JazzWax

Fran, Benny and Gates

Last week in The Wall Street Journal, I interviewed actress Fran Drescher of TV's The Nanny for my "House Call" column in the Mansion section (go here). Fran is a hoot. In January, she'll star in Indebted, a new NBC sitcom. According to Wiki, the series "follows a couple, Dave and Rebecca, who are ready to start a new life after years of parenting. That is, until Dave's parents show up unannounced and broke, leaving Dave with no choice but to open the door to the people who gave him everything, which eventually leads to a clash of parental chaos among families." [Photo above of Fran Drescher courtesy of Fran Descher]

Fran talked about growing up in Queens and how her accent stood out, even in her childhood neighborhood, where accents were the size of Buicks. I also asked her about her role as Connie in Saturday Night Fever in 1977 (above). Originally cast as the lead, she says, she wound up in the smaller role after the film switched directors early on. Here are a few things Fran said about the film:

• I did a few bits on my own in the role that weren't in the script. For example, I repeated my character's name in the disco scene so I'd wind up in the credits and not as "girl in green dress."
• I wanted my Connie character to come off as flirty. So you see me put my hand on John Travolta's butt as we walked to the dance floor. I didn't squeeze it or anything. I just rested it there.
• After John's Tony character rejects me by spinning me off the dance floor, I didn't cower. I stood there with my hands on my hips. That wasn't in the script either.
• They shot the longer dance scene that follows a few times. When they were editing, you see me there with my hands on my hips. Then from another angle, I'm suddenly gone.
• The clothes I wore in the film were mine. I must have messed it up at some point, because I no longer have it.
  

Here's Fran in Saturday Night Fever...

And here's The Nanny, which still holds up well. Fran's comedic timing is fabulous...

Benny Goodman. Speaking of singing musicians, here's Benny Goodman swinging Gotta Be This or That with Patti Page in 1957 on her TV show, The Big Record...

Sy Oliver. Here's arranger and bandleader Sy Oliver singing East of the Sun. It's the same arrangement he wrote for Tommy Dorsey and Frank Sinatra in the early 1940s..

Louis Prima. Here's trumpeter Louis Prima with his wife Keely Smith...

Lou Donaldson. Here's alto saxophonist Lou Donaldson singing Just a Dream...

Don Elliott. Here's multi-instrumentalist Don Elliott singing Speak Low...

Les McCann. And here's pianist Les McCann singing On the Street Where You Live...

Artie Shaw. Here's Artie Shaw playing a spectacular arrangement of Where or When, which he recorded only once, in 1950, for Decca...

Giacomo Gates. Last week, I caught bop vocalist Giacomo Gates at New York's Mezzrow. Above, singer Diana Perez caught us having fun between sets.

Harold Mabern. Following the death of pianist Harold Mabern in September, Bret Primack released a tribute video complete with interviews...

What the heck: Here are the Delfonics singing Somebody Loves You in 1971...

Oddball album cover of the week.

Wow, that's some party. Looks like one gal forgot to tell the other what she planned to wear. The accordionist appears to be playing Taps. And the gents are high up the creepy scale. Even weirder, the drapes in the back. They look like they're set up as stage curtains. 

Artie Shaw: Perfection Quest

If you don't know much about Artie Shaw or why he was important and special, this 2003 BBC documentary written by Russell Davies should do the trick. It's among the finest films on the restless clarinetist and bandleader, who died in 2004:

Here's Part 1...

Here's Part 2...

Here's Part 3...

Here's Part 4...

Here's Part 5...

Here's Part 6...

And here's Part 7...

Jazz Musicians Who Sang

Besides Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, Dizzy Gillespie, Chet Baker and many pianists like Shirley Horn, Matt Dennis, Blossom Dearie, Bobby Troup and others who played and sang at clubs, a good number of jazz musicians could sing quite well. Here are eight:

Here's trombonist Jack Teagarden playing and singing It's All in Your Mind...

Here's pianist Oscar Peterson singing and playing Orange Colored Sky...

Here's drummer Grady Tate singing and playing Suicide Is Painless, the theme to M*A*S*H...

Here's trumpeter Kenny Dorham singing and playing Angel Eyes...

Here's George Benson playing and singing Beyond the Sea...

