I think he already had the discipline from his family milieu and his classical
training. He played within himself and it was really hard to believe he was
only 18 - musically he was more like 25. There was no doubt in my mind where
he was headed. Of course, there was no doubt in Art Blakey's mind either.
I don't think he took on charity cases. :-)
As a patzer trumpeter I've had the great pleasure of seeing almost all the
greats in person starting with Satchmo and IMHO Wynton ranks right up there.
I'm gonna go out on a limb here and declare Maynard Ferguson as having the
greatest chops. OK, maybe just 'cause I like a big sound. :-)
True that about Art Blakey Ghost. I saw Wynton on two tours with Art and the Jazz Messengers. On the second his brother Branford was in the band as well.
Backstage, at Keystone Korner in S.F., during a break on the second tour, Art was in Wynton's face. His exact words, "you are here to learn boy. If you don't want to listen to me I'll get someone in here tomorrow to replace you!"
seeing this old crazy black guy jumping up and down, destroy a grand piano wearing nothing more than a shower cap, a shower curtain cape and a loin cloth, complete with bone through the nose and voodoo headress made quit the impression on me at 10 years old. Bar set pretty high, very high
Such a great art form - just a couple years old -
This is the only stuff I can listen to anymore - and Zappa
Im an addict with a high tolerance - sue me
Jazz .. thats a broad subject .. in my little corner of the universe it means fusion ..Mahavishnu, Zappa, Weather Report .. of course Miles ..stuff like that. I liked Brand X and Jean Luc Ponty a lot. More recently Bill Bruford's Earthworks had some fresh and exciting stuff going on for a while. Jazz should make you a little nervous.
2nd row, baby!!! I'll bet Largo would have liked this show. The 2nd time I saw their tour at the San Francisco Opera House, Steve Morse of Dixie Dregs opened and then joined in for a finale encore. AWESOME!!!
I beieve the old hipster with the bad attitude might be on to something, but it's no use, goose. The ego flies every day of the week here. It's what jazz is: This is "Me" and how I feel. No limits, please.
My selections for the evening, prompted by Joe Fitschen's memoir, Going Up.
You might think that my interest in jazz would have served as a bridge into black culture. When I was interested in Dixieland, I heard Kid Ory play at the Dixieland Jubilee at L.A.'s Shrine Auditorium (and, if memory serves, Sidney Bechet)...
[See, OldBiterofTongue? "Los Everyjuan" does the "I saw so-and-so" so Fk U.]
...but by then Dixieland was mostly white people's music played by white musicians like Bob Crosby, Bobby Hackett, Jack Teagarden, Eddie Miller, and Zutty Singleton. One of my favorite radio shows was "Pete Kelly's Blues," which starred Jack Webb. It featured Dick Cathcart on cornet, but was only broadcast for a few months in 1951 (though in 1955 it was made into a movie).
See the clarinetist: Lee Marvin, M Squad
From Dixieland I glided into swing, but, again, I was exposed mostly to the white bands. My favorites were Woody Herman's Herd and Stan Kenton, and only later did I discover kBasie, Ellington, and Lionel Hampton. As my interests shifted from swing into bebo, however, I began to see a lot of black faces on record jackets. Because I was a trumpet player, I was especially impressed with Dizzy Gillespie and Clifford Brown and Fats Navarro.
When I started going to clubs to hear live jazz, however, the players were white--Gerry Mulligan, Shorty Rogers, Bud Shank, Bob Cooper, and all the ex-Kentonites who played down at the Lighthouse. Later, I learned that Bird and Clifford had played down on Central Avenue, and I had missed them.
--Joe Fitschen, Going Up [again, edited by Mouse for paragraphing]
Another climber from Joe's era, Rick Sylvester, has an ear for jazz to the point that he has been atending the MJF for, oh, about the last forty years straight. He can bend our ears, let me tell you, and I wish he shwould. Matter of fact, I asked him about skiing a bit ago and just got a reply on his adventures this week in Tahoe. Recompense for all that pine needle bagging this fall.
It's not mysterious. Just takes talent and practice and exposure.
Credit: mouse from merced
I used to own this LP and practically wore it out. I liked Larry's work on his composition Lines, but can't locate the track...
And for Bit'r, I saw and heard and applauded for the Quartet at 1970's Free Monterey Jazz Festival for Dirtbags Who Can Climb Fences.
That clip of Ella and Mel Torme might be the finest scat singing I have ever heard! Absolutely brilliant!!
