Nancy Wilson 1937-2018

On the heels of our tribute to Joe Williams, we now learn of the passing of vocalist Nancy Wilson at the age of 81. Nancy and Joe shared a number of parallel lines throughout their singing careers. They had a common manager in John Levy; they both recorded albums with Cannonball Adderley, George Shearing, and Count Basie; and both objected to being typecast as a certain style of vocalist. I was fortunate to sit with Nancy Wilson in November of 1995 for an interview, and she addressed the issue of stereotypes:

NW:   I have to say about jazz critics, they really gave me the pits for a while. They felt that the Cannonball Adderley album was a compromise for Cannon. Because I was a pop artist.

MR:   No kidding?

NW:   Oh, yes. You don’t know the stuff they did to us. But my point that I’ve always tried to stress is I came into this business with a gift, the voice is a given. It was a gift from God. I didn’t put any labels on it. I also decided to leave my home to do this, to be commercial. I mean the object of the game for me was why would I want to, why would anybody in their right mind want to give up their security, their home, all the things that mean happiness to me, to go out to only want to fulfill somebody else’s idea of who and what I am. I figured that I was going to do this on a major scale or I didn’t want to do it. Because I could go home, go to Carnegie Tech as opposed to Central State, and be a doctor or be something in medicine, and I’d have been fine. But the voice was always out front. But I have never apologized for being a commercial artist. That is why I do what I do, is to sell. I want to be heard, I want to reach as many people as I can. I believe in that mass thing. You know I want everybody to know who I am if I’m going to do it.

I recall being surprised to hear this recollection, as the Cannonball Adderley-Nancy Wilson LP is one of my absolute favorite recordings.

One thing Nancy did not have to deal with was performance anxiety. Again from her interview:

MR:   Can you recall as a child, were you always pretty comfortable in front of an audience? 

NW:   It never occurred to me that you should be nervous. When I found out I was so grown that it didn’t make any difference. Then I found out people actually get nauseous and tremble and shake. Well I don’t want to do this if I have to be sick before I go on. But some people do. Some people just feel that that’s a part of it. I like being relaxed. I like taking it in stride. I love it. I keep it in its proper perspective, and it allows me to continue to do it. As long as I do it this way I can do it.

Nancy was awarded three Grammys and was an NPR host for Jazz Profiles. She considered herself a storyteller, and she chose the songs in her repertoire based on their strong narrative element.

This interview was conducted early on in our oral history project, when I was still developing an interviewing style. I will always remember the dignity and class that was part of Nancy’s persona. You can view the complete video here.

Joe Williams Centennial

Joe Williams, in 1998

Today we celebrate singer Joe Williams’ one hundredth birthday. Joe was born Joseph Goreed on December 12, 1918 in Cordele, Georgia. He grew up in Chicago, paid his musical dues with a number of area swing bands, and joined the Count Basie Orchestra in 1954. Joe started a solo career in 1961 which lasted four plus decades. Along the way he became close friends with Milt Fillius Jr., an avid jazz fan and a 1944 graduate of Hamilton College. Together Joe and Milt launched an oral history project, an effort to gather extemporaneous life stories of jazz musicians, their spouses, writers, producers, and jazz aficionados. This collaboration resulted in what is now called the Fillius Jazz Archive, and I am proud to be called the Joe Williams Director. Our 350+ video interviews are now posted on the Fillius Jazz YouTube Channel.

To celebrate Joe’s one-hundredth birthday we are posting a compilation of interview excerpts which were previously unpublished. Joe’s commentary is intertwined with anecdotes from his accompanist Norman Simmons, his manager John Levy, and Basie band members Bill Hughes and John Williams. These excerpts and outtakes were originally captured for the 1996 concert documentary called Joe Williams: A Portrait in Song, a film commissioned by Hamilton College and produced by Burrill Crohn.

We invite you to view this compilation here, and hope you enjoy the magic of Joe Williams all over again.

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Jon Hendricks, An Appreciation

Jon Hendricks, in 2000

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Too often we wait until a person has passed before we reflect on their accomplishments. If I had to pick ten of my favorite interviews from the 340 we have gathered for the Fillius Jazz Archive, both of our sessions with Jon Hendricks would make the cut.

Jon Hendricks is now 95, retired from performing and unfortunately is beset with health issues. He is a man who enjoyed a remarkably creative career and could speak intelligently about seemingly any subject. Jon was a fascinating storyteller. During our initial interview in 1995, he related this tale about Count Basie:

MR: You had quite a wonderful association with Count Basie.

JH: Oh, yeah. It was gorgeous. He was a great man. I mean he was great in such a quiet way. There wasn’t any flamboyance about him. What it was about him, I think was his magnetism. He just set still and was quiet. But nothing happened until he moved. I mean the band would be on the bandstand, and everybody would be sitting there and he’d come and make that introduction, and the whole band would come to life. You know he was such an honest man that it was funny, I mean it was joke the way he would just let the truth come out of his mouth. Like one time we went to London with him. And he asked me to come by his hotel you know, because he was going to do an interview with the London Times. And he was kind of worried about it, and wanted to make sure that everything went well. So he wanted me there in case I had to translate for him for the reporter. So this man sits down and he says, [with a British accent] “Tell me, Mr. Bahsie” he says, “you have a style of playing the piano” he says, “you don’t seem to play too many notes. You’re sort of economical in your style of playing.” He says, “How did you arrive at such a style?” And Basie said, “I just can’t play no more piano.” And I was sitting there and I went into the bathroom and cracked up. Because it was so true but totally unexpected. And then when we saw the article the next day, the guy remarked on how Mr. Basie was so — what did he call it — so modest. He said he was so modest. He wasn’t modest, he was telling the truth.

