Drummin' fflen

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Drummin' fllen
The Heartbeat of Jazz
THE BEBOP Y E A R S

Burt Korall

OXPORD
UNIVERSITY PRESS

2 0 0 2
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Korall, Burt.
Drummin' men : the heartbeat of jazz : the bebop years / Burt Korall.
p. cm. Includes bibliographical references (p. ),
discography (p. ), and index.
ISBN 0-19-514812-6
1. Drummers (Musicians)—United States—Biography.
2. Jazz musicians—United States—Biography.
3. Bop (Music)—History and criticism.
I. Title: Drumming men. II. Title
ML399 .B658 2002 786.9'1655'0922—dc21
[B] 2001066041

135798642
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
 For my wife, Paula—
sage, supportive, marvelous in every way.
For Alyssa and Ryan, our grandchildren—
I wish good health and all the positive things that life can bring.
For my parents, Martha and Max Korall,
who were so caring and thoughtful, and for Dora Landau, my dear
grandmother, who bought me my first drum set so long ago.
This page intentionally left blank
conrcim

PREFACE ix

1. Bebop 3
Two DRUMMERS'VIEWS OF THINGS 3 3
BEBOP-SOME COMMENTS 3
BOP AND DRUMS-A NEW WORLD 10 10

2. from twin? to Bop-The Visionaries n

Jo JONES (1911-1985) 11
SIDNEY (ATLETT (1910-1951) 13

j. Transitional figures 15
Lou FROMM (1919-??) 15
BILLY EXINER (1910-1983) 17
DENZIL BEST (1917-1965) 23
lRvKiuGER(i92i- ) 29
JACKIE MILLS (1922- ) 38
J.C. HEARD (1917-1988) 1,7
ROSSIERE "SHADOW" WILSON (1919-1959) 59

i|. The Innovators 71

KENNY ILOOK" CLARKE (191*1-1985) 71
MAX ROACH (1921,- ) 90
STAN LEVEY (1926- ) 109
ART BLAKEY (1919-1990) 128
ROY HAYNES (1925- ) i<t6
SHELLY MANNE (1920-198(1) 161,
DON LAMOND (1921- ) 183
TINY KAHN (19211-1953) 202
5. Into the 1950$ 219
PHILLY Jot JONES (1923-1985) 219
MEL LEWIS (1929-1990) 233 233

6. Other $i?nifleant figures 2^9

ED SHAUGHNESSY (1929- ) 21,9
ART TAYLOR (1929-1995) 251 251
IKE DAY (1926-??) 251,

APPENDIX! Drum Rudiments 257

APPENDIX? Transcriptions of Drum Solos 259
NOTES 273 273
BIBLIOGRAPHY 275a 275
DISCOaGRAPHY 277 277
THE INTERVIEWEES 283 283
INDEX 297 297
PRtfflU

Passion makes all the difference. If you care deeply about something, life
becomes so much more meaningful on a variety of levels. In my case, a
passion for music enhanced the good and made the bad tolerable.
Jazz on the radio initially caught my ear. Bands big and small and singers
live and on records cemented a relationship with jazz and popular music
that has lasted as long as I have.
Drums have been my instrument since a kindergarten teacher asked what
each of us would like to play in a kiddie band. There was something quite
seductive about the snare drum and the glistening cymbals. Drums and I
connected. It was love at first sight and sound.
In theaters, hotels, ballrooms, clubs, and concert halls, the music and the
drum set took on a reality and dimension they lacked on the air. Wherever
I went, my eyes and ears inclined toward the drummer. The sound of the
instrument, its look, the responsibility and glamour of being a crucial factor
in the music—these completed the seduction.
There are some wonderful memories that spread out over the years.
Seeing and hearing and coming to know Gene Krupa, Buddy Rich, Ray
McKinley, Louie Bellson, Jo Jones, Max Roach, Roy Haynes, Mel Lewis,
and so many others put me in touch with a great deal I had to learn.
My affair with drums intensified when I began to study with Allen Paley
on West 99th Street in Manhattan. He had stopped playing because of
illness, but it was apparent to me, even as an inexperienced teenager, what
drumming had lost. He was an extraordinary technician and had a partic-
ular flair for jazz. Beautiful to watch and to listen to, he loved what he
did. He never wanted to do anything else. Tuberculosis made it impossible
for him to carry on his work at CBS and on the road with bands. Just
before the diagnosis, Jo Jones had arranged for Allen to join the Benny
Goodman band. Then, quite suddenly it was over. Eventually he left music
entirely.
I learned from him what dedication meant. He set a formidable example.
He would tolerate nothing less than the best you had to give. I must say that
there was nothing better, at that time in my life, than learning and earning
the approval of those I respected.
All acts of kindness were very much appreciated. On a cold winter after-
noon in 1947 or 1948,1 dropped in at Manny's, the now famous music store
on West 48th Street in Manhattan. As was typical of the drum students who
hung out at the store, I began playing on a large practice pad on the counter.
An older man stood behind me and watched my hands. It was Jesse Price,
from Kansas City, who had played with Basie and was appearing at the
Savoy Ballroom with the Jay McShann band. He showed unusual interest
and respect after listening a bit, and issued an invitation to taxi up to Harlem
and attend a McShann rehearsal.
x Preface
It was great to be noticed and invited to hear the band that had featured
Charlie Parker a few years earlier. Price, the guys in the band, and the lady
singer made me feel very much at home. As a drummer, Price provided a
propulsive gift to the band, lifting it up in an unpretentious, straight-ahead,
emotion-filled manner. He played simply and potently, paying no mind to
technique or flash for their own sake. He gave a technique-obsessed kid a
formidable object lesson. Late that afternoon, I made my way to the train
at i2.5th Street with one of the tunes, "Uptown Blues," resounding in my
head. I can still sing it so many years later. Does this sort of link still exist
between older musicians and young players deeply enmeshed in what Gene
Krupa used to call "the learning groove"? I wonder.
Years of study and playing and listening increased and widened the range
of my interests. I learned what I could do and what was impossible. I began
to know myself. Listening to Buddy Rich with Tommy Dorsey and his own
band, Max Roach and Roy Haynes with Parker and Bud Powell on 52,nd
Street, and Shadow Wilson with Basic gave me pause. Would it be possible
to move to that level?
A writing instructor at NYU—someone I admired a great deal—
suggested that I think about writing. She had sensed something in the pieces
I submitted. She gave me an option.
All through school, in the service with Armed Forces Radio, and for a
while thereafter, I lived several lives at the same time—writing and playing,
working in radio. Finally I gave up regular performance in favor of writing.
I was comfortable as a writer and enjoyed the many aspects of the creative
process.
Since the 19505,1 have written about jazz, popular music, and entertain-
ment in multiple outlets, worked in radio and recording, and filled executive
positions at BMI, the world's largest music licensing organization. During
the past fifteen years, I have been the director of the BMI Jazz Composers
Workshop, helping develop composers for jazz's symphony orchestra, the
big band. Nothing has been lost. What I started out to be nurtures what I
ultimately have become.
This book and the one that preceded it, Drummin' Men—The Heartbeat
of Jazz: The Swing Years—indeed, all of the magazine, newspaper, and book
work I've done—document a life. My passion for music, musicians, and
percussion has not cooled. If anything, the feeling has gained in strength.
The love affair continues unabated in the years of so-called maturity.
Like the others I've done, this book was a collective project. Thanks are
due to many for their kindness and interest. First and foremost, my love and
appreciation to my wife, Paula, for her continuing encouragement and work.
I also want to thank Bill Miller, editorial director of Modern Drummmer;
Frank Alkyer, editorial director of Down Beat; Artie Shaw; Dick Katz; the
innovative teacher and drummer Jim Chapin; bebop pioneers Stan Levey,
Max Roach, and Roy Haynes; my colleagues in the BMI Jazz Composers
Workshop, Jim McNeely and Michael Abene; Louie Bellson; Sonny Rollins;
Bob Brookmeyer; George Wein; Audrey Wilson, the widow of Shadow
Wilson; Dan Morgenstern and his associates at the Institute of Jazz Studies
at Rutgers University, Newark; Deborah L. Gillaspie, curator of the Chicago
Jazz Archive, University of Chicago; Charles Walton, Joe Segal, and Valarie
Campbell, distinguished members of the Chicago jazz community; Bruce
Boyd Raeburn, curator of the Hogan Archive of Traditional Jazz, Tulane
 Preface xi xi
University, New Orleans; Phil Brown; Flip Manne, widow of Shelly Manne;
Richard Mealey, who transcribed well over one hundred interviews;
Manhattan School of Music's Justin Di Cioccio; writer-musicians Bill
Kirchner, Loren Schoenberg, and Dick Sudhalter; Doc Severinsen, Ira Gitler,
David Baker, Nat Hentoff, George Russell, John Riley, Illinois Jacquet,
George Shearing, Johnny Mandel, Gene DiNovi, Elliot Lawrence, Eddie
Bert, Vinnie Dean, "the jazz maniac" Kenny Washington, New York jazz
radio's Phil Schaap, Andre Previn, Hal McKusick, Terry Gibbs, Bill Holman,
Bill Russo, Billy May, Lejazz Hot's Louis-Victor Mialy, Stanley Cowell, Russ
Freeman, George Shearing, Ira Sullivan, Don Sickler, Benny Golson, John
Levy, Donald Byrd, Hope and Star, the daughters of Billy Exiner; the J. C.
Heard family, wife Hiroko, son Eric, and brother David; Max Bennett, Don
Lamond, Billy Bauer, Larry Bunker, Charli Persip, Sonny Igoe, Paul Motian,
Jack Sperling, Cindy Blackman, Stanley Kay, Joe Morello, Earl Palmer, Jake
Hanna, Teddy Edwards, Freddie Gruber, Irv Kluger, Ed Shaughnessy, Bobby
Rosengarden, Billy Taylor, Chico Hamilton, Laurence Marable, Joe Harris,
Ed Thigpen, Ted Sommer, Rudy Van Gelder, Bill Crow, Cecil Payne, Jimmy
Knepper, Pat Metheny, Clora Bryant, Bobby Watson, Hank Jones, George
Coleman, Jack Eagle, Henry Jerome, Pee Wee Erwin, Jimmy and Percy
Heath, Marty Napoleon, Howard Rumsey, Rufus Reid, Marvin "Doc"
Holladay, Vin Haynes, David Amram, Chubby Jackson, Al Epstein, Al
Porcino, Jimmy and Juanita Giuffre, Clark Terry, Grady Tate, John LaPorta,
Jimmy Gourley, Ron Carter, Art Davis, Aaron Bell, Snooky Young, Dick
Hyman, Nathan Davis, Gary Giddins, Hollie I. West, Chuck Bernstein, Dave
Blume, Phil Leshin, Horace Silver, Charlie Rice, Hal Gaylor, Tom Ferguson,
Abe Siegel, Bruce Paulson, Milt Bernhart, Cliff Smalls, Annie Ross, Jon
Hendricks, Benny Barth, Jack Brand and Bill Korst, Gene DiNovi, Fred
Tillis, Michael Cuscuna, Terri Hinte of Fantasy Records, Jeff Atterton, Larry
Goldstein, Mike Wofford, Kenny Soderblom, Thelonious Monk Jr., Drs.
Arthur Lindner and Nat Stockhamer; and three very close friends: Dom
Cerulli, Chuck Stewart, and mentor Bill Simon, who recently passed.
Gone but certainly not forgotten: Nat Adderley, Manny Albam, Georgie
Auld, Walter Bishop Jr., Conte Candoli, John Carisi, Doc Cheatham, Kenny
Clarke, Al Cohn, Bob Cooper, Helen Oakley Dance and Stanley Dance,
Alan Dawson, Billy Eckstine, Harry "Sweets" Edison, Mercer Ellington, Tal
Farlow, Art Farmer, John Garcia Gensel, Stan Getz, Dizzy Gillespie, George
Handy, Bill Hardman, Woody Herman, John Lewis, Mel Lewis, Steve
McCall, Remo Palmier, Charlie Perry, Roy Porter, Joe Puma, Buddy Rich,
Red Rodney, Shorty Rogers, Sal Salvador, Zoot Sims, Alvin Stoller, Barry
Ulanov, and Tony Williams.
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Drummin' Men
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 1.

Bebop

Two DRUMMERS' VIEWS OF THINGS

You play because you must.
I was drawn to the instrument when I was a kid. I loved the way drums—
and cymbals—looked, the way they smelled, the way they sounded. Once I
began playing and studying, there was no turning back.
I had several goals.
To learn the language of music and percussion.
To reach for completeness as a player—by developing my hands, arms,
feet, and back, by gaining full technical control—by becoming as consistent
as is humanly possible.
To try for the romance of the violin, the impact of brass, the tenderness
of the guitar.
To feel and bring all kinds of emotion to performances.
To make music work and sound great.
To instill in the musicians the feeling that they want me back there.
To never cheat audiences.
—TONY WILLIAMS

You can't take the instrument lightly! Relatively new to the world of music,
the drum set is very difficult to really master. There's so much to the whole
process. Just the coordination of wrists, arms, and legs, in various rhythmic
circumstances, is challenge enough.
—MAX ROACH

BEBOP-SOME COMMENTS
Change was in the air during the mid- and late 19305. Venturesome players,
composers, and arrangers sought to develop a more expressive, contempo-
rary form of music. The most important of those attempting to take music
to a new place included the highly innovative and visionary drummer Kenny
Clarke; Dizzy Gillespie, the chief theorist of the new music; Thelonious
Monk, the outwardly eccentric but surprisingly creative composer and
pianist; and, of course, the God figure, the primal source of modernism,
Charlie Parker.
Key figures paved the way for Parker and the others. Without them and
their contributions, the turn left might not have been possible.
*, Bebop
Count Basic tenorist Lester "Pres" Young had a major effect on jazz
across the board. A mysterious, wounded figure, cool, subtle, sensitive,
withdrawn, enigmatic, Pres was widely admired for his imaginative, highly
individual treatment of melody, harmony, and rhythm and for his light, lean
dancing sound.
Another precursor of modern jazz, southwestern electric guitarist Charlie
Christian, came into view after joining the Benny Goodman band in 1939.
He played and partied almost around the clock, downtown and in Harlem.
His was a short life. By 1941 Christian was ill with TB. He passed the
following year at twenty-five.
Christian and Lester Young brought a sense of chance and brightness to
their music. Infectious jazz rhythms and swing enlivened what they played.
Never unduly complicated, their solos flowed freely, often moving across
bar lines. Like Pres, Christian had a cool, quietly intense and flexible sound
consistent with his linear conception of jazz.
Bassist Jimmy Blanton also lived fast. He contracted TB and died young.
A member of the Duke Ellington orchestra from the fall of 1939 until his
passing three years later, he transformed and freed the bass, conceptually
opening the way for how the instrument would be used in modern jazz.
Pianist Art Tatum, the music's greatest virtuoso, had a major effect on
young musicians looking for a new way to do things. His impossibly fleet,
imaginative single-note lines and extraordinary harmonic combinations
defined what was possible.
The influential tenorist Coleman Hawkins also helped open the way for
the advent of bebop. He was excited by change and by players who put him
in touch with his untapped resources. He gave some indication what would
happen in the music with his legendary recording of "Body and Soul" in
1939.
"Everybody ... said I was playing wrong notes," he told writer Arnold
Shaw. "A lot of people didn't know about flatted fifths and augmented
changes. Of course, that sort of thing is extremely common now. But it
certainly wasn't before I did 'Body and Soul.'"
You can't forget trumpeter Roy Eldridge. He set precedents regarding
instrumental technique. He found his own solutions on the horn rather than
altering his harmonic, rhythmic, and melodic approach to music, as Dizzy
Gillespie did.
Gillespie's restless nature, his need to know music and explore its
possibilities, and, above all, his talent and imagination were crucial to the
development of the new discipline of bebop. His theoretical and analytical
talents paralleled and supported his ability as an instrumentalist, composer,
and arranger.
Increased use of chromaticism, altered chords, and upper extensions of
chords—ninths, elevenths, and thirteenths—were essential in the bebop con-
cept. Passing notes and chords—generally serving a connective function—
were key to the compound as well. A wider range of harmonies and uncon-
ventional intervals affected the structure, feeling, and movement of the
melodic line.
Rhythm and the rhythm section changed to accommodate what was
happening in the music itself. The new pianist's accompaniment, by neces-
sity, had to be spare, telling—a major change from the orchestral piano style
that had been dominant earlier. Teddy Wilson, who had no real connection
 Jome Comment) 5

to the modern movement, suggested promising possibilities with an eco-

nomic, well-edited piano style. But it remained to those immersed in bop,
like Bud Powell, Al Haig, George Wallington, Joe Albany, Elmo Hope, and
other disciples of Parker and Gillespie, to take the piano to an appropriate
level of relevance. The new pianist supported his colleagues in the section
and the rest of the band, allowing them freedom, the latitude to think and be
expressive in what was a refashioned context.
The bassist assumed a larger, more musical role because of the way the
new music set up and moved. Virtuosity and knowledge of music became a
must. The bass player had to loosen up and break with the inflexible, almost
rigid announcement of time common to Swing Era players before Blanton.
The move was away from grayness and anonymity, with emphasis placed on
the musicality and the personality of the man and his material. The drummer
became a time-informed, liberated voice in the rhythm section and in the
music as a whole, with far more responsibility for the shape and form of the
music.
The flexibility of the new rhythm section was suggested in the Count
Basic band of the 19305.

DICK KATZ: Listen to Basic on all those original Decca and Vocalion records.
He does a little "oom-pah" in there—for emphasis, particularly behind Pres.
But more often than not, he's suggesting bebop. Listen to the way he comps,
playing those offbeat stabbing accents, pushing the soloists on "Taxi War
Dance." Basie laid the groundwork for what became modern accompaniment
on the piano.

Jo Jones was quite undeniable, making the hi-hat sizzle, swish, and dance,
bringing a light, graceful quality to the time and the feeling of the rhythm
section. Freddie Green provided an undercoating to the rhythm. Walter Page
played intelligently and well and was very much a part of that Basie rhythm
"sound."
Bebop was inspired by four fathers. Dizzy Gillespie met Thelonious
Monk in the late 19308. Both lived in New York. They were close and
discussed their music, sometimes on a daily basis, yet there were essential
differences between the two. Gillespie was harmonically more fundamental,
and his link with the jazz past was more immediately apparent. Though it
is evident in Monk's work that he was involved with tradition and certain
key styles and innovators—Ellington, for example—he essentially was a
musician who followed a path of his own.

PETER KEEPNEWS: Monk didn't feel he was part of the bop revolution. He
always insisted in his rare interviews: "I'm not a bebopper." Some of the key
characteristics of bop were not found in Monk's music. He had no interest,
for example, in playing in very fast tempos. For him, technique solely served
an expressive function. What most interested Monk was challenging himself
and those he played with—and having his compositions played correctly!
A great interest in harmony and its possibilities tied him in with Gillespie
and Parker. They both looked up to Monk because of his harmonic knowl-
edge and originality. On the piano in Monk's apartment was a picture of
Dizzy, inscribed "To Monk: My first inspiration. Stay with it. Your boy, Dizzy
Gillespie."
6 Bebop

The truth of the matter—the hoppers got more from Monk than Monk got
from the hoppers. If there is a link, it's essentially harmonic.

Dizzy Gillespie's development from an adept Roy Eldridge imitator to a

highly original writer and player first took on speed after he joined the
Teddy Hill band in 1937. It was a particularly significant experience for
him. He replaced his idol Roy Eldridge in the band's trumpet section—a
great responsibility, at the very least. And he met Kenny Clarke.
Clarke had been trying new ideas, involving the ride cymbal, the snare,
and the bass drum. He was in the process of changing the essential character
of jazz drumming. Clarke moved the time centers from the snare and bass
drums and the hi-hat to the ride cymbal while modifying the character of the
hi-hat, using it much as he did the ride cymbal.
More colorful and fluid in his approach to the drum set and cymbals than
his predecessors, "Klook," as he would come to be known, moved beyond
what was suggested in the work of Jo Jones and Sidney Catlett. Like them,
Clarke broke time and moved afield. But there was never any doubt where
"1" was.
Clarke showed how to better integrate and sharpen a performance. As a
piece opened up and revealed its character, he gave it a sense of pace and
perspective by doing a variety of things. He placed snare and bass drum
accents where they added strength, musicality, and surprise. By playing
seemingly off-balance rhythmic combinations, cleverly coupling the
"sounds" of the snare and bass drums, Clarke increased the drummer's
impact. He brought new dimension to the drums and to the music itself,
indicating by what he did that the instrument could and should do more.
With the information and understanding provided over the last sixty
years, it is clear that what Klook did was truly profound. He changed how
time was viewed, used, and physically presented. He proved that the
symmetrical and the asymmetrical could live in a state of intimacy. He took
the drums from black and white to Technicolor.
"Rhythm was always my thing," Gillespie told me on several occasions,
adding: "It really comes before the other musical elements." Rhythm
supported and gave reality to his other innovations. The rhythms he
employed became less symmetrical, increasingly diversified, and more tied
in with his overall thinking. The shape and structure and rhythmic qualities
of Gillespie's improvisations owe a great deal to Charlie Parker. But what
he did with harmonies—organizing them imaginatively, provocatively—
added interest and brought to his commentary a boldness of spirit, a sense
of range and continuity, and the subtlety and color that are possible when
knowledge and ability meet on a high level.
Clearly the new music called for a new musician—knowledgeable, dex-
terous, deft, adventurous. The new repertory asked much of the player,
physically and emotionally. Bebop's speed, fury, precision, its built-in sense
of difference and risk; its suggestion of chaos: all these things partially
masked the music's substance and great significance at first. Time and
increasing understanding of what the innovators wrought in the 19408 have
provided a clear view of the truth. Bebop was a master stroke of invention
that made possible a fruitful future for jazz.
 Some Comment* 7
DAVID BAKER: The new music promoted the whole concept of virtuosity. It had
always been a factor in jazz. But now it was the prerequisite for being able
to survive.
Modern jazz no longer was really connected to particular functions—
dancing or entertainment. This had the effect of removing jazz from the
mainstream of popular music; until then, the terms jazz and popular music
were interchangeable. As a result, previous limitations were being eliminat-
ed. The tempos could be faster, slower; the music, generally more flexible.
For instance, one can't imagine someone in the Swing Era actually playing
a tune as slow as Charlie Parker's treatment of "Embraceable You." And by
the same token, it's very difficult to imagine a traditional jazz musician play-
ing something as fast as Bird's "Ko Ko."
The most dramatic change, however—the one that sets bebop apart from
everything that happened before and after—was that for the first time in the
history of jazz, the tunes, were one with the means, the techniques the play-
ers utilized to express themselves when they were improvising.
The boppers played a common repository of material, using the same
phrases and phraseology as Bird, Dizzy, Tadd Dameron, and Don Byas. A
player or writer could learn the craft by getting into the tunes themselves.
From an improvisation standpoint, the innovators had produced a body of
literature that was tune-specific to the music.
The boppers, however, still played standards that were compatible with
what they wanted to do and say. Many of the first creations were based on
well-known "musical" songs. As bop developed, the writers relied less
on what already existed and moved into idiomatic, original compositions.
Unlike most of the writers—with the exception of Tadd Dameron—Dizzy
wrote full-blown compositions, e.g., "Woody 'n' You" and "Night in
Tunisia."
Repertory often determines what happens in the music. With the coming
of bop, what I like to call instrumentally oriented music emerged—wider in
range and capable of being played at a faster tempo than vocal music. More
chromatic and angular, like Dizzy's "Hot House" and Bird's "Moose the
Mooche," it is music that a singer wouldn't normally try to tackle.
There was another drastic change—from the big band, with all of its
opulence, controlled by the arranger-composer and band leader, to the
stripped-down small group: a trumpet, a saxophone, and a rhythm sec-
tion. None of the duplication of function so typical of the big band. The
unnecessary and inconsequential were edited out in the small band con-
text, including introductions and backgrounds and elaborate endings.
Getting to the improvising was the overwhelming concern of the music and
the musicians.
The concept of chromaticism, more than anything else other than the
strong link between tune and improvisation, was the thing that gave bebop
a sharp sense of distinction. That and getting rid of all the encumbrances.
The speed and the thrust of the music were such that you had to play as
cleanly as possible without extra vibrato, without any trills, without the use
of the plunger mutes.
All of that stuff disappeared because you didn't need it. Very simply, the
music was intended to be something else. These are the things that a lot of
8 Bebop

people criticized because they felt what had been done somehow dehuman-
ized the music. But as you move from period to period, the imperatives
change.

IRA GlTLER: Bebop was very strong in the black communities in the big cities:
Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, of course, New York, and certain parts of
Los Angeles. Young black people really got with it. The music struck a chord
in the black communities. It wasn't just the musicians who went for it. The
recordings by Dizzy, Parker, Dexter Gordon, and others sold heavily—
seventy to eighty thousand on 78 discs. The records also were on the juke
boxes in the black areas and very much appreciated.
Young players and writers and even singers were captivated by bebop. All
kinds of bands began hiring modern musicians and playing bop things.
Benny Carter had a band in the mid-1940s including Max Roach on drums,
J. J. Johnson, trombone, and Miles Davis, trumpet. Woody Herman, Boyd
Raeburn, Georgie Auld, Stan Kenton, Claude Thornhill, Benny Goodman,
Elliot Lawrence, Buddy Rich, Artie Shaw, Gene Krupa, so many bands—
mirrored the influence of Bird and Dizzy and the others.
Make no mistake, bebop never became a really popular thing. It didn't
sweep the country, like the Goodman, Miller, and Shaw bands; it didn't have
best-selling records of the magnitude of "Sing, Sing, Sing," "In the Mood,"
and "Begin the Beguine."
The music wasn't tailored for the dancer or lazy listener, as some earlier
jazz and many big bands had been. To get the full benefit of bebop, you had
to be able to hear in a certain way—be aware of the passing tones and the
relationship of updated improvisation to the melody, rhythm, and harmonic
base. So many years after it was first introduced, bebop is still putting
players, writers, and audiences on the spot.

Though others made contributions to the evolution of modern jazz,

Charlie Parker was the key to its development. So much originated with
him. There were new techniques—how to go from one note to another, as
Dizzy Gillespie so often put it. Parker brought into play syncopations, inter-
vals, and a feeling and flow that were particular to him. Jazz rhythm
changed to accommodate Parker and Gillespie. "Every music has its own
rhythm—a time feeling that goes with it. Our music has a rhythmic
approach particular to itself," the trumpeter insisted. Bebop phraseology
certainly stemmed from Parker. The harmonies mirrored the direction taken
by the two pathfinders. They both continually experimented and invented,
with the piano as prime guide and resource. But if one musician had to be
singled out for bearing the responsibility for the new music, it was Bird.
Barry Ulanov, co-editor of Metronome, alerted the world when Parker
came to New York's Savoy Ballroom with the Jay McShann band in 1942.
He was the first critic to sense the importance of Parker and to focus press
attention on him.

BARRY ULANOV: I was absolutely knocked out at the Savoy. I thought Bird's
tone was peculiar. But it took me maybe a few more evenings uptown to get
used to it. One thing's for sure: I had never heard such ideas!
He was far from the finished musician he would become very quickly. All
 Jome Comment) 9

the same, I was overwhelmed at the Savoy and by those blessed remotes,
featuring the McShann band. They felt like flowers being delivered to me in
the middle of the night.
Forgetting for a moment Bird's tremendous fund of melody, in many ways
he was the most rhythmically interesting musician to come along in my life-
time. He was a figure of legend. Much larger than life. Heroic in size.
Nobody ever created such continuity. He thought in the absolute, melodi-
cally. He just understood note after note after note after note. That's the
rarest of talents. Bach had it.
Bird was a tremendous move ahead—not a violation of what came before,
not some kind of eccentric addition that stands out by itself and has no con-
nection with the past. He was one of the three or four most important people
in jazz history. He was the link [with the past and future]. He was the mind!

PHIL LESHIN: So many musicians got involved with heroin because, more than
anything else, they wanted to play like Bird, play with Bird, be around Bird.
If that's what he did, maybe that's why he was so good. I don't think the deci-
sion in regard to hard drugs was made consciously. It just kind of happened.

STAN LEVEY: The junk thing spread like a cancer, from one to another.

GEORGE WALLINGTON: Everybody started to follow that pattern. I guess we

thought getting high would make things better.

GERRY MULLIGAN: It became the social glue that tied us all together.

AL EPSTEIN: I first became aware of Bird while I was in Georgie Auld's band
in the early 1940s. One of the guys in Georgie's trumpet section had heard
Bird at the Savoy with McShann. He came to my room in the Plymouth Hotel
downtown, raving about Bird's playing. Because Bird was using, he felt there
was a link between "stuff" and what Bird could do. He brought out his
"works" and prepared to do the thing. "It can't do anything but help," this
guy insisted. I couldn't make that. My father was a diabetic, and the whole
thing turned me off.
So many people went down because of Bird. He set an almost impossible
example, musically. I remember one night in particular at Child's Paramount
on Broadway—the restaurant-club underneath the Paramount. Nate
Peterson, an alto man in Henry Jerome's bop band, threw his horn down on
the stand, breaking it into pieces because he couldn't deal with the frustra-
tion of not being able to play like Bird.
Bird made heroin hip. Even some of the best players got involved. The
drug has the capacity to alleviate anxiety. No matter how good someone is,
there's that fear down deep of sounding ridiculous in front of people. The
dominant attitude back in the forties was "Whatever it takes to consistently
play well."
But this tension-release mechanism is a destroyer. The habit can't be
controlled, as some thought. There's never enough money to support it.
Eventually the body falls apart. And then it's all over.

JIMMY KNEPPER: Now that generation is keeling over one by one. . ..

10 Bebop

The drug epidemic related to Parker, but it also was linked to the number
of insecurities characteristic of the young boppers. Not the least of these
had to do with how different and difficult the music was, compared to what
had come before.
To perform in a manner that would be considered suitable made for
pressure and stress. Trumpeter Red Rodney, who got caught in the heroin
web during the bebop years, ultimately freeing himself much later, told me
that the young players tried desperately to be original within the style. "It
was the thing everyone wanted," he said.
The need to use revealed how a number of these musicians viewed
themselves. It documented their feeling of distance from the musical and
general mainstream—their separation and difference.
Parker performances were a virtuosic measure of contemporary life—its
uncertainty, feelings of joy and happiness, rebelliousness, dissatisfaction,
and alienation in an uncertain world. His sound and ideas, then and now,
are pervasive because they are a matter of unsullied truth.
Jailed within personal and racial limitations, some basic to his time,
Charlie Parker could be viewed as a king, or a wastrel, or a sacrificial
figure—or all three. His story came to a close on March 12,, 1955, as it had
to. Addicted to narcotics and alcohol, physically ill, emotionally exhausted,
psychologically badly damaged, he was a classic study in self-destruction.
But Bird lives—for those who experienced the bebop period, and for more
than a few who didn't.

BOP AND DRUMS—A NEW WORLD

It is difficult for young musicians and jazz devotees to fully comprehend the
tumultuous effect that the advent of bop had on drummers. The new music
demanded new, relevant, trigger-fast, musical, well-placed reactions from
the person behind the drum set—an entirely revamped view of time and
rhythm, techniques, and musical attitudes.
How well did drummers deal with bop? The innovators, like Kenny
Clarke and Max Roach, opened the path and showed how it was done.
Young disciples—if they had talent, sensitivity, and the necessary instincts—
caught on and made contributions. Other drummers stylistically modified
the way they played, trying to combine the old with the new. This was tricky
at best. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it was a matter of apples and
oranges. Still others fought change and what it implied.
Not welcomed by many swing drummers and their more traditional
predecessors, the new wave was looked upon as the enemy, sources of
disruption and unnecessary noise. Those stuck in the past could not accept
breaking time, using the drum set as both color resource and time center.
The structural and emotional differences essential to bebop, the need for
virtuosity, and the ability to think quickly and perform appropriately
intimidated them. The demands of the music were strange and often
devastating; a feeling of hostility built up in them. The basic reasons were
quite clear. The new music could ultimately challenge their earning ability
and position in the drum hierarchy.
 2.
from Jwin? to Bop
TheVmonariej
Jo Jones and Sid Catlett set the stage for modern drumming. They had in
common a visionary approach to music. By example, they showed that the
drums in jazz could be more expressive. They helped sweep away, to some
extent, drums' connection with militarism, indicating the instrument could
be a source of smooth, interesting pulsation, color, sense, and substance.
Jones and Catlett were not solely accountable for Kenny Clarke and Max
Roach, Shelly Manne and Roy Haynes, drummers who personified mod-
ernism. There were others who moved things along as well, opening the way
to the contrapuntal character and liberating impulses of modern drumming.
Roy Eldridge talked about Chick Webb's playing. "He was the first drum-
mer I ever heard shoot bombs. Chick did a whole bunch of things before
anyone else," the legendary trumpeter told me with typical enthusiasm. But
Jones and Catlett conceptually suggested what was possible.
They didn't abandon jazz history or the instrument's tradition. They
added to them. Like all the great ones, they focused on telling their own
story, allowing their instincts free rein, relating to and enhancing the music.
Back through time, the gifted and enlightened atop the drummer's throne
invented and added to the techniques and language for the instrument,
edging toward the decisive emancipation proclamation of the mid-i94os.

Jo JONES (1911-1985)
Jo Jones had the seeds of the future within him, and they blossomed and
came to maturity as he did. You could hear so much in his performances, in
person and on recordings—everything from the great tap dancers and the
carnival performers to the memorable drummers over the years. He was a
living history of American popular music.
The nature of Jones's playing had more than a little to do with physical
environment and the bands with which he played—prior to joining Basic in
1934. Atmosphere and the company he kept certainly cannot be under-
estimated when determining how this handsome young man became Jo Jones.
In the Midwest and Southwest, where Jones's activity was centered during
the pre-Basie years, the rhythm was looser and lighter—freer than in other
parts of the country. The beat danced along. The rhythmic line straightened
out, ultimately becoming a rolling 4/4 in the Basic band. There was, as well,
more than a suggestion of embroidery of the time. The rhythmic techniques
and "feel" of bebop, it would seem, have a connection with the heartland.
12 from tain? to Bop—The Vmonariej

Jo Jones, vintage 1959, rehearsing for a TV show, which also included such excellent
players as Buck Clayton (trumpet), Ben Webster (tenor saxophone), Vic Dickenson
(trombone), Hank Jones (piano), George Duvivier (bass), and the Ahmad Jamal
Trio. © Chuck Stewart.

MEL LEWIS: Most of us who came up in the 1930s feel Jo was the original
bebopper. Not Kenny Clarke. Jo was the kicker. He was playing the offbeat
bass drum stuff and all that—way before everyone else. That's where I
initially heard that kind of playing.
He was one of the first cats to play a ride cymbal—a top cymbal—and
make it work as part of the music. He used to do it behind Pres. That was
the beginning of that sort of thing. Jo knocked me out because I had never
heard anyone do that before. It was a natural thing for him. He never both-
ered to really formally learn about drums. He just played them—sat down
and did what he felt was right and appropriate.

ED SHAUGHNESSY: Max Roach has often told me about the many times he stood
in the wings of a theater, as a young drummer, watching and listening to Jo
with the Basic band. He was amazed when Jo took his foot off the bass drum
pedal and played the hi-hat—almost like a top cymbal—blending with the
 iidney Catlett 13
rest of the rhythm section. I'm sure we both agree that that was almost heresy
at the time. But Jo was setting the foundation for a lighter, floating style that
later was picked up by modern guys like Kenny Clarke, Max, and most of the
other people associated with the bebop era.

CLIFF LEEMAN: Jo invented patterns and came up with new, fresh ways to play
the instrument. He even got involved with a sort of "independence," long
before it became a factor. He played one rhythm in the left hand and another
with the right, bringing additional interest to the time.

Jo Jones's originality in the mid- and late 19305 and through his career
generated the same sort of wide-ranging interest as Max Roach did ten years
later. Roach, in many ways, was his musical son.
Jones made you want to move. His hi-hat work was peerless. He used
the bass drum much as a dancer would, bringing into play supportive,
surprising, uplifting accents and patterns. He literally invented sounds on
cymbals and drums to enhance the expressiveness of what he was doing.
When the band or a soloist left a space, he found telling things to do with
his hands and/or feet, and always there was that persuasive undercurrent of
time, bringing both stability and flow to the music.
Rarely, if ever, did Jones break in on anyone or anything; he was light,
polite, knowing—very unlike the implacable, intrusive guy who is only
concerned about himself, his solo or role in a band. His sensitivity would not
permit this sort of musical behavior. Jones just laid down a rhythmic carpet
of many colors, offering an open-ended invitation to his colleagues to build
upon what he was doing and saying.
Love for music, dedication, and enviable natural talent made Jo Jones
what he was—an innovative player who opened doors while satisfying his
need to find ways to give expression to what was going on with the music
and himself.

SIDNEY CATLETT (1910-1951)

Much the same could be said for Sid Catlett.
Catlett had a need to remain fresh, to feed his mind and spirit. Because
of this he got around a good deal. He felt it was his responsibility to be
interested in other people and conscious of developments, particularly when
it came to drums.
Open and receptive to the possibilities of each musical situation, he never
became imprisoned in any one style. He was always dramatic, authoritative,
comfortable, free.
The way Catlett plays on that May n, 1945, Dizzy Gillespie Guild date,
his only so-called bop recording session—including "Salt Peanuts" and
"Hot House," "Shaw 'Nuff" and "Lover Man" (with Sarah Vaughan)—
offers conclusive proof of his ability to immerse himself in a concept and be
the very essence of relevancy.
He deals with blistering tempi and hard-to-play little arrangements.
Combining straight-ahead swing and updated drum techniques, he remains
very much in control while offering his own view of the music.
Catlett varies intensity, which allows—indeed—encourages the soloists
to play boldly. "Salt Peanuts," "Shaw 'Nuff," and "Hot House" are rhyth-
lit from fwin? to Bop—The Visionaries

Sid Catlett, the most adaptable drummer in jazz. This publicity shot was taken in
the 1940s. The Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers University.

mically vital because of him. He is not at all unsure or intimidated by the

nature of the music.
The way he masterfully worked with fast tempi and the hi-hat partic-
ularly impressed drummers coming up.

VERNEL FOURNIER: "Salt Peanuts," with Sid Catlett, was the first modern jazz
record I heard at home in New Orleans. His sock cymbal solo shook me—
and everybody down home. The tempo was unbelievable—for that period.
And what he played was so clear!
What Catlett did was show us a new way. It was left to Max [Roach] to
round it all out with his coordination of the bass drum and snare drum.

ED SHAUGHNESSY: He played the instrument masterfully and understood what

was needed. Not limited in any way. Sidney was the most complete jazz
drummer of his time. He and Jo Jones made the bop thing possible.
 3-
Transitional fi?ure i

Lou Fromm, who worked with the bands of Frankie Newton, Teddy Powell,
Claude Thornhill, Boyd Raeburn, Harry James, Georgie Auld, Charlie
Barnet, and Artie Shaw, and Billy Exiner, who emerged out of the 19305 to
give the postwar Claude Thornhill band a contemporary rhythmic flavor,
took what they had learned from Dave Tough and Jo Jones and turned left
into modernism.
Their performances had the sense of color, dynamics, pacing, and
development so typical of Tough and the linear quality, flow, looseness, and
suggestiveness of Jones. Both captured some of Jones's flair on the hi-hat.
They added to their recipe the top cymbal and polyrhythmic snare/bass
drum ideas particular to modern pioneers Max Roach, Kenny Clarke, and
Stan Levey.

Lou FROMM (1919-??)

Lou Fromm had the best musical opportunities in the 1944-45 Shaw band.
The always interesting clarinetist was becoming involved with the music of
Gillespie and Parker. Several young musicians in the ensemble—e.g., pianist
Dodo Marmarosa, guitarist Barney Kessel, and tenorist Herbie Steward—
were responding positively and creatively to bebop. And the challenges
collectively offered by the mix of veterans—e.g., trumpeter Roy Eldridge—
and those new to the scene made the band a major experience for the
drummer.
Fromm matured in this environment, playing the sort of limber, uplifting
swing one associates with drummers on intimate terms with what jazz is all
about. His performances were memorable for their heat, openness, sense of
freedom, and the judicious manner in which he controlled and moved the
band. Most important, Fromm made you feel and pulsate—whether you
were in the audience or onstage with the band or Shaw's band-within-the-
band, the Gramercy Five.
Try the Shaw recordings of "Bedford Drive" and "Little Jazz," both
composed and arranged by Buster Harding and featuring Roy Eldridge.
You'll get the best of Fromm and this edition of the Shaw band.

ARTIE SHAW: Lou worked very well with the band's rhythm section—Dodo
Marmarosa [piano], Morey Rayman [bass], and Barney Kessel [guitar]. His
16 Traditional fi?ure$

Lou Fromm (left) and trombonist Eddie Bert between stage shows at the Howard
Theater in Washington, B.C., in 1943. Both were appearing with the Charlie Barnet
band. © Eddie Bert 2001.

"feel" was nice. The sound he got from the drums was not obtrusive. He did
what drummers are supposed to do in jazz: provide support, keep good time
with sticks or brushes, play an occasional accent, a fill here and there, and
make the music move. Let the guys who are playing solos say something.

JIM CHAPIN: Fromm was distinctive. He combined looseness and meticulous-

ness in an attractive manner. During his best years in the 1940s, he was going
in a contemporary direction, like Irv Kluger, Jackie Mills, and some others.
But he never fully assimilated and adopted the modern style—though he was
an early exponent of the left hand and suggested the possibilities of indepen-
dence in his work. A curious thing—he was left-handed and played with the
kit set up for a right-handed player. Stylistically, he was somewhere between
Jo Jones and Max Roach.
Lou played great cymbals. He was also very swift—had fast hands. Musi-
cians dug him, particularly the way he played time. He filled in for Dave
Tough with Woody Herman's First Herd, and the guys loved his playing.
He was a good soloist as well. I remember an eight-bar solo he played on
"Sans Culottes," an old Teddy Powell record. It set something of a prece-
dent, showing what could be done with a fast single-stroke roll. Buddy [Rich]
later played a solo based on that sort of idea on his live recording of "Love
for Sale." [Ed. note—Rich initiated the whole idea with an unbelievable
single-stroke roll, a two-bar break—the last of four two-bar bursts—on
"Prosschai," an Artie Shaw 1939 recording.]
Lou Fromm had everything. But he became addicted to hard drugs and
 Billy Cxiner 17

never really lived up to what musicians sensed was possible. He was in prison
several times. And as soon as he was released, he inevitably became an addict
again.

AL EPSTEIN: Lou Fromm and I were roommates when we were with the Teddy
Powell band. Teddy had a real good band at that time, and Lou helped make
it that way. He was a dapper, wonderful guy. We had a lot of fun. But then he
got strung out. . . .
Many musicians during that time just wanted to be part of their peer
group. Drugs became common ground—a social scene for the most part.
Rather than doing the family thing, they preferred being with one another.
Generally the price for hanging out with the cats was doing what most of them
did. And that's how people got hung up. Lou Fromm was more the rule than
the exception.

There were numerous arrests, incidents of theft and forgery to support his
habit, rehabilitation and failure. And lame excuses for the addiction—"for
my health," "heroin allows me to play better." Clips from the Los Angeles
Times from the mid- and late 19405, when he was working with Harry
James, document desperation. It was life on the dark side, for which there
seemed no relief.

CHUBBY JACKSON: I was on the Charlie Barnet band with Lou Fromm. His
personal scene was a mess. That whole way of life was entering the band busi-
ness and destroying everything in sight. I remember like it was yesterday
when Sonny Berman, a great trumpeter with Woody Herman's First Herd,
died suddenly because of "stuff." Sonny and I had been very friendly. My
mother and I went to New Haven to express our condolence to his mother. I
just fell to pieces. That's no way to live or die.

Lou Fromm disappeared after the late 19405. Extensive research, here
and abroad, including appeals for information in music magazines and on
the Internet—courtesy of bassist-writer Bill Crow—turned up nothing but
false leads.
Composer, arranger, and former baritone saxophonist Manny Albam said
Fromm—a friend and colleague harking back to the 19405 and the Georgie
Auld band—left music, educated himself, and became an engineer of some
sort. I have no evidence of this.
It is almost certain that by now Fromm has passed—because of his drug
problems, illness, or old age. He was a man of ability. But he found it
impossible to follow through. Unfortunately, he is but a footnote in the
history of the music—an unhappy comment on the effect of the drug plague
of the 19408.

BILLY EXINER (1910-1983)

Billy Exiner was highly individual in a number of ways. He was unusually
open to life and music and their infinite possibilities. Uniformly optimistic,
he pushed aside all that was negative, no matter what the situation. He was,
in addition, kind and caring, deeply interested in his friends, and as involved
i8 Traditional fi?urei

Billy Exiner, "the best ballad drummer of all," performing with the Claude Thorn-
hill band in 1947. Hope Exiner d'Amore Collection.

with his family as was possible for one who spent most of each year on the
road. Many considered the diminutive drummer a saintly sage.
"Music and drums meant absolutely everything to him," his daughter
Star remembers. "He played night and day when he was active and con-
tinued to work out on a pad in retirement—even when illness made it
almost impossible for him to function."
Musicians recall how welcoming Exiner was when jazz began to change
in the 19405. He sought to move inside bebop and make it work for him.
As time passed, his rapport with those who thought and played in the new
way grew.
The manner in which he approached the drum set made clear how he
thought about music. The hi-hat, his cymbals, snare, tom-toms, and the bass
drum were his paints; sticks and brushes and his feet, his paintbrushes. He
was fundamentally a colorist. He blended with the sound and enhanced the
overall effect of every band that employed him.
Exiner did his most important work with the post-World War II Claude
Thornhill ensemble, which played richly scored ballads and meaningful
modern jazz. Even pianist Thornhill, who like Exiner was from an earlier
generation, responded to bop and made some surprising changes in his
orchestra's approach to music.
On the modern jazz tunes, most of them stemming from Charlie Parker
and arranged by Gil Evans, Exiner gave every indication that he was
attempting to reach for the essential elements of the Max Roach style and
revamp them in a manner that was appropriate to his own view of music
 Billy Cxiner 19

and drums. On ballads, he was unforgettable, magnifying or subduing the

colors, managing the orchestra's sound, bringing balance and unusual
quality to each ballad performance.
Like Dave Tough, Exiner never truly became a bopper. He was not
aggressive, as were many of the innovative bop drummers, and he favored
soft as opposed to loud and ever-evolving flow to breaking time.
Exiner couldn't turn away entirely from old habits, particularly smooth,
steady pulsation. But he deserves great credit for his interest in con-
temporary ideas and meeting them more than halfway. Over the years,
Exiner developed his own approach to time, rhythm section performance,
drum tuning, and execution of ideas. His drums had "a sound." And his
performances were easily identified by the fluidity he brought to them.
Exiner's ideal was the time feel of the Basic band and of Jo Jones. He
combined the essentially unimpeded flow of Basie swing with the
contributory, contrapuntal, yet linear rhythmic ideas that Kenny Clarke and
Max Roach brought to music.
By following his instincts, which generally were sharp and thoroughly
reliable, Exiner matured into a player who defied easy stylistic categoriza-
tion. One thing is quite clear: he developed naturally, making excellent use
of what he felt, heard, and assimilated during his formative years (the 19305)
and what he conceived during his most important period (the 19405).
On 52.nd Street in 1936, Exiner worked at the Onyx Club with Lana
Webster—a lady tenor player—and listened closely to guitarist Teddy Bunn,
jazz violinist Stuff Smith, and particularly the John Kirby band, with the
endlessly inventive drummer O'Neil Spencer at its center. Inordinately
graceful and convincing, particularly with brushes, Spencer made a major
impression on the young drummer.
Exiner tried to develop a bed of underlying, quietly stirring sound that
brought the rhythm section together, thus inspiring section colleagues and,
in the larger sense, the band. He experimented with his concept in the 19305
and 19403 with the Will Hudson band and the Hudson-DeLange ensemble,
with Mai Hallett, Jan Savitt's Top Hatters, the Sunset Royals, the Basic-
influenced Georgie Auld band, and the Harry James orchestra. Exiner
concentrated on this idea for the rest of his life.

GENE DINOVI: By chance—and it seemed that was the way things worked in
those days [the 1940s]—Billy met and played with Joe Shulman [bass] and
Barry Galbraith [guitar]. Gil Evans became aware of them and brought them
into the Thornhill band. This rhythm section became an integral part of some
of the most beautiful sounds ever created for a dance orchestra.

What made Billy Exiner really distinctive was the consistent artfulness
and sensitivity of his performances. He made sense while many other
drummers dealt with pulsation poorly and dropped bombs and used accents
in an indiscriminate, unknowing manner, negating musicality.
At the heart of Exiner's success as a drummer and musician was one unde-
niable fact: he never forgot that time is of the essence and that commentary
should add to the overall story of the music. He did everything possible to
achieve his goals. For example, to enhance the rhythmic flow he cut off the
tips of his sticks. This helped him produce a "soft," ingratiating, singing
sound from his hi-hat and cymbals—a pleasing, persuasive, flowing feeling.
20 Traditional Fi?ure$

I met Exiner in 1947.1 was spending a day at Glen Island beach in New
Rochelle, New York. At about three in the afternoon, I heard this melli-
fluous music, coming from the famed Glen Island Casino. It was the Claude
Thornhill band rehearsing.
During one of the breaks, a friend and I made our way to the Casino and
introduced ourselves to Exiner. We went downstairs to the band room. He
had a big practice pad set up there. We talked and compared notes. Being
a teenager, and because of my involvement with study, execution, speed,
and Buddy Rich, there was more than a little that was "young" and
superficial about what I discussed with him. For all that, he was kind and
very understanding. Before returning to the bandstand, he offered some
good advice, without in any way being condescending.
"Listen to and interpret music—be concerned with time. Get into those
things. They're what drumming is all about," he said, adding: "Technique
is important but only a small part of what a drummer must have in order
to play."
Exiner wanted to enhance his technical ability, to develop "chops," but
ultimately the other elements so crucial to his concept of playing took
precedence. Again, like Dave Tough, whom he physically resembled, Exiner
bypassed and transcended the compulsive need of most drummers to be
technical. He played in a gently soulful, intelligent, subtle, simple, and
straightforward manner.
Exiner thought of himself as an accompanist, one of three or four
musicians providing impetus, inspiration, and even comfort to others. He
was the antithesis of the "star" musician. He came to know exactly what to
do in the rhythm section because he spent many of his waking hours
practicing and playing with a section. His objective: to get to the core
meaning of rhythm, primary and subsidiary coloration, and to project, with
his colleagues, an ever-unfolding, balanced thrust. Ideally, the section would
simultaneously be heard as a unit and as contributing individuals.
Listen to the Thornhill Columbia recordings, both the ballads and the
Gil Evans treatment of material associated with Charlie Parker—e.g.
"Anthropology," "Yardbird Suite." Exiner doesn't seem to be doing
anything significant. He and his rhythm partners glide along easily, seldom
giving any indication of strain.
The Dave Tough analogy continues. Exiner plays the role of guide,
shaping the arrangements, paying special heed to major and minor details.
He adds a "kick," a color, an idea growing out of the music, while playing
time. The character actor of the rhythm section and, by extension, the band,
he is expressive without ever intruding. Consistently he reveals a special flair
for dropping in compatible, fitting, sometimes quirky sounds and ideas
where they have maximum effect.

LEE KONITZ: Billy was one of the great ballad drummers. He made all that
stuff that Gil Evans wrote for Claude's band sound pretty smooth. He was a
key part of what always felt like a real rhythm section to me: swing oriented,
four-to-the-bar, with the guitar and everything. Dear old Claude, Joe
Shulman, Barry Galbraith, and Billy—all in a Basic groove.
It was always very nice to listen to and play with. I remember one night I
came to the microphone to play a solo and just stood there for thirty-two
bars, listening to how nice the rhythm section sounded.
 BilfyCxiner 21

My Thornhill experience—it was about ten months—was important and

educational for me. The band could be thrilling. As a young guy, I was just
getting my eyes opened to various conceptions in music.
Billy was a unique human being. He seemed like a philosophic type of guy
and musician. I always felt very deeply about what he was doing. He was very
kind, sweet, and caring. I received a lighter from him. It had a cover with my
initials on it. He made those covers for a lot of his friends.
Unfortunately, after I left the band, I had nothing more to do with him
musically.

Exiner's love for enterprising musicians, interesting people with whom

he felt a strong connection, prompted him to spend a lot of time in the late
19405 with Gil Evans. His Thornhill colleague, a highly innovative
composer-arranger, lived in a now legendary basement room, behind a
Chinese laundry on West 55th Street in Manhattan, where many great
musicians gathered.

JOHN LEWIS: Billy Exiner was really an unsung hero—a wonderful player.
I remember Joe Shulman—who helped me get a job with Lester Young—
Barry Galbraith, Billy, and I used to play in my basement apartment in St.
Albans, Queens, in 1950 and 1951. It was a fairly regular thing. We lived
close to one another. We were good friends, passionate about the early Basic
band and music in general. Each time we got together, it was warming—
a good experience.

BARBARA CARROLL: Joe Shulman, my late husband, and Billy were very close.
He loved the way Billy played and what he did with time, making it easy and
interesting for the musicians he played with. Billy was with my trio in the
mid-1950s. I always felt he had something special. Tremendously sensitive as
a player, he also was a sensational, bright guy.

Billy Exiner had a fulfilling yet painful life. Born in Brooklyn of Jewish
parents with roots in Russia, he was raised by an Irish Catholic family in
Boston. He joined the merchant marine while still a teenager.
Exiner didn't play drums until he was twenty-four. He loved the
instrument, but he never studied, in the so-called legitimate sense. By playing
in small and large bands, he learned who and what he was, determining the
direction he would follow and what he wanted to achieve as a musician.
A serious shrapnel wound during World War II was the first of a series
of major difficulties that affected the course of his life.

HAL GAYLOR: The shrapnel injury wasn't correctly treated by the Army. It
caused him great discomfort over an extended period of time. While working
with Peggy Lee in about 1948, he got Berger's disease. The result of circula-
tory problems, it affected the extremities and became increasingly serious.
First he lost the big toe on his left foot, then all of the toes. Before long he lost
much of the foot—up to the arch.
How could he play? Billy was a very inventive guy. He fitted a piece of
wood to the inside of his left shoe, taking up the slack. Then he got some good
advice from other drummers, notably Toronto's Bill Graham, regarding the
handling of the hi-hat—and went on with his life.
22 Transitional fi?ure$
During numerous hospital stays, he made the best of a bad situation,
distracting himself by what his daughter Star calls "tinkering." He made
wallets and drum pads and tailor-made drumsticks for his friends. He
invented a variety of things that would make it easier for the drummer,
including an attachment to effectively deaden the bass drum sound without
losing the drum's essential identity. He also came up with a modern version
of the bass drum pedal.
I spent a lot of time with Billy over the years. We both went with Tony
Bennett in 1954 and stayed on until 1966. It was impossible for Billy to
carry too much; he couldn't walk very well either. I helped him as much
as possible—to and from jobs, on planes, and at the hotels where we
stayed.
He didn't talk about pain, which was always with him. It got worse after
he fell victim to lupus. Billy couldn't sleep in a bed—only in the bathtub
with the water running. But he never complained, never asked for anything.
His playing? I compare it to putting on a pair of comfortable loafers. I
have never been more pleased with a drummer in my life. There was no fuss,
no stew. He had no parallel when it came to creating beautiful music on
drums.
Billy was so relaxed. Occasionally he would lose hold of the sticks because
he was so at ease. He generally put beeswax on his fingers so the sticks
wouldn't fall away. He sometimes would fall asleep when performing and
never lose the beat.
Though he didn't do anything fancy, he made a deep impression,
particularly on musicians we worked with out of town during the Tony
Bennett tours. They would turn around on the bandstand while listening to
and feeling Billy's pulse and say: "I never heard or felt that before!"
Billy accomplished more with less, producing what is far beyond the
capacities of most others who play drums. The reason for this: his dedication
and the love he felt for music and playing.
Later on, he really simplified things because he didn't have the stamina to
do otherwise. He usually used just a snare and the hi-hat. As you say, he was
into time and accompaniment. He didn't want to play solos—not even two
notes of a solo.
I've played with everyone. Max, Blakey, and many others—all wonderful,
exciting, beautiful musicians. But Billy was my favorite. He expressed himself
completely through music.
Billy had a thing about sound. He was magical when it came to that. Buddy
Rich thought of Billy Exiner as a master. He would ask him to come over to
his gigs to tune his drums. He had such respect for Billy that he'd do anything
for him—give him clothes, drums, loan him his house, his car.
All this had more than a little to do with how Billy was as a person. He was
a great teacher. He would show you things without saying anything. Billy had
a way about him—a quiet suggestion of authority. So many people cared for
and respected him. Gil Evans, Peggy Lee, Barry Galbraith, Buddy Rich,
Tony Bennett . . . ask Tony about him.

STAR EXINER: Though Dad didn't have much formal education, he came to
know so much. He read everything and anything. My dad was very much into
nature and the natural order of things. He touched a lot of lives.
 Denzil Beit 23
Death came to this courageous, inventive musician at seventy-three on
Good Friday of 1983. He had done what he wanted, despite major
difficulties. His immersion in music, drums, and the life of the itinerant
musician often transcended other important considerations. But that's the
way it had to be for him. He never became rich or widely known outside the
music community. Yet he achieved the sort of interior satisfaction denied to
many.
The music business wasn't looking for people like Billy Exiner during his
last years. It was a new era. Rock was preeminent. But he was relatively
unaffected by the change in direction. He remained faithful to his very
personal concept of musicality, playing his own way until the end. He could
do nothing else.
Nearing the coda, when illness all but took over, he suffered calmly,
waiting for death. When composer-arranger-trumpeter John Carisi asked
Exiner on the phone what you do when death is imminent, the drummer
gave a typically telling answer—the capper on the whole matter. He said:
"You don't buy any new clothes."
A saintly sage indeed.

DENZIL BEST (1917-1965)

A stylistic hybrid and latecomer to drums, Best brought to the instrument a
highly musical approach stemming from his earlier experiences as a
trumpeter, pianist, and bassist. His performances were particularly notable
for their balance and unity. He was an adaptable, open-minded musician,
relaxed and productive, no matter what the circumstances were.
Best was very much a team player. He thought and functioned as part of
the rhythm section, whatever the size of the group. He helped and supported
other players, making everyone sound good by allowing his colleagues'
inspiration and style and his own to meld and to lead to mutually com-
fortable and satisfying musical conclusions.
As an artist, he seldom, if ever, called attention to himself. While making
music, he was simultaneously invisible and significant. What was played by
him in a small unit or a larger group brought quality and elegance to the
music. Like the man or woman who dresses quietly and in very good taste,
he made a positive impression but never upset the equilibrium, beauty, and
essential quality of a performance.
Best made a significant contribution to jazz as a trumpeter, a drummer,
and a composer. But his life was filled with health problems, accidents, and
hard luck. As one person put it: "If he didn't have hard luck, he wouldn't
have had any luck at all."
It all started pretty well. A member of a musical West Indian family—
from Barbados—that took root in New York City, he became musically
involved as a youngster, studying piano for a number of years. His father, a
part-time tuba and bass player, encouraged him to become a professional
pianist. Best the younger found the trumpet most suitable to his needs and
worked after school to earn the money to buy one. He suffered the dis-
approval of his father, having frequently fought with him about his choice
of an instrument. Because of this, he practiced his horn while his dad was
2<t Transitional fi?uret

Denzil Best (circa 1950) at the height of his fame as a member of the original George
Shearing Quintet. Left to right: Shearing (piano), John Levy (bass), Margie Hyams
(vibraphone), Chuck Wayne (guitar), and Best (drums). The Institute of Jazz
Studies at Rutgers University.

out of the house, progressing rapidly. He began to work professionally soon

after getting out of school.
The father acknowledged the son after he heard him on radio, playing
several remotes with drummer Chris Columbus's New York-based band.
He was so proud that he brought his friends to where his son was playing.
Soon Best was writing material. He had learned about harmony as a
student of the piano and made a habit of jotting down what he "heard" in
his head. Ideas kept coming to him, and he was very productive. Best loved
the music scene; he was out there playing, writing, and hanging out around
the clock, or so it seemed. "I'd get three or four hours sleep a night, and
grab a sandwich and cup of coffee when I was hungry . . . if I had time," he
told Pat Harris in a 1951 Down Beat interview.
The early 19405 had a special excitement. Best was at the center of
turbulence created by the changes taking place in jazz. He played trumpet
or piano in the company of such pioneers of modern jazz as pianist-
composer Thelonious Monk, trumpeter Joe Guy, and drummer Kenny
Clarke at Minton's Playhouse in Harlem. The usually taciturn Monk had a
special feeling for Best's trumpet playing, describing it as "outstanding, full
of ideas."
 Denzil Best 23
Then suddenly, at twenty-four, Best was beset, for the first time, with the
sort of hard luck that would bedevil him throughout his life. He became ill
with tuberculosis. When he began to heal, he was warned by his uncle, a
doctor, that he would be dead in ten years if he continued to play trumpet.
His career seemed over. Little did he know, it was just beginning.
Life and music are curiously dependent on timing. Success at both is a
matter of being at the right place at the right time with the right people.
Luck, in this case, was with him. Best gigged as a pianist and bassist and
subbed on drums with Joe Gordon's New York band and spent a few
months as drummer with a group of musicians led by Saxie Payne. He
turned to drums and seriously applied himself, beginning in 1943.

PAT HARRIS: Best . . . after a total of not more than nine months' experience
as a drummer, found himself filling that job in Ben Webster's unit on 52nd
Street.
Webster was working at the Three Deuces when Jimmy Crawford [Ed.
note—the former Jimmy Lunceford drum star who had been appearing with
Webster] got drafted. He was auditioning all the drummers in town, and some
friends urged Denzil to try for the job. "I was being pushed for real," Denzil
remembers. A friend, Charlie Drayton, was on bass with Webster and intro-
duced them. During one number in the trial set, when the piano player had
a solo, Webster kept eyeing Denzil.
"He didn't smile or anything, just stared at me. I had to look away,
because I couldn't concentrate," Best said. "I was ready to walk right out
and forget about it, and I supposed he felt the same way.
"However, at the end of the set Webster walked over to the manager and
said: 'There's our new drummer.'"1

Not long thereafter, Best joined Coleman Hawkins for a tour of Canada
and an engagement at a 5 2nd Street club. He couldn't believe it was
happening to him. He wanted to back off. But his wife, Arline, pushed and
supported him, as she always had, and he moved ahead.

STAN LEVEY: Denzil was one of the first guys I heard after immigrating to New
York from Philly early in 1944. He was with Coleman Hawkins on 52nd
Street. Thelonious Monk was in Hawk's group. So was tenor saxophonist Don
Byas. Benny Harris and Vic Coulsen alternated on trumpet. And Eddie
"Basic" Robinson was the bass player.
You should have heard that rhythm section! Those guys could play! The
bandstand would actually seem to levitate, these guys would cook so deeply
into the beat! Denzil swung you off the bandstand without ever overplaying.
A swinger—not a bomb dropper—with a good sound and a sense for what
was musical, he could take a band and move it. He didn't play like Max
Roach, as so many of us did. Denzil had his own way of doing things. He'd
give a band a great foundation and strengthen it as he went along.
One of his inventions was an adroit form of independence that made the
beat undeniable. He'd lay down the time on the Chinese cymbal with his
right hand while playing four beats to the bar on the snare drum with his
left hand. It would really get things going. Before long, a lot of guys started
doing that.
26 Transitional figures

I got to know Denzil very well. I used to come into the club every night and
stand right behind the bandstand to check him out. He would explain every-
thing about his work. I'd say: "Why do you do this or that?" And he'd tell
me. He was a reserved kind of guy but very open and nice.
Denzil was a natural talent. Though he had limited technique, he made
what he did work for him. His solos were "confidential," subtle, never exhi-
bitionistic. Musicians tuned him in. They appreciated his conception and the
way he made the music better. What he played was right—you know, the
punishment fit the crime.

What Denzil Best played was strongly linked to the music. He reacted,
commented, gave of himself. Thoughtful, often quite inspiring, he
compounded instinct, sharp reflexes, and the sort of interior musicality that
is a gift given to very few.
Best kept improving. Before going with the George Shearing Quintet in
1949—which resulted in the sort of containment and stylistic inhibition that
are inevitable when an artist becomes a part of a specific sound and style—
Best worked briefly with Illinois Jacquet's swinging, small band, subbing for
Shadow Wilson. He gigged and recorded with other interesting players as
well. Best was anxious to involve himself in situations that were challenging.

CHUBBY JACKSON: Denzil came to Scandinavia with my group in 1947. Tiny

Kahn was supposed to have made the trip, but at the last minute, he had to
back off. Someone in the group suggested Denzil.
We had wonderful musicians in the band: Terry Gibbs [vibes], Conte
Candoli [trumpet], Frankie Socolow [tenor saxophone], Lou Levy [piano].
They were very much into modern jazz. It was such a groovy, happy band.
We were the first bebop band to play in Sweden and Denmark.
Denzil fell right in with what was going on. He was a cooker and quite hip,
shaping the music, going with the straight-ahead feeling of the band—all
those eighth notes and fast-moving things. The way Lou Levy substituted
chords at the piano made the rhythm section sound a bit different. But
Denzil just sat there and played time. He didn't get too cute, or do that stop-
and-go thing, like many of the early bebop drummers. I never really dug
that; it's like breathing fast then stopping to get a glass of seltzer.
I didn't have to say anything. Denzil allowed the music to filter through
him and just responded to the boppish environment without letting anything
affect his own conception.
As the bass player in the band and another primary source of rhythm, I
got into the team thing with him—very much in the big band mode and in
accord with the sort of drive that was within me. I liked his combination of
brushes, sticks, explosions and quiet, and the way he played time.
Because he had a great sense of humor, Denzil put a grin on the music—
and that's so important to me. He was very aware that you have to respect a
leader's wishes and what the music is trying to say as well.

Best was far more flexible and reactive in the Jackson sextet than with
George Shearing. He showed to particular advantage on the recordings he
made with the bassist. Producer Don Schlitten brought out some of the Jack-
son material—recorded in December of 1947—on his Xanadu label in 1975.
The LP, titled Bebop Revisited, Vol. i—Dexter Gordon/Fats Navarro/
 Denzil Beit 27

Chubby Jackson, finds the drummer prodding and probing with his left
hand while keeping fluent time with his right. Best's sound on the drum set
and the cymbals is warm and exciting. He controls the instrument and the
music without being obtrusive, communicating with his players and with
the listeners as well.
The rhythmic urgency increases as each interpretation—aside from one
ballad on the set—proceeds. Try "Crown Pilots," "Boomsie," and "Dee
Dee's Dance," a Best composition. The quality of the band and its drummer
is instantly apparent.
The Shearing experience began for Best prior to the formation of the
renowned quintet. I recall going to the opening of the Shearing quartet at the
Clique on Broadway in 1948. Best was with the group, which included
classic modern jazz clarinetist Buddy DeFranco and bassist John Levy. Best's
hiring probably stemmed from an earlier, mutually agreeable association
with Shearing on Savoy Records in 1947, soon after the pianist came to
America from England.

GEORGE SHEARING: We appeared opposite Machito's band at the Clique. It

made me wonder how four musicians could stand up to that storm of Latin
music. But somehow we did. Denzil played a lot of brushes with the group.
He certainly was one of the brush kings.
When the quartet broke up, critic Leonard Feather suggested that I keep
the rhythm section the same when we recorded in 1949 for Discovery with the
quintet. Margie [Hyams] came into the group on vibraphone. Chuck [Wayne]
joined us on guitar. And before long, the quintet was happening. We had hit
records, better and better bookings.
I loved Denzil's playing. He was the perfect drummer for the quintet and
my musical concept at the time. He did an absolutely marvelous job. I have
many warm memories of the quintet's early days—playing Cafe Society
Downtown in the Village, the Blue Note in Chicago, Bop City here in New
York. We were opposite Lionel Hampton at Bop City. Hamp and the whole
band would march off the stand at the end of each set and go down one flight
to the Turf Restaurant on the main floor, which had such great cheesecake.
Denzil stayed with me for a couple of years [1949-52]. He had an alcohol
problem. He left and came back. A wonderful musician and a sweet guy,
Denzil could surprise you. At a party given by Ed Furst—an insurance man
and my road manager for a time—he called out chord changes while the
music was playing. It seemed so unusual for a drummer to do that. But, as
you say, he had a well-rounded musical background.

Unfortunately, what brought Denzil Best international recognition—his

brush work with the George Shearing Quintet—only partially mirrored his
multiple abilities. The quiet pulsation and rhythmic identity he brought to
"the Shearing sound"—a voicing of piano, vibes, and guitar—masked his
musical capacities. Because he was an excellent composer and a drummer
equipped to do a variety of things, he felt somewhat unfulfilled and became
depressed.
Don't misunderstand, Shearing didn't purposely lock the drummer in; he
played a number of Best compositions and gave him the freedom to play as
he would. But Best couldn't break away from the manner of performance
that he had helped popularize.
28 Transitional fi?ure(

Like Jo Jones, he had a great flair for playing brushes, provocatively,

bringing to the beat perfect consistency and a delicious sense of thrust. Best
had the just-right recipe for Shearing right from the start—the quintet's first
recording date of January 31, 1949.
To get an idea what the Best of the brushes sounds like, sample the results
of that initial session by the group, notably "Cottontop" and "Moon Over
Miami"—indeed, most of the entire second side of the recording George
Shearing, So Rare (Savoy). Hearing these recordings again evokes for me a
picture of Best, with a bit of a smile on his face, sitting up straight yet
comfortably, gracefully moving the wire brushes in circles, up and down
and across the snare drum. Without Denzil Best, the Shearing Quintet
would have lacked a crucial quality that made for both musicality and
commercial impact.
That old devil hard luck reappeared in 1952.. Best was in an auto
accident, fracturing both legs. He was forced into temporary retirement.
Following a lengthy recuperation, he returned to action in 1954 with Artie
Shaw's updated Gramercy Five. The kind of drummer Shaw favored, he
stayed out of the way and allowed the music to develop, helping it along in
his typically understated manner. He stylistically adjusted to each musician
and the overall contemporary stance of the group.
Best moved on to the Erroll Garner Trio, using his artful performance
with brushes to advantage; he remained with the dynamic, historical pianist
for two years (1956-57).
In 1957, he had more bad luck—calcium deposits in his wrists. They
affected his performances to a certain extent, playing havoc with his
flexibility and ability to handle fast tempos. But you wouldn't have known
he had any difficulty.

PHIL LESHIN: We were with pianist Lee Evans at the Left Bank, a New York
club owned by columnist Dorothy Kilgallen and her actor-husband Dick
Kollmar, for nine months in 1957. I took the job with Lee because I wanted
to work with Denzil. He talked about his illness, but it didn't seem to inhibit
him at all—at least while I was working with him.
Denzil was exciting; he kept things on a very high level. I learned a lot
from him. He taught me "stumbling"—eighth notes and triplets leading into
the first beat of the bar. Only a few bassists—Ray Brown, for example—were
doing it back then.
Because Lee Evans has phenomenal technique, we played fast things in
almost every set. Denzil had no trouble whatever. With brushes, he was a
delight; with sticks, he played lightly and easily on the cymbal. His taste was
remarkable. And he always swung.
We used to hang out after the job and sit in all over town. I remember we
went to a club on the cusp of Harlem and the Bronx where pianist Bill Evans
was working with a trio. We had a wonderful time performing with Bill, who,
as you well know, was a wonderful player. On another occasion, we sat in at
a place right by the 155th Street Bridge. Guitarist Kenny Burrell was the
attraction there—I don't remember the name of the club. But again we really
enjoyed ourselves.
Denzil was a sweet guy. He wrote many inventive tunes and played his butt
off. I was stung by his tragic death.
 Irv kluger 29
Life is not always just. Denzil Best didn't make out as well as he might
have. His last years were not easy. He was troubled by a variety of things but
continued working intermittently with singers Nina Simone and Eartha Kitt,
trombonist Tyree Glenn, Ben Webster, and others.

JOHN LEVY: His life and playing began to get away from him after we both left
George Shearing. Denzil's biggest problem was his frustration about not being
able to fully express himself as a musician. He did more drinking than was
necessary to compensate for his depressed feeling about that and his phys-
ical problems.
When I look back at his career, it's quite clear he accomplished a great
deal. He was an excellent musician and accompanist. He was highly
respected. Everyone liked to play with him because he provided what was
needed. And, as everyone will tell you, he was such a nice person.

Best died on May 25,1965, at Roosevelt Hospital in New York City. He

had collapsed the day before in midtown Manhattan—according to some,
right outside the Copper Rail, a musicians' hangout—fracturing his skull in
the fall. His streak of hard luck played itself out to the end.
His compositions—"Move," "We" (a.k.a. "Allen's Alley"), "Bemsha
Swing," "Dee Dee's Dance," and "Nothing but D. Best"—are still per-
formed and recorded. They tested the capacities of Shearing, Miles Davis
("Move" was the centerpiece of the historical Birth of the Cool Davis album
on Capitol), Thelonious Monk, Chubby Jackson, and Don Lanphere,
among others who played them. Listen to Best the drummer on records. You
might learn in the process what a drummer can do for music.

IRV KLUGER (1921-)

Irv Kluger is a personable, enthusiastic, energetic, dedicated player who
loves music with unusual passion. Since childhood, when he first discovered
it was crucial to his life, music has brought him great happiness—a sense of
fulfillment.
His work ethic and energy level have been and remain admirable.
Practicing six to eight hours was his daily routine as a young person; he also
went to school and played as many band and small group gigs and jam
sessions as possible. Today, the Kluger practice-work-jam-session agenda
is not quite as ambitious as in years past, but playing and becoming
increasingly effective remain his focus.
Kluger's feeling for music was handed down. His parents, who had
emigrated from Europe, insisted the arts were "the nice part of life."

KLUGER: I started on violin at the Henry Street Settlement House in lower

Manhattan. It was a quarter a lesson. My sister taught me piano. I also took
harmony and theory classes, beginning when I was only six. At thirteen, I
found my place. The drums had the right feeling for me. I studied the instru-
ment with Henry Adler for about five years. My need to be a complete player
led to lessons with Milt Schlesinger [xylophone], Pop Frieze [timpani], Saul
Goodman [timpani], and Phil Kraus [xylophone and vibraphone]. Studying
30 Trant itional figures

Irv Kluger during the period he played with the experimental Boyd Raeburn
Orchestra (1945-47). Irv Kluger Collection.

equipped me to deal with just about everything. I was very fortunate my

parents had the sense to get the best teachers for me. There are so many
frauds in a city like New York,
I was fourteen when jazz became one of my major interests. A bunch of
us in Brooklyn, guys like Tiny Kahn, Terry Gibbs, Al Epstein, and Al Cohn,
used to hang out in the cellar of saxophonist Frank Socolow's house on
Amboy Street. We listened to the Basie band, Lester Young, Duke Ellington,
Lady Day, and other bands and fine singers. We jammed and rehearsed at
Frank's almost every day. It was a close circle. The music was our special
secret. We felt we were involved in something important.
listening, playing, and studying—and reading all sorts of books—became
my life. I realized that studying is sensational. It backs you up. It makes it
possible to play every kind of music.
 Irv Klu?er 31

During the late Depression years there was a feeling of friendship of one
player for another. Music tied us together. Age didn't matter. Color was imma-
terial. If a man or woman aspired to become something in music, that alone
provided acceptance into the club.
To play well is not a simple matter. You have to learn how to live, how to
function best with other people and make the proper choices. These things are
not learned easily.
I can't tell you how important the connection is between playing and life.
The rhythm section is just a small piece of the world. You have to know when
to lay back, when to be boss, when to be loving and caring, when to bring all
the guys in the section together at the same time. Technique and musicality are
important. But bringing humanity to the act of playing is what it's all about.
Jo Jones nailed it. He said that "so many things enter into a perfor-
mance." He indicated that a drummer plays with and for people and reflects
his day-to-day experiences. Kluger felt the same way almost from the outset
of his career.

STAN FREE: I did a lot of work with Irv in Brooklyn before World War II—gen-
erally in big bands. One of the best was led by Skippy Nelson. We played local
dances and basketball games. I was the pianist. Barney Spieler, who later
went with Benny Goodman, generally was on bass. Irv played swinging
Basie—Jo Jones time. We were all in love with Basic and involved with Pres
and his choruses. Many of us memorized his solos and sang them to people to
show how hip we were.

TERRY GIBBS: I knew Irv when we were kids. When I was still concentrating on
drums, both of us worked summers at upstate New York's Catskill Mountains.
Most of the guys used twelve-inch hi-hats, comparatively small cymbals by
today's standards. Musicians would come up to me on the gig and say: "Have
you heard Irv Kluger? He's playing at Brickman's Hotel (or whatever hotel it
was). He uses fifteen- or sixteen-inch hi-hat cymbals." I said: "What!" I had
to hear him. So every time our band was off, I went over to pick up on him.
He knocked me out! He got this big, wide, sweeping sound—even bigger
than Jo Jones, our idol and model, who used thirteen- or fourteen-inch hi-
hats. Irv Kluger, like Shelly Manne, was a little ahead of his time.
Kluger soon was out in the real world in Manhattan and on the road. He
followed Buddy Rich into clarinetist Joe Marsala's small band on 5 2nd Street
in the late 19305. He replaced Shelly Manne in the hard-swinging Bob Astor
band in 1941. The young leader employed musicians who would go on to
become major contributors to the jazz scene.
The players who passed through this key organization—which unfortu-
nately never recorded—included trumpeters Neal Hefti, Les Elgart, Ernie
Figueroa, and Tony Faso, saxophonists Tony Scott, Ray Beller, Corky Cor-
coran, Dave Pell, Zoot Sims, and Illinois Jacquet, pianist Marty Napoleon,
George Williams—subsequently a great arranger for the Gene Krupa band—
and Leo DeLyon, who became a fine comedian.
KLUGER: The band was a Jimmie Lunceford—style organization. A mixed
band. Very powerful. Very exciting. Mildred Bailey, the great singer, toured
with us for a while.
32 Transitional fi?ure$

I remember very clearly a battle in Boston—spring of 1941, with the Les

Hite band. Guess who was sitting in the trumpet section. Diz, Okay? I heard
this beautiful meshuggener play. We got to know one another. He was fun
and knew so much about music.

Gillespie became increasingly important to Kluger and many other young

musicians around New York in the 19408. He was their teacher and mentor.
Kluger spent much time in the company of young modernists. Strongly
drawn to the new music, and by nature a great student, he endeavored to
make bebop a part of him. It was impossible to subsist on small group
bebop gigs alone, so he earned a living as a featured sideman with several
big bands of the period. Popular boogie-woogie pianist Freddie Slack
headed one of them. Tenor saxophonist Georgie Auld fronted another, and
Boyd Raeburn still another.
Kluger's recordings with Auld and Raeburn indicate the extent of
his training and interest in making the transition to bop. The nature of his
time, his accents, "bombs," and comments, clearly indicate his modern
tendencies.
The Raeburn band mingled Basic cutting-edge jazz and modern classical
ideas. The drummer fit particularly well with Raeburn because he played
timpani and other percussion instruments. That he could read anything,
quickly translate the "paper" into music, and easily adapt to diversified
circumstances certainly added to the authenticity of the Raeburn band's
performances.
Try "How High the Moon" by the Raeburn band—it has a good vocal
by Ginnie Powell—and Auld's "Co-Pilot." Kluger is particularly proud of
the Auld sides he made with singer Sarah Vaughan. His performances are a
blend of the traditions of jazz drums and the new ideas introduced by Kenny
Clarke, Max Roach, and Shadow Wilson.
Kluger's development follows a logical progression. Initially he was
fascinated by Baby Dodds, one of the great ones of traditional drums. Then
he fell in love with the sound, feeling, and style of Jo Jones. Then Kenny
Clarke turned him around completely. He showed him what the drummer's
role was in the new music.
Many drummers in the 19405 became interested in the expressive
possibilities of "coordinated independence." Most of them, however, did
not apply the coordination concept in the manner established by Jim
Chapin, the visionary teacher and drum scholar who wrote the first book
focused on this idea.
Chapin's idea was to keep the cymbal beat going in the right hand while
doing interesting things with the left hand and the feet. Shelly Manne
learned from Chapin; Kluger, from Henry Adler. Roach, Clarke, and
certainly Roy Haynes projected the feel of independence without having
technically studied "coordinated independence." Haynes came closest to
naturally applying the Chapin idea without having formally investigated the
method.
Chapin hoped to improve the drummer's general control and flexibility.
"The ultimate aim," he said "is to free both hands and both feet from
dependence on one another, and to give the drummer the means by which he
can, without breaking the rhythmic mood, embellish the beat successfully."
 Irv Klu?er 33

The book, Advanced Techniques for the Modern Drummer, Vol. i,

Coordinated Independence as Applied to Jazz and Bebop, was a direct
result of what Chapin learned from his great teacher, Sanford "Gus"
Moeller. All the ideas and exercises were worked out in the early 19405 and
had no direct or immediate connection with the advent of bebop—though
Chapin's concern with counterrhythms and physically freeing the drummer
to be more expressive tied in with the concerns of bebop and modern
drummers.
The book was not published until 1948; though fully understood today,
it confounded many drummers at that time and was considered by some to
be "impossible." However, as they caught up with what Chapin had done,
drummers came to terms with what Chapin's ideas meant to the future of
drumming.

KLUGER: I got into "independence" because I wanted to liberate myself from

the tyranny of the cymbal beat. I first tried it in Al Young's band in the early
1940s. Al [a.k.a. Al Epstein], who worked with Benny Goodman and many
other major bands, is a fine saxophonist and arranger. He's still around, still
active. He lives in Florida.
I loved the idea of independence—though I didn't use it all the time. By
making the independence thing work for you in a relaxed way, you could
express many more ideas and enhance your ability to play exactly what you
had in your head.

Kluger moved from Basic to modern jazz because it challenged him. He

feels the advent of bop was comparable to an explosion.

KLUGER: The music kept you thinking and responding. To keep up with rapid
tempos and altered changes you had to really know your instrument—be
good enough to express anything you thought or felt.
I had great fun and found out a lot jamming and hanging out with Diz,
Charlie Parker, Dexter Gordon, Benny Harris, George Wallington, Clyde
Lombardi, and Gerry Mulligan. I often played sessions with Gerry without a
piano in the rhythm section. The cats frequently would chip in and pay for a
studio where we could jam and work things out. Then we'd go uptown to
Harlem and continue playing.
There was so much information given freely, back then. The people who
really knew were very generous when it came to passing on hints how to best
do things. Being on the scene and being alert added to your knowledge and
sharpened your instincts. You found out what was right and who the most
gifted people were.
Drummer-composer-arranger Tiny Kahn was a monster. Dare I say it: he
was twice as good as Jo Jones. Tiny added a contemporary quality to Basie/Jo
Jones—type swing. He brought something very special and totally musical to
the rhythm of a band, large or small.
Certain things were a drag about the bebop years. I couldn't deal with the
scene on 52nd Street. Harlem was more natural and relaxed, more friendly.
Pushers, pimps, and weird people were part of the Street. And the drug thing
turned me off. I could never be a junkie. Putting needles into my body was
impossible to contemplate. I just stayed away from all that.
3<t Transitional fi?ure$

Spending a lot of time playing with bebop innovators paid off for Kluger.
He recorded with Dizzy Gillespie on January 9, 1945, at Decca Records in
New York City. The label: Manor.

KLUGER: I had rehearsed and played a lot with Diz. He liked me. At about
noon that winter day, I was standing in front of the Brill Building on
Broadway. Diz came over and said: "Irv, record date tonight, Decca." The
session was scheduled for early evening.
I remember the 57th Street Decca studio had a very funny painting of an
Indian looking across a lake. It was kind of appropriate for the Dizzy date.
The caption under the picture read: "Where's the melody?"
A fantastic band turned out. Diz, of course; Don By as on tenor—I knew
him from Minton's; trombonist Trummy Young; Oscar Pettiford, an amazing
bass player, and Clyde Hart, the pianist.
We rehearsed for about twenty minutes. Diz sat at the piano and explained
the tunes and some chord changes. He came over to me and talked about
"Salt Peanuts." His exact words: "Irv, say 'Salt Peanuts.' Make those
sounds—\3\a.-bla-da—on the drums and follow the line." It opened my eyes to
verbal articulation of rhythmics and how valuable it could be.
We recorded "Salt Peanuts," "Good Bait," and Diz's wonderful ballad
treatment of "I Can't Get Started." Until recently I wasn't sure if I had done
the fourth tune of the session, "Be Bop." Odds are I did. There has been
some confusion about this session. Shelly Manne was credited with the date.
It was me! I even remember the primary cymbal I used—a twenty-two-
inch sizzle from China. I bought it at Silver and Borland in Manhattan when
I was fifteen or sixteen. All the rivets had fallen out. It sounded like an
ashcan. But it recorded great.

The transitional nature of these recordings is immediately apparent.

Gillespie sets the tone, establishing the direction—intervals and harmonies
unusual for the time, unconventional rhythms that were a departure from
swing orthodoxy. Bassist Pettiford reveals his ability and understanding of
the character of the emerging music. Don Byas, always an excellent
musician, flies through the changes with comparative ease, bringing the
needed technical proficiency and musicality to the themes. Trombonist
Trummy Young, the former Jimmie Lunceford star, makes an excellent
adaptation to the Gillespie context, playing in a fitting, timeless manner.
Only Clyde Hart, the pianist, seems divorced from the implications of the
music.
Kluger is relaxed, straight-ahead, suggesting the hip, emerging approach
to the drums. Repeated listenings to the Manor sides, however, indicate that
the situation was the same as on other Kluger records of the period. The
crafty drummer hadn't completely turned left. He was caught between the
past and present, a problem he shared with several other young drummers
moving into the difficult new style.
To develop as a modern player demanded complete commitment to that
music. As deeply involved as Kluger was in the new music, he had strong
feelings about not being categorized. He felt that in order to survive in music
he had to be a generalist—to have the wherewithal to be effective in a
variety of contexts. To be the complete percussionist was his goal. It has
been the central thrust of his career.
 Irv Klu?er 35

During those eventful years, he recorded a good deal—with the Andrews

Sisters, Ella Fitzgerald ("Flying Home"), Nat King Cole ("Lush Life"), and
a variety of bands. He filled in for Sonny Greer with Duke Ellington, for
Dave Tough with Woody Herman.
He was asked by Dizzy Gillespie to join the newly formed Billy Eckstine
band in 1944, after Shadow Wilson was drafted and before Art Blakey came
over from the Fletcher Henderson band.
All these years later Kluger expresses remorse about turning down the
opportunity to work with that truly historical big band. Back then, he said
that the band played out of tune, that he would lose out in the New York
rat race, that he was making too much money doing recordings and radio
work in town, and that he didn't really want to travel. But the way he talks
now indicates major regret.
Kluger enhanced his reputation as he proceeded through a variety of
experiences during the 19405 and into the 19508. He moved from band to
band—Bobby Byrne, Herbie Fields, Stan Kenton, Artie Shaw, Tex Beneke,
Tommy Dorsey (following Buddy Rich), and Benny Goodman.
His association with Kenton, a key name on his resume, lasted just under
a year. He joined the tall, gentlemanly bandleader in February 1948. Kluger
had a major act to follow: Shelly Manne, an established jazz star, had
defined the drummer's role in this large, sometimes cumbersome band.
Manne recommended Kluger for the job. He wanted to get away from the
weight of the Kenton band and return to New York to work with the Bill
Harris "trombone band," featuring Eddie Bert, Milt Gold and Harris
(trombones), Lou Levy (piano), and Bob Carter (bass).
Kenton expert Tony Agostinelli picks up the story.

TONY AGOSTINELLI: Irv fared well in the Kenton band—gave it a good sound.
Stan was going through his "Progressive Jazz" sequence. Irv had no prob-
lems. It was Stan who had troubles. He was on the edge of a nervous
breakdown—too many one-nighters, too much stress. Leading Kenton names
were leaving. June Christy gave her notice, as did Bob Cooper, her husband
and the band's tenor soloist. It was close to the end of a phase in the life of the
Kenton band.
Irv was hired by Stan because of his excellent work with Boyd Raeburn,
another "progressive" band, and because of his flexibility.
Irv sounded good. But you could tell it wasn't Shelly Manne. Shelly had
great ability with the cymbals, using them to maximum advantage, while
establishing strong pulsation and getting the "roar" and sweep on the cymbals
that Stan had to have from his drummer.

After almost a year, the drummin' Manne expressed an interest in coming

back to the Kenton band. The trombone band hadn't gotten steady work—
only three weeks at the Blue Note in Chicago. Manne returned to Kenton
early in November of 1948. Kenton wanted him because he was a known
quantity and a star. The band broke up a month later.

KLUGER: I dug being in Stan's band because it was demanding. The first night
I sight-read a concert at the Chicago Opera House. You know, I never cared
for the band, when it came to listening. But to play with it was a ball. The
players were terrific. We had ten brass, five reeds, six rhythm, and a very
36 Transitional figures

kindly man up front. I recorded a few things with the band, including
"Peanut Vendor" and "Elegy for Alto." I also did an album with the Four
Freshmen during the nine months I was with Stan.

A few guys in the band, particularly the hard swingers, had a reservation
or two about Kluger's thrust. But the comparisons with Shelly Manne would
have made things less than easy for any drummer.
The soon-to-be resolved difficulty, which became most obvious with
Kenton, was the quirky manner in which he played the cymbal/hi-hat
rhythm. He accented and broke up the pattern in a way that sometimes
didn't allow for smooth flow—that unleashed feeling typical of the best
jazz-based big bands. Kenton drummers Shelly Manne, Stan Levey, and
Mel Lewis had this natural gift of swing and kept the Kenton behemoth
moving.
Working with the memorable, short-lived Artie Shaw modern big band
in 1949 had an exceedingly positive effect on Kluger's playing. The reason
for the change in the nature of his performances could be attributed to a
variety of things: the freedom he had with the Shaw band and how much
he respected the leader; the comfort and stimulation he felt playing with
Shaw and his friends Frank Socolow and Al Cohn and such other colleagues
as Zoot Sims, Herbie Steward, Danny Bank, Don Fagerquist, Sonny Russo
and Jimmy Raney, among others. It is more likely, however, that Kluger just
got to the bottom of his problem and worked it out.
A new Irv Kluger is heard on Artie Shaw and His Orchestra—1949
(released later by the Musicmasters label). The rhythm in his right hand is
more straightforward; he creates an uninterrupted line of time. He integrates
his Basic roots and modern inclinations into a workable blend. He feels
good, and the band rolls right along, responding to his pulsation and
developmental accenting. Try the band's performance on Gene Roland's
"Aesop's Foibles" and Johnny Mandel's "Innuendo."

ARTIE SHAW: I loved Irv's playing. He added something important to the

band. He made contributions to the music while staying out of the way and
allowing things to naturally unfold. Irv always was an "up" guy and had a
lot of spark, as a player and as a person.

1949 was a good year for Kluger. He did superb work on the Buddy
DeFranco big band 1949 recording of composer-arranger George Russell's
"Bird in Igor's Yard." An extremely important work recorded by Capitol,
it was never heard or released in this country until the label made it available
in the early 19708 on a modern jazz anthology put together in Holland.
Kluger read the music with understanding and ease, bringing to the
composition color and a sense of rhythmic authority that helped it work. A
visionary piece, too harmonically and rhythmically venturesome for 1949
listeners, it was written essentially in 5/4—a time signature rare in jazz at
that time. The way the instruments were used and how the accents fell gave
people a problem. Russell even incorporated a tuba in this piece. Delightful.
At the turn of the twenty-first century, "Bird in Igor's Yard" seems quite
logical, thoroughly stimulating on several levels. But back then, it was
considered too unorthodox—too far out.
 Irv Klu?er 37

BUDDY DEFRANCO: You heard the job that Irv did on "Bird in Igor's Yard,"
right? He was fantastic. The man is a phenomenal musician. He came to the
session and read the thing in just incredible time.

