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

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?

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.

MONTEREY JAZZ FESTIVAL
Critic Dan Morgenstern covered Monterey’s 10th annual jazz festival for DownBeat, his first time doing so, and he came away quite pleased [1].

September 15
After a splashy afternoon opening, the showing of a commemorative film, the launching of gaily colored balloons and blinding light effects with an opening blast from the Don Ellis big band, the festival got down to business with the entertaining Dizzy Gillespie Quintet with James Moody (sax/flute), Mike Longo (piano), Russell George (electric bass), and Candy Finch (drums).

Diz and crew would back up other artists throughout the festival. Ubiquitous, irrepressible Diz joined the MJQ, Carmen McRae, and the Ellis organization onstage.

Saxophonist Illinois Jacquet, like Diz, appeared at Newport and, backed by festival mainstays John Lewis (piano), Ray Brown (bass), and Louis Bellson (drums), demonstrated that he was more than an extroverted stomper, playing ballads—even one on a bassoon!—but reverted to form, as at Newport, on his closer “Flyin’ Home.”

Next, the Don Ellis outfit offered a full set, highlighted by the rhythmically intricate New Horizons, the intriguing In a Turkish Bath, and the climactic Open Beauty. The band, Morgenstern admitted, “has a new palette of sound. The reed section (at one time featuring three soprano saxophones; at another, amplified flutes) is the most colorful, the trumpet section is the most brilliant. And the sound of the three basses bowing staccato together is something else.”

Overall, the band was much more impressive than it had been at Newport.

Newport had its vibe summit, and Monterey had its violin conclave with Europeans Svend Asmussen and Jean Luc Ponty and Americans Ray Nance and Stuff Smith—four distinct stylists that reminded everyone of the stringed instruments oft-overlooked but important role in jazz.

September 16
Morgenstern concluded that the blues afternoon was perhaps the greatest crowd pleaser of the entire festival. It began with the rousing gospel of the Clara Ward Singers and didn’t let up with blues singer/guitarists T-Bone Walker and B. B. King.

Interpolated in the midst of the bluesy afternoon, the Gary Burton Quartet with guitarist Larry Coryell received a well-deserved accolade from Morgenstern, who praised the empathy between players and noted that the ensemble was one of the most original and refreshing groups in contemporary jazz.

Then back to the blues with a young blues/folk singer and guitarist Richie Havens, who at the time was several years away from becoming a pop celebrity. Next came what many in the audience had been waiting for: the rock of Big Brother and the Holding Company, featuring vocalist Janis Joplin. The group had scored big at the first Monterey Pop Festival in June at the same location.

Early in the set, people began to dance, and soon they were snaking up and down the aisles while others stood on chairs digging and/or shaking, backed by shouts from others in the audience. That’s what it was all about—getting people to enjoy themselves.

Singer Mel Torme, appearing for only the third time at Monterey and backed by the Woody Herman Orchestra, offered a sparkling display of jazz singing. His set included a perfect Gershwin “Foggy Day,” a Porgy and Bess medley he also played on piano, a brilliant “Who Can I Turn To?,” a pyrotechnic “Bluesette,” during which the singer ate up the changes, and a fun-filled, scat-laced “Route 66,” which swung all the way. Morgenstern claimed he had never heard him better.

The Modern Jazz Quartet (MJQ to fans)—John Lewis (piano), Milt Jackson (vibes), Percy Heath (bass), and Connie Kay (drums)—opened their set with three numbers (including a superb “Pyramid”) before trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie came onstage during Jackson’s “Novano” and grabbed a piece of the action.

He remained for “Round Midnight” (both Diz and Jackson shone), and the “Bag’s Groove,” a triple treat for trumpet, vibes, and pianist Lewis. All in all, Morgenstern concluded, one of the musical highlights of the festival.

Closing things out for the evening were the Ambrosetti Quartet from Switzerland, including a gifted father-and-son team: Franco on trumpet, Flavio on alto. Both horn men proved excellent players with a good grasp of the idiom. And their set swung happily in a modern mainstream mold with avant-garde touches.

September 17
The day opened with the Ellis orchestra playing their second set, the music of Louie Bellson, who also sat in on drums. With Don Ellis conducting, the band tackled “Sketches,” a long, episodic number with moments of beauty, but the most moving Bellson piece was the memorial to Billy Strayhorn (who had died earlier in the year)—“unsentimental but full of feeling” was how Morgenstern described it.

