Trumpeter Randy Sandke knew Michael Brecker for nearly forty years, since both were college freshmen. Thought by many to be the most influential saxophonist since John Coltrane, Brecker died on Saturday, January 13, of leukemia brought on by myelodysplastic syndrome (MDS), a rare cancer of the blood marrow. After saying his final goodbye to Brecker, Sandke wrote the following remembrance of his friend. We are honored that he chose Rifftides to publish it.

Michael Brecker as I Knew Him
By Randy Sandke
I’ve already been to too many memorial services for jazz musicians (and I know I’ll be at many more), but of all of them, the one for Michael Brecker was the saddest and most emotional, at least for me. Maybe it was because he had two beautiful school-aged children: a daughter age seventeen named Jessica and a son, Sam, thirteen. Then there were the circumstances of his death–a grueling two-and-a-half year struggle with an ailment for which there is no cure, and for which the therapy (massive chemotherapy) was often as devastating as the disease. But lastly, there was Mike. Aside from his prodigious and unique talents, he was one of the sweetest, most gentle, and kindest souls I’ve ever met. His loss is incalculable in many ways.

I’ve know Mike since we were both eighteen, students at Indiana University. He entered as a Spanish major and took music courses only as electives. Even then he was a stupendous player. He idolized his older brother, Randy, who had graduated from Indiana two years before. Mike thought he could only catch up with Randy (who was and is a well-schooled but very natural trumpet player) by working as hard as he could. He was obsessed with practicing. He and Steve Grossman (whom I think Mike had met at Phil Woods’ camp, Ramblerni) used to compete by seeing how fast they could transcribe the latest Coltrane recording. Mike once told me he wanted to be Coltrane, though he listened to many other tenor players, from Joe Henderson and Joe Farrell to Junior Walker and King Curtis. (We used to assemble at a campus pizza parlor and listen to “Memphis Soul Stew” on a nearly nightly basis).
But Mike had a musical Achilles’ heel: he found reading music boring and at that time was barely able to do it at all. He auditioned for the IU jazz band but because of his reading difficulties only made the second band. I remember hearing a concert they performed in which Mike sat patiently in the section as they ran through their not too inspiring charts. Suddenly Mike stood up and blew the roof off the place. He then sat back down as if nothing unusual had happened and finished the concert. Even then he was hypercritical of his own playing.
We formed a jazz-rock band with the rather uncouth name of “Mrs. Seamon’s Sound Band.” Mrs. Seamon was the head dietician at Wilkie Quad where Mike and I lived, and she hated the longhaired and unkempt students who were invading her cafeteria. Mike himself was always something of a natty dresser but we were all letting our hair grow long; after all, this was 1967-8.
Our band played at the Notre Dame collegiate jazz festival that spring and our mélange of straight-ahead cum avant-garde cum fusion totally baffled the judges. Ray Brown refused to give us the first prize, so for the first time in the history of the festival they didn’t award one. We all considered this a major victory; the hippie side of us looked askance at competitions anyway.

