This one’s a hard one to write. Manfred Selchow — “Mannie” or “Manni” to his many friends — moved on on November 5, 2023. He was 87.
Here’s Manfred with his wife Renate. The cheerful man in the middle is their friend and ours, the wondrful drummer Bernard Flegar.
For once, the Wikipedia page is accurate, so you can read more about Manfred here.
Any art needs people who actively make it possible. In jazz, the musicians need enthusiastic audiences and places to play, but also loving publicity and documentation that make gigs — and money — possible. Manfred gave all his time and soul to the music he loved. For close to thirty years, beginning in 1986, he organized concert tours for the finest international musicians. The list is too long, but I call to mind Jon-Erik Kellso, Enrico Tomasso, Menno Daams, Dan Barrett, Ken Peplowski, Ralph Sutton, Marty Grosz, Wild Bill Davison, Tom Saunders, Bob Wilber, Harry Allen, Dick Sudhalter, George Masso, Kenny Davern, Peter Ecklund, Randy Sandke, Butch Miles, Rossano Sportiello, Frank Roberscheuten, Eddie Erickson, Nat Pierce, Engelbert Wrobel, Stephanie Trick, Paolo Alderighi, Nicki Parrott, Norris Turney, Oliver Jackson, Helge Lorenz, Matthias Seuffert, Shaunette Hildabrand, Yank Lawson, James Chirillo, Joe Ascione, Mark Shane, Antti Sarpila, Chris Hopkins, Allan Vache, Peanuts Hucko, and more.
The musicians loved the tours and they loved him, someone who appreciated them deeply as artists and as people: there was fun and food and story-telling and laughter as well as fine music. The music reached beyond the concert hall, because the Nagel-Heyer and Arbors record labels took the opportunity to record these bands: the CDs are a massive and rewarding library of international jazz, played with passion and joy. Manfred invited me to Germany for music, and I went twice, in 2007 and 2014, and he was the perfect host, older-brother-and-joyous-pal all in one.
Reaching back into the last century . . . I encountered Manfred in print before I met him in person. It may have been 1980, when we were both members of the IAJRC (International Association of Jazz Record Collectors). I read that he was finishing a discography of our mutual clarinet hero Edmond Hall, I wrote to him and sent him a cassette of music I thought would be new to him. It was and he was completely gracious and generous in return. Over the next decades, we exchanged cassettes and CDs of music, all with delight. Manfred had no use for the new-fangled computer, so I would receive a carefully typed letter with the tapes, and occasionally we had long friendly phone calls.
His first Edmond Hall discography turned into a true monument of loving research, the 640-page PROFOUNDLY BLUE, that he published himself: a model of the art, full of photographs and documents as well as dates, song titles, and lists of personnel. It appeared in 1988. Manfred told me that he was also working on a bio-discography of the trombonist Vic Dickenson, something that excited me tremendously, because I had followed Vic around New York City from 1970-1981 or so, usually with a tape recorder and once with a camera. I sent Manfred everything I had of Vic’s music, and he generously responded in kind. The resulting book, DING! DING! (1988) is even more polished and expansive, if such a thing is possible.
I write with some amusement that Manfred was more than scrupulous about “ownership,” so that many cassettes arrived with the words DO NOT COPY neatly written in them with red grease pencil. I occasionally disobeyed that moral injunction, and I hope Manfred forgives me: for the sake of the music.
He was a good person in all things: he looked terribly serious but he had a fine quick sense of humor, and he gave unstintingly. Our world is smaller and poorer because of his death.
Here is some music in his honor, music that wouldn’t have happened without his love and energy:
Goodbye, Manfred. And thanks for everything.