Jon is often cited as an influence on current vocal groups due to his participation in the iconic jazz vocal trio Lambert, Hendricks & Ross. His fortuitous meeting with cab driver Tim Hauser helped jump start Manhattan Transfer, a jazz vocal ensemble that is still performing after forty years. From Part 2 in 2000:

JH: I tell the story of the formation of the Manhattan Transfer. Their idea was to be a group like Lambert, Hendricks & Ross. That’s why I helped them. That was their aim. I met Tim Hauser in a taxi. He was a taxi driver. And I got in his cab with my brother. And he says, “I know you, you’re Jon Hendricks.” I said, “How do you know me?” He says, “I know you. My name is Tim Hauser and my girlfriend Janis Siegel and I live in Brooklyn and we’re going to start a Lambert, Hendricks & Ross type group called Manhattan Transfer.” I gave him my card, and I said, “Any time I can help you, let me know.” And that was how they started. I said so that’s what vocalese is. It’s the setting of lyrics to established American jazz instrumentals in a form so that it tells a story with a beginning, a middle, an end, a plot, a cast of characters, the horns become the characters, and they make a commentary on the subject matter which is determined by the title.

Janis Siegel, an original member of the Manhattan Transfer, speaks of Jon Hendricks with reverence and respect:

MR: How did you get connected?

JS: Well we’ve been doing his stuff from the very beginning honestly. And certainly we were aware of vocalese. For the first album Tim and I wrote a vocalese to “You Can Depend on Me” in the style — I mean influenced certainly by Lambert, Hendricks & Ross and Jon in particular.  I think “Vocalese” is something that we’re very proud of, continuing the tradition of. And we did a whole record of vocalese with Jon and tackled some very meaty things. And Jon was able to tackle some meaty subjects in his lyrics, particularly “Joy Spring,” “Airegin” really amazing lyrics. And he was in the video of “Rock House” and he was in the video of “Night in Tunisia.” And whenever we could perform with Jon it’s always a blessing.

Individual singers have also been influenced by Jon’s singing and his remarkable skill with the practice of vocalese. In our interview in 2015 Giacomo Gates commented on Jon’s skill:

GG: Jon Hendricks is amazing. And every time I would get something of his I’d say, “Wow, this is the better than the last one.” And then “Freddie Freeloader,” did you ever hear that? It’s amazing what he wrote, and that he sings a John Coltrane solo. I mean who could sing a John Coltrane solo? Jon Hendricks.

Click here to see the full interview with Giacomo Gates.

The thing I will remember best about our sessions with Jon is his eloquence and passion when speaking about humans, humanity and human nature.

JH: The philosophy that we had as my father’s children, you know. Like he was a very spiritual man and he taught us that we were children of the living God. And every man, woman and child on this planet were our brothers and sisters. And never mind that they didn’t feel that way, that was their problem. It was our job to remember that we are brothers and sisters to every human being. So I find it solved all the racial problems I might have had. Because I’ve never really had any. You know, anybody comes to me, I give them the love I would give a brother. So if they have animosity toward me, first it’s got to get through that. And that’s pretty hard. That’s pretty hard to get through. So I find I have no problems you know. I don’t accept anything but God’s children. And I read Paul, God is no respecter of person. So who is man to cause problems, and to have all this racial — all these politicians talking about the problems between black and white, already are expressing gross ungodliness. And lack of belief in any real God you know. And thus I’ve had no part of that.

MR: We can all learn from some of those comments. That’s wonderful.

JH: I just will not have anything to do with that. Mankind? That’s me. I’m there. If you want something for mankind? Okay. But I will not compartmentalize it you know.

Click here to read the full Part 1 interview, conducted in 1995.

Click here to read the full Part 2 interview, conducted in 2000.

Frank, Splank & Q Fly to the Moon

Our last arranging blog spotlights a perfect combination of the four elements that make up a hit recording.

The Composer

“Fly Me to the Moon” was written in 1954 by Bart Howard, an accompanist to singers such as Mabel Mercer and Johnny Mathis. The song itself was originally written as a waltz, then became a bossa nova, and originally was titled “In Other Words.” In 1960 Peggy Lee recorded the song, and after an appearance on “The Ed Sullivan Show” the publisher officially changed the title to “Fly Me To the Moon.” A recording of the song has traveled into outer space on both Apollo 10 and 11, and it was used effectively in the final scene of the movie “Space Cowboys.”

It’s a basic song harmonically , but employs an effective musical device, alternating between C major and the relative A minor, a device also effectively employed in songs like “The Autumn Leaves” and “My Funny Valentine.” It uses a straightforward 32-bar form divided evenly in half, with a nice outer space/romance metaphor: Fly me to the moon/Let me play among the stars/Let me see what spring is like/On Jupiter and Mars. By 1995, some 300 recordings had been released, providing Mr. Howard with lifelong royalties.

The Band

Big band aficionados all have their favorites, but there is little debate that the Count Basie Orchestra was swing personified. For close to 50 years, Basie led a band that could outswing any other. Directing subtly from the piano bench and leading by example, Basie inspired an infectious groove that made the ensemble internationally famous. Singers love bands that make them sound better, and the Basie band was on the top of their list.

The Singer

From the magazine The Atlantic in July of 2007:

“Frank Sinatra was the greatest vocalist in the history of American music, and elevated popular song to an art. More profoundly than other figure, excepting perhaps Elvis Presley, Sinatra changed the style and popular culture of America in the twentieth century.”

The Arranger

From the Quincy Jones website:

“Quincy Jones has been nominated for a record 79 Grammys and won 27, more than any other musician. He produced the best selling album “Thriller” and best selling single “We Are the World. He has participated as an arranger and producer of over 400 albums.”

These three musical giants collaborated on the 1964 album “It Might as Well be Swing.” Cut one on side one is the focus of our blog.

According to the liner notes, Quincy Jones flew to Hawaii for a musical sit-down with Sinatra and his accompanist, Bill Miller. He was working under a deadline, and as is often the case, deadlines inspire an arranger’s best work. As the needle touches down on this LP, the first thing you hear are Sonny Payne’s brushes on a snare drum establishing a perfect tempo. In the fourth bar a subtle skipping lick sets up two E’s an octave apart. This is Sinatra’s cue.

Regarding that tempo, we clock in at 122 beats per minute, a technical number mostly irrelevant to musicians. I have never once played in a band where the leader or the drummer enunciates “okay ready? 120 beats per minute” and starts the song. Tempos are felt, and Basie was the master of that. He often times noodled on the piano setting up the song and found that perfect groove before he cued in the band.

