Saturday, June 8, 2019

Celebrating the 80th Birthday of Trombonist Bill Watrous with Steven D. Harris

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


The following feature resulted from Steven Harris happening upon a reference on Kentonia [an Internet chat group devoted to the music of Stan Kenton] that trombonist Bill Watrous would have turned 80 on June 8th [2019; Bill died on July 2, 2018].  

Steven sent along the following 1986 interview with Bill and, at his request, the editorial staff at JazzProfiles is bringing it up on these pages on June 8th in celebration of the 80th anniversary of Bill’s birth.

As to a Kenton - Watrous combination, given the former’s affinity for the sound of the trombone, one could only wonder what might have been had Bill taken his many talents on the instrument onto the Kenton Band.

Steven D. Harris is the author of The Kenton Kronicles: A Biography of Modern America’s Man of Music, Stan Kenton. New and Used Hardcover and Paperback version are still available via online sellers such as Amazon, AbeBooks or at www.stan-kenton.com.

Just a word in passing, you may come across some technical glitches involving spacing, et al and we ask you to accommodate them as they are the result of formatting using two, different platforms.

Jazz–cussion from the Vaults:
Bill Watrous chats with Steven D. Harris
Originally published in the Nov. 2014 issue of JazzElite.

Bill Watrous, a staggering trombone master still at 75, has been aligned with the jazz scene since the late 1950s––and remains a strong asset to the art, now as much in an instructional capacity as for his phenomenal playing chops.  (Yes, too, he sings on the side.) His tone is one of such control and beauty that, for some long-time listeners, it surpasses his technical playing edge. Even in musical gimmickry, the Watrous surrealisms astound. There’s one past bit in which Bill successfully “talks” through his horn, speaking the Pledge of Allegiance––a fete that would have surely brought smiles to a baffled Ed Sullivan.

Bill––who is often vested and blue-jeaned in the manner that was his dress style 50 years back––has conducted master jazz classes since 2000, when he became an adjunct prof. at USC's Thornton School of Music.  (Sometimes, by request, he’ll take the workshops out of town.)  In 2011, Houston State U. in Huntsville, Texas launched a large–scale event in his namesake: the annual Bill Watrous Jazz Festival functions as a competition for music students at both high school and college level.


Musically, Bill's inspiration and aspiration, from the start of his teens, was jazz.  
He'd already seen Bird and Clifford Brown in action, which he calls "a heck of a time to absorb greatness, while at a formative age."  In high school, he was part of the marching band and from his sophomore year, the swing band. His early claim of an all–time favorite trombonist was Vic Dickenson, though he currently cites Carl Fontana.  (Still elsewhere, he's rated Urbie Green at the top of the trombone totem poll, making it appear that a singular choice "favorite" is just too hard). Aside from some pointers in 1962 by composer–pianist Herbie Nichols (the obscure but terrific talent who hipped Bill to jazz "turnarounds"), he had no formal lessons.  During his long stint in the service––a period he refers to as "a total musical waste"––Bill availed himself for any and every off duty jazz jam or rehearsal that he could blow on.

He arrived in SoCal from the East in 1958, sharing a single room with a group of jazz wannabees.  They formed a quintet called 4+1, joined the union and secured a job four nights a week, playing––as Bill relays––"every bebop tune known to mankind."  After a Navy transfer to New York in 1959, Bill found himself among name musicians, playing Dixieland dates in Greenwich Village and his home state of Connecticut.  Back in civilian life, he obtained studio work on the Merv Griffin Show (1965–68) and as a CBS staff player ('67–69).  The period marked his first solo efforts on record, when Bill appeared on bandleader Johnny Richards' final album in 1966: Aqua Se Habla Espanol.

The next year, under his full birth name of William Russell Watrous, his debut disc hit the market––though any aspect of jazz was coincidental.  In a sort of subliminal nod to Tommy Dorsey, Bill put the famously smooth T.D. legato and breath–defying technique to good use, backed by the Richard Burke Strings. The next Watrous outing called In Love Again (which was no less Muzak–laden) showed off his best commercial balladry.  

