Sheila Jordan has a farmhouse retreat in Upstate New York where the 80-year-old singer goes to develop new music. In The New York Times this week, Lisa A. Phillips wrote a charming story about Jordan and her country life. Here is a sample:

“When I come up here,” she said, “I feel totally undressed musically. I feel I can try out any kind of idea I have.”
On her five and a quarter acres of land atop Canady Hill, her only close neighbors have been the cows the farmer next door once kept. “I called them the bebop cows,” Ms. Jordan said. “They didn’t like ballads. If I sang them a slow tune, they left. If I sang bebop, they came running over.”

To read the whole thing, go here. Do not miss the audio slide show embedded in the article.
Here is Sheila during a Austrialian tour in a tribute to one of her heroes, Billie Holiday. Mike Nock’s trio accompanies her.

When the video clip ends, you will see links to other Jordan performances on YouTube.

If all of July is like this, I’ll be a happy cyclist. My Italian friend Vigorelli Bianchi and I did 22 morning miles. The air and light had a crystalline quality more usual In October than summer. The cherry crop looks splendid, loading the trees so heavily that in places the branches bowed low near enough to the road that I could almost have plucked the fruit as I rode by. This is the stage at which cherry growers pray for no rain.
Thinners are in the apple trees making room for the fall fruit to develop. The orchards have all the earmarks of a bumper apple crop.
Fruit workers waved and smiled as I passed, approaching motorists nodded and lifted fingers from their steering wheels in greeting, dogs barked more out of a sense of duty than intent to pursue, and not one pickup truck tried to run me into the ditch. It was one of those rides when I felt stronger at the end than the beginning. It was great out there.
I had to tell someone.

Please go to the center column and scroll down to Doug’s Picks. There, you will find recommendations for two tenor saxophonists, a pianist who sings (or a singer who plays the piano), a pianist and a poet. Yes, a poet.

Ted O’Reilly writes from Toronto about the item in the following exhibit:

Nice stuff with the DBQ. I agree with your comments about the sound quality especially. It was in the days of Professionals when that was recorded: both musicians (who knew how to play together) and technicians. “Balance Engineers” who could listen to a group play, then simply(!) put THAT sound on the air, or disc usually capturing it with three or four well-placed microphones.
I am still in awe of the hundreds of performance airchecks I have by Ellington/Basie/Herman et al. which stand up so beautifully over decades. It sure is a differently-made beast that is presented to our ears these days…

Ted’s communiqué put the Rifftides staff in mind of Roy DuNann’s imperishable engineering for Contemporary Records. To read about him, see this archives piece.

YouTube has posted a few excerpts from programs the Dave Brubeck Quartet did for BBC television in 1964. The musical and the black and white video quality are superb. In the first one, I am struck by Brubeck’s delicacy at the keyboard and by the fullness of Paul Desmond’s alto saxophone sound. The critic Steve Race was the program host.

Race interviews Brubeck leading into a feature for bassist Eugene Wright. In the discussion, Brubeck earnestness and shyness are as noteworthy as Wright’s playing. One other point: Desmond used to speak with enthusiasm about Brubeck’s skill and sensitivity as an accompanist. In “The Wright Groove,” Brubeck’s comping behind Wright’s solo is evidence of what Paul was talking about.

Up to my ears in curricular and non-curricular matters since my return from New York, I may or may not get around to writing more about last week’s Jazz Journalists Association awards afternoon. In the meantime, Arnold Jay Smith posted a lively summary on Ted Gioia’s jazz.com blog. In his lead paragraph, he alludes to the demise in the past few months of of several jazz magazines, including Jazz Times, Coda and Jazz Review.

In the face of what is fast becoming a debacle of biblical proportions for jazz, the Jazz Journalists Association held its 13th Annual Awards buffet at Jazz Standard on Tuesday, June 16. From all over the globe they came; scribes, radio and computer folks, business and professorial types, from the east, Midwest and western U.S., from across the pond, from up Scandinavia way, from down in the Caribbean, out of Africa, India, Russia and Kazakhstan. Proving once again that jazz is a multi-cultural, international language.

To read all of A.J.’s report, click here. The photo below shows Mr. Smith and Sharony Andrews preparing for the arrival of guests at the 2002 ceremony at the Jazz Standard. He was just as impeccably attired this year. His face, unfortunately, is mostly obscured by the brim of his chapeau, but his shoes are on full display.