Here's trumpeter Jack Sheldon singing and playing What Kind of Fool Am I in 1964...

Here's saxophonist James Moody singing and playing Moon River...

And here's Buddy Rich singing One for My Baby...

Five Videos: Duke Ellington

The rise of swing and jazz's sophisticated impressionism starts with Duke Ellington. His first recordings were with Wilbur Sweatman and His Acme Syncopators in August 1924. His first leadership 78 was recorded in November of that year, billed as the Washingtonians. His first Columbia record came in March 1927, with East St. Louis Toodle-oo becoming a #10 hit. From there, he would go on to compose and arrange lush and jumping jazz compositions on his own and with Billy Strayhorn that continue to influence musicians to this day. Here are five videos that illustrate Ellington's vast contribution:

Here's a segment on Ellington in a BBC documentary on jazz...

Here's Ellington's orchestra playing behind singer-dancers Paul White and Marie Bryant in 1942...

Here's Ellington and his orchestra in Switzerland in 1959...

Here's Ellington and his orchestra in Montreal in 1964...

And here's Ellington and orchestra playing Solo for Johnny Hodges in 1969...

Poncho Sanchez: Trane's Delight

Like many Latin jazz legends—including Tito Puente, Mongo Santamaria, Carlos "Patato" Valdés, Ray Barretto, Candido, Carlos Vidal and others—Poncho Sanchez is a percussionist. Born in Laredo, Texas, Sanchez has been a leading conga player and bandleader for decades. His big break came in 1975, when vibraphonist Cal Tjader hired him for his band. Before he died in 1982, Tjader urged Concord Records to sign Sanchez. The label took Tjader's advice, and Sanchez has recorded 27 albums for Concord over the past 37 years, winning a Grammy along the way (for Latin Soul in 1991). Starting with Poncho for the Discovery label in 1979, Sanchez has maintained a stunning consistency as a leader. Every album I can think of is leg-shaking and loaded with the most seductive Latin grooves sifted with top-shelf jazz. That's a tribute to Sanchez's superb taste and a love of the listener. There's never any wheel-spinning with Sanchez, only seduction at every turn.

Now the savory tradition has been extended to Sanchez's latest album, Trane's Delight (Concord Picante). The album, dedicated to John Coltrane, is more of a tip of the hat to the saxophonist than a mirroring of his compositions. In fact, only three of the 11 tracks on the album are Coltrane's originals—Liberia, Giant Steps and Blue Train. But you can hear Coltrane's boldness and confidence throughout. Hats off to Francisco Torres, who wrote the gentle mambo, son, bolero and cha-cha-cha arrangements.

Sanchez has the most seductive conga rhythms, and his carefully chosen team of musicians follows suit in terms of playing tough but pretty. His vision for the sound he wants and the textures delivered are remarkable. If you're not keeping tempo with your thumbs on a hard surface while listening to this album, something is wrong. Trane's Delight is one of my favorite albums of the year and a must own. Bravo Poncho!

JazzWax tracks: You'll find Poncho Sanchez's Trane's Delight (Concord Picante) here. 

JazzWax clips: Here's Soul Bourgeoisie...

Here's John Coltrane's Giant Steps...

And here's Yammote...

Joe Pass and Tommy Gumina

I last wrote about accordionist Tommy Gumina in 2011. Gumina and clarinetist Buddy DeFranco recorded five albums together in the early 1960s that remain swinging, moody and fascinating. Buddy and Gumina came up with a system of playing that involved polytones. As Buddy told me at the time for the post: "As I’m playing in one key, Tommy was playing unusual structures of chord progressions so it sounded like a different key. I was able to play along, traveling in any of the chord structures he put together. To the average ear, the joy is in the clash of these two keys. The result was a texture that sounded both off-kilter and just right. A little messy but right on target." [Photo above of Tommy Gumina]

Now I want to share with you two other terrific albums by Gumina, with guitarist Joe Pass. These albums aren't as well known or easy to find. The first is Sentimental Moods, with Pass, Gumina and Jimmie Smith on drums. Recorded for Polytone in June 1987, a record label formed by Gumina and Pass, the album features My Ship, Once in a While, Cavaquino, In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning, Secret Love, I'm Getting Sentimental Over You, When You Wish Upon a Star, About Time, Will You Give Me These and Guess I'll Have to Hang My Tears Out to Dry.