Bill’s third album (1969) had a slightly different slant: a synthesis of jazz, pop and vocal backings. A curio selling point was derived from the elongated title.  The name smacks like a psychedelic time warp, so typically late ‘60s: Love Themes for the Underground, the Establishment and Other Subcultures Not Yet Known (with support from the Walter Raim Concept).  

In 1971, Bill partook in the new jazz–rock–pop exhilaration, joining the group Ten Wheel Drive, but later questioned the intent.  "We tried to take the music everywhere but where it belonged," he said, adding that it was "always too loud, over–amplified or overblown."  He'd hoped, without results, that it would progress into a more sophisticated ensemble, one along the lines of Chicago. (Bill would later play back–up for that group on their 1995 disc Night & Day.)  

Early 1972 found Watrous rehearsing his first ensemble, an offshoot of 10WD, which also constituted a jazz–rock mix. He named it Eclipse, comparing it to a "scaled down version of the Thad & Mel approach, with touches of Don Ellis thrown in." Its members were mostly lab band grads from North Texas State. However, the sextet's social commentary proved too prevalent for them to survive past that initial season.  

At this same juncture, Bill was forging ahead with a larger ambition.  He would organize the remnants of two powerhouse but defunct New York big bands: those of Bill Berry and Al Cohn.  (Bill had been meditating on such a leadership role since 1969.) The 16–man unit, with Bill as front man, made its club debut in April, 1972.  By the next year, it was reshaped, fine–tuned and retitled. Columbia Records head John Hammond was keenly impressed, signing them to a record deal.  The fact that it was a major label did little to propel their colossal jazz find. Scant marketing was provided them and the band never did receive the proper packaging (or engagements for that matter) it so deserved.  

The irony: while their second big band release was nominated for a Grammy (The Tiger of San Pedro, 1975), Columbia would drop Bill just after the fact.  To compound things, the band's first and only road tour in 1976 proved so disastrous that they decided to 180–it, turning the bus around and, with bruised spirits, headed home.  It would be another 18 years before the public would hear any further samplings of the Watrous big band on disc (1993)––and only one more in the years since, with Space Available (1996).


THE WATROUS DISPOSITION (AND OTHER PASSIONS)
Bill seems not to prescribe to the forced P–Correctness pill, leading to certain detractors.  I have found some of his original axioms refreshing.  He’ll often interject them, in witty dialogues, in the space of a tune.  (Imagine a hybrid of Clemens with thinkers Sahl and Carlin). Some of his standard song title puns are Damn That Dream, I Can’t Believe You’re In–Laws With Me and When Your Liver Has Gone (dedicated to Bill’s late blowing partner, trumpeter Danny Stiles).

Then there’s the cool Watrous temperament at times of unpredictable displacement.  One occurred at Alfonse’s (a Toluca Lake jazz club) in 1989, when this writer was present.   A few choruses into Teach Me Tonight, in which Bill couraged a vocal refrain, a determined drunk made himself known.  The sloshed offender disrupted a few vocal intervals with the kind of unsettling whistles that might stop an artist cold.  Bill saved his comeuppance for afterwards. “Tell you what,” he calmly assailed into the guy, “let’s play ‘horse.’  I’ll cover the front end; you just be yourself.”  (Note that a similar account with Gerry Mulligan, who was less calm, happened in 1956––the live moment was actually caught on tape and issued by Pacific Jazz.)

Something scarcely known about Bill is his one equal attachment outside of jazz: a life-long penchant for baseball.  He was gifted with a power arm––in fact, enough to attract a major league scout (for the New York Yankees, no less) when he was not yet 20.  No alas for jazz, his batting practice was edged out (if only barely) for the musical woodshed––the trombone had won out.

He had never stopped contemplating the “what ifs” when, at the late age of 45, Bill was offered a legitimate chance in the Minor Leagues––this time with the Midland Cubs of Texas.  The manager was stupefied at the music man's still-powerful slugging stance and, without hesitation, was ready to sign him on as a designated hitter. The meager pay and bus travel to places “nowhere” (as Bill described it) helped him arrive at a decision, after careful contemplation.  Again, Bill would leave his swinging for the jazz field.