GEORGE RUSSELL: Irv Kluger stood out because he was a perfectionist—one of

a number of truly excellent musicians active during the 1940s. New York
musicians reached a particularly high level. They set the standard for the
world. Irv did a splendid, imaginative, and supportive job on "Bird in Igor's
Yard."

The years that followed are notable for their variety. Kluger held the
percussion chair in the show Guys and Dolls for the entire run—over three
years on Broadway in the 19508. He worked with Sinatra, though he didn't
want a permanent job with the singer. Too much traveling. (Kluger is very
close to his family.) Pianist Billy Kyle, his sectionmate in Guys and Dolls,
recommended him for a job with the Louis Armstrong All-Stars. Joe Glaser,
the master jazzman's manager, called and offered Kluger a great salary.
Again it was a matter of too much traveling.
Kluger returned to Shaw in 1954, this time to play with his excellent
small group—Hank Jones (piano), Tommy Potter (bass), Tal Farlow or Joe
Puma (guitar), Joe Roland (vibes). The group, contemporary in outlook,
thoughtful, interesting yet melodic and accessible, lasted under a year. Shaw
proved, as he had earlier, that he had an unusual capacity to play modern
jazz—memorably.
The little band worked at the Embers in New York, in Las Vegas, and in
San Francisco and finally disbanded when Shaw decided he had done what
he wanted. After that, the clarinetist never performed again. The legacy of
that Shaw excursion into small band modern jazz includes several CDs made
available by Musicmasters.

JOE PUMA: Irv's a very resourceful musician. In the Shaw group I always felt
secure because he was back there. If anything went awry, he would cover and
make it work out. He knew exactly what was happening. He made things
cohesive, comfortable. He plays for each situation. Irv has the sort of ability
and sensitivity that could be applied on any instrument. His solos make sense
and are well put together. And he's a very nice guy—and so dedicated to
music.

Diversity remains his thing. Since his last Shaw experience, Kluger has
accumulated credits in the Hollywood studios. He was house percussionist
at the Moulin Rouge—a large club, now defunct, also in that California
center of fantasy. He toured with a late edition of the Charlie Barnet band,
played in the show band at the Riviera in Las Vegas for a number of years,
and traveled on the road with a Gene Krupa "ghost band." And over an
extended period of time, he was a prime mover in Vegas's Local 3 69 AFM,
putting his considerable energies to work for the benefit of his fellow
musicians.
Kluger is active to this day, playing in and out of Vegas—his home—in a
variety of situations. He continues to teach and turn out what he describes
as "dynamite students" and generally remains young and vigorous.
38 Traditional figures

JACKIE MILLS (1922- )

Jackie Mills feels he has been very lucky during his career as a musician.
"Great players, composers, and arrangers allowed me to hang around them.
They were kind and helpful," he says, adding: "I listened and learned and
took advice when they chose to give it. I'm grateful that guys like Jo Jones,
Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins, Harry 'Sweets' Edison, Dizzy Gillespie,
and others took the time to show me the way."
Not only did Mills have the capacity to rapidly learn from others, he had
an excellent work ethic and studied hard, practicing daily and playing
whenever there was any sort of opportunity to do so. Most important, he
consistently delivered in a variety of musical circumstances. "You have to
produce," he insisted. "That's the only way those who hire and fire will have
faith in your ability and continue to call when work comes up."
During our frequent cross-country conversations, Mills kept returning to
luck as a crucial element in his success as a musician. "So many times I just
happened to be standing on the right corner at the right time," he repeatedly
pointed out, playing down the number of bands and small groups with
which he worked and the movies and TV shows and records that fill his
resume.
Luck and timing certainly are key elements in the life of a music profes-
sional. But the truth will out—the entertainment business is a hard taskmaster
and deals only in realities. If you can do the job it's fine. If not, forget it.
From the outset, Jackie Mills has had unusual drive, goals to be met.
Music filled his life from childhood. His ambition led him in interesting
directions. He was one of the young drummers in the early to mid-19408—
who happened to be white—singled out and taught by Dizzy Gillespie. All
of them—Shelly Manne, Stan Levey, Irv Kluger, and Mills—were taken with
modern jazz in its incipient phase. And, like so many drummers seeking the
future, they were influenced to a significant degree by Max Roach—a
primary source and guiding light in modern jazz percussion.
By the time bop was beginning to emerge as a factor in jazz in the early
19408, Mills had already played with several small and big bands. One of
the first was headed by pianist-vibraharpist Shorty Allen; another had
electric guitarist-personality Bobby Day at the helm. Still another had
former Jimmy Dorsey trombonist Bobby Byrne up front. There was, as well,
an important small group gig on 52nd Street with songwriter Henry Nemo.
Band and group leaders like Charlie Barnet and Teddy Powell were getting
the idea that Jackie Mills could really play.
During and after a turbulent childhood, music was simultaneously a
refuge and source of joy and fulfillment for Mills. He was moved from rela-
tive to relative and had little or no security at a time when it was most
needed. Finally, he was taken in by the Faceys—a "warm and under-
standing" black family in Harlem.

MiLLS: I never lived with my parents. My father, Jay Mills, a bandleader, led
a successful hotel band on the West Coast. My mother was a dancer in the
musical theater. Neither one wanted to have anything to do with me. My
grandmother started to raise me but couldn't; my mother got sick, and she had
to care for her. At one point, I was sent to a relative on an Onondaga Iroquois
reservation near Lake Erie in upstate New York. I lived there for three years.
 Jackie (Hills 39

Jackie Mills—a veteran of many big bands. Here, it's Glen Gray and the Gasa Loma
Orchestra. Jackie Mills Collection.

In almost every way, the Faceys were a lifesaver. They were terrific to me.
Stan, their son, shared my interest in music; he was a fine pianist who worked
with a number of good jazz people. Violinist Eddie South was one of them.

Wurlitzer, the large, very visible music store on New York's 42nd Street,
was a magnet for kids in the 19308 who were fascinated by jazz, popular,
and classical music. Many of them sought guidance there. In 1931 at age
nine, Mills began studying guitar with a Wurlitzer teacher. The instrument,
however, wasn't for him. The very next year, he turned to drums. It was an
appropriate choice.
itO Traditional fi?ure>

Not long thereafter, he met the soon-to-be formidable jazz trombonist

Kai Winding. They formed a small group before both moved on to high
school. At this juncture, Winding played accordion. Mills went to George
Washington High School in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan—
not far from his home in Harlem. Winding attended Stuyvesant High
School, downtown, where he began playing trombone.

MILLS: During my teen years, I played ballrooms and dime-a-dance places on

Broadway and began learning what a drummer should know. I was on Bobby
Day's band for a while; I believe we worked at the Arcadia Ballroom, right
off 42nd Street. I gigged with Shorty Allen's band, which included Kai
Winding, pianist-composer George Handy, singer Josephine Napoleon—the
sister of soon-to-be famous pianists Teddy and Marty Napoleon—and trum-
peter Tony Faso, a really good player from Brooklyn who went with the
Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw bands a few years later.
One of Shorty's trumpeters used to "borrow" a car each night to drive us
to work. It was a good band, made up of young, enthusiastic guys who wanted
to have fun and learn as much as they could. Shorty went on to do a bunch
of things. In the mid-1940s he played with an underestimated band headed
by trumpeter Randy Brooks and recorded for Savoy with Kai and Stan Getz.
It was a period of discovery for me. I came to know more and more about
life, music, and drums.

Mills had great drum teachers—Jo Jones, Dave Tough, and Billy
Gladstone in New York and, later, Murray Spivak in Los Angeles. Jo Jones
took him on as a student not long after the Basic band first came to New
York in 1936. Mills was fourteen.

MILLS: Jo taught me what he thought was important—how to play the hi-hat,

different ways to use your arms, wrists, and hands. He wasn't into the tech-
nical aspects of drumming as much as the emotional side of things.
About a year later, I got started with Gladstone. He was an unbelievable
player and teacher, particularly during his great years as percussionist with
the orchestra at New York's Radio City Music Hall. We met at Manny's Drum
Shop on West 48th Street. It was an embarrassing experience, to say the
least. I was practicing on one of the pads on the counter, thinking how well I
was doing. This guy came up to me and just stood there watching. All dressed
up—slick hat and coat, an expensive suit—he didn't take his eyes off my
hands. He got my attention and said: "Excuse me, son, what's your name?"
"I'm Jackie Mills," I quickly answered. Then he really did it to me, smiling
all the while. "You have the worst left hand I've ever seen!" He gave me his
card and said: "Be at the Radio City stage door at four P.M. and we'll start
getting it straightened out."
That was another piece of good luck for me. Billy did so many things
better than other drummers and communicated so well as a teacher. Studying
with him gave me enough confidence to sit in and play with bands that might
have been beyond me at the time.
In his gruff, caring way, Jo Jones made clear what was important. Dave
Tough pulled no punches either. What he said has remained in my mind all
these years and saved me several times during my career with bands.
Following Dave's advice kept me working. He insisted: "You're in charge!
 Jackie ffiilh 1,1

Don't think of yourself as a soloist. Just keep the time feeling strong, hold
the band together, and make the whole thing work!"
Every night I'd listen to Dave and watch what he did in ballrooms, hotels,
and clubs. He was my model in every way. I got hold of one of his old sets with
two tom-toms on the bass drum. I began wetting down my calf bass drum
heads same as he did so I could duplicate his bass drum sound—which was
somewhere between a thud and the basic sonority of the drum.
After I'd been in California for a few years, I went to Murray Spivak for
further polish and to learn his finger system. [Ed. note—to enhance speed
and precision]. He helped me a good deal. Murray taught a lot of guys in
L. A., including Alvin Stoller, a really good drummer I first met in New York.

The gig at 5 znd Street's Three Deuces with Henry Nemo's small group in
1940 proved to be a major break for Mills. One night Charlie Barnet came
into the club to hear "the Neem," the writer of "Don't Take Your Love from
Me" and other great songs. Nemo was an appealing actor and something of
a character as well.
Barnet was having problems. On October z, 1937, he had lost his library
and the band's instruments, uniforms, and stands in a terrible fire at the
Palomar Ballroom in Los Angeles. Cliff Leeman, one of his favorite
drummers—an excellent, creative timekeeper—had been busted for drugs
and was in jail. Barnet had to have someone right away who could do the
job.
Nineteen-year-old Mills impressed the bandleader in his time of need.
Barnet offered him the job, which he promptly accepted. The young
drummer got invaluable experience over an eight-month period, playing for
someone he liked and respected. The affiliation ended in mid-i94Z.
Like most Barnet bands, this edition had good arrangements and
musicians who collectively and individually swung. Mills remembers with
particular warmth the inventive Barnet trumpeter Bobby Burnet.
From what the RCA-Bluebird and Decca recordings tell us—e.g.
"Smiles," "Washington Whirligig"—Mills adapted well and became an
asset, adding to the loose thrust of the band. He also exerted sufficient con-
trol to bring the necessary balance and discipline to Barnet's arrangements
regardless of tempo or type of material.
Teddy Powell was his next employer. Powell had several musically
impressive bands in the first half of the 19405 and the quality of his music
and musicians motivated Mills to return to him a few years later.
By late I94Z, Mills had become deeply involved in the new music
emerging in Harlem. He looked to mentors Dizzy Gillespie and Max Roach
for further education. The war was on. Like Buddy Rich, Mills enlisted in
the Marines. But again, like the super drummer, he didn't stay the course
and was discharged after nine months. He then moved more and more
deeply into modern jazz.

MILLS: In his own strange, unorthodox way, Dizzy was able to point musicians
in the right direction. He told me what to do and what not to do—when to use
the hi-hat, when to move the time up to the top cymbal, how to play the bass
drum. Four-to-the-bar was out. That was a bit of an adjustment; most drum-
mers back then kept time on the bass drum, particularly the guys who
worked with big bands.
i|2 Transitional figures

Max was the perfect drummer for this music. What he played always
seemed right. He knew how to fill the space in each performance and inspire
the players. He had such great control, Max made it possible for the
drummer to be far more expressive—in the ensemble, behind improvisers,
and as a drum soloist.

Mills replaced Roach in what was the first bebop group to play
downtown on 5 2nd Street. It had been booked into the Onyx Club in
January of 1944, with Oscar Pettiford and Gillespie as co-leaders. The band
also featured Don Byas (tenor sax) and George Wallington (piano). The
leaders made seventy-five dollars a week; Byas was in for sixty dollars, the
other players worked for scale, which at that time, was about fifty dollars.
At the Onyx, the group was on the bill with Billie Holiday and guitarist Al
Casey's trio.
Byas, a great player who impressively dealt with the new music, drank
more than he should. This annoyed Gillespie, and it was suggested the tenor
man play elsewhere. He was replaced by Budd Johnson, a fine saxophonist-
composer-arranger, who, with Gillespie's help, caught on pretty quickly to
what was going on.
Gillespie ultimately broke away from Pettiford. The bassist stayed at the
Onyx, bringing in Joe Guy (trumpet), Johnny Hartzfield (tenor), Joe
Springer (piano), and Harold "Doc" West (drums). Gillespie took his band
across the street to the Yacht Club. Johnson remained. Leonard Gaskin
became the new bass player. Mills had replaced Roach while the band was
still at the Onyx. Pianist Clyde Hart came in for Wallington. Trombonist
Trummy Young's band and singer Billy Eckstine shared the bill with the new
Gillespie group. The Yacht Club gig didn't last too long. The club closed
because of the newly imposed zo percent cabaret tax. After a while, the
room reopened as the Downbeat.
The move to the Yacht Club occurred at about the time the first bop
records were made for Apollo, with Coleman Hawkins as leader, featuring
key 5znd Street players. Frank "Professor Jazz" Vallade of the Rainbow
Music Shop on iZ5th Street, uptown, produced these historical recordings.
That Mills had the wherewithal to sit in Roach's seat with the Gillespie
group does him credit. Modern jazz was shifting into fast drive. Mills
worked hard and moved with the trend.

MILLS: I listened every night, all night, to the guys making this music. Though
I absorbed the feel and direction of the music, in some ways, I had to get over
my past. I felt a little out of my depth. Lifting the emphasis from the bass
drum to the cymbals, when it came to time playing, was a major adjustment.
Clyde Hart was very helpful to me. He was incredible and so very musical.
Most people don't know that Clyde Hart was a major arranger at NBC. He
wrote for a lot of shows. It was almost unheard of for a black composer-
arranger to get a foothold in radio during the early 1940s. Too bad Clyde
didn't live longer and get the sort of recognition he deserved for his great
work. He died of tuberculosis in 1945.

As the war raced to conclusion, Mills became increasingly active. He

played with composer-conductor Raymond Scott's Jazz Laboratory at CBS,
a large band including such leading jazz players as Charlie Shavers, Ben
 Jackie mill) 1,3

Webster, and Johnny Guarnieri. It set a precedent. The Jazz Laboratory was
the first racially mixed ensemble, specializing in jazz, that worked as a
network house band. A few music industry people with clout—and a con-
science—felt it was time to press the issue and integrate radio.
The new music being developed and nurtured in Harlem and downtown
on 5 znd Street was itself a comment on the slowly changing racial climate.
A new militancy and the need to move ahead on a variety of levels became
increasingly apparent.
People were still dancing and going to ballrooms and hotels and theaters.
Band buses continued to travel across the land. Though in a progressive
downturn, the big bands offered job opportunities during and following
World War II. Mills, a young veteran by then, continued to get offers from
name bandleaders.
Mills played with Glen Gray's Casa Loma, which had some good swing
arrangements in its library. He returned to Teddy Powell's band. Then he
became a member of the Boyd Raeburn orchestra. The adventure of the
Raeburn band's music, out-of-the ordinary instrumentation (including harp
and French horn and a lot of doubling in the reeds), and admirable writing
and high-level performances caught the ears of those seeking something new
and different.
Duke Ellington and a flock of musicians and critics loved what Raeburn
was doing. But the orchestra taxed the average listener. It made little or no
money. The Raeburn orchestra had to be subsidized to exist.

Mills did significant work on records with the Raeburn 1945-46 editions
that leaned most heavily on the compositions and arrangements of the
inventive, sometimes musically and personally flamboyant George Handy
and the creations of Dizzy Gillespie, Eddie Finckel, and Johnny Richards.
The drummer had the taste, good instincts and reflexes, wide-ranging
training, and reading ability that were necessary to play well in the
environment. He consistently illustrated he could color and shape the music
and provide sectional and ensemble support while playing firm, provocative
time.
"Boyd Meets Stravinsky" provides an excellent example of Mills's work
with Raeburn. An up-tempo piece, composed and arranged by Eddie
Finckel, it's an impressive showcase for the drummer, the band, and the
ideas, facility, and rhythmic effectiveness of Dodo Marmarosa at the piano.
Mills brings to this music a strong Dave Tough-like presence. He un-
obtrusively shapes and uplifts the performance, first recorded for Jewel and
released on CD by Savoy. Supportive figures in his left hand and well-placed
accents on a carefully tuned bass drum sharpen the ensemble playing, the
section work, and the solo commentary as well.
Unfortunately, Mills's short solos here and on other Raeburn recordings
lack distinction. They're repetitive, rushed throwaways, seemingly based
on Gene Krupa tom-tom patterns. They remind me of the sort of things
that Krupa played on Benny Goodman's recording of "Sing, Sing, Sing."
Mills insists: "Solos never have been my thing. My interests obviously lie
elsewhere."
The Raeburn organization spent a considerable amount of time in Cali-
fornia in 1945 and 1946. It was heard regularly on the CBS Pacific Network.
To showcase the orchestra, Club Morocco was built on Hollywood's Vine
ii^ Transitional fi?um

Street. But widespread acceptance remained elusive, a vain hope for the
bandleader, as he became more and more venturesome.
Mills benefited from the Raeburn association. He enhanced his reputa-
tion as a drummer and recorded a good deal, mostly in Los Angeles.
Two of his best recordings of the period were "Mellow Mood," from a
trio date for Atomic under Dodo Marmarosa's name with Ray Brown (bass)
(Hollywood, January n, 1946) and "Boppin' the Blues," done during
tenorist Lucky Thompson's RCA session with Benny Carter, Thompson,
and Robert Lawson (saxes), Neal Hefti (trumpet), Dodo Marmarosa
(piano), Barney Kessel (guitar), and Red Callender (bass) (Hollywood, April
22, 1947).
"Mellow Mood," a medium-tempo, attractive Marmarosa original, was
recorded at the zenith of the pianist's creativity. A relaxed, highly melodic
item, it brings into focus Marmarosa's admirable technique, discipline, and
buoyant spirit. Over the recording's three choruses, Mills smoothly
integrates what is played. He makes you realize here and on other small
group recordings, notably those he made for Keynote with the Keynoters:
Willie Smith (alto), Red Callender (bass), and the extraordinary Nat Cole
(piano)—that stylish brush work has become a lost art.
The stage for Thompson's memorable up-tempo "Boppin' the Blues" is
set by Mills with a simple, buoyantly delivered direct snare/bass drum idea,
covering a little under four bars. Thompson and his Lucky Seven proceed
to make a contemporary statement. The way the theme is phrased and the
nature of the solos mirror the musicians' interest in bebop. The only
exception is Carter. But he's timeless and relevant in almost any context.
Mills is on top of the beat. His cymbal sings, and he swings throughout.
An occasional accent enhances rather than breaks the flow. He helps his
associates, never intruding or imposing unnecessary rhythmic direction.
I would also suggest you listen to Mills on George Handy's "The Bloos"
from Norman Gram's Jazz Scene CD, recorded on Verve. The performance
gives you an idea how positive and responsive the drummer can be. Tenorist
Herbie Steward makes a rewarding solo appearance.
"Prelude to a Nightmare," which Mills recorded in 1949 for Capitol with
the hipster of scat, Babs Gonzalez, as leader, is an informative item. It
features J. J. Johnson (trombone), Art Pepper (alto sax), Herbie Steward
(tenor sax), Wynton Kelly (piano), Bill Tinney (guitar and vocals), and Bruce
Lawrence (bass). It makes two interesting points.
One: the drummer is still searching for his own identity in a modern small
band setting. His playing, though tasty and well decorated, doesn't have the
sort of singularity that immediately identifies him.
Two: Musicians were comfortable with Jackie Mills. This was a key
factor in his ongoing employment.
The traditional qualities of Mills's playing are quite apparent on his
recordings of the period. In fact, his work seems a matter of split loyalties.
His fascination with the liberated musical attitudes of the emerging
innovators, like Roach, sometimes clashes with a need to lay down the time
in the manner of drummers with roots in swing—those who controlled large
bands and small with the bass drum.
As time passed, however, Mills's increased understanding and assimila-
tion of modern jazz enhanced the value of his playing. Ambition and the
need to be musically appropriate made growth possible.
 Jackie fflilh y
It's curious to note that his lessons in contemporary performance on the
New York jazz scene didn't always pay dividends in the world of commercial
music. Players and recording men who lingered in the past were a particular
problem.

MILLS: When I arrived in California I started recording with different people.

One day, Dodo, bassist Harry Babasin, and I were on a Jo Stafford session
for Capitol. We were all with the Raeburn band at the time and very much
into the new things.
We ran down the first arrangement and then tried for "a take," doing what
felt right to us. Producer Paul Weston, Jo Stafford's husband, came storming
out of the control booth and stopped the band. He was beside himself. He
pointed at the rhythm section and shouted: "What are you guys doing? I
never heard such nonsense in my life! Are you putting me on? What kind of
way is that to play? And you, drummer, where are the four beats on the bass
drum?" He didn't have a clue about what was going on in the music.
I realized that if I wanted to earn a living, I had to make some concessions
in each situation and give the leader or producer essentially what he
wanted—only occasionally suggesting my own ideas. That was reality.
They were way behind in Hollywood in the 1940s. Most of the California
musicians were playing things we had stopped using in New York four or five
years earlier. And Hollywood contractors, producers and arrangers and
composers wouldn't let you do certain things!
There were only a few places we could get together and play freely. There
was one spot in the [San Fernando] Valley called the Club 47 and another on
Hollywood Boulevard—the name of that one escapes me. I used to play there
with trumpeter Howard McGhee, a fine contemporary player. At Billy Berg's
you could do what you wanted. And, of course, there was Central Avenue.
But L.A. was really racially divided in those days.

EARL PALMER: When I was growing up in California, and for a while after I
moved back there from New Orleans in 1957, L.A. was very much like the
South. There wasn't a lot of mixing on record dates. White guys could come
into the black part of town to play. But not the other way around—unless
you were a big star like Dizzy, Bird, or Roy Eldridge.
When I was a kid, I almost never went anywhere west of Main Street,
which was the dividing line. If you did, the cops wanted to know exactly what
your destination was and why you took it into your mind to go there.

While making peace with music industry actualities, particularly on

"commercial" record sessions, Mills also continued to play modern jazz.

MILLS: I loved being in Lucky Thompson's big band in 1947. Lucky, who I
had met in the Raeburn band, hired some wonderful people—Miles Davis,
Britt Woodman, Herbie Steward, Marshal Royal. Everyone could play! And
there was a lot of interaction on the gigs among the musicians. We performed
only in black areas, in Masonic halls—places of that kind. The band was too
wild for Hollywood.

Also in 1947, Mills worked and recorded with Stan Hasselgard, the
Swedish clarinetist, who was a protege of Benny Goodman. Hasselgard
i|6 Transitional figures

handily combined elements of the Goodman style and bebop and might well
have developed into one of the idiom's major clarinet players had he not
died in an auto accident in 1948.
The tape Mills sent to me indicates what an inspiration Hasselgard was
when he played with the drummer's group, which included Jimmy Rowles
(piano) and Harry Babasin (bass). Mills was relaxed and performed partic-
ularly well on a stimulating treatment of "Indiana."
The company Jackie Mills kept had more than a little to do with his
finding himself as a player. During the late 19405 and through the 19508,
he worked with such top-liners as Roy Eldridge, Benny Goodman, Woody
Herman, John Kirby's band, and Tommy Dorsey.
Unlike a number of musicians, Mills loved working with Dorsey.
"Tommy was very nice to me," the drummer said. "He did a lot of wonder-
ful things for people that were never talked about."
Mills was always busy. He played on soundtracks of motion pictures,
beginning with MGM's New Girl in Town in 1948; traveled with Jazz at the
Philharmonic; appeared at several of Gene Norman's Just Jazz concerts in
the City of the Angels, and gigged and jammed around L.A.
His extensive training and experience as a player made it possible for him
to record with Nat Cole, tour with Ella Fitzgerald, rehearse with Marilyn
Monroe, and drum for Fred Astaire. Mills did the third of three evenings
with the great dancer and entertainer on television in 1961.
Perhaps the drummer's most consistently fruitful association was with
Harry James's band in the 19508. A live album, One Night Stand (Col-
umbia), recorded at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago in 1952, vividly makes
the point. Records the band taped for Capitol a few years later confirm it
indisputably.
By the time James had affiliated with Capitol, he had stylistically
fashioned his band along blues-oriented Basic lines. He had the help of
good, feeling players and of such writers as Neal Hefti, Bill Holman, J. Hill,
and particularly Ernie Wilkins, who for years had been a primary writer for
the Basic band.
One Night Stand, notably the band's treatment of "How High the
Moon," titled "Ultra," shows how well Mills could control the band with
his strong bass drum foot and how explosive and specific his lead-ins, fills,
and pulsation could be.
By the time Mills made the James recordings for Capitol, he had taken a
truly major step. His pulsation had smoothed out and had about it a
compelling forward movement. His breaks, fills, and pickups were well
edited and fitting, enhancing the groove of the music. His bass drum shots
hit you right under the heart. He made the drum set work for him, even
using the sound of the hi-hat stand for color and as an element of the time.
The blues-infused material seemed easy for him to play. The character of
the Basic-influenced charts allowed Mills the freedom to fully define his
ideas and personality. He inspired the musicians with the intensity of his
comments and the excitement of his time feeling. He consistently added to
the power of the band.
The difference between Mills and Buddy Rich, who followed him into
the James band, is that each had his own sense of thrust. Mills was
muscular, insistent, a natural force, while Rich applied a lighter, technically
fascinating approach that made this and other bands dance.
 j. C. Heard 1,7
Mills sounds unmistakably like Jackie Mills on this series of recordings.
This in itself is a major accomplishment. He had come a considerable
distance before arriving at his own sound and manner of doing things.
That he moved to this level of individuality is proven, indeed validated,
by still another taped live performance, done in the 19605 at Memory Lane,
a club in Los Angeles. He is in the exalted company of Gerry Wiggins
(piano), Harry "Sweets" Edison (trumpet), Herb Ellis (guitar), and Leroy
Vinnegar (bass).
The drummer makes a strong modern jazz statement on "Broadway," a
jam session standard.
In the years since the 19608, Mills has continued to diversify. He ran Fred
Astaire's record company and formed and found success with his own,
releasing film music tracks, jazz, and rock and roll. Drums remain a concern;
and Mills retains an interest in drumming, but these days more as a listener
than as a player. Business is dominant. He continues to seek outlets for his
energy and ambition.

J. C. HEARD (1917-1988)
Smooth, sensitive, instinctive, and disciplined; subtle, bold, and often
powerful—J. C. Heard was an artist with rare energy and an appreciation
for restraint and silence. He knew how the drums should be played.
Heard was a pivotal figure in jazz percussion. A student of jazz history
and drums, he could give you lessons during the course of an evening,
defining how best to use traditional drum techniques and styles and
contemporary concepts.
Like his idol Chick Webb, his mentor Jo Jones, Sidney Catlett, and Gene
Krupa, all veterans of a variety of performance situations, Heard charmed
audiences. And he did so without sacrificing his musical integrity in any way.
Heard smiled a lot, projecting a strong, pleasant personality. His eyes and
facial expressions simultaneously spoke of his deep concentration and
delight with performing. He looked impressive on the stand. Handsome,
well dressed, carefully groomed, he created in your mind a "clean,"
glamorous image. His intention: to make each night a treat, a party.
Heard left little to chance. He carefully selected equipment and kept his
drums and cymbals in good physical shape. He tuned each and every drum
carefully and in a very specific manner. He gave maximum attention to every
aspect of his performances, revealing his commitment not only to the
audience but to himself as an artist.
J. C. Heard was born to be a musician and entertainer. He had natural
talent for drumming. His ability extended to tap dancing and singing as well.
He loved performing and had no doubt about career selection,
Dizzy Gillespie, a longtime friend and associate, was unequivocal when
we talked about J. C. Heard. "J simply was one of the best," he said.
Guitarist Remo Palmier added: "J never overplayed. He could be a model
for some of today's drummers. He was terrific at 'telegraphing' figures in a
big band—a bar or so before it was to be played. What he put in that little
opening fit so well that it later became a part of the arrangement."
Doc Cheatham, who worked with Heard in the Teddy Wilson big band
(1939-40), and later as well, asserted: "He enjoyed everything so much! He
reminded me a lot of Jo Jones."
i(8 Transitional fifuret

J. C. Heard at a recording session in the 1940s. Down Beat Archives.

Born in Dayton, Ohio, and brought up in Detroit, Heard was banging on

things by age three. His brother David recalls: "J got this little drum from
Mama. She saved up enough coupons and sent away for it. Before he had
that drum to play, he beat on Mama's pots and pans and other things.
Drumming was something that was in him."
Heard broke into "show business" as a five-year-old tap dancer. A triple
threat, he danced, drummed, and sang in vaudeville theaters across the
country, becoming known as "the Child Wonder."

HEARD: I won amateur contests at six or seven. I liked the rhythm of tap
dancing, and I started hearing drummers. Chick Webb was one of my biggest
inspirations—everybody wanted to be like him."1
 J. C. Heard 1,9

As a very young person, he translated what the great drummers played

into tap routines. Then, as he became more and more involved with drums,
he worked out the patterns on cymbals and drums.
At age ten, he turned the corner. The young entertainer had been hanging
out with drummers wherever he did his act, learning about the instrument.
He was as ready to play as any kid his age could be.

HEARD: I was in a show with Butterbeans and Susie [Ed. note—a comedy team
in black vaudeville], chorus girls, and all that stuff, and when the drummer
suddenly got sick they didn't know what they were going to do. So I said to
Butterbeans: "Mr. B., I think I can play this show." He gave me a chance and
said: "If you're in doubt about the tempo, you just roll when the conductor
drops his hand, and when the two trumpets pick up the time, you pick it up."
That was a smart idea I never forgot. I was down in the pit and played the
whole show perfectly. After that, I got into little bands.2

DAVID HEARD: J taught himself a lot, then began taking lessons while a student
at Cass Technical High School—a great school here in Detroit. He learned
the drum rudiments and how to read music. He really got with the whole
thing—so much so that when the teacher left the drum class, he generally put
my brother in charge.

It got to the point where Heard felt a great need to hear and see and know
what the other drummers did—how they responded to music, how they
moved, how they structured breaks and solos. He was even curious about
what kind of drums and cymbals they used.
You have to be out and around to get this sort of education. His mother,
who had served as his "manager" for a time, collecting her son's pay and
seeing to it that all went well, followed through. Mrs. Heard and her
husband were always supportive of their talented son. Until he was old
enough to go out on his own, she took him to hear bands that came to
Detroit theaters and ballrooms—among them ensembles headed by Jimmie
Lunceford, Fletcher Henderson, the Dorsey Brothers, Benny Goodman, and
Don Redman.
Heard became conscious of a number of drummers, including Baby
Dodds, Walter Johnson, Cuba Austin, Jimmy Crawford, Kaiser Marshall,
Ray McKinley, and Gene Krupa. In 1937, Heard had one of the key musical
experiences of his life. He spent an entire evening in a theater sitting close
to Chick Webb and his band, mesmerized.
Webb played so much more than anyone else at that time. His ideas were
technically and conceptually advanced. He showed how the drummer's job
should be done in a big band and suggested how drums might well be played
in the future. Those particularly knowledgeable about drums and music,
among them drum scholar Jim Chapin, Allen Paley—an extraordinarily
promising drummer and a respected teacher until early retirement from
music—and trumpeter Roy "Little Jazz" Eldridge felt Webb was moving the
instrument in a new direction.
Not long after Heard was exposed to Chick Webb for the first time, Jo
Jones came to town with the Count Basic band. Lightning struck again. The
great artist of the hi-hat opened a new world of suggestion and subtlety—
fluidity in 4/4 time—for the young drummer. Jones became Heard's model.
jo Transitional figures

"I loved Jo so much, and we played almost alike at that time," Heard
explained. A close, lifelong friendship began.
Jones frequently stayed at the Heard house in Detroit when he was
appearing in the Motor City. He was like family. On one occasion, years
later, he arrived in town and made his way to 913 King Street. Heard had
just come off the road. His mother, who must have had a great sense of
humor, called to her son in the upstairs portion of the house: "Jo's here,
you'll have to get out of your room and stay at a hotel." Laughing and good
times were typical when Jones, his protege and the family were together.
After "Papa Jo" heard his young friend play at a local club, he
immediately became his champion. He insisted Heard sit in with Basic and
called upon him to fill in for him on numerous occasions. Jones talked about
his "little brother" to important people, smoothing the way for him. The big
break was just around the corner.
Teddy Wilson, the legendary jazz pianist, was about to leave the Benny
Goodman band to form his own big band. Jones visited him backstage at
the Paramount Theater in New York City during one of his last engage-
ments with Goodman.

Jo JONES: I said: "Teddy, I have a drummer for you. When you're in Detroit,
go check him out." I talked J.C. up. I told everybody about him, even the
chorus girls in the theaters. I prepared them. "You just wait till my little
brother gets here!"

When the Goodman band played in Detroit in 1938, several of the

musicians, including Lionel Hampton and Wilson, visited the Cozy Corner,
the club where Heard was working. Wilson returned a few times.

DAVID HEARD: Teddy came by the club and went back to New York without
saying anything. After a little while, he sent a telegram, asking J to join his
new band. I remember my brother running up the stairs of our house when
he got the wire, shouting: "Mama! Mama! Mama! I'm going to New York.
Teddy Wilson wants me to join his band!" It was a wonderful day for him.
Wilson organized the band in 1939—a year after Heard had played briefly
in New York with Tiny Bradshaw. The Bradshaw band was not to the
drummer's taste, and he left. Being hired by Teddy Wilson was not only a
significant turn in the road for Heard but a validation of his ability and taste.
The band was smooth, sophisticated, precise, and swinging and had
unusually good intonation. It played well-crafted arrangements by Buster
Harding, Edgar Sampson, Rudy Powell, and Wilson, among others, that
adroitly showcased the pianist's elegance, facility, and eloquence; his exem-
plary good taste and swing.
The personnel, a lively mix of accomplished soloists and sectional and en-
semble players, included Karl George—an excellent musician from Detroit
who soloed on the medium-tempo and fast numbers; Harold "Shorty" Baker—
later an Ellington star, who improvised on the slow things, and Doc Cheatham
(trumpets); Jake Wiley—the section's soloist—and Floyd "Stumpy" Brady
(trombones); Pete Clark, Rudy Powell (alto saxophones); Ben Webster—
the primary solo voice in the reed section—and George Irish (tenor saxo-
phones); Al Casey (guitar); Al Hall (bass); J. C. Heard (drums), Wilson
(piano), plus a girl singer (first Thelma Carpenter, later Jean Eldridge).
 J.(. Heard 51

TEDDY WILSON: It was a great band, a musicianly band, a swinging, disci-

plined group which lacked only one thing: showmanship. I had imagined I
could make it on my name . . . my appearances with Goodman . . . and the
many records that I had come out . . . without any commercial conces-
sions. . . .
I just play music and I don't have any talent as an entertainer. All we
cared for was playing our best—none of us paid any attention to the spec-
tacular side.3

If the music—its performance and danceability—were the sole criterion,

the Wilson band would have had great success. Unfortunately, it lasted only
a little over a year. For six months, the pianist and his associates played at
the Golden Gate Ballroom in Harlem. A luxurious dance palace built in
1939 by Jay Faggen to compete with the Savoy Ballroom, the Golden Gate
was located on Lenox Avenue and 13 5th Street, two blocks south of "the
Home of Happy Feet." The Wilson orchestra, the house attraction, was
featured there until Faggen sold out to the Savoy.
It then played some isolated dates—an engagement at Roseland Ballroom
on Broadway and a few gigs out of town. The band recorded eighteen titles
for Columbia, two for Brunswick: standards by the Gershwins and Irving
Berlin and others, usually featuring Wilson; novelties and original material.
An important legacy, the records show just how good the band was.
A sense of pulsation, so essential to swing, flowed through the band. In
many ways, it paralleled the playing personality and the discipline so
essential to Wilson.

AL CASEY: The Wilson band was one of the nicest things that ever happened to
me. When I got the call from Teddy, I was with Fats Waller. He said: "Go on
and try it. I know the band will be a good experience for you. If it doesn't
work out, you can always have your job back."
I enjoyed myself and learned a lot with Teddy. We worked hard. We
rehearsed at a brownstone on 122nd Street and Lenox Avenue owned by
Thelma Carpenter's mother. Not too many bands played together so well and
had such good intonation. Irene Kitchings, then Teddy's wife, wrote some fine
things. The lovely "Little Things That Mean So Much," the band's theme,
was one of her compositions.
I loved being in the rhythm section with Teddy, Al Hall, and J.C., playing
time on acoustic guitar. A band depends on its rhythm players walking down
the road together. You know what I mean?

Heard filled the band with a sense of animation and swing. He controlled
things with firm, strong timekeeping on the bass drum. The hi-hat, top
cymbal, snare, and bass drum—the primary time and/or color centers—
often mingled with comments on various elements of the set, enhancing the
effect of the pulse. What he played supported and gave the band—and
certainly the rhythm section—a sense of definition, confidence, and stability.
Heard brought into play fundamental and secondary and highly subtle
colors, most of them suggested to him by the arrangement at hand. He
adjusted levels of intensity according to the demands of the music. The
swing, however, remained consistent, often quietly insistent. Even on
ballads, it was strongly implied.
32 Traditional fi?ure$

Heard had fast hands, a quick mind, the capacity to produce what was
necessary, instantly. These are natural gifts, not things that can be easily
learned or developed.
If the Wilson big band material is ever re-released, try "Booly Ja Ja," a
flashy arrangement that typifies the sort of thrust Heard brought to the
band, and "Wham (Re-Bop-Boom Bam)," on which Heard also sings. He
keeps the rhythmic fire burning bright with crisp tom-tomming and
provocatively accented press rolls. Two other highly distinctive items by the
Wilson band, "71" and "Coconut Grove," are memorable for Heard's
solos. He made dexterity pay its way, musically. The way he played on these
recordings excited the music community.

JIM CHAPIN: J.C. was a creative extension of Jo Jones at this particular time.
You can't believe how influential Jo was back in the late 1930s. He was so
pure! J.C. added his own personality and originality to what was being estab-
lished by Jo—and Chick, certainly—and went on to contribute to the
development of modern jazz drumming.

When the Teddy Wilson band broke up, the musicians were angry. They
felt it was a controlling, political move by management and bookers. Wilson
rejected what they wanted. He refused to be manipulated; he wouldn't
change his concept of the band. The disappearance of the Wilson band was
hard to dismiss. Musicians and dancers liked it; listeners felt the band
offered something fresh and different. But "fresh and different" weren't
what the business people were after.
The band was a major loss for Wilson, musically and financially. For J.
C. Heard, however, it was a key developmental experience. The drummer's
work with the band put his career in gear and provided the foundation for
a fruitful future in New York—and elsewhere.
Heard became one of the drummers of choice in New York. He played
with big and small bands; he accompanied singers. He subbed in a variety
of musical situations and recorded with literally everyone from Sidney
Bechet to Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker. It was his time to blossom and
flourish and enjoy success and recognition.
His credits during the 19408 are impressive, including the Coleman
Hawkins orchestra and the Benny Carter big band at the Savoy. (Heard loved
the drum parts that Carter crafted.) He worked in Louis Jordan's group and
returned to Wilson in a small band setting—which he did several times over
the years. He stepped into the Basic, Goodman, and Ellington bands,
enhancing the rhythmic flow of each of these distinctive organizations.
Heard received the most significant exposure of his career, up to that
point, during three years as a featured member of the Cab Galloway band
(1942-45).

HEARD: Cab had an excellent band when I ... joined him in Los Angeles. I
got out there a day ahead, because he wanted me to hear the band before
Cozy [Cole] left. Cab wanted Cozy to stay so bad. He loved the man . . . he
told me: "I know all about you, Heard. You're here now, but I'm going to tell
you something. If Cozy were to change his mind, I'd pay you off, give you
four weeks' money and send you back."4
 J.(. Heard 53

A bit of pressure, right? But, as it turned out, Heard outplayed Cole

in almost every way. The band became more relaxed, graceful, and swinging.
Heard's solos and breaks, his lead-ins to section and ensemble and solo
segments, were more musical and interesting than those generally played by
Cole. He added to the strength and appeal of the orchestra. His big solo
number, "Wild Man's Dream," was a great audience pleaser.
Cole, on the other hand, sabotaged himself in some ways. A well-trained
technician and an enormously dedicated student of the instrument, he could
deal with a variety of musical situations, sometimes playing very well in a
jazz sense. Unfortunately, however, he was utterly obsessed with rudimen-
tary excellence. Curiously, the more he studied, the less his natural talent
readily came forth.
Heard didn't have any "problem" about technique. This was one
drummer who never allowed formalism to get in his way. He swung a band,
regardless of its size and orientation. The beat rolled on as Heard pushed,
built, shaded, accented, and exploded.
His cymbal work was quite persuasive. Like Chick Webb, he gave
arrangements design and depth. He employed what are commonly
described as "bombs," two-part accents, one following another—generally
on the snare, then the bass drum. The bass drum remained a primary
resource and time source during his entire career.
What he did with the Galloway band is captured rather well on material
from Galloway 1945-46 broadcasts. On the CD Cab Galloway—Jumpin'
Jive on Jazz Archives, listen to "Russian Lullaby," "Lammar's Boogie," and
"How Big Can You Get," with a vocal by Galloway.
Much of the Galloway band's positive effect can be attributed to "killer"
players, including Jonah Jones, Paul Webster, and Shad Collins among the
trumpets; Keg Johnson and Quentin "Butter" Jackson on trombones;
Hilton Jefferson, Rudy Powell, and the excellent tenor Ike Quebec in the
reed section; the rhythm team—Dave Riviera (piano), New Orleans's
Danny Barker (guitar), the indomitable Milt Hinton (bass), and Heard.
They blended and moved forward.
Heard's lively breaks and fills connected elements within the music. He
added to a chart's continuity and flow. Heard had an essentially simple
recipe: listen, swing hard, be free and loose and as creative as possible,
while tying everything together.
J. C. Heard and Shadow Wilson were moving in the same direction.
They added fresh, inventive techniques, rhythmic flexibility, and interesting
coloration to big and small band music. A new relationship was developing
between the drums and cymbals and the bass drum.
Both artists used the bass drum and the rest of the kit with less pre-
conception and more freedom than most drummers of that period. Heard
and Wilson were liberating themselves and, in the process, modernizing the
approach to the instrument.
Heard increasingly played offbeat accents on the bass drum. Though he
never really gave up tapping out steady time on the big drum, he moved
away from heavy pedaling. Wilson acknowledged Heard's influence. In the
March 1942. issue of Music and Rhythm, Wilson asserted: "J.C. uses his
foot pedal in a unique and highly effective way."
5<i Transitional figures

JOHN CARISI: When I heard J.C. and Shadow with the big bands—and with
small groups at clubs and after-hours places in Harlem—they both were
experimenting with the bass drum. These guys were changing the feeling of
drums—and the cymbals as well—adding to the fluidity of the music.

Swing was the essential, most identifiable element in Heard's style. He

proved this over and over again. Heard often said: "Everything will come
out right if the swing is there."
Another thing becomes clear listening to Heard's recordings. And he
made so many—with Don Byas, Hot Lips Page, Lester Young, Jonah Jones;
with JATP, Sammy Price, Cliff Jackson, Coleman Hawkins; with Dizzy and
other modernists, and with Ike Quebec—he was on the hit "Blue
Harlem"—and so many others. Heard kept updating his work, adding to
what he could do, conceptually and technically.

ARTHUR TAYLOR: My first idol was J. C. Heard. I saw him at the Apollo
Theater in Harlem. I went with my father; he used to take me to dig bands
when I was a kid. J.C. was with John Kirby's group. I think of him a lot
because he was the first guy that was swinging—swinging on the cymbal. The
first one for me, anyway.
J.C. messed me up because I was looking at Chick and Buddy, you know,
and that was a different thing altogether. But this dude could swing. And that
flipped me out!

On the morning of June 6, 1945, J. C. Heard made his most important

record, the now legendary "Congo Blues," with an all-star group headed
by vibraphonist Red Norvo. One of two tunes he waxed at this New York
session for Comet, "Congo Blues" remains an exciting, expressive, inspiring
jazz experience. An admirable productive stylistic balance was achieved
between influential modernists and high-level swing players.
The cast: trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie; alto saxophonist Charlie Parker;
tenorist Flip Phillips—out of the Woody Herman First Herd; pianist Teddy
Wilson; bassist Slam Stewart, who hummed, sometimes humorously, when
he soloed; the highly individual Norvo, and Heard.
"Congo Blues" is an elaboration on the drummer's joyful burning thrust
and admirable adaptability. Heard reaches a peak level during this
performance, without trying anything terribly unusual. He just does
everything right. His time, his swing, his instinct for what works—all these
elements compounded help make "Congo Blues" what it is: a delightful mix
of tradition and contemporary adventure.
And it was all something of an accident.

RED NORVO: Drummer Specs Powell started the date. But he had a commit-
ment at CBS with conductor Raymond Scott and had to leave. I didn't know
what to do. Some of the guys in the band looked next door—we were at the
WOR Recording Studios at 38th Street and Broadway. They said: "J.C.'s in
there doing a date; they're going to be through in a half hour." So I just
stepped in when they had a break and asked J.C.: "Could you finish the date
for me?" And he said: "I'd love to." So he came in and did "Slam, Slam
Blues," a slow thing featuring Slam, and "Congo Blues."
 J.C.HEARD 55
I'd listened a lot to J. C. Heard—with Teddy's big band, in small groups
at Cafe Society and other places. I really liked the way he played. He had
great taste and an unusually responsive way of performing.
I'd been doing a lot in New York—Mildred's show [Mildred Bailey] on
CBS Radio and a bunch of record dates. When this Comet Record guy Les
Schreiber called me early one morning—I was at the Paramount with Benny
Goodman's band—I didn't have much interest in making any more records.
So I laid out some specifications that I thought would scare him off. I said:
"If you let me get the guys I want and pay them what I want, I'll do the date."
I asked for really major money—for me and the guys.
I wanted Charlie Parker. He had impressed me when I heard him in
Kansas City—the second time. That first night wasn't so hot—an off-night
for Charlie, no doubt. I met him through Art Tatum while I was working in
K. C. at the Muhlbach Hotel. When I saw Charlie in New York after he had
left Earl Hines's band, he asked if we could do a date together.
I had known and respected Dizzy for quite a while. We kept bumping into
one another at Nola Studios on Broadway, where a lot of musicians used to
rehearse and hang out. Teddy, a great player, was a longtime friend. I liked
Flip and Slam. Slam and I were on Benny's band. And a bit later, I became
ever better acquainted with Flip when we both were on Woody's band.
I loved the way J.C. played for me and the other guys on the session that
day. He fit right in. I told him so. I liked him better than Jo [Jones]. That's
one of my things. J.C. had a very good sense of tempos. Like Irv Cottier, the
guy who worked with Sinatra for years, he remembered tempos, the groove
of each tune.

"Congo Blues" takes shape and develops through breakdowns and takes,
leading to the classic performance. A captivating drum figure, played with
unusual vitality on the snare and bass drum, sets the stage and gives the
piece its center (see transcription, below). Heard plays it for eight bars to
open. Then the figure reappears for twelve bars under each soloist, preceding
four-bar lead-ins. Only Slam Stewart goes directly into his improvisation
without the little link. Each musician plays two blues choruses, except
Heard. That's the essential pattern.

KEY to notation:
Left stick on Snare Drum Snare Drum
struck with right stick struck with stick

Hi-hat played Bass Drum

with foot

"Congo Blues"—Red Norvo All-Stars. Basic underlying figure. Transcribed by John

Riley.
56 Traditional f i? ure$

NORVO: Right at the beginning, I asked Dizzy to play something with the
drums. He got into something Latin; it picked everybody up. J.C., Diz, and
I developed the rhythmic idea that moves in and out through the piece.

Heard never sounded better, more inspired or focused. He played what

was inside him—swinging hard, building, structuring a historic musical
event. Giving each player what best supported his particular manner of
performance, Heard established an enviable balance between traditional
swing and bebop.
Over the years, Red Norvo worked with J. C. Heard whenever it was
possible for them to get together. The vibes-xylophone king remembers with
particular warmth a long 19505 engagement—with his group—at the Sands
in Las Vegas.
According to Norvo and Heard's brother David, the drummer made
quite an impression on Frank Sinatra. The singer often dropped by to "dig"
the group and always had words of praise for the drummer. He called Heard
"the swinger."
Heard continued to appear and record with important artists for the rest
of his career. Because he always talked about utilizing his multiple talents in
a way that best suited him, he formed and worked with his own bands along
the way.
The first, a quintet that took form late in 1945 after Heard had left
Galloway, included—at one time or another—George Treadwell or Joe
Newman (trumpet), Dickie Harris or Vic Dickenson or Dicky Wells or
Benny Green (trombone), Budd Johnson or Big Nick Nicholas or Wardell
Gray (tenor), Jimmy Jones or Al Haig (piano), and Al McKibbon (bass). The
singer was a very young Etta Jones.
Because Barney Josephson, the respected nightclub owner and talent
scout, liked Heard's work and upbeat attitude, he hired the new unit for his
Cafe Society Downtown in Greenwich Village. Opening on February 12,
1946, the band had great success at the club and was held over for a year.
There were other bookings during its on-and-off existence over the next
several years—the Paramount and Palace theaters in New York, clubs and
theaters in Detroit, Washington, Cleveland, Chicago, on the West Coast and
in Hawaii.
The Heard sextet's existence is documented for posterity by recordings.
On its first date, March 20, 1946, for Continental, the group documented
an interest in the emerging new music. Yet it managed to be very danceable.
The material on the session included Ellington's "Azure," nicely voiced
and arranged by Johnson, the unit's musical director and chief writer; Dicky
Wells's "The Walk," done at a medium tempo, moving along much of the
time over a compact Lunceford two-beat; and "Heard but Not Seen,"
another pulsing variant of the omnipresent "I Got Rhythm," featuring
Treadwell, Johnson, Jones—who plays linking, colorful block chords—and
buoyant trombonist Dickie Harris.
The last of the four, "Bouncin' for Barney," is a riffy item, dedicated to
Barney Josephson. Heard gets some solo time. He plays bright two-bar
comments, beginning in the sixth of every eight-bar thematic phrase. His
brushes flash across the snare; "hip" tap-dance rhythms emerge, interacting
with accents on the bass drum.
 J.(. Heard 57
While a bandleader, Heard accepted other employment. He recorded with
such leading singers as Lena Home, Ethel Waters, and Billie Holiday. His
name appeared on so many recording sheets, documenting New York
sessions. He had a trio on 52,nd Street with Erroll Garner (piano) and Oscar
Pettiford (bass). Heard seemed to be everywhere, performing and recording,
during the 19408.
His visibility was enhanced during that decade by appearances with the
Galloway band in such motion pictures as Stormy Weather and Sensations
of 1945 (both 2,oth Century-Fox). He was also seen and heard in Two
Tickets to Broadway (MGM), Something to Shout About and Kiss of Death
(zoth Century-Fox), and short films that centered on music.
Concert and record producer Norman Granz, one of the best things that
ever happened to jazz, was drawn to Heard early on. According to the
drummer: "I played his first jam session with Nat Cole, who wasn't singing
then." From 1944 until 1953, Heard worked and recorded on a somewhat
regular basis for Granz.
Heard had one of the most ego-gratifying experiences of his life in 1953.
He arrived in Japan as part of an exalted Jazz at the Philharmonic
company—Ella Fitzgerald, ace drummer man Gene Krupa, the Oscar
Peterson Trio, trumpeters Roy Eldridge and Charlie Shavers, and saxo-
phonists Willie Smith, Benny Carter, Ben Webster, and Flip Phillips. They
collectively and individually were feted by enormously enthusiastic Japanese
fans. A ticker-tape parade in Tokyo, which went on for three hours, was a
prelude to packed houses in the country's capital and other cities.
Heard engaged in drum battles with Krupa and generally performed
admirably, as JATP in Tokyo—Live at the Nichigeki Theatre, 1953 (Pablo)
attests.
Because of the success of JATP's performances and Heard's special
connection with audiences, he was approached by a Japanese producer and
received an attractive offer to remain in Japan for a period of time after the
conclusion of the two-week JATP tour.
He stayed on and worked clubs and did concerts, appearing on television
and in the movies—as a player, bandleader, singer, dancer, and actor. The
drummer even lectured on jazz at one of Tokyo's leading universities. During
his stay, Heard met his wife Hiroko, who bore him a son, Eric, now a
successful businessman who lives in Detroit. His work, however, frequently
takes him to Japan.
Following his great success in Japan, Heard was booked as a "single"
through the Far East. He played, sang, and danced with the best musicians
in Manila, Hong Kong, Australia (where he lived for a year), in Calcutta,
Bangkok, Saigon (then French Indo-China). For a time, he worked in Cairo
as well.
Lonely for family and friends, concerned that he might be forgotten by
American musicians, bookers, and recording people, Heard returned home
after four years away and entered the final phases of his career.
It wasn't exactly the same when he got back to New York. There were
fewer opportunities. He no longer was one of the drummers of choice.
Talented younger players more closely connected to the newer music,
players, and leaders and to the centers of power in the music business got
much of the work.
58 Transitional fi?uret

This is not uncommon. Leading "older" players begin to lose out after
their days of great glory. They remain a factor, but the demand for them
lessens. The only exceptions are superstars like Louis Armstrong.
J. C. Heard went on working—with Coleman Hawkins and Roy Eldridge
at the Metropole in New York, with virtuoso pianist Dorothy Donegan
throughout the country, with Red Norvo and others. He appeared regularly
on Art Ford's New York television show. He returned to Europe with JATP.
He subbed for Cozy Cole with Louis Armstrong, for Louie Bellson on a
Swing Reunion tour—featuring friends Benny Carter, Teddy Wilson, George
Duvivier, Freddie Green, and Remo Palmier. And he headed his own band
in California for six months; his associates—"younger cats" like Harold
Land (tenor), Carmell Jones (trumpet), Phineas Newborn (piano), and Leroy
Vinnegar (bass). The drummer also recorded.

DAVID HEARD: But J felt the people who controlled things had forgotten all he
had done. He felt shut out. He wanted to have his own band and be able to
do all the things he could do. No go.
My brother had great pride. He might have turned off some of those who
could have helped him. But he wouldn't kiss anyone's behind, or ask for
anything from anyone—except the family. Yeah, he was hurting. But no
one outside really knew it. He moved back to Detroit in 1967 to regroup.

Illinois Jacquet, the great tenor man, said to me that he doubted a

musician could do as well creatively away from New York. But Heard
kept on keeping on, thinking, planning, working—mostly in and around
Detroit. He occasionally played Europe and accepted jobs away from
home—often with peers he loved, like the great Gillespie.
Ultimately the drummer took hold in Detroit with a thirteen-piece
band, made up of young ambitious, local players. Heard's work with the
band readily illustrated his undiminished energy and ambition—and,
most important, that he continued to play the instrument as well as
anyone.
"The band sounds like eighteen pieces, not thirteen. Every musical line
is played within a full-bodied clear sound. Heard is not looking to his
past," discerning critic Hollie I. West noted. "Heard never stopped
looking for better ways to do things."

MARVIN "Doc" HOLLADAY: The man could give you so much—if you paid
attention. J was into the evolution of music in this country and often talked
about that. He knew all the drum styles and explained and physically
showed the way each one developed—and how the responsibility of the
drummer changed as time passed. He was very comfortable with modern
jazz. And his energy was unbelievable. The younger players had difficulty
coping with it.

Music came first with him. He cared about his family, his wife, his son,
and his friends. But music remained at the very center of his life until he
left us. Listening to his recordings with Lester Young, in the studio and
live with JATP, with Gillespie and Parker, and others, one realizes how
much he knew, how good his instincts were—and how his playing often
transcended style or category.
 Jhadoui Wilton 59

DAVID HEARD: During the last years, he was doing great. When he got out of
the hospital after beating colon cancer, I kept telling him: "J, you're digging
in too hard! You're going to have a heart attack playing like that! You've
got to slow down!" His answer always was the same: "When I play these
drums, I've got to dig in. There ain't no slowing down!"

Following a heart attack, J.C. passed on September 2,7, 1988, at Beau-

mont Hospital in Royal Oak, Michigan. He had performed with his band
the previous Friday in Grand Rapids. The band was slated to appear with
Dizzy Gillespie, Doc Cheatham, and the New McKinney Cotton Pickers
at the Detroit Institute of the Arts on the Z9th.
Max Roach said: "He went out the way he wanted to go out. Music is
a funny proposition—this music, especially. Buddy [Rich] went out the
same way. They loved what they were doing . . . it was the source of their
joy and happiness."5

ROSSIERE "SHADOW" WILSON (1919-1959)

Shadow Wilson "was the best natural drummer I've ever heard," Jo Jones
insisted on many occasions. A reluctant and careful evaluator of talent, the
great drummer came to the same conclusion as all others who know
Wilson's work. The man had a unique, triumphant, almost perfect talent
for drums and jazz.
In some ways, however, it's almost as if he never existed. Fast disappearing
into the mist—a footnote in jazz history—Wilson is remembered only by
some older musicians, jazz critics, and fans. No articles tell his story. The
press has completely ignored him. The young know little or nothing about
him. Only a very few under fifty—those into the glorious yesterdays of the
music, like drummer-broadcaster and self-defined "jazz maniac" Kenny
Washington—are on intimate terms with what Wilson could do. They share
the intense excitement many of us felt when we initially discovered him on
records, in clubs, and on presentation theater stages so many years ago.
Wilson was not concerned about fame, write-ups, or publicity. "All he
wanted to do was to play," says Audrey Wilson, his widow. "Music was
everything to him."
Wilson's recordings illustrate in no uncertain terms what he could do.
Listening to them again, particularly his work with the Count Basic band
and Thelonious Monk, is an extraordinary musical experience.
Wilson did much to liberate jazz drumming and make the instrument
more musical. In a very natural way—and that is the key descriptive—he
enlarged the playing field for drummers while inventing fresh, contributive
ways to enhance the effect of big and small bands and their soloists. And he
did this before almost all of the "star" jazz percussionists credited with
taking drumming to a new place.
He was completely open, allowing his extraordinary instincts, feelings,
and imagination to guide and move him forward. Like his idol. Chick Webb,
Wilson heard music and played. That's all there was to it. His responses to
time, to the shape and structure and emotion of music, came from within.
When he was at his best, his performances were all defining, exciting,
thoughtful, uplifting, and essentially fault-free.
60 Traditional fi?urei

Shadow Wilson backstage at New York's Paramount Theater. The occasion: the
1952 Christmas week booking with the Illinois Jacquet band. © Eddie Bert 2001.

There was little of the preconceived about Wilson's approach to material.

He evidently trusted in spontaneity and his ability to deal with what the
music said. He translated into intensely personal, expressive terms what he
heard and felt. And he used his own techniques.
Had Shadow Wilson not fallen victim to the delusion of heroin relatively
early in his career—progressively turning his triumph into tragedy—who
can tell what he might have become.
Despite his difficulties, Wilson left behind a memorable musical legacy.
As literary critic Irving Howe said of Delmore Schwartz, an extremely gifted
writer with his own set of problems and devils: "What finally matters is the
work that remains, far more so than the life that is gone." This comment is
equally applicable to Wilson. "The rest," Howe insists, "is pain, gossip,
regret, waste."
 Shadow Wilton 61

It all began for Shadow Wilson in Philadelphia. An only child fascinated

by music, he found in listening to and playing jazz the sort of deep
fulfillment only those who have been similarly impacted by music can fully
understand.
In a rare—possibly his only—interview, Wilson told a reporter in the
March 1942 issue of Music and Rhythm that he had studied drums,
beginning in 1934 at age fifteen. Audrey Wilson contends: "Shadow was
self-taught; he worked out how and what he played by himself." From all
existing evidence, he was a hard worker, bent on developing his technical
resources and achieving a high level of facility and expressiveness.
Wilson listened to all kinds of drummers every chance he got. He gave
equal attention to those who worked in big and small bands, in the
Broadway musical theater, and in chamber groups and symphony orchestras
and to those who played in major presentation theaters, like Billy Gladstone
at New York's great showplace Radio City Music Hall. Many of these
percussionists had the great control and extraordinary dexterity that Wilson
so admired.
What Wilson could do in bands was apparent from the outset in
Philadelphia. He brought unusual life to a band headed by Frank Fairfax—
a leader who had the foresight to hire Dizzy Gillespie at one point. He left
his mark on a local group of musicians headed by Jimmy Gorham. His
association with the Bill Doggett band, however, was most crucial to
advancing his career.

CHARLIE RICE: I used to go to all the dances in Philly. I loved music and the
drums. I first heard Shadow with Bill Doggett. I believe it was in 1938.
Doggett, a pretty good pianist and organ player, had a band like Basic's—
loose and swinging.
Shadow had so much feeling, fire, and taste. If you came into the place
where the band was working, you had to start tapping your feet right away.
That's how Shadow affected everyone.
When bandleader Lucky Millinder came to town looking for new players,
he was so impressed with what he heard that he took the entire Doggett band
back to New York. And Shadow went from there. There was no stopping him.

Wilson played in town and traveled with Millinder. He also appeared

with the band in a 1939 all-black gangster film musical, Paradise in Harlem,
performing on a tune titled "I Gotta Put You Down."
A variety of leaders wanted to hire him. Composer-arranger Jimmy
Mundy, who had a band for a short while, employed the drummer and
documented his talent on record for the first time. Wilson recorded four
sides with the band for Varsity in 1940: "Sunday Special," "All Aboard,"
and two Madeline Green vocals—"A Lover Is Blue" and "Little Old Lady
from Baltimore."
Mundy had some really good players on the recordings. The legendary
Bobby Moore was among the trumpets. Jimmy Hamilton and Skippy
Williams, who went on to play with Duke Ellington, were in the four-man
reed section. Bill Doggett, in the piano chair, and guitarist Connie Wain-
right—later a member of the rhythm section of the Billy Eckstine
orchestra—both played on the session.
Wilson brought buoyant pulsation to the Benny Carter and Tiny Bradshaw
62 Transitional fi?ure$

bands before joining Lionel Hampton. He made four small group recordings
with Hamp for RCA Victor on April 8, 1941, in Chicago: "Give Me Some
Skin," "Now That You're Mine," "Chasin' With Chase" (featuring Hamp-
ton on drums), and "Three Quarter Boogie." He didn't have a lot to do, but
his time was firm and uplifting.
Because Wilson only remained in the Hampton band for a short period
of time (1940-41), and because of the record ban, he didn't record with
Vibes King of Swing's big band. That's what discographers say. Trumpeter
Joe Newman disputed this. He recalled Wilson being the drummer on
"Flying Home," Hamp's biggest hit, cut in May of 1942.
Hampton and Wilson didn't have an altogether happy relationship. They
disagreed about what and how a drummer should play in a big band.
Hampton insisted on accents on "2" and "4" of the 4/4 bar, which gave the
music the feeling and thrust he favored. Wilson would have none of it; he
felt this formula would bind him much too tightly. And he didn't adhere to
it. Hampton was at the verge of firing him. But because the guys in the band
loved the playing of the warm, smiling young man behind the drum kit,
Hampton kept Wilson until he left to join Earl Hines.

JOE NEWMAN: In 1941,1 left Alabama State Teachers College in Montgomery

to join Lionel Hampton. That's where I met up with Shadow Wilson, Dexter
[Gordon], Karl George, Fred Beckett, Illinois Jacquet, Jack McVea, Ray
Perry, Sir Charles Thompson, and Marshall Royal.
Shadow had this feeling in his playing. That's the first thing I noticed. He
had an instinct for what should be done; he kept the band together and
swung hard. Shadow wasn't an outstanding solo drummer. But he didn't
need to play solos, because the things he did behind and under the band and
the soloists were more interesting than anything the drum soloists played.
I got hooked on Shadow during my time with Hamp. I found it difficult to
play with other drummers. Shadow could fire you up. He'd sit back there
and play for you, always listening, responding to what you did.
He knew a lot. He told me things during our association—with Hamp,
then with Basie and Jacquet—that helped me become a really good trumpet
player. Shadow took charge—regulated what was happening in the rhythm
section and encouraged and pushed all of us. He had the spark!
Everyone liked the way Shadow played. All the big names dug him. Billy
Eckstine, Earl Hines, Louis Jordan, Dizzy Gillespie, Coleman Hawkins,
Charlie Parker, Monk—everyone! He was the favorite.
Shadow loved music, but sometimes I think he was more devoted to the
New York Yankees than anything else. At some point during the baseball
season he would disappear for a while and follow the team. He was crazy
about the players—DiMaggio, Tommy Henrich, Rizzuto, Bill Dickey, and
later Joe Page. I was a Dodger fan. So I caught hell from him.
When he was out doing his baseball thing, I sat in on drums with Hamp
and later with Basie. I could play drums and knew the arrangements. That
way a replacement didn't have to be hired.
Shadow was very much a part of me. He kept bumping into my life. Drugs
were his downfall. In the early days he was cool. He just went too far.

Wilson was in the Earl Hines band for two years (1941-43). A whole lot
was going on. Dizzy and Bird, Sarah Vaughan and Billy Eckstine, and others
 ihadow Ulilfon 63

with exploratory tendencies—e.g. trumpeter Benny Harris, trombonist

Bennie Green, tenorist War dell Gray—were stirring things up.
Shadow Wilson was just right for all this ferment. The way he played
made clear that he and Diz and Bird were moving along parallel lines,
rhythmically and conceptually. The drummer anticipated the needs of
bebop. Indeed, he was responsible, particularly in the big band, for devising
the most appropriate rhythm responses to the music, without completely
breaking with the past.

BILLY ECKSTINE: Shadow was perfect for the new music. I loved what he did
with Earl. I wanted him in my band. It was organized for people like him. He
came along for the first record date. Then he was called by Selective Service,
and he had to do that. Tell you something: Shadow was the best drummer I
ever worked with.

ALAN DAWSON: He might have been a more pivotal character in the evolution
of the music than most people thought—more, I'm sure, than he realized
himself. I can see the reason he was asked to do the Eckstine thing. His
amazing ability to deal with all kinds of music immediately recommended
him.

STANLEY DANCE: George Dickson, Earl's straw boss and mainstay for years
and years, said the rhythm section during the war, with Shadow Wilson on
drums, was the best Earl ever had. Too bad that band never recorded. One
thing is certain—Shadow certainly was a big favorite with musicians.

In addition to the challenges and progress clearly defined in this edition

of the Hines band—all the venturesome music being thought about, worked
on, and played—there were side issues that came increasingly into the
foreground, so-called fun and games.

CLIFF SMALLS: Being in the Hines band was a big thing for me. The band was
important! When I joined, many of the guys seemed so jovial, pulling jokes
on one another. They were into habits I didn't know anything about when I
came up to New York from Charleston. I was so young. I had been playing
piano and trombone with the Carolina Cotton Pickers. Most of the players
in that band were out of the Jenkins Orphan Home.
Being so new to New York City, I was struck by the speed of the city and
the people. Things were so different where I came from. I wanted to be
accepted by Earl's fine musicians. What seemed important to me at the time
was being seen talking to these guys. Before long, I was being hit on for
"loans." I had no idea where the money was going. They'd see me coming to
work and make a request for bread. "Hey man, got a fin?" John Williams,
Mary Lou Williams's husband, who played baritone sax in the band, took me
under his wing. He told me what it was all about.
There were a lot of "fun lovers" in the band, and Shadow was one of them.
The narcotics thing didn't affect how well he played at that time. Shadow was
perfect in a big band. And he was a hell of a nice person with a beautiful atti-
tude, as nice as he could be. He had a superb personality. He was exceptional
in so many ways—and different from the other "good time" cats.
The fun lovers were pretty young, so they weren't harmed. Their bodies
6t, Traditional figures

could take the abuse. They remained neat and clean. Later on, some of them
cared a whole lot less; they didn't keep themselves up. Their health went
downhill. They were wild young men!

JIMMY GIUFFRE: When he was with the Hines band, Shadow introduced an
innovative, particularly attractive way of playing the hi-hat. The way he
timed and gave variety to the hi-hat rhythm really caught my ear.

During the Hines years and later as well, Wilson kept turning up at small
band sessions uptown in Harlem, particularly at Minton's, to play the new
music with like-thinking players.

JOHN CARISI: I first saw and heard him at Minton's. I can just picture him.
Kind of slight, smiling—quiet, a nice guy. He was well thought of. When he
showed, everybody would say: "Hey, Shadow's here. Great!" I remember
very clearly the way he played, say with brushes. Very fluid, in a gentle way.
This ties in with his personality.

ROY HAYNES: I was a youngster—a teenager—when I heard about Shadow

Wilson. The name, "Shadow," got to me. I wanted to see what this guy was all
about. I caught him for the first time with Lionel Hampton. Then, in 1943,1
went to a dance in Boston with a musician friend to dig him with Hines.
Shadow was a natural drummer. There were many more drummers of that
kind in those days. What killed me about him was that he took things beyond
rudiments and expressed himself in a way that was so relaxed and musical. I
was into the natural aspects of drumming and music. The things that I heard
in Shadow's playing—and in what Chick Webb did—were what I wanted to
be about.
So many drummers in Boston and elsewhere were into rudimental excel-
lence—sometimes for its own sake. Shadow was going another way. He didn't
sound like the drummers with great hands who practiced out of books and
studied hard. He kept things interesting. But most important for me, he
made music. I was intrigued by his whole concept.
We became friends and were close until he passed. I heard him with all
kinds of people—certainly with Jacquet. He was great with Illinois. I sat in
for him one night. It was so inspiring for me. I was only twenty. He impressed
me so much with what he played. I loved the colors he made. He had a great
sound on the instrument. Shadow had a sensitivity thing, like Kenny Clarke.
I felt a great sense of responsibility when I replaced him with Thelonious
Monk.

In 1944, Wilson became a member of the Georgie Auld band, which

blended elements of Basic, Barnet, and bebop. It proved a perfect prelude
to the drummer's first stay with Count Basic.

AL EPSTEIN: Shadow joined us for the opening at the Frolics in Miami in early
1944.1 just had come out of the service. Sonny Berman, Jack Eagle, a whole
bunch of good players were in Georgie's band. I'll never forget what Shadow
did. He totally transformed the band. He gave it a special lift from the
opening theme to the end of the night. We couldn't believe it. From being like
ho-hum, suddenly the band became very exciting.
 ihadoui Wilton 63

He was so explosive. His drums and cymbals had a different sound. I'll
always remember Shadow. When we first met, he was joyful as a person and
a player. Later, all there seemed to be was trouble.

Wilson spent a short time with Louis Jordan's highly commercial little
jump band. "He absolutely hated that job," Audrey Wilson declares.
"Shadow enjoyed himself most in a big band." After subbing briefly for
Jo Jones with Basic in the spring of 1944, he got what he wanted. He
came into the band on a permanent basis when Jones was drafted later
that year.
The ensemble was in the process of change. A number of young players
were brought in. This was essentially a new and ultimately underestimated
Basic band. Wilson was the provocateur who kept the aggregation in high
gear. More and more people began talking about the young man who
replaced the legendary Jo Jones.

SNOOKY YOUNG: Basic liked him. I must say that the band was a little different
after he came with us. Shadow was way ahead! But what he played worked.
I enjoyed and was inspired by what he did.

Just what did Shadow Wilson do with Basic that impressed so many
people? The band's commercial records on Columbia and the airshots from
the Hotel Lincoln—vintage 1944 and 1945—tell the story very well. The
late-night remotes are most revealing documents. The performances have a
heightened sense of immediacy. They're on a level a bit beyond the
acknowledged high quality of his Basic studio recordings. Obviously Wilson
felt freer in this context than in the recording studio.
Most important, the broadcasts make it unmistakably clear that Wilson
was laying the groundwork, establishing patterns for modern drumming in
big bands that would be adopted and enlarged upon by Don Lamond and
others.
Performances of Andy Gibson's "Blue Room Jump," a blues heard during
these programs, featuring Basic, Buddy Tate (tenor), Sweets Edison, and
Lester Young, reveal in no uncertain terms the innovation and quality
essential to Wilson's work.
An inspiring presence, Wilson's time feeling is enhanced by comments
and crackling accents delivered along the way by both hands or a liberated,
acute left hand, often in combination with his bass drum foot. What he
plays is unaffected and potent and has a sense of exhilaration that is
particular to him.
Wilson's rhythm lives within the music. Uncluttered, positive, and directly
relative to what's happening, it's shaped in such a way that it lingers in your
body and mind. His performances with big bands are intensified by
stimulating lead-ins to sectional figures and/or ensemble passages. Wilson
plays striking, bold stroke combinations—timed in a manner that unfailingly
grabs hold of the band and the listener as well. No one else, with the possible
exception of Buddy Rich, could set up a band in such a spirited, inventive,
almost savage way,
Shadow Wilson was the first drummer, in my memory at least, who tied
together all elements of an arrangement in such a muscular, adventurous
manner. Wilson gave every indication that he viewed and treated a chart as
66 Transitional fi?uw

a whole and did all he could to make a performance a complete story in

music.
His techniques were based on his knowledge of drum rudiments.
However, how he played time and ornamented pulsation, how he structured
fills, lead-ins, and solos, grew totally out of his interior feelings and reactions
to music. What he played seemed to flow right out of him and take
meaningful form. Unlike many great technicians, he was activated and
motivated by music, not by his facility.
He constantly forced the issue in the rhythm section and throughout the
entire band. The musicians had to go with him. It wasn't a matter of "Do
this or else!" But he made his direction the only feasible way to go.
His tuning of the drums also contributed to the impression he made. The
snare, comparatively tight, mixed well with the bass drum sound—tuned
between a thud and the natural sound of the drum. The two tom-toms
added contrasting sonorities.
The Basic recordings—the commercially released Columbia things, the
V-discs and the broadcasts—readily indicate the dancing quality he could
bring to his bass drum work, how it could and did add interest and impetus
to the forward impulse of the band.
Where most other drummers of the period—with the exception of Chick
Webb, Buddy Rich, and Dave Tough—would seldom take advantage of the
rhythmic and impact possibilities of the bass drum, what Wilson did toward
the close of the Columbia recording of "Avenue C," exhorting the band on
while shaping the chart with exploding accents, speaks well for his ability
with the bass drum.
Basic's music clearly impelled him to develop refreshing ways to utilize
the drum set, particularly the snare and bass drums. He often pitted one
against the other, or combined them in telling patterns that musically served
the band and soloists well. Never, however, did he lose sight of the fact that
he was an accompanist. This view of function extended to all his work ina
big and small bands and with singers.
The Shadow Wilson masterpiece? The impossibly perfect, double-time,
climactic two-bar turnaround on Jimmy Mundy's "Queer Street." No one
has been able to duplicate this miracle.
The sticking and accentuation, the feel and concentration, the intensity
and power are pure Shadow Wilson. Widely considered the best break in the
history of big band jazz, it's an awe-inspiring product of a musical mind
that simultaneously focuses on immediate needs, from phrase to phrase, and
the entire performance.
Because the breaks on the master take and two alternates of this October
9, 1945, Basic Columbia recording are almost identical, there is the
possibility that this gem may have been worked out beforehand. But this
certainly doesn't diminish Wilson's accomplishment. (See John Riley's
transcription, opposite page.)
Many of the drummers I talked to vividly remember the Shadow Wilson
break, and some can even sing it. Roy Haynes, Jo Jones, Don Lamond, Chico
Hamilton, John Riley, Alan Dawson, Jim Chapin, Jake Hanna, Butch Miles,
Freddie Gruber, Harold Jones, Jeff Hamilton, Irv Kluger, Stanley Kay, Ed
Shaughnessy, Phil Brown, Louie Bellson, Mel Lewis, Duffy Jackson, Kenny
Washington, and Buddy Rich are just a few who realized the significance of
the break and expressed love and respect for what Wilson did.
 Jhadow Wilson 67

"Queer Street"—with Count Basie Band. Two-bar turnaround. Transcribed by John

Riley.

GERRY MULLIGAN: It's incredible how simple the materials of "Queer Street"
are. Yet what we're dealing with here is a very complex-sounding composi-
tion, not a little "blowing" arrangement for the soloists.
Shadow's break? Probably the greatest ever! What Shadow plays is not
just a solo. So much of the time we tend to think of the soloist as isolated from
the material. But that solo came from someplace and went somewhere. What
Shadow did on "Queer Street" is remarkable to me because he moved from
one place to the next thing. The break is a crucial link in the arrangement; it
absolutely connects! The band would be lost without it. Shadow seems to
sense that the band is going to lay back on what he plays. He builds more than
enough forward momentum. Actually, in the last part of the break, he's
rushing. . . .
This solo gives me a strange sensation because Shadow plays in such an
emotional, developmental way. As the guys lay back on what he's played, you
realize Shadow's got the band by the scruff of the neck. It's so exciting!
Don't forget—part of the break is linked to the last idea Sweets plays
during his sixteen bars. Listen to Sweets and what Shadow plays out of it.
The continuity is seamless. They're both doing the same thing—skating on
top of the time and pulling it forward, all the while thinking ahead to what's
going to happen.
What we have is masterful big band playing by my favorite Basie band.
Shadow and Jimmy Mundy's writing sure made a great difference.
You know, it never occurred to me that the band and Shadow didn't do it
the same way every time. I would have been disappointed if they had changed
it. Bandleaders back then liked to keep things the same, particularly if the
thing was recorded. Soloists bristled about the situation. But it was good busi-
ness, and the solos ultimately became a part of the chart. A really good ex-
ample of this is Ben Webster's solo on Ellington's recording of "Cotton Tail."

JOE NEWMAN: Shadow didn't stay with Basie too long that first time—only
until Jo reclaimed his job. Besides, a lot of bands wanted him. He was
popular and getting some recognition. And he wanted to make some money.
So if he got a good offer he was gone.
He seemed okay while we were together in that edition of the band. No
funny stuff. You have to know this—the Basie band is like a family. It's
always been like that. Wrong shit doesn't happen—or you don't get away
with it. The band is close knit, like you're at home with your mother and
father and the rest of the family. When somebody gets out of line, the guys
feel it's an intrusion and reflects badly on them. They represent certain
things. That's really what it is—though they don't put it into words.

Undoubtedly, the 19405 were among Shadow Wilson's most productive

years. In 1945 he got a call to fill in for Dave Tough with the nation's top
band, the Woody Herman First Herd, at the Panther Room of the Hotel
Sherman in Chicago. All the guys in the band wanted him.
68 Traditional fi?ure$

His link with drugs wasn't immediately apparent. He played with unusual
verve and fire and invention in Illinois Jacquet's little big band, which
included such old friends as Joe Newman, J. J. Johnson, and Sir Charles
Thompson. Jacquet loved him and kept him working—in 1946 and 1947,
in 1949 and 1950, and from 1952. through 1954.
His recordings with the small and big Jacquet bands were extraordinary
in their effect. Wilson brought something very special to this blues-based,
emotionally rendered, swinging music. He played as only he could when
straight-ahead thrust was a band's central concern. His drumming mingled
joy and homey, gritty pulsation with the sort of subtle touches that were
part of him from the beginning.
Wilson recorded with a variety of people, ranging over many styles. He
was the drummer of choice on one of Thelonious Monk's first Blue Note
recordings in 1948, with vibraharpist Milt Jackson and bassist John
Simmons. Later he played with the pianist-composer in a setting that also
included bassist Wilbur Ware and John Coltrane. He became an organic
part of the group and the music, responding with fitting rhythm and
ornamentation, creating an appropriate rhythmic environment for each and
every musician.
Wilson reacted to abstraction and interior music and its subtleties with
the same discernment and taste he brought to the exterior, open, blues-
infused music of Basic and Jacquet. As I said earlier, he listened and played,
trusting his seemingly infallible instincts.
The drummer's work in 1947—in person and on records—with pianist-
composer-arranger Tadd Dameron and a group of modernists, including
trumpeter Fats Navarro, was indeed memorable. He proceeded about his
business—enriching and intensifying the time and each composition,
performing in a manner that often transcended style.
Voted an Esquire magazine New Star in 1947, Wilson profited from the
publicity and the word-of-mouth comment. He had a full work agenda and
recorded a good deal through the 19405 with big bands and small bands,
across the stylistic spectrum.
He returned to the Basic band for a month-long engagement in
September of 1948 at the Royal Roost on Broadway, then went with Woody
Herman's Second Herd, replacing Don Lamond. And for the first time in
his career, the great drummer failed to do what was expected of him.

WOODY HERMAN: Shadow played good. But he was getting pretty far out. It
wasn't him but what he was into.

The final ten years of Shadow Wilson's life continued a pattern—a lot of
good playing and increasing conflict about his involvement with addiction.
He worked and recorded with many outstanding people, but it was an often
unspeakable struggle to keep himself intact.
Wilson played with Ella Fitzgerald, Jacquet, Sonny Stitt, an Earl Hines
small band, the Oscar Pettiford Orchestra. He was employed by pianist
Erroll Garner for two years. A creative presence in the trio, which also
included the able bassist John Simmons, Wilson "did the job as well as
anyone could," says Garner manager Martha Glaser.
 ihadow UJilton 69

PHIL BROWN: I worked at the Apollo with Roy Eldridge's big band in 1951.
What I remember most about that week-long engagement was Shadow in
Erroll's trio. He used only brushes—so very sensitively —and brought into
play all kinds of imaginative punctuations with both feet. What he did with
his hi-hat foot, using various open, semi-open and closed combinations, was
very modern, very hip. The guy always touched me as a player—and as a
person as well.

Many of the people who admired Wilson cared a great deal about him;
others felt sorry how it all ultimately turned out; still others were offended
by what he brought upon himself and others. There were stories of brutality,
desperation, continuing illness, and, finally, death from transversal
meningitis.

LOUIE BELLSON: I saw him shortly before he passed in 1959. He came back-
stage at the Apollo. I was there with Pearl [Bailey] and our big band. He
looked so bad and was in such terrible shape, I didn't recognize him. He said:
"Lou, don't you know me? I'm Shadow." It was very sad.

CHARLI PERSIP: Yes, it was very sad. I loved him. He thrilled me as a musi-
cian. What should be remembered is that Shadow Wilson was a beautiful,
intelligent, very talented human being. That's it!

Listen to Shadow Wilson's recorded legacy. It defines who he was and

what he meant to the music of his time.
This page intentionally left blank
 V
The Innovator)

In the preceding section we talked about key drummers who were central to
the swing-to-bebop transition—those with roots in jazz tradition who sensed
what was needed in the new music. They linked a glorious past with a
revolution. Other dedicated drummers documented here, lacking only wide-
ranging fame, also helped jazz drumming develop. Still others, faceless
originals, came up with ideas and techniques that somehow found their way
into the contemporary language of jazz percussion.
Change certainly is a collective matter.

We now turn to the primary innovators—and to other drummers of lasting

significance in the jazz world of the 19405 and early 19505. The first—the
father of "the new way" for jazz drummers: Kenny Clarke.

KENNY "KLOOK" CLARKE (191*1-1985)

Kenny had something inside him—a spark.
—HELEN OAKLEY DANCE

Helen Oakley Dance, a veteran observer of the jazz life, was right on the
money. Because Kenny Clarke carried within him an undeniable life force—
that spark—it was possible for him to live and create, to survive and
ultimately transcend difficult circumstances.
Clarke's childhood in Pittsburgh wasn't a party. His father, a ladies' man
and a musician of sorts—a trombonist—left the family early. His mother
died in her late twenties when Clarke was quite young. She had already
introduced him to music and fed his interest in piano and organ. The boy's
excellent ear helped him learn rapidly. He played hymns in the parish church
and composed pieces that were introduced there. Those who attended the
house of worship expressed admiration for what he was doing.
Clarke and his brother, Charles, were shuffled around—from institutions
for orphan or abandoned colored children to foster homes—after their
mother's death. A treasured memory, she had been his source of security and
comfort, his teacher. She would put him on her knee and play songs for
hours at a time. With her gone, he turned his back on music—temporarily.
At the Coleman Industrial Home, where he and his brother were sent,
72 The Innovators

Kenny Clarke with tenor saxophonist Zoot Sims. The music must have been very
uplifting. The Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers University.

