© -
Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.
Very few people
have done as much for Jazz or have been as important to the music and its
makers as Norman Granz.
Many of the
reasons why this is so are explained and recounted in the following essay by Gene Lees which is excerpted from his biography Oscar
Peterson: The Will To Swing [London : Macmillan, 1988]
It is a privilege
and an honor to have Gene Lees and Norman Granz – two of our enduring heroes – features on these
pages.
© - Gene
Lees , copyright protected; all rights reserved.
From the time they
first met, Oscar Peterson … never made an important career decision without
consulting Norman Granz. With the possible exception of the long association of
Louis Armstrong with Joe Glaser, there has never been an instance in jazz of so
long a relationship between an artist and manager, and certainly not one
involving so close a personal friendship.
In 1955, noting
that jazz had achieved in a short time a notable degree of acceptance as an art
form, with a jazz course instituted at North Texas State University, the
appearance of Oscar Peterson at the Stratford Shakespearean Festival in Canada,
performances by Dizzy Gillespie in Yugoslavia and by Louis Armstrong in
Africa's Gold Coast (later Ghana), Leonard Feather wrote in Esquire
magazine:
"That jazz,
which a decade ago was hardly ever heard in a concert hall, far less
recognized by the U.S. government, could have reached this summit of prestige
and propaganda value was astonishing to some, incomprehensible to others. To
many observers, however, it may have seemed like nothing more or less than a
logical outgrowth of the efforts on the part of one man to launch jazz as an
international commodity. The man in question is Norman Granz, an irascible,
slangy, expensively-casually-dressed, impulsive, epicurean, much-hated and
much-loved man who, at 38, is not only the world's foremost jazz impresario,
but also can claim to have made more money exclusively from jazz than anyone
else in its relatively short and turbulent history.
"Granz, who
has often stated that his objectives are, in the order of their importance, to
make money, to combat racial prejudice and to present good jazz, is an enigma
whose many-sided character is known only to a few friends, mostly musicians who
have worked for him over an extended period."
He has been
described as a tight man with a dollar and bearer of grudges. His relations
with the press have sometimes been abrasive. Ted Williams, the great jazz
photographer who was then on staff at Ebony, recalls that once in Chicago , angry for some reason at press
photographers, Granz imposed the ingenious punishment of covering the
spotlights with red gels, knowing that black-and-white film will not register
red light. So the cameramen were effectively barred from photographing the
concert. Many people, however, cite examples of Granz's generosity,
particularly to musicians whose work he values.
Oscar once said,
"Norman is shy. People mistake this for arrogance."
Granz is tall -
six feet - and good-looking. His hair had thinned by his thirties. His
eyebrows, which have repeatedly been described as Mephistophelean, curl up at
their outer ends. Leonard Feather, in his Esquire portrait, noted his
expression of "aloof disdain" and the succession of "pouting
blondes" in Granz's life.
Granz was born in Los Angeles August 6, 1918 , which makes him, like Oscar, a Leo. His
family at the time lived near the Central Avenue area. They moved down the coast to Long Beach , where his father owned a department
store, and later to the Boyle Heights district of central Los Angeles , a lower-middle-class area, where the
family knew straitened circumstances after his father lost the store in the Depression.
Granz reminisced
about Long
Beach
to Feather, saying it was "predominantly a Midwestern community in its
thinking. We were one of about half a dozen Jewish families in the whole city.
I remember there used to be a gag about all the retired businessmen from Iowa settling in Long Beach . And I think I remember the Ku Klux Klan
used to parade there in their nightshirts. But I don't recall that it had any
influence on me at all at the time. I suppose that the reason I can mix so
easily with minority members arose from my playing with the kids on Central
Avenue, when it was a heterogeneous district with all minorities represented.''
Granz says of the later part of his youth, "Mickey Cohen and I came from
the same area in Boyle Heights . Mickey Cohen became a gangster; I didn't.
Nobody forced him to become what he became."
