Friday, October 31, 2014

Louie Bellson: Blazing, Bombastic and Beautiful

© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


Although his illustrious career is detailed in any number of places including his own website, Louie Bellson’s name is not the subject of a dedicated chapter in any of the major anthologies on Jazz drumming.


Come to think of it, for that matter, neither is Joe Morello, although Joe does get his own chapter in Georges Paczynski’s Une Histoire de la Batterie de Jazz, Tome 2, while Louie has to share one with another former Ellington drummer, Sam Woodyard, in which the focus is on Skin Deep [which Louie composed.] Duke used it as a wowie, zowie drum solo intended as crowd pleaser.


Along with Gene Krupa and Buddy, Louie is often mentioned as part of what Duke referred to as “The Big Three,” but I suspect that this is more to do with Ellington’s habit of hyping things up than with any real recognition of Louie’s skills as a drummer.


Over the years, I got to know Louie a bit and I’ve never been around anyone who visibly enjoyed playing drums more than Louie Bellson.


When he sat down behind the monster, double bass drum kit that he preferred, he just exuded energy and enthusiasm.


Louie was a well-schooled drummer with lots of technical skills and an uncanny knack of seeming to ride over a set of drums, almost as though he was barely touching them. He speed was blazingly fast, but unlike Buddy Rich, he rarely generated any power to go along with his lighting-fast stick control. He touched the drums instead of striking them.


When he did produce the sound of power in his solos, it generally came from coordinating the double bass drums with single stroke rolls on the snare drum and tom toms. Once he got those big bass drums going [he used two, 30” diameter bass drums], it sounded like artillery rounds were being fired off as a commemorative salute.


Louie generated his speed from the finger control method of playing drums in which the rebound from the stick is employed along with very relaxed wrists to perpetuate movement on and around the drum heads. The stick is tapped back down instead of being banged or slapped into the drum.


Louie was not a big guy; if anything he was slight and a bit demure, but boy, get him behind a set of drums and he “lit up like a Christmas tree.”


“Who cares about winning polls. I’ve got my own big band and we’re having fun.”


“Who do I like in today’s Jazz drummers? I like ‘em all. I always learn something from every drummer.”


“What type of stick do I use? I use a variety of ‘em: different lengths; different beads; different weights. Keeps your hands more sensitive and responsive.”


All these responses and many more like them came from Louie’s answers to questions at drum clinics. He was usually mobbed afterwards with everyone coming up to give him a hug and to thank him.


“Sure, sure,” he would say: “Hey, does anyone want to try the double bass drums? Don’t be afraid [everyone was because hardly anyone had that kind of coordination]. It’s easy. Just sit down and just do it.”


When one of us would try playing the two bass drum kit, he’d always say - “Beautiful, beautiful” - no matter how badly we messed them up.


Louie Bellson had blazingly fast hands, used his feet to “detonate” bass drums bombs” while all the while wearing a beautiful smile on his face.


He was revered by drummers and just about every musician he ever worked with because he was an excellent drummer but never lorded his talents and abilities over anyone. Jazz cats come in all “shapes and size.” Some have incredible technical skills while others just get by on their instruments with a strong will and deep feelings. Louie didn’t care as long as you loved the music and were honestly yourself while trying to play it.


In all the years I’ve been around Jazz musicians, I have never met a kinder more nobler soul that Louie Bellson.



Len Lyons and Don Perlo put together this brief synopsis about Louie and his career in their Jazz Portraits: The Lives and Music of the Jazz Masters:


Louis Bellson - also “Louie” - Louis Paul Balassoni [1924 - 2009]


[Ed. note. - Luigi Paulino Alfredo Francesco Antonio Balassoni]


‘Bellson, an excellent technician and all-around musician, can power a big band with his driving beat, or tastefully accompany small combos and vocalists. He pioneered the use of twin bass drums during the mid-1940s, sparked the languishing Ellington Orchestra from 1951 to 1953, and during the 1970s led his own big band, for which he composed and arranged. Modest and gregarious, Bellson solos little for a drummer of his virtuosity and easily slips in and out of diverse environments: jazz clubs, TV, educational clinics, and orchestras.


The son of a music-store proprietor, Bellson learned to tap-dance as a boy, which he credits with developing his sense of time and rhythm. He was soon proficient on drums and won several competitions, including one sponsored by an early idol, Gene Krupa. Bellson worked for Benny Goodman in 1943 and again in 1945-46. In 1946, with Ted Fio Rito's commercial band, he inaugurated the use of two bass drums, which increases the drummer's ability to propel a large group. Bellson then replaced Buddy Rich, with whom he is often compared, in the Tommy Dorsey band (1947-49).


The subsequent period with Ellington, however, established him as a major talent. Bellson was a precise yet fiery drummer and a capable composer, adding to the band's book "Hawk Talks," "Ting-a-ling," and "Skin Deep," which showcased an extended drum solo.... In 1953 Bellson left the Ellington band to further the career of his new wife, Pearl Bailey.


Bellson accompanied Bailey, Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, Oscar Peterson, Dizzy Gillespie, Art Tatum and various small combos. He rejoined Ellington (1965—66), served as Bailey's music director, and composed for various bands. During the mid-1970s, Bellson organized a Los Angeles—based group for which he wrote many brassy, extroverted pieces - The Louie Bellson Explosion.  In addition to performing, Bellson has been a popular visiting instructor at college percussion seminars and clinics.”


The distinguished Jazz author, critic and historian Leonard Feather offers a slightly different recap of Louie’s career, as well as, an elaboration of Louie’s Big Band Explosion in these introductory paragraphs that are excerpted from his insert notes to The Louis Bellson Explosion [Pablo/Original Jazz Classics - OJCCD-728-2]:


“Louis Bellson lives in two worlds, enjoying the best of both. By this I do not refer to his dual life as a drummer and composer, or composer and bandleader, but rather to his simultaneous occupancy of past and present. There is no better evidence than this new album of his ability to draw on early experiences while infusing his orchestra with a spirit that is contemporary in the best sense of the word.


Louis, of course, paid lengthy dues as a sideman, with Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, Harry James, Count Basie, and most notably Duke Ellington. But because of his qualifications as an all-around musician, he probably was destined from the start to be a leader.
Historically, it is interesting to note that he undertook this role on records for the first time with a Los Angeles session for Norman Granz's Clef label in 1953.


