Tag Archives: Fernando Ortiz de Urbina


I confess I can be guilty of the parochialism that burdens many jazz fans.  Some listen with their eyes (you know what I mean) and some listen for the Name: “I never heard of __________,” translates tacitly to dismissal, based on an unspoken egotism: “I am wise in the ways of The Jazz, and if I haven’t heard of ____________, (s)he cannot be up to my standards.” 

But when a friend whose taste is unquestionably good (in this case, the erudite and friendly Fernando Ortiz de Urbina) says, “You might like this,” I put my impatience and snobbery aside and listen.

And in the case of the young trumpeter Joan Mar Sauqué, I’m seriously convinced.  You can quote me: “Everybody from Barcelona can really do that thing!”


But don’t depend on me.  Hear some brilliant evidence:

and some Jerome Kern:

You can decide for yourself who Joan “Sounds Like,” and I have my own short list of eminent names, but what he sounds like to be is delightful: lyrical but fluent, fast on his feet with every note ringing chime-like.  Airborne but serious.  He’s heard many people but — hooray! — he sounds like himself.  Joan is comfortable simply playing the melody — that great art — or embellishing it, making it shine even more.  His improvisations are harmonically wise but he never aims strings of notes at the listener as if he were firing bullets.  He makes music that “comes in the ear like honey,” but it’s never sticky or trite.  And his colleagues, guitarist Josep Traver and bassist Giuseppe Campisi, are empathic swinging partners, making music both translucent and memorable. 

If you must — does the mental algorithm demand such things now? — I’m reminded of Warren Vaché, Tony Fruscella, Ruby Braff, Shorty Baker . . . but my hope is that someday soon I will hear an unannounced track on the radio and think, “Wow, that’s Joan Mar Sauqué!  I’ve never heard that before: I hope it’s another new CD.”

The songs are BITTY DITTY / MY DREAM / RAY’S IDEA / I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU / IN THE LAND OF OO-BLA-DEE, I COVER THE WATERFRONT / KITCHENETTE ACROSS THE HALL / BILL / SHABOZZ / STRICTLY ROMANTIC / STOMPIN’ AT THE SAVOY — a pleasing mix of venerable but sometimes less-played standards and rare tunes from early bebop.  Completely melodic, easy and graceful.  

And here are Fernando’s lyrical, pointed liner notes for this CD: 

From Algeciras to Istanbul, the Mediterranean coasts are a trove of landscapes, people, good food and
good wine. They brim with beauty and history. And winds, winds so old and pervasive that they have
names, depending on their direction. In and around tiny Garrigoles, not far from the Spanish-French
border, they call the nasty, cold air coming down from the mountains, Tramuntana.

Maybe it was the Tramuntana what took trumpeter Joan Mar Sauqué (b. 1996) from Garrigoles on to
the wider world. These days, that means Barcelona, one of the main jazz hubs in southern Europe,
where his sojourn in Joan Chamorroʼs Sant Andreu Jazz Band was a stepping stone. This turned out to be
a valuable stage in terms of pure learning and the particular camaraderie that big band playing has given
generations of musicians, as well as the chance to play with visiting stars, and a particular aesthetic

That outlook rides on the quiet waves made by the writing of Tadd Dameron, Gigi Gryce and the early
Quincy Jones, the sound of Art Farmer and Kenny Dorham, the short-lived whirlpool that was Oscar
Pettiford… what might be mapped through tired old beacons as “East-Coast Black Cool jazz”. Whatever
we call it, this is where Joan Mar feels at home, firm ground from where he can soar.

In jazz circles, adopting an aesthetic framework from the past, will raise the alarm of purist revivalism or
inane imitation, but this is not the case. Despite several precedents for this kind of trio, from Chet
Bakerʼs in Europe, Nicholas Paytonʼs on Fingerpainting (Verve, 1997), or even saxophonist Lucky
Thompsonʼs with Oscar Pettiford (ABC-Paramount, 1956) Sauquéʼs main motive is not a model from
without, but a decision from within: heʼs seeking clarity in sound, an easy, uncluttered way for the
listener to appreciate the music.

With that vision in mind, aided by guitarist Josep Traver (b. 1968) and bassist Giuseppe Campisi
(b. 1991), braving the pandemic together, with no headphones, Sauqué has produced a classic-style
album—12 tracks clocking at 40ʼ—of tunes mostly from the 1940s. Beyond his instrumental skills,
Sauqué happens to be quite the scholar regarding the music he loves, which explains the rather unusual
selection of repertoire, where melodies rule.

