JazzWax

Interview: Mike Stoller (Part 2)

If you close your eyes, songwriter Mike Stoller sounds remarkably like comedian Larry David. The tone is distinctly New York—insistant and street smart. But unlike David, Mike's voice has tones that are more nasal and much gentler, the result of an upbringing in Queens, a borough of New York that's halfway to the suburbs of Long Island.

Mike likes things simple, and leaves the angst and analysis to others. One senses that he likes to keep things light, relying on humor to deflect negative thinking and reflecting on life's ironies from the perspective of a spectator rather than a participant or victim. [Photo of Mike Stoller and wife Corky Hale in March 2012 by Andrew H. Walker/Getty Images North America]

In Part 2 of my conversation with Mike for the Wall Street Journal (go here to read my profile), the R&B songwriter reflects on co-composing Jailhouse Rock, his role in helping R&B crossover to white markets in 1957, and his writing partner Jerry Leiber:

Marc Myers: Jailhouse Rock in 1957 was something of a turning point for R&B and rock, wasn't it?
Mike Stoller: In what way?

MM: Elvis had his 1956 run and becomes larger than life, the civil rights movement shifts gears, Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis add a wild streak, the Coasters, Drifters and Platters cross over, images of racial strife appear on TV and in print, and there are several major political events ofhte year. In this context, Jailhouse Rock sounds like something of a generational bond-cutter.
MS: Interesting. But it’s not that different thematically from Riot in Cell Block #9 though, don’t you think?


MM: I don't know. To me, there’s a different edge—a towel-snap feel to the words and music that’s less about a whimsical prison uprising and more about flaunting authority, rebelling against your captors—teachers, parents and so on. It's a clarion call, and I think that’s why it crossed over and resonated.
MS: Good point. And yet there’s playfulness to it, too. The song doesn’t feel unsafe. [Pictured: Elvis Presley on the set of Jailhouse Rock in 1957]

MM: Exactly, which is so true of many of your songs. Humor crosses all barriers. The movie version of Jailhouse Rock and the record have different instrumental approaches, yes?
MS: Yes. I had nothing to do with the movie’s orchestration. The record was made first and became the template for the movie. The movie folks wound up doing an expanded orchestral version because of the visual choreography.


MM: What do you think of the movie version?
MS: I like it. It was funny. The record also was visual, but in one’s imagination. I thought that Elvis’s dancing performance in the movie was wonderful.

MM: How did you come to write that blues? It has a Freddie Slack feel.
MS: [Laughs]. Freddie Slack! I haven’t heard that name in ages. The melody just came. It’s based on the kind of blues breaks that had been part of the blues literature, so to speak. I just tried to find a way to make it a little different. Jerry and I wanted to create a style that we felt would be easy for Elvis to relate to and sing.


MM: The lyrics are a little homeoerotic in places, no?
MS: You mean, “Number 47 said to Number. 3, you’re the cutest jailbird I ever did see?” Nah. It’s whatever you think it means. There’s an edge but none of that was intended.

MM: Despite the whimsy, there's a dark edge to that song. What inspired it?
MS: We were given a script. In the script, there was a note in brackets that simply said, “There’s a talent contest in prison” [laughs].


MM: [Laughing] That's rich. That was it?
MS: That’s all. But you know, we didn’t read the whole script when we first got it. In fact, we just thumbed it. We got the script in New York. [Photo: Mike Stoller at the piano]

MM: Why were you in New York?
MS: After I returned from Europe in 1956 and Jerry told me about Hound Dog becoming a big hit for Elvis, I checked into the Algonquin Hotel, where Jerry was staying. That night we went to dinner at the Russian Tea Room. That’s when I first met the guys at Atlantic— Ahmet Ertegün, the label’s founder; Jerry Wexler, the label’s producer, and Herb Abramson, who produced at Atco, an Atlantic subsidiary. Ahmet and his brother Nesuhi Ertegun, who ran the jazz side, took us to dinner. Then went to the old Basin Street to hear the Modern Jazz Quartet.


