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What a difference a decade makes, especially in the tumultuous Jazz World of circa 1945 - 1965 when it seems approaches to the music were changing rapidly almost from year-to-year.
In the case of Cal Tjader, an earlier blog posting of a 1957 Downbeat interview with John Tynan found him extolling the joys of his recently formed quintet that also featured Latin Jazz percussionists; this one with Harvey Siders in 1966 seems to find him at a point in which his interest in this style appears to be waning.
Unfortunately for him, Latin Jazz morphed into hugely popular Salsa which also became Cal’s “meal ticket” from his best selling 1966 Verve LP Soul Sauce until his untimely death at the age of 56 in 1982.
The Siders interview also reveals facts about Cal’s formative years in Jazz with its connections to drummer Gene Krupa and vibraphonist Lionel Hampton, who along with pianist Teddy Wilson, joined Benny Goodman in a quartet that offered exciting small group Jazz as it was also breaking down some racial barriers. Regarding the latter, Cal offers some additional thoughts on the subject of race in Jazz in the Siders interview.
And speaking of quartet’s, many of us can relate to Cal’s reaction upon hearing John Coltrane’s version of a four piece group at the Jazz Workshop in San Francisco in 1966.
I also personally related to his comments about “turning 40” and what that means in terms of the physical, mental and emotional requirements of “making Jazz” on a nightly basis while also enduring the rigors of travel and performing in less-than-ideal venues.
In his groundbreaking book On Writing Well William Zinsser' has this to say about “The Interview” in his chapter on “Writing About People:”
“Get people talking. Learn to ask questions that will elicit answers about what is most interesting or vivid in their lives. Nothing so animates writing as someone telling what he thinks or what he does — in his own words.
His own words will always be better than your words, even if you are the most elegant stylist in the land. They carry the inflection of his speaking voice and the idiosyncrasies of how he puts a sentence together. They contain the regionalisms of his conversation and the lingo of his trade. They convey his enthusiasms. This is a person talking to the reader directly, not through the filter of a writer. As soon as a writer steps in, everyone else's experience becomes secondhand.
Therefore, learn how to conduct an interview.”
Harvey Siders certainly learned this lesson well as you will no doubt note in the following interview with Cal which appeared in the September 8, 1966 edition of Downbeat.
“HIS NAME AND HIS MUSIC have puzzled people for some time; he doesn't particularly "look Swedish,” and his music is as Scandinavian as the score for a Kabuki play. When he talks, Callen Radcliffe Tjader Jr. transcends nationality in the improvisatory style of a jazzman taking a chorus. His conversation swings in a style suggestive of his playing. It's directly to the point, with an enviable simplicity of expression. But it never lacks color. These qualities typify Cal Tjader's personality as well.
"I guess I've always been around some element of show business." he said recently, "Actually it all began in St. Louis, where I was born in 1925. My parents were in vaudeville — they had an act with the Duncan Sisters — and they played the Orpheum circuit. I got into the act as a solo tap dancer when I was 4. I was momma's little talent. That was a time when 'soft shoe’ was the rage, and the thing to do was to send your kid to dancing school every Saturday afternoon to study tap and ballet." A few years later, the Tjaders moved to San Francisco where Cal's father opened dancing schools there and in San Mateo. It wasn't until he was in the eighth grade, he said, that he first became interested in jazz. "I got an old set of drums," he said, "and by the time I was in high school, I was working with a Dixieland combo, playing those old Spud Murphy stock arrangements. On Sundays we'd all go over to Sweet's Ballroom in Oakland and hear some great sounds. They had a major orchestra there each week and we heard Jimme Lunceford, Glen Miller, Tommy Doresey, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Benny Goodman ….
"i remember one of those Sundays in particular. They had a Gene Krupa contest which 1 won by playing Drum-Boogie. It was a big thrill for a 15-year-old, except that something else happened that same day that completely overshadowed the drum contest — the date was December 7, 1941."