Young Michael Brecker
But out of this came an offer to take the band to Chicago (my hometown–Mike was from Philly) to be managed by the wife of a Chicago jazz writer. This whole episode was a disaster from the start as it turned out that she was more interested in maintaining a stable of young studs than taking care of business. When two of the band members quit, we were stuck in a semi-hopeless situation. She’d already put us up in an apartment and invested money and we felt obligated to her but couldn’t work until we replaced the guys who left. We tried auditioning various musicians but none jelled with what we were doing.
After two months of this stalemate I couldn’t take it anymore. I went home to my parents’ place to enjoy a warm meal and clean sheets. I told everybody I’d be back in a day or two. That night all hell broke loose. Two sisters, friends of the keyboard player, were “crashing” with us. One was selling LSD and she handed it out that night. Everyone in the band had some experience with it (and I’m pretty sure some declined), but the younger sister, Bridget, had never taken it before. She was very attracted to our drummer, Eric, as was another woman who was staying with the band. Between the acid and this bizarre love triangle Bridget got so upset that she flung herself out of a third story window and killed herself.
An ambulance took Bridget away but the others were rounded up by the police as the apartment was searched. They found the LSD and everybody was carted off to Cook County Jail. Michael and I were the only two not arrested. Earlier that evening Mike had sensed that something might go terribly wrong and he went out for a walk. He returned to find the place surrounded by police cars and paddy wagons. I never found out where Mike stayed that night. He may have just paced around until dawn.
For the other band members, the nightmare only deepened. They were separated and put into cells with vicious criminals. Eric, who had witnessed Bridget’s jump and also taken acid, was brutally gang raped in his cell. Meanwhile, the notoriously corrupt Chicago police sent a van to our apartment and proceeded to steal all the band’s equipment and possessions. I lost my record collection, my trumpet and the flugelhorn I’d won at Notre Dame. Once again Mike was spared the worst because he had taken his tenor into a shop for repairs.
An ambitious DA wanted to press murder charges against the guys and the press was hungering for a sensational LSD story. Eventually the whole thing was thrown out on a technicality, but too much damage had already been done. Eric was never the same. Within a year he committed suicide by jumping off a landing in Los Angeles.
Mike and I were both devastated, but we dealt with this horrible experience in very different ways. I was having trouble with a rupture in my larynx that was exacerbated by playing without proper amplification in our band. After an operation I considered unsuccessful I decided to quite the trumpet and music altogether. I didn’t even own a trumpet for another ten years. I sought treatment with a variety of psychiatrists, learned to live without being a musician, and gradually came to terms with all that had happened.
Mike moved to New York where his brother was already well on his way to establishing himself as a jazz and studio player. At nineteen Mike made his recording debut on his brother’s record, “Score.” From there they both proceeded to garner more and more success and fame.

The Brecker Brothers
Yet, I know that the events of the summer of ’68 were still gnawing at Mike’s soul. He was a very shy, introverted person. Like many musicians he was more comfortable in the privacy of his practice room than in the company of people, especially strangers. Suddenly, he was in the limelight, surrounded by crowds of admirers and offered vast quantities of every conceivable temptation known to man.
I think it was in an effort to retreat from our bad experiences in Chicago that Mike began a downward spiral into alcohol, cocaine and eventually heroin. Through the seventies Mike’s fame grew by leaps and bounds as his private life deteriorated. This was also the period when he and Randy invested in their nightclub, Seventh Avenue South. It was a big success with audiences but an unscrupulous manager stole money and didn’t report anything to the government. Mike was financially wiped out as his bank account was seized by the IRS three times.
Finally, he came around and sought treatment and was able to transform his life. He took himself out of circulation for at least six months. He told me he didn’t care if ever made a penny again, he was going to do what he wanted to. He met the love of his life, Susan, and they settled down in a secluded home in Hastings-On- Hudson (before, Mike had lived in spacious but dingy lofts in the West 20’s and on Grand Street near Chinatown). Mike became a family man who doted on his two kids. He said if he had it to do again he would have had more. The family pet, a seeing-eye dog who hadn’t made the grade, rounded out the picture of suburban bliss.
I was really happy for him. After his hiatus Mike’s career again resumed as if he’d never been gone. It just exploded all over again, as well it should have. If a jazz musician becomes a major success, the critics can cool off on you and take you for granted. But no one, at any time, ever played the tenor the way Mike did. In live performance, he was probably the most exciting musician (jazz or otherwise) I have ever heard.
I started playing again in late 1979. By ’85 I felt ready to make my first solo album. I asked Mike to be on it. He was his usual gracious and encouraging self, and a model of professionalism in the studio. We did another album ten years later when I was with Concord.

