A personal tribute to 2018 Kennedy Center honoree Phillip Glass from my book Serendipity Doo-Dah: True Stories of Happy Musical Accidents, Book One (pages 120–22):

Fortuitous happenstance is endemic to all human endeavor, not just music, and not just to specific music genres. Classical, for example, is not immune to the Midas touch. Case in point: Philip Glass.

By 1967, the post-modern “minimalist” composer-performer Glass had completed not only his post-graduate studies at the Julliard School of Music but also his “post-doctoral” education with two masters: eminent composition teacher Nadia Boulinger and Indian classicist Ravi Shankar. After a bit of world travel, he settled in New York City and began to compose music for himself and others, and to schedule performances at art galleries and studio lofts in SoHo.
 
He had gotten married, had two kids, and supported the family not with his music, but with odd jobs such as moving furniture.

In 1971, Glass composed a new work he called Music in Twelve Parts, referring to twelve separate instrumental parts in a single piece. He took a recording of his new composition to a musician friend, told her the title, and played it for her. Afterward, he asked her, “How did you like it?”

“I like it very much,” she said. “What do the other 11 parts sound like?”

Initially taken aback, Philip realized she had misunderstood the title, but then, an epiphany. He immediately began to plan eleven more parts. The scope of his long-form work would be a summing up of his decade-long attempt to integrate all three elements of music—melody, harmony, and rhythm—into one overall structure.

The earlier parts would emphasize the repetitive, the rhythmic, while the melodic aspects would rise to prominence in the middle or transitional parts, the latter parts introducing greater harmonic movement. If this new extended work was a painting, a gallery curator might call it a mosaic.

In time—some three years—a performance of the completed work was in order. It was time for a bold move. Glass, who had never drawn an audience beyond 150 at a gallery or museum space, or 400 at a university auditorium, threw caution to the wind and rented out the 1400-seat town hall in midtown Manhattan.

Fortune smiled, the concert sold out. Over the three years Glass took to write the piece, as each part was finished, it was performed in a loft or gallery space. The idea began to grow that these parts would become a larger work. People anxiously awaited the next parts to come out. Glass built expectation for the completed work in much the same way Charles Dickens did some 140 years prior when he serialized his first novel Oliver Twist.

Manhattanites anticipated a new part from the Philip Glass Ensemble every two or three months, much like Dickens's dedicated readers eagerly anticipated the next monthly installment. No wonder Town Hall filled to capacity to hear the 12 parts back-to-back.

With the success of his ambitious extended work, Glass made his point, to himself, and to everyone in a few short years, when he launched a full-scale opera he called Einstein on the Beach.

During the latter stages of Twelve Parts, Glass had begun to work on the opera blueprint with theater director Robert Wilson. Moreover, during a loft performance of part 6 of Twelve Parts, a fortuitous visit by a Frenchman resulted in a commitment, seemingly frivolous at the time, to fund the composer’s next work.

Two years later, that visitor became France’s Minister of Culture, and followed through with an offer to stage the Glass/Wilson Einstein opera at Avignon, France, and to help establish a subsequent tour of six European cities. The tour set the stage for a triumphant return back to the Metropolitan, the American citadel of high culture for a much-acclaimed, two sold-out performances of Einstein in November 1976.

All told, there were 35 performances of the opera. None played to an empty seat, yet the tour ended in debt, some $100,000 in the red. Both Glass and Wilson were saddled with a debt that dragged on for years. While Einstein didn’t make any money, it made the composer’s career. He was now a “successful” opera composer. But he still had to drive a taxi at night to support his family.

He would not make a living working full-time as a musician-composer until 1978, when, at the age of 41, he was commissioned to compose Satyagraha for the Netherlands Opera. From that point on, it was full-steam ahead—no more nighttime cab driving—nothing but total concentration on music composition and performance.

He would become in the words of the New York Times “the most prolific and popular of contemporary composers,” amassing over 220 compositions in eleven different categories (operas, symphonies, concertos, film scores, ballet, chamber ensembles among them.)

In such a productive, accomplished life, there had to be numerous crucial moments that propelled Mr. Glass forward on his path to greatness—perhaps none more meaningful than when his musician friend innocently asked, “What do the other 11 parts sound like?”

This past July, Rolling Stone magazine introduced its new 8/3/4” x 11 3/4” glossy format with a most interesting two-page spread visually encapsulating the music industry’s sales evolution over four decades (1975–2017)—a colorful graphic chart showing the rise and fall of the vinyl LP, cassette tape, CD, digital downloads, and the new dominant paid streaming subscription service. Please find the issue on a magazine rack somewhere if you can or at your local library.

Rolling Stone subtitles the multicolored chart as “The Story of an Industry in One Chart.”

The annual sales figures given are unadjusted for inflation. Nonetheless, one can accurately examine the interplay of the various recording methods for a specific year as I have done.

Take the start year 1975, for example. The industry pulled in $2.4 billion, roughly split 80/20 between vinyl and 8-track, with the newly introduced cassette tape picking up a few crumbs.

Now jump a decade ahead to 1985 and 8-track is a thing of the past, but vinyl has a new rival. Cassette tape has taken hold, scarfing up two-thirds of the $4.4 billion industry total. Skipping ahead fifteen years to 2000, we learn that the once lowly CD is now king, commandeering over 90% of the $14.4 billion take.