Throughout the 1950s he continued to record for Granz, in addition to touring with Jazz at the Philharmonic. With his appearance in combos on several recent Pablo albums, and particularly with the return to records of his own orchestra via this flourishing new company, the wheel has come full circle.


Writing some years ago about Louis's juggling of multiple careers, I noted that he had found a successful solution to the problems posed by any attempt in the post-swing era to organize a big band. Instead of keeping an ensemble together on a year-round basis, he draws on a pool of important Los Angeles-based musicians who can be counted on to constitute a firm foundation. A key figure has always been trombonist Nick Di Maio, who has doubled as manager for the bands since the 1950s. Di Maio is one of a half dozen members of the present unit who play regularly in Doc Severinsen's band on the Tonight show, as does Louis himself whenever he has a little spare time in town.


Several of the sidemen have credentials that include long associations with Bellson. Cat Anderson was a colleague back in the Ellington days. Pete Christlieb, the powerhouse tenor player, now 30, was 22 when he began working with Louis. His section-mate, composer Don Menza, moved to Los Angeles in 1969 and started gigging with the band almost immediately. A more recent addition is Richard "Blue" Mitchell, the poised and expressive trumpeter who had put in long stints with Horace Silver, Ray Charles, and John Mayall before undertaking a cross-Canada tour with Louis in 1974. The two keyboard occupants who share duties here, Nat Pierce and Ross Tompkins, have worked separately with Louis for several years off and on.


To fortify the rhythm section, it was decided to enlist the services of Dave Levine and Paulo Magalhaes, whose additional percussion work was scattered through the two sessions.


All these elements, along with the band's characteristic esprit de corps in the brass and reed sections, come into focus from the opening track.”


For the following video montage, I have selected the closing track from The Louis Bellson Explosion [Pablo/Original Jazz Classics - OJCCD-728-2], about which, Leonard provides these insights:


La Banda Grande, by Jack Hayes [a long-established orchestrator, conductor and composer for films who has been collaborating with Bellson since they met at an Academy Awards broadcast in the 1960s when both were working for Henry Mancini] and Bellson, is characterized by Louis as "a Chick Corea type Latin thing." Along with contributions by [Blue] Mitchell and [Pete] Christlieb, and a brief spot for [guitarist] Mitch Holder, there is a joyous samba groove that brings out the value of that extra percussion as Louis plays off against Dave Levine and Paulo Magalhaes.


"We really got a good feeling in the studio," says Bellson, "with the help of a natural set-up. The band was arranged just the way we would be in a nightclub, which enabled us to relax; and the engineer got a great sound. John Williams was fantastic both on acoustic and on electric bass. In fact, I'm very happy about the way the whole album turned out."


What Bellson could not add, because bombast is not his style, is that no band of first-class musicians, directed by an instrumentalist so gifted and so unanimously respected, is likely to go very far wrong. "Working for Louis was a ball," somebody remarked to me after a recent gig with the band. I can't remember which sideman said it, because over the years some similar phrase has been echoed by just about everyone who has worked for him. If you don't care to take my word for it, the performance itself offers eloquent proof.”


—Leonard Feather



Thursday, October 30, 2014

Shelly Manne - Anything But - Un Poco Loco [From the Archives]


Sadly, Jack Brand and Bill Korst’s Shelly Manne: Sounds of a Different Drummer is no longer in print. While the editorial staff at JazzProfiles is in the process of developing features on drummers Max Roach, Louie Bellson and Buddy Rich, we thought it would be fun to re-post this feature on Shelly, whom Jack and Bill, among many others, always referred to as ‘the most musical drummer who ever lived." 


© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.



“Shelly Manne was one of the greatest, not only as a person but also as a musician who gave 120 per cent on every performance. Even though he was busy in the studios during the day, he would still be at the cub every night, and at the end of the set he would always say, ‘Do I sound O.K.?’”
- Chuck Berghofer, bassist

“Shelly Manne was a prince of drummers.”
- Jack Montrose, tenor saxophonist

“Shelly can sit in any rhythm section, from a trio to the biggest band and make it swing; he is an experimenter and an innovator of the highest order; he can, when the occasion calls for it, subdue himself to fit any style of soloist; and he is also a solo drummer of exceptional taste and quality.”
- Andre Previn, pianist, composer, arranger, conductor

“Take an eighteen-year-old New York City cross-country champ from a broken home, walk him into a Manhattan music shop with his alto sax, give him a set of drums in trade, and out walks what many would later call ‘the most musical drummer who ever lived.’”
- Jack Brand and Bill Korst, Shelly Manne: Sounds of a Different Drummer
  

Shelly Manne was not, as the title of the of Bud Powell’s tune translates - “A little crazy” – not even close.

For as Richard Cook and Brian Morton assert in their Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.: Shelly was one of the finest – and shrewdest – musicians in modern Jazz - … [who] became definitive of the West Coast sound, playing drums with a cool melodism and restrained dynamics. For a time he ran his own club, the Manne Hole, bred horses [maybe this is where the ‘crazy’ part comes in ?], but he was never anything but a whole-hearted musician.”

Ted Gioia, in his seminal, West Coast Jazz: Modern Jazz in California, 1945 – 1960, offers a broader context in which to view Shelly and his music:

“In the 1950s, the role of a West Coast drummer was beset by many contradictions. … [and as a result of these incongruities], West Coast percussionists came to be viewed as anti-drummers. Their distinctive approach to time-keeping was seen by many as a subversion of the modern Jazz tradition of high-energy drumming. In the eyes of their critics, such drummers meant their instruments to be seen and not – or only barely – heard. …

Shelly Manne was the drummer most associated in the Jazz public’s mind with this new approach to drumming. Yet Manne’s recorded legacy from the 1950s reveals that his highly stylized approach to Jazz drumming was anything but narrow and parochial. …

… Manne’s body of work becomes well worth consideration and praise when we evaluate it less as a stage in the history of drums, and more as a body of music.” [pp. 264-265]


While I wholeheartedly agree with Ted’s assessment, there are also times when Shelly’s drumming  is the feature that makes this “body of music” so worthy of “praise and consideration.”

One example of how Shelly comes forward to shape and influence the music can be found in the following detailed description of his work in Jack Brand and Bill Korst’s Shelly Manne: Sounds of a Different Drummer on Un Poco Loco from the Swinging Sounds Vol. IV album [Contemporary 3516, OJCCD 267-2] 

“In 1956, Shelly Manne was to enter one of the most successful years of his career. By this time, Charlie Mariano's alto was heard with the Men in place of [Bill] Holman's tenor. On January 19th, the group recorded the first seven selections for Shelly's Volume 4, Swinging Sounds album.