Obviously, Mel and Ella both have perfect pitch. Notice how she just whips off the opening riff in the correct key.
Oh. I stand corrected. Just listened again, they're in the same key as the original intro. So even I could could have got the opening note. However the licks they are singing are so complex, and so pitch perfect, it takes real musicians to pull off something like that.
TFPU! Great great history writing by Ferretlegger:
"My observation was that the Jazz musicians who my father worked with (hundreds) seemed to fall into several categories. Some were superior musicians, and also good, grounded businessmen and people. They dealt with the world in an upfront and forthright manner. Another category, quite large, were like little children. Music was their lives, their passion, their sole interest, and their language. When playing a gig, practicing, or in session, they communicated through music with each other in an almost paranormal way. The sensitivity and artistry and way they seemed to read each others minds was thrilling to behold. But when the music stopped, they seemed barely able to cope with the real world. It was something that just didn't really make sense for them. Drug and alcohol abuse was very common, perhaps to dull the pain of the outside world, perhaps as a retreat from an existence totally barren and meaningless compared to their music. I have always had very mixed feelings about these musical geniuses (and some of the greatest jazz musicians in history were in this group). One the one hand, I have felt pity that their lives outside of music were so screwed up and tragic. On the other hand, I have seen closeup what a great gift taken to the limit is capable of. The soaring heights of an intense session with world class players transcends normal life."
"Finally, the bad blood chemistry got the better of him (Ferretlegger's father) and he slipped into a coma. The doctors were sure that this was it. As you would expect, the entire family had gathered and we were pretty glum. Then Ken Peplowski, the great clarinetist showed up at the ICU where we had gathered. With tears streaming down his face he assembled his clarinet and began to play. He had hardly finished the first bar when my father popped right out of his "death coma", sat bolt upright in bed and hollered "KEN!!!" Ken kept playing and soon the entire ICU was filled with doctors, nurses, relatives, and even a few terminal patients were wheeled in. Ken played for a long time, and the effect on all was magical. My father had several more days of great contentment, as Ken continued to visit. Finally, though, even music was not enough and he passed along to whatever waits."
You're welcome Marlow, Michael lurks on ST, doesn't post that much, but his writings when he does (they are usually l-o-n-g) are very interesting..he great writer...and his professional background is laser physics!
He has some wonderful stories about some of his trips to Japan and helping with the artists!
When I was 17 I went to see the Modern Jazz Quartet at the Palace of Fine Arts in Mexico City (Bellas Artes). I couldn't afford a good seat but during the intermission I bribed an usher into letting us into an empty box that was literally directly above the stage. It was a sublime evening that will stay with me forever.
I was working on Jazz Express magazine in London, which was started by Peter Boizot, who had started the Pizza Express chain of restaurants.
The Jazz Basement in the Dean Street (Soho) Pizza Express was great (I was also a member of Ronnie Scott's club and visited the 100 club on Oxford Street). But the Jazz Basement was my favorite, mainly because I got in for free and had free food, had to pay for the booze though.
Some great acts there but my most fondest memory is Benny Carter when he performed on his 83rd birthday. After the last set, after the customers left, we (staff and I) stayed up into the wee hours and he was regaling us with his stories of being a jazz man travelling around the States, especially as an African-American in segregated America, his gigs... it was great.
Next time you have time to enjoy a concert, this is a pretty decent one.
Note: That's Jaco Pastorius' kid, Felix, on base, and with Will Kenndey on drums, they are questionably the suavest rhythm section working in contemporary jazz. Great thing about this group is that they rarely overplay or ramble.
'Concierto de Aranjuez' from Jim Hall's album 'Concierto' (1975), featuring Jim Hall (guitar), Ron Carter (bass), Steve Gadd (drums), Roland Hanna (piano), Paul Desmond (alto sax) and Chet Baker (trumpet). Arranged by Don Sebesky and produced by Creed Taylor.
You posted Joshua Redman & The Bad Plus on the SONG thread
I join one of the commenters: "Oh yea, YES. I love the build up. And the discordant piano. The saxophone pulling the melody along. And the bass building lines of passion and fervor. The few moments where all the instruments meet and synchronize, and for that brief moment you see the clarity of the movement and the direction it's going. It rises and swells, and build. Tempo and volume congruous until the end, where it explodes with it's original intent."
"As you play, there must be no intellectual interference. Intellect is good for picking out an instrument, teaching or getting to the gig on time. It's good for academia, it's good for practicing scales, reading books, and studying. But it is not good for creating. Intellect has to surrender to instinct when it's time to play."