Practically speaking, goodbye vinyl, goodbye cassette tape. What a change in only 15 years! But nothing like what happened in the next seven years, taking us to the situation we have today.

Fare-thee-well, CD, hello to digital downloads, digitized and customized radio revenue, on-demand streaming, other ad-supported streaming, and especially paid streaming subscription service, the latter attracting 47 % of the $8.7 billion total.

Based on industry sales figures for the past two years, Rolling Stone concludes that the industry is poised for a comeback. That’s a bit much for me, based on what’s happened over the past four decades, as their chart so amply demonstrates.

I am incapable of projecting the future for this industry. I didn’t see any of this coming. Contact me if you’d like to take 700 exceptional jazz vinyl LPs off my hands.

Photo: Adobe Stock / rodri_goplay

For your consideration, here are my Top 10 alto saxophonist albums and a few runner-ups. Ranking tends to vary, depending on the day of the week, weather, and mood.

1A. Carlos Ward | Don Pullen & the African Brazilian Connection Live Again

The perfect showcase for a much neglected saxophonist with a slightly rough edge, capable of playing inside and outside but always melodically and rhythmically centered, as on the five lengthy numbers here (average length 14 minutes). Includes a ballad and an infectious, impossible-to-ignore “Get up and Dance.” Great band!

1B. Carlos Ward | Abdullah Ibrahim and Carlos Ward, Live at Sweet Basil, Volume 1

Pianist Ibrahim’s album, nonetheless Ward shines on three tracks, two of which are classic—the gorgeously mellifluous “For Coltrane” that someone should put words to and the hand-clapping “Soweto,” where the altoist pulls out the stops, sweeping from the depths of his instrument to the top and back again in a perfectly constructed improvisation.

2A. Art Pepper | The Art of Pepper

“Begin the Beguine” opens with a staccato Latin vamp, which quickly segues into a soaring, up-tempo reading of the familiar theme. Pepper’s alto flight is elevated, above the clouds, magisterial, turning the Cole Porter pop song into an anthem. The tune closes with a return to the opening vamp with Pepper over-blowing some notes for effect.

2B. Art Pepper | Winter Moon

Pepper’s urging, pleading, aching alto sound over a lush orchestral cushion on “Our Song” is gut-wrenching. In a Pepper documentary, there is a hotel room scene where he and his wife Laurie are shown rapturously listening to the cut on a portable record player. At the conclusion, Pepper looks up at the camera and mutters, “If you don’t like this, you don’t like music. It doesn’t get any better than this.” I agree.

3A. Cannonball Adderly | The Cannonball Adderley Quintet in San Francisco featuring Nat Adderley

Cannonball’s swooping, high-flying birdlike (as in Charlie Parker) alto paired with brother Nat’s trumpet put soul jazz on the map with this intense but rocking album. Surprisingly for jazz, it received significant radio and jukebox play.

Pianist Bobby Timmon’s 12-minute jazz waltz “This Here” (pronounced “Dish Heah” by Cannon) set the pace, the pianists full-fingered driving solo is classic, and the leader’s uncompromisingly rowdy excursions on alto are equally memorable. Two other lengthy tracks bear mention: “Randy Weston’s “Hi-Fly” and “Spontaneous Combustion,” the latter offering a crowd-pleasing sax/trumpet chase.

3B. Cannonball Adderley |Them Dirty Blues: The Cannonball Adderley Quintet featuring Nat Adderley

A spirited outing by the Adderley soul brothers featuring two more soul standards: “Work Song,” written by Nat, and “Dat Dere” by Bobby Timmons. The latter showcases another Timmons-patented two-handed, block-chorded, gospelish solo, reminiscent of his “This Here” masterpiece on In San Francisco.

On “Work Song,” pianist Barry Harris does the keyboard honors, matching Timmons and then some. Interestingly, lyrics were set to both tunes that have contributed to their continued popularity. Oscar Brown Jr. had a minor hit with “Dat Dere.” The surprise on this album is the straight-ahead and swinging “Jeannine,” a wonderfully surging flowing number buoyed by Kansas City style “bop bop boop boop” riffing behind the soloists. On this album, like the former, Cannon pursues his aggressive, take-no-prisoners approach without sacrificing accessibility.

4. Arthur Blythe | Spirits in the Field: Arthur Blythe Trio with Bob Stewart Cecil Brooks III

After a splashy breakout (In Concert, 1977) LP and several smash Columbia albums, Arthur’s career seemingly nosedived (especially with critics) when Columbia canceled his contract in the early 1980s. Yet his sound remains one of the most recognizable in jazz and one that appeals to both mainstream and avant-garde tastes, as can be heard on the 2000 offering Spirits in the Field.

Blythe’s themes are melodious and memorable, his twining inside and outside solos always songful. As Francis Davis recounts in the liner notes, “No matter how complex his improvisations may be harmonically, they are based on the simplest of devices—rhythmic figures, riffs, fragments of melody—and there is an inevitably to them.”