Clearly, Shelly was escaping from the "West Coast Experimental" school and was playing in the type of group that made him the happiest — straight ahead, swinging jazz. The album included the theme [Bill] Holman had penned for him at the Tiffany Club [A Gem for Tiffany] and a Manne composition called "Parthenia," the street on which he and Flip and the critters [horses that he and Flip bred and put to show] lived.

… on February 2nd, the Men recorded "Un Poco Loco," featuring the now legendary drum solo that Manne fans had marveled at during the [1955 Shorty Rogers] Giants' tour with the Kenton Festival. Now he recorded a rendition with his own swinging group.


To say that Shelly Manne was a unique drummer is an understatement. Even today it is difficult to imagine an extended drum solo played with a bare left hand, a brush in the right hand and a tambourine sitting on the head of a small floor tom tom — and the entire solo played on a small four-piece kit with just a ride, crash, and hi hat cymbals.

Fortunately it was recorded on Contemporary and thanks to Fantasy's Original Jazz Classics series, it is available today on cassette and CD. This particular song, com­posed by pianist Bud Powell, was included in many "hip" jazz groups' repertoire.

A simple theme made complex by its rhythmic statement and by the fact that it was always performed at a very fast tempo, it had been played by nearly all the East Coast bop players. Max Roach had recorded the tune with Powell as early as 1951. Roach's first takes on the session were common­place mambo rhythms, but on the third take he used a double paradiddle-type of rhythm be­tween a cowbell and the torn toms.

Now, five years later, Shelly recorded the tune using a very complex pattern under the main theme and then a symphony of rhythms based on four notes, the tones of the snare drum (snares off), the small tom, floor tom and bass drum — all tuned to perfection. The tambourine offers an unusual percussive message — tonal because of the tom tom underneath, yet stark and outstanding in its contrast with the other sounds.

The arrangement of the song is a unique weaving of Latin and swing passages. Shelly and the band introduce the main theme with a very fast Latin rhythm (played with the brush and hand). As Charlie Mariano's alto begins to solo, Shelly switches to a drum stick in his right hand, playing a montuno rhythm on the ride cymbal bell, while his bare left hand moves to the vari­ous torn toms.

As the bridge goes into a half-time swing beat, he picks up the brush with his left hand to play triplet patterns against the ride cymbal jazz pattern. As Mariano's solo eases out and Stu Williamson's trumpet solo begins, the piano and bass melt into a quarter note ostinato.

It is here that we hear the imagination of Shelly Manne take control. He uses sleigh bells to accentuate the quarter note pulse that becomes almost hypnotic until the bass and piano ascend their notes up to the ultimate release into swing, then Shelly uses two drum sticks to take the last trumpet chorus out in the original fast Latin tempo.

Freeman's wonderful rhythmic style is heard soloing at this tempo until he brilliantly relinquishes the music to Vinnegar's half-time swing bass solo. During the last measures of Leroy's solo, Shelly begins the four-tone theme that he will use to build variations upon.

To fully comprehend the subtle mufflings with the palm of the left hand pressing on the drum head, finger rim shots and bass drum patterns, brush scrapings on the heads, and the complexity of the solo's musical construction, the listener must hear it over and over again. The written solo, wonderfully transcribed by Robert DeVita,* cannot tell the entire story; one must listen to fully understand the musical genius of Shelly Manne.” [pp. 78-79]

[* These can be found on pages 81-83 of Jack Brand and Bill Korst’s Shelly Manne: Sounds of a Different Drummer].



And you can here it all on the following video tribute to Shelly as Un Poco Loco forms the audio track which features Shelly’s singular drum solo along with Stu Williamson [tp], Charlie Mariano [as], Russ Freeman [p] and Leroy Vinnegar [b].

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Jimmy Giuffre - The Quiet Man Revisited

© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


This feature is essentially made up of three parts, two of which previously posted to the blog. The motivation behind this effort to combine and re-post this information about composer, arranger and reedman Jimmy Giuffre is to have it serve as a kind of a blogospheric substitute of his music until a proper biography of him comes along.


This inducement has been given further impetus by the following statement from an edition of Gene Lees’ Jazzletter which he originally wrote as an introduction to his piece about the significance of Sheldon Meyer, the long-serving editor who did so much to further the cause of Jazz at Oxford University Press.


“In the past few years, I have been only too aware that primary sources of jazz history, and popular-music history, are being lost to us. The great masters, the men who were there, are slowly leaving us. I do not know who said, "Whenever anyone dies, a library burns." But it is true: almost anyone's experience is worth recording, even that of the most "ordinary" person. For the great unknown terrain of human history is not what the kings and famous men did — for much, though by no means all, of this was recorded, no matter how imperfectly — but how the "common" people lived.


When Leonard Feather first came to the United States from England in the late 1930s, he was able to know most of his musical heroes, including Louis Armstrong and Jelly Roll Morton. By the end of the 1940s, Leonard knew everybody of significance in jazz from the founding figures to the young iconoclasts. And when I became actively involved in the jazz world in 1959, as editor of Down Beat, most of them were still there. I met most of them, and became friends with many, especially the young Turks more or less of my own age. I have lived to see them grow old (and sometimes not grow old), and die, their voices stilled forever. And so, in recent years, I have felt impelled to do what I can to get their memories down before they are lost, leading me to write what I think of as mini-biographies of these people. This has been the central task of the Jazzletter. And always underlying my efforts in the past ten years has been the quiet confidence that, thanks to Sheldon, these works would end up between hard covers on library
shelves for the use of future music historians. That is no longer so.


When I wanted to know something about one aspect or another of music history in the 1960s, I could pick up the telephone and call these older mentors, such as Alec Wilder or my special friend Johnny Mercer, or Robert Offergeld, music editor of Stereo Review when I wrote for it and one of the greatest scholars I have ever known. If I wanted to know something about the history or the technique of film composition, I could telephone my dear, dear friend Hugo Friedhofer, who wrote his first film music in 1929. There was nothing worth knowing about film music that Hugo didn't know; and not much for that matter about the history of all music. I can't call Hugo any more. Or Dizzy. I can't call Glenn Gould either. Gerry Mulligan was ten months older than I. Shorty Rogers died while I was researching the Woody Herman biogra­phy; I was to interview him in a week or two.


