Woody welcomed home

 Oklahoma has always had a troubled relationship with her native son Woody Guthrie. The communist sympathies of America’s balladeer infuriated local detractors. In 1999 a wealthy donor’s objections forced the Cowboy Museum in Oklahoma City to cancel a planned exhibition on Guthrie organized by the Smithsonian Institution. It wasn’t until 2006, nearly four decades after his death, that theOklahoma Hall of Fame got around to adding him to its ranks. But as places from California to the New York island get ready to celebrate the centennial of Guthrie’s birth, in 2012, Oklahoma is finally ready to welcome him home. The George Kaiser Family Foundation in Tulsa plans to announce this week that it is buying the Guthrie archives from his children and building an exhibition and study center to honor his legacy.

While this poor folks’ hero and the richest man in Oklahoma might not seem to have much in common, Mr. Kaiser’s foundation, with its $4 billion endowment, is dedicated to helping Tulsa’s most disadvantaged. “I cried for an hour after meeting George Kaiser,” Ms. Guthrie said. “This puts together what I’ve always dreamed of.”

Early Chet

One day I decided to look for renditions of "This time the dream's on me" and it was on this compilation. There are 4 CDs to the collection. The first one starts with live pieces, including a couple where Chet played with Bird: the fidelity is poor, but the talent shines through. Discs 2 and 3 have studio pieces. Disc 4 contains a few studio pieces, and a number of live pieces (in which Chet plays with both Stan Getz and Gerry Mulligan.

This box set is available for purchase, and is annotated online. For a public library to own it is a gift that, alas, too few will appreciate. Yet it is proof of a wonderful music collection, and the Port Washington Library has that.

Who will remember Paul Simon?

At first I thought he might have died, with that headline, but it is an analysis of his person and music, musical criticism.

There may be legitimate reasons for the chasm between Mr. Simon and younger audiences. Some of his lyrics portray him as an upscale urban intellectual who shields his emotions behind a well-considered phrase; when he writes at street level, there can be a sense that he's revealing research rather than experience. For all his musical explorations—gospel, reggae, Mexican folk, South African mbaqanga, Afro-Brazilian batucada and electronic soundscapes, among them—Mr. Simon's recordings often polish away needed bite and edge.

His popularity does not equal that of Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan or Leonard Cohen, is a criticism.

His métier, it turns out, is life's often-baffling twists and triumphs, joys and jolts, and though some Simon compositions may be cryptic, they are easily deciphered. Mr. Simon has been hiding in plain sight since Simon & Garfunkel's debut disc was released some 47 years ago.

In performance, Mr. Simon was, as he's been for most of his career, a man who spends little time with image, preferring to lead with his songs, voice and guitar to transmit a knotty, deeply felt worldview. His place in the pantheon of American song long ago secured, Mr. Simon said as he left the stage, "I had a good time." So did we all, as anyone would have who has an abiding interest in musical adventure and lyrical excellence.

Rapper finds order in Orthodox Judaism

Lamenting The Future Of the Blues

In early May, I traveled to Memphis to attend the Blues Foundation's 31st annual two-day gala, which included its Hall of Fame induction ceremony and awards banquet. Buddy Guy received a Lifetime Achievement Award. Pinetop Perkins, now 96 years old, turned up, as did 80-year-old Bobby "Blue" Bland and 78-year-old Hubert Sumlin. I heard folk blues, country blues, jump blues, Chicago blues, Delta blues, Texas blues, fast blues, slow blues, good blues and bad blues. What I didn't hear was new blues, and I flew back home no less relieved of my own blues over the genre's troubling future.

Got the blues flying bqack from the blues 'cause of the state of the blues.

Today's blues music isn't only steeped in the past; it's anchored to it. During the performances before and during the banquet, I could trace to almost every song, instrumental solo or vocal style I heard its originator or its most celebrated proponent—and I'm far from an expert on the history of the blues. These tales of heartache, oppression and fleeting joy sounded all too familar.
According to Jay Sieleman, the Blues Foundation's executive director, most blues fans aren't looking for something new. "We all don't want the blues to be the same ol', same ol'," he said, "but it'd better be close."

Laying down the law.

The blues establishment seems to have little interest in reaching out to other musical communities. No rock, hip-hop or jazz artists with a musical debt to the blues were part of the activities in Memphis. Perhaps in turn, blues musicians aren't invited to participate in most major rock festivals...

Keep it pure, ensuring it atrophies; well done.