His sound at times approximates a hip R&B player (as on “One Mint Julep” and “Break Tune #2”), a tender balladeer (“Ah George, We Hardly Knew You,” “Spirits in the Field”), an Eastern muezzin (“Odessa”), or the leader of a ceremonial New Orleans band (“Lenox Avenue Breakdown”). The interaction between Blythe’s alto and Bob Stewart’s tuba is unparalleled—nothing comparable to it in all of jazz.

5. John Handy | John Handy Recorded Live at Monterey Jazz Festival

A standout live performance by altoist John Handy and his unusual group: violin (Mike White), guitar (Jerry Hahn), bass (Don Thompson) and drums (Terry Clark). It’s hard to say why this music is still so fresh and mesmerizing. It was novel, for sure—violin and alto, and guitar—but, hey, this was the mid-’60s—novelty had been in vogue since the late ’50s.

Sounded wonderfully alien to me, peculiar jazz harmonies, some said, yet grounded in familiar jazz rhythms. Hard driving with group cohesiveness at its core, this was a memorable one-of-a-kind performance.

6. Charlie Parker | Charlie Parker: The Very Best of the Dial Years

Whether it’s the “complete” or “best of” Dial Years doesn’t matter—in either case, this is where it all began for alto players of the past 70 years. The Big Bang, if you will.

It’s all here, the bop anthems (“Yardbird Suite,” “Ornithology,” “Bird of Paradise,” “Scrapple from the Apple,” and “Chasin’ the Bird”), the up-tempo rompers (“Bebop,” “Crazeology,” and “Donna Lee”), and the ballads (“Lover Man,” “Embraceable You,” “My Old Flame,” “Out of Nowhere,” and “Don’t Blame Me”). The latter to me are the most revealing of Parker’s talent, his innate melodic and harmonic sense, and his improvisatory grace.

Back in the day when Charlie Parker and Bebop first hit the scene and well-loved ballads were played, people asked, “Where’s the melody?” The answer then as now is, “In Parker’s head.” The familiar song’s melody and harmonic structure served as the “basis” for his newly created improvisations, for better or worse. You decide. Sit back, relax, and listen to the ease at which Charlie Parker spins his golden threads.

7. Frank Morgan | You Must Believe in Spring

Morgan found his most expressive alto voice late in life: a refined, reflective, thoughtful voice, a mite thin at times, though always emotional. No better way to acquaint yourself with this tuneful improviser than on “Spring,” where he pairs with world-class pianists (Kenny Baron, Tommy Flanagan, Roland Hanna, Barry Harris, and Hank Jones). His duo with Hanna on the pianist’s tune “Enigma” is simply gorgeous.

8A. Paul Desmond | Paul Desmond and the Modern Jazz Quartet in 1979 at Carnegie Hall

Desmond paired up with the venerable MJQ for a Christmas Eve concert. While the album overall is uneven, Desmond’s solo on the traditional “Greensleeves” is simply glorious, reminding me, at least, as to why the classic Brubeck Quartet was so successful.

8B. Paul Desmond | Concierto

Desmond appears in this all-star lineup to pay homage to one of the most beautiful melodies in all of music: the adagio from “Concierto de Aranjuez” by Joaquin Rodrigo.

The sextet renders the melody with respect before sequential solos by trumpeter Chet Baker, pianist Roland Hanna, and guitarist Hall.

Unexpectedly, Desmond enters with a piercing restatement of the theme. By piercing, I mean a take-your-breath away, cold-wind-off-Lake-Michigan piercing. Desmond’s alto voice—often depicted as the sound of a dry martini—is a chilled margarita in this instance.

9A.  Johnny Hodges | Duke Ellington . . . And His Mother Called Him Bill

As Nelson Riddle was to Frank Sinatra, as Lester Young was to Billy Holiday, Billy Strayhorn was to Johnny Hodges. Stray’s compositions brought out that special, sensuous Hodges sound. Singer Lillian Terry recently put it this way: “Heavens, when he blows those long, languid notes . . . it’s an actual caress.”

As here, on Ellington’s tribute to Strayhorn “Blood Count,” “After All,” and “Day Dream,” the latter a late-at-night, sob-in-your beer favorite. The flip side of the Hodges coin—the bluesy side—Billy knew all too well, as illustrated on “Snibor,” “The Intimacy of the Blues,” and “Acht O’Clock Rock.”

9B.  Johnny Hodges | Duke Ellington’s Far East Suite

The two sides of Hodges are again on display. “Isfahan,” according to Cook and Morton “is arguably the most beautiful single item in Ellington’s and Strayhorn’s entire output.” And I agree. Hodge’s stiletto-sharp, crystalline pure sound slows the breath, wells the eyes, and stills the body while Ellington’s orchestra puffs occasional sound pontoons to keep the alto’s melodic line afloat. If perfection needed a definition, it can be found here.

If “Isfahan” brings a tear to your eye, then “Blue Pepper” will bring a smile to your face. The band starts out rocking with a simple repetitive sing-songy melody atop a churning, rock-and-roll drum rhythm by Speedy Jones. This eastern-tinged melody gives way to the flipside of the Hodges coin, in this instance a solo of clipped, start-and-stop notes that suggests rather than delineates. In other words, a near parody of a typical Hodges blues solo. And it works!