The Bill Watrous Story continues with his own career reflections with the writer, progressing up to 1986 for our first taped encounter.

Jazz Capsule: In Conversation with Bill Watrous
The interview to follow was taped June 29, 1986 when Bill was this writer’s in–studio guest for 90 minutes on Artistry in Jazz, originating from radio station KPCC–FM on the campus of Pasadena City College (CA).  A week prior, the writer had heard Bill’s quartet during a two–night stand at Donte’s jazz club in North Hollywood (Bill graciously allowed my cassette–taping), which is how our on–air meet was arranged.  The following transcribed Q&A appears in print for the first time ever in JazElite (November, 2014 issue).

Bill, let's begin with my introduction to your music around 1976–77, a few years after your first big band release in ’74: a product you prescribed under the tag Manhattan Wildlife Refuge.  That band came on the heels of another one through [trumpeter] Bill Berry.  I sort of owe the fact that I have that band to Bill, because I played in his when it was called the New York band.  It's now called the L.A. band...a good bunch with good players and, overall, good charts. Sho [a samba written by Berry around 1970] was probably the best chart we had then.  

In order to record this band, we had to grab people to hurry up and do some writing, because we didn't have enough quality [material]...just soloists and a hot rhythm section that could go on for hours.  After Bill Berry had moved to California, I managed to salvage some of what was left of my solos and start a big band with that. I had help from [drummer–director] Bobby Rosengarden from the Dick Cavett Show, where I was working [in the TV studio band].  He contributed a few charts with John Charles, a good arranger.  Rather sooner than later, I came up with a middle of the road library of stuff that I could play.  Later on, we got some charts for the actual album.

About the Manhattan Wildlife Refuge: Just how and why did you pick such a bizarre working title?  I was vacationing in Maine at my old fishing camp.  Just prior to the formation of the band, I was thinking of a name, which I hadn't given much thought to.  I happened to be driving by the moosehorn nature reserve and thought, hey, how 'bout a band with that name?  We'll get the rock and roll kids tricked into listening to us! So I came up with one of those names that doesn't denote the fact that it's a big band, you know?  It could mean anything. Anytime you can get the attention of some of these people, you have at least gotten them to the door. They'll either like it or not like it.  Still, it didn't work.

You were born in what I think was a grand year to be alive in America.  We were just coming out of the Depression and not yet into the next war, plus the swing era was at its peak and doing just that: swinging in 1939.  I don't remember much that day!  I'm told that when I was born, it was during a terrible and vicious electrical rain and thunderstorm.  90 mph winds and the power went out [laughs]. Maybe that's what happened to me.

There is a list of brass stylists that you got your musical nourishment from.  But your first influence was really your own dad, Ralph Watrous, who got you started on the same horn he played, when you were six; correct?  Yeah, he was a player.  He had been with a lot of the vaudeville bands up to that time and some of the not–so–important to the well-known big bands.  He even did a couple of engagements with Paul Whiteman. He played with Irving Aaronson's Commanders, Joe Herbert's Broadway Rebels and Florida Shorty and his “Sons of Beaches.”  It's true––it was a real band. With lights going on and off every time they hit the bass drum and the palm trees showing.

You seemed fixed for trouble from the start, seeing how your dad had so many horns lying around for you to tamper with.  But somehow you never got scolded? [Laughs]...I used to grab 'em and take them out of the cases when I'd get home, starting from first and second grade.  I would break into the cases and put them together and experiment. He was really understanding about this, unlike some fathers would be.  He'd come home and find an Olds trombone bell with a Bach slide, or a King’s slide in with a Reynolds bell––and then find peanut butter and Bosco all over everything.

