The great tenor saxophonist, composer, arranger and wit Al Cohn died 18 years ago tomorrow. He and his frequent tenor sax partner Zoot Sims were so closely associated, so compatible in every respect that they were often mentioned as if they were a single entity named Alan Zoot. As quick and inventive with words as he was with notes, Cohn was celebrated for his bon mots. Here are a few:
On being offered a Danish beer of the brand called Elephant—“Oh, no, I drink to forget.”
Handing a banknote to a drunken panhandler, then pulling it back—“Wait a minute, how do I know you won’t spend this on food?”
Acquaintance: Where are you living these days?
Cohn: Oh, I’m living in the past.
“Free jazz—like playing tennis without a net.”
When I was covering the White House and Watergate in 1973, I flew out of the Westchester County airport in White Plains, New York, to Washington on Sunday nights or Monday mornings and stayed in DC until late Friday. UPITN put me up at a place near its bureau south of the capitol, the Airline Inn. For a few weeks, Al Cohn was also staying there. He was polishing the orchestration for the musical Raisin, which was breaking in before it moved to Broadway. Most mornings, Al and I met for breakfast and talked about his work, my work, music, the state of the world, anything and everything. Then, he was off to the theater and I was off to a hearing room on the hill or a briefing by the White House press secretary. Those breakfasts with Al are among my fondest memories. After that I didn’t see him often, except in passing at a festival or in a club.
In the eighties, I was living and working in Los Angeles. Toward the end of 1988, a few weeks before he died, Al played at a place in Toluca Lake, the Money Tree. The rhythm section was pianist Ross Tompkins, drummer Nick Martinis and, as I recall, Chuck Berghofer on bass. Despite his obvious deterioration, Al’s playing was the most moving I had ever heard from him. The pianist, Lou Levy, heard Al much more extensively than I did, beginning in the 1940s when they were with Woody Herman. He had the same impression of Cohn’s playing at the Money Tree. Al was deep, measured and thoughtful that night, and swung with astonishing power. He sat with us between sets. We talked about Zoot. He told us that the last time they played together, when Zoot was dying, he was astonished that his friend could get on the stand, let alone lift the horn, but that he played as if he were twenty-five. “I don’t know where it came from,” Al said.
I know. It came from the same place in Al, the heart.
If you are thinking of building a Cohn collection—a splendid idea—here are three CDs you might start with:
You ‘n Me, one of his finest collaborations with Zoot.
Nonpareil, with a quartet including Lou Levy.
Heavy Love, a masterpiece of duo playing, with pianist Jimmy Rowles.
I saw one Cohn’s last gigs (in Minneapolis with a pickup group), he wasn’t in the best of spirits, in fact on lower register notes, his tone took on a flouncy Buddy Tate quality. But I was impressed at the time by his decorum, shined shoes, and dry humor.
During a break an older audience member reminded me that Zoot had played with the same drummer some years before and during a lull had turned to him and said, “hey can you just play a. . . um….better.”
Al Cohn is one of those musicians who, as they age, seem to discard everything superfluous to what they are doing. Al, and others like him, become just pure song. By the way, I think Lou Levy was really onto something new and wonderful with his last two recordings, also hard to find: Lunarcy and Ya Know. Its a damn shame when anybody decent has to die; with folks like Al and Lou with their wonderful talent, it is even more so.