West Coast Classics - Cy Touff, His Octet & Quintet - Arranged by Johnny Mandel

 © Copyright ® Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

Cy Touff, His Octet and Quintet [Pacific Jazz 1211, JWC-501, EP4-43 released in 1956] was issued as a CD in 1998 as part of the “West Coast Classic series, a limited edition release that included bonus tracks and rare photographs.”

Leading the charge for this series which also included audio enhanced sound were Pacific Jazz recordings by Chet Baker & Russ Freeman, Bill Perkins, Jack Montrose, Jack Sheldon, Bud Shank, Curtis Amy among other artists associated with the label during the 1950 and 1960s.

The original liner notes were written by Woody Woodward who was owner Dick Bock’s primary administrator. Also closely associated with the label was iconic photographer William Claxton whose sterling work provided much of the unique look of the cover art and Dotty Woodward, Woody’s wife, who pretty much kept all aspects of the company in good working order.

In addition to the fine musicians in bass trumpeter Touff’s groups, this album featured the work of composer-arranger Johnny Mandel.

Woody explains the back story as follows:

“Ordinarily the planning and production of a jazz album is a relatively simple matter taking perhaps four or five months from the planning stage to its subsequent arrival at the record counter. The history of this album's development is quite a different story.

It all began in September 1953, when Richard Bock, John Mandel and I found ourselves engaged in a conversation regarding four arrangements Mandel had made for Terry Gibbs. To Bock and me they were like a breath of fresh air.

As Bock had a thriving young record company at his disposal, it followed that his interest was more than casual - particularly when it came to John Mandel and the prospects of recording his music. John was broached on the subject - would he consider doing some arrangements of this sort for Pacific Jazz? He most certainly would.

We proceeded to discuss the plans: how the material should be handled, who could best play the music in the way John had in his mind without subverting their own musical personalities. The music wasn't a great problem as John had clear-cut ideas about that. It would be rather simple in structure, loosely arranged - extroverted and infectious in nature. The underlying Basie concept.

The musicians were another matter. Of course, Harry Edison came to mind immediately. Who could better play the jazz trumpet parts than the man who had spent more than ten years in that role with Basie himself. As for the others, the choices were vague - we had to give the matter a great deal of thought. We departed, each going his separate way, with no concrete plans beyond Bock's invitation to discuss it further at a later date.

In the months that followed, we came in occasional contact, each time the subject was touched upon, nothing important developed. After almost a year had gone by, the whole thing was all but forgotten. Then in the summer of 1954, Woody Herman brought his new band through Hollywood and with it an exciting new jazz voice - a 26 year old bass trumpeter from Chicago named Cy Touff. He played with the dynamic attack of a lead trombonist on the "shouters" and the delicacy of a muted mellophone on the ballads.

Bock went several steps out of his way to meet and talk to Touff - the subject being records. Cy's name was placed alongside that of Harry Edison. It was another year before anything further developed.

On Wednesday afternoon, September 1st, 1955, I received a phone call from Cy. He had just arrived in Hollywood and asked me to meet him at Capitol Studios where they were rehearsing the new Herman Octet. There, I renewed an old acquaintance with a young tenor player from Philadelphia, Richie Kamuca. That afternoon and during several rehearsals that followed I had the opportunity to hear Richie at length - he was impressive. On Tuesday night, September 6th, Bock heard him during a rehearsal and substantiated my opinion. There was no question about it - Richie Kamuca was our man.

During those rehearsals, another musician made quite an impression - drummer Chuck Flores. He had been with Herman for several years - proof enough of his ability. But it wasn't until those rehearsals, propelling, kicking, and sparking the Octet that the point was driven home - that Chuck Flores was one of the most exciting young drummers in the nation. Flores was included in our plans.

Needless to say, Cy greatly influenced our decision to use Kamuca and Flores. He had been working with them for more than a year and regarded them as outstanding jazz musicians and as assets to the album. Cy further suggested using bassist Red Mitchell, and pianist Pete Jolly. Since both Kamuca and Jolly were under contract to RCA Victor, it was necessary to secure permission to use them. On Thursday night September 8th, the Herman Octet opened at the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas for an undetermined length of time. Unless something unforeseen came up, we expected to record early in November. On October 6th we received a telegram from RCA Victor: "You have permission to use both Pete Jolly and Richie Kamuca," signed Jack Lewis, Director Jazz Artists and Repertoire.

On Thursday night October 13th, I flew to Las Vegas to confer with Cy Touff. Cy and Richie played me some things they had worked out for the two horns - the idea was born to record half the album utilizing these head arrangements. I also learned that the band would be in Hollywood the last week in November.

Now, for the first time we had something concrete to go by and a tentative deadline. Mandel was contacted and informed of what to expect in the way of time. He was writing for five horns and three rhythm: two trumpets, a bass trumpet, a tenor, an alto or baritone, and piano, bass and drums. He decided to use the additional two horns (a trumpet and alto or baritone) purely for ensemble voicing, thereby leaving the jazz choruses to the rest of the band and having two instruments available at all times for the written passages. The arrangements were under way, Touff, Kamuca, Edison, Flores, Jolly and Mitchell were set - six down and two to go.

From our earliest discussions with Cy, he voiced an interest in recording someplace other than a regular recording studio - some place with natural acoustics like a large auditorium. He believed the musicians would be more relaxed under such conditions and anyway he was tired of the dead sound of the usual recording studio. All through the month of November we scouted around for a suitable location - it seemed a large vacated theatre might be the best bet. After investigating five or six, Bock found a promising theatre - the Forum, on West Pico Boulevard. The 1500-seat theatre had been a showplace during the Roaring Twenties and had since fallen into limbo along with silent pictures and extravagant Hollywood premieres.

On Friday morning, November 25th, Cy called from Las Vegas; he, Richie, and Chuck would arrive in Hollywood on the following Tuesday. Arrangements were made for the record dates to take place on Sunday morning, December 4th at 11:00 am for the Octet, and Monday at 1:00 pm for the Quintet.

Mandel was called again. Everything was going smoothly with the arrangements; three of the four were nearly completed. The fourth had been delayed because he had been snowed with arranging jobs during the last week of November. Under the conditions he didn't see how he could do justice to the last arrangement with so little time left. John mentioned that Ernie Wilkins (arranger and saxist with Count Basie) would be staying with him over the weekend and suggested he do it. Wilkins was invited to do the fourth arrangement [What Am I Here For?]. To complete the band, John proposed using Conrad Gozzo, possibly the best lead trumpeter in the business, and Matt Utal, who had played lead alto with Billy May, Gordon Jenkins, Xavier Cugat, Jerry Gray, and a number of other bands. With four days to go, it appeared that Red Mitchell would be unable to make the dates as several last-minute record dates had been called for the Hamp Hawes Trio, with which he was working. This was a disappointment that greatly softened when we learned that Leroy Vinnegar was available. Next we learned that Pete Jolly would be out of town with Shorty Rogers" Giants at the time we had scheduled the recording of the Octet recording. He was still available for the Quintet date, but we had to get another pianist for the Sunday session. The decision to use Russ Freeman was not a difficult one-besides recording frequently for Pacific Jazz, he was also working with Vinnegar on the [drummer Shelly] Manne Quintet. Now the band was complete.

At 10:30 Sunday morning on December 4th, we assembled at the Forum while the first heavy rain of the season fell outside. Out front sat perhaps a dozen interested onlookers swallowed up in the dim reaches of the spacious auditorium. On the left-hand side of the stage sat Richard Bock at the mixing controls and Phil Turetsky, before the portable Ampex, and in the center of the stage eight musicians.