MM: So you remained in New York?
MS: We began writing for the Coasters, who had signed with Atco. We had been writing for them and producing their records when they were known as the Robins. Jerry and I took an apartment on East 71st St. It was a six-month sublet. After the lease was up, we went home to L.A. Then in March 1957, we returned to N.Y. to hang out with Ahmet and Jerry Wexler. By then, we had had some successes with Elvis, and Colonel Parker, Presley’s manager, wanted us to write the music to his next movie, Jailhouse Rock. So we went up to Hill & Range, the music publishing company that controlled Elvis’ music, to pick up the script.

MM: What did you do with the script?
MS: When Jerry and I got back to our hotel suite on West 55th St., we tossed it on the corner table, on top of a bunch of hotel magazines. Then we set out to enjoy New York.


MM: What did you do?
MS: We spent the next few weeks going to jazz clubs and cabarets and the theater. I remember we went to see Cy Coleman and his trio. Ray Mosca was on drums. I had gone to high school in Queens with Ray before my family moved to L.A. in 1949.

MM: What motivated you and Leiber to finally pick up the script?
MS: Weeks later, Jean Aberbach, a co-owner of Hill & Range, showed up at our hotel unannounced. It was a Saturday, and Jerry and I were having breakfast. Jean said, “Fellows, where are my songs?” Jerry said, “Don’t worry Jean, you’ll have your songs.” We both glanced over at our script in the corner.


MM: What did Aberbach say?
MS: He said, “I know I’ll have my songs, boys, because I’m not leaving here until I do.”

MM: What did he do?
MS: Jean got up and pushed a big overstuffed chair against the door. He said, “I’m going to take a nap, and I’m not leaving until I have them.”

MM: How long did his nap last?
MS: About four hours. When he woke up, four songs were done.


MM: Which ones?
MS: Jailhouse Rock, Treat Me Nice, (You’re So Square) Baby I Don’t Care and I Want to Be Free. All sort of related to being cooped up in that suite [laughs].

MM: What was going on inside the music business regarding civil rights in 1957?
MS: I can only tell you what we experienced, as I experienced it. In terms of integration, it wasn’t an issue. Jerry and I had been writing, creating and recording in an integrated community from 1950. Only later, in the 60s, were there schisms in the music industry in response to the black power movement, when some of our relationships grew uncomfortable.


MM: Were you conscious of the civil rights movement?
MS: We were conscious of it to a degree. We were aware that what we had experienced in our lives, in our early lives with our interracial relationships, was starting to happen nationwide.

MM: Was the movement a conscious part of your music?
MS: No. It was just the music Jerry and I loved. The music had always been integrated for us. We were simply creating songs that were extensions of our own interracial experiences.


MM: Was there pushback by white record executives asking you to write in a certain way—to avoid trouble in the South, for example?
MS: Never. Not at all. Our songs actually sold well in the South, particularly in black communities. We’d see our songs in Cash Box on the R&B charts that covered 16 different markets. There was a chart for Harlem, Chicago South Side, Shreveport, Kansas City and so on. Each chart had different songs rising and falling as opposed to the pop chart, which was a national thing.


MM: Did you feel that what you and Leiber were doing was maverick from a civil rights perspective?
MS: We weren’t really political. We didn’t think of it that way. We weren’t devoid of any sense of what was going on. Nor were we were devoid of racial politics, and right and wrong. But there was no black and white for us. We were writing what appealed to us, which happened to be mostly music performed and recorded by black artists. We were entertaining ourselves when we wrote. Our backgrounds had erased all of that.

MM: How so?
MS: I had gone to an interracial summer camp from age 7 to 15, and Jerry had lived a different experience—though similar in terms of his exposure to black families. His mother ran a little store in Baltimore, and Jerry delivered soft coal and kerosene to the black community on the edge of where he lived. He had relations with black kids and dated black girls. We both did. Jerry was welcome there because he was literally delivering the light.


MM: How did you two meet?
MS: When we were still in our late teens in 1950, Jerry called me out of the blue and said he was a songwriter. He said he had heard about me from a drummer he knew and asked if I wanted to write songs with him. I said I wasn't interested in writing pop songs. Less than an hour later, Jerry showed up at my front door with pages of lyrics. When I saw they were in the form of 12-bar blues, I agreed to write with him. I loved the blues.