For a climax, drummer Bellson featured himself, a set piece à la Buddy Rich, but with more attention to detail, if less volcanic power.

Guitarist Gabor Szabo’s group also drew a strong response from the crowd with “Spellbinder,” “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” and a piece with a long, unaccompanied bass solo, interesting ensemble counterpoint, and a rhythmically driving climax with tambourines a jangling.

Morgenstern reckoned that the group, while original, was not that radical. Elements of rock and raga entered into the picture, but they blended with a lot of jazz.

As it was at Newport, only one “New Thing” group was invited to Monterey—none other than a quartet fronted by the grand old man of “Free Jazz,” Ornette Coleman. His sidemen consisted of two bassists Charlie Haden and David Izenson and drummer Edward Blackwell.

Coleman’s most successful offering was his stunning saxophone during “Haight-Ashbury.” A trumpet piece was best on the ballad sections, less so on the up-tempo passages. It was graced by a fine, too-short Izenzon arco solo and expert use of mallets by Blackwell. Ornette’s turn on musette was a bit monotonous, however. “His new group promises much” was Morgenstern’s overall conclusion.

Next, yet another workout for the Ellis orchestra, this time playing the music of Yugoslav composer Miljenko Prohaska, who had had brought a lot of music and also conducted. Unfortunately, a good portion of the audience left during his set, and many missed the better parts of it.

Guest jazz soloists took part in most of the pieces—James Moody on alto and flute, Dizzy Gillespie once again, and drummer Louis Bellson. Morgenstern commented that the piece had to be one of the best ever written for drums and orchestra, and it inspired Bellson to a fantastic display of endurance, craftsmanship, and musicality.
 
Dizzy’s second set with his festival quintet began the evening with some monkey business, got the expected laughter, then landed a knockout with his horn on “Get That Money Blues,” followed by an old, pretty ballad “Accent on Youth.”

Next up, Diz’s old boss Earl “Fatha” Hines in a trio setting with Bill Pemberton (drums) and Oliver Jackson (bass) offered “Second Balcony Jump” and “Satin Doll.” Hines summoned reedman Budd Johnson to sing “Bernie’s Tune” and then play “It’s Magic” on soprano sax, switching to tenor to uncork a sizzling “Lester Leaps In.”

Backstopped by pianist Norman Simmons, drummer Candy Finch, and bassist Ray Brown, Carmen McRae etched “Midnight Sun,” gave “Lots of Love” new life, sang “Don’t Explain” in her own way, had a ball with “Satin Doll,” commanded attention with “For Once in My Life,” and broke it up with “Alfie.” It was, Morgenstern gushed, a masterly performance by a brilliant artist.

Bill Holman brought the festival to a close by conducting the Woody Herman orchestra in Holman’s Concerto for Herd. The opening section featured rich reed sounds piloted by Herman’s alto. The second movement brandished new textures of sound without resorting to freakishness.

The music was so moving that it lingered on through the opening of the final rousing movement that kept building without losing momentum. Morgenstern rhapsodized: this concert was the best music written for Herman since Summer Sequence (and of a higher caliber).

Time to go home.

Not everyone was pleased with 1967 MJF. Columnist Phillip Elwood argued that the festival had gone soft and conservative by presenting almost exclusively tried-and-true and popular performers—against the MJF charter that pledged to introduce important unknown artists and reacquaint the public with neglected jazz giants rather than playing it safe with a parade of name attractions [2].

Elwood cited several important artists that had never been invited to Monterey: Cecil Taylor, Roland Kirk, Archie Shepp, Don Friedman-Atiller Zoller. He contrasted this lineup with the 1967 MJF roster, which, for the most part, reads like a 78 rpm top pop-record list of 20 years before: Mel Torme, Dizzy Gillespie, Woody Herman, Earl Hines, and Illinois Jacquet.

Point well taken, Mr. Elwood.

1. Dan Morgenstern, “Mellow Monterey,” DownBeat, November 16, 1967, 23–30.
2. Phillip Elwood, “Playing It Safe?,” San Francisco Examiner-Chronicle, August 17, 1967.
   

NEWPORT JAZZ FESTIVAL
Mother Nature, in the form of fog, shivery temperatures, and intermittent tropical rain bursts, rendered the 1967 edition unlikely to make anyone’s NJF top 10 list. Still, the show went on with the usual cornucopia of musical acts and thematic groupings, as summarized below from reports by attending critics Whitney Balliett [1], Burt Goldblatt [2], and Dan Morgenstern [3].