Now, when my generation is gone, there will be no one much left who knew Duke Ellington and Woody Herman and Ben Webster and Coleman Hawkins. All future writers will be depen­dent not on primary sources, which all of these people were for me, but on secondary sources, which is to say documents. And earlier writings. And I have found much of the earlier writing on jazz, such as that of John Hammond and Ralph J. Gleason, to be unreliable — sloppy in research, gullible in comprehension, and too often driven by personal and even political agendas.
Errors — and lies — reproduce themselves in future writings.


It is in this light that the great body of Sheldon Meyer's work must be seen. And no one has ever more fully embodied the dictum that an institution is the lengthened shadow of one man than Sheldon Meyer. What the world of jazz owes him is beyond estimate, and most of its denizens don't even know his name.”


What follows is not an integrated feature, but rather, one that is made up of three disparate writings about Jimmy Giuffre’s music. The first essay is from Jordi Pujol’s insert notes to the reissue on his Fresh Sound label of The Jimmy Giuffre 3: Hollywood and Newport 1957 [FSCD-1026]. The second focuses on what I consider to be the epitome of Jimmy’s approach to Jazz, the Tangents in Jazz Capitol LP [T-634]. Fortunately, this LP along with Jimmy’s other Capitol and Atlantic LP’s have been reissued by Michael Cuscuna’s Mosaic Label as The Jimmy Giuffre - The Complete Capitol and Atlantic Recordings [MD6-176]. The third part of this feature consists of excerpts from Francis Davis’ excellent insert booklet to this compilation which Michael has allowed to be reproduced on these pages. It was first published on the blog on April 29, 2008, shorty after Jimmy’s death.


I have populated the piece with images of Jimmy drawn from various sources as well as three videos that will give you an idea of the Giuffre approach to Jazz as it sounded during the 1950s before he took up residence in New York and formed his trio with pianist Paul Bley and bassist Steve Swallow. That story and the continuation of Jimmy’s career in the succeeding decades is for another time.


Part 1: The Jimmy Giuffre 3: Hollywood and Newport 1957 [FSCD-1026]


“James Peter Giuffre was born in Dallas on April 26th, 1921. His parents encouraged his interest in music, and when he was 9 years old he started to learn to play an E-flat clarinet. Later, at 14, he became interested in the tenor saxophone. In 1938 he went to the North Texas State Teachers College, where he became close friends with roommates Herb Ellis, Gene Roland and Harry Babasin. The companionship was stimulating and everyone profited from the talkfests and jam sessions. Jimmy earned a Bachelor of Music Degree in 1942, and later that same year he found himself in Air Force blue uniform after graduating. He became a member of the official Air Force band led by Harry Bluestone.


The Air Force band travelled all over, and California featured among the many different places that Jimmy saw. "I knew when I got out that I would settle in either New York or Los Angeles. I chose L.A. because of my teacher, Dr Wesley La Violette, and for its climate. I was able to study with Dr La Violette on the G.I. Bill, and that was a very fortunate thing". In 1946 his old college buddy Harry Babasin, who had himself settled in L.A., introduced Jimmy to band-leader Boyd Raeburn, with whom Jimmy stayed briefly. From then through 1955 he worked with Jimmy Dorsey, Buddy Rich, Woody Herman, Garwood Van, Spade Cooley, The Lighthouse All Stars and Shorty Rogers' Giants. During those years he combined his professional playing with the study of composition with Dr La Violette.


Much of Jimmy's musical thinking stemmed from his studies with Dr La Violette: "I studied with him for 10 years, and he opened up things for me so I could use an imaginative approach. There was no system really, just broad principles. I studied the music, and he taught me the principles. They have to be there for the music to be lasting. He also helped me to break down the inhibitions I had. He made me realize I could do things my own way. The clarinet helped too. There was only one way I could play it, in the middle and low register. My lip just wasn't ready to play in the higher register". Shelly Manne and Shorty Rogers helped him when work was tough to find. Both helped him even further than that - "Shelly was the first who allowed me to write any way I wanted and who encouraged me," Giuffre recalled. "This was while I was playing with them in the group. It really helped a lot to get that from someone you liked and respected. And Shorty allowed me to play the clarinet any way I wanted and with the rhythm section in a way that felt comfortable for me. That was good of Shorty,and it helped me discover the way I wanted to do things." Further, Jimmy was encouraged to take the steps necessary to form his own group, to play his own kind of music. "Shorty had a wonderful attitude towards me," added Giuffre, "He said: 'You're a musician. Play the way you want to'".


It was in the Los Angeles area that the Jimmy Giuffre Trio was born, and Jimmy termed the birth "miraculous." At the time he is quoted as saying: "it was miraculous that a group comes so close in a meeting of the minds in music. I don't know if there's even a handful of musicians who would want to play as we play. And it's such an advantage to have the same home base." Although Giuffre might have wanted to experiment further with the group which cut "Tangents in Jazz" for Capitol, he foresaw the problems of getting those musicians to go out on the road with him, and in obtaining adequate substitutes for them if he they did go. Somehow he combined with Jim Hall and his sensitive amplified guitar and Ralph Pena with his big-toned bass. "It could have been two instruments," Jimmy said, "but the important thing was I found two men who thought my way. So, that's how the trio was."


A lot of his musical feelings came from the work he'd done with his horns. Jimmy's distillation of the tones on the reed instruments he played - the clarinet, tenor and baritone saxophones - often startled listeners on first hearing. The clarinet had a true woody sound, almost as if it were a pipe or a wind-blown wood instrument. The tenor had a soft, pure sound. The baritone was hoarse, but never rasping or aggressive. Because he used such stiff reeds, Jimmy often sounded breathy on the horns. This is among the reasons he and the group were so sensitive to the balance in any location they appeared. Giuffre was always cautious and concerned about his horns. "If you've got a bad reed, you can think you've got the wrong instrument. You can feel like you never should have taken up the sax. My reeds are stiff, but the sound is the thing. If it is not a pleasing sound, you can't play the music. If my sound is unpleasant, I'm dead. A stiff reed gives a heavier, meatier sound. My sound has gone from harsh to soft. It feels better. It's got to sound good to me. You may think it sounds good, and it doesn't, but you still have to go with the way it feels. If you get the sound that you like, man, you can begin to play some music. If you're not getting a sound you like, and you're sensitive to sound, you might as well go home. You're not going to play any music. The only reason I'm in music is because I like the sounds. What I'm doing is a way to be in music. I couldn't do it just writing, or being in someone's group. The only way is with my own group, and with our own sound. I feel that our best music is the original music that comes out of the trio." And music did come out of the trio. It poured through the Giuffre pen onto the scorepads, was translated into rough form by Jimmy himself, guitarist Jim Hall, and bassist Ralph Pena, and polished into shining form through the combined efforts of the three musicians.


