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Clark Terry’s fans, friends and admirers around the world will no doubt be thinking of him, and listening to him, for a long time. Since his death on February 21 at the age of 94, CT’s vast legacy of recordings is coming in for extensive play on the air, and on home turntables, CD players, iPods, and mobile sound systems of all kinds. His bequest to listeners also includes many videos, a few of them from the memorable 1977 Montreux Jazz Festival in Switzerland.

That year, impresario Norman Granz produced at Montreux a recreation or continuation of Jazz At The Philharmonic. Beginning in the 1940s Granz and JATP took mainstream jazz to millions throughout the United States and, ultimately, other parts of the world. At Montreux ’77, he not only revived JATP but presented several all-star combos, among them a sextet headed—nominally, at least—by Terry. That resulted in an album on Granz’s Pablo label, one of several recorded at that remarkable festival.

Many of the performances were also videotaped. Here’s CT playing flugelhorn with Oscar Peterson, piano; Milt Jackson, vibes; Ronnie Scott, tenor saxophone; Joe Pass, guitar; Niels Henning Ørsted-Pederson, bass; and Bobby Durham, drums. The piece is Luis Bonfa’s “Samba de Orfeu.”

Milt Jackson’s public expression was most often somber, but it’s no wonder that he broke into a big smile following that opening solo of Terry’s

Go here to see the variety of albums that Granz recorded at the Montreux Festival in 1977 and a couple of other years.

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In answer to a Rifftides reader’s request, pianist Alan Broadbent expanded here last month on a concept that he mentioned in an earlier comment. The reader wanted to know what Broadbent (pictured below, left) meant by, “a swinging eighth note.” Here is part of his answer.

The pushing and pulling of a musical phrase over a steady beat by a soloist, the tension and release of a phrase, is what creates a profound feeling of swing. This is not what singers call “back phrasing”, which is a forced and conscious affect to try and produce the same thing. This is actually an engagement between the soloist’s inner feeling for the time and the time itself. Unlike classical, fusion and pop music, which is just the beat, the jazz musician/soloist is creating a magnetic force between his “pole” and the beat’s “pole.” Lennie Tristano believed this to be a “life force” inherent in human existence. His axiom was, “Jazz is not a style, it is a feeling.”

For demonstrations by six musicians of Tristano’s generation, we turn to alto saxophonist Sonny Stitt, trombonist J.J. Johnson, trumpeter Howard McGhee, pianist Walter Bishop Jr., bassist Tommy Potter and drummer Kenny Clarke. Filmed in Germany in 1965, they play Charlie Parker’s “My Little Suede Shoes,”

To see all of Alan Broadbent’s guest essay, which includes video of young Louis Armstrong swinging eighth notes, go here.

Have a good weekend.

Pianist Billy Childs and vocalist Alicia Olatuja, their flight delayed for hours by snowstorms in the east, made it to Portland barely in time for Childs’ concert of songs by Laura Nyro (1947-1997). The material came from Childs’ 2014 Nyro tribute album Map To The Treasure. Olatuja and vocalist Becca Stevens each sang several Nyro songs. Olatuja made a major impression with “Been On a Train.” Childs introduced the piece as, “a powerful song.” In an impressive act of vocal drama, Olatuja (pictured right) made doubly powerful the story of a witnessed death.

Stevens was effective in “And When I Die” and “Stoned Soul Picnic,” Nyro songs that became anthems for a generation of young people in the late 1960s and the ‘70s. Supported by Childs’ atmospheric piano and arrangement, she was exquisite in “Upstairs By a Chinese Lamp,” and in Nyro’s beseeching “Save The Country,” a reaction to the unrest, uncertainty and inequality of the civil rights era and the Viet Nam conflict. The focus of the concert was on Nyro’s material and the singers, but Childs allotted himself enough solo opportunities to remind the audience of his preeminence among contemporary pianists. He also featured guitarist Peter Sprague as a guest artist and major soloist on several pieces. Wild, at times barely restrained, Sprague’s work on “Map to the Treasure” matched the virtuosity of Childs’ own solo. Throughout the concert, both of them interacted to great effect with bassist Ben Shepherd and drummer Donald Barrett.

Ms. Stevens and pianist Taylor Eigsti opened for Childs and company. Their initial festival collaboration earlier in the week was obscured in an acoustically impaired church. The Newmark Theatre’s sonority and superior sound system brought Stevens’ clear voice to the fore. Now, it was possible to understand every syllable of the lyrics of Eigsti’s songs “Magnolia” and “Plane Over Kansas.” The piano was in bold relief for his accompaniments and the brilliance of his solos. Their short set concluded with Duke Ellington’s “Prelude To a Kiss.” Stevens interpretation of Irving Gordon’s words added poignancy to, “My love is a prelude that never dies.”

