By now, perhaps ten thousand people have seen Neal Miner’s extraordinary film documentary of the remarkable musician Bill Crow, JAZZ JOURNEYMAN. That’s a good start but more people need to see it. Not simply because Bill turns 95 this year and is still gigging; not because it chronicles Bill’s 75 years in music; not because it is a splendidly understated yet effective film portrait . . . but because both Bill and the film are so inspiring.
Bill comes across in the film as he is in real life: unassuming, funny, gentle, heartfelt. And a simply entrancing storyteller, with great stories to tell. He is center stage, leaning against the fireplace in his home, and completely at home, comfortable in his own skin with no need to boast of his accomplishments.
Speaking of accomplishments: Neal Miner, who’s justifiably famous as a spectacularly eloquent string bassist, shows off once again his subtle art as a film-maker, staying out of Bill’s way to frame him with quiet love. Neal’s camera work is never flashy, and his narration does the job beautifully. And before the film is fifteen minutes in, we have heard about Bill’s intersections with Quincy Jones, Sammy Davis, Jr., Lennie Tristano, Charlie Parker, Dave Lambert — later, Stan Getz, Gerry Mulligan, Marian McPartland, Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington . . . up to the present-day and current gigs.
Neal’s film is also consistently illuminated by photographs from Bill’s library and, even better, interludes where we get to see and hear Bill at his bass, his beautiful choice of notes, his thoughtful phrasing, his resonant tone.
I will stop here lest I spoil all the surprises: but it’s a wondrous film portrait, entertaining even for people who don’t know how much it cost to get into Birdland in 1950. How wonderful that we can celebrate someone who’s unique while they’re alive. And while we’re at it, how wonderful to see someone who is so active with such a positive outlook. Happiness depicted, happiness shared.
Bless you, Bill: thank you, Neal.
May your happiness increase!
P.S. I am in temporary exile from Facebook, having been hacked on May 7, 2023 — so if you feel the spirit and are an active Facebooker, please share this for me.
I had the good fortune to see the ebullient pianist / singer / sparkplug Marty Napoleon — born June 2, 1921 — four times. The occasions were widely separated but memorable. The first, my sole sighting of Louis Armstrong, at an All-Stars concert in April 1967, where Marty’s energies illuminated the huge room. I didn’t even think to bring my Instamatic camera, so I have no evidence to share with you. In January 1976, I attended a Louis tribute — with Bobby Hackett, Doc Cheatham, Vic Dickenson, Marty, and others. I will share the audio from that concert later this year.
The third and fourth occasions — in 2012 — I was able to bring my video camera, thanks to the kindness of the musicians and of Marty’s great friend, advocate, and photographer Geri Goldman Reichgut.
Joe Temperley and Marty.
Here’s Marty, sitting in at Harry Allen’s gig at Feinstein’s, with the much-missed Joe Temperley, Joel Forbes, and Chuck Riggs, in addition to the pride of the Upper West Side, Jon-Erik Kellso:
and a BLUES IN F:
Later that year, Geri arranged it so that I could record Marty on his home turf in Glen Cove with Ray Mosca and everyone’s friend-hero, Bill Crow.
Ray Mosca, Marty, and Bill Crow.
Here are some of the sounds. First, CARAVAN:
Then, a medley celebrating Marty’s years with Louis:
And a righteous take on THE PREACHER:
Finally, PLEASE DON’T TALK ABOUT ME WHEN I’M GONE — amusingly ironic in this case, since Marty will never entirely be “gone” as long as someone hears his music, and knowing him even a little bit, he surely is glad to be talked about:
Marty didn’t make it to one hundred: he left us in 2015. But his lively presence lives on in the memories of the many people who saw him in person and those who can see these video performances now.
Tree sparrows, Passer montanus, on bird table in garden. Co. Durham.
Did you awake from a five-star anxiety dream? Is the news its own generator of such dreams? Are the gray days of winter not getting longer quickly enough? Are the inanimate objects ganging up on you: the banging radiators, the toilet that threatens to overflow? Can you see the bottom of the crumb supply?
Perhaps you want to insert this piece of music into your mental jukebox.
The song is by Jack Yellen and Lew Pollack and it is central to this 1936 musical, with a singularly foolish plotline. Alice Faye cheerfully delivers this song in one of the obligatory nightclub scenes. (It’s on YouTube.)
It was a small hit in 1936, if these records are any indication. And I find it cheering now.