Those rare moments when a jazz group "catches on fire" are seldom captured on record. The inescapable pressures of the recording studio and the inevitably formal gathering of musicians, technicians, and executives cause even the veteran jazz musician to withdraw somewhat. The success of their music is so dependent on complete relaxation and the extroversion of the performers that it requires a live response to raise it to its full potential. This comes from a genuine communion between performers and audience. One feeds upon the other until it seems the excitement is unbearable. Under ideal conditions, when the musicians are in the right frame of mind-coaxing each other to greater heights-and the others they are working with are responsive, a recording session can glow with an indefinable beauty.

As the date progressed, we experienced that special kind of glow. It was relaxed - as Cy had predicted. It swung, and it felt good. On Monday it was the same story. Each date produced a performance that required more than one "take"; on Sunday it was "Keester Parade," and on Monday, "A Smooth One." Maybe it was the welcome rain that fell both days, or the pressureless aura of the theatre. Maybe it was the genuine sense of anticipation that had built up after months of waiting - whatever; December 4th and 5th, 1955, will remain a memorable experience to all of us.”

— Woody Woodward (original finer notes)

Special thanks to Jim Harrod and Robert Gordon, who spotted the alternate take of "A Smooth One" issued only on EP. Because no master tape of this has survived, that tune had to be dubbed from a commercial pressing. Although this was reported to be an early stereo date, no stereo tapes can be found.

Gordon also made some interesting musical observations: "Mandel's Keester Parade is the same line as Harry Sweets Edison's Centerpiece. Of course, that line in turn is based on the band riff in the old Basie-Rushing blues Nobody Knows. Mandel's version does have significant additions, including a great out-chorus. The Touff-Kamuca head on Prez-Ence is based on Lester Young's solo on the Aladdin recording You're Driving Me Crazy (available on "The Complete Aladdin Sessions of Lester Young" Blue Note B2-32787).

—Michael Cuscuna

Bunny Berigan: Boy With A Horn

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

“As always, there is Berigan’s incomparable – and irrepressible – swing. … Berigan’s sense of swing was an innate talent, a given talent, a feeling beyond study and calculation, one that Berigan heard in the playing of both Beiderbecke and Armstrong, but which he synthesized into his own personal rhythmic idiom.”

“Berigan’s other great asset was the extraordinary beauty of his tone. Though technically based on perfect breath support, the purity—and amplitude—of his tone was controlled at the moment of emission by his inner ear, as with any great artist renowned for his tone. Berigan could project in his mind and ear a certain sound, and then the physical muscles (embouchure, breathing, fingers) would, in coordination, produce the desired result.”

- Gunther Schuller, The Swing Era

“If you could have seen him out on that stage in a white suit, with that shiny gold trumpet, blond hair and gray penetrating eyes – well, if it didn’t knock you over when he started to play, ain’t nothin’ gonna knock you down.”

- Joe Bushkin, Jazz pianist

For the first half century or so of its existence, trumpet players were the Rock guitarists of Jazz.

It seemed that every aspiring young musician wanted to play a shiny, brass trumpet much like today’s youngsters want an electric guitar hanging from their hip.

Of course, it was all Louis Armstrong’s fault.  Pops started the craze in the mid-1920s when as a member of King Oliver’s Band [another trumpeter] he stood up to take his memorable solos at Lincoln Gardens in downtown Chicago.

Pops was the first Jazz soloist and he took them on a gleaming, glittery and glossy horn that formed the center of attraction for many Jazz groups, big and small, that span Jazz styles as diverse as Dixieland, Swing, Bop, Modern, Free and Fusion.

The list is endless: Jimmy McPartland, Red Nichols, Henry “Red” Allen, Harry James, Cootie Williams, Rex Stewart, Ray Nance, Buck Clayton, Harry James, Roy Eldridge, Dizzy Gillespie, Howard McGhee, Harry “Sweets” Edison and Miles Davis, all continued “the boy with a horn” tradition that Pops started with his clarion calls to Jazz.

There seems to be something ill-fated with Jazz trumpet players whose first or last  name begins or ends with the letter “B.” Bix Beiderbecke, Booker Little, Sonny Berman, Clifford Brown, Bunny Berigan – none made it to thirty years of age. Heck, Berigan just barely made it beyond as he died in 1942 at the age of thirty-three. In some respects, these marvelous trumpet players scarcely made it out of boyhood making the phrase – “Boy with a Horn – an apt one, indeed.

I didn’t know much about Bunny Berigan other than that his version of I Can’t Get Started was immensely popular and became a kind of “acid test” for trumpeters after it was recorded in 1936 in much the same way that Pops’ West End Blues had dazzled them about ten years earlier.

So I turned, as I so often do when I’m looking for information about The Swing Era, to George T. Simon’s The Big Bands, Gunther Schuller’s The Swing Era and Richard Sudhalter, Lost Chords, White Musicians and Their Contribution to Jazz, 1915-1945.

© -George T. Simon, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

"I Can’t Get Started was Bunny Berigan's theme song. It was also a pretty apt description of his career as a bandleader.

Bunny could have and should have succeeded handsomely in front of his own band. He was a dynamic trumpeter who had already established himself publicly with Benny Goodman and Tommy Dorsey via brilliant trumpet choruses that many of the swing fans must have known by heart — like those for Benny on "King Porter Stomp," "Jingle Bells" and "Blue Skies" and for Tommy on "Marie" and "Song of India." So great were Berigan's fame and popularity that he won the 1936 Metronome poll for jazz trumpeters with five times as many votes as his nearest competitor!

It wasn't just the fans who appreciated him, either. His fellow musicians did too. One of them — I think it was either Glenn Miller or Tommy Dorsey —  once told me that few people realized how great a trumpeter Bunny was, because when he played his high notes he made them sound so full that hardly anyone realized how high he actually was blowing! Red McKenzie, referring to the notes that Bunny did and didn't make, once said, ‘If that man wasn't such a gambler, everybody would say he was the greatest that ever blew. But the man's got such nerve and likes his horn so much that he'll go ahead and try stuff that nobody else'd ever think of trying.’

All of these men, Miller, Dorsey, McKenzie, plus many others, including Hal Kemp, featured Bunny on their recordings. How come Kemp? Because his was the first big name band Bunny ever played with. Hal had heard him when he was traveling through Wisconsin in 1928, was attracted by his style, but, according to his arranger-pianist, John Scott Trotter, ‘didn't hire him because Bunny had the tinniest, most awful, ear-splitting tone you ever heard.’ Berigan broadened his sound considerably (it eventually became one of the "fattest" of all jazz trumpet tones), came to New York, joined Frank Cornwall's band, was rediscovered by Kemp (‘Bunny had discovered Louis Armstrong by then,’ Trotter points out), joined the band, then went off into the radio and recording studios (he cut some great sides with the Dorsey Brothers Orchestra) and was at CBS doing numerous shows, including one of his own, which featured Bunny's Blue Boys, when Goodman talked him into joining his band. He stayed six months, returned to the studios and then joined Dorsey (or a few weeks—long enough to make several brilliant records.

Even while he was with Tommy's band, Bunny began organizing his own, with a great deal of help from Dorsey and his associates. First he assembled an eleven-piece outfit, which recorded several sides for Brunswick and which really wasn't very good, and then in the spring of 1937 he debuted with a larger group at the Pennsylvania Roof in New York.