"When a composer sits down to write a pure work, that is, a piece of art music, he doesn't try to duplicate what he did in his previous piece, except, maybe, in mood. Maybe he has a little figure or several bars, and he works with that. We tried to approach the trip that way. Before, I'd start to write a piece and it would continue in that way. The band would play it in the same style as maybe a dozen other bands. But with the trio, we found we had to call on things that we'd never used before. There was a whole new set of requirements. Number one: Each of us had to be able to play a part all by himself and make it speak without depending on a rhythm section. And you've got to learn to do that yourself. You can't depend on someone prodding you. Number two: We had to constantly listen for balance. Number three: We had to learn to find a part that went with the other parts, and which didn't conflict with the important part. There was never any letup. You had to hold your own.


You had a little bit of rest, but that was your lip rest. You had to keep listening because while you're resting, the others were taking over. We put ourselves under the same kind of microscope as a string quartet. It was stimulating. It had to be that way."


In Giuffre's words the music here is a "near equal mixture of writing and adlibbing. There is a folksy, bluesy, down-home, natural, funky air about all the tunes." Downbeat critic Martin Williams said in 1958: "that Giuffre's intentions had been clear a uniquely conceived improvisational chamber music which drew on all kinds of American popular and folk forms as well as jazz. The substitution of Brookmeyer's trombone for bass not only enlarged an already remarkably full texture but opened a formerly tight and self-limiting structure into a free and widening one; the lack of time-keeping (except occasionally from Jim Hall's guitar) was no loss, but a release in almost every respect."


The music on this CD, taken "live" from the "Stars of Jazz" KABC TV-show [Oct. 27, 1958] and from the Newport Jazz Festival [July 4, 1958], is of enduring value, and fully demonstrates the talented writing of Jimmy Giuffre. He has always been an intensely stimulating player.


Cover photo: Ray Avery
Produced for CD release by Jordi Pujol. © & © 1992 by Camarillo Music Ltd.




Part 2: Tangents in Jazz


© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.


“It’s just one way and every man must go his own way.”
- Jimmy Giuffre, Down Beat, November 30, 1955


“Jimmy is an innovator and much has been written about his contributions to clarinet playing style and to Jazz composition, but this is secondary. It is the basic quality of his music, with its uncontrived simplicity and glowing inner feeling that sets Jimmy apart.”
- Gary Kramer, liner notes to The Jimmy Giuffre 3 [Atlantic 1254]


“the spirit of Jazz suffuses all of these performances …and important step in the long Giuffre musical odyssey …  they are simply marvelous, full of life brimming with ideas, and chock-full of rich, rewarding, imaginative writing and playing.”
- Peter Keepnews, liner notes to the PAUSA: Jazz Origins reissue of Giuffre’s 1950 Capitol LPs


“When one listens to Giuffre's music for what it is—and not for what one thinks it should be—the beauties of this rich and strange musical land­scape begin to emerge. Or rather, landscapes. For Giuffre never found a single musical Garden of Eden, a definitive style or format he could stay in for long. Like his more celebrated contemporary Miles Davis, Giuffre remains a musical chameleon, a distinctive stylist who constantly feels compelled to change his sonic setting.”
- Ted Gioia, West Coast Jazz: Modern Jazz in California, 1945-1969 [p.227]


Almost forty years after I first heard it, I tracked down Jimmy Giuffre and wrote him a letter about how much I enjoyed the music on his Capitol LP – Tangents in Jazz [T-634].


Jimmy was living in Massachusetts and I in San Francisco at the time. Because of  health issues, his wife Juanita helped compose his response. Juanita, a professional photographer, also kindly enclosed a portrait of Jimmy which he had autographed,


In my letter to him, I explained that I had been particularly taken with the four relatively short pieces on the Tangents in Jazz LP entitled Scintilla I-IV.


On the album, the four-parts of Scintilla are sequenced: Scintilla II, Scintilla I, Scintilla IV and Scintilla III.


On a lark, I had decided to re-track these four Scintilla parts and record them in consecutive, numeric sequence.


I had included a copy of a tape recording with the re-sequenced Scintilla I-IV along with my letter to Jimmy.


In his reply, Jimmy shared that this was the first time that he had heard this music in its original order since he wrote and recorded it in June, 1955!


He also explained that although Will McFarland’s liner notes to the LP indicate the four Scintilla pieces being played in numerical order, somehow when the album was being prepared for pressing, it was sequenced according to the Master numbers assigned to each track when they were recorded on June 6,7,10, 1955.


Interestingly, when Mosaic Records reissued these recordings as CDs and LPs as part of their The Complete Capitol and Atlantic Recordings of Jimmy Giuffre [Mosaic MD6-176], Mosaic also used the master track sequence instead of grouping the four Scintilla tracks as a consecutive, interconnected musical “suite.”


So what you hear as the audio track to the following video tribute to Jimmy is the four-part Scintilla suite in the original sequence. And unless one has re-tracked and recorded this music in a similar manner, no one has heard this music quite this way before.


The video is followed by Jimmy’s “Questions and Answers” about the music on the album which form the original LP’s liner notes, excerpts from Will McFarland’s descriptions of Scintilla I-IV and a postscript on the album by Ted Gioia.


As an aside, I got to know Artie Anton, the drummer on these tracks, quite well as he was for many years a drum shop proprietor and drum teacher in near-by North Hollywood, CA. He always considered his playing on Jimmy’s 1950s Capitol recordings as “one of my most enjoyable times in music.” He would also declare to anyone who would spare him the time to listen to them that his “… playing on these cuts proves that the drums are a musical instrument [big smile – His]!.”


The puckish trumpet work is provided by the inimitable Jack Sheldon; also prominent on all these performance is the robust bass tone of Ralph Pena who sadly left us much-too-quickly at age 42 because of his involvement in a fatal car accident in Mexico.




A top-level soloist and writer makes his most daring move to date: Jimmy Giuffre sets forth a bold new form for improvised music.


The music is revolutionary; yet its advent was a foreseeable, logical step in jazz maturation. Giuffre's new concept is con­troversial ; its evidence here is a must for serious jazz-followers, yet the range of its appeal is so unpredictable that its cham­pions could include bouncing dilettantes, hard-shell tradition­alists, even jazz-apathists.