These songs speak for themselves, but a few pointers may be needed. With the melody prevailing over
soloistsʼ egos, the trio takes one minute sharp to dispatch Thad Jonesʼs Bitty Ditty, a brief appetizer,
preceding one of the cornerstones of the session: as far as we can tell, this is only the second recording
of My Dream, after the Harlan Leonard orchestraʼs in 1940, where its composer, Tadd Dameron, served
as principal arranger. Hearing the result, one wonders why no one else had thought of this. And this is
no happenstance: Sauqué scores another goal when he unearths another Dameron gem, Kitchenette
Across the Hall from 1948, which its author never got around to record commercially. In-depth
knowledge of the past is not the cause of Real-Book fatigue, but its remedy.

A “rhythm changes” with a different bridge, originally recorded by Dizzy Gillespie and his band in 1946,
Rayʼs Idea turns the spotlight on Campisiʼs bass, fittingly, given that “Ray” was Brown, a king of the
instrument. Traver, a versatile and forceful accompanist, has a chance to shine under the spotlight too.
Both sidemen take the floor again on another Dizzy big band staple, In the Land of Oo-Bla-Dee, where

Sauqué manages to sound fresh and innocent with the cup mute. That sound returns in the lyrical
highlight of the record, Gigi Gryceʼs Strictly Romantic, one of those tunes which had the composer and
his young compatriots in the Lionel Hampton band literally sneaking out through windows in order to
put them on record.

Of the more common titles, two stand out as the opposite ends of Sauquéʼs range: Stompinʼ at the
Savoy is a showcase for his ability with the pixie+plunger combo—echoes from Ellingtonian jungles—,
while on Gone with the Wind he follows the routes opened by the second generation of boppers like Art
Farmer, no screaming or screeching, with a warm tone and some double-time flying.

As an art form where excellence is a long game, jazz may not the most suitable endeavour for this day
and age. Unless, of course, it is what you feel you have to do. This is the case for Sauqué, a man with a
clear idea of what needs to be done.

And for those who can’t get enough, here is Marc Myers’ March piece on Joan, complete with interview.   But the music is what matters, so you can purchase the music as a digital download or a CD here.

Wonderful unfussy music, classic but not archaic.  And now that you’ve “heard of” these players, be sure to show off your new wisdom to your friends!

May your happiness increase!


We love the music we have — the wooden boxes of phonograph records and cassettes, the wall shelves of CDs, the iPods with thousands of songs.  But our hearts beat faster for those things imagined but not realized.  Poring over discographies, we breathe faster when reading of unissued takes, the performances rumored to exist, acetates held by someone in another country, the film footage . . .

But thanks to Lorenz Yeung and Fernando Ortiz de Urbana (I’ve had the good fortune to meet the latter in person) are a few bite-sized bits of one kind of Holy Grail: http://jazzontherecord.blogspot.com/

(Fernando’s blog, EASY DOES IT, is a wonderful cornucopia on its own.)

Who assembled this I do not know.  It is a tribute to Sidney Bechet, who well deserves such honors.  But obviously someone followed Bechet around in 1949, on his penultimate visit to the United States.  And Bechet appeared a number of times on television (think of it!) in the States — most often, I believe, on the Eddie Condon Floor Show oon WPIX.

It’s always heartwarming to be able to praise Mr. Condon, so allow me a few sentences.  Whenever he could (later with the help of his wife Phyllis and the publicist Ernie Anderson) he looked for venues where his music could be played — in mixed bands on Fifty-Second Street, at the Park Lane Hotel, at Town Hall, the Ritz Theatre, and Carnegie Hall, several incarnations of his own club . . . on records, radio broadcasts, transcriptions for the servicemen and women . . . and television.

The Floor Show was his rewarding pioneering television series, broadcast between 1948 and 1950 on WPIX-TV.  It brought together the best jazz players and singers — Louis Armstrong, Sidney Catlett, Jack Teagarden, Lee Wiley, Billie Holiday, Earl Hines, Pee Wee Russell, Woody Herman, Buddy Rich, Hot Lips Page, Count Basie, Bobby Hackett, Buzzy Drootin, Ralph Sutton — alongside Rosemary Clooney and tap-dancer Teddy Hale, and fifty or so other luminaries.

Eddie was wise enough to understand that the human ear and psyche would wilt on a steady unremitting diet of Hot, so in his club there was an intermission solo pianist; there were ballad medleys, slow blues, medium-tempo pop tunes, as well as RIVERBOAT SHUFFLE.

And his understanding of “show,” of variety, developed in the visual world of early television — hot numbers interspersed with slow ballads, sweet singing, tap dancing, and more.  (I’ve seen a still photograph of what must have been a perfect jazz trio: Hot Lips Page, James P. Johnson, and Zutty Singleton.  Pardon me while I rhapsodize silently.)