Granz was
graduated from Roosevelt High in Boyle Heights in 1935. He went to work in a brokerage
office to earn the money to study at UCLA. "There was never enough money
for a car," he told Feather, "so I spent the better part of my life
in buses and streetcars. During daylight-saving time, with a three-hour time
difference (between Los Angeles and New York ) and Wall Street opening at ten, I'd have
to be at work at six a.m. to get the board clean for a seven a.m. opening. In those days the clerks worked
with chalk and chamois; we had no automatic boards. And during that time I
played basketball at UCLA and stayed up at nights studying." Granz picked
up invaluable financial insights during his days in that brokerage house.
Granz joined the
United States Army Air Corps some months prior to Pearl Harbor . "The war was already on in Europe ," he told me in 1987. "And I
felt we would be drawn into it. They were putting out notices on the campus
that if you enlisted, you could choose your branch of service. So I enlisted.
It was obvious in the days after Pearl Harbor that I wasn't going to become a pilot. They gave you a choice. You
could become a bombardier or get out of the Air Corps and wait for your draft
call.
"So I took my
discharge. I went to New York and discovered 52nd Street ."
At the time, 52nd Street was like some kind of incredible fermentation
vat for jazz. It was possible for Granz to walk from one club to another to see
one great jazz player after another - many of whom he would later produce on
records.
"Then I came
back to Los
Angeles ," he continued, "and began to book my jam sessions at
the Trouville Club. I got drafted about May, and I got Basie and Nat Cole to
play for the draftees. Then I got shipped to Texas . I applied for officer's training. They
did an IQ test on you and another for mechanical aptitude. I proved to be not
very mechanical, but I apparently got a good score on the IQ and it looked like
I was going to go to officer's training. The army was very segregated in those
days, and I had begun to mix with a lot of the black GIs. My reputation for
that had already begun with the night-clubs. And I found out I wasn't going to
officer's training.
"As a company
clerk, I had access to a lot of literature. I came across a regulation that
said if you had applied for officer's training and been rejected, you could
apply for a discharge on the grounds that if you weren't good enough to be an
officer you weren't good enough for the army, which I thought was extremely
strange reasoning. But I applied for it and got my discharge in 1943 and
started my things in Los Angeles ." He was twenty-four years old. Granz had been a
big-band fan until he heard the famous Coleman Hawkins record of Body and Soul in 1939. This remarkable
recording was one of the harbingers of the bebop revolution that would arrive
within five years. In any case, it was Granz's introduction to small-group jazz
at its most creative.
But his reason for
becoming an impresario, he has repeatedly said, was less a love of music than a
sense of social outrage. Though black jazz musicians were playing all over Los Angeles , they were doing so largely before white
audiences - many places would not let blacks enter as customers. This condition
existed in Chicago , Kansas City, and most American cities. In Los Angeles , the discrimination was as fully
institutionalized as it was in the American South: it was the firm and simple
policy of night-clubs not to admit black patrons. And, as we have noted, the
same policy often applied in Canadian clubs and dance halls.
Granz had been
presenting occasional jam sessions at the Trouville Club, in the
Beverly-Fairfax area of Los Angeles . He was particularly disturbed by the
tears of Billie Holiday after its management refused to let some of her black
friends come in to hear her.
Finally, Granz
went to Billy Berg, a well-known night-club operator, with a proposal. Granz
was aware that a new union ruling required that regularly employed musicians be
given one night a week off. "Give me Sunday nights when the club is dark
and the house band is off," he told Berg, "and I’ll give you a jam
session and a crowd of paying customers." Berg expressed interest.
Granz attached
three conditions to the deal. First, rather than use drop-in musicians playing
for pleasure, he wanted the players to be employed and paid, which would allow
him to advertise them in advance; second, tables were to be placed on the dance
floor, which would make it impossible to do anything but listen; third, the
club would be opened to black as well as white patrons, and not only on Sunday
night but all week. Berg agreed.
"I think the
cats got $6 each," Granz recalled. "And those were good days for
getting musicians in Los Angeles . Duke Ellington's band was around town; Jimmie Lunceford's
men were available; Nat Cole, who had the trio at the 331 Club, was my house
pianist; Lester Young and his brother Lee were regulars."
