© - Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all
rights reserved.
It never ceased to
amaze me then - and it continues to amaze me now - how many people, who know
very little, if nothing, about Jazz are familiar with the vocal group - Lambert Hendricks Ross.
Either they or
their college roommate had one of LHR’s albums, or their parents had all of the
albums or they just memorized some of the vocalese
lyrics that Jon Hendricks wrote for the group so that they could sound hip
and cool to their friends.
The latter skill is
particularly remarkable when you consider that Jon wrote these hip lyrics to
accompany the actual Jazz solos that were played on certain classic Jazz
recordings and did not base them on the melodies of these songs.
In essence, people
who couldn’t put two notes together were able to sing some of the hippest Jazz
solos ever recorded thanks to their admiration for Jon’s skills with vocalese, which considering the level of
humor, wit and sage philosophy that he brought to the form, he practically
re-invented.
The group was only
together for a few years and recorded relatively few albums, but when you
consider the vocal talent on display and the brilliant lyrics which were
applied to some of the most memorable solos ever recorded, there is nothing
else like LHR in the history of Jazz.
And while I was
familiar with Dave Lambert and Annie Ross as individual
vocalists I knew virtually nothing about Jon Hendricks or how LHR came into
existence, that is, until the September 1959 edition of Down beat magazine
arrived in my mailbox and I found this article by Gene Lees .
It features Jon’s
history of the LHR using the too-hip-for-the-room style that he employs in his
rhyming vocalese lyrics.
© - Gene
Lees , copyright protected; all rights reserved.
“EDITORS NOTE – In
the wee small hours of a morning at Newport this year [1959], I told Jon Hendricks
that DownBeat
would like to do a story on the LHR group. "Why not let me write
it?" Jon said. I hedged and hesitated for a moment (perhaps Jon will
remember it) and then began running some of his remarkable LHR lyrics over in
my mind. "OK," I said.
We kicked the idea
around a bit, notably backstage at Chicago 's Regal Theater, and I learned that Jon
was thinking of doing the article in rhyme, no less. I shook my head a bit,
reassured myself that his tremendous taste and talent would not fail, even in
the unfamiliar task of writing an article, swallowed hard and said:
"Wild."
Jon telephoned
from time to time as he worked on the article. I began to get nervous.
Deadline was approaching, and I had already scheduled the cover photo to go
with the article. "You have to promise me you won't change a thing,"
Jon said. That made me more nervous.
When the piece at
last arrived—right on deadline—I scanned it, still nervously at first, then
less nervously, and finally, jubilantly. It was—and is—one of the strangest
articles I've ever read. As promised, it rhymed. Not unexpectedly, it sounded
like an LHR lyric without the music. It also had in places the delightful
flavor of an Ogden Nash poem. And finally, I guessed that some astute reader
would look at its last line and think of James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake.
Jon didn't say
this in the article, but he has done a lot of thinking about the possibilities
of true jazz opera. The article tends to validate his theory that it can—and
should—be done.
Lambert, Hendricks
and Ross is one of the most remarkable groups in jazz today. With their vocals
on famous instrumental numbers, they have broken up audiences at every jazz
festival they have played this summer—and they have played most of them, with
more yet to come, including Monterey . Where their jazz-vocals experiment will
lead is something no one, including Jon, pretends to be able to predict with
certainty. All that anyone knows for sure is that their popularity is huge and
growing, that they deserve it and that the end is not in sight.
In the meantime,
here is Jon Hendricks' story on LHR. As Dave Lambert said to me, explaining why when he
worked on construction he liked to use jackhammers, "I dug it." I
hope you will, too. —Ed.”
© - Jon Hendricks, copyright protected; all rights
reserved.
“As to dates,
times, names and places,
My accuracy ain't
apt to be too outstanding. Data's too demanding. I haven't the faintest idea
on what date Dave Lambert's birthday occurs, and experience
with women and the subject of age gives me better sense than to ask Annie Ross
hers, so, on biographical data I won't be too factual. However, on matters of
the heart and soul I hope to be very actual, 'cause if you're gonna know how Dave Lambert, Annie Ross and I have such a
collective ball while singing our individual parts, you'll have to know that it
comes from what we fondly recall, and what is in our hearts.
Some people say
our name is a clumsy name for a singing group to be stuck with. They compare it
to Merrill, Lynch, Pierce, Fenner and Smith, an overstatement, by far. Actually
we call ourselves Lambert, Hendricks and Ross for no other reason than that's
who we are! And so that your understanding of our name will gain even more
clearance, if you dig what I mean, our name describes the order of our
appearance on the scene.
Finally I got Dave 's subtle message (as subtle as a ton of
coal on the head) and stopped listening casually and got t' writing lyrics
instead. I soon had words to "Down for the Count" and "Blues
Backstage" and Dave adapted Frank Foster's arrangements for voices, then we started
making choices of recording company A&R men. (Means "artist and
repertory" and they're to blame if the recording output sounds a bit
gory. Their judgment of a “hit” often depends on how much a new tune sounds
like the last “hit.” They often are unable to see any future in a tune because
of a single-minded preoccupation with a past hit!)