The band showed a great deal of promise, and it continued to show a great deal of promise for the close to three years of its existence. It never fulfilled that promise, and the reason was pretty obvious: Bunny Berigan was just not cut out to be a bandleader.

As a sideman, as a featured trumpeter, as a friend, as a drinking companion, be was terrific. The guys in his band loved him, and for good reason. He was kind and considerate. Unlike Goodman, Dorsey and Miller, he was not a disciplinarian—neither toward his men nor, unfortunately, toward himself. Playing for Bunny Berigan was fun. And it was exciting too — like the night a hurricane blew the roof off Boston's Ritz-Carlton Hotel, where the band had just begun to establish itself, or the time it showed up for a Sunday-night date in Bristol, Connecticut, only to find Gene Krupa's band already on the stand (Berigan had gotten his towns slightly mixed—he was supposed to have been in Bridgeport, Connecticut, that night.)

The band projected its share of musical kicks too. On that opening Penn­sylvania Roof engagement, it unveiled a new tenor sax find from Toronto, Georgie Auld, who perhaps didn't blend too well with the other saxes but who delivered an exciting, booting solo style. It had a good arranger and pianist in Joe Lipman and several other impressive soloists, including a girl singer, Ruth Bradley, who was also a clarinet player.

Berigan was good at discovering musicians. Ray Conniff started with him, and so did two brilliant New York lads, a swinging pianist named Joe Bushkin and a rehabilitated tap-dancer-turned-drummer named Buddy Rich.

The band recorded a batch of sides for Victor; some were good, some were pretty awful. Naturally his "I Can't Get Started" was his most important. (He had recorded the number earlier with a pickup band for Vocalion, and to many musicians this was a more inspired version.) Also impressive were "Mahogany Hall Stomp," "Frankie and Johnny," "The Prisoner's Song," "Russian Lullaby," several Bix Beiderbecke numbers and a few pop tunes, especially if Kitty Lane happened to be the singer. He featured other girl singers, such as Ruth Gaylor, Gail Reese and Jayne Dover, and sang occa­sionally himself, but not very well.

As Berigan's self-discipline grew even more lax, his band became less successful. By late 1939 it was obvious that as a leader, Bunny was not going anywhere. Early in 1940 he gave up.

Almost immediately his friend Tommy Dorsey offered him a job. Bunny accepted and sparked the Dorsey band to brilliant heights, blowing great solos and infusing new life into a band that had begun to falter. (For a sample of how Bunny was playing then, try Tommy's record of "I'm Nobody's Baby.")

Bunny's stay lasted only six months, however. There was marked disagree­ment about why he suddenly left the band on August 20, 1940, after a radio broadcast at the NBC studios. Dorsey said, "I just couldn't bring him around, so I had to let him go. I hated to do it." Berigan, on the other hand, complained about not "enough chance to play. Most of the time I was just sitting there waiting for choruses, or else I was just a stooge, leading the band, while Tommy sat at somebody else's table."

So he reorganized and for a while the new band, composed entirely of unknown musicians, showed promise, according to writer Amy Lee, who reviewed a May, 1941, air shot from Palisades Park in New Jersey: "That fifteen minutes was enough to tell the listener that Bunny is playing more magnificently than ever, that he has a band with a beat which fairly lifts dancers or listeners right off their seat or feet ... his range, his conception, his lip, and his soul are without compare, and to hear him again is the kick of all listening kicks."

But again Bunny couldn't get started quite enough to last. The combination of too many one-nighters and unhealthy living began to catch up with him again. The last time I heard the band was in a Connecticut ballroom during the summer of 1941, and for one who admired Bunny's playing so tremen­dously and who liked him so much personally, it was quite a shattering experience. I reported in Metronome:

"The band was nothing. And compared with Berigan standards, Bunny's blowing was just pitiful. He sounded like a man trying to imi­tate himself, a man with none of the inspiration and none of the technique of the real Berigan.

He looked awful, too. He must have lost at least thirty pounds. His clothes were loose-fitting; even his collar looked as if it were a couple of sizes too large for him.

Apparently, though, he was in good spirits. He joked with friends and talked about the great future he thought his band had. But you had a feeling it would never be. And when, after intermission, Bunny left the bandstand, not to return for a long time, and some trumpeter you'd never heard of before came down to front the band, play Bunny's parts, and spark the outfit more than its leader had, you realized this was enough, and you left the place at once, feeling simply awful."

Shortly thereafter he gave up the band,  and Peewee Erwin, who had replaced him in both Goodman's and Dorsey's outfit, took it over. Berigan declared bankruptcy. He was obviously quite ill, but he carried on doggedly, fronting yet another band. He broke down several times. He was hospitalized in Pennsylvania with a severe case of pneumonia. More than anything and almost anyone else, Bunny needed a rest and help. But probably out of sheer loyalty to his men, and faced with the responsibilities of supporting a wife and two young children, he refused to give up.

On June 1, 1942, he was scheduled to play a job at Manhattan Center in New York. The band showed up. Bunny didn't. He was seriously ill in Polyclinic Hospital with cirrhosis of the liver. Benny Goodman, playing at the Paramount Theater, brought over his sextet and filled in as a gesture of friendship toward his first star trumpeter.

On June 2, 1942, Bunny Berigan died, a financially and physically broken man. like another wonderful trumpeter with the same initials, Bix Beiderbecke, whose horn had also been stilled a decade earlier by too much booze, Bunny lived much too short a life. He was only thirty-three when he died. And yet during that brief span, he grew to be a giant on the jazz scene — per­haps not as a big bandleader but certainly as one of the best-liked musician-leaders of his day and one of the most inspiring jazz soloists of all time.”

Gunther Schuller offers this view of Bunny, his music and his significance in the Jazz World.

© -Gunther Schuller, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“Jazz loves its legends, especially its alcoholic martyrs. To qualify for such can­onization you had to die early, preferably from too much drinking; and it is best that you were white — and played the trumpet. The two BB's—Bix Beiderbecke and Bunny Berigan—were ideal candidates, and they are idolized and romanti­cized to this day, while Jabbo Smith, Frankie Newton, Tommy Ladnier, and John Nesbitt, who either died prematurely or were forced into early retirement, are allowed to languish in quiet oblivion.

On the other hand it doesn't pay to live a long and active healthy life: that will get you very few points in the legend business. Berigan was unquestionably one of the trumpet giants of the thirties. But as one reads much of the jazz literature, especially in its more anecdotal manifestations, one could easily gain the impression that, after Armstrong, there was only Berigan, and that such pre-Gillespie trumpeters as Roy Eldridge, Henry "Red" Allen, Rex Stewart, Cootie Williams, Buck Clayton, Harry Edison, Harry James, Charlie Spivak, Ziggy Elman, Sy Oliver, "Hot Lips" Page, Taft Jordan, Eddie Tomkins, Bobby Hackett, Charlie Teagarden, Mannie Klein, and a host of others simply never existed or were inconsequential peripheral figures.

Such biased writing takes much encouragement from Armstrong's oft-quoted response to a question about his successors: "The best of them? That's easy, It was Bunny." (That must have made Roy Eldridge happy!) Whatever Armstrong's reasons for making that comment might have been—if indeed it is authentic and not taken out of context—the fact is that Berigan, as good as he was, was by no means as unique as his most ardent admirers would have us believe.

