Well, the ski trip was sogged out. When we were five minutes from the lodge at White Pass, the skies opened. If it had been a few degrees colder, we’d have had a glorious snowfall. At 36 degrees, we got what my old Oklahoma chum Charlie Manwarring called a toad stabber. We looked up at the runs and saw downhill skiers resigning from the mountain in droves. Snowboarding and cross-country would have been possible but not enjoyable. We wheeled around and headed back down Highway 410.
Still it was a beautiful drive. We stopped at the Oak Creek feeding station and watched thousands of elk getting their ration of hay. The picture at this site shows you a few elk, but gives you ony a notion of the extent of the herd and the magnificence of the animals. We looked up at the ridge above the feeding station and saw dozens of elk in relief against the winter sky, waiting to get in line and make their cautious way down the steep, rocky trail to the free chow. Scroll down to see the pictures. Click in the video box on the right side of your screen for a two-and-a-half-minute narrated tour of the Oak Creek Wildlife Area and see elk moving through the forest.

Musical training is a more potent instrument than any other, because rhythm and harmony find their way into the inward places of the soul, on which they mightily fasten, imparting grace, and making the soul of him who is rightly educated graceful, or of him who is ill-educated ungraceful—Plato

Any musical innovation is full of danger to the whole state, and ought to be prohibited . . . when modes of music change, the fundamental laws of the state always change with them—Aristotle

As time passes and events accumulate, Katrina’s devastation of a region and disruption of lives fade into the background of the collective consciousness. But, as Russ Layne’s recent comment here reminded us, recovery is a down a long road. Trombonist Jeff Albert responds.

I am a New Orleans area musician. I was fortunate in that I still have a home and my family are all safe.

On behalf of all of the musicians down here, I’d like to thank people like Russ Layne who have gone out of their way to help the musicians of South Louisiana. It really does mean a lot to us.

Another good charity that has helped many of us is the MusiCares Foundation, which is run by NARAS (National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences). I have spoken to many musicians who have received assistance through MusicCares.

The person poised awkwardly in this picture is not me, but might as well be, except for one thing—he or, possibly, she is upright. The other day I spent hours on a mountain in the Cascades, falling over. It was my first lesson in cross-country skiing. That may be my instructor, Carla, watching, trying to keep a straight face.
I was in condition. I’ve been working out on a Nordic Track for years. How hard could it be? Hah. But by the end of the day, I was falling less often, no more than every hundred yards, and once I learned to make a V to slow or stop, the mild downhill grades were thrilling. I’m going back up there today, freezing rain or no freezing rain. If you learn with a coat of ice on the snow, it must be easier when there’s powder, right? It may become an addiction. At any rate, this will be the last posting of the day. I’m heading for the hills armed with the deathless words of Dorothy Fields.

Nothing’s impossible I have found,
For when my chin is on the ground,
I pick myself up, dust myself off,
Start all over again.

Don’t lose your confidence if you slip,
Be grateful for a pleasant trip, and
Pick yourself, dust yourself off,
Start all over again.

Work like a soul inspired,
Till the battle of the day is won.
You may be sick and tired,
But you’ll be a man, my son

Will you remember the famous men,
Who had to fall to rise again, so
Take a deep breath, dust yourself off,
Start all over again.

Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields, “Pick Yourself Up”

Rifftides reader Russ Layne writes from Chester, New York.

Wow, Just read the piece on Paul Desmond and the Red Cross. The first live jazz group I ever saw, a bar mitzvah present from my mother at age 13, was The Dave Brubeck Quintet at Fordham University (splitting the bill with Jackie Mason).

Anyway, as founder and executive director of Sugarloaf Music Series, Inc. in ‘downstate’ New York, my wife and I have developed a growing affinity to most Louisiana music, including Cajun. So…when we had the opportunity to help a group of Cajun artists in much need from New Orleans, The Bruce Daigrepont Cajun Band, and booked them into seven schools and venues with ALL proceeds going to the band, I reached out to the Red Cross, requesting that they help underwrite air fare for the band to Newark. After several connections with the NYC and local Goshen, NY offices, I was informed that they had no mechanism to facilitate our request. And now I’m learning that one of my original jazz idols, Paul Desmond and his estate has left nearly $5 million to the Red Cross. That I couldn’t get a penny to help some victims get work makes it even MORE of a
p—-r!

I was finally able to get Tipitina’s Foundation to handle that expense. I encourage all to funnel their contributions to that organization.