The first 16 bars of “Fly Me to the Moon” are exquisitely simple, and Sinatra can be partly credited for this. I recently heard an interview with Quincy Jones and radio host Jian Ghomeshi. Jian wisely brought up the subject of “Fly Me to the Moon” and Q (as Frank called Quincy) stated that the first 16 bars were not what they ended up with — Sinatra said, “that’s a little dense, Q” and adjustments were made. What we get is basically a jazz combo anchored by Freddie Green’s ever-steady strumming on the guitar, some tasty flute from Frank Wess, and a relaxed and swinging Sinatra. The saxes eventually sneak in and echo the notes of “in other words.” You’ll notice throughout that Sinatra, unlike many singers who love the sound of their voice, does not extend his words at the ends of phrases, but cuts them off, leaving space for the band to be heard. If you have the best band in the land behind you, it’s an obvious choice.

The second half of the song, at :40, introduces a delightful skipping lick from the saxophone section, and a very subtle backbeat riff from the trombones. Harry “Sweets” Edison, a Basie alum and frequent companion in the studios with Sinatra, enters with some muted trumpet at :52. Quincy Jones knew something that the great arrangers know. One of the best ways to get people to listen harder is to write softer. This sparse but swinging musical setting is building a tension that is finally released at 1:12, as Sinatra finishes the first go-round of the song. As Sweets lays into straight quarter notes, Sonny Payne sets up the band with two full bars of one-beat triplets. The ensuing crescendo unleashes the Basie band in all their glory. Quincy writes a paraphrasing of the melody with a wonderful “doit” (an upward fall) from the brass section.

Quincy doesn’t beat us over the head for too long. The decibels come back down and Q recasts the song’s melody. After a few hearings you literally can sing along with the brass section as the notes and the words match up. Frank Wess adds a bit of flute and the second half of the song is set up with an outrageous brass chord, complete with a downward fall. A more animated Sinatra sings “Fill my heart with song” backed by saxes and trombones, and the song chugs along to its conclusion. The musical term “tag” is a commonly used device as an arrangement nears the end. The last four bars, or the last sentence, of the song is repeated once or twice. Quincy writes a tag for Sinatra and Frank finally employs his marvelous phrasing that he learned from trombonist Tommy Dorsey early in his career. In the line “Please be true” he holds “true” for two full bars, refusing to breathe, singing straight into “in other words” — a marvelous musical moment. The Basie brass and reeds answer his phrases.

The ending we anticipate in Count Basie arrangements does not disappoint, in fact a slight twist makes it that much better. Most swing musicians know what the “Count Basie ending” is: three rhythmically-spaced chords followed by a low, emphatic “exclamation point.” The word “Splank” for Basie was coined by Sinatra — a good onomatopoeic description of the lick. Splank-Splank-Splank-Boom. In this case, Basie provides the splanky chords figures and Sinatra provides the closer with “you.”

This musical magic occurred in a mere 2:31. I’ve listened to this cut hundreds of times, thinking as an arranger, listening for something that could have been done slightly different, slightly better. It’s not to be found.

It’s perfect.

Ed Shaughnessy: Performing a Rhythmic Service

Ed Shaughnessy, in 1995

It’s human nature to attempt to identify “the best” in every possible category. Buddy Rich was called the world’s fastest drummer. Now there’s actually a well-known contest for the world’s fastest drummer. The “Guinness Book of Records” has a category for the world’s loudest drummer. Both of these records are surely debatable and constantly challenged. One thing we can safely say is the world’s most frequently heard drummer was Ed Shaughnessy. Mr. Shaughnessy, who passed away on Friday, May 24, 2013, spent 29 years behind the drum set with “The Tonight Show” starring Johnny Carson, and in his own estimation that equaled some 5,000 appearances on national television. I can’t imagine that any other drummer was heard as often, and his trademark intro for “The Tonight Show” theme became its own musical signature. It’s no coincidence that he was also one of the best at his profession.

Ed Shaughnessy was born in New Jersey in 1929, and his first experience in music was with piano lessons, which he didn’t embrace. His life was changed in true storybook fashion due to a man who owed money to his father. In my first interview with Ed, he related the story:

MR:    Let me take you back. The story is about your first drum set.

ES:     Oh, my first drum set? Yeah I guess you know the story. My dad, who was a Teamster, he worked on the docks, he had loaned $20 to somebody, and the fellow was up against it, he couldn’t give him the $20, and he said to my dad, “doesn’t your son like music?” Because at the time I was playing piano. I played piano for like three or four years before drums. And he said “oh yeah, my kid, he just loves his music, he loves everything about music.” And he was a mellow guy, my dad. So the guy said “well look, I can’t give you the $20, but I’ve got these two drums, a bass drum and a snare drum with a stand and a little pedal” and I think a beat up old cymbal, and “would you take that in place of the 20 bucks.” And like I said my dad being a mellow dude, he said, “yeah, if you’re broke, my kid will probably have fun with these things.” So we never had a car. He brought them home from New York on the subway that went from New York to New Jersey. And you know I appreciated how he did that, he brought them home and on the bus, from the subway to home. That’s the way you did it in those days. You didn’t think twice about it. I guess they let you on with crazy things like that. And so he, to make a long story short, I’m 14, he brings these old beat up drums in, I mean really beat up, old, like from the 30’s or 20’s or something. And I can’t explain it to you, but something fascinating happened when I opened them up. It took me half a day to set the snare drum up on the stand right I think, and put the pedal on. You know I didn’t know anything about drums.

It didn’t take long before Ed became completely enamored with the drums and in his own words, “began to practice like a madman, four to six hours a day.” His practice paid off and led to his first break in the business:

ES:     Three years later I was on the road playing with professional bands. That’s a true story. George Shearing gave me my first job in New York when I was about 18. I was sitting in with Bud Powell and he played “Cherokee” for 25 minutes, and I stayed with it. And George Shearing said anyone that could play “Cherokee” at that tempo for twenty-five minutes, I’m going to give a gig to. This is just what he said. And his manager came over and said, “Mr. Shearing wants to talk to you.” And he says, “young man, anybody that can play ‘Cherokee’ for 25 minutes with Bud Powell, I’ve got to give a job to.” I thought it was so sweet the way he did it. And he says, “besides, my drummer is a little hung up” he said later. So he gave me two nights.