That he was a superbly talented and in his early years a technically assured trumpet player is beyond argument; but so were all the above-listed trumpet players, some even more consistent or technically spectacular than Berigan. That he was a superior musician with superb musical instincts and a relentlessly creative mind is also unarguable; but so were Eldridge, Allen, Stewart, and Cootie. That he was always a moving lyric player is equally true; but so were a number of others, particularly Cootie and Ladnier, Clayton and Hackett.

And while a lyric, singing approach to the trumpet was Berigan's forte, players like Stewart, Newton, and Eldridge could create eloquent lyric statements, as required, in addition to other kinds of personal expressions. That Berigan used the full range of the trumpet, exploiting especially the low register, is undisputable; but so did Eldridge and Jabbo Smith, and they indeed expanded the top range much more vigorously. That Berigan took chances in his flights of imagination is also undeniable; but it would be impossible to deny that Eldridge did, and that, in fact, he did so within a more venturesome and complex style, and — it must be said — with greater technical consistency.

Berigan's idolization by certain authors has even led to the deification of his mistakes. A fluff by Berigan is cherished in those circles as some glorious creative moment, which no one else could have dared to imagine. The fact is that, from a brass-playing point of view, many of Berigan's missed notes—discounting the final years when his deteriorating health really affected his coordination—occur not in his technically most daring passages but in relatively ordinary ones. Some of his more spectacular trumpet feats are the result of his most daring concep­tions, whereas the more conservative musical ideas are often those which are technically blemished.

All of this is not to denigrate Berigan's talent and achievements but merely to put them in perspective and to demythologize somewhat his position in jazz history. He does occupy an important role in the jazz trumpet's development in that he, more than anyone else, fused elements of both Armstrong and Beiderbecke into a new, distinctive, personal voice.

By all accounts Berigan, like Eldridge, seems to have discovered Armstrong relatively late; and when he did, it was primarily the Armstrong already em­barked on a career as a lyric balladeer and bravura soloist. But it would be wrong to assume that Berigan was, even in the early stages of his career, a mere Armstrong imitator … Berigan not only had his own sound and melodic identity but also had the ability to create fluent, well-structured explorative solos….

“Hallmarks of Berigan mature style are remarkable fluency in the lowest range of the trumpet, an area that Armstrong had begun to explore, but which Roy Eldridge and Berigan were to make an integral and consistent part of the trumpet’s technical/expressive vocabulary,  Berigan’s inventiveness of imagination in his ability to adroitly combine the expected with the unexpected and a glorious rich golden singing tone.” [paraphrase]…

One of the many musicians who was strongly impressed by Berigan's talent was Benny Goodman. Benny and Bunny had often worked together in the stu­dios in the early thirties in pickup bands (sometimes led by Goodman) and, as mentioned, on the Let's Dance broadcast series. When Goodman took his band on its first transcontinental road trip in the summer of 1935, he hired Berigan as his leading soloist.

The recordings made by the Goodman band with Berigan are some of the best representations of both artists. Certainly Berigan's two solos on King Porter Stomp (recorded July 1, 1935) must count as among his very finest creative achievements. His performance here represents the mature Beri­gan in full opulent flowering.

Berigan's solo work on King Porter exemplifies his unerring sense of form, a virtually infallible clarity of statement. His two solos, one muted, the other open horn, are miniature compositions which many a writing-down composer would be envious of having created, even after days of work. This structural logic trans­mits itself even to the lay listener in the absolute authoritativeness of his playing.

The ingredients in both solos are really quite simple: great melodic beauty combined with logic and structural balance. Every note, every motivic cell, every phrase leads logically to the next with a Mozartean classic inevitability. And each phrase, whether heard in 2-bar or 8-bar segments, has its own balanced structur­ing and symmetry. Take, for example, the last eight bars of his first solo (Ex. 18). Starting on the syncopated high Cs, the phrase falls to its midpoint, rests there a moment (in bar 20) and then rises again to the final tonic note. And whereas the first four bars use syncopation as an element of surprise, of swing and of tension, the last four bars lie squarely on the beat, providing a wonderful sense of resolution not only to the phrase but to the whole solo….

…symmetrical balancing gives the solo a wonderful equilibrium, seemingly a natural gift with Berigan.

But this is not all. As always, there is Berigan’s incomparable – and irrepressible – swing. … Berigan’s sense of swing was an innate talent, a given talent, a feeling beyond study and calculation, one that Berigan heard in the playing of both Beiderbecke and Armstrong, but which he synthesized into his own personal rhythmic idiom.

Berigan’s other great asset was the extraordinary beauty of his tone. Though technically based on perfect breath support, the purity—and amplitude—of his tone was controlled at the moment of emission by his inner ear, as with any great artist renowned for his tone. Berigan could project in his mind and ear a certain sound, and then the physical muscles (embouchure, breathing, fingers) would, in coordination, produce the desired result.”

© -Richard Sudhalter, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“In the half-century since his death, Bunny Berigan still inspires ecstasy in those who knew him, worked with him, and admired him from afar. It's in the Joe Bushkin utterance that begins this chapter, rapt acknowledgment of a reality quite beyond the events of an ill-starred trumpeter's life.

"Bunny hit a note — and it had pulse," said clarinetist Joe Dixon, a member of Berigan's band in 1937-38. "You can talk about one thing and another — beautiful, clear, big tone, range, power — and sure, that's part of it. But only part of it."

He gropes for the one elusive, all-encapsulating thought. "It's hard to de­scribe, but his sound seemed to, well, soar. He'd play lead, and the whole band would soar with him, with or without the rhythm section. There was drama in what he did — he had that ability, like Louis [Armstrong], to make any tune his own. But in the end all that says nothing. You had to hear him, that's all."

You had to hear him. Hyperbole and magic, pressed into service yet again to explain the inexplicable.

But what is the reality of this trumpet player, dead, emptied of life-force, at age thirty-three? Is Bunny Berigan, as more than a few chroniclers would have us believe, merely a very good musician whose significance has been exaggerated by generations of votaries? Or is something else at work in the minds and mem­ories of those who heard him?

George "Pee Wee" Erwin, who followed Berigan into Tommy Dorsey's trum­pet section, insisted: "I don't think you could ever really appreciate [Bunny] unless you stood in front of that horn and heard it. I've never heard anyone who could match it. When he'd hit a note it would be like a cannon coming out of that horn. And I'm not speaking of sheer volume—I'm speaking of the body of the sound." …

Steve Lipkins, who played lead trumpet with Dorsey and with Berigan's own band, declared him "the first jazz player we'd heard at that time who really played the trumpet well, from bottom to top, evenly and strongly throughout. Besides that, he had something special in the magic department — and you had to hear that to understand it." [Emphasis, mine]

Many trumpeters had power, beauty, and density of tone. Manny (sometimes Mannie) Klein had near-perfect control in all registers, too; he could lip-trill the high notes just as adeptly as Berigan. Roy Eldridge was a more daring high-wire walker, leaping and swooping and racing around his horn like a clarinetist; Sonny Dunham, with the Casa Loma Orchestra, had a keen sense of drama; Harry James could whip audiences into a hysterical frenzy, and his Goodman band section-mate Ziggy Elman was a powerhouse in both solo and lead. Henry "Red" Allen was probably more creative, Rex Stewart more abandoned. Cootie Williams—in his open-horn moments, at least—equally majestic (hear his opening chorus to El­lington's 1934 "Troubled Waters").

But it's hard to imagine any of those men, however accomplished, inspiring talk of "something special in the magic department." Berigan, then, can't be understood as simply an amalgam of skills and attributes. There is another di­mension; even his less distinguished recorded work exudes a sense of something transcendental, unmatched by any other trumpet soloist of the 1930s.