Teddy Wilson in Los Angeles, with Chris Griffin (tp) Benny Goodman (cl) Vido Musso (ts) Lionel Hampton (vib) Teddy Wilson (p) Allan Reuss (g) Harry Goodman (b) Gene Krupa (d) Redd Harper (vcl):
Ruby Newman (an unknown recording where his band sounds very much like that of a Chicago clarinetist — Dick McDonough happily prominent! — as well as JAZZ LIVES’ hero Larry Binyon . . . Jack Lacey, Felix Giardina (tb) Alfie Evans, Sid Stoneburn (cl,as) Larry Binyon (cl,ts) Rudolph Adler (bar) Ruby Newman (vln,ldr) Sam Liner (p) Dick McDonough (g) Sam Shopnick (b) Al Lepin (d) Barry McKinley (vcl):
Putney Dandridge, with Henry “Red” Allen (tp) Joe Marsala (cl,as) Clyde Hart (p) Eddie Condon (g) John Kirby (b) Cozy Cole (d):
Bob Howard, with Marty Marsala (tp) Sid Trucker (cl) Zinky Cohn (p) Dave Barbour (g) George Yorke (b) Stan King (d):
Bob Crosby, with Zeke Zarchy, Yank Lawson (tp) Ward Silloway, Warren Smith (tb) Matty Matlock (as,cl) Gil Rodin, Noni Bernard (as) Eddie Miller (ts,cl) Deane Kincaide (ts) Bob Zurke (p) Nappy Lamare (g) Bob Haggart (b) Ray Bauduc (d) [Tom Lord actually identifies the bassist as “Bob Haggard” — those transcription dates could wear you out]:
Charlie Barnet: George Kennedy, Kermit Simmons, Irving Goodman (tp) Johnny Doyle, Sonny Lee (tb) Charlie Barnet (sax,vcl,ldr) Willard Brady, Don Morris, George Vaughn, Murray Williams (reeds) Horace Diaz, Jr. (p,arr) Scoop Thomson (g) Sid Weiss (b) Billy Flanagan (d):
Teddy Stauffer gives those crumbs some Continental seasoning, with Betty Toombs (voc), Harry Herzog, Carl Hohenberger, Max Mussigbrodt (tp) Walter Dobschinski (tb,arr) Erich Bohme, Albert Wollenhaupt (tb) Ernst Hollerhagen, Bertalan Bujka (cl,as) Helmut Friedrich, Teddy Kleindin (ts) Teddy Stauffer (ts,vln,ldr) Franz Thon (bar,as) Jack Trommer (p) Buddy Bertinat (p,vln,accor) Billy Toffel (g,vcl) Andre Schuster (b) Polly Guggisberg (d):
The Swingtimers, who may be unknown (tp) Abe Walters (tb,p) Ern Pettifer (cl,as) unknown p, g, b, d, Sam Costa (vcl):
and let us leap forward from 1936 into this century (January 2016) with a sweetly swinging version from string bassist and raconteur Bill Crow — singing the optimistic message straight to our hearts, nobly aided by Flip Peters:
There will be crumbs — and more — enough for everyone, if we keep singing.
Since I can’t (for the moment) visit Dan Morgenstern at his Upper West Side apartment to listen and learn, I am inviting all of you to go back into the recent past for a few previously unseen interview videos, showing his large range: the music he has advocated for and the friends he has made. There was construction going on outside, but Dan comes through clearly.
Some music from Tubby Hayes, tenor saxophone; Clark Terry, trumpet; Horace Parlan, piano; George Duvivier, string bass; Dave Bailey, drums. October 1961 in New York: OPUS OCEAN:
From last December, Dan speaks briefly and with affection about UK tenor saxophonist / vibraphonist Tubby Hayes:
More from the irreplaceable Cee Tee, that is, Clark Terry, here in 1976 with Nick Brignola, saxophone; Sal Maida, piano; Bill Crow, string bass; Larry Jackson, drums, performing MACK THE KNIFE:
and Dan’s fond recollections:
Music by the beloved Chicago pianist Art Hodes, SOUTH SIDE SHUFFLE, 1939:
Memories of Art and friends, including Lester Young:
Glimpses of worlds that most of us never got to visit, thanks to Dan. And there are more interviews to come . . . to quote Tubby, “Lovely!”
Postscript: we have a real scholar — diligent and affectionate — of Tubby Hayes (and many others) in our midst, the tenor saxophonist / biographer / musical archivist Simon Sipllett on Facebook and elsewhere: he offers information and sounds with great grace.
“When did you leave heaven?” may not be in anyone’s list of the worst pick-up lines (which, in 2019, are far more salacious) but I doubt that it would effectively start a conversation with an attractive stranger — I mean a conversation where the response was more promising than “Get away from me.” But the impulse to call someone we’re attracted to divine is venerable and strong.
A Mexican image of the divine feminine, from my favorite folk art gallery, eBay.
There are many songs where the loved one is described as an angel, but here’s a tender and witty one, music by Richard Whiting, lyrics by Walter Bullock, from the 1936 film featuring Alice Faye, SING, BABY, SING (a song revitalized by the cheerful Bill Crow). Follow me into adoration territory in swingtime.
Henry “Red” Allen in all his glory, playing and singing, 1936:
and a more famous version from 1942 with a famous clarinetist under wraps for two minutes, a session led by Mel Powell, and featuring colleagues from that clarinetist’s orchestra except for Al Morgan and Kansas Fields.
Thank goodness for the first forty-five seconds devoted to that hero, Lou McGarity, before it becomes Mel’s own Bobcats:
Mel Powell, Jimmy Buffington, Bobby Donaldson, a dozen years later, and one of my favorite recordings — a Goodman Trio without the King:
Something you wouldn’t expect, Big Bill Broonzy, 1956:
and the intensely passionate reading Jimmy Scott gave the song in 2000 (with our hero Michael Kanan in duet):
and the Master. Consider that stately melody exposition, how simple and how moving, and Louis’ gentle yet serious reading of the lyrics is beyond compare. Complaints about the surrounding voices will be ignored; they’re the heavenly choir:
Love has the power to make the Dear Person seem so much better than merely human, and this song celebrates it. As we do.
No, JAZZ LIVES is not going away. Nor is there some crisis. Nor am I asking for money. However, I would like my viewers to devote themselves to what follows, which will take perhaps ten minutes.
That man is pianist Junior Mance, born in Evanston, Illinois, in 1928. Before he was twenty, he had begun recording with the stars we revere: Gene Ammons, Howard McGhee, Lester Young, Sonny Stitt, Dinah Washington, Clark Terry, Paul Gonsalves, Clifford Brown, Maynard Ferguson, Israel Crosby, Chubby Jackson, Art Blakey, Johnny Griffin, Cannonball Adderley, Sam Jones, Nat Adderley, Jimmy Cobb, Carmen McRae, Wilbur Ware, Bob Cranshaw, James Moody, Jimmy Cleveland, Bill Crow, Art Taylor, Dizzy Gillespie (he’s on the duet with Louis of UMBRELLA MAN), Leo Wright, Harry Lookofsky, Lockjaw Davis, Johnny Coles, Ray Crawford, Paul Chambers, Bennie Green, George Coleman, Eddie Jefferson, Louis Jordan, Irene Kral, Joe Williams, Coleman Hawkins, Zoot Sims, Ben Webster, Kenny Burrell, Mannie Klein, Shelley Manne, Etta Jones, Benny Carter, Jim Hall, Joe Newman, Milt Hinton, Richard Davis, Frank Wess, Wilbur Little, Jimmy Scott, Marion Williams, Les McCann, Dexter Gordon, George Duvivier, Carrie Smith, Ken Peplowski, Howard Alden, Milt Jackson, Harry “Sweets” Edison, Al Grey, Houston Person, Joe Temperley, Benny Golson, Jay Leonhart, Jackie Williams, Andrew Hadro . . . and I know I’ve left two dozen people out.