Clarke found a father figure, Mr. Moore, a teacher of music who played all
the instruments. The youngster revived his interest in music because of the
depth of feeling he had for this compassionate and interested man.
Briefly Clarke became involved with brass instruments. He would have
preferred studying the piano, then—and later. But it wasn't possible. It was
too expensive. Mr. Moore turned the youngster's attention to the snare
drum. He taught him what he knew about the instrument. Clarke tested
himself, playing in parades.
At age eleven or twelve, Clarke and his brother were taken in by his
Baptist preacher stepfather, so-called. (The preacher had had a relationship
with Clarke's mother after she was abandoned by her husband, then had
come to live with her and the children.) However, music and associating
with those involved with it were not looked upon favorably by the preacher.
This added to the youngster's sense of isolation.
A few years down the line, "a physical incident" forced both brothers
out of the house. His stepfather attempted to strike Clarke while he
supposedly was searching for a picture of his mother in a desk drawer. His
brother, who came to his defense, moved in with Dr. John Buchanan Bose,
who later sent him to college. Clarke soon found himself in a foster home
with the Dunsmore family, where he remained until he was sixteen.
Clarke's formal education in local schools mirrored the unstable nature
of his life. He moved from one school to another, finally leaving junior high
school—Herron Junior High—at fifteen. He took a job at a local soda
fountain. Soon he felt so drawn to show business that working in any other
area was all but impossible. Clarke first thought about being a dancer. Then
 Kenny Clarke 73
music took hold of his life. It was his salvation, taking him into the world—
away from Pittsburgh, where there were too many reminders of bad times.
An apprenticeship had to be served before a complete break with the past
could be made. Soon Clarke was studying drums at Hammond and
Guelock, a Pittsburgh music store, and listening to jazz and to local drum-
mers. James "Honeyboy" Minor, whom Roy Eldridge always raved about,
was one of them. Jimmy Peck taught him some of the secrets of cymbal
playing. James Watts, another of the "big time" locals, helped Clarke get
his first major professional job, as drummer with the Leroy Bradley band.
Clarke, at this juncture, took jobs on piano as well.
Altoist Gene Jenkins, who headed a Pittsburgh trio with Clarke on
drums, and Biddy Johnson, a kind, understanding drummer, also helped him
find his way. Pianist-bandleader George Hornsby hired him in 1931; that
same year he is said to have worked locally with the Jack Spruce band at the
Loendi Club on Fullerton Street.
The Hornsby band was taken over the next year by Roy Eldridge and his
brother Joe, who played alto and tenor saxophone and violin. Called the
Eldridge Brothers 12. Rhythm Kings, it centered on Roy's playing and sing-
ing. At that time, both were in the Louis Armstrong mode. The band, a
major learning experience for the drummer, traveled through Pennsylvania,
West Virginia, and Ohio and was heard on the air. Everyone had great
respect for Roy Eldridge. "He was our God," Clarke insisted. He had played
in Harlem, at Smalls' Paradise, with some of the leading musicians.
The Leroy Bradley band was the most important of the drummer's early
associations. By the time he returned to Bradley for the second time in 1933,
this group of musicians had become a resident attraction at the Cotton Club
in Cincinnati. Clarke had the opportunity to play for leading black acts; he
came to know what a drummer should and should not do in a variety of
circumstances. Learning to "cut" shows—the great test for a drummer in
that period—was crucial to shaping and refining his talent.
Clarke read music better and better as he gained experience. The band's
arrangements and the music accompanying dancers, jugglers, comics—
performers of all kinds—gave him a good idea about what worked in each
circumstance.
By this time, he was also involved with the vibraharp, which he had
"inherited" from another drummer. His facility and understanding of the
instrument grew naturally out of his knowledge of the piano keyboard.
Learning sessions with Adrian Rollini, a great pioneer on the instrument,
were very helpful to him.
At the Cotton Club, Clarke had the opportunity to listen to and watch
leading black bands—those headed by Duke Ellington, Earl Hines, Fletcher
Henderson, Jimmie Lunceford, Don Redman, Cab Galloway—previously
heard only on records. He soon was on intimate terms with the styles of the
drummers in bands and began thinking about how their approach to music
could be improved.
In 1934, Andy Kirk, pianist and arranger Mary Lou Williams, and
drummer Ben Thigpen, her Kirk colleague, were stranded in Cincinnati.
They told Clarke about a job with the Jeter-Pilars band (James Jeter and
Hayes Pilars) at the Club Plantation in St. Louis. Because the Kirk band had
temporarily broken up, they drove him there.
Ms. Williams put in a good word for her young drummer friend. Clarke
7i| The Innovator)

got the job and played the Plantation, later going on the road with this well-
known territory band. It included at that point a very young trumpet man
named Harry Edison and bassist Walter Page, both soon to be featured with
Count Basic. Show music was the band's focus. Clarke had expected to play
more jazz. He lasted about two months. He returned to Cincinnati and was
replaced by Sidney Catlett.
Being around good players, hanging out, exchanging ideas, traveling
around and performing every night, brought increasing depth and polish to
Clarke's playing. Later his experiences would merge and take a fresh, new
form. Prior to going to New York late in 1935, Clarke and pianist Call
Cobbs, his friend and Cincinnati gigging buddy, were slated to study music
on scholarship—Cobbs as a graduate student—at Wilberforce College. This
was part of Clarke's dream—to further his education on the college level. By
this time, he had become interested in a variety of things. Buying books
played havoc with his limited budget for rent, food, fun, and sundries. The
two musicians made the trip to Wilberforce's Xenia, Ohio, campus. The
situation promised a great deal, but the whole thing fell through rather
quickly: there wasn't sufficient money for their scholarships.
Clarke and Cobbs returned to Cincinnati. They turned down an offer to
play in Japan and accepted jobs with a variety of bands, including a black
clone of the Guy Lombardo organization—often said to be Louis
Armstrong's favorite.
Working in New York, of course, was the goal of most jazz musicians.
Clarke had been urged to make the move by Ben Webster, then an emerging
tenor saxophone star with Cab Galloway. "Look, you're a bitch," he said.
"Why don't you come to New York, man. We need drummers like you."1
Webster promised to help the diminutive drummer when he arrived in
town. Other knowledgeable, veteran players felt he would do well. But fear
accompanied Kenny Clarke on the bus to New York. As Cobbs and Clarke
approached the city, moving through the Holland Tunnel, the drummer
literally trembled at the prospect of dealing with everything.
As it turned out, he worried needlessly. Clarke had free room and board
with an aunt in Harlem. Before long, he and his half brother Frank Clarke,
a guitarist and bassist who also had recently arrived in town, were working
at a small club on Seventh Avenue between 12.2nd and 123rd. Clarke
doubled on vibes; the club owner loved the sound of the instrument. The
trio also played at other spots.
A 1936 engagement at Greenwich Village's Black Cat—on West
Broadway between 3rd and Bleecker—brought the drummer-vibraharp
player to the attention of important musicians and music business people.
Frank Clarke played bass. Fats Atkins, who, Kenny Clarke claimed, had
developed the spare style that Basic adopted, was the pianist. Freddie Green
played guitar. Bobby Moore was on trumpet. Tenorist Lonnie Simmons, a
friend of Freddie Green's from South Carolina, fronted the group.
The quality and thrust of the group brought many leading musicians to
the club to listen and to jam after hours. Count Basic, Benny Goodman,
Harry James, and Lionel Hampton visited the club often. Significant musical
strides were made by this historical small group. An interview I did with
Kenny Clarke in a Paris Left Bank outdoor cafe in 1963 clarified the
importance of that engagement. Clarke had begun experimenting with
rhythmic patterns against the basic "4" and "2" of the Simmons band.
 Kenny Clarke 73

CLARKE: Freddie Green and I got something new going with Lonnie's band . . .
long before the new rhythmic approach to playing drums was noticed. We'd
come to the job early—at least forty-five minutes before the other players—
and work out patterns. The results were swinging; you could tell. Even the
waitresses enjoyed what we were doing.2

John Hammond, one of the most influential talent scouts, critics, record
producers, and jazz patrons of the period, came to the Black Cat almost
every night. He affiliated the band with the musicians' union. He strongly
suggested to Basic that he hire Green and Moore. Basic promptly put them
on the payroll.
Clarke, in all likelihood, would have been asked to join the Basic band
had drummer Jo Jones not been so valuable as a pace- and style setter.
Clarke claimed the Black Cat rhythm team established the modus operandi
for the All-American rhythm section of the Basic band.
Late in 1936, after the conclusion of the engagement at the Black Cat,
Clarke accepted an offer from leader-pianist-arranger Edgar Hayes. His
band was going abroad. It offered Clarke a rare opportunity and set in
motion a thought process that would culminate in his permanently taking
residence in France almost twenty years later.
Clarke and the band performed in the Scandinavian countries, Holland,
Belgium, and Germany during the Nazi madness. The drummer briefly
visited Paris for the first time—something he had wanted to do since age
twelve, meeting gypsy jazz guitar genius Django Reinhardt and other French
musicians. A love affair with the city began.
What he often described as the more "civilized" European attitude about
race and life in general was appreciated more than a little by the percus-
sionist and the other musicians in the Hayes band. The situation at
home—the quiet segregation of the North and the intransigence, cruelty,
and violence that then existed in the South—was placed in perspective.
The Hayes band was warmly greeted by audiences and music observers
in Europe. Of course, black bands were still something of a novelty. But the
music and the musicians communicated strongly, and that was the key.
Having rehearsed daily at the Renaissance Ballroom in Harlem for several
months before embarking on the trip in 1937, the Hayes ensemble was
ready. The charts by Joe Garland, Rudy Powell, and Hayes were diverting,
danceable, and very well played. There was even some band singing a la the
Sunset Royals and the Tommy Dorsey band.
The records made by the Hayes band and quintet for Variety, Decca, and
Brunswick are the work of musicians who dealt well with the problem of
playing together and swinging. The collective and sectional intonation is not
always top-level, but the fun level is high. Clarke was moving beyond mere
functional timekeeping. He had begun to outline and emphasize ensemble,
brass, and saxophone figures and to support soloists in the manner that
before long would be identified as his.
Try "Caravan," "Satan Takes a Holiday," with Clarke on vibes, and
particularly "Swingin' in the Promised Land," which is reminiscent, in
matters of thrust and execution, of the Chick Webb band. The revision of
the swing drum style had not yet become fully apparent. But it was clear
Clarke was working on something new.
When Hayes and company returned from abroad, Dizzy Gillespie was
76 The Innovator)
hired for the band's week-long engagement at Harlem's Apollo Theater. The
trumpeter stayed for a short time. A warm friendship with Clarke began.
Soon it would develop, hand-in-hand with a burst of significant mutual
creativity, when both musicians were members of the Teddy Hill band
(1939-40).
In the Hayes band, it was arranger-composer Joe Garland who
encouraged his search for new, enhancing ways and means as a drummer.
He gave Clarke trumpet parts, suggesting the drummer play with the brass
when he felt emphasis or support was needed. This motivated the drummer
to more fully revamp his attitude toward the sections and the ensemble.
Because Clarke knew what the brass and, by extension, what the rest
of the band would play, he could offer more meaningful and satisfying
accompaniment.
While Clarke was thinking about altering the drummer's role in large and
small bands, he thought about redefining other crucial matters. The
circumstances for musicians, particularly black musicians, gnawed at his
innards. He came to distrust many of the business people of music. He made
an issue of their unlikely practices.
Clarke soon realized that being an innovator was not easy. Those who
don't understand what's being done fear and reject new ideas. They feel
unduly put upon. Clarke's loss of employment with bands became the rule,
rather than the exception. He was punished for breaking time and dealing
with rhythm in new ways.
When Rudy Powell was hired by Claude Hopkins for his popular band,
shortly after the Edgar Hayes ensemble returned from Europe, Kenny
Clarke followed him into the organization. He played drums and vibes,
remaining for eight months until Gillespie opened the way for him to join
the Teddy Hill band in 1939 at the Savoy Ballroom.
The Gillespie-Clarke explorations in the Hill band would take their place
as the basis for a new style. The trumpeter was impressed with the way
Clarke thought about music and how he played drums. Gillespie tried to
make his drummers over in Clarke's image for the rest of his life.
"I was always looking for something better to do," the drummer told
Helen Oakley Dance in her illuminating, in-depth Clarke interview for the
Smithsonian Institution. The Hill band provided the right set of
circumstances for Clarke and Gillespie. Clarke embarked on revising how
time was viewed, felt, utilized, and physically presented. He offered the
drummer new freedom and made possible step-by-step liberation of the
drum set and, ultimately, major modification of the drummer's function.
He felt limited by the way drums were played and time was kept. Playing
only on the snare drum, using the bass drum as the time source, employing
cymbals only for color and climactic crashes: this approach had little appeal
for him. It was unduly rigorous, rigid, and dull—too limiting, not
sufficiently flexible for what he was after as a member of the rhythm section.
Even the comparatively free manner in which Jo Jones played the hi-hat
didn't work for Clarke. Crossing hands and arms, as was typical in those
years, tied him up. He felt imprisoned.
In the Hill band, he made what he felt were necessary modifications.
Some of them were worked out; some were discovered accidentally. To deal
with pieces played at very fast tempi, he came upon interesting solutions. He
made the cymbal—in his case played with the right hand—the primary time
 Kenny Clarke 77
source. The left hand became active as a source of rhythmic counterpoint.
He lightened up on the bass drum, using it as a means of control; for
reminding the band via accents where "1" was, and for emphasis, punc-
tuations, and shaping the rhythmic line.
By doing all this, he made possible a more relaxed and interesting flow,
generally increasing rhythmic possibilities. Physically, he could open up his
arms and freely use his feet. The cymbal playing allowed for variety in
timbre, subtleties in sound, and feelings that were impossible to achieve
under the old rules.
The right foot and left hand, in combination, were a source of supportive
and linking ideas that built thrust. Clarke developed the role of the hi-hat.
Until then, it was used just as a time mechanism. He often incorporated the
hi-hat in the compound, as an additional color; it entered the mix to vary
the time feeling of the cymbal or change the dynamic of the time. The
elements of the drum set now were brought into play in a manner that added
character, depth, and meaning to rhythm in both large and small bands.
Clarke had not completed his work; the full realization of the style was
still to come. But a significant beginning had been made. As Barry Ulanov,
a major critic in the 19405 and 19505, said: "I remember a good drummer
and then a fascinating, rhythmically rich drummer, way ahead. From the
mid-19405 onward, Kenny mirrored something we didn't really hear until
Bird came to New York."
Gillespie, in a conversation with me dating back to the 19605, made an
interesting comment that ties in with this: "The rhythm and the harmonic
part of our music came from this area—New York. The phrasing came from
out there"—meaning Kansas City and Charlie Parker.
Clarke and Gillespie took rhythm forward, in steps. When you listen to
the recordings made at Minton's Playhouse in Harlem, it becomes apparent
that the music didn't suddenly change. Gillespie and Clarke were still
working on their ideas. The trumpeter had made harmonic advances but
the pyrotechnics, the almost frightening razzle-dazzle, the depth and sub-
stance were five years away. Clarke was on his way; he had a great deal to
say—and refine.

JOHN CARISI: No one came along and made a completely different thing. At
Minton's, the music was in transition. The most important thing Kenny
Clarke did during that period was involve himself in the color aspects of
drumming. All the drummers at Minton's and around town latched onto that.
Another thing, Kenny's time was really something; you could sit on it!
Keeping your own time wasn't necessary. You just stayed with him.
The thump, thump, thump on the bass drum went out the window. The
big drum was more sparingly used. The time was kept in the hands. The bass
drum and hi-hat were no longer locked into very specific functions. Kenny
had a lot to do with that. So did Shadow [Wilson] and J. C. Heard and one
or two others. But Kenny was the main man.

Before being drafted in 1943, Clarke further fashioned his concept. He

and Dizzy Gillespie worked together and independently. Clarke was fired
from the Teddy Hill band because of stirrings of discontent in the trombone
section about his breaking time. One of the players found it terribly
disconcerting and insisted Hill get rid of "that drummer." Clarke ultimately
78 The Innovators

returned after the trombonist left the band. He stayed on until Hill finally
broke up the organization in 1940.
As a member of the Teddy Hill band, Clarke played opposite drum
champion Chick Webb and his band at the New York World's Fair in 1939.
Between sets, he stationed himself close to the dynamic little man and
listened to and watched everything he did. It was apparent to Clarke that
there was no possibility of playing in the Webb manner. However, he
adapted and adopted Webb's basic approach to music—something it was
possible for him to do even though he lacked Webb's gifts as a technician.
He brought things down to basics. Clarke worked on giving arrangements
shape and story value, logically building to climaxes. He provided a strong,
positive, provocative rhythmic foundation, supporting, framing, befriending
the music, the band, and the soloists.
Unlike many of the leading drummers with big bands, Clarke had little
use for solos. His attitude essentially remained the same for the rest of his
life. He turned away from the possibilities that can be achieved with great
technique. Only while co-leading the Clarke-Boland Big Band (1961-73), a
major international ensemble, did he occasionally succumb to the temp-
tation common to the drummer-leader.

CLARKE: I never was a soloist. I thought it was stupid. I concentrated on

accompaniment. I always thought that was the most important thing. I ...
stuck with that. And I think that's why a lot of musicians liked me so much,
because I never show off and always think about them first.3

Clarke looked to others for answers when it came to solos. Ray

McKinley, a great timekeeper and band drummer—but not an outstanding
technician—defined in his work what Clarke could do. He put together
phrases in an interesting but not flashy manner.
Clarke bought all of McKinley's records in the 19308, and later as well,
and immersed himself in his concept. Sid Catlett and Jo Jones also illustrated
how to play "in the open," without sacrificing musicality and relevance.
Though Big Sid could get a bit carried away in front of an audience, his
musical soul would not permit a solo to become a circus in rhythm and
showmanship.
During the period preceding his entry into the Army, Clarke was very
active. There was a short stay with the Sidney Bechet group (1940-41). He
performed surprisingly well in this circumstance, adapting to the
"traditional" needs of this small band. On a 1941 Bluebird Bechet recording
of "I Know That You Know," taken at a rather fast tempo, Clarke plays a
brisk and technically precise twelve-bar solo over stop-time, in a mode more
akin to Gene Krupa flash than the drummers he most admired. Very simply,
he did what the music told him to do.
Clarke was employed by Ella Fitzgerald for a bit after Chick Webb passed
and the First Lady of Song took over. He and Dizzy were together in the
band and worked out "Salt Peanuts," their memorable composition in
miniature. Then he moved over to the Louis Armstrong big band, for which
Sid Catlett diligently prepared him. He was playing well; Armstrong liked
him. But early one morning he suddenly was fired after a one-nighter in the
heart of Georgia and left to shift for himself. It was pretty chancy for a black
man to be stranded at night in the South at that time in our history.
 Kenny Clarke 79
The story put out by Joe Glaser, Armstrong's manager, was that the band
needed a bigger "name" on drums. The truth is not clear and isn't likely to
surface. All those involved are gone. One thing is certain—and somewhat
reassuring: Clarke relied on the kindness of strangers and, they came
through for him. A local black cab driver picked him up on the road after
he'd been abandoned and saw to his needs until he could take the train to
New York the next day. A kind lady seated where blacks had to be—in the
back of the train—shared her food with him. Clarke and his drums made it
back to Pennsylvania Station in New York without any problems.
Work was there for him. Clarke returned to his old boss Roy Eldridge
for an engagement with his big band at the Arcadia Ballroom on Broadway.
He made a number of records—with Bechet, Ella Fitzgerald, and Mildred
Bailey, with Billie Holiday and Buddy and Ella Johnson.
Clarke hung out with the Basic band, sometimes traveling with the guys
on the bus, staying in places arranged for by Basic and Freddie Green. He
often sat in for Jo Jones on dates around the country. In 1941, he recorded
with the band for Okeh, cutting "You Betcha My Life," with a vocal by
Earle Warren, and the instrumental "Down, Down, Down." The latter tune
also turned up in small group form, with Clarke on drums. Recorded live
in 1941 at Minton's, it was included in an LP made available by producer
Don Schlitten on his Xanadu label.
On the Basic session, Clarke played hi-hats, sounding much like Jo Jones.
But there was a difference. He used bass drum accents to clearly define the
chart's structure and set up figures in a manner not commonly employed by
Papa Jo. Jones's "feel" generally was far more linear, with not much bass
drum underlining to strengthen figures or climactic notes.
When Teddy Hill became manager of Minton's Playhouse in 1941, he
brought Clarke in to handle the music. The man who had nicknamed Clarke
"Klook-Mop," because of the "sounds" he made at the drums, encouraged
him to hire anyone he wanted and to play in whatever style suited him.
Former Hill trumpeter Joe Guy, pianist Thelonioiis Monk, bassist Nick
Fenton, and Clarke made up the resident band.
Almost everyone in the jazz community made at least one trip to the
Harlem club. The prices were right. "DeLuxe Dinners at 60 cents, Drinks
2.0 cents," says an old advertisement. The great Benny Goodman guitarist
Charlie Christian made the trip uptown almost every night, leaving an extra
amplifier in the place. Major bandleaders, including Goodman, Artie Shaw,
Basic, Ellington, and Andy Kirk, listened and/or played. All the drummers
came, particularly after Sid Catlett let it be known that important and
"modern" things were being introduced at Minton's by Kenny Clarke.
Dave Tough, entirely open to new things, established a relationship with
Clarke. He gave him great encouragement. Tough, often in the company of
wife Casey, would spend hours talking to Clarke about drumming and
music. "Dave would give me his opinion. No beating around the bush. He
was straightforward. No subterfuge. That's what I loved about him," Clarke
asserted.4

World War II changed everyone's life. Clarke reported for induction into the
Army in December of 1943, following work in Chicago with trumpeter
Henry "Red" Allen's group: J. C. Higginbotham (trombone), Don Stovall
(alto saxophone), General Morgan (piano), and Benny Moten (bass).
8o The Innovator)

The Army was something of a shock to Clarke—a major adjustment after

the highly focused yet flexible life of a musician. It came at an inopportune
time. The drummer was doing a lot of things that enhanced his position. In
1942, not too long before he donned khaki, he led his own group at Kelly's
Stable on 5 2nd Street. For no clearly apparent reason, it was called Kenny
Clarke's Kansas City Six. Clarke brought over Nick Fenton and Thelonious
Monk from Minton's and filled out the band with Ike Quebec (tenor
saxophone) and Willy Nelson (trumpet).
Quebec and Clarke devised the now widely known riff tune "Mop,
Mop" during the engagement. Coleman Hawkins sometimes fronted the
group, later taking it over when Clarke left.
The drummer also was part of a memorable Benny Carter group that
played on 5ind Street, with Dizzy Gillespie (trumpet), Al Gibson or Jimmy
Hamilton (clarinet), John Collins (guitar), Charlie Drayton (bass), and
Sonny White (piano). The septet opened at Kelly's Stable in October of 1941
and played there until moving to the Famous Door early in December. The
band closed the Door the following February. The musicians, including
Carter, had a ball during this extended stay on the Street.
Like many black soldiers in the segregated services, Clarke took his
training in the South, at Camp Siebert in Alabama. He didn't make a big
point of involving himself in music, though he played drums, trombone,
and piano, both here and in Europe. Clarke just wanted to take care of his
obligation and return to his life.
During basic training, Clarke decided not to put everything on hold. He
had cared deeply for singer-pianist Carmen McRae since she was a teenager
in Brooklyn. Clarke suggested marriage, and McRae, with a little persua-
sion, accepted. They were not only romantically involved but best friends.
She came down to Alabama, and the ceremony was performed. He wanted
her to be protected and to have his allotment when he went overseas. McRae
and Clarke were divorced after drifting apart in 1956, but they remained
close friends and retained affection and respect for each another.
Though he could have become a warrant officer, Clarke turned away
from this possibility because it entailed more responsibility than he wanted.
While still in this country, Clarke became inordinately restless. He went
AWOL for 108 days, somehow managing to play with Cootie Williams and
singer Dinah Washington during his time away. When Clarke returned, he
was busted down to private from technical sergeant. Given the choice of
going to Mississippi with a band or overseas, Clarke took the latter option.
Stationed in England for a time, he was a great help to a chaplain in
Liverpool. He formed and rehearsed vocal groups, playing old church songs
on the organ he remembered from his childhood. Because of this job, Clarke
missed the June 6, 1944, D-Day landing. But before long, he was in France,
then in Germany. Trained in chemical warfare and camouflage, he was in a
"smoke" company for a while, helping the troops move unobserved.
Then he returned to his own reality, singing and leading chorales,
teaching and playing music in bands, as part of the Army's Special Services.
Clarke toured front-line areas. As was inevitable for soldiers in or near
combat sectors, he was affected by his wartime experiences. He saw a lot—
and certainly the racial situation in the service played a role in how defeated
he sometimes felt.
 Kenny Clarke 81

Toward the close of the war, Clarke met pianist-composer-arranger John

Lewis, who was serving in France with the 92,nd Division. Lewis had formed
a band. Clarke remembered rehearsing and playing with it and having fun
with the music. A longtime association with Lewis began.

JOHN LEWIS: Kenny was a wonderful person to know, to talk with. He

charmed me. One night, right after we met, we went out to play with my small
group. It was a great shock. He was the most incredible drummer I had ever
heard. I haven't heard anything like that since. What Kenny did had nothing
to do with swing playing, or Jo Jones, or anything or anyone I had come
across before. But it was all so right! He opened a door for me.
Funny thing. When Kenny became a part of our Special Services
company, we both played trombone in the band because there were too many
piano players and drummers. Kenny and I were together for a year and a
half before we returned home for demobilization.

It took ten days at Fort Dix in New Jersey to move through the
bureaucratic process. Clarke bided his time by playing music around the
camp with newfound acquaintances James Moody and Joe Gayles, both
tenor players, who ultimately joined him on Dizzy Gillespie's big band.
Clarke immediately got in touch with Gillespie, making him aware that
he was back from the war. The trumpeter asked him to come to the
rehearsals of his new big band, assuring him he would soon become
readjusted to civilian life. Clarke became reacquainted with his wife Carmen
McRae, visited his brother in Pittsburgh and returned to the scene.
A bit depressed after his return, the drummer wanted to give up playing.
"He didn't think he could make it," Gillespie told me. "Can you imagine?
One of the pioneers copping out like that. I insisted he stay. It worked out."
It soon became clear to Clarke that many young drummers were trying
to play in his style. In his absence, the music and his approach to it had
insinuated itself into the foreground. Gillespie played a major role, showing
many drummers how things should be played.
Clarke's work with the Gillespie big band was significant in that it
brought him back to the center of things. What and how he played defined
what could and should be done in a large modern jazz ensemble. Not only
that, the band put bebop in perspective in a context that reached a larger
audience.
The Gillespie band built a following in New York in the mid- and late
19408. The records spread the word, nationally and internationally, in-
dicating the unit's capacities. An absolute killer in a club or concert hall, it
battered the senses and exploded with thrust, enthusiasm, and updated
technical know-how. The band mirrored boldly and on a large scale the
concepts of Gillespie and Parker. Only intonation problems made it a little
less than perfect.
Kenny Clarke stayed with the band for eight months the first time, long
enough to make most of the important records on Musicraft and RCA
Victor. He made the right moves, almost without thinking about them. His
extraordinary time was the foundation of the band's performances. Clarke—
later with Latin percussionist Chano Pozo—set a spreading fire through the
band, section by section.
82 The Innovator)

Recorded examples of the band's excellence and Clarke's ability are

numerous. Try "Emanon," an edgy, medium-tempo blues, first released on
Musicraft. He parallels and develops the very basic feeling laid down by the
band. Tadd Dameron's "Our Delight," also first on Musicraft, aptly
employs modern phraseology and harmonies. Clarke clearly establishes the
time but also thinks in contemporary improvisatory terms, bringing into
play offbeat accents and subdivision of the measure.
Perhaps the most challenging of the Musicraft recordings, the Gillespie-
Gil Fuller collaboration "Things to Come," considered almost impossibly
fast by most musicians of that period, is a test for Clarke. The drummer
exercises unusual control over the whole and the parts—the tempo, the
breaks, the sense and direction of the piece.
There are several outstanding performances on RCA—"Cool Breeze,"
"Minor Walk," "Cubana Be, Cubano Bop," and "Two Bass Hit." A
particularly effective piece by John Lewis, "Two Bass Hit" has a story
directly involving Kenny Clarke. Written by Lewis in the service and
originally titled "Bright Lights," the chart—ultimately a showcase for the
bass player in the Gillespie band—has a surprisingly modern feeling while
remaining firmly in a swinging mode.
Clarke brought Lewis, his Army buddy, to a Gillespie band rehearsal and
suggested to the leader that he run down the Lewis composition. Before the
reading was completed, Gillespie stopped the band and hired Lewis as one
of his arrangers. Later Lewis replaced Thelonious Monk at the piano in the
band when Monk was late for a show at the Apollo Theater. Clarke had
helped launch his friend's career in New York.
The glory moment on records for the Gillespie band is a February 1948
concert at the Salle Pleyel in Paris—fortunately captured by Disques Vogue
(France) and finally released by RCA in this country in the 19905. By this
time, with more than a little coaxing from Dizzy and Lorraine Gillespie,
Clarke had returned to the band. He made a vast difference in how the band
behaved musically, that evening and throughout the tour.
The concert documents the great excitement of the occasion and the
excellence of the band's performance. Even the ballads—e.g., "I Can't Get
Started"—are very much in the present tense, filled to bursting with life and
well-communicated feeling. "Algo Bueno," "Woody 'n' You," "Two Bass
Hit," and "Good Bait"—all the material played that evening—project great
heat.
Clarke's head was really in the music, his senses very much alive. He hit
hard with the band, enhancing its sound and impact. He danced and
decisively punctuated on the bass drum. Openings in each arrangement were
imaginatively filled. His conception and execution of what was central to
each arrangement made for rare performance unity.
Undoubtedly this concert and, very likely, all the appearances by the band
in the City of Lights—at Club des Champs Elysees, the Apollo Cinema in
the Place Clichy, and the other concerts at Salle Pleyel—left Parisians in awe
of Dizzy Gillespie, his orchestra, and certainly Kenny Clarke. His inspired
drumming enhanced an already admirable and enviable reputation.
In her book Paris Without Regret, Angela Broschke Davis says: "Kenny
called it [the tour] the 'highlight' of his career; he felt that it was one of the
major reasons why he was so well received in Europe, and it contributed to
his decision to settle in Paris eight years later."
 Kenny Clarke 83
JOHN LEWIS: Dizzy's tour was absolutely sensational. It wouldn't have been
on that level without Kenny. He was so exciting; it was just impossible not to
be affected by what he played with that band.
I went back home with Dizzy, then promptly returned to France to study
and to write music for the Lido, a big club in Paris. Kenny just stayed on.

From February through August 1948, Clarke taught drums and played
and recorded with a variety of people. His affection for the French capital
and its people grew. He felt he could very easily live and work there, without
looking back.
But he returned to America. The composer, arranger, pianist-bandleader,
and modern pioneer Tadd Dameron, with whom he had only positive
musical experiences, beckoned. Clarke made the trip to New York to resume
their musical relationship late in the summer of 1948.
Circumstances progressively worsened for him at home—at least in his
view. The pressure began to build to make a final break. Like James Baldwin
and several other creative black artists, he would have to move away from
what held him captive into what seemed an open field.
Clarke rejoined Dameron at the Royal Roost, a major jazz club of the
period on Broadway between 4yth and 48th. The musicians were excellent
and, at one time or another, included Fats Navarro or Miles Davis (trumpet),
Allen Eager, Wardell Gray, and Dexter Gordon—one or two at a time
(tenor)—and Curly Russell (bass).
The music expressed the leader's deeply melodic inclinations, his concern
for beauty, swing, contemporary harmonies and rhythm. It was a compatible
coupling of adventure and swing. Clarke blended a linear pulse, generally
expressed on the top cymbal, with the freedom he had brought to the drum
set. Allen Eager and Fats Navarro, in particular, brought out the best in
Clarke. Eager was at his peak as an original, lyrical player in the Lester
Young tradition. Navarro had already found his own voice and manner of
performance; he often was quite extraordinary.
Try The Complete Blue Note and Capitol Recordings of Fats Navarro
and Tadd Dameron. The collection documents, as little else can, the im-
portance of this band and how much Eager, Navarro, and certainly Clarke
contributed. The Dameron band played thirty-nine weeks at the Roost as the
house attraction. Before leaving for France again in May of 1949 to play at
the First International Jazz Festival in Paris, Clarke worked and recorded
in town with players and writers who sought him out for what he and very
few other drummers could bring to the music.
He appeared at the Clique, between 52.nd and 53rd on Broadway, soon
to be renamed Birdland, with George Shearing and Oscar Pettiford and a
memorable all-star band, including Miles Davis, Fats Navarro, Dexter
Gordon, Lucky Thompson, Kai Winding, and Bud Powell. Pettiford was the
leader.
As a participant in one of three influential Miles Davis Birth of the Cool
sessions for Capitol, he played with a memorable nine-piece group—a minia-
ture of the Claude Thornhill band—on Gerry Mulligan's "Venus de Milo,"
John Carisi's "Israel," John Lewis's "Rouge," and the Miles Davis-Gil Evans
collaboration "Boplicity." Clarke's work on this project—and many others
during this period—brought together, in appropriate ratio, intelligence, emo-
tion, and instinct. He quietly gave the music a sense of design and swing.
8i| The Innovators

WALTER BISHOP JR.: His name was one that rang amongst drummers. I was
impressed by the way he conducted himself on and off the bandstand. He was
my role model when I was coming up. There was something classy and very
likable about Kenny, his deportment, his image. Bebop and all who played
it were struggling with image.

The festival in Paris was another turning point for Clarke. Having been
called on by Mme. Nicole Barclay to help select the talent, he turned to
Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Tadd Dameron, Max Roach, Al Haig, Don
Byas, James Moody, Tommy Potter, and Barney Spieler. The traditional
contingent was headed by Sidney Bechet. The performances by the Miles
Davis/Tadd Dameron Quintet (Davis, Moody, Dameron, Spieler, and
Clarke) some of which are contained on The Miles Davis/Tadd Dameron
Quintet—In Paris Festival International de Jazz, May 1949 (Columbia
Contemporary Masters Series), further entrenched the drummer and
modern jazz in the minds and feelings of the French.
Clarke's sojourn in Paris far exceeded the length of the festival. The
drummer had no problem getting work during a two-year stay. He played
in the city and elsewhere in small groups and big bands—one of them
headed by the fascinating, fleet, modern French pianist Bernard Peiffer. He
recorded again with Bechet and even appeared in England with Coleman
Hawkins.
There was a community of expatriate American musicians in Paris. All
of Europe welcomed major jazz musicians. Audiences and musicians wanted
to listen and learn from them. On the face of it, Clarke had every reason to
feel positive. But there were unresolved problems, including an addiction
to heroin.
During this period, the drummer met and worked with Annie Ross, a
very young actress-singer. She had appeared in pictures in Our Gang
comedies and with Judy Garland in MGM's Presenting Lily Mars and was
getting into jazz. A comparatively short romantic liaison produced a child,
Kenny Clarke Jr., who lived with Clarke's brother, Charles, and his wife,
Evelyn, in Pittsburgh for several years and later became a drummer.

ANNIE Ross: Kenny was not an easy man to know—at least when we were
spending time together. He was very introspective—moody and sullen when
these moods were upon him. On the other hand, he could be fun—thoroughly
pleasant. He felt a great deal of pain because of the way he and others had
been treated in America. That's one of the reasons he came to Europe.

The years in New York between 1951 and 1956 were creatively
memorable and increasingly turbulent. Clarke toured extensively with Billy
Eckstine and got together with John Lewis and vibraharpist Milt Jackson—
for whom he had great respect—in a group that ultimately would be known
as the Modern Jazz Quartet. When he realized how much Jackson could do
on vibes, Clarke turned away from that instrument.
Clarke recorded with Charlie Parker and, as time passed, with what
seemed like everyone of consequence in New York. A talent scout and
artist-and-repertoire man for Savoy Records, he introduced new talent, like
Cannonball and Nat Adderley. He played on so many dates in Rudy Van
Gelder's studio in Hackensack, New Jersey, that the great recording engi-
 Kenny Clarke 85

A posed shot of Clarke at New York's Birdland, November 1956. Stan Levey
Photography, Sherman Oaks, California.

neer named a spot in the studio, right behind the keyboard of the piano,
"Klook's Corner."
"I benefited from his expertise," Van Gelder remembers. "He was so
subtle, delicate, musical. He knew just how to hit the drums to make them
sound beautiful and make life great for me."
Clarke played very well in the Modern Jazz Quartet but was not happy
about its direction. The swinging, blues-based music that pleased him most
assumed a lesser role in the quartet's presentations and recordings. He toyed
with the idea of leaving. Friends suggested he would be giving up a gold
mine. That's exactly what he did, very suddenly making the break before a
February 1955 date in Washington, D.C. Connie Kay was called to fill in
and stayed for decades.
86 The Innovators
The Clarke Prestige recordings with the MJQ are particularly memorable
for the drummer's unusually compatible musical marriage with bassist Percy
Heath and his deep-rooted relationship and common ground with Milt
Jackson. With John Lewis the player, there is a strong connection, but not
with Lewis the writer. "His music is a bit too bland and pretentious for my
taste," Clarke once told me.
The drummer brings to the group and its material a sense of precision,
lightness, elevation, swing, and jazz authenticity. Try "La Ronde"—aka
"Two Bass Hit"—"All the Things You Are," "Rose of the Rio Grande,"
and "The Queen's Fancy," on which he plays some timpani.
During that period, Clarke provided his share of identity for the band.
His cymbal sound and bass drum work were light and quietly persuasive.
Charming rudimental touches—well-executed ruffs, triplets, short rolls on
a tightly tuned snare—added dimension as he danced within or around the
time. His solos, in short bursts, were conceptually strong, well played, often
fascinating, and a little more complex than they seemed.
When Clarke extends himself beyond eight bars or half a chorus, in fast
tempi, his technique occasionally falters. You can hear in your mind what
he wants to do, particularly if he's trying for speed. At tempi below a fast
trot, he is singularly musical and effective—very much like a crafty, well-
organized horn player laying out his thoughts. Clarke's drums, particularly
the snare, are beautifully tuned and enhance his effect.
His best work of the 19505—perhaps of his entire career—was done with
Miles Davis on a series of Prestige recordings, plus one on Blue Note,
recorded between 1952 and 1954. Davis, Percy Heath, and Clarke appear
with a variety of impressive associates, all very much at home in a lyrical
modern idiom. Could it be bad with people like Milt Jackson, Horace Silver,
Sonny Rollins, J. J. Johnson, Thelonious Monk, Lucky Thompson, Jackie
McLean, Gil Coggins, and Oscar Pettiford?
There is clarity, economy, unity of conception on these recordings. Davis
consistently and beautifully moves to the melodic marrow of the material.
Clarke follows feelings, lives inside the pulse, defining the contours, dynam-
ics, and implications of each solo and each piece. Like Dave Tough, he is a
totally unselfish player—nonintrusive yet spirited and spiritual. Try "Bags'
Groove," "Walkin," "Airegin," "Dear Old Stockholm," "Oleo," "The Man
I Love," and "Chance It." The others are worthy of close attention as well.
Clarke's right hand is truly blessed. Playing on a relatively small ride
cymbal—very likely a seventeen-inch Zildjian—set flat, he makes magic
with his wrist and fingers, and the time unfolds as naturally as a flower in
spring.

JAKE HANNA: It sounds like a straight line—"1-1-1-1." But the skip beat is in
there—but very light. The Miles Davis records with Kenny Clarke were the
first things I heard where the rhythm section sounds as if it's airborne.
Nobody's doing anything. Kenny puts his left hand in his pocket; the bass
and piano also are into a sparse thing. And they're off the ground.

DICK KATZ: I didn't really pay much attention to Kenny Clarke until one day
in 1953 or 1954. I was riding in the car and a record came on the radio—a
tune from one of the first MJQ albums. I damn near fell out of the car. I had
never heard a cymbal beat like that in my life.
 Kenny Clarke 87
When we worked together at the Cafe Bohemia in Greenwich Village in
1955,1 got a chance to see just how Kenny played on the cymbal. He held his
arm straight, horizontal over the cymbal, and used this side-to-side wrist
motion. The way he used his left foot also was quite unusual

ED SHAUGHNESSY: A good deal of the time, Kenny closed the hi-hat lightly, four
beats to the bar, accenting "2" and "4" slightly. He was very skillful. It took
quite a bit of control of the left foot to make it work just right. Kenny's time
technique was in direct contrast to what most of the other drummers were
doing. They closed the hi-hat hard, on "2" and "4," to push the pulse along.
What Kenny did was quite sophisticated—remember, it was the 1940s.

SONNY ROLLINS: When I was working with Miles in the 1950s, I was completely
flabbergasted by Kenny's playing—the way his time just rolled and glided
along—yet there was a lot happening. His rhythm—the sound and smooth-
ness of it—was all I could think of. It really knocked me out!

JIMMY HEATH: In Paris in 1948, when I was about twenty-one and working
with Howard McGhee, I played with Kenny for the first time. The experience
stays with me. The way he played the ride cymbal—it was so hip, so comfort-
able. My brother Percy had told me about Kenny. Their musical love affair
never ended. Percy and Kenny could really hook up. That was the greatest
rhythm team . . . ever!

PERCY HEATH: I had played with Kenny in Philly. In Paris in 1948, I got
another opportunity—a matinee at Les Ambassadeurs on the Champs Elysees
with John Lewis, John Collins, and Kenny in the rhythm section. Coleman
Hawkins was up front. We hit a groove, and Bean [Hawkins] turned around
and said: "Yeah!" Kenny's cymbal beat was just fantastic.
Another time in Paris, Kenny was playing with a trio, including guitarist
Jimmy Gourley, at one of the clubs. He was ready to quit for the night. A
couple of his drums were already packed up. They were into the last number.
He had his eyes closed—playing, really concentrating. I sneaked up on the
bandstand and grabbed the bass from the dude, and Kenny opened his eyes
and said: "Percy!"—right away. He knew it was me after a couple of bars.
What a beautiful thing! I loved him.

Before immigrating to Paris in September of 1956, Clarke made an album

for Atlantic with Phineas Newborn—the virtuoso pianist from Memphis—
and Oscar Pettiford In many ways, it capsulizes what he does so well.
Try the trio's blistering version of Bud Powell's "Celia." Clarke links up
with the ever-creative and time-wise Pettiford. He plays marvelous brushes,
establishing a continuing line of time, keeping his playing strong and
provoking. His four-bar breaks are diverse, economic, to the point—
outgrowths of what has gone before. This is an album you can go back to
and keep finding new things to savor.
Clarke in Paris was an extension of Clarke at home. The difference: he
felt considerably better. He came to realize the French, though generally
more "civilized" and culturally involved, had their own issues. But the
situation for a black person was far less of a problem.
Clarke could be more natural; be who he was, without having to think
88 The Innovator)

too much about race and the underlying attitudes of people he met and
worked with. He could be what it wasn't easy to be at home—invisible in
the best sense of the word.
As time passed, Clarke established himself as something of a guru for
European jazz musicians. His great ability in various circumstances kept
him working in clubs and festivals, on television and in films.
Paris was the center of his activities. He played lengthy engagements with
his own groups and supported leading Americans who came through, at the
Blue Note and Club St. Germain. Because he performed with people like
Lester Young, Dizzy Gillespie, J. J. Johnson, Lucky Thompson, Johnny
Griffin, Stan Getz, Miles Davis, Zoot Sims, Dexter Gordon, the best singers
and entertainers, the top European jazz players, there was no possibility of
becoming rusty. He could continue to grow as a musician.

JIMMY GOURLEY: I had a seventeen-year tenure with Kenny. He got a beau-

tiful, musical sound on the instrument and played for the music, the soloists.
He was the best drummer I ever heard or worked with. Just about everyone
performed on a higher level when he was back there on drums. He locked in
behind you, and his tempo remained unchanged from beginning to end.
That's tough, believe me.
You could count on him in every circumstance. He loved to play. We'd go
all over Paris and sit in. Sometimes he'd just bring brushes and tap out
rhythm on a newspaper. Kenny was pretty even-tempered. The only thing
that would really bug him was if you didn't do the job. He gave one hundred
percent and expected you—without saying anything about it—to do the same
thing. For a time, we had Chet Baker working with our band. He was pretty
strung out. Sometimes in the middle of his solo he'd just stop playing. It
would drive Kenny nuts. One night he leaned over and whacked Chet on the
ass with a drumstick and said: "Come on, mother xxxxxx, pull your weight!"

AL LEVITT: We had known one another casually in New York. He lived across
the street from me on West 77th Street. When I put down my roots in Paris,
we became friends. I went in to hear him play every night. Kenny really knew
how to play in the rhythm section. He freed up the bass player—let each
musician in the section be expressive. And he tied everything together.
We'd hang out after the gig, have a bite to eat and sit around his place
talking till six or seven in the morning. When he was away, I filled in for him
at Club St. Germain. The players were real good: Jimmy Gourley on guitar,
pianist Rene Urtreger, Pierre Michelot—a great bass player.
Kenny was a very warm, friendly person—if he liked you and had come to
know and trust you.

NATHAN DAVIS: I joined Kenny's group at Club St. Germain in 1961. By this
time, he was a celebrity in Paris. He spoke French well. For all intents and
purposes, he was a black Frenchman.
Kenny was always very fair about money with the musicians who worked
for him. He had a set price and a percentage wherever we worked. All kinds
of people used to come in to hear us: the musicians, of course; movie direc-
tors and producers, film stars like Juliet Greco and Anthony Perkins.
A great Kenny Clarke memory? We were in Casablanca—at a club where
 Kenny Clarke 89

the belly dancing was fantastic. Kenny sat in with the Moroccan band; he
really excited those musicians.
I loved what I called his "dancing jitterbug cymbal"—and what he did
with time. Kenny not only was an excellent musician, he had a head for busi-
ness. A religious person—a convert to Islam who prayed alone three times a
day, he also was a great reader, very much into history. Kenny always wanted
to know more. He was a humble man but a hard taskmaster. Coasting in his
band was not even a possibility.

Clarke accomplished things in Europe that might not have been possible
in America. He made a better living. His opportunities were more wide-
ranging. He was highly esteemed. He could live.
He met and married Daisy Dina Wallach, a young Dutch woman. In the
relationship, which lasted for more than twenty years until his death, he
came to know about unconditional, nonjudgmental love. With her help and
his strength, he overcame his drug habit. At long last, he found a real
home—the one she made for him in the charming little house in the Paris
suburb of Montreuil.
He co-led an excellent, international big band that was as good as any of
its kind. His major disappointment was that he couldn't share this orchestra
and its music with American audiences. A suitable tour could never be
arranged, for some reason.
The drummer made countless records in Europe. Many of them are
excellent. But the Clarke-Boland Big Band albums—a laudable legacy—
contain some of his most inspiring performances. Playing softer than most
drummers in a large ensemble, feeding the surge, doing the work of the great
accompanist he always had been, Clarke consistently proved flash is totally
irrelevant. He used just enough decoration to make the band's music, much
of it with a blues base, a bit more exciting and interesting for the players
and listeners.
There were great players in the band—from England, America, Belgium,
Sweden, Turkey—and even a second drummer, England's Kenny Clare, who
added to the natural buoyancy of Clarke's playing. Try Fire, Heat, Soul &
Guts (Prestige), All Smiles (Polydor), and Jazz Is Universal (Atlantic).
To start, play the brisk blues "Box 703, Washington, D.C." from the
Atlantic package. Clarke shows what it takes to make a big band function
as freely and flexibly as a small band. The recording features France's
Roger Guerin (trumpet), co-leader Francy Boland (piano), England's
Derek Humble (alto), Sweden's Ake Persson (trombone), and expatriate
American Sahib Shihab (baritone saxophone). You'll feel better for having
heard it.
Kenny Clarke returned to America, very briefly, a few times for business.
But he lived his life through to coda in France. He continued to play and to
teach, growing ever closer to his wife Daisy and son Laurent, his friends and
colleagues. Victim of a heart attack in 1975, he survived and continued to
be active, then passed away quickly in 1985 after another heart attack, this
time at home in Monteuil.
Klook had been happy in France and completed the work he was put here
to do.
90 The Innovator)

MAX ROACH (1921,- )

I loved and admired Max. He has a special gift that's given to very few.
—STAN LEVEY

Max Roach's goals have remained constant since childhood. His dual focus:
to know music and to make his life increasingly meaningful. An intelligent,
thoughtful, articulate, and ambitious man, Roach has always been a believer
in the multilevel rewards of hard work. "I've always put in the time," he
once told me, adding: "As far as I'm concerned, playing well is one percent
desire and ninety-nine percent work."
Roach discovered early on that music brings to the player a sense of
community and day-to-day meaningfulness; that it moderates stress, takes
the mind away from need, and awakens thoughts of promise. A child of the
Depression, Roach came to the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn at
the age of four from the Dismal Swamp area of North Carolina. His father,
a farmer, had dealt with increasingly hard times in Carolina, then went
north, hoping for a better situation.
Steady employment remained a problem in New York. The Roaches
moved around a good deal. Sometimes they were evicted from apartments
because the rent couldn't be paid. Often they took advantage of the fact
that some buildings gave new tenants the first month, maybe two, free.
Life was tough in Bedford-Stuyvesant. Bars, package stores, hustlers,
drug sellers, prostitutes, deteriorating buildings, and storefront churches
dotted the landscape. It was a poor neighborhood going downhill. "The
church and music saved many of us," Roach says.
A fourth-floor apartment in a walk-up on Gates Avenue remains vivid in
the drummer's memory. A player piano had been left by the previous tenant;
obviously the family had been unable to pay to take it away.

ROACH: They had left all these marvelous piano rolls by Jelly Roll Morton,
Fats Waller, and others. My brother and I used to pedal very slowly and
place our fingers over the notes until we learned to play some of this music.
My great-aunt Clarkie Hinton, a gospel pianist who lived with us, took the
process a few steps further. She taught us the essentials of the piano.
I started playing drums when I was about eight or nine years old, in a
church setting. The black churches were a haven and served so many needs,
including day care. Families would deposit their children at church while
they went out to look for work.
Teachers of music and theater, dance and literature, were there for us in
church during the day. They were subsidized under the government's Works
Projects Administration—the WPA. It was one of the few times that our
government supported artists.
We came to church after school. In the summers, during vacations, many
of us spent much of the day in church. Sundays, we were there from morning
into the evening. Concord Baptist on Adelphi Street in downtown Brooklyn
was our church.
Despite declining job opportunities, there was a lot happening. In Harlem,
a black renaissance was taking place—in music, literature, dance, the
 [flax Roach 91

A young Max Roach—the very essence of concentration. © Chuck Stewart.

theater. Towering figures like Paul Robeson were involved. I was just a baby
and caught the tail end of the great period that followed World War I and
extended into the 1930s.

Roach learned a lot about the piano in those early years. Later he even
got some gigs on 5 2nd Street as a pianist. His primary focus, however, was
on drums. After getting a drum set at age twelve—as a gift of congratulation
from his parents for successfully moving through elementary school—he
seldom was away from the instrument. A self-described music fanatic, he
studied formally and practiced a great deal. He always had drumsticks or
brushes in his hands or close by. The drum set was in his bedroom. When
he got up in the morning, it was the first thing he saw. Neighbors
complained that young Max was making them crazy with the "nonstop
noise."
92 The Innovator*

Before long, the developing drummer was involved with bands in the
neighborhood that used arrangements played by the famous ensembles.
These aspiring players worked their way through Basic, Ellington, and
Jimmie Lunceford repertory, ranging over Andy Kirk, Chick Webb, and
Glenn Miller numbers and well-known pieces by other bands as well. Some
of these young musicians concentrated on the music of only one band, only
one ensemble. According to Roach, getting into the music in this way was a
great experience—for players and for those, like himself, with an interest in
writing.
The Brooklyn "cats" who wanted to know much more about music got
together on Saturdays, packed lunches, and went to Manhattan theaters
where the big bands played. They generally remained in Harlem. Segrega-
tion was still very much a factor through the country.
The Brooklyn clique included Roach, baritone saxophonist Cecil Payne,
alto saxophonist Ernie Henry, pianist-composer Randy Weston, pianist-
composer Duke Jordan, bassist Leonard Gaskin, trumpeter Leonard
Hawkins, drummer Willie Jones, and the Abrams brothers—drummer Lee
and tenor saxophonist Ray. All of them figured, in one way or another, in
the bebop revolution.

PHIL SCHAAP: Max was the spearhead of this young community of musicians
in Brooklyn. The reasons—his intelligence, his success in school and in
music, his ability to gain the early endorsement of people like Jo Jones who
were pushing him onto the scene. He made a very early start.

CECIL PAYNE: Even back then, there were good drummers, and then there was
Max. He always played differently than the others. His timing was something!
You always knew it was Max Roach when you walked into a club. Like all
great jazz drummers, he followed and knew what to do about the soloist.
From the beginning, he also had a special knack for backing tap dancers.
When I went in the Army early in World War II, Max was a real good
musician. When I got out, he was with Bird on 52nd Street. That tells you
something.

As their involvement with music became increasingly intense, the

Brooklynites turned night and day into an unbroken time line. This was
very typical for young musicians of that period, who squeezed as much as
possible into each day. In some cases, this obsessive behavior led to early
and singular accomplishment—a manner of playing or writing that was
particular to that individual.
Roach was one of the players who regularly crossed over into
Manhattan. He listened and sat in wherever he could—at Minton's, at
Kelly's Stable, and downtown at the Village Vanguard and other spots in
Greenwich Village. Sometimes he lingered in front of clubs—generally near
the door, taking in all he could—because he was too young to get inside.
While still in high school, Roach worked sideshows at Coney Island, the
famed amusement area in Brooklyn. One of them, Darktown Follies, called
for almost constant playing—eighteen shows a day. That seems like a form
of slavery. But the energetic young drummer loved every minute of it. After-
ward, he'd look for a jam session. The hunger to play was really intense.
Roach worked with the Duke Ellington band at New York's Paramount
 Max Roach 93
Theater soon after graduating with honors, at seventeen, from Brooklyn's
Boys' High School. A glamorous Broadway presentation house that featured
show business headliners, it could be a little intimidating, even to veteran
performers. "The lights, the stage rising out of the pit, the pageantry of the
theater, were something." Roach says.
The young drummer had been called on because veteran Ellington
drummer Sonny Greer was unable to play. Clark Monroe, Billie Holiday's
brother-in-law, was contacted and asked if he knew a drummer who could
do the job—handle the band's music and play for the acts. Though some-
what inexperienced, young Max was a very good reader of music. This gave
him some confidence—and a bit of an edge, he thought. He promptly
accepted the Ellington offer.
When he got to the Paramount that first day—and the show was about
to begin—Roach realized there was no music for drums. On the brink of
major panic, he looked to Ellington. Maestro calmed him with just a look,
declaring: "Keep one eye on me and the other on the acts. It'll be fine."
"Duke was marvelous, so helpful," Roach says. "He had to be one of the
great conductors."
About a year later, Roach was working with Charlie Parker at the
Uptown House, a now legendary Harlem after-hours spot. He had met
Parker for the first time while backing shows at George Jay's Tap Room on
West 78th Street.
One evening, trumpeter Vic Coulsen brought Bird to the club. He played
a specialty number with the band. Roach considered Parker just another
good saxophone player—until he really heard him on "Hootie Blues," a
recording by the Kansas City Jay McShann band. "Bird could write so
well," the drummer insisted. "He invented totally different melodies. We
were into 'Tuxedo Junction' and the big bands. What Bird did was a
departure. He moved across bar lines and connected his ideas."

JIM CHAPIN: I knew Max relatively well in the early days. The first time I
heard him was in 1940 at the Village Vanguard. He came late and stayed late.
I remember he was playing brushes in the corner. I looked at him and
thought, "This kid has so much talent; he's so loose and free." Max was a
very orderly and precise player, even back then. His meticulous, accurate
drumming, which promoted flow, made a vast difference in the first days of
modern jazz. It was clear to me that Max was obsessed with the instrument
and practiced almost every waking minute. But he had to deal with some
minor difficulties.

ELLIS TOLLIN: When Max was working with Dizzy Gillespie on 52nd Street,
Diz took me aside one day. He said: "Ellis, for Christ sake, will you get him
to play the bass drum." Dizzy was very partial to Max's playing—loved his
time and fills. But he still wanted him to pat the bass drum—and then throw
the fills in. In those days, Max couldn't do it. It took him about a year to
develop a good strong foot.

GEORGE WALLINGTON: We were together in the band Dizzy and Oscar Pettiford
had on 52nd Street. He fascinated me. I would go to his place in Brooklyn
and listen to him practice. It was kind of a dark place. He would just play.
He loved it so.
9<t The Innovators

Max played some great "songs," melodic things, when he soloed on the gig.
In the band, he was behind everything that was played. He made you feel
good, gave you a sense of freedom.
I saw him recently on television. He made those drums sound amazing. I
was surprised. There he was, still doing it after all these years. I think he's
got everything figured out. A musician doesn't achieve goals right away. It
can take a long time. You're lucky if your work can be completed in a life-
time.

In many ways, Max Roach lived a great success story, almost movielike
in its positive progression. He—and certainly Kenny Clarke before him—
changed the manner in which drums were used in jazz and popular music.
Soon, everyone yielded to the obvious. Roach was the defining figure on
drums—certainly in modern jazz. He had an explosive, wide-ranging effect.
Roach began winning polls in music magazines soon after his break-
through in the mid-i94os with Gillespie and Parker. Everyone talked about
him and what and how he played. He was found musically threatening even
by those who had a lot to do with making Max Roach possible.
Buddy Rich, considered by many the best of the best, reacted strongly to
Roach's increasing dominance. Bassist Bill Crow, in one of his "The Band
Room" columns in Allegro, New York Local Soi's monthly paper, tells a
story given to him by drummer John Robinson. It certainly makes the point
about Max and Buddy. And in no uncertain terms, it indicates the towering
position Roach had reached.

BILL CROW: Max Roach got a lot of good press when he was with Charlie
Parker, and one jazz critic published the opinion that Max had topped
Buddy Rich as the world's greatest drummer. John Robinson told me he was
walking up Broadway with Max one day when Buddy came driving around
the corner at 50th Street in a flashy convertible with the top down. Buddy
was dressed to the nines and had a spectacularly beautiful woman sitting next
to him. He saw Max and yelled: "Hey, Max! Top this!"

A life in music is never as simple as a statement of facts. So much more

is involved, above and below the surface. Dealing with the music business
and the racial problems in America complicate matters. Personal situations,
of course, enter the mix, affecting how and what you play. Then there are
the difficulties of the craft itself. The only things that have remained
consistent and assuring in Max Roach's span of years are his total
connection with the music, the instrument, and his concerns as a man—a
black man.
Roach became a reality beyond the bebop coterie when he first
recorded—in December 1943 f°r Signature in a small group context with
tenor giant Coleman Hawkins, Ellis Larkins (piano), Oscar Pettiford (bass),
and Jimmy Shirley (guitar). On the date, he was relatively quiet and unob-
trusive. There were, however, other more significant sessions with Hawkins.
In February of 1944, the great tenorist recorded for Apollo, a new com-
pany. As was typical of him, Hawkins welcomed new, valid musical experi-
ences. He had heard the Dizzy Gillespie-Oscar Pettiford group at the Onyx
Club on 5 znd Street a few months earlier. It included tenorists Don Byas or
Budd Johnson, Dizzy, Pettiford, pianist George Wallington, and Roach.
 Max Roach 93

When the dates came up, Hawkins hired all of those players, with the
exception of Wallington—plus Vic Coulsen and Ed Vandever (trumpets) and
Leo Parker, Leonard Lowery, and Ray Abrams (reeds). Manny Albam filled
in on lead alto on one of the dates. Because of the players and the nature of
some of the material, notably Gillespie's "Woody 'n' You," the sessions later
were considered the first dates that had something of a modern flavor.
Roach gives only small indication of what was to come a year later on his
recordings with Charlie Parker. Playing somewhat conservatively, caressing
the hi-hat, making it sing and ring, like his mentor Jo Jones, he moves the
rhythm along. He even takes a four-bar closing solo on "Bu Dee Daht" that
sounds more like Gene Krupa than the drummers he most admired.
Only when playing behind Gillespie on the harmonically and rhyth-
mically interesting "Woody 'n' You" and the blues "Disorder at the Border"
does Roach indicate who and what he was becoming. Particularly inspired
by Gillespie, Roach seems to forget the pressure of the date—his first—and
his hands and bass drum foot speak well for him.
More sure of himself and less inhibited, he offers his own ideas on
subsequent Hawkins dates in 1946 and 1947, with such able, like-thinking
colleagues as Miles Davis, Fats Navarro, Milt Jackson, Hank Jones, Kai
Winding, Porter Kilbert, Curly Russell, and others.
The drummer's first major experience with a top-level big band followed
his six-month stint with Dizzy Gillespie's group. He joined Benny Carter,
replacing George Russell, who was veering away from drumming and
moving into writing.

GEORGE RUSSELL: I was a good rhythm drummer. I had swinging time and
played supportively. But I wasn't great on fast tempos and couldn't play
solos. When Benny Carter asked me to join his band, I wondered whether I
was up to it.
After I'd been on the band for six months, we played in New York. I heard
Dizzy and Bird, Al Haig, and Max with a good bass player at 52nd Street's
Three Deuces. Watching and listening to Max play, I rapidly came to the
conclusion that drums were not my instrument. I couldn't hope to do what
he did.
Benny Carter heard the same group. When the band got to Washington
the following week and played the Howard Theater, Benny gave me my two-
week notice. The drummer he hired to replace me was Max Roach.
I was disheartened. But I considered it kind of a blessing 'cause I wanted
to go back home to Cincinnati and get into writing. I found it a more natural
way to express myself. Three months later, I went to Chicago with my first
major composition/arrangement, "New World." The Carter band, with Max
on drums, ran it down at the Downtown Theater. Benny bought it. And I felt
I had found my place.
Max and I became friends. After fifteen months of hospitalization for
tuberculosis, I stayed at Max's mother's apartment at 385 Monroe Street in
Brooklyn for about a year. It was during that time that I got together the
rudiments of my Lydian Chromatic Concept of Tonal Organization. Since
then, Max and I have been close.

ROACH: George wrote out all the drum parts for the charts in the Carter
library. I'll never forget that. I took the job in 1944 because I had been in
96 The Innovator)

New York most of my life and wanted to do some traveling. J. J. Johnson was
in the band. And, of course, Benny Carter has one of the great harmonic and
theoretical minds. It couldn't be anything but a great learning experience.

GERALD WILSON: I heard Max Roach with Benny Carter in Chicago—just

after I got out of the Navy. All my buddies from Willie Smith's band at the
Great Lakes Naval Training Station went with me to hear Carter's new group
of musicians. Max was already a great drummer, building for the music's
future.

JOHN CARISI: I was in the Glenn Miller Army Air Force Orchestra in New
Haven, Connecticut, in 1944. Benny Carter came to town with a big band.
He was appearing at the Shubert Theater. I knew about Max Roach. I had
met him at Kelly's Stable in New York.
My buddies and I went to hear the Carter band at the Shubert Theater. I
remember going to back to visit with Benny between shows. We all were in
uniform. He asked: "Do you fellows want to see the show?" And we all said:
"Yeah. Okay!"
The band opened up with a marvelous up-tempo Carter arrangement of
"Sleep" [Ed. note—which the band had recorded for Vocalion four years
earlier]. The first chorus was very quiet. Max played softly with unusual
intensity. The time was all in his hands. He may have used the bass drum for
"time." But you only really heard it once in a while when he played accents
and things.
Benny had an excellent band with a lot of good players. J. J. Johnson
was in the trombone section. Bumps Myers played solo tenor. Gerry
Wiggins was the pianist. And there was a good bass player—I believe it was
Charlie Drayton.
The thing that really got to me was how effectively Max played at low
volume. The curtain opened. And you felt the rhythm—though Max was
clearly keeping it down. The guys were barely breathing through their
horns—everyone together.
The Carter band's mezzo forte was any other ensemble's pianissimo. The
players could hear one another. Their intonation was admirable. The
approach to the arrangement was relaxed, and the band swung beautifully.
Max played for the Carter band and remained very much within its style.
No matter how many liberties he took on the instrument, he still maintained
the swinging rhythm. I was very impressed. And I came to understand,
because of that experience, and others along the way, that volume has
nothing to do with intensity.

J. J. JOHNSON: Max adapted very well to the big band format. We didn't know
exactly where we were going—when it came to direction. We didn't have a
game plan. I know I didn't. I concentrated on getting a handle on fitting into
the band.
What Max did felt good. He took his cues from the style of the arrange-
ments. Actually, arrangements dictate style. Were we getting into what was
called bebop back then? It's difficult to really pinpoint that with any degree
of accuracy—because the whole thing happened partly in the subconscious.
It was a part of our development as musicians. I daresay that Max would
probably say the same thing.
 Max Roach 97

The recordings twenty-year-old Roach made with Carter in the spring of

1944 for Capitol show how well the drummer rhythmically accommodated
to the band's manner of performance. In some ways, the bandleader, the
arrangements, and Max Roach were made for one another. All had in
common a need for well-articulated feeling, exactness, and accuracy.
A controlling element in the rhythm section and, in a larger sense, the
band itself, Roach defined and underscored key elements in the charts. He
built phrases and made all the "hits" (the accents), giving character to the
arrangements. Most important, he did the job the music demanded, only
occasionally suggesting his modern leanings.
He had—or took—more freedom when appearing or recording with
Charlie Parker. It was in the Parker quintet, and on its first records for Savoy,
that he introduced a new language for drums—an extension of what had
been brought forward a few years earlier by Kenny Clarke.
Roach has said to interviewers that he was not really influenced by
Clarke. He insists he didn't hear him—that Klook was in the Army in
Europe when he came on the scene. Clarke was puzzled when we discussed
this. He told me that Roach was around an awful lot, paying close attention
wherever Clarke played, uptown and downtown.
In one of our discussions, Dizzy Gillespie quietly indicated that the right
thing to do was to go along with Roach. He pointed out: "Max always said
to me that he was more influenced by Jo Jones and Sid Catlett than by
Kenny Clarke."

ROACH: Jo Jones was an enormous influence on me. Talk about breaking time
and moving across the bar line—Jo did those things. His manner of playing
grew out of how he heard things and the music made by the Basic band. Sid
Catlett was another of my heroes. He contributed so much to the evolution
of the instrument.

Roach was affected by other drummers as well. He has cited the

professionalism, taste, and showmanship of Gene Krupa, the ongoing
creativity of Baby Dodds, Jimmie Lunceford's Jimmy Crawford, John
Kirby's O'Neil Spencer, and Razz Mitchell, who is best known for his work
with the Savoy Sultans.

ROACH: Chick Webb, of course, was a monument. Solo drummers like Chick
always knocked me out. He made a major impression and brought attention
to the instrument, which for so long was used only for timekeeping. Drum-
mers who just played straight time never did much for me. I've always felt
the drummer shouldn't be a subservient figure.
That's another reason I was so impressed with Chick. He was a leader—
a bandleader, certainly not a second-class citizen. He controlled the band
and held the attention of the audience.
The great ones are immediately identifiable, creative, and profound. Elvin
[Jones] and Art Blakey are all those things. I must say I had great affection
and respect for Tony Williams, the man and the musician. What a loss to the
community!
I particularly admired Tiny Kahn. He was well on the way to becoming a
complete musician. He played so well, in big and small bands. And his writing
mirrored still another level of musicality.
g8 The Innovators

I was never a person who would just latch onto somebody and say: "I'm
going to be like this one or that one." Everybody fascinated me. The instru-
ment fascinated me. I always wanted to do things that had logic as far as the
drums were concerned. I felt I had to work out things my own way.
There was a rule when I was coming along—and it applies today as well.
You can't be an imitator! Only people who found their own answers were
respected. You weren't considered worthy if you played like someone else.
You would be admired only if you came up with a way to play that was differ-
ent and your own. Then everyone felt you were involved with something.

Max Roach's alliance with Charlie Parker was one of the most fortunate
and meaningful in the history of the music. The Bird-Max pairing, on
records, tells a story of great mutual creativity.
The twenty-one-year-old drummer had developed a declarative, ex-
panded language on the instrument that, in many ways, was quite new.
Kenny Clarke and Roach broke up the rhythm around the drums, partic-
ularly on the brutally fast tempi. The ride cymbals and the hi-hat served as
time sources. A linear, unimpeded pulse was established in the timekeeping
hand—generally the right. The left hand and both feet provided counter-
point and accents—rhythmical ideas to support and play against the
primary pulse, the ensembles, and the soloists. Because of Roach's increasing
technique, dexterity, and independent usage of hands and feet, the drums
assumed multilevel musicality.
The drums no longer played just a limited, circumscribed, timekeeping
role in the rhythm section. The drummer became a major participant, much
more of a partner in what was done in the small group and big band.
Expressing time and a variety of rhythms, color, and personality, Roach and
Kenny Clarke before him related more directly to the music and musicians
than their predecessors. The instrument was reborn.

VERNEL FOURNIER: What young drummers had been studying in challenging

drum instruction books by Edward B. Straight and George Lawrence Stone
began to make sense after we heard Max Roach. The great teachers laid out
the raw materials. But we didn't know how to apply them—until we heard
Max. When we got into his coordination, the way he used cymbals, the snare
and bass drum, the answers to the puzzle began to fall in place.

Not only did Roach understand the needs of Parker and Gillespie and
bebop, he had the technical resources and the vision to make the music
work. As he plays, you sense the structure of the tune, its inner and outer
movement, its drama, the unfolding of the developmental process. He inven-
tively embroiders material, playing surprising fills and rhythmic combina-
tions, adding to the quality of the music and its sense of thrust.
Unlike some others, who don't really understand music, drum set func-
tion, and liberation, Roach never turns his back on the time foundation of
all jazz drumming. Nor does he encumber a band or soloist with over-
whelming detail. Balance in his performances is very important to him.
While moving through a performance, he takes chances with ideas and tech-
niques that can upset and offset the time and continuity, if not well placed
and played correctly. But he seldom fails in his responsibility to the music and
himself. Roach is simultaneously dangerous and very much in command.
 (Hax Roach 99

Max Roach in 1960—still the drummer to listen to. © Chuck Stewart.

While the explosion of creativity was taking place in the 19408, Roach, like
many others, became a part of the drug scene.

STAN LEVEY: We were crazy people. Max and I were close. I loved and admired
him. He has a special gift that's given to very few. The life? It was all music
and drugs. When we weren't asleep, we were doing one or the other. We went
to Harlem for dope and played on 52nd Street. That's what we did.
We got along great. I used to go to Max's house in Brooklyn. I knew his
mother well. A lot of guys, Bird and others, hung out there. Max and I always
ioo The innovator)

seemed to be on the move. We'd go uptown—to listen and play and hang
out—sometimes with Baby Laurence, the great tap dancer. We were all over
New York.
Though Max was a junkie for a period of time, he somehow always was
cool. He dressed well, was very polished, spoke beautifully. He played what-
ever game had to be played.

Roach had friends who were worried about him and helped him through
the difficult battle with drugs. A concerned Kenny Clarke spoke to him at
some length. Dizzy Gillespie helped and comforted him,
During an essentially disastrous southern tour with Hepsations of 1945,
a package featuring the Gillespie big band—with Roach on drums—the
Nicholas Brothers, singer June Eckstine, and other acts, Gillespie watched
over his drummer like a warm, attentive hawk. This was very important to
Roach. Gillespie, his foxy friend and advisor, made the drummer feel better
about himself, opening the way for him to kick the monkey off his back.
Whatever his personal difficulties at the time, Roach felt a strong sense
of responsibility about his playing and how it related to the new music.

BARRY ULANOV: Max fit. It was another sound. You just didn't hear that on
drums, a sound you'd think of same as you would a bass or a cello or a viola
in a string group—in a string quartet or quintet. [Ed. note—At this point in
the interview, I commented: "Max contributed, in a major way, to the char-
acter and the nature of the Parker group. He was Bird's drummer."] That's
a tremendous thing to say about a drummer. Max's drum line was just as firm
and clear and authentic and traceable by ear as Bird's. I hadn't heard a
drummer who was so completely attuned to a musician of such quality.

Parker's Savoy, Dial, and Verve recordings make clear that Roach played
a significant role in making the music work. He enhanced the thematic
material. His time, manner of accentuation, ideas, and solo commentary
were certainly central to increasing the rhythmic substance of this music.
He simultaneously was a leading player, setting the pace, and a character
actor, bringing background color and dimension to the music.
The new music made certain demands on the drummer that were not a
factor in earlier forms of jazz. One of the most notable was using both
hands and feet with equal ease and having the capacity to dexterously play
different rhythms in each of the hands and feet.
Parker was conscious of the importance of "independence." Only with
this kind of facility—well applied—could the modern drummer bring
multiple rhythms and levels to music that openly asked for this sort of
treatment. He sat Roach down one early evening in the Three Deuces on
5 znd Street and demonstrated on drums what he was talking about. He
played a different rhythm with each hand and foot and then put them
together. He looked up at his drummer, giving him that insinuating smile of
his, and asked if Roach could do that.
Roach had been intuitively simulating in performance what Parker
illustrated. It was, in fact, a characteristic of bebop to play one rhythm
against another. Later he achieved complete independence by studying and
practicing exercises—much like the ones in Jim Chapin's book—that made
it possible to achieve this sort of dexterity.
 101
Max Roach 101

In the early years of bebop, young drummers were both challenged and
mystified by Roach's performances. When he dropped in his little rhythmic
gifts—behind Parker or Davis, or in breathing spaces during ensembles—
he made everyone wonder: "Where did he get that idea? How did he do
that? Why did he do that?" What he played could be as uncomplicated as
a revised rudiment, broken up between his hands and the bass drum foot,
or something a bit more complicated.
While enlarging jazz's general rhythmic base, Roach revised how the
drum set and cymbals were used. He gave each drum, each cymbal, and the
hi-hat expanded functions and more subtle treatment. He introduced new
or revised sounds and textures suitable to the music played.
What Roach does so adeptly on the Parker recording "Donna Lee," a
revamp on "Indiana," provides a good example of his methods. The pulse
remains his primary concern; that links him with the past. The way he goes
about his business, however, makes the difference and establishes him as a
thoroughly contemporary voice on the instrument. He pushes and prods
throughout, using snare and bass drum patterns and dancing cymbal and
hi-hat rhythms. He establishes his own line.
Roach had still another major virtue. He knew when to be relatively silent
and allow the music to take itself forward. He might subtly help move things
along but essentially would stay out of the way.
Try the flash-tempo Parker original "Merry-Go-Round," based on the
combined changes of "I Got Rhythm" and "Honeysuckle Rose." The
drummer is both a rhythm provider and an unobtrusive source of inspiration
for the players. His well-constructed, developmental solo of half a chorus
exploits the color possibilities of the drum set.
My personal Bird-Max favorites are three items on Dial: "Dewey Square"
and "Scrapple From the Apple," with the working band—Miles Davis
(trumpet), Duke Jordan (piano), Tommy Potter (bass)—and "Crazeology,"
another brisk trip through "I Got Rhythm," with trombonist J. J. Johnson
added.
What Roach brings to all three is a deep groove—the sort of feel more
characteristic of Kenny Clarke and Art Blakey. Intense without being loud,
he suggests "2-and-4" accentuation, in the manner in which he plays the
top cymbal, or directly defines it, closing the hi-hat on those beats of each
measure. The time takes on clarity and a stronger sense of swing.
Soon this means of giving the beat heat and more of an edge would be
widely adopted by jazz drummers, particularly after Art Blakey began doing
it and made the hi-hat a primary center of his volcanic energy. This
technique ultimately permeated jazz percussion to such a degree that it
became almost a cliche.
On the Parker Verves, Roach moves to another level of maturity. He
executes dramatically and well, where earlier his hands might occasionally
fail him. He controls the elements of his solos, making delightful statements
while sweeping around the drum set. Try the blues piece "Au Privave."
Roach also is admirable on still another blues, "Laird Baird." His twelve-
bar solo is a matter of quiet quality, perfectly broken up in four-bar linked
thoughts. "She Rote," based on "Beyond the Blue Horizon," is another
commendable bit of work. Fast and demanding, it offers exemplary Bird
and authoritative Miles Davis. On both, Bird has a sensitive, technically
effective rhythm section—Walter Bishop Jr. or Hank Jones (piano) and
102 The Innovator)

Teddy Kotick (bass). And it's apparent that Max Roach has arrived at a
point where he can easily express whatever he's thinking or feeling.
The Savoy recording of "Ko Ko" was perhaps Roach's most influential
performance during his association with Charlie Parker. A groundbreaker
recorded on November z6, 1945, m New York City, it's one of Bird's most
memorable and definitive blasts of creativity.
Because of "Ko Ko" and other key Parker-Roach and Gillespie record-
ings, good-time primitivism in jazz, latter-day minstrelsy, and other elements
of black show business no longer seemed at all feasible or possible. Because
of these innovative musicians, jazz had become a thinking man's music.
Things would never be the same again.
Even after more than fifty years, "Ko Ko" remains a shimmering ex-
perience. A reworking of "Cherokee," the Ray Noble song, it was a favored
vehicle for Parker—he recorded commentary based on this chord sequence
twelve different times. Only improvisers of this quality and depth could do
this kind of stunning work—juggling elements, redrawing an old outline
while completely personalizing and filling it with vitality and new meaning.
Gillespie plays brilliantly on the unisons, on the exchanges, and during
his solo. He furnishes appropriate piano support for Parker's stunning solo.
Bird sprays the landscape with a barrage of ideas during his two choruses.
Curly Russell, though not as capable as Oscar Pettiford or Ray Brown, is
equal to outlining the time and musical direction of the opus.
Roach flies right along, not at all intimidated by the fast tempo. He offers
a strong rhythmic foundation and meaningful embellishment. His thirty-
two-bar solo on this sixty-four-bar song, which allowed Gillespie to move
over to continue his supportive role on piano, is fluidly played on the snare
and bass drum.
An updated comment on the rudimental basis of most solos, this
thoughtful excursion, culminating in a show of speed, is enhanced and given
a sense of adventure by provocatively placed bass drum accents that keep
the listener nailed and a little off balance. The accents during the solo add
polyrhythmic qualities and affect its shape, contours, and symmetry. This
thirty-two-bar invention simultaneously documents Roach's roots in the
traditions of drums and his departure from them.
Roach performs on some of Thelonious Monk's earliest recordings (Blue
Note) and later ones as well. He indicates a sensitivity to the pianist's
instrumental and compositional needs. A nice creative touch is added on
"Bemsha Swing," the closing item in Monk's album Brilliant Corners,
recorded by Riverside in the 19505. In the company of Monk, Clark Terry
(trumpet), Sonny Rollins (tenor) and Paul Chambers (bass), Roach
imaginatively employs elements of the trap set and timpani for accents,
comments, fills, and a one-chorus solo.
On the historic Birth of the Cool recordings, Miles Davis tapped the
drummer's "orchestral" approach and coloring ability, until then relatively
unexploited aspects of Roach's playing. Very much into the compositional
and architectural aspects of music, and how best to deal with them from
the drummer's seat, Roach was an excellent choice for two of the three
1949-50 Capitol nonet sessions and the band's engagement in 1948 at New
York's Royal Roost.
Music and/or arrangements by Gerry Mulligan, Gil Evans, John Lewis,
John Carisi, George Wallington, Denzil Best, Bud Powell, and Davis were
 Max Roach 103

recorded on the studio sessions and during the band's Royal Roost
broadcasts. The material is contained in the Capitol CD Miles Davias—The
Complete Birth of the Cool.
This band attempted to advance and elevate modern jazz. The collective
personnel, including Lee Konitz, Mulligan, Lewis, J. J. Johnson, Kai Wind-
ing, Junior Collins, Bill Barber, Nelson Boyd, Al Haig, Al McKibbon, Gun-
ther Schuller, Mike Zwerin, Kenny "Pancho" Hagood, Sandy Siegelstein,
and Kenny Clarke, operated on a high plane.
The music itself speaks in a thoughtful, interesting, mellifluous voice. It
kicked off a trend, emphasizing composition and arrangement, self-
possessed flow, objective coolness. It could be viewed as a reaction to the
intensity, freedom, and daring of the music of Charlie Parker and Dizzy
Gillespie—though elements of their music are central to the nonet's
compositions and arrangements and the improvisations of the participants.
Max Roach makes clear in this context how well he could play the
attitude of a piece. He builds upon the exterior and interior qualities of the
music with admirable finesse. His solos are a reaction to what is going on
in the music and what he feels during his time in the open. Try "Move," the
Denzil Best composition, arranged by John Lewis. Roach's dexterous,
musical comments support his contention that in jazz, or all music for that
matter, "you have to be an exemplary instrumentalist."

JOHN LEWIS: What I've always found particularly attractive is the way Max
handles fast tempos. He has wonderful ways to deal with them, avoiding repe-
titions of any kind, thus keeping things interesting and exciting for everyone.

GERRY MULLIGAN: Max played so well on the sessions that I fell in love with his
work. He understood just what we were doing and just laid things in that
made them perfect. He viewed the pieces as compositions. What Max did was
melodic and quite incredible.

The decade of the 19508 was in many ways the most uniformly
impressive period in the drummer's career. Technically and conceptually, his
work was highly concentrated and expressive. His interests became
increasingly wide-ranging
Concerned about his career and the music itself, he formed Debut, an
independent record company, with Charles Mingus. They released several
important recordings. The most warmly remembered of these remains Jazz
at Massey Hall—The Greatest Concert Ever, recorded live in Toronto in
1953. It reunited Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Bud Powell, and Roach,
with Charles Mingus stepping in for the previously scheduled Oscar
Pettiford. Viewed with 2.0/2.0 hindsight, these performances are a
culmination on record of music and relationships developed in the 19408.
Though there were some difficulties attached to bringing all these people
together, and some problems with temperament during the event itself, the
music was the great leveler. The players—even Powell, who had just been
released from the hospital following a breakdown—made quality music.
They delved into modern jazz standards like "Hot House," "A Night in
Tunisia," and "Salt Peanuts"—music as natural to them as breathing.
Roach shows who he is on "Salt Peanuts," bringing to this miniature the
sort of structural clarity and evolutionary treatment that in the 19508 was
iity The Innovator)

quite typical of him. His four-chorus solo makes a formidable case for the
formal, thoughtful, jazz-informed/inflected qualities of his solos.
The "Salt Peanuts" figure appears, disappears, suggests itself, reappears,
bubbles beneath the surface. The drummer variates and improvises on the
basic idea, moves afield, ultimately returning to the figure, getting a chuckle
from Dizzy for his trouble.
During this conservative, self-satisfied decade of Eisenhower and Nixon,
Roach made a point of testing himself. He became increasingly involved in
unaccompanied theme-and-variations drum solos. In them, performing like
a well-conditioned athlete, Roach blends abundant spirit and technique and
a fund of interesting ideas.
His solos are a comment on his dedication and discipline; his ability to
be in the music and a bit beyond it, reflecting feeling, intelligence, and
ambition. The Roach solos elevate and bring dignity to an instrument long
misunderstood and assaulted by the ignorant.
Try his two versions of "Drum Conversation" on Max Roach Quartet
Featuring Hank Mobley (Debut) and "Blues for Big Sid" on Drums Un-
limited (Atlantic). And if you have the opportunity, request his salute to
Jo Jones, generally presented both in concerts and clubs. Roach should be
credited for moving jazz into time signatures other than 4/4 and success-
fully dealing with them in a jazz sense. Dave Brubeck also pursued and
popularized this concept. The pianist-composer told me: "Max and I were
into the same sort of thing. We were trying to make the music more inter-
esting and expressive."
A lifelong need to be a complete musician brought Roach to the
Manhattan School of Music to study composition and theory in the 19508.
He also made a truly significant career move, forming his own band in
March of 1954, after having worked for bassist Howard Rumsey for six
months in an all-star band at the Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach, California.

ROACH: I don't think I "got there" until I formed the group with Clifford
Brown. Then I began to speak for Max. Prior to that, I always felt that I was
just dealing with what Dizzy and Bird and Bud and everybody else wanted
me to do. Of course, my personality came through on much of the material
with Bird. And on "Un Poco Loco" with Bud [Ed. note—on which he
coupled Latin cowbell and timbale techniques with jazz] and on a few other
things. But I wasn't really free.
Gene Norman, a record producer, radio personality, and entrepreneur in
Southern California, said to me: "Why don't you start your own band?" I
said: "Why not!" I was winning all those magazine polls. It seemed the right
time. That's how Clifford and I got together. I hired tenor saxophonist
Harold Land [and] Richie Powell, Bud's brother, to play piano and write for
us. Bassist George Morrow came into the band. So did Clifford, a young
genius on trumpet who wrote some great things.

The new circumstance was right—not only for Roach but for everyone.
The music, an extension of the language and ideas of Charlie Parker and
Dizzy Gillespie, was not unduly complicated yet had an adventurous tone
and feeling. The band played its material with precision, fire, and freedom,
achieving a stimulating balance between the written and the improvised.
 Max Roach 105

The musical and commercial prospects of this group of musicians were

excellent. If Brown and Powell had not been killed in an auto accident, June
2.6, 1956—just prior to the band's booking at Chicago's Blue Note—who
knows how much Brown, Roach and company could have accomplished.
The death of Brown and Powell was a bitter jolt for Roach. It had a
devastating effect on him, personally and musically. He had lost two close
friends, both crucial links to the best of himself. The other players in the
group were shocked and deeply saddened.

HAROLD LAND: We had nothing but happy moments together. Max was the
epitome of what a leader should be. He could be a little demanding. But, at
the same time, he was very understanding, particularly when it came to the
music and what was going on within it. He knew exactly what was needed.
Max was a driving force from the drums. He had great energy and the
ability to inspire musicians. A perfectionist, he wouldn't settle for less than
the best from himself. He did play a lot of solos and send-offs. But we liked
them; they were beautifully put together and did a lot for the music.
When I play the records now, they still sound so good to me. The swing,
the musicianship, the tunes, the performances make them special. The band
was like a second family for all of us. The music expressed the closeness.

Musicians like Clifford Brown are anxiously awaited and relished

because they come along so rarely. That Roach played so well during this
time in his life was a matter of several things, but the central motivational
and growth factor was Clifford Brown. Roach's highly personalized, follow-
the-form, thematic solos are uniformly animated and technically masterful.
He puts his mark on a variety of rudiments, mixing up fast single strokes,
flams, paradiddles, ruffs (short and of longer duration). However, rolls are
not frequently played, for some reason.
Try "Parisian Thoroughfare "(Brownie—The Complete EmArcy Record-
ings of Clifford Brown}. It's a Bud Powell composition Roach recorded
earlier with the composer. Four-bar exchanges with members of the band
and his solo are combinations of telling ideas that fit the form and exploit
the drum set. (See Appendix 2. for the transcription.) His playing off the bass
drum and the high-impact sound of that drum add to the intensity of what
he does.
How Roach deals with ultrafast tempi is impressive. Try the Brown and
Roach version of "Cherokee" (on the same Clifford Brown EmArcy
collection). The drummer lifts up the band without ever raising his voice.
This performance, a matter of continuing intensity, is notable for Roach's
climactic solos; they provide lessons in the effective use of single strokes.
Sonny Rollins, who worked with the band in its last phase and is well
represented in the band's excellent live recording Clifford Brown and Max
Roach at Basin Street (EmArcy), feels his experiences with Roach have been
key to his evolution as an artist.
What Roach adds to the Rollins recordings of the 19508—e.g., The Free-
dom Suite with Oscar Pettiford (Riverside, now Milestone), and Saxophone
Colossus (expanded by Prestige into a double package, Saxophone Colossus
and More]—is certainly significant. Try Roach's seven blues choruses on
"Blue Seven." They unfold in four-bar blocks. Taking his cues from the piece
106 The Innovator)

and what the players contribute, Roach varies density, general technique,
dynamics, and how he uses space. (See Appendix z for the transcription.)

SONNY ROLLINS: When I first was getting into music, Max was the drummer.
As far as I was concerned, he was a God-like figure. When I finally played
with him, it was everything that I thought it would be.
A consummate musician, he has the sort of finesse and polish that helped
me sound better and play in my own way. Because he's such a precise
drummer, it was possible for me to get into very fast playing. I probably
wouldn't have been able to do that with another drummer.
When I joined the Brown-Roach group, replacing Harold Land in 1955,
Max and I became close. Since then, it's been much more than just a musical
relationship.
Playing with great musicians, like Max, are high points in my life. These
experiences can't be taken away. They're in my mind, in my memory, and
they'll remain with me forever.

Only one album made by Roach in the 19505, a battle of the drums titled
Rich Versus Roach (Mercury), was a radical mistake. Pitting one drummer
against the other in a competitive situation—with support by their respec-
tive bands—turned out very badly for Roach.
All the chips were stacked against him. Buddy Rich was the fastest gun
in the West. No one could execute the way he did. The facility and coordi-
nation of his hands and feet were without parallel. And he loved competitive
situations of this kind because he knew he had the wherewithal to "waste"
just about any drummer.
Roach's fills and solos emerged out of the music; they had charm and
relevance, structural appeal, but not the quickness necessary in this setting.
Rich was pure fire and peerless technique. He ran Roach out of the re-
cording studio.

The rest of Max Roach's career has followed the pattern he already had estab-
lished. He increased and diversified his activities, continuing to strive and
search, to play, write, record, and to be engaged by the possibilities of music.
After the death of Clifford Brown and Richie Powell, however, something
went out of him, A survivor, Roach has continued to field bands and to
spread his multiple abilities over an increasingly wide range. To replace
"Brownie" was a daunting, if not impossible, task. But Roach came up with
Booker Little, someone who inspired him emotionally and musically.
This luminous young trumpeter, with a distinctive sound and a fund of
challenging ideas, also died long before his time. The band made marvelous
music while he was with it. For a time, the Roach group included a tuba,
played by young, talented Ray Draper. The instrument was used both as a
rhythmic presence and as part of the front-line sound.
Donald Byrd, a trumpeter of consequence and later a major factor in
jazz education, made things exciting when he was in the band. Trumpeter
Kenny Dorham's playing and writing also brought distinction to Roach's
small band. Trombonist Julian Priester, multi-reed virtuoso Eric Dolphy,
tenor saxophonists Hank Mobley, Clifford Jordan, George Coleman, and
Billy Harper, pianists Walter Davis Jr., Barry Harris, Ray Bryant, and Mai
 [flax Roach 107

Max Roach playing on To the Max, a public television show taped in March 1992 in
Red Bank, New Jersey. © Chuck Stewart.

Waldron, trumpeters Tommy Turrentine, Charles Tolliver, and Woody

Shaw, bassists Reggie Workman and Art Davis, pianist-composer Stanley
Cowell, alto saxophonist Gary Bartz, and a number of others kept Roach
performances lively and interesting.
In the later years, trumpeter Cecil Bridgewater, tenor saxophonist Odean
Pope, and bassists Calvin Hill or Tyrone Brown have been members of the
drummer's quartet. Roach has had M-Boom, anHexcellent ongoing eight-
piece percussion ensemble, for a number of years. It is made up of
drummer-composers he respects. The Double Quartet, including a string
quartet with daughter Maxine on viola, is still another group he often
presents in clubs and concerts. It's a matter of interlocking disciplines.
Roach has played and written for groups of various dimensions, for
theater, film, TV, and the dance—and received awards for his efforts. He
continues to appear as an improvising soloist with symphonies and
percussion ensembles. He writes the music or has it composed by others.
Fred Tillis, a longtime colleague at the University of Massachusetts, has
been particularly effective writing concertolike pieces for Roach. They
include Ring Shout Concerto for percussion, solo percussion, and sym-
phony orchestra and Festival Journey for drum soloist and orchestra (Max
Roach With the New Orchestra of Boston and the So What Brass Quintet,
Blue Note).
io8 The Innovator)

Roach continues to play and record music out of his own experience—
gospel, for example, employing voices and instrumental ensembles. And
he makes a point of investigating other cultures and their music as well.
Some of the projects that mean the most to him grow directly out of his
concerns, frustrations, and hopes for humanity. His social views generally
intersect with his musical concerns. Try We Insist!—Max Roach and Oscar
Brown Jr.'s Freedom Now Suite, produced in 1960 by Nat Hentoff for
the short-lived Candid label. Singer Abbey Lincoln—for a time Roach's
wife—the redoubtable tenorist Coleman Hawkins, and the drummer's band
were among those featured on the Freedom Now Suite, a declaration of
position that focuses on freedom and justice. These themes are investigated
further on Lincoln's Straight Ahead (Candid) and on another album, also
made during the turbulent 19605: Max Roach—Percussion Bitter Sweet
(Impulse), including the Roach band, additional percussionists, and
Lincoln.
Roach, by nature, is a teacher. Since 1973, ne nas been a member of
the music faculty at the University of Massachusetts. In recent years, he
has been on less than a full schedule, so it's possible for him to write and
play.
He continues to diversify, performing with all kinds of players, new
groups of his own, and a singer or two, including soprano Jessye
Norman. In order to further enhance the range of his experiences, he has
involved himself with hip-hop, the kodo drummers of Japan, and the so-
called jazz avant-garde. Face-to-face challenges with the thunderous,
unrelenting Cecil Taylor, Anthony Braxton, and Archie Shepp were
sought out by Roach
The concert recording with Taylor (Max Roach and Cecil Taylor—
Historic Concerts, Soul Note) tells a grueling story. The generally precise,
thoughtful, inventive Roach is hammered by the combative Taylor. There
are rewarding moments when Roach breaks away and intelligently cools
the atmosphere. But overall, I couldn't wait for the CD to come to an
end.
Roach takes every opportunity to express appreciation to and respect
for those who opened the way to a new view of drumming. His tribute to
Jo Jones takes the form of rhythmic exploration of the hi-hat; "Blues for
Big Sid" is a matter of well-structured, disciplined, yet highly personal
commentary saluting the influential drummer. Its foundation is "Mop-
Mop," a thirty-two-bar riff tune Catlett recorded. (See Appendix z for the
transcription.)
In recent years, Roach has had some problems with diminished capacity,
an almost inevitable product of age: Sinatra, Dizzy Gillespie, Ella
Fitzgerald, and others had to combat the same thing. Like a veteran
baseball pitcher, the drummer more frequently relies on "smarts" rather
than on the quickness of times past.
"Max has done so much!" Roach's friend photographer Chuck Stewart
asserts. "You don't fully realize that until you take time to think about it
and reexamine his track record."
Like Ellington, Max Roach provides an excellent example of what can
be done with a life. Drummer, composer, teacher, lecturer, and a thoughtful
spokesman on a variety of subjects, he is a model for those who seek the
best from themselves.
 Jtan Leveij 109

STAN LEVEY (1926- )

I was never into the show business end of it. I sat down and did
my job—played time and made the other musicians feel good.
That was my style—helping, contributing.
—STAN LEVEY

Tall, strong, built like the boxer he once was, Stan Levey carries himself in
the unconsciously challenging and confident manner of a man who has a
pretty good idea what it's all about. Accessible, affable, articulate, often
humorous, the former drummer has been up and down and all around and
somehow gives the impression—probably because of his size—he is not to
be tampered with.
Levey went to a tough school. He faced reality early. His life as a kid
growing up in the 19305 in North Philadelphia was not one of affluence and
ease. Levey's mother sold jewelry. His father doubled as an automobile
dealer and fight manager.
It wasn't entirely unexpected that the big youngster would spend a lot of
time in local gyms, training and hanging out with boxers. He fought
professionally for a while but cut short his career when he was badly hurt
during a particularly rough bout. The ultra-smooth, deceptive exterior many
people develop as protection is notably absent in him.
During the Depression years, when Levey was quite young, music became
his prime concern.

LEVEY: Radio was important to me and to all the kids who liked music. If it
weren't for radio, particularly the musical broadcasts through the day and
late into the evening, I don't think any of us would have learned anything.
I started playing drums when I was about seven years old. My parents got
me a tiny drum set when I was nine or ten years old. The first thing I did was
set up my drums by the speaker of the radio and play along.

Levey was left to his own devices when it came to learning about music.
He derived a great deal from listening to and watching other musicians. As
he got older, he went with increasing frequency to the Earle Theater in
Philadelphia and to ballrooms and clubs in Atlantic City, to get a good idea
what the bands really sounded like and what drummers like Gene Krupa
and Buddy Rich did for them.

LEVEY: Chick Webb was my first major influence and idol. He was absolutely
incredible. I saw him at the Earle Theater with Ella [Fitzgerald]. It must have
been 1937. As you know, Chick was very small. All you could see over that
large bass drum was his head and those flailing arms.
The guy was a complete departure from anything I'd seen and heard. Most
of the drummers were just timekeepers. Chick was so inventive and always
enhanced what the band played. His old Decca record "Harlem Congo" gives
you an idea of how well he played. But really, you had to dig him in person.
Because Chick had a very distinctive way of doing things, and because what
he played made so much sense, he had a major effect on the way I thought
about drumming.
no The Innovator)

Stan Levey, 1953, during his Stan Kenton years. Stan Levey Photography,
Sherman Oaks, California.

I wish I'd had a really good teacher. There weren't too many around in
those days. I did find one or two who took me as far as their capabilities
permitted. But there wasn't anyone who really could show me what it was all
about.
If you had natural ability, you figured out what you saw and heard, and
you used the information in your own way. There were no books about how
to hold sticks or how to set up a drum kit. Because of this, I started playing
left-handed. I'm a right-handed person, but it was easier for me to work my
hands from the left-handed positions. I realized after a while that I had
things ass-backwards. But by this time, I was locked in.
Later, when I became a mallet player and composer, I did a lot of
studying. But as far as drumming goes, I feel you shouldn't emphasize the
academic side of things. Learn to read properly. Learn to interpret what youa
see on the paper. Take those black dots—those notes—and make them into
music.
If you combine practice and study with on-the-job training, the results are
quite good. There's no better way of moving to the center of the creative
process than by involving yourself directly with the music in a band and
participating as it takes shape and comes to life.
 Stan Levey in

Dizzy Gillespie was Levey's mentor, teacher, and friend. He helped him
understand music from the inside, his position within the band and in the
rhythm section.
Levey's life in jazz—at least for a few years—was not simple and linear.
Unlike the typical old Hollywood film scenario, where complications are
short-lived and always positively dealt with, his story had more than a few
dues-paying aspects.
You would never know it, talking to him today. Intelligent, smart about
people and situations, vigilant, insightful, he generally tempers serious
comment with a funny line, a light touch. But, in his way, he tells you a lot
and conveys an unusual sense of purpose and decisiveness.
A little over fifty years ago, Levey freed himself of a five-year heroin habit.
The search to satisfy the demands of this increasing physical dependency
was central to what amounted to a shadow life. Something that in many
cases starts as a way to lighten pressure and uplift the spirit, or as a self-
indulgence—a euphoric experience—rapidly becomes terribly serious.
Levey's substantial talent was not questioned as he became part of that life.
But his ability to behave in a manner that promotes confidence was.

EDDIE BERT: I remember when it was really bad for him. We met on
Broadway. I was with Woody's [Woody Herman's] band at Bop City on the
second floor of the Brill Building right on Broadway. Stan said: "Hey, can I
get up to hear the band?" And I said: "Sure, come with me." I brought him
in the back way and got him a seat right near the bandstand.
When I joined the trombone section to start the set, the guys in the band
looked over at Stan. Some of them seemed pretty nervous. They asked me:
"What did you bring him in for? You never know what cats like that will do."
You help someone you respect as a musician and everyone gets mad. . . .
I can't believe that ever happened. Stan's so different now. He's been
straight for a lifetime.