Tjader joined the Navy in 1943. When he got his discharge three years later, he entered San Jose State College and began studying with the tympanist of the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, Walter Larew. While at San Jose, he gigged with local groups, and bought an old set of vibes, mainly because he liked the work of Lionel Hampton.
"It was late in 1947 when I began playing vibes seriously," Tj'ader recalled. "I figured if I could double on vibes, like Hamp, I was really going to prove something.
"!In 1948, when I had switched to San Francisco College [among his classmates were reed men Paul Desmond and Jerome Richardson], I had the pleasure of sitting in with Hampton's band. He offered me a job, and I just couldn't believe it. You know, I was 22 and here's one of the giants of jazz offering me a job. As flattering as it was, I turned it down."
Why did he say no?
"Because I was right in the middle of my education. I was a sophomore at State; ! was majoring in education. Granted, music meant more to me than teaching, and emotionally I certainly wanted to take the job, but I was on the G.I. Bill, and I didn't want to lose that benefit. Besides, I felt I had to study for something, so I stayed in school. But just being asked by Hamp — I thought that was tremendous.
"Later that same year, I joined Brubeck. Dave had a rehearsal octet at the time, and when his drummer left — I believe it was Joe Dodge — my opportunity came. It was strictly a rehearsal thing until Jimmy Lyons came along. He managed to get a radio show (Lyons Busy) on KNBC for the rhythm section of the octet, and this soon led to the early trio recordings — Dave, Ron Crotty on bass, and myself — during '49-50.
"One thing I was aware of at that time: I was doubling quite a bit on vibes, and whenever I left the drums to play vibes, the bottom dropped out completely."
He interrupted himself to straighten out the chronology and recall his marriage:
"Sorry — I forgot to mention that fact. I met Pat at San Jose State; we went through school together, got married in 1949 and graduated together the following year. She's a very fine pianist — not a professional — and her style is reminiscent of Teddy Wilson and Nat Cole.
"It may sound like I'm skipping about, but there's a reason for bringing in the marriage at this point. During '50-51 the Brubeck trio toured all over the country and finished up in Honolulu for $400 a week. Try to imagine a trio getting $400 a week and paying agent's commissions out of that. We were barely surviving. It was at this time that Dave injured himself. In fact, he nearly broke his neck showing his son Darius (named after Dave's teacher, Darius Milhaud) how to dive. He was hospitalized for a month, and I took this opportunity to return to school to get my teaching certificate.
"I had all the qualifications — B.A, in education, minor in music — except practice teaching. But how could I take care of that? It would have meant getting up at 7 each morning, and by then I was working six nights a week. I was doing quite well, working with Vernon Alley and Jerome Richardson and I just couldn’t see giving it all up, so I never did get a teaching certificate.
WHEN BRUBECK recuperated, he returned to San Francisco and organized a quartet with altoist Paul Desmond. Tjader played with various local groups, worked with Alvino Rey's band, and later fronted his own trio until 1953, when he joined George Shearing. He stayed a year and a half.
It was at this time, Tjader said, that he became enamoured of Latin music. "I have Al McKibbon to thank for that," he said referring to the Shearing group's bassist at the time. "You know, he had been with Dizzy Gillespie when Chano Pozo was in the band, and Al was really aware of Latin sounds and rhythms. It was Al who turned me on to it when we were in New York. He used to take me to the Palladium and other places where I heard Tito Puente, Machito, Rodriguez. This was the first time I'd heard such exciting Latin sounds. Up to that time the only Latin music I heard was Perez Prado's band. But what was happening in New York in the early '50s — that message really got to me. Especially Puente and Machito.
"For the first time I saw the potential of what I have to call 'Latin jazz.' Shearing also got the message then, and he began his intense interest in Latin, or Afro-Cuban."
Shearing, recalling his young sideman at that time, remarked, "Cal really got enthusiastic about Latin music. I can remember how, at all hours of the night, Cal would wake Jean Thielemans — who used to play guitar and harmonica with my group — and they would get together and beat out some new, exciting rhythm on timbales. Cal really got worked up over the new sounds."