Next, in the world of jazz, one would expect a tribute. Or an obituary. Or both.
But not a love story, which is what follows.
A few days ago, I was contacted by Sarit Work, co-producer of SUNSET AND THE MOCKINGBIRD, a not-yet-finished documentary about Junior and his wife, Gloria Clayborne Mance. They have created a Kickstarter to help them finish the documentary. The headline is “The love story of jazz legend Junior Mance and Gloria Clayborne Mance. As he loses his identity to dementia she reckons with her own.”
Being a man (although this may not be typical of my gender) I have less ability to cope with illness than women I know. It’s terribly irrational, but I cringe at visiting people in hospitals, visiting the ailing, the dying . . . and so on. There must be a name for this — call it “testosterone terror”? — which makes people like me hide under the couch, if possible. Or in the car. And dementia is especially frightening, because I am closer to being a senior citizen than ever before. But Sarit was very politely persuasive, so I watched the trailer.
And it hit me right in the heart.
Junior has a hard time remembering, and he knows this. But he knows he loves Gloria. And Gloria, for her part, is a lighthouse beacon of steady strong love. It is not a film about forgetting who you are so much as it is a film about the power of devotion.
So I urge you — and “urge” is not a word I use often — to watch the trailer, and if you are moved, to help the project along. It will be a powerful film, and I think that helping this project is very serious good karma. Maybe it will protect us a few percent?
Hereis the link. Yes, the filmmakers need a substantial amount of money. But anything is possible. And, yes, I’ve already contributed. And from this day (or night) the filmmakers have only EIGHT days to raise the sum they need. So please help — in the name of jazz, in the name of love, or both. In my dictionary, the two are synonyms.
On January 28, 2016, I had the rare privilege of seeing / hearing / recording a duo session (under the aegis of project142) featuring the eminent Bill Crow — at 88 still a peerless string bassist, engaging raconteur, and surprisingly effective singer — and his friend and colleague, guitarist / singer Flip Peters. (Thanks to Scot Albertson for making this all possible!)
Here, in six parts, is that evening, one I won’t ever forget for swing, elegance, humor, feeling, and the joy of being alive, the joy of playing music. And here is what I posted about the evening as prelude — don’t miss Flip’s beautiful words about Bill.
Bill describes his childhood immersion with music — all the way up to hearing Nat Cole for the first time:
Bill’s sings and plays SWEET LORRAINE for Nat Cole; his arrival in New York, memories of Birdland, Lester Young and Jo Jones, of Charlie Parker and Stan Getz:
More about Stan Getz, Claude Thornhill, Terry Gibbs, and the Detroit players: Billy Mitchell, Paul Chambers, Curtis Fuller (with a wicked cameo by Miles Davis) — then Bill and Flip play YARDBIRD SUITE:
Working with Marian McPartland and with Gerry Mulligan, and a swinging vocal from Flip on NICE WORK IF YOU CAN GET IT:
Studying with Fred Zimmerman, a concert with Duke Ellington, then (in tribute to Duke) ROSE ROOM / IN A MELLOTONE:
Bill on his writing career, tales of Zoot Sims and Al Cohn, and a touching bonus, his vocal rendition of a forgotten 1936 swing tune, SING, BABY, SING:
I hope some person or organization, seeing these videos, says, “Let’s have Bill and Flip spend an evening with us!” You know — for sure — that they have more music to offer and certainly more stories. And their rich musical intimacy is wondrous. To learn more about Bill, visit www.billcrowbass.com/. To find out about booking the duo, contact Flip at flippeters@gmail.com or call him at 973-809-7149. I hope to be able to attend the duo’s next recital: watch the videos and you will know why, quickly.
Bill Crow is one of the finest jazz string bassists ever. But don’t take my word for it — hear his recordings with Marian McPartland, Jo Jones, Zoot Sims, Stan Getz, Gerry Mulligan, Al Haig, Jimmy Raney, Hank Jones, Jimmy McPartland, Manny Albam, Art Farmer, Annie Ross, Jimmy Cleveland, Mose Allison, Benny Goodman, Cliff Leeman, Pee Wee Russell, Joe Morello, Clark Terry, Ben Webster, Jackie and Roy, Bob Wilber, Ruby Braff, Eddie Bert, Joe Cohn, Mark Shane, Jay McShann, Al Grey, Barbara Lea, Claude Williamson, Spike Robinson, and two dozen others.
Here’s Bill, vocalizing and playing, with guitarist Flip Peters on SWEET LORRAINE:
And if you notice that many of the names on that list are no longer active, don’t make Bill out to be a museum piece. I’ve heard him swing out lyrically with Marty Napoleon and Ray Mosca; I’ve heard him lift the room when he sat in with the EarRegulars, and he plays just as beautifully on JUST A CLOSER WALK WITH THEE as he does on a more intricate modern piece.
Bill is also a splendid raconteur — someone who not only has a million stories, but knows how to tell them and makes the experience enjoyable. You should know of his book JAZZ ANECDOTES, which grew into a second volume, and his FROM BIRDLAND TO BROADWAY, a charmingly casual but never meandering autobiography. (Like his colleague and friend Milt Hinton, Bill is also a wonderful photographer.)
And did I mention that Bill recently turned 88?