Some small portion of the music survives on vinyl issues on the Queen-Disc label and in the collectors’ underground trading world, but we know that the kinescopes made at the time — films of the programs — no longer exist.  I have this on very solid authority, unless there were multiple sets made.

However . . . this YouTube surprise package has color silent footage of Sidney with Cliff Jackson, Kid Ory, Muggsy Spanier, Teddy Hale, Peanuts Hucko, possibly Kansas Fields, Gene Schroeder, Buddy Rich, Chubby Jackson, George Wettling, and another saxophonist named Charlie Parker.

You will have to watch the video several times to fully appreciate all its great gifts, including shots of Bechet acting in several French films, occasionally at the stove or battling an over-assertive shirt dickey.

About the television footage: I imagine that someone who loved Bechet followed him onto the soundstage with a movie camera (the kinescopes would have had sound and been in black and white) — blessings on this intrepid soul and those who saved the footage and shared it with us.  (I’ve written to Lorenz Yeung, the poster, to ask the source of the Condon material; he generously told me that it was part of a Bechet CD package he bought in Australia, a bonus CD (!)  I’m also quite amazed that none of the orinthologists have noticed this — and it’s been on YouTube since 2011.  Research!  In color!)

The question, is, of course, “What else is out there?”  And the answer is unfathomable.  But all things are possible.

My personal Holy Grail might no longer exist.  I can’t remember where I heard or read this story, but Ernie Anderson knew a fellow in the advertising trade, quite wealthy, whose son loved jazz.  Father wanted to give his son a present, and asked Ernie to set up a recording session for the boy: Ernie assembled Bobby Hackett, Sidney Catlett, and the fine pianist Harry Gibson (later Harry “the Hipster” Gibson), had them record some music, had the records pressed in perhaps one set, and I assume the boy was terrifically pleased.  But where are those records now?

Readers are invited to submit their own versions of the jazz Holy Grail . . . we could start with the airshots of the King Oliver band with Lester Young in it and go from there.

Thanks to Lorenz Yeung, Fernando, to David J. Weiner, Maggie Condon, Loren Schoenberg, Dan Morgenstern, and to Sidney Bechet (of course): the soundtrack is DANS LES RUE D’ANTIBES.

May your happiness increase!


presToday would have been Lester Young’s one-hundredth birthday. 

His centenarybecame a media event weeks ago.  Smithsonian Magazine and the Wall Street Journal carried articles celebrating Lester’s life and art; Ted Gioia has written what looks like a fine book proposing that everything that was once outsider cutlure, “hip,” “cool,” the property of only a few trend-setters, originated with Pres.  Online, there are sites devoted to the occasion (I could send someone a Pres e-card this morning, or I could subscribe to a jazz video site that promises me a new one emailed every day). 

All these celebrations seem good omens that our culture, typically ignorant or dismissive of jazz, is paying attention to a heroic figure. 

Would the attention have pleased Lester?  I hope so.  I have in my mind’s eye the account of a birthday party given in his honor at Birdland in the Fifties, where Lester cut the obligatory first piece of cake for the photographers while holding his horn in the other hand, playing I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TIME IT WAS, both witty and apt.

And I was cheered by the blogpost written by Fernando Ortiz de Urbina, where he states the heretical but resounding truth that Lester’s influence outweigh’s Charlie Parker’s.  You should read it here: http://jazzofftherecord.blogspot.com/2009/08/lester-young.html — his blog, not incidentally, is named EASY DOES IT, in Lester’s honor.  And as I write this, WKCR-FM is playing Lester’s music — for free — and it can be accessed online at http://www.wkcr.org

But I wonder how much posthumous affection and attention we would have to give Lester to make up for the hurts he suffered.  His feelings, once wounded, stayed that way.  His father threw him out of the family band because he couldn’t read music (although he played his part magnificently by ear); later, his section-mates in the 1934 Fletcher Henderson band mocked him because he didn’t sound like their idol Coleman Hawkins, and insisted that Fletcher get another tenor player; John Hammond discouraged Count Basie from raising Lester’s salary although Lester was that band’s star; he could not make a success of his own small band; the United States Army did its best to destroy him; a legion of “grey boys” played his phrases back to him in clubs and concerts for more money; he ended his days in New York, sitting by his window, playing mournful Frank Sinatra records, drinking cognac. 

pres2It is no accident that some of his most unforgettable solos — BLUES IN THE DARK, I LEFT MY BABY, FINE AND MELLOW — sound like a heartbroken man trying to hold back tears.  Can love that comes too late make up for its absence?  I don’t think so.