"We're all worrisome about getting a young audience," XM Satellite Radio's Bill Wax said over sweet tea in Memphis. At the same time, though, he said: "I don't believe the blues world looks for the next big thing. We love people who play around with the form, but we don't want people to mess with the tradition."

Nonsense: keep it pure, resist change, and the music will wither away.

For the blues to have a future in which daring artists bring in new listeners, the establishment needs to share the blues with people who have a different idea of what it is. The future can be built on new modes of expression if musicians and fans remember the blues isn't merely a form. It's a feeling. Capture it, as so many artists did in decades past in so many ways, and you're playing the blues, whether it's with a bottleneck, a big band or a studio full of digital effects.

Jason Moran, the gifted jazz pianist who eagerly explores the blues, explains how he connects with a feeling necessary to make authentic music: "I remember saying to an older musician that I wanted to play bebop, and he said, 'You can't. You didn't live in that time.' That really fired me up to think about what was going on in that time to make those musicians play that way."

That's nonsense, that one can't play it if one didn't live in a particular time; that would make all music die.

"The blues is getting to be like an endangered species," Mr. Guy said by phone. "It's like somebody put a spell on it."

Traditionalists closed to change.

As for Mr. Guy, he profited from some outreach when his daughter Shawnna asked him to appear on "Block Music," her 2006 platinum album. "It's a new thing, a different way," Mr. Guy said of the rap-blues marriage. "Like when Muddy put electricity to the harmonica."

Exactly.

Sonny Stitt

A beautiful sax. Touted as Bird's heir, a burden too great for any one, he grew into his own sound. Found this on YouTube; whilst only music, it is a magnificent example of his gorgeous tone.



This second one is a video: JJ Johnson (trombone), Howard McGhee (trumpet), Tommy Potter (bass), Kenny Clarke (drums), Walter Bishop Jr. (piano), and Sonny Stitt (sax) performing Bird's My Little Suede Shoes. Berlin, September 26, 1964.


A gem follows: Bird and Coleman Hawkins in an excerpt of "Ballade" followed by Bird, Buddy Rich, Hank Jones and Ray Brown jamming. It ends with Norman Granz describing the following two pieces (which are not played), which bring in Lester Young, Flip Phillips, Harry "Sweets" Edison and Ella Fitzgerald.


That last one mentioned above is here:

Exodus to Jazz

Listening to Last.fm, Ben Webster & Oscar Peterson radio, Exodus by Eddie Harris came on. I have never heard the song, probably, other than in the movie. Curious, I took a look at his biography.

Eddie Harris (October 20, 1934 - November 5, 1996), was an American jazz tenor saxophonist. Although he was one of the most popular jazz musicians of his day (and the first to receive a gold record), his inclusion in his repertoire of types of music other than jazz and his incorporation of comedy into his act led many jazz critics to consider him insufficiently committed to jazz. His experimentation with other types of music sometimes had questionable results, but many still regard him as one of the great jazz musicians.

 Insufficiently committed? What the hell do critics know? And how could they criticize a musician in such a way?

Rahsaan Roland Kirk

Recently I've been listening to Anything goes: the Cole Porter songbook instrumentals. One of the cuts on it is Get out of town, by the Roland Kirk Quartet. I have become utterly fascinated by it, and, of course, by Kirk himself. I remember seeing him in the Fillmore East. An Internet gave me a website that lists the Fillmore East shows.

There it is: 1, 2 & 3 April 1971 Santana, Tower Of Power, Rahsaan Roland Kirk & Vibration Society.

Foolish and intoxicated, we booed him; we were there to see and hear Santana, not this weird music. He got pissed off, and broke the wooden chair he had on stage. Later, off the rock and roll bandwagon, learning about jazz, I began to appreciate him.

 This picture well illustrates his style.


For Rashaan Roland Kirk
Gerald Majer
Callaloo, Vol. 22, No. 2 (Spring, 1999), pp. 333-334


Published by: The Johns Hopkins University Press
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3299453

For Rashaan Roland Kirk, by Gerald Majer © 1999 The Johns Hopkins University Press.

This is the first of two pages; Callalloo is "A journal that reports on African and African American arts for the general audience."

This is one of several videos on the Web. Check out Quincy Jones's 'fro.

Ella rediscovered

Herman Leonard Photography L.L.C./CTSimages.com - A Herman Leonard photograph of Ella Fitzgerald performing at the New York nightclub Downbeat in 1948. Watching rapturously are Duke Ellington, center, and Benny Goodman, in glasses behind Ellington.

Ella is one of those few people who is instantly recognizable, and who needs but one name. Her voice is unique.