I don’t know which of these three offerings of evidence should take precedence, but put them all together and they are excellent reasons to join in the musical pleasures offered this Thursday, January 28, 2016 — details below:
Thurs. – Jan. 28, 2016 – 8:00pm – 9:30 pm. – The DiMenna Center for Classical Music – NYC – Bill Crow Project 142 Concert with Flip Peters – 450 West 37th St. (between 9th & 10th Aves.) – Benzaquen Hall (elevator to 1st Floor) – Doors open @ 7:30p. – $15.00 Concert Charge @ door.
I asked the delightful guitarist / singer Flip Peters to speak about his relationship with Bill:
I first became aware of Bill Crow in the early 1960s when as a young jazz fan I heard him with Gerry Mulligan. I remember around that time reading a quip in Down Beat about bass players with bird names, Bill Crow, Gary Peacock, and Steve Swallow.
In the early 1980s, I began to read Bill’s column, “The Band Room,” in the Local 802 paper, Allegro. That column is a highlight and I turn to it first each month when I get that paper. I received a copy of his Jazz Anecdotes as a Christmas present a few years back and thoroughly enjoyed it.
I first played gigs with Bill in 2014. The first one we played on together was a Gatsby-themed party with Marti Sweet’s Sweet Music (www.sweetmusic.us). On that gig Bill doubled on bass and tuba and I was struck by his mastery of the tuba. After that we played private party gigs and some Dixieland gigs with trumpeter Tom Keegan. Then in 2015, I played on gigs with Bill in Rio Clemente’s band (www.rioclemente.com). On one of those gigs, Bill asked me to join him at Shanghai Jazz where he had been hired to speak and play for the Jersey Jazz Society. After that gig I decided that it would be a good idea to present this to a wider audience. Anyone who loves jazz would be fascinated to hear Bill recount some of his many stories, and of course to hear him play.
I am honored and thrilled to play music with Bill. He is a rare person and musician. Not only is he a virtuoso on his instruments but he is a true gentleman. When you are in his presence you can’t help but feel comfortable. When he relates his experiences, everyone present feels as though they are sharing those moments with him. And he continues to play at an extremely high level. He has truly stayed at the top of his game for many years. He maintains a busy playing schedule and plays with the energy of a young musician who possesses the experience of an elder statesman.
You can find out more about Bill at his websitebut I politely urge you to put the phone down, back away from the computer, and join us on Thursday night to hear Bill and Flip, in music and story. Evenings like this are rare.
Pianist, singer, composer Marty Napoleon “made the transition” from this earthly world to another one on Monday night, April 27. His dear friend Geri Goldman Reichgut told me that on his last night on the planet he ate some dessert and listened to music: the signs of what my Irish friends call “a beautiful death.”
I can’t find it in my heart to be too mournful about Marty’s moving out of this earthly realm. It seems to me that the New Orleanians have the right idea: cry a little at the birth, because that spirit taking corporeal form might have some bumps in this life, and rejoice at the death, because the spirit is free — to ramble the cosmos in the company of other spirits.
I was in conversation with the wonderful pianist Mike Lipskin last night — we sat on a bench in Greenwich Village and lamented that fewer people are playing particular kinds of the music we both love . . . and we both envisioned a future where it might not even be performed. But I said fervently, “The MUSIC will always be here,” and I believe that.
It is true in Marty’s case as well. And as a tribute to the man and his spirit, I offer some tangible immortal evidence hereand here.
And a closing story. One of my heroes is the writer William Maxwell, also no longer around in his earthly shape. Late in his life, he began taking piano lessons and working his way through some simple classical pieces. I think this gave him great pleasure but was also frustrating — in the way making music is even more difficult for those who have spent their lives appreciating the superb performances of others. In his final year, a dear friend said to him, “Bill, in the life to come you will be able to play the piano with ease, won’t you?” And he replied, “In the next life I will not be making music. I will be music.”
Last night I spent a very touching and uplifting three hours in the company of people — many of whom I didn’t know and vice versa — united in one thing: we all loved the magnificent trumpeter and dear man Joe Wilder.
I don’t know the source of the saying, “The only thing wrong with funerals is that the one person you want to see is not present,” and that was certainly true in the filled-to-capacity St. Peter’s Church, but you could feel Joe’s gracious, easy spirit in every word and every note played. The service was organized by Joe’s daughter Elin, Joe’s great friend and biographer Ed Berger, and the music was directed by Warren Vache. Praise to all of them.
I couldn’t bring my video camera, so my notes will have to suffice.
I came to St. Peter’s early (I have been trained to this behavior by anxious parents, but often it pays off) and could see Russell Malone playing ballads for his own pleasure, including a soulful, precise DEEP IN A DREAM, then greeting Gene Bertoncini, who took up his own guitar.
Then the music changed to purest Wilder — MAD ABOUT THE BOY, CHEROKEE, and more.
It was clear that this was a roomful of dear friends. Much hugging, much laughter, everyone being made welcome. Although many people wore black or dark clothing, the mood was anything but maudlin.
Warren Vache quietly and sweetly introduced the first band: Harry Allen, Bill Allred, John Allred, Bill Crow, Steve Johns, Michael Weiss — and they launched into IT’S YOU OR NO ONE and then a medium-tempo CHEROKEE, full of energy and smiles passed around from player to player and to us.
We then saw a series of clips of an interview done with Joe (the source I copied down was http://www.robertwagnerfilms.com) — where he spoke of his experiences, both hilarious (sitting next to Dizzy in Les Hite’s band) and more meaningful (his perceptions of race). What struck me was the simple conviction with which he said — and clearly believed — “I couldn’t have had a better life.”
Joe’s trumpet colleague from the Symphony of the New World, Wilmer Wise, told a few tales of the man he called “my big brother.”
Jimmy Owens stood in front of us and spoke lovingly of Joe, then took his fluegelhorn and played a very touching THERE WILL NEVER BE ANOTHER YOU (has Harry Warren’s song ever sounded so true?) ending with subterranean low notes, and an excerpt from NOBODY KNOWS THE TROUBLE I’VE SEEN.