The Portland Jazz Festival swings into its final weekend this evening with Julian Lage hosting fellow guitarists John Stowell and Dan Balmer, and bassist Dave Captein in a tribute to the late Jim Hall.

In one of those scheduling coincidences that make for hard consumer choices at the Portland festival, the adventurous pianist Hal Galper will be playing at the same time as Lage. His trio includes bassist Jeff Johnson and drummer John Bishop.

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There will be a funeral Service for Clark Terry next Saturday at the Abyssinian Baptist Church in New York City’s Harlem. The trumpet and flugelhorn giant died last Sunday in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, where he and his wife Gwen lived for many years after they left New York. Terry will be buried at Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx.

From the time we first met when he was in the house band at the New Orleans Jazz Festival in the late 1960s, CT and I spent time together whenever we found ourselves in the same town. Conversations with him were full of laughter and, for me, learning. Here’s a section of what Clark told me about an early job with Fate Marable, who decades before had hired Louis Armstrong to play in his band on Mississippi River steam boats. This is from Jazz Matters: Reflections on the Music and Some of its Makers.

‘Fate was an old man then, but he was still leading bands on those Mississippi steamers. He used to get a big kick out of playing tunes in weird keys. You’d go on this gig and you’d be accustomed to playing something in F, he’d play it in F-sharp and laugh through the whole tune while you struggled. It was good training.’

Marable’s sense of the unusual extended to non-musical matters and may have given rise to a colorful addition to the language. Terry says the river boats were equipped with axes to be used in the event it became necessary to chop an exit from a flaming cabin or passageway. Marable used the implement instead of a pink slip.

‘Whenever Fate would get ready to make a change in the band, he’d tell the rest of us to come early. Then, when the cat he was going to fire would come at the regular time, he’d find an ax on his chair. I’ve never heard any other explanation of the term, so it seems logical that’s where it came from. Cat got the ax.’

Terry never got the ax from Marable or from any of the other famous leaders for whom he worked. After a stint in a Navy band during World War II, he played with Lionel Hampton, George Hudson, Eddie ‘Cleanhead’ Vinson, Charlie Ventura, Count Basie and Duke Ellington, the association that made him one of the best known soloists in jazz. With Ellington, Terry blossomed. Duke’s genius for recognizing and capitalizing on the characteristics of his sidemen has rarely had more startling results than in the case of Clark Terry.

Ellington sensed in Terry something of the New Orleans tradition. When Ellington was preparing A Drum Is A Woman, his suite in which New Orleans plays a large part, he chose Terry to portray Buddy Bolden. Bolden’s style is entirely legendary; no recordings of him are known to exist. Terry recalls protesting the assignment.

‘I told him, ‘Maestro, I don’t know anything about Buddy Bolden. I wouldn’t know how to start.’ Duke said, ‘Oh, sure, you’re Buddy Bolden. He was just like you. He was suave. He had a good tone, he bent notes, he was big with diminishes, he loved the ladies, and when he blew a note in New Orleans, he’d break glass across the river in Algiers. Come on, you can do it.’ I told him I’d try, and I blew some phrases and he said, ‘That’s it, that’s Buddy Bolden, that’s it, sweetie.’ That’s how Maestro was. He could get out of you anything he wanted. And he made you believe you could do it. I suppose that’s why they used to say the band was his instrument. The Buddy Bolden thing is on the record, and Duke was satisfied. So as far as I’m concerned, that was Buddy Bolden.’

We’re going to miss you, CT.

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In the student competition held in connection with the festival, first-place prizes went to alto saxophonist Joel Steinke and singer Jacob Houser, both from Edmonds-Woodway High School near Seattle. Backed by the trio of pianist George Colligan, a Portlander transplanted from New York, they each played two numbers as they opened for bassist Christian McBride.

McBride’s trio had the bright young sidemen Christian Sands on piano and Ulysses Owens, Jr., on drums. Their three-way exchanges on the Ellington-Tizol standard “Caravan” and on Sands’ waltz-time “Sand Dunes” were compelling. McBride is a larger-than-life personality whose stage presence complements his ability to play with absolute command of the bass at any tempo. Dazzling even when his blizzards of notes amounted only to blizzards of notes, he counterbalanced displays of virtuosity with depth and earnestness as he bowed the melody of Rodger and Hammerstein’s “I Have Dreamed.”