Specifically, this music puts on view a quartet that functions without an audible beat — no walking bass, no riding cymbal; yet thanks to Giuffre's indomitable folksiness, this flouting of tradition results in jazz that out-thumps the music of most of his heavy-handed neighbors.


Jimmy answers some leading questions...


Q What is this music?


A Jazz, with a non-pulsating beat. The beat is implicit but not explicit; in other words, acknowledged but unsounded. The two horns are the dominant but not domineering voices. The bass usually functions somewhat like a baritone sax. The drums play an important but non-conflicting role.


Q Why abandon the sounded beat?


A For clarity and freedom. I've come to feel increasingly in­hibited and frustrated by the insistent pounding of the rhythm section. With it, it's impossible for the listener or the soloist to hear the horn's true sound, I've come to believe, or fully concentrate on the solo line. An imbalance of ad­vances has moved the rhythm from a supporting to a com­petitive role.


Q But isn't the sounded beat an integral part of jazz?

A The sounded beat once made playing easier, but now it's become confining. And to the degree that the beat was there to guide dancers, it is, of course, no longer necessary to con­cert jazz. I think the essence of jarz is in the phrasing and notes, and these needn't change when the beat is silent. Since the beat is implicit, this music retains traditional feel­ing; not having it explicit allows freer thinking.


Q Hasn't this been done before, particularly by you?


A Several of today's writers have dropped all sounded beat for contrast, but never for an entire work. I've written works completely lacking sounded beat, but the difference between this music and all previous work is the use of the drums. My previous attempts at this approach, while achiev­ing some of the clarity I sought, were always vaguely un­satisfactory to me until I realized the trouble: the drums, by their nature, cannot carry a simultaneous or overlapping line; when the drum is struck, any other note is obliterated, and attention is torn away from any other line. In this music, the drums' lines are integrated but isolated.


Q How is it possible to ensure this isolation during solos, when tacit is usually unpredictable?


A By writing rests in the ad lib parts, allowing the drums to fill. I strive to write the rests at natural phrase endings, holding restriction to a minimum.


Q But isn't there generally more restriction — don't the solo­ists have a good deal less freedom than before?


A In a sense, they have more freedom. No longer fed a stream of chords, or fighting a pounding beat, they are free to get a more natural sound out of their horns, and try for all sorts of new effects.


Q Didn't you have to select your musicians with extra care?


A Yes, I discussed my plans at length with each of them to make sure they were completely attuned to the project. Artie Anton, the drummer, has had wide band experience; from the beginning he was sympathetic to my new ideas. He is a skilled reader, as is Ralph Pena, a bassist with great sound, jazz feeling and a classical background, who has worked with many big bands and Stan Getz. Pena has re­corded previously with me, as has Jack Sheldon, an ex-Lighthouse trumpeter who has also recorded under his own name. Sheldon is a major soloist, and fits perfectly into my conception of the quartet.


Q This music is such a sharp departure; do you have any mis­givings about making the leap?


A This music is no novelty; it's the result of almost a decade of formal study, the culmination of all my thinking, writing and blowing. To me, it seems like sheer insanity to continue to play against that hammering beat. Classical music, once the rhythm is stated, assumed the freedom to move un­accompanied, and if jazz is going to continue to grow, it needs this same freedom.


Q New styles usually provoke extreme reaction; what sort of general judgment do you hope for?


A Early works in a new style necessarily grope; each new tune helps to expand and define the form; this album is not final. All I really ask for this music is an isolated judgment —for what it is, rather than for what it isn't. It isn't an attempt to compete with, or supplant other forms; I knew when I took the step that I must sacrifice a large segment of the usual jazz audience. It is, I think, jazz, and a swinging music, but those are ambiguous terms. Does it excite in­terest? Is it pleasurable? Does the interest hold up? These are the real questions.


Q You've been considered one of the great blowers with the very sort of rhythm you now flee; are you abandoning it for good?


A As a working musician, I must continue to play other music until the quartet works more steadily, and there are prob­lems — such as the extreme awkwardness of any turnover in personnel. I still enjoy playing with a stomping rhythm section occasionally, but my heart lies here; I believe in this music.


Will McFarland comments on the four Scintilla selections ...


Scintilla One — This bright brief opener, mostly ensemble work, serves both as an introduction to the album and as a basis for three subsequent sparkling variations. There is no improvisa­tion or development as yet, but extensions of the form are heard.


Scintilla Two — The ensemble plays the first eight bars of Scintilla One to introduce a development of that theme — minus extensions. This fast, tough, earnest variation is used as a basis for blowing; it's Giuffre's tenor all the way, very free.


Scintilla Three — Another variation on the root Scintilla, lighter and cute this time, stars the trumpet. Jack Sheldon's depth in running ideas is given plenty of leeway, and the clarinet comments from the middle-ground, half written, half spontaneous.


Scintilla Four — Climaxing the album, Giuffre unveils a stir­ring development and finale: the drums are fingered; there is imitation; all four players take a final four; all previous Scintilla material is recapitulated and used; a couple of canons, and the concert closes.


Ted Gioia,  West Coast Jazz: Modern Jazz in California, 1945-1969 [pp. 235-36, paragraphing modified]


“Despite Giuffre's rhetoric, the pieces on Tangents in Jazz do swing. In many ways the listener is even more drawn to the rhythmic element of the music, by the way it moves from instrument to instrument, instead of resting solely with the "rhythm" section. On Tangents Giuffre was again joined by Pena, Sheldon, and Anton, and though none of them stretches out at length during the course of the album, each is very much put in the spotlight as Giuffre employs a wide range of compositional de­vices: call-and-response figures, two- and three-part counterpoint, unison and harmony lines, canonic devices. These take the place of solos in Giuffre's new conception.


As a filmmaker conveys a sense of momentum through a sequence of rapidly shifting camera angles, Giuffre's constant movement from one musical device to another achieves a similar effect. Part of the achievement of Tangents in Jazz is that, despite the leader's stated disre­gard for a "propulsive" beat, these pieces are constantly propelled, if not by a metronomic beat, certainly by Giuffre's constant changes in compo­sitional focus. If anything, Giuffre overcompensates on Tangents, avoiding lengthy solos and shifting musical gears with abandon. The result is a highly concentrated music—which may be pleasing to the listener, but also makes severe demands on the attention.”