Hank Nowak, another trumpet colleague (who met Joe at the Manhattan School of Music in the Fifties) spoke endearingly and then played a beautiful selection from Bach’s second cello suite — as if he were sending messages of love to us, with exquisite tone and phrasing.
Ed Berger told stories of Joe — whom he knew as well as anyone — and ended with some of Joe’s beloved and dangerously elaborate puns.
More music, all sharply etched and full of feeling: Bucky Pizzarelli and Ed Laub duetted all-too briefly on TANGERINE; Dick Hyman and Loren Schoenberg played STARDUST, and were then joined by Steve LaSpina and Kenny Washington for PERDIDO.
Jim Czak told his own story, then read a letter from Artie Baker (swooping down gracefully at the end to give the letter to Joe’s daughter Elin);.
Jimmy Heath (who spoke of Joe as “Joe Milder”), Barry Harris, Rufus Reid, Gene Bertoncini, and Leroy Williams took wonderful lyrical paths through I REMEMBER YOU and BODY AND SOUL.
Jim Merod, who knew Joe for decades, was eloquent and dramatic in his — let us be candid and call it a lovely sermon — about his dear friend.
Wynton Marsalis spoke softly but with feeling about Joe, and then played a solo trumpet feature on JUST A CLOSER WALK WITH THEE that (no cliche here) had the church in a joyous rhythmic uproar.
Russell Malone and Houston Person played ANNIE LAURIE with great sensitivity, just honoring the melody, and Russell created a delicate IT MIGHT AS WELL BE SPRING; Rufus Reid and Kenny Washington joined them for IN A MELLOTONE. Ken Kimery of the Smithsonian Jazz Orchestra spoke of Joe’s mastery and generosities. Warren Vache brought his horn in a wonderful duet with Bill Charlap on what he called “Joe’s song,” COME ON HOME, and then with Steve LaSpina and Leroy Williams, offered a quick MY ROMANCE.
Bill Kirchner took the stage with Bill Charlap to present a searching SHE WAS TOO GOOD TO ME.
It was nearing nine-thirty, and I knew my demanding clock radio (it shakes me awake at five-forty-five most mornings) had to be obeyed, so I stood up to go, as Warren was encouraging any musician in the house who hadn’t yet played to “jam for Joe” on SUNNY SIDE OF THE STREET. Among the musicians he announced were Bria Skonberg and Claudio Roditi, and cheerful music enwrapped me as I walked out into the night air.
I am sorry I couldn’t have stayed until everyone went home, but I felt Joe’s presence all around me — in Warren’s words, a man so large that each of us could take a little of Joe with us always.
A pause for music. Something cheerful and playful — from 2010:
Now a pause for thought, whether or not you were able to attend the memorial service.
How can we honor Joe Wilder now that his earthly form is no longer with us?
We could purchase and read and be inspired by Ed Berger’s wonderful book about Joe, which I’ve chronicled here— SOFTLY, WITH FEELING: JOE WILDER AND THE BREAKING OF BARRIERS IN AMERICAN MUSIC(Temple University Press).
We could buy one of Joe’s lovely Evening Star CDs and fill our ears and houses with his uplifting music.
Or, we could act in Wilderian fashion — as a kind of subtle, unassuming spiritual practice.
Here are a few suggestions, drawn from my own observations of Joe in action.
Give more than you get. Make strangers into friends. Never pretend to majesties that aren’t yours. Fill the world with beauty — whether it’s your own personal sound or a (properly room-temperature) cheesecake. Act lovingly in all things. Never be too rushed to speak to people. Make sure you’ve made people laugh whenever you can. Express gratitude in abundance.
You should create your own list.
But “Be like Joe Wilder in your own way” isn’t a bad place to start.
Between 2005 and 2008, the Dutch photographer and jazz scholar Jaap van de Klomp began a series of soulful pilgrimages in honor of the men and women who had created the music he so loves.
The result is the lovely and often sad book of photographs, JAZZ LIVES, which takes its subtitle, TILL WE SHALL MEET AND NEVER PART, from the words chiseled into Lester Young’s gravestone.
Yes, gravestone.
Every jazz lover knows the familiar photographs of our heroes and heroines: Billie Holiday with her dog; Louis Armstrong snappily dressed in London; Charlie Parker on the bandstand. But where are our idols now?
The two hundred and more pages of JAZZ LIVES document where their mortal remains lie: with elaborate gravestones, unmarked plots of overgrown land, monuments proud and forlorn. Jaap took his camera across the United States and Europe to capture these landscapes, resulting in a heartfelt pilgrimage to shrines of the dead. Each photograph is accompanied by a concise biography by Scott Yanow, and the book is organized by instruments once played.
The gravestones sometimes speak of posthumous reputation and fame: huge blocks of costly stone or unmarked areas of grass. A monument for Ellington and empty space for Bud Powell. An essay by Dan Morgenstern opens the book; one by the jazz musician and writer Bill Crow closes it. A simply written but evocative essay by the photographer himself explains something about his travels.
But the graves say so much — by presence and absence, reality and implication — about Scott Joplin, King Oliver, Serge Chaloff, Vic Dickenson, Andrew Hill, Sarah Vaughan, Illinois Jacquet, Django Reinhardt, Jack Teagarden, Britt Woodman, Al Grey, Johnny Dodds, Sidney Bechet, John Carter, Russell Procope, Pee Wee Russell, Jimmy Dorsey, Eric Dolphy, Willie the Lion Smith, Gigi Gryce, Roland Kirk, Coleman Hawkins, Dexter Gordon, John Coltrane, Wardell Gray, Stuff Smith, Red Norvo, Milt Jackson, Lionel Hampton, Hank Mobley, Jelly Roll Morton, Art Tatum, Lil Hardin Armstrong, Thelonious Monk, Bill Evans, Teddy Wilson, Herbie Nichols, Eddie Lang, Charlie Christian, Grant Green, Charles Mingus, Scott LaFaro, Milt Hinton, Jimmie Blanton, George Duvivier, Jo Jones, Zutty Singleton, Denzil Best, Billy Higgins, Sidney Catlett, Gene Krupa, Chick Webb, Ivie Anderson, Bessie Smith, Jimmy Rushing, Frank Sinatra, Billie Holiday, Ray Charles, Johnny Hartman, Mary Lou Williams, Count Basie, Benny Goodman, Billy Strayhorn, Sun Ra, Bennie Moten, W. C. Handy, Tadd Dameron, Benny Carter, Thad Jones, Oliver Nelson, and others.