Verve has just released “Twelve Nights in Hollywood,” a four-CD boxed set of Ella Fitzgerald singing 76 songs at the Crescendo, a small jazz club in Los Angeles, in 1961 and ’62 — and none of it has ever been released until now.

These aren’t bootlegs; the CDs were mastered from the original tapes, which were produced by Norman Granz, Verve’s founder and Fitzgerald’s longtime manager.

The story in the Times has full audio stream of three songs; well worthwhile listening. I shall look into having HWPL buy the CD set when I get back from Mexico.

There’s nothing rare about a joyous Ella Fitzgerald recording; the woman exuded joy in nearly every note she sang. Yet the level on these sessions soared higher and plumbed deeper.

Why these tapes stayed locked in the vault for nearly half a century — and what it took to set them free — is a tale of a producer’s neglect, a jazz sleuth’s obsession and a string of happy coincidences.

Norman Granz was recording Ella a lot that year. The tapes were vaulted after a dozen of them were issued in an LP, and did not do well. For a quarter century the tapes were forgotten.

Then, in 1988, Phil Schaap, a dogged jazz scholar well known for excavating long-lost treasures from studio archives, was contracted by PolyGram (which had recently bought Verve) to compile a discography of all the recordings — issued and unissued — that Fitzgerald ever made for the label.

Our intrepid Mister Schaap.

Early on in the task, riffling through PolyGram’s vast tape facility, then in Edison, N.J., Mr. Schaap unearthed the never-released tapes of a 40th-birthday concert that Fitzgerald recorded at the Teatro Sistina in Rome on April 25, 1958. He urged PolyGram’s executives to release them. When they did, as an album called “Ella in Rome,” on the concert’s 30th anniversary, it soared to No. 1 on Billboard’s jazz chart. Stephen Holden, in The New York Times, hailed it as “a treasure for the ages.”

It was soon after this triumph that Mr. Schaap came across the tapes from the Crescendo Club — not just the tracks that Granz had picked for “Ella in Hollywood,” which was long out of print, but the other reels, which nobody had unspooled for nearly three decades. Mr. Schaap listened to all of them and thought that here was another trove of hidden jewels.

Max Roach always spoke very highly of Phil Schaap and his historiographical efforts.

But by this time Verve was busy producing CD reissues of Fitzgerald hits. There was no appetite for sifting through what appeared to be the rejects of an old flop. And there things stood until late last year, when Mr. Seidel was re-reading a biography of Fitzgerald by Stuart Nicholson. In the back of the book was an expanded version of Mr. Schaap’s discography — 61 pages long — as commissioned by the author.

Mr. Schaap has listened to hundreds of Granz recordings over the decades, including the released master takes and the unreleased alternate takes. Granz, he said, was “a great man of profound vision,” but as a record producer, he “infrequently dwelled at length on what takes should be issued.”

Dan Morgenstern, director of the Institute of Jazz Studies and a former good friend of Granz, agrees. “Norman was maybe the most lavish record producer there ever was,” he said, but he was often “unconcerned or careless” when it came to preparing and issuing the albums. (Granz died in 2001.)

Herman Leonard, the great photographer, once took a picture of Duke Ellington sitting at a front-row table in a small New York nightclub, beaming at Fitzgerald while she sang. More than any other album, “Twelve Nights in Hollywood” gives us an idea of what Ellington was smiling at.

God is in the House

Sightings - November 14, 2009

You Never Saw Art Tatum Sweat

That's why the centennial of his birth went all but unnoticed
Terry Teachout

For the critic, the word "best" is like a grenade without a pin: Toss it around too freely and you're likely to get your hand blown off. But you won't get many arguments from musicians if you toss it at Art Tatum, who was born a century ago last month. Tatum was—and is—the most admired jazz pianist who ever lived, a super-virtuoso whose whirlwind technique left his colleagues speechless with envy. "When that man turns on the powerhouse," Fats Waller said, "don't no one play him down." Nor was his renown restricted to the world of jazz: Vladimir Horowitz loved Tatum's playing so much that he made his own arrangement of "Tea for Two," a song that was one of Tatum's specialties. Yet outside of Toledo, Ohio, Tatum's home town, the centennial of his birth on Oct. 13 went all but unnoticed. And though the greatest of all jazz pianists is as revered today as he was in his lifetime, he is essentially unknown to the public at large.

On the other hand, Tatum, who died in 1956, was never a full-fledged celebrity, not even in the days when he got written up in Time magazine and made occasional appearances on such popular TV programs as "The Tonight Show." Unlike Waller, Duke Ellington or Ella Fitzgerald, who knew the profitable secret of mass appeal, he was an artist's artist known mainly to those who were already in the know.