Were your parents resistant to your vocation, since musicians then––save for the symphonic “longhairs”––were typically frowned upon…or were your folks more tolerant?  Both my folks wanted me to be a doctor; they didn't want me to be in music in all.  In fact, my father was really upset when he got word, through my music teacher in grammar school, that there was a possibility I was getting serious about it.  He didn't want me to be hurt. Now that I'm getting on in my years in the business and looking back upon things, I know what he was talking about…to try and break into the music business.  Even now, with all the [jazz] polls and albums behind me...You still always have to prove something to the public, to the club owners. Painful is what it is.


Your one “live” album from ’82 was actually attempted in England, taped at what loosely might be called a jazz joint, the Pizza Express.  How did that work out for you?  That was my first time in Europe.  I basically took advantage of the situation and stretched out.  It was the longest performance that I have ever committed to albums of any kind.  Mole Jazz [the record firm] didn't seem to worry about that too much.  They just put out all of the performances [highlights] just as they are.  This is one of a series of clubs run by a fellow in London. There's this one and [also] Pizza in the Park.  It's a little basement club––you walk down stairs and there's no air in the place, whatsoever.  The pizza, well, you can eat it. It's not a New York pizza...but it's alright.

I understand that during your visit there in London, you got to play the same historic pipe organ used for the Royal Albert Hall?  What a moment to remember.  Yes, I have a distinction of having played that.  It's a monster; one of the most physically huge instruments I have ever seen.  It turns out that it was being tuned that day and the guy maintaining the organ let me sit down at it.  I'm not a great organist by any means, but I can experiment around on it. Boy, that's an exciting instrument.

I've only heard a handful of trombone players that come close to your speed, agility and technical level––Jiggs Whigham and Bill Reichenbach come to mind.  Frank Rosolino was very soulful and fine at triple tonguing, but you touch more on playing in layers and circular breathing, which regulates air flow to the horn.  Can you cover how this process of using overtones is applied? I mean, you sound like a trombone ventriloquist, manipulating the embouchure to create two or more simultaneous tones.  What's the specific name for it...and just how does one accomplish this feat? Very carefully!  It's called multiphonics.  It goes back to [pianist] Carl Maria von Weber's time, about the time of Beethoven.  He wrote multiphonics for a French horn soloist. I believe [it was] the first time it was ever publicly written down, for someone to do that.  It's a technique of playing one note and "singing" another one at the same time. Then you get an overtone thrown in, hence, the completion of the triad.  If you "move" the voice you're singing carefully, you might get four notes. Albert Mangelsdorff [the avant–garde trombonist from Frankfurt] is probably the most prominent multiphonics technician.  That's basically all he does. He gives concerts just by himself.

To add to the list of 'bone virtuosos not yet mentioned, there was a wonderful session you did with Carl Fontana in 1984.  Though it was made only two years ago, the album doesn't seem to be available anywhere.  Is there a reason for that?  Let's put it this way [with a hint of contempt]: It's not available at all.  The company that produced this album is no longer in existence. However, it was a date with Carl and myself.  We each did a ballad and four other [up tempo] tunes.

One story you wished to share involves Birdland, a New York jazz spot that can only be described as––though the word is overused––legendary.  I know it was of great regret to a slew of players when the club was forced to shutter its doors in 1965, after 16 years.  Yeah, but then it opened up under the name of Lloyd Price's Turntable and become a disco joint.  I don't know why the city of New York doesn't go and renovate that entire surrounding area and return Birdland––we LOVED that club.  I'm proud and honored to have played there twice. The second time I was much wiser...I was armed with at least one $5 bill a week for this little guy.

The "guy" you refer to leads us to the anecdote we’ve been saving, all about a not–so–nice emcee: A midget named Pee Wee Marquette, who I was surprised to find guesting on the CBS "David Letterman Show" a few months ago.  For folks that don't know, he was a little three–foot tall dude.  I can't tell you what it was that Lester Young called him on the air, so you'll just have to imagine.  [Author's note: Pres referred to Marquette as "a half a m–f*#!”] Pee Wee was the doorman, the maître d' and more or less the stage manager at Birdland, “the Jazz Corner of the World."  He had this funny, tiny little voice that used to peel out over the microphone. [Bill gives a sample of Pee Wee's squeaky vocal tones.] He had a habit of extorting money from the various people that worked there.  You know, $5 a week would be good for him.