HOWARD RUMSEY: Stan Levey is living proof that if you want to do something,
you can. I remember I needed a drummer in 1954 at the Lighthouse—the jazz
club in Hermosa Beach, California—capable of replacing Max Roach. Stan
had done a great job with Kenton and was ready to get off the road after two
years. Max called him, and he accepted my offer.
Stan never came late—never was a disappointment in any way, He had the
highest standards of performance of any drummer I've encountered. A lot of
people in music who came to the club became familiar with him and his
playing and were impressed. Many musicians and record people employed
him.

If you're young in music and history is not your strong suit, you might
not know about Stan Levey. But many of us who were into music when bop
was emerging in the 19408 and thereafter know his work and realize its
worth.
Levey was a central figure in the evolution of his instrument—an activist
in a musical revolution that changed and enriched American music. A prime
mover in many ways, the Philadelphian took his cue from visionaries of the
drums—Max Roach, Kenny Clarke, and Shadow Wilson—and from such
older key figures as Chick Webb, Jo Jones, Dave Tough, and Sid Catlett.
112 The Innovator)

It was quite clear to Levey that the old ways were no longer feasible. By
moving more and more deeply into the new music, by playing and
associating with Gillespie and Parker, and particularly by listening to Max
Roach, he came to realize what had to be done.
The music called for a more responsive, fleet manner of playing.
Drumming based on a military approach to the instrument, emphasizing
rudiments performed in a highly symmetrical manner, was not reasonable
any longer. Time stated in an extremely straightforward, unbroken manner
on the hi-hat, on the snare drum, and essentially on the bass drum suddenly
seemed cumbersome and inappropriate. The music's design more than
implied that breaking time also would work well and be helpful.
Levey worked hard and learned. His playing became increasingly live
and relevant. He felt good to listeners and to his colleagues. He served the
beat, and it served him.
His solos, like his ensemble playing, were relatively uncomplicated yet
effective. Where Max Roach caught hold of you with his imaginative use of
the instrument, Levey was more basic, offering pulsation, an undercurrent
of rhythm and sound, notable for its undeniably positive feel. He made it
possible for the players to be comfortable and to reach out and experiment.
52,nd Street in Manhattan was the laboratory where the new music was
emerging.

LEVEY: At the time, the Street was more like a sideshow, a curiosity stop for
most people. Not many dug what we were trying to do; most came by the
Deuces, the Onyx, the Spotlite because they had heard there was some really
weird, new music being played. It was a freak show, I guess, and the musi-
cians were the freaks.1
Young musicians around town dropped in more and more frequently.
Some became quite fascinated with the music and tried to absorb our
concept.
The traveling bands that played the theaters—the Strand, the Para-
mount, Loews State, the Roxy, the Capitol—also showed interest. You'd see
the leaders and the players almost every night. They'd finish at midnight and
be there for our 12:30 A.M. set. Most of them would stay—some until the
place closed.

GEORGE WALLINGTON: I remember when I was working on the Street in 1944

and later on, we'd get all the stars at the clubs—ball players, fighters, all
kinds of show business people would come in and listen.

LEVEY: I can't tell you how exciting 52nd Street was in 1944 and '45. I came
in from Philly the first time for a visit. That night was unbelievable. Club
after club—such music! Dizzy, Coleman Hawkins, Ben Webster. At five
o'clock in the morning, the Street was still pulsating and alive.

Levey had an almost immediate effect on contemporary drummers in the

19405. He was one of the players favored by Gillespie and Parker. For this
reason alone, young musicians inclined an attentive ear.

PHIL BROWN: Stan Levey was one of the originators—the first white drum-
mer who could really play modern jazz. He had that fluid, relaxed, new
 fan Levey 113

kind of time. I loved his time, maybe even more than Max Roach's. A
pivotal figure, he just sat down and played, and pleased the musicians. He
didn't overplay. He influenced drummers all over the country. When I
moved from New York to the West Coast in 1948, the young drummers out
there were talking about Max and Stan. They were the guys who played and
recorded with Diz and Bird.
Stan grasped the style. He learned quickly. When the music was being for-
mulated in '44 and '45, there were very few white guys who really got into bop.
In the beginning, it was terribly hard to learn what to do and how to do it.
An "in group" emerged. Al Haig was the white counterpart of the most
influential modern pianist, Bud Powell. Stan and Max were interchangeable.
Trumpeter Red Rodney was another young player who had the technical
acumen and instinct for the new music And they all worked with Diz and/or
Bird.
Stan Levey was at the right place at the right time and knew how to use his
talent.

IRV KLUGER: Stan sounded sensational when I first heard him in the 1940s.
The rhythm players at that time didn't know what to do with bebop. It was so
verbalized and rapid. The music demanded technique and endurance. You
had to be able to go on for twenty-five to thirty minutes, playing at those light-
ning tempos. It wasn't the only adjustment that had to be made to the new
music. But it certainly was a major one. The demands of bop drove a lot of
people right out of the business because they felt they could never play it.
Stan had no difficulty. He also played piano; I first heard him in a little
jazz joint in Philly. He knew about form, the structure of songs, and was into
harmony. All this certainly had a positive effect on his drumming.

CHARLIE RICE: Philly used to be something else. Guys came to Philly from New
York. There was so much happening. Every bar, every corner spot had
music. Billy Lou's, Cafe Society, the Zanzibar—all up and down Ridge and
Columbia avenues. You had a whole gang of places where you could listen
and learn. Then you had the Down Beat.
I worked at the Down Beat. It was the best club in town. Nat Segal ran it.
It was right in back of the Earle Theater. We used to have Bird there for a
week. Dizzy would come in for a month. A lot of drummers dropped by each
night.
Stan was a very serious cat in those days—about everything. We'd go to
Horn and Hardart's, a couple of doors down from the Down Beat, and sit
and talk. I know he dug Max. Stan went to New York a lot. One of the things
that got inside him was Max.

LEVEY: The Down Beat. It was on the corner, a bar downstairs, the club
upstairs. A lot began for me there. Because it was near the Earle Theater,
naturally I drifted into the place. Each time I passed, I could hear the music;
it just spilled out of the open windows. I began hanging out there at night. I
spent my days with my old man, washing and Simonizing cars. I had dropped
out of high school. That's all I had was the music. Nothing else. It was every-
thing to me.
I remember seeing and hearing a very young Dizzy at the Down Beat with
a little quartet and becoming aware of this insidious change in the music,
n't The Innovator)
okay? I went up to Dizzy one night and introduced myself. He asked me to
come up and play. I guess he liked what he heard. He took me under his wing.
Diz was a great teacher. He could sit down and play drums and show you
where the accents were and how to play with the ensembles and the individual
horns. He had so many terrific rhythmic ideas. "Salt Peanuts"—remember
how that was put together? The tempo was almost impossible. At first, it
seemed you couldn't get with it. But he worked out the patterns and spoon-
fed the whole thing to drummers. After you had played it for a while, it didn't
seem difficult at all.
Diz would keep giving me advice: "Get up in the front line. Make a state-
ment. Play against the horns. Improvise a little. Play in a musical way." He
showed me the old ways wouldn't work with the new music. Four clops to the
bar were out. This music was flying. It had wings.
I finally got my chance. Jerry Gilgore, the drummer in his group, left to go
on the road with Jerry Wald's band. Diz looked around for a drummer. And
I got the job—for eighteen dollars a week. We played six nights; the other
guys in the group were Johnny Acea [piano] and Oscar Smith [bass]. I was
only sixteen and thrilled about the job and my relationship with Dizzy.

RED RODNEY: Like me, Stan was a hometown Philly guy. I looked up to him.
He was an exceptional player—thrilling to be in front of on the bandstand.
He always was very friendly with me—ready to help with something. And he
wouldn't hesitate to give me advice whether I asked for it or not.
He was the first one to explain the new music to me. I remember when
Dizzy played "Lover Man," I was waiting for the pretty, Harry James-type
tones. When I didn't hear them, I was a little disappointed. Stan promptly
pointed out to me: "You have to listen harmonically. Don't listen for the
vibrato!" He was a good musician even back then when we both were babies.

Levey's experiences prior to moving to New York were not all on the
positive side. His Benny Goodman adventure was a bitter pill for the
seventeen-year-old musician. He had just completed his first engagement
with Dizzy Gillespie. Levey remained at the Down Beat after the trumpeter
had gone to New York, playing with John Coltrane and other musicians.
Tenor saxophonist Zoot Sims, who was in the Goodman band, and Popsie
Randolph, the clarinetist's aide, came to the club one night looking for a
drummer.

LEVEY: Benny's drummer wasn't working out. Zoot and Popsie said to me:
"You gotta play for Benny." So I auditioned, doing a couple of shows with
the band at the Earle Theater. I didn't hear anything about whether I had
the job or not. But I turned up again the next morning after telling my
mother to be in the theater early. She didn't believe I would be playing with
Benny Goodman. After all, in 1943, Benny was the biggest in jazz and
popular music.
We hit promptly at 9:00 A.M. The band went into the Goodman theme,
"Let's Dance." There I was playing with a great band. I'd never been on a
stage in my life—never played with a big band, didn't know how to deal with
the lights. I couldn't read music. I faked it all the way. Mom was in the first
row—her mouth wide open through the entire first show.
I did the rest of the shows at the theater during that week. Benny never
 Jtan Levei) 115

looked at me, never announced my name, never talked to me, never said a
word except when I met him in his dressing room that first day. After finishing
at the theater, we went on the road. I had been with the band for about two
months when Goodman's brother Irving terminated me. "Benny says you
should go home," he said. Fine. I went home. What a strange, depressing
experience!

There's a sidebar to all this. Twenty years later, Levey got a call from
Goodman. "It's Benny," the bandleader said, assuming Levey would know
exactly who it was. He wanted the drummer to join his band at Disneyland.
He behaved as if the 1943 firing had never happened. Clearly B.C. was
conscious of what Levey had done since he last worked with him.
Levey played the engagement. The musicians were good, the music was
enjoyable, and the leader, as usual, played in a most satisfying manner. Levey
did other work with the King of Swing, including a TV show. Goodman
even asked Levey to go on the road with him. All in all, not a negative
experience.
Goodman was positive, friendly, respectful. Yet Levey found the overall
situation not too much different from what had happened in the past: "Benny
was just a weird person with a bizarre mentality. He tried to pull some
things on the band, having to do with recording. Same old strange stuff!"

Levey and Ellis Tollin, another drummer from Philadelphia, moved to New
York in the summer of 1944. They roomed together at the Schuyler Hotel
on West 46th Street. At a time when most youngsters are thinking about
football games, amply endowed sweater girls, and the senior prom, Levey
made the break and cut the cord.

LEVEY: My first night in New York was very exciting. Unexpectedly I had the
opportunity to audition for a job with one of the great tenor players in the
music. I was walking down 52nd when I met Dizzy. He told me Ben Webster
was looking for a drummer. Diz took me to the club, insisting all the way that
this would be very good for me. I said to him: "Give me a break! I just came
out of the fields of Philadelphia." The prospect of sitting in with Ben was
intimidating. And when I got to the club, Ben was intimidating. I didn't get
the job. He didn't like me. I couldn't play on the drums; everything was
soggy. I just couldn't handle it. I was too scared. Later Ben and I got together.
My first work after coming to New York was with Oscar Pettiford. We went
to the Tick Tock Club in Boston. It was a hell of a band, with Flip Tate on
trumpet; the tenor man was Johnny Hosfield. It was about the time that Billy
Eckstine made his debut with that wild, wonderful band.
When I went in to see and hear Max Roach with the Dizzy Gillespie-Oscar
Pettiford group on the Street—at the Three Deuces—it was like lightning had
struck me. I went crazy. I got as close to the bandstand as I could. I had to get
a better idea of what he was up to. Dizzy had told me that Shadow and Max
were doing wonderful things. But I didn't realize how different and expres-
sive their ideas were until I heard Max that first time.
I was incapable of playing the way Max did. He was so technically ad-
vanced. What I did try for was his intensity and spirit, particularly on the
up-tempo things—the looseness, the riffs, the fills, the musical sounds he
created.
n6 The Innovator}

That period in the 1940s was one of the most memorable in my life. The
music was just as pure as it could be, okay? Pure art. And at the center of
all this was Max.

ELLIS TOLLIN: After coming to town, Stanley and I had to make some money
to pay for food and rent and incidentals. I did some one-nighters in the New
York area with Mitchell Ayres and His Fashions in Music—an essentially
commercial, hotel-type band. Then I got a job with Henry Jerome's new
modern jazz orchestra at Child's Paramount.
Stanley spent a lot of time sitting in on 52nd Street. He had a natural feel
for the new music. He and Max, Kenny Clarke and Tiny Kahn, the new
generation of drummers, helped make bebop work. The modern guys liked
what Stanley did. Whenever Max wasn't around, he played gigs with Dizzy
and Bird.
Our apartment at the Schuyler became a gathering place. The guys with
the big bands dropped by after finishing work in the theaters or hotels. So
did the 52nd Street players. When the clubs closed, Stanley and I would grab
a bite to eat, go back to the apartment, play and listen to music, and talk to
the guys about this and that until well after daylight. Bird, Max, Vic
Coulsen—the trumpet player—and Tadd Dameron were around a lot.
After a while, Stanley became deeply involved with Bird. That's how he
got into drugs, hanging out with Bird and Max. He admired both of them so
very much.

There were so many opportunities to play in New York with top people
and have a good time doing it. Levey and other beboppers moved through
the city, throwing down the gauntlet, challenging others. They jammed at
Harlem's Golden Gate Ballroom in sessions put together by Teddy Reig
and at small clubs uptown and downtown, often performing until late
morning.
Frequently, as a lark, Levey and pianist Erroll Garner would jump up to
Harlem and play at rent parties, where the sale of food and "contributions"
helped pay the rent. The music, the food and liquor, the ladies, the friendly
atmosphere made those nights memorable.
Minton's on West n8th Street provided an amiable ambiance and made
possible what writer Ralph Ellison called "a special moment" in jazz. The
club was a cauldron, a testing ground.

JOHN CARISI: All kinds of musicians made the trip uptown to hear what Klook,
Monk, Diz, and the others were playing. More than a few musicians couldn't
make it. Players could be chased from the bandstand in no time flat. Unfa-
miliar chord changes, completely refashioned tunes, brutally fast tempos
puzzled and sent them to the subway and home, scratching their heads.

LEVEY: Why the superfast tempos? To show that playing them was possible.
The tempos sometimes were used to drive people away. At Minton's there was
this saxophone player called "Horse Collar." He couldn't play anything. To
discourage him and others, the guys would go into a fantastically brisk tempo
and wipe the strangers out. It was a way of saying: "If you can't do this, don't
even think about coming around to play with us."
 Jtan Leveu 117

There was a fever among the young musicians involved in this developing
music. They played almost all the time. There was so much to feel, to learn,
to master. Sessions were set up wherever there was the wherewithal for
performance—a piano, adequate space. Rehearsal studios were generally
used. If there was a rental to be dealt with, the musicians would put change
in a hat to take care of it. The "cats" would line up at Nola Studios and
similar places—after an eventful night, playing here and there—waiting for
them to open in the mornings and for the sessions to begin.
Levey remembers Gerry Mulligan and numerous others moving from
club to club on the Street, hoping to sit in. Teddy Charles, the vibraharp
player, ran the gamut, dragging his vibes with him, asking one club owner
after another for permission to plug into the wall and play. The young got
their lessons from older, more completely formed musicians—those who
were willing to pass on what they knew, if only by example.

LEVEY: One of the hippest bands I heard after I got to Manhattan was the
Coleman Hawkins group at the Down Beat on 52nd, with Monk, Vic Coulsen,
and the great Denzil Best on drums. The bass player was one of the best I've
ever heard. His name was Eddie Robinson. They called him "Basic." Nobody
knows about this guy. He was heavily into problems—guns and drugs. I guess
he was a little nuts. But that SOB could play. I learned so much listening to
Robinson, Denzil, and Monk, playing as a unit.
There were a number of young "modern" musicians on the Street who
were important and have since disappeared or died. They're not remembered
or given the respect they deserve. Drummers Eddie Nicholson and Denzil
Best were just two of them.

At the center of it all was Charlie Parker.

BUDDY DEFRANCO: Pianist Dodo Marmarosa and I were probably among the
first to hear Bird after he arrived in New York. He sat in at places all over
town, with a borrowed horn. He had no steady job. Charlie Shavers, whom
we later worked with in the Tommy Dorsey band, told us about this guy who
was playing some wild music. He insisted we go out and hear him. Bird
changed my entire style. There was as much excitement about bebop, and
Bird and Diz, as anything I've experienced in music, including Louis
Armstrong, Benny Goodman, and Artie Shaw.

LEVEY: When I first played with Bird—I guess it was 1944—he had just come
off the Billy Eckstine band. He looked like a used pork chop—so bad it was
ridiculous. None of his clothes fit. His horn was all rubber bands and cello-
phane.
We met at the Down Beat Club on 52nd Street when he was sitting in with
the Coleman Hawkins group. One night, Denzil Best was late for the job.
Because Parker and I had such an affinity for each other when we were intro-
duced, he asked me to come up and play. During the first number, he just
kept looking back. He gave me that grin. You've seen it. He liked my time
and the freedom of my approach.
We were like pancakes and syrup. I had no difficulty with Bird's fast
tempos. I could play "up" pretty easily. I don't know why. I never practiced.
ii8 The Innovator)

I didn't listen to music when I wasn't working. I didn't own a record player.
I guess the way I played had a lot to do with my attitude. I was a determined
man—determined to make a contribution and do my job well.
As time went on, Bird got some gigs on 52nd Street. We usually were hired
for off-nights, Mondays and Tuesdays: Bird and me, and either Joe Albany
or Hank Jones on piano. I learned so much about phrasing from Bird. That
may sound funny coming from a drummer. But the way he played alto saxo-
phone indicated how I should shape time and structure my solos.
I turned away from the bangers. They were machinery—hardware. I
wasn't interested in players whose pulse didn't flow. There had to be a sense
of motion. I didn't want to plod through four beats of each bar just to get to
the end of the tune. I wanted everything to swing.
I dig simplicity. Unfortunately, a lot of drummers go into overkill when
there's a short solo to be played or a space to be filled in a chart. I believe in
keeping things pretty straightforward. You tend to be more efficient that way.
There's no need to throw a whole career into a break. It's really very
distracting and slows the momentum of the band.

What made Levey particularly special during those first years in New
York carried through his entire career as a musician. He had an instinct for
modern rhythm, in both the broad and subtle sense. He was natural and
highly idiomatic and comfortable in his job.
Unlike Max Roach, Levey was not a formal student of the instrument.
He found out things by being part of the scene—by listening and watching
and playing for pay, earning while learning.
A crucial point is made on his early recordings—with Georgie Auld's
band, Dizzy Gillespie, Red Rodney, Allen Eager, Brew Moore, and Stan
Getz. Levey was an extremely natural player. His performances were entirely
free of affectation and artificiality and made the music more expressive. He
retained a strong connection with his roots in swing music. These never
allowed him to lose touch with the architecture or direction of a tune.
The early Stan Levey is well defined on a November 2.3, 1946, Keynote
record date with Dave Lambert and Buddy Stewart and Red Rodney's Be-
Boppers. The sound is surprisingly good, allowing for a clear view of the
drummer and his colleagues. The performances on "A Cent and a Half,"
"Perdido," "Charge Account," and "Gussie G" are exciting. Levey fits so
well; his time is hip and persuasive. Equally adept with sticks and brushes,
he proves a very able accompanist, anticipating the thoughts of his
colleagues, surprising with potent bass drum shots and provoking ideas. His
short solos are statements and meaningful links in a continuing chain of
commentary. Emerging out of the music, they have little to do with
rudimental exhibition. They find your feelings and hold your attention.

LEVEY: One thing I'll never forget is one of my first record dates, in early
January 1945. I had been around New York for only a short time when I got
a call from Leonard Feather, the writer. He was putting together record dates
for different companies at the time. This one was for the Black and White
label. He said to be at this studio on 57th Street and gave me the time. I
showed up a bit early to set up. The first thing I saw when I walked in was
the king of kings—Art Tatum! I literally froze in my tracks, because this was
"the man" on piano.
 Jtan Levey 119

As it worked out, he was on the date with a number of other stars: former
Duke Ellington clarinetist Barney Bigard—it was his date—both Joe
Thomases, the trumpeter and the tenor man, and bassist Billy Taylor. How I
got in there, being so young and tender, I don't know. I was certainly
delighted but, at the same time, very, very scared.
I was afraid to offend Art in any way. So I just listened and used the
brushes real easy. Afterward—and I'll never forget this—Art came over to
me. He sensed it was one of my first times out, I'm sure. He put his arm
around me and said how much he enjoyed working with me. It made me feel
so good!

While working on 5 2nd Street during 1944 and 1945, Levey and Max
Roach often shared one drum set. Money always seemed to be short.
Certainly the pay at clubs was not what it might have been. The scale was
sixty-six dollars a week, fifty-one dollars take-home pay.

LEVEY: Max and I lived and hung out together for a while. We were forced to
take major steps in order to keep going. One of us would put his drums and
cymbals in the hockshop to pick up some money and enhance the cash flow.
A few weeks later, out they would come, and the other guy would hock his
set. It was a matter of survival, paying the rent, eating, having some walking-
around money, and dealing with heroin addiction.

Considering all he did during his first two years at the center of jazz
activity, Levey might have had less difficulty with his budget if it weren't for
his problem with narcotics. He worked with Barney Bigard, Coleman
Hawkins, Ben Webster, Erroll Garner, Thelonious Monk, Allen Eager,
George Shearing, adapting to a variety of styles.
For several months in 1945, he played with one of the greatest bands,
Woody Herman's First Herd—a fact not as widely known as it should be.
He was in and out of the band until Don Lamond ultimately took over.

LEVEY: Dave Tough, one of my idols, was the drummer in the band. He had an
alcohol problem. But he was around enough to make all the great Herman
records of that period and turn around an entire generation of drummers.
Many nights when he didn't show up at the Cafe Rouge of the Hotel Penn-
sylvania—that's on 34th Street and Seventh Avenue in New York—I'd go
down and play. Sometimes it was as much as three times a week.
I remember flying out to Indianapolis at one point when Dave had to make
a break with Woody. This was the first big band that I had played with for
any length of time. I seemed to fall into it okay. The guys gave every indica-
tion that they liked me. Woody was great. Having that experience made it
possible for me to work in other big bands in the 1940s. I spent short periods
with Georgie Auld, Charlie Ventura, and Freddie Slack.
I left Dizzy and Bird to join Woody full-time in the spring of 1945. I was
paid $250 a week as opposed to the $66 I got on the Street. Because I was on
the road with the band, I missed being on some really important Gillespie and
Parker record dates. Sid Catlett was on the 1945 Musicraft sessions when
they cut "Salt Peanuts," "Shaw 'Nuff," and "Hot House." Max made "Billie's
Bounce," "Ko Ko," and "Now's the Time" with Bird. I left Woody to rejoin
Dizzy and Bird when Max left.
120 The Innovator)

Playing with Dizzy and Bird was the pinnacle. Everything after that was
on the downside. I was their drummer at the Three Deuces on the Street in
1945, with Al Haig [piano] and Curly Russell [bass]. There might have been
pressure to produce because the musicians were so good. But the love of the
music was so great that you didn't feel any stress.
It was the damnedest thing. At the time, I was living in Harlem with
Parker. Dizzy called about getting a band together. Bird was enthusiastic
about it. I knew the music. Al Haig knew the music. Curly knew the music.
We all just got together and played. We didn't talk about the music. Every-
one knew what to do.

The Gillespie band, with minor changes in personnel, went to California

at the end of that year for an eight-week engagement at Billy Berg's club in
Hollywood.

LEVEY: Ray Brown replaced Curly on bass; Milt Jackson was added on vibes.
Bird made the trip but didn't do much playing during the engagement
because of his personal problems. Diz hired tenor saxophonist Lucky
Thompson to fill in.
It didn't go awfully well for us. Opening night of the engagement was
terrific. Throughout the stand, the music was fine. But the people couldn't
get with it. There was some feeling of hostility. What we were doing, of
course, was entirely new to them. They were used to entertainers, like Slim
and Slam and Harry "the Hipster" Gibson, and only could deal with stuff
that was easier to understand—Dixieland and so-called jazz singers.
The fact that we had two white guys in the band puzzled many of those
who came to the club. You have to remember that 1945^6 was back in segre-
gation times and L.A. wasn't the most liberated place.
We recorded for Dial while in Los Angeles; it helped get our message out.
I'm partial to a thing we did called "Dynamo A," based on "I Got Rhythm,"
which is also known as "Dizzy Atmosphere." Bird didn't make the record
dates. We seldom could find him. When the band returned to New York, we
had to leave him behind.

Tapes of broadcasts from Berg's are particularly informative. The band

is extraordinarily centered. They play material that evolved very specifically
out of the concepts of Gillespie and Parker with an intensity, a truthful
quality, a purity that profoundly affected John Lewis as a young man in
Albuquerque, New Mexico.
When I heard the broadcasts, I could easily understand why Lewis
was so impressed. The band had transcendent fire and unity. Levey was
very much in control. He strengthened the music by tying all the ends
together and doing what was necessary without calling undue attention
to himself.

GERALD WILSON: Diz and Bird had a big opening. A lot of people came. I spent
the whole evening there and left with Dizzy and Charlie. A bunch of us went
to Norman Granz's house, or it might have been someone else's, and just sat
around and talked. Norman, Josephine Premice, the entertainer, Diz, Bird,
the Ostrows—they were friends of most people in jazz around Los Angeles.
The general response to the engagement was quite mixed.
 Jtan Levet) 121

Certainly Gillespie and the band must have been glad to get back to
New York, where their music had already taken root and the audiences
were more understanding and generally appreciative. They returned to
the Spotlite, a club on 52nd Street, early in 1946 with Leo Parker on
baritone sax in place of the elusive Bird. Parker had had a nervous
collapse and was being treated at California's Camarillo State Hospital.
The late 19405 were busy for Levey but not on the same musical level
as his first years in New York. He toured with Jazz at the Philharmonic
and worked with big bands and a number of small bands. One of the best
of these was led by tenor saxophonist Stan Getz.
The 1949 recordings with Getz on the Prestige label indicate once
again Levey's sensitivity and ability to support and enhance the per-
formances of the other players while suggesting a range of subtle
rhythmic possibilities. His section colleague bassist Gene Ramey provides
unobtrusive aid. Getz and pianist Al Haig, the primary soloists, work
well together. An understated but quite evident chemistry exists between
them.
"Long Island Sound" (comment on "Zing Went the Strings of My
Heart"), "Indian Summer," "Mar-cia" (clearly based on "When Your Lover
Has Gone"), and "Crazy Chords," a twelve-bar, consistently modulating
blues, taken at a brisk tempo, all reiterate how good Levey could make the
music feel while doing little that was sensational.

TERRY GIBBS: Stan was on the first band I ever had, in 1949. We played two
weeks—our one and only gig—at Soldier Meyer's in Brooklyn, following
Miles Davis into the place. The front line was Stan Getz, Kai Winding,
and myself. The rhythm section: Stan, George Wallington, Curly Russell.
We had a lot of fun. Stan and I always laughed. He was the easiest guy to
play with, particularly on fast tempos. He'd just lay it down.

Levey's involvement with drugs, however, was increasingly getting in the

way. He would have to make a choice—music or drugs.

LEVEY: It was a matter of life or death. That's what it conies down to. At
one point, I left New York, hoping to turn things around. I went back to
Philly and stayed for close to a year. I worked for my old man. As you
know, he was a fight manager; he had eighteen or twenty fighters. I hung
around the gym and trained, trying to get in better shape, mentally and
physically.
When I got back to New York, somehow I returned to the nasties. One
night I was set up by a famous saxophonist while playing at Birdland. He
introduced me to a guy who was posing as a dealer. Actually he was a
narcotics agent. I tried to make a purchase and he arrested me. The musi-
cian had fingered me to save himself. And I went away for almost two
years.
But I'm indebted to that guy, even though he was a fink. He broke the
chain. The bust changed everything. Standing in front of the Superior
Court judge at the sentencing, I made up my mind that the dope thing was
over for me. The judge said: "If I see you in the system again, I'll put you
away forever." I said: "This is the last time you see me!" It was. And that
was over fifty years ago.
122 The Innovator)

Life began anew in 1951. When Levey came home, Charlie Parker called
and booked him for three weeks of dates in Philadelphia and Washington.
It soon became clear he had lost nothing while being away from music. A
bit more fire and swing and a little extra depth had been added, according
to those who were around him at that time.
Levey formed a group in Philly with Richie Kamuca (tenor sax), Red
Garland (piano), and Nelson Boyd (bass). All the players had major league
jazz talent and ultimately became internationally known. The band worked
a lot, alone or backing singers like Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald, at the
Rendezvous Club and several other places in town.
This was just a prelude to what was about to happen.

LEVEY: Stan Kenton came into town and played a big club. Conte [Candoli]
and all my friends were in the band. Stan wanted a strong drummer to hold
things together. And he hired me.

GERRY MULLIGAN: Stan Levey was really glad to have the opportunity to play
with the band. Kenton was very kind and gave him a chance to reestablish
himself after having been all the way down. Stan made a really major effort
to please Kenton, musically.

VINNIE DEAN: When Stan first came on the band, he had to get used to the
whole thing. He was really a small combo drummer. After a short while, he
showed what he could do. He became very important to the music. A lot of
drummers are all ego. They seem to say: "Look, man, here it is. You follow
me!" Stan got right in there with everybody and brought something fresh to
the music.
At first, he had some difficulty reading the charts. Some of them were hard
to get through. But Kenton went along with that. He allowed Stan to develop,
and he got better and better. But jam sessions were his thing. I remember
going to many of them with him, after hours. Stan was very much in his
element—free, loose, swinging.

BILL HOLMAN: It was a real eye-opener playing with Stan on the Kenton band.
He was the first really great drummer I had ever worked with. For a while,
he made it purely on his basic ability. Then he really got into it, and the result
often was awe-inspiring. Such swing! He didn't get much help from us; the
band was notorious for its bad time. But he moved right through it. He was
incredibly strong on and off the stand.
When he makes up his mind about something—that's it. I remember one
time we had to play for a couple of acts at a show someplace. The musical
director came over to him and tried to hand him a whistle. He wanted him to
blow it at a certain time during the show. Stan said: "Oh, no, I don't do that
sort of thing!" And that was that.

SAL SALVADOR: He came in every night and took control—once he got over the
initial willies. Everyone liked him. He never had any hassles. The only one
I remember was with the feds in Atlantic City, soon after he came to work
with us.
 itan Levey 123

LEVEY: We were at the Steel Pier. I'd been with Kenton for a month or two. I
was walking down to the ballroom on the pier, carrying my cymbal bag, when
I was surrounded by six feds. Harry Anslinger, the head of the Federal
Bureau of Narcotics, was there. I was arrested. I guess they thought they'd
find something that would make the headlines. It had all the elements: top
band, drummer just out of jail, making his way back, you know.
They made me take a urine test. Of course it was negative. I was a straight
arrow—didn't indulge in anything. George Morte, the band manager, came
and bailed me out. We looked at one another, wondering when it was going
to end. As it turned out, I had to pay a small fine even though I hadn't done
anything. It had something to do with an obscure New Jersey statute. And
that, at last, was the end of it.

Levey's work during his two years with Kenton was laudable, particularly
on one very basic level. He made the Kenton band pulsate as it seldom had
before. He and swing-provoking charts by Holman and Gerry Mulligan
helped the band take on a new, less flamboyant identity.
The time stemming from Levey's drums was live, persuasive, forceful, and
muscular and projected a lot of energy. His solos, usually short and
rhythmically concise, were musical and generally further developed the line
of thought established by the ensemble and/or the soloists.
A Kenton Capitol album showcasing the music of Holman and Bill Russo
tells us quite a bit. So does New Concepts of Artistry in Rhythm (Creative
World). They establish the band's newfound feel in no uncertain terms.
Levey provides a strong, stable, insinuating rhythmic foundation. He
combines small band drum techniques with those best suited to underline
big band power.
Levey also gives every evidence on these recordings—and on Portraits on
Standards, another Kenton Capitol collection of the same vintage—of being
an usually effective, imaginative brush player. He swishes around the snare
in the manner of a dancer, making interesting accents, extending the
rhythmic line, often bringing into play the bass drum and the hi-hat.
Levey's glory moment on record with the Kenton band came on the
evening of September 18, 1953, during a concert at the Alhambra in Paris.
He reached a peak level on "Zoot," a lean Bill Holman feature for the gifted
tenor man Zoot Sims. Levey creates an exciting atmosphere for the tenor
man and the band. More than anything, the band and the soloist remind
this listener of an excellent, well-conditioned boxer. They feint and punch,
keep moving, building to one climax after another. The only reservation I
have about Levey's playing here, and in the Kenton environment in general,
is the loudness.

LEVEY: Well, you had to conform. The punishment fits the crime. Or the crime
fits the punishment—whatever. That was a very loud orchestra, very
ponderous. I never came across anything quite like it. I almost had to start
working out with weights to keep up with it.
It was a demanding job for a drummer. But I did get some very good
reading experience. The arrangers wrote in different time signatures—7/4,
5/4, things like that. It was a step up in learning, and that part of it I enjoyed.
121, The Innovator)

Just a little more on the Kenton thing: I used to break very large Zildjian
cymbals regularly. They were anywhere from twenty-two-inch to twenty-
four-inch cymbals. That's how loud I was playing at the time. The Zildjian
people told me they were happy when I left the band and took some quieter
work.

Levey has lived and worked in California since taking the 1954 job at
the Lighthouse. Like a number of musicians from other parts of the
country—particularly those who had worked with the Stan Kenton and
Woody Herman bands—he wanted to get off the road and live in an area
that was physically attractive, warm and inviting, and appropriate for
raising a family and where there were many possibilities for work. The Los
Angeles region fit the bill.
In the 19505, L.A. was emerging as a music center. There were increasing
opportunities for jazz-oriented musicians in the movie and TV studios of
Hollywood because jazz-based composers like Pete Rugolo, Shorty Rogers,
Leith Stevens, Nelson Riddle, Henry Mancini, Earle Hagen, Jerry Fielding,
John Williams, Benny Carter, and others were getting more and more
assignments. Later others who were similarly oriented, including Johnny
Mandel, Lalo Schifrin, Oliver Nelson, J. J. Johnson, and Benny Golson,
would come out to the Coast and work. All these composers and arrangers,
and a number of others already in L.A., liked the spontaneity and the
general creativity of jazz musicians. As a result, a number of talented
musicians began working in motion pictures and TV.
These players also recorded a great deal. Small companies and some of
the big ones sensed that L.A. would soon rank with the other music cities
of the present and past like New Orleans, Kansas City, and certainly
Chicago and New York. Recording sessions in a variety of musical styles
proliferated in L.A. Clubs responded by generally featuring more music—
certainly more modern jazz. A few new places opened; business people
sensed there was money to be made.
Stan Levey arrived at an opportune moment. He and Shelly Manne
became the first call jazz drummers, getting the best work and many
opportunities to record. Manne, however, established himself more
immediately in films and television and surpassed all other drummer-
percussionists in job frequency in both areas.
Levey's ability to play very well, particularly in the modern jazz
circumstance; his complete reliability and good health; his adaptability as a
musician and agreeability as a person—all these things contributed to an
affable, nonthreatening image, so very necessary in California—or
anywhere, for that matter.
The jazz in Southern California, particularly in the 19505, featured many
of the same musicians—Levey, Manne, Conte Candoli, Bud Shank, Richie
Kamuca, Frank Rosolino, Shorty Rogers, Jimmy Giuffre, Chet Baker, Chico
Hamilton and his groups, Mulligan and his groups, and others. It
emphasized a smooth sound, interesting instrumental groupings, rhythmic
fluidity, the ability to play in tune, a central feeling of musicality, and a
generally uncluttered, accessible manner suggesting Basic and Lester Young
as much as Parker and Gillespie.
The musicians, for the most part, had emigrated from the East. There
 han Levey 125

Stan Levey, 1988. Larry Estrin.

was experimental and straight-ahead and swinging writing by Giuffre,

Holman, Rogers, and others. The players did their best to find their own
way. All this resulted in a creative explosion that just happened to be
detonated and dominated by white musicians.
The many recordings Levey made in L.A. before his move away from
music in 1973 are essential to his legacy. Some are better than others. But
several are very good, even when applying Levey's high standards.
Certainly among the best are For Musicians Only (Verve), also showcas-
ing Dizzy Gillespie, Stan Getz, Sonny Stitt (alto sax), John Lewis (piano),
126 The Innovator)

and Ray Brown (bass); The Arrival of Victor Feldman (Contemporary), with
Feldman (vibraharp and piano) and Scott LaFaro (bass); The jimmy Giuf-
fre Clarinet (Atlantic), which brings him into contact with a variety of musi-
cians; West Coast Jazz in Hifi, (Fantasy), a Richie Kamuca-Bill Holman
octet date; and Stanley the Steamer (Bethlehem), one of his own albums,
with Dexter Gordon (tenor sax), Candoli, Rosolino, Leroy Vinnegar (bass),
and Lou Levy (piano) sharing responsibility for a set of excellent perfor-
mances.
Levey constantly forces the issue on the Gillespie-Getz-Stitt all-star set.
Through four steaming items, he is the very essence of rhythmic reliability
and uplifting pulsation. He is particularly effective on Gillespie's "Bebop,"
done in an almost impossibly fast tempo. His bass drum accents and
comments are strong medicine indeed. His solos, a mixture of single strokes
and triplets, broken up around the drums, are well coordinated, not fancy,
and certainly an extension of the music. Getz is the scene stealer. He's on
fire. Another version of "Bebop" appears on the Victor Feldman recording.

Lou BROWN: Victor had a tempo in mind. Stan said: "Come on, man. You can
do it faster than that." Victor didn't really want to. But Stan forced him to
play at that tempo. It's like in "one!"

This recording, vintage 1958, is expressive and uncompromising. The set

proves how much can be accomplished if peers work together. There's a lot
of love and respect implicit in the playing. It's like three members of a close
family exchanging views on light and heavy matters. Levey is essentially
quiet, bringing underlying strength and swing and subtlety to the music.
On the Giuffre package, one of the clarinetist's best, Levey appears on
two tracks: "Quiet Cook," with a trio—his colleagues: Giuffre and bassist
Ralph Pena—and "Down Home," an affecting medium-tempo blues. The
latter features Giuffre and an octet including the undeniable trumpeter
Harry "Sweets" Edison, who is characteristically spare and communicative.
Levey uses both sticks and brushes. Softly, often whispering, sometimes
moving to the brink of silence, he suggests a great deal. The cymbal playing
is made to sketch supportive, secondary colors. Like Giuffre, the drummer
is intense yet mellow. Try the blues. It takes you to a nice neighborhood.
In contrast, the Kamuca-Holman collaboration, notable for the Holman
charts, is far more open and explicit. Putting his own mark on in the style of
Lester Young, Kamuca pulsates in a delightful manner. He makes his lines
dance. Their purity and deep melodic quality add value to these perfor-
mances.
Levey deepens the groove established by the music, moving things along
with a pattern that is a composite of triplet and shuffle rhythms. He rolls
right along through eight standards, a blues, and an original based on
"Exactly Like You."
We return to bebop and 5 2nd Street for Levey's own Stanley the Steamer,
another late 19508 entry. The drummer is reunited with tenorist Dexter
Gordon. The two worked together for a time in 1945 in a band that was led
by Charlie Parker and included Miles Davis (trumpet), Sir Charles
Thompson (piano), and Leonard Gaskin (bass).
What we have here is East and West Coast players, on intimate terms with
 Jtan Leveu 127

the melodic and harmonic language and the rhythmic qualities of bop, inter-
preting repertory—with two exceptions—fundamental to bop and the
19408. The set includes Oscar Pettiford's "Max Is Makin' Wax," aka "This
Time the Drum's on Me"—another bubbling treatment of "I Got
Rhythm"—George Handy's view of "Lover," titled "Diggin' for Diz" Thelo-
nious Monk's lovely ballad "Ruby My Dear," and Miles Davis's "Tune Up."
This Levey recording, like all his other work both as sideman and leader,
is identified by the controlling surge and delightful sanguinity the drummer
brings to music. He uses hands and feet to redefine, refine, and recolor the
material, allowing the players and the music to breathe and move to
realization.

LEVEY: After leaving the Lighthouse, I went on the road with singers—Peggy
Lee, Ella Fitzgerald, Pat Boone—for a while. It was show business, and the
money was good. Redundancy, however, is built into this kind of work.

MAX BENNETT: I liked Stan's spark. When we worked for Peggy Lee, the
chemistry was right. Stan and Lou Levy [piano] and I [bass] worked well
together. Peggy liked Stan's playing very much. It stimulated her.

If you can find it, listen to Basin Street East Proudly Presents Miss Peggy
Lee (Capitol), recorded live at the now defunct New York club. Levey gets
into some provocative footwork and gives the band a jazz attitude. Try "I
Love Being Here With You."

LEVEY: At one point I moved pretty deeply into the studio scene. You have to
play all the percussion instruments in order to work in TV and motion
pictures and on certain kinds of recordings. I dug in and studied marimba
and timpani, among other things, and developed my reading ability. I was in
my garage woodshedding much of the time. My teachers on the instruments
included Emil Richards and Earl Hatch. I even studied composing and
orchestration with Albert Harris. I wanted to be a complete musician.
The work I did in the studios was difficult. After about eight years, it was
just uninteresting—not at all what I started out to do. It was just a way to
make money. Don't misunderstand—there were good times in the studios. I
worked with Sinatra at ABC on a weekly show. I recorded with just about
everybody, including Mancini and Nelson Riddle. But I knew better ways to
make money. I began a business in 1973 that incorporated my great interest
in photography.
I did what I wanted to do and put music behind me in a peaceful way. I
packed it in on the upbeat. Things were still going very well. But I didn't want
to start sliding. There are too many fine musicians that wind up not doing as
well as they should. The music business throws you out as soon as you get
older and better, instead of giving you respect and a good job. It's a discard
business.
I closed out doing the Mannix series at Paramount. My very last job was
composing the music for five short movies for Walt Disney. Doing those
films for producer-director Phil Abbott was a great experience. When you
think about it, that's everything to a musician—the sense of excitement, the
satisfaction.
iz8 The Innovator*

ART BLAKEY (1919-1990)

I hear elements of Art Blakey in almost every drummer. He
remains a great influence to this day.
—RUDY VAN GELDER

Art Blakey, who was known to many as Abdullah Ibn Buhaina or simply
"Bu," remains synonymous with an open, deeply swinging, often searing
form of modern jazz. A small, wiry man, with enviable energy and a strong
personality, he played and spoke authoritatively and with unusual freedom.
He was a compulsive storyteller and went on at great length about whatever
concerned him, often embroidering the basic theme differently each time
around—as he did in his playing.
Music was everything to Blakey. Like his friend and idol Kenny Clarke,
he began to live only after he entered music. A native of Pittsburgh, sharing
this derivation with Clarke, Billy Eckstine, Earl Hines, Roy Eldridge, Mary
Lou Williams, and Dodo Marmarosa, among others, he served his musical
apprenticeship in the industrial city, then moved into a wider, more
demanding world.
"Pittsburgh ain't shit, man!" Blakey told Arthur Taylor at the very
opening of an interview that appeared in Taylor's valuable collection Notes
and Tones: Musician-to-Musician Interviews.1
Blakey had reason to hate Pittsburgh. Maria Roddericker, his mother,
died there when he was about six months old. After a "shotgun" wedding
ceremony, his father ran out on the mother and denied the son. A mulatto
from a family of lightly complected people, he wanted nothing to do with
a very dark, African-looking baby. It was a matter of segregation within the
race—not uncommon then, nor unusual now.
The color hierarchy harks back to slavery days and marks the separation
between those who worked in the plantation house and those who "slaved"
in the fields. Light on the one hand, dark on the other. A line remains in
mind: "If you light, you all right."
Blakey was raised by his mother's first cousin, Sarah Parran. Even in that
circumstance, he faced rejection because of his blackness. Parran's husband
threatened: "It's either him or me." Parran, who had warm feeling and
compassion for the child, couldn't turn away from him. She placed her
husband's belongings on the porch, and he left.

CINDY BLACKMAN: Art was the victim of so much prejudice. His reaction was
unusual. He was fair and open. It takes a person who's not only big-hearted
but very adult not to turn the anger about prejudice against other people.

Parran did her best for Blakey, working a variety of difficult jobs to
support him and her other children. She made it possible for Blakey to go
to school for a while and take a few music lessons. He played some piano,
at home and in church, and was generally comfortable until he was taunted
by Parran's birth children and told that she wasn't his mother.
At thirteen, Blakey went on his own so he could help his foster mother.
Employed in either the nearby coal mines or the fearsome local steel mills
during the day, he played piano in clubs at night. Soon he turned to music
 flrt Blakey 129

A dignified Art Blakey in a drum company advertisement. © Chuck Stewart.

full-time. The day jobs were dangerous and low-paying. The clubs were
more pleasant: he loved being in the company of musicians, and the money
was far better.
Blakey could play piano in a few keys, but he didn't know a quarter note
from a baseball. He took his own band into the Ritz, a local club. His "ears"
made it easy for him to deal with the music until a top act came in from
New York with arrangements. Blakey tried every ruse possible while the
band ran the charts down. But it was clear he couldn't do what had to be
done.
Erroll Garner, a very young Pittsburgh pianist, was in the house. Even
though he wasn't literate in a formal musical sense either, he had fantastic
native ability. Immediately upon hearing the music, Garner played what was
needed and took Blakey's spot. The club owner, a gangster, who carried
130 The Innovators

extra authority in the form of an angry-looking automatic, said if Blakey

wanted to stay, he would have to play drums. And that's how it all started.
The year: 1934.

BOBBY WATSON: Radio played an important role in Art's life. One of the most
powerful stations in the country was in Pittsburgh. I think it was KDKA. A
lot of band remotes were carried by the station early and late in the evening.
Art listened to as many as he could. When a band came to town, he generally
knew many of its arrangements. So if it was possible to sit in, he was ready.

The young drummer never "trained." He made a virtue of being self-

taught, often saying that study might inhibit natural responses to music, not
an unusual attitude among instinctive players. Blakey confidently relied
totally on his instincts. Intense and always curious, he learned the craft by
listening to musicians in Pittsburgh and, later, was particularly attentive on
the road and after he got to New York.
"Honey Boy" Minor, a local drummer whom many musicians from the
area remember, provided valuable insight when it came to playing shows
and reaching audiences. The gifted Kenny Clarke was an inspiration to
Blakey from his early days and from then on. Because they had many life
and musical experiences in common and grew up in the same sort of
economic and psychological circumstances, it wasn't entirely unexpected
that their focus and interests as jazz musicians would be so similar.
The drummer who really got inside Blakey—and an entire generation of
drummers—was Chick Webb. The centerpiece of his popular Harlem big
band, he became a national figure with the help of his communicative singer
Ella Fitzgerald before his death in 1939.
Blakey was close to Webb. He worked for him as an aide and valet,
always watching, listening, paying close attention to what the drum king
said and advised. Webb made it clear to the young drummer that
concentration on developing his hands and conception was crucial. He
advised Blakey to work on creating his own identity and strongly suggested
he lighten up on show business tactics, even though Webb was a top-of-the-
line showman.
Sid Catlett also had a major influence on what and how Blakey played.
Ray Bauduc, the star of the Ben Pollack and Bob Crosby bands, caught his
attention. He admired Bauduc's capacity to swing and what he did for a
band. Duke Ellington's Sonny Greer was a factor in his development as well.
The Ellington veteran had the sort of adaptability and discipline that Blakey
sought to bring to his own playing.
What Art Blakey did with all he learned from others is central to his
story. How he shaped music and made it sing and swing grew out of his
focus on accompaniment
focus on accompaniment andHe
and support of a band and individual players.
didn't aspire to be a transcendental soloist, as many others did when he was
coming along. What pleased him most, early and later on, was that
musicians asked for him—in clubs, concerts, and on record dates—because
of what he could do for them and the music. Though he was more ego-
driven after becoming widely known, Blakey was essentially an unselfish
player—one who even asked his colleagues, particularly if they were new
to him, what and how they wanted him to play.
 flrt Blakey 131

Blakey caught on with the famed composer-arranger-bandleader Fletcher

Henderson for the first time in 1939. The following year, he played with a
small band headed by Mary Lou Williams, who, after leaving Pittsburgh,
made a name as pianist-arranger with the Andy Kirk band. Williams
brought Blakey to New York for the first time in 1940. The group played
at Kelly's Stable.
Blakey was in and out of the Henderson band until shortly before he
joined Billy Eckstine in 1944. During a Henderson tour of the South in the
early 19405, the drummer was involved in a racial incident in Albany, Geor-
gia. A local policeman beat him brutally about the head with a truncheon.
The concussion and other injuries stemming from this unprovoked attack
made major surgery necessary. A steel plate was placed in Blakey's head.
The drummer left the Henderson band to spend a period of time in
Boston with his own group of musicians, playing at the Tic Toe Club and
the Ken Club. It was during this interval—late in the spring of 1944—that
he was asked to join the Billy Eckstine band at the Plantation Club in St.
Louis.
Eckstine and Dizzy Gillespie had the most to do with the concept of the
band and who the players would be. Shadow Wilson was Eckstine's first
choice for the drum chair. They had been in the Earl Hines band together.
Wilson was hired; he made some of the first Eckstine band records for
Deluxe. Then he was caught in the draft.
In the first week or two of June 1944 when the band played its initial
dates, Eckstine had drummer trouble, big time. Gillespie suggested Blakey,
feeling he could solve the band's problems. The drummer had certain basic
capacities that appealed to the trumpeter-musical director. Though he
hadn't heard him, Eckstine hired Blakey for three basic reasons. He'd been
strongly recommended by Gillespie, someone Eckstine respected enor-
mously. The drummer had spent a considerable amount of time with a big
band and knew how to handle himself in that context. And Art Blakey was
from Eckstine's hometown.

BILLY ECKSTINE: The band was put together to play the new music. I sang some
ballads and blues. But the guys came with me because we had the same taste
and wanted to present fresh ideas with a big band. Art joined us two weeks
after we organized. He was a great big band drummer. His association with
musicians like Diz, Bird, Fats Navarro, Gene Ammons and Dexter Gordon,
John Malachi—all the cats—helped him. He matured in the band and
contributed to its character. Art stayed with me for the whole time, until the
band broke up in 1947. We were very close.

Once again, Blakey learned on the job. Not on intimate terms with the
new music, he opened himself to what was happening around him. He
became familiar with the twists and turns and initially puzzling sounds and
rhythms of bebop. Blakey took risks and made some mistakes. Before long,
the sturdy drummer hit his stride. He had the ability to hear and make
adjustments, to meet the music head on, involving himself in its demands
and possibilities.
Dizzy Gillespie, Blakey's mentor and teacher, brought him around; the
often humorous trumpeter could be a stern taskmaster. Gillespie told the
132 The Innovator)

drummer what and when to play things and why. Often he would jump up
and move over to the drums and sing phrases and rhythms to Blakey.
There is a well-documented story that makes the point best. When Blakey
joined the Eckstine band and was just beginning to find his way, he
arbitrarily inserted a shuffle rhythm into one of the arrangements. Gillespie
berated him in front of an audience, as the band continued to play and the
dancers moved around the floor. He made it clear that Cozy Cole would
have been hired had the band wanted that sort of rhythm.
The meticulous Gillespie did all he could to extract from the young
drummer what he knew was there. He encouraged Blakey to play his own
responses to the music. And that's what Blakey did. But it wasn't as easy as
it seemed from the audience.
The drummer played his way through difficulties. As he noted numerous
times in interviews, there was so much happening in the band. Everything
moved by so rapidly. Blakey was in the middle of a musical thunderstorm.
He had to be a quick study to survive. Fortunately he was a good listener
and a fast learner.
The Eckstine band was like a school, filled with high-level, ambitious
students, all trying to go in the same direction, all seeking to live up to what
they heard around them. Working in the company of such luminaries as
Gillespie and Parker, Dexter Gordon and Gene Ammons, Freddie Webster,
Fats Navarro, and Miles Davis—for a little while—made for constant
pressure and musical challenges.
The recordings do little to mirror the band's impact. The sound is
dreadful; the recording studio must have been small and underwater. But
the band's loose yet imperious swing and power and the creativity of the
players gets through. The Armed Forces Radio broadcasts are a far superior
source. You realize how wild, exciting, and inventive this exploratory
ensemble could be. In person, it was a killer experience.

IDREES SULIEMAN: I first met Art in Kansas City in 1941, when he was playing
with Fletcher Henderson's big band. We didn't think much of his drumming
at that time. Four years later, I was in New York and someone told me that
the Billy Eckstine band had a gig in Harlem and that Art was really playing
fantastic. When I got there, I was downstairs and the band was playing
upstairs, sounding great! I thought, Art must have gotten fired. They've got
a real swinging drummer with the band now.
So I went upstairs to see who this new drummer was, and all of a sudden
I spotted Art Blakey. I couldn't believe it. People were going crazy. I couldn't
believe it was the same cat.2

Blakey was making a modern statement in a big band—in the process

revealing a raw, sometimes frightening talent for modern jazz. When I saw
and heard him for the first time, I was bewildered, as were several others
with training on drums. For those of us who were used to hearing the beat
sharply enunciated with little or no embroidery—and we certainly were in
the majority in the mid-i94os—Blakey could be infuriating. His vibrating
left hand and heavy, active right foot made the beat a bit elusive.
Moreover, he could be terribly sloppy. He moved awkwardly, was lacking
in grace. But what came out was often impressive—even if you didn't imme-
diately know why.
 ftrtBlakeij 133
LAURENCE MARABLE: I remember the first time I heard the Billy Eckstine band
with Art on drums, I couldn't figure out what he was doing. He didn't play
like other people. And, damn, he had these big cymbals!

PHIL BROWN: He was a marvel with the Eckstine band. I remember he had
two nineteen-inch crash cymbals, one on each side of the set. This was very
unusual for the time. He'd hit them with both hands at the same time so he
could get a roaring sound. Blakey did a lot of wild things with his foot. He
was very different from anyone I had ever heard.

ED THIGPEN: He played with such power and drive. I'd never heard anything
like that. As a matter of fact, he played so hard during one of the stage shows
at the Lincoln Theater in Los Angeles—I guess it was '45 or '46—that he
kicked the bass drum into the saxophone section.
Even then, Art was a master of time, dynamics, color. He had control of
his resources and the capacity to infuse excitement into a band. Everything
was right in the pocket. He was genuine.

JiMMY HEATH: I first met him in the train station in Wilmington, Delaware,
waiting there with all of his drums. He was on his way back to New York with
the Eckstine band.
Art was absolutely incredible with "B." The band's record of "Jitney
Man" showed me a few things. Those breaks Art played on that one are
marvelous. The man was a human dynamo—so strong! It almost didn't
matter what he did.
He not only swung that band, he knew how to play an ensemble and what
to do about dynamics. He could fade away to a pianissimo and the groove
would still be there. The beat loses definition when most drummers play
softly. Blakey could play at any volume level and it always would be intense.

EARL PALMER: The Eckstine band came to New Orleans on December 16,
1945. Art was so inspiring that I decided to play drums. I had been a dancer
in vaudeville. He got to me by playing that good "spang-a-lang" time, like
Sam Woodyard did later in Duke's band. Art was the strongest son of a bitch
I ever heard in my life.

The music was different. Certainly the racial attitudes of the players in the
Eckstine band had little in common with what was typical of their older
predecessors on the black band scene. Blakey told Cadence editor Bob
Rusch: "It was a young band and they weren't going for nothin.' Everybody
. . . was armed. . . . The war brought about changes."
Though the players were untamed and loved a good time, they were very
serious about what they were doing and had to toe the line. Bobby Watson,
a latter-day musical director of Blakey's Jazz Messengers, relates a story
about the Eckstine days that Blakey told all of his sidemen.

BOBBY WATSON: Art was trying to get away with a girl after a late rehearsal or
a gig. Charlie Parker said to him: "Arthur, Arthur, you've got to tell the lady
good night!" Blakey, bent on leaving, would insist: "But Bird, I've got this
lovely lady!" Parker didn't want to hear it: "Tell the young lady good night,
Arthur! The music is what's important. It will bring you everything in time."
itt The Innovator)

The drummer made his excuses to the lady. Then Bird took Art away.
They went to their hotel—up to a room with some of the other cats in the
band. Art would play brushes on a telephone book while Bird and the others
went over new material.

There also was humor and humanity in the band. Jazz historian and New
York radio personality Phil Schaap says: "The guys took pity on Blakey
because he had a terrible, ragged-looking drum set. One day they called him
into a room and torched his drums as a joke. But in the corner was a brand-
new Slingerland kit that they had bought for him."

Only certain critics understood what Blakey was doing.

BARRY ULANOV: Blakey was an engaging musician. I sort of watched him with
my ears. He fell into the Eckstine band and got it! He came to understand
how to play this modern music and what to do about soloists. He was able to
juggle a number of rhythms at the same time, without losing hold of the
primary pulsation.
His polyrhythmic concept was so important. This was one of bop's great
achievements—updating rhythm. It helped make it possible for jazz to move
ahead. You say that Dizzy showed Blakey a lot? He taught him well, indeed!
Billy really admired the musicians in his band. I've never heard a band-
leader speak that way about his players. He said—and I'm quoting: "It's a
privilege to stand in front of these musicians." He was completely knocked
out by them.

Blakey felt that the Eckstine band was one of the key experiences of a
life filled with great music. The public made the band a going proposition
for a while. Young ladies were drawn to Mr. B.'s cavernous baritone voice
and film star handsomeness. But the music, beyond what Eckstine sang,
could be a bit much for the general audience. The music press had little good
to say. "Later journalists and critics described the band as legendary,
marvelous," Eckstine told me, adding: "While we were trying to make it,
they gave us almost no help."
Not only that, the band didn't get the breaks that are so necessary for
success. The records were so badly done. The band had few, if any, hotel or
location dates with air time—nightly coast-to-coast broadcasts crucial to
widely disseminating its message, giving the band an edge. Engagements at
New York's Lincoln Hotel, then a base for the Basic band, were promised
but never finalized. Places of that stature, which featured coast-to-coast
remote broadcasts, could have given Eckstine what he needed. But the
Eckstine band had no luck. It offered too much too soon for an audience
used to the uniformity of Swing Era bands. Even after all this time, the
Eckstine music remains memorable and exciting. It's easy to understand why
the visionary bandleader was so bitter about how things turned out.
Like the others in the band, Blakey was a witness and contributor to
history. The records document a central, contemporary jazz drum style
taking form. Crucial to the feel of the band, Blakey played unforgiving, feel-
good pulsation. Tapping out the time on his Chinese cymbal he really cut
through to the marrow of the matter. Beyond a vivid, basic foundation, he
also consistently offered telling evidence of the potency of his ideas.
 flrtBlakei) 135

Blakey made all the "hits"—the key ensemble accents—backing the band
strongly. He shaped and sharpened the configuration of the arrangements.
"Bombs"—snare/bass drum combinations—were potently placed. He
generally enhanced the impact and interest of the music by deftly employing
rhythmic counterpoint, double-timing, triplets, and rolls. A variety of colors
enriched the thrusting, undeniable pulse.
Try Gerry Valentine's "Blowing the Blues Away," with "Mr. Dexter"
Gordon and "Mr. Gene" Ammons riding a crest stirred up by Blakey. Also
"I Stay in the Mood for You," a bluesy ballad featuring Eckstine up front
singing, the fizz of boppy trumpet lines—certainly written by Gillespie—and
a Dizzy solo. Even on the slower things, showcasing Eckstine, Blakey keeps
you awake and alert, waiting for his next combination of sounds to take
you by surprise.
Following the dissolution of the Eckstine band, Blakey made sure the
feeling and sound he had lived with for three years would not entirely
disappear from his life—at least for a little while. A big band, the 17
Messengers, was formed. Blakey insisted big band experience was important
to musicians, because it provided education on several levels and what he
often described as "a family atmosphere."
Fats Navarro, Miles Davis, Kenny Dorham, and the Heath Brothers—
Jimmy and Percy—were among those involved. Thelonious Monk wrote
some material for the ensemble and showed up at rehearsals—generally at
Smalls' Paradise in Harlem—to run the band through his compositions. The
Messengers rehearsed a good deal but played only a few gigs.

JIMMY HEATH: I did a couple of the things with Art when he had that big band.
We played the Rockland Palace—or it could have been one of the other ball-
rooms in Harlem. K.D. [Kenny Dorham] got me involved. It must have been
some time in 1947.

PERCY HEATH: I remember a gig at a dance hall, the Diplomat in downtown

Manhattan. For one of the bookings, Buhaina somehow hired two bass
players—Lloyd Buchanan, from Brooklyn and me. When we both showed up
on the night of the job, he said: "That's all right; both of you play."
Art Blakey was a demon. The first time I heard him on the early
Thelonious Monk records, I wigged out. He was so special. Such feeling. . . .
One of the great experiences of my life was playing in Birdland, right after
I came to New York from Philadelphia. The band included Buhaina, Miles
[Davis], Bud [Powell]. . . .We had a good time, Bu and I. The arrangements
were great. I learned what Art Blakey was all about. He was consumed with
swing and filled a band with pulsation and great energy. To be involved in
that group with him, after having heard the records Buhaina made with
Monk, was fantastic. I was green and had been playing bass only three years.
In the 1950s, Buhaina and I were hooked up on a lot of dates for Prestige
[Records]. We were sort of inseparable. Much later, when he became almost
completely deaf, there wasn't the interchange of ideas and feelings. You just
followed him because he didn't hear what you were doing.

Blakey always said that his association with Thelonious Monk was so
very important for his development—as a man and as a musician. "He was
responsible for me," the drummer often asserted. The two were very close
136 The Innovator)
friends and saw each other another almost every day. They talked and
played together. Monk's son remembers the two being inseparable.

THELONIOUS MONK JR.: Art was always at the house. His face was the second
male face that became familiar to me at the beginning of my life. He was
making most of the records with Thelonious. I would see him everywhere—
on record dates, on the bandstand, at his house and mine.
A quintessential character, he had that rough voice and always was talking
a lot of stuff—about this, that, and the other—talking loud, really sounding
like the leader of the pack.
When I became a drummer, I learned how to swing from Art Blakey. What
he did with the hi-hat and his roll got pressed into my soul. You're right! He
had a primal approach to the drums. My father leaned on Art and Max
Roach and used them on a lot of projects. Each meant something different
to him. Art represented the jungle; Max, the city. Thelonious understood
both worlds. But he had to use different cats to get into each world 'cause he
couldn't find someone who could give him both.
The records Blakey made with Monk speak volumes about mutual
rapport. Listening in depth to their collaborations reveals how much they
knew and felt about each other. Blakey listens very closely and often antici-
pates what Monk will do. He knows when to allow the time to remain
relatively unadorned and when to enhance what Monk plays. The drum style
and language clearly are Blakey's. But the way Monk's music sets up and how
my father defines it at the piano determines the drummer's musical behavior
patterns.

Blakey plays two basic roles: time player and interpreter-commentator.

He adds both reason and the unexpected to the music. Using all the elements
of the set, snare, tom-toms, the bass drum, the rims, the drums's shells, the
cymbals—all parts—the hi-hat cymbals and hi-hat stands, and even the
sounds of the drumsticks themselves, he simultaneously defines Monk and
himself.
More than almost any other musician, Monk calls on Blakey's capacity
for subtlety, thoughtfulness, quiet creativity. You might think this would be
a stretch for a generally "bashing" player like Blakey. But it's not.

The trio recordings Blakey made with Monk for Prestige in 1952. and
1954 show how well he could do what was needed. He plays responsively
and responsibly. Blakey shows to best advantage on "Work," a thirty-two-
bar structure. He paints in pastels but remains an underlying rhythmic
presence and source of light, provoking accentuation and left-hand
commentary.
His solo is one of his best. A triplet figure establishes direction. Derived
from a pattern he plays behind Monk before he breaks into the open, it is
variated and cleverly developed. His comments emerge out of the music
itself, not any form of preconception.
Over a chorus and a half, Blakey builds upon the triplet idea, compli-
cating matters as he goes along, changing the solo's balance and density.
The resulting multilayered commentary derives its personality from the
rhythms acting on one another and being skillfully linked. Blakey's juggling
and juxtaposition of rhythms and his admirable architectural sense make
 flrt Blakey 137

this forty-eight bars interesting to listen to again and again. His mastery of
"independence"—the use of hands and feet, each with its own rhythm or
rhythms—makes for new levels of interest. There is no speed or flash
involved, just unfolding, naturally rendered music—from the drums.
The pairing of Monk with Blakey and his Jazz Messengers in the late
19505—Johnny Griffin (tenor sax), Bill Hardman (trumpet), and Spanky
DeBrest (bass)—Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers With Thelonious Monk
(Atlantic), is also certainly worth attention. The two friends, more outgoing
and competitive than usual, meet on a middle ground between the straight-
from-the-hip swinging of the Messengers and the unorthodoxy of Monk.
The balance is tipped by Monk's compositions, comprising five sixths of the
album, and, of course, his piano playing.
The milieu motivates more diverse improvisations by Hardman. The
speedy Griffin, who later played regularly with Monk, shows he's a very
engaging, adaptable player. Rather than fighting it, as some do, Griffin fol-
lows where it leads, entering into the developmental process. Blakey clearly
finds the situation stimulating. The drummer digs into his seemingly endless
resources, using whatever keeps the music interesting and moving. Cross-
stick rhythms, imaginative use of triplets, rumbling explosions, and his gen-
eral intimacy with the mysteries of Monk, help define and redefine the music.

BILLY HIGGINS: On the records Art made with Monk, he was playing so much
stuff that it was pitiful. He was charting the course. Art was Magellan. You
understand what I'm saying? As bass players became more and more musaical,
he excelled even more. He was the kind of person who improved as he went
along. He was getting better and better before he got out of here.

Blakey proved on many occasions that he could be surprisingly effective

when performing quietly, in an almost modest manner. The trio recordings
he made with the now legendary pianist-composer Herbie Nichols on Blue
Note in 1955 are a case in point. In the listening lies the realization that
Blakey's fire could burn at a low flame. He could infiltrate the music,
remaining at moderate volume, with delightful, light-handed decoration
adding impact.
Blakey allows Nichols's music to speak to him on its own terms. He
reacts in much the same way he did to Monk and other artists who have a
base in tradition but veer to the thoughtful and unusual. He seeks to
establish firm rhythmic grounding while tracking the music's form, its
emotion, its implicit and explicit demands. He utilizes an open, reactive,
instinctive approach. Blakey plays for Nichols and his music, showing little
ego, staying away from the excessive and unnecessary.
I also suggest the recording the drummer made with Gil Evans in the late
19505, New Bottle, Old Wine (World Pacific). An intensely personal
orchestral album, featuring alto saxophonist Julian "Cannonball" Adderley
and other leading jazzmen, it offers more evidence of Blakey's flexibility,
discretion, and perception as a player.
No matter what the Evans arrangements of well-known jazz compo-
sitions—"King Porter Stomp," "Lester Leaps In," "Manteca," etc.—ask of
him, Blakey responds in a manner that strengthens the material. He reads
nothing and senses everything, as has always been the case. In essence,
Blakey allows the punishment to fit the crime, never sacrificing his own
138 The Innovator!

voice, only lowering it a bit. He mixes well with the other instruments,
sometimes almost disappearing in the blend.
When Blakey worked with the Duke Ellington (1952.) and Lucky
Millinder bands (1949) and others, he did the job that was called for. He
became part of the sound and the setting. With Ellington, he played what
he called "Ellington drums," laying down the rhythm, coloring and
swinging, doing what Ellington wanted and needed. And that wasn't Art
Blakey playing bebop.
With Millinder, the drummer mixed up a batch of cooking, updated
Harlem swing. The ebullient Harlem bandleader and showman, though not
trained as a musician, knew what he wanted. And Blakey gave it to him.
With Illinois Jacquet's swinging little band, with Charlie Parker at the Three
Deuces on 5 2nd Street—both in the 19405—and later as a member of Earl
Hines's small band, very typically, Blakey did what was needed and expected
in each situation.

JOE NEWMAN: Art came into the Jacquet group for a little while. Illinois was
really hot. We had a great band, with musicians like J. J. Johnson [trom-
bone] and Leo Parker [baritone saxophone]. Art got my attention right
away. He showed us no mercy and pushed the hell out of the music.

ELLIS TOLLIN: One night Bird and Dizzy were on the stand at the Three
Deuces with Stan Levey [drums] and either Al Haig or George Wallington
[piano]. Curly Russell was the bass player. Stanley was stoned. Most of the
band, with the exception of Dizzy, was high.
Though Stanley played okay, the tempo kept dropping. Max Roach sat in.
And finally, Art Blakey played a set. He kicked the shit out of the music. He
sounded so much better than the others that night. Art just took Dizzy and
Bird and knocked them through the roof!

JONAH JONES: Blakey and I were together in the Earl Hines group in 1952. He
was very flexible about the way he played with each member of the band. And
it was a fine bunch: Benny Green, trombone; Aaron Sachs, tenor saxophone
and clarinet; Tommy Potter, bass. Blakey seemed to know exactly what fit
your style and how to make you sound better. He was always thinking and
listening. You didn't have to tell him a thing. He just worked all of it out
himself.

Blakey learned early that each context has its own set of rules. Because
he came up during the Depression, when you took every job to survive, he
became a bit of a pragmatist. Never, however, would he make sacrifices
purely for commercial reasons. His evolution as a musician was far too
important to him.
Blakey went through a startling growth phase during the years separating
the breakup of the Eckstine band and the formation of the Jazz Messengers
as an ongoing group in 1955. A lot happened to him, not all of it related to
music. He converted to Islam, as did many black musicians during that
period. The reasons for this vary and in some cases are a matter of
speculation. Some found the religion an escape from blackness, racism, and
all that reminded of slavery. Others sought and found peace in the faith—
another view of the world.
 flrtBlakep 139
Blakey lived in Africa for a period late in the 19405. His goal was to study
Islam and fully understand religions as they related to him. Many journalists
insisted he made the trip to find out more about African music, drums, and
rhythm. However, he consistently disputed this view. His investigatory stay
in Africa had a philosophical focus rather than a musical one.
During this time and extending through the 19508, Blakey involved
himself with all kinds of music and musicians. As early as the latter years of
the 19408, he began looking into African and Latin root sources, absorbing
rhythms and techniques essential to the two intersecting musical streams.
His interest in techniques of Latin and African derivation progressively
became a factor in his playing.

RAY BARRETTO: No other drummer came as close to the African and Latin root
as Blakey. I did a couple of records with him, with Sabu on bongos and
timbales and some other people. Art talked a lot about his Latin and African
influences. They became more and more a part of him. Every time he played
"fours" or "eights," something African or "Latinesque" inevitably would
flavor his comments. He was really empathetic with all that rhythm.

This became unmistakable on record in 1948. Blakey was an integral part

of saxophonist James Moody's recording for Blue Note, James Moody and
His Bop Men, which also featured several outstanding gentlemen out of the
Dizzy Gillespie big band, including the influential bongo/conga drummer
Chano Pozo. Out of the sessions came a Latin/jazz fusion success, "Tin
Tin Deo."
Blakey had a flair for juggling a variety of musical elements and making
them collectively work for him. His tom-tom playing, the way he used his
elbow to change a drum's sound, and his timbale and cow bell techniques,
as applied to jazz, all grew out of his burgeoning Afro-Latin interests.
Blakey's feeling for Afro-Latin music motivated him to make other cross-
culture recordings, including Orgy in Rhythm, Vols. 1 and 2 (Blue Note).
Informing, often exciting music, it featured accomplished Afro-Latin and
jazz musicians pooling their concepts. In the diverse lineup were Art Blakey
and Arthur Taylor, drums; Jo Jones and "Specs" Wright, drums and timpani;
Sabu, bongos and timbales; "Potato" Valdez and Jose Valiente, congas;
Ubaldo Nito, timbales; Evilio Quintero, concerro, maracas, and tree log;
Herbie Mann, flute, Ray Bryant, piano; and Wendell Marshall, bass.
"Buhaina called me just as I was opening the door to my apartment, here
in town. I'd just had a long, difficult flight from Europe," Arthur Taylor
remembered. "Get yourself down here to my session, I need you!" Blakey
insisted. "A.T." complained he was too fatigued for a record date. Blakey
wouldn't give way.
Taylor took his tired body and his drums to Manhattan Towers, where
the session was going on. "Everyone felt good; there was food, drink, and
beautiful ladies around," Taylor said, then noted: "The music and the
musicians got everyone going."
Cross-culture musical activities aside, something far more basic and
significant was happening to Blakey's playing. Trace his recordings from
1947 into the 19508. You sense the change. Listen to "The Thin Man,"
recorded in 1947 for Blue Note with an octet out of his big band. Compare
that with what Blakey does on the MGM records, done in 1952. with leader-
ii)0 The Innovator)

clarinetist Buddy DeFranco, pianist Kenny Drew, and the omnipresent

bassist Curly Russell. Then audition the glorious live 1954 Blue Note
sessions at Birdland, with Clifford Brown, Lou Donaldson, Horace Silver,
and, once again, Curly Russell. A new, far more effective and exciting
Blakey had emerged.
The newfound intensity and surge relate directly to one singular
technique: closing the hi-hat briskly on "2" and "4" of every 4/4 measure.
This may sound simplistic, but the effect was momentous. It stabilized,
centered, and sharpened Blakey's time; enhanced, integrated, and brought
a sense of style and finality to his work. It was the key that unlocked
everything.

DlCK KATZ: Art developed a whole mystique around that "2-and-4." The
black church certainly was the central source of the "2-and-4" sort of thing.
If you hear a gospel group or get a bunch of African-Americans in a room,
they're going to clap on "2-and-4." Those in touch with their roots certainly
would.
The Caucasian world claps on "1" and "3." They just do. It's a cultural
difference. [Ed. note—Not necessarily. How about Artie Shaw, Benny
Goodman, Jack Teagarden, Al Cohn and Zoot Sims, Stan Getz, Buddy Rich,
Gene Krupa, Tiny Kahn, Bunny Berigan, Red Norvo, and so many others?]
I'm sure you remember. Duke used to have a whole routine, trying to get
people to snap their fingers on "2" and "4." He made an entertaining thing
out of it.
Art made the "2-and-4" thing a fine art—no pun intended. I wasn't
comfortable with that sort of rhythmic emphasis. I played with Art a few
times. There was a lot of tension. And I felt the "2-and-4" accentuation broke
the flow of the bass line. I didn't think the bass could hook up so you could
really hear that line. But I've mellowed to the point where I feel there's room
for everything. And when you do it as well as Art did, it's great!

The concept certainly worked in all the Blakey bands and for the leaders
who employed him after this technique became embedded in his style.

BUDDY DEFRANCO: We were together for two and a half years in the early
1950s—recorded many albums, traveled around the world. My little band
was really hot. With Art back there, you couldn't coast. I never played
harder—and it was so enjoyable
Art was in charge of the rhythm. No doubt about it. When I was tired
before a job, I'd say something like "I don't think I can make it tonight." Art
would say: "I'll make you play!" And he did—every time.
It was a happy group. I was the only white guy. None of us thought much
about it. In our world, a guy played or didn't play. That's all that was impor-
tant. We traveled together, stayed together.
Muncie, Indiana, reminded us what was still happening in the real world.
The club owner wanted the guys to stay in a cellar between sets. I raised hell.
Then he gave us a table in the main room, with all kinds of specifications
about "mixing." Business was great on opening night. But it was all wrong!
When we returned to the motel after the job, the manager showed us a
letter he'd gotten from the town's Junior Chamber of Commerce, insisting
that Art, Kenny, and Curly—or it might have been Gene Wright—had "to
 flrtBlakeg11,1

move to another district." That did it. "Let's go!" I said. We got into our
station wagon and went back to the club. The owner was still counting his
money. We packed up, walked out, and went to Chicago and took two
weeks off.

The 1954 Birdland recordings on Blue Note provided the stylistic

foundation for the rest of Art Blakey's career. His style had completely
crystallized. His pulsation was undeniable, a natural force; the counter-
rhythms he brought to the mix made what he played that much more
affecting. There was a purity about what he did—and always motion. He
was spontaneous, free, creating every minute.
That he was in the company of peers, all performing in an admirable
manner, had a lot to do with making this "on-the-spot" session such an
important musical document. The band never stops burning. The exhil-
arating Clifford Brown moves undaunted through material, fast, slow, in
between, playing fantastic, well-phrased ideas that unfold in an unbroken
stream. His technique, almost perfect; his sound, burnished. He's a gift to
the senses.
Lou Donaldson, an underrated alto player in the Bird tradition, offers
much to think about while you're tapping your foot. Horace Silver is crucial
to the effect of this music, much of it his own. Certainly the rhythms that
inform his piano playing and writing make it all the more soulful. On this
and other records he serves as a catalytic agent, provoking swing and
engaging intensity. Hard-hitting, unpretentious, communicative, Silver has
little use for compositional elements or piano techniques that impede his
message. A live-in pulse permeates his music and his playing, strongly
affecting the shape, content, and level of excitement of his performances and
those of his colleagues.
An original and tellingly economic amalgam of Parker, the blues, shuffling
dance rhythms, and a taste of the black church for flavor, Silver is quite
undeniable. Listen to his delightful "Quicksilver" on A Night at Birdland
With the Art Blakey Quintet, Vol. 1 (Blue Note). It capsulizes what he does.
On this album, Curly Russell shows once again he can play "up" tempos
and interesting changes. He ties in well with Blakey. But Silver and Blakey,
in combination, determine the rhythmic disposition of the music. Blakey's
natural time and fire raise the heat to an explosive level before the listener
realizes how hot the fire has become.
Perhaps more than other recordings Blakey has made, the Birdland
session documents his great strengths and technical failings. At almost every
turn, he shows what an enviably well coordinated, buoyantly confident,
rhythmically discerning player he is.
As a soloist, he's either breathtaking in the manner of his mentor Chick
Webb, as on "Mayreh," or a victim of inconsistency. And it's always under
the same circumstances. In the hope of achieving great speed he overtaxes
his technical capacities and fails. You hear him stiffening up and becoming
increasingly less precise. He was not a virtuoso.
The Jazz Messengers, the band that made Blakey an internationally
admired jazz figure, came into being in 1954.
Horace Silver was playing at Minton's in Harlem. Blue Note's Alfred Lion
wanted to get Silver in the studio to make follow-up recordings to his
successful trio releases. It was decided to present the pianist-composer as a
11,2 The Innovator)

Blakey giving his band, the Jazz Messengers, a lesson in pulsation. The site: the
Randall's Island Jazz Festival in New York City. The year: 1957. © Chuck Stewart.

group leader. Two members of his Minton's quartet—tenor saxophonist

Hank Mobley and bassist Doug Watkins—and trumpeter Kenny Dorham
and Blakey made the sessions. The resulting album, Horace Silver and the
Jazz Messengers, was a great success.
It was timely and seemed to answer a need. The music and the
performances had the directness and simplicity, the straight-ahead quality,
that countered a suggestion of compositional pretension that was becoming
a factor on the jazz scene in the mid-1950s.

HORACE SILVER: We dug playing together on the record sessions so much that
we formed a cooperative group. We each had different duties, like publicity
and transportation and so forth. It was my idea to call the group the Jazz
Messengers. I ... remembered meeting Kenny Dorham in Connecticut in the
 1«

late forties. He invited me to hear a big band that Art was leading (Dorham
was a member of its brass section) which was made up primarily of Moslem
musicians and was called the Messengers. So I just thought of putting the
word "Jazz" in front of it.3

This LP established what was to follow. The band played hard swinging
music, mingled with what Silver described as a "gutbucket, barroom
feeling." It reached into bebop, the blues, and sounds, rhythms, and feelings
out of the black evangelical churches. The music had an earthy taste and
more than a suggestion of black reality.
Blakey and Silver were into essences. The band emphasized directness
and economy. The music was called "hard bop." I'm not sure the descriptive
is appropriate, but it did give comfort to those who market records and are
obsessively involved with categories.
After a while, the band as a co-op didn't work. Silver felt a band should
have a "leader," someone to make the decisions and give direction. He left
the group to freelance; there was no bad feeling involved. A little later Silver
put together his own band, which was pretty much in the same groove as the
band he had left behind. Blakey took the Jazz Messengers name and hired
his own people. He remained the leader and central force of the Jazz
Messengers until his death in 1990.
Silver and Blakey created a centrist position for jazz. Both had strong
feelings about swing and communication and audience participation. Their
band had a "sound." It was black music that brought forward emotion in
no uncertain terms. Open and, at times, unrelenting, the music had more
to it than was immediately apparent. It had substance, freedom, discipline,
and soul, a proud quality and a deeply historic center. The ballads,
particularly treatments of the great American standards, were thoughtful
and lyrical—meditative qualities not generally associated with either Blakey
or Silver.
Blakey wanted organization in his band, discipline beyond the looseness
of the jam session. He determined his answer was "music," compositions
that would give the Messengers a foundation from which all would develop.
Over the years, he retained "musical directors" and utilized writers within
the band who could do this for him. He hired musicians—generally young,
talented, and hungry who had the wherewithal to make the music meaning-
ful. The only specification he made to the writers involved: that the music
retain a base in swing.
Trumpeter Donald Byrd joined the Messengers when Kenny Dorham left
the group. His experiences in the band made quite an impression on him.
Byrd gets beyond the Blakey legend, defining him realistically.

DONALD BYRD: Art Blakey was one of the most dynamic forces in music.
Onstage and off, he had a great presence. Because of this, there are very few
people who haven't played with him or been in his band. The band was an
institution—and not a bad one at that.
Art was one of the most complex and controversial persons in music.
People liked him. But he had many sides. One minute he could be the nicest
person, then do a turnaround. He could be the biggest liar in the world. If
you think Jelly Roll Morton was a bullshitter, Art had him beat. But he
wasn't necessarily vicious and was often very compassionate. He wouldn't
Hrt The Innovator)

hurt anyone or screw up a situation purposely. It generally was by accident.

Art's life was complex. His behavior stemmed directly from what had
happened to him.
He had a lot to do with musicians turning to Islam in the 1940s. He said he
was converted by a trombone player in Billy Eckstine's band. People like
Yusef Lateef and Ahmad Jamal used to come to his apartment in Harlem for
Islamic meetings. Art wasn't the first to turn to Islam. But he popularized
the whole idea. It's easier to count the guys who weren't Moslems than the
ones who were. Damn near everyone was involved back then.
As a drummer and leader of the Jazz Messengers, his whole thing was
playing the charts, pushing the band and driving you to the max, okay? He
didn't spend too much time soloing. Art recognized he wasn't as accom-
plished technically as some of the other guys. So he went about it his own
way. It often worked very well.
Blakey had everyone beat when it came to swinging. One night in 1955, in
the cellar of Cafe Bohemia in the Village, where we were working, Clifford
Brown got right down to it. He said: "Art could make a dead man swing!"

The Jazz Messengers, either a quintet or sextet—two or three horns in the

front line and three rhythms—became a school for aspiring players. Blakey
was the master teacher.
Trumpeter Bill Hardman was a Messenger from 1956 to 1958 and again
in 1966.

BILL HARDMAN: Art was a father figure. He didn't keep himself apart from the
sidemen, as many bandleaders do. He was one of the guys; he didn't put
himself above everyone else. It made a big difference in the band.
He taught us a lot about music, presentation, pacing; how to handle
ourselves, how to be a bandleader. If you had talent as a musician, he would
bring it out one way or the other. Art was such a dominating force on the
bandstand. If you weren't ready to be up there with him, he could wipe you
out completely. There was no "shucking" or fooling with Blakey. You had to
produce!
Art loved being around young musicians. It did something for him. And
the young players were anxious to be with him. They got exposure and found
out a great deal that would help them as musicians and men. And you know,
I can't remember Art having a bad band.

The list of those who attended the school over three and half decades is
imposing indeed. So many leading players: Johnny Griffin, Freddie
Hubbard, Jackie McLean, Lee Morgan, Curtis Fuller, Bobby Timmons,
Wayne Shorter, Wallace Roney, Benny Golson, Bobby Watson, Wilbur
Ware, Hank Mobley, Billy Harper, Doug Watkins, Joanne Brackeen, Gary
Bartz, Reggie Workman, Cedar Walton, Ira Sullivan, Terence Blanchard,
Wynton and Branford Marsalis, Billy Pierce, Sam Dockery, Spanky DeBrest,
Donald Harrison, James Williams. It goes on and on.
The style and goals of the Messengers remained consistent through the
group's long history. Improvisation gave the band life and variety. Certain
writers and musical directors altered or enhanced things without affecting
its identity. Benny Golson contributed discipline and a great deal of melodic
writing. Wayne Shorter developed rapidly and brought a new depth to the
 flrtBlakeg n,s

band, as a writer and as a player. Lee Morgan, Freddie Hubbard, Cedar

Walton, Bobby Watson, and the others gave what they had to the music.
Any way you turn it, the Messengers was Art Blakey's band. Any time
you heard the group, no matter what edition, you knew who and what you
were listening to. As drummer Cindy Blackman insisted during our
conversation—and I totally agree: "Art was tribal. He'd get you one way
or the other. Before you knew it, that volcanic pulse was into your feet, your
whole body. His comping, his solos, his fantastic time did it for me and
everyone else. He'd just draw you in!"

BOBBY WATSON: Art was truly committed to playing. He related directly to it.
He said you've got to be doing it in order to get it. Simple as that. And if you
ever stop doing it, you're going to lose it. Art always said that if he didn't play
for a few days, he felt "silly"—like something was wrong.
He never changed. Art remained excited about playing. We'd go to jam
sessions after hours. All the guys would be tired. But we went—this could be
anywhere in the world. Art would be the first up there on the stand. We, the
young guys in the band, the ones who are supposed to be hungry, sometimes
were involved with little "attitudes." But we soon put that pretense behind
us. Art was onstage, hitting and calling: "Bobby, Wynton, get up here!"
Then you'd be playing into the night.

Blakey played until the last shot was fired. Deaf, ill, it didn't matter. There
was only one thing he knew—and loved. A preacher for the jazz cause, a
teacher of young people, an innovator and great player, he fulfilled his
mission.
For all the marvelous things Blakey did for music and musicians, he, like
many others of his generation, was deeply into drugs. One writer friend of
mine said he "handled it" very well. Some say he eventually put it aside.
Considering his stature among young musicians, how influential he became
as a respected source and a role model, the Blakey involvement with drugs
seems a paradox. But remember where he came from—his link with the
turbulent, revolutionary 19408 and the plague it spawned. It is best to keep
in mind his good works and how creatively he played.
Art Blakey brought new muscle and meaning to the modern drum style.
He played with such concentration and acuity that the beat entered your
system through pores opened by excitement. He seemed to be everywhere
as the music told its story.
Sweeping through his large catalogue of recordings, as leader and as
sideman—with equals like Miles Davis and Sonny Rollins—he seldom fails
to satisfy. He very personally reacted to the music and made it better just
because he was there and knew his job.
Proud, self-involved, but also kind, Blakey could be generous and
supportive to a musician who deserved encouragement. This is an important
part of his legacy

BOB BROOKMEYER: When I first came to New York, I'd go to a club on 110th
Street—I've forgotten the name. Big Nick Nicholas had the group. People
were always sitting in. I played with Art Blakey there. I met him and Roy
Haynes, Max Roach, and probably Kenny Clarke. The encouragement was
sometimes very subtle, but quite nice.
11,6 The Innovator)

This night, Art was back there anchoring the rhythm section. Once again,
I was the only white guy in the club. There were four or five alto players lined
up on the bandstand. I was polite and let them play. The first two seemed to
go on forever, playing tons of choruses.
While the second alto player was doing his thing, I felt something jabbing
me in the back. I ignored it; I was trying to be cool. It got very insistent. I
turned around. Art was hitting me with a drumstick. He said: "Fuck them!
You play!" For a skinny white guy playing with a marvelous drummer, this
was very good encouragement.

ROY HAYNES (1925- )

He's as gifted a drummer as we've ever had. Roy combines the
best of many, many schools of drumming. His ability to handle
complex rhythms is amazing. He was there before Elvin. Roy's
always way ahead.
—DICK KATZ

Roy Haynes is one of the most consistently interesting, surprising, and

creative drummers of his generation. He's totally distinctive and individual,
totally dedicated to playing music and living his own way.
Haynes has always known what he wanted and what worked for him.
After over a half century as a professional musician, he remains strong and
stubborn about any and all decisions he makes. The drummer attributes his
certainty and security about music and himself to his own carefully
developed point of view and his family—an independent, hard-working
father, a deeply religious mother (both from Barbados), and three brothers.
The Haynes family always provided unified support—a very specific sort
of nurturing and interest, warm but not meddling or controlling. The only
thing that his parents insisted upon was that their son carry himself well.
This strong foundation made it much easier for the precocious young
musician when he went out early and faced the realities of life.

VIN HAYNES: He was banging out rhythms long before he had drums. We
heard a lot of classical and religious music around the house—in Roxbury,
outside Boston. Jazz got our attention—the brothers, that is—and we began
listening to everything we could. Our mother and father enjoyed singing. My
father played the organ.
Douglas, the oldest, had a great talent for music. He studied trumpet and
guitar, went to the New England Conservatory, and played with bands. He
lived in New York for a while and got around. He went to the Savoy Ballroom
a lot. When Douglas came home for visits, he'd tell us about the band battles,
what was happening with Billie Hob'day—so many things about music. He was
the one who gave Roy his first pair of drumsticks. They were taped, not quite
new, but really a great gift for someone who had such feeling for drumming.

ROY HAYNES: I kept making rhythm with my thumbs on desks in school. The
classes paid more attention to what I was playing than they did to the
teachers. It caused me difficulty. I was asked to bring my parents to school
 Roy Jjaynes 11,7

Roy Haynes makes the drums snap and crackle at a Jack Dejohnette record date.
Drummer Jack was doubling on another instrument. © Chuck Stewart.

more than once. Not too long after one of these "performances," in class, my
career at Roxbury Memorial High School came to an end. I began playing
gigs around Boston and getting paid. That was what I wanted.
Before becoming completely involved with drums, I studied violin for a
year. It was my mother's idea. All along, though, percussion was on my mind.
I learned about drums and music mostly by listening to the radio. I held and
used sticks and brushes in a way that was comfortable and right for me; no
one showed me how to do those things. And I played what I heard and felt.
u,8 The Innovator)

By being open and constantly paying attention to what was happening, I

kept expanding my musical world. I listened to and appreciated Bing Crosby,
Art Tatum, the Glenn Miller and Chick Webb bands, the Hot Club of France,
Duke, Basic's band, so many people.
I remember very clearly hearing the Artie Shaw band on the radio, with
Billie Holiday singing "Any Old Time." Lady's one of my fondest memories.
I was impressed with Shaw—so much so that I went to hear his band in the
Boston Common. Shaw was one of the musicians who was responsible for
getting me deeply into music.
I didn't study much. Herbie Wright, a drummer and teacher, who had been
a member of the famous Jenkins Orphanage Band, lived on our block. He
gave me a lesson. Later on I went to the Boston Conservatory for a while; it
was fashionable to do that sort of thing in the 1940s. I didn't get much out of
the schooling. But it didn't really matter because I always had an instinct and
feel for rhythm and drums. And from the very beginning, I could swing.
My first paying job was with a guitarist named Tom Brown. I only had a
snare drum and a ride cymbal. But that didn't create any problem. In fact,
the setup worked well. Then I got a five-night-a-week gig at the Paradise Club
in the West End of Boston with pianist Mabel Robinson Sims. I saved enough
after a while to buy all the equipment I needed.
I was a swing drummer at that point. I played all around Boston with
bandleader Sabby Lewis—Big Nick Nicholas, the tenor man, and Sonny Stitt
were in the band—and with other local musicians. I was hired to work with
"name" players from New York, like alto player Pete Brown, trumpeter
Frankie Newton, Art Hodes—the pianist, Coleman Hawkins, Ellington clar-
inetist Barney Bigard, and others.
My early background made it easy for me to play with the older players.
I remember Dave Tough came to see me when I was working with Lester
Young at the Club Argyle in Chicago—must have been in the winter of
1947—48. I was very flattered he liked what I did.

