When I was in college and involved in the jazz community in Seattle, I helped to arrange a concert in my home town. Some of the musicians who traveled to the interior of the state to perform in that conservative agricultural community were black. One of my closest childhood friends came to the concert. Afterward, I took him to a party for the musicians. In the course of the socializing, I danced with a newer friend, the pianist Patti Bown. When I returned to the table, my old buddy told me, with considerable heat, that he was ashamed I had touched a black woman, although that was not the term he used to describe her.

I had not thought about that evening in decades. It came back to me last night as I listened to the next president of the United States speak to the world. I hope that my friend was watching, too.

Newspapers everywhere were retrenching even before the world financial crisis tetered on the edge of recession and finally fell into it. Declining readership and shriveling advertising revenue demanded cost-cutting. To no one’s surprise, staff and space reductions claimed arts coverage early. When newsroom budgets start to shrink, cultural journalism is among the first targets because editors know that there will be relatively few complaints. In a world of minuscule and increasingly fragmented attention spans focused (ha) on hip-hop, Britney Spears and movies about high school musicals, jazz is even more a minority interest than string quartets, modern dance and bagpipe solos.

Jazz writers still appear sporadically in The Washington Post, the San Francisco Chronicle, The New York Times, The Seattle Times and a few other major papers. Few of them are full-time staff employees. Free lance contributors who once covered live jazz and reviewed recordings regularly show up in print less and less often. Call it the Heckman phenomenon.

Until recently, Don Heckman, the jazz critic of The Los Angeles Times, wrote fairly often about jazz in and around the second largest city in the United States. At the beginning of his career at the Times, Heckman worked in tandem with Leonard Feather to provide readers with some of the most complete daily jazz coverage in the world. Like Feather, he was never a staff member. After Feather died in 1994 Heckman, an experienced musician, careful listener and talented writer, became the Times’ chief jazz contributor. He still is, but the contributions are declining to the point of disappearance. Around the turn of the century, jazz coverage was put under the supervision of the Pop Music editor at the Times. What eventually happened is typical of the fate of jazz coverage at most American newspapers. Here is a little of what Heckman wrote recently on his blog about the current situation.

Several months ago, a new editor took over the reins of the Pop Music department from the acting editor. I was told, almost immediately, by her that jazz reviews would be reduced in number, and would essentially have to be pitched to her for approval That represented an immediate and significant change, since — as one who is deeply aware of developments in jazz, here and elsewhere — I had generally done my own scheduling of reviews, with oversight from the acting editor. In addition, the Sunday jazz record review spotlight disappeared.

In scheduling my reviews — of both live concerts and recordings — I tried to balance the major name programs with as much coverage as possible for the Southland’s huge array of world class jazz talent. That approach became virtually impossible when the reviews were cut back to one a week. Within a month or two, they were cut to one every ten days. After that it became a matter of submitting events I thought were important, and hoping that coverage would be permitted. It usually wasn’t.

About two or more months ago, I was advised that the free lance budget for Pop had run out for the year, and that I should contact my editor in late December to consider what could be covered when the new budget came into effect in January. Basically that meant that I could do no reviews for the last 3 1/2 months of the year.

Considering the concentration and frequency of jazz in Los Angeles and Orange counties, that dictum is an absurdity, but L.A. is far from the only place where jazz coverage is drying up. To see all of Heckman’s posting and learn what besides music he heard when he covered the recent Thelonious Monk Jazz Competition, go here.

Not by the way, Mr. Heckman is devoting a substantial share of his time, energy and perceptiveness to a web log. That decision seems somehow familiar. I am adding a link to Here, There and Everywhere under Other Places in the center column.  

How is the jazz coverage in your newspaper? Use the comment link below to reply. In your brief paragraph describing the situation, please include the names of your city and your paper.

Herb Geller is eighty years old today. The alto saxophonist was the performing guest of honor tonight in a tribute concert by the NDR (North German Radio) Big Band. From 1965 to 1993,
Geller was a star soloist of the NDR, one of the best large jazz aggregations in the world. The concert was in the NDR’s venerable Rolf Liebermann studio. Since his mandatory retirement at sixty-five, Geller has been at least as busy as he was during the previous forty-seven years of his career. One of the major post-Charlie Parker alto soloists, he plays frequently in Europe and the United States. His most recent CD is Herb Geller At The Movies (Hep). His latest video is this one:

 

This video is one of three on You Tube showing Geller in 1972 rehearsing for a concert with the Bill Evans Trio in Germany. In it, he plays piccolo and flute. In the second video, he plays alto sax and flute and continues in this conclusion of the rehearsal sequence. Together, the three clips give us twenty-five minutes of four of the leading jazz players of their time preparing their music. These videos provide a precious opportunity to see Evans at once serious and relaxed in collaboration with a peer for whom he obviously had great respect.