Drummer Lee Young
described Granz at that time as "a real Joe College type, with the
brown-and-white shoes, the open collar, the sweater and the general Sloppy Joe
style; he was just a guy that was always around, and at first we wondered what
he did for a living. He was a lone wolf. We'd drink malteds together - neither
of us ever drank liquor - and before long I'd be going over to his side of town
and he'd be visiting mine, and we'd be playing tennis."
The late Nat Cole
knew Granz as far back as 1941. "He'd bring a whole bunch of records over
and we'd listen to them together and have dinner," Cole told Leonard
Feather. Cole's stature as a singer has completely overshadowed his importance
as a pianist. Cole was to have an enormous influence on Oscar Peterson, and on
Bill Evans as well, which fact alone defines him as one of the substantial
formative forces in jazz history. He had not begun to sing when Granz first
knew him. Cole said: "He had that sloppy Harvard look, and even in those
days he wouldn't knuckle down to anybody. A lot of people disliked him, but I
understood his attitude; he just knew what he wanted and exactly how he was
going to get it. I remember when the booking agents used to call him a
capitalistic radical, which of course wasn't right."
Sunday became
Billy Berg's most lucrative night of the week, a success that was not unnoticed
by other club owners. Other clubs had different dark nights, and Granz set up a
circuit of them for his musicians, putting himself in an advantageous situation
with owners, for whom he made money, and with musicians, whom he was able to
offer four or five nights of work a week.
In early 1944,
Granz initiated a series of jazz concerts at a place called Music Town in South Los Angeles . He presented, along with his regulars,
musicians from visiting bands, including the tenor saxophonist Illinois
Jacquet, at that time known chiefly for his work with Lionel Hampton and Cab
Galloway.
At this time,
twenty-one young Chicanos had been arrested after what the press called the
"Zoot Suit Riots," charged with murder, convicted, and imprisoned in
San Quentin. The case became a cause
celebre in southern California , and a defence fund was established. Granz
remembered: "There were so many kids accused that it smacked of a
prejudice case. Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth and a lot of other Hollywood people were involved in the thing, which
was called the Sleepy Lagoon Defense Committee. I didn't even remember where
Sleepy Lagoon was, and I didn't know what the hell was going on with the case,
but it did seem to be a prejudice case, and this was a chance to try out one of
my ideas, which was to put on a jazz concert at the Philharmonic."
The concert was
held at Philharmonic Auditorium on a Sunday afternoon in July. The cast of
musicians included Nat Cole, who was on the verge of enormous commercial
success; Les Paul, then known as a jazz guitarist, who would later sell his
highly commercial overdubbed guitar-and-vocal records in the millions; pianist
Meade Lux Lewis, one of the great boogie-woogie masters; and saxophonist Jacquet,
whose screaming high notes, according to Down
Beat, sent the audience of young people wild. The concert raised $500 for
the Sleepy Lagoon Defense Fund.
For the rest of
that year Granz presented Jazz at the Philharmonic as a monthly event. The
following year, as World War Two approached its end, he took his company of
players on a tour of the West Coast, which got as far as Victoria , British Columbia - and heard Oscar for the first time, on a
juke-box. "But it broke me," Granz said. "I had to hock everything
I owned to get the musicians back." It should be noted that other
impresarios in similar conditions have been known to leave their artists
stranded. It is also notable that Granz by now had something to hock.
His reverses were
temporary. He was about to become a significant factor in the record industry.
Granz had tried to
sell various companies on releasing material recorded in his Jazz at the
Philharmonic (JATP) concerts. Experienced record men thought the idea was
ridiculous - you didn't put out "live" recordings of concerts
complete with applause and other audience noises.
Granz went to New York carrying a stack of his JATP recordings.
This was before the general use of electromagnetic tape in the record industry,
and the music was on bulky twelve-inch acetate discs. He opened the Yellow
Pages of the telephone directory at record companies, the first one of which,
in the alphabetical sequence, happened to be Asch Records, owned by the late
Moses Asch. Granz telephoned him and made an appointment. He was trying to sell
records from another session he had supervised, this one by singer Ella Logan.