Creed Taylor of
ABC-Paramount is a rarity among his kind. He has his own taste and uses his own
mind. I’m happy to state.
During the time we
were working on Sing A Song of Basie for Creed, I lived and wrote in Greenwich
Village, which I had always thought of in an artistic way, but which I found
retaining only an artistic façade, masking pseudo-intellectual morbidness
‘midst moral decay. It may be a good
place to stay up late in, but its new, thrill-seeking Freud-spouting population
has rendered it no longer a desirable place to create in. (Don’t blame DownBeat,
this is my personal contention—just a little something I thought I'd mention.)
For our first
date, Dave contracted 12 experienced singers he had
known and used before as the Dave Lambert Singers, some of whom worked on such programs as The Perry Como Show and Your Hit Parade, and who had reputations
something fierce. We also had the Basie rhythm section, Freddy Greene, Sonny
Payne and Eddie Jones, with Nat Pierce.
It was during this
first date that the spiritual quality that is in all jazz, and prominently so
in Basie, made itself manifest; that spiritual quality we—and Ray Charles—got
in church, and got so West Coast cool we left in the lurch and got back to for
30 pieces of Horace Silver, after a long, cold search.
Those singers had
music and lyrics, but that spiritual quality was missing at the very first
test, even though they tried their best. Eddie Jones saw and heard and laid his
fiddle gently down and walked amongst them and talked to them and spread the
word, and Sonny Payne and Nat Pierce did, too. Freddie sat placidly by and
regarded it all with an ever-patient eye and didn't move to get his message
through, just sat calm, like he usually do. What Eddie Jones told those singers
about "layin' back, but not slowin' down" was beautifully true, but
when all the gentle urging was done there was no concealing that those
well-trained singers still couldn't sing Basie with that spiritual feeling—
except one—a silent, beautiful red-haired girl Dave had introduced me to several days before
at Bob Bach's house in Washington Mews, a name I remembered from then-current
theatrical news as starring in an imported-from-London Broadway review called
Cranks. But I remembered more; five years or so earlier than then—a Prestige
record given me by Teacho Wiltshire, who recorded "Four Brothers"
vocally first, a record of a vocal version of Wardell Gray's
"Twisted," excellent lyric by Annie Ross—better than good—boss!
Yes, Annie Ross
has that feeling, that feeling you can't learn in no school, that feeling that
the men in the old Basie band had from birth and got together in nightclubs and
tent shows. And don't get the idea schools, to them, are unknown, 'cause those
men started a few schools of their own! Pick a tenor player at random and, no
matter what he says, chances are, at one time or another he studied under Pres.
And make no bones about it—Jo Jones invented the sock cymbal, and don't ever
doubt about it.
Philly Joe know.
And every trumpet
player ever plays through a "bucket" mute oughta know that Buck
Clayton's real nickname ain't Buck—it's "Bucket!" (Ain't that cute.)
At any rate, the
first Sing a Song of Basie was scrapped and, thanks to Creed Taylor,
we got another chance—but what to do? Dave Lambert knew. Dave has a talent for putting very large
possibilities into a very few words. "Annie feels it," he said.
"Let's you, me 'n Annie do it." Coming from anyone else I'd have
thought such an idea was for the birds, because of the hard work entailed, but
I soon saw the beauty of Dave 's suggestion, especially if we all three really wailed.
From the time we
started out, Annie knew what she was about. She did everything with ease and a
naturalness found only in great artists, I guess. Annie Ross is more than just
a singer, to say the least. She is an artiste. Every night, on "Avenue
C," she stands up there between Dave and me and hits that last note, F above
high C, as though it were any note—and it might as well be! I remember when Dave asked her if she could make that note and
she said, "No, never," so Dave said he'd change it, winked at me and left
it like it was, and Annie sings it like she's been singing it forever.
So we did Sing
a Song of Basie alone, Dave , Annie, the Basie rhythm section with Nat Pierce, and me, and the
rest is known. When people would congratulate us on our artistic success, it
got to be an unfunny joke, cause Dave and I stayed broke. Annie was straight.
She was singing on the Patrice Munsel
Show, which is like a permanent record date. Then, one day at Dave 's house, I saw the strangest sight I've
ever seen: Sing a Song of Basie showed up in DownBeat as number
thirteen! So Dave and I decided to see if we could get some
gigs—just local. We envisioned nothing on a grand scale for an act so unusually
vocal. Annie was in Europe then, sendin' messages that everything
was dandy, so 'til Annie got back we worked with Flo Handy, wife of George
Handy and singer of great skill, and the Great South Bay Jazz Festival put us
on last year's bill.
Later, the MJQ's
manager, Monte Kay, set us up an audition with Willard Alexander one day.