Happy Birthday, Herb. Long may you wave.

There is little or no mention of it in his obituaries, but Studs Terkel’s first book was about jazz. The oral historian, broadcaster and master interviewer died yesterday in Chicago at ninety-six. Terkel won the Pulitzer Prize for his best-selling 1985 book The Good War: An Oral History Of World War II. Many of his other oral history books were also best sellers, beginning in 1967 with Division Street: America. He followed with Hard Times, Working and seven other books.

Even as he was acting in plays and doing his daily radio program, Terkel wrote a jazz column in a Chicago paper. He knew jazz in a wide range. His love and knowledge of it are plain in Giants of Jazz, published in 1957 when he was forty-five years old. The current running through the book is common to all of Terkel’s work, the convictions that everything is part of everything else, that we’re all in this together, that everyone’s story is important. Giants of Jazz begins with King Oliver and concludes with the chapter called “John Coltrane, the Search Continues.” Ending with Coltrane, Terkel reflected his awareness of what was brewing in jazz — Coltrane was slightly known when Terkel wrote the book in 1956 — and his vision of the direction in which the music was headed. Thomas Conner, music editor of the Chicago Sun-Times, captured that aspect of the book in a column in October of 2006.

For example, the chapter on Louis Armstrong is sandwiched between the one about King Oliver (who mentored young Louis) and Bessie Smith (who was affected by the sound of Louis’ horn); Smith’s bio mentions the moment Bix Beiderbecke heard her sing, a moment that left him in awe — and which figures into his own chapter, the next one. These links build a chain throughout the book — mashing up with full force when Count Basie and Charlie Parker hit Kansas City, and then when Dizzy Gillespie meets Bird — and they leave the impression that, yes, each individual was a formidable talent but, no, the opportunity for that talent to succeed did not present itself in a vacuum. These musicians were a part of something greater than themselves, and their own personalities amplified the human race as a whole. It’s all part of a continuity.

To read all of Conner’s column, go here.

Terkel spent 45 years broadcasting a daily hour of conversation, music and commentary on Chicago’s WFMT. In 1980, he won a Peabody award for that work. Among the staff of the station, who admired his defiantly casual dress, his dedication and his irascibility, he had a special name: Free Spirit.

The headline on Terkel’s obit in his hometown paper, The Chicago Tribune, is simply, STUDS. To read the obituary, go here. If you have fifteen minutes to spare, get the flavor of Terkel and his opinions by watching this video.  

‘Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world. — William Shakespeare

 

One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.   — Emily Dickinson

 

There are three things I have learned never to discuss with people: religion, politics and the Great Pumpkin. — Linus Van Pelt

Here’s a paragraph from the chapter titled “A Common Language” in my book Jazz Matters: Reflections on the Music and Some of its Makers:

Like every art form, jazz has a fund of devices unique to it and universally employed by those who play it. Among the resources of the jazz tradition available to the player creating an improvised performance are rhythmic patterns, harmonic structures, material quoted from a variety of sources, and “head arrangements” evolved over time without being written. Mutual access to this community body of knowledge makes possible successful and enjoyable collaborations among jazzmen of different generations and stylistic persuasions who have never before played together. It is not unusual at jazz festivals and jam sessions for musicians in their sixties and seventies to be teamed with others in their teens or twenties. In the best of such circumstances, the age barrier immediately falls.

There are no teenagers in a group called The Generations Band. On their CD Tough Guys, 

the age range is only from forty (tenor saxophonist Eric Alexander) to seventy-nine (drummer Jimmy Cobb), but the common language principle guides this sextet’s encounter. The tunes are jazz standards or, in the cases of pianist Ronnie Mathews’ “Jean Marie” and “Song for Leslie” and Cobb’s “W.K.,” originals based on familiar patterns. Trumpeter Marcus Belgrave, bassist Ray Drummond and alto saxophonist Andrew Speight are the other players.