So true!  When trombonist Jimmy Knepper was new to the Kenton band in ’59, Pee Wee––so I hear––conned him out of just that much in a single night.  If you figure a five or six–piece group, that's an extra 30 bucks a week.  In 1961, that was nice bucks. One of the nights we were there, he saw me standing backstage, smoking.  I was into Dunhill's tobacco with this great big Sherlock Holmes–type pipe. [Bill manifests into Pee Wee again, with a voice that is fittingly shrill and irritating.]  He says: "Hey, baby, you oughtn't to be lightin' that pipe with that big 'ol wooden match. What y'all need is a Beattie jet lighter!" Say what? "Yeah, a Beattie jet lighter––I got one right here."  He rolls his sleeve up and he’s got watches, bracelets and all kinds of stuff. He finally comes up with this jet lighter.
So what happened?  He pushes the button down and, sure enough, it looks like a miniature blowtorch––I was impressed.  "Wow, how much for that?" [Bill continues his impression of Pee Wee]: "Tell 'ya what: Since yo' a friend o'mine, I'll give it to you for $15."  I didn't have that; I had $7.50––and I needed subway fare home to Brooklyn. So he says, "Tell 'ya what, baby; I'll let you have it for $7." I gave him the money, then the gig is over.  I leave Birdland and I'm strolling up 7th Avenue, grooving. You know how you groove after the gig? I was in heaven...[until] I looked in the Optima cigar store. There on the display counter was a Beattie jet lighter for $4.50!  It ruined my whole evening.

Ouch.  Does the encounter end there?  Well, the next time I see him..."Aw, there you are, you little nerd.  I know what you did, Pee Wee. YOU ARE A CHEAT AND A LIAR! You charged me $7 for a lighter I could have got up the street for $4.50."  He looks at me and says: "Hey, baby, y'all let the buyer beware!" [Author's note: The Beattie jet lighter, which then cost as high as $22.50 for sterling platings––an extravagant sum in 1961––was discontinued the same year of Bill's upsetting purchase from Pee Wee.]


Bill, you've collaborated with arranger Pat Williams, whom you've known since 1960, on a number of projects––but none as grandiose as your latest effort, soon to be released: an album called Someplace Else.  Tell us about this recording made last May [1985], which has you backed by a count of 89 musicians.  Pat and I had been discussing this project for about a year before we finally decided to do it––some originals that Pat would write, plus some classical things.  He wanted to put me "live" [as in "real time"] in front of a large orchestra at 20th Century–Fox studios. I did a suite of music by Debussy and an aria that Maria Callas used to sing...and also a suite comprising Yesterdays and [I'm] Getting Sentimental Over You, which are woven together, this big fabric with the orchestra.  It was made for compact disc, but we'll have records and tapes, too.  

[Author's update: Bill first recorded with Pat in 1968 (Verve's "Shades of Today") and they remained friends
for some 50 years.  Both men were born weeks apart in 1939 and died just weeks apart in July, 2018, aged 79.]

Another recent album you're on is the film soundtrack of City Heat (1984), scored and conducted by a guy we hope to have on this radio show in the future, Lennie Niehaus.  The highlight, for me, has you blowing back–up for Joe Williams, who sings the main theme. Have you previewed the film yet?  Yes; I actually enjoyed it.  First of all, I'm a Clint Eastwood fan anyway and the two of them [he and co–star Burt Reynolds] are hilarious.

Around 1957, before joining the Navy band, you played some dates with a major trumpet king named Roy Eldridge.  That's impressive, considering you were just 17 when "Little Jazz" hired you.  Yeah, it was just before I went in the service.  Roy came to New London, Connecticut; I lived in Niantic [nearby].  He wanted a "hot" trombone player and it just so happens I was the hottest trombone player in Niantic, or even New London.  It was a hell of an honor, really. He was just [so] supportive and easy going and, gosh, what a player.