MM: Was Leiber a nice guy?
MS: Yes. Sometimes he was tormented. Sometimes he was extremely generous. He was complex.


MM: Do you miss him?
MS: Yeah. I miss… [pauses]. I miss the kid I met in 1950. The ambitious, aggressive, dynamic and exciting kid. Jerry used to say to me when we drove around in my ‘37 Plymouth, “We’re going to be rich and famous." I thought he was deluding himself.

MM: Your pragmatism was offset by his dreaming?
MS: I guess so. Jerry used to say he had no brakes and I had no motor.

MM: What did he mean?
MS: That he might go off in a direction at any given moment. Without me to hold him back, he might have gone off the edge of the world. But without that streak, I wouldn’t have been motivated. Which was the no-motor part.


MM: You guys were pretty prolific for you to have been unmotivated.
MS: Oh, I was plenty motivated to write but not to promote myself. I was very shy. But together it worked.

MM: Are you still shy?
MS: No, I don’t think so.

MM: Was that a result of Leiber?
MS: Maybe. But at a certain point in our relationship… It’s weird. Early on, in interviews, Jerry did all the talking. And then at a certain point in our relationship, that shifted. He acknowledged that. I can’t pinpoint the date. It just changed.

JazzWax clips: Here's Jailhouse Rock, the record...

  

And here's Jailhouse Rock, the movie version...

 

Interview: Mike Stoller (Part 1)

A couple of weeks ago I traveled to Los Angeles for the Wall Street Journal to interview Mike Stoller at his home high in the Hollywood Hills. My conversation with rock 'n' roll's first successful songwriter—with hits dating back to 1951—appears in today's paper (or go here). [Photo of Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller by David Attie for Vogue's "People Are Talking" in July 1959]

On June 14, the Songwriter's Hall of Fame will honor Ben E. King, Mike and his late writing partner Jerry Leiber after naming Stand By Me (1961) the 2012 "Towering Song of the Year." Mike co-wrote many of R&B's and early rock's biggest hits, including Hound Dog, Jailhouse Rock, Kansas City, Love Potion #9, Poison Ivy, Smokey Joe's Café, Yakety Yak, On Broadway, Young Blood, Fools Fall in Love and There Goes My Baby. Leiber and Stoller also wrote Peggy Lee's hit versions of "I'm a Woman" and "Is That All There Is?" The list goes on and on. [Pictured above: Ben E. King and Mike Stoller]

In Part 1 of my conversation with Mike, the 79-year-old R&B and pop-rock songwriter talks about early piano lessons with a jazz legend in the '40s, his close call on the high seas in 1956, and the crossover of R&B to rock 'n' roll in 1957:

Marc Myers: Nine is a lucky number for you, isn’t it?
Mike Stoller: [Laughs]. Always. Love Potion #9, Riot in Cell Block #9 and others. We always knew the word “nine” sounded great. Strangely, when I go for my annual physical, my doctor puts his stethoscope on my back and asks me to say "nine." The number vibrates.

MM: Can you still play a mean boogie-woogie?
MS: I doubt it. I haven’t played a boogie-woogie in ages. I use the piano in my office here to write, and I’m still sort of uncertain and very private when I write. Even at home, when I’m working alone, I like to wear headphones that cover my ears. I find my place when all is blocked out.


MM: How many lessons did you take with James P. Johnson?
MS: Oh, six or seven in 1943 or 1944.

MM: Would your life have been different if those lessons didn’t take place?
MS: Probably. I may have picked up some of the information I learned about the blues from listening. But getting it directly from James P. was much more powerful and first-hand. Things like the structure of blues and boogie-woogie. Before taking those lessons, I would play a 1 chord until I got tired and then move to a four chord until I got tired of that one—without the knowledge of the 12-bar structure.

MM: James P. Johnson should be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
MS: [Laughs] I suppose so.


MM: What was Johnson like?
MS: He was very gentle, considering I was a little kid who wanted to play boogie-woogie. That’s all I wanted to play. Of course, he could have taught me so many other things and so much more if I had been interested. He was a wonderful composer and stride pianist.