To give some sense of the breadth of his searching, the gravestones of trumpet players included in this book are: Buddy Bolden, Bunk Johnson, Louis Armstrong, King Oliver, Bix Beiderbecke, Hot Lips Page, Henry Red Allen, Cootie Williams, Roy Eldridge, Dizzy Gillespie, Fats Navarro, Kenny Dorham, Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Clifford Brown, Booker Little, Lee Morgan, Lester Bowie.
Jaap, born in 1940, has been involved with the music and the musicians for more than half a century, including Sonny Rollins, Dexter Gordon, Johnny Griffin, Donald Byrd, Kenny Drew, and Kenny Clarke among others.
But he is not only a person of great feeling and a fine photographer. Jaap is one of those rare souls who wants to share what he has done. He wrote this to me, “The book which is sold out in the Netherlands by now will not be reprinted and has been proven to be physically too heavy for worldwide distribution. In this form I still hope to reach more jazz enthusiasts with a book which was a great pleasure to make.and which is still a very dear project to me.”
He has offered to make his book available as a digital download — for free — to anyone who emails him at info@jaapvandeklomp.nl with JazzLives in the subject line. The whole book is about 150 MB and it might take a few minutes to download.
This is generosity without hidden motive, and it is a beautiful work of art and devotion.
Fabulous musicians at play in Glen Cove, New York, with a single purpose: “Remembering Pops.” That’s Marty Napoleon, swinging out on the piano (88 keys, 92 years); the sweetly incendiary Bria Skonberg on trumpet; and reliable experts Bill Crow, string bass; Ray Mosca, drums. Recorded by our pal Jim Balantic; concert turned from an idea into a reality by our comrade Geri Goldman Reichgut. And rumor has it that more video from this concert is being posted, as I write this, by the ever-true-blue Neal Siegal.
I’d like to hear more of this band . . . any suggestions for future gigs?
What a wonderful band, and a wonderful evocation of the man Eddie Condon called “Mister Strong” — recorded live at a concert two days ago at Glen Cove, New York. The players are Marty Napoleon, piano / vocal; Bria Skonberg, trumpet; Bill Crow, string bass; Ray Mosca, drums. And they begin the concert in the best way: a gripping, lovely SLEEPY TIME DOWN SOUTH — that gave me chills — into INDIANA, which is the way Louis did it:
You don’t need me to explain just how good this music is. It’s so evident that it leaps out of speakers or earbuds, and I don’t mean volume. Bria lights up the sky; Marty continues to surprise us* (at 92, he is the very opposite of “old-time,” isn’t he?) and pals Bill and Ray remind me of Milt and Jo while sounding very much like themselves.
Beauty needs friends to get it out in the light, and while this concert wouldn’t exist without the four masterful players, it also comes to us through the loving diligence of Geri Goldman Reichgut and videographer Jim Balantic. So let’s have thanks all ’round. Now I’m going back to listen and watch again. It’s a deep pleasure.
*Mister Napoleon is available for high-quality gigs, too.
I can’t make this July 5 party, being far to the West of this gig. But you should! It’s free; it will be wonderful music; the absence of myself and my tripod will leave room for several music lovers.
So don’t forget OUR MARTY DATE.
I am told there will be space for dancers. And Marty, bless him, just turned 92. He has all the spring and snap of a man and musician much younger — so don’t let this gig pass you by. His friends, Bill and Ray, are esteemed veterans of this art form, and Bria shines — playing, singing, letting the music flow through her.
I know it is one day after the 4th, which Louis thought was his birthday, and one day before the 6th, the day on which he left this earthly realm, so it’s numerologically in perfect balance. Musically, too!
On Sunday, June 2, 2013, pianist /singer / composer / raconteur Marty Napoleon turns 92. He is still creating music, still ebullient, with a sharp-edged wit and an eagerness for new experiences: Marty doesn’t simply reside in the past.
But oh! — what a past. Here are some examples from YouTube — and they are only the smallest fraction of Marty’s wide-ranging musical experiences.
On a 1947 Savoy record date with Kai Winding, Allen Eager, Eddie Safranski, Shelly Manne:
In December 1957 for the Timex All-Star Jazz Show with Bobby Hackett, Jack Teagarden, Peanuts Hucko, Arvell Shaw, Cozy Cole:
With Louis Armstrong and the All-Stars on a 1968 Bell Telephone Hour:
June 2012 at Feinstein’s — introduced by the late Mat Domber — with Harry Allen, Joel Forbes, Chuck Riggs, Jon-Erik Kellso:
December 2012 with Bill Crow and Ray Mosca:
By my rudimentary math, Marty has been entertaining audiences with his lively music for seventy years . . . we are lucky to have him with us! Thank you for being so resilient, Marty.
And . . . he keeps on going. On July 5, 2013, Marty will be leading a quartet (including trumpeter / singer Bria Skonberg) in a tribute to Louis Armstrong, his former employer and great inspiration — in Glen Cove, New York: details can be found here.
I heard on NPR just yesterday that life expectancy for people living in New York City has now risen to slightly over eighty. That would make Marty Napoleon, who is 91, remarkable simply in actuarial terms. But Marty is splendidly remarkable for his music. He is one of the few people I could use the term “unique” about and not feel that I was doing the language an injustice. He was a splendidly swinging pianist when he made his first recordings in 1945, when he played with Gene Krupa and Red Allen; he swung the band when I heard him with Louis Armstrong in 1967 and when he astonished Harry Allen in the summer of 2012 at Feinstein’s.