The second, Autumn Leaves, features the same trio plus Buddy DeFranco. It also was recorded for Polytone, in November 1989. The songs selected are The Way You Look Tonight, Smile, Autumn Leaves, Teach Me Tonight, I Love You, Without a Song, When I Fall in Love, Polly Wants a Tonic and Pretty By You.

Gumina on these two albums played an instrument called the polycorus, which he designed and built. It's similar to an accordion but allowed him to provide a bass line and notes and chords that sound as if they're emanating from an organ. The polycorus also gave Pass a thick reedy background to swing on. All of the musicians are superb, with solos flying like a flurry of perfectly tossed darts. The harmonies are wonderful in the trio setting and only become more colorful and exciting when Buddy joins in on the second album. The beauty of Pass, Gumina, Smith and Buddy is that they fully appreciated how to maximize harmony and swing. Just doin' what sounds great. What a combination. [Photo above of Joe Pass]

To read my earlier post on Tommy Gumina, go here. [Photo above of Buddy DeFranco]

Tommy Gumina died in 2013, Joe Pass died in 1994, and Buddy DeFranco died in 2014.

JazzWax tracks: Sentimental Moods and Autumn Leaves are out of print. There are several copies of Autumn Leaves at eBay here. You may be able to find Sentimental Moods on vinyl as Sound Project. Omnivore may want to look into a re-issue of these two.

JazzWax clips: Here's My Shining Hour from Sentimental Moods...

My Shining Hour

Here's The Way You Look Tonight, with Buddy DeFranco...

The Way You Look Tonight

And here's Without a Song, with Buddy DeFranco...

Without a Song

Beau, Art and Gap

In The Wall Street Journal this week, I interviewed Beau Bridges for my "House Call" column in the Mansion section (go here). If you're a fan of the drama Goliath (Amazon Prime) with Billy Bob Thornton, you'll find Beau in season 3, which is ready for binging now. Beau told me a funny story about accompanying his father, Lloyd Bridges, to the set of High Noon (1951) when he was 9. Lloyd played the town's deputy marshal. Apparently they had to re-shoot a barn scene because Beau cracked up during a take after Gary Cooper poured a bucket of water on Lloyd following their fight scene. Beau felt like dirt, but everything was straightened out in the hotel elevator later. As you can imagine from his many films, Beau is wonderfully easy going and a tremendously nice guy. [Photo above of Beau Bridges at home in Topanga Canyon, Calif., by Amanda Friedman for The Wall Street Journal]

When my column photo shoot in L.A. came in from Amanda Friedman, I realized why I liked Beau so much. Yes, that's a photo of Bill Evans on his wall (above).

Here's an early Beau film—The Incident (1967)—a movie that is just as powerful today as it was then and still has great relevance. A bit of trivia, the music is by Charles Fox, the composer of many TV-show themes of the 1970s and co-composer of Killing Me Softly With His Song (go here)...

Giacomo Gates. On Tuesday, the hippest singer in town, Giacomo Gates, will appear at New York's Mezzrow, backed by pianist John DiMartino and bassist Ed Howard. Gates is an extraordinary vocalist with a rich deep voice and a bop sensibility. His sets are at 7:30 and 9 p.m. Doors open at 7 p.m. I'll be there. For more information, go here.

Here's Gates singing Babs Gonzales's Everything Is Cool...

And here's Gates singing Four...

For more on Gates, go here.

Art Pepper. Following my post featuring John Koenig's essay on alto saxophonist Art Pepper, I received the following email from David Chilver...

Hi Marc. That was a fascinating piece you posted on Art Pepper. John Koenig's essay about him was very illuminating and a wonderful read. It reminded me of something I witnessed way back in the 1970s when Art Pepper was in London. My father, Pete Chilver, took me to see him play. After the gig, my dad got to catch up with him backstage. Dad was a jazz guitarist and first met and played with Pepper in London in 1943 and '44 when Pepper was serving in the Army there during World War II. At the time, dad was playing with George Shearing, Ralph Sharon, Ronnie Scott and others. He told me that when he complimented Pepper on his playing, Art told him to check out Charlie Parker, whom he described as the "real deal."