He continued to pay his dues with Jack Teagarden and Charlie Ventura, and in time he landed a studio job with CBS Television. His involvement in that world eventually led to his gig with “The Tonight Show.”

While Ed’s career blossomed after the big band era, he did get in some significant playing time with the legends of that time. His story about playing with Benny Goodman is classic. Ed was with Benny’s band for a 1950 European tour and fortunately he had been given some information about how to deal with the inevitable encounter with Benny’s irascible personality.

ES:     I liked working with Benny a lot because he was playing great at that time and I got along with Benny, who was hard to get along with, everybody knows that. Most people know that and don’t know what instrument he played. But when I used to sit in with Lionel Hampton’s band, he said to me one night “I hear you’re going with the old man.” I said, “yeah I’m going to go to Europe with Benny.” I was 21. And here’s what he said to me. He said, “now if he gets weird on you, get weirder.” I said, “this is the key?” He said, “this is the key.” He said, “didn’t I get along great with him?” I said, “yeah, you seemed to have a good relationship with him.” He said, “well if he gets a little out, go a little outer.” So when this happened and I was late at a rehearsal, and I walked through the thing and he looked at me and he put the glasses down with the famous ray, and he started in, I said, “Jesus, Benny, are we just here to jerk around or are we going to rehearse?” May God be my judge, that’s what I said. I tried to go as far out as I could. And he said, here’s what he said. He said “the kid’s right. Let’s play.” And he never said a word. And I was over 35, 40 minutes late. And this was Paris, his biggest concert. So you know he was going to chew my thing out real good, and I did a Hamp, and I went out on him. And I’ll tell you, I did it one other time in a lesser way, and he never bothered me. I think he thought the kid is definitely crazy but he’s a nice little drummer, leave him alone. But he picked on everybody else, see. He cut out Roy Eldridge’s solos in certain places because he was getting too much applause. He cut out Zoot Sims’ solos all through Scandinavia because Zoot was more popular than he was. And may God be my judge, this is the truth I’m telling you. You know he was a very strange man. But thank God for Hamp — Hamp straightened me out, just go a little further baby and it worked like a charm.

Ed Shaughnessy, in 1998

Among Ed’s fondest memories is Count Basie telling him that he “fit the band like a glove.” Ed appeared on five Basie LP’s in the 1960’s, an opportunity that occurred for the oddest reason. Ed stated:

ES:     Thank God for Sonny Payne’s marital problems, because when Sonny Payne (his regular drummer) couldn’t come into New York because his wife would throw him in jail, Basie would call me up.

In addition to the thrill of recording with Basie, he also got to witness one of the very few moments of the Count’s temper:

ES:     We come to this studio to make the first album, and we sit down and we had no dividers between any of the band. Basie did not like to record that way. Therefore he set the band up almost like real life. Almost the same as you would on a stage, almost. And we start running the first tune down and play it. Kind of a medium tempo tune, nothing real hot. And I’m playing and filling and doing the stuff that I normally would do. And we stop, and the engineer says over the thing “well, the producer wants to talk to you, Count.” So Count says, “well talk on the thing.” He says, “well do you want to talk over the mics?” Count says “yeah, what is it? Come on, let’s get going.” So the producer leans over the mic, he says, “we think the drums should probably be about half as loud as they are and we think that that would be a lot better for this recording.” And Basie, who very seldom does this, went [screams] “rahhhhhh,” and hit his fist on the piano. And all the band went like [screams] “rahhhhh” I swear to God, including me. It scared the crap out of us. Now after he does this, now he’s Mister Cool and he says “Mr. Shaughnessy’s here because I like the way he plays in a big band. Your job is to get it all down on record.” And he looked at me and he says “play your way.” And that was the last time we got a word about, in five record dates, never a word came from the booth. And you know something? They got it all down okay. I didn’t modify anything. But man, that scared the crap out of all of us. It was like, well, you know he made the point because we were going to make a couple of albums for this company. He made the point that this band is going to play the way it plays. We’re not going to play studio style, where we kind of don’t play or we modify everything. He wants the fire. The main thing is he wants the fire, and you need a certain amount of drumming intensity and energy for that, don’t you? You can’t lighten up and play, let the band play and you play like Mr. Wimpy, it’s going to sound awful, see? But boy he sure took care of it. But I’m telling you he scared the hell out of everybody. And the main thing I remember was the roar, like a lion [quiet roar] and everybody just froze, you know, just like this. Because you know he never did stuff like that. You know this was Mr. Quiet. It was a great experience.

Ed Shaughnessy was one of the first jazz musicians to sense the potential and worth of interacting with high school and college students. He stopped counting his appearances at 600. During the early years of the Jazz Archive I was able to bring Ed to Hamilton, where I witnessed his interaction with high school musicians. He had just the right amount of intensity, inspiring but not intimidating, and he had an answer for young drummers who didn’t feel the necessity of being able to read charts:

MR:    That’s a pretty old fashioned thing, like if I learn to read I’m going to lose my spontaneity.

ES:     Yes or will it hurt my jazz is the old line. I don’t want reading to hurt my jazz. But you’d be surprised, some kids love to catch on to that because they don’t want to have to want to bother. So you know what I say? ‘Cause the example that was given for years was Buddy Rich see. So I would go at clinics “well Buddy Rich doesn’t read, why should I read?” And my rejoinder is: “do you think you’re as talented as Buddy Rich? If you are, you shouldn’t be here you should be out earning like he did, at the age of four years of age.” A thousand dollars a week in 1921. You think you’re that talented? The second highest paid child star in the world? Do you think that you’re as talented as he was? He could get by without reading because he had way more talent than most of us. And I of course say “most of us” because I mean it. Natural gift. He was the second highest paid child star to Shirley Temple I think.

Ed not only affected youthful musicians, he stayed hip and current himself, embracing jazz/rock and African and Indian drum styles in his playing. And for all his technique and solo ability, he kept in mind a phrase that he attributed to the late, great bassist Milt Hinton: “the players in the rhythm section are providing a rhythmic service, and don’t ever forget it.”