When did you get to audition for the magnificent Kai Winding, who became such a mentor to you?  That was four years later, after I got out of the service [1961].  A lot of the stuff was really hard; it was written for just four trombones and a rhythm section.  I couldn't read very well. I didn't know one phrase from another, as far as reading. I could play any kind of stuff [as an improviser], but I couldn't really "get in" and read the music.  It's no problem now, since that's all been taken care of. But at that time, hey, what did I have to do for four years in the Navy except hang around [or] sit in and blow at clubs? You don't need music there.

I'd like our listeners to hear what I first heard in 1983, when you did a radio interview with Leonard Feather.  The track is called This is Love from the Sammy Nestico release (and label) Dark Orchid.  Your added overdubbed effects are a bit novel here––but on an artistic level, I must say it really sounds inventive.  Tell us about it. The way this particular cut came about was I played the melody through the tune and then Victor Feldman played a piano solo.  A lot of this was tracked over. Sam had the bright idea that he would write the piano solo out for me to double on the trombone, which is what I did.  I played what Victor played on the fender Rhodes and it was my idea to add a whistling track. I got it on one take. So it's piano, trombone and whistling which, unfortunately, I can't do in public!  For those of you who don't know, Sam was probably––in addition to being superbly talented as a writer––one of the best trombone players of the day. Tommy Dorsey used to say that Sam Nestico, when he was in the Air Force [band], was his favorite trombone player.  But [instead] he quit it to write.

I should also let fans know that you do more than play the trombone, sing or do bits as the jazz whistler. You've managed to pull off some more pretty accurate impersonations.  Besides Pee Wee and jazz producer John Hammond, there’s the great Dane, Mr. Winding, who we sadly lost in 1982. What do you think Kai would say if he could be with us now in the studio?  [Watrous dives straight into his next impression]: "What are ya' talkin' about, man?  You tryin' to say that trombone players are weird?" You have to know the man.

Since I know Kai's voice from his historical narrative on the LP Trombone Panorama (1957), I can say that you really have his vocal mannerisms down.  Wasn't he living in the Bahamas when he passed away?  No, he was living in Spain.  He went to the Bahamas for treatments for the [brain] tumor that he had.  I miss him [something] awful. I know that the people who knew him feel the same––he is irreplaceable, you could really say.  The folks that were really close to Kai––as he preferred to be called [see author's note below]––knew what a value he was on the trombone scene––and the music scene in general.  So is J.J. [Johnson]; God bless him. He's still around for us to listen to, although he isn't playing much anymore. But he certainly was [another] tremendous contributor.

[Author’s note: The correct pronunciation "Ky" is still often mispronounced "Kay."  Much of the confusion stemmed from the initials J&K, used for
the two–trombone albums made with his mid–1950s collaborator, J.J. Johnson.  Prior to that, his one-time boss Stan Kenton (1946-47) would also
refer to him as “Kay.”  Kai allowed for the variant of his name for years, but by the latter 1960s, he made the habit of kindly correcting people.]

I grew up on one specific album, made in ’55, that I’m sure you’re aware of: Jay & Kai + 6.  And to think, in the mid–60s, you got to make four albums with him.  I don't think Kai ever really got the respect he deserved.  I remember going out on the road with him and, when there were times we'd go through rehearsals, he would just walk through it.  I felt cheated, because I wanted to hear him really play. Then we'd get to a music school [gig] and this guy Kai would haul off and wail like you've never heard!  I don't think it's ever been [caught] on records just how wild Kai could play when he wanted to.

Bill, we can't cover your bio properly without mentioning some of your other favorite players who boosted your career and supported you.  Ah, I guess the people, when I think back to when I got to New York, who were nicest to me––outside of Kai––were guys like Bob Brookmeyer.  He and Clark Terry would always let me sit in and play with them. So would Al Cohn and Zoot Sims. I could always go down to the Half Note [in New York City] and sit in any time after I got through workin' the Copa.  I'm standing there in my stupid tuxedo, going up to play the last set with Al and Zoot! I used to LOVE it. I guess Al and Phil Woods go down in my mind as two of the most perfect jazz musicians there are. Clark Terry is another one and this young fellow, Wynton Marsalis.  And Freddie Hubbard; I don't see any brass player trying to get along in this world without checking out Freddie. I mean, there's nothing the man can't do. He's the kind of trumpet player that I would like to be on trombone––I'd like to be able to handle a horn that way.