I felt that Mike should not give me any special breaks and negotiated his fee with his manager and good friend, Daryl Pitt. I knew it was above Concord’s budget so I made up the shortfall out of my own pocket and sent a check to Mike. He never cashed it.
The real tragedy of Mike’s final illness is that everything was working so well for him- and he’d learned to appreciate it all. He also learned how to deal with his fame in a positive way and very seriously regarded his job as being a role model for saxophonists everywhere.
He also used his fame to raise awareness for his disease. Because of publicity he generated, 10,000 people from all over the world were tested as donors for bone marrow transplants. One of the few bright spots for Mike over the last few weeks was when he received a letter from a child whose life had been saved by a donor who had responded to the call to find a match for Mike. Michael himself never found a perfect match but did receive a transplant. The donor was his own daughter, Jessica. The doctors believe that her gift enabled Mike to live for an additional year.
One of the frustrating things about Mike was that it was impossible to compliment him without his complimenting you back. He wanted to see everybody as on his level, but the truth was, he existed on his own plane. Like all great artists, he gave us all a glimpse of how limitless and invigorating the possibilities of life are. Typical of his modesty was that (and I’m sure this was according to his wishes) the only music played at his memorial service was recordings of John Coltrane. The only live music was sung by a female cantor who did some ancient sounding Jewish modal piece that sounded eerily similar to something Coltrane would have played. Even in death, Mike was trying to teach us something about the universality of human experience.
Everybody who knew Mike loved him dearly and cherished every moment spent with him. He was extremely down to earth and totally unassuming. One of his favorite words was “amazing,” which of course he never applied to himself. He was a great spirit and, I truly believe, one of the greatest musical figures of our era. I feel so blessed to have known him and been able to call him my friend.

The lead story on the ArtsJournal.com main page concerns jazz education’s role in music and culture at large. Here’s the AJ tease, quoted from NewMusicBox.com:
“How is it that jazz has become the vehicle for the resurgence of robust music programs in the schools while classical music, and its offspring (arguably US) still find it a challenge to be seen as relevant to arts education in the United States? Perhaps it is because jazz is an honest child of the arts in American culture and is taking back its true inheritance.”
Good question, and it leads to a string of reaction. You can follow the argument by clicking here.

Jazz gets relatively little attention on commercial television, but one of the newscasts on WBBM-TV, the CBS-TV affiliate in Chicago, made an exception recently. It profiled Bob Koester and his Delmark Records label. The story focuses more on Chicago blues than on Delmark’s jazz artists, but reporter Vince Gerasole produced a fine little piece incorporating atmospheric historical footage of the city. Go here to see video of the report and read a transcript.

On Saturday, Michael Brecker succumbed to leukemia brought on by MDS (myelodysplastic syndrome), the bone marrow disorder that put him on the sidelines of music until recently. He was fifty-seven years old. The most admired of the legion of saxophonists that arose in the wake of John Coltrane, Brecker influenced a generation of tenor saxophonists who emulated him to the point of outright imitation. Few, if any, achieved his level of invention and individuality.

Jazz educators teach his harmonic approaches and stylistic innovations the way classical composition teachers use Hindemith or Bartok. For a time, doctors hoped that a bone marrow transplant would save Brecker, but they could not find a suitable donor of his blood type despite a widespread publicity campaign seeking one. An experimental blood stem cell transplant was not effective. Brecker’s record company, Telarc, announced today that he completed a final album two weeks ago. It is to be released on the Heads Up label in the spring.
On Friday, Alice Coltrane died at the age of sixty-nine. The former Alice McLeod left her career as a bebop pianist in vibraharpist Terry Gibbs’ band to marry Coltrane in 1963. She entered the tenor saxophonist’s musical orbit and during the final phase of his life joined his band as he became increasingly experimental and adventuresome. After Coltrane died in 1967 at the age of forty, she raised their children while also pursuing a performing and recording career as a pianist, organist and occasional harpist.

She was noted for music with a spiritual component influenced by her Hindu religion. During 2004 she toured with her son Ravi, like his father a tenor saxophonist. Those were her final performances. A family spokesman said that Mrs. Coltrane died of respiratory failure.