MM: In pictures, his face looks so kind and nurturing.
MS: Yeah, that’s what I felt when I was with him. He made me feel comfortable. He did keep a bottle of Southern Comfort on the piano. He never drank from it, though. When I told Jerry about the bottle after Jerry and I met in 1950, he said James P. kept it there for when I came over [laughs].

MM: Did your lessons improve as the bottle level declined? 
MS: [Laughs] I didn’t draw any correlation.


MM: When Johnson said to you, “Understanding structure is the key to confidence,” what did he mean?
MS: Just that. That I had to know certain rules first—not in the sense of rules that couldn’t be broken. All rules are meant to be broken here, there or everywhere. What he meant was that if you have the knowledge of structure, you will feel safe and in control, enabling you to try new things.


MM: You were on the S.S. Andrea Doria when it was struck in July 1956.
MS: Yes, I was on board with my first wife [today, Mike is married to jazz pianist and harpist Corky Hale]. It was a traumatic event. When the ship was listing, I said to myself, “This is it.” But when I got off the ship, I blocked most of it out.

MM: But you recall what happened?
MS: Yes, it's still there. In 1981, 25 years after the event, I was living in New York and was asked to go up to Boston for a radio show about the ship’s sinking. I hadn’t really thought much about it and never dwelled on it. Occasionally it was a subject that came up during dinner conversation. That kind of thing. At any rate, in Boston, they asked me whether I remembered Linda Morgan, the little girl who had survived by being thrown randomly from the ship to the Stockholm as it hit us. When I thought back, I started to cry without being able to prevent it. I had pushed those memories out of my mind, and they came back with the question.

MM: How did you change creatively after the collision and rescue?
MS: I can’t tell you that. It’s impossible for me to know.

MM: Most people hear a song’s words and assume that’s the song. How do you explain what you do?
MS: Jerry wrote words and I wrote the music—the melody and harmony. But I would make suggestions for lyrics and Jerry would contribute to the music. I’d suggest using “and” instead of “but” and he’d say, "Make the note go up rather than down.” In the beginning, it was all back-and-forth, the two of us shouting phrases—words and notes. Jerry couldn’t write music but he could sing a line. Even with that said, Jerry really wrote the words and I really wrote the music. [Pictured: Mike Stoller and Jerry Leiber]


MM: But beyond the music?
MS: With small groups, I often wrote the arrangements and played the piano on almost all the Coasters records and some of the other things we recorded. When we started to use larger orchestras after There Goes My Baby, I didn’t feel confident enough, so I liked to work with very talented orchestrators and arrangers like Stanley Applebaum.

MM: How did that work?
MS: I’d work with the orchestrator at the piano, and he would sketch what I wanted. I felt that if he put his pencil on the score, it was going to sound more professional and safe than if I did. But I contributed to the orchestration on almost all the records we produced. 


MM: In 1957, was the crossover of your songs from R&B to mainstream rock ‘n’ roll intentional?
MS: How so?

MM: Were you and Leiber looking for a way to widen the audience for your music—or did it just happen?
MS: It just happened. We had always written primarily for black audiences. We had started out writing blues for Jimmy Witherspoon, Charles Brown, Little Esther, Big Mama Thornton and others. Before 1957, there were rare moments when we were hired to write for white R&B groups. The rare exception was Black Denim Trousers for the Cheers in 1955. It was an urban take on the Western sagas that Frankie Laine was singing at the time. It also was a take on the motorcycle movies like The Wild One. Edith Piaf wound up recording it in French.

MM: The turning point appears to be when Elvis Presley recorded your song Hound Dog in 1956. After, you and Leiber wrote a string of hits for him.
MS: That’s correct. It's a funny story of how that came about. After a freighter picked up me and my first wife from a lifeboat after the Andrea Doria went down, we were taken to New York. When I arrived, Jerry met me at the pier. The first thing he said was, 'Mike, we have a smash hit—'Hound Dog.' Confused, I asked, 'With Big Mama Thornton?' I just assumed our earlier R&B hit was back for some reason. He said, 'No, some white kid named Elvis Presley'" [laughs].