June 30
The first day began with a “History of Jazz” lineup, although jazz critic Balliett likened it to a parade of pianists: Willie “the Lion” Smith, Earl Hines, Count Basie, Thelonius Monk, and John Lewis.

The first “History” group, led by percussionist Michael Olatunji, represented Mother Africa, which quickly gave way to Chicago with Earl Hines playing arrhythmic whirlpools and upper register single note jubilations (Balliett), leading to the New York Stride of Willie “the Lion” Smith and his booming irregular chord patterns, and rifle-shot single notes.

Count Basie (and associates) resurrected the sound of Kansas City, the pianist audible only in short solos behind the horn players. The “History” lesson continued with the 1940s bebop kings of New York: trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie, sax player James Moody, vibist Milt Jackson, pianist Thelonious Monk, bassist Perch Heath, and drummer Max Roach.

Balliett judged their performance disappointing save for Monk; he also praised John Lewis’s graceful and thoughtful approach to the piano. To complete the stroll down “History” lane, the first day’s concert concluded with saxophonist Albert Ayler’s quartet, the only “New Thing” group to appear at the 1967 festival after a somewhat controversial avant-garde breakout the previous year by saxophonist Archie Shepp.

July 1
The afternoon concert was labeled “The Five Faces of Jazz,” or the five ethnic influences on jazz, or better said, contributions from five jazz musicians from other countries—namely, guitarist Gabor Szabo of Hungary, Albert Manglesdorf of Germany, Michael Olatunji of Nigeria, Luis Enrique of Brazil, and Nobuo Hara, leader of the Japanese Orchestra Sharps and Flats.

Weatherman Balliett reported that the fog had been doing “the mazurka up and down Narragansett Bay all afternoon and [by nightfall] it circled once about the town and fell asleep,” along with much of the night’s concert that began with Herbie Mann on flute, Roy Ayers on vibes, and Charles Ganimian on electric oud.

This outfit presented a different perspective on what is and what isn’t jazz. Pianist Earl Hines slipped in with his usual outstanding set of classics, joined by Budd Johnson on soprano saxophone, but Newport Festival chronicler Goldblatt as well as critic Morgensten found it hard to fathom why the pianist was inserted in a lineup of relatively modern stars.

The John Handy Quintet (vibes, guitar, bass, drums and the leader’s alto sax) plodded through two endless numbers. Nina Simone, who sang at the previous year’s concert, got hung up in a couple of interminable laments about loose men and fast women.

Steady NJF presence Dizzy Gillespie appeared with his quintet and did four by-rote numbers, but the oddest disappointment in Balliett’s view was the Gary Burton Quintet with Larry Coryell on electric guitar that reached for a distillate of jazz and rock and roll but failed to grasp either one.

At midnight Buddy Rich and his band turned the pumpkin into a golden coach, the brightest moment of the evening, all agreed. Goldblatt waxed poetic over the drummer’s crowd-pleasing, gymnastic drum exhibition: Rich was astonishing in his virtuosity. His solo had a clarity and vividness that projected in sharp relief his inexhaustible energy as he built up from small explosions to a whirlpool of frenzy and passion.

Not to be surpassed, Morgenstern rhapsodized: his solo was an eruption, a phenomenon, a staggering display of superhuman endurance, co-ordination and control. It was an event in defiance of nature, and it is safe to say that no other drummer (or human being) could ever match it. Whew!

July 2
The afternoon concert began with the Japanese Sharps and Flats Big Band that Balliett characterized as a formidable cross between the late Jimmy Lunceford and early Stan Kenton bands, and its soloists suggested trombonist J. J. Johnson, trumpeters Art Farmer, and Clifford Brown, plus drummers Gene Krupa and Louis Bellson.

The main event was a vibraphone workshop—Bobby Hutcherson, Gary Burton, Red Norvo, and Milt Jackson, along with Lionel Hampton (believe it or not) making his Newport Jazz Festival debut.

According to Balliett, Burton sent up a ghostly unaccompanied ballad that was all willows and Debussy; Norvo produced a creditable (Cole Porter’s ) “I Love You,” and ended with his heavy mallet shtick—“slapsticks”—clumping around the keyboard like a slow-motion tap dancer.

Hampton unloaded his customary two-by-fours on a feverish “How High the Moon.” The audience kept interrupting him with bursts of applause. Hutcherson jammed a hundred notes into each measure on “Softly as in a Morning Sunrise,” and Jackson maintained his flowing lyric cool on “These Foolish Things.”