Part 3: The Jimmy Giuffre - The Complete Capitol and Atlantic Recordings [Mosaic Records MD6-176]


© -  Mosaic Records/Francis Davis, used with permission; copyright protected; all rights reserved.


Saddened by the recent passing of Jimmy Giuffre [April 24, 2008], the editorial staff of Jazzprofiles thought it appropriate to pause in its preparation of other articles for the site and to offer a celebration of his memory by making available to its readers these exquisite insert notes that Francis Davis created for the Mosaic series [Jimmy Giuffre - The Complete Capitol and Atlantic Recordings MD6-176]. It has taken some liberties with the paragraphing.


These notes form a discourse on just how much thought Jimmy Giuffre put into his music, as well as, an indication of Mr. Davis’ thoughtful insights about Giuffre and how he created this music.


“Given a long history of animosity between musicians and those who write about music (or merely write about it, as some musicians would say), I hope that Jimmy Giuffre won’t take my suggestion that he would have made an excellent jazz critic the wrong way.


I simply mean that during his most prolific period as a recording artist, beginning with the release of his first 10” LP for Capitol in 1954, Giuffre in interviews and liner notes provided his listeners with a running commentary on his motives and methods, revealing in the process a great deal of knowledge of such other disciplines as philosophy and psychoanalysis.


Reading Giuffre on Giuffre, a critic might despair, because this is one of the rare instances in which a performer has already been as fair and impartial a judge of his own successes and failures as anyone could hope to be.


(Especially for an artist as committed to public trial and error as Giuffre was during the period in which he recorded most frequently. There is also a sense in which a new piece of music can be heard as a critique of the work that came before it – yet another way in which Giuffre beat after-the-fact commentators like myself to the punch).


Best of all, despite seeming to rebuke the jazz rank-in-file of the 1950s for their conformist tendencies, Giuffre never lapsed into what I call the existential fallacy, that leap of hubris by which an artist (or for that matter, any individual) presumes that his new direction is one that everybody should follow.


In one of his earliest pronouncement – a Down Beat [November 30, 1955] article published under his byline in 1955, in which he explained his decision to limit the bass and drums on his controversial new album Tangents in Jazz [Capitol T-634] – he was careful to point out in his lead that he wasn’t trying to “preach a sermon” in order to bring the rest of Jazz into line. “It’s just one way,” he reiterated at the end, “and every man must go his own way.”


Giuffre gave the fullest explanation of his “way” of that time in the liner notes to Tangents in Jazz, answering a series of “leading questions” put to him by an unidentified interviewer (if not annotator Will MacFarland, then possibly Giuffre serving as his own devil’s advocate, a` la Edmund Wilson or Norman Mailer).


“What is this music?” Giuffre was asked.


His reply – “jazz, with a non-pulsating beat” – accurately describes not only Tangents in Jazz, but also the more experimental of his Capitol recordings of a year earlier and some of his atonal work of the same period with Shorty Rogers, Teddy Charles and Shelly Manne. It also applies to most of Giuffre’s subsequent recordings, including even so deceptively “conventional” an effort as his 1957 “cover” of Meredith Wilson’s score for The Music Man.


“The beat is implicit, Giuffre went on to explain, [I]n other words, acknowledged but unsounded. The two horns [in this case, Jack Sheldon on trumpet and Giuffre on clarinet, tenor or baritone] are the dominant but not domineering voices. [Ralph Pena’s] bass usually functions somewhat like a baritone sax. [Artie Anton’s] drums play an important but non-conflicting role ….


I’ve come to feel increasingly inhibited and frustrated by the insistent pounding of the rhythm section. With it, it’s impossible for the listener or the soloist to hear the horn’s true sound. I’ve come to believe, or [to] fully concentrate on the solo line. An imbalance of advances has moved the rhythm from a supportive to a competitive role ….


[T]o the degree that the beat was there to guide dancers, it is, of course, no longer necessary to concert jazz ….


Several of today’s writers have dropped sounded beat for contrast, but never for an entire work. I’ve written works completely lacking sounded beat, but the difference between this music and all previous work is the use of drums. My previous attempts at this approach, while achieving some of the clarity I sought, were always vaguely unsatisfactory to me until I realized the trouble: the drums, by their nature, cannot carry a simultaneous or overlapping line; when the drums is struck any other note is obliterated, and attention is torn away from any other line. In this music, the drum lines are integrated but isolated.”


That may be fine during written passages, Giuffre’s interlocutor challenged, but how can such “isolation” be guaranteed during improvised solos, where a drummer’s responses are impossible to predict?


“By writing rests in the ad lib parts [and] allowing the drums to fill,” Giuffre answered, in effect arguing that composition and improvisation could overlap - a notion that may have struck some listeners of 1955 as far more treasonous than dispensing with the beat, even though it summarizes a lot of Duke Ellington and is practically a truism for today’s jazz avant-garde. “Classical music, once the rhythm is stated, [assumes] the freedom to move unaccompanied, and if jazz is going to continue to grow, it needs this same freedom,” Giuffre insisted, acknowledging that by taking such a giant leap, he risked sacrificing a “large segment of the usual jazz audience.”


Giuffre ultimately did pay a price for his boldness, once going ten years between new releases (after Free Fall in 1963) and being omitted from most contemporary roll calls of the 1950s. Luckily, Giuffre underestimated the progressivism of ‘50s jazz buffs. Although never a force in mainstream culture like Stan Kenton or Dave Brubeck, and never a cause celebre like Lennie Tristano or Ornette Coleman, Giuffre appealed to many of the same listeners, for similar reasons.


Having been acclimated to revolution by bebop in the late 1940s, modern jazz devotees of the 1950s kept their ears peeled for another uprising, and Giuffre was clearly up to something new.


The crux of the controversy that surrounded Giuffre following the release of Tangents in Jazz , reaching a crescendo with the introduction of the first of his several drummer-less trios a year later, was his aversion to the sort of drum thunder then coming to be identified by many as the very heartbeat of jazz.


But in complaining of “an imbalance of advances” in modern jazz, Giuffre was also questioning what he felt was an over-emphasis on harmonic movement at the expense of linear development and subtler aspects of timbre (he later characterized chord changes as “vertical prison” [Loren Stephens, “The Passionate Conviction,” Jazz Review, February, 1960], and in the liner notes to Tangents in Jazz, he identified being “fed a steady stream of chords” by a pianist or a bassist and “fighting a steady beat” as twin evils. Another way of putting it might have been to say that the innovations of Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie had followed too quickly on the heels of those of Lester Young, with the result that Young’s still hadn’t been fully absorbed).