The only comparison that comes to mind is the mighty, all-pervasive—and now increasingly mythic—figure of Louis Armstrong. And indeed, Armstrong was at pains to make clear that "my boy Bunny Berigan" was in a class by himself "Now there's a boy whom I've always admired for his tone, soul, technique, his sense of 'phrasing' and all. To me, Bunny can't do no wrong in music."

At the end of the 1920s, when Berigan arrived in New York, many white brassmen admired Louis Armstrong, but few attempted to emulate him. Jack Purvis had been the trailblazer with his recording of "Copyin' Louis," discussed in the previous chapter. Tommy Dorsey, who in those days doubled regularly on trumpet, brought to the horn an Armstrong-like intensity quite different from his trombone playing.

But most white trumpeters were under the spell of Bix Beiderbecke, whose introspective sensibility wedded romanticism with a classicist's sense of order and structure. Where Louis's solos were bold, emotionally dense statements, painted in bright primary colors, Bix's were more subdued, richly layered, nuanced.

That polarity created a dilemma for musicians who admired both men. Rex Stewart, one of Berigan's first friends in New York, confessed to being unable to make up his mind between Beiderbecke and Armstrong and embraced both in a most original manner. The solos of John Nesbitt, arranger and trumpeter with McKinney's Cotton Pickers, show the same sort of division.

But the duality found its most fully realized expression in Bunny Berigan….

In 1932, Bunny Berigan hit his stride….

Berigan was now one of the most polished and versatile trumpet men in the music business. His range was big, glowing, and secure all the way up to his high G. His control of high-note lip-trills was nonpareil. His flexibility was re­markable even by today's advanced standards of technique: he could vault from the lowest to the highest reaches of his horn with the same matter-of-factness displayed on his records with Kemp, but with ever greater confidence and polish, and no loss of tonal size or quality.

He used this technical equipment in shaping solos often stunning in their power to move a listener—something special, as Steve Lipkins put it, in the magic department; it is this quality, above all, that sets Berigan apart from even such supremely gifted contemporaries as Roy Eldridge.

Comparison of Eldridge and Berigan is instructive. Each exploits the dramatic potential of his instrument, but to somewhat different ends. From his first ap­pearance on record, the 1935 "(Lookie, Lookie, Lookie) Here Comes Cookie," with Teddy Hill's orchestra, Eldridge is clearly an unprecedented force in jazz trumpet playing. His ability to get around the horn is awe-inspiring, combining Stewart's flexibility and Jabbo Smith's daredevil acrobatics—but with greater ac­curacy and sense of purpose.

Nothing in any trumpeter's work up to that time remotely approaches the mile-a-minute stunt flying of "Heckler's Hop," "After You've Gone," or "Swing Is Here." But Eldridge (in common with Dizzy Gillespie, whom he directly in­spired) did not form his approach out of the examples of either Armstrong's stateliness or Beiderbecke's introspection. He admired Red Nichols—but largely, he added, for the latter's fluency and command of his horn. It was in saxophon­ists, notably Coleman Hawkins, that Roy Eldridge found his role model. Though capable of eloquent moments at slow tempos ("Where the Lazy River Goes By," "Falling in Love Again," and, with Billie Holiday, "I Wished on the Moon"), the closest he gets to the brooding majesty of Berigan's utterances on the 1935 "Nothin' but the Blues" (under Gene Gifford's name) is his two sombre, grieving choruses on Teddy Wilson's 1936 "Blues in C-sharp Minor."

But these two trumpeters are singers of quite different songs. Berigan was, in one colleague's admiring phrase, "the ultimate romantic." His every solo flight, so expansive in the Armstrong manner, so reminiscent of the great tenors of Italian grand opera, also includes (and here he differs sharply from Eldridge) something of the sentimental. Never dominant, seldom even rising to the surface (quite unlike the saccharine excesses of Harry James, Ziggy Elman, or, at times, Charlie Shavers), it's nonetheless an ingredient.

Eldridge's sharply honed competitiveness seems quite at odds with Berigan's more bardic tendencies. Unlike Roy, Bunny seems never to think in terms of effect, display or spectacle. In all his recorded work it's hard to find a solo, even a single phrase, that seems calculated to impress. Berigan doesn't compete: he prefers to follow his instincts as a teller of stories.

If, as in his astonishing break toward the end of "That Foolish Feeling," he leaps from his horn's next-to-lowest note, a concert F below middle C, two and one-half octaves to a concert C above, he's not doing it to show that he can do it, or to intimidate potential challengers; he's doing it solely because his sense of phrase, balance, and dramatic narrative tells him that's where he must go.

Relevant here, if unlikely, is an observation by Edgar Allan Poe. Setting out guidelines for the successful short story, he declares, "In the whole composition there should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the pre-established design."

Granted, most jazz improvisers work to far more generalized, less "pre-established" designs than do writers; but the jazz­man's art as a (short) storyteller conforms no less strictly to Poe's stated criterion. Each part serves the whole; each phrase moves the story forward, furthers the grand design. This is obvious in the work of Lester Young, of Bix Beiderbecke, of Pee Wee Russell—master storytellers all. And it is richly, gloriously true of Bunny Berigan….

[The April 13, 1936]… version of "I Can't Get Started" is the first of two performances recorded by Berigan sixteen months apart; many listeners prefer it to the latter, rather grander Victor version. It's quite unself-conscious, relaxed, almost carefree: let's just play the damn thing, Bunny seems to say here—if we get it, fine. If we miss, what the hell.

They don't miss. After a thoughtful opening tutti, Berigan sings a chorus in his high, light voice, his fast vibrato lending a sense of vulnerability. Crawford's tenor takes eight bars in a subdued ballad mood, and then it's all Bunny, playing at a bravura peak. Moving easily throughout the entire range of his horn, he climbs at the outset to a titanic high concert D-flat, and E-flat, only to plunge near the end to four broad-toned, sotto voce bars before a final climactic ascent.

There's no minimizing the importance of this three-minute tour de force. It's the apotheosis of Bunny Berigan's art as a soloist in the grand tradition established by Armstrong and illustrates graphically why Louis, while praising Eldridge for his "chops" and others for their various "ingredients," as he was fond of calling them, singled out Berigan as the one who "can't do no wrong in music." He knew what he was hearing.”

This video tribute to Bunny features the famous 1936 original version of I Can’t Get Started, a fitting and sad epithet for his all-too-brief Jazz career.

The Complete CBS Buck Clayton Jam Sessions - "We called it MUSIC." - Eddie Condon

 

The Last Version of the Lighthouse All-Stars a Group That Had Been in Existence Since 1949

 

Frankly Jazz was a half-hour television program produced in Los Angeles in the early 1960s. Each program featured one or more prominent West Coast Jazz performer of the day. Frankly Jazz was hosted by Frank Evans, a leading jazz disk jockey of the day. The Lighthouse Allstars play 'One for Buck' on this episode.

Bobby Bryant - trumpet

Bob Cooper - tenor sax

Forest Westbrook - piano

Howard Rumsey - bass

Doug Sides - drums

"April in Paris" with The Count Basie Orchestra

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

Given the month in the title of this piece and the fact that the Basie Band’s version of April in Paris has been playing in my mind recently, I decided to put this post together and share it with you.

As the story goes, one night in Birdland the Count Basie band was playing a new arrangement by William "Wild Bill" Davis of an old song by Vernon Duke — April In Paris.