Pee Wee Erwin, an impressive trumpet soloist with the Benny Goodman
and Tommy Dorsey bands in the 19305, told me: "I enjoyed playing with
Roy. Of course, I was from a different era. But he seemed quite comfortable
doing what I do. Roy's a fine player and a marvelous person as well."

HAYNES: I was in Phil Edmond's eight- or nine-piece band for a while before
I left for New York. We played for shake and tap dancers. I had a lot of expe-
rience with dancers and shows even before that, working in places around
Boston's Scollay Square and Golden Square. It was part of my preparation
for experiences down the line.

Other musicians in Boston helped Haynes during the formative years:

Bob Eliot, an older drummer, and Lester Shackleford, a tenor man with Phil
Edmond's band who had traveled with Andy Kirk.

HAYNES: Eliot had the fastest hands and probably was the world's greatest
show drummer. He caught everything—didn't miss a trick. Shackleford,
originally from Gary, Indiana, was hip about so many things. I remember he
had a picture of Ben Webster on the bell of his horn. Shackleford called me
 ROD Haynei Ktg

"kid." I must have been about seventeen when we met. He was a wild guy—
had a lot of chicks. Any time a lady would pay some attention to me, he would
say: "Go get her! Take her money!"
He spoke about Lester Young and Charlie Parker. This cat knew about
everything, including Bird's drug habit. I had never heard the word "junkie"
before. I didn't know what it was. The only junkie I knew about was the junk
man who came around to pick up old clothes and stuff like that.
At that time, I didn't think too much about the future. It wasn't even a
dream that I would work with Pres [Young]. That Bird was going to want me.
That Max [Roach] would ask me to take his place in Bird's band.

Alan Dawson, the late, great Boston drummer and teacher, grew up in
Roxbury, a few blocks from the Haynes family.

ALAN DAWSON: Any Boston drummer couldn't help being influenced by Roy. I
must have been eight or ten, something like that, when we first met. Roy
always was a topic around the neighborhood. One thing that stands out in my
mind about this guy. He always had great confidence in his ability. You never
heard any tentativeness in his playing. My late brother said to me one day:
"Roy Haynes sounded the same years and years back. Even then he was a
monster! He came to the music and drums ready and capable of dealing with
both. Unlike most other musicians, he didn't have to go through a difficult
learning phase."
Roy always has been adventurous—absolutely fearless. He plays whatever
he thinks is right, regardless of the context. Only in recent years have people
come to realize how important and talented he is. For a long time, only musi-
cians, and a few writers close to the music, knew what he could do and how
original he was.
Many felt Roy's playing was too far "out there"—beyond understanding—
the same thing they used to say about Bird. Roy's breaks sometimes could
puzzle listeners. As you said, they don't always start on "1." And sometimes
they might be short or go beyond "1," whether he was playing a four-bar
break or a chorus. He does that purposely. He feels so secure in dealing with
the beat and time that he never thinks: "Well, I really have to get this four
bars just right." Roy finishes his idea, wherever it takes him. What he does
works for him and for the music.

Haynes was very much in a learning groove during the Boston years.
Though fascinated by two great drummers—Big Sid Catlett and Chick
Webb—he idolized Jo Jones. Haynes declared a personal holiday whenever
the Basie band appeared in Boston, generally at the RKO Theater. He took
the week off from school, or whatever he was doing, and spent the time
watching and listening to Papa Jo and hanging out backstage. Often he
passed himself off as the great drummer's son.

HAYNES: Jo Jones had a feeling—a looseness. He had a happy sound. He was

something to watch, especially with a band like Basic's. When he played a
solo, it was something special—different. It wasn't about playing fast. His
warm sound got to me. He "invented" the sock cymbal [the hi-hat]. The way
he played it was marvelous to listen to and to watch.1
130 The Innovator)

Haynes's devotion to Jo Jones began in a rush when he first heard Basic's

two-part 78 rpm recording "The World Is Mad," waxed by the band in
August of 1940 for OKeh. Papa Jo was at his light, smooth, dancing best.
His hi-hat sang; his time was an unfolding, physical delight. His naturally
rendered, economic solo in the close put a cap on the performance.
"I was in love with Jo Jones, Jonathan Jo Jones. I even tried to look like
him," Haynes says. The feeling for Papa was a constant in his life and
remains deep within him.
Haynes was deeply affected when the legendary drummer passed in
1985, after a lingering, devastating illness. At the funeral at St. Peter's
Church in Manhattan, Haynes placed a brush on Papa's heart—with the
family's permission, of course—before this drummer of indescribable grace
left for his final road trip.

DICK KATZ: If you watch Roy and listen, you know that his early inspiration
had to be Papa Jo Jones. The way Roy sits at the drums, the way he touches
the cymbal. The whole thing comes out of his approaching the instrucment
as if it's fine china—and respecting it.

Haynes proudly points out: "I became more and more 'popular' in
Boston and the surrounding area." The word on Haynes ultimately got to
bandleader Luis Russell, who for a number of years was associated with
Louis Armstrong. Booked into the Savoy Ballroom and the Apollo Theater
in Harlem, he wanted to hire Haynes, even though he hadn't heard him play.
Alto saxophonist Charlie Holmes, a big band veteran—e.g., Chick Webb,
Louis Armstrong, Cootie Williams—strongly recommended Haynes to the
leader. Holmes had heard Haynes play at some private parties in Connecti-
cut. He felt the young musician would be a great asset to the band.
Russell sent a wire with a one-way ticket to the drummer in care of the
black musicians local in Boston—yes, the union was segregated in those
days. Haynes, who had a gig on the popular island vacation spot Martha's
Vineyard, off eastern Massachusetts, was excited by this opportunity that
would bring him to the center of things. He accepted the offer but made one
stipulation. He had to finish up his work commitment on the island. The
drummer said he'd join the Russell band after Labor Day of 1945.

That done, Haynes bought new drums and cases and clothing appro-
priate for his New York debut. He opened with the Russell band at the
Savoy and was delighted with the energy of the place and the many lovely
young things who came in to dance every night.
His first shot at the Apollo Theater remains in the minds of several
musicians. I missed him with the Russell band. But Sonny Rollins didn't.

SONNY ROLLINS: Yeah, I liked what he did with the Russell band at the theater.
I recognized then that he was very modern. He was on some of the first
recordings I made as a sideman in 1949—with Babs Gonzales [Capitol], and
with Bud Powell and Fats Navarro [Blue Note].

The drummer looked almost childlike behind his large, white pearl drum
set on the Apollo stage, particularly when compared to the rest of the
band—all of whom were middle-aged veterans. One of the musicians who
 Roy Haynej 151

saw and heard him at the theater feels that "Roy hadn't yet hit his stride. He
was dealing with a second-level, traditional swing band, and nothing really
was happening." Haynes, however, remembers the Apollo appearance being
a significant learning experience.

HAYNES: Panama Francis told me that the older drummers used to congregate
around the corner from the Apollo, on 126th Street, every Friday, opening
day. When a band came on for the first show, they'd be seated in the theater
and pass judgment on the drummer's ability to "cut" the show. Many times
the Apollo management and the bandleader would have to fire the drummer
because the job was not being done. These older cats listened to me. They
came backstage and said: "We ain't got nothing to worry about this week."

The Russell band played the Paradise Theater in Detroit, the Royal in
Baltimore, the Earle Theater in Philadelphia. "We traveled everywhere,"
Haynes says. The musicians and Russell were quite satisfied with the
compactly built Bostonian. Some of the players felt he had changed the
sound and rhythmic concept of the band.
Haynes was rewarded for making music, controlling the time and keeping
the band together. He received more money than his colleagues and, when
in New York, lived in Russell's large apartment on i59th Street near
Broadway. Not bad for a young man who had just turned twenty.

HAYNES: I worked with Luis Russell for a year, quit, played on 52nd Street
and around town. I went out with Louis Armstrong for a week; the band
performed in tobacco warehouses and other places down south. If you could
swing and shade, back up the ensemble, the sections and soloists, you had it
made. I felt very good playing with Pops. I could hear very well and adapt
to circumstances. And when I first came on the band, I was cued by lead
trumpeter Fats Ford on some of the things.
I went back with Russell for another year when he had a big record, "The
Very Thought of You," featuring singer Lee Richardson. Having a national
hit drew a lot of people to the places where the band played. Lee was hot, and
all the young ladies came out to see and hear him.

Then some dreams came true.

HAYNES: I joined Pres at the Savoy in October, 1947, replacing Lyndell

Marshall. That same week we played with Billie Holiday at Town Hall. It was
a thrill, believe me! I had never played with Lady before. But I made a habit
of going to 52nd Street to dig her. And I had listened to my brother's Holiday
records for years before I came to New York. I felt prepared.
About a month later, Pres's band and Sarah Vaughan were booked into
Town Hall. Down Beat sent one of its writers to cover the concert—I think
it was Michael Levin. He loved Sarah. But he really did it to Pres and our
rhythm section. He said something about "the iron foundry drumming of Roy
Haynes." I've never forgotten that. It was one of the very few times some-
thing negative was said about my work. I was young—maybe the bass drum
was ringing or something.
I tried to put it out of my head. Pres made it easy. He said so many nice
things to me. The man was something else—a sensitive human being and so
152 The Innovator)

original. I loved him! I stayed with him for two years until he joined Norman
Granz's Jazz at the Philharmonic as a soloist. By the time he was free again
and had a band, I was involved elsewhere.

Lester Young had found in Haynes what he needed: lightness, originality,

sensitivity, cleverness, and soul. He allowed the drummer maximum
freedom. Haynes's swinging performances with Young suggested,
particularly in the polyrhythms expressed by his left hand and dancing (bass
drum) right foot, what was to come. He combined simplicity and brashness
and adventure, expressing the time on the hi-hat or top cymbal while adding
decoration to make things interesting and to push Pres and the other
musicians.
The first recordings he made with Young—an Aladdin session in
December of 1947 and the concert with the tenorist and Sarah Vaughan at
Town Hall, a month earlier (Blue Note), reveal a young drummer with a
captivating rhythmic feel who skillfully places enlivening bass drum accents
and well-coordinated rhythmic combinations Where was Roy Haynes
stylistically at this point? Somewhere between Jo Jones, Max Roach, and
what he would become not too long thereafter. His breaks and solos indicate
he was in transition. Straight single-stroke solos, delivered with speed, were
soon left behind, though not completely abandoned, in favor of broken
rhythms, provocative syncopation, and improvisatory, Haynes-tailored
techniques that no one ever has been able to duplicate.
By this time, the drummer had purchased a twenty-inch bass drum. He
was one of the first of a long line of young percussionists to do so. Pres
called the drum "Princess Wee Wee" because "it was so small and cute,"
Haynes says.
The drummer recorded with another Pres small band for Savoy in June
of 1949. On these sides, he gives indisputable evidence that he had devel-
oped an immediately identifiable style, reliant on tightly wound, very
personally articulated drum rudiments—which, incidentally, he never
studied and very rarely practiced. He came forth with ideas and responses,
using the entire set as his playing field. Try "Ding Dong" and "Blue 'n'
Bells" from this session.
Haynes had commuted from Boston on weekends for over a year before
coming to New York to stay. He "lived" on 5 2nd Street, taking everything
in, going from club to club trying to make seventy-five-cent soft drinks last
until the four o'clock in the morning closings. Bird and Dizzy and certainly
Max Roach provided tumultuous, memorable evenings for Haynes.

HAYNES: I first heard Max while I was still living in Boston. He was with
Benny Carter's band. When I got the chance to listen to him with Bird and
Diz at the Three Deuces, he executed some things I had in my head but
couldn't play. That blew my mind. I went to the Deuces very, very often. So
a lot of the things that Max did rubbed off on me.

BILL CROW: Roy and I worked together in Stan Getz's band. But I first heard
him when I was in the Army at Fort Meade, near Baltimore. Pres and his
group were appearing in a local club. Roy gave every indication he was a very
talented young guy. I had never before experienced anyone who played quite
 ROIJ Hayne* 133

that way. He was so light with sticks. His sound was bright but not loud. Roy
had his own way of doing things. Even then, he could do pretty much what
he wanted on the instrument.

Drummer Phil Brown, who, like Haynes, played with Stan Getz and
Charlie Parker in the early 19505, feels that Haynes was—and remains—a
true original. This is all the more difficult when an artist is redefining a style
that already has been introduced.

PHIL BROWN: Roy was the first guy to come along and do something after Max.
By 1948, Max had his approach to the instrument perfected. At about that
time, Roy was introducing his way. It was totally different from what Max
had established and, as far as I'm concerned, far more attractive, hipper,
more stimulating.
He had his own language, techniques, and ideas. His breaks were
completely different. He played all kinds of intricate things between the
beats—ideas that other guys didn't play because their heads didn't work that
way.
I heard him every chance I got—at the Savoy with Pres in '47, with Bird
and other musicians. He completely gassed me. I bought a drum set just like
his—with the three-by-thirteen snare. Roy was using Ludwig drums, so I had
a set made up by Ludwig. Roy used green sparkle. I had my set made up in
blue sparkle.
A situation came up regarding the "tiny" snare drum when I went to work
for Roy Eldridge. He said: "What are you doing with that? It sounds like a
toy!" It didn't have enough guts for the music that the Eldridge band was
playing. I had to get another drum. But it was right for Roy because he
played all these inside, fast things. He got a lot out of the drum.
Later he began using tom-toms much more, and he was all over the set. He
has done so many interesting things: playing the ride rhythm differently by
stretching it out, approximating straight eighths; turning the beat around;
abstracting the time. What he does not only gives the music a fresh sense of
unity but forces everyone to pay attention.
Roy Haynes is a school of one. You've had countless Max, Blakey, and
Kenny Clarke clones. But there's no one who can play like Roy. He's to the
drums what Erroll Garner is to the piano. A school unto himself.

1949 was an important year for Haynes. He played with Miles Davis's
first band at a club called Soldier Meyer's in Brooklyn, with a very young
Sonny Rollins (tenor), Tadd Dameron (piano), and Nelson Boyd (bass).
During the booking, he met the woman he'd later marry. So the gig was
doubly significant.
Then Haynes made a crucial move to 5 2nd Street and the Orchid
Room—formerly the Onyx Club—to appear with the luminous modern
pianist Bud Powell. Nelson Boyd went with him. Altoist Sonny Stitt was the
extra added attraction.
At this juncture, following in the wake of Miles Davis, Max Roach
decided to leave Bird and form his own group for an appearance at Soldier
Meyer's. A Brooklyn product, the drummer had a substantial following in
the borough.
i5<t The Innovators

HAYNES: One night, Max walked across the street from the Deuces to the
Orchid and asked me to replace him in Bird's band. Though I loved and
respected Bird and was very flattered, I wasn't too responsive or excited
about the offer. "Comme ci, comme ca," was my answer. "Okay," Max said,
"I'll get Kansas Fields to play!"
Why did I do that? I'd been so busy playing clubs and recording. I was
thinking about going back to Boston to cool out a little bit. And Bud was
absolutely on fire at the Orchid Room. Everyone was coming by the club—
even Bird between sets.
A couple of nights later, when we were winding down at the Orchid, Bird
came over to get me. He convinced me that I had to take the job. Bird had
that charm. I joined the band at the Three Deuces not long after that.

Gigs of all kinds were coming Haynes's way. He remembers with pride
that he was the first drummer to work at Birdland—at 52nd Street and
Broadway—when it opened in 1949. The downstairs club rapidly became
the primary jazz center in New York.
Haynes made records. He played particularly well with tenorist Wardell
Gray in a straight-ahead session on Prestige. He lent distinction to the
Brew Moore recordings on Prestige/New Jazz and Savoy. His 5 2nd Street
performances with a band featuring trombonist Kai Winding, Moore,
baritone saxophonist Gerry Mulligan, trumpeter Red Rodney, pianist
George Wallington, and bassist Curly Russell added to his burgeoning
reputation.
Natural, bubbling time, playing the right sort of things for and against a
band and soloists, while adding characteristic charming Haynes touches,
offered players and listeners much to respond to and think about.
Haynes performances on John Carisi's "Lestorian Mode" and Mulligan's
"Gold Rush" on the Brew Moore Savoy date of May 1949 indicate how
deftly he reacted to well-structured, written material. He played in a
manner that goes far beyond what composers might hope for in a drum
part.
On these and other recordings made that year, he was simultaneously
experimental and traditional, chancy and stable. His spontaneity was cru-
cial to his effectiveness. If you listen closely to what and how he played, it
becomes clear that he established an almost independent rhythmic line—
though the intimate relationship with the players and the flow was not
affected or diminished. His performances took on an irresistible quality.
Haynes established not only his personality but his modus operandi. He
played a leadership role in a band rather than just following and accompa-
nying the front line and the other instruments. Though he offered rhythmic
security to his colleagues, he kept them provoked and a little bit off bal-
ance. To this day, musicians find it difficult to coast when Haynes sits in the
drum chair.
A number of devotees who later become journalist-critics, including Dan
Morgenstern, Ira Gitler, and me, were exposed to Haynes, at some length,
on 5 znd Street—in the Orchid Room with Bud Powell, with Kai Winding,
and with the Charlie Parker band at the Three Deuces. Haynes was also
heard at many New York jam sessions.
Gitler was jolted one evening in 1949 at Georgie Auld's Tin Pan Alley, a
little club in the Markwell Hotel on Manhattan's West 49th Street.
 ROD Magnet 155

IRA GITLER: This guy was sitting in and playing the greatest "fours" that I had
ever heard—incredible commentaries in four bars. It was Roy Haynes. His
breaks, solos, the general feeling of his time all were unusual. His personality
came through in what he played.

When the sartorially elegant drummer joined modern jazz's first line
band, he found even more than he bargained for. Bird, despite his problems,
offered the impossible on the nights he was physically able to do so. The
experience was enhanced by the contributions of associates Red Rodney or
Kenny Dorham (trumpet), Al Haig or Walter Bishop Jr. (piano), and Tommy
Potter or Teddy Kotick (bass), among others.
Haynes remained with the Parker "working" band—with and without
strings—for three years. Because the quintet didn't perform on a regular
basis, he supplemented his income playing and recording with others.

HAYNES: The scene in New York at that time was tremendously exciting. So
much was happening. Musicians were reaching out and saying a lot. What
was played had a deep, true feeling. Everyone was just so dedicated. Music
was everything. It was our religion.

Haynes saw a lot of things in those years. In a Down Beat interview, he

said: "If I was weak, I would have been strung out on drugs, or alcohol, or
dead, but I'm not going to let the system run me into anything that I don't
want to go into."

STAN LEVEY: I loved Roy Haynes. He was different than Max, myself, and
others. Roy was clean. He had these beautiful suits; he looked so sharp, man.
He was a real good player—real good. He had nice time and technique and a
beautiful drum set. We used to look at him and say: "How the hell did he do
that?" We all knew. Simple. He wasn't a fuckup.

RED RODNEY: Half of Bird's band was kind of crazy. But Roy always was cool.
Clean-living, healthy. We depended on him a great deal. He was like a Rock
of Gibraltar. Roy didn't have a bad night in the almost three years we worked
with Bird.

HAYNES: It was hard for a young musician in that situation where drugs were
almost a part of the life. But I came from a strong family. That made a differ-
ence. And the music was everything to me. That's what I concentrated on.
Despite what was going on, there was a lot of love among the musicians.
I'm lucky to have been a part of that period. We dressed, hung out with fine
ladies, said played the music!

One of Haynes's most memorable engagements with Parker was at New

York's Cafe Society in the summer of 1950, opposite Art Tatum. Stars like
Billie Holiday and Broadway's Ray Bolger dropped in and performed.
Haynes was absolutely enthralled with Tatum and seldom left the club on
his breaks. And, of course, the drummer had all this great music to play
with Bird.
Another great time, Haynes remembers, was an engagement at the
Deuces when the Bud Powell Trio, featuring Max Roach, was on the bill
156 The Innovator)

with the Parker Quintet. Haynes felt challenged, perhaps even a little
intimidated, by Roach. But it worked out very well.
At the beginning of the engagement, Bird called something Haynes had
never played before with the band. Roach, the Parker veteran, quietly
indicated what was coming up, standing over to the side in a little alcove on
the small bandstand. It was a matter of mutual respect and camaraderie and
further solidified their relationship.
Musicians filled the club every night and listened very closely to what
Bird and Bud were doing. The late Ike Day, the now legendary drummer
from Chicago, was among those who came to the Deuces. He was playing
with Slim Gaillard at Bop City, a club on the second floor of the Brill
Building.
Haynes and Roach went to check Day out. The young drummer returned
the compliment, spending more than a little time at the Deuces, sitting in
with Bird and Bud. Those who heard Ike Day during his relatively short life
insist he was one of the special ones who could have had a major impact in
jazz.
Haynes experimented with rhythmic ideas in Bird's band. Both certainly
were equipped to move afield and stretch the envelope. Judging from the
genius alto saxophonist's playing and general attitude, he sought and
enjoyed musicians who musically took him "out"—to interesting musical
places.
Because of Haynes's uncommon ability to motivate soloists, Bird found
the drummer's "moves" very much to his taste. Haynes and Parker shared
a sense of freedom about time and could move from straight-ahead playing
to abstraction.
Parker wasn't dependent on Haynes for the pulse. He had a smoothly
running, perfectly adjusted "time" clock within him. The other members of
the band were time-wise and time-secure as well. This made it possible for
Haynes to be freer in his approach to the music and the instrument. He
could relate directly to the music and players or move into abstraction. This
can happen only in a relationship with players who have the capacity to
function without a strong rhythmic crutch.
The live Christmas 1949 and the November 1952. recordings of Parker
and company at Carnegie Hall (Jass Records and Bandstand Records) give
a reasonably good idea how Haynes performed in the band. He brings to
the music rhythmic charm and underlying stability while creating a generally
provocative atmosphere.

HAYNES: There were some bad times with Bird. I didn't much approve of
his lifestyle. But you couldn't stay mad at him for long. He was who he
was. You more readily accepted certain things because a talent like him
rarely comes along. Bird played so great—the drums almost played them-
selves. I would have liked to have recorded with Bird more than I did. He
was under contract to producer-impresario Norman Granz and always
submitted my name for the dates. But generally Buddy Rich was hired by
Granz.
In Washington, D.C., I got pretty angry. I had come from New York to
play with Bird, at his request. The gig was at the Armory. I played on
Buddy's drums. He didn't like that. It became pretty unpleasant—bitter
words were exchanged.
 Roytiaynet 157

Haynes received his first major shot in the jazz press in the December i,
1950, issue of Down Beat. Pat Harris, a discerning writer, profiled the
drummer. Harris said: "Musicians, drummers included, agree that Haynes, a
2.4 [Ed. note—really 25] year-old Boston boy, is one of the most rhythmically
exact, musically meticulous men working over a snare and cymbal today."

That same year, Haynes began playing with tenor saxophonist Stan Getz, a
subtle, lyrical player who recast the Lester Young style, emerging with a
stimulating, identifiable, communicative manner of expression. A large
listening public embraced Getz almost from the beginning of his career as a
bandleader.
Getz had several excellent drummers in his band over the years. But the
saxophonist had special feelings for Haynes because the drummer brought
quiet intensity and an ongoing sense of creativity to the music.
Haynes's records with Getz tell a story of discretion, swing, and rhythmic
surprise that, in sum, raised the level of everyone involved. His best
recording with Getz, according to the drummer, is "I'm Late, I'm Late,"
which opens Getz's extraordinary 1961 Verve set Focus, composed and
arranged by Eddie Sauter.
The work comprises seven sections. Getz improvised over, through, and
around what was written. The nature of the music and the performances
themselves made it impossible to splice takes. On the Haynes feature, the
takes were so good and so different one from the other that recording
director Creed Taylor decided to use both, tacking them together.
Haynes's spontaneity and ability as a brush player bring to the music
unusual, underlying spirit. He acts out what he feels, activating Getz and
responding to him and the strings (ten violins, four violas, two cellos, a bass,
and a harp). He brought to the session only a minimal set: snare and an
open bass drum. The hi-hat is used essentially as a color source.
Haynes's buoyant patterns behind Getz and the strings draw you into the
piece. Often he breaks into conversations with Getz and the supporting
musicians or speaks for himself. It's a matter of pure instinct guiding
Haynes's hands and feet.
The piece moves swiftly. Veteran critic Dom Cerulli, the writer of the liner
essay, noted: "The pace immediately calls to mind the rush hour or the flight
of the Mad Hatter to the Tea Party in Alice in Wonderland."
As Haynes played more and more in diverse contexts (did you know he
played with Lennie Tristano and George Shearing?), he grew as an artist and
had an increasing impact on other drummers. Though a major presence
within the jazz community, for a number of years he was comparatively
unknown to the public. Despite Haynes's declarations to the contrary, this
implicit rejection hurt him—all the more so because he had a continuing
effect on how the instrument was played in a jazz sense.
Haynes is not formally trained. He relies completely on what he feels and
hears. Many of the things he articulates are technically breathtaking—some
on several levels at once, suggesting a variety of feelings and more than one
time signature. You hear the history and progression of jazz and elements
from allied idioms, notably Latin, mixing and mingling. He takes full
advantage of the sound and color possibilities of each drum in the kit.
Unlike those who have undergone years of training, he doesn't readily
realize that what he plays is particularly difficult. Naturally talented drum-
158 The Innovator)
mers like Chick Webb, Shadow Wilson, Jo Jones, Buddy Rich, and Haynes
hear the music and that's all they need to proceed. What comes out is often
as surprising to them as it is to colleagues and listeners. It's a partially con-
trolled happening, couched in their instantly identifiable language. These
crafty, deeply gifted percussionists introduce new functions and concepts
and puzzles for others to solve. Not always understood at the outset, these
innovators and their work are ultimately vindicated.
For Roy Haynes, playing drums never has been just a matter of "ding-
ding-a-ding"—straight time on the hi-hat or the top cymbal and symmetri-
cal, supportive strokes on the snare and four beats to the bar on the bass
drum. Even in the early days in Boston, Haynes had a tendency to break
things up, making the rhythms more interesting to him and to those who
worked with him.
Haynes performances, taken as a whole, are a major departure from
what listeners expect. The techniques that bring reality to his thoughts—
except in the very early days—are of his own making. His performances
often take the form of a story: sharply honed sentences, melding into brisk
paragraphs and chapters, building to conclusions. All of this is made
possible by his talent for time and improvisation. Haynes makes fresh and
provoking music on an instrument where music, as such, is uncommon.
Duke Ellington, whose range of interests always was admirable, had to
replace Louie Bellson in 1953 when the virtuoso drummer wanted to form
his own band and join wife Pearl Bailey on the road. Bellson suggested that
Ellington call Roy Haynes. The Maestro called and offered him the job. The
drummer was flattered and appreciative, but he felt many of the Ellington
veterans might not feel as strongly about an "experimental drummer" as
Ellington obviously did. Haynes politely turned the offer down. Though he
subbed with the Maestro, and with Basic later on, he never worked with
them on a full-time basis.
The diminutive, self-contained drummer was crucial to establishing what
the late drummer-teacher-percussion historian Charlie Perry called "the new
thing in jazz drumming." Haynes did this by coming up with so many things
first. As an accompanist relating to other instruments and as a soloist, he
paved the way for Elvin Jones, Tony Williams, Jack Dejohnette, and others
who bear collective responsibility for moving the instrument into relatively
unexplored regions—musical areas that generally tax your sense of comfort
and understanding until an almost inevitable epiphany makes sensible and
exciting and edifying what previously seemed without rhyme or reason.
Though Haynes actively has been a part of change in the jazz idiom for
most of his career, there is the existing reality of making a living. At some
point, there's the pressing need for a steady job that pays well—hopefully,
one that doesn't demean the musician's art and provides opportunities to
be expressive.
Haynes was fortunate. He caught on with Ella Fitzgerald in the summer
of 1952. The following year, he joined singer Sarah Vaughan and remained
with her until 1958. Listening to their records together on Mercury, I was
reminded how gifted Vaughan was. Comparable to a great jazz horn player
in her investigative treatment of songs, she offered performances that rarely,
if ever, were pat, redundant, boring, or excessively show business oriented.
Generally more restrained with Vaughan, the drummer served the
concerns of the singer quietly, yet remained Roy Haynes, a distinct presence
 ROD Haijnei 139
and an asset. Vaughan allowed him freedom. A musician at heart, she
understood his needs.
The great Sarah's Recorded Live, including material from 1957 and 1958
stints at Chicago's long defunct Mister Kelly's and the London House,
typifies Haynes's behavior in a vocal context. Smooth, sensitive, quietly
original, he makes a virtue of silence when the situation calls for it.
In 1958, feeling the need to move on and try other things, Haynes left
Vaughan. The drummer regretted making the break with the singer. He
loved her talent and resourcefulness. But it was time.

IRA SULLIVAN: Late in his association with Sarah, Roy came to Chicago to play
one of the major places with her. He'd sit in with our small band on his off-
nights. The first set would be explosive—Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo. You
could sense Roy had been playing brushes for a long time. When he got the
sticks in his hands, you could sense the joy and release he felt. It was gorgeous.

1958 was the beginning of a growth phase that would eventuate as the
most important in Haynes's already distinguished career. He worked at New
York's Five Spot and recorded live with Thelonious Monk in August of that
year (Riverside), after having played with the pianist-composer the year
before. A CD with the Monk Quartet, featuring John Coltrane, at the Five
Spot, came out of Haynes's 1957 summertime gig. It was released by Blue
Note in the 19905. Naima Coltrane, then Coltrane's wife, taped the set,
using only one microphone. Because of the questionable balance and fidelity,
there was some doubt about the drummer—though it was rather apparent
to jazz devotees that it was Haynes—until he identified himself to those
releasing the material.
We Three, another significant album, with the engaging and technically
gifted Memphis pianist Phineas Newborn and bassist Paul Chambers, was
laid down in November of 1958 and hit the stores soon thereafter. Try
"After Hours," a quietly grinding blues that calls forth visions of a slowly
undulating stripper. Haynes sensuously tolls the time.
In the years that followed, Haynes continued to concern himself with
playing and evolving as an artist. Life in music, however, is not a Technicolor
motion picture fantasy. Some periods are not as good as others, and they
give musicians pause, even rare ones like Haynes.
But his talent ultimately transcended doubts about the insecurities of the
business. He formed his own quintet—the Hip Ensemble—in the late 19605,
playing music that appealed to him, whether it had its base in popular music
or jazz. He hired young, ambitious musicians with that special hunger,
including trumpeter Marvin Hannibal Peterson and saxophonists George
Adams, Bennie Maupin, and, later, Ralph Moore, among others.
Haynes's performances were as contemporary as it was possible to be.
He had no "adjustment" problems because he dealt with music, giving little
thought to the superficialities of style. That's what made it easy for him to
play with anyone from Ike and Tina Turner, Ray Charles, and the Ravens
to jazz people of all kinds.
Few musicians have been able to retain and enhance creativity and remain
so comfortable, functional, and unabashed by changes over a half century
of activity. As many of us expected, he had increasing impact as the music
world began catching up to him.
i6o The Innovator)

HAYNES: I've learned so much more about life and music—met and played
with so many people [since the years with Charlie Parker]. It's all there in
what and how I play. Tell you one thing: I'm only happy when I'm moving
forward. Some musicians play the same songs the same way every night.
That's impossible for me. My fundamental style may not really be different.
But there have been so many things added.
I'm always thinking about playing and what I want to do—and how to do
it. I work things out in my mind when I'm traveling, sitting around the house,
even while I'm eating. It's constant. I don't practice; it's not my thing. I
didn't practice even when I was a kid. I just wanted to accompany someone.
I wanted to be able to play with someone. I did it to the ultimate with Trane.
To the ultimate, man! When we were together, there was that very special
freedom. We had an equal partnership. I could play all the things I dreamed
of playing. You can't do that with too many people.

Haynes felt the same connection to the playing and writing of Thelonious
Monk. He was challenged to get inside the music, be a part of it, move
beyond what he had done before. How the drummer responded to Monk
is well illustrated on Thelonious in Action (Riverside), the 1958 live session
at New York's Five Spot, co-featuring Johnny Griffin (tenor) and Abmed
Abdul-Malik (bass). On another set, The Thelonious Monk Quartet
Featuring John Coltrane—Live at the Five Spot—Discovery! (Blue Note), he
is strongly motivated to act creatively both by Monk and Coltrane. Haynes
allows Monk's compounding of rhythm, melody, and harmony to guide
him. He doesn't turn to preconceived modes of rhythmic behavior. Haynes
frames and extends what the thematic material and soloists say, infiltrating
the music with his personality, building to bursts of energy.
The time is always implicit, no matter where Haynes goes. The cymbal
rings. The hi-hat breathes in tempo. His left hand chatters on the snare. The
bass drum serves multiple functions in development of the rhythmic line.
Haynes is a discerning, controlling presence in the music, condensing,
expanding, balancing what's being said. He places comments, asides,
punctuations, and accents in places that enhance interest for the players and
listeners. Basics of the Haynes language include flams, rolls, quarter-note
and broken triplets, and ruffs of various lengths. How they're used adds to
the potency of each performance.
Haynes takes an educational multilevel solo on "Blue Monk"
(Thelonious in Action), moving into double time, slowing and speeding up
for expressive effect, putting a variety of thoughts together with flair and
concision. He is equally effective as a solo voice on "Evidence"—a little
over a chorus based on a five-stroke idea that grows, variates, and keeps
you nailed. The transcription of Haynes's solo on "Blue Monk" appears in
Appendix 2.
Throughout these recordings, the drummer's connective tissue—the ideas
and techniques that tie things together—often is so imaginative and fitting
that it makes you smile broadly. His associates on the Monk recordings have
no problem because, no matter how chatty Haynes becomes, he seldom gets
in the way of the other players' thoughts—particularly after they've become
acclimated to his style.
His range of dynamics is incredible. He gives you the feeling of floating
out in space. He is the perfect foil for Monk's relatively heavy-handed
 Roij Uaynej 161

approach. They complement each other. A lesser artist would have sounded
feeble.
Haynes's work with Coltrane is clearly a matter of great compatibility,
passion, love, and understanding. You hear it throughout the Five Spot CD
with Monk and on Coltrane Impulse CDs, particularly the one done live in
Newport in 1963. The two take flight, brothers on intimate terms with the
same muse. John Coltrane—Newport '63 has to be listened to. It provides
a great lesson in mutual creation. They push each other to the edge; one
boldly acts on the other. The performances—try "Impressions"—achieve
almost hysterical heat.
Listening to Haynes records, you can't help being impressed by the
drummer's extraordinary ability to play for the circumstances. With Eddie
"Lockjaw" Davis's big band on Prestige, he lays down the time; the band
and soloists have an appropriate foundation on which to lean. With Bud
Powell and Fats Navarro (Blue Note), he's the personification of bebop,
bringing his own modifications of the style to the fore. With Eric Dolphy
(Prestige), he allows the experimental alto saxophonist freedom to do what
he will and, simultaneously, is accommodating, understanding, musically
encouraging. With pianist-composer Andrew Hill, on Black Fire (Blue
Note), Haynes adeptly immerses himself in this very personal music. He
works compatibly with both the ensemble and the soloists. Every
instrument in Hill compositions has a role. The player is expected to serve
the music and be an individual. Haynes does exactly what is expected of
him—and more.
The well-recorded early 19605 set on Impulse Out of the Afternoon, with
Haynes as leader and featuring Rahsaan Roland Kirk (reeds), Tommy Flana-
gan (piano), and Henry Grimes (bass), is another must recording. The rea-
sons soon become apparent: Haynes's wonderful time; his sound and
articulation over the entire instrument; typical Haynes rhythmic counter-
point, which feeds the flow of the other instruments; his ideas, expressed
with an almost defiant buoyancy: his patient, colorful ballad performances—
and the Haynes solos. I've included in Appendix z the illuminating Karl Ster-
ling transcription of the drummer's solo on "Snap Crackle" from this
recording to further clarify his methods.
Pianist-composer Chick Corea has been a very important musician in
later phases of the drummer's career. Haynes first worked with him in the
Stan Getz band. One of the most influential Haynes records, Now He Sings,
Now He Sobs, was made with Corea in 1968. Now available on Blue Note,
it presents Corea, who often mirrors his Spanish background in his writing,
the musically literate, firm yet free bassist Miroslav Vitous, and Haynes,
enhancing the music and the work of his associates, very much in a give-
and-take mode. He plays the role of the percussionist. He concentrates on
communicating with colleagues, color, and his own view of time.
The three men engage in meaningful exchanges There are frequent
suggestions of a Latin base in this music. Haynes—a longtime devotee of
timbale drumming—more than suggests the Latin tinge, the underlying
reference in the music. Freedom, time signature variety, and some
abstraction are notable in the Corea pieces. But it's the physicality and
swing of the performances and their thoughtfulness that catch hold of you.
Try "Steps." What Haynes does is a matter of true improvisation. His work
here tells you a lot about his techniques and how very potent they can be.
162 The Innovator)

Two other continuing associations, with Gary Burton and Pat Metheny,
also have been very meaningful to Haynes for a number of years. The
music of both, like that of Corea, is adventurous yet never so far afield that
it loses connection with the central rhythmic root feelings of music.

GARY BURTON: He's the perfect guy for trying new stuff. He's a free soul with
extraordinary instincts—much less tied to the traditional drummer's role
than almost anyone. He's a great model for how we all should be. There's this
tendency to go stale musically, to kind of get stuck at some point. And he
never does.
We've been together since the 19608 in a variety of situations—with Stan
Getz and in my bands. Roy takes chances if he's attracted by the possibili-
ties of anything. When he first played in my band, with Larry Cory ell
[guitar] and Steve Swallow [bass], we were young guys with long hair and
beads, involved in the jazz/rock thing. Roy dug what we were trying to do,
though he must have been given grief by people of his own age. They must
have said: "Man, what are you doing playing that weird music with those
kids?" But it "happened," because Roy can play anything with anybody and
make it right for everyone.

The first record of consequence that Haynes made with Burton was
Duster, for RCA with Coryell and Swallow. A mixed bag stylistically, it has
continuity and energy. It's convincing and reiterates a very important point
about Haynes: it matters not the sort of music that Roy Haynes interprets;
he opens himself to it and adds something of himself. Try "One, Two,
1-2-3-4," a fast and liberated Burton-Coryell collaboration. One musician
stirs and stimulates another, and the music opens up, making you feel and
think. Haynes is in his element. He's part complementer, part colorist, part
freedom rider—always an improviser.
Burton and Haynes revisit each another in an excellent Concord CD,
Like Minds, released as the 19908 were coming to a close. It brings together
Haynes, Burton, Corea, bassist Dave Holland, and the guitarist, composer,
and contemporary music star Pat Metheny—still another important present-
day Haynes collaborator. The CD has unusual balance. The compositions
are apt vehicles for the players—meaningful lines to which much can easily
be added. Music is the controlling mechanism and prime concern. All the
musicians contribute; this is not a star-time project.
The melodiously informed pieces are by Metheny, Corea, Burton, and
George Gershwin. The improvising has range but remains close to the
beauty aspect of things. Haynes is quiet and effective, articulating with
striking clarity, particularly when playing the time on a cymbal. He has a
great touch and sensitivity to dynamics. Try "Soon" by Gershwin and "For
a Thousand Years" by Metheny. On the latter, Haynes makes the hi-hat
cymbals sigh with pleasure. He provides the sort of positive rhythmic
experience you seek and seldom find.

PAT METHENY: I feel instantly comfortable with Roy Haynes. He's so easy to
play with, so fun, because everything is so perfectly subdivided and perfectly
enunciated. He's so fluent rhythmically with every little thing he does that
you can fit right inside it.
To play effectively with Roy, you have to be confident and secure as a
 Roy Hayim 163

The always stylish Roy Haynes embracing a new snare drum. The year: 2000.
Photo by John Abbot. Courtesy Yamaha drums.

musician. You have to know where you are in the song and where you are in
the bar—because his whole thing is displacement. The people who seem to
enjoy playing with Roy the most are those who are pretty advanced rhyth-
mically.
His stuff is very complex, but at the same time, it sounds simple and
inviting. The way he makes the subdivision between the hands and feet is the
essence of his style.
i6<t The Innovator)
KENNY WASHINGTON: Roy plays like a man on a tightrope. Even when you
think he's going to fall, he gets it together. The sound of the instrument and
how he plays it is always in my ear. I'm fascinated by the way he handles
time, the way he shuffles the beat around, the way he manipulates it—instead
of playing "2" and "4" on the hi-hat, he might play "1" and "3."
He can bring you to the edge of your seat. You say: "Wait a minute!" But
then he'll do something else and come out on "1" and you'll say: "Oh, okay."
You can't typecast Roy Haynes. He does everything. Tony [Williams], Elvin
[Jones], Clifford Jarvis—all those guys come from Roy. Within a few beats,
in 4/4 time, he can take a listener around the world.

Now that the world has found Roy Haynes at last, it's making up for lost
time and perhaps a sense of guilt. Awards and honors, large and small,
frequently come his way. The press salutes his "startling" talent and his
capacity to survive and grow. This is somewhat reassuring to all of those
who have admired him for so long. That talent can ultimately win lessens
cynicism.
In his mid-seventies as this is being written, Roy Haynes has lost nothing
with the passage of time—a rare situation indeed. The drummer's records
of the 19905 (on Dreyfus, a French label) with his own band, featuring Dave
Kikoski, a fine young pianist, document his continuing capacity to be better
and better.
His palette is larger; his technique has grown. His talent is well cared for
and lustrous. Always sage and sensitive in his management of drums and
cymbals, he makes each experience pay its way. Every part of the kit—from
the unknown corners of the snare to the tom-toms and cymbals to the rims
of all the drums—plays a role in his classy offerings. Drums have revealed
their special secrets to him. Try Haynes's opening on "Like This," the first
track of Te Vous, a CD on Dreyfus. It fits and flatters like the expensive
clothing he favors.
Roy Haynes has the fancy cars, the great clothes, the bread, the fine
ladies, the home, the comforts—all the trappings of success. Why not? You
should get what you deserve.

SHELLY MANNE (1920-1980

He was a special and unique person. I've never known anybody
quite like him. He was successful in everything he did—playing
jazz, doing studio work, having a band, conducting his busi-
ness, his life, his marriage.
—Russ FREEMAN

Shelly Manne had a special talent for music and life. Affable, honest, and
caring, funny and open, a man with no secret agendas, he knew early on
what was important. Surprisingly, disappointing relationships with his
parents shaped and put him on the right track. As troubling as they were,
these difficulties were handled with unusual sagacity. Manne became
everything his parents weren't.
 Jhellij fflanne 165

Shelly Manne with Stan Kenton. The site: the Century Room of New York's
Commodore Hotel. The year: 1947. Courtesy Modern Drummer Publications.

A lonely child and teenager, he reached out to others for what had not
been forthcoming from his mother and dad. Genius drummer-teacher-
inventor Billy Gladstone, violinist Frank Siegfried, and trombonist Gordon
Pulis—all of the Radio City Music Hall orchestra—became his mentors. The
key three, older brother Stan and his wife Millie—with whom he spent a lot
of time—and friends, notably the great runner Les McMitchell, offered
compensatory warmth, the quality of life lacking at home.
Manne's wife Flip picks up the story.

FLIP MANNE: Shelly was fond of his dad and admired him as a percussionist.
But Max seemed to lose interest in his son because the marriage to Anna,
Shelly's mother, was not working. There was a younger "other woman." A
i66 The Innovator)

Reno divorce was the result. Not a whole lot of money was provided for
Shelly and his mother. Max remarried and drifted away.
Shelly stayed with his mother, then with brother Stan and his wife, and
again with his mother for a while after the divorce before going out on his
own and living in hotels adjacent to Broadway that catered to musicians.
Shelly was left to figure out most things for himself. He ate out a good deal,
making the best of his limited funds—at Chock-Full-'o-Nuts and spaghetti
places that served big portions for little money. Pressed to meet daily
expenses, he worked after school as an usher at the Music Hall.
Whenever he wasn't ushering, Shelly was with Billy Gladstone or with the
backstage doorman Pop Hanneford, who shared his great interest in base-
ball and the New York Yankees. Hanneford got him passes for box seats at
Yankee Stadium. Shelly loved sports; he ran track at George Washington
High School in Manhattan and became New York City cross-country cham-
pion. He was also a table tennis champion and loved riding horses.

SHELLY MANNE: My father and two uncles were drummers and very much
involved in various aspects of entertainment. But they never encouraged me
to play drums. Billy Gladstone is the one who got me involved in drumming.
I had studied alto saxophone for six months, at my dad's suggestion. But it
didn't feel right.
I was just eighteen when I decided I had to play drums. The sound of the
instrument, which had been so much a part of my life, was one of the things
that attracted me. To start, I used an old drum set that was in the storeroom
of the Music Hall. I played in and around town—mostly for free.
Later, when I got my first real job on an ocean liner, Billy took me to
Manny's Music Store on West 48th Street, not far from the Music Hall, and
traded the saxophone in for a set of Gretsch-Gladstone drums. Billy and
Frank Siegfried paid the balance. My dad didn't want to have anything to do
with the whole thing.
That day was memorable in still another way. I met Basic drummer Jo
Jones for the first time. He was very encouraging and gave me a pair of 6A
sticks. I used that model for years.
I'll never forget my first lesson with Billy, right after we bought the new
set of drums. He took me back to the Music Hall—downstairs where the
musicians had their quarters—to a room where the percussion instruments
were stored. Billy showed me how to set up the drums and how to hold the
sticks. He talked about playing the hi-hat and moved me into the right posi-
tion. Then he put "Topsy" by the Basie band on the phonograph, and as he
walked out of the room he said: "PLAY!" Billy's "lesson" set the tone for my
entire career.
The first people who moved me toward jazz, aside from Billy, were Frank
Siegfried and Gordon Pulis. One night late in 1937, shortly before I began
playing, we went to the Golden Gate Ballroom in Harlem to hear trumpeter
Roy Eldridge's band. These guys had just come east after a successful stand
at the Three Deuces in Chicago.
That band was a revelation. I didn't understand exactly what was
happening, but I was so moved! The band was cooking hard! Everyone in the
ballroom was into the music. What seemed like five thousand people swayed
and danced. The floor bounced up and down. I knew right then that I had
to be a part of this thing!
 thellij Marine 167

That night in Harlem remains with me. Roy up front, really blowing!
Three saxophones moaning behind him on wonderful tunes like "Wabash
Stomp" and "Florida Stomp." Joe Eldridge, his brother, was in the band,
playing alto. The drummer was Hal "Doc" West. We became quite friendly a
little later on 52nd Street.

JIM CHAPIN: Shelly was very brave. Even when he couldn't really play, he'd
sit in with major people. He developed "playing chops"—a certain level of
facility. He always related strongly to the music, much like Jo Jones.
We used to spend a lot of time together because we started at about the
same time and had mutual interests. I was studying with Sanford "Gus"
Moeller, and he was getting pointers from the great Billy Gladstone. Unlike a
number of drummers, Shelly never concentrated heavily on development of
technique and great dexterity. A bunch of us did—Krupa, Louie Bellson,
Allen Paley, Alvin Stoller, Lou Fromm, myself, and a few others attempted to
combine the formal and informal sides of drumming in the best way possible.
Shelly took what he wanted from his meetings with Billy—stuff that would
help him play. He spent little time practicing and a lot of time playing and
listening. That's better in many ways. If you spend most of your time playing
and practicing that much by yourself, you become used to hearing yourself—
alone. Understand? You don't hear yourself in relation to other people.
Unless you realize the limitations of that situation and do both things—prac-
ticing and playing, alone and performing with other musicians—you can have
real problems out in the world.
Shelly knew exactly what he wanted to do. Being a speed merchant wasn't
it. He loved Jo Jones—his creativity and taste—and, of course, Davey Tough.
Time and becoming a part of the music were his thing.

Because Manne was an almost constant presence in the $znd Street

clubs—much as Ed Shaughnessy would be a few years later—he was noticed
by club owners and the players. The young man, who looked considerably
younger than he was, got special treatment from management because of
his quiet enthusiasm for the music and because the musicians sensed they
were dealing with a natural player who knew what to do—even at the
beginning.
Manne had a feeling for time that expressed itself in lively, firm, uplifting
pulsation. He interacted particularly well with the other players, bringing
into play ornamentation that moved the musicians and the music forward.
He stayed out of the way, allowing fellow musicians to think and be secure
as they developed their solos.
Often Manne came up with a provocative idea or two of his own. Older,
more experienced drummers like Jimmy Crawford, the Jimmie Lunceford
band star, asked the kid how he did certain things, notably with brushes.
Young Manne was quite flattered by the attention.
5ind Street jazzmen, his mentors, were very paternal and protected
Manne from unlikely people and situations. The great tenor saxophonist
Ben Webster, big and often threatening, didn't let the bad element get close
to his young friend. He would gruffly announce to any and all: "You see
him? [pointing to the tall, lanky drummer] He's with me!"
Manne's first job for money was playing with a society dance band on
the SS Roosevelt, which made the run between New York and Le Havre,
i68 The Innovator)

France. His ability to read music was limited, but despite his lack of
experience, he managed to do what had to be done—much to the surprise
of his father.
It soon became clear to Manne that the music played on "the boats"
wasn't for him. The opportunity to travel and see new places and things
and meet interesting people didn't seem inviting after two trips, covering
three months. He returned to The Street.

MANNE: The Street was a garden—a very special place where you could learn
and grow. Young players were reassured and given the courage to be them-
selves. Competition and the question of race never came up.
From the first time I went to hear alto saxophonist Pete Brown with
Arthur Herbert on drums at the old Kelly's Stable—which, incidentally, was
on West 51st Street—until I stopped working and sitting in at those clubs,
the players I met were a constant source of inspiration and encouragement.
I'm proud the musicians liked what I did. I kept it simple and didn't mess
up. I would sit in at Kelly's with Pete Brown and all kinds of people. I had a
lot of fun with Kenny Watts and his Kilowatts. Kenny was the pianist; his
band included bass, piano, drums, and three kazoo players. The group
played Basie charts. I loved that!
Leslie Millington, the bassist with Pete Brown, took me around; he was
my guide, my teacher. Unfortunately, most people don't do that anymore.

One night Ray McKinley, one of the great drummers of the Swing Era,
came into Kelly's Stable.

RAY MCKINLEY: I heard Shelly and thought he was really good. Trombonist
Bobby Byrne had been in Jimmy Dorsey's band the same time I was. Lo and
behold, he had become a leader and didn't have a drummer. I asked Shelly
if he would be interested in going with the band. He seemed surprised and a
bit nervous about the whole thing. I assured him it was a young band and he
would like it.

At best, the job with Bobby Byrne was an "educational" experience.

Manne had played very little with big bands. Not only that, his reading skills
were questionable. Because of the Ray McKinley recommendation, Byrne
hired him. He toured with the band for a little while, then opened with the
blond trombonist at the Glen Island Casino in New Rochelle, New York.
Attractive, tastefully decorated, with windows all around the large main
room, most of them facing Long Island Sound, the casino drew big crowds.
A favorite of the college set, it was considered a "nice" place to go. Not
only that, the well-known suburban dining and dancing spot was one of the
primary launching pads for bands in the East. It offered many things to a
leader seeking to reach out to the public. There were ten coast-to-coast
airshots each week. Near enough to New York City to draw music business
heavyweights and the press, the Glen Island Casino could "make" a band.
Though the Byrne organization was a bit stiff and hadn't come up with
an identifiable style and sound, the smooth trombonist's backers had great
hopes. A year earlier, in 1939, the relatively unheralded Glenn Miller band
had spent the summer at the Glen Island Casino and became a major success.
Manne, unfortunately, brought little to Byrne's music. He kept good time.
 Nielli) Marine 169

The guys in the band liked him. But he was lacking in know-how. The
records he cut with the band for Decca make this clear. A few weeks into the
summer engagement at the casino, he was given his notice. Byrne's managers
had been negotiating with other drummers for several weeks. Manne felt an
aching sense of failure.

ABE SIEGEL: Shelly and I roomed together on the Byrne band. Before I
became a bass player, I had been a drummer. So I had an understanding of
the instrument and how it should be played in a big band. After a little while,
I realized Shelly wasn't aware what a big band drummer was supposed to do.
I tried to be helpful, not critical.
Management decided the band didn't have spark—and that it was Shelly's
fault. He was replaced by Dick Farrell, who was far more technical and
flashy, in the Gene Krupa style favored back then. Dick had played with big
bands and could take long, crowd-pleasing solos. That's what they wanted.
The night Shelly was fired, we sat in the room and talked until past three
in the morning. He said: "I guess I'm through; I might as well sell my drums."
And I said: "You haven't even started! You've got the talent. Just go back to
New York. Hang out in studios where the bands rehearse. Listen! Sit in!
Learn all the techniques—what and how to play in a big band. You'll do well.
Don't be discouraged!"
A year or so later, he introduced me to people as his teacher. I was happy
to help. He went on from there and followed through. I'm grateful I got to
know him.

There were no schools back then where you could find out things. It was
a matter of being out there where it was happening: going to jam sessions
and band rehearsals, sitting in with groups at clubs, working as much as
you could, listening to the music and the advice of older players. Manne
wasn't lazy. He did everything he had to—and more.

TONY SCOTT: I remember playing with Shelly at a Chinese restaurant in 1940.

Marty Brown was on bass and Marty Napoleon on piano. There was more
than a little work for jazz musicians in Chinese places. I liked what Shelly
did; there was a lot of Dave Tough in him in those years. I know for sure that
Ben Webster dug the way he played.

Manne and other young New York players who used Manhattan as a
base frequently traveled on the subway to other boroughs for rehearsals,
jobs, or jam sessions. Inconvenience meant nothing to them.
Trombonist Eddie Bert recalls that Manne subbed with the Hal Gill big
band, a particularly good group of kid musicians in the Bronx that played
theaters in the borough and ultimately at Loew's State downtown. This was
one of many jazz/dance units around New York in which young players
could get the kind of experience that would help them move to the next level.
Exciting things began happening before Manne went into the Coast
Guard in 1942,. Very suddenly, in 1941, he found himself in a much sought-
after position. Luck, circumstances, and his talent played equivalent roles in
making this possible. For a time, he sat in for Dave Tough in the Joe Marsala
group at New York's Hickory House. Benny Goodman came in one night,
looking for Tough, and heard Manne.
170 The Innovator)

MANNE: Benny sat right next to the bandstand. The group was in the center
of the Hickory's circular bar. It scared the hell out of me that Benny was
there. He stayed awhile, then left after talking to Joe Marsala. When the set
was over, Joe said: "Benny liked the way you play. I think he's going to ask
you to go with the band." I said: "You've got be kidding!"
Well, sure enough, Benny Goodman called later that night and said: "Hey,
kid, you want to come with my band to the President's Ball in Washington,
D.C., tomorrow?" And I said: "Oh, yes, Mr. Goodman." I had to be at Penn-
sylvania Station on 34th Street at noon to take the train to Washington with
the band.
I got there quite early and sat there by myself with my one suitcase and
bag of cymbals. Finally, they began filing in—Goodman and some of his big
stars, Georgie Auld, Charlie Christian, Cootie Williams, and singer Helen
Forrest—and the rest of the guys. I started getting cold chills.
I was okay with the band. I didn't read too well, so the big band charts
were kind of a mystery. But I knew the recordings—the Eddie Sauter charts
the band played a lot, like "Benny Rides Again," "Superman," and "Clar-
inet a la King." That helped.
I played well in the trio, quartet, and quintet because that's the kind of
thing I had been doing on 52nd Street. I stayed with Goodman for about a
week until Dave Tough became available. It was a kind of funny experience
for someone so young. I'd only been playing drums for a year and half or so.
But it gave me confidence.

When Tough went back with Goodman, Manne took his seat with the
Marsala group. In March of 1941, he recorded with a Marsala eight-piecer
for Decca and was featured on an original called "Bull's Eye." The
performance is illuminating though rather atypical. A comment on the
drummer's increasing competence, it has little in common stylistically with
most of his other work. The focus on rudiments and technique and a
suggestion of flash were not typical Shelly Manne.
Admittedly, the way the tune is structured and phrased—its staccato feel-
ing, in particular—sets up and motivates this sort of performance. The com-
position approximates in some ways something Raymond Scott might have
written for one of his unusual small groups of the late 19308 that recorded
for Columbia. Manne sounds more like Johnny Williams—Scott's facile per-
cussionist—and Gene Krupa than his idols Dave Tough and Jo Jones.
The young drummer's playing concept, discounting this rare exception,
stemmed from the philosophy of Tough and Jones. They felt you had to
make a band sound good, to help, accompany, develop what was played, be
the best supporting player you could be.

MAJVNE: I don't believe in letting your hands control you. I have my own view
of technique. It's only a means to an end, not an end in itself. I don't think
your hands should have the final say in what you're going to do. What you
play should be controlled by your heart and your head, and they should
deliver the message to your hands.
Some drummers become so technically facile that their hands do their
thinking for them. They automatically do things that they've been practicing
and consequently their playing is somewhat on the cold side. I feel you have
to let the music tell you what to do.
 ihelly (llanne 171

Manne always basically distrusted having an abundance of technique,

feeling it would adversely affect the natural quality of a performance. He
was right, certainly, about technical temptation—the overwhelming concern
many drummers have about technique, sometimes to the exclusion of the
music itself. It is my contention that a drummer has many more options if
he/she develops hands and feet and combines performance ease and facility
with the taste and instincts awakened and stirred by the music.
In 1941, Manne joined the Bob Astor band, an important and develop-
mental experience for the young drummer. Astor wanted to swing! In his
jumping assemblage, at one time or another, were several soon-to-be bright
lights of the jazz scene. Among them trumpeters Tony Faso, Les Elgart, Ernie
Figueroa, Joe Cifreli, and Neal Hefti; trombonists Bob Lord—a Native
American—and Irv Dinkin; saxophonists Ray Beller, Al (Young) Epstein,
Larry Elgart, Dave Pell, and Tony Scott; pianist Marty Napoleon, bassist
Marty Brown, and arranger George "the Fox" Williams, who came into his
own with the Gene Krupa band a few years later.
Prior to coming to New York in 1940, Astor, a close friend of Charlie
Barnet, had fronted a mixed band on the West Coast, something quite
unusual in Southern California. He was a very hip guy, musically and
sartorially. His wardrobe, according to Down Beat critic Michael Levin,
"made Broadwayites look gray by comparison." When he put together his
thirteen-piece New York ensemble—three trumpets, two trombones, five
reeds, three rhythm—Manne and Napoleon got most of the men.
The band strongly mirrored the collective influences of Count Basic and
Jimmie Lunceford. It impressed the music community but, unfortunately,
didn't last too long and never was recorded. The Astorians' most memorable
engagement: an entire summer at the Wigwam Ballroom in Budd Lake, New
Jersey.

MICHAEL LEVIN: Astor squatted down at New Jersey's Budd Lake and blew
the twigs right out of the Wigwam Ballroom. They still talk about how loud
and how good that band was. Even Barnet, who at the time was fronting one
of his murderously potent bands, shook his head in simple awe at the quan-
tity of sound, swingingly used, that came out of the Astorians.1

While with the band, Manne began to define his own approach to the
instrument.

MARTY NAPOLEON: Shelly loved Basie! At Budd Lake, we used to sit in his
room and listen to Basie on his little phonograph. He carried it around with
him all the time. One of the Basie things that he played for everyone was
"Song of the Islands," with the band and Buck [Clayton], Basie, Pres [Lester
Young], and Jo [Jones] swinging as only they could.
Shelly became my favorite drummer because he had such great time and
natural ability. His pulse lifted you right up. I remember he autographed a
picture for me, as a memento of our happy experience in the Astor band. The
inscription reads PLAY BASIE! in big letters.

Lou BROWN: I kept running into the Astor band's manager at the Piccadilly
Hotel, near the Paramount Theater. He always talked about Shelly. He was
very enthusiastic about him . . . and Neal Hefti. [A pause for a chuckle.]
172 The innovator)

There also was a lot of excitement about the girl singer with the Astor band
because she was built so great. Man, she really got everyone's attention!

AL EPSTEIN: Shelly was one of the few young drummers who really could
swing. He got away from Gene Krupa—type thumping into a smoother, more
musical thing. Shelly was aggressive—the driving force of the Bob Astor
band. Playing with that band was a wonderful experience. We were all
young, and it was such a fun, happy time.

When the Astor band's bookings diminished, Manne took a job with
Raymond Scott. The band played unusual, exacting arrangements that put
extra pressure on the drummer. He stayed on for several months before
joining the Will Bradley organization. Many of the former Bob Astor
musicians had been hired by trombonist Bradley.
With Ray McKinley as co-leader, the Bradley band had done well. Its
Columbia recordings of boogie-woogie material, showcasing McKinley's
drumming, singing, and entertaining personality, had helped the boogie-
woogie style catch on all over the country. Bradley's mellifluous ballad
playing gave the ensemble a sense of balance.
Manne replaced McKinley after he had left to form his own band. For
three months, beginning in early 1942., he played the sort of time that kept
the band and Bradley happy. He sang, from the drums, several of the
numbers that McKinley had made famous, including "Beat Me Daddy Eight
to the Bar." It was clear that Manne felt no discomfort in the spotlight and
knew the value of showmanship.
During his stay with Bradley, the drummer established a friendship with
trumpeter-arranger Shorty Rogers that would last for the rest of his life.

SHORTY ROGERS: I was playing a job with a kid band in the Bronx and Will
Bradley came to the gig and sat in. He must have dug what I was doing,
because he asked me to give him a call in two weeks, after I graduated high
school. He said he was revamping the band, that a job would be held for me.
It was a thrill. I was only seventeen.
When I went to rehearsal, there was Shelly at the drums. This was the first
time we actually met. He sounded just great! We worked on the road for a
short while. The music was pretty good—a mix of straight jazz, ballads, and
some boogie-woogie. But the draft really cut into the band. All of a sudden,
I think it was in Denver, Will just gave up. And we moved on.

Manne went with Les Brown in May of 1942. There were some excellent
players in the band: trumpeter Billy Butterfield, trombonist Si Zentner,
clarinetist Abe Most. Baritone saxophonist and novelty singer Butch Stone
and the drummer became close friends. Both loved off-center humor and
kept the band laughing on and off the stand.
The Brown band wasn't among Manne's most memorable experiences.
Though many musicians liked the band, it didn't have the feel Manne
favored. The Brown library was filled with good, colorful dance and
jazz charts—all played in a tight, precise, essentially "straight" manner.
This didn't quite fit with Manne's increasingly liberated conception of
pulsation. It was inevitable that there would be a parting of the ways. What
 Jhellij fflanne 173
remains of this brief moment in the drummer's career is a wartime movie,
Seven Days Leave, which starred Victor Mature and Lucille Ball and the
Brown band.
Manne's style was evolving. He had met and begun to spend time with
Dizzy Gillespie and drummer Kenny Clarke and sat in during their sessions
at Kelly's Stable, downtown, and at Minton's Playhouse, uptown. Unlike a
number of other drummers with "swing" bands, Manne was drawn to
change and felt challenged by what he heard in the new music. He sensed
modern jazz would open up many possibilities for the drummer.
Not long after he had recorded with the Andrews Sisters in 1942., and
just before the onset of the first record ban, Shelly Manne went into the
Coast Guard. The three years in uniform were not without musical benefits.
He was assigned to the Coast Guard Band at Manhattan Beach in Brooklyn.
It was to be for the duration. Though it didn't turn out quite that way, the
situation was one for which he was grateful. He was a subway ride away
from Manhattan—his beloved 52,nd Street, the rehearsal and recording
studios, and Harlem. Lou Brown, pianist and musical director for Dean
Martin and Jerry Lewis, then for Lewis after the team broke up, was in the
Coast Guard Band with Manne.

Lou BROWN: The band was terrible. But we couldn't really complain. Other
than playing for dances, shows, parades, and such things, we had no other
duties to speak of. We could rest up and sleep during the day and go into
Manhattan at night. There was some difficulty with "career" noncommis-
sioned officers who tried to instill "discipline" in the musicians. But somehow
we got around that.
Shelly spent almost every night and early morning on 52nd Street and at
after-hour places, like the Two 0'Clock Club on Broadway, sitting in. He
grabbed the last possible subway to make it back to the base early in the
A.M.—before reveille.
Getting to know more about drums was very important to Shelly. So I put
him together with Irving Porgman, a famous old drummer who boarded with
my parents in Brooklyn. Irv Cottier, Sinatra's drummer for so many years,
always came along for those little learning sessions. He was Porgman's
student. The three drummers discussed and played all kinds of "beats" and
patterns during their visits. The "noise" made my mother crazy. She'd say
in Yiddish: "Why can't you boys play a nice instrument like the violin or
the cello?"
Because Shelly and I had a lot of free time while at Manhattan Beach,
some great opportunities came our way. I played an engagement at the
Capitol Theater with the newly formed Gene Krupa band—"That Swings
With Strings"—in 1944. That same year, Shelly filled in for Dave Tough with
Woody Herman on the Old Gold radio show. We even did a few weeks at
Camp Milford, a summer resort in Connecticut.
It wasn't all fun and games, though. Shelly and I shipped out because of a
change in policy at Manhattan Beach, sailing to India and back, playing for
the troops we picked up from the CBI—the China, Burma, India theater of
operations. We were on the ship for a whole year and went to the Middle East
and Australia as well. What it amounted to was two and a half years at
Manhattan Beach and one year playing at sea.
i7<i The Innovator)

Manne was in New York City much of the time during the evolution of
bebop. He played with the innovators, moving inside the new music,
becoming a part of that environment. This put him miles ahead of the
preponderance of musicians in the military. When they came out of the
service, after having been away for several years, bebop was a total surprise
and sometimes a source of intimidation.
Manne recorded with Dizzy Gillespie on small band dates, with the Boyd
Raeburn band—which featured Gillespie and mirrored what was happening
in his music, and in other situations in which Gillespie was the central focus.
The drummer's buoyant performances with the thoughtful, dynamic, often
humorous trumpeter satisfy on several levels. "Blue and Boogie," featuring
Gillespie, tenorist Dexter Gordon, guitarist Chuck Wayne, pianist Frank
Paparelli, and bassist Murray Shipinsky, originally on Guild, is an excellent
example of what Manne was doing by the mid-i94os. He projects the
pleasure he felt making music in a new way. Though not yet fully developed
as a modernist, he gives every indication of having the sound in his ears, the
offbeat rhythms and "feel" of the music in his mind and body.
Manne's multiple experiences in music, and certainly his admirable time
and instincts, made possible performances over a wide range of styles and
material. They enabled him to make recordings with young men like himself
who were excited by bebop. His work with Coleman Hawkins's Swing Four
(e.g., "The Man I Love," with an exemplary Manne performance with
brushes) was widely praised. He went into the studio with pianist Eddie
Heywood, with the distinctive, Johnny Hodges-derived altoist Johnny
Bothwell and the Raeburn band, with Flip Phillips, and with others during
this period. He proved that firm, buoyant time works, regardless of the
context.
Most of these recordings were made for Bob Thiele's Signature label. At
this juncture, Manne had not only the wherewithal to play with them all
but the built-in sensitivity and the learning capacity that permitted him to
keep moving ahead.
By this time, the increasingly versatile drummer, still in his early twenties,
had married Radio City Rockette Florence "Flip" Butterfield. It was a
perfect pairing—so unlike the relationship between his mother and father.
There was mutual trust, a depth of feeling, a quiet acceptance of one by the
other.
The couple moved into a tiny apartment on West 52,nd Street across the
way from the Onyx Club and over a French restaurant. The music was all
around them. When Manne was away in the service, Ben Webster and other
musician friends walked Flip home after her late shows at the Music Hall.
Manne was discharged from the Coast Guard in October of 1945. He
began working in radio in New York and continued the growth process on
5 2nd Street.
All the things Manne could do became a matter of common knowledge
in the music community. The stage was set for something major to happen.
One night, at the behest of his guitarist Bob Ahern and bassist Eddie Safran-
ski, Stan Kenton came into the Three Deuces on 5 2nd Street, where Manne
was working with his own group: Allen Eager (tenor), Eddie Finckel (piano),
and Bob Carter (bass). Kenton had been going through one drummer after
another, seeking the right player. That evening, the charismatic leader
decided that Shelly was the man.
 ihellij fllanne 175

The drummer joined the Kenton colossus at the AdamsTheater in

Newark, replacing Charlie Perry, on February 2,3, 1946. It immediately
became apparent that Manne could bring vitality to this large, sometimes
ponderous orchestra. He was a source of color, variety, and whatever
subtlety was possible in this large, loud ensemble. More than that, Manne
conceptually modernized the rhythmic feeling of the Kenton orchestra,
adding significantly to its musicality and swing.
His humor and showmanship on the bandstand were great assets to
Kenton. If you saw and heard Manne with the orchestra at a presentation
theater like New York's Paramount, he left no doubt that he made a great
difference—on a variety of levels.

BOB COOPER: Shelly was an inspiration to me and everyone else in the band.
He had already done a lot and knew so much, particularly about bebop—the
new music we all were getting into. We learned from him. His playing gave
the Kenton band new life. Whatever he did seemed to turn out right. We
became friends right away.

PETE RUGOLO: Shelly and I spent a number of years together on the bus, doing
all the one-nighters. Stan loved Shelly; we all did. We felt he was the most
creative drummer of them all. I palled around with him. I guess I was pretty
square—didn't drink or smoke anything. Neither did Shelly. He and Flip and
I liked good food, and we kept trying new restaurants in various towns and
cities. Stan was good about letting the wives travel with us. We were on the
road almost all the time. Flip was wonderful. She came to all the concerts and
dances.

FLIP MANNE: I was on the road with Shelly for six years. He admired Stan
tremendously. He struggled a lot because there was never any help from
anyone in the rhythm section, including Stan, who was up front a lot of the
time. Shelly had to carry the whole band.

ART PEPPER: Shelly loved to play. He never was into drugs, drinking—
anything wrong. The only thing he did was smile and be happy. On the road
with Stan, he made the best of an impossible situation. I'd be so dragged and
unhappy about the lousy circumstances, traveling on the bus what seemed
like forever between dates, putting your band uniform on in the back of the
bus. But it didn't make Shelly mad. I never once heard him put anything
down. He'd smile and say: "Here we go. We're really going to swing tonight!"
And he played great, always played great. He was completely content that he
was given this talent, this gift.

EDDIE BERT: I sat next to Shelly for about eight or nine months in 1947 in the
"progressive jazz" Kenton band. He was fantastic with rhythms. That was
what was happening in the band. Poly rhythms. Rhythm against rhythm—
layers of rhythm like in Latin music. Stan was moving into a Latin/jazz
fusion.
Shelly could play a different rhythm in each hand, another with the left
foot, and still another with the right. He switched time signatures in a
minute—4/4 to 6/8, whatever. He was so smooth because he just felt and knew
how to cope with rhythms, pulsation, time signatures.
176 The Innovator)

The music the Kenton band played was technical. The drummer had to
be able to do a lot of things. Shelly did what had to be done and sounded
like himself. He'd play differently on every composition or arrangement,
setting up and supporting the ensemble and the sections, helping each
soloist, adjusting to what the player was trying to say, inventing sounds and
rhythms. Shelly was always looking for new ways to make the music better,
more exciting. Most of all he loved to swing. But there were times on the
Kenton band when that was impossible.

ALAN DAWSON: In 1947, about a year after Shelly joined Kenton, I caught him
with the band at the RKO Theater in Boston, then at a jam session at Ort's
Grill during that same theater engagement.
I admired his ability to be adventurous while keeping the band together.
Shelly was the first drummer I heard who was into completely coordinated
independence. In other words, the cymbal rhythm did not vary and he
played all kinds of things against it with his left hand and his feet. He was
helping to open up things and free the drummer.

More than anything else, Shelly Manne instilled in the Kenton band the
restlessness that was so typical of him as an artist. While in the organization,
he, like Kenton, was a catalyst for change.
Working for Kenton was an easy and often a very happy experience for
Manne. Kenton, a gracious, caring person, looked after his players and their
wives and families. But playing Kenton music and the instrumentation itself
(ten brass, five reeds, four rhythm; later the band was even larger) made
often unreasonable demands on a drummer. It was a battle that Manne
won. But he ultimately became combat weary.

MANNE: Big band playing requires great flexibility and strength. The
drummer has to bend and give and pull and shove and move with the band
and still keep that swinging motion going. You're one of the key people in the
large ensemble—along with the first trumpet player and the section leaders—
and can shove the band any way you want. But it's hard work.

The drummer reaped benefits from the Kenton experience. As the band
changed and expanded its musical horizons, becoming more than a
relatively commercial, blustery presence, Manne had to call on untapped
capacities, new ways and means to make the music work.
Beginning in the mid-i94os, Kenton found an enthusiastic, ever-growing,
devoted audience. His music seemingly spoke to the postwar young and
veterans of World War II. The enveloping, orgasmic sound of the orchestra
had a hypnotic quality. The general feeling was that Kenton was hip. And
though many critics disagreed vehemently, supporters of the orchestra
would have none of that. They loved with a passion this vivid, often stirring,
immoderately loud music that made them feel good and seemed to promise
something for the future.

BUD SHANK: To tell you the truth, I can't imagine the Stan Kenton band with
another drummer. Shelly had that positive thing going on. And it got over to
the guys in the band. He was a real leader. Let me put it this way, man. As far
 Jhellij fflanne 177

as I'm concerned, he was the leader of Stan Kenton's band—at least when I
was with Stan during the Innovations period, 1950—51.
Everything musical started with Shelly. He didn't do any of the writing.
But whenever an arrangement was brought in, it ended up sounding good
because of what Shelly did. He kept his ears open and let the music talk to
him. So many times, he'd crack us up with one of his jokes, and that put the
band in the right mood. He was marvelous that way.
Shelly was probably the most musical drummer I ever played with. He was
moving beyond just playing time and swinging. He was into melodies and
making music. The attention Shelly paid to tuning his drums, just so, made
"melodic" playing more than possible.

GERRY MULLIGAN: Shelly was so thoughtful in a big band setting. What he did
became a part of the music. He played the hell out of the charts I wrote for
Stan in the early 1950s. He sensed just how my things should be done. I was
trying for something else, which oddly enough had an effect on other writers.
I don't think Stan cared for my charts. He liked music stacked up in impres-
sive vertical structures. I always favored economy—horizontal moving things.

The Kenton years helped prepare Shelly Manne for the work he would
do in California after he left the road. Reviewing the recordings and
broadcasts over the six years—on and off—that Manne occupied the
drummer's chair in the orchestra, it becomes clear just how well he did.
He kept inventing things he and the drums could do. Already an excellent
modern jazz drummer, he moved ever more deeply into Kenton's music,
responding in a surprisingly apposite and provocative manner. Listen to "Art
Pepper" and "Maynard Ferguson," showcases fashioned by Shorty Rogers,
and Manny Albam's "Samana," all written for the Innovations Orchestra
(Stan Kenton—The Innovations Orchestra Capitol). These Shelly Manne
performances—and most of the others with that band—are personal and
"contemporary" yet very much in keeping with his original goals as a
drummer: to be strong, supportive, sensitive, and, if called for, to be a lead-
ing actor who motivates the rest of the cast.
Early in his association with Kenton, Manne made his position clear. He
and Pete Rugolo collaborated on a showcase piece, "Artistry in Percussion,"
integrating the drums with the orchestra in an economic yet striking way.
The Manne feature, included in the valuable Mosiac package The Complete
Studio Stan Kenton, 1943-1947, makes a statement, emphasizing Manne's
feeling that drums should be integrated into the music, enhance and comment
on it, not be a source of vaudeville flash and practice-pad-derived speed.
His need to swing, only partially satisfied during the Kenton association,
was fulfilled in other more compatible, short-lived contexts. When away
from the tall bandleader, he worked with Charlie Ventura's all-star group
(Kai Winding [trombone], Lou Stein [piano], Bob Carter [bass], Buddy
Stewart [vocals]); with a small band including Georgie Auld (tenor), Chubby
Jackson (bass), Howard McGhee or, later, Red Rodney (trumpet), and Lou
Levy (piano); with Jazz at the Philharmonic in the company of trumpeter
Fats Navarro, tenorist Flip Phillips, altoist Sonny Criss, pianist Hank Jones,
bassist Ray Brown, and others; and with the "trombone" band featuring
Bill Harris, Eddie Bert, Milt Gold (trombones), Carter (bass), and Lou Levy.
178 The Innovators

The drummer was very happy in the Woody Herman Second Herd. He
joined the band in 1949, replacing Shadow Wilson. When Don Lamond left
the Herman band to join Harry James in California, there was an enormous
space to fill. Several major drummers tried and failed. Then . . .

Lou LEVY: As soon as Shelly Manne hit the first four bars the day he joined
us, everybody in the band turned around and smiled. It was a totally
different feel than what Don had established—but it was wonderful.
Shelly's time thing was great. And it was his time. He didn't sound like
Philly Joe, Stan Levey, Tiny Kahn, Jo Jones, Dave Tough, or Chick Webb.
Yet all of them were in there, somehow. Anyone who is real good has a lot of
people in them.
And he was a pleasure to be around, so humorous and good-natured. Flip
used to cook for us after the gig in their hotel room. I remember some great
things she rustled up on her little electric grill.

Shelly Manne played who he was. The two recordings he made with the
Herman band (on Capitol) in 1949 tell the story. In a quietly intense, firm,
and reactive manner—more akin stylistically to an alert modern drummer's
behavior in a small band—he deftly brought a sense of continuity and
excitement to both Shorty Rogers's treatment of "How High the Moon"
("More Moon") and Johnny Mandel's excellent, blues-infused "Not Really
the Blues."
Manne conceptually changed the view of rhythm in the band,
emphasizing understatement. He added a tart flavoring to the time flow.
Perhaps most important, he didn't exceed his role, remaining a discreet yet
exciting timekeeper—a wise contributor.
In 1951, following the Kenton Innovations experiment, Shelly and Flip
Manne decided to get off the road and build a life in Los Angeles. It was one
of their most important and logical moves. Both got what they wanted: a
more musically challenging life for Shelly—indeed, his career really
blossomed; a less harried, far more stable situation for Flip; and for both,
at last, the opportunity to raise and ride horses in a physically appropriate
location. They had longed to do these things through the many years on the
band bus.
American jazz and popular and motion picture and television music
might well have been a bit different if the Mannes hadn't fixed upon this
California idea at that particular time. Other musicians out of the Kenton
and Herman bands, including Shorty Rogers, Jimmy Giuffre, Milt Bernhart,
Bob Cooper, Bud Shank, and Maynard Ferguson, also wanted to try to
make a new start in what was then a warm, sunny, appealing, friendly,
promising environment.
Manne and Rogers and the others encouraged friends to come and join
them. Gerry Mulligan made his way west and broke through to inter-
national recognition. Stan Levey, following a successful stint with Kenton,
settled there. Musicians not so widely known were drawn to the city. Record
companies opened up. Clubs began to dot the landscape. The jazz concert—
away from the smoke and sometimes bad manners of clubs—offered an
affirmative alternative. Although L.A. had for a long time been quite
conservative in many ways and was not centralized like other cities, it began
to have all the makings of an important music center.
 ihelly (Danne 179

The Manne in Hollywood—very much the successful studio and jazz musician. Stan
Levey Photography, Sherman Oaks, California.

The study of the art and craft of composition became a focal interest of
an increasing number of California-based musicians. Experimentation with
form, improvisation, and instrumentation was common. Several worlds of
music were interwoven in the writing. Adventure was in the air. So were a
few suggestions of hard blowing basic to New York, Chicago, Detroit,
Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Boston—the jazz wheel, where a number of the
players came from.
The Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach initially was the base and haven for
the people Shorty Rogers described to me as "the refugees." Rogers started
working there, and shortly thereafter Manne joined the band. This seven-
nights-a-week job made it possible for the drummer to become established
in California.

HOWARD RUMSEY: Shelly put the Lighthouse All-Stars on the map. The
people loved him. He had this ebullient manner and connected with audi-
i8o The Innovator)

ences. During the time Shelly was in the band, we played some great mate-
rial, much of it by Shorty and Jimmy Giuffre. It was a wonderful time for
all of us.

Manne helped destroy stereotypical notions regarding jazz musicians that

had been deeply embedded for so long in the minds of motion picture, TV,
and advertising executives. An extraordinary example of reliability,
creativity, "instant ability," and good feeling—in and out of the studios—
he made the major breakthrough into motion pictures and television. He
and a number of his colleagues began to be employed in media previously
closed to them.

FLIP MANNE: Bobby Heifer, a big contractor in Hollywood, made it possible

for Shelly to have a career in the studios. He hired him to play some very
complicated things for Rear Window, the Jimmy Stewart—Grace Kelly
picture for Alfred Hitchcock. Shelly sat down and just read them off, playing
the stuff perfectly.
There are many reasons for Shelly's success in the studios. He was very
quick and bright and kept picking things up as he went along. Nobody had
taught him to read. He learned timpani on his own. His natural talent and
his ambition made it possible for him to do a lot of things.
During our first years in Hollywood, there were wonderful writers at the
studios—many of them into jazz—like Andre Previn, Hank Mancini, Elmer
Bernstein, Leith Stevens, Billy Byers, Johnny Mandel, Jeff Alexander, Pete
Rugolo, and others. They gave Shelly freedom; they made it interesting and
challenging for him.

MANNE: In the studios you have to be a very good craftsman, sublimate your-
self to the orchestra, become part of the whole—be able to deal with any kind
of music and produce. You've got to be truly flexible and have something to
say.

ANDRE PREVIN: Shelly had no fear of anybody. There were certain people in
Hollywood he didn't want to play for. He felt they were frauds and wouldn't
accept work from them. Sure, there are frauds everywhere. But they seem
to be very public about it out there.
We worked a lot together in the studios, in clubs and concerts. One of the
things I admired about him musically was his complete rhythmic freedom.
He taught me a lot. We would be playing somewhere and he would suddenly
say: "Let's play five"—trade fives. That could drive me crazy, since he kept
playing across the bar line anyway. It meant harmonically you were always
one or two or three bars away from where you would ordinarily play. Shelly
would do things like that because suddenly he would think: "Let's see what
this feels like."

Despite his studio commitments, Manne remained active in jazz. He

worked as a sideman but mostly as a leader. And if you listen to the music
he made on countless recordings over thirty-three years in California, with
occasional trips to New York, it is clear that jazz was not only his passion
but something more: a central, motivating life force.
 Jhelly fllanne 181

What Manne offers over time is ever-increasing creativity and economy,

subtlety and variety—sounds, touches, rhythms particular to him. Together
they enhance in a major way a musical experience, difficult to fully put into
words.
He's as effective with Peggy Lee on her original recording of "Fever" as
he is with pianist Bill Evans, playing Billy May charts behind Frank Sinatra,
or making Shorty Rogers's small and big bands dance. His artfulness and
economy on big band collaborations with John Williams (Manne, That's
Gershwin and Shelly Manne—My Fair Lady With the UN-original Cast,
both on Capitol), are particularly memorable. The latter album is a culmi-
nation of a sort, containing some of his most potent and sharply honed
performances.
Consider the music that asked a lot of him and called on many facets of
his talent: the experimental recordings with the empathic, like-thinking
Shorty Rogers, Jimmy Giuffre, and Russ Freeman (The Three and The Two,
Contemporary), his encounter with Ornette Coleman (Tomorrow Is the
Question, Contemporary), and recordings with his "outside" 19708 band
(Contemporary), which employed modern jazz and pop elements.
All of this music has value because of Manne's instincts and quickness
and understanding of its essential qualities. He wanted to move into
relatively untried areas of improvisation and writing such as the twelve-tone
row. Adventure and risk engaged him. Listen to his collaborations with
pianist Russ Freeman on The Three and The Two. You'll certainly sense and
appreciate the shared exhilaration, the extraordinary communication
between these two musicians.
However, Shelly Manne's self-defining thrust and improvisatory flair are
best illustrated on five albums recorded for Contemporary "live" at San
Francisco's Black Hawk in 1959. On these telling examples of his work—
the very essence of unpretentious, inner-directed, glorious swing—he is
heard with an excellent edition of "the Men": Joe Gordon (trumpet), Richie
Kamuca (tenor), Victor Feldman (piano) and Monte Budwig (bass).
Manne could do almost anything on the instrument that related directly
to the music. But he was not a virtuoso.

LARRY BUNKER: In a truly formal sense, Shelly could barely play the drums.
If you gave him a pair of sticks and a snare drum and had him play rudi-
ments—an open and closed roll, paradiddles, and all that kind of thing—he
didn't sound like much. He never had that kind of training and wasn't inter-
ested in it. For him it was a matter of playing the drums with the music. He
could play more music in four bars than almost anyone else. His drums
sounded gorgeous. They recorded sensationally. All you had to hear was
three or four bars and you knew it was Shelly Manne.

His creative impulse extended to writing music for television and films.
Though initially a bit intimidated by the idea, he took it on and created
original, communicative cues and scores—for the TV series Daktari, other
TV projects, and films—many of them featuring percussion. He had a great
flair for writing descriptive lines. Sometimes, however, he turned to more
experienced hands like Dick Hazard for help with orchestration and little
things for which he had absolutely no training.
i8z The Innovator)

Manne played other important roles in motion pictures and television

besides that of percussionist. In the excellent Sinatra vehicle The Man With
the Golden Arm he coached the actor, who played the role of the chemically
dependent drummer Frankie Machine, on drums; Manne also was seen and
heard onscreen with a band of his cohorts, playing the jazz-oriented Elmer
Bernstein score. One of the great kicks for him, however, was portraying
Dave Tough in two film biographies: Five Pennies, starring Danny Kaye as
the cornetist Red Nichols, and The Gene Krupa Story, with Sal Mineo as
Krupa.
Shelly Manne's dance card was full. He had the security of seemingly
unending work in the studios, constant calls for record dates, and, in his
last years, the demand for his services in clubs and festivals 'round the
world. Late in his career, he began to turn away from studio work because
of the banal nature of much of the music creeping into films and TV and the
increasing youth obsession of the industry.
His life had come full circle. After years and years of heading "the Men,"
generally a quintet, featuring top-level players interpreting all kinds of
modern repertory, he returned to performance, mostly with trios, where his
essential concern was time, swing, nurturing others in the 5 2nd Street
manner.
As if he didn't have enough to do, Manne had his own club, Shelly's
Manne Hole, for a number of years. It was a place for him to play and one
where L.A. jazz fans could see and hear fine jazz musicians and singers and
be well treated.
What Manne did during the California years is completely mind-
boggling. Tony Agostinelli, the Stan Kenton historian, sent me a partial list
of his credits. The big film and TV credits jump out at you: Some Like It
Hot, Peter Gunn, West Side Story, Dr. Zhivago, the John Williams, Quincy
Jones, and Jerry Goldsmith films. To fully document his activity as a player
in motion pictures and on television, records and commercials, as a sideman
and leader is impossible here. It ranges from concerts by his band to
performances by the LA 4, focusing on Brazilian music.
The most telling conclusions emerging out of all the research, reading,
and interviewing I did in the course of preparing this text are these: Shelly
Manne was more gifted and accomplished than most of the drummers
considered "legendary innovators." Moreover, he was a rarity.

AJVDRE PREVIN: There are quite a few musicians, especially in jazz, that evoke
in you deep feelings of admiration when it comes to their playing. But you
certainly can do without them on a personal level. With Shelly there was
never any such division. You admired his playing and you liked being with
him. He was so good-natured, funny.

And a humanitarian. What he did for down-on-their-luck players, friends,

and acquaintances and for deserving causes—quietly and unobtrusively—
was nothing short of marvelous.
The best of his "solos" was his version of Bud Powell's "Un Poco Loco,"
heard on Swing Sounds—Shelly Manne and His Men (Contemporary). A
theme and variations, on which Manne plays with brushes and hands, using
a tambourine and tom-tom glissandi, it's a matter of provoking colors, disci-
pline, and ongoing development. The commentary builds from four descend-
 Don Lamond 183

ing notes and goes from there. The military aspects of drumming disappear.
Manne becomes, in the purest sense, a maker of improvised music.

SONNY ROLLINS: On the records we did together, Shelly freed me as a front-

line player. He was able to be there and not be there. You know what I mean?
He knew just what to play behind me while providing an underlying swing
and groove. Our rapport was so intense. Way Out TFest, that's one of my good
records. The truth about Shelly Manne was obscured by his years of studio
work and great commercial success. He wasn't taken as seriously as he should
have been.

When Manne returned to New York in 1982 for appearances at the Kool
Jazz Festival and at Michael's Pub—two years before his death—he suddenly
was rediscovered in his hometown.
Martha Glaser, manager of the late Erroll Garner and a veteran New
York jazz observer, enthused in a letter to Manne: "Your appearances here
were like a marvelous shock wave—and many of us talked of them and
enjoyed them so much."
After the New York revival, Manne returned to the Coast to his work
and Flip and his life. He was happy and very busy. Suddenly, with no
warning, on September z6, 1984, seventeen days after a Shelly Manne
tribute by the Hollywood Jazz Council, this unusual man had a major heart
attack and passed quickly, at sixty-four. The shock was enormous because
his death was so unexpected.

LARRY BUNKER: I was struck dumb. I'd just gotten through working with him
all day at Disney. When I got to work at nine o'clock the next morning, there
was absolute silence in the studio. His death had a profound impact, even on
people who didn't really know him. Of course Flip and all of us who were
close to him were completely devastated.

Shelly Manne's many friends came to the funeral. It was a matter of talk
and music, a great outpouring of love. The man with such a talent for music
and life made still another graceful transition.

DON LAMOND (1921- )

In many ways, Don is an extension of Davey Tough—so musical
and swinging, with absolutely impeccable taste. He's modern—
his own man. And a hell of a nice, warm kind of person.
—WOODY HERMAN

Don Lamond, an extraordinarily inventive drummer, enjoyed his greatest

prominence in the 19405 while a member of the Woody Herman First and
Second Herds. He offered something new, exciting, and a bit unconven-
tional, yet so very apropos in the big band modern jazz context. While
moving drumming forward, he integrated into his performances all the fire
and earthiness and supportive qualities that are essential to the instrument's
basic time function in jazz.
i8<t The Innovator)

In the 19408 with the Herman Herds—but particularly with the Second
Herd, aka the "Four Brothers" band—Lamond offered one surprise after
another. You never knew what to expect.
I remember going into a record store listening booth and repeatedly
playing his recordings with the Second Herd—much to the annoyance of
the store owner. I wasn't able to quickly unravel what he played, so, calling
on rather limited financial resources, I purchased all the 78 rpm Columbia
and Capitol recordings and took them home to complete the listening
process. Ultimately, young drummers here and abroad came to understand
the breaks and fills, the placement of his bass drum accents and explosions,
and the way he shaped time.
His influence and fame were truly international in scope. The quiet
courtly southerner—from Washington, D.C.— placed near the top in music
magazine polls. The press, particularly the editors of Metronome, the
discerning Barry Ulanov and the deeply drum-knowledgeable George
Simon, and Down Beat's Michael Levin as well, encouraged Lamond to
continue to find his own way, to look more deeply into himself.
Lamond was called upon to record with great players outside the
Herman band, including Charlie Parker. Innovation is its own reward, but
to be accepted on your own terms had to be a very warming experience,
even for the quiet, unassuming, self-effacing Lamond. Having been the
drummer with two of the greatest bands of all time paved the way for jobs
in a variety of circumstances. Record company A&R directors and
musicians called him for record dates. Initially resistant, "traditional" TV
and radio contractors ultimately hired him.
Lamond became one of the "first call" drummers for television and radio
and recording in New York. His talent, adaptability, and reading skills
consistently recommended him. He remained unbelievably busy and enjoyed
reassuring prosperity from the 19508 until early in the 19705. Then the
music business shifted its primary center to Los Angeles. The drummer
moved to Orlando, Florida—where he still lives—to take a job in the Disney
complex there.
Unfortunately, names and accomplishments fade. What once meant so
much seems to go through a process of progressive erasure. Before you
know it, the impact of an important musician's work has so diminished, it
is all but forgotten. "We're living in a different world," Lamond said with
resigned calm during one of our many phone conversations. "What I did
with Woody and in New York happened so long ago. You can't expect
young kids to know about these things." I could almost see him shrugging
his shoulders.
Lamond was strongly attracted to drums in grammar school. According
to those who have experienced it, this feeling parallels sexual chemistry. It's
almost a glandular matter. So many drummers have told me that it
"happened" for them in exactly the same way.
The late, great band and studio percussionist Alvin Stoller was captivated
very early. "I remember taking stays out of my mother's corset and putting
them together with rubber bands so I could use them like a pair of brushes,"
he said. Tony Williams shared this very same persistent and seemingly
inescapable focus. He was completely seduced by the drums. In all cases,
the affair progressively increased in intensity.
 Don [amend 185

Don Lamond, first call drummer in New York City—late 1950s. © Chuck Stewart.