You can check out Ed’s take on the meaning of swing in a previous blog. You may also read the full transcripts of Ed Shaughnessy archived at Hamilton College. Part I was conducted on 9/1/95 in Los Angeles; and Part II was conducted at Hamilton on 4/25/98.

Dynamics Make it Interesting

A Bruce Springsteen quote: “I’m driving in my car/I turn on the radio.” The car radio gave me the impetus for my first blog about memorable music moments, and serves as a second inspiration for more. This time the focus is on dynamics. One of the definitions in Webster’s New World Dictionary defines dynamics as “relating to or tending toward change.” Then down the list, “the effect of varying degrees of loudness and softness in the performance of music.” Music students learn the basics of soft (p) and loud (f), as well as the gradual crescendos and decrescendos between them.

Back to the car. I was listening to the oldies station and was forced to another station by a song I couldn’t stand, and landed on the classical station. The DJ announced the mother of all classical pieces: “Beethoven’s Fifth.” How can you turn the channel from “Beethoven’s Fifth?” But how many of you have had the experience of listening to classical music in the car? More often than not it is a frustrating experience. Now you hear it, now you don’t. The obvious reason is the use of dynamics. Pop music rarely takes advantage of the effect of dynamics, unless it’s loud, louder, loudest. In fact if you’ve had studio experience, you know that the final mix on a pop song has the dB meter riding consistently just below the red. It’s a different story with instrumental classical music, where a huge part of the effect of a piece is the use of dynamics.

Let’s take a look at Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, in particular the First Movement. Everyone can hum the four note figure in their head, and Beethoven milks it for all it’s worth, loud and intense. At about 1:09, he pulls back and decreases the volume and emotion, only to build up again. In this particular clip we hear some terrific use of dynamics, in the beginning, and also at about 2:46, where we experience the masterful use of crescendos and decrescendos throughout the First Movement. Watch Toscanini as he makes sure that the French horn lick at 4:50 is appropriately soft. It’s also interesting to note that Maestro Toscanini had memorized all of Beethoven’s dynamics and needed no score. It all works because this is concert hall music. People are being as quiet as possible, and no road noise intrudes.

Though separated by a century, setting, instrumentation and an ocean, Count Basie displayed the same skill as Beethoven in the use of dynamic extremes to create excitement in his work. With acoustic music, the most obvious way to increase the volume of a band is to have more people play, with varying degrees of intensity. Look at this version of the Count Basie Orchestra and their arrangement of “All of Me.” This is classic Basie. The piece starts with just the rhythm section, Freddie Green chomping away on the guitar, and Basie handling the melody in the most subtle fashion. Just before the halfway point, at measure 15 and 16 (1:07), all the brass and saxes slyly pick up their horns and lay into a three-note figure that takes the dynamics of the band from double piano (pp) to triple forte (fff). Perhaps some of you have had the experience of hearing the Basie band play this chart. I heard it backstage at a concert and it scared the life out of me. Listen to the audience. They applaud the dynamics! It’s a great moment. And of course, it’s followed by a return to that subtle chunking rhythm, a driving force with minimal volume.

Jerry Dodgion

Saxophonist Jerry Dodgion is most associated with the Thad Jones-Mel Lewis Orchestra, but in our interview from 1996 he cited his brief time with the Count Basie Band as thrilling and unforgettable. Jerry spoke of the unique ability of the band to play at both ends of the dynamic spectrum and still swing.

MR:   Did you get a chance again to record with [Basie]?

JD:   Yes, several years later. I didn’t even know it was with Count Basie which was good because I would have probably been nervous. I got a call for three days of recording with Chico O’Farrill on the answering service. And I showed up and it was Count Basie’s band. I’m looking around and I said am I in the right studio? So then I see Chico and I says I guess so. I mean that was really great. That was a lot of fun too. That was an album called “Basic Basie.” And I even played a few solos on that, which I was a little apprehensive about. I mean Lockjaw was on that too and he made that great recording of “Bewitched” on one of those dates. It was really wonderful to see this and be in there and be part of it happening. Because I loved the music so much and heard it on records so much, and heard the band in person. I heard the band in person a lot. And that band, the band of the ‘50s and ‘60s was an unbelievable ensemble band. Maybe it was really one of the best ever. They could play with the great swinging and feeling and the emotion and everything. But together. And the ensemble was just so together it was just thrilling. And the dynamics, unbelievable. I mean they could play softer than we’re talking now, the whole band. And you’d still hear the bass with no amplifier. Frank Wess would play the flute, Thad did some things with flute and bass, and you could hear him. Now I don’t know — when the amplification came in it changed everything, you know? The bass became louder than the band and you could not hear the flute unless you turned up the mic and when the flute player turns up his mic then the bass player turns up his mic and then there’s the guitar player, forget it. And here were — and there’s no end to this stuff. But the real sensitive part of playing acoustically, that band just was the best ever. I just, I couldn’t believe it.

Is there anything softer than triple pianissimo (ppp)? The only answer is silence. A rarely used effect in music is the total absence of sound. Two of my favorite musicians knew about it. Cannonball Adderley and Joe Zawinul had a productive working relationship from 1961-1970. Joe wrote many of Cannonball’s most notable pieces. Here’s an example from a live recording in Chicago. The “Country Preacher” Cannonball refers to is a young Reverend Jesse Jackson. Joe Zawinul composed the song and it starts in a meandering fashion with his electric piano lick followed by some Cannonball ruminations on the soprano sax. The band kicks into higher gear, reaching a crescendo at 2:23, ending with a snare drum whack by Roy McCurdy. What can follow that? How about three or four seconds of absolute silence, and then the most subtle entrance possible? Effective? Check out the crowd. They went crazy for the silence. That’s dynamic.