It's a striking arrangement, this one, for a song that has been played and sung in any number of ways since E. Y. (Yip) Harburg fashioned words to Vernon Duke's melody, it becoming the most memorable feature of a 1932 Broadway show called "Walk A Little Faster.”

In Davis' arrangement there is one sequence which might well be an instrumental solo except that in Basie's hands the entire ensemble goes to work — the effect being, to say the least, highly unusual; hearing it for the first time one assumes that the band is playing an ad lib melody. Finally, there's the ending, which is a delightful fooler, as all jazz followers are aware by now.

Well on this night in Birdland it seemed natural for Basie to give his orders verbally.   "One more time," he directed.  Then: "One more —once ..."

The result? One of Basie's biggest hits and, now, one of the most frequently requested tunes wherever the Basie aggregation goes. It's typical Basie, of course — swinging, exciting, weightless with a sound that's immediately identifiable. The solos in April In Paris, incidentally, are by Thad Jones on trumpet and Benny Powell on trombone, and the piano, of course, belongs to William "Count" Basie.

In 1956, April in Paris also became the title of one of the Basie Band’s best-selling  Verve LP’s [CD 825 575-2]

The various facets of the Basie band, by 1956, by this date, a three-time winner in Down Beat's annual Jazz Critics Poll, come to light with infectious vigor in the other selections in the album [Basie gave up his original big band in the late 1940’s and toured with a septet for a few years until he once again organized his big band around 1952.] Taking them in order, Corner Pocket is an Ernie Wilkins arrangement, with the trumpets of Thad Jones and Joe Newman coming in strong after a brisk little introductory figure by Basie's piano; Frank Wess tenor saxophone, also takes a solo. Frank Foster's Did'n You shows the reeds to good advantage and there's a very mellow trombone contributed by Henry Coker. Sweety Cakes, by Ernie Wilkins, is likewise in the mellow mood with almost gentle piano work by Basie. Magic is a tricky Frank Wess tune with Wess himself featured on the tenor saxophone. Frank Foster's Shiny Stockings reveals the Basie crew in a particularly hard-blowing Jazz mood while another Foster arrangement, this one of Duke Ellington's What Am I Here For, features Joe Newman's trumpet and Frank Wess on flute along with Basie’s piano. Midgets, by Joe Newman, will put you in mind precisely of little people at play [the title refers to Joe’s term of endearment for little children]—the muted trumpet is Newman's, too. For a change of pace, Mambo Inn sends the Basie band into a Latin-American tempo and some blistering ensemble work. Joe Newman's trumpet and Frank Foster on tenor handle the solos in the jumping Dinner With Friends, a Neal Hefti arrangement.

The personnel on this classic album are: JOE NEWMAN, THAD JONES, WENDELL CULLY, REUNALD JONES, trumpets; HENRY COKER, BENNY POWELL, BILL HUGHES, trombones; MARSHALL ROYAL, BILLY GRAHAM, alto saxophones; FRANK FOSTER, FRANK WESS, tenor saxophones; CHARLIE FOWLKES, baritone saxophone; COUNT BASIE, piano; FREDDIE GREENE, guitar; ED JONES, bass; SONNY PAYNE, drums.

Bob Weinstock and the Prestige All-Star Sessions by Steve Siegel

 © Introduction Copyright ® Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“In January 1949, Mr. Weinstock directed his first recording session, with Konitz and pianist Lennie Tristano, for a label he first called New Jazz before changing the name to Prestige. His records, including several by Getz and Stitt and Annie Ross ' " Twisted, " were finding success on the radio and in jukeboxes. Phobic about airplane travel, Mr. Weinstock traveled around the country by bus, talking to distributors and disc jockeys, and with his father ' s help he set up an effective promotion and distribution system.

When his label was at its peak in the 1950s, he organized an average of 75 recording sessions a year.

He recruited Monk and Davis when their contracts with other companies had expired. He signed Rollins and Coltrane to Prestige, for which they recorded the monumental saxophone duet " Tenor Madness " in 1956.

In 1953, saxophonist Charlie Parker appeared on one of Rollins ' Prestige albums under the name " Charlie Chan " because of contractual issues.

Few of the recordings made money at first, but in 1952, Prestige scored a jazz hit with King Pleasure ' s vocal version of " Moody ' s Mood for Love. " With the sales of that record, Mr. Weinstock was able to keep his company afloat.

When larger record labels raided his roster, Mr. Weinstock made sure he received every last contractually obligated musical morsel from his players. Before he allowed Davis to sign with Columbia Records in 1956, Mr. Weinstock sent the trumpeter to the studio for two solid days, eventually releasing four albums from the marathon, one-take recording sessions. The albums, " Cookin ' With the Miles Davis Quintet " and its companion volumes, " Relaxin ' , " " Workin ' " and " Steamin ' , " are considered some of Davis ' finest efforts from the 1950s.

By the late 1950s, Mr. Weinstock was hiring others to sign artists and produce the sessions, and the company ' s direction changed with the music. By the mid-1960s it was moving toward soul-jazz, recording many titles by Richard " Groove " Holmes, Willis Jackson and Charles Earland.

In 1972, Mr. Weinstock sold Prestige to Fantasy Records and retired to Florida at 43. He invested in the stock market and commodities, based on formulas of his own devising.”

• Published by San Diego Union-Tribune on Jan. 22, 2006.

With previous features on pianist Wade Legge, the Great Day in Harlem Photograph “Mystery Man” - William J. Crump, drummer Frankie Dunlop, vocalist Jimmy Rushing, critic and author Nat Hentoff, and Jazz Party: A Great Night In Manhattan featuring the Miles Davis Sextet, the Duke Ellington Orchestra, the September 9, 1958 fest that Columbia Records put on at the Plaza Hotel for its executives and guests, trumpeter Dupree Bolton, and vocalist Helen Merrill, over the years, Steve Siegel has assumed the role of “unofficial” staff writer for JazzProfiles.

© -Steve Siegel copyright protected; all rights reserved; used with the author’s permission.

Bob Weinstock and the Prestige All-Star Sessions

By Steve Siegel

From August 3, 1956 to April 29, 1959, Prestige Records owner Bob Weinstock produced 21 sessions with an ever-changing group of 65 total musicians. The sessions were thematic and the iterations of musicians in their various groupings at the sessions were referred to as “The Prestige All Stars.” The albums were released under various titles.

The all-stars were mostly either current stars or emerging ones. Hand-picked by Weinstock, many of the all-stars were present at multiple sessions, with Mal Waldron leading the way with 11 appearances, Doug Watkins lugged his bass to 10 sessions with Kenny Burrell’s guitar and Arthur Taylor's drum kit present on nine each. The oldest participant was Coleman Hawkins born in 1906 and the youngest was Louis Hayes born in 1937. But the majority of the participants were in their 20s and early 30s, representing the second wave in the evolution of jazz following the Parker/Gillespie first generation of modernists. 

Weinstock most likely used the moniker “Prestige All Stars” for marketing reasons. In 1956, when the series began, most of the musicians he planned to use were relatively new to the New York scene and did not have the name recognition necessary to sell albums featuring any one musician’s name on the record’s cover. It also allowed him to use ever changing groups and still maintain an identity for the record buying public.

Actually, Weinstock’s first all-star session was the legendary 1954 Christmas Eve meeting of Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis and Milt Jackson - as legendary for the controversy generated when Davis asked Monk to "lay-out,” as for the music produced – which was two versions of Jackson's “Groovin' High.”