By the end of 1954, Tjader parted company with Shearing.
"In the fullest sense of the meaning," Tjader said, "Shearing's was a road band. We spent one solid year on the road working one week in Cleveland, one in Boston. ... By the time the tour was over, I'd had it. My leaving George had nothing to do with personality or music. In fact, the year and a half I spent with him was extremely important for me. I learned a great deal about harmony and conception. But I was tired of traveling. Furthermore, my roots were growing stronger in the San Francisco area. Pat and I had just bought a sailboat in Sausalito, and ! was anxious to get back. I didn't care where I worked. I just wanted to sail and live normally."
In San Francisco, he joined the house combo at the Black Hawk, but he was itching to have a group of his own—a Latin-jazz quintet.
"I had this thing in my head ever since I saw Puente," he recalled. "And finally I found the guys — Manuel and Carlos Duran, Benny Velarde, and Edgar Rosales. We were booked as 'Cal Tjader and His Modern Mambo Quintet,' stayed around the bay area for two years, during which time we undertook one disastrous eight-week tour.
"We opened in Detroit and there were 12 people in the club — the Rouge Lounge. Next night, there were 14; the following night, 16. And that's the way the tour went, at least in the Midwest. Of course, we just had one album on the market, which was not enough. But more important, except for New York, the people weren't ready for Latin jazz. As far as New York was concerned, we were playing Birdland, opposite Dizzy Gillespie's big band. His band was so great, it was like following World War III."
Before the tour, Tjader's group had recorded its first sides for Fantasy, an association that was to last six years.
"Those albums were good for me as far as exposure was concerned. I got my foot in the door as a result. They sold fairly well, mainly because they had a slightly different sound — Latin and jazz. We didn't try for an authentic Latin sound. What we did was record jazz tunes and put a Latin beat to them . . . things like Midnight Sun and Bernie's Tune."
Since then some of Tjader's albums have sold more than 30,000, among them the version of West Side Story that Clare Fischer arranged for the group and the LPs with Latin percussionists Willie Bobo and Mongo Santamaria. But it was Tjader's Soul Sauce that hit big.
"It was one of those things which makes this business so unpredictable," Tjader said. "We recorded it in 1964, and Creed Taylor [a&r man for Verve, for which Tj'ader currently records] came up with a real catchy name, one that gave us an additional play on r&b stations. As of now, over 100,000 albums of Soul Sauce have been sold."
Tjader is by no means pleased with every album he's done:
"Musically I'd have to say I've done some dumb albums. Like Breeze from the East. Creed would be the first to admit it didn't make it. He tried for a sound, and when I heard it, I went outside and vomited — figuratively, not literally.
"Frankly, what I'd like to do now is another Warm Wave album. I told Creed I just want to go in and do an uncomplicated, unadorned, no-gimmick type album — a quartet session of ballads with musicians like Kenny Burrell, Richard Davis, and GradyTate."
Hasn't he reached the success plateau where he can record what he wants?
"Well, you don't go into a recording studio and do these eight-minute tracks, not unless you're a Bill Evans or have a — how shall I put it — a strong musical personality," he answered. "Of course, the whole recording picture has changed. You've got to record things for AM play — you know, 2 ½ minute tracks.
"There's another factor too. I turned 40 last July, and you know, I find myself getting lazy. I have to be honest. I'm not as musically productive as I should be. I get inspired, write a few bars, and suddenly it sounds unoriginal. I find that I get a greater kick out of interpreting other people's work. Something comes along like Johnny Mandel's Shadow of Your Smile or Brazilian things — those lovely bossa novas by Jobim or Bonfa — and I'd rather work on them. I'm not the great composer I had hopes of once being."