Rifftides reader Russell Chase writes:

Last night, my wife and I watched the 1933 movie 42nd Street on TV. I promised myself that I would listen to Rod Levitt’s LP with the same title today. I wound up playing all of the four Levitt LPs that I have. They have always rated very highly among my favorite things. Such consistently interesting writing and fine playing over a span of four LPs is hard to match.
When your name popped out of the notes of the Insight album, you were immediately nominated as the person with whom I would share my elation at having a non-CD day, and the reason why.

Well, Mr. Chase, now you have shared your elation with all of us, and that’s good; Levitt’s music deserves recognition. Rod Levitt played trombone in the Dizzy Gillespie big band that that toured Latin America and the Middle East in 1956, and in Gil Evans’ orchestra. For a time, he made a dependable living in the orchestra of the Radio City Music Hall. But he had a compulsion to write music, and in the early 1960s, he began turning out ingenious arrangements for an eight-piece rehearsal band. Levitt made use of audacious harmonies and spacious voicings, and many of his horn players doubled instruments, so that the octet often sounded twice its size. He adored Duke Ellington, and reflected Ellington’s influence. Yet, without embracing free jazz, he also managed to impart a rambunctious feeling of abandon, and Down Beat included him in a survey article about nonconformist composers. All of the other subjects of the piece were card-carrying members of the avant garde. I remember Levitt’s being amused, if surprised, by the company in which the magazine put him.

Over three or four years in the mid-sixties, he turned out the four albums Russ Chase mentions. They comprise a body of recordings that are fresh, evocative and enormously entertaining forty years later. The writing was daring, finely crafted and marinated in wit. Most of his players were top studio professionals who were superb improvisers. Among them were the trumpeters Rolf Ericson and Bill Berry, the pianist Sy Johnson and the saxophonists Buzz Renn and Gene Allen. Levitt’s gutsy, often raucous trombone was at the center of many arrangements, but he also fashioned delicate woodwind ensembles. None of Levitt’s three RCA Victor albums has been reissued on CD. Five tracks made it onto a 1988 RCA compilation CD with other works by Hal McKusick and John Carisi. The disc is difficult to track down. Amazon continues to list it, but as “currently unavailable.” Trolling the web may now and then turn up vinyl copies of Insight and Solid Ground, but 42nd Street seems to have evaporated.

For the most part, the demand by a modest-sized core of listeners for reissue of Levitt’s albums has fallen on deaf ears (also known as recording company accounting departments), but there is a happy exception. Before his company sold itself to Concord Records, Ralph Kaffel, the president of Fantasy, Inc., succumbed to years of entreaties from pesky critics and reissued Levitt’s first album on Riverside as a CD in the OJC series. That was 1963’s Dynamic Sound Patterns. In his 2003 National Public Radio review of the CD, Kevin Whitehead said, “He liked blaring harmonies and primary colors,” and that’s true, but Levitt also fashioned delicate woodwind ensembles. He knew how to use space. He was a master of balance among the sections and a creator of droll surprises. The enthusiastic cadre of admirers he accumulated with those LPs wasn’t big enough to earn him a renewal with RCA. Now that the Victor catalogue has been absorbed into the massive Sony empire, chances of the Levitts being reissued seem small. By the early seventies, possibly discouraged but a cheerful realist, Levitt began making a living writing music for advertising and turned out some of the hippest background music ever to grace TV commercials in New York. He kept the octet going as a rehearsal group, playing occasional concerts and, sometimes, simply hiring musicians to play his charts for fun. He also played for a time in the 1970s in Chuck Israels’ National Jazz Ensemble, a pioneer jazz repertory orchestra. For the NJE, he expanded the arrangement of “His Masters Voice,” Levitt’s evocative tribute to Duke Ellington. Happily, it is available in a splendid reissue CD on the Chiaroscuro label. For the past several years, Rod Levitt has been living in Vermont, largely inactive in music.