JJA President Howard Mandel’s exhaustive report on the afternoon, generously illustrated with photographs, is in PDF form at this internet address.
Finally, as evidence that I really did show up this year, in this photo by JJA member Steve Sussman, I am announcing that the 2009 award for lifetime achievement in jazz journalism goes to Mike Zwerin (shown here on the left). Mike is most likely the only jazz writer of standing who doubles on bass trumpet and trombone. He was in the original Miles Davis-Gerry Mulligan-Gil Evans Birth of The Cool band. For decades, he has written from Paris with forthrightness, humor and the insights of a trained musician. Zwerin was unable to attend. His friend the novelist Rafi Zabor accepted for him.

Each man reads his own meaning into New York. –Meyer Berger
One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years. –Thomas Wolfe
I miss New York. I still love how people talk to you on the street – just assault you and tell you what they think of your jacket. –Madonna
I love short trips to New York; to me it is the finest three-day town on earth. –James Cameron
It is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal. Its politics are used to frighten children. Its traffic is madness. Its competition is murderous. But there is one thing about it-once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no other place is good enough. –John Steinbeck

At Grand Central Station, I plop into a chair in a semi-circle of what look like overstuffed maroon leather armchairs, a hard plop; the chair is molded plastic. One of New York’s great free shows is underway in the lower concourse, with a cast of thousands. It’s the evening commute to the northern suburbs. Many of the commuters are running. The picture doesn’t do justice to the activity and energy of the place.

“Attention, please. The 5:36 express for Tarrytown, leaving on Track 6 in one minute.”

A young woman runs by in Dolce and Gabbana jeans. I can tell that they are Dolce and Gabbana because a shiny silver badge on the waist band announces the fact. Hey, if you’re going to wear 400-dollar pants, why keep it a secret? Her lower body is clad in high fashion and she looks great, but there’s discomfort in her expression. Those tight jeans were meant for striking poses, not running. If she could afford 400 bucks for pants, she could take a limo to Scarsdale. One in five people (ratio not scientifically confirmed) is on a cell phone. Many of them are running.

“I just called to tell you I can’t talk. I’m running for the train.”

“I missed the 5:10. I’ll be 20 minutes late. Pick me up. ‘Bye. Gotta run.”

An old woman in short grey hair, a boxy grey suit and mannish brown shoes walks by with a three-year-old boy by the hand. The boy’s other hand is in the hand of a girl of about six. Surrounded by the streaming crowd, the children look bewildered, fearful. The woman is forging ahead, determined and grim. Grandmother? Governess? Kidnapper?

A number of the young women are wearing shower shoes, as they used to be known. Later, they were called zoris. Now, the acceptable term is flip-flops. As the girls run, the footwear neither flips nor flops. The sound is flap, flap, flap, flap, flap. I wonder if they wore those things all day at work or shopping in Manhattan. Wouldn’t their feet get dirty? A drastically short woman in tight capri pants and four-inch heels speeds by. She has what my father used to call a hitch in her getalong, and her sound is clack, de-clack, clack, de-clack, echoing through the concourse.

Five people standing together at the top of the ramp in front of the Oyster Bar break into applause. I look for what inspired them. Nothing is evident, but they look delighted. It probably wasn’t the extremely tall Hassidic gentleman strolling toward his track with dignity, a tall black hat and a briefcase the size of a small trunk. I wonder if he’s from the diamond district, carrying a load of samples to a wealthy client in Bronxville.

A sign of the times: I see elderly men in suits–more than a dozen in a few minutes–clutching briefcases, wearing their weariness on their faces, slumping toward their trains. Did they expect still to be working at their ages, still catching trains?

A young man slips into the big maroon chair next to mine. His afro is stuffed into an enormous knit cap puffed into the shape of turban. His gold ear ring is fashioned to look like a small horseshoe. He eats a half-pint of yogurt or cottage cheese, then promptly falls asleep. His head slowly leans until it is parallel to his right shoulder. The clack de-clacking, flap-flapping, departure announcements and general hubbub do not interrupt his nap. As I leave, I hope he doesn’t miss his train.

The woman to my left gets up at the same moment I do. I say to her, “It was a great show, wasn’t it?” She looks startled, then laughs and says, “Yeah…if that’s what you want to call it.”