So when they met again some 30 years later, I was fortunate to be present and witnessed their conversation. It was friendly enough, but also revealing as Art was somewhat withdrawn. He apologized for remembering little of his time in London and still less of their time playing together. He attributed this to "troubles" he'd been through. Reading Mr. Koenig's marvelous essay very much fleshed out the character of this supremely talented but flawed character.

Gap Mangione. After my post on the Beatles' Abbey Road, pianist Gap Mangione sent along a clip of his arrangement of The End from his 1972 album, Sing Along Junk. The musicians are Snooky Young, Lew Soloff and Jon Faddis (tp); Bill Watrous and Bill Reichenbach (tb); Peter Levin and Dick Decker (fhrn); Gerry Niewood (as); Ray Ricker (ts); Joe Farrell (bs); Gap Mangione (p,el p); Sam Brown (g); Tony Levin (b); Steve Gadd (d); Ron Davis (conga) and Chuck Mangione (cond)...

CDs you should know about.

Jon Regen—Higher Ground (Ropeadope). On this album of originals (by Jon Regen and Jon with Jamiroquai's Matt Johnson, who also produced), Jon delivers his best jazz-pop album to date. The songwriting is solid and the arrangements are soulful, with Stevie Wonder touches in electronic sequencing and background vocals. Jon's voice has a hip sophistication—relaxed but shrewd—and the shifting songs have a way of growing on you. Jon is joined on different tracks by Andy Summers of the Police, Benmont Tench of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Chuck Leavell of the Rolling Stones and Nick Rhodes of Duran Duran. Go here.

Here's Wide Awake...

Ahmad Jamal—Ballades (Harcourt). Ahmad Jamal, the pianist who invented space and elegant upper-register solos, and was shamelessly copied by Miles Davis and Red Garland in the 1950s, chose 10 ballads for his new album. He plays most of them solo, with James Cammack on bass on three tracks. Songs include I Should Care, Poinciana, What's New, Emily and So Rare. While some of the songs feel a tad over-rendered, Ahmad's 1950s style that fans still adore manages to break through. Go here.

Here's I Should Care...

Alan Broadbent—Evening Star (Eden River). Recorded at Ralf Kemper's Riverside Studios in Cologne, Germany, on a Steinway D, pianist Alan Broadbent's new solo album has a classical-jazz feel. Or put differently, a studied European flavor. There are originals and standards, including Baubles, Bangles and Beads; Stranger in Paradise and Full Moon and Empty Arms. All are treated to Alan's exquisite phrasing, gentle swing and Bill Evansian gravity. Lovely music with a lush formalism and tender touch. Go here.

Here's Full Moon and Empty Arms...

Veronica Swift—Confessions (Mack Avenue). Confident and lyrical, with a strong, elastic jazz voice, Veronica Swift has released an album featuring a range of intimate, up-close story-songs. Among the album's highlights are Confessions of the Other Woman (Arthur Schwartz and Howard Dietz), You're Gonna Hear From Me (Andre and Dory Previn) and Pete Rugolo's Interlude. The latter song has been knocked out of the park by Swift's mom, singer Stephanie Nakasian. Go here.

Here's You're Gonna Hear From Me...

Thelonious Monk radio. WKCR-FM will broadcast its annual Thelonious Monk birthday broadcast on Thursday, October 10, playing the pianist's music for 24 hours (EDT). You can tune in from anywhere in the world on your phone or computer by going here. 

Stephen Feldman sent along a video clip from his new album, Bittersweet Dream. The song is No Sugar Today...

What the heck. Here's Aretha Franklin and Stevie Wonder performing Stevie's Until You Come Back to Me in 2005...

Oddball album cover of the week.

So nice when a gal gets to spend some quality time with her father.