Willard got so excited he made us wonder what we had! We weren't all that sure
it was good, but when you knock somebody out like Willard Alexander, you know
it ain't all bad. Annie came back from Europe and joined Dave and me, and Willard signed us immediately.
As to how Basie
feels about us, that'll be easy to understand, 'cause he invited us to do an
album with his band, yet! (Sing Along with Basie, on Roulette.)
Our current album, to be specific, is The Swingers on Dick Bock's World
Pacific, with Zoot Sims, Russ Freeman and Basie's steady three men, Eddie
Jones, Sonny Payne and Freddie Greene, the finest rhythm section anybody's ever
seen.
We've just been
honored by being asked to sign with Columbia Records, under the aegis of Mr.
Irving Townsend. "Moanin'," by the pianist with Art Blakey's Jazz
Messengers, Bobby Timmons, and "Cloudburst," a Sam-the-Man Taylor
saxophone solo, are about ready for single release, and there's an album of
Ellingtonia in the works, so who knows where it will cease?
My brother, Jim
Hendricks, manages to manage us—an unmanageable task, and as for how we feel
about what's happened to us—need you ask? How far Lambert, Hendricks and Ross
will go is something I don't pretend to know, but, since I write a lot of the
words we sing, I can tell you what message I'll bring: that opera houses dedicated
to European musical culture are not the American norm. Jazz is America 's cultural art form. To say that our
opera houses are the Chicago , the San Francisco and the Metropolitan just doesn't follow.
America's real opera houses—as one day, pray, the American people may
realize—are the Howard Theater in Washington, D.C., the Regal Theater in
Chicago and Harlem's Apollo. And our divas are not singers of the kind of music
Europe has, but Billie, and Ella, and Sarah, and
they sing jazz!
We are honored
anew every time a jazz musician compliments us, because we know they know what
it's all about, but to have three great jazz musicians accompany us is
something about which to shout. We have the Ike Isaacs Trio—Gildo Mahones,
piano; Kahlil Madi, drums; and Ike on bass—and we hope to take them with us
every place.
As for me—I'm the
ninth child and the seventh son of Rev. and Mrs. A.B. Hendricks. I have eleven
brothers and three sisters, all reared in the African Episcopal Church around Toledo , Ohio . All other data can be found in my bio. My
musical education consisted of singing Negro spirituals and hymns with my
mother in church, singing in bars and grills for whatever people threw me,
which, praise be, was never out, singing in nightclubs at thirteen (they used
to bill me as "The Sepia Bobby Breen!"), accompanied for one magical
spell by a local pianist whose family were our neighbors, whom we knew well—Art
Tatum, who started on the violin, but sat down to the piano and never got up
again. I was fortunate enough to have learned to listen to him early and I'm
glad I paid heed, 'cause I never did learn how to read.
When Bird came
through Toledo one night with Max, Tommy Potter (now with "Sweets"),
Kenny Dorham and Al Haig to play a dance, I got a long-awaited, unexpected
chance to scat a few choruses, after which, while Kenny Dorham blew, I started
to split, but Bird motioned me to Kenny's chair next to him and said, with that
warm smile, "Sit awhile." I ended up scatting the whole set, and
before they left, Bird said, "Look me up when you get to New York . Don't forget."
It was two years
later when I got to New York . Bird was playing at the Apollo Bar uptown, and I got up
there fast as anyone can. And when I walked past the bandstand, Bird waved at
me and spoke my name and thrilled me to kingdom come when he said, "Wanna'
sing some?" and two years passed away as though it had been only one day!
Roy Haynes was playing drums and I was a drummer (who had just put his drums in
pawn), but when I heard Roy with Bird I said to myself, "That's it for my
drumming. Them days is gone!"
I knew nothing
about the New York scene except what I'd seen or heard, so I decided to judge
everybody by "who stood up with Bird," or, if they didn't ever share
the same bandstand, how did they stand with the man. Dave Lambert did "Old Folks" and
"In the Still of the Night" with Bird, vocal arrangements by Dave , musical arrangements by Gil Evans, among
the more beautiful things I've ever heard. Annie Ross sang with Bird a few
times. The fact I'm trying not to keep it hid is that, at one time or another,
all three of us did. It's a coincidence with a spiritual quality I can't name,
but Dave Lambert, Annie Ross and I came together
naturally, just at the time when jazz began to receive wide public acclaim.
As a writer of
words, this gives me a great responsibility, especially to American youth: Tell
the truth! Interpret the compositions and jazz composers, writing today, not
three hundred years passed away. And the composers are numerous, most everybody
playing, and all I have to do is tell the people what they’re saying.”
If your not
familiar with Lambert Hendricks Ross, you’ll find the music on the following
video tribute to them to be a real treat. If you already a fan, then you may
enjoy reacquainting yourself with some old friends. The music of LHR is one of Jazz’s
great gifts to the world.