There‘s one recent album of his (from 1983) that you play on, with Allyn Ferguson conducting, that I really enjoy.  The track that stands out on “Ride Like the Wind is Two Moods For Freddie.  That cut is very interesting.  There were a bunch of similar things that Freddie and I both did on our solos, but I never noticed it before.  I have the tape of it, but it's because I don't listen to my own stuff. I really don't.

Let's delve into your many big band experiences, from sit–ins with Basie to recording with Woody and Maynard.  And I mustn’t forget the neglected Johnny Richards, a whiz at orchestral jazz drama. Who were some others?  I played with Quincy Jones for about a year and half, when Quincy had his big band.  We worked the Apollo Theatre up in Harlem. What a program that was––and what a schedule.  We were exhausted after two weeks, because we were doing three shows a day. They were scattered from around noon all the way through the wee small hours, showing movies in between.  That tells you how long you have to wait around.

Did you appear on the live album of Quincy's from 1963, when he backed Billy Eckstine at Basin Street East?  I might have been, yeah.  Redd Foxx was the comedian and Frieda Payne was on the bill, too.  That was a hot band, then I played on Thad and Mel's [the Jones–Lewis] band later on.  Woody, I guess he's my favorite bandleader of all. I played with him after Phil Wilson [who left in 1965].  We played the Riverboat Room and Woody taped us there [for Columbia Records]. Sal Nistico was still on the band, [then] he cut out.  I wound up playing with Johnny Richards’ band on the East Coast in the mid-sixties, which is about as close to Stan's band as I could get.

But you never did get to play with the exciting “Artistry” band.  People often ask me if I had ever played with Stan Kenton.  I currently advise them, "No, but I have played with Ken Stanton," which is not exactly a joke.  He was a bandleader in Long Island, New York that I used to play an occasional club date with. I met the real Stan at Carnegie Hall in 1975, as part of the Newport Jazz Festival.  [Author's note: Excellent recordings of this date have since surfaced on the internet under Wolfgang’s Vault.] It was a big band bill of my Manhattan Wildlife Refuge, Maynard Ferguson and Stan, who was very complimentary and very gracious upon meeting me.  I was impressed with his warmth about the whole thing. He shook my hand, said he enjoyed my playing and added it was going to be great band.

What was your overall impression of the man, Stanley Newcomb?  Kenton had a very warm but imposing manner.  It seemed like his huge hands could easily cover two keyboards, if they were laid side to side.  He had so many bands through the years, more so than even Woody had at that point. My favorite was the one that recorded "Contemporary Concepts" [in 1955].  It was absolutely sensational. That album, to me, is probably one of the ultimate big band albums of all time.


Since relocating to California, you aptly revised your big band under the moniker Refuge West, though lately I've heard nothing of it.  I temporarily put it in mothballs [in part, Bill claims, because of issues with the L.A. Local 47 Musicians’ Union].  But I'm gonna start it up again...we're going to start rehearsing again in a few weeks, after about two years [off]. Actually, I've been too busy doing clinics, getting my [last] album done and traveling.  Then there's being a daddy. I have a boy almost three years old––and he is demanding. [Author’s note: Bill later wrote and recorded a piece for his only son: A Hot One for Jason appears on his 1991 quartet release Bone–ified.]

You also wrote a piece for your daughter Cheryl, but how about one for your wife, MaryAnn?  I have written one for her; it's called La Zorra [by the 1981 Watrous Quartet; like Cheryl, the first version from 1976 was recorded by Bill with the Danny Stiles Five].  It's on another one of those Harry Lim [produced] albums, actually the last in the series we did.  The album is dedicated to her. Oddly enough, I owe MaryAnn the fact that the [band] library still exists.  Remember in February, all the many days of rain we had? MaryAnn came in from the garage and said, "Hey, honey, do you know you're band library is standing in about a half an inch of water?" I said, "No, but if you'll hum a couple of bars..."  Sure enough, I ran out and there was the band library, [soaking] in water. I got it just in time to save it from permanent wreckage. I had music spread out all over the grass and backyard, draped over tables, drying out. And then, geez, a wind came up and blew the drum book [apart].  It was an awful afternoon.