Johnny Costa Albums Reissued

On May 1, 1969, Fred Rogers was in Washington, D.C., testifying before the U.S. Senate Subcommittee on Communications. A year earlier, Rogers had begun hosting Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, a children's television show launched in Pittsburgh on a local affiliate of NET. He was there hoping to convince Congress not to cut in half a promised $20 million federal grant to fund PBS and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. President Nixon wanted to cleave the grant and use the money to support the war in Vietnam. [Photo above of Johnny Costa, Mister Rogers' Neighborhood's jazz pianist]

As Rogers testified softly about children's television, the attributes of his show and why the full $20 million was needed for public television, the committee chairman, Sen. John Pastore (D/R.I.), politely listened. [Photo above of Fred Rogers courtesy of PBS]

Here's Rogers's testimony, which turned into an artful speech on children and decency...

Mister Rogers' Neighborhood grew in popularity, of course, and remained on the air until 2001. Rogers died in 2003. Now, with Tom Hanks's A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood opening on November 22, Omnivore Records has re-issued two rare albums: Johnny Costa Plays Mister Rogers' Neighborhood and It's Such a Good Feeling: The Best of Mister Rogers, both featuring Rogers singing backed by Costa, bassist Carl McVicker and drummer Bobby Rawsthorne.

The albums are a welcome reminder of gentler times and a respite from the news. As I wrote about Costa in 2018 (go here), the pianist was greatly influenced by Art Tatum, and his playing had a spirited, childlike quality. Johnny Costa Plays Mister Rogers is an exceptional album. As you listen to it, the playful melodies will enchant and overwhelm you. The music is a balm. I re-listened to the album over and over yesterday from 1p.m. to 5 and again from 7 to 9 p.m. Frankly, I could spend all day today listening to it again. That's how good the album is. Costa's playing is nothing short of hair-raising.

It's Such a Good Feeling also is comforting. Virtually all of the show's songs were written by Rogers—the words and music. Though he was admittedly nerdy and shamelessly low-tech, Rogers was perhaps the greatest salesman for integrity and kindness. And in Costa's playing and arrangements, Rogers's messages were tenderly framed and delightful. When Rogers brought Costa aboard for the duration of the show, he certainly heard something of himself and his mission.

Johnny Costa died in 1996; Fred Rogers died in 2003.

JazzWax tracks: You'll find Omnivore's new Johnny Costa Plays Mister Rogers' Neighborhood and It's Such a Good Feeling: The Best of Mister Rogers here and here.

JazzWax clips: Here's the upcoming trailer for A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, which centers on Rogers and a character based on Esquire writer Tom Junod, who traveled to Pittsburgh in 1998 to profile Rogers and wound up discovering himself.

Here's Tom's Esquire profile, which was a masterpiece when I read in back in 1998 and remains so today.

Here's the trailer to last year's excellent documentary on Fred Rogers, Won't You Be My Neighbor...

Here's Johnny Costa playing Won't You Be My Neighbor...

Here's Rogers singing It's You I Like...

It's You I Like

And here's Rogers introducing Costa, Rawsthorne and McVicker...

John Coltrane: Blue World

Between Crescent in April 1964 and A Love Supreme in December of that year, saxophonist John Coltrane recorded music for a foreign film. Recorded in June '64 at Rudy Van Gelder's studio in Englewood Cliffs, N.J., eight tracks were produced by Coltrane and featured him on tenor saxophone backed by McCoy Tyner (p), Jimmy Garrison (b) and Elvin Jones (d). Interestingly, the music Coltrane recorded that afternoon was largely unknown until a few years ago, when the tape reels were discovered. Last week, the tracks were issued for the first time on an album entitled Blue World (Impulse). [Photo above of John Coltrane by Chuck Stewart]

Some critics have pushed back against Verve/Impulse for positioning the music as a "lost album." They argue that the scattershot collection of takes wasn't conceived or executed as a complete work and were recorded without Coltrane and his quartet viewing a single frame of the film. Others have griped that the songs were remakes of already existing studio material, which is true. Naima (three takes) originally appeared on Coltrane's Giant Steps (1959), Village Blues (three takes) is from My Favorite Things (1960), Blue World is actually Out of This World, from Coltrane (1962), Like Sonny is from Coltrane Jazz (1961) and Traneing In appeared first on John Coltrane With the Red Garland Trio (1958).