LAMOND: I was born in Oklahoma City, adopted at two months, and raised in
Takoma Park, Maryland—right outside Washington, B.C. My dad was a
prominent lawyer in the capital, who had worked in the Hoover administra-
tion. My mother always encouraged my interest in music. She made a little
drum for me when I was in kindergarten. By the time I entered the fourth
grade, I was in a small school band. We played marches for the kids and the
teachers, moving them in and out of assemblies.
I was athletic back then. And all the guys who were into sports taunted me,
saying nasty things like "Sissy Boy playing his little drum. Ha, ha, ha!" But it
didn't really matter. I had a wonderful, encouraging teacher—Horace
"Sarge" Butterworth. He taught me everything I needed to know about musi-
cal instruments, the components of music, about arrangements and conduct-
ing. Mr. Butterworth played trombone, the reeds, all the instruments, really.
i86 The Innovator)

I didn't concentrate on drum rudiments—only had three or four lessons

with a local guy in Washington. Butterworth felt it was far more important
to relate to music than have fantastic chops and tear up the drums. He had
played with the Marine Band in Washington and been on the road with some
dance bands. He showed me how to listen to a composition or arrangement
and determine what was going on. Butterworth and I were together for six
years, first at Paul Junior High in Takoma Park, then at Central High—now
Cardozo High School—in Washington. I was almost as close to him as I was
to my father.
After that, I studied percussion and harmony for a short time at the
Peabody Institute in Baltimore. Carroll Bratman was my percussion teacher.
He played with the National Symphony in Washington and later opened
Carroll's Music Instrument Rental in New York.
Education in jazz takes many forms. "Street" knowledge is crucial. It's a
matter of a variety of experiences you somehow assimilate at jam sessions and
rehearsing and working with big and small bands. You pick up a good deal
talking to other players, composers, arrangers, recording and press people
who know what it's all about. Comments from the musically informed and
experienced can make all the difference to a young player.
I had a little jazz group in junior high and a bigger group in high school—
when my interest in music really blossomed. We played school, sorority, and
fraternity dances, country clubs and golf clubs in Maryland, the District of
Columbia, and Virginia. Our big band library featured many stock arrange-
ments made famous by leading bands—e.g. Count Basic, Chick Webb, Artie
Shaw, Ellington, Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman. Goodman was particu-
larly popular. Young players and fans tuned in every week to the Camel
Caravan broadcast. The band sounded so great then.
One summer, my parents loaned me the family car, and a friend and I
drove to Atlantic City to see and hear as many bands as we could. We went to
the Steel Pier and some other places. I guess I was sixteen or seventeen. It
was a great experience, digging the bands live and being so close to the musi-
cians.
I found out more and more about my job playing in a big and small band
in and around Washington. One of my key experiences was working with the
Rodd Raffel band at the Nightingale, a huge log cabin—style dance hall near
the Potomac River, outside Alexandria, Virginia.
I joined the band in the summer of 1940. The engagement at the Nightin-
gale lasted a year and a half. Then we played in Lansing and Flint, Michigan.
All told, I was with Raffel for almost three years. He wrote some really good
charts for five brass, four reeds, three rhythm.

A group of older guys in Washington, who were into Basic, Lester Young,
and Jo Jones, gave Lamond some advice: "Look, kid, never mind about all
that fancy technical stuff that Gene Krupa and other soloists play. Listen to
the cymbals—particularly the way Jo Jones plays them."
That's exactly what he did. Jo Jones's sound and his relaxed, natural
manner of playing became embedded in his mind and body. Lamond also
was strongly drawn to Buddy Rich and what he did with his amazing
technique in the Artie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey bands. But it was Jones
who appealed to him the most.
 Don Lamond 187

LAMOND: I loved Sid Catlett, too. I had some nice times with him. I met and
first heard this marvelous man in Flint, Michigan. He was with Louis
Armstrong's big band. As you know, some of those bands Louis had back
then were pretty out-of-tune and sloppy. But somehow Pops and Sid made
them sound good. I don't quite know how they did it.
Though Sid and I were close, somehow I never met Jo Jones. I went to
hear him with Basic at the Howard Theater in Washington several times. Jo
said I came to the theater with my girlfriend and visited him backstage.
Didn't happen. I was too scared to do that.
Jo and I finally got together when I was working with Woody at the Empire
Room in Hollywood in 1948. The Herman band was on the bill with Louis
Armstrong, and Catlett was with him. One night, Sid asked whether I would
like to go out with him after the gig. "There's somebody I want you to see," he
said.
We drove through Watts to this house in a nice suburban neighborhood
and knocked on the door. A lovely lady let us in and took us around a curtain
to a bar. It actually was an after-hours club. We went upstairs. And there was
Jo Jones. We spent the whole night talking.

Lamond's education, like that of any serious musician, was an ongoing

matter. Before graduating from high school and afterward, he was out and
around, watching and listening to as many drummers as possible—many of
them at theaters in Washington. He learned more than a little from
Ellington's Sonny Greer and Jimmie Lunceford's Jimmy Crawford. One
thing he regrets is not taking advantage of the many opportunities he was
offered to see and hear the great Chick Webb, live.

LAMOND: Buddy Rich felt that Chick was the champ! Sid Catlett agreed. "Not
only was Chick a fantastic drummer," Sid said, "he had this big bag of
tricks." One of them completely knocked Sid out. Chick would throw his
sticks up to the level of the sandbags above the stage and somehow caught
them on the downbeat—the ending of a tune. How's that for timing!

Lamond joined his first "name" band in 1943. The leader: the former
Casa Loma star Sonny Dunham, a distinctive trumpet and trombone stylist.
Earl Swope, a trombonist friend from the nation's capital, recommended
Lamond for the job.
A cadre of Washingtonians who would figure in a number of bands
over the next few years helped bring distinction to the Dunham band.
Tenorist Emmett Carls, Swope—of course, trumpeter Marky Markowitz,
bassist Mert Oliver, pianist Fred Otis, Lamond, and the brilliant trumpeter
Sonny Berman, an outlander from New Haven, Connecticut, were
consistent sources of excellence for what was, in reality, a second-level
swing band.
The records and broadcasts tell us that Sonny Dunham had a well-
disciplined, often swinging dance band—good enough to play places like
the Terrace Room of the New Yorker Hotel, the Hotel Pennsylvania's Cafe
Rouge, and key New York presentation theaters. But Dunham wasn't Harry
James. And the band, despite its promising sidemen, didn't have the quality
and charisma that made for major success.
i88 The Innovators

Lamond's inner heat, live pulsation, and energy are the first things you
notice on the broadcasts and recordings. They also make clear the rhythmic
precision and decisiveness with which he delivered personally shaped,
explosively rendered ideas.
At this point, the drummer was very much a swing-style player. His firm
time moved in a straight, relatively uninterrupted line, giving dancers the
unmistakable beat they liked and could understand. Lamond remained
well within the nature of a band's style, always keeping the character of
the arrangement uppermost in his mind. This is central to his playing
philosophy.

LAMOND: I let the music tell me what to do. Butterworth always said: "You
can't play the same in one band as in another. Play the way you think it
should be! Take your cue from the arrangements."

Lamond's four-break near the close of the Dunham recorded version of

"9:20 Special," the Earl Warren composition originally created for Basic,
conveys something important. Though symmetrical and somewhat Krupa-
esque, it indicates where Lamond is going. He integrates his hands and bass
drum foot to good effect—something he would sharpen, refine, and add to
considerably in both editions of the Woody Herman band.
No doubt Lamond had been listening to Buddy Rich, who paired the
snare and bass drum to extraordinary effect in ensemble performances and
solos. Before long, however, the Washingtonian would find in the work of
Dave Tough, Shadow Wilson, and Max Roach strong motivation to reach
deeply into himself and find his own way as a musician.
There was something special lying dormant in Don Lamond. Woody
Herman sensed this. The band leader encouraged him to be as free and
reactive as he wanted, particularly in the "Four Brothers" band—to seek
what was within the music and himself. It is quite unusual for an authority
figure to allow such personal independence. But Woody Herman was most
unusual—warm, kind, open, musical without conditions, and, above all,
patient.
Before Lamond got the break of his life with Herman, he moved over to
the Boyd Raeburn band, along with several Dunham colleagues. The story
had taken hold that Raeburn was going national, that he had great financial
support and wanted to change the band around and play a wide-ranging
sort of music. The emphasis would be placed on the new jazz.
Emmett Carls convinced the entire Washington contingent and others to
leave Dunham and take advantage of this "great opportunity." Dunham
was playing the New Yorker. Carls, Johnny Bothwell, Marky Markowitz,
Earl Swope, and Lamond made the change. The drummer was sorry to leave
Dunham, whom he liked and respected.
There were very good players in the Raeburn band, including Hal
McKusick, a doubling reed player with a growing talent for jazz,
trombonists Trummy Young and Tommy Pederson and, later, the modern
baritone saxophonist and notorious druggist Serge Chaloff. Dizzy Gillespie
came around and sat in and recorded with Raeburn.
As it turned out, the pay wasn't too impressive, steady, or reliable. But
Raeburn was trying to make a go of it playing good music—a difficult
 Don Lamond 189
matter at best. Ed Finckel wrote the bulk of the book while Lamond was in
the drum chair.

LAMOND: When I was with Raeburn, it was more of a swing band than
anything else. We played the Roosevelt Hotel in Washington, D.C., which
Maria Kramer owned. Eventually we played the Blue Room of New York's
Hotel Lincoln, also a Maria Kramer enterprise. She was a nice lady and let us
jam in the Blue Room after work—as long as we turned out the lights and
locked up when we were finished. Dizzy came by often. So did Shadow
Wilson. I was getting into the new music.
During the Hotel Lincoln engagement, I got my first encouragement from
the press. George Simon, the editor of Metronome, came in to hear the band
and gave me quite a review. He said I was a young kid who could compete
with the name drummers . . . and went on from there. I was tickled to death!

The records that Lamond made with the Raeburn band, like "Boyd
Meets Duke," "Two Spoos in an Igloo," and "Little Boyd Blue," indicate his
ability to swing and deal with all kinds of music. At this point, Lamond was
a hybrid with roots in swing; he had not yet completely turned left.

HAL MCKUSICK: There were factions on the Raeburn band. All the Washington
cats, Don included, loved Basic. Raeburn and Johnny Bothwell, who, you
remember, played so much like Johnny Hodges, were into Ellington. And
Don and many of us were becoming excited about Bird and Dizzy, Max and
Shadow, and the others who were changing things uptown and on 52nd
Street.
I joined Raeburn at the Lincoln Hotel. Dizzy used to come into the Blue
Room a lot with composer-arranger Tadd Dameron. He brought us his
composition "Night in Tunisia." We later recorded it. Dizzy was featured on
trumpet.
Back then, Don was building on what he had learned from Jo Jones. I
always dug his playing, in a big band or small group. What he does makes it
easy to blow. He is a very clean player. There's nothing muddled about his
ideas or how he articulates them on the instrument.

Lamond remained with Raeburn for under a year, then returned home
to Washington with his wife, who was with child. For a few months, he
headed a quintet locally at the Club Kavakos, with Marky Markowitz
(trumpet), Earl Swope (trombone), Angelo Tompros (tenor), Fred Otis
(piano), and Mert Oliver (bass). Then the Woody Herman office contacted
him. Dave Tough was ill. The band needed a replacement. Sonny Berman
had recommended him to Herman.
Lamond accepted the job in September 1945 and had to take a circuitous
route to catch up with the band.

LAMOND: There were huge floods along the East Coast—all the way down to
Florida. There were no planes flying. I took a train out of Union Station in
Washington. By the time I got to Norfolk, the guys had gone to Raleigh, North
Carolina. I missed the band again in Charleston, South Carolina, and finally
caught up with Woody in Augusta, Georgia.
190 The Innovator)
The first thing Woody called that night at a big civic center was Neal
Hefti's "Half-Past Jumpin' Time." The chart was in Sonny Dunham's book,
so I knew it. The guys in the band were impressed with my "reading" ability.
They had no idea I didn't have to look at the drum part.

The Herman band had to make an adjustment after well over a year with
Dave Tough at the drums. The musicians quietly evaluated the twenty-five-
year-old from Washington. He played conservatively at the outset, making
sure not to rock the boat.

BILLY BAUER: I remember the first night or two. Don was modern; he had
another way of doing things. Bill Harris, our trombone soloist, said to me:
"How do you feel about this guy? Do you think he can stay with us?" Cliff
Leeman, Lou Fromm, Stan Levey, and Buddy Rich had worked with us when
Davey had his problems. But we were used to Dave and how he kept time and
built an arrangement. It took a little while to "feel" a new guy. Don fit in
okay. He kept things going in almost the same way as Dave did.

CHUBBY JACKSON: Don did everything he possibly could to maintain the sound
of the band. He turned it around slowly, working the situation in such a way
that what he did became increasingly important to the band.
I first heard Don with Raeburn. I liked the way he played. He was lighter
than Dave—different. I started calling him "Chick-a-boom" after he came
on Woody's band—because of the little bombs he dropped in all the right
places. Don sounded like himself. All the great ones are originals. The imita-
tors—-feh!

There were musicians in the Herman Herd and people close to music
who were so impressed by Dave Tough that they felt he could not and
perhaps should not be replaced in this very special band. The critic,
recording man, and talent scout John Hammond wanted to restore Tough
to his "rightful place." But this was not to be. Herman wanted a good,
creative drummer he could depend on. Don Lamond fit the bill.

LAMOND: Davey Tough was the shining star of the First Herd. What he played
fit. I couldn't really surpass that. When I first joined the band, I had to use
Dave's drum set. It was perfect! I cried when I had to give it up after getting
back to New York. Dave had drums and cymbals that were like jewels. He
had a marvelous sizzle cymbal; I looked all over the country trying to find
one just like it.
Listening to Dave and playing those drums was an education. He had his
bass drum tuned so it blended with the bass. Because of this, the pulsation
was stronger—much stronger.

After a little while, Lamond brought his own feel and concept to the First
Herd. Like Tough, he allowed the band to swing, have its way, never forcing
his ideas on his colleagues. His time had immediacy—a sense of controlled
intensity Lamond lived inside the band. He controlled the time in all the
sections, making the pulse an undeniable presence throughout the ensemble.
Lamond burst forth when his instinct and the chart indicated the need for
musical behavior of this sort.
 Don Lamond 191

If you listen to the First Herd's recorded version of "Woodchopper's Ball"

or Ralph Burns's take on the Ben Oakland melody "Sidewalks of Cuba"
(Columbia) or the Wildroot broadcasts (Artistry), you realize what Lamond
did for the band. Muscular but not intrusive, he brought additional
character to the color-ridden, rhythmically vital writing of Ralph Burns and
Neal Hefti.
Lamond handled and nurtured the extraordinary power of this group of
musicians. Indeed, he was unleashed by the independence and buoyant
confidence of the band. Sectionally and in an ensemble sense, however, this
unique assemblage was not that dependent on him, rhythmically.
His performance on Hefti's "Blowin' Up a Storm" during the momentous
March 2,5, 1946, concert at Carnegie Hall, released by Verve, makes an
indisputable case for the First Herd and for Lamond. The players are
unusually sharp and play with decided relish. As always, trombonist Bill
Harris is a delight, singing and swinging his own song..
"Storm" builds to a glorious climactic crescendo—one section chal-
lenging another. Lamond rips right along, detonating bass drum dynamite
behind and under the band. I was there but don't remember where this opus
was placed in the program. Certainly it was one of the great highlights of the
presentation.
The headline of Michael Levin's review in Down Beat read: "Herman
Herd Thrills Packed Carnegie Hall." The well-known critic admired the
material played, notably Igor Stravinsky's "Ebony Concerto" and Ralph
Burns's "Summer Sequence." He commented on the virtuosity of the band
and the soloists.
Levin singled out Lamond's evolving, increasingly modern drum style:
"There has been much comment lately about the Herman rhythm section
wandering too much, not concentrating on straight four-beat drive and
therefore not giving the band enough support.
"I disagree emphatically....
"Don Lamond tries things that simply don't work out right... . But very
often they do—and here at least is a rhythm section (Lamond, Chubby
Jackson (bass), Ralph Burns (piano), Billy Bauer (guitar), which is
imaginative and inventive and willing to try anything once—which is
something the 'solid-groove' boys could well copy."1

BARRY ULANOV: I liked Don very much. He had the modern impulse. I was
crazy about the Herman band in 1945—46. I thought it was a remarkable,
tremendous band. I believed they'd be more open to bop. There were several
of the guys who were enthusiastic about that direction.
I remember the arguments I used to have with Ralph Burns about the
band. And Don would be a part of them. I repeatedly asked Ralph: "Why
don't you allow this band to go in the direction of the bop line?" He was very
pleasant but absolutely steel about what he wanted to do. Ralph didn't hear
that development, or didn't want to take advantage of it—with one or two
exceptions.
And Woody, for all his goodness of heart and openness of ear, simply
wasn't committed to that sort of music—because it wasn't his world. The man
in front of a band has to have some idea of the potentiality of the music—be
able to think of tomorrow and a year from now and five years from now. And
Woody couldn't do that.
192 The Innovator)
The sidemen/soloists—Neal Hefti (as a trumpeter and arranger), bassist
Chubby Jackson, trumpeters Sonny Berman, Marky Markowitz and Shorty
Rogers, alto saxophonist John LaPorta, and certainly Don Lamond did nur-
ture modernism in the band. All of them were listening to Bird and Dizzy, Max
Roach and Bud Powell—all the people changing the face and body of jazz.
They responded by playing and writing contemporary lines, backed by
updated harmonies, while running with some of the newer ideas about
rhythm. Chubby Jackson certainly was a motivating force when it came to
the new music. He had a lot to do with the scouting and suggesting forward-
looking, young players for the band.
Admittedly, bebop wasn't exactly Woody Herman's musical world. A hip
showman with roots back to vaudeville, an often interesting singer but a
mediocre clarinetist, Herman later became a stranger in his "Four Brothers"
bebop band. But he had the vision to put together this "advanced" group
of musicians, making major economic sacrifices to keep it alive. And, believe
it, there were many "difficulties" in the Second Herd.

JOHN LAPORTA: Don and I palled around when he came into the band to
replace Dave Tough. The band continued to swing. Don set things up beau-
tifully. Instead of doing it in a conservative way, with quarter and eighth
notes, as Dave did, he played a lot of triplets and single strokes, breaking
things up around the drums.
Don related to a big band and took it in hand. Being a drummer in a
demanding, unusually powerful organization like Woody's is akin to driving
a Mack truck. You have to have a special understanding of the mechanism—
the music and musicians, structure and dynamics and control.
Don played the instrument so much better than Dave and could execute
more complex ideas. But both submitted to the needs of the band and were on
intimate terms with time, space, and the placement of their ideas. They
subordinated their egos in order to establish a suitable relationship with the
band.
Hard work had a lot to do with how rapidly Don matured. I remember he
would play fast Bird "heads" [lines] with his friend Earl Swope, using sticks
on a chair. As they worked on them, you could hear the line in the strokes
Don used.
The development of musical technique is the kind of thing that Don felt
was best for him. All the other forms of practice are helpful but just give you
facility on the instrument. You have to have the technique that most closely
relates to the music. Only Bird had complete use of whatever technique he
had, and all of it, somehow, was musical.

The First Herd broke up while at its peak. The band was put on notice
in December of 1946. Herman returned to California; his wife and daughter
needed to have him around. Herman pianist Jimmy Rowles suggested
Lamond and his family come out to the Coast. The drummer moved in with
pianist Fred Otis, his old friend, in Colton, California. A bit later, Otis built
an extension on the house and Lamond's wife and baby joined him.
While waiting out his time—three months—before getting his Local 47
union card, which permitted him to work steadily in the area, Lamond did
a variety of things. He recorded with Woody Herman, Freddie Slack, and
Van Alexander, played and recorded with Benny Goodman, and drummed
 Don Lamond 193

with small and large bands on a series of recorded broadcasts for Armed
Forces Radio. Major artists, including Erroll Garner, Frances Langford, and
Peggy Lee, appeared on these programs.
One of the most memorable career days for Lamond was February z6,
1947. He recorded four sides for Dial—"Relaxin' at Camarillo," "Cheers,"
Stupendous," and "Carvin' the Bird"—with Charlie Parker. The rest of the
cast wasn't too shabby either: Wardell Gray (tenor), Howard McGhee
(trumpet), Red Callender (bass), Dodo Marmarosa (piano), and Barney
Kessel (guitar).

LAMOND: I thought Bird was a god. Just beautiful. I respected him an

awful lot.

Lamond did the unexpected; his off-center accents and unorthodox feel
gave character to his performances with Parker. Snare and bass drum
comments and strong bass drum shots jump out and often surprise you. At
this point, the drummer—still finalizing his own approach to the new
music—was growing into the demands and intricacies of modern jazz and
bebop rhythm.
His affair with modernism began in 1941 when he heard Earl Hines
drummer Rudy Taylor on broadcasts from the Grand Terrace in Chicago.
Taylor "kicked" the band, accenting on "2 and" and "4 and," creating a
sense of anticipation in the band's music. That feel would later be strongly
associated with the rhythm of the bebop period. Lamond's progressive
evolution was speeded by exposure to Shadow Wilson and Max Roach,
Dizzy and Bird. Art Blakey's work with the Billy Eckstine band also was a
factor in his development in the mid-i94os. The freedom Woody Herman
provided in the Second Herd, and the players in that band, brought Lamond
to a stunning level of creativity as a musician of his time.
For a while before Woody Herman organized the Second Herd, Lamond
enjoyed time working with Red Norvo at the Bocage on Hollywood's Sunset
Boulevard. The veteran xylophone and vibraharp player headed a happy,
swinging little band of formidable players, including Zoot Sims (tenor), Ray
Linn (trumpet), Fred Otis (piano), and Joe Mondragon (bass). Herman had
been living a comparatively relaxed life with his family in Hollywood. He
did a few things just to remain active—recordings, a weekly radio show.
One night he heard trumpeter Ernie Royal with Phil Moore's band in a club.
Royal's all-around ability and versatility amazed him. Two ensembles
working in L.A.—the Butch Stone and the Tommy DeCarlo bands—also
caught his ear. Both had been experimenting with three or four tenors in the
saxophone section. Herman was fascinated and felt the instrumentation had
great possibilities.
Lamond urged Herman to listen to the DeCarlo band at a local ballroom.
That experience, in combination with the impression made by Ernie Royal,
motivated Herman to immediately get back in the bandleading business.
Ralph Burns and the revived, enthusiastic Herman started making calls to
musicians.

LAMOND: I was living at the beach near L.A., and Ralph Burns came down
and sounded me: "Hey, listen. Woody's going to form this band. Do you
want to go with us?" "I don't think so," I said. I had no great interest in
i9<i The Innaovator)

returning to the road. Burns consulted with Herman and returned. He was
very insistent this time. "Woody says you have to join the band!" I was very
flattered they felt the band really needed me. I changed my mind. It was a
good decision.

The band was an all-star affair. The tenors were Zoot Sims, Stan Getz,
and Herbie Steward (Steward left before long and was replaced by Al Cohn).
Serge Chaloff was the baritone saxophonist. Sam Marowitz played lead alto
for a while. The trumpets were Shorty Rogers, Bernie Glow, Ernie Royal,
Marky Markowitz, and Stan Fishelson. Later Red Rodney came in for
Markowitz. Earl Swope, Bill Harris, Ollie Wilson, and Bob Swift were in the
trombone section. The pianist was Fred Otis. He left, and Lou Levy replaced
him. Herman vet Walt Yoder briefly played bass. Then Chubby Jackson
returned. Gene Sargent played guitar before Jimmy Raney came aboard.
Then the instrument was dropped. Vibraharpist Terry Gibbs, who had
sworn he would never go on the road again, promptly flew cross-country
when he got the call. He knew the band would be burning!
Singer Mary Ann McCall, another Herman alumna, came back . . . and
was never better. Her Columbia record of "In the Dark" with the band
remains a musical and sensual gem—a killer performance.
Jimmy Giuffre, Burns, Shorty Rogers, Johnny Mandel, Neal Hefti, and
Al Cohn filled the library with charts that were a comment on the band's
contemporary direction. The "Four Brothers" group had more promise than
almost any other. It ultimately achieved many of its musical goals, despite
the fact that hard drugs were a major interest of eight of the sixteen
musicians. The drug involvement within the band often made life impossible
for Herman.
The Second Herd made its debut in San Bernardino, California, on
October 16, 1947, then went on the road. Metronome's Barry Ulanov
caught up with the band in New York a few months later. The site: the
Century Room of the Hotel Commodore. He was somewhat disappointed:
"Woody is justifiably proud of the name musicians he's collected; not even
his great 1945 outfit could boast such an array of brilliant musicians. But
the '45 band didn't have to boast; all it had to do was play. This new group
is fettered, in part, I think, by the shadow of that immortal organization."
The critic felt the charts and the soloists lacked originality. He said that,
with the exception of Lamond, the rhythm section—Harry Babasin (bass),
Jimmy Raney (guitar), and Fred Otis (piano)—was not comparable to the
First Herd's foursome of Jackson, Bauer, pianist Tony Aless, and Lamond.
Ulanov admitted, however, that the new Herman Herd wasn't "an
ordinary organization," that it was "the best we have in the way of big
bands." He felt he should reserve final judgment.2
Several months later, in October 1948, I spent an entire evening
enthralled by the Second Herd at New York's Royal Roost. Everything was
working. The band cogently spoke the language of Bird and Pres while
reaching back to the past for what it needed. Its extraordinary impact had
a lot to do with Lamond, whose originality and powerful ideas were an
almost perfect complement to what was happening in the band. The
ensemble and the soloists were at their absolute musical peak.
But the Second Herd wasn't a money-making proposition. Herman lost
heavily—$175,000—the first year. Fans didn't readily accept or identify
 Don Lamond 193

with this bold ensemble. The leader worked with a smaller unit to cover
some of the large group's expenses. Unfortunately, big bands were on the
way out.

LAMOND: Memories of the Second Herd? Are you kidding? That bunch of
crazy men made marvelous music. And it was an easy band to play with.
Believe me! People talk about my fills. They say they were unusual. I just
played my feelings. I owe Woody so much for giving me the freedom I needed.

WOODY HERMAN: I had a little sit-down talk of about ten minutes with Don. I
said: "In this band, I want the piano, drums, and bass to be playing patterns.
I want them to be basic rhythm sounds. And I would like you to play what
you feel and—expound!"
This was the message I was getting when I first heard Charlie Parker and
early bebop. So I wanted to break it up in the rhythm section and create that
kind of feeling. Don was into this sort of thing, and he agreed with me thor-
oughly. I remember he said: "Gee/, you mean you're letting me. . . . " I said:
"Hell, yes! And I think we'll be ahead of the game."
So that was basically it. Of course there were some trying moments with
different rhythm sections. But Don came through perfectly, as far as I was
concerned. He was on his own at all times. And his taste was impeccable.

Listening again to the records Lamond made with the Brothers band
remains stimulating. Over fifty years after the fact, it's reassuring that his
work was sufficiently meaningful to retain its effect over time.
I recall that when "I Told Ya I Loved Ya, Now Get Out!" from the band's
first recording session for Columbia—October 10, 1947—was released,
musicians and jazz devotees began talking. Written by the Soft Winds, sung
by Herman, the song is a bit pedestrian. But when the chart gets to the Stan
Getz solo, and Lamond drops in a typically provocative, "falling down the
stairs" three-stroke ruff to usher in the tenor man, you knew much more
was in store. The drummer had a way of promoting and intensifying positive
feeling in the band.
The other Herman material on Columbia and Capitol, some of which
was sight-read on the dates, made an excellent impression. The charts,
including Al Cohn's "The Goof and I," Jimmy Giuffre's "Four Brothers,"
and Shorty Rogers's "Keen and Peachy" and "Keeper of the Flame"
unfolded in a natural, exciting manner that was a potent comment on the
band's unity of conception.
Lamond, with no thought about technicalities, responded to the music
spontaneously, economically, adding a sense of surprise to just about
everything that was played. He kept the time strong and buoyant. The fills
and breaks were unusual, to say the least. Jim Chapin astutely points out:
"Don's fills were both in and of time, creating a special sort of tension."
Stirring the ensemble and sustaining and stimulating the soloists was an
explosive bass drum sound particular to Lamond. It hit you right in the gut.
He explained: "I learned how to get that sound by tuning the drum a certain
way and by watching a drummer, from the side, in a club in Long Branch,
New Jersey. It's just a matter of not pulling the beater ball back after you hit
the bass drum. If you allow it to remain there, you get a much better and
stronger sound."
196 The Innovator)

Lamond had his own techniques—none of which came out of drum

instruction books. He followed his instincts and dug into his soul,
compounding what he loved about Jo Jones, Chick Webb, Shadow Wilson,
Buddy Rich, and Max Roach. It came out Don Lamond.
Try the Second Herd's Royal Roost 1948 performance of Tiny Kahn's
"Tiny's Blues," with its brilliantly written out-chorus by Al Cohn, on
Woody Herman and His Legendary Second Herd a/k/a The Four Brothers
Band Live, 1948-1949 (Artistry). No pretense—just cooking time and
ideas, unequivocal, unforgiving bass drum shots that inspired everyone. His
single-stroke fills, as the band builds to climax, burst forth and testify to his
ability to play what provokes and what works.

LAMOND: I tried to play tasty, musical things. I didn't want to sound like a
riveting machine. Dizzy had a great effect on the content of my fills, breaks,
and solos. I listened to him—translated and embellished what he played,
maybe putting a triplet in front of a lick or two that he had developed. I
played that kind of stuff in the openings on "I've Got News for You," the
blues thing we did for Columbia, based on Bird's "Dark Shadows." A lot of
people remember that record.

SHORTY ROGERS: The guys in both Herds used to call Don "Hound Dog." He's
kind of a Washington, D.C., southern, groovy, nice person with a consuming
passion for music.
He did a great job with both Herman bands, catching accents and cutting
things with the brass—always building excitement. But there are a lot of
other things you can't fully explain. His love of the music, enthusiasm, and
command of rhythm—all these things enter into what he does for a band.
Don and Shelly [Manne] controlled the time and the rhythm section. You
could feel it in the brass section—and all over the band. Don helped you
play. He has been short-changed. He should be more widely known and
appreciated, and not just among musicians.

Lou LEVY: Don is a unique, eccentric kind of drummer. He used to play fills
that scared everybody to death in the "Brothers" band. We never knew what
to expect. He wasn't predictable. Sometimes he wouldn't even play a fill.
You'd hold your breath and nothing would happen.
I don't really call him a bebop drummer. His feel stemmed from the era
before bop. It spoke to me a little bit of Dave Tough—but Don was much
more abstract. In many instances, the band would carry him, establishing
the time, usually with the lead trumpeter playing his ass off.

TERRY GIBBS: The Second Herd was Don Lamond's band! I guess we took him
for granted after a while. Everything sounded and felt so good. When Don
left in 1949, we realized how important he was to us. His figures, fills, and
breaks became part of the arrangements. About twenty major drummers
auditioned for his spot before Woody hired Shadow Wilson, then Shelly
Manne.

Lamond had a major reputation by the time he left the Herman band in
late 1949. He wanted to remain in California, stay off the road. So he and
Neal Hefti and bassist Joe Mondragon moved from the Second Herd into
 Don Lamond 197
the Harry James band, all of them under the impression there would be little
or no traveling. Curious thing: that Lamond joined James had as much to
do with baseball as with music.

LAMOND: The "Brothers" band, junkies included, beat the hell out of Harry's
baseball team. This was very unexpected. The James guys had the team in
the band business. We'd come to the field in old clothes and shoes. They
showed up in uniforms and cleats on their shoes.

TERRY GiBBS: Harry knew Don was a killer drummer. But he also was looking
for a good center fielder. James was a complete baseball freak! This time, he
got double for his money. And he was paying really good bread for the people
he wanted. Isn't that wild?

Lamond stayed with James for a few months. The band played strong
swing material, some of the James hits—for nostalgia's sake—and charts
with some flatted fifths and modern syncopations. Something for everyone.
All in all, it was a more musical organization than most.
The first thing you noticed was its well-balanced, colorful ensemble
sound. The soloists: Willie Smith (alto sax), Corky Corcoran (tenor sax),
Ziggy Elmer (trombone), Bruce McDonald (piano), and James, of course,
kept things interesting.
Taped broadcasts and bootleg LPs of the 1949-50 band indicate that
Lamond, in some way, had gone home to his original love—Count Basic.
That was the essential feel of the band.
It played things like Jimmy Mundy's "Queer Street", which Lamond
brought alive with explosive bass drum accents; Bix Beiderbecke's "In a
Mist" revamped for big band, the old-time standard "Shine," and modern
originals. One of the latter, "Lamond and Mon," was a solo vehicle
somewhat like "Don Delves In," which was the drummer's showcase with
the Second Herd. On both, Lamond plays off the time, offering develop-
mental ideas rather than fast and furious execution of rudiments, which in
many cases have little direct connection with the music.
By the time drummers Jackie Mills, Louie Bellson, and Buddy Rich
performed with James during the 19508 and into the 19605, the band had
turned to Count Basic's primary arranger-composer, Ernie Wilkins, and
other Basie-oriented writers, including Neal Hefti, Bill Holman, Bob
Florence, and J. Hill—all with a flair for this kind of composing and
arranging. The Basic flavor became quite undeniable.
Inevitably, after a number of bookings in California, James had to take
his men on the road. Lamond would have none of it. He left James in July
of 1949. An offer from Les Brown was turned down. Lamond had eyes to
make it back to New York. He hungered for challenge and excitement and
the possibilities of "the Apple."
Shortly after Lamond left Red Norvo's house in Southern California to
drive cross-country, the redhead, a good friend, received a call from Stan
Kenton. The bandleader was looking for Lamond. He wanted to offer him
a job.

RED NORVO: I didn't know how to get hold of Don. I must have called ten guys
here in the L.A. area, trying to find the number in Illinois where his wife and
ig8 The Innovator)

kids were staying. Stan and I never reached him. Don went on to New York.
I don't think he was ever really aware of all this. I might have mentioned it
to him. But nothing came of it.

Lamond paid some dues in New York before becoming a great success
as a network staff musician and freelancer. To earn the rent, soon after
arriving, he gigged in clubs like Birdland, the Embers, and the Roundtable,
often playing long hours for short money, with people like Stan Getz, Roy
Eldridge and Coleman Hawkins, Eddie Heywood, and Joe Bushkin, among
others. He frequently played with bands at Broadway presentation theaters
like the Paramount in Times Square.

TONY SCOTT: We worked together in Russ Case's band at the Paramount.

Singer Eddie Fisher was the headliner. It was a lot of fun. Don made his
cymbal sound shimmer. And there were a lot of good, deep sounds from the
drums for balance. He really was great on the fast tune—the "flagwaver"—
that opened every show.

Lamond enjoyed—and enhanced his income by—teaching at the

Brooklyn School of Modern Music, at the juncture of Atlantic and Flatbush
avenues in the downtown section of the borough.

PHIL BROWN: I took five or six concept lessons from Don in 1950. We played
time and talked about it. I learned a good deal from him, particularly about
playing in a big band. He's a really lovely, generous guy. I can't tell you how
touched I was when he gave me a white pearl Ludwig snare drum that he had
played in Woody's band. My son Danny used the drum on his gigs. It's like
passing down a valued piece of history.

From 1950 to 1972,, Lamond was immersed in studio work. It was

difficult to break in. The drummer mentions he was helped a great deal by
the great alto saxophonist Hymie Schertzer and conductors Mort Lindsey
and Russ Case.

LAMOND: After a while, I was turning down so much work on the outside that
I quit the NBC staff and just freelanced. I gigged and recorded with every
big band leader, except Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey and Glenn Miller. I did
so many TV and radio shows. I often had three record dates a day. That was
part of the fun of playing—adapting to each situation. I feel a real musician
should be able to play any kind of music.
In order to be completely comfortable in the studios, I studied for quite a
while after coming back to New York. Pops Frieze taught me timpani. Phil
Kraus was my xylophone teacher. I practiced mallets every day I was in town
at Carroll's on East 41st Street.
I had to have better, more precise technique in order to deal with various
situations. Drum teacher Henry Adler helped me so much. Henry changed
the way I held my sticks, and with practice I was able to play more freely and
do everything I had to do.

Key Lamond memories broke through several times during our discus-
sions. The weeks he spent with the Basic band in 1967 at New York's River-
 Don Lamond 199

boat and on the road remain aglow in his mind. "Basic said to me: 'Don't
pay any attention to the drum parts. Just watch me!' And it worked so well.
I had a great time in the band and would have stayed longer if I could have."
He spoke warmly about recording with Artie Shaw and working with
Barbra Streisand. His relationship with Benny Goodman was excellent. "I
got along really well with him," Lamond asserted, adding: "He could be
very unpredictable. Benny really shocked and surprised me. When inter-
viewed by Good Housekeeping in the 19505, Benny put me in on drums in
his 'Dream Band.'"
Lamond mentioned the shows and records he did with Elliot Lawrence
and the fun he had on TV: programs with Fred Allen, Garry Moore, Morey
Amsterdam, Perry Como, Pat Boone, and Sid Caesar and playing snare
drum and "toys"—triangles—in the orchestra on ABC-TV's Firestone
Theater of the Air.
Composer-arranger Manny Albam, who hired Lamond for several
pivotal recording sessions, including two focused on drums, explained why
he became a "first call" drummer in New York.

MANNY ALBAM: Don read music very quickly and understood it immediately.
He didn't have to hear a chart several times before understanding what had
to be done. When I did most of my recording work—in the 1950s and 1960s—
I wrote in a variety of styles. Don acclimated himself no matter what was put
in front of him. He was particularly effective on my jazz suite, "The Blues Is
Everybody's Business." His adaptability made him very useful to conductors
and writers around town. And, of course, he has taste and plays those incred-
ible fills, which, incidentally, aren't very technical.

DICK HYMAN: Don always gave musicians working in the studios a feeling of
tremendous reliability and calm. You knew his time would be perfect and that
he would do the right thing.

The demands of studio work made for stress, big time. The late Alvin
Stoller once spoke to me about the hazardous nature of this well-paid,
sought-after activity.

ALVIN STOLLER: In studio work, you're always under the gun. You're expected
to play the parts no matter how difficult they are. . . . It's a matter of being
precise and right, all the time. It's brain surgery, that's what it is. And every
operation has to be a success. There are no failures—a failure and you're
gone.3

LAMOND: The contractor or leader calls you. You go into the studio. If you do
great, you get another call. One mistake, okay. But if a player makes more
than one error, it's all over. The calls stop! It's that simple.

There were many good things that came out of Lamond's New York
experience. On a somewhat obscure LP, Ted McNabb Swing Band, recorded
on Epic in November 1959, Lamond is a revelation. An all-star group of
New York musicians was on the dates: i.e. Al Cohn, Urbie Green, Zoot
Sims, Herb Geller and Gene Quill, Doc Severinsen, Burt Collins, Bernie
Glow, Milt Hinton, Barry Galbraith, and others.
200 The Innovator)

Don Lamond, the band leader, in Florida, 1986. Courtesy of "Flea" Campbell.

Lamond was on two of three sessions; the gifted drummer Osie Johnson
was on the third. The band interprets standards, melodically arranged by
Marion Evans. Lamond is the very essence of spontaneity on this long-out-
of-print album. The band pulsates through unpretentious, straight-ahead
swing arrangements. Evans's figures meld one into another and keep the
charts pulsing. The melodies, if not directly stated, are right below the
surface of each arrangement.
 Don Lamond 201

Lamond feeds and nourishes the time and plays dynamite accents and
fills that jolt the band and hit the listener hard. What he plays doesn't get
old with repeated listenings. The way the ideas are phrased and how well
they fit make the difference. Lamond's engaging relationship with the snare
and bass drum, and how he has them tuned, add to the decisiveness and
quality of what he plays. He feels it's one of the best records he's ever made.
Try Evans's treatment of the Dorothy Fields-Sigmund Romberg collabo-
ration "Close as Pages in a Book." The medium-tempo swing is irresistible.
Lamond has one wirewalking, time-defying fill that you have to hear to
believe.
There are many other albums on which Lamond leaves an indelible mark.
One comes immediately to mind: Bobby Darin's That's All, the singer's first
Atco album in the American popular standards mode. Taped in 1959 under
the multiple supervision of Ahmet and Nesuhi Ertegun and Jerry Wexler,
the set and the singer have a show business/jazz feel. The arrangements by
Richard Wess are very much in that groove. They're helpful to the singer
and allow the musicians to swing. The nature of the pulsation, accentuation,
drum sounds, and breaks makes clear Lamond is behind the plate.

LAMOND: Sam Marowitz, my friend from the Woody Herman days, convinced
me to come down to Orlando, Florida, in '72.1 went to work with the band at
Top of the World in the Contemporary Hotel at Disney World. It was a great
showroom and restaurant. Major acts played there, including Mel Torme,
Rosemary Clooney, Vic Damone, Peggy Lee, Sarah Vaughan, and others. I
liked playing with the band. The arrangements were good and the shows a
challenge.

Lamond remained at Disney World until 1990—with some time off for
two hip replacements, work and/or recording sessions in New York and
California and throughout the world with people he knew and respected—
Benny Goodman, Woody Herman, George Wein. He had his own big band
in Florida for a few years and enjoyed a degree of success with it.
His schedule now is more leisurely. It has little in common with his frantic
years in New York. Lamond and his singer-wife Terry Swope Lamond seem
to like it in Florida. The weather, for the most part, is warm and comforting.
And Lamond receives high-level respect from one and all in the Florida
music community.

KENNY SODERBLOM: Don is with my small group and big band here in Sarasota.
He plays at the drop of a hat, no matter how far it is from Orlando. The love
is there, whatever the money. As a player, Don never goes where you expect
him to go; he doesn't play the typical Sears and Roebuck lead-ins. But the
time is there. The musicians love to have him in a band. It keeps them on
their toes. Don always comes to play. He has an "up" attitude and never puts
anyone down. It's great to be around him.

What does Don Lamond want to do now? "Try new things," he said,
adding: "I'd like to get into the clinic scene. I've never done clinics. I think
I have a lot to give to young drummers." At this point, he should be able to
do whatever interests him—be called on and, above all, be remembered for
all he has done.
zoz The Innovator)

TINY KAHN (192^-1953)

The loss of Tiny Kahn was devastating He meant so much to
music and to those who knew him. Everybody learned some-
thing from Tiny. If you talked to or hung out with him, played
in one of the bands that employed him or analyzed his writing,
you came away with something.
—MANNY ALBAM

Norman "Tiny" Kahn, one of Brooklyn's major gifts to jazz, has assumed
legendary proportions since his untimely death in 1953, at twenty-nine. The
drummer-composer-arranger-pianist-vibraphonist-humorist was a natural—
a musician who had great instincts and a well-developed sense of what
worked best in every circumstance. Had he lived, he certainly would have
had an increasingly meaningful career in jazz and very possibly in other
areas of music as well.
His sudden death was most deeply felt in New York, where he did some
of his best work. But the impact extended through the country to Europe,
where his recordings with George Auld, Stan Getz, Serge Chaloff, Red
Rodney, Chubby Jackson, and Charlie Barnet and Lester Young certainly
had more than a passing effect.
Kahn is remembered not only for his talent but for his warmth and
sensitivity as a person. He was liked by everyone. He didn't have an evil
bone in his rather large body.
Music consumed his waking hours. All kinds of music. He listened, then
analyzed and evaluated what he heard. He had his own concept when it
came to drums. Outside of instruction with drum teachers Freddie Albright
and Henry Adler, covering sixteen months in all, at different times, Kahn
was self-made—as a drummer, composer and arranger, pianist, and
vibraphonist.
His drumming made bands sound better than they ever had before,
particularly during his last years when he had all the elements of his style
in enviable balance. His time was perfect—right down the center. He wasn't
too tense or too laid-back. Kahn had his own sound and techniques on
drums and could be quite expressive, using his hands and feet in a manner
that was his alone. Certainly not a technical wizard, he transcended his
relative lack of technical ability by developing a manner of playing that not
only made up for this but raised his and his colleagues' performance level.
His primary contribution as a drummer was the inspiration he provided,
motivating musicians to feel good and give the best of themselves. He played
a classic supporting role in small and large bands, bringing a small band
approach and flexibility to his work. He concerned himself with giving
players the security and the wherewithal needed to free them. Kahn had so
much going for him that was not immediately apparent. You had to listen
and listen some more before it became completely clear what he could do
for music. Then the revelation came in a rush.
Kahn the writer gave you much to hear and think about. Often his
compositions and arrangements practically played themselves. Musicians
remember how easy his charts were to perform; they felt right for all the
instruments and never failed to communicate and make a comment. His
 Tiny Kahn 203

Tiny Kahn at about the time he worked with the Chubby Jackson, Georgie Auld,
and Boyd Raeburn bands: late 1940s. The Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers
University.

unpretentious writing mirrored his concern for expressing ideas in an

economical, telling, swinging manner.
It was immediately apparent to all who knew him, as a kid in Brooklyn
and later on as well, that Kahn had music within him. As he grew older and
had opportunities to share his views and ideas with others, he became a
great source to the many musicians drawn to him. He was a leader without
ever desiring to be one.
Kahn set an example not only when it came to playing and writing but
in how he lived. While others turned to hard drugs, drink, and an
underground life, he moved ever more deeply into music. His only harmful
"habit" was food. A food junkie, he ate often and excessively. His need and
great capacity for food could well have been the basis for more than a few
sessions with a therapist. Many of his close friends feel he would have lived
much longer had he managed to deal more logically with this problem.
zoi, The Innovator)

TERRY GIBBS: From the time I was six until age eighteen when I went into the
Army, Tiny and I were together constantly. We lived in neighboring apart-
ments in Brooklyn. We started with the drumming thing down at the corner
candy store, playing with nickels on the tables or while sitting at the foun-
tain. We were absolutely obsessed with drums and music.
Tiny wrote his first chart at fourteen, for the Tilden High School Band in
Brooklyn. We both went there. From the beginning, Tiny was way ahead of
everyone, particularly when it came to harmony. He could pick up any
instrument—bass fiddle, guitar, cello, piano, even the trombone—and make
more sense than anyone.
I'll give you an example. In the 1940s, we both were working at a club on
52nd Street in New York called the Troubadour. He was with Georgie Auld's
band; I was playing with guitarist Bill D'Arango's group. At the end of one
evening—there were maybe ten people in the place—I asked Tiny to play
vibes. He got into "I Can't Get Started With You." I've never heard anything
more melodic in my life. .
Tiny was melodic on drums as well. He probably was the most melodic
drummer of all time. And the most economic. He made every stroke mean
something. A whole school developed around his style.
[Ed. note—Frank Capp, Nick Ceroli, Chuck Flores, Phil Brown—who
replaced him with Stan Getz—and certainly Mel Lewis were just a few of the
guys who loved his work and learned from him.]
I remember we both auditioned for the same bands in Brooklyn. Most of
the leaders wanted a drummer to be able to do the flashy tom-tom routine on
"Sing, Sing, Sing," using the technical approach that Gene Krupa had made
popular with Benny Goodman. I got a lot of those jobs. Tiny just didn't want
to play that way. He liked Buddy Rich, but the more subtle Jo Jones and Sid
Catlett were his men. When he auditioned for the bands that played hip
Count Basic stock arrangements, it was an entirely different thing. Basic was
his groove. Tiny didn't do much; he just kept fantastic time. When a fill came
along, he did what was necessary and knocked everybody out.
Tiny could do so many things easily. When I was in the Army, the leader
of the dance band at my base in Dallas told me he couldn't buy the "Jump
the Blues Away" and "Wiggle Woogie" Basie stocks anywhere. I wrote Tiny
about the problem—how all the cats in the band, including me, wanted to
play this music. What did he do? He just copied all the music off the record-
ings and sent the transcriptions to me. And that was an eighteen-year-old guy
who had never taken a lesson.
How about this? When I came home on furlough, as World War II was
winding down, Tiny hipped me to what Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie
were doing and explained their music in detail. He knew every note and what
to do with it. He would sit at the piano and play complete tunes for me, in
some cases including all the solos. He always knew what was going down
before anyone else.

Tiny Kahn's life had unusual consistency. He immersed himself in music

early and did everything he could to further his knowledge and under-
standing of all of it. Terry Gibbs, Gerry Mulligan, Stan Levey, and Max
Bennett, among others, remember how conscientious he was.
At the outset, Brooklyn was Kahn's world. He sought out men and
 Tiny Kahn 205

women who shared his interest in music. Terry Gibbs, of course, was his
main man. Others who were close to him included saxophonist Frank
Socolow (Frank's house in the borough is where the Brooklyn Jazz Mafia
gathered) saxophonist-composer-arranger Al Cohn, trumpeters Norman
Faye, Tony Faso, and Paul Cohen, saxophonist Marty Flax, composer-
arranger-pianist George Handy, saxophonist-arranger Al (Young) Epstein,
pianist-composer Gene DiNovi, and bassist Barney Spieler,
Johnny Mandel and Manny Albam, instrumentalists who later became
major composers and arrangers, Chicago's Lou "Count" Levy—an excellent
pianist, and trumpeter Conte Candoli later joined this intense bunch of
musicians. They jammed, talked, and generally had a good time in Socolow's
cellar, which was known as "the dungeon."
Kahn decided to focus on drums after having a revelatory experience at
the Savoy Ballroom, listening to Jo Jones with the Count Basic band. Prior
to that he played piano and was something of a harmonica virtuoso. His
great talent for keeping time, however, made itself apparent early on.

GENE DINOVI: I remember he played on a brass lamp shade at Socolow's one

night. It was the swingingest thing I ever heard. Tiny could make anything
sound good.

The Judy Kayne group in Brooklyn, which featured a couple of his

buddies from the dungeon, was the first combo that Kahn played with on a
steady basis. Ms. Kayne sang and shook the maracas. Kahn replaced Terry
Gibbs, then known around the neighborhood as Julie Gubenko.

TED SOMMER: When I was a kid, I was in bands in the Bronx with guys like
Shorty Rogers, Eddie Bert, Stanley Getz, and Sol Schlinger. I first met Tiny
at band battles. I would be at the drums with a Bronx bunch, and he'd be on
the stand with a hip Brooklyn band. We became fast friends. As all the guys
must have told you, Tiny was a super person, a beautiful human being. And
he had that Brooklyn sense of humor, like Al Cohn, Socolow, and the others.
They put a special little twist on everything.
Though he was far from experienced, Tiny would sit down and play time,
and there was no doubt where the beat was. He didn't believe in practicing.
Often he'd come backstage where I was working and watch me running down
the drum rudiments and reading exercises. He'd always say: "Man, don't
practice that much! Playing the swing is what's really important."

EDDIE BERT: Tiny made it easy for you. He didn't try to dominate; he just
helped you play. He was very light on the drums and cymbals—surprisingly
so for such a big man. He kept things pretty basic and thought musically, not
just rhythmically. Tiny reminded me of Denzil Best. No fuss. Nothing unnec-
essary. Both those guys knew their job.

Kahn hung out where the music was happening. He got to know players
and writers in all the bands. Many of his friends around town loved Basic,
Lester Young, and Jo Jones—the Basic band of the 19305 and early 19408.
A little later, they became fascinated with the innovations of Dizzy Gillespie,
Charlie Parker, Max Roach, and Bud Powell. They sought a rapprochement
206 The Innovator)

between the floating rhythm and musicality of Pres and Jo, the economy of
pianist Basic and the relaxed swing of his band, and what the modernists
were doing.
Their interests coalesced in the Henry Jerome band, one of the first white
bands to dedicate itself to the musical compound the young guys around
town had in mind. The band was based at Child's Paramount on Broadway.
Jerome, who had headed several popular commercial dance bands, felt this
was the way to go in 1944.
Many of the bright, young New York musicians who sought the future
either were in the band or came down to listen to it. Tiny Kahn hung out
with the "cats," sat in on drums, and wrote some arrangements for the band.
Because the guys in the band liked him so much personally, Kahn was
hired when Stan Levey left to rejoin Dizzy Gillespie's small group on $znd
Street. It was Kahn's first major experience with a jazz orchestra of possible
national consequence.
Jerome made little or no money with this experimental ensemble. The
musicians were paid scale—fifty-five dollars a week—and remained with
the band because they believed in what Jerome was doing.
A lot of people came into Child's Paramount because Times Square was
a magnet for tourists, one of the busiest areas in Manhattan. But they didn't
know what to do about the music—dance, listen? They had no idea what
was going on.
The staff—waiters and waitresses—were equally puzzled. Sometimes
there were very tangible problems. Johnny Mandel wrote a theme for the
band to open sets and broadcasts. It began with an unusual chord. When
the chord was played, waiters and waitresses would drop dishes; people
would become disoriented and stab themselves with forks.
According to trumpeter Jack Eagle: "There were all sorts of accidents.
You'd hear dishes crashing to the floor, people screaming. The first time we
played the theme at the top of a broadcast, the engineers weren't ready for
the way the thing sounded and the transmitter in New Jersey blew."
Intolerant of progress, network radio stations took the band off the air.
Theaters, including Loew's State on Broadway—a key annual Jerome
booking—canceled dates when they heard what the band was up to.
Remember, this was 1944 and 1945. The public was used to bands like
Glenn Miller's, which emphasized dance and romance and occasional
straightforward swing.
Before catching on with Jerome, Kahn studied at Brooklyn College,
worked as a shipping clerk, and played occasional local gigs. He also
traveled with Milt Britton's comedy band for ten months. The leader was
nice and easy to get along with, the travel conditions were fine, the pay okay.
But the music—what there was of it—was borderline ridiculous.
I caught Britton, with Kahn at the drums, at Loew's State—quite by
accident. The show opened with the guys lined up onstage, spelling out We
Stink on their crewneck sweaters-uniforms. The climax of the show
involved a form of pretend chaos—the smashing of trick violins over the
heads of many of the musicians. Kahn had to leave. He could no longer
tolerate the situation.

HENRY JEROME: In the beginning, some people didn't take Tiny seriously. He
hung around Nola Studios, where all the bands used to rehearse. But he had
 Tinij Kahn 207
difficulty getting a band job. Everyone loved him because he was such a sweet
person. But he hadn't really gotten his ideas together on drums.
After he came on my band, it didn't take too long before he found himself.
Tiny cared so much; there was such purity and intensity about his feelings
for music and what we were doing that he made amazing progress. His
friends in the band kept encouraging him.
Tiny got to a point where he just played and everybody fell into his
groove. His charts also were a barometer of his progress. I have nothing but
good memories of Tiny and that period in my life. Commercially the band
was a complete failure. After nine months, we had to disband. But musically
it was very exciting having a band with such great players as Tiny, Al Cohn,
Johnny Mandel, Normie Faye, Trummy Young, Budd Johnson, Al [Young]
Epstein, Larry Rivers—who later became a world-famous artist, Paulie
Cohen, Gordie Heiderich, Billy Vitale, Ellis Tollin, Irv Kluger, Stan Levey,
George Wallington, Billy Exiner, Jimmy Chapin, and Stan Fishelson. At
various times, David Allyn, Gordon Polk, and Bob Stewart sang with us.
Would you believe Alan Greenspan, now chairman of the Federal
Reserve, and Leonard Garment, who later became counsel to President
Nixon, both played saxophone with us? Lennie was a cheerleader for modern
jazz; he convinced me that I should have a band that mirrored what was
happening.

JOHNNY MANDEL: The first time I came across Tiny Kahn was late one night at
Child's Paramount, after we had finished the last set. There he was, standing
around in an overcoat, indoors. Tiny sat down at the piano and started
playing some funny stuff. I said to myself: "Oh, what's this?" Then he got into
some good things, and I was really impressed. I remember mumbling: "Oh,
my God!" I didn't know until later that he was a drummer and arranger. I
so admired Tiny's ideas and musicality and his qualities as a person that we
were pretty much inseparable for eight years—until he passed.

ELLIS TOLLIN: The first time Tiny sat in for me with the Jerome band, he
sounded like an elephant falling down. He played so loud—loud and terrible!
Six months later, he was sensational. In that amount of time he went from
trying to play drums to swinging his ass off. His basic feeling for music ulti-
mately made him great.

STAN LEVEY: Tiny never let anything deter him. He wanted to know! And he
wasn't shy about it. He was curious about certain fills that I used when I
worked with Parker and Dizzy. He dug their sound and feeling. So he just
came up and asked. "How do you do those things? Show me how to play
them."
Tiny was the one who led the way into the soft pulse—not a hard edge to
it. [Ed. note—Stan more than suggested this concept in his own work, partic-
ularly with small bands.] Drummers changed because of him, making their
approach to sound and comment more musical, less percussive.
Tiny had a rare understanding of the inner workings of a band because he
was a writer. He knew how to control the time feeling, the tempo, how to take
hold of the sections, the entire orchestra. Everyone borrowed or stole from
him. For a guy to die at the beginning of a great career is criminal. I know
musicians who can't play or write who live into their nineties.
zo8 The Innovator)

JACK EAGLE: When Tiny started to come down and sit in with the Henry
Jerome band at Child's Paramount, he would mimic Stan Levey. Stan had a
very strong big band style. He played really well. When Stan was ready to
leave and return to 52nd Street, we all agreed: "Why not give the job to Tiny!
He's got possibilities. We can be gentle and let him come into his own."
He made us all feel good—he was so funny. His dialect stories were great.
He even looked funny, with his little bebop hat, tiny goatee, huge body.
Once Stan left, it took a little bit of time for Tiny to learn how to shlep this
thirteen-piece band and make it swing. But he got with it; he had to, because
we were playing new charts by Al Cohn and Johnny Mandel all the time. And
Tiny no longer had Stan Levey as a model.
He struggled. We were doing nightly broadcasts. Tiny had never done
remotes before. It was stressful for him because—aside from playing with
neighborhood bands in Brooklyn and with Milt Britton—he lacked the expe-
rience to function easily in what for him at that point was the big time.
At first, he had trouble maintaining the time on the up-tempo things. But
working every night made it possible for him to deal with this and other prob-
lems. He got much, much better. He worked hard, allowed his excellent
instincts to talk to him. He became something rare—a drummer who could
really make things happen.

The adventure that started in the Jerome organization spread into other
bands. Jerome musicians moved into the Boyd Raeburn, Buddy Rich, Gene
Krupa, and Woody Herman bands, carrying with them the gospel of
modern jazz.
Tiny Kahn went his own way, bringing to his work as a drummer and
arranger-composer what he felt worked best for him. He dipped into his
primary sources—Basic, Lester Young, and Jo Jones, certainly, and Charlie
Parker—and consolidated and personalized what he loved.
He wrote unaffected, well-crafted, pulsating original material and
arrangements. (Try "Over the Rainbow" for the Charlie Barnet band,
recently re-released in a Capitol Barnet package.) It was clear that writing
ultimately would fully occupy him. He said as much to colleagues.
Tiny Kahn the drummer often talked about his concept. In his Down
Beat 1950 interview with Pat Harris, Kahn said: "A drummer today has to
do more than keep time. He has to know enough about music and what
other musicians in the group are doing to act as a complement to the
band.... I don't think there's a good modern drummer who isn't a musician
[emphasis added]."1
As he moved from one experience to another, Kahn became progressively
smoother and increasingly effective as a drummer. By the time he joined
Georgie Auld for the first time, in 1947, his work was being talked about
among musicians. At jam sessions in New York, Chicago, wherever he
played, it was apparent he was the character actor of the drums—key to his
musical surroundings but not overly noticeable until you turned your ear
his way.
Kahn admired the work of Jo Jones, Sid Catlett, Max Roach, Shadow
Wilson, Shelly Manne, and former Dizzy Gillespie drummer Joe Harris.
What he had in common with them was a sense of adventure within a
controlled context and a love affair with time.
One of the most positive aspects of Kahn's performances was the econ-
 Tinij Kahn 209

omy of his approach. He never overplayed. The ideas expressed as fills

or little comments behind soloists had a special warmth and craft unusual at
the time.
In those years, with the advent of bop and the all-embracing influence of
Max Roach, many drummers were all over the place. Kahn had a talent for
playing what was right for each situation while offering the rhythmic
security that his colleagues yearned for. If you listen to his recordings and
broadcasts with Red Rodney, Georgie Auld, Al Cohn, and Serge Chaloff,
but particularly those made in his last years—with Chubby Jackson, Charlie
Barnet, Stan Getz, and Elliot Lawrence—his playing approached art. His
responses to music fit so well they seemed custom tailored.
To deal more adequately with the strain of up tempo material, he left out
beats in the ride cymbal rhythm in his right hand, balancing things out and
compensating by breaking up the rhythm around the set. He divided the
ride rhythm, explains drummer Phil Brown. Kahn added to the general sense
of thrust by the way he applied this technique, establishing flowing con-
versation between the right hand on the cymbal, the left hand on the snare
or tom-toms, and the right foot on the bass drum. He had created an
essentially new, increasingly viable way of playing.

During the 19405, Kahn had a variety of other jobs as well. He was on
Johnny 'Taradiddle Joe" Morris's band—as second drummer. Buddy Rich
employed him in the same capacity. The guys on the Rich band loved it when
he sat in for Rich. He worked on 5 2nd Street with the Buddy Stewart-Kai
Winding-Gerry Mulligan group, among others. For a while, he played with
the Boyd Raeburn band. I got a chance to see and hear him with Raeburn
at the Commodore Hotel in New York City. Kahn played well, in a typically
functional manner, pleasing this reporter and certainly the musicians in
the band.
He was with Woody Herman for one night after Don Lamond left. For
some reason, it didn't work out. Other credits during this interval included
the Herbie Fields band and singer Anita O'Day. But one of the drummer-
arranger's most significant associations was with Georgie Auld. He played
and wrote for two of the spunky tenor man's groups. The first featured Red
Rodney (trumpet), Serge Chaloff (baritone sax), Curly Russell (bass), and
George Wallington (piano). Because of a sudden attack of hemorrhoids that
made an operation necessary, Wallington was replaced by Lou Levy.
The group made its debut at Jumptown in Chicago in 1947. A bit later
that year, Auld played the Troubadour in New York for eight weeks with an
octet, including Kahn, Rodney, Chaloff, Al (Young) Epstein (tenor
saxophone), Jack Carmen (trombone), George Handy (piano), and Jimmy
Johnson (bass).
The other Auld unit (1950-51) retained Kahn and Levy and added bassist
Max Bennett and trombonist Frank Rosolino. Both editions were buoyant
and engaging and swung persuasively—because of Tiny Kahn, the drummer
and writer.
This quintet made an exciting ten-inch album for Roost, produced by
Teddy Reig, featuring Kahn's charts. Listen to the group's performance of
"Air Mail Special" and what Kahn does on drums during the bridge of the
last chorus, making a nice turn into the last eight bars. You'll get a clear
idea of what Kahn could do, how good he felt.
210 The Innovator)

Both Auld bands had a decidedly modern/Basic cast. The style was taking
hold in New York, as evidenced in the Henry Jerome band, the Auld big
bands, and the first of Artie Shaw's postwar bands, among others. It became
increasingly apparent that emerging writers from the boroughs, particularly
Brookyn, were enmeshed in the loose rhythmic flow of Basic and the
modern ideas bursting forth during those first years of the bebop evolution-
revolution.
Tiny Kahn, Johnny Mandel, Al Cohn, and Manny Albam brought for-
ward this stylistic compound in the late 19405 and entered the foreground
with it in the 19508, via a series of recordings. For all the talent of the other
writers, it was clear that Kahn set a fine example. He brought the concept
vividly alive, showing exactly how this music worked best, structurally and
emotionally. He was a mentor to the entire New York school of writers and
to musicians in other cities as well.

Lou LEVY: Tiny was my mentor. He helped me get the job with Georgie's
group. Not only was he a great drummer and writer, he was an enthusiastic
and talented teacher. Tiny showed me so much about music. He alerted me to
Al Cohn and Johnny Mandel. Kahn-Cohn-Mandel became the three wise
men, as far as I was concerned. Tiny also introduced me to the music of
Alban Berg and Paul Hindemith.
As soon as I joined Tiny on Georgie's band in 1947,1 could tell something
was awfully good. The time feel in that group and in the quintet later on was
wonderful.
The quintet was less cumbersome than the earlier band. Tiny, bassist Max
Bennett—a very good player—and I worked really well together. That was
my best experience, playing with Tiny Kahn.
In Georgie's bands, he became one of four truly memorable white jazz
drummers on the scene—the others being Stan Levey, Shelly Manne, and Mel
Lewis. They all had an impressive grasp of music and rhythm—modern and
traditional, one feeding the other.
I'm forever grateful that Tiny kept me under his wing. Around Chicago,
my hometown, he became a legend. All the drummers and arrangers were
crazy about him. He wrote a library for the Jay Burkhart band. To this day,
the charts are still played whenever those guys get together. The arrange-
ments still sound great.
I have so many terrific memories of Tiny. When I first came to New York,
he and Terry [Gibbs] took me around to the spots, known and unknown,
where really good music was played—and all the great places to eat. We hung
at Terry's apartment and Tiny's place. There was always a piano around.
Tiny would sit at the piano and sing and play in unison—so many great
ideas—but way up in the upper register.
Johnny Mandel and I talk about him all the time. John makes tapes of
Tiny's songs and sings them for me the same way Tiny did, in the upper
register. We have so much fun. One day, he asked: "Had Tiny lived, what do
you think his arrangements would be like now?" And I smiled, a bit mischie-
vously, and said: "At least as good as yours, John."
We didn't get enough of Tiny Kahn. At least those of us close to him got a
pretty good chunk.
 Tiny Kahn 211

RED RODNEY: After I left the Gene Krupa band and moved to New York at the
beginning of 1947, I came across all those Brooklyn players at sessions at
Nola Studios. As soon as I began playing with Tiny, I sensed something special
was happening. He didn't have outstanding hands or feet, but his concept
and time were unbelievable. The sound he got out of the drums and cymbals
was so distinctive. How he reacted and adapted to bands and soloists made
me realize how important the drummer can be.
Everything he did grew out of the music. He was a great musical wig. He
enhanced my harmonic concept. He made me aware, while we were working
with Georgie and even before that, of the value of "choice" notes, of making
music within the chord and even a bit outside the chord. This was long before
playing "outside" had become a factor in jazz. It was Tiny who hipped me to
people like Pres, Harry "Sweets" Edison, and Ben Webster. He showed me
how to listen.
Tiny was an unsung hero. He was bright, responsible, well read, and well
informed. I'll tell you one thing: he always put me on the right track. During
the year and a half I played with him on Georgie's band, he gave me enough
to think about for ten years.

1949 was a key year for Tiny Kahn. He helped organize and rehearse the
Chubby Jackson band, for which he wrote almost the entire library of
arrangements. The band lingers in mind, even though it didn't last too long.
Kahn played and wrote for the Charlie Barnet modern band that year.
He also briefly became involved—because of Gerry Mulligan's strong
recommendation—with Benny Goodman's bebop band. But the leader's
peculiarities, when it came to drummers and things in general, negated a
regular working relationship with the drummer-arranger. The guys in the
band wanted Kahn. But this made no difference to Goodman. He dismissed
Kahn after the drummer had cabbed it back and forth from Brooklyn, with
his drums, for rehearsals. Goodman made no effort to pick up the tabs.
"The Chubby Jackson band was the greatest band I ever played with,"
Kahn told Pat Harris. "The records give you a poor idea of how it sounded.
Columbia didn't put as much effort into the record date as it could have—
poor balance, etc. The idea seemed to be to get the date over as soon as
possible. The band did ... the date before it ever had a job.
"We rehearsed three weeks, had a few club dates, then played the Royal
Roost, the Apollo Theater in New York, the Howard [Theater] in
Washington, the Royale Theater in Baltimore, a few more club dates, Bop
City [in New York], and that was the end of that."2
The Jackson band had extraordinary impact for its size—fourteen
pieces—and swung with unusual ferocity. It really communicated! Kahn's
charts were among the best examples of bringing together elements of bop
and Basic. The soloists—tenorist Ray Turner, altoist Frank Socolow,
trumpeter Charlie Walp—were unstintingly pulsating and creative. Kahn
brought unusual life to the band from the drums. Jackson was a supportive,
enthusiastic leader. He had all that was needed to make it.
Unfortunately, poor business practices and the time—which was notable
for the decline of interest in big bands—denied the band the success it
deserved.
212 The Innovator)
AL PORCINO: Playing with the Jackson band and Tiny Kahn was absolutely
thrilling. We were a smash at the Royal Roost. Everybody was impressed
with the band; it was like New Year's Eve every night. Charlie Parker came
by all the time and sat in with us. He loved playing with Tiny.
The feeling in the band was so good. We didn't even care if we got paid or
not. All the guys just wanted to get up on the bandstand and blow!

TEDDY CHARLES: Chubby had a fabulous thing going—more spirit than in any
band before or since. It was a matter of borderline hysteria . . . but cool.
Tiny swung like hell. The rhythm people—Joe Harris [conga], Gene DiNovi
[piano], Red Kelly [bass], myself on vibes—were totally transported by Tiny.
The Columbia recordings—"Tiny's Blues," "Father Knickerbopper,"
George Wallington's "Godchild," with Tiny scatting as only he could, and the
ballad "All Wrong," featuring singer Paula Castle—don't capture what we
did in person. But they do give you an idea of the band's capacities.

GENE DINOVI: The Jackson band just charged! Tiny was at the center of it all.
He could really lay it down. But there was a delicacy and sensitivity about
his playing as well. I'm a good rhythm section player as a result of working
with Tiny. He made you keep good time.
I think the most important thing that anybody got from Tiny were lessons
in how to make music good and comfortable. This was a major accomplish-
ment during the first years of the bebop period. Things could get a little
chaotic.

CHUBBY JACKSON: In many ways, Tiny went back to basics in my band. He

used only four drums, a hi-hat and two ride cymbals. He could create colors
and maintain the necessary dynamic levels with his little set of drums. [Ed.
note—Kahn retained this setup.]
I'm a believer in fire, enthusiasm, guts—the whole thing. That's what Tiny
wrote and played for the band. He provided a link between the swing and
bop styles. He had a very natural viewpoint as a writer and player. And his
harmonic sense was unusually well developed.
What he did for my band—and for music in general—was put a tremen-
dous grin on its collective face. Everybody loved him. He never had evil
thoughts about people. And he could have.
One night at the Roost, a famous drummer, whose name I will not
mention, came in and called Tiny a real bad name. It had to do with his being
Jewish. He accused him of "stealing our music." Tiny just looked at him and
walked away. I'll always remember his restraint, his good nature. Tiny could
have wrapped him up. He could have bent him like a pretzel. But he realized
it would be a fruitless exercise.

Swing Era idol Charlie Barnet also hired Kahn in 1949; baritone
saxophonist-arranger Manny Albam had recommended him. Barnet
brought in a bunch of young players with fresh, contemporary ideas—e.g.,
saxophonists Vinnie Dean, Dick Hafer, and Albam, trumpeters Maynard
Ferguson, Doc Severinsen, and Ray Wetzel, trombonist Dick Kenny, pianist
Claude Williamson, and Kahn.
When Kahn joined the band in June 1949 at the Steel Pier in Atlantic
City, one of the first things he had to do was play a coast-to-coast late-
 Tiny Kahn 213

evening broadcast—without rehearsal. He read everything down, sounding

as if he'd been on the band a few months.

VlNNiE DEAN: It wasn't a perfect fit at the beginning. Charlie wasn't used to a
drummer playing relaxed and straight-ahead the way Tiny did. He felt more
at home with someone like Cliff Leeman, who anticipated everything and was
stronger, flashier. But a couple of the guys said: "Charlie, give Tiny a chance!
Listen to him. Don't expect him to play like somebody else!" After a while,
Barnet fell in love with the way Kahn played.
Unlike many drummers, Kahn listened and made music. His breaks and
fills and kicks weren't always the same. They all related to the pulse and how
the music was moving. Kahn was particularly effective when someone was up
front blowing. He added little things—accents, rhythmic ideas—that pushed
things along. He swung his ass off!

Doc SEVERINSEN: Tiny was like a top NFL quarterback. He reacted to every-
thing that was happening on the bandstand, the whole field. He knew
everything—every part of an arrangement and tied all the elements together.
We were on the road for a few months. Under those circumstances, you really
get to know somebody. He was beautiful.

MANNY ALBAM: Tiny's ears are what really got to me. I don't know if he had
absolute pitch. Very likely he did—or came very close to it. He instinctively
knew how to read an arrangement. Right off he would find what to do with a
chart. Another thing—Tiny tuned his drums assiduously. He was concerned
with the pitch of each drum. And he was very particular about cymbals; each
one had to serve a particular purpose. He was like a modern Sid Catlett. He
would have had that kind of influence, had he lived.
Tiny was very advanced harmonically. His arrangement of Harold Arlen's
"Over the Rainbow" for the Barnet band indicates where he was going. He
wrote it in Salt Lake City in two days.
Because we were roommates on the Barnet and Herbie Fields bands, we
got pretty close. We didn't talk much about his drumming. We concentrated
on the music thing—theory, chord changes, figures. Tiny was an excellent
theoretician.
The summer months of 1949, when the Barnet band played a bunch of
dates—mostly ballrooms—in California, trumpeter Ray Wetzel, another big
guy, joined Tiny and me at a house at the beach. These guys could cook and
eat. After several weeks of consuming their delicious food, I began to really
put on the pounds.
I have so many memories of Tiny. One evening in Columbus, Ohio, Jazz
at the Philharmonic was in town for a date. So was the Barnet band. Hank
Jones, Ella Fitzgerald's accompanist, missed a plane or train and didn't make
the concert. Our pianist, Claude Williamson, wasn't available either. So Tiny
filled in at the last minute. He performed brilliantly, playing tunes in strange
keys, doing all the right things for Ella. She absolutely loved him.
Tiny remained very much in my mind—leaning over my shoulder when I
wrote, sometimes shaking his head when the swing was not obvious.

The Kahn-Barnet legacy is small—six Capitol recordings done on August

16, 1949: "Pan Americana," a segment from a large suite by Manny Albam;
zii, The Innovators

Albam's modern view of "The Way You Look Tonight," titled "Claude
Reigns," featuring pianist Claude Williamson; "Really?," a revamp by
Albam for big band of "Bop City," originally recorded by the Kai
Winding-Gerry Mulligan-Buddy Stewart group on Roost; "All the Things
You Are"; "111 Wind"; and, of course, the imaginative ballad treatment by
Kahn of "Over the Rainbow."
The first four help tell his story as a drummer. He never forces the issue;
he's a giving, enhancing presence, musically shaping each of these medium-
to up-tempo tunes with apt little touches on the drums and cymbals.

MAX BENNETT: You remember "Pan Americana," a thing he played on the

Barnet band? Before they go into the last chorus, Tiny hits two quarter notes
on one of his cymbals. They're two of the most beautiful quarter notes I ever
heard. The band really takes off right after that. It was the way he did it—the
timing. . . . [Ed. note—Manny Albam said the two quarter notes were written
into the drum part.] It was stuff like that that made him a great musician.

All these Albam charts have a number of things in common: modern

coloration, warm voicings, unfolding, developmental linear qualities. The
rhythmic line provided by Kahn is uncluttered. His comments around the
drums provoke yet remain a matter of telling simplicity. He's inspiring
without disturbing the balance and forward motion of the band.
The Barnet band was coming along fast. It got better every time I heard
it at Bop City on Broadway. The sectional and ensemble work was sharp,
often electric. The rhythm section had improved, particularly after Red
Kelly replaced the relatively wooden and inflexible Eddie Safranski on bass.
Before long, however, Barnet's financial advisors warned him that the
band was not making as much money as some of his earlier editions. The
leader continued to work through November of 1949. He was enjoying
himself and growing. But the bottom line tells the story in the music
business. Barnet unhappily disbanded what could have become one of his
best bands.
The last years of Tiny Kahn's life were very upbeat. He had a happy
marriage and, musically, things were going well. Kahn was on the cusp of
triumph. He had become more and more widely known and respected,
playing and writing for Stan Getz and the Elliot Lawrence band. He began
making a good living as a staff percussionist and composer-arranger on The
Jack Sterling Show, heard daily early in the morning on CBS Radio. The
future spread before him, ever so inviting and promising.
Kahn had developed a highly individual manner of playing drums. He
had taken the approach to time of Sid Catlett and mostly Jo Jones—notable
for looseness and natural flow—and updated it, making it applicable in a
modern context. As Johnny Mandel says: "He heard and played what had
to be there and edited out what wasn't necessary."
Phil Brown, who replaced Kahn in the Stan Getz group in 1952., has an
excellent grasp of what Kahn did as a drummer. He loved his playing back
then and remains fascinated by it to this day.

PHIL BROWN: Tiny was the first drummer to play matched grip almost all the
time. He deviated only when brushes were called for; then he would revert
back to the traditional/French grip in the left hand. Tiny was more comfort-
 Tiny Kahn 215

Tiny Kahn with the excellent Elliot Lawrence band in the early 1950s. The Institute
of Jazz Studies at Rutgers University.

able with matched grip because his hands were on the fat side and he couldn't
easily accommodate to the traditional grip in the left hand: the stick is lodged
in a fulcrum between the thumb and index finger and extends through the
opening between the second and third finger.
Matched/timpani grip really worked for him. He was able to get around
the drums more easily. His solos had their own sound because he used the
timpani grip. Many of the guys performing back then didn't get the strokes
[Ed. note—in Tiny's case, mostly singles] to sound as even as Tiny did. He
played some unusual things, and they were drummistic to a certain point
without being technical.
216 The Innovators

What made him different? He let the time flow and roll along. He didn't
play "four" on the bass drum. He didn't emphasize the "2-and-4" clicking
sound of the hi-hat.
I got the best shot at him, in person, at the Showboat in Philadelphia,
shortly before I joined Getz's band [Ed. note—Al Haig (piano), Curly Russell
(bass), Jimmy Raney (guitar)]. I noticed he left beats out of his right-hand
ride rhythm. It made it possible for him to rest, particularly on up-tempos,
and add to the fluidity of the pulse. He was a precursor of today's rock drum-
mers; they also skip beats in the ride rhythm.
To balance things out, he would comment with his left hand on the snare
or a tom-tom. He divided the ride rhythm while bringing into play other
elements of the set. By breaking up the rhythm, he made the time more
relaxed, more exciting and provocative. The way he used his left hand on the
snare and how he played accents increased the rhythmic interest of his
performances.
Some drummers said he played the way he did because he couldn't execute
the traditional ride rhythm in fast tempi. But what he did was better,
different. He was the first free drummer—in that he didn't strictly stick to
playing time. What he thought and how he executed his ideas may have been
dictated by lack of technique, but he proved necessity is the mother of
unusual invention.
There was great honesty in Tiny's playing. He wasn't trying to copy. He
wasn't into commenting on Max Roach or being like him. So many other
people did that. He was just pure Tiny Kahn. He was one of truly great
drummers. I'm including everyone in this comparison.
Tiny was the embodiment of a very singular time in jazz. He personified a
generation of guys who grew up listening to Basie and Pres and then shifted
a little bit to Charlie Parker and started to come up in the bebop world.
I was very conscious of the way Tiny sounded in Stan Getz's band and how
effective he was. I wanted to see if I could perpetuate that tradition.

Others worked in this tradition. Osie Johnson is frequently mentioned

as someone who took this manner of performance and brought to it his own
vision. But Mel Lewis was Kahn's most widely listened-to disciple. He found
himself within Kahn's style and enhanced and built upon it in a major way,
emerging with something that had his stamp on it.

MEL LEWIS: My relationship with Tiny began when I came to New York from
Buffalo with the Lenny Lewis band in the late 1940s. I heard and liked the
recordings Tiny had made with Red Rodney for Keynote. We got together
frequently. He came to hear me at the Savoy Ballroom. Soon after that I
returned the compliment and went to hear him with the Boyd Raeburn band.
We got a chance to really talk during the afternoons we spent drinking egg
creams on Broadway. I realized we liked the same drummers and the same
sort of music. Apparently we were two of a kind. He even used low-pitched
cymbals—same as I did. He tuned his drums in a highly individual way. I
came to realize, by hearing Tiny, that I needed nothing larger than a twenty-
inch bass drum.
Tiny was an innovator in so many ways. He brought a looseness and the
improvisational feeling of small band drumming to the big band. I heard him
 Tiny Kahn 217
every time I could. I loved what he did. He played great fills and lead-ins to
explosions that kicked a band along. I must admit I even stole a few.

The memories of Tiny Kahn abound among his friends and associates.
Before the coda, a few more.

JOHNNY MANDEL: He probably was one of the most honest and humorous
people I ever met. Certainly that came out in his playing and writing. He was
unlike anyone I've ever met. You can't compare him to anyone else. He was
just different.

AL COHN: Tiny was a great guy to hang out with. He was so funny. One thing
that he did that broke everyone up was his imitation of Eleanor Powell, the
great dancer in the MGM musicals of the 1930s and 1940s. Imagine this
picture: an over-six-foot, three-hundred to four-hundred-pound guy dancing
in a small space. He had a way of walking, tapping his toes and clicking his
heels at the same time, that was unreal—and so funny.
You know he was one of the great consumers of all time. He could down a
couple of sandwiches, a few hot dogs, and three or four or five celery tonics
or egg creams at a sitting. And there were several sittings a day.

STAN GETZ: Tiny was one of my favorite drummers of all time. He was the
closest thing to Sid Catlett. He would musically get underneath you and lift
you up. Most drummers batten you down from the top. And he wrote as well
as he played. He was just the best!

ELLIOT LAWRENCE: Everyone insisted I hire Tiny. He was a great, ego-free

player and a writer who knew how to develop material in the most meaningful
way. His charts almost played themselves. Everything swung.
He and Buddy Jones, our bassist, laid down what felt like a new kind of
time. It was light and flew along. It didn't feel like the band touched the
ground. The band was marvelous and wanted to make a new statement. Tiny,
Al [Cohn], Johnny Mandel, Al Porcino, Nick Travis—a whole bunch of
wonderful guys—had so much to say. This was a band that wanted to roar
every night. Unfortunately the public wasn't with us; we didn't do much busi-
ness.
Tiny and I were together the better part of four years, with the band and
then on the Sterling show. It was going so well for him. And suddenly he was
gone.

Kahn's playing and writing on air shots with the Lawrence band [Ed.
note—which Al Porcino was gracious enough to send me] and his Stan Getz
recordings (Storyville) with Teddy Kotick (bass), Jimmy Raney (guitar), and
Al Haig (piano), present him at his zenith.
With Lawrence and Getz, there is fluidity and charm to his time. His fills
and solos are succinct and subtle and advance the cause of the music. The
developmental scheme and feel of his charts have to be experienced to be
fully comprehended. His arrangement of the Harry Warren-Johnny Mercer
tune "Jeepers Creepers" is a particularly warming exercise. "Who Fard That
Shot?" is a love note to Count Basic—quite memorable.
2i8 The Innovator)

A bit of advice: listen to Kahn's "Leo the Lion" (formerly titled "Chicken
Fat and Moonbeams"), recorded by Woody Herman on MGM in the early
19505 and recently released on a Woody Herman anthology CD on Verve.
It bubbles over with melody, provoking figures tied in with irresistible
pulsation. Drummer Sonny Igoe plays it so very well and with great heart.
Tiny Kahn's heart gave him great distinction in life and music. Physically,
it contributed to his death. His weight put tremendous strain on that key
muscle. Through the years, there were several intimations of what was to
come.

JOHNNY MAJVDEL: Tiny had warnings before he passed. He almost died in the
late 1940s of a bad blood clot in his leg. Coronary problems, difficulties
within the vascular system, were common for several years.

Kahn died suddenly on April 19, 1953, while vacationing at Martha's

Vineyard.

STAN LEVEY: The day he died I was in Europe with Stan Kenton. We were
about to begin a concert in Copenhagen for a tremendous audience.
Somehow the word got to us that Tiny had died. Well, I just totally broke
down. I finally pulled myself together and thought: "I'll play this one for
Tiny. He gave me and other musicians so much."

Had Tiny Kahn's life not been cut short, it seems likely he would have left
behind a large, diversified, and influential musical legacy. What he did in a
few years indicates he had the necessary capacities, dedication, and ambition
for unusual accomplishment.
 5-
Into the 19501

PHILLY JOE JONES (1923-1985)

Philly Joe was the most talented, the funniest, the most versatile
person I ever met.
—DONALD BYRD

Undoubtedly, Joseph Rudolph "Philly Joe" Jones was the most talented
drummer to emerge in the 19505. But there was much more to him than
that. During my research process, it became increasingly clear that he had
rare, surprising capacities that went far beyond the instrument he played.
Jones was an appealingly facile tap dancer, a pianist, a composer, an
arranger, and a songwriter. He sang ballads and scatted, improvising on
standards and jazz originals. He could handle the bass violin—left-
handed—and skillfully deal with the tenor saxophone. Jones read and
interpreted—with little apparent difficulty—transcribed solos by his friend
and fellow Philadelphian John Coltrane.
If that weren't enough, he was, in addition, an entertainer with unusual
stage presence and great ability as a mimic and comedian. I commend to
your attention his now famous Bela Lugosi/Count Dracula imitation (Blues
for Dracula—Philly Joe Jones Riverside) He did it so accurately and with
such flair that he might well have intimidated comedian-commentator Lenny
Bruce, whose Lugosi impressions inspired the multifaceted drummer to
make this a part of his act.
Philly Joe Jones could have been an actor—or just about anything in the
area of entertainment. But drums made his heart beat faster than anything
else. As is generally the case with attraction, to music or anything else, you
have little choice in the matter.

JONES: One day in the kindergarten room, I saw and heard a snare drum and
knew drums were for me. Because my mother had to go out and work hard to
take care of the family, my sister took me to school with her. Mrs. Young, the
principal and my mother's friend, allowed me to spend the day in kinder-
garten with the older kids. I was about two years old. It was day care, long
before it became a factor 'round the country.
I started drumming when I was about nine. On May Day, another little
fellow and I played snare drum around the May Pole, to help celebrate that
220 Into the 1950$

Slick and original Philly Joe Jones at New York's Randall's Island Festival in the
late 1950s. © Chuck Stewart.

day in Philadelphia. Most kids love any kind of drum. I was into the snare
drum. [Ed. note—This became increasingly apparent as his style took form
later on.]

Because it was family tradition, Jones learned about the piano. It was
such a familiar, recurrent sound around the house. If he had had the patience
to sit down and study and practice early on, his level of competence would
have been significantly enhanced. His mother or one of his aunts or
cousins—they all played the instrument—could have taught him.

JONES: My grandmother, a concert pianist, brought all of her seven daugh-

ters into music. Most of them, including my mother, focused on the piano.
My Aunt Vi played the violin. Aunt Helen Scott was a tenor saxophonist. She
was the tenor soloist in Vi Burnside's All-Girl Band.
 Phillij Joe Jones 221
"I wish I had really studied the piano," Jones said, his voice expressing
regret. Continuing exposure to the instrument, however, made it possible
for him to more readily understand music and what he would later have to
deal with as a drummer, composer-arranger, and songwriter.
Like a number of other major drummers—Buddy Rich, Jo Jones, Louie
Bellson—Jones first expressed his inner rhythm as a tap dancer. He regularly
appeared on The Kiddie Show over radio station WIP in Philadelphia. There
was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was drawn to show business. Jones,
in fact, had a built-in spotlight, centered on himself. Clearly, Jones had "a
talent to amuse," to paraphrase a Noel Coward lyric.

JONES: When I was very young, I played drums the way I felt like playing
them. Didn't study, really. James "Coatsville" Harris, a great drummer in
Philadelphia, got me started. After he found I had some kind of talent and a
feel for the instrument, he showed me a whole bunch of things, set me up, got
me going. That was the first formal instruction I had. Harris concentrated
mostly on rudiments. I didn't develop any real reading ability until I studied
with Cozy Cole in the 1940s.

The pattern was set during the years in Philadelphia. Too young to get
into clubs, Jones would sneak out and listen to the music and drummers he
admired. He asked the older musicians questions and sat in when he could.
Long before Jones was tabbed "Philly Joe" by group leader-clarinetist Tony
Scott during an engagement at Minton's in 1953, he did all he could to
informally learn about music and the drums.
After high school, Jones went into the service. He wasn't assigned to
Special Services or a band, though he spent a lot of time with musicians and
often sat in with bands wherever he was stationed. When Jones returned
home to Philadelphia, he became "serious." He bought his first set of drums
and went into the "woodshed," practicing constantly until he felt he was
ready to face the music around town.

CHARLIE RICE: I met Joe when he was a teenager, at a place called the Rose-
land in West Philly, at Arch and Udell streets. It was a breeding ground for
musicians. We both weren't old enough to be there. That's where I learned
to play drums. Jimmy Preston and a couple of other musicians worked at the
place. Playing in different clubs, testing ourselves, seeing who could play the
best—that was the thing at the time.
Joe always came around. He later played at the Downbeat when I was in
the house band there. The guys used to talk about how talented he was. When
the big guns came in from New York, he frequently was the drummer they
wanted. I always seemed to be running into Joe. I could talk to him. We were
straight with one another. Even though he got strung out and sick and did
some really "bad" things, I couldn't get mad at him.
Joe kept things to himself, even when his life was rough. One time I saw
him on South Street in front of Gertz, the department store. He had been
through some tough times. He started telling me about all the big deals he
had. I knew he wasn't doing well. He finally realized who he was talking to
and said: "Oh, Charlie, man, you and I—we've been out here for so many
years." That's the way he was. Coltrane was the same way. Neither one of
them would complain or open up.
222 Into the 1950$
Joe was a guy with such a great personality. The things people said about
him rolled off his back. When you'd see him, he'd always have something
funny to do or something funny to say. Any way you look at it, he was a super
player. He and Shadow [Wilson] were the most talented drummers to come
out of Philadelphia.

TOM FERGUSON: The back of our place faced the house where Joe lived. It was
on Blakemore Street. We were on Matthews Street in Germantown. My
father was friendly with the Jones family. Joe and I got to know one another.
I used to run into him when I started playing the guitar.
I didn't get to know Joe as a player until I got a gig at the Downbeat,
which was on llth Street, near the Earle Theater. The guys in the trav-
eling bands that played the theater used to come by the Downbeat to sit in.
Jimmy Golden, a piano player, had the band. Ziggy Vines and Al Steele were
on tenor. Shrimpy Anderson played bass. Charlie Rice was our regular
drummer.
Joe had a job driving a trolley car—the 21 line that extended from Chest-
nut Hill, at the very top of Philadelphia at the North End, all the way
through the city down to South Philadelphia. That was the longest trolley ride
in the city.
It ran on llth Street, right past the Downbeat, which was on the second
floor.
Joe often stopped the trolley in front of the club. He'd grab the controls,
jump out, and sit in for a number or two. The people hung out the windows
of the trolley, growing more and more impatient. They wanted to get home,
or wherever they were going. When Joe got back to the trolley, everybody
would cheer, and off they'd go to South Philly.
Joe was a gregarious guy. I always was very fond of him.
Later on, I'd see him when he played at Pep's or the Blue Note. I'd bump
into him around our neighborhood or riding on the subway. It always was
very pleasant.