In April, my publisher, Malcolm Harris, and I were in Manhattan throwing a party at Elaine’s restaurant to announce the publication of my biography of Paul Desmond. Dave and Iola Brubeck were co-hosts. There was a gratifying turnout of Paul’s friends and colleagues, and of well-wishers, musicians and assorted literati. I was disappointed that Terry Teachout couldn’t be there. He was in Washington at a meeting of the National Endowment for the Arts.
Later in the week, Terry, Malcolm, I and another friend had lunch, during which I mentioned that I was looking for a new periodical, one that would accomodate more than occasional reviews and articles. That triggered general bemoaning of the state of magazines. Suddenly, Terry’s gaze shifted skyward and his mouth fell open. We all looked up through the glass wall and ceiling of the sidewalk restaurant to see what large object was about to come crashing down on us. Not to worry. It wasn’t a plane falling. It was an idea.

“Blog,” Teachout said. “You should be doing a blog, the first real jazz blog, and I know just how and where.”

Back at his apartment—which for good reason he calls The Teachout Museum—he showed me on his I-Book the technical steps he goes through to post his artsjournal.com blog, About Last Night. I understood them about as well as I understand the progression of equations needed to conceptualize cold fusion. Don’t worry about that, he said, the important thing is to put you in touch with Doug McLennan. He whipped off a message to McLennan, the artsjournal major-domo. In short order, after I returned to the west coast, Doug and I reached an understanding—mainly of my insistence that the blog would not be only about music—and Rifftides was launched within a few weeks.
I am indebted to old pal Teachout for having that flash of inspiration, for believing that I could come out of my techno-fog, for assuming that there would be an audience, and for sending his readers our way. “I owe you plenty, Bix,” I’ve told him on more than one occasion and if you don’t know where that semtiment comes from, listen to Stan Freberg Presents the United States of America, Vol. 1, The Early Years: Yankee Doodle Go Home (Spirit Of ’76). Terry knows it well.
When the news came that TT, after feeling lousy for a couple of weeks, was in the hospital, I was concerned, along with hundreds of his friends and blog devotees. It was congestive heart failure, but as he reported when he returned to the Museum and limited duty,

My heart muscle is weakened but undamaged. If I do as I’m told—exactly—I have a very good chance of being around for a very long time to come. I even get to go home for Christmas tomorrow morning.

That is where he is now, with his family in what he invariably calls Smalltown USA, following his doctor’s orders. I’m sure that he’ll learn to love Ry-Krisp and yogurt, and I wish him a deliberate, cautious, relaxed and complete recovery.

This morning, we’re going into the Cascade mountains for cross-country skiing. It has the makings of a long day, so further blogging is unlikely. Managing a laptop on the trails is so awkward, not to mention the difficulty of finding a wireless signal or a tree with a phone jack in a national forest at 4,500 feet.

One of the most satisfying aspects of Rifftides during this first year has been hearing from you. It is gratifying that so many good listeners and fine musicians are on board. Today’s postings all come from readers.

From Kent, UK, near London, Rifftides reader Don Emanuel writes about this Ben Webster posting. It included mention of four Webster CDs.

Thanks for keeping the memory of Ben Webster alive. I know it’s all a matter of taste and personal preferences, but how could you miss out the album he made with Tatum, in (I think) 1956 in your recommended Webster albums. I’ve got dozens of his albums and although Tatum appears to solo under Ben’s solos, which you would think would make the recording a complete mess, it turns out to be a true jazz masterpieice.

Has Ben’s sumptuous tone ever been captured better. Have the standards they play ever been interpreted any more lovingly?

Ben doesn’t actually improvise much on this album but his reading of the tunes played is so exquisite that I get goosebumps every time I play the album.

An album which is pure emotion to me.

It was not my intention to list, rate or rank Webster’s output. A search of Amazon or any of the other major internet CD outlets will turn up dozens of CDs by or featuring him. I don’t know of one in which he is boring or disappointing. I agree with Mr. Emanuel about the Tatum-Webster. It is, by most critical evalutions, the best of the Tatum Group Masterpieces series. Webster caressing the melody of “My Ideal” is one of the most affecting ballad performances on record. Big Ben, a Proper box, has four CDs with highlights of Webster’s work from 1931 to 1951, including a generous selection of pieces featuring him with the early forties Duke Ellington band.

Pianist Jack Reilly writes from New Jersey:

One can tell it’s Ben after one note out of his horn. I had the honor of touring Norway with him for three weeks in 1971. He was a quiet man before and during the gig. However, after hours he never shut up! It was always about his old boss, Duke.

He taught me a great lesson about improvising. He said, “Tell your story in one chorus, man. Don’t play chorus after chorus”!

He was reluctant and afraid to return to the States because he said all of his friends who did, died soon after their return to Europe. When he did come back for some award and returned to Denmark, he died within one year. The word of his death spread so fast that I received a phone call within two hours of his passing. I immediately sat down and composed a tribute to this giant, a five part suite I titled, “In Memoriam Ben Webster”. When I put the last note to manuscript, I cried like a baby. Those 3 weeks with Ben were like three years of post grad studies. God bless his talent. He communicated like no one else I have played with before or since. His heart was three times as big as his overwhelming physical presence.