What was it about Tatum that kept him in relative obscurity? Part of the problem, I suspect, is that his personality was almost entirely opaque. We're told that he liked baseball and drank Pabst Blue Ribbon beer by the quart, but little else is known for sure about his private life. James Lester's "Too Marvelous for Words," published in 1994, is the only biography of Tatum, and it fails to give much of a sense of what he was like offstage, not because Mr. Lester fell down on the job but because Tatum was unforthcoming on the rare occasions when he talked to journalists. In his most extended interview, a conversation with Willis Conover of the Voice of America, he is well-spoken but frustratingly noncommittal. The only surprise comes when he confesses that "I don't feel that I have all of the technical facilities that I would like to have." That's the musical equivalent of hearing Alfred Hitchcock tell a reporter that he wished his movies were scarier!

Not only did Tatum keep his own counsel, but he broke a cardinal rule of success for the performing artist: He made it look too easy. Just as most of us prefer to watch a trapeze artist work without a net, we like to be absolutely sure that a virtuoso is giving us our money's worth, and a seemingly effortless performance, no matter how spectacular it may be, deprives us of that slightly sadistic thrill.

Needless to say, anybody who can stumble through a C-major scale knows that Art Tatum always gave his audiences 10 times their money's worth. I can't count the number of jazz pianists who have described the experience of hearing Tatum for the first time in words similar to those of Gerald Wiggins: "I thought it was two guys playing the piano." But there was nothing to see in person, just a burly, impassive man who sat quietly at the keyboard, never moving his hands a millimeter more than necessary. In one of the few surviving film clips of Tatum's playing, a 1954 TV performance of Jerome Kern's "Yesterdays" that can be viewed on YouTube, you can see for yourself what Jon Hendricks meant when he said that on the bandstand, Tatum looked "like an accountant—he just did his work." Close your eyes and it sounds as though someone had tossed a string of lit firecrackers into the Steinway. Open them and it looks as though you're watching a court reporter take down the testimony of a witness in a civil suit.

Is it possible to wow the public without tossing your hair around? Yes and no. Fred Astaire never let you see him sweat, but he sweetened his deceptively casual virtuosity with just enough charm to make it irresistible. Tatum, by contrast, was more like Jascha Heifetz, a titan of the violin who brought off his stupendous feats of technical wizardry without ever cracking a smile or looking anything other than blasé—and though Heifetz was immensely famous, he was always more respected than loved.

The great violin teacher Carl Flesch got to the bottom of this paradox when he observed that "people would forgive Heifetz his technical infallibility only if he made them forget it by putting his entire personality behind it." The operative word here is forgive. To the small-d democrat, virtuosity is an insult, a tactless reminder of human inequality that can only be forgiven when the artist makes clear through visible effort how high a price he has paid for his great gifts. Art Tatum, like Heifetz, was too proud to make that concession. He did all his sweating offstage. That's why his exquisitely refined pianism will never be truly popular: No matter how much beer he drank, you could never mistake him for one of the guys.
—Mr. Teachout, the Journal's drama critic, writes "Sightings" every other Saturday. He is the author of "Pops: A Life of Louis Armstrong," out next month from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Write to him at tteachout@wsj.com.

Recording Pioneer

Just 23 years old when she recruited the Chicago Symphony Orchestra for a recording contract in 1950, Wilma Cozart Fine went on to create hundreds of orchestral albums that set the standard for classical-music recording for decades.

Mrs. Fine, who died Sept. 21 at the age of 82, led Mercury Records' classical-music recording business in the 1950s and 1960s, at a time when senior female executives in the industry were rare. She initiated and produced the label's "Living Presence" series that ultimately grew to a catalog of more than 400 classical recordings.

Despite more than half a century of technical innovation since Mrs. Fine's first recordings, her work is still considered exceptional for the clarity and realism of its sound.

The Mercury catalog included contemporary composers as well as music of the Civil War, made with period instruments and re-enacted battle sounds recorded at Gettysburg.

Concert by the Sea

The Other Frank Sinatra

For years, I have been careful to follow the advice Duke Ellington gave me when I was in my early twenties: "Do not categorize music or ­musicians—like 'Dixieland' or 'modern.' Listen, open yourself, to each musician." I failed to heed Duke's counsel with regard to Frank Sinatra Jr.

Duke is reputed to have also said "There are two types of music: good music, and everything else."