From the opening track, Thelonious Monk’s “Rhythm-a-ning,” to the closer, Miles Davis’s “Freddie Freeloader,” they swing along in the mainstream with a balance of strength, relaxation and assurance. Alexander, Cobb and Drummond demonstrate why they are omnipresent on records. The veterans Mathews and Belgrave and the youngish Australian Speight show up less often on recordings. They more than justify their generous solo space here. Belgrave’s spacious fluegelhorn, first generally known on Ray Charles’s band, all but steals “So What.” Mathews, a reliable journeyman pianist since the early sixties, shines on the Miles Davis pieces without resorting to Wynton Kelly impressions. He sparkles on “Just One of Those Things,” reminding us of what we lost when he died before this recording was released. On Antonio Carlos Jobim’s “O Grande Amour,” Speight solos beautifully in a stylistic offshoot of the Cannonball Adderley branch of alto saxophoning.

Speight teaches at San Francisco State University’s International Center for the Arts, which produced this CD. The eccentric package, a four-way pasteboard foldout, has nine panels of photographs and useful information. Its odd dimensions and lack of titling on the spine present a filing challenge, but the satisfying music more than compensates.

Not all of the campaigning this month is political. It is not unusual at this time of year to receive from recording musicians suggestions that they be nominated for awards from the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences. As part of his quest to win a Grammy nomination, the British film composer, band leader and saxophonist John Altman sent the following message:

I’m really disappointed. My new CD, The Jazz Soul Of Paris Hilton, has not been nominated for a Grammy. The followup to my brilliant CD Britney Spears: The Jazz Years, it has garnered rave reviews in the jazz press and received NOT ONE vote in this year’s Grammy build-up. I worked closely with Paris herself, assembling an all-star aggregation of jazz talent to interpret the Abdullah Ibrahim/Boney James-inspired compositions of the reality TV star and all around credit to society. For the talented Ms. Hilton’s understanding of social issues, I’m especially proud of “I Come From Barack Obama with a Banjo On My Knee.”  It is reminiscent of Max Roach’s Freedom Suite. Accompanied by an all-star aggregation, Paris H, guest rappers Jay Z, Jazzy B and fiery jazz virtuoso sax man Kenny G deliver an astonishing piece of jazz social commentary.

The incredible handpicked lineup of jazz stars includes Herbie Hancock on clavinet, Woody Allen on clarinet and Wynton Marsalis on the internet. Possibly one of the best rhythm sections ever assembled in the history of jazz recording — George Segal on banjo, bass virtuoso Charlie Haden on banjo, Marcus Miller showing his versatility on banjo, and Diana Krall and Elvis Costello sharing drum duties — shows why jazz is still a living art form appreciated by millions all over the world.

Other guest appearances include Cuthbert Marsalis, the least known member of the jazz dynasty, probably because he is an English aristocrat who does not play any musical instruments and did not invent jazz in 1980; legendary godfather of smooth jazz and easy listening Cecil Taylor; Michael Bublé crooning the all-time favourite “I Never Heard of Mel Tormé;” and James Carter playing “Salt Peanuts.” Oops. That should read Jimmy Carter, reprising the famous White House duet with Dizzy Gillespie that defined his jazz credentials.

Some of the critical raves:

“I laughed till I cried” — Don Heckman, Los Angeles Times

“What a load of rubbish” — Nat Hentoff

“Is this man serious?”– Brick Wahl, LA Weekly

“Brilliant!!!” – Stanley Crouch New York Times

“My personal iPod favourite” — George W Bush

Please, everyone, vote for me in category 10,996 of this year’s Grammys — Best Jazz and Hip Hop Album By a Country Smooth-jazz Crossover Artist Not in the English Language. I promise not to write again until the Emmys are upon us. I will be soliciting votes for my two reality shows — Newsreading With The Stars, where professional ballroom dancers learn to play pro football and read the news, and America’s Idle, where no one has a job any more due to the bizarre global economic policies of the last 8 years.

A couple of years ago, Mr. Altman visited the west coast of the United States and performed without tongue in cheek at the helm of a big band. He is the curved soprano saxophone soloist out front in this video. The tune is “Love Is Here To Stay.” I think I glimpse Jerry Pinter and Lanny Morgan in the sax section and Andy Martin among the trombones. The others, including the man strolling through the background with a telephone to his ear, are unidentifed. How could he hear?

 

The new Picks in the center column concern three pianists, two alto saxophonists, one photographer and a rare Rifftides classical recommendation.

Before summer escaped completely, I spotted this creature on an arbor vitae, displaying its magnifcence. 