After listening to the album about a half dozen times, I tend to feel such criticism is a bit unfair. Blue World is as much a soundtrack album as Sonny Rollins's compositions for Alfie or Charles Mingus's three hours of impressionistic music for director John Cassavetes original version of Shadows in 1958 (by the way, where is that music today?). As for the beef that Coltrane's film music was a reworking of earlier material, that doesn't bother me either. His updates of existing tracks were more than sufficient for incidental film music.

Which brings us to the film itself. In 1964, Canadian filmmaker Gilles Groulx directed Le Chat Dans le Sac (The Cat in the Bag), a black-and-white art-house movie about two young lovers in Montreal. The film is in French. Whether it was released in the U.S. with subtitles is unclear. In essence, it's a precursor to A Man and a Woman (1966), without the sports cars or dramatic ending.

As Ashley Kahn writes in the album's liner notes:

Barbara Ulrich played “Barbara” in the film — her first major cinematic role — and she became Gilles Groulx’s life companion in real life, uniquely positioning her to know the why and how of Coltrane’s contribution. “I met Gilles when I did the screen test for Le Chat and it turned out we were both jazz fans,” she says. “When we moved in together, it turned out we had many of the same albums — jazz was holiness to Gilles and he had every Coltrane album that ever came out. Coltrane to him was an absolute master.” 

Groulx (above) mustered the courage to ask Coltrane to record music for his film. A Florida contact put him in touch with Jimmy Garrison, who in turn connected him with the saxophonist. Coltrane sensed a kindred soul and said yes. Groulx, according to Ulrich, was forever grateful.

Before I listened to Blue World, I decided that watching the film in its entirety was mandatory. How else to fully understand what I would be hearing? I highly recommend doing so. Even if you don't understand French, it's a lovely, romantic love letter to winter, the evolving French New Wave film movement, Montreal before Expo '67, and the sudden emergence of a global youth culture with freer values. In fact, what I did eventually was to mute the film's sound and let Blue World play on a loop over the top. When you watch the the film and listen to the album, both the movie and the music taken on a new meaning. One can't help but wonder why more films didn't make greater use of jazz as themes and incidental music.

Album or no album, Blue World is a beautiful, moody work in its entirety, a tender favor for an artist and a French-Canadian friend and fan.

John Coltrane died in 1967; Gilles Groulx died in 1994.

JazzWax tracks: You'll find John Coltrane's Blue World here. The album also is available as a CD and vinyl LP.

JazzWax clips: Here's Gilles Groulx's Le Chat Dans le Sac (1964)...

Here's take 1 of Naima...

And here's a short, angular Like Sonny...

John Koenig on Art Pepper

Last week, I caught up with John Koenig, son of Lester Koenig, who founded Contemporary Records in Los Angeles in 1951. Lester at Contemporary was instrumental in preserving some of the finest music recorded on the West Coast in the 1950s and beyond, particularly the work of Art Pepper. John is a cellist, an attorney and Grammy-nominated producer. When I spoke with him, we talked about Pepper and his dad. John mentioned he had written an essay in 2015 for Art Pepper's Live at Fat Tuesday's, an album featuring Pepper at the New York club in April 1981 released on Spain's Elemental Records in 2015 and produced by Zev Feldman. After I read John's essay, I asked if I could share it with readers. John was happy to let me post it. [Photo above of Art Pepper courtesy of Laurie Pepper]

Here's John's essay on Art Pepper:

In the four decades since Art Pepper returned to music after his years out of the public eye owing to incarceration and drug addiction, a great deal has been written about him as the iconic jazz alto saxophonist he was. And certainly after his re-emergence, the perception of Art as an avatar for the stereotypical crash-and-burn junkie jazz musician became so well-settled in the lore that the lurid details of Art's life have become at least as interesting to the public as his transcendent musical gifts.

Analyses of Art Pepper as a musician, scholarly assessments of his stature in jazz and the broad strokes of his story are ably dealt with elsewhere. What I am able to offer here are some of my own recollections of Art as I knew him—from my vantage point as the son of Lester Koenig (who produced Art's most iconic recordings of the 1950s, '60s and '70s) and as a producer myself who was lucky enough to have recorded Art. I also had a chance to work with Art purely on the technical side of music.

When I met Art in 1972, I had just graduated from college and was working at Contemporary Records. This was a couple of years before Art had reestablished his musical career after his years in prison and at Synanon, the drug rehabilitation program in Santa Monica, Calif.