Giuffre’s displeasure with the chordal underpinnings of bop gave him something in common with Miles Davis and Gerry Mulligan, in addition to anticipating Ornette Coleman. His solution was to substitute melodic counterpoint – which he called “slow motion counterpoint” – for harmonic structure, as well as pronounced beat.


Giuffre told Nat Hentoff in 1957 [“Jimmy Giuffre: Blues in Counterpoint” Saturday Review, July 13,1957]:


“The result is a certain feeling of suspension, of dissonance, if it’s handled right. In slow-motion counterpoint, for example, if one melody is an eight-note pattern that is changing notes often, the other melody changes notes much less often, perhaps every four bars. And for rhythmic interest, the slow-changing line can be broken up by repeated notes and rests. A third line and possibly a fourth could be proceeding at other varying rates of speed simultaneously."


Perhaps in response to a question from Hentoff about where this left the listener, Giuffre went on to explain:


“the contrast between lines made possible by this approach provides the clarity that is necessary to follow all the lines. [A]nd to a certain extent, the listener will have more time to absorb each harmonic feeling, because in my writing, the harmonies are the results of lines, rather than lines being fitted to the harmonies."


Were he less theoretically inclined, or less articulate, the native Texan could just have said that the folk-like material he was then writing for his trio allowed even the most casual listener an easy way in. But in outlining the principles of slow-motion counterpoint in such detail, he was paying tribute to his mentor and the theory’s father, Dr. Wesley La Violette, a Los Angeles-based classical composer and proto-guru whose other followers included Shorty Rogers and John Graas. “He had a great influence on my life,” Giuffre years later told Ted Gioia [West Coast Jazz: Modern Jazz in California 1945-1960, New York: Oxford University Press , 1992]. “His scope of music is limitless …. It has given me the staff of life.”


Giuffre in the 1950’s was a man on a quest, much like Coltrane was a decade later. The difference was that Giuffre’s quest, like his music, was more muted, and that it manifested itself intellectually rather than spiritually. All jazz musicians seek their own sound, or at least pay lip service to that concept. The next step for those who find an individualistic means of expression is to attempt to broaden it into a group sound. For Giuffre, sound was a key to finding out who he was as a person, not just as a musician.


A former sideman with a variety of big bands, including those of Buddy Rich and Woody Herman, Giuffre was 33 when he began recording as a leader – a ripe age for a jazzman, by that day’s standard. He already enjoyed a reputation as a composer and arranger based on the success of his Four Brothers for Woody Herman’s Second Herd in 1947.


(Giuffre has always been quick to point out that he borrowed the idea of four tenor saxophonists – or in the case his anthem for Herman, three tenors and a baritone – playing in harmonic parallel and without a vibrato from Gene Rowland, his former roommate at North Texas State University).


He was in steady demand for gigs and recording sessions around Los Angeles in reward for a versatility that wasn’t limited to his being equally adept on three horns. On Howard Rumsey and the Lighthouse All-Stars’ 1952 recording Big Girl, Giuffre honked like a rock ‘n roller; at the opposite extreme, on Chant of the Cosmos, with Shorty Rogers three years later, he blew unpitched air through his horn without striking a note.


Such versatility is usually thought of as commendable in a musician, but Giuffre soon talked as though it was an elaborate mask for his insecurities, not as an improviser, but as a man.


“I began to see that I … had been changing my personally all the time he told Hentoff [op.cit.]. If I was playing with a Basie-type group, I’d sound more like them, and the same with a bop unit. I was a little bit of Stan Getz and Miles Davis and Charlie Parker and a thousand different things, depending on who I was with."


In a subsequent interview with Dom Cerulli [“Jimmy Giuffre: I’m a Trio Now, he Says, But I Used to Just be a Boor,” Down Beat, September 19, 1957], Giuffre expanded on this theme in a way that his identity crisis wasn’t just musical:


“With the group [the original Jimmy Giuffre 3, with Jim Hall on guitar and Ralph Pena on bass], I’ve found that since the background follows the soloist, I’ve been shaking off all schools. Before, when I felt I was playing in an original manner, I was actually playing like a whole bunch of guys ....


[Dr. La Violette] helped me break down a lot of the inhibitions I’ve had. He made me realize I could do things my own way. The clarinet helped, too. There was only one way I could play it, in the middle and low registers. My lip’s just not ready to play in the high register. I don’t know if I can do it. I think I can, but we’ll see.


As I began to play the way I felt, it became comfortable. I could hear these voices saying I must play the other way. But it felt so good, I said, “The hell with it.” It has reached the point where a lot of the musical ideas I have might be considered old-fashioned or bluesy. I used to wonder, “What will the cats think? What will Miles think? What will Getz think? And Stan is miles ahead of me in technique. But something strange happened. I began to hear it in the music of the Modern Jazz Quartet, Horace Silver, in Gerry Mulligan, in the Getz group with Bobby Brookmeyer.


They were playing with this mood of the old-fashioned blues. It has a fresh new way about it. It sounds like a modern man playing with the old blues feel.”


Revealing that his first wife accused him of being a boor as a human being while a Lighthouse All-Star – a blinkered individual who demonstrated no interest in the solos of his fellow band members and who would go to his room to practice between sets – Giuffre explained to Cerulli that upon forming the 3, he had “developed an interest in [things other than music] and other human beings.”


Said Jim Hall in the same article: “Jimmy has a theory: Through finding yourself and getting a grip on yourself personally, you can do the same thing musically. There is a direct connection between personal and musical directness.”


Still later, in 1959, Giuffre responded to Lorin Stephens’s question “Why was sound so important to you?” by admitting that “perhaps it comes from childhood/”
“It was sort of like not wanting to go out unless I was dressed properly. I couldn’t release the music inside of me unless it sounded perfect – that was the first consideration – to have beautiful sound quality.”


“But why so important?” Stephens persisted.


“Well, it goes with my personality, I’m sure. I won’t accept the thing that I am an introverted personality, which some have tried to make me out. I have gone through periods, and I won’t say that I have shaken them off completely, but I have gone through periods where I was quiet: I like the pastoral, the country; I like Debussy and Delius – I like peaceful moods.”


The music on the following video is Jimmy’s arrangement of Marian the Librarian from Meredith Wilson’s The Music Man.