The years in Philadelphia were important. Jones began to find his way
stylistically. He loved Max Roach, Art Blakey, and Kenny Clarke. He had
listened to and studied the work of Baby Dodds, Jo Jones, Chick Webb,
Denzil Best, Dave Tough, Tiny Kahn, and certainly Sidney Catlett—one of
his mentors. He was very fond of the playing of O'Neil Spencer, whom
many of us remember warmly for his excellent performances with the John
Kirby little band in the 19305 and 19408.

JONES: The exposure to the great people had a lot to do with how I came
along—how I thought about music. I didn't want to sound like anyone. I had
to have my own sound and way of doing things.
I really dug O'Neil. He came to a club in Philadelphia where I was
working in 1943,1 think it was, and talked to me about the hi-hat. I had been
using a foot cymbal, the low-hat. O'Neil was the one who invented the hi-hat!
I believe that, man. [Ed. note—So many people claimed to have created the
hi-hat: Kaiser Marshall, Jo Jones,and others.] He suggested I close the hi-
hat on "2" and "4" when playing in 4/4 time. The idea seemed so right. I
hadn't heard anyone do that before.
Sid Catlett took the time to show me what to do about many things
 Phillij Joe Jone$ 223
including brushes. Sid had developed so many brush techniques. He helped
a lot of young drummers. He was that kind of a guy. Max and Art Blakey,
who were my idols, were encouraging and told me to come to New York.
I used to visit Max regularly in Brooklyn at his Monroe Street apartment.
Sometimes Kenny Dennis, another drummer, came along. Max was great to
me. Whenever he was in Philadelphia, he'd look me up. I remember one
time, when I was driving a grocery truck, he rode around with me for an
entire afternoon. We talked about just everything. He kept insisting I come to
New York. I left home and went to New York in 1947, intending to stay on
permanently.

Jones's need to learn and play made for some stability in what was
becoming an increasingly unstable life. Like many others at that time, he
went along with the philosophy "If it feels good, do it!" Drugs became
central to his day-to-day life. He often behaved in a totally impossible
manner—doing people out of money, taking what wasn't his, pawning
whatever he could get his hands on, particularly drums—in order to keep up
with the increasing demands of his habit. A lot of musicians were afraid to
associate with him. This was the "Crazy Joe" side of this increasingly
brilliant musician. It took a number of years before he began turning away
from such behavior.
But there was his other side. The need to study, to know about music, to
play better than everyone else, often kept him on a sensible level. His ability
as an entertainer worked for him, giving him immediate entry into a
discerning circle of musicians, comedians, actors. They appreciated his
quickness, his humor and talent. The Jones charm was devastatingly
effective and often deluding—a way of getting what he wanted. It could
have strong elements of con.
In the late 19405, Jones began studying with Cozy Cole, the popular
Swing Era drummer. It was a very important experience for Jones.

JONES: Cozy had a studio in a building on West 48th Street across from
Manny's, the popular all-around music store. Max was studying vibes with
Cozy. Jo Jones was working out some stuff with him, too. I went there regu-
larly for lessons and followed him to West 54th Street and Eighth Avenue,
where he and Gene Krupa had their drum school.
Cozy was a great teacher. My reading ability, whatever I do, he's respon-
sible for it. When I came to him, I couldn't. When I left him, I could. It's as
simple as that. Cozy was very stern. He'd say: "Play that!" If you didn't play
it perfectly—from top to bottom—he wouldn't let you go on. He asked a lot
of his students. You had to give him what he wanted. I worked very hard on
rudiments. Cozy put heavy emphasis on them. Until then, I played the best I
could with a number of bands—in Philadelphia and New York—relying on
my instincts.

Jones would practice all the time, sometimes with other drummers in
town. He worked on variations of the rudiments, using paradiddle, flams,
triplets, all sorts of rolls, ratamacues, single strokes, and rudimental
combinations in new, exciting ways, changing their sound and feeling,
making them more musically meaningful. The hard work soon began to pay
off. His experiments with rudiments added to his musicality.
22i, Into the 1950$

Jones would carry around Modern Rudimental Swing Solos, the classic
instruction book by Charles Wilcoxin, notable for difficult yet ultimately
fulfilling exercises that promoted facility. He kept at them. Mastering the
book became an obsessive matter. His goal was to diversify how rudiments
were used and make them more jazz-effective.
Philadelphia colleagues remember with unusual pleasure what he could
do even before he went to New York and studied. Jones played with lead-
ing New York musicians but spent much of his time working with local
players who were deeply into finding singular ways to treat the new music.
One was Jimmy Heath, who came to be known as "Little Bird" around
Philadelphia.

JIMMY HEATH: Joe was very natural. He understood music better than most
drummers because he could play the piano. His drumming was meaningful
and well structured. He could swing at any tempo and make you feel it—
anything from a slow groove to real, real fast, the Max Roach tempo. Joe's
pulse was terrific. Whatever he played had great feeling, no matter who the
musicians were.
I worked with Joe a good deal back home. On one particular gig, we had
Clifford Brown. You know he could play. Sugey Rhodes was on bass, and I
think Dolo Coker was at the piano. It was wonderful. Joe had his problems,
no doubt about that. But he always could play and, basically, was a very
generous person.

BENNY GOLSON: Philly Joe was a little older than the rest of us—John
Coltrane, Jimmy Heath, and the others. He had gotten started earlier than
we did. As far as development, he was down the road a bit. I kind of
worshipped him from afar.
A lot of us in Philadelphia came along at about the same time. We were
trying to deal with bebop. Certainly Philly Joe was latching onto it. So was
bassist Nelson Boyd and Red Garland, the pianist who later was so impres-
sive with Miles [Davis]. I watched the whole thing start to change in town.
Bebop created a whole new environment.
I got a gig for the summer in 1951 with Bull Moose Jackson and his
Bearcats. I was just getting my feet wet. Joe came into the band. He sang,
played the piano and bass, did some tap dance routines. The guy was
phenomenal. He wrote music and arranged stuff. And he was a truly terrific
drummer.
He was so sensitive to what was going on that things fell into the right
places. He didn't use a paradiddle, a flam tap, or a ruff without an under-
lying reason. When he played something, it added to the moment and what
was going on emotionally. That's what I liked about him.
Tadd Dameron, the great arranger, was the pianist in the Jackson band.
Both Bull Moose and Tadd were from Cleveland. Bull Moose convinced Tadd
to come out on the road with him. When he was thinking about changing the
drummer, he asked me if I knew a good one. I suggested Joe, though I
wondered just how well he would fit in the band. But he worked out fine. We
all sang in unison. Bull Moose, a singer, had a lot of hits. The ladies wanted
to hear those love ballads.
Two years later, we worked together again. Tadd had the band at a place
called the Paradise in Atlantic City. He hired great players—Clifford Brown,
 Philly Joe Jone$ 225

Gigi Gryce, Cecil Payne. I was lucky to be in the band. Tadd wrote all the
music. We didn't play any jazz, just show and dance music.
Joe handled everything so well because he was such a good musician. He
cut the shows easily. By that time he was a good reader. Singer Betty Carter,
"Bebop Betty," was one of the principals in the show. I remember she did
"Lady Be Good," at an impossibly fast tempo. Joe and our bassist Jymie
Merritt were right with her. No difficulty whatsoever. Joe could play in any
tempo.
When Joe finally left Philadelphia permanently, and no longer was a local,
he didn't sing or dance or play bass and only occasionally sat down at the
piano. He was strictly a jazz drummer.

STAN LEVEY: I knew him in Philadelphia, in New York, and out here in Los
Angeles. Joe had extraordinary talent—everything a great drummer needs.
Good ears. Good hands. Good ideas. And the ability to execute and use what
he knew and felt, in the right way.
But he was stoned out of his mind all the time. I'm not pointing a finger; I
had more than a little difficulty with that sort of thing myself. I know it
doesn't really do anyone any good. You can end up in prison or dead if you
don't turn it around.

Philly Joe Jones had his own stylistic recipe. However, some of the first
things he recorded with Joe Morris's band on Atlantic were essentially in an
R8cB groove. They didn't allow him to show what he could do. Johnny
Griffin, Elmo Hope, and Percy Heath, who later would become widely
known in jazz, were in the Morris band.
Jones moved through a developmental process. He took what he liked in
Max Roach, Art Blakey, and Kenny Clarke; what attracted him to the work
of Sidney Catlett, Chick Webb, Cozy Cole, Jo Jones, Shadow Wilson, Dave
Tough, Denzil Best, O'Neil Spencer, and, later, Buddy Rich. He mixed and
blended ideas and techniques and came up with something very much his
own. His style and manner of performance were well applied in any context.

MEL LEWIS: Philly was a combination of so many good things. A swing

drummer, he updated that style, giving it a very contemporary feeling. He
swung and had a very distinctive sound. Philly brought back depth to drums.
He used what essentially is big band drum tuning—deep bass drum, usually
a little larger than the so-called hipper people generally play. His bass drum
pedal had a heavy beater ball.
Philly was a fantastic brush player. He was the culmination of certain
trends. There's Max in his playing, Buddy Rich, others, but all with his mark
and feel. Yeah, he played strong and loud. But he deserves a special place in
drumming.
To go back to the beginning, he's a combination of a lot of things . . . and
still much emulated. . . . Young drummers can learn a lot from him.1

Slim Gaillard, the many-faceted entertainer, musician, group leader, and

humorous jive talker, claims to have presented Philly Joe Jones for the first
time in New York. Like all who aspire to come here and make it, Jones was
intimidated by the enormous competition and the possibility of failure in
jazz's capital city.
226 Into the 1950$
SLIM GAILLARD: I have a bunch of fellows that I brought out into the jazz
world. Like Philly Joe Jones—I brought him from Philadelphia to New York.
He was afraid to go there, because they had all the heavies in Birdland. He
said: "Oh Slim, I don't think I can make it." I said: "You're going to." He
said: "You think I can?" I said: "Let's go." When I brought him into Bird-
land, he was shaking. But when we made our appearance there, the house
came down. . . .In interviews he always says: "Slim Gaillard brought me out
of Philadelphia and got me started in the big league."2

The news about Philly Joe Jones spread rapidly through the New York
music community. A bit of a paradox, he had great assets as a musician and
an imposing number of personal limitations.
In 1951, he joined the Buddy Rich band as second drummer. Rich was
one of his idols. He was proud to have been hired, and happy that the drum
icon liked his playing. Rich made that unmistakable. He picked Jones up
every night on the way to work—a rather uncommon thing for the super-
drummer to do.
A great source of inspiration, intimidation, and frustration to Jones, Rich
acted as a spur to Jones's ambition. To develop the high-level facility that
would place him on the level of the freakish Rich became a major pre-
occupation.
The obsession with Rich, which is shared by drummers across the
generations, never left him. A number of years later, after he had become an
international star with Miles Davis, he still had this devil to deal with,
among many others.

GEORGE WEIN: We embarked on our second tour of Japan in 1965 with four
drummers: Philly Joe, Louie Bellson, Charli Persip, and Buddy. Philly had
done fantastically well on the first drummers' tour. He had a great following
in Japan because of his records with Miles Davis. What Philly did with
brushes really impressed Japanese jazz fans.
On the plane, Buddy said to Philly: "Look, Joe, you know what's
happening. You tell us how it should go down, and we'll just follow your
lead." Blue Mitchell and Junior Cook were the horns. I've forgetten the
names of the pianist and bass player. Anyway, all the drummers would be
onstage at one time, and they'd start rhythmic patterns. One would play,
then another. Then each one would do his own thing.
Out of respect, Philly insisted that Buddy close the show. In his heart, he
wanted to make it tough for Buddy to follow him. He went on and did his
thing and was fantastic! Then they introduced Buddy Rich.
Philly had gone down to the dressing room of the concert hall. Before long,
he was in the wings, watching and listening to Buddy. Because he had to follow
Philly's great performance, Buddy turned it on from the outset. He made a
special effort. You know Buddy's ego. Standing there with a towel around his
neck, like an athlete after a big win, Philly focused on Buddy. Slowly but
surely, you could see Philly coming down, down, down. His face and body
mirrored what was happening. Buddy was cutting him to bits. He turned and
walked away. Obviously he couldn't take it anymore. His anger and frustra-
tion burst through. He said: "Motherfucker!"—so it clearly could be heard.
Philly Joe had been clean as a whistle. He was so excited about being in
Japan, where he had enjoyed such enormous success. When Buddy wiped
 Phillij Joe Jones 227

him out, it destroyed him. This is my interpretation. Two days later, he went
out and got busted for narcotics.

Jones was arrested in Kobe, in western Japan. The New York Amsterdam
News reported: "Narcotics officers reportedly seized 10 grams of drugs—
and several hypodermic needles. The type of drug was not revealed but it
was stated that a search of Jones's hotel room in Kobe revealed traces of a
powdered drug."
The habit and bad luck seemed to get in Jones's way. In early 1953,
clarinetist Tony Scott, who had recently joined the Duke Ellington band,
suggested Jones to maestro. There was about to be an opening in the band.
Jones auditioned at the Bandbox, a club on Broadway next door to
Birdland, where Ellington was appearing.

TONY SCOTT: Joe came in on a Tuesday and auditioned. All the older cats in
the band, like Harry Carney, Russell Procope, and Hilton Jefferson, turned
around and looked at him. Joe played the hell out of the Ellington things and
was really swinging.
He was hired to come in on Thursday. But he didn't show. He'd gone home
to Philadelphia and was arrested. The police were wrong. It was false arrest,
a mistaken identity thing. But Joe was in jail for a couple of days and
couldn't make the gig. When he came back to New York, it was too late.[Ed.
note—Ellington hired Jones to play the score of the motion picture Paris
Blues a few years down the line. There were four drummers: Sonny Greer,
Max Roach, Jimmy Johnson, and Jones.]

That same year, Jones became a member of clarinetist Tony Scott's

quartet—with Milt Hinton (bass) and Dick Katz (piano)—at Minton's in
Harlem. Kenny Clarke was going to take the job but had become involved
with the Modern Jazz Quartet; he strongly recommended Philly Joe Jones.
Jones brought his ample talent to bear on music that simultaneously reached
into his swing roots and mirrored his bebop interests.
Scott attracted major attention with the band. He could have achieved
substantial success with it had he seen fit to further season the quartet and
book it throughout the country at a reasonable price. A live recording, taped
by Johnny Mandel at Minton's, came out as part of Tony Scott in Hi Fi on
Brunswick about four years later. It documents how good the quartet was.
One of very few clarinetists with sufficient musical know-how and
warmth to deal inventively with bebop, Scott was moving toward a peak
level as a player. He swung consistently and played the music in an in-
creasingly persuasive manner.
Milt Hinton, one of the few bassists in his generation who found pleasure
and challenge in modern jazz, was a source of stability, surety, and swing.
Dick Katz, whose economic style mingled the past and present, fit in well.
Philly Joe Jones was the firemaker. Seemingly without breaking a sweat,
he brought buoyancy and a sense of great excitement to the time, colorfully
commenting, mostly with the left hand, as he proceeded. He was anything
but monochromatic.
His four-bar exchanges with Scott were particularly effective because they
were part of the unfolding musical story; there was no break in the
continuity. He performed gracefully, moving across elements of the set—
228 Into the 1950$
with heaviest concentration on the snare drum—adding intensity and
quality to the music. Unlike so many drummers, he wasn't redundant. Try
"Away We Go," an up-tempo burner, on the Brunswick LP.

TONY SCOTT: Joe had a lot of drive. He created different "sounds" that
spurred you on. He came out of Sid Catlett. As a matter of fact, his hands
and what he did with them reminded me of Sid. But he went way beyond
that. Joe did a lot of cute show-biz things with the cymbal, dueling with it,
playing little things on its underside. When you listened closely during a
number or through an entire set, he often sounded like a horn player, partic-
ularly during his solos. You know, Joe was the only drummer who could play
big band lead-ins or brass figures without rushing.
I used him later on a small band gig in the Village, in 1959 just before I
left for Japan. Bill Evans and Jimmy Garrison were in the group. Philly
came in for the last two weeks. One night, as we were playing the last number
of the final set, Philly started to take down his drums. He went for the bass
drum pedal first and dropped it in his case. Next he took down the snare and
its stand Then the bass drum. All the while, he kept playing time on the ride
cymbal. Next he took apart the hi-hat and lightly walked it over to the case.
As he unscrewed the ride cymbal, we held the final note. The cymbal landed
in the case just as we ended the tune. Boom! It was beautiful!
While we were at Minton's, I started announcing him as Philly Joe, so the
people wouldn't confuse him with Papa Jo Jones. Later Philly had his name
changed legally.

MlLT HlNTON: Philly Joe was a big guy with strong hands—and one of the
drummers who played the modern jazz style correctly. He was doing really
well at Minton's and did even better with Miles. Philly always used a lot of
narcotics. But on the bandstand he was marvelous.

DICK KATZ: Philly Joe used to talk a lot about Sidney Catlett. He liked Max
Roach and Art Blakey but was far more polished than Blakey. Philly was hip
and slick. He called me "Dick Dogs" and could be a totally impossible
person.
A lot of musicians warned me not to do it, but I went out on the road with
him once after the Minton's thing. All the bad things that you can imagine
happened. We were at the Crawford Grill in Pittsburgh. There was chaos.
He got a big advance for himself and didn't pay the band.
Tell you one thing: he made me play way over my head. Kicked me in
the ass and forced me to do it. He could be intimidating and something of
a bully. But underneath he was a softie. But I wasn't ready back then to be a
philosopher.
The man was totally musical and very dramatic. And he was precise. You
better believe that! When he was given thirty-two bars, that's what he would
play. If he took a few choruses, he expected you to listen, not walk off the
bandstand, and come in just where you should. He didn't fool around!
Philly was very adroit with the bass drum. He used it sparingly and very
tastefully. He was a virtuoso of the hi-hat. I think his greatest strengths were
color and his pulse. Certainly he was instantly recognizable. And his fours
were as exciting as any I've ever heard.
 Phillij Joe Jonej 229
Jones could burn you alive with fours, eights, half choruses, and choruses.
He was beyond compare when soloing up to and a bit beyond a chorus. The
longer solos, however, were not on that level. Though generally musical and
interesting, they were not as good as the shorter bursts. This limitation had
to do with technique, control, and concentration—the ability to execute and
develop ideas over the long haul. Jones was no slouch. Most drummers
would give their eyeteeth to be able to do what he did. But he wasn't a
virtuoso like Rich or Roach or Joe Morello or Louie Bellson, no matter how
hard he tried to become one.
Kenny Washington, an excellent contemporary drummer, who knows
more about Philly Joe Jones than almost anyone, insists Jones "had the best
of two worlds. Legit chops, on the one hand, and what I call 12 5th Street/
South Philadelphia slickness—the on-the-corner stuff—on the other."
Arthur Taylor felt that "Philly encompassed everything. He had the
technique, the control, He knew all the rhythms. His imagination was
unbelievable. He was my favorite."
All the elements compound best on the recordings Jones made with Miles
Davis for Prestige and Columbia in the 19508. They are classic performances
by a band that lived and traveled and experienced a lot—together. There
was some turbulence in the band, but the recordings mirror little of that.

JONES: Working with Miles was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.
The original quintet can be traced back to my hometown. Red Garland, John
Coltrane, and I had this little band. We worked locally at clubs like the Blue
Note. We got together with Miles, who brought Paul Chambers into the band.

It wasn't that cut-and-dried. Davis wanted Sonny Rollins, and the tenor
man was in and out of the band. John Gilmore from Chicago was tried at
a few rehearsals. Finally Coltrane was called by Philly Joe Jones to play the
first gig by the quintet at the Anchors Inn in Baltimore. The band opened on
September 2.8, 1955.
Chambers, an accomplished twenty-year-old bassist from Detroit, was
Jackie McLean's recommendation. He had been working with Chambers in
pianist George Wallington's group at the Cafe Bohemia in Greenwich
Village.
It didn't take long for the band to solidify and make an impression. By
the end of its first tour, there was a great deal of talk about the quintet,
though some fans were disappointed that Rollins wasn't in the band.
Davis had attracted a rush of attention a few months earlier at the
Newport Jazz Festival. He made an electrifying appearance, after a time in
the shade. The press "rediscovered" him. Record companies pursued him.
Indeed, it was Miles Davis's time.
The records tell the story. Though Jones and Coltrane were fired and
rehired because of drug problems and differences with Davis, all the
musicians liked one another and had in common a concept, an approach to
playing music that stemmed from Davis. They had the freedom they needed
to carry it out and find their own paths as well.
Coltrane, obsessive about moving ahead, practiced and tried new things
all the time, on and off the bandstand. Garland sought the economy, preci-
sion, and color particular to the style of Ahmad Jamal while incorporating
2}o Into the 1950$

harmonic elements out of Erroll Garner. Chambers developed rapidly with

Davis. Clearly it was a musical environment that motivated growth and
continuing invention.
Philly Joe Jones again was the firemaker. He was flexible and confident,
often establishing an almost strutting thrust. His solos were flowing and
almost always surprising. Their shape and structure had an underlying
musicality about them—a sense of inevitability. One pattern melded with
the next. There was sharpness and exactness in his ensemble performances,
behind the soloists, and when he spoke for himself.
Jones played what he knew and felt, often reaching beyond that. He
introduced textural variety on the snare and the other drums as well. The
tom-toms often took on a melodic quality, particularly when Jones put
together patterns across the drums. The way Jones played the hi-hat and
top cymbals gave performances delightful immediacy. Trickery on the hi-
hat—crafty and rhythmically so effective—added to the quality and value
of his supportive playing and solos.
Jones's playing was sophisticated and down home, loud and demanding.
He generally said something and gave his colleagues what they needed.
Davis relished Jones's fire and intensity, The trumpeter couldn't do without
them. Though Jones often wanted to play brushes, which he did as few
could, Davis preferred sticks and strength and Jones's constant comment.

JIMMY GIUFFRE: One night, I asked Philly Joe: "Don't you ever play softly?
You're so busy and play so loud." "I know what you mean," Philly said. "But
I can't do it in Miles's band. He wants me to play 'up there'—surround the
music with the cymbal sound and play a lot of stuff on the drums." Philly
thought for a minute, then made me an offer: "I'll tell you what. Come down
to the club [Ed. note—I believe it was the Cafe Bohemia in Greenwich Village]
on Sunday afternoon. I'm going to play soft, down low, with the band. You
watch what Miles does." Sure enough, after Philly began playing softly with
brushes that Sunday, Miles turned around and, in that raspy voice of his,
angrily made his feelings known: "What the fuck are you doing, man? Play!"

The 19505 clearly were Philly Joe Jones's most important period. He was
admired and imitated. He could sweep you off your feet. As early as the
January 30, 1953, Miles Davis date on Prestige with Charlie Parker and
Sonny Rollins (tenors), Walter Bishop Jr. (piano), and Percy Heath (bass),
Jones's gritty pulsation and consistently captivating and uplifting
embroidery were all you could want as a player or listener.
The surge was made all the more compelling by the decisive snapping
sound of the hi-hats closing on "2" and "4" of every 4/4 measure. Not only
that, he used big band techniques where most effective—try "Compulsion."
He hit hard, further defining accents in the melodic line, playing linking
figures, and placing bass drum accents under the right notes in the
ensembles. These techniques enhanced the time flow.
The great records for Prestige (Relaxin3, Cookin', Steamin', Working and
Green Haze, all recorded in 1955 and 1956) and two Columbia albums
C Round Midnight and Milestones, the first recorded in 1955 and 1956, the
second in 1958, with alto saxophonist Julian "Cannonball" Adderley added
to the band) have several things in common.
 PhillyJoeJonei 231

The repertory is a mixture of the great American standards, originals

stemming from bebop, and new pieces by Jackie McLean and Benny Golson.
The performances are "seasoned"—a favorite Jones descriptive. They're
what could be expected of a great road band. Philly Joe Jones was the pivot
around which everything rhythmically developed. He reacted strongly to
Davis. The spare, powerful, thought- and emotion-provoking Davis solos
played on his sensitivities. For Coltrane, he was an encouraging, assuring
colleague, stimulating, laying down a carpet of sound as the saxophonist
sought and searched for his own truth. Jones danced lightly behind Garland
and worked well with Chambers, giving the bassist the window he needed
to operate and be heard.
Jones makes really outstanding "music" on Davis's "Four," from
Workin'. His cymbal playing is wonderfully light; his left hand prods and
probes possibilities. His four-bar comments are a rudimental feast."Surrey
With the Fringe on Top," from Steamin', again proves how easily Jones
could make his point with low-level, singing cymbal work. Each stroke is
heard and perfectly spaced. But it's the emotional weight he brings to acutely
defined, contributing ideas that makes all the difference. He creates a
singular environment for each soloist.
"Salt Peanuts," one of his best and most integrated solo performances, is
the highlight of Steamin'. As the solo develops and moves through your
senses, Jones's charm, technical swiftness, and how well he works with form
seduces you. You hear or sense the basic "Salt Peanuts" figure throughout;
he breaks up rhythms and reactively expands on ideas.
The Davis-Jones collaborations musicians like best are two items from
Milestones. The title piece, with a sixteen-bar bridge, is in AABA song
form (breakdown: 8-8-16-8). Its rhythmic character encourages the
drummer to play, to contribute. It's one of Philly Joe Jones's classic per-
formances. One of the first things Davis recorded based on scales, it moves
right along in medium/up-tempo incorporating what has become known
as the "Philly Joe lick"—a cross-stick accent on the fourth beat of each
bar. I heard Blakey play this pattern first, but Jones uses it more frequently
and provocatively. Here it becomes part of the structure of the piece
and gives rhythmic impetus to the performance it would not otherwise
have had.
The second item, a trio treatment of a traditional song, "Billy Boy," is a
matter of evocative interplay among Red Garland, Chambers, and Jones. In
a tempo between medium and up, it grabs hold of you and never lets go.
Garland establishes a cocktail lounge chordal sound and gives it jazz muscle.
Chambers lays down the time and takes an arco solo of quality.
But it's Philly Joe Jones's party. He plays a series of four- bar exchanges
with his friends that are exemplary. Each four-bar invention—brushes or
sticks—is better than the one that preceded it. All the while, the intensity
builds. He dances around the set and gives variety to each episode, using
everything at his disposal in a classy, productive manner.
I also recommend, without reservation, "Gone," from Miles Davis and
Gil Evans's Porgy and Bess (Columbia), for a highly reactive solo by Jones,
a matter of one-, two-, four- and eight-bar flashes of inspiration in which the
commentary is well woven within the fabric of the piece. Jones's time and
technique during this performance are not quickly forgotten.
232 Into the 19501
DON LAMOND: Nobody has ever played better fours than Philly Joe did on
"Billy Boy." He sneaks over from brushes to sticks and doesn't miss a beat.
He has the greatest sound on the top cymbal, the bass drum. He must have
really gotten sober for that record date, because the things he plays are just
phenomenal. He makes pure music.

ARTIE SHAW: Philly was a bitch on the Miles records—with the quintet, sextet,
and with Gil Evans and the large orchestra. He knew what drums are all
about. The drummer isn't supposed to make time but to keep time. He
should be a propelling, motivating force. You don't want the drummer
intruding on you. Helping is what it's all about. Philly took care of the job,
as few could.

The nature of Jones's career after leaving Miles Davis in 1958 could have
been predicted. Everyone wanted him for recording sessions, ranging from
Hank Mobley to Bill Evans, from Elmo Hope to Tadd Dameron. They all
yearned for that fire, that sensitivity, and all that went with it.
Jones made over five hundred albums. Among them are several of his
own on Riverside and Uptown. All speak well for him. When it came to the
music, he was a very serious man.

ORRIN KEEPNEWS: Philly Joe was the greatest recording drummer I've ever
known. He had an awareness of the requirements of the process and what he
had to do. He would always ask about how the sound of the instrument was
coming across in the booth. Philly was open to suggestions and conscious of
what he had to do. He could adapt easily to situations. This was a great asset
in the recording studio. Philly very easily could change the volume and inten-
sity of his playing and still boot the band as much as ever.
Sure, he could be a pain in the ass and unreliable. His addiction was a
problem for those who worked with him. He was controlled to a large extent
by his habit. But his problem didn't interfere with his performances and how
conscious he was of what had to happen in the studio.

Very strongly impelled by the desire to pass on what he knew, Jones had
students and gruffly talked to many young drummers who wanted to know
how he made miracles on the drum set. He moved around a good deal in
the last phases of his career. He spent time in California. "I was on the
Charlie Barnet band for a while," he said with some enthusiasm. For five
years, he lived and worked and taught in England and France. In Paris, he
hooked up with Kenny Clarke in a teaching situation. "Kenny knew so
much; he was my man," he told me. Jones was treated as an icon abroad.
In France's Jazz Magazine, a review of Jones by critic Alain Gerber at Paris's
Museum of Modern Art carried the headline "Le Divin Philly Joe."
Jones came home to stay in 1972.. He returned to Philadelphia, where he
headed a jazz/rock group and freelanced. After some planning and
discussion, Jones and Don Sickler, a trumpeter, composer, and student of the
music, decided to present the music of Tadd Dameron to the public. Eloise
Woods Jones, the drummer's wife, who worked hard to bring this project to
reality, applied for and received a grant from the National Endowment of the
Arts. It helped make possible Dameronia, a nine-piece band headed by Philly
Joe Jones. Sickler was musical director. The band made a memorable debut
 (Del Leum 233
in Philadelphia in April of 1982,, then deeply impressed New Yorkers. It
recorded as well, bringing into the foreground at least some of Dameron's
valuable, profoundly musical legacy.
Jones's life mellowed out in the final years. He was no longer "Crazy
Philly Joe." People weren't afraid of what he might do. He became a very
close friend of Don and Maureen Sickler.

DON SICKLER: The old problems were no longer a threat to people who were
tight with him. We found him a very sensitive, intelligent guy. He'd sit for
hours in our music room, playing the piano, concentrating on Monk mate-
rial. He continued practicing his rudiments, upside down and backwards. He
was so serious about continuing to learn and remind himself about all a
drummer needs to know. Philly retained the enthusiasm for music and his
instrument.
One night on a gig with Dameronia, he said: "Can you believe we're actu-
ally up here having all of this fun, playing this great music—and getting paid
for it!"

Jones took only gigs he wanted in the last years. The money had to be
there; the job had to be interesting and "convenient." He played, studied,
and recorded—with Manhattan Transfer and vibraharpist Bobby Hutch-
erson, among others. He completed drum instruction books, defining his
methods. He told one writer that he was still trying to perfect his roll.
Jones's health was not at all stable. Considering what he had put his body
through over the years, it was a surprise he was still alive. The fire went out
on August 30, 1985. The press said a heart attack was the cause. Friends
indicated he had cancer. The cause of death is not important. What he did
for music while he was here is.

HEL LEWIS (1929-1990)

There's still not a drummer who has achieved what Mel did.
And I'm not sure how to describe it.
—GERRY MULLIGAN

I must admit this is a more personal essay than most of the others. Mel
Lewis and I were friends for thirty-five years—from his Kenton years until
he passed after a courageous five-year battle with melanoma, a deadly form
of skin cancer.
Mel and I shared uncommon respect for those who did things their own
way. Our conversations over the years were peppered with enthusiastic
evaluations of musicians we admired, players and composers like Lester
Young, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Ben Webster, Bob Brookmeyer, Bill
Holman, Al Cohn, Zoot Sims, Art Tatum, John Coltrane, and Bud Powell.
A number of drummers were discussed. There were those who played a
major role in Mel's life and development as a musician, including Gene
Krupa, Jo Jones, Dave Tough, Sid Catlett, Tiny Kahn, Buddy Rich, Kenny
Clarke, Teddy Stewart, Shadow Wilson, Max Roach, Roy Haynes, and Sam
Sokoloff.
23<t Into the 19501

Mel Lewis in the rhythm section of the Tex Beneke band, playing music in the
manner of Glenn Miller (1950-1953). Courtesy Modern Drummer Publications.

You must be wondering about Sam Sokoloff, right? He certainly wasn't

a household name. Sokoloff was Mel Lewis's dad.
A drummer in Buffalo, where the Sokoloff family lived, he played shows,
bar mitzvahs, weddings, club dates, and dances and set the tone for his son's
life. He took Mel to his gigs when he was just a little guy and showed him
what it took to play the instrument.

LEWIS: I learned from my father. Dad had just one lesson. A man by the name
of Henry Baker showed him how to hold the sticks and roll. Then he bought
a set of drums for fifteen dollars and began to play. Harold Arlen, the com-
 (Del Leuw 235
poser, had a trio in Buffalo. Arlen played piano; a guy by the name of Benny
Steinhart was the violinist. My dad, originally a violinist, turned to drums
because the trio needed a drummer, not another violinist. It was a good thing
for him. He loved the instrument and had marvelous, natural time.
Bill Robinson, the great tap dancer, told me years later how much he
enjoyed my father's drumming. "I always looked forward to playing Buffalo
because I knew I'd work with Sam. Your dad was one of the most comple-
mentary drummers of all," Bojangles said. "He could play softly, so a dancer
could be heard. His time was impeccable, and he played this side cymbal,
attached to the foot pedal, that made a 'tick' sound. It kept the time and
rhythm in your ear. The chorus girls loved it. They based all their moves on
that ticking, steady beat."
Dad used to play a slap with a brush on the fourth beat of a 4/4 bar. It
drove the guys in the band. That accent later became a heavy thing in jazz
when Blakey and Philly Joe Jones started doing it. My dad had never heard
anyone else play that. He just came up with the idea. In his own way, he was
creating.

Lewis learned the most valuable lessons of all from his father: to think as
a musician, to do what was called for. Because of Sokoloff and drummers
he met as a youngster—e.g., Gene Krupa and Jo Jones—Lewis came to
realize how important it is to know about the history of jazz and the
instrument you play.
Krupa and Jones spoke to him about significant drummers and instru-
mentalists of the past and present. They made the youngster aware of the
basic necessities for playing jazz. And they advised him to get to know about
music and drums from the inside—as a player.

LEWIS: Dad took me to see and hear Krupa for the first time in 1934. The
Benny Goodman band appeared at the Cinderella Ball, which was held in the
Armory in Buffalo. I was five or six years old. Krupa ruined me. I loved what
he did. The next time I saw him was in 1938, just before he left Goodman.
Again my dad took me. Two years later, at ten, I cemented my relationship
with Krupa. By that time, he had his own band. I played for him and we
talked about drums and how they related to music.
From then on, I was "his man" in Buffalo. Every time Krupa was in the
area, I was there. I traveled by bike, no matter how far away it happened to
be. Sometimes it was as much as twenty-five miles.

"That Ace Drummer Man" and "Red" from Buffalo became so close that
Krupa would call Mrs. Sokoloff for permission to take her son on the band
bus to bookings in and around Buffalo.

Lewis was insatiable. He heard all the great bands that came though. He
quizzed the drummers on just about everything. One evening, he became so
involved with Jo Jones that the Basic star missed a date with a lovely lady
of the chorus who danced at the Palace Theater, the local burlesque house.
Sam Sokoloff played drums in the pit band there.

LEWIS: Gene Krupa made me aware how important musicality and simplicity
were. He had a lot of technique, but he was really the simplest. His playing
236 Into the 19501
was easy to understand. That's why so many of the older musicians liked
him. Though he kept training and studying with a lot of people, he never
attempted to do impossible things. He was into music and what fit, not speed
and facility for their own sake.
As much as I admired Gene, his taste and all-around ability, I didn't want
to play like him. I was more attracted to people like Jo, Dave Tough, and Sid
Catlett and what they did for music.

Lewis sensed his future would not be built around technique. He was
more interested in becoming an integral part of a big or small band's sound
and thrust. The kind of drummer that appealed to him most as a youngster
remained interesting to him at the end of his life. He favored understated yet
strong and intense players of the instrument, those who mixed pulsation
with pertinent coloration and gave music dimension.
Lewis made his debut behind a set at six. The event: his cousin's wedding.
Standing up, little Melvin Sokoloff played a freilach—an intensely rhythmic
Jewish dance—for half an hour. It was a fine beginning. The kid gave every
evidence of loving the act of playing as much as his father did. His mother,
however, wasn't partial to the idea of her son drumming for a living.
"My father scuffled more than a little. We didn't live anything resembling
an affluent life," Lewis said. "Mom didn't want me doing the same thing.
But I had to become a musician. That was it for me."
His affair with music and drums had a sense of inevitability about it. He
joined the school orchestra in the first grade after the kindergarten teacher
had noticed how skillful he was with rhythm. A little later, he took up the
baritone horn to learn to sight-read more quickly. Before long, he could read
every part in the band.
Drums, however, remained a central concern. He played in an eighty-
four-piece orchestra while still in school. Moving through a variety of
material—overtures, marches, etc.—was something he loved doing. His
ability to bring a sharp sense of rhythmic discipline to such a large ensemble
suggested possibilities for the future.
Club dates, weddings, bar mitzvahs, and dances were his first engage-
ments. Self-taught, he learned on the job. Generally he worked with a horn
and piano. Lewis didn't play with a bass until he was well into his teens.
As time passed, the young drummer became increasingly involved with
jazz, especially the new music of Parker and Gillespie and such visionary
drummers as Shadow Wilson, Kenny Clarke, Max Roach, and Art Blakey.
He became a factor in small and big bands around Buffalo, often sitting in
at clubs and after-hours sessions.
McVann's was a place where his father played the dance set with other
local musicians, spelling leading black stars and bands. At the club, Lewis
got to know and to play with a number of leading musicians, including Art
Tatum and bassist Oscar Pettiford. He wasn't shy about performing with
anyone.
One of the most important big bands on his Buffalo resume was headed
by Harold Austin. The band's base was the city's Main Ballroom. Lewis
played Basic, Kenton, Lunceford, and Ellington material with Austin and
other big bands around town. All this was a form of basic training for the
young drummer.
 Mel Lewii 237
Night after night, on good gigs and bad, he endeavored to learn his job. Play-
ing with older, more experienced musicians made a difference. Practice may
make perfect in some ways, but performance with other people is what enables
a musician to find his way. By the time Lewis was fifteen, he had become a
member of the local musicians' union and was a full-fledged professional.
The band that brought him to New York in 1948, at nineteen, was
headed by clarinetist Lenny Lewis, also from Buffalo. It had an impressive
lineup of veteran stars and newcomers and played the Savoy Ballroom and
the Apollo Theater in Harlem. The band, shaped along Basie lines, mirrored
the bebop interests of many of the young men of the ensemble.

LEWIS: It was one of the great bands that never made it. What players in that
band! Al Killian, Harold "Shorty" Baker, and Fats Ford were in the trumpet
section. Eddie Bert, Sonny Russo, and Mike Zwerin played trombones. The
reed players included Al Cohn, Jerry Thirlkeld, Tony Ragusa, and Frank
Socolow. A lot of musicians and music business people came uptown to hear
the band.

One of the musicians who made the trip uptown was drummer-composer-
arranger Tiny Kahn. He wanted to check out the scene, particularly the kid
from Buffalo on drums. Basie also came by. He was impressed by Lewis's
time and evolving modern style—so much so that he offered him the drum
chair in his band. Basie wanted his band to travel in a more contemporary
direction.
Lewis called the family in Buffalo to share his excitement. But he never
went to a rehearsal or performed with the band. Slated to join Basie at the
Royal Roost in midtown Manhattan at 47th and Broadway, replacing Gus
Johnson, Lewis lost out because of reverse racism. The job evaporated after
three days. The people around Basie decided that it was unrealistic and too
risky to hire a white musician. Basie was going south.
Lewis didn't allow his disappointment about the loss of the Basie job to
stop him. He stayed around town and rehearsed and played with a variety
of bands. He began hanging out with Tiny Kahn. He went to hear him with
the Boyd Raeburn band in Central Park—and everywhere Kahn appeared.
Lewis felt strongly about what Kahn did. They seemed cut from the same
cloth. Both drummers were in the process of changing the manner of playing
in the big band by applying updated small group techniques in the larger
context. Retaining the swing of earlier forms of jazz, they performed more
softly than most other drummers, laying out the rhythmic line on ride
cymbals and the hi-hat, coloring the time flow on the cymbals with accents,
comments, and rhythmic combinations on the snare and bass drums.

LEWIS: I bought a record in Buffalo that Tiny played on. I was very impressed.
An up-tempo version of "Fine and Dandy" on Keynote with Red Rodney,
Allen Eager, Serge Chaloff, Al Haig, and Chubby Jackson, it established in
my mind the fact that there was another drummer out there who thought
about music the same way I did. When I heard him with Georgie Auld's band,
I was even more convinced about him.
When we first met, Tiny said hearing me was like hearing himself. There
was the same kind of looseness and the need to support the other musicians.
238 Into the 19501
One afternoon, he took me for an egg cream at 41st Street and Broadway,
not too long after I came to New York. We talked and compared notes. Both
of us liked the same drummers and were inspired by the same musicians.
What got to me most was the way he used space, particularly in his fills.
I'll admit I probably stole a few of his fills. They were so melodic. When Tiny
left Boyd Raeburn to join a group including Charlie Ventura, Kai Winding,
and Buddy Stewart, he recommended me to Raeburn. I got the job, joining
the band in July of 1948 and staying on into November. Boyd was good to
work for but didn't pay too well.
There were a lot of interesting things happening in the band. The guys
were young, ambitious, talented. The scores by George Handy, Tadd
Dameron, Johnny Richards, and Tiny made work each night a pleasure. I
had the freedom to play the way I wanted to. It was a good situation. Trum-
peter Maynard Ferguson, an old friend, who lived across the border from
Buffalo in Canada, was my roommate.

The Raeburn band was another excellent "musical" ensemble that had
little sustained success. It ultimately fell between the cracks as the band era
was winding down. Lewis kept working, moving from band to band as was
quite typical in the late 19408 and into the 19508. After his last Raeburn
tour, he called his dad in Buffalo to check out what was happening. He was
told that the Alvino Rey band was in town and needed a drummer.
Lewis rushed home to Buffalo and got the job, remaining with the
guitarist-leader until the band broke up a few months later. Not many big
bands were doing well enough to stay together. Ray Anthony, a miniature
Gary Grant look-alike who had played trumpet with the Glenn Miller band,
hired Lewis for his band in March 1949. Lewis had auditioned—one of the
only times he had to do that—and beat out twenty-five other drummers.
Anthony and Lewis didn't get along or agree on much of anything. Lewis
played loose; Anthony wanted the rhythm tight. The bandleader insisted on
straight 4/4 time, with a focus on the hi-hat. Mel favored the ride cymbals.
It was a swinging dance band, along the lines of Les Brown, and did
concerts as well as theaters, ballrooms, hotels, and clubs. Lewis admitted
to learning a good deal about discipline from Anthony, but some of the
bandleader's attitudes—not all of them musical—annoyed him. At one point
in their relationship, Anthony asked him to change his last name from
Sokoloff to Lewis, supposedly for show business purposes. The drummer
went along but retained both. Clearly, it wasn't a marriage made in heaven,
by any means. Lewis remained in the band fifteen months—the first time.
The three years (1950-53) with Tex Beneke and the Glenn Miller
Orchestra were quite different. Beneke was flexible musically and got along
well with his musicians. He opened himself up to their interest in modern
jazz, as long as it worked within the context of the arrangements.
Lewis played increasingly well, mirroring his degree of satisfaction with
the situation. It wasn't a jazz orchestra by any stretch of the imagination,
but the Beneke orchestra was fun. Lewis had two friends on the band.
Shared interests and feeling for one another strengthened their bond. One
was bassist Buddy Clark, with whom he worked later as well; the other was
Bob Brookmeyer, who would be his close friend and frequent musical
associate until Lewis's death.
 (Del aLeum 239
BOB BROOKMEYER: Mel and I met for the first time at a jam session at the Blue
Note in Chicago in 1948.1 used to come up weekends from Kansas City to play.
Then in 1951, the Tex Beneke—Glenn Miller Orchestra, with Mel on drums,
came through Kansas City. It was right before I went into the Army. I played
trombone four nights with the band. Eydie Gorme was still singing with Tex.
Mel came around to the house and we played, along with a bass player and
piano player. We recorded on wire what went on. He was really easy to play
with. Real good but not yet great.
After I got out of the Army, the band came through again, and Mel asked
me to come by and sit in for the last set. Beneke hired me. I joined the band
on piano in St. Louis. We worked our way to New York. That was in 1952.
Mel, Buddy Clark, and I had a good time. We devised little arrangements
inside the arrangements. Two-bar bebop interludes on "Chattanooga Choo
Choo" and things like that. We decorated all the old Glenn Miller arrange-
ments with little touches. And Tex liked that.

Though he was skeptical about it, to say the least, Lewis rejoined Ray
Anthony in 1953. Why? Anthony was riding the crest of his Capitol
recording "Theme from Dragnet," from the then popular TV series. The
band had changed character in several ways. Now filled with top New York
musicians, rather than what Mel described as "blue-eyed midwesterners,"
it had become an excellent ensemble and was very much in demand. The
relationship lasted eleven months. It was the last time he would work for
Ray Anthony.

SAL SALVADOR: Mel and I were rooming together in New York. I'd been on the
Stan Kenton band for two years. Mel had been after the job with Stan for
quite a while. Stan Levey was about to leave. He had some major disagree-
ments with Kenton. Mel was doing the Ray Anthony TV show in town and
waiting to get word from Kenton. Then the band broke up—and rapidly re-
formed. Mel went through a lot of emotional turmoil before Stan called and
hired him. Maynard had recommended him. Mel felt it was his main chance.

I had an opportunity to see and hear Lewis on one of Kenton's first

concert dates with the newly revised band, at a large Seattle auditorium in
September of 1954. He didn't seem to be in full control of the band or
comfortable in the job.

LEWIS: I remember that date in Seattle. I had just joined the band. Kenton
was headlining a package tour. Shelly Manne and Sonny Igoe were the drum-
mers with the other groups.
Shelly gave me some great advice. I've always been grateful to him for
telling me what had to be done. He said my cymbal beat was not what it
should be. "You're not bringing out enough of the '!' and '3'. The '2' and '4'
are there. But the '!' and '3' have to be more prominent to control this
band." This was very constructive criticism from someone who knew all
about Kenton and how the music should be played. Many people heavily into
ego might say: "Sure, man, thanks. Gee, I really appreciate it," then fluff the
guy off. I acted on what Shelly told me. I believe you have to listen to people
who have the experience and are trying to help you.
2i)0 Into the 1950$

SONNY IGOE: Mel wasn't doing so well at first. He was lucky he stayed with the
band long enough to become brilliant. Stan was going to let him go. As a
matter of fact, after the tour was over, Stan asked me: "Are you going to stay
with Charlie [Ventura]?" And I replied: "Charlie isn't sure what he's going to
do." Stan posed a question: "How would you like to come with the band?" I
said: "What are you going to do with Mel?" Stan felt it wasn't working out. I
suggested: "Give it a chance; it'll work!" and it did. I was glad for Mel that
he settled in and the situation righted itself.

It more than righted itself. Lewis felt he had to make everything work.
He concentrated as never before. He took advice. He relaxed, allowing his
imagination to float free, his talent to take hold. The band began swinging
and Lewis gave it increasing impetus. His small band rhythmic approach to
this colossus had a major effect on how the band moved and felt. His ability
to play softly with more than an indication of muscle restructured the band's
rhythmic identity. How he handled dynamics and fed the time line to the
band had a telling effect on the players and all those who favored a Kenton
turnaway from mountains of sound and pomposity.
I responded strongly to what was happening in the Kenton band.
Certainly the spare, linear, colorful, and pulsating arrangements of Bill
Holman and Gerry Mulligan helped recast the Kenton image. You could
hear Lester Young and Charlie Parker in their compositions and
arrangements.
When the "new" Kenton band played Birdland in the summer of 1955,
I reviewed it for Metronome. What Lewis did was very pleasing to me: "Mel
Lewis plays with a surety that gives the band definition and much of the
small group feel that is essential to moving it off the ground. He is
technically proficient and very much at home in the band."
A few months later in the same publication, I noted that Lewis had the
"ever-growing facility to be more than just a pulse." He had become "an
identifying factor in the band's personality."
This edition, which came to be known as the Contemporary Concepts
band, named for the Capitol album that carried that title, came closest to
carving out a memorable jazz identity for Stan Kenton. In some ways, the
band was an extension of the previous edition, which featured a group of
fine modern players, including the bebop pioneer Stan Levey on drums.
Kenton preferred the large, often overpowering sound associated with
his name. But he was aware how good this band had become. Rather than
bludgeoning audiences, the assemblage seduced the people with swing,
controlled ensembles and flowing section work, and marvelous rhythm.
What Lewis had done was to open up the drummer's role, cogently applying
many new techniques.
He persuasively urged soloists on. When the band spoke, he supported
what it said, smoothly adjusting his sound and dynamic levels. Mel had a
lot to work with: the Holman and Mulligan charts; soloists like tenorist Bill
Perkins, altoists Lennie Niehaus and Charlie Mariano, a flock of excellent
trumpeters, and trombonists Kent Larsen and Carl Fontana; a good rhythm
team and a benevolent boss. Lewis told me: "It was one of the best periods
of my life. Stan taught me a lot. I owe so much to him, personally and
musically."
 (Del Leuiit 21,1

While with Kenton, Lewis found out how much he could do and how
much he wanted to do. The late bassist Bob Haggart, who wrote "What's
New"—so creatively arranged by Holman for the band—said to me: "Mel
Lewis came along. Suddenly the Kenton band played softly. It was lovely."

BOB BROOKMEYER: The Kenton experience set him free. I heard the band at
Birdland. Mel was all over the place, just playing so many interesting,
provocative things behind the soloists and the band. He was outrageous. He
anticipated what Elvin [Jones] would do. And that was a little under a year
before Elvin came here from Detroit and started shaking people up.
Everyone in town was asking: "Is Mel playing too much? Does it make sense?
Is it right?" Certainly was!

The best way to hear music is live. To get close to what the Kenton band
and Mel Lewis were up to, I suggest two recordings, not widely distributed:
Kenton '56—The Concepts Era, recorded live at the Macumba Club in San
Francisco in November 1956, and The Concepts Era—Vol. 2. On the latter,
the band is heard at Birdland, the Penn State University Jazz Club, the
Macumba, and Pleasure Beach Ballroom in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Both
albums are on the Artistry label.
Then, of course, there is the famed Capitol recording Contemporary
Concepts, taped in Chicago in July 1955. It includes material by Holman
and Mulligan and offers an excellent view of a band on the way to becoming
quite important.

The 19505 were fruitful years for Mel Lewis. After leaving Kenton in 1957,
he moved to California, hoping to find what he needed in Los Angeles.
There were excellent musicians, the media, and a variety of opportunities.
But L.A. is a well-known center of fakery and pretense. Lewis would have
none of it. He insisted on being hired for what he could do; he had no
interest in rubbing the backs of people in power. And he wanted to play his
own way. His abrasiveness got him in some trouble.
He was particularly impatient with ignorance. Dealing with record
producers half his age who seemed to know little or nothing was all but
impossible for him. One of them asked him to play like Mel Lewis, not
knowing he was the original article.
Even musicians said he talked too much and didn't go out of his way to
be "nice." But he didn't tell any lies. And that's the truth. Fortunately, his
playing spoke powerfully for him. And he worked.
He appeared and recorded with big bands and small, with singers like
Frank Sinatra, Mel Torme, Peggy Lee, Ella Fitzgerald, and Anita O'Day. He
was heard with the pianist Hampton Hawes's trio, with trombonist Frank
Rosolino's small band, with the Bill Holman-Lee Katzman group, and with
big bands headed by Med Flory, Charlie Barnet, Woody Herman, Terry
Gibbs, and Bill Holman. He held staff jobs at two networks and, in addition,
played jobs with his own group, which included such leading jazzmen as
Pepper Adams, Lee Katzman, and Red Kelly.
What was growing apparent in the Kenton band burst forth during the
last years of the 19508. Mel Lewis had gotten his stuff together in such a
way that he couldn't be ignored. With Woody Herman at the Monterey Jazz
21,2 Into the 19501
Festival, he played so well it literally blew everyone away. His time was
highly motivating. His sound on the instrument, the way he mixed, blended
ideas, and burned, how he structured his performances, mingling intelli-
gence and instinct—it was stunning.
There were various levels of intensity in his playing. On the Monterey
opener, "Monterey Apple Tree," a revamp of "Apple Honey"(Woody
Herman's Big New Herd At the Monterey Jazz Festival, Atlantic), Lewis
sets the tree on fire. He pushes and provokes, hitting hard on the bass drum
where the figures demand it. He puts together snare-bass drum patterns
that enhance the rhythmic flow. All the while, the hi-hat is snapping on "2"
and "4," and the side cymbal sound seduces everyone. The effect is so
strong, you wonder why it had not been done exactly that way before.
Two other big band albums, both done during this significant phase of
his career, The Fabulous Bill Holman (Coral) and Jazz Wave—Med Flory
and His Orchestra (Jubilee), also show how far Mel had traveled since those
trio gigs in Buffalo. Two tracks, Holman's view of Sonny Rollins's "Airegin"
and Flory's original "Jazz Wave"—one at medium tempo, the other a little
faster—are almost perfect performances.
Everything seems to fall in the right places, and the pulsation is undeni-
able. The drums are just tight enough, tuned low, the bass drum open but
controlled. These performances lift you up; both bands, which employed
many of the same excellent Hollywood-based players—Al Porcino, Conte
Candoli, Stu Williamson, Bill Perkins, Charlie Kennedy—are very much on
the money.
Stylistically they mingle swing and bebop, to grand effect. Lewis has a
lot to do with stirring things up to a level where the musicians can do
nothing but respond. The section and ensemble work is dauntingly precise,
swinging, and natural. Lewis struts and shuffles, smoothly moving the time
forward. After you listen, the rhythm remains in your body—a happy
presence, a good feeling that causes involuntary tapping and patting of your
feet after the room has become silent.
Five CDs by Terry Gibbs's Dream Band (Contemporary), taped live in
Hollywood clubs, 1959-61, tell the same story. The band is a killer. It had
become what it was because of an enthusiastic leader, great musicians who
shared the same concept about music—and Mel Lewis.
"Seventeen Swingers" is Gibbs's most frequently used, rapid-fire descrip-
tion of his Dream Band. Listen to the recordings and you will hear delight-
fully crafted, deeply felt, pulsating music—standards and originals arranged
and/or composed by Bob Brookmeyer, Manny Albam, Bill Holman, Al
Cohn, Med Flory, Marty Paich, Lennie Niehaus, and Sy Johnson.
Lewis never plays too hard or too loud. A vocal minority accused him of
laying back, not digging in deeply enough. I don't hear that. The drummer
plays as well as he always told me he did, giving the band what it needed—
the ingredients that made it explosive and engrossing.

AL PORCINO: This Terry Gibbs band—I would have to say it was the best band
I ever worked with. And I've played with a few bands—Kenton, Herman,
Krupa, Georgie Auld, Basic, Elliot Lawrence, Chubby Jackson, Charlie Bar-
net, Tommy Dorsey, Pete Rugolo, a few others. Terry had great arrangements
and the top alumni of the road bands. When new arrangements came in, we
hardly had to rehearse. Just sight-read everything and the swing was there.
 fflel Leuiit 21,3
BOB BROOKMEYER: When Mulligan's first Concert Jazz Band was in California,
I went to a Terry Gibbs band rehearsal. I'd been writing some things for
Terry and hadn't heard them performed. The band was just outrageous! Mel
was fantastic, and all those guys were so strong. In comparison, Mulligan's
band sounded like a bunch of amateurs.
So I said: "We've got to get this feeling!" I was staying with Mel and asked
him to join the band. He said yes. I hired Buddy Clark and Conte Candoli as
well. They all came back East. Mel commuted until 1963. He lived with me
for a while and then with Richie Kamuca. He flew to New York in July of 1960
to make a record with us and returned in late August when the band played
the Village Vanguard before we all went to Europe for a tour.
Mel did just what I expected. I remember the first night at the Vanguard.
We were playing Gerry's "Bweebida Bobbida." I looked over at him the first
chance I had—and just grinned because it felt so good.

Mel remained with Mulligan until 1964, when the Concert Jazz Band
faltered and fell by the wayside for want of financial support. Norman
Granz had provided what was needed until he sold Verve to MGM earlier
in the decade. After that, it was a matter of catch as catch can.
Musically, the CJB was a major experience. Smaller and more compact
than most bands—twelve pieces plus Gerry—it often sounded and felt like
a small band with added instruments. Mulligan, Brookmeyer and the other
writers—Gary McFarland, John Carisi, Bill Holman, George Russell, Al
Conn, Johnny Mandel—retained in their charts the light, fluid feeling so
typical of Mulligan. The soloists—Mulligan, Brookmeyer, Zoot Sims, Conte
Candoli, Nick Travis, Gene Quill—brought distinctive character to the
essentially linear material and diversified the flavor of the band.
The CJB wasn't a burly, shouting ensemble. It had class, quality, and
subtlety and swung more quietly than most bands. Lewis enhanced the good
feeling of the rhythm. He was controlled yet intense, dropping in supportive
ideas as the band moved ahead. But his ideas blended in with the CJB's
sound. He was always there, keeping the motor well oiled..
The way he tuned his drums and entered into each chart, becoming a part
of it, made a vast difference in how the music sounded and felt. As he always
had, Lewis adjusted to the quiet and the dynamically more forceful music.
You could hear various facets of his playing personality, ranging from a
almost reserved "2" and "4" accents on the snare, reminiscent of Sam
Woodyard with Ellington, to a Basie/Jo Jones flow. But mostly it was Mel
Lewis doing what he felt, keeping the parts and the whole picture in mind.
He was very sensitive, very swinging.
Before coming to New York to stay in 1963, Lewis toured Europe with
Dizzy Gillespie, with whom he worked on several occasions. He played with
the Benny Goodman band on a tour of Russia—in many ways an unbeliev-
able, often trying experience, during which he and other members of the
band had difficulties with the "King of Swing." I remember trombonist
Eddie Bert received a card from John Frosk, one of the trumpeters in the
band, that had only one word on it, a screaming HELP!
When B.G. didn't attempt to tamper with him, Lewis played well in the
style of the Goodman band. He often did things to bother the "King" after
he'd been annoyed. The drummer told Cadence's Bob Rusch: "we only played
'Sing, Sing, Sing' one time and he wouldn't play it again after that...."
vfy Into the 19501
He [Goodman] says: 'No drum solo.' So I really went 'out' on his solo, and
he ... didn't know where he was. I purposely did it to screw him up. And
when it came time where he wanted to bring the band in, I went into half
time, half-note triplets. And he didn't know where the hell he was ... He
brought the band in the middle of nowhere.... It ended perfectly together,
and I knew it would. But he didn't, and he almost... lost his glasses; they
fell off his face. He almost dropped his clarinet.... We never played 'Sing,
Sing, Sing' again on the whole tour of Russia."

While still on the Coast, Lewis played with the Gerald Wilson band. Wilson
was pleased that the drummer paid such close attention to his music and
how appropriately he reacted. He solidified a relationship with Ben Webster,
who followed him to New York. One of his first gigs in "the Apple" was
with Webster at a club in Harlem.
Lewis was drawn to the players, the environment, and the working
conditions in New York. Jazz musicians literally did everything in Gotham.
The work ranged from studio gigs to recordings to jingles to jazz
employment. He wanted to become a part of the scene—and did, after
becoming a permanent New York resident in 1963.

LEWIS: I found that to really make money, you had to give up music. So I gave
up money. I had offers from Ellington and Basic. But I wanted to have my
own thing. My great interest—since 1966—has been the orchestra Thad
[Jones] and I put together. We started playing Monday nights at the
Vanguard, and the thing grew and grew. We retained the Vanguard as a base
of operations and toured around and made many records, some of them live.

The Jones-Lewis Jazz Orchestra has always spoken the language of today.
Mel and Thad were never interested in involving themselves in nostalgia,
triggering memories of yesterday. I wrote in the Saturday Review, shortly
after the band began at the Vanguard: "No treacle, flesh, or flash intrudes
on the orchestra's presentations. Fancy music stands, well-tailored band
uniforms and the almost inevitable, bosomy, low-cut singer have been
notable for their absence. Everything is kept quite unpretentious. Listeners
are respected and made a part of each performance, but the music remains
primary, and within the music lies the image of the orchestra."
For a time, Thad Jones wrote almost all of the orchestra's library. Then
others entered the picture: Brookmeyer, Garnett Brown, Tom Mclntosh,
Jerry Dodgion, Frank Foster, Cecil Bridgewater, Jim McNeely, Ted Nash,
Kenny Werner, Ed Neumeister, Mike Abene, Bill Holman, Bill Finegan, Rich
De Rosa, and Julie Cavadini. What all the music always has had in common
is quality—the capacity to interest and excite the player and listener and to
leave behind a lingering sense of joy.
Through the years, the co-leaders, then Mel alone—after Thad had
separated himself from the band and went to live in Denmark in 1979—
made sure that the orchestra was filled with players who had substantial
talent and the need to play.
The orchestra has never been a great source of revenue for the players.
Of necessity they—Lewis included—paid their bills by doing other things.
The orchestra served as a center of musicality, continuing liberation, and
good feeling. The best players in the New York jazz community found
 (Del Lewii 21,5

Birdland, 1964: Mel Lewis participates in one of the competitive evenings presented
by the Gretsch Drum Company. © Chuck Stewart.

respite from the demands of the commercial world in the sections of this
orchestra. Many have stayed on for years and years. Some, like Brookmeyer
and Jim McNeely, leave and return. Still others leave for good but relish the
time spent in the orchestra.
A list of the musicians who have been involved with the organization is
staggering. Just a few: Snooky Young, Jimmy Knepper, Roland Hanna, Joe
Lovano, Hank Jones, Jerome Richardson, Eddie Daniels, Joe Farrell, Dick
Oatts, John Mosca, Ralph Lalama, Kenny Werner, Jon Faddis, Earl
Mclntyre, Ed Neumeister, Richard Davis, Eddie Bert, Al Porcino. It goes on
and on.
As sole leader, Mel continued to blossom as a drummer. He became
increasingly economic and experimental as an accompanist and soloist.
Sometimes a single accent served his purposes; sometimes a variety of very
specific colors extracted from around the drums helped move the band.
Sometimes he inflamed the band with a chattering left hand and an insistent
foot. Lewis did what served the music best. Everything depended on what
the music told him to do. It was as simple as that.
21,6 Into the 1950$
JIMMY KNEPPER: Mel took care of business. He did what a drummer should
do: keep time and help. A professional, he played whatever way he was
supposed to play, whether it was with Goodman or the band with Thad or on
his own. When Mel was the boss, he was more himself. He was one of the best
soloists—with those sound effects.
Mel also was quite effective in a small band. Every now and then, I worked
with him in a group setting. In fact, I made a record with him. Dream
Dancing, I believe, is the name of the album. Mel backed up and aided the
musicians. A lot of drummers don't do that. They play for themselves. It's
like they're in a different world.

The Jazz Orchestra's recordings that give the best view of Mel Lewis are
the ones done live, here and abroad. The touch of tension typical of a
recording studio session is notable for its absence.
Following Jones's departure, the orchestra took on a more diversified and
thoughtful temperament. Brookmeyer took over the band and started
writing a lot of adventurous pieces. McNeely, Kenny Werner, Bill Holman,
Bill Finegan, and others contributed to the variety of the library.
Now known as the Vanguard Jazz Orchestra, Lewis's central musical love
affair goes on years after his death. He remains very much alive, a factor in
its performances. The guys, particularly trombonist John Mosca, who acts
as the VJO's spokesman, gauge the good and bad the same way he did.
Their standards, like those of their departed leader, are high.
Lewis continued to do a variety of things until his cancer was discovered
in 1985—and afterwards as well. As was typical of him, he was all over the
New York scene playing and talking.
He became the drummer and acted as something of a conscience for the
American Jazz Orchestra, a repertory ensemble organized by critic Gary
Giddins, Roberta Swann, and John Lewis, based at New York's Cooper
Union. He unashamedly raised his voice when the composer, the composi-
tion, or the performance was below par.
The outspoken drummer was appreciated by the orchestra because he
brought to its rhythm a great sense of history. Lewis continued to play well
through the late 19805. But it was clear he didn't feel terribly well.
In October of 1989, a few months before his death the following Feb-
ruary, the orchestra gave him an evening at its home base in lower Man-
hattan. It was a salute to a man who deserved to be listened to. His entire
career was covered, and he played all the way through, making side com-
ments to the orchestra and friends in the audience, including one directed
to me.

LOREN ScHOENBERG: He was unbelievable at the rehearsals. The drum parts

were sketchy, to say the least. But nonetheless, he remembered every note of
every arrangement. I mean every note, not just the rhythms. He stopped us
in several instances when someone played a wrong harmony note. I guess I
always knew he heard that well. But it was a thrill to see him put this capacity
to the test in rehearsal. And beyond that he coached us in the interpretation
and style of the pieces.

DICK KATZ: I was truly privileged to have one of the best seats in the house
that night—the piano bench. I loved the way Mel picked just the right tempo
 fTlel Lewis 2^1
for every piece—an art in itself, and how he guided the band and shaped
every phrase. His comments about music were refreshingly candid. His un-
shakable integrity was one of his best qualities.

Life didn't change for Mel Lewis in those last years. He went to the
doctors best for his problem; he did what had to be done in order to curb
the disease. "Let the medical people take care of this thing," he said. He
viewed illness as nothing more than a terrible annoyance and wouldn't let
it bring him down.
Lewis had been going to Europe to play with radio orchestras in
Germany, Finland, and other countries with Bob Brookmeyer, Bill Holman,
and Jim McNeely. These trips continued, despite his discomfort. And he
established a manner of performance that laid the groundwork for at least
two generations of drummers in Europe.

BILL HOLMAN: Mel had a fantastic understanding of music. I knew that. But I
realized it all the more when he and Bob, Jim, and I worked in Cologne. We'd
go in with at least an hour of new music, and he would get right to the meat
of every chart—not necessarily like a drummer but like a complete musician,
maybe even a conductor.
He'd hear everything that was happening and knew what to do—when to
change color, when to do this and that. He certainly made my job easier. One
or two times through the pieces and he knew them as well as I did, if not
better. Mel could deal with all kinds of time and the atmospheric things that
are part of my work.

JIM MCNEELY: Mel could make any band sound better by virtue of what and
how he played. He liked variety, getting into new things. It was his simplicity
and elegance that made his playing immediately identifiable. And he could
play with anyone. As a writer, all you had to do was give him information
about the music and he'd play what was needed. His gifts: great ears, psych-
ing out forms, giving music shape and direction. It was his innate musical
sense and that fat ride beat that made him so popular among musicians.
I think of him a lot. When I'm at the top of the stairs at the Vanguard, I
miss the sound of his bass drum coming up to meet me.

Lewis kept trying things. Not too long before he passed, he made what
he deemed "a free album" with some members of the band (Mel Lewis
Sextet—The Lost Art., Musicmasters). For him it was an adventure, some-
thing he had to do. He said to me: "What am I supposed to do? Stay in a
mold? No way! This album of music goes in a variety of directions. But the
time is there in one form or another; it remains the determining factor in
everything I play. Because I really know 'inside' music—conventional
modern jazz—I have the basis to move 'outside' into abstraction. What I do
in this album was bound to happen."
It also was part of his nature to take young drummers in hand and help
and advise them. Kenny Washington, Danny Gottlieb, Jeff Hamilton, John
Von Ohlen and Jay Cummings—the last drummer to play with the Stan
Kenton band—among others, benefited by their association with him. Lewis
knew about the music, about drumming, the history of the instrument, and
equipment—and freely offered information to those who needed it.
21,8 Into the 1950$

As his time came close, Lewis fought with increased determination.

Although he had been advised not to travel, he and the orchestra flew to
New Orleans for an appearance at the International Association of Jazz
Educators convention. He looked very unlike the man I had known for so
many years. Bald, thin, physically devastated, he played with his guys for the
last time.
The day before he passed, singer Jane Harvey and I went to see him at
the Cabrini Hospice in lower Manhattan. His wife, Doris, and, I believe,
both of their daughters were there. Guys in the band drifted in and out of
the room. My friend slept and generally was beyond reach. When I left,
sadness trailed me home.
The funeral was at Riverside Memorial Chapel in Manhattan. The jazz
community attended en masse. The band played with rare feeling and
conviction. Saying good-bye was hard for everyone. Brookmeyer and others
spoke, with love and understanding.

BOB BROOKMEYER: When Mel died, it was one of the biggest losses the music
ever had. People all over the world suffered. And they'll never recover. We
were sitting in Cologne, a key producer and I. We said, "Mel," and were
silent for five minutes—because there's no replacement.
All of the bands, big and small, amateur and professional, that he made
sound good have to feel a terrible, terrible loss. There will never be another
like him. Mel was one of the greatest drummers of all. I'd stake my life on
that.

What was he all about? I want to add a final comment, from a piece I
wrote for International Musician about a year before he left: "Mel Lewis has
a near perfect relationship with the beat. His time, a natural phenomenon,
is firm when necessary, pliant if the music calls for it, buoyant, bubbling or
quietly persuasive—but always swinging. He plays so he can be felt and
serve as a guide and a source of inspiration for the musicians with whom he
is engaged. Most important his time is never forced and builds upon its own
flow and energy. He is the antithesis of flamboyance and unnecessary aggres-
sion. He plays what is necessary and relevant, adding an edge of adventure
and individuality. Lewis allows the music and his gifts to couple in the most
loving way possible."
His legacy is on the records.
 6.
Other Ji?nifkantfi?uret

ED SHAUGHNESSY (1929- )
He was the most visible drummer in America during the years he spent on
NBC-TV's Tonight Show in New York and Los Angeles. Thoroughly
capable, Ed Shaughnessy handled all kinds of situations, including appearing
in tandem with Buddy Rich—a challenging matter at best. This affable,
ambitious musician, however, is far more than a generalist on the
instrument.
From the outset, Shaughnessy, a poor kid from New Jersey, had a deep,
abiding love for jazz and drums. He went to great lengths to learn and be a
part of the music. He studied with Bill West, a drum teacher in New York,
though very hard put to pay for lessons.
Shaughnessy played and practiced day and night. Vibraharpist Teddy
Charles, a longtime mutual friend, said: "We all did that; it was the only
way to make it."
As a teenager, Shaughnessy spent almost every evening and early morning
in Manhattan clubs, hotel entertainment rooms, and ballrooms, listening to
and watching drummers. Those who made a point of keeping youngsters
out of places where small and big bands played learned to tolerate "the
crazy kid from New Jersey." They allowed him to stay, as long as he
remained out of the way. Finally Big Sid Catlett, the legendary drummer,
noticed him and, as was his wont, approached the youngster, talked to him,
and suggested he sit in; Ben Webster (tenor) and John Simmons (bass)—jazz
royalty in the 19405—were in the group. When asked, Shaughnessy nearly
fainted from fear, but he did well. Catlett became his mentor. Catlett, Max
Roach, Art Blakey, and Buddy Rich were influences, great sources of
inspiration.
Love often is rewarded. Shaughnessy played with some bands—Bobby
Byrne and Randy Brooks—worked with Jack Teagarden, sat in with Bud
Powell on 5 2nd Street, playing "Cherokee" for twenty-five minutes at an
absolutely hysterically fast tempo. Powell was quietly impressed, and word
spread that a young white guy could really do it. George Shearing was in the
audience that night and hired the young drummer on the spot.
Shaughnessy's hunger to play, his need to master the instrument and be
able to play any kind of music—was apparent to everyone who met him.
Bassist Phil Leshin remembers: "Eddie and I were kids together and hung
out on the New York scene, always looking for some place to play. We used
250 Other Significant figures

Ed Shaughnessy, a member of the Tonight Show band on NBC-TV for decades.

© Chuck Stewart.

to go to Verland Studios, over a firehouse on 47th or 48th Street. A lot of

the guys involved in modern jazz showed up at the sessions—Allen Eager,
Al Cohn and Zoot Sims, pianists Harry Biss and Harvey Leonard, guitarist
Charlie Byrd."
Shaughnessy hooked up with the Charlie Ventura "Bop for the People"
band in 1948 and became famous. Tenorist Ventura, Conte Candoli
(trumpet), Bennie Green (trombone), Boots Mussulli (saxophone), Kenny
O'Brien (bass), and pianist-singer Roy Krai and singer Jackie Cain, his wife,
helped popularize modern jazz.
 flrthur Taylor 251

The Ventura group featured a provocative blend of the scat vocal unison
style of Krai and Cain and the hip, accessible instrumental sound of the
band. The players were good, and Shaughnessy took hold, playing well in
a contemporary way. His facility, fire, and two-bass-drum set caught the
attention of audiences and other drummers.
Shaughnessy was one of the first white drummers to deal with bebop in
a strong and persuasive manner. His increasing ability and continuing
intensity motivated Benny Goodman to hire him for a 1950 tour of Europe
with a small band that included the influential trumpeter Roy Eldridge.
Unlike most musicians, the drummer got on well with Goodman.
He replaced Buddy Rich in Tommy Dorsey's band and stayed for a while,
building his reputation. He worked with Lucky Millinder's band in Harlem
and for a short time with Ellington, sat in with Charlie Parker on several
occasions, and got into experimental jazz with Charles Mingus, Teddy
Charles, and Don Ellis. He was becoming an increasingly important New
York jazz figure.
Shaughnessy began working on television in the 19505 on a daytime Steve
Allen show broadcast by CBS. One thing led to another. He did more studio
and staff work. He recorded with Basic and played an increasing number of
small and big band record dates featuring leading players and writers.
The drummer joined the Tonight Show in New York in 1964. He moved
to Los Angeles with the program and remained with it until Johnny Carson
called it a night. He headed a big band and small group of his own in L.A.,
always attempting to stretch the envelope. Growth was very much on his
mind.
Barry Ulanov got to the heart of it when we talked about the drummer:
"Ed is one of the most accountable musicians I ever heard," the critic
asserted. "You could depend on music coming out of the man. His hands are
fast. His thinking is good. His ears are alive."
Today, as in the past, Shaughnessy remains busy—teaching, touring with
Doc Severinsen's band, studying, seeking new musical experiences.

ARTHUR TAYLOR (1929-1995)

Arthur Taylor found a life when he began playing drums. "I never wanted
to do anything. Never fit in at school or with my family. I was always on the
outside," he told me. "That changed when I went to a summer jam session
at Lincoln Square—where Lincoln Center is now. Dexter [Gordon] was
there, Big Sid, Freddie Webster, Miles [Davis], Fats [Navarro], Bud [Powell],
all those people. I said to myself: That's what I'm going to do—play drums.'
For Christmas that year, 1947, my mother bought me a set of drums. And
I was working two weeks later."
A.T., as he came to be known, grew up in Sugar Hill, a pleasant neigh-
borhood in Harlem. He and his friends from the Hill—Sonny Rollins, Andy
Kirk Jr., Jackie McLean, Walter Bishop Jr., Kenny Drew—formed a little
band and moved into the music. They listened to the major people and
played gigs here and there.
"I took a few lessons with Chick Morrison, who had played with Louis
Armstrong. He became disenchanted with me because of my attitude,"
Taylor said. "I didn't practice, just started working. I had made two hundred
252 Other Significant figure)

Arthur Taylor—"A.T."—played on countless recording sessions. © Chuck Stewart.

albums before I learned to read music. When I went to live in Paris in 1963,
I studied with Kenny Clarke for three years."
Early on, Taylor's father took him to hear bands at New York theaters—
the Apollo uptown and the Paramount downtown. J. C. Heard caught his
attention. "J.C. was with the John Kirby little band at that time. He was
the first guy I saw swinging on the cymbal," Taylor said. "That messed me
up because I was looking at Chick and Buddy—and that was a different
thing altogether."
 flrthur Taylor 253
As his career progressed, Taylor played with all kinds of people—
Coleman Hawkins, Hot Lips Page, Gene Ammons, Buddy DeFranco, Bud
Powell, Charlie Parker, Art Farmer—and recorded with just about everyone.
Philly Joe Jones figured prominently in his life. Jones, one of Taylor's
great favorites, took him aside early in his career and worked with him, to
straighten out "problems" the young drummer had. He was forever grateful
to his friend Philly Joe for that.
Taylor always felt that musicality and success in his job depended on how
well he dealt with the cymbal. He concentrated on this aspect of playing,
hoping to bring an attractive, provoking quality to jazz time. Ultimately he
found his own way to have his say. His cymbal playing endeared him to
Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Kenny Dorham, and many other major
players. Musicians were attracted to Taylor because he motivated them to
play.
Taylor listened very closely to Max Roach, Art Blakey, and Kenny Clarke.
They inspired him. What began happening after a while was a stylistic
synthesis. Taylor took elements from all three and emerged with something
of his own.
Taylor always insisted that his association with pianist Bud Powell was
the most important of his life. Powell provided education and enormous
pleasure and just about everything else Taylor sought in a playing experience.
The records Taylor liked best of the hundreds he made include
Thelonious Monk at Town Hall (Riverside), Five x Five with Thelonious
Monk (Riverside), Giant Steps (Atlantic) and Soultrane with John Coltrane
(Prestige), Miles Ahead with Miles Davis (Columbia), Glass Enclosure with
Bud Powell (Blue Note), and Taylor's Wailers with Arthur Taylor (Prestige).
Without the aid of "paper"—a drum part—he did the job, depending
entirely on his ears and instincts to make the music a true thing, a swing
thing.
His flexibility grew as his experience deepened. Taylor impressed the
pianist and significant jazz thinker Lennie Tristano, a difficult taskmaster
when it came to drummers. Longtime Tristano associate Lee Konitz added:
"What convinced us about Art was how he played with Lennie and the rest
of us on some music we taped for Atlantic at the Confucius Restaurant, here
in town."
Seventeen years in France and Belgium contributed in a major way to
Taylor's peace of mind and development as a person and a musician. When
he returned home to New York in 1980, he was a new and better man—and,
as it turned out, a mature drummer of real consequence. Slick, smart, sharp,
he played the way he dressed and looked. Taylor formed a contemporary edi-
tion of the Wailers, a band he had headed earlier in his career. He and his
young group played good places, recorded, and pleased even the most
demanding listeners.
Arthur Taylor passed away the year he had intended to retire and return
to the island in the Caribbean where his family has its roots. It seemed rather
quick. I talked with him on the phone, and suddenly he was gone. Unlike
most people, the personable A.T. had done what he loved and took it as far
as he wanted. That ain't too bad, right?
zji) Other Significant figures

IKE DAY (1925-??)

Ike Day is a legendary name, particularly in Chicago. Basic information
about him is elusive, but all who knew him and his work agree about one
thing: Day had a very special talent.
Buddy DeFranco feels that "Ike Day and Kenny Clarke were the first
important bop drummers." Jo Jones said that Day was "one of the greatest
drummers who ever lived." The innovative composer-music theorist and
former drummer George Russell asserts that "Ike Day was a master—a
demon on drums." Billy Higgins associated the Day name with "finesse."
"Ike Day was indescribable," said the late drummer Steve McCall. "He
could come around with just a snare, a sock cymbal [hi-hat] and a ride
cymbal. You'd never miss the bass drum. He'd play on a radiator or the
wall and it wouldn't seem a gimmick. He felt he shouldn't go east, make
too many records, or stay around too long."
Illinois Jacquet contends that Ike Day, had he lived, "would probably
have gone down as the greatest drummer ever. He was versatile, had youth,
love of the instrument, taste, and discipline. He was in my band for a short
time—maybe six months—and I've never forgotten him."
Junk and tuberculosis ultimately brought Ike Day down. He had been to
New York in the 19405 and worked with Slim Gaillard at Bop City, a club
on the second floor of the Brill Building on Broadway. Max Roach and Roy
Haynes went to check him out and were deeply impressed. After Day left
work that night, he came to the Three Deuces, where Haynes and Roach
were appearing—Haynes with Bird; Max with Bud Powell—and sat in.
Roy Haynes says: "Ike was exceptional—certainly not a run-of-the-mill
type. His playing had so much feeling, so much meaning. Most of the
drummers today sound alike. They're good and have a lot of chops. B u t . . .
I was at the Chicago Theater—a big place in downtown Chicago—with
Sarah Vaughan, late in the 19508. Ike Day was in the tuberculosis hospi-
tal. He snuck out to come backstage to see me. He had on his hospital
clothes. He looked so bad—so sick. I was glad to see him. We talked. That
was the last time."
Here's Roy Porter: "If Ike Day had lived .. . shit! Ask Max about Ike
Day."
Record producer Teddy Reig said to me: "I'm going to drop a name on
you. Not many remember him. Who the hell is left to know?"
I responded: "Ike Day—from Chicago."
"You hit it on the nose," Reig said. "This little guy used to sleep in the
corner at sessions. The musicians would wake him up and he'd play better
than anyone in the joint. Ike was a giant."
Lou Levy remembers: "Sonny Stitt was around the Chicago scene a lot.
He played at a place called the In Club on State Street. Sonny had this
wonderful drummer, Ike Day. He was probably the first great bebop drum-
mer I ever played with. He had that 'feel,' that exhilaration, that fantastic
thing."
And Ira Sullivan: "Ike was very young when he passed away. He certainly
was a different drummer. At many of the Chicago sessions, he didn't work
with a full drum set. One night, he came in with this old bass drum. I got a
banged-up cymbal and a hat box. And he played the whole night with that
setup. It sounded like a brand-new set of drums.
 ike Da<j 235

The legendary Ike Day with saxophonist Lonnie Simmon's band in the 1940s. That's
Gene Wright on bass. He later came to fame with the Dave Brubeck Quartet. Cour-
tesy Charles E. Walton.

"Ike hadn't studied too much. He was accused of being unorthodox by

some other drummers. They said he didn't play correctly, whatever that
means. Tell you, man, he was so fantastic to watch and listen to. He came up
with such original ideas. And he was a bit of a showman, throwing sticks in
the air and stuff like that. But it wasn't corny. He was full of energy and
super fast.
"Ike was the key guy on the Chicago scene. He was 'first call' if there was
a job. But he often wasn't around because of his health problems. He seemed
unable to care for himself or to live a life that had any stability.
"Believe me, if he came back now and played the Village Vanguard, it
would be all over the street early the next day. Everyone would be talking
about this fantastic drummer who had come to town."
Ira Gitler says: "Ike Day sat in with Woody Herman during one of the
band's visits to Chicago. He instinctively played brilliantly without ever
having heard or seen the Herman charts. This is just another example of
Day's great natural ability."
Day recorded with Gene Ammons for Chess and maybe others. He
played with Sonny Rollins for a while when the tenor king was living in
Chicago. Not much remains of this great musician: a few records, more than
a few stories, and the intense memories of those who saw and heard him
play.
256 Other Significant fi?ure$

There were others who made contributions to the evolution of the role of
the drummer in modern jazz.
Art Mardigan, from Detroit, who worked with the Georgie Auld and
Elliot Lawrence and Woody Herman bands and with Charlie Parker, Allen
Eager, Dexter Gordon, and various small groups. He was on to the secret
of bebop early, and musicians speak fondly of his sound and feel on the
instrument.
Joe Harris and Teddy Stewart did some fine work in the Dizzy Gillespie
big band in the 19408. Wilbur Campbell is warmly remembered for what he
brought to small group modern jazz in Chicago. Harold "Doc" West was
not exactly a bopper, but he had sufficient sensitivity and drive to play with
Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker and hold a job at Minton's.There are
other relative unknowns who left a mark on the music that ended its
upward phase when Bird died in New York City in 1955. Truly, change,
increasing liberation, and growth are a collective matter.
And there was much more to come.
flppcnoix i
Drum Rudiment*

PERCUSSIVE ARTS SOCIETY INTERNATIONAL DRUM RUDIMENTS

ALL RUDIMENTS SHOULD BE PRACTICED! OPEN (SLOW) TO CLOSE (FAST) TO OPEN (SLOW) AND/OR AT AN EVEN MODERATE MARCH TEMPO.

I. ROLL RUDIMENTS Jill

A. SINGLE STROKE ROLL RUDIMENTS 10-NlNE STROKE RoLL

1. SINGLE STROKE ROLL * *JJJ JJJJ (° >> '° =>g

11. TEN STROKE ROLL * *, /•' «. _*•'

2. SINGLE STROKE FOUR

12.ELEVEN
STORKE ROLL

3. SINGLE STROKE SEVEN

13.THIRTEN
STROKE ROLL * -^ ^_- ^L ^L-7
B. MULTIPLE BOUNCE ROLL RUDIMENTS
4. MULTIPLE BOUNCE ROLL f .. „ k 1™^ i I~^
14.FIFTEEN STROKE ROLL
5.Triple Store Roll
15. SEVENTEEN
C. DOUBLE STROKE OPEN ROLL RUDIMENTS STROKE ROLL
6. DOUBLE STROKE | H. DIDDLE RUDIMENTS II. DIDDLE RUDIMENTS
OPENROLL* RRLLRRLL

16.SINGLE PARADIDDLE
7. FIVE STROKE ROLL* /_J /_J RLRRLRLL

> 6^=. 6> 17. DOUBLE PARADIDDLE * J J J J J J J J J J JJ

8.SIX STTROKE ROLL

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PARADIDDLE

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R L R L PARADIDDLE-DIDDLE RLRRLLRLRRLL
258 flppendix i

PAS INTERNATIONAL DRUM RUDIMENTS PAGE 2

III. FLAM RUDIMENTS I IV. DRAG RUDIMENTS
20. FLAM* tf £f 31. DRAG* if if 31.DRAG

21. FLAM ACCENT * } J J J / j j j 32. SINGLE R PH n J""1

L R L RRL R L DRAG TAP * -—-

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=" , =~ , 36. DRAG [" " pazxa i . *rn

25. SINGLE FLAMMED ^J J J J^J J J J PARADIDDLE j ^_y J j j j .F3_J J j j PARADIDDLE
MlU
^ ^ 37. DRAG PARADIDDLE #2 *
26. FLAM czcssicszs BCSE^CSSS => ^~
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28. Swiss ARMY ^J j J^J j j

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29. INVERTED ^ J JfjJ J ^J J»jJ 1 LLRLLRLRLRRLRRLRLR

FLAM TAP 1> *lf »J^f •!• •
40 TRIPLE RA^MACUE *

30.FLAMDRAG Jj /3 J^J /J J i-^if^if^iJSl

APPENDIX 2
Tranicriptionjof Drum Joloj

MAX ROACH: "PARISIAN THOROUGHFARE"

TRANSCRIBED BY GLENK DAVIS
260 Appendix?

MAX ROACH: "PARISIAN THOROUGHFARE" (CONTINUED)

Clifford Brown/Max Roach Mercury recording. Modern Drummer, June 1996.

Courtesy of Modern Drummer Publications.
 Appendix2 261

MAX ROACH: "BLUE SEVEN

TRANSCRIBED BY THOMAS P. BARRICK
262 Appendix2

MAX ROACH "BLUE SEVEN" (CONTINUED)

 flppendixZ 263

From the Sonny Rollins Prestige album Saxophone Colossus. Modern Drummer,
February 1992. Courtesy of Modern Drummer Publications.
26t, Appendix 2

MAX ROACH: "BLUES FOR BIG SID"

TRANSCRIBED BY CRAIG SCOTT
flppendixZ 263h
226 Appendix 2

MAX ROACH: "BLUE FOR BIG SID"(CONTINUED)

Appendix 2
268 Appendix 2

MAX ROACH:"BLUE FOR BIG SID"(CONTINUED)

From the Max

 flppendixZ 269

ROY HAYNES: "BLUE MONK"

TRANSCRIBED BY PHIL SMITH
270 Appendix 2

ROY HAYNES: "BLUE MONK" (CONTINUED)

From the Thelonius Monk album Live at the Five Spot. Modern Drummer,
February 1995. Courtesy of Modern Drummer Publications.
 flppendix 2 271

ROY HAYNES; "SNAP CRACKLE"

TRANSCRIBED BY KARL STERLING

From the Roy Haynes Impulse album Out of the Afternoon. Modern Drummer,
September 1987. Courtesy of Modern Drummer Publications.
This page intentionally left blank
noiu

DEKZIL BEST
1. Pat Harris, "None Better Than Best With a Brush," Down Beat, April 20,
1951.

J.C. HEARD
1. J. C. Heard quoted in Peter Vacher, "Heard About J.C.," Melody Maker,
November 4, 1978.
2. J. C. Heard quoted in Stanley Dance, "J. C. Heard," Jazz Journal
International 39 (November 1986): 10.
3. Teddy Wilson quoted in Johnny Semmens, "The Teddy Wilson Big Band of
1939-40, " Coda, December 1970.
4. Dance, "Heard," 11.
5. Max Roach in an interview with Phil Schaap, radio station WKCR-FM, New
York, October 3, 1988.

KENNY CLARKE
1. Ben Webster quoted in Mike Hennessey, Klook: The Story of Kenny Clarke
(London and New York: Quartet Books), 1990, 16.
2. Kenny Clarke quoted in Burt Korall, "View From the Seine," Down Beat,
December 5, 1963.
3. Kenny Clarke quoted in Helen Oakley Dance, The Smithsonian Institution
Interview, Oral History—Kenny Clarke, September 1977, 81-82.
4. Ibid., 109.
STAN LEVEY
1. Stan Levey quoted in John Tynan, "Stan the Man," Down Beat, March 20,
1958.

ART BLAKEY
1. Art Taylor, Notes and Tones: Musician-to-Musician Interviews (New York:
Da Capo Press), 239.
2. Idrees Sulieman quoted in Bret Primack, "Art Blakey, a Drum Thunder
Suited," Jazz Times, November 1994.
3. Horace Silver quoted in liner essay by Michael Cuscuna, Art Blakey and the
Jazz Messengers, originally Columbia, reissued by Contemporary Master Series.

ROY HAYNES
1. Roy Haynes quoted in Jeff Potter, "Roy Haynes," Modern Drummer,
February 1986.

SHELLY MANNE
1. Michael Levin, "Astor Frantic," Down Beat, March 26, 1947.
27<t dote*
DON LAMOND
1. Michael Levin, "Herman Herd Thrills Packed Carnegie Hall," Down Beat,
April 8, 1946.
2. Barry Ulanov, "Woody's New Band," Metronome, June 1948.
3. Alvin Stoller quoted in Burt Korall, "Alvin Stoller," Modern Drummer,
January 1990.

TINY KAHN
1. Tiny Kahn interviewed by Pat Harris, "Drummers Should Be Musicians Too:
Tiny Kahn," Down Beat, April 7, 1950.
2. Ibid.

PHILLY JOE JONES

1. Mel Lewis in an interview with Loren Schoenberg, part of a series of Mel
Lewis programs on drummers, done with Schoenberg in August and September
1989 at radio station WKCR-FM, New York.
2. Slim Gaillard quoted in Les Tompkins, "That Jive Is Grooving Back—As Is
Slim Gaillard," Crescendo, October 1982.
BIBLIOGRflPHV

Berliner, Paul F. Thinking in Jazz. Chicago and London: University of Chicago

Press, 1994.
Blades, James. Percussion Instruments and Their History. New York and
Washington, D.C.: Praeger, 1970.
Brand, Jack, and Bill Korst. Shelly Manne: Sounds of the Different Drummer.
Limited ed. Rockford, 111.: Percussion Express, 1997.
Chapin, Jim. Advanced Techniques for the Modern Drummer. Sag Harbor, N.Y.:
Jim Chapin, 1993.
Dejohnette, Jack, and Charlie Perry. The Art of Modern Jazz Drumming. Long
Island, N.Y.: Drum Center Publications, 1981.
DeVeaux, Scott. The Birth of Bebop. Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London:
University of California Press, 1997.
Gillespie, Dizzy, with Al Fraser. To Be or Not... to Bop. Garden City, N.Y.:
Doubleday, 1979.
Gitler, Ira. Jazz Masters of the '40s. New York: Macmillan, 1966.
. Swing to Bop. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985.
Harrison, Max. Charlie Parker. New York: A. S. Barnes, 1961.
Hennessey, Mike. Klook: The Story of Kenny Clarke. London and New York:
Quartet Books, 1990.
Hunt, Joe. 52nd Street Beat. New Albany, Ind.: Jamey Aebersold Jazz, n.d.
Jepsen, Jorgen Grunnet. Discography of Charlie Parker: Denmark. Debut
Records, 1959.
Komara, Edward M. The Dial Recordings of Charlie Parker. Westport, Conn.,
and London: Greenwood Press, 1998.
Korall, Burt. Drummin' Men—The Heartbeat of Jazz: The Swing Years. New
York: Schirmer Books, 1990.
Martin, Henry. Charlie Parker and Thematic Improvisation. Lanham, Md.:
Scarecrow Press, 1996.
Mattingly, Rick. The Drummer's Time. Cedar Grove, N.J.: Modern Drummer
Publications, 1998.
McRae, Barry. Dizzy Gillespie. New York: Universe Books, 1988.
Mintz, Billy. Different Drummers. New York: Amsco Music Publishing, 1975.
Oliphant, David, ed. The Bebop Revolution in Words and Music. Austin: Harry
Ransom Humanities Research Center, 1994.
Owens, Thomas. Bebop: The Music and Its Players. New York and Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1995.
Priestley, Brian. Charlie Parker. New York: Hippocrene Books, 1984.
Ramsay, John. Art Blakey's Jazz Messages. New York: Manhattan Music, 1994.
Reisner, Robert George. Bird: The Legend of Charlie Parker. New York: Citadel
Press, 1962.
Riley, John. The Art of Bop Drumming. Miami: Manhattan Music, 1994.
276 Bibliography

. Beyond Bop Drumming. Miami: Manhattan Music, 1997.