In a similar fashion, Samuel Barber, composer of the work “Adagio for Strings,” may have found himself in a musical quandary. Most people have heard all or part of this piece, as it has been broadcast at solemn occasions and notably employed in the Vietnam movie “Platoon.” This piece existed on its own for years and was first written as a string quartet. It is a marvelous example of the use of dynamics. No winds. No percussion. It’s simply a string orchestra at an imperceptible tempo, building and building, slowly stepping from one dynamic level to the next with rich harmonies. Barber’s composition climbs through seven highly emotional minutes, challenging the listener to stay engaged. Finally it builds to the point where you’re pleading for it to stop. And stop it does. What could possibly follow this heart-wrenching crescendo? Nothing but silence. A good three to five seconds of absolute silence is followed by a cautious reentry of the strings, allowing you to breathe again. This piece is not served well through your computer, so please plug it into your stereo system. Or, find a recording, turn out the lights, get rid of the video, and be absorbed by this piece.

Manny Albam

Arranger Manny Albam was interviewed in October of 1998. His work encompassed writing in the fields of jazz, popular music and classical orchestration. He spoke about dynamics and the potential power they have over audiences:

MA:   Subtleties work if you begin to manipulate the orchestra. And that is orchestration. And that is what dynamics in orchestration do[es] for the audience. You suddenly realize wow, they’re doing something I can’t quite hear, I’d better pay attention. That’s part of audience manipulation. I did things orchestrated on Broadway, not too much. I used to help other people and then I got my own thing to do. And I worked with George Abbott, Mr. Broadway, a great director and all that. And I wrote this great arrangement for one of the singers in the show and he called me over and he said “we don’t want applause at the end of that.” I said “no?” He said “no, we want that to dwindle off into the next scene and to be a smooth thing that will go right into the next scene.” And I learned something about that. They don’t want applause. If you want to bring the audience to their feet you write these big chords and the rhythm section and everybody’s wailing away, and the audience will go “hey! yeah!” and get up, “encore! encore!” You know, the show stopper. But these things are for dramatic changes that happen. No applause. I had to re-write the whole last twelve bars of the thing to bring it all down to nothing and then the whole thing would swing into place. Now once you learn things like that from other venues, in other words this is drama, this has nothing to do with music, but music has got a lot to do with drama anyway.

Dynamics leads to drama.

Tales of the Big Bands: Basie, Part 2

In Basie, Part 1 we listened to musicians speak about the magic of the Count Basie sound. The day-to-day stories of sidemen also yield an inside look at the trials and tribulations of playing in a touring band. Let’s return to bassist Jimmy Lewis, who offered us his view on the Basie swing machine in Part 1.

When musicians recall bad or difficult gigs, it is rarely about the music, but more often about logistics. Jimmy offered up a memorable story about getting to one of those out-of-the-way gigs.

MR: Let me ask you about a little thing. You had a story about flying with Basie?

JL: Yeah, you know we had some Army camps to do. We had to ride in the Army planes, the ones with two tails and that big thing in the middle. So one day we got on this thing going to one of the camps, and it was noisy, this thing was so noisy you couldn’t hear. Now Billy Eckstine and all those guys were used to riding. But me, I was scared to death. We all had parachutes. Basie had on a parachute over by the door you know. So we were going to Corpus Christi, Texas. So the plane took off, but before we got there, something happened just before we got ready to land. They couldn’t get the landing gear down. So the guy kept punching it in back, there was some long pole they couldn’t get it down. So the man said “we’re going to have to circle around and go further, and come back around again.” So they went around, and started back to see if we could land, and still couldn’t get it open. So one of the guys, the one who was right by the back door here, pulled that big door open. Now we were flying. So I said “what’s this — what are you doing?” The guy said “well see, we’re trying to get a little more air in the plane.” I said “air in the plane!” I said “man, we don’t need no more air.” So he said “well, I’ll tell you, we’re having a problem with the landing gear, and you might have to bail out.” And Basie looked at me. He said “what do you mean bail out?” And so he asked the pilot, he said “look, are you going to bail out too?” The pilot said “no, I’ve got to stay with the plane.” Basie said “well I’m going to stay with you,” he said, “I’m going on with you. Because if I jump out and I pull this string and the ‘chute don’t open up, man, I can’t fly — I don’t have no wings.” Well everybody was laughing. And so Billy teased me, he said “man, we’re going to crash” — oh baby, I don’t know what to do. And I’m running back and forth. It’s funny, you know I’d never been in a plane before anyway.

MR: Something finally happened because you’re here with us.

JL: So we get to Corpus Christi, Texas. Now, so finally we land. Everybody set there about fifteen minutes before they got out of the plane. It was quiet — boy you could hear a mouse — quiet you know. So everybody started getting out one by one, taking off the parachute, taking their instruments and go outside. We got outside, and we had to play under some trees. We get out there, and set up under these trees out there, in the hot summertime. Oh, man, it looked like a big field. And people, as far as you could see. And they had all these big speakers about like that. So they set the band stand up, all the band stands, they put the music, you know the fella he’d taken care of all that. And so then Basie went up to test the piano to see if it was in tune you know. So then he called us, his band. We got up there and Basie was telling about this trip, how much trouble we had with the plane and all that. So the people settled down. We started playing. As soon as we started playing, all these little chrysalis come out of the tree and started falling on the bandstand. And it’s falling in the bell of the horns, and the guys would dump it out and keep playing. I got me some string, tying it all around my pants legs you know, in case they would crawl up my leg. And so when we finished the job, now we’ve got to take this same plane and go to California. So me and Wendell Cully, we walked out to the plane and looked in, and we see all these parachutes on the seats, and Cully said, “they look like dead people, man.” He said “we can’t take this thing, can we?” I said “no.” So I said well let’s go tell Basie we don’t think we’re going to go on this. So we went and told Basie and he said “I don’t blame you, but,” he said “I’ve got to stay with the band and so you go ahead and see if you can get a train out, and meet us in California.” So we did. We got a train. We got to California three days later. And I think we missed one gig. But we got to the gig and we played and everything. So we asked Basie, “how was the trip?” He said “man that was the worst trip I ever had.”

Travel was not the only daily challenge. Road bands, especially the black bands, often times had to settle for less-than-optimal accommodations. Musicians always shared rooms, in some cases even the boss had to share a room with one of the sidemen. Clark Terry, who is always good for an inside story, shared this anecdote with his friend Joe Williams about rooming with the Count:

CT: I have to tell you my favorite Basie story.

JW: Yeah, yeah.