Although still in his late teens, James was already six-foot-one and weighed 150 pounds. He had a thin waist, no hips, and long skinny legs. To go along with his slinky frame, he had a large, oval-shaped head, a long nose and prominent ears, dark wavy hair, and a pencil-thin moustache. Perhaps his most provocative feature, however, was his deep-set baby-blue eyes–the bluest blue eyes this side of his future band vocalist, Frank Sinatra. He had a high-pitched voice that occasionally squeaked, and spoke with a pronounced Texan drawl. Some people noticed his resemblance to such 1930s film actors as Basil Rathbone (later to be his co-star in the film Bathing Beauty) and Warren Williams. Somehow, it all meshed, and women found him very attractive.

                       –Peter J. Levinson, Trumpet Blues: The Life of Harry James

This very thin guy with swept back hair…climbed on the stage. He’d sung only eight bars of “Night and Day” when I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rising.—on first hearing the unknown young singer Frank Sinatra

I was the only member in the band to be silly enough to put some of those drunken ideas into practice. Amazing what alcohol does for you eh?

The only problem with having a great year is it makes you wonder whether you can reasonably expect next year to be the same or whether it won’t be something of a letdown.

I wrote that I was looking forward to again hearing Tierney Sutton sing “What’ll I Do?” when her next CD comes out. Rifftides reader Ted Lowry, ever alert, points out that I don’t have to wait. The song is on her Dancing In The Dark album. I regret the error. Thanks, Ted.

Peter Levinson, the publicist with a parallel career as a biographer of music and show business figures, died yesterday in a fall in his house in Malibu, California. He was seventy-four. Levinson had been suffering from Lou Gehrig’s disease, which robbed him of his voice but did not leave him incommunicado. Through the use of a computer capable of converting his typing to speech, he was able to keep working. He had finished a biography of Fred Astaire, which is to be published next spring. He also wrote three other books, biographies of Harry James, Tommy Dorsey and Nelson Riddle. The James book is one of the finest about a jazz artist.

One of the most respected publicists in the jazz field, over the years Levinson represented Count Basie, Dave Brubeck, Erroll Garner and Stan Getz, as well as singers Peggy Lee, Mel Torme and Rosemary Clooney, actor Jack Lemmon and films including Fiddler on the Roof and Kramer vs. Kramer.

Peter was the publisher’s publicist for Take Five: The Public and Private Lives of Paul Desmond. He and I were friends since our mutual time in New York in the 1970s. I shall miss his earnest professionalism, advice, kindness and companionship. For more about Peter Levinson, see the Los Angeles Times obituary.

Wednesday, October 15: Having seen Ernestine Anderson falter and appear confused in a performance a few years ago, I was concerned about this festival appearance. She was now a couple of weeks short of her eightieth birthday. She had just been through a crisis in which she came close to being evicted from her house. Looking frail, she made her way slowly and uncertainly on stage, sat on a chair, took a while to get ready, and gave one of the great concerts of her life. By the end of the first song, “This Can’t Be Love,” thirty years had dropped away. She brought a Piaf-like intensity to “Skylark” and so much passion and note-bending to “Falling in Love with Love” that she made it a virtual blues. In a single chorus, she defined “Wonder Why.”

Time, intonation, concentration and control were perfect on every tune. Anderson was
sustaining notes with the lung power of an eighteen-year-old. “Yeah, I can’t figure that out either,” she said afterward. “I get winded walking up two steps.” She had the audience erupting in cheers, giving her a standing ovation not at the end of her program but during it. She repeatedly thanked her trio — and with good reason. Pianist John Hansen, bassist Jon Hamar and drummer Greg Williamson sustained the energy Anderson thrived on. Each of them soloed with creativity and vigor that matched hers. Boogieing in her chair toward the end of the concert, she delivered “Down Home Blues,” then “Never Make Your Move Too Soon,” enlisting the audience as a chorus riffing the first four bars of the melody of Neal Hefti’s “Lil’ Darlin’.” She left them happily agitated and demanding an encore. They didn’t get one, but people didn’t seem to mind. She had created euphoria in the room.

Ernestine Anderson: eighty going on thirty-five.

Thursday, October 16: Jovino Santos Neto preceded his quinteto’s concert with a demonstration-lecture tracing the development of Brazilian music. It amounted to a tour through significant parts of the history of Portugal and Brazil with samples of African and Caribbean influences on the music of his native land. If you have a chance to catch the
educational aspect of this dynamic man’s performance, I urge you not to miss it. That
advice also obtains to his band. The cutting-edge music Santos Neto has developed beyond the bossa nova grows in part out of his experience with Hermeto Pascoal and other advanced Brazilian musicians, but also out of his dynamic musical imagination. At the piano or playing flute — he did both simultaneously at one point — he was concentrated energy, enthusiasm and rhythm.