MM: From then on, starting with Jailhouse Rock, your brand of R&B became rock ‘n’ roll.
MS: Yes, but it was accidental. When Jerry and I first started writing, recordings of our songs were played on the extreme ends of the radio dial on stations that had black listening audiences. These stations beamed to those neighborhoods in big cities. After 1956, we found that white kids were tuning into those stations because the music was more exciting than artists like Perry Como.

MM: And Pat Boone?
MS: Actually, Pat Boone was an imitation of R&B. He was singing covers of Little Richard, while Georgia Gibbs was covering LaVern Baker. That was in response to white teens who were tuning into those end-of-the-dial stations. Once the major labels found out about the R&B trend, they had white artists cover the songs, artists they felt who wouldn’t offend their advertisers.


MM: Weren't the humorous lyrics of your songs, particularly with the Coasters, also a big part of your music’s crossover appeal?
MS: Yes, that’s true. There certainly were elements of Yiddish humor in our songs, and black audiences related to it. Yiddish humor is gallows humor, poking fun at misfortune. Many people don’t realize that Jerry’s first language was Yiddish. He spoke Yiddish until he was 5 years old.


MM: And yet songs like Yakety Yak, One Kiss Led to Another and Wait a Minute had a sophisticated silliness about them—serving up R&B without losing the black delivery and feel.
MS: Yiddish humor and black humor aren’t that different. “If it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have no luck at all.” If you use an Eastern European accent, the song could have been written there in the late 1800s.

JazzWax note: For more on Mike Stoller and Jerry Leiber, I recommend Hound Dog: The Leiber & Stoller Autobiography, as told to David Ritz.

JazzWax tracks: There are multiple sets of Leiber and Stoller recordings. The Leiber and Stoller Story is a three-volume set of CDs from the UK that runs about $20 each. Or you can do what I did: Opt for the Spark Records Story, a label Leiber and Stoller started in the early 1950s. There are 30 tracks on a single disc featuring a wide range of songs they wrote and/or produced for various artists.

Then I went for a used copy of The Coasters on Atco: There's a Riot Goin' On, a four disc set that sells for around $45, which is sensational.

The Drifters aren't offered on anything as complete, but you have a couple of solid choices: The Drifters: The Definitive Soul Collection and a knock-out 40-track download—The Drifters: The Singles Collection 1953-1960. It's $11.99 at the Apple Store in the U.S.

JazzWax clips: Here's Big Mama Thornton and Buddy Guy in 1965 reprising her 1952 hit with Leiber and Stoller's Hound Dog...

 

Here are the Drifters with Clyde McPhatter singing Leiber and Stoller's Fools Fall in Love (1957)...

 

And here are the Coasters singing a rare outtake of Leiber and Stoller's Yakety Yak (1958)...

 

Weekend Wax Bits

Because I review CDs each week here and contribute to the Wall Street Journal, I'm often bombarded by publicists trying to pitch me their clients' CDs. Truth be told, 50% of these e-releases are sent to the trash unread based on their subject lines. Another 20% are trashed within seconds after opening. And another 20% are trashed because they don't inform fast enough. Which leaves 10% that I actually read.

This post is addressed to musicians who scratch their heads and wonder why they don't get coverage by the print or electronic media. But I warn you, what follows is tough love about the music-promotion business and the media. My hope is that publicists will pick up some pointers and be better at what they do. And that musicians will come to realize that getting the word out requires more than postage stamps and bubble envelopes. 

Here's what publicists and the media won't tell you about people like me who review music: 

1. I don't care about your album.  Many musicians and publicists seem to believe that offering me free music is some sort of eagerly awaited prize, like sardines to seals. The truth is I have all the new music I will ever want or need. Good publicists know that reviewers have to be seduced with a great sales pitch.

2. Don't make me work. Asking me to download music is the kiss of death. Downloads are a pain because I have to break away from writing to download, import into iTunes, and then extract from iTunes if I don't like what I hear. Way too much time and work. It's much easier to trash.