[Author's note: Not all of the charts survived.  One was a lovely Gordon Goodwin arrangement of Never Let Me Go (1983).  A live performance exists in the writer's collection, as does
another rarely played original by Hank Levy (circa 1976) called Bread & Watrous, also known under the pun-painful titles Bridge Under Troubled Watrous and Still Watrous Run Deep.]

I first saw Refuge West five years after your move to L.A in '76.  I was thrilled to hear it, since your big band dates are so infrequent.  You played at Plaza Gardens, Disneyland in 1981 and I was present again for your return in '83 at another section of the park.  We did some other things in '84.  We were at Donte's all during the Olympics, every weekend.  That was a nice experience. We tried to record there, but the band that I had, they were not my original guys.  There were an awful lot of subs and the tape just sounded gross. When we really got down to mixing it, we got lots of separation...things that just had no business being there.  So we scrapped the whole project. That sort of disillusioned me about big bands in general, for the time being.

[Author's note: It was in '81 at Disneyland when Bill announced, rather excitedly, that the band was about to do
a Direct-To-Disc double-album of new material.  However, it never did materialize, largely due to lack of funds.]

In the trombone spot, Bill, you may just hold the record for winnings in the Down Beat poll, which had you in the #1 position for six years straight.  That [started] during the year my first big band album came out.  I think I was third [in votes] this year.
Do you personally feel polls like this are important?  Anytime anybody breaks down and sends in a ballot with your name on it, as far as I'm concerned, that's a compliment.  

© 2014 and 2019 by STEVEN D. HARRIS.


1 comment:

  1. I enjoyed this article very much!
    Just wanted to add a couple of personal recollections...
    In the early 1960's, there was a jazz club in Westbury
    Long Island, New York known as "The Cork & Bib"...by 1961,
    I was already out on the road, plaing trombone and touring with The Tommy Dorsey Band, under Warren Covington...on breaks from touring, I'd return to 'The Island' and always try to make the Wednesday Jam session at 'The Cork', where I was considered a regular (at age 20)....one Wednesday in 61, I showed up at 'The Cork'....no sooner had I entered the club, bone case swinging in my hand, I heard a 'barage' of trombone notes flying from the bandstand heading in my direction..The feeling that I had, was probably similar to how Custers soldiers must have felt at "Little Bighorn" (no pun intended).I felt like this cat onstage was aiming a "Thompson" sub-machine-gun at me....I did the only 'manly' thing and unpacked my horn and joined this 'musical maniac'on stage....Bill could have 'dis-assembled' me without blinking his eye, but instead of imminent 'cold-blooded murder', Willie, without putting the brakes on, played a great set, and I survived!
    He wasn't dressed in jeans, but actually had a very 'smart' black & white herringbone tweed sport coat, his hair was somewhat between a brush cut and crew cut....I soon discovered what a truly nice cat he was........he mentioned that he thought my playing was great, and was real impressed with a couple of 'double A's' that I'd played....whenever we ran in to each other, for years, he'd mention those double A's, all the while Watrous was probably the greatest high note trombonist of all time....not more than a few weeks after the "Cork" I was 'studio hopping' together with trombonist Al Grey, and we happened into a Manny Albam session...lo and behold, there was Willie in the bone section sitting next to JJ Johnson....about 15 years ago, just before 'wrapping' my 'swan-song' cd, I wrote a composition based on the bridge of Tommy Dorsey's theme song, "I'm Getting Sentimental
    Over You"as a duet for Bill and I....in his memory, I'd like to add it to this remembrance of my friend, BILL WATROUS:https://www.reverbnation.com/richpulinmusicalfamily/song/11042903-bridge-duet-bill-watrous--rich

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