10. Gary Bartz | Gary Bartz NTU Troop I’ve Known Rivers and Other Bodies

Overall, three of the 11 tracks—the funky, toe-tapping ”Don’t Fight the Feeling,” “Dr. Follow’s Dance,” and the melodically pleasing “Peace and Love”—are outstanding, while the Langston Hughes poem “I’ve Known Rivers,” set to music and sung by Bartz, is a classic. This anthemic song features not only the saxophonist’s best singing on the album, but his best alto solo as well. Elementary school teachers could find Bartz’s reading useful in teaching the Hughes poem to students.

Apologies to Ornette Coleman, Jackie McClean, Henry Threadgill, Marian Brown and Phil Woods. You’re in my second Top 10.

What are your top alto sax albums? Please leave a comment below.

When President Nixon awarded Duke Ellington the Medal of Freedom in 1969, it was only the seventh time the nation’s highest civilian honor had been awarded to a musician. And, of course, it was the first given to an African American and to a jazz musician. And that was truly special!

Since 1962, after JFK awarded the first to Pablo Casals, US presidents have been handing out Freedom Medals like they were Cracker Jacks prizes, dispensing them to more than 500 individuals, an average of more than 10 per year. Unwittingly or not, our chief executives have devalued the citation. Clearly, we can all agree, the award today is not as special as the one Duke received.

In December 2013, President Obama continued the top medal largesse, awarding a total of 16, one to former President Clinton, as if he needed another trophy. In Obama’s defense, all presidents prior to Clinton got one too, save for Nixon.

One went to jazz trumpeter and Cuban émigré Arturo Sandoval, an obvious act of political correctness. The ethnic breakdown of the other 15 honorees: one Asian, four black, and 10 white. Gender wise: 10 men, five women.

Sandoval is a mighty fine trumpeter and composer. But how many long-term jazz fans would select him over saxophone masters Sonny Rollins or Wayne Shorter, for example? Very few. And how many jazz fans would select reedman Charles Lloyd or saxophonists Joe Lovano or Ornette Coleman or pianist Keith Jarrett over Arturo Sandoval? The body of work and influence of the aforementioned living jazz alternatives far exceeds that of Mr. Sandoval.

Who would you have given the medal to?

For the record, the below lists past jazz recipients of the Medal of Freedom, by year:

As I noted in Ellington at the White House, 1969, President and Mrs. Kennedy were the first to invite a jazz group to perform inside the White House. On November 15, 1962, the Paul Winter Sextet (just back from a State Department cultural exchange tour of Latin America) mounted the East Room riser and treated a mostly young audience—teenage children of diplomats and government officials—to the sounds of jazz.

And now, finally, 53 years later, these sounds can be heard on a two-CD set titled The Paul Winter Sextet Count Me in 1962 & 1963 (Living Music). The sextet featured a three-horn front line (alto and baritone sax and trumpet) and rhythm (piano, bass and drums). They played seven numbers, mostly in the hard bop style of the era, although several tunes had a Latin tinge influenced by their recently concluded Central and South American tour.

The sound quality on the CDs is surprisingly good; after all, the East Room was designed as an “audience room” for weddings, treaty signings, funerals, commemorations, and, yes, entertainment, but a state-of-the-art recording studio it was not. We have the organizing force Paul Winter to thank for this belated two-CD gift, which can be obtained here. At the site, view The Story of a Sextet video, which includes a silent clip of the JFK East Room event.    

But there was another notable jazz concert that took place several months earlier under the aegis of the Kennedy White House on August 28, 1962. Initially planned for the South Lawn, the concert was relocated to the Sylvan Theater on the Washington Monument grounds to accommodate a sizable crowd of college students who had come to work in Washington, DC, for the summer. Mea culpa: I failed to mention this event in my Ellington book. No excuses. I just made a mistake.
 
But what a concert! The classic Brubeck Quartet, with the leader on piano, Paul Desmond on alto saxophone, Gene Wright on bass, and Joe Morello on drums, followed by singer Tony Bennett and his backup trio: Ralph Sharon (piano), Hal Gaylor (bass), and Billy Exiner (drums). The quartet played a five-tune set that included their recent instrumental hit “Take Five” before Bennett took over and sang seven numbers that included his chart-topping “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” After separate sets, Bennett joined Brubeck, Morello, and Wright for four impromptu numbers.

This concert was also recorded, but Columbia Records lost the tapes—that is, until 2012, when they found them stored among classical music recordings. And we have Tony Bennett to thank for the discovery. It was the singer who put his thumb on the folks at Columbia to search their vaults, who, tail between their legs, released Bennett/Brubeck: The White House Sessions, Live 1962, on CD in 2013.

The music on this disc is important not only because of its association with the Kennedy White House, but also because it captures both Tony Bennett and the classic Brubeck Quartet at their creative peaks. In the former case, singer Bennett probably never sounded better in a trio setting over his seven-decade career, thanks to the sympathetic accompaniment by pianist Ralph Sharon.

In the latter case, the music played by Brubeck and company that August night testifies to the importance of drummer Joe Morello. Without his singular and distinctive percussive sounds, it is doubtful the quartet would have attained the classic status that it did (at least in the minds of its many devotees).    