(Kenny Werner, "Effortless Mastery: Liberating the master musician within")
"It is impossible to be self-conscious and totally involved in the music at the same time. Consciousness of the self is a barrier between the player and the instrument. As I forget my own presence, I attain a state of oneness with the activity and become absorbed in a way that defies the passage of time."
(Mildred Chase, "Just Being at the Piano")
"Improvisation, it is a mystery. You can write a book about it, but by the end no one still knows what it is. When I improvise and I'm in good form, I'm like somebody half sleeping. I even forget there are people in front of me. Great improvisers are like priests; they are thinking only of their god."
Thinking about Richard Cook, and by extension about Lester Bowie doing "Thriller" as opposed to Jacko -- assuming that there even needs to be an "opposition" -- reminds me that this Bowie did understand the mechanics and emotions of pop to a sublime degree. Indeed, through his involvement as arranger and lead trumpeter on Fontella Bass' "Rescue Me," one could argue that he helped lay the ground on which the werewolf Jackson could prowl. "The Great Pretender," though, is his key to the pop kingdom. Recorded in June 1981 as the title track of an album he made for ECM -- it was released in May 1982, at the height of New Pop, received rave reviews and incredibly (especially from this distance) very nearly charted -- Bowie is perceptible on the front cover only as a white-suited wraith, intangible at the far end of a murkily blue pond in the "Atmosphere" dead of night; it is no accident that the album's final track is entitled "Oh, How The Ghost Sings."
On the nearly seventeen-minute title track he is accompanied by a group of mainly non-stars; only long-time collaborators Phillip Wilson (drums) and Hamiet Bluiett (baritone sax) would have been well known at the time (as well as the occasional backing vocals of David Peaston and the aforementioned Fontella), and pianist Donald Smith and bassist Fred Williams never seem to have become "big," which in Smith's case at least seems an injustice. The Platters original would have been familiar to the teenage Bowie's turntable -- as perhaps was Stan Freberg's brilliant parody with the recalcitrant jazz session pianist itching to play anything other than "cling-cling-cling" -- but Bowie uses the song as a basis for exploring everything he feels about music and his chosen instrument, rather than just pop alone. Certainly the track gives rein to his full range of techniques; opening with Smith's grave, rumbling piano, Bowie's trumpet kisses with tremulous intimacy, a tender tribute to Miles, perhaps even an unspecified requiem, leaning close to the listener's ear, so close you can hear him breathing. Then abruptly he jumps back, increases his volume -- and the band evolve, or groan, into being behind him -- and interspersing darting, Mongezi Feza-style runs with raspberries, slurs and half-valve burps. This in turn leads to Bowie's hilarious Freddy Kruger-style slurring/cackling recitation of "Yes, I'm the great pre-TEN-DER!" before he swings the tune into familiar action, complete with authentic 1956 doo-wop piano and sax honks. Even then he refuses to play it straight, with acute octave leaps as though having just sat on a pin cushion, howls, entreaties, slowing the "oh-ah-oh-ah" backing vocal bridge to a funereal crawl before "YEAH!"ing the tune back into focus.
Then he gives way to Bluiett's solo, as the rhythm section swings into a Brubeckian 3/4 tempo, but even this doesn't remain stable for too long since Bluiett soon slides into his habitual "tonight Matthew I'm going to be John Surman" upper register squeaks and incontinent freakouts. Smith initially comps deadpan but soon moves into Keith Tippett abstraction, followed by both sax and piano winding in and out of freedom and tune. Bowie re-enters to calm things down, authoritatively authorising Smith's still rampant piano antics, before taking the temperature yet further down to engage in pointillistic free group interplay; Bluiett briefly roars back into focus for a tumultuous free-for-all but Smith's piano insistently polices the proceedings, allowing Bowie's valve manipulation slowly to gather the pieces of the song back together. Bowie teases, hints, doesn't quite reveal, but finally -- and absolutely on cue with a triumphant "YAYYYYY!!!!" goes right back into the tune, on beat and on key. He comes down one final time -- Bluiett's baritone now taking the deadpan comping role -- with some sensual trumpet talk, including a brief agitated moment where he seems to be disentangling a pair of underpants from the bell of his horn, before coming back for the final chorus, played with Satchmo pride, and then brings the performance to its natural end, returning gradually to his opening, muted tenderness of remembrance -- before signing off with "I'm here, baby! I'm HEEEERRRRE! I've arrIIIIIIved!" and ghostly chuckles which exactly parallel those of Vincent Price on the original "Thriller." He knew how to prowl around pop, all right.