3. I know you don't read. Informed musicians and publicists make time to read the newspapers, keep up with the music trades and read the leading blogs. Reading helps them develop a feel for who likes what, and then they pitch accordingly and wisely. The bad ones treat the media like the wall and your music like spaghetti. They throw it out there and hope someone will bite. Most also fail to read the very media they're pitching, which also leads to the trash.

4. You talk too much. Most of the e-releases I receive from musicians and publicists run way too long. In the digital age, no one in this business wants to read a ton of tiny type to figure out what you're selling. Get to the point and tell me why I should care.

5. You're not making sense. In many cases, writers of releases try to wax poetic about the album in question. Which is admirable but misses the point. Essays are for liner notes, not effective promotion. And it's sort of important that what is being written is clear and well-organized.

6. Sell the music, not you. I live and breathe music every waking minute of my day. I love it. How an artist looks or what that artist thinks means nothing to me—at first. The music is what wins me over. Then, if I care, I'm curious about the person and artist. At which point I fall in love and champion the music. What does that tell you? Sell me on the album's story.

7. Don't you own a calendar? Too often I receive releases supporting albums that are due to drop in days or a week. Which works against you. When I question publicists about this, they tell me that they only just received the product from the artist or record company. Guess what? You're selling expired milk. Reviewers need time to pitch the albums they like to editors so reviews are timed to appear just before they hit the street. Reviewers can't do that if you haven't given them enough time to listen to your effort and sell it. Good publicists get me recordings at least six weeks before the release date.

8. You're just part of the crowd. Your album is important. But know that you're releasing your music just as dozens of other artists are as well. Which means the competition is stiff and the clutter is dense. So be sure you stand out. Your goal is to get me to make a decision as quickly as possible on your music, not bury me with words. 

9. Know what I care about. Simple sells, so urge your publicist to list the basic information in releases up top. This means the drop date should be up there in bold and large type. Why? That's the first thing I want to know. Then a few lines on what makes you and your album special. Then I want the track listings, the personnel, the producer, arranger and when and where the album was recorded. I need to know why the album is significant—fast. This helps me craft my pitch. Save the rest for a holiday card.

10. So where's the music? Your goal is to get me to make a decision on your music, right? So why do so many e-releases fail to include a link to music samples—up top? Failure to provide a link to a sample up top ensures the release will be in my trash. A YouTube of a track is better. And a YouTube bio of the band or artist or album is better still.

Oh, one more thing: Reach the right people. This means you and your publicist should make use of the newswires that the jazz media tracks. There are many, but one of the best is Jazz Promo Services, which has global reach and blasts releases to thousands of writers, editors and decision-makers in radio, the press, TV, print media, online media as well as jazz fans who like to buy albums and tickets to live shows.

Again, apologies if I've insulted anyone. My goal here wasn't to poke fun or hurt feelings. I want to listen to every album that's being released. I love music that much. But I can't. Which is why I need you and your publicist to be smarter and make my life easier. Key info on top—and feature a link to samples.

Phil Silvers redux. In the wake of my post last week on Phil Silvers and Swinging Brass (1957)—a little-known album composed and likely arranged by Nelson Riddle and played by a crack studio band—I received a swell note from the late arranger's daughter, Rosemary Acera:

"Such a wonderful piece on Swinging Brass. So well done! I love all your detail—your passion for this is so evident. Dad would be honored to read this blog although I cannot even imagine him using a computer. I believe once he understood the power of its ability to keep people informed and connected that he would be on board."

I also received the following from Ted Hodgetts of JazzFirst Books:

"I was going through a group of jazz recording contracts this week, purchased awhile ago, and found a contract on Columbia letterhead, signed by Nelson Riddle confirming that he had indeed 'originally conceived the…idea …for a Phil Silvers album…embodying certain copyrighted bugle call arrangements.' Columbia is agreeing to give Riddle his propers on the album cover."

Here's that contract...

And JazzWax reader John Loeffler sent along the following published comments from Steve Jordan, who was the guitarist on the date:

"In 1956 or 1957, I was part of a superb big band playing the great Nelson Riddle arrangements based on Army bugle calls.  Riddle had been a Sergeant during World War II and was familiar with many of the calls. The album was designed to cash in on the popularity of Sgt. Bilko as played by Phil Silvers on TV. 