With the Winter and Brubeck/Bennett discs, the music from the two JFK White House jazz events is now available to the public. Since 2002, also publicly available is the music from President Nixon’s outstanding jazz event--1969 All-Star White House Tribute to Duke Ellington, Blue Note.

How about the other jazz events held at the People’s House? A lot of it was recorded—isn’t it about time that it, too, be made available to the people?

Kenny Weissberg, a music junkie since age seven, worked in Boulder, Colorado, as a DJ, journalist, and rock ’n’ roll singer in the 1970s. He headed to San Diego in 1983 to produce concerts at the critically acclaimed Humphrey’s by the Bay, an outdoor theater. Over his 23-year career, Kenny booked hundreds of top artists, including Ray Charles, Leonard Cohen, Whitney Houston, James Brown, and Aretha Franklin, most of them leaving lasting impressions, some good and some not so good.

For his first opening act, he booked the inimitable Miles Davis. Kenny shares the story in his award-winning memoir, Off My Rocker*:

MILES IN THE RAIN
At the onset of 1985, I sat in the catbird seat, with the money and authority to book a 45-show summer concert series. There were a couple of problems, though. One, I didn’t know what I was doing. Two, Jerry Mack, the ousted promoter of record at Humphrey’s, was coming after us with a vengeance. He immediately went down the street to the far end of Shelter Island and started a competing series at the Kona Kai Hotel.

My first confirmation after becoming “captain of the ship” was Chuck Mangione, an artist whose music I equated with cotton candy, primarily fluff with no substance. One booking and I had already compromised my artistic values.

I dished out offers to any agent who would pay attention to me. That was a short list.

I pressed [Peter] Sheils [of the William Morris Agency] for days, trying to convince him to bring David Sanborn back to Humphrey’s. “I can’t, but stay by your phone.”

Famous last words that I would hear hundreds of times during my tenure as a concert producer. But Sheils came through the next morning.

“Are you sitting down?” he asked with an air of mystery in his voice that suggested that the original Mott the Hoople might be reuniting to tour.

“Go ahead,” I replied blankly, expecting an overpriced Stanley Turrentine confirmation at best.

“Okay. June 2 and 3, two nights of Earl Klugh. Confirmed. July 5, John Klemmer. Confirmed. July 20, Larry Carlton. Confirmed. And on April 21, your opening night will be . . . Miles Davis. Confirmed.”

I felt like a Major League Baseball GM who had just pulled off a spectacular four-for-one trade. All these artists added instant credibility to our series, but Miles Davis was the one I did backflips over.

Davis’s career was showing signs of revitalization in the early ’80s after he had disappeared into a cocaine haze from 1975 to 1980. The Man with the Horn, his 1981 comeback LP, had garnered positive reviews and reasonably good sales numbers, although his performances were erratic: brilliant one night, unfocused and plodding the next.

I didn’t know which Miles Davis would show up, but I did know that April was the tail end of the rainy season in San Diego and the forecast for April 21, which turned out to be accurate, was for sporadic rain accompanied by monsoonal winds.

I was neurotic enough about presenting my first concert without having the added distraction of intermittent rain throughout the evening. What if we had to cancel the show? Did we still have to pay the band? Of course we did, but maybe an understanding artist would give us some money back and share the loss with us. My naïveté was still in full flower.

During my first two years as a promoter, a consultant named John Harrington, a respected talent buyer for the Hollywood Palace, taught me the ropes and advised on the booking. He came down for the Miles Davis concerts and watched me with amusement as I paced back and forth in our dressing-room office, tensing up every time it began to drizzle. Harrington had seen it all during his career, but he’d never produced an outdoor event.

“Relax, Kenny, it’s a no-brainer,” he said. “The show goes on, the band plays, the show ends, everyone goes home, and you wake up tomorrow and do it again.”

With that pearl of wisdom, he whipped out a joint, lit it up, and insisted I partake.

“I don’t know, John. I still have to settle the show,” I said before taking the first of a half-dozen hits.

When the tour manager came by to get paid before the seven o’clock show, I was feeling no pain. I handed him the balance of the guarantee (Miles got paid $17,500 that night—supposedly a bargain) and went to the side of the stage to watch the performance. In later years, I’d sit in my designated ninth-row center aisle seat, but on this night, I didn’t want to be confronted by any audience members who might blame me for the weather.

The early show started on time in a steady rain. By the second song, a little-known piece of funk-fusion called “Maze,” the sky responded with some up-tempo activity of its own, drenching the performers and the audience. Amazingly, the musicians played through it with smiles on their faces, including the trumpet-wielding front man.

Davis, dressed in black from head to toe, including a Gaucho hat, sunglasses, and gloves, never faced the crowd and didn’t say a word the entire night. But the performances were riveting enough to keep the fans (1,339 paid for two shows) mesmerized throughout their own mud-encrusted Woodstock by the Bay.

Even though Davis’s repertoire consisted of all recent material (no Birth of the Cool, Kind of Blue, or Bitches Brew that night), the audience was clearly excited by his playing as well as by his cherry-picked band of young lions that featured guitarist John Scofield, saxophonist Bob Berg, and future Rolling Stones bassist Darryl Jones.