All five vibists got together for the closing “Hamp’s Boogie-Woogie,” accompanied by heavy rain. With a flood of perspiration running down their faces, Hamp and his colleagues took a bow to a cheering, smiling audience.

Goldblatt, more smitten than Balliett, called the workshop a Festival peak. Morgenstern said it was Newport at its best, the kind of happening that jazz festivals exist for.

There was an interpolated guest pianist in the midst of the workshop, much like Hines on the prior day’s evening concert, and the critics were none too happy about it. This time it was Billy Taylor, who captured the small, two thousand-member audience with his tremendous drive over an hour-long performance.

Unofficial weatherman Balliett reported that the rain for the evening was still reeling in low and cold at eight when the show began. He concluded all could have stayed home, summarily dismissing the night’s acts—Bill Evans Trio, Max Roach Quartet, Woody Herman’s Big Band, and the Miles Davis Quintet.

Goldblatt stayed the course and found much to like. Even with rain and sound system problems, he declared Max Roach’s unaccompanied drum solo, “It’s in Five,” the high spot of the evening and probably the whole Festival. Apparently, he was struck by the drummer’s individualistic clarity for sounds, giving new dimension and sensitivity without ever pounding (a là Buddy Rich, but he didn’t say).

Morgenstern followed suit: a masterpiece of musical intelligence and instrumental skill—perhaps the greatest musical drumming this listener has witnessed.

In 1966, Newport Festival Organizer George Wein introduced avant “New Thing” music for the first time. In 1967 it was rock music by the Blues Project—some of the group would go on to form the first rock-oriented jazz group, Blood, Sweat, and Tears.

Morgenstern felt the Project was probably not the best rock choice for a jazz festival. No matter, Wein needn’t have bothered because many in the audience headed for the refreshment area or out of the gates entirely.

Pianist Bill Evans, with drummer Jo Jones behind him emphasized the contrapuntal. Miles Davis closed the evening with several good moments, as did his tenor Wayne Shorter.

July 3
The afternoon was given over to big bands. Trumpeter Don Ellis’s 19-piece group featured an eight-man rhythm section: three bassists, four drummers, a pianist, and a mass of electronic equipment.
Odd-signature pieces were the specialty of the day, though the kind of music most of the weather-beaten audience wanted to hear. Ellis took his final bows before a few hundred people.

Still, Morgenstern, for one, was impressed, considering it an exceptionally well-drilled ensemble, an exciting band. The concert ended with a really BIG BAND, a 54-piece youth band from Massachusetts that played Basie, Goodman, Shaw, plus other compositions surprisingly well. Best of all, Balliett noted, were the glorious passages in which the brass section, 18 strong, opened up.

The evening concert was largely an extension of the previous evening’s tribute to Lionel Hampton. The opening acts: vibraphonist Red Norvo in a quartet setting (really needed?!); the Dave Brubeck Quartet showing more candlepower than usual (Balliett), Brubeck sounding better than he had in years (Goldblatt); jazz’s only opera singer Sarah Vaughan (according to Gary Giddins); and guitarist Wes Montgomery playing, at request, one of his breakout hits from the year before.

To close the evening and the Festival, the Lionel Hampton Band, made up of alumni, supported Lionel as he worked his various instruments (vibes, drums, piano). Of course, as everyone expected, the band played Hamp’s anthem “Flying Home,” featuring Illinois Jacquet’s legendary tenor solo.

Goldblatt caught the moment: The audience danced in the aisles and stomped on their seats while Hamp and organist Milt Buckner hammed in a hilarious dance routine onstage as Jacquet kept wailing chorus after chorus. It was Hamp’s first appearance at Newport and the crowd let him know that it was a triumph.

Balliett was likewise impressed: Illinois went through his celebrated calisthenics, and it was like hearing Francis Scott Key sing the “Star-Spangled Banner.”

Time to go home.

Read my next blog for part 3 of my look back at jazz 50 years ago.

1. Whitney Balliett, Collected Works: A Journal of Jazz, 1954–2001 (New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2002), 272–24.
2. Burt Goldblatt, Newport jazz Festival: The Illustrated History (New York: Dial Press, 1977), 130–39.
3. Dan Morgenstern with Ira Gitler, “Newport ‘67,” DownBeat, August 10, 1967, 20–39.