Talk about "being inspired" by other musicians' creations led to a discussion of Tjader's own musical preferences:
"People have always associated me with the Afro-Cuban/Latin thing, and it is an honest, deep love of mine; but there is another area which has gone unnoticed, possibly because of the albums. I love ballads, and I like to play pretty, ... I am not a fast player like Terry Gibbs. But, of course, you can't play ballads all night. You've got to pace each set. But I could play a ballad every other number.
"My real kicks come from listening. Like, for example, the latest Tony Bennett album of movie themes. Every day, for the past few weeks, I've listened to that album. I can't get enough of it; I have to devour it. It's so damned beautiful, it's like having a section of your body that needs filling up and you keep getting it.
"My wife feels the same way . . . I've played Puente and Rodriguez for her, and she can take it or leave it alone. But the sounds of Ellington, or Basie, or the simplicity of the MJQ — now, those are the things we enjoy.
"It's quite a mixture of things. I even dearly love some old Judy Garland recordings. I'm not a sentimentalist, and it's not nostalgia, but there's a certain sound — someone once described it as the 'east side sound of New York' — that I really love. It's a combination of Cy Walter, Teddy Wilson, and Herman Chittison — an entire era that's been forgotten. It's been forgotten the way Teddy Wilson has been neglected, and there's a real tragedy."
THE LOOK BACKWARD was contrasted with an appraisal of the current jazz scene.
"What is happening today is disturbing me very much," Tjader said. "If the things that the Shepps, Minguses, and Coltranes are doing now are the direction that jazz is taking, then I'll turn in my union card. I can't be part of it.
"Last year, at the Jazz Workshop in San Francisco, my wife and I went to hear John Coltrane. I went in with an open mind — I wanted to dig him, but after about 25 minutes of whatever he was playing, I had to leave. Now I'd never walked out in the middle of anyone's set before, but this was so bad, I just couldn't make it — I thought I was going to flip out.
"The tragic part about something like this is I can remember how Coltrane was playing a few years ago with Miles Davis. Remember the things they used to do on tunes like Bye, Bye, Blackbird? I used to play that recording over and over . . . the solos were beautiful, mainly because they represented tension, and a release from tension. The contrast is important.
"But when I saw Coitrane with his quartet, it started out mad and stayed hateful all the way. No search for beauty — it was just protest. It was like one continuous blob of color that hit you right in the face."
Does he feel that jazz is basically a Negro's idiom?
"I'm not a musicologist, so I'm on unsure ground," he replied. "I've never been much concerned with who plays what or who came first. But I'm pretty sure the most influence on jazz . . . the most innovators were Negroes. But I wouldn't say that only the Negro plays jazz. The white man has learned from him. There are so many instances of one influencing the other. Stan Getz was influenced by Lester Young, but I'm sure Herbie Hancock listened to Bill Evans, but I couldn't care less. What each one says is valid.
"The real tragedy is Crow Jim. I've been told that Charlie Mingus makes an open point about not playing with white musicians. I don't understand that.
When I was learning drums, I was living in the Fillmore district of San Francisco, and I used to play with an all-colored band. Now, maybe I was an intruder, but I wasn't aware of it. For me, it was a great thrill just to sit in at a jam session. Sure, we knew things weren't perfect, and social conditions could have been better, but we were doing our part, indirectly, just by playing together.
"Maybe I'm oversimplifying things by saying this, but the bandstand — or, for that matter, any art form — should be the last place for social preaching. Look at how long Lalo Schifrin played with Dizzy Gillespie. Now, I am sure Dizzy didn't give a thought to color. If a Japanese-Indian or an Eskimo came along and had the right feeling for the blues, Dizzy would hire him. But today, it's so mental. Today, you keep hearing 'he plays pretty good for a white guy.' My God — think of someone like Zoot Sims! he can play with any group.
"There has got to be a return to beauty, but I'm afraid this whole protest thing is pushing jazz in the other direction. That's the big hang-up. You know, sometimes I get the feeling that if everything were all right in the world, these characters would be lost — there'd be nothing to cry about."
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