In George Varga’s glowing concert review in the San Diego Union the next morning, he wrote, “If last night’s weather might have been better suited for a Jacques Cousteau television show about coastal storms, no one bothered to tell Davis. The mercurial trumpeter turned in a fiery performance that burned strongly from start to finish.”

When the second show came to a close, shortly before the 10:30 curfew, I wrestled with whether I should knock on Miles’s door to thank him for getting me through my “debut performance.” Even though he had a racially mixed sextet, he was notorious for his distrust of the white music biz establishment, especially concert promoters.

As I played head games with myself, his dressing-room door opened and I stood face-to-face with Miles Davis, who was heading to the green room for some post-gig food and beverage.

More than slightly tongue-tied, I extended my hand and thanked him, identifying myself as the promoter. I’ll never forget his handshake: a backhand, contorted twist of the wrist latching onto the tips of my thumb and first two fingers.

“How did you do?” he asked with his characteristic rasp.

“It really doesn’t matter,” I said, startled that a performer of his magnitude would be curious about the promoter’s financial outcome. “This was the first concert of my career, and no matter what happens from here on in, I’ll always be able to say that I presented Miles Davis in concert. You have no idea what that means to me.”

“Yeah, yeah. But how did you do?”

“We, uh, lost some money,” I said, “but I don’t care. Miles Davis just played at Humphrey’s and—”

He grabbed my wrist and looked me straight in the eye. “Next time,” he said, “you gotsta charge more.”

It reminded me of the simplicity of David Carradine in Kung Fu. If I had charged more, the bottom line would have been higher and we might have broken even. He nodded and proceeded down the path to dinner enlightenment.

In 1986, we presented Miles Davis again. Adhering to Miles’s strategy, I raised the ticket price from $16.50 to $18.50. Attendance dropped by 200 and we lost $2,500.


*Excerpted with permission from Off My Rocker: One Man's Tasty, Twisted, Star-Studded Quest for Everlasting Music, published by Sandra Jonas Publishing, 2013.

Regarding songs, his major objection has nothing to do with form, but with process—the fact that Ellington “poached” (his word) key strains, melodies (“licks”) from his own orchestra members, oftentimes not sharing songwriter credits with them.

And why did Duke do this? Not because he had the talent to recognize a good melody when he heard one, but because, as the Wall Street Journal critic implies, he was incapable of coming up with a good tune all by himself, simply not a “melodist.” In other words, Duke stockpiled other people’s melodies, much like comedian Milton Berle stockpiled other people’s jokes.

True, the inspiration of many Ellington songs came from others. Hence, according to Teachout, Ellington is a collaborative composer, a qualification that detracts from his status in comparison with other composers.

Here is the rub: For this re-categorization to hold, we can’t consider Ellington in isolation. We know a lot about the musical Ellington, but what about other composers? Where did they get their inspiration? From whom did they poach? And who did they collaborate with? Certainly with their lyricists, orchestrators, show directors, and producers. But to what extent?

Did George Gershwin and Richard Rodgers seclude themselves in underground, soundless caves, only to later emerge with their conjured musical phrases etched on stone tablets? Of course not.

To one degree or another, their melodies reflected aspects of the world around them in collaboration with other human beings. The process by which their tunes came about may not be as well known as Ellington’s. But it cannot be assumed that they did not draw from sources outside themselves. Teachout’s charge of radical Ellington collaboration is overblown.

I believe it is the maestro’s larger and longer works that separate him from most (if not all) of his fellow composers. Here, our intrepid critic is downright skeptical, dismissing Ellington’s early large-scale works Creole Rhapsody, Symphony in Black, Reminiscing in Tempo, Black, Brown and Beige, and Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue as inferior; referring to his theatrical efforts Jump for Joy, Beggar’s Holiday, A Drum Is a Woman, and My People as second-rate or worse; categorizing his late-career suites Such Sweet Thunder, Far East Suite, Latin American Suite, and the Afro-Eurasian Eclipse as no more than fitfully inspired, with few solos interesting enough to justify their length; and eschewing Ellington’s Sacred Concerts as lacking memorable themes.

Over the years, as Teachout documents, music critics have slammed Ellington’s masterworks as formless and shallow, aimless, less than unified, slight, not good enough, pretentious, and patchwork, as well as lacking indelible melodies, harmonic direction, and structural cohesion.

Teachout drags out all the disparaging remarks, and by not challenging them, the assumption can be drawn that he is endorsing them.

When the critics are not characterizing the maestro’s music as “floor show music for tourists,” they target his “mosaic” method of composition, which they see as a string of unrelated cameos, especially not suited for large-scale works bearing the name concerto or suite.

Teachout also singles out the mosaic composer’s penchant for falsifying true inspirations for songs and taking preexisting compositions and shoehorning them into fresh thematic works. It matters little at this remove that “Harlem Air Shaft” had nothing to do with life in a Harlem apartment, or that “The Star-Crossed Lovers” on Such Sweet Thunder had nothing to do with Shakespeare’s plays, or that “Isfahan,” on the Far East Suite, was originally named “Elf” before the orchestra even toured the Far East.