CT: Yeah you know what am I telling you? Well we’re playing Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania, and this was during a period when we were not allowed to stay in the big hotel, we were relegated to the homes of Miss Brown, Miss Jones, Miss Green and so forth.

JW: Oh, those were the good old days. “Have you had your breakfast?” “No, M’am.”

CT: So we were in Miss Green’s or Brown’s or somebody’s home, and she said “well I’ve got one room left and I’ve got two beds in it, and one is a big bed and one is a little bed, and I can take two of ‘em.” So Basie and I are the only two left. So I’m going there with Basie, and the big bed is in the middle of the room, a huge bed and he’s got that. And my bed is a little slab up against the wall. So I said okay, it’s beautiful. At least it’s some place to sleep other than the basement of the police station. So here we are, now Basie can’t get to sleep with the light out.

JW: I know, yeah.

CT: He had to have that light on. And he had to read his comic book every night and he’d laugh, ah, ha, ha, ho, ha, ha. Well I couldn’t go to sleep with the light on. So I said well I know what I’ll do, I’ll just play possum and wait until I hear the comic book hit his belly. Then I’ll know he’s asleep. Well I should preface this by saying that it’s always customary for people when they go to bed we all empty our pockets on the dresser, you know, and undress and put the pajamas on and go to sleep. So I had put all my things there and Basie put all his things on the dresser. We didn’t have that far, just the little table top that we put our stuff on. So the light is right by this little table top, and so I had to get up and go over, and when I heard the book go “plop” on his belly, I eased over to the light and grabbed the chain and pulled the chain. Now the minute I pulled the chain, before I released it, he starts turning in the bed saying “put it back.” I was never sure whether he said put the lights back or whether —

JW: Oh Lord. “Put it back.”

CT: “Put it back.”

Almost without exception, Basie alums talk about the skill that the Count displayed in leading his band. While being a man of few words, his approach to hiring and maintaining his band with the members he wanted was as unique as his playing. Trombonist Benny Powell joined the newly formed Basie band after the small group experiment, and addressed Basie’s leadership personality:

BP: I joined [Basie’s] band when I was 21. I’ll tell you the essence of my experience with Basie. I don’t know if it’s the essence but it’s certainly the beginning. I was at the Apollo Theater working for a week in Joe Thomas’ band. Also in the band was Charlie Fowlkes, who had been with Basie. Basie was on a hiatus and he was about to form another band. So Charlie Fowlkes told me where the rehearsal was going to be, and invited me to the rehearsal. So I went, and it was nice. Pretty uneventful. I can’t remember — at this particular time there were a couple of jobs I wanted. The job with Charlie Ventura. Benny Green had been there and he was about to leave, so I really wanted a small situation to play in. Then I was waiting to hear from Illinois Jacquet also. In the meantime, the Basie thing comes up, I make the rehearsal and that’s fine. Charlie Fowlkes tells me when the next rehearsal is. And I come back and I make that also. I don’t know how many rehearsals we did, but pretty soon we started working, and the first date I played with Basie was October 31 I think, 1951. So I think at this time we would go out of town for maybe one night or two nights a weekend, and come back in town. Well this went on for just a little while, a couple of weeks. In the meantime, from Basie I’m trying to find out if I’m hired, if I have a job or shall I tell Illinois Jacquet that, you know, no. But there was a strange quirk about Basie. If he had something that you wanted, he would sort of play a cat and mouse with you, you know, dangle it in front of you. Anyway, he knew I wanted him to say yes, Benny, you’re hired. So the first time, well you know I was sort of in awe of him anyway. I think I was all of 21 and he was the world famous Count Basie, so I would sort of find myself next to him by my own design, and I would say “Mr. Basie, how do you like the trombone section?” He’d say “it sounds all right.” And that’s all I got out of that conversation. So maybe the next weekend I got brave enough to say “Mr. Basie, are you satisfied with the trombones?” He said “yeah, it sounds pretty good.” That’s all I got out of that one. Next time I went to him, I can’t remember, each time I would disguise it. But finally I said “Mr. Basie, what I’m trying to find out is, you know, am I hired? Am I with the band?” He said “you’re here aren’t you kid?” And every time after that for about four or five times, that’s what I’d get. “You’re here aren’t you, kid?” So finally I stopped asking him. And during the twelve years, I don’t think he ever said “yes, Benny, you’ve got a job. You’re hired.” But he was a wonderful man. I loved him. I was always in awe of older musicians.

The “old” Count Basie would have been 47 when Benny joined the band in 1951.

Benny’s best known Basie moment is his eight-bar bridge on the classic April in Paris recording, at the :50 spot.

The Basie mode of leadership should be a chapter in a book about how to be a boss. Butch Miles talked about his way of silent but positive reinforcement, and it reminds us that although the Count was a man of few words, he was not someone to be disrespected:

BM: Oh, [Basie] was wonderful. He was a wonderful boss because he never told you what to do or what to play. I asked our band manager at that time — it was Sonny Cohn — and Cup [Cohn] sat right in front of me on the band bus, and after I’d been with the band about maybe two weeks, you know I said “Sonny, you know, Basie hasn’t said anything to me about whether he wants it this way, or he doesn’t want it that way,” I said, because I’d worked with a number of other people who’d made it quite clear what they wanted and the way that they wanted it. And Basie didn’t say a word. And so Cup just looked at me, he says, “well if it’s wrong, he’ll tell you, and if it’s not, he’ll just let you go.” And that was why he had great professionals in the band who took care of the business so well, because they were professionals. Basie didn’t hire somebody that just turned 16 with an incredible reputation but couldn’t play. So one time — I can’t remember if Al [Grey] was still on the band at that point or not, but we had a trumpet problem and somebody recommended a young trumpet player from Chicago. He flew in to New York, and since we made it pretty much a point to not rehearse, there was no rehearsal again or audition, it was kind of like a closed shop. You got in on a recommendation or if Basie had heard you play himself and wanted you to come in with the band. And I can’t remember the young man’s name but he came in and he was all full of fire and brimstone. He was ready to show the world that he was like the greatest trumpet player in the world, probably like in his early twenties or something, although that doesn’t have anything to do with it. And the night of his first gig with the band he made the absolute mistake of thinking that Basie was a real cream puff and he lipped off to him. He said something sassy or nasty, right before the job. I never saw this happen before. Basie fired him, right then.