McBride introduced Freda Payne as a surprise guest. She sang “Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most” and “I’d Rather Drink Muddy Water” in carbon copies of what she had done two nights earlier at Jimmy Mak’s club (see the report). A natural raconteur, McBride recruited the audience to participate by clapping time on “a 1970s R&B hit” whose title he did not announce and, it turned out, did not need to. Called back for an encore, he said “Gonna lay a little Thelonious Monk on ya.” There was no detectable Monk melody in what followed, but he, Sands and Owens had great fun playing the blues and earned—guess what?—that’s right, a standing ovation. The Portland audience is generous with those.

These days, the 88-year-old Lou Donaldson’s alto saxophone solos consist mostly of quotes as sound gags, and clichés from his own and other peoples’ recordings. His repartee, long on wryness and glancing reflections on human failings—his own and others’—is as sharp as ever. With guitarist Eric Johnson, drummer Fukushi Tainaka and Hammond B3 organist Pat Bianchi, Donaldson made his way through a set long on jokes, blues singing (“Whiskey Drinking Woman”) and extended solos by Johnson, Bianchi and Tainaka. He had Johnson, with a wireless transmitter on his guitar, wander around the audience for a lengthy traveling solo on Donaldson’s 1967 hit “Alligator Boogaloo.” All of this endeared Donaldson to the audience, which evidently arrived knowing what to expect.

The Bill Charlap Trio is a chamber group of a quality customarily found only in equally long-lived classical ensembles. In their years together, pianist Charlap, bassist Peter Washington and drummer Kenny Washington have achieved singleness of purpose and unity of thought to a degree rare in any musical idiom. At the Portland festival, they applied their wisdom, experience and empathy in a recital of pieces from Frank Sinatra’s vast repertoire. From the opening “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was” to the closing “One For The Road,” their balance, restraint and swing, their regard for the material and one another, combined in an hour and a half of absorbing playing—and listening.

The concert was a succession of memorable moments. A few of them: Charlap’s unaccompanied performance of Rodgers and Hart’s “It Never Entered My Mind” melded into the trio as they sustained the mood in “It’s Only A Paper Moon.” They concluded the piece with a blues ending and, after all of Charlap’s and Peter Washington’s sophisticated harmonic changes, the surprising openness of a major chord. Sinatra made a recording of “Stardust” that consisted of only the song’s introductory verse. Charlap played the verse thoughtfully by himself, perhaps with Sinatra’s version in mind. The Washingtons joined in the chorus, firmed up the swing and then the three wound down to a final eight bars of lyricism. With wire brushes on snare drum, Kenny Washington demonstrated in “There’s A Small Hotel” that he is a modern master of what someone once called that tough, straight art.

“In The Still Of The Night,” taken at a fast clip, incorporated bass and drum solos during which Charlap listened intently, absorbing every nuance and occasionally nodding in understanding or approval. After the first chorus of “On A Slow Boat To China,” the tempo kicked up to near the edge of insanity, exciting the audience and leading them to demand an encore. They got two; “Only The Lonely” played by Charlap alone, and a trio performance of, appropriately, ‘One For The Road.” There was a standing ovation.

The concert was one of those listening experiences that one wishes he could take home and play back.

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With the theme of the Portland Jazz Festival centered around the 100th anniversary of Frank Sinatra’s birth, two artists with top billing focused on interpreting songs associated with Sinatra. Mini-concerts by winners of the festival’s student competitions preceded some of the featured performers. Warming up the audience for Kurt Elling, a 20-voice choir (pictured below) from Battle Ground High School in Washington, sang two pieces. They included a spirited expansion of the Lambert, Hendricks and Ross version of “It’s Sand, Man” from the Count Basie book.

Elling’s outsized self-regard has often overwhelmed the songs he sings. But in Portland, following a laudatory introduction spoken by pianist Bill Charlap, he concentrated on the substance of 15 pieces from Sinatra’s repertoire and was all the better for it. Backed by the Art Abrams Swing Machine, Elling sang with power, elegance and little of the forced hipness that sometimes mars his work. In “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” “Witchcraft,” “All The Way” and, particularly, “Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me,” he came uncannily close to summoning up Sinatra’s essence. Elling conducted the band, setting the tempos with no-nonsense finger snaps. He allotted generous solo spots to alto saxophonist John Nastos and trumpeter Buzz Graham.

For all of the effectiveness of the band, however, the high point of the concert came after Elling called Charlap from the wings. Their voice-piano duets on “Lucky To Be Me” and “In The Wee Small Hours of the Morning” were perfection. Charlap’s “Wee Small Hours” interlude, a moment of pure impressionism, led the two to a quiet ending that left a hush in the hall—until loud, sustained, applause broke out. After the emotional impact of his ballads with Charlap, Elling’s swaggering “My Kind Of Town” and “The Lady Is A Tramp” with the big band were anti-climaxes.