All this inside baseball stuff is interesting, but it doesn’t matter when you listen to Ellington’s music in 2018.

In conclusion, Teachout says, “The majority of Ellington’s critics agree that he was at his best in the forties,” and then quotes composer/conductor Gunther Schuller: “[Duke] never really understood the nature of the problem he was facing in undertaking to write in larger forms.”

Then Teachout states, “It is a verdict in which most scholars concur, though it does not diminish his stature in the least.”

Oh, yes it does, Mr. Teachout.

You may say Duke is still one of the greatest of composers of any kind in the history of American music, but by letting all the trash talk stand without challenging it one bit, it does diminish his stature.

Could anyone who has read your book, taken your conclusions at face value ever honestly believe that Ellington is America’s premier composer, outranking his Great American Songbook peers Harold Arlen, Irving Berlin, Hoagland Carmichael, George Gershwin, Jerome Kern, Cole Porter, and Richard Rodgers, among others? To say nothing of Eurocentric American composers like Aaron Copland or Charles Ives?

Could those readers believe that Duke even belongs in that elite Songbook group?

CODA
Numerous books have been written about the Great American Songbook composers, individually and collectively. None of these books has attempted to rank the various composers, perhaps out of respect for the individuals involved. Nonetheless, isn’t it about time for someone to conduct such a study involving a large number of experts? It would be welcomed, that’s for sure.

A model for such exists. Ten years ago, Hal Leonard published The Fifty Greatest Jazz Piano Players: Ranking, Analysis & Photos by Gene Rizzo. Setting aside both major and minor quibbles with that effort, the book remains a valuable reference. While open for debate, the number of composers considered should be less than 50, preferably less than 15.

The biggest hurdle to overcome is the number of experts and their identity (and secondarily, a funding mechanism for such an endeavor).

So who do you think is the greatest American composer? And who are the top 15? And why?

In 2006, the Atlantic magazine compiled a list of the 100 most influential Americans of all time. Two musicians made the list: Louis Armstrong and Elvis Presley. At least they got one right! (Kidding, of course.)

The two were selected from a short list prepared by drama and music critic Terry Teachout: Louis Armstrong, George Gershwin, Aaron Copland, Elvis Presley, and Bob Dylan. Teachout had this to say about his second pick:

So, here we have the author of Duke: A Life of Duke Ellington picking George Gershwin and Aaron Copland over Ellington.

Hmmm.

See my review of Teachout’s book in next month’s post.

The songbirds who sent in their regrets:

• Contralto Marion Anderson, who had known Duke for decades, and sat with him on President Nixon’s Advisory Council on the Arts
• Diahann Carroll, who starred in the 1961 film Paris Blues that Duke scored
• Leslie Uggams, who appeared with Duke on several televised variety shows
• Rosemary Clooney, who collaborated with Duke and the orchestra on the 1956 Columbia album Blue Rose

Yes, that Rosemary Clooney, the one who starred with Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, and Vera-Ellen in the movie musical White Christmas (1954) and recorded 1950s mega-sellers “Come On-a My House,” “Botcha Me,” “Hey There,” and “Mambo Italiano.”

Clooney was the first singer not drawn from the ranks of the Ellington orchestra to cut a full album with the Duke. Only two other singers had that honor: Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra.

Moreover, the idea for the project came not from Ellington, but from Rosemary. She wanted to break free of her pop chains, and Duke needed a boost in association with a high-flying AM radio and TV variety show pop star. At the time (early 1956) the maestro wandered in a frozen wilderness of public apathy and needed a breakout. Blue Rose, he must have thought, could be the icebreaker.
 
As it would turn out, Blue Rose would be the first album ever to be overdubbed. Ellington recorded the orchestra tracks in New York, and Rosemary added her vocals in Los Angeles.

This technical first was necessitated by the fact the singer was severely pregnant and unable to fly to New York—which also meant that the album’s designated arranger, Billy Strayhorn, had to fly back and forth between New York and California to work with Rosemary on song selection, setting of keys and tempo, and other musical matters.

The material the two chose consisted of six Ellington standards—“Sophisticated Lady,” “I Let a Song Go out of My Heart,” “It Don’t Mean a Thing,” “I Got It Bad,” “Mood Indigo,“ and “Just Sittin’ and A-Rockin’"—and three lesser known Ellington-Srayhorn collaborations—“Grievin’” and “I’m Checkin’ Out-Goombye” (both from 1939) and “If You Were in My Place” (1938)—as well as three new Ellington tunes, one of which, “Blue Rose,” had no lyrics, but came with instructions: just scat along with it.

Prominent critics Will Friedwald and Gary Giddins had nothing but high praise for the album, the latter declaring “Sophisticated Lady” to be one of the finest recorded versions ever.

To my ears, however, the results are disappointing. Ms. Clooney, known for her sultry voice, is not sultry enough, sounding a mite tense and more like pop icon Dinah Shore than any jazz singer one could name.

Rosemary chose not to stamp her mark on the famed doo-wah doo-wah riff on “It Don’t Mean a Thing,” avoiding it altogether, leaving it to the instrumentalists. Her “ba-bee  be-ba  be-ba  ba-ba” scatting on “Blue Rose” is amateurish, but Friedwald heard it differently, calling it “superlative.”