A sidebar to the story: When I was anchoring and reporting television news in Portland, Oregon, in the mid-sixties, I was addicted to Dynamic Sound Patterns. Levitt came to his hometown to visit his parents, I invited him to be a guest on a series I put together, a hybrid documentary and discussion program. It was called Insight. I told Levitt the broadcast needed theme music and asked, with trepidation, what it would cost to commission him to write it. He named what I thought was a reasonable figure. The program manager approved the deal. When Levitt got back to New York, he wrote the music, recorded it with his octet, notified me that it was ready and sent an invoice. The management reneged. They wouldn’t pay the bill. I was angry and embarrassed. When I told Levitt, he said not to worry, he would make use of the music. It became the title tune of his next album. In the liner notes, he mentioned me and the station, kindly. That’s class.

The piece stands alone, but it was also perfect for its intended use. In the unlikely event that I ever go back into television, I’ll do a documentary series, call it Insight, use that music and see that Rod gets paid for it.

That is the headline on a newspaper article about arts web logs. Rifftides is the focus of the piece by Kim Nowacki, arts editor of the Yakima Herald-Republic. She also interviews Brooke Cresswell, conductor of the Yakima Symphony Orchestra; Dan Peters, proprietor of the Blue Begonia poetry blog; and Doug McLennan, commander-in-chief of artsjournal.com.

“When I started ArtsJournal, the word blog had just been invented,” says Douglas McLennan, the Seattle-based founder and editor of ArtsJournal.com, a daily digest of arts, culture and ideas that launched in September 1999. The site, which receives about 600,000 visits per month, now also hosts blogs from some of the top arts and culture critics, including Ramsey.

I confess to a bit of a wince when I saw the adjective “venerable” attached to my name in the first sentence of the piece. Then I reflected on possible alternatives and felt better.
To read all of Kim’s story, go here. She provides links to the other blogs and sites mentioned in the article. Don’t miss the panoramic photograph at the top of the Herald-Republic page, a shot of the valley with the peaks of Mount Rainier and Mount Adams standing guard.

More than a year ago, we reported on the alliance between Václav Klaus, the president of the Czech Republic and the pianist Emil Viklický. Klaus established a series of jazz concerts at Prague Castle, the Czech equivalent of the White House, and chose Viklický to launch it. To read about that event, click here. Viklický is one of several veteran European jazz pianists, including the Italian Enrico Pieranunzi, the Austrian Fritz Pauer and the Frenchman Martial Solal, who are barely known in the United States despite their celebrity on the continent and in the British Isles. Viklický toured the US and Mexico in 1996 with the Ad Lib Moravia ensemble, but his appearances outside of Europe are rare. There has been talk of his touring North America with his Czech compatriot, the bassist George Mraz, on whose 2001 CD Moravá Viklický was featured.
In the meantime, Viklický continues to add to his considerable discography. His latest CD , Cookin’ in Bonn, was recorded at a festival in Germany with his longtime trio mates, the jaw-dropping bassist FrantiÅ¡ek Uhlíř and drummer Laco Tropp, a specialist in quiet power. The All About Jazz web site has a new page featuring the album and providing a download of “Aspen Leaf,” one of Viklický’s compositions based on the music of his beloved Moravia. It is a way to sample a complete performance, not just one of the snippets usually available to web surfers. Full disclosure: I wrote liner notes for the CD, but stand to gain nothing from its sale. My fee was paid long ago, and liner note writers don’t get royalties. Come to think of it, musicians rarely do. But that’s a complicated subject for another time.
Try Viklický. He’s worth hearing.

The interaction between or among jazz soloists has often been described as like a conversation. A brilliant young man about whom I am trying to learn more — his name, for instance — has taken that simile literally, given it substance and put it on YouTube. Watch this, and smile your way into the weekend.