Asch had no interest in this material but, as Granz was about to leave his
office, asked about the other batch of records he was carrying under his arm.
Granz unwrapped and played How High the
Moon from one of his JATP concerts. "Asch flipped," Granz
recalled to Feather. "He put the records out as Volume One of Jazz
at the Philharmonic, and it was incredibly popular. I imagine it sold
about 150,000 albums, but I never got an accounting, because Asch eventually
not only lost the rights, he lost his whole company."
The record, which
featured a long solo by Illinois Jacquet and the drumming of Gene Krupa -
billed as "Chicago Flash" because he was under contract to another
label, though most young jazz fans knew who it was - had an enormous impact.
This was the first jazz-concert recording ever issued. (The recording of the
famous Benny Goodman 1938 concert at Carnegie Hall was not released until
1950.) And How High the Moon became
for a time a sort of national anthem of jazz.
The period saw the
sundown of the big bands and rising interest in small-group jazz played by
veterans of those bands. Granz was the right man at the right place at the
right time to take advantage of the situation. One of the main causes of the
decline of the big bands was the spreading business failure of the ballrooms
and dance pavilions that operated on the outskirts of cities all over North
America, which in turn was caused by the conspiracy of automotive, tire, and
road-building interests to buy up and dismantle the superb interurban trolley
systems that, among other things, carried young audiences to those locations.
Jazz had to take to the night-clubs in small-group formats: there was nowhere
else for it to go, excepting concert halls.
And it was Granz
who opened their stage doors for jazz musicians. He was the first producer to
present small-group jazz with the emphasis on improvisation, as opposed to the
orchestrated big-band form of it, in a touring company. After the success of How High the Moon, Granz's players began
criss-crossing the continent.
In 1947, when he
was twenty-nine, Granz met a tall blonde girl named Loretta Snyder Sullivan,
who was passing out leaflets at a JATP concert in Saginaw , Michigan . Granz proposed to her the next night.
They were married almost a year later, and in 1949, in Detroit , she became the mother of his daughter.
They were divorced in 1952. Loretta later complained that he never took his mind
off his business.
"Moreover,"
she told Feather, "I was ill-advised enough to tell him I disliked some of
his records."
From the very
beginning, Granz was criticized for appealing to the lowest level of
jazz-audience taste, with emphasis on the high-note tenor of Illinois Jacquet
and, later, drum battles between Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich.
"The critics
used to review the audience as harshly as the musicians," Granz told
writer John McDonough in an interview published in Down Beat in 1979. "They criticized them for cheering too
loud, whistling too much and so on. And they accused the musicians and myself
of soliciting this kind of behavior from the crowds.
I used to answer
reviews like that, because they ignored so many other aspects of the presentation.
They said Illinois Jacquet and Flip Phillips played differently in the jam
sessions than they did with [Lionel] Hampton or Woody Herman. That was nonsense.
Critics would ignore a set by Lennie Tristano, hardly a panderer to public
tastes; a set by Ella Fitzgerald, who did mostly ballads; or a set by Oscar
Peterson or the Modern Jazz Quartet."
Granz would
sometimes stride angrily onstage and tell an audience the concert would not
continue until they became quiet. The jazz fans of Paris are notoriously unruly, and Granz had one
of his most memorable confrontations with a crowd there, at the Theatre des Champs Elysees .
Clarinetist Buddy
de Franco was performing with the Oscar Peterson Trio. "The French felt
that no white man could play jazz anyway," Granz said as he recalled the
incident. "Buddy got into a solo on Just
One of Those Things" - Granz always remembers what tune was being
played at the time of any given incident - "and just couldn't get out of
it. That happens to people sometimes. It was a very fast tempo, and Buddy just
kept going. The trio started to exchange glances. The audience began to get
restless, then they started whistling and throwing coins. I don't know how they
stopped it, I think Oscar just went clunk on the piano and ended it. Buddy came
offstage just shaking, he was very hurt. And I got mad.