The first time Art dropped by the office while I was working at the label, my father, Art and I sat at an old rickety card table in the back room, a shipping room and warehouse that doubled as Contemporary's recording studio where Art had recorded all of his legendary Contemporary albums. Over a lunch of Italian sandwiches, we talked about where Art saw himself and where he saw himself going now that he seemed to be getting his life together.

My first impression of him was of a reserved, soft-spoken, somewhat fragile guy. This surprised me; I had been expecting a wilder, more outgoing and dynamic character, given what my father had told me over the years about his harrowing, yet bigger-than-life story: prison, drug addiction and other horrors of life all too common to many mid-20th century jazz musicians.

For most of my childhood, I was aware of Art as the great West Coast alto player, perhaps the greatest of his day. And I'd heard my father and various musicians refer to Art as a heroin addict and convict. I suppose in my own childish imagination, I'd conjured an image of Art as an exotic, dynamic, swashbuckling figure. But confronted with the reality of the man when I actually met him in the flesh, I could see the damage the life he'd lived had done to him physically and emotionally. My naive image of him as powerful and mysterious melted away.

Art wasn't a particularly imposing figure to begin with. He wasn't a very big guy. When he walked, he shuffled a bit. His complexion was sallow; he didn't strike me as healthy or vital. After the ravages of drugs, prison and his assorted health issues, he didn't look quite like the Marcello Mastroianni clone whose face was so arresting on his '50s album covers. His voice was a little nasal and he droned a bit when he talked. His prison tattoos and his hernia, which protruded from his abdomen, were not the kinds of things unworldly young people like me saw every day in the early '70s. They were a little unsettling. But I remember also that he had a soulful, artistic way about him that seemed reflective of his lyricism as a musician.

Art wasn't one for small talk. He seemed guarded and uncomfortable in his skin that day, even though he clearly was very attached to my father. Maybe it was because we were "squares." I don't really know. Nevertheless, the conversation eventually settled on his plans to get back into music. He was happy to have been asked to conduct a clarinet clinic for college students out of state, but it was going to be unfamiliar territory for him and he didn't seem to know exactly what to expect.

He didn't have a clarinet, so my father volunteered my step-brother Shawn's modest junior high-school student instrument as a loaner. And after that was settled, they talked about various musicians he'd been playing with recently and opportunities that were developing for him to perform. And, of course, they discussed in the most general terms the idea of Art beginning to record again. Of course, he did return to recording, yielding four new albums my father produced (one of which, the Village Vanguard sessions, comprised several discs), and many albums for other labels, as well.

Art was a perfectionist. In spite of his musical stature, he seemed to have a nagging anxiety that somehow he wouldn't measure up technically and would embarrass himself in some challenging musical setting he might find himself in. This was, of course, nonsense. Yet in spite of this unfounded self-doubt, deep down, it was crystal-clear he had the solid conviction that he was a great musician. I chalk up his seeming insecurity to stage fright.

Everyone who plays music in front of strangers experiences some degree of nervousness. But having been around musicians all my life and having had a career as a cellist myself as reference, Art struck me as having more intense stage fright than most musicians I've worked with or observed or, indeed, that I've experienced. But this aspect of his psychology, while uncomfortable for him, did have the effect of making him demand a lot from himself. And this expectation of excellence extended to those he worked with, as I was to learn.

My father and I produced Art's album, The Trip, together. One of my tasks leading up to the session was to write out charts for some of the tunes. Art and I got together before the date and went over the charts. It turned out that on the one I'd written for Woody Shaw's Sweet Love of Mine, I'd made a couple of errors, (a small transposition error and another small rhythmic goof). When Art played what I'd written and it was wrong, he gave me a withering look that still stays with me today when I think of him. Of course, the mistakes were easily fixed and I revised the chart on the spot in about 30 seconds. But problems and mistakes clearly upset Art, whether he made them or someone else did.

Thinking back on that day, the thing I remember most was his intensity, his focus. You could see the wheels turning as he attacked the chart. His concentration as he played, processing the notes on the page, was definitely something for a young musician to emulate, and I was lucky enough to experience it up close. There was nothing casual about Art's approach to being a musician. When it came to music, Art was absolutely, totally involved and totally committed. It was life and death for him.