Now there’s a trivia blossom in itself: how many musicians can you name who have delighted both Henry and Harry Allen?
Marty has made his home at the Regency in Glen Cove, New York — an “adult care facility,” and the Regency — with the help of some jazz angels — offered him a showcase on Friday, December 7, 2012.
He brought some swinging friends with him — Bill Crow, poet of string bass and pen, and the very warm-hearted drummer Ray Mosca. Here are a few of the highlights of that evening’s concert.
If this is 91, I want to be a rug-cutter in just this Napoleonic manner. Marty, Bill, and Ray rocked the room — as you will see and hear.
PLEASE DON’T TALK ABOUT ME WHEN I’M GONE (with the sweetly informal chat at the beginning — evidence of playfulness, not forgetfulness):
THE PREACHER (bringing churchy funk to Glen Cove!):
LOUIS ARMSTRONG MEDLEY, sweetly danceable:
A swinging CARAVAN:
Deep thanks to Beth, Stella, and Erika, who helped make this glorious evening of music happen; thanks to Neal, who knows where One is — and to Geri, one of the bright lights of our collective swinging soul.
Here’s a link to the Regency at Glen Cove — an embracing, comfortable place indeed.
You can’t afford to miss this dream, to quote Louis.
Ray Mosca, Marty Napoleon, Bill Crow
Pianist Marty Napoleon is now 91. Yes, 91. And he is still exuberantly playing, singing, composing, telling stories. He’s played with everyone of note including Louis, Gene Krupa, Billie Holiday, Cozy Cole, Buck Clayton, Henry Red Allen, Coleman Hawkins, Charlie Barnet, Harry Carney, Serge Chaloff, Kai Winding, Allen Eager, Shelley Manne, Charlie Ventura, Buddy Rich, Chubby Jackson, Charlie Shavers, Ruby Braff, Milt Hinton, Jo Jones, Bobby Hackett, Jack Teagarden, Rex Stewart, Jimmy Rushing, Bud Freeman, Earle Warren, Emmett Berry, Vic Dickenson, Buster Bailey, George Wettling, Max Kaminsky, Urbie Green, Clark Terry, Randy Sandke, Jon-Erik Kellso, Harry Allen, Billy Butterfield, Doc Cheatham, Peanuts Hucko, and more.
That history should count for something — recording and playing from the middle Forties until today. Lest you think of Marty purely as an ancient figure, here is some very lively evidence, recorded less than six months ago: Marty, Joel Forbes, Chuck Riggs, Jon-Erik Kellso, Harry Allen, Joe Temperley — exploring SATIN DOLL:
If you’re like me, you might say at this point, “Where is this musical dynamo playing? He sounds very fine for a man twenty years younger.”
The news is good, especially for Long Island, New York residents who despair the lack of swinging jazz here. The gig is at a reasonably early hour. And it’s free.
Details below. I hope to see you there, and hope you give Marty, bassist Bill Crow, and drummer Ray Mosca the enthusiastic welcome they deserve.
This story comes to JAZZ LIVES from veteran bassist and writer Bill Crow, who writes “The Band Room” column for members of the New York City musicians’ union, Local 802 — but non-members can read it, too, at http://www.local802afm.org/ :
When Ed Koch was mayor of New York City, he instituted free concerts in nursing homes in Queens. The free concerts took place under the title “Project Sunshine,” and were made up of volunteers. Bill Zinn’s “Ragtime String Quartet” played gratis in nursing homes all over Queens.
During one concert, Zinn noticed an elderly man keeping time to the music by tapping on the armrest of his wheelchair. While packing up the stands and sound system after the gig, Zinn struck up a conversation with the man, and suddenly a nearby nurse began to yell, “He’s talking!”
The man, a Long Island physician, had been in an automobile accident, was in a coma for months, awoke with a loss of memory, and had been incommunicative for about a year, just sitting in his wheelchair all day staring at a blank wall. The ragtime beat of the music played by Zinn’s group somehow jolted him back to awareness. When Zinn was offered a reward, he said, “I’ve been already compensated by the smile on the face of the doctor in the wheelchair.”
Music makes it possible for us to be reborn time after time, if only we are able to listen to its beauty deeply.
In the past year, there’s been much well-deserved attention paid to the life and music of Benjamin David Goodman, clarinetist supreme, cultural icon, King of Swing, trail-blazer and phenomenal improviser — because he was born a hundred years ago. In 2008, there was another reason to celebrate while invoking his name — the seventieth anniversary of his Carnegie Hall concert.
I don’t wish to take an iota away from the significance of that event, nor do I wish to dull our reverence both for it and the recordings of that evening. It may be heretical that I find the records uneven — but, then again, attempting to capture any live jazz is risky, and that Carnegie came off so spectacularly is a tribute to everyone’s creative energies. (As an aside, I don’t have much enthusiasm for the recent concert recreations where a first-rate jazz band plays the concert, from first note to last, “live.” The original event is irreproducible, another tribute to its essence.) Perhaps my reaction is the result of having listened to the original recordings too many times in my youth, although the jam session on HONEYSUCKLE ROSE is still thrilling.
Here, to celebrate the event, is a snippet from a Goodman documentary: I include it not because of the leaden commentary, but for the silent newsreel footage taken in the hall that night.
A celebration of January 16, 1938 that I can applaud whole-heartedly is Jon Hancock’s wonderful book: BENNY GOODMAN – THE FAMOUS 1938 CARNEGIE HALL CONCERT (Prancing Fish Publishing, 2009).