You may remember the tenor saxophonist Jim Pepper for “Witchi-Tai-To,” an American Indian peyote chant he learned from his Kaw grandfather. Pepper set it to music and it became a crossover hit. The song persists as a staple in the repertoires of pop and so-called world music groups on several continents. It has a place in efforts to raise Native American pride and awareness, for which Pepper, with his Kaw and Creek heritage, has become a symbol.

When I knew Pepper in Portland, Oregon, in the early 1960s, he had a big sound with rough edges and was primed to jam at a moment’s notice. He could be combative on the stand and off. The muscle and heft of rhythm and blues ran through his playing. He took chances with harmony, which is to say that he often refused to let conventional chord guidelines interfere with his conception. Looking back a few years later, it was easy to see that Pepper was primed for the rock-jazz fusion milieu he jumped into in New York in the middle of the sixties. Free Spirits, the band with Pepper, guitarist Larry Coryell, drummer Bob Moses, singer Columbus Baker and electric bassist Chris Hills, had an impact on rockers including Jimi Hendrix and The Velvet Underground. The 1967 Free Spirits album Out of Sight and Sound disappeared for years but recently resurfaced as a CD. Pepper worked later with such adventurers on the jazz frontier as Charlie Haden, Don Cherry, Dewey Redman and Bill Frisell. Here’s part of a 1968 Don Heckman interview with Pepper:

Don: Let me ask you the standard question. Where do you think jazz is going to go?
Jim: It seems like it’s just about ready to just roll over for the third time and die. But that’s hard to say. The rock music may help it out some, but the musicians themselves in their performance will really have to help. Maybe the younger musicians; if the older musicians move over, then something else will happen. I don’t think that people like to go to clubs and see Brooks Brothers suits anymore. Those days are gone, I think.

Discouraged by what he felt as low esteem for jazz in the United States, Pepper moved to Europe in his last years. He became popular there, particularly in Austria. He died back home in Portland in February, 1992, at the age of fifty. I have not seen Sandra Osawa’s highly praised documentary, Pepper’s Pow Wow,which seems impossible to find on DVD. If you’re interested in the VHS edition, go to this web page and scroll down. Few music outlets stock the albums Pepper made under his own name. One is 1987’s Dakota Song, in which he included sensitive performances of standard songs that demonstrated he wasn’t all swagger and boistrousness. Another is Comin’ and Goin’, recorded with John Scofield, Don Cherry, Nana Vasconcelos and Colin Wolcott in 1984. It includes a version of “Witchi Tai To” and just reappeared on CD at a confiscatory import price.
There may not be much of Pepper’s music available, but the folks at Harvard University’s radio station evidently have a substantial collection of it. They are billing what they call a Jim Pepper Orgy this Friday, January 12, from 6:00 am to 8:00 pm EST. It will be hosted by a woman with the intriguing name of Jesse Morgan Righthand. If you are in the Boston area, you can hear WHRB at 95.3-FM. If you are elsewhere, go to the station’s web site and click on “Tune In.”
Jim Pepper is often strong medicine. Strong medicine can make you well. If you’re hearing Pepper for the first time, let us know your impressions.

In The New York Times, Ben Ratliff reports on Sunday night’s memorial service for tenor saxophonist Dewey Redman, at which a number of Redman’s colleagues performed.

The pianist Ethan Iverson and the bassist Reid Anderson, both of the trio the Bad Plus, with (Matt) Wilson on drums, got off a version of (Ornette) Coleman’s “Broken Shadows” that demonstrated the slippery harmonic mobility Mr. Redman played so easily. And Joshua Redman, Dewey Redman’s son, played a startling piece on tenor saxophone, unaccompanied, and very unlike the rest of his music: it was slow and minor and wary, using the horn’s full range, putting space between short phrases.

To read all of Ratliff’s story, go here. For a rare recording of the Redmans together, seek out Dewey’s 1992 CD African Venus, and hear the contrast between the styles of father and son.