"The Columbia LP was entitled Phil Silvers and His Swinging Brass, but because Nelson Riddle was under contract to Capitol Records, his credit line on the album is small and reads 'Compositions Conceived by Nelson Riddle.' Note that 'conceived,' as if Riddle only chose the bugle calls, sketched out a few ideas, and didn't make the arrangements. 

"Indeed, in the liner notes two other arrangers—Warren Barker and Frank Comstock—are credited for arranging the music. I'm certain Riddle did most of the writing.

"There's an interesting story regarding the band we had on this date. Irving Townsend, the album's producer, mentioned to me that Nelson had told him that the album would have to be recorded in California because he couldn't get a band good enough in New York! Townsend was astounded with such a thought and told Riddle, "Whaddya mean we can't get enough musicians in New York?" [Photo above: Irving Townsend and John Hammond]

"In any event, Townsend informed Riddle that they would do the album in New York with New York musicians—period. And Townsend certainly did come up with a remarkable band as Riddle soon discovered when he arrived in New York for the date.
 
"Riddle was obviously delighted with the work of the musicians, as anybody would be, and when the album came out I noted that the liner notes (written by Townsend) made sure that everyone would know these were New York musicians, stating:  'This is a great band and was carefully chosen in New York.'

Jason Crane, road warrior. JazzWax readers, meet Jason Crane [pictured], host of the Jazz Session. Jason's groovy blog features his audio podcast interviews with dozens of jazz legends. Now he's hitting road this summer—conducting jazz interviews all the way from New York to New Orleans. He's also threatening to expand his history-gathering odyssey worldwide. For more information, go here.

Two-piano jazz radio. Jazz musician and writer Bill Kirchner will host WBGO's Jazz From the Archives show on Sunday night. This week, he looks at the virtuoso stride pianos of Dick Hyman and the late Dick Wellstood. Bill also will feature recent post-modern explorations by Brad Mehldau and Kevin Hays, and Andy Milne and Benoit Delbecq. The show starts at 11 p.m. (EDT) and can be accessed on your computer from anywhere in the world by going here.

CD discoveries of the week. For years, The Quintet: Jazz at Massey Hall has been a muddled mess—both the single-mike recording and the version on which Charles Mingus overdubbed his bass parts. The Toronto concert held in May 1953 featured bebop all-stars Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Bud Powell, Mingus and Max Roach, and the performance was recorded by Mingus and Roach for their newly formed Debut Records. But the result was thin, a victim of the day's limited technology. Now Concord has remastered the performance, and the new CD is finally warm and vivid. Though the tracks are all-too-familiar, this is yet another document of Parker's improvisational fluidity and Gillespie's trumpet somersaults.  

By 1972, when guitarist Albert King's I'll Play the Blues for You was released on Stax, the blues was undergoing a renaissance. English rock bands weaned on American blues records were schooling white teen audiences in the art form, and B.B. King was playing rock venues as an authentic exponent of Memphis' electric blues. Now Concord has re-issued the original album, with Albert backed by the reconstructed Bar-Kays following the death of most members in the Otis Redding air crash of 1967. This is a slow-groover, with meaty blues licks by King.

Hailing from Bayonne, N.J., the Ad Libs had only one top pop chart hit: The Boy From New York City, a doo-wopian snapper released at the end of 1964. But the group also recorded a handful of other less successful sides that didn't produce much record-store heat. As a result, the group's contract for Blue Cat Records wasn't renewed. Now Real Gone Music has issued The Ad Libs: The Complete Blue Cat Recordings, and the result is rather surprising. Clearly, the group's failure to shift gears had much to do with its gospel vocal style, which by 1965—in the age of Motown and Stax—was quickly becoming outdated. Nevertheless, the what-if tunes are plenty playful. The 23-track album features 14 unreleased demos and alternate takes.

Oddball album cover of the week. Dave McKenna recorded solo piano on Both Sides of Dave McKenna in November 1972 for the Honey Dew label. The Wilbur Little Quartet was added to the flip side. After they finished and left, the vegan art department lit up a bong and designed the cover.