It was just a usual Saturday night goodtime, nothing else; the bebop winos were wailing away, the workingman tenors, the cats who worked and got their horns out of hock and blew and had their women troubles, and came on in their horns with a will, saying things, a lot to say, talkative horns, you could almost hear the words and better than that the harmony, made you hear the way to fill up blank spaces of time with the tune and very consequence of your hands and breath and dead soul; summer, August 1949, and Frisco blowing mad, the dew on the muscat in the interior fields of Joaquin and down in Watsonville the lettuce blowing, the money flowing for Frisco so seasonal and mad, the railroads rolling, extraboards roaring, crates of melons on sidewalks, bananas coming off elevators, tarantulas suffocating in the new crazy air, chipped ice and the cool interior smells of grape tanks, cool hop hepcats standing slumped with horn and no lapels and blowing like Wardell, like Brew Moore softly...all of it insane, sad, sweeter than the love of mothers yet harsher than the murder of fathers.
Jean-Louis, Jazz of the Beat Generation, 1955
Excellent playing by Dino Saluzzi. Following up the bandoneon - here's Per Arne Glorvigen playing La Rayuela (Julio De Caro)
"It's the difference between a lemon and an orange. The bandoneon is an orange, the accordion is a lemon. The accordion has an acid sound, a sharp sound. It's a very happy instrument. The bandoneon has a velvet sound, a religious sound. It was made to play sad music."
Astor Piazzolla (1921 - 1992) world famous Argentinean bandoneonist and composer.
Estella Jones: "Cakewalkin' was a lot of fun durin' slavery time. Dey swep yards real clean and set benches for de party. Banjos wuz used for music makin'. De women's wor long, ruffled dresses wid hoops in 'em and de mens had on high hats, long split-tailed coats, and some of em used walkin' sticks. De couple dat danced best got a prize. Sometimes de slave owners come to dese parties 'cause dey enjoyed watchin' de dance, and dey 'cided who danced de best. Most parties durin' slavery time, wuz give on Saturday night durin' work sessions, but durin' winter dey wuz give on most any night.
Joe did live in mammoth for quite some time but had lung problems and eventually had to move because the altitude didn't agree with him..He performed here often , usually outdoors at chair 7+8 on chilly summer nights with dust blowing across the stage and propane heaters set up next to the musicians..I remember one cold night when his drummer tried to leave the stage before the encore and Joe telling her to sit her ass back down...
Anyone who has ever tried to learn how to jam on the acoustic guitar, or anyone who loves the kind of jazz that's all about the jamming should take to time to watch this one. This guy has taken what Django did and made it his own (albiet with more fingers).
I'm not sure if this jazz, or even how you could classify it; in your face pop? acid classical? Anyways, there are some key elements of jazz here. However you classify it, it's amazingly cool and original.
The song features the mixed and dubbed recordings of these players:
Miles Davis – trumpet
Wayne Shorter – soprano saxophone
Bennie Maupin – bass clarinet
Joe Zawinul – electric piano – Left
Chick Corea – electric piano – Right
John McLaughlin – electric guitar
Dave Holland – electric bass
Harvey Brooks – electric bass
Don Alias – drum set – Left
Jack DeJohnette – drum set – Right
Juma Santos – congas
1959 was the seismic year jazz broke away from complex bebop music to new forms, allowing soloists unprecedented freedom to explore and express. It was also a pivotal year for America: the nation was finding its groove, enjoying undreamt-of freedom and wealth social, racial and upheavals were just around the corner and jazz was ahead of the curve.
Susan, i just read the wiki article on the Concord label. One man's dream evolved into an amazing corporate stronghold on some major record labels and in doing so, became warden over a wide range of music and recording history.
↑ don't mention that the voice belongs to one of the hottest ladies around.
Stanley Turrentine ≈ The Return Of The Prodigal Son (full album)
≈ The Return Of The Prodigal Son
≈ Pres Delight (Flying Jumbo)
≈ New Time Shuffle
≈ Better Luck Next Time
≈ Ain't No Moutain High Enough
≈ Dr. Feelgood
≈ The Look of Love
≈ You Want Me To Stop Loving You
≈ Dr. Feelgood (alt. take)
ever caught a bonita?
we used them for shark bait when passing time offshore on seismic vessels. my favorite boat to navigate, under the flag of the Great State of Texas MV China Seal (230ft).