The other thing I remember from that day was his unbelievably beautiful sound heard from up close. His sound was crucial to him. It was truly his means of expressing his emotions. As rich and expressive as Art's sound was on record or amplified in a club, that sound was even more breathtaking from just a few feet away.
[Photo above of Art Pepper by Jan Persson (c) CTSImages.com]

When he talked about music and musicians, Art didn't pull any punches. I remember one day in '72 or '73 when he came by Contemporary for a visit and heard some tracks by a prominent jazz artist, a household name, that my father and I were preparing for release. At first, Art was excited. He listened to the head and said to my father, "You're putting this out? Great." But then the music turned "outside" and so did Art's view of it. "It's ugly. There's no beauty to it. I can't stand it. It's awful." He had no speed governor on his criticism, as much as he respected my father, and no mechanism to soften the blow.

Art was not the most socially graceful person I've ever met. The first time I saw him after my father died was just before the memorial service, at which Art played with George Cables, Leroy Vinnegar and Shelly Manne. When I saw him, the first thing Art said to me was, "Could you write me a letter for my parole officer?" At the time, I hadn't seen Art in around a year and a half, as I had been living in Europe. Art's request—made at that particular moment—struck me as a bit abrupt, my father having just died, after all. But again, in my opinion, Art's difficult life from childhood onward had conditioned him to focus on taking care of himself. If he needed something done to make his way through life, he was going to focus on doing it. If he needed someone to do something to make it happen, he was going to ask.

Art was very sensitive guy, and I think he always had his antennae out ready to pick up on slights or insults. In 1980, I had him in the studio on a Freddie Hubbard date. The rhythm section was Herbie Hancock, Stanley Clarke and Peter Erskine. Freddie was late and so the guys just decided to play a little together. At one point, Stanley innocently said something to Art that Art interpreted as condescending. He called out a tune, a standard and said something to Art like, "You'll know this." Art interpreted this remark as a younger, successful musician sizing him up and assuming he was out of step with the times; he'd only know standards. I know that wasn’t Stanley's intention. I remember thinking at the time that Art had to have tortured the meaning of what Stanley had said in order to take offense. [Photo above of Art Pepper courtesy of Laurie Pepper]

But Art reacted. Sharply. I was in the control room, so I could hear everything they were saying. I thought we might be headed for some trouble, but in a few moments, the crisis resolved itself and everything was fine.

Art did have an unusually thin skin and his hyper-vigilance seemed to me to have been born of his feeling throughout his whole life that he was perpetually in danger of being attacked in some way; of being disrespected or having something else bad happen to him. Of course, Art's wife, Laurie, was steadfast in protecting Art from most of the insults life sometimes inevitably brings one's way. Consequently, from the time I met Art, I rarely saw one Pepper without the other.

Laurie certainly was indefatigable in bearing Art's cudgels. She was the Art Pepper Quartet's manager, but she was also Art's muse. I was with her many times in studio control rooms or clubs when Art was playing. Clearly, Laurie was always in the moment when Art played; she was uninhibited in showing how much she was feeling the music whenever she listened to him. And I think he could sense her energy and relied on it. If Laurie was grooving with it, he knew everything was good. [Photo of Laurie and Art Pepper courtesy of Laurie Pepper]

Altogether, Art Pepper the man was a confounding combination of elements. Indeed, he was one of the most complicated people I've ever known. His many parts were often incompatible and at odds with each other. I believe he was unsettled about life and why things developed the way they did for him. He felt things deeply, and he felt very few things more deeply than perceived slights. Certainly, he was unhappy about the difficulties that befell him along the way. He did adapt, but my impression is that he did not do so easily, and the pull of drugs was always lurking not too far away.

But through it all, he had his music. In spite of his predilections for gloominess and self-destruction, I think he took some satisfaction from his tremendous public adulation around the world and the satisfying musical affinity he had with his band. And it seems to me he also took satisfaction from the knowledge that by pushing himself to excellence, he'd achieved it. I think this is ultimately what made him tick. [Photo above of Art Pepper courtesy of Laurie Pepper]

April 11, 2015

© 2015 John Koenig