I do.

Rifftides Washington, DC, correspondent John Birchard attended last week’s descent of several Marsalises on the nation’s capital.

THE MARSALIS FAMILY GOES TO WASHINGTON

By
John Birchard

Monday, June 15th, 2009, was a day to remember in this capitol city. A jazz-loving First Family welcomed New Orleans’ First Family of Jazz to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue for an unprecedented session in jazz education. Veteran pianist and educator Ellis Marsalis and his musician sons Branford, Wynton, Delfeayo and Jason conducted workshops for 150 students aged 8 to 18 in three rooms of the White House, where they were welcomed by First Lady Michele Obama. (The nation’s Number One jazz fan was occupied elsewhere with health care reform. The President is pictured here with Wynton Marsalis at the White House in January.)
Following the workshops, the students gathered in the East Room for a short concert featuring Cuban saxophonist Pacquito D’Rivera and a teen-age combo. The events were held in conjunction with Washington’s fifth annual Duke Ellington Jazz Festival and the Thelonious Monk Institute of Jazz, which paid for some of the students to travel to Washington.
Among her comments, the first lady said, “There’s no better example of democracy than a jazz ensemble – individual freedom, but with responsibility to the group.” She noted that growing up in Chicago, jazz was always playing in her family’s household.
As extraordinary as the day was, the celebration didn’t end at the White House. Monday evening, the Marsalises convened at the Kennedy Center where, in the sold-out 2,400-seat Concert Hall, they were joined by Dr. Billy Taylor and another Crescent City product (and ex-Ellis Marsalis student) Harry Connick, Jr. in a salute to the family patriarch. Additional starters were bassist Eric Revis and drummer Herlin Riley.
Very rarely do the members of the Marsalis family appear on the same stage and Monday’s concert gave them an opportunity to share their love and appreciation for the father who guided them all toward careers in jazz. One after the other, the sons offered anecdotes of their upbringing, laced with humor and respect. They kidded each other and they also made clear how much they love and appreciate their mother Dolores for her role in the family.
Branford told the audience that the evening’s program would be made up of tunes associated with various points in their father’s career. The first came from when their father and mother were courting – Louis Jordan’s “Choo Choo Ch-Boogie” done in suitably old-timey style. From the bebop era came “Donna Lee”, featuring Wynton in a cup mute and Jason astonishing the audience with some expert whistling as he traded fours and eights with his older brother. Jason also showed impressive skill with the vibraphone on a later tune. Delfeayo got off some excellent work on trombone and Branford was expressive on tenor sax. Wynton remains an extraordinary trumpet player delivering several crisp and soulful solos during the evening.
The second half of the concert opened with twin pianos – Ellis Marsalis and Billy Taylor, doing “Body and Soul.” The two senior citizens (Marsalis is approaching 75 and Dr. Taylor will soon be 88) may be a trifle bent with age, but they still can negotiate the keyboard. Then, Taylor departed to be replaced by Harry Connick, Jr., who joined Ellis for a funky reading of “Sweet Georgia Brown.” Connick told of being a student of Marsalis, of hanging out at the Marsalis household and being picked on by Branford and Wynton. Connick then sang “Stardust” with his former teacher accompanying.
The “boys” came back on stage to round out the evening with one of Jason’s compositions, a quirky stop-start melody underpinned by a distinctly New Orleans beat. The solos were rousing and the ensembles were tight, just as you would expect from such a gifted group. An ovation from the full house was warm and enthusiastic for Ellis Marsalis and his talented offspring. It was a happy end to a unique day in American musical history.

The Jazz Journalists Awards ceremony yesterday at the Jazz Standard on New York City’s east side was more than three hours of jam-packed activity in a crowded club. The highlight of the afternoon was 90-year-old Hank Jones accepting the Pianist of the Year award. Beautifully dressed, erect, looking 20 years younger than his age and speaking prose as elegantly constructed as one of his solos, he said “This is encouragement to do better,” and, “It’s just the end of the beginning.”
There is little of Mr. Jones’s degree of class left in jazz. There is little of it in American life. “I’ll see you at this event in 20 years,” he said.
I hope that we are that fortunate.
For a complete rundown of the award winners and a marvelous photograph of Hank at the ceremony holding a photograph of Hank, please see the JJA web site by clicking here.