"I got out a
chair and went out onstage and sat down. First of all, I told them I wasn't
going to speak French to them. And then I said, 'Okay, and I'll tell you
something else. You paid me a certain amount of money for two hours of music. I
already have your money in my pocket, and I am not going to give it back. This
concert ends at five o'clock . Whether you want to listen to this yelling or to music is up to
you.' And gradually they began to shush each other up, which is the way it had
to be done, and the concert went on.
"I had a
number of friends at that concert. One of them was the screenplay writer Harry
Kurnitz. He said to me afterwards, 'I've never seen anything like it. That's the
first time anybody ever got the best of a French audience.'"
In 1955, Granz
said, "I don't like to talk about exciting an audience, because it always
implies melting. Jazz has always been, to me, fundamentally the blues and all
the happy and sad emotions it arouses. I dig the blues as a basic human
emotion, and my concerts are primarily emotional music. I've never yet put on a
concert that didn't have to please me,
musically, first of all. I could put on as cerebral a concert as you like, but
I'd rather go the emotional route. And do you know, the public's taste reflects
mine - the biggest flop I've ever had in my life was the tour I put on with
some of the cerebral musicians like Dave Brubeck and Gerry Mulligan."
That statement
takes on a certain irony when read today: not long thereafter the Dave Brubeck Quartet became so hugely successful
that it made the cover of Time and
fell under criticism for "being commercial." And Gerry Mulligan would
become comparably popular; Granz would himself record Mulligan.
In earlier times,
jazz was kept firmly segregated: white players never appeared onstage with
black players, except in after-hours clubs where they could go to jam. The
first integrated orchestra was organized in 1937 in Scheveningen, Holland , by Benny Carter, who used white European
and black American and Caribbean jazz players. Within a few years, Benny Goodman was featuring
Lionel Hampton, Teddy Wilson, and Charlie Christian with his band, Artie Shaw
hired Hot Lips Page, and Tommy Dorsey hired Sy Oliver - all examples of black
players joining white bands. Finally, Count Basic hired Buddy Rich, an early
example of a white player in a black band, and Dizzy Gillespie from his early
days as a leader manifested indifference to color in his hiring practices.
Granz perceived
that integrating the performers was not enough: audiences had to be integrated
as well. And he used the economic power that JATP gave him to do it. Promoters
seeking to book his concerts were presented with contracts forbidding discrimination
at the door. JATP played the first concert for an integrated audience in the
history of Charleston , South
Carolina . Granz cancelled a New Orleans concert when he learned that while blacks
were being sold tickets, they would be segregated from the white audience. He
put his artists up at the best hotels, often hotels that had previously been
barred to blacks, and moved them from one engagement to another by airline,
rather than the long dreary bus rides that are among the many ordeals of the jazz
life, and on at least one known occasion he chartered a plane to get his
company out of a southern city after a concert rather than let it spend a night
under Jim Crow conditions.
In 1947, Granz set
up the first of what would prove to be a series of record companies, Clef
Records, which was distributed by Mercury Records, a Chicago company. He commissioned the brilliant
graphic artist David Stone Martin to design the album covers of the new label.
Martin turned in a memorable series of pen-and-brush drawings in his
distinctive spidery line style, which had a curiously improvisatory quality
that suited it well to the subject matter and made him as famous among jazz
fans as the musicians he portrayed. Martin's vivid drawing of a trumpet player
in the throes of creation, seen from a low left angle, became the logo of Clef
Records. And Granz too became as famous as any of his artists.
This, then, was
the formidable figure, a tall, good-looking, very famous self-made millionaire
at thirty-one, who came to hear Oscar Peterson at the Alberta Lounge, and took
him off to Carnegie Hall in September 1949.
In the aftermath
of the Carnegie concert, Granz, already Peterson's manager, had many offers for
the pianist's services. He passed them up, urging Oscar to return for the time
being to Canada .
He said, "I
think you've done it now, but let's just cool it. Let's do this properly. I
want to find out first what direction you want to go in. Then we'll sit down
and talk sensibly about the things I think you should be thinking about doing.
There's plenty of time. You've done it now, you've garnered the
attention."
And Oscar went
home to Canada - with a partner. Ray Brown.”