Before I explain this book’s virtues, I must reveal my own reactions to much of what is published on the subject of jazz in general and Goodman in specific. Having read the best prose and criticism, I dislike sloppy research, poor attribution and inept paraphrase, polemical ideological statements passed off as evidence. I applaud Whitney Balliett and Martin Williams, Dan Morgenstern and Richard M. Sudhalter even when I disagree with them, because of their insight and their evidence-gathering. But many “jazz writers” have only the opinions and attitudes of others to offer: leftovers presented as fresh.
Goodman, too, is a special case. I have savored Bill Crow’s brilliantly lacerating memoir of the 1962 trip to Russia; Ross Firestone’s affectionate, forgiving biography of Benny, SWING, SWING, SWING told me things I hadn’t known and was therefore valuable. Ultimately, Goodman the musician is a more absorbing study than Benny the neurotic.
Hancock’s book is exciting because it does offer new information about this most singular event. Even better, he has made a point of not taking familiar statements as gospel without tracing them back to their original sources. The result is a fascinating mosaic. I knew, for instance, that Harry James said, “I feel like a whore in church,” joking about his being in the august hall, but I knew nothing of the newspaper reports before the concert: predictions that Big Joe Turner might sing and W.C. Handy might appear, that Mary Lou Williams was writing a “Jazz concerto,” and, even better, that Lionel Hampton was composing a “Swing Symphony” for the occasion.
And there’s just as much pleasure in the visual memorabilia. John Totten was the stage manager at Carnegie, and he collected signatures in his autograph book. One page of this book (beautifully reporduced) has the signatures of Benny, Jess Stacy, Hampton, “Ziggie” Elman, Gordon Griffin, and others; another page has the signatures of George Koenig, Martha Tilton, Pee Wee Monte, and “best remembrances” from Joseph Szigeti. That’s priceless.
There’s also a photogrraph from the Ferbuary 1938 Tempo Magazine of a pre-concert rehearsal for the jam session: Freddie Green, Benny, Lester Young, his high-crowned hat pushed back on his head, a grinning Gene Krupa, an intent Harry James. Is it evidence of Benny’s over-preparation that he would have musicians rehearse to jam on HONEYSUCKLE ROSE — or is it just that he wanted the opportunity to play a few choruses with Lester and Freddie?
A beautiful picture of a young (he had just turned 29) Gene Krupa adjusting his tie between sets in the Madhattan Room has him against a background of brass instruments that, curiously, looks like the work of Stuart Davis or someone inspired — at first glance, I thought that the painter (and occasional drummer) George Wettling had been the artist.
Hancock’s book also reproduces the twelve-page concert program; here one finds announcements for upcoming concerts by Rudolf Serkin and Adolf Busch, advertisements for Schrafft’s and the Russian Tea Room, for Maiden Form brassieres and Chesterfield cigarettes, and (something to live for) notice that the Gramophone Shop would have on sale on January 22, 1938, Teddy Wilson’s Brunswick record of MY FIRST IMPRESSION OF YOU and IF DREAMS COME TRUE.
These lovely artifacts, including a ticket from the concert, shouldn’t make us forget that the real glory of the book is Hancock’s meticulous (but never stuffy) eye for detail — that pro-Franco demonstrators picketed Carnegie the night of the concert, chanting “Benny Goodman is a red from Spain,” necause Benny had played a concert for the Spanish Loyalists in December 1937. Ziggy Elman’s rejoinder, “No, he isn’t, he’s a clarinet player from Chicago!” satisfies me, even if it did little to placate the protesters.
The centerpiece of the book is Hancock’s easy, unforced commentary on the music played at the concert — forty pages of analysis and commentary, neither highflown musicology in the Gunther Schuller way or a fan’s yipping enthusiasm — something to read while the compact discs of the concert are playing. Anything about the concert — the microphone setup, the photographs and newsreel footage — as well as the recordings made, the mythic story of their re-discovery, their various issues . . . . up to Benny’s later appearances at Carnegie — all are meticulously covered by Hancock. And there’s a touching reminiscence of BG at home by his daughter Rachel Edelson that is a masterpiece of gentle honesty.
Reviewers have to find flaws, so I will say that a few names are misspelled, as in the pastoral “Glen Miller,” but since none of these musicians were in the Goodman band, I and other enthusiasts forgive Hancock . . . while applauding his tremendous effort, both enthusiastic and careful. Writing this post, I must add, took a long time — not because my mind wasn’t made up within the first fifteen minutes of looking at the book, but because I kept getting distracted from writing to reading and re-reading. Good job!
Jon has a website, www.bg1938.com., where you can find out more about the book — and the more important information about how to get your own copy. And you can add your own opinion about Just Who the Mystery Man is. Someone has to know!
The National Jazz Museum in Harlem held a six-hour program yesterday in honor of Frank Newton and Pee Wee Russell, one unknown and the other under-acknowledged — two of my dearest jazz heroes. George Avakian, George Wein, Nat Hentoff (via telephone), Loren Schoenberg, Dan Morgenstern, Bill Crow, Morris Hodara, and Hank O’Neal spoke. Those who couldn’t make it uptown will be happy to learn that the audio portion of the presentations is, I am told, going to be accessible at the JMIH website — check my blogroll.
But while the presenters were presenting, my attention was caught by a painting on an easel at one end of the room. It clearly looked like one of Pee Wee’s: he took up painting late in life, following his own whimsical genius. (The winding lines and bright colors are, to me, visual representations of his playing — and perhaps of his patterns of thinking and perceiving.)
Hank O’Neal generously brought his prize Russell painting, and allowed me to photograph it and share it with my readers.
Pee Wee painted it in October 1966, called it BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, and gave it as a gift to Eddie Condon. Here are some details of the painting. Drink in its energy and colors.
A detail.
Another piece of the puzzle.
Take me as I am!
The Master’s signature.
(The Institute of Jazz Studies, which operates out of Rutgers University, has perhaps thirty-five Russell canvasses, much of his oeuvre. Worth a trip!)
Another piece of the puzzle.
Take me as I am!
The Master’s signature.
JAZZ LIVES 