Nonetheless, one track, “Mood Indigo,” stands out, and could very well be one of the finest on record. Strayhorn rearranged the famous clarinet-trumpet-trombone-unison opening melody for Clooney’s wordless voice plus two trombones, which almost trumps the original.

Rosemary then sings the familiar lyrics in her most relaxed voice on the album. Outstanding solos follow by trumpeter Willie Cook and the two trombones (Britt Woodman and John Sanders) in unison again.

As Ken Crossland and Malcolm MacFarlane opine in their biography Late Life Jazz: The Life and Career of Rosemary Clooney:

Perhaps I have been a little harsh in my assessment of the album in question. Take a listen to the recently released Blue Rose CD on the Columbia Legacy label, and you decide.

One thing everyone should be able to agree on is that somebody passed up a golden opportunity to have Rosemary—when her late-life jazz voice had fully developed—to re-record over the original Ellington tracks, assuming the tapes could have been found in the vaults, of course.

Now that would have been something.

Every once in a while a book arrives that offers new insights—sheds new light—on the personalities that populate the sub-milieu that is jazz. One such recently published book is Dizzy, Duke, Brother Ray, and Friends: On and Off the Record with Jazz Greats by Italian jazz singer, radio and TV journalist, and producer Lilian Terry.

Making an artist feel at ease came naturally to her, and that, along with a superb journalistic sense, allowed her to uncover fresh understandings of the likes of Duke Ellington, Abby Lincoln and Max Roach, Horace Silver, Ray Charles, Bill Evans, and Dizzy Gillespie.

You can sense that her subjects admired her for her talent, as well as for her innate ability to give as well as take without a trace of intimidation felt by either party. We learn anew of the various ticks, quirks, and idiosyncrasies of Master Ellington as if learning about them for the very first time—his playfulness, flirty attitude, attentiveness, literary sense, generosity, and superstitions.

We also learn how “La plus belle Lil” came to record one of the gems in the Ellington/Strayhorn canon, the focus of this review.

“Star-Crossed Lovers”
In July 1966, Lilian arrived at the Antibes Juan-les-Pins Jazz Festival on the French Riviera where she would sing with her trio and conduct interviews with Duke Ellington and other artists for her weekly radio show on the Italian radio network.

Backstage one afternoon, she approached her favorite soloist with the Ellington orchestra, altoist Johnny Hodges:

They did, and received his go-ahead.

That night, our inquisitive interviewer joined the French TV crew in the wings to watch the band’s performance. The maestro steered the orchestra through their lengthy set, wrapping it all up with a long closing number featuring Johnny Hodges:

At concert’s close, Lil waited for the orchestra leader to descend the stage steps. Duke graciously acknowledged her thanks and invited her to an after-party at his hotel suite where he introduced her to the song’s composer, Billy Strayhorn. She took the opportunity to confirm her passion for “Star-Crossed Lovers”:

And he did.

Six months after the Antibes festival concluded and out of the blue, Duke informed Lil that she would be receiving an air ticket to join him and the band in Milano, Italy, for a Teatro Lirico concert in January 1967. She accepted, and when she arrived, Ellington fussed over her as other members of the band waved by, trumpeter Cat Anderson calling out: “There we go again . . . star-crossed lovers, I bet!”

As the Bard would say, all’s well that ends well.

Some 15 years later, Lil found herself sitting at a dinner table across from jazz pianist Tommy Flanagan, Ella Fitzgerald’s accompanist for several years. A lively conversation ensued that led to Tommy asking her what songs she’d like to sing with him at the piano. “Loverman” and Strayhorn’s “Lush Life” came up first, and then Lil said,

On April 17, 1982, Lil recorded Lilian Terry Meets Tommy Flanagan—A Dream Come True with the Tommy Flanagan Trio, with Jesper Lindgaard on bass and Ed Thigpen on drums, for the Italian Soul Note label. Six songs were recorded, including those mentioned above plus Peggy Lee’s “Black Coffee,” Benny Golson’s “I Remember Clifford,” Monk’s “Round About Midnight” and a Billie Holiday favorite, “You’ve Changed.” [6]

George Avakian, at the time an independent record producer and top-line jazz artist manager, wrote flattering liner notes for the album. He noted that Europe had produced many fine instrumentalists but very few vocalists. Among them, Lilian Terry sounds the most American.

He cited her appearances at the prestigious Antibes Festival, where Lillian was the only European singer to participate, sharing the stage with Ella Fitzgerald, Anita O’Day, Nina Simone, and Mahalia Jackson [7].

The recording was an immediate success, especially in Japan but also in the United States. The ballad that surpassed—and therefore was played on the air—was “Star-Crossed Lovers. [8]”

1. Lilian Terry, Dizzy, Duke, Brother Ray and Friends: On and Off the Record with Jazz Greats (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2017), 4.
2. Ibid., 5–6.
3. Ibid., 6–7.
   
4. Ibid., 14–17.
5. Ibid., 18.
6. Ibid., 19.
7. George Avakian, Liner Notes, Lilian Terry Meets Tommy Flanagan: A Dream Comes True, 1982, Soul Note LP.
   
8. Terry, Dizzy, Duke, 19.