The quinteto includes bassist Chuck Deardorf, drummer Mark Ivester, percussionsist Jeff Busch and Bay Area saxophonist and clarinetist Harvey Wainapel (pronounced WINE-apple). Santos Neto set up each choro, baião, forró or xote with an explanation of the form and rhythm. His “Amoreira,” dedicated to percussion guru Airto Moreira, was a highlight. Wainapel, whom I had somehow managed to miss until this night, was a revelation, inventive on all of his instruments, immersed in the Brazilian tradition, fully a complement to Santos Neto’s conception of adventurous modern music.

Friday, October 17: Jerry Gonzalez and the Fort Apache Band threw the audience into momentary shock with the opening blasts of Thelonious Monk’s “Little Rootie Tootie.” Powered by the overamplified bass of young Luques Curtis and the drumming of Steve Berrios, who had no choice but to compensate, the band was too loud for the hall, by half. The Seasons’ exquisite natural acoustics were rendered meaningless by volume suitable for a stadium. Nonetheless, the music was so captivating that the audience stayed with it, except for a couple of defections, and seemed to adjust to the sound level. Fort Apache followed with a long treatment of Wayne Shorter’s “Footprints,” notable for an alto saxophone solo by Joe Ford that assulted the aural cavity but penetrated deeper, to the emotions.

Gonzalez shone on congas, trumpet and fluegelhorn. His impassioned fluegel solo on “In a
 
Sentimental Mood” was a memorable moment of this memorable festival. Curtis soloed with an acute sense of the harmonic possibilities in “Obsesión,” the Pedro Flores Puerto Rican classic. Pianist Fred Hoadley came next with a solo that was hypnotically, and effectively, repetitive. Hoadley rushed across the mountains from Seattle at the last minute to substitute for Larry Willis, who cancelled following the death of a relative. Gonzalez wrapped up the set with Monk’s “Evidence,” taken at a fast clip and — what else? — top volume. The evening ended with ears ringing and faces smiling.

Saturday, October 18: Every time I hear the Tierney Sutton Band, they have developed more bandness. After more than a decade, seven CDs and hundreds of gigs together, their musicality and shared goals have melded them into the antithesis of chick singer with rhythm section. It’s a thinking man’s, and woman’s, band that knows how to have, and show an audience, a good time. Sutton opened with Irving Berlin’s “What’ll I Do?” at a drastically slow tempo in keeping with the heart-breaking nature of the song. In the care of a less cohesive group, the time might have puddled. “It’s All Right With Me” was at the other end of the metronome and full of tricky time changes, which Sutton negotiated flawlessly.

Following a masterly solo by pianist Christian Jacob on “Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea,” Sutton said, “I think he took private lessons,” no doubt a stock line, delivered deadpan with perfect timing. Bassist Kevin Axt played the concert with two fingers of his right hand in a cast. He broke them in a motorcycle accident. Anyone listening blindfolded to his intricate solos would never have known that. Ray Brinker’s drumming went from thunderous on some pieces to barely perceptible on others. If there are awards for soft, quiet swinging with wire brushes, Brinker is a major competitor. He was particularly effective with brushes as Axt took a rest and Sutton, Jacob and Brinker gave Berlin’s “Cheek to Cheek” a ride that was enough to make you almost forget Fred Astaire.

Sutton sang sixteen songs from her repertoire of more than one hundred arrangements written jointly by her and the band. Toward the end, she called out the Toppenish High School chorus, which had opened the evening with a couple of songs. Together, the rhythm section and the kids did “Ja Da” while Sutton stood by smiling. The chorus ended up swinging a little, and Sutton smiled more broadly. As they filed out, she returned to the stage for a blistering “I Get a Kick Out of You” and a langorous encore, “You Are My Sunshine.” She announced that the band’s eighth CD will be out in the spring. It will include “What’ll I Do?” I’m looking forward to hearing that again.

It is a rare jazz festival that can run more than a week without a few flaws — a performance dud or two. Somehow, even the Fort Apache amplification sow’s ear turned into a silk purse. This festival worked from beginning to end, on stage and in the schools. That’s quite an achievement for an arts organization in a town of 90,000 in the hinterlands of apple and wine country.