Rosenthal, David H. Hard Bop. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1992.
Russell, Ross. Bird Lives! New York: Charterhouse, 1973.
Spagnardi, Ronald. The Great Jazz Drummers. Cedar Grove, N.J.: Modern
Drummer Publications, 1992.
Taylor, Arthur. Notes and Tones. New York: Da Capo, 1993.
Ulanov, Barry. A History of Jazz in America. New York: Da Capo, 1952.
Woideck, Carl. The Charlie Parker Companion. New York: Schirmer, 1998.
. Charlie Parker: His Music and Life. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan
Press, 1996.
Yanow, Scott. Bebop: The Essential Listening Companion. San Francisco: Miller
Freeman Books, 2000.
DIJCOGRflPHY

The selections in this discography are not intended as a complete accounting

of the recorded output of these artists. In each case they are selected key
recordings that represent notable examples of the performer's work on 78
RPM releases, LPs, and CDs.

Lou FROMM
The Complete Artie Shaw—Vols. 6 and 7 (Bluebird)
Blues in the Night, Artie Shaw and His Orchestra (BMG-Bluebird)
Recording dates with the Georgie Auld and Harry James bands, in 1944 and
1946, respectively.

BILLY EXINER
Best of Big Bands, Claude Thornhill and His Orchestra (Columbia)
On Stage, Claude Thornhill and His Orchestra (Monmouth-Evergreen)
Snowfall, Claude Thornhill and His Orchestra (Hindsight)
A number of Tony Bennett recordings and albums

DENZIL BEST
Fat Girl—The Savoy Sessions, Fats Navarro (Savoy)
So Rare, George Shearing (Savoy)
Classic Shearing, George Shearing Quintet (USP-Verve)
The Changing Face of Harlem, Various (Savoy)
Harlem Volume 2—An Anthology, Various (Savoy)
Subconscious—Lee Konitz With Lennie Tristano, Lee Konitz (Prestige)
Swinging Sounds of the '40s, Coleman Hawkins and The Trumpet Kings
(EmArcy)
Coleman Hawkins and His Orchestra, Hollywood Stampede (Capitol)

IRV KLUGER
49, Artie Shaw and His Orchestra (Musicmasters)
The Last Recordings, Artie Shaw (Musicmasters)
Jewells, Boyd Raeburn and His Orchestra (Savoy)
The War Years (1941-47), Ella Fitzgerald (Decca)
Porgy and Bess, Mel Torme, Frances Faye, and others (Bethlehem)
Crosscurrents, Lennie Tristano, Buddy DeFranco [including "Bird in Igor's Yard"]
(Capitol)

JACKIE MILLS
Jewells, Boyd Raeburn and His Orchestra (Savoy)
The Jazz Scene (Verve)
Boyd Raeburn on the Air (Hep)
The Complete Capitol Records of Gene Krupa and Harry James (Mosaic)
One Night Stand, Harry James (Columbia)
278 Di$co?raphu
J. C. HEARD
Sittin' In, Dizzy Gillespie, Stan Getz, Coleman Hawkins (Verve)
Be Bop, Various (New World)
Teddy Wilson Big Band (singles) (Columbia)
Teddy Wilson and His All-Stars, Vol. 1 (Musicraft)
Dizziest, Dizzy Gillespie (RCA)
JATP in Tokyo, Various (Pablo)
Jam Session #1, Various (Mercury)
Jam Session #2, Various (Mercury)
Norman Granz' Jazz at the Philharmonic—Hartford, 1953, Various (Pablo)

SHADOW WILSON
The Complete Count Basic Vol. 2, Count Basic (CBS/France)
Count Basic and His Orchestra, 1945-1946, Count Basic (Classics)
The Basic Special, Count Basic and His Orchestra (Everybodys)
Thelonious Monk—Genius of Modern Music, Thelonious Monk (Blue Note)
'Round Midnight, Thelonious Monk, Gerry Mulligan (Milestone)
Monk/Trane, Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane (Milestone)
Prime Source, Fats Navarro (Blue Note)
Lester Young, Pres—The Complete Savoy Recordings (Savoy)
Long Ago and Far Away, Erroll Garner (Columbia)
The Complete Illinois Jacquet, 1945-1950 (Mosaic)

KENNY CLARKE
Jazz Immortals, Kenny Clarke, Charlie Christian, Thelonious Monk, etc. (Everest)
Dizzy Gillespie and Max Roach in Paris, Dizzy Gillespie (Disque Vogue/BMG-
RCA)
Dizzier and Dizzier, Dizzy Gillespie (Victor Jazz)
Birth of the Cool, Miles Davis (Capitol)
The Paris Bebop Session With James Moody, Kenny Clarke (Prestige)
The Complete Blue Note Recordings of Fats Navarro and Tadd Dameron (Blue
Note)
Jazz Track, Miles Davis (Columbia)
Miles Davis (United Artists)
Tallest Trees, Miles Davis (Prestige)
Tune Up, Miles Davis (Prestige)
Essen Concert, Various (Black Lion)
The Modern Jazz Quartet (Prestige)
The Clarke-Boland Big Band (various labels)
Pieces of Time, Kenny Clarke, Andrew Cyrille, Famoudou Don Moye, Milford
Graves (Soul Note)

MAX ROACH
Coleman Hawkins—Rainbow Mist (Delmark)
Charlie Parker—The Complete Savoy and Dial Studio Recordings, 1944-1948
(Savoy)
Charlie Parker—The Complete Dial Sessions (Stash)
Max Roach With the New Orchestra of Boston and the So What Brass Quintet
(Blue Note)
Brilliant Corners (Riverside)
Miles Davis—The Complete Birth of the Cool (Capitol)
Jazz at Massey Hall, Max Roach, Charlie Parker, Charles Mingus, Dizzy Gillespie,
Bud Powell (Prestige)
Clifford Brown and Max Roach at Basin Street (EmArcy)
Sonny Rollins: The Freedom Suite Plus with Oscar Pettiford (Milestone)
 Di$co?raphij 279
Saxophone Colossus and More with Sonny Rollins (Prestige)
We Insist! Max Roach and Oscar Brown Jr.'s Freedom Now Suite (Candid)
The Complete Mercury Max Roach Plus Four Sessions (Mosaic)

STAN LEVEY
For Musicians Only with Dizzy Gillespie and Stan Getz (Verve)
The Arrival of Victor Feldman (Contemporary)
Stanley the Steamer with Stan Getz (Verve)
Getz Meets Mulligan (Verve)
This Time the Drum's on Me (Bethlehem)
Drumming the Blues with Max Roach (Liberty)
Stan Levey Quintet (Mode)
Little Band, Big jazz with Conte Candoli All-Stars (Crown)
Grand Stan (Bethlehem)
Yardbird in Lotus Land (Phoenix)
Stan Kenton, Paris 1953 (Royal Jazz)

ART BLAKEY
Together—The Legendary Big Band, Billy Eckstine (Spotlight)
Horace Silver and the Jazz Messengers, Horace Silver (Blue Note)
Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers with Thelonious Monk (Atlantic)
Orgy in Rhythm with various drummers (Blue Note)
Art Blakey Quintet/A Night at Birdland with Clifford Brown and Horace Silver
(Blue Note)
New Bottle, Old Wine, Gil Evans (World Pacific)
Drum Suite (Columbia)
The Complete Blue Note Herbie Nichols (Mosaic)
Afro-Cuban, Kenny Dorham (Blue Note)
Album of the Year, Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers (Timeless)
Miles Davis (Blue Note)
Art Blakey and Clifford Brown (Giants of Jazz)

ROY HAYNES
Now He Sings, Now He Sobs, Chick Corea (Blue Note)
Out of the Afternoon, Roy Haynes (Impulse)
We Three, Roy Haynes with Phineas Newborn, Paul Chambers (Fantasy)
Bird at St. Nick's, Charlie Parker (Fantasy)
Charlie Parker at Carnegie Hall (Bandstand)
Live at the Five Spot, Thelonious Monk, Johnny Griffin, etc. (Milestone)
At Storyville, Charlie Parker (Blue Note)
Te Vous, Roy Haynes (Dreyfus)
The Complete Aladdin Recordings of Lester Young (Blue Note)
The Complete Sarah Vaughan on Mercury (Mercury)
The Complete Blue Note and Roost Recordings, Bud Powell (Blue Note)

SHELLY MANNE
Bull's Eye (with Manne solo and three other sides), Joe Marsala Small Band
(Decca)
The Man I Love, Coleman Hawkins Swing Four (Signature/Brunswick)
Stan Kenton Retrospective, Stan Kenton Orchestra (Capitol)
Cool and Crazy, Shorty Rogers (RCA Victor)
The Complete Capitol Recordings of Woody Herman (Mosaic)
We Three, Shelly Manne, Jimmy Giuffre, Shorty Rogers (Contemporary)
Swinging Sounds Vol. 4 ("Un Poco Loco"), Shelly Manne and His Men
(Contemporary)
280 Diico?raphij
My Fair Lady, Shelly Manne and His Friends (Andre Previn) (Contemporary)
Come Dance With Me, Frank Sinatra (Capitol)
Tomorrow Is the Question, Ornette Coleman (Contemporary)
Shelly Manne—My Fair Lady With the UNoriginal Cast (Capitol)
A Matter of Conviction, Bill Evans Trio (Verve)
Live at San Francisco's Black Hawk, Shelly Manne and His Men (Contemporary)
Coleman Hawkins Favorites (Signature)
The Big Sounds of Coleman Hawkins and Ben Webster (Brunswick)

DON LAMOND
The Thundering Herds, Woody Herman (Columbia)
Woody Herman and His Legendary Herd-Live!, Woody Herman (Artistry)
Ted McNabb Swing Band, Ted McNabb (Epic)
That's All, Bobby Darin (ATCO)
The Complete Woody Herman on Capitol (Mosaic)
Woody Herman at Carnegie Hall (Verve)
The Jazz Scene, Various (Verve)
Charlie Parker—The Complete Dial Sessions (Dial)
The Complete Roost Recordings, Stan Getz (Roost)
The Complete Charlie Parker on Verve (Verve)
New Directions in Music (plus other S&F albums), Sauter-Finegan Orchestra
(RCA)
Elliot Lawrence Plays Gerry Mulligan Arrangements, Elliot Lawrence (Fantasy)
The Blues Is Everybody's Business, Manny Albam (Coral)
Lady in Satin, Billie Holiday (Columbia)
Birth of a Band, Quincy Jones (Mercury)
All the Way, Harry James and His Orchestra (Big Band Archives)

TINY KAHN
The Complete Aladdin Recordings of Lester Young (Blue Note)
Charlie Barnet—The Capitol Big Band Sessions (Capitol)
The Chubby Jackson Band (singles—e. g., "Tiny's Blues)" (Columbia)
Stan Getz at Storyville, Vols. 1 and 2 (Roulette)
Bebop Revisited, Vol. 2 (Xanadu)

PHILLY JOE JONES

Tony Scott in Hi-Fi (Brunswick)
Collector's Items, Miles Davis (Prestige)
Workin' and Steamin', Miles Davis (Prestige)
Green Haze, Miles Davis (Prestige)
The New Miles Davis Quintet (Prestige)
'Round Midnight, Miles Davis (Columbia)
Milestones, Miles Davis (Columbia)
Porgy and Bess, Miles Davis, Gil Evans (Columbia)
The Magic Touch, Tadd Dameron and His Orchestra (Riverside)
Philly Joe's Beat, Philly Joe Jones Quartet (Atlantic)
Dameronia, Philly Joe Jones Octet (Uptown)
Blues for Dracula, Philly Joe Jones Sextet (Riverside)
Big Band Sounds, Philly Joe Jones (Riverside)
Drums Around the World Showcase, Philly Joe Jones Sextet (Riverside)
Plus many other sessions for Blue Note and Riverside

HEL LEWIS
Contemporary Concepts, Stan Kenton (Capitol)
Kenton '56 (Artistry)
 Dbco?raphij 281
The Concepts Era 1 and 2, Stan Kenton (Artistry)
The Definitive Kenton (Artistry)
Woody Herman's Big New Herd at the Monterey Jazz Festival (Atlantic)
The Fabulous Bill Holman (Coral)
Live at the Village Vanguard, Thad Jones, Mel Lewis (Solid State)
Central Park North, Thad Jones, Mel Lewis (Solid State)
Got 'Cha, Mel Lewis Septet (Jazz)
Mel Lewis and the Jazz Orchestra—Make Me Smile and Other Works by Bob
Brookmeyer, Mel Lewis Jazz Orchestra (Finesse)
You Better Believe It, Gerald Wilson Orchestra (Pacific Jazz)
Moment of Truth, Gerald Wilson Orchestra (Pacific Jazz)
The Lost Art, Mel Lewis Septet (Musicmasters)

ED SHAUGHNESSY
Charlie Ventura in Concert (Decca GNP/Crescendo)
Just Friends, Charlie Parker and Friends (Blue Parrot)
Word From Bird, Teddy Charles Tentet (Atlantic)
Bashin', Jimmy Smith, Oliver Nelson (Verve)
Swingin' the Blues, Doc Severinsen Big Band (Azica)
Once More With Feeling, Doc Severinsen Big Band (Amherst)

ARTHUR TAYLOR
Thelonious Monk Orchestra at Town Hall (Riverside)
Giant Steps, John Coltrane (Atlantic)
Soultrane, John Coltrane (Prestige)
Miles Ahead, Miles Davis (Columbia)
Glass Enclosure, Bud Powell (Blue Note)
Taylor's Wallers (Prestige)
This page intentionally left blank
THC inTtRVicwm

ANTHONY J. (TONY) AGOSTINELLI is an educator and leading expert on Stan

Kenton.
MANNY ALBAM, the veteran arranger and composer, wrote for countless
prominent musicians and singers. Co-musical director of the BMI Jazz
Composers Workshop, he also taught composition at the Manhattan School
of Music.
GEORGIE AULD, a tenor saxophonist with a readily identifiable sound, was a
soloist with the Bunny Berigan, Artie Shaw, Benny Goodman, and Jan Savitt
bands. He led small groups and big bands and acted in theater and films.
DAVID BAKER, a cello player, composer, conductor, and a major force in jazz
-education, is distinguished professor of music and director of jazz studies at
Indiana University.
RAY BARRETTO, a Latin/jazz bandleader and conga player, has done innova-
tive work in the Latin and jazz fields.
GARY BARTZ, an important saxophone player and composer, has played with
such influential musicians as Max Roach, Miles Davis, McCoy Tyner, and Art
Blakey.
BILLY BAUER, a guitarist who came to fame with the Woody Herman First
Herd in the 1940s, has been associated with a number of other top-level musi-
cians as well.
LOUIE BELLSON, a drummer, composer, and bandleader, is a veteran of many
musical experiences including the bands of Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey,
Duke Ellington, and Count Basic. He has had his own big band for a number
of years.
MAX BENNETT, a bass player, composer, and songwriter, is an alumnus of the
bands of Georgie Auld, Herbie Fields, Terry Gibbs, Charlie Ventura, and
Stan Kenton. He also has worked with singers Peggy Lee and Ella Fitzgerald
and played on numerous instrumental and vocal recordings.
MILT BERNHART, a veteran big band trombonist, has to his credit stints with
Benny Goodman, Stan Kenton, Teddy Powell, and Boyd Raeburn. Since the
1950s, he has done much studio work in Hollywood. His most widely known
solo is on Frank Sinatra's recording of "I've Got You Under My Skin."
EDDIE BERT, a trombonist whose playing is known for its creativity and adapt-
ability, has performed with musicians of every stripe—Red Norvo, Charlie
Barnet, Stan Kenton, Benny Goodman, Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus,
Bobby Short—as well as in pit bands in the Broadway musical theater.
28<, The Interviewee)
WALTER BISHOP JR., a pianist most widely known for his work with Charlie
Parker, was an educator and poet as well.
CINDY BLACKMAN is an impressive modern jazz drummer, strongly influenced
by Art Blakey and Tony Williams. She has studied at the Berklee College of
Music and privately and has made several recordings.
RUBY BRAFF, a leading jazz trumpeter with roots deep in jazz history, has a
dedicated following here and abroad, particularly in England.
BOB BROOKMEYER, an important valve trombonist, pianist, and composer-
arranger, has performed and/or written for several European radio bands,
Stan Getz, Gerry Mulligan, the Mel Lewis Jazz Orchestra, and his own units.
In recent years he has become increasingly prominent as a composer and
educator.
Lou BROWN, a pianist and conductor, has been musical director for comedian
Jerry Lewis for several decades.
PHIL BROWN, a drummer who played with Charlie Parker, Stan Getz, and
the Claude Thornhill and Buddy Rich orchestras, is now a New York
businessman.
LARRY BUNKER, a versatile drummer-percussionist and vibraphonist, is the
product of multiple musical experiences, ranging from big and small jazz
bands to TV, film, and recordings in Los Angeles.
GARY BURTON, a Grammy-winning vibraphone virtuoso and group leader, has
been involved with many types of music and musicians, among them George
Shearing, Stan Getz, and Carla Bley. He is dean of curriculum at the Berklee
College of Music in Boston.
DONALD BYRD, a trumpeter, flugelhorn player, and widely admired music
educator, has had an impact in several areas of jazz and popular music.
JOHN CARISI, a composer, arranger, trumpeter, and educator, is best known
for "Israel," a composition he wrote and arranged for the now legendary
Miles Davis's Birth of the Cool Capitol recording sessions. He played and/or
wrote material for the Glenn Miller Army Air Force band, Herbie Fields,
Babe Russin, Charlie Barnet, Claude Thornhill, and Ray McKinley.
BARBARA CARROLL, a pianist influenced early on by modern jazz, has been a
fixture for many seasons at the Bemelmans Bar of Manhattan's chic Carlyle
Hotel.
AL CASEY, a guitarist with the Harlem Blues and Jazz Band, has had a distin-
guished career. He has played with Fats Waller, Teddy Wilson, Earl Hines,
Sid Catlett, and King Curtis, among others.
JIM CHAPIN is a drummer, drum teacher, and scholar whose accomplish-
ments, particularly as a teacher, are admired throughout the world music
community.
TEDDY CHARLES is an outstanding vibraphonist, composer, and arranger. His
experience spans the styles of jazz, from Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw
to Charles Mingus. His records for Prestige and Atlantic set examples of
excellence.
 The Interviewee) 285
AL COHN, a member of the famed Woody Herman "Four Brothers" saxophone
section in the late 1940s, went on to write and play memorably in a variety
of musical situations. He and tenorist Zoot Sims had a compatible and long-
lasting musical relationship.
BOB COOPER, a tenor saxophonist and oboist, is most widely known for his
lengthy association with the Stan Kenton Orchestra.
BILL CROW, a bassist, has played with Benny Goodman, Stan Getz, Gerry
Mulligan's small groups, and his Concert Jazz Band. A book writer—Jazz
Anecdotes and From Birdland To Broadway (Oxford University Press)—he
contributes the "Band Room" column to Allegro, Local 802's monthly paper.
HELEN OAKLEY DANCE did extremely important work as a critic and as a jazz
record and concert producer. She also served as public relations adviser for
major jazz artists, including the dramatic drummer and bandleader Chick
Webb.
STANLEY DANCE, one of the key British jazz critics, went international when
he moved to the United States. His commentary regarding Duke Ellington
and artists of the Swing Era is very much worth reading.
NATHAN DAVIS, a saxophonist, educator, and writer, performed with Kenny
Clarke, Donald Byrd, Arthur Taylor, and Art Blakey while in Europe. A
doctor of ethnomusicology, Davis heads the Jazz Studies Program at the
University of Pittsburgh.
ALAN DAWSON, a gifted drummer and teacher based in Boston, taught Tony
Williams and Joe LaBarbera. Among his playing credits: Dave Brubeck, Roy
Eldridge, Herb Pomeroy, Lionel Hampton, Booker Ervin, and Oscar
Peterson.
VINNIE DEAN, a distinctive alto saxophonist, played and/or recorded with big
bands and small groups. Among his employers: Charlie Spivak, Johnny Both-
well, Charlie Barnet, Benny Goodman, Elliot Lawrence, and Stan Kenton.
BUDDY DEFRANCO, a leading modern jazz clarinetist, has played with big
bands—Gene Krupa, Charlie Barnet, Tommy Dorsey—and with small bands
and headed his own units. He is an admirable technician. Of late he has
worked a good deal with Terry Gibbs.
GENE DINOVI is a pianist, composer, and accompanist whose playing enhanced
the bands of Henry Jerome, Boyd Raeburn, Chubby Jackson, Benny Good-
man, and Buddy Rich and the singing of Lena Home and Anita O'Day.
JACK EAGLE, a trumpeter who played in a number of bands, is a comedian and
TV personality.
BILLY ECKSTINE, an influential singer, led the first all-star big band to play
bebop.
MERCER ELLINGTON, the composer-arranger trumpet-playing son of Duke
Ellington, worked closely with his father and wrote for and led his own
bands.
AL (YouNG) EPSTEIN, a saxophonist, arranger, and composer, played with
Benny Goodman, Georgie Auld, Buddy Rich, Teddy Powell, Tito Puente,
286 The Interviewee

and Boyd Raeburn, among others. His writing credits: Glenn Miller, Count
Basic, and his own band. Before moving to Florida, he also was active in TV
and recording in New York.
PETER ERSKINE, a versatile drummer, has worked with Stan Kenton and
Maynard Ferguson and his own bands. He gained fame with Weather Report,
a fusion group.
NESUHI ERTEGUN was a highly esteemed jazz authority.and record producer,
long associated with Atlantic Records.
PEE WEE ERWIN was a featured trumpeter with the bands of Joe Haynes, Ray
Noble, Benny Goodman, and Tommy Dorsey in the 1930s. He led his own
band and was a prominent New York studio musician.
STAR EXINER and HOPE D'AMORE are the daughters of drummer Billy Exiner.
TOM FERGUSON, a Philadephia guitarist, worked locally and in Atlantic City
CLARE FISCHER, a keyboardist, composer, arranger, and group leader, has
been associated with the Hi-Los, Dizzy Gillespie, and Natalie Cole. He is
particularly well known for his work in Latin music.
VERNEL FOURNIER, a versatile drummer from New Orleans, built a major
reputation playing with the Ahmad Jamal Trio. He had varied musical
experiences—from George Shearing to Lester Young, from Billy Eckstine to
Joe Williams.
STAN FREE, a pianist based in New York, did a lot of TV, radio, and re-
cording. He was singer Chris Connor's musical director and accompanied
Frank Sinatra.
Russ FREEMAN, a pianist, composer, and songwriter, was particularly active
on the West Coast from the 1940s onward. He is heard on records by Shelly
Manne, Benny Goodman, Charlie Parker, Chet Baker, and Art Pepper. He
recently has been active as a writer of songs for contemporary popular
artists.
SLIM GAILLARD was a novelty singer, guitarist, and pianist with an entertaining
personality. Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie recorded with him in the
1940s. Earlier on he became internationally known for his recording of "Flat
Foot Floogie" with Slam Stewart.
HAL GAYLOR, a bass player from a family of musicians, has played with Chico
Hamilton, Kai Winding, and, for an extended period of time, Tony Bennett.
STAN GETZ was one of the giant jazz improvisers on tenor saxophone. After
playing solo roles in the Stan Kenton, Benny Goodman, and Woody Herman
bands, he had groups of his own until he passed in 1991.
TERRY GlBBS is a modern counterpart of Swing Era vibraphonists Lionel
Hampton and Red Norvo. A member of the Brooklyn jazz mafia of the late
1930s and early 1940s—like Tiny Kahn, Frank Socolow, Al Epstein, and Al
Cohn—he has played with leading big bands and small groups—e.g., Buddy
Rich, Tommy Dorsey Woody Herman, and Buddy DeFranco—and headed
distinctive big bands and small units.
 The Interviewee) 287
IRA GITLER, a veteran jazz critic, is the author of Swing to Bop: An Oral
History of the Transition in Jazz in the 1940s (Oxford University Press) and
The Masters of Bebop (Da Capo Press) and collaborator with Leonard
Feather on The Biographical Encylopedia of Jazz (Oxford University Press).
JIMMY GIUFFRE, an innovative composer, clarinetist, saxophonist, and jazz
thinker, has been active in various areas of jazz and concert music. He
became widely known after writing "Four Brothers" for Woody Herman in
the late 1940s.
BENNY GOLSON, a saxophonist, arranger, and composer of several jazz stan-
dards, worked with Dizzy Gillespie, Lionel Hampton, Tadd Dameron, and
Art Blakey, among others. Then he co-led the Jazztet with Art Farmer, and
wrote for films and television. In recent years he has further diversified his
activities.
JIMMY GOURLEY, a guitarist and composer, first became known in Chicago. He
has been living and working in Paris for several decades. The musicians he
has worked with include Kenny Clarke, Sonny Stitt, Gene Ammons, Zoot
Sims, Clifford Brown, and Lester Young,
JAKE HANNA, an adept, swinging drummer in both large and small groups,
made his reputation in the Woody Herman band of the late 1950s and early
1960s. His other credits include the Marian McPartland Trio, and the Duke
Ellington and Harry James bands. He has appeared on many recordings.
BILL HARDMAN, a modern trumpet and flugelhorn player, was best known for
his work with Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers.
VIN HAYNES is the brother of Roy Haynes.
DAVID HEARD is the brother of J. C. Heard
JIMMY HEATH, a tenor saxophonist, composer, arranger, and noted educator,
is one of three musically talented brothers. He has been involved with Miles
Davis, Gil Evans, Dizzy Gillespie—almost everyone of importance in modern
jazz.
PERCY HEATH, a supremely talented bass player, is the oldest Heath brother.
For many years he was associated with the Modern Jazz Quartet. Before and
after that, he recorded and made appearances with such leaders as J. J.
Johnson, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Charlie Parker, and his brothers.
JON HENDRICKS, an influential singer, jazz personality, and lyricist, is most
widely remembered for his work with the inventive vocal trio Lambert,
Hendricks, and Ross.
NAT HENTOFF is an internationally known jazz authority and social commen-
tator.
WOODY HERMAN was a much admired bandleader from 1936 until his death in
1987.
BILLY HIGGINS, a highly regarded drummer who brought something very
personal to music, performed and recorded with leading names in the music,
including Sonny Rollins, John Coltrane, Dexter Gordon, Ornette Coleman,
Milt Jackson, and Charlie Haden's Quartet West.
288 The Interviewee)

MlLT HlNTON, a jazz bassist, educator, and photographer, spent many years
with the Cab Galloway band, subsequently becoming one of the busiest musi-
cians on the New York studio and record session scene.
MARVIN "Doc" HOLLADAY was a member of J. C. Heard's thirteen-piece band
in Detroit. He has played baritone saxophone in the bands of Thad Jones
and Mel Lewis, Quincy Jones, Gerald Wilson, Stan Kenton, and Woody
Herman.
BILL HOLMAN is one of jazz's most important composers and arrangers. He
has written material for Stan Kenton, Woody Herman, Gerry Mulligan,
Buddy Rich, Mel Lewis, Terry Gibbs, Tony Bennett, and Peggy Lee, among
others. In recent years, he has provided material for several radio orches-
tras in Europe.
DICK HYMAN is a highly versatile pianist, composer, arranger and a musicol-
ogist as well. He has played and/or recorded with such luminaries as Lester
Young, Ruby Braff, Benny Goodman, Charlie Parker, and Dizzy Gillespie,
scored films for Woody Allen, and worked extensively in radio and TV and as
a concert producer.
SONNY IGOE, a drummer and teacher who won the Gene Krupa national
drumming competition in 1939, is a technically gifted ja/z player. He estab-
lished his reputation working with Benny Goodman and Woody Herman.
CHUBBY JACKSON came to the fore as a bassist and personality with Woody
Herman's First Herd (1943^16). He has had his own big and small bands and
played with Charlie Barnet, Charlie Ventura, and Lionel Hampton, among
others. He also has had his own shows on radio and television.
ILLINOIS JACQUET, an influential saxophonist, bassoonist, and bandleader, rose
to fame with Lionel Hampton, Cab Galloway, and Count Basic in the 1940s
before becoming the leader of small and large bands.
HENRY JEROME, a bandleader who turned to bop in the 1940s, featured
players who utimately became important jazz figures.
J. J. JOHNSON, the most influential trombonist of the bebop period, later
achieved major recognition as a composer as well. For a time, he composed
music for films and television
HANK JONES, a pianist, has shared his capacious talent with most key jazz and
pop artists over the past half century. Those who have benefited include Ella
Fitzgerald, Benny Goodman, Charlie Parker, Stan Getz, Sammy Davis Jr.,
Coleman Hawkins, and Thad Jones and Mel Lewis. He has been a sideman
and leader on countless records.
Jo JONES, a commanding figure on drums, has been a primary influence on
drummers since the 1930s.
DICK KATZ, a first-class pianist and accompanist, has appeared and/or
recorded with Carmen McRae, Tony Scott, Ben Webster, Helen Merrill, Roy
Eldridge, Benny Goodman, Buck Clayton, Lee Konitz, Benny Carter, the
American Jazz Orchestra and a number of others. He is an accomplished
writer as well, specializing in discussion and evaluation of pianists.
 The Interviewees 289

ORRIN KEEPNEWS, a key jazz record producer and commentator, co-founded

Riverside and Milestone Records. Primarily responsible for the emergence
of Thelonious Monk as a recording artist, Keepnews specializes in the
production of historic reissue projects for various labels.
PETER KEEPNEWS, in the tradition established by his father, is a critic, writer,
and editor. His work has appeared in the New York Times, the New York
Post, the Village Voice, and a number of consumer and music magazines. A
prolific writer of notes for recordings, he also has created scripts for NPR's
Jazz Profiles and Jazz From Lincoln Center.
JIMMY KNEPPER, an award-winning trombonist, has played with big bands
(Claude Thornhill, Charlie Barnet, Woody Herman, Stan Kenton, Thad
Jones—Mel Lewis) and small bands (Charlie Parker, Charles Mingus, and
Lee Konitz). Knepper is a great student of the work of Parker.
LEE KONITZ, an ever-evolving alto saxophonist, was associated with Lennie
Tristano, the highly original jazz thinker, for a number of years. He has
played and/or recorded with the Claude Thornhill Orchestra, the famed
Miles Davis Nonet, the Stan Kenton band, Gerry Mulligan big and small
bands, his own groups, and a variety of other artists, here and abroad.
HAROLD LAND, a tenor saxophonist based in California, became known in the
jazz community as a member of the Max Roach—Clifford Brown group in the
1950s. He can be heard on record with Bill Evans, Jon Faddis, Elmo Hope,
Freddie Hubbard, and others.
JOHN LA PORTA, a clarinetist, saxophone player, and composer-arranger, was
a member of Woody Herman's First Herd in the 1940s. He ultimately became
a noted educator.
ELLIOT LAWRENCE, a bandleader, musical director, and pianist, has headed
excellent jazz-oriented big bands since the 1940s. In recent years, he has
focused on writing and conducting for the Broadway musical theater and tele-
vision.
CLIFF LEEMAN, a leading big band drummer, worked with Charlie Barnet
several times and with Artie Shaw, Woody Herman, Jimmy Dorsey, and Bob
Crosby. Later he became involved with a number of traditional jazzmen such
as Bobby Hackett, Eddie Condon, and Wild Bill Davison.
PHIL LESHIN, a bassist with Buddy Rich's large and small bands, is a New
York public relations man, personal manager, and concert producer.
ALAN (AL) LEVITT had a diversified career both here and in Europe. The
drummer was employed by Sidney Bechet, Charles Mingus, Stan Getz,
Shirley Horn, Allen Eager, Martial Solal, Stephane Grappelli, David Allyn,
Chris Connor, Slide Hampton, and others.
JOHN LEVY, a bassist who played with Ben Webster, George Shearing, Erroll
Garner, Rex Stewart, and other outstanding musicians, has been an influen-
tial manager for a number of years, taking care of business for Shearing,
Nancy Wilson, Joe Williams, and other artists.
290 The Interviewees

Lou LEVY, an exceptionally gifted modern pianist, achieved major recogni-

tion with the "Four Brothers" Woody Herman Second Herd in the late 1940s.
He retained a high degree of visibility with Tommy Dorsey and Georgie Auld
and singers Sarah Vaughan, Peggy Lee, Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne, Tony
Bennett, and Frank Sinatra.
JOHN LEWIS established himself in the 1940s as pianist-arranger-composer
with the Dizzy Gillespie big band. He enhanced his reputation as the pianist
and musical director of the Modern Jazz Quartet. Lewis wrote for TV and
films and in various concert and jazz forms.
JOHNNY MANDEL, an Academy Award-winning composer, a songwriter, and a
bass trumpet player, garnered recognition for his writing for Woody
Herman, Artie Shaw, Buddy Rich, Boyd Raeburn, and Count Basic. Later
he focused his attention on writing for motion pictures and television, He was
responsible for the first jazz score integrated into a film—I Want to Live.
FLIP MANNE, a former Radio City Music Hall Rockette, is the wife of the late
Shelly Manne.
LARANCE MARABLE became a factor in the Los Angeles jazz community, drum-
ming for Charlie Parker, Dexter Gordon, Stan Getz, Chet Baker, Hampton
Hawes, and Victor Feldman. In recent years, he has performed with Charlie
Haden's Quartet West.
STEVE MCCALL, a conservatory-trained drummer-percussionist, covered a lot
of ground during his career, ranging from work with Ramsey Lewis to avant-
garde performances with Cecil Taylor.
RAY McKlNLEY was an impressive drummer and singer who was the focus and
driving force behind his own big bands and those fronted by the Dorsey
Brothers, Jimmy Dorsey, and Glenn Miller (in the Air Force).
HAL McKusiCK is an alto saxophonist who has been a sideman and soloist with
many big bands—Les Brown, Woody Herman, Elliot Lawrence, Boyd
Raeburn, and Buddy Rich— and a studio and recording musician in New
York. He now teaches and heads his own groups.
JlM McNEELY has performed and/or written material for many groups and
orchestras. A staff writer for the Carnegie Hall Jazz Band until it broke up
in early 2002, he is currently permanent chief conductor of the Danish Radio
Jazz Orchestra, pianist and composer in residence for the Vanguard Jazz
Orchestra, and co-musical director of the BMI Jazz Composers Workshop.
PAT METHENY is an accomplished, highly regarded guitarist and composer. He
records often and tours internationally.
THELONIOUS MONK JR., the son of a famous father, heads his own sextet. He
studied drums with Max Roach, Stanley Spector, and Art Blakey. In 1986 he
helped establish the Thelonious Monk Institute of Jazz, which sponsors
educational programs, competitions, and scholarships.
JOE MoRELLO, a gifted drummer and teacher, attracted attention as a member
of the Marian McPartland Trio, then achieved international recognition with
the Dave Brubeck Quartet. He has also played with Stan Kenton, Phil
Woods, and his own groups.
 The Interviewee 291

GERRY MULLIGAN was a baritone saxophonist and composer-arranger who

moved into the foreground with the Gene Krupa, Claude Thornhill, and
Miles Davis Birth of the Cool bands in the 1940s. He developed into a major
instrumentalist, composer, and bandleader.
MARTY NAPOLEON, a pianist and part of the famed Napoleon musical family,
has consistently revealed the ability to play in a variety of settings. He has
worked with Benny Goodman, Louis Armstrong, Gene Krupa, Lionel Hamp-
ton, and others.
JOE NEWMAN, a powerful trumpet soloist and transitional figure in the
crossover from swing to bop, became a star with Count Basic. He replaced
Harry "Sweets" Edison.
RED NORVO'S performances on xylophone, marimba, and vibraphone were
beyond category. He played with Paul Whiteman and Benny Goodman, led
his own big bands and small groups, backed singers, including Frank Sinatra
and Mildred Bailey, and recorded with Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie.
MARTY PATCH, a pianist, composer, and arranger, made his name as a writer,
handling a variety of assignments with unusual taste and individuality. He
did work for Shorty Rogers, the Jerry Gray band, Shelly Manne, Peggy Lee,
Sammy Davis Jr., Lena Horne, and Ray Charles. His writing for Mel Torme
was particularly inventive.
EARL PALMER is a prominent Los Angeles percussionist.
CECIL PAYNE, one of the early bebop players, has played alto and baritone
saxophone with such musicians as Dizzy Gillespie, Coleman Hawkins, Illinois
Jacquet, John Coltrane, J. J. Johnson, Bud Powell, Machito's band, Lionel
Hampton, and Count Basie.
ART PEPPER, one of the great West Coast alto saxophonists, developed as a
member of the Benny Carter and Stan Kenton bands. His experience was
diverse. He also played with Latin bands and with Don Ellis and headed his
own groups.
CHARLI PERSIP, an excellent drummer, became visible as a member of Dizzy
Gillespie's big band in the 1950s. He subseqently played with the bands of
Johnny Richards and Harry James and accompanied Billy Eckstine and
Dinah Washington. He now is the leader of his own big band.
AL PORCINO, one of the truly important lead trumpeters, has given a special
quality to his own bands and many outstanding ensembles over the last half
century: Tommy Dorsey, Gene Krupa, Georgie Auld, Chubby Jackson,
Woody Herman, Buddy Rich, Thad Jones-Mel Lewis, Count Basie, Charlie
Barnet, Terry Gibbs, and Elliot Lawrence.
ROY PORTER, one of the first drummers on the West Coast to play and under-
stand bebop, appeared and/or recorded with Charlie Parker, Teddy
Edwards, Benny Carter, Louis Jordan, and his own big band. His biggest
years were the 1940s.
ANDRE PREVIN, a multifaceted musician, has spread his formidable talent
through the many worlds of music. A composer, arranger, and musical dir-
ector for films, as well as a jazz and concert pianist, he has devoted much of
his energy in recent years to conducting symphony orchestras.
292 The Interviewees
JOE PUMA was a guitarist, comfortable in jazz and popular music. His credits
indicate his flexibility: the Artie Shaw Gramercy Five, the Les Elgart band,
and singers Peggy Lee, Morgana King, Fran Jeffries, Helen Merrill, and
Carol Sloane. In addition, he played with Al Cohn, Warren Vache, Jim Hall,
Herbie Mann, and others.
TEDDY REIG, a record producer and jazz enthusiast, was responsible for the
Savoy Charlie Parker sessions in the 1940s and many of the Count Basic
recordings later on.
CHARLIE RICE was the house drummer at the Down Beat, one of Philadel-
phia's key jazz clubs, for an extended period of time.
BUDDY RICH, a genius at the drums, initially made his reputation with the Joe
Marsala, Bunny Berigan, Artie Shaw, and Tommy Dorsey bands. Later he
had his own big bands and small groups and was featured artist with Les
Brown and Harry James. Rich recorded with many leading jazz names—
Lester Young, Charlie Parker, Art Tatum, Duke Ellington, and Woody
Herman.
ROD RODNEY, an influential trumpeter, was showcased by Gene Krupa,
Claude Thornhill, Woody Herman, and Charlie Parker. After an absence
from music of almost twenty years, he returned to high-level visibility and
creativity in the 1970s, heading his own band until his passing in 1994.
SHORTY ROGERS, a trumpeter and composer-arranger with the bands of Will
Bradley, Red Norvo, Woody Herman, and Stan Kenton, among others, later
became an important figure in jazz, films, and recordings in Los Angeles.
SONNY ROLLINS, one of the great improvisers on tenor saxophone, has played
and recorded with the best in jazz. His work is expressive of his interest in all
kinds of music and transcends stylistic controls. He has had his own group
for decades.
BOBBY ROSENGARDEN came up in the big bands—Charlie Spivak, Raymond
Scott, Benny Goodman—before successfully involving himself in show busi-
ness and television. He has been musical director of ABC-TV's The Dick
Cavett Show and of the Empire Room of New York's Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.
ANNIE Ross was a child star in films. Currently a lyricist, an actress on the
stage and in motion pictures, and a solo singer, she is most widely known here
and abroad for her work with Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross, the famed jazz
vocal trio.
PETE RUGOLO became prominent as a composer/arranger with the Stan
Kenton band (1945-49). He has been a record producer, a bandleader, and
a writer of music and arrangements for motion pictures and television and
such artists as Nat King Cole, Billy Eckstine, Peggy Lee, and Woody
Herman.
HOWARD RUMSEY, once a featured bassist with Stan Kenton, is well known for
helping to popularize modern jazz in the Los Angeles area as hooker and
manager for the Lighthouse, a now legendary club in Hermosa Beach,
California.
 The Interviewee* 293
GEORGE RUSSELL is responsible for the Lydian Chromatic Concept of Tonal
Organization, a compositional theory that has changed and advanced jazz.
A writer for bands, big and small—those led by others and his own—Russell
has a worldwide following. Since 1969, he has taught at the New England
Conservatory.
SAL SALVADOR, a guitarist, became established as a member of the Stan Kenton
band in the 1950s. He headed his own units, was a teacher, and worked in
the New York studios.
PHIL SCHAAP, a jazz authority and well-known New York disc jockey, is iden-
tified in the New York metropolitan area as "the voice of WKCR-FM."
LOREN SCHOENBERG, a saxophonist, pianist, bandleader, conductor, and jazz
historian, was a jazz broadcaster in New York City before making inroads as
a musician. Much of his work has been with swing-to-bop musicians. He has
served as a conductor with several orchestras.
TONY SCOTT, a most distinctive modern jazz clarinetist, performed on New
York's 52nd Street with Ben Webster and Sid Catlett and others. Later he
appeared with Buddy Rich, Claude Thornhill, Duke Ellington, and Billie
Holiday, before going to live abroad and devoting himself to his own groups
and concepts.
Doc SEVERINSEN, an impressive trumpeter, played with Charlie Barnet,
Tommy Dorsey, Ted Fio Rito,and Sam Donahue before embarking on a great
career in television on NBC's Tonight Show—initially as a sideman in Skitch
Henderson's band, then as assistant conductor, and ultimately heading the
orchestra on that program.
BUD SHANK, an award-winning alto saxophonist and flute player, got his basic
training in the bands of Charlie Barnet and Stan Kenton. He became a
leading studio player in Los Angeles, also often playing jazz in clubs and
recording. Shank put studio work behind him several years ago. Ever since,
he has devoted himself entirely to jazz.
ARTIE SHAW, popular music's most interesting clarinetist, was one of the great
bandleaders of the Swing Era. He is now a writer.
GEORGE SHEARING has enjoyed popularity since immigrating to this country
from England in 1947. The pianist-composer, writer of the music for the hit
song "Lullaby of Birdland," maintained a melodious quintet for over thirty
years. He now appears with a jazz duo (piano and bass), does symphony
orchestra concerts, and records. He made several memorable recordings with
singer Mel Torme.
DON SiCKLER is active on the creative and business sides of music. A trum-
peter, arranger-composer, record producer, conductor, and music publisher,
he established his own full-service music publishing business over twenty
years ago. His playing and/or writing credits include Art Blakey, T. S. Monk,
and Jackie McLean.
ABE SIEGEL, first a drummer, then a bassist, played with bands during the
Swing Era.
2g<t The Interviewee*
HORACE SILVER, a most original pianist and composer, blended the blues,
elements of modern jazz, and the feel and sound particular to music of the
black church. He helped develop a number of musicians. Silver's concept of
the 1950s and 1960s, tagged "hard bop," made music more direct and
enhanced its thrust. He continues to try new things.
CLIFF SMALLS, a trombonist who broke in with the Earl Hines band, has had
a diversified career. As an arranger and conductor, he worked for Billy Ecks-
tine, Brook Benton, and Clyde McPhatter. As a player, he filled out the
sound of Sy Oliver's band and provided accompaniment for Ella Fitzgerald,
Roy Hamilton, and others.
KENNY SODERBLOM, a top saxophonist, contractor, and staff and jingle musi-
cian in Chicago, now devotes himself entirely to jazz, with Sarasota, Florida,
as his base. He has played with Dick Hyman and toured Europe as a member
of Gerry Mulligan's "Rebirth of the Cool" band.
TED SOMMER, a New York percussionist, has done much studio, recording,
and film work. Early on he played drums with bands. For twenty-five years,
he was associated with Frank Sinatra. Sommer can be heard on the sound-
tracks of Woody Allen motion pictures and on a number of significant jazz
recordings. He is the rhythmic presence in singer-actress Rita Moreno's
perfomances.
ALVIN STOLLER, a drummer with several important bands—Charlie Spivak,
Tommy Dorsey, Harry James, Billy May, and Benny Goodman—also worked
in Hollywood for several decades as a studio musician.
IRA SULLIVAN, who plays reed instruments, trumpet, and flugelhorn and
composes, was Chicago's secret for a while. Then the word got around and
he played with Charlie Parker, Lester Young, Roy Eldridge, Art Blakey,
Howard McGhee, and others. He has been living in Florida, where he plays
locally and teaches at the University of Miami.
GRADY TATE, an extraordinarily flexible drummer, has been associated with
the best people in jazz and popular music, ranging from Duke Ellington, Stan
Getz, and Count Basic to Lena Home, Peggy Lee, and Sarah Vaughan. He
is a talented singer as well.
ED THIGPEN, a drummer and educator who splits his time between America
and Europe, has played with Oscar Peterson, Ella Fitzgerald, Johnny
Hodges, Bud Powell, and Lennie Tristano, among others.
ELLIS TOLLIN, a drummer and teacher from Philadelphia, who retired to
Florida, performed with a variety of big and small bands.
BARRY ULANOV, longtime co-editor of Metronome magazine, was a leading
American jazz critic and author.
RUDY VAN GELDER is a highly respected recording engineer who has special-
ized in working with jazz musicians.
GEORGE WALLINGTON, a bebop pioneer on piano, helped define how the instru-
ment should be used in the new music.
 The Interviewee) 293
KENNY WASHINGTON is an excellent drummer and a broadcaster with an
unusual grasp of the history of jazz.
BOBBY WATSON, an alto saxophonist and musical director of Art Blakey's Jazz
Messengers for several years, became established as a result of this associa-
tion. He has headed his own groups, traveled widely, and recorded as a
sideman and as a leader.
GEORGE WEIN, the inventor of the jazz festival, is an internationally successful
concert and festival producer.
RANDY WESTON is a pianist, group leader, educator, and composer whose
work, interests, and travels document his restlessness and curiosity. One of
the early jazz modernists from Brooklyn, he has lived and worked in Africa
and France and has a particular interest in African music and musicians.
TONY WILLIAMS set an inspiring and intimidating example for other drummers.
He surfaced with Miles Davis early in the 1960s. His unexpected death at
fifty-one was an enormous loss to music.
AUDREY WILSON is the widow of the extraordinary drummer Shadow Wilson.
GERALD WILSON broke in with the Jimmie Lunceford band in 1939. His resume
includes writing and/or playing trumpet for Count Basic, Dizzy Gillespie,
Benny Carter, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Nancy Wilson, and his own
big bands. In addition, he has done scores for films and television and is a
noted jazz educator.
MiKE WOFFORD, a convincing jazz pianist and composer, performed for a
considerable amount of time with Shelly Manne. He is also known for his
work with Ella Fitzgerald, June Christy, Sarah Vaughan, Benny Carter, Stan
Getz, and Zoot Sims.
SNOOKY YOUNG, a veteran trumpeter, first became known with Jimmie Lunce-
ford, Count Basic, Lionel Hampton, the Kenny Clarke-Francy Boland
International band, the Thad Jones-Mel Lewis band, and a long-term asso-
ciation with the Doc Severinsen band on NBC-TV's Tonight Show with
Johnny Carson are also on his resume.
This page intentionally left blank
IDDCX
Abrams, Lee and Ray, 92, 95
Adams, Pepper, 241
Adderley, Julian "Cannonball," 137,
230
Adler, Henry, 32, 198, 202
Agostinelli, Anthony (Tony), 35, 182,
283
"Air Mail Special," 209
"Airegin," 86, 242
Albam, Manny, 17, 95, 177, 199,
205, 210, 212-14, 242, 283
Albany, Joe, 5, 118
Albright, Freddie, 202
"All the Things You Are," 86, 214
"All Wrong," 212
Allen, Henry "Red," 79
Allen, Shorty, 38, 40
American Jazz Orchestra, 246
Ammons, Gene, 132, 253, 255
Anderson, Shrimpy, 222
Andrews Sisters, 35, 173
Anthony, Ray, 238, 239
"Anthropology," 20
"Any Old Time," 148
Apollo Theater, 150, 151, 211, 237,
252
Aragon Ballroom, 46
Arcadia Ballroom, 79
Armstrong, Louis, 37, 58, 78, 117,
150, 187
Art Pepper," 177
"Artistry in Percussion," 177
Astor, Bob, 31, 171, 172
"Au Privave," 101
Auld, Georgie, 8,17, 19, 32, 64,118,
119,154,170,177, 202, 204, 208,
209,211,242,256,283
Austin, Cuba, 49
Austin, Harold, 236
Babasin, Harry, 45, 46, 194
"Bags' Groove," 86
Bailey, Mildred, 31, 79
Baker, Chet, 88, 124
Baker, David, 7, 283
Baker, Harold "Shorty," 50, 237
Bank, Danny, 36
Barker, Danny, 53
Barnet, Charlie, 7, 37, 38, 171, 202,
208-14, 232, 241, 242
Barretto, Ray, 139, 283
Bartz, Gary, 107, 144, 283
Basic, Count, 5, 11, 19, 49, 52, 59,
64-68, 74, 75, 79, 148, 149, 171,
186,187,189,198,204,205,
208, 209, 216, 217, 236, 237,
244,251
Bauduc, Ray, 129
Bauer, Billy, 190, 191, 283
"Beat Me Daddy Eight to the Bar,"
172
"Bebop," 126
Bechet, Sidney, 52, 78, 79, 84
"Bedford Drive," 15
Beiderbecke, Bix, 197
Beller, Ray, 31, 171
Bellson, Louie, 58, 66, 69, 158, 167,
197, 226, 229, 283
"Bemsha Swing," 102
Beneke, Tex, 35, 238, 239
Bennett, Max, 127, 204, 209, 210,
214,283
Bennett, Tony, 22
"Benny Rides Again", 170
Berman, Sonny, 17, 64, 187, 189,
192
Bernhart, Milt, 178, 283
Bert, Eddie, 35, 111, 169, 175, 177,
205, 237, 245, 283
Best, Denzil, 23-29, 102, 117, 205,
222,225
Bigard, Barney, 119, 148
"Billie's Bounce," 119
298 Index
"Billy Boy," 231, 232
"Bird in Igor's Yard," 36, 37
Birdland, 154, 198, 227, 240, 241
Bishop, Walter Jr., 84, 101, 155, 230,
251,284
Biss, Harry, 250
Black Cat, 74, 75
Blackman, Cindy, 128, 145, 284
Blakey, Art, aka Abdullah Ibn
Buhaina (Bu), 35, 97, 101,
128-46, 153, 193, 222, 223, 225,
228, 236, 249, 253
Blanchard, Terence, 144
Blanton, Jimmy, 4, 5
"Blowin' Up a Storm," 191
"Blowing the Blues Away," 135
"Blue and Boogie," 174
"Blue Harlem," 54
"Blue Monk," 160, 269-70
Blue Note, 27, 105, 229
Blue Room Jump," 65
"Blue Seven," 261-63
"Blues for Big Sid," 104, 108,
264-68
"Blues Is Everybody's Business," 199
"Boolyjaja,"52
Bop City, 27, 111, 156, 211, 214,
254
"Boplicity," 83
Boland, Francy, 89
Bothwell, Johnny, 174, 188, 189
"Boyd Meets Stravinsky," 43
Boyd, Nelson, 122, 153, 224
Bradley, Will, 172
Bradshaw, Tiny, 50, 62
Braff, Ruby, 284
Braxton, Anthony, 108
Bridgewater, Cecil, 107, 244
Britton, Milt, 206, 208
Brookmeyer, Bob, 145, 233, 238,
239, 242-48, 284
Brooks, Randy, 40, 249
Brown, Clifford, 104-6, 140, 144,
224
Brown, Garnett, 244
Brown, Les, 172, 197, 238
Brown, Lou, 126, 171, 173, 284
Brown, Marty, 169, 171
Brown, Pete, 148, 168
Brown, Phil, 66, 69, 112, 133, 153,
198, 204, 209, 214, 284
Brown, Ray, 28, 44, 102, 120, 126,
177
Brubeck, Dave, 104
Bryant, Ray, 106, 139
"Bu Dee Dah," 95
Budwig, Monte, 181
"Bulls Eye," 170
Bunker, Larry, 181, 183, 284
Bunn, Teddy, 19
Burkhart, Jay, 210
Burns, Ralph, 191, 193, 194
Burrell, Kenny, 28
Burton, Gary, 162, 284
Bushkin,Joe, 198
Butterfield, Billy, 172
Butterworth, Horace "Sarge," 185,
186,188
"Bweebida Boddida," 243
Byas, Don, 7, 25, 34, 42, 54, 84, 94
Byers, Billy, 180
Byrd, Charlie, 250
Byrd, Donald, 106, 143, 219, 284
Byrne, Bobby, 35, 38, 168, 169, 249
Cafe Bohemia, 144, 229, 230
Cafe Society Downtown, 27, 55, 56
Cafe Society Uptown, 155
Callender, Red, 44, 193
Galloway, Cab, 52, 53, 73
Campbell, Wilbur, 256
Canadini, Julie, 244
Candoli, Conte, 26, 122, 124, 126,
205, 242, 243, 250
Capp, Frank, 204
Carisi, John, 23, 53, 64, 77, 83, 96,
102,116,154,243,284
Carls, Emmett, 188
Carmen, Jack, 209
Carpenter, Thelma, 50, 51
Carroll, Barbara, 21, 284
Carroll's, 198
Carter, Benny, 44, 52, 57, 58, 61, 80,
95, 96, 97,124,152
Carter, Betty, 225
Carter, Bob, 35, 174, 177
"Carvin' the Bird," 193
Casey, Al, 50, 51, 284
Catlett, Sid, 6, 13-14, 47, 78, 79, 97,
111, 119,129,149,187, 204,
208, 213, 214, 217, 222, 225,
228, 233, 236, 249, 251

Ceroli, Nick, 204
Cerulli, Dom, 157
Chaloff, Serge, 188, 194, 202, 209,
237
Chambers, Paul, 102, 159, 229, 230,
231
Chapin, Jim, 16, 32, 49, 52, 66, 93,
167, 195, 284
Charles, Teddy, 117, 212, 249, 251,
284
Cheatham, Doc, 47, 50
"Cheers," 193
"Cherokee," 105, 249
Child's Paramount, 116, 206, 207,
208
Christian, Charlie, 4, 79, 170
Clark, Buddy, 238, 239, 243
Clarke, Kenny, 3, 6, 10, 11, 12, 15,
19, 24, 32, 64, 71-89, 97, 98,
100, 101, 111, 116, 128, 145,
153, 173, 222, 225, 227, 232,
233, 236, 252, 253, 254
Clarke-Boland Big Band, 78, 89
"Claude Reigns," 214
Cobbs, Call, 74
"Coconut Grove," 52
Coggins, Gil, 86
Cohen, Paul, 205, 207
Cohn, Al, 30, 36, 194, 195, 196,
199, 205, 207, 208, 209, 210,
217, 233, 237, 242, 243, 250, 285
Coker, Dolo, 224
Cole, Cozy, 52, 53, 58, 132, 221,
223, 225
Cole, Nat King, 35, 44, 46, 57
Coleman, George, 106
Coleman, Ornette, 181
Collins, Burt, 199
Collins, John, 80, 87
Coltrane, John, 68, 114, 159, 160,
161,219,221,224,229,233
Coltrane, Naima, 159
Columbus, Chris, 24
Commodore Hotel, 209
"Congo Blues," 54,
Cook, Junior, 226
Cooper, Bob, 35, 175, 178, 285
"Co-Pilot," 32
Corcoran, Corky, 31, 197
Corea, Chick, 161, 162
Cottier, Irv, 55, 173
Index 299
Coulson, Vic, 25, 93, 95, 117
Crawford, Jimmy, 24, 49, 97, 167,
187
"Crazology," 101
"Crazy Chords," 121
Crow, Bill, 17, 94, 152, 285
"Crown Pilots," 27
"Cubana Be, Cubano Bop," 82
Cummings, Jay, 247
Dameron, Tadd, 7, 68, 82, 83, 85,
153,189,224,232,238
Dameronia, 232, 233
D'Amore, Hope Exiner, 286
Dance, Helen Oakley, 71, 76, 285
Dance, Stanley, 63, 285
Daniels, Eddie, 245
D'Arango, Bill, 204
Darin, Bobby, 201
Davis, Miles, 45, 83, 84, 86, 87, 88,
95, 101, 102, 126, 127, 132, 135,
145, 153, 224, 226, 229, 230,
231,251,253
Davis, Nathan, 88, 285
Davis, Walter Jr., 106
Dawson, Alan, 63, 66, 148, 176, 285
Day, Bobby, 38, 40
Day, Ike, 156, 254-56
Dean, Vinnie, 122, 212, 213, 285
DeBrest, Spanky, 137, 144
DeCarlo, Tommy, 193
"Dee Dee's Dance," 27
DeFranco, Buddy, 27, 36, 37, 117,
140, 253, 254, 285
Dejohnette, Jack, 158
DeLyon, Leo, 31
Dennis, Kenny, 223
DeRosa, Rich, 244
"Dewey Square," 101
Dickenson, Vic, 56
Dickson, George, 63
"Diggin' For Diz," 127
Dinkin, Irv, 171
DiNovi, Gene, 19, 205, 212, 285
"Disorder at the Border," 95
Dockery, Sam, 144
Dodds, Baby, 32, 97, 222
Dodgion, Jerry, 244
Dolphy, Eric, 106, 161
Donaldson, Lou, 140, 141
300 index
Dorham, Kenny, 106, 135, 142, 155, Evans, Gil, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 83,
253 102, 137, 231
Dorsey Brothers, 49 Evans, Lee, 28
Dorsey, Tommy, 35, 46, 117, 148, Evans, Marion, 200
186,242,251 "Evidence," 160
Down Beat Club (New York), 113, Exiner, Billy, 17-23
117 Exiner, Star, 18, 22, 286
Down Beat Club (Philadelphia), 222
Draper, Ray, 106 Faddis, Jon, 245
Drayton, Charlie, 25, 80, 96 Fairfax, Frank, 61
Drew, Kenny, 140, 251 Farlow, Tal, 37
"Drum Conversation," 104 Farmer, Art, 253
Dunham, Sonny, 187 Farrell, Dick, 169
Duvivier, George, 58 Farrell, Joe, 245
"Dynamo A" ("Dizzy Atmosphere"), Faso, Tony, 31, 40, 171, 205
119 "Father Knickerbopper," 212
Faye, Norman, 205, 207
Eager, Allen, 83, 118, 119, 174, 237, Feather, Leonard, 27, 118
250, 256 Feldman, Victor, 181
Eagle, Jack, 64, 208, 285 Fenton, Nick, 79, 80
Earle Theater, 109, 113, 114 Ferguson, Maynard, 178, 212, 238,
"Ebony Concerto," 191 239
Eckstine, Billy, 35, 42, 62, 63, 84, Ferguson, Tom, 222, 286
117, 131, 132, 133, 135, 193, 285 "Fever," 181
Edison, Harry "Sweets," 47, 65, 67, Fields, Herbie, 35, 209, 213
74,126,211 52nd Street (New York), 112, 116,
Eldridge, Jean, 50 118, 151, 152, 153, 167, 168,
Eldridge, Joe, 167 170, 173, 209, 249
Eldridge, Roy, 4, 6, 11, 15, 46, 49, Figueroa, Ernie, 31, 171
57, 69, 73, 79, 153, 166, 198, 251 Finckel, Eddie, 43, 174, 189
"Elegy for Alto," 36 Finegan, Bill, 244, 246
Elgart, Larry, 171 Fischer, Clare, 286
Elgart, Les, 31, 171 Fishelson, Stan, 194
Eliot, Bob, 148 Fitzgerald, Ella, 35, 46, 57, 68, 78,
Ellington, Duke, 4, 5, 35, 43, 52, 61, 79,109,122, 127, 128,158, 213,
67, 73, 79, 92, 108, 138, 148, 241
158, 189, 236, 243, 244, 251 Five Spot, 159
Ellington, Mercer, 285 Flanagan, Tommy, 161
Ellis, Don, 251 Flax, Morty, 205
Ellis, Herb, 47 Flores, Chuck, 204
Ellison, Ralph, 116 Flory, Med, 241, 242
Elmer, Ziggy, 197 "Flying Home," 35, 62
"Emanon," 82 Fontana, Carl, 240
Epstein, Al (Young), 9, 17, 30, 33, Ford, Fats, 151, 237
64, 171, 172, 207, 209, 285 Four Brothers, 184, 188, 194, 195,
Erskine, Peter, 286 196, 197
Ertegun, Ahmet and Nesuhi, 201 "Four Brothers," 195
Ertegun, Nesuhi, 146, 286 Fournier, Vernel, 14, 98, 286
Erwin, Pee Wee, 148, 286 Free, Stan, 31, 286
Evans, Bill, 28, 181, 228, 232 Freeman, Russ, 164, 181, 286
 Index 301
Friez,Pops,198 117, 148, 169, 170, 192, 199,
Fromm, Lou,15-17,
<romm, Lou, 15-17,167,
167,190
190 201,211,235,243,245,251
201,211,235,243,245,251
"The Goof and I," 195
Gaillard, Slim, 156, 225, 226, 254, Gordon,
Gordon, Dexter,
Dexter, 33,
33, 62,
62, 83,
83, 88,
88, 126,
126,
286
286 131,174,251,256
131,174,251,256
Galbraith, Barry, 19, 20, 21, 22, 199 Gordon, Joe, 24, 181
Garland, Joe, 75, 76, 229 Gorham, Jimmy, 61
Garland, Red,
Red,122,
122,224,
224,231
231 Gorme, Eydie, 239
Garner, Enroll, 28, 68, 69, 116, 119, Gottlieb, Danny, 247
128,153,193,230
128,153,193,230 Gourley, Jimmy, 87, 88, 287
Garrison, Jimmy, 228 Graham, Bill, 21
Gaskin, Leonard, 42, 92, 126 Granz, Norman, 57, 120, 156, 243
Gaylor, Hal, 21-22, 286 Gray, Glen, 43
George, Karl, 50, 62 Gray, Warden, 56, 63, 83, 154, 193
Getz, Stan, 40, 88, 118, 121, 125, Green,
Green, Benny,
Benny,56,
56, 63,
63, 138,
138,250
250
126,152,153,157,161,194, Green, Freddie, 5, 58, 74, 75, 79
126,152,153,157,161,194,
195, 199, 202, 205, 209, 214, Green, Urbie, 199
216,217,286 Greer, Sonny, 35, 93, 129, 187, 227
216,217,286
Griffin, Johnny, 88, 137, 144, 160,
Gibbs, Terry, 26,
Gibbs, Terry, 26, 31,
31, 121,
121, 194,
194, 196,
196,
225
225
197, 203, 204, 205, 210, 241,
Grimes, Henry, 161
242, 243, 286
Gruber, Freddie, 66
Gill, Hal, 169
Gryce, Gigi, 225
Gillespie, Dizzy, 3-8, 13, 32, 33-35,
Guarnieri, Johnny, 43
38, 41, 42, 43, 47, 52, 54, 55, 58,
Guerin, Roger, 89
62, 75,
62, 75, 76,
76, 78,
78, 80,
80, 81,
81, 88,
88, 94,
94, 95,
95,
Guy, Joe, 24, 42, 79
100, 102,104, 111-20,124-26,
131,132,134,135,139,152,
131,132,134,135,139,152,
Hagen, Earl, 124
173, 174, 188, 189, 192, 193,
196, 205-7, 233, 236, 243, 256 Haggart, Bob, 241
Gilmore, John, 229 Haig,
Haig, Al,
Al, 5,
5, 56,
56, 84,
84, 95,
95, 113,
113, 120,
120,
155,216,217,237
155,216,217,237
Gitler, Ira, 8, 154, 255, 287
"Half-Past Jumpin'Time," 190
Giuffre, Jimmy, 64, 124, 125, 126,
Hall, Al, 50, 51
178,180,181,194,230,287
178,180,181,194,230,287 Hallett, Mai, 19
Gladstone, Billy, 40, 61, 164, 166 Hamilton, Chico, 66, 124
Glaser, Joe, 37, 79 Hamilton, Jeff, 66, 247
Glen Island
Glen Island Casino,
Casino, 168
168 Hammond, John, 75, 190
Glow, Bernie,
Glow, Bernie, 194,
194, 199
199 Hampton, Lionel, 50, 62, 64, 74
"Godchild," 212
"Godchild," 212 Handy, George, 40, 43, 44, 127, 205,
Gold, Milt,
Gold, Milt, 35,177
35,177 209, 238
"Gold Rush," 154 Hanna, Jake, 66, 86, 287
Golden, Jimmy, 222 Harding, Buster,
Harding, Buster, 50
50
Golden Gate Ballroom, 51, 116, 166 Hardman, Bill, 137, 144, 287
Golson, Benny, 124,144, 224, 231, "Harlem Congo,"
"Harlem Congo," 109109
287
287 Harper, Billy,
Harper, Billy, 106,
106, 144
144
"Gone," 231 Harris, Barry, 106
Gonzalez, Babs, 44, 150 Harris, Benny, 25, 33, 63
"Good Bait," 82 Harris, Bill, 35, 177, 190, 191, 194
Goodman, Benny, 4, 8, 35, 43, 45, Harris, Dickie, 56
46, 49, 50, 52, 74, 79, 114, 115,
46,49,50,52,74,79,114,115, Harris, James " Coatsville," 221
302 IAndex
Harris, Joe, 208, 212, 256
Harris, Pat, 24, 157,208, 211
Hart, Clyde, 34, 42
Hartzfield, Johnny, 42
Hasselgard, Stan, 45
Hawes, Hampton, 241
Hawkins, Coleman, 4, 25, 38, 42,
52, 54, 58, 62, 84, 87, 94, 108,
112, 117, 119, 148, 174, 198, 253
Hawkins, Leonard, 92, 117
Hayes, Edgar, 75
Haynes, Roy, 11, 32, 64, 66, 145,
146-54, 233,254
Haynes, Vin, 146, 287
"Heard but Not Seen," 56
Heard, David, 56, 58, 59, 287
Heard, J. C, 47-59, 77, 252
Heath, Jimmy, 87, 133, 135, 224,
287
Heath, Percy, 86, 87, 135, 225, 230,
287
Hefti, Neal, 31, 44, 46, 171, 190,
191, 192, 194, 196, 197
Heiderich, Gordie, 207
Heifer, Bobby, 180
Henderson, Fletcher, 49, 73, 129,
132
Hendricks, Jon, 287
Henry, Ernie, 92
Hentoff, Nat, 108, 287
Herbert, Arthur, 168
Herman, Woody, 16, 17, 46. 54, 67,
68,111,119,173,178,183,
187-95, 201, 208, 209, 218, 241,
242, 255, 256, 287
Heywood, Eddie, 174, 198
Hickory House, 169
Higgins, Billy, 137, 254, 287
Hi-Hat, 77
Hill, Andrew, 161
Hill, Calvin, 107
Hill,J. ,46, 197
Hill, Teddy, 6, 76, 77, 78, 79
Hines, Earl, 62, 63, 68, 73, 131,
138,193
Hinton, Milt, 53, 199, 227, 228, 288
Hite, Les, 32
Hodes, Art, 148
Holiday, Billie, 57, 79, 146, 148,
151,155
Holladay, Marvin, "Doc," 58, 288
Holman, Bill, 46, 122, 123, 125,
126, 197, 233, 240-44, 246, 288
Holmes, Charlie, 150
"Hootie Blues," 93
Hope, Elmo, 5, 225, 232
Hopkins, Claude, 76
Hornsby, George, 73
Hosfield, Johnny, 115
"Hot House," 13,119
Hubbard, Freddie, 144, 145
Hudson, Will, 19
Hudson-DeLange Band, 19
Humble, Derek, 89
Hutcherson, Bobby, 233
Hyams, Margie, 27
Hyman, Dick 199, 288
"I Gotta Put You Down," 61
"I Stay in the Mood for You,"135
"I Told Ya I Love Ya, Now Get
Out!," 195
"I've Got News for You," 196
Igoe, Sonny, 218, 239, 240, 288
"In a Mist," 197
Independence, 13, 32, 100, 137, 176,
191
Irish, George, 50
Islam, 139, 144
"Israel," 83
Jackson, Bull Moose, 224
Jackson, Chubby, 17, 26, 29, 177,
190, 191, 192, 194, 202, 209,
211,212,237,242,288
Jackson, Duffy, 66
Jackson, Milt, 68, 84, 86, 95, 120
Jackson, Quentin "Butter," 53
Jacquet, Illinois, 31, 58, 62, 64, 68,
138,254,288
Jamal, Ahmad, 144, 229
James, Harry, 19, 46, 74, 178, 197
Jarvis, Clifford, 164
Jazz at the Philharmonic, 46, 57, 58,
121,152,177,213
Jazz Laboratory, 42
Jazz Messengers, 133, 137, 141, 142,
143,144
"Jazz Wave," 242
Jefferson, Hilton, 53, 227
Jenkins, Gene, 73
 Index 303
Jerome, Henry, 9, 116, 206, 208, Kelly, Red, 212, 214, 241
209, 288
209, 288 Kelly, Wynton,
Kelly, Wynton, 4444
Jeter-Pilars Band, 73 Kelly's Stable, 80, 92, 96, 131, 168,
Man,"133
"Jitney Man," 133 173
173
Johnson, Biddy, 73
fohnson, Biddy, 73 Kenton, Stan, 8, 35, 111, 122, 123,
Johnson, Budd, 42, 56, 94, 207 124, 174-78, 197, 236, 239, 240,
Johnson, Buddy and Ella, 79 241, 242, 247
Johnson, Gus, 237
fohnson, Gus, 237 Kessel, Barney, 15, 44, 193
Johnson, J. J., 44, 68, 86, 88, 96, Kikoski, Dave, 164
101,124,138,288 Kirby, John, 19, 46, 54, 222, 252
Johnson, Jimmy, 209, 227 Kirk, Andy, 73, 79, 131, 148
Johnson, Osie, 200 Kirk, Andy Jr., 251
Johnson, Sy, 242
fohnson, Sy, 242 Kirk, Rahsaan Roland, 161
Johnson, Walter, 49 Kitchings, Irene,
Kitchings, Irene, 51
51
Jones, Buddy, 217 Kluger, Irv, 16, 29-37, 38, 66, 113
fones, Carmell, 58 Knepper, Jimmy, 9, 245, 246
Jones, Eloise Woods, 232 "KoKo,"7, 102, 119
Jones, Elvin, 97, 158, 164, 241 Konitz, Lee,
Konitz, Lee, 20,
20, 253
253
Jones, Hank, 37, 95, 101, 118, 177, Kotick, Teddy,
Kotick, Teddy, 155,217
155,217
245, 288 Krai, Roy, and Jackie Cain, 250
Jones, Harold, 66 Krupa, Gene, 8, 43, 47, 49, 57, 97,
Jones, Jimmy, 56 109, 167, 171, 173, 186, 208,
Jones, Jo, 5, 6, 11-13, 16, 19, 31, 223, 233, 235, 242
32, 38, 40, 47, 49, 50, 65, 66, 78, Kyle, Billy, 37
79,81,92,95,108,111,139,
149, 152, 158, 166, 167, 170, LaFaro, Scott, 126
186,187,189,196,204,205,
186,187,189,196,204,205, Lalama, Ralph, 245
208, 214, 222, 223, 225, 233, Lambert, Dave, 118
235, 236, 254, 288 "Lammar's Boogie," 53
Jones, Jonah, 53, 54 Lamond, Don, 66, 68, 119, 178,
Jones, Philly Joe, 219-33, 253 183-201,209,232
183-201,209,232
Jones, Thad, 244, 246 Lamond, Terry Swope, 201
Jones, Willie, 92 Land, Harold, 58, 102, 105, 106,
Jones-Lewis Jazz Orchestra, 244, 289
289
246
246 Lanphere, Don, 29
Jordan, Clifford, 106 LaPorta, John, 192,289
Jordan, Duke, 92 Larkins, Ellis, 94
Jordan, Louis, 52, 62, 65 Lateef, Yusef, 144
Latin/Jazz Fusion, 139, 175
Kahn, Tiny, 26, 30, 33, 97, 116, 196, Lawrence, Elliot, 8, 209, 214, 217,
202-18,222,233,237,238
202-18,222,233,237,238 242, 256, 289
Kamuca, Richie, 122, 124, 126, 181 Lee, Peggy, 21, 22, 127, 181, 193,
Katz, Dick, 5, 86, 140, 149, 227, 241
241
228, 246, 288 Leeman, Cliff, 41, 190, 213, 289
Kay, Connie, 85 Left Bank, 28
Kay, Stanley, 66 "Leo the Lion," 218
Kayne, Judy, 205 Leonard, Harvey, 250
"Keen and Peachy," 195 Leshin, Phil, 9, 28, 249, 289
"Keeper of the Flame," 195 "Lester Leaps In," 137
Keepnews, Orrin, 232 "Lestorian Mode," 154
Keepnews, Peter, 5 Levey, Stan, 9, 15, 25, 36, 38, 90, 99,
30<t Index
109-27, 155, 178, 190, 204, 206,
207,210,218,225,239,240
Levin, Michael, 151, 171, 184, 191
Levitt, Alan (Al), 88, 289
Levy, John, 28, 289
Levy, Lou, 26, 27, 35, 127, 177, 178,
194,196, 205, 210, 254, 290
Lewis, John, 21, 81, 82, 83, 84, 87,
102, 120, 125, 246, 290
Lewis, Lenny, 216, 237
Lewis, Mel, 12, 36, 66, 204, 210,
216, 225, 233-48
Lewis, Sabby, 148
Lighthouse, 111, 179
Linn, Ray, 193
Little, Booker, 106
"Little Boyd Blue," 189
"Little Old Lady from Baltimore,"
61
"Little Things That Mean So Much,"
51
Loew's State Theater, 206
Lombardi, Clyde, 33
"Long Island Sound," 121
Lord, Bob, 171
Lovano, Joe, 245
"Lover Man," 13, 14
Lunceford, Jimmie, 49, 56, 73, 167,
171,236
Malachi, John, 132
Mancini, Henry, 124, 127, 180
Mandel, Johnny, 36, 124, 178, 180,
194, 205, 207, 208, 210, 214,
217, 218, 227, 243, 290
Manne, Flip, 166, 174, 175, 180,
183,290
Manne, Shelly, 11, 31, 32, 35, 36,
38, 124, 164-83, 196, 208, 210,
239
Manny's Drum Shop, 40, 166
"Manteca," 137
Marable, Larance, 133, 290
Mardigan, Art, 256
Markowitz, Marky, 187, 188, 189,
192,194
Marmorosa, Dodo, 15, 43, 44, 117,
193
Marsala, Joe, 31, 169, 170
Marsalis, Branford and Wynton, 144
Marshall, Kaiser, 49
Marshall, Wendell, 139
"Max Is Makin' Wax" (aka "This
Time the Drum's on Me"), 127
May, Billy, 181
"Maynard Ferguson," 177
M-Boom, 107
McCall, Mary Ann, 194
McCall, Steve, 254, 290
McFarland, Gary. 243
McGhee, Howard, 45, 86, 177, 193
Mclntosh, Tom, 244
McKinley, Ray, 49, 78, 168, 172,
290
McKusick, Hal, 188, 189, 290
McLean, Jackie, 86, 145, 229, 231,
251
McNeely, Jim, 244, 245, 246, 247,
290
McRae, Carmen, 80, 81
McShann, Jay, 8, 9
"Mellow Mood," 44
Memory Lane, 47
Merritt, Jymie, 225
Metheny, Pat, 162, 290
Michelot, Pierre, 88
"Milestones," 231
Miller, Glenn, 148, 168, 238, 239
Millinder, Lucky, 61, 137
Millington, Leslie, 168
Mills, Jackie, 16, 38-47, 197
Minor, James "Honeyboy," 73, 129
Minton's Playhouse, 24, 64, 77, 79,
80, 92, 116, 141, 142, 173, 221,
227, 228, 256
Mitchell, Razz, 97
Mobley, Hank, 106, 142, 144, 232
Modern Jazz Quartet, 84, 85, 86,
227
Moeller, Sanford "Gus," 33, 167
Mondragon, Joe, 193, 196
Monk, Thelonious, 3, 5, 24, 25, 29,
59, 62, 68, 79, 80, 82, 86, 102,
117, 119, 127, 135, 136, 159,
161,233,253
Monk, Thelonious Jr., 136, 290
Moody, James, 81, 84, 138
Moore, Bobby, 61, 74
Moore, Brew, 118, 154
"Moose the Mooche," 7
"Mop Mop," 80
"More Moon," 178

Morello, Joe, 229, 290
Morgan, Lee, 144, 145
vlorgenstern, Dan,
Morgenstern, Dan,154
154
Morris, Joe, 225
Morris, Joe, 225
Morris, Johnny, 209
Morrow, George, 104
Mosca, John, 245, 246
Most, Abe, 172
Moten, Benny, 79
Mulligan, Gerry, 9, 33, 67, 83, 102,
204, 209, 211, 233, 239, 241,
242, 291
Mundy, Jimmy, 61, 66, 67, 197
Mussulli, Boots, 250
Myers, Bumps, 96
Napoleon, Marty, 31, 169, 171, 291
Navarro, Fats, 68, 83, 95, 131, 132,
135,150,161,177,251
Nelson, Oliver, 124
Nelson, Skippy, 31
Nemo, Henry, 38
Neumeister, Ed, 244, 245
Newborn, Phineas, 58, 87, 159
Newman, Joe, 56, 62, 67, 68, 138,
291
291
Nicholas, Big Nick, 56, 145, 148
Nichols, Herbie, 137
Niehaus, Lennie, 240, 241, 242
"Night in Tunisia," 7, 189
"9:20 Special," 188
Nola Studios, 55, 117, 206, 211
Norman, Gene, 46, 102
Norvo, Red, 54, 56, 58, 193, 197,
291
"Not Really the Blues," 178
"Nothing but D. Best," 29
Oatts, Dick, 245
O'Brien, Kenny, 250
O'Day, Anita, 209, 241
Oliver, Mert, 187, 189
Onyx Club, 19, 42, 94, 112, 174
Orchid Room, 153, 154
Otis, Fred, 187, 189, 192, 193, 194
"Over the Rainbow," 208, 213, 214
5
Page, Hot Lips, 54, 253
Page, Walter, 5, 74
Paich, Marty, 242, 291
Index 305
Paley, Allen, 49, 167
Palmier, Remo, 47, 58
"Pan Americana," 213, 214
Paramount Theater, 92, 175, 198,
252
"Parisian Thoroughfare," 105,
259-60
Parker, Charlie "Bird," 3, 5, 7-10
10, 18, 33, 52, 54, 55, 58, 62, 77,
81, 84, 93-95, 97, 98, 101, 102,
104, 112, 113, 116-20, 122, 124,
131-33, 137, 141, 149, 152, 155,
156, 160, 184, 189, 192-94, 205,
207,208,212,216,230,233,
236, 240, 251, 254, 256
Parker, Leo, 95, 121, 138
Payne, Cecil, 92, 225, 291
Peck, Jimmy, 73
Pell, Dave, 31, 171
Pepper, Art, 44, 175, 291
Perkins,
Perkins, Bill,
Bill, 240,
240,242
242
Perry, Charlie, 158, 175
Persip, Charli, 69, 226, 291
Peterson, Marvin Hannibal, 159
Peterson, Nate, 9
Peterson, Oscar, 57
Pettiford, Oscar, 34, 42, 68, 83, 86,
87,93,94,101,105,115,127,
236
Phillips, Flip, 54, 55, 57, 174, 177
Pierce, Billy, 144
Pope, Odean, 107
Porcino, Al, 212, 217, 242, 245, 291
Porgman, Irving, 173
Porter, Roy, 254, 291
Potter, Tommy, 37, 84, 101, 138,
155
Powell, Bud, 5, 83, 87, 102, 104,
113, 135, 150, 153-56, 161, 182,
192, 205, 233, 249, 251, 253, 254
Powell, Richie, 104, 105, 106
Powell, Rudy, 50, 53, 75, 76
Powell, Specs, 54
Powell, Teddy, 16, 17, 38, 41, 43
Pozo, Chano, 81, 139
Preston, Jimmy, 221
Previn, Andre, 180, 182, 291
"Prosschai," 16
Pulis, Gordon, 165, 166
Puma, Joe, 37, 292
}o6 Index
Quebec, Ike, 53, 54, 80
"Queer Street," 66, 67, 197
"Quiet Cook," 126
Quill, Gene, 199, 243
Raeburn, Boyd, 32, 43, 45, 174,
188,189,190,208,209,216,
237, 238
Ragusa, Tony, 237
Randolph, Popsie, 114
Raney, Jimmy, 36, 194, 216, 217
Rayman, Morey, 15
"Really?," 214
Redman, Don, 49, 73
Reig, Teddy, 116, 254, 292
Reinhardt, Django, 75
"Relaxin' at Camarillo," 193
Rey, Alvino, 238
Rice, Charlie, 61, 113, 221, 222, 292 Russo> Sonny, 237
Rich, Buddy, 8, 16, 22, 31, 41, 46,
65, 66, 94, 106, 109, 156, 158, Salle playel> 82
186-88, 190, 196, 197, 204, 208,
209, 225, 226, 229, 233, 249,
251, 252, 292
Richards, Johnny, 43, 238
Riddle, Nelson, 124, 127
Riley, John, 66
Roach, Max, 3, 10, 12, 14-16, 18,
19, 32, 38, 41, 42, 44, 59, 85,
90-108, 111-13, 115, 116, 118,
119, 138, 145, 149, 152-56, 189,
192, 193, 196, 205, 208, 209,
216, 222-25, 227-29, 233, 249,
253, 254
Robinson, Bill, 235
Robinson, Eddie "Basic," 25, 117
Rodney, Red, 10, 113, 114, 118,
154, 155, 177, 194, 202, 209,
211, 216, 237, 292
Rogers, Shorty, 124, 125, 172, 177,
178, 180, 181, 192, 194, 195,
196, 205, 292
Roland, Gene, 36
Rollini, Adrian, 73
Rollins, Sonny, 86, 87, 102, 105,
106, 145, 150,153, 183, 229,
230, 242, 251, 255, 292
Roseland, 221
Rosengarden, Bobby, 292
Rosolino, Frank, 124, 126, 209, 241
Ross, Annie, 84, 292
Roundtable, 198
Rowles, Jimmy, 46, 192
Royal, Ernie, 193, 194
Royal, Marshal, 45, 62
Royal Roost, 83, 102, 194, 211,
212,237
"Ruby My Dear," 127
Rugolo, Pete, 124, 175, 177, 180,
242, 292
Rumsey, Howard, 104, 111, 179,
292
Russell, Curly, 95, 102, 120, 121,
138, 140, 141, 209, 216
Russell, George, 36, 37, 95, 154,
243 254 292
> >
Russell, Luis, 150
Russo Bill 122
> >
"Salt Peanuts," 13, 34, 78, 114, 119,
2
31
Salvador, Sal, 122, 239, 293
"Samana," 177
"Sans Culottes," 16
Sargent, Gene, 194
"Satan Takes a Holiday," 75
Sauter, Eddie, 157, 170
Savitt, Jan, 19
Savoy Ballroom, 8, 9, 76, 146, 150,
153, 205, 216, 237
Schaap, Phil, 92, 134, 293
Shackleford, Lester, 148
Schertzer, Hymie, 198
Schlinger, Sol, 205
Schoenberg, Loren, 246, 293
Scott, Raymond, 42, 172
Scott, Tony, 31, 169, 171, 198, 221,
226, 227, 228, 293
"Scrapple from the Apple," 101
Severinsen, Doc, 199, 212, 213, 251,
293
Shank, Bud, 124, 176, 178, 293
Shaughnessy, Ed, 14, 66, 87, 167,
249-51
Shavers, Charlie, 42, 57, 117
"Shaw 'Nuff," 13, 119
Shaw, Artie, 8, 15, 28, 35, 36, 79,
117, 148, 186, 199, 232, 293
 Index 307
"She Rote," 101 Sullivan, Ira, 144, 159, 254, 294
Shearing, George, 26, 27, 28, 83, "Summer Sequence," 191
119,157,249,293 Sunset Royals, 19
Shelly's Marine Hole, 182 Swann, Roberta, 246
Shepp, Archie, 108 "Swingin' in the Promised Land," 75
Shirley, Jimmy, 94 Swope, Earl, 187, 188, 189, 192, 194
Shorter, Wayne, 144
Shulman, Joe, 19, 20, 21 Tate, Buddy, 65
Sickler, Don 232, 293 Tate, Grady, 294
"Sidewalks of Cuba," 191 Tatum, Art, 4, 55, 118, 148, 155,
Siegel, Abe, 169, 293 233,236
Siegfried, Frank, 165, 166 "Taxi War Dance," 5
Silver, Horace, 86, 140, 141, 142, Taylor, Arthur, 54, 128, 139, 229,
143, 293 251-53
Simmons, John, 68, 249 Taylor, Billy, 119
Simmons, Lonnie, 74, 75 Taylor, Cecil, 108
Simon, George, 184, 189 Taylor, Rudy, 193
Simone, Nina, 29 Terry, Clark, 102
Sims, Zoot, 31, 36, 88, 114, 123, Thigpen, Ben, 73
193,194,199,233,243,250 Thigpen, Ed, 133, 294
Sinatra, Frank, 37, 56, 173, 181, 241 "Things to Come," 82
"Sing, Sing, Sing," 243, 244 Thirlkeld, Jerry, 237
Slack, Freddie, 32, 119, 192 Thompson, Charles Sir, 62, 68, 126
Slam, Slam Blues," 54 Thompson, Lucky, 44, 45, 83, 86,
Smalls, Cliff, 63, 294 88, 120
Smalls' Paradise, 73, 135 Thornhill, Claude, 8, 18, 19, 20, 21,
Smith, Stuff, 19 83
Smith, Willie, 44, 57, 197 Three Deuces, 100, 112, 115, 120,
"Snap Crackle," 161, 271 138, 152, 154, 156, 166, 174, 254
Socolow, Frank, 26, 30, 36, 205, Tillis, Fred, 107
211,237 Timmons, Bobby, 144
Soderblom, Kenny, 201, 294 Tinney, Bill, 44
Sokoloff, Sam, 233, 235 "Tiny's Blues," 196, 212
Sommer, Ted, 205, 294 Tollin, Ellis, 93, 115, 116, 138, 207,
Spencer, O'Neil, 19, 97, 225 294
Spieler, Barney, 31, 84, 205 Torme, Mel, 241
Spivak, Murray, 40, 41 Tough, Dave, 16, 19, 20, 40, 43, 66,
Spotlight, 112, 121 67,79,111,119,148,167,169,
Steel Pier, 212 170, 173, 183, 190, 192, 196,
Stein, Lou, 177 222, 225, 233, 236
Stevens, Leith, 124, 180 Travis, Nick, 217, 243
Steward, Herbie, 15, 36, 44, 45, 194 Tristano, Lennie, 157, 253
Stewart, Buddy, 118, 177, 209, 238 Turner, Ray, 211
Stewart, Chuck, 108 Turrentine, Tommy, 107
Stewart, Slam, 54, 55 "Two Spoos in an Igloo," 189
Stewart, Teddy, 233, 256
Stitt, Sonny, 68, 125, 126, 148, 254 Ulanov, Barry, 8, 77, 100, 134, 184,
Stoller, Alvin, 41, 167, 184, 199, 294 191,194,251,294
Stone, Butch, 172, 193 "Ultra," 46
"Stupendous," 193 "Un Poco Loco," 104,182
308 Index
Van Gelder, Rudy, 84, 294
Vaughan, Sarah, 32, 62, 122, 151,
152,158,159,254
Ventura, Charlie, 177, 238, 239, 250
Verland Studios, 250
Village Vanguard, 92, 93, 244
Vines, Ziggy, 222
Vinnegar, Leroy, 47, 58, 126
Von Ohlen, John, 247
"Wabash Stomp," 167
Wainwright, Connie, 61
Waldron, Mai, 106
"Walkin," 86
Wallington, George, 5, 9, 33, 42, 93,
94,102, 112, 121, 154, 209, 229,
294
Walp, Charlie, 211
Walton, Cedar, 144,145
Ware, Wilbur, 68, 144
Washington, Kenny, 59, 66, 164,
229, 247, 294
"Washington Whirligig," 41
Watkins, Doug, 142
Watson, Bobby, 128, 133, 144, 145,
294
Watts, Kenny, 168
Wayne, Chuck, 27, 174
Webb, Chick, 11, 47-49, 59, 64, 66,
75, 78, 97, 109,130, 141, 148,
149, 158, 187, 195, 196, 222,
225,252
Webster, Ben, 25, 38, 43, 50, 57, 67,
112, 115, 119, 148, 167, 169,
211,233,249
Webster, Freddie, 251
Webster, Lana, 19
Webster, Paul, 53
Wein, George, 201, 226, 295
Werner, Kenny, 244, 245, 246
West, Bill, 249
West, Harold "Doc," 42, 167, 256
West, Hollie I., 58
Weston, Paul, 45
Weston, Randy, 92, 295
Wetzel, Ray, 212, 213
Wexler, Jerry, 201
"Wham (Re Bop Boom Bam)," 52
White, Sonny, 80
Wiggins, Gerry, 47, 96
Wigwam Ballroom, 171
Wilcoxin, Charles, 224
Wilkins, Ernie, 46, 197
Williams, Cootie, 80, 150, 170
Williams, George, 31, 171
Williams, James, 144, 181
Williams, John, 63, 124
Williams, Mary Lou, 73, 129
Williams, Skippy, 61
Williams, Tony, 3, 158, 164 184, 295
Williamson, Claude, 212, 214
Wilson, Audrey, 59, 61, 65, 295
Wilson, Gerald, 120, 244, 295
Wilson, Shadow, 32, 35, 53, 59-69,
77, 111, 131,158, 178,189,193,
196, 208, 222, 225, 233, 236
Wilson, Teddy, 4, 47, 50, 51, 54, 58
Winding, Kai, 40, 83, 95, 121, 154,
177, 209, 238
Wofford, Mike, 295
"Woody V You," 7, 82, 95
Woodyard, Sam, 243
"Work," 136
Workman, Reggie, 107, 144
Wright, Herbie, 148
Wright, "Specs," 139
"Yardbird Suite," 20
Yoder, Walt, 194
Young, Lester "Pres," 4, 12, 21, 54,
58, 65, 87, 148, 149, 151-53,
157, 186, 194, 202, 205, 208,
211,216,233,240
Young, Snooky, 65, 245, 295
Young, Trummy, 34, 42, 188, 207
"Zoot," 123
Zwerin, Mike, 237