought to let him play flute.” So Bas’ told me, “whatever solos you have, you know, on tenor, whatever you’ve got, if you want to play it on flute, just go ahead and do it.” So that’s how that came about.

Basie fans will debate passionately about the greatest era of the Count’s orchestra. Some people preferred the very early ensemble which included Lester Young, Sweets Edison, and the “All-American Rhythm Section.” But the “New Testament” had a stunning combination of precision, power, individual soloists, and an amazing staff of arrangers, including Frank Wess. He spoke about the band and his role in it:

FW:   The band was hot. We were in one of the best bands Basie ever had. And that’s the band that made him rich, you know. The band was tight. I had forgotten actually, how good the band was until I was listening to those Mosaic recordings. And then it came back to me, how good that band was. It was like one person playing. Everybody was — it was a good band. Well Basie, he knew how to do that. You know he didn’t fault nobody. He just let it stay there until the cats got it together, and then when they got it together he knew what to do with it. But you know the fellows in the band did all of that. He didn’t know too many people, really, I mean musicians. When he’d want somebody he’d say “hey Magic, I need a trumpet player — I need a trombone player — I need a bass” I need this — I need that. And I’d tell him who to call. I got Eddie Jones in the band, Bill Hughes, Sonny Cohn, Eric Dixon, Thad Jones, I can’t think, oh Al Aarons. Yeah I got a whole lot of people in the band.

Frank was responsible for one of the a-ha moments that I experienced during the first few years of my jazz archive experience. We, and I include myself, assume that when musicians gather they engage in intense conversations about music and other musicians. We were lucky enough to take part in a jazz cruise, where our interview with Frank occurred. I learned a lesson when I was invited to join a table where Frank was holding court. I blogged about the story here, entitled Jazz Chat.

Frank’s answers to interview questions could be profound or perfunctory. When he was asked about practice regimens and technical exercises, Frank addressed the question quite eloquently, choosing his words carefully. His advice was born out of years of experience:

FW:    Etudes are studies and that’s what they were meant to be, and that’s what they are. Because you can’t consider most etudes as music, because they’re not. You know they were designed to do a certain thing. Technically you know. But most students, they spend so much time doing that that when they come out and start playing they think they’re making music when it’s got nothing to do with that. It’s two different things. I can be the greatest saxophone player in the world and not be able to make a note of music. It’s two different things. See so they have to get, they almost have to forget that, and then make some music, you know what I mean? Because it’s been my observation that all good music, regardless of what type it is, European music or I don’t care any kind of music, it’s all a matter of, well it’s an extension actually of us. And we, as a part of the universe, we operate the same way. It’s a matter of tension and release. And in music it’s the same thing. And in the best music, I’ve noticed it’s the artful use of that tension and release that makes the music, using the components of music which are first rhythm, because you can have rhythm without melody, and melody and harmony. And the one that’s ignored so much — which is this is important — is silence. Because that is the ultimate release to sound. And it’s the silence that makes the sound important. So if you keep on playing, it gets to be more and more meaningless as you go.

Frank’s eleven years with Basie were memorable, but they were only a fraction of his seven decade career. He left the road to make his living as many former big band players did, arranging, playing commercial dates and Broadway shows, recording, and leading small and large ensembles. He was honored in 2007 as a National Endowment for the Arts Jazz Master, a well-conceived program to honor jazz veteran artists while they can still enjoy the acclaim and support.

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.

From Page to Stage

In our last blog entry we talked about musical inspiration — where it comes from and what it can result in. A two-measure phrase and groove had entered my head at that time, and I decided to try to expand it into a new work that could be premiered at a Hamilton College concert on September 6. The two-bar phrase that came to me on my morning walk looked like this as first notated:

It wasn’t much to go on, and the manuscript sat on the piano for a day or two until I had time to look at it and begin the real work of composing. How do you take a promising phrase and turn it into a composition with enough length and musical content to be worthy of a public performance? Finding a form is helpful. Most compositions in the jazz realm are written in a fairly specific form, at least mine have been. I’ve written my share of 12-bar blues, and a number of songs that fit into the 32-bar song form, a template dating back to the 1930’s. It’s a convenient form. An 8-bar A section and a repeat of it, a new 8-bar B section, then followed by a repeat of the initial A section. This magically turns 16 bars of composition into 32. This was the form that seemed to present itself as I worked on expanding the initial idea.

The restrictions in this particular case were considerable. The concert format was for a soloist and accompanist, with a preferred time limit of four to five minutes. This limited instrumentation presented a challenge, because two single note instruments would have to provide melody, harmony and rhythm. To achieve a Latin feel that would set up the melody, I employed percussive effects, the string bassist tapping on his instrument and the saxophonist clicking out a separate rhythm on a maraca tied to his belt. As the composer and saxophonist, I knew there were certain notes I could write for just my left hand on the sax, while I tapped the maraca with my right. In addition, I knew that the bass player could tap on his bass while he plucked his instrument, as long as I wrote the part for an open string. These types of details fit into the realm of knowing orchestral instruments and their capabilities.

The song took form and the 2-bar idea developed into 4, then 8. The melody remained in the saxophone and the bass provided root notes and a generic Latin groove. The three eighth notes at the end of bars 4 and 8 grew in importance as the piece progressed. The 8-bar A section looked like this:

 

The bridge led me to a distant key, presenting a challenge to return to the original , and I must admit this was one of the more jarring transitions I have written. I refer to this as “the Andrew Lloyd Weber modulation,” which consists of no modulation at all, just an abrupt return from whence you came.

For a number of years now I have composed directly into the Finale musical software program, occasionally going to the piano to check things before I notate them. Finale’s reproduction is fairly realistic, and you get a decent idea of what the piece will sound like. The piece needed some contrast and a bit more length, so a section employing a dramatic tremolo/arco bass sound served as an introduction and ending.

When the piece was 90 percent completed I called the bass player to set up a rehearsal, and tried to put it out of my mind for the time being. Most of the work was done, but the song did not have a title. Some time ago I wrote a separate blog called “Instrumental Song Titles,” and how difficult they can be to think of unless a composition is dedicated to a person or event. While the song had a Latin feel, it did not have any distinct reason for being, nor was it composed with something specific in mind. I could have called it “Walking the Dog,” because the initial melody occurred to me while I was doing just that. I dismissed the idea because (1) it would seem inappropriate included on a program for a classical concert; and (2) Rufus Thomas already wrote “Walking the Dog” some 50 years ago. I wanted this title to have a Latin flavor to it so I decided to take the now-important rhythm — three eighth notes — from the piece and translated it into Spanish. After consulting someone who knew the language and proper grammar, the title became “Las tres corcheas.” I liked it, and I thought it might make people ponder about a hidden meaning in the song, of which there is none.

Due to scheduling issues, our rehearsal became a run through that very afternoon before the performance. I was not concerned. The bassist, Darryl Pugh from Syracuse, is a highly skilled musician, comfortable in classical, jazz and Latin genres.

The piece was well received at the concert and came out sounding very close to the way I envisioned it. The fewer instruments you are using the more likely you are to get the result you heard in your head.

The premier of the piece could very well be its only performance, as often compositions written for specific occasions are played only once. You can take a listen to the piece as an MP3 here, as the Finale program plays it. You will hear a two second gap at 1:48, where the solo sections were inserted during the performance.

For me, inspiration for composing seems to arrive when everything I’ve ever heard, played or previously written collides in my head. If I’m lucky, a new phrase synergistically finds its way out.