There was more of Charlap to come before the weekend ended, but first another pianist, five years younger, took the stage of the intimate Winningstad Theater. Vijay Iyer’s trio has attracted attention through heavy radio play, cover stories in the major jazz magazines and several successful CDs, including the recent Break Stuff. Iyer, bassist Stefan Crump and drummer Marcus Gilmore work in the tradition of rhythmic and improvisational interdependence established by the Bill Evans Trio. As they adjust to one another, they develop streams of time. In Thelonious Monk’s “Work,” none of the three played with a 4/4 beat, but a satisfying undercurrent of 4/4 feeling emerged from their interaction. Crump’s solo on the piece was typical of his work throughout the set; he was faithful to the form and harmonic structure while within them he made rhythmic departures and invented melodies. In any given piece, whether employing brushes, sticks or mallets, Gilmore makes the drum set another melody instrument.

Iyer’s advanced keyboard technique and his willingness—or eagerness—to take chances resulted in moments of adventurousness like one in which the trio’s mutual time play morphed into repetition of a snatch of melody. It might have seemed the antithesis of swing, except that it swung hard, right up to an abrupt ending that left the listener breathless. It is worth noting that from the first of their set Iyer, Crump and Gilmore had the audience. The attention of the listeners was riveted on the music, with none of the whooping and whistling often in evidence at this festival, in fact at most jazz performances in recent years. Toward the end of the set, Iyer spoke his thanks to the audience over a quiet trio vamp with closing chords that somehow brought to mind the romanticism of Edward McDowell’s piano sketches. Then he moved the vamping into churchy chords that, with Gilmore’s offbeats, hinted at Ray Bryant. This is an interesting band.

Next time: Christian McBride Trio, and Charlap on Sinatra

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At the Portland Jazz Festival, Freda Payne reached into her jazz, pop and soul background for the ingredients of an eclectic evening. Her performance summarized a career that began in the 1950s when she was a Detroit teenager. Payne appeared at Jimmy Mak’s, a club near downtown that serves as an official festival venue. Playing to an audience overflowing with standing listeners, she worked with a quintet led by the veteran Portland drummer Mel Brown. Payne opened her late set with Cole Porter’s classic standard “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To” (1943) moved to Kenny Rankin’s 1991 “Haven’t We Met?” then Hampton and Burke’s “Midnight Sun” (1947). Her intonation tended toward flatness early in the proceeding, but settled as the concert progressed.

Buoyed by the Brown rhythm section’s drive, Payne intensified the feeling as she moved on to Merle Haggard’s “Whatever Happened to Me?” and Styne and Cahn’s “I Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out To Dry”. Bassist Ed Bennett and pianist Clay Giberson were Brown’s rhythm accomplices. Tenor saxophonist Rob Davis and trumpeter Derek Sims rounded out the band. Davis’s solo on “Midnight Sun” was a high point.

A welcome touch: Payne made it a point to credit the composers and lyricists of all the songs she sang, a nicety that Frank Sinatra also practiced in his concerts. She skillfully managed the rhythmic subtleties required to be convincing in the Ivan Lins Latin standard “The Island.” Possibly encouraged by the fellow SRO standee who yelled “Woo-woo” in my ear following every song, she called on her immersion in soul and blues in a closing tryptich of “I’d Rather Drink Muddy Water,” “Save Your Love For Me” and “St. Louis Blues.” Payne’s passion and authenticity in the idiom have earned her the respect of several generations of jazz musicians. One of them is bassist Christian McBride, who invited her to sing two songs in his band’s concert two nights later. In Payne’s gig at Jimmy Mak’s, Sims’s flugelhorn solo on the blues all but brought down the house. It was so—well, so bluesy—that I was tempted to join in with the “Woo-woo” guy.

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Clark Terry has died at 94 following his long battle with the effects of advanced diabetes. His wife Gwen posted the announcement this morning on her Facebook page.

Our beloved Clark Terry has joined the big band in heaven where he’ll be singing and playing with the angels. He left us peacefully, surrounded by his family, students and friends. Clark has known and played with so many amazing people in his life. He has found great joy in his friendships and his greatest passion was spending time with his students. We will miss him every minute of every day, but he will live on through the beautiful music and positivity that he gave to the world. Clark will live in our hearts forever.

With all my love, Gwen Terry

Mrs. Terry’s announcement did not include information about when her husband died died or plans for services. For a thorough obituary, go here.

Here is a reminder of the gifts that made CT one of the best known and most admired jazz artists of the modern era. He leads a septet at the 1977 Montreux Jazz Festival with Oscar Peterson, piano; Milt Jackson, vibes; Ronnie Scott, tenor saxophone; Niels-Henning Ørsted Pedersen, bass; Joe Pass, guitar; and Bobby Durham, drums.

Clark Terry, RIP