Weinstock took a rather unique approach to many of these sessions. Generally, any session labeled as an all-star session might merely be a rather tedious series of jam sessions featuring a “head" followed by a series of solos with each player trying to generate excitement through the use of riffs, volume and speed, perhaps explicitly or implicitly competing with other participants. The format might generate excitement but can sometimes offer successive solos with little continuity which serve up the musical equivalent of empty calories and rarely holds the listener's interest throughout the 35-to-40-minute length of an average record.

The best of these Prestige All-star Sessions hold together surprisingly well due to some of the good choices Weinstock made in terms of instrumentation and repertoire, as well as how he selected and grouped the musicians for each session. Because of this preplanning, every so often, an all-star session managed to transcend its structural limitations as “just a jam session” and could produce jazz of a high level.

Weinstock has rarely received the credit he deserves for the conception, execution and resultant commercial and aesthetic success of the series.  One possible reason for the oversight is that the series was overlooked due to the sheer volume of product that “The Big Two” - Prestige and Blue Note (as well as other smaller labels) put out in what was possibly the busiest year in the recorded history of jazz-1957. Prestige held 70 sessions that year and Blue Note held 51, for a total of 121 sessions. As a point of contrast, in 1958 Prestige held 38 sessions and Blue Note 34 for a total of 72 sessions, or 49 less than there was in 1957. So, 1957 was a great year for the record buying public, but not so good for any one album trying to stand out in such a crowded market, much less a series of 15 all-star sessions released that same year. As we sift through the written history of jazz, until recently, with Tad Richard’s well researched book, Listening to Prestige, there is surprisingly little written about Weinstock. He is essentially treated as the “Black Knight" of the industry. What has been written of him sometimes compares him to the “White Knight" of jazz, Blue Note’s, Alfred Lion.

 Weinstock was rather parsimonious in all aspects of his operation and was said to  oftentimes take financial advantage of his musicians. Lion, though not perfect, was mostly fair in his dealings. Lion provided paid rehearsal time, Weinstock none; or if provided, did not pay musicians for the time. Weinstock is even criticized for the fact that even though they both recorded at Rudy Van Gelder’s studio, the result of the overall audio quality of Blue Note recordings seem to be a bit better than Prestige’s. The argument goes that Alfred Lion was heavily involved in the sound of his productions and worked with Van Gelder to get the sound he wanted and conversely Bob Weinstock left Rudy alone and did not really have a vision for a “house" sound on Prestige. Consequently Van Gelder, would experiment and try different equipment, different microphone placements and other tweaks at the Prestige sessions, some of which worked quite well and others not so well. Weinstock generally wanted things done in one take and if any further takes were necessary, he would insist that Van Gelder tape over the first take to save money, which explains why few or no rejected takes exist in the Prestige vaults. 

Many of these criticisms are valid but for others there are apparent reasons for what Weinstock did. When listening to some of the more successful all-star sessions, it’s evident that Weinstock was able to coax some sublime solos from the participants by simply getting out of the way and letting them play - something that Alfred Lion probably would be less apt to do. Lion would most likely not give up that much control to the musicians by allowing pieces to build organically over the 15-20 minutes it took for soloists to finish their statements during these “jam" like sessions. In February 1957, uncharacteristically, Lion took a revolving group of musicians into Manhattan Towers for a three-day marathon recording session featuring Jimmy Smith's organ. Evidently, Lion was in a “jammin'” mood, as eight of the pieces recorded ran between 10 and 17 minutes.

As far as finding musicians, Weinstock was able to cast a wide net during this period. Quite possibly the largest influx of young musicians, schooled in the language of bebop  arrived in New York during the mid to late 1950s. Further, most of those jazz musicians that Weinstock might have had an interest in were not signed to long-term contracts with any labels. Generally, if they were a member of a working group that was recording, the group leader would have a contract that stated that the group as a whole were restricted to only recording for that label but the sidemen were free to record for any label that they wished. The first classic Miles Davis group was a good example of this type of structure. Davis was signed to Prestige but Garland, Chambers, Coltrane and Jones were able to individually or in combination record for other labels.  

So, Weinstock was essentially the musical equivalent of the little boy in the candy store in that he had many choices of talented musicians. Some came to Prestige based on word-of-mouth from players who had recorded for the label, some were simply brought to sessions by other musicians. Still, others who recorded for other labels were heard by Weinstock, who then contacted them.

Most record label owners and producers spent time in the clubs actually hearing the musicians, Weinstock spent little if any time in the clubs but relied on word-of-mouth recommendations from people whose judgment he trusted. So, from this pastiche of sources, Weinstock had many musicians to choose from for his sessions.

Though Weinstock did not pay well and had a reputation for economically exploiting musicians, he had no trouble finding willing participants. Despite all his personal and professional flaws, he had one characteristic that the musicians appreciated. He held loose reins on their performances which provided more artistic freedom than other labels might have been comfortable with.

Though he might have given up a great deal of artistic control during the actual sessions, there does seem to have been much thought put into the pre-planning of instrumental configurations as well as the choice of musicians for each session. 

There existed somewhat of a dichotomy between the clear pre-planned structure at the all-star sessions, with, on the one hand, Weinstock successfully putting together musicians who had a history of working together, being occasionally offset by his quest for unique combinations of instruments on some sessions. This would yield mixed results, with the overall quality of the playing being good, but the aesthetic value of the music, at times, being rather variable.

To point out two examples:

Formats such as using two baritone saxes and two French horns (Pepper Adams, Cecil Payne, Julius Watkins, Dave Amram - Modern Jazz Survey 2 / Baritones & French Horns 1957) or  four alto saxes- (Phil Woods, Gene Quill, Sahib Shihab, Hal Stein - Four Altos 1957, could be confusing to the listener as they attempt to figure out which saxophones or trumpets or horns, they were listening to. Most of these records were only available in monophonic sound, so liner notes that map out who is in which channel were useless as well as the sonority of instruments clashing.

But Weinstock's efforts also yielded a few classic sessions within the realm of all-star groups “jammin’" together. We could also go as far as to say that even though most of these very young musicians were already forming a reputation in New York City, their work on these sessions helped to further advance their solo careers. 

Examples of quality All-Star sessions which have stood the test of time and have been  reissued or at least well recognized by reviewers and/or critics over the last 70 years:

All Night Long- December 28, 1956 PR 7073

All Day Long- January 4, 1957 PR 7081

Earthy- January 25, 1957, PR 7102

The Cats- April 18, 1957 NJLP 8217 (New Jazz)

After Hours- June 21, 1957 PR 7118

*All Morning Long- November 15, 1957 PR 7130

*Soul Junction- November 15, 1957 PR 7181

  * These were not labeled as all-star sessions but under the title The Red Garland Quintet with John Coltrane and Donald Byrd. I include this as an all-star session because the Red Garland Quintet was not a working band and the albums' format is consistent with other “All-Star" sessions. By late November 1957 Garland, Coltrane and Byrd had enough name recognition to be listed on the cover as featured artists so, for marketing purposes, the “Prestige All-Stars" cover title was not necessary.

So, we might ask: “What makes the best recordings of these all-stars so special that they transcend the many other so-called ‘jam sessions’ that were rather ubiquitous in the late 1940s and early 1950s?” What factors led Art Taylor, who appears on five of the seven albums to opine: “ All Day Long and All Night Long are milestones in the careers of all the musicians involved.”