MR: The guy didn’t play a note yet?

BM: Not with the band. Basie fired him, right then, gave him his ticket home and told him good-bye. He never did play a note, not with the band. He came in all hot, you know had his hat over to the side. It didn’t work like that. The band was a very well oiled machine and it was a band, it was a big band, it was a full ensemble. Basie played the band like he played the piano. And it had to work like that. You couldn’t have eighteen or nineteen superstars up there ‘cause it never works. So the band was as a unit. And it had to be that way. Oh we had stars. We had Jimmy Forrest, we had Al Grey, we had Curtis Fuller at one point, we had Bobby Plater, Charlie Fowlkes, a great baritone saxophonist, you know, various people that passed through the band from time to time over the years. But you didn’t have anybody that ran roughshod through the band. Basie wouldn’t stand for that. He just would not. And I never saw him get mad at anybody in the band except that one time. He was a very affable, easy going, wonderful man and just marvelous to work for, but you did not sass him.

Trombonist Al Grey was nicknamed “Fab” and was thrilled to become a Basie member, but quickly became frustrated when, as the new guy, he could not get in the queue for solo space. Al spoke to my colleague Michael Woods and related a story of one of the few times that Basie stepped out of his silent mode with a fatherly gesture:

AG: [Y]ou must also remember that when I joined the band, Count Basie’s personnel had been the same for like twelve, fourteen years, same personnel. So when I joined the band, I didn’t have no name at all. I was called the “new boy” and I didn’t used to like that. And that was on me for a whole year, until the next person came into the band, and this is when I got my name. But then, when I did get my name, I had become so prominent with that band until Basie said, “oh, this is the fabulous one — Fab.” And that is my name today, they call me “Fab” but that comes from Count Basie who started calling me fabulous because I could go out and get standing ovations every night, every night. Standing ovations, until this became a big part of Count Basie’s band, until when we’d go out where we’d have Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald, that meant that Count Basie’s band didn’t have no chance to play, but opening number, a middle number, and like the featured drum number, and then they would bring Ella on and then Frank. This is where it was always sad moments, too, because here you have all these great musicians sitting there playing the music for the singers, you see? And they never got that good, and had no opportunity to express themselves. And I know many won’t even take a day or two to talk about this but I’ve gone far enough in life that I feel as though I do have that privilege to speak about that because in a sense in music that would be a no-no, all these different things that come on with bands. I myself, after joining, we recorded that day and then a few days later we go to England, and here this is still the days where they didn’t have that many baths in the hotels, but we still stayed like in the clean hotels and things. And we could really completely tell the difference of the treatment.

MW: In other words, you were treated differently in Europe?

AG: Completely different. You was treated like an artist. Like artists are supposed to be treated. And they would roll out the royal carpet to you and you was treated that way. And you was accepted that way. Well, I myself, leaving the United States, it was a long time in my belief, gee, how is it this much of a difference, you see? And again, a lot of this that I am speaking about, wasn’t permissible a few years ago to even make statements. But here this is to the Hamilton College, and I would want the students and everything to know what you have come here to talk about, okay? But for myself, when I first got over there, there was no music written out for me. And that just drove me crazy after playing solos night after night and a lot of them with Dizzy Gillespie. Now I come in to Count Basie’s band, and there’s no music written for me.

MW: So he had to do much of the music by memory?

AG: Well on that particular tour, the musicians had been in the band so long they only took three books with them. And that was Snooky’s book, Lockjaw’s book, and my book. And they saved all this money for not taking all the rest of these books. It used to run into big costs, you know. And here I am buried in the music, now I want to solo so bad, ‘cause Joe Newman just went out there and he just performed like ever. And here’s Sonny Payne and Frank Wess and me, and Henry Coker who was a trombone player, and Benny Powell. Now I get no chance to play, nothing, nothing.

MW: Was there any etiquette by which you could kind of go to Basie and say, hey, you know, I want you to throw me a solo here?

AG: Well, it boiled down to where I felt as though that coming from Dizzy I should get a few bars. So one day we were in line, this is when you had to jump off the bus and run in and get in line because you know that the bath is going to run out. So that means that you’re going to have to go down the hall to get a bath. So this particular day I jumped off and run in and I get in line and here I am, the new boy and everything, and everybody was always jumping in front of me because I was the new boy. So you’re the new boy and you’d better recognize it and accept it if you’re going to stay in that band. And so this day I was getting ready to sign in for this band, and Marshall Royal ran in and said “Royal” and, he was the Straw Boss, and they gave him this last bath. And I just went off in the lobby of this hotel. I just went to hollering and screaming and cussing and going on. And of course you know this is a no-no, you know you’re not supposed to do like that in the Queen Hotel, and because I was completely so uptight from not playing any solos. And you’d pick up the paper the next day and they’re talking about Marshall and Snooky and all these guys that did all this last night, and you don’t see your name or anything like that because you hadn’t did anything, see? And so he got this last bath and I just went off because I was so upset from not playing. But Count Basie was sitting in the corner over there. He would always wait until last because you know he had his suite coming and everything like that. And he finally got my attention and he beckoned me and he says “come over here.” And I says, well I said “I was in line and I was correct to get my bath and he just stepped in front of me.” And Basie said “well he’s Straw Boss, you know how they are.” And he tried to calm me down. But I went in to saying “well look, I don’t know why you hired me because I come over here and you won’t let me play anything.” And this is when he came up and I had never heard him cuss or anything like that but he came up with a cuss word, and said “one minute — you just got here. Now when we get back to New York, we’re going to fix up music and everything for you, but you just got here and so we can’t do nothing about it and this is not an old jam band and so we’re not going to have no jam session,” and he says “but you know I like you, and I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to let you come down and have a bath in my room and there’s an extra room over here, the suite, and you can stay there tonight.” And this is like he became like my father. Because then I would listen to everything he had to say.

Basie’s promise to Al would soon be realized. Check out this rare Count Basie piece for a marvelous track featuring them both.

Our three-part series on Basie will wrap up in the next installment with stories and reminiscing about the great Joe Williams, Basie’s number one son.