After all, similar to most Prestige sessions (at least those that didn't involve Miles Davis or Sonny Rollins or working groups) these sessions often involved disparate groupings of musicians, oftentimes material cobbled together at the session, no rehearsals, no second takes, a producer (Weinstock) who was not a musician and was willing to settle for less than perfect takes. This is obviously not the usual formula for success.

Perhaps one important reason for the quality of the all-star sessions was the presence of so many young and talented musicians from Detroit, Michigan, who had emigrated to New York City between 1953 and 1957. These Detroit musicians not only worked together in New York but came out of the same musical environment. Many even went to the same high schools, e.g., Cass Technical High or Miller High School. A list of those who appear on the all-star sessions and received their music education in the Detroit area includes; Kenny Burrell, Tommy Flanagan, Thad Jones, Paul Chambers, Doug Watkins, Frank Foster, Donald Byrd and Louis Hayes. These eight recent émigrés from Detroit to New York appear a total of 18 times on these seven albums. 

As Mark Stryker puts it in his Jazz from Detroit book:

 “The combination of exceptional music education in the public schools, thriving nightlife, and influential mentors… in the community, transformed the city into a jazz juggernaut in the 1940s and 50s.”

Stryker went on to say:  “With their hard swinging styles, affinity for the blues and polished craftsmanship, Detroit musicians were to the hard bop manner born as they migrated east. They populated the top bands, clubs and record labels the way an earlier crop of Detroit exports (did).”

We might add to this that they were all friends or at least acquaintances from the same generation and therefore were generally more amenable to collaboration than to competition with one another.

Unlike a jazz session with young musicians competing to prove themselves, the all-star sessions contained these young but musically advanced musicians who had survived jam sessions as well as the scrutiny of the very hip and very knowledgeable audiences in the Detroit of the 1950s. As tenor saxophonist Joe Henderson puts it:

 “Detroit had the best listening audience.  The audiences around Detroit were like musicians. I mean, they knew. No way to come up on the bandstand jiving. That could be injurious to one’s ego.”

So, the high musical standards and educational opportunities of Detroit jazz which served to prepare the Detroit based musicians and provided them with the skills and confidence necessary to succeed in New York City, was one factor in preparing them for the sessions at Prestige. But some of the credit has to go to Blue Note’s Alfred Lion. 

In late 1955 and into 1956 - dates that preceded the Prestige all-star sessions involving the Detroit musicians - Lion brought Thad Jones into the Van Gelder studio for sessions that produced three highly regarded albums: Detroit- New York Junction (BLP 1513), The Magnificent Thad Jones (BLP 1527) and The Magnificent Thad Jones Vol. 3 (BLP 1546). 

These three albums, though much more highly structured than the future Prestige sessions were to be (as one would expect from Alfred Lion), were anchored by Detroit musicians; Thad Jones, Barry Harris, Kenny Burrell, Tommy Flanagan, Billy Mitchell and Elvin Jones.

These sessions gave the new arrivals, all of whom-with the exception of Jones-were 26 years of age or younger, an opportunity to work together under the auspices of the #1 jazz producer and recording engineer Alfred Lion and Rudy Van Gelder.

 Perhaps we can assume that Bob Weinstock heard these recordings which may have influenced his choice of musicians for some of these All-Star sessions. After all, to flip-flop an old saying in New York retailing during this era - Macy certainly wishes to know what Gimbal is up to.

These musicians were in the early stages of their careers in the big-time of New York City. They were, at this point, reasonably well-known in the City and had previously recorded under the pressure of the New York studios. The Prestige sessions allowed them to again come together, grow, develop and in a friendly way, challenge each other.

As an example of that growth, here is what Nat Hentoff had to say about Donald Byrd in his liner notes to Soul Junction which co-featured Coltrane and Byrd:

 “Donald Byrd is one young modernist who didn't allow early attention from the critics to push him into megalomania. Since coming to New York he has continued studying both at the Manhattan school in a wide variety of playing experiences. His work as in the opening blues has grown in strength and decisiveness from the fluent hummingbird quality that characterized him during his early months in New York.”

One can detect the growth that Hentoff refers to in the 11 months between his appearance on the All Night Long session of 12/28/1956 and the Soul Junction session of 11/15/1957.

The Detroit musicians were essentially the first generation of “Young Lions," preceding the Wynton Marsalis led group who arrived in the “Big Apple” 30 years later. The Prestige sessions also provided budding jazz composition writers with an opportunity to bring new works to a session or spontaneously compose them during the session and try out the piece immediately. It was shades of Duke Ellington’s approach where he would write a piece and then at the next destination, he could hear the band perform it during a rehearsal.

Here's Art Taylor (re: All Night Long session):

 “Hank Mobley was supposed to bring in two tunes but didn't. Instead he went to a far corner of the studio after his arrival and wrote the tunes out in about 10 minutes. This is something that has always amazed me because I have seen him do this on many record dates.”

The format for these sessions followed a similar pattern. One long blues (between 10 and 20 minutes) with all musicians taking solos; shorter pieces by other participants and an occasional standard. Given how well most of these sessions turned out, it's really a tribute to the participating musicians who had to learn new compositions in a very short period of time with no rehearsal time allotted by Weinstock and rarely a second take allowed.

Because none of the all-star sessions involved a working group with a group leader, each session had a nominal leader. At the Soul Junction and the All Morning Long sessions, the nominal leader was Red Garland. The other five sessions were led by Detroit musicians: Burrell (3), Flanagan (1) and Thad Jones (1). Flanagan, Burrell and Jones were not only excellent musicians but respected by other participants and possessed the demeanor necessary to deal with the difficulty of bringing musicians together on generally new material.

Drummer Arthur Taylor on Burrell's leadership at the All Day and All Night sessions:

 “(Burrell's) relaxed way is infectious. This can be related to the way he handled himself during these recording sessions. No matter what happened he always remained relaxed. Recording can be a very tedious thing because it's not like a concert or club. What you play is on wax forever. A musician can try extra hard because he is aware of this and wants to sound his best, therefore on the playback the sound might not be as relaxed as you want it to be. I'm sure Kenny was aware of this and his way of handling these avoided any such actions.”

 Despite the various strengths that the best of the Prestige All-Star Sessions exhibited, the availability of these recordings worldwide in all formats as (lp, digital, cassette, open reel) as reissues, beyond the original issues in 1957-58, has been modest. To illustrate, the record selling site, Discogs, lists 607 versions of Kind of Blue issued worldwide in all formats since its release in 1959. In contrast, for All Night Long, one of the best-selling of the all-star sessions, Discogs lists 37 versions and for Earthy only 11.

The seven sessions presented here, as well as others in the All-Star series have, over the past seven decades, likely served as representative entry points for countless curious, but uninitiated would-be jazz fans and musicians.

Interestingly, The Cats, All Night Long, Soul Junction, All Morning Long and After Hours were recently reissued on vinyl by Craft Records who now owns the masters of many classic jazz labels such as Prestige, Riverside, Contemporary, Milestone, Pablo, Debut, Galaxy, and Jazzland. Essentially, from the perspective of growing the market for jazz, Craft has both created demand and helped satisfy that demand through their reissue efforts.

Recent data has shown that the younger generation of teens and 20 something year-olds are now purchasing vinyl records and much of this is in the jazz genre. It’s heartening to realize that music produced by artists who were in their 20s in 1957, is now being purchased by and listened to by those who are two or even three generations removed from when this music was produced. 

Let's hope that the reissue series continues, as well as the renewed interest in jazz.  

Let the circle be unbroken.